MRlE 


\ 


1 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSnV  Of  ILLINOIS 


COLLIER'S  liABRIDGED  EDIT^OI^^. 


THE 


WORKS  OFCHARLES  DICKENS. 


OLUME  II. 


NICHOLAS  NIJLEBY. 
CHRISTMAS  lOKS. 
TALE  OF  TW  CITIES. 
DOMBEY  an!  son. 


OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 
SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 
HARD  TIMES. 
MISCELLANEOUS. 


WITI£  FOUTY  ILWST'RATIOXS, 


NEW  YORK : 

i;R,  : 

1879. 


P.  F.  COLLIER,  PUBLISHER 


HEW  YORK:  J.  J.  LITTLE  &  CO.,  PRINT 
10  TO  20  ASTOR  PLACI. 


CONTENTS. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY 


CHAPTER 
I.- 
II.- 


III.—: 


IV. 


v.— 


VI.. 


^  VII. 
VIII. 

IX.— 

X. 
XI. 

XII. 
XIII.— 


XIV. 


XV. 
XVI.— 


XVTT. 
XVIII. 


PAGK 

■Introduces  all  the  rest   2 

Of  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby,  and  his  Estab- 
lishment, and  his  Undertakings.  And 
of  a  great  Joint  Stock  Company  of  vast 

national  importance   3 

Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  receives  Sad  Tid- 
ings of  his  Brother,  but  bears  up 
nobly  against  the  Intelligence  commu- 
nicated to  him.  The  Reader  is'  in- 
formed how  he  liked  Nicholas,  who 
is  herein  introduced,  and  how  kindly 
he  proposed  to  make  his  Fortune  at 

once   7 

Nicholas  and  his  Uncle  (to  secure  the 
Fortune  without  loss  of  time)  wait 
upon  Mr.  Wackford  Squeers,  the 

Yorkshire  Schoolmaster   10 

Nicholas  starts  for  Yorkshire.  Of  his 
Leave-taking  and  his  Fellow  Travel- 
lers, and  what  befel  them  on  the 

Road   13 

In  which  the  Occurrence  of  the  Acci- 
dent mentioned  in  the  last  Chapter, 
affords  an  Opportunity  to  a  couple  of 
Gentlemen  to  tell  Stories  against  each 

other   16 

-Mr.  and  Mrs.  Squeers  at  Home   23 

■Of  the  Internal  Economy  of  Dotheboys 

Hall   25 

Of  Miss  Squeers,  Mrs.  Squeers,  Master 
Squeers,  and  Mr.  Squeers ;  and  of 
various  Matters  and  i)ersons  connected 
no  less  with  the  Squeerses  than  with 

Nicholas  Nickleby   29 

•How  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  provided  for 

his  Niece  and  Sister-in-Law   33 

Newman  Noggs  inducts  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Nickleby  into  their  New  Dwelling  in 

the  City   37 

Whereby  the  Reader  will  be  enabled 
to  trace  the  further  course  of  Miss 
Fanny  Squeers 's  Love,  and  to  ascer- 
tain whether  it  ran  smooth  or  other- 
wise  39 

Nicholas  varies  the  Monotony  of  Dothe- 
boys Hall  by  a  most  vigorous  and  re- 
markable Proceeding,  which  leads  to 
Consequences  of  some  Importance.  . .  42 
Having  the  Misfortune  to  treat  of  none 
but  Common  People,  is  necessarily  of 

a  Mean  and  Vulgar  Character   46 

•Acquaints  the  Reader  with  the  Cause 
and  Origin  of  the  Interruption  de- 
scribed in  the  last  Chapter,  and  with 
some  other  Matters  necessary  to  be 

known  -   49 

Nicholas  seeks  to  employ  himself  in  a 
New  Capacity,  and  being  unsuccess- 
ful, accepts  an  engagement  as  Tutor 

in  a  Private  Family   53 

Follows  the  Fortunes  of  Miss  Nickleby.  58 
■Miss  Knag,  after  doating  on  Kate  Nick- 
leby for  three  whole  days,  makes  up 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

her  Mind  to  hate  her  for  evermore. 
The  Causes  which  led  Miss  Knag  to 
form  this  Resolution   (]! 

XIX. — Descriptive  of  a  Dinner  at,  Mr.  Ralph 
Nickleby's,  and  of  the  Manner  in 
which  the  Company  entertained  them- 
selves, before  Dinner,  at  Dinner,  and 

after  Dinner   65 

XX. — Wherein  Nicholas  at  length  encounters 
his  Uncle,  to  whom  he  expresses  his 
Sentiments  with  much  Candor.  His 

Resolution   70 

XXI. — Madame  Mantalini  finds  herself  in  a 
Situation  of  some  Difficulty,  and  Miss 
Nickleby  finds  herself  in  no  Situation 
at  all     73 

XXII. — Nicholas,  accompanied  by  Smike,  sallies 
forth  to  seek  his  Fortune.  He  en- 
counters Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  and 
Avho  he  was,  is  herein  made  manifest.  77 

XXIII.  — Treats  of  the  ('ompany  of  Mr.  Vincent 

Crummies,  and  of  his  Affairs,  Domes- 
tic and  Theatrical   81 

XXIV.  — Of  the  Great  Bespeak  for  Miss  Snevel- 

licci,  and  the  first  Appearance  of 

Nicholas  upon  any  Stage   85 

XXV. — Concerning  a  young  Lady  from  London, 
who  joins  the  Company,  and  an  elder- 
ly Admirer  who  follows  in  her  Train  ; 
with  an  affecting  Ceremony  conse- 
quent on  their  Arrival   89 

XXVI. — Is  fraught  with  some  Danger  to  Miss 

Nickleby's  Peace  of  Mind   03 

XXVII. — Mrs.  Nickleby  becomes  acquainted  with 
Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck,  whose  Affec- 
tion and  Interest   are   beyond  all 

Bounds.   96 

XXVIII. — Miss  Nickleby,  rendered  desperate  by 
the  Persecution  of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk, 
and  the  Complicated  Difficulties  and 
Distresses  which  surround  her,  ap- 
peals, as  a  last  resource,  to  her  Uncle 
for  Protection   100 

XXIX.  — Of  the  Proceedings  of  Nicholas,  and 

certain  Internal  Divisions  in  the  Com- 
pany of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies   105 

XXX.  — Festivities  are  held  in  honour  of  Nicho- 

las, who  suddenly  withdraws  himself 
from  the  Society  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crum- 
mies and  his  Theatrical  Companions.  lOS 

XXXI.  — Of  Ralph  Nickleby  and  Newman  Noggs, 

and  some  wise  Precautions,  the  suc- 
cess or  failure  of  which  will  appear 
in  the  Sequel   112 

XXXII.  — Relating  chiefly  to  some  remarkable  Con- 

versation, and  some  remarkable  Pro- 
ceedings to  which  it  gives  rise   114 

XXXIII.  — In  which^Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  is  relieved, 

by  a  very  expeditious  Process,  from 
ail  cominerce  with  his  relations   117 

XXXIV.  — Wherein  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  is  visited 

by  Persons  with  whom  the  Reader 
has  been  already  made  acquainted. ,  .  119 

iii 


I  I  07892 


iv 


CONTENTS. 


CIIAPTKR 

XXXV.- 


XXXVI.- 


XXXVII.— 


XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 
XL. 

XLI.— 

XLII. 

XLIII. 
XLIV. 


XLV. 
XLVI. 


XLVII.— 


PAGE  I 

-Smike  becomes  known  to  Mrs,  Nickleby 
and  Kate,  Nicholas  also  meets  with 
new  Acquaintances,  and  brighter 
Days  seem  to  dawn  upon  the  Family.  124 
•Private  and  confidential  ;  relating  to 
family  matters.  Showing  how  Mr. 
Kenwigs  underwent  violent  Agita- 
tion, and  how  Mrs.  Kenwigs  was  as 

well  as  could  be  expected   129 

Nicholas  finds  further  Favour  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Brothers  Cheeryble  and 
Mr.  Timothy  Linkinwater.  The 
•  Brothers  gives  a  Banquet  on  a  great 
annual  occasion.  Nicholas,  on  re- 
turning home  from  it,  receives  a  mys- 
terious   and    Important  Disclosure 

from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Nickleby   131 

Comprises  certain  Particulars  arising  out 
of  a  Visit  of  Condolence,  which  may 
prove  important  hereafter.  Smike 
imexpectedly  encounters  a  very  old 
Friend,  who  invites  him  to  his  house, 

and  will  take  no  denial   136 

In  which  another  old  Friend  encounters 
Smike,  very  opportunely  and  to  some 

purpose   140 

In  which  Nicholas  falls  in  Love.  He 
employs  a  Mediator,  whose  Proceed- 
ings are  crowned  with  unexpected 
Success,  excepting  in  one  solitary 

Particular   143 

Containing-  some  Romantic  Passages 
between  Mrs.  Nickleby  and  the  Gen- 
tleman in  the   Small-Clothes  next 

Door   148 

Illustrative  of  the  convivial  Sentiment, 
that  the  best  of  Friends  must  some- 
times part   151 

Officiates  as  a  kind  of  Gentleman  Usher, 

in  bringing  various  People  together,.  155 
Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  cuts  an  old  Acquaint- 
ance.   It  would  also  appear  from  the 
contents  hereof,  that  a  joke,  even 
between  Husband  and  Wife,  may  be 

sometimes  carried  too  far   159 

Containing  Matter  of  a  surprising  Kind.  163 
Throws   some   light   upon  Nicholas's 
Love  ;  but  whether  for  Good  or  Evil 

the  Reader  must  determine   166 

Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  has  some  confiden- 
tial intercourse  with  another  old 
Friend.  They  concert  between  them  a 
Project, which  promises  well  for  both.  170 


CIIArXBU 

XLvm,- 


XLIX.— 


L, 
LI, 


LIL- 


PAGE 

Being  for  the  Benefit  of  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummies,  and  Positively  his  last 

Appearance  on  this  Stage   175 

Chronicles  the  further  Proceedings  of 
the  Nickleby  Family,  and  the  Sequel 
of  the  Adventure  of  the  Gentleman  in 

the  Small-Clothes  178 

•Involves  a  serious  Catastrophe   182 

The  project  of  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  and 
his  Friend  approaching  a  successful 
Issue,  becomes  unexpectedly  known 
to  another  Party,  not  admitted  into 

their  Confidence  186 

Nicholas  despairs  of  rescuing  Madeline 
Bray,  but  plucks  up  his  spirits  again, 
and  determines  to  attempt  it.  Dom^es- 
tic  Intelligence  of  the  Kenwigses  and 

Lilly  vicks   190 

LIII. — Containing  the  further  Progress  of  the 
Plot  contrived  by  Mr,  Ralph  Nickleby 

and  Mr.  Arthur  Gride   193 

LIV. — The  Crisis  of  the  Project,  and  its  Re- 
sult  198 

LV. — Of  Family  Matters,  Cares,  Hopes,  Dis- 
appointments, and  Sorrows   201 

LVI.— Ralph  Nickleby,  baffled  by  his  Nephew 
in  his  late  Design,  hatches  a  scheme 
of  Retaliation  which  accident  sug- 
gests to  him,  and  takes  into  his  Coun- 
sels a  tried  Auxiliary   205 

LVII. — How  Ralph  Nickleby's  Auxiliary  went 
about  his  work,  and  how  he  prospered 

with  it  :  .208 

LVIII. — In  which  one  Scene  of  this  History  is 

closed  211 

LIX. — The  Plots  begin  to  fail,  and  Doubts  and 

Dangers  to  disturb  the  Plotter   213 

LX. — The  Dangers  thicken,  and  the  Worst  is 

told   217 

LXI. — Wherein  Nicholas  and  his  Sister  forfeit 
the  Good  Opinion  of  all  worldly  and 

prudent  people   221 

LXII. — Ralph  makes  one  last  Appointment — and 

keeps  it   223 

LXIII, — The  Brothers  Cheeryble  make  various 
Declarations  for  themselves  and 
others.    Tim  Linkinwater  makes  a 

Declaration  for  himself   225 

LXIV. — An  old  Acquaintance  is  Recognised 
under  melancholy  Circumstances, 
and  Dotheboys  Hall  breaks  up  for 

ever  228 

LXV.— Conclusion   231 


CHEISTMAS  BOOKS. 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL.   (In  Prose.) 


PAGE 

.  Stave  One,— Marley's  Ghost   233 

Stave  Two,— The  First  of  the  Three  Spirits  237 

Stave  Three.— The  Second  of  the  Three  Spirits. .  242 

Stave  Four, — The  Last  of  the  Spirits   247 

Stave  Five.— The  End  of  It   251 

THE  CHIMES,    (a  goblin  story.) 

First  Quarter   253 

Second  Quarter   259 

Third  Quarter   264 

Fourth  Quarter   269 

THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH.    (A  fairy  tale 

OP  HOME.) 

Chirp  the  First   274 


Chirp  the  Second   281 

Chirp  the  Third   288 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE.    (A  love  story.) 

Part  the  First   296 

Part  the  Second   302 

Part  the  Third   310 


THE  HAUNTED  MAN,  AND  THE  GHOST'S  BARGAIN. 

L— The  Gift  Bestowed  317 

n.— The  Gift  Diffused   324 

IIL— The  Gift  Beversed   334 


'CONTENTS. 


V 


A  TALE  OF 

BOOK  THE  FIRST.— RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  TAGE 

L— The  Period   o43 

II.— The  Mail   344 

III.  — The  Night  Shadows   345 

IV.  — The  Preparation   346 

v.— The  Wine-Shop   349 

YI.— The  Shoemaker  352 

BOOK  THE   SECOND.— THE  GOLDEN  THREAD. 

.1.— Five  Years  Later  355 

XL- ASight  357 

III.  — A  Disappointment   358 

IV.  — Congratulatory  3G2 

v.— The  Jackal   364 

VI.— Hundreds  of  People   365 

VII. — Monseigneur  in  Town   368 

VIII. — Monseigneur  in  the  Country  371 

IX.— The  Gorgon's  Head   372 

X. — Two  Promises   375 

XI. — A  Companion  Picture   377 

XII.— The  Fellow  of  Delicacy   378 

XIII.  — The  Fellow  of  No  Delicacy   380 

XIV.  — The  Honest  Tradesman   381 

XV.— Knitting  384 

XYL— Still  Knitting  387 


TWO  CITIES. 


CIIAPTEU  TAGE 

XYII.— One  Night   ?/M) 

XYIIL— Nine  Days   ?m 

XIX. — An  Opinion   393 

XX.— A  Plea   895 

XXI.— Echoing  Footsteps   396 

XXII.— The  Sea  Still  Rises   399 

XXIII.  — Fire  Rises   400 

XXIV.  — Drawn  to  the  Loadstone  Rock   402 

BOOK  THE  THIRD.— THE  TRACK  OF  A  STORM. 

I. — In  Secret  405 

TI.— The  Grindstone   408 

in. —The  Shadow  410 

IV.— Calm  in  Storm  411 

v.— The  Wood-Sawyer   413 

VL— Triumph   414 

VII.— A  Knock  at  the  Door  416 

VIIL— AHand  at  Cards   418 

IX.— The  Game  Made   421 

X.— The  Substance  of  the  Shadow   424 

XL— Dusk   428 

XIL— Darkness  429 

XIIL— Fiftv-two  432 

XIV.— The  Knitting  Done  435 

XV. — The  Footsteps  Die  out  for  ever. ......  438 


DOMBEY 

CHAPTEP.  PAGE 

I. — Dombey  and  Son   441 

II. — In  which  Timely  Provision  is  made  for 
an  Emergency  that  will  sometimes 
arise  in  the  best-regulated  Families..  444 
III. — In  which  Mr.  Dombey,  as  a  Man  and  a 
Father,  is  seen  at  the  Head  of  the 


Home-Department  447 

IV. — In  which  some  more  First  Appearances 
are  made  on  the  Stage  of  these  Ad- 
ventures  450 

V. — Paul's  Progress  and  Christening   453 

VI. — Paul's  Second  Deprivation. ,   458 

VII. — A  Bird's-eye   Glimpse  of  Miss  Tox's 
Dwelling-place  ;  also  of  the  State  of 

Miss  Tox's  Affections   464 

VIIL — Paul's  further  Progress,  Growth,  and 

Character   466 

IX. — In  which  the  Wooden  Midshipman  gets 

into  Trouble   472 

X. — Containing  the  Sequel  of  the  Midship- 
man's Disaster   475 

XL— Paul's  Introduction  to  a  New  Scene  479 

XIL— Paul's  Education   483 

XIII.  — Shipping  Intelligence  and  Office  Busi- 

ness  488 

XIV.  — Paul  grows  more  and  more  Old-fashioned, 

and  goes  Home  for  the  Holidays   491 

XV.  — Amazing  Artfulness  of  Captain  Cuttle, 

and  a  new  Pursuit  for  Walter  Gay. .  498 

XVI.  — What  the  Waves  were  always  saying. .  503 
XVII. — Captain  Cuttle  does  a  little  Business  for 

the  Young  People   504 

XVm. -Father  and  Daughter   507 

XIX. — Walter  goes  away  513 

XX. — Mr.  Dombey  goes  upon  a  Journey   516 

XXI.— New  Faces  520 

XXII. — A  Trifle  of  Management  by  Mr.  Carker 

the  Manager   524 

XXIIL — Florence  Solitary,  and  the  Midshipman 

Mysterious   529 

XXIV.— The  Study  of  a  Loving  Heart   536  ' 


AND  SOK 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXV.— Strange  News  of  Uncle  Sol   539 

XXVL— Shadows  of  the  Past  and  Future   542 

XXVIL— Deeper  Shadows   546 

XXVIIL— Alterations   551 

XXIX.— The  Opening  of  the  Eyes  of  Mrs.  Chick.  554 

XXX. — The  Interval  before  the  Marriage   558 

XXXI.— The  Wedding   562 

XXXII. — The  Wooden    Midshipman    goes  to 

Pieces. .    567 

XXXIIL— Contrasts   572 

XXXIV. — Another  Mother  and  Daughter   575 

XXXV.— The  Happy  Pair   579 

XXXVL— Housewarming   582 

XXXVII. —More  Warnings  than  One   486 

XXXVIII. — Miss  Tox  improves  an  Old  Acquaintance.  589 
XXXIX. — Further  Adventures  of  Captain  Edward 

Cuttle,  Mariner   591 

XL. — Domestic  Relations   596 

XLI. — New  Voices  in  the  Waves   601 

XLII. — Confidential  and  Accidental   604 

XLIIL— The  Watches  of  the  Night   608 

XLIV.— A  Separation   611 

XLV.— The  Trusty  Agent   614 

XLVI. — Recognizant  and  Reflective   616 

XLYIL— The  Thunderbolt    620 

XLVIIL— The  Flight  of  Florence                   ....  626 

XLIX. — The  Midshipman  makes  a  Discovery. . .  629 

L.— Mr.  Toots's  Complaint   634 

LL— Mr.  Dombey  and  the  World   639 

LIL— Secret  Intelligence   641 

LIII. — More  Intelligence    646 

LIV.— The  Fugitives   650 

LV.— Rob  the'Grinder  loses  his  place   654 

LYL— Several    People  Delighted,   and  the 

Game  Chicken  Disgusted   657 

L VII.— Another  Wedding   664 

LVIIL— After  a  Lapse   666 

LIX.— Retribution   670 

LX.— Chieflv  Matrimonial   676 

LXI.— Relenting   679 

LXIL— Final   683 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


THE  OLD  CUEIOSITY  SHOP. 

PAGE 

Chaptek  I.  to  Chapter  the  Last  (LXXIII.)   685-835 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


SEVEN  SKETCHES  FROM  OUR  PARISH. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.— The  Beadle.  The  Parish  Engine.  The 

Schoolmaster  837 

II.  — The  Curate.   The  Old  Lady.   The  Half- 

pay  Captain   838 

m.— The  Four  Sisters   840 

IV.— The  Election  for  Beadle   841. 

v.— The  Broker's  Man   848 

VI.— The  Ladies'  Societies   845 

VII,— Our  Next-door  Neighbour   847 

SCENES. 

L— The  Streets— Morning  849 

IL— The  Streets— Night   850 

III.  — Shops  and  their  Tenants   853 

IV.  — Scotland-yard   853 

V. — Seven-dials  854 

VI. — Meditations  in  Monmouth  Street  855 

VIL— Hackney-Coach  Stands  857 

VIII. — Doctors' Commons   858 

IX. — London  Recreations  860 

X.— The  River   861 

XL— Astley's   863 

XIL— Greenwich  Fair   865 

XIII.  — Private  Theatres   867 

XIV.  — Vauxhall-gardens  by  Day  869 

XV.— Early  Coaches   870 

XVL— Omnibuses   872 

XVII. — The  Last  Cab-driver  and  First  Omnibus- 
cad   873 

XVIII.— A  Parliamentary  Sketch   875 

XIX.— Public  Dinners   878 

XX.— The  First  of  May   880 

XXI. — Brokers'  and  Marine-store  Shops   882 

XXIL— Gin-shops   883 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.  — The  Pawnbroker's  Shop   885 

XXIV.  — Criminal  Courts   887 

XXV.— A  Visit  to  Newgate     888 

CHARACTERS. 

L — Thoughts  about  People   892 

II. — A  Christmas  Dinner   893 

in. —The  New  Year   894 

IV.— Miss  Evans  and  the  Eagle   896 

v.— The  Parlour  Orator   897 

VI.— The  Hospital  Patient   898 

VII.  — Misplaced  Attachment  of  Mr.  John 

Dounce     899 

VIII.  — The  Mistaken  Milliner.    A  tale  of  Am- 

bition   901 

IX.  — The  Dancing  Academy   903 

X.  — Shabby  genteel  People. . . «   904 

XL— Making  a  Night  of  it   905 

XIL— The  Prisoner's  Van   907 

TALES. 

I. —The  Boarding-house   908 

II. — Mr.  Minns  and  his  Cousin   918 

IIL— Sentiment   921 

IV.— The  Tuggses  at  Ramsgate   924 

v.— Horatio  Sparkins   929 

VI.— The  Black  Veil   934 

VIL— The  Steam  Excursion   937 

VIII.— The  Great  Winglebury  Duel   943 

IX.  — Mrs.  Joseph  Porter   947 

X.  — A  Passage  in  the  life  of  Mr.  Watkins 

Tottle   950 

XL— The  Bloomsbury  Christening   960 

XIL— The  Drunkard's  Death   964 


HARD 

BOOK  THE  FIRST.— SOWING. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

L— The  One  Thing  Needful   969 

II. — Murdering  the  Innocents   969 

IIL— A  Loophole   971 

IV.— Mr.  Bounderby   972 

v.— The  Key-note   974 

VI. — Sleary's  Horsemanship   975 

VIL— Mrs.  Sparsit   979 

VIII.— Never  Wonder   980 

IX.— Sissy's  Progress   982 

X. — Stephen  Blackpool   984 

XL— No  Way  Out   985 

XIL— The  Old  Woman   987 

XIIL— Rachael  988 

XIV.— The  Great  Manufacturer   990 

XV.— Father  and  Daughter   992 

XVL— Husband  and  Wife   994 

BOOK  THE  SECOND.— REAPING. 

I.— Effects  in  the  Bank   995 

IL — Mr.  James  Harthouse   999 


times. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

III.  _The  Whelp   1001 

IV.  — Men  and  Brothers   1002 

V. — Men  and  Masters   1004 

VL— Fading  Away   1006 

VIL— Gunpowder   1009 

VIIL— Explosion   1012 

IX. — Hearing  the  Last  of  it   1015 

X. — Mrs.  Sparsit's  Staircase   1017 

XL — Lower  and  Lower   1019 

XIL— Down   1021 


BOOK  THE  THIRD.— GARNERING. 

L— Another  Thing  Needful   1022 

IL— Very  Ridiculous   1024 

IIL— Very  Decided   1026 

IV._Lost   1028 

v.— Found     1031 

VL— The  Starlight   1033 

VII.— Whelp-hunting   1036 

VIIL— Philosophical   1038 

IX.— Final   1040 


CONTENTS. 


vii 


A  MESSAGE  FEOM  THE  SEA. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  — The  Village   1043 

II.  — The  Money   1045 

III.— The  Club-night   1048 


IV.— The  Seafaring  Man   lOO.'J 

V. — The  destitution  


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 


Preface   1077 

I.  — From  his  Clock-side   1077 

II.  — The  Clock-case   1079 

III.  — Correspondence   1084 

IV.  — From  his  Clock-side.   1085 

v.— The  Clock-case   1087 


VI. — Correspondence   1080 

VII. — Master  Humphrey's  Visitor   1000 

VIIL— The  Clock   1098 

IX.— Mr.  Weller's  Watch   1100 

X.— From  his  Clock-side   1102 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


PAGE 

On  Duty  with  Inspector  Field   1109 

Down  with  the  Tide   1112 

A  Walk  in  a  Work  House   1115 

Prince  Bull— A  Fairy  Tale   1117 

A  Plated  Article   1118 

Our  Honorable  Friend   1121 

Our  School   1123 


PAGE 

Our  Vestry   1124 

Our  Bore   1126 

Hunted  Down. .   1128 

Mudfog  Association — First  Meeting   11-34 

"             "         Second  Meeting   1140 

The  Holly  Tree  Inn   1146 

A  Christmas  Tree   1155 


EEPRINTED  PIECES. 


The  Long  Voyage   1161 

The  Begging-letter  Writer. . :   1163 

A  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star   1165 

Our  English  Watering-place   1166 

Our  French  Watering-place   1169 

Bill-sticking   1172 

Births.    Mrs.  Meek,  of  a  Son."   1175 


PAGE 

Lying  Awake   . .  1177 

The  Poor  Relation's  Story   1179 

The  Child's  Story   1181 

The  Schoolboy's  Story   1183 

Nobody's  Story   1185 

A  Monument  of  French  Folly  1187 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Charles  Dickens   Frontispiece. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

TO  FACE  PAGE 

"The  schoolmaster  and  his  companion  looked 
steadily  at  each  other  for  a  few  seconds,  and 

then  exchanged  a  very  meaning  smile."   11 

"Snubs  and  romans  are  plentiful  enough,  and 
there  are  flats  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  when  there's 

a  meeting  at  Exeter  Hall."   14 

The  first  class  in  English  spelling  and  philosophy.  27 

"Oh  1  as  soft  as  possible,  if  you  please."   30 

"  You  can  jist  give  him  that  'ere  card,  and  tell  him 
if  he  wants  to  speak  to  me,  and  save  trouble, 

here  I  am  ;  that's  all."   74 

The  meditative  Ogre   146 

"  Concluded  by  standing  on  one  leg,  and  repeating 

his  favourite  bellow  with  increased  vehemence.".  151 
"  All  the  light  and  life  of  day  came  on  ;  and  amidst 
it  all,  and  pressing  down  the  grass  whose  every 
blade  bore  twenty  tiny  lives,  lay  the  dead  man, 
with  his  stark  and  rigid  face  turned  upwards  to 

the  sky."   186 

**  Ralph  makes  one  last  appointment — and  keeps  it."  225 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

"And  smoothing  her  rich  hair  with  as  much  pride 
as  she  could  possibly  have  taken  in  her  own  hair 
if  she  had  been  the  vainest  and  handsomest  of 
women."   867 

"  Some  registers  were  lying  open  on  a  desk,  and  an 
officer  of  a  coarse  dark  aspect  presided  over 
these."   407 

The  trial  of  Evremonde     424 

"  His  head  and  throat  were  bare,  as  he  spoke  with 
a  helpless  look  straying  all  around,  he  took  his 
coat  off,  and  let  it  drop  on  the  floor."   430 

The  third  tumbril   438 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


"  Why,  what  can  you  want  with  Dombey  and 
Son's?"  

Dombey  and  Son  

"  Your  father's  regularly  rich  ain't  he?"  inquired 
Mr.  Toots. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Paul.    "  He's  Dombey  and  Son.". 

"  Paul  also  asked  him,  as  a  practical  man,  what  he 
thought  about  King  Alfred's  idea  of  measuring 
time  by  the  burning  of  candles  ;  to  which  the 
workman  replied,  that  he  thought  it  would  be 
the  ruin  of  the  clock  trade  if  it  was  to  come  up 
again."  

"  Before  they  had  gone  very  far,  they  encountered 
a  woman  selling  flowers  ;  when  the  captain,  stop- 
ping short,  as  if  struck  by  a  happy  idea,  made  a 
purchase  of  the  largest  bundle  in  her  basket.". . . 

"  Took  Uncle  Sol's  snuff-coloured  lappels,  one  in 

each  hand  ;  kissed  him  on  the  cheek,"  etc  

'  Go  and  meet  her  1"  


462 
467 


484 


495 


501 

514 
547 


TO  FACE  PAGE 

"Go,"  said  the  good  humoured  manager,  gathering 
up  his  skirts,  and  standing  astride  on  the  hearth- 
rug, "like  a  sensible  fellow,  and  let  us  have  no 
turning  out,  or  any  such  violent  measures."   571 

"  When  he  had  filled  his  pipe  in  an  absolute 
reverie  of  satisfaction,  Florence  lighted  it  for 
him."   630 

THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 

"  Nelly,  kneeling  down  beside  the  box,  was  soon 
busily  engaged  in  her  task."   719 

"  And  then  they  went  on  arm-in-arm,  very  loving- 
ly together."   731 

"  That,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley, 
" is  Jasper  Packlemerton  of  atrocious  memory.".  742 

"A  man  of  very  uncouth  and  rough  appearance 
was  standing  over  them."   772 

"Halloa!"   787 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 

"  It  was  a  wedding-party,  and  emerged  from  one 
of  the  inferior  streets  near  Fitzroy  Square."   858 

The  Pawnbroker's  shop   885 

"No  what?"  inquired  Mrs.  Bloss  with  a  look  of 
the  most  indescribable  alarm. 

"  No  stomach,"  repeated  Mrs.  Tibbs  with  a  shake 
of  the  head   913 

"Who  was  he?"  inquired  the  surgeon.  "My 
son  ! "  rejoined  the  woman  ;  and  fell  senseless  at 
his  feet   936 


HARD  TIMES. 

It  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  you,  Miss  Louisa."..  982 

He  felt  a  touch  upon  his  arm."    987 

Louisa,  my  dear,  you  are  the  subject  of  a  pro- 
posal of  marriage  that  has  been  made  to  me.". . .  992 
Left  alone  with  her  mother,  Louisa  saw  her 
lying  with  an  awful  lull  upon  her  face."   1017 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 

At  last  they  made  a  halt  at  the  opening  of  a  lone- 
ly, desolate  space,  and  pointing  to  a  black  object 
at  some  distance,  asked  Will  if  he  saw  that 
yonder."   1093 


A  WALK  IN  A  WORK-HOUSE. 

In  another  room  were  several  ugl}^  old  women 
crouching,  witch-like,  round  a  hearth,  and  chat- 
tering and  nodding,  after  the  manner  of  the  • 
monkeys."   1115 

A  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 
He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  told  her  it  was  fancy."  1158 


viii 


LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES 

OF 

Nicholas  Nickleby. 


PEEFAOE. 

This  story  was  begun ,  within  a  few  montlis  after  the 
publication  of  the  completed  "  Pickwick  Papers."  There 
were,  then,  a  good  many  cheap  Yorkshire  schools  in  ex- 
istence.   There  are  very  few  now. 

Of  the  monstrous  neglect  of  education  in  England,  and 
the  disregard  of  it  by  the  State  as  a  means  of  forming 
good  or  bad  citizens,  and  miserable  or  happy  men,  this 
class  of  schools  long  afforded  a  notable  example.  Al- 
though any  man  who  had  proved  his  unfitness  for  any 
other  occupation  in  life,  was  free,  without  examination 
or  qualification,  to  open  a  school  anywhere  ;  although 
preparation  for  the  functions  he  undertook,  was  required 
in  the  surgeon  who  assisted  to  bring  a  boy  into  the  world, 
or  might  one  day  assist,  perhaps,  to  send  him  out  of  it, 
— in  the  chemist,  the  attorney,  the  butcher,  the  baker, 
the  candlestick- maker, — the  whole  round  of  crafts  and 
trades,  the  schoolmaster  excepted  ;  and  although  school- 
masters, as  a  race,  were  the  blockheads  and  impostors 
that  might  naturally  be  expected  to  arise  from  such  a 
state  of  tilings,  and  to  flourish  in  it ;  these  Yorkshire 
schoolmasters  were  the  lowest  and  most  rotten  round  in 
the  whole  ladder.  Traders  in  the  avarice,  indifference, 
or  imbecility  of  parents,  and  the  helplessness  of  chil- 
dren ;  ignorant,  sordid,  brutal  men,  to  whom  few  con- 
siderate persons  would  have  entrusted  the  board  and 
lodging  of  a  horse  or  a  dog ;  they  formed  the  worthy 
comer-stone  of  a  structure,  which,  for  absurdity  and  a 
magnificent  high-handed  laissez-aller  neglect,  has  rarely 
been  exceeded  in  the  world. 

We  hear  sometimes  of  an  action  for  damages  against 
the  unqualified  medical  practitioner,  who  has  deformed 
a  broken  limb  in  pretending  to  heal  it.  But,  what  about 
the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  minds  that  have  been  de- 
formed for  ever  by  the  incapable  pettifoggers  who  have 
pretended  to  form  them  ! 

I  make  mention  of  the  race,  as  of  the  Yorkshire 
schoolmasters,  in  the  past  tense.  Though  it  has  not  yet 
finally  disappeared,  it  is  dwindling  daily.  A  long  day's 
work  remains  to  be  done  about  us  in  the  way  of  educa- 
tion. Heaven  knows  ;  but  great  improvements  and  facili- 
ties towards  the  attainment  of  a  good  one,  have  been 
furnished,  of  late  years,  to  those  who  can  afford  to  pay 
for  it. 

I  cannot  call  to  mind,  now,  how  I  came  to  hear  about 
Yorkshire  schools  when  I  was  a  not  very  robust  child, 
sitting  in  bye-places,  near  Rochester  Castle,  with  a  head 
full  of  Partridge,  Strap,  Tom  Pipes,  and  Sancho 
Panza  ;  but,  I  know  that  my  first  impressions  of  them 
were  picked  up  at  that  time,  and  that  they  were,  some- 
how or  other,  connected  with  a  suppurated  abscess  that 
jwme  boy  had  come  home  with,  in  consequence  of  his 
Yorkshire  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  having  ripped 
it  open  with  an  inky  pen-knife.  The  impression  made 
upon  me,  however  made,  never  left  me.  I  was  always 
curious  about  them— fell,  long  afterwards,  and  at  sun- 
dry times,  into  the  way  of  hearing  more  about  them — at 
last,  having  an  audience,  resolved  to  write  about  them. 

With  tliat  intent  I  went  down  into  Yorkshire  before  I 
began  this  book,  in  very  severe  winter-time  which  is 
pretty  faithfully  described  herein.   As  I  wanted  to  see  a 
schoolmaster  or  two,  and  was  forewarned  that  those 
I    gentlemen  might,  in  thefr  modesty,  be  shy  of  receiving 
Vol.  II.— 1 

! 


a  visit  from  me,  I  consulted  with  a  professional  friend 
here,  who  had  a  Yorkshire  connection,  and  with  whom  I 
concerted  a  pious  fraud.  He  gave  me  some  letters  of  in- 
troduction, in  the  name,  I  think,  of  my  travelling  com- 
panion ;  they  bore  reference  to  a  supposititious  little  boy 
who  had  been  left  with  a  widowed  mother  who  didn't 
know  what  to  do  with  him  ;  the  poor  lady  had  thought, 
as  a  means  of  thawing  the  tardy  compassion  of  her  rela- 
tions in  his  behalf,  of  sending  him  to  a  Yorkshire  school ; 
J  was  the  poor  lady's  friend,  travelling  that  way  ;  and  if 
the  recipient  of  the  letter  could  inform  rne  of  a  school 
in  his  neighbourhood,  the  writer  would  be  very  much 
obliged. 

I  went  to  several  places  in  that  part  of  the  country 
where  I  understood  these  schools  to  be  plentifully 
sprinkled,  and  had  no  occasion  to  deliver  a  letter  until  I 
came  to  a  certain  town  which  shall  be  nameless.  The 
person  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  was  not  at  home  ;  but, 
he  came  down  at  night,  through  the  snow,  to  the  inn 
where  I  was  staying.  It  was  after  dinner  ;  and  he 
needed  little  persuasion  to  sit  down  by  the  fire  in  a 
warm  corner  and  take  his  share  of  the  wine  that  was  on 
the  table. 

I  am  afraid  he  is  dead  now.  I  recollect  he  was  a 
jovial,  ruddy,  bioad-faced  man  ;  that  we  got  acquainted 
directly,  and  that  we  talked  on  all  kinds  of  subjects,  ex- 
cept the  school,  which  he  showed  a  great  anxiety  to 
avoid.  Was  there  any  large  school  near  ?  I  asked  him, 
in  reference  to  the  letter.  "Oh  yes,"  he  said  ;  "  there 
was  a  pratty  big  'un. "  "  Was  it  a  good  one  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Ey  !  "  he  said,  "  it  was  as  good  as  anoother  ;  that  was 
a'  a  matther  of  opinion  ; "  and  fell  to  looking  at  the  fire, 
staring  round  the  room,  and  whistling  a  little.  On  my 
reverting  to  some  other  topic  that  we  had  been  discuss- 
ing, he  recovered  immediately  ;  but,  though  I  tried  him 
again  and  again,  I  never  approached  the  question  of  the 
school,  even  if  he  were  in  the  middle  of  a  laugh,  with- 
out observing  that  his  countenance  fell,  and  that  be  be- 
came uncomfortable.  At  last,  when  we  had  passed  a 
couple  of  hours  or  so,  agreeably,  he  suddenly  took  up 
his  hat,  and  leaning  over  the  table  and  looking  me  full 
in  the  face,  said,  in  a  low  voice  :  "  Weel  Misther,  we've 
been  vary  pleasant  toogather,  and  ar'll  spak'  my  moind 
tiv'ee.  Dinnot  let  the  weedur  send  her  lattle  boy  to  van 
o'  our  school meastliers,  while  there's,  a  harse  to  hoold 
in  a'  Lunnun,  or  a  gootther  to  lie  asleep  in.  Ar  wouldn't 
mak'  ill  words  amang  my  neeburs,  and  ar  speak  tiv'ee 
quiet  loike.  But  I'm  dom'd  if  ar  can  gang  to  bed  and 
not  tellee,  for  weedur's  sak',  to  keep  the  lattle  boy 
from  a'  sike  scoondrels  while  there's  a  harse  to  hoold  in 
a'  Lunnun,  or  a  gootther  to  lie  asleep  in  ! "  Eepeating 
these  words  with  great  heartiness,  and  with  a  solemnity 
on  his  jolly  face  that  made  it  look  twice  as  large  as  be- 
fore, he  shook  hands  and  went  away.  I  never  saw  him 
afterwards,  but  I  sometimes  imagine  that  I  descry  a 
faint  reflection  of  him  in  John  Browdie. 

In  reference  to  these  gentry,  I  may  here  quote  a  few 
words  from  the  original  Preface  to  this  book. 

"  It  has  afforded  the  Author  great  amusement  and  sat- 
isfaction, during  the  progress  of  this  work,  to  learn,  from 
country  friends  and  from  a  variety  of  ludicrous  state- 
ments concerning  himself  in  provincial  newspapers,  that 
more  than  one  Yorkshire  schoolmaster  lays  claim  to  being 
the  original  of  Mr.  Squeers.  One  worthy,  he  has  reason 
to  believe,  has  actually  consulted  authorities  learned  ia 


2 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


the  law,  as  to  his  having  good  grounds  on  which  to  rest 
an  action  for  libel  ;  another,  has  meditated  a  journey  to 
J  ondon,  for  the  express  purpose  of  commitiing  an  assault 
and  battery  on  his  traducer  ;  a  third,  perfectly  remem- 
bers being  waited  on,  last  January  twelve  month,  by  two 
gentlemen,  one  of  whom  held  him  in  conversation  while 
the  other  took  his  likeness  ;  and,  although  Mr.  Squeers 
has  but  one  eye,  and  he  has  two,  and  the  published  sketch 
does  not  resemble  him  (whoever  he  may  be)  in  any  other 
respect,  still  he  and  all  his  friends  and  neighbours  know 
at  once  for  whom  it  is  meant,  because — the  character  is 
so  like  him. 

"  While  the  Author  cannot  but  feel  the  full  force  of 
the  compliment  thus  conveyed  to  him,  he  ventures  to 
suggest  that  these  contentions  may  arise  from  the  fact, 
that  Mr.  Sqaeers  is  the  representative  of  a  class,  and  not 
of  an  individual.  Where  imposture,  ignorance,  and  bru- 
tal cupidity,  are  the  stock  in  trade  of  a  small  body  of  men, 
and  one  is  described  by  these  characteristics,  all  his  fel- 
lows will  recognise  something  belonging  to  themselves, 
and  each  will  have  a  misgiving  that  the  portrait  is  his 
own. 

"  The  Author's  object  in  calling  public  attention  to  the 
system  would  be  very  imperfectly  fulfilled,  if  he  did  not 
state  now,  in  his  own  person,  emphatically  and  earnestly, 
that  Mr.  Squeers  and  his  school  are  faint  and  feeble  pic- 
tures of  an  existing  reality,  purposely  subdued  and  kept 
down,  lest  they  should  be  deemed  impossible — that  there 
are,  upon  record,  trials  at  law  in  which  damages  have 
been  sought  as  a  poor  recompense  for  lasting  agonies  and 
disfigurements  inflicted  upon  children  by  the  treatment 
of  the  master  in  these  places,  involving  such  offensive 
and  foul  details  of  neglect,  cruelty,  and  disease,  as  no 
writer  of  fiction  would  have  the  boldness  to  imagine — and 
that,  since  he  has  been  engaged  upon  these  Adventures, 
he  has  received,  from  private  quarters  far  beyond  the 
reach  of  suspicion  or  distrust,  accounts  of  atrocities,  in 
the  perpetration  of  which,  upon  neglected  or  repudiated 
children,  these  schools  have  been  the  main  instruments, 
very  far  exceeding  any  that  appear  in  these  pages." 

This  comprises  all  I  need  say  on  the  subject ;  except 
that,  if  I  had  seen  occasion,  I  had  resolved  to  reprint  a 
few  of  these  details  of  legal  proceedings,  from  certain  old 
newspapers. 

One  other  quotation  from  the  same  Preface,  may  serve 
to  introduce  a  fact  that  my  readers  may  think  curious. 

"  To  turn  to  a  more  pleasant  subject,  it  may  be  right 
to  say,  that  there  are  two  characters  in  this  book  which 
are  drawn  from  life.  It  is  remarkable  that  what  we  call 
the  world,  which  is  so  very  credulous  in  what  professes 
to  be  true,  is  most  incredulous  in  what  professes  to  be 
imaginary  ;  and  that,  while,  every  day  in  real  life,  it  will 
Allow  in  one  man  no  blemishes,  and  in  another  no  virtues, 
it  will  seldom  admit  a  very  strongly  marked  character, 
•either  good  or  bad,  in  a  fictitious  narrative,  to  be  within 
the  limits  of  probability.  But,  those  who  take  an  inter- 
est in  this  tale,  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  the  Brothers 
Oheeryble  live  ;  that  their  liberal  charity,  their  single- 
ness of  heart,  their  noble  nature,  and  their  unbounded 
benevolence,  are  no  creations  of  the  Author's  brain  ;  but 
are  prompting  every  day  (and  oftenest  by  stealth)  some 
munificent  and  generous  deed  in  that  town  of  which  they 
are  the  pride  and  honour. " 

If  I  were  to  attempt  to  sum  up  the  hundreds  upon  hun- 
dreds of  letters,  from  all  .sorts  of  people  in  all  sorts  of 
latitudes  and  climates,  to  which  this  unlucky  paragraph 
has  since  given  rise,  I  should  get  into  an  arithmetical  dif- 
ficulty from  which  I  could  not  easily  extricate  myself. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  I  believe  the  applications  for  loans, 
gifts,  and  offices  of  profit  which  I  have  been  requested  to 
forward  to  the  originals  of  the  Brothers  Cheeryble 
(with  whom  I  never  interchanged  any  communication  in 
my  life),  would  have  exhausted  the  combined  patronage 
of  all  the  Lord  Chancellors  since  the  accession  of  the 
House  of  Brunswick,  and  would  have  broken  the  Rest  of 
the  Bank  of  England. 

There  is  only  one  other  point,  on  which  I  would  desire 
to  offer  a  remark.  If  Nicholas  be  not  always  found  to  be 
blameless  or  agreeable,  he  is  not  always  intended  to  ap- 
pear so.  He  is  a  young  man  of  an  impetuous  temper  and 
of  little  or  no  experience  ;  and  I  saw  no  reason  why  such 
;a  kero  should  be  lifted  out  of  nature. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Introduces  all  the  Rest. 

There  once  lived,  in  a  sequestered  part  of  the  coun- 
ty of  Devonshire,  one  Mr,  Godfrey  Nickleby  :  a  worthy 
gentleman,  who,  taking  it  into  his  head  rather  late  in 
life  that  he  must  get  married,  and  not  being  young 
enough  or  rich  enough  to  aspire  to  the  hand  of  a  lady  of 
fortune,  had  wedded  an  old  flame  out  of  mere  attachment, 
who  in  her  turn  had  taken  him  for  the  same  reason. 
Thus  two  people  who  cannot  afford  to  play  cards  for 
money,  sometimes  sit  down  to  a  quiet  game  for  love. 

Some  ill-conditioned  persons  who  sneer  at  the  life- 
matrimonial,  may  perhaps  suggest,  in  this  place,  that 
the  good  couple  would  be  better  likened  to  two  princi- 
pals in  a  sparring  match,  who,  when  fortune  is  low  and 
backers  scarce,  will  chivalrously  set  to,  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  the  buffeting  ;  and  in  one  respect  indeed  this 
comparison  would  hold  good :  for,  as  the  adventurous 
pair  of  the  Fives'  Court  will  afterwards  send  round  a 
hat,  and  trust  to  the  bounty  of  the  lookers-on  for  the 
means  of  regaling  themselves,  so  Mr.  Godfrey  Nickleby 
and  Ms  partner,  the  honey-moon  being  over,  looked 
wistfully  out  into  the  world,  relying  in  no  inconsiderable 
degree  upon  chance  for  the  improvement  of  their  means. 

Mr.  Nickleby's  income,  at  the  period  of  his  marriage, 
fluctuated  between  sixty  and  eighty  pounds  per  annum. 

There  are  people  enough  in  the  world.  Heaven  knows! 
and  even  in  London  (where  Mr.  Nickleby  dwelt  in  those 
days)  but  few  complaints  prevail,  of  the  population  being 
scanty.  It  is  extraordinary  how  long  a  man  may  look 
among  the  crowd  without  discovering  the  face  of  a  friend, 
but  it  is  no  less  true.  Mr.  Nickleby  looked,  and  looked, 
till  his  eyes  became  sore  as  his  heart,  but  no  friend  ap- 
peared; and,  when  growing  tired  of  the  search,  he  turned 
his  eyes  homeward,  he  saw  very  little  there,  to  relieve  his 
weary  vision.  A  painter  who  has  gazed  too  long  upon 
some  glaring  colour,  refreshes  his  dazzled  sight  by  look- 
ing upon  a  darker  and  more  sombre  tint  ;  but  everything 
that  met  Mr.  Nickleby's  gaze  wore  so  black  and  gloomy 
a  hue,  that  he  would  have  been  beyond  description  re- 
freshed by  the  very  reverse  of  the  contrast. 

At  length,  after  five  years,  when  Mrs.  Nickleby  had 
presented  her  husband  with  a  couple  of  sons,  and  that 
embanassed  gentleman,  impressed  with  the  necessity  of 
making  some  provision  for  his  family,  was  seriously  re- 
volving in  his  mind  a  little  commercial  speculation  of 
insuring  his  life  next  quarter-day,  and  then  falling  from 
the  top  of  the  Monument  by  accident,  there  came,  one 
morning,  by  the  general  post,  a  black-bordered  letter  to 
inform  him  how  his  uncle,  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby,  was 
dead,  and  had  left  him  the  bulk  of  his  little  property, 
amounting  in  all  to  five  thousand  pounds  sterling. 

As  the  deceased  had  taken  no  further  notice  of  his 
nephew  in  his  lifetime,  than  sending  to  his  eldest  boy 
(who  had  been  christened  after  him,  on  desperate  specula- 
tion), a  silver  spoon  in  a  morocco  case,  which,  as  he  had  not 
too  much  to  eat  with  it,  seemed  a  kind  of  satire  upon  his 
having  been  born  without  that  useful  article  of  plate  in 
his  mouth,  Mr.  Godfrey  Nickleby  could,  at  first,  scarcely 
believe  the  tidings  thus  conveyed  to  him.  On  examina- 
tion, however,  they  turned  out  to  be  strictly  correct. 
The  amiable  old  gentleman,  it  seemed,  had  intended  to 
leave  the  whole  to  the  Royal  Humane  Society,  and  had 
indeed  executed  a  will  to  that  effect ;  but  the  Institution, 
having  been  unfortunate  enough,  a  few  months  before, 
to  save  the  life  of  a  poor  relation  to  whom  he  paid  a 
weekly  allowance  of  three  shillings  and  sixpence,  he  had, 
in  a  fit  of  very  natural  exasperation,  revoked  the  bequest 
in  a  codicil,  and  left  it  all  to  Mr.  Godfrey  Nickleby  ;  with 
a  special  mention  of  his  indignation,  not  only  against  the 
society  for  saving  the  poor  relation's  life,  but  against  the 
poor  relation  also,  for  allowing  himself  to  be  saved. 

With  a  portion  of  this  property  Mr.  Godfrey  Nickleby 
purchased  a  small  farm,  near  Dawlish  in  Devons-hire, 
whither  he  retired  with  his  wife  and  two  children,  to 
live  iii)on  the  best  interest  he  could  get  for  the  rest  of 
his  money,  and  the  little  produce  he  could  raise  from  his 
land.  The  two  prospered  so  well  together  that,  when 
he  died,  some  fifteen  years  after  this  period,  and  some 
five  after  his  wife,  he  was  enabled  to  leave,  to  his  eldest 


NICHOLAS 

son,  Ralpli,  three  thousand  pounds  in  cash,  and  to  his 
youngest  son,  Nicholas,  one  thousand  and  the  farm, 
which  was  as  small  a  landed  estate  as  one  would  desire 
to  see. 

These  two  brothers  had  been  brought  up  together  in  a 
school  at  Exeter  ;  and,  being  accustomed  to  go  home 
once  a  week,  had  often  heard,  from  their  mother's  li[)S, 
long  accounts  of  their  father's  sufferings  in  his  days  of 
poverty,  and  of  their  deceased  uncle's  importance  in  his 
days  of  affluence  :  which  recitals  produced  a  very  dif- 
ferent impression  on  the  two  :  for,  while  the  younger, 
who  was  of  a  timid  and  retiring  disposition,  gleaned 
from  thence  nothing  but  forewarnings  to  shun  the  great 
world  and  attach  himself  to  the  quiet  routine  of  a  coun- 
try life,  Ralph,  the  elder,  deduced  from  the  often-re- 
peated tale  the  two  great  morals  that  richss  are  the  only 
true  source  of  happiness  and  power,  and  that  it  is  lawful 
and  just  to  compass  their  acquisition  by  all  means  short 
of  felony.  "And,"  reasoned  Ralph  with  himself,  "if 
no  good  came  of  my  uncle's  money  when  he  was  alive,  a 
great  deal  of  good  came  of  it  after  he  was  dead,  inas- 
much as  my  father  has  got  it  now,  and  is  saving  it  up 
for  me,  which  is  a  highly  virtuous  purpose  ;  and,  going 
back  to  the  old  gentleman,  good  did  come  of  it  to  him 
too,  for  he  had  the  pleasure  of  thinking  of  it  all  his  life 
long,  and  of  being  envied  and  courted  by  all  his  family 
besides."  And  Ralph  always  wound  up  these  mental 
soliloquies  by  arriving  at  the  conclusion,  that  there  was 
nothing  like  money. 

Not  confining  himself  to  theory,  or  permitting  his 
faculties  to  rust,  even  at  that  early  age,  in  mere  abstract 
speculations,  this  promising  lad  commenced  usurer  on  a 
limited  scale  at  school ;  putting  out  at  good  interest  a 
small  capital  of  slate-peacil  and  marbles,  and  gradually 
extending  his  operations  until  they  aspired  to  the  cop- 
per coinage  of  this  realm,  in  which  he  speculated  to  con- 
siderable advantage.  Nor  did  he  trouble  his  borrowers 
with  abstract  calculations  of  figures,  or  references  to 
ready-reckoners  ;  his  simple  rule  of  interest  being  all 
comprised  jn  the  one  goldeu  sentence,  "two-pence  for 
every  half-penny,"  which  greatly  simplified  the  accoilnts, 
and  which,  as  a  familiar  precept,  more  easily  acquired 
and  retained  in  the  memory  than  any  known  rule  of 
arithmetic,  cannot  be  too  strongly  recommended  to  the 
notice  of  capitalists,  both  large  and  small,  and  more 
especially  of  money-brokers  and  bill-discounters.  In- 
deed, to  do  these  gentlemen  justice,  many  of  them  are 
to  this  day  in  the  frequent  habit  of  adopting  it,  with  emi- 
nent success. 

In  like  manner,  did  young  Ralph  Nickleby  avoid  all 
those  minute  and  intricate  calculations  of  odd  days, 
which  nobody  who  has  worked  sums  in  simple-interest 
can  fail  to  have  founJ  most  embarrassing,  by  establishing 
the  one  general  rule  that  all  sums  of  principal  and  in- 
terest should  be  paid  on  pocket-money  day,  that  is  to 
say,  on  Saturday  :  and  that  whether  a  loan  were  con- 
tracted on  the  Monday,  or  on  the  Friday,  the  amount  of 
interest  should  be,  in  both  cases,  the  same.  Indeed  he 
argued,  and  with  great  show  of  reason,  that  it  ought  to 
be  rather  more  for  one  day  than  for  five,  inasmuch  as 
the  borrower  might  in  the  former  case  be  very  fairly 
presumed  to  be  in  great  extremity,  otherwise  he  would 
not  borrow  at  all  with  such  odds  against  him.  This 
fact  is  interesting,  as  illustrating  the  secret  connection 
and  sympathy  which  always  exists  between  great  minds. 
Though  master  Ralph  Nickleby  was  not  at  that  time 
aware  of  it,  the  class  of  gentlemen  before  alluded  to,  pro- 
ceed on  just  the  same  principle  in  all  their  transactions. 

From  what  we  have  said  of  this  young  gentleman,  and 
the  natural  admiration  the  reader  will  immediately  con- 
ceive of  his  cliaracter,  it  may  perhaps  be  inferred  that 
he  is  to  be  the  hero  of  the  work  which  we  shall  presently 
begin.  To  set  this  point  at  rest,  for  once  and  for  ever, 
we  hasten  to  undeceive  them,  and  stride  to  its  com- 
mencement. 

On  the  death  of  liis  father,  Ralph  Nickleby,  who  had 
been  some  time  before  placed  in  a  mercantile  house  in 
London,  applied  himself  passionately  to  his  old  pursuit 
of  money-gfitting,  in  which  he  speedily  became  so  buried 
and  absorbed,  that  he  quite  forgot  his  brother  for  many 
years  ;  and  if,  at  times,  a  recollection  of  his  old  play- 
fellow broke  upon  him  through  the  haze  in  which  he 


NICKLEBY.  3 

lived — for  gold  conjures  up  a  mi?  t  aV)Out  a  man,  more 
destructive  of  all  his  old  senses  and  lulling  to  his  ffielings 
than  the  fumes  of  charc<jal— it  brought  along  with  it  a 
companion  thought,  that  if  they  were  intimate  he  would 
want  to  borrow  money  of  him.  So,  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  tilings  were  better  as 
they  were. 

As  for  Nicholas,  he  lived  a  single  man  on  the  patri- 
monial estate  ui  il  he  grew  tired  of  living  alone,  and 
then  he  took  to  wife  the  daughter  of  a  neighbouring 
gentleman  with  a  dower  of  one  thousand  pounds.  This 
good  lady  bore  him  two  children,  a  son  and  a  daughter, 
and  when  the  son  was  about  nineteen,  and  the  daughter 
fourteen,  as  near  as  we  can  guess — impartial  records  of 
young  ladies'  ages  being,  before  the  passing  of  the  new 
act,  nowhere  preserved  in  the  registries  of  this  country 
— Mr.  Nickleby  looked  about  him  for  the  means  of  re- 
pairing his  capital,  now  sadly  reduced  by  this  increase 
in  his  family,  and  the  expenses  of  their  education. 

"  Speculate  with  it,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"Spec— u — late,  my  dear?"  said  Mr.  Nickleby,  as 
though  in  doubt. 

"  Why  not?  "  asked  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  Because,  my  dear,  if  we  sliovld  lose  it,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Nickleby,  who  was  a  slow  and  time-taking  speaker, 
* '  if  we  should  lose  it,  we  shall  no  longer  be  able  to  live, 
my  dear. " 

"  Fiddle,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  I  am  not  altogether  sure  of  that,  my  dear,"  said  Mr. 
Nickleby. 

"  There's  Nicholas,"  pursued  the  lady,  "  quite  a  young 
man — it's  time  he  was  in  the  way  of  doing  something 
for  himself  ;  and  Kate  too,  poor  girl,  without  a  penny  in 
the  world.  Think  of  your  brother  !  Would  he  be  what 
he  is,  if  he  hadn't  speculated?" 

"That's  true,"  replied  Mr.  Nickleby.  "Very  good, 
my  dear.    Yes.    I  will  speculate,  my  dear," 

Speculation  is  a  round  game  ;  the  players  see  little  or 
nothing  of  their  cards  at  first  starting  ;  gains  may  be 
great — and  so  may  losses.  The  run  of  luck  went  against 
Mr.  Nickleby.  A  mania  prevailed,  a  bubble  burst,  four 
stock-brokers  took  villa  residences  at  Florence,  four  hun- 
dred nobodies  were  ruined,  and  among  them  Mr.  Nickle- 

"  The  very  house  I  live  in,"  sighed  the  poor  gentleman, 
"  may  be  taken  from  me  to-morrow.  Not  an  article  of 
my  old  furniture,  but  will  be  sold  to  strangers  !  " 

The  last  reflection  hurt  him  so  much,  that  he  took  at 
once  to  his  bed  ;  apparently  resolved  to  keep  that,  at  all 
events. 

"  Cheer  up,  sir  !  "  said  the  apothecary. 
"You  mustn't  let  yourself  be  cast  down,  sir,"  said  the 
nurse. 

"  Such  things  happen  every  day,"  remarked  the  law- 
yer. 

"  And  it  is  very  sinful  to  rebel  against  them,"  whis- 
pered the  clergyman. 

"  And  what  no  man  with  a  family  ought  to  do,"  added 
the  neighbours. 

Mr.  Nickleby  shook  his  head,  and  motioning  them  all 
out  of  the  room,  embraced  his  wife  and  children,  and 
having  pressed  them  by  turns  to  his  languidly  beating 
heart,  sunk  exhausted  on  his  pillow.  They  were  con- 
cerned to  find  that  his  reason  went  astray  after  this  ;  for 
he  babbled,  for  a  long  time,  about  the  generosity  and 
goodness  of  his  brother,  and  the  merry  old  times  when 
they  were  at  school  together.  This  fit  of  wandering 
past,  he  solemnly  commended  them  to  One  who  never 
deserted  the  widow  or  her  fatherless  children,  and,  smil- 
ing gently  on  them,  turned  upon  his  face,  and  observed, 
that  he  thought  he  could  fall  asleep. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Of  Mr.  BalphNicTd.eby,  andhis  EstabUshmint.  and  his  Undertakings. 
And  of  a  great  Joint  Stock  Company  of  vast  national  importance. 

Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  what 
you  would  call  a  merchant,  neither  was  he  a  banker,  nor 
an  attorney,  nor  a  special  pleader,  nor  a  notary.  He  was 
certainly  not  a  tradesman,  and  still  less  could  he  lay  any 


4 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


claim  to  the  title  of  a  professional  gentleman  ;  for  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  mention  any  recognised 
profession  to  which  he  belonged.  Nevertheless,  as  he 
lived  in  a  spacious  house  in  Golden  Square,  which,  in 
addition  to  a  brass  plate  upon  the  street-door,  and  another 
brass  plate  two  sizes  and  a  half  smaller  upon  the  left  hand 
door-post,  surmounting  a  brass  model  of  an  infant's  fist 
grasping  a  fragment  of  a  skewer,  and  displaying  the  word 
"  Office,"  it  was  clear  that  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  did,  or 
pretended  to  do,  business  of  some  kind  ;  and  the  fact,  if  it 
required  any  further  circumstantial  evidence,  was  abun- 
dantly demonstrated,  by  the  diurnal  attendance,  between 
the  hours  of  half -past  nine  and  five,  of  a  sallow-faced 
man  in  rusty  brown,  who  sat  upon  an  uncommonly  hard 
stool  in  a  species  of  butler's  pantry  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,  and  always  had  a  pen  behind  his  ear  when  he 
answered  the  bell. 

Although  a  few  members  of  the  graver  professions 
lived  about  Golden  Square,  it  is  not  exactly  in  anybody's 
way  to  or  from  anywhere.  It  is  one  of  the  squares  that 
have  been  ;  a  quarter  of  the  town  that  has  gone  down 
in  the  world,  and  taken  to  letting  lodgings.  Many  of  its 
first  and  second  floors  are  let,  furnished,  to  single  gentle- 
men ;  and  it  takes  boarders  besides.  It  is  a  great  resort 
of  foreigners.  The  dark-complexioned  men  who  wear 
large  rings,  and  heavy  watch-guards,  and  bushy  whis- 
kers, and  who  congregate  under  the  Opera  Colonnade, 
and  about  the  box-office  in  the  season,  between  four  and 
five  in  the  afternoon,  when  they  give  away  the  orders, — 
all  liv'e  in  Golden  Square,  or  within  a  street  of  it.  Two 
or  three  violins  and  a  wind  instrument  from  the  Opera 
band  reside  within  its  precincts.  Its  boarding-houses  are 
musical,  and  the  notes  of  pianos  and  harps  float  in  the 
evening  time  round  the  head  of  the  mournful  statue, 
the  guardian  genius  of  a  little  wilderness  of  shrubs,  in 
the  centre  of  the  square.  On  a  summer's  night,  windows 
are  thrown  open,  and  groups  of  swarthy  mustachioed 
men  are  seen  by  the  passer-by,  lounging  at  the  case- 
ments, and  smoking  fearfully.  Sounds  of  gruff  voices 
practising  vocal  music  invade  the  evening's  silence  ;  and 
the  fumes  of  choice  tobacco  scent  the  air.  There,  snuli 
and  cigars,  and  German  pipes  and  flutes,  and  violins  and 
violincellos,  divide  the  supremacy  between  them.  It  is 
the  region  of  song  and  smoke.  Street  bands  are  on  their 
mettle  in  Golden  Square  ;  and  itinerant  glee-singers 
quaver  involuntarily  as  they  raise  their  voices  within  its 
boundaries. 

This  would  not  seem  a  spot  very  well  adapted  to  the 
transaction  of  business  ;  but  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  had 
lived  there,  notwithstanding,  for  many  years,  and  uttered 
no  complaint  on  that  score.  He  knew  nobody  round 
about,  and  nobody  knew  him,  although  he  enjoyed  the 
reputation  of  being  immensely  rich.  The  tradesmen 
held  that  he  was  a  sort  of  lawyer,  and  the  other  neigh- 
bours opined  that  he  was  a  kind  of  general  agent ;  both 
of  which  guesses  were  as  correct  and  definite  as  guesses 
about  other  people's  affairs  usually  are,  or  need  to  be. 

Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  sat  in  his  private  office  one  morn- 
ing, ready  dressed  to  walk  abroad.  He  wore  a  bottle- 
green  spencer  over  a  blue  coat  ;  a  white  waistcoat,  grey 
mixture  pantaloons,  and  Wellington  boots  drawn  over 
them.  The  corner  of  a  small  plaited  shirt- frill  struggled 
out,  as  if  insisting  to  show  itself,  from  between  his  chin 
and  the  top  button  of  his  spencer  ;  and  the  latter  gar- 
ment was  not  made  low  enough  to  conceal  a  long  gold 
watch-chain,  composed  of  a  series  of  plain  rings,  which 
had  its  beginning  at  the  handle  of  a  gold  repeater  in  Mr. 
Nickleby's  pocket,  and  its  termination  in  two  little  keys  : 
one  belonging  to  the  watch  itself,  and  the  other  to  some 
patent  padlock.  He  wore  a  sprinkling  of  powder  upon 
his  head,  as  if  to  make  himself  look  benevolent ;  but  if 
that  were  his  purpose,  he  would  perhaps  have  done 
better  to  powder  his  countenance  also,  for  there  was 
something  in  its  very  wrinkles,  and  in  his  cold  restless 
eye,  which  seemed  to  tell  of  cunning  that  would  an- 
nounce itself  in  spite  of  him.  However  this  mio^lit  be, 
there  he  was  ;  and  as  he  was  all  alone,  neither  the  pow- 
der, nor  the  wrinkles,  nor  the  eyes,  had  the  smallest 
effect,  good  or  bad,  upon  anybody  just  then,  and  are  con- 
sequently no  business  of  ours  just  now. 

Mr.  Nickleby  closed  an  account-book  which  lay  on  his 
de,sk,  and,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  gazed 


with  an  air  of  abstraction  through  the  dirty  window. 
Some  London  houses  have  a  melancholy  little  plot  of 
ground  behind  them,  usually  fenced  in  by  four  high 
whitewashed  walls,  and  frowned  upon  by  stacks  of 
chimneys  :  in  which  there  withers  on,  from  year  to  year, 
a  crippled  tree,  that  makes  a  show  of  putting  forth  a 
few  leaves  late  in  autumn  when  other  trees  shed  theirs, 
and,  drooping  in  the  effort,  lingers  on,  all  crackled  and 
smoke-dried,  till  the  following  season,  when  it  repeats 
the  same  process,  and  perhaps  if  the  weather  be  particu- 
larly genial,  even  tempts  some  rheumatic  sparrow  to 
chirrup  in  its  branches.  People  sometimes  call  these 
dark  yards  "  gardens  ;  "  it  is  not  supposed  that  they  were 
ever  planted,  but  rather  that  they  are  pieces  of  unre- 
claimed land,  with  the  withered  vegetation  of  the  original 
brickfield.  No  man  thinks  of  walking  in  this  desolate 
place,  or  of  turning  it  to  any  account.  A  few  hampers, 
half-a-dozen  broken  bottles,  and  such-like  rubbish,  may 
be  throvra  there,  when  the  tenant  first  moves  in,  but 
nothing  more  ;  and  there  they  remain  until  he  goes  away 
again  :  the  damp  straw  taking  just  as  long  to  moulder  as 
it  thinks  proper  :  and  mingling  with  the  scanty  box,  and 
stunted  everbrowns,  and  broken  flower-pots,  that  are 
scattered  mournfully  about — a  prey  to  "blacks"  and 
dirt. 

It  was  into  a  place  of  this  kind  that  Mr.  Ralph  Nickle- 
by gazed,  as  he  sat  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  looking 
out  at  window.  He  had  fixed  his  eyes  upon  a  distorted 
fir-tree,  planted  by  some  former  tenant  in  a  tub  that  had 
once  been  green,  and  left  there,  years  before,  to  rot  away 
piecemeal.  There  was  nothing  very  inviting  in  the  ob- 
ject, but  Mr.  Nickleby  was  wrapt  in  a  brown  study,  and 
sat  contemplating  it  with  far  greater  attention  than,  in  a 
more  conscious  mood,  he  would  have  deigned  to  bestow 
upon  the  rarest  exotic.  At  length,  his  eyes  wandered  to 
a  little  dirty  window  on  the  left,  through  which  the  face 
of  the  clerk  was  dimly  visible  ;  that  worthy  chancing  to 
look  up,  he  beckoned  him  to  attend. 

In  obedience  to  this  summons  the  clerk  got  off  the  high 
stool  (to  which  he  had  communicated  a  high  polish  by 
countless  gettings  off  and  on),  and  presented  himself  in 
Mr.  Nickleby's  room.  He  was  a  taJ  man  of  middle-age, 
with  two  goggle  eyes  whereof  one  was  a  fixture,  a  rubi 
cund  nose,  a  cadaverous  face,  and  a  suit  of  clothes  (if 
the  term  be  allowable  when  they  suited  him  not  at  all) 
much  the  worse  for  wear,  very  much  too  small,  and 
placed  upon  such  a  short  allowance  of  buttons  that  it  was 
marvellous  how  he  contrived  to  keep  them  on. 

"  Was  that  half -past  twelve,  Noggs  ?  "  said  Mr.  Nickle- 
by, in  a  sharp  and  grating  voice. 

"Not  more  than  tive-and-twenty  minutes  by  the—" 
Noggs  was  going  to  add  public-house  clock,  but  recol- 
lecting himself,  substituted  "  regular  time." 

"My  watch  has  stopped,"  said  Mr.  Nickleby;  "I 
don't  know  from  what  cause." 

"  Not  wound  up,"  said  Noggs. 

"  Yes  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Nickleby. 

"  Over- wound  then,"  rejoined  Noggs. 

"That  can't  very  well  be,"  observed  Mr.  Nickleby. 

"  Must  be,"  said  Noggs. 

"Weill"  said  Mr.  Nickleby,  putting  the  repeater 
back  in  his  pocket  ;  "  perhaps  it  is." 

Noggs  gave  a  peculiar  grunt,  as  was  his  custom  at  the 
end  of  all  disputes  with  his  master,  to  imply  that  he 
(Noggs)  triumphed  ;  and  (as  he  rarely  spoke  to  anybody 
unless  somebody  spoke  to  him)  fell  into  a  grim  silence, 
and  rubbed  his  hands  slowly  over  each  other  :  cracking 
the  joints  of  his  fingers,  and  squeezing  them  into  all 
possible  distortions.  The  incessant  performance  of  this 
routine  on  every  occasion,  and  the  communication  of  a 
fixed  and  rigid  look  to  his  unaffected  eye,  so  as  to  make 
it  uniform  with  the  other,  and  to  render  it  impossible  for 
anybody  to  determine  where  or  at  what  he  was  looking, 
were  two  among  the  numerous  peculiarities  of  Mr. 
Noggs,  which  struck  an  inexperienced  observer  at  first 
sight. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  London  Tavern  this  morning,"  said 
Mr.  Nickleby. 

"  Public  meeting?"  inquired  Noggs. 

Mr.  Nickleby  nodded.  "  I  expect  a  letter  from  the 
solicitor  respecting  that  mortgage  of  Ruddle's.  If  it 
comes  at  all,  it  will  be  here  by  the  two  o'clock  delivery. 


NICHOLAS 

I  shall  leave  the  city  about  that  time  and  walk  to  Char- 
ing-Cross  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  way  ;  if  there  are 
any  letters,  come  and  meet  me,  and  bring  them  with 
you." 

Noggs  nodded  ;  and  as  he  nodded,  there  came  a  ring 
at  the  oflBce  bell.  The  master  looked  up  from  hispapers, 
and  the  clerk  calmly  remained  in  a  stationary  i)osition, 

"The  bell,"  said  Noggs,  as  though  in  explanation. 
"At  home?" 

"  Yes." 

"To  anybody?" 
"Yes." 

"  To  the  tax-gatherer?  " 
"  No  !    Let  him  call  again." 

Noggs  gave  vent  to  his  usual  grunt,  as  much  as  to  say 
"  I  thought  so  !  "  and,  the  ring  being  repeated,  went  to 
the  door,  whence  he  presently  returned,  ushering  in,  by 
the  name  of  Mr.  Bonney,  a  pale  gentleman  in  a  violent 
hurry,  who,  with  his  hair  standing  up  in  great  disorder 
all  over  his  head,  and  a  very  narrow  white  cravat  tied 
loosely  round  his  throat,  looked  as  if  he  had  been  knocked 
up  in  the  night  and  had  not  dressed  himself  since, 

"  My  dear  Nickleby,"  said  the  gentleman,  taking  off  a 
white  hat  which  was  so  full  of  papers  that  it  would 
scarcely  stick  upon  his  head,  "  there's  not  a  moment  to 
lose  ;  I  have  a  cab  at  the  door.  Sir  Matthew  Pupker 
takes  the  chair,  and  three  members  of  Parliament  are 
positively  coming.  I  have  seen  two  of  them  safely  out 
of  bed.  The  third,  who  was  at  Crockford's  all  night,  has 
just  gone  home  to  put  a  clean  shirt  on,  and  take  a  bottle 
or  two  of  soda  water,  and  will  certainly  be  with  us,  in 
time  to  address  the  meeting.  He  is  a  little  excited  by 
last  night,  but  never  mind  that ;  he  always  speaks  the 
stronger  for  it." 

"  It  seems  to  promise  pretty  well,"  said  Mr.  Ralph 
Nickleby,  whose  deliberate  manner  was  strongly  op- 
posed to  the  vivacity  of  the  other  man  of  business. 

" Pretty  well  !"  echoed  Mr,  Bonney,  "It's  the  finest 
idea  that  was  ever  started.  '  United  Metropolitan  Im- 
proved Hot  MuflSn  and  Crumpet  Baking  and  Punctual 
Delivery  Company.  Capital,  five  millions,  in  five  hun- 
dred thousand  shares  of  ten  pounds  each. '  Why  the  very 
name  will  get  the  shares  up  to  a  premium  in  ten  days." 

"And  when  they  are  at  a  premium,"  said  Mr.  Ralph 
Nickleby,  smiling. 

"  When  they  are,  you  know  what  to  do  with  them  as 
well  as  any  man  alive,  and  how  to  back  quietly  out  at 
the  right  time,"  said  Mr.  Bonney,  slapping  the  capitalist 
familiarly  on  the  shoulder.  "  By  the  bye,  what  a  very 
remarkable  man  that  clerk  of  yours  is." 

"Yes,  poor  devil!"  replied  Ralph,  drawing  on  his 
gloves.  "Though  Newman  Noggs  kept  his  horses  and 
hounds  once." 

"Aye,  aye?"  said  the  other  carelessly. 

"Yes,"  continued  Ralph,  "and  not  many  years  ago 
either :  but  he  squandered  his  money,  invested  it  any- 
how, borrowed  at  interest,  and  in  short  made  first  a 
thorough  fool  of  himself,  and  then  a  beggar.  He  took 
to  drinking,  and  had  a  touch  of  paralysis,  and  then  came 
here  to  borrow  a  pound,  as  in  his  better  days  I  had — " 

"  Done  business  with  him,"  said  Mr.  Bonney  with  a 
meaning  look. 

"Just  so,"  replied  Ralph;  "I  couldn't  lend  it,  you 
know." 

' '  Oh,  of  course  not. " 

"But  as  I  wanted  a  clerk  just  then,  to  open  the  door 
and  so  forth,  I  took  him  out  of  charity,  and  he  has  re- 
mained with  me  ever  since.  He  is  a  little  mad,  I  think," 
said  Mr.  Nickleby,  calling  up  a  charitable  look,  "  but  he 
is  useful  enough,  poor  creature — useful  enough." 

The  kind-hearted  gentleman  omitted  to  add  that  New- 
man Noggs,  being  utterly  destitute,  served  him  for  rather 
less  than  the  usual  wages  of  a  boy  of  thirteen  ;  and  like- 
wise failed  to  mention  in  his  hasty  chronicle,  that  his 
eccentric  taciturnity  rendered  him  an  especially  valuable 
person  in  a  place  where  much  business  was  done,  of 
which  it  was  desirable  no  mention  should  be  made  out 
of  dftors.  The  other  gentleman  was  plainly  impatient  to 
be  gone,  however,  and  as  they  hurried  into  the  hackney 
cabriolet  immediately  afterwards,  perhaps  Mr.  Nickleby 
forgot  to  mention  circumstances  so  unimportant. 

There  was  a  great  bustle  in  Biahopsgate  Street  Within, 


NICKLEBY.  5 

as  they  drew  up,  and  (it  being  a  windy  day)  half  a  dozen 
men  were  tacking  across  the  road  under  a  press  of  paper, 
bearing  gigantic  announcements  that  a  Public  Meeting 
would  be  holden  at  one  o'clock  precisely,  Xa)  take  into 
consideration  the  propriety  of  petitioning  Parliament  in 
favour  of  the  United  Metropolitan  Improved  Hot  Muffin 
and  Crumpet  Baking  and  Punctual  Delivery  Company, 
capital  five  millions,  in  five  hundred  thousand  shares  of 
ten  pounds  each  ;  which  sums  were  duly  set  forth  in  fat 
black  figures  of  considerable  size.  Mr.  Bonney  elbowed 
his  way  briskly  up-stairs,  receiving  in  his  progress  many 
low  bows  from  the  waiters  who  stcod  on  the  landings  to 
show  the  way,  and,  followed  by  Mr.  Nickleby,  dived  into 
a  suite  of  apartments  behind  the  great  public  room  :  in 
the  second  of  which  was  a  business  looking  table,  and 
several  business-looking  people. 

"  Hear  !  "  cried  a  gentleman  with  a  double  chin,  as 
Mr.  Bonney  presented  himself.  "Chair,  gentlemen, 
chair  ! " 

The  new  comers  were  received  with  universal  appro- 
bation, and  Mr.  Bonney  bustled  up  to  the  top  of  the 
table,  took  off  his  hat,  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair, 
and  knocked  a  hackney-coachman's  knock  on  the  table 
with  a  little  hammer  :  whereat  several  gentlemen  cried 
"  Hear  !  "  and  nodded  slightly  to  each  other,  as  much  as 
to  say  what  spirited  conduct  that  was.  Just  at  this 
moment,  a  waiter,  feverish  with  agitation,  tore  into  the 
room,  and  throwing  the  door  open  with  a  crash,  shouted 
"  Sir  Matthew  Pupker  !  " 

The  committee  stood  up  and  clapped  their  hands  for 
joy ;  and  while  they  were  clapping  them,  in  came  Sir 
Matthew  Pupker,  attended  by  two  live  members  of  Par- 
liament, one  Irish  and  one  Scotch,  all  smiling  and  bowing, 
and  looking  so  pleasant  that  it  seemed  a  perfect  marvel 
how  any  man  could  have  the  heart  to  vote  against  them. 
Sir  Matthew  Pupker  especially,  who  had  a  little  round 
head  with  a  flaxen  wig  on  the  top  of  it,  fell  into  such 
a  paroxysm  of  bows,  that  the  wig  threatened  to  be  jerked 
off,  every  instant.  When  these  symptoms  had  in  some 
degree  subsided,  the  gentlemen  who  were  on  .speaking 
terms  with  Sir  Matthew  Pupker,  or  the  two  other  mem- 
bers, crowded  round  them  in  three  little  groups,  near  one 
or  other  of  which  the  gentlemen  who  were  not  on  speak- 
ing terms  with  Sir  Matthew  Pupker  or  the  two  other 
members,  stood  lingering,  and  smiling,  and  rubbing  their 
hands,  in  the  desperate  hope  of  something  turning  up 
which  might  bi-ing  them  into  notice.  All  this  time.  Sir 
Matthew  Pupker  and  the  two  other  members  were  relat- 
ing to  their  separate  circles  what  the  intentions  of  gov- 
ernment were,  about  taking  up  the  bill ;  with  a  full 
account  of  what  the  government  had  said  in  a  whisper 
the  last  time  they  dined  with  it,  and  how  the  govern- 
ment had  been  observed  to  wink  when  it  said  so  ;  from 
which  premises  they  were  at  no  loss  to  draw  the  conclu- 
sion, that  if  the  government  had  one  object  more  at 
heart  than  another,  that  one  object  was  the  welfare  and 
advantage  of  the  United  Metropolitan  Improved  Hot 
Muffin  and  Crumpet  Baking  and  Punctual  Delivery  Com- 
pany. 

Meanwhile,  and  pending  the  arrangement  of  the  pro- 
ceedings and  a  fair  division  of  the  speechifying,  the  pub- 
lic in  the  large  room  were  eyeing,  by  turns,  the  empty 
platform,  and  the  ladies  in  the  Music  Gallery.  In  these 
amusements  the  greater  portion  of  them  had  been  occu- 
pied for  a  couple  of  hours  before,  and  as  the  most  agree- 
able diversions  pall  upon  the  taste  on  a  too  protracted 
enjoyment  of  them,  the  sterner  spirits  now  began  to  ham- 
mer the  floor  with  their  boot-heels,  and  to  express  their 
dissatisfaction  by  various  hoots  and  cries.  These  vocal 
exertions,  emanating  from  the  people  who  had  been 
there  longest,  naturally  proceeded  from  those  who  were 
nearest  to  the  platform  and  furthest  from  the  policemen 
in  attendance,  who  having  no  great  mind  to  fight  their 
way  through  the  crowd,  but  entertaining  nevertheless  a 
praiseworthy  desire  to  do  something  to  quell  the  disturb- 
ance, immediately  began  to  drag  forth,  by  the  coat  tails 
and  collars,  all  the  quiet  people  near  the  door ;  at  the 
same  time  dealing  out  various  smart  and  tingling  blows 
with  their  truncheons,  after  the  manner  of  that  ingenious 
actor,  Mr  Punch  :  whose  brilliant  example,  both  in  the 
fashion  of  his  weapons  and  their  use,  this  branch  of  the 
executive  occasionally  follows. 


6 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


Several  very  exciting-  skirmislies  were  in  progress,  when 
a  loud  shout  attracted  the  attention  even  of  the  bellige- 
rents, and  then  there  poured  on  to  the  platform,  from  a 
door  at  the  side,  a  long  line  of  gentlemen  with  their  hats 
off,  all  looking  behind  them,  and  uttering  vociferous 
cheers  ;  the  cause  whereof  was  sufficiently  explained 
when  Sir  Matthew  Pupker  and  the  two  other  real  mem- 
bers of  Parliament  came  to  the  front,  amidst  deafening 
shouts,  and  testified  to  each  other  in  dumb  motions  that 
they  had  never  seen  such  a  glorious  sight  as  that,  in  the 
whole  course  of  their  pjiblic  career. 

At  length,  and  at  last,  the  assembly  left  off  shouting, 
but  Sir  Matthew  Pupker  being  voted  into  the  chair, 
they  underwent  a  relapse  which  lasted  five  minutes. 
This  over,  Sir  Matthew  Pupker  went  on  to  say  what 
must  be  his  feelings  on  that  great  occasion,  and  what 
must  be  that  occasion  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  what 
must  be  the  intelligence  of  his  fellow-countrymen  be- 
fore him,  and  what  muse  be  the  wealth  and  respecta- 
bility of  his  honourable  friends  behind  him,  and  lastly, 
what  must  be  the  importance  to  the  wealth,  the  happi- 
ness, the  comfort,  the  liberty,  the  very  existence  of  a 
free  and  great  people,  of  such  an  Institution  as  the 
United  Metropolitan  Improved  Hot  Muffin  and  Crumpet 
Baking  and  Punctual  Delivery  Company  ! 

Mr.  Bonney  then  presented  liimself  to  move  the  first 
resolution  ;  and  having  run  his  right  hand  through  his 
hair,  and  planted  his  left,  in  an  easy  manner,  in  his 
ribs,  he  consigned  his  hat  to  the  care  of  the  gentleman 
with  the  double  chin  (who  acted  as  a  species  of  bottle- 
holder  to  the  orators  generally),  and  said  he  would  read 
to  them  the  first  resolution—"  That  this  meeting  views 
with  alarm  and  apprehension,  the  existing  state  of  the 
Muffin  Trade  in  this  Metropolis  and  its  neighbourhood  ; 
that  it  considers  the  Muffin  Boys,  as  at  present  consti- 
tuted, wholly  undeserving  the  confidence  of  the  public  ; 
and  that  it  deems  the  whole  Muffin  system  alike  preju- 
dicial to  the  health  and  morals  of  the  people,  and  sub- 
versive of  the  best  interests  of  a  great  commercial  and 
mercantile  community."  The  honourable  gentleman 
made  a  speech  which  drew  tears  from  the  eyes  of  the 
ladies,  and  awakened  the  liveliest  emotions  in  every  in- 
dividual present.  He  had  visited  the  houses  of  the 
poor  in  the  various  districts  of  London,  and  had  found 
them  destitute  of  the  slightest  vestige  of  a  muffin,  which 
there  appeared  too  much  reason  to  believe  some  of  these 
indigent  persons  did  not  taste  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end.  He  had  found  that  among  muffin-sellers  there  ex- 
isted drunkenness,  debauchery,  and  profligacy,  which  he 
attributed  to  the  debasing  nature  of  their  employment 
as  at  present  exercised ;  he  had  found  the  same  vices 
among  the  poorer  class  of  people  who  ought  to  be  muffin 
consumers  :  and  this  he  attributed  to  the  despair  engen- 
dered by  their  being  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  that 
nutritious  article,  which  drove  them  to  seek  a  false 
stimulant  in  intoxicating  liquors.  He  would  undertake 
to  prove  before  a  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
that  there  existed  a  combination  to  keep  up  the  price  of 
muffins,  and  to  give  the  bellmen  a  monopoly ;  he 
would  prove  it  by  bellmen  at  the  bar  of  that  House  ;  and 
he  would  also  prove,  that  these  men  corresponded  with 
each  other  by  secret  words  and  signs,  as  "  Snooks," 
"Walker,"  "Ferguson,"  "Is  Murphy  right?"  and 
many  others.  It  was  this  melancholy  state  of  things 
that  the  Company  proposed  to  correct  ;  firstly,  by  pro- 
hibiting, under  heavy  penalties,  all  private  muffin  trad- 
ing of  every  description  ;  secondly,  by  themselves  sup- 
plying the  public  generally,  and  the  poor  at  their  own 
homes,  with  muffins  of  first  quality  at  reduced  prices.  It 
was  with  this  object  that  a  bill  had  been  introduced  into 
Parliament  by  their  patriotic  chairman  Sir  Matthew  Pup- 
ker ;  it  was  this  bill  that  they  had  met  to  support ;  it 
was  the  supporters  of  this  bill  who  would  confer  undy- 
ing brightness  and  splendour  upon  England,  under  the 
name  of  the  United  Metropolitan  Improved  Hot  Muffin 
and  Crumpet  Baking  and  Punctual  Delivery  Company  ; 
he  would  add,  with  a  capital  of  Five  Millions,  in  five 
hundred  thousand  shares  of  ten  pounds  each. 

Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  seconded  the  resolution,  and  an- 
other gentleman  having  moved  that  it  be  amended  by  the 
insertion  of  the  words  "  and  crumpet"  after  the  word 
"  muffin,"  whenever  it  occurred,  it  was  carried  triumph-  j 


antly.  Only  one  man  in  the  crowd  cried  "No!"  and 
he  was  promptly  taken  into  custody,  and  straightway 
borne  off. 

The  second  resolution,  which  recognised  the  expedi- 
ency of  immediately  abolishing  "  all  muffin  (or  crumpet) 
sellers,  all  traders  in  mulfins  (or  crumpets)  of  whatsoever 
description,  whether  male  or  female,  boys  or  men,  ring- 
ing hand-bells  or  otherwise,"  was  moved  by  a  grievous 
gentleman  of  semi-clerical  appearance,  who  went  at  once 
into  such  deep  pathetics,  that  he  knocked  the  first  speak- 
er clean  out  of  the  course  in  no  time.  You  might  have 
heard  a  pin  fall— a  pin  !  a  feather— as  he  described  the 
cruelties  inflicted  on  muffin  boys  by  their  masters,  which 
he  very  wisely  urged  were  in  themselves  a  sufficient  rea- 
son for  the  establishment  of  that  inestimable  company. 
It  seemed  that  the  unhappy  youths  were  nightly  turned 
out  into  the  wet  streets  at  the  most  inclement  periods 
of  the  year,  to  wander  about,  in  darkness  and  rain — or 
it  might  be  hail  or  snow — for  hours  together,  without 
shelter,  food,  or  warmth  ;  and  let  the  public  never  for- 
get upon  the  latter  point,  that  while  the  muffins  were 
provided  with  warm  clothing  and  blankets,  the  boys 
were  wholly  unprovided  for,  and  left  to  their  own  mi.ser- 
able  resources.  (Shame  !)  The  honourable  gentleman 
related  one  case  of  a  muffin  boy,  who  having  been  ex- 
posed to  this  inhuman  and  barbarous  system  for  no  less 
than  five  years,  at  length  fell  a  victim  to  a  cold  in  the 
head,  beneath  which  he  gradually  sunk  until  he  fell  into 
a  perspiration  and  recovered  ;  this  he  could  vouch  for, 
on  his  own  authority,  but  he  had  heard  (and  he  had  no 
reason  to  doubt  the  fact)  of  a  still  more  heart-rending  and 
appalling  circumstance.  He  had  heard  of  the  case  of  an 
orphan  muffin  boy,  who,  having  been  run  over  by  a  hack- 
ney carriage,  had  been  removed  to  the  hospital,  had  un- 
dergone the  amputation  of  his  leg  below  the  knee,  and 
was  now  actually  pursuing  his  occupation  on  crutches. 
Fountain  of  justice,  were  these  things  to  last ! 

This  was  the  department  of  the  subject  that  took  the 
meeting,  and  this  was  the  style  of  speaking  to  enlist 
their  sympathies.  The  men  shouted  :  the  ladies  wept 
into  their  pocket-handkerchiefs  till  they  were  moist,  and 
waved  them  till  they  were  dry  ;  the  excitement  was  tre- 
mendous; and  Mr.  Nickleby  whispered  his  friend  that  the 
shares  were  thenceforth  at  a  premium  of  five-and- twenty 
per  cent. 

The  resolution  was,  of  course,  carried  with  loud  accla- 
mations, every  man  holding  up  both  hands  in  favour  of 
it,  as  he  would  in  his  enthusiasm  have  held  up  both  legs 
also,  if  he  could  have  conveniently  accomplished  it.  This 
done,  the  draft  of  the  proposed  petition  was  read  at 
length  ;  and  the  petition  said,  as  all  petitions  do  say,  that 
the  petitioners  were  very  humble,  and  the  petitioned 
very  honourable,  and  the  object  very  virtuous  ;  therefore 
(said  the  petition)  the  bill  ought  to  be  passed  into  a  law 
at  once,  to  the  everlasting  honour  and  glory  of  that  most 
honourable  and  glorious  Commons  of  England  in  Parlia- 
ment assembled. 

Then,  the  gentleman  who  had  been  at  Crockford's  all 
night,  and  who  looked  something  the  worse  about  the 
eyes  in  consequence,  came  forward  to  tell  his  fellow- 
countrymen  what  a  speech  he  meant  to  make  in  favour 
of  that  petition  whenever  it  should  be  presented,  and  how 
desperately  he  meant  to  taunt  the  parliament  if  they  re- 
jected the  bill  ;  and  to  inform  them  also,  that  he  regret- 
ted his  honourable  friends  had  not  inserted  a  clause 
rendering  the  purchase  of  muffins  and  crumpets  compul- 
sory upon  all  classes  of  the  community,  which  lie — op- 
posing all  half  measures,  and  preferring  to  go  the  ex- 
treme animal — pledged  himself  to  propose  and  divide 
upon,  in  committee.  After  announcing  this  determina- 
tion, the  honourable  gentleman  grew  jocular  ;  and  as 
patent  boots,  lemon-coloured  kid  gloves,  and  a  fur  coat 
collar,  assist  jokes  materially,  there  was  immense  laugh- 
ter and  much  cheering,  and  moreover  such  a  brilliant 
display  of  ladies'  pocket-handkerchiefs,  as  threw  the 
grievous  gentleman  quite  into  the  shade. 

And  when  the  petition  had  been  read  and  was  about 
to  be  adopted,  there  came  forward  the  Irish  member  (who 
was  a  young  gentleman  of  ardent  temperament,)  with 
such  a  speech  as  only  an  Irish  member  can  make,  breath- 
ing the  true  soul  and  spirit  of  poetry,  and  poured  forth 
with  such  fervour,  that  it  made  one  warm  to  look  at  him  ; 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


7 


in  fhe  course  whereof,  he  told  them  how  he  would  de- 
mand the  extension  of  that  great  boon  to  his  native  qoun- 
try  ;  how  he  would  claim  for  her  equal  rights  in  the 
muffin  laws  as  in  all  other  laws  ;  and  how  he  yet  hoped 
to  see  the  day  when  crumpets  should  be  toasted  in  her 
lowly  cabins,  and  muffin  bells  should  ring  in  her  rich 
green  valleys.  And,  after  him,  came  the  Scotch  member, 
with  various  pleasant  allusions  to  the  probable  amount 
of  profits,  which  increased  the  good  humour  that  the  po- 
etry had  awakened  :  and  all  the  speeches  put  together 
did'  exactly  what  they  were  intended  to  do,  and  estab- 
lished in  the  hearers'  minds  that  there  was  no  specula- 
tion so  promising,  or  at  the  same  time  so  praiseworthy, 
as  the  United  Metropolitan  Improved  Hot  Muffin  and 
Crumpet  Baking  and  Punctual  Delivery  Company. 

So,  the  petition  in  favour  of  the  bill  was  agreed  upon, 
and  the  meeting  adjourned  with  acclamations,  and  Mr. 
Nickleby  and  the  other  directors  went  to  the  office  to 
lunch,  as  they  did  every  day  at  half-past  one  o'clock  ; 
and  to  remunerate  themselves  for  which  trouble,  (as  the 
company  was  yet  in  its  infancy,)  they  only  charged  three 
guineas  each  man  for  every  such  attendance. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  receives  Sad  Tidings  of  his  Brother,  but  bears  up 
nobly  against  the  Intelliqence  comrminicaled  to  him.  The  Reader 
is  informed  how  he  liked  Nicholas!,  who  is  herein  introduced,  and 
flow  kindly  he  proposed  to  make  his  Fortune  at  once. 

Having  rendered  his  zealous  assistance  towards  dis- 
patching the  lunch,  with  all  that  promptitude  and  en- 
ergy which  are  among  the  most  important  qualities  that 
men  of  business  can  possess,  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  took  a 
cordial  farewell  of  his  fellow  speculators,  and  bent  his 
steps  westward  in  unwonted  good  humour.  As  he  passed 
Saint  Paul's  he  stepped  aside  into  a  doorway  to  set  his 
watch,  and  with  his  hand  on  the  key  and  his  eye  on 
the  cathedral  dial,  was  intent  upon  so  doing,  when  a 
man  suddenly  stopped  before  him.  It  was  Newman 
Noggs. 

"Ah  !  Newman,"  said  Mr.  Nickleby,  looking  up  as  he 
pursued  his  occupation.  "The  letter  about  the  mort- 
gage has  come,  has  it  ?    I  thought  it  would." 

"  Wrong,"  replied  Newman. 

"What  !  and  nobody  called  respecting  it?"  inquired 
Mr.  Nickleby,  pausing.    Noggs  shook  his  head. 
"What  has  come,  then?"  inquired  Mr.  Nickleby. 
"I  have,"  said  Newman. 

"What  else  ?  "  demanded  the  master,  sternly. 

"  This,"  said  Newman,  drawing  a  sealed  letter  slowly 
from  his  pocket.  "  Post-mark,  Strand,  black  wax, 
black  border,  woman's  hand,  C.  N.  in  the  corner." 

"Black  wax?"  said  Mr.  Nickleby,  glancing  at  the  let- 
ter. "  I  know  something  of  that  hand,  too.  Newman, 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  my  brother  were  dead." 

"  I  don't  think  you  would,"  said  Newman,  quietly. 

"Why  not,  sir,'*  demanded  Mr.  Nickleby. 

"You  never  are  surprised,"  replied  Newman,  "that's 
all." 

Mr.  Nickleby  snatched  the  letter  from  his  assistant, 
and  fixing  a  cold  look  upon  him,  opened,  read  it,  put  it 
in  his  pocket,  and  having  now  hit  the  time  to  a  second, 
began  winding  up  his  watch. 

"It  is  as  I  expected,  Newman,"  said  Mr.  Nickleby, 
while  he  was  thus  engaged.  "  He  is  dead.  Dear  me  ! 
Well,  that's  a  sudden  thing.  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
it,  really."  With  these  touching  expressions  of  sorrow, 
Mr.  Nickleby  replaced  his  watch  in  his  fob,  and,  fitting 
on  his  gloves  to  a  nicety,  turned  upon  his  way,  and 
walked  slowly  westward  with  hi?  hands  behind  him. 

"Children  alive?"  inquired  Noggs,  stepping  up  to 
him. 

"  Why,  that's  the  very  thing,"  replied  Mr.  Nickleby, 
as  though  his  thoughts  were  about  them  at  that  moment. 
"  They  are  both  alive." 

"Both  ! "  repeated  Newman  Noggs,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  the  widow,  too,"  added  Mr.  Nickleby,  "  and  all 
three  in  London,  confound  them  ;  all  three  here,  New- 
man," 

Newman  fell  a  little  behind  his  master,  and  his  face 


was  furiously  twisted  as  by  a  spasm  ;  but  whether  of 
paralysis,  or  grief,  or  inward  laughter,  nobody  but  him- 
self could  possibly  explain.  The  exj)ression  of  a  man's 
face  is  commonly  a  help  to  his  thoughts,  or  glossary  on 
his  speech  ;  but  the  countenance  of  Newman  Noggs,  In 
his  ordinary  moods,  was  a  problem  which  no  stretch  of 
ingenuity  could  solve. 

"  Go  home  !  "  said  Mr.  Nickleby,  after  they  liad  walked 
a  few  paces  :  looking  round  at  the  clerk  as  if  lie  were  his 
dog.  The  words  were  scarcely  uttered  when  Newman 
darted  across  the  road,  slunk  among  the  crowd,  and  dis- 
appeared in  an  instant. 

"Reasonable,  certainly!"  muttered  Mr.  Nickleby  to 
himself,  as  he  walked  on,  "  very  rea.sonable  !  My  bro- 
ther never  did  anything  for  me,  and  I  never  expected  it  ; 
the  breath  is  no  sooner  out  of  his  body  than  I  am  to  be 
looked  to,  as  the  support  of  a  great  hearty  woman,  and  a 
grown  boy  and  girl.  What  are  they  to  me  1  /  never 
saw  them." 

Full  of  these  and  many  other  reflections  of  a  similar 
kind,  Mr.  Nickleby  made  the  best  of  his  way  to  the 
Strand,  and,  referring  to  his  letter  as  if  to  ascertain  the 
number  of  the  house  he  wanted,  stopped  at  a  private 
door  about  halfway  down  that  crowded  thoroughfare. 

A  miniature  painter  lived  there,  for  there  was  a  large 
gilt  frame  screwed  upon  the  street-door,  in  which  were 
displayed,  upon  a  black  velvet  ground,  two  portraits  of 
naval  dress  coats  with  faces  looking  out  of  them,  and  tel- 
escopes attached  ;  one  of  a  young  gentleman  in  a  very 
vermilion  uniform,  flourishing  a  sabre  ;  and  one  of  a  lit- 
erary character  with  a  high  forehead,  a  pen  and  ink,  six 
books,  and  a  curtain.  There  was,  moreover,  a  touching 
representation  of  a  young  lady  reading  a  manuscript  in 
an  unfathomable  forest,  and  a  charming  whole  length  of 
a  large -headed  little  boy,  sitting  on  a  stool  with  his  legs 
fore-shortened  to  the  size  of  salt-spoons.  Besides  these 
works  of  art,  there  were  a  great  many  heads  of  old  ladies 
and  gentlemen  smirking  at  each  other  out  of  blue  and 
brown  skies,  and  an  elegantly-written  card  of  terms  with 
an  embossed  border. 

Mr.  Nickleby  glanced  at  these  frivolities  with  great 
contempt,  and  gave  a  double  knock,  which,  having  been 
thrice  repeated,  was  answered  by  a  servant  girl  with  an 
uncommonly  dirty  face. 

"Is  Mrs.  Nickleby  at  home,  girl?"  demanded  Ralph 
sharply. 

"  Her  name  ain't  Nickleby,"  said  the  girl,  "  La  Creevy, 
you  mean." 

Mr.  Nickleby  looked  very  indignant  at  the  handmaid 
on  being  thus  corrected,  and  demanded  with  much 
asperity  what  she  meant ;  which  she  was  about  to  state, 
when  a  female  voice  proceeding  from  a  perpendicular 
staircase  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  inquired  who  was 
wanted. 

"Mrs.  Nickleby,"  said  Ralph. 

"  It's  the  second  floor,  Hannah,"  said  the  same  voice  ; 
"what  a  stupid  thing  you  are  1  Is  the  second  floor  at 
home  ?  " 

"  Somebody  went  out  just  now,  but  I  think  it  was  the 
attic  which  had  been  a  cleaning  of  himself,"  replied  the 
girl. 

"You  had  better  see,"  said  the  invisible  female. 
"  Show  the  gentleman  where  the  bell  is,  and  tell  him  he 
mustn't  knock  double  knocks  for  the  second  floor  :  I  can't 
allow  a  knock  except  when  the  bell's  broke,  and  then  it 
must  be  two  single  ones." 

"  Here,"  said  Ralph,  walking  in  without  more  parley, 
"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  is  that  Mrs.  La'what's  her-uame  ?" 

"  Creevy — La  Creevy,"  replied  the  voice,  as  a  yellow 
head-dress  bobbed  over  the  banisters. 

"  I'll  speak  to  you  a  moment,  ma'am,  with  your  leave," 
said  Ralph. 

The  voice  replied  that  the  gentleman  was  to  walk  up  ; 
but  he  had  walked  up  before  it  spoke,  and  stepping  into 
the  first  floor,  was  received  by  the  wearer  of  the  yellow 
headdress,  who  had  a  gown  to  correspond,  and  was  of 
much  the  same  colour  herself.  Miss  La  Creevy  was  a 
mincing  young  lady  of  fifty,  and  Miss  La  Creevy's  apart- 
ment was  the  gilt'  frame  down-stairs  on  a  larger  scale 
and  something  dirtier. 

"Hem!"  said  Miss  La  Creevy,  coughing  delicately 
behind  her  black  silk  mitten.    "  A  miniature  I  presume. 


8 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


A  very  strongl7-inaLr"ked  countenance  for  tlie  purpose, 
sir.    Have  you  ever  sat  before  ? " 

"You  mistake  my  purpose,  I  see,  ma'am,"  replied  Mr. 
Nickleby,  in  his  usual  blunt  fashion.  "  I  have  no  money 
to  throw  away  on  miniatures,  ma'am,  and  nobodj  to 
give  one  to  (thank  God)  if  I  had.  Seeing  you  on  the 
stairs,  1  wanted  to  ask  a  question  of  you,  about  some 
lodgers  here." 

Miss  La  Creevy  coughed  once  more — this  cough  was 
to  conceal  her  disappointment — and  said,  "  Oh,  indeed  !" 

"I  infer  from  what  you  said  to  your  servant,  that  the 
floor  above  belongs  to  you,  ma'am  V"  said  Mr.  Nickleby. 

Yes  it  did.  Miss  La  Creevy  replied.  The  upper  part 
of  the  house  belonged  to  her,  and  as  she  had  no  necessity 
for  the  second-floor  rooms  just  then,  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  letting  them.  Indeed,  there  was  a  lady  from  the 
country  and  her  two  children  in  them,  at  that  present 
speaking. 

"A  widow,  ma'am?"  said  Ralph. 

"Yes,  she  is  a  widow,"  replied  the  lady. 

"A  poor  widow,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph,  with  a  powerful 
emphasis  on  that  little  adjective  which  conveys  so  much. 

"Well,  I  am  afraid  she  is  poor,"  rejoined  Miss  La 
Creevy. 

"I  happen  to  know  that  she  is,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph. 
"  Now,  what  business  has  a  poor  widow  in  such  a  house 
as  this,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Very  true, ".replied  Miss  La  Creevy,  not  at  all  dis- 
pleased with  this  implied  compliment  to  the  apartments. 
"  Exceedingly  true." 

"I  know  her  circumstances  intimately,  ma'am,"  said 
Ralph  ;  "in  fact,  I  am  a  relation  of  the  family  ;  and  I 
should  recommend  you  not  to  keep  them  here,  ma'am." 

"I  should  hope,  if  there  was  any  incompatibility  to 
meet  the  pecuniary  obligations,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy 
with  another  cough,  "that  the  lady's  family  would — " 

"  No  they  wouldn't,  ma'am,"  interrupted  Ralph,  hasti- 
ly.   "Don't  think  it." 

"If  I  am  to  understand  that,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy, 
"  the  case  wears  a  very  different  appearance." 

"You  may  understand  it  then,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph, 
"and  make  your  arrangements  accordingly.  I  am  the 
family,  ma'am — at  least  I  believe  I  am  the  only  relation 
they  have,  and  I  think  it  right  that  you  should  know  1 
can't  support  them  in  their  extravagances.  How  long 
have  they  taken  these  lodgings  for  ?  " 

"  Only  from  week  to  week,"  replied  Miss  La  Creevy. 
"  Mrs.  Nickleby  paid  the  first  week  in  advance." 

"  Then  you  had  better  get  them  out  at  the  end  of  it," 
said  Ralph.  "They  can't  do  better  than  go  back  to  the 
country,  ma'am  ;  they  are  in  everybody's  way  hero." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy,  rubbing  her  hands, 
"if  Mrs.  Nickleby  took  the  apartments  without  the 
means  of  paying  for  them,  it  was  very  unbecoming  a 
lady." 

"  Of  course  it  was,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph. 

"  And  naturally,"  continued  Miss  La  Creevy,  "I  who 
am,  at  present — hem — an  unprotected  female,  cannot 
afford  to  lose  by  the  apartments." 

"Of  course  you  can't,  ma'am,"  replied  Ralph. 

"Though  at  the  same  time,"  added  Miss  La  Creevy, 
who  was  plainly  wavering  between  her  good-nature  and 
her  interest,  "I  have  nothing  whatever  to  say  against 
the  lady,  who  is  extremely  pleasant  and  affable,  though, 
poor  thing,  she  seems  terribly  low  in  her  spirits  ;  nor 
against  the  young  people  either,  for  nicer,  or  better-be- 
haved young  people  cannot  be." 

"Very  well,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph,  turning  to  the  door, 
for  these  encomiums  on  poverty  irritated  him  ;  "I  have 
done  my  duty,  and  perhaps  more  than  I  ought :  of  course 
nobody  will  thank  me  for  saying  what  I  have." 

"I  am  sure  7  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  at  least, 
sir,"   said    Miss   La   Creevy   in  a  gracious  manner. 

Would  you  do  me  the  favour  to  look  at  a  few  speci- 
mens of  my  portrait  painting?" 

"You're*  very  good,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Nickleby,  mak- 
ing off  with  great  speed  ;  "  but  as  I  have  a  visit  to  pay 
up-stairs,  and  my  time  is  precious.  I  really  can't." 

"  At  any  other  time  wlien  you  are  passing,  I  shall  be 
most  happy,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  Perhaps  you  will 
have  the  kindness  to  take  a  card  of  terms  with  you? 
Thank  you — good  morning." 


"  Good  morning,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph,  shutting  the 
door  abruptly  after  him  to  prevent  any  further  conversa- 
tion.   "Now  for  my  sister-in-law.    Bah  !  " 

Climbing  up  another  perpendicular  flight,  composed 
with  great  mechanical  ingenuity  of  nothing  but  comer 
stairs,  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleb}*  stopped  to  take  breath  on  the 
landing,  when  he  was  overtaken  by  the  handmaid,  whom 
the  politeness  of  Miss  La  Creevy  had  despatched  to  an- 
nounce him,  and  who  had  apparently  been  making  a 
variety  of  unsuccessful  attempts  since  their  last  inter- 
view to  wipe  her  dirty  face  clean,  upon  an  apron  much 
dirtier. 

"  What  name  ?  "  said  the  girL 
"Nickleby,"  replied  Ralph. 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Nickleby,"  said  the  girl,  throwing  open 
the  door,  "  here's  Mr.  Nickleby." 

A  lady  in  deep  mourning  rose  as  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby 
entered,  but  appeared  incapable  of  advancing  to  meet 
him,  and  leant  upon  the  arm  of  a  slight  but  very  beauti- 
ful girl  of  about  seventeen,  who  had  Ijeen  sitting  by  her. 
A  youth,  who  appeared  a  year  or  two  older,  stepped  for- 
ward and  saluted  Ralph  as  his  uncle. 

"Oh,"  growled  Ralph,  with  an  ill-favoured  frown, 
"  you  are  Nicholas,  I  suppose." 

"  That  is  my  name,  sir,"  replied  the  youth. 

"  Put  my  hat  down,"  said  Ralph,  imperiously.  "  Well, 
ma'am,  how  do  you  do  ?  You  must  bear  up  against  sor- 
row, ma'am  ;  /always  do." 

"Mine  was  no  common  loss  !"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
applying  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"It  was  no  '?^?icommon  loss,  ma'am,"  returned  Ralph, 
as  he  coolly  unbuttoned  his  spencer.  "Husbands  die 
every  day,  ma'am,  and  wives  too." 

"And  brothers  also,  sir,"  said  Nicholas,  with  a  glance 
of  indignation. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  puppies,  and  pup-dogs  likewise,"  re- 
plied his  uncle,  taking  a  chair.  "  You  didn't  mention  in 
your  letter  what  my  brother's  complaint  was,  ma'am." 

"  The  doctors  could  attribute  it  to  no  particular  dis- 
ease," said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  shedding  tears.  "We  have 
too  much  reason  to  fear  that  he  died  of  a  broken  heart." 

"  Pooh  ! "  said  Ralph,  "  there's  no  such  thing.  I  can 
understand  a  man's  dying  of  a  broken  neck,  or  suffering 
from  a  broken  arm,  or  a  broken  head,  or  a  broken  leg,  or 
a  broken  nose  ;  but  a  broken  heart  ! — nonsense,  it's  the 
cant  of  the  day.  If  a  man  can't  pay  his  debts,  he  dies  of 
a  broken  heart,  and  his  widow's  a  martyr." 

"  Some  people,  I  believe,  have  no  hearts  to  break," 
observed  Nicholas,  quietly. 

"How  old  is  this  boy,  for  God's  sake?"  inquired 
Ralph,  wheeling  back  his  chair,  and  surveying  his  nephew 
from  head  to  foot  with  intense  scorn. 

"  Nicholas  is  very  nearly  nineteen,"  replied  the  widow. 

"  Nineteen,  eh  !"  said  Ralph,  "  and  what  do  you  mean 
to  do  for  your  bread,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  to  live  upon  my  mother,"  replied  Nicholas,  his 
heart  swelling  as  he  spoke. 

"  You'd  have  little  enough  to  live  upon,  if  you  did," 
retorted  the  uncle,  eyeing  him  contemptuously. 

"  Whatever  it  be,"  said  Nicholas,  flushed  with  anger, 
"I  shall  not  look  to  you  to  make  it  more." 

"Nicholas,  my  dear,  recollect  yourself,"  remonstrated 
Mrs,  Nickleby. 

"  Dear  Nicholas,  pray,"  urged  the  young  lady. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  sir,"  said  Ralph.  "Upon  my 
word  !  Fine  beginnings,  Mrs.  Nickleby — fine  begin- 
nings I " 

Mrs.  Nickleby  made  no  other  reply  than  entreating 
Nicholas  by  a  gesture  to  keep  silent  ;  and  the  uncle  and 
nephew  looked  at  each  other  for  some  seconds  without 
speaking.  The  face  of  the  old  man  was  stern,  hard- 
featured  and  forbidding  ;  that  of  the  young  one,  open, 
handsome,  and  ingenuous.  The  old  man's  eye  was  keen 
with  the  twinklings  of  avarice  and  cunning  ;  the  young 
man's,  bright  with  the  light  of  intelligence  and  spirit. 
His  figure  was  somewhat  slight,  but  manly  and  well- 
formed  ;  and,  apart  from  all  the  grace  of  youth  and 
comeliness,  there  was  an  emanation  from  the  warm 
young  heart  in  his  look  and  bearing  which  kept  the  old 
man  down. 

However  striking  such  a  contrast  as  this  may  be  to 
lookers-on,  none  ever  feel  it  with  half  the  keenness  or 


NICHOLAS 

acuteness  of  perfection  with  which  it  strikes  to  the  very 
soul  of  him  whose  inferiority  it  marks.  Itgalkxl  Ralph- 
to  the  heart's  core,  and  lie  hated  Nicholas  from  that  hour. 

The  mutual  inspection  was  at  length  brought  to  a  close 
by  Ralph  withdrawing  his  eyes,  with  a  great  show  of  dis 
dain,  and  calling  Nicholas  "a  boy."  This  word  is  much 
used  as  a  term  of  reproach  by  elderly  gentlemen  towards 
their  juniors  :  probably  with  the  view  of  deluding  so- 
ciety into  th§  belief  that  if  they  could  be  young  again, 
they  wouldn't  on  any  account. 

"'Wel*!,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph,  impatiently,  "  the  credi- 
tors have  administered,  you  tell  me,  and  there's  nothing 
left  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  And  you  spent  what  little  money  you  had,  in  coming 
all  the  way  to  London,  to  see  what  i  could  do  for  you  ?  " 
pursued  Ralph. 

"  I  hoped,"  faltered  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  that  you  might 
have  an  opportunity  of  doing  something  for  your 
brother's  children.  It  was  his  dying  wish  that  I  should 
appeal  to  you  in  their  behalf." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  muttered  Ralph,  walking  up 
and  down  the  room,  "  but  whenever  a  man  dies  without 
any  property  of  his  own,  he  always  seems  to  think  he  has 
a  right  to  dispose  of  other  people's.  What  is  your 
daughter  fit  for,  ma'am  ?  " 

"Kate  has  been  well  educated,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by. "  Tell  your  uncle,  my  dear,  how  far  you  went  in 
French  and  extras." 

The  poor  girl  was  about  to  murmer  something,  when 
her  uncle  stopped  her,  very  unceremoniously. 

"  We  must  try  and  get  you  apprenticed  at  some  board- 
ing-school," said  Ralph,  "  You  have  not  been  brought 
up  too  delicately  for  that,  I  hope  ?  '* 

" No,  indeed,  uncle,"  replied  the  weeping  girl.  "I 
will  try  to  do  anything  that  will  gain  me  a  home  and 
bread." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Ralph,  a  little  softened,  either  by 
his  niece's  beauty  or  her  distress  (stretch  a  point,  and  say 
the  latter).  "  You  must  try  it,  and  if  the  life  is  too 
hard,  perhaps  dress-making  or  tambour-work  will  come 
lighter.  Have  you  ever  done  anything,  sir  ?  "  (turning 
to  his  nephew.) 

"No,"  replied  Nicholas,  bluntly. 

"  No,  I  thought  not  ! "  said  Ralph.  "  This  is  the  way 
my  brother  brought  up  his  children,  ma'am." 

"Nicholas  has  not  long  completed  such  education  as 
his  poor  father  could  give  him,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
"  and  he  was  thinking  of — " 

"  Of  making  something  of  him  some  day,"  said  Ralph. 
*'Tlie  old  story  ;  always  thinking,  and  never  doing.  If 
my  brother  had  been  a  man  of  activity  and  prudence,  he 
might  have  left  you  a  rich  woman,  ma'am  :  and  if  he 
had  turned  his  son  into  the  world,  as  ray  father  turned 
me,  when  I  wasn't  as  old  as  that  boy  by  a  year  and  a 
half,  he  would  have  been  in  a  situation  to  help  you,  in- 
stead of  being  a  burden  upon  you,  and  increasing  your 
distress.  My  brother  was  a  thoughtless,  inconsiderate 
man,  Mrs.  Nickleby,  and  nobody,  I  am  sure,  can  have 
better  reason  to  feel  that,  than  you." 

This  appeal  set  the  widow  upon  thinking  that  perhaps 
she  might  have  made  a  more  successful  venture  with  her 
one  thousand  pounds,  and  then  she  began  to  reflect  what 
a  comfortable  sum  it  would  have  been  just  then  ;  which 
dismal  thoughts  made  her  tears  flow  faster,  and  in  the 
excess  of  these  griefs  she  (being  a  well-meaning  woman 
enough,  but  weak  withal)  fell  first  to  deploring  her  hard 
fate,  and  then  to  remarking,  with  many  sobs,  that  to  be 
sure  she  had  been  a  slave  to  poor  Nicholas,  and  had 
often  told  him  that  she  might  have  married  better  (as  in- 
deed she  had,  very  often),  and  that  she  never  knew  in 
his  life-time  how  the  money  went,  but  that  if  he  had 
confided  in  her  they  might  all  have  been  better  off  that 
day ;  with  other  b;tter  recollections  common  to  most 
married  ladies,  either  during  their  coverture,  or  after- 
wards, or  at  both  period.s.  Mrs.  Nickleby  concluded 
by  lamenting  that  the  dear  departed  had  never  deiirned 
to  profit  by  her  advice,  save  on  one  occasion  :  which 
was  a  strictly  veracious  statement,  inasmuch  as  he  had 
only  acted  upon  it  once,  and  had  ruined  himself  in  con- 
sequence. 

Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  heard  all  this  with  a  half  smile  ; 


NICKLEBY,  9 

and  when  the  widow  had  finished, quietly  took  up  the  sub- 
ject where  it  had  been  left  boff)re  the  above  outbreak. 

"Are  you  willing  to  work,  sirV"  he  inquired,  fro\v]iing 
on  his  nephew. 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  replied  Nicholas  haughtily. 

"  Then  see  here,  sir,"  said  his  uncle.  "This  caught 
my  eye  this  morning,  and  you  may  thank  your  stars  for 
it." 

With  this  exordium,  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  took  a  news- 
paper  from  his  pocket,  and  after  unfolding  it,  and  look- 
ing for  a  short  time  among  the  advertisements,  read  as 
follows  : 

Education.— At  Mr.  Wackford  Squeers's  Acad- 
emy, Dotheboys  Hall,  at  the  delightful  village  of  Dothe- 
boys,  near  Greta  Bridge  in  Yorkshire,  Youth  are  boarded, 
clothed,  booked,  furnished  with  pocl^et-nioney,  provided 
with  all  necessaries,  instructed  in  all  languages  living 
and  dead,  mathematics,  orthography,  geometry,  astron- 
omy, trigonometry,  the  use  of  the  globes,  algelna,  single 
stick  (if  required),  writing,  arithmetic,  fortification,  and 
every  other  branch  of  classical  literature.  Terms, 
twenty  guineas  per  annum.  No  extras,  no  vacations,  and 
diet  unparalleled.  Mr.  Squeers  is  in  town,  and  attends 
daily,  from  one  till  four,  at  the  Saracen's  Head,  Snow 
Hill.  N.  B.  An  able  assistant  wanted.  Annual  salary 
£5.    A  Master  of  Arts  would  be  preferred.' 

"  There  !  "  said  Ralph  folding  the  paper  again.  "  Let 
him  get  that  situation,  and  his  fortune  is  made." 

"  But  he  is  not  a  Master  of  Arts,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"That,"  replied  Ralph,  "that  I  think,  can  be  got 
over." 

"  But  the  salary  is  so  small,  and  it  is  such  a  long  way 
off,  uncle  !  "  faltered  Kate. 

"  Hush,  Kate  my  dear,"  interposed  Mrs.  Nickleby  ; 
"  your  uncle  must  know  best." 

"I  say,"  repeated  Ralph,  tartly,  "let  him  get  that 
situation,  and  his  fortune  is  made.  If  he  don't  like 
that,  let  him  get  one  for  himself.  Without  friends, 
money,  recommendation,  or  knowledge  of  business  of 
any  kind,  let  him  find  honest  employment  in  London 
which  will  keep  him  in  shoe  leather,  and  I'll  give  him 
a  thousand  pounds.  At  least,"  said  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby, 
checking  himself,  "  I  would  if  I  had  it." 

"Poor  fellow  I"  said  the  young  lady.  "Oh  !  uncle, 
must  we  be  separated  so  soon  !  " 

"Don't  teaze  your  uncle  with  questions  wlieu  he  is 
thinking  only  for  our  good,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby. "  Nicholas,  my  dear,  I  wish  you  would  say  some- 
thing." 

"Yes,  mother,  yes,"  said  Nicholas,  who  had  hitherto 
remained  silent  and  absorbed  in  thought.  "  If  I  am  for- 
tunate  enough  to  be  appointed  to  this  post,  sir,  for  which 
I  am  so  imperfectly  qualified,  what  will  become  of  those 
I  leave  behind  ?  " 

" Your  mother  and  sister,  sir,"  replied  Ralph,  "will 
be  provided  for,  in  that  case  (not  otherwise),  by  me,  and 
placed  in  some  sphere  of  life  in  which  they  will  be  able 
to  be  independent.  That  will  be  my  immediate  care  ; 
they  will  not  remain  as  they  are,  one  week  after  your 
departure,  I  will  undertake." 

"  Then,"  said  Nicholas,  starting  gaily  up,  and  wring- 
ing his  uncle's  hand,  "I  am  ready  to  do  anything  you 
wish  me.  Let  us  try  our  fortune  with  Mr.  Squeers  at 
once  ;  he  can  but  refuse." 

"He  won't  do  that,"  said  Ralph.  "He  will  be  glad 
to  have  you  on  my  recommendation.  Make  yourself  of 
use  to  h'im,  and  you'll  rise  to  be  a  partner  in^  the  estab- 
lishment in  no  time.  Bless  me,  only  think  !  if  he  were 
to  die,  why  your  fortune's  made  at  once." 

"To  be  sure,  I  see  it  all,"  said  poor  Nicholas,  delight- 
ed with  a  thousand  visionary  ideas,  that  his  good  spirits 
and  his  inexperience  were  conjuring  up  before  him. 
"Or  suppose  some  young  nobleman  who  is  being  edu- 
cated at  the  Hall,  were  to  take  a  fancy  to  me,  and  get 
his  father  to  appoint  me  his  traveling  tutor  when  he  left, 
and  when  we  came  back  from  the  continent,  procured 
me  some  handsome  appointment.    Eh  !  uncle  ?  " 

"Ah,  to  be  sure  I  "  sneered  Ralph. 

"And  who  knows,  but  when  he  came  to  see  me  when 
I  was  settled  (as  he  would  of  course),  he  miglit  fall  in 
love  with  Kate,  who  would  be  keeping  my  house,  and — 
and — marry  her,  eh  1  uncle?   Who  knows?" 


10 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Who,  indeed  !  "  snarled  Ralph. 

"  How  happy  we  should  be  !  "  cried  Nicholas  with  en- 
thusiasm. "The  pain  of  parting  is  nothing  to  the  joy 
of  meeting  again.  Kate  will  be  a  beautiful  woman,  and 
I  so  proud  to  hear  them  say  so,  and  mother  so  happy  to 
be  with  us  once  again,  and  all  these  sad  times  forgotten, 
and — "  The  picture  was  too  bright  a  one  to  bear,  and 
Nicholas,  fairly  overpowered  by  it,  smiled  faintly,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

This  simple  family,  born  and  bred  in  retirement,  and 
wholly  unacquainted  with  what  is  called  the  world — a 
conventional  phrase  which,  being  interpreted,  often  sig- 
nifieth  all  the  rascals  in  it — mingled  their  tears  together 
at  the  thought  of  their  first  separation  ;  and,  this  first 
guih  of  feeling  over,  were  proceeding  to  dilate  with  all 
the  buoyancy  of  untried  hope  on  the  bright  prospects  be- 
fore them,  when  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  suggested,  that  if 
they  lost  time,  some  more  fortunate  candidate  might  de- 
prive Nicholas  of  the  stepping-stone  to  fortune  which  the 
advertisement  pointed  out,  and  so  undermine  all  their 
air-built  castles.  This  timely  reminder  effectually  stopped 
the  conversation.  Nicholas  having  carefully  copied  the 
address  of  Mr.  Squeers,  the  uncle  and  nephevv  issued  forth 
together  in  quest  of  that  accomplished  gentleman  ;  Nich- 
olas firmly  persuading  himself  that  he  had  done  his  rela- 
tive great  injustice  in  disliking  him  at  first  sight ;  and  Mrs. 
Nickleby  being  at  some  pains  to  inform  her  daughter 
that  she  was  sure  he  was  a  much  more  kindly  disposed 
person  than  he  seemed  ;  which.  Miss  Nickleby  dutifully 
remarked,  he  might  very  easily  be. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  good  lady's  opinion  had  been  not 
a  little  influenced  by  her  brother-in-law's  appeal  to  her 
better  understanding,  and  his  implied  compliment  to  her 
high  deserts  ;  and  although  she  had  dearly  loved  her 
husband,  and  still  doted  on  her  children,  he  had  struck  so 
successfully  on  one  of  those  little  jarring  chords  in  the 
human  heart  (Ralph  was  well  acquainted  with  its  worst 
weaknesses,  though  he  knew  nothing  of  its  best),  that 
she  had  already  begun  seriously  to  consider  herself  the 
amiable  and  suffering  victim  of  her  late  husband's  impru- 
dence. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Nicliola-^  and  his  Uncle  {fo  secure  the  Fortune  without  loss  of  time)  wait 
iipon  Mr.  WacJcford  Squeers,  the  Yorkshire  Schoolmaster. 

Snow  Hill  !  What  kind  of  place  can  the  quiet  town's 
people  who  see  the  words  emblazoned,  in  all  the  legibili- 
ty of  gilt  letters  and  dark  shading,  on  the  north -country 
coaches,  take  Snow  Hill  to  be  ?  All  people  have  some 
undefined  and  shadowy  notion  of  a  place  whose  name  is 
frequently  before  their  eyes,  or  often  in  their  ears.  What 
a  vast  number  of  random  ideas  there  must  be  perpetually 
floating  about,  regarding  this  same  Snow  Hill.  The  name 
is  such  a  good  one.  Snow  Hill — Snow  Hill  too,  coupled 
with  a  Saracen's  Head  :  picturing  to  us  by  a  double  asso- 
ciation of  ideas,  something  stern  and  rugged  !  A  bleak 
desolate  tract  of  country,  open  to  piercing  blasts  and  fierce 
wintry  storms — a  dark,  cold,  gloomy  heath,  lonely  by  day, 
and  scarcely  to  be  thought  of  by  honest  folks  at  night — 
a  place  which  solitary  wayfarers  shun,  and  where  desper- 
ate robbers  congregate  ; — this,  or  something  like  this, 
should  be  the  prevalent  notion  of  Snow  Hill,  in  those  re- 
mote and  rustic  parts,  through  which  the  Saracen's  Head, 
like  some  grim  apyjarition,  rushes  each  day  and  night  \w\t\\ 
mysterious  and  ghost-like  punctuality  ;  holding  its  swift 
and  headlong  course  in  all  weathers,  and  seeming  to  bid 
defiance  to  the  very  elements  themselves. 

The  reality  is  rather  different,  but  by  no  means  to  be 
despised  notwithstanding.  There,  at  the  very  core  of 
London,  in  the  heart  of  its  business  and  animation,  in  the 
midst  of  a  whirl  of  noise  and  motion  :  stemming  as  it  were 
the  giant  currents  of  life  that  flow  ceaselessly  on  from 
different  quarters,  and  meet  beneath  its  walls  :  stands 
Newgate  ;  and  in  that  crowded  street  on  which  it  frowns 
so  darkly — within  a  few  feet  of  the  squalid  tottering 
houses — upon  the  very  spot  on  whicli  the  venders  of  soup 
and  fish  and  damaged  fruit  are  now  plying  their  trades — 
scores  of  human  beings,  amidst  a  roar  of  sounds  to  which 
even  the  tumult  of  a  great  city  is  as  nothing,  four,  six,  or 
eight  strong  men  at  a  time  have  been  hurried  violently 


and  swiftly  from  the  world,  when  the  scene  has  been  ren- 
dered frightful  with  excess  of  human  life  ;  when  curious 
eyes  have  glared  from  casement,  and  house-top,  and  wall 
and  pillar  ;  and  when,  in  the  mass  of  white  and  up- 
turned faces,  the  dying  wretch,  in  his  all-comprehensive 
look  of  agony,  has  met  not  one — not  one — that  bore  the 
impress  of  pity  or  compassion. 

Near  to  the  jail,  and  by  consequence  near  to  Smithfield 
also,  and  the  Compter,  and  the  bustle  and  noise  of  the 
city  ;  and  just  on  that  particular  part  of  Snovv  Hill  where 
omnibus  horses  going  eastward  seriously  think  of  falling 
j  down  on  purpose,  and  where  horses  in  hackney  cabriolets 
going  westward  not  unfrequently  fall  by  accident,  is  the 
coach-yard  of  the  Saracen's  Head  Inn  ;  its  portal  guarded 
by  two  Saracen's  heads  and  shoulders,  which  it  was  once 
the  pride  and  glory  of  the  choice  spirits  of  this  metropolis 
to  pull  down  at  night,  but  which  have  for  some  time  re- 
mained in  undisturbed  tranquillity  ;  possibly  because  this 
species  of  humour  is  now  confined  to  Saint  James's  parish, 
where  door  knockers  are  preferred  as  being  more  porta- 
ble, and  bell-wires  esteemed  as  convenient  tooth-picks. 
Whether  this  be  the  reason  or  not,  there  they  are,  frown- 
ing upon  you  from  each  side  of  the  gateway.  The  inn 
itself  garnished  with  another  Saracen's  Head,  frowns 
upon  you  from  the  top  of  the  yard  ;  while  from  the  door 
of  the  hind  boot  of  all  the  red  coaches  that  are  standing 
therein,  there  glares  a  small  Saracen's  Head,  with  a  twin 
expression  to  the  large  Saracen's  Head  below,  so  that  the 
general  appearance  of  the  pile  is  decidedly  of  the  Sara- 
cenic order. 

When  you  walk  up  this  yard,  you  will  see  the  booking- 
office  on  your  left,  and  the  tower  of  St.  Sepulchre's 
church,  darting  abruptly  up  into  the  sky,  on  your  right, 
and  a  gallery  of  bedrooms  on  both  sides.  Just  before 
you,  you  will  observe  a  long  window  with  the  words 
"  coffee-room  "  legibly  painted  above  it ;  and  looking  out 
I  of  that  windovv^,  you  would  have  seen  in  addition,  if  you 
j  had  gone  at  the  right  time,  Mr.  Wackford  Squeers  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

Mr.  Squeers's  appearance  was  not  prepossessing.  He 
had  but  one  eye,  and  the  popular  prejudice  runs  in 
favour  of  two.  The  eye  he  had,  was  unquestionably 
useful,  but  decidedly  not  ornamental  :  being  of  a  green- 
ish gray,  and  in  shape  resembling  the  fan-light  of  a 
street  door.  The  blank  side  of  his  face  was  much  wrink- 
led and  puckered  up,  which  gave  him  a  very  sinister 
appearance,  especially  when  he  smiled,  at  which  times 
j  his  expression  bordered  closely  on  the  villanous.  His 
hair  was  very  flat  and  shiny,  save  at  the  ends,  where  it 
was  brushed  stiffly  up  from  a  low  protruding  forehead, 
which  assorted  well  with  his  harsh  voice  and  coarse 
manner.  He  was  about  two  or  three  and  fifty,  and  a 
trifle  below  the  middle  size  ;  he  wore  a  white  neckerchief 
with  long  ends,  and  a  suit  of  scholastic  black  ;  but  his 
coat  sleeves  being  a  great  deal  too  long,  and  his  trousers 
a  great  deal  too  short,  he  appeared  ill  at  ease  in  his 
clothes,  and  as  if  he  were  in  a  perpetual  state  of  astonish- 
ment at  finding  himself  so  respectable. 

Mr.  Squeers  was  standing  in  a  box  by  one  of  the  coffee- 
room  fire-places,  fitted  with  one  such  table  as  is  usually 
seen  in  coffee-rooms,  and  two  of  extraordinary  shapes 
and  dimensions  made  to  suit  the  angles  of  the  partition. 
In  a  corner  of  the  seat,  was  a  very  small  deal  trunk,  tied 
round  with  a  scanty  piece  of  cord  ;  and  on  the  trunk  was 
perched — his  lace-up  half -boots  and  corduroy  trousers 
Jangling  in  the  air — a  diminutive  boy,  with  his  shoulders 
drawn  up  to  his  ears,  and  his  hands  planted  on  his  knees, 
who  glanced  timidly  at  the  schoolmaster,  from  time  to 
time,  with  evident  dread  and  apprehension. 

"  Half-past  three,"  muttered  Mr.  Squeers,  turning  from 
the  window,  and  looking  sulkily  at  the  coffee-room  clock. 
"  There  will  be  nobody  here  to-day." 

Much  vexed  by  this  reflection,  Mr.  Sqiieers  looked  at 
the  little  boy  to  see  whether  he  was  doing  anything  he 
could  beat  him  for.  As  he  happened  not  to  be  doing 
anytlung  at  all,  he  merely  boxed  his  ears,  and  told  him 
not  to  do  it  again. 

"  At  Midsummer,"  muttered  Mr.  Squeers,  resuming 
his  complaint,  "  I  took  down  ten  boys  ;  ten  twenties  is 
j  two  hundred  pound.  I  go  back  at  eight  o'clock  to-morrow 
j  morning,  and  have  got  only  three — three  oughts  is  an 
j  ought — three  twos  is  six — sixty  pound.    What's  come  of 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSilV  OF  ilLlNOIS 


NICHOLAS 

all  the  boys  ?  what's  parents  got  in  their  heads  ?  what 
does  it  all  mean  ?" 

Here  the  little  boy  on  the  top  of  the  trunk  gave  a  vio- 
lent sneeze. 

"  Hilloa,  sir!"  growled  the  schoolmaster,  turning 
round.    "  What's  that,  sir  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  please  sir,"  replied  the  little  boy. 

"  Nothing,  sir  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Squeers, 

"Please  sir,  I  sneezed,"  rejoined  the  boy,  trembling 
tOl  the  little  trunk  shook  under  him. 

"Oh!  sneezed,  did  you?"  retorted  Mr.  Squeers. 
"  Then  what  did  you  say  '  nothing '  for,  sir  ?  " 

In  default  of  a  better  answer  to  this  question,  the  little 
boy  screwed  a  couple  of  knuckles  into  each  of  his  eyes 
and  began  to  cry,  Avherefore  Mr.  Squeers  knocked  him 
oif  the  trunk  with  a  blow  on  one  side  of  his  face,  and 
knocked  him  on  again  with  a  blow  on  the  other. 

*'  Wait  till  I  get  you  dovvn  into  Yorkshire,  my  young 
gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Squeers,  "and  then  I'll  give  you 
the  rest.    Will  you  hold  that  noise,  sir  ?  " 

"  Ye — ye — yes,"  sobbed  the  little  boy,  rubbing  his  face 
very  hard  with  the  Beggar's  Petition  in  printed  calico. 

''Then  do  so  at  once,  sir,"  said  Squeers.  "Do  you 
hear  ?  " 

As  this  admonition  was  accompanied  with  a  threaten- 
ing gesture,  and  uttered  with  a  savage  aspect,  the  little 
boy  rubbed  his  face  harder,  as  if  to  keep  the  tears  back  ; 
and,  beyond  alternately  sniffing  and  choking,  gave  no 
further  vent  to  his  emotions. 

"Mr.  Squeers,"  said  the  waiter,  looking  in  at  this 
juncture  ;  "here's  a  gentleman  asking  for  you  at  the  bar." 

"Show  the  gentleman  in,  Richard,"  replied  Mr. 
Squeers,  in  a  soft  voice.  "  Put  your  handkerchief  in 
your  pocket,  you  little  scoundrel,  or  I'll  murder  you 
when  the  gentleman  goes." 

The  schoolmaster  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words  in 
a  fierce  whisper,  when  the  stranger  entered.  Affecting 
not  to  see  him,  Mr.  Squeers  feigned  to  be  intent  upon 
mending  a  pen,  and  offering  benevolent  advice  to  his 
youthful  pupil. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mr.  Squeers,  "  all  people  have 
their  trials.  This  early  trial  of  yours  that  is  fit  to  make 
your  little  heart  burst,  and  your  very  eyes  come  out  of 
your  head  with  crying,  what  is  it  ?  Nothing  ;  less  than 
nothing.  You  are  leaving  your  friends,  but  you  will 
have  a  father  in  me,  my  dear,  and  a  mother  in  Mrs. 
Squeers.  At  the  delightful  village  of  Dotlieboys,  near 
Greta  Bridge  in  Yorkshire,  where  youth  are  boarded, 
clothed,  booked,  washed,  furnished  with  pocket-money, 
provided  with  all  necessaries — " 

"  It  is  the  gentleman,"  observed  the  stranger,  stopping 
the  schoolmaster  in  the  rehearsal  of  his  advertisement. 
"Mr.  Squeers,  I  believe,  sir?" 

"  The  same,  sir,  "  said  Mr.  Squeers,  with  an  assump- 
tion of  extreme  surprise. 

"The  gentleman,"  said  the  stranger,  "that  advertised 
in  th6  Times  new.spaper?" 

— "Morning  Post,  Chronicle,  Herald,  and  Advertiser, 
regarding  the  Academy  called  Dotheboys  Hall  at  the 
delightful  village  of  Dotheboys,  near  Greta  Bridge  in 
Yorkshire,"  added  Mr,  Squeers.  "You  come  on  busi- 
ness, sir,  I  see  by  my  youug  friends.  How  do  you  do, 
my  little  gentleman  ?  and  how  do  you  do,  sir?"  With 
this  salutation  Mr.  Squeers  patted  the  heads  of  two  hol- 
low-eyed, small-boned  little  boys,  whom  the  applicant 
had  brought  with  him,  and  waited  for  further  communi- 
cations. 

"  I  am  in  the  oil  and  colour  way.  My  name  is  Snaw- 
ley,  sir,"  said  the  stranger. 

Squeers  inclined  his  liead  as  much  as  to  say,  "And  a 
remarkable  pretty  name,  too." 

The  stranger  continued.  "I  have  been  thinking,  Mr. 
Squeers,  of  placing  my  two  boys  at  your  school," 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  say  so,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Squeers, 
"but  I  don't  think  you  could  possibly  do  a  better 
thing." 

"Hem!"  said  the  other.  "Twenty  pounds  per  an- 
newum,  I  believe,  Mr.  Squeers?" 

"  Guineas,"  rejoined  the  schoolmaster,  with  a  persua- 
sive smile. 

"Pounds  for  two,  I  think,  Mr.  Squeers,"  said  Mr. 
Snawley  solemnly, 


mCKLEBY.  11 

"  I  don't  think  it  could  be  done,  sir,"  replied  Squeers, 
as  if  he  had  never  considered  the  proposition  before. 
"Let  me  see  ;  four  fives  is  twenty,  double  that,  and  de- 
duct the — well,  a  pound  either  way  shall  not  stand  be- 
twixt us.  You  must  recommend  me  U)  your  connection, 
sir,  and  make  it  up  that  way. " 

"They  are  not  great  eaters,"  said  Mr.  Snawley, 

"Oh!  that  doesn't  matter  at  all,"  replied  Squeers. 
"  We  don't  consider  the  boys'  appetites  at  our  establish- 
ment."   This  was  strictly  true  ;  they  did  not. 

"Every  wholesome  luxury,  sir,  that  Yojkshire  can 
afford,"  continued  Squeers  ;  "  every  beautiful  moral  that 
Mrs.  Squeers  can  instil  ;  every — in  short,  every  comfort 
of  a  home  that  a  boy  could  wish  for,  will  be  theirs,  Mr. 
Snawley." 

"  I  should  wish  their  morals  to  be  particularly  attended 
to,"  said  Mr.  Snawley. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  sir,"  replied  the  schoolmaster, 
drawing  himself  up.  "They  have  come  to  the  right 
shop  for  morals,  sir." 

"You  are  a  moral  man,  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Snawley. 

"I  rather  believe  I  am,  sir,"  replied  Squeers. 

"  I  have  the  satisfaction  to  know  you  are,  sir,"  said 
Mr,  Snawley,  "I  asked  one  of  your  references,  and  he 
said  you  were  pious." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  hope  I  am  a  little  in  that  line,"  replied 
Squeers. 

"  I  hope  I  am  also,"  rejoined  the  other.  "  Could  I  say 
a  few  words  with  you  in  the  next  box  ?  " 

"By  all  means,"  rejoined  Squeers  with  a  grin,  "My 
dears,  will  you  speak  to  your  new  playfellow  a  minute 
or  two  ?  That  is  one  of  my  boys,  sir.  Belling  his  name 
is, — a  Taunton  boy  that,  sir." 

"Is  he,  indeed?"  rejoined  Mr.  Snawley,  looking  at 
the  poor  little  urchin  as  if  he  were  some  extraordinary 
natural  curiosity. 

"He  goes  down  with  me  to-morrow,  sir,"  said  Squeers. 
"  That's  his  luggage  that  he  is  sitting  upon  now.  Each 
boy  is  required  to  bring,  sir,  two  suits  of  clothes,  six 
shirts,  six  pair  of  stockings,  two  nightcaps,  two  pocket- 
handkerchiefs,  two  pair  of  shoes,  two  hats,  and  a 
razor." 

"A  razor!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Snawley,  as  they  walked 
into  the  next  box.    "  What  for?  " 

"To  shave  with,"  replied  Squeers,  in  a  slow  and 
measured  tone. 

There  was  not  much  in  these  three  words,  but  there 
must  have  been  something  in  the  manner  in  which  they 
were  said,  to  attract  attention  ;  for  the  schoolmaster  and 
his  companion  looked  steadily  at  each  other  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  then  exchanged  a  very  meaning  smile, 
Snawley  was  a  sleek,  fiat-nosed  man,  clad  in  sombre  gar- 
ments, and  long  black  gaiters,  and  bearing  in  his  coun- 
tenance an  expression  of  much  mortification  and  sanc- 
tity ;  so,  his  smiling  without  any  obvious  reason  was  the 
more  remarkable. 

"  tip  to  what  age  do  you  keep  boys  at  your  school 
then  ?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

"  Just  as  long  as  their  friends  make  the  quarterly  pay- 
ments to  my  agent  in  town,  or  until  such  time  as  they 
runaway,"  replied  Squeers.  "Let  us  understand  each 
other  ;  I  see  we  may  safely  do  so.  What  are  these  boys  ; 
— natural  children?" 

"  No,"  rejoined  Snawley,  meeting  the  gaze  of  the 
schoolmaster's  one  eye.    "  They  ain't." 

"I  thought  they  might  be,"  said  Squeers,  coolly. 
"We  have  a  good  many  of  them  ;  that  boy's  one." 

"  Him  in  the  next  box  ?"  said  Snawley. 

Squeers  nodded  in  the  affirmative ;  his  companion 
took  another  peep  at  the  little  boy  on  the  trimk.  and 
turning  round  again,  looked  as  if  he  were  quite  disap- 
pointed to  see  him  so  much  like  other  boys,  and  said  he 
should  hardly  have  thought  it. 

"He  is,"  cried  Squeers.  "But  about  these  boys  of 
yours  ;  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Snawley.  "The  fact  is,  I  am  not 
their  father,  Mr.  Squeers.  I'm  only  their  father-in- 
law.  " 

"  Oh  !  Is  that  it  ?  "  said  the  schoolmaster.  "  That  ex- 
plains it  at  once.  I  was  wondering  what  the  devil  you 
were  going  to  send  them  to  Yorkshire  for.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
Oh,  I  understand  now." 


12 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  You  see  I  have  married  the  mother,"  pursued  Snaw- 
ley  ;  "it's  expensive  keeping  boys  at  liome,  and  as  she 
has  a  little  money  in  her  own  right,  I  am  afraid  (women 
are  so  very  foolish,  Mr.  Squeers)  that  she  might  be  led 
to  squander  it  on  them,  which  would  be  their  ruin,  you 
know." 

"  /  see,"  returned  Squeers,  throwing  himself  back  in 
his  chair,  and  waving  his  hand. 

"And  this,"  resumed  Snawley,  "has  made  me  anx- 
ious to  put  them  to  some  school  a  good  distance  off, 
w^iere  there  are  no  holidays — none  of  those  ill-judged 
comings  home  twice  a  year  that  unsettle  children's  minds 
so  —and  where  thev  may  rough  it  a  little — you  compre- 
hend ?  " 

"  The  payments  regular,  and  no  questions  asked,"  said 
Squeers,  nodding  his  head. 

"That's  It,  exactly,"  rejoined  the  other.  "Morals 
strictly  attended  to,  though. " 

"  Strictly,"  said  Squeers. 

"Not  too  much  writing  home  allowed,  I  suppose?" 
said  the  father-in-law,  hesitating. 

"None,  except  a  circular  at  Christmas,  to  say  they 
never  were  so  happy,  and  hope  they  may  never  be  sent 
for,"  rejoined  Squeers. 

"  Nothing  could  be  better,"  said  the  father-in-law,  rub- 
bing his  hands. 

"Then,  as  we  understand  each  other,"  said  Squeers, 
"  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you  whether  you  consider  me 
a  highly  virtuous,  exemplary,  and  well-conducted  man  in 
private  life  ;  and  whether,  as  a  person  whose  business  it 
is  to  take  charge  of  youth,  you  place  the  strongest  confi- 
dence in  my  unimpeachable  integrity,  liberality,  reli- 
gious principles,  and  ability  ?  " 

"Certainly  I  do,"  replied  the  father-in-law,  recipro- 
cating the  schoolmaster's  grin. 

"Perhaps  you  won't  object  to  say  that,  if  I  make  you 
a  reference  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world." 

"  That's  your  sort  !"  said  Squeers,  taking  up  a  pen  ; 
"  this  is  doing  business,  and  that's  what  I  like." 

Having  entered  Mr.  Snawley's  address,  the  school- 
master had  next  to  perform  the  still  more  agreeable  of- 
fice of  entering  the  receipt  of  the  first  quarter's  payment 
in  advance,  which  he  had  scarcely  completed,  when  an- 
other voice  was  heard  inquiring  for  Mr.  Squeers. 

"  Here  he  is,"  replied  the  schoolmaster  ;  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Only  a  matter  of  business,  sir,"  said  Ralph  Nickle- 
by.  presenting  himself,  closely  followed  by  Nicholas. 
"  There  was  an  advertisement  of  yours  in  the  papers  this 
morning  ?  " 

"There  was,  sir.  This  way  if  you  please,"  said 
Squeers,  who  had  by  this  time  got  back  to  the  box  by 
the  fire-place.    "  Won't  you  be'  seated  ?" 

"Why,  I  think  I  will,"  replied  Ralph,  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word,  and  placing  his  hat  on  the  table  be- 
fore him.  "  This  is  my  nephew,  sir,  Mr.  Nicholas  Nick- 
leby." 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir,"  said  Squeers. 

Nicholas  bowed,  said  he  was  very  well,  and  seemed 
very  much  astonished  at  the  outward  appearance  of  the 
proprietor  of  Dotheboys  Hall  :  as  indeed  he  was. 

"  Perhaps  you  recollect  me?"  said  Ralph,  looking  nar- 
rowly at  the  schoolmaster. 

"  You  paid  me  a  small  account  at  each  of  my  half- 
yearly  visits  to  town,  for  some  years,  I  think',  sir,"  re- 
plied Squeers. 

"  I  did,"  rejoined  Ralph. 

"  For  the  parents  of  a  boy  named  Dorker,  who  unfortu- 
nately—" 

"  — unfortunately  died  at  Dotheboys  Hall,"  said  Ralph, 
finishing  the  sentence. 

"  I  remember  very  well,  sir,"  rejoined  Squeers.  "Ah  ! 
Mrs.  Squeers,  sir,  was  as  partial  to  that  lad  as  if  he  had 
been  her  own  ;  the  attention,  sir,  that  was  bestowed  upon 
thai  boy  in  his  illness  !  Dry  toast  and  warm  tea  offered 
him  every  night  and  morning  when  he  couldn't  swallow 
anything— a  candle  in  his  bed-room  on  the  very  night  he 
died — the  best  dictionary  sent  up  for  him  to  lay  his  head 
upon — I  don't  regret  it,  though.  It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to 
reflect  that  one  did  one's  duty  by  him." 

Ralph  smiled,  as  if  he  meant  anything  but  smiling,  and 
looked  round  at  the  strangers  present. 


"  These  are  only  some  pupils  of  mine,"  said  Wackford 
Squeers,  pointing  to  the  little  boy  on  the  trunk  and  the 
two  little  boys  on  the  floor,  who  had  been  staring  at  each 
other  without  uttering  a  word,  and  writhing  their  bodies 
into  most  remarkable  contortions,  according  to  the  custom 
of  little  boys  when  they  first  become  acquainted.  "This 
gentleman,  sir,  is  a  parent  who  is  kind  enough  to  com- 
pliment me  upon  the  course  of  education  adopted  at 
Dotheboys  Hall,  which  is  situated,  sir,  at  the  delightful 
village  of  Dotheboys,  near  Greta  Bridge  in  Yorkshire, 
where  youth  are  boarded,  clothed,  booked,  washed,  fur- 
nished with  pocket-money — " 

"  Yes,  we  know  all  about  that,  sir,"  interrupted  Ralph, 
testily.    "  It's  in  the  advertisement." 

"  You  are  very  right,  sir  ;  it  is  in  the  advertisement," 
replied  Squeers. 

"And  in  the  matter  of  fact  besides,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Snawley.  ' '  I  feel  bound  to  assure  you,  sir,  and  I  am 
proud  to  have  this  opportunity  of  assuring  you,  that  I 
consider  Mr.  Squeers  a  gentleman  highly  virtuous,  exem- 
plary, well-conducted,  and — " 

"I  make  no  doubt  of  it,  sir,"  interrupted  Ralph, 
checking  the  torrent  of  recommendation  ;  "  no  doubt  of 
it  at  all.    Suppose  we  come  to  business  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,  sir,"  rejoined  Squeers.  "  '  Never 
postpone  business,'  is  the  very  first  lesson  we  instil  into 
our  commercial  pupils.  Master  Belling,  my  dear,  always 
remember  that  ;  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  repeated  Master  Belling. 

"  He  recollects  what  it  is,  does  he  ?  "  said  Ralph. 

"  Tell  the  gentleman,"  said  Squeers, 

"  Never,"  repeated  Master  Belling. 

"  Very  good,"  said  Squeers  ;  "  go  on." 

"  Never,"  repeated  Master  Belling  "again. 

"  Very  good  indeed,"  said  Squeers.    "  Yes." 

"P,"  suggested  Nicholas,  good-naturedly. 

"  Perform — business  !  "  said  Master  Belling.  "  Never 
— perform — business  !  " 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said.  Squeers,  darting  a  withering 
look  at  the  culprit.  "You  and  I  will  perform  a  little 
business  on  our  private  account  by  and  bye." 

' '  And  just  now,"  said  Ralph,  "  we  had  better  transact 
our  own,  perhaps." 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Squeers. 

"Well,"  resumed  Ralph,  "it's  brief  enough;  soon 
broached  ;  and  I  hope  easily  concluded.  You  have  ad- 
vertised for  an  able  assistant,  sir  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,"  said  Squeers. 

"  And  you  really  want  one  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Squeers 

"  Here  he  is  !  "  said  Ralph.  "  My  nephew  Nicholas, 
hot  from  school,  with  everything  he  learnt  there,  fer- 
menting in  his  head,  and  nothing  fermenting  in  his 
pocket,  is  just  the  man  you  want." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Squeers,  perplexed  with  such  an 
application  from  a  youth  of  Nicholas's  figure,  "  I  am 
afraid  the  young  man  won't  suit  me." 

"  Yes,  he  will,"  said  Ralph  ;  "  I  know  better.  Don't 
be  cast  down,  sir  ;  you  will  be  teaching  all  the  young 
noblemen  in  Dotheboys  Hall  in  less  than  a  week's  time, 
unless  this  gentleman  is  more  obstinate  than  I  take  him 
to  be." 

"  I  fear,  sir,"  said  Nicholas,  addressing  Mr.  Squeers, 
"that  you  object  to  my  youth,  and  to  my  not  being  a 
Master  of  Arts  ?  " 

"  The  absence  of  a  college  degree  is  an  objection,"  re- 
plied Squeers,  looking  as  grave  as  he  could,  and  con- 
siderably puzzled,  no  less  by  the  contrast  between  the 
simplicity  of  the  nejjhew  and  the  worldly  manner  of  the 
uncle,  than  by  the  incomprehensible  allusion  to  the 
young  noblemen  under  his  tuition. 

"Look  here,  sir,"  said  Ralph;  "Til  put  this  matter 
in  its  true  light  in  two  seconds. " 

"  If  you'll  have  the  goodness,"  rejoined  Squeers. 

"  This  is  a  boy,  or  n  youth,  or  a  lad,  or  a  young  man, 
or  a  hobbledehoy,  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  him,  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen,  or  thereabouts,"  said  Ralph. 

"  That  I  see,"  observed  the  schoolmaster. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Snawley,  thinking  it  as  well  to 
back  his  new  friend  occasionally. 

"His  father  is  dead,  he  is  wholly  ignorant  of  the 
world,  has  no  resources  whatever,  and  wants  something 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


13 


to  do,"  said  Ralph.  "I  recommend  him  to  this  splendid 
establishment  of  yours,  as  an  opening  which  will  lead 
him  to  fortune  if  he  turns  it  to  proper  account.  Do  you 
see  that?  " 

*'  Everybody  must  see  that,"  replied  Squeers,  half  imi- 
tating the  sneer  with  which  the  old  gentleman  was  re- 
garding his  unconscious  relative. 

"I  do,  of  course,"  said  Nicholas,  eagerly. 

"  He  does,  of  course,  you  observe,"  said  Ralph,  in  the 
same  dry,  hard  manner.  "If  any  caprice  of  temper 
should  induce  him  to  cast  aside  this  golden  opportunity 
before  he  lias  brought  it  to  perfection,  I  consider  myself 
absolved  from  extending  any  assistance  to  his  mother 
and  sister.  Look  at  him,  and  think  of  the  use  he  may  be 
to  you  in  half  a  dozen  ways  1  Now,  the  question  is, 
whether,  for  some  time  to  come  at  all  events,  he  won't 
serve  your  purpose  better  than  twenty  of  the  kind  of  peo- 
ple you  would  get  under  ordinary  circumstances.  Isn't 
that  a  question  for  consideration  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Squeers,  answering  a  nod  of  Ralph's 
head  with  a  nod  of  his  own. 

"  Good,"  rejoined  Ralph.  *'  Let  me  have  two  words 
with  you." 

The  two  words  were  had  apart ;  in  a  couple  of  min- 
utes Mr.  Wackford  Squeers  announced  that  Mr.  Nicholas 
Nickleby  was.  from  that  moment,  thoroughly  nominated 
to,  and  installed  in,  the  office  of  first  assistant  master  at 
Dotheboys  Hall. 

"  Your  uncle's  recommendation  has  done  it,  Mr.  Nick- 
leby," said  Wackford  Squeers. 

Nicholas,  overjoyed  at  his  success,  shook  his  uncle's 
hand  warmly,  and  could  almost  have  worshipped  Squeers 
upon  the  spot. 

"  He  is  an  odd-looking  man,"  thought  Nicholas. 
"What  of  that?  Porson  was  an  odd-looking  man,  and 
so  was  Doctor  Johnson  ;  all  these  bookworms  are." 

"  At  eight  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  Mr.  Nickleby," 
said  Squeers,  "the  coach  starts.  You  must  be  here  at  a 
quarter  before,  as  we  take  these  boys  with  us." 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  And  your  fare  down,  I  have  paid,"  growled  Ralph. 
"  So,  you'll  have  nothing  to  do  but  keep  yourself  warm." 

Here  was  another  instance  of  his  uncle's  generosity  ! 
Nicholas  felt  his  unexpected  kindness  so  much,  that  he 
could  scarcely  find  words  to  thank  him  ;  indeed,  he  had 
not  found  half  enough,  when  they  took  leave  of  the 
schoolmaster,  and  emerged  from  the  Saracen's  Head 
gateway. 

"  I  shall  be  here  in  the  morning  to  see  you  fairly  off," 
said  Ralph.    "  No  skulking  !  " 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas  ;  "  I  never  shall 
forget  this  kindness." 

"  Take  care  you  don't,"  replied  his  uncle.  "  You  had 
better  go  home  now,  and  pack  up  what  you  have  got  to 
pack.  Do  you  think  you  could  find  your  way  to  Golden 
Square  first  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Nicholas.    "  I  can  easily  inquire." 

"  Leave  these  papers  with  my  clerk,  then,*'  said  Ralph, 
producing  a  small  parcel,  "  and  tell  him  to  wait  till  I 
come  home." 

Nicholas  cheerfully  undertook  the  errand,  and  bidding 
his  worthy  uncle  an  affectionate  farewell,  which  that 
warm-hearted  old  gentleman  acknowledged  by  a  growl, 
hastened  away  to  execute  his  commission. 

He  found  Golden  Squire  in  due  course ;  Mr.  Noggs 
who  had  stepped  out  for  a  minute  or  so  to  the  public- 
house,  was  opening  the  door  with  a  latch-key  as  he 
readied  the  steps. 

"What's  that?"  inquired  Noggs,  pointing  to  the 
parcel. 

"  Papers  from  my  uncle,"  replied  Nicholas ;  "  and 
you're  to  have  the  goodness  to  wait  till  he  comes  home, 
if  you  please." 

"  Uncle  !  "  cried  Noggs. 

"  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  Nicholas  in  explanation. 

"  Come  i:i,"  said  Newman. 

Without  another  word  he  led  Nicholas  into  the  pas- 
sage, and  thence  into  the  official  pantry  at  the  end  of  it, 
where  he  thrust  him  into  a  chair,  and  mounting  upon  his 
high  stool,  sat,  with  his  arms  hanging  straight  down  by 
his  sides,  gazing  fixedly  upon  him,  as  from  a  tower  of  ob- 
servation. 


"  There  is  no  answer,"  said  Nicholas,  laying  the  parcel 
on  a  table  beside  him. 

Newman  said  nothing,  but  folding  his  arms,  and 
thrusting  his  head  forward  so  as  to  obtain  a  nearer  view 
of  Nicholas's  face,  scann<;d  his  features  closely. 

"  No  answer,"  said  Nicholas,  speaking  very  loud, 
under  the  impression  that  Newman  Noggs  was  deaf. 

Newman  placed  his  hands  upon  his  knees,  and,  with- 
out vittering  a  syllable,  continued  the  same  close  scrutiny 
of  his  companion's  face. 

This  was  such  a  very  singular  proceeding  on  the  part 
of  an  utter  stranger,  and  his  ai)pearance  was  so  ex- 
tremely peculiar,  that  Nicholas,  who  had  a  sufficiently 
keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  could  not  refrain  from 
breaking  into  a  smile  as  he  inquired  whether  Mr.  Noggs 
had  any  commands  for  him. 

Noggs  shook  his  head  and  sighed  ;  upon  which  Nicho- 
las rose,  and  remarking  that  he  required  no  rest,  bade 
him  good  morning. 

It  was  a  great  exertion  for  Newman  Noggs,  and  no- 
body knows  to  this  day  how  he  ever  came  to  make  it, 
the  other  party  being  wholly  unknown  to  him,  but  he 
drew  a  long  breath  and  actually  said,  out  loud,  without 
once  stopping,  that  if  the  young  gentleman  did  not  ob- 
ject to  tell,  he  should  like  to  know  what  his  uncle  was 
going  to  do  for  him. 

Nicholas  had  not  the  least  objection  in  the  woMd,  but 
on  the  contrary  was  rather  pleased  to  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  talking  on  the  subject  which  occupied  his 
thoughts  ;  so,  he  sat  down  again,  and  (his  sanguine  im- 
agination warming  as  he  spoke)  entered  into  a  fervent 
I  and  glowing  description  of  all  the  honours  and  advan- 
tages to  be  derived  from  his  appointment  at  that  seat  of 
I  learning,  Dotheboys  Hall. 

"  But  what's  the  matter — are  you  ill  ?  "  said  Nicholas, 
I  suddenly  breaking  off,  as  his  companion,  after  throwing 
I  himself  into  a  variety  of  uncouth  attitudes,  thrust  his 
hands  under  the  stool,  and  cracked  his  finger-joints  as 
if  he  were  snapping  all  the  bones  in"  his  hands. 

Newman  Noggs  made  no  reply,  but  went  on  shrugging 
his  shoulders  and  cracking  his  finger-joints  ;  smiling 
horribly  all  the  time,  and  looking  steadfastly  at  nothing, 
out  of  the  tops  of  his  eyes,  in  a  most  ghastly  manner. 

At  first,  Nicholas  thought  the  mysterious  man  was  in 
I  a  fit,  but,  on  further  consideration,  decided  that  he  was 
i  in  liquor,  under  which  circumstances  he  deemed  it  pru- 
\  dent  to  make  off  at  once.  He  looked  back  when  he  had 
j  got  the  street-door  open.  Newsman  Noggs  was  still  in- 
dulging in  the  same  extraordinary  gestures,  and  the 
cracking  of  his  fingers  sounded  louder  than, ever. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Nicholas  starts  for  Yorkshire.    Of  his  Leave  talcing  and  his  Felloic- 
Tr'avelhrs,  and  whatbefel  them  on  the  Road. 

If  tears  dropped  into  a  trunk  were  charms  to  preserve 
its  owner  from  sorrow  and  misfortune,  Nicholas  Nick- 
leby would  have  commenced  his  expedition  under  most 
I  happy  auspices.  There  was  so  much  to  be  done,  and 
i  so  little  time  to  do  it  in  ;  so  many  kind  words  to  be 
j  spoken,  and  such  bitter  pain  in  the  hearts  in  which  they 
rose  to  impede  their  utterance  ;  that  the  little  prepara- 
tions for  his  journey  were  made  mournfully  indeed.  A 
hundred  things  which  the  anxious  care  of  his  mother 
and  sister  deemed  indispensable  for  his  comfort,  Nicho- 
las insisted  on  leaving  behind,  as  they  might  prove  of 
some  after  use,  or  might  be  convertible  into  money  if 
occasion  required.  A  hundred  affectionate  contests  on 
such  points  as  these,  took  place  on  the  sad  night  which 
preceded  his  departure  ;  and,  as  the  termination  of  every 
angerless  dispute  brought  them  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
close  of  their  slight  preparations,  Kate  grew  busier  and 
busier,  and  wept  more  silently. 

The  box  was  packed  at  last,  and  then  there  came  sup- 
per, with  some  little  delicacy  provided  for  the  occasion, 
and  as  a  setoff  against  the  expense  of  which,  Kate  and 
her  mother  had  feigned  to  dine  when  Nicholas  was  out. 
The  poor  lad  nearly  choked  himself  by  attempting  to 
partake  of  it,  and  almost  suffocated  himself  in  affecting 
a  jest  or  two,  and  forcing  a  melancholy  laugh.  Thus, 


14 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


they  lingered  on  till  the  hour  of  separating  for  the  night 
was  long  past ;  and  then  they  found  that  they  might  as 
well  have  given  vent  to  their  real  feelings  before,  for 
they  could  not  suppress  them,  do  what  they  would.  So, 
they  let  them  have  their  way,  and  even  that  was  a  re- 
lief. 

Nicholas  slept  well  till  six  next  morning  ;  dreamed  of 
home,  or  of  what  was  home  once — no  matter  which,  for 
things  that  are  changed  or  gone  will  come  back  as  they 
used  to  be,  thank  God  !  in  sleep — and  rose  quite  brisk 
and  gay.  He  wrote  a  few  lines  in  pencil,  to  say  the 
good-bye  which  he  was  afraid  to  pronounce  himself,  and 
laying  them,  with  half  his  scanty  stock  of  money,  at  his 
sister's  door,  shouldered  his  box  and  crept  softly  down- 
stairs. 

Is  that  you,  Hannah  ?"  cried  a  voice  from  Miss  La 
Creevy's  sitting-room,  whence  shone  the  light  of  a  feeble 
candle. 

"  It  is  I,  Miss  La  Creevy,"  said  Nicholas,  putting  down 
the  box  and  looking  in. 

"Bless  us  !"  exclaimed  Miss  La  Creevy,  starting  and 
putting  her  hand  to  her  curl-papers  ;  "You're  up  very 
early,  Mr.  Nickleby." 

"  So  are  you,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  It's  the  fine  arts  that  bring  me  out  of  bed,  Mr.  Nick- 
leby," returned  the  lady.  *'  I'm  waiting  for  the  light  to 
carry  oht  an  idea." 

Miss  La  Creevy  had  got  up  early  to  put  a  fancy  nose 
into  a  miniature  of  an  ugly  little  boy,  destined  for  his 
grandmother  in  the  country,  who  was  expected  to  be- 
queath him  property  if  he  was  like  the  family. 

"  To  carry  out  an  idea,"  repeated  Miss  La  Creevy  ; 
"and  that's  the  great  convenience  of  living  in  a  thorough- 
fare like  the  Strand.  When  I  want  a  nose  or  an  eye  for 
any  particular  sitter,  I  have  only  to  look  out  of  win- 
dow and  wait  till  I  get  one." 

"Does  it  take  long  to  get  a  nose,  now?"  inquired 
Nicholas,  smiling. 

"  Why,  that  depends  in  a  great  measure  on  the  pat- 
tern," replied  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  Snubs  and  romans  are 
plentiful  enough,  and  there  are  fiats  of  all  sorts  and 
sizes  when  there's  a  meeting  at  Exeter  Hall  ;  but  perfect 
aquilines,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  are  scarce,  and  we  generally 
use  them  for  uniforms  or  public  characters." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Nicholas.  "If  I  should  meet  with 
any  in  my  travels,  I'll  endeavour  to  sketch  them  for  you." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  really  going  all 
the  way  down  into  Yorkshire  this  cold  winter's  weather, 
Mr.  Nickleby?"  said  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  I  heard  some- 
thing of  it  last  night." 

"I  do,  indeed,"  replied  Nicholas.  "Needs  must,  you 
know,  when  somebody  drives.  Necessity  is  my  driver, 
and  that  is  only  another  name  for  the  same  gentleman.'* 

"  Well,  I  am  very  sorry  for  it  ;  that's  all  I  can  sa}^*' 
said  Miss  La  Creevy  ;  "as  much  on  your  mother's  and 
sister's  account  as  on  yours.  Your  sister  is  a  very  pretty 
young  lady,  Mr.  Nickleby,  and  that  is  an  additional  rea- 
son why  she  should  have  somebody  to  protect  her.  I 
persuaded  her  to  give  me  a  sitting  or  two  for  the  street- 
door  case.  Ah  !  she'll  make  a  sweet  miniature."  As 
Miss  La  Creevy  spoke,  she  held  up  an  ivory  countenance 
intersected  with  very  percej^tible  sky-blue  veins,  and 
regarded  it  with  so  much  complacency,  that  Nicholas 
quite  envied  her. 

"If  you  ever  have  an  opportunity  of  showing  Kate 
some  little  kindness,"  said  Nicholas,  presenting  his  hand, 
"  I  think  you  will." 

"  Depend  upon  that,"  said  the  good-natured  miniature 
painter  ;  "and  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Nickleby  ;  and  I  wish 
you  well." 

It  was  very  little  that  Nicholas  knew  of  the  world,  but 
he  guessed  enough  about  its  ways  to  think,  that  if  he  jrave 
Miss  La  Creevy  one  little  kiss,  perhaps  she  might  not  be 
the  less  kindly  disposed  towards  those  he  was  leaving 
behind.  So,  he  gave  her  three  or  four  with  a  kind  of 
jocose  gallantry,  and  Miss  La  Creevy  evinced  no  greater 
symptoms  of  displeasure  than  declaring,  as  she  adjusted 
her  yellow  turban,  that  she  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing,  and  couldn't  have  believed  it  possible. 

Having  terminated  the  unexpected  interview  in  this 
satisfactory  manner,  Nicholas  hastily  withdrew  himself 
from  the  house.    By  the  time  he  had  found  a  man  to 


carry  his  box  it  was  only  seven  o'clock,  so  he  walked 
slowly  on,  a  little  in  advance  of  the  porter,  and  very 
probably  with  not  half  as  light  a  heart  in  his  breast  as 
the  man  had,  although  he  had  no  waistcoat  to  cover  it 
with,  and  had  evidently,  from  the  appearance  of  his 
other  garments,  been  spending  the  night  in  a  stable,  and 
taking  his  breakfast  at  a  pump. 

Eegarding,  with  no  small  curiosity  and  interest,  all  the 
busy  preparations  for  the  coming  day  which  every  street 
and  almost  every  house  displayed  ;  and  thinking,  now 
and  then,  that  it  seemed  rather  hard  that  so  many  people 
of  all  ranks  and  stations  could  earn  a  livelihood  in  London, 
and  that  he  should  be  compelled  to  journey  so  far  in 
search  of  one  ;  Nicholas  speedily  arrived  at  the  Saracen's 
Head,  Snow  Hill.  Having  dismissed  his  attendant,  and 
seen  the  box  safely  deposited  in  the  coach-ofFice,  he  looked 
into  the  coffee-room  in  search  of  Mr.  Squeers. 

He  found  that  learned  gentleman  sitting  at  breakfast, 
with  the  three  little  boys  before  noticed,  and  two  others 
who  had  turned  up  by  some  lucky  chance  since  the  inter- 
view of  the  previous  day,  ranged  in  a  row  on  the  oppo- 
site seat.  Mr.  Squeers  had  before  him  a  small  measure 
of  coffee,  a  plate  of  hot  toast,  and  a  cold  round  of  beef  ; 
but  he  was  at  that  moment  intent  on  preparing  breakfast 
for  the  little  boys. 

"  This  is  twopenn'orth  of  milk,  is  it,  waiter?"  said  Mr. 
Squeers,  looking  down  into  a  large  blue  mug,  and  slant- 
ing it  gently,  so  as  to  get  an  accurate  view  of  the  quan- 
tity of  the  liquid  contained  in  it. 

"That's  twopenn'orth,  sir,"  replied  the  waiter. 

"  What  a  rare  article  milk  is,  to  be  sure,  in  London  !  " 
said  Mr.  Squeers,  with  a  sigh.  "  Just  fill  that  mug  up 
with  lukewarm  water,  William,  will  you  ?" 

"  To  the  wery  top,  sir  ?  "  inquired  the  waiter.  "  Why, 
the  milk  will  be  drownded." 

"  Never  you  mind  that,"  replied  Mr.  Squeers.  "  Serve 
it  right  for  being  so  dear.  You  ordered  that  thick  bread 
and  butter  for  three,  did  you?" 

"  Coming  directly,  sir." 

"You  needn't  hurry  yourself,"  said  Squeers,  "  there's 
plenty  of  time.  Conquer  your  passions,  boys,  and  don't 
l3e  eager  after  vittles."  As  he  uttered  this  moral  pre- 
cept, Mr.  Squeers  took  a  large  bite  out  of  the  cold  beef, 
and  recognised  Nicholas. 

"  Sit  down,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  Squeers.  "  Here  we 
are,  a  breakfasting,  you  see  !  " 

Nicholas  did  not  see  that  anybody  was  breakfasting 
except  Mr.  Squeers  ;  but  he  bowed  with  all  becoming 
reverence,  and  looked  as  cheerful  as  he  could. 

"Oh  !  that's  the  milk  and  water,  is  it,  William?" 
said  Squeers.  "Very  good  ;  don't  forget  the  bread  and 
butter  presently." 

At  this  fresh  mention  of  the  bread  and  butter,  the 
five  little  boys  looked  very  eager,  and  followed  the 
waiter  out  with  their  eyes  ;  meanwhile  Mr.  Squeers 
tasted  the  milk  and  water. 

"Ah!"  said  thai  gentleman,  smacking  his  lips, 
"  here's  richness  !  Think  of  the  many  beggars  and  or- 
phans in  the  streets  that  would  be  glad  of  this,  little 
bovs.  A  shocking  thing  hunger  is,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Nick- 
leby?" 

"Very  shocking,  sir,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  When  I  say  number  one,"  pursued  Mr.  Squeers, 
putting  the  mug  before  the  children,  "the  boy  on  the 
left  hand  nearest  the  window  may  take  a  drink ;  and 
when  I  say  number  two,  the  boy  next  to  him  will  go  in, 
and  so  till*  we  come  to  number  five,  which  is  the  last  boy. 
Are  you  ready?" 

"  Yes,sir,"  cried  all  the  little  boys  with  great  eagerness 

"That's  right,"  said  Squeers,  calmly  getting  on  with 
his  breakfast ;  "  keep  ready  till  I  tell  you  to  begin. 
Subdue  your  appetites,  my  dears,  and  you've  conquered 
human  nature.  This  is  the  way  we  inculcate  strength 
of  mind,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  turning 
to  Nicholas,  and  speaking  with  his  mouth  very  full  of 
beef  and  toast. 

Nicholas  murmured  something — he  knew  not  what — 
in  reply  ;  and  the  little  boys,  dividing  their  gaze  be- 
tween the  mug,  the  bread  and  butter  (which  had  by 
this  time  arrived),  and  every  morsel  which  Mr.  Squeers 
took  into  his  mouth,  remained  with  strained  eyes  in  tor- 
ments of  expectation. 


"  rXUBS   AND   ROMANS   ARE   PLENTIFUL   ENOUGH,  AND    THERE   ARE   FLATS  OF 
ALL  SORTS  AND   SIZES  WHEN  THERE'S  A  MEETING  AT  EXETER  HALL." 


LibKARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


15 


Thank  God  for  a  good  breakfast,"  said  Squeers, 
wlien  he  had  finished.  "Number  one  may  take  a 
drink." 

Number  one  seized  the  mug  ravenously,  and  hud  just 
drunk  enough  to  make  him  wisli  for  more,  when  Mr. 
Squeers  gave  the  signal  for  number  two,  who  gave  up 
at  the  same  interesting  moment  to  number  three  ;  and 
the  process  was  repeated  until  the  milk  and  water  ter- 
minated with  number  five. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  dividing  the  bread 
and  butter  for  three  into  as  many  portions  as  there  were 
children,  "  you  had  better  look  sharp  with  your  break- 
fast, for  the  horn  will  blow  in  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
every  boy  leaves  olf." 

Permission  being  thus  given  to  fall  to,  the  boys  began 
to  eat  voraciously,  and  in  desperate  haste  :  while  the 
schoolmaster  (who  was  in  high  good  humour  after  his 
meal)  picked  his  teeth  with  a  fork,  and  looked  smilingly 
on.    In  a  very  short  time,  the  horn  was  heard. 

"I  thought  it  wouldn't  be  long,"  said  Squeers,  jump- 
ing up  and  producing  a  little  basket  from  under  the 
seat ,  "  put  what  you  haven't  had  time  to  eat,  in  here, 
boys  !    You'll  want  it  on  the  road  !  " 

Nicholas  was  considerably  startled  by  these  very  eco- 
nomical arrangements  ;  but  he  had  no  time  to  reflect 
upon  them,  for  the  little  boys  had  to  be  got  up  to  the 
top  of  the  coach,  and  their  boxes  had  to  be  brought  out 
and  put  in,  and  Mr.  Squeers 's  luggage  was  to  be  seen 
carefully  deposited  in  the  boot,  and  all  these  offices 
were  in  his  department.  He  was  in  the  full  heat  and 
bustle  of  concluding  these  operations,  when  his  uncle, 
Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby,  accosted  him. 

"Oh  !  here  you  are,  sir!"  said  Ralph.  "Here  are 
your  mother  and  sister,  sir." 

"  Where  !"  cried  Nicholas,  looking  hastily  round. 

"Here!"  replied  his  uncle,  "Having  too  much 
money  and  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it,  they  were  pay- 
ing a  hackney  coach  as  I  came  up,  sir." 

"  We  were  afraid  of  being  too  late  to  see  him  before 
lie  went  away  from  us,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  embracing 
her  son,  heedless  of  the  unconcerned  lookers-on  in  the 
coach -yard. 

"Very  good,  ma'am,'*  returned  Ralph,  "you're  the 
best  judge  of  course.  I  merely  said  that  you  were  pay- 
ing a  hackney  coach.  /  never  pay  a  hackney  coach, 
ma'am,  I  never  hire  one.  I  haven't  been  in  a  hackney 
coach  of  my  own  hiring,  for  thirty  years,  and  I  hope  I 
shan't  be  for  thirty  more  to  come,  if  I  live  as  long." 

"I  should  never  have  forgiven  myself  if  I  had  not 
seen  him,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "Poor,  dear  boy — go- 
ing away  without  his  breakfast,  too,  because  he  feared 
to  distress  us  !  " 

"Mighty  fine  certainly,"  said  Ralph,  with  great  testi- 
ness.  "  When  I  first  went  to  business,  ma'am,  I  took  a 
penny  loaf  and  a  ha'porth  of  milk  for  my  breakfast  as  I 
walked  to  the  city  every  morning  ;  what  do  you  say  to 
that,  ma'am  ?    Breakfast  !    Bah  ! " 

"  Now,  Nickleby,"  said  Squeers,  coming  up  at  the 
moment  buttoning  his  great-coat ;  "I  think  you'd  better 
get  up  behind.  I'm  afraid  of  one  of  them  boys  falling 
off,  and  then  there's  twenty  pound  a  year  gone." 

"Dear  Nicholas,"  whispered  Kate,  touching  her 
brother's  arm,  "  who  is  that  vulgar  man  ?  " 

"  Eh  !"  growled  Ralph,  whose  quick  ears  had  caught 
the  inquiry.  "  Do  you  wish  to  be  introduced  to  Mr. 
Squeers,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  That  the  schoolmaster  !  No,  uncle.  Oh  no  !"  replied 
Kate,  shrinking  back. 

"  I'm  sure  I  heard  you  say  as  much,  my  dear,"  retorted 
Ralph  in  his  cold  sarcastic  manner.  "Mr.  Squeers, 
here's  my  niece  :  Nicholas's  sister  ! " 

"Very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance.  Miss,"  said 
Squeers,  raising  his  hat  an  inch  or  two.  "  I  wish  Mrs. 
Squeers  took  gals,  and  we  had  you  for  a  teacher.  I 
don't  know,  though,  whether  she  mightn't  grow  jealous 
if  we  had.  Halhalhal" 

If  the  proprietor  of  Dotheboys  Hall  could  have  known 
what  was  passing  in  his  assistant's  breast  at  that  mo- 
ment, he  would  have  discovered,  with  some  surprise, 
that  he  was  as  near  being  pummelled  as  ever  he  had 
been  in  his  life.  Kate  Nickleby,  having  a  quicker  per- 
ception of  her  brother's  emotions,  led  him  gently  aside, 


I  aiM  thus  prevented  Mr.  Squeers  from  being  impressed 
with  the  fact  in  a  peculiarly  disagreeable  manner. 

"  My  dear  Nicholas,"  said  the  young  lafly,  "  who  is 
this  man  ?    What  kind  of  place  can  it  be  that  you  are 

going  to  ?  " 

"I  hardly  know,  Kate,"  replied  Nicholas,  pressing  his 
sister's  hand.  "  I  suppose  the  Yorkshire  folks  are  rather 
rough  and  uncultivated  ;  that's  all." 

"  But  this  person,"  urged  Kate. 

"Is  my  employer,  or  master,  or  whatever  the  proper 
name  may  be,"  replied  Nicholas  quickly,  "and  I  was  an 
ass  to  take  his  coarseness  ill.  They  are  looking  this 
way,  and  it  is  time  I  was  in  my  place.  Bless  you  love, 
and  good  bye  !  Mother  ;  look  forward  to  our  meeting 
again  some  day  !  Uncle,  farewell  !  Thank  you  heartily 
for  all  you  have  done  and  all  you  mean  to  do.  Quite 
ready,  sir  ! " 

With  these  hasty  adieux,  Nicholas  mounted  nimbly 
to  his  seat,  and  waved  his  hand  as  gallantly  as  if  his 
heart  went  with  it. 

At  this  moment,  when  the  coachman  and  guard  were 
comparing  notes  for  the  last  time  before  starting,  on  the 
subject  of  the  way-bill  ;  when  porters  were  screwing 
out  the  last  reluctant  sixpences,  itinerant  new;~men  mak- 
ing the  last  offer  of  a  morning  paper,  and  the  horses 
giving  the  last  impatient  rattle  to  their  harness  ;  Nich- 
olas felt  somebody  pulling  softly  at  his  leg.  He  looked 
down,  and  there  stood  Newman  Noggs,  who  pushed  up 
into  his  hand  a  dirty  letter. 

"  What's  this?"  inquired  Nicholas. 

"Hush  !"  rejoined  Noggs,  pointing  to  Mr.  Ralph  Nick- 
leby, who  was  saying  a  few  earnest  words  to  ^'queers,  a 
short  distance  off.  "  Take  it.  Read  it.  Nobody  knows. 
That's  all. " 

"  Stop  !"  cried  Nicholas. 

"No,"  replied  Noggs. 

Nicholas  cried  stop,  again,  but  Newman  Noggs  was 
gone. 

A  minute's  bustle,  a  banging  of  the  coach  doors,  a 
swaying  of  the  vehicle  to  one  side,  as  the  heavy  coach- 
man, and  still  heavier  guard,  climbed  into  their  seats  ;  a 
cry  of  all  right,  a  few  notes  from  the  horn,  a  hasty 
glance  of  two  sorrowful  faces  below,  and  the  hard  fea- 
tures of  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby — and  the  coach  was  gone 
too,  and  rattling  over  the  stones  of  Smithfield. 

The  little  boys'  legs  being  too  short  to  admit  of  their 
feet  resting  upon  anything  as  they  sat,  and  the  little 
boys'  bodies  being  consequently  in  imminent  hazard  of 
being  jerked  off  the  coach,  Nicholas  had  enough  to  do, 
over  the  stones  to  hold  them  on.  Between  the  manual 
exertion  and  the  mental  anxiety  attendant  upon  this 
task,  he  was  not  a  little  relieved  when  the  coach  stopped 
at  the  Peacock  at  Islington.  He  was  still  more  relieved 
when  a  hearty-looking  gentleman,  with  a  very  gccd- 
humoured  face,  and  a  very  fresh  colour,  got  up  behind, 
and  proposed  to  take  the  other  corner  of  the  seat. 

"If  we  put  some  of  these  youngsters  in  the  middle," 
said  the  new  comer,  "they'll  be  safer  in  case  of  their 
going  to  sleep  ;  eh  ?" 

"  If  you'll  have  the  goodness,  sir,"  replied  Squeers, 
"that'll  be  tlie  very  thing.  Mr.  Nickleby,  take  three  of 
them  boys  between  you  and  the  gentleman.  Belling 
and  the  youngest  Snawley  can  sit  between  me  and  the 
guard.  Three  children,"  said  Squeers,  explaining  to  the 
stranger,  "  books  as  two." 

"I  have  not  the  least  objection  I  am  sure,"  said  the 
fresh -coloured  gentleman;  "I  have  a  brother  who 
wouldn't  object  to  book  his  six  children  as  two  at  any 
butcher's  or  baker's  in  the  kingdom,  I  dare  say.  Far 
from  it." 

"Six  children,  sir?"  exclaimed  Squeers. 

"  Yes,  and  all  boys,"  replied  the  stranger. 

"Mr.  Nickleby,"'said  Squeers,  in  great  haste,  "catch 
hold  of  that  basket.  Let  me  give  you  a  card,  sir,  of  an 
establishment  where  those  six  boys  can  be  brought  up 
in  an  enlightened,  liberal,  and  moral  manner,  with  no 
mistake  at  all  about  it,  for  twenty  guineas  a  year  each- 
twenty  guineas,  sir — or  I'd  take  all  the  boys  together 
upon  an  average  right  through,  and  say  a  hundred  pound 
a  year  for  the  lot." 

Oh  ! "  said  the  gentleman,  glancing  at  the  card, 
"  You  are  the  Mr.  Squeers  mentioned  here,  I  presume?" 


0 


16 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"  Yes  I  am,  sir,"  replied  the  worthy  pedagogue  ;  "Mr. 
Wackford  Squeers  is  my  name,  and  I'm  very  far  from 
being  ashamed  of  it.  These  are  some  of  my  boys,  sir  ; 
that's  one  of  my  assistants,  sir — Mr.  Nickleby,  a  gentle- 
man's son,  and  a  good  scholar,  matliematical,  classical, 
and  commercial.  We  don't  do  things  by  halves  at  our 
shop.  All  manner  of  learning  my  boys  take  down,  sir  ; 
the  expense  is  never  thought  of  ;  and  they  get  paternal 
treatment  and  washing  in." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  the  gentlemen,  glancing  at 
Nicholas  with  a  half  smile,  and  a  more  than  half  expres- 
sion of  surprise,  "  these  are  advantages  indeed." 

"  You  may  say  that,  sir,"  rejoined  Squeers,  thrusting 
his  hands  into  his  great-coat  pockets.  "  The  most  unex- 
ceptionable references  are  given  and  required.  I  wouldn't 
take  a  reference  with  any  boy,  that  wasn't  responsible 
for  the  payment  of  five  pound  five  a  quarter,  no,  not  if 
you  went  down  on  your  knees,  and  asked  me,  with  the 
tears  running  down  your  face,  to  do  it." 

"Highly  considerate,"  said  the  passenger. 

' '  It's  my  great  aim  and  end  to  be  considerate,  sir,"  re- 
joined Squeers.  "  Snawley,  junior,  if  you  don't  leave 
off  chattering  your  teeth,  and  shaking  with  the  cold, 
I'll  warm  you  with  a  severe  thrashing  in  about  half  a 
minute's  time." 

"  Sit  fast  here,  genelmen,"  said  the  guard  as  he  clam- 
bered up. 

"All  right  behind  there,  Dick?"  cried  the  coachman. 

"  All  right,"  was  the  reply.  "Off  she  goes  I"  And 
off  she  did  go, — if  coaches  be  feminme — amidst  a  loud 
flourish  from  the  guard's  horn,  and  the  calm  approval  of 
all  the  judges  of  coaches  and  coach -horses  congregated 
at  the  Peacock,  but  more  especially  of  the  helpers,  who 
stood,  with  the  cloths  over  their  arms,  watching  the 
coach  till  it  disappeared,  and  then  lounged  admiringly 
stablewards,  bestowing  various  gruff  encomiums  on  the 
beauty  of  the  turn-out. 

Wlien  the  guard  (who  was  a  stout  old  Yorkshireman) 
had  blown  himself  quite  out  of  breath,  he  put  the  horn 
into  a  little  tunnel  of  a  basket  fastened  to  the  coach-side 
for  tlie  purpose,  and  giving  himself  a  plentiful  shower 
of  blows  on  the  chest  and  shoulders,  observed  it  was  un- 
common cold  ;  after  which,  he  demanded  of  every  per- 
son separately  whether  he  was  going  right  through,  and 
if  not  where  he  was  going.  Satisfactory  replies  being 
made  to  these  queries,  he  surmised  that  the  roads  were 
pretty  heavy  arter  that  fall  last  night,  and  took  the  lib- 
erty of  asking  whether  any  of  them  gentlemen  carried  a 
snuff-bos.  It  happening  that  nobody  did,  he  remarked 
witli  a  mysterious  air  that  he  had  heard  a  medical  gen- 
tleman as  went  down  to  Grantham  last  week,  say  how  that 
snuff-taking  was  bad  for  the  eyes  ;  but  for  his  part  he 
had  never  found  it  so,  and  what  he  said  was,  that  every- 
body should  speak  as  they  found.  Nobody  attempting 
to  controvert  this  position,  he  took  a  small  brown-paper 
parcel  out  of  his  hat,  and  putting  on  a  pair  of  horn  spec- 
tacles (the  writing  being  crabbed)  read  the  direction  half- 
a-dozen  times  over  ;  having  done  which,  he  consigned 
the  parcel  to  its  old  place,  put  up  his  spectacles  again, 
and  stared  at  everybody  in  turn.  After  this,  he  took  an- 
other blow  at  the  horn  by  way  of  refreshment  :  and, 
having  now  exhausted  his  usual  topics  of  conversation, 
folded  his  arras  as  well  as  he  could  in  so  many  coats, 
and  falling  into  a  solemn  silence,  looked  carelessly  at  the 
familiar  objects  which  met  his  eye  on  every  side  as  the 
coach  rolled  on  ;  the  only  things  he  seemed  to  care  for, 
being  horses  and  droves  of  cattle,  which  he  scrutinised 
with  a  critical  air  as  they  were  passed  upon  the  road. 

The  weather  was  intensely  and  bitterly  cold  ;  a  great 
deal  of  snow  fell  from  time  to  time  ;  and  the  wind  was 
intolerably  keen.  Mr.  Squeers  got  down  at  almost  every 
stage— to  stretch  his  legs  as  he  said — and  as  he  always 
came  back  from  such  excursions  with  a  very  red  nose, 
and  composed  himself  to  sleep  directly,  there  is  reason 
to  suppose  that  he  derived  great  benefit  from  the  pro- 
cess. The  little  pupils  having  l)een  stimulated  with  the 
remains  of  their  breakfast,  and  further  invigorated  by 
sundry  small  cups  of  a  curious  cordial  carried  by  Mr. 
Squeers,  which  tasted  very  like  toast-and-water  put  into 
a  brandy  bottle  by  mistake,  went  to  sleep,  woke,  shivered, 
and  cried,  as  their  feelings  prompted.  Nicholas  and  the 
good-tempered  man  found  so  many  things  to  talk  about, 


that  between  conversing  together,  and  cheering  up  the 
boys,  the  time  passed  with  them  as  rapidly  as  it  could, 
under  such  adverse  circumstances. 

So  the  day  wore  on.  At  Eton  Slocomb  there  was  a 
good  coach  dinner,  of  which  the  box,  the  four  front  out- 
sides,  the  one  inside,  Nicholas,  the  good-tempered  man, 
and  Mr.  Squeers  partook  ;  while  the  five  little  boys 
were  put  to  thaw  by  the  fire,  and  regaled  with  sand- 
wiches. A  stage  or  two  further  on,  the  lamps  were 
lighted,  and  a  great  to-do  occasioned  by  the  taking  up, 
at  a  road-side  inn,  of  a  very  fastidious  lady  with  an 
infinite  variety  of  cloaks  and  small  parcels,  who  loudly 
lamented,  for  the  behoof  of  the  outsides,  the  non-arrival 
of  her  own  carriage  which  was  to  have  taken  her  ox^,  and 
made  the  guard  solemnly  promise  to  stop  every  green 
chariot  he  saw  coming  ;  which,  as  it  was  a  dark  night 
and  he  was  sitting  with  his  face  the  other  way,  that  offi- 
cer undertook,  with  many  fervent  asseverations,  to  do. 
Lastly,  the  fastidious  lady,  finding  there  was  a  solitary 
gentleman  inside,  had  a  small  lamp  lighted  which  she 
carried  in  her  reticule,  and  being  after  much  trouble  shut 
in,  the  horses  were  put  into  a  brisk  canter,  and  the  coach 
was  once  more  in  rapid  motion. 

The  night  and  the  snow  came  on  together,  and  dismal 
enough  they  were.  There  was  no  sound  to  be  heard  but 
the  howling  of  the  wind  ;  for  the  noise  of  the  wheels, 
and  the  tread  of  the  horses'  feet,  were  rendered  inaudi- 
ble by  the  thick  coating  of  snow  which  covered  the 
ground,  and  was  fast  increasing  every  moment.  The 
streets  of  Stamford  were  deserted  as  they  passed  through 
the  town  ;  and  its  old  churches  rose,  frowning  and  dark, 
from  the  whitened  ground.  Twenty  miles  further  on, 
two  of  the  front  outside  passengers  wisely  availing  them- 
selves of  their  arrival  at  one  of  the  best  inns  in  England, 
turned  in,  for  the  night,  at  the  George  at  Grr.ntham. 
The  remainder  wrapped  themselves  more  closely  in  their 
coats  and  cloaks,  and  leaving  the  light  and  warmth  of 
the  town  behind  them,  pillowed  themselves  against  the 
luggage,  and  prepared,  with  many  half-suppressed  moans, 
again  to  encounter  the  piercing  blast  which  swept  across 
the  open  country. 

They  were  little  more  than  a  stage  out  of  Grantham, 
or  about  half  way  between  it  and  Newark,  when  Nich- 
olas, who  had  been  asleep  for  a  short  time,  was  suddenly 
roused  by  a  violent  jerk  which  nearly  threw  him  from 
his  seat.  Grasping  the  rail,  he  foimd  that  the  coach  had 
sunk  greatly  on  one  side,  though  it  was  still  dragged 
forward  by  the  horses  ;  and  while — confused  by  their 
plunging  and  the  loud  screams  of  the  lady  inside — he 
hesitated,  for  an  inslant,  whether  to  jump  off  or  not, 
the  vehicle  turned  easily  over,  and  relieved  him  from  all 
further  uncertainty  by  flinging  him  into  the  road. 


CHAPTER  yi. 

In  which  the  Occurrence  of  the  Accident  mentioned  in-  the  last  Chap- 
ter, affords  an  OjyjMrtunity  to  a  couple  of  Gentlemen  to  tell  stories 
against  each  other. 

"  Wo  ho  !  "  cried  the  guard  on  his  legs  in  a  minute, 
and  running  to  the  leaders'  heads.  "  Is  there  ony  genel- 
men there  as  can  len'  a  hand  here  ?  Keep  quiet,  dang 
ye?    Wo  ho!" 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  demanded  Nicholas,  looking 
sleepily  up. 

"  Matther  mun,  matther  eneaf  for  one  neight,"  replied 
the  guard  ;  "dang  the  wall-eyed  bay,  he's  gane  mad  wi' 
glory  I  think,  carse  t'coorch  is  over.  Here,  can't  ye  len' 
a  bond  ?  Dom  it,  I'd  ha'  dean  it  if  all  my  boans  were 
brokken." 

"  Here  !"  cried  Nicholas,  staggering  to  his  feet,  "  I'm 
ready.    I'm  only  a  little  abroad,  that's  all." 

"  Iloold  'em  toight,"  cried  the  guard,  "  while  ar  coot 
treaces.  Hang  on  tiv  'em  sumhoo.  Weel  deane,  my 
lod.  That's  it.  Let  'em  goa  noo.  Dang  'em,  they'll 
gang  whoam  fast  eneaf." 

In  truth,  the  animals  were  no  sooner  released  than 
they  trotted  back,  with  much  deliberation,  to  the  stable 
they  had  just  left,  which  was  distant  not  a  mile  behind. 

"*Can  you  bio'  a  harn  ?"  asked  the  guard,  disengaging 
one  of  the  coach-lamps. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


17 


*'  I  dare  say  I  can,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"Then  just  bio' away  into  that 'un  as  lies  on  the 
grund,  fit  to  wakken  the  deead,  will'ee,"  said  the  man, 

while  I  stop  sum  o'  this  here  squealing  inside.  Cum- 
in', cumin'.    Dean't  make  that  noise,  wooman." 

As  the  man  spoke,  he  proceeded  to  wrench  open  the 
uppermost  door  of  the  coach,  while  Nicholas,  seizing  the 
horn,  awoke  the  echoes  far  and  wide  with  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  performances  on  that  instrument  ever 
iieard  by  mortal  ears.  It  had  its  effect  however,  not  only 
in  rousing  such  of  the  passengers  as  were  recovering 
from  the  stunning  effects  of  their  fall,  but  in  summoning 
assistance  to  their  relief  ;  for  lights  gleamed  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  people  were  already  astir. 

In  fact,  a  man  on  horseback  galloped  dovvn,  before 
the  passengers  were  well  collected  together  ;  and  a  care- 
ful investigation  being  instituted,  it  appeared  that  the 
lady  inside  had  broken  her  lamp,  and  the  gentleman  his 
head ;  that  the  two  front  outsides  had  escaped  with 
black  eyes  ;  the  box  with  a  bloody  nose  ;  the  coachman 
with  a  contusion  on  the  temple  ;  Mr.  Squeers  with  a 
portmanteau  bruise  on  his  back ;  and  the  remaining 
passengers  without  any  injury  at  all — thanks  to  the 
softness  of  the  snowdrift  in  which  they  had  been  over- 
turned. These  facts  were  no  sooner  thoroughly  ascer- 
tained, than  the  lady  gave  several  indications  of  faint- 
ing, but  being  forewarned  that  if  she  did,  she  must  be 
carried  on  some  gentleman's  shoulders  to  the  nearest 
public-house,  she  prudently  thought  better  of  it,  and 
vs^alked  back  with  the  rest. 

They  found  on  reaching  it,  that  it  vp^as  a  lonely  place 
■with  no  very  great  accommodation  in  the  way  of  apart- 
ments— that  portion  of  its  resources  being  all  comprised 
in  one  public  room  with  a  sanded  floor,  and  a  chair  or 
two.  However,  a  large  fagot  and  a  plentiful  supply  of 
coals,  being  heaped  upon  the  fire,  the  appearance  of 
things  was  not  long  in  mending  ;  and,  by  the  time  they 
had  washed  off  all  effaceable  marks  of  the  late  accident, 
the  room  was  warm  and  light,  which  was  a  most 
agreeable  exchange  for  the  cold  and  darkness  out  of 
doors. 

"Well,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  Squeers,  insinuating 
himself  into  the  warmest  corner,  "  you  did  very  right  to 
catch  hold  of  them  horses.  [  should  have  done  it  my- 
self if  I  had  come  to  in  time,  but  I  am  very  glad  you  did 
it.    You  did  it  very  well  :  very  well." 

"So  well,"  said  the  merry-faced  gentleman,  who  did 
not  seem  to  approve  very  much  of  the  patronising  tone 
adopted  by  Squeers,  "  that  if  they  had  not  been  firmly 
checked  when  they  were,  you  would  most  probably  have 
had  no  brains  left  to  teach  with." 

This  remark  called  up  a  discourse  relative  to  the 
promptitude  Nicholas  had  displayed,  and  he  was  over- 
whelmed with  compliments  and  commendations. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  have  escaped,  of  course,"  observed 
Squeers;  "every  man  is  glad  when  he  escapes  from 
danger  ;  but  if  any  one  of  my  charges  had  been  hurt — if 
I  had  been  prevented  from  restoring  any  one  of  these 
little  boys  to  his  parents  whole  and  sound  as  I  received 
him — what  vvould  have  been  my  feelings?  Why  the 
wheel  a-top  of  my  head  would  have  been  far  preferable 
to  it." 

"Are  they  all  brothers,  sir?"  inquired  the  lady  who 
had  carried  the  "  Davy"  or  safety -lamp. 

"In  one  sense  they  are,  ma'am,"  replied  Squeers, 
diving  into  his  great-coat  pocket  for  cards.  "They  are 
all  under  the  game  parental  and  affectionate  treatment. 
Mrs.  Squeers  and  myself  are  a  mother  and  father  to 
every  one  of  'em.  Mr.  Nickleby,  hand  the  lady  them 
cards,  and  offer  these  to  the  -gentleman.  Perhaps  they 
might  know  of  some  parents  that  would  be  glad  to  avail 
themselves  of  the  establishment." 

Expressing  himself  to  this  effect,  Mr.  Squeers,  who 
lost  no  opportunity  of  advertising  gratuitously,  placed 
his  hands  upon  his  knees,  and  looked  at  the  pupils  with 
as  much  benignity  as  he  could  possibly  affect,  while 
Nicholas,  blushing  with  shame,  handed  round  the  cards 
as  directed. 

"  I  hope  you  suffer  no  inconvenience  from  the  over- 
turn, ma'am  ?  "  said  the  merry-faced  gentleman,  address- 
ing the  fastidious  lady,  as  though  he  were  charitably  j 
desirous  to  change  the  subject. 
Vol.  II.— 2 


"No  bodily  inconvenience,"  replied  the  lady. 
"  No  mental  inconvenience,  I  hope?" 
"The  subject  is  a  very  painful  one  to  my  feelings, 
sir,"  replied  the  lady  with  strong  emotion  ;  "  and  I  beg 
you  as  a  gentleman,  not  to  refer  to  it." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  the  merry-faced  gentleman,  looking 
merrier  still,  "  I  merely  intended  to  inquire — " 

"I  hope  no  inquiries  will  be  made,"  said  the  lady, 
"or  I  shall  be  compelled  to  throw  myself  on  the  \)To- 
tection  of  the  other  gentleman.  Landlord,  pray  direct  a 
boy  to  keep  watch  outside  the  door — and  if  a  grecin 
chariot  passes  in  the  direction  of  Grantham,  to  st<jp  it 
instantly." 

The  people  of  the  house  were  evidently  overcome  by  this 
request,  and  when  the  lady  charged  the  boy  to  remember, 
as  a  means  of  identifying  the  expected  green  chariot, 
that  it  would  have  a  coachman  with  a  gold  laced  hat  on 
the  box,  and  a  footman,  most  probably  in  silk  stockings, 
behind,  the  attentions  of  the  good  woman  of  the  inn 
w^ere  redoubled.  Even  the  box-passenger  caught  the 
infection,  and  growing  wonderfully  deferential,  imme- 
diately inquired  whether  there  was  not  very  good  soci- 
ety in  that  neighbourhood,  to  which  the  lady  replied 
yes,  there  was  :  in  a  manner  which  sufficiently  implied 
that  she  moved  at  the  very  tiptop  and  summit  of  it 
all. 

"  As  the  guard  has  gone  on  horseback  to  Grantham  t<3 
get  another  coach,"  said  the  good-tempered  gentleman 
when  they  had  been  all  sitting  round  the  fire,  for  some 
time,  in  silence,  "and  as  he  must  be  gone  a  coujjle  of 
hours  at  the  very  least,  I  propose  a  bowl  of  hot  punch. 
What  say  you,  sir  ?  " 

This  question  was  addressed  to  the  broken-headed  in- 
side, who  was  a  man  of  very  genteel  appearance,  dressed 
in  mourning.  He  was  not  past  the  middle  age,  but  his 
hair  was  gray  ;  it  seemed  to  have  been  prematurely 
turned  by  care  or  sorrow.  He  readily  acceded  to  the 
proposal,  and  appeared  to  be  prepossessed  by  the 
frank  good-nature  of  the  individual  from  whom  it  ema- 
nated. 

This  latter  personage  took  upon  himself  the  oflBce  of 
tapster  when  the  punch  was  ready,  and  after  dispensing 
it  all  round,  led  the  conversation  to  the  antiquities  of 
York,  with  which  both  he  and  the  gray  haired  gentleman 
appeared  to  be  well  acquainted.  When  this  topic  flag- 
ged, he  turned  with  a  smile  to  the  gray-headed  gentle- 
man, and  asked  if  he  could  sing. 

"  I  cannot  indeed,"  replied  the  gentleman,  smiling  in 
his  turn. 

"  That's  a  pity,"  said  the  owner  of  the  good-humoured 
countenance.  "  Is  there  nobody  here  who  can  sing  a 
song  to  lighten  the  time  ?  " 

The  passengers,  one  and  all,  protested  that  they  could 
not ;  that  they  wished  they  could  ;  that  they  couldn't 
remember  the  words  of  anything  without  the  book  ;  and 
so  forth. 

"  Perhaps  the  lady  would  not  object,"  said  the  presi- 
dent with  great  respect,  and  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
"  Some  little  Italian  thing  out  of  the  last  opera  brought 
out  in  town,  would  be  most  acceptable  I  am  sure." 

As  the  lady  condescended  to  make  no  reply,  but  tossed 
her  head  contemptuously,  and  murmured  some  further 
expression  of  surprise  regarding  the  absence  of  the  green 
chariot,  one  or  two  voices  urged  upon  the  president  him- 
self, the  propriety  of  making  an  attempt  for  the  general 
benefit. 

"  I  would  if  I  could,"  said  he  of  the  good-tempered 
face  ;  "  for  I  hold  that  in  this,  as  in  all  other  cases  where 
people  who  are  strangers  to  each  other  are  thro%vn  unex- 
pectedly together,  they  should  endeavour  to  render  them- 
selves as  pleasant,  for  the  joint  sake  of  the  little  com- 
munity, as  possible." 

"  I  wish  the  maxim  were  more  generally  acted  on,  in 
all  cases,"  said  the  grav-headed  gentleman. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear       returned  the  other.    "  Perhaps, 
as  you  can't  sing,  you'll  tell  us  a  story?" 
"Nay,  I  should  ask  you." 
"  After  you,  I  will,  with  pleasure." 
"Indeed!"  said  the  gray-haired  gentleman,  smiling. 
"  Well,  let  it  be  so.    I  fear  the  turn  of  my  thoughts  is 
I  not  calculated  to  lighten  the  time  you  must  pass  here  ; 
I  but  you  have  brought  this  upon  yourselves,  and  shall 


18 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


judge.  We  were  speaking  of  York  Minster  just 
now.  My  story  sliall  have  some  reference  to  it.  Let  us 
call  it 

THE  FIVE  SISTERS  OF  YORK. 

After  a  murmur  of  approbation  from  the  other  passen- 
gers, during  which  the  fastidious  lady  drank  a  glass  of 
punch  unobserved,  the  gray -headed  gentleman  thus  went 
on : 

"A  great  many  years  ago — for  the  fifteenth  century 
was  scarce  two  years  old  at  the  time,  and  King  Henry 
the  Fourth  sat  upon  the  throne  of  England — there  dwelt, 
in  the  ancient  city  of  York,  five  maiden  sisters,  the  sub- 
jects of  my  tale. 

"  These  five  sisters  were  all  of  surpassing  beauty. 
The  eldest  was  in  her  twenty-third  year,  the  second  a 
year  younger,  the  third  a  year  younger  than  the  second, 
and  the  fourth  a  year  younger  than  the  third.  They 
were  tall  stately  figures,  with  dark  flashing  eyes  and 
hair  of  jet ;  dignity  and  grace  were  in  their  every  move- 
ment ;  and  the  fame  of  their  great  beauty  had  spread 
through  all  the  country  round. 

"But,  if  the  four  elder  sisters  were  lovely,  how  beau- 
tiful was  the  youngest,  a  fair  creature  of  sixteen  !  The 
blushing  tints  in  the  soft  bloom  on  the  fruit,  or  the  deli- 
cate painting  on  the  flower,  are  not  more  exquisite  than 
was  the  blending  of  the  rose  and  lily  in  her  gentle  face, 
or  the  deep  blue  of  her  eye.  The  vine,  in  all  its  elegant 
luxuriance,  is  not  more  graceful  than  were  the  clusters 
of  rich  brown  hair  that  sported  round  her  brow. 

"  If  we  all  had  hearts  like  those  Avhich  beat  so  lightly 
in  the  bosoms  of  the  young  and  beautiful,  what  a  heaven 
this  earth  would  be  !  If,  while  our  bodies  grow  old  and 
withered,  our  hearts  could  but  retain  their  early  youth 
and  freshness,  of  what  avail  would  be  our  sorrows  and 
sufferings  !  But,  the  faint  image  of  Eden  which  is 
stamped  upon  them  in  childhood,  chafes  and  rubs  in  our 
rough  struggles  with  the  world,  and  soon  wears  away: 
too  often  to  leave  nothing  but  a  mournful  blank  remain- 
ing. 

"  The  heart  of  this  fair  girl  bounded  with  joy  and 
gladness.  Devoted  attachment  to  her  sisters,  and  a  fer- 
vent love  of  all  beautiful  things  in  nature,  were  its  pure 

■  affections.  Her  gleesome  voice  and  merry  laugh  were 
the  sweetest  music  of  their  home.  She  was  its  very 
light  and  life.  The  brightest  flowers  in  the  garden  were 
reared  by  her  ;  the  caged  birds  sang  when  they  heard 
her  voice,  and  pined  when  they  missed  its  sweetness. 
Alice,  dear  Alice ;  what  living  thing  within  the  sphere 

•  of  her  gentle  witchery,  could  fail  to  love  her  ! 

"  You  may  seek  in  vain,  now,  for  the  spot  on  which 

these  sisters  lived,  for  their  very  names  have  passed 
.  away,  and  dusty  antiquaries  tell  of  them  as  of  a  fable. 

But  they  dwelt  in  an  old  wooden  house — old  even  in  those 

■  days — with  overhanging  gables  and  balconies  of  rudely- 

■  carved  oak,  which  stood  within  a  pleasant  orchard,  and 
was  surrounded  by  a  rough  stone  wall,  whence  a  stout 
archer  might  have  winged  an  arrow  to  Saint  Mary's 

.abbey.  The  old  abbey  flourished  then  ;  and  the  five  sis- 
ters, living  on  its  fair  domains,  paid  yearly  dues  to  the 

■  black  monks  of  Saint  Benedict,  to  which  fraternity  it  be- 
longed. 

"  It  was  a  bright  and  sunny  morning  in  the  pleasant 
time  of  summer,  when  one  of  those  black  monks  emerged 
from  the  abbey  portal,  and  bent  his  steps  towards  the 
house  of  the  fair  sisters.  Heaven  above  was  blue,  and 
earth  beneath  was  green  ;  the  river  glistened  like  a 
path  of  diamonds  in  the  sun  ;  the  birds  poured  forth 
their  songs  from  the  shady  trees  ;  the  lark  soared  high 

■  above  the  waving  corn  ;  and  the  deep  bu/z  of  insects 
filled  the  air.  Everything  looked  gay  and  smiling  ;  but 
the  holy  man  walked  gloomily  on,  with  his  eyes  bent 
upon  the  ground.  The  beauty  of  the  earth  is  but  a  breath, 
and  man  is  but  a  shadow.  What  sympathy  should  a  holy 
preacher  have  with  either? 

"With  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground,  then,  or  only  raised 
enough  to  prevent  his  stumbling  over  such  obstacles  as 
lay  in  his  way,  the  religious  man  moved  slowly  forward 
until  he  reached  a  small  postern  in  the  wall  of  the  sisters' 

-  orchard,  through  which  he  passed,  closing  it  behind  him. 

'The  noise  of  soft  voices  in  conversation,  and  of  merry 


laughter,  fell  upon  his  ears,  ere  he  had  advanced  many 
paces  ;  and  raising  his  eyes  higher  than  was  his  humble 
wont,  he  descried,  at  no  great  distance,  the  five  sisters 
seated  on  the  grass,  with  Alice  in  the  centre  :  all  busily 
plying  their  customary  task  of  embroidering. 

"  *  Save  you,  fair  daughters  1 '  said  the  friar  ;  and  fair 
in  truth  they  were.  Even  a  monk  might  have  loved 
them  as  choice  master-pieces  of  his  Maker's  hand. 

"  The  sisters  saluted  the  holy  man  with  becoming 
reverence,  and  the  eldest  motioned  him  to  a  mossy  seat 
besides  them.  But  the  good  friar  shook  his  head,  and 
bumped  himself  down  on  a  very  hard  stone, — at  which, 
no  doubt,  approving  angels  were  gratified. 

"  '  Ye  were  merry,  daughters,'  said  the  monk. 

"'You  know  how  light  of  heart  sweet  Alice  is,'  re- 
plied the  eldest  sister,  passing  her  fingers  through  the 
tresses  of  the  smiling  girl. 

"  '  And  what  joy  and  cheerfulness  it  wakes  up  within 
us,  to  see  all  nature  beaming  in  brightness  and  sunshine, 
father,'  added  Alice,  blushing  beneath  the  stern  look  of 
the  recluse. 

"  The  monk  answered  not,  save  by  a  grave  inclination 
of  the  head,  and  the  sisters  pursued  their  task  in  si- 
lence. 

"  '  Still  wasting,  the  precious  hours,'  said  the  monk  at 
length,  turning  to  the  eldest  sister  as  he  spoke,  '  still 
wasting  the  precious  hours  on  this  vain  trifling.  Alas, 
alas  !  that  the  few  bubbles  on  the  surface  of  eternity — 
all  that  Heaven  wills  we  should  see  of  that  dark  deep 
stream — should  be  so  lightly  scattered  ! ' 

"  '  Father,'  urged  the  maiden,  pausing,  as  did  each  of 
the  others,  in  her  busy  task,  '  we  have  prayed  at  matins, 
our  daily  alms  have  been  distributed  at  xhe  gate,  the  sick 
peasants  have  been  tended, — all  our  morning  tasks  have 
been  performed.  I  hope  our  occupation  is  a  blam-eless 
one  ? ' 

"  '  See  here,'  said  the  friar,  taking  the  frame  from  her 
hand,  'an  intricate  winding  of  gaudy  colours,  without 
purpose  or  object,  unless  it  be  that  one  day  it  is  destined 
for  some  vain  ornament,  to  minister  to  the  pride  of  your 
frail  and  giddy  sex.  Day  after  day  has  been  employed 
upon  this  senseless  task,  and  yet  it  is  not  half  accom- 
plished. The  shade  of  each  departed  day  falls  upon  our 
graves,  and  the  worm  exults  as  he  beholds  it,  to  know 
that  we  are  hastening  thither.  Daughters,  is  there  no 
better  way  to  j^ass  the  fleeting  hours  ? ' 

"  The  four  eldest  sisters  cast  down  their  eyes  as  if 
abashed  by  the  holy  man's  reproof,  but  Alice  raised  hers, 
and  bent  them  mildly  on  the  friar. 

"  '  Our  dear  mother,'  said  the  maiden  ;  '  Heaven  rest 
her  soul  ! ' 

"  '  Amen  ! '  cried  the  friar  in  a  deep  voice. 

"'Our  dear  mother,'  faltered  the  fair  Alice,  'was 
living  when  these  long  tasks  began,  and  bade  us,  when 
she  should  be  no  more,  ply  them  in  all  discretion  and 
cheerfulness,  in  our  leisure  hours  ;  she  said  that  if  in 
harmless  mirth,  and  maidenly  pursuits  we  passed  those 
hours  together,  they  would  prove  the  happiest  and  most 
peaceful  of  our  lives,  and  that  if,  in  later  times,  we  went 
forth  into  the  world,  and  mingled  with  its  cares  and 
trials — if,  allured  by  its  temptations  and  dazzled  by  its 
glitter,  we  ever  forgot  that  love  and  duty  which  should 
bind,  in  holy  ties,  the  children  of  one  loved  parent — a 
glance  at  the  old  work  of  our  common  girlhood  would 
awaken  good  thoughts  of  bygone  days,  and  soften  our 
hearts  to  affection  and  love.' 

"'Alice  speaks  truly,  father,'  said  the  elder  sister, 
somewhat  proudly.  And  so  saying  she  resumed  her 
work,  as  did  the  others.  * 

"  It  was  a  kind  of  sampler  of  large  size,  that  each 
sister  had  before  her  ;  tiie  device  was  of  a  complex  and 
intricate  description,  and  the  pattern  and  colours  of  all 
five  were  the  same.  The  sisters  bent  gracefully  over 
their  work  ;  the  monk,  resting  his  chin  upon  his  hands, 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  silence, 

"  'How  much  better,'  he  said  at  length,  'to  shun  all 
such  thoughts  and  chances,  and,  in  the  peaceful  shelter 
of  the  church,  devote  your  lives  to  Heaven  I  Infancy, 
childhood,  the  prime  of  life,  and  old  age,  wither  as 
rapidly  as  they  crowd  upon  each  other.  Think  how 
human  dust  rolls  onward  to  the  tomb,  and  turning  your 
faces  steadily  towards  that  goal,  avoid  the  cloud  which 


NICHOLAS  NIC  RLE  BY. 


19 


takes  its  rise  among  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  and 
cheats  the  senses  of  their  votaries.  The  veil,  daughters, 
the  veil  I ' 

•* '  Never,  sisters,'  cried  Alice.  *  Barter  not  the  light 
and  air  of  heaven,  and  the  freshness  of  earth  and  all  the 
beautiful  things  which  breathe  upon  it,  for  the  cold 
cloister  and  the  cell.  Nature's  own  blessings  are  the 
proper  goods  of  life,  and  we  may  share  them  sinlessly 
together.  To  die  is  our  heavy  portion,  but,  oh,  let  us 
die  with  life  about  us  ;  when  our  cold  hearts  cease  to 
beat,  let  warm  hearts  be  beating  near  ;  let  our  last  look 
be  upon  the  bounds  which  God  has  set  to  his  own  bright 
skies,  and  not  on  stone  walls  and  bars  of  iron  !  Dear 
sisters,  let  us  live  and  die,  if  you  list,  in  this  green  gar- 
den's compass  ;  only  shun  the  gloom  and  sadness  of  a 
cloister,  and  we  shall  be  happy.' 

* '  The  tears  fell  fast  from  the  maiden's  eyes  as  she 
closed  her  impassioned  appeal,  and  hid  her  face  in  the 
bosom  of  her  sister. 

"'Take  comfort,  Alice,'  said  the  eldest,  kissing  her 
fair  forehead.  *  The  veil  shall  never  cast  its  shadow  on 
thy  young  brow.  How  say  you,  sisters  ?  For  yourselves 
you  speak,  and  not  for  Alice,  or  for  me.' 

"The  sisters,  as  with  one  accord,  cried  that  their  lot 
was  cast  together,  and  that  there  were  dwellings  for 
peace  and  virtue  beyond  the  convent's  walls. 

"'Father,'  said  the  eldest  lady,  rising  with  dignity, 
*  you  hear  our  final  resolve.  The  same  pious  care  which 
enriched  the  abbey  of  Saint  Mary,  and  left  us,  orphans,  to 
its  holy  guardianship,  directed  that  no  constraint  should 
be  imposed  upon  our  inclinations,  but  that  we  should  be 
free  to  live  according  to  our  choice.  Let  us  hear  no 
more  of  this,  we  pray  you.  Sisters,  it  is  nearly  noon. 
Let  us  take  shelter  until  evening!'  With  a  reverence 
to  the  friar,  the  lady  rose  and  wallced  towards  the  house, 
hand  in  hand  with  Alice ;  the  other  sisters  followed. 

"The  holy  man,  who  had  often  urged  the  same  point 
before,  but  had  never  met  with  so  direct  a  repulse, 
walked  some  little  distance  behind,  with  his  eyes  bent 
upon  the  earth,  and  his  lips  moving  as  if'va.  prayer.  As 
the  sisters  reached  the  porch,  he  quickened  his  pace,  and 
called  upon  them  to  stop, 

"  '  Stay  ! '  said  the  monk,  raising  his  right  hand  in  the 
air,  and  directing  an  angry  glance  by  turns  at  Alice  and 
the  eldest  sister.  '  Stay,  and  hear  from  me  what  these 
recollections  are,  which  you  would  cherish  above  eternity, 
and  awaken — if  in  mercy  they  slumbered— by  means  of 
idle  toys.  The  memory  of  earthly  things  is  charged,  in 
after  life,  with  bitter  disappointment,  affliction,  death  ; 
with  dreary  change  and  wasting  sorrow.  The  time  will 
one  day  come,  when  a  glance  at  those  unmeaning  bau- 
bles will  tear  open  deep  wounds  in  the  hearts  of  some 
among  you,  and  strike  to  your  inmost  souls.  When  that 
hour  arrives — and,  mark  me,  come  it  will — turn  from 
the  world  to  which  you  clung,  to  the  refuge  which  you 
spurned.  Find  me  the  cell  which  shall  be  colder  than 
the  fire  of  mortals  grows,  when  dimmed  by  calamity  and 
trial,  and  there  weep  for  the  dreams  of  youth.  These 
things  are  Heaven's  will,  not  mine,'  said  the  friar,  sub- 
duing his  voice  as  he  looked  round  upon  the  shrinking 
girls.    '  The  Virgin's  blessing  be  upon  you,  daughters  ! ' 

"With  these  words  he  disappeared  through  the  pos- 
tern ;  and  the  sisters  hastening  into  the  house  were  seen 
no  more  that  day. 

"But  nature  will  smile  though  priests  may  frown, 
and  next  day  the  sun  shone  brightly,  and  on  the  next, 
and  the  next  again.  And  in  the  morning's  glare,  and 
the  evening's  soft  repose,  the  five  sisters  still  walked,  or 
worked,  or  beguiled  the  time  by  cheerful  conversation, 
in  their  quiet  orchard, 

"  Time  passed  away  as  a  tale  that  is  told  ;  faster  in- 
deed than  many  tales  that  are  told,  of  which  number  I 
fear  this  may  be  one.  The  house  of  the  five  sisters 
stood  where  it  did,  and  the  same  trees  cast  their  pleasant 
shade  upon  the  orchard  grass.  The  sisters  too  were  there, 
and  lovely  as  at  first,  but  a  change  had  come  over  their 
dwelling.  Sometimes,  there  was  the  clash  of  armour, 
and  the  gleaming  of  the  moon  on  caps  of  steel  ;  and,  at 
others,  jaded  coursers  were  spurred  up  to  the  gate,  and 
a  female  form  glided  hurriedly  forth,  as  if  eager  to  de- 
mand tidings  of  the  weary  messenger,  A  goodly  train 
;  of  knights  and  ladies  lodged  one  night  within  the  abbey 


walls,  and  next  day  rode  away,  "with  two  of  the  fair 
sisters  among  them.  Then,  hon;emen  began  to  come 
less  frequently,  and  .seemed  to  bring  bad  tidings  when 
they  did,  and  at  length  they  ceased  U)  come  at  all,  and 
footsore  peasants  slunk  to  the  gate  after  sunset,  and  did 
their  errand  there,  by  stealtli.  Once,  a  vassal  was  de- 
sj)atched  in  haste  to  the  abbey  at  dead  of  night,  and 
when  morning  came,  there  were  sounds  of  woe  and  wail- 
ing in  the  sisters'  house  ;  and  after  this,  a  mournful 
silence  fell  upon  it,  and  knight  or  lady,  horse  or  armour, 
was  seen  about  it  no  more. 

"There  was  a  sullen  darkness  in  the  skv,  and  the  sun 
had  gone  angrily  down,  tinting  the  dull  clouds  with  the 
i  last  traces  of  his  wrath,  when  the  same  black  monk  walked 
[  slowly  on,  with  folded  arms,  within  a  stone's-throw  of 
the  abbey.    A  blight  had  fallen  on  the  trees  and  shrubs  ; 
I  and  the  wind,  at  length  beginning  to  break  the  unnatural 
stillness  that  had  prevailed  all  day,  sighed  heavily  from 
time  to  time,  as  though  foretelling  in  grief  the  ravafres  of 
the  coming  storm.    The  bats  skimmed  in  fantastic  tiighis 
through  the  heavy  air,  and  the  ground  was  alive  with 
crawling  things,  whose  instinct  brought  them  forth  to 
swell  and  fatten  in  the  rain. 

"No  longer  were  the  friar's  eyes  directed  to  the  earth  ; 
the}'^  were  cast  abroad,  and  roamed  from  point  to  point, 
as  if  the  gloom  and  desolation  of  the  scene  found  a  quick 
response  in  his  own  bo.som.  Again  he  paused  near  tiie 
sisters'  house,  and  again  he  entered  by  the  postern . 

"  But  not  again  did  his  ear  encounter  the  sound  of 
laughter,  or  his  eyes  rest  upon  the  beautiful  figures  of 
the  five  sisters.  All  was  silent  and  deserted.  The  boughs 
of  the  trees  were  bent  ar.d  broken,  and  the  grass  had 
grown  long  and  rank.  No  light  feet  had  pressed  it  for 
many,  many,  a  day, 

"  With  the  indifference  or  abstraction  of  one  well  ac- 
customed to  the  change,  the  monk  glided  into  the  house, 
and  entered  a  low,  dark  room.    Four  sisters  sat  there. 
Their  black  garments  made  their  j^ale  faces  whiter  still, 
and  time  and  sorrow  h ad  worked  deep  ravages.  They  were 
stately  yet ;  but  the  flush  and  pride  of  beauty  were  gone. 
"And  Alice — where  was  she  ?    In  Heaven. 
"The  monk — even  the  monk — could  bear  with  some 
grief  here  ;  for  it  was  long  since  these  sisters  had  met, 
and  there  were  furrows  in  their  blanched  faces  which 
years  coirld  never  plough.    He  took  his  seat  in  silence, 
and  motioned  them  to  continue  their  speech. 
I     "'They  are  here,  sisters,' said  the  elder  lady  in  a 
!  trembling  voice.    '  I  have  never  borne  to  look  upon  them 
i  since,  and  now  I  blame  myself  for  my  weakness.  What 
is  there  in  her  memory  that  we  should  dread  ?  To  call  up 
our  old  days,  shall  be  a  solemn  pleasure  yet.' 

''  She  glanced  at  the  monk  as  she  spoke,  and,  opening 
a  cabinet,  brought  forth  the  five  frames  of  work,  com- 
pleted long  before.  Her  step  was  firm,  but  her  hacd 
trembled  as  she  produced  the  last  one  ;  and,  when  the 
feelings  of  the  other  sisters  gushed  forth  at  sight  of  it,  her 
pent-up  tears  made  way,  and  she  sobbed  '  God  bless  her  I ' 
"  The  monk  rose  and  advanced  towards  them.  *  It  was 
almost  the  last  thing  she  touched  in  health,'  he  said  in  a 
low  voice, 

"  'It  was,'  cried  the  elder  lady,  weeping  bitterly. 

* '  The  monk  turned  to  the  second  sister. 

"  'The  gallant  youth  who  looked  into  thine  eyes,  and 
hung  upon  thy  very  breath  when  first  he  saw  thee  intent 
upon  this  pastime,  lies  buried  on  a  plain  whereof  the  tuif 
is  red  with  blood.  Rusty  fragments  of  armour,  once 
brightly  burnished,  lie  rotting  on  the  ground,  and  are  as 
little  distinguishable  for  his,  as  are  the  bones  that  crum- 
ble in  the  mould  ! ' 

"  The  lady  groaned,  and  wrung  her  hands. 

"  'The  policy  of  courts.'  he  continued,  turning  to  the 
two  other  sisters,  '  drew  ye  from  your  peaceful  home  to 
scenes  of  revelry  and  splendour.  The  same  policy,  and 
the  restless  ambition  of  proud  and  fiery  men,  have  sent  ye 
back,  widowed  maidens,  and  humbled  outcasts.  Do  I 
speak  trulv  ? ' 

"The  sobs  of  the  two  sisters  were  their  only  reply, 

"  '  There  is  little  need,'  said  the  monk,  with  a  meaning 
look,  'to  fritter  away  the  time  in  gewgaws  which  shall 
raise  up  the  pale  ghosts  of  hopes  of  early  years.  Bury 
them,  heap  penance  and  mortification  on  their  heads,  keep 
them  down,  and  let  the  convent  be  their  grave  !' 


20 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"The  sisters  asked  for  three  days  to  deliberate  ;  and 
felt,  that  night,  as  though  the  veil  were  indeed  the  fitting 
shroud  for  their  dead  joys.  But,  morning  came  again, 
and  though  the  boughs  of  the  orchard  trees  drooped  and 
ran  wild  upon  the  ground,  it  was  the  same  orchard  still. 
The  grass  was  coarse  and  high,  but  there  was  yet  the 
spot  on  which  they  had  so  often  sat  together,  when  change 
and  sorrow  were  but  names.  There  was  every  walk  and 
nook  which  Alice  had  made  glad  ;  and  in  the  minster 
nave  was  one  flat  stone  beneath  which  she  slept  in  peace. 

"And  could  they,  remembering  how  her  young  heart 
had  sickened  at  the  thought  of  cloistered  walls,  look  upon 
her  grave,  in  garbs  which  would  chill  the  very  ashes 
within  it?  Could  they  bow  down  in  prayer,  and  when 
all  Heaven  turned  to  hear  them,  bring  the  dark  shade  of 
sadness  on  one  angel's  face  ?  No. 

"They  sent  abroad,  to  artists  of  great  celebrity  in 
those  times,  and  having  obtained  the  church's  sanction 
to  their  work  of  piety,  caused  to  be  executed,  in  five 
large  compartments  of  richly  stained  glass,  a  faithful 
copy  of  their  old  embroidery  work.  These  were  fitted 
into  a  large  window  until  that  time  bare  of  ornament ; 
and  when  the  sun  shone  brightly,  as  she  had  so  well 
loved  to  see  it,  the  familiar  patterns  were  reflected  in 
their  original  colours,  and  throwing  a  stream  of  brilliant 
light  upon  the  pavement,  fell  warmly  on  the  name  of 
Alice. 

"  For  many  hours  in  everyday,  the  sisters  paced  slowly 
up  and  down  the  nave,  or  knelt  by  the  side  ()f  the  flat 
broad  stone.  Only  three  were  seen  in  the  customary 
place,  after  many  years  ;  then  but  two,  and,  for  a  long  time 
afterwards,  but  one  solitary  female  bent  with  age.  At 
length  she  came  no  more,  and  the  stone  bore  five  plain 
Christian  names, 

"That  stone  has  worn  away  and  been  replaced  by 
others,  and  many  generations  have  come  and  gone  since 
then.  Time  has  softened  down  the  colours,  but  the 
same  stream  of  light  still  falls  upon  the  forgotten  tomb, 
of  which  no  trace  remains  ;  and,  to  this  day,  the  stranger 
is  shown  in  York  cathedral,  an  old  window  called  the 
Five  Sisters." 


"That's  a  melancholy  tale,"  said  the  merry-faced  gen- 
tleman, emptying  his  glass. 

"  It  is  a  tale  of  life,  and  life  is  made  up  of  such  sor- 
rows," returned  the  other,  courteously,  but  in  a  grave 
and  sad  tone  of  voice. 

"There  are  shades  in  all  good  pictures,  but  there  are 
lights  too,  if  we  choose  to  contemplate  them,"  said  the 
gentleman  with  the  merry  face.  "The  youngest  sister 
in  your  tale,  was  always  light-hearted." 

"And  died  early,"  said  the  other,  gently. 

"She  would  have  died  earlier,  perhaps,  had  she  been 
less  happy,"  said  the  first  speaker  w!th  much  feeling. 
"  Do  you  think  the  sisters  who  loved  her  so  well,  would 
have  grieved  the  less  if  her  life  had  been  one  of  gloom 
and  sadness  ?  If  anything  could  soothe  the  first  sharp 
pain  of  a  heavy  loss,  it  would  be — with  me — the  reflec- 
tion, that  those  1  mourned,  by  being  innocently  happy 
here,  and  loving  all  about  them,  had  prepared  themselves 
for  a  purer  and  happier  world.  The  sun  doeS  not  shine 
upon  this  fair  earth  to  meet  frowning  eyes,  depend  upon 
it." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  the  gentleman  who  had 
told  the  story. 

"  Believe  !"  retorted  the  other,  "  can  anybody  doubt 
it?  Take  any  subject  of  sorrowful  regret,  and  see  with 
how  much  pleasure  it  is  associated.  The  recollection  of 
past  pleasure  may  become  pain  " 

"  It  does,"  interposed  the  other. 

"  Well  ;  it  does.  To  remember  happiness  which  can- 
not be  restored,  is  pain,  but  of  a  softened  kind.  Our 
recollections  are  unfortunately  mingled  with  much  that 
we  deplore,  and  with  many  actions  which  we  bitterly  re- 
X)ent ;  still  in  the  most  chequered  life  I  firmly  think  there 
are  so  many  little  rays  of  sunshine  to  look  back  upon, 
that  I  do  not  believe  any  mortal  (unless  he  had  put  him- 
self without  the  pale  of  hope)  would  deliberately  drain 
a  goblet  of  the  waters  of  Lethe,  if  he  had  it  in  his 
power." 

"  Possibly  you  are  correct  in  that  belief,"  said  the 


grey -haired  gentleman  after  a  short  reflection.  "lam 
inclined  to  think  you  are." 

"Why,  then,"  replied  the  other,  "the  good  in  this 
state  of  existence  preponderates  over  the  bad,  let  mis- 
called philosophers  tell  us  what  they  will.  If  our  affec- 
tions be  tried,  our  affections  are  our  consolation  and 
comfort ;  and  memory,  however  sad,  is  the  best  and 
purest  link  between  this  world  and  a  better.  But  come  ! 
I'll  tell  you  a  story  of  another  kind." 

After  a  very  brief  silence,  the  merry-faced  gentleman 
sent  round  the  punch,  and  glancing  slily  at  the  fastidious 
lady,  who  seemed  desperately  apprehensive  that  he  was 
going  to  relate  something  improper,  began 

THE  BARON  OF  GROGZWIG. 

"  The  Baron  Von  Koeldwethout,  of  Grogzwig  in  Ger- 
many, was  as  likely  a  young  baron  as  you  would  wish  to 
see.  I  needn't  say  that  he  lived  in  a  castle,  because  that's 
of  course  ;  neither  need  I  say  that  he  lived  in  an  old  castle  ; 
for  what  German  baron  ever  lived  in  a  new  one  ?  There 
were  many  strange  circumstances  connected  with  this 
venerable  building,  among  which,  not  the  least  startling 
and  mysterioiis  were,  that  when  the  wind  blew,  it  rum- 
bled in  the  chimneys,oreven  howled  among  the  trees  in  the 
neighbouring  forest  ;  and  that  when  the  moon  shone,  she 
found  her  way  through  certain  small  loopholes  in  the  wall, 
and  actually  made  some  parts  of  the  wide  halls  and  gal- 
leries quite  light,  while  she  left  others  in  gloomy  shadow. 
I  believe  that  one  of  the  baron's  ancestors,  being  short  of 
money,  had  inserted  a  dagger  in  a  gentleman  who  called 
one  night  to  ask  his  way,  and  it  was  supposed  these 
miraculous  occurrences  took  place  in  consequence.  And 
yet  I  hardly  know  how  that  would  have  been,  either,  be- 
cause the  baron's  ancestor,  who  was  an  amiable  man, 
felt  very  sorry  afterwards  for  having  been  so  rash,  and 
laying  violent  hands  upon  a  quantity  of  stone  and  tim- 
ber which  belonged  to  a  weaker  baron,  built  a  chapel  as 
an  apology,  and  so  took  a  receipt  from  Heaven,  in  full 
of  all  demands. 

"  Talking  of  the  baron's  ancestor  puts  me  in  mind  of 
the  baron's  great  claims  to  respect,  on  the  score  of  his 
pedigree.  I  am  afraid  to  say,  I  am  sure,  how  many  an- 
cestors the  baron  had  ;  but  I  know  that  he  had  a  great 
many  more  than  any  other  man  of  his  time ;  and  I  only 
wish  that  he  had  lived  in  these  latter  days,  that  he 
might  have  had  more.  It  is  a  very  hard  thing  upon  the 
great  men  of  past  centuries,  that  they  should  have  come 
into  the  world  so  soon,  because  a  man  who  was  boin 
three  or  four  hundred  years  ago,  cannot  reasonably  be 
expected  to  have  had  as  many  relations  before  him,  as  a 
man  who  is  born  now.  The  last  man,  whoever  he  is— 
and  he  may  be  a  cobbler  or  some  low  vulgar  dog  for 
aught  we  know— will  have  a  longer  pedigree  than  the 
greatest  nobleman  now  alive  ;  and  I  contend  that  this  is 
not  fair. 

"  Well,  but  the  Baron  Von  Koeldwethout  of  Grogzwig  ! 
He  was  a  fine  swarthy  fellow,  with  dark  hair  and  large 
moustachios,  who  rode  a-hunting  in  clothes  of  Lincoln 
green,  with  russet  boots  on  his  feet,  and  a  bugle  slung 
over  his  shoulder,  like  the  guard  of  a  long  stage.  When 
he  blew  this  bugle,  four-and-twenty  other  gentlemen  of 
inferior  rank,  in  Lincoln  green  a  little  coarser,  and  russet 
boots  with  a  little  thicker  soles,  turned  out  directly  ;  and 
away  galloped  the  whole  train,  with  spears  in  their  hands 
like  lackered  area  railings,  to  hunt  down  the  boars,  or 
perhaps  encounter  a  bear  :  in  which  latter  case  the  baron 
killed  him  first,  and  greased  his  whiskers  with  him  after- 
wards. 

"This  was  a  merry  life  for  the  Baron  of  Grogzwig, 
and  a  merrier  still  for  the  baron's  retainers,  who  drank 
Rhine  wine  every  night  till  they  fell  under  the  table,  and 
then  had  the  bottles  on  the  floor,  and  cialled  for  pipes. 
Never  were  such  jolly,  roystering,  rollicking,  merry- 
making blades,  as  the  jovial  crew  of  Grogzwig. 

"  But  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  or  the  pleasures  of 
under  the  table,  require  a  little  variety  ;  especially  when 
the  same  five-and-twienty  people  sit  daily  down  to  the 
same  board,  to  discuss  the  same  subjects,  and  tell  the 
same  stories.  The  baron  grew  weary  and  wanted  ex- 
citement.   He  took  to  quarrelling  with  his  gentlemen. 


NICHOLAS  NICK LE BY, 


21 


and  tried  kicldng  two  or  three  of  them  every  day  after 
dinner.  This  was  a  pleasant  change  at  first  ;  but  it  be- 
came monotonous  after  a  week  or  so,  and  the  baron  felt 
quite  out  of  sorts,  and  cast  about,  in  despair,  for  some 
new  amusement. 

"One  night,  after  a  day's  sport  in  which  he  had  out- 
done Nimrod  or  Gilling water,  and  slaughtered  '  another 
fine  bear,'  and  brought  him  home  in  triumph,  the  Baron 
Von  Koeldwethout  sat  moodily  at  the  head  of  his  table, 
eyeing  the  smoky  roof  of  the  hall  with  a  discontented  as- 
pect. He  swallowed  huge  bumpers  of  wine,  but  the  more 
he  swallowed,  the  more  he  frowned.  The  gentlemen 
who  had  been  honoured  with  the  dangerous  distinction 
of  sitting  on  his  right  and  left,  imitated  him  to  a  mira- 
cle in  the  drinking,  and  frowned  at  each  other. 

"  '  I  will  ! '  cried  the  baron  suddenly,  smiting  the  table 
with  his  right  hand,  and  twirling  his  moustache  with 
his  left.    *  Fill  to  the  Lady  of  Grogzwig  ! ' 

"  The  four-and-twenfcy  Lincoln  greens  turned  pale, 
with  the  exception  of  their  four-and  twenty  noses,  which 
were  unchangeable. 

"  *  I  said  to  the  Lady  of  Grogzwig,'  repeated  the  baron, 
looking  round  the  board. 

"  *  To  the  Lady  of  Grogzwig  ! '  shouted  the  Lincoln 
greens  ;  and  down  their  four-and-twenty  throats  went 
four-and-twenty  imperial  pints  of  such  rare  old  hock, 
that  they  smacked  their  eight-aud-forty  lips,  and  winked 
iagain, 

"  '  The  fair  daughterof  the  Baron  Von  Swillenhausen,' 
said  Koeldwethout,  condescending  to  explain.  '  We  will 
demand  her  in  marriage  of  her  father,  ere  the  sun  goes 
down  to-morrow.  If  he  refuse  our  suit,  we  will  cut  off 
his  nose.' 

"  A  hoarse  murmer  arose  from  the  company  ;  every 
man  touched,  first  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  and  then  the  tip 
of  his  nose,  with  appalling  significance. 

"  What  a  pleasant  thing  filial  piety  is,  to  contemplate  ! 
If  the  daughter  of  the  Baron  Von  Swillenhausen  had 
pleaded  a  pre-occupied  heart,  or  fallen  at  her  father's 
feet  and  corned  them  in  salt  tears,  or  only  fainted  away, 
and  complimented  the  old  gentleman  in  frantic  ejacula- 
tions, the  odds  are  a  hundred  to  one,  but  Swillenhausen 
castle  would  have  been  turned  out  at  window,  or  rather 
the  baron  turned  out  at  window,  and  the  castle  demol- 
ished. The  damsel  held  her  peace,  however,  when  an 
early  messenger  bore  the  request  of  Von  Koeldwethout 
next  morning,  and  modestly  retired  to  her  chamber,  from 
the  casement  of  which  she  watched  the  coming  of  the 
suitor  and  his  retinue.  She  was  no  sooner  assured  that 
the  horseman  with  the  large  moustachios  was  her  prof- 
fered husband,  than  she  hastened  to  her  father's  presence, 
and  expressed  her  readiness  to  sacrifice  herself  to  secure 
his  peace.  The  venerable  baron  caught  his  child  to  his 
arms,  and  shed  a  wink  of  joy. 

"There  was  great  feasting  at  the  castle,  that  day. 
The  four-and-twenty  Lincoln  greens  of  Von  Koeldweth- 
out exchanged  vows  of  eternal  friendship  with  twelve 
Lincoln  greens  of  Von  Swillenhausen,  and  promised  the 
old  baron  that  they  would  drink  his  wine  *  Till  all  was 
ijlue' — meaning  probably  until  their  whole  countenances 
had  acquired  the  same  tint  as  their  noses.  Everybody 
slapped  everybody  else's  back,  when  the  time  for  parting 
came ;  and  the  Baron  Von  Koeldwethout  and  his  fol- 
lowers rode  gaily  home. 

"  For  six  mortal  weeks,  the  bears  and  boars  had  a  hol- 
iday. The  houses  of  Koeldwethout  and  Swillenhausen 
were  united  ;  the  spears  rusted  ;  and  the  baron's  bugle 
grew  hoarse  for  lack  of  blowing. 

"  Those  were  the  great  times  for  the  four-and-twenty  ; 
but,  alas  !  their  high  and  palmy  days  have  taken  boots 
to  themselves,  and  were  already  walking  off. 

"  •  My  dear,'  said  the  baroness. 

"  '  My  love,'  said  the  baron. 

"  '  Tbose  coarse,  noisy  men  * 

"  '  Which,  ma'am  ?'  said  the  baron  starting. 

"The  baroness  pointed,  from  the  wmdow  at  which 
they  stood,  to  the  court- yard  beneath,  where  the  uncon- 
scious Lincoln  greens  were  taking  a  copious  stirrup-cup, 
preparatory  to  issuing  forth  after  a  l3oar  or  two. 

"  '  My  hunting  train,  ma'am  ?'  said  the  baron. 

"  '  Disband  them,  love,'  murmured  the  baroness. 
•      '  IMsband  them  ! '  cried  the  baron,  in  amazement. 


"  '  To  please  me,  love,'  replied  the  baroness, 
"  *To  please  ti)e  devil,  ma'am,'  answered  the  baron. 
"  Whereupon  the  baroness  uttered  a  great  cry,  and 
swooned  away  at  the  Imron's  feet. 

"What  cculd  the  baron  do?   He  called  for  the  lady's 
maid,  and  roared  for  the  doctor  ;  and  then,  rushing  into 
i  the  yard,  kicked  the  two  Lincoln  greens  who  were  the 
!  most  used  to  it,  and  cursing  the  others  all  round,  bade 

j  them  go   but  never  mind  where.    I  don't  know 

j  the  German  for  it,  or  I  would  put  it  delicately  that  way. 
j  "  It  is  not  for  me  to  say  by  what  means  or  by  what 
j  degrees,  some  wives  manage  to  keep  down  Kome  hus- 
bands as  they  do,  although  I  may  have  my  private  oj)in- 
j  ion  on  the  subject,  and  may  think  that  no  Member  of 
i  Parliament  ought  to  be  married,  ina.smuch  as  three  mar- 
ried members  out  of  every  four,  must  vote  according  to 
their  wives'  consciences  (if  there  be  such  tilings),  and 
not  according  to  tlieir  own.  All  I  need  say,  just  now, 
is,  that  the  Baroness  Von  Koeldwethout,  scmehow  or 
other  acquired  great  control  over  the  Baron  Von  Koeld- 
wethout, and  that,  little  by  little,  and  bit  by  bit,  and 
day  by  day,  and  year  by  year,  the  baron  got  the  worst 
of  some  disputed  question,  or  was  slily  unhorsed  from 
some  old  hobby  ;  and  that  by  the  time  he  was  a  fat 
hearty  fellow  of  forty-eight  or  thereabouts,  he  had  no 
feasting,  no  revelry,  no  hunting  train,  and  no  hunting — 
nothing  in  short  that  he  liked,  or  used  to  have  ;  and 
that,  although  he  was  as  fierce  as  a  lion  and  as  bold  as 
brass,  he  was  decidedly  snubbed  and  put  down,  by  his 
own  lady,  in  his  own  castle  of  Grogzwig. 

"Nor  was  this  the  whole  extent  of  the  baron's  mis- 
fortunes.   About  a  year  after  his  nuptials,  there  came 
into  the  world  a  lusty  young  baron,  in  whose  honour  a 
great  many  fireworks  were  let  off,  and  a  great  many 
dozens  of  wine  drunk  ;  but  next  year  there  came  a  young 
baroness,  and  next  year  another  young  baron,  and  so 
on,  every  year,  either  a  baron  or  baroness  (and  one  year 
both  together),  until  the  baron  found  himself  the  father 
I  of  a  small  family  of  twelve.    Upon  every  one  of  these 
i  anniversaries,   the  venerable  Baroness  Von  Swillen- 
j  hausen  was  nervously  sensitive  for  the  well-being  of  lisr 
'  child  the  Baroness  Von  Koeldwethout ;  and  although  it 
j  was  not  found  that  the  good  lady  ever  did  anything 
j  material  towards  contributing  to  her  child's  recovery, 
!  still  she  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to  be  as  nervous  as  pos- 
I  sible  at  the  castle  of  Grogzwig,  and  to  divide  her  time 
I  between  moral  observations  on  the  baron's  housekeep- 
ing, and  bewailing  the  hard  lot  of  her  unhappy  daughter. 
And  if  the  baron  of  Grogzwig,  a  little  hurt  and  irritated 
I  at  this,  took  heart,  and  ventured  to  suggest  that  his  wife 
j  was  at  least  no  worse  off  than  the  wives  of  other  barons, 
the  Baroness  Von  Swillenhausen  begged  all  persons  to 
take  notice,  that  nobody  but  she,  sympathised  with  her 
dear  daughter's  sufferings  ;  upon  which,  her  relations 
and  friends  remarked,  that  to  be  sure  she  did  cry  a  great 
!  deal  more  than  her  son-in-law,  and  that  if  there  were  a 
hard-hearted  brute  alive,  it  was  that  Baron  of  Grogzwig. 

"  The  poor  baron  bore  it  all,  as  long  as  he  could,  and 
when  he  could  bear  it  no  longer  lost  his  appetite  and  his 
spirits,  and  sat  himself  gloomily  and  dejectedly  down. 
But  there  were  worse  troubles  yet  in  store  for  him,  and 
as  they  came  on,  his  melancholy  and  sadness  increased. 
Times  changed.    He  got  into  debt.    The  Grogzwig  cof- 
I  fers  ran  low,  though  the  Swillenhausen  family  had 
!  looked  upon  them  as  inexhaustible  ;  and  just  when  the 
i  baroness  was  on  the  point  of  making  a  thirteenth  addi- 
j  tion  to  the  family  pedigree.  Von  Koeldwethout  discov- 
j  ered  that  he  had  no  means  of  replenishing  them. 
I     "  '  I  don't  see  what  is  to  be  done,'  said  the  baron.    '  I 
think  I'll  kill  myself. ' 

"This  was  a 'bright  idea.  The  baron  took  an  old 
hunting-knife  from"  a  cupboard  hard  by,  and  having 
sharpened  it  on  his  boot,  made  what  boys  call  'an  offer' 
at  his  throat. 

"  'Hem  !'  said  the  baron,  stopping  short.  'Perhaps 
it's  not  sharp  enough.' 

I     "The  baron  sharpened  it  again,  and  made  another 
i  offer,  when  his  hand  was  arrested  by  a  loud  screaming 
among  the  young  barons  and  baronesses,  who  had  a 
nursery  in  an  up-stairs  tower  with  iron  bars  outside  the 
window,  to  prevent  their  tumbling:  out  into  the  moat. 
"  If  I  had  been  a  bachelor,'  said  the  baron  sighing,  '  I 


22 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


might  have  done  it  fifty  times  over,  without  being  inter- 
rupte'd.  Hallo  !  Put  a  flask  of  wine  and  the  largest  pipe, 
in  the  little  vaulted  room  behind  the  hall.' 

"One  of  the  domestics,  in  a  very  kind  manner,  exe- 
cuted the  baron's  order  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour  or 
so,  and  Von  Koeldwethout  being  apprised  thereof,  strode 
to  the  vaulted  room,  the  walls  of  which,  being  of  dark 
shining  wood,  gleamed  in  the  light  of  the  blazing  logs 
which  were  piled  upon  the  hearth.  The  bottle  and  pipe 
were  ready,  and,  upon  the  whole,  the  place  looked  very 
comfortable. 

"  '  Leave  the  lamp,'  said  the  baron. 

"  '  Anything  else,  my  lord  ?'  inquired  the  domestic. 

"  *  The  room,'  replied  the  baron.  The  domestic  obeyed, 
and  the  baron  locked  the  door. 

"  '  I'll  smoke  a  last  ])ipe,'  said  the  baron,  '  and  then  I'll 
be  ofE. '  So,  putting  the  knife  upon  the  table  till  he 
wanted  it,  and  tossing  off  a  goodly  measure  of  wine,  the 
Lord  of  Grogzwig  thre'w  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
stretched  his  legs  out  before  the  fire,  and  puffed  away. 

"  He  thought  al>out  a  great  many  things — about  his 
present  troubles  and  past  days  of  bachelorship,  and  about 
the  Lincoln  greens,  long  since  dispersed  up  and  down 
the  country,  no  one  knew  whither  :  with  the  exception 
of  two  who  had  been  unfortunately  beheaded,  and  four 
who  had  killed  themselves  with  drinking.  His  mind  was 
running  upon  bears  and  boars,  when,  in  the  process  of 
draining  his  glass  to  the  bottom,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and 
saw,  for  the  first  time  and  with  unbounded  astonish- 
ment, that  he  was  not  alone. 

"  No,  he  was  not ;  for,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire, 
there  sat  with  folded  arms  a  wrinkled  hideous  figure, 
with  deeply  sunk  and  bloodshot  eyes,  and  an  immensely 
long  cadaverous  face,  shadowed  by  jagged  and  matted 
locks  of  coarse  black  hair.  He  wore  a  land  of  tunic  of  a 
dull  blueish  colour,  which,  the  baron  observed,  on  re- 
garding it  attentively,  was  clasped  or  ornamented  down 
the  front,  with  coffin  handles.  His  legs  too,  were  en- 
cased in  cofl&n  plates  as  though  in  armour  ;  and  over  his 
left  shoulder  he  wore  a  short  dusky  cloak,  which  seemed 
made  of  a  remnant  of  some  pall.  He  took  no  notice  of 
the  baron,  but  was  intently  eyeing  the  fire. 

'  Halloa  ! '  said  the  baron,  stamping  his  foot  to  attract 
attention. 

"  '  Halloa  ! '  replied  the  stranger,  moving  his  eyes  to- 
wards the  baron,  but  not  his  face  or  himself.  '  What 
now  ? ' 

"  '  What  now  !'  replied  the  baron,  nothing  daunted  by 
his  hollow  voice  and  lustreless  eyes,  */  should  ask  that 
question.    How  did  you  get  here  ? ' 

"  *  Through  the  door,'  replied  the  figure. 

"  '  What  are  you  ?'  says  the  baron. 

"  *  A  man,'  replied  the  figure. 

"  '  I  don't  believe  it,'  says  the  baron. 

"  '  Disbelieve  it  then,'  says  the  figure. 

"  '  I  will,'  rejoined  the  baron. 

"  The  figure  looked  at  the  bold  Baron  of  Grogzwig  for 
some  time,  and  then  said  familiarly, 

" '  There's  no  coming  over  you,  I  see.  I'm  not  a 
man  !' 

"  '  What  are  you  then  ?  '  asked  the  baron. 
"  '  A  genius,'  replied  the  figure. 

"  'You  don't  look  much  like  one,'  returned  the  baron 
scornfully. 

"  '  I  am  the  Genius  of  Despair  and  Suicide,'  said  the 
aj)parition.    '  Now  you  know  me.' 

"  With  these  words  the  apparition  turned  towards  the 
baron,  as  if  composing  himself  for  a  talk — and,  what  was 
very  remarkable,  was,  that  he  threw  his  cloak  aside,  and 
displaying  a  stake,  which  was  run  through  the  centre  of 
his  body,  pulled  it  out  with  a  jerk,  and  laid  it  on  the 
table,  as  composedly  as  if  it  had  been  a  walking-stick. 

"'Now,'  said  the  figure,  glancing  at  the  hunting- 
knife,  '  are  you  ready  for  me  ?' 

"  '  Not  quite,'  rejoined  the  baron  ;  '  I  must  finish  this 
pipe  first.' 

"  '  Look  sharp  then,'  said  the  figure. 

"  '  You  seem  in  a  hurry,'  said  the  baron. 

"'Why,  yes,  lam,'  answered  the  figure;  'they're 
doing  a  pretty  brisk  l)usiness  in  my  way,  over  in  England 
and  France  just  now,  and  my  time  is  a  good  deal  taken 
up.' 


"  '  Do  you  drink  ? '  said  the  baron,  touching  the  bottle 
with  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

"  '  Nine  times  out  of  ten,  and  then  very  hard,'  rejoined 
the  figure  drily. 

"  '  Never  in  moderation  ?'  asked  the  baron. 

"  '  Never,'  replied  the  figure,  with  a  shudder,  *  that 
breeds  cheerfulness.' 

"  The  baron  took  another  look  at  his  new  friend,  whom 
he  thought  an  uncommonly  queer  customer,  and  at  length 
inquired  whether  he  took  any  active  part  in  such  little 
proceedings  as  that  which  he  had  in  contemplation. 

"  *  No,'  replied  the  figure  evasively  ;  '  but  I  am  always 
present.' 

"  'Just  to  see  fair,  I  suppose?'  said  the  baron. 

"  '  Just  that,'  replied  the  figure,  playing  with  his 
stake,  and  examining  the  ferule.  '  Be  as  quick  as  you 
can,  will  you,  for  there's  a  young  gentleman  who  is 
afflicted  with  too  much  money  and  leisure  wanting  me 
now,  I  find.' 

"'Going  to  kill  himself  because  he  has  too  much 
money  ! '  exclaimed  the  baron,  quite  tickled  ;  '  Ha  !  ha  ! 
that's  a  good  one.'  (This  was  the  first  time  the  baron 
had  laughed  for  many  a  long  day.) 

"  '  I  say,'  expostulated  the  figure,  looking  very  much 
scared  ;  '  don't  do  that  again.' 

"  '  Why  not?'  demanded  the  baron. 

"'Because  it  gives  me  pain  all  over,'  replied  the 
figure.  '  Sigh  as  much  as  you  please  ;  that  does  me 
good.' 

"  The  baron  sighed  mechanically,  at  the  mention  of  the 
word  ;  the  figure,  brightening  up  again,  handed  him  the 
hunting-knife  with  most  winning  politeness. 

"  *  It's  not  a  bad  idea  though,'  said  the  baron,  feeling 
the  edge  of  the  weapon  ;  '  a  man  killing  himself  becauiie 
he  has  too  much  money.' 

"  '  Pooh  ! '  said  the  apparition,  petulantly,  '  no  better 
than  a  man's  killing  himself  because  he  has  none  or 
little.' 

"  Whether  the  genius  unintentionally  committed  him- 
self in  saying  this,  or  whether  he  thought  the  baron's 
mind  was  so  thoroughly  made  up  that  it  didn't  matter 
what  he  said,  I  have  no  means  of  knowing.  I  only  know 
that  the  baron  stopped  his  hand,  all  of  a  sudden,  opened 
his  eyes  wide,  and  looked  as  if  quite  a  new  light  had 
come  upon  him  for  the  first  time. 

"  Why,  certainly,'  said  Von  Koeldwethout,  *  nothing 
is  too  bad  to  be  retrieved.' 

"  '  Except  empty  coffers,'  cried  the  genius. 

"  '  Well ;  but  they  may  be  one  day  filled  again,'  said 
the  baron. 

"  '  Scolding  wives,'  snarled  the  genius. 

"  '  Oh  !    They  may  be  made  quiet,'  said  the  baron. 

"  '  Thirteen  children,'  shouted  the  genius. 

"  '  Can't  all  go  wrong,  surely,'  said  the  baron. 

"  The  genius  was  evidently  growing  very  savage  with 
the  baron,  for  holding  these  opinions  all  at  once  ;  but  he 
tried  to  laugh  it  off,  and  said  if  he  would  let  him  know 
when  he  had  left  off  joking,  he  should  feel  obliged  to 
him. 

"  '  But  I  am  not  joking  ;  I  was  never  farther  from  it,' 
remonstrated  the  baron. 

"'Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  that,'  said  the  genius, 
looking  very  grim,  '  because  a  joke,  without  any  figure 
of  speech,  is  the  death  of  me.  Come  !  Quit  this  dreary 
world  at  once." 

"'I  don't  know,'  said  the  baron,  playing  with  the 
knife  ;  '  it's  a  dreary  one  certainly,  but  I  don't  think 
yours  is  much  better,  for  you  have  not  the  appearance  of 
being  particularly  comfortable.  That  puts  me  in  mind 
— what  security  have  I,  that  I  shall  be  any  the  better  for 
going  out  of  the  world  after  all  ! '  he  cried,  starting  up  ; 
'  I  never  thought  of  that.' 

"  '  Dispatch,'  cried  the  figure,  gnashing  its  teeth. 

"  '  Keep  off  ! '  said  the  baron.  '  I'll  brood  over 
miseries  no  longer,  but  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter, 
and  try  the  fresh  air  and  the  bears  again  ;  and  if  that 
don't  do,  I'll  talk  to  the  baroness  soundly,  and  cut  the 
Von  Swillenhausens  dead.'  With  this  the  baron  fell  into 
his  chair,  and  laughed  so  loud  and  boisterously,  that  the 
room  rang  with  it. 

"The  figure  fell  back  a  pace  or  two,  regarding  the 
baron  meanwhile  with  a  look  of  intense  terror,  and  when 


NICHOLAS 

had  ceased,  caught  up  the  stake,  plunged  it  violently 
into  its  body,  uttered  a  frightened  howl,  and  disappeared. 

Von  KoeJdwethout  never  saw  it  again.  Having  once 
made  up  his  mind  to  action,  he  soon  brought  the  baroness 
and  the  Von  Swillenhausens  to  reason,  and  died  many 
years  afterwards  :  not  a  rich  man  that  I  am  aware  of, 
but  certainly  a  happy  one  :  leaving  behind  him  a  numer- 
ous family,  "who  had  been  carefully  educated  in  hear  and 
boar-hunting  under  his  own  personal  eye.  And  my  ad- 
vice to  all  men  is,  that  if  ever  they  become  hipped  and 
melancholy  from  similar  causes  (as  very  many  men  do), 
they  look  at  both  sides  of  the  question,  applying  a  magni- 
fying glass  to  th3  best  one  ;  and  if  they  still  feel  tempted 
to  retire  without  leave,  that  they  smoke  a  large  pipe  and 
drink  a  full  bottle  first,  and  profit  by  the  laudable  ex- 
ample of  the  Baron  of  Grogzwig." 


"  The  fresh  coach  is  ready,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  if 
you  please,"  said  a  new  driver,  looking  in. 

This  intelligence  caused  the  punch  to  be  finished  in  a 
great  hurry,  and  prevented  any  discussion  relative  to 
the  last  story.  Mr.  Squeers  was  observed  to  draw  the 
grey-headed  gentleman  on  one  side,  and  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion with  great  apparent  interest  ;  it  bore  reference  to 
the  Five  Sisters  of  York,  and  was,  in  fact,  an  inquiry 
whether  he  could  inform  him  how  much  per  annum  the 
Yorkshire  convents  got  in  those  days  with  their  boarders. 

The  journey  was  then  resumed.  Nicholas  fell  asleep 
towards  morning,  and,  when  he  awoke,  found,  with 
great  regret,  that,  daring  his  nap,  both  the  Baron  of 
Grogzwig  and  the  grey-haired  gentleman  had  got  down 
and  were  gone.  The  day  dragged  on  uncomfortably 
enough.  About  six  o'clock  that  night,  he  and  Mr. 
Squeers,  and  the  little  boys,  and  their  united  luggage, 
were  all  put  down  together  at  the  George  and  New  Inn, 
Greta  Bridge. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Squeers  at  Home. 

Mr.  Squeers,  being  safely  landed,  left  Nicholas  and 
the  boys  standing  with  the  luggage  in  the  road,  to  amuse 
themselves  by  looking  at  the  coach  as  it  changed  horses, 
while  he  ran  into  the  tavern  and  went  through  the  leg- 
stretching  process  at  the  bar.  After  some  minutes,  he 
returned,  with  his  legs  thoroughly  stretched,  if  the  hue 
of  his  nose  and  a  short  hiccup  afforded  any  criterion  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  there  came  out  of  the  yard  a  rusty 
pony- chaise,  and  a  cart,  driven  by  two  labouring  men. 

"  Put  the  boys  and  the  boxes  into  the  cart,"  said 
Squeers,  rabbing  his  hands  ;  "and  this  young  man  and 
me  will  go  on  in  the  chaise.    Get  in,  Nickleby." 

Nicholas  obeyed.  Mr.  Squeers  with  some  difficulty 
inducing  the  pony  to  obey  also,  they  started  off,  leaving 
the  cart-load  of  infant  misery  to  follow  at  leisure. 

"Are  you  cold,  Nickleby?"  inquired  Squeers,  after 
they  had  travelled  some  distance  in  silence. 
Rather,  sir,  I  must  say." 

"  Well,  I  don't  find  fault  with  that,'*  said  Squeers  ; 
"  it's  a  long  journey  this  weather." 

"Is  it  much  farther  to  Dotheboys  Hall,  sir?"  asked 
Nicholas. 

"  About  three  mile  from  here,"  replied  Squeers.  "  But 
you  needn't  call  it  a  Hall  down  here." 

Nicholas  coughed,  as  if  he  would  like  to  know  why. 
The  fact  is,  it  ain't  a  Hall,"  observed  Squeers  drily. 

"Oh,  indeed  !"  said  Nicholas,  whom  this  piece  of  in- 
telligence much  astonished. 

"No,"  replied  Squeers.  "We  call  it  a  Hall  up  in 
London,  because  it  sounds  better,  but  they  don't  know 
it  by  that  name  in  these  parts.  A  man  may  call  his 
bouse  an  island  if  he  likes  ;  there's  no  act  of  Parliament 
ftgainst  that,  I  believe?" 

"I  believe  not,  sir,"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

Squeers  eyed  his  companion  slily,  at  the  conclusion 
of  this  little  dialogue,  and  finding  that  he  had  gro\\Ti 
thoughtful  and  appeared  in  nowise  disposed  to  volunteer 
ftiy  observations,  contented  himself  with  lashing  the 
pony  until  they  reached  their  journey's  end. 


NICKLEBY,  23 

"Jump  out,"  said  Squeers.  "  Hallo  there  !  come  and 
put  this  horse  up.    Be  quick,  will  you  I" 

While  the  schoolmaster  was  uttering  these  and  other 
impatient  cries,  Nicholas  had  tune  to  observe  that  the 
school  was  a  long,  cold-looking  house,  one  story  high, 
with  a  few  straggling  out-lmildings  behind,  and  a  bam 
and  stable  adjoining.  After  the  lapse  of  a  minute  or 
two,  the  noise  of  somebody  unlocking  the  yard  gate  was 
heard,  and  presently  a  tall  lean  boy,  with  a  lantern  in 
his  hand,  issued  forth. 

"Is  that  you  Smike?"  cried  Squeers. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  boy. 

"  Then  why  the  devil  didn't  you  come  before  ?" 

"  Please,  sir,  I  fell  asleep  over  the  fire,"  answered 
Smike,  with  humility. 

"  Fire  !  what  fire  ?  Where's  there  a  fire  ?"  demanded 
the  schoolmaster,  sharply. 

"  Only  in  the  kitchen,  sir,"  replied  the  boy.  "  Missus 
said  as  I  was  sitting  up,  I  might  go  in  there  for  a 
warm." 

"  Your  Missus  is  a  fool,"  retorted  Squeers.  "You'd 
have  been  a  deuced  deal  more  wakeful  in  the  cold,  I'll 
engage." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Squeers  had  dismounted  ;  and  after 
ordering  the  boy  to  see  to  the  pony,  and  to  take  care  that 
he  hadn't  any  more  corn  that  night,  he  told  Nicholas  to 
wait  at  the  front  dooraminute  while  he  went  round  and 
let  him  in. 

A  host  of  unpleasant  misgivings,  which  had  been 
crowding  upon  Nicholas  during  the  whole  journey, 
thronged  into  his  mind  with  redoubled  force  when  he 
was  left  alone.  His  great  distance  from  home  and  the 
impossibility  of  reaching  it,  except  on  foot,  should  he  feel 
ever  so  anxious  to  return,  presented  itself  to  him  in 
most  alarming  colours  ;  and  as  he  looked  up  at  the  dreary 
house  and  dark  windows,  and  upon  the  wild  country 
round,  covered  with  snow,  he  felt  a  depression  of  heart 
and  spirit  which  he  had  never  experienced  before. 

"  Now  then  !  "  cried  Squeers,  poking  his  head  out  at 
the  front  door.    "  Where  are  you,  Nickleby  ?  " 

"  Here,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas. 

**  Come  in,  then,"  said  Squeers,  "the  wind  blows  in, 
at  this  door,  fit  to  knock  a  man  off  his  legs. " 

Nicholas  sighed,  and  hurried  in.  Mr.  Squeers,  having 
bolted  the  door  to  keep  it  shut,  ushered  him  into  a  small 
parlour  scantily  furnished  with  a  few  chairs,  a  yellow 
map  hung  against  the  wall,  and  a  couple  of  tables  ;  one 
of  which  bore  some  preparations  for  supper  ;  while,  on 
the  other,  a  tutor's  assistant,  a  Murray's  grammer,  half  a 
dozen  cards  of  terms,  and  a  worn  letter  directed  to  VVack- 
ford  Squeers,  Esquire,  were  arranged  in  picturesque  con- 
fusion. 

They  had  not  been  in  this  apartment  a  couple  of 
minutes,  when  a  female  bounced  into  the  room,  and, 
seizing  Mr.  Squeers  by  the  throat,  gave  him  two  loud 
kisses  :  one  close  after  the  other,  like  a  postman's  knock. 
The  lady,  who  was  of  a  Isrge  raw-boned  figure,  was 
about  half  a  head  taller  than  Mr.  Squeers,  and  was 
dressed  in  a  dimity  night-jacket  ;  with  her  hair  in 
papers  :  she  had  also  a  dirty  night-cap  on,  relieved  by  a 
yellow  cotton  handkerchief  which  tied  it  under  the  chin. 

"  How  is  my  Squeery  ?"  said  this  lady  in  a  playful 
manner,  and  a  very  hoarse  voice. 

"  Quite  well,  my  love,"  replied  Squeers.  "  How's  the 
cows  ?  " 

"  All  right,  every  one  of  'em,"  answered  the  lady. 

"  And  the  pigs  ?'"  said  Squeers. 

"  As  well  as  they  were  when  you  went  away." 

"Come  ;  that's  a  blessing,"  said  Squeers,  pulling  off 
his  great-coat.  "  The  boys  are  all  as  they  were,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Oh,  ves,  thev're  well  enough,"  replied  Mrs.  Squeers, 
snappishly.    "  That  young  Pitcher's  had  a  fever." 

"  No  ! exclaimed  Squeers.  "  Damn  that  boy,  he's  al- 
ways at  something  of  that  sort." 

"Never  was  such  a  boy,  I  do  believe,"  said  Mrs. 
Squeers.  "  ^^^latever  he  has  is  always  catching  too.  I 
say  it's  obstinacy,  and  nothing  shall  ever  convince  me 
that  it  isn't.  I'd'  beat  it  out  of  him  ;  and  I  told  you  that, 
;  six  months  ago. " 

j  "  So  you  did,  my  love,"  rejoined  Squeers.  *'  We'U  try 
I  what  can  be  done." 


24 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Pending  these  little  endearments,  Nicholas  had  stood, 
awkwardly  enough,  in  the  middle  of  the  room  :  not  very 
well  knowing  whether  he  was  expected  to  retire  into  the 
passage,  or  to  remain  Vhere  he  was.  He  was  now  re- 
lieved from  his  perplexity  by  Mr.  Squeers. 

"  This  is  the  new  young  man,  my  dear,"  said  that  gen- 
tleman. 

"Oh,"  replied  Mrs.  Squeers,  nodding  her  head  at 
Nicholas,  and  eyeing  him  coldly  from  top  to  toe. 

"He'll  take  a  meal  with  us  to-night,"  said  Squeers, 
"  and  go  among  the  boys  to-morrow  morning.  You  can 
give  him  a  shake  down  here,  to-night,  can't  you?" 

"We  must  manage  it  somehow,"  replied  the  lady. 
"  You  don't  mind  much  how  you  sleep,  I  suppose,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Nicholas,  "I  am  not  particu- 
lar." 

"  That's  lucky,"  said  Mrs.  Squeers.  And  as  the  lady's 
humour  was  considered  to  lie  chiefly  inretort,Mr.  Squeers 
laughed  heartily,  and  seemed  to  expect  that  Nicholas 
should  do  the  same. 

After  some  further  conversation  between  the  master 
and  mistress  relative  to  the  success  of  Mr.  Squeers's 
trip,  and  the  people  who  had  paid,  and  the  people  who 
had  made  default  in  payment,  a  young  servant  girl 
brought  in  a  Yorkshire  pie  and  some  cold  beef,  which 
being  set  upon  the  table,  the  boy  Smike  appeared  with  a 
jug  of  ale. 

Mr.  Squeers  was  emptying  his  great -coat  pockets  of 
letters  to  different  boys,  and  other  small  documents, 
which  he  had  brought  down  in  them.  The  boy  glanced, 
with  an  anxious  and  timid  expression,  at  the  papers,  as 
if  with  a  sickly  hope  that  one  among  them  might  relate 
to  him.  The  look  was  a  very  painful  one,  and  went  to 
Nicholas's  heart  at  once  ;  for  it  told  a  long  and  very 
sad  history. 

It  induced  him  to  consider  the  boy  more  attentively, 
and  he  was  surprised  to  observe  the  extraordinary  mix- 
ture of  garments  which  formed  his  dress.  Although  he 
could  not  have  been  less  than  eighteen  or  nineteen  years 
old,  and  was  tall  for  that  age,  he  wore  a  skeleton  suit, 
such  as  is  usually  put  upon  very  little  boys,  and  which, 
though  most  absurdly  short  in  the  arms  and  legs,  was 
quite  wide  enough  for  his  attenuated  frame.  In  order 
that  the  lower  part  of  his  legs  might  be  in  perfect  keep- 
ing with  this  singular  dress,  he  had  a  very  large  pair  of 
boots,  originally  made  for  tops,  which  might  have  been 
once  worn  by  some  stout  farmer, but  were  now  too  patched 
and  tattered  for  a  beggar.  Heaven  knows  how  long  he 
had  been  there,  but  he  still  wore  the  same  linen  which 
he  had  first  taken  down  ;  for,  round  his  neck,  was 
a  tattered  child's  frill,  only  half  concealed  by  a  coarse 
man's  neckerchief.  He  was  lame  ;  and  as  he  feigned 
to  be  busy  in  arranging  the  table,  glanced  at  the  let- 
ters with  a  look  so  keen,  and  yet  so  dispirited  and  hope- 
less, that  Nicholas  could  hardly  bear  to  watch  him. 

"  What  are  you  bothering  about  there,  Smike?"  cried 
Mrs.  Squeers  ;  "let  the  things  alone,  can't  you." 

"Eh  !  "  said  Squeers,  looking  up.  "Oh  !  it's  you  is 
it?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  j^outh,  pressing  his  hands  to- 
gether, as  though  to  control,  by  force,  the  nervous  wan- 
dering of  his  fingers  ;  "Is  there — " 

"  Well  I  "  said  Squeers. 

"Have  you — did  anybody — has  nothing  been  heard — 
about  me  ?  " 

"  Devil  a  bit,"  replied  Squeers  testily. 

The  lad  withdrew  his  eyes,  and,  putting  his  hand  to 
his  face,  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Not  a  word,"  resumed  Squeers,  "  and  never  will  be. 
Now,  this  is  a  pretty  sort  of  thing,  isn't  it,  that  you 
should  have  been  left  here,  all  these  years,  and  no  money 
paid  after  the  first  six — nor  no  notice  taken,  nor  no  clue 
to  be  got  who  you  belong  to  ?  It's  a  pretty  sort  of  thing 
that  I  should  have  to  feed  a  great  fellow  like  you,  and 
never  hope  to  get  one  penny  for  it,  isn't  it  ?" 

The  boy  put  his  hand  to  his  head  as  if  he  were  making 
an  effort  to  recollect  something,  and  then,  looking  va- 
cantly at  his  questioner,  gradually  broke  into  a  smile,  and 
limped  away. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Squeers,"  remarked  his  wife 
as  the  door  closed,  "  I  think  that  young  chap's  turning 
silly." 


"  I  hope  not,"  said  the  schoolmaster ;  **  for  he's  a 
handy  fellow  out  of  doors,  and  worth  his  meat  and  drink, 
anyway.  I  should  think  he'd  have  wit  enough  for  us 
though,  if  he  was.  But  come  ;  let's  have  supper,  for  I 
am  hungry  and  tired,  and  want  to  get  to  bed." 

This  reminder  brought  in  an  exclusive  steak  for  Mr. 
Squeers,  who  speedily  proceeded  to  do  it  ample  justice. 
Nicholas  drew  up  his  chair,  but  his  appetite  was  effect- 
ually taken  away. 

"How's  the  steak,  Squeers?"  said  Mrs.  S. 

"  Tender  as  a  lamb,"  replied  Squeers.    "Have  a  bit." 

"  I  couldn't  eat  a  morsel,"  replied  his  wife.  "  What'll 
the  young  man  take,  my  dear?" 

"  Whatever  he  likes  that's  present,"  rejoined  Squeers, 
in  a  most  unusual  burst  of  generosity. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Knuckleboy  ?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Squeers. 

"  I'll  take  a  little  of  the  pie,  if  you  please,"  replied 
Nicholas.    "  A  very  little,  for  I'm  not  hungry." 

"  Well,  it's  a  pity  to  cut  the  pie  if  you're  not  hungry, 
isn't  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Squeers.  "  Will  you  try  a  bit  of  the 
beef?" 

"  Whatever  you  please,"  replied  Nicholas,  abstractedly; 
"  it's  all  the  same  to  me." 

Mrs.  Squeers  looked  vastly  gracious  on  receiving  this 
reply  ;  and  nodding  to  Squeers,  as  much  as  to  say  that 
she  was  glad  to  find  the  young  man  knew  his  station, 
assisted  Nicholas  to  a  slice  of  meat  with  her  own  fair 
hands. 

"Ale,  Squeery?"  inquired  the  lady,  winking  and 
frowning  to  give  him  to  understand  that  the  question 
propounded,  was,  whether  Nicholas  should  have  ale,  and 
not  whether  he  (Squeers)  would  take  any. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Squeers,  re -telegraphing  in  the 
same  manner.     "  A  glassful." 

So  Nicholas  had  a  glassful,  and,  being  occupied  with 
his  own  reflections,  drank  it,  in  happy  innocence  of  all 
the  foregone  proceedings. 

"  Uncommon  juicy  steak  that,"  said  Squeers,  as  he  laid 
down  his  knife  and  fork,  after  plying  it,  in  silence,  for 
some  time. 

"  It's  prime  meat,"  rejoined  his  lady.  "I  bought  a 
good  large  piece  of  it  myself  on  purpose  for — " 

"For  what!"  exclaimed  Squeers  hastily.  *' Not  for 
the—" 

"  No,  no  ;  not  for  them,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Squeers  ;  "on 
purpose  for  you  against  you  came  home.  Lor  !  you  didn't 
think  I  could  have  made  such  a  mistake  as  that." 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,  I  didn't  know  what  you 
were  going  to  say,"  said  Squeers,  who  had  turned  pale. 

"  You  needn't  make  yourself  uncomfortable, "'  remarked 
his  wife,  laughing  heartily.  "  To  think  that  I  should  be 
such  a  noddy  !    Well  !  " 

This  part  of  the  conversation  was  rather  unintelligi- 
ble ;  but  popular  rumour  in  the  neighbourhood  asserted 
that  Mr.  Squeers,  being  amiably  opposed  to  cruelty  to  ani- 
mals, not  unfrequently  purchased  for  boy  consumption 
the  bodies  of  horned  cattle  who  had  died  a  natural 
death  ;  possibly  he  was  apprehensive  of  having  unin- 
tentionally devoured  some  choice  morsel  intended  for  the 
young  gentlemen. 

Supper  being  over,  and  removed  by  a  small  servant 
girl  with  a  hungry  eye,  Mrs.  Squeers  retired  to  lock  it 
up,  and  also  to  take  into  safe  custody  the  clothes  of  the 
five  boys  who  had  just  arrived,  and  who  were  half  way 
up  the  troublesome  flight  of  steps  which  leads  to  death's 
door,  in  consequence  of  exposure  to  the  cold.  They 
were  then  regaled  with  a  light  supper  of  porridge,  and 
stowed  away,  side  by  side,  in  a  small  bedstead,  to 
warm  each  other,  and  dream  of  a  substantial  meal  with 
something  hot  after  it,  if  their  fancies  set  that  way  : 
which  it  is  not  at  all  improbable  they  did. 

Mr.  Squeers  treated  himself  to  a  stiff  tumbler  of  brandy 
and  water,  made  on  the  liberal  half-and-half  principle, 
allowing  for  the  dissolution  of  the  sugar  ;  and  his  amia- 
ble helpmate  mixed  Nicholas  the  ghost  of  a  small  glass- 
ful of  the  same  compound.  This  done,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Squeers  drew  close  up  to  the  fire,  and  sitting  with  their 
feet  on  the  fender,  talked  confidentially  in  whispers  ; 
while  Nicholas,  taking  up  the  tutor's  assistant,  read  the 
interesting  legends  in  the  miscellaneous  questions,  and 
all  the  figures  into  the  bargain,  with  as  much  thought 


NICHOLAS  NICK LE BY. 


25 


=or  consciousness  of  what  he  was  doing,  as  if  he  had  been 
in  a  magnetic  slumbler. 

At  length,  Mr.  Squeers  yawned  fearfully,  and  opined 
that  it  was  high  time  to  go  to  bed  ;  upon  which  signal, 
Mrs.  Squeers  and  the  girl  dragged  in  a  small  straw  mat- 
tress and  a  couple  of  blankets,  and  arranged  them  into  a 
«ouch  for  Nicholas. 

"  We'll  put  you  into  your  regular  bedroom  to-mor- 
row, Nickleby,"  said  Squeers.  "Let  me  see!  Who 
sleeps  in  Brooks's  bed,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  In  Brooks's,"  said  Mrs.  Squeers,  pondering.  "  There's 
Jennings,  little  Bolder,  Graymarsh,  and  what's  his  name." 

**  So  there  is,"  rejoined  Squeers.  "  Yes  !  Brooks  is 
full." 

"Full  !"  thought  Nicholas,  "I  should  think  he  was." 

"There's  a  place  somewhere,  I  know,"  said  Squeers; 
**but  I  can't  at  this  moment  call  to  mind  where  it  is. 
However,  we'll  have  that  all  settled  to-morrow.  Good 
night,  Nickleby.    Seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  mind." 

"I  shall  be  ready,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas.  "Good 
night." 

"I'll  come  in  myself  and  show  you  where  the  well 
is,"  said  Squeers.  * "  You'll  always  find  a  little  bit  of 
soap  in  the  kitchen  window  ;  that  belongs  to  you." 

Nicholas  opened  his  eyes,  but  not  his  mouth  ;  and 
Squeers  was  going  away,  when  he  once  more  turned  back. 

"I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  he  said,  "  whose  towel  to 
put  you  on  ;  but  if  you'll  make  shift  with  something  to- 
morrow morning,  Mrs.  Squeers  will  arrange  that,  in  the 
course  of  the  day.    My  dear,  don't  forget." 

"I'll  take  care,"  replied  Mrs.  Squeers;  "and  mind 
you  take  care,  young  man,  and  get  first  wash.  The 
teacher  ought  always  to  have  it ;  but  they  get  the  better 
of  him  if  they  can." 

Mr.  Squeers  then  nudged  Mrs.  Squeers  to  bring  away 
the  brandy  bottle,  lest  Nicholas  should  help  himself  in 
the  night ;  and  the  lady  having  seized  it  with  great  pre- 
cipitation, they  retired  together. 

Nicholas,  being  left  alone,  took  half  a  dozen  turns  up 
and  down  the  room  in  a  condition  of  much  agitation  and 
excitement ;  but,  growing  grad  ually  calmer,  sat  himsel  f 
down  in  a  chair,  and  mentally  resolved  that,  come  what 
might,  he  would  endeavour,  for  a  time,  to  bear  whatever 
wretchedness  might  be  in  store  for  him,  and  that  remem- 
bering the  helplessness  of  his  mother  and  sister,  he 
would  give  his  uncle  no  plea  for  deserting  them  in  their 
need.  Good  resolutions  seldom  fail  of  producing  some 
good  elfect  in  the  mind  from  which  they  spring.  He 
grew  less  desponding,  and — so  sanguine  and  buoyant  is 
youth — even  hoped  that  affairs  at  Dotheboys  Hall  might 
yet  prove  better  than  they  promised. 

He  was  preparing  for  bed,  with  something  like  re- 
newed cheerfulness,  when  a  sealed  letter  fell  from  his 
coat  pocket.  In  the  hurry  of  leaving  London,  it  had 
escaped  his  attention,  and  had  not  occurred  to  him  since, 
but  it  at  once  brought  back  to  him  the  recollection  of 
the  mysterious  behaviour  of  Newman  Noggs. 

"Dear  me!"  said  Nicholas  ;  "what  an  extraordinary 
hand  !  " 

It  was  directed  to  himself,  was  written  upon  very  dirty 
paper,  and  in  such  cramped  and  crippled  writing  as  to 
be  almost  illegible.  After  great  difficulty  and  much 
puzzling,  he  contrived  to  read  as  follows  : — 

"  My  dear  young  Man. 

"I  know  the  world.  Your  father  did  not, 
or  he  would  not  have  done  me  a  kindness  when  there 
was  no  hope  of  return.  You  do  not,  or  you  would  not 
be  bound  on  such  a  journey. 

"  If  ever  you  want  a  shelter  in  London  (don't  be  angry 
at  this,  /once  thought  I  never  should),  they  know  where 
I  live,  at  the  sign  of  the  Crown,  in  Silver  Street,  Golden 
Square.  It  is  at  the  corner  of  Silver  Street  and  James 
Street,  with  a  bar  door  both  ways.  You  can  come  at 
night.  Once,  nobody  was  ashamed — never  mind  that. 
It's  all  over. 

"  Excuse  errors,  I  should  forget  how  to  wear  a  whole 
coat  now.  I  have  forgotten  all  my  old  ways.  My  spell- 
ing may  have  gone  with  them. 

"  Newman  Noggs. 
"P.S.     If  you  should  go  near  Barnard  Castle,  there 


is  good  ale  at  the  King's  Head.  Say  you  know  me,  and 
I  am  sure  they  will  not  charge  you  for  it.  You  may  say 
Mr.  Noggs  there,  for  I  was  a  gentleman  then.  I  vvjis 
indeed." 

It  may  be  a  very  undignified  circumstance  to  record, 
but  after  he  had  folded  this  letter  and  placed  it  in  his 
pocket-book,  Nicholas  Nickleby's  eyes  were  dimmed 
with  a  moisture  that  might  have  been  taken  for  tears. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Of  the  Internal  Economy  of  Dothehoys  UaU. 

A  RIDE  of  two  hundred  and  odd  miles  in  severe 
weather,  is  one  of  the  best  softeners  of  a  hard  bed  that 
ingenuity  can  devise.  Perhaps  it  is  even  a  sweetener  of 
dreams,  for  those  which  hovered  over  the  rough  couch 
of  Nicholas,  and  whispered  their  airy  notliings  in  his 
ear,  were  of  an  agreeable  and  happy  kind.  He  was 
making  his  fortune  very  fast  indeed,  when  the  faint 
glimmer  of  an  expiring  'candle  shone  before  his  eyes, 
and  a  voice  he  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  as  part 
and  parcel  of  Mr.  Squeers,  admonished  him  that  it  was 
time  to  rise. 

"  Past  seven,  Nickleby,"  said  Mr.  Squeers. 

•  *  Has  morning  come  already  ?  "  asked  Nicholas,  sitting 
up  in  bed. 

"  Ah  !  that  has  it,"  replied  Squeers,  "and  ready  iced 
too.    Now,  Nickleby,  come;  tumble  up,  will  you?" 

Nicholas  needed  no  further  admonition,  but  "  tumbled 
up  "  at  once,  and  proceeded  to  dress  himself  by  the 
light  of  the  taper,  which  Mr.  Squeers  carried  in  his 
hand. 

"Here's  a  pretty  go,"  said  that  gentleman;  "the 
pump's  froze." 

"Indeed!"  said  Nicholas  not  much  interested  in  the 
intelligence. 

"Yes,"  replied  Squeers.  "You  can't  wash  yourself 
this  morning." 

"  Not  wash  myself  !"  exclaimed  Nicholas. 

"  No,  not  a  bit  of  it,"  rejoined  Squeers  tartly.  "  So 
you  must  be  content  with  giving  yourself  a  dry  polish 
till  we  break  the  ice  in  the  well,  and  can  get  a  bucket- 
ful out  for  the  boys.  Don't  stand  staring  at  me,  but  do 
look  sharp,  will  you?" 

Offering  no  further  observation,  Nicholas  huddled  on 
his  clothes.  Squeers,  meanwhile,  opened  the  shutters 
and  blew  the  candle  out ;  when  the  voice  of  his  amiable 
consort  was  heard  in  the  passage,  demanding  admittance. 

"Come  in,  my  love,"  said  Squeers. 

Mrs.  Squeers  came  in,  still  habited  in  the  primitive 
night-jacket  which  had  displayed  the  symmetry  of  her 
figure  on  the  previous  night,  and  further  ornamented 
with  a  beaver  bonnet  of  some  antiquity,  which  she  wore, 
with  much  ease  and  lightness,  on  the  top  of  the  night- 
cap before  mentioned. 

"Drat  the  things,"  said  the  lady,  opening  the  cup- 
board ;  "I  can't  find  the  school  spoon  anywhere." 

"Never  mind  it,  my  dear,"  observed  Squeers  in  a 
soothing  manner  ;  "  it's  of  no  consequence." 

"No  consequence,  why  how  3-ou  talk  !"  retorted  Mrs. 
Squeers  sharply  ;  "  isn't  it  brimstone  morning?" 

"I  forgot,  my  dear,"  rejoined  Squeers;  "yes,  it  cer- 
tainly is.  We  purify  the  boys'  bloods  now  and  then, 
Nickleby." 

"Purify  fiddlesticks'  ends,"  said  his  lady.  "Don't 
think,  young  man,  that  we  go  to  the  expense  of  flower 
of  brinistone  and  molasses,  just  to  purify  them  ;  because 
if  you  think  we  carry  on  the  business  in  that  way.  you'll 
i  find  yourself  mistaken,  and  so  I  tell  you  plainly." 

"My  dear,"  said  Squeers  frowning.  "Hem!" 

"Oh!  nonsense,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Squeers.  "If  the 
young  man  comes  to  be  a  teacher  here,  let  him  under- 
stand at  once,  that  we  don't  want  any  foolery  about  the 
boys.  They  have  the  brimstone  and  treacle,  partly  be- 
cause if  they  hadn't  something  or  other  in  the  way  of 
medicine  they'd  be  always  ailing  and  giving  a  world  of 
trouble,  and  partly  because  it  spoils  their  appetites  and 
comes  cheaper  than  breakfast  and  dinner.    So,  it  does 


20 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


tli^m  good  and  us  good  at  tlie  same  time,  and  that's  fair 
enoagh  I'm  sure." 

Having  given  this  explanation,  Mrs.  Squeers  put  her 
head  into  the  closet  and  instituted  a  stricter  search  after 
the  spoon,  in  which  Mr.  Squeers  assisted.  A  few  words 
passed  between  them  while  they  were  thus  engaged, 
but  as  their  voices  were  partially  stilled  by  the  cup- 
board, all  that  Nicholas  could  distinguish  was,  that  Mr. 
Squeers  said  what  Mrs.  Squeers  had  said,  was  injudi- 
cious, and  that  Mrs.  Squeers  said  what  Mr.  c-queers  said, 
was  "stuff." 

A  vast  deal  of  searching  and  rummaging  ensued,  and 
it  proving  fruitless,  Smike  was  called  in,  and  pushed  by 
Mrs.  Squeers,  and  boxed  by  Mr.  Squeers  ;  which  course  of 
treatment  brightening  his  intellects,  enabled  him  to  sug- 
gest that  possibly  Mrs.  Squeers  might  have  the  spoon  in 
her  pocket,  as  indeed  turned  out  to  be  the  case.  As  Mrs. 
Squeers  had  previously  protested,  however,  that  she  was 
quite  certain  she  had  not  got  it,  Smike  received  another 
box  on  the  ear  for  presuming  to  contradict  his  mistress,  to- 
gether with  a  promise  of  a  sound  thrashing  if  he  were 
not  more  respectful  in  future  ;  so  that  he  took  nothing 
very  advantageous  by  his  motion. 

"  A  most  invaluable  woman,  that,  Nickleby,"  said 
Squeers  when  his  consort  had  hurried  away,  pushing 
the  drudge  before  her. 

"  Indeed,  sir  !"  observed  Nicholas. 

"  I  don't  know  her  equal,"  said  Squeers;  "I  do  not 
know  her  equal.  That  woman,  Nickleby,  is  always  the 
same — always  the  same  bustling,  lively,  active,  saving 
creetur  that  you  see  her  now." 

Nicholas  sighed  involuntarily  at  the  thought  of  the 
agreeable  domestic  prospect  thus  opened  to  him  ;  but 
Squeers  was,  fortunately,  too  much  occupied  with  his 
own  reflections  to  perceive  it. 

It's  my  way  to  say,  when  I  am  up  in  London,"  con- 
tinued Squeers,  "  that  to  them  boys  she  is  a  mother. 
But  she  is  more  than  a  mother  to  them  ;  ten  times  more. 
She  does  things  for  them  boys,  Nickleby,  that  I  don't 
believe  half  the  mothers  going,  would  do  for  their  own 
sons. " 

"  I  should  think  they  would  not,  sir,"  answered  Nicho- 
las. 

Now,  the  fact  was,  that  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Squeers 
viewed  the  boys  in  the  light  of  their  proper  and  natural 
enemies  ;  or,  in  other  words,  they  held  and  considered 
that  their  business  and  profession  was  to  get  as  much 
from  every  boy  as  could  by  possibility  be  screwed  out 
of  him.  On  this  point  they  were  both  agreed,  and  be- 
haved in  unison  accordingly.  The  only  difference  be- 
tween them  was,  that  Mrs.  Squeers  waged  war  against 
the  enemy  openly  and  fearlessly,  and  that  Squeers  cov- 
ered his  rascality,  even  at  home,  with  a  spice  of  his 
habitual  deceit  ;  as  if  he  really  had  a  notion  of  some 
day  or  other  being  able  to  take  himself  in,  and  persuade 
his  own  mind  that  he  was  a  very  good  fellow. 

"But  come,"  said  Squeers,  interrupting  the  progress 
of  some  thoughts  to  this  effect  in  the  mind  of  his  usher, 
"  let's  go  to  the  school-room  ;  and  lend  me  a  hand  with 
my  school-coat,  will  you?" 

Nicholas  assisted  his  master  to  put  on  an  old  fustian 
shooting-jacket,  which  he  took  down  from  a  peg  in  the 
passage  ;  and  Squeers,  arming  himself  with  his  cane, 
led  the  way  across  a  yard  to  a  door  in  the  rear  of  the 
house. 

"  There,"  said  the  schoolmaster  as  they  stepped  in  to- 
gether, "  this  is  our  shop,  Nickleby  ! " 

It  was  such  a  crowded  scene,  and  there  were  so  many 
objects  to  attract  attention,  that,  at  first,  Nicholas  stared 
about  him,  really  without  seeing  anything  at  all.  By 
degrees,  however,  the  place  resolved  itself  into  a  bare 
and  dirty  room,  with  a  couple  of  windows,  whereof  a 
tenth  part  might  be  of  glass,  the  remainder  being 
stopped  up  with  old  copybooks  and  paper.  There  were 
a  couple  of  long  old  rickety  desks,  cut  and  notched,  and 
inked,  and  damaged,  in  every  possible  way  ;  two  or 
three  forms  ;  a  detached  desk  for  Squeers  ;  and  an- 
other for  his  assistant.  The  ceiling  was  supported,  like 
that  of  a  barn,  by  cross  beams  and  rafters  ;  and  the 
walls  were  so  stained  and  discoloured,  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  tell  whether  they  had  ever  been  touched  with 
paint  or  whitewash. 


But  the  pupils— the  young  noblemen  1  How  the  last 
faint  traces  of  hope,  the  remotest  glimmering  of  any 
good  to  be  derived  from  his  efforts  in  this  den,  faded 
from  the  mind  of  Nicholas  as  he  looked  in  dismay 
around  !  Pale  and  haggard  faces,  lank  and  bony  figures, 
children  with  the  countenances  of  old  men,  deformities 
with  irons  upon  their  limbs,  boys  of  stunted  growth,  and 
others  whose  long  meagre  legs  would  hardly  bear  their 
stooping  bodies,  all  crowded  on  the  view  together  ;  there 
were  the  bleared  eye,  the  hare-lip,  the  crooked  foot,  and 
every  ugliness  or  distortion  that  told  of  unnatural  aver- 
sion conceived  by  parents  for  their  offspring,  or  of  young 
lives  which,  from  the  earliest  dawn  of  infancy,  had  been 
one  horrible  endurance  of  cruelty  and  neglect.  There 
were  little  faces  which  should  have  been  handsome, 
darkened  with  the  scowl  of  sullen,  dogged  suffering  ; 
there  was  childhood  with  the  light  of  its  eye  quenched, 
its  beauty  gone,  and  its  helplessness  alone  remaining  ; 
there  were  vicious-faced  boys,  brooding,  with  leaden 
eyes,  like  malefactors  in  a  jail  ;  and  there  were  joung 
creatures  on  whom  the  sins  of  their  frail  parents  had  de- 
scended, weeping  even  for  the  mercenary  nurses  they 
had  known,  and  lonesome  even  in  their  loneliness. 
With  every  kindly  sympathy  and  affection  blasted  in  its 
birth,  with  every  young  and  healthy  feeling  flogged  and 
starved  down,  with  every  revengeful  passion  that  can  fes- 
ter in  swollen  hearts,  eating  its  evil  way  to  their  core  in 
silence,  what  an  incipient  Hell  was  breeding  here  ! 

And  yet  this  scene,  painful  as  it  was,  had  its  grotesque 
features,  which,  in  a  less  interesting  observer  than  Nicho- 
las, might  have  provoked  a  smile.  Mrs.  Squeers  stood 
at  one  of  the  desks,  presiding  over  an  immense  basin  of 
brimstone  and  treacle,  of  which  delicious  compound  she 
administered  a  large  instalment  to  each  boy  in  succession: 
using  for  the  purpose  a  common  wooden  spoon,  which 
might  have  been  originally  manufactured  for  some  gigan- 
tic top,  and  which  widened  every  young  gentleman's 
mouth  considerably :  they  being  all  obliged,  under 
heavy  corporal  penalties,  to  take  in  the  whole  of  the 
bowl  at  a  gasp.  In  another  corner,  huddled  together 
for  companionship,  were  the  little  boys  who  had  arrived 
the  preceding  night,  three  of  them  in  very  large  leather 
breeches,  and  two  in  old  trousers,  a  something  tighter  fit 
than  drawers  are  usually  worn  ;  at  no  great  distance  from 
these  was  seated  the  juvenile  son  and  heir  of  Mr.  Squeers 
— a  striking  likeness  of  his  father — kicking,  with  great 
vigour,  under  the  hands  of  Smike,  who  was  fitting  upon 
him  a  pair  of  new  boots  that  bore  a  most  suspicious  re- 
semblance to  those  which  the  least  of  the  little  boys  had 
worn  on  the  journey  down — as  the  little  boy  himself 
seemed  to  think,  for  he  was  regarding  the  appropriation 
with  a  look  of  most  rueful  amazement.  Besides  these, 
there  was  a  long  row  of  boys  waiting,  with  countenances 
of  no  pleasant  anticipation,  to  be  treacled  ;  and  another 
file,  who  had  just  escaped  from  the  infliction,  making 
a  variety  of  wry  mouths  indicative  of  anything  but  satis- 
faction. The  whole  were  attired  in  such  motley,  ill- 
assorted,  extraordinary  garments,  as  would  have  been 
irresistibly  ridiculous,  but  for  the  foul  appearance  of 
dirt,  disorder,  and  disease,  with  which  they  were  asso- 
ciated. 

"Now,"  said  Squeers,  giving  the  desk  a  great  rap 
with  his  cane,  which  made  half  the  little  boys  nearly 
jum.p  out  of  their  boots,  "  is  that  physicking  over  ?  " 

"  Just  over,"  said  Mrs,  Squeers,  choking  the  last  boy  in 
her  hurry,  and  tapping  the  crown  of  his  head  with  the 
wooden  spoon  to  restore  him.  "  Here,  you  Smike  ;  take 
away  now.    Look  sharp  !  " 

Smike  shuffled  out  with  the  basin,  and  Mrs.  Squeers 
having  called  up  a  little  boy  with  a  curly  head,  and 
wiped  her  hands  upon  it,  hurried  out  after  him  into  a 
species  of  wash-house,  where  there  was  a  small  fire  and 
a  large  kettle,  together  with  a  number  of  little  wooden 
bowls  which  were  arranged  upon  a  board. 

Into  these  bowls,  Mrs.  Squeers,  assisted  by  the  hungry 
servant,  poured  a  brown  composition,  which  looked  like 
diluted  pincushions  without  the  covers,  and  was  called 
porridge.  A  minute  wedge  of  brown  bread  was  inserted 
in  each  bowl,  and  when  they  had  eaten  their  porridge  by 
means  of  the  bread,  the  boys  ate  the  bread  itself,  and 
had  finished  their  breakfast  ;  whereupon  Mr.  Squeers 
said,  in  a  solemn  voice,  **  For  what  we  have  received. 


ubHARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVEKiJirV  OF  ILLINOIS 


NICHOLAS 

may  the  Lord  make  us  truly  thankful  !"  and  went  away 
to  his  own. 

Nicholas  distended  his  stomach  with  a  bowl  of  por- 
ridge, for  much  the  same  reason  which  induces  some 
savages  to  swallow  earth — lest  they  should  be  inconveni- 
ently hungry  when  there  is  nothing  to  eat.  Having 
further  disposed  of  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  allotted 
to  him  in  virtue  of  his  office,  he  sat  himself  down,  to 
wait  for  school-time. 

He  could  not  but  observe  how  silent  and  sad  the  boys 
all  seemed  to  be.  There  was  none  of  the  noise  and 
clamour  of  a  school-room  ;  none  of  its  boisterous  play, 
or  hearty  mirth.  The  children  sat  crouching  and  shiver- 
ing together,  and  seemed  to  lack  the  spirit  to  move  about. 
The  only  pupil  who  evinced  the  slightest  tendency  towards 
locomotion  or  playfulness,  was  Master  Squeers,  and  as  his 
chief  amusement  was  to  tread  upon  the  other  boys'  toes 
in  his  new  boots,  his  flow  of  spirits  was  rather  disagree- 
able than  otherwise. 

After  some  half  hour's  delay,  Mr  Squeers  reappeared, 
and  the  boys  took  their  places  and  their  books,  of  which 
latter  commodity  the  average  might  be  about  one  to 
eight  learners.  A  few  minutes  having  elapsed,  during 
which  Mr.  Sqeeers  looked  very  profound,  as  if  he  had  a 
perfect  apprehension  of  what  was  inside  all  the  books, 
and  could  say  every  word  of  their  contents  by  heart  if 
he  only  chose  to  take  the  troubJe,  that  gentleman  called 
up  the  first  class. 

Obedient  to  this  summons  there  ranged  themselves  in 
front  of  the  schoolmaster's  desk,  half-a-dozen  scarecrows, 
out  at  knees  and  elbows,  one  of  whom  placed  a  torn  and 
filthy  book  beneath  his  learned  eye. 

"  This  is  the  first  class  in  English  spelling  and  philos- 
ophy, Nickleby,"  said  Squeers,  beckoning  Nicholas  to 
stand  beside  him.  "  We'll  get  up  a  Latin  one,  and  hand 
that  over  to  you.    Now,  then,  where's  the  first  boy  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  he's  cleaning  the  back  parlour  window,'* 
said  the  temporary  head  of  the  philosophical  class. 

"  So  he  is,  to  be  sure,"  rejoined  Squeers,  "  We  go  upon 
the  practical  mode  of  teaching,  Nickleby  ;  the  regular 
feducation  system,  C-l-e-a-n,  clean,  verb  active,  to  make 
bright,  to  scour.  W-i-n,  win,  d-e-r,  der,  winder,  a  case- 
ment. When  the  boy  knows  this  out  of  book,  he  goes 
and  does  it.  It's  just  the  same  principle  as  the  use  of  the 
globes.    Where's  the  second  boy?" 

"  Please,  sir,  he's  weeding  the  garden,"  replied  a  small 
voice. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Squeers,  by  no  means  disconcerted, 
"  So  he  is.  B-o-t,  hot,  t-i-n,  tin,  "bottin,  n-e-y,  ney,  bottin- 
ney,  noun  substantive,  a  knowledge  of  plants.  When 
he  has  learned  that  bottinney  means  a  knowledge  of 
plants,  ho  goes  and  knows  'em.  That's  our  system,  Nick- 
leby :  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  It's  a  very  useful  one,  at  any  rate,"  answered  Nicho- 
las, 

"I  believe  you,"  rejoined  Squeers,  not  remarking  the 
emphasis  of  his  usher.    "  Third  boy,  what's  a  horse?" 

"A  beast,  sir,"  replied  the  boy. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Squeers.    "  Ain't  it,  Nickleby  ?  " 

"  I  believe  there  is  no  doubt  of  that,  sir,"  answered 
Nicholas. 

"Of  course  there  isn't,"  said  Squeers.  **  A  horse  is  a 
quadruped,  and  quadruped's  Latin  for  beast,  as  every- 
body that's  gone  through  the  grammar,  knows,  or  else 
where's  the  use  of  having  grammars  at  all?" 

"  Where,  indeed?"  said  Nicholas  abstractedly. 

"  As  you're  perfect  in  that,"  resumed  Squeers,  turning 
to  the  boy,  "go  and  look  after  m?/ horse,  and  rub  him 
down  well,  or  I'll  rub  you  down.  The  rest  of  the  class 
go  and  draw  water  up,  till  somebody  tells  you  to  leave  off, 
for  it's  washing  day  to-morrow,  and  they  want  the  cop- 
pers filled." 

So  saying,  he  dismissed  the  first  class  to  their  experi- 
ments in  practical  philosophy,  and  eyed  Nicholas  with  a 
look,  half  cunning  and  half  doubtful,  as  if  he  were  not 
altogether  certain  what  he  might  think  of  him  by  this 
time. 

"That's  the  way  we  do  it,  Nickleby,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause. 

Nicholas  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  manner  that  was 
scarcely  perceptible,  and  said  he  saw  it  was. 

' '  And  a  very  good  way  it  is,  too,"  said  Squeers.  "  Now, 


NICKLEBY,  27 

just  take  them  fourteen  little  boys  and  hear  them  some 
reading,  because,  you  know,  you  must  begin  to  be  useful. 
Idling  about  here,  won't  do," 

Mr,  Squeers  said  this,  as  if  it  had  suddenly  occurred  to 
him,  either  that  he  must  not  say  too  much  to  his  assist- 
ant, or  that  his  assistant  did  not  say  enough  to  him  in 
praise  of  the  establishment.  The  children  were  Lirranged 
in  a  semicircle  round  the  new  master,  and  he  was  :~oon 
listening  to  their  dull,  drawling,  hesitating  recital  of  those 
stories  of  engrossing  interest  which  are  to  be  found  in  the 
more  antiquated  spelling  books. 

In  this  exciting  occupation,  the  morning  lagged  heavily 
on.  At  one  o'clock,  the  boys,  having  previously  had  their 
appetites  thoroughly  taken  away  by  stir-about  and  pota- 
toes, sat  down  in  the  kitchen  to  some  hard  salt  beef,  of 
which  Nicholas  was  graciously  permitted  to  take  his  por- 
tion to  his  own  solitary  desk,  to  eat  it  there  in  peace.  Af- 
ter this,  there  was  another  hour  of  crouching  in  the  school- 
room and  shivering  with  cold,  and  then  school  began 
again. 

It  was  Mr.  Squeers's  'custom  to  call  the  boys  together, 
and  make  a  sort  of  report,  after  every  half-yearly  visit  to 
the  metropolis,  regarding  the  relations  and  friends  he  had 
seen,  the  news  he  had  heard,  the  letters  he  had  brought 
down,  the  bills  which  had  been  paid,  the  accounts  which 
had  been  left  unpaid,  and  so  forth.  This  solemn  proceed- 
ing always  took  place  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  suc- 
ceeding his  return  ;  perhaps  because  the  boys  acquired 
strength  of  mind  from  the  suspense  of  the  morning,  or, 
possibly,  because  Mr.  Squeers  himself  acquired  greater 
sternness  and  inflexibility  from  certain  warm  potations  in 
which  he  was  wont  to  indulge  after  his  early  dinner.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  the  boys  were  recalled  from  house-window, 
garden,  stable,  and  cow-yard,  and  the  school  were  assem- 
bled in  full  conclave,  when  Mr.  Squeers,  with  a  small 
bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  and  Mrs.  S.  following  with 
a  pair  of  canes,  entered  the  room  and  proclaimed  silence. 

"  Let  any  one  speak  without  leave,"  said  Mr,  Squeers 
mildly,  "  and  I'll  take  the  skin  off  his  back," 

This  special  proclamation  had  the  desired  effect,  and  a 
death-like  silence  immediately  prevailed,  in  the  midst  of 
which  Mr.  Squeers  went  on  to  say  : 

"Boys,  I've  been  to  London,  and  have  returned  to  my 
family  and  yoit,  as  strong  and  well  as  ever." 

According  to  half-yearly  custom,  the  boys  gave  three 
feeble  cheers  at  this  refreshing  intelligence.  Such  cheers  ! 
Sighs  of  extra  strength  with  the  chill  on. 

"I  have  seen  the  parents  of  some  boys,"  continued 
Squeers,  turning  over  his  papers,  "and they're  so  glad  to 
hear  how  their  sons  are  getting  on,  that  there's  no  pros- 
pect at  all  of  their  going  away,  which  of  course  is  a  very 
pleasant  thing  to  reflect  upon,  for  all  parties." 

Two  or  three  hands  went  to  two  or  three  eyes  when 
Squeers  said  this,  but  the  greater  part  of  the  young  gen- 
tlemen having  no  particular  parents  to  speak  of,  were 
wholly  uninterested  in  the  thing  one  way  or  other. 

''I  have  had  disappointments  to  contend  against,"  said 
Squeers,  looking  very  grim  ;  "  Bolder's  father  was  two 
pound  ten  short.    Where  is  Bolder  ?  " 

"Here  he  is,  please  sir,"  rejoined  twenty  officious 
voices.    Boys  are  very  like  men  to  be  sure. 

"  Come  here.  Bolder,"  said  Squeers. 

An  unhealthy-looking  boy,  with  warts  all  over  his 
hands,  stepped  from  his  place  to  the  master's  desk,  and 
raised  his  eyes  imploringly  to  Squeers's  face  ;  his  own, 
quite  white  from  the  rapid  beating  of  his  heart. 

"Bolder,"  said  Squeers,  speaking  very  slowly,  for  he 
was  considering,  as  the  saving  goes,  where  to  have  him. 
"  Bolder,  if  your  father  thinks  that  because— why,  what's 
this,  sir  ?  " 

As  Squeers  spoke,  he  caught  up  the  boy's  hand  by  the 
cuff  of  his  jacket,  and  surveyed  it  with  an  edifying  as- 
pect of  horror  and  disgust. 

"  What  do  you  call  this,  sir  ?"  demanded  the  school- 
master, administering  a  cut  with  the  cane  to  expedite 
the  reply. 

"  1  can't  help  it,  indeed,  sir,"  rejoined  the  boy,  crying. 
"They  will  come;  it's  the  dirty  work  I  think,  sir— at 
least  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  sir,  but  it's  not  my  fault." 

"  Bolder,"  said  Squeers,  tucking  up  his  wristbands, 
and  moistening  the  palm  of  his  right  hand  to  get  a  good 
grip  of  the  cane,  "you're  an  incorrigible  young  scoua- 


28 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


drel,  and  as  the  last  fhrasting  did  you  no  good,  we  must 
see  wliat  another  will  do  towards  beating  it  out  of  you." 

With  this,  aud  wholly  disregarding  a  piteous  cry  for 
mercy,  Mr.  Squeers  fell  upon  the  boy  and  caned  him 
soundly  :  not  leaving  off  indeed,  until  his  arm  was 
tired  out. 

"  There,"  said  Squeers,  when  he  had  quite  done  ; 
"  rub  away  as  hard  as  you  like,  you  won't  rub  that  off 
in  a  hurry.  Oh  !  you  won't  hold  that  noise,  won't  yoC  ? 
Put  him  out,  Smike." 

The  drudge  knew  better  from  long  experience,  than  to 
hesitate  about  obeying,  so  he  bundled  the  victim  out  by 
a  side  door,  and  Mr.  Squeers  perched  himself  again  on 
his  own  stool,  supported  by  Mrs.  Squeers,  who  occupied 
another  at  his  side. 

*'  Now  let  us  see,"  said  Squeers.  A  letter  for  Cob- 
bey.    Stand  up,  Cobbey." 

Another  boy  stood  up,  and  eyed  the  letter  very  hard 
while  Squeers  made  a  mental  abstract  of  the  same. 

''Ob  ! "  said  Squeers  :  "  Cobbey's  grandmother  is 
dead,  and  his  uncle  John  has  took  to  drinking,  which  is 
all  the  news  his  sister  sends,  except  eighteenpence,  which 
will  just  pay  for  that  broken  square  of  glass.  Mrs. 
Squeers,  my  dear,  will  you  take  the  money  ?  " 

The  worthy  lady  pocketed  the  eighteenpence  with  a 
most  business-like  air,  and  Squeers  passed  on  to  the  next 
boy,  as  coolly  as  possible. 

"  Graymarsli,"  said  Squeers,  "  he's  the  next.  Stand 
up,  Graymarsh." 

Another  boy  stood  up,  and  the  schoolmaster  looked 
over  the  letter  as  before. 

"Graymarsh's  maternal  aunt,"  said  Squeers,  when  he 
had  possessed  himself  of  the  contents,  "is  very  glad  to 
hear  he's  so  well  and  happy,  and  sends  her  respectful 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Squeers,  and  thinks  she  must  be  an 
angel.  She  likewise  thinks  Mr.  Squeers  is  too  good'  for 
this  world  ;  but  hopes  he  may  long  be  spared  to  carry  on 
the  business.  Would  have  sent  the  two  pair  of  stock- 
ings as  desired,  but  is  short  of  money,  so  forwards  a 
tract  instead,  and  hopes  Graymarsh  will  put  his  trust  in 
Providence.  Hopes,  above  all,  that  he  will  study  in 
everything  to  please  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Squeers,  and  look  upon 
them  as  his  only  friends  ;  and  that  he  will  love  Master 
Squeers  ;  and  not  object  to  sleeping  five  in  a  bed,  which 
no  Christian  should.  Ah  !  "  said  Squeers,  folding  it  up, 
"  A  delightful  letter.    Very  affecting  indeed." 

It  was  affecting  in  one  sense,  for  Graymarsh's  mater- 
nal aunt  was  strongly  supposed,  by  her  more  intimate 
friends,  to  be  no  other  than  his  maternal  parent  ;  Squeers, 
however,  without  alluding  to  this  part  of  the  story 
(which  would  have  sounded  immoral  before  boys),  pro- 
ceeded with  the  business,  by  calling  out  *'  Mobbs," 
whereupon  another  boy  rose,  and  Graymarsh  resumed 
his  seat. 

"  Mo bbs's  mother-in-law,"  said  Squeers,  "took  to  her 
bed  on  hearing  that  he  wouldn't  eat  fat,  and  has  been 
very  ill  ever  since.  She  wishes  to  know,  by  an  early 
post,  where  he  expects  to  go  to,  if  he  quarrels  with  his 
vittles  ;  and  with  what  feelings  he  could  turn  up  his 
nose  at  the  cow's  liver  broth,  after  his  good  master  had 
asked  a  blessing  on  it.  This  was  told  her  in  the  London 
newspapers — not  by  Mr.  Squeers,  for  he  is  too  kind  and 
too  good  to  set  anybody  against  anybody — and  it  has 
vexed  her  so  much,  Mobbs  can't  think.  She  is  sorry  to 
find  he  is  discontented,  which  is  sinful  and  horrid,  and 
hopes  Mr.  Squeers  will  flog  him  into  a  happier  state  of 
mind ;  with  which  view,  she  has  also  stopped  his  half- 
penny a  week  pocket-money,  and  given  a  double-bladed 
knife  with  a  corkscrew  in  it  to  the  Missionaries,  which 
she  had  bought  on  purpose  for  him." 

"  A  sulky  state  of  feeling,"  said  Squeers,  after  a  terri- 
ble pause,  during  which  he  had  moistened  the  palm  of 
his  right  hand  t^ain,  "  won't  do.  Cheerfulness  and  con- 
tentment must  be  kept  up.    Mobbs,  come  to  me  ! " 

Mobbs  moved  slowly  towards  the  desk,  rubbing  his 
eyes  in  antici])ation  of  good  cause  for  doing  so ;  and  he 
soon  afterwards  retired  by  the  side  door,  with  as  good 
cause  as  a  boy  need  have. 

Mr.  Squeers  then  proceeded  to  open  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  letters  ;  some  enclosing  money,  which  Mrs. 
Squeers  "  took  care  of  ;  "  and  others  referring  to  small 
articles  of  apparel,  as  cajDS  and  so  forth,  all  of  which  the  i 


same  lady  stated  to  be  too  large  or  too  small,  and  calcu- 
lated for  nobody  but  young  Squeers,  who  would  appear 
indeed  to  have  had  most  accommodating  limbs,  since 
everything  that  came  into  the  school  fitted  him  to  a 
nicety.  His  head,  in  particular,  must  have  been  singu- 
la] ly  elastic,  for  hats  and  caps  of  all  dimensions  were 
alike  to  him. 

This  business  despatched,  a  few  slovenly  lessons  were 
i  performed,  and  Squeers  retired  to  his  fireside,  leaving 
Nicholas  to  take  care  of  the  boys  in  the  school-room, 
1  which  was  very  cold,  and  where 'a  meal  of  bread  and 
j  cheese  was  served  out  shortly  after  dark. 
I     There  was  a  small  stove  at  that  corner  of  the  room 
i  which  was  nearest  to  the  master's  desk,  and  by  it 
'  Nicholas  sat  down,  so  depressed  and  self-degraded  by 
the  consciousness  of  his  position,  that  if  death  could 
have  come  upon  him  at  that  time  he  would  have  been 
almost  happy  to  meet  it.    The  cruelty  of  which  he  had 
been  an  unwilling  witness,  the  coarse  and  ruffianly 
behaviour  of  Squeers  even  in  his  best  moods,  the  filthy 
place,  the  sights  and  sounds  about  him,  all  contributed 
to  this  state  of  feeling  ;  but  when  he  recollected  that, 
being  there  as  an  assistant,  he  actually  seemed — no 
matter  what  unhappy  train  of  circumstances  had  brought 
him  to  that  pass — to  be  the  aider  and  abettor  of  a  systenl 
which  filled  him  with  honest  disgust  and  indignation, 
he  loathed  himself,  arid  felt,  for  the  moment  as  though 
the  mere  consciousness  of  his  present  situation  must, 
through  all  time  to  come,  prevent  his  raising  his  head 
again. 

But,  for  the  present,  his  resolve  was  taken,  and  the 
resolution  he  had  formed  on  the  preceding  night  re- 
mained undisturbed.  He  had  written  to  his  mother  and 
sister,  announcing  the  safe  conclusion  of  his  journey, 
and  saying  as  little  about  Dotheboys  Hall,  and  saying 
that  little  as  cheerfully,  as  he  possibly  could.  He  hoj  ed 
that  by  remaining  where  he  was,  he  might  do  some 
good,  even  there  ;  at  all  events,  others  depended  too 
much  on  his  uncle's  favour,  to  admit  of  his  awakening 
his  wrath  just  then. 

One  reflection  disturbed  him  far  more  than  any  selfish 
considerations  arising  out  of  his  own  position.  This  was 
the  probable  destination  of  his  sister  Kate.  His  uncle 
had  deceived  him,  and  might  he  not  consign  her  to  sen  e 
miserable  place,  where  her  youth  and  beauty  would 
prove  a  far  greater  curse  than  ugliness  and  decrepitude? 
To  a  caged  man,  bound  hand  and  foot,  this  was  a  terri- 
ble idea  ; — but  no,  he  thought,  his  mother  was  by  ;  there 
was  the  portrait-painter,  too — simple  enough,  but  still 
living  in  the  world,  and  of  it.  He  was  willing  to 
believe  that  Ralph  ISIickleby  had  conceived  a  personal 
dislike  to  himself.  Having  pretty  good  reason,  by  this 
time,  to  reciprocate  it,  he  had  no  great  difficulty  in 
arriving  at  this  conclusion,  and  tried  to  persuade  him- 
self that  the  feeling  extended  no  farther  than  between 
them. 

As  he  was  absorbed  in  these  meditations,  he  all  at 
once  encountered  the  upturned  face  of  Smike,  who  was 
on  his  knees  before  the  stove,  picking  a  few  stray  cinders 
from  the  hearth  and  planting  them  on  the  fire.  He  had 
paused  to  steal  a  look  at  Nicholas,  and  when  he  saw 
that  he  was  observed,  shrunk  back,  as  if  expecting  a 
blow. 

"  You  need  not  fear  me,"  said  Nicholas  kindly.   "  Are 

you  cold  ?  " 
"N-n-o." 

"You  are  shivering." 

"  I  am  not  cold,"  replied  Smike  quickly.  "  I  am  used 
to  it." 

There  was  such  an  obvious  fear  of  giving  offence  in 
his  manner,  and  he  was  such  a  timid,  broken-spirited 
creature,  that  Nicholas  could  not  help  exclaiming, 
"Poor  fellow  !" 

If  he  had  struck  the  drudge,  he  would  have  slunk 
away  vi^ithout  a  word.    But,  now,  he  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !"  he  cried,  covering  his  face  with 
his  cracked  and  horny  hands.  "  My  heart  will  break. 
It  will,  it  will." 

"Hushl"  said  Nicholas,  laying  his  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  "Be  a  man;  you  aie  nearly  one  by  years, 
God  help  you." 

"  By  years  ! "  cried  Smike.   "  Oh  dear,  dear,  how  many 


mono  LAS 

of  them  1  How  many  of  tliem  since  I  was  a  little  cliild, 
younger  than  any  that  are  here  now  !  Where  are  they 
all  I" 

"  Whom  do  you  speak  of  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas,  wish- 
ing to  rouse  the  poor  half-witted  creature  to  reason. 
•'Tell  me." 

"My  friends,"  he  replied,  "myself — my — oh  I  what 
sufferings  mine  have  been  1 " 

"  There  is  always  hope,"  said  Nicholas  ;  he  knew  not 
what  to  say. 

"  No,"  rejoined  the  other,  "no  ;  none  for  me.  Do  you 
remember  the  boy  that  died  here?" 

"  I  was  not  here,  you  know,"  said  Nicholas  gently ; 
"bat  what  of  him  ?  " 

"  Why,"  replied  the  youth,  drawing  closer  to  his  ques- 
tioner's side,  "  I  was  with  him  at  night,  and  when  it  was 
all  silent  he  cried  no  more  for  friends  he  wished  to  come 
and  sit  with  him,  but  began  to  see  fac^s  round  his  bed 
that  came  from  home  ;  he  said  they  smiled,  and  talked 
to  him  ;  and  he  died  at  last  lifting  his  head  to  kiss  them. 
Do  you  hear  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"  What  faces  will  smile  on  me  when  I  die  I "  cried  his 
companion,  shivering.  "  Who  will  talk  to  me  in  those 
long  nights  !  They  cannot  come  from  home  ;  they  would 
frighten  me,  if  they  did,  for  I  don't  know  what  it,  is,  and 
shouldn't  know  them.  Pain  and  fear,  pain  and  fear  for 
me,  alive  or  dead.    No  hope,  no  hope  1 " 

The  bell  rang  to  bed  :  and  the  boy,  subsiding  at  the 
sound  into  his  usual  listless  state,  crept  away  as  if  anx- 
ious to  avoid  notice.  It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that 
Nicholas  soon  afterwards— no,  not  retired  ;  there  was  no 
retirement  there — followed — to  his  dirty  and  crowded 
dormitory. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

<y  Miss  Squeers,  Mrs.  Sqiteers,  Master  Squeers,  and  Mr.  Squeers :  and 
of  various  Matters  and  Persons  connected  no  less  with  the  Squeerses 
than  with  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

When  Mr.  Squeers  left  the  school-room  for  the  night, 
he  betook  himself,  as  has  been  before  remarked,  to  his 
own  fireside,  which  was  situated — not  in  the  room  in 
which  Nicholas  had  supped  on  the  night  of  his  arrival, 
but  in  a  smaller  apartment  in  the  rear  of  the  premises, 
where  his  lady  wife,  his  amiable  son,  and  accomplished 
daughter,  were  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  each  other's 
society ;  Mrs.  Squeers  being  engaged  in  the  matronly 
pursuit  of  stocking- darning ;  and  the  young  lady  and 
gentleman  being  occupied  in  the  adjustment  of  some 
youthful  differences,  by  means  of  a  pugilistic  contest 
across  the  table,  which,  on  the  approach  of  their  hon- 
oured parent,  subsided  into  a  noiseless  exchange  of  kicks 
beneath  it. 

And,  in  this  place,  it  may  be  as  well  to  apprise  the 
reader,  that  Miss  Fanny  Squeers  was  in  her  three-and- 
twentieth  year.  If  there  be  any  one  grace  or  loveliness 
inseparable  from  thtit  particular  period  of  life.  Miss 
Squeers  may  be  presumed  to  have  been  possessed  of  it, 
as  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  she  was  a  solitary 
exception  to  an  universal  rule.  She  was  not  tall  like  her 
mother,  but  short  like  her  father  ;  from  the  former  she 
inherited  a  voice  of  harsh  quality  ;  from  the  latter  a  re- 
markable expression  of  the  right  eye,  something  akin  to 
having  none  at  all. 

Miss  Squeers  had  been  spending  a  few  days  with  a 
neighbouring  friend,  and  had  only  just  returned  to  the 
parental  roof.  To  this  circumstance  may  be  referred, 
her  having  heard  nothing  of  Nicholas,  until  Mr.  Squeers 
himself  now  made  him  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Squeers,  drawing  up  his  chair, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  him  by  this  time  ?" 

"Think  of  who?"  inquired  Mrs.  Squeers  ;  who  (as  she 
often  remarked)  was  no  grammarian,  thank  Heaven. 

"  Of  the  young  man — the  new  teacher — who  else  could 
I  mean  ?  " 

"Oh  I  that  Knuckleboy,"  said  Mrs.  Squeers  impatient- 
ly.   "I  hate  him." 

"What  do  you  hate  him  for,  my  dear?"  asked 
Slueers. 


NICKLEBY.  29 

"  What's  that  to  you?"  retorted  Mrs.  Squeers.  "  If  I 
hate  him,  that's  enough,  ain't  it." 

"  Quite  enough  for  him,  my  dear,  and  a  great  deal  tf>o 
much  I  dare  say,  if  he  knew  it,"  replied  Squeers  in  a 
pacific  tone.    "  I  only  asked  from  curiosity,  my  dear." 

"Well,  then,  if  you  want  U)  know,"  rejoined  Mrs. 
Squeers,  "I'll  tell  you.  Because  he's  a  proud,  haughty, 
consequential,  turned- up-nosed  peacock." 

Mrs.  Squeers,  when  excited,  was  accustomed  to  use 
strong  language,  and,  moreover,  to  make  use  of  a  plu- 
rality of  epithets,  some  of  which  were  of  a  figurative 
kind,  as  the  word  peacock,  and  furthermore  the  allusion 
to  Nicholas's  nose,  which  was  not  intended  to  be  taken 
in  its  literal  sense,  but  rather  to  bear  a  latitude  of  con- 
struction according  to  the  fancy  of  the  hearers. 

Neither  were  they  meant  to  bear  reference  to  each 
other,  so  much  as  to  the  object  on  whom  they  were  be- 
stowed, as  will  be  seen  in  the  present  case  :  a  peacock 
with  a  turned-up-nose  being  a  novelty  in  ornithology, 
and  a  thing  not  commonly  seen, 

"Hem!"  said  Squeers,  as  if  in  mild  deprecation  of 
this  outbreak.  "  He  is  cheap,  my  dear  ;  the  young  man 
is  very  cheap." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  retorted  Mrs.  Squeers. 

"  Five  pound  a  year,"  said  Squeers. 

"  What  of  that ;  it's  dear  if  you  don't  want  him,  isn't 
it  ?  "  replied  his  wife. 

"But  we  do  want  him,"  urged  Squeers. 

"I  don't  see  that  you  want  him  any  more  than  the 
dead,"  said  Mrs.  Squeers,  "  Don't  tell  me.  You  can 
put  on  the  cards  and  in  the  advertisements,  '  Education 
by  Mr,  Wackford  Squeers  and  able  assistants,'  without 
having  any  assistants,  can't  you?  Isn't  it  done  every 
day  by  all  the  masters  about?  I've  no  patience  with 
you." 

"Haven't  you!"  said  Squeers,  sternly.  "Now  I'll 
tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Squeers.  In  this  matter  of  having  a 
teacher,  I'll  take  my  own  way,  if  you  please.  A  slave 
driver  in  the  West  Indies  is  allowed  a  man  under  him, 
to  see  that  his  blacks  don't  run  away,  or  get  up  a  rebel- 
lion ;  and  I'll  have  a  man  under  me  to  do  the  same  with 
our  blacks,  till  such  time  as  little  Wackford  is  able  to 
take  charge  of  the  school," 

"Am  I  to  take  care  of  the  school  when  I  grow  up  a 
man,  father?"  said  Wackfork  junior,  suspending,  in  the 
excess  of  his  delight,  a  vicious  kick  which  he  was  ad- 
ministering to  his  sister. 

"You  are,  my  son,"  replied  Mr.  Squeers  in  a  senti- 
mental voice. 

"  Oh  my  eye,  won't  I  give  it  to  the  boys  ! "  exclaimed 
the  interesting  child,  grasping  his  father's  cane.  "Oh, 
father,  won't  I  make  'em  squeak  again  I" 

It  was  a  proud  moment  in  Mr.  Squeers's  life,  when  he 
witnessed  that  burst  of  enthusiasm  in  his  young  child's 
mind,  and  saw  in  it  a  foreshadowing  of  his  future  em- 
inence. He  pressed  a  penny  into  his  hand,  and  gave 
vent  to  his  feelings  (as  did  his  exemplary  wife  also),  in 
a  shout  of  approving  laughter.  The  infantine  appeal  to 
their  common  sympathies,  at  once  restored  cheerfulness 
to  the  conversation,  and  harmony  to  the  company. 

"  He's  a  nasty  stuck-up  monkey,  that's  what  I  con- 
sider him,"  said  Mrs.  Squeers,  referring  to  Nicholas. 

"  Supposing  he  is,"  said  Squeers,  "  he's  as  well  stuck 
up  in  our  school-room  as  anywhere  else,  isn't  he  ? — es- 
pecially as  he  don't  like  it." 

"Well,"  observed  Mrs.  Squeers,  "  there's  something 
in  that.  I  hope  it'll  bring  his  pride  down,  and  it  shall 
be  no  fault  of  mine  if  it  don't," 

Now,  a  proud  usher  in  a  Yorkshire  school  was  such  a 
very  extraordinary  and  unaccountable  thing  to  hear  of, 
— any  usher  at  all  being  a  novelty  ;  but  a  proud  one,  a 
being  of  whose  existence  the  wildest  imagination  could 
never  have  dreamed — that  ^Miss  Squeers,  who  seldom 
troubled  herself  with  scholastic  matters,  inquired  with 
much  curiosity  who  this  Knuckleboy  was,  that  gave  him- 
self such  airs. 

"Nickleby,"  said  Squeers,  spelling  the  name  accord- 
ing to  some  eccentric  system  which  prevailed  in  his  own 
mind  ;  "your  mother  always  call  things  and  people  by 
their  wrong  names." 

"  No  matter  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Squeers,  "  I  see  them 
with  right  eyes,  and  that's  quite  enough  for  me.  I 


30 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


watched  him  when  you  were  laying  on  to  little  Bolder  this 
afternoon.  He  looked  as  black  as  thunder,  all  the  while, 
and,  one  time,  started  up  as  if  he  had  more  than  got  it 
in  his  mind  to  make  a  rush  at  you.  /  saw  him,  though 
he  thought  I  didn't." 

"  Never  mind  that,  father,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  as  the 
head  of  the  family  was  about  to  reply.  ''Who  is  the 
man  ?  " 

"  ^Vlly,  your  father  has  got  some  nonsense  in  his  head 
that  he's  the  son  of  a  poor  gentleman  that  died  the  other 
day,"  said  Mrs.  Squeers. 

"  The  son  of  a  gentleman  !" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  If  he's  a 
gentleman's  son  at  all, he's  a  fondling, that's  my  opinion." 

Mrs.  Squeers  intended  to  say  "  foundling,"  but,  as  she 
frequently  remarked  when  she  made  any  such  mistake, 
it  would  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years  hence  ;  with 
which  axiom  of  philosophy,  indeed,  she  was  in  the  con- 
stant habit  of  consoling  the  boys  when  they  labou.red 
under  more  than  ordinary  ill-usage. 

"  He's  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Squeers,  in  answer 
to  the  above  remark,  "  for  his  father  was  married  to  his 
mother,  years  before  he  was  born,  and  she  is  alive  now. 
If  he  was,  it  would  be  no  business  of  ours,  for  we  make 
a  very  good  friend  by  having  him  here  ;  and  if  he  likes  to 
learn  the  hoys  anything  besides  minding  them,  I  have  no 
objection  I  am  sure." 

"  I  say  again,  I  hate  him  worse  than  poison,"  said  Mrs. 
Squeers  veheaiently. 

"If  you  dislike  him,  my  dear,"  returned  Squeers,  *'I 
don't  know  anybody  who  can  show  dislike  better  than 
you,  and  of  course  there's  no  occasion,  with  him,  to  take 
the  trouble  to  hide  it. " 

"I  don't  intend  to,  I  assure  you,"  interposed  Mrs.  S. 

"  That's  right,"  said  Squeers  ;  "  and  if  he  has  a  touch 
of  pride  about  him,  as  I  think  he  has,  I  don't  believe 
there's  a  woman  in  all  England  that  can  bring  anybody's 
spirit  down,  as  quick  as  you  can,  my  love." 

Mrs.  Squeers  chuckled  vastly  on  the  receipt  of  these 
flattering  compliments,  and  said,  she  hoped  she  had 
tamed  a  high  spirit  or  two  in  her  day.  It  is  but  due  to 
her  character  to  say,  that  in  conjunction  with  her  estima- 
ble liusband,  she  had  broken  many  and  many  a  one. 

Miss  Fanny  Squeers  carefully  treasured  up  this,  and 
much  more  conversation  on  the  same  subject,  until  she 
retired  for  the  night,  when  she  questioned  the  hungry 
servant,  minutely,  regarding  the  outward  appearance  and 
demeanour  of  Nicholas  ;  to  which  queries  the  girl  re- 
turned such  enthusiastic  replies,  coupled  with  so  many 
laudatory  remarks  touching  his  beautiful  dark  eyes,  and 
his  sweet  smile,  and  his  straight  legs — upon  which  last- 
named  articles  she  laid  particular  stress ;  the  general 
run  of  legs  at  Dotheboys  Hall  being  crooked — that  Miss 
Squeers  was  not  long  in  arriving  at  the  conclusion  that 
the  new  usher  must  be  a  very  remarkable  person,  or,  as 
she  herself  significantly  phrased  it,  "  something  quite 
out  of  the  common."  And  so  Miss  Squeers  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  would  take  a  personal  observation  of  Nich- 
olas the  very  next  day. 

In  pursuance  of  this  design,  the  young  lady  watched 
the  opportunity  of  her  mother  being  engaged,  and  her 
father  absent,  and  wentaccidentally  into  the  school-room 
to  get  a  pen  mended  :  where,  seeing  nobody  but  Nicholas 
presiding  over  the  boys,  she  blushed  very  deeply,  and  ex- 
hibited great  confusion. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  faltered  Miss.  Squeers:  "I 
thought  my  father  was — or  might  be — dear  me,  how  very 
awkward  ! ' ' 

"Mr.  Squeers  is  out,"  said  Nicholas,  by  no  means 
overcome  by  the  apparition,  unexpected  though  it  was. 

"Do  you  know  will  he  be  long,  sir?"  asked  Miss 
Squeers,  with  bashful  hesitation. 

"  He  said  about  an  hour,"  replied  Nicholas — politely 
of  course,  but  without  any  indication  of  being  stricken 
to  the  heart  by  Miss  Squeers's  charms. 

"  I  nevo.r  knew  anything  happen  so  cross,"  exclaimed 
the  young  lady.  "  Tliank  you  1  I  am  very  sorry  I  in- 
truded, I  am  sure.  If  I  hadn't  thought  my  father  was 
here,  I  wouldn't  upon  any  account  have — it  is  very  pro- 
voking— must  look  so  very  strange,"  murmured  Miss! 
Squeers,  blushing  once  more,  and  glancing,  from  the  pen 
in  her  hand,  to  Nicholas  at  his  desk,  and  back  again.  j 


"  If  that  is  all  you  want,"  said  Nicholas,  pointing  to 
the  pen,  and  smiling,  in  spite  of  himself,  at  the  affected 
embarrassment  of  the  schoolmaster's  daughter,  "  perhaps 
I  can  supply  his  place." 

Miss  Squeers  glanced  at  the  door,  as  if  dubious  of  the 
propriety  of  advancing  any  nearer  to  an  utter  stranger  ; 
then  round  the  school-room,  as  though  in  some  measure 
reassured  by  the  presence  of  forty  boys  ;  and  finally 
sidled  up  to  Nicholas  and  delivered  the  pen  into  his 
hand,  with  a  most  winning  mixture  of  reserve  and  con- 
descension. 

"  Shall  it  be  a  hard  or  a  soft  nib  ?"  inquired  Nicholas, 
smiling  to  prevent  himself  from  laughing  outright. 

"Delias  2,  beautiful  smile,"  thought  Miss  Squeers. 

"  Which  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  Nicholas. 

"Dear  me,  I  was  thinking  of  something  else  for  the 
moment,  I  declare,"  replied  Miss  Squeers — "Oh  I  as  soft 
as  possible,  if  yOu  please."  With  which  words,  Miss 
Squeers  sighed.  It  might  be,  to  give  Nicholas  to  under- 
stand that  her  heart  was  soft,  and  that  the  pen  was 
wanted  to  match. 

Upon  these  instructions  Nicholas  made  the  pen  ;  when 
he  gave  it  to  Miss  Squeers,  Miss  Squeers  dropped  it '; 
and  Avhen  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up.  Miss  Squeers  stooped 
also,  and  they  knocked  their  heads  together  ;  whereat 
five-and-twenty  little  boys  laughed  aloud  :  being  posi- 
tively for  the  first  and  only  time  that  half  year. 

"Very  awkward  of  me,"  said  Nicholas,  opening  the 
door  for  the  young  lady's  retreat. 

"Not  at  all,  sir,"  replied  Miss  Squeers  ;  **it  was  my 
fault.    It  was  all  my  foolish — a— a — good  morning  I  " 

"Good  bye,"  said  Nicholas.  "The  next  I  make  for 
you,  I  hope  will  be  made  less  clumsily.  Take  care  1 
You  are  biting  the  nib  off  now." 

"  Eeally,"  said  Miss  Squeers  ;  "so  embarrassing  that  I 
scarcely  know  what  I — very  sorry  to  give  you  so  much 
trouble." 

"  Not  the  least  trouble  in  the  world,"  replied  Nicholas, 
closing  the  school-room  door, 

"  I  never  saw  such  legs  in  the  whole  course  of  my 
life  ! "  said  Miss  Squeers,  as  she  walked  away. 

In  fact,  Miss  Squeers  was  in  love  with  Nicholas  Nickle- 
by. 

To  account  for  the  rapidity  with  which  this  young  lady 
had  conceived  a  passion  for  Nicholas,  it  may  be  necessary 
to  state,  that  the  friend  from  whom  she  had  so  recently 
returned,  was  a  miller's  daughter  of  only  eighteen,  who 
had  contracted  herself  unto  the  son  of  a  small  corn-fac- 
tor, resident  in  the  nearest  market  town.  Miss  Squeers 
and  the  miller's  daughter,  being  fast  friends,  had  cove- 
nanted together  some  two  years  before,  according  to  a 
custom  prevalent  among  young  ladies,  that  whoever  was 
first  engaged  to  be  married,  should  straightway  confide 
the  mighty  secret  to  the  bosom  of  the  other,  before  com- 
municating it  to  any  living  soul,  and  bespeak  her  as 
bridesmaid  without  loss  of  time  ;  in  fulfilment  of  which 
pledge  the  miller's  daughter,  when  her  engagement  was 
formed,  came  out  express,  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  as 
the  corn-factor's  son  made  an  offer  of  his  hand  and  heart 
at  twenty-five  minutes  past  ten  by  the  Dutch  clock  in  the 
kitchen,  and  rushed  into  Miss  Squeers's  bed-room  with 
the  gratifying  intelligence.  Now,  Miss  Squeers  being 
five  years  older,  and  out  of  her  teens  (which  is  also  a 
great  matter),  had,  since,  been  more  than  commonly  anx- 
ious to  return  the  compliment,  and  possess  her  friend 
with  a  similar  secret  ;  but  either  in  consequence  of  find- 
ing it  hard  to  please  herself,  or  harder  still  to  please  any- 
body else,  had  never  had  an  opportunity  so  to  do,  inas- 
much as  she  had  no  such  secret  to  disclose.  The  little 
interview  with  Nicholas  had  no  sooner  passed,  as  above 
described,  however,  than  Miss  Squeers,  putting  on  her 
bonnet,  made  her  way,  with  great  precipitation,  to  her 
friend's  house,  and,  upon  a  solemn  renewal  of  divers  old 
vows  of  secrecy,  revealed  how  that  she  was — not  exactly 
engaged,  but  going  to  be — to  a  gentleman's  son — (none 
of  your  corn-factors,  but  a  gentleman's  son  of  high  de- 
scent)—who  had  come  down  as  teacher  to  Dotheboys  Hall, 
under  most  mysterious  and  remarkable  circumstances — 
indeed,  as  Miss  Squeers  more  than  once  hinted  she 
had  good  reason  to  believe,  induced,  by  the  flame  of 
her  many  charms,  to  seek  her  out,  and  woo  and  win 
her. 


*'OH  !   AS  SOFT  AS  POSSIBLE,  IF  YOU  PLEASE  ' 


OF  THE 
UNIVESSnV  Of  ILLINOIS 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


31 


*' Isn't  it  an  extraordinary  thin<^?"  said  Miss  Squeers, 
emphasising  the  adjective  strongly. 

"  Most  extraordinary, "  replied  the  friend.  But  what 
has  he  said  to  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me  what  he  said,  my  dear,"  rejoined  Miss 
Squeers.  "  If  you  had  only  seen  his  looks  and  smiles  ! 
I  never  was  so  overcome  in  all  my  life." 

"Did  he  look  In  this  way?"  inquired  the  miller's 
daughter,  counterfeiting,  as  nearly  as  she  could,  a  fa- 
vourite leer  of  the  corn-factor. 

"Very  like  that — only  more  genteel,"  replied  Miss 
Squeers. 

**  Ah  ! "  said  the  friend,  "  then  he  means  something, 
depend  on  it." 

Miss  Squeers,  having  slight  misgivings  on  the  subject, 
was  by  no  means  ill  pleased  to  be  confirmed  by  a  compe- 
tent authority  ;  and,  discovering,  on  further  conversation 
and  comparison  of  notes,  a  great  many  points  of  resem- 
blance between  the  behaviour  of  Nicholas,  and  that  of 
the  corn-factor,  grew  so  exceedingly  confidential,  that 
she  intrusted  her  friend  with  a  vast  number  of  things 
Nicholas  had  not  said,  which  were  all  so  very  compli- 
mentary as  to  be  quite  conclusive.  Then,  she  dilated 
on  the  fearful  hardship  of  having  a  father  and  a  mother 
strenuously  opposed  to  her  intended  husband  ;  on  Avhich 
unhappy  circumstance  she  dwelt  at  great  length  ;  for  the 
friend's  father  and  mother  were  quite  agreeable  to  her 
being  married,  and  the  Avhole  courtship  was  in  conse- 
quence as  flat  and  common-place  an  affair  as  it  was  pos- 
sible to  imagine. 

"  How  I  should  like  to  see  him  !  "  exclaimed  the 
friend. 

"  So  you  shall,  'Tilda,"  replied  Miss  Squeers.  "  I 
should  consider  myself  one  of  the  most  ungrateful  crea- 
tures alive,  if  I  denied  you.  I  think  mother's  going 
away  for  two  days  to  fetch  some  boys  ;  and  when  she 
does,  I'll  ask  you  and  John  up  to  tea,  and  have  him  to 
meet  you." 

This  was  a  charming  idea,  and  having  fully  discussed 
it,  the  friends  parted. 

It  so  fell  out,  that  Mrs.  Squeers's  journey,  to  some  dis- 
tance, to  fetch  three  new  boys,  and  dun  the  relations  of 
two  old  ones  for  the  balance  of  a  small  account,  was 
fixed,  that  very  afternoon,  for  the  next  day  but  one  ; 
and  on  the  next  day  but  one,  Mrs.  Squeers  got  up  out- 
side the  coach,  as  it  stopped  to  change  at  Greta  Bridge, 
taking  with  her  a  small  bundle  containing  sometliing^in 
a  bottle,  and  some  sandwiches,  and  carrying  besides  a 
large  white  top  coat  to  wear  in  the  night-time  ;  with 
which  baggage  she  went  her  way. 

Whenever  such  opportunities  as  these  occurred,  it 
was  Squeers's  custom  to  drive  over  to  the  market  town, 
every  evening,  on  pretence  of  urgent  business,  and  stop 
till  ten  or  eleven  o'clock  at  a  tavern  he  much  affected. 
As  the  party  was  not  in  way,  therefore,  but  rather  af- 
forded a  means  of  compromise  with  Miss  Squeers,  he 
readily  yielded  his  full  assent  thereunto,  and  willingly 
communicated  to  Nicholas  that  he  was  expected  to  take 
his  tea  in  the  parlor  that  evening,  at  five  o'clock. 

To  be  sure  Miss  Squeers  was  in  a  desperate  flutter  as 
the  time  approached,  and  to  be  sure  she  was  dressed  out 
to  the  best  advantage  :  with  her  hair — it  had  more  than 
a  tinge  of  red,  and  she  wore  it  in  a  crop — curled  in  five 
distinct  rows,  up  to  the  very  top  of  her  head,  and  ar- 
ranged dexterously  over  the  doubtful  eye  ;  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  blue  sash  which  floated  down  her  backj  or  the 
worked  apron,  or  the  long  gloves,  or  the  green  gauze 
scarf,  worn  over  one  shoulder  and  under  the  other ;  or 
any  of  the  numerous  devices  which  were  to  be  as  so 
many  arrows  to  the  heart  of  Nicholas.  She  had  scarcely 
completed  these  arrangements  to  her  entire  satisfaction,  | 
when  the  friend  arrived  with  a  whitey-brown  parcel — 
flat  and  three-cornered — containing  sundry  small  adorn- 
ments which  were  to  be  put  on  up-stairs,  and  which  the 
friend  put  on,  talking  incessantly.  Wlien  Miss  Squeers 
had  "done"  the  friend's  hair,  the  friend  "did"  Miss 
Squeers's  hair,  throwing  in  some  striking  improvements 
ni  the  way  of  ringlets  down  the  neck  ;  and  then,  when 
they  were  both  touched  up  to  their  entire  satisfaction, 
they  went  down-stairs  in  full  state  with  the  long  gloves 
on,  all  ready  for  company. 

"  Where's  John,  'Tilda?"  said  Miss  Squeers. 


"  Only  gone  home  to  clean  himself,"  replied  thrj  friend. 
"He  will  be  here  by  the  time  the  tea's  drawn." 

"  I  do  so  palpitate,"  observed  Miss  Squeers. 

"  Ah  !  I  know  what  it  is,"  replied  tlie  friend. 

"  I  have  not  been  used  to  it,  you  know,  "J'ilda,"  said 
Miss  Squeers,  applying  her  hand  to  the  left  side  of  her 
sa.sh. 

"  You'll  soon  get  the  better  of  it,  dear,"  rejoined  the 
friend.  While  they  were  talking  thus,  tlie  hungry  ser- 
vant brought  in  the  tea  things,  and,  soon  afterward, 
somebody  tapped  at  the  room  door. 

"  There  he  is  ! "  cried  Miss  Squeers.    "  Oh  'Tilda  ! " 

"Hush  1 "  said  'Tilda  !    "  Hem  !    Say,  come  in." 

"Come  in,"  cried  Miss  Squeers  faintly.  And  in 
walked  Nicholas. 

"Good  evening,"  said  that  young  gentleman,  all  un- 
conscious of  his  conquest.  "  I  understood  from  Mr. 
Squeers  that" — 

"  Oh  yes ;  it's  all  right,"  interposed  Miss  Squeers, 
"Father  don't  tea  with  us,  but  you  won't  mind  that,  I 
dare  say."    (This  was  said  archly.) 

Nicholas  opened  his  eyes  at  this,  but  he  turned  the 
matter  off  very  coolly — not  caring,  particularly,  about 
anything  just  then — and  went  through  the  ceremony  of 
introduction  to  the  miller's  daughter,  with  so  much 
grace,  that  that  young  lady  was  lost  in  admiration. 

"We  are  only  waiting  for  one  more  gentleman,"  said 
Miss  Squeers,  taking  off  the  tea-pot  lid,  and  looking  in, 
to  see  how  the  tea  was  getting  on. 

It  was  matter  of  equal  moment  to  Nicholas  whether 
they  were  waiting  for  one  gentleman  or  twenty,  so  he 
received  the  intelligence  with  perfect  unconcern  ;  and, 
being  out  of  spirits,  and  not  seeing  any  especial  reason 
why  he  should  make  himself  agreeable,  looked  out  of 
the  window  and  sighed  involuntarily. 

As  luck  would  have  it.  Miss  Squeers's  friend  was  of  a 
playful  turn,  and  hearing  Nicholas  sigh,  she  took  it  into 
her  head  to  rally  the  lovers  on  their  lowne.ss  of  spirits. 

"  But  if  it's  caused  by  my  being  here,"  said  the  young 
lady,  "don't  mind  me  a  bit,  for  I'm  quite  as  bad.  You 
may  go  on  just  as  you  would  if  you  were  alone." 

"  'Tilda,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  colouring  up  to  the  top 
row  of  curls,  "  I  am  ashamed  of  you  ; "  and  here  the 
two  friends  burst  into  a  variety  of  giggles,  and  glanced, 
from  time  to  time,  over  the  tops  of  their  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, at  Nicholas,  who  from  a  state  of  unmixed 
astonishment,  gradually  fell  into  one  of  irrepressible 
laughter — occasioned,  partly  by  the  bare  notion  of  his 
being  in  love  with  Miss  Squeers,  and  partly  by  the  pre- 
posterous appearance  and  behaviour  of  the  two  girls. 
These  two  causes  of  merriment,  taken  together,  struck 
him  as  being  so  keenly  ridiculous,  that,  despite  his 
miserable  condition,  he  laughed  till  he  was  thoroughly 
exhausted. 

"  Well,"  thought  Nicholas,  "  as  I  am  here,  and  seem 
expected,  for  some  reason  or  other,  to  be  amiable,  it's  of 
no  use  looking  like  a  goose.  I  may  as  well  accommodate 
myself  to  the  company." 

We  blush  to  tell  it  ;  but  his  youthful  spirits  and  vi- 
vacity,  getting,  f(5ra  time,  the  better  of  his  sad  thoughts, 
he  no  sooner  formed  this  resolution  than  he  saluted  Miss 
Squeers  and  the  friend,  with  great  gallantry,  and  draAv- 
ing  a  chair  to  the  tea-table,  began  to  make  himself  more 
at  home  than  in  all  probability  an  usher  had  ever  done 
in  his  employer's  house  since  ushers  Avere  first  invented. 

The  ladies*  were  in  the  full  delight  of  this  altered  be- 
haviour on  the  part  of  Mr.  Nickleby,  when  the  expected 
swain  arrived,  Avith  his  hair  very  damp  from  recent 
Avashing,  and  a  clean  shirt,  whereof  the  collar  might 
have  belonged  to  some  giant  ancestor,  forming,  together 
with  a  white  Avaistcoat  of  similar  dimensions,  the  chief 
ornament  of  his  person. 

"Well,  John,"  said  Miss  Matilda  Price  (which,  by- 
the-bye,  Avas  the  name  of  the  miller's  daughter \ 

"  Weel,"  said  John  with  a  grin  that  even  the  collar 
could  not  conceal. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposed  Miss  Squeers,  hasten- 
ing to  do  the  honours,  "  Mr.  Nicklebv — Mr.  John  Brow- 
die." 

"Servant,  sir,"  said  John,  who  was  something  over 
six  feet  high,  Avith  a  face  and  body  rather  above  the  due 
proportion  than  below  it. 


32 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


•'Yours  to  command,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas,  making 
fearful  ravages  on  the  bread  and  butter. 

Mr.  Browdie  was  not  a  gentleman  of  great  conversa- 
tional powers,  so  be  grinned  twice  more,  and  having  now 
bestowed  his  customary  mark  of  recognition  on  every 
person  in  companj^,  grinned  at  nothing  particular,  and 
helped  himself  to  food. 

"Old  wooman  awa',  bean't  she?"  said  Mr.  Browdie, 
with  his  mouth  full. 

Miss  Squeers  nodded  assent. 

Mr.  Browdie  gave  a  grin  of  special  width,  as  if  he 
thought  that  really  was  something  to  laugh  at,  and  went 
to  work  at  the  bread  and  butter  with  increased  vigour. 
It  was  quite  a  sight  to  behold  how  he  and  Nicholas  emp- 
tied the  plate  between  them. 

"  Ye  wean't  gat  bread  and  butther  ev'ry  neight,  I  ex- 
pect, mun,"  said  Mr.  Browdie,  after  he  had  sat  staring 
at  Nicholas  a  long  time  over  the  empty  plate. 

Nicholas  bit  his  lip,  and  coloured,  but  affected  not  to 
hear  the  remark. 

"Ecod,"  said  Mr.  Browdie,  laughing  boisterously, 
**  they  dean't  put  too  much  intiv'em.  Ye'll  be  nowt  but 
skeen  and  boansif  you  stop  here  long  eneaf.  Ho  1  ho  ! 
ho  I" 

"You  are  facetious,  sir,"  said  Nicholas  scornfully. 

"  Na  ;  I  dean't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Browdie,  "  but 
t'oother  teacher,  'cod  he  wur  a  learn  'un,  he  wur."  The 
recollection  of  the  last  teacher's  leanness  seemed  to  af- 
ford Mr.  Browdie  the  most  exquisite  delight,  for  he 
laughed  until  he  found  it  necessary  to  apply  his  coat- 
cutfs  to  his  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  your  perceptions  are  quite 
keen  enough,  Mr.  Browdie,  to  enable  you  to  understand 
that  your  remarks  are  offensive,"  said  Nicholas  in  a  tow- 
ering passion,  "but if  they  are,  have  the  goodness  to — " 

"  If  you  say  another  word,  John,"  shrieked  Miss 
Price,  stopping  her  admirer's  mouth  as  he  was  about  to 
interrupt,  "  only  half  a  word,  I'll  never  forgive  you,  or 
speak  to  you  again." 

"  Weel,  my  lass,  I  dean't  care  aboot  'un,"  said  the 
corn-factor,  bestowing  a  hearty  kiss  on  Miss  Matilda  ; 
"let  'un  gang  on,  let  'iin  gang  on." 

It  now  became  Miss  Squeers's  turn  to  intercede  with 
Nicholas,  which  she  did  with  many  symptoms  of  alarm 
and  horror  ;  the  effect  of  the  double  intercession,  was, 
that  he  and  John  Browdie  shook  hands  across  the  table 
with  much  gravity  ;  and  such  was  the  imposing  nature 
of  the  ceremonial,  that  Miss  Squeers  was  overcome  and 
shed  tears. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Fanny?"  said  Miss  Price. 

"  Nothing  'Tilda,"  replied  Miss  Squeers,  sobbing. 

"There  never  was  any  danger,"  said  Miss  Price, 
"  was  there,  Mr.  Nickleby  ?  " , 

"None  at  all,"  replied  Nicholas.  "Absurd." 

"That's  right,"  whispered  Miss  Price,  "say  some- 
thing kind  to  her,  and  she'll  soon  come  round.  Here  ! 
Shall  John  and  I  go  into  the  little  kitchen,  and  come  back 
presently  ?  " 

"  Not  on  any  account,"  rejoined  Nicholas,  quite 
alarmed  at  the  proposition.  "What  on  earth  should 
you  do  that  for  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Price,  beckoning  him  aside,  and 
speaking  with  some  degree  of  contempt — "you  are  a 
one  to  keep  company." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Nicholas  ;  "I  am  not  a 
one  to  keep  company  at  all — here  at  all  events.  I  can't 
make  this  out." 

"No,  nor  I  neither,"  rejoi-ned  Miss  Price  ;  "but  men 
are  always  fickle,  and  always  were,  and  always  will  be  ; 
that  I  can  make  out,  very  easily." 

"Fickle!"  cried  Nicholas  ;  "what  do  you  suppose? 
You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  think — " 

"  Oh  no,  I  think  nothing  at  all,"  retorted  Miss  Price, 
pettishly.  "  Look  at  her,  dressed  so  beautiful  and 
X)oking  so  well — really  almost  handsome.  I  am  ashamed 
«t  you." 

"My  dear  girl,  what  have  I  got  to  do  with  her  dress- 
ing beautifully  or  looking  well  ?"  inquired  Nicholas. 

"  Come,  don't  call  me  a  dear  girl,"  said  Miss  Price — 
smiling  a  little  though,  for  she  was  pretty,  and  a  co- 
quette too  in  her  small  way,  and  Nicholas  was  good- 
looking,  and  she  supposed  him  the  property  of  some- 


body else,  which  were  all  reasons  why  she  should  be 
gratified  to  think  she  had  made  an  impression  on  him, — 
"  or  Fanny  will  be  saying  it's  my  fault.  Come,  we're 
going  to  have  a  game  of  cards."  Pronouncing  these^ 
last  words  aloud,  she  tripped  away,  and  rejoined  the  big 
Yorkshireman. 

This  was  wholly  unintelligible  to  Nicholas,  who  had 
no  other  distinct  impression  on  his  mind  at  the  moment 
than  that  Miss  Squeers  was  an  ordinary-looking  girl,  and 
her  friend  Miss  Price  a  pretty  one  ;  but  he  had  not  time 
to  enlighten  himself  by  reflection,  for  the  hearth  being 
by  this  time  swept  up,  and  the  candle  snuffed,  they  sat 
down  to  play  speculation. 

"  There  are  only  four  of  us,  'Tilda,"  said  Miss  Squeers, 
looking  slyly  at  Nicholas ;  "  so  we  had  better  go  part- 
ners, two  against  two." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Nickleby?"  inquired  Miss 
Price. 

"  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,"  replied  Nicholas.  And 
so  saying,  quite  unconscious  of  his  heinous  offence,  he 
amalgamated  into  one  common  heap  those  portions  of  a 
Dotheboys  Hall  card  of  terms,  which  represented  his 
own  counters,  and  those  allotted  to  Miss  Price,  respect- 
ively. 

"Mr.  Browdie,"  said  Miss  Squeers  hysterically,  "shall 
we  make  a  bank  against  them?" 

The  Yorkshireman  assented — apparently  quite  over- 
whelmed by  the  new  usher's  impudence — and  Miss 
Squeers  darted  a  spiteful  look  at  her  friend,  and  giggled 
convulsively. 

The  deal  fell  to  Nicholas,  and  the  hand  prospered. 

"  We  intend  to  win  everything,"  said  he. 

"  'Tilda  lias  won  something  she  didn't  expect,  I  think, 
haven't  you,  dear  ?  "  said  Miss  Squeers,  maliciously. 

"  Only  a  dozen  and  eight,  love,"  replied  Miss  Price, 
affecting  to  take  the  question  in  a  literal  sense. 

"How  dull  you  are  to-night  !"  sneered  Miss  Squeers. 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Miss  Price,  "I  am  in  excellent 
spirits.    I  was  thinking  you  seemed  out  of  sorts." 

"  Me  ! "  cried  Miss  Squeers,  biting  her  lips,  and  trem- 
bling with  very  jealousy  ;  "  Oh  no  !  " 

"That's  well,"  remarked  Miss  Price.  "Your  hair's 
coming  out  of  curl,  dear." 

"  Never  mind  me,"  tittered  Miss  Squeers  ;  **you  had 
better  attend  to  your  partner." 

" Thank  you  for  reminding  her,"  said  Nicholas.  "So 
she  had." 

The  Yorkshireman  flattened  his  nose,  once  or  twice, 
with  his  clenched  fist,  as  if  to  keep  his  hand  in,  till  he 
had  an  opportunity  of  exercising  it  upon  the  features  of 
some  other  gentleman  ;  and  Miss  Squeers  tossed  her 
head  with  such  indignation,  that  the  gust  of  wind  raised 
by  the  multitudinous  ciirls  in  motion,  nearly  blew  the 
candle  out. 

"  I  never  had  such  luck,  really,"  exclaimed  coquettish 
Miss  Price,  after  another  hand  or  two.  "It's  all  along 
of  you,  Mr.  Nickleby,  I  think.  I  should  like  to  have  you 
for  a  partner  always." 

"  I  wish  you  had." 

"  You'll  have  a  bad  wife,  though,  if  you  always  win  at 
cards,"  said  Miss  Price. 

"  Not  if  your  wish  is  gratified,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  I  - 
am  sure  I  shall  have  a  good  one  in  that  case." 

To  see  how  Miss  Squeers  tossed  her  head,  and  the 
corn-factor  flattened  his  nose,  while  this  conversation 
was  carrying  on  !  It  would  have  been  worth  a  small 
annuity  to  have  beheld  that  ;  let  alone  Miss  Price's  evi- 
dent joy  at  making  them  jealous,  and  Nicholas  Nickle- 
by's  iiappy  unconsciousness  of  making  anybody  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  We  have  all  the  talking  to  ourselves,  it  seems,"  said 
Nicholas,  looking  good  humouredly  round  the  table  as 
he  took  up  the  cards  for  a  fresh  deal. 

"You  do  it  so  well,"  tittered  Miss  Squeers,  "that  it 
would  be  a  pity  to  interrupt,  wouldn't  it,  Mr.  Browdie  ? 
He  !  he  !  he  !  " 

"Nay,"  said  Nicholas,  "we  do  it  in  default  of  having 
anybody  else  to  talk  to." 

* '  We'll  talk  to  you,  you  know,  if  you'll  say  anything," 
said  Miss  Price. 

"Thank  you,  'Tilda,  dear,"  retorted  Miss  Squeers, 
majestically. 


NICHOLAS  NICK LE BY. 


33 


"  Or  you  can  talk  to  each  other,  if  you  don't  choose  to 
talk  to  us,"  said  Miss  Price,  rallying  her  dear  friend. 
"John,  why  don't  you  say  something  ?  " 

"  Say  summat  ?  "  repeated  the  Yorkshi reman, 

"  Ay,  and  not  sit  there  so  silent  and  glum." 

"Weel,  then  !"  said  the  Yorkshireman,  striking  the 
table  heavily  with  his  fist,  "what  1  say's  this— Dang  my 
boans  and  boddy,  if  I  stun'  this  ony  longer.  Do  ye  gang 
whoam  wi'  me,  and  do  you  loight  an'  toight  young  whip- 
ster, look  sharp  out  for  a  brokken  head,  next  time  he 
cums  under  my  bond." 

"  Mercy  on  us,  what's  all  this  ?  "  cried  Miss  Price,  in 
affected  astonishment. 

"  Cum  whoam,  tell'e,  cum  whoam,"  replied  the  York- 
shireman,  sternly.  And  as  he  delivered  the  reply,  Miss 
Squeers  burst  into  a  shower  of  tears  ;  arising  in  part 
from  desperate  vexation,  and  in  part  an  impotent  desire 
to  lacerate  somebody's  countenance  with  her  fair  finger- 
nails. 

This  state  of  things  had  been  brought  about,  by  divers 
means  and  workings.  Miss  Squeers  had  brought  it 
about,  by  aspiring  to  the  high  state  and  condition  of  be- 
ing matrimonially  engaged,  without  good  grounds  for  so 
doing  ;  Miss  Price  had  brought  it  about,  by  indulging  in 
three  motives  of  action  :  first,  a  desire  to  punish  her 
friend  for  laying  claim  to  a  rivalship  in  dignity,  having 
no  good  title  :  secondly,  the  gratification  of  her  own  van- 
ity, in  receiving  the  compliments  of  a  smart  young  man : 
and  thirdly,  a  wish  to  convince  the  corn-factor  of  the 
great  danger  he  ran,  in  deferring  the  celebration  of  their 
expected  nuptials  ;  while  Nicholas  had  brought  it  about, 
by  half  an  hour's  gaiety  and  thoughtlessness,  and  a  very 
sincere  desire  to  avoid  the  imputation  of  inclining  at  all 
to  Miss  Squeers.  So  the  means  employed,  and  the  end 
produced,  were  alike  the  most  natural  in  the  world  ;  for 
young  ladies  will  look  forward  to  being  married,  and  will 
jostle  each  other  in  the  race  to  the  altar,  and  will  avail 
themselves  of  all  opportunities  of  displaying  their  own 
attractions  to  the  best  advantage,  down  to  the  very  end  of 
time,  as  they  have  done  from  its  beginning. 

"Why,  and  here's  Fanny  in  tears  now!"  exclaimed 
Miss  Price,  as  if  in  fresh  amazement.  '  *  What  can  be 
the  matter?" 

'*  Oh  !  you  don't  know.  Miss,  of  course  you  don't  know. 
Pray  don't  trouble  yourself  to  inquire,"  said  Miss 
Squeers,  producing  that  change  of  countenance  which 
children  call  making  a  face. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Price. 

"  And  who  cares  whether  you  are  sure  or  not,  ma'am  ?  " 
retorted  Miss  Squeers,  making  another  face. 

"  You  are  monstrous  polite,  ma'am,"  said  Miss  Price. 

"I  shall  not  come  to  you  to  take  lessons  in  the  art, 
ma'am  ? "  retorted  Miss  Squeers. 

"You  needn't  take  the  trouble  to  make  yourself 
plainer  than  you  are,  ma'am  however,"  rejoined  Miss 
Price,  "because  that's  quite  unnecessary." 

Miss  Squeers,  in  reply,  turned  very  red,  and  thanked 
God  that  she  hadn't  got  the  bold  faces  of  some  people. 
Miss  Price,  in  rejoinder,  congratulated  herself  upon  not 
being  possessed  of  the  envious  feeling  of  other  people  ; 
whereupon  Miss  Squeers  made  some  general  remark 
touching  the  danger  of  associating  with  low  persons  ;  in 
which  Miss  Price  entirely  coincided :  observing  that  it 
was  very  true  indeed,  and  she  had  thought  so  a  long 
time. 

"'Tilda,"  exclaimed  Miss  Squeers  with  dignity,  "I 
hate  you." 

"  Ah  !  There's  no  love  lost  between  us,  I  assure  you," 
said  Miss  Price,  tying  her  bonnet  strings  with  a  jerk. 
"  You'll  cry  your  eyes  out,  when  I'm  gone  ;  you  know 
you  will." 

"  I  scorn  your  words,  Minx,"  said  Miss  Squeers, 
"  You  pay  me  a  great  compliment  when  you  say  so," 
answered  the  miller's  daughter,  curtseying  very  low, 
"  Wish  you  a  very  good  night,  ma'am,  and  pleasant 
dreams  attend  your  sleep  !  " 

With  this  parting  benediction,  Miss  Price  swept  from 
the  room,  followed  by  the  huge  Yorkshireman,  who  ex- 
changed with  Nicholas,  at  parting,  that  peculiarly  expres- 
sive scowl  with  which  the  cut-and-thrust  counts,  in  melo- 
dramatic performances,  inform  each  other  they  will  meet 
again. 

Vol.  II.— 3 


They  were  no  sooner  gone,  than  Miss  Squeers  fulfilled 
the  i)rediction  of  her  quondam  friend  by  giving  vent  to  a 
most  co]>ious  burst  of  tears,  and  uttering  various  dismal 
lamentations  and  incoherent  wordrs.  Nicholas  stood  look- 
ing on  for  a  few  seconds,  rather  doubtful  what  to  do,  but 
feeling  uncertain  whether  the  fit  would  end  in  his  Ijeing 
embraced,  ut  scratched,  and  considering  that  either  in- 
fiiction  would  be  equally  agreeable,  he  v.'alked  off  very 
quietly  while  Miss  Squeers  was  moaning  in  her  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  This  is  one  consequence,'*  thought  Nicholas,  when  he 
had  groped  his  way  to  the  dark  sleeping-room,  "  of  my 
cursed  readiness  to  adapt  myself  to  any  society  in  which 
chance  carries  me.  If  1  had  sat  mute  and  motionless,  as 
I  might  have  done,  this  would  not  have  happened." 

He  listened  for  a  few  minutes,  but  all  was  quiet. 

"I  was  glad,"  he  murmured,  "  to  grasp  at  any  relief 
from  the  sight  of  this  dreadful  x>lace,  or  the  presence  of 
its  vile  master.  I  have  set  these  peojde  by  the  ears,  and 
made  two  new  enemies,  where.  Heaven  knows,  I  needed 
none.  Well,  it  is  a  just  punishment  for  having  forgot- 
ten, even  for  an  hour,  what  is  around  me  now  !" 

So  saying,  he  felt  his  way  among  the  throng  of  weary- 
hearted  sleepers,  and  crept  into  his  poor  bed. 


CHAPTER  X. 

How  Mr.  Ralph  NicUehy  provided  for  his  Niece  and  Sltter-in-lauf, 

On  the  second  morning  after  the  departure  of  Nicholas 
for  Yorkshire,  Kate  Nickleby  sat  in  a  very  faded  chair 
raised  upon  a  very  dusty  throne  in  Miss  La  Creevy's 
room,  giving  that  lady  a  sitting  for  the  portrait  upon 
which  she  was  engaged  ;  and  towards  the  full  perfection 
of  which.  Miss  La  Creevy  had  had  the  street-door  case 
brought  up  stairs,  in  order  that  she  might  be  the  better 
able  to  infuse  into  the  counterfeit  countenance  of  Miss 
Nickleby,  a  bright  salmon  flesh-tint  which  she  had  orig- 
inally hit  upon  while  executing  the  miniature  of  a 
young  officer  therein  contained,  and  which  bright  salmon 
flesh-tint  was  considered  by  Miss  La  Creevy's  chief 
friends  and  patrons,  to  be  quite  a  novelty  in  art :  as  in- 
deed it  was. 

"I  think  I  have  caught  it  now,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy. 
"The  very  shade  !  This  will  be  the  sweetest  portrait  I 
have  ever  done,  certainly." 

"It  will  be  your  genius  that  makes  it  so  then,  I  am 
sure,"  replied  Kate,  smiling. 

"No,  no,  I  won't  allow  that,  my  dear,"  rejoined  Miss 
La  Creevy.  "  It's  a  very  nice  subject — a  very  nice  sub- 
ject, indeed — though  of  course,  something  depends  upon 
the  mode  of  treatment." 

"  And  not  a  little,"  observed  Kate. 

"Why,  my  dear,  you  are  right  there,"  said  Miss  La 
Creevy,  ' '  in  the  main  you  are  right  there  ;  though  I 
don't  allow  that  it  is  of  such  very  great  importance  in 
the  present  case.  Ah  !  The  difficulties  of  Art,  my  dear, 
are  great." 

"  They  must  be,  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Kate  humour- 
ing her  good-natured  little  friend. 

"  They  are  beyond  anything  you  can  form  the  faintest 
conception  of,"  replied  Miss  La  Creevy.  "What  with 
bringing  out  eyes  with  all  one's  power,  and  keeping 
down  noses  with  all  one's  force,  and  adding  to  heads, 
and  taking  away  teeth  altogether,  you  have  no  idea  of 
the  trouble  one  little  miniature  is." 

"The  remuneration  can  scarcely  repay  you,"  said 
Kate. 

"  Why,  it  does  not,  and  that's  the  truth,"  answered 
Miss  La  Creevy;  "and  then  people  are  so  dissatisfied 
and  unreasonable,  that,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  there's  no 
pleasure  in  painting  them.  Sometimes  they  say,  '  Oh, 
how  very  serious  you  have  made  me  look.  Miss  La 
Creevy  ! '  and  at  others,  '  La,  Miss  La  Creevy,  how  very 
smirking  ! '  when  the  very  essence  of  a  good  portrait  is, 
that  it  must  be  either  serious  or  smirking,  or  it's  no  por- 
trait at  all." 

"Indeed  !  "  said  Kate,  laughing. 

* '  Certainly,  my  dear  ;  because  the  sitters  are  always 
either  the  one  or  the  other,"  replied  Miss  La  Creevy. 


34 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Look  at  the  Royal  Academy  !  All  those  beautiful  shiny 
portraits  of  gentlemen  in  black  velvet  waistcoats,  with 
their  fists  doubled  up  on  round  tables,  or  marble  slabs, 
are  serious,  you  know  ;  and  all  the  ladies  who  are  play- 
ing with  little  parasols,  or  little  dogs,  or  little  children 
— it's  the  same  rule  in  art,  only  varying  the  objects — are 
smirking.  In  fact,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy,  sinking  her 
voice  to  a  confidential  whisper, "  there  are  only  two  styles 
of  portrait  painting  ;  the  serious  and  the  smirk  ;  and  we 
always  use  the  serious  for  professional  people  (except 
actors  sometimes),  and  the  smirk  for  private  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  don't  care  so  much  about  looking  clever. " 

Kate  seemed  highly  amused  by  this  information,  and 
Miss  La  Creevy  went  on  painting  and  talking,  with  im- 
movable complacency. 

"  What  a  number  of  officers  you  seem  to  paint !"  said 
Kate,  availing  herself  of  a  pause  in  the  discourse,  and 
glancing  round  the  room. 

"Number  of  what,  child?"  inquired  Miss  La  Creevy, 
looking  up  from  her  work.  "Character  portraits,  oh 
yes — they're  not  real  military  men,  you  know. " 

"No  !" 

"  Bless  your  heart,  of  course  not ;  only  clerks  and 
that,  who  hire  a  uniform  coat  to  be  painted  in  and  send 
it  here  in  a  carpet  bag.  Some  artists,"  said  Miss  La 
Creevy,  "keep  a  red  coat,  and  charge  seven-and-sixpence 
extra  for  hire  and  carmine  ;  but  I  don't  do  that  myself, 
for  I  don't  consider  it  legitimate." 

Drawing  herself  up,  as  though  she  plumed  herself 
greatly  upon  not  resorting  to  these  lures  to  catch  sitters, 
Miss  La  Creevy  applied  herself,  more  intently,  to  her 
task  :  only  raising  her  head  occasionally,  to  look  with 
unspeakable  satisfaction  at  some  touch  she  had  just  put 
in  :  and  now  and  then  giving  Miss  Nickleby  to  under- 
stand what  particular  feature  she  was  at  work  upon,  at 
the  moment ;  "not,"  she  expressly  observed,  "  that  you 
should  make  it  up  for  painting,  my  dear,  but  because  it's 
our  custom  sometimes,  to  tell  sitters  what  part  we  are 
upon,  in  order  that  if  there's  any  particular  expression 
they  want  introduced,  they  may  throw  it  in,  at  the  time, 
you  know." 

"  And  when,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy,  after  a  long  silence, 
to  wit,  an  interval  of  full  a  minute  and  a  half,  "  when  do 
you  expect  to  see  your  uncle  again  ?  " 

"I  scarcely  know  ;  I  had  expected  to  have  seen  him 
before  now,"  replied  Kate.  "  Soon  I  hope,  for  this  state 
of  uncertainty  is  worse  than  anything." 

"  I  suppose  he  has  money,  hasn't  he?  "  inquired  Miss 
La  Creevy. 

"He  is  very  rich,  I  have  heard,"  rejoined  Kate.  "I 
don't  know  that  he  is,  but  I  believe  so." 

"  Ah,  you  may  depend  upon  it  he  is,  or  he  wouldn't  be 
so  surly,"  remarked  Miss  La  Creevy,  who  was  an  odd  lit- 
tle mixture  of  shrewdness  and  simplicity.  "  When  a 
man's  a  bear,  he  is  generally  pretty  independent." 

"His  manner  is  rough,"  said  Kate. 

"  Rough  !"  cried  Miss  La  Creevy,  "a  porcupine's  a 
feather-bed  to  him  !  I  never  met  with  such  a  cross-grained 
old  savage." 

"  It  is  only  his  manner,  I  believe,"  observed  Kate,  tim- 
idly ;  "he  was  disappointed  in  early  life,  I  think  I  have 
heard,  or  has  bad  his  temper  soured  by  some  calamity. 
I  should  be  sorry  to  think  ill  of  him  until  I  knew  he  de- 
served it." 

"  Well  ;  that's  very  right  and  proper,"  observed  the 
miniature  painter,  "and  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  be 
the  cause  of  your  doing  so  !  But,  now,  mightn't  he,  with- 
out feeling  it  himself,  make  you  and  your  mama  some 
nice  little  allowance  that  would  keep  you  both  comforta- 
ble until  you  were  well  married,  and  be  a  little  fortune 
to  her  afterwards?  What  would  a  hundred  a  year,  for 
instance,  be  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  would  be  to  him,"  said  Kate, 
with  energy,  "  but  it  would  be  that  to  me  I  would  rather 
die  than  take. " 

"  Heyday  ! "  cried  Miss  La  Creevy. 

"  A  dependence  upon  him,"  said  Kate,  "  would  embit- 
ter my  whole  life.  I  should  feel  begging,  a  far  less  deg- 
radation." 

"  Well  1 "  exclaimed  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  This  of  a  rela- 
tion whom  you  will  not  hear  an  indifferent  person  speak 
ill  of,  my  dear,  sounds  oddly  enough,  I  confess." 


"  I  dare  say  it  does,"  replied  Kate,  speaking  more  gent- 
ly, "indeed  I  am  sure  it  must.  I — I — only  mean  that 
with  the  feelings  and  recollection  of  better  times  upon 
me,  I  could  not  bear  to  live  on  anybody's  bounty — not  his 
particularly,  but  anybody's." 

Miss  La  Creevy  looked  slyly  at  her  companion,  as  if  she 
doubted  whether  Ralph  himself  were  not  the  subject  of 
dislike,  but  seeing  that  her  young  friend  was  distressed, 
made  no  remark. 

"  I  only  ask  of  him,"  continued  Kate,  whose  tears  fell 
while  she  spoke,  that  he  will  move  so  little  out  of  his 
way,  in  my  behalf,  as  to  enable  me  by  his  recommenda- 
tion— only  by  his  recommendation — to  earn,  literally,  my 
bread  and  remain  with  my  mother.  Whether  we  shall 
ever  taste  happiness  again,  depends  upon  the  fortunes  of 
my  dear  brother  ;  but  if  he  will  do  this,  and  Nicholas 
only  tells  us  that  he  is  well  and  cheerful,  I  shall  be  con- 
tented." 

As  she  ceased  to  speak,  there  was  a  rustling  behind  the 
screen  which  stood  between  her  and  the  door,  and  some 
person  knocked  at  the  wainscot. 

"Come  in,  whoever  it  is  ! "  cried  Miss  La  Creevy. 

The  person  complied,  and  coming  forward  at  once,  gave 
to  view  the  form  and  features  of  no  less  an  individual 
than  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  himself. 

"  Your  servant,  ladies,"  said  Ralph,  looking  sharply  at 
them  by  turns.  You  were  talking  so  loud,  that  I  was 
unable  to  make  you  hear." 

When  the  man  of  business  had  a  more  than  commonly- 
vicious  snarl  lurking  at  his  heart,  he  had  a  trick  of  almost 
concealing  his  eyes  under  their  thick  and  protruding 
brows,  for  an  instant,  and  then  displaying  them  in  their 
full  keenness.  As  he  did  so  now,  and  tried  to  keep  down 
the  smile  which  parted  his  thin  compressed  lips,  and 
puckered  up  the  bad  lines  about  his  mouth,  they  both 
felt  certain  that  some  part,  if  not  the  whole,  of  their  re- 
cent conversation,  had  been  overheard. 

"  I  called  in,  on  my  way  up-stairs,  more  than  half  ex- 
pecting to  find  you  here,"  said  Ralph,  addressing  his 
niece,  and  looking  contemptuously  at  the  portrait.    "  Is  i 
that  my  niece's  portrait,  ma'am?" 

"  Yes  it  is,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy,  with  a 
very  sprightly  air,  ' '  and  between  you  and  me  and  the 
post,  sir,  it  will  be  a  very  nice  portrait  too,  though  I  say 
it  who  am  the  painter." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  to  show  it  to  me,  ma'am,"  cried 
Ralph,  moving  away,  "  I  have  no  eye  for  likenesses.    Is  , 
it  nearly  finished  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  replied  Miss  La  Creevy,  considering  with 
the  pencil  end  of  her  brush  in  her  mouth.  "  Two  sittings ' 
more  will — " 

"Have  them  at  once,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph.    "  She'll^ 
have  no  time  to  idle  over  fooleries  after  to-morrow.  ■ 
Work,  ma'am,  work  ;  we  must  all  work.    Have  you  let 
your  lodgings,  ma'am?" 

"  I  have  not  put  a  bill  up  yet,  sir." 

"Put  it  up  at  once,  ma'am;  they  won't  want  the 
rooms  after  this  week,  or  if  they  do,  can't  pay  for  them. 
Now,  my  dear,  if  you're  ready,  we'll  lose  no  more  time." 

With  an  assumption  of  kindness  which  sat  worse  upon 
him,  even  than  his  usual  manner,  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby 
motioned  to  the  young  lady  to  precede  him,  and  bowing 
gravely  to  Miss  La  Creevy,  closed  the  door  and  followed 
up-stairs,  where  Mrs.  Nickleby  received  him  with  many 
expressions  of  regard.  Stopping  them  somewhat  ab- 
ruptly, Ralph  waved  his  hand  with  an  impatient  gesture 
and  proceeded  to  the  object  of  his  visit.  i 

"  I  have  found  a  situation  for  your  daughter,  ma'am,**, 
said  Ralph. 

"  Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  Now,  I  will  say 
that  that  is  only  just  what  I  have  expected  of  you.  '  De- 
pend upon  it,'  I  said  to  Kate,  only  yesterday  morning  at 
breakfast,  '  that  after  your  uncle  has  provided,  in  that 
most  ready  manner,  for  Nicholas,  he  will  not  leave  us 
until  he  has  done  at  least  the  same  for  you. '  These 
were  my  very  words,  as  near  as  I  remember.  Kate,  my 
dear,  why  don't  you  thank  your — "  ^  \ 

"Let  me  proceed,  ma'am,  pray,"  said  Ralph,  inter^ 
rupting  his  sister-in-law  in  the  full  torrent  of  her  dis- 
course. 

"  Kate,  my  love,  let  your  uncle  proceed,"  said  Mrs, 
Nickleby. 


NICHOLAS  NIC  RLE  BY. 


35 


"  I  am  most  anxious  that  he  should,  mama,"  rejoined 
Kate. 

"Well,  my  dear,  if  you  are  anxious  that  he  should, 
you  had  better  allow  your  uncle  to  say  what  he  has  to 
say,  without  interruption,"  observed  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
with  many  small  nods  and  frowns.  "  Your  uncle's  time 
is  very  valuable,  my  dear,  and  however  desirous  you 
may  be — and  naturally  desirous,  as  I  am  sure  any  af- 
fectionate relations  who  have  seen  so  little  of  your  uncle 
as  we  have,  must  naturally  be — to  protract  the  pleasure 
of  having  him  among  us,  still,  we  are  bound  not  to  be 
selfish,  but  to  take  into  consideration  the  important  na- 
ture of  his  occupations  in  the  city." 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph 
with  a  scarcely  perceptible  sneer.  "  An  absence  of  busi- 
ness habits  in  this  family  leads,  apparently,  to  a  great 
waste  of  words  before  business — when  it  does  come  un- 
der consideration — is  arrived  at,  at  all." 

"  I  fear  it  is  so  indeed,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby  with  a 
sigh.    "  Your  poor  brother — " 

"My  poor  brother,  ma'am,"  interposed  Ralph  tartly, 
"had  no  idea  what  business  was — was  unacquainted,  I 
verily  believe,  with  the  very  meaning  of  the  word." 

"  I  fear  he  was,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  with  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes.  "  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  I  don't 
know  what  would  have  become  of  him." 

What  strange  creatures  we  are  !  The  slight  bait  so 
skilfully  thrown  out  by  Ralph,  on  their  first  interview, 
was  dangling  on  the  hook  yet.  At  every  small  depriva- 
tion or  discomfort  which  presented  itself  in  the  course  of 
the  four-and-twenty  hours  to  remind  her  of  her  straight- 
ened and  altered  circumstances,  peevish  visions  of  her 
dower  of  one  thousand  pounds  had  arisen  before  Mrs. 
Nickleby's  mind,  until,  at  last,  she  had  come  to  persuade 
herself  that  of  all  her  late  husband's  creditors  she  was 
the  worst  used  and  the  most  to  be  pitied.  And  yet  she 
had  loved  him  dearly  for  many  years,  and  had  no  greater 
share  of  selfishness  than  is  the  usual  lot  of  mortals. 
Such  is  the  irritability  of  sudden  poverty.  A  decent 
annuity  would  have  restored  her  thoughts  to  their  old 
train,  at  once. 

"  Repining  is  of  no  use,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph.  "Of  all 
fruitless  errands,  sending  a  tear  to  look  after  a  day  that 
is  gone,  is  the  most  fruitless. " 

"  So  it  is,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Nickleby.    "  So  it  is." 

"As  you  feel  so  keenly,  in  your  own  purse  and  person, 
the  consequences  of  inattention  to  business,  ma'am," 
said  Ralph,  "I  am  sure  you  will  impress  upon  your 
children  the  necessity  of  attaching  themselves  to  it,  early 
in  life." 

"Of  course  I  must  see  that,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Nickleby. 
"  Sad  experience,  you  know,  brother-in-law — .  Kate, 
my  dear,  put  that  down  in  the  next  letter  to  Nicholas,  or 
remind  me  to  do  it  if  I  write." 

Ralph  paused,  for  a  few  moments,  and  seeing  that  he 
had  now  made  pretty  sure  of  the  mother,  in  case  the 
daughter  objected  to  his  proposition,  went  on  to  say  : 

"  The  situation  that  I  have  made  interest  to  procure, 
ma'am,  is  with — with  a  milliner  and  dress-maker,  in 
short." 

"A  milliner  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"A  milliner  and  dress-maker,  ma'am,"  replied  Ralph. 
"  Dress-makers  in  London,  as  I  need  not  remind  you, 
ma'am,  who  are  so  well  acquainted  with  all  matters  in 
the  ordinary  routine  of  life,  make  large  fortunes,  keep 
equipages,  and  become  persons  of  great  wealth  and  for- 
tune." 

Now,  the  first  ideas  called  up  in  Mrs.  Nickleby's  mind, 
by  the  words  milliner  and  dress-maker  were  connected 
with  certain  wicker  baskets  lined  with  black  oilskin, 
which  she  remembered  to  have  seen  carried  to  and  fro  in 
the  streets  ;  but,  as  Ralph  proceeded,  these  disappeared 
and  were  replaced  by  visions  of  large  houses  at  the  west 
end,  neat  x^rivate  carriages,  and  a  banker's  book  ;  all  of 
which  images  succeeded  each  other,  with  such  rapidity, 
that  he  had  no  sooner  finished  speaking,  than  she  nod- 
ded her  head  and  said  "  Very  true,"  with  great  appear- 
ance of  satisfaction. 

"  What  your  uncle  says,  is  very  true,  Kate,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  I  recollect  when  your  papa  and  I 
came  to  town  after  we  were  married,  that  a  young  lady 
brought  me  home  a  chip  cottage-bonnet,  with  white  and 


green  trimming,  and  green  persian  lining,  in  her  own 
carriage,  which  drove  up  to  the  door  full  gallop  ;  at 
least,  I  am  not  quite  certain  whether  it  was  her  own 
carriage  or  a  hackney  chariot,  but  I  remember  very  w(ill 
that  the  horse  dropped  down  dead  as  he  was  turning 
round,  and  that  your  poor  papa  said  he  hadn't  had  any 
corn  for  a  fortnight." 

This  anecdote,  so  strikingly  illustrative  of  the  opulence 
of  milliners,  was  not  received  with  any  great  demon- 
stration of  feeling,  inasmuch  as  Kate  hung  down  her 
head  while  it  was  relating,  and  Ralph  manifested  very 
intelligible  symptoms  of  extreme  impatience. 

"The  lady's  name,"  said  Ralph,  hastily  striking  in, 
"  is  Mantalini — Madame  Mantilini.  I  know  her.  She 
lives  near  Cavendish  Square.  If  your  daughter  is  dis- 
posed to  try  after  the  situation,  I'll  take  her  there, 
directly." 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  your  uncle,  my  love?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"A  great  deal,"  replied  Kate;  "but  not  now.  I 
would  rather  speak  to  him  when  we  are  alone  ; — it  will 
save  his  time  if  I  thank  him  and  say  what  I  wish  to  say 
to  him,  as  we  walk  along." 

With  these  words,  Kate  hurried  away,  to  hide  the 
traces  of  emotion  that  were  stealing  down  her  face,  and 
to  prepare  herself  for  her  walk,  while  Mrs.  Nickleby 
amused  her  brother-in-law  by  giving  him,  with  many 
tears,  a  detailed  account  of  the  dimensions  of  a  rosewood 
cabinet  piano  they  had  possessed  in  their  days  of  afiSuence, 
together  with  a  minute  description  of  eight  drawing- room 
chairs,  with  turned  legs  and  green  chintz  squabs  to 
match  the  curtains,  which  had  cost  two  pounds  fifteen 
shillings  a-piece,  and  had  gone  at  the  sale  for  a  mere 
nothing. 

These  reminiscences  were  at  length  cut  short  by  Kate's 
return  in  her  walking  dress,  when  Ralph,  who  had  been 
fretting  and  fuming  during  the  whole  time  of  her 
absence,  lost  no  time,  and  used  very  little  ceremony,  in 
descending  into  the  street. 

"Now,"  he  said,  taking  her  arm,  "walk  as  fast  as 
you  can,  and  you'll  get  into  the  step  that  you'll  have  to 
walk  to  business  with,  every  morning."  So  saying,  he 
led  Kate  off,  at  a  good  round  pace,  towards  Cavendish 
Square. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  uncle,"  said  the 
young  lady,  after  they  had  hurried  on  in  silence  for  some 
time  ;  "very." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Ralph.  "  I  hope  you'll 
do  your  duty. ' ' 

"I  will  try  to  please,  uncle,"  replied  Kate  :  "indeed 

"Don't  begin  to  cry,"  growled  Ralph;  "I  hate 
crying." 

"  It's  very  foolish,  I  know,  uncle,"  began  poor  Kate. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Ralph,  stopping  her  short,  "  and  very 
affected  besides.    Let  me  see  no  more  of  it." 

Perhaps  this  was  not  the  best  way  to  dry  the  tears  of 
a  young  and  sensitive  female,  about  to  make  her  first 
entry  on  an  entirely  new  scene  of  life,  among  cold  and 
uninterested  strangers  ;  but  it  had  its  effect  notwith- 
standing. Kate  coloured  deeply,  breathed  quickly  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  walked  on  with  a  firmer  and 
more  determined  step. 

It  was  a  curious  contrast  to  see  how  the  timid  country 
girl  shrunk  through  the  crowd  that  hurried  up  and  down 
the  streets,  giving  way  to  the  press  of  people,  and  cling- 
ing closely  to  Ralph  as  though  she  feared  to  lose  him  in 
the  throng  ;  and  how  the  stern  and  hard-featured  man 
of  business  w^ent  doggedly  on,  elbowing  the  passengers 
aside,  and  now  and  then 'exchanging  a  gruff  salutation 
with  some  passing  acquaintance,  who  turned  to  look 
•back  upon  his  pretty  charge,  with  looks  expressive  of 
surprise,  and  seemed  to  wonder  at  the  ill-assorted  com- 
panionship. But,  it  would  have  been  a  stranger  contrast 
still,  to  have  read  the  hearts  that  were  beating  side  by 
side  ;  to  have  laid  bare  the  gentle  innocence  of  the  one, 
and  the  rugged  villany  of  the  other  ;  to  have  hung  upon 
the  guileless  thoughts  of  the  affectionate  girl,  and  been 
amazed  that,  among  all  the  wily  plots  and  calculations 
of  the  old  man,  there  should  not  be  one  word  or  figure 
denoting  thought  of  death  or  of  the  grave.  Bnt  so  it 
was  ;  and  stranger  still — though  this  is  a  thing  of  every 


36 


CHARLES  mC KENS'  WOBKS. 


day — the  warm  young  heart  palpitated  with  a  thousand 
anxieties  and  apprehensions,  while  that  of  the  old 
worldly  man  lay  rusting  in  its  cell,  beating  only  as  a 
piece  of  cunning  mechanism,  and  yielding  no  one  throb 
of  hope,  or  fear,  or  love,  or  care  for  any  living  thing. 

"Uncle,"  said  Kate,  when  she  judged  they  must  be 
near  their  destination,  "  I  must  ask  one  question  of  you. 
I  am  to  live  at  home  ?" 

At  home  ! "  replied  Ralph  ;  "  where's  that  ?  " 

"I  mean  with  my  mother — the  widow"  said  Kate  em- 
phatically. 

"You  will  live,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  h^re,"  re- 
joined Ralph  ;  "for  here  you  will  take  your  me'als,  and 
here  you  will  be  from  morning  till  night — occasionally 
perhaps  till  morning  again." 

"But  at  night,  I  mean,"  said  Kate;  "I  cannot  leave 
her,  uncle.  I  miist  have  some  place  that  I  can  call  a 
home  ;  it  will  be  wherever  she  is,  you  know,  and  may  be 
a  very  humble  one." 

"  May  be  !"  said  Ralph,  walking  faster,  in  the  impa- 
tience provoked  by  this  remark,  "must  be,  you  mean. 
May  be  a  humble  one  !    Is  the  girl  mad  ?  " 

"  The  word  slipped  from  my  lips,  I  did  not  mean  it 
indeed,"  urged  Kate. 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Ralph. 

"But  my  question,  uncle  ;  you  have  not  answered  it." 

"  Why,  I  anticipated  something  of  the  kind,"  said 
Ralph;  "and — though  I  object  very  strongly,  mind — 
have  provided  against  it.  I  spoke  of  you  as  an  out- 
of-door  worker  ;  so  you  will  go  to  this  home  that  may  be 
humble,  every  night." 

There  was  comfort  in  this.  Kate  poured  forth  many 
thanks  for  her  uncle's  consideration,  which  Ralph  re- 
ceived as  if  he  had  deserved  them  all,  and  they  arrived 
without  any  further  conversation  at  the  dress-maker's 
door,  which  displayed  a  very  large  plate,  with  Madame 
Mantalini's  name  and  occupation,  and  was  approached 
by  a  handsome  flight  of  steps.  There  was  a  shop  to  the 
house,  but  it  was  let  off  to  an  importer  of  otto  of  roses. 
Madame  Mantalini's  show-rooms  were  on  the  first  floor  ; 
a  fact  which  was  notified  to  the  nobility  and  gentry,  by 
the  casual  exhibition,  near  the  handsomely  curtained 
windows,  of  two  or  three  elegant  bonnets  of  the  newest 
fashion,  and  some  costly  garments  in  the  most  approved 
taste. 

A  liveried  footman  opened  the  door,  and  in  reply  to 
Ralph's  inquiry  whether  Madame  Mantalini  was  at  home, 
ushered  them,  through  a  handsome  hall  and  up  a  spa- 
cious staircase,  into  the  show  saloon,  which  comprised 
two  spacious  drawing-rooms,  and  exhibited  an  immense 
variety  of  superb  dresses  and  materials  for  dresses  : 
some  arranged  on  stands,  others  laid  carelessly  on  sofas, 
and  others  again,  scattered  over  the  carpet,  hanging  on 
the  cheval  glasses,  or  mingling,  in  some  other  way,  with 
tho  rich  furniture  of  various  descriptions,  which  was 
profusely  illustrated. 

They  waited  here,  a  much  longer  time  than  was  agree- 
able to  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby,  who  eyed  the  gaudy  frip- 
pery about  him  with  very  little  concern,  and  was  at 
length  about  to  pull  the  bell,  when  a  gentleman  sud- 
denly popped  his  head  into  the  room,  and,  seeing  some- 
body there,  as  suddenly  popped  it  out  again. 

"Here.    Hallo  !"  cried  Ralph.    "Who's  that?" 

At  the  sound  of  Ralph's  voice,  the  head  reappeared, 
and  the  mouth,  displaying  a  very  long  row  of  very  white 
teeth,  uttered  in  a  mincing  tone  the  words,  "  Demmit. 
What,  Nickleby  !  oh,  demmit  ! "  Having  uttered  which 
ejaculations,  the  gentleman  advanced,  and  shook  hands 
with  Ralph,  with  great  warmth.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
gorgeous  morning  gown,  with  a  waistcoat  and  Turkish 
trousers  of  the  same  pattern,  a  pink  silk  neckerchief, 
ahd  bright  green  slippers,  and  had  a  very  copious  watch- 
chain  wound  round  his  body.  Moreover,  he  had  whisk- 
ers and  a  mustache,  both  dyed  black  and  gracefully 
curled. 

"  Demmit,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  want  me,  do 
you,  demmit?"  said  this  gentleman,  smiting  Ralph  on 
the  shoulder. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Ralph,  sarcastically. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  demmit  !  "  cried  the  gentleman  ;  when, 
wheeling  round  to  laugh  with  greater  elegance,  he  en- 
countered Kate  Nickleby,  who  was  standing  near. 


"  My  niece,"  said  Ralph. 

"I  remember,"  said  the  gentleman,  striking  his  nose 
with  the  knuckle  of  his  forefinger  as  a  chastening  for 
his  forgetfulness.  "Demmit,  I  remember  what  you 
come  for.  Step  this  way,  Nickleby  ;  my  dear,  will  you 
follow  me  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  They  all  follow  me,  IS^ickleby  ; 
always  did,  demmit,  always." 

Giving  loose  to  the  playfulness  of  his  imagination, 
after  this  fashion,  the  gentleman  led  the  way  to  a 
private  sitting-room  on  the  second  floor,  scarcely  less 
elegantly  furnished  than  the  apartment  below,  where 
the  presence  of  a  silver  coffee-pot,  an  eggshell,  and 
sloppy  china  for  one,  seemed  to  show  that  he  had  just 
breakfasted. 

"  Sit  down,  my  dear,"  said  the  gentleman  :  first  staring 
Miss  Nickleby  out  of  countenance,  and  then  grinning  in 
delight  at  the  achievement.  "This  cursed  high  room 
takes  one's  breath  away.  These  infernal  sky  parlours — 
I'm  afraid  I  must  move,  Nickleby." 

"  I  would,  by  all  means,"  replied  Ralph,  looking  bit- 
terly round. 

"What  a  demd  rum  fellow  you  are,  Nickleby,"  said 
the  gentleman,  "  the  demdest,  longest-headed,  queerest- 
tempered  old  coiner  of  gold  and  silver  ever  was — dem- 
mit. " 

Having  complimented  Ralph  to  this  effect,  the  gentle- 
man rang  the  bell,  and  stared  at  Miss  Nickleby  until  it 
was  answered,  when  he  left  off  to  bid  the  man  desire  his 
mistress  to  come  directly  :  after  which,  be  began  again, 
and  left  off  no  more  until  Madame  Mantalini  appeared. 

The  dress-maker  was  a  buxom  person,  handsomely 
dressed  and  rather  good-looking,  but  much  older  than 
the  gentleman  in  the  Turkish  trousers,  whom  she  had 
wedded  some  six  months  before.  His  name  was  origin- 
ally Muntle  ;  but  it  had  been  converted,  by  an  easy  tran- 
sition, into  Mantalini  :  the  lady  rightly  considering  that 
an  English  appellation  would  be  of  serious  injury  to  the 
business.  He  had  married  on  his  whiskers  ;  upon  which 
property  he  had  previously  subsisted,  in  a  genteel  man- 
ner, for  some  years  ;  and  which  he  had  recently  improved, 
after  patient  cultivation  by  the  addition  of  a  moustache, 
which  promised  to  secure  him  an  easy  independence  :  his . 
share  in  the  labours  of  the  business  being  at  present  con- 
fined to  spending  the  money,  and  occasionally,  when  that 
ran  short,  driving  to  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  to  procure  dis- 
count— at  a  percentage — for  the  customers'  bills. 

"  My  life,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  "  what  a  demd  devil  of 
a  time  you  have  been  ! " 

"  I  didn't  even  know  Mr.  Nickleby  was  here,  my  love,'* 
said  Madame  Mantalini. 

"  Then  what  a  double  demd  infernal  rascal  that  foot- 
man must  be,  my  soul,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Mantalini. 

"My  dear,"  said  Madame,  "  that  is  entirely  your 
fault." 

"  My  fault,  my  heart's  joy?" 

"  Certainly, "  returned  the  lady  ;  "what  can  you  ex- 
pect, dearest,  if  you  will  not  correct  the  man  ?  " 

"  Correct  the  man,  my  soul's  delight  !" 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  sure  he  wants  speaking  to,  badly  enough," 
said  Madame,  pouting. 

"  Then  do  not  vex  itself,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini;  "he 
shall  be  horse-whipped  till  he  cries  out  demnebly." 
With  this  promise  Mr.  Mantalini  kissed  Madame  Manta- 
lini, and,  after  that  performance,Madame  Mantalini  pulled 
Mr.  Mantalini  playfully  by  the  ear :  which  done,  they  de- 
scended to  business. 

"  Now,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph,  who  had  looked  on,  at  all 
this,  with  such  scorn  as  few  men  can  express  in  looks, 
"this  is  my  niece." 

"Just  so,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  replied  Madame  Mantalini, 
surveying  Kate  from  head  to  foot,  and  back  again. 
"  Can  you  speak  French,  child  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Kate,  not  daring  to  look  up  ; 
for  she  felt  that  the  eyes  of  the  odious  man  in  the  dress- 
ing-gown were  directed  towards  her. 

"  Like  a  demd  native? "  asked  the  husband. 

Miss  Nickleby  offered  no  reply  to  this  inquiry,  but 
turned  her  back  upon  the  questioner,  as  if  addressing 
herself  to  make  answer  to  what  his  wife  might  demand. 

We  keep  twenty  young  women  constantly  employed} 
in  the  establishment,"  said  Madame. 

"  Indeed,  ma'am  I "  replied  Kate,  timidly. 


NICHOLAS  NIGKLEBY. 


37 


"Yes;  and  some  of  'em  demd  handsome,  too,"  said 
tbe  master. 

"  Mantalini  !"  exclaimed  his  wife,  in  an  awful  voice. 

"  My  senses'  idol  !  "  said  Mantalini. 

' '  Do  you  wish  to  break  my  heart  ?  " 

"  Not  for  twenty  thousand  hemispheres  populated  with 
— with — with  little  ballet  dancers,"  replied  Mantalini  in 
a  poetical  strain. 

"Then  you  will,  if  you  persevere  in  that  mode  of 
speakingr,"  said  his  wife.  "What  can  Mr.  Nickleby 
think  when  he  hears  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Nothing,  ma'am,  nothing,"  replied  Ralph.  "  I 
know  his  amiable  nature,  and  yours, — mere  little  remarks 
that  give  a  zest  to  your  daily  intercourse — lovers'  quarrels 
that  add  sweetness  to  those  domestic  joys  which  promise 
to  last  so  long — that's  all ;  that's  all." 

If  an  iron  door  could  be  supposed  to  quarrel  with  its 
hinges,  and  to  make  a  firm  resolution  to  open  with  slow 
obstinacy,  and  grind  them  to  powder  in  the  process,  it 
would  emit  a  pleasanter  sound  in  so  doing,  than  did 
these  words  in  the  rough  and  bitter  voice  in  which  they 
were  uttered  by  Ralph.  Even  Mr.  Mantalini  felt  their 
influence,  and  turning  affrighted  round,  exclaimed  : 
"  What  a  demd  horrid  croaking  !  " 

"You  will  pay  no  attention,  if  you  please,  to  what  Mr. 
Mantalini  says,"  observed  his  wife,  addressing  Miss 
Nickleby. 

"  I  do  not,  ma'am,"  said  Kate,  with  quiet  contempt. 

"  Mr.  Mantalini  knows  nothing  whatever  about  any  of 
the  young  women,"  continued  Madame,  looking  at  her 
husband,  and  speaking  to  Kate.  "  If  he  has  seen  any  of 
them,  he  must  have  seen  them  in  the  street,  going  to,  or 
returning  from,  their  work,  and  not  here.  He  was  never 
even  in  the  room.  I  do  not  allow  it.  What  hours  of 
work  have  you  been  accustomed  to  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  yet  been  accustomed  to  work  at  all, 
ma'am,"  replied  Kate,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  For  which  reason  she'll  word  all  the  better  now," 
said  Ralph,  putting  in  a  word,  lest  this  confession  should 
injure  the  negotiation. 

"I  hope  so,"  returned  Madame  Mantalini  ;  "our  hours 
are  from  nine  to  nine,  with  extra  work  when  we're  very 
full  of  business,  for  which  I  allow  payment  as  over- 
time." 

Kate  bowed  her  head,  to  intimate  that  she  heard,  and 
was  satisfied. 

"Your  meals,"  continued  Madame  Mantalini,  "that 
is,  dinner  and  tea,  you  will  take  here.  I  should  think 
your  wages  would  average  from  five  to  seven  shillings 
a- week  ;  but  I  can't  give  you  any  certain  information  on 
that  point,  until  I  see  what  you  can  do." 

Kate  bowed  her  head  again. 

"  If  you're  ready  to  come,"  said  Madame  Mantalini, 
"  you  had  better  begin  on  Monday  morning  at  nine  ex- 
actly, and  Miss  Knag  the  forewoman  shall  then  have 
directions  to  try  you  with  some  easy  work  at  first.  Is 
there  anything  more,  Mr.  Nickleby  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more,  ma'am,"  replied  Ralph,  rising. 

"  Then  I  believe  that's  all,"  said  the  lady.  Having 
arrived  at  this  natural  conclusion,  she  looked  at  the  door, 
as  if  she  wished  to  be  gone,  but  hesitated  notwithstand- 
ing, as  though  unwilling  to  leave  Mr.  Mantalini  the  sole 
honour  of  showing  them  down-stairs.  Ralph  relieved 
her  from  her  perplexity  by  taking  his  departure  without 
delay  :  Madame  Mantalini  making  many  gracious  in- 
quiries why  he  never  came  to  see  them  :  and  Mr.  Man- 
talini anathematised  the  stairs  with  great  volubility  as 
be  followed  them  down,  in  the  hope  of  inducing  Kate  to 
look,  round — a  hope,  however,  which  was  destined  to 
remain  ungratified. 

"  There  !"  said  Ralph  when  they  got  into  the  street  ; 
"now  you're  provided  for." 

Kate  was  about  to  thank  him  again,  but  he  stopped 
her. 

"  I  had  some  idea, "  he  said,  "of  providing  for  your 
mother  in  a  pleasant  part  of  the  country— (he  had  a  pre- 
sentation to  some  alms-houses  on  the  borders  of  Corn- 
wall, which  had  occurred  to  him  more  than  once) — but 
as  you  want  to  be  together,  I  must  do  something  else  for 
her.    She  has  a  little  money  ?  " 

*'  A  very  little."  replied  Kate. 

"  A  little  will  go  a  long  way  if  it's  used  sparingly," 


said  Ralph.  "  She  must  see  how  long  slie  can  make  it 
last,  living  rent  free.  You  leave  your  lodgings  on  Satur- 
day ?  " 

"  You  told  us  to  do  so,  uncle." 

"  Yes  ;  there  is  a  house  empty  that  belongs  to  me, 
which  lean  put  you  into,  till  it  is  let,  and  then,  if  noth- 
ing else  turns  up,  i>erhaps  I  shall  have  another.  You 
must  live  there." 

"  Is  it  far  from  here,  sir  ?  "  inquired  Kate. 

"Pretty  well,"  said  Ralph  ;  "in  another  quarter  of 
the  town — at  the  East  end  ;  but  I'll  send  my  clerk  down 
to  you,  at  five  o'clock  on  Saturday,  to  take  you  there. 
Good-by.    You  know  your  way?    Straight  on." 

Coldly  shaking  his  niece's  hand,  Ralph  left  her  at  the 
top  of  Regent  Street,  and  turned  down  a  bye  thorough- 
fare, intent  on  schemes  of  money -getting.  Kate  walked 
sadly  back,  to  their  lodgings  in  the  Strand. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Newman Noggs  inducts  Mrs.  and  Miss  Nicklehj  iJito  their  New  Dwell' 
ing  in  the  City. 

Miss  Ntckleby's  reflections,  as  she  wended  her  way 
homewards,  were  of  that  desponding  nature  which  the 
occurrences  of  the  morning  had  been  sufficiently  calcu- 
lated to  awaken.  Her  uncle's  was  not  a  manner  likely  to 
dispel  any  doubts  or  apprehensions  she  might  have 
formed,  in  the  outset,  neither  was  the  glimpse  she  had 
had  of  Madame  Mantalini's  establishment,  by  any  means 
encouraging.  It  was  with  many  gloomy  forebodings  and 
misgivings,  therefore,  that  she  looked  forward,  with  a 
heavy  heart,  to  the  opening  of  her  new  career. 

If  her  mother's  consolations  could  have  restored  her  to 
a  pleasanter  and  more  enviable  state  of  mind,  there  were 
abundance  of  them  to  produce  the  effect .  By  the  time 
Kate  reached  home,  the  good  lady  had  called  to  mind 
two  authentic  cases  of  milliners  who  had  been  possessed 
of  considerable  property,  though  whether  they  had  ac- 
quired it  all  in  business,  or  had  had  a  capital  to  start 
with,  or  had  been  lucky  and  married  to  advantage,  she 
could  not  exactly  remember.  However,  as  she  very 
logically  remarked,  there  must  have  been  some  young 
person  in  that  way  of  business  who  had  made  a  fortune 
without  having  anything  to  begin  with,  and  that  being 
taken  for  granted,  why  should  not  Kate  do  the  same  ? 
Miss  La  Creevy,  who  was  a  member  of  the  little  council, 
ventured  to  insinuate  some  doubts  relative  to  the  pro- 
bability of  Miss  Nickleby's  arriving  at  this  happy  con- 
summation in  the  compass  of  an  ordinary  lifetime  ;  but 
the  good  lady  set  that  question  entirely  at  rest,  by  in- 
forming them  that  she  had  a  presentiment  on  the  sul3ject 
— a  species  of  second-sight  with  which  she  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  clenching  every  argument  with  the  deceased 
Mr.  Nickleby,  and,  in  nine  cases  and  three  quarters  out 
of  every  ten,  determining  it  the  wrong  way. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  an  unhealthy  occupation,"  said 
Miss  La  Creevy.  "  I  recollect  getting  three  young  mil- 
liners to  sit  to  me,  when  I  first  began  to  paint,  and  I  re- 
member that  they  were  all  very  pale  and  sickly." 

"  Oh  !  that's  not  a  general  rule  by  any  means,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Nickleby  ;  "  for  I  remember  as  well  as  if  it 
was  only  yesterday,  employing  one  that  I  was  particu- 
larly recommended  to,  to  make  me  a  scarlet  cloak  at  the 
time  when  scarlet  cloaks  were  fashionable,  and  she  had 
a  very  red  face — a  very  red  face,  indeed." 

"  Perhaps  she  drank,"  suggested  Miss  La  Creevy. 

"I  don't  know  how  that  may  have  been,"  returned 
Mrs.  Nickleby  :  "but  I  know  she  had  a  very  red  face,  so 
your  argument  goes  for  nothing." 

In  this  manner,  and  with  like  powerful  reasoning,  did 
the  worthy  matron  meet  every  little  objection  that  pre- 
sented itself  to  the  new  scheme  of  the  morning.  Happy 
Mrs.  Nickleby  !  A  project  had  but  to  be  new,  and  it 
came  home  to  her  mind,  brightly  varnished  and  gilded 
as  a  glettering  toy. 

This  question  disposed  of,  Kate  communicated  her 
uncle's  desire  about  the  empty  house,  to  which  Mrs. 
Nickleby  assented  with  equal  readiness,  characteristic- 
ally remarking,  that,  on  the  fine  evenings,  it  would  be  a 
pleasant  amusement  for  her  to  walk  to  the  West  end  to 


38 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


fetch  her  daughter  home  ;  and  no  less  characteristically 
forgetting-,  that  there  were  such  things  as  wet  nights 
and  had  weather  to  be  encountered  in  almost  every  week 
of  the  year. 

"I  shall  be  sorry— truly  sorry  to  leave  you,  my  kind 
friend,"  said  Kate,  on  whom  the  good  feeling  of  the 
poor  miniature-painter  had  made  a  deep  impression. 

"  You  shall  not  shake  me  off,  for  all  that,"  replied 
Miss  La  Creevy,  with  as  much  sprightliness  as  she  could 
assume.  "  I  shall  see  you  very  often,  and  come  and  hear 
how  you  get  on  ;  and  if,  in  London,  or  all  the  wide  world 
besides,  there  is  no  other  heart  that  takes  an  interest  in 
your  welfare,  there  will  be  one  little  lonely  woman  that 
prays  for  it  night  and  day." 

With  this,  the  poor  soul  who  had  a  heart  big  enough 
for  Gog,  the  guardian  genius  of  London,  and  enough  to 
spare  for  Magog  to  boot,  after  making  a  great  many  ex- 
traordinary faces  which  would  have  secured  her  an  ample 
fortune,  could  she  have  transferred  them  to  ivory  or  can- 
vas, sat  down  in  a  corner,  and  had  what  she  termed  "  a 
real  good  cry." 

But  no  crying,  or  talking,  or  hoping,  or  fearing,  could 
keep  off  the  dreaded  Saturday  afternoon,  or  Newman 
Noggs  either  ;  who,  punctual  to  his  time,  limped  up  to  the 
door,  and  breathed  a  wiff  of  cordial  gin  through  the  key- 
hole, exactly  as  such  of  the  church  clocks  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood as  agreed  among  themselves  about  the  time 
struck  five.  Newman  waited  for  the  last  stroke,  and 
then  knocked. 

"  From  Mr.  Kalph  Nickleby,"  said  Newman,  announc- 
ing his  errand,  when  he  got  up-stairs,  with  all  possible 
brevity. 

"  We  shall  be  ready  directly,"  said  Kate.       We  have 
not  much  to  carry,  but  I  fear  we  must  have  a  coach." 
"  I'll  get  one,"  replied  Newman. 

"  Indeed  you  shall  not  trouble  yourself,"  said  Mrs. 
Nickleby. 

"  I  will,"  said  Newman. 

"  I  can't  suffer  you  to  think  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Mrs. 
Nickleby. 

"  You  can't  help  it  !  "  said  Newman. 
"Not  help  it !" 

' '  No  ;  I  thought  of  it  as  I  came  along :  but  didn't  get 
one,  thinking  you  mightn't  be  ready.  I  think  of  a  great 
many  things.    Nobody  can  prevent  that." 

"Oh  yes,  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Noggs,"  said  Mrs. 
Nickleby.  "  Our  thoughts  are  free,  of  course.  Every- 
body's thoughts  are  their  own,  clearly." 

"  They  wouldn't  be,  if  some  people  had  their  way," 
muttered  Newman. 

"  Well,  no  more  they  would,  Mr.  Noggs,  and  that's 
very  true,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  Some  people  to 
be  sure  are  such — how's  your  master  ?  " 

Newman  darted  a  meaning  glance  at  Kate,  and  replied 
with  a  strong  emphasis  on  tlie  last  -e/ord  of  his  answer, 
that  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  was  well,  and  sent  his  love. 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  very  much  obliged  to  him,"  observed 
Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"Very,"  said  Newman.    " I'll  tell  him  so." 

It  was  no  very  easy  matter  to  mistake  Newman  Noggs, 
after  having  once  seen  him,  and  as  Kate,  attracted  by 
the  singularity  of  his  manner  (in  which  on  this  occasion, 
however,  there  was  something  respectful  and  even  deli- 
cate, notwithstanding  the  abruptness  of  his  speech), 
looked  at  him  more  closely,  she  recollected  having  caught 
a  passing  glimpse  of  that  strange  figure  before. 

"  Excuse  my  curiosity,"  she  said,  "  but  did  I  not  see 
you  in  the  coachyard,  on  the  morning  my  brother  went 
away  to  Yorkshire  ?" 

Newman  cast  a  wistful  glance  on  Mrs.  Nickleby,  and 
said  "No,"  most  unblushingJy. 

"  No  !  "  exclaimed  Kate,  "  I  should  have  said  so  any- 
where." 

"  You'd  have  said  wrong,"  rejoined  Newman.  "  It's 
the  first  time  I've  been  out  for  three  weeks.  I've  had 
the  gout." 

Newman  was  very,  very  far  from  having  the  appear- 
ance of  a  gouty  subject,  and  so  Kate  could  not  help  think- 
ing ;  but  the  conference  was  cut  short  by  Mrs.  Nickleby's 
insisting  on  having  the  door  shut,  lest  Mr.  Noggs  should 
take  cold,  and  further  persisting  in  sending  the  servant 
girl  for  a  coach,  for  fear  he  should  bring  on  another  at- 


tack of  his  disorder.  To  both  conditions,  Newman  was 
compelled  to  yield.  Presently,  the  coach  came  ;  and, 
after  many  sorrowful  farewells,  and  a  great  deal  of  run- 
ning backwards  and  forwards  across  the  pavement  on  the 
part  of  Miss  La  Creevy,  in  the  coarse  of  which  the  yel- 
low turban  came  into  violent  contact  with  sundry  foot 
passengers,  it  (that  is  to  say  the  coach,  not  the  turban) 
went  away  again,  with  the  two  ladies  and  their  luggage 
inside  :  and  Newman,  despite  all  Mrs.  Nickleby's  assur- 
ances that  it  would  be  his  death — on  the  box  beside  the 
driver. 

They  went  into  the  city,  turning  down  by  the  river 
side  ;  and,  after  a  long  and  very  slow  drive,  the  streets 
being  crowded  at  that  hour  with  vehicles  of  every  kind, 
stopped  in  front  of  a  large  old  dingy  house  in  Thames 
Street  :  the  door  and  windows  of  which  were  so  bespat- 
tered with  mud,  that  it  would  have  appeared  to  have  been 
uninhabited  for  years. 

The  door  of  this  deserted  mansion  Newman  opened 
with  a  key  which  he  took  out  of  his  hat — in  which,  by- 
the-bye,  in  consequence  of  the  dilapidated  state  of  his 
pockets,  he  deposited  everything,  and  would  most  likely 
have  carried  his  money  if  he  had  had  any — and  the  coach 
being  discharged,  he  led  the  way  into  the  interior  of  the 
mansion. 

Old,  and  gloomy,  and  black,  in  truth  it  was,  and  sullen 
and  dark  were  the  rooms,  once  so  bustling  with  life  and 
enterprise.  There  was  a  wharf  behind,  opening  on  the 
Thames.  An  empty  dog-kennel,  some  bones  of  animals, 
fragments  of  iron  hoops,  and  staves  of  old  casks,  lay 
strewn  about,  but  no  life  was  stirring  there.  It  was  a 
picture  of  cold,  silent  decay. 

"This  house  depresses  and  chills  one,"  said  Kate, 
"and  seems  as  if  some  blight  had  fallen  on  it.  If  I 
were  superstitious,  I  should  be  almost  inclined  to  believe 
that  some  dreadful  crime  had  been  perpetrated  within  ■ 
these  old  walls,  and  that  the  place  had  never  prospered 
since.    How  frowning  and  how  dark  it  looks  ! " 

"  Lord,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "don't  talk 
in  that  way,  or  you'll  frighten  me  to  death." 

"  It  is  only  my  foolish  fancy,  mama,"  said  Kate,  forc- 
ing a  smile. 

"Well,  then,  my  love,  I  wish  you  would  keep  your 
foolish  fancy  to  yourself,  and  not  wake  up  my  foolish  ■ 
fancy  to  keep  it  company,"  retorted  Mrs.  Nickleby. 
"  Why  didn't  you  think  of  all  this  before — you  are  so 
careless — we  might  have  asked  Miss  La  Creevy  to  keep 
us  company  or  borrowed  a  dog,  or  a  thousand  things — 
but  it  always  was  the  way,  and  was  just  the  same  with «' 
your  poor  dear  father.   Unless  I  thought  of  everything — "  , 
This  was  Mrs.  Nickleby's  usual  commencement  of 
general  lamentation,  running  through  a  dozen  or  so  of! 
complicated  sentences  addressed  to  nobody  in  particular, 
and  into  which  she  now  launched,  until  her  breath  was  j 
exhausted. 

Newman  appeared  not  to  hear  these  remarks,  but  pre-  ' 
ceded  them  to  a  couple  of  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  i 
which  some  kind  of  attempt  had  been  made  to  render  ' 
habitable.  In  one,  were  a  few  chairs,  a  table,  an  old  i 
hearth-rug,  and  some  faded  baize  ;  and  a  fire  was  ready' 
laid  in  the  grate.  In  the  other,  stood  an  old  tent  bed- 1 
stead,  and  a  few  scanty  articles  of  chamber  furniture. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  trying  to  be 
pleased,  "  now  isn't  this  thoughtful  and  considerate  of 
your  uncle  ?    Why,  we  should  not  have  had  anything  F 
but  the  bed  we  bought  yesterday,  to  lie  down  upon,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  his  thoughtfulness  !  " 

"  Very  kind,  indeed,"  replied  Kate,  looking  round.  " 

Newman  Noggs  did  not  say  that  he  had  hunted  up  the 
old  furniture  they  saw,  from  attic  and  cellar  ;  or  that  he 
had  taken  in  the  halfpenny  worth  of  milk  for  tea  that 
stood  upon  a  shelf,  or  filled  the  rusty  kettle  on  the  hob, 
or  collected  the  wood-chips  from  the  wharf,  or  begged 
the  coals.  But  the  notion  of  Ralph  Nickleby  hav- 
ing directed  it  to  be  done,  tickled  his  fancy  so  much,  that! 
he  could  not  refrain  from  cracking  all  his  ten  fingers  in 
succession  :  at  which  performance  Mrs.  Nickleby  was' 
rather  startled  at  first,  but  supposing  it  to  be  in  some  re-| 
mote  manner  connected  with  the  gout,  did  not  remark 
upon. 

"  We  need  detain  you  no  longer,  I  think,"  said  Kate.  ' 
"  Is  there  nothing  1  can  do  ?  "  asked  Newman. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


39 


"Nothing,  thank  you,"  rejoined  Miss  Nickleby. 

"  Perhaps,  my  dear,  Mr.  Noggs  would  like  to  drink 
out  healths,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  fumbling  in  her  reti- 
cule for  some  small  coin. 

"  I  think,  mama,"  said  Kate  hesitating,  and  remarking 
Newman's  averted  face,  "  you  would  hurt  his  feelings  if 
you  offered  it." 

Newman  Noggs,  bowing  to  the  young  lady  more  like  a 
gentleman  than  the  miserable  wretch  he  seemed,  placed 
his  hand  upon  his  breast,  and,  pausing  for  a  moment, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  struggles  to  speak  but  is  un- 
certain what  to  say,  quitted  the  room. 

As  the  jarring  echoes  of  the  heavy  house-door,  closing 
on  its  latch,  reverberated  dismally  through  the  building, 
Kate  felt  half  tempted  to  call  him  back,  and  beg  him  to 
remain  a  little  while,  but  she  was  ashamed  to  own  her 
fears,  and  Newman  Noggs  was  on  his  road  homewards. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Whereby  the  Reader  wUl  be  enabled  to  trace  the  further  course  of  Miss 
Fanny  Squeers's  Love,  and  to  ascertain  whether  it  ran  smooth  or 
otherwise. 

It  was  a  fortunate  circumstance  for  Miss  Fanny 
Squeers,  that  when  her  worthy  papa  returned  home  on 
the  night  of  the  small  tea-party,  he  was  what  the  initiated 
term  "  too  far  gone  "  to  observe  the  numerous  tokens  of 
extreme  vexation  of  spirit  which  were  plainly  visible  in 
her  countenance.  Being,  however,  of  a  rather  violent 
and  quarrelsome  mood  in  his  cups,  it  is  not  impossible 
that  he  might  have  fallen  out  with  her,  either  on  this  or 
some  imaginary  topic,  if  the  young  lady  had  not,  with  a 
foresight  and  prudence  highly  commendable,  kept  a  boy 
up,  on  purpose,  to  bear  the  first  brunt  of  the  good  gentle- 
man's anger  ;  which,  having  vented  itself  in  a  variety  of 
kicks  and  cuffs,  subsided  sufficiently  to  admit  of  his  be- 
ing persuaded  to  go  to  bed.  Which  he  did  with  his  boots 
on,  and  an  umbrella  under  his  arm. 

The  hungry  servant  attended  Miss  Squeers  in  her  own 
room  according  to  custom,  to  curl  her  hair,  perform  the 
other  little  offices  of  her  toilet,  and  administer  as  much 
flattery  as  she  could  get  up,  for  the  purpose  ;  for  Miss 
Squeers  was  quite  lazy  enough  (and  sufficiently  vain  and 
frivolous  withal)  to  have  been  a  fine  lady  ;  and  it  was 
only  the  arbitrary  distinctions  of  rank  and  station  which 
prevented  her  from  being  one. 

"  How  lovely  your  hair  do  curl  to-night,  miss  !  "  said 
the  handmaiden,  "  I  declare  if  it  isn't  a  pity  and  a  shame 
to  brush  it  out  ! " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  ! "  replied  Miss  Squeers,  wratli- 
fully. 

Some  considerable  experience  prevented  the  girl  from 
being  at  all  surprised  at  any  outbreak  of  ill -temper  on  the 
part  of  Miss  Squeers.  Having  a  half  perception  of  what 
had  occurred  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  she  changed 
her  mode  of  making  herself  agreeable,  and  proceeded  on 
the  indirect  tack. 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  help  saying,  miss,  if  you  was  to  kill 
me  for  it,"  said  the  attendant,  "  that  I  never  see  nobody 
look  so  vulgar  as  Miss  Price  this  night." 

Miss  Squeers  sighed,  and  composed  herself  to  listen. 

"  I  know  it's  very  wrong  in  me  to  say  so,  miss,"  con- 
tinued the  girl,  delighted  to  see  the  impression  she  was 
making,  "  Miss  Price  being  a  friend  of  your'n,  and  all  ; 
but  she  do  dress  herself  out  so,  and  go  on  in  such  a  man- 
ner to  get  noticed,  that — oh — well,  if  people  only  saw 
themselves  !*' 

"What  do  you  mean,  Phib  ?  "  asked  Miss  Squeers, 
looking  in  her  own  little  glass,  where,  like  most  of  us, 
she  saw— not  herself,  but  the  reflection  of  some  pleasant 
image  in  her  own  brain.    "  How  you  talk  !  " 

"  Talk,  miss  !  It's  enough  to  make  a  Tom  cat  talk 
French  grammar,  only  to  see  how  she  tosses  her  head," 
replied  the  handmaid. 

"  She  does  toss  her  head,"  observed  Miss  Squeers,  with 
an  air  of  abstraction. 

"So  vain,  and  so  very — very  plain,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Poor  'Tilda  !  "  sighed  Miss  Squeers,  compassion- 
ately. 

"And  always  laying  herself  out  so,  to  get  to  be  ad- 


mired," pursued  the  servant.  "Oh  dear  !  It's  i>ositive 
indelicate." 

"  I  can't  allow  you  to  talk  in  that  way,  Phib,"  said 
Miss  Squeers.  "  'Tilda's  friends  are  low  people,  and 
if  she  don't  know  any  better,  it's  their  fault,  and  not 
hers." 

"Well,  but  you  know,  miss,"  said  Phoebe,  for  which 
name  "Phib"  was  used  as  a  patronizing  abbreviation, 
I  "if  she  was  only  to  take  copy  by  a  friend — oh  !  if  she 
only  knew  how  wrong  she  was,  and  would  but  set  her- 
self right  by  you,  what  a  nice  young  woman  she  might 
be  in  time  ! " 

"  Phib,"  rejoined  Miss  Squeers,  with  a  stately  air,  "  it's 
not  proper  for  me  to  hear  these  comparisons  drawn  ;  they 
make  'Tilda  look  a  coarse  improper  sort  of  person,  and  it 
seems  unfriendly  in  me  to  listen  to  them.  I  would 
rather  you  dropped  the  subject,  Phib  ;  at  the  same  time, 
I  must  say,  that  if  'Tilda  Price  would  take  pattern  by 
somebody — not  me  particularly — " 

"  Oh  yes  ;  you  miss,"  interposed  Phib. 

"Weil,  me,  Phib,  if  you  will  have  it  so,"  said  Miss 
Squeers.  ' '  I  must  say,  that  if  she  would,  she  would  be 
i  all  the  better  for  it. " 

"So  somebody  else  thinks,  or  I  am  much  mistaken,'* 
said  the  girl  mysteriously. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  demanded  Miss  Squeers. 

"  Never  mind,  miss,"  replied  the  girl  ;  "iknow  what  I 
know  ;  that's  all." 

"  Phib,"  said  Miss  Squeers  dramatically,  "  I  insist  upon 
your  explaining  yourself.  What  is  this  dark  mystery  ? 
Speak." 

"Why,  if  you  will  have  it,  miss,  it's  this,"  said  the 
servant  girl.  "  Mr.  John  Browdie  thinks  as  you  think  ; 
and  if  he  wasn't  too  far  gone  to  do  it  creditable,  he'd  be 
very  glad  to  be  off  wtih  Miss  Price  and  on  with  Miss 
Squeers." 

"  Gracious  Heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Squeers,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  with  great  dignity.    "  What  is  this  ?  " 

"  Truth,  ma'am,  and  nothing  but  truth,"  replied  the 
artful  Phib. 

"What  a  situation  !"  cried  Miss  Squeers;  "on  the 
brink  of  unconsciously  destroying  the  peace  and  happi- 
ness of  my  own  'Tilda.  What  is  the  rea.son  that  men 
fall  in  love  with  me,  whether  I  like  it  or  not,  and  desert 
their  chosen  intendeds  for  my  sake  !  " 

"  Because  they  can't  help  it,  miss,"  replied  the  girl  ; 
"the  reason's  plain."  (If  Miss  Squeers  were  the  reason, 
it  was  very  plain.) 

"  Never  let  me  hear  of  it  again,"  retorted  Miss  Squeers. 
"Never!  Do  you  hear?  'Tilda  Price  has  faults — 
many  faults — but  I  wish  her  well,  and  above  all  I  ^vish 
her  married  ;  for  I  think  it  highly  desirable— most  desir- 
able from  the  very  nature  of  her  failings — that  she 
should  be  married  as  soon  as  possible.  No,  Phib.  Let 
her  have  Mr.  Browdie.  I  may  pity  7nm,  poor  fellow  ; 
but  I  have  a  great  regard  for  'Tilda,  and  only  hope  she 
may  make  a  better  wife  than  I  think  she  will." 

With  this  effusion  of  feeling.  Miss  Squeers  went  to 
bed. 

Spite  is  a  little  word  ;  but  it  represents  as  strange  a 
jumble  of  feelings,  and  compound  of  discords,  as  any 
pollysyllable  in  the  language.  Miss  Squeers  knew  as 
well  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  that  what  the  miserable 
serving  girl  had  said  was  sheer,  coarse,  lying  flattery, 
as  did  the  girl  herself.;  yet  the  mere  opportunity  of  vent- 
ing a  little  ill-nature  against  the  offending  Miss  Price, 
and  affecting  to  compassionate  her  weaknesses  and  foibles, 
though  only  in  the  presence  of  a  solitary  dependant,  was 
almost  as  great  a  relief  to  her  spleen  as  if  the  whole  had 
been  gospel  truth.  Nay,  more.  We  have  such  extraor- 
dinary powers  of  persuasion  when  they  are  exerted  over 
ourselves,  that  Miss  Squeers  felt  quite  high-minded  and 
great  after  her  noble  renunciation  of  John  Browdie's 
hand,  and  looked  down  upon  her  rival  with  a  kind  of  holy 
I  calmness  and  tranquillity,  that  had  a  mighty  effect  in 
soothing  her  ruffled  feelings. 

This  happy  state  of  mind  had  some  influence  in  bring- 
ing about  a  reconciliation  ;  for,  when  a  knock  came  at 
the  front  door  next  day,  and  the  miller's  daughter  was 
announced.  Miss  Squeers  betook  herself  to  the  parlour  in 
a  Christian  frame  of  spirit,  perfectly  beautiful  to  behold. 

"  Well,  Fanny,"  said  the  miller's  daughter,  "  You  see 


40 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


I  have  come  to  see  jou,  although  we  had  some  words 
last  night." 

"I  pity  your  bad  passions,  'Tilda,"  replied  Miss 
Squeers  ;  "  but  I  bear  no  malice.    I  am  above  it." 

"  Don't  be  cross,  Fanny,"  said  Miss  Price.  "  I  have 
come  to  tell  you  something  that  I  know  will  please 
you." 

"What  may  that  be,  'Tilda?"  demanded  Miss 
Squeers  ;  screwing  up  her  lips,  and  looking  as  if  nothing 
in  earth,  air,  fire,  or  water,  could  afEord  her  the  slightest 
gleam  of  satisfaction . 

"This,"  rejoined  Miss  Price.  "After  we  left  here 
last  night,  John  and  I  had  a  dreadful  quarrel." 

"  That  doesn't  please  me,"  said  Miss  Squeers — relaxing 
into  a  smile  though. 

"  Lor  !  I  wouldn't  think  so  bad  of  you  as  to  suppose  it 
did,"  rejoined  her  companion.    "  That's  not  it." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Miss  Squeers,  relapsing  into  melancholy. 

Go  on." 

"  After  a  great  deal  of  wrangling,  and  saying  we  would 
never  see  each  other  any  more,"  continued  Miss  Price, 
"  we  made  it  up,  and  this  morning  John  went  and  wrote 
our  names  down  to  be  put  up,  for  the  first  time,  next 
Sunday,  so  we  shall  be  married  in  three  weeks,  and  I 
give  you  notice  to  get  your  frock  made." 

There  was  mingled  gall  and  honey  in  this  intelligence. 
The  prospect  of  the  friend's  being  married  so  soon,  was 
the  gall,  and  the  certainty  of  her  not  entertaining  seri- 
ous designs  upon  Nicholas  was  the  honey.  Upon  the 
whole,  the  sweet  greatly  preponderated  over  the  bitter, 
so  Miss  Squeers  said  she  would  get  the  frock  made,  and 
that  she  hoped  'Tilda  might  be  happy,  though  at  the 
same  time  she  didn't  know,  and  would  not  have  her 
build  too  much  upon  it,  for  men  were  strange  creatures, 
and  a  great  many  married  women  were  very  miserable, 
and  wished  themsel  ves  single  again  with  all  their  hearts  ; 
to  which  condolences  Miss  Squeers  added  others  equally 
calculated  to  raise  her  friend's  spirits  and  promote  her 
cheerfulness  of  mind. 

"  But  come  now,  Fanny,"  said  Miss  Price,  "I  want 
to  have  a  word  or  two  with  you  about  young  Mr.  Nick- 
ieby." 

"He  is  nothing  to  me,"  interrupted  Miss  Squeers, 
with  hysterical  symptoms.    "  I  despise  him  too  much  !  " 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  that,  I  am  sure?"  replied  her 
friend.    "  Confess,  Fanny  ;  don't  you  like  him  now  ?  " 

Withou'^  returning  any  direct  reply.  Miss  Squeers,  all 
at  once,  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of  spiteful  tears,  and  ex- 
claimed that  she  was  a  wretched,  neglected,  miserable, 
castaway. 

"  I  hate  everybody,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  "  and  I  wish 
that  everybody  was  dead — that  I  do.." 

"Dear,  dear,"  said  Miss  Price,  quite  moved  by  this 
avowal  of  misanthropical  sentiments.  "You  are  not 
serious,  I  am  sure." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  rejoined  Miss  Squeers,  tying  tight  knots 
in  her  pocket-handkerchief  and  clenching  her  teeth. 
"  And  I  wish  /  was  dead  too.    There  !  " 

"  Oh  !  you'll  think  very  differently  in  another  five 
minutes,"  said  Matilda.  "How  much  better  to  take 
him  into  favour  again,  than  to  hurt  yourself  by  going  on 
in  that  way.  Wouldn't  it  be  much  nicer,  now,  to  have 
him  all  to  yourself  on  good  terms,  in  a  company-keeping, 
love-making,  pleasant  sort  of  manner?" 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  it  would,"  sobbed  Miss 
Squeers.  "  Oh  !  'Tilda,  how  could  you  have  acted  so 
mean  and  dishonourable  !  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of 
you,  if  anybody  had  told  me." 

"Heyday!"  exclaimed  Miss  Price,  giggling.  "One 
would  suppose  I  had  been  murdering  somebody  at  least." 

"  Very  nigh  as  bad,"  said  Miss  Squeers  passionately. 

"  And  all  this,  because  I  happen  to  have  enough  of 
good  looks  to  make  people  civil  to  me,"  cried  Miss 
Price.  "  Persons  don't  make  their  own  faces,  and  it's  no 
more  my  fault  if  mine  is  a  good  one  than  it  is  other  peo- 
ple's fault  if  theirs  is  a  bad  one." 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  shrieked  Miss  Squeers,  in  her 
shrillest  tone  ;  "  or  you'll  make  me  slap  you,  'Tilda,  and 
afterwards  I  should  be  sorry  for  it !  " 

It  is  needless  to  say,  that,  by  this  time,  the  temper  of 
each  young  lady  was  in  some  slight  degree  affected  by 
the  tone  of  her  conversation,  and  that  a  dash  of  person- 


ality was  infused  into  the  altercation,  in  consequence. 
Indeed,  the  quarrel,  from  slight  beginnings,  rose  to  a 
considerable  height,  and  was  assuming  a  very  violent 
complexion,  when  both  parties,  falling  into  a  great  pas- 
sion of  tears,  exclaimed  simultaneously,  that  they  had 
never  thought  of  being  spoken  to  in  that  way  :  which 
exclamation,  leading  to  a  remonstrance,  gradually 
brought  on  an  explanation  :  and  the  upshot  was,  that 
they  fell  into  each  other's  arms  and  vowed  eternal  friend- 
ship  ;  the  occasion  in  question,  making  the  fifty-second 
time  of  repeating  the  same  impressive  ceremony  within 
a  twelvemonth. 

Perfect  amicability  being  thus  restored,  a  dialogue 
naturally  ensued  upon  the  number  and  nature  of  the 
garments  which  would  be  indispensable  for  Miss  Price's 
entrance  into  the  holy  state  of  matrimony,  when  Miss 
Squeers  clearly  showed  that  a  great  many  more  than  the 
miller  could,  or  would,  afEord,  were  absolutely  necessary, 
and  could  not  decently  be  dispensed  with.  The  young 
lady  then,  by  an  easy  digression,  led  the  discourse  to  her 
own  wardrobe,  and  after  recounting  its  principal  beau- 
ties, at  some  length,  took  her  friend  up-stairs  to  make 
inspection  thereof.  The  treasures  of  two  drawers  and  a 
closet  having  been  displayed,  and  all  the  smaller  arti- 
cles tried  on,  it  was  time  for  Miss  Price  to  return  home  ; 
and  as  she  had  been  in  raptures  with  all  the  frocks,  and 
had  been  stricken  quite  dumb  with  admiration  of  a  new 
pink  scarf,  Miss  Squeers  said  in  high  good  humour,  that 
she  would  walk  part  of  the  way  with  her,  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  her  company  ;  and  off  they  went  together :  Miss 
Squeers  dilating,  as  they  walked  along,  upon  her  father's 
accomplishments  :  and  multiplying  his  income  by  ten,  to 
give  her  friend  some  faint  notion  of  the  vast  importance 
and  superiority  of  her  family. 

It  happened  that  that  particular  time,  comprising  the 
short  daily  interval  which  was  suffered  to  elapse  be- 
tween what  was  pleasantly  called  the  dinner,  of  Mr. 
Squeers's  pupils,  and  their  return  to  the  pursuit  of  use- 
ful knowledge,  was  precisely  the  hour  when  Nicholas 
was  accustomed  to  issue  forth  for  a  melancholy  walk, 
and  to  brood,  as  he  sauntered  listlessly  through  the  vil- 
lage, upon  his  miserable  lot.  Miss  Squeers  knew  this, 
perfectly  well,  but  had  perhaps  forgotten  it,  for  when 
she  caught  sight  of  that  young  gentleman  advancing 
towards  them,  she  evinced  many  symptoms  of  surprise 
and  consternation  and  assured  her  friend  that  she  "felt 
fit  to  drop  into  the  earth." 

"  Shall  we  turn  back,  or  run  into  a  cottage  ?"  asked 
Miss  Price.    "He  don't  see  us  yet." 

"No,  'Tilda,"  replied  Miss  Squeers,  "it  is  my  duty  to 
go  through  with  it,  and  I  will  !  " 

.  As  Miss  Squeers  said  this,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has 
made  a  high  moral  resolution,  and  was,  besides,  taken 
with  one  or  two  chokes  and  catchings  of  breath,  indica- 
tive of  feelings  at  a  high  pressure,  her  friend  made  no 
further  remark,  and  they  bore  straight  down  upon  Nicho- 
las, who,  walking  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground, 
was  not  aware  of  their  approach  until  they  were  close 
upon  him  ;  otherwise  he  might,  perhaps,  have  taken 
shelter  himself. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Nicholas,  bowing  and  passing 

by- 

"He  is  going,"  murmured  Miss  Squeers.  "I  shall 
choke,  'Tilda." 

"Come  back,  Mr.  Nickleby,  do!"  cried  Miss  Price, 
affecting  alarm  at  her  friend's  threat,  but  really  actuated 
by  a  malicious  wish  to  hear  what  Nicholas  would  say  * 
"  come  back,  Mr.  Nickleby  !  " 

Mr.  Nickleby  came  back,  and  looked  as  confused  as 
might  be,  as  he  inquired  whether  the  ladies  had  any 
commands  for  him. 

"Don't  stop  to  talk,"  urged  Miss  Price,  hastily  ;  "but 
support  her  on  the  other  side.  How  do  you  feel  now, 
dear  ?  " 

"  Better,"  sighed  Miss  Squeers,  laying  a  beaver  bonnet 
of  a  reddish  brown  with  a  green  veil  attached,  on  Mr. 
Nickleby's  shoulder.    "  This  foolish  faintness  !" 

"Don't  call  it  foolish,  dear,"  said  Miss  Price,  her 
bright  eye  dancing  with  merriment  as  she  saw  the  per- 
plexity of  Nicholas  ;  "  you  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed 
of  it.  It's  those  who  are  too  proud  to  come  round  again, 
without  all  this  to-do,  that  ought  to  be  ashamed." 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


41 


"You  are  resolved  to  fix  it  upon  me,  I  see,"  said 
Nicholas,  smiling,  "although  I  told  you,  last  night,  it 
was  not  my  fault." 

"  There  ;  he  says  it  was  not  his  fault,  my  dear,"  re- 
marked the  wicked  Miss  Price.  "Perhaps  you  were 
too  jealous,  or  too  hasty  with  him?  He  says  it  was  not 
his  fault.  You  hear  ;  I  think  that's  apology  enough." 
^  "  You  will  not  understand  me,"  said  Nicholas.  "  Pray 
dispense  with  this  jesting,  for  I  have  no  time,  and  really 
no  inclination,  to  be  the  subject  or  promoter  of  mirth, 
just  now." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Miss  Price,  affecting 
amazement. 

"Don't  ask  him,  'Tilda,"  cried  Miss  Squeers  ;  "  I  for- 
give him." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Nicholas,  as  the  brown  bonnet  went 
down  on  his  shoulder  again,  "  this  is  more  serious  than 
I  supposed.  Allow  me  !  Will  you  have  the  goodness 
to  hear  me  speak  ?  " 

Here  he  raised  up  the  brown  bonnet,  and  regarding 
with  most  unfeigned  astonishment  a  look  of  tender  re- 
proach from  Miss  Squeers,  shrunk  back  a  few  paces  to 
be  out  of  the  reach  of  the  fair  burden,  and  went  on  to 
say  : 

"  I  am  very  sorry — truly  and  sincerely  sorry — for  hav- 
ing been  the  cause  of  any  difference  among  you,  last 
night.  I  reproach  myself,  most  bitterly,  for  having  been 
so  unfortunate  as  to  cause  the  dissension  that  occurred, 
although  I  did  so,  I  assure  you,  most  unwittingly  and 
heedlessly. " 

"  Well  ;  that's  not  all  you  have  got  to  say  surely," 
exclaimed  Miss  Price  as  Nicholas  paused. 

"I  fear  there  is  something  more,"  stammered  Nicho- 
las with  a  half  smile,  and  looking  towards  Miss  Squeers, 
"  it  is  a  most  awkward  thing  to  say — but — the  very  men- 
tion of  such  a  supposition  makes  one  look  like  a  puppy 
— still — may  I  ask  if  that  lady  supposes  that  I  entertain 
any — in  short,  does  she  think  that  I  am  in  love  with 
her?" 

"Delightful  embarrassment,"  thought  Miss  Squeers, 
"I  have  brought  him  to  it,  at  last.  Answer  for  me, 
dear,"  she  whispered  to  her  friend. 

"  Does  she  think  so  ?  "  rejoined  Miss  Price  ;  "  of  course 
she  does." 

"  She  does  !"  exclaimed  Nicholas  with  such  energy  of 
utterance  as  might  have  been,  for  the  moment,  mistaken 
for  rapture. 

"Certainly,"  replied  Miss  Price. 

"If  Mr.  Nicklebyhas  doubted  that,  'Tilda,"  said  the 
blushing  Miss  Squeers  in  soft  accents,  "he  may  set  his 
mind  at  rest.    His  sentiments  are  recipro — " 

"Stop,"  cried  Nicholas  hurriedly;  "pray  hear  me. 
This  is  the  grossest  and  wildest  delusion,  the  completest 
and  most  signal  mistake,  that  ever  human  being  laboured 
under,  or  committed.  I  have  scarcely  seen  the  young 
lady  half  a  dozen  times,  but  if  I  had  seen  her  sixty 
times,  or  am  destined  to  see  her  sixty  thousand,  it  would 
be,  and  will  be,  precisely  the  same.  I  have  not  one 
thought,  wish  or  hope,  connected  with  her,  unless  it  be 
— and  I  say  this,  not  to  hurt  her  feelings,  but  to  impress 
her  with  the  real  state  of  my  own — unless  it  be  the  one 
object,  dear  to  my  heart  as  life  itself,  of  being  one  day 
able  to  turn  my  back  upon  this  accursed  place,  never  to 
set  foot  in  it  again,  or  think  of  it— even  think  of  it — but 
with  loathing  and  disgust." 

With  this  particularly  plain  and  straight-forward  dec- 
laration, which  he  made  with  all  the  vehemence  that  his 
indignant  and  excited  feelings  could  bring  to  bear  upon 
it,  Nicholas,  waiting  to  hear  no  more,  retreated. 

But  poor  Miss  Squeers  !  Her  anger,  rage,  and  vexa- 
tion ;  the  rapid  succession  of  bitter  and  passionate  feel- 
ings that  whirled  through  her  mind  ;  are  not  to  be  de- 
scribed. Refused !  refused  by  a  teacher,  picked  up  by 
advertisement,  at  an  annual  salary  of  five  pounds  pavabfe 
at  indefinite  periods,  and  "found"  in  food  and  lodging 
like  the  very  boys  themselves  ;  and  this  too  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  little  chit  of  a  miller's  daughter  of  eighteen, 
who  was  going  to  be  married,  in  three  weeks'  time,  to  a 
man  who  had  gone  down  on  his  very  knees  to  ask  her  ! 
"^iie  could  have  choked  in  right  good  earnest,  at  the 
thought  of  being  so  humbled. 

But,  there  was  one  thing  clear  in  the  midst  of  her  mor- 


tification ;  and  that  was,  that  she  hated  and  detested 
Nicholas  with  all  the  narrowness  of  mind  and  litthjiiess 
of  purpose  worthy  a  descendant  of  the  house  of  Squeers. 
And  there  was  one  comfort  too  ;  and  that  was,  that  every 
hour  in  every  day  she  could  wound  his  pride,  and  goad 
him  with  the  infliction  of  some  slight,  or  insult,  or  de- 
privation, which  could  not  but  have  some  effect  on  the 
most  insensible  person,  and  must  be  acutely  felt  by  one 
so  sensitive  as  Nicholas.  With  these  two  reflections 
uppermost  in  her  mind,  Miss  Squeers  made  the  be.st  of 
the  matter  to  her  friend,  by  observing  that  Mr.  Nickleby 
was  such  an  odd  creature,  and  of  such  a  violent  temper, 
that  she  feared  she  should  be  obliged  to  give  him  up  ; 
and  parted  from  her. 

And  here  it  may  be  remarked,  that  Miss  Squeers,  hav- 
ing bestowed  her  affections  (or  whatever  it  might  be  that, 
in  the  absence  of  anything  better,  represented  them)  on 
Nicholas  Nickleby,  had  never  once  seriously  comtem- 
plated  the  possibility  of  his  being  of  a  different  opinion 
from  herself  in  the  business.  Miss  Squeers  reasoned 
that  she  was  prepossessing  and  beautiful,  and  that  her 
father  was  master,  and  Nicholas  man,  and  that  her 
father  had  saved  money,  and  Nicholas  had  none,  all  of 
which  seemed  to  her  conclusive  arguments  why  the 
young  man  should  feel  only  too  much  honoured  by  her 
preference.  She  had  not  failed  to  recollect,  either,  how 
much  more  agreeable  she  could  render  his  situation  if 
she  were  his  friend,  and  how  much  more  disagreeable  if 
she  were  his  enemy  ;  and,  doubtless,  many  less  scrup- 
ulous young  gentlemen  than  Nicholas  would  have  en- 
couraged her  extravagance  had  it  been  only  for  this  very 
obvious  and  intelligible  reason.  However,  he  had  thought 
proper  to  do  otherwise,  and  Miss  Squeers  was  outrage- 
ous. 

"  Let  him  see,"  said  the  irritated  young  lady,  when 
she  had  regained  her  own  room,  and  eased  her  mind  by 
committing  an  assault  on  Phib,  "if  I  don't  set  mother 
against  him  a  little  more  when  she  comes  back  !" 

It  was  scarcely  necessary  to  do  this,  but  Miss  Squeers 
was  as  good  as  her  word  ;  and  poor  Nicholas,  in  addition 
to  bad  food,  dirty  lodging,  and  the  being  compelled  to 
witness  one  dull  unvarying  round  of  squalid  misery,  was 
treated  with  every  special  indignity  that  malice  could 
suggest,  or  the  most  grasping  cupidity  put  upon  him. 

Nor  was  this  all.  There  was  another  and  deeper  sys- 
tem of  annoyance  which  made  his  heart  sink,  and  nearly 
drove  him  wild,  by  its  injustice  and  cruelty. 

The  wretched  creature,  Smike,  since  the  night  Nich- 
olas had  spoken  kindly  to  him  in  the  school-room,  had 
followed  him  to  and  fro,  with  an  ever  restless  desire  to 
serve  or  help  him  ;  anticipating  such  little  wants  as  his 
humble  ability  could  supply,  and  content  only  to  be  near 
him.  He  would  sit  beside  him  for  hours,  looking 
patiently  into  his  face  ;  and  a  word  would  brighten  up 
his  care-worn  visage,  and  call  into  it  a  passing  gleam, 
even  of  happiness.  He  was  an  altered  being  ;  he  had  an 
object  now  ;  and  that  object  was,  to  show  his  attach- 
ment to  the  only  person — that  person  a  stranger — who 
had  treated  him,  not  to  say  with  kindness,  but  like  a 
human  creature. 

Upon  this  poor  being,  all  the  spleen  and  ill-humour 
that  could  not  be  vented  on  Nicholas  were  unceasingly 
bestowed.  Drudgery  would  have  been  nothing — Smike 
was  well  used  to  that.  Buffetings  inflicted  without  cause, 
would  have  been  equally  a  matter  of  course  ;  for  to  them 
also,  he  had  served  a  long  and  weary  apprenticeship  ; 
but  it  was  no  sooner  observed  that  he  had  become  at- 
tached to  Nicholas,  than  stripes  and  blows,  stripes  and 
blows,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  were  his  only  portion. 
Squeers  was  jealous  of  the  influence  which  his  man  had 
so  soon  acquired,  and  his  family  hated  him,  and  Smike 
paid  for  both.  Nicholas  saw  it,'  and  ground  his  teeth  at 
every  repetition  of  the  savage  and  cowardly  attack. 

He  had  arranged  a  few  regular  lessons  for  the  boys  ; 
and  one  night  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  dismal 
school-room,  his  swoln  heart  almost  bursting  to  think 
that  his  protection  and  countenance  should  have  in- 
creased the  misery  of  the  wretched  being  whose  peculiar 
destitution  had  awakened  his  pity,  he  paused  mechan- 
ically in  a  dark  corner  where  sat  the  object  of  his 
thoughts. 

The  poor  soul  was  poring  hard  over  a  tattered  book. 


42 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


with  the  traces  of  recent  tears  still  upon  his  face  ;  vainly- 
endeavouring  to  master  some  task  which  a  child  of  nine 
years  old,  possessed  of  ordinary  powers,  could  have  con- 
quered with  ease,  but  which,  to  the  addled  brain  of  the 
crushed  boy  of  nineteen,  was  a  sealed  and  hopeless  mys- 
tery. Yet  there  he  sat,  patiently  conning  the  page  again 
and  again,  stimulated  by  no  boyish  ambition,  for  he  was 
the  common  jest  and  scoff  even  of  the  uncouth  objects 
that  congregated  about  him,  but  inspired  by  the  one  eager 
desire  to  please  his  solitary  friend. 

Nicholas  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  I  can't  do  it,"  said  the  dejected  creature,  looking  up 
with  bitter  disappointment  in  every  feature.    "  No,  no." 

"Do  not  try,"  replied  Nicholas. 

The  boy  shook  his  head,  and  closing  the  book  with  a 
sigh,  looked  vacantly  round,  and  laid  his  head  upon  his 
arm.    He  was  weeping. 

"  Do  not  for  God's  sake,"  said  Nicholas,  in  an  agitated 
voice  ;  "I  cannot  bear  to  see  you." 

"  They  are  more  hard  with  me  than  ever,"  sobbed  the 
boy. 

"  I  know  it,"  rejoined  Nicholas.    "  They  are." 

"  But  for  you,"  said  the  outcast,  "  I  should  die.  They 
would  kill  me  ;  they  would  ;  I  know  they  would." 

"  You  will  do  better,  poor  fellow,"  replied  Nicholas, 
shaking  his  head  mournfully,  "  when  I  am  gone." 

"  Gone  !"  cried  the  other,  looking  intently  in  his  face. 

"  Softly  ! "  rejoined  Nicholas.    "  Yes." 

"Are  you  going ?"  demanded  the  boy  in  an  earnest 
whisper. 

"I  cannot  say,"  replied  Nicholas.  "I  was  speaking 
more  to  my  own  thoughts,  than  to  you." 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  boy  imploringly,  "Oh  do  tell  me, 
mill  you  go — loill  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  driven  to  that  at  last  !"  said  Nicholas. 
"The  world  is  before  me,  after  all." 

"Tell  me,"  urged  Smike,  "  is  the  world  as  bad  and 
dismal  as  this  place?  " 

"  Heaven  forbid,"  replied  Nicholas,  pursuing  the  train 
of  his  own  thoughts,  "it's  hardest,  coarsest  toil,  were 
happiness  to  this." 

"  Should  I  ever  meet  you  there  ?  "  demanded  the  boy, 
speaking  with  unusual  wildness  and  volubility, 

"Yes,"  replied  Nicholas,  willing  to  soothe  him. 

"  No,  no  !"  said  the  other,  clasping  him  by  the  hand. 
"  Should  I — should  I — tell  me  that  again.  Say  I  should 
be  sure  to  find  you." 

"  You  would,"  replied  Nicholas,  with  the  same  humane 
intention,  "  and  I  would  help  and  aid  you,  and  not  bring 
fresh  sorrow  on  you  as  I  have  done  here." 

The  boy  caught  both  the  young  man's  hands  passion- 
ately in  his,  and,  hugging  them  to  his  breast,  uttered  a 
few  broken  sounds  which  were  unintelligible.  Squeers 
entered,  at  the  moment,  and  he  shrunk  back  into  his  old 
corner. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

Nicholas  varies  the  Monotony  of  I)otheboys  Hall  by  a  most  vigorous  and 
remarkable  Proceeding,  which  leads  to  Consequences  of  some  Impor- 
tance. 

The  cold,  feeble  dawn  of  a  January  morning  was  steal- 
ing in  at  the  windows  of  the  common  sleeping-room,  when 
Nicholas,  raising  himself  on  his  arm,  looked  among  the 
prostrate  forms  which  on  every  side  surrounded  him,  as 
though  in  search  of  some  particular  object. 

It  needed  a  quick  eye  to  detect,  from  among  the  huddled 
mass  of  sleepers,  the  form  of  any  given  individual.  As 
they  lay  closely  packed  together,  covered,  for  warmth's 
sake,  with  their  patched  and  ragged  clothes,  little  could 
be  distinguished  but  the  sharp  outlines  of  pale  faces,  over 
which  the  sombre  light  shed  the  same  dull  heavy  colour  ; 
witli,  here  and  there,  a  gaunt  arm  thrust  forth  :  its  thin- 
ness hidden  by  no  covering,  but  fully  exposed  to  view, 
in  all  its  shrunken  ugliness.  There  were  some  who,  ly- 
ing on  their  backs  with  upturned  faces  and  clenched 
liands,  just  visible  in  the  leaden  light,  bore  more  the  as- 
pect of  dead  bodies  than  of  living  creatures  ;  and  there 
were  others  coiled  up  into  strange  and  fantastic  postures, 
such  as  might  have  been  taken  for  the  uneasy  efforts  of 
pain  to  gain  some  temijorary  relief,  rather  than  the  freaks 


of  slumber.  A  few — and  these  were  among  the  youngest 
of  the  children — slept  peacefully  on,  with  smiles  upon 
their  faces,  dreaming  perhaps  of  home ;  but  ever  and 
again  a  deep  and  heavy  sigh,  breaking  the  stillness  of 
the  room,  announced  that  some  new  sleeper  had  awakened 
to  the  misery  of  another  day  ;  and,  as  morning  took  the 
place  of  night,  the  smiles  gradually  faded  away,  with  the 
friendly  darkness  which  had  given  them  birth. 

Dreams  are  the  bright  creatures  of  poem  and  legend, 
who  sport  on  earth  in  the  night  season,  and  melt  away 
in  the  first  beam  of  the  sun,  which  lights  grim  care  and 
stern  reality  on  their  daily  pilgrimage  through  the  world. 

Nicholas  looked  upon  the  sleepers  ;  at  first,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  gazes  upon  a  scene  which,  though  famil- 
iar to  him,  has  lost  none  of  its  sorrowful  effect  in  con- 
sequence ;  and,  afterwards,  with  a  more  intense  and 
searching  scrutiny,  as  a  man  would,  who  missed  some- 
thing his  eye  was  accustomed  to  meet,  and  had  expected 
to  rest  upon.  He  was  still  occupied  in  this  search,  and 
had  half  risen  from  his  bed  in  the  eagerness  of  his  quest, 
when  the  voice  of  Squeers  was  heard,  calling  from  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs. 

"  Now  then,"  cried  that  gentleman,  "  are  you  going  to 
sleep  all  day,  up  there — " 

"  You  lazy  hounds  ?  "  added  Mrs.  Squeers,  finishing  the 
sentence,  and  producing,  at  the  same  time,  a  sharp 
sound,  like  that  which  is  occasioned  by  the  lacing  of 
stays. 

"  We  shall  be  down  directly,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  Down  directly  !  "  said_  Squeers.  "  Ah  !  you  had 
better  be  down  directly,  or  I'll  be  down  upon  some  of 
you  in  less.    Where's  that  Smike?" 

Nicholas  looked  hurriedly  round  again,  but  made  no 
answer. 

' '  Smike  ! "  shouted  Squeers. 

"Do  you  want  your  head  broke  in  a  fresh  place, 
Smike?"  demanded  his  amiable  lady  in  the  same  key. 

Still  there  was  no  reply,  and  still  Nicholas  stared 
about  him,  as  did  the  greater  part  of  the  boys,  who  were 
by  this  time  roused. 

"Confound  his  impudence!"  muttered  Squeers,  rap- 
ping the  stair-rail  impatiently  with  his  cane.  "Nickle- 
by  !" 

"Well,  sir." 

"Send  that  obstinate  scoundrel  down  ;  don't  you  hear 
me  calling  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  here,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  Don't  tell  me  a  lie,"  retorted  the  schoolmaster.  "  He 
is." 

"  He  is  not,"  retorted  Nicholas  angrily,  "  don't  tell  me 
one." 

"We  shall  soon  see  that,"  said  Mr.  Squeers,  rushing 
up-stairs.    "I'll  find  him,  I  warrant  you." 

With  which  assurance,  Mr.  Squeers  bounced  into  the 
dormitory,  and,  swinging  his  cane  in  the  air  ready  for  a 
blow,  darted  into  the  corner  where  the  lean  body  of  the 
drudge  was  usually  stretched  at  night.  The  cane  de- 
scended harmlessly  upon  the  ground.  There  was  nobody 
there. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  said  Squeers,  turning  round 
with  a  very  pale  face.    "  Where  have  you  hid  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  nothing  of  him,  since  last  night,"  replied 
Nicholas. 

"Come,"  said  Squeers,  evidently  frightened,  though 
he  endeavoured  to  look  otherwise,  "you  won't  save  him 
this  way.    Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  At  the  bottom  of  the  nearest  pond  for  aught  I  know," 
rejoined  Nicholas  in  a  low  voice,  and  fixing  his  eyes  full 
on  the  master's  face. 

"D — n  you,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  retorted 
Squeers  in  great  perturbation.  Without  waiting  for  a 
reply,  he  inquired  of  the  boys  whether  any  one  among 
them  knew  anything  of  their  missing  schoolmate. 

There  was  a  general  hum  of  anxious  denial,  in  the 
midst  of  which,  one  shrill  voice  was  heard  to  say  (as,  in- 
deed, everybody  thought)  : 

"Please,  sir,  I  think  Smike's  run  away,  sir." 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  Squeers,  turning  sharp  round  ;  "  Who 
said  that  ?  " 

"  Tomkins,  please  sir,"  rejoined  a  chorus  of  voices. 
Mr.  Squeers  made  a  plunge  into  the  crowd,  and  at  one 
dive,  caught  a  very  little  boy,  habited  still  in  his  night 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


43 


gear,  and  the  perplexed  expression  of  whose  countenance 
as  he  was  brought  forward,  seemed  to  intimate  that  he 
was  as  yet  uncertain  whether  he  was  about  to  be  punished 
or  rewarded  for  the  suggestion.  He  was  not  long  in 
doubt. 

"  You  think  he  has  run  away,  do  you,  sir  ?  "  demanded 
Squeers. 

"Yes,  please  sir,"  replied  the  little  boy. 

"  And  what,  sir,"  said  Squeers,  catching  the  little  boy 
suddenly  by  the  arms  and  whisking  up  his  drapery  in  a 
most  dexterous  manner,  ''what  reason  have  you  to  sup- 
pose that  any  boy  would  want  to  run  away  from  this 
establishment  ?   Eh,  sir  ?  " 

The  child  raised  a  dismal  cry,  by  way  of  answer,  and 
Mr.  Squeers,  throwing  himself  into  the  most  favourable 
attitude  for  exercising  his  strength,  beat  him  until  the 
little  urchin  in  his  writhings  actually  rolled  out  of  his 
hands,  when  he  mercifully  allowed  him  to  roll  away,  as 
he  best  could. 

"  There,"  said  Squeers.  "  Now  if  any  other  boy 
thinks  Smike  has  run  away,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  a 
talk  with  him." 

There  was,  of  course,  a  profound  silence,  during  which 
Nicholas  showed  his  disgust  as  plainly  as  looks  could 
show  it. 

"Well,  Nickleby,"  said  Squeers,  eyeing  him  malici- 
ously.   "  You  think  he  has  run  away,  I  suppose?" 

"  I  think  it  extremely  likely,"  replied  Nicholas,  in  a 
quiet  manner. 

"  Oh,  you  do,  do  you?"  sneered  Squeers.  "Maybe 
you  know  he  has  ?  " 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  He  didn't  tell  you  he  was  going,  I  suppose,  did  he  ?  " 
sneered  Squeers. 

"He  did  not,"  replied  Nicholas  ;  "I  am  very  glad  he 
did  not,  for  it  would  then  have  been  my  duty  to  have 
warned  you,  in  time." 

"  Which  no  doubt  you  would  have  been  devilish  sorry 
to  do,"  said  Squeers  in  a  taunting  fashion. 

"  I  should  indeed,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  You  interpret 
my  feelings  with  great  accuracy ." 

Mrs.  Squeers  had  listened  to  this  conversation,  from 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs  ;  but,  now  losing  all  patience, 
she  hastily  assumed  her  night-jacket,  and  made  her  way 
to  the  scene  of  action. 

"  WTiat's  all  this  here  to  do?"  said  the  lady,  as  the 
boys  fell  off  right  and  left,  to  save  her  the  trouble  of 
clearing  a  passage  with  her  brawny  arms.  "What  on 
earth  are  you  a  talking  to  him  for,  Squeery  !" 

"Why,  my  dear,"  said  Squeers,  "the  fact  is,  that 
Smike  is  not  to  be  found." 

"  Well,  I  know  that,"  said  the  lady,  "  and  where's  the 
wonder  ?  If  you  get  a  parcel  of  proud-stomached  teachers 
that  set  the  young  dogs  a  rebelling,  what  else  can  you 
look  for  ?  Now,  young  man,  you  just  have  the  kindness 
to  take  yourself  off  to  the  school-room,  and  take  the  boys 
off  with  yon,  and  don't  you  stir  out  of  there  'till  you  have 
leave  given  you,  or  you  and  I  may  fall  out  in  a  way 
that'll  spoil  your  beauty,  handsome  as  you  think  your- 
self, and  so  I  tell  you." 

"  Indeed  !"  .said  Nicholas. 

"  Yes  ;  and  indeed  and  indeed  again.  Mister  Jacka- 
napes," said  the  excited  lady  ;  "  and  I  wouldn't  keep 
such  as  you  in  the  house  another  hour,  if  I  had  my 
way." 

"Nor  would  you  if  I  had  mine,"  replied  Nicholas. 
"  Now,  boys  !  " 

"  Ah  !  Now  boys,"  said  Mrs.  Squeers,  mimicking  as 
nearly  as  she  could,  the  voice  and  manner  of  the  usher. 
"  Follow  your  leader,  boys,  and  take  pattern  by  Smike 
if  you  dare.  See  what  he'll  get  for  himself,  when  he  is 
brought  back  ;  and,  mind  !  I  tell  you  that  you  shall  have 
as  bad,  and  twice  as  bad,  if  you  so  much  as  open  your 
mouths  about  him." 

"  If  I  catch  him,"  said  Squeers,  "I'll  only  stop  short 
of  fla^'ing  him  alive.    I  give  you  notice,  boys." 

"  If  you  catch  him,"  retorted  Mrs.  Squeers,  contempt- 
uously, "  you  are  sure  to  ;  you  can't  help  it,  if  you  go 
the  right  way  to  work.    Come  !    Away  with  you  ! " 

With  these  words,  Mrs.  Squeers  dismissed  the  boys, 
and  after  a  little  light  skirmishing  with  those  in  the  rear 
who  were  pressing  forward  to  get  out  of  the  way,  but 


were  detained  for  a  few  moments  by  the  throng  in  front, 
succeeded  in  clearing  the  room,  when  she  confronted  her 
spouse  alone. 

"  He  is  off,"  said  Mrs.  Squeers.  "  The  cow-house  and 
stable  are  locked  up,  so  he  can't  be  there  ;  and  he's  not 
down-stairs  anywhere,  for  the  girl  has  looked.  He  must 
have  gone  York  way,  and  by  a  x>ublic  road  too." 

"Why  must  he?"  inquired  Squeers. 

"Stupid!"  said  Mrs.  Squeers  angrily.  "He  hadn't 
any  money,  had  he  ?  " 

"  Never  had  a  penny  of  his  own  in  his  whole  life,  that 
I  know  of,"  replied  Squeers. 

"To  be  sure,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Squeers,  "and  he  didn't 
take  anything  to  eat  with  him  ;  that  I'll  answer  for. 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! " 

' '  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! "  laughed  Squeers.  • 

"Then,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  S.,  "he  must  beg  his 
way,  and  he  could  do  that,  nowhere,  but  on  the  public 
road." 

"  That's  true,"  exclaimed  Squeers,  clapping  his  hands. 

"  True  !  Yes  ;  but  you  would  never  have  thought  of 
it,  for  all  that,  if  I  hadn't  said  so,"  replied  his  wife. 
"  Now,  if  you  take  the  chaise  and  go  one  road,  and  1  bor- 
row Swallow's  chaise,  and  go  the  other,  what  with  keep- 
ing our  eyes  open,  and  asking  questions,  one  or  other  of 
us  is  pretty  certain  to  lay  hold  of  him." 

The  worthy  lady's  plan  was  adopted  and  put  in  execu- 
tion without  a  moment's  delay.  After  a  very  hasty 
breakfast,  and  the  prosecution  of  some  inquiries  in  the 
village,  the  result  of  which  seemed  to  .show  that  he  was 
on  the  right  track,  Squeers  started  forth  in  the  pony 
chaise,  intent  upon  discovery  and  vengeance.  Shortly 
afterwards,  Mrs.  Squeers,  arrayed  in  the  white  top-coat, 
and  tied  up  in  various  shawls  and  handkerchiefs,  issued 
forth  in  another  chaise  and  another  direction,  taking  with 
her  a  good-sized  bludgeon,  several  odd  pieces  of  strong 
cord,  and  a  stout  labouring  man  :  all  provided  and  car- 
ried upon  the  expedition,  with  the  sole  object  of  assist- 
ing in  the  capture,  and  (once  caught)  insuring  the  safe 
custody  of  the  unfortunate  Smike. 

Nicholas  remained  behind,  in  a  tumult  of  feeling, 
sensible  that  whatever  might  be  the  upshot  of  the  boy's 
flight,  nothing  but  painful  and  deplorable  consequences 
were  likely  to  ensue  from  it.  Death,  from  want  and  ex- 
posure to  the  weather,  was  the  best  that  could  be  expected 
from  the  protracted  wandering  of  so  poor  and  helpless  a 
creature,  alone  and  unfriended,  through  a  country  of 
which  he  was  wholly  ignorant.  There  was  little,  perhaps, 
to  choose  between  this  fate  and  a  return  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  Yorkshire  school  ;  but  the  unhappy  being 
had  established  a  hold  upon  his  sympathy  and  compas- 
sion, which  made  his  heart  ache  at  the  prospect  of  the 
suffering  he  was  destined  to  undergo.  He  lingered  on, 
in  restless  anxiety,  picturing  a  thousand  possibilities, 
until  the  evening  of  next  day,  when  Squeers  returned, 
alone,  and  unsuccessful. 

"  No  news  of  the  scamp  !  "  said  the  schoolmaster,  who 
had  evidently  been  stretching  his  legs,  on  the  old  princi- 
ple, not  a  few  times  during  the  journey.  "  I'll  have  con- 
solation for  this  out  of  somebody,  Nickleby,  if  Mrs. 
Squeers  don't  hunt  him  down  ;  so  I  give  you  warning." 

"It  is  not  in  my  power  to  console  you,  sir,"  said  Nicho- 
las.   "  It  is  nothing  to  me. " 

"Isn't  it?"  said  Squeers  in  a  threatening  manner. 
"  We  shall  see  !  " 

"We  shall,"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"  Here's  the  pony  run  right  off  his  legs,  and  me 
obliged  to  come  home  with  a  hack  cob,  that'll  cost 
fifteen  shillings  besides  other  expenses,"  said  Squeers  ; 
"  who's  to  pay  for  that,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

Nicholas  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  remained  silent. 

"  I'll  have  it  out  of  somebody,  I  tell  you,"  said  Squeers, 
his  usual  harsh  crafty  manner  changed  to  open  bullying. 
"None  of  your  whining  vapourings  here,  Mr.  Puppy,  but 
be  off  to  your  kennel  for  it's  past  your  bed-time  !  Come  1 
Get  out  ! " 

Nicholas  bit  his  lip  and  knit  his  hands  involuntarily, 
for  his  finger-ends  tingled  to  avenge  the  insult  ;  but  re- 
membering that  the  man  was  drunk,  and  that  it  could 
come  to  little  but  a  noisy  brawl,  he  contented  himself 
^vith  darting  a  contemptuous  look  at  the  tyrant,  and  walked 
as  majestically  as  he  could,  up-stairs  :  not  a  little  nettled. 


44 


CHARLES  DIGKEN8'  WORKS. 


however,  to  observe  that  Miss  Squeers,  and  Master 
Squeers,  and  the  servant  girl,  were  enjoying  the  scene 
from  a  snug  corner ;  the  two  former,  indulging  in  many- 
edifying  remarks  about  the  presumption  of  poor  up-starts, 
which  occasioned  a  vast  deal  of  laughter,  in  which  even 
the  most  miserable  of  all  miserable  servant  girls  joined  : 
while  Nicholas,  stung  to  the  quick,  drew  over  his  head 
such  bed-clothes  as  he  had,  and  sternly  resolved  that 
the  outstanding  account  between  himself  and  Mr. 
Squeers  should  be  settled  rather  more  speedily  than  the 
latter  anticipated. 

Another  day  came,  and  Nicholas  was  scarcely  awake 
when  he  heard  the  wheels  of  a  chaise  approaching  the 
house.  It  stopped.  The  voice  of  Mrs.  Squeers  was 
heard,  and  in  exultation,  ordering  a  glass  of  spirits  for 
somebody,  which  was  in  itself  a  sufficient  sign  that  some- 
thing extraordinary  had  happened.  Nicholas  hardly 
dared  to  look  out  of  the  window  ;  but  he  did  so,  and  the 
very  first  object  that  met  his  eyes  was  the  wretched 
Smike  :  so  bedabbled  with  mud  and  rain,  so  haggard 
and  worn,  and  wild,  that,  but  for  his  garments  being 
such  as  no  scarecrow  was  ever  seen  to  wear,  he  might 
have  been  doubtful,  even  then,  of  his  identity. 

"  Lift  him  out,"  said  Squeers,  after  he  had  literally 
feasted  his  eyes,  in  silence,  upon  the  culprit.  "Bring 
him  in  ;  bring  him  in  !  " 

"Take  care,"  cried  Mrs.  Squeers,  as  her  husband 
proffered  his  assistance.  "  We  tied  his  legs  under  the 
apron  and  made  'em  fast  to  the  chaise,  to  prevent  his 
giving  as  the  slip  again." 

With  hands  trembling  with  delight,  Squeers  unloosened 
the  cord  ;  and  Smike,  to  all  appearance  more  dead  than 
alive,  was  brought  into  the  house  and  securely  locked 
up  in  a  cellar  until  such  time  as  Mr.  Squeers  should 
deem  it  expedient  to  operate  upon  him,  in  presence  of 
the  assembled  school. 

Upon  a  hasty  consideration  of  the  curcumstances,  it 
may  be  matter  of  surprise  to  some  persons,  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Squeers  should  have  taken  so  much  trouble  to  re- 
possess themselves  of  an  incumbrance  of  which  it  was 
their  wont  to  complain  so  loudly  ;  but  their  surprise  will 
cease  when  they  are  informed  that  the  manifold  services 
of  the  drudge,  if  performed  by  anybody  else,  would  have 
cost  the  establishment  some  ten  or  twelve  shillings  per 
week  in  the  shape  of  wages  ;  and  furthermore,  that  all 
runaways  were,  as  a  matter  of  policy,  made  severe  ex- 
amples of,  at  Dotheboys  Hall,  inasmuch  as,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  limited  extent  of  its  attractions,  there  was 
but  little  inducement,  beyond  the  powerful  impulse  of 
fear,  for  any  pupil,  provided  with  the  usual  number  of 
legs  and  the  power  of  using  them,  to  remain. 

The  news  that  Smike  had  been  caught  and  brought 
back  in  triumph,  ran  like  wild-fire  through  the  hungry 
community,  and  expectation  was  on  tiptoe  all  the  morn- 
ing. On  tiptoe  it  was  destined  to  remain,  however,  until 
afternoon  ;  when  Squeers,  having  refreshed  himself  with 
his  dinner,  and  further  strengthened  himself  by  an  extra 
libation  or  so,  made  his  appearance  (accompanied  by  his 
amiable  partner)  with  a  countenance  of  portentous  import 
and  a  fearful  instrument  of  flagellation,  strong,  supple, 
wax-ended,  and  new — in  short,  purchased  that  morning, 
expressly  for  the  occasion. 

"Is  every  boy  here?"  asked  Squeers,  in  a  tremendous 
voice. 

Every  boy  was  there,  but  every  boy  was  afraid  to 
speak  ;  so,  Squeers  glared  along  the  lines  to  assure  him- 
self ;  and  every  eye  drooped,  and  every  head  cowered 
down,  as  he  did  so. 

"  Each  boy  keep  his  place,"  said  Squeers,  administer- 
ing his  favourite  blow  to  the  desk,  and  regarding  with 
gloomy  satisfaction  the  universal  start  which  it  never 
failed  to  occasion.    "  Nickleby  !  to  your  desk,  sir." 

It  was  remarked  by  more  than  one  small  observer,  that 
there  was  a  very  curious  and  unusual  expression  in  the 
usher's  face  ;  but  he  took  his  seat,  without  opening  his 
lips  in  reply.  Squeers  casting  a  triumphant  glance  at 
his  assistant  and  a  look  of  most  comprehensive  despotism 
on  the  boys,  left  the  room,  and  shortly  afterwards  re- 
turned, dragging  Smike  by  the  collar — or  rather  by  that 
fragment  of  his  jacket  which  was  nearest  the  i)lace 
where  his  collar  would  have  been,  had  he  boasted  such 
a  decoration. 


In  any  other  place,  the  appearance  of  the  wretched, 
jaded,  spiritless  object  would  have  occasioned  a  murmur 
of  compassion  and  remonstrance.  It  had  some  effect, 
even  there  ;  for  the  lookers-on  moved  uneasily  in  their 
seats  ;  and  a  few  of  the  boldest  ventured  to  steal  looks 
at  each  other,  expressive  of  indignation  and  pity. 

They  were  lost  on  Squeers,  however,  whose  gaze  was 
fastened  on  the  luckless  Smike,  as  he  inquired,  accord- 
ing to  custom  in  such  cases,  whether  he  had  anything  to 
say  for  himself. 

"Nothing  I  suppose?"  said  Squeers,  with  a  diabolical 
grin.  ^ 

Smike  glanced  round,  and  his  eye  rested,  for  an  in- 
stant, on  Nicholas,  as  if  he  had  expected  him  to  inter- 
cede ;  but  his  look  was  riveted  on  his  desk. 

"Have  you  anything  to  say?"  demanded  Squeers 
again  :  giving  his  right  arm  two  or  three  flourishes  to  try 
its  power  and  suppleness.  "Stand  a  little  out  of  the 
way,  Mrs.  Squeers,  my  dear ;  I've  hardly  got  roopi 
enough." 

"  Spare  me,  sir  ! "  cried  Smike. 
;     "  Oh  !  that's  all,  is  it?"  said  Squeers.    "  Yes,  I'll  flog 
I  you  within  an  inch  of  your  life,  and  spare  you  that." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha,"  laughed  Mrs.  Squeers,  "that's  a  good 
'un  !" 

"  I  was  driven  to  do  it,"  said  Smike  faintly;  "and 
casting  another  imploring  look  about  him. 

"  Driven  to  do  it,  were  you?  "  said  Squeers.  "  Oh  !  it 
j  wasn't  your  fault ;  it  was  mine,  I  suppose — eh  ?  " 

"A  nasty,  ungrateful,  pig-headed,  brutish,  obstinate, 
sneaking  dog,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Squeers,  taking  Smike's 
I  head  under  her  arm,  and  administering  a  cuff  at  every 
:  epithet  ;  "  what  does  he  mean  by  that  ?" 
1  "Stand  aside,  my  dear,"  replied  Squeers.  "We'll 
,  try  and  find  out." 

!  Mrs.  Squeers  being  out  of  breath  with  her  exertions, 
!  complied.  Squeers  caught  the  boy  firmly  in  his  grip  ; 
:  one  desperate  cut  had  fallen  on  his  body — he  was  winc- 
ing from  the  lash  and  uttering  a  scream  of  pain — it  was 
raised  again,  and  again  about  to  fall-^when  Nicholas 
Nickleby  starting  up,  cried  "  Stop  ! "  in  a  voice  that 
made  the  rafters  ring. 

"Who  cried  stop?"  said  Squeers,  turning  savagely 
round. 

"I,"  said  Nicholas,  stepping  forward.  "This  must 
not  go  on." 

"Must  not  go  on  !  '*  cried  Squeers,  almost  in  a  shriek. 
"No  !"  thundered  Nicholas. 

Aghast  and  stupified  by  the  boldness  of  the  interfer- 
ence, Squeers  released  his  hold  of  Smike,  and,  falling 
back  a  pace  or  two,  gazed  upon  Nicholas  with  looks  that 
were  positively  frightful. 

"  I  say  must  not,"  repeated  Nicholas,  nothing  daunted  ; 
"  shall  not.    I  will  prevent  it." 

Squeers  continued  to  gaze  upon  him,  with  his  eyes 
starting  out  of  his  head  ;  iDut  astonishment  had  actually, 
for  the  moment,  bereft  him  of  speech. 

"  You  have  disregarded  all  my  quiet  interference  in 
the  miserable  lad's  behalf,"  said  Nicholas;  "you  have 
returned  no  answer  to  the  letter  in  which  I  begged  for- 
giveness for  him,  and  offered  to  be  responsible  that  he 
would  remain  quietly  here.  Don't  blame  me  for  this 
public  interference.  You  have  brought  it  upon  your- 
self ;  not  I. " 

"Sit  down,  beggar!"  screamed  Squeers,  almost  be- 
side himself  with  rage,  and  seizing  Smike  as  he  spoke. 

"Wretch,"  rejoined  Nicholas,  fiercely,  "touch  him 
at  ypur  peril  !  I  will  not  stand  by,  and  see  it  done.  My 
blood  is  up,  and  I  have  the  strength  of  ten  such  men  as 
you.  Look  to  yourself,  for  by  Heaven  I  will  not  spare 
you,  if  you  drive  me  on  !  " 

"  Stand  back,"  cried  Squeers,  brandishing  his  weapon. 

"  I  have  a  long  series  of  insults  to  avenge,"  said  Nich- 
olas, flushed  with  passion  ;  "  and  my  indignation  is  ag- 
gravated by  the  dastardly  cruelties  practised  on  helpless 
infancy  in  this  foul  den.  Have  a  care  ;  for  if  you  do 
raise  the  devil  within  me,  the  consequences  shall  fall 
heavily  upon  your  own  head  ! " 

He  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  Squeers,  in  a  violent 
outbreak  of  wrath,  and  with  a  cry  like  the  howl  of  a 
wild  beast,  spat  upon  him,  and  struck  him  a  blow  across 
the  face  with  his  instrument  of  torture,  which  raised  up 


NICHOLAS 

a  bar  of  livid  flesh  as  it  was  inflicted.  Smarting  with 
the  agony  of  the  blow,  and  concentrating  into  that  one 
moment  all  his  feelings  of  rage,  scorn,  and  indignation, 
Nicholas  sprang  upon  him,  wrested  the  weapon  from  his 
hand,  and  pinning  him  by  the  throat,  beat  the  rufiian  till 
he  roared  for  mercy. 

The  boys — with  the  exception  of  Master  Squeers,  who, 
coming  to  his  father's  assistance,  harassed  the  enemy  in 
the  rear — moved  not,  hand  or  foot  ;  but  Mrs.  Squeers, 
with  many  shrieks  for  aid,  hung  on  to  the  tail  of  her  part- 
ner's coat,  and  endeavoured  to  drag  him  from  his  infu- 
riated adversary  ;  while  Miss  Squeers,  who  had  been 
peeping  through  the  key-hole  in  expectation  of  a  very 
different  scene,  darted  in  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
attack,  and  after  launching  a  shower  of  inkstands  at  the 
usher's  head,  beat  Nicholas  to  her  heart's  content  ;  ani- 
mating herself,  at  every  blow,  with  the  recollection  of 
his  having  refused  her  proffered  love,  and  thus  imparting 
additional  strength  to  an  arm  which  (as  she  took  after 
her  mother  in  this  respect)  was,  at  no  time,  one  of  the 
weakest. 

Nicholas,  in  full  torrent  of  his  violence,  felt  the  blows 
no  more  than  if  they  had  been  dealt  with  feathers  ;  but, 
becoming  tired  of  the  noise  and  uproar,  and  feeling  that 
his  arm  grew  weak  besides,  he  threw  all  his  remaining 
strength  into  a  half-a-dozen  finishing  cuts,  and  flung 
Squeers  from  him,  with  all  the  force  he  could  muster. 

The  violence  of  his  fall  precipitated  Mrs.  Squeers  com- 
pletely over  an  adjacent  form  ;  and  Squeers  striking  his 
head  against  it  in  his  descent,  lay  at  his  full  length  on 
the  ground,  stunned  and  motionless. 

Having  brought  affairs  to  this  happy  termination,  and 
ascertained,  to  his  thorough  satisfaction,  that  Squeers 
was  only  stunned,  and  not  dead  (upon  which  point  he  had 
had  some  unpleasant  doubts  at  first),  Nicholas  left  his 
family  to  restore  him,  and  retired  to  consider  what 
course  he  had  better  adopt.  He  looked  anxiously  round 
for  Smike,  as  he  left  the  room,  but  he  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen. 

After  a  brief  consideration,  he  packed  up  a  few  clothes 
in  a  small  leathern  valise,  and,  finding  that  nobody 
offered  to  oppose  his  progress,  marched  boldly  out  by  the 
front  door,  and  shortly  afterwards,  struck  into  the  road 
which  led  to  Greta  Bridge. 

When  he  had  cooled,  sufficiently  to  be  enabled  to  give 
his  present  circumstances  some  little  reflection,  they  did 
not  appear  in  a  very  encouraging  light  ;  he  had  only  four 
shillings  and  a  few  pence  in  his  pocket,  and  was  some- 
thing more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  Lon- 
don, whither  he  resolved  to  direct  his  steps,  that  he 
might  ascertain,  among  other  things,  what  account  of 
the  morning's  proceedings  Mr.  Squeers  transmitted  to  his 
most  affectionate  uncle. 

Lifting  up  his  eyes,  as  he  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
there  was  no  remedy  for  this  unfortunate  state  of  things, 
he  beheld  a  horseman  coming  towards  him,  whom,  on 
nearer  approach,  he  discovered,  to  his  infinite  chagrin, 
to  be  no  other  than  Mr.  John  Browdie,  who,  clad  in  cords 
and  leather  leggings,  was  urging  his  animal  forward  by 
means  of  a  thick  ash  stick,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
recently  cut  from  some  stout  sapling. 

"I  am  in  no  mood  for  more  noise  and  riot,"  thought 
Nicholas,  "and  yet,  do  what  I  will,  I  shall  have  an  alter- 
cation with  this  honest  blockhead,  and  perhaps  a  blow  or 
two  from  yonder  staff. " 

In  truth,  there  appeared  some  reason  to  expect  that 
such  a  result  would  follow  from  the  encounter,  for  John 
Browdie  no  sooner  saw  Nicholas  advancing,  than  he 
reined  in  his  horse  by  the  footpath,  and  waited  until  such 
time  as  he  should  come  up  ;  looking  meanwhile,  very 
sternly  between  the  horse's  ears,  at  Nicholas,  as  he  came 
on  at  his  leisure. 

"Servant,  young  gentleman,"  said  John. 

"Yours,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Weel  :  we  ha'  met  at  last,"  observed  John  making 
the  stirrup  ring  under  a  smart  touch  of  the  ash  stick. 

"Yes,"  replied  Nicholas,  hesitating.  "Come  !  "  he  said, 
frankly,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  we  parted  on  no  very 
good  terms  the  last  time  we  met  ;  it  was  my  fault,  I  be- 
lieve ;  but  I  had  no  intention  of  offending  you,  and  no 
idea  that  I  was  doing  so.  I  was  very  sorry  for  it,  after- 
wards.   Will  you  shake  hands  ?  " 


NIGKLEBY,  45 

"  Shake  bonds  !  "  cried  the  good-humoured  Yorkshire- 
man  ;  "ah!  that  I  weel;"  at  the  same  time,  he  bent 
down  from  the  saddle,  and  gave  Nicholas's  fist  a  huge 
wrench  :  "  but  wa'at  be  the  matther  wi'  thy  feace,  mun? 
it  be  all  brokken  loike." 

"It  is  a  cut,"  said  Nicholas,  turning  scarlet  as  he 
spoke, — "  a  blow  ;  but  I  returned  it  to  the  giver,  and 
with  good  interest  too." 

"  Noa,  did 'ee  though?"  exclaimed  John  Browdie, 
"Well  deane  !  I  loike  'un  for  thot." 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Nicholas,  not  knowing  very  well 
how  to  make  the  avowal,  "  the  fact  is,  that  1  have  been 
ill-treated." 

"  Noa  ! "  interposed  John  Browdie,  in  a  tone  of  cAm\- 
passion  ;  for  he  was  a  giant  in  strength  and  stature,  and 
Nicholas,  very  likely,  in  his  eyes,  seen>ed  a  mere  dwarf ; 
"  dean't  say  thot." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  replied  Nicholas,  "by  that  man 
Squeers,  and  I  have  beaten  him  soundly,  and  am  leaving 
this  place  in  consequence." 

"  What  !  "  cried  John  Browdie,  with  such  an  ecstatic 
shout,  that  the  horse  quite  shyed  at  it.  ' '  Beatten  the 
schoolmeastlier  !  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  Beatten  the  school- 
measther  !  who  ever  heard  o'  the  loike  o'  that  noo  !  Giv'  us 
hee  bond  agean,  yoongster.  Beatten  the  school-meas- 
ther  !    Dang  it,  I  loove  thee  for't." 

With  these  expressions  of  delight,  John  Browdie 
laughed  and  laughed  again — so  loud  that  the  echoes,  far 
and  wide,  sent  back  nothing  but  jovial  peals  of  merri- 
ment— and  shook  Nicholas  by  the  hand  meanwhile,  no 
less  heartily.  When  his  mirth  had  subsided,  he  inquired 
what  Nicholas  meant  to  do  ;  on  his  informing  him,  to  go 
straight  to  London,  he  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  and 
inquired  if  he  knew  how  much  the  coaches  charged,  to 
carry  passengers  so  far. 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  but  it  is  of  no  great 
consequence  to  me,  for  I  intend  walking." 

"  Gang  awa'  to  Lunnun  afoot  !  "  cried  John,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Every  step  of  the  way,"  replied  Nicholas.  "I 
should  be  many  steps  further  on  by  this  time,  and  so 
good-bye  ! " 

"Nay  noo,"  replied  the  honest  countryman,  reining 
in  his  impatient  horse,  "stan'  still,  tellee.  Hoo  much 
cash  hast  thee  gotten  ?  " 

"Not  much,"  said  Nicholas,  colouring,  "but  I  can 
make  it  enough.  Where  there's  a  will,  there's  a  way, 
you  know." 

John  Browdie  made  no  verbal  answer  to  this  remark, 
but  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  pulled  out  an  old 
purse  of  soiled  leather,  and  insisted  that  Nicholas  should 
borrow  from  him  whatever  he  required  for  his  present 
necessities. 

"Dean't  be  afeard,  mun,"  he  said;  "  tak' eneaf  to 
carry  thee  whoam.    Thee'lt  pay  me  yan  day,  a'  warrant." 

Nicholas  could  by  no  means  be  prevailed  upon  to 
borrow  more  than  a  sovereign,  wath  which  loan  Mr. 
Browdie,  after  many  entreaties  that  he  would  accept  of 
more  (observing,  with  a  touch  of  Yorkshire  caution,  that 
if  he  didn't  spend  it  all,  he  could  put  the  surplus  by, 
till  he  had  an  opportunity  of  remitting  it  carriage  free), 
was  fain  to  content  himself. 

"  Tak'  that  bit  'o  timber  to  help  thee  on  wi,  mun,"  he 
added,  pressing  his  stick  on  Nicholas,  and  giving  his 
hand  another  squeeze  ;  "  keep  a  good  heart,  and  bless 
thee.  Beatten  the  schoolmeasther  !  'Cod  it's  the  best 
thing  a've  heerd  this  twenty  year  !  " 

So  saying,  and  indulging,  with  more  delicacy  than 
might  have  been  expected  from  him,  in  another  series 
of  loud  laughs,  for  the  purpose  of  avoiding  the  thanks 
which  Nicholas  poured  forth,  John  Browdie  set  spurs  to 
his  horse,  and  went  off  at  a  smart  canter  :  looking  back, 
from  time  to  time,  as  Nicholas  stood  gazing  after  him, 
and  waving  his  hand  cheerily,  as  if  to  encourage  him  on 
his  way.  Nicholas  watched  the  horse  and  rider  until 
they  disappeared  over  the  brow  of  a  distant  hill,  and  then 
set  for  wad  on  his  journey. 

He  did  not  travel  far,  that  afternoon,  for  by  this  time 
it  was  nearly  dark,  and  there  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of 
snow,  which  not  only  rendered  the  way  toilsome,  but 
the  track  uncertain  and  difficult  to  find,  after  daylight, 
save  by  experienced  wayfarers.    He  lay,  that  night,  at  a 


46 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


cottage,  where  beds  were  let  at  a  cheap  rate  to  the  more 
humble  class  of  travellers  ;  and,  rising  betimes  next 
morning,  made  his  way  before  night  to  Boroughbridge. 
Passing  through  that  town  in  search  of  some  cheap  rest- 
ing-place, he  stumbled  upon  an  empty  barn  within  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  of  the  road  side  ;  in  a  warm 
corner  of  which,  he  stretched  his  weary  limbs,  and  soon 
fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  next  morning,  and  tried  to  recollect 
his  dreams,  which  had  been  all  connected  with  his 
recent  sojourn  at  Dotheboys  Hall,  he  sat  up,  rubbed  his 
eyes,  and  stared — not  with  the  most  composed  counte- 
nance possible — at  some  motionless  object  which  seemed 
to  be  stationed  wi  thin  a  few  yards  in  front  of  him. 

"  Strange  ! "  cried  Nicholas  ;  "  can  this  be  some  linger- 
ing creation  of  the  visions  that  have  scarcely  left  me  ! 
It  cannot  be  real — and  yet  I — I  am  awake  !    Smike  ! " 

The  form  moved,  rose,  advanced,  and  dropped  upon 
its  knees  at  his  feet.    It  was  Smike  indeed. 

"Why  do  you  kneel  to  me?"  said  Nicholas,  hastily 
raising  him. 

"  To  go  with  you — anywhere — everywhere — to  the 
world's  end — to  the  churchyard  grave,"  replied  Smike, 
clinging  to  his  hand.  "  Let  me,  oh  do  let  me.  You  are 
my  home — my  kind  friend — take  me  with  you,  pray." 

"I  am  a  friend  who  can  do  little  for  you,"  said  Nicho- 
las, kindly.    "How  came  you  here ? " 

He  had  followed  him,  it  seemed  ;  had  never  lost  sight 
of  him  all  the  way  ;  had  watched  while  he  slept,  and 
when  he  halted  for  refreshments  ;  and  had  feared  to  ap- 
pear, before,  lest  he  should  be  sent  back.  He  had  not 
intended  to  appear  now,  but  Nicholas  had  awakened 
more  suddenly  than  he  looked  for,  and  he  had  had  no 
time  to  conceal  himself. 

"  Poor  fellow  ! "  said  Nicholas,  "  your  hard  fate  denies 
you  any  friend  but  one,  and  he  is  nearly  as  poor  and 
helpless  as  yourself." 

"  May  I — may  I  go  with  you  ?  "  asked  Smike,  timidly. 

I  will  be  your  faithful  hard-working  servant,  I  will. 
Indeed.  I  want  no  clothes,"  added  the  poor  creature, 
drawing  his  rags  together;  "these  will  do  very  well. 
1  only  want  to  be  near  you." 

"  And  you  shall,"  cried  Nicholas.  "And  the  world 
shall  deal  by  you  as  it  does  by  me,  till  one  or  both  of 
us  shall  quit  it  for  a  better.    Come  !" 

With  these  words,  he  strapped  his  burden  on  his 
shoulders,  and,  taking  his  stick  in  one  hand,  extended 
the  other  to  his  delighted  charge  ;  and  so  they  passed 
out  of  the  old  barn,  together. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Having  the  Misfortune  to  treat  of  none  but  Common  People,  is  neces- 
sarily of  a  Mean  and  Vulgar  Character. 

In  that  quarter  of  London  in  which  Golden  Square  is 
situated,  there  is  a  by-gone,  faded,  tumble-down  street, 
with  two  irregular  rows  of  tall  meagre  houses,  which 
seem  to  have  stared  each  other  out  of  countenance,  years 
ago.  The  very  chimneys  appear  to  have  grown  dismal  and 
melancholy,  from  havin  g  had  nothing  better  to  look  at, 
than  the  chimneys  over  the  way.  Their  tops  are  battered, 
and  broken,  and  blackened  with  smoke  ;  and,  here  and 
there,  some  taller  stack  than  the  rest,  inclining  heavily 
to  one  side,  and  toppling  over  the  roof,  seems  to  medi- 
tate taking  revenge  for  half  a  century's  neglect  by  crush- 
ing the  inhabitants  of  the  garrets  beneath. 

The  fowls  who  peck  about  the  kennels,  jerking  their 
bodies  liither  and  thither  with  a  gait  which  none  but 
town  fowls'  are  ever  seen  to  adopt,  and  which  any  coun- 
try cock  or  hen  would  be  puzzled  to  understand,  are  per- 
fectly in  keeping  with  the  crazy  habitations  of  their 
owners.  Dingy,  ill-plumed  drowsy  flutterers,  sent,  like 
many  of  the  neighbouring  children,  to  get  a  livelihood 
in  the  streets,  they  hop,  from  stone  to  stone,  in  forlorn 
search  of  some  hidden  eatable  in  the  mud,  and  can 
scarcely  raise  a  crow  among  them.  The  only  one  with 
anything  approaching  to  a  voice,  is  an  aged  bantam  at 
the  baker's  ;  and  even  he  is  hoarse,  in  consequence  of  bad 
living  in  his  last  place. 

To  judge  from  the  size  of  the  houses,  they  have  been, 


at  one  time,  tenanted  by  persons  of  better  condition  than 
their  present  occupants ;  but  they  are  now  let  off,  by 
the  week,  in  floors  or  rooms,  and  every  door  has  almost 
as  many  plates  or  bell-handles  as  there  are  apartments 
within.  The  windows  are,  for  the  same  reason,  suffi- 
ciently diversified  in  appearance,  being  ornamented  with 
every  variety  of  common  blind  and  curtain  that  can  easily 
be  imagined  ;  while  every  doorway  is  blocked  up,  and 
rendered  nearly  impassable,  by  a  motley  collection  of 
children  and  porter  pots  of  all  sizes,  from  the  baby  in 
arms,  and  the  half-pint  pot,  to  the  full-grown  girl  and 
half -gallon  can. 

In  the  parlour  of  one  of  these  houses,  which  was  per- 
haps a  thought  dirtier  than  any  of  its  neighbours  ;  which 
exhibited  more  bell -handles,  children,  and  porter  pots, 
and  caught  in  all  its  freshness  the  first  gust  of  the  thick 
black  smoke  that  poured  forth,  night  and  day,  from  a 
large  brewery  hard  by  ;  hung  a  bill,  announcing  that 
there  was  yet  one  room  to  let  within  its  walls,  though 
on  what  story  the  vacant  room  could  be — regard  being 
had  to  the  outward  tokens  of  many  lodgers  which  the 
whole  front  displayed,  from  the  mangle  in  the  kitchen 
window  to  the  flower-pots  on  the  parapet — it  would 
have  been  beyond  the  power  of  a  calculating  boy  to  dis- 
cover. 

The  common  stairs  of  this  mansion  were  bare  and  car- 
petless  ;  but  a  curious  visitor  who  had  to  climb  his  way 
to  the  top,  might  have  observed  that  there  were  not  want- 
ing indications  of  the  progressive  poverty  of  the  inmates, 
although  their  rooms  were  shut.  Thus,  the  first  floor 
lodgers,  being  flush  of  furniture,  kept  an  old  mahogany 
table — real  mahogany — on  the  landing-place  outside, 
which  was  only  taken  in,  when  occasion  required.  On 
the  second  story,  the  sj)are  furniture  dwindled  down  to 
a  couple  of  old  deal  chairs,  of  which  one,  belonging  to 
the  back  room,  was  shorn  of  a  leg,  and  bottomless. 
The  story  above,  boasted  no  greater  excess  than  a  worm- 
eaten  wash-tub  ;  and  the  garret  landing-place  displayed 
no  costlier  articles  than  two  crippled  pitchers,  and  some 
broken  blacking-bottles. 

It  was  on  this  garret  landing-place  that  a  hard-fea- 
tured square-faced  man,  elderly  and  shabby,  stopped  to 
unlock  the  door  of  the  front  attic,  into  which,  having 
surmounted  the  task  of  turning  the  rusty  key  in  its  still 
more  rusty  wards,  he  walked  with  the  air  of  legal  owner. 

This  person  wore  a  wig  of  short,  coarse,  red  hair, 
which  he  took  off  with  his  hat,  and  hung  upon  a  nail. 
Having  adopted  in  its  place  a  dirty  cotton  nightcap,  and 
groped  about  in  the  dark  till  he  found  a  remnant  of  can- 
dle, he  knocked  at  the  partition  which  divided  the  two 
garrets,  and  inquired,  in  a*  loud  voice,  whether  Mr. 
Noggs  had  a  light. 

The  sounds  that  came  back,  were  stifled  by  the  lath 
and  plaster,  and  it  seemed  moreover  as  though  the 
speaker  had  uttered  them  from  the  interior  of  a  mug  or 
other  drinking  vessel  ;  but  they  were  in  the  voice  of 
Newman,  and  conveyed  a  reply  in  the  affirmative. 

"A  nasty  night,  Mr.  Noggs  !"  said  the  man  in  the 
nightcap,  stepping  in  to  light  his  candle. 

"Does  it  rain?"  asked  Newman. 

"Does  it?"  replied  the  other  pettishly.  "I  am  wet 
through." 

"It  doesn't  take  much  to  wet  you  and  me  through, 
Mr.  Crowl,"  said  Newman,  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
lappel  of  his  threadbare  coat. 

'  "Well ;  and  that  makes  it  the  more  vexatious,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Crowl,  in  the  same  pettish  tone. 

Uttering  a  low  querulous  growl,  the  speaker,  whose 
harsh  countenance  was  the  very  epitome  of  selfishness, 
raked  the  scanty  fire  nearly  out  of  the  grate,  and,  emp- 
tying the  glass  which  Noggs  had  pushed  towards  him, 
inquired  where  he  kept  his  coals. 

Newman  Noggs  pointed  to  the  bottom  of  a  cupboard, 
and  Mr.  Crowl,  seizing  the  shovel,  threw  on  half  the 
stock :  which  Noggs  very  deliberately  took  off  again, 
without  saying  a  word. 

"You  have  not  turned  saving,  at  this  time  of  day,  I 
hope  ?  "  said  Crowl. 

Newman  pointed  to  the  empty  glass,  as  though  it 
were  a  sufficient  refutation  of  the  charge,  and  briefly  said 
that  he  was  going  down -stairs  to  supper. 

"  To  the  Kenwigses?"  asked  Crowl. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


47 


Newman  nodded  assent. 

"Think  of  that  now!"  said  Crowl.  "  If  I  didn't— 
thinking  that  you  were  certain  not  to  go,  because  you 
said  you  wouldn't — tell  Kenwigs  I  couldn't  come,  and 
make  up  my  mind  to  spend  the  evening  with  you  ! " 

"I  was  oibliged  to  go,"  said  Newman.  "  They  would 
have  me." 

"  Well  ;  but  what's  to  become  of  me?"  urged  the  sel- 
fish man,  who  never  thought  of  anybody  else.  "It's  all 
your  fault.  I'll  tell  you  what — I'll  sit  by  your  fire  till 
you  come  back  again." 

Newman  casting  a  despairing  glance  at  his  small  store 
of  fuel,  but,  not  having  the  courage  to  say  no — a  word 
which  in  all  his  life  he  never  had  said  at  the  right  time, 
either  to  himself  or  any  one  else — gave  way  to  the  pro- 
posed arrangement.  Mr.  Crowl  immediately  went  about 
making  himself  as  cofnfortable,  with  Newman  Noggs's 
means,  as  circumstances  would  admit  of  his  being  made. 

The  lodgers  to  whom  Crowl  had  made  allusion  under 
the  designation  of  "the  Kenwigses,"  were  the  wife  and 
olive  branches  of  one  Mr.  Kenwigs,  a  turner  in  ivory, 
who  was  looked  upon  as  a  person  of  some  consideration 
on  the  premises,  inasmuch  as  he  occupied  the  whole  of 
the  first  floor,  comprising  a  suite  of  two  room.  Mrs, 
Kenwigs,  too,  was  quite  a  lady  in  her  manners,  and  of  a 
very  genteel  family,  having  an  uncle  who  collected  a 
water-rate  ;  besides  which  distinction,  the  two  eldest  of 
her  little  girls  went  twice  a  week  to  a  dancing  school  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  had  flaxen  hair,  tied  with  blue 
ribands,  hanging  in  luxuriant  pigtails  down  their  backs  ; 
and  wore  little  white  trousers  with  frills  round  the 
ancles — for  all  of  which  reasons,  and  many  more  equally 
valid  but  too  numerous  to  mention,  Mrs.  Kenwigs  was 
considered  a  very  desirable  person  to  know,  and  was 
the  constant  theme  of  all  the  gossips  in  the  street,  and 
even  three  or  four  doors  round  the  corner  at  both  ends. 

It  was  the  anniversary  of  that  happy  day  on  which 
the  church  of  England  as  by  law  established,  had  be- 
stowed Mrs.  Kenwigs  upon  Mr.  Kenwigs  ;  and  in  grate- 
ful commemoration  of  the  same,  Mrs.  Kenwigs  had  in- 
vited a  few  select  friends  to  cards  and  a  supper  in  the 
first  floor,  and  had  put  on  a  new  gown  to  receive  them 
in  :  which  gown,  being  of  a  flaming  colour  and  made 
upon  a  juvenile  principle,  was  so  successful  that  Mr. 
Kenwigs  said  the  eight  years  of  matrimony  and  the  five 
children  seemed  all  a  dream,  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs  younger 
and  more  blooming  than  on  the  very  first  Sunday  he  had 
kept  company  with  her. 

Beautiful  as  Mrs.  Kenwigs  looked  when  she  was 
dressed  though,  and  so  stately  that  you  would  have 
supposed  she  had  a  cook*  and  housemaid  at  least,  and 
nothing  to  do  but  order  them  about,  she  had  a  world  of 
trouble  with  the  preparations  ;  more,  indeed,  than  she, 
being  of  a  delicate  and  genteel  constitution,  could  have 
sustained,  had  not  the  pride  of  housewifery  upheld  her. 
At  last,  however,  all  the  things  that  had  to  be  got  to- 
gether were  got  together,  and  all  the  things  that  had  to 
be  got  out  of  the  way  were  got  out  of  the  way,  and  every- 
thing was  ready,  and  the  collector  himself  liaving  pro- 
mised to  come,  fortune  smiled  upon  the  occasion. 

The  party  was  admirably  selected.  There  were,  first 
of  all,  Mr.  Kenwigs  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  and  four  olive 
Kenwigses  who  sat  up  to  supper ;  firstly,  because  it  was 
but  right  that  they  should  have  a  treat  on  such  a  day  ; 
and  secondly,  because  their  going  to  bed,  in  presence 
of  the  company,  would  have  been  inconvenient,  not  to 
say  improper.  Then,  there  was  a  young  lady  who  had 
made  Mrs.  Kenwig's  dress,  and  who — it  was  the  most 
convenient  thing  in  the  world — living  in  the  two-pair 
back,  gave  up  her  bed  to  the  baby,  and  got  a  little  girl 
to  watch  it.  Then,  to  match  this  young  lady,  was  a 
young  man,  who  had  known  Mr.  Kenwigs  when  he  was 
a  bachelor,  and  was  much  esteemed  by  the  ladies,  as 
bearing  the  reputation  of  a  rake.  To  these  Avere  added 
a  newly-married  couple,  who  had  visited  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Kenwigs  in  their  courtship  ;  and  a  sister  of  Mrs. 
Kenwigs's  who  was  quite  a  beauty  ;  besides  whom, 
there  was  another  young  man,  supposed  to  entertain 
honourable  designs  upon  the  lady  last  mentioned  ;  and 
Mr.  Noggs,  who  was  a  genteel  person  to  ask,  because  he 
had  been  a  gentleman  once.  There  were  also  an 
elderly  lady  from  the  back  parlour,  and  one  more  young 


lady,  who,  next  to  the  collector,  perhaps  was  the  great 
lion  of  the  party,  l)eing  the  daughter  of  a  theatrical  fire- 
man, who  "  went  on"  in  the  pantomime,  and  had  the 
greatest  turn  for  the  stage  that  was  ever  known,  being 
able  to  sing  and  recite  in  a  manner  that  l>rought  the 
tears  into  Mrs.  Kenwigs's  eyes.  There  was  only  one 
drawback  upon  the  pleasure  of  seeing  such  friends,  and 
that  was,  that  the  lady  in  the  back  parlour,  who  was 
very  fat,  and  turned  of  sixty,  came  in  a  low  book-muslin 
dress  and  short  kid  gloves,  which  so  exasperated  Mrs. 
Kenwigs,  that  that  lady  assured  her  visitors,  in  private, 
that  if  it  hadn't  happened  that  the  supper  was  cooking 
i  at  the  back-parlour  grate  at  that  moment,  she  certainly 
would  have  requested  its  representative  to  withdraw. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  "  wouldn't  it  be  better 
to  begin  a  round  game  ?  " 

"Kenwigs,  my  dear,"  returned  his  wife,  "I  am  sur- 
prised at  you.    Would  you  begin  without  my  uncle  ?" 

"  I  forgot  the  collector,"  said  Kenwigs  ;  "oh  no,  that 
would  never  do." 

"He's  so  particular,"  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  turning  to 
the  other  married  lady,  "  that  if  we  began  without  him, 
I  should  be  out  of  his  will  forever." 

"  Dear  !  "  cried  the  married  lady. 

"  You've  no  idea  what  he  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Kenwigs  ; 
"  and  yet  as  good  a  creature  as  ever  breathed." 

"  The  kindest-hearted  man  as  ever  was,"  said  Ken\Aigs. 
I     "  It  goes  to  his  heart,  I  believe,  to  be  forced  to  cut 
the  water  off,  when  the  people  don't  pay,"  observed  the 
bachelor  friend,  intending  a  joke. 

"George,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  solemnly,  "none  of 
that,  if  you  please." 

"  It  was  only  my  joke,"  said  the  friend,  abashed. 
"  George,"  rejoined  Mr.  Kenwigs,  "a  joke  is  a  wery 
good  thing — a  wery  good  thing — but  when  that  joke  is 
made  at  the  expense  of  Mrs.  Kenwigs's  feelings,  I  set 
my  face  against  it.    A  man  in  public  life  expects  to"  be 
sneered  at — it  is  the  fault  of  his  elewated  sitiwation, 
and  not  of  himself.    Mrs.  Kenswigs's  relation  is  a  public 
man,  and  that  he  knows,  George,  and  that  he  can  bear  ; 
'  but  putting  Mrs.  Kenwigs  out  of  the  question  (if  I  could 
put  Mrs.  Kenwigs  out  of  the  question  on  such  an  occa- 
sion as  this),  I  have  the  honour  to  be  connected  with  the 
j  collector  by  marriage  ;  and  I  cannot  allow  these  remarks 
i  in  my — "    Mr.  Kenwigs  was  going  to  say  "house,"  but 
I  he  rounded  the  sentence  with  "  apartments." 
i     At  the  conclusion  of  these  observations,  which  drew 
i  forth  evidences  of  acute  feeling  from  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  and 
had  the  intended  effect  of  impressing  the  company  with 
a  deep  sense  of  the  collector's  dignity,  a  ring  was  heard 
at  the  bell. 

I     "  That's  him,"  whispered  Mr.  Kenwigs,  greatly  ex- 
I  cited.     "Morleena,  my  dear,  run  down  and  let  your 
!  uncle  in,  and  kiss  him  directly  you  get  the  door  open. 
Hem  !    Let's  be  talking." 

Adopting  Mr.  Kenwigs's  suggestion,  the  company 
spoke  very  loudly,  to  look  easy  and  unembarrassed  ;  and 
almost  as  soon  as  they  had  begun  to  do  so,  a  short  old 
gentleman  in  drabs  and  gaiters,  with  a  face  that  might 
have  been  carved  out  of  lignum  vitce,  for  anything  that 
appeared  to  the  contrary,  was  led  playfully  in  by  Miss 
Morleena  Kenwigs,  regarding  whose  uncommon  Chris- 
tian name  it  may  be  here  remarked  that  it  had  been  in- 
vented and  composed  by  Mrs.  Kenwigs  previous  to  her 
first  lying-in,  for  the  special  distinction  of  her  eldest 
child,  in  case  it  should  prove  a  daughter. 

"  Oh  uncle,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Mrs.  Ken- 
wigs, kissing  the  collector  affectionately  on  both  cheeks. 
"So  glad!" 

"Many  happy  returns  of  the  day,  my  dear,"  replied 
the  collector,  returning  the  compliment. 

Now,  this  was  an  interesting  thing.  He  was  a  col- 
lector of  water-rates,  without  his  book,  without  his  pen 
and  ink,  without  his  double  knock,  without  his  intimi- 
dation, kissing — actually  kissing— an  agreeable  female, 
leaving  taxes,  summonses,  notices  that  he  had  called,  or 
announcements  that  he  would  never  call  again,  for  two 
quarters'  due,  wholly  out  of  the  question.  It  was  pleasant 
to  see  how  the  company  looked  on,  quite  absorbed  in  the 
sight,  and  to  behold  the  nods  and  winks  with  which  they 
expressed  their  gratification  at  finding  so  much  humanity 
in  a  tax-gatherer. 


48 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Where  will  you  sit,  uncle?"  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  in 
the  full  glow  of  family  pride,  which  the  appearance  of 
her  distinguished  relation  occasioned. 

"  Anywheres,  my  dear,"  said  the  collector,  "  I  am  not 
particular." 

Not  particular!  What  a  meek  collector.  If  he  had 
been  an  author,  who  knew  his  place,  he  couldn't  have 
been  more  humble. 

"Mr.  Lillyvick,"  said  Kenwigs,  addressing  the  col- 
lector, "some  friends  here,  sir,  are  very  anxious  for  the 
honour  of — thank  you — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cutler,  Mr.  Lilly- 
vick." 

"Proud  to  know  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Cutler,  "I've 
heerd  of  you  very  often."  These  were  not  mere  words 
of  ceremony  ;  for,  Mr.  Cutler  having  kept  house  in  Mr. 
Lillyvick's  parish,  had  heard  of  him  very  often  indeed. 
His  attention  in  calling  had  been  quite  extraordinary. 

"George,  you  know,  I  think,  Mr.  Lillyvick,"  said 
Kenwigs  ;  "  lady  from  down-stairs — Mr.  Lillyvick.  Mr. 
Snevvkes — Mr.  Lillyvick.  Miss  Green — Mr.  Lillyvick. 
Mr.  Lillyvick — Miss  Petowker  of  the  Theatre  Royal, 
Drury  Lane.  Very  glad  to  make  two  public  characters 
acquainted  !  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  my  deai^  will  you  sort  the 
counters?  " 

Mrs.  Kenwigs,  with  the  assistance  of  Newman  Noggs, 
(who,  as  he  performed  sundry  little  acts  of  kindness  for 
the  children,  at  all  times  and  seasons,  was  humoured  in 
his  request  to  be  taken  no  notice  of,  and  was  merely 
spoken  about,  in  a  whisper,  as  the  decayed  gentleman), 
did  as  she  was  desired  ;  and  the  greater  part  of  the 
guests  sat  down  to  speculation,  while  Newman  himself, 
Mrs.  Kenwigs,  and  Miss  Petowker  of  the  Theatre  Royal, 
Drury  Lane,  looked  after  the  supper  table. 

While  the  ladies  were  thus  busying  themselves,  Mr. 
Lillyvick  was  intent  upon  the  game  in  progress,  and  as 
all  should  be  fish  that  comes  into  a  water- collector's  net, 
the  dear  old  gentleman  was  by  no  means  scrupulous  in 
appropriating  to  himself  the  property  of  his  neighbours, 
which,  on  the  contrary,  he  abstracted  whenever  an 
opportunity  presented  itself,  smiling  good-humouredly 
all  the  while,  and  making  so  many  condescending 
speeches  to  the  owners,  that  they  were  delighted  with 
his  amiability,  and  thoaght  in  their  hearts  that  he  de- 
served to  be  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  at  least. 

After  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  the  administration 
of  many  slaps  on  the  head  to  the  infant  Kenwigses, 
whereof  two  of  the  most  rebellious  were  summarily 
banished,  the  cloth  was  laid  with  much  elegance,  and  a 
pair  of  boiled  fowls,  a  large  piece  of  pork,  apple-pie, 
potatoes  and  greens,  were  served  ;  at  sight  of  which,  the 
worthy  Mr.  Lillyvick  vented  a  great  many  witticisms, 
and  plucked  up  amazingly  :  to  the  immense  delight  and 
satisfaction  of  the  whole  body  of  admirers. 

Very  well  and  very  fast  the  supper  went  off  ;  no  more 
serious  difficulties  occurring,  than  those  which  arose 
from  the  incessant  demand  for  clean  knives  and  forks  : 
which  made  poor  Mrs.  Kenwigs  wish,  more  than  once, 
that  private  society  adopted  the  principle  of  schools,  and 
required  that  every  guest  should  bring  his  own  knife, 
fork,  and  spoon  ;  which  doubtless  would  be  a  great  ac- 
commodation in  many  cases,  and  to  no  one  more  so  than 
to  the  lady  and  gentleman  of  the  house,  especially  if  the 
school  principle  were  carried  out  to  the  full  extent,  and 
the  articles  were  expected,  as  a  matter  of  delicacy,  not 
to  be  taken  away  again. 

Everybody  having  eaten  everything,  the  table  was 
cleared  in  a  most  alarming  hurry,  and  with  great  noise  ; 
and  the  spirits,  whereat  the  eyes  of  Newman  Noggs 
glistened,  being  arranged  in  order,  with  water  both  hot 
and  cold,  the  party  composed  themselves  for  convivial- 
ity ;  Mr.  Lillyvick  being  stationed  in  a  large  arm-chair 
by  the  fire-side,  and  the  four  little  Kenwigses  disposed 
on  a  small  form  in  front  of  the  company  with  their  flaxen 
tails  towards  them,  and  their  faces  to  the  fire  ;  an  arrange- 
ment which  was  no  sooner  perfected,  than  Mrs.  Kenwigs 
was  overpowered  by  the  feelings  of  a  mother,  and  fell 
upon  the  left  shoulder  of  Mr.  Kenwigs  dissolved  in 
tears. 

"  They  are  so  beautiful ! "  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  sobbing. 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  all  the  ladies,  "so  they  are!  it's 
very  natural  you  should  feel  proud  of  that  ;  but  don't 
give  way,  don't." 


"  I  can — not  help  it,  and  it  don't  signify,"  sobbed  Mrs. 
Kenwigs  ;  "oh  !  they're  too  beautiful  to  live,  much  too 
beautiful  ! " 

On  hearing  this  alarming  presentiment  of  their  being 
doomed  to  an  early  death  in  the  flower  of  their  infancy, 
all  four  little  girls  raised  a  hideous  cry,  and  burying 
their  heads  in  their  mother's  lap,  simultaneously, 
screamed  until  the  eight  flaxen  tails  vibrated  again  ;  Mrs. 
Kenwigs  meanwhile  clasping  them  alternately  to  her 
bosom,  with  attitudes  expressive  of  distraction,  which 
Miss  Petowker  herself  might  have  copied. 

At  length  the  anxious  mother  permitted  herself  to  be 
soothed  into  a  more  tranquil  state,  and  the  little  Ken- 
wigses, being  also  composed,  were  distributed  among  the 
company,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  Mrs.  Kenwigs  be- 
ing again  overcome  by  the  blaze  of  their  combined  beauty. 
This  done,  the  ladies  and  gentlen>en  united  in  prophesy- 
ing that  they  would  live  for  many,  many  years,  and  that 
there  was  no  occasion  at  all  for  Mrs,  Kenwigs  to  distress 
herself  :  which,  in  good  truth,  there  did  not  appear  to 
be  ;  the  loveliness  of  the  children  by  no  means  justifying 
her  apprehensions. 

"  This  day  eight  year,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs  after  a 
pause.    "Dear  me — ah  !" 

This  reflection  was  echoed  by  all  present,  who  said 
"  Ah  !  "  first,  and  "  dear  me,"  afterwards. 

"  I  was  younger  then,"  tittered  Mrs.  Kenwigs. 

**  No,"  said  the  collector. 

"  Certainly  not,"  added  everybody. 

"  I  remember  my  niece,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  surveying- 
his  audience  with  a  grave  air  ;  "I  remember  her,  on  that 
very  afternoon,  when  she  first  acknowledged  to  her  mo- 
ther a  partiality  for  Kenwigs.  'Mother,' she  says,  'I 
love  him.' " 

"  '  Adore  him,'  I  said,  uncle,"  interposed  Mrs.  Ken- 
wigs. 

"  'Love  him,'  I  think,  my  dear,"  said  the  collector, 
firmly. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  uncle,"  replied  Mrs.  Kenwigs,. 
submissively.    "  I  thought  it  was  '  adore.'  " 

"'Love,'  my  dear,"  retorted  Mr.  Lillyvick.  "'Mo- 
ther,' she  says,  *  I  love  him  !'  '  What  do  I  hear?'  cries 
her  mother ;  and  instantly  falls  into  strong  conwul- 
sions." 

t  A  general  exclamation  of  astonishment  burst  from  the 
I  company. 

"Into  strong  conwulsions,"  repeated  Mr.  Lillyvick,, 
regarding  them  with  a  rigid  look.  "Kenwigs  will  ex- 
cuse my  saying,  in  the  presence  of  friends,  that  there 
was  a  very  great  objection  to  him,  on  the  ground  that  he- 
was  beneath  the  family,  and  would  disgrace  it.  You  re- 
member, Kenwigs?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  that  gentleman,  in  no  way  dis- 
pleased at  the  reminiscence,  inasmuch  as  it  proved,  be- 
yond all  doubt,  what  a  high  family  Mrs.  Kenwigs  came 
of. 

"  I  shared  in  that  feeling,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick  :  "  per- 
haps it  was  natural  ;  perhaps  it  wasn't." 

A  gentle  murmur  seemed  to  say,  that,  in  one  of  Mr. 
Lillyvick's  station,  the  objection  was  not  only  natural 
but  highly  praiseworthy. 

"  I  came  round  to  him  in  time,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick. 
"After  they  were  married,  and  there  was  no  help  for  it, 
I  was  one  of  the  first  to  say  that  Kenwigs  must  be  taken 
notice  of.  The  family  did  take  notice  of  him,  in  conse- 
quence, and  on  my  representation  ;  and  I  am  bound  to 
say — and  proud  to  say— that  I  have  always  found  him  a 
very  honest,  well-behaved,  upright,  respectable  sort  of 
man.    Kenwigs,  shake  hands." 

"  I  am  proud  to  do  it,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs. 

"  So  am  I,  Kenwigs,"  rejoined  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

"  A  very  happy  life  I  have  led  with  your  niece,  sir>" 
said  Kenwigs. 

"  It  would  have  been  your  own  fault  if  you  had  not, 
sir,"  remarked  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

"Morleena  Kenwigs,"  cried  her  mother,  at  this  crisis^ 
much  affected,  "  kiss  your  dear  uncle  1 " 

The  young  lady  did  as  she  was  requested,  and  the 
three  other  little  girls  were  successively  hoisted  up  to 
the  collector's  countenance,  and  subjected  to  the  samej 
process,  which  was  afterwards  repeated  on  them  by  tbei 
majority  of  those  present. 


NICHOLAS 

'*0h  dear,  Mrs.  Ken  wigs,"  said  Miss  Petowker, 
"  while  Mr.  Noggs  is  making  that  punch  to  drink  happy 
returns  in,  do  let  Morleena  go  through  that  figure  dance 
before  Mr.  Lillyvick." 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  "  it  will 
only  worry  my  uncle. " 

"  It  can't  worry  him,  I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Petowker. 
"  You  will  be  very  much  pleased,  won't  you,  sir?" 

"  That  I  am  sure  I  shall,"  replied  the  collector,  glanc- 
ing at  the  punch -mixer. 

"  Well  then,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs, 
"  Morleena  shall  do  the  steps,  if  uncle  can  persuade 
Miss  Petowker  to  recite  us  the  Blood-Drinker's  Burial 
afterwards." 

There  was  a  great  clapping  of  hands  and  stamping  of 
feet,  at  this  proposition  ;  the  subject  whereof,  gently  in- 
clined her  head  several  times,  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
reception. 

"You  know,"  said  Miss  Petowker,  reproachfully, 
"that  I  dislike  doing  anything  professional  in  private 
parties." 

"  Oh  !  but  not  here  ! "  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs.  "  We  are 
all  so  very  friendly  and  pleasant,  that  you  might  as  well 
be  going  through  it  in  your  own  room ;  besides  the  occa- 
sion— " 

"  I  can't  resist  that,"  interrupted  Miss  Petowker  ; 
"  anything  in  my  humble  power  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
do." 

Mrs.  Kenwigs  and  Miss  Petowker  had  arranged  a  small 
programme  of  the  entertainments  between  them,  of  which 
this  was  the  prescribed  order,  but  they  had  settled  to 
have  a  little  pressing  on  both  sides,  because  it  looked 
more  natural.  The  company  being  all  ready.  Miss  Petow- 
ker hummed  a  tune,  and  Morleena  danced  a  dance  ;  hav- 
ing previously  had  the  soles  of  her  shoes  chalked,  with 
as  much  care  as  if  she  were  going  on  the  tight-rope.  It 
was  a  very  beautiful  figure,  comprising  a  great  deal  of 
work  for  the  arms,  and  was  received  with  unbounded  ap- 
plause. 

"  If  I  was  blessed  with  a — a  child — "  said  Miss  Petow- 
ker, blushing,  ' '  of  such  genius  as  that,  I  would  have  her 
out  at  the  Opera  instantly." 

Mrs.  Kenwigs  sighed,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Kenwigs, 
who  shook  his  head,  and  observed  that  he  was  doubtful 
about  it. 

"Kenwigs  is  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  K. 
"What  of?"  inquired  Miss  Petowker,  "not  of  her 
failing  ?  " 

"Oh  no,"  replied  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  "  but  if  she  grew  up 
what  she  is  now, — only  think  of  the  young  dukes  and 
marquises. " 

"  Very  right,"  said  the  collector, 

"Still,"  submitted  Miss  Petowker,  "  If  she  took  a 
proper  pride  in  herself,  you  know — " 

"  There's  a  good  deal  in  that,"  observed  Mrs.  Kenwigs, 
looking  at  her  husband. 

"  I  only  know — "  faltered  Miss  Petowker, — "  it  may  be 
no  rule  to  be  sure — but  /have  never  found  any  inconve- 
nience or  unpleasantness  of  that  sort." 

Mr.  Kenwigs,  with  becoming  gallantry,  said  that  set- 
tled the  question  at  once,  and  that  he  would  take  the 
subject  into  his  serious  consideration.  This  being  re- 
solved upon.  Miss  Petowker  was  entreated  to  begin  the 
Blood-Drinker's  Burial  ;  to  which  end,  that  young  lady 
let  down  her  back  hair,  and  taking  up  her  position  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  with  the  bachelor  friend  posted 
in  a  corner,  to  rush  out  at  the  cue  "  in  death  expire," 
and  catch  her  in  his  arms  when  she  died  raving  mad, 
went  through  the  performance  with  extraordinary  spirit, 
and  to  the  great  terror  of  the  little  Kenwigses,  who 
were  all  but  frightened  into  fits. 

The  ecstacies  consequent  upon  the  effort  had  not  yet 
subsided,  and  Newman  (who  had  not  been  thoroughly 
sober  at  so  late  an  hour  for  a  long  long  time,)  had  not  yet 
been  able  to  put  in  a  word  of  announcement,  that  the 
punch  was  ready,  when  a  hasty  knock  was  heard  at  the 
room-door,  which  elicited  a  shriek  from  Mrs.  Kenwigs, 
who  immediately  divined  that  the  baby  had  fallen  out 
of  bed. 

"Who  is  that  ? "  demanded  Mr.  Kenwigs,  sharply. 
"  Don't  be  alarmed,  it's  only  me,"  said  Crowl,  looking 
in  his  nightcap.    "  The  baby  is  very  comfortable,  for 
Vol.  II.— 4 


NICKLEBY.  49 

I  peeped  into  the  room  as  I  came  down,  and  it's  fast 
asleep,  and  so  is  the  girl  ;  and  I  don't  think  the  candle 
will  set  fire  to  the  bed-curtain,  unless  a  draught  was  to 
get  into  the  room — it's  Mr.  Noggs  that's  wanted." 

"  Me  !  "  cried  Newman,  much  astonished. 

"  Why,  it  iH  a  queer  hour,  isn't  it?"  replied  Crowl, 
who  was  not  best  pleased  at  the  j)rospect  of  losing  his 
fire  ;  "  and  they  are  queer-looking  people,  too,  all  cov- 
ered with  rain  and  mud.  Shall  I  tell  them  to  go  away  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Newman,  rising.   "  People?  How  many?" 

"Two,"  rejoined  Crowl. 

"  Want  me  ?    By  name  ?  "  asked  Newman. 

"By  name,"  replied  Crowl.  "Mr.  Newman  Noggs, 
as  pat  as  need  be." 

Newman  reflected  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  hurried 
away,  muttering  that  he  would  be  back  directly.  He  was 
as  good  as  his  word  ;  for,  in  an  exceedingly  short  time, 
he  burst  into  the  room,  and  seizing,  without  a  word  of 
apology  or  explanation,  a  lighted  candle  and  tumbler  of 
hot  punch  from  the  table,  darted  away  like  a  madman. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  him?  "  exclaimed 
Crowl,  throwing  the  door  open.  "  Hark  !  Is  there  any 
noise  above  ?  "  * 

The  guests  rose  in  great  confusion,  and  looking  in 
each  other's  faces  with  much  perplexity  and  some  fear, 
stretched  their  necks  forward,  and  listened  attentively. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Acquaints  the  Reader  with  the  Cause  and  Origin  of  the  Interrwption 
described  in  the  last  Chapter,  and  with  some  other  Matters  neces- 
sary to  be  knoim. 

Newman  Noggs  scrambled  in  violent  haste  up-stairs 
with  the  steaming  beverage,  which  he  had  so  uncere- 
moniously snatched  from  the  table  of  Mr.  Kenwigs,  and 
indeed  from  the  very  grasp  of  the  water-rate  collector, 
who  was  eyeing  the  contents  of  the  tumbler,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  its  unexpected  abstraction,  with  lively  marks  of 
pleasure  visible  in  his  countenance.  He  bore  his  prize 
straight  to  his  own  back  garret,  where,  footsore  and 
nearly  shoeless,  wet,  dirty,  jaded,  and  disfigured  with 
every  mark  of  fatiguing  travel,  sat  Nicholas,  and  Smike, 
at  once  the  cause  and  partner  of  his  toil :  both  perfectly 
worn  out,  by  their  unwonted  and  protracted  exertion. 

Newman's  first  act  was  to  compel  Nicholas,  with  gen- 
tle force,  to  swallow  half  of  the  punch  at  a  breath,  nearly 
boiling  as  it  was ;  and  his  next,  to  pour  the  remainder 
down  the  throat  of  Smike,  who,  never  having  tasted 
anything  stronger  than  aperient  medicine  in  his  whole 
life,  exhibited  various  odd  manifestations  of  surprise 
and  delight,  during  the  passage  of  the  liquor  down  his 
throat,  and  turned  up  his  eyes  most  emphatically  when 
it  was  all  gone. 

"You  are  wet  through,"  said  Newman,  passing  his 
hand  hastily  over  the  coat  which  Nicholas  had  thrown 
off  ;  "  and  I — I — haven't  even  a  change,"  he  added,  with 
a  wistful  glance  at  the  shabby  clothes  he  wore  himself. 

"  I  have  dry  clothes,  or  at  least  such  as  will  serve  my 
turn  well,  in  my  bundle,"  replied  Nicholas.  "If  you 
look  so  distressed  to  see  me,  you  will  add  to  the  pain  I 
feel  already,  at  being  compelled,  for  one  night,  to  cast 
myself  upon  your  slender  means  for  aid  and  shelter." 

Newman  did  not  look  the  less  distressed  to  hear  Nicho- 
las talking  in  this  strain  ;  but,  upon  his  young  friend 
grasping  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  assuring  him  that 
nothing  but  implicit  confidence  in  the  sincerity  of  his 
professions,  and  kindness  of  feeling  towards  himself, 
would  have  induced  him,  on  any  consideration,  even  to 
have  made  him  acquainted  with  his  arrival  in  London, 
Mr.  Noggs  brightened  up  again,  and  went  about  making 
such  arrangements  as  were  in  his  power  for  the  comfort 
of  his  visitors,  with  extreme  alacrity. 

These  were  simple  enough  ;  poor  Newman's  means 
halting  at  a  very  considerable  distance  short  of  his  in- 
clinations ;  but,  slight  as  they  were,  they  were  not  made 
without  much  bustling  and  running  about.  As  Nich- 
olas had  husbanded  his  scanty  stock  of  money,  so  well 
that  it  was  not  yet  quite  expended,  a  supper  of  bread  and 
cheese,  with  some  cold  beef  from  the  cook's  shop,  was 
soon  placed  upon  the  table ;  and  these  viands  being 


50 


CHARLES  Die  KEN 8'  WORKS. 


flanked  by  a  bottle  of  spirits  and  a  pot  of  porter,  there 
was  no  ground  for  apprehension  on  the  score  of  hunger 
or  thirst,  at  all  events.  Such  preparations  as  Newman 
had  it  in  his  power  to  make,  for  the  accommodation  of 
his  guests  during  the  night,  occupied  no  very  great  time 
in  completing  ;  and  as  he  had  insisted,  as  an  express  pre- 
liminary, that  Nicholas  should  change  his  clothes,  and 
that  Smike  should  invest  himself  in  his  solitary  coat 
(which  no  entreaties  would  dissuade  him  from  stripping 
off  for  the  purpose),  the  travellers  partook  of  their  fru- 
gal fare,  with  more  satisfaction  than  one  of  them  at  least 
had  derived  from  many  a  better  meal. 

They  then  drew  near  the  fire,  which  Newman  Noggs 
had  made  up  as  well  as  he  could,  after  the  inroads  of 
Crowl  upon  the  fuel  ;  and  Nicholas,  who  had  hitherto 
been  restrained  by  the  extreme  anxiety  of  his  friend 
that  he  should  refresh  himself  after  his  journey,  now 
pressed  him  with  earnest  questions  concerning  his 
mother  and  sister. 

Well  replied  Newman,  with  his  accustomed  taci- 
turnity ;  "  both  well." 

"  They  are  living  in  the  city  still  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 

*'They  are,"  said  Newman. 

*'  And  my  sister  " — added  Nicholas.  "  Is  she  still  en- 
gaged in  the  business  which  she  wrote  to  tell  me  she 
thought  she  should  like  so  much  ?  " 

Newman  opened  his  eyes  rather  wider  than  usual,  but 
merely  replied  by  a  gasp,  which,  according  to  the  ac- 
tion of  the  head  that  acccompanied  it,  was  interpreted 
by  his  friends  as  meaning  yes  or  no.  In  the  present  in- 
stance, the  pantomime  consisted  of  a  nod,  and  not  a 
shake  ;  so  Nicholas  took  the  answer  as  a  favourable  one. 

"  Now  listen  to  me,"  said  Nicholas,  laying  his  hand 
on  Newman's  shoulder.  "  Before  I  would  make  an  ef- 
fort to  see  them,  I  deemed  it  expedient  to  come  to  you, 
lest,  by  gratifying  my  own  selfish  desire,  I  should  inflict 
an  injury  upon  them  which  I  can  never  repair.  What 
has  my  uncle  heard  from  Yorkshire  ?  " 

Newman  opened  and  shut  his  mouth,  several  times,  as 
though  he  were  trying  his  utmost  to  speak,  but  could 
make  nothing  of  it,  and  finally  fixed  his  eyes  on  Nicho- 
las with  a  grim  and  ghastly  stare. 

"What  has  he  heard?"  urged  Nicholas,  colouring. 
"  You  see  that  I  am  prepared  to  hear  the  very  worst  that 
malice  can  have  suggested.  Why  should  you  conceal  it 
from  me  ?  I  must  know  it  sooner  or  later ;  and  what 
purpose  can  be  gained  by  trifling  with  the  matter  for  a 
few  minutes ,  when  half  the  time  would  put  me  in  posses- 
sion of  all  that  has  occurred?    Tell  me  at  once,  pray." 

"To-morrow  morning,"  said  Newman;  "hear  it  to- 
morrow." 

"  What  purpose  would  that  answer?"  urged  Nicholas. 

"  You  would  sleep  the  better,"  replied  Newman. 

"  I  should  sleep  the  worse,"  answered  Nicholas,  im- 
patiently. "  Sleep  !  Exhausted  as  I  am,  and  standing 
in  no  common  need  of  rest,  I  cannot  hope  to  close  my 
eyes  all  night,  unless  you  tell  me  everything. " 

"And  if  I  should  tell  you  everything,"  said  Newman, 
hesitating, 

"  Why,  then  you  may  rouse  my  indignation  or  wound 
my  pride,"  rejoined  Nicholas  ;  "  but  you  will  not  break 
my  rest ;  for  if  the  scene  were  acted  over  again,  I  could 
take  no  other  part  than  I  have  taken  ;  and  whatever  con- 
sequences may  accrue  to  myself  from  it,  I  shall  never  re- 
gret doing  as  I  have  done — never,  if  I  starve  or  beg  in 
consequence.  What  is  a  little  poverty  or  suffering,  to 
the  disgrace  of  the  basest  and  most  inhuman  cowardice  ! 
I  tell  you,  if  I  had  stood  by,  tamely  and  passively,  I 
should  have  hated  myself,  and  merited  the  contempt  of 
every  man  in  existence.    The  black-hearted  scoundrel ! " 

With  this  gentle  allusion  to  the  absent  Mr.  Squeers, 
Nicholas  repressed  his  rising  wrath,  and  relating  to 
Newman  exactly  what  had  passed  at  Dotheboys  Hall, 
entreated  him  to  speak  out  without  more  pressing.  Thus 
adjured,  Mr.  Noggs  took,  from  an  old  trunk,  a  sheet  of 
paper,  which  appeared  to  have  been  scrawled  over  in 
great  haste  :  and  after  sundry  extraordinary  demonstra- 
tions of  reluctance,  delivered  himself  in  the  following 
terms. 

"  My  dear  young  man,  you  mustn't  give  way  to— this 
sort  of  thing  will  never  do,  you  know — as  to  getting  on 
the  world,  if  you  take  everybody's  part  that's  ill  treated 


— Damn  it,  I  am  proud  to  hear  of  it ;  and  would  have 
done  it  myself  ! " 

Newman  accompanied  this  very  unusual  outbreak  with 
a  violent  blow  upon  the  table,  as  if,  in  the  heat  of  the 
moment,  he  had  mistaken  it  for  the  chest  or  ribs  of  Mr. 
Wackford  Squeers.  Having,  by  this  open  declaration  of 
his  feelings,  quite  precluded  himself  from  offering  Nich- 
olas any  cautious  worldly  advice  (which  had  been  his 
first  intention),  Mr.  Noggs  went  straight  to  the  point. 

"The  day  before  yesterday,"  said  Newman,  "your 
uncle  received  this  letter.  I  took  a  hasty  copy  of  it, 
while  he  was  out.    Shall  I  read  it  ?  " 

"If  you  please,"  replied  Nicholas.  Newman  Noggs 
accordingly  read  as  follows  : 

"  Dotheboys  Hall, 
"  Thursday  Morning. 

"  Sm, 

"  My  pa  requests  me  to  write  to  you,  the  doctors 
considering  it  doubtful  whether  he  will  ever  recuvver 
the  use  of  his  legs  which  prevents  his  holding  a  pen. 

"We  are  in  a  state  of  mind  beyond  everything,  and 
my  pa  is  one  mask  of  brooses  both  blue  and  green  like- 
wise two  forms  are  steepled  in  his  Goar.  We  are  kim- 
pelled  to  have  him  carried  down  into  the  kitchen  where 
he  now  lays.  You  will  judge  from  this  that  he  has  been 
brought  very  low. 

"  When  your  nevew  that  you  recommended  for  a 
teacher  had  done  this  to  my  pa  and  jumped  upon  his 
body  with  his  feet  and  also  langwedge  which  I  will  not 
pollewt  my  pen  with  describing,  he  assaulted  my  ma 
with  dreadful  violence,  dashed  her  to  the  earth,  and 
drove  her  back  comb  several  inches  into  her  head.  A 
very  little  more  and  it  must  have  entered  her  skull. 
We  have  a  medical  certifiket  that  if  it  had,  the  torter- 
shell  would  have  affected  the  brain. 

"Me  and  my  brother  were  then  the  victims  of  his 
feury  since  which  we  have  suffered  very  much  which 
leads  us  to  the  arrowing  belief  that  we  have  received 
some  injury  in  our  insides,  especially  as  no  marks  of  vio- 
lence are  visible  externally.  I  am  screaming  out  loud 
all  the  time  I  write  and  so  is  my  brother  which  takes  off 
my  attention  rather  and  I  hope  will  excuse  mistakes. 

"  The  monster  having  sasiated  his  thirst  for  blood  ran 
away,  taking  with  him  a  boy  of  desperate  caracter  that 
he  had  excited  to  rebellyon,  and  a  garnet  ring  belonging 
to  my  ma,  and  not  having  been  apprehended  by  the  con- 
stables is  supposed  to  have  been  took  up  by  some  stage- 
coach. My  pa  begs  that  if  he  comes  to  you  the  ring 
may  be  returned,  and  that  you  will  let  the  thief  and  as- 
sassin go,  as  if  we  prosecuted  him  he  would  only  be 
transported,  and  if  he  is  let  go  he  is  sure  to  be  hung  be- 
fore long  which  will  save  us  trouble  and  be  much  more 
satisfactory.     Hoping  to  hear  from  you  when  convenient 

"  I  remain 
"  Yours  and  cetrer 
"  Fanny  Squeers. 

"  P.S.  I  pity  his  ignorance  and  despise  him." 

A  profound  silence  succeeded  to  the  reading  of  this 
choice  epistle,  during  which  Newman  Noggs,  as  he 
folded  it  up,  gazed  with  a  kind  of  grotesque  pity  at  the 
boy  of  desperate  character  therein  referred  to  ;  who,  hav- 
ing no  more  distinct  perception  of  the  matter  in  hand, 
than  that  he  had  been  the  unfortunate  cause  of  heaping 
trouble  and  falsehood  upon  Nicholas,  sat  mute  and 
dispirited,  with  a  most  woe  begone  and  heart-stricken 
look. 

"  Mr.  Noggs,"  said  Nicholas,  after  a  few  moments'  re- 
flection, '*  I  must  go  out  at  once." 
"  Go  out ! "  cried  Newman 

"  Yes,"  said  Nicholas,  "  to  Golden  Square.  Nobody 
who  knows  me  would  believe  this  story  of  the  ring  ;  but 
it  may  suit  the  purpose,  or  gratify  the  hatred  of  Mr. 
Ralph  Nickleby  to  feign  to  attach  credence  to  it.  It  is 
due — not  to  him,  but  to  myself — that  I  should  state  the 
truth  ;  and  moreover,  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  exchange 
with  him,  which  will  not  keep  cool." 

"  They  must,"  said  Newman. 

"  They  must  not,  indeed,"  rejoined  Nicholas  firmly,  as 
he  prepared  to  leave  the  house. 

"  Hear  me  speak,"  said  Newman,  planting  himself  be- 
fore his  impetuous  young  friend.    *  *  He  is  not  there.  He 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


51 


is  away  from  town.  He  will  not  be  back  for  three  days  ; 
and  I  know  that  letter  will  not  be  answered  before  he 
returns." 

"Are  you  sure  of  this?"  asked  Nicholas,  chafing  vio- 
lently, and  pacing  the  narrow  room  with  rapid  strides. 

"  Quite,"  rejoined  Newman.  "  He  had  hardly  read  it 
when  he  was  called  away.  Its  contents  are  known  to 
nobody  but  himself  and  us." 

"  Are  you  certain?  "  demanded  Nicholas,  precipitately  ; 

not  even  to  my  motlier  or  sister  ?  If  I  thought  that 
they — I  will  go  there — I  must  see  them.  Which  is  the 
way  ?    Where  is  it  ?  " 

"Now,  be  advised  by  me,"  said  Newman,  speaking  for 
the  moment,  in  his  earnestness,  like  any  other  man — 
*'  make  no  effort  to  see  even  them,  till  he  comes  home. 
I  know  the  man.  Do  not  seem  to  have  been  tampering 
with  anybody.  When  he  returns,  go  straight  to  him,  and 
speak  as  boldly  as  you  like.  Guessing  at  the  real  truth, 
he  knows  it  as  well  as  you  or  I.    Trust  him  for  that." 

"You  mean  well  to  me,  and  should  know  him  better 
than  I  can,"  replied  Nicholas,  after  some  consideration. 
"  Well  ;  let  it  be  so." 

Newman,  who  had  stood  during  the  foregoing  conver- 
sation with  his  back  planted  against  the  door,  ready  to 
oppose  any  egress  from  the  apartment  by  force,  if  neces- 
sary, resumed  his  seat  with  much  satisfaction  ;  and  as 
the  water  in  the  kettle  was  by  this  time  boiling,  made  a 
glassful  of  spirits  and  water  for  Nicholas,  and  a  cracked 
mug-full  for  the  joint  accommodation  of  himself  and 
Smike,  of  which  the  two  partook  in  great  harmony, 
while  Nicholas,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  remained 
buried  in  melancholy  meditation. 

Meanwhile,  the  company  below  stairs,  after  listening 
attentively  and  not  hearing  any  noise  which  would  justify 
them  in  interfering  for  the  gratification  of  their  curios- 
ity, returned  to  the  chamber  of  the  Kenwigses,  and  em- 
ployed themselves  in  hazarding  a  great  variety  of  con- 
jectures relative  to  the  cause  of  Mr.  Noggs's  sudden 
disappearance  and  detention. 

"  Lor,  I'll  tell  you  what ;  "  said  Mrs.  Ken  wigs.  "  Sup- 
pose it  should  be  an  express  sent  up  to  say  that  his  pro- 
perty has  all  come  back  again  1 " 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs  ;  "it's  not  impossible. 
Perhaps,  in  that  case,  we'd  better  send  up  and  ask  if  he 
won't  take  a  little  more  punch." 

"  Kenwigs  !  "  said  Mr.  Lilly vick,  in  aloud  voice,  "  I'm 
surprised  at  you. " 

' '  What's  the  matter,  sir  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Kenwigs,  with 
becoming  submission  to  the  collector  of  water-rates. 

"  Making  such  a  remark  as  that,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Lilly- 
vick,  angrily.  "  He  has  had  punch  already,  has  he  not, 
sir  ?  I  consider  the  way  in  which  that  punch  was  cut  off, 
if  I  may  use  the  expression,  highly  disrespectful  to  this 
company ;  scandalous,  perfectly  scandalous.  It  may  be 
the  custom  to  allow  such  things  in  this  house,  but  it's 
not  the  kind  of  behaviour  that  I've  been  used  to  see  dis- 
played, and  so  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Kenwigs.  A 
gentleman  has  a  glass  of  punch  before  him  to  which  he 
is  just  about  to  set  his  lips,  when  another  gentleman 
comes  and  collars  that  glass  of  punch,  without  a  *  with 
your  leave,'  or  *  by  your  leave,'  and  carries  that  glass  of 
punch  away.  This  may  be  good  manners — I  dare  say 
it  is— but  I  don't  understand  it,  that's  all ;  and  what's 
more,  I  don't  care  if  I  never  do.  It's  my  way  to  speak 
my  mind,  Kenwigs,  and  that  is  my  mind  ;  and  if  you 
don't  like  it,  it's  past  my  regular  time  for  going  to  bed, 
and  I  can  find  my  way  home  without  making  it  later." 

Here  was  an  untoward  event !  The  collector  had  sat 
swelling  and  fuming  in  offended  dignity  for  some  min- 
utes, and  had  now  fairly  burst  out.  The  great  man — the 
rich  relation — the  unmarried  uncle — who  had  it  in  his 
power  to  make  Morleena  an  heiress,  and  the  very  baby  a 
legatee — was  offended.  Gracious  Powers,  where  was 
this  to  end  ! 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  humbly. 

* '  Don't  tell  me  you're  sorry,"  retorted  Mr.  Lilly  vick, 
with  much  sharpness.  "  You  should  have  prevented  it, 
then." 

The  company  were  quite  paralysed  by  this  domestic 
crash.  The  back  parlour  sat  with  her  moutli  wide  open, 
staring  vacantly  at  the  collector,  in  a  stupor  of  dismay  ; 
the  other  guests  were  scarcely  less  overpowered  by  the 


great  man's  irritation.  Mr.  Kenwigs,  not  being  skilful 
in  such  matters,  only  fanned  the  flame  in  attempting  to 
extinguish  it. 

"  I  didn't  think  of  it,  I  am  sure,  sir,"  said  that  gentle- 
man. "I  didn't  suppose  that  such  a  little  thing  as  a 
glass  of  punch  would  have  put  you  out  of  temi>er." 

"  Out  of  temper  !  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by 
that  piece  of  impertinence,  Mr.  Kenwigs?"  said  the  col- 
lector.   "  Morleena,  child — give  me  my  hat." 

"  Oh,  you're  not  going,  Mr.  Lillyvick,  sir,"  interposed 
Miss  Petowker,  with  her  most  bewitching  smile. 

But  still  Mr.  Lillyvick,  regardless  of  the  siren,  cried 
obdurately,  "Morleena,  my  hat  !"  uf)on  the  fourth  repe- 
tition of  which  demand,  Mrs.  Kenwigs  sunk  back  in  her 
•chair,  with  a'cry  that  might  have  softened  a  water-butt, 
not  to  say  a  water-collector  ;  while  the  four  little  girls 
(privately  instructed  to  that  effect)  claspe(l  their  uncle's 
drab  shorts  in  their  arms,  and  prayed  him,  in  imperfect 
English,  to  remain. 

"Why  should  I  stop  here,  my  dears  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lilly- 
vick ;  "I'm  not  wanted  here." 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  so  cruelly,  uncle,"  sobbed  Mrs. 
Kenwigs,  "  unless  you  wish  to  kill  me." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  some  peof>le  were  to  say  I 
did,"  replied  Mr.  Lillyvick,  glancing  angrily  at  Kenwigs. 
"Oat  of  temper  !" 

"  Oh  !  I  cannot  bear  to  see  him  look  so,  at  my  hus- 
band," cried  Mrs.  Kenwigs.  "  It's  so  dreadful  in  fami- 
lies. Oh!" 

"  Mr.  Lillyvick,"  said  Kenwigs,  "  I  hope,  for  the  sake 
of  your  niece,  that  you  won't  object  to  be  reconciled." 

The  collector's  features  relaxed,  as  the  company  added 
their  entreaties  to  those  of  his  nephew -in-law.  He  gave 
up  his  hat  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  There,  Kenwigs,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick  ;  "  and  let  me 
tell  you,  at  the  same  time,  to  show  you  how  much  out 
of  temper  I  was,  that  if  I  had  gone  away  without  another 
word,  it  would  have  made  no  difference  respecting  that 
pound  or  two  which  I  shall  leave  among  your  children 
when  I  die." 

"Morleena  Kenwigs,"  cried  her  mother,  in  a  torrent 
of  affection.  "  Go  down  upon  your  knees  to  your  dear 
uncle,  and  beg  him  to  love  you  all  his  life  through,  for 
he's  more  a  angel  than  a  man,  and  I've  always  said  so." 

Miss  Morleena  approaching  to  do  homage,  in  compli- 
ance with  this  injunction,  was  summarily  caught  up  and 
kissed  by  Mr.  Killyvick  ;  and  thereupon  Mrs.  Lenwigs 
darted  forward  and  kissed  the  collector,  and  an  irre- 
pressible murmur  of  applaiise  broke  from  the  company 
who  had  witnessed  his  magnanimity. 

The  worthy  gentleman  then  became  once  more  the  life 
and  soul  of  the  society  ;  being  again  reinstated  in  his 
old  post  of  lion,  from  which  high  station  the  temporary 
distraction  of  their  thoughts  had  for  a  moment  dispos- 
sessed him.  Quadruped  lions  are  said  to  be  savage, 
only  when  they  are  "hungry  ;  biped  lions  are  rarely  sulky 
longer  than  when  their  appetite  for  distinction  remains 
unappeased.  Mr.  Lillyvick  stood  higher  than  ever  ;  for 
he  had  shown  his  power ;  hinted  at  his  property  and  tes- 
tamentary intentions ;  gained  great  credit  for  disinter- 
estedness and  virtue  ;  and,  in  addition  to  all,  was  finally 
accommodated  with  a  much  larger  tumbler  of  punch 
than  that  which  Newman  Noggs  had  so  feloniously  made 
off  with. 

"  I  say  !  I  beg  everybody's  pardon  for  intruding  again," 
said  Growl,  looking  in  at  this  happy  juncture;  "but 
what  a  queer  business  this  is,  isn't  it  ?  Noggs  has  lived 
in  this  house,  now  going  on  for  five  years,  and  nobody 
has  ever  been  to  see  him  before,  within  the  memory  of 
the  oldest  inhabitant." 

"  It's  a  strange  time  of  night  to  be  called  away,  sir, 
certainly,"  said  the  collector;  "and  the  behaviour  of 
Mr.  Noggs  himself,  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  mysterious.' 

"Well,  so  it  is,"  rejoined  Crowl  ;  "and  I'll  tell  you 
what's  more— I  think  these  two  geniuses,  whoever  they 
are,  have  run  away  from  somewhere." 

"What  makes  you  think  that,  sir?"  demanded  the 
collector,  who  seemed,  by  a  tacit  understanding,  to  have 
been  chosen  and  elected  mouthpiece  to  the  company. 
"You  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  they  have  run 
away  from  anywhere  without  paying  the  rates  and  taxes 
due,  I  hope?" 


52 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Mr.  Crowl,  with  a  look  of  some  contempt,  was  about  to 
enter  a  general  protest  against  the  payment  of  rates  or 
taxes,  under  any  circumstances,  when  he  was  checked  by 
a  timely  whisper  from  Ken  wigs,  and  several  frowns  and 
winks  from  Mrs.  K.,  which  providentially  stopped  him. 

"  Why  the  fact  is,"  said  Crowl,  who  had  been  listening 
at  Newman's  door,  with  all  his  might  and  main  ;  "the 
fact  is,  that  they  have  been  talking  so  loud,  that  they 
quite  disturbed  me  in  my  room,  and  so  I  couldn't  help 
catching  a  word  here,  and  a  word  there  ;  and  all  I  heard, 
certainly  seemed  to  refer  to  their  having  bolted  from  some 
place  or  other.  I  don't  wish  to  alarm  Mrs.  Kenwigs  ;  but 
I  hope  they  haven't  come  from  any  jail  or  hospital,  and 
brought  away  a  fever  or  some  unpleasantness  of  that  sort, 
which  might  be  catching  for  the  children." 

Mr'^.  Kenwigs  was  so  overpowered  by  this  supposition, 
that  it  needed  all  the  tender  attentions  of  Miss  Petowker, 
of  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane,  to  restore  her  to  any- 
thing like  a  state  of  calmness ;  not  to  mention  the  assi- 
duity of  Mr.  Kenwigs,  who  held  a  fat  smelling-bottle  to 
his  lad}^s  nose,  until  it  became  matter  of  some  doubt 
whether  the  tears  which  coursed  down  her  face,  were  the 
result  of  feelings  or  sal  volatile. 

The  ladies,  having  expressed  their  sympathy,  singly 
and  separately,  fell,  according  to  custom,  into  a  little 
chorus  of  soothing  expressions,  among  which,  such  con- 
dolences as  " Poor  dear  ! " — "I  should  feel  just  the  same, 
if  I  was  her  " — '*  To  be  sure,  it's  a  very  trying  thing  " — 
and  "  Nobody  but  a  mother  knows  what  a  mother's  feel- 
ings is,"  were  among  the  most  prominent,  and  most  fre- 
quently repeated.  In  short,  the  opinion  of  the  company 
was  so  clearly  manifested,  that  Mr.  Kenwigs  was  on  the 
point  of  repairing  to  Mr.  Noggs's  room,  to  demand  an  ex- 
planation, and  had  indeed  swallowed  a  preparatory  glass 
of  punch,  with  great  inflexibility  and  steadiness  of  pur- 
pose, when  the  attention  of  all  present  was  diverted  by  a 
new  and  terrible  surprise. 

This  was  nothing  less  than  the  sudden  pouring  forth 
of  a  rapid  succession  of  the  shrillest  and  most  piercing 
screams,  from  an  upper  story  ;  and  to  all  appearance  from 
the  very  two-pair  back,  in  which  the  infant  Kenwigs  was 
at  that  moment  enshrined.  They  were  no  sooner  audible, 
than  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  opining  that  a  strange  cat  had  come 
in,  and  sucked  the  baby's  breath  while  the  girl  was  asleep, 
made  for  the  door,  wringing  her  hands,  and  shrieking 
dismally  ;  to  the  great  consternation  and  confusion  of  the 
company. 

"  Mr.  Kenwigs,  see  what  it  is  ;  make  haste  !  "  cried  the 
sister,  laying  violent  hands  upon  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  and  hold- 
ing her  back  by  force.  "  Oh  don't  twist  about  so,  dear, 
or  I  can  never  hold  you." 

"  My  baby,  my  blessed,  blessed,  blessed,  blessed  ba- 
by ! "  screamed  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  making  every  blessed 
louder  than  the  last.  "  My  own  darling,  sweet,  innocent 
Lilly  vick — Oh  let  me  go  to  him.    Let  me  go-o-o-o  !  " 

Pending  the  utterance  of  these  frantic  cries,  and  the 
wails  and  lamentations  of  the  four  little  girls,  Mr.  Ken- 
wigs rushed  up  stairs  to  the  room  whence  the  sounds  pro- 
ceeded ;  at  the  door  of  which,  he  encountered  Nicholas, 
with  the  child  in  his  arms,  who  darted  out  with  such  vi- 
olence, that  the  anxious  father  was  thrown  down  six 
stairs,  and  alighted  on  the  nearest  landing-place,  before 
he  liad  found  time  to  open  his  mouth  to  ask  what  was 
the  matter. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  cried  Nicholas,  running  down  ; 
"  here  it  is  ;  it's  all  out,  it's  all  over  ;  pray  compose  your- 
selves; there's  no  harm  done;"  and  with  these,  and  a 
thousand  other  assurances,  ho  delivered  the  baby  (whom, 
in  his  liurry,  he  had  carried  upside  down),  to  Mrs.  Ken- 
wigs, and  ran  back  to  assist  Mr.  Kenwigs,  who  was  rub- 
bing liis  hoad  very  hard,  and  looking  much  bewildered 
l)y  his  tumble. 

Reassured  by  this  cheering  intelligence,  the  company 
in  HorrK!  dogr(;e  recovered  from  tluiir  fears,  which  had 
IxMTi  productive  of  some  most  singular  instances  of  a  total 
want  of  presence  of  mind  ;  thus,  the  bachelor  friend  had, 
for  a  long  time,  su[)ported  in  his'arms  Mrs.  Kenwig's  sis- 
ter, instead  of  Mrs.  Kenwigs  ;  and  the  worthy  Mr.  liilly- 
vick  had  be(!n  actually  seen,  in  the  perturbation  of  his 
spirits,  to  kiss  Miss  l*(;towker  several  times,  behind  tin; 
room  door,  as  calmly  as  if  nothing  distressing  w(?re  going 
forward. 


I  "  It  is  a  mere  nothing,"  said  Nicholas,  returning  to  Mrs. 
Kenwigs  ;  "the  little  girl,  who  was  watching  the  child, 
1  being  tired  I  suppose,  fell  asleep,  and  set  her  hair  on  fire. " 
I  "Oh  you  malicious  little  wretch  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Kenwigs, 
!  impressively  shaking  her  forefinger  at  the  small  unfortu- 
I  nate,  who  might  be  thirteen  years  old,  and  was  looking 
on  ^\dth  a  singed  head  and  a  frightened  face. 

' '  I  heard  her  cries, "  continued  Nicholas, ' '  and  ran  down, 
in  time  to  prevent  her  setting  fire  to  anything  else.  You 
may  depend  upon  it  that  the  child  is  not  hurt ;  for  I  took 
it  otf  the  bed  myself,  and  brought  it  here  to  convince 
you." 

This  brief  explanation  over,  the  infant,  who,  as  he  was 
christened  after  the  collector,  rejoiced  in  the  names  of 
Lilly  vick  Kenwigs,  was  partially  suffocated  under  the 
caresses  of  the  audience,  and  squeezed  to  his  mother's 
bosom,  until  he  roared  again.  The  attention  of  the  com- 
pany was  then  directed,  by  a  natural  transition,  to  the 
little  girl  who  had  had  the  audacity  to  burn  her  hair  off, 
and  who,  after  receiving  sundry  small  slaps  and  pushes 
from  the  more  energetic  of  the  ladies,  was  mercifully  sent 
home  ;  the  ninepence  with  which  she  was  to  have  been 
rewarded,  being  escheated  to  the  Kenwigs  family. 

"  And  whatever  we  are  to  say  to  you,  sir,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Kenwigs,  addressing  young  Lillyvick's  deliverer 
"I  am  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  You  need  say  nothing  at  all,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  I 
have  done  nothing  to  found  any  very  strong  claim  upon 
your  eloquence,  I  am  sure." 

"  He  might  have  been  burnt  to  death,  if  it  hadn'^ 
been  for  you,  sir,"  simpered  Miss  Petowker. 

"Not  very  likely,  I  think,"  replied  Nicholas;  "for 
there  was  abundance  of  assistance  here,  which  must 
have  reached  him  before  he  had  been  in  any  danger. " 

"You  will  let  us  drink  your  health,  anyvays,  sir!" 
said  Mr.  Kenwigs  motioning  towards  the  table. 

" — In  my  absence,  by  all  means,"  rejoined  Nicholas, 
with  a  smile.  "  I  have  had  a  very  fatiguing  journey, 
and  should  be  most  indifferent  company — a  far  greater 
check  upon  your  merriment,  than  a  promoter  of  it,  even 
if  I  kept  awake,  which  I  think  very  doubtful.  If  you 
will  allow  me,  I'll  return  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Noggs,  who 
went  up  stairs  again,  when  he  found  nothing  serious 
had  occurred.    Good  night." 

Excusing  himself  in  these  terms,  from  joining  in  the 
festivities,  Nicholas  took  a  most  winning  farewell  of 
Mrs.  Kenwigs  and  the  other  ladies,  and  retired,  after 
making  a  very  extraordinary  impression  upon  the  com- 
pany. 

"  What  a  delightful  young  man! "  cried  Mrs.  Kenwigs. 

"Uncommon  gentlemanly,  really,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs. 

Don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Lillyvick?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  collector,  with  a  dubious  shrug  of 
his  shoulders,  "  He  is  gentlemanly,  very  gentlemanly — 
in  appearance." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  see  anything  against  him,  uncle  ? 
inquired  Mrs.  Kenwigs. 

"No,  my  dear,"  replied  the  collector,  "no.  I  trust 
he  may  not  turn  out — well — no  matter — my  love  to  you, 
my  dear,  and  long  life  to  the  baby  ! " 

"  Your  namesake,"  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  with  a  sweet 
smile. 

"  And  I  hope  a  worthy  namesake,"  observed  Mr. 
Kenwigs,  willing  to  propitiate  the  collector.  "  I  hope  a 
baby  as  will  never  disgrace  his  godfather,  and  as  may  be 
considered,  in  after  years,  of  a  piece  with  the  Lillyvicks 
whose  name  he  bears.  I  do  say — and  Mrs.  Kenwigs  is 
of  the  same  sentiment,  and  feels  it  as  strong  as  I  do — 
that  I  consider  his  being  called  Lillyvick  one  of  the 
greatest  blessings  and  honours  of  my  existence." 

"  The  greatest  blessing,  Kenwigs,"  murmured  his 
lady. 

"  The  greatest  blessing,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  correct- 
ing himself.  "A  blessing  that  I  hope,  one  of  these, 
(lays,  I  may  be  able  to  deserve." 

This  was  a  politic  stroke  of  the  Kenwigses,  because  it 
made  Mr.  Lillyvick  the  great  head  and  fountain  of  the 
baby's  importance.  The  good  gentleman  felt  the  deli- 
cacy and  dexterity  of  the  toucn,  and  at  once  proposed 
the  luialth  of  the  gentleman,  name  unknown,  who  had 
signalised  himself,  that  night,  by  his  coolness  and  alac- 
rity. 


I 


NICHOLAS  mCKLEBY, 


53 


"Wlio,  I  don't  mind  saying,"  observed  Mr.  Lillyvick, 
as  a  great  concession,  "  is  a  good-looking  young  man 
enough,  with  manners  that  I  hope  his  character  may  be 
equal  to." 

"  He  has  a  very  nice  face  and  style,  really,"  said  Mrs. 
Ken  wigs. 

"  He  certainly  has,"  added  Miss  Petowker.  "  There's 
something  in  his  appearance  quite — dear,  dear,  what's 
that  word  again  ?  ' ' 

*'  What  word?"  inquired  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

"Why— dear  me,  how  stupid  I  am,"  replied  Miss 
Petowker,  hesitating.  "What  do  you  call  it,  when 
Lords  break  off  door-knockers,  and  beat  policemen,  and 
play  at  coaches  with  other  people's  money,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing?  " 

"Aristocratic?"  suggested  the  collector. 

"Ah!  aristocratic,"  replied  Miss  Petowker;  "some- 
thing very  aristocratic  about  him,  isn't  there  ?  " 

The  gentlemen  held  their  peace,  and  smiled  at  each 
other,  as  who  should  say,  "  Well  !  there's  no  accounting 
for  tastes  ; "  but  the  ladies  resolved  unanimously  that 
Nicholas  had  an  aristocratic  air  ;  and  nobody  caring  to 
dispute  the  position,  it  was  established  triumphantly. 

The  punch  being,  by  this  time,  drunk  out,  and  the  lit- 
tle Kenwigses  (who  had  for  some  time  previous  held 
their  little  eyes  open  with  their  little  fore-fingers)  be- 
coming fractious,  and  requesting  rather  urgently  to  be 
put  to  bed,  the  collector  made  a  move  by  pulling  out  his 
watch,  and  acquainting  the  company  that  it  was  nigh 
two  o'clock  ;  whereat  some  of  the  guests  were  surprised 
and  others  shocked,  and  hats  and  bonnets  being  groped 
for  under  the  tables,  and  in  course  of  time  found,  their 
owners  went  away,  after  a  vast  deal  of  shaking  of  hands, 
and  many  remarks  how  they  had  never  spent  such  a  de- 
lightful evening,  and  how  they  marvelled  to  find  it  so 
late,  expecting  to  have  heard  that  it  was  half-past  ten  at 
the  very  latest,  and  how  they  wished  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Kenwigs  had  a  wedding-day  once  a  week,  and  how  they 
wondered  by  what  hidden  'agency  Mrs.  Kenwigs  could 
possibly  have  managed  so  well ;  and  a  great  deal  more  of 
the  same  kind.  To  all  of  which  flattering  expressions, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs  replied,  by  thanking  every  lady 
and  gentleman,  seriatim  for  the  favour  of  their  company, 
and  hoping  they  might  have  enjoyed  themselves  only 
half  as  well  as  they  said  they  had. 

As  to  Nicholas,  quite  unconscious  of  the  impression 
he  had  produced,  he  had  long  since  fallen  asleep,  leav- 
ing Mr.  Newman  Noggs  and  Smike  to  empty  the  spirit 
bottle  between  them  ;  and  this  office  they  performed 
with  such  extreme  good  will,  that  Newman  was  equally 
at  a  loss  to  determine  whether  he  himself  was  quite 
sober,  and  whether  he  had  ever  seen  any  gentleman  so 
heavily,  drowsily,  and  completely  intoxicated,  as  his 
new  acquaintance. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Nicholas  seeks  to  employ  himself  in  a  neio  Capacity,  and  being  unsuc- 
cessful, accepts  an  Engagement  as  Tutor  in  a  Private  Family. 

t     The  first  care  of  Nicholas,  next  morning,  was,  to  look 
after  some  room  in  which,  until  better  times  dawned 
upon  him,  he  could  contrive  to  exist,  without  trenching 
upon  the  hospitality  of  Newman  Noggs,  who  would  have 
slept  upon  the  stairs  with  pleasure,  so  that  his  young 
friend  was  accommodated. 
I     The  vacant  apartment  to  which  the  bill  in  the  parlour 
!  window  bore  reference,  appeared,  on  inquiry,  to  be  a 
'  small  back  room  on  the  second  floor,  reclaimed  from  the 
leads,  and  overlooking  a  soot-bespeckled  prospect  of 
:  tiles  and  chimney-pots.    For  the  letting  of  this  portion 
;  of  the  house  from  week  to  week,  on  reasonable  terms, 
[  the  parlour  lodger  was  empowered  to  treat ;  he  being 
I  deputed  by  the  landlord  to  dispose  of  the  rooms  as  they 
[,  became  vacant,  and  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out  that  the 
j  lodgers  didn't  run  away.    As  a  means  of  securing  the 
I  punctual  discharge  of  which  last  service  he  was  permit- 
j  ted  to  live  rent-free,  lest  he  should  at  any  time  be 
I  tempted  to  run  away  himself. 

Of  this  chamber,  Nicholas  became  the  tenant  ;  and 
having  hired  a  few  common  articles  of  furniture  from  a 
neighbouring  broker,  and  paid  the  first  week's  hire  in 


advance,  out  of  a  small  fund  raised  by  the  conversion  of 
some  spare  clothes  into  ready  money,  he  sat  himself 
down  to  ruminate  upon  his  prospects,  which,  like  the 
prospect  outside  his  window,  were  sufficiently  confined 
and  dingy.  As  they  by  no  means  improved  on  better 
acquaintance,  and  as  familiarity  breeds  contempt,  he 
resolved  to  banish  them  from  his  thoughts  by  dint  of 
hard  walking.  So,  taking  up  his  hat,  and  leaving  poor 
Smike  to  arrange  and  re-arrange  the  room  with  as  much 
delight  as  if  it  had  been  the  costliest  palace,  he  betook 
himself  to  the  streets,  and  mingled  with  the  crowd  who 
thronged  them. 

Although  a  man  may  lose  a  sense  of  his  own  impor- 
tance, when  he  is  a  mere  unit  among  a  busy  throng,  all 
utterly  regardless  of  him,  it  by  no  means  follows  that 
he  can  dispossess  himself,  with  equal  facility,  of  a  very 
strong  sense  of  the  importance  and  magnitude  of  his 
cares.  The  unhappy  state  of  his  own  affairs  was  the 
one  idea  which  occupied  the  brain  of  Nicholas,  walk  as 
fast  as  he  would  ;  and  when  he  tried  to  dislodge  it  by 
speculating  on  the  situation  and  prospects  of  the  people 
who  surrounded  him,  he  caught  himself  contrasting 
their  condition  with  his  own,  and  gliding  almost  imper- 
ceptibly back  into  his  old  train  of  thought  again. 

Occupied  in  these  reflections,  as  he  was  making  his 
way  along  one  of  the  great  public  thoroughfares  of  Lon- 
don, he  chanced  to  raise  his  eyes  to  a  blue  board,  where- 
on was  inscribed,  in  characters  of  gold,  "  General  Agency 
Office  ;  for  places  and  situations  of  all  kinds  inquire 
within."  It  was  a  shop-front,  fitted  up  with  a  gauze 
blind  and  an  inner  door  ;  and  in  the  window  hung  a  long 
and  tempting  array  of  written  placards,  announcing 
vacant  places  of  every  grade,  from  a  secretary's  to  a 
footboy's. 

Nicholas  halted,  instinctively,  before  this  temple  of 
promise,  and  ran  his  eye  over  the  capital-text  openings 
in  life  which  were  so  profusely  displayed.  When  he 
had  completed  his  survey  he  walked  on  a  little  way,  and 
then  back,  and  then  on  again  ;  at  length,  after  pausing 
irresolutely  several  times  before  the  door  of  the  General 
Agency  Office,  he  made  up  his  mind  and  stepped  in. 

He  found  himself  in  a  little  floor-clothed  room,  with  a 
high  desk  railed  off  in  one  corner,  behind  which  sat  a 
lean  youth  with  cunning  eyes  and  a  protruding  chin, 
whose  performances  in  capital-text  darkened  the  win- 
dow. He  had  a  thick  ledger  lying  open  before  him,  and 
with  the  flngers  of  his  right  hand  inserted  between  the 
leaves,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  very  fat  old  lady  in  a 
mob-cap— evidently  the  proprietress  of  the  establishment 
— who  was  airing  herself  at  the  fire,  seemed  to  be  only 
waiting  her  directions  to  refer  to  some  entries  contained 
within  its  rusty  clasps. 

As  there  was  a  board  outside,  which  acquainted  the 
public  that  servants-of -all- work  were  perpetually  in 
waiting  to  be  hired  from  ten  to  four,  Nicholas  knew  at 
once  that  some  half-dozen  strong  young  women,  each 
with  pattens  and  an  umbrella,  who  were  sitting  upon  a 
form  in  one  corner,  were  in  attendence  for  that  purpose  : 
especially  as  the  poor  things  looked  anxious  and  weary. 
He  was  not  quite  so  certain  of  the  callings  and  stations 
of  two  smart  young  ladies  who  were  in  conversation  with 
the  fat  lady  before  the  fire,  until — having  sat  himself 
down  in  a  corner,  and  remarked  that  he  would  wait  until 
the  other  customers  had  been  served— the  fat  lady  re- 
sumed the  dialogue  which  his  entrance  had  interrupted. 

"Cook,  Tom,"  said  the  fat  lady,  still  airing  herself  as 
aforesaid. 

"  Cook,"  said  Tom,  turning  over  some  leaves  of  the 
ledger.  "Well!" 

"  Read  out  an  easy  place  or  two,"  said  the  fat  lady. 

"  Pick  out  very  light  ones,  if  you  please,  young  man," 
interposed  a  genteel  female,  in  shepherd's  plaid  boots, 
who  appeared  to  be  the  client. 

"'Mrs.  Marker,'"  said  Tom,  reading,  "'Russell 
Place,  Russell  Square  ;  offers  eighteen  guineas  ;  tea  and 
sugar  foand.  Two  in  family,  and  see  very  little  com- 
pany.   Five  servants  kept.    No  man.    No  followers.'  " 

"Oh  Lor  1  "  tittered  the  client.  "That  won't  do. 
Read  another,  young  man,  will  you  ?  " 

"'Mrs.  Wrymug,'"  said  Tpm,  "'Pleasant  Place, 
Finsbury.  Wages,  twelve  guineas.  No  tea,  no  sugar. 
Serious  familv — '  " 


54 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Ah  !  you  needn't  mind  reading  that,"  interrupted  the 
client. 

* '  '  Three  serious  footmen/  "  said  Tom,  impressively. 
"  Three?  did  you  say?"  asked  the  client  in  an  altered 
tone. 

"Three  serious  footmen,"  replied  Tom.  ***Cook, 
housemaid,  and  nursemaid  ;  each  female  servant  re- 
quired to  join  the  Little  Bethel  Congregation  three  times 
every  Sunday — with  a  serious  footman.  If  the  cook  is 
more  serious  than  the  footman,  she  will  be  expected  to 
improve  the  footman  ;  if  the  footman  is  more  serious 
than  the  cook,  he  will  be  expected  to  improve  the 
cook.'  " 

"  I'll  take  the  address  of  that  place,"  said  the  client  :  "  I 
don't  know  but  what  it  mightn't  suit  me  pretty  well." 

"Here's  another,"  remarked  Tom,  turning  over  the 
leaves;  "'Family  of  Mr.  Gallanbile,  M.  P.  Fifteen 
guineas,  tea  and  sugar,  and  servants  allowed  to  see  male 
cousins,  if  godly.  Note.  Cold  dinner  in  the  kitchen  on 
the  Sabbath,  Mr,  Gallanbile  being  devoted  to  the  Observ- 
ance question.  No  victuals  whatever,  cooked  on  the 
Lord's  Day,  with  the  exception  of  dinner  for  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gallanbile,  which,  being  a  work  of  piety  and  necessity, 
is  exempted.  Mr.  Gallanbile  dines  late  on  the  day  of 
rest,  in  order  to  prevent  the  sinfulness  of  the  cook's 
dressing  herself.'  " 

"  I  don't  think  that'll  answer  as  well  as  the  other," 
said  the  client,  after  a  little  whispering  with  her  friend. 
' '  I'll  take  the  other  direction,  if  you  please,  young  man. 
I  can  but  come  back  again,  if  it  don't  do." 

Tom  made  out  the  address,  as  requested,  and  the  gen- 
teel client,  having  satisfied  the  fat  lady  with  a  small  fee, 
meanwhile,  went  away,  accompanied  by  her  friend. 

As  Nicholas  opened  his  mouth,  to  request  tlie  young 
man  to  turn  to  letter  S,  and  let  him  know  what  secretary- 
ships remained  undisposed  of,  there  came  into  the  office 
an  applicant,  in  whose  favour  he  immediately  retired, 
and  whose  appearance  both  surprised  and  interested 
him. 

This  was  a  young  lady  who  could  be  scarcely  eighteen, 
of  very  slight  and  delicate  figure,  but  exquisitely  shaped, 
who,  walking  timidly  up  to  the  desk,  made  an  inquiry, 
in  a  very  low  tone  of  voice,  relative  to  some  situation  as 
governess,  or  companion  to  a  lady.  She  raised  her  veil, 
for  an  instant,  while  she  perferred  the  inquiry,  and  dis- 
closed a  countenance  of  most  uncommon  beauty,  though 
shaded  by  a  cloud  of  sadness,  which,  in  one  so  young, 
was  doubly  remarkable.  Having  received  a  card  of 
reference  to  some  person  on  the  books,  she  made  the 
usual  acknowledgment,  and  glided  away. 

She  was  neatly  but  very  quietly  attired  ;  so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  it  seemed  as  though  her  dress,  if  it  had  been 
worn  by  one  who  imparted  fewer  graces  of  her  own  to  it, 
might  have  looked  poor  and  shabby.  Her  attendant — 
for  she  had  one — was  a  red-faced,  round-eyed,  slovenly 
girl,  who,  from  a  certain  roughness  about  the  bare  arms 
that  peeped  from  imder  her  draggled  shawl,  and  the 
half-washed-out  traces  of  smut  and  blacklead  which 
tattoed  her  countenance,  was  clearly  of  a  kin  with  the 
servants-of -all-work  on  the  form  ;  between  whom  and 
herself  there  had  passed  various  grins  and  glances,  in- 
dicative of  the  freemasonry  of  the  craft. 

This  girl  followed  her  mistress  ;  and,  before  Nicholas 
had  recovered  from  the  first  effects  of  his  surprise  and 
admiration,  the  young  lady  was  gone.  It  is  not  a  matter 
of  such  complete  and  utter  improbability  as  some  sober 

Eeople  may  think,  that  he  would  have  followed  them  out, 
ad  he  not  been  restrained  by  what  passed  between  the 
fat  lady  and  her  bookkeeper. 

"  When  is  she  coming  again,  Tom?"  asked  the  fat 
lady. 

"  To-morrow  morning,"  replied  Tom,  mending  his  pen. 
"  Where  have  you  sent  her  to  ?"  asked  the  fat  lady. 
"Mrs.  Clark's,"  repliecl  Tom. 

"She'll  have  a  nice  life  of  it,  if  she  goes  there," 
observed  the  fat  lady,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff  from  a  tin 
box. 

Tom  made  no  other  reply  than  thrusting  his  tongue 
into  his  cheek,  and  pointing  the  feather  of  his  pen  to- 
wards Nicholas — reminders  which  elicited  from  the  fat 
lady  an  inquiry,  of  "  Now,  sir,  what  can  we  do  for  you  !  " 

Nicholas  briefly  replied  that  he  wanted  to  know 


whether  there  was  any  such  post  to  be  had,  as  secretary 
or  amanuensis  to  a  gentleman, 

"  Any  such  !  "  rejoined  the  mistress  ;  "  a  dozen  such. 
An't  there,  Tom?" 

"/  should  think  so,"  answered  that  young  gentleman  ; 
and  as  he  said  it,  he  winked  towards  Nicholas  with  a  de- 
gree of  familiarity  which  he,  no  doubt,  intended  for  a 
rather  flattering  compliment,  but  with  which  Nicholas 
was  most  ungratefully  disgusted. 

Upon  reference  to  the  book,  it  appeared  that  the  dozen 
secretaryships  had  dwindled  down  to  one.  Mr.  Gregs- 
bury,  the  great  member  of  parliament,  from  Manchester 
Buildings,  Westminster,  wanted  a  young  man  to  keep  his 
papers  and  correspondence  in  order  ;  and  Nicholas  was 
exactly  the  sort  of  young  man  that  Mr.  Gregsbury  wanted. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  terms  are,  as  he  said  he'd  set- 
tle them  himself  with  the  party,"  observed  the  fat  lady  ; 
"but  they  must  be  pretty  good  ones,  because  he's  a 
member  of  parliament." 

Inexperienced  as  he  was,  Nicholas  did  not  feel  quite 
assured  of  the  force  of  this  reasoning  or  the  justice  of 
this  conclusion  ;  but  without  troubling  himself  to  ques- 
tion it,  he  took  down  the  address,  and  resolved  to  wait 
upon  Mr.  Gregsbury  without  delay. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  number  is,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but 
Manchester  Buildings  isn't  a  large  place  ;  and  if  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,  it  won't  take  you  very  long  to  knock 
at  all  the  doors  on  both  sides  of  the  way  till  you  find 
him  out.  I  say,  what  a  good-looking  gal  that  was,  wasn't 
she  ?  " 

"  What  girl  ?"  demanded  Nicholas,  sternly. 

"  Oh  yes.  I  know — what  gal,  eh  ?"  whispered  Tom, 
shutting  one  eye,  and  cocking  his  chin  in  the  air,  "  You 
didn't  see  her,  you  didn't — I  say,  don't  you  wish  you 
was  me,  when  she  comes  to-morrow  morning?  " 

Nicholas  looked  at  the  ugly  clerk,  as  if  he  had  a  mind 
to  reward  his  admiration  of  the  young  lady  by  beating 
the  ledger  about  his  ears,  but  he  refrained,  and  strode  , 
haughtily  out  of  the  office  ;  setting  at  defiance,  in  his  i 
indignation,  those  ancient  laws  of  chivalry,  which  not  ; 
only  made  it  proper  and  lawful  for  all  good  knights  to 
hear  the  praise  of  the  ladies  to  whom  they  were  devoted, 
but  rendered  it  incumbent  upon  them  to  roam  about  the 
world,  and  knock  at  head  all  such  matter-of-fact  and  un- 
poetical  characters,  as  declined  to  exalt,  above  all  the 
earth,  damsels  whom  they  had  never  chanced  to  look 
upon,  or  hear  of — as  if  that  were  any  excuse  ! 

Thinking  no  longer  of  his  own  misfortunes,  but  won- 
dering what  could  be  those  of  the  beautiful  girl  he  had  ' 
seen,  Nicholas,  with  many  wrong  turns,  and  many  in- 
quiries, and  almost  as  many  misdirections,  bent  his  steps  ' 
towards  the  place  whither  he  had  been  directed. 

Within  the  precincts  of  the  ancient  city  of  Westmins- 
ter, and  within  half  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  its  ancient 
sanctuary,  is  a  narrow  and  dirty  region,  the  sanctuary  of 
the  smaller  members  of  Parliament  in  modern  days.  It 
is  all  comprised  in  one  street  of  gloomy  lodging-houses, 
from  whose  windows,  invacation-time,  there  frown  long, 
melancholy  rows  of  bills,  which  say,  as  plainly  as  did 
the  countenances  of  their  occupiers,  ranged  on  minis- 
terial and  opposition  benches  in  the  session  which  slum- 
bers with  its  fathers,  "To  Let,"  "To  Let."  In  busier 
periods  of  the  year  these  bills  disappear,  and  the  houses 
swarm  with  legislators.  There  are  legislators  in  the 
parlours,  in  the  first  floor,  in  the  second,  in  the  third,  in 
the  garrets  ;  the  small  apartments  reek  with  the  breath 
of  deputations  and  delegates.  In  damp  weather,  the 
place  is  rendered  close,  by  the  steams  of  moist  acts  of 
y^arliament  and  frowsy  petitions  ;  general  postmen  grow 
faint  as  they  enter  its  infected  limits,  and  shabby  figures 
in  quest  of  franks,  flit  restlessly  to  and  fro  like  the^ 
troubled  ghosts  of  Complete  Letter-writers  departed. 
This  is  Manchester  Buildings  ;  and  here,  at  all  hours  of 
the  night,  may  be  heard  the  rattling  of  latch-keys  in^ 
their  respective  keyholes  :  with  now  and  then — when  a  ' 
gust  of  wind  sweeping  across  the  water  which  washes 
the  Buildings'  feet,  impels  the  sound  towards  its  entrance 
— the  weak,  shrill  voice  of  some  young  member  practis-  ! 
ing  to-morrow's  speech.  All  the  livelong  day,  there  is  a 
grinding  of  organs  and  clashing  and  clanging  of  little 
boxes  of  music  ;  for  Manchester  Buildings  is  an  eel-pot, 
which  has  no  outlet  but  its  awkward  mouth  —  a  case- 


NICHOLAS 

bottle  which  has  no  thoroughfare,  and  a  short  and  narrow 
neck — and  in  this  respect  it  may  be  typical  of  the  fate  of 
some  few  among  its  more  adventurous  residents,  who, 
after  wriggling  themselves  into  Parliament  by  violent 
efforts  and  contortions,  find  that  it,  too,  is  no  thorough- 
fare for  them  ;  that,  like  Manchester  Buildings,  it  leads 
to  nothing  beyond  itself  ;  and  that  they  are  fain  at  last 
to  back  out,  no  wiser,  no  richer,  not  one  whit  more  fa- 
mous, than  they  went  in. 

Into  Manchester  Buildings  Nicholas  turned,  with  the 
address  of  the  great  Mr.  Gregsbury  in  his  hand.  As 
there  was  a  stream  of  people  pouring  into  a  shabby  house 
not  far  from  the  entrance,  he  waited  until  they  had 
made  their  way  in,  and  then  making  up  to  the  servant, 
ventured  to  inquire  if  he  knew  where  Mr.  Gregsbury 
lived. 

The  servant  was  a  very  pale,  shabby  boy,  who  looked 
as  if  he  had  slept  under  ground  from  his  infancy,  as  very 
likely  he  bad.  "Mr.  Gregsbury  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  Mr.  Gregs- 
bury lodges  here.    It's  all  right.    Come  in!" 

Nicholas  thought  he  might  as  well  get  in  while  he 
could,  so  in  he  walked  ;  and  he  had  no  sooner  done  so, 
than  the  boy  shut  the  door,  and  made  oR. 

This  was  odd  enough  ;  but  what  was  more  embarrassing 
was,  that  all  along  the  passage,  and  all  along  the  narrow 
stairs,  blocking  up  the  window,  and  making  the  dark 
entry  darker  still,  was  a  confused  crowd  of  persons  with 
great  importance  depicted  in  their  looks  ;  who  were,  to 
all  appearance,  waiting  in  silent  expectation  of  some 
coming  event.  From  time  to  time,  one  man  would 
whisper  his  neighbour,  or  a  little  group  would  whisper 
together,  and  then  the  whisperers  would  nod  fiercely  to 
each  other,  or  give  their  heads  a  relentless  shake,  as  if 
they  were  bent  upon  doing  something  very  desperate, 
and  were  determined  not  to  be  put  oK,  whatever  hap- 
pened. 

As  a  few  minutes  elapsed  without  anything  occurring 
to  explain  this  phenomenon  and  as  he  felt  his  own  posi- 
tion a  peculiarly  uncomfortable  one,  Nicholas  was  on  the 
point  of  seeking  some  information  from  the  man  next 
him,  when  a  sudden  move  was  visible  on  the  stairs,  and 
a  voice  was  heard  to  cry,  "Now,  gentlemen,  have  the 
goodness  to  walk  up  ! " 

So  far  from  walking  up,  the  gentlemen  on  the  stairs 
began  to  walk  down  with  great  alacrity,  and  to  entreat, 
with  extraordinary  politeness,  that  the  gentlemen  near- 
est the  street  would  go  first ;  the  gentlemen  nearest  the 
street  retorted,  with  equal  courtesy,  that  they  couldn't 
think  of  such  a  thing  on  any  account ;  but  they  did  it, 
without  thinking  of  it,  inasmuch  as  the  other  gentlemen 
pressing  some  half-dozen  (among  whom  was  Nicholas) 
forward,  and  closing  up  behind,  pushed  them,  not 
merely  up  the  stairs,  but  into  the  very  sitting-room  of 
Mr.  Gregsbury,  which  they  were  thus  compelled  to 
enter  with  most  unseemly  precipitation,  and  without  the 
means  of  retreat ;  the  press  behind  them,  more  than  fill- 
ing the  apartment. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  "you  are  welcome. 
I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you." 

For  a  gentleman  who  was  rejoiced  to  see  a  body  of 
visitors,  Mr.  Gregsbury  looked  as  uncomfortable  as  might 
be  ;  but  perhaps  this  was  occasioned  by  senatorial  gravity, 
and  a  statesman-like  habit  of  keeping  his  feelings  under 
control.  He  was  a  tough,  burly,  thick-headed  gentle- 
man, with  a  loud  voice,  a  pompous  manner,  a  tolerable 
command  of  sentences  with  no  meaning  in  them,  and, 
in  short,  every  requisite  for  a  very  good  member  in- 
deed. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  tossing  a 
great  bundle  of  papers  into  a  wicker  basket  at  his  feet, 
and  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair  with  his  arms 
over  the  elbows,  "  you  are  dissatisfied  with  my  conduct, 
I  see  by  the  newspapers." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Gregsbury,  we  are,"  said  a  plump  old  gen- 
tleman in  a  violent  heat,  bursting  out  of  the  throng,  and 
planting  himself  in  the  front. 

"Do  my  eyes  deceive  me,"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  look- 
ing towards  the  speaker,  "or  is  that  my  old  friend  Puff- 
styles?"  ^  ^ 

"I  am  that  man,  and  no  other,"  replied  the  plump 
old  gentleman. 

"Give  me  your  hand,  my  worthy  friend,"  said  Mr. 


NIGKLEBY.  55 

Gregsbury.  "  Pugstyles,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  very  sorry 
to  see  you  here." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  be  here,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pugstyles  ; 
"but  your  conduct,  Mr.  Gregsbury,  has  rendered  this 
deputation  from  your  constituents,  imperatively  neces- 
sary." 

"My  conduct,  Pugstyles,"  said  Mr,  Gregsbury,  looking 
round  upon  the  deputation  with  gracious  magnanimity 
— "My  conduct  has  been,  and  ever  will  ha,  regulated 
by  a  sincere  regard  for  the  true  and  real  interests  of  this 
great  and  happy  country.  Whether  I  look  at  home,  or 
abroad  ;  whether  I  behold  the  peaceful  industrious  com- 
munities of  our  island  home  :  her  rivers  covered  with 
steamboats,  her  roads  with  locomotives,  her  streets  with 
cabs,  her  skies  with  balloons  of  a  power  and  magnitude 
hitherto  unknown  in  the  history  of  aeronautics  in  this  or 
any  other  nation — I  say,  whether  I  look  merely  at  home, 
or,  stretching  my  eyes  farther,  contemplate  the  bound- 
less prospect  of  conquest  and  possession — achieved  by 
British  perseverence  and  British  valour — which  is  out- 
spread before  me,  I  clasp  my  hands,  and  turning  my 
eyes  to  the  broad  expanse  above  my  head,  exclaim, 
'  Thank  Heaven,  I  am  a  Briton  ! '  " 

The  time  had  been,  when  this  burst  of  enthusiasm 
would  have  been  cheered  to  the  very  echo  ;  but  now,  the 
deputation  received  it  with  chilling  coldness.  The  gen- 
eral impression  seemed  to  be,  that  as  an  explanation  of 
Mr.  Gregsbury 's  political  conduct,  it  did  not  enter  quite 
enough  into  detail  ;  and  one  gentleman  in  the  rear  did 
not  scruple  to  remark  aloud,  that,  for  his  purpose,  it 
savoured  rather  too  much  of  a  "gammon  "  tendency. 

"  The  meaning  of  that  term — gammon,"  said  Mr. 
Gregsbury,  "  is  unknown  to  me.  If  it  means  that  I  grow 
a  little  too  fervid,  or  perhaps  even  hyperbolical,  in  ex- 
tolling my  native  land,  I  admit  the  full  justice  of  the 
remark.  I  am  proud  of  this  free  and  happy  country. 
My  form  dilates,  my  eye  glistens,  my  breast  heaves,  my 
heart  swells,  my  bosom  burns,  when  I  call  to  mind  her 
greatness  and  her  glory." 

"  We  wish,  sir,"  remarked  Mr.  Pugstyles,  calmly, 
"to  ask  you  a  few  questions." 

"If  you  please,  gentlemen  ;  my  time  is  yours — and 
my  country's — and  my  country's — "  said  Mr.  Gregsbury. 

This  permission  being  conceded,  Mr.  Pugstyles  put  on 
his  spectacles,  and  referred  to  a  written  paper  which  he 
drew  from  his  pocket  ;  whereupon  nearly  every  other 
member  of  the  deputation  pulled  a  written  paper  from 
Ms  pocket,  to  check  Mr.  Pugstyles  off,  as  he  read  the 
questions. 

This  done,  Mr.  Pugstyles  proceeded  to  business. 

"Question  number  one. — Whether,  sir,  you  did  not 
give  a  voluntary  pledge  previous  to  your  election,  that 
in  event  of  your  being  returned,  you  would  immediately 
put  down  the  practice  of  coughing  and  groaning  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  And  whether  you  did  not  submit 
to  be  coughed  and  groaned  down  in  the  very  first  debate 
of  the  session,  and  have  since  made  no  effort  to  effect  a 
reform  in  this  respect  ?  Whether  you  did  not  also  pledge 
yourself  to  astonish  the  government,  and  make  them 
shrink  in  their  shoes.  And  whether  you  have  astonished 
them,  and  made  them  shrink  in  their  shoes,  or  not?" 

"  Go  on  to  the  next  one,  my  dear  Pugstyles,"  said  Mr. 
Gregsbury. 

' '  Have  you  any  explanation  to  offer  with  reference  to 
that  question,  sir  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Pugstyles. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury. 

The  members  of  the  deputation  looked  fiercely  at  each 
other,  and  afterwards  at  the  member.  "  Dear  Pug- 
styles "  having  taken  a  very  long  stare  at  Mr.  Gregsbury 
over  the  tops  of  his  spectacles,  resumed  his  list  of  in- 
quiries. 

"  Question  number  two. — Whether,  sir,  you  did  not 
likewise  give  a  voluntary  pledge  that  you  would  support 
your  colleague  on  every  occasion  :  and  whether  you  did 
not,  the  night  before  last,  desert  him  and  vote  upon  the 
other  side,  because  the  wife  of  a  leader  on  that  other 
side  had  invited  Mrs.  Gregsbury  to  an  evening  party?" 

"  Go  on,"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury. 

"Nothing  to  say  on  that,  either,  sir?"  asked  the 
spokesman. 

"Nothing  whatever,"  replied  Mr.  Gregsbury.  The 
deputation,  who  had  only  seen  him  at  canvassing  or 


56 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


election  time,  were  struck  dumb  by  his  coolness.    He  I 
didn't  appear  like  the  same  man  ;  then  he  was  all  milk  | 
and  honey  ;  now  he  was  all  starch  and  vinegar.  But 
men  are  so  different  at  different  times  ! 

"  Question  number  three — and  last — "  said  Mr.  Pug- 
styles,  emphatically.  "  Whether,  sir,  you  did  not  state 
upon  the  hustings,  that  it  was  your  firm  and  determined 
intention  to  oppose  everything  proposed  ;  to  divide  the 
house  upon  every  question,  to  move  for  returns  on  every 
subject,  to  place  a  motion  on  the  books  every  day,  and, 
in  short,  in  your  own  memorable  words,  to  play  the  very 
devil  with  everything  and  everybody  ?  "  With  this  com- 
prehensive inquiry,  Mr.  Pugstyles  folded  up  his  list  of 
questions,  as  did  all  his  backers. 

Mr.  Gregsbury  reflected,  blew  his  nose,  threw  himself 
further  back  in  his  chair,  came  forward  again,  leaning 
his  elbows  on  the  table,  made  a  triangle  with  his  two 
thumbs  and  his  two  forefingers,  and  tapping  his  nose 
with  the  apex  thereof,  replied  (smiling  as  he  said  it),  "  I 
deny  everything," 

At  this  unexpected  answer,  a  hoarse  murmur  arose 
from  the  deputation  ;  and  the  same  gentleman  who  had 
expressed  an  opinion  relative  to  the  gammoning  nature 
of  the  introductory  speech,  again  made  a  monosyllabic 
demonstration,  by  growling  out  "Resign!"  Which 
growl  being  taken  up  by  his  fellows,  swelled  into  a  very 
earnest  and  general  remonstrance. 

"  I  am  requested,  sir,  to  express  a  hope,"  said  Mr. 
Pagstyles,  with  a  distant  bow,  "  that  on  receiving  a  req- 
uisition to  that  effect  from  a  great  majority  of  your  con- 
stituents, you  will  not  object  at  once  to  resign  your  seat 
in  favour  of  some  candidate  whom  they  think  they  can 
better  trust." 

To  this,  Mr.  Gregsbury  read  the  following  reply, 
which,  anticipating  the  request,  he  had  composed  in  the 
form  of  a  letter,  whereof  copies  had  been  made  to  send 
round  to  the  newspapers. 

"  My  deak  Mr.  Pugstyles, 
•'Next  to  the  welfare  of  our  beloved  island — this 
great  and  free  and  happy  country,  whose  powers  and  re- 
sources are,  I  sincerely  believe,  illimitable — I  value  that 
noble  independence  which  is  an  Englishman's  proudest 
boast,  and  which  I  fondly  hope  to  bequeathe  to  my 
children,  untarnished  and  unsullied.  Actuated  by  no 
personal  motives,  but  moved  only  by  high  and  great  con- 
stitutional considerations  ;  which  I  will  not  attempt  to 
explain,  for  they  are  really  beneath  the  comprehension 
of  those  who  have  not  made  themselves  masters,  as  I 
have,  of  the  intricate  and  arduous  study  of  politics  ;  I 
would  rather  keep  my  seat,  and  intend  doing  so. 

"  Will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  present  my  compli- 
ments to  the  constituent  body,  and  acquaint  them  with 
this  circumstance  ? 

With  great  esteem, 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Pugstyles, 

"&c.  &c." 

"  Then  you  will  not  resign,  under  any  circumstances?  " 
asked  the  spokesman. 

Mr.  Gregsbury  smiled,  and  shook  his  head, 

"Then  good  morning,"  sir,"  said  Pugstyles,  angrily. 

"Heaven  bless  you  !"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  And  the 
deputation,  with  many  growls  and  scowls,  filed  off  as 
quickly  as  the  narrowness  of  the  staircase  would  allow 
of  their  getting  down. 

The  last  man  being  gone,  Mr.  Gregsbury  rubbed  his 
hands  and  chuckled,  as  merry  fellows  will,  when  they 
think  they  have  said  or  done  a  more  than  commonly  good 
thing  ;  he  was  so  engrossed  in  this  self-congratulation, 
that  he  did  not  observe  that  Nicholas  had  been  left  be- 
hind in  the  shadow  of  the  window-curtains,  until  that 
young  gentleman,  fearing  he  might  otherwise  overhear 
some  soliloquy  intended  to  have  no  listeners,  coughed 
twice  or  thrice,  to  attract  the  member's  notice. 

"What's  that?"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  in  sharp  ac- 
cents. 

Nicholas  stepped  forward,  and  bowed. 

"  What  do  you  do  here,  sir?"  asked  Mr.  Gregsbury  ; 
"  a  spy  upon  my  privacy  !  A  concealed  voter  !  You 
have  hoard  my  answer,  sir.  Pray  follow  the  deputa- 
tion." 


'  *  I  should  have  done  so,  if  I  had  belonged  to  it,  but  I 
do  not  "  said  Nicholas. 

"Then  how  came  you  here,  sir  ?  "  was  the  natural  in- 
quiry of  Mr.  Gregsbury,  M.P.  "And  where  the  devil 
have  you  come  from,  sir  ?  "  was  the  question  which  fol- 
lowed it. 

"I  brought  this  card  from  the  General  Agency  Of- 
fice, sir,"  said  Nicholas,  "  wishing  to  offer  myself  as 
your  secretary,  and  understanding  that  you  stood  in  need 
of  one." 

' '  That's  all  you  have  come  for,  is  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Gregs- 
bury, eyeing  him  in  some  doubt. 

Nicholas  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"  You  have  no  connexion  with  any  of  those  rascally 
papers,  have  you?"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  "  You  didn't 
get  into  the  room  to  hear  what  was  going  forward,  and 
put  it  in  print,  eh  ?  " 

"I  have  no  connexion,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  with  any- 
thing at  present,"  rejoined  Nicholas, — politely  enough, 
but  quite  at  his  ease. 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury.  "How  did  you  find 
your  way  up  here,  then  ?" 

Nicholas  related  how  he  had  been  forced  up  by  the 
deputation. 

"That  was  the  way,  was  it?"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury. 
"  Sit  down." 

Nicholas  took  a  chair,  and  Mr.  Gregsbury  stared  at 
him  for  a  long  time,  as  if  to  make  certain,  before  he 
asked  any  further  questions,  that  there  were  no  objec- 
tions to  his  outward  appearance. 

' '  You  want  to  be  my  secretary,  do  you  ?  "  he  said  at 
length. 

"  I  wish  to  be  employed  in  that  capacity,  sir,"  replied 
Nicholas. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury  ;  "  Now  what  can  you 
do?" 

"I  suppose,"  replied  Nicholas,  smiling,  "that  I  can 
do  what  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  other  secretaries." 
"  What's  that  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Gregsbury. 
"  What  is  it  ?"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  Ah  !  What  is  it  ?  "  retorted  the  member,  looking 
shrewdly  at  him,  with  his  head  on  one  side. 

"  A  secretary's  duties  are  rather  difficult  to  define,  per- 
haps," said  Nicholas,  considering.  "They  include,  I 
presume,  oorrespondence  ?  " 

"  Good,"  interposed  Mr.  Gregsbury. 

"The  arrangement  of  papers  and  documents?" 

"  Very  good." 

"  Occasionally,  perhaps, the  writing  from  your  dictation; 
and  possibly,  sir," — said  Nicholas,  with  a  half  smile, 
"the  copying  of  your  speech  for  some  public  journal, 
when  you  have  made  one  of  more  than  usual  impor- 
tance. " 

"  Certainly,"  rejoined  Mr.  Gregsbury.    "  What  else  ?  " 

"  Really,"  said  Nicholas  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
"  I  am  not  able,  at  this  instant,  to  recapitulate  any  other 
duty  of  a  secretary,  beyond  the  general  one  of  making 
himself  as  agreeable  and  useful  to  his  employer  as  he 
can,  consistently  with  his  own  respectability,  and  with- 
out overstepping  that  line  of  duties  which  he  undertakes 
to  perform,  and  which  the  designation  of  his  office  is 
usually  understood  to  imply." 

Mr.  Gregsbury  looked  fixedly  at  Nicholas  for  a  short 
time,  and  then  glancing  warily  round  the  room,  said  in  a 
suppressed  voice  : 

"  This  is  all  very  well,  Mr.  —  what  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Nickleby." 

"  This  is  all  very  well,  Mr.  Nickleby,  and  very  proper, 
so  far  as  it  goes — so  far  as  it  goes,  but  it  doesn't  go  far 
enough.  There  are  other  duties,  Mr.  Nickleby,  wliich  a 
secretary  to  a  parliamentary  gentleman  must  never  lose 
sight  of.    I  should  require  to  be  crammed,  sir." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposed  Nicholas,  doubtful 
whether  he  had  heard  aright. 

" — To  be  crammed  sir,  "  repeated  Mr.  Gregsbury. 

"May  I  beg  your  pardon  again,  if  I  inquire  what  you 
mean,  sir?"  said  Nicholas. 

"  My  meaning,  sir,  is  perfectly  plain,"  replied  Mr. 
Gregsbury,  with  a  solemn  aspect.  "  My  secretary  would 
have  to  make  himself  master  of  the  foreign  policy  of  the 
world,  as  it  is  mirrored  in  the  newspapers;  to  run  his 
eye  over  all  accounts  of  public  meetings,  all  leading  arti- 


NICHOLAS 

cles,  and  accounts  of  the  proceedings  of  public  bodies  ; 
and  to  make  notes  of  anything  whicli  it  appeared  to  hira 
might  be  made  a  point  of,  in  any  little  speech  upon  the 
question  of  some  petition  lying  on  the  table,  or  any- 
thing of  that  kind.    Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"I  think  I  do,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  "it  would  bo  necessary 
for  him  to  make  himself  acquainted,  from  day  to  day, 
with  newspaper  paragraphs  on  passing  events  ;  such  as 
'Mysterious  disappearance,  and  supposed  suicide  of  a 
pot-boy,'  or  anything  of  that  sort,  upon  which  I  might 
found  a  question  to  the  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Home 
Department.  Then,  he  would  have  to  copy  the  question, 
and  as  much  as  I  remembered  of  the  answer  (including 
a  little  compliment  about  independence  and  good  sense) ; 
and  to  send  the  manuscript  in  a  frank  to  the  local  paper, 
with  perhaps  half  a  dozen  lines  of  leader,  to  the  effect, 
that  I  was  always  to  be  found  in  my  place  in  parliament, 
and  never  shrunk  from  the  responsible  and  arduous  du- 
ties, and  so  forth.    You  see  ?  " 

Nicholas  bowed. 

"  Besides  which,"  continued  Mr.  Gregsbury,  "  I  should 
expect  him,  now  and  then,  to  go  through  a  few  figures 
in  the  printed  tables,  and  to  pick  out  a  few  results,  so 
that  I  might  come  out  pretty  well  on  timber  duty  ques-. 
tions,  and  finance  questions,  and  so  on  ;  and  I  should  like 
him  to  get  up  a  few  little  arguments  about  the  disastrous 
effects  of  a  return  to  cash  payments  and  a  metallic  curren- 
cy, with  a  touch  now  and  then  about  the  exportation  of 
bullion,  and  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  and  bank  notes,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing,  which  it's  only  necessary  to  talk 
fluently  about,  because  nobody  understands  it.  Do  you 
take  me  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  With  regard  to  such  questions  as  are  not  political," 
continued  Mr.  Gregsbury,  warming  ;  ' '  and  which  one 
can't  be  expected  to  care  a  curse  about,  beyond  the  nat- 
ural care  of  not  allowing  inferior  people  to  be  as  well  off 
as  ourselves — else  where  are  our  privileges  ? — I  should 
wish  my  secretary  to  get  together  a  few  little  flourishing 
speeches,  of  a  patriotic  cast.  For  instance,  if  any  pre- 
posterous bill  were  brought  forward,  for  giving  poor 
grubbing  devils  of  authors  a  right  to  their  own  property, 
I  should  like  to  say,  that  I  for  one  would  never  consent 
to  opposing  an  insurmountable  bar  to  the  diffusion  of  lit- 
erature among  the  people, — you  understand  ? — that  the 
creations  of  the  pocket,  being  man's,  might  belong  to  one 
man,  or  one  family  ;  but  that  the  creations  of  the  brain, 
being  God's,  ought  as  a  matter  of  course  to  belong  to  the 
people  at  large — and  if  I  was  pleasantly  disposed,  I  should 
like  to  make  a  joke  about  posterity,  and  say  that  those 
who  wrote  for  posterity  should  be  content  to  be  rewarded 
by  the  approbation  of  posterity  ;  it  might  take  with  the 
house,  and  could  never  do  me  any  harm,  because  posteri- 
ty can't  be  expected  to  know  anything  about  me  or  my 
jokes  either — do  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see  that,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  You  must  always  bear  in  mind,  in  such  cases  as  this, 
where  our  interests  are  not  affected,"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury, 
"  to  put  it  very  strong  about  the  people,  because  it  comes 
out  very  well  at  election-time  ;  and  you  could  be  as  fun- 
ny as  you  liked  about  the  authors  ;  because  I  believe  the 
greater  part  of  them  live  in  lodgings,  and  are  not  voters. 
This  is  a  hasty  outline  of  the  chief  things  you'd  have  to 
do,  except  waiting  in  the  lobby  every  night,  in  case  I 
forgot  anything,  and  should  want  fresh  cramming  ;  and, 
now  and  then,  during  great  debates,  sitting  in  the  front 
row  of  the  gallery,  and  saying  to  the  people  about — '  You 
see  that  gentleman,  with  his  hand  to  his  face,  and  his 
arm  twisted  round  the  pillar — that's  Mr.  Gregsbury — the 
celebrated  Mr.  Gregsbury — '  with  any  other  little  eulogi- 
um  that  might  strike  you  at  the  moment.  And  for  sal- 
ary," said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  winding  up  with  great  rapid- 
ity ;  for  he  was  out  of  breath— "  And  for  salary,  I  don't 
mind  saying  at  once  in  round  numbers,  to  prevent  any 
dissatisfaction— though  it's  more  than  I've  been  accus- 
tomed to  give — fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and  find  your- 
self.   There  !  " 

With  this  handsome  offer,  Mr.  Gregsbury  once  more 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  looked*  like  a  man 
■who  had  been  most  profligately  liberal,  but  he  deter- 
mined not  to  repent  of  it  notwithstanding. 


NIGKLEBY.  57 

"  Fifteen  shillings  a  week  is  not  much,"  said  Nicholas 
mildly. 

"  Not  much  !  Fifteen  shillings  a  week  not  much, 
young  man?"  cried  Mr.  Gregsbury.  "Fifteen  shil- 
lings a — " 

"  Pray  do  not  suppose  that  I  quarrel  with  the  sum, 
sir,"  replied  Nicholas  ;  "for  lam  not  ashamed  to  con- 
fess, that  whatever  it  may  be  m  itself,  to  me  it  is  a  great 
deal.  But  the  duties  and  responsiblities  make  the  rec- 
ompense small,  and  they  are  so  very  heavy  that  I  fear 
to  undertake  them." 

"Do  you  decline  to  undertake  them,  sir?"  inquired 
Mr.  Gregsbury,  with  his  hand  on  the  bell-rope. 

"I  fear  they  are  too  great  for  my  powers,  however 
good  my  will  may  be,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  That  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  you  had  rather  not 
accept  the  place,  and  that  you  consider  fifteen  shillings 
a  week  too  little,"  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  ringing.  "  Do 
you  decline  it,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  alternative  but  to  do  so,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  Door,  Matthews  ! "  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  as  the  boy 
appeared. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  troubled  you  unnecessarily,  sir," 
said  Nicholas. 

"I  am  sorry  you  have,"  rejoined  Mr.  Gregsbury,  turn- 
ing his  back  upon  him.    "  Door,  Matthews  !  " 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Door,  Matthews  !  "  cried  Mr.  Gregsbury. 

The  boy  beckoned  Nicholas,  and  tumbling  lazily  down- 
stairs before  him,  opened  the  door,  and  ushered  him  into 
the  street.  With  a  sad  and  pensive  air,  he  retraced  his 
steps  homewards. 

Smike  had  scraped  a  meal  together  from  the  remnant 
of  last  night's  supper,  and  was  anxiously  awaiting  his 
return.  The  occurrences  of  the  morning  had  not  im- 
proved Nicholas's  appetite,  and,  by  him,  the  dinner  re- 
mained untasted.  He  was  sitting  in  a  thoughtful  atti- 
tude, with  the  plate  which  the  poor  fellow  had  assidu- 
ously filled  with  the  choicest  morsels,  untoucl^d,  by 
his  side,  when  Newman  Noggs  looked  into  the  room. 

"  Come  back  ?  "  asked  Newman. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Nicholas,  "  tired  to  death  ;  and,  what 
is  worse,  might  have  remained  at  home  for  all  the  good 
I  have  done." 

"  Couldn't  expect  to  do  much  in  one  morning,"  said 
Newman. 

"  May  be  so,  but  I  am  sanguine,  and  did  expect,"  said 
Nicholas,  "  and  am  proportionately  disappointed."  Say- 
ing which,  he  gave  Newman  an  account  of  his  proceedings. 

"  If  I  could  do  anything,"  said  Nicholas,  "anything 
however  slight,  until  Ralph  Nickleby  returns,  and  I 
have  eased  my  mind  by  confronting  him,  I  should  feel 
happier.  I  should  think  it  no  disgrace  to  work.  Heaven 
knows.  Lying  indolently  here,  like  a  half-tamed  sullen 
beast,  distracts  me." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Newman  ;  "  small  things  offer — 
they  would  pay  the  rent,  and  more — but  you  wouldn't 
like  them  ;  no,  you  could  hardly  be  expected  to  undergo 
it — no,  no." 

"What  could  I  hardly  be  expected  to  undergo?" 
asked  Nicholas,  raising  his  eyes.  "  Show  me,  in  this 
wide  waste  of  London,  any  honest  means  by  which  I 
could  even  defray  the  weekly  hire  of  this  poor  room,  and 
see  if  I  shrink  from  resorting  to  them  !  Undergo  !  I 
have  undergone  too  much,  my  friend,  to  feel  pride  or 
squeamishness  now.  Except — "  added  Nicholas  hastily, 
after  a  short  silence,  "  except  such  squeamishness  as  is 
common  honesty,  and  so  much  pride  as  constitutes  self- 
respect.  I  see'little  to  choose,  between  assistant  to  a 
brutal  pedagogue,  and  toad-eater  to  a  mean  and  ignorant 
upstart,  be  he  member  or  no  member." 

"I  hardly  know  whether  I  should  tell  you  what  I  heai-d 
this  morning,  or  not,"  said  Newman. 

"  Has  it  reference  to  what  you  said  just  now?  "  asked 
Nicholas. 

"  It  has." 

"Then  in  Heaven's  name,  my  good  friend,  tell  it  me, " 
said  Nicholas.  "  For  God's  sake  consider  my  deplorable 
condition  ;  and,  while  I  promise  to  take  no  step  without 
taking  counsel  with  you,  give  me,  at  least,  a  vote  in  my 
own  behalf." 

Moved  by  this  entreaty,  Newman  stammered  forth  a 


58 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


variety  of  most  unaccountable  and  entangled  sentences, 
the  upshot  of  which,  was,  that  Mrs.  Ken  wigs  bad  exam- 
ined him,  at  great  length  that  morning,  touching  the 
origin  of  his  acquaintance  with,  and  the  whole  life, 
adventures,  and  pedigree  of,  Nicholas,  that  Newman 
had  parried  these  questions  as  long  as  he  could,  but 
being,  at  length,  hard  pressed  and  driven  into  a  comer, 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  admit,  that  Nicholas  was  a  tutor  of 
great  accomplishments,  involved  in  some  misfortunes 
which  he  was  not  at  liberty  to  explain,  and  bearing  the 
name  of  Johnson.  That  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  impelled  by 
gratitude,  or  ambition,  or  maternal  pride,  or  maternal  love, 
or  all  four  powerful  motives  conjointly,  had  taken  secret 
conference  with  Mr.  Kenwigs,  and  had  finally  returned  to 
propose  that  Mr,  Johnson  should  instriict  the  four  Miss 
Kenwigses  in  the  French  language  as  spoken  by  natives, 
at  the  weekly  stipend  of  five  shillings,  current  coin  of  the 
realm  ;  being  at  the  rate  of  one  shilling  per  week,  per 
each  Miss  Kenwigs,  and  one  shilling  over,  until  such 
time  as  the  baby  might  be  able  to  take  it  out  in 
grammar. 

"  Which,  unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken."  observed 
Mrs.  Kenwigs  in  making  the  proposition,  "  will  not  be 
very  long  ;  for  such  clever  children,  Mr.  Noggs,  never 
were  born  into  this  world,  I  do  believe." 

"There,"  said  Newman,  "that's  all.  It's  beneath 
you,  I  know  ;  but  I  thought  that  perhaps  you  might — " 

"Might  !"  cried  Nicholas,  with  great  alacrity  ;  "of 
course  I  shall.  I  accept  the  offer  at  once.  Tell  the 
worthy  mother  so,  without  delay,  my  dear  fellow  ;  and 
that  I  am  ready  to  begin  whenever  she  pleases." 

Newman  hastened,  with  joyful  steps,  to  inform  Mrs. 
Kenwigs  of  his  friend's  acquiescence,  and  soon  returning, 
brought  back  word  that  they  would  be  happy  to  see  him 
in  the  first  floor  as  soon  as  convenient  ;  that  Mrs.  Ken- 
wigs had,  upon  the  instant,  sent  out  to  secure  a  second- 
hand French  grammar  and  dialogues,  which  had  long 
been  fluttering  in  the  sixpenny  box  at  the  book-stall 
round  ^e  corner  ;  and  that  the  family,  highly  excited 
at  the  prospect  of  this  addition  to  their  gentility,  wished 
the  initiatory  lesson  to  come  o£E  immediately. 

And  here  it  may  be  observed,  that  Nicholas  was  not, 
in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  a  young  man  of  high 
spirit.  He  would  resent  an  affront  to  himself,  or  inter- 
pose to  redress  a  wrong  offered  to  another,  as  boldly  and 
freely  as  any  knight  that  ever  set  lance  in  rest  ;  but  he 
lacked  that  peculiar  excess  of  coolness  and  great-minded 
selfishness,  which  invariably  distinguish  gentlemen  of 
high  spirit.  In  truth,  for  our  own  part,  we  are  disposed 
to  look  upon  such  gentlemen  as  being  rather  incum- 
brances than  otherwise  in  rising  families  :  happening  to 
be  acquainted  with  several  whose  spirit  prevents  their  set- 
tling down  to  any  grovelling  occupation,  and  only  dis- 
plays itself  in  a  tendency  to  cultivate  mustachios,  and 
look  fierce  ;  and  although  mustachios  and  ferocity  are 
both  very  pretty  things  in  their  way,  and  very  much  to 
be  commended,  we  confess  to  a  desire  to  see  them  bred 
at  the  owner's  proper  cost,  rather  than  at  the  expense  of 
low-spirited  people. 

Nicholas,  therefore,  not  being  a  high-spirited  young 
man  according  to  common  parlance,  and  deeming  it  a 
greater  degradation  to  borrow,  for  the  supply  of  his 
necessities,  from  Newman  Noggs,  than  to  teach  French 
to  the  little  Kenwigses  for  five  shillings  a  week,  ac- 
cepted the  offer,  with  the  alacrity  already  described,  and 
betook  himself  to  the  first  floor  with  all  convenient 
speed. 

Here,  he  was  received  by  Mrs.  Kenwigs  with  a  gen- 
teel air,  kindly  intended  to  assure  him  of  her  protection 
and  support  ;  and  here,  too,  he  found  Mr.  Lillyvick  and 
Miss  Petowker  ;  the  four  Miss  Kenwigses  on  their  form 
of  audience  ;  and  the  baby  in  a  dwarf  porter's  chair  with 
a  deal  tray  before  it,  amusing  himself  with  a  toy  horse 
without  a  head  ;  the  said  horse  being  composed  of  a 
small  wooden  cylinder,  not  unlike  an  Italian  iron,  sup- 
ported on  four  crooked  pegs,  and  painted  in  ingenious 
resemblance  of  red  wafers  set  in  blacking. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Johnson  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs. 
"Uncle — Mr.  Johnson." 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick — rather 
sharply  ;  for  he  had  not  known  what  Nicliolas  was,  on 
the  previous  night,  and  it  was  rather  an  aggravating 


circumstance  if  a  tax  collector  had  been  too  polite  to  a 
teacher. 

"Mr.  Johnson  is  engaged  as  private  master  to  the 
children,  uncle,"  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs. 

"So  you  said  just  now,  my  dear,"  replied  Mr.  Lilly- 
vick. 

"  But  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  drawing  herself  up, 
"  that  that  will  not  make  them  proud  ;  but  that  they 
will  bless  their  own  good  fortune,  which  has  born  them 
superior  to  common  people's  children.  Do  you  hear, 
Morleena  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma,"  replied  Miss  Kenwigs. 

"  And  when  you  go  out  in  the  streets,  or  elsewhere,  I 
desire  that  you  don't  boast  of  it  to  the  other  children," 
said  Mrs.  Kenwigs  ;  "  and  that  if  you  must  say  anything 
about  it,  you  don't  say  no  more  than  '  We've  got  a  pri- 
vate master  comes  to  teach  us  at  home,  but  we  ain't 
proud,  because  ma  says  it's  sinful  !'  Do  you  hear,  Mor- 
leena?" 

"  Yes,  ma,"  replied  Miss  Kenwigs  again. 

"  Then  mind  you  recollect,  and  do  as  I  tell  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Kenwigs.    "  Shall  Mr.  Johnson  begin,  uncle  ?  " 

"  I  am  ready  to  hear,  if  Mr.  Johnson  is  ready  to  com- 
mence, my  dear,"  said  the  collector,  assuming  the  air  of 
a  profound  critic.  ' '  What  sort  of  language  do  you  con- 
sider  French,  sir  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"Do  you  consider  it  a  good  language,  sir?"  said  the 
collector  ;  "  a  pretty  language,  a  sensible  language  ?  " 

"  A  pretty  language,  certainly,"  replied  Nicholas  ;  ^ 
"  and  as  it  has  a  name  for  everything,  and  admits  of 
elegant  conversation  about  everything,  I  presume  it  is  a 
sensible  one." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  doubtfully.  "Do 
you  call  it  a  cheerful  language,  now  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Nicholas,  "I  should  say  it  was,  cer- 
tainly." j 

"  It's  very  much  changed  since  my  time,  then,"  said  j 
the  collector,  "  very  much."  | 

"  Was  it  a  dismal  one  in  your  time  ?  "  asked  Nicholas,  j 
scarcely  able  to  repress  a  smile.  { 

' '  Very,"  replied  Mr.  Lillyvick,  with  some  vehemence  j 
of  manner.  "  It's  the  war  time  that  I  speak  of  ;  the  last  j 
war.  It  may  be  a  cheerful  language.  I  should  be  sorry  | 
to  contradict  anybody  ;  but  I  can  only  say  that  I've  j 
heard  the  French  prisoners,  who  were  natives,  and  ought  \ 
to  know  how  to  speak  it,  talking  in  such  a  dismal  manner, 
that  it  made  one  miserable  to  hear  them.  Ay,  that  I  have,  ,  j 
fifty  times,  sir — fifty  times  !  "  \ 

Mr.  Lillyvick  was  waxing  so  cross,  that  Mrs.  Kenwigs  , 
thought  it  expedient  to  motion  to  Nicholas  not  to  say  any- 
thing ;  and  it  was  not  until  Miss  Petowker  had  practised 
several  blandishments,  to  soften  the  excellent  old  gentle- 
man, that  he  deigned  to  break  silence,  by  asking, 

"  What's  the  water  in  French,  sir?" 
L'Eau,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  shaking  his  head  mourn- 
fully, "I  thought  as  much.  Lo,  eh?  I  don't  think 
anything  of  that  language — nothing  at  all." 

' '  I  suppose  the  children  may-begin,  uncle  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Kenwigs. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  they  may  begin,  my  dear,'*  replied  the  col- 
lector, discontentedly.     "/  have  no  wish  to  prevent  ; 
them." 

This  permission  being  conceded,  the  four  Miss  Ken- 
wigses sat  in  a  row,  with  their  tails  all  one  way,  and 
Morleena  at  the  top  :  while  Nicholas,  taking  the  book, . 
began  his  preliminary  explanations.  Miss  Petowker  and 
Mrs.  Kenwigs  looked  on,  in  silent  admiration,  broken 
only  by  the  whispered  assurances  of  the  latter,  that  Mor- 
leena would  have  it  all  by  heart  in  no  time  ;  and  Mr. 
Lillyvick  regarded  the  group  with  frowning  and  atten- 
tive eyes,  lying  in  wait  for  something  upon  which  he 
could  open  a  fresh  discussion  on  the  language. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Follows  the  Fortunes  of  Miss  Nickleby. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  many  sad  forebodings 
which  no  effort  could  banish,  that  Kate  Nickleby,  on  the 


NICHOLAS 


NICK LE BY. 


morning  appointed  for  the  commencement  of  her  engage- 
ment with  Madame  Mantalini,  left  the  city  when  its  clocks 
yet  wanted  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  eight,  and  threaded 
her  way  alone,  amid  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  streets, 
towards  the  west  end  of  London. 

At  this  early  hour  many  sickly  girls,  whose  business, 
like  that  of  the  poor  worm,  is  to  produce,  with  patient 
toil,  the  finery  that  bedecks  the  thoughtless  and  luxuri- 
ous, traverse  our  streets,  making  towards  the  scene  of 
their  daily  labour,  and  catching,  as  if  by  stealth,  in  their 
hurried  walk,  the  only  gasp  of  wholesome  air  and  glimpse 
of  sunlight  which  cheers  their  monotonous  existence  dur- 
ing the  long  train  of  hours  that  made  a  working  day. 
As  she  drew  nigh  to  the  more  fashionable  quarter  of  the 
town,  Kate  marked  many  of  this  class  as  they  passed  by, 
hurrying  like  herself  to  their  painful  occupation,  and 
saw,  in  their  unhealthy  looks  and  feeble  gait,  but  too 
clear  an  evidence  that  her  misgivings  were  not  wholly 
groundless. 

She  arrived  at  Madame  Mantalini's  some  minutes  before 
the  appointed  hour,  and  after  walking  a  few  times  up 
and  down,  in  the  hope  that  some  other  female  might  ar- 
rive and  spare  her  the  embarrassment  of  stating  her 
business  to  the  servant,  knocked  timidly  at  the  door  : 
which,  after  some  delay,  was  opened  by  the  footman, 
who  had  been  putting  on  his  striped  jacket  as  he  came 
up- stairs,  and  was  now  intent  on  fastening  his  apron. 

"  Is  Madame  Mantalini  in  ?  "  faltered  Kate. 

"  Not  often  out  at  this  time,  Miss,"  replied  the  man  in 
a  tone  which  rendered  '  Miss,'  something  more  offensive 
than  '  My  dear.' 

"Can  I  see  her  ? asked  Kate. 

'<  Eh  ?  "  replied  the  man,  holding  the  door  in  his  hand, 
and  honouring  the  inquirer  with  a  stare  and  a  broad  grin, 
**  Lord,  no." 

"  I  came  by  her  own  appointment,"  said  Kate  ;  "I  am 
— I  am — to  be  employed  here. " 

"  Oh  !  you  should  have  rung  the  worker's  bell,"  said  the 
footman,  touching  the  handle  of  one  in  the  door-post. 
"  Let  me  see,  though,  I  forgot — Miss  Nickleby,  is  it  ?  " 

*'  Yes,"  replied  Kate. 

"  You're  to  walk  up-stairs  then,  please,"  said  the  man. 
'*  Madame  Mantalini  wants  to  see  you — this  way — take 
care  of  these  things  on  the  floor." 

Cautioning  her,  in  these  terms,  not  to  trip  over  a  heter- 
ogeneous litter  of  pastry  cook's  trays,  lamps,  waiters 
full  of  glasses,  and  piles  of  rout  seats  which  were  strewn 
about  the  hall,  plainly  bespeaking  a  late  party  on  the 
previous  night,  the  man  led  the  way  to  the  second  story, 
and  ushered  Kate  into  a  back  room,  communicating  by 
folding-doors  with  the  apartment  in  which  she  had  first 
seen  the  mistress  of  the  establishment. 

"  If  you'll  wait  here  a  minute,"  said  the  man,  "  I'll 
tell  her  presently."  Having  made  this  promise  with 
much  affability,  he  retired  and  left  Kate  alone. 

There  was  not  much  to  amuse  in  the  room  ;  of  which 
the  most  attractive  feature  was,  a  half-length  portrait  in 
oil,  of  Mr.  Mantalini,  whom  the  artist  had  depicted 
scratching  his  head  in  an  easy  manner,  and  thus  display- 
ing to  advantage  a  diamond  ring,  the  gift  of  Madarne 
Mantalini  before  her  marriage.  There  was,  however, 
the  sound  of  voices  in  conversation  in  the  next  room  ; 
and  as  the  conversation  was  loud  and  the  partition  thin, 
Kate  could  not  help  discovering  that  they  belonged  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mantalini. 

"  If  you  will  be  odiously,  demnebly,  outn'geously 
jealous,  my  soul,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  "  you  will  be  very 
miserable — horrid  miserable — demnition  miserable."  And 
then,  there  was  a  sound  as  though  Mr.  Mantalini  were 
sipping  his  coffee. 

"I  am  miserable,"  returned  Madame  Mantalini,  evi- 
dently pouting. 

"Then  you  are  an  ungrateful,  unworthy,  demd  un- 
thankful little  fairy,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini. 

"  I  am  not,"  returned  Madame,  with  a  sob. 

"  Do  not  put  itself  out  of  humour,"  said  Mr.  Manta- 
lini, breaking  an  egg.  "  It  is  a  pretty,  bewitching  little 
demd  countenance,  and  it  should  not'be  out  of  humour, 
for  it  spoils  its  loveliness,  and  makes  it  cross  and  gloomy 
like  a  frightful,  naughty,  demd  hobgoblin." 

"  1  am  not  to  be  brought  round  in  that  way,  always," 
rejoined  Madame,  sulkily. 


**  It  shall  be  brought  round  in  any  way  it  likes  best, 
and  not  brought  round  at  all  if  it  likes  that  V>etter,'' 
retorted  Mr.  Mantalini,  with  his  egg-spoon  in  his 
mouth.  i 

"  It's  very  easy  to  talk,"  said  Mrs.  Mantalini.  ' 

"  Not  so  easy  when  one  is  eating  a  demnition  egg," 
replied  Mr.  Mantalini  ;  "for  the  yolk  runs  down  the  i 
waistcoat,  and  yolk  of  egg  does  not  match  any  waistcoat  | 
but  a  yellow  waistcoat,  demmit."  ' 

"  You  were  flirting  *with  her  during  the  whole  night,"  ! 
said  Madame  Mantalini,  apparently  desirable  to  lead  the  j 
conversation  back  to  the  j>oint  from  which  it  had  I 
strayed.  ' 

"  No,  no,  my  life."  i 

"  You  were,"  said  Madame  ;  "  I  had  my  eye  upon  you  I 
all  the  time."  ! 

"  Bless  the  little  winking  twinkling  eye  ;  was  it  on  me  i 
all  the  time  !  "  cried  Mantalini,  in  a  sort  of  lazy  rapture.  , 
"Oh,  demmit!"  ; 

"  And  I  say  once  more,"  resumed  Madame,  "  that  you 
ought  not  to  waltz  with  anybody  but  your  own  wife  ; 
and  I  will  not  bear  it,  Mantalini,  if  I  take  poison  first."  ' 

"  She  will  not  take  poison  and  have  horrid  pains,  will 
she  ?  "  said  Mantalini  ;  who,  by  the  altered  sound  of  his  ' 
voice,  seemed  to  have  moved  his  chair,  and  taken  up  his  , 
position  nearer  to  his  wife.  "  She  will  not  take  poison  j 
l3ecause  she  had  a  demd  fine  husband  who  might  have  i 
married  two  countesses  and  a  dowager—"  ' 

"Two  countesses,"  interposed  Madame.  "  You  told  | 
me  one  before." 

"  Two  !  "  cried  Mantalini.  "  Two  demd  fine  women,  i 
real  countesses  and  splendid  fortunes,  demmit." 

"  And  why  didn't  you?"  asked  Madame,  playfully.  ; 

"  Why  didn't  I  !  "  replied  her  husband.  "  Had  I  not 
seen,  at  a  morning  concert,  the  demdest  little  fascinator 
in  all  the  world,  and  while  that  little  fascinator  is  my 
wife,  may  not  all  the  countesses  and  dowagers  in 
England  be — "  i 

Mr.  Mantalini  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  he  gave  | 
Madame  Mantalini  a  very  loud  kiss,  which  Madame  I 
Mantalini  returned ;  after  which,  there  seemed  to  be 
some  more  kissing  mixed  up  with  the  progress  of  the 
breakfast,  ' 

"And  what  about  the  cash,  my  existence's  jewel?" 
said  Mantalini,  when  these  endearments  ceased.    "  How  1 
much  have  we  in  hand?"  | 

"Very  little  indeed,"  replied  Madame. 

"  We  must  have  some  more,"  said  Mantalini;  "we 
must  have  some  discount  out  of  old  Nickleby  to  carry 
on  the  war  with,  demmit." 

"  You  can't  want  any  more  just  now,"  said  Madame 
coaxingly.  ■ 

"  My  life  and  soul,"  returned  her  husband,  "  there  is 
a  horse  for  sale  at  Scrubbs's,  which  it  would  be  a  sin 
and  a  crime  to  lose — going,  my  senses'  joy,  for  nothing."  i 

"  For  nothing,"  cried  Madame,  "I  am  glad  of  that." 

"For   actually   nothing,"    replied   Mantalini.  "A 
hundred  guineas  down  will  buy  him  ;  mane,  and  crest,  , 
and  legs,  and  tail,  all  of  the  demdest  beauty.     I  will 
ride  him  in  the  park  before  the  very  chariots  of  the  re-  i 
jected  countesses.     The  demd  old  dowager  will  faint  i 
with  grief  and  rage  ;  the  other  two  will  say  'He  is  mar-  | 
ried,  he  has  made  away  with  himself,  it  is  a  demd  thing, 
it  is  all  up  !'    They  will  hate  each  other  demnebly,  and  ; 
wish  you  dead  and  buried.    Ha  !  ha  !  Demmit.  '  | 

Madame  Mantalini's  prudence,  if  she  had  any,  was  not  j 
proof  against  these  triumphal  pictures  ;  after  a  little  i 
jingling  of  keys,  she  observed  that  she  would  see  what  1 
her  desk  contained,  and  rising  for  that  purpose,  opened 
the  folding-door,  and  walked  into  the  room  where  Kate  i 
was  seated.  I 

"  Dear  me,  child  ! "  exclaimed  Madame  Mantalini,  re-  \ 
coiling  in  surprise.    "  How  came  you  here?"  ' 

"Child  !"  cried  Mantalini,  hurrying  in.  "How  came  , 
— eh  ! — oh — demmit,  how  d'ye  do  ?  " 

"  I  have  deen  waiting  heVe  some  time,  ma'am,"  said 
Kate,  addressing  Madame  Mantalini.     "The  servant  ; 
must  have  forgotten  to  let  you  know  that  I  was  here,  I 
think."  *  { 

"You  really  must  see  to  that  man,"  said  Madame,  j 
turning  to  her"  husband.    "  He  forgets  everything. "  j 

"I  will  twist  his  demd  nose  off  his  countenance  for 


■60 


CHARLES  DI0KEN8'  WORKS, 


leaving  such  a  very  pretty  creature  all  alone  by  herself," 
said  her  husband. 

"Mantalini,"  cried  Madame,  "you  forget  yourself." 

"I  don't  forget  you,  my  soul,  and  never  shall,  and 
never  can,"  said  Mantalini,  kissing  his  wife's  hand,  and 
grimacing  aside,  to  Miss  Nickleby,  who  turned  away. 

Appeased  by  this  compliment,  the  lady  of  the  business 
took  some  papers  from  her  desk  which  she  handed  over 
to  Mr.  Mantalini,  who  received  them  with  great  delight. 
She  then  requested  Kate  to  follow  her,  and  after  several 
feints  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Mantalini  to  attract  the  young 
lady's  attention,  they  went  away :  leaving  that  gentle- 
man extended  at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  with  his  heels 
in  the  air  and  a  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

Madame  Mantalini  led  the  way  down  a  flight  of  stairs, 
and  through  a  passage,  to  a  large  room  at  the  back  of 
the  premises  where  were  a  number  of  young  women  em- 
ployed in  sewing,  cutting  out,  making  up,  altering,  and 
various  other  processes  known  only  to  those  who  are 
cunning  in  the  arts  of  millinery  and  dress-making.  It 
was  a  close  room  with  a  sky -light,  and  as  dull  and  quiet 
as  a  room  need  be. 

On  Madame  Mantalini  calling  aloud  for  Miss  Knag,  a 
short,  bustling,  over-dressed  famale,  full  of  importance, 
presented  herself,  and  all  the  young  ladies  suspending 
their  operations  for  the  moment,  whispered  to  each  other 
sundry  criticisms  upon  the  make  and  texture  of  Miss  Nick- 
leby's  dress,  her  complexion,  cast  of  features,  and  per- 
sonal appearance,  with  as  much  good-breeding  as  could 
have  been  displayed  by  the  very  best  society  in  a 
crowded  ball-room. 

"Oh,  Miss  Knag,"  said  Madame  Mantalini,  "this  is 
the  young  person  I  spoke  to  you  about." 

Miss  Knag  bestowed  a  reverential  smile  upon  Madame 
Mantalini,  which  she  dexterously  transformed  into 
a  gracious  one  for  Kate,  and  said  that  certainly,  al- 
though it  was  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  have  young  peo- 
ple who  were  wholly  unused  to  the  business,  still,  she 
was  sure  the  young  person  would  try  to  do  her  best — 
impressed  with  which  conviction  she  (Miss  Knag)  felt  an 
interest  in  her,  already. 

"  I  think  that,  for  the  present  at  all  events,  it  will  be 
better  for  Miss  Nickleby  to  come  into  the  show-room 
with  you,  and  try  things  on  for  people,"  said  Madame 
Mantalini.  "  She  will  not  be  able  for  the  present  to  be 
of  much  use  in  any  other  way  ;  and  her  appearance 
will—" 

"  Suit  very  well  with  mine,  Madame  Mantalini,"  in- 
terrupted Miss  Knag.  "So  it  will ;  and  to  be  sure  I 
nlight  have  known  that  you  would  not  be  long  in  finding 
that  out ;  for  you  have  so  much  taste  in  all  those  mat- 
ters, that  really,  as  I  often  say  to  the  young  ladies,  I  do 
not  know  how,  when,  or  where,  you  possibly  could  have 
acquired  all  you  know — hem — Miss  Nickleby  and  I  are 
quite  a  pair,  Madame  Mantalini,  only  I  am  a  little  darker 
than  Miss  Nickleby,  and — hem — I  think  my  foot  may  be 
a  little  smaller.  Miss  Nickleby,  I  am  sure,  will  not  be 
offended  at  my  saying  that,  when  she  hears  that  our 
family  always  have  been  celebrated  for  small  feet  ever 
since — hem — ever  since  our  family  had  any  feet  at  all, 
indeed,  I  think.  I  had  an  uncle  once,  Madame  Man- 
talini, who  lived  in  Cheltenham,  and  had  a  most  excel- 
lent business  as  a  tobacconist — hem — who  had  such 
small  feet,  that  they  were  no  bigger  than  those  which 
are  usually  joined  to  wooden  legs  —  the  most  sym- 
metrical feet,  Madame  Mantalini,  that  even  you  can 
imagine." 

"  They  must  have  had  something  the  appearance  of 
clul)  feet.  Miss  Knag,"  said  Madame. 

"  Well  now,  that  is  so  like  you,"  returned  Miss  Knag. 
"Ha!  ha!  ha!  Of  club  feet  !  Oh  very  good  !  As  I  of  ten 
remark  to  the  young  ladies,  *  Well  I  must  say,  and  I  do 
not  care  who  knows  it,  of  all  the  ready  humour — hem — 
I  ever  heard  anywhere' — and  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  ; 
for  when  my  dear  brother  was  alive  (I  kept  house  for  him. 
Miss  Nickleby),  we  had  to  supper  once  a  week  two  or 
three  young  men,  highly  celebrated  in  those  days  for  their 
humour,  Madame  Mantalini — '  Of  all  the  ready  humour,' 
I  say  to  the  young  ladies,  '  /  ever  heard,  Madame  Man- 
talini's  is  the  most  remarkable — hem.  It  is  so  gentle,  so 
sarcastic,  and  yet  so  good-natured  (as  I  was  observing  to 
Miss  Simmonds  only  this  morning),  that  how,  or  when, 


or  by  what  means  she  acquired  it,  is  to  me  a  mystery  in- 
deed.' " 

Here  Miss  Knag  paused  to  take  breath,  and  while  she 
pauses  it  may  be  observed — not  that  she  was  marvellous- 
ly loquacious  and  marvellously  deferential  to  Madame 
Mantalini,  since  these  are  facts  which  require  no  com- 
ment ;  but  that  every  now  and  then,  she  was  accustomed, 
in  the  torrent  of  her  discourse,  to  introduce  aloud,  shrill, 
clear,  ' '  hem  ! "  the  import  and  meaning  of  which,  was 
variously  interpreted  by  her  acquaintance  ;  some  holding 
that  Miss  Knag  dealt  in  exaggeration,  and  introduced  the^ 
monosyllable,  when  any  fresh  invention  was  in  course  of 
coinage  in  her  brain  ;  others,  that  when  she  wanted  a 
word,  she  threw  it  in  to  gain  time,  and  prevent  anybody 
else  from  striking  into  the  conversation.  It  may  be  fur- 
ther remarked,  that  Miss  Knag  still  aimed  at  youth,  al- 
though she  had  shot  beyond  it,  years  ago  ;  and  that  she 
was  weak  and  vain,  and  one  of  those  people  who  are  best 
described  by  the  axiom,  that  you  may  trust  them  as  far 
as  you  can  see  them,  and  no  farther. 

"  You'll  take  care  that  Miss  Nickleby  understands  her 
hours,  and  so  forth,"  said  Madame  Mantalini ;  "  and  so 
I'll  leave  her  with  you.  You'll  not  forget  my  directions, 
Miss  Knag?" 

Miss  Knag  of  course  replied,  that  to  forget  anything 
Madame  Mantalini  had  directed,  was  a  moral  impossibil- 
ity ;  and  that  lady,  dispensing  a  general  good  morning 
among  her  assistants,  sailed  away. 

"  Charming  creature,  isn't  she,  Miss  Nickleby  ?  "  said 
Miss  Knag,  rubbing  her  hands  together. 

"  I  have  seen  very  little  of  her,"  said  Kate.  "  I  hardly 
know  yet." 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Mantalini?"  inquired  Miss  Knag. 
"  Yes  ;  I  have  seen  him  twice." 
"  Isn't  he  a  charming  creature  ?  " 

"  Indeed  he  does  not  strike  me  as  being  so,  by  any 
means,"  replied  Kate. 

"  No,  my  dear  ! "  cried  Miss  Knag,  elevating  her  hands. 
"Why,  goodness  gracious  mercy,  where's  your  taste? 
Such  a  fine  tall,  full-whiskered  dashing  gentlemanly 
man,  with  such  teeth  and  hair,  and — hem — well  now, 
you  do  astonish  me." 

"  I  dare  say  I  am  very  foolish,"  replied  Kate,  laying 
aside  her  bonnet  ;  "  but  as  my  opinion  is  of  very  little 
importance  to  him  or  any  one  else,  I  do  not  regret  having 
formed  it,  and  shall  be  slow  to  change  it,  I  think. " 

"  He  is  a  very  fine  man,  don't  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  one 
of  the  young  ladies. 

' '  Indeed  he  may  be,  for  anything  I  could  say  to  the  con- 
trary,"  replied  Kate. 

"And  drives  very  beautiful  horses,  doesn't  he?"  in- 
quired another. 

"  I  dare  say  he  may,  but  I  never  saw  them,"  answered 
Kate. 

"Never  saw  them  !"  interposed  Miss  Knag.  "Oh, 
well  !  There  it  is  at  once  you  know  ;  how  can  you  possi- 
bly pronounce  an  opinion  about  a  gentleman — hem — if 
you  don't  see  him  as  he  turns  out  altogether?  " 

There  was  so  much  of  the  world— even  of  the  little 
world  of  the  country  girl — in  this  idea  of  the  old  milliner, 
that  Kate,  who  was  anxious,  for  every  reason,  to  change 
the  subject,  made  no  further  remark,  and  left  Miss  Knag 
in  possession  of  the  field. 

After  a  short  silence,  during  which  most  of  the  young 
people  made  a  closer  inspection  of  Kate's  appearance,  and 
compared  notes  respecting  it,  one  of  them  offered  to  help 
her  off  with  her  shawl,  and  the  offer  being  accepted,  in- 
quired whether  she  did  not  find  black  very  uncomforta- 
ble to  wear. 

"  I  do  indeed,"  replied  Kate,  with  a  bitter  sigh. 

"  So  dusty  and  hot,"  observed  the  same  speaker,  ad- 
justing her  dress  for  her. 

Kate  might  have  said,  that  mourning  is  sometimes  the 
coldest  wear  which  mortals  can  assume  ;  that  it  not  only 
chills  the  breasts  of  those  it  clothes,  but  extending  its 
influence  to  summer  friends,  freezes  up  their  sources  of 
good-will  and  kindness,  and  withering  all  the  buds  of 
promise  they  once  so  liberally  put  forth,  leaves  nothing 
but  bared  and  rotten  hearts  exposed.  There  are  few 
who  have  lost  a  friend  or  relative  constituting  in  life 
their  sole  dependence,  who  have  not  keenly  felt  this 
chilling  influence  of  their  sable  garb.    She  had  felt  it 


NICHOLAS 

acutely,  and  feeling  it  at  the  moment,  could  not  quite 
restrain  her  tears. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  have  wounded  you  by  my 
thoughtless  speech,"  said  her  companion.    "I  did  not 
*  think  of  it.    You  are  in  mourning  for  some  near  rela- 
tion?" 

"For  my  father,"  answered  Kate. 

"For  what  relation,  Miss  Simmonds?"  asked  Miss 
Kang  in  an  audible  voice, 

"Her  father,"  replied  the  other  softly. 

"Her  father,  eh?"  said  Miss  Knag,  without  the 
slightest  depression  of  her  voice.  "  Ah  !  A  long  illness, 
Miss  Simmonds?" 

"  Hush,"  replied  the  girl  ;  "  I  don't  know." 

"  Our  misfortune  was  very  sudden,"  said  Kate,  turning 
away,  "  or  I  might  perhaps,  at  a  time  like  this,  be  en- 
abled to  support  it  better." 

There  had  existed  not  a  little  desire  in  the  room,  ac- 
cording to  invariable  custom,  when  any  new  "  young 
person"  came,  to  know  who  Kate  was,  and  what  she 
was,  and  all  about  her ;  but,  although  it  might  have 
been  very  naturally  increased  by  her  appearance  and 
emotion,  the  knowledge  that  it  pained  her  to  be  ques- 
tioned, was  sufficient  to  repress  even  this  curiosity  ;  and 
Miss  Knag,  finding  it  hopeless  to  attempt  extracting  any 
further  particulars  just  then,  reluctantly  commanded 
silence,  and  bade  the  work  proceed. 

In  silence,  then,  the  tasks  were  plied  until  half-past 
one,  when  a  baked  leg  of  mutton,  with  potatoes  to  cor- 
respond, were  served  in  the  kitchen.  The  meal  over, 
and  the  young  ladies  having  enjoyed  the  additional 
relaxation  of  washing  their  hands,  the  work  began  again, 
and  was  again  performed  in  silence,  until  the  noise  of 
carriages  rattling  through  the  streets,  and  of  loud  double 
knocks  at  doors,  gave  token  that  the  day's  work  of  the 
more  fortunate  members  of  society  was  proceeding  in  its 
turn. 

One  of  these  double  knocks  at  Madame  Mantalini's 
door,  announced  the  equipage  of  some  great  lady — or 
rather  rich  one,  for  there  is  occasionally  a  distinction 
between  riches  and  greatness — who  had  come  with  her 
daughter  to  approve  of  some  court- dresses  which  had 
been  a  long  time  preparing,  and  upon  whom  Kate  was 
deputed  to  wait,  accompanied  by  Miss  Knag,  and  offi- 
cered of  course  by  Madame  Mantalini. 

Kate's  part  in  the  pageant  was  humble  enough,  her 
duties  being  limited  to  holding  articles  of  costume  until 
Miss  Knag  was  ready  to  try  them  on,  and  now  and  then 
tying  a  string,  or  fastening  a  hook-and-eye.  She  might, 
not  unreasonably,  have  supposed  herself  beneath  the 
reach  of  any  arrogance,  or  bad  humour  ;  but  it  happened 
that  the  lady  and  daughter  were  both  out  of  temper 
that  day,  and  the  poor  girl  came  in  for  her  share  of  their 
revilings.  She  was  awkward — her  hands  were  cold — 
dirty— coarse— she  could  do  nothing  right;  they  won- 
dered how  Madame  Mantalini  could  have  such  people 
about  her ;  requested  they  might  see  some  other  young 
woman  the  next  time  they  came  ;  and  so  forth. 

So  common  an  occurrence  would  be  hardly  deserving 
of  mention,  but  for  its  effect.  Kate  shed  many  bitter 
tears  when  these  people  were  gone,  and  felt,  for  the 
first  time,  humbled  by  her  occupation.  She  had,  it  is 
true,  quailed  at  the  prospect  of  drudgery  and  hard  ser- 
vice ;  but  she  had  felt  no  degradation  in  working  for 
her  bread,  until  she  found  herself  exposed  to  insolence 
and  pride.  Philosophy  would  have  taught  her  that  the 
degradation  was  on  the  side  of  those  who  had  sunk  so 
low  as  to  display  such  passions  habitually,  and  without 
cause  :  but  she  was  too  young  for  such  consolation,  and 
her  honest  feeling  was  hurt.  May  not  the  complaint, 
that  common  people  are  above  their  station,  often  take 
its  rise  in  the  fact  of  -wricommon  people  being  below 
theirs  ? 

In  such  scenes  and  occupations  the  time  wore  on,  until 
nine  o'clock,  when  Kate,  jaded  and  dispirited  with  the 
occurrences  of  the  day,  hastened  from  the  confinement 
of  the  work-room,  to  join  her  mother  at  the  street  cor- 
ner, and  walk  home  : — the  more  sadly,  from  having  to 
disguise  her  real  feelings,  and  feign  to  participate  in  all 
the  sanguine  visions  of  her  companion. 

"Bless  my  soul  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Nicklebv  ;  "I've 
been  thinking  all  day,  what  a  delightful  thing' it  would 


NICKLEBY.  Gl 

be  for  Madame  Mantalini  to  take  you  into  purtriersliip — 
such  a  likely  thing,  too,  you  know  !  Why,  your  poor 
dear  papa's  cousin's  sister-in-law — a  Miss  Browndock — 
was  taken  into  partnership  by  a  lady  that  kept  a  school 
at  Hammersmith,  and  made  her  fortune  in  no  time  at 
all.  I  forget,  by  the  bye,  wliether  that  Miss  Browndock 
was  the  same  lady  that  got  the  ten  thousand  pounds 
prize  in  the  lottery,  but  I  think  she  was  ;  indeed,  now  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  am  sure  she  was.  '  Mantalini  and 
Nickleby,'  how  well  it  would  sound  ! — and  if  Nicholas 
has  any  good  fortune,  you  might  have  Doctor  Nickleby, 
the  head-master  of  Westminster  School,  living  in  the 
same  street. 

"  Dear  Nicholas  !  "  cried  Kate,  taking  from  her  reti- 
cule her  brother's  letter  from  Dotheboys  Hall.  "In  all 
our  misfortunes,  how  happy  it  makes  me,  mamma,  to  hear 
he  is  doing  well,  and  to  find  him  writing  in  such  good 
spirits  !  It  consoles  me  for  all  we  may  undergo,  to  think 
that  he  is  comfortable  and  happy." 

Poor  Kate  !  she  little  thought  how  weak  her  consola- 
tion was,  and  how  soon  she  would  be  undeceived. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Miss  Knag  after  doating  on  Kate  Nickleby  for  three  whole  Days, 
makes  up  her  Mind  to  hate  her  for  evermore.  The  Causes  which 
lead  Miss  Knag  to  form  this  Resolution. 

Theke  are  many  lives  of  much  pain,  hardship,  and 
suffering,  which,  having  no  stirring  interest  for  any  but 
those  who  lead  them,  are  disregarded  by  persons  who  do 
not  want  thought  or  feeling,  but  who  pamper  their  com- 
passion and  need  high  stimulants  to  rouse  it. 

There  are  not  a  few  among  the  disciples  of  charity  who 
require,  in  their  vocation,  scarcely  less  excitement  than 
the  votaries  of  pleasure  in  theirs  ;  and  hence  it  is  that 
diseased  sympathy  and  compassion  are  every  day  ex- 
pended on  out-of-the-way  objects,  when  only  too  many 
demands  upon  the  legitimate  exercise  of  the  same  vir- 
tues in  a  healthy  state,  are  constantly  within  the  sight 
and  hearing  of  the  most  unobservant  person  alive.  In 
short,  charity  must  have  its  romance,  as  the  novelist  or 
playwright  must  have  his.  A  thief  in  fustian  is  a  vul- 
gar character,  scarcely  to  be  thought  of  by  persons  of  re- 
finement ;  but  dress  him  in  green  velvet,  with  a  high- 
crowned  hat,  and  change  the  scene  of  his  operations, 
from  a  thickly  peopled  city,  to  a  mountain  road,  and  you 
shall  find  in  him  the  very  soul  of  poetry  and  adventure: 
So  it  is  with  the  one  great  cardinal  virtue,  which,  prop- 
erly nourished  and  exercised,  leads  to,  if  it  does  not  nec- 
essarily include,  all  the  others.  It  must  have  its  ro- 
mance ;  and  the  less  of  real,  hard,  struggling  work-a- 
day  life  there  is  in  that  romance,  the  better. 

The  life  to  which  poor  Kate  Nickleby  was  devoted,  in 
consequence  of  the  unforeseen  train  of  circumstances 
already  developed  in  this  narrative,  was  a  hard  one  ;  but 
lest  the  very  dulness,  unhealthy  confinement,  and  bodily 
fatigue,  which  made  up  its  sum  and  substance,  should 
deprive  it  of  any  interest  with  the  mass  of  the  chari- 
table and  sympathetic,  I  would  rather  keep  Miss  Nick- 
leby herself  in  view  just  now,  than  chill  them,  in  the 
outset,  by  a  minute  and  lengthened  description  of  the 
establishment  presided  over  by  Madame  Mantalini. 

"  Well,  now,  indeed  Madame  Mantalini,"  said  Miss 
Knag,  as  Kate  was  taking  her  weary  way  homewards  on 
the  first  night  of  her  noviciate  ;  "  that  Miss  Nickleby  is 
a  very  creditable  young  person — a  very  creditable  young 
person  indeed — hem — upon  my  word,  Madame  Man- 
talini, it  does  very  extraordinary  credit  even  to  your  dis- 
crimination that  you  should  have  found  such  a  very  ex- 
cellent, very  well-behaved,  very— hem-— very  unassum- 
ing young  woman  to  assist  in  the  fitting  on.  I  have 
seen  some  young  women  when  they  had  the  opportunity 
of  displaying  before  their  betters,  behave  in  such  a— 
oh,  dear — well — but  you're  always  right,  Madame  Man- 
talini, always  ;  and  as  I  very  often  tell  the  young  ladies, 
how  you  do  contrive  to  be  always  right,  when  so  many 
people  are  so  often  wrong,  is  to  me  a  mystery  indeed.  ' 

"Beyond  putting  a  very  excellent  client  out  of  hu- 
mour. Miss  Nickleby  has  not  done  anything  very  remark- 


62 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


able  to-day — that  I  am  aware  of,  at  least,"  said  Madame 
Mantalini  in  reply, 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  said  Miss  Knag,  "  but  you  must  allow 
a  great  deal  for  inexperience,  you  know. " 

"  And  youth?  "  inquired  Madame. 

"Oh,  1  say  nothing  about  that,  Madame  Mantalini," 
replied  Miss  Knag,  reddening  ;  "  because  if  youth  were 
any  excuse,  you  wouldn't  have — " 

"Quite  so  good  a  forewoman  as  I  have,  I  suppose," 
suggested  Madame. 

"  Well,  I  never  did  know  anybody  like  you,  Madame 
Mantalini,"  rejoined  Miss  Knag  most  complacently, 
* '  and  that's  the  fact,  for  you  know  what  one's  going  to 
say,  before  it  has  time  to  rise  to  one's  lips.  Oh,  very 
good  !    Ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

"For  myself,"  observed  Madame  Mantalini,  glancing 
with  affected  carelessness  at  her  assistant,  and  laughing 
heartily  in  her  sleeve,  "I  consider  Miss  Nickleby  the 
most  awkward  girl  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

"Poor  dear  thing,"  said  Miss  Knag,  "it's  not  her 
fault.  If  it  was,  we  might  hope  to  cure  it ;  but  as  it's 
her  misfortune,  Madame  Mantalini,  why  really  you  know, 
as  the  man  said  about  the  blind  horse,  we  ought  to  re- 
spect it." 

"  Her  uncle  told  me  she  had  been  considered  pretty," 
remarked  Madame  Mantalini.  "  I  think  her  one  of  the 
most  ordinary  girls  I  ever  met  with." 

"Ordinary!"  cried  Miss  Knag  with  a  countenance 
beaming  delight  ;  ' '  and  awkward  !  Well,  all  I  can  say  is, 
Madame  Mantalini,  that  I  quite  love  the  poor  girl  ;  and 
that  if  she  was  twice  as  indifferent-looking,  and  twice  as 
awkward  as  she  is,  I  should  be  only  so  much  the  more 
her  friend,  and  that's  the  truth  of  it." 

In  fact.  Miss  Knag  had  conceived  an  incipient  affection 
for  Kate  Nickleby,  after  witnessing  her  failure  that 
morning,  and  this  short  conversation  with  her  superior 
increased  the  favourable  prepossession  to  a  most  sur- 
prising extent ;  which  was  the  more  remarkable,  as  when 
she  first  scanned  that  young  lady's  face  and  figure,  she 
had  entertained  certain  inward  misgivings  that  they 
would  never  agree. 

"  But  now,"  said  Miss  Knag,  glancing  at  the  reflection 
of  herself  in  a  mirror  at  no  great  distance,  "  I  love  her 
— I  quite  love  her — I  declare  I  do  ! " 

Of  such  a  highly  disinterested  quality  was  this  devoted 
friendship,  and  so  superior  was  it  to  the  little  weak- 
nesses of  flattery  or  ill-nature,  that  the  kind-hearted 
Miss  Knag  candidly  informed  Kate  Nickleby,  next  day, 
that  she  saw  she  would  never  do  for  the  business,  but 
that  she  need  not  give  herself  the  slightest  uneasiness 
on  this  account,  for  that  she  (Miss  Knag)  by  increased 
exertions  on  her  own  part,  would  keep  her  as  much  as 
possible  in  the  back  ground,  and  that  all  she  would  have 
to  do,  would  be  to  remain  perfectly  quiet  before  com- 
pany, and  to  shrink  from  attracting  notice  by  every  means 
in  her  power.  This  last  suggestion  was  so  much  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  timid  girl's  own  feelings  and  wishes, 
that  she  readily  promised  implicit  reliance  on  the  excel- 
lent spinster's  advice  :  without  questioning,  or  indeed 
bestowing  a  moment's  reflection  upon,  the  motives  that 
dictated  it. 

"  I  take  quite  a  lively  interest  in  you,  my  dear  soul, 
upon  my  word,"  said  Miss  Knag  ;  "  a  sister's  interest, 
actually.  It's  the  most  singular  circumstance  I  ever 
knew." 

Undoubtedly  it  was  singular,  that  if  Miss  Knag  did 
feel  a  strong  interest  in  Kate  Nickleby,  it  should  not 
rather  have  been  the  interest  of  a  maiden  aunt  or  grand- 
mother ;  that  being  the  conclusion  to  which  the  differ- 
ence in  their  respective  ages  would  have  naturally 
tended.  But  Miss  Knag  wore  clothes  of  a  very  youth- 
ful pattern,  and  perhaps  her  feelings  took  the  same 
shape. 

"  Bless  you  ! "  said  Miss  Knag,  bestowing  a  kiss  upon 
Kate  at  the  conclusion  of  the  second  day's  work,  "how 
very  awkward  you  have  been  all  day." 

"  I  fear  your  kind  and  open  communication,  which 
has  rendered  me  more  painfully  conscious  of  my  own  de- 
fects, has  not  improved  me,"  sighed  Kate. 

"No,  no,  I  dare  say  not,"  rejoined  Miss  Knag,  in  a 
most  uncommon  flow  of  good  humour,  "  But  how  much 
better  that  you  should  know  it  at  first,  and  so  be  able  to 


go  on,  straight  and  comfortable  !    Which  way  are  you 
walking,  my  love  ?  " 

"  Towards  the  city,"  replied  Kate. 

"  The  city  !"  cried  Miss  Knag,  regarding  herself  with 
great  favour  in  the  glass  as  she  tied  her  bonnet.   "  Good-  • 
ness  gracious  me  !  now  do  you  really  live  in  the  city  ?  " 

"Is  it  so  very  unusual  for  anybody  to  live  there?" 
asked  Kate,  half  smiling, 

"  I  couldn't  have  believed  it  possible  that  any  young 
woman  could  have  lived  there,  under  any  circumstances 
whatever,  for  three  days  together,"  replied  Miss  Knag. 

"  Reduced — I  should  say  poor  people,"  answered  Kate, 
correcting  herself  hastily,  for  she  was  afraid  of  appear- 
ing proud,  "  must  live  where  they  can." 

' '  Ah  !  very  true,  so  they  must ;  very  proper  indeed  ! " 
rejoined  Miss  Knag,  with  that  sort  of  half  sigh,  which, 
accompanied  by  two  or  three  slight  nods  of  the  head,  is 
pity's  small  change  in  general  society  ;  "and  that's  what 
I  very  often  tell  my  brother,  when  our  servants  go  away 
ill,  one  after  another,  and  he  thinks  the  back  kitchen's 
rather  too  damp  for  'em  to  sleep  in.  These  sort  of  peo- 
ple, I  tell  him,  are  glad  to  sleep  anywhere  !  Heaven 
suits  the  back  to  the  burden.  What  a  nice  thing  it  is  to 
think  that  it  should  be  so,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Very,"  replied  Kate. 

"I'll  walk  with  you  part  of  the  way,  my  dear,"  said 
Miss  Knag,  "  for  you  must  go  very  near  our  house  ;  and 
as  it's  quite  dark,  and  our  last  servant  went  to  the  hospi- 
tal a  week  ago,  with  Saint  Anthony's  fire  in  her  face,  I 
shall  be  glad  of  your  company," 

Kate  would  willingly  have  excused  herself  from  this 
flattering  companionship  ;  but  Miss  Knag  having  ad- 
justed her  bonnet  to  her  entire  satisfaction,  took  her 
arm  with  an  air  which  plainly  showed  how  much  she 
felt  the  compliment  she  was  conferring,  and  they  were 
in  the  street  before  she  could  say  another  word. 

"I  fear,"  said  Kate,  hesitating,  "that  mamma — my 
mother,  I  mean— is  waiting  for  me." 

"  You  needn't  make  the  least  apology,  my  dear,"  said 
Miss  Knag,  smiling  sweetly  as  she  spoke  ;  "I  dare  say 
she  is  a  very  respectable  old  person,  and  I  shall  be  quite 
— hem — quite  pleased  to  know  her." 

As  poor  Mrs.  Nickleby  was  cooling — not  her  heels 
alone,  but  her  limbs  generally  at  the  street  corner,  Kate 
had  no  alternative  but  to  make  her  known  to  Miss  Knag, 
who,  doing  the  last  new  carriage  customer  at  second- 
hand, acknowledged  the  introduction  ^vith  condescend- 
ing politeness.  The  three  then  walked  away,  arm  in 
arm  :  with  Miss  Knag  in  the  middle,  in  a  special  state 
of  amiability. 

"  I  have  taken  such  a  fancy  to  your  daughter,  Mrs. 
Nickleby  you  can't  think,"  said  Miss  Knag,  after  she 
had  proceeded  a  little  distance  in  dignified  silence, 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby; 
' '  though  it  is  nothing  new  to  me  that  even  strangers 
should  like  Kate," 

"  Hem  !"  cried  Miss  Knag. 

"You  will  like  her  better  when  you  know  how  good 
she  is,"  said  Mrs,  Nickleby.  "It  is  a  great  blessing  to 
me,  in  my  misfortimes  to  have  a  child,  who  knows 
neither  pride  nor  vanity,  and  whose  bringing-up  might 
very  well  have  excused  a  little  of  both  at  first.  You 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  lose  a  husband,  Miss  Knag." 

As  Miss  Knag  had  never  yet  known  what  it  was  to  gain 
one,  it  followed  very  nearly  as  a  matter  of  course,  that 
she  didn't  know  what  it  was  to  lose  one  ;  so  she  said,  in 
some  haste,  "No,  indeed  I  don't,"  and  said  it  with  an 
air  intending  to  signify  that  she  should  like  to  catch 
herself  marrying  anybody — no,  no,  she  knew  better  than 
that. 

"  Kate  has  improved  even  in  this  little  time,  I  have 
no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  glancing  proudly  at  hei 
daughter, 

"  Oh  I  of  course,"  said  Miss  Knag. 

"And  will  improve  still  more,"  added  Mrs  Nickleby. 

"  That  she  will,  I'll  be  bound,"  replied  Miss  Knag, 
squeezing  Kate's  arm  in  her  own,  to  point  the  joke, 

"  She  always  was  clever,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
brightening  up,  "  always  from  a  baby.  I  recollect  when 
she  was  only  two  years  and  a  half  old,  that  a  gentleman 
who  used  to  visit  very  much  at  our  house — Mr.  Watkins, 
you  know,  Kate,  my  dear,  that  your  poor  papa  went  bail 


I 


NICHOLAS 

for,  who  afterwards  ran  away  to  the  United  States,  and 
sent  us  a  pair  of  snow  shoes,  with  sucli  an  affectionate 
letter  that  it  made  your  poor  dear  father  cry  for  a  week. 
You  remember  the  letter  ?  In  which  he  said  that  he 
was  very  sorry  he  couldn't  repay  the  fifty  pounds  just 
then,  because  his  capital  was  all  out  at  interest,  and  he 
was  very  busy  making  his  fortune,  but  that  he  didn't 
forget  you  were  his  god-daughter,  and  he  should  take  it 
very  unkind  if  we  didn't  buy  you  a  silver  coral  and  put 
it  down  to  his  old  account  ?  Dear  me,  yes,  ray  dear, 
how  stupid  you  are  !  and  he  spoke  so  affectionately  of 
the  old  port  wine  that  he  used  to  drink  a  bottle  and  a 
half  of  every  time  he  came.  You  must  remember, 
Kate  ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  mamma  ;  what  of  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  Mr.  Watkins,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby  slowly,  as  if  she  were  making  a  tremendous  effort 
to  recollect  something  of  paramount  importance  ;  "  that 
Mr.  Watkins — he  wasn't  any  relation.  Miss  Knag  will 
understand,  to  the  Watkins  who  kept  the  Old  Boar  in 
the  village  ;  by  the  bye,  I  don't  remember  whether  it 
was  the  Old  Boar  or  the  George  the  Third,  but  it  was 
one  of  the  two,  I  know,  and  it's  much  the  same — that 
Mr.  Watkins  said,  when  you  were  only  two  years  and  a 
half  old,  that  you  were  one  of  the  most  astonishing  chil- 
dren he  ever  saw.  He  did  indeed,  Miss  Knag,  and  he 
wasn't  at  all  fond  of  children,  and  couldn't  have  had 
the  slightest  motive  for  doing  it.  I  know  it  was  he  who 
said  so,  because  I  recollect,  as  well  as  if  it  was  only 
yesterday,  his  borrowing  twenty  pounds  of  her  poor 
dear  papa  the  very  moment  afterwards." 

Having  quoted  this  extraordinary  and  most  disinter- 
ested testimony  to  her  daughter's  excellence,  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby  stopped  to  breathe  ;  and  Miss  Knag,  finding  that 
the  discourse  was  turning  upon  family  greatness,  lost 
no  time  in  striking  in,  with  a  small  reminiscence  on  her 
own  account. 

Don't  talk  of  lending  money,  Mrs.  Nickleby,"  said 
Miss  Knag,  ' '  or  you'll  drive  me  crazy,  perfectly  crazy. 
My  mamma — hem — was  the  most  lovely  and  beautiful 
creature,  with  the  most  striking  and  exquisite — hem — 
the  most  exquisite  nose  that  ever  was  put  on  a  human 
face,  I  do  believe,  Mrs.  Nickleby  (here  Miss  Knag 
rubbed  her  own  nose  sympathetically) ;  the  most  delight- 
ful and  accomplished  woman,  perhaps,  that  ever  was 
seen  ;  but  she  had  that  one  failing  of  lending  money, 
and  carried  it  to  such  an  extent  that  she  lent — hem — oh  ! 
thousands  of  pounds,  all  our  little  fortunes,  and  what's 
more,  Mrs.  Nickleby,  I  don't  think  if  we  were  to  live 
till — till — hem — till  the  very  end  of  time,  that  we  should 
ever  get  them  back  again.    I  don't  indeed." 

After  concluding  this  effort  of  invention  without  being 
interrupted,  Miss  Knag  fell  into  many  more  recollections, 
no  less  interesting  than  true,  the  full  tide  of  which  Mrs. 
Nickleby  in  vain  attempting  to  stem,  at  length  sailed 
smoothly  down,  by  adding  an  under- current  of  her  own 
recollections  ;  and  so  both  ladies  went  on  talking  together 
in  perfect  contentment;  the  only  difference  between  them, 
being,  that  whereas  Miss  Knag  addressed  herself  to  Kate, 
and  talked  very  loud,  Mrs.  Nickleby  kept  on  in  one  un- 
broken monotonous  flow,  perfectly  satisfied  to  be  talking, 
and  caring  very  little  whether  anybody  listened  or  not. 

In  this  manner  they  walked  on,  very  amicably,  until 
they  arrived  at  Miss  Knag's  brother's  who  was  an  orna- 
mental stationer  and  small  circulating  library  keeper,  in 
a  by-street  off  Tottenham  Court  Road  ;  and  who  let  out 
by  the  day,  week,  month,  or  year,  the  newest  old  novels, 
whereof  the  titles  were  displayed  in  pen-and-ink  charac- 
ters on  a  sheet  of  pasteboard,  swinging  at  his  door-post. 
As  Miss  Knag  happened  at  the  moment,  be  in  the  middle 
of  an  account  of  her  twenty-second  offer  from  a  gentle- 
man of  large  property,  she  insisted  upon  their  all  going 
in  to  supper  together  ;  and  in  they  went. 

"  Don't  go  away,  Mortimer,"  said  Miss  Knag  as  they 
entered  the  shop.  "It's  only  one  of  our  young  ladies 
and  her  mother     Mrs.  and  Miss  Nickleby." 

"Oh,  indeed  !  "  said  Mr.  Mortimer  Knag.    "  Ah  !" 

Having  given  utterance  to  these  ejaculations  with  a 
very  profound  and  thoughtful  air,  Mr.  Knag  slowly 
snuffed  two  kitchen  candles  on  the  counter,  and  two 
more  in  the  window,  and  then  snuffed  himself  from  a 
box  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 


NICKLEBY.  G3 

Tliere  was  something  very  impressive  in  the  ghostly 
air  with  which  all  this  was  done  ;  and  as  Mr.  Knag  was  a 
tall  lank  gentleman  of  solemn  features,  wearing  spec- 
tacles, and  garnished  with  much  less  hair  than  a  gentle- 
man bordering  on  forty,  or  thereabouts,  usually  boasts, 
Mrs.  Nickleby  whispered  her  daughter  that  she  thought 
he  must  be  literary. 

"Past  ten,"  said  Mr.  Knag,  consulting  his  watch. 
"Thomas,  close  the  warehouse." 

Thomas  was  a  boy  nearly  half  as  tall  as  a  shutter,  and 
the  warehouse  was  a  shoi>  about  the  size  of  three  hack- 
ney coaches. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Mr.  Knag  once  more,  heaving  a  deep  sigh 
as  he  restored  to  its  parent  shelf  the  book  he  had  been 
reading.  "  Well— yes — I  believe  supper  is  ready,  sis- 
ter." 

With  another  sigh  Mr.  Knag  took  up  the  kitchen  can- 
dles from  the  counter,  and  preceded  the  ladies  with 
mournful  steps  to  a  back  parlour,  where  a  char- woman, 
employed  in  the  absence  of  the  sick  servant,  and  remuner- 
ated with  certain  eighteenpences  to  be  deducted  from  her 
wages  due,  was  putting  the  supper  out. 

"  Mrs.  Blockson,"  said  Miss  Knag,  reproachfully, 
"  how  very  often  I  have  begged  you  not  to  come  into  the 
room  with  your  bonnet  on  ! " 

"I  can't  help  it.  Miss  Knag,"  said  the  char- woman, 
bridling  up  on  the  shortest  notice.  "There's  been  a 
deal  o'  cleaning  to  do  in  this  house,  and  if  you  don't  like 
it,  I  must  trouble  you  to  look  out  for  somebody  else,  for 
it  don't  hardly  pay  me,  and  that's  the  truth,  if  I  was  to 
be  hung  this  minute." 

"I  don't  want  any  remarks  if  you  please,"  said  Miss 
Knag,  with  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  personal  pronoun. 
"Is  there  any  fire  down-stairs  for  some  hot  water  pre- 
sently?" 

"No,  there  is  not,  indeed.  Miss  Knag,"  replied  the 
substitute  ;  ' '  and  so  I  won't  tell  you  no  stories  about 
it." 

"  Then  why  isn't  there  ?"  said  Miss  Knag. 

"Because  there  an't  no  coals  left  out,  and  if  I  could 
make  coals  I  would,  but  as  I  can't  I  won't,  and  so  I  make 
bold  to  tell  you,  Mem,"  replied  Mrs.  Blockson. 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue — female  ?"  said  Mr.  Mor- 
timer Knag,  plunging  violently  into  this  dialogue. 

"  By  your  leave,  Mr.  Knag,"  retorted  the  char-woman, 
turning  sharp  round.  "  I'm  only  too  glad  not  to  speak 
in  this  house,  excepting  when  and  where  I'm  spoke  to, 
sir  ;  and  with  regard  to  being  a  female,  sir,  I  should 
wish  to  know  what  you  considered  yourself?" 

"A  miserable  wretch,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Knag,  striking 
his  forehead.    "  A  miserable  wretch." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  find  that  you  don't  call  yourself  out 
of  your  name,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Blockson  ;  "and  as  I  had 
two  twin  children  the  day  before  yesterday  was  only 
seven  weeks,  and  my  little  Charley  fell  down  a  airy  and 
put  his  elber  out,  last  Monday,  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favior 
if  you'll  send  nine  shillings,  for  one  week's  work,  to  my 
house,  afore  the  clock  strikes  ten  to-morrow." 

With  these  parting  words,  the  good  woman  quitted  the 
room  with  great  ease  of  manner,  leaving  the  door  wide 
open  ;  Mr.  Knag,  at  the  same  moment,  flung  himself  into 
the  "  warehouse  "  and  groaned  aloud. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  that  gentleman,  pray  ? " 
inquired  Mrs.  Nickleby,  greatly  disturbed  by  the  sound. 

"  Is  he  ill  ?  "  inquired  Kate,  really  alarmed. 

"Hush  !"  replied  Miss  Knag;  "a  most  melancholy 
history.  He  was  once  most  devotedly  attached  to — hem 
— to  l^iadame  Mantalini." 

"  Bless  me  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Miss  Knag,  "  and  received  great 
encouragement  too,  and  confidently  hoped  to  marry  her. 
He  has  a  most  romantic  heart,  Mrs.  Nickleby,  as  indeed 
— hem — as  indeed  all  our  family  have,  and  the  disap- 
pointment was  a  dreadful  blow.  He  is  a  wonderfully 
accomplished  man — most  extraordinarily  accomplished — 
reads — hem — reads  every  novel  that  comes  out  ;  I  mean 
every  novel  that — hem — that  has  any  fashion  in  it,  of 
course.  The  fact  is,  that  he  did  find  so  much  in  the 
books  he  read,  applicable  to  his  own  misfortunes,  and 
did  find  himself  in  every  respect  so  much  like  the  heroes 
— because  of  course  he  is  conscious  of  his  own  superior- 
ity, as  we  all  are,  and  very  naturally— that  he  took  to 


64 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


scorning  everything,  and  became  a  genius  ;  and  I  am 
quite  sure  that  he  is,  at  this  very  present  moment  vrrit- 
ing  another  book." 

"  Another  book  !  "  repeated  Kate,  finding  that  a  pause 
was  left  for  somebody  to  say  something. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Knag,  nodding  in  great  triumph  ; 
"  another  book,  in  three  volumes  post  octavo.  Of  course, 
it's  a  great  advantage  to  him,  in  all  his  little  fashionable 
descriptions,  to  have  the  benefit  of  my — hem — of  my  ex- 
perience, because,  of  course,  few  authors  who  write 
about  such  things  can  have  such  opportunities  of  knowing 
them  as  I  have.  He's  so  wrapped  up  in  high  life,  that  the 
least  allusion  to  business  or  worldly  matters — like  that 
woman,  for  instance — quite  distracts  him  ;  but,  as  1  of- 
ten say,  I  think  his  disappointment  a  great  thing  for 
him,  because  if  he  hadn't  been  disappointed  he  couldn't 
have  written  about  blighted  hopes  and  all  that  ;  and  the 
fact  is,  if  it  hadn't  happened  as  it  has,  I  don't  believe 
his  genius  would  ever  have  come  out  at  all." 

How  much  more  communicative  Miss  Knag  might  have 
become  under  more  favourable  circumstances,  it  is  im- 
possible to  divine,  but  as  the  gloomy  one  was  within  ear- 
shot, and  the  fire  wanted  making  up,  her  disclosures 
stopped  here.  To  judge  from  all  appearances,  and  the 
difficulty  of  making  the  water  warm,  the  last  servant 
could  not  have  been  much  accustomed  to  any  other  fire 
than  St.  Anthony's;  but  a  little  brandy  and  water  was  made 
at  last,  and  the  guests,  having  been  previously  regaled 
with  cold  leg  of  mutton  and  bread  and  cheese,  soon  af- 
terwards took  leave  ;  Kate  amusing  herself,  all  the 
way  home,  with  the  recollection  of  her  last  glimpse  of 
Mr.  Mortiner  Knag  deeply  abstracted  in  the  shop  ;  and 
Mrs.  Nickleby  by  debating  within  herself  whether  the 
dressmaking  firm  would  ultimately  become  "  Manta- 
lini.  Knag,  and  Nickleby,"  or  "  Mantalini,  Nickleby,  and 
Knag." 

At  this  high  point,  Miss  Knag's  friendship  remained, 
for  three  whole  days,  much  to  the  wonderment  of  Madame 
Mantalini's  young  ladies  who  had  never  beheld  such  con- 
stancy in  that  quarter,  before  ;  but  on  the  fourth,  it  re- 
ceived a  check  no  less  violent  than  sudden,  which  thus 
occurred. 

It  happened  that  an  old  lord  of  great  family,  who  was 
going  to  marry  a  young  lady  of  no  family  in  particular, 
came  with  the  young  lady,  and  the  young  lady's  sister,  to 
witness  the  ceremony  of  trying  on  two  nuptial  bonnets 
which  had  been  ordered  the  day  before,  and  Madame 
Mantalini  announcing  the  fact,  in  a  shrill  treble,  through 
the  speaking  pipe,  which  communicated  with  the  work- 
room. Miss  Knag  darted  hastily  up-stairs  with  a  bonnet 
in  each  hand,  and  presented  herself  in  the  show-room, 
in  a  charming  state  of  palpitation,  intended  to  demon- 
strate her  enthusiasm  in  the  cause.  The  bonnets  were 
no  sooner  fairly  on,  than  Miss  Knag  and  Madame  Manta- 
lini fell  into  convulsions  of  admiration. 

"  A  most  elgant  appearance,"  said  Madame  Mantalini. 

"  I  never  saw  anything  so  exquisite  in  all  my  life," 
said  Miss  Knag. 

Now,  the  old  lord,  who  was  a  loery  old  lord,  said  noth- 
ing, but  mumbled  and  chuckled  in  a  state  of  great  de- 
light, no  less  with  the  nuptial  bonnets  and  their  wearers, 
than  with  his  own  address  in  getting  such  a  fine  woman 
for  his  wife  ;  and  the  young  lady,  who  was  a  very  lively 
young  lady,  seeing  the  old  lord  in  this  rapturous  condi- 
tion, chased  the  old  lord  behind  a  cheval-glass,  and  then 
and  there  kissed  him,  while  Madame  Mantalini  and  the 
other  young  lady  looked  discreetly,  the  other  way. 

But,  pending  the  salutation.  Miss  Knag,  who  was  tinged 
with  curiosity,  stepped  accidently  behind  the  glass,  and 
encountered  the  lively  young  lady's  eye  just  at  the  very 
moment  when  she  kissed  the  old  lord  ;  upon  which  the 
young  lady,  in  a  pouting  manner,  murmured  something 
about  "  an  old  thing,"  and  "great  impertinence,"  and 
finished  by  darting  a  look  of  displeasure  at  Miss  Knag, 
and  smiling  contemptuously. 

"  Madame  Mantalini,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"Ma'am,"  said  Madame  Mantalini. 

"Pray  have  up  that  pretty  young  creature  we  saw 
yesterday." 

"  Oh  yes,  do,"  said  the  sister. 

"  Of  all  things  in  the  world,  Madame  Mantalini,"  said 
the  lord's  intended,  throwing  herself  languidly  on  a  sofa, 


"  I  hate  being  waited  upon  by  frights  or  elderly  persons. 
Let  me  always  see  that  young  creature,  I  beg,  whenever 
I  come." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  the  old  lord  ;  "  the  lovely  young 
creature,  by  all  means." 

"Everj'body  is  talking  about  her,"  said  the  young 
lady,  in  the  same  careless  manner  ;  "  And  my  lord,  being 
a  great  admirer  of  beauty,  must  positively  see  her." 

"  She  is  universally  admired,"  replied  Madame  Man- 
talini. "Miss  Knag,  send  up  Miss  Nickleby.  You 
needn't  return." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Madame  Mantalini,  what  did  you 
say  last  ?  "  asked  Miss  Knag,  trembling. 

"  You  needn't  return,"  repeated  the  superior,  sharply. 
Miss  Knag  vanished  without  another  word,  and  in  all 
reasonable  time  was  replaced  by  Kate,  who  took  off  the 
new  bonnets  and  put  on  the  old  ones  :  blushing  very  much 
to  find  that  the  old  lord  and  the  two  young  ladies  were 
staring  her  out  of  countenance  all  the  time. 

"  Why,  how  you  colour,  child  !"  said  the  lord's  chosen 
bride. 

"  She  is  not  quite  so  accustomed  to  her  business,  as  she 
will  be  in  a  week  or  two,"  interposed  Madame  Mantalini 
with  a  gracious  smile. 

' '  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  giving  her  some  of  your 
wicked  looks,  my  lord,"  said  the  intended. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  replied  the  old  lord,  "  no,  no,  I'm  going 
to  be  married,  and  lead  a  new  life.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  a  new 
life,  a  new  life  !  ha,  ha,  ha  ! " 

It  was  a  satisfactory  thing  to  hear  that  the  old  gentle- 
man was  going  to  lead  a  new  life,  for  it  was  pretty  evi- 
dent that  his  old  one  would  not  last  him  much  longer. 
The  mere  exertion  of  protracted  chuckling  reduced  him 
to  a  fearful  ebb  of  coughing  and  gasping  ;  it  was  some 
minutes  before  he  could  find  breath  to  remark  that  the 
girl  was  too  pretty  for  a  milliner. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  good  looks  a  disqualification 
for  the  business,  my  lord,"  said  Madame  Mantalini,  sim^ 
pering. 

"  Not  by  any  means,"  replied  the  old  lord,  "  or  you. 
would  have  left  it  long  ago." 

"  You  naughty  creature,"  said  the  lively  lady,  poking 
the  peer  with  her  parasol ;  "  I  won't  have  you  talk  so. 
How  dare  you  ?  " 

This  playful  inquiry  was  accompanied  with  another 
poke,  and  another,  and  then  the  old  lord  caught  the 
parasol,  and  wouldn't  give  it  up  again,  which  induced 
the  other  lady  to  come  to  the  rescue,  and  some  very 
pretty  sportiveness  ensued. 

"  You  will  see  that  those  little  alterations  are  made, 
Madame  Mantalini,"  said  the  lady .  "  Nay,  you  bad  man, 
you  positively  shall  go  first ;  I  wouldn't  leave  you  behind 
with  that  pretty  girl,  not  for  half  a  second.  I  know  you. 
too  well.  Jane,  my  dear,  let  him  go  first,  and  we  shall 
be  quite  sure  of  him." 

The  old  lord,  evidently  much  flattered  by  this  suspicion 
bestowed  a  grotesque  leer  upon  Kate  as  he  passed  ;  and,, 
receiving  another  tap  of  the  parasol  for  his  wickedness, 
tottered  down-stairs  to  the  door,  where  his  sprightly 
body  was  hoisted  into  the  carriage  by  two  stout  footmen. 

"  Foh  ! "  said  Madame  Mantalini,  "  how  he  ever  gets 
into  a  carriage  without  thinking  of  a  hearse,  /  can't 
think.  There,  take  the  things  away,  my  dear,  take  them 
away." 

Kate,  who  had  remained  during  the  whole  scene  with 
her  eyes  modestly  fixed  upon  the  ground,  was  only  too 
happy  to  avail  herself  of  the  permission  to  retire,  and 
hasten  joyfully  down-stairs  to  Miss  Knag's  domin- 
ion. 

The  circumstances  of  the  little  kingdom  had  greatly 
changed  however,  during  the  short  period  of  her  absence. 
In  the  place  of  Miss  Knag  being  stationed  in  her  accus- 
tomed seat,  preserving  all  the  dignity  and  greatness  of 
Madame  Mantalini's  representative,  that  worthy  soul  was 
reposing  on  a  large  box,  bathed  in  tears,  while  three  or 
four  of  the  young  ladies  in  close  attendance  upon  her, 
together  with  the  presence  of  hartshorn,  vinegar,  and 
other  restoratives,  would  have  borne  ample  testimony, 
even  without  the  derangement  of  the  head-dress  and 
front  row  of  curls,  to  her  having  fainted  desperately. 

**  Bless  me  I "  said  Kate,  stepping  hastily  forward, 
"  What  is  the  matter?" 


NICHOLAS  NIC  RLE  BY. 


65 


This  inquiry  produced  in  Miss  Knag  violent  symx^toms 
of  a  relapse  ;  and  several  young  ladies,  darting  angry 
looks  at  Kate,  applied  more  vinegar  and  hartshorn,  and 
said  it  was  "  a  shame." 

"What  is  a  shame  ?"  demanded  Kate.  "What  is 
the  matter?  what  has  happened  ?  tell  me." 

"  Matter  ! "  cried  Miss  Knag,  coming,  all  at  once,  bolt 
upright,  to  the  great  consternation  of  the  assembled 
maidens;  "Matter!  Fie  upon  you,  you  nasty  crea- 
ture ! " 

"Gracious,"  cried  Kate,  alrao.st  paralysed  by  the  vio- 
lence with  which  the  adjective  had  been  jerked  out  from 
between  Miss  Knag's  closed  teeth:  "have  /  offended 
you  ?  " 

"  Tou  offended  me  !"  retorted  Miss  Knag,  "You/  a 
chit,  a  child,  an  upstart  nobody  !  Oh,  indeed  !  Ha, 
ha! " 

Now,  it  was  evident,  as  Miss  Knag  laughed,  that  some- 
thing struck  her  as  being  exceedingly  funny  ;  and  as  the 
young  ladies  took  their  tone  from  Miss  Knag — she  being 
the  chief — they  all  got  up  a  laugh  without  a  momeni's 
delay,  and  nodded  their  heads  a  little,  and  smiled  sarcas- 
tically to  each  other,  as  much  as  to  say,  how  very  good 
that  was  ! 

"  Here  she  is,"  continued  Miss  Knag,  getting  off  the 
box,  and  introducing  Kate  with  much  ceremony  and  many 
low  curtseys  to  the  delighted  throng;  "here  she  is— 
everybody  is  talking  about  her— the  belle,  ladies— the 
beauty,  the— oh,  you  bold-faced  thing  !  " 

At  this  crisis,  Miss  Knag  was  unable  to  repress  a  vir- 
tuous shudder,  which  immediately  communicated  itself 
to  all  the  young  ladies  ;  after  which.  Miss  Knag  laughed, 
and  after  that,  cried. 

"  For  fifteen  years,"  exclaimed  Miss  Knag,  sobbing  in 
a  most  affecting  manner,  "  for  fifteen  years  have  I  been 
the  credit  and  ornament  of  this  room  and  the  one  up  stairs. 
Thank  God, "  said  Miss  Knag,  stamping  first  her  right 
foot  and  then  her  left  with  remarkable  energy,  "  I  have 
never  in  all  that  time,  till  now,  been  exposed  to  the  arts,the 
vile  arts,  of  a  creature,  who  disgraces  us  with  all  her 
proceedings,  and  makes  proper  people  blush  for  them- 
selves. But  I  feel  it,  I  do  feel  it,  although  I  am  dis- 
gusted." 

Miss  Knag  here  relapsed  into  softness,  and  the  young 
ladies  renewing  their  attentions,  murmured  that  she 
ought  to  be  superior  to  such  things,  and  that  for  their 
part  they  despised  them,  and  considered  them  beneath 
their  notice ;  in  witness  whereof,  they  called  out,  more 
emphatically  than  before,  that  it  was  a  shame,  and  that 
they  felt  so  angry,  they  did,  they  hardly  knew  what  to 
do  with  themselves. 

"Have  I  lived  to  this  day  to  be  called  a  fright ! "  cried 
Miss  Knag,  suddenly  becoming  convulsive,  and  making 
an  effort  to  tear  her  front  off. 

"  Oh  no,  no,"  replied  the  chorus,  "  pray  don't  savso  ; 
don't  now  I "  *^ 

"Havel  deserved  to  be  called  an  elderly  person?" 
screamed  Miss  Knag,  wrestling  with  the  supernumer- 


aries. 


answered  the 


"  Don't  think  of  such  things,  dear,' 
chorus. 

"I  hate  her,"  cried  Miss  Knag  ;  "  I  detest  and  hate 
her.  Never  let  her  speak  to  me  again  ;  never  let  any- 
body who  is  a  friend  of  mine  speak  to  her  ;  a  slut,  a 
hussy,  an  impudent  artful  hussy  !  "  Having  denounced 
the  object  of  her  wrath,  in  these  terms.  Miss  Knag 
screamed  once,  hiccuped  thrice,  gurgled  in  her  throat 
several  times,  slumbered,  shivered,  woke,  came  to,  com- 
posed her  head-dress,  and  declared  herself  quite  well 
again. 

Poor  Kate  had  regarded  these  proceedings,  at  first,  in  , 
perfect  bewilderment.  She  had  then  turned  red  and  i 
pale  by  turns,  and  once  or  twice  essayed  to  speak  ;  but  I 
as  the  true  motives  of  this  altered  behaviour  developed  I 
themselves,  she  retired  a  few  paces,  and  looked  calmly 
on  without  deigning  a  reply.  Nevertheless,  although  ! 
She  walked  proudly  to  her  seat,  and  turned  her  back  upon  I 
tue  group  of  little  satellites  who  clustered  round  their 
ruling  planet  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  room,  she  1 
?ave  way,  in  secret,  to  some  such  bitter  tears  as  would  ' 
nave  gladdened  Miss  Knag's  inmost  soul,  if  she  could  , 
have  seen  them  fall. 

Vol.  II.— 5 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Descrintlve  of  a  Thnmr  at.  Mr.  Ralph  NuM<ihi/s,  arul  of  tlui  Manner  in 
ivhick  the  (lomrmu/  enterUximd  themselves,  b«f ore  Lfinner  at  JAn- 
ner,  and  after  JJinmr. 

The  bile  and  rancour  of  the  worthy  Miss  Knag  under- 
going no  diminution  during  the  remainder  of  the  week, 
but  rather  augmenting  with  every  successive  hour  ;  and 
the  honest  ire  of  all  the  young  ladies  rising,  or  seeming 
to  rise  in  exact  proportion  U)  the  good  spinster's  indig- 
nation, and  both  waxing  very  hot  every  time  Miss  Nick- 
leby  was  called  up-stairs  :  it  will  be  readily  imagined 
that  that  young  lady's  daily  life  was  none  of  the  most 
cheerful  or  enviable  kind.  She  hailed  the  arrival  of 
Saturday  night,  as  a  prisoner  would  a  few  delicious  hours' 
respite  from  slow  and  wearing  torture,  and  felt  that  the 
poor  pittance  for  her  first  week's  labour  would  have  been 
dearly  and  hardly  earned,  had  its  amount  been  trebled. 

When  she  joined  her  mother,  as  usual,  at  the  street 
corner,  she  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  find  her  in  con- 
versation with  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby ;  but  her  surprise 
was  soon  redoubled,  no  less  by  the  matter  of  their  con- 
versation, than  by  the  smoothed  arid  altered  manner  of 
Mr.  Nickleby  himself. 

"Ah!  my  dear!"  said  Ralph;  "we  were  at  that 
moment  talking  about  you." 

"Indeed  ! "  replied  Kate,  shrinking,  though  she  scarce 
knew  why,  from  her  uncle's  cold  glistening  eye. 

"  That  instant,"  said  Ralph.  "  I  was  coming  to  call  for 
you,  making  sure  to  catch  you  before  you  left ;  but  your 
mother  and  I  have  been  talking  over  family  affairs,  and 
the  time  has  slipped  away  so  rapidly — " 

"Well,  now,  hasn't  it?"  interposed  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
quite  insensible  to  the  sarcastic  tone  of  Ralph's  last  re- 
mark. "  Upon  my  word,  1  couldn't  have  believed  it  possi- 
ble, that  such  a — Kate,  my  dear,  you're  to  dine  with  your 
uncle  at  half -past  six  o'clock  to-morrow." 

Triumphing  in  having  been  the  first  to  communicate 
this  extraordinary  intelligence,  Mrs.  Nickleby  nodded  and 
smiled  a  great  many  times,  to  impress  its  full  magnificence 
on  Kate's  wondering  mind,  and  then  flew  off,  at  an  acute 
angle,  to  a  committee  of  ways  and  means, 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  good  lady.  "  Your  black  silk 
frock  will  be  quite  dress  enough,  my  dear,  with  that  pret- 
ty little  scarf,  and  a  plain  band  in  your  hair,  and  a  pair 
of  black  silk  stock— Dear,  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
flying  off  at  another  angle,  "  if  I  had  but  those  unfortu- 
nate amethysts  of  mine — you  recollect  them,  Kate,  my 
love— how  they  used  to  sparkle,  you  know — but  your  papa, 
your  poor  dear  papa— ah  !  there  never  was  anvthing  so 
cruelly  sacrificed  as  those  jewels  were,  never  !  "  Over- 
powered by  this  agonising  thought,  Mrs.  Nicklebv  shook 
her  head  in  a  melancholy  manner,  and  applied  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  want  them,  mamma,  indeed,"  said  Kate.  "  For- 
get that  you  ever  had  them." 

' '  Lord,  Kate,  my  dear, "  rejoined  Mrs.  Nicklebv,  pet- ' 
tishly,  "how  like  a  child  you  talk!  Four-and-twentv 
silver  tea-spoons,  brother-in-law,  two  gravies,  four  salts*, 
all  the  amethysts— necklace,  brooch,  and  ear-rings— ali 
made  away  with,  at  the  same  time,  and  I  saving,  almost 
on  my  bended  knees,  to  that  poor  good  soul,**  Whv  don't 
you  do  something,  Nicholas  !  WTiy  don't  vou  make  some 
arrangement  ? '  I  am  sure  that  anybody  who  was  about 
us  at  that  time,  will  do  me  the  justice  to  own,  that  if  I  said 
that,  once,  I  said  it  fifty  times  a-day.  Didn't  I  Kate,  my 
dear  ?  Did  I  ever  lose  an  opportunity  of  impressing  it  on 
your  poor  papa  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  mamma,  never,"  replied  Kate.  And  to  do  Mrs. 
Nickleby  justice,  she  never  had  lost— and  to  do  married 
ladies  as  a  body  justice,  they  seldom  do  lose — any  occa- 
sion of  inculcating  similar  golden  precepts,  whose  only 
blemish  is,  the  slight  degree  of  vagueness  and  uncertain- 
ty in  which  they  are  usually  enveloped. 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby, with  great  fervour,  "if  my 
advice  had  been  taken  at  the  beginning — Well,  I  have  al- 
ways done  my  duty,  and  that's  some  comfort." 

When  she  had  arrived  at  this  reflection,  Mrs.  Nickleby 
sighed,  rubbed  her  hands,  cast  up  her  eyes,  and  finally 
assumed  a  look  of  meek  composure  ;  thus  importing  that 
she  was  a  persecuted  saint,  but  that  she  wouldn't  trouble 


66 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


her  hearers  by  mentioning  a  circumstance  which  must  be 
so  obvious  to  everybody.  , 

"Now,"  said  Ralph,  with  a  smile,  which,  m  common 
with  all  other  tokens  of  emotion,  seemed  to  skulk  under 
his  face,  rather  than  play  boldly  over  it— "to  return  to 
the  point  from  which  we  have  strayed.  I  have  a  little 
party  of —of— gentlemen  with  whom  I  am  connected  m 
business  just  now,  at  my  house  to-morrow  ;  and  your 
mother  has  promised  that  you  shall  keep  house  for  me. 
I  am  not  much  used  to  parties  ;  but  this  is  one  of  business, 
and  such  fooleries  are  an  important  part  of  it  sometimes. 
You  don't  mind  obliging  me  ?  " 

"  Mind  ' "  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  My  dear  Kate,  why— 
"  Pray,"  interrupted  Ralph,  motioning  her  to  be  silent. 
I  spoke  to  my  niece."  v  +^ 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,  of  course,  uncle,  replied  Hate  ; 
"  but  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  me  awkward  and  embar- 

"Oh  no,"  said  Ralph  ;  "  come  when  you  like,  in  a  hack- 
ney coach— I'll  pay  for  it.    Good  night— a— a— God  bless 

^^The  blessing  seemed  to  stick  in  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby's 
throat  as  if  it  were  not  used  to  the  thoroughfare,  and 
didn't  know  the  way  6ut.  But  it  got  out  somehow  though 
awkwardly  enough  ;  and  having  disposed  of  it,  he  shook 
hands  with  his  two  relatives,  and  abruptly  left  them. 

"  What  a  very  strongly  marked  countenance  your  un- 
cle has  ' "  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  quite  struck  with  his  part- 
ing look.  "  I  don't  see  the  slightest  resemblance  to  his 
poor  brother."  ,  .  ^    c  i 

"  Mamma  ! "  said  Kate  reprovingly,  "  To  think  of  such 

^  *" No,''  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  musing.^^  "There  certainly 
is  none'.    But  it's  a  very  honest  face." 

The  worthy  matron  made  this  remark  with  great  em- 
phasis and  elocution,  as  if  it  comprised  no  small  quantity 
of  ingenuity  and  research  ;  and,  in  truth,  it  was  not  un- 
worthy of  being  classed  among  the  extraordinary  discov- 
eries of  the  age.  Kate  looked  up  hastily,  and  as  hastily 
looked  down  again.  -,       •  p 

"  What  has  come  over  you,  my  dear,  m  the  name  ot 
goodness?  "  asked  Mrs.  Nickleby,  when  they  had  walked 
on,  for  some  time,  in  silence. 

"  I  was  only  thinking,  mamma,"  answered  Kate. 
"Thinking!"  repeated  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "Aye,  and 
indeed  plenty  to  think  about,  too.  Your  uncle  has  taken 
a  strong  fancy  to  you,  that's  quite  clear ;  and  if  some 
extraordinary  good  fortune  doesn't  come  to  you,  after 
this,  I  shall  be  a  little  surprised,  that's  all." 

With  this  she  launched  out  into  sundry  anecdotes  of 
young  ladies,  who  had  had  thousand  pound  notes  given 
them  in  reticules,  by  eccentric  uncles  ;  and  of  young 
ladies  who  had  accidently  met  amiable  gentlemen  of 
enormous  wealth  at  their  uncles'  houses,  and  married 
them,  after  short  but  ardent  courtships  ;  and  Kate,  listen- 
ing first  in  apathy,  and  afterwards  in  amusement,  felt, 
as  thev  walked  home,  something  of  her  mother's  san- 
guine'complexion  gradually  awakening  in  her  own 
bosom  and  began  to  think  that  her  prospects  might  be 
brightening,  and  that  better  days  might  be  dawning 
upon  them.  Such  is  hope.  Heaven's  own  gift  to  strug- 
gling mortals  ;  pervading,  like  some  subtle  essence  from 
the  skies,  all  things,  both  good  and  bad  ;  as  universal  as 
death,  and  more  infectious  than  disease  ! 

The  feeble  winter's  sun — and  winter's  suns  in  the  city 
are  very  feeble  indeed— might  have  brightened  up,  as 
he  shone  through  the  dim  windows  of  the  large  old 
house,  on  witnessing  the  unusual  sight  which  one  half- 
furnished  room  displayed.  In  a  gloomy  corner,  where, 
for  years,  had  stood  a  silent  dusty  pile  of  merchandise, 
sheltering  its  colony  of  mice,  and  frowning,  a  dull  and 
lifeless  mass,  upon  the  panelled  room,  save  when,  re- 
sponding to  the  roll  of  heavy  waggons  in  the  street 
without,  it  quaked  with  sturdy  tremblings  and  caused 
the  bright  eyes  of  its  tiny  citizens  to  grow  brighter  still 
with  fear,  and  struck  them  motionless,  with  attentive 
ear  and  palpitating  heart,  until  the  alarm  had  passed 
away— in  this  dark  corner,  was  arranged,  with  scrupu- 
lous care,  all  Kate's  little  finery  for  the  day  ;  each  article 
of  dress  partaking  of  that  indescribable  air  of  jauntiness 
and  individuality  which  empty  garments— whether  by 
association,  or  that  they  become  moulded,  as  it  were,  to 


the  owner's  form— will  take,  in  eyes  accustomed  to,  or 
picturing,  the  \yearer's  smartness.  In  place  of  a  bale  of 
musty  goods,  there  lay  the  black  silk  dress  :  the  neatest 
possible  figure  in  itself.  The  small  shoes,  with  toes  deli- 
cately turned  out,  stood  upon  the  very  pressure  of  some 
old  iron  weight ;  and  a  pile  of  harsh  discoloured  leathe 
had  unconsciously  given  place  to  the  very  same  little 
pair  of  black  silk  stockings,  which  had  been  the  object 
of  Mrs.  Nickleby's  peculiar  care.  Rats  and  mice,  and 
such  small  gear,  had  long  ago  been  starved,  or  had  emi 
grated  to  better  quarters  :  and,  in  their  stead,  appeared 
gloves,  bands,  scarfs,  hair-pins,  and  many  other  little 
devices,  almost  as  ingenious  in  their  way  as  rats  and  mice 
themselves,  for  the  tantalisation  of  mankind.  About  and 
among  them  all,  moved  Kate  herself,  not  the  least  beau 
tif  ul  or  unwonted  relief  to  the  stern,  old,  gloomy  building. 

In  good  time,  or  in  bad  time,  as  the  reader  likes  to 
take  it — for  Mrs.  Nickleby's  impatience  went  a  great 
deal  faster  than  the  clocks  at  that  end  of  the  town,  and 
Kate  was  dressed  to  the  very  last  hair-pin  a  full  hour 
and  a  half  before  it  was  at  all  necessary  to  begin  to  think 
about  it— in  good  time,  or  in  bad  time,  the  toilet  was 
completed  ;  and  it  being  at  length  the  hour  agreed  upon 
for  starting,  the  milkman  fetched  a  coach  from  the  near- 
est stand,  and  Kate,  with  many  adieus  to  her  mother, 
and  many  kind  messages  to  Miss  La  Creevy,  who  was  to 
come  to  tea,  seated  herself  in  it,  and  went  away  in  state, 
if  ever  any  body  went  away  in  state  in  a  hackney  coach 
yet.  And  the  coach,  and  the  coachman,  and  the  horses, 
rattled,  and  jangled,  and  whipped,  and  cursed,  and  swore, 
and  tumbled  on  together,  until  they  came  to  Golden 

^The^coachman  gave  a  tremendous  double  knock  at  the 
door  which  was  opened  long  before  he  had  done,  as 
quickly  as  if  there  had  been  a  man  behind  it,  with  his 
hand  tied  to  the  latch.  Kate,  who  had  expected  no  more 
uncommon  appearance  than  Newman  Noggs  in  a  clean 
shirt,  was  not  a  little  astonished  to  see  that  the  opener 
was  a  man  in  handsome  livery,  and  that  there  were  two 
or  three  others  in  the  hall.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
its  being  the  right  house,  however,  for  there  was  the 
name  upon  the  door  ;  so  she  accepted  the  laced  coat- 
sleeve  which  was  tendered  her,  and  entering  the  house, 
was  ushered  up-stairs,  into  a  back  drawing-room,  where 
she  was  left  alone.  _       n       .  ^ 

If  she  had  been  surprised  at  the  apparition  of  the  toot- 
man  she  was  perfectly  absorbed  in  amazement  at  the 
richness  and  splendour  of  the  furniture.  The  softest 
and  most  elegant  carpets,  the  most  exquisite  pictures,  the 
costliest  mirrors  ;  articles  of  richest  ornament,  quite  daz- , 
zling  from  their  beauty,  and  perplexing  from  the  prodi- 
gality with  which  they  were  scattered  around  ;  encoun- 
tered her  on  every  side.  The  very  staircase  nearly  down 
to  the  hall  door,  was  crammed  with  beautiful  and  luxuri- 
ous things,  as  though  the  house  were  brim-full  of  riches, 
which,  with  a  very  trifling  addition  would  fairly  run 
over  into  the  street.  ^  4. 

Presently,  she  heard  a  series  of  loud  double  knocks  at 
the  street  door,  and  after  every  knock  some  new  voice  in 
the  next  room  ;  the  tones  of  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  were 
easily  distinguishable  at  first,  but  by  degrees  they 
merged  into  the  general  buzz  of  conversation  and  all 
she  could  ascertain  was,  that  there  were  several  gentle- 
men with  no  very  musical  voices,  who  talked  very  loud, 
lauffhed  very  heartily,  and  swore  more  than  she  would 
have  thought  quite  necessary.    But  this  was  a  question 

^^Ir^length,  the  door  opened,  and  Ralph  himself,' 
divested  of  his  boots,  and  ceremoniously  embellished;: 
with  black  silks  and  shoes,  presented  his  crafty  face. 

"I  couldn't  see  you  before,  my  dear,  he  said,  in  a; 
low  tone,  and  pointing  as  he  spoke,  to  the, next  room.j 
"  I  was  engaged  in  receiving  them.    Now— shall  I  takej 

^^"Pray  uncle,"  said  Kate,  a  little  flurried,  as  people 
much  more  conversant  with  society  often  are,  when  thej 
are  about  to  enter  a  room  full  of  strangers,  and  have  had 
time  to  think  of  it  previously,  "are  there  any  ladies- 
here  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Ralph,  shortly,  "  I  don't  know  any." 
"Must  I  go  in  immediately?"  asked  Kate,  drawmi- 
back  a  little. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


6r 


"  As  you  please,"  said  Ralph,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"They  are  all  come,  and  dinner  will  be  announced 
directly  afterwards — that's  all." 

Kate  would  have  entreated  a  few  minutes'  respite,  but 
reflecting  that  her  uncle  might  consider  the  payment  of 
the  hackney-coach  fare  a  sort  of  bargain  for  her  punctu- 
ality, she  suffered  him  to  draw  her  arm  through  his,  and 
to  lead  her  away. 

Seven  or  eight  gentlemen  were  standing  round  the 
fire  when  they  went  in,  and,  as  they  were  talking  very 
loud,  were  not  aware  of  their  entrance  until  Mr.  Ralph 
Nickleby,  touching  one  on  the  coat-sleeve,  said  in  a 
harsh  emphatic  voice,  as  if  to  attract  general  attention — 

"  Lord  Frederick  Verisopht,  my  niece,  Miss  Nickleby." 

The  group  dispersed  as  if  in  great  surprise,  and  the 
gentleman  addressed,  turning  round,  exhibited  a  suit  of 
clothes  of  the  most  superlative  cut,  a  pair  of  whiskers  of 
similar  quality,  a  moustache,  a  head  of  hair,  and  a 
young  face. 

"Eh  !  "  said  the  gentleman.    "  What— the— dey  vie  ! " 

With  which  broken  ejaculations,  he  fixed  his  glass  in 
his  eye,  and  stared  at  Miss  Nickleby  in  great  surprise. 

"  My  niece,  my  lord,"  said  Ralph. 

"  Then  my  ears  did  not  deceive  me,  and  it's  not  wa-a-x 
work,"  said  his  lordship.  "How  de  do?  I'm  very 
happy."  And  then  his  lordship  turned  to  another  super- 
lative gentleman,  something  older,  something  stouter, 
something  redder  in  the  face,  and  something  longer  upon 
town,  and  said  in  a  loud  whisper  that  the  girl  was 
"  devylish  pitty." 

"Introduce  me,  Nickleby,"  said  this  second  gentle- 
man,  who  was  lounging  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and 
hoth  elbows  on  the  chimney-piece. 

"  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,"  said  Ralph. 

"Otherwise  the  most  knowing  card  in  the  pa-ack, 
Miss  Nickleby,"  said  Lord  Frederick  Verysopht. 

"Don't  leave  me  out,  Nickleby,"  cried  a  sharp-faced 
gentleman,  who  was  sitting  on  a  low  chair  with  a  high 
hack,  reading  the  paper. 

"Mr.  Pyke,"  said  Ralph. 

"  Nor  me,  Nickleby,"  cried  a  gentleman  with  a  flushed 
face  and  a  flash  air,  from  the  elbow  of  Sir  Mulberrv 
Hawk.  •  ^ 

"Mr.  Pluck,"  said  Ralph.  Then  wheeling  about 
again,  towards  a  gentleman  with  the  neck  of  a  stork  and 
the  legs  of  no  animal  in  particular,  Ralph  introduced 
him  as  the  Honourable  Mr.  Snobb  ;  and  a  white-headed 
person  at  the  table  as  Colonel  Chowser.  The  Colonel 
was  in  conversation  with  somebody,  who  appeared  to  be 
a  make- weight,  and  was  not  introduced  at  all. 

There  were  two  circumstances  which,  in  this  early 
stage  of  the  party,  struck  home  to  Kate's  bosom,  and 
brought  the  blood  tingling  to  her  face.  One,  was  the 
flippant  contempt  with  which  the  guests  evidently  re- 
garded her  uncle,  and  the  other,  the  easy  insolence  of 
their  manner  towards  herself.  That  the  first  symptom 
was  very  likely  to  lead  to  the  aggravation  of  the  second. 
It  needed  no  great  penetration  to  foresee.  And  here  Mr.' 
Ralph  Nickleby  had  reckoned  without  his  host ;  for 
however  fresh  from  the  country  a  young  lady  (by  nature) 
may  be,  and  however  unacquainted  with  conventional 
behaviour,  the  chances  are,  that  she  will  have  quite  as 
strong  an  innate  sense  of  the  decencies  and  proprieties  of 
life  as  if  she  had  run  the  gauntlet  of  a  dozen  London 
seasons— possibly  a  stronger  one,  for  such  senses  have 
been  known  to  blunt  in  this  improving  process. 

When  Ralph  had  completed  the  ceremonial  of  intro- 
duction, he  led  his  blushing  niece  to  a  seat.  As  he  did 
so,  he  glanced  warily  round  as  though  to  assure  himself 
of  the  impression  which  her  unlooked-for  appearance  had 
created. 

"An    unexpected    playsure,  Nickleby,"  said  Lord 


five-and-twenty,  or  whatever  it 

the  advice." 


and  give  me  half  for 


Sir  Mulberry  garnished  his  speech  with  a  hoarse  laugh, 
and  terminated  it  with  a  pleasant  oath  regarding  Mr' 
Nickleby's  limbs,  whereat  Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck 
laughed  consumedly. 

These  gentlemen  had  not  yet  quite  recovered  the  jest, 
when  dinner  was  announced,  and  then  they  were  thrown 
into  fresh  ecstasies  by  a  similar  cause  ;  for  Sir  Mulberry 
Hawk,  in  an  excess  of  humour,  shot  dexterously  past 
Lord  Frederick  Verisopht  who  was  about  to  lead  Kate 
down-stairs,  and  drew  her  arm  through  his  up  to  the 
elbow. 

"No,  damn  it,  Verisopht,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  "fair 
play's  a  jewel,  and  Miss  Nickleby  and  I  settled  the  mat- 
ter with  our  eyes,  ten  minutes  ago." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  laughed  the  Honourable  Mr.  Snobb, 
"very  good,  very  good." 

Rendered  additionally  witty  by  his  applause,  Sir  Mul- 
berry Hawk  leered  upon  his  friends  most  facetiously, 
and  led  Kate  down-stairs  with  an  air  of  familiarity^ 
which  roused  in  her  gentle  breast  such  burning  indigna- 
tion, as  she  felt  it  almost  impossible  to  repress.  Nor 
was  the  intensity  of  these  feelings  at  all  diminished, 
when  she  found  herself  placed  at  the  top  of  the  table' 
with  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  and  Lord  Frederick  Verisopht 
on  either  side. 

"  Oh,  you've  found  your  way  into  our  neighbourhood, 
have  you  ?  "  said  Sir  Mulberry  as  his  lordship  sat  down. 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Lord  Frederick,  fixing  his  eyes 
on  Miss  Nickleby,  "  how  can  you  a-ask  me  ? " 

"  Well,  you  attend  to  your  dinner,"  said  Sir  Mulberry, 
"and  don't  mind  Miss  Nickleby  and  me,  for  we  shali 
prove  very  indifferent  company,  I  dare  say." 

"I  wish  you'd  interfere  here,  Nickleby,"  said  Lord 
Frederick. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  lord?"  demanded  Ralph 
from  the  bottom  of  the  table,  where  he  was  supported  by 
Messrs.  Pvke  and  Pluck. 

"  This  'fellow.  Hawk, 
said  Lord  Frederick. 

"  He  has  a  tolerable  share  of  every  thing  that  you  lay 
claim  to,  my  lord,"  said  Ralph  with  a  sneer. 

"'Gad,  so  he  has,"  replied  the  young  man;  "  dey  vie 
take  me  if  I  know  which  is  master  in  my  house,  he  or  I." 

"/  know,"  muttered  Ralph. 

"I  think  I  shall  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling,"  said  the 
young  nobleman,  jocosely. 

"No,  no,  curse  it,"  said  Sir  Mulberry.  "When  you 
come  to  the  shilling— the  last  shilling— i'l]  cut  you  fast 
enough  ;  but  till  then,  I'll  never  leave  you— you  may 
take  your  oath  of  it." 

This  sally  (which  was  strictly  founded  on  fact),  was  re- 
ceived with  a  general  roar,  above  which,  was  plainly 
distinguishable  the  laughter  of  Mr.  Pyke  and  Mr.  Pluck, 
who  were,  evidently.  Sir  Mulberry's  toads  in  ordinary.' 
Indeed,  it  was  not  difficult  to  see,  that  the  majoritv  of 
the  company  preyed  upon  the  unfortunate  young  lord, 
who,  weak  and  silly  as  he  was,  appeared  by  far  the  least 
vicious  of  the  party.  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  was  remark- 
able for  his  tact  in  ruining,  by  himself  and  his  creatures, 
young  gentlemen  of  fortune— a  genteel  and  elegant  pro- 
fession, of  which  he  had  undoubtedly  gained  the  head. 
With  all  the  boldness  of  an  original  genius,  he  had  struck 
out  an  entirely  new  course  of  treatment  quite  opposed  to 
the  usual  method  ;  his  custom  being,  when  he  had 
gained  the  ascendancy  over  those  he  took  in  hand,  rather 
to  keep  them  down  than  to  give  them  their  own  way  ; 
and  to  exercise  his  vivacity  upon  them,  openly,  and  with- 
out reserve.  Thus,  he  made  them  butts,  in  a  double 
sense,  and  while  he  emptied  them  with  great  address. 


is  monopolising  your  niece.' 


Vvc.  ^^y>\r.^.  \T  "'  "Vj.  J^V--' — V;  ^^^^^^^kjj,  i^aiyj.  Ajuru  caused  them  to  ring  with  sundry  well-administered  taps 
pv!  u?S^*:A^^^^        ^1^^^        «f  for  the  diversion  of  society  ^ 


eye,  where  it  had,  until  now,  done  duty  on  Kate,  and 
it  to  bear  on  Ralph. 
"  Designed  to  surprise  you,  Lord  Frederick,"  said  Mr 
Pluck. 

"Not  a  bad  idea,"  said  his  lordship,  "and  one  that 
w'ould  almost  warrant  the  addition  of  an  extra  two  and  a 
naif  per  cent." 

"Nickleby,"  said  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  in  a  thick 
3oarse  voice,  "take  the  hint,  and  tack  it  on  to  the  other 


The  dinner  was  as  remarkable  for  the  splendour  and 
completeness  of  its  appointments  as  the  mansion  itself, 
and  the  company  were  remarkable  for  doing  it  ample 
justice,  in  which  respect  Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck  par- 
ticularly signalised  themselves  ;  these  two  gentlemen 
eating  of  every  dish,  and  drinking  of  every  bottle,  with 
a  capacity  and  perseverance  truly  astonishing.  They 
were  remarkably  fresh,  too,  notwithstanding  their  great 
exertions  :  for,  on  the  appearance  of  the  dessert,  they 


68 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


broke  out  again,  as  if  nothing  serious  had  taken  place 
since  breakfast. 

"  Well,"  said  Lord  Frederick,  sipping  his  first  glass  of 
port,  ' '  if  this  is  a  discounting  dinner,  all  I  have  to  say  is, 
deyvle  take  me,  if  it  wouldn't  be  a  good  pla-an  to  get 
discount  every  day." 

"  You'll  have  plenty  of  it,  in  your  time,"  returned  Sir 
Mulberry  Hawk  ;  "  Nickleby  will  tell  you  that." 

"What  do  you  say,  Nickleby  ?"  inquired  the  young 
man  ;  ' '  am  I  to  be  a  good  customer  ?  " 

"It  depends  entirely  on  circumstances,  my  lord,"  re- 
plied Ralph. 

"On  your  lordship's  circumstances,"  interposed  Col- 
onel Chowser  of  the  Militia — and  the  race-courses. 

The  gallant  Colonel  glanced  at  Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck 
as  if  he  thought  they  ought  to  laugh  at  his  joke  ;  but 
those  gentlemen,  being  only  engaged  to  laugh  for  Sir 
Mulberry  Hawk,  were,  to  his  signal  discomfiture,  as 
grave  as  a  pair  of  undertakers.  To  add  to  his  defeat, 
Sir  Mulberry,  considering  any  such  efforts  an  evasion  of 
his  peculiar  privilege,  eyed  the  offender  steadily  through 
his  glass,  as  if  astonished  at  his  presumption,  and  audi- 
bly stated  his  impression  that  it  was  an  "infernal  lib- 
erty," which  being  a  hint  to  Lord  Frederick,  he  put  up 
Ms  glass,  and  surveyed  the  object  of  censure  as  if  he 
were  some  extraordinary  wild  animal  then  exhibiting 
for  the  first  time.  As  a  matter  of  course,  Messrs.  Pyke 
and  Pluck  stared  at  the  individual  whom  Sir  Mulberry 
Hawk  stared  at ;  so,  the  poor  Colonel,  to  hide  his  confu- 
sion, was  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  holding  his  port  be- 
fore his  right  eye  and  affecting  to  scrutinise  its  colour 
with  the  most  lively  interest. 

All  this  while,  Kate  had  sat  as  silently  as  she  could, 
scarcely  daring  to  raise  her  eyes,  lest  they  should  en- 
counter the  admiring  gaze  of  Lord  Frederick  Verisopht, 
or,  what  was  still  more  embarrassing,  the  bold  looks  of 
his  friend  Sir  Mulberry.  The  latter  gentleman  was 
obliging  enough  to  direct  general  attention  towards 
her. 

"Here  is  Miss  Nickleby,"  observed  Sir  Mulberry, 
"  wondering  why  the  deuce  somebody  doesn't  make  love 
to  her." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Kate,  looking  hastily  up,  "I — " 
and  then  she  stopped,  feeling  it  would  have  been  better 
to  have  said  nothing  at  all. 

"I'll  hold  any  man  fifty  pounds,"  said  Sir  Mulberry, 
"  that  Miss  Nickleby  can't  look  in  my  face,  and  tell  me 
she  wasn't  thinking  so." 

"Done!"  cried  the  noble  gull.  "Within  ten  min- 
utes. " 

"Done!"  responded  Sir  Mulberry.  The  money  was 
produced  on  both  sides,  and  the  Honourable  Mr.  Snobb 
was  elected  to  the  double  office  of  stake-holder  and  time- 
keeper. 

"  Pray,"  said  Kate,  in  great  confusion,  while  these  pre- 
liminaries wore  in  course  of  completion.  "  Pray  do  not 
make  me  the  subject  of  any  bets.  Uncle,  I  cannot 
really — " 

"  WTiy  not,  my  dear?"  replied  Ralph,  in  whose  grating 
voice,  however,  there  was  an  unusual  huskiness,  as 
though  he  spoke  unwillingly,  and  would  rather  that  the 
proposition  had  not  been  broached.  "It  is  done  in  a  mo- 
ment ;  there  is  nothing  in  it.  If  the  gentlemen  insist  on 
it — " 

"/don't  insist  on  it,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  with  a  loud 
laugh.  "  That  is,  I  by  no  means  insist  upon  Miss  Nick- 
leby's  making  the  denial,  for  if  she  does,  I  lose  ;  but  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  her  bright  eyes,  especially  as  she 
favours  the  mahogany  so  much." 

"  So  she  does,  and  it's  too  ba-a-dof  you,  Miss  Nickle- 
by," said  the  noble  youth. 

"  Quite  cruel,"  said  Mr.  Pyke. 

"  Horrid  cruel,"  said  Mr.  Pluck. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do  lose,"  said  Sir  Mulberry ;  "  for  one 
tolerable  look  at  Miss  Nickleby 's  eyes,  is  worth  double 
the  money." 

"More,"  said  Mr.  Pyke. 

"  Far  more,"  said  Mr.  Pluck. 

"How  goes  the  enemy,  Snobb?"  asked  Sir  Mulberry 
Hawk. 

"  Four  minutes  gone." 
"  Bravo  ! " 


"  Won't  you  ma-ake  one  effort  for  me,  Miss  Nickle- 
by ?  "  asked  Lord  Frederick,  after  a  short  interval. 

"You  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  inquire,  my  buck." 
said  Sir  Mulberry  ;  "  Miss  Nickleby  and  I  understand 
each  other  ;  she  declares  on  my  side,  and  shows  her 
taste.  You  haven't  a  chance,  old  fellow.  Time, 
Snobb  ?  " 

"  Eight  minutes  gone." 

"Get  the  money  ready,"  said  Sir  Mulberry;  you'll 
soon  hand  over." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! "  laughed  Mr.  Pyke. 

Mr.  Pluck,  who  always  came  second,  and  topped  his 
companion  if  he  could,  screamed  outright. 

The  poor  girl,  who  was  so  overwhelmed  with  confu- 
sion that  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  did,  had  determined 
to  remain  perfectly  quiet ;  but  fearing  that  by  so  do- 
ing she  might  seem  to  countenance  Sir  Mulberry's  boast, 
which  had  been  uttered  with  great  coarseness  and  vul- 
garity of  manner,  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  him  in  the 
face.  There  was  something  so  odious,  so  insolent,  so  re- 
pulsive in  the  look  which  met  her,  that,  without  the 
power  to  stammer  forth  a  syllable,  she  rose  and  hurried 
from  the  room.  She  restrained  her  tears  by  a  great  ef- 
fort until  she  was  alone  up-stairs,  and  then  gave  them 
vent. 

"Capital!"  said  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  putting  the 
stakes  in  his  pocket.  "  That's  a  girl  of  spirit,  and  we'll 
drink  her  health." 

It  is  needless  to  say,  that  Pyke  and  Co.  responded,  with 
great  warmth  of  manner,  to  this  proposal,  or  that  the 
toast  was  drunk  with  many  little  insinuations  from  the 
firm,  relative  to  the  completeness  of  Sir  Mulberry's  con- 
quest. Ralph,  who,  while  the  attention  of  the  other  guests 
was  attracted  to  the  principals  in  the  preceding  scene,  had 
eyed  them  like  a  wolf,  appeared  to  breathe  more  freely 
now  his  niece  was  gone  ;  the  decanters  passing  quickly 
round,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  turned  his  eyes 
from  speaker  to  speaker,  as  they  warmed  with  wine,  with 
looks  that  seemed  to  search  their  hearts,  and  lay  bare, 
for  his  distempered  sport,  every  idle  thought  within 
them. 

Meanwhile  Kate,  left  wholly  to  herself,  had,  in  some 
degree,  recovered  her  composure.  She  had  learnt  from 
a  female  attendant,  that  her  uncle  wished  to  see  her  be- 
fore she  left,  and  had  also  gleaned  the  satisfactory  in- 
telligence, that  the  gentlemen  would  take  coffee  at  table. 
The  prospect  of  seeing  them  no  more,  contributed  greatly 
to  calm  her  agitation,  and,  taking  up  a  book,  she  com- 
posed herself  to  read. 

She  started  sometimes,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  the 
dining-room  door  let  loose  a  wild  shout  of  noisy  revelry, 
and  more  than  once  rose  in  great  alarm,  as  a  fancied 
footstep  on  the  staircase  impressed  her  with  the  fear 
that  some  stray  member  of  the  party  was  returning 
alone.  Nothing  occurring,  however,  to  realise  her  ap- 
prehensions, she  endeavoured  to  fix  her  attention  more 
closely  on  her  book,  in  which  by  degrees  she  became  so 
much  interested,  that  she  had  read  on  through  several 
chapters  without  heed  of  time  or  place,  when  she  was 
terrified  by  suddenly  hearing  her  name  pronounced  by  a 
man's  voice  close  at  her  ear. 

The  book  fell  from  her  hand.  Lounging  on  an  otto- 
man close  beside  her,  was  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  evidently 
the  worse^ — if  a  man  be  a  ruffian  at  heart,  he  is  never 
the  better— for  wine. 

"  What  a  delightful  studiousness  !"  said  this  accom- 
plished gentleman.  "  Was  it  real,  now,  or  only  to  dis- 
play the  eye-lashes?" 

Kate,  looking  anxiously  towards  the  door,  made  no 
reply. 

"  I  have  looked  at  'em  for  five  minutes,"  said  Sir  Mul- 
berry. "  Upon  my  soul,  they're  perfect.  Why  did  I 
speak,  and  destroy  such  a  pretty  little  picture  ? " 

"Do  me  the  favour  to  be  silent  now,  sir,"  replied 
Kate. 

"  No,  don't,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  folding  his  crush  hat 
to  lay  his  elbow  on,  and  bringing  himself  still  closer  to 
the  young  lady,  "upon  my  life,  you  oughtn't  to.  Such 
a  devoted  slave  of  yours.  Miss  Nickleby — it's  an  infernal 
thing  to  treat  him  so  harshly,  upon  my  soul  it  is." 

"I  wish  you  to  understand,  sir,"  said  Kate,  trembling 
in  spite  of  herself,  but  speaking  with  great  indignation. 


NICHOLAS 

"that  your  behaviour  offends  and  disgusts  me.  If  you 
have  a'spark  of  gentlemanly  feeling  remaining,  you  will 
leave  me." 

"  Now  why,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  "  why  will  you  keep 
up  this  appearance  of  excessive  rigour,  my  sweet  crea- 
ture ?  Now,  be  more  natural — my  dear  Miss  Nickleby, 
be  more  natural — do." 

Kate  hastily  rose  ;  but  as  she  rose,  Sir  Mulberry  caught 
her  dress,  and  forcibly  detained  her. 

"Let  me  go,  sir,"  she  cried,  her  heart  swelling  with 
anger.    "  Do  you  hear?    Instantly — this  moment." 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  said  Sir  Mulberry  ;  "  I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

"  Unhand  me,  sir,  this  instant,"  cried  Kate. 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  rejoined  Sir  Mulberry.  Thus 
speaking,  he  leaned  over,  as  if  to  replace  her  in  her 
chair  ;  but  the  young  lady,  making  a  violent  effort  to  dis- 
engage herself,  he  lost  his  balance,  and  measured  his 
length  upon  the  ground.  As  Kate  sprung  forward  to 
leave  the  room,  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  and  confronted  her. 

"  What  is  this?  "  said  Ralph. 

"It  is  this,  sir,"  replied  Kate,  violently  agitated: 
"  that  beneath  the  roof  where  I,  a  helpless  girl,  your 
dead  brother's  child,  should  most  have  found  protec- 
tion, I  have  been  exposed  to  insult  which  should  make 
you  shrink  to  look  upon  me.    Let  me  pass  you." 

Ralph  did  shrink,  as  the  indignant  girl  fixed  her  kind- 
ling eye  upon  him  ;  but  he  did  not  comply  with  her  in- 
junction, nevertheless  :  for  he  led  her  to  a  distant  seat, 
and  returning,  and  approaching  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk, 
who  had  by  this  time  risen,  motioned  towards  the  door. 

"  Your  way  lies  there,  sir,"  said  Ralph,  in  a  suppressed 
voice,  that  some  devil  might  have  owned  with  pride. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  demanded  his  friend, 
fiercely. 

The  swoln  veins  stood  out  like  sinews  on  Ralph's 
wrinkled  forehead,  and  the  nerves  about  his  mouth 
worked  as  though  some  unendurable  emotion  wrung 
them  ;  but  he  smiled  disdainfully,  and  again  pointed  to 
the  door. 

"Do  you  know  me,  you  old  madman?"  asked  Sir 
Mulberry. 

"Well,"  said  Ralph.  The  fashionable  vagabond  for 
the  moment  quite  quailed  under  the  steady  look  of  the 
older  sinner,  and  walked  towards  the  door,  muttering  as 
he  went. 

"  You  wanted  the  lord,  did  you?"  he  said,  stopping 
short  when  he  reached  the  door,  as  if  a  new  light  had 
broken  in  upon  him,  and  confronting  Ralph  again. 
"  Damme,  I  was  in  the  way,  was  I  ?" 

Ralph  smiled  again,  but  made  no  answer. 

"Who  brought  him  to  you  first?"  pursued  Sir  Mul- 
berry ;  "and  how,  without  me,  could  you  ever  have 
wound  him  in  your  net  as  you  have  ?  " 

"  The  net  is  a  large  one,  and  rather  full,"  said  Ralph. 
"  Take  care  that  it  chokes  nobody  in  the  meshes." 

"  You  would  sell  your  flesh  and  blood  for  money  ; 
yourself,  if  you  had  not  already  made  a  bargain  with 
the  devil,"  retorted  the  other.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  your  pretty  niece  was  not  brought  here,  as  a 
decoy  for  the  drunken  boy  down-stairs  ?  " 

Although  this  hurried  dialogue  was  carried  on,  in  a 
suppressed  tone  on  both  sides,  Ralph  looked  involuntarily 
round  to  ascertain  that  Kate  had  not  moved  her  position 
so  as  to  be  within  hearing.  His  adversary  saw  the  ad- 
vantage he  had  gained,  and  followed  it  up. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  asked  again,  "  that  it 
is  not  so?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  if  he  had  found  his 
way  up  here  instead  of  me,  you  wouldn't  have  been  a 
little  more  blind,  and  a  little  more  deaf,  and  a  little  less 
flourishing,  than  you  have  been  ?  Come,  Nickleby,  an- 
swer me  that. " 

"I  tell  you  this,"  replied  Ralph,  "that  if  I  brought 
her  here  as  a  matter  of  business — " 

"Aye,  that's  the  word,"  interposed  Sir  Mulberry,  with 
a  laugh.    "  You're  coming  to  yourself  again  now.'" 

" — Asa  matter  of  business,"  pursued  Ralph,  speak- 
ing slowly  and  firmly,  as  a  man  who  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  say  no  more,   "  because  I  thought  she  might  I 
make  some  impression  on  the  silly  youth  you  have  taken 
in  hand  and  are  lending  good  help  to  ruin,  I  knew—  | 


NICKLEBY.  G9 

knowing  him — that  it  would  be  long  before  he  outraged 
her  girl's  feelings,  and  that  unless  lie  offended  by  mere 
puppyism  and  emptiness,  he  would,  with  a  little  man- 
agement, respect  the  sex  and  conduct  even  of  his  usurer's 
niece.  But  if  I  thought  to  draw  him  on  more  gently  by 
this  device,  I  did  not  think  of  subjecting  the  girl  to  the 
licentiousness  and  brutality  of  so  old  a  hand  as  you. 
And  now  we  understand  each  other." 

"  Especially  as  there  was  nothing  to  be  got  by  it — 
eh?"  sneered  Sir  Mulberry. 

"Exactly  so,"  said  Ralph.  He  had  turned  away,  and 
looked  over  his  shoulder  to  make  this  last  reply.  The 
eyes  of  the  two  worthies  met,  with  an  expression  as  if 
each  rascal  felt  that  there  was  no  disguising  himself 
from  the  other  ;  and  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  walked  slowly  out. 

His  friend  closed  the  door  and  looked  restlessly  towards 
the  spot  where  his  niece  still  remained  in  the  attitude 
in  which  he  had  left  her.  She  had  flung  herself  heavily 
upon  the  couch,  and  with  her  head  drooping  over  the 
cushion,  and  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  seemed  to  be 
still  weeping  in  an  agony  of  shame  and  grief. 

Ralph  would  have  walked  into  any  poverty-stricken 
debtor's  house,  and  pointed  him  out  to  a  bailiff,  though 
in  attendance  upon  a  young  child's  death-bed,  without 
the  smallest  concern,  because  it  would  have  been  a  mat- 
ter quite  in  the  ordinary  course  of  business,  and  the  man 
would  have  been  an  offender  against  his  only  code  of 
morality.  But,  here  was  a  young  girl,  who  had  done  no 
wrong  save  that  of  coming  into  the  world  alive  ;  who  had 
patiently  yielded  to  all  his  wishes  ;  who  had  tried  hard 
to  please  him — above  all,  who  didn't  owe  him  money — 
and  he  felt  awkward  and  nervous. 

Ralph  took  a  chair  at  some  distance  ;  then,  another 
chair  a  little  nearer  still  ;  then,  moved  a  little  nearer 
still  ;  then,  nearer  again,  and  finally  sat  himself  on  the 
same  sofa,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Kate's  arm. 

"  Hush,  my  dear  ! "  he  said,  as  she  drew  it  back,  and 
her  sobs  burst  out  afresh.  "  Hush,  hush  !  Don't  mind 
it  now  ;  don't  think  of  it." 

"Oh,  for  pity's  sake,  let  me  go  home,"  cried  Kate. 
"  Let  me  leave  this  house,  and  go  home." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Ralph.  "  You  shall.  But  you  must 
dry  your  eyes  first,  and  compose  yourself.  Let  me  raise 
your  head.    There — there." 

"Oh,  uncle!"  exclaimed  Kate,  clasping  her  hands. 
"  What  have  I  done — what  have  I  done — that  you  should 
subject  me  to  this?  If  I  had  wronged  you  in  thought, 
or  word,  or  deed,  it  would  have  been  most  cruel  to  me, 
and  the  memory  of  one  you  must  have  loved  in  some  old 
tim*e  ;  but — " 

"Only  listen  to  me  for  a  moment,"  interrupted  Ralph, 
seriously  alarmed  by  the  violence  of  her  emotions.  "  I 
didn't  know  it  would  be  so  ;  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
foresee  it.  I  did  all  I  could. — Come,  let  us  walk  about. 
You  are  faint  with  the  closeness  of  the  room,  and  the 
heat  of  these  lamps.  You  will  be  better  now,  if  you 
make  the  slightest  effort." 

"I  will  do  anything,"  replied  Kate,  "if  you  will 
only  send  me  home." 

"  Well,  well,  I  will,"  said  Ralph  ;  "but  you  must  get 
back  your  own  looks  ;  for  those  you  have,  will  frighten 
them,  and  nobody  must  know  of  this  but  you  and  I. 
Now  let  us  walk  the  other  way.  There.  You  look  bet- 
ter even  now. " 

With  such  encouragements  as  these,  Ralph  Nickleby 
walked  to  and  fro,  with  his  niece  leaning  on  his  arm  ; 
actually  trembling  beneath  her  touch. 

In  the  same  manner,  when  he  judged  it  prudent  to 
allow  her  to  depart,  he  supported  her  down-stairs,  after 
adjusting  her  shawl  and  performing  such  little  oflBces, 
most  probably  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  Across  the 
hall,  and  down  the  steps,  Ralph  led  her  too  ;  nor  did  he 
withdraw  his  hand,  until  she  was  seated  in  the  coach. 

As  the  door  of  the  vehicle  was  roughly  closed,  a  comb 
fell  from  Kate's  hair,  close  at  her  uncle's  feet  ;  and  as  he 
picked  it  up,  and  returned  it  into  her  hand,  the  light 
from  a  neighbouring  lamp  shone  upon  her  face.  The 
lock  of  hair  that  had  escaped  and  curled  loosely  over  her 
1  brow,  the  traces  of  tears  yet  scarcely  dry.  tlie  flushed 
cheek,  the  look  of  sorrow,  all  fired  some  dormant  train 
I  of  recollection  in  the  old  man's  breast  ;  and  the  face  of 


70 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


his  dead  brother  seemed  present  before  him,  with  the 
very  look  it  bore  on  some  occasion  of  boyish  grief,  of 
which  every  minutest  circumstance  flashed  upon  his 
mind,  with  the  distinctness  of  a  scene  of  yesterday. 

Ralph  Nickleby,  who  was  proof  against  all  appeals  of 
blood  and  kindred — who  was  steeled  against  every  tale 
of  sorrow  and  distress — staggered  while  he  looked,  and 
went  back  into  his  house,  as  a  man  who  had  seen  a 
spirit  from  some  world  beyond  the  grave. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Wherein  Nicholas  at  length  encounters  his  Uncle,  to  whom  he  expresses 
his  Sentiments  loith  much  Candour.    His  Resolution. 

Little  Miss  La  Creevy  trotted  briskly  through  divers 
streets  at  the  west  end  of  the  town,  early  on  Monday 
morning — the  day  after'  the  dinner — charged  with  the 
important  commission  of  acquainting  Madame  Manta- 
lini  that  Miss  Nickleby  was  too  unwell  to  attend  that 
day,  but  hoped  to  be  enabled  to  resume  her  duties  on 
the  morrow.  And  as  Miss  La  Creevy  walked  along,  re- 
volving in  her  mind  various  genteel  forms  and  elegant 
turns  of  expression,  with  a  view  to  the  selection  of  the 
very  best  in  which  to  couch  her  communication,  she 
cogitated  a  good  deal  upon  the  probable  causes  of  her 
young  friend's  indisposition, 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,"  said  Miss  La 
Creevy.  Her  eyes  were  decidedly  red  last  night.  She 
said  she  had  a  head-ache  ;  head-aches  don't  occasion  red 
eyes.    She  must  have  been  crying." 

Arriving  at  this  conclusion,  which,  indeed,  she  had 
established  to  her  perfect  satisfaction  on  the  previous 
evening,  Miss  La  Creevy  went  on  to  consider — as  she 
had  done  nearly  all  night — what  new  cause  of  unhappi- 
ness  her  young  friend  could  possibly  have  had. 

"I  can't  think  of  anything,"  said  the  little  portrait 
painter.  "  Nothing  at  all,  unless  it  was  the  behav- 
iour of  that  old  bear.  Cross  to  her,  I  suppose '?  Un- 
pleasant brute  ! " 

Relieved  by  this  expression  of  opinion,  albeit  it  was 
vented  upon  empty  air.  Miss  La  Creevy  trotted  on  to 
Madame  Mantalini's  ;  and  being  informed  that  the  gov- 
erning power  was  not  yet  oni  of  bed,  requested  an  inter- 
view with  the  second  in  command  ;  whereupon  Miss 
Knag  appeared. 

"  So  far  as  7am  concerned,"  said  Miss  Knag,  when  the 
message  had  been  delivered,  with  many  ornaments  of 
speech  ;  "  I  could  spare  Miss  Nickleby  for  evermore." 

''Oh,  indeed,  ma'am!"  rejoined  Miss  La  Creevy, 
highly  offended.  "  But,  you  see,  you  are  not  mistress  of 
the  business,  and  therefore  it's  of  no  great  consequence." 

"  Very  good,  ma'am,"  said  Miss  Knag.  "Have  you 
any  further  commands  for  me  ?  " 

"No,  I  have  not,  ma'am,"  rejoined  Miss  La  Creevy. 

"  Then  good  morning,  ma'am,"  said  Miss  Knag. 

"  Good  morning  to  you,  ma'am  ;  and  many  obligations 
for  your  extreme  politeness  and  good  breeding,"  rejoined 
Miss  La  Creevy. 

Thus  terminating  the  interview  during  which  both 
ladies  had  trembled  very  much,  and  been  marvellously 
polite— certain  indications  that  they  were  within  an  inch 
of  a  very  desperate  quarrel— Miss  La  Creevy  bounced  out 
of  the  room,  and  into  the  street. 

"  I  wonder  who  that  is,"  said  the  queer  little  soul. 
"  A  nice  person  to  know,  I  should  think  !  I  wish  I  had 
the  painting  of  her:  I'd  do  her  justice."  So,  feeling 
quite  satisfied  that  she  had  said  a  very  cutting  thing  at 
Miss  Knag's  expense.  Miss  La  Creevy  had  a  hearty  laugh 
and  went  home  to  breakfast  in  great  good  humour. 

Here  was  one  of  the  advantages  of  having  lived  alone 
so  long  !  The  little  bustling,  active,  cheerful  creature, 
existed  entirely  within  herself,  talked  to  herself,  made  a 
confidant  of  herself,  was  as  sarcastic  as  she  could  be,  on 
people  who  offended  her,  by  herself  ;  pleased  herself, 
and  did  no  harm.  If  she  indulged  in  scandal,  nobody's 
reputation  suffered  ;  and  if  she  enjoyed  a  little  bit  of  re- 
venge, no  living  soul  was  one  atom  the  worse.  One  of 
the  many  to  whom,  from  straitened  circumstances,  a 
consequent  inability  to  form  the  associations  they  would 
wish,  and  a  disinciination  to  mix  with  the  society  they 


could  obtain,  London  is  as  complete  a  solitude  as  the 
plains  of  Syria,  the  humble  artist  had  pursued  her  lonely, 
but  contented  way  for  many  years  ;  and,  until  the  pecu- 
liar misfortunes  of  the  Nickleby  family  attracted  her  at- 
tention, had  made  no  friends,  though  brimful  of  the 
friendliest  feelings  to  all  mankind.  There  are  many 
warm  hearts  in  the  same  solitary  guise  as  poor  little  Miss 
La  Creevy's. 

However,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there,  just  now. 
She  went  home  to  breakfast,  and  had  scarcely  caught 
the  full  flavour  of  her  first  sip  of  tea,  when  the  servant 
announced  a  gentleman,  whereat  Miss  La  Creevy,  at  once 
imagining  a  new  sitter  transfixed  by  admiration  at  the 
street-door  case,  was  in  unspeakable  consternation  at  the 
presence  of  the  tea-things. 

"  Here,  take  'em  away  ;  run  with  'em  into  the  bed- 
room ;  anywhere,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  Dear,  dear  ; 
to  think  that  I  should  be  late  on  this  particular  morning, 
of  all  others,  after  being  ready  for  three  weeks  by  half- 
past  eight  o'clock,  and  not  a  soul  coming  near  the  place  !  '* 

"Don't  let  me  put  you  out  of  the  way,"  said  a  voice 
Miss  La  Creevy  knew.  "  I  told  the  servant  not  to  men- 
tion my  name,  because  I  wished  to  surprise  you." 

"  Mr.  Nicholas  ! "  cried  Miss  La  Creevy  starting  in  great  , 
astonishment.  j 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  me,  I  see, "replied Nicholas, 
extending  his  hand. 

"  Why,  I  think  I  should  even  have  known  you  if  I  had 
met  you  in  the  street,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy,  with  a  smile. 
"  Hannah,  another  cup  and  saucer.  Now  I'll  tell  you 
what,  young  man  ;  I'll  trouble  you  not  to  repeat  the  im- 
pertinence you  were  guilty  of,  on  the  morning  you  went 
away, " 

"You  would  not  be  very  angry,  would  you?"  asked 
Nicholas. 

"  Wouldn't  I ! "  said  Miss  La  Creevy.    "  You  had  bet- 
ter try  ;  that's  all  ! " 

Nicholas,  with  becoming  gallantry,  immediately  took  , 
Miss  La  Creevy  at  her  word,  who  uttered  a  faint  scream  , 
and  slapped  his  face  ;  but  it  was  not  a  very  hard  slap,  . 
and  that's  the  truth. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  rude  creature  ! "  exclaimed  Miss 
La  Creevy. 

"  You  told  me  to  try,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Well  ;  but  I  was  speaking  ironically,"  rejoined  Miss 
La  Creevy. 

"Oh!  that's  another  thing,"  said  Nicholas;  "you' 
should  have  told  me  that,  too."  j 

"  I  dare  say  you  didn't  know,  indeed  I  "  retorted  Miss  ' 
La  Creevy.    ' '  But,  now  I  look  at  you  again,  you  seem , 
thinner  than  when  I  saw  you  last,  and  your  face  is  hag- 1 
gard  and  pale.    And  how  come  you  to  have  left  York- 
shire ? "  ' 

She  stopped,  here,  for  there  was  so  much  heart  in  her' 
altered  tone  and  manner,  that  Nicholas  was  quite  moved. 

"I  need  look  somewhat  changed,"  he  said,  after  a 
short  silence  :  "  for  I  have  undergone  some  suffelfng, 
both  of  mind  and  body,  since  I  left  London.  I  have  been 
very  poor,  too,  and  have  even  suffered  from  want." 

"Good  Heaven,  Mr.  Nicholas!"  exclaimed  Miss  La 
Creevy,  "  what  are  you  telling  me  !  " 

"  Nothing  which  need  distress  you  quite  so  much,'* 
answered  Nicholas,  with  a  more  sprightly  air  ;  "  neither 
did  I  come  here  to  bewail  my  lot,  but  on  matter  more  to 
the  purpose.  I  wish  to  meet  my  uncle  face  to  face.  I 
should  tell  you  that  first. " 

"  Then  all  1  have  to  say  about  that  is,"  interposed  Miss  ^ 
La  Creevy,  "  that  I  don't  envy  you  your  taste  ;  and  that 
sitting  in  the  same  room  with  his  very  boots,  would 
put  me  out  of  humour  for  a  fortnight." 

"  In  the  main,"  said  Nicholas  there  may  be  no  great 
difference  of  opinion  between  you  and  me,  so  far  ;  but 
you  will  understand,  that  I  desire  to  confront  him,  to 
justify  myself,  and  to  cast  his  duplicity  and  malice  in  his 
throat." 

"  That's  quite  another  matter,"  rejoined  Miss  La 
Creevy.  "Heaven  forgive  me  ;  but  I  shouldn't  cry  my 
eyes  quite  out  of  my  head,  if  they  choked  him.  Well  ?  '* 

"  To  this  end,  I  called  upon  him  this  morning,"  said 
Nicholas.  "  He  only  returned  to  town  on  Saturday,  and 
I  knew  nothing  of  his  arrival  until  late  last  night." 

"  And  did  you  see  him  ?"  asked  Miss  La  Creevy. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


71 


"  No,"  replied  Nicholas.    "  He  had  gone  out." 

"  Hah  ! "  said  Miss  La  Creevy  ;  "  on  some  kind,  chari- 
table business,  I  dare  say." 

"I  have  reason  to  believe,"  pursued  Nicholas,  "from 
what  has  been  told  me,  by  a  friend  of  mine  who  is  ac- 
quainted with  his  movements,  that  he  intends  seeing  my 
mother  and  sister  to-day,  and  giving  them  his  version  of 
the  occurrences  that  have  befallen  me.  I  will  meet  him 
there.'- 

"  That's  right,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy,  rubbing  her 
hands.  "And  yet,  I  don't  know,"  she  added,  "there  is 
much  to  be  thought  of — others  to  be  considered." 

"  I  have  considered  others,"  rejoined  Nicholas  ;  "  but 
as  honesty  and.  honour  are  both  at  issue,  nothing-  shall 
deter  me." 

"  You  should  know  best,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy. 

"  In  this  case  I  hope  so,"  answered  Nicholas.  "And 
all  I  want  you  to  do  for  me,  is,  to  prepare  them  for  my 
coming.  They  think  me  a  long  way  off,  and  if  I  went 
wholly  unexpected,  I  should  frighten  them.  If  you  can 
spare  time  to  tell  them  that  you  have  seen  me,  and  that 
I  shall  be  with  them  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards, 
you  will  do  me  a  great  service. " 

"I  wish  I  could  do  you,  or  any  of  you,  a  greater," 
said  Miss  La  Creevy  ;  ' '  but  the  power  to  serve,  is  as 
seldom  joined  with  the  will,  as  the  will  is  with  the  power, 
/think." 

Talking  on  very  fast  and  very  much,  Miss  La  Creevy 
finished  her  breakfast  with  great  expedition,  put  away 
the  tea-caddy  and  hid  the  key  under  the  fender,  re- 
sumed her  bonnet,  and  takipg  Nicholas's  arm,  sallied 
forth  at  once  to  the  city.  Nicholas  left  her  near  the  door 
of  his  mother's  house,  and  promised  to  return  within 
a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

It  so  chanced  that  Ralph  Nickleby,  at  length  seeing 
fit,  for  his  own  purposes,  to  communicate  the  atrocities 
of  which  Nicholas  had  been  guilty,  had  (instead  of  first 
proceeding  to  another  quarter  of  the  town  on  business, 
as  Newman  Noggs  supposed  he  would)  gone  straight  to 
his  sister-in-law.  Hence,  when  Miss  La  Creevy,  admit- 
ted by  a  girl  who  was  cleaning  the  house,  made  her  way 
to  the  sitting-room,  she  found  Mrs.  Nickleby  and  Kate 
in  tears,  and  Ralph  just  concluding  his  statement  of  his 
nephew's  misdemeanours.  Kate  beckoned  her  not  to  re- 
tire, and  Miss  La  Creevy  took  a  seat  in  silence. 

"You  are  here  already,  are  you,  my  gentleman?" 
thought  the  little  woman.  "  Then  he  shall  announce 
himself,  and  see  what  effect  that  has  on  you." 

"  This  is  pretty,"  said  I^alph,  folding  up  Miss  Squeers's 
note  ;  "  very  pretty.  I  recommended  him — against  all  my 
previous  conviction,  for  I  knew  Wie  would  never  do  any 
good — to  a  man  with  whom,  behaving  himself  properly, 
he  might  have  remained,  in  comfort,  for  years.  What 
is  the  result  ?  Conduct,  for  which  he  might  hold  up  his 
hand  at  the  Old  Bailey." 

"I  never  will  believe  it,"  said  Kate,  indignantly; 
"never.  It  is  some  base  conspiracy,  which  carries  its 
own  falsehood  with  it." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Ralph,  "you  wrong  the  worthy  man. 
These  are  not  inventions.  The  man  is  assaulted,  your 
brother  is  not  to  be  found  ;  this  boy,  of  whom  they  speak 
goes  with  him — remember,  remember." 

"  It  is  impossible,"  said  Kate.  "Nicholas! — and  a 
thief  too  !  Mamma,  how  can  you  sit  and  hear  such  state- 
ments ?  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Nickleby,  who  had,  at  no  time,  been  remark- 
able for  the  possession  of  a  very  clear  understanding,  and 
who  had  been  reduced  by  the  late  changes  in  her  affairs 
to  a  most  complicated  state  of  perplexity,  made  no  other 
reply  to  this  earnest  remonstrance  than* exclaiming  from 
behind  a  mass  of  pocket-handkerchief,  that  she  never 
could  have  believed  it — thereby  most  ingeniously  leav- 
ing her  hearers  to  suppose  that  she  did  believe  it. 

"It  would  be  my  duty,  if  he  came  in  my  way,  to  de- 
liver him  up  to  justice,"  said  Ralph,  "  my  bounden  duty  ; 
I  should  have  no  other  course,  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  a  man  of  business,  to  pursue.  And  yet."  said  Ralph, 
speaking  in  a  very  marked  manner,  and  looking  furtive- 
ly, but  fixedly,  at  Kate,  "  and  yet  I  would  not.  I  would 
spare  the  feelings  of  his  sister.  And  his  mother  of 
course,"  added  Ralph,  as  though  by  an  after-thought, 
and  with  far  less  emphasis. 


Kate  very  well  understood  that  this  was  held  out  as  an 
additional  inducement  to  her,  to  preserve  the  strictest 
silence  regarding  the  events  of  the  precednig  night.  Slie 
looked  involuntarily  towards  Ralph  as  he  ceased  to  speak, 
but  he  had  turned  his  eyes  another  way,  and  .seemed  for 
the  moment  quite  unconscious  of  her  presence. 

"Everything,"  said  Ralph,  after  a  long  silence,  broken 
only  by  Mrs.  Nickleby's  sobs,  "everything  combines  to 
prove  the  truth  of  this  latter,  if  indeed  there  were  any 
possibility  of  disputing  it.  Do  innocent  men  steal  away 
from  the  sight  of  honest  folks,  and  skulk  in  hiding- 
places,  like  outlaws  ?  Do  innocent  men  inveigle  name- 
less vagabonds,  and  prowl  with  them  about  the  country 
as  idle  robbers  do?  Assault,  riot,  theft,  what  do  you 
call  these  ?  " 

"  A  lie  !  "  cried  a  voice,  as  the  door  was  dashed  open, 
and  Nicholas  came  into  the  room. 

In  the  first  moment  of  surprise,  and  possibly  of  alarm, 
Ralph  rose  from  his  seat,  and  fell  back  a  few  paces, 
quite  taken  off  his  guard  by  this  unexpected  apparition. 
In  another  moment,  he  stood,  fixed  and  immovable  with 
folded  arms,  regarding  his  nephew  with  a  scowl  ;  while 
Kate  and  Miss  La  Creevy  threw  themselves  between  the 
two,  to  prevent  the  personal  violence  which  the  fierce 
excitement  of  Nicholas  appeared  to  threaten. 

"  Dear  Nicholas,"  cried  his  sister,  clinging  to  him. 
"Be  calm,  consider — " 

"Consider,  Kate  !  "  cried  Nicholas,  clasping  her  hand 
so  tight,  in  the  tumult  of  his  anger,  that  she  could 
scarcely  bear  the  pain.  "  When  I  consider  all,  and 
think  of  what  has  passed,  I  need  be  made  of  iron  to 
stand  before  him." 

"  Or  bronze,"  said  Ralph  quietly  ;  "  there  is  not  hardi- 
hood enough  in  flesh  and  blood  to  face  it  out." 

"Oh  dear,  dear  !"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "that  things 
should  have  come  to  such  a  pass  as  this  !" 

"  Who  speaks  in  a  tone,  as  if  I  had  done  wrong,  and 
brought  disgrace  on  them  ?  "  said  Nicholas  looking  round. 

"Your  mother,  sir?"  replied  Ralph,  motioning  to- 
wards her. 

"Whose  ears  have  been  poisoned  by  you,"  said  Nich- 
olas, "by  you — who,  under  pretence  oi  deser\ing  the 
thanks  she  poured  upon  you,  heaped  every  insult,  wrong, 
and  indignity,  upon  my  head.  You,  who  sent  me  to  a 
den  where  sordid  cruelty,  worthy  of  yourself,  runs  wan- 
ton, and  youthful  misery  stalks  precocious  ;  where  the 
lightness  of  childhood  shrinks  into  the  heaviness  of  age, 
and  its  every  promise  blights,  and  withers  as  it  grows. 
I  call  Heaven  to  witness,"  said  Nicholas,  looking  eagerly 
round,  ' '  that  I  have  seen  all  this,  and  that  he  knows 
it." 

" Refute  these  calumnies, "  said  Kate,  "and  be  more 
patient,  so  that  you  may  give  them  no  advantage.  Tell 
us  what  you  really  did,  and  show  that  they  are  untrue." 

"  Of  what  do  they — or  of  what  does  he — accuse  me  ?" 
said  Nicholas. 

"First,  of  attacking  your  master,  and  being  \vitliin  an 
ace  of  qualifying  yourself  to  be  tried  for  murder,"  inter- 
posed Ralph,  "  I  speak  plainly,  young  man,  bluster  as 
you  will." 

"I  interfered,"  said  Nicholas,  "to  save  a  miserable 
creature  from  the  vilest  cruelty.  In  so  doing,  I  inflicted 
such  punishment  upon  a  wretch  as  he  will  not  readily 
forget,  though  far  less  than  he  deserved  from  me.  If 
the  same  scene  were  renewed  before  me  now,  I  would 
take  the  same  part  ;  but  I  would  strike  harder  and 
heavier,  and  brand  him  with  such  marks  as  he  should 
carry  to  his  grave,  go  to  it  when  he  would." 

"You  hear?"  said  Ralph,  turning  to  Mrs.  Nickleby. 
"  Penitence  this  !  " 

"Oh  dear  me  !"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "I  don't  know 
what  to  think,  I  really  don't." 

"  Do  not  speak  just  now,  mamma,  I  entreat  you,"  said 
Kate.  "Dear  Nicholas,  I  only  tell  you.  that  you  may 
know  what  wickedness  can  prompt,  but  they  accuse  you 
of — a  ring  is  missing,  and  they  dare  to  say  that — " 

"The  woman,"  said  Nicholas,  haughtily,  "  the  wife 
of  the  fellow  from  whom  these  charges  come,  dropped— 
as  I  suppose — a  worthless  ring  among  some  clothes  of 
mine,  early  in  the  morning  on  which  I  left  the  house. 
At  least,  I  know  that  she  was  in  the  bedroom  where 
they  lav.  struggling  ^vith  an  unhappy  child,  and  that  I 


72 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


found  it  when  I  opened  my  bundle  on  tlie  road.  I  re- 
turned it,  at  once,  by  coach,  and  they  have  it  now." 

"I  knew,  I  knew,"  said  Kate,  looking  towards  her 
uncle.  "  About  this  boy,  love,  in  whose  company  they 
say  you  left  ?  " 

"The  boy,  a  silly,  helpless  creature,  from  brutality 
and  hard  usage,  is  with  me  now,"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"You  hear?"  said  Ralph,  appealing  to  the  mother 
again,  "  everything  proved,  even  upon  his  own  confes- 
sion.   Do  you  choose  to  restore  that  boy,  sir  ?  " 

"  No.    I  do  not,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  You  do  not?  "  sneered  Ralph. 

"  No,"  repeated  Nicholas,  "  not  to  the  man  with  whom 
I  found  him.  I  would  that  I  knew  on  whom  he  has  the 
claim  of  birth  :  I  might  wring  something  from  his  sense 
of  shame,  if  he  were  dead  to  every  tie  of  nature." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Ralph.  "Now,  sir,  will  you  hear  a 
word  or  two  from  me  ?  " 

"You  can  speak  when  and  what  you  please,"  replied 
Nicholas,  embracing  his  sister.  "I  take  little  heed  of 
what  you  say  or  threaten." 

"Mighty  well,  sir,"  retorted  Ralph  ;  "  but  perhaps  it 
may  concern  others,  who  may  think  it  worth  their  while 
to  listen,  and  consider  what  I  tell  them.  I  will  address 
your  mother,  sir,  who  knows  the  world." 

"Ah  !  and  I  only  too  dearly  wish  I  didn't,"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Nickleby. 

There  really  was  no  necessity  for  the  good  lady  to  be 
much  distressed  upon  this  particular  head  ;  the  extent 
of  her  worldly  knowledge,  being,  to  say  the  least,  very 
questionable ;  and  so  Ralph  seemed  to  think,  for  he 
smiled  as  she  spoke.  He  then  glanced  steadily  at  her 
and  Nicholas  by  turns,  as  he  delivered  himself  in  these 
words  : 

"Of  what  have  I  done,  or  what  I  meant  to  do,  for 
you,  ma'am,  and  my  niece,  I  say  not  one  syllable.  I  held 
out  no  promise,  and  leave  you  to  judge  for  yourself.  I 
hold  out  no  threat  now,  but  I  say  that  this  boy,  head- 
strong, wilful,  and  disorderly  as  he  is,  should  not  have 
one  penny  of  my  money,  or  one  crust  of  my  bread,  or  one 
grasp  of  my  hand,  to  save  him  from  the  loftiest  gallows 
in  all  Europe.  I  will  not  meet  him,  come  where  he 
comes,  or  hear  his  name.  I  will  not  help  him,  or  those 
who  help  him.  With  a  full  knowledge  of  what  he 
brought  upon  you  by  so  doing,  he  has  come  back  in  his 
selfish  sloth,  to  be  an  aggravation  of  your  wants,  and  a 
burden  upon  his  sister's  scanty  wages.  I  regret  to  leave 
you,  and  more  to  leave  her,  now,  but  I  will  not  encour- 
age this  compound  of  meanness  and  cruelty,  and,  as  I 
will  not  ask  you  to  renounce  him,  I  see  you  no  more." 

If  Ralph  had  not  known  and  felt  his  power  in  wound- 
ing those  he  hated,  his  glances  at  Nicholas  would  have 
shown  it  him,  in  all  its  force,  as  he  proceeded  in  the 
above  address.  Innocent  as  the  young  man  was  of  all 
wrong,  every  artful  insinuation  stung,  every  well-con- 
sidered sarcasm  cut  him  to  the  quick  ;  and  when  Ralph 
noted  his  pale  face  and  quivering  lip,  he  hugged  himself 
to  mark  how  well  he  had  chosen  the  taunts  best  calcu- 
lated to  strike  deep  into  a  young  and  ardent  spirit. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  I  know  you 
have  been  very  good  to  us,  and  meant  to  do  a  good  deal 
for  my  dear  daughter.  I  am  quite  sure  of  that ;  I  know 
you  did,  and  it  was  very  kind  of  you,  having  her  at  your 
house  and  all — and  of  course  it  would  have  been  a  great 
thing  for  her  and  for  me  too.  But  I  can't,  you  know, 
brother-in-law,  I  can't  renounce  my  own  son,  even  if  he 
has  done  all  you  say  he  has — it's  not  possible  :  I  couldn't 
do  it  ;  so  we  must  go  to  rack  and  ruin,  Kate,  my  dear. 
I  can  bear  it,  I  dare  say."  Pouring  forth  these  and  a 
perfectly  wonderful  train  of  other  disjointed  expressions 
of  regret,  which  no  mortal  power  but  Mrs.  Nickleby's 
could  ever  have  strung  together,  that  lady  wrung  her 
hands,  and  her  tears  fell  faster. 

"Why  do  you  say  'if  Nicholas  has  done  what  they 
say  he  has,'  mamma?"  asked  Kate,  with  honest  anger. 
"  You  know  he  has  not." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,  one  way  or  other,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby  ;  "Nicholas  is  so  violent,  and 
your  uncle  has  so  much  composure,  that  I  can  only  hear 
what  he  says,  and  not  what  Nicholas  does.  Never  mind, 
don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about  it.  We  can  go  to  the 
Workhouso,  or  the  Refuge  for  the  Destitute,  or  the  Mag- 


dalen Hospital,  I  dare  say  ;  and  the  sooner  we  go  the 
better."  With  this  extraordinary  jumble  of  charitable 
institutions,  Mrs.  Nickleby  again  gave  way  to  her  tears. 

"  Stay,"  said  Nicholas,  as  Ralph  turned  to  go.  "  You 
need  not  leave  this  place,  sir,  for  it  will  be  relieved  of 
my  presence,  in  one  minute,  and  it  will  be  long,  very 
long,  before  I  darken  these  doors  again." 

"Nicholas,"  cried  Kate,  throwing  herself  on  her 
brother's  shoulder,  "do  not  say  so.  My  dear  brother, 
you  will  break  my  heart.  Mamma,  speak  to  him.  Do 
not  mind  her,  Nicholas  ;  she  does  not  mean  it,  you 
should  know  her  better.  Uncle,  somebody,  for  Heaven's 
sake  speak  to  him." 

"1  never  meant,  Kate,"  said  Nicholas,  tenderly,  "I 
never  meant  to  stay  among  you  ;  think  better  of  me 
than  to  suppose  it  possible.  I  may  turn  my  back  on 
this  town  a  few  hours  sooner  than  I  intended,  but  what 
of  that?  We  shall  not  forget  each  other  apart,  and 
better  days  will  come  when  we  shall  part  no  more.  Be 
a  woman,  Kate,"  he  whispered,  proudly,  "and  do  not 
make  me  one,  while  he  looks  on." 

"No,  no,  I  will  not,"  said  Kate,  eagerly,  "but  you 
will  not  leave  us.  Oh  !  think  of  all  the  happy  days  we 
have  had  together,  before  these  terrible  misfortunes 
came  upon  us  ;  of  all  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  home, 
and  the  trials  we  have  to  bear  now  ;  of  our  having  no 
pretector  under  all  the  slights  and  wrongs  that  poverty 
so  much  favours,  and  you  cannot  leave  us  to  bear  them 
alone,  without  one  hand  to  help  us." 

"  You  will  be  helped  when  I  am  away,"  replied  Nich- 
olas, hurriedly.  "I  am.no  help  to  you,  no  protector  ; 
I  should  bring  you  nothing  but  sorrow,  and  want,  and 
suffering.  My  own  mother  sees  it,  and  her  fondness  and 
fears  for  you,  point  to  the  course  that  I  should  take.  And 
so  all  good  angels  bless  you,  Kate,  till  I  can  carry  you  to 
some  home  of  mine,  where  we  may  revive  the  happiness 
denied  to  us  now,  and  talk  of  these  trials  as  of  things  gone 
by.  Do  not  keep  me  here,  but  let  me  go  at  once.  There. 
Dear  girl— dear  girl." 

The  grasp  which  had  detained  him,  relaxed,  and  Kate 
swooned  in  his  arms.     Nicholas  stooped  over  her,  for  a  ) 
few  seconds,  and  placing  her  gently  in  a  chair,  confided 
her  to  their  honest  friend. 

"  I  need  not  entreat  your  sympathy,"  he  said,  wring- 
ing her  hand,  "  for  I  know  your  nature.  You  will  never 
forget  them." 

He  stepped  up  to  Ralph,  who  remained  in  the  same 
attitude  which  he  had  preserved  throughout  the  inter- 
view, and  moved  not  a  finger. , 

"Whatever  step  you  take,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  in- 
audible beyond  themseWes,  "  I  shall  keep  a  strict  account 
of.  I  leave  them  to  you,  at  your  desire.  There  will  be 
a  day  of  reckoning  sooner  or  later,  and  it  will  be  a  heavy 
one  for  you  if  they  are  wronged." 

Ralph  did  not  allow  a  muscle  of  his  face  to  indicate 
that  he  heard  one  word  of  this  parting  address.  He 
hardly  knew  that  it  was  concluded,  and  Mrs.  Nickleby 
had  scarcely  made  up  her  mind  to  detain  her  son  by 
force  if  necessary,  when  Nicholas  was  gone. 

As  he  hurried  through  the  streets  to  his  obscure  lodg- 
ing, seeking  to  keep  pace,  as  it  were,  with  the  rapidity 
of  the  thoughts  which  crowded  upon  him,  many  doubts 
and  hesitations  arose  in  his  mind,  and  almost  tempted 
him  to  return.  But  what  would  they  gain  by  this  ?  Sup- 
posing he  were  to  put  Ralph  Nickleby  at  defiance,  and 
were  even  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  some  small  em- 
ployment, his  being  with  them  could  only  render  their, 
present  condition  worse,  and  might  greatly  impair  their 
future  prospects  ;  for  his  mother  had  spoken  of  some 
new  kindness  towards  Kate  which  she  had  not  denied. 
"  No,"  thought  Nicholas,  "  I  have  acted  for  the  best." 

But,  before  he  had  gone  five  hundred  yards,  some 
other  and  different  feeling  would  come  upon  him,  and  then 
he  would  lag  again,  and  pulling  his  hat  over  his  eyes, 
give  way  to  the  melancholy  reflections  which  pressed 
thickly  upon  him.  To  have  committed  no  fault,  and  yet 
to  be  so  entirely  alone  in  the  world  ;  to  be  separated  from 
the  only  persons  he  loved,  and  to  be  proscribed  like  a 
criminal,  when  six  months  ago  he  had  been  surrounded 
by  every  comfort,  and  looked  up  to,  as  the  chief  hope 
of  his  family— this  was  hard  to  bear.  He  had  not  de- 
served it  either.    Well,  there  was  comfort  in  that :  and 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


73 


poor  Nicholas  would  brighten  up  again,  to  be  again  de- 
pressed, as  his  quickly  shifting  thoughts  presented  every 
variety  of  light  and  shade  before  hini. 

Undergoing  these  alternations  of  hope  and  misgiving, 
which  no  one,  placed  in  a  situation  of  ordinary  trial,  can 
fail  to  have  experienced,  Nicholas  at  length  reached  his 
poor  room,  where,  no  longer  borne  uj)  by  the  excitement 
which  had  hitherto  sustained  him,  but  depressed  by  the  re- 
vulsion of  feeling  it  left  behind,  he  threw  himself  on  the 
bed,  and  turning  his  face  to  the  wall,  gave  free  vent  to 
the  emcttions  he  had  so  long  stifled. 

He  had  not  heard  anybody  enter,  and  was  unconscious 
of  the  presence  of  Smike,  until,  happening  to  raise  his 
head,  he  saw  him,  standing  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room, 
looking  wistfully  towards  him.  He  withdrew  his  eyes 
when  he  saw  that  he  was  observed,  and  affected  to  be 
busied  with  some  scanty  preparations  for  dinner. 

"Well,  Smike,"  said  Nicholas,  as  cheerfully  as  he 
could  speak,  "  let  me  hear  what  new  acquaintances  you 
have  made  this  morning,  or  what  new  wonder  you  have 
found  out,  in  the  compass  of  this  street  and  the  next 
one." 

"No,"  said  Smike,  shaking  his  head  mournfully  ;  "  I 
must  talk  of  something  else  to-day." 

"Of  what  you  like,"  replied  Nicholas,  good-humour- 
edly. 

"Of  this  ;  "  said  Smike.  "  I  know  you  are  unhappy, 
and  have  got  into  great  trouble  by  bringing  me  away. 
I  ought  to  have  known  that,  and  stopped  behind — I 
would,  indeed,  if  I  had  thought  it  then.  You — you — 
are  not  rich  :  you  have  not  enough  for  yourself,  and  I 
should  not  be  here.  You  grow,"  said  the  lad,  laying  his 
hand  timidly  on  that  of  Nicholas,  "you  grow  thinner 
every  day  ;  your  cheek  is  paler,  and  your  eye  more  sunk . 
Indeed  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  so,  and  think  how  I  am 
burdening  you.  I  tried  to  go  away  to-day,  but  the 
thought  of  your  kind  face  drew  me  back.  I  could  not 
leave  you  without  a  word."  The  poor  fellow  could  say 
no  more,  for  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  his  voice  was 
gone. 

"  The  word  which  separates  us,"  said  Nicholas,  grasp- 
ing him  heartily  by  the  shoulder,  "shall  never  be  said 
by  me,  for  you  are  my  only  comfort  and  stay,  I  would 
not  lose  you  now,  Smike,  for  all  the  world  could  give. 
The  thought  of  you  has  upheld  me  through  all  I  have 
endured  to-day,  and  shall,  through  fifty  times  such 
trouble.  Give  me  your  hand.  My  heart  is  linked  to 
yours.  We  will  journey  from  this  place  together,  before 
the  week  is  out.  What,  if  I  am  steeped  in  poverty? 
You  lighten  it,  and  we  will  be  poor  together." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Madame  Mantalinl  Unds  herself  in.  a  Situation  of  some  Difficulty,  and 
Miss  Nicideby  finds  herself  in  no  Situation  at  all. 

The  agitation  she  had  undergone,  rendered  Kate 
Nickleby  unable  to  resume  her  duties  at  the  dress- 
maker's for  three  days,  at  the  expiration  of  which  in- 
terval she  betook  herself  at  the  accustomed  hour,  and 
with  languid  steps,  to  the  temple  of  fashion  where 
Madame  Mantalini  reigned  paramount  and  supreme. 

The  ill  will  of  Miss  Knag  had  lost  nothing  of  its  viru- 
lence, in  the  interval.  The  young  ladies  still  scrupu- 
lously shrunk  from  all  companionship  with  their  de- 
nounced associate  ;  and  when  that  exemplary  female 
arrived  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  she  was  at  no  pains  to 
conceal  the  displeasure  with  which  she  regarded  Kate's 
return. 

"  Upon  my  word  !  "  said  Miss  Knag,  as  the  satellites 
flocked  round,  to  relieve  her  of  her  bonnet  and  shawl  ; 
"I  should  have  thought  some  people  would  have  had 
spirit  enough  to  stop  away  altogether,  when  they  know 
what  an  incumbrance  their  presence  is  to  right-minded 
persons.  But  it's  a  queer  world  ;  oh  !  it's  a  queer 
world." 

Miss  Knag,  having  passed  this  comment  on  the  world, 
in  the  tone  in  which  most  people  do  pass  comments  on 
the  world  when  they  are  out  of  temper,  that  is  to  say, 
as  if  they  by  no  means  belonged  to  it,  concluded  by 


heaving  a  sigh,  wherewith  she  seemed  meeklv  to  com- 
passionate the  wickedness  of  mankind. 

The  attendants  were  not  slow  to  echo  the  sigh,  and 
Miss  Knag  was  apparently  on  the  eve  of  favouring  tliein 
with  some  further  moral  reflections,  when  the  voice  of 
Madame  Mantalini,  conveyed  through  the  speaking-tube, 
ordered  Miss  Nickleby  up-stairs  to  assist  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  show-room  ;  a  distinction  which  caused  Miss 
Knag  to  toss  her  head  so  much,  and  bite  her  lips  so 
hard,  that  her  powers  of  conversation  were,  for  the 
time,  annihilated. 

"Well,  Miss  Nickleby,  child,"  said  Madame  Man- 
talini, when  Kate  presented  herself  ;  "  are  you  quite 
well  again  ?  " 

"A  great  deal  better,  thank  you,"  replied  Kate. 

"  I  wish  I  could  say  the  same,"  remarked  Madame 
Mantalini,  seating  herself  with  an  air  of  weariness. 

"Are  you  ill?"  asked  Kate.  "I  am  very  sorry  for 
that." 

"Not  exactly  ill,  but  worried,  child — worried,"  re- 
joined Madame. 

"I  am  still  more  sorry  to  hear  that,"  said  Kate, 
gently.  "  Bodily  illness  is  more  easy  to  bear,  than  men- 
tal." 

"  Ah  !  and  it's  much  easier  to  talk  than  to  bear  either," 
said  Madame,  rubbing  her  nose  with  much  irritability 
of  manner.  "There,  get  to  your  work,  child,  and  put 
the  things  in  order,  do." 

Wliile  Kate  was  wondering  within  herself  what  these 
symptoms  of  unusual  vexation  portended,  Mr.  Manta- 
lini put  the  tips  of  his  whiskers,  and,  by  degrees,  his 
head,  through  the  half-opened  door,  and  cried  in  a  soft 
voice — 

"  Is  my  life  and  soul  there  ?" 
"  No,"  replied  his  wife. 

"  How  can  it  say  so,  when  it  is  blooming  in  the  front 
room  like  a  little  rose  in  a  demnition  flower-pot  ?  "  urged 
Mantalini,    "May  its  poppet  come  in  and  talk?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Madame  ;  "  you  know  I  never 
allow  you  here.    Go  along  ! " 

The  poppet,  however,  encouraged  perhaps  by  the  re- 
lenting tone  of  this  reply,  ventured  to  rebel,  and,  stealing 
into  the  room,  made  towards  Madame  Mantalini  on  tip- 
toe, blowing  her  a  kiss  as  he  came  along. 

"Why  will  it  vex  itself,  and  twist  its  little  face 
into  bewitching  nutcrackers  ? "  said  Mantalini,  putting 
his  left  arm  round  the  waist  of  his  life  and  soul,  and 
drawing  her  towards  him  with  his  right. 

"Oh  !  I  can't  bear  you,"  replied  his  wife. 

"  Not — eh,  not  bear  me  !  "  exclaimed  Mantalini.  "  Fibs, 
fibs.  It  couldn't  be.  There's  not  a  woman  alive,  that 
could  tell  me  such  a  thing  to  my  face — to  my  own  face." 
Mr.  Mantalini  stroked  his  chin  as  he  said  this,  and 
glanced  complacently  at  an  opposite  mirror, 

"  Such  destructive  extravagance,"  reasoned  his  wife, 
in  a  low  tone. 

"  All  in  its  joy  at  having  gained  such  a  lovely  crea- 
ture, such  a  little  Venus,  such  a  demd  enchanting,  be- 
witching, engrossing,  captivating  little  Venus,"'  said 
Mantalini. 

"  See  what  a  situation  you  have  placed  me  in  !  "  urged 
Madame, 

"  No  harm  will  come,  no  harm  shall  come,  to  its  own 
darling,"  rejoined  Mr,  Mantalini.  "  It  is  all  over  ;  there 
will  be  nothing  the  matter  ;  money  shall  be  got  in,  and 
if  it  don't  come  in  fast  enough,  old  Nickleby  shall  stump 
up  again,  or  have  his  jugular  separated  if  \ie  dares  to 
vex  and  hurt  the  little — " 

"  Hush  ! "  interposed  Madame.    "  Don't  you  see  ?  " 
Mr.  Mantalini,  who,  in  his  eagerness  to  make  up  mat- 
ters with  his  wife,  had  overlooked,  or  feigned  to  over- 
look, Miss  Nickleby  hitherto,  took  the  hint,  and  laying 
!  his  finger  on  his  lip,  sunk  his  voice  still  lower.  There 
Avas,  then,  a  great  deal  of  whispering,  during  which  Ma- 
I  dame  Mantalini  appeared  to  make  reference,  more  than 
I  once,  to  certain  debts  incurred  by  Mr.  Mantalini  previous 
I  to  her  coverture  ;  and  also  to  an  unexpected  outlay  of 
I  money  in  payment  of  the  aforesaid  debts  ;  and  further- 
I  more,  to  certain  agreeable  weaknesses  on  that  gentleman's 
part,  such  as  gaming,  wasting,  idling,  and  a  tendency  to 
'  horse-flesh  ;  each  of  which  matters  of  accusation  Mr. 
Mantalini  disposed  of,  by  one  kiss  or  more,  as  its  relative 


74 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


importance  demanded.  The  upshot  of  it  all,  was,  that 
Madame  Mantalini  was  in  raptures  with  him,  and  that 
they  went  up- stairs  to  breakfast. 

Kate  busied  herself  in  what  she  had  to  do,  and  was 
silently  arranging  the  various  articles  of  decoration  in 
the  best  taste  she  could  display,  when  she  started  to 
hear  a  strange  man's  voice  in  the  room,  and  started  again, 
to  observe,  on  looking  round,  that  a  white  hat,  and  a  red 
neckkerchief ,  and  a  broad  round  face,  and  a  large  head, 
and  part  of  a  green  coat  were  in  the  room  too. 

"  Don't  alarm  yourself.  Miss,"  said  the  proprietor  of 
these  appearances!^  "  I  say  ;  this  here's  the  mantie-mak- 
ing  consarn,  a'nt  it?" 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Kate,  greatly  astonished.  "What 
did  you  want  ?  " 

The  stranger  answered  not  ;  but,  first  looking  back,  as 
though  to  beckon  to  some  unseen  person  outside,  came, 
very  deliberately,  into  the  room  and  was  closely  followed 
by  a  little  man  in  brown,  very  much  the  worse  for  wear, 
who  brought  with  him  a  mingled  fumigation  of  stale 
tobacco  and  fresh  onions.  The  clothes  of  this  gentleman 
were  much  bespeckled  with  flue;  and  his  shoes,  stockings, 
and  nether  garments,  from  his  heels  to  the  waist  buttons 
of  his  coat  inclusive,  were  profusely  embroidered  with 
splashes  of  mud,  caught  a  fortnight  previously — before 
the  setting-in  of  the  fine  weather 

Kate's  very  natural  impression  was,  that  these  en- 
gaging individuals  had  called  with  the  view  of  possessing 
themselves,  unlawfully,  of  any  portable  articles  that 
chanced  to  strike  their  fancy.  She  did  not  attempt  to 
disguise  her  apprehensions,  and  made  a  move  towards 
the  door. 

"  Wait  a  minnit, "  said  the  man  in  the  green  coat,  closing 
it  softly,  and  standing  with  his  back  against  it.  "  This 
is  a  unpleasant  bisness.     Vere's  your  govvernor  ?  " 

"My  what — did  you  say?"  asked  Kate,  trembling; 
for  she  thought  ' '  governor  "  might  be  slang  for  watch  or 
money. 

"  Mister  Muntlehiney,"  said  the  man.  "Wot's  come 
on  him  ?    Is  he  at  home  ?  " 

"He  is  above  stairs,  I  believe,"  replied  Kate,  a  little 
reassured  by  this  inquiry.    "  Do  you  want  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  visitor.  "  I  don't  ezactly  want  him, 
if  it's  made  a  favour  on.  You  can  jist  give  him  that  'ere 
card,  and  tell  him  if  he  wants  to  speak  to  me,  and  save 
trouble,  here  I  am  ;  that's  all." 

With  these  words,  the  stranger  put  a  thick  square  card 
into  Kate's  hand,  and  turning  to  his  friend,  remarked,  with 
an  easy  air,  "  that  the  rooms  was  a  good  liigh  pitch  ;  "  to 
which  the  friend  assented,  adding,  by  way  of  illustration, 
"  that  there  was  lots  of  room  for  a  little  boy  to  grow  up 
a  man  in  either  on  'em,  vithout  much  fear  of  his  ever 
bringing  his  head  into  contract  vith  the  ceiling." 

After  ringing  the  ball  which  would  summon  Madame 
Mantalini,  Kate  glanced  at  the  card,  and  saw  that  it  dis- 
played the  name  of  "  Scaley,"  together  with  some  other 
information  to  which  she  had  not  had  time  to  refer,  when 
her  attention  was  attracted  by  Mr.  Scaley  himself,  who, 
walking  up  to  one  of  the  cheval  glasses,  gave  it  a  hard 
poke  in  the  centre  with  his  stick,  as  coolly  as  if  it  had 
been  made  of  cast  iron. 

"  Good  plate  this  here,  Tix,"  said  Mr.  Scaley  to  his 
friend. 

"Ah!"  rejoined  Mr.  Tix,  placing  the  marks  of  his 
four  fingers,  and  a  duplicate  impression  of  his  thumb  on 
a  piece  of  sky-blue  silk  ;  "and  this  here  article  warn't 
made  for  nothing,  mind  you." 

From  the  silk,  Mr.  Tix  transferred  his  admiration  to 
some  elegant  articles  of  wearing  apparel,  while  Mro 
Scaley  adjusted  his  neckcloth,  at  leisure,  before  the  glass, 
and  afterwards,  aided  by  its  reflection,  proceeded  to  the 
minute  consideration  of  a  pimple  on  his  chin  ;  in  which 
absorbing  occupation  he  was  yet  engaged,  when  Madame 
Mantalini  entering  the  room,  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  which  roused  him. 

"  Oh  1  is  this  the  missis?"  inquired  Scaley. 

"  It  is  Madame  Mantalini,"  said  Kate. 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Scaley,  producing  a  small  document 
from  his  pocket  and  unfolding  it  very  slowly, "this  is  a 
writ  of  execution,  and  if  it's  not  conwenient  to  settle 
we'll  go  over  the  house  at  wunst,  please,  and  take  the  in- 
wentory." 


Poor  Madame  Mantalini  wrung  her  hands  for  grief,  and 
rung  the  bell  for  her  husband  ;  which  done,  she  fell  into 
a  chair  and  a  fainting  fit,  simultaneously.  The  profes- 
sional gentlemen,  however,  were  not  at  all  discomposed 
by  this  event,  for  Mr.  Scaley,  leaning  upon  a  stand  on 
which  a  handsome  dress  was  displayed  (so  that  his  shoul- 
ders appeared  above  it,  in  nearly  the  same  manner  as  the 
shoulders  of  the  lady  for  whom  it  was  designed  would 
have  done  if  she  had  had  it  on),  pushed  his  hat  on  one 
side  and  scratched  his  head  with  perfect  unconcern,  while 
his  friend  Mr.  Tix,  taking  that  opportunity  for  a  general 
survey  of  the  apartment  preparatory  to  entering  on  busi- 
ness, stood  with  his  inventory -book  under  his  arm  and  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  mentally  occupied  in  putting  a  price  upon 
every  object  within  his  range  of  vision. 

Such  was  the  posture  of  affairs  when  Mr.  Mantalini 
hurried  in  ;  and  as  that  distinguished  specimen  had  had 
a  pretty  extensive  intercourse  with  Mr.  Scaley's  fraternity 
in  his  bachelor  days,  and  was,  besides,  very  far  from  be- 
ing taken  by  surprise  on  the  present  agitating  occasion, 
he  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders,  thrust  his  hands  down 
to  the  bottom  of  his  pockets,  elevated  his  eyebrows, 
whistled  a  bar  or  two,  swore  an  oath  or  two,  and,  sitting 
astride  upon  a  chair,  put  the  best  face  upon  the  matter 
with  great  composure  and  decency. 

"  What's  the  demd  total  ?  "  was  the  first  question  he 
asked. 

"  Fifteen  hundred  and  twenty -seven  pound,  four  and 
ninepence  ha'penny,"  replied  Mr.  Scaley,  without  moving 
a  limb. 

"The  ha'penny  be  demd,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  impa- 
tiently. 

"By  all  means  if  you  vish  it,"  retorted  Mr.  Scaley  • 
"and  the  ninepence." 

"  It  don't  matter  to  us  if  the  fifteen  hundred  and  twen- 
ty-seven pound  went  along  with  it,  that  I  know  on,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Tix. 

"  Not  a  button,"  said  Scaley. 

"  Well,"  said  the  same  gentleman,  after  a  pause,"  wot's 
to  be  done — anything  ?  Is  it  only  a  small  crack,  or  a 
out-and-out  smash  ?  A  break  up  of  the  cOnstitootion 
is  it — werry  good.  Then  Mr.  Tom  Tix,  esk-vire,  you 
must  inform  your  angel  wife  and  lovely  family  as  you 
won't  sleep  at  home  for  three  nights  to  come,  along  of 
being  in  possession  here.  Wot's  the  good  of  the  lady  a 
fretting  herself  ?  "  continued  Mr.  Scaley,  as  Madame  Man- 
talini sobbed.  "  A  good  half  of  wot's  here,  isn't  paid  for, 
I  des-say,  and  wot  a  consolation  oughtn't  that  to  be  to  her 
feelings." 

With  these  remarks,  combining  great  pleasantry  with 
sound  moral  encouragement  under  difficulties,  Mr.  Scaley 
proceeded  to  take  the  inventory,  in  which  delicate  task 
he  was  materially  assisted  the  uncommon  tact  and  ex- 
perience of  Mr.  Tix,  the  broker. 

"My  cup  of  happiness's  sweetener,"  said  Mantalini, 
approaching  his  wife  with  a  penitent  air ;  "will  you  lis- 
ten to  me  for  two  minutes  ?  " 

"Oh!  don't  speak  to  me,"  replied  his  wife,  sobbing. 
"You  have  ruined  me,  and  that's  enough." 

Mr.  Mantalini,  who  had  doubtless  well  considered  his 
part,  no  sooner  heard  these  words  pronounced  in  a  tone 
of  grief  and  severity,  than  he  recoiled  several  paces,  as- 
sumed an  expression  of  consuming  mental  agony,  rushed 
headlong  from  the  room,  and  was,  soon  afterwards,  heard 
to  slam  the  door  of  an  up  stairs  dressing-room  with  great 
violence. 

"  Miss  Nickleby,"  cried  Madame  Mantalini,  when  this 
sound  met  her  ear,  "make  haste  for  Heaven's  sake,  he 
will  destroy  himself!  I  spoke  unkindly  to  him ,  and  he 
cannot  bear  it  from  me.    Alfred,  my  darling  Alfred." 

With  such  exclamations,  she  hurried  up-stairs,  fol- 
lowed by  Kate,  who,  although  she  did  not  quite  partici- 
pate in  the  fond  wife's  apprehensions,  was  a  little  flurried,  I 
nevertheless.  The  dressing-room  door  being  hastily  flung 
open,  Mr.  Mantalini  was  disclosed  to  view,  with  his  shirt- 
collar  symmetrically  thrown  back  :  putting  a  fine  edge  tc^ 
a  breakfast  knife  by  means  of  his  razor  strop.  I 

"Ah!"  cried  Mr.  Mantalini,  "interrupted!"  and, 
whisk  went  the  breakfast  knife  into  Mr.  Mantalini's  dress- 
ing-gown pocket,  while  Mr.  Mantalini's  eyes  rolled  wild-j 
ly,  and  his  hair  floating  in  wild  disorder,  mingled  with] 
his  whiskers.  i 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
i'NIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


NICHOLAS 

"Alfred,"  cried  his  wife,  flinging  her  arms  about  him, 
i  "I  didn't  mean  to  say  it,  I  didn't  mean  to  say  it ! " 

"  Ruined  !  "  cried  Mr.  Mantalini.    "  Have  I  brought 
ruin  upon  the  best  and  purest  creature  that  ever  blessed 
a  demnition  vagabond!    Demmit,  let  me  go."    At  this 
\  crisis  of  his  ravings  Mr.  Mantalini  made  a  pluck  at  the 
I  breakfast  knife,  and  being  restrained  by  his  wife's  grasp, 
j  attempted  to  dash  his  head  against  the  w^all — taking  very 
good  care  to  be  at  least  six  feet  from  it. 

"Compose  yourself,  my  own  angel,"  said  Madame. 
"  It  was  nobody's  fault  ;  it  was  mine  as  much  as  yours, 
we  shall  do  very  well  yet.    Come,  Alfred,  come." 

Mr.  Mantalini  did  not  think  proper  to  come  to,  all  at 
once  ;  but,  after  calling  several  times  for  poison,  and  re- 
questing some  lady  or  gentleman  to  blow  his  brains  out, 
gentler  feelings  came  upon  him,  and  he  wept  patheti- 
cally. In  this  softened  frame  of  mind,  he  did  not  oppose 
the  capture  of  the  knife — which,  to  tell  the  truth,  he 
I  was  rather  glad  to  be  rid  of,  as  an  inconvenient  and  dan- 
gerous article  for  a  skirt  pocket — and  finally  he  suffered 
himself  to  be  led  away,  by  his  affectionate  partner. 

After  a  delay  of  two  or  three  hours,  the  young  ladies 
were  informed  that  their  services  would  be  dispensed 
with,  until  further  notice,  and  at  the  expiration  of  two 
days,  the  name  of  Mantalini  appeared  in  the  list  of 
bankrupts  :  Miss  Nickleby  received  an  intimation  per 
post,  on  the  same  morning,  that  the  business  would  be, 
in  future,  carried  on  under  the  name  of  Miss  Knag,  and 
that  her  assistance  would  no  longer  be  required — a  piece 
of  intelligence  with  which  Mrs.  Nickleby  was  no  sooner 
made  acquainted,  than  that  good  lady  declared  she  had 
expected  it  all  along,  and  cited  divers  unknown  occa- 
sions on  which  she  had  prophesied  to  that  precise  effect. 

"  And  I  say  again,"  remarked  Mrs.  Nickleby  (who,  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  observe,  had  never  said  so  before), 
"I  say  again,  that  a  milliner's  and  dress-maker's  is  the 
very  last  description  of  business,  Kate,  that  you  should 
have  thought  of  attaching  yourself  to.  I  don't  make  it 
a  reproach  to  you,  my  love  ;  but  still  I  will  say,  that  if 
you  had  consulted  your  own  mother — " 

"Well,  well,  mamma,"  said  Kate,  mildly;  "what 
would  you  recommend  now  ?  " 

"  Recommend  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  isn't  it  obvious, 
my  dear,  that  of  all  occupations  in  this  world  for  a 
young  lady  situated  as  you  are,  that  of  companion  to 
some  amiable  lady,  is  the  very  thing  for  which  your 
education,  and  manners,  and  personal  appearance,  and 
everything  else,  exactly  qualify  you  ?  Did  you  never 
hear  your  poor  dear  papa  speak  of  the  young  lady  who 
was  the  daughter  of  the  old  lady  who  boarded  in  the 
same  house  that  he  boarded  in  once,  when  he  was  a 
bachelor — what  was  her  name  again  ?  I  know  it  began 
with  a  B,  and  ended  with  a  g,  but  whether  it  was 
Waters  or— no  it  couldn't  have  been  that,  either  ;  but 
whatever  her  name  was,  don't  you  know  that  that  young 
lady  went  as  companion  to  a  married  lady  who  died  soon 
afterwards,  and  that  she  married  the  husband,  and  had 
one  of  the  finest  little  boys  that  the  medical  man  had 
ever  seen — all  within  eighteen  months." 

Kate  knew,  perfectly  well,  that  this  torrent  of  favour- 
able recollection  was  occasioned  by  some  opening,  real 
or  imaginary,  which  her  mother  had  discovered,  in  the 
companionship  walk  of  life.  She  therefore  waited,  very 
patiently,  until  all  reminiscences  and  anecdotes,  bearing 
or  not  bearing  upon  the  subject,  had  been  exhausted, 
and  at  last  ventured  to  inquire  what  discovery  had  been 
made.  The  truth  then  came  out.  Mrs.  Nickleby  had, 
that  morning,  had  a  yesterday  newspaper  of  the  very 
first  respectability  from  the  public-house  where  the  por- 
ter came  from  ;  and  in  this  yesterday's  newspaper  was 
an  advertisement,  couched  in  the  purest  and  most  gram- 
matical English,  announcing  that  a  married  lady  was  in 
want  of  a  genteel  young  person  as  companion,  and  that 
the  married  lady's  name  and  address  were  to  be  known, 
on  application  at  a  certain  library  at  the  west  end  of  the 
town,  therein  mentioned. 
I  "  And  I  say,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Nickleby,  laying  the 
.  paper  down  in  triumph,  "that  if  your  uncle  don't  ob- 
ject, it's  well  worth  the  trial." 
i  Kate  was  t<:)o  sick  at  heart,  after  the  rough  jostling 
she  had  already  had  with  the  world,  and  really  cared  too 
little  at  the  moment  what  fate  was  reserved  for  her,  to 


NICKLEBY.  75 

make  any  objection.  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  offered  none, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  highly  approved  of  the  suggestion  ; 
neither  did  lie  express  any  great  surprise,  at  Madame 
Mantalini's  sudden  failure,  indeed  it  would  have  b/;en 
'strange  if  he  had,  inasmuch  as  it  had  been  prcjcured 
and  brought  about,  chiefly  by  himself.  Ho,  the  name 
and  address  were  obtained  without  loss  of  time,  and  Miss 
Nickleby  and  her  mamma  went  off  in  quest  of  Mrs. 
Wititterly,  of  Cadogan  Place,  Sloane  Street,  that  same 
forenoon . 

Cadogan  Place  is  the  one  slight  bond  that  joins  two 
great  extremes  ;  it  is  the  connecting  link  between  the 
aristocratic  x>avements  of  Belgrave  Square,  and  the  bar- 
barism of  Chelsea.  It  is  in  Sloane  Street,  but  not  of  it. 
The  people  in  Cadogan  Place  look  down  upon  Sloane 
Street,  and  think  Brompton  low.  They  affect  fashion 
too,  and  wonder  where  the  New  Road  is.  Not  that  they 
claim  to  be  on  precisely  the  same  footing  as  the  high 
folks  of  Belgrave  Square  and  Grosvenor  Place,  but  that 
they  stand,  with  reference  to  them,  rather  in  the  light  of 
those  illegitimate  children  of  the  great  who  are  content 
to  boast  of  their  connexions,  although  their  connexions 
disavow  them.  Wearing  as  much  as  they  can  of  the 
airs  and  semblances  of  loftiest  rank,  the  people  of  Cado- 
gan Place  have  the  realities  of  middle  station.  It  is  the 
conductor  which  communicates  to  the  inhabitants  of 
regions  beyond  its  limit,  the  shock  of  pride  of  birth  and 
rank,  which  it  has  not  within  itself,  but  derives  from  a 
fountain-head  beyond  ;  or,  like  the  ligament  which  unites 
the  Siamese  twins,  it  contains  something  of  the  life 
and  essence  of  two  distinct  bodies,  and  yet  belongs  to 
neither. 

Upon  this  doubtful  ground,  lived  Mrs.  Wititterly,  and 
at  Mrs.  Wititterly's  door  Kate  Nickleby  knocked  with 
I  trembling  hand.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  big  footman 
^vith  his  head  floured,  or  chalked,  or  painted  in  some 
way  (it  didn't  look  genuine  powder),  the  big  footman,  re- 
ceiving the  card  of  introduction,  gave  it  to  a  little  page  ; 
so  little,  indeed,  that  his  body  would  not  hold,  in  ordi- 
nary array  the  number  of  small  buttons  which  are  indis- 
pensable to  a  page's  costume,  and  they  were  consequently 
obliged  to  be  stuck  on  four  abreast.  This  young  gentle- 
man took  the  card  up- stairs  on  a  salver,  and  pending  his 
return,  Kate  and  her  mother  were  shown  into  a  dining- 
room  of  rather  dirty  and  shabby  aspect,  and  so  comfort- 
ably arranged  as  to  be  adapted  to  almost  any  purpose 
rather  than  eating  and  drinking. 

Now,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  and  according 
to  all  authentic  descriptions  of  high  life,  as  set  forth  in 
books,  Mrs.  Wititterly  ought  to  have  been  in  her  bou- 
doir;  but  whether  it  was  that  Mr.  Wititterly  was  at 
that  moment  shaving  himself  in  the  boudoir  or  what  not, 
certain  it  is  that  Mrs.  Wititterly  gave  audience  in  the 
drawing-room,  where  was  everything  proper  and  neces- 
sary, including  curtains  and  furniture  coverings  of  a 
roseate  hue,  to  shed  a  delicate  bloom  on  Mrs.  Wititterly's 
complexion,  and  a  little  dog  to  snap  at  strangers'  legs 
for  Mrs.  Wititterly's  amusement,  and  the  afore-men- 
tioned page,  to  hand  chocolate  for  Mrs.  Wititterly's  re- 
freshment. 

The  lady  had  an  air  of  sweet  insipidity,  and  a  face  of 
engaging  paleness  ;  there  was  a  faded  look  about  her, 
and  about  the  furniture,  and  about  the  house.  She  was 
reclining  on  a  sofa,  in  such  a  very  unstudied  attitude, 
that  she  might  have  been  taken  for  an  actress  all  ready 
for  the  first  scene  in  a  ballad,  and  only  waiting  for  the 
drop  curtain  to  go  up. 

"  Place  chairs." 

The  page  placed  them. 

"  Leave  the  room,  Alphonse." 

The  page  left  it ;  but  if  ever  an  Alphonse  carried  plain 
Bill  in  his  face  and  figure,  that  page  was  the  boy. 

"I  have  ventured  to  call,  ma'am,"  said  Kate,  after  a 
few  seconds  of  awkward  silence,  "  from  having  seen 
your  advertisement." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Wititterly,  "one  of  my  people 
put  it  in  the  paper. — Yes." 

"Ithouffht,  perhaps,"  said  Kate,  modestly,  "that  if 
you  had  not  already  made  a  final  choice,  you  would  for- 
give my  troubling  you  with  an  application." 

"Yes,"  drawled  Mrs.  Wititterly  again. 

"If  you  have  already  made  a  selection — " 


76 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Oh  dear  no,"  interrupted  the  lady,  "I  am  not  so 
easily  suited.  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say.  You 
have  never  been  a  companion  before,  have  you?" 

Mrs.  Nickleby,  who  had  been  eagerly  watching  her  op- 
portunity came  dexterously  in,  before  Kate  could  reply. 
"  Not  to  any  stranger,  ma'am,"  said  the  good  lady  ;  "  but 
she  has  been  a  companion  to  me  for  some  years.  I  am 
her  mother,  ma'am." 

" Oh  ! "  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  "  I  apprehend  you." 

"I  assure  you,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "that  I 
very  little  thought,  at  one  time,  that  it  would  be  neces- 
sary for  my  daughter  to  go  out  into  the  world  at  all,  for 
her  poor  dear  papa  was  an  independent  gentleman,  and 
would  have  been  at  this  moment  if  he  had  but  listened 
in  time  to  my  constant  entreaties  and — " 

"Dear  mamma,"  said  Kate,  in  a  low  voice. 

^'  My  dear  Kate,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  speak,"  said 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  explaining  to 
this  lady — " 

"  I  think  it  is  almost  unnecessary,  mamma." 

A»d  notwithstanding  all  the  frowns  and  winks  with 
which  Mrs.  Nickleby  intimated  that  she  was  going  to 
say  something  which  would  clench  the  business  at  once, 
Kate  maintained  her  point  by  an  expressive  look,  and 
for  once  Mrs.  Nickleby  was  stopped  upon  the  very  brink 
of  an  oration. 

"  What  are  your  accomplishments  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wit- 
itterly, with  her  eyes  shut. 

Kate  blushed  as  she  mentioned  her  principal  acquire- 
ments, and  Mrs.  Nickleby  checked  them  all  off,  one  by 
one,  on  her  fingers  ;  having  calculated  the  number  be- 
fore she  came  out.  Luckily  the  two  calculations  agreed, 
so  Mrs.  Nickleby  had  no  excuse  for  talking. 

"You  are  a  good  temper?"  asked  Mrs.  Wititterly, 
opening  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  and  shutting  them 
again. 

"  I  hope  so,"  rejoined  Kate. 

"And  have  a  highly  respectable  reference  for  every- 
thing, have  you?" 

Kate  replied  that  she  had,  and  laid  her  uncle's  card 
upon  the  table. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  draw  your  chair  a  little  nearer, 
and  let  me  look  at  you,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly  ;  "I  am  so 
very  near-sighted  that  I  can't  quite  discern  your  fea- 
tures." 

Kate  complied,  though^ not  without  some  embarrass- 
ment, with  this  request,  and  Mrs.  Wititterly  took  a  lan- 
guid survey  of  her  countenance,  which  lasted  some  two 
or  three  minutes. 

"I  like  your  appearance,"  said  that  lady,  ringing  a 
little  bell.  "  Alphonse,  request  yoar  master  to  come 
here." 

The  page  disappeared  on  this  errand,  and  after  a  short 
interval,  during  which  not  a  word  was  spoken  on  either 
side,  opened  the  door  for  an  important  gentleman  of 
about  eight-and-thirty,  of  rather  plebian  countenance, 
and  with  a  very  light  head  of  hair,  who  leant  over  Mrs. 
Wititterly  for  a  little  time,  and  conversed  with  her  in 
whispers. 

"Oh  !  "  he  said,  turning  round,  "  yes.  This  is  a  most 
important  matter.  Mrs.  Wititterly  is  of  a  very  excitable 
nature  ;  very  delicate,  very  fragile  ;  a  hothouse  plant,  an 
exotic." 

"  Oh  !  Henry,  my  dear,"  interposed  Mrs.  Wititterly. 

"  You  are,  my  love,  you  know  you  are  ;  one  breath — " 
said  Mr.  W.,  blowing  an  imaginary  feather  away. 
"  Pho  !  you're  gone  !  " 

The  lady  sighed. 

"  Your  soul  is  too  large  for  your  body,"  said  Mr.  Wit- 
itterly. "  Your  intellect  wears  you  out  ;  all  the  medical 
men  say  so  ;  you  know  that  there  is  not  a  physician  who 
is  not  proud  of  being  called  in  to  you.  What  is  their 
unanimous  declaration?  '  My  dear  doctor,'  said  I  to  Sir 
Tumley  Snuffini,  in  this  very  room,  the  very  last  time 
he  came.  '  My  dear  doctor,  what  is  my  wife's  com- 
plaint? Tell  me  all.  I  can  bear  it.  Is  it  nerves?'  'My 
dear  fellow,'  he  said,  'be  proud  of  that  woman  ;  make 
much  of  her  ;  she  is  an  ornament  to  the  fashionable 
world,  and  to  you.  Her  complaint  is  soul.  It  swells, 
expands,  dilates — the  blood  fires,  the  pulse  quickens,  the 
excitement  increases — Whew!'"  Here  Mr.  Wititterly, 
who,  in  the  ardour  of  his  description,  had  flourished  his 


right  hand  to  within  something  less  than  an  inch  of  Mrs. 
Nickleby's  bonnet,  drew  it  hastily  back  again,  and  blew 
his  nose  as  fiercely  as  if  it  had  been  done  by  some  violent 
machinery. 

"You  make  me  out  worse  than  I  am,  Henry,"  said 
Mrs.  Wititterly,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"I  do  not,  Julia,  I  do  not,"  said  Mr.  W.  "  The  soci- 
ety in  which  you  move — necessarily  move,  from  your 
station,  connexion,  and  endowments — is  one  vortex  and 
whirlpool  of  the  most  frightful  excitement.  Bless  my 
heart  and  body,  can  I  ever  forget  the  night  you  danced 
with  the  baronet's  nephew  at  the  election  ball,  at  Exe- 
ter !    It  was  tremendous." 

"  I  always  suffer  for  these  triumphs  afterwards,"  said 
Mrs.  Wititterly. 

"  And  for  that  very  reason,"  rejoined  her  husband^ 
"  you  must  have  a  companion,  in  whom  there  is  great 
gentleness,  great  sweetness,  excessive  sympathy,  and 
perfect  repose." 

Here,  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wititterly,  who  had  talked 
rather  at  the  Nicklebys  than  to  each  other,  left  off  speak- 
ing, and  looked  at  their  two  hearers,  with  an  expression 
of  countenance  which  seemed  to  say  "What  do  you 
think  of  all  this  ! " 

"  Mrs.  Wititterly,"  said  her  husband,  addressing  him- 
self to  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  is  sought  after  and  courted  by^ 
glittering  crowds  and  brilliant  circles.   She  is  excited  by 
the  opera,  the  drama,  the  fine  arts,  the — the — the — " 

"The  nobility,  my  love,"  interposed  Mrs.  Wititterly. 

"  The  nobility,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Wititterly.  "  And 
the  military.  She  forms  and  expresses  an  immense 
variety  of  opinions  on  an  immense  variety  of  subjects. 
If  some  people  in  public  life  were  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
Wititterly's  real  opinion  of  them  they  would  not  hold 
their  heads,  perhaps,  quite  as  high  as  they  do." 

"Hush,  Henry,"    said  the  lady;  "this  is  scarcely 
fair." 

"I  mention  no  names,  Julia,"  replied  Mr.  Wititterly  ; 
"  and  nobody  is  injured.  I  merely  mention  the  circum- 
stance to  show  that  you  are  no  ordinary  person,  that 
there  is  a  constant  friction  perpetually  going  on  between 
your  mind  and  your  body  ;  and  that  you  must  be  soothed 
and  tended.  Now  let  me  hear,  dispassionately  and 
calmly,  what  are  this  young  lady's  qualifications  for  the 
office." 

In  obedience  to  this  request,  the  qualifications  were 
all  gone  through  again,  with  the  addition  of  many  inter- 
ruptions and  cross-questionings  from  Mr.  Wititterly.  It 
was  finally  arranged  that  inquiries  should  be  made,  and  ' 
a  decisive  answer  addressed  to  Miss  Nickleby  under  cov-  > 
er  to  her  uncle,  within  two  days.    These  conditions  agreed  ' 
upon,  the  page  showed  them  down  as  far  as  the  staircase 
window  ;  and  the  big  footman,  relieving  guard  at  that 
point,  piloted   them  in    perfect  safety  to  the  street 
door. 

"  They  are  very  distinguished  people,  evidently,"  said 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  as  she  took  her  daughter's  arm.  "  What 
a  superior  person  Mrs.  Wititterly  is  ! " 

"  Do  you  think  so,  mamma  ?  "  was  all  Kate's  reply. 

"Why,  who  can  help  thinking  so,  Kate,  my  love?"  , 
rejoined  her  mother.     "She  is  pale  though,  and  looks 
much  exhausted.     I  hope  she  may  not  be  wearing  her- 
self out,  but  I  am  very  much  afraid." 

These  considerations  led  the  deep-sighted  lady  into  a 
calculation  of  the  probable  duration  of  Mrs.  Wititterly's 
life,  and  the  chances  of  the  disconsolate  widower  bestow- 
ing his  hand  on  her  daughter.  Before  reaching  home, 
she  had  freed  Mrs.  Wititterly's  soul  from  all  bodily  re- 
straint ;  married  Kate  with  great  splendour  at  St. 
George's,  Hanover  Square  ;  and  only  left  undecided  the 
minor  question,  whether  a  splendid  French -polished 
mahogany  bedstead  should  be  erected  for  herself  in  the 
two-pair  back  of  the  house  in  Cadogan  Place,  or  in  the 
three-pair  front  :  between  which  apartments  she  could 
not  quite  balance  the  advantages,  and  therefore  adjusted 
the  question  at  last,  by  determining  to  leave  it  to  the 
decision  of  her  son-in-law. 

The  inquiries  were  made.    The  answer — not  to  Kate's 
very  great  joy — was  favourable  ;  and  at  the  expiration 
of  a  week  she  betook  herself,  with  all  her  movables  and 
valuables,  to  Mrs.  Wititterly's  mansion,  where  for  the  i 
present  we  will  leave  her. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


77 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Xirhnlas,  accompanied  by  Smike,  sallies  forth  to  seek  his  Fortune.  He 
( ncounters  Mr.  Vincent  Vrmnmles ;  and  who  he  wok,  is  herein  made 
manifest. 

The  whole  capital  which  Nicholas  found  himself  en- 
titled to,  either  in  possession,  reversion,  remainder,  or 
expectancy,  after  paying  his  rent  and  settling  with  the 
broker  from  whom  he  had  hired  his  poor  furniture,  did 
not  exceed,  by  more  than  a  few  half-pence,  the  sum  of 
twenty  shillings.  And  yet  he  hailed  the  morning  on 
which  he  had  resolved  to  quit  London,  with  a  light 
heart,  and  sprang  from  his  bed  with  an  elasticity  of 
spirit  which  is  happily  the  lot  of  young  persons,  or  the 
world  would  never  be  stocked  with  old  ones. 

It  was  a  cold,  dry,  foggy  morning  in  early  spring. 
A  few  meagre  shadows  flitted  to  and  fro  in  the  misty 
streets,  and  occasionally  there  loomed  through  the  dull 
vapour,  the  heavy  outline  of  some  hackney-coach  wend- 
ing homewards,  which,  drawing  slowly  nearer,  rolled 
jangling  by,  scattering  the  thin  crust  of  frost  from  its 
i  whitened  roof  and  soon  was  lost  again  in  the  cloud.  At 
I  intervals  were  heard  the  tread  of  slipshod  feet,  and  the 
chilly  cry  of  the  poor  sweep  as  he  crept,  shivering,  to 
I  his  early  toil ;  the  heavy  footfall  of  the  official  watcher 
of  the  night,  pacing  slowly  up  and  down  and  cursing  the 
:  tardy  hours  that  still  intervened  between  him  and  sleep  ; 
!  the  rumbling  of  ponderous  carts  and  waggons  ;  the  roll 
;  of  the  lighter  vehicles  which  carried  buyers  and  sellers 
I  to  the  different  markets  ;  the  sound  of  ineffectual  knock- 
1  ing  at  the  doors  of  heavy  sleepers — all  these  noises  fell 
upon  the  ear  from  time  to  time,  but  all  seemed  muffled 
by  the  fog,  and  to  be  rendered  almost  as  indistinct  to  the 
ear  as  was  every  object  to  the  sight.    The  sluggish  dark- 
ness thickened  as  the  day  came  on  ;  and  those  who  had 
the  courage  to  rise  and  peep  at  the  gloomy  street  from 
their  curtained  windows,  crept  back  to  bed  again,  and 
coiled  themselves  up  to  sleep. 

Before  even  these  indications  of  approaching  morning 
were  rife  in  busy  London,  Nicholas  had  made  his  way 
alone  to  the  city,  and  stood  beneath  the  windows  of  his 
mother's  house.  It  was  dull  and  bare  to  see,  but  it  had 
light  and  life  for  him  ;  for  there  was  at  least  one  heart 
within  its  old  walls  to  which  insult  or  dishonour  would 
bring  the  same  blood  rushing,  that  flowed  in  his  own 
veins. 

He  crossed  the  road,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  the  window 
of  the  room  where  he  knew  his  sister  slept.  It  was 
closed  and  dark.  "  Poor  girl,"  thought  Nicholas,  "she 
little  thinks  who  lingers  here  !  " 

He  looked  again,  and  felt,  for  the  moment,  almost 
vexed  that  Kate  was  not  there  to  exchange  one  word  at 
parting.  ' '  Good  God  ! "  he  thought,  suddenly  correct- 
ing himself,  "  what  a  boy  I  am  ! " 

"It  is  better  as  it  is,"  said  Nicholas,  after  he  had 
lounged  on,  a  few  paces,  and  returned  to  the  same  spot. 
"  When  1  left  them  before,  and  could  have  said  good  bye 
a  thousand  times  if  I  had  chosen,  I  spared  them  the  pain 
of  leave-taking,  and  why  not  now?"  As  he  spoke,  some 
fancied  motion  of  the  curtain  almost  persuaded  him,  for 
the  instant,  that  Kate  was  at  the  window,  and  by  one  of 
those  strange  contradictions  of  feeling  which  are  com- 
mon to  us  all,  he  shrunk  involuntarily  into  a  door-way, 
that  she  might  not  see  him.  He  smiled  at  his  own  weak- 
ness ;  said  ' '  God  bless  them  !  "  and  walked  away  with 
a  lighter  step. 

Smike  was  anxiously  expecting  him  when  he  reached 
his  old  lodgings,  and  so  was  Newman,  who  had  expended 
a  day' s  income  in  a  can  of  rum  and  milk  to  prepare  them 
for  the  journey.  They  had  tied  up  the  luggage,  Smike 
shouldered  it,  and  away  they  went,  Avitli  Newman  Noggs 
in  company  ;  for  he  had  insisted  on  walking  as  far  as  he 
could  with  them,  over-night. 

"  Which  way  ?"  asked  Newman,  wistfully. 

"  To  Kingston  first,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"And  where  afterwards  ?"  asked  Newman.  "  Wliy 
won't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  scarcely  know  myself,  good  friend,"  re- 
joined  Nicholas,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder  ; 
"  and  if  I  did,  I  have  neither  plan  nor  prospect  yet,  and 
might  shift  my  quarters  a  hundred  times  before  you  could 
possibly  communicate  with  me." 


"I  am  afraid  you  have  some  deep  scheme  in  your 
head,"  said  Newman,  doubtfuly, 

"  So  deep,"  replied  his  young  friend,  "  that  even  I 
can't  fathom  it.  Whatever  I  resolve  upon,  depend  upon 
it  I  will  write  you  soon." 

"  You  won't  forget  !  "  said  Newman. 

"  I  am  not  very  likely  to,"  rejoined  Nicholas.  "  1  have 
not  so  many  friends  that  I  shall  grow  confused  among 
the  fiumber,  and  forget  my  best  one." 
\  Occupied  in  such  discourse,  they  walked  on  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  as  they  might  have  done  for  a  couple  of  day.s 
if  Nicholas  had  not  sat  himself  down  on  a  stone  by 
the  way-side,  and  resolutely  declared  his  intention  of  not 
moving  another  step  until  Newman  Noggs  turned  back. 
Having  pleaded  ineffectually  first  for  another  half-mile, 
and  afterwards  for  another  quarter,  Newman  was  fain  to 
comply,  and  to  shape  his  course  towards  Golden  Square, 
after  interchanging  many  hearty  and  affectionate  fare- 
wells, and  many  times  turning  back  to  wave  his  hat  to 
the  two  wayfarers  when  they  had  become  mere  si)eck.'> 
in  the  distance. 

"  Now  listen  tome,  Smike,"  said  Nicholas,  as  they 
trudged  with  stout  hearts  onwards.  "  We  are  bound  for 
Portsmouth." 

Smike  nodded  his  head  and  smiled,  but  expressed  no 
other  emotion  ;  for  whether  they  had  been  bound  for 
Portsmouth  or  Port  Royal  would  have  been  alike  to  him, 
so  they  had  been  bound  together. 

"I  don't  know  much  of  these  matters,"  resumed 
Nicholas;  "but  Portsmouth  is  a  sea-port  town,  and  if 
no  other  employment  is  to  be  obtained,  I  should  think 
we  might  get  on  board  some  ship.  I  am  young  and  ac- 
tive, and  could  be  useful  in  many  ways.   So  could  you." 

"  I  hope  so,"  replied  Smike.  "  When  I  was  at  that — 
you  know  where  I  mean  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Nicholas,  "You  needn't  name 
the  place." 

"  Well,  when  I  was  there,"  resumed  Smike  ;  his  eyes 
sparkling  at  the  prospect  of  displaying  his  abilities  ;  "I 
could  milk  a  cow,  and  groom  a  horse,  with  anybody." 

"  Ha  ! "  said  Nicholas,  gravely.  "I  am  afraid  they 
don't  keep  many  animals  of  either  kind  on  board  ship, 
Smike,  and  even  when  they  have  horses,  that  they  are  not 
very  particular  about  rubbing  them  down  ;  still  you  can 
learn  to  do  something  else,  you  know.  Where  there's  a 
will,  there's  a  way." 

"  And  I  am  very  willing,"  said  Smike,  brightening  up 
again. 

"God  knows  you  are,"  rejoined  Nicholas;  "and  if 
you  fail,  it  shall  go  hard  but  I'll  do  enough  for  us 
both." 

' '  Do  we  go  all  the  way,  to-day  ?  "  asked  Smike,  after 
a  short  silence. 

"  That  would  be  too  severe  a  trial,  even  for  your  will- 
ing legs,"  said  Nicholas,  with  a  good-humoured  smile. 
"  No.  Godalming  is  some  thirty  and  odd  miles  from 
London — as  I  found  from  a  map  I  borrowed — and  I  pur- 
pose to  rest  there.  We  must  push  on  again  to-morrow, 
for  we  are  not  rich  enough  to  loiter.  Let  me  relieve  you 
of  that  bundle  !    Come  !  " 

"No,  no,"  rejoined  Smike,  falling  back  a  few  steps, 
j  "  Don't  ask  me  to  give  it  up  to  you." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Nicholas. 

"  Let  me  do  something  for  you,  at  least,"  said  Smike. 
"  You  will  never  let  me  serve  you  as  I  ought.  You  will 
never  know  how  I  think,  day  and  night,  of  ways  to 
please  you." 

"  You  are  a  foolish  fellow  to  say  it,  for  I  know  it  well, 
I  and  see  it,  or  I  should  be  a  blind\nd  senseless  beast," 
J  rejoined  Nicholas.  "  Let  me  ask  you  a  question  while  I 
!  think  of  it,  and  there  is  no  one  by,"  he  added,  looking 

him  steadily  in  the  face.  "  Have  you  a  good  memory  ?  " 
j  "  I  don't  know,"  said  Smike,  shaking  his  head  sorrow- 
1  fully.    "  I  think  I  had  once  ;  but  it's  all  gone  now— all 

gone." 

"  Why  do  you  think  you  had  once  ?"  asked  Nicholas, 
turning  quickly  upon  him  as  though  the  answer  in  some 
way  helped  out  the  purport  of  his  question. 
!  "  Because  I  could  remember,  when  I  was  a  child,"  said 
,  Smike,  "  but  that  is  very,  very  long  ago,  or  at  least  it 
j  seems  so.  I  was  always  confused  and  giddy  at  that  place 
I  you  took  me  from  ;  and  could  never  remember,  and  some- 


78 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


times  couldn't  even  understand,  what  they  said  to  me. 
I — let  me  see — let  me  see  !  " 

"You  are  wandering  now,"  said  Nicholas,  touching 
him  on  the  arm, 

"  No,"  replied  his  companion,  with  a  vacant  look.  "  I 
was  only  thinking  how — "  He  shivered  involuntarily  as 
he  spoke. 

"  Think  no  more  of  that  place,  for  it  is  all  over,"  re- 
torted Nicholas,  fixing  his  eye  full  upon  that  of  his  dtm- 
panion,  which  was  fast  settling  into  an  unmeaning  stupe- 
fied gaze,  once  habitual  to  him,  and  common  even  then. 

What  of  the  first  day  you  went  to  Yorkshire  ?  " 

"  Eh  !  "  cried  the  lad. 

"  That  was  before  you  began  to  lose  your  recollection, 
you  know,"  said  Nicholas  quietly.  ' '  Was  the  weather  hot 
or  cold  ?  " 

"  Wet, "  replied  the  boy.  "  Very  wet.  I  have  always 
said,  when  it  rained  hard,  that  it  was  like  the  night  I 
came  :  and  they  used  to  crowd  round  and  laugh  to  see 
me  cry  when  the  rain  fell  heavily.  It  was  like  a  child, 
th'ey  said,  and  that  made  me  think  of  it  more.  I  turned 
cold  all  over  sometimes,  for  I  could  see  myself  as  I  was 
then,  coming  in  at  the  very  same  door." 

"As  you  were  then,"  repeated  Nicholas,  with  assumed 
carelessness  ;  "  how  was  that  ?  " 

"  Such  a  little  creature,"  said  Smike,  "  that  they 
might  have  had  pity  and  mercy  upon  me,  only  to  remem- 
ber it." 

"  You  didn't  find  your  way  there,  alone  !  "  remarked 
Nicholas. 

"  No,"  rejoined  Smike,  "  oh  no." 
"  Who  was  with  you  ?  " 

"  A  man — a  dark,  withered  man.  I  have  heard  them 
say  so,  at  the  school,  and  I  remembered  that  before.  I 
was  glad  to  leave  him,  I  was  afraid  of  him  ;  but  they 
made  me  more  afraid  of  them,  and  used  me  harder  too. " 

"  Look  at  me,"  said  Nicholas,  wishing  to  attract  his 
full  attention.  "There;  don't  turn  away.  Do  you  re- 
member no  woman,  no  kind  woman,  who  hung  over  you 
once,  and  kissed  your  lips,  and  called  you  her  child  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  poor  creature,  shaking  his  head,  "  no, 
never." 

"Nor  any  house  but  that  house  in  Yorkshire  'I  " 

"  No,"  rejoined  the  youth,  with  a  melancholy  look  ; 

a  room — I  remember  I  slept  in  a  room,  a  large  lonesome 
room  at  the  top  of  a  house,  where  there  was  a  trap-door  in 
the  ceiling.  I  have  covered  my  head  with  the  clothes 
often,  not  to  see  it,  for  it  frightened  me  :  a  young  child 
with  no  one  near  at  night :  and  I  used  to  wonder  what 
was  on  the  other  side.  There  was  a  clock  too,  an  old 
clock,  in  one  corner.  I  remember  that.  I  have  never 
forgotten  that  room  ;  for  when  I  have  terrible  dreams, 
it  comes  back,  just  as  it  was.  I  see  things  and  people  in 
it  that  I  had  never  seen  then,  but  there  is  the  room  just 
as  it  used  to  be  ;  that  never  changes," 

"  Will  you  let  me  take  the  bundle  now  ?  "  asked  Nicho- 
las, abruptly  changing  the  theme. 

"  No,"  said  Smike,  "no.    Come,  let  us  walk  on." 

He  quickened  his  pace  as  he  said  this,  apparently  un- 
der the  impression  that  they  had  been  standing  still,  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  the  previous  dialogue.  Nicholas 
marked  hira  closely,  and  every  word  of  this  conversation 
remained  upon  his  memory. 

It  was,  by  this  time,  within  an  hour  of  noon,  and  al- 
though a  dense  vapour  still  enveloped  the  city  they  had 
left,  as  if  the  very  breath  of  its  busy  people  hung  over 
their  schemes  of  gain  and  profit  and  found  greater  attrac- 
tion there  than  in  the  quiet  region  above,  in  the  open 
country  it  was  clear  and  fair.  Occasionally,  in  some  low 
spots  they  came  upon  patches  of  mist  which  the  sun  had 
not  yet  driven  from  their  strongholds  ;  but  these  were 
soon  passed,  and  as  they  laboured  up  the  hills  beyond, 
it  was  pleasant  to  look  down,  and  see  how  the  sluggish 
mass  rolled  heavily  off,  before  the  cheering  influence  of 
day.  A  broad,  fine,  honest  sun  lighted  up  the  green 
pastures  and  dimpled  water  with  the  semblance  of  sum- 
mer, while  it  left  the  travellers  all  the  invigorating 
freshness  of  that  early  time  of  year.  The  ground  seemed 
elastic  under  their  feet ;  the  sheep-bells  were  music 
to  their  ears  ;  and  exhilarated  by  exercise,  and  stimulated 
by  hope,  they  x^ushed  onward  with  the  strength  of  lions. 

The  day  wore  on,  and  all  these  bright  colours  subsided. 


and  assumed  a  quieter  tint,like  young  hopes  softened  down 
by  time,  or  youthful  features  by  degrees  resolving  into 
the  calm  and  serenity  of  age.  But  they  were  scarcely 
less  beautiful  in  their  slow  decline,  than  they  had  been  in 
their  prime  ;  for  nature  gives  to  every  time  and  season 
some  beauties  of  its  own  ;  and  from  morning  to  night, 
as  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  is  but  a  succession  of 
changes  so  gentle  and  easy,  that  we  can  scarcely  mark 
their  progress. 

To  Godalming  they  came  at  last,  and  here  they  bar- 
gained for  two  humble  beds,  and  slept  soundly.  In  the 
morning  they  were  astir  :  though  not  quite  so  early  as 
the  sun :  and  again  afoot ;  if  not  with  all  the  freshness 
of  yesterday,  still,  with  enough  of  hope  and  spirit  to 
bear  them  cheerily  on. 

It  was  a  harder  day's  journey  than  yesterday's,  for 
there  were  long  and  weary  hills  to  climb ;  and  in  jour- 
neys, as  in  life,  it  is  a  great  deal  easier  to  go  down  hill 
than  up.  However,  they  kept  on,  with  unabated  perse- 
verance, and  the  hill  has  not  yet  lifted  its  face  to  heaven 
that  perseverance  will  not  gain  the  summit  of  at  last. 

They  walked  upon  the  rim  of  the  Devil's  Punch  Bowl ; 
and  Smike  listened  with  greedy  interest  as  Nicholas 
r6ad  the  inscription  upon  the  stone  which,  reared  upon 
that  wild  spot,  tells  of  a  murder  committed  there  by 
night.  The  grass  on  which  they  stood,  had  once  been 
dyed  with  gore  ;  and  the  blood  of  the  murdered  man  had 
run  down,  drop  by  drop,  into  the  hollow  which  gives  the 
place  its  name.  "  The  Devil's  Bowl,"  thought  Nicholas, 
as  he  looked  into  the  void,  "  never  held  fitter  liquor  than 
that !" 

Onward  they  kept,  with  steady  purpose,  and  entered 
at  length  upon  a  wide  and  spacious  tract  of  downs,  with 
every  variety  of  little  hill  and  plain  to  change  their  ver- 
dant surface.  Here,  there  shot  up,  almost  perpendic- 
ularly, into  the  sky,  a  height  so  steep,  as  to  be  hardly 
accessible  to  any  but  the  sheep  and  goats  that  fed  upon 
its  sides,  and  there,  stood  a  mound  of  green,  sloping  and 
tapering  olf  so  delicately,  and  merging  so  gently  into 
the  level  ground,  that  you  could  scarce  define  its  limits. 
Hills  swelling  above  each  other ;  and  undulations, 
shapely  and  uncouth,  smooth  and  rugged,  graceful  and 
grotesque,  thrown  negligently  side  by  side,  bounded  the 
view  in  each  direction ;  while  frequently,  with  unex- 
pected noise,  there  uprose  from  the  ground,  a  flight  of 
crows,  who,  cawing  and  wheeling  round  the  nearest 
hills,  as  if  uncertain  of  their  course,  suddenly  poised 
themselves  upon  the  wing  and  skimmed  down  the  long 
vista  of  some  opening  valley,  with  the  speed  of  light 
itself. 

By  degrees,  the  prospect  receded  more  and  more  on 
either  hand,  and  as  they  had  been  shut  out  from  rich 
and  extensive  scenery,  so  they  emerged  once  again  upon 
the  open  country.  The  knowledge  that  they  were  draw- 
ing near  their  place  of  destination,  gave  them  fresh 
courage  to  proceed  ;  but  the  way  had  been  difficult,  and 
they  had  loitered  on  the  road,  and  Smike  was  tired. 
Thus,  twilight  had  already  closed  in,  when  they  turned 
off  the  path  to  the  door  of  a  road-side  inn,  yet  twelve 
miles  short  of  Portsmouth. 

"  Twelve  miles,"  said  Nicholas,  leaning  with  both 
hands  on  his  stick,  and  looking  doubtfully  at  Smike. 

"Twelve  long  miles,"  repeated  the  landlord. 

"  Is  it  a  good  road?"  inquired  Nicholas.  3 

"  Very  bad,"  said  the  landlord.  As  of  course  being  a?, 
landlord,  he  would  say.  • 

" I  want  to  get  on,"  observed  Nicholas,  hesitating.  "I,; 
scarcely  know  what  to  do."  i 

' '  Don't  let  me  influence  you,"  rejoined  the  landlord, 
"  1  wouldn't  go  on  if  it  was  me." 

"  Wouldn't  you?"  asked  Nicholas,  with  the  same  un- 
certainty. 

"  Not  if  I  knew  when  I  was  well  off,"  said  the  land- 
lord. And  having  said  it  he  pulled  up  his  apron,  put 
his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  taking  a  step  or  two 
outside  the  door,  looked  down  the  dark  road  with  an 
assumption  of  great  indifference. 

A  glance  at  the  toil-worn  face  of  Smike  determined 
Nicholas,  so  without  any  further  consideration  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  stay  where  he  was. 

The  landlord  led  them  into  the  kitchen,  and  as  there 
was  a  good  fire  he  remarked  that  it  was  very  cold.  If 


4 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


79 


there  had  happened  to  be  a  bad  one  he  would  have  ob- 
served that  it  was  very  warm. 

*'  What  can  you  give  us  for  supper?  "  was  Nicholas's 
natural  question. 

"  Why — what  would  you  like  ?"  was  the  landlord's  no 
less  natural  answer. 

Nicholas  suggested  cold  meat,  but  there  was  no  cold 
meat — poached  eggs,  but  there  were  no  eggs — mutton 
chops,  but  there  wasn't  a  mutton  chop  within  three 
miles,  though  there  had  been  more  last  week  than  they 
knew  what  to  do  with,  and  would  be  an  extraordinary 
supply  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

"Then,"  said  Nicholas,  "  I  must  leave  it  entirely  to 
you,  as  I  would  have  done,  at  first,  if  you  had  allowed 
me." 

"Why,  then,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  rejoined  the  land- 
lord. "There's  a  gentleman  in  the  parlour  that's  or- 
dered a  hot  beefsteak  pudding  and  potatoes,  at  nine. 
There's  more  of  it  than  he  can  manage,  and  I  have  very 
little  doubt  that  if  I  ask  leave,  you  can  sup  with  him. 
I'll  do  that,  in  a  minute. " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Nicholas,  detaining  him.  "  I  would 
rather  not.  I — at  least — pshaw  !  why  cannot  I  speak 
out.  Here  ;  you  see  that  I  am  travelling  in  a  very  humble 
manner,  and  have  made  my  way  hither  on  foot.  It  is 
more  than  probable,  I  think,  that  the  gentleman  may 
not  relish  my  company ;  and  although  I  am  the  dusty 
figure  you  see,  I  am  too  proud  to  thrust  myself  into  his." 

"  Lord  love  you,"  said  the  landlord,  "it's  only  Mr. 
Crummies  ;  he  isn't  particular." 

"Is  he  not?"  asked  Nicholas,  on  whose  mind,  to  tell 
the  truth,  the  prospect  of  the  savoury  pudding  was 
making  some  impression. 

"Not  he,"  replied  the  landlord.  "He'll  like  your 
way  of  talking,  I  know.  But  we'll  soon  see  all  about 
that.    Just  wait  a  minute." 

The  landlord  hurried  into  the  parlour,  without  staying 
for  further  permission,  nor  did  Nicholas  strive  to  pre- 
Tent  him  :  wisely  considering  that  supper,  under  the 
circumstances,  was  too  serious  a  matter  to  trifle  with, 
lb  was  not  long  before  the  host  returned,  in  a  condition 
of  much  excitement. 

"All  right,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I  knew  he 
would.  You'll  see  something  rather  worth  seeing,  in 
there.    Ecod,  how  they  are  a  going  of  it ! " 

There  was  no  time  to  inquire  to  what  this  exclama- 
tion, which  was  delivered  in  a  very  rapturous  tone,  re- 
ferred ;  for  he  had  already  thrown  open  the  door  of  the 
room  ;  into  which  "Nicholas,  followed  by  Smike  with  the 
bundle  on  his  shoulder  (he  carried  it  about  with  him  as 
vigilantly  as  if  it  had  been  a  sack  of  gold),  straightway 
repaired. 

Nicholas  was  prepared  for  something  odd,  bat  not  for 
something  quite  so  odd  as  the  sight  he  encountered.  At 
the  upper  end  of  the  room,  were  a  couple  of  boys,  one 
of  them  very  tall  and  the  other  very  short,  both  dressed 
as  sailors — or  at  least  as  theatrical  sailors,  with  belts, 
buckles,  pigtails,  and  pistols  complete — fighting  what  is 
-called  in  play-bills  a  terrific  combat,  with  two  of  those 
short  broad-swords  with  basket  hilts  which  are  com- 
monly used  at  our  minor  theatres.  The  short  boy  had 
gained  a  great  advantage  over  the  tall  boy,  who  was  re- 
duced to  mortal  strait,  and  both  were  overlooked  by  a 
large  heavy  man,  perched  against  the  corner  of  a  table, 
■who  emphatically  adjured  them  to  strike  a  little  more 
fire  out  of  the  swords,  and  they  couldn't  fail  to  bring 
the  house  down,  on  the  very  first  night. 

"Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,"  said  the  landlord  with  an 
air  of  great  deference.  "This  is  the  young  gentle- 
man." 

Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  received  Nicholas  with  an  in- 
clination of  the  head,  something  between  the  courtesy  of 
a  Roman  Emperor  and  the  nod  of  a  pot  companion  ;  and 
bade  the  landlord  shut  the  door  and  begone. 

"There's  a  picture,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  motioning 
Nicholas  not  to  advance  and  spoil  it.  ' '  The  little  'un 
has  him  ;  if  the  big  'un  doesn't  knock  under,  in  three 
seconds,  he's  a  dead  man.    Do  that  again,  boys." 

The  two  combatants  went  to  work  afresh,  and  chopped 
away  until  the  swords  emitted  a  shower  of  sparks  :  to 
the  great  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Crummies,  who  appeared 
to  consider  this  a  very  great  point  indeed.    The  engage- 


ment commenced  with  about  two  hundred  chops  admin- 
istered by  the  short  sailor  and  the  tall  sailor  alternately, 
without  producing  any  particular  result,  until  the  short 
sailor  was  chopped  down  on  one  knee  ;  but  this  was 
nothing  to  him,  for  he  worked  himself  about  on  the 
one  knee  with  the  assistance  of  his  left  hand,  and  fought 
most  desperately  until  the  tall  sailor  chopped  his  swoid 
out  of  his  grasp.  Now,  the  inference  was,  that  the 
shftrt  sailor,  reduced  to  this  extremity,  would  give  in  at 
once  and  cry  quarter,  but,  instead  of  that,  he  all  of  a 
sudden  drew  a  large  pistol  from  his  belt  and  presented 
it  at  the  face  of  the  tall  sailor,  who  was  so  overcome  at 
this  (not  expecting  it)  that  he  let  the  short  sailor  pick  up 
his  sword  and  begin  again.  Then,  the  chopping  recom- 
menced, and  a  variety  of  fancy  chops  were  administered 
on  both  sides  ;  such  as  chops  dealt  with  the  left  hand, 
and  under  the  leg,  and  over  the  right  shoulder,  and  over 
the  left  ;  and  when  the  short  sailor  made  a  vigorous  cut 
at  the  tall  sailor's  legs,  which  would  have  shaved  them 
clean  off  if  it  had  taken  effect,  the  tall  ^^ailor  jumped 
over  the  short  sailor's  sword,  wherefore  to  balance  the 
matter,  and  make  it  all  fair,  the  tall  sailor  administered 
the  same  cut,  and  the  short  sailor  jumped  over  7ds  sword. 
After  this,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  dodging  about,  and 
hitching  up  of  the  inexpressibles  in  the  absence  of  bra- 
ces, and  then  the  short  sailor  (who  was  the  moral  char- 
acter evidently,  for  he  always  had  the  best  of  it)  made 
a  violent  demonstration  and  closed  with  the  tall  sailor, 
who,  after  a  few  unavailing  struggles,  went  down,  and 
expired  in  great  torture  as  the  short  sailor  put  his  foot 
upon  his  breast,  and  bored  a  hole  in  him  through  and 
through. 

"That'll  be  a  double  encore  if  you  take  care,  boys," 
said  Mr.  Crummies.  "You  had  better  get  your  wind 
now  and  change  your  clothes." 

Having  addressed  these  words  to  the  combatants,  he 
saluted  Nicholas,  who  then  observed  that  the  face  of 
Mr.  Crummies  was  quite  proportionate  iu  size  to  his 
body  ;  that  he  had  a  very  full  under-lip,  a  hoarse  voice, 
as  though  he  were  in  the  habit  of  shouting  very  much, 
and  very  short  black  hair,  shaved  off  nearly  to  the 
crown  of  his  head — to  admit  (as  he  afterwards  learnt)  of 
his  more  easily  wearing  character  wigs  of  any  shape  or 
pattern. 

"What  did  you  think  of  that,  sir?"  inquired  Mr. 
Crummies. 

"Very  good,  indeed — capital,"  answered  Nicholas. 

"  You  won't  sec  such  boys  as  those  very  often,  I 
think,"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 

Nicholas  assented — observing,  that  if  they  were  a  little 
better  match — 

"  Match  !"  cried  Mr.  Crummies. 

"  I  mean  if  they  were  a  little  more  of  a  size,"  said 
Nicholas,  explaining  himself. 

"  Size  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Crummies  ;  "why,  it's  the  es- 
sence of  the  combat  that  there  should  be  a  foot  or  two 
between  them.  How  are  you  to  get  up  the  sympathies 
of  the  audience  in  a  legitimate  manner,  if  there  isn't  a 
little  man  contending  against  a  big  one — unless  there's 
at  least  five  to  one,  and  we  haven't  hands  enough  for 
that  business  in  our  company." 

"  I  see,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  That 
didn't  occur  to  me,  I  confess." 

"It's  the  main  point,"  said  Mr.  Crummies.  "I  open 
at  Portsmouth  the  day  after  to-morrow.  If  you're 
going  there,  look  into  the  theatre,  and  see  how  that  11 
tell." 

Nicholas  promised  to  do  so,  if  he  could,  and  drawing  a 
chair  near  the  fire,  fell  into  conversation  with  the  man- 
ager at  once.  He  was  very  talkative  and  communica- 
tive, stimulated  perhaps,  not  only  by  his  natural  disposi- 
tion, but  by  the  spirits  and  water  he  sipped  very  plenti- 
fully, or  the  snuff  he  took  in  large  quantities  from  a 
piece  of  whitey-brown  paper  iu  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
He  laid  open  his  affairs  without  the  smallest  reserve, 
and  descanted  at  some  length  upon  the  merits  of  his 
company,  and  the  acquirements  of  his  family  ;  of  both 
of  which,  the  two  broad-sword  boys  formed  an  honour- 
able portion.  There  was  to  be  a  gathering,  it  seemed,  of 
the  different  ladies  and  gentlemen  at  Portsmouth  on  the 
morrow,  whither  the  father  and  sons  were  proceeding 
(not  for  the  regular  season,  but  in  the  course  of  a  wan- 


80 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


dering  speculation),  after  fulfilling  an  engagement  at 
Guildford  with  the  greatest  applause. 

"  You  are  going  that  way?  "  asked  the  manager. 

"  Ye-yes,"  said  Nicholas.    "Yes,  I  am." 

"  Do  you  know  the  town  at  all?"  inquired  the  man- 
ager, who  seemed  to  consider  himself  entitled  to  the 
same  degree  of  confidence  as  he  had  himself  exhibited. 

"  No,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  Never  there  ?" 

"  Never." 

Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  gave  a  short  dry  cough,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  If  you  won't  be  communicative,  you 
won't ; "  and  took  so  many  pinches  of  snuff  from  the  piece 
of  paper,  one  after  another,  that  Nicholas  quite  won- 
dered where  it  all  went  to. 

While  he  was  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Crummies  looked, 
from  time  to  time,  with  great  interest  at  Smike,  with 
whom  he  had  appeared  considerably  struck  from  the 
first.  He  had  now  fallen  asleep,  and  was  nodding  in  his 
chair. 

"Excuse  my  saying  so,"  said  the  manager,  leaning 
over  to  Nicholas,  and  sinking  his  voice,  "  but  what  a 
capital  countenance  your  friend  has  got  !" 

"Poor  fellow  !"  said  Nicholas,  with  a  half  smile,  "I 
wish  it  were  a  little  more  plump,  and  less  haggard." 

"Plump!"  exclaimed  the  manager,  quite  horrified, 
"you'd  spoil  it  for  ever." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Think  so,  sir  !  Why,  as  he  is  now,"  said  the  man- 
ager, striking  his  knee  emphatically;  "without  a  pad 
upon  his  body,  and  hardly  a  touch  of  paint  upon  his 
face,  he'd  make  such  an  actor  for  the  starved  business 
as  was  never  seen  in  this  country.  Only  let  him  be  tol- 
erably well  up  in  the  Apothecary  in  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
with  the  slightest  possible  dab  of  red  on  the  tip  of  his 
nose,  and  he'd  be  certain  of  three  rounds  the  moment 
he  put  his  head  out  of  the  practicable  door  in  the  front 
grooves  O.  P." 

"  You  view  him  with  a  professional  eye,"  said  Nicho- 
las, laughing. 

"And  well  I  may,"  rejoined  the  manager,  "I  never 
saw  a  young  fellow  so  regularly  cut  out  for  that  line, 
since  I've  been  in  the  profession.  And  I  played  the 
heavy  children  when  I  was  eighteen  months  old." 

The  appearance  of  the  beef-steak  pudding,  which 
came  in  simultaneously  with  the  junior  Vincent  Crum- 
mleses,  turned  the  conversation  to  other  matters,  and  in- 
deed, for  a  time,  stopped  it  altogether.  These  two 
young  gentlemen  wielded  their  knives  and  forks  with 
scarcely  less  address  than  their  broadswords,  and  as 
the  whole  party  were  quite  as  sharp  set  as  either  class 
of  weapons,  there  was  no  time  for  talking  until  the  sup- 
per had  been  disposed  of. 

The  Master  Crummleses  had  no  sooner  swallowed  the 
last  procurable  morsel  of  food,  than  they  evinced  by  va- 
rious half-suppressed  yawns  and  stretchings  of  their 
limbs,  an  obvious  inclination  to  retire  for  the  night, 
which  Smike  had  betrayed  still  more  strongly  :  he  hav- 
ing, in  the  course  of  the  meal,  fallen  asleep  several  times 
while  in  the  very  act  of  eating.  Nicholas  therefore  pro- 
posed that  they  should  break  up  at  once,  but  the  mana- 
ger would  by  no  means  hear  of  it ;  vowing  that  he  had 
promised  himself  the  pleasure  of  inviting  his  new  ac- 
quaintance to  share  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  that  if  he  de- 
clined he  should  deem  it  very  unhandsome  behaviour. 

"Let  them  go,"  said  M.r.  Vincent  Crummies,  "and 
we'll  have  it  snugly  and  cosily  together  by  the  fire." 

Nicholas  was  not  much  disposed  to  sleep  :  being  in 
truth  too  anxious  :  so,  after  a  little  demur,  he  accepted 
the  offer,  and  having  exchanged  a  shake  of  the  hand 
with  the  young  Crummleses,  and  the  manager  having  on 
his  part  bestowed  a  most  affectionate  benediction  on 
tSmike,  he  sat  himself  down  opposite  to  that  gentleman 
by  the  fireside  to  assist  in  emptying  the  bowl,  which  soon 
afterwards  appeared,  steaming  in  a  manner  which  was 
quite  exhilarating  to  behold,  and  sending  forth  a  most 
grateful  and  inviting  fragrance. 

But,  despite  the  punch  and  the  manager,  who  told  a 
variety  of  stories,  and  smoked  tobacco  from  a  pipe,  and 
inhaled  it  in  the  shape  of  snuff,  with  a  most  astonishing 
power,  Nicholas  was  absent  and  dispirited.  His  thoughts 
were  in  his  old  home,  and  when  they  reverted  to  his 


present  condition,  the  uncertainty  of  the  morrow  cast  a 
gloom  upon  him,  which  his  utmost  efforts  were  unable 
to  dispel.  His  attention  wandered  ;  although  he  heard 
the  manager's  voice  he  was  deaf  to  what  he  said  ;  and 
when  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  concluded  the  history  of 
some  long  adventure  with  a  loud  laugh,  and  an  inquiry 
what  Nicholas  would  have  done  under  the  same  circum- 
stances, he  was  obliged  to  make  the  best  apology  in  his 
power,  and  to  confess  his  entire  ignorance  of  all  he  had 
been  talking  about. 

"  Why,  so  I  saw,"  observed  Mr,  Crummies.  "You're 
uneasy  in  your  mind.    What's  the  matter  ?  " 

Nicholas  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  at  the  abrupt- 
ness of  the  question  ;  but,  thinking  it  scarcely  worthwhile 
to  parry  it,  owned  that  he  was  under  some  apprehensions 
lest  he  might  not  succeed  in  the  object  which  had 
brought  him  to  that  part  of  the  country. 

"And  what's  that?"  asked  the  manager. 

"  Getting  something  to  do  which  will  keep  me  and  my 
poor  fellow-traveller  in  the  common  necessaries  of  life," 
said  Nicholas.  "  That's  the  truth.  You  guessed  it  long 
ago,  I  dare  say,  so  I  may  as  well  have  the  credit  of  tell- 
ing it  you  with  a  good  grace" 

"  What's  to  be  got  to  do  at  Portsmouth  more  than  any- 
where else?"  asked  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  melting  the 
sealing-wax  on  the  stem  of  his  pipe  in  the  candle,  and 
rolling  it  out  afresh  with  his  little  finger. 

"  There  are  many  vessels  leaving  the  port,  I  suppose," 
replied  Nicholas.  "  I  shall  try  for  a  berth  in  some  ship 
or  other.    There  is  meat  and  drink  there,  at  all  events." 

"  Salt  meat  and  new  rum  ;  pease-pudding  and  chaff- 
biscuits,"  said  the  manager,  taking  a  whiff  at  his  pipe 
I  to  keep  it  alight,  and  returning  to  his  work  of  embellish- 
ment. 

"One  may  do  worse  than  that,"  said  Nicholas.  "I 
can  rough  it,  I  believe,  as  well  as  most  young  men  of  my 
age  and  previous  habits. " 

"  You  need  be  able  to,"  said  the  manager,  "  if  you  go 
on  board  ship  ;  but  you  w^on't." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  there's  not  a  skipper  or  mate  that  would 
think  you  worth  your  salt,  when  he  could  get  a  practised 
hand,"  replied  the  manager;  "and  they  are  plentiful 
there,  as  the  oysters  in  the  streets." 

"What  do  you  mean?  "asked  Nicholas,  alarmed  by 
this  prediction,  and  the  confident  tone  in  which  it  had 
been  uttered.  ' '  Men  are  not  born  able  seamen.  They 
must  be  reared,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  nodded  his  head.  "They 
must ;  but  not  at  your  age,  or  from  young  gentlemen 
like  you." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  countenance  of  Nicholas  fell, 
and  he  gazed  ruefully  at  the  fire. 

"  Does  no  other  profession  occur  to  you,  which  a 
young  man  of  your  figure  and  address  could  take  up 
easily,  and  see  the  world  to  advantage  in?"  asked  the 
manager. 

"  No,"  said  Nicholas,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Why,  then,  I'll  tell  you  one,"  said  Mr.  Crummies, 
throwing  his  pipe  into  the  fire,  and  raising  his  voice. 
"  The  stage." 

"The  stage  !"  cried  Nicholas,  in  a  voice  almost  as 
loud. 

"  The  theatrical  profession,"  said  Mr.  Vincent  Crum- 
mies. "  I  am  in  the  theatrical  profession  myself,  my  wife 
is  in  the  theatrical  profession,  my  children  are  in  the  the- 
atrical profession.  I  had  a  dog  that  lived  and  died  in  it 
from  a  puppy  ;  and  my  chaise-pony  goes  on,  in  Timour 
the  Tartar.  I'll  bring  you  out,  and  your  friend  too.  Say 
the  word.    I  want  a  novelty." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  rejoined  Nicholas, 
whose  breath  had  been  almost  taken  away,  by  this  sud- 
den proposal.  "  I  never  acted  a  part  in  my  life,  except 
at  school." 

"There's  genteel  comedy  in  your  walk  and  manner, 
juvenile  tragedy  in  your  eye,  and  touch-and-go  farce  in 
your  laugh,"  said  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies.  "  You'll  do 
as  well  as  if  you  had  thought  of  nothing  else  but  the 
lamps,  from  your  birth  downwards." 

Nicholas  thought  of  the  small  amount  of  small  change 
that  would  remain  in  his  pocket  after  paying  the  .tavern 
bill  :  and  he  hesitated. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


81 


"  You  can  be  useful  to  us  in  a  hundred  ways,"  said  Mr. 
Crummies.  "  Think  what  capital  bills  a  man  of  year  ed- 
ucation could  write  for  the  shop- windows." 

'*  Well,  I  think  I  could  manage  that  department,"  said 
Nicholas. 

"To  be  sure  you  could,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies.  "  '  For 
I  further  particulars  see  small  hand-bills ' — we  might  have 
half  a  volume  in  every  one  of  'cm.  Pieces  too;  why, 
you  could  write  us  a  piece  to  bring  out  the  whole  strength 
of  the  company,  whenever  we  wanted  one." 

"  i  am  not  quite  so  confident  about  that,"  replied  Nich- 
olas. "But  I  dare  say  I  could  scribble  something  now 
and  then,  that  would  suit  you." 

"We'll  have  a  new  show-piece  out  directly,"  said  the 
manager.  "  Let  me  see — peculiar  resources  of  this  es- 
tablishment— new  and  splendid  scenery — you  must  man- 
age to  introduce  a  real  pump  and  two  washing-tubs." 

"  Into  the  piece?"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  manager.  "  I  bought  'em  cheap, 
at  a  sale  the  other  day,  and  they'll  come  in  admirably. 
That's  the  London  plan.  They  look  up  some  dresses,  and 
properties,  and  have  a  piece  written  to  fit  'em.  Most  of 
the  theatres  keep  an  author  on  purpose." 

"  Indeed  !"  cried  Nicholas. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  manager  ;  **  a  common  thing.  It'll 
look  very  well  in  the  bills  in  separate  lines — Real  pump  ! 
— Splendid  tubs  ! — Great  attraction  !  You  don't  happen 
to  be  anything  of  an  artist,  do  you?" 

*'That  is  not  one  of  my  accomplishments,"  rejoined 
Nicholas. 

"Ah  !  Then  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  the  manager. 
"If  you  had  been,  we  might  have  had  a  large  woodcut 
of  the  last  scene  for  the  posters,  showing  the  whole  depth 
of  the  stage,  with  the  pump  and  tubs  in  the  middle  ; 
but  however,  if  your're  not,  it  can't  be  helped." 

"What  should  I  get  for  all  this?"  inquired  Nicholas, 
after  a  few  moments'  reflection.    "  Could  I  live  by  it  ?  " 

"Live  by  it!"  said  the  manager.  "Like  a  prince  ! 
With  your  own  salary,  and  your  friend's,  and  your  writ- 
ings, you'd  make — ah  !  you'd  make  a  pound  a  week  !•" 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  " 

"  I  do  indeed,  and  if  we  had  a  run  of  good  houses, 
nearly  double  the  money." 

Nicholas  shrugged  his  shoulders  ;  but  sheer  destitu- 
tion was  before  him  ;  and  if  he  could  summon  fortitude 
to  undergo  the  extremes  of  want  and  hardship,  for  what 
had  he  rescued  his  helpless  charge  if  it  were  only  to  bear 
as  hard  a  fate  as  that  from  which  he  had  wrested  him  ? 
It  was  easy  to  think  of  seventy  miles  as  nothing,  when 
he  was  in  the  same  town  with  the  man  who  had  tieated 
him  so  ill  and  roused  his  bitterest  thoughts  ;  but  now,  it 
seemed  far  enough.  What  if  he  went  abroad,  and  his 
mother  or  Kate  were  to  die  the  while  ? 

Without  more  deliberation,  he  hastily  declared  that  it 
was  a  bargain,  and  gave  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  his  hand 
upon  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Treats  of  the  Company  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  and  of  his  Affairs, 
Domestic  and  Theatrical. 

As  Mr.  Crummies  had  a  strange  four-legged  animal  in 
the  inn  stables,  which  he  called  a  pony,  and  a  vehicle  of 
unknown  design,  on  which  he  bestowed  the  appellation 
of  a  four-wheeled  phaeton,  Nicholas  proceeded  on  his 
journey  next  morning  with  greater  ease  than  he  had  ex- 
pected :  the  manager  and  himself  occupying  the  front 
seat  :  and  the  Master  Crummleses  and  Smike  being 
packed  together'  behind,  in  company  with  a  wicker  bas- 
ket defended  from  wet  by  a  stout  oilskin,  in  which  were 
the  broad-swords,  pistols,  pigtails,  nautical  costumes,  and 
other  professional  necessaries  of  the  aforesaid  young  gen- 
tleman. ^  ^  ^ 
_  The  pony  took  his  time  upon  the  road,  and — possibly 
in  consequence  of  his  theatrical  education — evinced,  every 
now  and  then,  a  strong  inclination  to  lie  down.  Flow- 
ever,  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  kept  him  up  pretty  well,  bv 
lerkmg  the  rein,  and  plying  the  whip  ;  and  when  those 
means  failed,  and  the  animal  came  to  a  stand,  the  elder 
Master  Crummies  got  out  and  kicked  him.  By  dint  of 
these  encouragements,  he  was  persuaded  to  move  from 
Vol.  II.— G 


time  to  time,  and  they  jogged  on  fas  Mr.  Crummies  truly 
observed)  very  comfortably  for  all  x>arties. 

"  lie's  a  good  pony  at  bottom,"  said  Mr.  Crummies, 
turning  to  Nicholas. 

He  might  have  been  at  bottom,  br.t  he  certainly  was 
not  at  top,  seeing  that  his  coat  was  of  the  roughest  and 
most  ill-favoured  kind.  So,  Nicholas  merely  observed 
that  he  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was. 

"  Many  and  many  is  the  circuit  this  pony  has  gone," 
said  Mr.  Crummies,  flicking  him  skilfully  on  the  eyelid 
for  old  acquaintance'  sake.  "  He  is  quite  one  of  us. 
His  mother  was  on  the  stage." 

"  Was  she  ?  "  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"  She  ate  apple-pie  at  a  circus  for  upwards  of  fourteen 
years,"  said  the  manager;  "  fired  pistols,  and  went  to  bed 
in  a  night-cap  ;  and,  in  short,  took  the  low  comedy  en- 
tirelv.    His  father  was  a  dancer." 

"  Was  he  at  all  distinguished  ?" 

"  Not  very,"  said  the  manager.  "He  was  rather  a 
low  sort  of  pony.  The  fact  is,  he  had  been  originally 
jobbed  out  by  the  day,  and  he  never  quite  got  over  his  old 
habits.  He  was  clever  in  melodrama  too,  but  too  broad 
— too  broad.  When  the  mother  died,  he  took  the  port- 
wine  business." 

"The  port- wine  business  !"  cried  Nicholas. 

"Drinking  port-wine  with  the  clown,"  said  the  mana- 
ger ;  "  but  he  was  greedy,  and  one  night  bit  off  the 
bowl  of  the  glass,  and  choked  himself,  so  his  vulgarity 
was  the  death  of  him  at  last." 

The  descendant  of  this  ill-starred  animal  requiring  in- 
creased attention  from  Mr.  Crummies  as  he  x)rogressed 
in  his  day's  work,  that  gentleman  had  very  little  time  for 
j  conversation.  Nicholas  was  thus  left  at  his  leisure  to 
entertain  himself  with  his  own  thoughts,  until  they  ar- 
rived at  the  drawbridge  at  Portsmouth,  when  Mr.  Crum- 
mies pulled  up. 

"  We'll  get  down  here,"  said  the  manager,  "  and  the 
boys  will  take  him  round  to  the  stable,  and  call  at  my 
lodgings  with  the  luggage.  You  had  better  let  yours  be 
taken  there,  for  the  present." 

Thanking  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  for  his  obliging  offer, 
Nicholas  jumped  out,  and,  giving  Smike  his  arm,  accom- 
panied the  manager  up  High  Street  on  their  way  to  the 
theatre  ;  feeling  nervous  and  uncomfortable  enough  at 
the  prospect  of  an  immediate  introduction  to  a  scene  so 
new  to  him. 

They  passed  a  great  many  bills,  pasted  against  the 
j  walls  and  displayed  in  windows,  wherein  the  names  of 
I  Mr."  Vincent  Crummies,  Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies,  Master 
I  Crummies,  Master  P.  Crummles.and  Miss  Crummies,  were 
I  printed  in  very  large  letters,  and  everything  else  in  very 
j  small  ones;  and,  turning  at  length  into  an  entry,  in  vxliich. 
I  was  a  strong  smell  of  orange-peel  and  lamp-oil.  with  an 
under-current  of  saw-dust,  groped  their  way  througli  a 
dark  passage,  and,  descending  a  step  or  two,  threaded 
a  little  maze  of  canvas  screens  and  paint  pots,  and 
emerged  upon  the  stage  of  the  Portsmouth  Theatre. 
"Here  we  are,"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 
It  was  not  very  light,  but  Nicholas  found  himself  close 
to  the  first  entrance  on  the  prompt  side,  among  bare 
walls,  dusty  scenes,  mildewed  clouds,  heavily  daubed 
draperies,  and  dirty  floors.    He  looked  about  him  ;  ceil- 
ing, pit,  boxes,  gallery,  orchestra,  fittings,  and  decora- 
tions of  every  kind,  — all  looked  coarse,  cold,  gloomy, 
and  wretched. 

"  Is  this  a  theatre?"  whispered  Smike,  in  am.azement  ; 
"I  thought  it  w^as  a  blaze  of  light  and  finery." 

"  Why,  so  it  is,"  replied  Nicholas,  hardly  less  sur- 
prised ;  "  but  not  by  day,  Smike — not  by  day." 
j     The  manager's  voice  recalled  him  from  a  more  careful 
I  inspection  of  the  building,  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  pio- 
:  scenium,  where,  at  a  small  mahogany  table  with  rickety 
:  legs  and  of  an  oblong  shape,  sat'a  stout,  portly  female, 
t  apparently  between  forty  and  fifty,  in  a  tarnished  silk 
cloak,  with  her  bonnet  "dangling  "by  the  strings  in  her 
hand,  and  her  hair  (of  which  she  had  a  great  quantity) 
braided  in  a  large  festoon  over  each  temple.  ^ 
i     "Mr.  Johnson,"  said  the  manager  (for  Nicholas  had 
given  the  name  which  Newman  Noggs  had  bestowed  upon 
liim  in  his  conversation  with  Mrs.  Ken  wigs),  "  let  me 
:  introduce  Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies." 
j     "  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  J^Irs.  Vincent  Crum^ 


8^ 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


rules,  in  a  sepulchral  voice.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you,  and  still  more  happy  to  hail  you  as  a  promising 
member  of  our  corps." 

The  lady  shook  Nicholas  by  the  hand  as  she  addressed 
him  in  these  terms  ;  he  saw  it  was  a  large  one,  but  had 
not  expected  quite  such  an  iron  grip  as  that  with  which 
she  honoured  him. 

"  And  this,"  said  the  lady,  crossing  to  Smike,  as  tragic 
actresses  cross  when  they  obey  a  stage  direction,  "  and 
this  is  the  other.    You  too,  are  welcome,  sir." 

"  He'll  do,  I  think,  my  dear  ?  "  said  the  manager,  taking 
a  pinch  of  snuff, 

'■He  is  admirable,"  replied  the  lady.  "An  acquisi- 
tion, indeed." 

As  Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies  recrossed  back  to  the  table, 
there  bounded  on  to  the  stage  from  some  mysterious  in- 
let, a  little  girl  in  a  dirty  white  frock  with  tucks  up  to 
the  knees,  short  trousers,  sandaled  shoes,  white  spencer, 
pink  gauze  bonnet,  green  veil  and  curl-papers  ;  who 
turned  a  pirouette,  cut  twice  in  the  air,  turned  another 
pirouette,  then,  looking  off  at  the  opposite  wing, 
shrieked,  bounded  forward  to  within  six  inches  of  the 
footlights,  and  fell  into  a  beautiful  attitude  of  terror,  as 
a  shabby  gentleman  in  an  old  pair  of  buff  slippers  came 
in  at  one  powerful  slide,  and  chattering  his  teeth,  fiercely 
brandished  a  walking  stick. 

"  They  are  going  through  the  Indian  Savage  and  the 
Maiden,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies. 

"  Oh  !"  said  the  manager,  "  the  little  ballet  interlude. 
Very  good,  go  on.  A  little  this  way,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Johnson.    That'll  do.  Now!" 

The  manager  clapped  his  hands  as  a  signal  to  proceed, 
and  the  savage,  becoming  ferocious,  made  a  slide  towards 
the  maiden  ;"but  the  maiden  avoided  him  in  six  twirls, 
and  came  down,  at  the  end  of  the  last  one,  upon  the  very 
points  of  her  toes.  This  seemed  to  make  some  impres- 
sion  upon  the  savage  ;  for,  after  a  little  more  ferocity 
and  chasing  of  the  maiden  into  corners,  he  began  to  re- 
lent, and  stroked  his  face  several  times  with  his  right 
thumb  and  four  fingers,  thereby  intimating  that  he  was 
struck  with  admiration  of  the  maiden's  beauty.  Acting 
upon  the  impulse  of  this  passion,  he  (the  savage)  began 
to  hit  himself  severe  thumps  in  the  chest,  and  to  exhibit 
other  indications  of  being  desperately  in  love,  which  be- 
ing rather  a  prosy  proceeding,  was  very  likely  the  cause 
of  the  maiden's  falling  asleep  ;  whether  it  was  or  no, 
asleep  she  did  fall,  sound  as  a  church,  on  a  sloping  bank, 
and  the  savage  perceiving  it,  leant  his  left  ear  on  his  left 
hand,  and  nodded  sideways,  to  intimate  to  all  whom  it 
might  concern  that  she  was  asleep,  and  no  shamming. 
Being  left  to  himself,  the  savage  had  a  dance,  all  alone. 
Just  as  he  left  off,  the  maiden  woke  up,  rubbed  her  eyes, 
got  off  the  bank,  and  had  a  dance  all  alone  too— such  a 
dance  that  the  savage  looked  on  in  ecstasy  all  the  while, 
and  when  it  was  done,  plucked  from  a  neighbouring  tree 
some  botanical  curiosity,  resembling  a  small  pickled 
cabbage,  and  offered  it  to  the  maiden,  who  at  first 
wouldn't  have  it,  but  on  the  savage  shedding  tears  re- 
lented. Then  the  savage  jumped  for  joy  ;  then  the 
maiden  jumped  for  rapture  at  the  sweet  smell  of  the 
pickled  cabbage.  Then  the  savage  and  the  maiden 
danced  violently  together,  and,  finally,  the  savage  dropped 
down  on  one  knee,  and  the  maiden  stood  on  one  leg  upon 
his  other  knee  ;  thus  concluding  the  ballet,  and  leaving 
the  spectators  in  a  state  of  pleasing  uncertainty,  whether 
she  would  ultimately  marry  the  savage,  or  return  to  her 
friends. 

"  Very  -well  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Crummies  ;  "  bravo  !'* 

"Bravo  1  "  cried  Nicholas,  resolved  to  make  the  best 
of  everything.    "  Beautiful  !" 

"  This,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  bringing  the 
maiden  forward,  "  this  is  the  infant  phenomenon — Miss 
Ninetta  Crummies." 

"  Your  daughter?"  inquired  Nicholas. 

"My  daughter— my  daughter,"  replied  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummies  ;  "the  idol  of  every  place  we  go  into,  sir.  We 
have  had  complimentary  letters  about  this  girl,  sir,  from 
the  nobility  and  gentry  of  almost  every  town  in  England." 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  said  Nicholas;  "she 
must  be  quite  a  natural  genius." 

"  Quite  a — !"  Mr.  Crummies  stopped  :  language  was 
not  powerful  enough  to  describe  the  infant  phenomenon. 


"  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  he  said;  "the  talent  of  thijR 
child  is  not  to  be  imagined.  She  must  be  seen,  sir — seed 
— to  be  ever  so  faintly  appreciated.  There  ;  go  to  your 
mother,  my  dear." 

"  May  I  ask  how  old  she  is? "  inquired  Nicholas. 

"You  may,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies,  looking  stead- 
ily in  his  questioner's  face,  as  some  men  do  when  they 
have  doubts  about  being  implicitly  believed  in  what  they 
are  going  to  say.    "  She  is  ten  years  of  age,  sir." 

"  Not  more  !" 

"  Not  a  day." 

"  Dear  me  ! "  said  Nicholas,  "it's  extraordinary." 

It  v/as  ;  for  the  infant  phenomenon,  though  of  short 
stature,  had  a  comparatively  aged  countenance,  and  had 
moreover  been  precisely  the  same  age— not  perhaps  to 
the  full  extent  of  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant, 
but  certainly  for  five  good  years.  But  she  had  been  kept 
up  late  every  night,  and  put  upon  an  unlimited  allow- 
ance of  gin-and-water  from  infancy,  to  prevent  her  grow- 
ing tall,  and  perhaps  this  system  of  training  had  pro- 
duced in  the  infant  phenomenon  these  additional  phe- 
nomena. 

While  this  short  dialogue  was  going  on,  the  gentle- 
man who  had  enacted  the  savage,  came  up,  with  his 
walking  shoes  on  his  feet,  and  his  slippers  in  his  hand, 
to  within  a  few  paces,  as  if  desirous  to  join  in  the  con- 
versation. Deeming  this  a  good  opportunity,  he  put  iai 
his  word. 


Is! 


"  Talent  there,  sir  ! "  said  the  savage,  nodding  towards 
Miss  Crummies. 
Nicholas  assented. 

"Ah  !"  said  the  actor,  setting  his  teeth  together,  and 
drawing  in  his  breath  with  a  hissing  sound,  "she 
oughtn't  to  be  in  the  provinces,  she  oughtn't." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  manager. 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  replied  the  other,  warmly,  "  that  she 
is  too  good  for  country  boards,  and  that  she  ought  to  be 
in  one  of  the  large  houses  in  London,  or  nowhere  ;  and 
I  tell  you  more,  without  mincing  the  matter,  that  if  it 
wasn't  for  envy  and  jealousy  in  some  quarter  that  yoii 
know  of,  she  would  be.  Perhaps  you'll  introduce  me| 
here,  Mr.  Crummies." 

"Mr.  Folair,"  said  the  manager,  presenting  him 
Nicholas. 

"  Happy  to  know  you,  sir."    Mr.  Folair  touched  th 
brim  of  his  hat  with  his  forefinger,  and  then  shook  handsi 
"A  recruit,  sir,  I  understand?" 

"  An  unworthy  one,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  set-out  as  that?  "  whispere 
the  actor,  drawing  him  away,  as  Crummies  left  them  to 
speak  to  his  wife. 

"As  what?  " 

Mr.  Folair  made  a  funny  face  from  his  pantomime  col- 
lection, and  pointed  over  his  shoulder. 

"  You  don't  mean  the  infant  phenomenon?" 

"Infant  humbug,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Folair.  "There 
isn't  a  female  child  of  common  sharpness  in  a  charity 
school,  that  couldn't  do  better  than  that.  She  may  thank 
her  stars  she  was  born  a  manager's  daughter." 

"  You  seem  to  take  it  to  heart,"  observed  Nicholas, 
with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  by  Jove,  and  well  I  may,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  draw- 
ing his  arm  through  his,  and  walking  him  up  and  down 
the  stage.  "  Isn't  it  enough  to  make  a  man  crusty  to 
see  that  little  sprawler  put  up  in  the  best  business  every 
night,  and  actually  keeping  money  out  of  the  house,  by 
being  forced  down  the  peo])le's  throats,  while  other 
people  are  passed  over  ?  Isn't  it  extraordinary  to  see  a 
man's  confounded  family  conceit  blinding  him,  even  to 
his  own  interest?  Why  I  know  of  fifteen  and  sixpence 
that  came  to  Southampton  one  night  last  month,  to  see 
me  dance  the  Highland  Fling ;  and  what's  the  conse- 
quence ?  I've  never  been  put  up  in  it  since — never  onco 
— while  the  'infant  phenomenon'  has  been  grinning 
though  artificial  flowers  at  five  people  and  a  baby  in  the 
pit,  and  two  boys  in  the  gallery,  every  night." 

"  If  I  may  judge  from  wljat  I  have  seen  of  you,"  said 
Nicholas,  "  you  must  be  a  valuable  member  of  the  com- 
pany." 

"  Oh! "  replied  Mr.  Folair,  beating  his  slippers  together, 
to  knock  the  dust  out ;  "  I  can  come  it  pretty  well — no- 
body better,  perhaps,  iu  my  own  line — but  having  such 


NICHOLAS 

business  as  one  p^ets  here,  is  like  putting  lead  on  one's 
feet  instead  of  chalk,  and  dancing  in  fetters  without  the 
credit  of  it.    Halloa,  old  fellow,  how  are  you  ?  " 

The  gentleman  addressed  in  these  latter  words,  was  a 
dark-complexioned  man,  inclining  indeed  to  sallow,  with 
long  thick  black  hair,  and  very  evident  indications  (al- 
though he  was  close  shaved)  of  a  stiff  beard,  and  whis- 
kers of  the  same  deep  shade.  His  age  did  not  appear  to 
exceed  thirty,  though  many  at  first  sight  would  have 
considered  him  much  older,  as  his  face  was  long,  and 
very  pale,  from  the  constant  application  of  stage  paint. 
He  wore  a  checked  shirt,  an  old  green  coat  with  new 
gilt  buttons,  a  neckerchief  of  broad  red  and  green  stripes, 
and  full  blue  trousers;  he  carried,  too,  a  common  ash  walk- 
ing-stick, apparently  more  for  show  than  use,  as  he  flour- 
ished it  about,  with  the  hooked  end  downwards,  except 
■when  he  raised  it  for  a  few  seconds,  and  throwing  him- 
self into  a  fencing  attitude,  made  a  pass  or  two  at  the 
side-scenes,  or  at  any  other  object,  animate  or  inanimate, 
that  chanced  to  afford  him  a  pretty  good  mark  at  the 
moment. 

"  Well,  Tommy,"  said  this  gentleman,  making  a  thrust 
at  his  friend  who  parried  it  dexterously  with  his  slipper, 
*'  what's  the  news  ?  " 

A  new  appearance,  that's  all,"  replied  Mr.  Folair, 
looking  at  Nicholas. 

"  Do  the  honours.  Tommy,  do  the  honours,"  said  the 
other  gentleman,  tapping  him  reproachfully  on  the  crown 
of  the  hat  with  his  stick. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Lenville,  who  does  our  first  tragedy,  Mr. 
Johnson,"  said  the  pantomimist. 

"  Except  when  old  bricks  and  mortar  takes  it  into  his 
tead  to  do  it  himself,  you  should  add,  Tommy,"  remarked 
Hr.  Lenville.  "  You  know  who  bricks  and  mortar  is,  I 
suppose,  sir?" 

"I  do  not,  indeed,"  replied  Nicholas. 

**  We  call  Crummies  that,  because  his  style  of  acting 
is  rather  in  the  heavy  and  ponderous  way,"  said  Mr. 
Lenville.  "I  mustn't  be  cracking  jokes  though,  for 
I've  got  a  part  of  twelve  lengths  here,  which  I  must  be 
up  in  to-morrow  night,  and  I  haven't  had  time  to  look  at 
it  yet  ;  I'm  a  confounded  quick  study,  that's  one  com- 
fort." 

Consoling  himself  with  this  reflection,  Mr.  Lenville 
drew  from  his  coat-pocket  a  greesy  and  crumpled  manu- 
script, and,  having  made  another  pass  at  his  friend,  pro- 
ceeded to  walk  to  and  fro,  conning  it  to  himself  and  in- 
dulging occasionally  in  such  appropriate  action  as  his 
imagination  and  the  text  suggested. 

A  pretty  general  muster  of  the  company  had  by  this 
time  taken  place  ;  for  besides  Mr.  Lenville  and  his 
friend  Tommy,  there  were  present,  a  slim  young  gentle- 
man with  weak  eyes,  who  played  the  low-spirited  lovers 
and  sang  tenor  songs,  a^d  who  had  come  arm-in-arm 
with  the  comic  countryman — a  man  with  a  turned-up 
nose,  large  mouth,  broad  face,  and  staring  eyes.  Mak- 
ing himself  very  amiable  to  the  infant  phenomenon,  was 
an  inebriated  elderly  gentleman  in  the  last  depths  of 
shabbiness,  who  played  the  calm  and  virtuous  old  men  ; 
and  paying  especial  court  to  Mrs.  Crummies  was  another 
elderly  gentleman,  a  shade  more  respectable,  who  played 
the  irascible  old  men — those  funny  fellows  who  have 
nephews  in  the  army,  and  perpetually  run  about  with 
thick  sticks  to  compel  them  to  marry  heiresses.  Besides 
these,  there  was  a  roving-looking  person  in  a  rough 
great- coat,  who  strode  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
lamps,  flourishing  a  dress  cane,  and  rattling  away,  in  an 
undertone,  with  great  vivacity  for  the  amusement  of  an 
ideal  audience.  He  was  not  'quite  so  young  as  he  had 
been,  and  his  figure  was  rather  running  to  seed  ;  but 
there  was  an  air  of  exaggerated  gentility  about  him, 
which  bespoke  the  hero  of  swaggering  comedy.  There 
was,  also,  a  little  group  of  three  or  four  young  men, 
with  lantern  jaws  and  thick  eyebrows,  who  were  con- 
versing in  one  corner  ;  but  they  seemed  to  be  of  second- 
ary importance,  and  laughed  and  talked  together  without 
attracting  any  attention.  , 

The  ladies  were  gathered  in  a  little  knot  by  them- 
selves round  the  rickety  table  before  mentioned.  There 
was  Miss  Snevellicci— who  could  do  anything,  from  a 
medley  dance  to  Lady  Macbeth,  and  also'alwavs  plaved 
some  part  in  blue-silk  knee-smalls  at  her  benefi't— glanc- 


mCKLEBY.  83 

ing  from  the  depths  of  her  coal-scuttlo  straw  bonnet,  at 
Nicholas,  and  affecting  to  be  absorbed  in  the  recital  of  a 
diverting  story  to  her  friend  Miss  Lodrook,  who  had 
brought  her  work,  and  was  making  up  a  ruff  in  the  most 
natural  manner  possible.  There  was  Miss  Belvawney — 
who  seldom  aspired  to  speaking  parts,  and  usually  went 
on  as  a  page  in  white  silk  hose,  to  stand  with  one  leg 
bent,  and  contemplate  the  audience,  or  to  go  in  and  out 
after  Mr.  Crummies  in  stately  tragedy — twisting  up  the 
ringlets  of  the  beautiful  Miss  Bravassa,  who  had  once 
had  her  likeness  taken  "in  character"  by  an  engraver's 
apprentice,  whereof  impressions  were  hung  up  for  sale 
in  the  pastry-cook's  window,  and  the  green-grocer-'s,  and 
at  the  circulating  library,  and  the  box-office,  whenever 
the  announce  bills  came  out  for  her  annual  night.  There 
was  Mrs.  Lenville,  in  a  very  limp  bonnet  and  veil,  de- 
cidedly in  that  way  in  which  she  would  wish  to  be  if 
she  truly  loved  Mr.  Lenville  ;  there  was  Miss  Gazingi, 
with  an  imitation  ermine  boa  tied  in  a  loose  knot  round 
her  neck,  flogging  Mr.  Crummies,  junior,  with  both 
ends,  in  fun.  Lastly,  there  was  Mrs.  Grudden  in  a 
brown  cloth  pelisse  and  a  beaver  bonnet,  who  assisted 
Mrs.  Crummies  in  her  domestic  affairs,  and  took  money 
at  the  doors,  and  dressed  the  ladies,  and  swept  the  house, 
and  held  the  prompt  book  when  everybody  else  was  on 
for  the  last  scene,  and  acted  any  kind  of  part  on  any 
emergency  without  ever  learning  it,  and  was  put  down 
on  the  bills  under  any  name  or  names  whatever  that  oc- 
ccurred  to  Mr.  Crummies  as  looking  well  in  print. 

Mr.  Folair  having  obligingly  confided  these  particulars 
to  Nicholas,  left  him  to  mingle  with  his  fellows  ;  the 
work  of  personal  introduction  was  completed  by  Mr. 
Vincent  Crummies,  who  publicly  heralded  the  new 
actor  as  a  prodigy  of  genius  and  learning. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci,  sidling  to- 
wards Nicholas,  "  but  did  you  ever  play  at  Canterbury  ?  " 

"  I  never  did,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  I  recollect  meeting  a  gentleman  at  Canterbury," 
said  Miss  Snevellicci,  "only  for  a  few  moments,  for  I 
was  leaving  the  company  as  he  joined  it,  so  like  you 
that  I  felt  almost  certain  it  was  the  same. " 

"I  see  you  now,  for  the  first  time,"  rejoined  Nicholas 
with  all  due  gallantry.  "I  am  sure  I  never  saw  you 
before  ;  I  couldn't  have  forgotten  it." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure — it's  very  flattering  of  you  to  say  so," 
retorted  Miss  Snevellicci  with  a  graceful  bend.  "Now 
I  look  at  you  again,  I  see  that  the  gentleman  at  Canter- 
bury hadn't  the  same  eyes  as  you — you'll  think  me  very 
foolish  for  taking  notice  of  such  things,  won't  you?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Nicholas.  "  How  can  I  feel  other- 
wise than  flattered  by  your  notice  in  any  way  ?  " 

"Oh  !  you  men  are  such  vain  creatures  ! "  cried  Miss. 
Snevellicci.  Whereupon,  she  became  charmingly  con- 
fused, and  pulling  out  her  pocket  handkerchief  from  a 
faded  pink  silk  reticule  with  a  gilt  clasp,  called  to  Miss. 
Ledrook — 

"  Led,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  matter?  "  said  Miss  Ledrook.. 

"  It's  not  the  same." 

"  Not  the  same  what  ?  " 

"  Canterbury — you  know  what  I  mean.  Come  here  T 
I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

But  Miss  Ledrook  wouldn't  come  to  Miss  Snevellicci,. 
so  Miss  Snevellicci  was  obliged  to  go  to  Miss  Ledrook,. 
which  she  did,  in  a  skipping  manner  that  was  quite  fas- 
cinating ;  and  Miss  Ledrook  evidently  joked  Miss  Snevel- 
licci about  being  struck  \^ith  Nicholas  ;  for,  after  some 
playful  whispering.  Miss  Snevellicci  hit  Miss  Ledrook 
very  hard  on  the  backs  of  her  hands,  and  retired  up,  in 
a  state  of  pleasing  confusion. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,, 
who  had  been  writing  on  a  piece  of  paper,  "  we'll  call 
the  Mortal  Struggle  to-morrow  at  ten  ;  everybody  for 
the  procession.  Intrigue,  and  Ways  and  Means,  you^re- 
all  up  in,  so  we  shall  only  want  one  rehersal.  Every- 
body at  ten,  if  you  please." 

"Everybody  at  ten,"  repeated  Mrs.  Grudden,  looking: 
about  her. 

"On  Monday  morning  we  shall  read  a  new  piece,"" 
said  Mr.  Crummies;  "the  name's  not  known  yet,  but 
everybody  will  have  a  good  part.  Mr.  Johnson  will  take 
care  of  tliat." 


84 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


'*  Hello  !  "  said  NicTiolas,  starting,  "  I — " 

"On  Monday  morning,"  repeated  Mr.  Crummies,  rais- 
ing his  voice  to  drown  tlie  unfortunate  Mr.  Johnson's  re- 
monstrance ;  that'll  do,  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  required  no  second  notice 
to  quit ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  theatre  was  deserted, 
save  by  the  Crummies'  family,  Nicholas,  and  Smike. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Nicholas,  taking  the  manager 
aside,  "I  don't  think  I  can  be  ready  by  Monday." 

"Pooh,  pooh,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies. 

"But  really  I  can't,"  returned  Nicholas  ;  "my  inven- 
tion is  not  accustomed  to  these  demands,  or  possibly  I 
might  produce — " 

"  Invention  !  what  the  devil's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?" 
cried  the  manager,  hastily. 

"  Everything,  my  dear  sir." 

"Nothing,  my  dear  sir,"  retorted  the  manager,  with 
evident  impatience.    "Do  you  understand  French?  " 
"Perfectly  well." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  manager,  opening  the  table- 
drawer,  and  giving  a  roll  of  paper  from  it  to  Nicholas, 
"There!  Just  turn  that  into  English,  and  put  your 
name  on  the  title-page.  Damn  me,"  said  Mr.  Crum- 
mies, angrily,  "  if  I  haven't  often  said  that  I  wouldn't 
have  a  man  or  woman  in  my  company  that  wasn't  mas- 
ter of  the  language,  so  that  they  might  learn  it  from  the 
original,  and  play  it  in  English,  and  save  all  this  trouble 
and  expense. " 

Nicholas  smiled  and  pocketed  the  play. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  your  lodgings  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Crummies. 

Nicholas  could  not  help  thinking  that,  for  the  first 
week,  it  would  be  an  uncommon  convenience  to  have  a 
turn-up  bedstead  in  the  pit,  but  he  merely  remarked  that 
he  had  not  turned  his  thoughts  that  way. 

"Come  home  with  me  then,"  said  Mr.  Crummies, 
"and  my  boys  shall  go  with  you  after  dinner,  and  show 
you  the  most  likely  place." 

The  offer  was  not  to  be  refused  ;  Nicholas  and  Mr. 
Crummies  gave  Mrs.  Crummies  an  arm  each,  and  walked 
up  the  street  in  stately  array.  Smike,  the  boys,  and  the 
phenomenon,  went  home  by  a  shorter  cut,  and  Mrs. 
Grudden  remained  behind  to  take  some  cold  Irish  stew 
and  a  pint  of  porter  in  the  box-ofiice. 

Mrs.  Crummies  trod  the  pavement  as  if  she  were  go- 
ing to  immediate  execution  with  an  animating  conscious- 
ness of  innocence,  and  that  heroic  fortitude  which  vir- 
tue alone  inspires.  Mr.  Crummies,  on  the  other  hand, 
assumed  the  look  and  gait  of  a  hardened  despot  ;  but 
they  both  attracted  some  notice  from  many  of  the  pass- 
ers-by, and  when  they  heard  a  whisper  of  "Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Crummies  ! "  or  saw  a  little  boy  run  back  to  stare 
them  in  the  face,  the  severe  expression  of  their  counte- 
nances relaxed,  for  they  felt  it  was  popularity. 

Mr.  Crummies  lived  in  Saint  Thomas's  street,  at  the 
house  of  one  Bulph,  a  pilot,  who  sported  a  boat-g-reen 
door,  with  window-frames  of  the  same  colour,  and  had 
the  little  finger  of  a  drowned  man  on  his  parlour  mantle- 
shelf,  with  other  maratime  and  natural  curiosities.  He 
displayed  also  a  brass  knocker,  a  brass  plate,  and  a  brass 
Tjell-handle,  all  very  bright  and  shining  ;  and  had  a 
mast,  with  a  vane  on  the  top  of  it,  in  his  back  yard. 

"You  are  welcome,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies,  turning 
round  to  Nicholas  when  they  reached  the  bow-windowed 
front  room  on  the  first  floor. 

Nicholas  bowed  his  acknowledgments,  and  was  un- 
feignedly  glad  to  see  the  cloth  laid. 

"  We  have  but  a  shoulder  of  mutton  with  onion 
sauce,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies,  in  the  same  charnel  house 
voice  ;  "  but  such  as  our  dinner  is,  we  beg  you  to  par- 
take of  it." 

"You  are  very  good,"  replied  Nicholas,  "I  shall  do 
it  ample  justice." 

"  Vincent,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies,  "  what  is  the  hour?  " 

"Five  minutes  past  dinner-time,"  said  Mr.  Crum- 
mies. 

Mrs.  Crummels  rang  the  bell.  "  Let  the  mutton  and 
oni(m  sauce  appear." 

The  slave  who  attended  upon  Mr.  Bulph's  lodgers, 
disappeared,  and  after  a  short  interval  rc-ap])oared  with 
the  festive  banquet.  Nicholas  and  tlie  infant  phenom- 
enon opposed  each  other  at  the  pembroke-table,  and 


Smike  and  the  Master  Crummleses  dined  on  the  sofa  bed- 
stead. 

"Are  they  very  theatrical  people  here?"  asked  Nic- 
holas. 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies,  shaking  his  head,  "  far 
from  it — far  from  it." 

"  I  pity  them,"  observed  Mrs.  Crummies. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "if  they  have  no  relish  for 
theatrical  entertainments,  properly  conducted." 

"  Then  they  have  none,  sir,"  rejoined  Mr.  Crummies. 
"  To  the  infant's  benefit,  last  year,  on  which  occasion  she 
repeated  three  of  her  most  popular  characters,  and  also 
appeared  in  the  Fairy  Porcupine,  as  originally  performed 
by  her,  there  was  a  house  of  no  more  than  four  pound 
twelve." 

"  Is  it  possible?"  cried  Nicholas. 

"  And  two  pound  of  that  was  trust,  pa,"  said  the 
phenoijienon. 

"And  two  pound  of  that  was  trust,"  repeated  Mr. 
Crummies.  "  Mrs.  Crummies  herself  has  played  to  mere 
handfuls." 

"But  they  are  always  a  taking  audience,  Vincent," 
said  the  manager's  wife. 

"  Most  audiences  are,  when  they  have  good  acting — 
real  good  acting — the  regular  thing,"  replied  Mr.  Crum- 
mies, forcibly, 

"  Do  you  give  lessons,  ma'am?"  inquired  Nicholas. 

"  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies. 

"  There  is  no  teaching  here,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  There  has  been,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies.  "  I  have  re- 
ceived pupils  here.  I  imparted  tuition  to  the  daughter 
of  a  dealer  in  ships'  provision  ;  but  it  afterwards  ap- 
peared that  she  was  insane  when  she  first  came  to  inc. 
It  was  very  extraordinary  that  she  should  come,  under 
such  circumstances." 

Not  feeling  quite  so  sure  of  that,  Nicholas  thought  it 
best  to  hold  his  peace. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  the  manager  cogitating  after  din- 
ner. "  Would  you  like  some  nice  little  part  with  the 
infant  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  good,"  replied  Nicholas  hastily  ;  "  but 
I  think  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  I  had  somebody  of 
my  own  size  at  first,  in  case  I  should  turn  out  awkward. 
I  should  feel  more  at  home  perhaps." 

"True,"  said  the  manager.  "  Perhay)S  you  would. 
And  you  could  play  up  to  the  infant,  in  time,  you  know." 

"Certainly,"  replied  Nicholas:  devoutly"  hoping  that 
it  would  be  a  very  long  time  before  he  was  honoured 
with  this  distinction. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  Mr.  Crum- 
mies. "You  shall  study  Romeo  when  you've  done  that 
piece — don't  forget  to  throw  the  pumps  and  tubs  in  by- 
the-bye — Juliet  Miss  Snevellicci,  old  Grudden  the  nurse. 
— Yes,  that'll  do  very  well.  IJover  too  ; — you  might  get 
up  Rover  while  you  were  about  it,  and  Cassio,  and 
Jeremy  Diddler.  You  can  easily  knock  them  otf  ;  one 
part  helps  the  other  so  much.  Here  they  are,  cues  and 
all." 

With  these  hasty  general  directions  Mr.  Crummies 
thrust  a  number  of  little  books  into  the  faltering  hands 
of  Nicholas,  and  bidding  his  eldest  son  go  Avith  him  and 
show  where  lodgings  were  to  be  had,  shook  him  by  the 
hand,  and  wished  him  good  night. 

There  is  no  lack  of  comfortable  furnished  apartments 
in  Portsmouth,  and  no  difticulty  in  finding  some  that  are 
proportionate  to  very  slender  finances ;  but  the  former 
were  too  good,  and  the  latter  too  bad,  and  they  went  into 
so  many  houses,  and  came  out  unsuited,  that  Nicholas 
seriously  began  to  think  he  should  be  obliged  to  ask 
permission  to  spend  the  night  in  the  theatre,  after  all. 

"Eventually,  however,  they  stumbled  upon  two  small 
rooms  up  three  pair  of  stairs,  or  rather  two  pair  and  a 
ladder,  at  a  tobacconist's,  on  the  Common  Hard  :  a  dirty 
street  leading  down  to  the  dockyard.  These  Nicholas^ 
engaged,  only  too  happy  to  have  escaped  any  request  fc 
payment  of  a  week's  rent  beforehand. 

"There!  Lay  down  on  .personal  property,  Smike, 
he  said,  after  showing  young  Crummies  down-stairs. 
"  We  have  fallen  upon  strange  times,  and  Heaven  only 
knows  the  end  of  them  ;  but  I  am  tired  with  the  events 
of  these  three  days,  and  will  postpone  reflection  till  to- 
morrow— if  I  can." 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


85 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

W  the  great  Bes])eak  /w  il/tw  Smvellicci,  and  the  first  Api^arance 
0/  Mc/iolcut  ujmi  any  Stage. 

Nicholas  was  up  betimes  in  the  morning  ;  hut  he  had 
scarcely  begun  to  dress,  notwithstanding,  when  he  heard 
footsteps  ascending  the  stairs,  and  was  presently  saluted 
by  the  voices  of  Mr.  Folair  the  pantomimist,  and  Mr. 
Lenville,  the  tragedian. 

''House,  house,  house  !"  cried  Mr.  Folair. 

"  What,  ho  !  within  there  1 "  said  Mr.  Lenville,  in  a 
deep  voice. 

"  Confound  these  fellows  !  "  thought  Nicholas  ;  "  they 
have  come  to  breakfast,  I  suppose.  I'll  open  the  door 
directly,  if  you'll  wait  an  instant. " 

The  gentlemen  entreated  him  not  to  hurry  himself  : 
and,  to  beguile  the  interval,  had  a  fencing  bout  with 
their  walking  sticks  on  the  very  small  landing-place  :  to 
the  unspeakable  discomposure  of  all  the  other  lodgers 
down-stairs. 

"Here,  come  in,"  said  Nicholas,  when  he  had  com- 
pleted his  toilet.  ''In  the  name  of  ail  that's  horrible, 
don't  make  that  noise  outside." 

•'An  uncommon  snug  little  box  this,"  said  Mr.  Len- 
ville, stepping  into  the  front  room,  and  taking  his  hat 
off,  before  he  could  get  in  at  all.    "  Pernicious  snug." 

"For  a  man  at  all  particular  in  such  matters,  it  might 
be  a  trifle  too  snug,"  said  Nicholas;  "  for,  although  it 
is,  undoubtedly,  a  great  convenience  to  be  able  to  reach 
anything  you  want  from  the  ceiling  or  the  floor,  or 
either  side  of  the  room,  without  having  to  move  from 
your  chair,  still  these  advantages  can  only  be  had  in  an 
apartment  of  the  most  limited  size." 

"  It  isn't  a  bit  too  confined  for  a  single  man,  '  returned 
Mr.  Lenville.  "  That  reminds  me, — my  wife,  Mr.  John- 
son,— I  hope  she'll  have  some  good  part  in  this  piece  of 
yours  ?  " 

"  I  glanced  at  the  French  copy  last  night,"  said  Nicho- 
las.   "  It  looks  very  good,  I  think." 

What  do  you  mean  to  do  for  me,  old  fellow  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Lenville,  poking  the  struggling  fire  with  his  walk- 
ing-stick, and  afterwards  wiping  it  on  the  skirt  of  his 
coat.    "  Anything  in  the  gruff  and  grumble  way  ?  " 

"You  turn  your  wife  and  child  out  of  doors,"  said 
Nicholas  ;  "and,  in  a  fit  of  rage  and  jealousy,  stab  your 
eldest  son  in  the  library." 

"Do  I  though!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Lenville.  "That's 
very  good  business." 

"After  which,"  said  Nicholas,  "you  are  troubled  with 
remorse  till  the  last  act,  and  then  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  destroy  yourself.  But,  just  as  you  are  raising 
the  pistol  to  your  head,  a  clock  strikes — ten," 

"  I  see,"  cried  Mr.  Lenville.    "  Very  good. " 

"You  pause,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  you  recollect  to  have 
heard  a  clock  strike  ten  in  your  infancy.  The  pistol 
falls  from  your  hand — you  are  overcome — you  burst  into 
tears,  and  become  a  virtuous  and  exemj^lary  character 
for  ever  afterwards." 

"  Capital  !  "  said  Mr.  Lenville  :  "  that's  a  sure  card,  a 
sure  card.  Get  the  curtain  down  with  a  touch  of  nature 
like  that,  and  it'll  be  a  triumphant  success." 

"Is  there  anything  good  for  me?"  inquired  Mr. 
Folair  anxiously. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Nicholas.  "  You  play  the  faithful 
and  attached  servant ;  you  are  turned  out  of  doors  with 
the  wife  and  child." 

"Always  coupled  with  that  infernal  phenomenon," 
sighed  Mr.  Folair;  "and  we  go  into  poor  lodgings, 
where  I  won't  take  any  wages,  and  talk  sentiment,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"  Why — yes,"  replied  Nicholas  :  "  that  is  the  course 
of  the  piece." 

"  I  must  have  a  dance  of  some  kind,  you  know,"  said 
Mr.  Folair.  "  You'll  have  to  introduce  one  for  the  phe- 
nomenon, so  you'd  better  make  a  pas  de  deux,  and  save 
time." 

"  There's  nothing  easier  than  that,"  said  Mr.  Lenville, 
observing  the  disturbed  looks  of  the  young  dramatist. 

"  Upon  ray  word  I  don't  see  how  it's  to  be  done,"  re- 
joined Nicholas, 

"Why,  isn't  it  obvious?"  reasoned  Mr.  Lenville. 
"Gadzooks,  who  can  help  seeing  the  way  to  do  it?— 


you  astonisli  me  !  You  get  the  distressed  lady,  and  the 
little  child,  and  the  attached  servant,  into  t))0  j>oor  lodg- 
ings, don't  you? — Well,  look  here.  The  distressed  lady 
siidcs  into  a  chaii",  and  buries  her  face  in  her  fjocket 
handkerchief — 'What  makes  you  weep,  mama?'  says 
the  child.  '  Don't  weep,  mains^,  or  you'll  made  me  weep 
too  I ' — '  And  me  ! '  says  the  faithful  servant,  rubbing  his 
eyes  with  his  arm,  '  What  can  we  do  to  raise  your 
spirits,  dear  mama?'  says  the  little  child,  'Aye,  what 
can  we  do?'  says  the  faithful  servant.  'Oh,  Pierre  !' 
says  the  distressed  lady  ;  '  would  that  I  could  shake  of! 
these  painful  thoughts,'— "J'ry,  ma'am,  try,'  says  the 
faithful  servant ;  'rouse  yourself,  ma'am  ;  be  amused,' — 
'  I  will,'  says  the  lady,  '  1  will  learn  to  suffer  with  forti- 
tude. Do  you  remember  that  dance,  my  honest  friend, 
which,  in  happier  days,  you  practised  with  this  sweet 
angel?  It  never  failed  to  calm  my  spirits  then.  Oh  I 
let  me  see  it  once  again  before  I  die  ! ' — There  it  is — cue 
for  the  band,  before  I  cZ^'e,— and  off  they  go.  That's  the 
regular  thing  ;  isn't  it,  Tommy  ?  " 

"That's  it,"  replied  Mr.  Folair.  "The  distressed 
lady,  overpowered  by  old  recollections,  faints  at  the  end 
of  the  dance,  and  you  close  in  with  a  picture." 

Profiting  by  these  and  other  lessons,  which  were  the 
result  of  the  personal  experience  of  the  two  actors,  Nich- 
olas willingly  gave  them  the  best  breakfast  he  could, 
and,  when  he  at  length  got  rid  of  them,  applied  himself 
to  his  task  :  by  no  means  displeased  to  find  that  it  was 
so  much  easier  than  lie  had  at  first  supposed.  He  worked 
very  hard  all  day,  and  did  not  leave  his  room  until  the 
evening,  when  he  went  down  to  the  theatre,  whither 
Smike  had  repaired  before  him  to  go  on  with  another 
gentleman  as  a  general  rebellion. 

Here  all  the  people  w^ere  so  much  changed,  that  he 
scarcely  knew  them.  False  hair,  false  colour,  false 
calves,  false  muscles— they  had  become  different  beings. 
Mr.  Lenville  was  a  blooming  warrior  of  most  exquisite 
proportions  ;  Mr,  Crummies,  his  large  face  shaded  by  a 
profusion  of  black  hair,  a  Highland  outlaw  of  most  ma- 
jestic bearing  ;  one  of  the  old  gentlemen  a  gaoler,  and 
the  other  a  venerable  patriarch  ;  the  comic  countr>-man, 
a  fighting  man  of  great  valour,  relieved  by  a  touch  of 
humour  ;  each  of  the  Master  Crummleses  a  prince  in  his 
own  right  ;  and  the  low-spirited  lover  a  desponding 
captive.  There  was  a  gorgeous  banquet  ready  spread 
for  the  third  act,  consisting  of  two  pasteboard  vases,  one 
plate  of  biscuits,  a  black  bottle,  and  a  vinegar  cruet ; 
and,  in  short,  everything  was  on  a  scale  of  the  utmost 
splendour  and  preparation. 

Nicholas  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  curtain, 
now  contemplating  the  first  scene,  which  was  a  Gothic 
archway,  about  two  feet  shorter  than  Mr.  Crummies, 
through  which  that  gentleman  was  to  make  his  first  en- 
trance, and  now  listening  to  a  couple  of  people  who  were 
cracking  nuts  in  the  gallery,  wondering  whether  they 
made  the  whole  audience,  w^hen  the  manager  himself 
walked  familiarly  up  and  accosted  him. 

"  Been  in  front  to-night?"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 

"  No,"  replied  Nicholas,  "  not  yet,  I  am  going  to  see 
the  play," 

"  We've  had  a  pretty  good  Let,"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 
"  Four  front  places  in  the  centre,  and  the  whole  of  the 
stage-box." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  "  said  Nicholas  ;  "  a  family,  I  su]->pose?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies,  "  yes.  It's  an  affecting 
thing.  There  are  six  children,  and  they  never  come  un- 
less the  phenomenon  plays." 

It  would  have  been  difficult  for  any  party,  family  or 
otherwise,  to  have  visited  the  theatre  on  a  night  when 
the  phenomenon  did  not  play,  inasmuch  as  she  always 
sustained  one,  and  not  uncommonly  two  or  three,  char- 
acters, every  night ;  but  Nicholas,  sympathising  with 
the  feelings  of  a  father,  refrained  from  hinting  at  this 
trifiing  circumstance,  and  Mr,  Crummies  continued  to 
talk,  uninterrupted  by  him. 

"Six,"  said  that  gentleman;  "Pa  and  Ma  eight, 
aunt  nine,  governess  ten,  grandfather  and  grandmother 
twelve.  Then,  there's  the  footman,  who  stands  outside, 
with  a  bag  of  oranges  and  a  jug  of  toast-and-water,  and 
sees  the  play  for  nothing  through  the  little  pane  of  glass 
in  the  box-door — it's  cheap  at  a  guinea  ;  they  gain  by 
taking  a  box." 


86 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"  I  wonder  you  allow  so  many,"  observed  Nicholas. 

"  There's  no  help  for  it,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies  ;  ' '  it's 
always  expected  in  the  country.  If  there  are  six  chil- 
dren, six  people  come  to  hold  them  in  their  laps.  A 
family-box  carries  double  always.  Ring  in  the  orchestra, 
Grudden  ! "  «• 

That  useful  lady  did  as  she  was  requested,  and  shortly 
afterwards  the  timing  of  three  fiddles  was  heard.  Which 
process  having  been  protracted  as  long  as  it  was  sup- 
posed that  the  patience  of  the  audience  could  possibly 
bear  it,  was  put  a  stop  to  by  another  jerk  of  the  bell, 
which,  being  the  signal  to  begin  in  earnest,  set  the  or- 
chestra playing  a  variety  of  popular  airs,  with  involun- 
tary variations. 

If  Nicholas  had  been  astonished  at  the  alteration  for 
the  better  which  the  gentlemen  displayed,  the  transfor- 
mation of  the  ladies  was  still  more  extraordinary. 
When,  from  a  snug  corner  of  the  manager's  box,  he  be- 
held Miss  Snevellicci  in  all  the  glories  of  white  muslin 
with  a  golden  hem,  and  Mrs.  Crummies  in  all  the  dignity 
of  the  outlaw's  wife,  and  Miss  Bravassa  in  all  the  sweet- 
ness of  Miss  Snevellicci's  confidential  friend,  and  Miss 
Belvawney  in  the  white  silks  of  a  page  doing  duty  ev- 
erywhere and  swearing  to  live  and  die  in  the  service  of 
everybody,  he  could  scarcely  contain  his  admiration, 
which  testified  itself  in  great  applause,  and  the  closest 
possible  attention  to  the  business  of  the  scene.  The  plot 
was  most  interesting.  It  belonged  to  no  particular  age, 
people,  or  country,  and  was  perhaps  the  more  delightful 
on  that  account,  as  nobody's  previous  information  could 
afford  the  remotest  glimmering  of  what  would  ever 
come  of  it.  An  outlaw  had  been  very  successful  in  do- 
ing something  somewhere,  and  came  home,  in  triumph, 
to  the  sound  of  shouts  and  fiddles,  to  greet  his  wife — a 
lady  of  masculine  mind,  who  talked  a  good  deal  about 
her  father's  bones,  which  it  seemed  were  unburied, 
though  whether  from  a  peculiar  taste  on  the  part  of  the 
old  gentleman  himself,  or  the  reprehensible  neglect  of 
his  relations,  did  not  appear.  This  outlaw's  wife  was, 
somehow  or  other,  mixed  up  with  a  patriarch,  living  in 
a  castle  a  long  way  off,  and  this  patriarch  was  the  father 
of  several  of  the  characters,  but  he  didn't  exactly  know 
which,  and  was  uncertain  whether  he  had  brought  up  the 
right  ones  in  his  castle,  or  the  wrong  ones  ;  he  rather  in- 
clined to  the  latter  opinion,  and  being  uneasy,  relieved  his 
mind  with  a  banquet,  during  which  solemnity  somebody 
in  a  cloak  said  "  Beware,"  which  somebody  was  known 
by  nobody  (except  the  audience)  to  be  the  outlaw  him- 
self, who  had  come  there,  for  reasons  unexplained,  but 
possibly  with  an  eye  to  the  spoons.  There  was  an 
agreeable  little  surprise  in  the  way  of  certain  love  pas- 
sages between  the  desponding  captive  and  Miss  Snevel- 
licci, and  the  comic  fighting  man  and  Miss  Bravassa  ; 
besides  which,  Mr.  Lenville  had  several  very  tragic 
scenes  in  the  dark,  while  on  throat-cutting  expeditions, 
which  were  all  baffled  by  the  skill  and  bravery  of  the 
comic  fighting-man  (who  overheard  whatever  was  said 
all  through  the  piece)  and  the  intrepidity  of  Miss  Snevel- 
licci, who  adopted  tights,  and  therein  repaired  to  the 
prison  of  her  captive  lover,  with  a  small  basket  of  re- 
freshments and  a  dark  lantern.  At  last,  it  came  out 
that  the  patriarch  was  the  man  who  had  treated  the 
bones  of  the  outlaw's  father-in-law  with  so  much  dis- 
respect, for  which  cause  and  reason  the  outlaw's  wife 
repaired  to  his  castle  to  kill  him,  and  so  got  into  a  dark 
room,  where,  after  a  goqd  deal  of  groping  in  the  dark, 
everybody  got  hold  of  everybody  else,  and  took  them  for 
somebody  besides,  which  occasioned  a  vast  quantity  of 
confusion,  with  some  pistolling,  loss  of  life,  and  torch- 
light ;  after  which,  the  patriarch  came  forward,  and  ob- 
serving, with  a  knowing  look,  that  he  knew  all  about 
his  children  now,  and  would  toll  them  when  they  got  in- 
side, said  that  there  could  not  be  a  more  appropriate  oc- 
casion for  marrying  the  young  people  than  that ;  and 
therefore  he  joined  their  hands,  with  the  full  consent  of 
the  indefatigable  page,  who  (being  the  only  other  person 
surviving)  pointed  with  his  cap  into  the  clouds,  and  his 
right  hand  to  the  ground  ;  thereby  invoking  a  blessing 
and  giving  the  cue  for  the  curtain  to  come  down,  which 
it  did,  amidst  general  applause. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  that?"  asked  Mr.  Crummies, 
when  Nicholas  went  round  to  the  stage  again.  Mr. 


Crummies  was  very  red  and  hot,  for  your  outlaws  are 
desperate  fellows  to  shout, 

"I  think  it  was  very  capital  indeed,"  replied  Nicho- 
las ;  "  Miss  Snevellicci  in  particular  was  uncommonly 
good." 

"She's  a  genius,"  said  Mr.  Crummies;  "quite  a 
genius,  that  girl.  By-the-bye,  I've  been  thinking  of 
bringing  out  that  piece  of  yours  on  her  bespeak  night." 

'  *  When  ?  "  asked  Nicholas. 

"  The  night  of  her  bespeak.  Her  benefit  night,  when 
her  friends  and  patrons  bespeak  the  play,"  said  Mr. 
Crummies. 

"Oh  !  I  understand,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  "  it's  sure  to  go,  on 
such  an  occasion,  and  even  if  it  should  not  work  up  quite 
as  well  as  we  expect,  why  it  will  be  her  risk,  you  iinow, 
and  not  ours."  i 

"  Yours,  you  mean,"  said  Nicholas.  i 

"I  said  mine,  didn't  I?"  returned  Mr.  Crummies. 
"  Next  Monday  week.  What  do  you  say  ?  You'll  have 
done  it,  and  are  sure  to  be  up  in  the  lover's  part,  long 
before  that  time. " 

"  I  don't  know  about  *  long  before,' "  re])lied  Nicholas  ; 
"  but  hy  that  time  I  think  I  can  undertake  to  be  ready," 

"Very  good,"  pursued  Mr.  Crummies,  "then  we'll, 
call  that  settled.    Now,  I  want  to  ask  you  something 
else.    There's  a  little — what  shall  I  call  it — a  little  can-  I 
vassing  takes  place  on  these  occasions." 

"  Among  the  patrons,  I  suppose?  "  said  Nicholas. 

"  Among  the  patrons  ;  and  the  fact  is,  that  Snevel- 
licci has  had  so  many  bespeaks  in  this  place,  that  she 
wants  an  attraction.     She  had  a  bespeak  when  her  \ 
mother-in-law  died  and  a  bespeak  when  her  uncle  died  ;  ' 
and  Mrs.  Crummies  and  myself  have  had  bespeaks  on  ^ 
the  anniversary  of  the  phenomenon's  birthday,  and  our  \ 
wedding-day,  and  occasions  of  that  description,  so  that,  ) 
in  fact,  there's  some  difficulty  in  getting  a  good  one. 
Now,  won't  you  help  this  poor  girl,  Mr.  Johnson?"  said  ! 
Crummies,  sitting  himself  down  on  a  drum,  and  taking  , 
a  great  pinch  of  snuff,  as  he  looked  him  steadily  in  the  * 
face.  < 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  rejoined  Nicholas.  ; 

"  Don't  you  think  you  could  spare  half -an -hour  to-  f 
morrow  morning,  to  call  with  her  at  the  houses  of  ond  • 
or  two  of  the  principal  people?"  murmured  the  maua-*  ; 
ger  in  a  persuasive  tone.  . 

"  Oh  dear  me,"  said  Nicholas,  with  an  air  of  verj^jj 
strong  objection,  "  I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that." 

"  The  infant  will  accompany  her,"  said  Mr.  Crum- 5 
mles.    "The  moment  it  was  suggested  to  me,  I  gave  J 
permission  for  the  infant  to  go.    There  will  not  be  the  V 
smallest  improjDriety — Miss  Snevellicci,  sir,  is  the  very  \ 
soul  of  honour.    It  would  be  of  material  service — the 
gentleman  from  London — author  of  the  new  piece — actor 
in  the  new  piece — first  appearance  on  any  boards — it 
would  lead  to  a  great  bespeak,  Mr.  Johnson." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  throw  a  damp  upon  the  prospects  ' 
of  anybody,  and  more  especially  a  lady,"  replied  Nicho-  ' 
las  ;  "  but  really  I  must  decidedly  object  to  making  one  • 
of  the  canvassing  party." 

"What  does  Mr.  Johnson  say,  Vincent?"  inquired  a  ' 
voice  close  to  his  ear ;  and,  looking  round,  he  foitnd  ' 
Mrs.  Crummies  and  Miss  Snevellicci  herself  standing  ! 
behind  him. 

"He  has  some  objection,  my  dear,'*  replied  Mr.vi 
Crummies,  looking  at  Nicholas.  I 

"Objection!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crummies.  *'Can 
be  possible  ?  "  •  ^ 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  cried  Miss  Snevellicci.  "  YoiT 
surely  are  not  so  cruel — oh,  dear  me  ! — Well,  I — to  think, 
of  that  now,  after  all  one's  looking  forvi^ard  to  it  !  " 

"  Mr.  Johnson  will  not  persist,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  I 
Crummies.    "  Think  better  of  him  than  to  suppose  it. 
Gallantry,  humanity,  all  the  best  feelings  of  his  nature, 
must  be  enlisted  in  this  interesting  cause. " 

"Which  moves  even  a  manager,"  said  Mr.  Crum- 
mies smiling. 

"And  a  manager's  wife,"  added  Mrs.  Crummies,  in 
her  accustomed  tragedy  tones.  "Come,  come,  you  will 
relent,  I  know  you  will." 

"'  It  is  not  in  my  nature,"  said  Nicholas,  moved  by 
these  .appeals,  "to  resist  any  entreaty,  unless  it  is  to  db 


NICHOLAS  mCKLEBY. 


87 


gometliinj^  positively  wronf^  ;  and,  beyond  a  foelinj^  of 
pride,  I  know  nothing-  which  should  prevent  my  doing 
this.  I  know  nobody  here,  and  nobody  knows-  me. 
So  be  it  then.    I  yield." 

Miss  Snevellicci  was  at  once  overwhelmed  with  blushes 
and  expressions  of  gratitude,  of  which  latter  commodity 
e  ither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Crummies  was  by  any  means  spar- 
It  was  arranged  that  Nicholas  should  call  upon 
,  at  her  lodgings,  at  eleven  next  morning,  and  soon 
al  i  '.T  they  parted  :  he  to  return  home  to  his  authorship  : 
Miss  Snevellicci  to  dress  for  the  after-piece  :  and  the 
disinterested  manager  and  his  wife  to  discuss  the  proba- 
ble gains  of  the  forthcoming  bespeak,  of  which  they 
were  to  have  two- thirds  of  the  profits  by  solemn  treaty 
of  agreement. 

At  the  stipulated  hour  next  morning,  Nicholas  re- 
paired to  the  lodgings  of  Miss  Snevellicci,  which  were  in 
a  i)lace  called  Lombard-street,  at  the  house  of  a  tailor. 
A  strong  smell  of  ironing  pervaded  the  little  passage  ; 
u!!{l  the  tailor's  daughter,  who  opened  the  door,  appeared 
;m  that  flutter  of  spirits  which  is  so  often  attendant  upon 
the  periodical  getting  up  of  a  family's  linen. 

"  Miss  Snevellicci  lives  here,  I  believe?"  said  Nicho- 
las, when  the  door  was  opened. 

Tlie  tailor's  daughter  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

'  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  let  her  know  that 
Mr.  Johnson  is  here?"  said  Nicholas. 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  you're  to  come  up-stairs,"  replied 
the  tailor's  daughter,  with  a  smile. 

Nicholas  followed  the  young  lady,  and  was  shown 
into  a  small  apartment  on  the  first  floor,  communicating 
with  a  back  room  ;  in  which,  as  he  judged  from  a  certain 
lialf-subdued  clinking  sound,  as  of  cups  and  saucers, 
Miss  Snevellicci  was  then  taking  her  breakfast  in  bed. 

"You're  to  wait,  if  you  please,"  said  the  tailor's 
daughter,  after  a  short  period  of  absence,  during  which 
riie  clinking  in  the  back  room  had  ceased,  and  been  suc- 
eeeded  by  whispering — "  She  won't  be  long." 

As  she  spoke,  she  pulled  up  the  window-blind,  and 
having  by  this  means  (a^^  she  thought)  diverted  Mr.  John- 
son's attention  from  the  room  to  the  street,  caught  up 
iconic  articles  which  were  airing  on  the  fender,  and  had 
very  much  the  appearance  of  stockings,  and  darted  off. 

As  there  were  not  many  objects  of  interest  outside  the 
window,  Nicholas  looked  about  the  room,  with  more 
curiosity  than  he  might  otherwise  have  bestowed  upon 
it.  On  the  sofa  lay  an  old  guitar,  several  thumbed 
pieces  of  music,  and  a  scattered  litter  of  curl  papers  :  to- 
gether with  a  confused  heap  of  play-bills,  and  a  pair  of 
soiled  white  satin  shoes  with  large  blue  rosettes.  Hang- 
ing over  the  back  of  a  chair  was  a  half -finished  muslin 
apron  with  little  pockets  ornamented  with  red  ribbons, 
such  as  waiting  women,  wear  on  the  stage,  and  (by  con- 
sequence) are  never  seen  with  any  where  else.  In  one 
corner  stood  the  diminutive  pair  of  top-boots  in  which 
Miss  Snevellicci  was  'accustomed  to  enact  the  little 
jockey,  and,  folded  on  a  chair  hard  by,  was  a  small  par- 
cel, which  bore  a  very  suspicious  resemblance  to  the 
companion  smalls. 

But  the  most  interesting  object  of  all,  was,  perhaps, 
the  open  scrap-book,  displayed  "in  the  midst  of  some  the- 
atrical duodecimos  that  were  strewn  upon  the  table  ; 
and  pasted  into  which  scrap-book  were  various  critical 
notices  of  Miss  Snevellicci's  acting,  extracted  from  dif- 
ferent provincial  journals,  together  with  one  poetic  ad- 
dress in  her  honour,  commencing 

Sinjr,  God  of  Love,  and  tell  me  in  what  dearth 
Thrice-;^ifted  Snevellicci  came  on  earth, 
To  thrill  lis  with  her  smile,  her  tear,  her  eve, 
Sing,  God  of  Love,  and  tell  me  quickly  why. 

Besides  this  effusion,  there  were  innumerable  compli- 
mentary allusions,  also  extracted  from  newspapers,  such 
as — "  We  observe  from  an  advertisement  in  another  part 
of  our  paper  of  to-day,  that  the  charming  and  highly-tal- 
ented Miss  Snevellicci  takes  her  benefit  on  Wednesday, 
for  which  occasion  she  has  put  forth  a  bill  of  fare  that 
might  kindle  exhilaration  in  the  breast  of  a  misanthrope. 
In  the  confidence  that  our  fellow-townsmen  have  not  | 
Jest  that  high  appreciation  of  public  utility  and  private  I 
worth,  for  which  they  have  long  been  so  pre-eminently 
aistiuguLshed,  we  predict  that  this  charming  actress  will 


be  greeted  with  a  bumper."  "  To  Correspondent!? — J.  ff. 
is  misinformed  when  he  supposes  that  the  liiglily-gifted 
and  beautiful  Miss  Snevrdlicci,  nigiitly  captivating  all 
hearts  at  our  pretty  and  commodious  little  tlieatre,  'vnnot 
the  same  lady  to  whom  tlu;  young  gentleman  of  i/nrnense 
fortune,  residing  within  a  hundred  miles  of  the  gfx^d 
city  of  York,  lately  made  honourable  proposals.  We 
have  reason  to  know  that  Miss  Snevellicci  in  the  lady 
who  was  implicated  in  that  mysterious  and  romantic 
affair,  and  M'hose  conduct  on  tliat  occasion  did  no  le.ss 
honour  to  her  head  and  heart,  than  to  her  histrionic 
triumphs  to  her  brilliant  genius."  A  copious  assortment 
of  such  paragraphs  as  these,  with  long  bills  of  benefits 
all  ending  with  "Come  Early,"  in  large  capitals,  formed 
the  principal  contents  of  Miss  Snevellicci's  scrap-book. 

Nicholas  had  read  a  great  many  of  these  scraps, and  was 
absorbed  in  a  circumstantial  and  melancholy  account  of 
the  train  of  events  which  had  led  to  Miss  Snevellicci's 
spraining  her  ancle  by  slipping  on  a  piece  of  orange-peel 
flung  by  a  monster  in  human  form,  (so  the  paper  said,) 
u[)on  the  stage  at  Winchester, — when  that  young  lady 
herself,  attired  in  the  coal-scuttle  bonnet  and  walking- 
dress  complete,  trij^ped  into  the  room,  with  a  thousand 
apologies  for  having  detained  him  so  long  after  the  ap- 
pointed time. 

"But  really,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci,  my  darling  Led, 
who  lives  with  me  here,  was  taken  so  very  ill  in  the 
night  that  I  thought  she  would  have  expired  in  my 
arms. " 

"  Such  a  fate  is  almost  to  be  envied,"  returned  Nicho- 
las, "  but  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it  nevertheless." 

"  What  a  creature  you  are  to  flatter  !  "  said  Miss  Sne- 
vellicci, buttoning  her  glove  in  much  confusion. 

"If  it  be  flattery  to  admire  your  charms  and  accom- 
plishments," rejoined  Nicholas,  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
scrap-book,  "  you  have  better  specimens  of  it  here." 

"  Oh  you  cruel  creature,  to  read  such  things  as  those  ! 
I'm  almost  ashamed  to  look  you  in  the  face  afterwards, 
positively  I  am,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci,  seizing  the  book 
and  putting  it  away  in  the  closet.  "  How  careless  of 
Led  !    How  could  she  be  so  naughty  !  " 

"I  thought  you  had  kindly  left  it  here,  on  purpose  for 
me  to  read,"  said  Nicholas.  And  really  it  did  seem  pos- 
sible. 

"I  wouldn't  have  had  you  see  it,  for  the  world  !  "  re- 
joined Miss  Snevellicci.  "I  never  was  so  vexed — 
never  !  But  she  is  such  a  careless  thing,  there's  no  trust- 
ing her." 

'rhe  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  the  phenomenon,  who  had  discreetly  remained  in  the 
bedroom  up  to  this  moment,  and  now  presented  herself, 
with  much  grace  and  lightness,  bearing  in  her  hand  a 
very  little  green  parasol  with  a  broad  fringe  border,  and 
no  handle.  After  a  few  words  of  course,  they  sallied 
into  the  street. 

The  phenomenon  was  rather  a  troublesome  companion 
for  first  the  right  sandal  came  down,  and  then  the  left, 
and  those  mischances  being  repaired,  one  leg  of  the  lit- 
tle white  trowsers  was  discovered  to  be  longer  than  the 
other  ;  besides  these  accidents,  the  green  parasol  was 
dropped  down  an  iron  grating,  and  only  fished  up  again, 
with  great  difficulty  and  by  dint  of  much  exertion. 
However,  it  was  impossible  to  scold  her,  as  she  was  the 
manager's  daughter,  so  Nicholas  took  it  all  in  perfect 
good  humour,  and  walked  on,  with  Miss  Snevellicci, 
arm  in  arm,  on  one  side,  and  the  offending  infant  on  the 
other. 

The  first  house  to  which  they  bent  their  steps,  was  sit- 
uated in  a  terrace  of  respectable  appearance.  Miss  Sne- 
vellicci's modest  double-knock  was  answered  by  a  foot- 
boy,  who,  in  reply  to  her  inquiry  whether  Mrs.  Curdle 
was  at  home,  opened  his  eyes  v'ery  wide,  grinned  very 
much,  and  said  he  didn't  know,  but  he'd  inquire.  With 
this,  he  showed  them  into  a  parlour  where  he  kept  them 
waiting,  until  the  two  women-servants  had  repaired 
thither,  under  false  pretences,  to  see  the  play-actors  ; 
and  having  compared  notes  with  them  in  the  passage, 
and  joined  in  a  vast  quantity  of  whispering  and  giggling, 
I  he  at  length  went  up  stairs  with  Miss  Snevellicci's 
I  name. 

Now,  Mrs.  Curdle  was  supposed,  by  those  who  were 
I  best  informed  on  such  points,  to  possess  quite  the  Lon- 


88 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


don  taste  in  matters  relating  to  literature  and  the  drama  ; 
and  as  to  Mr.  Curdle,  he  had  written  a  pamphlet  of  sixty- 
foar  page:s,  post  octavo,  on  the  character  of  tlie  Nurse's 
deceased  husband  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  with  an  inquiry 
whether  lie  really  had  been  a  "  merry  man  "  in  his  life- 
time, or  whether  it  was  merely  his  widow's  affectionate 
partiality  that  induced  her  so  to  report  him.  He  had 
likewise  proved,  that  by  altering  the  received  mode  of 
punctuation,  anyone  of  Shakspeare's  plays  could  be  made 
quite  different,  and  the  sense  completely  changed  ;  it  is 
needless  to  say,  therefore,  that  he  was  a  great  critic,  and 
a  very  profound  and  most  original  thinker. 

"  Well,  Miss  Snevellicci,"  said  Mrs.  Curdle,  entering 
the  parlour,  "  and  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

Miss  Snevellicci  made  a  graceful  obeisance,  and  hoped 
Mrs.  Curdle  was  well,  as  also  Mr.  Curdle,  who  at  the 
same  time  appeared.  Mrs.  Curdle  was  dressed  in  a 
morning  wrapper,  with  a  little  cap  stuck  upon  the  top  of 
her  head.  Mr.  Curdle  wore  a  loose  robe  on  his  back, 
and  his  right  fore-fmger  on  his  forehead  after  the  por- 
traits of  Sterne,  to  whom  somebody  or  other  had  once 
said  he  bore  a  striking  resemblance. 

"  I  ventured  to  call,  for  the  purpose  of  asking  whether 
you  would  put  your  name  to  my  l)espeak,  ma'am,"  said 
Miss  Snevellicci,  producing  documents. 

"  Oh  !  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say,"  replied  Mrs. 
Curdle.  "  It's  not  as  if  the  theatre  was  in  its  high  and 
palmy  days— you  needn't  stand,  Miss  Snevellicci — the 
drama  is  gone,  perfectly  gone." 

"As  an  exquisite  embodiment  of  the  poet's  visions, 
and  a  realization  of  human  intellectuality,  gilding  with 
refulgent  light  our  dreamy  moments,  and  laying  open  a 
new  and  magic  world  before  the  mental  eye,  the  drama 
is  gone,  perfectly  gone,"  said  Mr.  Curdle. 

Whatman  is  there  now  living,  who  can  present  be- 
fore us  all  those  changing  and  prismatic  colours  with 
which  the  character  of  Hamlet  is  invested?"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Curdle. 

"Whatman  indeed — upon  the  stage,"  said  Mr.  Cur- 
dle, with  a  small  re:-^ervation  in  favour  of  himself. 
"Hamlet !  Pooh  !  ridiculous  !  Hamlet  is  gone,  perfectly 
gone." 

Quite  overcome  by  these  dismal  reflections,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Curdle  sighed,  and  sat  for  some  short  time  without 
speaking.  At  length,  the  lady,  turning  to  Miss  Snevel- 
licci, inquired  what  play  she  proposed  to  have, 

"  Quite  a  new  one,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci,  "of  which 
this  gentleman  is  the  author,  and  in  which  he  plays  ;  be- 
ing his  first  appearance  on  any  stage.  Mr.  Johnson  is 
the  gentleman's  name." 

"1  hope  you  have  preserved  the  unities,  sir?"  said 
Mr,  Curdle. 

"The  original  piece  is  a  French  one,"  said  Nicholas. 
"  There  is  abundance  of  incident  sprightly  dialogue, 
strongly-marked  characters — " 

"  —All  unavailing  without  a  strict  observance  of  the 
unities,  sir,"  returned  Mr,  Curdle.  "  The  unities  of  the 
drama,  before  everything." 

"  Might  I  ask  you,"  said  Nicholas,  hesitating  between 
the  respect  he  ought  to  assume,  and  his  love  of  the  whim- 
sical, "  might  I  ask  you  what  the  unities  are?" 

Mr.  Curdle  coughed  and  considered.  "  The  unities, 
sir," he  said,  "are  a  completeness — a  kind  of  a  universal 
dovetailedness  with  regard  to  place  and  time — a  sort  of 
a  general  oneness,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  use  so  strong 
an  expression.  I  take  those  to  be  the  dramatic  unities, 
so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  bestow  attention  upon  them, 
and  I  have  read  much  upon  the  subject,  and  thought 
much.  I  find,  running  through  the  performances  of 
this  child,"  said  Mr,  Curdle,  turning  to  the  phenomenon, 
"  a  unity  of  feeling,  a  breadth,  a  light  and  shade,  a 
warmth  of  colouring,  a  tone,  a  harmony,  a  glow,  an 
artistical  development  of  original  conceptions,  which  I 
look  for,  in  vain,  among  older  performers — I  don't  know 
whether  I  make  myself  understood?  " 

"Perfectly,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Curdle,  pulling  up  his  neckcloth. 
"  That  is  my  definition  of  the  unities  of  the  drama." 

Mrs,  Curdle  had  sat  listeninK"  to  this  lucid  explanation 
with  great  complacency.  It  hc-ing  finished,  she  inquired 
what  Mr.  Curdle  thought,  about  putting  down  their 
names. 


"  I  don't  know,  my  dear ;  upon  my  word  I  don't  know," 
said  Mr,  Curdle.   "  If  we  do,  it  must  be  distinctly  under^ 
stood  that  we  do  not  pledge  ourselves  to  the  quality  ofl 
the  performances.    Let  it  go  forth  to  the  world,  that  wdB 
do  not  give  them  the  sanction  of  our  names,  but  that  wel, 
confer  the  distinction  merely  upon  Miss  Snevellicci.! 
That  being  clearly  stated,  I  take  it  to  be,  as  it  were  a  I 
duty,  that  we  should  extend  our  patronage  to  a  degraded  f 
stage,  even  for  the  sake  of  the  associations  with  which  it 
is  entwined.    Have  you  got  two-and-sixpence  for  half- 
a-crown.  Miss  Snevellicci  ? "  said  Mr.  Curdle,  turning 
over  four  of  those  pieces  of  money. 

Miss  Snevellicci  felt  in  all  the  corners  of  the  pink 
reticule,  but  there  was  nothing  in  any  of  them.  Nicho- 
las murmured  a  jest  about  his  being  an  author,  and 
thought  it  best  not  to  go  through  the  form  of  feeling  in 
his  ov/n  pockets  at  all, 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Curdle  ;  "twice  four's  eight 
—  four  shillings  a-piece  to  the  boxes.  Miss  Snevellicci,  is 
exceedingly  dear  in  the  present  state  of  the  drama — three 
half-crowns  is  seven-and-six  ;  v>'e  shall  not  differ  about 
sixpence,  I  sui)pose?  Sixpence  will  not  part  us.  Miss 
Snevellicci  ?  " 

Poor  Miss  Snevellicci  took  the  three  half-crowns,  with 
many  smiles  and  bends,  and  Mrs.  Curdle,  adding  several 
supplementary  directions,  relative  to  keeping  the  places 
for  them,  and  dusting  the  seat,  and  sending  two  clean  bills 
as  soon  as  they  came  out,  rang  the  bell,  as  a  signal  fur 
breaking  up  the  conference. 

"Odd  people  those,"  said  Nicholas,  when  they  got 
clear  of  the  house, 

"I  assure  you,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci,  taking  his  arm, 
"  that  I  think  myself  very  lucky  they  did  not  owe  all  the 
money  instead  of  being  sixpence  short.  Now,  if  you 
were  to  succeed,  they  would  give  people  to  understand 
that  they  had  ahvays  patronised  you  ;  and  if  you  were 
to  fail,  they  would  have  been  quite  certain  of  that  from 
the  very  beginning." 

At  the  next  house  they  visited,  they  were  in  great 
glory ;  for,  there,  resided  the  six  children  who  were  so 
enraptured  with  the  public  actions  of  the  phenomenon, 
and  who,  being  called  down  from  the  nursery  to  be 
treated  with  a  private  view  of  that  young  lady,  proceed- 
ed to  poke  their  fing-ers  into  her  eyes,  and  tread  upon 
her  toes,  and  show  her  many  other  little  attentions  pecu- 
liar to  their  time  of  life. 

"I  shall  certainly  persuade  Mr.  Borum  to  take  a  pri- 
vate box,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house,  after  a  most  gra- 
cious reception.  "I  shall  only  take  two  of  the  children, 
and  will  make  up  the  rest  of  the  party,  of  gentlemen — 
your  admirers.  Miss  Snevellicci.  Augustus,  you  naughty 
boy,  leave  the  little  girl  alone," 

This  was  addressed  to  a  young  gentleman  who  was 
pinching  the  phenomenon  behind,  apparently  with  the 
view  of  ascertaining  whether  she  was  real. 

"I  am  sure  you  must  be  very  tired,"  said  the  mama, 
turning  to  Miss  Snevellicci.  "  I  cannot  think  of  allow- 
ing you  to  go,  without  first  taking  a  glass  of  wine.  Fie 
Charlotte,  I  am  ashamed  of  you !  Miss  Lane,  my  dear, 
pray  see  to  the  children." 

Miss  Lane  was  the  governess,  and  this  entreaty  was 
rendered  necessary  by  the  abrupt  behaviour  of  the 
youngest  Miss  Borum,  who,  having  filched  the  phenom- 
enon's little  green  parasol,  was  now  carrying  it  boldly 
off,  while  the  distracted  infant  looked  helplessly  on. 

I  am  sure,  where  you  ever  learnt  to  act  as  you  do," 
said  good-natured  Mrs.  Borum,  turning  again  to  Miss 
Snevellicci,  "I  cannot  understand  (Emma,  don't  stare 
so) ;  laughing  in  one  piece,  and  crying  in  the  next,  and 
so  natural  in  all — oh,  dear  ! " 

"I  am  very  happy  to  hear  you  express  so  favourabl< 
an  opinion,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci.  "It's  quite  delight- 
ful to  think  you  like  it," 

"Like  it  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Borum.  "  Who  can  help  liking 
it  !  I  would  go  to  the  play  twice  a  week  if  I  could  :  I 
dote  upon  it — only  you're  too  affecting  sometimes.  You 
do  put  me  in  such  a  state — into  such  fits  of  crying  ' 
Goodness  gracious  me.  Miss  Lane,  how  can  you  let  then 
torment  that  poor  child  so  !" 

The  phenomenon  was  really  in  a  fair  way  of  beiiu 
torn  limb  from  limb  :  for  two  strong  little  boys,  one 
holding  on  by  each  of  her  hands,  were  dragging  her  in 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


89 


different  directions  as  a  trial  of  strenf^th.  However, 
Miss  Lane  (who  had  herself  been  too  nmch  occui)ied  in 
contemplating  the  grown-up  actors,  to  pay  the  necessary 
attention  to  these  proceedings)  rescued  the  unhappy  in- 
fant at  this  juncture,  who,  being  recruited  with  a  glass 
of  wine,  was  shortly  afterwards  taken  away  by  her 
friends,  after  sustaining  no  more  serious  damage  than  a 
flattening  of  the  pink  gauze  bonnet,  and  a  rather  exten- 
sive cre^ising  of  the  white  frock  and  trowsers. 

It  was  a  trying  morning  ;  for  there  were  a  great  many 
calls  to  make,  and  everybody  wanted  a  different  thing. 
Some  wanted  tragedies,  and  others  comedies  ;  some  ob- 
jected to  dancing  ;  some  wanted  scarcely  anything  else. 
Some  thought  the  comic  singer  decidedly  low,  and  others 
hoped  he  would  have  more  to  do  than  he  usually  had. 
Some  people  wouldn't  promise  to  go,  because  other  people 
wouldn't  promise  to  go  ;  and  other  people  wouldn't  go  at 
all,  because  other  people  went.  At  length,  and  by  little 
and  little,  omitting  something  in  this  place,  and  adding 
something  in  that.  Miss  Snevellicci  pledged  herself  to  a 
bill  of  fare  which  was  comprehensive  enough,  if  it  had 
no  other  merit  (it  included  among  other  trifles,  four 
pieces,  divers  songs,  a  few  combats,  and  several  dances) ; 
and  they  returned  home,  pretty  well  exhausted  with  the 
business  of  the  day. 

Nicholas  worked  away  at  the  piece,  which  was  speed- 
ily put  into  rehearsal,  and  then  worked  away  at  his  own 
part,  which  he  studied  with  great  perseverance  and  acted 
— as  the  whole  company  said — to  perfection.  And  at 
length  the  great  day  arrived.  The  crier  was  sent  round, 
in  the  morning,  to  proclaim  the  entertainments  with 
sound  of  bell  in  all  the  thoroughfares  ;  and  extra  bills 
of  three  feet  long  by  nine  inches  wide,  were  dispersed 
in  all  directions,  flung  down  all  the  areas,  thrust  under 
all  the  knockers,  and  developed  in  all  the  shops.  They 
were  placarded  on  all  the  walls  too,  though  not  with 
complete  success,  for  an  illiterate  person  having  under- 
taken this  office  d  uring  the  indisposition  of  the  regular 
bill-sticker,  a  part  were  posted  sideways,  and  the  re- 
mainder upside  down. 

At  half-past  five,  there  was  a  rush  of  four  people  to 
the  gallery-door  ;  at  a  quarter  before  six,  there  were  at 
least  a  dozen  ;  at  six  o'clock  the  kicks  were  terrific  ;  and 
when  the  elder  Master  Crummies  opened  the  door,  he 
was  obliged  to  run  behind  it  for  his  life.  Fifteen  shil- 
lings were  taken  by  Mrs.  Grudden  in  the  first  ten  min- 
utes. 

Behind  the  scenes,  the  same  unwonted  excitement 
prevailed.  Miss  Snevellicci  was  in  such  a  perspiration 
that  the  paint  would  scarcely  stay  on  her  face.  Mrs. 
Crummies  was  so  nervous  that  she  could  hardly  remem- 
ber her  part.  Miss  Bravassa's  ringlets  came  out  of  curl 
with  the  heat  and  anxiety  ;  even  Mr.  Crummies  himself 
kept  peeping  througli  the  hole  in  the  curtain,  and  run- 
ning back,  every  novv  and  then,  to  announce  that  another 
man  had  come  into  the  pit. 

At  last,  the  orchestra  left  off,  and  the  curtain  rose 
upon  the  new  piece.  The  first  scene,  in  which  there  was 
nobody  particular,  passed  off  calmly  enough,  but  when 
Miss  Snevellicci  went  on  in  the  second,  accompanied  by 
the  phenomenon  as  child,  what  a  roar  of  ajiplause  broke 
out  !  The  peojlle  in  the  Borum  box  rose  as  one  man, 
waving  their  hats  and  handkerchiefs,  and  uttering  shouts 
of  "bravo!"  Mrs,  Borum  and  the  governess  cast 
wreaths  upon  the  stage,  of  which,  some  fluttered  into 
the  lamps,  and  one  crowned  the  temples  of  a  fat  gentle- 
man in  the  pit,  who,  looking  eagerly  towards  the  scene, 
remained  unconscious  of  the  honour  ;  the  tailor  and  his 
family  kicked  at  the  panels  of  the  upper  boxes  till  they 
threatened  to  come  out  altogether  ;  the  very  ginger-beer 
boy  remained  transfixed  in  the  centre  of  the  house  ;  a 
young  officer,  supposed  to  entertain  a  passion  for  'IMiss 
Snevellicci,  stuck  his  glass  in  his  eye  as  though  to  hide 
a  tear.  Again  and  again  Miss  Snevellicci  curtseyed  lower 
and  lower,  and  again  and  again  the  applause  came  down, 
louder  and  louder.  At  length,  when  the  phenomenon 
picked  up  one  of  the  smoking  wreaths  and  put  it  on, 
sideways,  over  Miss  Snevellicci's  eye,  it  reached  its 
climax,  and  the  play  proceeded. 

But  when  Nicholas  came  on  for  his  crack  scene  with 
Mrs.  Crummies,  what  a  clapping  of  hands  there  was  ! 
When  Mrs.  Crummies  (who  was  his  unworthy  mother) 


sneered,  and  called  him  "presumptuous  boy,"  and  ho 
defied  her,  what  a  tuinult  of  .apjjlause  came  on  !  W'lion 
he  quarrelled  with  the  otiior  gentleman  about  the  youT'jr 
lady,  and  producing  a  case  of  pistols,  said,  that' if  he 
wan  a  gentleman,  he  would  fight  hirn  in  that  drawing- 
room,  until  the  furniture  was  sprinkled  with  tlie  bl<;od 
of  one,  if  not  of  two — how  boxes,  pit,  and  gallery,  joined 
in  one  most  vigorous  cheer  !  When  he  called  his  mother 
names,  because  she  wouldn't  give  up  the  young  lady's 
property,  and  she  relenting  caused  him  to  relent  like- 
wise, and  fall  down  on  one  knee  and  ask  her  blessing, 
how  the  ladies  in  the  audience  sobbed  !  Wlien  ho  was 
hid  behind  the  curtain  in  the  dark,  and  the  wicked  rela- 
tion poked  a  sharp  sword  in  every  direction,  save  where 
his  legs  were  plainly  visible,  what  a  thrill  of  anxious 
fear  ran  through  the  house  !  His  air,  his  figure,  his 
walk,  his  look,  everything  he  said  or  did,  was  the  sub- 
ject of  commendation.  There  was  a  round  of  applause 
every  time  he  spoke.  And  when,  at  last,  in  the  pump- 
and-tub  scene,  Mrs.  Grudden  lighted  the  blue  fire,  and 
all  the  unemployed  members  of  the  company  came  in, 
and  tumbled  down  in  various  directions — not  because 
that  had  anything  to  do  with  the  plot,  but  in  order  to 
finish  off  with  a  tableau — the  audience  (who  had  by  this 
time  increased  considerably)  gave  vent  to  such  a  shout 
of  enthusiasm,  as  had  not  been  heard  in  those  walls  for 
many  and  many  a  day. 

In  short,  the  success  both  of  new  piece  and  new  actor 
was  complete,  and  when  JMiss  Snevellicci  was  called  for  at 
the  end  of  the  play,  Nicholas  led  her  on,  and  divided  the 
applause. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Concerning  a  Ymtng  Lady  from  London,  rc  ho  joins  the  Company,  and 
an  elderly  Adnnrer  ivho  follows  in  her  Train  ;  with  an  affecting 
Ceremony  consequent  on  their  Arnval. 

The  new  piece  being  a  decided  hit,  was  announced 
for  every  evening  of  performance  until  further  notice, 
and  the  evenings  when  the  theatre  was  closed,  were 
reduced  from  three  in  the  w^eek  to  two.  Nor  were  these 
the  only  tokens  of  extraordinary  success  ;  for,  on  the 
succeeding  Saturday,  Nicholas  received,  by  favour  of 
the  indefatigable  Mrs.  Grudden,  no  less  a  sum  than 
thirty  shillings  ;  besides  wdiich  substantial  reward,  he 
enjoyed  considerable  fame  and  bonour  :  having  a  pre- 
sentation copy  of  Mr.  Curdle's  pamphlet  forwarded  to 
the  theatre,  with  that  gentleman's  own  autograph  (in 
itself  an  inestimable  treasure)  on  the  fly-leaf,  accom- 
panied with  a  note,  containing  many  expressions  of  ap- 
proval, and  an  unsolicited  assurance  that  Mr.  Curdle 
would  be  very  happy  to  read  Shakespeare  to  him  for 
three  hours  every  morning  before  breakfast  during  his 
stay  in  the  town. 

"I've  got  another  novelty,  Johnson,"  said  Mr.  Crum- 
mies one  morning  in  great  glee. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  rejoined  Nicholas.    "  The  pony  ?  " 

"No,  no,  we  never  come  to  the  pony  till  everything 
else  has  failed,"  said  Mr.  Crummies.  "  I  don't  think 
we  shall  come  to  the  pony  at.  all,  this  season.  No,  no, 
not  the  pony." 

"  A  boy  plienomenon,  perhaps  ?"  suggested  Nicholas. 

"There  is  only  one  phenomenon,  sir,"  replied  Mr. 
Crummies  impressively,  "  and  that's  a  girl." 

"Very  true,"  said  Nicholas.  "I  beg  your  pardon. 
Then  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  I  am  sure.  ' 

"What  should  you  say  to  a  young  lady  from  Lon- 
don ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Crummies.  "  Miss  So-and-so,  of  the 
Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane?" 

"  I  should  say  she'would  look  very  well  in  the  bills," 
said  Nicholas. 

"  Tou're  about  right  there,"  said  Mr.  Crummies  ;  "  and 
if  you  had  said  she  would  look  very  well  upon  the  stage 
too,  you  wouldn't  have  been  far  out.  Look  here  ;  what 
do  you  think  of  this?" 

With  this  inquiry  Mr.  Crummies  unfolded  a  red  poster, 
and  a  blue  poster,  and  a  yellow  poster,  at  the  top  of  each 
of  whicli  public  notification  was  inscribed  in  enormous 
characters — "  First  appearance  of  the  unrivalled  Miss 
Petowker  of  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane  !" 

"  Dear  me  ! "  said  Nicholas,  "  I  know  that  lady." 


90 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"Then  you  are  acquainted  with  as  much  talent  as 
was  ever  compressed  into  one  young  person's  body,"  re- 
tortefl  Mr.  Crummies,  rolling  up  the  bills  again  ;  "  that 
is,  talent  of  a  certain  sort — of  a  certain  sort.  *  The 
Blood  Drinker,'  "  added  Mr.  Crummies  with  a  prophetic 
sigh,  "  'The  Blood  Drinker'  will  die  with  that  girl  ;  and 
she's  the  only  sylph  /  ever  saw,  who  could  stand  upon 
one  leg,  and  play  the  tambourine  on  her  other  knee,  like 
a  sylph." 

"  When  does  she  come  down  ?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"We  expect  her  to-day,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies. 
*'  She  is  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Crummles's.  Mrs.  Crum- 
mies saw  what  she  could  do — always  knew  it  from  the 
first.  She  taught  her,  indeed,  nearly  all  she  knows. 
Mrs.  Crummies  was  the  original  Blood  Drinker." 

"  Was  she,  indeed?" 

"  Yes.    She  was  obliged  to  give  it  up  though." 

"  Did  it  disagree  with  her?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"Not  so  much  with  her,  as  with  her  audience,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Crummies.  "Nobody  could  stand  it.  It  was 
too  tremendous.  You  don't  quite  know  what  Mrs. 
Crummies  is,  yet." 

Nicholas  ventured  to  insinuate  that  he  thought  he 
did. 

"No,  no,  you  don't,"  said  Mr.  Crummies  ;  "you  don't 
indeed.  /  don't,  and  that's  a  fact.  I  don't  think  her 
country  v>dll,  till  she  is  dead.  Some  new  proof  of  talent 
bursts  from  that  astonishing  woman  every  year  of  her 
life.  Look  at  her — mother  of  six  children — three  of  'em 
alive,  and  all  upon  the  stage  !  " 

"  Extraordinary  !"  cried  Nicholas. 

"Ah  !  extraordinary  indeed,"  rejoined  Mr.  Crummies, 
taking  a  complacent  pinch  of  snuff,  and  shaking  his 
head  gravely.  "I  pledge  you  my  professional  word  I 
didn't  even  know  she  could  dance,  till  her  last  benefit, 
and  then  she  played  Juliet,  and  Helen  Macgregor,  and 
did  the  skipping-rope  hornpipe  between  the  pieces. 
The  very  first  time  I  saw  that  admirable  woman,  John- 
son," said  Mr.  Crummies,  drawing  a  little  nearer,  and 
speaking  in  the  tone  of  confidential  friendship,  "she 
stood  upon  her  head  on  the  butt-end  of  a  spear,  sur- 
rounded with  blazing  fireworks." 

"  You  astonish  me  !  "  said  Nicholas. 

''She  astonished  me!"  returned  Mr.  Crummies,  with 
a  very  serious  countenance.  "  Such  grace,  coupled  with 
such  dignity  !    I  adored  her  from  that  moment ! " 

The  arrival  of  the  gifted  subject  of  these  remarks  put 
an  abrupt  termination  to  Mr.  Crummles's  eulogium. 
Almost  immediately  afterwards,  Master  Percy  Crum- 
mies entered  with  a  letter,  v*^hich  had  arrived  by  the 
General  Post,  and  was  directed  to  his  gracious  mother  ; 
at  sight  of  the  superscription  whereof,  Mrs.  Crummies 
exclaimed,  "From  Henrietta  Petowker,  I  do  declare  !" 
and  instantly  became  absorbed  in  its  contents. 

"  Is  it — ?"  inquired  Mr.  Crummies,  hesitating. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it's  all  right,"  replied  Mrs.  Crummies  an- 
ticipating the  question.  "  What  an  excellent  thing  for 
her,  to  be  sure  !  " 

"  It's  the  best  thing  altogether,  that  I  ever  heard  of, 
I  think,"  said  Mr.  Crummies  ;  and  then  Mr.  Crummies, 
Mrs.  Crummies,  and  Master  Percy  Crummies,  all  fell 
to  laughing  violently,  Nicholas  left  them  to  enjoy  their 
mirth  together,  and  walked  to  his  lodgings  f  wondering 
very  much  what  mystery  connected  with  Miss  Petowker 
could  provoke  such  merriment,  and  pondering  still  more 
on  the  extreme  surprise  with  which  that  lady  would 
regard  his  sudden  enlistment  in  a  profession  of  which 
she  was  such  a  distinguished  and  brilliant  ornament. 

But,  in  this  latter  respect  he  was  mistaken  ;  for — 
whether  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  had  paved  the  way,  or 
Miss  Petowker  had  some  special  reason  for  treating  him 
with  even  more  than  her  usual  amiability — their  meet- 
ing at  the  theatre  next  day  was  more  like  that  of  two 
dear  friends  who  had  been  inseparable  from  infancy, 
than  a  recognition  passing  between  a  lady  and  gentle- 
man who  had  only  met  some  half  dozen  times,  and  then 
by  mere  chance.  Nay,  Miss  Petowker  even  whispered 
that  she  had  wholly  dropped  the  Kenwigses  in  her  conver- 
sations with  the  manager's  family,  and  had  represented 
herself  as  having  encountered  Mr.  Johnson  in  the  very 
first  and  most  fashionable  circles  ;  and  on  Nicholas  re- 
ceiving this  intelligence  with  unfeigned  surprise,  she 


added,  with  a  sweet  glance,  that  she  had  a  claim  on  his 
good  nature  now,  and  might  tax  it  before  long. 

Nicholas  had  the  honour  of  playing  in  a  slight  piece 
with  Miss  Petowker  that  night,  and  could  not  but  ob- 
serve that  the  warmth  of  her  reception  was  mainly  at- 
tributable to  a  most  persevering  umbrella  in  the  upper 
boxes  ;  he  saw,  too,  that  the  enchanting  actress  cast 
many  sweet  looks  towards  the  quarter  whence  these 
sounds  proceeded  ;  and  that  every  time  she  did  so,  the 
umbrella  broke  out  afresh.  Once,  he  thought*  that  a 
peculiarly  shaped  hat  in  the  same  corner  was  not  wholly 
unknown  to  him  ;  but,  being  occupied  with  his  share 
of  the  stage  business,  he  bestowed  no  great  attention 
upon  this  circumstance,  and  it  had  quite  vanished  from 
his  memory  by  the  time  he  reached  home. 

He  had  just  sat  down  to  supper  withSmike,  when  one 
of  the  people  of  the  house  came  outside  the  door,  and 
announced  that  a  gentleman  below  stairs  wished  to  speak 
to  Mr.  Johnson. 

"  Well,  if  he  does,  you  must  tell  him  to  come  up  ; 
that's  all  I  know,"  replied  Nicholas.  "One  of  our 
hungry  brethren,  I  suppose,  Smike." 

His  fellow-lodger  looked  at  the  cold  meat  in  silent 
calculation  of  the  quantity  that  would  be  left  for  dinner 
next  day,  and  put  back  a  slice  he  had  cut  for  himself,  in 
order  that  the  visitor's  encroachments  might  be  less  for- 
midable in  their  effects. 

"  It  is  not  anybody  who  has  been  here  before,"  said 
Nicholas,  "  for  he  is  tumbling  up  every  stair.  Come  in, 
come  in.    In  the  name  of  wonder  I    Mr.  Lillyvick?" 

It  was,  indeed,  the  collector  of  water-rates  who,  re- 
garding Nicholas,  with  a  fixed  look  and  immovable  coun- 
tenance, shook  hands  with  most  portentous  solemnity, 
and  sat  himself  down  in  a  seat  by  the  chimney; -corner. 

"  Why,  when  did  you  come  here?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"This  morning,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

"  Oh  !  I  see;  then  you  were  at  the  theatre  to-night, 
and  it  was  your  umb — " 

"This  umbrella,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  producing  a  fat 
green  cotton  one  with  a  battered  ferrule.  "  What  did 
you  think  of  that  performance?" 

"  So  far  as  I  could  judge,  being  on  the  stage,"  replied 
Nicholas,  "  I  thought  it  very  agreeable." 

"Agreeable  !"  cried  the  collector.  "I  mean  to  say, 
sir,  that  it  was  delicious." 

Mr.  Lillyvick  bent  forward  to  pronounce  the  last 
word  with  greater  emphasis  ;  and  having  done  so,  drew 
himself  up,  and  frowned  and  nodded  a  great  many  times. 

"I  say,  delicious,"  repeated  Mr.  Lillyvick.  "Absorb- 
ing, fairy -like,  toomultuous."  and  again  Mr.  Lillyvick 
drew  himself  up,  and  again  he  frowned  and  nodded. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Nicholas,  a  little  surprised  at  these 
symptoms  of  ecstatic  approbation.  ' '  Yes — she  is  a 
clever  girl." 

"  She  is  a  divinity,"  returned  Mr.  Lillyvick,  giving 
a  collector's  double  knock  on  the  ground  with  the  um- 
brella before  mentioned.  "  I  have  known  divine  actresses 
before  now,  sir  ;  I  used  to  collect — at  least  I  used  to  call 
for — and  very  often  call  for — the  water-rate  at  the  house 
of  a  divine  actress,  who  lived  in  my  beat  for  upwards  of 
four  year,  but  never — no,  never,  sir — of  all  divine 
creatures,  actresses  or  no  actresses,  did  I  see  a  diviner 
one  than  is  Henrietta  Petowker." 

Nicholas  had  much  ado  to  prevent  himself  from  laugh- 
ing ;  not  trusting  himself  to  speak,  he  merely  nodded 
in  accordance  with  Mr.  Lilly vick's  nods,  and  remained 
silent. 

"  Let  me  speak  a  word  with  you  in  private,"  said  Mr. 
Lillyvick. 

Nicholas  looked  good-humouredly  at  Smike,  who,  tak- 
ing the  hint,  disappeared. 

'"  A  bachelor  is  a  miserable  wretch,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Lilly- 
vick. 

"  Is  he  ?  "  asked  Nicholas. 

"  He  is,"  rejoined  the  collector.  "  I  have  lived  in  the 
world  for  nigh  sixty  year,  and  I  ought  to  know  what  it 
is." 

"You  oiiglit  to  kpow,  certainly,"  thought  Nicholas ; 
"  but  whether  you  do  or  not,  is  another  question." 

"  If  a  bachelor  happens  to  have  saved  a  little  matter 
of  money,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  "  his  sisters  and  brothers, 
and  nephews  and  nieces,  look  to  that  money,  and  not  to 


NICHOLAS 

him  ;  even  if,  by  being  a  public  character,  he  is  the  head 
of  the  family,  or,  as  it  may  be,  the  main  from  which  all 
the  other  little  branches  are  turned  on,  they  still  wish 
him  dead  all  the  while,  and  get  low-spirited  every  time 
they  see  him  looking  in  good  health,  because  tliey  want 
to  come  into  his  little  property.    You  see  that  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Nicholas;  "it's  very  true,  no 
doubt." 

"  The  great  reason  for  not  being  married,"  resumed 
Mr.  Lilly  vick,  "  is  the  expense  ;  that's  what's  kept  me 
off,  or  else — Lord!"  said  Mr.  Lilly  vick,  snapping  his 
fingers,  "  I  might  have  had  fifty  women." 

"Fine  women?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"  Fine  women,  sir  !  "  replied  the  collector  ;  "  aye  !  not 
so  fine  as  Henrietta  Petowker,  for  she  is  an  uncommon 
specimen,  but  such  women  as  don't  fall  into  every  man's 
.way,  I  can  tell  you.  Now  suppose  a  man  can  get  a  for- 
tune in  a  wife  instead  of  with  her — eh  ?  " 

"  Why,  then,  he's  a  lucky  fellow,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"That's  what  I  say,"  retorted  the  collector,  patting 
him  benignautly  on  the  side  of  the  head  with  his  um- 
brella ;  "just  what  I  say.  Henrietta  Petowker,  the 
talented  Henrietta  Petowker  has  a  fortune  in  herself, 
and  I  am  going  to — " 

"  To  make  her  Mrs.  Lillyvick?"  suggested  Nicholas. 

"No,  sir,  not  to  make  her  Mrs.  Lillyvick,"  replied  the 
collector.  "Actresses,  sir,  always  keep  their  maiden 
names — that's  the  regular  thing — but  I'm  going  to  marry 
her  ;  and  the  day  after  to-morrow,  too." 

"  I  congratulate  you,  sir,"  said  Nicliolas. 

"  ThauJk  you,  sir,"  replied  the  collector,  buttoning  his 
waistcoat.  "  I  shall  draw  her  salary,  of  course,  and  I 
hope  after  all  that  it's  nearly  as  cheap  to  keep  two  as  it 
is  to  keep  one  ;  that's  a  consolation." 

"  Surely  you  don't  want  any  consolation  at  such  a 
moment  ?  "  observed  Nicholas. 

"No,"  replied  Mr.  Lillyvick,  shaking  his  head  nerv- 
ously :  "  no — of  course  not." 

"  But  how  come  you  both  here,  if  you're  going  to  be 
married,  Mr.  Lillyvick  ?  "  asked  Nicholas. 

"  Why,  that's  what  I  came  to  explain  to  you,"  replied 
the  collector  of  water-rate.  "  The  fact  is,  we  have 
I  thought  it  best  to  keep  it  secret  from  the  family." 

" Family  !  "  said  Nicholas.    "  What  family?"" 

"  The  Kenwigses  of  course,"  rejoined  Mr.  Lillyvick. 
"  If  my  niece  and  the  children  had  known  a  word  about 
it  before  I  came  away,  they'd  have  gone  into  fits  at  my 
feet,  and  never  have  come  out  of  'em  till  I  took  an  oath 
not  to  marry  anybody— or  they'd  have  got  out  a  commis- 
sion of  lunacy,  or  some  dreadful  thing,"  said  the  collec- 
tor, quite  trembling  as  he  spoke. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Nicholas.  "  Yes ;  they  would 
'  have  been  jealous,  no  doubt." 

"To  prevent  which,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  "Henrietta 
1  Petowker  (it  was  settled  between  us)  should  come  dowai 
here  to  her  friends,  the  Crummleses,  under  pretence  of 
this  engagement,  and  I  should  go  down  to  Guildford  the 
day  before,  and  join  her  on  the  coach  there,  which  I  did, 
and  we  came  down  from  Guildford  yesterday  together. 
Now,  for  fear  you  should  be  writing  to  Mr.  Noggs,  and 
might  say  anything  about  u«,  we  have  thought  it  best  to 
let  you  into  the  secret.  We  shall  be  married  from  the 
Crummleses'  lodgings,  and  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you 
—either  before  church  or  at  breakfast-time,  which  you 
like.  It  won't  be  expensive,  you  know,"  said  the  collec- 
tor, highly  anxious  to  prevent  any  misunderstanding  on 
this  point;  "just  muflSns  and  coffee,  with  perhaps  a 
shrimp  or  something  of  that  sort  for  a  relish,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand,"  replied  Nicholas.    "  Oh,  I 
,  shall  be  most  happy  to  come  ;  it  will  give  me  the  great- 
est pleasure.    Where's  the  lady  stopping — with  Mrs. 
Crummies?" 

"  Why,  no,"  said  the  collector  ;  "  they  couldn't  very 
well  dispose  of  her  at  night,  and  so  she  is  staying  with  an 
acquaintance  of  hers,  and  another  young  lady  ;  they 
both  belong  to  the  theatre." 

" Miss  Snevellicci,  I  suppose?"  said  Nicholas. 

"Yes,  that's  the  name." 

"And  they'll  be  bridesmaids,  I  presume?"  said  Nich- 
olas. 

"  Why,"  said  the  collector,  with  a  rueful  face,  "  they 


NICKLEBY.  91 

will  have  four  bridesmaids  ;  I'm  afraid  they'll  make  it 
rather  theatrical." 

"Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  replied  Nicholas,  with  an  awlc- 
ward  attempt  to  convert  a  laugh  into  a  cough.  "  Wlio 
may  the  four  be?  Miss  Snevellicci  of  course — Misfj 
Ledrook — " 

"  The— the  phenomenon,"  groaned  the  c^jllector. 

"Ha,  ha!"  cried  Nicholas.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  laughing  at — yes,  that'll  be  very 
pretty — the  phenomenon — who  else  ?  " 

"Some  young  woman  or  other,"  replied  the  collector, 
rising,  "some  other  friend  of  Henrietta  Petowker's. 
Well,  you'll  be  careful  not  to  say  anything  about  it,  will 
you?" 

"  You  may  safely  depend  upon  me,"  replied  Nicholas. 
"  Won't  you  take  anything  to  eat  or  drink  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  collector  ;  "  I  haven't  any  appetite.  I 
should  think  it  was  a  very  pleasant  life,  the  married  one 
—eh  ? " 

"I  have  not  the  least  doubt  of  it,"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

" Yes,"  said  the  collector;  "certainly.  Oh  yes.  No 
doubt.    Good  night." 

Willi  these  words,  Mr.  Lillyvick,  whose  manner  had 
exhibited  through  the  whole  of  this  interview  a  most 
extraordinary  compound  of  precipitation,  hesitation,  con- 
fidence and  doubt,  fondness,  misgiving,  meanness,  and 
self-importance,  turned  his  back  upon  the  room,  and  left 
Nicholas  to  enjoy  a  laugh  by  himself  if  he  felt  so  dis- 
posed. 

Without  stopping  to  inquire  whether  the  intervening 
day  appeared  to  Nicholas  to  consist  of  the  usual  number 
of  hours  of  the  ordinary  length,  it  may  be  remarked 
that,  to  the  parties  more  directly  interested  in  the  forth, 
coming  ceremony,  it  passed  with  great  rax)idity,  inso- 
much that  when  Miss  Petowker  awoke  on  the  succeeding 
morning  in  the  chamber  of  Miss  Snevellicci,  she  declared 
that  nothing  should  ever  persuade  her  that  that  really 
was  the  day  which  was  to  behold  a  change  in  her  condi- 
tion. 

"I  never  will  believe  it,"  said  Miss  Petowker;  "1 
cannot  really.  It's  of  no  use  talking,  I  never  can  make 
up  my  mind  to  go  through  with  such  a  trial  ! " 

On  hearing  this.  Miss  Snevellicci  and  Miss  Ledrook, 
who  knew  perfectly  well  that  their  fair  friend's  mind 
had  been  made  up  for  three  or  four  years,  at  any  period 
of  which  time  she  would  have  cheerfully  undergone  the 
desr)erate  trial  now  approaching  if  she  could  have  found 
any  eligible  gentleman  disposed  for  the  venture,  began 
to  preach  comfort  and  firmness,  and  to  say  how  very 
proud  she  ought  to  feel  that  it  was  in  hor  power  to  con- 
fer lasting  bliss  on  a  deserving  object,  and  how  necessary 
it  was  for  the  happiness  of  mankiiid  in  general  that  wo- 
men should  possess  fortitude  and  resignation  on  such  oc- 
casions ;  and  that  although  for  their  parts  they  held  true 
happiness  to  consist  in  a  single  life,  which  they  would 
not  willingly  exchange — no,  not  for  any  worldly  consid- 
eration— stiil  (thank  God),  if  ever  the  time  should  come, 
they  hoped  they  knew  their  duty  too  well  to  repine,  but 
would  the  rather  submit  with  meekness  and  humility  of 
spirit  to  a  fate  for  which  Providence  had  clearly  de- 
signed them  with  a  view  to  the  contentment  and  reward 
of  their  fellow-creatures. 

"  I  might  feel  it  was  a  great  blow,"  said  Miss  Snevel- 
licci, "to  break  up  old  associations  and  what-do-you- 
callems  of  that  kind,  but  I  would  submit  my  dear,  I 
would  indeed." 

"So  would  I,"  said  Miss  Ledrook;  "I  would  rather 
court  the  yoke  than  shun  it.  I  have  broken  hearts  be- 
fore now,  and  I'm  very  sorry  for  it :  for  it's  a  terrible 
thing  to  reflect  upon." 

"  It  is  indeed,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci.  "Now  Led, my 
dear,  we  must  positively  get  her  ready,  or  we  shall  be 
too  late,' we  shall  indeed." 

This  pious  reasoning,  and  perhaps  the  fear  of  being 
too  late,  supported  the  bride  through  the  ceremony  of 
robing,  after  which,  strong  tea  and  "brandy  were  admin- 
istered in  alternate  doses  as  a  means  of  strengthening 
her  feeble  limbs  and  causing  her  to  walk  steadier. 

"How  do  you  feel  now%  my  love?"  inquired  Miss 
Snevellicci. 

"Oh  Lillyvick  !"  cried  the  bride — "If  you  knew  what 
I  am  undergoing  for  you  ! " 


92 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Of  course  lie  knows  it,  love,  and  will  never  forget 
it,"  said  Miss  Ledrook. 

"  Do  you  tliink  he  won't  ?"  cried  Miss  Petow]?;er,  really 
showing  great  capability  for  the  stage.  "Oh,  do  you 
think  he  won't  ?  Do  you  tliink  Lillyvick  will  always  re- 
member it — always,  always,  always?" 

There  is  no  knowing  in  what  this  burst  of  feeling 
might  have  ended,  if  Miss  Snevellicci  had  not  at  that 
moment  proclaimed  the  arrival  of  the  fly,  which  so  as- 
tounded the  bride  that  she  shook  off  divers  alarming 
symptoms  which  were  coming  on  very  strong,  and  run- 
ning to  the  glass  adjusted  her  dress,  and  calmly  declared 
that  she  was  ready  for  the  sacrifice. 

She  was  accordingly  supported  into  the  coach,  and 
there  "kept  up"  (as  Miss  Snevellicci  said)  with  perpet- 
ual sniffs  of  sal  volatile  and  sips  of  brandy  and  other 
gentle  stimulants,  until  they  reached  the  manager's 
door,  which  was  alread}^  opened  by  the  two  Master 
Crummleses,  who  wore  white  cockades,  and  were  deco- 
rated with  the  choicest  and  most  resplendent  waistcoats 
in  the  theatrical  wardrobe.  By  the  combined  exertions 
of  these  young  gentlemen  and  the  bridesmaids,  assisted 
by  the  coachman.  Miss  Petowker  was  at  length  supported 
in  a  condition  of  much  exhaustion  to  the  first  floor,  where 
she  no  sooner  encountered  the  youthful  bridegroom  than 
she  fainted  with  great  decorum. 

"Henrietta  Petowker!"  said  the  collector;  "cheer 
up,  my  lovely  one." 

Miss  Petowker  grasped  the  collector's  hand,  but  emo- 
tion choked  her  utterance. 

"Is  the  sight  of  me  so  dreadful,  Henrietta  Petow- 
ker?" said  the  collector. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  rejoined  the  bride;  "but  all  the 
friends — the  darling  friends — of  my  youthful  days — to 
leave  them  all — it  is  such  a  shock  !  " 

With  such  expressions  of  sorrow,  M^ss  Petowker  went 
on  to  enumerate  the  dear  friends  of  her  youthful  days 
one  by  one,  and  to  call  upon  such  of  them  as  were  pres- 
ent to  come  and  embrace  her.  This  done,  she  remem- 
bered that  Mrs.  Crummies  had  been  more  than  a  mother 
to  her,  and  after  that,  that  Mr.  Crummies  had  been  more 
than  a  father  to  her,  and  after  that,  that  the  Master 
Crummleses  and  Miss  Ninetta  Crummies  had  been  more 
than  brothers  and  sisters  to  her.  These  various  remem- 
brances being  each  accompanied  with  a  series  of  hugs, 
occupied  a  long  time,  and  they  were  obliged  to  drive  to 
church  very  fast,  for  fear  they  should  be  too  late. 

The  procession  consisted  of  two  flys ;  in  the  first  of 
which  were  Miss  Bravassa  (the  fourth  bridesmaid),  Mrs. 
Crummies,  the  collector,  and  Mr.  Folair,  who  had  been 
chosen  as  liis  second  on  the  occasion.  In  the  other  were 
the  bride,  Mr.  Crummies,  Miss  Snevellicci,  Miss  Led- 
rook, and  the  phenomenon.  The  costumes  were  beauti- 
ful. The  bridesmaids  were  quite  covered  with  artificial 
flowers,  and  the  phenomenon,  in  particular,  was  rendered 
almost  invisible  by  the  portable  arbour  in  which  she 
was  enshrined.  Miss  Ledrook,  who  was  of  a  romantic 
tnrn,  wore  in  her  breast  the  miniature  of  some  field- 
officer  unknown,  which  she  had  purchased,  a  great  bar- 
gain, not  very  long  before  ;  the  other  ladies  displayed 
several  dazzling  articles  of  imitative  jewelry,  almost 
equal  to  the  real  ;  and  Mrs.  Crummies  came  out  in  a 
stern  and  gloomy  majesty,  which  attracted  the  admira- 
tion of  all  beholders. 

But,  perhaps  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Crummies  was 
more  striking  and  appropriate  than  that  of  any  member 
of  the  party.  This  gentleman,  who  personated  the 
bride's  father,  had,  in  pursuance  of  a  happy  and  original 
conception,  "made  up"  for  the  part  by  arraying  himself 
in  a  theatrical  wig,  of  a  style  and  pattern  commonly 
known  as  a  brown  George,  and  moreover  assuming  a 
snuff-coloured  suit,  of  the  previous  century,  wi^th  grey 
silk  stockings,  and  buckles  to  his  shoes.  The  better  to 
support  his  assumed  character  ho  had  determined  to  be 
greatly  overcome,  and,  consequently,  when  they  entered 
the  church,  the  sobs  of  the  affectionate  parent  were  so 
heartrending  that  the  pew-opener  suggested  the  propri- 
ety of  his  retiring  to  the  vestry,  and  comforting  himself 
with  a  glass  of  water  before  the  ceremony  began. 

The  procession  up  the  aisle  was  beautiful.  The  bride, 
with  the  four  bridesmaids,  forming  a  group  previously 
arranged  and  rehearsed ;  the  collector,  followed  by  his 


second,  imitating  his  walk  and  gestures,  to  the  inde- 
scribable amusement  of  some  theatrical  friends  in  the 
gallery  ;  Mr.  Crummies,  with  an  infirm  and  feeble  gait ; 
Mrs.  Crummies  advancing  with  that  stage  walk,  which 
consists  of  a  stride  and  a  stop  alternately — it  was  the 
completest  thing  ever  witnessed.  The  ceremony  was 
very  quickly  disposed  of,  and  all  parties  present  having 
signed  the  register  (for  which  purpose,  when  it  came  to 
his  turn,  Mr.  Crummies  carefully  wiped  and  put  on  an 
immense  pair  of  spectacles),  they  went  back  to  breakfast 
in  high  spirits.  And  here  they  found  Nicholas  awaiting 
their  arrival. 

"Now  then,"  said  Crummies,  Avho  had  been  assisting 
Mrs.  Grudden  in  the  preparations,  which  were  on  a  more 
extensive  scale  than  was  quite  agreeable  to  the  collector. 
"Breakfast,  breakfast." 

No  second  invitation  was  required.  The  company 
crowded  and  squeezed  themselves  at  the  table  as  well 
as  they  could,  and  fell  to,  immediately  :  Miss  Petowker 
blushing  very  much  when  anybody  was  looking,  and 
eating  very  much  when  anybody  was  not  looking  ;  and 
Mr.  Lillyvick  going  to  work  as  though  with  the  cool 
resolve,  that  since  the  good  things  must  be  paid  for  by 
him,  he  Avould  leave  as  little  as  possible  for  the  Crum- 
mleses to  eat  up  afterwards. 

"  It's  very  soon  done,  sir,  isn't  it  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Folair 
of  the  collector,  leaning  over  the  table  to  address  him. 

"  What  is  soon  done,  sir?"  returned  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

"The  tying  up — the  fixing  oneself  with  a  wife,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Folair.    "  It  don't  take  long,  does  it  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Lillyvick,  colouring.  "It  does 
not  take  long.    And  what  then,  sir?" 

"  Oh  !  nothing,"  said  the  actor.  "  It  don't  take  a  man 
long  to  hang  himself,  either,  eh?  ha,  ha  !" 

Mr.  Lillyvick  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  looked 
round  the  table  with  indignant  astonishment. 

"  To  hang  himself  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

A  profound  silence  came  upon  all,  for  Mr.  Lillyvick 
was  dignified  beyond  expression. 

"  To  hang  himself  !  "  cried  Mr.  Lillyvick  again.  "  Is 
any  parallel  attempted  to  be  drawn  in  this  company 
between  matrimony  and  hanging  ?  " 

"  The  noose,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  a  little  crest- 
fallen. 

"The  noose,  sir?"  retorted  Mr.  Lillyvick.  "Does 
any  man  dare  to  speak  to  me  of  a  noose  and  Henrietta 
Pe— " 

"Lillyvick,"  suggested  Mr.  Crummies. 

— "  and  Henrietta  Lillyvick  in  the  same  breath  ?"  said 
the  collector.  *'  In  this  house,  in  the  presence  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Crummies,  who  have  brought  up  a  talented 
and  virtuous  family,  to  be  blessings  and  phenomeuons, 
and  what  not,  are  we  to  hear  talk  of  nooses  ?  " 

"  Folair,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  deeming  it  a  matter  of 
decency  to  be  affected  by  this  allusion  to  himself  and 
partner,  "  I'm  astonished  at  you." 

"  What  are  you  going  on  this  way  at  me  for  ?  "  urged 
the  unfortunate  actor.    "  What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  Done,  sir  !  "  cried  Mr.  Lillyvick,  "  aimed  a  blow  at 
the  whole  frame- work  of  society — " 

"And  the  best  and  tenderest  feelings,"  added  Crum- 
mies, relapsing  into  the  old  man. 

"And  the  highest  and  m-ost  estimable  of  social  lies," 
said  the  collector.  "Noose!  As  if  one  was  caught, 
trapped  into  the  married  state,  pinned  by  the  leg,  instead 
of  going  into  it  of  one's  own  accord  and  glorying  in  the 
act  ! " 

"I  didn't  mean  to  make  it  out,  that  you  were  caught 
and  trapped,  and  pinned  by  the  leg,"  replied  the  actor. 
"  I'm  sorry  for  it  ;  I  can't  say  any  more." 

"So  you  ought  to  be,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Lillyvick; 
"and  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  enough  feeling 
left  to  be  so. " 

The  quarrel  appearing  to  terminate  with  this  reply, 
Mrs.  Lillyvick  considered  that  the  fittest  occasion  (the 
attention  of  the  company  being  no  longer  distracted)  to 
burst  into  tears,  and  require  the  assistance  of  all  four 
bridesmaids,  which  was  immediately  rendered,  though 
not  without  some  confusion,  for  the  room  being  small, 
and  the  table-cloth  long,  a  whole  detachment  of  plates 
were  swept  off  the  board  at  the  very  first  move.  Regard-  : 
less  of  this  circumstance,  however,  Mrs.  Lillyvick  refused 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


93 


to  be  comforted  until  the  belligerents  had  passed  their 
words  that  the  dispute  should  be  carried  no  furtlier, 
which,  after  a  sufficient  show  of  reluctance,  they  did,  and 
t  i  oni  that  time  Mr.  Folair  sat  in  moody  silence,  content- 
iiiq-  himself  with  pinching  Nicholas's  leg  when  anything 
v.as  said,  and  so  expressing  his  contempt  both  for  the 
Rl)eaker  and  the  sentiments  to  which  he  gave  utter- 
ance. 

There  were  a  great  number  of  speeches  made  ;  some  by 
Nicholas,  and  some  by  Crummies,  and  some  by  the  col- 
lector ;  two  by  the  master  Crummleses  in  returning  thanks 
for  themselves,  and  one  by  the  phenomenon  on  behalf 
of  the  bridesmaids,  at  which  Mrs.  Crummies  shed  tears. 
There  was  some  singing,  too,  from  Miss  Ledrook  and 
Miss  Bravassa,  and  very  likely  there  might  have  been 
more,  if  the  fiy-driver,  who  stopped  to  drive  the  happy 
pair  to  the  spot  where  they  proposed  to  take  steam-boat  to 
Ryde,  had  not  sent  in  a  peremptory  message,  intimating, 
that  if  they  didn't  come  directly  he  should  infallibly 
demand  eighteen -pence  over  and  above  his  agreement. 

This  desperate  threat  effectually  broke  up  the  party. 
After  a  most  pathetic  leave-taking,  Mr.  Liilyvick  and 
his  bride  departed  for  Ryde,  where  they  were  to  spend 
the  next  two  days  in  profound  retireftient,  and  whither 
they  were  accompanied  by  the  infant,  who  had  been  ap- 
pointed travelling  bridesmaid  on  Mr.  Lilly  vick's  express 
stipulation  :  as  the  steam-boat  people,  deceived  by  her 
size  would  (he  had  previously  ascertained)  transport  her 
at  half-price. 

As  there  was  no  performance  that  night,  Mr.  Crum- 
mies declared  his  intention  of  keeping  it  up  till  every- 
thing to  drink  was  disposed  of ;  but  Nicholas  having  to 
play  Romeo  for  the  first  time  on  the  ensuing  evenifig, 
contrived  to  slip  away  in  the  midst  of  a  temporary  con- 
fusion, occasioned  by  the  unexpected  development  of 
strong  symptoms  of  inebriety  in  the  conduct  of  Mrs. 
Grudden. 

To  this  act  of  desertion  he  was  led,  not  only  by  his  own 
inclinations,  but  by  his  anxiety  on  account  of  Smike, 
who,  having  to  sustain  the  character  of  the  Apothecary^ 
had  been  as  yet  wholly  unable  to  get  any  more  of  the 
part  into  his  head  than  the  general  idea  that  he  was  very 
hungry,  which— perhaps  from  old  recollections— he  had 
acquired  with  great  aptitude. 

I  don't  kno\v  what's  to  be  done,  Smike,"  said  Nicho- 
las, laying  down  the  book.  I  am  afraid  you  can't  learn 
it,  my  poor  fellow," 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  said  Smike,  shaking  his  head.  "  I 
think  if  you— but  that  would  give  you  so'much  trouble," 

"  What  ?"  inquired  Nicholas.    "Never  mind  me." 

"I  think,"  said  Smike,  "if  you  were  to  keep  saying 
it  to  me  in  little  bits,  over  and  over  again,  I  should  be 
able  to  recollect  it  from  hearing  you." 

"Do  you  think  so!"  exclaimed  Nicholas.  "Well 
said.  Let  us  see  who  tires  first.  Not  I,  Smike,  trust 
me.    Now  then.    '  Who  calls  so  loud '  ?  " 

"  '  Who  calls  so  loud  ? ' "  said  Smike. 

"  '  Who  calls  so  loud  ?'"  repeated  Nicholas. 

"  '  Who  calls  so  loud  ? ' "  cried  Smike. 

Thus  they  continued  to  ask  each  other  who  called  so 
loud,  over  and  over  again  ;  and  when  Smike  had  that  by 
heart,  Nicholas  went  to  another  sentence,  and  then  to 
two  at  at  a  time,  and  then  to  three,  and  so  on,  until  at 
midnight  poor  Smike  found  to  his  unspeakable  joy  that 
really  began  to  remember  something  about  the 
text. 

Early  in  the  morning  they  went  to  it  again,  and  Smike, 
rendered  more  confident  by  the  progress  he  had  already 
made,  got  on  faster  and  with  better  heart.  As  soon  as 
he  began  to  acquire  the  words  prettv  freelv,  Nicholas 
showed  him  how  he  must  come  in  with  both  hands  spread 
out  upon  his  stomach,  and  how  he  must  occasionally  rub 
n,  m  compliance  with  the  established  form  bv  which 
people  on  the  stage  always  denote  they  want  something 
to  eat.  After  the  morning's  rehearsal  thev  went  to  work 
airam,  nor  did  they  stop,  except  for  a  hasty  dinner,  until 
It  wa.3  time  to  repair  to  the  theatre  at  night. 

Never  had  master  a  more  anxious,  humble,  docile 
pupiK  Never  had  pupil  a  more  patient,  unwearvine- 
considerate,  kind-hearted  master. 

As  soon  as  they  were  dressed,  and  at  every  interval 
wiaen  he  was  not  upon  the  stage,  Nicholas  renewed  his 


I  instructions.    They  prospered  well.    The  Romeo  was  rr-- 
'  ceiyed  with  hearty  plaudits  and  unbounded  favour,  and 
Smike  was  pronounced  unanimouslv,  alike  bv  audience 
and  actors,  the  very  prince  and  prodigy  of  Apothecaries' 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Is  fraught  with  some  Danger  to  Miss  Nicklehi/s  Peace  of  Mnd. 

The  place  was  a  handsome  suite  of  private  apartments 
in  Regent  Street  ;  the  time  was  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, to  the  dull  and  plodding,  and  the  first  hour  of 
morning  to  the  gay  and  spirited:  the  persons  were 
Lord  Frederick  Verisopht,  and  his  friend  Sir  Mulberry 
Hawk,  ^ 

These  distinguished  gentlemen  were  reclining  listlessly 
on  a  couple,  of  sofas,  with  a  table  between  them,  on 
which  were  scattered  in  rich  confu,sion  the  materials  of 
an  untasted  breakfast.  Newspapers  lay  strewn  about 
the  room,  but  these,  like  the  meal,  were  ne^^lected  and 
unnoticed  ;  not,  however,  because  any  flow  of  conversa- 
tion prevented  the  attractions  of  the  journals  from  being 
called  into  request,  for  not  a  word  was  exchanged  be- 
tween the  two,  nor  was  any  sound  uttered,  save  when 
one,  in  tossing  about  to  find  an  easier  resting-jdace  for 
his  aching  head,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  impatience, 
and  seemed  for  a  moment  to  communicate  a  new  restless- 
ness to  his  companion. 

These  appearances  would  in  themselves  have  furnished 
a  pretty  strong  clue  to  the  extent  of  the  debauch  of  the 
previous  night,  even  if  there  had  not  been  other  indica- 
tions of  the  amusements  in  which  it  had  been  passed. 
A  couple  of  billiard  balls,  all  mud  and  dirt,  two  battered 
hats,  a  champagne  bottle,  with  a  soiled  glove  twisted 
round  the  neck,  to  allow  of  its  being  grasped  more  surely 
in  its  capacity  of  an  offensive  weapon  ;  a  broken  cane'; 
a  card-case  without  the  top  ;  an  empty  purse  ;  a  watch- 
guard  snapped  asunder  ;  a  handful  of  silver,  mingled 
v^rith  fragments  of  half-smoked  cigars,  and  their  stale 
and  crumbled  ashes  ;— these,  and  many  other  tokens  of 
riot  and  disorder,  hinted  very  intelligibly  at  the  nature 
of  last  night's  gentlemanly  frolics. 

Lord  Frederick  Verisopht  was  the  first  to  speak. 
Dropping  his  slippered  foot  on  the  ground,  and,  yawning 
heavily,  he  struggled  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  turned 
his  dull  languid  eyes  towards  his  friend,  to  whom  he 
called  in  a  drowsy  voice. 

"  Hallo  !  "  replied  Sir  Mulberry,  turning  round. 

"  Are  we  going  to  lie  here  all  da-a-y  ?  ""said  the  lord. 

"  I  don't  know  that  we  are  fit  for  anvthing-  else,"  re- 
plied Sir  Mulberry  ;  "  yet  awhile,  at  least.  I  haven't  a 
grain  of  life  in  me  this  morning." 

"  Life  1  "  cried  Lord  Verisopht.  "  I  feel  as  if  there 
would  be  nothing  so  snug  and  comfortable  as  to  die  at 
once." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  die  ?"  said  Sir  Mulberrv. 

With  which  inquiry  he  turned  his  face  awav,  and 
seemed  to  occupy  himself  in  an  attempt  to  fall  asleep. 

His  hopeful  friend  and  pupil  drew  a  chair  to  the  break- 
fast-table, and  essayed  to  eat ;  but,  finding  that  impos- 
sible, louns^ed  to  the  window,  then  loitered  up  and  do\yn 
the  room  with  his  hand  to  his  fevered  head,  and  finally 
threw  himself  again  on  his  sofa,  and  roused  his  friend 
once  more. 

"  Wliat  the  devil's  the  matter?"  groaned  Sir  Mulberrv, 
sitting  upright  on  the  couch. 

Although  Sir  Mulberry  said  this  Avith  sufficient  ill-hu- 
mour, he  did  not  seem  to  feel  himself  quite  at  libertv  lo 
remain  silent ;  for,  after  stretching  himself  very  often, 
and  declaring  with  a  shiver  that  it  was  "infernal  cold," 
he  made  an  experiment  at  the  breakfast  table,  and  ])rov- 
ing  more  successful  in  it  than  his  less-seasoned  friend, 
remained  there. 

"  Suppose,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  pausing  with  a  morsel 
on  tlie  point  of  his  fork,  "suppose  we  go  back  to  the  sub- 
ject of  little  Nickleby,  eh  ?" 

"Which  little  Nickleby;  the  money-lender  or  the 
ga-a-1?"  asked  Lord  Verisopht. 

"You  take  me,  I  see,"  replied  Sir  Mulberry.  "The 
girl,  of  course." 


94 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  You  promised  me  you'd  find  her  out,"  said  Lord  Veri- 
sopht. 

"  So  I  did,"  rejoined  his  friend  ;  "  but  I  have  thought 
further  of  the  matter  since  then.  You  distrust  me  in  the 
business — you  shall  find  her  out  yourself." 

*'  Na — ay,"  remonstrated  Lord  Verisopht. 
But  I  say  yes,"  returned  his  friend.  "  You  shall  find 
her  out  yourself.  Don't  think  that  I  mean,  when  you  can 
— I  know  as  well  as  you  that  if  I  did,  you  could  never 
get  sight  of  her  without  me.  No.  I  say  you  shall  find 
her  out — shall — and  I'll  put  you  in  the  way." 

"Now,  curse  me,  if  you  ain't  a  real,  deyvlish,  down- 
right, thorough -paced  friend,"  said  the  young  lord,  on 
whom  this  speech  had  produced  a  most  reviving  effect. 

"  I'll  tell  you  how,"  said  Sir  Mulberry.  "  She  was  at 
that  dinner  as  a  bait  for  you." 

"  No  !  "  cried  the  young  lord.    "  What  the  dey — " 

"  As  a  bait  for  you,"  repeated  his  friend  ;  "  old  Nickle- 
by  told  me  so  himself." 

"  What  a  fine  old  cock  it  is  I"  exclaimed  Lord  Veri- 
sopht ;  "a  noble  rascal  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  "he  knew  she  was  a  smart 
little  creature — " 

"  Smart ! "  interposed  the  young  lord.  "  Upon  my  soul, 
Hawk,  she's  a  perfect  beauty — a — a  picture,  a  statue,  a 
— a — upon  my  soul  she  is  !  " 

"  Well,"  replied  Sir  Mulberry,  shrugging  his  shoulders 
and  manifesting  an  indifference,  whether  he  felt  it  or 
not;  "that's  a  matter  of  taste;  if  mine  doesn't  agree 
with  yours,  so  much  the  better," 

"  Confound  it !  "  reasoned  the  lord,  "you  were  thick 
enough  with  her  that  day,  anyhow.  I  could  hardly  get 
in  a  word." 

"  Well  enough  for  once,  well  enough  for  once,"  replied 
Bir  Mulberry  ;  "  but  not  worth  the  trouble  of  being  agree- 
able to  again.  If  you  seriously  want  to  follow  up  the 
niece,  tell  the  uncle  that  you  must  know  where  she  lives 
and  how  she  lives,  and  with  whom,  or  you  are  no  longer 
a  customer  of  his.    He'll  tell  you  fast  enough." 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  this  before?  "  asked  Lord  Veri- 
sopht, "  instead  of  letting  me  go  on  burning,  consuming, 
dragging  out  a  miserable  existence  for  an  a-age  I  " 

"I  didn't  know  it,  in  the  first  place,"  answered  Sir 
Mulberry  carelessly  ;  "  and  in  the  second,  I  didn't  believe 
you  were  so  very  much  in  earnest." 

Now,  the  truth  was,  that  in  the  interval  which  had 
elapsed  since  the  dinner  at  Ralph  Nickleby's,  Sir  Mulber- 
ry Hawk  had  been  furtively  trying  by  every  means  in 
his  power  to  discover  whence  Kate  had  so  suddenly  ap- 
peared, and  whither  she  had  disappeared.  Unassisted 
by  Ralph,  however,  with  whom  he  had  held  no  commu- 
nication since  their  angry  parting  on  that  occasion,  all  his 
efforts  were  wholly  unavailing,  and  he  had  therefore  ar- 
rived at  the  determination  of  communicating  to  the  young 
lord  the  substance  of  the  admission  he  had  gleaned  from 
that  worthy.  To  this  he  was  impelled  by  various  con- 
siderations ;  among  which  the  certainty  of  knowing  what- 
ever the  weak  young  man  knew  was  decidedly  not  the 
least,  as  the  desire  of  encountering  the  usurer's  niece 
again,  and  using  his  utmost  arts  to  reduce  her  pride,  and 
revenge  himself  for  her  contempt,  was  uppermost  in  his 
thoughts.  It  was  a  politic  course  of  proceeding,  and  one 
which  could  not  fail  to  redound  to  his  advantage  in  every 
point  of  view,  since  the  very  circumstance  of  his  having 
extorted  from  Ralph  Nickleby  his  real  design  in  intro- 
ducing his  niece  to  such  society,  coupled  with  his  extreme 
disinterestedness  in  communicating  it  so  froely  to  his 
friend,  could  not  but  advance  his  interests  in  that  quar- 
ter, and  greatly  facilitate  the  passage  of  coin  (pretty  fre- 
quent and  speedy  already)  from  the  pockets  of  Lord 
Frederick  Verisopht  to  those  of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk. 

Thus  reasoned  Sir  Mulberry,  and  in  pursuance  of  this 
reasoning  he  and  his  friend  soon  afterwards  repaired  to 
Ralph  Nickleby's,  there  to  execute  a  x)lan  of  operations 
concerted  by  Sir  Mulberry  himself,  avowedly  to  promote 
his  friend's  object,  and  really  to  attain  his  own. 

They  found  Ralph  at  home  and  alone.  As  he  led 
them  into  the  drawing-room,  the  recollection  of  the 
scene  which  had  taken  place  there  seemed  to  occur  to 
him,  for  he  cast  a  curious  look  at  Sir  Mulberry,  who  be- 
stowed ui)on  it  no  other  acknowledgment  than  a  careless 
smile. 


They  had  a  short  conference  upon  some  money  mat- 
ters then  in  progress,  which  were  scarcely  disposed  of 
when  the  lordly  dupe  (in  pursuance  of  his  friend's  in- 
structions) requested  with  some  embarrassment  to  speak 
to  Ralph  alone. 

"  Alone,  eh  ?"  cried  Sir  Mulberry,  affecting  surprise. 
"Oh,  very  good.  I'll  walk  into  the  next  rooralhere. 
Don't  keep  me  long,  that's  all." 

So  saying.  Sir  Mulberry  took  up  his  hat,  and  hum- 
ming a  fragment  of  a  song  disappeared  through  the 
door  of  communication  between  the  two  drawing-rooms, 
and  closed  it  after  him. 

"  Now,  my  lord,"  said  Ralph,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"Nickleby,"  said  his  client,  throwing  himself  along 
the  sofa  on  which  he  had  been  previously  seated,  so  as 
to  bring  his  lips  nearer  to  the  old  man's  ear,  "  what  a' 
pretty  creature  your  niece  is  !  " 

"Is  she,  my  lord?"  replied  Ralph.    "  Maybe— may- 
be— I  don't  trouble  my  head  with  such  matters," 

"You  know  she's  a  deyv'lish  fine  girl,"  said  the  client. 
"  You  must  know  that,  Nickleby.  Come,  don't  deny 
that." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  she  is  considered  so,"  replied  Ralph. 
"  Indeed,  I  know  she  is.  If  I  did  not,  you  are  an  au- 
thority on  such  points,  and  your  taste,  my  lord — on  all 
points,  indeed — is  undeniable. " 

Nobody  but  the  young  man  to  whom  these  words  were 
addressed  could  have  been  deaf  to  the  sneering  tone  in 
which  they  were  spoken,  or  blind  to  the  look  of  con- 
tempt by  which  they  were  accompanied.  But  Lord 
Frederick  Verisopht  was  both,  and  took  them  to  be  com- 
plimentary. 

^'Well,"  he  said,  "p'raps  you're  a  little  right,  and 
p'raps  you're  a  little  wrong — a'little  of  both,  Nickleby. 
I  want  to  know  where  this  beauty  lives,  that  I  may  have 
another  peep  at  her,  Nickleby." 

"  Really — "  Ralph  began  in  his  usual  tones. 

"  Don't  talk  so  loud,"  cried  the  other,  achieving  the 
great  point  of  his  lesson  to  a  miracle.  "I  don't  want 
Hawk  to  hear." 

"You  know  he  is  your  rival,  do  you?"  said  Ralph, 
looking  sharply  at  him. 

"  He  always  is,  d-a-amn  him,"  replied  the  client  ; 
"  and  I  want  to  steal  a  march  upon  him.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
He'll  cut  up  so  rough,  Nickleby,  at  our  talking  together 
without  him.  Where  does  she  live,  Nickleby,  that's  all? 
Onlv  tell  me  where  she  lives,  Nickleby. " 

"He  bites,"  thought  Ralph.    "  He  bites." 

"Eh,  Nickleby,  eh?"  pursued  the  client.  "  Where  i 
does  she  live  ?  " 

"  Really,  my  lord,"  said  Ralph,  rubbing  his  hands 
slowly  over  each  other,  **  I  must  think  before  I  tell  you.** 

"No,  not  a  bit  of  it,  Nickleby  ;  you  musn't  think  at 
all,"  replied  Verisopht.    "  Where  is  it  ?  " 

"  No  good  can  come  of  your  knowing."  replied  Ralph. 
"  She  has  been  virtuously  and  well  brought  up  ;  to  be 
sure  she  is  handsome,  poor,  unprotected — poor  girl, 
poor  girl." 

Ralph  ran  over  this  brief  summary  of  Kate's  condition 
as  if  it  were  merely  passing  through  his  own  mind,  and 
he  had  no  intention  to  speak  aloud  ;  but  the  shrewd  sly 
look  which  he  directed  at  his  companion  as  he  delivered 
it,  gave  this  poor  assumption  the  lie. 

"I  tell  you  I  only  want  to  see  her,"  cried  his  client* 
"  A  ma-an  may  look  at  a  pretty  woman  without  harm, 
mayn't  he?  Now,  where  docs  she  live?  You  know 
you're  making  a  fortune  out  of  me,  Nickleby,  and  upon 
my  soul  nobody  shall  ever  take  me  to  anybody  else,  if 
you  only  tell  me  this." 

"  As  you  promised  that,  my  lord,"  said  Ralph,  with 
feigned  reluctance,  "  and  as  I  am  most  anxious  to  oblige 
you,  and  as  there's  no  harm  in  it — no  harm — I'll  tell  you. 
But  you  had  better  keep  it  to  yourself,  my  lord  ;  strictly 
to  yourself."  Ralph  pointed  to  the  adjoining  room  aA 
he  spoke,  and  nodded  expressively. 

The  young  lord,  feigning  to  be  equally  impressed  with 
the  necessity  of  this  precaution,  Ralph  disclosed  the 
present  address  and  occupation  of  his  niece,  observing 
that  from  what  he  heard  of  the  family  they  appeared 
very  ambitious  to  have  distinguished  acquaintances,  and 
that  a  lord  could,  doubtless,  introduce  himself  with  great 
ease,  if  he  felt  disposed. 


NICHOLAS 

"Your  object  being  only  to  see  her  again,"  said 
Ralph,  "you  could  effect  it  at  any  time you.chose  by  that 
means." 

Lord  Verisopht  acknowledged  the  hint  with  a  great 
many  squeezes  of  Ralph's  hard,  homy  hand,  and  whisp- 
ering that  they  would  now  do  well  to  close  the  conversa- 
tion^ called  to  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  that  he  might  come 
back. 

"  I  thought  you  had  gone  to  sleep,"  said  Sir  Mulberry, 
reappearing  with  an  ill-tempered  air. 

"  Sorry  to  detain  you,"  replied  the  gull  ;  "but  Nick- 
leby  has  been  so  ama-azingly  funny  that  I  couldn't  tear 
myself  away." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Ralph  ;  "  it  was  all  his  lordship.  You 
know  what  a  witty,  humourous,  accomplished  man  Lord 
Frederick  is.  Mind  the  step,  my  lord — Sir  Mulberry, 
pray  give  way." 

With  such  courtesies  as  these,  and  many  low  bows, 
and  the  same  cold  sneer  upon  his  face  all  the  while,  Ralph 
busied  himself  in  showing  his  visitors  down-stairs,  and 
otherwise  than  by  the  slightest  possible  motion  about  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  returned  no  show  of  answer  to 
the  look  of  admiration  with  which  Sir  Mulberry  Hawlc 
seemed  to  compliment  him  on  being  such  an  accomplished 
and  most  consummate  scoundrel. 

There  had  been  a  ring  at  the  bell  a  few  moments  be- 
fore, which  was  answered  by  Newman  Noggs  just  as 
they  reached  the  hall.  In  the  ordinary  course  of  busi- 
ness Newman  would  have  either  admitted  the  new-comer 
in  silence,  or  have  requested  him  or  her  lo  stand  aside 
while  the  gentlemen  passed  out.  But  he  no  sooner  saw 
who  it  was,  than  as  if  for  some  private  reason  of  his 
own,  he  boldly  departed  from  the  established  custorfi  of 
Ralph's  mansion  in  business  hours,  and  looking  towards 
the  respectable  trio  who  were  approaching,  cried  in  a 
loud  and  sonorous  voice,  "Mrs.  Nickleby  ! " 

"Mrs.  Nickleby  !"  cried  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  as  his 
friend  looked  back,  and  stared  him  in  the  face. 

It  was,  indeed,  that  well-intentioned  lady,  who,  hav- 
ing received  an  offer  for  the  empty  house  in  the  city 
directed  to  the  landlord,  had  brought  it  post-haste  to  Mr. 
Nickleby  without  delay. 

"Nobody  you  know,"  said  Ralph.  "Step  into  the 
office,  my — my — dear.    I'll  be  with  you  directly." 

"  Nobody  I  know  ! "  cried  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  advanc- 
ing to  the  astonished  lady.  "  Is  this  Mrs.  Nickleby — the 
mother  of  Miss  Nickleby — the  delightful  creature  that  I 
had  the  happiness  of  meeting  in  this  house  the  very  last 
time  I  dined  here  !  But  no  ; "  said  Sir  Mulberry,  stop- 
ping short.  "  No,  it  can't  be.  There  is  the  same  cast 
of  features,  the  same  indescribable  air  of — But  no  ;  no. 
This  lady  is  too  young  for  that. " 

"  I  think  you  can  tell  the  gentleman,  brother-in-law, 
if  it  concerns  him  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  ac- 
knowledging the  compliment  with  a  graceful  bend, 
*'that  Kate  Nickleby  is  my  daughter." 

"  Her  daughter,  my  lord  !"  cried  Sir  Mulberry,  turn- 
ing to  his  friend.    "  This  lady's  daughter,  my  lord." 

'*My  lord  I "  thought  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  Well,  I  never 
did—  ! " 

"This,  then,  my  lord,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  "is  the 
lady  to  whose  obliging  marriage  we  owe  so  much  happi- 
ness. This  lady  is  the  mother  of  sweet  Miss  Nickleby. 
Do  you  observe  the  extraordinary  likeness,  my  lord? 
Nickleby — introduce  us." 

Ralph  did  so  in,  a  kind  of  desperation. 

"Upon  my  soul,  it's  a  most  delightful  thing,"  said 
Lord  Frederick,  pressing  forward  :  "  How  de  do?  " 

Mrs.  Nickleby  was  too  much  flurried  by  these  uncom- 
monly kind  salutations,  and  her  regrets  at  not  having  on 
her  other  bonnet,  to  make  any  iihmediate  reply,  so  she 
merely  continued  to  bend  and  smile  and  betray  great 
agitation. 

"  A — and  how  is  Miss  Nickleby  ?  "  said  Lord  Frederick. 
"Well,  hope?" 

"She  is  quite  well,  I'm  obliged  to  you,  my  lord,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Nickleby,  recovering.  "Quite  well.  She 
wasn't  well  for  some  days  after  that  day  she  dined  here, 
and  I  can't  help  thinking,  that  she  caught  cold  in  that 
hackney-coach  coming  home  :  Hackney-coaches,  my  lord, 
are  such  nasty  things,  that  it  is  almost  better  to  walk  at 
*ny  time,  for  although  I  believe  a  hackney-coachman 


NICKLEBY,  95 

can  be  transported  for  life,  if  he  has  a  broken  window, 
still  they  are  so  reckless,  that  they  nearly  all  hav(;  ljrok(.-n 
wind<ms.  I  once  had  a  swelled  face  for  six  weeks,  my 
lord,  from  riding  in  a  hackney-coach — I  think  it  was  a 
hackney-coach,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby  reflecting,  "  though 
I'm  not  quite  certain,  whether  it  wasn't  a  chariot ;  at  all 
events  I  know  it  was  a  dark  green,  with  a  very  long 
number,  beginning  with  a  nought  and  ending  with  a 
nine — no,  beginning  with  a  nine,  and  ending  with  a 
nought,  that  was  it,  and  of  course  the  stamp-oflice  peo- 
ple would  know  at  once  whether  it  was  a  coach  or  a 
chariot  if  any  inquiries  were  made  there — however  that 
was,  there  it  was  with  a  broken  window,  and  there  was 
I  for  six  weeks  with  a  swelled  face — I  think  that  was  the 
very  same  hackney-coach,  that  we  found  out  after- 
wards, had  the  top  open  all  the  time,  and  we  should 
never  even  have  known  it,  if  they  hadn't  charged  us  a 
shilling  an  hour  extra  for  having  it  open,  which  it  seems 
is  the  law,  or  was  then,  and  most  shameful  law  it  ap- 
pears to  be — I  don't  understand  the  subject,  but  I  should 
say  the  Corn  Law  could  be  nothing  to  that  act  of  Parlia- 
ment." 

Having  pretty  well  run  herself  out  by  this  time,  Mrs. 
Nickleby  stopped  as  suddenly  as  she  had  started  off, 
and  repeated  that  Kate  was  quite  well.  "  Indeed,"  said 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  I  don't  think  she  ever  was  better,  since 
she  had  the  whooping-cough,  scarlet-fever  and  measles, 
all  at  the  same  time,  and  that's  the  fact." 

"Is  that  letter  for  me?"  grow^led  Ralph,  pointing  to 
the  little  packet  Mrs.  Nicklel)y  held  in  her  hand. 

"For  you,  brother-in-law,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
"  and  I  walked  all  the  way  up  here  on  purpose  to  give 
it  to  you." 

"All  the  way  up  here  !"  cried  Sir  Mulberry,  seizing 
upon  the  chance  of  discovering  where  Mrs.  Nickleby  had 
come  from.  "  What  a  confounded  distance  !  How  far 
do  you  call  it  now  ?  " 

"  How  far  do  I  call  it  !  "  said  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  Let 
me  see.  It's  just  a  mile,  from  our  door  to  the  Old 
Bailey." 

"  No,  no.    Not  so  much  as  that,"  urged  Sir  Mulberry. 

"Oh  !  It  is  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "I  appeal 
to  his  lordship." 

"  I  should  decidedly  say  it  was  a  mile,"  remarked  Lord 
Frederick,  with  a  solemn  aspect. 

"  It  must  be  ;  it  can't  be  a  yard  less,"  said  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by. "  All  down  Newgate  Street,  all  down  Cheapside,  all 
up  Lombard  Street,  down  Gracechurch  Street,  and  along 
Thames  Street,  as  far  as  Spigwiffin's  Wharf.  Oh  !  It's 
a  mile." 

"  Yes,  on  second  thoughts  I  should  say  it  was,"  re- 
plied Sir  Mulberry.  "  But  you  don't  surely  mean  to 
walk  all  the  way  back  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "I  shall  go  back 
in  an  omnibus.  I  didn't  travel  about  in  omnibuses  when 
my  poor  dear  Nicholas  was  alive,  brother-in-law.  But 
as  it  is,  you  know — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  Ralph  impatiently,  "and  you  had 
better  get  back  before  dark." 

"  Thank  you,  brother-in-law,  so  I  had,"  returned  Mrs. 
Nickleby.    "I  think  I  had  bettei  say  good  bye  at  once." 

"  Not  stop  and — rest?"  said  Ralj^h,  who  seldom  offered 
refreshments  unless  something  was  to  be  got  by  it. 

"  Oh  dear  me  no,"  returned  Mrs  Nickleby,  glancing  at 
the  dial. 

"Lord  Frederick,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  "we  are  going 
Mrs.  Nickleby 's  way.  We'll  see  her  safe  to  the  omni- 
bus ?  " 

"Bv  all  means.  Ye-es." 

"  oil !  I  really  couldn't  think  of  it  !  "  said  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by. 

But  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  and  Lord  Verisopht  were  per- 
emptory in  their  politeness,  and  leaving  Ralph,  who 
seemed*  to  think,  not  unwisely,  that  he  looked  less  ridicu- 
lous as  a  mere  spectator,  than  he  would  have  done  if  he 
had  taken  any  part  in  these  proceedings,  they  quitted  the 
house  with  Mrs.  Nickleby  between  them  ;  that  good  lady 
in  a  perfect  ecstacy  of  satisfaction,  no  less  with  the  atten- 
tions shown  her  by  two  titled  gentlemen,  than  with  the 
conviction  that  Kate  might  now  pick  and  choose,  at  least 
between  two  large  fortunes,  and  most  unexceptionable 
husbands. 


9G 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


As  she  was  carried  away  for  the  moment  by  an  irre- 
sistible train  of  thought,  all  connected  with'her  daugh- 
ter's future  greatness,  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  and  his  friend 
exchanged  glances  over  the  top  of  the  bonnet  which  the 
poor  lady  so  much  regretted  not  having  left  at  home, 
and  proceeded  to  dilate  with  great  rapture,  but  much 
respect,  on  the  manifold  perfections  of  Miss  Nick- 
leby. 

"  What  a  delight,  what  a  comfort,  what  a  happiness, 
this  amiable  creature  must  be  to  you,"  said  Sir  Mul- 
berry, throwing  into  his  voice  an  indication  of  the  warm- 
est feeling. 

"  She  is  indeed,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby,;  "she  is 
the  sweetest-tempered,  kindest-hearted  creature — and  so 
clever  !  " 

"  She  looks  clayver,"  said  Lord  Verisopht,  with  the 
air  of  a  judge  of  cleverness. 

"  I  assure  you  she  is,  my  lord,"  returned  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by.  "  When  she  was  at  school  in  Devonshire,  she  was 
universally  allowed  to  be  beyond  all  exception  the  very 
cleverest  girl  there,  and  there  were  a  great  many  very 
clever  ones  too,  and  that's  the  truth — twenty-five  young 
ladies,  fifty  guineas  a-year  without  the  et-ceteras,  both 
the  Miss  Dowdies  the  most  accomplished,  elegaat,  fas- 
cinating creatures — Oh  dear  me  ! "  said  Mrs,  Nickleby, 
"  I  never  shall  forget  what  pleasure  she  used  to  give  me 
and  her  poor  dear  papa,  when  she  was  at  that  school, 
never— such  a  delightful  letter  every  half-year,  telling 
us  that  she  was  the  first  pupil  in  the  whole  establish- 
ment, and  had  made  more  progress  than  anybody  else  ! 
I  can  scarcely  bear  to  think  of  it  even  now.  The  girls 
wrote  all  the  letters  themselves,"  added  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
"and  the  v/riting-master  touched  them  up  afterwards 
with  a  magnifying  glass  and  a  silver  pen  ;  at  least  I  think 
they  wrote  them,  though  Kate  was  never  quite  certain 
about  that,  because  she  didn't  know  the  hand-writing  of 
hers  again  ;  but  any  way,  I  know  it  was  a  circular  which 
they  all  copied,  and  of  course  it  was  a  very  gratifying 
thing — very  gratifying." 

With  similar  recollections  Mrs.  Nickleby  beguiled  the 
tediousness  of  the  way,  until  they  reached  the  omnibus, 
which  the  extreme  politeness  of  her  new  friends  would 
not  allow  them  to  leave  until  it  actually  started,  when 
they  took  their  hats,  as  Mrs.  Nickleby  solemnly  assured 
her  hearers  on  many  subsequent  occasions,  "completely 
off,"  and  kissed  their  straw-coloured  kid  gloves  till  they 
were  no  longer  visible. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  leant  back  in  the  furthest  corner  of  the 
conveyance,  and,  closing  her  eyes,  resigned  herself  to  a 
host  of  most  pleasing  meditations.  Kate  had  never  said 
a  word  about  having  met  either  of  these  gentlemen  ; 
"  that,"  she  thought,  "  argues  that  she  is  strongly  pre- 
possessed in  favour  of  one  of  them."  Then  the  question 
arose,  which  one  could  it  be.  The  lord  was  the  young- 
est, and  his  title  was  certainly  the  grandest ;  still  Kate 
was  not  the  girl  to  be  swayed  by  such  considerations  as 
these.  "  I  Avill  never  put  any  constraint  upon  her  in- 
clinations," said  Mrs.  Nickleby  to  herself;  "but  upon 
my  word  I  think  there's  no  comparison  between  his  lord- 
ship and  Sir  Mulberry — Sir  Mulberry  is  such  an  attentive 
gentlemanly  creature,  so  much  manner,  such  a  fine  man, 
and  has  so  much  to  say  for  himself.  I  hope  it's  Sir 
Mulberry!  I  think  it  must  be  Sir  Mulberry  1"  And 
then  her  thoughts  flew  back  to  her  old  predictions,  and 
the  number  of  times  she  had  said,  that  Kate  with  no 
fortune  would  marry  better  than  other  people's  daugh- 
ters with  thousands  ;  and,  as  she  pictured  with  the 
brightness  of  a  mother's  fancy  all  the  beauty  and  grace 
of  the  poor  girl  who  had  struggled  so  cheerfully  with  her 
new  life  of  hardship  and  trial,  her  heart  grew  too  full, 
and  the  tears  trickled  down  her  face. 

Meanwhile,  Ralph  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  little  back 
office,  troubled  in  mind  by  what  had  just  occurred.  To 
say  that  Ralph  loved  or  cared  for — in  the  most  ordinary 
acceptation  of  those  terms — any  one  of  God's  creatures, 
would  be  the  wildest  fiction.  Still,  there  had  somehow 
stolen  upon  him  from  time  to  time  a  thought  of  his  niece 
which  WHS  tinged  with  compassion  and  ])ity  ;  breaking 
through  the  dull  cloud  of  dislike  or  indifference  which 
darkened  men  and  women  in  his  eyes,  there  was,  in  her 
case,  the  faintest  gleam  of  light — a  most  feeble  and 
sickly  ray  at  the  best  of  times — but  there  it  was,  and  it 


showed  the  poor  girl  in  a  better  and  purer  aspect  than 
any  in  which  he  had  looked  on  human  nature  yet. 

"  I  wish,"  thought  Ralph,  "I  had  never  done  this. 
And  yet  it  will  keep  this  boy  to  me,  while  there  is  money 
to  be  made.  Selling  a  girl — throwing  her  in  the  way  of 
temptation,  and  insult,  and  coarse  speech.  Nearly  two 
thousand  pounds  profit  from  him  already  though. 
Pshaw  !  match-making  mothers  do  the  same  thing  every 
day." 

He  sat  down,  and  told  the  chances,  for  and  against, 
on  his  fingers. 

"  If  I  had  not  put  them  in  the  right  track  to-day," 
thought  Ralph,  "  this  foolish  woman  would  have  done 
so.  Well.  If  her  daughter  is  as  true  to  herself  as  she 
should  be  from  what  I  have  seen,  what  harm  ensues? 
A  little  teazing,  a  little  humbling,  a  few  tears.  Yes," 
said  Ralph,  aloud,  as  he  locked  his  iron  safe.  "She 
must  take  her  chance.    She  must  take  her  chance. " 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  becomes  acquainted  xvith  Messrs.  Pike  and  Plv^Jc,  whose 
Affection  and  Interest  are  beyond  all  bounds. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  had  not  felt  so  proud  and  important 
for  many  a  day,  as  when,  on  reaching  home,  she  gave 
herself  wholly  up  to  the  pleasant  visions  which  had  ac- 
companied her  on  her  way  thither.  Lady  Mulberry 
Hawk — that  was  the  prevalent  idea.  Lady  Mulberry 
Hawk  ! — On  Tuesday  last,  at  St.  George's,  Hanover- 
square,  by  the  Right  Reverend  the  Bishop  of  Llandaff, 
Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  of  Mulberry  Castle,  North  Wales, 
to  Catherine,  only  daughter  of  the  late  Nicholas  Nickle- 
by, Esquire,  of  Devonshire.  "  Upon  my  Avord  I"  cried 
Mrs.  Nicholas  Nickleby,  "it  sounds  very  well," 

Having  despatched  the  ceremony,  with  its  attendant 
festivities,  to  the  perfect  satisfaction  of  her  own  mind, 
the  sanguine  mother  pictured  to  her  imagination  a  long 
train  of  honours  and  distinctions  which  could  not  fail 
to  accompany  Kate  in  her  new  and  brilliant  sphere.  She 
would  be  presented  at  court,  of  course.  On  the  anniver- 
sary of  her  birth-day,  which  was  upon  the  nineteenth  of 
July  ("at  ten  minutes  past  three  o'clock  in  the  morning," 
thought  Mrs.  Nickleby  in  a  parenthesis,  "for  I  recollect 
asking  what  o'clock  it  was,")  Sir  Mulberry  would  give  a 
great  feast  to  all  his  tenants;  and  would  return  them  three 
and  a  half  per  cent,  on  the  amount  of  their  last  half  -year's 
rent,  as  would  be  fully  described  and  recorded  in  the 
fashionable  intelligence,  to  the  immeasurable  delight 
and  admiration  of  all  the  readers  thereof.  Kate's  pic- 
ture, too,  Avould  be  in  at  least  half-a-dozen  of  the  annu- 
als, and  on  the  opposite  page  would  appear,  in  delicate ' 
type,  "  Lines  on  contemplating  the  Portrait  of  Lady 
Mulberry  Hawk,  By  Sir  Dingleby  Dabber."  Perhaps 
some  one  annual,  of  more  comprehensive  design  than  its 
fellows  might  even  contain  a  portrait  of  the  mother  of 
Lady  Mulberry  Hawk,  with  lines  by  the  father  of  Sir 
Dingleby  Dabber.  More  unlikely  things  had  come  to 
pass.  Less  interesting  portraits  had  appeared.  As  thi^ 
thought  occurred  to  the  good  lady,  her  countenance  un- 
consciously assumed  that  compound  expression  of  sim- 
pering and  sleepiness  which,  being  common  to  all  such 
portraits,  is  perhaps  one  reason  why  they  are  always  so 
charming  and  agreeable. 

With  such  triumphs  of  aerial  architecture  did  Mrs. 
Nickleby  occupy  the  whole  evening  after  her  accidental 
introduction  to  Ralph's  titled  friends  ;  and  dreams,  no 
less  prophetic  and  equally  promising,  haunted  her  sleep 
that  night.  She  was  preparing  for  her  frugal  dinner 
next  day,  still  occupied  with  the  same  ideas — a  little 
softened  down  perhaps  by  sleep  and  daylight— when  tbei 
girl  who  attended  her,  partly  for  company,  and  partly 
to  assist  in  the  household  affairs,  rushed  into  the  room 
in  unwonted  agitation,  and  announced  that  two  gentle- 
men were  waiting  in  the  passage  for  permission  to  walk 
up-stairs,  >> 

"Bless  my  heart!"  cried  Mrs,  Nickleby,  hastily  ar» 
ranging  her  cap  and  front,  "if  it  should  be — dear  me, 
standing  in  the  passage  all  this  time — why  don't  you  go 
and  ask  them  to  walk  up,  you  stupid  thing?"  . 

While  the  girl  was  gone  on  this  errand,  Mrs  Nickleby 


NICHOLAS  NICK LE BY, 


97 


hastily  swept  into  a  cupboard  all  vestiges  of  eatiug  and 
drinking  ;  which  she  had  scarcely  done,  and  seated  her- 
self with  looks  as  collected  as  she  could  assume,  when 
two  gentlemen,  both  perfect  strangers,  presented  them- 
selves. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  one  gentleman,  laying  great 
stress  on  the  last  word  of  the  inquiry. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  the  other  gentleman,  altering 
the  emphasis,  as  if  to  give  variety  to  the  salutation. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  curtseyed  and  smiled,  and  curtseyed 
again,  and  remarked,  rubbing  her  hands  as  she  did  so, 
that  she  hadn't  the. — really — the  honour  to — 

"To  know  us,"  said  the  first  gentleman.  "  The  Jbss 
has  been  ours,  Mrs.  Nickleby.  Has  the  loss  been  ours, 
Pyke?" 

"  It  has.  Pluck,"  answered  the  other  gentleman. 

"We  have  regretted  it  very  often,  I  believe,  Pyke?" 
said  the  first  gentleman. 

"  Very  often,  Pluck,"  answered  the  second. 

"  But  now,"  said  the  first  gentleman,  "  now  we  have 
the  happiness  we  have  pined  and  languished  for.  Have 
we  pined  and  languished  for  this  happiness,  Pyke,  or 
have  we  not  ?" 

**  You  know  we  have.  Pluck,"  said  Pyke,  reproach- 
fully. 

"You  hear  him,  ma'am?"  said  Mr.  Pluck,  looking 
round;  "you  hear  the  unimpeachable  testimony  of  my 
friend  Pyke — that  reminds  me, — formalities,  formalities, 
must  not  be  neglected  in  civilized  society.  Pyke — Mrs. 
Nickleby." 

Mr.  Pyke  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  bowed 
low. 

"  Whether  I  shall  introduce  myself  with  the  same 
formality,"  said  Mr.  Pluck—"  whether  I  shall  say  myself 
that  my  name  is  Pluck,  or  whether  I  shall  ask  my  friend 
Pyke  (who  being  now  regularly  introduced,  is  compe- 
tent to  the  office)  to  state  for  me,  Mrs.  Nickleby,  that  my 
name  is  Pluck  ;  whether  I  should  claim  your  acquain- 
tance on  the  plain  ground  of  the  strong  interest  I  take  in 
your  welfare,  or  whether  I  shall  make  myself  known  to 
you  as  the  friend  of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk — these,  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  are  considerations  which  I  leave  to  you  to  de- 
termine." 

"  Any  friend  of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk's  requires  no  bet- 
ter introduction  to  me,"  observed  Mrs.  Nickleby,  gra- 
ciously. 

"  It  is  delightful  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Mr.  Pluck, 
drawing  a  chair  close  to  Mrs.  Nickleby,  and  sitting  him- 
self down.  "  It  is  refreshing  to  know  that  you  hold  my 
excellent  friend,  Sir  Mulberry,  in  such  high  esteem.  A 
word  in  your  ear,  Mrs.  Nickleby.  When  Sir  Mulberry 
knows  it,  he  will  be  a  happy  man— I  say,  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
a  happy  man.    Pyke  be  seated." 

''My  good  opinion,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  and  the  poor 
lady  exulted  in  the  idea  that  she  was  marvellously  sly, 
—"my  good  opinion  can  be  of  very  little  consequence  to 
a  gentleman  like  Sir  Mulberry." 

"Of  little  consequence!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Pluck. 
"  Pyke,  of  what  consequence  to  our  friend,  Sir  Mulberrv, 
is  the  good  opinion  of  Mrs.  Nickleby  ?" 

"  Of  what  consequence  ?  "  echoed  Pyke. 

"  Aye,"  repeated  Pluck  ;  "  is  it  of  the  greatest  conse- 
quence ?  " 

f"Of  the  very  greatest  consequence,"  replied  Pyke. 
"Mrs.  Nickleby  cannot  be  ignorant,"  said  Mr.  Pluck 
^  "  of  the  immense  impression  which  that  sweet  girl  has— ' 
'    "Pluck  !"  said  his  friend,  "  beware  !  " 

"Pyke  is  right,"  muttered  Mr.  Pluck,  after  a  short  i 
aause  ;  "I  was  not  to  mention  it.    Pvke  is  verv  rie-ht 
Thank  you,  Pyke."  '  ^     &  • 

"Well  now,  really,"  thought  Mrs.  Nickleby  within 
lereelf .    "  Such  delicacy  as  that,  I  never  saw  ! " 

Mr.  Pluck,  after  feigning  to  be  in  a  condition  of  great 
embarrassment  for  some  minutes,  resumed  the  conversa- 
lon  by  entreating  Mrs.  Nickleby  to  take  no  heed  of  what 
le  had  madvertently  said— to  consider  him  imprudent 
•ash,  mjudicious.  The  only  stipulation  he  would  make 
n  his  own  favour  was,  that  she  should  give  him  credit 
or  the  best  intentions. 

"But  when,"  said  Mr.  Pluck,  "when  I  see  so  much 
sweetness  and  beauty  on  the  one  hand,  and  so  much 
irdour  and  devotion  on  the  other,  I— pardon  me,  Pyke 
Vol.  II.— 7 


'  I  didn't  intend  to  resume  that  theme.  Change  the  sub- 
I  ject,  Pyke. " 

"  We  promised  Sir  Mulberry  and  Lord  Frederick," 
!  said  Pyke,  "  that  we'd  call  this  morning  and  inquire 
whether  you  took  any  cold  last  night." 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world  last  night,  sir  ;"  replied 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  with  many  thanks  to  his  lordship  and  Sir 
Mulberry  for  doing  me  the  honour  to  inquire;  not  the 
least — which  is  the  more  singular,  as  I  really  am  very 
I  subject  to  colds,  indeed — very  subject.  I  had  a  cold 
once,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "I  think  it  was  in  the  year 
eighteen  hundred  and  seventeen  ;  let  me  see,  four  and 
five  are  nine — yes,  eighteen  hundred  and  seventeen,  that 
I  thought  I  never  should  get  rid  of  ;  actually  and  seriously, 
that  I  thought  I  never  should  get  rid  of.  I  was  only  cured 
at  last  by  a  remedy  that  1  don't  know  whether  you  ever 
happened  to  hear  of,  Mr.  Pluck.  You  have  a  gallon  of 
water  as  hot  as  you  can  possibly  bear  it,  with  a  pound  of 
salt  and  sixpen'orth  of  the  finest  bran,  and  sit  with  your 
head  in  it  for  twenty  minutes  every  night  just  before 
going  to  bed  ;  at  least,  I  don't  mean  your  head — your 
feet.  It's  a  most  extraordinary  cure — a  most  extraordi- 
nary cure.  I  used  it  for  the  first  time,  I  recollect,  the  day 
after  Christmas  Day,  and  by  the  middle  of  April  follow- 
ing the  cold  was  gone.  It  seems  quite  a  miracle  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  for  I  had  it  ever  since  the  be- 
ginning of  September." 

"  What  an  afflicting  calamity  !"  said  Mr.  Pyke. 

"Perfectly  horrid  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Pluck. 

"But  it's  worth  the  pain  of  hearing,  only  to  know 
that  Mrs.  Nickleby  recovered  it,  isn't  it,  Pluck?"  cried 
Mr.  Pyke. 

"That  is  the  circumstance  which  gives  it  such  a  thrill- 
ing interest,"  replied  Mr.  Pluck. 

"But  come,"  said  Pyke,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting 
himself  ;  "we  must  not  forget  our  mission  in  the  plea- 
sure of  this  interview.  We  come  on  a  mission,  Mrs. 
Nickleby." 

"On  amission,"  exclaimed  that  good  lady,  to  whose 
mind  a  definite  proposal  of  marriage  for  Kate  at  once 
presented  itself  in  lively  colours. 

"From  Sir  Mulberry,"  replied  Pyke.  "You  must  be 
very  dull  here." 

"  Rather  dull,  I  confess,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

' '  We  bring  the  compliments  of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk, 
and  a  thousand  entreaties  that  you'll  take  a  seat  in  a  pri- 
vate box  at  the  play  to-night, "  said  Mr.  Pluck. 

"  Oh  dear  ! "  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  I  never  go  out  at 
all,  never." 

"  And  that  is  the  very  reason,  my  dear  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
why  you  should  go  out  to-night,"  retorted  Mr.  Pluck. 
"Pyke,  entreat  Mrs.  Nickleby." 

"  Oh,  pray  do,"  said  Pyke. ' 

"  You  positively  must,"  urged  Pluck. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  hesitating  ; 

"  There's  not  a  but  in  the  case,  my  dear  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by," remonstrated  Mr.  Pluck  ;  "not  such  a  word  in  the 
vocabulary.  Your  brother-in-law  joins  us,  Lord  Fred- 
erick joins  us,  Sir  Mulberry  joins  us,  Pyke  joins  us — a 
refusal  is  out  of  the  question.  Sir  Mulberry  sends  a 
carriage  for  you — twenty  minutes  before  seven  to  the 
moment — you'll  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  disappoint  the 
whole  party,  Mrs.  Nickleby  !  " 

"  You  are  so  very  pressing,  that  I  scarcely  know  what 
to  say,"  replied  the  worthy  lady. 

"  Say  nothing :  not  a  word,  not  a  word,  my  dearest 
madam,"  urged  Mr.  Pluck.  "  Mrs.  Nickleby,"  said  that 
excellent  gentleman,  lowering  his  voice,  "  there  is  the 
most  trifling,  the  most  excusable  breach  of  confidence  in 
what  I  am  about  to  say  ;  and  yet  if  my  friend  Pyke  there 
overheard  it — such  is  that  man's  delicate  sense  of  honour, 
Mrs.  Nickleby — he'd  have  me  out  before  dinner  time." 

Mrs.  Nickleby  cast  an  apprehensive  glance  at  the  war- 
like Pyke,  who  had  walked  to  the  window  ;  and  Mr. 
Pluck,  squeezing  her  hand,  went  on — 

"  Your  daughter  has  made  a  conquest — a  conquest  on 
which  I  may  congratulate  you.  Sir  Mulberry,  my  dear 
ma'am.  Sir  Mulberry  is  her  devoted  slave.    Hem  !" 

"  Hah  ! "  cried  Mr.  Pyke  at  this  juncture,  snatching 
something  from  the  chimney-piece  with  a  theatrical  air. 
"  What  is  this  !  what  do  I  behold  1 " 


98 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  What  do  you  behold,  my  dear  fellow  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Pluck. 

"  It  is  the  face,  the  countenance,  the  expression,"  cried 
Mr.  Pyke,  falling  into  his  chair  with  a  miniature  in  his 
hand  ;  "  feebly  portrayed,  imperfectly  caught,  but  still 
the  face,  the  countenance,  the  expression." 

"I  recognise  it  at  this  distance  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Pluck 
in  a  fit  of  enthusiasm.  "  Is  it  not,  my  dear  madam,  the 
faint  similitude  of — " 

"It  is  my  daughter's  portrait,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
with  great  pride.  And  so  it  was.  And  little  Miss  La 
Creevy  had  brought  it  home  for  inspection  only  two 
nights  before. 

Mr.  Pyke  no  sooner  ascertained  that  he  was  quite 
right  in  his  conjecture,  than  he  launched  into  the  most 
extravagant  encomiums  of  the  divine  original ;  and  in 
the  warmth  of  his  enthusiasm  kissed  the  picture  a  thou- 
sand times,  while  Mr.  Pluck  pressed  Mrs.  Nickleby's 
hand  to  his  heart,  and  congratulated  her  on  the  posses- 
sion of  such  a  daughter  with  so  much  earnestness  and 
affection,  that  the  tears  stood,  or  seemed  to  stand,  in  his 
eyes.  Poor  Mrs.  Nickleby,  who  had  listened  in  a  state 
of  enviable  complacency  at  first,  became  at  length  quite 
overpowered  by  these  tokens  of  regard  for,  and  attach- 
ment to,  the  family  ;  and  even  the  servant  girl,  who 
had  peeped  in  at  the  door,  remained  rooted  to  the  spot 
in  astonishment  at  the  ecstacies  of  the  two  friendly 
visitors. 

By  degrees  these  raptures  subsided,  and  Mrs.  Nickleby 
went  on  to  entertain  her  guests  with  a  lament  over  her 
fallen  fortunes,  and  a  picturesque  account  of  her  old 
house  in  the  country  :  comprising  a  full  description  of 
the  different  apartments,  not  forgetting  the  little  store- 
room, and  a  lively  recollection  of  how  many  steps  you 
went  down  to  get  into  the  garden,  and  which  way  you 
turned  when  you  came  out  at  the  parlour-door,  and  what 
capital  fixtures  they  were  in  the  kitchen.  This  last  re- 
flection naturally  conducted  her  into  the  wash-house, 
where  she  stumbled  upon  the  brewing  utensils,  among 
which  she  might  have  wandered  for  an  hour,  if  the  mere 
mention  of  those  implements  had  not,  by  an  association 
of  ideas,  instantly  reminded  Mr.  Pyke  that  he  was 
* '  amazing  thirsty. " 

"And  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Mr.  Pyke  ;  "if  you  11 
send  round  to  the  public-house  for  a  pot  of  mild  half- 
and-half,  positively  and  actually  I'll  drink  it." 

And  positively  and  actually  Mr.  Pyke  did  drink  it,  and 
Mr.  Pluck  helped  him,  while  Mrs.  Nickleby  looked  on 
in  divided  admiration  of  the  condescension  of  the  two, 
and  the  aptitude  with  which  they  accommodated  them- 
selves to  the  pewter-pot ;  in  explanation  of  which  seem- 
ing marvel  it  may  be  here  observed,  that  gentlemen 
who,  like  Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck,  live  upon  their  wits 
(or  not  so  much,  perhaps,  upon  the  presence  of  their 
own  wits  as  upon  the  absence  of  wits  in  other  people) 
are  occasionally  reduced  to  very  narrow  shifts  and  straits, 
and  are  at  such  periods  accustomed  to  regale  themselves 
in  a  very  simple  and  primitive  manner. 

"  At  twenty  minutes  before  seven,  then,"  said  Mr. 
Pyke,  rising,  "the  coach  will  be  here.  One  more  look 
— one  little  look — at  that  sweet  face.  Ah  !  here  it  is. 
Unmoved,  unchanged  ! "  This  by  the  way  was  a  very 
remarkable  circumstance,  miniatures  being  liable  to  so 
many  changes  of  expression — "Oh,  Pluck  !  Pluck  !" 

Mr.  Pluck  made  no  other  reply  than  kissing  Mrs. 
Nickleby's  hand  with  a  great  show  of  feeling  and  at- 
tachment ;  Mr.  Pyke  having  done  the  same,  both  gentle- 
men hastily  withdrew. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  was  commonly  in  the  habit  of  giving 
herself  credit  for  a  pretty  tolerable  share  of  penetration 
and  acuteness,  but  she  had  never  felt  so  satisfied  with 
her  own  sharp-sighted ness  as  she  did  that  day.  She 
had  found  it  all  out  the  night  before.  She  had  never 
seen  Sir  Mulberry  and  Kate  together — never  even  heard 
Sir  Mulberry's  name — and  yet  hadn't  she  said  to  herself 
from  the  very  first,  that  she  saw  how  the  case  stood  ? 
and  what  a  triumph  it  was,  for  there  was  now  no  doubt 
about  it.  If  these  flattering  attentions  to  herself  were 
not  sufficient  proofs,  Sir  Mulberry's  confidential  friend 
had  suffered  the  secret  to  escape  him  in  so  many  words. 

I  am  quite  in  love  with  that  dear  Mr.  Pluck,  I  declare 
I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby. 


There  was  one  great  source  of  uneasiness  in  the  midst 
of  this  good  fortune,  and  that  was  the  having  nobody 
by,  to  whom  she  could  confide  it.  Once  or  twice  she 
almost  resolved  to  walked  straight  to  Miss  La  Creevy's 
and  tell  it  all  to  her.  "But  I  don't  know,"  thought 
Mrs.  Nickleby  ;  "  she  is  a  very  worthy  person,  but  I  am 
afraid  too  much  beneath  Sir  Mulberry's  station  for  us  to 
make  a  companion  of.  Poor  thing  !  "  Acting  upon  this 
grave  consideration  she  rejected  the  idea  of  taking  the 
little  portrait- painter  into  her  confidence,  and  contented 
herself  with  holding  out  sundry  vague  and  mysterious 
hopes  of  preferment  to  the  servant  girl,  who  received 
these  obscure  hints  of  dawning  greatness  with  much 
veneration  and  respect. 

Punctual  to  its  time  came  the  promised  vehicle,  which 
was  no  hackney  coach,  but  a  private  chariot,  having  be- 
hind it  a  footman,  whose  legs,  although  somewhat  large 
for  his  body,  might,  as  mere  abstract  legs,  have  set 
themselves  up  for  models  at  the  Royal  Academy.  It 
was  quite  exhilarating  to  hear  the  clash  and  bustle  with 
which  he  banged  the  door  and  jumped  up  behind  after 
Mrs.  Nickleby  was  in  ;  and  as  that  good  lady  was  per- 
fectly unconscious  that  he  applied  the  gold  headed  end 
of  his  long  stick  to  his  nose,  and  so  telegraphed  most 
disrespectfully  to  the  coachman  over  her  very  head,  she 
sat  in  a  state  of  much  stiffness  and  dignity,  not  a  little 
proud  of  her  position. 

At  the  theatre  entrance  there  was  more  banging  and 
more  bustle,  and  there  were  also  Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck 
waiting  to  escort  her  to  her  box  ;  and  so  polite  were  they  1 
that  Mr.  Pyke  threatened  with  many  oaths  to  "  smifli-  ] 
gate "  a  very  old  man  with  a  lantern  who  accidently  * 
stumbled  in  her  way — to  the  great  terror  of  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by,  who,  conjecturing  more  from  Mr.  Pyke's  excitement 
than  any  previous  acquaintance  with  the  etymology  of 
the  word  that  smifli  gation  and  bloodshed  must  be  in  the 
main  one  and  the  same  thing,  was  alarmed  beyond  ex-  j 
pression,  lest  something  should  occur.     Fortunately,  j 
however,  Mr.  Pyke  confined  himself  to  mere  verbal 
smifligation,  and  they  reached  their  box  with  no  more  ' 
serious  interruption  by  the  way,  than  a  desire  on  the  part 
of  the  same  pugnacious  gentleman  to  "  smash  "  the  assis- 
tant box-keeper  for  happening  to  mistake  the  number. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  had  scarcely  been  put  away  behind  the 
curtain  of  the  box  in  an  arm  chair,  when  Sir  Mulberry 
and  Lord  Verisopht  arrived,  arrayed  from  the  crowns  of 
their  heads  to  the  tips  of  their  gloves,  and  from  the 
tips  of  their  gloves  to  the  toes  of  their  boots,  in  the  most 
elegant  and  costly  manner.  Sir  Mulberry  was  a  little 
hoarser  than  on  the  previous  day,  and  Lord  Verisopht 
looked  rather  sleepy  and  queer  ;  from  which  tokens,  as 
well  as  from  the  circumstance  of  their  both  being  to  a 
trifling  extent  unsteady  upon  their  legs,  Mrs.  Nickleby 
justlv  concluded  that  they  had  taken  dinner. 

"  We  have  been — we  have  been — toasting  your  lovely 
daughter,  Mrs.  Nickleby,"  whispered  Sir  Mulberry,  sit- 
ting  down  behind  her. 

"Oh,  hoi"  thought  that  knowing  lady;  **  wine  in, 
truth  out.    You  are  very  kind,  Sir  Mulberry." 

"  No,  no,  upon  my  soul ! "  replied  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk. 
"  It's  you  that's  kind,  upon  my  soul  it  is.  It  was  so  kind 
of  you  to  come  to-night." 

"  So  very  kind  of  you  to  invite  me,  you  mean.  Sir  Mul- 
berry," replied  Mrs.  Nickleby,  tossing  her  head,  and 
looking  prodigiously  sly. 

"  I  am  so  anxious  to  know  you,  so  anxious  to  cultivate 
your  good  opinion,  so  desirous  that  there  should  be  a 
delicious  kind  of  harmonious  family  understanding 
between  us,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  "  that  you  musn't  think 
I'm  disinterested  in  what  I  do.  I'm  infernal  selfish  ;  I 
am — upon  my  soul  I  am." 

"I  am  sure  you  can't  be  selfish,  Sir  Mulberry  !"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  You  have  much  too  open  and 
generous  a  countenance  for  that." 

"  Wliat  an  extraordinary  observer  you  are  !  "  said  Sir 
Mulberry  Hawk. 

"Oh  no,  indeed,  I  don't  see  very  far  into  thmgs,  bir 
Mulberry,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
which  left  the  baronet  to  infer  that  she  saw  very  far  in- 
deed. 

"  I  am  quite  afraid  of  you,"  said  the  baronet.  "  Upon 
my  soul,"  repeated  Sir  Mulberry,  looking  round  to  his 


NICHOLAS 

<5ompanions  ;  "  I  am  afraid  of  Mrs.  Nickleby.  She  is  so 
immensely  sharp." 

Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck  shook  their  heads  mysterious- 
ly, and  observed  together  that  they  had  found  that  out 
long  ago  ;  upon  which  Mrs.  Nickleby  tittered,  and  Sir 
Mulberry  laughed,  and  Pyke  and  Pluck  roared. 

"But  Where's  my  brother-in-law,  Sir  Mulberry?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "I  shouldn't  be  here  without 
him.    I  hope  he's  coming." 

"Pyke,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  taking  out  his  tooth-pick 
and  lolling  back  in  his  chair,  as  if  he  were  too  lazy  to 
invent  a  reply  to  this  question.  "  Where's  Ralph  Nick- 
leby?" 

"  Pluck,"  said  Pyke,  imitating  the  baronet's  action,  and 
turning  the  lie  over  to  his  friend,  "  where's  Ralph  Nick- 
-leby ?" 

Mr.  Pluck  was  about  to  return  some  evasive  reply, 
when  the  bustle  caused  by  a  party  entering  the  next  box 
seemed  to  attract  the  attention  of  all  four  gentlemen, 
who  exchanged  glances  of  much  meaning.  The  new 
party  beginning  to  converse  together,  Sir  Mulberry  sud- 
denly assumed  the  character  of  a  most  attentive  listener, 
and  implored  his  friends  not  to  breathe — not  to  breathe. 

"Why  not?"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  Hush  I  "  replied  Sir  Mulberry,  laying  his  hand  on  her 
arm.  Lord  Frederick,  do  you  recognise  the  tones  of 
that  voice?" 

"  Deyvle  take  me  if  I  didn't  think  it  was  the  voice  of 
Miss  Nickleby." 

"Lor,  my  lord!"  cried  Miss  Nickleby 's  mamma, 
thrusting  her  head  round  the  curtain.  "  Why  actually 
—Kate,  my  dear,  Kate." 

**  Tou  here,  mamma  !    Is  it  possible  ! " 

"  Possible,  my  dear  ?  Yes." 

"Why  who — who  on  earth  is  that  you  have  with  you, 
mamma  ? "  said  Kate,  shrinking  back  as  she  caught 
sight  of  a  man  smiling  and  kissing  his  hand. 

"  WTio  do  you  suppose,  my  dear?"  replied  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  bending  towards  Mrs,  Wititierly,  and  speak- 
ing a  little  louder  for  that  lady's  edification.  "  There's 
Mr.  Pyke,  Mr.  Pluck,  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  and  Lord 
Frederick  Verisopht." 

"  Gracious  Heaven  ! "  thought  Kate  hurriedly.  "  How 
comes  she  in  such  society  1 " 

Now,  Kate  thought  thus  so  hurriedly,  and  the  surprise 
was  so  great,  and  moreover  brought  back  so  forcibly  the 
recollection  of  what'had  passed  at  Ralph's  delectable  din- 
ner, that  she  turned  extremely  pale  and  appeared  greatly 
agitated,  which  symptoms  being  observed  by  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby, were  at  once  set  down  by  that  acute  lady  as  being 
caused  and  occasioned  by  violent  love.  But,  although 
she  was  in  no  small  degree  delighted  by  this  discovery 
which  reflected  so  much  credit  on  her  own  quickness  of 
perception,  it  did  not  lessen  her  motherly  anxiety  in 
Kate's  behalf  ;  and  accordingly,  with  a  vast  quantity  of 
trepidation,  she  quitted  her  own  box  to  hasten  into  that 
of  Mrs.  Wititterly.  Mrs.  Wititterly,  keenly  alive  to  the 
glory  of  having  a  lord  and  baronet  among  her  visiting 
acquaintance,  lost  no  time  in  signing  to  Mr.  Wititterly 
to  open  the  door,  and  thus  it  was  that  in  less  than  thirty 
seconds  Mrs.  Nickleby's  party  had  made  an  irruption 
into  Mrs.  Wititterly's  box,  which  it  filled  to  the  very 
door,  there  being  in  fact  only  room  for  Messrs.  Pyke  and 
Pluck  to  get  in  their  heads  and  waistcoats. 

"My  dear  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  kissing  her 
daughter  affectionately.  "  How  ill  you  looked  a  mo- 
ment ago  !    You  quite  frightened  me,  I  declare  ! " 

"It  was  mere  fancy,  mamma,— the — the — reflection  of 
the  lights  perhaps,"  replied  Kate,  glancing  nervously 
round,  and  finding  it  impossible  to  whisper  any  caution 
or  explanation. 

"  Don't  you  see  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  my  dear?" 

Kate  bowed  slightly,  and  biting  her  lip  turned  her 
head  towards  the  stage. 

But  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  was  not  to  be  so  easily  repulsed, 
for  he  advanced  with  extended  hand  ;  and  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby officiously  informing  Kate  of  this  circumstance,  she 
was  obliged  to  extend  her  own.  Sir  Mulberry  detained 
it  while  he  murmured  a  pro  fusion  of  compliments,  which 
Kate,  remembering  what  had  passed  between  them, 
nghtly  considered  as  so  many  aggravations  of  the  insult 


NICKLEBY,  99 

he  had  already  put  upon  her.  Then  followed  the  recog- 
nition of  Lord  Verisopht,  and  then  the  greeting  of  Mr. 
Pyke,  and  then  that  of  Mr.  Pluck,  and  finally,  to  com- 
plete the  young  lady's  mortification,  she  was  compelled 
at  Mrs.  Wititterly's  request  to  perform  the  ceremony  of 
introducing  the  odious  persons,  whom  she  regarded  with 
the  utmost  indignation  and  abhorrence. 

"  Mrs.  Wititterly  is  delighted,"  said  Mr.  Wititterly, 
rubbing  his  hands  ;  "  delighted,  my  lord,  I  am  sure, 
with  this  opportunity  of  contracting  an  acquaintance 
which,  I  trust,  my  lord,  we  shall  improve.  Julia,  my 
dear,  you  must  not  allow  yourself  to  be  too  much  ex- 
cited, you  must  not.  Indeed  you  must  not.  Mrs.  Wit- 
itterly is  of  a  most  excitable  nature,  Sir  Mulberry.  The 
snuff  of  a  candle,  the  wick  of  a  lamp,  the  bloom  on  a 
peach,  the  down  on  a  butterfly,  You  might  blow  her 
away,  my  lord  ;  you  might  blow  her  away. " 

Sir  Mulberry  seemed  to  think  that  it  would  be  a  great 
convenience  if  the  lady  could  be  blown  away.  He  said, 
however,  that  the  delight  was  mutual,  and  Lord  Veri- 
sopht added  that  it  was  mutual,  whereupon  Messrs. 
Pyke  and  Pluck  were  heard  to  murmur  from  the  dis- 
tance that  it  was  very  mutual  indeed. 

"  I  take  an  interest,  my  lord,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly, 
with  a  faint  smile,  " such  an  interest  in  the  drama." 

"Ye — es.  It's  very  interasting,"  replied  Lord  Veri- 
sopht. 

"I'm  always  ill  after  Shakspeare,"  said  Mrs.  Witit- 
terly. "  I  scarcely  exist  the  next  day  ;  I  find  the  reac- 
tion so  very  great  after  a  tragedy,  my  lord,  and  Shak- 
speare is  such  a  delicious  creature. " 

"Ye — es  1 "  replied  Lord  Verisopht.  "He  was  a 
clayver  man." 

Do  you  know,  my  lord,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  after 
a  long  silence,  ' '  I  find  I  take  so  much  more  interest  in 
his  plays,  after  having  been  to  that  dear  little  dull 
house  he  was  born  in  !    Were  you  ever  there,  my  lord  ?  " 

"No,  nayver,"  replied  Verisopht. 

"Then  really  you  ought  to  go,  my  lord,"  returned 
Mrs.  Wititterly,  in  very  languid  and  drawling  accents. 
"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  after  you've  seen  the  place 
and  written  your  name  in  the  little  book,  somehow  or 
other  you  seem  to  be  inspired  ;  it  kindles  up  quite  a 
fire  within  one." 

"  Ye — es  ! "  replied  Lord  Verisopht,  "  I  shall  certainly 
go  there." 

"Julia,  my  life,"  interposed  Mr.  Wititterly,  "you 
are  deceiving  his  lordship — unintentionally,  my  lord, 
she  is  deceiving  you.  It  is  your  poetical  temperament, 
my  dear — your  ethereal  soul — your  fervid  imagination, 
which  throws  you  into  a  glow  of  genius  and  excitement. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  place,  my  dear — nothing,  noth- 
ing." 

"I  think  there  must  be  something  in  the  place,"  said 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  who  had  been  listening  in  silence  ;  "  for, 
'soon  after  I  was  married,  I  went  to  Stratford  with  my 
poor  dear  Mr.  Nickleby,  in  a  post-chaise  from  Birming- 
ham— was  it  a  post-chaise  though  ! "  said  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
considering  ;  "yes,  it  must  have  been  a  post-chaise,  be- 
cause I  recollect  remarking  at  the  time  that  the  driver 
had  a  green  shade  over  his  left  eye  ; — in  a  post-chaise 
from  Birmingham,  and  after  we  had  seen  Shakspeare's 
tomb  and  birth-place,  we  went  back  to  the  inn  there, 
where  we  slept  that  night,  and  I  recollect  that  all  night 
long  I  dreamt  of  nothing  but  a  black  gentleman,  at  full 
length,  in  plaster-of-Paris,  with  a  lay  down  collar  tied 
with  two  tassels,  leaning  against  a  post  and  thinking  ; 
and  when  I  woke  in  the  morning  and  described  him  to 
Mr.  Nickleby,  he  said  it  was  Shakspeare  just  as  he  had 
been  when  he  was  alive,  which  was  very  curious  indeed. 
Stratford — Stratford,"  continued  Mrs.  Nickleby,  consid- 
ering. "  Yes,  I  am  positive  about  that,  because  I  recol- 
lect I  was  in  the  family  way  with  my  son  Nicholas  at 
the  time,  and  I  had  been  very  much  frightened  by  an 
Italian  image  boy  that  very  morning.  In  fact,  it  was 
quite  a  mercy,  ma'am,"  added  Mrs.  Nickleby,  in  a  whis- 
per to  Mrs.  Wititterly,  "  that  my  son  didn't  turn  out  to 
be  a  Shakspeare,  and  what  a  dreadful  thing  that  would 
have  been  ! " 

When  Mrs.  Nickleby  had  brought  this  interesting  an- 
ecdote to  a  close,  Pyke  and  Pluck,  ever  zealous  in  their 
patron's  cause,  proposed  the  adjournment  of  a  detach- 


100 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


ment  of  the  party  into  the  next  box  ;  and  with  so  much 
skill  were  the  preliminaries  adjusted,  that  Kate,  despite 
all  she  could  say  or  do  to  the  contrary,  had  no  alterna- 
tive but  to  suffer  herself  to  be  led  away  by  Sir  Mulberry 
Hawk.  Her  mother  and  Mr.  Pluck  accompanied  them, 
but  the  worthy  lady,  pluming  herself  upon  her  discre- 
tion, took  particular  care  not  so  much  as  to  look  at  her 
daughter  during  the  whole  evening,  and  to  seem  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  jokes  and  conversation  of  Mr.  Pluck, 
who,  having  been  appointed  sentry  over  Mrs.  Nickleby 
for  that  special  purpose,  neglected,  on  his  side,  no  pos- 
sible opportunity  of  engrossing  her  attention. 

Lord  Frederick  Verisopht  remained  in  the  next  box  to 
be  talked  to  by  Mrs.  Wititterly,  and  Mr.  Pyke  was  in 
attendance  to  throw  in  a  word  or  two  when  necessary. 
As  to  Mr.  Wititterly,  he  was  sufficiently  busy  in  the 
body  of  the  house,  informing  such  of  his  friends  and  ac- 
quaintance as  happened  to  be  there,  that  those  two 
gentlemen  up-stairs,  whom  they  had  seen  in  conversation 
with  Mrs.  W.,  were  the  distinguished  Lord  Frederick 
Verisopht  and  his  most  intimate  friend,  the  gay  Sir 
Mulberry  Hawk — a  communication  which  inflamed  sev- 
eral respectable  housekeepers  with  the  utmost  jealousy 
and  rage,  and  reduced  sixteen  unmarried  daughters  to 
the  very  brink  of  despair. 

•  The  evening  came  to  an  end  at  last,  but  Kate  had  yet 
to  be  handed  down-stairs  by  the  detested  Sir  Mulberry  ; 
and  so  skilfully  were  the  manoeuvres  of  Messrs.  Pyke 
and  Pluck  conducted,  that  she  and  the  baronet  were  the 
last  of  the  party,  and  were  even — without  an  appearance 
of  effort  or  design — left  at  some  little  distance  behind. 

"Don't  hurry,  don't  hurry,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  as 
Kate  hastened  on,  and  attempted  to  release  her  arm. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  still  pressed  forward. 

"  Nay  then — "  coolly  observed  Sir  Mulberry,  stopping 
her  outright. 

'*  You  had  best  not  seek  to  detain  me,  sir  1 "  said  Kate, 
angrily. 

"  And  why  not?"  retorted  Sir  Mulberry.  **  My  dear 
creature,  now  why  do  you  keep  up  this  show  of  displeas- 
ure ?  " 

"Show/"  repeated  Kate,  indignantly.  "How  dare 
you  presume  to  speak  to  me,  sir — to  address  me — to  come 
into  my  presence  ?  " 

"You  look  prettier  in  a  passion.  Miss  Nickleby,"  said 
Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  stooping  down,  the  better  to  see  her 
face. 

"I  hold  you  in  the  bitterest  detestation  and  contempt, 
sir,"  said  Kate.  "  If  you  find  any  attraction  in  looks  of 
disgust  and  aversion,  you-^let  me  rejoin  my  friends,  sir, 
instantly.  Whatever  considerations  may  have  withheld 
me  thus  far,  I  will  disregard  them  all,  and  take  a  course 
that  even  you  might  feel,  if  you  do  not  immediately 
suffer  me  to  proceed." 

Sir  Mulberry  smiled,  and  still  looking  in  her  face  and 
retaining  her  arm,  walked  towards  the  door. 

"  If  no  regard  for  my  sex  or  helpless  situation  will  in- 
duce you  to  desist  from  this  coarse  and  unmanly  perse- 
cution," said  Kate,  scarcely  knowing,  in  the  tumult  of 
her  passions,  what  she  said, — "I  have  a  brother  who 
will  resent  it  dearly,  one  day. " 

"  Upon  my  soul  !  "  exclaimed  Sir  Mulberry,  as  though 
quietly  communing  with  himself  ;  passing  his  arm  round 
her  waist  as  he  spoke,  "she  looks  more  beautiful,  and  I 
like  her  better  in  this  mood,  than  when  her  eyes  are  cast 
down,  and  she  is  in  perfect  repose  ! " 

How  Kate  reached  the  lobby  where  her  friends  were 
waiting  she  never  knew,  but  she  hurried  across  it  with- 
out at  all  regarding  them,  and  disengaged  herself  sud- 
denly from  her  companion,  sprang  into  the  coach,  and 
throwing  herself  into  its  darkest  corner  burst  into  tears. 

Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck,  knowing  their  cue,  at  once 
threw  the  party  into  great  commotion  by  shouting  for  the 
carriages,  and  getting  up  a  violent  quarrel  with  sundry 
inoffensive  bystanders  ;  in  the  midst  of  which  tumult 
they  put  the  affrighted  Mrs.  Nickleby  in  her  chariot,  and 
having  got  her  safely  off,  turned  their  thoughts  to  Mrs. 
Wititterly,  whose  attention  also  they  had  now  effectu- 
ally distracted  from  the  young  lady,  by  throwing  her 
into  a  state  of  the  utmost  bewilderment  and  consterna- 
tion. At  length,  the  conveyance  in  which  she  had  come 
rolled  off  too  with  its  load,  and  the  four  worthies  being 


left  alone  under  the  portico,  enjoyed  a  hearty  laugh  to- 
gether. 

"There,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  turning  to  his  noble 
friend.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  last  night  that  if  we  could 
find  where  they  were  going  by  bribing  a  servant  through 
ray  fellow,  and  then  established  ourselves  close  by  with 
the  mother,  these  people's  honour  would  be  our  own  ? 
Why  here  it  is,  done  in  four-and-twenty  hours." 

"  Ye-es,"  replied  the  dupe.  "But  I  have  been  tied 
to  the  old  woman  all  ni-ight." 

"Hear  him,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  turning  to  his  two 
friends.  "Hear  this  discontented  grumbler.  Isn't  it 
enough  to  make  a  man  swear  never  to  help  him  in  his 
plots  and  schemes  again  ?    Isn't  it  an  infernal  shame  ?  " 

Pyke  asked  Pluck  whether  it  was  not  an  infernal 
shame,  and  Pluck  asked  Pyke  ;  but  neither  answered. 

"  Isn't  it  the  truth ? "  demanded  Verisopht.  "Wasn't 
it  so?" 

"Wasn't  it  so!"  repeated  Sir  Mulberry.  "How 
would  you  have  had  it?  How  could  we  have  got  a  gen- 
eral invitation  at  first  sight — come  when  you  like,  go 
when  you  like,  stop  as  long  as  you  like,  do  what  you  like 
— if  you,  the  lord,  had  not  made  yourself  agreeable  to 
the  foolish  mistress  of  the  house  ?  Do  /  care  for  this 
girl,  except  as  your  friend?  Haven't  I  been  sounding 
your  praises  in  her  ears,  and  bearing  her  pretty  sulks 
and  peevishness  all  night  for  you  ?  What  sort  of  stuff 
do  you  think  I'm  made  of  ?  Would  I  do  this  for  every 
man — Don't  I  deserve  even  gratitude  in  return  ?  " 

"  You're  a  deyvlish  good  fellow,"  said  the  poor  young 
lord,  taking  his  friend's  arm.  "  Upon  my  life,  you're  a 
deyvlish  good  fellow,  Hawk," 

* '  And  I  have  done  right,  have  I  ?  '*  demanded  Sir 
Mulberry. 

"  Quite  ri-ight." 

"  And  like  a  poor,  silly,  good-natured,  friendly  dog  as 
lam,  eh?" 

"Ye-es,  ye-es — like  a  friend,"  replied  the  other. 

"Well  then,"  replied  Sir  Mulberry,  "I'm  satisfied. 
And  now  let's  go  and  have  our  revenge  on  the  German 
baron  and  the  Frenchman,  who  cleaned  you  out  so 
handsomely  last  night." 

With  these  words  the  friendly  creature  took  his  com- 
panion's arm  and  led  him  away,  turning  half  round  as 
he  did  so,  and  bestowing  a  wink  and  a  contemptuous  smile 
on  Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck,  who,  cramming  their  hand- 
kerchiefs into  their  mouths  to  denote  their  silent  enjoy- 
ment of  the  whole  proceedings,  followed  their  patron 
and  his  victim  at  a  littte  distance. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Miss  Nickleby.,  rendered  despei-ate  by  the  Persecution  of  Sir  MuWerry 
Hawk,  and  the  Complicated  Difficidties  and  Distresses  which  sur- 
round her,  ajjpeals,  as  a  last  resource,  to  her  Uncle  for  Ptvtection. 

The  ensuing  morning  brought  reflection  with  it,  as 
morning  usually  does  ;  but  widely  different  was  the 
train  of  thought  it  awakened  in  the  different  persons 
who  had  been  so  unexpectedly  brought  together  on  the 
preceding  evening,  by  the  active  agency  of  Messrs.  Pyke 
and  Pluck. 

The  reflections  of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk — if  such  a  term 
can  be  applied  to  the  thoughts  of  the  systematic  and 
calculating  man  of  dissipation,  whose  joys,  regrets, 
pains,  and  pleasures,  are  all  of  self,  and  who  would 
seem  to  retain  nothing  of  the  intellectual  faculty  but 
the  power  to  debase  himself,  and  to  degrade  the  very 
nature  whose  outward  semblance  he  wears — the  reflec- 
tions of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  turned  upon  Kate  Nickleby, 
and  were,  in  brief,  that  she  was  undoubtedly  handsome  ; 
that  her  coyness  must  be  easily  conquerable  by  a  man  of 
his  address  and  experience,  and  that  the  pursuit  wasi 
one  which  could  not  fail  to  redound  to  his  credit,  and 
greatly  to  enhance  his  reputation  with  the  world.  And 
lest  this  last  consideration — no  mean  or  secondary  one 
with  Sir  Mulberry — should  sound  strangely  in  the  ears 
of  some,  let  it  be  remembered  that  most  men  live  in  a 
world  of  their  own,  and  that  in  that  limited  circle  alone 
are  they  ambitious  for  distinction  and  applause.  Sir 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


101 


Mulberry's  world  was  peopled  with  profligates,  and  he 
acted  accordingly. 

Thus,  cases  of  injustice,  and  oppression,  and  tyranny, 
and  tlie  most  extravagant  bigotry,  are  in  constant  occur- 
rence among  us  every  day.  It  is  the  custom  to  trumpet 
forth  much  wonder  and  astonishment  at  the  chief 
actors  therein  setting  at  defiance  so  completely  the 
opinion  of  the  world  ;  but  there  is  no  greater  fallacy  ; 
it  is  precisely  because  they  do  consult  the  opinion  of 
their  own  little  world  that  such  things  take  place 
at  all,  and  strike  the  great  world  dumb  with  amaze- 
ment. 

The  reflections  of  Mrs.  Nickleby  were  of  the  proudest 
and  most  complacent  kind  ;  and  under  the  influence  of 
her  very  agreeable  delusion  she  straightway  sat  down 
and  indited  a  long  letter  to  Kate,  in  which  she  expressed 
her  entire  approval  of  the  admirable  choice  she  had 
made,  and  extolled  Sir  Mulberry  to  the  skies  ;  asserting, 
for  the  more  complete  satisfaction  of  her  daughter's 
•feelings,  that  he  was  precisely  the  individual  whom  she 
(Mrs.  Nickleby)  would  have  chosen  for  her  son-in-law,  if 
she  had  had  the  picking  and  choosing  from  all  mankind. 
The  good  lady  then,  with  the  preliminary  observation 
that  she  might  be  fairly  supposed  not  to  have  lived  in 
•the  world  so  long  without  knowing  its  ways,  commu- 
nicated a  great  many  subtle  precepts  applicable  to 
the  state  of  courtship,  and  confirmed  in  their  wisdom 
by  her  own  personal  experience.  Above  all  things  she 
commended  a  strict  maidenly  reserve,  as  being  not  only 
a  very  laudable  thing  in  itself,  but  as  tending  materially 
to  strengthen  and  increase  a  lover's  ardour.  "And  I 
never,"  added  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "was  more  delighted  in 
inv  life  than  to  observe  last  night,  my  dear,  that  your 
i,n>od  sense  had  already  told  you  this."  With  which 
sentiments,  and  various  hints  of  the  pleasure  she  derived 
from  the  knowledge  that  her  daughter  inherited  so  large 
un  instalment  of  her  own  excellent  sense  and  discretion 
(to  nearly  the  full  measure  of  which  she  might  hope, 
with  care,  to  succeed  in  time),  Mrs.  Nickleby  concluded 
a  very  long  and  rather  illegible  letter. 

Poor  Kate  was  well  nigh  distracted  on  the  receipt  of 
four  closely-written  and  closely-crossed  sides  of  congrat- 
ulation on  the  very  subject  which  had  prevented  her 
closing  her  eyes  all  night,  and  kept  her  weeping  and 
watching  in  her  chamber ;  still  worse  and  more  trying 
was  the  necessity  of  rendering  herself  agreeable  to  Mrs. 
Wititterly,  who,  being  in  low  spirits  after  the  fatigue 
of  the  preceding  night,  of  course  expected  her  companion 
(else  wherefore  had  she  board  and  salary  ?)  to  be  in  the 
best  spirits  possible.  As  to  Mr.  Wititterly,  he  went 
about  all  day  in  a  tremour  of  delight  at  having  shaken 
hands  with  a  lord,  and  having  actually  asked  him  to 
come  and  see  him  in  his  own  house.  The  lord  himself, 
not  being  troubled  to  any  inconvenient  extent  with  the 
power  of  thinking,  regaled  himself  with  the  conversation 
of  Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck,  who  sharpened  their  wit  by 
a  plentiful  indulgence  in  various  costly  stimulants  at 
his  expense. 

It  was  four  in  the  afternoon — ^that  is,  the  vulgar  after- 
noon of  the  sun  and  the  clock— and  Mrs.  Wititterly  re- 
clined, according  to  custom,  on  the  drawing-room  sofa, 
while  Kate  read  aloud  a  new  novel  in  three  volumes, 
entitled  "The  Lady  Flabella,"  which  Alphonse  the 
doubtful  had  procured  from  the  library  that  very  morn- 
ing. And  it  was  a  production  admirably  suited  to  a 
lady  labouring  under  Mrs.  Wititterly's  complaint,  seeing 
that  there  was  not  a  line  in  it,  from  beginning  to  end, 
which  could,  by  the  most  remote  contingency,  awaken 
the  smallest  excitement  in  any  person  breathing.  ! 

Kate  read  on. 

"  *  Cherizette,' said  the  Lady  Flabella,  inserting  her' 
mouse-like  feet  In  the  blue  satin  slippers,  which  had 
unwittingly  occasioned  the  half-playful  half-angry  alter- 
cation between  herself  and  the  youthful  Colonel  Befill-  I 
aire,  in  the  Duke  of  Mincefenille's  salon  de  danse  on  the  j 
previous  night.    '  Cherizette,  ma  cliere,  donnez-moi  de 
V eau-de-Cologne,  s'il  vous  plait,  mon  enfant.'  I 

"  '  Jf(9m«— thank  you,'  said  the  Lady  Flabella,  as  the 
lively  but  devoted  Cherizette,  plentifully  besprinkled 
^nth  the  fragrant  compound  the  Lady  Flabella's  mouchoir  \ 
of  finest  cambric,  edged  with  richest  lace,  and  emblaz-  | 
oned  at  the  four  corners  with  the  Flabella  crest,  and  I 


gorgeous  heraldic  bearings  of  that  noble  family  ;  *  Mer- 
cie — that  will  do.' 

"  At  this  instant,  while  the  Lady  Flabella  yet  inhaled 
that  delicious  fragrance  by  holding  the  mfmchoir  to  her 
exquisite,  but  thoughtfully-chiselled  nose,  the  dwr  of 
the  boudoir  (artfully  concealed  by  rich  hangings  of  silken 
damask,  the  hue  of  Italy's  firmament)  was  thrown  open, 
and  with  noiseless  tread  two  valets-de-chambre,  clad  in 
sumptuous  liveries  of  peach- blossom  and  gold,  advanced 
into  the  room  followed  by  a  page  in  has  de  soie — silk 
stockings — who,  while  they  remained  at  some  distance 
making  the  most  graceful  obeisances,  advanced  to  the 
feet  of  his  lovely  mistress,  and  dropping  on  one  knee 
presented,  onagolden  salver  gorgeously  chased,  a  scented 
billet. 

"  The  Lady  Flabella,  with  an  agitation  she  could  not 
repress,  hastily  tore  off  the  envelope  and  broke  the  scented 
seal.  It  was  from  Befillaire — the  young,  the  slim,  the 
low-voiced — 7ier  own  Befillaire. " 

"Oh,  charming!"  interrupted  Kate's  patroness,  who 
was  sometimes  taken  literary;  "Poetic,  really.  Read 
that  description  again.  Miss  Nickleby." 

Kate  complied. 

"Sweet,  indeed  !"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  with  a  sigh. 
"  So  voluptuous,  is  it  not — so  soft?" 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is,"  replied  Kate,  gently;  "very 
soft. " 

"  Close  the  book.  Miss  Nickleby,"  said  Mrs  Wititterly. 
"  I  can  hear  nothing  more  to-day  ;  I  should  be  sorry  to 
disturb  the  impression  of  that  sweet  description.  Close 
the  book." 

Kate  complied,  not  unwillingly  ;  and,  as  she  did  so, 
Mrs.  Wititterly  raising  her  glass  with  a  languid  hand, 
remarked,  that  she  looked  pale. 

"  It  was  the  fright  of  that — that  noise  and  confusion 
last  night,"  said  Kate. 

"How  very  odd  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wititterly,  with  a 
look  of  surprise.  And  certainly,  when  one  comes  to  think 
of  it,  it  was  very  odd  that  anything  should  have  disturbed 
a  companion.  A  steam-engine,  or  other  ingenious  piece  of 
mechanism  out  of  order,  would  have  been  nothing  to  it. 

"  How  did  you  come  to  know  Lord  Frederick,  and  those 
other  delightful  creatures,  child?"  asked  Mrs.  Wititter- 
ly, still  eyeing  Kate  through  her  glass. 

"  I  met  them  at  my  uncle's,"  said  Kate,  vexed  to  feel 
that  she  was  colouring  deeply,  but  unable  to  keep  down 
the  blood  which  rushed  to  her  face  whenever  she  thought 
of  that  man. 

"  Have  you  known  them  long  ?  " 

"  No,"  rejoined  Kate.    "  Not  long." 

"  I  was  very  glad  of  the  opportunity  which  that  re- 
spectable person,  your  mother,  gave  us  of  being  known 
to  them,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  in  a  lofty  manner.  "  Some 
friends  of  ours  were  on  the  very  point  of  introducing  us, 
which  makes  it  quite  remarkable." 

This  was  said  lest  Miss  Nickleby  should  grow  conceited 
on  the  honour  and  dignity  of  having  known  four  great 
people  (for  Pyke  add  Pluck  were  included  among  the 
delightful  creatures),  whom  Mrs,  Wititterly  did  not  know. 
But  as  the  circumstance  had  made  no  impression  one  way 
or  other  upon  Kate's  mind,  the  force  of  the  observation 
was  quite  lost  upon  her. 

"  They  asked  permission  to  call,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly. 
"  I  gave  it  them  of  course." 

"Do  you  expect  them  to-day?"  Kate  ventured  to  in- 
quire. 

Mrs.  Wititterly's  answer  was  lost  in  the  noise  of  a  tre- 
mendous rapping  at  the  street-door,  and,  before  it  had 
ceased  to  vibrate,  there  drove  up  a  handsome  cabriolet,  out 
of  which  leaped  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  and  his  friend  Lord 
Verisopht. 

"They  are  here  now,"  said  Kate,  rising  and  hurrying 
away. 

"Miss  Nickleby!"  cried  Mrs.  Wititterly,  perfectly 
aghast  at  a  companion's  attempting  to  quit  the  room, 
without  her  permission  first  had  and  obtained.  "Pray 
don't  think  of  going." 

"  You  are  very  good  1 "  replied  Kate.    "  But — " 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  don't  agitate  me  by  making  me 
speak  so  much,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  with  great  sharp- 
ness.   "  Dear  me,  Miss  Nickleby,  I  beg — " 

It  was  in  vain  for  Kate  to  protest  that  she  was  unwell. 


102 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


for  tlie  footsteps  of  the  knockers,  whoever  they  were, 
were  already  on  the  stairs.  She  resumed  her  seat,  and 
had  scarcely  done  so,  when  the  doubtful  page  darted  into 
the  room  and  announced,  Mr.  Pyke,  and  Mr.  Pluck, 
and  Lord  Verisopht,  and  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  all  at  one 
burst. 

"  The  most  extraordinary  thing  in  the  world,"  said  Mr. 
Pluck,  saluting  both  ladies  with  the  utmost  cordiality  ; 
' '  the  most  extraordinary  thing.  As  Lord  Frederick  and 
Sir  Mulberry  drove  up  to  the  door,  Pyke  and  I  had  that 
instant  knocked." 

"That  instant  knocked,"  said  Pyke. 

"  No  matter  how  you  came,  so  that  you  are  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Wititterly,  who  by  dint  of  lying  on  the  same  sofa 
for  three  years  and  a  half,  had  got  up  quite  a  little  pan- 
tomime of  graceful  attitudes,  and  now  threw  herself  into 
the  most  striking  of  the  whole  series,  to  astonish  the  vis- 
itors.   "  I  am  delighted,  I  am  sure." 

"And  how  is  Miss  Nickleby?"  said  Sir  Mulberry 
Hawk,  accosting  Kate,  in  a  low  voice — not  so  low  how- 
ever, but  that  it  reached  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Wititterly. 

**  Why,  she  complains  of  suffering  from  the  fright  of 
last  night,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  wonder  at 
it,  for  my  nerves  are  quite  torn  to  pieces." 

"  And  yet  you  look,"  observed  Sir  Mulberry,  turning 
ronnd  ;  "and  yet  you  look — " 

"Beyond  everything,"  said  Mr.  Pyke,  coming  to  his 
patron's  assistance.    Of  course  Mr.  Pluck  said  the  same. 

"I  am  afraid  Sir  Mulberry  is  a  flatterer,  my  lord," 
said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  turning  to  that  young  gentleman, 
who  had  been  sucking  the  head  of  his  cane  in  silence, 
and  staring  at  Kate. 

"Oh,  deyvlish  !  "  replied  Verisopht.  Having  given 
utterance  to  which  remarkable  sentiment,  he  occupied 
himself  as  before. 

"  Neither  does  Miss  Nickleby  look  the  worse,"  said  Sir 
Mulberry,  bending  his  bold  gaze  upon  her.  "  She  was 
always  handsome,  but  upon  my  soul,  ma'am,  you  seem 
to  have  imparted  some  of  your  own  good  looks  to  her  be- 
sides." 

To  judge  from  the  glow  which  suffused  the  poor  girl's 
countenance  after  this  speech,  Mrs.  Wititterly  might, 
with  some  show  of  reason,  have  been  supposed  to  have 
imparted  to  it  some  of  that  artificial  bloom  which  deco- 
rated her  own.  Mrs.  Wititterly  admitted,  though  not 
with  the  best  grace  in  the  world,  that  Kate  did  look 
pretty.  She  began  to  think  too,  that  Sir  Mulberry  was 
not  quite  so  agreeable  a  creature  as  she  had  at  first  sup- 
posed him  ;  for,  although  a  skilful  flatterer  is  a  most 
delightful  companion  if  you  can  keep  him  all  to  yourself, 
his  taste  becomes  very  doubtful  when  he  takes  to  com- 
plimenting other  people. 

"Pyke,"  said  the  watchful  Mr.  Pluck,  observing  the 
effect  which  the  praise  of  Miss  Nickleby  had  produced. 

"  Well,  Pluck,"  said  Pyke. 

"  Is  there  anybody,"  demanded  Mr.  Pluck,  mysterious- 
ly, "  anybody  you  know,  that  Mrs.  Wititterly 's  profile 
reminds  you  of  ?  " 

Reminds  me  of  ! "  answered  Pyke.  "  Of  course  there 

is." 

**  Who  do  you  mean?  "  said  Pluck,  in  the  same  mys- 
terious manner.    "  The  D.  of  B.  ?" 

"  The  C.  of  B.,"  replied  Pyke,  with  the  faintest  trace 
of  a  grin  lingering  in  his  countenance.  "  The  beautiful 
sister  is  the  countess  ;  not  the  duchess." 

"  True,"  said  Pluck,  "  the  C.  of  B.  The  resemblance 
is  wonderful?" 

"  Perfectly  startling,"  said  Mr.  Pyke. 

Here  was  a  state  of  things  !  Mrs.  Wititterly  was  de- 
clared, upon  the  testimony  of  two  veracious  and  compe- 
tent witnesses,  to  be  the  very  picture  of  a  countess  1  This 
was  one  of  the  consequences  of  getting  into  good  society. 
Why,  she  might  have  moved  among  grovelling  people 
for  twenty  years,  and  never  heard  of  it.  How  could  she, 
indeed?    What  did  they  know  about  countesses  ! 

The  two  gentlemen  having  by  the  greediness  with 
which  this  little  bait  was  swallowed,  tested  the  extent  of 
Mrs.  Wititterly's  appetite  for  adulation,  proceeded  to  ad- 
minister that  commodity  in  very  large  doses,  thus  affording 
to  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  an  opportunity  of  pestering  Miss 
Nickleby  with  questions  and  remarks,  to  which  she  was 
absolutely  obliged  to  make  some  reply.   Meanwhile  Lord 


Verisopht  enjoyed  unmolested  the  full  flavour  of  the  gold  • 
knob  at  the  top  of  his  cane,  as  he  would  have  done  to  the  t 
end  of  the  interview  if  Mr.  Wititterly  had  not  come  home, 
and  caused  the  conversation  to  turn  to  his  favourite  topic.  « 

"My  lord,"  said  Mr,  Wititterly,  "I  am  delighted —  ' 
honoured — proud.  Be  seated  again,  my  lord,  pray.  I  am  \ 
proud,  indeed — most  proud."  ; 

It  was  to  the  secret  annoyance  of  his  wife  that  Mr.  i. 
Wititterly  said  all  this,  for,  although  she  was  bursting  ' 
with  pride  and  arrogance,  she  would  have  had  the  illus-  j 
trious  guests  believe  that  their  visit  was  quite  a  common  j 
occurrence,  and  that  they  had  lords  and  baronets  to  see  ' 
them  every  day  in  the  week.  But  Mr.  Wititterly's  feel-  I 
ings  were  beyond  the  power  of  suppression.  \ 

"  It  is  an  honour,  indeed  ! "  said  Mr.  Wititterly.  "Julia,  \ 
my  soul,  you  will  suffer  for  this  to-morrow. " 

"Suffer  I"  cried  Lord  Verisopht. 

"  The  reaction,  my  lord,  the  reaction,"  said  Mr.  Witit- 
terly. "This  violent  strain  upon  the  nervous  system 
over,  my  lord,  what  ensues  ?  A  sinking,  a  depression,  a 
lowness,  a  lassitude,  a  debility.  My  lord,  if  Sir  Tumley 
SnuflBm  was  to  see  that  delicate  creature  at  this  moment, 
he  would  not  give  a — a — this  for  her  life."  In  illustra- 
tion of  which  remark,  Mr.  Wititterly  took  a  pinch  of 
snuff  from  his  box,  and  jerked  it  lightly  into  the  air  as 
an  emblem  of  instability. 

"Not  that,"  said  Mr,  Wititterly,  looking  about  him 
with  a  serious  countenance.  ' '  Sir  Tumley  Snuffira  would 
not  give  that  for  Mrs.  Wititterly's  existence." 

Mr,  Wititterly  told  this  with  a  kind  of  sober  exulta- 
tion, as  if  it  were  no  trifling  distinction  for  a  man  to  have 
a  wife  in  such  a  desperate  state,  and  Mrs.  Wititterly 
sighed  and  looked  on,  as  if  she  felt  the  honour,  but  had 
determined  to  bear  it  as  meekly  as  might  be. 

"  Mrs.  Wititterly,"  said  her  husband,  "is  Sir  Tumley  : 
Snuffim's  favourite  patient.  I  believe  I  may  venture  to  I 
say,  that  Mrs.  Wititterly  is  the  first  person  who  took  the  : 
new  medicine  which  is  supposed  to  have  destroyed  a  fam-  ! 
ily  at  Kensington  Gravel  Pits.  I  believe  she  was.  If  I  i 
am  wrong,  Julia,  my  dear,  you  will  correct  me."  | 
"I  believe  I  was,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  in  a  faint  voice.  \ 
As  there  appeared  to  be  some  doubt  in  the  mind  of  his  ) 


patron  how  he  could  best  join  in  this  conversation,  the 
indefatigable  Mr.  Pyke  threw  himself  into  the  breach, 
and,  by  way  of  saying  something  to  the  point,  inquired 
— with  reference  to  the  aforesaid  medicine — whether  it 
was  nice. 

"No,  sir,  it  was  not.  It  had  not  even  that  recom- 
mendation," said  Mr.  W. 

"Mrs.  Wititterly  is  quite  a  martyr,"  observed  Pike, 
with  a  complimentary  bow. 

"  I  think  I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  smiling. 

"I  think  you  are,  my  dear  Julia,"  replied  her  hus- 
band, in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  say  that  he  was  not 
vain,  but  still  must  insist  upon  their  privileges.  "If 
anybody,  my  lord,"  added  Mr.  Wititterly,  wheeling 
round  to  the  nobleman,  "  will  produce  to  me  a  greater 
martyr  than  Mrs.  Wititterly,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  that  martyr,  whether  male  or  female — 
that's  all,  my  lord." 

Pyke  and  Pluck  promptly  remarked  that  certainly 
nothing  could  be  fairer  than  that  ;  and  the  call  having 
been  by  this  time  protracted  to  a  very  great  length,  they 
obeyed  Sir  Mulberry's  look,  and  rose  to  go.  This  brought 
Sir  Mulberry  himself  and  Lord  Verisopht  on  their  legs 
also.  Many  protestations  of  friendship,  and  expressions 
anticipative  of  the  pleasure  which  must  inevitably  flow 
from  so  happy  an  acquaintance,  were  exchanged,  and 
the  visitors  departed,  with  renewed  assurances  that  at 
all  times  and  seasons  the  mansion  of  the  Wititterlys 
would  be  honoured  by  receiving  them  beneath  its  roof. 

That  they  came  at  all  times  and  seasons — that  they 
dined  tliere  one  day,  supped  the  next,  dined  again  on 
the  next,  and  were  constantly  to  and  fro  on  all — that 
they  made  parties  to  visit  public  places,  and  met  by  acci- 
dent at  lounges — that  upon  all  these  occasions  Miss 
Nickleby  was  exposed  to  the  constant  and  unremitting 
persecution  of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  who  now  began  to 
feel  his  character,  even  in  the  estimation  of  his  two  de- 
pendants, involved  in  the  successful  reduction  of  her  pride 
— that  she  had  no  intervals  of  peace  or  rest,  except  at 
those  hours  when  she  could  sit  in  her  solitary  room,  and 


NICHOLAS  NIGKLEBY. 


103 


weep  over  the  trials  of  the  day — all  these  were  conse- 
quences naturally  flowing  from  the  well- laid  plans  of 
Sir  Mulberry,  and  their  able  execution  by  the  auxiliaries, 
Pyke  and  Pluck. 

And  thus  for  a  fortnight  matters  went  on.  That  any 
but  the  weakest  and  silliest  of  people  could  have  seen  in 
one  interview  that  Lord  Verisopht,  though  he  was  a  lord, 
and  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  though  he  was  a  baronet,  were 
not  persons  accustomed  to  be  the  best  possible  compan- 
ions, and  were  certainly  not  calculated  by  habits,  man- 
ners, tastes,  or  conversation,  to  shine  with  any  very 
great  lustre  in  the  society  of  ladies,  need  scarcely  be 
remarked.  But  with  Mrs.  Wititterly  the  two  titles  were 
all-sufficient ;  coarseness  became  humour,  vulgarity  sof- 
tened itself  down  into  the  most  charming  eccentricity  ; 
insolence  took  the  guise  of  an  easy  absence  of  reserve, 
attainable  only  by  those  who  had  had  the  good  fortune 
to  mix  with  high  folks. 

If  the  mistress  put  such  a  construction  upon  the  behav- 
iour of  her  new  friends,  what  could  the  companion 
urge  against  them  ?  If  they  accustomed  themselves  to 
very  little  restraint  before  the  lady  of  the  house,  with 
how  much  more  freedom  could  they  address  her  paid 
I  dependent  !    Nor  Avas  even  this  the  worst.    As  the 
j  odious  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  attached  himself  to  Kate  with 
I  less  and  less  of  disguise,  Mrs.  Wititterly  began  to  grow 
I  jealous  of  the  superior  attractions  of  Miss  Nickleby.  If 
I  this  feeling  had  led  to  her  banishment  from  the  drawing- 
;  room  when  such  company  was  there,  Kate  would  have 
!  been  only  too  happy  and  willing  that  it  should  have 
i  existed,  but  unfortunately  for  her  she  possessed  that 
!  native  grace  and  true  gentility  of  manner,  and  those 
i  thousand  nameless  accouiplishments  which  give  to  female 
I  society  its  greatest  charm  ;  if  these  be  valuable  any- 
i  where,  they  were  especially  so  where  the  lady  of  the 
I  house  was  a  mere  animated  doll.  The  consequence  was, 
I  that  Kate  had  the  double  mortification  of  being  an  indis- 
pensable part  of  the  circle  when  Sir  Mulberry  and  his 
friends  were  there,  and  of  being  exposed,  on  that  very 
account,  to  all  Mrs.  Wititterly's  ill-humours  and  caprices 
when  these  were  gone.    She  became  utterly  and  com- 
pletely miserable. 

Mrs.  Wititterly  had  never  thrown  off  the  mask  with 
regard  to  Sir  Mulberry,  but  when  she  was  more  than 
usually  out  of  temper,  attributed  the  circumstance,  as 
ladies  sometimes  do,  to  nervous  indisposition.  However, 
as  the  dreadful  idea  that  Lord  Verisopht  also  was  some- 
what taken  with  Kate,  and  that  she,  Mrs.  Wititterly,  was 
quite  a  secondary  person,  dawned  upon  that  lady's  mind 
and  gradually  developed  itself,  she  became  possessed 
with  a  large  quantity  of  highly  proper  and  most  virtuous 
indignation,  and  felt  it  her  duty,  as  a  married  lady  and  a 
moral  member  of  society,  to  mention  the  circumstance  to 
"  the  young  person  "  without  delay.  I 
Accordingly  Mrs.  Wititterly  broke  ground  next  morn-  i 
ing,  during  a  pause  in  the  novel -reading. 

"Miss  Nickleby,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  "I  wish  to 
speak  to  you  very  gravely.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  do  it, 
upon  my  word  I  am  very  sorry,  but  you  leave  me  no  alter- 
native. Miss  Nickleby."  Here  Mrs.*  Wititterly  tossed  her 
head — not  passionately,  only  virtuously — and  remarked, 
•with  some  appearance  of  excitement,  that  she  feared 
that  palpitation  of  the  heart  was  coming  on  again. 

"  Your  behaviour.  Miss  Nickleby,"  resumed  the  lady, 
' '  is  very  far  from  pleasing  me — very  far.  I  am  very 
anxious  indeed  that  you  should  do  well,  but  you  may 
depend  upon  it.  Miss  Nickleby,  you  will  not,  if  you  go 
on  as  you  do." 

"Ma'am  !  "  exclaimed  Kate,  proudly. 
"Don't  agitate  me  by  speaking  in  that  way.  Miss 
Nickleby,  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterlv,  with  some  vio- 
lence, "  or  you'll  compel  me  to  ring  the  bell." 
Kate  looked  at  her,  but  said  nothing. 
"You  needn't  suppose,"  resumed  Mrs.  Wititterly, 
"  that  your  looking  at  me  in  that  way,  Miss  Nickleby, 
will  prevent  my  saying  what  I  am  going  to  say,  which  I 
feel  to  be  a  religious  duty.    You  needn't  direct  your 
glances  towards  me,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  with  a  sud- 
den burst  of  spite  ;  "  i  am  not  Sir  Mulberry,  no,  nor 
Lord  Frederick  Verisopht,  Miss  Nickleby  ;  nor  am  I  Mr. 
^  Pyke,  nor  Mr.  Pluck  either." 

Kate  looked  at  her  again,  but  less  steadily  than  before  ; 


and  resting  her  elbow  on  the  table,  covered  lnjr  eyes 
with  her  hand. 

"  If  such  things  had  been  done  when  /  was  a  young 
girl,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly  (this,  by  the  way,  must  have 
been  some  little  time  before),  "  I  don't  suppose  anybody 
would  have  believed  it." 

"  1  don't  think  they  would,"  murmured  Kate.  "  I  do 
not  think  anybody  would  believe,  without  actually  know- 
ing it,  what  I  seem  doomed  to  undergo  !  " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  being  doomed  to  undergo.  Miss 
Nickleby,  if  you  please,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  with  a 
shrillness  of  tone  quite  surprising  in  so  great  an  invalid. 
"  I  will  not  be  answered.  Miss  Nickleby.  I  am  not  ac- 
customed to  be  answered,  nor  will  I  permit  it  for  an  in- 
stant. Do  you  hear?"  she  added,  waiting  with  some 
apparent  inconsistency /<?r  an  answer. 

"  I  do  hear  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Kate,  "  with  surprise 
— with  greater  surprise  than  I  can  express." 

"  I  have  always  considered  you  a  particularly  well-be- 
haved young  person  for  your  station  in  life,"  said  Mrs. 
Wititterly  ;  "  and  as  you  are  a  person  of  healthy  appear- 
ance, and  neat  in  your  dress  and  so  forth,  I  have  taken 
an  interest  in  you,  as  I  do  still,  considering  that  I  owe  a 
sort  of  duty  to  that  respectable  old  female,  your  mother. 
For  these  reasons,  Miss  Nickleby,  I  must  tell  you  once  for 
all,  and  begging  you  to  mind  what  I  say,  that  I  must  in- 
sist upon  your  immediately  altering  your  very  forward 
behaviour  to  the  gentlemen  who  visit  at  this  house.  It 
really  is  not  becoming,"  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  closing  her 
chaste  eyes  as  she  spoke  ;  "it  is  improper — quite  im- 
proper. " 

"Oh  !"  cried  Kate,  looking  upwards  and  closing  her 
hands,  "  is  not  this,  is  not  this,  too  cruel,  too  hard  to 
bear  !  Is  it  not  enough  that  I  should  have  suffered  as  I 
have,  night  and  day  ;  that  I  should  almost  have  sunk  in 
my  own  estimation  from  very  shame  of  having  been 
brought  into  contact  with  such  people  ;  but  must  I  also 
be  exposed  to  this  unjust  and  most  unfounded  charge  !  " 

"  You  will  have  the  goodness  to  recollect.  Miss  Nickle- 
by," said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  "  that  when  you  use  such 
terms  as  *  unjust,'  and  '  unfounded,'  you  charge  me,  in 
effect,  with  stating  that  which  is  untrue." 

"  I  do, "  said  Kate,  with  honest  indignation.  "  Whether 
you  make  this  accusation  of  yourself,  or  at  the  prompt- 
ing of  others,  is  alike  to  me.  I  say  it  is  vilely,  grossly, 
wilfully  untrue.  Is  it  possible  !  "  cried  Kate,  "  that  any 
one  of  my  own  sex  can  have  sat  by,  and  not  have  seen 
the  misery  these  men  have  caused  me  1  Is  it  possible 
that  you, 'ma'am,  can  have  been  present,  and  failed  to 
mark  the  insulting  freedom  that  their  every  look  bespoke  ? 
Is  it  possible  that  you  can  have  avoided  seeing,  that 
these  libertines,  in  their  utter  disrespect  for  you,  and 
utter  disregard  of  all  gentlemanly  behaviour,  and  al- 
I  most  of  decency,  have  had  but  one  object  in  introducing 
i  themselves  here,  and  that  the  futheranceof  their  designs 
upon  a  friendless,  helpless  girl,  who  without  this  humili- 
ating confession,  might  have  hoped  to  receive  from  one 
so  much  her  senior  something  like  womanly  aid  and 
sympathy  ?    I  do  not — I  cannot  believe  it  !  " 

If  poor  Kate  had  possessed  the  slightest  knowledge  of 
the  world,  she  certainly  would  not  have  ventured,  even 
in  the  excitement  into  which  she  had  been  lashed,  upon 
such  an  injudicious  speech  as  this.  Its  effect  was  pre- 
cisely what  a  more  experienced  observer  would  have 
foreseen.  Mrs.  Wititterly  received  the  attack  upon  her 
veracity  with  exemplary  calmness,  and  listened  with  the 
most  heroic  fortitude  to  Kate's  account  of  her  own  suf- 
ferings. But  allusion  being  made  to  her  being  held  in 
disregard  by  the  gentlemen,  she  evinced  violent  emotion, 
and  this  blow  was  no  sooner  followed  up  by  the  remark 
concerning  her  seniority,  than  she  fell  back  upon  the 
sofa,  uttering  dismal  screams. 

"  What  is  the  matter  !  "  cried  Mr.  Wititterly,  bounc- 
ing into  the  room.  "  Heavens,  what  do  I  see  !  Julia  ! 
Julia  !  look  up,  my  life,  look  up  !  " 

But  Julia  looked  down  most  perseveringly,  and  scream- 
ed still  louder  !  so  Mr.  Wititterly  rang  the  bell,  and 
danced  in  a  frenzied  manner  round  the  sofa  on  which 
Mrs.  Wititterly  lay ;  uttering  perpetual  cries  for  Sir 
Tumley  Snuffim,  and  never  once  leaving  off  to  ask  for 
any  explanation  of  the  scene  before  him. 

"Run  for  Sir  Tumley,"  cried  Mr.  Wititterly,  menac- 


104 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


ing  the  page  with  both  fists.  "  I  knew  it,  Miss  Nick- 
leby,"  he  said,  looking  round  with  an  air  of  melancholy 
triumph,  *'  that  society  has  been  too  much  for  her.  This 
is  all  soul,  you  know,  every  bit  of  it."  With  this  assur- 
ance Mr.  Wititterly  took  up  the  prostrate  form  of  Mrs. 
Wititterly,  and  carried  her  bodily  off  to  bed. 

Kate  waited  until  Sir  Tumley  SnufRm  had  paid  his  visit 
and  looked  in  with  a  report,  that,  through  the  special  in- 
terposition of  a  merciful  Providence  (thus  spake  Sir 
Tumley),  Mrs.  Wititterly  had  gone  to  sleep.  She  then 
hastily  attired  herself  for  walking,  and  leaving  word 
that  she  should  return  within  a  couple  of  hours,  hur- 
ried away  towards  her  uncle's  house. 

It  had  been  a  good  day  with  Ralph  Nickleby, — quite  a 
lucky  day  ;  and  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  little  back 
room,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  adding  up  in 
his  own  mind  all  the  sums  that  had  been,  or  would  be, 
netted  from  the  business  done  since  morning,  his  mouth 
was  drawn  into  a  hard  stern  smile  ;  while  the  firmness  of 
the  lines  and  curves  that  made  it  up,  as  well  as  the  cun- 
ning glance  of  his  cold,  bright  eye,  seemed  to  tell,  that 
if  any  resolution  or  cunning  would  increase  the  profits, 
they  would  not  fail  to  be  excited  for  the  purpose. 

"Very  good  !"  said  Ralph,  in  allusion,  no  doubt,  to 
some  proceeding  of  the  day.  "He  defies  the  usurer, 
does  he  ?  Well,  we  shall  see.  '  Honesty  is  the  best 
policy,'  is  it?    We'll  try  that  too." 

He  stopped,  and  then  walked  on  again. 

"He  is  content,"  said  Ralph,  relaxing  into  a  smile, 
"to  set  his  known  character  and  conduct  against  the 
power  of  money — dross,  as  he  calls  it.  Why,  what  a 
dull  blockhead  this  fellow  must  be  !  Dross  too — dross  ! 
—Who's  that  ? " 

"  Me,"  said  Newman  Noggs,  looking  in.  "  Your  niece." 

"What  of  her?"  asked  Ralph  sharply. 

"  She's  here." 

"Here  !" 

Newman  jerked  his  head  towards  his  little  room,  to 
signify  that  she  was  waiting  there. 

"  What  does  she  want?  "  asked  Ralph. 

"  I  don't  know,"  rejoined  Newman.  "  Shall  I  ask  ?  " 
he  added  quickly. 

"No,"  replied  Ralph.  "Show  her  in — stay."  He 
hastily  put  away  a  padlocked  cash-box  that  was  on  the 
table,  and  substituted  in  its  stead  an  empty  purse. 
"  There,"  said  Ralph.    "  Now  she  may  come  in." 

Newman,  with  a  grim  smile  at  this  manoeuvre,  beck- 
oned the  young  lady  to  advance,  and  having  placed  a 
chair  for  her,  retired  ;  looking  stealthily  over  his  shoul- 
der at  Ralph  as  he  limped  slowly  out. 

"Well,"  said  Ralph,  roughly  enough  ;  but  still  with 
something  more  of  kindness  in  his  manner  than  he  would 
have  exhibited  towards  anybody  else.  "Well,  my — 
dear.    What  now  ?  " 

Kate  raised  her  eyes,  which  were  filled  with  tears  ; 
and  with  an  effort  to  master  her  emotion  strove  to  speak, 
but  in  vain.  So  drooping  her  head  again,  she  remained 
silent.  Her  face  was  hidden  from  his  view,  but  Ralph 
could  see  that  she  was  weeping. 

"  I  can  guess  the  cause  of  this  !"  thought  Ralph,  after 
looking  at  her  for  some  time  in  silence.  "  I  can — I  can 
guess  the  cause.  Well  !  Well  ! " — thought  Ralph — for 
the  moment  quite  disconcerted,  as  he  watched  the  an- 
guish of  his  beautiful  niece.  "Where  is  the  harm? 
only  a  few  tears  ;  and  it's  an  excellent  lesson  for  her — 
an  excellent  lesson. " 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Ralph,  drawing  a  chair 
opposite,  and  sitting  down. 

He  was  rather  taken  aback  by  the  sudden  firmness 
with  which  Kate  looked  up  and  answered  him. 

"The  matter  which  brings  me  to  you,  sir,"  she  said, 
"  is  one  which  should  call  the  blood  up  into  your  checks, 
and  make  you  burn  to  hear,  as  it  does  me  to  tell.  I  have 
been  wronged  ;  my  feelings  have  been  outraged,  insulted, 
wounded  past  all  healing,  and  by  your  friends." 

"Friends  !  "  cried  Ralph,  sternly,  "/have  no  friends, 
girl." 

"  By  the  men  I  saw  here,  then,"  returned  Kate, 
quickly.  "  If  they  were  no  friends  of  yours,  and  you 
knew  what  they  were, — oh,  the  more  shame  on  you, 
uncle,  for  bringing  me  among  them.  To  have  subjected 
me  to  what  I  was  exposed  to  here,  through  any  mis- 


placed confidence  or  imperfect  knowledge  of  your  guests, 
would  have  required  some  strong  excuse  ;  but  if  you  did 
it — as  I  now  believe  you  did — knowing  them  well,  it  was 
most  dastard! 3'  and  cruel." 

Ralph  drew  back  in  utter  amazement  at  this  plain 
speaking,  and  regarded  Kate  with  the  sternest  look. 
But  she  met  his  gaze  proudly  and  firmly,  and  although 
her  face  was  very  pale,  it  looked  more  noble  and  hand- 
some, lighted  up  as  it  was,  than  it  had  ever  appeared 
before. 

"  There  is  some  of  that  boy's  blood  in  you,  I  see,"  said 
Ralph,  speaking  in  his  harshest  tones,  as  something  in 
the  flashing  eye  reminded  him  of  Nicholas  at  their  last 
meeting. 

"  I  hope  there  is  ! "  replied  Kate.  "  I  should  be  proud 
to  know  it.  I  am  young,  uncle,  and  all  the  diflBculties 
and  miseries  of  my  situation  have  kept  it  down,  but  I 
have  been  roused  to-day  beyond  all  endui  ance,  and  come 
what  may,  I  will  not,  as  I  am  your  brother's  child,  bear 
these  insults  longer." 

"  What  insults,  girl?"  demanded  Ralph,  sharply. 

"  Remember  what  took  place  here,  and  ask  yourself," 
replied  Kate,  colouring  deeply.  "Uncle,  you  must — I 
am  sure  you  will — release  me  from  such  vile  and  degrad- 
ing companionship  as  I  am  exposed  to  now.  I  do  not 
mean,"  said  Kate,  hurrying  to  the  old  man,  and  laying 
her  arm  upon  his  shoulder  ;  "I  do  not  mean  to  be  angry 
and  violent — I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  have  seemed  so,  dear 
uncle, — but  you  do  not  know  what  I  have  suffered,  you 
do  not  indeed.  You  cannot  tell  what  the  heart  of  a 
young  girl  is — I  have  no  right  to  expect  you  should  ;  but 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  wretched,  and  that  my  heart 
is  breaking,  I  am  sure  you  will. help  me.  I  am  sure,  I 
am  sure  you  will ! " 

Ralph  looked  at  her  for  an  instant ;  then  turned  away 
his  head,  and  beat  his  foot  nervously  upon  the  ground. 

"I  have  gone  on  day  after  day,"  said  Kate,  bending 
over  him,  and  timidly  placing  her  little  hand  in  his,  "in 
the  hope  that  this  persecution  would  cease  ;  I  have  gone  ' 
on  day  after  day,  compelled  to  assume  the  appearance  • 
of  cheerfulness,  when  I  was  most  unhappy.    I  have  had 
no  counsellor,  no  adviser,  no  one  to  protect  me.   Mamma  : 
supposes  that  these  are  honourable  men,  rich  and  dis- 
tinguished, and  how  can  I — how  can  I  undeceive  her —  ' 
when  she  is  so  happy  in  these  little  delusions,  which  are  ' 
the  only  happiness  she  has  ?    The  lady  with  whom  you  ' 
placed  me,  is  not  the  person  to  whom  I  could  confide  . 
matters  of  so  much  delicacy,  and  I  have  come  at  last  to 
you,  the  only  friend  I  have  at  hand — almost  the  only  ' 
friend  I  have  at  all — to  intreat  and  implore  you  to  assist 
me.  '*  ' 

"How  can  /  assist  you,  child?"  said  Ralph,  rising  ' 
from  his  chair,  and  pacing  up  and  down  the  room  in  his 
old  attitude. 

"You  have  influence  with  one  of  these  men,  I  know"  ' 
rejoined  Kate,  emphatically.  "Would  not  a  word  from  ' 
you  induce  them  to  desist  from  this  unmanly  course  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Ralph,  suddenly  turning;  "at  least — that 
— I  can't  say  it,  if  it  would." 

"  Can't  say  it !  " 

"No,"  said  Ralph,  coming  to  a  dead  stop,  and  clasp- 
ing his  hands  more  tightly  behind  him.    "  I  can't  say  it." 

Kate  fell  back  a  step  or  two,  and  looked  at  him,  as  if  i 
in  doubt  whether  she  had  heard  aright. 

"We  are  connected  in  business,"  said  Ralph,  poising 
himself  alternately  on  his  toes  and  heels,  and  looking 
coolly  in  his  niece's  face,  "  in  business,  and  I  can't  afford 
to  offend  them.  What  is  it  after  all  ?  We  have  all  our 
trials,  and  this  is  one  of  yours.  S6me  girls  would  be 
proud  to  have  such  gallants  at  their  feet." 

"  Proud  !  "  cried  Kate. 

"I  don't  say,"  rejoined  Ralph,  raising  his  fore-finger, 
"but  that  you  do  right  to  despise  them;  no,  you  show 
your  good  sense  in  that,  as  indeed  1  knew  from  the  first 
you  would.  Well.  In  all  other  respects  you  are  com- 
fortably bestowed.  It's  not  much  to  bear.  If  this  young 
lord  does  dog  your  footsteps,  and  whisper  his  drivelling 
inanities  in  your  ears,  what  of  it  ?  It's  a  dishonourable 
passion.  So  be  it  ;  it  won't  last  long.  Some  other  nov- 
elty will  spring  up  one  day,  and  you  will  be  released. 
In  the  meantime — " 

"  In  the  meantime,"  interrupted  Kate,  with  becoming 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


105 


pride  and  indignation,  "  I  am  to  be  the  scorn  of  my  own 
sex,  and  the  toy  of  the  other  ;  justly  condemned  by  all 
women  of  right  feeling,  and  despised  by  all  honest  and 
honourable  men  ;  sunken  in  my  own  esteem,  and  degrad- 
ed in  every  eye  that  looks  upon  me.  No,  not  if  I  work 
my  fingers  to  the  bone,  not  if  I  am  driven  to  the  rough- 
est and  hardest  labour.  Do  not  mistake  me.  I  will  not 
disgrace  your  recommendation.  I  will  remain  in  the 
house  in  which  it  placed  me,  until  I  am  entitled  to  leave 
it  by  the  terms  of  my  engagement ; — though,  mind,  I 
see  these  men  no  more.  When  I  quit  it,  I  will  hide  my- 
self from  them  and  you,  and,  striving  to  support  my 
mother  by  hard  service,  I  will  live,  at  least,  in  peace, 
and  trust  in  God  to  help  me." 

With  these  words,  she  waved  her  hand,  and  quitted 
the  room,  leaving  Ralph  Nickleby  motionless  as  a  statue. 

The  surprise  with  which  Kate,  as  she  closed  the  room- 
door,  beheld,  close  beside  it,  Newman  Noggs  standing  | 
bolt  upright  in  a  little  niche  in  the  wall  like  some  scare- 
crow or  Guy  Faux  laid  up  in  winter  quarters,  almost 
occasioned  her  to  call  aloud.  But,  Newman  laying  his 
finger  upon  his  lips,  she  had  presence  of  mind  to  refrain. 

"  Don't,"  said  Newman,  gliding  out  of  his  recess,  and 
accompanying  her  across  the  hall.  "Don't  cry,  don't 
cry."  Two  very  large  tears,  by-the-bye,  were  running 
down  Newman's  face  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  poor  Noggs,  drawing  from  his 
pocket  what  seemed  to  be  a  very  old  duster,  and  wiping 
Kate's  eyes  with  it,  as  gently  as  if  she  were  an  infant. 
"  You're  giving  way  now  Yes,  yes,  very  good  ;  that's 
right,  I  like  that.  It  was  right  not  to  give  way  before 
him.    Yes,  yes  !    Ha,  ha,  ha  !    Oh,  yes.    Poor  thing  I " 

With  these  disjointed  exclamations,  Newman  wiped 
his  own  eyes  with  the  afore-mentioned  duster,  and  limp- 
ing to  the  street-door,  opened  it  to  let  her  out. 

"  Don't  cry  any  more,"  whispered  Newman.  **  I  shall 
see  you  soon.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  And  so  shall  somebody 
else  too.    Yes,  yes.    Ho  !  ho  !  " 

"  God  bless  you,"  answered  Kate,  hurrying  out,  "  God 
bless  you." 

"Same  to  you,"  rejoined  Newman,  opening  the  door 
again  a  little  way,  to  say  so.  "  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Ho  !  ho  ! 
ho  ! " 

And  Newman  Noggs  opened  the  door  once  again  to 
nod  cheerfully,  and  laugh — and  shut  it,  to  shake  his 
head  mournfully,  and  cry. 

Ralph  remained  in  the  same  attitude  till  he  heard  the 
noise  of  the  closing  door,  when  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  after  a  few  turns  about  the  room — hasty  at 
first,  but  gradually  becoming  slower,  as  he  relapsed  into 
himself — sat  down  before  his  desk. 

It  is  one  of  those  problems  of  human  nature,  which 
may  be  noted  down,  but  not  solved  ; — although  Ralph 
felt  no  remorse  at  that  moment  for  his  conduct  towards 
the  innocent,  true-hearted  girl  ;  although  his  libertine 
clients  had  done  precisely  what  he  had  expected,  pre- 
cisely what  he  most  wished,  and  precisely  what  would 
tend  most  to  his  advantage,  still  he  hated  them  for  doing 
it,  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  soul. 

"  Ugh  ! "  said  Ralph,  scowling  round,  and  shaking  his 
clenched  hand  as  the  faces  of  the  two  profligates  rose  up 
before  his  mind;  "you  shall  pay  for  this.  Oh!  you 
shall  pay  for  this  !  " 

As  the  usurer  turned  for  consolation  to  his  books  and 
papers,  a  performance  was  going  on  outside  his  office- 
door,  which  would  have  occasioned  him  no  small  sur- 
prise, if  he  could  by  any  means  have  become  acquainted 
with  it. 

Newman  Noggs  was  the  sole  actor.  He  stood  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  door,  with  his  face  towards  it  ; 
and  with  the  sleeves  of  his  coat  turned  back  at  the 
wrists,  was  occupied  in  bestowing  the  most  vigorous, 
scientific,  and  straightforward  blows  upon  the  empty  air. 

At  first  sight,  this  would  have  appeared  merely  a  wise 
precaution  in  a  man  of  sedentary  habits,  with  the  view  I 
of  opening  the  chest  and  strengthening  the  muscles  of  ' 
the  arms.    But  the  intense  eagerness  and  joy  depicted  in  [  > 
the  face  of  Newman  Noggs,  which  was  suffused  with  \ 
perspiration  ;  the  surprising  energy  with  which  he  di  | 
rected  a  constant  succession  of  blows  towards  a  particu-  : 
Jar  panel  about  five  feet  eight  from  the  ground,  and  still  < 
worked  away  in  the  most  untiring  and  persevering  man- 


ner, would  have  sufficiently  explained  to  the  attentive 
observer,  that  his  imagination  was  threshing,  to  within 
an  inch  of  his  life,  his  body's  most  active  employer,  Mr. 
Ralph  Nickleby, 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Of  the  Proceedings  of  Nicholas,  and  certain  Internal  Divisions  in  tM 
Company  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies. 

The  unexpected  success  and  favour  with  which  his 
experiment  at  Portsmouth  had  been  received,  induced 
Mr.  Crummies  to  prolong  his  stay  in  that  town  for  a  fort- 
night beyond  the  period  he  had  originally  assigned  for 
the  duration  of  his  visit,  during  which  time  Nicholas 
personated  a  vast  variety  of  characters  with  undimin- 
ished success,  and  attracted  so  many  people  to  the  thea- 
I  tre  who  had  never  been  seen  there  before,  that  a  benefit 
was  considered  by  the  manager  a  very  promising  specu- 
lation. Nicholas  assenting  to  the  terms  proposed,  the 
benefit  was  had,  and  by  it  he  realized  no  less  a  sum  than 
twenty  pounds. 

Possessed  of  this  unexpected  wealth,  his  first  act  was 
to  inclose  to  honest  John  Browdie  the  amount  of  his 
friendly  loan,  which  he  accompanied  with  many  expres- 
sions of  gratitude  and  esteem,  and  many  cordial  wishes 
for  his  matrimonial  happiness.  To  Newman  Noggs  he 
forwarded  one  half  of  the  sum  he  had  realised,  entreat- 
ing him  to  take  an  opportunity  of  handing  it  to  Kate  in 
secret,  and  conveying  to  her  the  warmest  assurances  of 
his  love  and  affection.  He  made  no  mention  of  the  way 
in  which  he  had  employed  himself ;  merely  informing 
Newman  that  a  letter  addressed  to  him  under  his  as- 
sumed name  at  the  Post  Office,  Portsmouth,  would  read- 
ily find  him,  and  entreating  that  worthy  friend  to  write 
full  particulars  of  the  situation  of  his  mother  and  sister, 
and  an  account  of  all  the  grand  things  that  Ralph  Nickle- 
by had  done  for  them  since  his  departure  from  London. 

"  You  are  out  of  spirits,"  said  Smike,  on  the  night 
after  the  letter  had  been  despatched. 

"Not  I!"  rejoined  Nicholas,  with  assumed  gaiety, 
for  the  confession  would  have  made  the  boy  miserable 
all  night ;  "I  was  thinking  about  my  sister,  Smike." 
"Sister!" 
"Aye." 

"Is  she  like  you ?  "  inquired  Smike. 
"  Why,  so  they  say,"  replied  Nicholas,  laughing, 
"  only  a  great  deal  handsomer." 

"  She  must  be  very  beautiful,"  said  Smike,  after 
thinking  a  little  while  with  his  hands  folded  together, 
and  his  eyes  bent  upon  his  friend. 

' '  Anybody  who  didn't  know  you  as  well  as  I  do,  my 
dear  fellow,  would  say  you  were  an  accomplished  cour- 
tier," said  Nicholas. 

"  I  don't  even  know  what  that  is,"  replied  Smike, 
shaking  his  head.    "  Shall  I  ever  see  your  sister  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  cried  Nicholas  ;  "we  shall  all  be  to- 
gether one  of  these  days — when  we  are  rich,  Smike." 

"  How  is  that  you,  who  are  so  kind  and  good  to  me, 
have  nobody  to  be  kind  to  you?"  asked  Smike.  "I 
cannot  make  that  out. " 

"Why,  it  is  a  long  story,"  replied  Nicholas,  "and 
one  you  would  have  some  difficulty  in  comprehending,  I 
fear.  I  have  an  enemy — you  understand  what  that  is  ?  " 
"Oh,  yes,  I  understand  that,"  said  Smike. 
"  Well,  it  is  owing  to  him,"  returned  Nicholas.  "He 
is  rich,  and  not  so  easily  punished  as  y&ur  old  enemy, 
Mr.  Squeers.  He  is  my  uncle,  but  he  is  a  villain,  and 
has  done  me  wrong. " 

"Has  he  though  ? "  asked  Smike,  bending  eagerly  for- 
ward.   "  What  is  his  name  ?    Tell  me  his  name  ?  " 
"  Ralph— Ralph  Nickleby. " 

"Ralph  Nickleby,"  repeated  Smike.  "Ralph.  I'll 
get  that  name  by  heart." 

He  had  muttered  it  over  to  himself  some  twenty  times, 
when  a  loud  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  him  from  his 
occupation.  Before  he  could  open  it,  Mr,  Folair,  the 
pantomimist,  thrust  in  his  head. 

Mr.  Fol air's  head  was  usually  decorated  with  a  very 
round  hat,  unusually  high  in  the  crown,  and  curled  up 
quite  tight  in  the  brims.  On  the  present  occasion  he 
wore  it  very  much  on  one  side,  with  the  back  part  for- 


106 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


ward  in  consequence  of  its  being  the  least  rusty  ;  round 
his  neck  he  wore  a  flaming  red  worsted  comforter, 
whereof  the  straggling  ends  peeped  out  beneath  his 
threadbare  Newmarket  coat,  which  was  very  tight  and 
buttoned  all  the  way  up.  He  carried  in  his  hand  one 
very  dirty  glove,  and  a  cheap  dress  cane  with  a  glass 
handle  ;  in  short,  his  whole  appearance  was  unusually 
dashing,  and  demonstrated  a  far  more  scrupulous  atten- 
tion to  his  toilet,  than  he  was  in  the  habit  of  bestowing 
upon  it. 

"Good-evening,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  taking  off  the 
tall  hat  and  running  his  fingers  through  his  hair.  "  I 
bring  a  communication.    Hem  !  " 

"  From  whom,  and  what  about  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas. 
*'  You  are  unusually  mysterious  to-night." 

"Cold,  perhaps,"  returned  Mr.  Folair;  "cold,  per- 
haps. That  is  the  fault  of  my  position — not  of  myself, 
Mr.  Johnson.  My  position  as  a  mutual  friend  requires 
it,  sir."  Mr.  Folair  paused  with  a  most  impressive  look, 
and  diving  into  the  hat  before  noticed,  drew  from  thence 
a  small  piece  of  whity-brown  paper  curiously  folded, 
whence  he  brought  forth  a  note  which  it  had  served  to 
keep  clean,  and  handing  it  over  to  Nicholas,  said — 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  read  that,  sir." 

Nicholas,  in  a  state  of  much  amazement,  took  the 
note  and  broke  the  seal,  glancing  at  Mr.  Folair  as  he 
did  so,  who,  knitting  his  brow  and  pursing  up  his  mouth 
with  great  dignity,  was  sitting  with  his  eyes  steadily 
fixed  upon  the  ceiling. 

It  was  directed  to  blank  Johnson  Esq.,  by  favour  of 
Augustus  Folair,  Esq. ;  and  the  astonishment  of  Nicho- 
las was  in  no  degree  lessened,  when  he  found  it  to  be 
couched  in  the  following  laconic  terms  : — 

"  Mr.  Lenville  presents  his  kind  regards  to  Mr.  John- 
son, and  will  feel  obliged  if  he  will  inform  him  at  what 
hour  to-morrow  morning  it  will  be  most  convenient  to 
him  to  meet  Mr.  L.  at  the  Theatre,  for  the  purpose  of 
having  his  nose  pulled  in  the  presence  of  the  company. 

' '  Mr.  Lenville  requests  Mr.  Johnson  not  to  neglect 
making  an  appointment,  as  he  has  invited  two  or  three 
professional  friends  to  witness  the  ceremony,  and  can- 
not disappoint  them  upon  any  account  whatever." 

"Portsmouth,  Tuesday  night.'" 

Indignant  as  he  was  at  this  impertinence,  there  was 
something  so  exquisitely  absurd  in  such  a  cartel  of  defi- 
ance, that  Nicholas  was  obliged  to  bite  his  lip  and  read  the 
note  over  two  or  three  times  before  he  could  muster  suf- 
ficient gravity  and  sternness  to  address  the  hostile  mes- 
senger, who  had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  the  ceiling,  nor 
altered  the  expression  of  his  face  in  the  slightest  degree. 

"Do  you  know  the  contents  of  this  note,  sir  ?"  he  asked, 
at  length. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Mr.  Folair,  looking  round  for  an  in- 
stant and  immediately  carrying  his  eyes  back  again  to 
the  ceiling.  < 

"  And  now  dare  you  bring  it  here,  sir  ?"  asked  Nicho- 
las, tearing  it  into  very  little  pieces,  and  jerking  it  in  a 
shower  towards  the  messenger.  "Had  you  no  fear  of 
being  kicked  down-stairs,  sir?" 

Mr.  Folair  turned  his  head — now  ornamented  with  sev- 
eral fragments  of  the  note — towards  Nicholas,  and  with 
the  same  imperturbable  dignity,  briefly  replied  "No." 

"  Then,"  said  Nicholas,  taking  up  the  tall  hat  and  toss- 
ing it  towards  the  door,  "  you  had  better  follow  that  ar- 
ticle of  your  dress,  sir,  or  you  may  find  yourself  very 
disagreeably  deceived,  and  that  within  a  dozen  seconds." 

"  I  say,  Johnson,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Folair,  suddenly 
losing  all  his  dginity,  "  none  of  that,  you  know.  No 
tricks  with  a  gentleman's  wardrobe." 

"Leave  the  room,"  returned  Nicholas.  "  How  could 
you  presume  to  come  here  on  such  an  errand,  you  scoun- 
drel?" 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  !"  said  Mr.  Folair,  unwinding  his  com- 
forter, and  gradually  getting  himself  out  of  it.  "  There 
— that's  enough." 

"Enough!"  cried  Nicholas,  advancing  towards  him. 
"  Take  yourself  off,  sir." 

"  Pooh  1  pooh  !  I  tell  you,"  returned  Mr.  Folair,  wav- 
ing his  hand  in  deprecation  of  any  further  wrath  ;  "  I 
wasn't  in  earnest.    I  only  brought  it  in  joke." 


"You  had  better  be  careful  how  you  indulge  in  such 
jokes  again,"  said  Nicholas,  "  or  you  may  find  an  allusion, 
to  pulling  noses  rather  a  dangerous  reminder  for  the  sub- 
ject of  your  facetiousness.  Was  it  written  in  joke,  too, 
pray?" 

"  No,  no,  that's  the  best  of  it,"  returned  the  actor  ; 
"  right  down  earnest — honour  bright  " 

Nicholas  could  not  repress  a  smile  at  the  odd  figure 
before  him,  which,  at  all  times  more  calculated  to  pro- 
voke mirth  than  anger,  was  especially  so  at  that  moment, 
when  with  one  knee  upon  the  ground,  Mr.  Folair  twirled 
his  old  hat  round  upon  his  hand,  and  affected  the  extrem- 
est  agony  lest  any  of  the  nap  should  have  been  knocked 
off — an  ornament  which  it  is  almost  superfluous  to  say, 
it  had  not  boasted  for  many  months. 

"  Come,  sir,"  said  Nicholas,  laughing  in  spite  of  him- 
self.   "  Have  the  goodness  to  explain." 

"Why,  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  sitting 
himself  down  in  a  chair  with  great  coolness.  "  Since  you 
came  here  Lenville  has  done  nothing  but  second  busi- 
ness, and,  instead  of  having  a  reception  every  night  as 
he  used  to  have,  they  have  let  him  come  on  as  if  he  was 
nobody." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  reception?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"Jupiter  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Folair,  "  what  an  unsophis- 
ticated shepherd  you  are,  Johnson  !  Why,  applause^ 
from  the  house  when  you  first  come  on.  So  he  has  gone 
on  night  after  night,  never  getting  a  hand,  and  you  get- 
ting a  couple  of  rounds  at  least,  and  sometimes  three, 
till  at  length  he  got  quite  desperate,  and  had  half  a  mind 
last  night  to  play  Tybalt  with  a  real  sword,  and  pink  you 
— not  dangerously,  but  just  enough  to  lay  you  up  for  a 
month  or  two." 

"  Very  considerate,"  remarked  Nicholas. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  was  under  the  circumstances  ;  his  pro- 
fessional reputation  being  at  stake,"  said  Mr.  Folair, 
quite  seriously.  "  But  his  heart  failed  him,  and  he  cast 
about  for  some  other  way  of  annoying  you,  and  making 
himself  popular  at  the  same  time — for  that's  the  point. 
Notoriety,  notoriety,  is  the  thing.  Bless  you,  if  he  had 
pinked  you,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  stopping  to  make  a  calcu- 
lation in  his  mind,  "it  would  have  been  worth — ah,  it. 
would  have  been  worth  eight  or  ten  shillings  a  week  to 
him.  All  the  town  would  have  come  to  see  the  actor 
who  nearly  killed  a  man  by  mistake  ;  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  it  had  got  him  an  engagement  in  London.  However, 
he  was  obliged  to  try  some  other  mode  of  getting  popu- 
lar, and  this  one  occurred  to  him.  It's  a  clever  idea, 
really.  If  you  had  shown  the  white  feather,  and  let  him 
pull  your  nose,  he'd  have  got  into  the  paper  ;  if  you  had 
sworn  the  peace  against  him,  it  would  have  been  in  the 
paper  too,  and  he'd  have  been  just  as  much  talked  about 
as  you — don't  you  see  ?  " 

"Oh  certainly,"  rejoined  Nicholas;  "but  suppose  I 
were  to  turn  the  tables,  and  pull  Ms  nose,  what  then  t 
Would  that  make  his  fortune?" 

"Why,  I  don't  think  it  would,"  replied  Mr.  Folair, 
scratching  his  head,  "  because  there  wouldn't  be  any  ro- 
mance about  it,  and  he  wouldn't  be  favourably  known. 
To  tell  you  the  truth  though,  he  didn't  calculate  much 
upon  that,  for  you're  always  so  mild-spoken,  and  are  so 
popular  among  the  women,  that  we  didn't  suspect  you  of 
showing  fight.  If  you  did,  however,  lie  has  a  way  of 
getting  out  of  it  easily,  depend  upon  that." 

"  Has  he  ?  "  rejoined  Nicholas.  "  We  will  try,  to-mor- 
row morning.  In  the  meantime,  you  can  give  whatever 
account  of  our  interview  you  like  best.    Good  night." 

As  Mr.  Folair  was  pretty  well  known  among  his  fel- 
low-actors for  a  man  who  delighted  in  mischief,  and  was 
by  no  means  scrupulous,  Nicholas  had  not  much  doubt 
but  that  he  had  secretly  prompted  the  tragedian  in  the 
course  he  had  taken,  and,  moreover,  that  he  would  have 
carried  his  mission  with  a  very  high  hand  if  he  had  not 
been  disconcerted  by  the  very  unexpected  demonstra- 
tions with  which  it  had  been  received.  It  was  not  worth, 
his  while  to  be  serious  with  him,  however,  so  he  dis- 
missed the  pantomimist,  with  a  gentle  hint  that  if  he  of- 
fended again  it  would  be  under  the  penalty  of  a  broken 
head  ;  and  Mr.  Folair,  taking  the  caution  in  exceedingly 
good  part,  walked  away  to  confer  with  his  principal, 
and  give  such  an  account  of  his  proceedings  as  he  might 
think  best  calculated  to  carry  on  the  ioke. 


NICHOLAS  NIGKLEBY. 


107 


"  He  had  no  doubt  reported  that  Nicholas  was  in  a  state 
of  extreme  bodily  fear  ;  for  when  that  young  gentleman 
walked  with  much  deliberation  down  to  the  theatre  next 
morning  at  the  usual  hour,  he  found  all  the  company  as- 
sembled in  evident  expectation,  and  Mr.  Lenville,  with 
his  severest  stage  face,  sitting  majestically  on  a  table, 
whistling  defiance. 

Now  the  ladies  were  on  the  side  of  Nicholas,  and  the 
gentlemen  (being  jealous)  were  on  the  side  of  the  disap- 
pointed tragedian  ;  so  that  the  latter  formed  a  little 
group  about  the 'redoubtable  Mr.  Lenville,  and  the  for- 
mer looked  on  at  a  little  distance  in  some  trepidation 
and  anxiety.  On  Nicholas  stopping  to  salute  them,  Mr. 
Lenville  laughed  a  scornful  laugh,  and  made  some  gen- 
eral remark  touching  the  natural  history  of  puppies. 

"Oh!"  said  Nicholas,  looking  quietly  round,  "are 
you  there  ?  " 

"  Slave  !  "  returned  Mr.  Lenville,  flourishing  his  right 
arm,  and  approaching  Nicholas  with  a  theatrical  stride. 
But  somehow  he  appeared  just  at  that  moment  a  little 
startled,  as  if  Nicholas  did  not  look  quite  so  frightened 
as  he  had  expected,  and  came  all  at  once  to  an  awkward 
halt,  at  which  the  assembled  ladies  burst  into  a  shrill 
laugh. 

"Object  of  my  scorn  and  hatred  !"  said  Mr.  Lenville, 
"  I  hold  ye  in  contempt." 

Nicholas  laughed  in  very  unexpected  enjoyment  of 
this  performance  ;  and  the  ladies,  by  way  of  encourage- 
ment, laughed  louder  than  before ;  whereat  Mr.  Len- 
ville assumed  his  bitterest  smile,  and  expressed  his 
opinion  that  they  were  "  minions." 

* '  But  they  shall  not  protect  ye  !  "  said  the  tragedian, 
taking  an  upward  look  at  Nicholas,  beginning  at  his 
boots  and  ending  at  the  crown  of  his  head,  and  then  a 
downward  one,  beginning  at  the  crown  of  his  head,  and 
ending  at  his  boots — which  two  looks,  as  everybody 
knows,  express  defiance  on  the  stage.  "  They  shall  not 
protect  ye — boy  !  " 

Thus  speaking,  Mr.  Lenville  folded  his  arms,  and 
treated  Nicholas  to  that  expression  of  face  with  which, 
in  melodramatic  performances,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  re- 
garding the  tyrannical  kings  when  they  said,  "  Away 
with  him  to  the  deepest  dungeon  beneath  the  castle 
moat  ; "  and  which,  accompanied  with  a  little  jingling  of 
fetters,  had  been  known  to  produce  great  effect  in  its 
time. 

Whether  it  was  the  absence  of  the  fetters  or  not,  it 
made  no  very  deep  impression  on  Mr.  Lenville's  adver- 
sary, however,  but  rather  seemed  to  increase  the  good 
humour  expressed  in  his  countenance  ;  in  which  stage  of 
the  contest,  one  or  two  gentlemen,  who  had  come  out 
expressly  to  witness  the  pulling  of  Nicholas's  nose,  grew 
impatient,  murmuring  that  if  it  were  to  be  done  at  all  it 
had  better  be  done  at  once,  and  that  if  Mr.  Lenville 
didn't  mean  to  do  it  he  had  better  say  so,  and  not  keep 
them  waiting  there.  Thus  urged,  the  tragedian  ad- 
justed the  cuff  of  his  right  coat  sleeve  for  the  perform- 
ance of  the  operation,  and  walked  in  a  very  stately 
manner  up  to  Nicholas,  who  suffered  him  to  approach  to 
within  the  requisite  distance,  and  then,  without  the 
smallest  discomposure,  knocked  him  down. 

Before  the  discomfited  tragedian  could  raise  his  head 
from  the  boards,  Mrs.  Lenville  (who,  as  has  been  before 
hinted,  was  in  an  interesting  state)  rushed  from  the  rear 
rank  of  ladies,  and  uttering  a  piercing  scream  threw 
herself  upon  the  body. 

"  Do  you  see  this,  monster?  Do  you  see  thisl  "  cried 
Mr.  Lenville,  sitting  up,  and  pointing  to  his  prostrate 
lady,  who  was  holding  him  very  tight  round  the  waist. 

"Come,"  said  Nicholas,  nodding  his  head,  "apolo- 
gize for  the  insolent  note  you  wrote  to  me  last  night,  and 
waste  no  more  time  in  talking." 

"  Never  !  "  cried  Mr.  Lenville. 

"Yes — yes — yes — "  screamed  his  wife.  "For  my 
sake— for  mine,  Lenville — forego  all  idle  forms,  unless 
you  would  see  me  a  blighted  corse  at  your  feet. " 

This  is  affecting  !  "  said  Mr.  Lenville,  looking  round 
him,  and  drawing  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 
"  The  ties  of  nature  are  strong.  The  husband  and  the 
father — the  father  that  was  yet  to  be — relents.  I  apolo- 
gize." 

"  Humbly  and  submissively  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 


I     "  Humbly  and  submissively,"  returned  the  tragedian, 
scowling  upwards.    "  But  only  to  save  her, — for  a  time 
j  will  come — " 

I  "  Very  good,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  1  hope  Mrs.  Lenville 
may  have  a  good  one  ;  and  when  it  does  come,  and  you 
are  a  father,  you  shall  retract  it  if  you  have  the  cr)urage. 
There.  Be  careful,  sir,  to  what  length  your  jealousy 
carries  you  another  time  ;  and  be  careful,  also,  before  you 
venture  too  far,  to  ascertain  your  rival's  temper."  With 
this  parting  advice  Nicholas  picked  up  Mr.  Lenville's 
ash-stick  which  had  flown  out  of  his  hand,  and  breaking 
it  in  half,  threw  him  the  pieces  and  withdrew,  bowing 
slightly  to  the  spectators  as  he  walked  out. 

The  profoundest  deference  was  paid  to  Nicholas  that 
night,  and  the  people  who  had  been  most  anxious  to  have 
his  nose  pulled  in  the  morning,  embraced  occasions  of 
taking  him  aside,  and  telling  him  with  great  feeling, 
how  very  friendly  they  took  it  that  he  should  have 
treated  that  Lenville  so  properly,  who  was  a  most  un- 
bearable fellow,  and  on  whom  they  had  all,  by  a  remark- 
able coincidence,  at  one  time  or  other  contemplated  the 
infliction  of  condign  punishment,  which  they  had  only 
been  restrained  from  administering  by  considerations  of 
mercy  ;  indeed,  to  judge  from  the  invariable  termination 
of  all  these  stories,  there  never  was  such  a  charitable 
and  kind-hearted  set  of  people  as  the  male  members  of 
Mr.  Crummles's  company. 

Nicholas  bore  his  triumph,  as  he  had  his  success  in  the 
little  world  of  the  theatre,  with  the  utmost  moderation 
and  good  humour.  The  crest-fallen  Mr.  Lenville  made 
an  expiring  effort  to  obtain  revenge  by  sending  a  boy  in- 
to the  gallery  to  hiss,  but  he  fell  a  sacrifice  to  popular 
indignation, and  was  promptly  turned  out  without  having 
his  money  back. 

"  Well,  Smike,"  said  Nicholas  when  the  first  piece 
was  over,  and  he  had  almost  finished  dressing  to  go 
home,  "  is  there  any  letter  yet  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Smike,  "I  got  this  one  from  the  post- 
office." 

"From  Newman  Noggs,"  said  Nicholas,  casting  his 
eye  upon  the  cramped  direction  ;  "  it's  no  easy  matter  to 
make  his  writing  out.    Let  me  see — let  me  see." 

By  dint  of  poring  over  the  letter  for  half  an  hour,  he 
contrived  to  make  himself  master  of  the  contents,  which 
were  certainly  not  of  a  nature  to  set  his  mind  at  ease. 
Newman  took  upon  himself  to  send  back  the  ten  pounds, 
observing  that  he  had  ascertained  that  neither  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby  nor  Kate  was  in  actual  want  of  money  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  that  a  time  might  shortly  come  when  Nicho- 
las might  want  it  more.  He  entreated  him  not  to  be 
alarmed  at  what  he  was  about  to  say  ; — there  was  no  bad 
news — they  were  in  good  health — but  he  thought  cir- 
cumstances might  occur,  or  were  occurring,  which  would 
render  it  absolutely  necessary  that  Kate  should  have  her 
brother's  protection,  and  if  so,  Newman  said,  he  would 
write  to  him  to  that  effect,  either  by  the  next  post  or  the 
next  but  one. 

Nicholas  read  this  passage  very  often,  and  the  more  he 
thought  of  it  the  more  he  began  to  fear  some  treachery 
upon  the  part  of  Ralph.  Once  or  twice  he  felt  tempted 
to  repair  to  London  at  all  hazards  without  an  hour's  de- 
lay, but  a  little  reflection  assured  him  that  if  such  a 
step  were  necessary,  Newman  would  have  spoken  out 
and  told  him  so  at  once. 

"  At  all  events  I  should  prepare  them  here  for  the  pos- 
sibility of  my  going  away  suddenly,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  I 
should  lose  no  time  in  doing  that."  As  the  thought  oc- 
curred to  him,  he  took  up  his  hat  and  hurried  to  the 
green-room. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Johnson,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies,  who  was 
seated  there  in  full  regal  costume,  with  the  phenomenon 
as  the  Maiden  in  her  maternal  arms,  "next  week  for 
Ryde,  then  for  Winchester,  then  for—" 

"I  have  some  reason  to  fear,"  interrupted  Nicholas, 
"  that  before  you  leave  here  my  career  with  you  will 
have  closed." 

"  Closed  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Crummies,  raising  her  hands  in 
astonishment. 

"Closed  !"  cried  Miss  Snevellicci,  trembling  so  much 
in  her  tights  that  she  actually  laid  her  hand  upon  the 
shoulder  of  the  manageress  for  support. 

* '  Why  he  don't  mean  to  say  he's  going  !  "  exclaimed 


108 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Mrs.  Grudden,  making  her  way  towards  Mrs.  Crummies, 
Hoity  toity  !  nonsense," 

The  phenomenon,  being  of  an  affectionate  nature  and 
moreover  excitable,  raised  a  loud  cry,  and  Miss  Belvaw- 
ney  and  Miss  Bravassa  actually  shed  tears.  Even  the 
male  performers  stopped  in  their  conversation  and 
echoed  the  word  ' '  Going  ! "  although  some  among  them 
(and  they  had  been  the  loudest  in  their  congratulations 
that  day)  winked  at  each  other  as  though  they  would 
not  be  sorry  to  lose  such  a  favoured  rival ;  an  opinion, 
indeed,  which  the  honest  Mr.  Folair,  who  was  ready 
dressed  for  the  savage,  openly  stated  in  so  many  words 
to  a  demon  with  whom  he  was  sharing  a  pot  of  porter. 

Nicholas  briefly  said  that  he  feared  it  would  be  so,  al- 
though he  could  not  yet  speak  with  any  degree  of  cer- 
tainty ;  and  getting  away  as  soon  as  he  could,  went 
home  to  con  Newman's  letter  once  more,  and  speculate 
upon  it  afresh. 

How  trifling  all  that  had  been  occupying  his  time  and 
thoughts  for  many  weeks  seemed  to  him  during  that 
sleepless  night,  and  how  constantly  and  incessantly 
present  to  his  imagination  was  the  one  idea  that  Kate  in 
the  midst  of  some  great  trouble  and  distress  might  even 
then  be  looking — and  vainly  too — for  him  ! 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Festivities  are  held  in  honour  of  Nicholas,  who  suddenly  withdraws 
himself  from  the  Society  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  and  his  Theatri- 
cal Companions. 

Mr.  Vincent  Crummles  was  no  sooner  acquainted 
with  the  public  announcements  which  Nicholas  had  made 
relative  to  the  probability  of  his  shortly  ceasing  to  be  a 
member  of  the  company,  than  he  evinced  many  tokens  of 
grief  and  consternation  ;  and,  in  the  extremity  of  his 
despair,  even  held  out  certain  vague  promises  of  a  speedy 
improvement  not  only  in  the  amount  of  his  regular  salary, 
but  also  in  the  contingent  emoluments  appertaining  to 
his  authorship.  Finding  Nicholas  bent  upon  quitting 
the  society — for  he  had  now  determined  that,  even  if  no 
further  tidings  came  from  Newman,  he  would,  at  all 
hazards,  ease  his  mind  by  repairing  to  London  and  ascer- 
taining the  exact  position  of  his  sister — Mr.  Crummies 
v^as  fain  to  content  himself  by  calculating  the  chances  of 
his  coming  back  again,  and  taking  prompt  and  energetic 
measures  to  make  the  most  of  him  before  he  went  away. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  taking  off  his  out- 
law's wig,  the  better  to  arrive  at  a  cool-headed  view  of 
the  whole  case.  ' '  Let  me  see.  This  is  Wednesday  night. 
We'll  have  posters  out  the  first  thing  in  the  morning, 
announcing  positively  your  last  appearance  for  to-mor- 
row." 

"  But  perhaps  it  may  not  be  my  last  appearance,  you 
know,"  said  Nicholaar.  "  Unless  I  am  summoned  away, 
I  should  be  sorry  to  inconvenience  you  by  leaving  before 
the  end  of  the  week." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  returned  Mr.  Crummies.  "  We 
can  have  positively  your  last  appearance  on  Thursday — 
re-engagement  for  one  night  more  on  Friday — and,  yield- 
ing to  the  wishes  of  numerous  influential  patrons,  who 
were  disappointed  in  obtaining  seats,  on  Saturday.  That 
ought  to  bring  three  very  decent  houses. " 

' '  Then  I  am  to  make  three  last  appearances,  am  I  ?  " 
inquired  Nicholas,  smiling. 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  the  manager,  scratching  his  head  with 
an  air  of  some  vexation  ;  "  three  is  not  enough,  and  it's 
very  bungling  and  irregular  not  to  have  more,  but  if  we 
can't  help  it  we  can't,  so  there's  no  use  in  talking.  A 
novelty  would  be  very  desirable.  You  couldn't  sing  a 
comic  song  on  the  pony's  back  could  you? " 

"  No,"  replied  Nicholas,  "  I  couldn't  indeed." 

*'  It  has  drawn  money  before  now,"  said  Mr.  Crummies 
with  a  look  of  disappointment,  "  What  do  you  think  of 
a  brilliant  display  of  fireworks  ?  " 

"  That  it  would  be  rather  expensive,"  replied  Nicholas, 
drily. 

"  Eighteenpence  would  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 
*^You  on  the  top  of  a  pair  of  steps  with  the  phenomenon  in 
an  attitude, '  Farewell '  on  a  transparency  behind ;  and  nine 
people  at  the  wings  with  a  squib  in  each  hand — all  the 


dozen  and  a  half  going  off  at  once — it  would  be  very  s 
grand — awful  from  the  front,  quite  awful." 

As  Nicholas  appeared  by  no  means  impressed  with  the 
solemnity  of  the  proposed  effect,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
received  the  proposition  in  a  most  irreverent  manner, 
and  laughed  at  it  very  heartily,  Mr.  Crummies  abandoned 
the  project  in  its  birth,  and  gloomily  observed  that  they 
must  make  up  the  best  bill  they  could  vidth  combats  and  ' 
hornpipes,  and  so  stick  to  the  legitimate  drama. 

For  the  purpose  of  carrying  this  object  into  instant 
execution,  the  manager  at  once  repaired  to  a  small 
dressing-room,  adjacent,  where  Mrs.  Crummies  was  then 
occupied  in  exchanging  the  habiliments  of  a  melo-dra- 
matic  empress  for  the  ordinary  attire  of  matrons  in  the 
nineteenth  century.  And  with  the  assistance  of  this  lady, 
and  the  accomplished  Mrs.  Grudden  (who  had  quite  a 
genius  for  making  out  bills,  being  a  great  hand  at  throw- 
ing in  the  notes  of  admiration,  and  knowing  from  long 
experience  exactly  where  the  largest  capitals  ought  to  go), 
he  seriously  applied  himself  to  the  composition  of  the 
poster. 

"Heigho!"  sighed  Nicholas,  as  he  threw  himself 
back  in  the  prompter's  chair,  after  telegraphing  the 
needful  directions  to  Smike,  who  had  been  playing  a 
meagre  tailor  in  the  interlude,  with  one  skirt  to  his  coat, 
and  a  little  pocket  handkerchief  with  a  large  hole  in  it, 
and  a  woolen  nightcap,  and  a  red  nose,  and  other  dis- 
tinctive marks  peculiar  to  tailors  on  the  stage.  ' '  Heighol 
I  wish  all  this  were  over." 

"  Over,  Mr.  Johnson  !"  repeated  a  female  voice  behind 
him,  in  a  kind  of  plaintive  surprise. 

"  It  was  an  ungallant  speech,  certainly,"  said  Nicholas, , 
looking  up  to  see  who  the  speaker  was,  and  recognising 
Miss  Snevellicci.  "  I  would  not  have  made  it  if  I  had 
known  you  had  been  within  hearing." 

"  What  a  dear  that  Mr.  Digby  is  ! "  said  Miss  Snevel-; 
licci,  as  the  tailor  went  off  on  the  opposite  side,  at  the 
end  of  the  piece,  with  great  applause.  (Smike's  theat- 
rical name  was  Digbv.)  \ 

"I'll  tell  him  presently,  for  his  gratification,  that  you'' 
said  so,"  returned  Nicholas.  ' 

"  Oh,  you  naughty  thing  ! "  rejoined  Miss  Snevellicci. 
"  I  don't  know  though,  that  I  should  miich  mind  Jiis 
knowing  my  opinion  of  him  ;  with  some  other  people, 
indeed,  it  might  be — "  Here  Miss  Snevellicci  stopped,  as 
though  waiting  to  be  questioned,  but  no  questioning 
came,  for  Nicholas  was  thinking  about  more  seriouS; 
matters.  i; 

•*  How  kind  it  is  of  you,"  resumed  Miss  Snevellicci,! 
after  a  short  silence,  "  to  sit  waiting  here  for  him  nighty' 
after  night,  night  after  night,  no  matter  how  tired  you 
are  ;  and  taking  so  much  pains  with  him  and  doing  it  all; 
with  as  much  delight  and  readiness  as  if  you  were  coin- 
ing gold  by  it  !  " 

"  He  well  deserves  all  the  kindness  I  can  show  him, 
and  a  great  deal  more,"  said  Nicholas.  "  He  is  the  most 
grateful,  single-hearted,  affectionate  creature,  that  ever 
breathed." 

"So  odd,  too,"  remarked  Miss  Snevellicci,  "  isn*t 
he?" 

"God  help  him,  and  those  who  have  made  him  so  ;  he 
is  indeed,"  rejoined  Nicholas,  shaking  his  head. 

"He  is  such  a  devilish  close  chap,"  said  Mr.  Folair, 
who  had  come  up  a  little  before,  and  now  joined  in  the 
conversation.  "  Nobody  can  ever  get  anything  out  of 
him." 

"What  sJiould  they  get  out  of  him  ?"  asked  Nicholas, 
turning  round  with  some  abruptness. 

"Zooks!  what  a  fire-eater  you  are,  Johnson!"  re- 
turned Mr.  Folair,  pulling  up  the  heel  of  his  dancing 
shoe.  "I'm  only  talking  of  the  natural  curiosity  of  the 
people  here,  to  know  what  he  has  been  about  all  his 
life." 

"Poor  fellow  1  it  is  pretty  plain,  I  should  think,  that 
he  has  not  the  intellect  to  have  been  about  anything  of 
much  importance  to  them  or  anybody  else,"  said  Nicho- 
las. 

"  Ay,"  rejoined  the  actor,  contemplating  the  effect  of 
his  face  in  a  lamp  reflector,  "but  that  involves  the 
whole  question,  you  know." 

"  What  question?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"  Why,  the  who  he  is  and  what  he  is,  and  how  yoii 


NICHOLAS  NIC  RLE  BY, 


109 


two,  who  are  so  different,  came  to  be  such  close  compan- 
ions'," replied  Mr.  Folair,  delighted  with  the  opportunity 
of  saying  something  disagreeable.  "  That's  in  every- 
body's mouth." 

"The  'everybody'  of  the  theatre,  I  suppose?"  said 
Nicholas,  contemptuously. 

" In  it  and  out  of  it  too,"  replied  the  actor.  "Why, 
you  know,  Lenville  says — " 

"I  thought  I  had  silenced  him  effectually,"  inter- 
rupted Nicholas,  reddening. 

"  Perhaps  you  have,"  rejoined  the  immovable  Mr.  Fo- 
lair ;  "if  you  have,  he  said  this  before  he  was  silenced  : 
Lenville  says  that  you're  a  regular  stick  of  an  actor, 
and  that  it's  only  the  mystery  about  you  that  has  caused 
you  to  go  down  with  the  people  here,  and  that  Crum- 
mies keeps  it  up  for  his  own  sake  ;  though  Lenville  says 
he  don't  believe  there's  anything  at  all  in  it,  except  your 
having  got  into  a  scrape  and  run  away  from  somewhere, 
for  doing  something  or  another." 

"Oh  !  "  said  Nicholas,  forcing  a  smile. 

"  That's  a  part  of  what  he  says,"  added  Mr.  Folair. 
"I  mention  it  as  the  friend  of  both  parties,  and  in  strict 
confidence.  /  don't  agree  with  him,  you  know.  He 
says  he  takes  Digby  to  be  more  knave  than  fool ;  and  old 
Fluggers,  who  does  the  heavy  business  you  know,  he 
says  that  when  he  delivered  messages  at  Co  vent  Garden 
the  season  before  last,  there  used  to  be  a  pick-pocket 
hovering  about  the  coach -stand  who  had  exactly  the  face 
of  Digby;  though,  as  he  very  properly  says,  Digby  may  not 
be  the  same,  but  only  his  brother,  or  some  near  relation." 

"Oh  !  "  cried  Nicholas  again. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  with  undisturbed  calmness, 
"that's  what  they  say.  I  thought  I'd  tell  you,  because 
really  you  ought  to  know.  Oh  !  here's  this  blessed  phe- 
nomenon at  last.  Ugh,  you  little  imposition,  I  should 
like  to — quite  ready,  my  darling, — ^humbug — Ring  up 
Mrs.  G.,  and  let  the  favourite  wake  'em." 

Uttering  in  a  loud  voice  such  of  the  latter  allusions  as 
were  complimentary  to  the  unconscious  phenomenon, 
and  giving  the  rest  of  a  confidential  "  aside  "  to  Nicholas, 
Mr.  Folair  followed  the  ascent  of  the  curtain  with  his 
eyes,  regarded  with  a  sneer  the  reception  of  Miss  Crum- 
mies as  the  Maiden,  and,  falling  back  a  step  or  two  to 
advance  with  the  better  effect,  uttered  a  preliminary  howl, 
and  "  went  on"  chattering  his  teeth  and  brandishing  his 
tin  tomahawk  as  the  Indian  Savage. 

"  So  these  are  some  of  the  stories  they  invent  about  us, 
and  bandy  from  mouth  to  mouth  ! "  thought  Nicholas. 
"  If  a  man  would  commit  an  inexpiable  offence  against 
any  society,  large  or  small,  let  him  be  successful.  They 
will  forgive  him  any  crime  but  that." 

"  You  surely  don't  mind  what  that  malicious  crea- 
ture says,  Mr.  Johnson?"  observed  Miss  Snevellicci  in 
her  most  winning  tones. 

"  Not  I,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  If  I  were  going  to  remain 
here,  I  might  think  it  worth  my  while  to  embroil  myself. 
As  it  is,  let  them  talk  till  they  are  hoarse.  But  here," 
added  Nicholas,  as  Smike  approached,  "  Here  comes  the 
subject  of  a  portion  of  their  good-nature,  so  let  he  and  I 
say  good  night  together." 

"  No,  I  will  not  let  either  of  you  say  anything  of  the 
kind,"  returned  Miss  Snevellicci.  "  You  must  come 
home  and  see  mama  who  only  came  to  Portsmouth  to-day, 
and  is  dying  to  behold  you.  Led,  my  dear,  persuade 
Mr.  Johnson." 

"Oh,  I  am  sure,"  returned  Miss  Ledrook,  with  consid- 
erable vivacity,  "  if  yoa  can't  persuade  him — "  Miss  Led- 
rook said  no  more,  but  intimated,  by  a  dexterous  playful- 
ness, that  if  Miss  Snevellicci  couldn't  persuade  him, 
nobody  could. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lillyvick  have  taken  lodgings  in  our 
house,  and  share  our  sitting-room  for  the  present,"  said 
Miss  Snevellicci.   "  Won't  that  induce  you  ?  " 

"  Surely,"  returned  Nicholas,  "  I  can  require  no  possi- 
ble inducement  beyond  your  invitation.  " 

'  Oh  no  !  I  dare  say,"  rejoined  Miss  Snevellicci.  And 
Miss  Ledrook  said,  "Upon  my  word!"  Upon  which 
Miss  Snevellicci  said  that  Miss  Ledrook  was  a  giddy 
thing  ;  and  Miss  Ledrook  said  that  Miss  Snevellicci 
needn't  colour  up  quite  so  much  ;  and  Miss  Snevellicci 
beat  Miss  Ledrook,  and  Miss  Ledrook  beat  Miss  Snevel- 
lioci. 


"  Come,"  said  Miss  Ledrook,  "  it's  high  time  we  were 
there,  or  we  shall  have  poor  Mrs.  Snevellicci  thinking 
that  you  have  run  away  with  her  daughter,  Mr.  Johnson  ; 
and  then  we  should  have  a  pretty  to-do." 

"My  dear  Led,"  remonstrated  Miss  Snevellicci,  "how 
you  do  talk  !  " 

Miss  Ledrook  made  no  answer,  })ut  taking  Smike's  ana 
in  hers,  left  her  friend  and  Nicholas  to  follow  at  their 
pleasure;  which  it  pleased  them,  or  rather  pleased  Nicho- 
las, who  had  no  great  fancy  for  a  tete-d-tete  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, to  do  at  once. 

There  were  not  wanting  matters  of  conversation  when 
they  reached  the  street,  for  it  turned  out  that  Miss  Sne- 
vellicci had  a  small  basket  to  carry  home,  and  Miss  Led- 
rook a  small  bandbox,  both  containing  such  minor  arti- 
cles of  theatrical  costume  as  tlie  lady  performers  usually 
carried  to  and  fro  eveiy  evening.  Nicholas  would  in- 
sist upon  carrying  the  basket,  and  Miss  Snevellicci  would 
insist  upon  carrying  it  herself,  which  gave  rise  to  a  strug- 
gle, in  which  Nicholas  captured  the  basket  and  the  band- 
box likewise.  Then  Nicholas  said,  that  he  wondered 
what  could  possibly  be  inside  the  basket,  and  attempted 
to  peep  in,  whereat  Miss  Snevellicci  screamed,  and  de- 
clared that  if  she  thought  he  had  seen,  she  was  sure  she 
should  faint  away.  This  declaration  was  followed  by  a 
similar  attempt  on  the  band-box,  and  similar  demonstra- 
tions on  the  part  of  Miss  Ledrook,  and  then  both  ladies 
vowed  that  they  wouldn't  move  a  step  further  until 
Nicholas  had  promised  that  he  wouldn't  offer  to  peep 
again.  At  last  Nicholas  pledged  himself  to  betray  no 
further  curiosity,  and  they  walked  on  :  both  ladies  gig- 
gling very  much,  and  declaring  that  they  never  had  seen 
such  a  wicked  creature  in  all  their  born  days — never. 

Lightening  the  way  with  such  pleasantry  as  this,  they 
arrived  at  the  tailor's  house  in  no  time  ;  and  here  they 
made  quite  a  little  party,  there  being  present  besides  Mr. 
Lillyvick  and  Mrs.  Lillyvick,  not  only  Miss  Snevellicci's 
mama,  but  her  papa  also.  And  an  uncommonly  fine  man 
Miss  Snevellicci's  papa  was,  with  a  hook  nose,  and  a 
white  forehead,  and  curly  black  hair,  and  high  cheek 
bones,  and  altogether  quite  a  handsome  face,  only  a  little 
pimply  as  though  with  drinking.  He  had  a  ver\'  broad 
chest  had  Miss  Snevellicci's  papa,  and  he  wore  a  thread- 
bare blue  dresscoat  buttoned  with  gilt  buttons  tight  across 
it ;  and  he  no  sooner  saw  Nicholas  come  into  the  room, 
than  he  whipped  the  two  fore  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
in  between  the  two  centre  buttons,  and  sticking  his  other 
arm  gracefully  a-kimbo  seemed  to  say,  "  Now,  here  I  am, 
my  buck,  and  what  have  you  got  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

Such  was,  and  in  such  an  attitude  sat  Miss  Snevellicci's 
papa,  who  had  been  in  the  profession  ever  since  he  had 
first  played  the  ten-year-old  imps  in  the  Christmas  panto- 
mimes; who  could  sing  a  little,  dance  a  little,  fence  a  little, 
act  a  little,  and  do  every  thing  a  little,  but  not  much ;  who 
had  been  sometimes  in  the  ballet,  and  sometimes  in  the 
chorus,  at  every  theatre  in  London  ;  who  was  always  se- 
lected in  virtue  of  his  figure  to  play  the  military  visitors 
and  the  speechless  nobleman  ;  who  ajways  wore  a  smart 
dress,  and  came  on  arm-in-arm  with  a  smart  lady  in  short 
petticoats, — and  always  did  it  too  with  such  an  air  that 
people  in  the  pit  had  been  several  times  known  to  cry  out 
"Bravo  !"  under  the  impression  that  he  was  somebody. 
Such  was  Miss  Snevellicci's  papa,  upon  whom  some  en- 
vious persons  cast  the  imputation  that  he  occasionally 
beat  Miss  Snevellicci's  mama,  who  was  still  a  dancer, 
with  a  neat  little  figure  and  some  remains  of  good  looks  ; 
and  who  now  sat,  as  she  danced, — being  rather  too  old  for 
the  full  glare  of  the  footlights, — in  the  background. 

To  these  good  people  Nicholas  was  presented  with 
much  formality.  The  introduction  being  completed. 
Miss  Snevellicci's  papa  (who  was  scented  with  rum  and 
water)  said  that  he  was  delighted  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  gentleman  so  highly  talented  ;  and  further- 
more remarked,  that  there  hadn't  been  such  a  hit  made 
— no,  not  since  the  first  appearance  of  his  friend  Mr. 
Glavormelly,  at  the  Coburg. 

"You  have  seen  him,  sir?"  said  Miss  Snevellicci's 
papa. 

"  No,  really  I  never  did,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"You  never  saw  my  friend  Glavormelly,  sir  !"  said 
Miss  Snevellicci's  papa.  "Then  you  have  never  seen 
acting  yet.    If  he  had  lived—" 


110 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Oh,  he  is  dead,  is  he  ?  "  interrupted  Nicholas. 

"  He  is,"  said  Mr.  Snevellicci,  "  but  he  isn't  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  more's  the  shame.   He  was  a  .  Well, 

no  matter.  He  is  gone  to  that  bourne  from  whence  no 
traveller  returns.    I  hope  he  is  appreciated  there." 

So  saying  Miss  Snevellicci's  papa  rubbed  the  tip  of  his 
nose  with  a  very  yellow  silk  handkerchief,  and  gave  the 
company  to  understand  that  these  recollections  over- 
came him. 

"Well,  Mr.  Lillyvick,"  said  Nicholas,  "and  how  are 

you?  " 

"Quite  well,  sir,"  replied  the  collector.  "There  is 
nothing  like  the  married  state,  sir,  depend  upon  it." 

"Indeed  !"  said  Nicholas,  laughing. 

"Ah!  nothing  like  it,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Lillyvick 
solemnly.  "  How  do  you  think,"  whispered  the  collec- 
tor, drawing  him  aside,  "How  do  you  think  she  looks 
to-night?" 

"As  handsome  as  ever,"  replied  Nicholas,  glancing  at 
the  late  Miss  Petowker. 

"Why,  there's  a  air  about  her,  sir,"  whispered  the 
collector,  "  that  I  never  saw  in  anybody.  Look  at  her 
now  she  moves  to  put  the  kettle  on.  There  I  Isn't  it 
fascination,  sir?" 

"You're  a  lucky  man,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! "  rejoined  the  collector.  "  No.  Do  you 
think  I  am  though,  eh  ?  Perhaps  I  may  be,  perhaps  I 
may  be.  I  say,  I  couldn't  have  done  much  better  if  I 
had  been  a  young  man,  could  I?  You  couldn't  have 
done  much  better  yourself,  could  you — eh — could  you  ?  " 
With  such  inquiries,  and  many  more  such,  Mr.  Lillyvick 
jerked  his  elbow  into  Nicholas's  side,  and  chuckled  till 
his  face  became  quite  purple  in  the  attempt  to  keep 
down  his  satisfaction. 

By  this  time  the  cloth  had  been  laid  under  the  joint 
superintendence  of  all  the  ladies,  upon  two  tables  put 
together,  one  being  high  and  narrow,  and  the  other  low 
and  broad.  There  were  oysters  at  the  top,  sausages  at 
the  bottom,  a  pair  of  snuffers  in  the  centre,  and  baked 
potatoes  wherever  it  was  most  convenient  to  put  them. 
Two  additional  chairs  were  brought  in  from  the  bed- 
room ;  Miss  Snevellicci  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and 
Mr.  Lillyvick  at  the  foot ;  and  Nicholas  had  not  only  the 
honour  of  sitting  next  Miss  Snevellicci,  but  of  having 
Miss  Snevellicci's  mama  on  his  right  hand,  and  Miss 
Snevellicci's  papa  over  the  way.  In  short,  he  was  the 
hero  of  the  feast ;  and  when  the  table  was  cleared  and 
something  warm  introduced,  Miss  Snevellicci's  papa  got 
up  and  proposed  his  health  in  a  speech  containing  such 
affecting  allusions  to  his  coming  departure,  that  Miss 
Snevellicci  wept,  and  was  compelled  to  retire  into  the 
bedroom. 

"  Hush  !  Don't  take  any  notice  of  it,"  said  Miss  Led- 
rook,  peeping  in  from  the  bedroom.  "Say,  when  she 
oomes  back,  that  she  exerts  herself  too  much.',' 

Miss  Ledrook  eked  out  this  speech  with  so  many 
mysterious  nods  and  frowns  before  she  shut  the  door 
again,  that  a  profound  silence  came  upon  all  the  company, 
during  which  Miss  Snevellicci's  papa  looked  very  big 
indeed — several  sizes  larger  than  life — at  everybody  in 
turn,  but  particularly  at  Nicholas,  and  kept  on  perpetu- 
ally emptying  his  tumbler  and  filling  it  again,  until  the 
ladies  returned  in  a  cluster,  with  Miss  Snevellicci  among 
them. 

"You  needn't  alarm  yourself  a  bit,  Mr.  Snevellicci," 
said  Mrs.  Lillyvick.  "She  is  only  a  little  weak  and 
nervous  ;  she  has  been  so  ever  since  the  morning." 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Snevellicci,  "  that's  all,  is  it?" 

"Oh  yes,  that's  all.  Don't  make  a  fuss  about  it," 
cried  all  the  ladies  together. 

Now  this  was  not  exactly  the  kind  of  reply  suited  to 
Mr.  Snevellicci's  importance  as  a  man  and  a*  father,  so 
he  picked  out  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Snevellicci,  and 
asked  her  what  the  devil  she  meant  by  talking  to  him 
in  that  way. 

"  Dear  me,  my  dear — "  said  Mrs.  Snevellicci. 

"Don't  call  me  your  dear,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Snevel- 
licci, "  if  you  please." 

"Pray,  pa,  don't,"  interposed  Miss  Snevellicci. 

"  Don't  what,  my  child  ?" 

"Talk  in  that  way." 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  Mr.  Snevellicci.   "  I  hope  you  don't 


suppose  there's  anybody  here  who  is  to  prevent  my  talk- 
ing as  I  like  ?" 

"  Nobody  wants  to,  pa,"  rejoined  his  daughter. 

"  Nobody  would  if  they  did  want  to,"  said  Mr.  Snevel- 
licci. "  I  am  not  ashamed  of  myself.  Snevellicci  is  my 
name  ;  I'm  to  be  found  in  Broad  Court,  Bow  Street,  when' 
I'm  in  town.  If  I'm  not  at  home,  let  any  man  ask  for 
me  at  the  stage  door.  Damme,  they  know  me  at  the 
stage  door  I  suppose.  Most  men  have  seen  my  portrait 
at  the  cigar  shop  round  the  corner.  I've  been  mentioned 
in  the  newspapers  before  now,  haven't  I  ?  Talk  !  I'll 
tell  you  what  ;  if  I  found  out  that  any  man  had  been 
tampering  with  the  affections  of  my  daughter,  I  wouldn't 
talk.  I'd  astonish  him  without  talking  ; — that's  my 
way." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Snevellicci  struck'  the  palm  of  his  left 
hand  three  smart  blows  with  his  clenched  fist ;  pulled  a 
phantom  nose  with  his  right  thumb  and  fore  finger,  and 
swallowed  another  glassful  at  a  draught.  "  That's  my 
way,"  repeated  Mr.  Snevellicci. 

Most  public  characters  have  their  failings  ;  and  the  i 
truth  is  that  Mr.  Snevellicci  was  a  little  addicted  to  (i 
drinking ;  or,  if  the  whole  truth  must  be  told,  that  he  ii 
was  scarcely  ever  sober.    He  knew  in  his  cups  three 
distinct  stages  of  intoxication, — the  dignified — the  quar-  ' 
relsome — the  amorous.  When  professionally  engaged  he 
never  got  beyond  the  dignified  ;  in  private  circles  he 
went  through  all  three,  passing  from  one  to  another  with 
a  rapidity  of  transition  often  rather  perplexing  to  those  . 
who  had  not  the  honour  of  his  acquaintance. 

Thus  Mr.  Snevellicci  had  no  sooner  swallowed  another 
glassful  than  he  smiled  upon  all  present  in  happy  for- 
getf ulness  of  having  exhibited  symptoms  of  pugnacity, 
and  proposed  "  The  ladies — bless  their  hearts  1 "  in  a  ; 
most  vivacious  manner. 

"I  love  'em,"  said  Mr.  Snevellicci,  looking  round  the  - 
table,  "I  love  'em,  every  one."  ! 

"Not  every  one,"  reasoned  Mr.  Lillyvick,  mildly. 

"Yes,  every  one,"  repeated  Mr.  Snevellicci.  :\ 

"  That  would  include  the  married  ladies,  you  know,"  i 
said  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

"  I  love  them  too,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Snevellicci. 

The  collector  looked  into  the  surrounding  faces  with 
an  aspect  of  grave  astonishment,  seeming  to  say,  "  This 
is  a  nice  man  ! "  and  appeared  a  little  surprised  that 
Mrs.  Lillyvick's  manner  yielded  no  evidence  of  horror 
and  indignation. 

"  One  good  turn  deserves  another,"  said  Mr.  Snevel-  ; 
licci.  "  I.  love  them  and  they  love  me."  And  as  if  this  ; 
avowal  were  not  made  in  sufficient  disregard  and  defiance  '< 
of  all  moral  obligations,  what  did  Mr.  Snevellicci  do?  '' 
He  winked — winked,  openly  and  undisguisedly  ;  winked  \ 
veith  his  right  eye — upon  Henrietta  Lillyvick  !  ' 

The  collector  fell  back  in  his  chair  in  the  intensity  of 
his  astonishment.  If  anybody  had  winked  at  her  as 
Henrietta  Petowker,  it  would  have  been  indecorous  in 
the  last  degree ;  Uut  as  Mrs.  Lillyvick !  While  he 
thought  of  it  in  a  cold  perspiration,  and  wondered 
whether  it  was  possible  he  could  be  dreaming,  Mr.  Snev- 
ellicci repeated  the  wink,  and  drinking  to  Mrs.  Lillyvick 
in  dumb  show,  actually  blew  her  a  kiss  !  Mr.  Lillyvick 
left  his  chair,  walked  straight  up  to  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  and  fell  upon  him— literally  fell  upon  him— in- 
stantaneously. Mr.  Lillyvick  was  no  light  weight,  and 
consequently  when  he  fell  upon  Mr.  Snevellicci,  Mr. 
Snevellicci  fell  under  the  table.  Mr.  Lillyvick  followed 
him,  and  the  ladies  screamed. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  men,— are  they  mad  !." 
cried  Nicholas,  diving  under  the  table,  dragging  up  the 
collector  by  main  force,  and  thrusting  him,  all  doubled 
up,  into  a  chair,  as  if  he  had  been  a  stuffed  figure. 
"What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  what  do  you  want  to  do? 
what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

While  Nicholas  raised  up  the  collector,  Smike  had 
performed  the  same  office  for  Mr.  Snevellicci,  who  now 
regarded  his  late  adversary  in  tipsy  amazement. 

"Look  here,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Lillyvick,  pointing  to 
his  astonished  wife,  "  here  is  purity  and  elegance  com- 
bined, whose  feelings  have  been  outraged — violated,  sir  !" 

"  Lor,  what  nonsense  he  talks  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lilly- 
vick in  answer  to  the  inquiring  look  of  Nicholas.  ' '  No- 
body has  said  anything  to  me." 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


Ill 


"Said,  Henrietta!"  cried  the  collector.  "Didn't  I 
see  him — "  Mr.  Lillyvick  couldn't  bring  himself  to 
utter  the  word,  but  he  counterfeited  the  motion  of  the 
eve. 

*"Well!"  cried  Mrs.  Lillyvick.  "Do  you  suppose 
nobody  is  ever  to  look  at  me  ?  A  pretty  thing  to  be 
married  indeed,  if  that  was  law  !  " 

"  You  didn't  mind  it  ?  "  cried  the  collector. 

"Mind  it  !"  repeated  Mrs.  Lillyvick  contemptuously. 
"  You  ought  to  go  down  on  your  knees  and  beg  every- 
body's pardon,  that  you  ought." 

' '  Pardon,  my  dear  ?  "  said  the  dismayed  collector. 

"  Yes,  and  mine  first,"  replied  Mrs.  Lillyvick.  "Do 
you  suppose  /  ain't  the  best  judge  of  what's  proper  and 
what's  improper?  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  cried  all  the  ladies.  "  Do  you  suppose 
we  shouldn't  be  the  first  to  speak,  if  there  was  anything 
that  ought  to  be  taken  notice  of  ?  " 

"Do  you  suppose  they  don't  know,  sir?"  said  Miss 
Snevellicci's  papa,  pulling  up  his  collar,  and  muttering 
something  about  a  punching  of  heads,  and  being  only 
withheld  by  considerations  of  age.  With  which  Miss 
Snevellicci's  papa  looked  steadily  and  sternly  at  Mr.  Lil- 
lyvick for  some  seconds,  and  then  rising  deliberately 
from  his  chair,  kissed  the  ladies  all  round,  beginning 
with  Mrs.  Lillyvick. 

The  unhappy  collector  looked  piteously  at  his  wife,  as 
if  to  see  whether  there  was  any  one  trait  of  Miss  Petow- 
ker  left  in  Mrs.  Lillyvick,  and  finding  too  surely  that 
there  was  not,  begged  pardon  of  all  the  company  with 
great  humility,  and  sat  down  such  a  crest-fallen,  dispir- 
ited, disenchanted  man,  that  despite  all  his  selfishness 
and  dotage,  he  was  quite  an  object  of  compassion. 

Miss  Snevellicci's  papa  being  greatly  exalted  by  this 
triumph,  and  incontestable  proof  of  his  popularity  with 
the  fair  sex,  quickly  grew  convivial,  not  to  say  uproar- 
ious ;  volunteering  more  than  one  song  of  no  inconsider- 
able length,  and  regaling  the  social  circle  between-whiles 
with  recollections  of  divers  splendid  women  who  had 
been  supposed  to  entertain  a  passion  for  himself,  several 
of  whom  he  toasted  by  name,  taking  occasion  to  remark 
at  the  same  time  that  if  he  had  been  a  little  more  alive 
to  his  own  interest,  he  might  have  been  rolling  at  that 
moment  in  his  chariot-and-four.  These  reminiscences 
appeared  to  awaken  no  very  torturing  pangs  in  the  breast 
of  Mrs.  Snevellicci,  who  was  sufficiently  occupied  in 
descanting  to  Nicholas  upon  the  manifold  accomplish- 
ments and  merits  of  her  daughter.  Nor  was  the  young 
lady  herself  at  all  behind-hand  in  displaying  her  choicest 
allurements  ;  but  these,  heightened  as  they  were  by  the 
artifices  of  Miss  Ledrook,  had  no  effect  whatever  in  in- 
creasing the  attentions  of  Nicholas,  who,  with  the  pre- 
cedent of  Miss  Squeers  still  fresh  in  his  memory,  steadily 
resisted  every  fascination,  and  placed  so  strict  a  guard 
upon  his  behaviour  that  when  he  had  taken  his  leave 
the  ladies  were  unanimous  in  pronouncing  him  quite  a 
monster  of  insensibility. 

Next  day  the  posters  appeared  in  due  course,  and  the 
public  were  informed,  in  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow, 
and  in  letters  afflicted  with  every  possible  variation  of 
spinal  deformity,  how  that  Mr.  Johnson  would  have  the 
honour  of  making  his  last  appearance  that  evening,  and 
how  that  an  early  application  for  places  was  requested, 
in  consequence  of  the  extraordinary  overflow  attendant 
on  his  performances, — it  being  a  remarkable  fact  in  the- 
atrical history,  but  one  long  since  established  beyond 
dispute,  that  it  is  a  hopeless  endeavor  to  attract  people 
to  a  theatre  unless  they  can  be  first  brought  to  believe 
that  they  will  never  get  into  it. 

Nicholas  was  somewhat  at  a  loss,  on  entering  the  the- 
atre at  night,  to  account  for .  the  unusual  perturbation 
and  excitement  visible  in  the  countenance  of  all  the 
company,  but  he  was  not  long  in  doubt  as  to  the  cause, 
for  before  he  could  make  any  inquiry  respecting  it  Mr. 
Crummies  approached,  and  in  an  agitated  tone  of  voice, 
informed  him  that  there  was  a  London  manager  in  the 
boxes. 

"It's  the  phenomenon,  depend  upon  it,  sir,"  said 
Crummies,  dragging  Nicholas  to  the  little  hole  in  the  j 
curtain  that  he  might  look  through  at  the  London  man- 
fif^r.    "  I  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  it's  the  fame  of 
the  phenomenon— that's  the  man  ;  him  in  the  great-coat 


and  no  shirt-collar.  She  shall  have  ten  pound  a  week, 
Johnson  ;  she  shall  not  api)ear  on  the  London  boards  for 
a  farthing  less.  They  shan't  engage  her  either,  unlens 
they  engage  Mrs.  Crummies  too — twenty  pound  a  week 
for  the  pair  ;  or  I'll  tell  you  what,  I'll  throw  in  myself 
and  the  two  boys,  and  they  shall  have  the  family  for 
thirty.  I  can't  say  fairer  than  that.  They  must  take  us 
all,  if  none  of  us  will  go  without  the  others.  That's 
the  way  some  of  the  London  people  do,  and  it  always 
answers.  Thirty  pound  a-week — it's  too  cheap,  John- 
son.   It's  dirt  cheap." 

Nicholas  replied,  that  it  certainly  was  ;  and  Mr.  Vin- 
cent Crummies  taking  several  huge  pinches  of  snuff 
to  compose  his  feelings,  hurried  away  to  tell  Mrs. 
Crummies  that  he  had  quite  settled  the  only  terms  that 
could  be  accepted,  and  had  resolved  not  to  abate  one 
single  farthing. 

When  everybody  was  dressed  and  the  curtain  went 
up,  the  excitement  occasioned  by  the  presence  of  the 
London  manager  increased  a  thousand  fold.  Everybody 
happened  to  know  that  the  London  manager  had  come 
down  specially  to  witness  his  or  her  own  performance, 
and  all  were  in  a  flutter  of  anxiety  and  expectation. 
Some  of  those  who  were  not  on  in  the  first  scene,  hurried 
to  the  wings,  and  there  stretched  their  necks  to  have  a 
peep  at  him  ;  others  stole  up  into  the  two  little  private 
boxes  over  the  stage-doors,  and  from  that  position  recon- 
noitered  the  London  manager.  Once  the  London  man- 
ager was  seen  to  smile — he  smiled  at  the  comic  country- 
man's pretending  to  catch  a  blue-bottle,  while  Mrs. 
Crummies  was  making  her  greatest  effect.  "  Very  good, 
my  fine  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  shaking  his  fist  at 
the  comic  countryman  when  he  came  off,  "you  leave 
this  company  next  Saturday  night. " 

In  the  same  way,  everybody  who  was  on  the  stage  be- 
held no  audience  but  one  individual ;  everybody  played 
to  the  London  manager.  When  Mr.  Lenville  in  a  sudden 
burst  of  passion  called  the  emperor  a  miscreant,  and  then 
biting  his  glove,  said,  "But  I  must  dissemble,"  instead 
of  looking  gloomily  at  the  boards  and  so  waiting  for  his 
cue,  as  is  proper  in  such  cases,  he  kept  his  eye  fixed  upon 
the  London  manager.  When  Miss  Bravassa  sang  her 
song  at  her  lover,  who  according  to  custom  stood  ready 
to  shake  hands  with  her  between  the  verses,  they  looked, 
not  at  each  other  but  at  the  London  manager.  Mr.  Crum- 
mies died  point  blank  at  him  ;  and  when  the  two  guards 
came  in  to  take  the  body  off  after  a  very  hard  death,  it 
was  seen  to  open  its  eyes  and  glance  at  the  London  man- 
ager. At  length  the  London  manager  was  discovered  to 
be  asleep,  and  shortly  after  that  he  woke  up  and  went 
away,  whereupon  all  the  company  fell  foul  of  the  unhap- 
py comic  countryman,  declaring  that  his  buffoonery  was 
the  sole  cause  ;  and  Mr.  Crummies  said,  that  he  had  put 
up  with  it  a  long  time,  but  that  he  really  couldn't  stand 
it  any  longer,  and  therefore  would  feel  obliged  by  his 
looking  out  for  another  engagement. 

All  this  was  the  occasion  of  much  amusement  to  Nich- 
olas, whose  only  feeling  upon  the  subject  was  one  of  sin- 
cere satisfaction  that  the  great  man  went  away  before 
he  appeared.  He  went  through  his  part  in  the  two  last 
pieces  as  briskly  as  he  could,  and  having  been  received 
with  unbounded  favour  and  unprecedented  applause — so 
said  the  bills  for  next  day,  which  had  been  printed  an 
hour  or  two  before — he  took  Smike's  arm  and  walked 
home  to  bed. 

With  the  post  next  morning  came  a  letter  from  New- 
man Noggs,  very  inky,  very  short,  very  dirty,  very  small, 
and  very  mysterious,  urging  Nicholas  to  return  to  Lon- 
don instantly  ;  not  to  lose  an  instant  ;  to  be  there  that 
night  if  possible. 

" I  will,"  said  Nicholas.  "Heaven  knows  I  have  re- 
mained here  for  the  best,  and  sorely  against  my  own  will ; 
but  even  now  I  may  have  dallied  too  long.  What  can 
have  happened  ?  Smike,  mv  good  fellow,  here — take  my 
purse.  Put  our  things  together,  and  pay  what  little  debts 
we  owe— quick,  and  we  shall  be  in  time  for  the  morning 
coach.  I  will  only  tell  them  that  we  are  going,  and  will 
return  to  you  immediately. " 

So  saying,  he  took  his  hat,  and  hurrying  away  to  the 
lodgings  of  Mr.  Crummies,  applied  his  hand  to  the 
knocker  with  such  hearty  good-will,  that  he  awakened 
that  gentleman,  who  was  still  in  bed,  and  caused  Mr. 


112 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Bulph  the  pilot  to  take  his  morning's  pipe  very  nearly 
out  of  his  mouth  in  the  extremity  of  his  surprise. 

The  door  being  opened,  Nicholas  ran  up-stairs  without 
any  ceremony,  and  bursting  into  the  darkened  sitting- 
room  on  the  one  pair  front,  found  that  the  two  master 
Crummleses  had  sprung  out  of  the  sofa-bedstead  and 
were  putting  on  their  clothes  with  great  rapidity,  under 
the  impression  that  it  was  the  middle  of  the  night,  and 
the  next  house  was  on  fire. 

Before  he  could  undeceive  them,  Mr.  Crummies  came 
down  in  a  flannel-gown  and  nightcap  :  and  to  him  Nich- 
olas briefly  explained  that  circumstances  had  occurred 
which  rendered  it  necessary  for  him  to  repair  to  London 
immediately. 

"  So  good-bye,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  good-bye,  good-bye." 

He  was  half-way  down-stairs  before  Mr.  Crummies 
had  sufficiently  recovered  his  surprise  to  gasp  out  some- 
thing about  the  posters. 

"  I  can't  help  ic,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  Set  whatever  I 
may  have  earned  this  week  against  them,  or  if  that  will 
not  repay  you,  say  at  once  what  will.    Quick,  quick." 

"  We'll  cry  quits  about  that,"  returned  Crummies. 
"  But  can't  we  have  one  last  night  more  ?  " 

"  Not  an  hour — not  a  minute,"  replied  Nicholas,  impa- 
tiently, 

"  Won't  you  stop  to  say  something  to  Mrs.  Crummies?" 
asked  the  manager,  following  him  down  to  the  door. 

**  I  couldn't  stop  if  it  were  to  prolong  my  life  a  score 
of  years,"  rejoined  Nicholas.  "Here,  take  my  hand, 
and  with  it  my  hearty  thanks. — Oh  !  that  1  should  have 
been  fooling  here  !  " 

Accompanying  these  words  with  an  impatient  stamp 
upon  the  ground,  he  tore  himself  from  the  manager's  de- 
taining grasp,  and  darting  rapidly  down  the  street  was 
out  of  sight  in  an  instant, 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,"  said  Mr,  Crummies,  looking  wist- 
fully towards  the  point  at  which  he  had  just  disap- 
peared :  "if  he  only  acted  like  that,  what  a  deal  of 
money  he'd  draw  !  He  should  have  kept  upon  this  cir- 
cuit ;  he'd  have  been  very  useful  to  me.  But  he  don't 
know  what's  good  for  him.  He  is  an  impetuous  youth. 
Young  men  are  rash,  very  rash." 

Mr.  Crummies  being  in  a  moralizing  mood,  might  pos- 
sibly have  moralized  for  some  minutes  longer  if  he  had 
not  mechanically  put  his  hand  towards  his  waistcoat- 
pocket,  where  he  was  accustomed  to  keep  his  snuff. 
The  absence  of  any  pocket  at  all  in  the  usual  direction, 
suddenly  recalled  to  his  recollection  the  fact  that  he  had 
no  waistcoat  on  ;  and  this  leading  him  to  a  contempla- 
tion of  the  extreme  scantiness  of  his  attire,  he  shut  the 
door  abruptly,  and  retired  up-stairs  with  great  precipi- 
tation. 

Smike  had  made  good  speed  while  Nicholas  was  ab- 
sent, and  with  his  help  everything  was  soon  ready  for 
their  departure.  They  scarcely  stopped  to  take  a  morsel 
of  breakfast,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  arrived  at  the 
coach-office  :  quite  out  of  breath  with  the  haste  they 
had  made  to  reach  it  in  time.  There  were  yet  a  few 
minutes  to  spare,  so,  having  secured  the  places,  Nicholas 
hurried  into  a  slopseller's  hard  by,  and  bought  Smike  a 
great-coat.  It  would  have  been  rather  large  for  a  sub- 
stantial yeoman,  but  the  shopman  averring  (and  with 
considerable  truth)  that  it  was  a  most  uncommon  fit, 
Nicholas  would  have  purchased  it  in  his  impatience  if  it 
had  been  twice  the  size. 

As  they  hurried  up  to  the  coach,  which  was  now  in  the 
open  street  and  all  ready  for  starting,  Nicholas  was  not  a 
little  astonished  to  find  himself  suddenly  clutched  in  a 
close  and  violent  embrace,  which  nearly  took  him  off  his 
legs  ;  nor  was  his  amazement  at  all  lessened  by  hearing 
the  voice  of  Mr.  Crummies  exclaim,  "It  is  he — my 
friend,  my  friend  ! " 

"Bless  my  heart,"  cried  Nicholas,  struggling  in  the 
manager's  arms,  "  what  are  you  about?  " 

The  manager  made  no  reply,  but  strained  him  to  his 
breast  again,  exclaiming  as  he  did  so,  "Farewell,  n\y 
noble,  my  lion-hearted  boy  !  " 

In  fact,  Mr.  Crummies,  who  could  never  lose  any  op- 
portunity for  professional  display,  had  turned  out  for 
the  express  purpose  of  taking  a  public  farewell  of  Nich- 
olas ;  and  to  render  it  the  more  imposing,  he  was  now,  to 
that  young  gentleman's  most  profound  annoyance,  in- 


flicting upon  him  a  rapid  succession  of  stage  embraces, 
which,  as  everybody  knows,  are  performed  by  the  em- 
bracer's laying  his  or  her  chin  on  the  shoulder  of  the  ob- 
ject of  affection,  and  looking  over  it.  This  Mr.  Crum- 
mies did  in  the  highest  style  of  melo-drama,  pouring 
forth  at  the  same  time  all  the  most  dismal  forms  of  fare- 
well he  could  think  of,  out  of  the  stock  pieces.  Nor  was 
this  all,  for  the  elder  Master  Crummies  was  going 
through  a  similar  ceremony  with  Smike  ;  while  Master 
Percy  Crummies,  with  a  very  little  second-hand  camlet 
cloak,  worn  theatrically  over  his  left  shoulder,  stood  by, 
in  the  attitude  of  an  attendant  officer,  waiting  to  convey 
the  two  victims  to  the  scaffold. 

The  lookers-on  laughed  very  heartily,  and  as  it  was 
as  well  to  put  a  good  face  upon  the "  matter,  Nicholas 
laughed  too  when  he  had  succeeded  in  disengaging  him- 
self ;  and  rescuing  the  astonished  Smike,  climbed  up  to 
the  coach  roof  after  him,  and  kissed  his  hand  in  honour 
of  the  absent  Mrs.  Crummies  as  they  rolled  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXI.  ^ 

Of  Ralph  Nickleby  and  Newman  Noggs,  and  some  wise  PrecautionSy 
the  success  or  failure  of  ivhich  will  appear  in  the  Sequel. 

In  blissful  unconsciousness  that  his  nephew  was  has- 
ening  at  the  utmost  speed  of  four  good  horses  towards 
his  sphere  of  action,  and  that  every  passing  minute  di- 
minished the  distance  between  them,  Ralph  Nickleby  sat 
that  morning  occupied  in  his  customary  avocations,  and 
yet  unable  to  prevent  his  thoughts  wandering  from  time 
to  time  back  to  the  interview  which  had  taken  place  be- 
tween himself  and  his  niece  on  the  previous  day.  At 
such  intervals,  after  a  few  moments  of  abstraction,  Ralph 
would  mutter  some  peevish  interjection,  and  apply  him- 
self with  renewed  steadiness  of  purpose  to  the  ledger 
before  him,  but  again  and  again  the  same  train  of 
thought  came  back  despite  all  his  efforts  to  prevent  it, 
confusing  him  in  his  calculations,  and  utterly  distracting 
his  attention  from  the  figures  over  which  he  bent.  At 
length  Ralph  laid  down  his  pen,  and  threw  himself  back 
in  his  chair  as  though  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  allow 
the  obtrusive  current  of  reflection  to  take  its  own  course, 
and,  by  giving  it  full  scope,  to  rid  himself  of  it  effectu- 
ally. 

"I  am  not  a  man  to  be  moved  by  a  pretty  face,"  mut- 
tered Ralph  sternly.  "  There  is  a  grinning  skull  beneath 
it,  and  men  like  me  who  look  and  work  below  the  sur- 
face see  that,  and  not  its  delicate  covering.  And  yet  I 
almost  like  the  girl,  or  should  if  she  had  been  less 
proudly  and  squeamishly  brought  up.  If  the  boy  were 
drowned  or  hanged,  and  the  mother  dead,  this  house 
should  be  her  home.  I  wish  they  were,  with  all  my 
soul." 

Notwithstanding  the  deadly  hatred  which  Ralph  felt 
towards  Nicholas,  and  the  bitter  contempt  with  which 
he  sneered  at  poor  Mrs.  Nickleby — notwithstanding  the 
baseness  with  which  he  had  behaved,  and  was  then  be^- 
having,  and  would  behave  again  if  his  interest  prompted 
him,  towards  Kate  herself — still  there  was,  strange 
though  it  may  seem,  something  humanising  and  even 
gentle  in  his  thoughts  at  that  moment.  He  thought  of 
what  his  home  might  be  if  Kate  were  there  ;  he  placed 
her  in  the  empty  chair,  looked  upon  her,  heard  her  speak  ; 
he  felt  again  upon  his  arm  the  gentle  pressure  of  the 
trembling  hand  ;  he  strewed  his  costly  rooms  with  the 
hundred  silent  tokens  of  feminine  presence  and  occupa- 
tion ;  he  came  back  again  to  the  cold  fireside  and  the 
silent  dreary  splendour ;  and  in  that  one  glimpse  of  a 
better  nature,  born  as  it  was  in  selfish  thoughts,  the  rich 
man  felt  himself  friendless,  childless,  and  alone.  Gold, 
for  the  instant,  lost  its  lustre  in  his  eyes,  for  there  were 
countless  treasures  of  the  heart  which  it  could  never 
purchase. 

A  very  slight  circumstance  was  sufficient  to  banish 
such  reflections  from  the  mind  of  such  a  man.  As  Ralph 
looked  vacantly  out  across  the  yard  towards  the  window 
of  the  other  office,  he  became  suddenly  aware  of  the 
earnest  observation  of  Newman  Noggs,  who,  with  his 
red  nose  almost  touching  the  glass,  feigned  to  be  mend- 
ing a  pen  with  a  rusty  fragment  of  a  knife,  but  was  in 


NICHOLAS 

reality  staring  at  his  employer  with  a  countenance  of  the 
closest  and  most  eager  scrutiny. 

Ralph  exchanged  his  dreamy  posture  for  his  accus- 
tomed businejss  attitude  :  the  face  of  Newman  disap- 
peared, and  the  train  of  thought  took  to  flight,  all  simul- 
taneously and  in  an  instant. 

After  a  few  minutes,  Ralph  rang  his  bell.  Newman  an- 
1  8wered  the  summons,  and  Ralph  raised  his  eyes  stealthily 
to  his  face,  as  if  he  almost  feared  to  read  there,  a  knowl- 
edge of  his  recent  thoughts. 

There  was  not  the  smallest  speculation,  however,  in 
I  the  countenance  of  Newman  Noggs.  If  it  be  possible 
i  to  imagine  a  man,  with  two  eyes  in  his  head,  and  both 
wide  open,  looking  in  no  direction  whatever,  and  seeing 
nothing,  Newman  appeared  to  be  that  man  while  Ralph 
Nickleby  regarded  him. 

"  How  now  ?  "  growled  Ralph. 

"Oh  !"  said  Newman,  throwing  some  intelligence  into 
his  eyes  all  at  once,  and  dropping  them  on  his  master, 
"I  thought  you  rang."  With  which  laconic  remark 
Newman  turned  round  and  hobbled  away. 

"  Stop  !  "  said  Ralph. 

Newman  stopped  ;  not  at  all  disconcerted. 

"I  did  ring." 

"I  knew  you  did." 

" Then  why  do  you  offer  to  go  if  you  know  that?" 

"  I  thought  you  rang  to  say  you  didn't  ring,"  replied 
Newman.    "  You  often  do." 

**  How  dare  you  pry,  and  peer,  and  stare  at  me,  sir- 
rah ?  "  demanded  Ralph. 

"Stare  !  "  cried  Newman,  "at  you!  Ha,  ha  !  "  which 
was  all  the  explanation  Newman  deigned  to  offer. 

"Be  careful,  sir,"  said  Ralph,  looking  steadily  at  him. 
j  "Let  me  have  no  drunken  fooling  here.  Do  you  see 
3  this  parcel  ?  " 

i     "  It's  big  enough,"  rejoined  Newman. 

:     "  Carry  it  into  the  City  ;  to  Cross,  in  Broad  Street,  and 

:  leave  it  there — quick.    Do  you  hear  ?  " 

Newman  gave  a  dogged  kind  of  nod  to  express  an  af- 
firmative reply,  and,  leaving  the  room  for  a  few  seconds, 
returned  with  his  hat.  Having  made  various  ineffective 
attempts  to  fit  the  parcel  (which  was  some  two  feet 
square)  into  the  crown  thereof,  Newman  took  it  under 
his  arm,  and  after  putting  on  his  fingerless  gloves  with 
great  precision  and  nicety,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  all  the  time,  he  adjusted  his  hat 
upon  his  head  with  as  much  care,  real  or  pretended,  as 
if  it  were  a  bran-new  one  of  the  most  expensive  quality, 
and  at  last  departed  on  his  errand. 

He  executed  his  commission  with  great  promptitude 
and  dispatch,  only  calling  at  one  public- house  for  half  a 
minute,  and  even  that  might  be  said  to  be  in  his  way, 
for  he  went  in  at  one  door  and  came  out  at  the  other  ; 
but  as  he  returned  and  had  got  so  far  homewards  as  the 
Strand,  Newman  began  to  loiter  with  the  uncertain  air 
of  a  man  who  has  not  quite  made  up  his  mind  whether  to 
halt  or  go  straight  forwards.  After  a  very  short  consid- 
eration, the  former  inclination  prevailed,  and  making  to- 
wards the  point  he  had  had  in  his  mind,  Newman  knocked 
a  modest  double-knock,  or  rather  a  nervous  single  one,  at 
Miss  La  Creevy's  door. 

^  It  was  opened  by  a  strange  servant,  on  whom  the  odd 
figure  of  the  visitor  did  not  appear  to  make  the  most 
favourable  impression  possible,  inasmuch  as  she  no  sooner 
saw  him  than  she  very  nearly  closed  it,  and  placing  her- 
self in  the  narrow  gap,  inquired  what  he  wanted.  But 
Newman  merely  uttering  the  monosyllable  "  Noggs,"  as 
if  it  were  some  cabalistic  word,  at  sound  of  which  bolts 
would  fly  back  and  doors  open,  pushed  briskly  past  and 
gained  the  door  of  Miss  La  Creevy's  sitting  room  be- 
fore the  astonished  servant  could  offer  any  opposit- 
ion. 

"  Walk  in  if  you  please,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy  in  reply 
to  the  sound  of  Newman's  knuckles  ;  and  in  he  walked 
accordingly. 

"Bless  us!"  cried  Miss  La  Creevy,  starting  as  New- 
man bolted  in  ;  "  what  did  you  want,  sir?" 

"You  have  forgotten  me,"  said  Newman,  with  an  in- 
clination of  the  head.  '  *  I  wonder  at  that.  That  nobody 
should  remember  me  who  knew  me  in  other  days,  is 
natural  enough  ;  but  there  are  few  people  who,  seeing 
me  once,  forget  me  now."  He  glanced  as  he  spoke,  at 
Vol.  II.— 8 


NICKLEBY.  113 

his  shabby  clothes  and  paralytic  limb,  and  slightly  shook 
his  head.  •  , 

"  I  did  forget  you,  I  declare,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy, 
rising  to  receive  Newman,  who  met  her  half-way,  "  ami 
I  am  ashamed  of  myself  for  doing  so  ;  for  you  an;  a  kind 
good  creature,  Mr.  Noggs.  Sit  down  and  tell  me  all 
about  Miss  Nickleby.  Poor  dear  thing  1  I  haven't  seen 
her  for  this  many  a  week." 

"  How's  that?  "  asked  Newman. 

"  Why,  the  truth  is,  Mr.  Noggs,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy, 
"that  I  have  been  out  on  a  visit — the  first  visit  I  have 
made  for  fifteen  years." 

"  That  is  a  long  time,"  said  Newman,  sadly. 

"  So  it  is  a  very  long  time  to  look  back  upon  in  years, 
though,  some  how  or  other,  thank  Heaven,  the  solitary 
days  roll  away  peacefully  and  happily  enough,"  replied 
the  miniature  painter.  I  have  a  brother,  Mr.  Noggs — 
the  only  relation  I  have — and  all  that  time  I  never  saw 
him  once.  Not  that  we  ever  quarrelled,  but  he  was  ap- 
prenticed down  in  the  country,  and  he  got  married  there, 
and  new  ties  and  affections  springing  up  about  him,  he 
forgot  a  poor  little  woman  like  me,  as  if  it  were  very 
reasonable  he  should,  you  know.  Don't  suppose  that  I 
complain  about  that,  because  I  always  said  to  myself, 
*  It  is  very  natural  ;  poor  dear  John  is  making  his  way 
'  in  the  world,  and  has  a  wife  to  tell  his  cares  and  troubles 
to,  and  children  now  to  play  about  him,  so  God  bless  him 
and  them,  and  send  we  may  all  meet  together  one  day 
where  we  shall  part  no  more.'  But  what  do  you  think, 
Mr.  Noggs,"  said  the  miniature  yjainter,  brightening  iip 
and  clapping  her  hands,  "of  that  very  same  brother 
coming  up  to  London  at  last,  and  never  resting  till  he 
found  me  out  :  what  do  you  think  of  his  coming  here 
and  sitting  down  in  that  very  chair,  and  crying  like  a 
child  because  he  was  so  glad  to  see  me — what  do  you 
think  of  his  insisting  on  taking  me  down  all  the  way  in- 
to the  country  to  his  own  houee  (quite  a  sumptuous 
place,  Mr.  Noggs,  with  a  large  garden,  and  I  don't  know- 
how  many  fields,  and  a  man  in  livery  waiting  at  table, 
and  cows  and  horses  and  pigs  and  I  don't  know  what  be- 
sides), and  making  me  stay  a  whole  month,  and  pressing 
me  to  stop  there  all  my  life — yes,  all  my  like — and  so 
did  his  wife,  and  so  did  the  children — and  there  were 
four  of  them,  and  one,  the  eldest  girl  of  all,  they  — they 
had  named  her  after  me  eight  years  before,  they  had  in- 
deed. I  never  was  so  happy  ;  in  all  my  life  I  never 
was  !  "  The  worthy  soul  hid  her  face  in  her  handker- 
chief, and  sobbed  aloud  ;  for  it  w^as  the  first  opportunity 
she  had  had  of  unburdening  her  heart,  and  it  would  have 
its  way. 

"But  bless  my  life,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy,  wiping  her 
eyes  after  a  short  pause,  and  cramming  her  handkerchief 
into  her  pocket  with  great  bustle  and  dispatch  ;  "what 
a  foolish  creature  I  must  seem  to  you,  Mr.  Noggs  !  I 
shouldn't  have  said  anything  about  it,  only  I  wanted  to 
explain  to  you  how  it  was  I  hadn't  seen  Miss  Nick- 
leby." 

"Have  you  seen  the  old  lady?"  asked  Newman. 

"You  mean  Mrs.  Nickleby?"  said  Miss  La  Creevy. 
"  Then  I  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Noggs,  if  you  want  to  keep 
in  the  good  books  in  that  quarter,  you  had  better  not- 
call  her  the  old  lady  any  more,  for  I  suspect  she  wouldn't 
be  best  pleased  to  hear  you.  Yes,  I  went  there  the  night 
before  last,  but  she  'was  quite  on  the  high  ropes  about 
something,  and  was  so  grand  and  mysterious,  that  1 
couldn't  make  anything  of  her  :  so,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  took  into  my  head  to  be  grand  too,  and  came  away 
in  state.  I  thought  she  would  have  come  round  again 
before  this,  but  she  hasn't  been  here." 

"About  Miss  Nickleby — "  said  Newman. 

"Why,  she  was  here  twice  while  I  was  away."  re-- 
turned  Miss  La  Creevy.    "  I  was  afraid  she  mightn  t  like 
to  have  me  calling  on  her  among  those  great  folks  in 
what's-its-name  Place,  so  I  thought  I'd  wait  a  day  or  two, 
and  if  I  didn't  see  her,  write." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Newman,  cracking  his  fingers.. 

"However,  I  want  to  hear  all  the  news  about  th^ 
from  you,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  How  is  the  old  rough 
and  tough  monster  of  Golden  Square?  Well,  of  course  ; 
such  people  always  are.  I  don't  mean  how  is  he  in 
health,  but  how  is  he  going  on  :  how  is  he  behaving 
himself  ?  " 


114 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Damn  him  \"  cried  Newman,  dashing  his  cherished 
hat  on  the  floor  ;  "  like  a  false  hound." 

"Gracious,  Mr.  Noggs,  you  quite  terrify  me  !"  ex- 
claimed Miss  La  Creevy,  turning  pale. 

"  I  should  have  spoilt  his  features  yesterday  afternoon 
if  I  could  have  afforded  it,"  said  Newman,  moving  rest- 
lessly about,  and  shaking  his  fist  at  a  portrait  or  Mr. 
Canning  over  the  mantel-piece.  "  I  was  very  near  it.  I 
was  obliged  to  put  my  hands  in  my  pockets,  and  keep 
'em  there  very  tight.  I  shall  do  it  some  day  in  that  lit- 
tle back-parlour,  I  know  I  shall.  I  should  have  done  it 
before  now,  if  I  hadn't  been  afraid  of  making  bad  worse. 
I  shall  double-lock  myself  in  with  him  and  have  it  out 
before  I  die,  I'm  quite  certain  of  it." 

"I  shall  scream  if  you  don't  compose  yourself,  Mr. 
Noggs,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy  ;  "  I'm  sure  I  shan't  be 
able  to  help  it. " 

"Never  mind,"  rejoined  Newman,  darting  violently 
to  and  fro.  "  He's  coming  up  to-night :  I  wrote  to  tell 
him.  He  little  thinks  I  know  ;  he  little  thinks  I  care. 
Cunning  scoundrel  !  he  don't  think  that.  Not  he,  not  he. 
Never  mind,  I'll  thwart  him — /,  Newman  Noggs.  Ho, 
ho,  the  rascal  !  " 

Lashing  himself  up  to  an  extravagant  pitch  of  fury, 
Newman  Noggs  jerked  himself  about  the  room  with  the 
most  eccentric  motion  ever  beheld  in  a  human  being  : 
now  sparring  at  the  little  miniatures  on  the  wall,  and  now 
giving  himself  violent  thumps  on  the  head,  as  if  to 
heighten  the  delusion,  until  he  sank  down  in  his  former 
seat  quite  breathless  and  exhausted. 

"  Thez'e,"  said  Newman,  picking  up  his  hat  ;  "that's 
done  me  good.  Now  I'm  better,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
it." 

It  took  some  little  time  to  reassure  Miss  La  Creev}'-, 
who  had  been  almost  frightened  out  of  her  senses  by 
this  remarkable  demonstration  ;  but  that  done,  Newman 
faithfully  related  all  that  had  passed  in  the  interview 
between  Kate  and  her  uncle,  prefacing  his  narrative 
with  a  statement  of  his  previous  suspicions  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  his  reasons  for  forming  them  ;  and  concluding 
with  a  communication  of  the  step  he  had  taken  in 
secretly  writing  to  Nicholas. 

Though  little  Miss  La  Creevy 's  indignation  was  not  so 
singularly  displayed  as  Nevrman's,it  was  scarcely  inferior 
in  violence  and  intensity.  Indeed  if  Ralph  Nicklebyhad 
happened  to  make  his  appearance  in  the  room  at  that 
moment,  there  is  some  doubt  whether  he  would  not  have 
found  Miss  La  Creevy  a  more  dangerous  opponent  than 
even  Newman  Noggs  himself. 

"  God  forgive  me  for  saying  so,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy, 
as  a  wind-up  to  all  her  expressions  of  anger,  "  but  I 
really  feel  as  if  I  could  stick  this  into  him  with  pleasure." 

It  was  not  a  very  awful  weapon  that  Miss  La  Creevy 
held,  it  being  in  fact  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  black- 
lead  pencil  ;  but  discovering  her  mistake,  the  little  por- 
trait painter  exchanged  it  for  a  mother-of-pearl  fruit 
knife,  wherewith,  in  proof  of  her  desperate  thoughts, 
she  made  a  lunge  as  she  spoke,  which  would  have 
scarcely  disturbed  the  crumb  of  a  half- quartern  loaf. 

"  She  won't  stop  where  she  is,  after  to-night,"  said 
Newman.    "  That's  a  comfort. " 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  Miss  La  Creevy,  "  she  should  have  left 
there,  weeks  ago." 

— "If  we  had  known  of  this,"  rejoined  Newman. 
"  But  we  didn't.  Nobody  could  properly  interfere  but 
her  mother  or  brother.  The  mother's  weak — poor  thing 
— weak.    The  dear  young  man  will  be  here  to-night." 

"  Heart  alive  !"  cried  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  He  v^^ill  do 
something  desperate,  Mr.  Noggs,  if  you  tell  him  all  at 
once." 

Newman  left  off  rubbing  his  hands,  and  assumed  a 
thoughtful  look. 

"  Depend  upon  it,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy,  earnestly, 
"if  you  are  not  very  careful  in  breaking  out  the  truth 
to  him,  he  will  do  some  violence  upon  his  uncle  or  one 
of  these  men  that  will  bring  some  terrible  calamity  upon 
his  own  head,  and  grief  and  sorrow  to  us  all." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  rejoined  Newman,  his 
■r/)untenance  falling  more  and  more.  "  I  came  to  ask  you 
to  receive  his  sister  in  case  he  brought  her  here,  but — " 

"  But  this  is  a  matter  of  much  greater  importance," 
•interrupted  Miss  La  Creevy;  "that  you  might  have 


been  sure  of  before  you  came,  but  the  end  of  this,  no- 
body can  foresee,  unless  you  are  very  guarded  and  care- 
ful." 

"What  can  I  do?"  cried  Newman,  scratching  his 
head  with  an  air  of  great  vexation  and  perplexity.  "  If 
he  was  to  talk  of  pistolling  'em  all,  I  should  be  obliged 
to  say,  'Certainly — serve  'em  right.'" 

Miss  La  Creevy  could  not  suppress  a  small  shriek  on 
hearing  this,  and  instantly  set  about  extorting  a  solemn 
pledge  from  Newman  that  he  would  use  his  utmost  en- 
deavours to  pacify  the  wrath  of  Nicholas  ;  which,  after 
some  demur,  was  conceded.  They  then  consulted  to- 
gether on  the  safest  and  surest  mode  of  communicating 
to  him  the  circumstances  which  had  rendered  his  pres- 
ence necessary. 

"  He  must  have  time  to  cool  before  he  can  possibly  do 
anything,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  That  is  of  the  great- 
est consequence.  He  must  not  be  told  until  late  at 
night." 

"But  he'll  be  in  town  between  six  and  seven  this  even- 
ing," replied  Newman.  "  /  can't  keep  it  from  him  when 
he  asks  me." 

"  Then  you  must  go  out,  Mr.  Noggs,"  said  Miss  La 
Creevy.  "  You  can  easily  have  been  kept  away  by  busi- 
ness, and  must  not  return  till  nearly  midnight." 

"  Then  he'll  come  straight  here,"  retorted  Newman. 

"  So  I  suppose,"  observed  Miss  La  Creevy  ;  "  but  ho 
won't  find  me  at  home,  for  I'll  go  straight  to  the  City 
the  instant  you  leave  me,  make  up  matters  with  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  and  take  her  away  to  the  theatre,  so  that  he 
may  not  even  know  where  his  sister  lives." 

Upon  further  discussion,  this  appeared  the  safest  and 
most  feasible  mode  of  proceeding  that  could  possibly  be 
adopted.  Therefore  it  was  finally  determined  that  mat- 
ters should  be  so  arranged,  and  Newman,  after  listening 
to  many  supj)lementary  cautions  and  entreaties,  took  hivS 
leave  of  Miss  La  Creevy  and  trudged  back  to  Golden 
Square  ;  ruminating  as  he  went  upon  a  vast  number  of 
possibilities  and  impossibilities  which  crowded  upon  his 
brain,  and  arose  out  of  the  conversation  that  had  just 
terminated. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Relating  chiefly  to  some  remarkable  Conversation,  and  some  remarka- 
ble Proceedings  to  which  it  gives  rise. 

"  London  at  last  ! "  cried  Nicholas,  throwing  back  his 
great-coat  and  rousing  Sniike  from  a  long  nap.  "It 
seemed  to  me  as  though  we  should  never  reach  it." 

"  And  yet  you  came  along  at  a  tidy  pace  too,"  ob- 
served the  coachman,  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  Nicho- 
las with  no  very  pleasant  expression  of  countenance. 

"  Ay,  I  know  that,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  but  I  have  been 
very  anxious  to  be  at  my  journey's  end,  and  that  makes 
the  way  seem  long." 

"  Well,"  remarked  the  coachman,  "if  the  way  seemed 
long  with  such  cattle  as  you've  sat  behind,  you  mvM 
have  been  most  uncommon  anxious  ; "  and  so  saying,  he 
let  out  his  whip-lash  and  touched  up  a  little  boy  on  the 
calves  of  his  legs  by  way  of  emphasis. 

I'hey  rattled  on  through  the  noisy,  bustling,  crowded 
streets  of  London,  now  displaying  long  double  rows  of 
brightly-burning  lamps,  dotted  here  and  there  with  the 
chemists'  glaring  lights  and  illuminated  besides  with 
the  brilliant  flood  that  streamed  from  the  windows  of  the 
shops,  where  sparkling  jewellery,  silks  and  velvets  of  the 
richest  colours,  the  most  inviting  delicacies,  and  most 
sumptuous  articles  of  luxurious  ornament,  succeeded 
each  other  in  rich  and  glittering  profusion.  Streams  of 
people  apparently  without  end  poured  on  and  on,  jostling 
each  other  in  the  crowd  and  hurrying  forward,  scarcely 
seeming  to  notice  the  riches  that  surrounded  them  on 
every  side  ;  while  vehicles  of  all  shapes  and  makes, 
mingled  up  together  in  one  moving  mass  like  running 
water,  lent  their  ceaseless  roar  to  swell  the  noise  and 
tumult. 

As  they  dashed  by  the  quickly-changing  and  ever- 
varying  objects,  it  was  curious  to  observe  in  what  a 
strange  procession  they  passed  before  the  eye.  Empori- 
ums of  splendid  dresses,  the  materials  brought  from 
every  quarter  of  the  world  ;  tempting  stores  of  every- 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


115 


thing  to  stimulate  and  pamper  the  sated  appetite  and 
give  new  relish  to  the  oft-repeated  feast ;  vessels  of  bur- 
nished gold  and  silver,  wrought  into  every  exquisite 
form  of  vase,  and  dish,  and  goblet  ;  guns,  swords,  pis- 
tols, and  patent  engines  of  destruction  ;  screws  and  irons 
for  the  crooked,  clothes  for  the  newly-born,  drugs  for 
the  sick,  coffins  for  the  dead,  and  churchyards  for  the 
buried — all  these  jumbled  each  with  the  other  and  flock- 
ing side  by  side,  seemed  to  Hit  by  in  motley  dance  like 
the  fantastic  groups  of  the  old  Dutch  X)ainter,  and  with 
the  same  stern  moral  for  the  unheeding  restless  crowd. 

Nor  were  there  wanting  objects  in  the  crowd  itself  to 
give  new  point  and  purpose  to  the  shifting  scene.  The 
rags  of  the  squalid  ballad-singer  fluttered  in  the  rich 
light  that  showed  the  goldsmith's  treasures,  pale  and 
pinched-up  faces  hovered  about  the  windows  where  was 
tempting  food,  hungry  eyes  wandered  over  the  profu- 
sion guarded  by  one  thin  sheet  of  brittle  glass — an  iron 
wall  to  them  ;  half-naked  shivering  figures  stopped  to 
gaze  at  Chinese  shawls  and  golden  stuffs  of  India.  There 
was  a  christaning  party  at  the  largest  coffin-maker's, 
and  a  funeral  hatchment  had  stopped  some  great  im- 
provements in  the  bravest  mansion.  Life  and  death 
went  hand  in  hand  ;  wealth  and  poverty  stood  side  by 
side  ;  repletion  and  starvation  laid  them  down  together. 

But  it  was  London  ;  and  the  old  country  lady  inside, 
who  had  put  her  head  out  of  the  coach-window  a  mile 
or  two  this  side  Kingston,  and  cried  out  to  the  driver  that 
she  was  sure  he  must  have  passed  it  and  forgotten  to  set 
her  down,  was  satisfied  at  last. 

Nicholas  engaged  beds  for  himself  and  Smike  at  the 
inn  where  the  coach  stopped,  and  repaired,  without  the 
delay  of  another  moment,  to  the  lodgings  of  Newman 
Noggs  ;  for  his  anxiety  and  impatience  had  increased 
with  every  succeeding  minute,  and  were  almost  beyond 
control. 

There  was  a  fire  in  Newman's  garret,  and  a  candle  had 
been  left  burning  :  the  floor  was  cleanly  swept,  the  room 
was  as  comfortably  arranged  as  such  a  room  could  be, 
and  meat  and  drink  were  placed  in  order  upon  the  ta- 
ble. Everything  bespoke  the  affectionate  care  and  atten- 
tion of  Newman  Noggs,  but  Newman  himself  was  not 
there. 

"  Do  you  know  what  time  he  will  be  home?"  inquired 
Nicholas,  tapping  at  the  door  of  Newman's  front  neigh- 
bour. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Johnson  !  "  said  Crowl,  presenting  himself. 
"Welcome,  sir, — How  well  you're  looking!  I  never 
could  have  believed — " 

"  Pardon  me,"  interposed  Nicholas.  "  My  question 
— I  am  extremely  anxious  to  know." 

"  Why,  he  has  a  troublesome  affair  of  business,"  re- 
plied Crowl,  "and  will  not  be  home  before  twelve 
o'clock.  He  was  very  unwilling  to  go,  I  can  tell  you, 
but  there  was  no  help  for  it.  However,  he  left  word 
that  you  were  to  make  yourself  comfortable  till  he  came 
back,  and  that  I  was  to  entertain  you,  which  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  do. " 

In  proof  of  his  extreme  readiness  to  exert  himself  for 
the  general  entertainment,  Mr.  Crowl  drew  a  chair  to 
the  table  as  he  spoke,  and  helping  himself  plentifully  to 
the  cold  meat,  invited  Nicholas  and  Smike  to  follow  bis 
example. 

Disappointed  and  uneasy,  Nicholas  could  touch  no 
food,  so,  after  he  had  seen  Smike  comfortably  estab- 
lished at  the  table,  he  walked  out  (despite  a  great  many 
dissuasions  uttered  by  Mr.  Crowl  with  his  mouth  full), 
and  left  Smike  to  detain  Newman  in  case  he  returned 
first. 

As  Miss  La  Creevy  had  anticipated,  Nicholas  betook 
himself  straight  to  her  house.  Finding  her  from  home, 
he  debated  within  himself  for  some  time  whether  he 
should  go  to  his  mother's  residence  and  so  compromise 
her  with  Ralph  Nickleby.  YxxWy  persuaded,  however, 
that  Newman  would  not  have  solicited  him  to  return  un- 
less there  was  some  strong  reason  which  required  his 
presence  at  home,  he  resolved  to  go  there,  and  hastened 
eastward  with  all  speed. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  would  not  be  at  home,  the  girl  said,  un- 
til past  twelve,  or  later.  She  believed  Miss  Nickleby  was 
well,  but  she  didn't  live  at  home  now,  nor  did  she  come 
liome  except  very  Beldom,   She  couldn't  say  where  she 


was  stopping,  but  it  was  not  at  Madame  Mantalini's — 
she  was  sure  of  that. 

With  his  heart  beating  violently,  and  apprehending 
he  knew  not  what  disaster,  Nicholas  returned  to  where 
he  had  left  Smike.  Newman  had  not  been  home.  He 
wouldn't  be,  till  twelve  o'clock  ;  there  was  no  chance  of 
it.  Was  there  no  possibility  of  soriding  to  fetch  him  if 
it  were  only  for  an  instant,  or  forwarding  to  him  one 
line  of  writing  to  which  he  might  return  a  verbal  reply? 
That  was  quite  impracticable.  He  was  not  at  Golden 
Square,  and  probably  had  been  sent  to  execute  some 
commission  at  a  distance. 

Nicholas  tried  to  remain  quietly  where  he  was,  but  he 
felt  so  nervous  and  excited  that  he  could  not  sit  still. 
He  seemed  to  be  losing  time  unless  he  was  moving.  It 
was  an  absurd  fancy,  he  knew,  but  he  was  wholly  unable 
to  resist  it.  So,  he  took  up  his  hat  and  rambled  out 
again. 

He  strolled  westward  this  time,  i:)acing  the  long  streets 
with  hurried  footsteps,  and  agitated  by  a  thousand  mis- 
givings and  apprehensions  which  he  could  not  overcome. 
He  passed  into  Hyde  Park,  now  silent  and  deserted,  and 
increased  his  rate  of  walking  as  if  in  the  hope  of  leaving 
his  thoughts  behind.  They  crowded  upon  him  more 
thickly,  however,  now  there  were  no  passing  objects  to 
attract  his  attention  ;  and  the  one  idea  was  always  uj)per- 
most,  that  some  stroke  of  ill-fortune  must  have  occurred 
so  calamitous  in  its  nature  that  all  were  fearful  of  dis- 
closing it  to  him.  The  old  question  arose  again  and 
again — What  could  it  be?  Nicholas  walked  till  he  was 
weary,  but  was  net  one  bit  the  wiser  ;  and  indeed  he 
came  out  of  the  Park  at  last  a  great  deal  more  confused 
and  perplexed  than  when  he  went  in. 

He  had  taken  scarcely  anything  to  eat  or  drink  since 
early  in  the  morning,  and  felt  quite  worn  out  and  ex- 
hausted. As  he  returned  languidly  toward  the  point 
from  which  he  had  started,  along  one  of  the  thorough- 
fares which  lie  between  Park  Lane  and  Bond  Street,  he 
passed  a  handsome  hotel,  before  which  he  stopped  me- 
chanically, 

"  An  expensive  place,  I  dare  say,"  thought  Nicholas  ; 
"  but  a  pint  of  wine  and  a  biscuit  are  no  great  de- 
bauch wherever  they  are  had.    And  yet  I  don't  know." 

He  walked  on  a  few  steps,  but  looking  wistfully  down 
the  long  vista  of  gas-lamps  before  him,  and  thinking  how 
long  it  would  take  to  reach  the  end  of  it — and  being  be- 
sides in  that  kind  of  mood  in  which  a  man  is  most  dis- 
posed to  yield  to  his  first  impulse — and  being,  besides, 
strongly  attracted  to  the  hotel,  in  part  by  curiosity,  and 
in  part  by  some  odd  mixture  of  feelings  which  he  would 
have  been  troubled  to  define— Nicholas  turned  back 
again,  and  walked  into  the  coffee-room. 

It  was  very  handsomely  furnished.  The  walls  were 
ornamented  with  the  choicest  specimens  of  French 
paper,  enriched  with  a  gilded  cornice  of  elegant  design. 
The  floor  was  covered  w-ith  a  rich  carpet ;  and  two  su- 
perb mirrors,  one  above  the  chimney-piece  and  one  at 
the  opposite  end  of  the  room  reaching  from  floor  to  ceil- 
ing, multiplied  the  other  beauties  and  added  new  ones 
of  their  own  to  enhance  the  general  effect.  There  was 
a  rather  noisy  party  of  four  gentlemen  in  a  box  by  the 
fire-place,  and  only  two  other  persons  present — both 
elderly  gentlemen,  and  both  alone. 

Observing  all  this  in  the  first  comprehensive  glance 
with  which  a  stranger  surveys  a  place  that  is  new  to  him. 
Nicholas  sat  himself  down  in  the  box  next  to  the  noisy 
party,  with  his  back  towards  them,  and  postponing  his 
order  for  a  pint  of  claret  until  such  time  as  the  waiter 
and  one  of  the  elderly  gentlemen  should  have  settled  a 
disputed  question  relative  to  the  price  of  an  item  in  the 
bill  of  fare,  took  up  a  newspaper  and  began  to  read. 

He  had  not  read  twenty  lines,  and  was  in  truth  half- 
dozing,  when  he  was  startled  by  the  mention  of  his 
sister's  name.    "  Little  Kate  Nickleby  "  were  the  words 
that  caught  his  ear.    He  raised  his  head  in  amazement, 
'  and  as  he  did  so,  saw  by  the  reflection  in  the  opposite 
:  glass,  that  two  of  the  party  behind  him  had  risen  and 
I  were  standing  before  the  fire.    "It  must  have  come 
j  from  one  of  them,"  thought  Nicholas.    He  waited  to 
i  hear  more  with  a  countenance  of  some  indignation,  for 
'  the  tone  of  speech  had  been  anything  but  respectful, 
I  and  the  appearance  of  the  individual  whom  he  pre- 


116 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


sumed  to  liave  been  the  speaker  was  coarse  and  swag- 
gering. 

This  person — so  Nicholas  observed  in  the  same  glance 
at  the  mirror  which  had  enabled  him  to  see  his  face — 
was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire  conversing  with 
a  younger  man,  who  stood  with  his  back  to  the  company, 
wore  his  hat,  and  was  adjusting  his  shirt  collar  by  the 
aid  of  the  glass.  They  spoke  in  whispers,  now  and  then 
bursting  into  a  loud  laugh,  but  Nicholas  could  catch  no 
repetition  of  the  words,  nor  anything  sounding  at  all 
like  the  words,  which  had  attracted  his  attention. 

At  length  the  two  resumed  their  seats,  and  more  wine 
being  ordered,  the  party  grew  louder  in  their  mirth. 
Still  there  was  no  reference  made  to  anybody  with  whom 
he  was  acquainted,  and  Nicholas  became  persuaded  that 
his  excited  fancy  had  either  imagined  the  sounds  alto- 
gether, or  converted  some  other  words  into  the  name 
which  had  been  so  much  in  his  thoughts. 

"  It  is  remarkable  too,"  thought  Nicholas  :  "  if  it  had 
been  '  Kate'  or  *  Kate  Nickleby,'  I  should  not  have  been 
so  much  surprised  :  but  'little  Kate  Nickleby.'  " 

The  wine  coming  at  the  moment  prevented  his  finish- 
ing the  sentence.  He  swallowed  a  glassful  and  took  up 
the  paper  again.    At  that  instant —  ^ 

"Little  Kate  Nickleby  !"  cried  a  voice  behind  him. 

"  I  was  right,"  muttered  Nicholas  as  the  paper  fell 
from  his  hand.    "  And  it  was  the  man  I  supposed." 

"  As  there  was  no  proper  objection  to  drinking  her  in 
heel-taps,"  said  the  voice,  "  we'll  give  her  the  first  glass 
in  the  new  magnum.    Little  Kate  Nickleby  !  " 

"  Little  Kate  Nickleby,"  cried  the  other  three.  And 
the  glasses  were  set  down  empty. 

Keenly  alive  to  the  tone  and  manner  of  this  slight 
and  careless  mention  of  his  sister's  name  in  a  public 
place,  Nicholas  fired  at  once  ;  but  he  kept  himself  quiet 
by  a  great  effort,  and  did  not  even  turn  his  head. 

"  The  jade  !  "  said  the  same  voice  which  had  spoken 
before.  "She's  a  true  Nickleby — a  worthy  imitator  of 
her  old  uncle  Ralph, — she  hangs  back  to  be  more  sought 
after — so  does  he  ;  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  Ralph  unless 
you  follow  him  up,  and  then  the  money  comes  doubly 
welcome,  and  the  bargain  doubly  hard,  for  you're  impa- 
tient and  he  isn't.    Oh  !  infernal  cunning." 

"Infernal  cunning,"  echoed  two  voices. 

Nicholas  was  in  a  perfect  agony  as  the  two  elderly 
gentlemen  opposite,  rose  one  after  the  other  and  went 
away,  lest  they  should  be  the  means  of  his  losing  one 
word  of  what  was  said.  But  the  conversation  was  sus- 
pended as  they  withdrew,  and  resumed  with  even  greater 
freedom  when  they  had  left  the  room. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  younger  gentleman,  "  that  the 
old  woman  has  grown  jea-a-lous,  and  locked  her  up. 
Upon  my  soul  it  looks  like  it." 

"  If  they  quarrel  and  little  Nickleby  goes  home  to  her 
mother,  so  much  the  better,"  said  the  first.  "  I  can  do 
anything  with  the  old  lady.  She'll  believe  anything  I 
tell  her." 

"Egad  that's  true,"  returned  the  other  voice.  "  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !    Poor  deyvle  !  " 

The  laugh  was  taken  up  by  the  two  voices  which  al- 
ways came  in  together,  and'  became  general  at  Mrs. 
Nickleby's  expense.  Nicholas  turned  burning  hot  with 
rage,  but  he  commanded  himself  for  the  moment,  and 
waited  to  hear  more. 

What  he  heard  need  not  be  repeated  here.  Suffice  it 
that  as  the  wine  went  round  he  heard  enough  to  ac- 
quaint him  with  the  characters  and  designs  of  those 
whose  conversation  he  overheard  ;  to  possess  him  with 
the  full  extent  of  Ralph's  villany,  and  the  real  reason 
of  his  own  presence  beiug  required  in  London.  He 
heard  all  this  and  more.  He  heard  his  sister's  sufferings 
derided,  and  her  virtuous  conduct  jeered  at  and  brutally 
misconstrued  ;  he  heard  her  name  bandied  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  and  herself  made  the  subject  of  coarse  and  in- 
solent wagers,  free  speech,  and  licentious  je.sting. 

The  man  who  had  spoken  first,  led  the  conversation 
and  indeed  almost  engrossed  it,  being  only  stimulated 
from  time  to  time  by  some  slight  observation  from  one 
or  other  of  his  companions.  To  him  then  Nicholas 
addressed  himself  when  he  was  sufficiently  composed  to 
Htand  before  the  party,  and  force  the  words  from  his 
parched  and  scorching  throat. 


"  Let  me  have  a  word  with  you,  sir,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  With  me,  sir?"  retorted  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  eyeing 
him  in  disdainful  surprise. 

"I  said  with  you,"  replied  Nicholas,  spea'king  with 
great  difficulty,  for  his  passion  choked  him. 

"  A  mysterious  stranger,  upon  my  soul  !"  exclaimed 
Sir  Mulberry,  raising  his  wine  glass  to  his  lips,  and  look- 
ing round  upon  his  friends. 

"  Will  you  step  apart  with  me  for  a  few  minutes,  or 
do  you  refuse?"  said  Nicholas  sternly. 

Sir  Mulberry  merely  paused  in  the  act  of  drinking,  and 
bade  him  either  name  his  business  or  leave  the  table. 

Nicholas  drew  a  card  from  his  pocket,  and  threw  it 
before  him. 

"There,  sir,"  said  Nicholas ;  "my  business  you  will 
guess. " 

A  momentary  expression  of  astonishment,  not  unmixed 
with  some  confusion,  appeared  in  the  face  of  Sir  Mul- 
berry as  he  read  the  name  ;  but  he  subdued  it  in  an  in- 
stant, and  tossing  the  card  to  Lord  Verisopht,  who  sat 
opposite,  drew  a  tooth-pick  from  a  glass  before  him,  and 
very  leisurely  applied  it  to  his  mouth. 

"Your  name  and  address?"  said  Nicholas,  turning 
paler  as  his  passion  kindled. 

"  I  shall  give  you  neither,"  replied  Sir  Mulberry. 

"  If  there  is  a  gentleman  in  this  party,"  said  Nicholas, 
looking  round  and  scarcely  able  to  make  his  white  lips 
form  the  words,  "  he  will  acquaint  me  with  the  name  and 
residence  of  this  man." 

There  was  a  dead  silence. 

"  I  am  the  brother  of  the  young  lady  who  has  been  the 
subject  of  conversation  here,"  said  Nicholas.  "  I  de- 
nounce this  person  as  a  liar,  and  impeach  him  as  a  cow- 
ard. If  he  has  a  friend  here,  he  will  save  him  the  dis- 
grace of  the  paltry  attempt  to  conceal  his  name — an 
utterly  useless  one — for  I  will  find  it  out,  nor  leave  him 
until  I  have." 

Sir  Mulberry  looked  at  him  contemptuously,  and,  ad- 
dressing his  companions,  said — 

"  Let  the  fellow  talk,  I  have  nothing  serious  to  say  to 
boys  of  his  station  ;  and  his  pretty  sister  shall  save  him 
a  broken  head,  if  he  talks  till  midnight." 
I  "You  are  a  base  and  spiritless  scoundrel  !"  said  Nich- 
j  olas,  "  and  shall  be  proclaimed  so  to  the  world.  I  will 
I  know  you  ;  I  will  follow  you  home  if  you  walk  the  streets 
j  till  morning." 

j  Sir  Mulberry's  hand  involuntarily  closed  upon  the  de- 
I  canter,  and  he  seemed  for  an  instant  about  to  launch  it 
I  at  the  head  of  his  challenger.  But  he  only  filled  his 
j  glass,  and  laughed  in  derision. 

j  Nicholas  sat  himself  down,  directly  opposite  to  the 
party,  and,  summoning  the  waiter,  paid  his  bill. 

"  Do  you  know  that  person's  name?"  he  inquired  of 
the  man  in  an  audible  voice  ;  pointing  out  Sir  Mulberry 
as  he  put  the  question. 

Sir  Mulberry  laughed  again,  and  the  two  voices  which 
had  always  spoken  together,  echoed  the  laugh ;  but 
rather  feebly. 

"That  gentleman,  sir?"  replied  the  waiter,  who,  no 
doubt,  knew  his  cue,  and  answered  with  just  as  little 
respect,  and  just  as  much  impertinence  as  he  could  safely 
show  :  "  no,  sir,  I  do  not,  sir." 

"Here,  you  sir,"  cried  Sir  Mulberry,  as  the  man  was 
retiring  ;  "do  you  know  that  person's  name ? " 

"  Name,  sir?    No,  sir  " 

"Then  you'll  find  it  there,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  throw- 
ing Nicholas's  card  towards  him  ;  "and  when  you  have 
made  yourself  master  of  it,  put  that  piece  of  pasteboard 
in  the  fire — do  you  hear  me  ?" 

The  man  grinned,  and,  looking  doubtfully  at  Nicholas, 
compromised  the  matter  by  sticking  the  card  in  the 
chimney -glass.    Having  done  this,  he  retired. 

Nicholas  folded  his  arms,  and,  biting  his  lip,  sat  per- 
fectly quiet  :  sufficiently  expressing  by  his  manner, 
however,  a  firm  determination  to  carry  his  threat  of  fol- 
lowing Sir  Mulberry  home,  into  steady  execution. 

It  was  evident  from  the  tone  in  which  the  younger 
member  of  the  party  apy)eared  to  remonstrate  with  nis 
friend,  that  he  objected  to  this  course  of  proceeding, 
and  urged  him  to  comply  with  the  request  which  Nich- 
olas had  made.  Sir  Mulberry,  however,  who  was  not 
quite  sober,  and  who  was  in  a  sullen  and  dogged  state  of 


NICHOLAS 

obstinacy,  soon  silenced  the  representations  of  liis  weak 
young  friend,  and  further  seemed — as  if  to  save  himself 
from  a  repetition  of  them — to  insist  on  being  left  alone. 
However  this  might  have  been,  the  young  gentleman 
and  the  two  who  had  always  spoken  together,  actually 
rose  to  go  after  a  short  interval,  and  presently  retired, 
leaving  their  friend  alone  with  Nicholas. 

It  will  be  very  readily  supposed  that  to  one  in  the  con- 
dition of  Nicholas,  the  minutes  appeared  to  move  with 
leaden  wings  indeed,  and  that  their  progress  did  not  seem 
the  more  rapid  from  the  monotonous  ticking  of  a  French 
clock,  or  the  shrill  sound  of  its  little  bell  which  told  the 
quarters.  But  there  he  sat  ;  and  in  his  old  seat  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room  reclined  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk, 
with  his  legs  upon  the  cushion,  and  his  handkerchief 
thrown  negligently  over  his  knees  ;  finishing  his  magnum 
of  claret  with  the  utmost  coolness  and  indifference. 

Thus  they  remained  in  perfect  silence  for  upwards  of 
an  hour — Nicholas  would  have  thought  for  three  hours 
at  least,  but  that  the  little  bell  had  only  gone  four  times. 
Twice  or  thrice  he  looked  angrily  and  impatiently  round  ; 
but  there  was  Sir  Mulberry  in  the  same  attitude,  putting 
his  glass  to  his  lips  from  time  to  time,  and  looking 
vacantly  at  the  wall,  as  if  he  were  wholly  ignorant  of 
the  presence  of  any  living  person. 

At  length  he  yawned,  stretched  himself,  and  rose  ; 
walked  coolly  to  the  glass,  and  having  surveyed  himself 
therein,  turned  round  and  honoured  Nicholas  with  a  long 
and  contemptuous  stare.  Nicholas  stared  again  with 
right  good-will ;  Sir  Mulberry  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
smiled  slightly,  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  waiter  to 
help  him  on  with  his  great-coat. 

The  man  did  so,  and  held  the  door  open, 

"  Don't  wait,"  said  Sir  Mulberry  ;  and  they  were  alone 
again. 

Sir  Mulberry  took  several  turns  up  and  down  the  room, 
whistling  carelessly  all  the  time  :  stopped  to  finish  the 
last  glass  of  claret  which  he  had  ])oured  out  a  few  min- 
utes before,  walked  again,  put  on  his  hat,  adjusted  it 
by  the  glass,  drew  on  his  gloves^  and,  at  last,  walked 
slowly  out,  Nicholas,  who  had  been  fuming  and  chafing 
until  he  was  nearly  wild,  darted  from  his  seat,  and  fol- 
lowed him — so  closely,  that  before  the  door  had  swung 
upon  its  hinges  after  Sir  Mulberry's  passing  out,  they 
stood  side  by  side  in  the  street  together. 

There  was  a  private  cabriolet  in  waiting ;  the  groom 
opened  the  apron,  and  jumped  out  to  the  horse's  head. 

"  Will  you  make  yourself  known  to  me  ?  "  asked  Nicho- 
las, in  a  suppressed  voice. 

"  No,"  replied  the  other  fiercely,  and  confirming  the 
refusal  with  an  oath.    "  No." 

"  If  you  trust  to  your  horse's  speed,  you  will  find  your- 
self mistaken,"  said  Nicholas,  "  I  will  accompany  you. 
By  Heaven  I  will,  if  I  hang  on  to  the  foot-board." 

"  You  shall  be  horsewhipped  if  you  do,"  returned  Sir 
Mulberry.  . 

"  You  are  a  villain,"  said  Nicholas. 

"You  are  an '  errand-boy  for  aught  I  know,"  said  Sir 
Mulberry  Hawk. 

"I  am  the  son  of  a  country  gentleman,"  returned 
Nicholas,  "  your  equal  in  birth  and  education,  and  your 
superior  I  trust  in  everything  besides.  I  tell  you  again, 
Miss  Nickleby  is  my  sister.  Will  you  or  will  you  not 
answer  for  your  unmanly  and  brutal  conduct  ?" 

"  To  a  proper  champion — yes.  To  you— no,"  returned 
Sir  Mulberry,  taking  the  reins  in  his  hand.  "  Stand  out 
of  the  way,  dog.    W^illiam,  let  go  her  head." 

"  You  had  better  not,"  cried  Nicholas,  springing  on  the 
step  as  Sir  Mulberry  jumped  in,  and  catching  at  the 
reins.  "He  has  no  command  over  the  horse,  mind. 
You  shall  not  go — you  shall  not,  I  swear — till  you  have 
told  me  who  you  are." 

The  groom  hesitated,  for  the  mare,  who  was  a  high- 
spirited  animal  and  thorough-bred,  plunged  so  violently 
that  he  could  scarcely  hold  her. 

"  Leave  go,  I  tell  you,"  thundered  his  master. 

The  man  obeyed.  The  animal  reared  and  plunged  as 
though  it  would  dash  the  carriage  into  a  thousand  pieces, 
but  Nicholas,  blind  to  all  sense  of  danger,  and  conscious 
of  nothing  but  his  fury,  still  maintained  his  place  and 
his  hold  upon  the  reins. 

"  Will  you  unclasp  your  hand  ?  " 


NICKLEBY.  117 

"  Will  you  tell  me  who  you  are?** 

"No  !" 
"No  !" 

In  less  time  than  the  quickest  tongue  could  tell  it,  these 
words  were  exchanged,  and  Sir  Mulberry  shortening  his 
whip,  applied  it  furiously  to  the  head  and  shoulders  of 
Nicholas.  It  was  broken  in  the  struggle  ;  Nicholas 
gained  the  heavy  handle,  and  with  it  laid  open  one  side 
of  his  antagonist's  face  from  the  eye  to  the  lip.  He  saw 
the  gash  ;  knew  that  the  mare  had  darted  off  at  a  wild 
mad  gallop  ;  a  hundred  lights  danced  in  his  eyes,  and  he 
felt  himself  flung  violently  upon  the  ground. 

He  was  giddy  and  sick,  but  staggered  to  his  feet  di- 
rectly, roused  by  the  loud  shouts  of  the  men  who  were 
tearing  up  the  street,  and  screaming  to  those  ahead  U) 
clear  the  way.  He  was  conscious  of  a  torrent  of  people 
rushing  quickly  by — looking  up,  could  discern  the 
cabriolet  whirled  along  the  foot  pavement  with  fright- 
ful rapidity — then  heard  a  loud  cry,  the  smashing  of 
some  heavy  body  and  the  breaking  of  glass — and  then 
the  crowd  closed  in  in  the  distance,  and  he  could  see  or 
hear  no  more. 

The  general  attention  had  been  entirely  directed  from 
himself  to  the  person  in  the  carriage,  and  he  was  quite 
alone.  Rightly  judging  that  under  such  circumstances  it 
would  be  madness  to  follow,  he  turned  down  a  bye-street 
in  search  of  the  nearest  coach-stand,  finding  after  a 
minute  or  two  that  he  was  reeling  like  a  drunken  man, 
and  aware  for  the  first  time  of  a  stream  of  blood  that 
was  trickling  down  his  face  and  breast. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

In  which  Mr.  Ralph  Nicklehy  is  relieved,  by  a  very  expeditious  Process, 
from  all  Commerce  with  his  relations. 

Smike  and  Newman  Noggs,  who  in  his  impatience  had 
returned  home  long  before  the  time  agreed  upon,  sat 
before  the  fire,  listening  anxiously  to  every  footstep  on 
the  stairs,  and  the  slightest  sound  that  stirred  within  the 
house,  for  the  approach  of  Nicholas.  Time  had  worn  on, 
and  it  was  growing  late.  He  had  promised  to  be  back 
in  an  hour  ;  and  his  prolonged  absence  began  to  excite 
considerable  alarm  in  the  minds  of  both,  as  was  abun- 
dantly testified  by  the  blank  looks  they  cast  upon  each 
other  at  every  new  disappointment. 

At  length  a  coach  was  heard  to  stop,  and  Newman  ran 
out  to  light  Nicholas  up  the  stairs.  Beholding  him  in 
the  trim  described  at  the  conclusion  of  the  last  chapter, 
he  stood  aghast  in  wonder  and  consternation. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Nicholas,  hurrying  him  back 
into  the  room.  "  There  is  no  harm  done,  beyond  what 
a  bason  of  water  can  repair. " 

"  No  harm  !"  cried  Newman,  passing  his  hands  hastily 
over  the  back  and  arms  of  Nicholas,  as  if  to  assure  him- 
self that  he  had  broken  no  bones.  "What  have  you 
been  doing  ?" 

"  I  know  all,"  interrupted  Nicholas  ;  "  I  have  heard  a 
part  and  guessed  the  rest.  But  before  I  remove  oue 
jot  of  these  stains,  I  must  hear  the  whole  from  you.  You 
see  I  am  collected.  My  resolution  is  taken.  Now,  my  good 
friend,  speak  out ;  for  the  time  for  any  palliation  or  con- 
cealment is  past,  and  nothing  will  avail  Ralph  Nickleby 
now." 

"  Your  dress  is  torn  in  several  places  ;  you  walk  lame, 
and  I  am  sure  are  suffering  pain,"  said  Newman.  "  Let 
me  see  to  your  hurts  first." 

"  I  have  no  hurts  to  see  to,  beyond  a  little  soreness 
and  stiffness  that  will  soon  pass  off,"  said  Nicholas,  seat- 
ing himself  with  some  difficulty.  "But  if  I  had  frac- 
tured every  limb,  and  still  preserved  my  senses,  you 
should  not  bandage  one  till  you  had  told  me  what  I  have 
the  right  to  know.  Come, "  said  Nicholas,  giving  his  hand 
to  Noggs,  "  You  had  a  sister  of  your  own,  you  told  me 
once,  who  died  before  you  fell  into  misfortune.  Now 
think  of  her,  and  tell  me,  Newman." 

"  Yes,  I  will,  1  will,"  said  Noggs.  "  I'll  tell  you  the 
whole  truth." 

Newman  did  so.  Nicholas  nodded  his  head  from  time 
to  time,  as  it  corroborated  the  particulars  he  had  already 


118 


CHARLES  DI0KEN8'  WORKS. 


gleaned  ;  but  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  fire,  and  did 
not  look  round  once. 

His  recital  ended,  Newman  insisted  upon  his  young 
friend's  stripping  off  his  coat,  and  allowing  whatever  in- 
juries he  had  received  to  be  properly  tended.  Nicholas, 
after  some  opposition,  at  length  consented,  and,  while 
some  pretty  severe  bruises  on  his  arms  and  shoulders 
were  being  rubbed  with  oil  and  vinegar,  and  various  other 
efficacious  remedies  which  Newman  borrowed  from  the 
different  lodgers,  related  in  what  manner  they  had  been 
received.  The  recital  made  a  strong  impression  on  the 
warm  imagination  of  Newman  ;  for  when  Nicholas  came 
to  the  violent  part  of  the  quarrel,  he  rubbed  so  hard  as 
to  occasion  him  the  most  exquisite  pain,  which  he  would 
not  have  exhibited,  however,  for  the  world,  it  being  per- 
fectly clear  that,  for  the  moment,  Newman  was  operat- 
ing on  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  and  had  quite  lost  sight  of 
his  real  patient. 

This  martyrdom  over,  Nicholas  arranged  with  Newman 
that  while  he  was  otherwise  occupied  next  morning,  ar- 
rangements should  be  made  for  his  mother's  immedi- 
ately quitting  her  present  residence,  and  also  for  dis- 
patching Miss  La  Creevy  to  break  the  intelligence  to 
her.  He  then  wrapped  himself  in  Smike's  great-coat, 
and  repaired  to  the  inn  where  they  were  to  pass  the 
night,  and  where  (after  writing  a  few  lines  to  Ralph,  the 
delivery  of  which  was  to  be  intrusted  to  Newman  next 
day),  he  endeavoured  to  obtain  the  repose  of  which  he 
stood  so  much  in  need. 

Drunken  men,  they  say,  may  roll  down  precipices,  and 
be  quite  unconscious  of  any  serious  personal  inconven- 
ience when  their  reason  returns.  The  remark  may  possi- 
bly apply  to  injuries  received  in  other  kinds  of  violent 
excitement  :  certain  it  is,  that  although  Nicholas  ex- 
perienced some  pain  on  first  awakening  next  morning, 
he  sprung  out  of  bed  as  the  clock  struck  seven,  with 
very  little  diflftculty,  and  was  soon  as  much  on  the  alert 
as  if  nothing  had  occurred. 

Merely  looking  into  Smike's  room,  and  telling  him  that 
Newman  Noggs  would  call  for  him  very  shortly,  Nicho- 
las descended  into  the  street,  and  calling  a  hackney- 
coach,  bade  the  man  drive  to  Mrs.  Wititterly's,  accord- 
ing to  the  direction  which  Newman  had  given  him  on  the 
previous  night. 

It  wanted  a  quarter  to  eight  when  they  reached  Cadogan 
Place.  Nicholas  began  to  fear  that  no  once  might  be 
stirring  at  that  early  hour,  when  he  was  relieved  by  the 
.sight  of  a  female  servant,  employed  in  cleaning  the  door- 
steps. By  this  functionary  he  was  referred  to  the  doubt- 
ful page,  who  appeared  with  dishevelled  hair  and  a  very 
warm  and  glossy  face,  as  of  a  page  who  had  just  got  out 
of  bed. 

By  this  young  gentleman  he  was  inforaied  that  Miss 
Nickleby  was  then  taking  her  morning's  walk  in  the  gar- 
dens before  the  house.  On  the  question  being  propounded 
whether  he  could  go  and  find  her,  the  page  desponded 
and  thought  not ;  but  being  stimulated  with  a  shilling, 
the  page  grew  sanguine  and  thought  he  could. 

Say  to  Miss  Nickleby  that  her  brother  is  here,  and 
in  great  haste  to  see  her,"  said  Nicholas. 

The  plated  buttons  disappeared  with  an  alacrity  most 
unusual  to  them,  and  Nicholas  paced  the  room  in  a  state 
of  feverish  agitation  which  made  the  delay  even  of  a  min- 
ute insupportable.  He  soon  heard  a  light  footstep  which 
he  well  knew,  and  before  he  could  advance  to  meet  her, 
Kate  had  fallen  on  his  neck  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  darling  girl,"  said  Nicholas  as  he  embraced  her. 
"  How  pale  you  are  ! " 

"  I  have  been  so  unhappy  here,  dear  brother,"  sobbed 
poor  Kate  ;  "so  very,  very  miserable.  Do  not  leave  me 
here,  dear  Nicholas,  or  I  shall  die  of  a  broken  heart." 

"  I  will  leave  you  nowhere,"  answered  Nicholas — 
"never  again,  Kate,"  he  cried,  moved  in  spite  of  him- 
self as  he  folded  her  to  his  heart.  "  Tell  me  that  I  acted 
for  the  be.st.  Tell  me  that  we  parted  because  I  feared 
to  bring  misfortune  on  your  head  ;  that  it  was  a  trial 
to  me  no  less  than  to  yourself,  and  that  if  I  did  wrong  it 
was  in  ignorance  of  the  world  and  unknowingly." 

"  Why  should  I  tell  you  what  we  know  so  well?  "  re- 
turned Kate  soothingly.  "  Nicholas — dear  Nicholas — 
how  can  you  give  way  thus?" 

"  It  is  such  bitter  reproach  to  me  to  know  what  you 


have  undergone,"  returned  her  brother  ;  "to  see  you  so 
much  altered,  and  yet  so  kind  and  patient — God  ! "  cried 
Nicholas,  clenching  his  fist  and  suddenly  changing  his 
tone  and  manner,  "  it  sets  my  whole  blood  on  fire  again. 
You  must  leave  here  with  me  directly  ;  you  should  not 
have  slept  here  last  night,  but  that  I  knew  all  this  too 
late.    To  whom  can  I  speak,  before  we  drive  away  ?  " 

This  question  was  most  opportunely  put,  for  at  that 
instant  Mr.  Wititterly  walked  in,  and  to  him  Kate  intro- 
duced her  brother,  who  at  once  announced  his  purpose, 
and  the  impossibility  of  deferring  it. 

"The  quarter's  notice,"  said  Mr.  Wititterly,  with  the 
gravity  of  a  man  on  the  right  side,  "  is  not  yet  half  ex- 
pired.   Therefore — " 

"  Therefore,"  interposed  Nicholas,  "the  quarter's  sal- 
ary must  be  lost,  sir.  You  will  excuse  this  extreme 
haste,  but  circumstances  require  that  I  should  immedi- 
ately remove  my  sister,  and  I  have  not  a  moment's  time 
to  lose.  Whatever  she  brought  here  I  will  send  for,  if  you 
will  allow  me,  in  the  course  of  the  day." 

Mr.  Wititterly  bowed,  but  offered  no  opposition  to 
Kate's  immediate  departure;  with  which,  indeed,  he  was 
rather  gratified  than  otherwise.  Sir  Tumley  Snuffim  hav- 
ing given  it  as  his  opinion,  that  she  rather  disagreed 
with  Mrs.  Wititterly's  constitution. 

"With  regard  to  the  trifle  of  salary  that  is  due,"  said 
Mr.  Wititterly,  "I  will — "  here  he  was  interrupted  by 
a  violent  fit  of  coughing — "I  will — owe  it  to  Miss  Nickle- 
I  by." 

i  Mr.  Wititterly,  it  should  be  observed,  was  accustomed 
I  to  owe  small  accounts,  and  to  leave  them  owing.  All 
I  men  have  some  little  pleasant  way  of  their  own  ;  and  this 
]  was  Mr.  Wititterly's. 

j  "  If  you  please,"  said  Nicholas.  And  once  more  offer- 
I  ing  a  hurried  apology  for  so  sudden  a  departure,  he  hur- 
I  ried  Kate  into  the  vehicle,  and  bade  the  man  drive  with 
I  all  speed  into  the  City. 

I  To  the  City  they  went  accordingly,  with  all  the  speed 
the  hackney-coach  could  make  ;  and  as  the  horses  hap- 
I  pened  to  live  at  Whitechapel  and  to  be  in  the  habit  of 
{  taking  their  breakfast  there,  when  they  breakfasted  at 
j  all,  they  performed  the  journey  with  greater  expedition 
than  could  reasonably  have  been  expected. 

Nicholas  sent  Kate  up-stairs  a  few  minutes  before  him, 
that  his  unlocked  for  appearance  might  not  alarm  his 
mother,  and  when  the  way  had  been  paved,  presented 
himself  with  much  duty  and  affection.  Newman  had  not 
been  idle,  for  there  was  a  little  cart  at  the  door,  and  the 
!  effects  were  hurrying  out  already. 

j  Now,  Mrs.  Nickleby  was  not  the  sort  of  person  to  be  told 
j  anything  in  a  hurry,  or  rather  to  comprehend  anything  of 
peculiar  delicacy  or  importance  on  a  short  notice.  Where- 
fore, although  the  good  lady  had  been  subjected  to  a  full 
hour's  preparation  by  little  Miss  La  Creevy,  and  was  now 
addressed  in  most  lucid  terms  both  by  Nicholas  and  his 
sister,  she  was  in  a  state  of  singular  bewilderment  and 
confusion,  and  could  by  no  means  be  made  to  compre- 
hend the  necessity  of  such  hurried  proceedings. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  your  uncle,  my  dear  Nicholas, 
what  he  can  possibly  mean  by  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  returned  Nicholas,  "the  time  for 
talking»has  gone  by.  There  is  but  one  step  to  take,  and 
that  is  to  cast  him  off  with  the  scorn  and  indignation  he 
deserves.  Your  own  honour  and  good  name  demand 
that,  after  the  discovery  of  his  vile  proceedings,  you 
should  not  be  beholden  to  him  one  hour,  even  for  the 
shelter  of  these  bare  walls. " 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  crying  bitterly, 
"he  is  a  brute,  a  monster  ;  and  the  walls  are  very  bare, 
and  want  painting  too,  and  I  have  had  this  ceiling  white- 
washed at  the  expense  of  eighteen-"pence,  which  is  a 
very  distressing  thing,  considering  that  it  is  so  much 
gone  into  your  uncle's  pocket.  I  never  could  have  be- 
lieved it — never." 

"  Nor  I,  nor  anybody  else,"  said  Nicholas. 

"Lord  bless  my  life!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Nickleby. 
"To  think  that  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  should  be  such  an 
abandoned  wretch  as  Miss  La  Creevy  says  he  is,  Nicho- 
las, my  dear ;  when  I  was  congratulating  myself  every 
day  on  his  being  an  admirer  of  our  dear  Kate's,  and 
thinking  what  a  thing  it  would  be  foi  the  family  if  he 
was  to  become  connected  with  us,  and  use  his  interest  to 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


119 


g-et  you  some  profitable  government  place.  There  are 
very  good  places  to  be  got  about  the  court,  I  know  ;  for 
a  friend  of  ours  (Miss  Cropley,  at  Exeter,  my  dear  Kate, 
you  recollect),  he  had  one,  and  I  know  that  it  was  the 
chief  part  of  his  duty  to  wear  silk  stockings,  and  a  bag 
wig  like  a  black  watch-pocket  ;  and  to  think  that  it 
should  come  to  this  after  all — oh,  dear,  dear,  it's  enough 
to  kill  one,  that  it  is  I"  With  which  expressions  of  sor- 
row, Mrs.  Nickleby  gave  fresh  vent  to  her  grief,  and 
wept  piteously. 

As  Nicholas  and  his  sister  were  by  this  time  com- 
pelled to  superintend  the  removal  of  the  few  articles  of 
furniture.  Miss  La  Creevy  devoted  herself  to  the  conso- 
lation of  the  matron,  and  observed  with  great  kindness 
of  manner  that  she  must  really  make  an  effort,  and 
cheer  up. 

"  Oh  I  dare  say,  Miss  La  Creevy,"  returned  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby, with  a  petulance  not  unnatural  in  her  unhappy 
circumstances,  "it's  very  easy  to  say  cheer  up,  but  if 
you  had  as  many  occasions  to  cheer  up  as  I  have  had — 
and  there,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  stopping  short,  "  Think 
of  Mr.  Pyke  and  Mr.  Pluck,  two  of  the  most  perfect  gen- 
tlemen that  ever  lived,  what  am  I  to  say  to  them — what 
can  I  say  to  them  ?  Why,  if  I  was  to  say  to  them,  '  I  am 
told  your  friend  Sir  Mulberry  is  a  base  wretch,'  they'd 
laugh  at  me." 

"  They  will  laugh  no  more  at  us,  I  take  it,"  said  Nich- 
olas, advancing.  "  Come  mother,  there  is  a  coach  at  the 
door,  and  until  Monday,  at  all  events,  we  will  return  to 
our  old  quarters." 

— "  Where  everything  is  ready,  and  a  hearty  welcome 
into  the  bargain,"  added  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  Now,  let 
me  go  with  jow.  down-stairs." 

But  Mrs.  Nickleby  was  not  to  be  so  easily  moved,  for 
first  she  insisted  on  going  up-stairs  to  see  that  nothing 
had  been  left,  and  then  on  going  down  stairs  to  see  that 
everything  had  been  taken  away  ;  and  when  she  was 
getting  into  the  coach  she  had  a  vision  of  a  forgotten 
coffee-pot  on  the  back-kitchen  hob,  and  after  she  was 
shut  in,  a  dismal  recollection  of  a  green  umbrella  behind 
some  unknown  door.  At  last  Nicholas,  in  a  condition  of 
absolute  despair,  ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  away, 
and  in  the  unexpected  jerk  of  a  sudden  starting,  Mrs. 
Nickleby  lost  a  shilling  among  the  straw,  which  fortu- 
nately confined  her  attention  to  the  coach  until  it  was 
loo  late  to  remember  anything  else. 

Haviijg  seen  everything  safely  out,  discharged  the  ser- 
vant, and  locked  the  door,  Nicholas  jumped  into  a  cab- 
riolet and  drove  to  a  bye-place  necir  Golden  Square  where 
he  had  appointed  to  meet  Noggs  ;  and  so  quickly  had 
everything  been  done,  that  it  was  barely  half  past  nine 
when  he  reached  the  place  of  meeting. 

"  Here  is  the  letter  for  Ralph,"  said  Nicholas,  "and 
here  the  key.  When  you  come  to  me  this  evening,  not 
a  word  of  last  night.  Ill  news  travels  fast,  and  they'll 
know  it  soon  enough.  Have  you  heard  if  he  was  much 
hurt?" 

Newman  shook  his  head. 

"I  will  ascertain  that  myself  without  loss  of  time," 
said  Nicholas. 

"  You  had  better  take  some  rest,"  returned  Newman. 
"  You  are  fevered  and  ill." 

Nicholas  waved  his  hand  carelessly,  and  concealing 
the  indisposition  he  really  felt,  now  that  the  excitement 
which  had  sustained  him  was  over,  took  a  hurried  fare- 
well of  Newman  Noggs,  and  left  him.  | 

Newman  was  not  three  minutes'  walk  from  Golden  | 
Square,  but  in  the  course  of  that  three  minutes  he  took  \ 
the  letter  out  of  his  hat  and  put  it  in  again  twenty  times  , 
at  least.  First  the  front,  then  the  back,  then  the  sides,  i 
then  the  superscription,  then  the  seal,  were  objects  of  i 
Newman's  admiration.  Then  he  held  it  at  arm's  length 
as  if  to  take  in  the  whole  at  one  delicious  survey,  and  j 
then  he  rubbed  his  hands  in  a  perfect  ecstasy  with  his  , 
commission.  i 

He  reached  the  office,  hung  his  hat  on  its  accustomed  j 
peg,  laid  the  letter  and  key  upon  the  desk,  and  waited  i 
impatiently  until  Ralph  Nickleby  should  appear.  After 
a  few  minutes  the  well-known  creaking  of  his  boots  was  , 
heard  on  the  stairs,  and  then  the  bell  rung. 

"  Has  the  post  come  in  ?  " 

"No." 


"  Any  other  letters?" 

"  One."  Newman  eyed  him  closely,  and  laid  it  on  tho 
desk. 

"  What's  this?"  asked  Ralph,  taking  up  the  key. 

"  Left  with  tho  letter;  a  boy  brought  them — quarter 
of  an  hour  ago,  or  less." 

Ralph  glanced  at  the  direction,  opened  the  letter,  and 
read  as  follows  : — 

"  VOu  are  known  to  me  now.  There  are  no  reproachefl 
I  could  heap  upon  your  head  which  would  carry  with 
them  one  thousandth  ])art  of  the  grovelling  shame  that 
this  assurance  will  awaken  even  in  your  breast. 

"  Your  brother's  widow  and  her  orphan  child  spurn 
the  shelter  of  your  roof,  and  shun  you  with  disgust  and 
loathing.  Your  kindred  renounce  you,  for  they  know 
no  shame  but  the  ties  of  blood  which  bind  them  in  name 
with  you. 

"You  are  an  old  man,  and  I  leave  you  to  the  grave. 
May  every  recollection  of  your  life  cling  to  your  false 
heart,  and  cast  their  darkness  on  your  death-bed." 

Ralph  Nickleby  read  this  letter  twice,  and  frowning 
heavily,  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing  ;  the  paper  fluttered 
from  his  hand  and  dropped  upon  the  floor,  but  he  cla.sped 
his  fingers,  as  if  he  held  it  still. 

Suddenly,  he  started  from  his  seat,  and  thrusting  it 
all  crumpled  into  his  pocket,  turned  furiously  to  New- 
man Noggs,  as  though  to  ask  him  why  he  lingered.  But 
Newman  stood  unmoved,  with  his  back  towards  him, 
following  up,  with  the  worn  and  blackened  stump  of  an 
old  pen,  some  figures  in  an  Interest-table  which  was 
pasted  against  the  wall,  and  apparently  quite  abstracted 
from  every  other  object. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Whe)'ein  Mr.  Ralph  NicUeby  U  visited  by  Persons  with  whom  the 
Reader  has  been  already  made  acquainted. 

"What  a  demnition  long  time  you  have  kept  me  ring- 
ing at  this  confounded  old  cracked  tea-kettle  of  a  bell, 
every  tinkle  of  which  is  enough  to  throw  a  strong  man 
into  blue  convulsions,  upon  my  life  and  soul,  oh  demmit," 
— said  Mr.  Mantalini  to  Newman  Noggs,  scraping  his 
boots,  as  he  spoke,  on  Ralph  Nickleby's  scraper. 

"  I  didn't  hear  the  bell  more  than  once,"  replied  New- 
man. 

"Then  you  are  most  immensely  and  outrigeously 
deaf,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  "  as  deaf  as  a  demnition  post." 

Mr.  Mantalini  had  got  by  this  time  into  the  passage, 
and  was  making  his  way  to  the  door  of  Ralph's  office 
with  very  little  ceremony,  when  Newman  interposed  his 
body  ;  and  hinting  that  Mr.  Nickleby  was  unwilling  to 
be  disturbed,  inquired  whether  the  client's  business  was 
of  a  pressing  nature. 

"  It  is  most  demnebly  particular,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini. 
"  It  is  to  melt  some  scraps  of  dirty  paper  into  bright, 
shining,  chinking,  tinkling,  demd  mint  sauce." 

Newman  uttered  a  significant  grunt,  and  taking  Mr. 
Mantalini's  proffered  card,  limped  with  it  into  his  mas- 
ter's office.  As  he  thrust  his  head  in  at  the  door,  he  saw 
that  Ralph  had  resumed  the  thoughtful  posture  into 
which  he  had  fallen  after  perusing  his  nephew's  letter, 
and  til  at  he  seemed  to  have  been  reading  it  again,  as  he 
once  more  held  it  open  in  his  hand.  The  glance  was 
but  momentary,  for  Ralph,  being  disturbed,  turned  to 
demand  the  cause  of  the  interruption. 

As  Newman  stated  it,  the  cause  himself  swaggered 
into  the  room,  and  grasping  Ralph's  horny  hand  with 
uncommon  affection,  vowed  that  he  had  never  seen  him 
looking  so  well  in  all  his  life. 

"  There  is  quite  a  bloom  upon  your  demd  counte- 
nance." said  Mr.  Mantalini,  seating  himself  unbidden, 
and  arranging  his  hair  and  whiskers.  "  You  look  quite 
juvenile  and  jolly,  demmit  !  " 

"  We  are  alone,"  returned  Ralph  tartly.  "  What  do 
you  want  with  me?" 

"Good  !"  cried  Mr.  Mantalini,  displaying  his  teeth. 
"  What  did  I  want !  Yes.  Ha,  ha  !  Very  good.  What 
did  I  want.    Ha,  ha.    Oh  dem  ! " 

"  Whatd(?  you  want,  man  ?  "  demanded  Ralph,  steAily. 


120 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Demnition  discount,"  returned  Mr.  Mantalini,  with 
a  grin,  and  shaking  his  head  waggishly. 
"  Money  is  scarce,"  said  Ralph. 

"Demd  scarce,  or  I  shouldn't  want  it,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Mantalini. 

"The  times  are  bad,  and  one  scarcely  knows  whom  to 
trust,"  continued  Ralph.  "I  don't  want  to  do  business 
just  now,  in  fact,  I  would  rather  not  ;  but  as  you  are  a 
friend — how  many  bills  have  you  there  ?  " 

"  Two,"  returned  Mr.  Mantalini. 

"  What  is  the  gross  amount  ?  " 

"Demd  trifling — five-and  seventy." 

"And  the  dates?" 

"  Two  months  and  four." 

"  I'll  do  them  for  you — mind,  for  you  ;  I  wouldn't  for 
many  people — for  five-and-twenty  pounds,"  said  Ralph, 
deliberately. 

"  Oh  demmit  ! "  cried  Mr.  Mantalini,  whose  face 
•  lengthened  considerably  at  this  handsome  proposal. 

"  Why,  that  leaves  you  fifty,"  retorted  Ralph.  "  What 
would  you  have  ?   Let  me  see  the  names." 

"  You  are  so  demd  hard,  Nickleby,"  remonstrated  Mr. 
Mantalini. 

"Let  me  see  the  names,"  replied  Ralph,  impatiently 
extending  his  hand  for  the  bills.  "Well!  They  are 
not  sure,  but  they  are  safe  enough.  Do  you  consent  to 
the  terms,  and  will  you  take  the  money?  I  don't  want 
you  to  do  so.    I  would  rattier  you  didn't." 

"  Demmit,  Nickleby,  can't  you — "  began  Mr.  Mantal- 
ini. 

"No,"  replied  Ralph,  interrupting  him.  "I  can't. 
Will  you  take  the  money — down,  mind  ;  no  delay,  no 
going  into  the  city  and  pretending  to  negotiate  with  some 
other  party  who  has  no  existence  and  never  had.  Is  it  a 
bargain  or  is  it  not  ?  " 

Ralph  pushed  some  papers  from  him  as  he  spoke,  and 
carelessly  rattled  his  cash-box,  as  though  by  mere  acci- 
*  dent.  The  sound  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Mantalini.  He 
closed  the  bargain  directly  it  reached  his  ears,  and 
Ralph  told  the  money  out  upon  the  table. 

He  had  scarcely  done  so,  and  Mr.  Mantalini  had  not 
yet  gathered  it  all  up,  when  a  ring  was  heard  at  the 
bell,  and  immediately  afterwards  Newman  ushered  in 
no  less  a  person  than  Madame  Mantalini,  at  sight  of 
whom  Mr.  Mantalini  evinced  considerable  discomposure, 
and  swept  the  cash  into  his  pocket  with  remarkable 
alacrity. 

"Oh,  you  «re  here,"  said  Madame  Mantalini,  tossing 
her  head. 

"  Yes,  my  life  and  soul,  I  am,"  replied  her  husband, 
dropping  on  his  knees,  and  pouncing  with  kitten-like 
playfulness  upon  a  stray  sovereign.  "I  am  here,  my 
soul's  delight,  upon  Tom  Tiddler's  ground,  picking  up 
the  demnition  gold  and  silver." 

"I  am  ashamed  of  you,"  said  Madame  Mantalini,  with 
much  indignation. 

"Ashamed — of  me,  my  joy?  It  knows  it  is  talking 
demd  charming  sweetness,  but  naughty  fibs,"  returned 
Mr.  Mantalini.  "  It  knows  it  is  not  ashamed  of  its  own 
popolorum  tibby." 

Whatever  were  the  circumstances  which  had  led  to 
such  a  result,  it  certainly  appeared  as  though  the  popo- 
lorum tibby  had  rather  miscalculated,  for  the  nonce,  the 
extent  of  his  lady's  affection.  Madame  Mantalini  only 
looked  scornful  in  reply  ;  and,  turning  to  Ralph,  begged 
him  to  excuse  her  intrusion. 

"Which  is  entirely  attributable,"  said  Madame,  "to 
the  gross  misconduct  and  most  improper  behaviour  of 
Mr.  Mantalini." 

"  Of  me,  ray  essential  juice  of  pine-apple  !" 

"  Of  you,"  returned  his  wife.  "  But  I  will  not  allow 
it.  I  will  not  submit  to  be  ruined  by  the  extravagance 
and  profligacy  of  any  man.  I  call  Mr.  Nickleby  to  wit- 
ness the  course  I  intend  to  pursue  with  you." 

"Pray  don't  call  me  to  witness  anything,  ma'am," 
said  Ralph,  "  Settle  it  between  yourselves,  settle  it 
between  yourselves." 

"  No,  but  I  must  beg  you  as  a  favour,"  said  Madame 
Mantalini,  "  to  hear  me  give  him  notice  of  what  it  is  my 
fixed  intention  to  do — my  fixed  intention,  sir,"  repeated 
Machime  Mantalini,  darting  an  angry  look  at  lier  hus- 
banl. 


"Will  she  call  me,  'Sir'!"  cried  Mantalini.  "Me 
who  doat  upon  her  with  the  demdest  ardour  !  She  who 
coils  her  fascinations  round  me  like  a  pure  and  angelic 
rattlesnake  !  It  will  be  all  up  with  my  feelings  ;  she 
will  throw  me  into  a  demd  state." 

"  Don't  talk  of  feelings,  sir,"  rejoined  Madame  Man- 
talini, seating  herself,  and  turning  her  back  upon  him. 
"You  don't  consider  mine." 

"  I  do  not  consider  yours,  my  soul  !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Mantalini, 

"  No,"  replied  his  wife. 

And  notwithstanding  various  blandishments  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Mantalini,  Madame  Mantalini  still  said  no,  and 
said  it  too  with  such  determined  and  resolute  ill  temper, 
that  Mr.  Mantalini  was  clearly  taken  aback. 

"  His  extravagance,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  Madame  Man- 
talini, addressing  herself  to  Ralph,  who  leant  against 
his  easy-chair  with  his  hands  behind  him,  and  regarded 
the  amiable  couple  with  a  smile  of  the  supremest  and 
most  unmitigated  contempt, — "  His  extravagance  is  be- 
yond all  bounds." 

"  I  should  scarcely  have  supposed  it,"  answered  Ralph, 
sarcastically. 

"I  assure  you,  Mr.  Nickleby,  however,  that  it  is,"  re- 
turned Madame  Mantalini.  "It  makes  me  miserable; 
I  am  under  constant  apprehensions,  and  in  constant  diffi- 
culty. And  even  this,"  said  Madame  Mantalini,  wiping 
her  eyes,  "  is  not  the  worst.  He  took  some  papers  of 
value  out  of  my  desk  this  morning  without  asking  my 
permission." 

Mr.  Mantalini  groaned  slightly  and  buttoned  his  trow- 
sers  pocket. 

"I  am  obliged,"  continued  Madame  Mantalini,  "  since 
our  late  misfortunes,  to  pay  Miss  Knag  a  great  deal  of 
money  for  having  her  name  in  the  business,  and  I  really 
cannot  afford  to  encourage  him  in  all  his  wastefulness. 
As  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  came  straight  here,  Mr. 
Nickleby,  to  convert  the  papers  I  have  spoken  of  into 
money,  and  as  you  have  assisted  us  very  often  before, 
and  are  very  much  connected  with  us  in  this  kind  of 
matters,  I  wish  you  to  know  the  determination  at  which 
his  conduct  has  compelled  me  to  arrive." 

Mr.  Mantalini  groaned  once  more  from  behind  his 
wife's  bonnet,  and  fitting  a  sovereign  into  one  of  his  eyes, 
winked  with  the  other  at  Ralph,  Having  achieved  this 
performance  with  great  dexterity,  he  whipped  the  coin 
into  his  pocket,  and  groaned  again  with  increased  peni-  v 
tence. 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  said  Madame  Mantal- 
ini,  as  tokens  of  impatience  manifested  themselves  in  \^ 
Ralph's  countenance,  "  to  allowance  him."  v 

"  To  do  what,  my  joy?"  inquired  Mr.  Mantalini,  who  \ 
did  not  seem  to  have  caught  the  words. 

"  To  put  him,"  said  Madame  Mantalini,  looking  at 
Ralph,  and  prudently  abstaining  from  the  slightest  , 
glance  at  her  husband,  lest  his  many  graces  should  in- 
duce her  to  falter  in  her  resolution,  "  to  put  him  upon  a 
fixed  allowance  ;  and  I  say  that  if  he  has  a  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  a-year  for  his  clothes  and  pocket-money, 
he  may  consider  himself  a  very  fortunate  man." 

Mr.  Mantalini  waited,  with  much  decorum,  to  hear 
the  amount  of  the  proposed  stipend,  but  when  it  reached 
his  ears,  he  cast  his  hat  and  cane  upon  the  floor,  and 
drawing  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  gave  vent  to  his 
feelings  in  a  dismal  moan, 

"Demnition!"  cried  Mr.  Mantalini,  suddenly  skip- 
ping out  of  his  chair,  and  as  suddenly  skipping  into  it 
again,  to  the  great  discomposure  of  his  lady's  nerves; 
But  no.  It  is  a  demd  horrid  dream.  It  is  not  reality. 
No  !  " 

Comforting  himself  with  this  assurance,  Mr.  Mantal-  ' 
ini  closed  his  eyes  and  waited  patiently  till  such  time  as  \ 
he  should  wake  up. 

"  A  very  judicious  arrangement,"  observed  Ralph  with 
a  sneer,  "if  your  husband  will  keep  within  it,  ma'am — 
as  no  doubt  he  will."  ^  j 

"Demmit!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mantalini,  opening  his 
eyes  at  the  sound  of  Ralph's  voice,  "  it  is  a  horrid  reality. 
She  is  sitting  there  before  me.  There  is  the  graceful 
outline  of  her  form  ;  it  cannot  be  mistaken — there  is 
nothing  like  it.  The  two  countesses  had  no  outlines  at 
all,  and  the  dowager's  was  a  demd  outline.    Why  is 


NICHOLAS 

she  so  excruciatingrly  beautiful  that  I  cannot  be  angry 
with  her,  even  novs^  ?  " 

"  You  have  brought  it  upon  yourself,  Alfred,"  returned 
Madame  Mantalini — still  reproachfully,  but  in  a  softened 
tone. 

**  I  am  a  demd  villain  1"  cried  Mr.  Mantalini,  smiting 
himself  on  the  head.  ''I  will  fill  my  pockets  with 
change  for  a  sovereign  and  halfpence  and  drown  myself 
in  the  Thames  ;  but  I  will  not  be  angry  with  her,  even 
then,  for  I  will  put  a  note  in  the  twopenny-post  as  I  go 
along,  to  tell  her  where  the  body  is.  She  will  be  a  lovely 
widow.  I  shall  be  a  body.  Some  handsome  women  will 
cry  ;  she  will  laugh  demnebly." 

"Alfred,  you  cruel,  cruel,  creature,"  said  Madame 
Mantalini,  sobbing  at  the  dreadful  picture. 

"  She  calls  me  cruel — me— me — who  for  her  sake  will 
become  a  demd,  damp,  moist,  unpleasant  body  ! "  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Mantalini. 

"You  know  it  almost  breaks  my  heart,  even  to  hear 
you  talk  of  such  a  thing,"  replied  Madame  Mantalini. 

"Can  I  live  to  be  mistrusted?"  cried  her  husband. 
"  Have  I  cut  my  heart  into  a  demd  extraordinary  num- 
ber of  little  pieces,  and  given  them  all  away,  one  after 
another,  to  the  same  little  engrossing  demnition  captiva- 
ter,  and  can  I  live  to  be  suspected  by  her  1  Demmit,  no 
I  can't." 

"Ask  Mr.  Nickleby  whether  the  sum  I  have  mentioned 
is  not  a  proper  one,"  reasoned  Madame  Mantalini. 

"  I  don't  want  any  sum,"  replied  her  disconsolate  hus- 
band ;  "I  shall  require  no  demd  allowance.  I  will  be  a 
body." 

On  this  repetition  of  Mr.  Mantalini's  fatal  threat,  Mad- 
ame Mantalini  wrung  her  hands,  and  implored  the  inter- 
ference of  Ralph  Nickleby  ;  and  after  a  great  quantity  of 
tears  and  talking,  and  several  attempts  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Mantalini  to  reach  the  door,  preparatory  to  straight- 
way committing  violence  upon  himself,  that  gentleman 
was  prevailed  upon,  with  difficulty,  to  promise  that  he 
wouldn't  be  a  body.  This  great  point  attained,  Madame 
Mantalini  argued  the  question  of  the  allowance,  and  Mr. 
Mantalini  did  the  same,  taking  occasion  to  show  that  he 
could  live  with  uncommon  satisfaction  upon  bread  and 
water,  and  go  clad  in  rags,  but  that  he  could  not  support 
existence  with  the  additional  burden  of  being  mistrusted 
by  the  object  of  his  most  devoted  and  disinterested  af- 
fection. This  brought  fresh  tears  into  Madame  Mantal- 
ini's eyes,  which  having  just  begun  to  open  to  some  few 
of  the  demerits  of  Mr.  Mantalini,  were  only  open  a  very 
little  way,  and  could  be  easily  closed  again.  The  result 
was,  that  without  quite  giving  up  the  allowance  question, 
Madame  Mantalini  postponed  its  further  consideration  ; 
and  Ralph  saw,  clearly  enough,  that  Mr.  Mantalini  had 
gained  a  fresh  lease  of  his  easy  life,  and  that,  for  some 
time  longer  at  all  events,  his  degradation  and  downfall 
were  postponed. 

"  But  it  will  come  soon  enough,"  thought  Ralph  ;  "  all 
love — bah  !  that  I  should  use  the  cant  of  boys  and  girls 
— is  fleeting  enough  ;  though  that  which  has  its  sole  root 
in  the  admiration  of  a  whiskered  face  like  that  of  yonder 
baboon,  perhaps  lasts  the  longest,  as  it  originates  in  the 
greater  blindness  and  is  fed  by  vanity.  Meantime  the 
fools  bring  grist  to  my  mill,  so  let  them  live  out  their  day, 
and  the  longer  it  is,  the  better." 

These  agreeable  reflections  occurred  to  Ralph  Nickle- 
by, as  sundry  small  caresses  and  endearments,  supposed 
to  be  unseen,  were  exchanged  between  the  objects  of  his 
thoughts. 

"If  you  have  nothing  more  to  say,  my  dear,  to  Mr. 
Nickleby,"  said  Madame  Mantalini,  "we  will  take  our 
leaves.  I  am  sure  we  have  detained  him,  much  too  long 
already." 

Mr.  Mantalini  answered,  in  the  first  instance,  by  tap- 
ping Madame  Mantalini  several  times  on  the  nose,  and 
then,  by  remarking  in  words  that  he  had  nothing  more 
to  say. 

"  Demmit  !  I  have,  though,"  he  added  almost  immedi- 
ately, drawing  Ralph  into  a  corner.  "Here's  an  affair 
about  your  friend  Sir  Mulberry.  Such  a  demd  extraor- 
dinary out-of-the-way  kind  of  thing  as  never  was — eh?" 

"  "What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Ralph. 

"Don't  you  know,  demmit?"  asked  Mr.  Mantalini. 

"  I  see  by  the  paper  that  he  was  thrown  from  his  cab- 


NICKLEBY.  121 

riolet  last  night  and  severely  injured,  and  that  his  life  is 
in  some  danger,"  answered  Ralph  with  great  composure  ; 
"  but  I  see  nothing  extraordinary  in  that — accidents  are 
not  miraculous  events,  when  men  live  hard,  and  drive 
after  dinner." 

"  Whew  {"cried  Mr.  Mantalini  in  a  long  shrill  whistle. 
"Then  don't  you  know  how  it  was?" 

"  Not  unless  it  was  as  I  have  just  supposed,"  replied 
Ralph,  shrugging  his  shoulders  carelessly,  as  if  to  give 
his  questioner  to  understand  that  he  had  no  curiosity 
upon  the  subject. 

"  Demmit,  you  amaze  me,  ""cried  Mantalini. 

Ralph  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  as  if  it  were  no 
great  feat  to  amaze  Mr.  Mantalini,  and  cast  a  wistful 
glance  at  the  face  of  Newman  Noggs,  which  had  several 
times  appeared  behind  a  couple  of  panes  of  glass  in  the 
room  door  ;  it  being  a  part  of  Newman's  duty,  when  un- 
important people  called,  to  make  various  feints  of  sup- 
posing that  the  bell  had  rung  for  him  to  show  them  out : 
by  way  of  a  gentle  hint  to  such  visitors  that  it  was  time 
to  go. 

"Don't  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  taking  Ralph 
by  the  button,  "that  it  wasn't  an  accident  at  all,  but  a 
demd,  furious,  manslaughtering  attack  made  upon  him  by 
your  nephew  ?" 

"  What !  "  snarled  Ralph,  clenching  his  fists  and  turn- 
ing a  livid  white. 

"  Demmit,  Nickleby,  you're  as  great  a  tiger  as  he  is," 
said  Mantalini,  alarmed  at  these  demonstrations. 

"Go  on,"  cried  Ralph.  "Tell  me  what  you  mean. 
What  is  this  story?  Who  told  you?  Speak,"  growled 
Ralph.    "  Do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"Gad,  Nickleby,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  retreating  to- 
wards his  wife,  "what  a  demneble  fierce  old  evil  genius 
you  are  !  You're  enough  to  frighten  my  life  and  soul 
out  of  her  little  delicious  wits — flying  all  at  once  into 
such  a  blazing,  ravaging,  raging  passion  as  never  wa.s, 
demmit  1 " 

"Pshaw,"  rejoined  Ralph,  forcing  a  smile.  "It  is 
but  manner." 

"It  is  a  demd  uncomfortable,  private-madhouse-sort 
of  a  manner,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  picking  up  his  cane. 

Ralph  affected  to  smile,  and  once  more  inquired  from 
whom  Mr.  Mantalini  had  derived  his  information. 

"  From  Pyke  ;  and  a  demd,  fine,  pleasant,  gentlemanly 
dog  it  is,"  replied  Mantalini.  "  Demnition  pleasant,  and 
a  tip-top  sawyer." 

"And  what  said  he?"  asked  Ralph,  knitting  his 
brows. 

"That  it  happened  this  way — that  your  nephew  met 
him  at  a  coffee-house,  fell  upon  him  with  the  most 
demneble  ferocity,  followed  him  to  his  cab,  swore  he 
would  ride  home  with  him,  if  he  rode  upon  the  horse's 
back  or  hooked  himself  on  to  the  horse's  tail  ;  smashed 
his  countenance,  which  is  a  demd  fine  countenance  in 
its  natural  state  ;  frightened  the  horse,  pitched  out  Sir 
Mulberry  and  himself,  and — " 

"And  was  killed?"  interposed  Ralph  with  gleaming 
eyes.    ''Was  he?    Is  he  dead?" 

Mantalini  shook  his  head. 

"Ugh,"  said  Ralph,  turning  away.  "Then  he  has 
done  nothing — stay,"  he  added,  looking  round  again. 
"  He  broke  a  leg  or  an  arm,  or  put  his  shoulder  out,  or 
fractured  his  collar-bone,  or  ground  a  rib  or  two  ?  His 
neck  was  saved  for  the  halter,  but  he  got  some  painful 
and  slow  healing  injury  for  his  trouble — did  he?  You 
must  have  heard  that,  at  least." 

"  No,"  rejoined  Mantalini,  shaking  his  head  again. 
"Unless  he  was  dashed  into  such  little  pieces  that  they 
blew  away,  he  wasn't  hurt,  for  he  went  oft*  as  quiet  and 
comfortable  as — as — as  demnition,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini, 
rather  at  a  loss  for  a  simile. 

"And  what,"  said  Ralph,  hesitating  a  little,  "what 
was  the  cause  of  quarrel?" 

"  You  are  the  demdest,  knowing  hand,"  replied  Mr. 
Mantalini,  in  an  admiring  tone,  "the  cunningest,  rum- 
mest,  superlativest  old  fox — oh  dem  ! — to  pretend  now 
not  to  know  that  it  was  the  little  bright-eyed  niece — the 
softest,  sweetest,  prettiest—" 

"  Alfred  !  "  interposed  Madame  Mantalini. 

"She  is  always  right,"  rejoined  Mr.  Mantalini  sooth- 
ingly, "and  when  she  says  it  is  time  to  go,  it  is  time, 


122 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


and  go  slie  shall ;  and  when  she  walks  along  the  streets 
with  her  own  tulip,  the  women  shall  say,  with  envy, 
she  has  got  a  demd  fine  husband  ;  and  men  shall  say 
with  rapture,  he  has  got  a  demd  fine  wife  ;  and  they 
shall  both  be  right  and  neither  wrong,  upon  my  life  and 
soul— oh  demmit  !" 

With  which  remarks,  and  many  more,  no  less  intel- 
lectual and  to  the  purpose,  Mr.  Mantalini  kissed  the 
fingers  of  his  gloves  to  Ralph  Nickleby,  and  drawing  his 
lady's  arm  through  his,  led  her  mincingly  aAvay. 

"So,  t>o,"  muttered  Ralph,  dropping  into  his  chair; 
"this  devil  is  loose  again,* and  thwarting  me,  as  he  was 
born  to  do,  at  every  turn.  He  told  me  once  there  should 
be  a  day  of  reckoning  between  us,  sooner  or  later.  I'll 
make  him  a  true  prophet,  for  it  shall  surely  come." 

"Are  you  at  home?"  asked  Newman,  suddenly  pop- 
ping in  his  head. 

"  No,"  replied  Ralph,  with  equal  abruptness. 

Newman  withdrew  his  head,  but  thrust  it  in  again. 

"  You're  quite  sure  you're  not  at  home,  are  you?"  said 
Newman. 

"  What  does  the  idiot  mean  ?"  cried  Ralph,  testily. 

"  He  has  been  waiting  nearly  ever  since  they  first 
came  in,  and  may  have  heard  your  voice — that's  all," 
said  Newman,  rubbing  his  hands, 

"  Who  has?"  demanded  Ralph,  wrought  by  the  intel- 
ligence he  had  just  heard,  and  his  clerk's  provoking 
coolness,  to  an  intense  pitch  of  irritation. 

The  necessity  of  a  reply  was  superseded  by  the  im- 
looked-for  entrance  of  a  third  party — the  individual  in 
question — who,  bringing  his  one  eye  (for  he  had  but  one) 
to  bear  on  Ralph  Nickleby,  made  a  great  many  sham- 
bling bows,  and  sat  himself  down  in  an  arm-chair, 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and  his  short  black  trow- 
sers  drawn  up  so  high  in  the  legs  by  the  exertion  of 
.seating  himself,  that  they  scarcely  reached  below  the 
tops  of  his  Wellington  boots. 

'*  Why,this  is  a  surprise  ! "  said  Ralph, bending  his  gaze 
upon  the  visitor,  and  half  smiling  as  he  scrutinized  him 
attentively  ;  "  I  should  know  your  face,  Mr,  Squeers." 

**  Ah  1"  replied  that  worthy,  "and  you'd  have  know'd 
it  better,  sir,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  all  that  I've  been  a-going- 
through.  Just  lift  that  little  boy  off  the  tall  stool  in  the 
back  ofiice,  and  tell  him  to  come  in  here,  will  you,  my 
man?"  said  Squeers,  addressing  himself  to  Newman. 
"Oh,  he's  lifted  his-self  off.  My  son,  sir,  little  Wack- 
ford.  What  do  you  think  of  him,  sir,  for  a  specimen  of 
the  Dotheboys  Hall  feeding?  ain't  he  fit  to  bust  out  of 
his  clothes,  and  start  the  seams,  and  make  the  very  but- 
tons fly  off  with  his  fatness?  Here's  flesh!"  cried 
Squeers,  turning  the  boy  about,  and  indenting  the 
plumpest  parts  of  his  figure  with  divers  pokes  and 
punches,  to  the  great  discomposure  of  his  son  and  heir. 
"Here's  firmness,  here's  solidness  !  why  you  can  hardly 
get  up  enough  of  him  between  your  finger  and  thumb 
to  pinch  him  anywheres." 

In  however  good  condition  Master  Squeers  might  have 
been,  he  certainly  did  not  present  this  remarkable  com- 
pactness of  person,  for  on  his  father's  closing  his  finger 
and  thumb  in  illustration  of  his  remark,  he  uttered  a 
sharp  cry,  and  rubbed  the  place  in  the  most  natural 
manner  possible. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Squeers,  a  little  disconcerted,  "I 
had  him  there  ;  but  that's  because  we  breakfasted  early 
this  morning,  and  he  hasn't  had  his  lunch  yet.  Why 
you  couldn't  shut  a  bit  of  him  in  a  door,  when  he's  had 
his  dinner.  Look  at  them  tears,  sir,"  said  Squeers, 
with  a  triumphant  air,  as  Master  Wackford  wiped  his 
eyes  witii  the  cuff  of  his  jacket,  "  there's  oiliness  ! " 

"  He  looks  well,  indeed,"  returned  Ralph,  who,  for 
some  purposes  of  his  own,  seemed  desirous  to  conciliate 
the  schoolmaster.  "  But  how  is  Mrs.  Squeers,  and  how 
are  you  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Squeers,  sir,"  replied  the  proprietor  of  Dothe- 
boys, "is  as  she  always  is — a  mother  to  them  lads,  and 
a  blessing,  and  a  comfort,  and  a  joy  to  all  them  as  knows 
her.  One  of  our  boys — gorging  his-self  with  vittles,  and 
tlien  turning  ill  ;  that's  their  way — got  a  abscess  on  him 
last  week.  To  see  how  she  operated  upon  him  with  a 
pen-knife  !  Oh  Lor  !"  said  Squeers,  heaving  a  sigh,  and 
nodding  his  head  a  great  many  times,  "  what  a  member 
of  society  that  woman  is  I " 


Mr.  Squeers  indulged  in  a  retrospective  look,  for  some 

quarter  of  a  minute,  as  if  this  allusion  to  his  lady's  ex- 
cellences had  naturally  led  his  mind  to  the  peaceful  vil- 
lage of  -Dotheboys  near  Greta  Bridge  in  Yorkshire  ;  and 
then  looked  at  Ralph,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  say  some- 
thing. 

"  Have  you  quite  recovered  that  scoundrel's  attack  ?" 
asked  Ralph. 

"  I've  only  just  done  it,  if  I've  done  it  now,"  replied 
Squeers.  "  I  was  one  blessed  bruise,  sir,"  said  Squeers, 
touching  first  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  then  the  toes  of 
his  boots,  "  from  here  to  there.  Vinegar  and  brown 
paper,  vinegar  and  brown  paper,  from  morning  to  night. 
I  suppose  there  was  a  matter  of  half  a  ream  of  brown 
paper  stuck  upon  me,  from  first  to  last.  As  I  laid  all  of 
a  heap  in  our  kitchen,  plastered  all  over,  you  might  have 
thought  I  was  a  large  brown  paper  parcel,  chock  full  of 
nothing  but  groans.  Did  I  groan  loud,  Wackford,  or 
did  I  groan  soft  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Squeers,  appealing  to  his 
son. 

"  Loud,"  replied  Wackford. 

"Was  the  boys  sorry  to  see  me  in  such  a  dreadful 
condition,  Wackford,  or  was  they  glad?"  asked  Mr. 
Squeers,  in  a  sentimental  manner. 

"Gl— " 

"  Eh  ?"  cried  Squeers,  turning  sharp  round. 
"  Sorry,"  rejoined  his  son. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Squeers,  catching  him  a  smart  box  on  the 
ear.  "Then  take  your  hands  out  of  your  pockets,  and 
don't  stammer  when  you're  asked  a  question.  Hold  your 
noise,  sir,  in  a  gentleman's  office,  or  I'll  run  away  from 
my  family  and  never  come  back  any  more  ;  and  then 
v/hat  would  become  of  all  them  precious  and  forlorn  lads 
as  would  be  let  loose  on  the  world,  without  their  best 
friend  at  their  elbers  !  " 

"Were  you  obliged  to  have  medical  attendance?" 
inquired  Ralph. 

"Ay,  was  I,"  rejoined  Squeers,  "and  a  precious  bill 
the  medical  attendant  brought  in  too  ;  but  1  paid  it 
though." 

Ralph  elevated  his  eyebrows  in  a  manner  which  might 
be  expressive  of  either  sympathy  or  astonishment — just 
as  the  beholder  was  pleased  to  take  it. 

"Yes,  I  paid  it,  every  farthing,"  replied  Squeers, 
who  seemed  to  know  the  man  he  had  to  deal  with,  too 
well  to  suppose  that  any  blinking  of  the  question  would 
induce  him  to  subscribe  towards  the  expenses;  "I 
wasn't  out  of  pocket  by  it  after  all,  either." 

"  No  !"  said  Ralph. 

"Not  a  halfpenny,"  replied  Squeers.  "The  fact  is, 
we  have  only  one  extra  with  our  boys,  and  that  is  for' 
doctors  when  required — and  not  then,  unless  we're  sure 
of  our  customers.    Do  you  see  ?  " 

"I  understand,"  said  Ralph. 

"Very  good,"  rejoined  Squeers.  "Then,  after  my 
bill  was  run  up,  we  picked  out  five  little  boys  (sons  of 
small  tradesmen,  as  was  sure  pay)  that  had  never  had 
the  scarlet  fever,  and  we  sent  one  to  a  cottage  where 
they'd  got  it,  and  he  took  it,  and  then  we  put  the  four 
others  to  sleep  with  him,  and  they  took  it,  and  then  the 
doctor  came  and  attended  'em  once  all  round,  and  we 
divided  my  total  among  'em,  and  added  it  on  to  their  lit- 
tle bills,  and  the  parents  paid  it.    Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !" 

"  And  a  good  plan  too,"  said  Ralph,  eyeing  the  school- 
master .stealthily. 

"  I  believe  you,"  rejoined  Squeers.  We  always  do 
it.  Why,  when  Mrs.  Squeers  was  brought  to  bed  with 
little  Wackford  here,  we  ran  the  hooping  cough  through 
half-a-dozen  boys,  and  charged  her  expenses  among  'em, 
monthly  nurse,  included.    Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  " 

Ralph  never  laughed,  but  on  this  occasion  he  produced 
the  nearest  approach  to  it  that  he  could,  and  waiting 
until  Mr.  Squeers  had  enjoyed  the  ])rofessional  joke  to 
his  heart's  content,  enquired  what  had  brought  him  to 
town. 

"Some  bothering  law  business,"  rej^lied  Squeers, 
scratching  his  head,  "  connected  with  an  action,  for 
what  they  call  neglect  of  a  boy.  I  don't  know  what  they 
would  have.  He  had  as  good  grazing,  that  boy  had,  as 
there  is  about  us." 

Ralph  looked  as  if  he  did  not  quite  understand  the  ob- 
servation. 


NICHOLAS 

"Grazing',"  said.Squeers,  raising  his  voico,  under  the 
impression  that  as  Ralph  failed  to  comprehend  him,  he 
must  be  deaf.  "  When  a  boy  gets  weak  and  ill  and 
don't  relish  his  meals,  we  give  him  a  change  of  diet  — 
turn  him  out,  for  an  hour  or  so  every  day,  into  a  neigh- 
bour's turnip  field,  or  sometimes,  if  it's  a  delicate  case, 
a  turnip  field  and  a  piece  of  carrots  alternately,  and  let 
him  eat  as  many  as  he  likes.  There  ain't  better  land  in 
the  county  than  this  perwerse  lad  grazed  on,  and  yet 
he  goes  and  catches  cold  and  indige.ition  and  what  not, 
and  then  his  friends  brings  a  lawsuit  against  me!  Now, 
you'd  hardly  suppose,"  added  Squeers,  moving  in  his 
chair  with  the  impatience  of  an  ill-used  man,  "that 
people's  ingratitude  would  carry  them  quite  as  far  as 
that  ;  would  you  ?  " 

"A  hard  case,  indeed,"  observed  Ralph. 

"  You  don't  say  more  than  the  truth  when  you  say 
that,"  replied  Squeers.  "  I  don't  suppose  there's  a  man 
going,  as  possesses  the  fondness  for  youth  that  I  do. 
There's  youth  to  the  amount  of  eight  hundred  pound 
a-year,  at  Dotheboys  Hall  at  this  present  time.  I'd  take 
sixteen  hundred  pound  worth  if  I  could  get  'em,  and  be 
as  fond  of  every  individual  twenty  pound  among  'em  as 
nothing  should  equal  it  !  " 

"Are  you  stopping  at  your  old  quarters?"  asked 
Ralph. 

"Yes,  we  are  at  the  Saracen,"  replied  Squeers,  "and 
as  it  don't  want  very  long  to  the  end  of  the  half- 
year,  we  shall  continney  to  stop  there,  till  I've  col- 
lected the  money,  and  some  new  boys  too,  I  hope.  I've 
brought  little  Wackford  up,  on  purpose  to  show  to  par- 
ents and  guardians.  I  shall  put  him  in  the  advertise- 
ment, this  time.  Look  at  that  boy — himself  a  pupil — 
why  he's  a  miracle  of  high  feeding,  that  boy  is  ! " 

"  I  should  like  to  have  a  word  with  you,"  said  Ralph, 
who  had  both  spoken  and  listened  mechanically  for  some 
time,  and  seemed  to  have  been  thinking. 

"  As  many  words  as  you  like,  sir,"  rejoined  Squeers. 
"  Wackford,  you  go  and  play  in  the  back  office,  and 
don't  move  about  too  much  or  you'll  get  thin,  and  that 
won't  do.  You  haven't  got  such  a  thing  as  twopence, 
Mr.  Nickleby,  have  you  ?  "  said  Squeers,  rattling  a  bunch 
of  keys  in  his  coat  pocket,  and  muttering  about  its  being 
all  silver. 

"  I — think  I  have,"  said  Ralph,  very  slowly,  and  pro- 
ducing, after  much  rumaging  in  an  old  drawer,  a  penny, 
a  halfpenny,  and  two  farthings. 

"  Thankee,"  said  Squeers,  bestowing  it  upon  his  son. 
"Here  !  You  go  and  buy  a  tart — Mr.  Nickleby's  man 
will  show  you  where — and  mind  you  buy  a  rich  one. 
Pastry,"  added  Squeers,  closing  the  door  on  Master 
Wackford,  "  makes  his  flesh  shine  a  good  deal,  and  par- 
ents think  that  a  healthy  sign." 

With  this  explanation,  and  a  peculiarly  knoAving  look 
to  eke  it  out,  Mr.  Squeers  moved  his  chair  so  as  to  bring 
himself  opposite  to  Ralph  Nickleby  at  no  great  distance 
off ;  and  having  planted  it  to  his  entire  satisfaction,  sat 
down. 

"Attend  to  me,"  said  Ralph ,  bending  forward  a  lit- 
tle. 

Squeers  nodded. 

"I  am  not  to  suppose,"  said  Ralph,  "that  you  are 
dolt  enough  to  forgive  or  forget,  very  readily,  the  vio- 
lence that  was  committed  upon  you  or  the  exposure  which 
accompanied  it  ?  " 

"Devil  a  bit."  replied  Squeers,  tartly. 

"  Or  to  lose  an  opportunity  of  repaying  it  with  interest, 
if  you  could  get  one  ?  " 

"  Show  me  one,  and  try,"  rejoined  Squeers. 

"  Some  such  object  it  was  that  induced  you  to  call 
on  me?"  said  Ralph,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  schoolmas- 
ter's face. 

"  N — n — no,  I  don't  know  that,"  replied  Squeers,  "  I 
thought  that  if  it  was  in  your  power  to  make  me,  be- 
sides the  trifle  of  money  you  sent,  any  compensation — " 
"Ah!"  cried  Ralph,  interrupting  him.  "You 
needn't  go  on." 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  Ralph  appeared  ab- 
sorbed in  contemplation,  he  again  broke  silence  by 
asking  : 

"  Who  is  this  boy  that  he  took  with  him?  " 
I!    Squeers  stated  his  name. 


NICKLEBY,  123 

"  Was  he  young  or  old,  healthy  or  sickly,  tractable  or 
relxjllious?    S[)eak  out,  man,"  letortr-d  Ralph. 

"  Why,  he  wasn't  young,"  answered  Squeers  ;  "that 
is,  not  young  f(^r  a  boy,  you  know." 

"  That  is,  he  was  not  a  boy  at  all,  I  sup])os(;?"  inter- 
rupted Ralph. 

"  Well,"  returned  Squeers,  briskly,  as  if  ho  felt  re- 
lieved by  the  suggestion,  "he  might  have  been  nigh 
twenty.  He  wouldn't  seem  so  old,  though,  to  them  as 
didn't  know  him,  for  he  was  a  little  wanting  here," 
touching  his  forehead  ;  "nobody  at  home  you  know,  if 
you  knocked  ever  so  often." 

"  And  you  did  knock  pretty  often,  1  dare  say?"  mut- 
tered Ralph. 

"Pretty  well,"  returned  Squeers  with  a  grin. 

"When  you  wrote  to  acknowledge  the  rectiijjt  of  this 
trifle  of  money  as  you  call  it,"  said  Ralph,  "  you  told  me 
his  friends  had  deserted  him  long  ago,  and  that  you  had 
not  the  faintest  clue  or  trace  to  tell  you  who  he  was.  Is 
that  the  truth  V" 

"It  is,  worse  luck  !"  replied  Squeers,  becoming  more 
and  more  easy  and  familiar  in  his  manner,  as  RalfJi  pur- 
sued his  inquiries  with  the  less  reserve.  "  It's  fourteen 
years  ago,  by  the  entry  in  my  book,  since  a  stj-ange  man 
brought  him  to  my  place,  one  autumn  night,  and  left 
him  there  :  paying  five  pound  five,  for  his  first  quarter 
in  advance.  He  might  have  been  five  or  six  year  old  at 
that  time — not  more." 

"What  more  do  you  know  about  him  ?"  demanded 
Ralph. 

"Devilish  little,  I'm  sorry  to  say,"  replied  Squeers. 
"  The  money  was  paid,  for  some  six  or  eight  year,  and 
then  it  stopped.  He  had  given  an  address  in  London, 
had  this  chap  ;  but  when  it  came  to  the  point,  of  course 
nobody  knowed  anything  about  him.  So  I  kept  the  lad 
1  out  of — out  of — " 

"Charity?"  suggested  Ralph  drily. 

"Charity,  to  be  sure,"  returned  Squeers,  rubbing  his 
knees.  "And  when  he  begins  to  be  useful  in  a  certain 
sort  of  way,  this  young  scoundrel  of  a  Nickleby  comes 
and  carries  him  off.  But  the  most  vexatious  and  aggra- 
vating part  of  the  whole  affair  is,"  said  Squeers,  drop- 
j  ping  his  voice,  and  drawing  his  chair  still  closer  to  Ralph, 
"that  some  questions  have  been  asked  about  him  at  last 
— not  of  me,  but,  in  a  round-about  kind  of  way,  of  peo- 
ple in  our  village.  So,  that  just  when  I  might  have  had 
all  arrears  paid  up,  perhaps,  and  perhaps — who  knows  ? 
such  things  have  happened  in  our  business  before — a  pres- 
ent besides  for  ])utting  him  out  to  a  farmer,  or  sending 
him  to  sea,  so  that  he  might  never  turn  up  to  disgrace 
his  parents,  supposing  him  to  be  a  natural  boy,  as  many 
of  our  boys  are — damme,  if  that  villain  of  a  Nickleby 
don't  collar  him  in  open  day,  and  commit  as  good  as 
highway  robbery  upon  my  pocket." 

"  We  will  both  cry  quils  with  him  before  long,"  said 
Ralph,  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  Yorkshire 
schoolmaster. 

"Quits  !"  echoed  Squeers.  Ah  !  and  I  should  like  to 
leave  a  small  balance  in  his  favour,  to  be  settled  when 
he  can.  I  only  wish  Mrs.  Squeers  could  catch  hold  of 
him.  Bless  her  heart  !  She'd  murder  him,  Mr.  Nickle- 
by— she  would,  as  soon  as  eat  her  dinner." 

"  We  will  talk  of  this  again,"  said  Ralph.  "I  must 
have  time  to  think  of  it.  To  wound  him  through  his 
own  affections  and  fancies — .  If  I  could  strike  him 
through  this  boy — " 

"  Strike  him  how  you  like,  sir,"  interrupted  Squeers, 
"only  hit  him  hard'  enough,  that's  all— and  with  that, 
I'll  say  good  morning.  Here  ! — just  chuck  that  little 
I  boy's  hat  off  that  corner-peg,  and  lift  him  off  the  stool, 
will  you  ?  " 

Bawling  these  requests  to  Newman  Noggs,  Mr.  Squeers 
betook  himself  to  the  little  back  office,  and  fitted  on  his 
child's  hat  with  parental  anxiety,  while  Newman,  with 
his  pen  behind  his  ear,  sat,  stiff  and  immovable,  on  his 
stool,  regarding  the  father  and  son  by  turns  with  a  broad 
stare. 

"He's  a  fine  boy,  an't  he?"  said  Squeers,  throwing 
his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  and  falling  back  to  the  desk, 
the  better  to  estimate  the  proportions  of  little  Wack- 
ford. 

"  Very,"  said  Newman. 


124 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"Pretty  well  swelled  out,  an't  he  ?"  pursued  Squeers. 
"  He  has  the  fatness  of  twenty  boys,  he  has." 

"Ah  I"  replied  Newman,  suddenly  thrusting  his  face 
into  that  of  Squeers,  "  he  has  ; — the  fatness  of  twenty  ! 
— more  !  He's  got  it  all.  God  help  the  others.  Ha!  ha  ! 
Oh  Lord  ! " 

Having  uttered  these  fragmentary  observations,  New- 
man dropped  upon  his  desk  and  began  to  write  with  most 
marvellous  rapidity. 

Why,  what  does  the  man  mean?"  cried  Squeers  col- 
ouring.   "Is  he  drunk?" 

Newman  made  no  reply. 

"  Is  he  mad  ?  "  said  Squeers. 

"But,  still  Newman  betrayed  no  consciousness  of  any 
presence  save  his  own  ;  so,  Mr.  Squeers  comforted  him- 
self by  saying  that  he  was  both  drunk  and  mad  ;  and, 
with  this  parting  observation,  he  led  his  hopeful  son 
away. 

In  exact  proportion  as  Ralph  Nickleby  became  con- 
scious of  a  struggling  and  lingering  regard  for  Kate,  had 
his  detestation  of  Nicholas  augmented.  It  might  be,  that 
to  atone  for  the  weakness  of  inclining  to  any  one  person, 
he  held  it  necessary  to  hate  some  other,  more  intensely 
than  before  ;  but  such  had  been  the  course  of  his  feel- 
ings. And  now,  to  be  defied  and  spurned,  to  be  held  up 
to  her  in  the  worst  and  most  repulsive  colours,  to  know 
that  she  was  taught  to  hate  and  despise  him  :  to  feel  that 
there  was  infection  in  his  touch,  and  taint  in  his  com- 
panionship— to  know  all  this,  and  to  know  that  the 
mover  of  it  all  was  that  same  boyish  poor  relation  who 
had  twitted  him  in  their  very  first  interview,  and  openly 
bearded  and  braved  him  since,  wrought  his  quiet  and 
stealthy  malignity  to  such  a  pitch,  that  there  was 
scarcely  anything  he  would  not  have  hazarded  to  gratify 
it,  if  he  could  have  seen  his  way  to  some  immediate  re- 
taliation. 

But,  fortunately  for  Nicholas,  Ralph  Nickleby  did 
not ;  and  although  he  cast  about,  all  that  day,  and  kept 
a  corner  of  his  brain  working  on  the  one  anxious  subject 
through  all  the  round  of  schemes  and  business  that  came 
with  it,  night  found  him  at  last,  still  harping  on  the 
same  theme,  and  still  pursuing  the  same  unprofitable 
reflections. 

"  When  my  brother  was  such  as  he,"  said  Ralph, 
"  the  first  comparisons  were  drawn  between  us — always 
in  my  disfavor.  He  was  open,  liberal,  gallant,  gay  ;  1  a 
crafty  hunks  of  cold  and  stagnant  blood,  with  no  passion 
but  love  of  saving,  and  no  spirit  beyond  a  thirst  for 
gain.  I  recollected  it  well  when  I  first  saw  this  whip- 
ster ;  but  I  remember  it  better  now. " 

He  had  been  occupied  in  tearing  Nicholas's  letter  into 
atoms  ;  and  as  he  spoke,  he  scattered  it  in  a  tiny  shower 
about  him. 

"Recollections  like  these,"  pursued  Ralph,  with  a 
bitter  smile,  "  flock  upon  me — when  I  resign  myself  to 
them — in  crowds,  and  from  countless  quarters.  As  a 
portion  of  the  world  affect  to  despise  the  power  of 
money,  I  must  try  and  show  them  wliat  it  is." 

And  being,  by  this  time,  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind 
for  slumber,  Ralph  Nickleby  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Smike  becomes  kn^wn  to  Mrs.  Nickleby  and  Kate.  NicJwlas  also  meets 
with  new  Acquaintances,  and  bi'ighter  Days  seem  to  dawn  vpon  the 
Family. 

Having  established  his  mother  and  sister  in  the  apart- 
ments of  the  kind-hearted  miniature  painter,  and  ascer- 
tained that  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  was  in  no  danger  of 
losing  his  life,  Nicholas  turned  his  thoughts  to  poor 
Smike,  who,  after  breakfasting  with  Newman  Noggs, 
had  remained,  in  a  disconsolate  state,  at  that  worthy 
creature's  lodgings,  waiting,  with  much  anxiety,  for 
further  intelligence  of  his  protector. 

"As  he  will  be  one  of  our  own  little  household, 
wherever  we  live,  or  whatever  fortune  is  in  reserve  for 
us,"  thought  Nicholas,  "I  must  present  the  poor  fellow 
in  due  form.  They  will  be  kind  to  him  for  his  own 
Bake,  and  if  not  (on  that  account  solely)  to  the  full  extent 


I  could  wish,  they  will  stretch  a  pojnt,  I  am  sure,  for 
mine." 

Nicholas  said  "they,"  but  his  misgivings  were  con- 
fined to  one  person.  He  was  sure  of  Kate,  but  he  knew 
his  mother's  peculiarities,  and  was  not  quite  so  certain 
that  Smike  would  find  favour  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby. 

"  However,"  thought  Nicholas  as  he  departed  on  his 
benevolent  errand  ;  "  she  cannot  fail  to  become  attached 
to  him,  when  she  knows  what  a  devoted  creature  he  is, 
and  as  she  must  quickly  make  the  discovery,  his  proba- 
tion will  be  a  short  one." 

"  I  was  afraid,"  said  Smike,  overjoyed  to  see  his  friend 
again,  "that  you  had  fallen  into  some  fresh  trouble; 
the  time  seemed  so  long,  at  last,  that  I  almost  feared 
you  were  lost. " 

'  *  Lost  !  "  replied  Nicholas  gaily.  ' '  You  will  not  be 
rid  of  me  so  easily,  I  promise  you.  I  shall  rise  to  the 
surface  many  thousand  times  yet,  and  the  harder  the 
thrust  that  pushes  me  down,  the  more  quickly  I  shall 
rebound,  Smike.  But  come  ;  my  errand  here  is  to  take 
you  home." 

"  Home  !"  faltered  Smike,  drawing  timidly  back. 
"Ay,"  rejoined  Nicholas,  taking  his  arm.  "Why 
not?" 

"I  had  such  hopes  once,"  said  Smike;  "day  and 
night,  day  and  night,  for  many  years.  I  longed  for 
home  till  I  was  weary,  and  pined  away  with  grief,  but 
now — " 

"  And  what  now  ?"  asked  Nicholas,  looking  kindly  in 
his  face.    "  What  now,  old  friend  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  part  from  you  to  go  to  any  home  on 
earth,"  replied  Smike,  pressing  his  hand  ;  "  except  one, 
except  one.  I  shall  never  be  an  old  man  ;  and  if  your 
hand  placed  me  in  the  grave,  and  I  could  think,  before  1 
died,  that  you  would  come  and  look  upon  it  sometimes 
with  one  of  your  kind  smiles,  and  in  the  summer  weather, 
when  everything  was  alive — not  dead  like  me  — I  could 
go  to  that  home,  almost  without  a  tear." 

"  Why  do  you  talk  thus,  poor  boy,  if  your  life  is  a 
happy  one  with  me  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 

"  Because  /  should  change  ;  not  those  about  me.  And 
if  they  forgot  me,  /  should  never  know  it,"  replied 
Smilce.  "  In  the  church-yard  we  are  all  alike,  but  here 
there  are  none  like  me.  I  am  a  poor  creature,  but  I  know 
that." 

"  You  are  a  foolish,  silly  creature,"  said  Nicholas  cheer- 
fully. "  If  that  is  what  you  mean,  I  grant  you  that. 
Why,  here's  a  dismal  face  for  ladies'  company  ! — my 
pretty  sister  too,  whom  you  have  so  often  asked  me 
about.  Is  this  your  Yorkshire  gallantry?  For  shame! 
for  shame  ! " 

Smike  brightened  up  and  smiled. 

"  When  I  talk  of  hopies,"  pursued  Nicholas,  "  I  talk 
of  mine — which  is  yours  of  course.  If  it  were  defined 
by  any  particular  four  walls  and  a  roof,  God  knows  I 
should  be  sufficiently  puzzled  to  say  whereabouts  it 
lay  ;  but  that  is  not  what  I  mean.  When  I  speak  of 
home,  I  speak  of  the  place  where — in  default  of  a  better 
— those  I  love  are  gathered  together  ;  and  if  that  place 
were  a  gipsy's  tent,  or  a  barn,  I  should  call  it  by  the  same 
good  name  notwithstanding.  And  now,  for  what  is  my 
present  home,  which,  however  alarming  your  expecta- 
tions may  be,  will  neither  terrify  you  by  its  extent  nor 
its  magnificence." 

So  saying,  Nicholas  took  his  companion  by  the  arm,  and 
saying  a  great  deal  more  to  the  same  purpose,  and  point- 
ing out  various  things  to  amuse  and  interest  him  as  they 
went  along,  led  the  way  to  Miss  La  Creevy's  house. 

"  And  this,  Kate,"  said  Nicholas,  entering  the  room 
where  his  sister  sat  alone,  "is  the  faithful  friend  and 
affectionate  fellow-traveller  whom  I  prepared  you  to  re- 
ceive." 

Poor  Smike  was  bashful,  and  awkward,  and  frightened  j 
enough,  at  first,  but  Kate  advanced  towards  him  so  kind-  j 
ly,  and  said,  in  such  a  sweet  voice,  how  anxious  she  had  \ 
been  to  see  him  after  all  her  brother  had  told  her,  and 
how  much  she  had  to  thank  him  for  having  comforted 
Nicholas  so  greatly  in  their  very  trying  reverses,  that  he  • 
began  to  be  very  doubtful  whether  he  should  shed  tears 
or  not,  and  became  still  more  flurried.     However,  he 
managed  to  say,  in  a  broken  voice,  that  Nicholas  was  his 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


125 


only  friend,  and  that  he  would  lay  down  his  life  to  help 
him  ;  and  Kate,  although  she  was  so  kind  and  consider- 
ate, seemed  to  be  so  wholly  unconscious  of  his  distress 
and  embarrassment,  that  he  recovered  almost  immedi- 
ately and  felt  quite  at  home. 

Then,  Miss  La  Creevy  came  in  ;  and  to  her  Smike  had 
to  be  presented  also.  And  Miss  La  Creevy  was  very  kind 
too,  and  wonderfully  talkative  : — not  to  Smike,  for  that 
would  have  made  him  uneasy  at  first,  but  to  Nicholas 
and  his  sister.  Then,  after  a  time,  she  would  speak  to 
Smike  himself  now  and  then,  asking  him  whether  he  was 
a  judge  of  likenesses,  and  whether  he  thought  that  lec- 
ture in  the  corner  was  like  herself,  and  whether  he  didn't 
think  it  would  have  looked  better  if  she  had  made  her- 
self ten  years  younger,  and  whether  he  didn't  think,  as 
a  matter  of  general  observation,  that  young  ladies  looked 
better  not  only  in  pictures  but  out  of  them  too,  than  old 
ones  ;  with  many  more  small  jokes  and  facetious  re- 
marks which  were  delivered  with  such  good  humour  and 
merriment,  that  Smike  thought,  within  himself,  she  was 
the  nicest  lady  he  had  ever  seen  ;  even  nicer  than  Mrs. 
Grudden,  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummles's  theatre  :  and  she 
was  a  nice  lady  too,  and  talked,  perhaps  more,  but  cer- 
tainly louder,  than  Miss  La  Creevy. 

At  length  the  door  opened  again,  and  a  lady  in  mourn- 
ing came  in  ;  and  Nicholas  kissing  the  lady  in  mourn- 
ing affectionately,  and  calling  her  his  mother,  led  her 
towards  the  chair  from  which  Smike  had  risen  when  she 
entered  the  room. 

You  are  always  kind-hearted,  and  anxious  to  help 
the  oppressed,  my  dear  mother,"  said  Nicholas,  "so  you 
will  be  favourably  disposed  towards  him,  I  know." 

"  I  am  sure,  my  dear  Nicholas,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
looking  very  hard  at  her  new  friend,  and  bending  to  him 
with  something  more  of  majesty  than  the  occasion 
seemed  to  require, — "  I  am  sure  any  friend  of  yours  has, 
as  indeed  he  naturally  ought  to  have,  and  must  have,  of  1 
course,  you  know — a  great  claim  upon  me,  and  of  course, 
it  is  a  very  great  pleasure  to  me  to  be  introduced  to  any- 
body you  take  an  interest  in — there  can  be  no  doubt 
about  that ;  none  at  all ;  not  the  least  in  the  world,"  said 
Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  At  the  same  time  I  must  say,  Nicholas, 
my  dear,  as  I  used  to  say  to  your  poor  dear  papa,  when 
he  woidd  bring  a  gentleman  home  to  dinner,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  the  house,  that  if  he  had  come  the  day 
before  yesterday — no,  I  don't  mean  the  day  before  yes- 
terday now  ;  I  should  have  said,  perhaps,  the  year  be- 
fore last — we  should  have  been  better  able  to  entertain 
him." 

With  which  remarks,  Mrs.  Nickleby  turned  to  her 
daughter,  and  inquired,  in  an  audible  whisper,  whether 
the  gentleman  was  going  to  stop  all  night. 

"  Because,  if  he  is,  Kate,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by. "  I  don't  see  that  it's  possible  for  him  to  sleep  any- 
where, and  that's  the  truth." 

Kate  stepped  gracefully  forward,  and  without  any 
show  of  annoyance  or  irritation,  breathed  a  few  words 
into  her  mother's  ear. 

"  La,  Kate,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  shrinking 
back,  "  how  you  do  tickle  one.  Of  course,  I  understand 
t^iUt,  my  love,  without  your  telling  me  ;  and  I  said  the 
same  to  Nicholas,  and  I  am  very  much  pleased.  You 
didn't  tell  me,  Nicholas,  my  dear,"  added  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
turning  round  with  an  air  of  less  reserve  than  she  had 
before  assumed,  "  what  your  friend's  name  is." 

"  His  name,  mother,"  replied  Nicholas,  "is  Smike." 

The  effect  of  this  communication  was  by  no  means  an- 
ticipated ;  but  the  name  was  no  sooner  pronounced  than 
Mrs.  Nickleby  dropped  upon  a  chair,  and  burst  into  a  fit 
of  crying. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  exclaimed  Nicholas,  running  to 
Bupport  her. 

"  It's  so  like  Pyke,"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby  ;  "  so  exactly 
like  Pyke.  Oh  !  don't  speak  to  me — I  shall  be  better 
presently," 

And  after  exhibiting  every  symptom  of  slow  suffoca- 
tion, in  all  its  stages,  and  drinking  about  a  tea-spoonful 
of  water  from  a  full  tumbler,  and  spilling  the  remainder, 
Mrs.  Nickleby  icas  better,  and  remarked,  with  a  feeble 
amile,  that  she  was  very  foolish,  she  knew. 

It's  a  weakness  in  our  family,"  said  Mrs,  Nickleby, 
"  8o,  of  course,  I  can't  be  blamed  for  it.  Your  grandma- 


ma,  Kate,  was  exactly  the  same — precisely.  The  least 
excitement,  the  slightest  surprise,  she  fainted  away  di- 
rectly. I  have  heard  her  say,  often  and  often,  that  when 
she  was  a  young  lady,  and  before  she  was  married,  she 
was  turning  a  corner  into  Oxford-street,  one  day,  when 
she  ran  against  her  own  hair-dresser,  who,  it  seems,  was 
escaping  from  a  bear  ; — the  mere  suddenness  of  the  en- 
counter made  her  faint  away,  directly.  Wait,  though," 
added  Mrs.  Nickleby,  pausing  to  consider,  "  Let  me  be 
sure  I'm  right.  Was  it  her  hair-dresser  who  had  escaped 
from  a  bear,  or  was  it  a  bear  who  had  escaped  from  her 
hair-dresser's  ?  I  declare  I  can't  remember  just  now,  but 
the  hair-dresser  was  a  very  handsome  man,  I  know,  and 
quite  a  gentleman  in  his  manners  ;  so  that  it  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  point  of  the  story." 

Mrs.  Nickleby  having  fallen  imperceptibly  into  one  of 
her  retrospective  moods,  improved  in  temper  from  that 
moment,  and  glided,  by  an  easy  change  of  the  conversa- 
tion occasionally,  into  various  other  anecdotes,  no  less 
remarkable  for  their  strict  application  to  the  subject  in 
hand. 

"Mr.  Smike  is  from  Yorkshire,  Nicholas,  my  dear?" 
said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  after  dinner,  and  when  she  had  been 
silent  for  some  time. 

"Certainly,  mother,"  replied  Nicholas.  "I  see  you 
have  not  forgotten  his  melancholy  history." 

"0  dear  no,"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "Ah!  melan- 
choly indeed.  Y''ou  don't  happen,  Mr.  Smike,  ever  to 
have  dined  with  the  Grimbles,  of  Grimble  Hall,  some- 
where in  the  North  Riding,  do  you  ?  "  said  the  good  lady, 
addressing  herself  to  him.  "A  very  proud  man.  Sir 
Thomas  Grimble,  with  six  grown  up  and  most  lovely 
daughters,  and  the  finest  park  in  the  county." 

"My  dear  mother,"  reasoned  Nicholas.  "Do  you 
suppose  that  the  unfortunate  outcast  of  a  York.shire 
school  was  likely  to  receive  many  cards  of  invitation  from 
the  nobility  and  gentry  in  the  neighbourhood?" 

"Really,  my  dear,  I  don't  knov/  why  it  should  be  so 
very  extraordinary,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "I  know  that 
when /was  at  school,  I  always  went  twice  every  half- 
year  to  the  Hawkinses  at  Taunton  Vale,  and  they  are 
much  richer  than  the  Grimbles,  and  connected  with  them 
in  marriage  ;  so  you  see  it's  not  so  verv  unlikelv,  after 
all." 

Having  put  down  Nicholas  in  this  triumphant  manner, 
Mrs.  Nickleby  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  forgetf ulness 
of  Smike's  real  name,  and  an  irresistible  tendency  to  call 
him  Mr.  Slammons  ;  which  circumstance  she  attributed 
to  the  remarkable  similarity  of  the  two  names  in  point 
of  sound,  both  beginning  with  an  S,  and  moreover  being 
spelt  with  an  M.  But  whatever  doubt  there  might  be 
on  this  point,  there  was  none  as  to  his  being  a  most  ex- 
cellent listener  ;  which  circumstance  had  considerable 
influence  in  placing  them  on  the  very  best  terms,  and  in 
inducing  Mrs.  Nickleby  to  express  the  highest  opinion 
of  his  general  deportment  and  disposition. 

Thus,  the  little  circle  remained  on  the  most  amicable 
and  agreeable  footing,  until  the  Monday  morning,  when 
Nicholas  withdrew  himself  from  it  for  a  short  time,  seri- 
ously to  reflect  upon  the  state  of  his  affairs,  and.  to  deter- 
mine, if  he  could,  upon  some  course  of  life,  which  would 
enable  him  to  support  those  who  were  so  entirely  depen- 
dent upon  his  exertions. 

Mr.  Crummies  occurred  to  him  more  than  once  ;  but 
although  Kate  was  acquainted  with  the  whole  history 
of  his  connection  with  that  gentleman,  his  mother  was 
not ;  and  he  foresaw  a  thousand  fretful  objections,  on 
her  part,  to  his  seeking  a  livelihood  upon  the  stage. 
There  were  graver  reasons,  too,  against  his  returning  to 
that  mode  of  life.  Independently  of  those  arising  out  of 
its  spare  and  precarious  earnings,  and  his  own  internal 
conviction  that  he  could  never  hope  to  aspire  to  any 
gieat  distinction,  even  as  a  provincial  actor,  how  could 
he  carry  his  sister  from  town  to  town,  and  place  to  place, 
and  debar  her  from  any  other  associates  than  those  with 
whom  he  would  be  compelled,  almost  without  distinc- 
tion, to  mingle  ?  "It  won't  do,"  said  Nicholas,  shaking 
his  head  :  "  1  must  try  something  else." 

It  was  much  easier  to  make  this  resolution  than  to 
carry  it  into  effect.  With  no  greater  experience  of  the 
world  than  he  had  acquired  for  himself  in  his  short 
trials  ;  with  a  suflBcient  share  of  headlong  rashness  and 


126 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


precipitation  (qualities  not  altogether  unnatural  at  his 
time  of  life) ;  Avdth  a  very  slender  stock  of  money,  and  a 
still  more  scanty  stock  of  friends;  what  could  he  do? 
"Egad!  "said  Nicholas,  "I'll  try  that  Register  Office! 
again."  | 

He  smiled  at  himself  as  he  walked  away,  with  a  quick 
step  ;  for,  an  instant  before,  he  had  been  internally  blam- 
ing his  own  precipitation.  He  did  not  laugh  himself 
out  of  the  intention,  however,  for  on  he  went  :  picturing 
to  himself,  as  he  approached  the  place,  all  kinds  of 
splendid  possibilities,  and  impossibilities  too,  for  that 
matter,  and  thinking  himself,  perhaps  with  good  reason, 
very  fortunate  to  be  endowed  with  so  buoyant  and  san- 
guine a  temperament. 

The  ofiice  looked  just  the  same  as  when  he  had  left  it 
last,  and,  indeed,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  there 
seemed  to  be  the  very  same  placards  in  the  window  that 
he  had  seen  before.  There  were  the  same  unimpeach- 
able masters  and  mistresses  in  want  of  virtuous  servants, 
and  the  same  virtuous  servants  in  want  of  unimpeach- 
able masters  and  mistresses,  and  the  same  magnificent 
estates  for  the  investment  of  capital,  and  the  same  enor- 
mous quantities  of  capital  to  be  invested  in  estates,  and, 
in  short,  the  same  opportunities  of  all  sorts  for  people 
who  wanted  to  make  their  fortunes.  And  a  most  extra- 
ordinary proof  it  was  of  the  national  prosperity,  that 
people  had  not  been  found  to  avail  themselves  of  such 
advantages  long  ago. 

As  Nicholas  stopped  to  look  in  at  the  window,  an  old 
gentleman  happened  to  stop  too  ;  and  Nicholas,  carrying 
his  eye  along  the  window-panes  from  left  to  right  in 
search  of  some  capital-text  placard,  which  should  be  ap- 
plicable to  his  own  case,  caught  sight  of  this  old  gentle- 
man's figure,  and  instinctively  withdrew  his  eyes  from 
the  window,  to  observe  the  same  more  closely. 

He  was  a  sturdy  old  fellow  in  a  broad-skirted  blue 
coat,  made  pretty  large,  to  fit  easily,  and  with  no  partic- 
ular waist ;  his  bulky  legs  clothed  in  drab  breeches  and 
high  gaiters,  and  his  head  protected  by  a  low-crowned 
broad-brimmed  white  hat,  such  as  a  wealthy  gra/ier 
might  wear.  He  wore  his  coat  buttoned  ;  and  his  dim- 
pled double-chin  rested  in  the  folds  of  a  white  necker- 
chief— not  one  of  your  stiff- starched  apoplectic  cravats, 
but  a  good,  easy,  old-fashioned  white  neck-cloth  that  a 
man  might  go  to  bed  in  and  be  none  the  worse  for.  But 
what  principally  attracted  the  attention  of  Nicholas,  was 
the  old  gentleman's  eye, — never  was  such  a  clear,  twink- 
ling, honest,  merry,  happy  eye,  as  that.  And  there  he 
stood,  looking  a  little  upward,  with  one  hand  thrust  into 
the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  the  other  playing  with  his 
old-fashioned  gold  watch-chain  :  his  head  thrown  a  little 
on  one  side,  and  his  hat  a  little  more  on  one  side  than 
his  head,  (but  that  was  evidently  accident  ;  not  his  or- 
dinary way  of  wearing  it,)  with  such  a  pleasant  smile 
playing  about  his  mouth,  and  such  a  comical  expression  of 
mingled  slyness,  simplicity,  kind-heartedness,  and  good- 
humour,  lighting  up  his  jolly  old  face,  that  Nicholas 
would  have  been  content  to  have  stood  there,  and  looked 
at  him  until  evening,  and  to  have  forgotten,  meanwhile, 
that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  soured  mind  or  a  crab- 
bed countenance  to  be  met  with  in  the  whole  wide 
world. 

But,  even  a  very  remote  approach  to  this  gratification 
was  not  to  be  made,  for  although  he  seemed  quite  un- 
wnscious  of  having  been  the  subject  of  observation,  ho 
looked  casually  at  Nicholas  ;  and  the  latter,  fearful  of 
giving  offence,  resumed  hiw  scrutiny  of  the  window  in- 
stantly. 

Still,  the  old  gentleman  stood  there,  glancing  from 
placard  to  placard,  and  Nicholas  could  not  forbear  rais- 
ing his  eyes  to  his  face  again.  Grafted  upon  the  quaint- 
ness  and  oddity  of  his  appearance,  was  something  so  in- 
describably engaging,  and  bespeaking  so  much  worth, 
and  there  were  so  many  little  Htrhts  hovering  about  the 
cxjrners  of  his  mouth  and  eyes,  that  it  was  not  a  mere 
amusement,  but  a  positive  pleasure  and  delight  to  look 
at  him. 

This  being  the  case,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  old  man 
caught  Nicholas  in  the  fact,  more  than  once.  At  such 
times,  Nicholas  coloured  and  looked  embarrassed  :  for 
the  truth  is,  that  he  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  the 
stranger  could,  by  any  possibility,  bo  looking  for  a  clerk 


or  secretary  ;  and  thinking  this,  he  felt  as  if  the  old 
gentleman  must  know  it. 

Long  as  all  this  takes  to  tell,  it  was  not  more  than  a 
!  couple  of  minutes  in  passing.   As  the  stranger  was  mov- 
I  ing  away,  Nicholas  caught  his  eye  again,  and,  in  the 
awkwardness  of  the  moment,  stammered  out  an  apology. 
"  No  offence — Oh  no  offence  ! "  said  the  old  man. 
This  was  said  in  such  a  hearty  tone,  and  the  voice  was 
so  exactly  what  it  should  have  been  from  such  a  speaker, 
and  there  was  such  a  cordiality  in  the  manner,  that 
Nicholas  was  emboldened  to  speak  again. 

"  A  great  many  opportunities  here,  sir,"  he  said,  half- 
smiling  as  he  motioned  towards  the  window. 

"  A  great  many  people  willing  and  anxious  to  be  em- 
ployed have  seriously  thought  so  very  often,  I  dare  say," 
replied  the  old  man.    "  Poor  fellows,  poor  fellows  !  " 

He  moved  away,  as  he  said  this  ;  but,  seeing  that 
Nicholas  was  about  to  speak,  good-naturedly  slackened 
his  pace,  as  if  he  were  unwilling  to  cut  him  short.  After 
a  little  of  that  hesitation  which  may  be  sometimes  ob- 
served between  two  people  in  the  street  who  have  ex- 
changed a  nod,  and  are  both  uncertain  whether  they 
shall  turn  back  and  speak,  or  not,  Nicholas  found  him- 
self at  the  old  man's  side. 

"You  were  about  to  speak,  young  gentleman;  what 
were  you  going  to  say  ?  " 

"Merely  that  I  almost  hoped — I  mean  to  say,  thought 
— you  had  some  object  in  consulting  those  advertise- 
ments," said  Nicholas. 

"Ay,  ay?  what  object  now — what  object?"  returned 
{ the  old  man,  looking  slyly  at  Nicholas.   "  Did  you  think 
I  wanted  a  situation  now — Eh  ?    Did  you  think  I  did  ?  " 
Nicholas  shook  his  head. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  the  old  gentleman,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  wrists  as  if  he  were  washing  them.  "  A  very 
natural  thought,  at  all  events,  after  seeing  me  gazing  at 
those  bills,  I  thought  the  same  of  you,  at  first ;  upon  my 
word  I  did." 

"  If  you  had  thought  so  at  last,  too,  sir,  you  would 
not  have  been  far  from  the  truth,"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"Eh?"  cried  the  old  man,  surveying  him  from  head 
to  foot.  "  What !  Dear  me  !  No,  no.  Well-behaved 
young  gentleman  reduced  to  such  a  necessity  !  No  no, 
no  no." 

Nicholas  bowed,  and  bidding  him  good-morning, 
turned  upon  his  heel. 

"  Stay,"  said  the  old  man,  beckoning  him  into  a  bye 
street,  where  they  could  converse  with  less  interruption. 
"  What  d'ye  mean,  eh  ?" 

"  Merely  that  your  kind  face  and  manner — both  so  un- 
like any  I  have  ever  seen— tempted  me  into  an  avowal, 
which,  to  any  other  stranger  in  this  wilderness  of  Lon- 
don, I  should  not  have  dreamt  of  making,"  returned 
Nicholas. 

"Wilderness!  Yes  it  is,  it  is.  Good  !  It  is  a  wil- 
derness," said  the  old  man  with  much  animation.  "  It  was 
a  wilderness  to  me  once.  I  came  here  barefoot — I  have 
never  forgotten  it.  Thank  God  !  "  and  he  raised  his  hat 
from  his  head,  and  looked  very  grave. 

"What's  the  matter — what  is  it — how  did  it  all  come 
about?"  said  the  old  man,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  Nicholas,  and  walking  him  up  the  street. 
"You're— Eh?"  laying  his  finger  on  the  sleeve  of  his 
black  coat.  "  Who's  it  for — eh  ?  " 
"  My  father,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"Ah  !"  said  the  old  gentleman  quickly.  "Bad  thing 
for  a  young  man  to  lose  his  father.  Widowed  mother, 
perhaps  ?  " 

Nicholas  sighed. 

"  Brothers  and  sisters  too — eh  ?  " 
"One  sister,"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"  Poor  thing,  poor  thing  !  You're  a  scholar  too,  I  dare 
say  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  looking  wistfully  into  the  face 
of  the  young  one. 

"  I  have  been  tolerably  well  educated,"  said  Nicholas. 
"  Fine  thing,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "education  a 
great  thing — a  very  great  thing — I  never  had  any.  I  ad- 
mire it  the  more  in  others.  A  very  fine  thing — yes,  yes. 
Tell  me  more  of  your  history.  Let  me  hear  it  all.  No 
impertinent  curiosity — no,  no,  no." 

There  was  something  so  earnest  and  guileless  in  the 
way  in  which  all  this  was  said,  and  such  a  complete  dis- 


NICHOLAS  NICK LE BY. 


127 


regard  of  all  conventional  restraints  and  coldnesses,  that 
Nicholas  could  not  resist  it.  Among  men  who  have  any 
Bound  and  sterling  qualities,  there  is  nothing  so  conta- 
gious as  pure  openness  of  heart.  Nicholas  took  the  in- 
fection instantly,  and  ran  over  the  main  points  of  his  lit- 
tle history  without  reserve  :  merely  suppressing  names, 
and  touching  as  lightly  as  possible  upon  his  uncle's 
treatment  of  Kate.  The  old  man  listened  with  great 
attention,  and  when  he  had  concluded,  drew  his  arm 
eagerly  through  his  own. 

"  Don't  say  another  word — not  another  word,"  said  he. 
"  Come  along  with  me.    We  mustn't  lose  a  minute." 

So  saying,  the  old  gentleman  dragged  him  back  into 
Oxford  Street,  and  hailing  an  omnibus  on  its  way  to  the 
citv,  pushed  Nicholas  in  before  him,  and  followed,  him- 
self. 

As  he  appeared  in  a  most  extraordinary  condition  of 
restless  excitement,  and  whenever  Nicholas  offered  to 
speak,  immediately  interposed  with — "  Don't  say  another 
word,  my  dear  sir,  on  any  account — not  another  word," 
the  young  man  thought  it  better  to  attempt  no  further 
interruption.  Into  the  city  they  journeyed  accordingly, 
without  interchanging  any  conversation  ;  and  the  farther 
they  went,  the  more  Nicholas  wondered  what  the  end  of 
the  adventure  could  possibly  be. 

The  old  gentleman  got  out,  Avith  great  alacrity,  when 
they  reached  the  Bank,  and  once  more  taking  Nicholas 
by  the  arm,  hurried  him  along  Threadneedle  Street,  and 
through  some  lanes  and  passages  on  the  right,  until  they, 
at  length,  emerged  in  a  quiet  shady  little  square.  Into 
the  oldest  and  cleanest-looking  house  of  business  in  the 
square,  he  led  the  way.  The  only  inscription  on  the 
door-post  was  "  Cheery ble.  Brothers  ;  "  but  from  a  hasty 
glance  at  the  directions  of  some  packages  which  were 
lying  about,  Nicholas  supposed  that  the  Brothers  Cheery- 
ble  were  German-merchants. 

Passing  through  a  warehouse  which  presented  every 
indication  of  a  thriving  business,  Mr.  Cheeryble  (for 
such  Nicholas  supposed  him  to  be,  from  the  respect  which 
had  been  shown  him  by  the  warehousemen  and  porters 
whom  they  passed)  led  him  into  a  little  partitioned-off 
counting-house  like  a  large  glass-case,  in  which  counting- 
house  there  sat — as  free  from  dust  and  blemish  as  if  he 
had  been  fixed  into  the  glass-case  before  the  top  was 
put  on,  and  had  never  come  out  since — a  fat,  elderly, 
large  faced,  clerk  with  silver  spectacles  and  a  powdered 
head. 

' '  Is  my  brother  in  his  room,  Tim  ?  "  said  Mr.  Cheeryble, 
with  no  less  kindness  of  manner  than  he  had  shown  to 
Nicholas. 

"  Yes  he  is,  sir,"  replied  the  fat  clerk,  turning  his 
spectacle-glasses  towards  his  principal,  and  his  eyes 
towards  Nicholas,  "  but  Mr.  Trimmers  is  with  him." 

"  Ay  !  And  what  has  he  come  about,  Tim  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Cheeryble. 

"  He  is  getting  up  a  subscription  for  the  widow  and 
family  of  a  man  who  was  killed  in  the  East  India  Docks 
this  morning,  sir,"  rejoined  Tim.  "  Smashed,  sir,  by  a 
cask  of  sugar." 

"He  is  a  good  creature,"  said  Mr.  Cheeryble,  with 
great  earnestness.  "  He  is  a  kind  soul.  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  Trimmers.  Trimmers  is  one  of  the  best  friends 
we  have.  He  makes  a  thousand  cases  known  to  us  that 
we  should  never  discover  of  ourselves.  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  Trimmers."  Saying  which,  Mr.  Cheeryble 
rubbed  his  hands  with  infinite  delight,  and  Mr.  Trimmers 
happening  to  pass  the  door  that  instant,  on  his  way 
out,  shot  out  after  him  and  caught  him  by  the  hand, 

"  I  owe  you  a  thousand  thanks,  Trimmers — ten  thou- 
sand thanks — I  take  it  very  friendly  of  you — very 
friendly  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Cheeryble,  dragging  him  into 
a  corner  to  get  out  of  hearing.  "How  many  children 
are  there,  and  what  has  my  brother  Ned  given,  Trim-  j 
mers  ?  "  ! 

"There  are  six  children,"  replied  the  gentleman, 
"  and  your  brother  has  given  us  twenty  pounds." 

"  My  brother  Ned  is  a  good  fellow,  and  you're  a  good 
fellow  too  Trimmers,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  him  by 
both  hands  with  trembling  eagerness.  "Put  me  down 
for  another  twenty — or — stop  a  minute,  stop  a  minute. 
We  mustn't  look  ostentatious  ;  put  me  down  ten  pound, 
and  Tim  Linkin water  ten  pound.    A  cheque  for  twenty 


pound  for  Mr.  Trimmers,  Tim.  God  bless  yon.  Trimmers 
— and  come  and  dine  with  us  some  day  this  week  ;  you'll 
always  find  a  knife  and  fork,  and  we  shall  be  delighted. 
Now,  my  dear  sir — cheque  from  Mr.  Linkinwater,  Tim. 
Smashed  by  a  cask  of  sugar,  and  six  poor  children — oh 
dear,  dear,  dear  1 " 

Talking  on  in  this  strain,  as  fast  as  he  could,  to  pre- 
vent any  friendly  remonstrance  from  the  collector  of 
the  subscription  on  the  large  amount  of  his  donation, 
Mr.  Cheeryble  led  Nicholas,  equally  astonished  and 
affected  by  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  in  this  short 
space,  to  the  haif-opened  door  of  another  room. 

"Brother  Ned,"  said  Mr.  Cheeryble,  tapping  with  his 
knuckles,  and  stopping  to  listen,  "  are  you  busy,  my 
dear  brother,  or  can  you  spare  time  for  a  word  or  two 
with  me  ?  " 

"  Brother  Charles,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  a  A'oire 
from  the  inside  ;  so  like  in  its  tones  to  that  which  had 
just  spoken,  that  Nicholas  started,  and  almost  thought  it 
was  the  same,  "  Don't  ask  me  sucli  a  question,  but  come 
in  directly." 

They  went  in,  without  further  parley.  What  was  the 
amazement  of  Nicholas  when  his  conductor  advanced, 
exchanged  a  warm  greeting  with  another  old  gentleman, 
the  very  type  and  model  of  himself — the  same  face,  the 
same  figure,  the  same  coat,  waistcoat,  and  neckcloth,  the 
same  breeches  and  gaiters — nay,  there  was  the  very  same 
white  hat  hanging  against  the  wall  ! 

As  they  shook  each  other  by  the  hand  :  the  face  of 
each  lighted  u.p  by  beaming  looks  of  affection,  whicli 
would  have  been  most  delightful  to  behold  in  infants, 
and  which,  in  men  so  old,  was  inexpressibly  touching  : 
Nicholas  could  observe  that  the  last  old  gentleman  was 
something  stouter  than  his  brother  ;  this,  and  a  slight 
additional  shade  of  clumsiness  in  his  gait  and  stature, 
formed  the  only  perceptible  difference  between  them. 
Nobody  conld  have  doubted  their  being  twin  brothers. 

"  Brother  Ned,"  said  Nicholas's"  friend,  closing  the 
room-door,  "here  is  a  young  friend  of  mine,  that  we 
must  assist.  We  must  make  proper  inquiries  into  his 
statements,  in  justice  to  him  as  well  as  to  ourselves,  and 
if  they  are  confirmed — as  I  feel  assured  they  will  be — 
we  must  assist  him,  we  must  assist  him,  brother  Ned. "' 

"It  is  enough,  my  dear  brother,  that  you  say  we 
should,"  returned  the  other.  "When  you  say  that,  no 
further  inquiries  are  needed.  He  shall  be  assisted. 
What  are  his  necessities,  and  what  does  he  require  ? 
Where  is  Tim  Linkinwater  ?    Let  us  have  him  here." 

Both  the  brothers,  it  may  be  here  remarked,  had  a  very 
emphatic  and  earnest  delivery  ;  both  had  lost  nearly  the 
same  teeth,  which  imparted  the  same  peculiarity  to 
their  speech ;  and  both  spoke  as  if,  besides  possessing 
the  utmost  serenity  of  mind  that  the  kindest  and  most 
unsuspecting  nature  could  bestow,  they  had,  in  collect- 
ing the  plums  from  Fortune's  choicest  pudding,  retained 
a  foAv  for  present  use,  and  kept  them  in  their  mouths. 

"  Where  is  Tim  Linkinwater  ?  "  said  brother  Ned. 

"  Stop,  stop,  stop  !"  said  brother  Charles,  taking  the 
other  aside.  "  I've  a  plan,  my  dear  brother,  I've  a  plao. 
Tim  is  getting  old,  and  Tim  has  been  a  faithful  servant, 
brother  Ned  ;  and  I  don't  think  pensioning  Tim's  mother 
and  sister,  and  buying  a  little  tomb  for  the  family  when 
his  poor  brother  died,  was  a  sufficient  recompense  for  his 
faithful  services." 

"No,  no,  no,"  replied  the  other.  "Certainly  not. 
Not  half  enough,  not  half." 

"  If  we  could  lighten  Tim's  duties,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman, "and  prevail  upon  him  to  go  into  the  country, 
now  and  then,  and  sleep  in  the  fresh  air,  besides,  two  or 
three  times  a- week,  (which  he  could,  if  he  began  busi- 
ness an  hour  later  in  the  morning,)  old  Tim  Linkinwater 
would  grow  young  again  in  time  ;  and  he's  three  good 
years  our  senior  now.  Old  Tim  Linkinwater  young  again  ! 
Eh,  brother  Ned,  eh  ?  Why,  I  recollect  old  Tim  Linkin- 
water quite  a  little  boy,  doii't  you  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Poor 
Tim,  poor  Tim  ! " 

And  the  fine  old  fellows  laughed  pleasantly  together  : 
each  with  a  tear  of  regard  for  old  Tim  Linkinwater, 
standing  in  his  eye. 

"  But  hear  this  first — hear  this  first,  brother  Ned," 
said  the  old  man,  hastily,  placing  two  chairs,  one  on  each 
side  of  Nicholas.    "  I'll' tell  it  you  myself,  brother  Ned, 


128 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


because  the  young  gentleman  is  modest,  and  is  a  scholar, 
Ned,  and  I  shouldn't  feel  it  right  that  he  should  tell  us 
his  story  over  and  over  again  as  if  he  was  a  beggar,  or 
as  if       doubted  him.    No,  no,  no." 

"No,  no,  no,"  returned  the  other,  nodding  his  head 
gravely.    "  Very  right,  my  dear  brother,  very  right." 

"  He  will  tell  me  I'm  wrong,  if  I  make  a  mistake," 
said  Nicholas's  friend.  "  But  whether  I  do  or  not,  you'll 
be  very  much  affected,  brother  Ned,  remembering  the 
time  when  we  were  two  friendless  lads,  and  earned  our 
first  shilling  in  this  great  city." 

The  twins  pressed  each  other's  hands  in  silence ;  and 
in  his  own  homely  manner,  brother  Charles  related  the 
particulars  he  had  heard  from  Nicholas.  The  conversa- 
tion which  ensued,  was  a  long  one,  and  when  it  was 
over,  a  secret  conference  of  almost  equal  duration  took 
place  between  brother  Ned  and  Tim  Linkinwater  in  an- 
other room.  It  is  no  disparagement  to  Nicholas  to  say, 
that  before  he  had  been  closeted  with  the  two  brothers 
ten  minutes,  he  could  only  wave  his  hand  at  every  fresh 
expression  of  kindness  and  sympathy,  and  sob  like  a  lit- 
tle child. 

At  length  brother  Ned  and  Tim  Linkinwater  came 
back  together,  when  Tim  instantly  walked  uj)  to  Nicho- 
las and  whispered  in  his  ear  in  a  very  brief  sentence, 
(for  Tim  was  ordinarily  a  man  of  few  words,)  that  he 
had  taken  down  the  address  in  the  Strand,  and  would 
call  upon  him  that  evening  at  eight.  Having  done 
which,  Tim  wiped  his  spectacles  and  put  them  on,  pre- 
paratory to  hearing  what  more  the  brothers  Cheery ble 
had  got  to  say. 

"Tim,"  said  brother  Charles,  "You  understand  that 
we  have  an  intention  of  taking  this  young  gentleman 
into  the  counting-house  ?  " 

Brother  Ned  remarked  that  Tim  was  aware  of  that  in- 
tention, and  quite  aj)proved  of  it ;  and  Tim  having  nod- 
ded, and  said  he  did,  drew  himself  up  and  looked  par- 
ticularly fat,  and  very  important.  After  which,  there 
was  a  profound  silence. 

"  I'm  not  coming  an  hour  later  in  the  morning  you 
know,"  said  Tim,  breaking  out  all  at  once,  and  looking 
very  resolute.  "  I'm  not  going  to  sleep  in  the  fresh  air 
— no,  nor  I'm  not  going  into  the  country  either.  A  pretty 
thing  at  this  time  of  day,  certainly.    Pho  !  " 

"Damn  your  obstinacy,  Tim  Linkinwater,"  said 
brother  Charles,  looking  at  him  "\vithout  the  faintest 
spark  of  anger,  and  with  a  countenance  radiant  with  at- 
tachment to  the  old  clerk.  "  Damn  your  obstinacy,  Tim 
Linkinwater,  what  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

"  It's  forty-four  year,"  said  Tim,  making  a  calculation 
in  the  air  with  liis  pen,  and  drawing  an  imaginary  line 
before  he  cast  it  up,  "  forty-four  year,  next  May,  since  I 
first  kept  the  books  of  Cheeryble,  Brothers.  I've  opened 
the  safe  every  morning  all  that  time  (Sundays  excepted) 
as  the  clock  struck  nine,  and  gone  over  the  house  every 
night  at  half-past  ten  (except  on  Foreign  Post  nights,  and 
then  twenty  minutes  before  twelve)  to  see  the  doors  fast- 
ened, and  the  fires  out.  I've  never  slept  out  of  the  back 
attic  one  single  night.  There's  the  same  mignonette  box 
in  the  middle  of  the  window,  and  the  same  four  flower- 
pots, two  on  each  side,  that  I  brought  with  me  when  I 
first  came.  There  an't— I've  said  it  again  and  again,  and 
I'll  maintain  it — there  an't  such  a  square  as  this,  in  the 
world.  I  know  there  an't,"  said  Tim,  with  sudden  ener- 
gy, and  looking  sternly  about  him.  "Not  one.  For  busi- 
ness or  pleasure,  in  summer  time  or  winter — I  don't  care 
which — there's  nothing  like  it.  There's  not  such  a  spring 
in  pjngland  as  the  ])ump  under  the  archway.  There's  not 
such  a  view  in  England  as  the  view  out  of  my  v/indow  ; 
I've  seen  it  every  morning  before  I  shaved,  and  I  ought 
to  know  something  about  it,  I  have  slept  in  that  room," 
added  Tim,  sinking  his  voice  a  little,  "  for  four-and-for- 
ty  year  ;  and  if  it  wasn't  inconvenient,  and  didn't  inter- 
fere with  business,  I  should  request  leave  to  die  there." 

"Damn  you,  Tim  Linkinwater,  how  dare  you  talk 
alx)ut  dying  V "  roared  the  twins  by  one  impulse,  and 
blowing  their  old  noses  violently. 

"That's  what  I've  got  to  say,  Mr.  Edwin  and  Mr. 
(Jharles,"  said  Tim,  squaring  his  shoulders  again.  "  This 
isn't  the  first  time  you've  talked  about  superannuating 
me  ;  but,  if  you  please,  we'll  make  it  the  last,  and  drop 
the  subject  for  evennore." 


With  these  words,  Tim  Linkinwater  stalked  out,  and 
shut  himself  up  in  his  glass-case,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  had  had  his  say,  and  was  thoroughly  resolved  not  to 
be  put  down. 

The  brothers  interchanged  looks,  and  coughed  some 
half-dozen  times  without  speaking. 

"  He  must  be  done  something  with,  brother  Ned,"  said 
the  other,  warmly  ;  "we  must  disregard  his  old  scruples  ; 
they  can't  be  tolerated,  or  borne.  He  must  be  made  a 
partner,  brother  Ned  ;  and  if  he  won't  submit  to  it  peac- 
ably,  we  must  have  recourse  to  violence." 

"  Quite  right,"  replied  brother  Ned,  nodding  his  head 
as  a  man  thoroughly  determined  ;  "quite  right,  my  dear 
brother.  If  he  won't  listen  to  reason,  we  must  do  it 
against  his  will,  and  show  him  that  we  are  determined 
to  exert  our  authority.  We  must  quarrel  with  him, 
brother  Charles." 

"  We  must — we  certainly  must  have  a  quarrel  with 
Tim  Linkinwater,"  said  the  other.  "But  in  the  mean- 
time, my  dear  brother,  we  are  keeping  our  young  friend  ; 
and  the  poor  lady  and  her  daughter  will  be  anxious  for 
his  return.  So  let  us  say  good-bye  for  the  present,  and 
— there,  there — take  care  of  that  box,  my  dear  sir — and 
— no,  no,  no,  not  a  word  now  ;  but  be  careful  of  the  cross- 
ings and — " 

And  with  any  disjointed  and  unconnected  words  which 
would  prevent  Nicholas  from  pouring  forth  his  thanks, 
the  brothers  hurried  him  out  ;  shaking  hands  with 
him  all  the  way,  and  affecting  very  unsuccessfully — 
they  were  poor  hands  at  deception  ! — to  be  wholly  un- 
conscious of  the  feelings  that  completely  mastered  him. 

Nicholas's  heart  was  too  full  to  allow  of  his  turning 
into  the  street  until  he  had  recovered  some  composure. 
When  he  at  last  glided  out  of  the  dark  doorway-corner 
in  which  he  had  iDeen  compelled  to  halt,  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  twins  stealthily  peeping  in  at  one  corner 
of  the  glass-case,  evidently  undecided  whether  they 
should  follow  up  their  late  attack  without  delay,  or  for 
the  present  postpone  laying  further  siege  to  the  inflexi- 
ble Tim  Linkinwater. 

To  recount  all  the  delight  and  wonder  which  the  cir- 
cumstances just  detailed  awakened  at  Miss  La  Creevy's, 
and  all  the  things  that  were  done,  said,  thought,  expect- 
ed, hoped,  and  prophesied  in  consequence,  is  beside  the 
present  course  and  purpose  of  these  adventures.  It  is 
sufficient  to  state,  in  brief,  that  Mr.  Timothy  Linkinwater 
arrived,  punctual  to  his  appointment ;  that,  oddity  as  he 
was,  and  jealous  as  he  was  bound  to  be,  of  the  proper  ex- 
ercise of  his  employers'  most  comprehensive  liberality, 
he  reported  strongly  and  warmly  in  favour  of  Nicholas  ; 
and  that,  next  day,  he  was  appointed  to  the  vacant  stool 
in  the  counting  house  of  Cheeryble,  Brothers,  with  a 
present  salary  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year. 

"And  I  think,  my  dear  brother,"  said  Nicholas's  first 
friend,  "that  if  we  were  to  let  them  that  little  cottage 
at  Bow  which  is  empty,  at  something  under  the  usual 
rent,  now — Eh,  brother  Ned  ?  " 

"For  nothing  at  all,"  said  brother  Ned.  "We  are 
rich,  and  should  be  ashamed  to  touch  the  rent  under  such 
circumstances  as  these.  Where  is  Tim  Linkinwater  ? — 
for  nothing  at  all,  my  dear  brother,  for  nothing  at  all." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  say  something,  brother 
Ned,"  suggested  the  other,  mildly;  "it  would  help  to 
preserve  habits  of  frugality,  you  know,  and  remove  any 
painful  sense  of  overwhelming  obligations.  We  might 
say  fifteen  pound,  or  twenty  pound,  and  if  it  was  punc- 
tually paid,  make  it  up  to  them  in  some  other  way.  And 
I  might  secretly  advance  a  small  loan  towards  a  little 
furniture,  and  you  might  secretly  advance  another  small 
loan,  brother  Ned  ;  and  if  we  find  them  doing  well — as 
we  shall ;  there's  no  fear,  no  fear — we  can  change  the 
loans  into  gifts — carefully,  brother  Ned,  and  by  degrees, 
and  without  pressing  upon  them  too  much  ;  what  do  you 
say  now,  brother?"  » 

Brother  Ned  gave  his  hand  upon  it,  and  not  only  said 
it  should  be  done,  but  had  it  done  too  ;  and,  in  one 
short  week,  Nicholas  took  possession  of  the  stool,  and 
Mrs.  Nickleby  and  Kate  took  possession  of  the  house,  and 
all  was  hope,  bustle,  and  light-heartedness. 

There  surely  never  was  such  a  week  of  discoveries  and 
surprises  as  the  first  week  of  that  cottage.  Every  night 
when  Nicholas  came  homo  something  new  had  been 


NICHOLAS 

found  out.  One  day  it  was  a  grape  vine,  and  another 
day  it  was  a  boiler,  and  another  day  it  was  the  key  of 
the  front  parlour  closet  at  the  bottom  of  the  water-butt, 
and  so  on  through  a  hundred  items.  Then,  this  room 
was  embellished  with  a  muslin  curtain,  and  that  room 
was  rendered  quite  elegant  by  a  window- blind,  and  such 
improvements  were  made,  as  no  one  would  have  sup- 
posed possible.  Then  there  was  Miss  La  Creevy,  who 
L;j.d  come  out  in  the  omnibus  to  stop  a  day  or  two  and 
Ltip,  and  who  was  perpetually  losing  a  very  small  brown 
paper  parcel  of  tin-tacks  and  a  very  large  hammer,  and 
running  about  with  her  sleeves  tucked  up  at  the  wrists, 
and  falling  off  pairs  of  steps  and  hurting  herself  very 
much — and  Mrs.  Nickleby,  who  talked  incessantly,  and 
did  something  now  and  then,  but  not  often — and  Kate, 
who  busied  herself  noiselessly  everywhere,  and  was 
pleased  with  everything — and  Smike,  who  made  the  gar- 
den a  perfect  wonder  to  look  upon — and  Nicholas,  who 
helped  and  encouraged  them  every  one — all  the  peace 
and  cheerfulness  of  home  sestored,  with  such  new  zest 
imparted  to  every  frugal  pleasure,  and  such  delight  to 
every  hour  of  meeting,  as  misfortune  and  separation 
alone  could  give  ! 

In  short,  the  poor  Nicklebys  were  social  and  happy  ; 
while  the  rich  Nickleby  was  alone  and  miserable. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Private  and  confidential ;  relating  to  family  matters.  Showing  how 
Mr.  Kenwigs  underwent  violent  Agitation^  and  liow  Mrs.  Kenwigs 
was  as  ivell  as  could  be  expected. 

It  might  have  been  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and 
it  was  growing  dark  in  the  narrow  streets  near  Golden 
Square,  when  Mr.  Kenwigs  sent  out  for  a  pair  of  the 
cheapest  white  kid  gloves — those  at  fourteeupence — and 
selecting  the  strongest,  which  happened  to  be  the  right- 
hand  one,  walked  down-stairs,  witli  an  air  of  pomp  and 
much  excitement,  and  proceeded  to  muffle  the  nob  of  the 
street-door  knocker  therein.  Having  executed  this  task 
with  great  nicety,  Mr.  Kenwigs  pulled  the  door  to,  after 
him,  and  just  stepped  across  the  road  to  try  the  effect 
from  the  oj^posite  side  of  the  street.  Satisfied  that  noth- 
ing could  possibly  look  better  in  its  way,  Mr.  Kenwigs 
then  stepped  back  again,  and  calling  through  the  keyhole 
to  Morleena  to  open  the  door,  vanished  into  the  house, 
and  was  seen  no  longer. 

Now,  considered  as  an  abstract  circumstance,  there 
was  no  more  obvious  cause  of  reason  why  Mr.  Kenwigs 
should  take  the  trouble  of  muffling  this  particular 
knocker  than  there  would  have  been  for  his  muffling  the 
knocker  of  any  nobleman  or  gentleman  resident  ten  miles 
off  ;  because  for  the  greater  convenience  of  the  numerous 
lodgers,  the  street  door  always  stood  wide  open,  and  the 
knocker  was  never  used  at  all.  The  first  floor,  the  second 
floor,  and  the  third  floor,  had  each  a  bell  of  its  own.  As 
to  the  attics,  no  one  ever  called  on  them  ;  if  anybody 
wanted  the  parlours,  they  were  close  at  hand,  and  all  he 
had  to  do  was  to  walk  straight  into  them ;  while  the 
kitchen  had  a  separate  entrance.down  the  area  steps.  As 
a  question  of  mere  necessity  and  usefulness,  therefore, 
this  muffling  of  the  knocker  was  thoroughly  incompre- 
hensible. 

But  knockers  may  be  muffled  for  other  purposes  than 
those  of  mere  utilitarianism,  as,  in  the  present  instance, 
was  clearly  shown.  There  are  certain  polite  forms  and 
ceremonies  which  must  be  observed  in  civilised  life,  or 
mankind  relapse  into  their  original  barbarism.  No  gen- 
teel lady  was  ever  yet  confined— indeed,  no  genteel  con- 
finement can  possibly  take  place — without  the  accom- 
panying symbol  of  a  muffled  knocker.  Mrs.  Kenwigs 
was  a  lady  of  some  pretensions  to  gentility  ;  Mrs.  Ken- 
v,'igs  was  confined.  And,  therefore,  Mr.  Kenwigs  tied 
up  the  silent  knocker  on  the  premises  in  a  white  kid 
glove. 

"I'm  not  quite  certain  neither,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs, 
arranging  his  shirt-collar,  and  walking  slowly  up-stairs, 
**  whether,  as  it's  a  boy,  I  won't  have  it  in  the  papers." 

Pondering  upon  the  advisability  of  this  step,  and  the 
gnsation  it  was  likelv  to  create  in  the  neighbourhood, 
Mr.  Kenwigs  betook  himself  to  the  sitting-room,  where 
Vol.  II.— 9 


NICKLEBY.  129 

various  extremely  diminutive  articles  of  clothing  were 
airing  on  a  liorse  before  the  fire,  and  Mr.  Lumbey,  the 
doctor,  was  dandling  the  baby — that  is,  the  old  baby— 
not  the  new  one. 

"  It's  a  fine  boy,  Mr.  Kenwigs,"  said  Mr.  Lumbey,  the 
doctor. 

"You  consider  him  a  fine  boy,  do  you  sir?"  returned 
Mr.  Kenwigs. 

"It's  the  finest  boy  I  ever  saw  in  all  my  life,"  .said 
the  doctor.    "  1  never  saw  such  a  baby." 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  reflect  upon,  and  furnishes  a 
complete  answer  to  those  who  contend  for  the  gradual 
degeneration  of  the  human  species,  that  every  baby 
born  into  the  world  is  a  fi»er  one  than  the  last. 

"  I  ne'— ver  saw  such  a  baby,"  said  Mr.  Lumbey,  the 
doctor.  • 

"  Morleena  was  a  fine  baby,"  remarked  Mr.  Kenwigs  ; 
as  if  this  were  rather  an  attack,  by  implication,  upon 
the  family. 

"They  were  all  fine  babies,"  said  Mr.  Lumbey.  And 
Mr.  Lumbey  went  on  nursing  the  baby  with  a  thouglit- 
ful  look.  Whether  he  was  considering  imder  what  head 
he  could  best  charge  the  nursing  in  the  bill,  was  best 
known  to  himself. 

During  this  short  conversation,  Miss  Morleena,  as  the 
eldest  of  the  family,  and  natural  representative  of  her 
mother  during  her  indisposition,  had  been  hustling  and 
slapping  the  three  younger  Miss  Kenwigses,  without 
intermission  ;  which  considerate  and  affectionate  conduct 
brought  tears  into  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Kenwigs,  and  caused 
him  to  declare  that,  in  understanding  and  behaviour,  that 
child  was  a  woman. 

"  She  will  be  a  treasure  to  the  man  she  marries,  sir," 
said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  half  aside  ;  "  I  think  she'll  marry 
above  her  station,  Mr.  Lumbey." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  at  all,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  You  never  see  her  dance,  sir,  did  you?"  asked  Mr. 
Kenwigs. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"Ay  !"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  as  though  he  pitied  him 
from  his  heart,  "then  you  don't  know  what  she's  capa- 
ble of." 

All  this  time,  there  had  been  a  great  whisking  in  and 
out  of  the  other  room  ;  the  door  had  been  opened  and 
shut  very  softly  about  twenty  times  a  minute  (for  it  Avas 
necessary  to  keep  Mrs.  Kenwigs  quiet) ;  and  the  baby 
had  been  exhibited  to  a  score  or  two  of  deputations  from 
a  select  body  of  female  friends,  who  had  assembled  in 
the  passage,  and  about  the  street-door,  to  discuss  the 
event  in  all  its  bearings.  Indeed,  the  excitement  ex- 
tended itself  over  the  whole  street,  and  groups  of  ladies, 
might  be  seen  standing  at  the  doors, — some  in  the  inter- 
esting condition  in  which  Mrs.  Kenwigs  had  last  appeared' 
in  public,— relating  their  experiences  of  similar  occur- 
rences. Some  few  acquired  great  credit  from  having 
prophesied  the  day  before  yesterday,  exactly  when  it 
would  come  to  pass  ;  others,  again,  related,  how  that, 
they  guessed  what  it  was,  directly  they  saw  Mr.  Ken- 
wigs turn  pale  and  run  up  the  street  as  hard  as  ever  he 
could  go.  Some  ^aid  one  thing,  and  some  another  ;  but. 
all  talked  together,  and  all  agreed  upon  two  points  :: 
first,  that  it  -^as  very  meritorious  and  highly  praisewor- 
thy in  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  to  do  as  she  had  done  :  and  sec- 
ondly, that  there  never  was  such  a  skilful  and  scientific 
doctor  as  that  Doctor  Lumbey. 

In  the  midst  of  this  general  hubbub.  Doctor  Lumbey 
sat  in  the  first  floor  front,  as  before  related,  nursing  the 
deposed  baby,  and  talking  to  Mr.  Kenwigs.  He  was  a 
stout  bluff-looking  gentleman,  with  no  shirt-collar,  to 
speak  of,  and  a  beard  that  had  been  growing  since  yes- 
terday morning ;  for  Doctor  Lumbey  was  popular,  and 
the  neighbourhood  was  prolific  ;  and  there  had  been  no 
less  than  three  other  knockers  muflSed,  one  after  the 
other,  within  the  last  forty-eight  hours. 

"Well,  Mr.  Kenwigs,"  said  Dr.  Lumbey,  "this  makes 
six.    You'll  have  a  fine  family  in  timev.  sir." 

"  I  think  six  is  almost  enpugh,  sir,"  returned  Mr.. Ken-, 
wigs. 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  I  "  said  the  doctor^  *' Nonsense  !  not 
half  enough." 

With  this,  the  doctor  laughed  ;  but  he  didn't  laugh, 
half  as  much  as  a  married  friend  of  Mrs.  Kenwigs's, 


130 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


wlio  had  just  come  in  from  the  sick  chamber,  to  report 
progress,  and  take  a  smal]  sip  of  brandy-and- water  :  and 
who  seemed  to  consider  it  one  of  the  best  jokes  ever 
launched  upon  society. 

"  They're  not  altogether  dependent  upon  good  for- 
tune, neither,"  said  Mr.  Ken  wigs,  taking  his  second 
daughter  on  his  knee  :  "  they  have  expectations." 

"  Oh  indeed  !"  said  Mr.  Lumbey,  the  doctor. 

"And  very  good  ones  too,  I  believe,  haven't  they?" 
asked  the  married  lady. 

"Why,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  "it's  not  exactly 
for  me  to  say  what  they  may  be,  or  what  they  may  not 
be.  It's  not  for  me  to  boast  of  any  family  with  which  I 
have  the  honour  to  be  connected  ;  at  the  same  time  Mrs. 
Kenwigs's  is — I  should  say,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  ab- 
ruptly, and  raising  his  voice  as  he  spoke,  "  that  my 
children  might  come  into  a  matter  of  a  hundred  pound 
a-piece,  perhaps.    Perhaps  more,  but  certainly  that." 

"  And  a  very  pretty  little  fortune,"  said  the  married 
lady. 

"  There  are  some  relations  of  Mrs.  Kenwigs's,"  said  Mr. 
Kenwigs,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuif  from  the  doctoi-'s  box, 
and  then  sneezing  very  hard,  for  he  wasn't  used  to  it, 
"  that  might  leave  their  a  hundred  pound  a-piece  to 
ten  people,  and  yet  not  go  begging  when  they  had  done 
it." 

"Ah!  I  know  who  you  mean,"  observed  the  married 
lady,  nodding  her  head. 

"  I  made  mention  of  no  names,  and  I  wish  to  make  men- 
tion of  no  names,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  with  a  portentous 
look.  "Many  of  my  friends  have  met  a  relation  of  Mrs. 
Kenwigs's  in  this  very  room,  as  would  do  honour  to  any 
company  ;  that's  all." 

"I've  met  him,"  said  the  married  lady,  with  a  glance 
towards  Doctor  Lumbey. 

"It's  naterally  very  gratifying  to  my  feelings  as  a 
father  to  see  such  a  man  as  that,  a  kissing  and  taking 
notice  of  my  children,"  pursued  Mr.  Kenwigs.  "It's 
naterally  very  gratifying  to  my  feelings  as  a  man,  to 
know  that  man.  It  will  be  naterally  very  gratifying  to 
my  feelings  as  a  husband,  to  make  that  man  acquainted 
■with  this  ewent." 

Having  delivered  his  sentiments  in  this  form  of  words, 
Mr.  Kenwigs  arranged  his  second  daughter's  flaxen  tail, 
;  and  bade  her  be  a  good  girl  and  mind  what  her  sister, 
Morleena,  said. 

"  That  girl  grows  more  like  her  mother  every  day,"  said 
Mr.  Lumbey,  suddenly  stricken  with  an  enthusiastic  ad- 
miration of  Morleena. 

"  There  !  "  rejoined  the  married  lady.  "  What  I  al- 
ways say — what  I  always  did  say  !  She's  the  very  picter 
-of  her."  Having  thus  directed  the  general  attention  to 
the  young  lady  in  question,  the  married  lady  embraced 
the  opportunity  of  taking  another  sip  of  the  brandy-and- 
water — and  a  pretty  long  sip  too. 

"  Yes!  there  is  a  likeness,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  after  some 
reflection.  "But  such  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Kenwigs  was, 
afore -she  was  married  !    Good  gracious,  such  a  woman  !  " 

Mr.  Lumbey  shook  his  head  with  great  solemnity,  as 
though  to  imply  that  he  supposed  sbfe  must  have  been 
rather  a  dazzler.  ^ 

"  Talk  of  fairies  1"  cried  Mr.  Kenwigs.  "/never  see 
.  anybody  so  light  to  be  alive — never.  Such  manners  too ; 
.  so  playful,  and  yet  so  sewerely  proper  !  As  for  her  figure  ! 
It  isn't  generally  known,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  dropping 
his  voice  ;  "  but  her  figure  was  such,  at  that  time,  that 
the  sign  of  the  Britannia  over  in  the  Hollo  way  road,  was 
painted  from  it  I  " 

"But  only  see  what  it  is  now,"  urged  the  married 
lady.    "  Does  she  look  like  the  mother  of  six  ?  " 

"  Quite  ridiculous,"  cried  the  doctor. 

"  She  looks  a  deal  more  like  her  own  daughter,"  said 
the  married  lady. 

"  So  she  does,"  assented  Mr.  Lumbey.  "  A  great  deal 
more." 

Mr.  Kenwigs  was  about  to  make  some  further  obser- 
vations, most  probably  in  ccfifirmation  of  this  opinion, 
when  another  married  lady,  who  had  looked  in  to  keep 
Tip  Mrs.  Kenwigs's  spirits,  and  helrtito  clear  off  anything 
in  the  eating  and  drinking  way  that  might  be  going 
about,  put  in  her  head  to  announce  that  she  had  just 
-been  down  to  answer  the  bell,  and  that  there  was  a  gen- 


tleman at  the  door  who  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Kenwigs 
"  most  particular." 

Shadowy  visions  of  his  distinguished  relation  flitted 
through  the  brain  of  Mr.  Kenwigs,  as  this  message  was 
delivered  ;  and  under  their  influence,  be  despatched 
Morleena  to  show  the  gentleman  up  straightway. 

"  Why,  I  do  declare,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs  standing  oppo- 
site the  door  so  as  to  get  the  earliest  glimpse  of  the  visi- 
tor, as  he  came  up- stairs,  "  It's  Mr.  Johnson  !  How  do 
you  find  yourself,  sir?" 

Nicholas  shook  hands,  kissed' his  old  pupils  all  round, 
intrusted  a  large  parcel  of  toys  to  the  guardianship  of 
Morleena,  bowed  to  the  doctor,  and  the  married  ladies, 
and  inquired  after  Mrs.  Kenwigs  in  a  tone  of  interest, 
which  went  to  the  very  heart  and  soul  of  the  nurse,  who" 
had  come  in  to  warm  some  mysterious  compound,  in  a 
little  saucepan  over  the  fire. 

"  I  ought  to  make  a  hundred  apologies  to  you  for  call- 
ing at  such  a  season,"  said  Nicholas,  "  but  I  was  not 
aware  of  it  until  I  had  rung  ^he  bell,  and  my  time  is  so 
fully  occupied  now,  that  I  feared  it  might  be  some  days 
before  I  could  possibly  come  again." 

"  No  time  like  the  present,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs. 
"  The  sitiwation  of  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  sir,  is  no  obstacle  to 
a  little  conversation  between  you  and  me,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Nicholas. 

At  this  juncture,  proclamation  was  made  l:y  another 
married  lady,  that  the  baby  had  begun  to  eat  like  any- 
thing ;  whereupon  the  two  married  ladies,  already  men- 
tioned, rushed  tumultuously  into  the  bed-room  to  behold 
him  in  the  act. 

"  The  fact  is,"  resumed  Nicholas,  "  that  before  I  left 
the  country,  where  I  have  been  for  some  time  past,  I 
undertook  to  deliver  a  message  to  you." 

"Ay,  ay?"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs. 

"  And  I  have  been,"  added  Nicholas,  "  already  in  town 
for  some  days,  without  having  had  an  opportunity  of 
doing  so." 

"  It's  no  matter,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs.  "  I  dare  say 
it's  none  the  worse  for  keeping  cold.  Message  from  the 
country  !"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  ruminating  ;  "  that's  curi- 
ous.   I  don't  know  anybody  in  the  country." 

"Miss  Petowker,"  suggested  Nicholas. 

"Oh  I  from  her,  is  it ?  "  said  Mr.  Kenwigs.  "Oh  dear, 
yes.  Ah  !  Mrs.  Kenwigs  will  be  glad  to  hear  from  her. 
Henrietta  Petowker,  eh  ?  How  odd  things  come  about, 
now  !  That  you  should  have  met  her  in  the  countrv — 
Well!" 

Hearing  this  mention  of  their  old  friend's  name,  the 
four  Miss  Kenwigses  gathered  round  Nicholas,  open 
eyed  and  mouthed,  to  hear  more.  Mr.  Kenwigs  looked 
a  little  curious  too,  but  quite  comfortable  and  unsus- 
pecting. 

"  The  message  relates  to  family  matters,"  said  Nicho- 
las, hesitating. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Kenwigs,  glancing  at  Mr, 
Lumbey,  who  having  rashly  taken  charge  of  little  Lilly - 
vick,  found  nobody  disposed  to  relieve  him  of  his  pre- 
cious burden.    "  All  friends  here." 

Nicholas  hemmed  once  or  twice,  and  seemed  to  have 
some  difficulty  in  proceeding. 

"At  Portsmouth,  Henrietta  Petowker  is,"  observed 
Mr.  Kenwigs. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nicholas,  "  Mr.  Lilly  vick  is  there." 

Mr.  Kenwigs  turned  pale,  but  he  recovered,  and  said,. 
that  was  an  odd  coincidence  also. 

"  The  message  is  from  him,"  said  Nicholas. 

Mr.  Kenwigs  appeared  to  revive.  He  knew  that  his' 
niece  was  in  a  delicate  state,  and  had,  no  doubt,  sent 
word  that  they  were  to  forward  full  particulars  : — Yes. 
That  was  very  kind  of  him — so  like  him  too  ! 

"He  desired  me  to  give  his  kindest  love,"  said  Nich- 
olas. 

"Very  much  obliged  to  him,  I'm  sure.  Your  great- 
uncle,  Lilly  vick,  my  dears  ! "  interposed  Mr.  Kenwigs, 
condescendingly  explaining  it  to  the  children. 

"His  kindest  love,"  resumed  Nicholas  ;  "and  to  say 
that  he  had  no  time  to  write,  but  that  he  was  married  to 
Miss  Petowker. " 

Mr.  Kenwigs  started  from  his  seat  with  a  petrified, 
stare,  caught  his  second  daughter  by  her  flaxen  tail,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  Mor- 


I  NICHOLAS 

'   liftena  fell,  all  stiff  and  rigid,  into  the  bady's  chair,  as 
ijhe  had  seen  her  mother  fall  when  she  fainted  away, 
{    and  the  two  remaining  little  Kenwigses  shrieked  in 
I  afEright. 

"  My  children,  my  defrauded,  swindled  infants  ! "  cried 
Mr.  Kenwigs,  pulling  so  hard,  in  his  vehemence,  at  the 
flaxen  tail  of  his  second  daughter,  that  he  lifted  her 

:  upon  tiptoe,  and  kept  her,  for  some  seconds,  in  that  at- 
titude.   "  Villain,  ass,  traitor  !  " 

'  Drat  the  man  ! "  cried  the  nurse,  looking  angrily 
round.  "What  does  he  mean  by  making  that  noise 
here  ?  " 

''Silence,  woman  !"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  fiercely. 

"I  won't  be  silent,"  returned  the  nurse.  "Be  silent 
yourself,  you  wretch.  Have  you  no  regard  for  your 
baby?" 

"No  !"  returned  Mr,  Kenwigs. 

"  More  shame  for  you,"  retorted  the  nurse.  "Ugh  1 
you  unnatural  monster." 

"Let  him  die,"  cried  Mr.  Kenwigs,  in  the  torrent  of 
his  wrath.  "Let  him  die  !  He  has  no  expectations,  no 
property  to  come  into.  We  want  no  babies  here,"  said 
Mr.  Kenwigs  recklessly.  "Take  'em  away,  take  'em 
away  to  the  Fondling  !  " 

With  these  awful  remarks,  Mr.  Kenwigs  sat  himself 
down  in  a  chair,  and  defied  the  nurse,  who  made  the 
best  of  her  way  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  returned 
with  a  stream  of  matrons  :  declaring  that  Mr.  Kenwigs 
had  spoken  blasphemy  against  his  family,  and  must  be 
raving  mad. 

Appearances  were  certainly  not  in  Mr.  Kenwigs's  fa- 
vour, for  the  exertion  of  speaking  with  so  much  vehe- 
mence, and  yet  in  such  a  tone  as  should  prevent  his 
lamentations  reaching  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  had 
made  him  very  black  in  the  face  ;  besides  which,  the 
excitement  of  the  occasion,  and  an  unwonted  indulgence 
in  various  strong  cordials  to  celebrate  it,  had  swollen  and 
dilated  his  features  to  a  most  unusual  extent.  But, 
Nicholas  and  the  doctor — who  had  been  passive  at  first, 
doubting  very  much  whether  Mr.  Kenwigs  could  be  in 
earnest — interfering  to  explain  the  immediate  cause  of 
his  condition,  the  indignation  of  the  matrons  was  changed 
to  pity,  and  they  implored  him,  with  much  feeling,  to 
go  quietly  to  bed. 

"The  attention,"  said  Mr,  Kenwigs,  looking  round 
with  a  plaintive  air,  "the  attention  that  I've  shown  to 
that  man !  The  hyseters  he  has  eat,  and  the  pints  of 
ah;  he  has  drank,  in  this  house —  !  " 

"It's  very  trying,  and  very  hard  to  bear,  we  know," 
said  one  of  the  married  ladies  ;  "  but  think  of  your  dear 
darling  wife." 

"Oh  yes,  and  what  she's  been  a  undergoing  of,  only 
this  day,"  cried  a  great  many  voices.  "  There's  a  good 
man,  do." 

"The  presents  that  have  been  made  to  him,"  said  Mr. 
Kenwigs,  reverting  to  his  calamity,  "the  pipes,  the 
snuff-boxes — a  pair  of  india-rubber  goloshes,  that  cost 
six  and  six — " 

"  Ah  !  it  won't  bear  thinking  of,  indeed,"  cried  the 
matrons  generally ;  "  but  it'll  all  come  home  to  him, 
never  fear." 

Mr.  Kenwigs  looked  darkly  upon  the  ladies,  as  if  he 
would  prefer  its  all  coming  home  to  Jiim,  as  there  was 
nothing  to  be  got  by  it ;  but  he  said  nothing,  and  resting 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  subsided  into  a  kind  of  doze. 

Then,  the  matrons  again  expatiated  on  the  expediency 
of  taking  the  good  gentleman  to  bed  ;  observing  that  he 
would  be  better  to-morrow,  and  that  they  knew  what 
was  the  wear  and  tear  of  some  men's  minds  when  their 
wives  were  taken  as  Mrs.  Kenwigs  had  been  that  day, 
and  that  it  did  him  great  credit,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of  in  it ;  far  from  it ;  they  liked  to  see  it, 
they  did,  for  it  showed  a  good  heart.  And  one  lady  ob- 
served, as  a  case  bearing  upon  the  present,  that  her  hus- 
band was  often  quite  light-headed  from  anxiety  on  simi- 
lar occasions,  and  that  once,  when  her  little  Johnny  was 
born,  it  was  nearly  a  week  before  he  came  to  himself 
again,  during  the  whole  of  which  time  he  did  nothing 
but  cry  "  Is  it  a  boy,  is  it  a  boy?"  in  a  manner  which 
went  to  the  hearts  of  all  his  hearers. 

At  length,  Morleena  (who  quite  forgot  that  she  had 
fainted,  when  she  found  she  was  not  noticed)  announced 


NICKLEBY,  131 

that  a  chamber  was  ready  for  her  afflicted  parent  ;  and 
Mr,  Kenwigs  having  partially  smothered  his  four  daugh- 
ters in  the  closeness  of  his  embrace,  accepted  the  doc- 
tor's arm  on  one  side,  and  the  support  of  Nicholas  on  the 
other,  and  was  conducted  up-stairs  to  a  bedroom,  which 
had  been  secured  for  the  occasion. 

Having  seen  him  sound  asleep,  and  heard  him  snore 
most  satisfactorily,  and  having  further  presided  over  the 
distribution  of  the  toys,  to  the  perfect  contentment  of  all 
the  little  Kenwigses,  Nicholas  took  his  leave.  The  ma- 
trons dropped  off,  one  by  one,  with  the  exception  of  six 
or  eight  particular  friends,  who  had  determined  to  stop 
all  night ;  the  lights  in  the  houses  gradually  disap- 
peared ;  the  last  bulletin  was  issued  that  Mrs.  Kenwigs 
was  as  well  as  could  be  expected  ;  and  the  whole  family 
were  left  to  their  repose. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Nicholas  finds  further  Favour  in  the  eyes  of  tlie  Brothers  Cheeryhle 
and  Mr.  Timothy  Linkinwater.  The  Brothers  give  a  Banqvet  on 
a  great  annual  occasion.  Nicholas',  on  relurninr}  home  from  it,  re- 
ceives a  mysterious  and  imjx/rtant  Bisdosicre  from  tlie  lips  of  Mrs. 
Nickleby. 

The  Square  in  which  the  counting-house  of  the  broth- 
ers Cheeryble  was  situated,  although  it  might  not  wholly 
realize  the  very  sanguine  expectations  which  a  stranger 
would  be  disposed  to  form  on  hearing  the  fervent  en- 
comiums bestowed  upon  it  by  Tim  Linkinwater,  was, 
nevertheless,  a  sufficiently  desirable  nook  in  the  heart 
of  a  busy  town  like  London,  and  one  which  occupied  a 
high  place  in  the  affectionate  remembrances  of  several 
grave  persons  domiciled  in  the  neighbourhood,  whose 
recollections,  however,  dated  from  a  much  more  recent 
period,  and  whose  attachment  for  the  spot  was  far  less 
absorbing,  than  were  the  recollections  and  attachment 
of  the  enthusiastic  Tim. 

And  let  not  those  whose  eyes  have  been  accustomed 
to  the  aristocratic  gravity  of  Grosvenor  Square  and  Han- 
over Square,  the  dowager  barrenness  and  frigidity  of 
Pitzroy  Square,  or  the  gravel  walks  and  garden  seats  of 
the  Squares  of  Russell  and  Euston,  suppose  that  the  af- 
fections of  Tim  Linkinwater,  or  the  inferior  lovers  of 
this  particular  locality,  had  been  awakened  and  kept 
alive  by  any  refreshing  associations  with  leaves,  how- 
ever dingy,  or  grass,  however  bare  and  thin.  The  City 
square  has  no  inclosure,  save  the  lamp-post  in  the  mid- 
dle :  and  no  grass  but  the  weeds  which  spring  up  round 
its  base.  It  is  a  quiet,  little-frequented,  retired  spot, 
favourable  to  melancholy  and  contemplation,  and  ap- 
pointments of  long- waiting  ;  and  up  and  down  its  every 
side  the  Appointed  saunters  idly  by  the  hour  together 
wakening  the  echoes  with  the  monotonous  sound  of  his 
footsteps  on  the  smooth  worn  stones,  and  counting,  first, 
the  windows,  and  then  the  very  bricks  of  the  tall  silent 
houses  that  hem  him  round  about.  In  winter-time  the 
snow  will  linger  there,  long  after  it  has  melted  from  the 
busy  streets  and  highways.  The  summer's  sun  holds  it 
in  some  respect,  and  while  he  darts  his  cheerful  rays 
sparingly  into  the  square,  keeps  his  fiery  heat  and  glaie 
for  noisier  and  less-imposing  precincts.  It  is  so  quiet 
that  you  can  almost  hear  the  ticking  of  your  own  watch 
when  you  stop  to  cool  in  its  refreshing  atmosphere. 
There  is  a  distant  hum — of  coaches,  not  of  iubects, — but 
no  other  sound  disturbs  the  stillness  of  the  square.  The 
ticket  porter  leans  idly  against  the  post  at  the  corner  . 
comfortably  warm,  but  not  hot,  although  the  day  is  broil- 
ing. His  white  apron  flaps  languidly  in  the  air,  his  head 
gradually  droops  upon  his  breast,  he  takes  very  long 
winks  with  both  eyes  at  once  ;  even  he,  is  unable  to 
withstand  the  soporific  infiuence  of  the  place,  and  is 
gradually  falling  asleep.  But  now,  he  starts  into  full 
wakefulness,  recoils  a  step  or  two,  and  gazes  out  before 
him  with  eager  wildness  in  his  eye.  Is  it  a  job,  or  a  boy 
at  marbles?  Does  he  see  a  ghost,  or  hear  an  organ? 
No ;  sight  more  unwonted  still— there  is  a  butterfly  in 
the  square— a  real,  live  butterfly  !  astray  from  flowers 
and  sweets,  and  fluttering  among  the  iron  heads  of  the 
dusty  area  railings. 

But  if  there  were  not  many  matters  immediately  with- 
out the  doors  of  Cheeryble  Brothers,  to  engage  the  aV. 


132 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


tention  or  distract  the  thoughts  of  the  young  clerk,  there 
were  not  a  few  within,  to  interest  and  amuse  him. 
There  was  scarcely  an  object  in  the  place,  animate  or 
inanimate,  whicli  did  not  partake  in  some  degree  of  the 
scrupulous  method  and  punctuality  of  Mr.  Timothy 
Linkinwater.  Punctual  as  the  counting-house  dial,  which 
he  maintained  to  be  the  best  time-keeper  in  London  next 
after  the  clock  of  some  old,  hidden,  unknown  church 
hard  by,  (for  Tim  held  the  fabled  goodness  of  that  at  the 
Horse  Guards  to  be  a  pleasant  fiction,  invented  by  jeal- 
ous Westenders,)  the  old  clerk  performed  the  minutest  j 
actions  of  the  day,  and  arranged  the  minutest  articles  in 
the  little  room,  in  a  precise  and  regular  order,  which 
could  not  have  been  exceeded  if  it  had  actually  been  a 
real  glass  case,  fitted  with  the  choicest  curiosities.  Paper, 
pens,  ink,  ruler,  sealing-wax,  wafers,  pounce  box,  string- 
box,  fire-box,  Tim's  hat,  Tim's  scrupulously-folded  gloves, 
Tim's  other  coat — looking  precisely  like  a  back  \\ew 
of  himself  as  it  hung  against  the  wall — all  had  their 
accustomed  inches  of  space.  Except  the  clock,  there 
was  not  such  an  accurate  and  unimpeachable  instrument 
in  existence,  as  the  little  thermometer  which  hung  be- 
hind the  door.  There  was  not  a  bird  of  such  methodical 
and  business-like  habits  in  all  the  world,  as  the  blind 
blackbird,  who  dreamed  and  dozed  away  his  days  in  a 
]arge  snug  cage,  and  had  lost  his  voice,  from  old  age, 
years  before  Tim  first  bought  him.  There  was  not  such 
an  eventful  story  in  the  whole  range  of  anecdote,  as  Tim 
could  tell  concerning  the  acquisition  of  tliat  very  bird  ; 
how,  compassionating  his  starved  and  suffering  condition, 
he  had  purchased  him,  with  the  view  of  humanely  ter- 
minating his  wretched  life  ;  how,  he  determined  to  wait 
three  days  and  see  whether  the  bird  revived  ;  how,  be- 
fore half  the  time  was  out,  the  bird  did  revive  ;  and  how 
he  went  on  reviving  and  picking  up  his  appetite  and 
good  looks  until  he  gradually  became  what — "  what  you 
see  him  now,  sir," — Tim  would  say,  glancing  prouldy  at  ' 
the  cage.  And  with  that,  Tim  would  utter  a  melodious  ; 
chirrup,  and  cry  "Dick  ;"  and  Dick,  who,  for  any  sign 
of  life  he  had  previously  given,  miffht  have  been  a 
wooden  or  stuffed  representation  of  a  blackbird  indiffer- 
ently executed,  would  come  to  the  side  of  the  cage  in 
three  small  jumps,  and,  thrusting  his  bill  between  the 
bars,  turn  his  sightless  head  towards  his  old  master — and 
at  that  moment  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  determine 
which  of  the  two  was  the  happier,  the  bird  or  Tim  Link- 
inwater. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Everything  gave  back,  besides,  some 
reflection  of  the  kindly  spirit  of  the  brothers.  The  ware- 
housemen and  porters  were  such  sturdy,  jolly  fellows, 
that  it  was  a  treat  to  see  them.  Among  the  shipping 
announcements  and  steam-packet  lists  which  decorated 
the  counting-house  wall,  were  designs  for  alms-houses, 
statements  of  charities,  and  plans  for  new  hospitals.  A 
blunderbuss  and  two  swords  hung  above  the  chimney- 
piece,  for  the  terror  of  evil-doers,  but  the  blunderbuss 
was  rusty  and  shattered,  and  the  swords  were  broken 
and  edgeless.  Elsewhere,  their  open  display  in  such  a 
condition  would  have  raised  a  smile  ;  but,  there,  it 
seemed  as  though  even  violent  and  offensive  weapons 
partook  of  the  reigning  influence,  and  became  emblems 
of  mercy  and  forbearance. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  occurred  to  Nicholas  very 
strongly  on  the  morning  when  he  first  took  possession  of 
the  vacant  stool,  and  looked  about  him,  more  freely  and 
at  ease,  than  he  had  before  enjoyed  an  opportunity  of 
doing.  Perhaps  they  encouraged  and  stimulated  him  to 
exertion,  for,  during  the  next  two  weeks  all  his  spare 
hours,  late  at  night  and  early  in  the  morning,  were  in- 
cessantly devoted  to  acquiring  the  mysteries  of  book- 
]?eeping  and  some  other  forms  of  mercantile  account.  To 
these,  he  applied  liimself  with  such  steadiness  and  per- 
severance that,  although  he  brought  no  greater  amount 
of  previous  knowledge  to  the  subject  than  certain  dim 
recollections  of  two  or  three  very  long  sums  entered  into 
a  ciphering-book  at  school,  and  relieved  for  parental  in- 
spection by  the  efiigy  of  a  fat  swan  tastefully  flourished 
by  the  writing-master's  own  hand,  lie  found  himself,  at 
the  end  of  a,  fortnight,  in  a  condition  to  report  his  pro- 
ficiency to  Mr.  Linkinwater,  and  to  claim  his  promise 
that  he,  Nicholas  Nickleby,  should  now  be  allowed  to 
assist  him  in  his  graver  labours. 


It  was  a  sight  to  behold  Tim  Linkinwater  slowly  bring' 
out  a  massive  ledger  and  day-book,  and,  after  turning 
them  over  and  over,  and  affectionately  dusting  their 
backs  and  sides,  open  the  leaves  here  an^  there,  and  cast 
his  eyes,  half-mournfuUy,  half-proudly,  upon  the  fair 
and  unblotted  entries. 

Four-and-forty  year,  next  May  I "  said  Tim.  "  Many 
new  ledgers  since  then.    Four-and-forty  year  1 " 

Tim  closed  the  book  again. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Nicholas,  "  I  am  all  impatience 
to  begin." 

Tim  Linkinwater  shook  his  head  with  an  air  of  mild 
reproof.  Mr.  Nickleby  was  not  sufficiently  impressed 
with  the  deep  and  awful  nature  of  his  undertaking. 
Suppose  there  should  be  any  mistake— any  scratching 
out  1 — 

Young  men  are  adventurous.  It  is  extraordinary  what 
they  will  rush  upon  sometimes.  Without  even  taking 
the  precaution  of  sitting  himself  down  upon  his  stool, 
but  standing  leisurely  at  the  desk,  and  with  a  smile 
upon  his  face — actually  a  smile  ;  (there  was  no  mistake 
about  it ;  Mr.  Linkinwater  often  mentioned  it  after- 
wards ;) — Nicholas  dipped  his  pen  into  the  inkstand  be- 
fore him,  and  plunged  into  the  books  of  Cheeryble 
Brothers  1 

Tim  Linkinwater  turned  pale,  and  tilting  up  his  stool 
on  the  two  legs  nearest  Nicholas,  looked  over  his  shoul- 
der in  breathless  anxiety.  Brother  Charles  and  brother 
Ned  entered  the  counting-house  together  ;  but  Tim 
Linkinwater,  without  looking  round,  impatiently  waved 
his  hand  as  a  caution  that  profound  silence  must  be  ob- 
served, and  followed  the  nib  of  the  inexperienced  pen 
with  strained  and  eager  eyes. 

The  brothers  looked  on  with  smiling  faces,  but  Tim 
Linkinwater  smiled  not,  nor  moved  for  some  minutes. 
At  length,  he  drew  a  long  slow  breath,  and  still  main- 
taining his  position  on  the  tilted  stool,  glanced  at 
brother  Charles,  secretly  pointed  with  the  feather  of  his 
pen  towards  Nicholas,  and  nodded  his  head  in  a  grave 
and  resolute  manner,  plainly  signifying  "He'll  do." 

Brother  Charles  nodded  again,  and  exchanged  a 
laughing  look  with  brother  Ned  ;  but,  just  then,  Nicho- 
las stopped  to  refer  to  some  other  page,  and  Tim  Lin- 
kinwater, unable  to  contain  his  satisfaction  any  longer, 
descended  from  his  stool,  and  caught  him  rapturously 
by  the  hand. 

"He  has  done  it  1  "  said  Tim,  looking  round  at  his 
employers  and  shaking  his  head  triumphantly.  "His 
capital  B's  and  D's  are  exactly  like  mine  ;  he  dots  all 
his  small  i's  and  crosses  every  t  as  he  writes  it.  There 
an't  such  a  young  man  as  this  in  all  London,"  said  Tim, 
clapping  Nicholas  on  the  back  ;  "not  one.  Don't  tell 
me  !  The  City  can't  produce  his  equal.  I  challenge  the 
City  to  do  it  I " 

With  this  casting  down  of  his  gauntlet,  Tim  Linkin- 
water struck  the  desk  such  a  blow  with  his  clenched 
fist,  that  the  old  blackbird  tumbled  off  his  perch  with 
the  start  it  gave  him,  and  actually  uttered  a  feeble 
croak,  in  the  extremity  of  his  astonishment. 

"  Well  said,  Tim — well  said,  Tim  Linkinwater  !  '* 
cried  Brother  Charles,  scarcely  less  pleased  than  Tim 
himself,  and  clapping  his  hands  gently  as  he  spoke,  "  I 
knew  our  young  friend  would  take  great  pains,  and  I 
was  quite  certain  he  would  succeed  in  no  time.  Didn't 
I  say  so,  brother  Ned  ?  '* 

"You  did,  my  dear  brother — certainly,  my  dear 
brother,  you  said  so,  and  you  were  quite  right,"  replied 
Ned.  "  Quite  right.  Tim  Linkinwater  is  excited,  but 
he  is  justly  excited,  properly  excited.  Tim  is  a  fine  fel- 
low.   Tim  Linkinwater,  sir — you're  a  fine  fellow." 

"Here's  a  pleasant  thing  to  think  of  1"  said  Tim, 
wholly  regardless  of  this  address  to  himself,  and  raising 
his  spectacles  from  the  ledger  to  the  brothers.  "Here's 
a  pleasant  thing.  Do  you  suppose  I  haven't  often 
thought  what  would  become  of  these  books  when  I  was 
gone?  Do  you  suppose  I  haven't  often  thought  that 
things  might  go  on  irregular  and  untidy  here,  after  I 
was  taken  away?  But  now,"  said  Tim,  extending  his 
fore-finger  towards  Nicholas,  "now,  when  I've  shown 
him  a  little  more,  I'm  satisfied.  The  business  will  go 
on,  when  I'm  dead,  as  well  as  it  did  when  I  was  alive — 
just  the  same  ;  and  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction  of  know- 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


133 


ing  that  there  never  were  such  hooks — never  were  such 
books  I  No,  nor  never  will  be  such  books — as  the  books 
of  Cheery ble  Brothers." 

Having  thus  expressed  his  sentiments,  Mr.  Linkin- 
water  gave  vent  to  a  short  laugh,  indicative  of  defiance 
to  the  cities  of  London  and  Westminster,  and,  turning 
again  to  his  desk,  quietly  carried  seventy-six  from  the 
last  column  he  had  added  up,  and  went  on  with  his 
work. 

**Tim  Linkinwater,  sir,"  said  Brother  Charles  ;  "give 
me  your  hand,  sir.  This  is  yoar  birth- day.  How  dare 
you  talk  about  anything  else  till  you  have  been  wished 
many  happy  returns  of  the  day,  Tim  Linkinwater?  God 
bless  you,  Tim  !    God  bless  you  !  " 

"My  dear  brother,"  said  the  other,  seizing  Tim's  dis- 
engaged fist  ;  "Tim  Linkinwater  looks  ten  years  younger 
than  he  did  on  his  last  birth-day." 

"Brother  Ned,  my  dear  boy,"  returned  the  other  old 
fellow,  "  I  believe  that  Tim  Linkinwater  was  born  a 
hundred-and-fifty  years  old,  and  is  gradually  coming 
down  to  tive-and-twenty ;  for  he's  younger  every  birth- 
day than  he  was  the  year  before." 

"So  he  is,  brother  Charles,  so  he  is,"  replied  brother 
Ned.    "  There's  not  a  doubt  about  it." 

"Remember,  Tim,"  said  brother  Charles,  "that  we 
dine  at  half -past  five  to-day  instead  of  two  o'clock  ;  we 
always  depart  from  our  usual  custom  on  this  anniversary, 
as  you  very  well  know,  Tim  Linkinwater.  Mr.  Nick- 
leby,  my  dear  sir,  you  will  make  one.  Tim  Linkinwater, 
give  me  your  snuff-box  as  a  remembrance  to  brother 
Charles  and  myself  of  an  attached  and  faithful  rascal, 
and  take  that,  in  exchange,  as  a  feeble  mark  of  our  re- 
spect and  esteem,  and  don't  open  it  until  you  go  to  bed, 
and  never  say  another  word  upon  the  subject,  or  I'll  kill 
the  blackbird.  A  dog  !  He  should  have  had  a  golden 
cage  half-a-dozen  years  ago,  if  it  would  have  made  him 
or  his  master  a  bit  the  happier.  Now,  brother  Ned,  my 
dear  fellow,  I'm  ready.  At  half -past  five,  remember, 
Mr.  Nickleby !  Tim  Linkinwater,  sir,  take  care  of  Mr. 
Nickleby  at  half-past  five.    Now,  brother  Ned." 

Chattering  awav  thus,  according  to  custom,  to  prevent 
the  possibility  of  any  thanks  or  acknowledgment  being 
expressed  on  the  other  side,  the  twins  trotted  off,  arm  in 
arm  :  having  endowed  Tim  Linkinwater  with  a  costly 
^old  snuff-box,  inclosing  a  bank-note  worth  more  than 
its  value  ten  times  told. 

At  a  quarter  past  five  o'clock,  punctual  to  the  minute, 
arrived,  according  to  annual  usage,  Tim  Linkinwater's 
sister  ;  and  a  great  to-do  there  was,  between  Tim  Link- 
inwater's sister  and  the  old  housekeeper,  respecting  Tim 
Linkinwater's  sister's  cap,  which  had  been  despatched, 
per  boy,  from  the  house  of  the  family  wheie  Tim  Linkin- 
water's sister  boarded,  and  had  not  yet  come  to  hand  : 
notwithstanding  that  it  had  been  packed  up  in  a  band- 
box, and  the  bandbox  in  a  handkerchief,  and  the  hand- 
kerchief tied  on  to  the  boy's  arm  ;  and  notwithstanding, 
too,  that  the  place  of  its  consie-nment  had  been  duly  set 
forth,  at  full  length,  on  the  back  of  an  old  letter,  and 
the  boy  enjoined,  under  pain  of  divers  horrible  penal- 
ties, the  full  extent  of  which  the  eye  of  man  could  not 
foresee,  to  deliver  the  same  with  all  jmssible  speed,  and 
not  to  loiter  by  the  way.  Tim  Linkinwater's  sister  la- 
mented ;  the  housekeeper  condoled  ;  and  both  kept 
thrusting  their  heads  out  of  the  second-floor  window  to 
see  if  the  boy  was  "  coming," — which  would  have  been 
highly  satisfactory,  and,  upon  the  whole,  tantamount  to 
his  being  come,  as  the  distance  to  the  corner  was  not 
quite  five  yards — when,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  when  he 
was  least  expected,  the  messenger,  carrying  the  band- 
box with  elaborate  caution,  appeared  in  an  exactly  oppo- 
site direction,  puffing  and  panting  for  breath,  and  flushed 
with  recent  exercise  ;  as  well  he  might  be  ;  for  he  had 
taken  the  air,  in  the  first  instance,  behind  a  hackney- 
coach  that  went  to  Camberwell,  and  had  followed  two 
Punches  afterwards,  and  had  seen  the  Stilts  home  to  their 
own  door.  The  cap  was  all  safe,  however — that  was  one 
comfort — and  it  was  no  use  scolding  him — that  was  an- 
other ;  so  the  boy  went  upon  his  way  rejoicing,  and  Tim 
Linkinwater's  sister  presented  herself  to  the  company 
below  stairs,  just  five  minutes  after  the  half-hour  had 
struck  by  Tim  Linkinwater's  own  infallible  clock. 

The  company  consisted  of  the  brothers  Cheeryble, 


Tim  Linkinwater,  a  ruddy-faced  white-headed  friend  of 
Tim's,  (who  was  a  superannuated  bank  clerk)  and  Nicho- 
las, who  was  presented  to  Tim  Linkinwater's  sister  with 
much  gravity  and  solemnity.  The  party  being  now  com- 
pleted, brother  Ned  rang  for  dinner,  and,  dinner  being 
fihortly  afterwards  announced,  led  Tim  Linkinwatei-'s 
sister  into  the  next  room  where  it  was  set  forth  with 
great  preparation.  Then,  brother  Ned  took  the  head  of 
the  table,  and  brother  Charles  the  foot ;  and  Tim  Linkin- 
water's sister  sat  on  the  left-hand  of  brother  Ned,  and 
Tim  Linkinwater  himself  on  his  right  :  and  an  ancient 
butler  of  apoplectic  appearance,  and  with  very  short 
legs,  took  up  his  position  at  the  back  of  brother  Ned's 

j  arm-chair,  and,  waving  his  right  arm  preparatory  to 
taking  off  the  covers  with  a  flourish,  stood  bolt  uj)right 

^  and  motionless. 

j  "For  these  and  all  other  blessings,  brother  Charlc^," 
I  said  Ned. 

j  "Lord,  make  us  truly  thankful,  brother  Ned,"  said 
I  Charles. 

Whereupon  the  apoplectic  butler  whisked  off  the  top 
of  the  soup  tureen,  and  shot,  all  at  once,  into  a  state  of 
violent  activity. 

There  was  abundance  of  conversation,  and  little  fear 
of  its  ever  flagging,  for  the  good-humour  of  the  glorious 
old  twins  drew  everybody  out,  and  Tim  Linkinwater's 
sister  went  off  into  a  long  and  circumstantial  account  of 
Tim  Linkinwater's  infancy,  immediately  after  the  very 
first  glass  of  champagne — taking  care  to  ^jremise  that 
she  was  very  much  Tim's  junior,  and  had  only  become 
acquainted  with  the  facts  from  their  being  preserved 
and  handed  down  in  the  family.    This  history  con- 
cluded, brother  Ned  related  how  that,  exactly  thirty-five 
;  years  ago,  Tim  Linkinw^ater  was  suspected  to  have  re- 
\  ceived  a  love-letter,  and  how  that  vague  information  had 
been  brought  to  the  counting-house  of  his  having  been 
:  seen  walking  down  Cheapside  with  an  uncommonly  hand- 
\  some  spinster  ;  at  which  there  was  a  roar  of  laughter, 
and  Tim  Linkinwater  being  charged  Avith  blushing,  and 
called  upon  to  explain,  denied  that  the  accusation  was 
true  ;  and  further,  that  there  would  have  been  any  hann 
i  in  it  if  it  had  been  ;  which  last  position  occasioned  the 
I  superannuated  bank  clerk  to  laugh  tremendously,  and  to 
I  declare  that  it  was  the  very  best  thing  he  had  ever  heard 
I  in  his  life,  and  that  Tim  Linkinwater  might  say  a  great 
I  many  things  before  he  said  anything  which  would  beat 
I  that. 

j     There  was  one  little  ceremony  peculiar  to  the  day, 
I  both  the  matter  and  manner  of  which  made  a  very  strong 
I  impression  upon  Nicholas.    The  cloth  having  been  re- 
I  moved  and  the  decanters  sent  round  for  the  first  time,  a 
'  profound  silence  succeeded,  and  in  the  cheerful  faces  of 
the  brothers  there  appeared  an  expression,  not  of  abso- 
lute melancholy,  but  of  quiet  thoughtfuluess  very  unu- 
sual at  a  festive  table.    As  Nicholas,  struck  by  this 
sudden  alteration,  was  wondering  what  it  could  portend, 
the  brothers  rose  together,  and  the  one  at  the  top  of.  the 
table  leaning  forward  towards  the  other,  and  speaking 
in  a  low  voice  as  if  he  were  addressing  him  individually, 
said  : 

"Brother  Charles,  my  dear  fellow,  there  is  another 
association  connected  with  this  day  which  must  never  be 
forgotten,  and  never  can  be  forgotten,  by  you  and  me. 
This  day,  which  brought  into  the  world  a  most  faithful 
and  excellent  and  exemplary  fellow,  took  from  it,  the 
kindest  and  very  best  of  parents — the  very  be>t  of  parents 
to  us  both.  I  wish  that  she  could  have  seen  us  in  our 
prosperity,  and  shared  it,  and  had  the  happiness  of  know- 
ing that  we  dearly  loved  her  in  it,  as  we  did  when  we 
were  two  poor  boys — but  that  was  not  to  be.  My  dear 
brother— The  Memory  of  our  Mother." 

"  Good  God  !  "  thought  Nicholas,  "  and  there  are  scores 
of  people  of  their  own  station,  knowing  all  this,  and 
twenty  thousand  times  more,  who  wouldn't  ask  these 
men  to  dinner  because  they  eat  with  their  knives  and 
never  went  to  school  1 " 

But  there  vv^as  no  time  to  moralize,  for  the  joviality 
again  became  very  brisk,  and  the  decanter  of  port  being 
nearly  out.  brother  Ned  palled  the  bell,  which  was  in- 
stantly answered  by  the  apoplectic  butler. 

"  David,"  said  brother  Ned. 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  butler. 


134 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


"  A  magnum  of  the  double-diamond,  David,  to  drink 
the  health  of  Mr.  Linkin water." 

Instantly,  by  a  feat  of  dexterity,  which  was  the  admira- 
tion of  all  the  company,  and  had  been,  annually  for  some 
years  past,  the  apoplectic  butler,  bringing  his  left  hand 
from  behind  the  small  of  his  back  produced  the  bottle 
with  the  corkscrew  already  inserted  ;  uncorked  it  at  a 
jerk  ;  and  placed  the  magnum  and  the  cork  before  his 
master  with  the  dignity  of  conscious  cleverness. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  brother  Ned,  first  examining  the  cork  and 
afterwards  filling  his  glass,  while  the  old  butler  looked 
complacently  and  amiably  on,  as  if  it  were  all  his  own 
property,  but  the  company  were  quite  welcome  to  make 
free  with  it  ;  "  this  looks  well,  David." 

"It  ought  to,  sir,"  replied  David.  "  You'll  be  troubled 
to  find  such  a  glass  of  wine  as  is  our  double-diamond, 
and  that  Mr.  Linkinwater  knows  very  well.  That  was 
laid  down,  when  Mr.  Linkinwater  first  come :  that  wine 
was,  gentlemen." 

"  Nay,  David,  nay,"  interposed  brother  Charles. 

"  I  wrote  the  entiy  in  the  cellar-book  myself,  sir,  if 
you  please,"  said  David,  in  the  tone  of  a  man,  quite  con- 
fident in  the  strength  of  his  facts.  "  Mr.  Linkinwater 
had  only  been  here  twenty  year,  sir,  when  that  pipe  of 
double-diamond  was  laid  down." 

"David  is  quite  right — quite  right,  brother  Charles," 
said  Ned  :  "  are  the  people  here,  David  ?  " 

"  Outside  the  door,  sir,"  replied  the  butler. 

"  Show  'em  in,  David,  show  'em  in." 

At  this  bidding,  the  old  butler  placed  before  his  mas- 
ter a  small  tray  of  clean  glasses,  and  opening  the  door 
admitted  the  jolly  porters  and  warehousemen  whom 
Nicholas  had  seen  below.  They  were  four  in  all,  and 
as  they  came  in,  bowing,  and  grinning,  and  blushing, 
the  housekeeper,  and  cook,  and  housemaid,  brought  up 
the  rear. 

"  Seven,"  said  brother  Ned,  filling  a  corresponding 
number  of  glasses  with  the  double-diamond,  "  and  David 
eight— There  !  Now,  you're  all  of  you  to  drink  the 
health  of  your  best  friend  Mr.  Timothy  Linkinwater, 
and  wish  him  health  and  long  life  and  many  happy  re- 
turns of  this  day,  both  for  his  own  sake  and  that  of  your 
old  masters,  who  consider  him  an  inestimable  treasure. 
Tim  Linkinwater,  sir,  your  health.  Devil  take  you, 
Tim  Linkinwater,  sir,  God  bless  you." 

With  this  singular  contradiction  of  terms,  brother  Ned 
gave  Tim  Linkinwater  a  slap  on  the  back,  which  made 
him  look,  for  the  moment,  almost  as  apoplectic  as  the 
butler  ;  and  tossed  off  the  contents  of  his  glass  in  a  twink- 
ling. 

The  toast  was  scarcely  drunk  with  all  honour  to  Tim 
Linkinwater,  when  the  sturdiest  and  jolliest  subordinate 
elbowed  himself  a  little  in  advance  of  his  fellows,  and 
exhibiting  a  very  hot  and  flushed  countenance,  pulled  a 
single  lock  of  grey  hair  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead  as 
a  respectful  salute  to  the  company,  and  delivered  him 
self  as  follows — rubbing  the  palms  of  his  hands  very 
hard  on  a  blue  cotton  handkerchief  as  he  did  so  : 

"  We're  allowed  to  take  a  liberty  once  a  year,  gen'le- 
men,  and  if  you  please  we'll  take  it  now  ;  there  being 
no  time  like  the  present,  and  no  two  birds  in  the  hand 
worth  one  in  the  bush,  as  is  well  known — leastways  in  a 
contrairy  sense,  which  the  meaning  is  the  same.  (A 
pause — the  butler  unconvinced. )  What  we  mean  to  say 
is,  that  there  never  was  (looking  at  the  butler) — such — 
(looking  at  the  cook)  noble — excellent — (looking  every- 
where and  seeing  nobody)  free,  generous  spirited  mas- 
ters as  them  as  has  treated  us  so  handsome  this  day. 
And  here's  thanking  of  'em  for  all  their  goodness  as  is 
so  constancy  a  diffusing  of  itself  over  everywhere,  and 
wisliing  they  may  live  long  and  die  happy  ! " 

When  the  foregoing  speech  was  over — and  it  might 
have  been  much  more  elegant  and  much  less  to  the  pur- 
pose— the  whole  body  of  subordinates  under  command 
of  the  apoplectic  butler  gave  three  soft  cheers  ;  which, 
to  that  gentleman's  great  indignation,  were  not  very 
regular,  inasmuch  as  the  women  persisted  in  giving  an 
immense  number  of  little  shrill  hurrahs  among  them- 
selves, in  utter  disregard  of  the  time.  This  done,  they 
withdrew  ;  shortly  afterwards,  Tim  Linkinwater's  sister 
withdrew  ;  in  reasonable  time  after  that,  the  sitting  was 
broken  up  for  tea  and  coffee,  and  a  round  game  of  cards. 


At  half-past  ten — late  hours  for  the  square — there  ap- 
peared a  little  tray  of  sandwiches  and  a  bowl  of  bishop, 
which  bishop  coming  on  the  top  of  the  double-diamond, 
and  other  excitements,  had  such  an  effect  upon  Tim 
Linkinwater,  that  he  drew  Nicholas  aside,  and  gave  him 
to  understand,  confidentially,  that  it  was  quite  true 
about  the  uncommonly  handsome  spinster,  and  that  she 
was  to  the  full  as  good-looking  as  she  had  been  de- 
scribed— more  so,  indeed — but  that  she  was  in  too  much 
of  a  hurry  to  change  her  condition,  and  consequently, 
while  Tim  was  courting  her  and  thinking  of  changing 
his,  got  married  to  somebody  else.  "After  all,  I  dare 
say  it  was  my  fault,"  said  Tim.  "  I'll  show  you  a  print 
I  have  got  up-stairs,  one  of  these  days.  It  cost  me  five- 
and-twenty  shillings.  I  bought  it,  soon  after  we  were 
cool  to  each  other.  Don't  mention  it,  but  it's  the  most 
extraordinary  accidental  likeness  you  ever  saw — her  very 
portrait,  sir ! " 

By  this  time  it  was  past  eleven  o'clock  ;  and  Tim 
Linkinwater's  sister  declaring  that  she  ought  to  have 
been  at  home  a  full  hour  ago,  a  coach  was  procured,  into 
which  she  was  handed  with  great  ceremony  by  brother 
Ned,  while  brother  Charles  imparted  the  fullest  direc- 
tions to  the  coachman,  and,  besides  paying  the  man  a 
shilling  over  and  above  his  fare,  in  order  that  he  might 
take  the  utmost  care  of  the  lady,  ail  but  choked  him 
with  a  glass  of  spirits  of  uncommon  strength,  and  then 
nearly  knocked  all  the  breath  out  of  his  body  in  his  en- 
ergetic endeavours  to  knock  it  in  again. 

At  length  the  coach  rumbled  off,  and  Tim  Linkin- 
water's sister  being  now  fairly  on  her  way  home,  Nicho- 
las and  Tim  Linkinwater's  friend  took  their  leaves  to- 
gether, and  left  old  Tim  and  the  worthy  brothers  to  their 
repose. 

As  Nicholas  had  some  distance  to  walk,  it  was  consid- 
erably past  midnight  by  the  time  he  reached  home, 
where  he  found  his  mother  and  Smike  sitting  up  to  re- 
ceive him.  It  was  long  after  their  usual  hour  of  retir- 
ing, and  they  had  expected  him,  at  the  very  latest,  two 
hours  ago  ;  but  the  time  had  not  hung  heavily  on  their 
hands,  for  Mrs.  Nickleby  had  entertained  Smike  with  a 
genealogical  account  of  her  family  by  the  mother's  side, 
comprising  biographical  sketches  of  the  principal  mem- 
bers, and  Smike  had  sat  wondering  what  it  was  all 
about,  and  whether  it  was  learnt  from  a  book,  or  said 
out  of  Mrs.  Nickleby's  own  head  ;  so  that  they  got  on 
together  very  pleasantly. 

Nicholas  could  not  go  to  bed  without  expatiating  on 
the  excellences  and  munificence  of  the  Brothers  Cheery- 
ble,  and  relating  the  great  success  which  had  attended 
his  efforts  that  day.  But  before  he  had  said  a  dozen 
words,  Mrs.  Nickleby,  with  many  sly  winks  and  nods, 
observed,  that  she  was  sure  Mr,  Smike  must  be  quite 
tired  out,  and  that  she  positively  must  insist  on  his  not 
sitting  up  a  minute  longer. 

'*A  most  biddable  creature  he  is,  to  be  sure,"  said 
Mrs,  Nickleby,  when  Smike  had  wished  them  good  night 
and  left  the  room.  ' '  I  know  you'll  excuse  me,  Nicholas, 
my  dear,  but  I  don't  like  to  do  this  before  a  third  person  ; 
indeed,  before  a  young  man  it  would  not  be  quite  proper, 
though  really,  after  all,  I  don't  know  what  harm  there 
is  in  it,  except  that  to  be  sure  it's  not  a  very  becoming 
thing,  though  some  people  say  it  is  very  much  so,  and 
really  I  don't  know  why  it  should  not  be,  if  it's  well  got 
up,  and  the  borders  are  small-plaited  ;  of  course  a  good 
deal  depends  upon  that." 

With  which  preface,  Mrs,  Nickleby  took  her  night-cap 
from  between  the  leaves  of  a  very  large  prayer-book 
where  it  had  been  folded  up  small,  and  proceeded  to  tie 
it  on  :  talking  away,  in  her  usual  discursive  manner,  all 
the  time. 

"People  may  say  what  they  like,"  observed  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  "  but  there's  a  great  deal  of  comfort  in  a  night- 
cap, as  I'm  sure  you  would  confess,  Nicholas  my  dear, 
if  you  would  only  have  strings  to  yours,  and  wear  it  like 
a  Christian,  instead  of  sticking  it  upon  the  very  top  of  your 
head  like  a  blue-coat  boy.  You  needn't  think  it  an  un- 
manly or  quizzical  thing  to  be  particular  about  your 
night-cap,  for  I  have  often  beard  your  poor  dear  papa, 
and  the  reverend  Mr.  what's  his  name,  who  used  to  read 
the  prayers  in  that  old  church  with  the  curious  little  stee- 
ple that  the  weathercock  was  blown  off  the  night  week 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


135 


l)efore  you  were  born, — I  have  often  heard  them  say, 
that  the  young  men  at  college  are  uncommonly  particu- 
lar about  their  night-caps,  and  that  the  Oxford  night- 
caps are  quite  celebrated  for  their  .strength  and  good- 
ness ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  the  young  men  never 
•  dream  of  going  to  bed  without  'em,  and  I  believe  it's  ad- 
mitted on  all  hands  that  they  know  what's  good,  and 
don't  coddle  themselves." 

Nicholas  laughed,  and  entering  no  further  into  the 
subject  of  this  lengthened  harangue,  reverted  to  the  pleas- 
ant tone  of  the  little  birth-day  party.  And  as  Mrs. 
Nickleby  instantly  became  very  curious  respecting  it, 
and  made  a  great  number  of  inquiries  touching  what 
they  had  had  for  dinner,  and  how  it  was  put  on 
table,  and  whether  it  was  overdone  or  underdone,  and 
who  was  there,  and  what  the  Mr.  Cherry bles"  said, 
and  what  Nicholas  said,  and  what  the  Mr.  Cherrybles 
said  when  he  said  that ;  Nicholas  described  the  festivi- 
ties at  full  length,  aud  also  the  occurrences  of  the  morn- 
ing. 

"  Late  as  it  is,"  said  Nicholas,  "  I  am  almost  selfish 
enough  to  wish  that  Kate  had  been  up  ;  to  hear  all  this. 
I  was  all  impatience,  as  I  came  along,  to  tell  her." 

"  Why,  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  putting  her  feet 
upon  the  fender,  and  drawing  her  chair  close  to  it,  as  if 
settling  herself  for  a  long  talk.  "  Kate  has  been  in  bed 
— oh  !  a  couple  of  hours — and  I'm  very  glad,  Nicholas 
my  dear,  that  I  prevailed  upon  her  not  to  sit  up,  for  I 
wished  very  much  to  have  an  opportunity  of  saying  a 
few  words  to  you.  I  am  naturally  anxious  about  it,  and 
of  course  it's  a  very  delightful  and  consoling  thing  to 
have  a  grown-up  son  that  one  can  put  confidence  in,  and 
advise  with — indeed  I  don't  know  any  use  there  would 
be  in  having  sons  at  all,  unless  people  could  put  confi- 
dence in  them." 

Nicholas  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sleepy  yawn,  as 
his  mother  began  to  speak  :  and  looked  at  her  with  fixed 
attention. 

There  was  a  lady  in  our  neighbourhood,"  said  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  "  speaking  of  sons  puts  me  in  mind  of  it — a 
lady  in  our  neighbourhood  when  we  lived  near  Dawlish, 
I  think  her  name  was  Rogers  ;  indeed  I  am  sure  it  was 
if  it  wasn't  Murphy,  which  is  the  only  doubt  I  have — " 

"Is  it  about  her,  mother,  that  you  wish  to  speak  to 
me  1 "  said  Nicholas  quietly. 

"  About  her  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby.  *'  Good  gracious, 
Nicholas,  my  dear,  how  can  you  be  so  ridiculous  !  But 
that  was  always  the  way  with  your  poor  dear  papa, — 
just  his  way,  always  wandering,  never  able  to  fix  his 
thoughts  on  anyone  subject  for  two  minutes  together.  I 
think  I  see  him  now  ! "  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  wiping  her 
eyes,  "looking  at  me  while  I  was  talking  to  him  about 
his  affairs,  just  as  if  his  ideas  were  in  a  state  of  perfect 
conglomeration  !  Anybody  who  had  come  in  upon  us 
suddenly,  would  have  supposed  I  was  confusing  and  dis- 
tracting him  instead  of  making  things  plainer  ;  upon  my 
word  they  would." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  mother,  that  I  should  inherit  this 
unfortunate  slowness  of  apprehension,"  said  Nicholas, 
kindly  ;  "  but  I'll  do  my  best  to  understand  you,  if  you'll 
only  go  straight  on  :  indeed  I  will." 

"Your  poor  papa!"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  pondering, 
"  He  never  knew,  'till  it  was  too  late,  what  I  would  have 
had  him  do  ! " 

This  was  undoubtedly  the  case,  inasmuch  as  the  de- 
ceased Mr.  Nickleby  had  not  arrived  at  the  knowledge 
when  he  died.  Neither  had  Mrs.  Nickleby  herself ; 
which  is,  in  some  sort,  an  explanation  of  the  circum- 
stance. 

"However,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  drying  her  tears, 
"  this  has  nothing  to  do— -certainly,  nothing  whatever  to  ; 
do — with  the  gentleman  in  the  next  house."  | 

"I  should  suppose  that  the  gentleman  in  the  next 
house  has  as  little  to  do  with  us,"  returned  Nicholas.  j 

"There  can  be  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  that 
he  M  a  gentleman,  and  has  the  manners  of  a  gentleman, 
and  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman,  although  he  does  i 
wear  smalls  and  grey  worsted  stockings.  That  may  be 
eccentricity,  or  he  may  be  proud  of  his  legs.  I  don't  see 
why  he  shouldn't  be.  The  Prince  Regent  was  proud  of 
his  legs,  and  so  was  Daniel  Lambert,  who  was  also  a  fat 
Dfian  ;  he  was  proud  of  his  legs.    So  was  Miss  Biffin  :  she  I 


was — no,"  added  Mrs.  Nickleby,  correcting  herself,  "I 
think  she  had  only  toes,  but  the  principle  is  the  same." 

Nicholas  looked  on,  quite  amazed  at  the  introduction 
of  this  new  theme.  Which  seemed  just  what  Mrs. 
Nickleby  had  expected  him  to  be. 

"  You  may  well  be  surprised,  Nicholas,  my  dear,"  she 
said,  "  I  am  sure  /  was.    It  came  upon  me  like  a  flash 
of  fire,  and  almost  froze  my  blood.    The  bottom  of  his 
garden  joins  the  bottom  of  ours,  and  of  course  I  had 
j  several  times  seen  him  sitting  among  the  scarlet- beans 
I  in  his  little  arbour,  or  working  at  his  little  hot-beds.  I 
I  used  to  think  he  stared  rather,  but  I  didn't  take  any  par- 
j  ticular  notice  of  that,  as  we  were  new-comers,  and  he 
I  might  be  curious  to  see  what  we  were  like.    But  when 
he  began  to  throw  his  cucumbers  over  our  wall — " 
j     "To  throw  his  cucumbers  over  our  wall  !  "  repeated 
j  Nicholas,  in  great  astonishment. 

j  "Yes,  Nicholas,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby  in  a 
very  serious  tone  ;  "  his  cucumbers  over  our  wall.  And 
vegetable-marrows  likewise." 

"  Confound  his  impudence  !"  said  Nicholas,  firing  im- 
mediately.   "  What  does  he  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  means  it  impertinently  at  all,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  What  !  "  said  Nicholas,  "  cucumbers  and  vegetable- 
marrows  flying  at  the  heads  of  the  family  as  they  walk 
in  their  own  garden,  and  not  meant  impertinently  ! 
Why,  mother — " 

Nicholas  stopped  short  ;  for  there  was  an  indescribable 
expression  of  placid  triumph,  mingled  with  a  modest 
confusion,  lingering  between  the  borders  of  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby's  nightcap  which  arrested  his  attention  suddenly. 

"  He  must  be  a  very  weak,  and  foolish,  and  inconsider- 
ate man,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby;  "blameable  indeed — at 
least  I  suppose  other  people  would  consider  him  so  ;  of 
course  I  can't  be  expected  to  express  any  opinion  on  that 
point,  especially  after  always  defending  your  poor  dear 
papa  when  other  people  blamed  him  for  making  propo- 
sals to  me  ;  and  to  be  sure  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
he  has  taken  a  very  singular  way  of  showing  it.  Still 
at  the  same  time,  his  attentions  are — that  is,  as  far  as  it 
goes,  and  to  a  certain  extent  of  course — a  flattering  sort 
of  thing  ;  and  although  I  should  never  dream  of  marry- 
ing again  with  a  dear  girl  like  Kate  still  unsettled  in 
life—" 

"  Surely,  mother,  such  an  idea  never  entered  your 
brain  for  an  instant  !  "  said  Nicholas. 

"  Bless  my  heart,  Nicholas  my  dear,"  returned  his 
mother  in  a  peevish  tone,  "  isn't  that  precisely  what  I 
am  saying  if  you  would  only  let  me  speak  ?  Of  course, 
I  never  gave  it  a  second  thought,  and  I  am  surprised  and 
astonished  that  you  should  suppose  me  capable  of  such  a 
thing.  All  I  say  is,  what  step  is  the  best  to  take,  so  as 
to  reject  these  advances  civilly  and  delicately,  and  without 
hurting  his  feelings  too  much,  and  driving  him  to  de- 
spair, or  anything  of  that  kind  ?  My  goodness  me  !  "  ex- 
claimed Miss  Nickleby,  with  a  half  simper,  "  suppose 
he  was  to  go  doing  anything  rash  to  himself.  Could  I 
ever  be  happy  again  Nicholas  ?  " 

Despite  his  vexation  and  concern,  Nicholas  could 
scarcely  help  smiling,  as  he  rejoined,  "  Now,  do  you 
think,  mother,  that  such  a  result  would  be  likely  to  en- 
sue from  the  most  cruel  repulse  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,  I  don't  know,"  returned 
Mrs.  Nickleby  ;  "  really,  I  don't  know.  I  am  sure  there 
was  a  case  in  the  day  before  yesterday's  paper,  extracted 
from  one  of  the  French  newspapers,  about  a  jourDevman 
shoemaker  who  was  jealous  of  a  young  girl  in  an  adjoin- 
ing village,  because  she  wouldn't  shut  herself  up  in  an 
air-tight  three-pair-of  stairs,  and  charcoal  herself  to 
death  with  him  ;  and  who  went  and  hid  himself  in  a 
Wood  with  a  sharp-pointed  knife,  and  rushed  out,  as 
she  was  passing  by  with  a  few  friends,  and  killed  him- 
self first,  and  then  all  the  friends,  and  then  her— no, 
killed  all  the  friends  first,  and  then  herself,  and  then 
hims,e\t — which  it  is  quite  frightful  to  think  of  Some- 
how or  other,"  added  Mrs.  Nickleby,  after  a  momentary 
pause,  "they  always  are  journeymen  shoemakers  who 
do  these  thing  in  France,  according  to  the  papers.  I 
don't  know  how  it  is — something  in  the  leather,  I  sup- 
pose. " 

"  But  this  man,  who  is  not  a  shoemaker — what  has  he 


13B 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


done,  mother,  what  ha^  he  said  ? "  inquired  Nicholas, 
fretted  almost  beyond  endurance,  but  looking  nearly  as 
resigned  and  patient  as  Mrs.  Nickleby  herself,  "You 
know,  there  is  no  language  of  vegetables,  which  con- 
verts a  cucumber  into  a  formal  declaration  of  attach- 
ment." 

"My  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby,  tossing  her  head 
and  looking  at  the  ashes  in  the  grate,  ' '  he  has  done  and 
said  all  sorts  of  things." 

" Is  there  no  mistake  on  your  part?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"  Mistake  !"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  Lord,  Nicholas 
my  dear,  do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  when  a  man's  in 
earnest  ?  " 

"  Well,  well  !  "  muttered  Nicholas. 

"  Every  time  I  go  to  the  window,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
"  he  kisses  one  hand,  and  lays  the  other  upon  his  heart 
— of  course  it's  very  foolish  of  him  to  do  so,  and  I  dare 
say  you'll  say  it's  very  wrong,  but  he  does  it  very  re- 
spectfully—very respectfully  indeed — and  very  tenderly, 
extremely  tenderly.  So  far,  he  deserves  the  greatest 
credit ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  that.  Then,  there 
are  the  presents  which  come  pouring  over  the  wall  every 
day,  and  very  fine  they  certainly  are,  very  fine  ;  we  had 
one  of  the  cucumbers  at  dinner  yesterday,  and  think  of 
pickling  the  rest  for  next  winter.  And  last  evening," 
added  Mrs.  Nickleby,  with  increased  confusion,  "he  | 
called  gently  over  the  wall,  as  I  was  walking  in  the  gar- 
den, and  proposed  marriage,  and  an  elopement.  His 
voice  is  as  clear  as  a  bell  or  musical  glass — very  like  a 
musical  gless  indeed — but  of  course  I  didn't  listen  to  it. 
Then,  the  question  is,  Nicholas  my  dear,  what  am  I  to 
do?" 

"Does  Kate  know  of  this  ?"  asked  Nicholas. 
'*  I  have  not  said  a  word  about  it  yet,"  answered  his 
mother. 

"Then,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  rejoined  Nicholas,  rising, 
"do  not,  for  it  would  make  her  very  unhappy.  And 
with  regard  to  what  you  should  do,  my  dear  mother,  do 
what  your  good  sense  and  feeling,  and  respect  for  my 
father's  memory,  would  prompt.  There  are  a  thousand 
ways  in  which  you  can  show  your  dislike  of  these  pre- 
posterous and  doting  attentions.  If  you  act  as  decidedly 
as  you  ought  and  they  are  still  continued,  and  to  your 
annoyance,  I  can  speedily  put  a  stop  to  them.  But  I 
should  not  interfere  in  a  matter  so  ridiculous,  and  attach 
importance  to  it,  until  you  have  vindicated  yourself. 
Most  women  can  do  that,*  but  especially  one  of  your  age 
and  condition,  in  circumstances  like  these,  which  are  un- 
worthy of  a  serious  thought.  I  would  not  shame  you  by 
seeming  to  take  them  to  heart,  or  treat  them  earnestly 
for  an  instant.    Absurd  old  idiot  !" 

So  saying,  Nicholas  kissed  his  mother,  and  bade  her 
good  night,  and  they  retired  to  their  respective  chambers.  | 

To  do  Mrs.  Nickleby  justice,  her  attachment  to  her  | 
children  would  have  prevented  her  seriously  contem- 
plating a  second  marriage,  even  if  she  could  have  so  far 
conquered  her  recollections  of  her  late  husband  as  to 
have  any  strong  inclinations  that  way.  But,  although 
there  was  no  evil  and  little  real  selfishness  in  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby's  heart,  she  had  a  weak  head  and  a  vain  one  ;  and 
there  was  something  so  flattering  in  being  sought  (and 
vainly  sought)  in  marriage  at  this  time  of  day,  that  she 
could  not  dismiss  the  passion  of  the  unknown  gentleman, 
quite  so  summarily  or  lightly,  as  Nicholas  appeared  to 
deem  becoming. 

"  As  to  its  being  preposterous,  and  doting,  and  ridicu- 
lous," thought  Mrs.  Nickleby,  communing  with  herself 
in  her  own  room,  "  I  don't  see  that,  at  all.  It's  hopeless 
on  his  part,  certainly  ;  but  why  he  should  be  an  absurd 
old  idiot,  I  confess  I  don't  see.  He  is  not  to  be  supposed 
to  know  it's  hopeless.  Poor  fellow  !  He  is  to  be  pitied, 
/think  !" 

Having  made  these  reflections,  Mrs.  Nickleby  looked 
in  her  little  dressing-glass,  and,  walking  backward  a 
few  steps  from  it,  tried  to  remember  who  it  was  who 
used  to  say  that  when  Nicholas  was  one-and-twenty  he 
would  have  more  the  appearance  of  her  brother,  than 
her  son.  Not  being  able  to  call  the  authority  to  mind, 
she  extinguished  her  candle,,  and  drew  up  the  window- 
blind  to  admit  the  light  of  morning,  which  had,  by  this 
tinie,  begun  to  dawn.  "It's  a  bad  light  to  distinguish 
objects  in,"  murmured  Mrs.  Nickleby,  peering  into  the 


garden,  "  and  my  eyes  are  not  ver}'-  good— I  was  short- 
sighted from  a  child — but,  upon  my  word,  I  think  there's 
another  large  vegetable  marrow  sticking,  at  this  moment, 
on  the  broken  glass  bottles  at  the  top  of  the  wall  1 " 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Comprifes  certain  Particulars  arising  out  of  a  Visit  of  Condolence, 
which  may  prove  important  hereafter.  Smike  unexpectedly  encoun- 
ters a  very  old  Friend^  who  invites  him  to  his  lumse,  and  will  take 
no  denial. 

Quite  unconscious  of  the  demonstrations  of  their  am- 
orous neighbor,  or  their  etfects  upon  the  susceptible 
bosom  of  her  mamma,  Kate  Nickleby  had,  by  this  time, 
begun  to  enjoy  a  settled  feeling  of  tranquillity  and  hap- 
piness, to  which,  even  in  occasional  and  transitory  glimp- 
ses, she  had  long  been  a  stranger.  Living  uiider  the 
same  roof  with  the  beloved  brother  from  whom  she  had 
been  so  suddenly  and  hardly  separated  :  with  a  mind  at 
ease,  and  free  from  any  persecutions  which  could  call  a 
blush  into  her  cheek,  or  a  pang  into  her  heart  :  she 
seemed  to  have  passed  into  a  new  state  of  being.  Her 
former  cheerfulness  was  restored,  her  step  regained  its 
elasticity  and  lightness,  the  colour  which  had  forsaken 
her  cheek  visited  it  once  again,  and  Kate  Nickleby 
looked  more  beautiful  than  ever. 

Such  was  the  result  to  which  Miss  La  Creevy's  rumi- 
nations and  observations  led  her,  when  the  cottage  had 
been,  as  she  emphatically  said,  "  thoroughly  got  to 
rights,  from  the  chimney-pots  to  the  street-door  scraper," 
and  the  busy  little  woman  had  at  length  a  moment's  time 
to  think  about  its  inmates. 

"  Which  I  declare  I  haven't  had  since  I  first  came  down 
here,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy  ;  "  for  I  have  thought  of 
nothing  but  hammers,  nails,  screw-drivers,  and  gimlets, 
morning,  noon,  and  night." 

"  You  never  bestow  one  thought  upon  yourself,  I  be- 
lieve," returned  Kate,  smiling. 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,  when  there  are  so  many 
pleasanter  things  to  think  of,  I  should  be  a  goose  if  I 
did,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  By  the  bye,  I  hme  thought 
of  somebody  too.  Do  you  know,  that  I  observe  a  great 
change  in  one  of  this  family — a  very  extraordinary 
change?" 

"In  whom?"  asked  Kate,  anxiously.    "Not  in — " 

"Not  in  your  brother,  my  dear,"  returned  Miss  La 
Creevy,  anticipating  the  close  of  the  sentence,  "for  he  is 
always  the  same  affectionate  good-natured  clever  crea- 
ture, with  a  spice  of  the — I  won't  say  who — in  him  when 
there's  any  occasion,  that  he  was  when  I  first  knew  you. 
No.  Smike,  as  he  will  be  called,  poor  fellow  !  for  he 
won't  hear  of  a  Mr.  before  his  name,  is  greatly  altered, 
even  in  this  short  time." 

' '  How  ?  "  asked  Kate.    "  Not  in  health  ?  " 

"N-n-o  ;  perhaps  not  in  health  exactly,"  said  Miss  La 
Creevy,  pausing  to  consider,  "  although  he  is  a  worn  and 
feeble  creature,  and  has  that  in  his  face  which  it  would 
wring  my  heart  to  see  in  yours.    No  ;  not  in  health." 

"How  then?" 

"  I  scarcely  know,"  said  the  miniature-painter.  "  But 
I  have  watched  him,  and  he  has  brought  the  tears  into 
my  eyes  many  times.  It  is  not  a  very  difficult  matter  to 
do  that,  certainly,  for  I  am  easily  melted  ;  still  I  think 
these  came  with  good  cause  and  reason.  I  am  sure  that 
since  he  has  been  here,  he  has  grown,  from  some  strong 
cause,  more  conscious  of  his  weak  intellect.  He  feels  it 
more.  It  gives  him  greater  pain  to  know  that  he  wanders 
sometimes,  and  cannot  understand  very  simple  things. 
I  have  watched  him  when  you  have  not  been  by,  niy 
dear,  sit  brooding  by  himself,  with  such  a  look  of  paiiJ 
as  I  could  scarcely  bear  to  see,  and  then  get  up  and  leave 
the  room  :  so  sorrowfully,  and  in  such  dejection,  that  1 
cannot  tell  you  how  it  has  hurt  me.  Not  three  weeks 
ago,  he  was  a  light-hearted  busy  creature,  overjoyed  to 
be  in  a  bustle,  and  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long.  NoWi 
he  is  another  being — the  same  willing,  harmless,  faith- 
ful, loving  creature — but  the  same  in  nothing  else." 

"  Surely  this  will  all  pass  off,"  said  Fate.  "Poor  fel- 
low ! " 

"I  hope,"  returned  her  little  friend,  with  a  gravity 


NICHOLAS 

very  unusual  in  her,  "it  may  I  hope,  for  the  sake  of 
that  poor  lad,  it  may.  However,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy, 
relapsing  into  the  cheerful,  chattering  tone,  which  was 
habitual  to  her,  "I  have  said  my  sa}^  and  a  very  long 
say  it  is,  and  a  very  wrong  say  too,  I  shouldn't  wonder  at 
all.  I  shall  cheer  him  up  to-night,  at  all  events,  for  if 
he  is  to  be  my  squire  all  the  way  to  the  Strand,  I  shall 
talk  on,  and  on,  and  on,  and  never  leave  off,  till  I  have 
roused  him  into  a  laugh  at  something.  So  the  sooner  he 
goes,  the  better  for  him,  and  the  sooner  I  go,  the  better 
for  me,  I  am  sure,  or  else  I  shall  have  my  maid  gallivant- 
ing with  somebody  who  may  rob  the  house — though 
what  there  is  to  take  away,  besides  tables  and  chairs, 
I  don't  know,  except  the  miniatures  :  and  ho  is  a  clever 
thief  who  can  dispose  of  them  to  any  great  advantage, 
for  /can't,  I  know,  and  that's  the  honest  truth." 

So  saying,  little  Miss  La  Creevy  hid  her  face  in  a  very 
flat  bonnet,  and  herself  in  a  very  big  shawl ;  and  fixing 
herself  tightly  into  the  latter,  by  means  of  a  large  pin, 
declared  that  the  omnibus  might  come  as  soon  as  it 
pleased,  for  she  was  quite  ready. 

But  there  was  still  Mrs.  Nickleby  to  take  leave  of  ; 
and  long  before  that  good  lady  had  concluded  some  rem- 
iniscences, bearing  upon,  and  appropriate  to,  the  occasion, 
the  omnibus  arrived.  This  put  Miss  La  Creevy  in  a 
great  bustle,  in' consequence  whereof,  as  she  secretly  re- 
warded the  servant-girl  with  eigh teen-pence  behind  the 
street-door,  she  pulled  out  of  her  reticule  ten-penny- 
worth of  halfpence,  which  rolled  into  all  possible  cor- 
ners of  the  passage,  and  occupied  some  considerable  time 
in  the  picking  up.  This  ceremony,  had,  of  course,  to  be 
succeeded  by  a  second  kissing  of  Kate  and  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
and  a  gathering  together  of  the  little  basket  and  the 
brown  paper  parcel,  during  which  proceedings,  "  the 
omnibus,"  as  Miss  La  Creevy  protested,  "  swore  so  dread- 
fully, that  it  was  quite  awful  to  hear  it."  At  length  and 
at  last,  it  made  a  feint  of  going  away,  and  then  Miss  La 
Creevy  darted  out,  and  darted  in,  apologising  with  great 
volubility  to  all  the  passengers,  and  declaring  that  she 
wouldn't  purposely  have  kept  them  waiting  on  any  ac- 
count whatever.  While  she  was  looking  about  for  a 
convenient  seat,  the  conductor  pushed  Smike  in,  and 
cried  that  it  was  all  right — though  it  wasn't — and  away 
went  the  huge  vehicle,  with  the  noise  of  half  a  dozen 
brewers'  drays  at  least. 

Leaving  it  to  pursue  its  journey  at  the  pleasure  of  the 
conductor  aforementioned,  who  lounged  gracefully  on 
his  little  shelf  behind,  smoking  an  odoriferous  cigar  ; 
and  leaving  it  to  stop,  or  go  on,  or  gallop,  or  crawl,  as 
that  gentleman  deemed  expedient  and  advisable  ;  this 
narrative  may  embrace  the  opportunity  of  ascertaining 
the  condition  of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  and  to  what  extent 
he  had,  by  this  time,  recovered  from  the  injuries  conse- 
quent on  being  flung  violently  from  his  cabriolet  under 
the  circumstances  already  detailed. 

With  a  shattered  limb,  a  body  severely  bruised,  a  face 
disfigured  by  half -healed  scars,  and  pallid  from  the  ex- 
haustion of  recent  pain  and  fever.  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk 
lay  stretched  upon  his  back,  on  the  couch  to  which  he 
was  doomed  to  be  a  prisoner  for  some  weeks  yet  to  come. 
Mr.  Pyke  and  Mr  Pluck  sat  drinking  hard  in  the  next 
room,  now  and  then  varying  the  monotonous  murmurs 
of  their  conversation  with  a  half-smothered  laugh,  while 
the  young  lord — the  only  member  of  the  party  who  was 
not  thoroughly  irredeemable,  and  who  really  had  a  kind 
heart — sat  beside  his  Mentor,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
and  read  to  him,  by  the  light  of  a  lamp,  such  scraps  of 
intelligence  from  a  paper  of  the  day,  as  were  most  likely 
to  yield  him  interest  or  amusement. 

"  Curse  those  hounds  !  "  said  the  invalid,  turning  his 
head  impatiently  towards  the  adjoining  room  ;  "  will  i 
nothing  stop  their  infernal  throats  ?  " 

Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck  heard  the  exclamation,  and 
stopped  immediately  :  winking  to  each  other  as  they  did 
so,  and  filling  their  glasses  to  the  brim,  as  some  recom- 
pense for  the  deprivation  of  speech. 

"  Damn  !"  muttered  the  sick  man  between  his  teeth, 
and  writhing  impatiently  in  his  bed.  "Isn't  this  mat- 
trass  hard  enough,  and  the  room  dull  enough,  and  pain 
bad  enough,  but  they  must  torture  me?  What's  the 
time  ?  " 

"  Half -past  eight,"  replied  his  friend. 


NICKLEBY.  137 

"  Here,  draw  the  table  nearer  and  let  us  have  the 
cards  again,"  said  Sir  Mulberry.   "  More  piquet.  Come." 

It  was  curious  to  see  how  eagerly  the  sick  rnan,  debarred 
from  any  change  of  position  save  the  mere  turning  of 
his  head  from  side  to  side,  watched  every  motion  of  his 
friend  in  the  progress  of  the  game  ;  and  with  what 
eagerness  and  interest  he  played,  and  yet  how  warily 
and  coolly.  His  address  and  skill  were  more  than  twenty 
times  a  match  for  his  adversary,  who  could  make  little 
head  against  them,  even  when  fortune  favoured  him 
with  good  cards,  which  was  not  often  the  case.  Sir  Mul- 
berry won  every  game  ;  and  when  his  companion  threw 
down  the  cards,  and  refused  to  play  any  longer,  thrust 
forth  his  wasted  arm  and  caught  up  the  stakes  with  a 
boastful  oath,  and  the  same  hoarse  laugh,  though  con- 
siderably lowered  in  tone,  that  had  resounded  in  Ralph 
Nickleby's  dining-room,  months  before. 

While  he  was  thus  occupied,  his  man  appeared,  to 
announce  that  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  was  below,  and 
wished  to  know  how  he  was,  to-night. 
"  Better,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  impatiently. 
"  Mr.  Nickleby  wishes  to  know,  sir — " 
"  I  tell  you  better,"  replied  Sir  Mulberry,  striking  his 
hand  upon  the  table. 

The  man  hesitated  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  said 
that  Mr.  Nickleby  had  requested  permission  to  see  Six 
Mulberry  Hawk,  if  it  was  not  inconvenient. 

"It  is  inconvenient.  I  can't  see  him.  I  can't  see  any- 
body," said  his  master,  more  violently  than  before. 
"You  know  that,  you  blockhead." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  returned  the  man.  "  But  Mr. 
Nickleby  pressed  so  much,  sir — " 

The  fact  was,  that  Ralph  Nickleby  had  bribed  the 
man,  who,  being  anxious  to  earn  his  money  with  a  view 
to  future  favours,  held  the  door  in  his  hand,  and  ven- 
tured to  linger  still. 

"  Did  he  say  whether  he  had  any  business  to  speak 
about  ?  "  inquired  Sir  Mulberry,  after  a  little  impatient 
consideration. 

"  No,  sir.  He  said  he  wished  to  see  you,  sir.  Particu- 
larly, Mr.  Nickleby,  said,  sir." 

"  Tell  him  to  come  up.  Here,"  cried  Sir  Mulberry, 
calling  the  man  back,  as  he  passed  his  hand  over  his 
disfigured  face,  "move  that  lamp,  and  put  it  on  the 
stand  behind  me,  Wlieel  that  table  away,  and  place  a 
chair  there — further  off.    Leave  it  so." 

The  man  obeyed  these  directions  as  if  he  quite  compre- 
hended the  motive  with  which  they  were  dictated,  and 
left  the  room.  Lord  Frederick  Verisopht,  remarking 
that  he  would  look  in  presently,  strolled  into  the  adjoin- 
ing apartment,  and  closed  the  folding-door  behind  him. 

Then  was  heard  a  subdued  footstep  on  the  stairs  :  and 
Ralph  Nickleby,  hat  in  hand,  crept  softly  into  the  room, 
with  his  body  bent  forward  as  if  in  profound  respect, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  his  worthy  client. 

"  Well,  Nickleby,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  motioning  him 
to  the  chair  by  the  couch  side,  and  waving  his  hand  in 
assumed  carelessness,  ' '  I  have  had  a  bad  accident,  you 
see." 

"I  see,"  rejoined  Ralph,  with  the  same  steady  gaze. 
"Bad,  indeed  !  I  should  not  have  known  you.  Sir  Mul- 
berry.   Dear  dear  !    This  is  bad." 

Ralph's  manner  was  one  of  profound  humility  and  re- 
spect ;  and  the  low  tone  of  voice  was  that,  which  the  gen- 
tlest consideration  for  a  sick  man  woiild  have  taught  a 
visitor  to  assume.  But  the  expression  of  his  face.  Sir 
Mulberry's  being  averted,  was  in  extraordinary  contrast ; 
and  as  he  stood  in  his  usual  attitude,  calmly  looking  on 
the  prostrate  form  before  him,  all  that  part  of  his  fea- 
tures which  was  not  cast  into  shadow  by  his  protruding 
i  and  contracted  brows,  bore  the  impress  of  a  sarcastic 
smile. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  turning  towards  him^ 
as  though  by  a  violent  efEort.  "Am  I  a  sight  that  yod 
stand  gazing  there  ?  " 

As  he  turned  his  face,  Ralph  recoiled  a  step  or  two, 
and  making  as  though  he  were  irresistibly  impelled  to 
express  astonishment,  but  was  determined  not  to  do  so, 
sat  down  with  well-acted  confusion. 

"  I  have  inquired  at  the  door.  Sir  Mulberry,  every 
day,"  said  Ralph,  "twice  a  day,  indeed,  at  first — and  to- 
night, presuming  upon  old  acquaintance,  and  past  trans- 


188 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


actions  by  wTiicli  we  have  mutually  benefited  in  some 
degree,  I  could  not  resist  soliciting  admission  to  your 
cliamber.  Have  you — have  you  suffered  much?"  said 
Ralph,  bending  forward,  and  allowing  the  same  harsh 
smile  to  gather  upon  his  face,  as  the  other  closed  his  eyes. 

"  More  than  enough  to  please  me,  and  less  than  enough 
to  please  some  broken-down  hacks  that  you  and  I  know 
of,  and  who  lay  their  ruin  between  us,  I  dare  say,"  re 
turned  Sir  Mulberry,  tossing  his  arm  restlessly  upon  the 
coverlet, 

Ralph  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  deprecation  of  the  in- 
tense irritation  with  which  this  had  been  said  ;  for  there 
was  an  aggravating,  cold  distinctness  in  his  speech  and 
manner  which  so  grated  on  the  sick  man  that  he  could 
scarcely  end  are  it. 

"And  what  is  it  in  these  'past  transactions '  that 
brought  you  here  to-night?"  asked  Sir  Mulberry. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Ralph.  "  There  are  some  bills  of 
my  lord's  which  need  renewal  ;  but  let  them  be,  till  you 
are  well.  I — I — came,"  said  Ralph,  speaking  more  slow- 
ly, and  with  harsher  emphasis,  "I  came  to  say  how 
grieved  I  am  that  any  relative  of  mine,  although  dis- 
owned by  me,  should  have  inflicted  such  punishment  on 
you  as — " 

"Punishment  !"  interposed  Sir  Mulberry. 

"  I  know  it  has  been  a  severe  one,"  said  Ralph,  wil- 
fully mistaking  the  meaning  of  the  interruption,  "and 
that  has  made  me  the  more  anxious  to  tell  you  that  I  dis- 
own this  vagabond — that  I  acknowledge  him  as  no  kin  of 
mine — and  that  I  leave  him  to  take  his  deserts  from  you, 
and  every  man  besides.  You  may  wring  his  neck  if  you 
please,    /shall  not  interfere." 

"This  story  that  they  tell  me  here,  has  got  abroad 
then,  has  it  ?  "  asked  Sir  Mulberry,  clenching  his  hands 
and  teeth. 

"Noised  in  all  directions,"  replied  Ralph.  "Every 
club  and  gaming-room  has  rung  with  it.  There  has  been 
a  good  song  made  about  it,  as  I  am  told,"  said  Ralph, 
looking  eagerly  at  his  questioner.  "  I  have  not  heard  it 
myself,  not  being  in  the  way  of  such  things,  but  I  have 
been  told  it's  even  printed — for  private  circulation — but 
that's  all  over  town,  of  course." 

"  It's  a  lie,"  said  Sir  Mulberry  ;  "I  tell  you  it's  all  a 
lie.    The  mare  took  fright." 

"They  say  he  frightened  her,"  observed  Ralph,  in 
the  same  unmoved  and  quiet  manner.  "  Some  say  he 
frightened  you,  but  that's  a  lie,  I  know.  I  have  said  that 
boldly — oh,  a  score  of  times.  I  am  a  peaceable  man,  but 
I  can't  hear  folks  tell  that  of  you — No,  no." 

When  Sir  Mulberry  found  coherent  words  to  utter, 
Ralph  bent  forward  with  his  hand  to  his  ear,  and  a  face 
as  calm  as  if  its  every  line  of  sternness  had  been  cast  in 
iron. 

"  When  I  am  off  this  cursed  bed,"  said  the  invalid,  act- 
ually striking  at  his  broken  leg  in  the  ecstasy  of  his 
passion,  "  I'll  have  such  revenge  as  never  man  had  yet. 
By  G —  I  will  I  Accident  favouring  him,  he  has  marked 
me  for  a  week  or  two,  but  I'll  put  a  mark  on  him  that  he 
shall  carry  to  his  grave.  I'll  slit  his  nose  and  ears — flog 
him — maim  him  for  life.  I'll  do  more  than  that ;  I'll 
drag  that  pattern  of  chastity,  that  pink  of  prudery,  the 
delicate  sister,  through — " 

It  might  have  been  that  even  Ralph's  cold  blood  tingled 
in  his  cheeks  at  that  moment.  It  might  have  been  that 
Sir  Mulberry  remembered,  that,  knave  and  usurer  as  he 
was,  he  must,  in  some  early  time  of  infancy,  have  twined 
his  arm  about  her  father's  neck.  He  stopped,  and,  men- 
acing with  his  hand,  confirmed  the  unuttered  threat  with 
a  tremendous  oath. 

"  It  is  a  galling  thing,"said  Ralph,  after  a  short  term 
of  silence,  during  which  he  had  eyed  the  sufferer  keenly, 
*'  to  think  that  the  man  about  town,  the  rake,  the  roue, 
the  rook  of  twenty  seasons  should  be  brought  to  this  pass 
by  a  mere  boy  ! " 

Sir  Mulberry  darted  a  wrathful  look  at  him,  but  Ralph's 
eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground,  and  his  face  wore  no 
other  expression  than  one  of  thoughtfulness. 

"A  raw,  slight  stripling,"  continued  Ralph,  "  against 
a  man  whose  very  weight  might  crush  him ;  to  say 
nothing  of  his  skill  in — I  am  right,  I  think,"  said  Ralph, 
raising  his  eyes  "  you  were  a  patron  of  the  ring  once, 
were  you  not  ? " 


The  sick  man  made  an  impatient  gesture,  which 
Ralph  chose  to  consider  as  one  of  acquiescence. 

"Ha!"  he  said,  "I  thought  so.  That  was  before  I 
knew  you,  but  I  was  pretty  sure  I  couldn't  be  mistaken. 
He  is  light  and  active,  I  suppose.  But  those  were 
slight  advantages  compared  with  yours.  Luck,  luck — 
these  hangdog  outcasts  have  it." 

"  He'll  need  the  most  he  has,  when  I  am  well  again,'* 
said  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk,  "let  him  fly  where  he 
will." 

"Oh!"  returned  Ralph,  quickly,  "he  doesn't  dream 
of  that.  He  is  here,  good  sir,  waiting  your  pleasure — 
here  in  London,  walking  the  streets  at  noonday  ;  carry- 
ing  it  off  jauntily;  looking  for  you,  I  swear,"  said 
Ralph,  his  face  darkening,  and  his*  own  hatred  getting 
the  upper  hand  of  him,  for  the  first  time,  as  this  gay 
picture  of  Nicholas  presented  itself;  "if  we  were  only 
citizens  of  a  country  where  it  could  be  safely  done,  Fd 
give  good  money  to  have  him  stabbed  to  the  heart  and 
rolled  into  the  kennel  for  the  dogs  to  tear." 

As  Ralph,  somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  his  old  client, 
vented  this  little  piece  of  sound  family  feeling,  and  took 
up  his  hat  preparatory  to  departing,  Lord  Frederick 
Verisopht  looked  in. 

"  Why  what  in  the  deyvle's  name.  Hawk,  have  you 
and  Nickleby  been  talking  about  ?  "  said  the  young  man. 
"I  neyver  heard  such  an  insufferable  riot.  Croak, 
croak,  croalc.  Bow,  wow,  wow.  What  has  it  all  been 
about  ?  " 

"  Sir  Mulberry  has  been  angry,  my  Lord,"  said  Ralph, 
looking  towards  the  couch. 

"  Not  about  money,  I  hope  ?  Nothing  has  gone  wrong 
in  business,  has  it,  Nickleby  ! " 

"  No,  my  Lord,  no, "  returned  Ralph.  "  On  that  point 
we  always  agree.  Sir  Mulberry  has  been  calling  to 
mind  the  cause  of — " 

There  was  neither  necessity  nor  opportunity  for  Ralph 
to  proceed,  for  Sir  Mulberry  took  up  the  theme,  and 
vented  his  threats  and  oaths  against  Nicholas,  almost  as 
ferociously  as  before, 

Ralph,  who  was  no  common  observer,  was  surprised 
to  see  that  as  this  tirade  proceeded,  the  manner  of  Lord 
Frederick  Verisopht,  who  at  the  commencement  had 
been  twirling  his  whiskers  with  a  most  dandified  and 
listless  air,  underwent  a  complete  alteration.  He  was 
still  more  surprised  when.  Sir  Mulberry  ceasing  to 
speak,  the  young  lord  angrily,  and  almost  unaffectedly, 
requested  never  to  have  the  subject  renewed  in  his 
presence. 

"  Mind  that,  Hawk  ! "  he  added,  with  unusual  energy, 
"  I  never  will  be  a  party  to,  or  permit,  if  I  can  help  it,  a 
cowardly  attack  upon  this  young  fellow,'* 

"  Cowardly  !"  interrupted  his  friend. 

"  Ye-es,"  said  the  other,  turning  full  upon  him.  "  If 
you  had  told  him  who  you  were  ;  if  you  had  given  him 
your  card,  and  found  out,  afterwards,  that  his  station  or 
character  prevented  your  fighting  him,  it  would  have 
been  bad  enough  then  ;  upon  my  soul  it  would  have 
been  bad  enough  then.  As  it  is,  you  did  wrong.  I  did 
wrong  too,  not  to  interfere,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it.  What 
happened  to  you  afterwards,  was  as  much  the  conse- 
quence of  accident  as  design,  and  more  your  fault  than 
his  ;  and  it  shall  not,  with  my  knowledge,  be  cruelly 
visited  upon  him — it  shall  not  indeed." 

With  this  emphatic  repetition  of  his  concluding  words, 
the  young  lord  turned  upon  his  heel ;  but  before  he  had 
reached  the  adjoining  room  he  turned  back  again,  and 
said,  with  even  greater  vehemence  than  he  had  displayed 
before, 

"I  do  believe,  now  ;  upon  my  honour  I  do  believe, 
that  the  sister  is  as  virtuous  and  modest  a  young  lady 
as  she  is  a  handsome  one  ;  and  of  the  brother,  I  say 
this,  that  he  acted  as  her  brother  should,  and  in  a  manly 
and  spirited  manner.  And  I  only  wish,  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul,  that  any  one  of  us  Came  out  of  this  mat- 
ter half  as  well  as  he  does." 

So  saying,  Lord  Frederick  Verisopht  walked  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  Ralph  Nickleby  and  Sir  Mulberry  in  most 
unpleasant  astonishment. 

"  Is  this  your  pupil?"  asked  Ralph,  softly,  "or  has 
he  come  fresh  from  some  country  parson  ?  " 

"  Greeu  fools  take  these  fits  sometimes,"  replied  Sir 


NTCnOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


139 


Mulberry  Hawk,  biting  bis  lip,  and  pointing  to  tbe  door. 
"  Leave  liim  to  me." 

Ralpb  excbanged  a  familiar  look  wifcb  bis  old  acquaint- 
ance ;  for  tbey  bad  suddenly  grown  confidential  again  in 
tills  alarming  surprise  ;  and  took  bis  way  borne,  tbougbt- 
f ully  and  slowly. 

Wbile  tbese  tbings  were  being  said  and  done,  and 
long  before  tbey  were  concluded,  tbe  omnibus  bad  dis- 
gorged Miss  La  Creevy  and  ber  escort,  and  tbey  bad  ar- 
rived at  ber  own  door.  Now,  tbe  good  nature  of  tbe 
little  miniature-painter  would  by  no  means  allow  of 
Smike's  walking  back  again,  until  be  bad  been  previously 
refresbed  witb  just  a  sip  of  sometbing  comfortable  and 
a  mixed  biscuit  or  so  ;  and  Smike,  entertaining  no  ob- 
jection eitber  to  tbe  sip  of  sometbing  comfortiible,  or  tbe 
mixed  biscuit,  but,  considering  on  tbe  contrary  tbat 
tbey  would  be  a  very  pleasant  preparation  for  a  walk  to 
Bow,  it  fell  out  tbat  be  delayed  mucb  longer  tban  be 
originally  intended,  and  tbat  it  was  some  balf  bour  after 
dusk  wben  be  set  fortb  on  bis  journey  bome. 

Tbere  was  no  likelibood  of  bis  losing  bis  way,  for  it 
lay  quite  straigbt  before  bim,  and  be  bad  walked  into 
town  witb  Nicbolas,  and  back  alone,  almost  every  day. 
So,  Miss  La  Creevy  and  be  sbook  bands  witb  mutual 
confidence,  and,  being  cbarged  witb  more  kind  remem- 
brances to  Mrs.  and  Miss  Nickleby,  Smike  started  off. 

At  tbe  foot  of  Ladgate  Hill,  he  turned  a  little  out  of 
tbe  road  to  satisfy  bis  curiosity  by  baving  a  look  at  New- 
gate. After  staring  up  at  tbe  sombre  walls,  from  tbe  op- 
posite side  of  tb3  way,  witb  great  care  and  dread  for  some 
minutes,  be  turned  back  again  into  tbe  old  track,  and 
walked  briskly  tbrougb  tbe  city;  stopping  now  and  tben  to 
gaze  in  at  tbe  window  of  some  particularly  attractive  sbop, 
tben  running  for  a  little  waj^  tben  stopping  again,  and 
so  on,  as  any  otber  country  lad  migbt  do. 

He  bad  been  gazing  for  a  long  time  tbrougb  a  jewel- 
ler's window,  wisbing  be  could  take  some  of  tbe  beautiful 
trinkets  bome  as  a  present,  and  imagining  wliat  delight 
they  would  afford  if  b3  could,  wben  tbe  clocks  struck 
three-quarters  past  eight  ;  roused  by  tbe  sound,  be  hur- 
ried on  at  a  very  quick  pace,  and  was  crossing  tbe  cor- 
ner of  a  bye  street  wben  be  felt  himself  violently  brought 
to,  with  a  jerk  so  sudden  that  be  was  obliged  to  cling 
to  a  lamp-post  to  save  himself  from  falling.  At  tbe  same 
moment,  a  small  boy  clung  tight  round  his  leg,  and  a 
shrill  cry  of  "  Here  he  is,  father, — Hooray  !"  vibrated  in 
his  ears. 

Smike  kne\^tbat  voice  too  well.  He  cast  bis  despair- 
ing eyes  downward  towards  the  form  from  which  it  bad 
proceeded,  and  shuddering  from  bead  to  foot,  looked 
round.  Mr.  Squeers  bad  booked  him  in  the  coat  collar 
with  tbe  handle  of  bis  umbrella,  and  was  hanging  on  at 
the  other  end  witb  all  his  might  and  main.  The  cry  of 
triumph  proceeded  from  Master  Wackford,  who,  regard- 
less of  all  bis  kicks  and  struggles,  clung  to  him  witb  the 
tenacity  of  a  bull-dog. 

One  glance  showed  him  this  ;  and  in  that  one  glance 
tbe  terrified  creature  became  utterly  powerless  and  un- 
able to  utter  a  sound. 

"  Here's  a  go  !  "  cried  Mr.  Squeers,  gradually  coming 
hand-over-hand  down  the  umbrella,  and  only  unhooking 
it  when  he  had  got  tight  hold  of  the  victim's  collar. 
"  Here's  a  delicious  go  !  Wackford,  my  boy,  call  up  one 
of  them  coaches." 

"  A  coach,  father  !  "  cried  little  Wackford. 

"  Yes,  a  coach,  sir,"  replijsd  Squeers,  feasting  his  eyes 
upon  the  countenance  of  Smike.  "  Damn  the  expense. 
Let's  have  him  in  a  coach." 

"  What's  he  been  a  doing  of?"  asked  a  labourer,  witb 
a  bod  of  bricks,  against  whom  and  a  fellow-labourer  Mr. 
Squeers  bad  backed,  on  the  first  jerk  of  the  umbrella. 

"Everything!"  replied  Mr.  Squeers,  looking  fixedly 
at  his  old  pupil  in  a  sort  of  rapturous  trance.  "  Every- 
thing— running  away, sir — joining  in  blood-thirsty  attacks 
upon  bis  master— there's  nothing  that's  bad  that  he 
hasn't  done.  Ob,  what  a  delicious  sro  is  this  here,  ffood  i 
Lord!"  i 

The  man  looked  from  Squeers  to  Smike  ;  but  such  \ 
mental  faculties  as  the  poor  fellow  possessed,  had  utterly 
deserted  him.    Tbe  coach  came  up  ;  Master  Wackford  j 
entered  ;  Squeers  pushed  in  bis  prize,  and  following  close  I 
at  his  heels  pulled  up  the  glasses.     The  coachman 


mounted  bis  box  and  drove  slowly  olT,  leaving  tbe  two 
bricklayers,  and  an  old  apx^le-woman,  and  a  tov/n-made  lit- 
tle boy,  returning  from  an  evening  school,  who  bad  been 
tbe  only  witnesses  of  the  scene,  to  meditate  upon  it  at 
their  leisure. 

Mr,  Squeers  sat  himself  down  on  the  opposite  seat  to 
tbe  unfortunate  Smike,  and  planting  his  bands  firmly  on 
his  knees,  looked  at  him  for  some  five  minutes,  wben, 
seeming  to  recover  from  bis  trance,  be  uttered  a  loud 
laugh,  and  slapped  bis  old  pupil's  face  several  times — 
taking  the  right  and  left  sides  alternately. 

"  It  isn't  a  dream  ! "  said  Squeers.  *'  That's  real  flesh 
and  blood  !  I  know  tbe  feel  of  it !"  and  being  quite  as- 
sured of  bis  good  fortune  by  these  experiments,  Mr. 
Squeers  administered  a  few  boxes  on  the  ear,  lest  the 
entertainments  should  seem  to  partake  of  sameness,  and 
laughed  louder  and  longer  at  every  one. 

"  Your  mother  will  be  fit  to  jump  out  of  ber  skin,  my 
boy,  when  she  bears  of  this,"  said  Squeers  to  bis  son. 

"Ob,  won't  she  though,  father?"  replied  Master 
Wackford. 

"  To  think," — said  Squeers,  "  that  you  and  me  should 
be  turning  out  of  a  street,  and  come  upon  him  at  the  veiy 
nick;  and  tbat  I  should  have  him  tight,  at  only  one  cast 
of  the  umbrella,  as  if  I  had  hooked  bim  with  a  grappling 
iron  ! — Ha,  ha  ! " 

"  Didn't  I  catch  hold  of  bis  leg,  neither,  father?"  said 
little  Wackford . 

"  You  did  ;  like  a  good  'un,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Squeers, 
patting  his  son's  bead,  "and  you  shall  have  the  best 
button-over  jacket  and  waistcoat  tbat  the  next  new  boy 
brings  down,  as  a  reward  of  merit — mind  that.  You 
always  keep  on  in  the  same  path,  and  do  them  things 
tbat  you  see  your  father  do,  and  wben  you  die  you'll  go 
right  slap  to  Heaven  and  no  questions  asked." 

Improving  the  occasion  in  these  words,  Mr.  Squeers 
patted  his  son's  head  again,  and  tben  patted  Smike's — 
but  harder  ;  and  inquired  in  a  bantering  tone  how  he 
found  himself  by  this  time. 

"I  must  go  home,"  replied  Smike,  looking  wildly 
round. 

"To  be  sure  you  must.  You're  about  right  there," 
replied  Mr.  Squeers.  "You'll  go  home  very  soon,  you 
will.  You'll  find  yourself  at  the  peaceful  village  of 
Dotheboys,  in  Yorkshire,  in  sometbing  under  a  week's 
time,  my  young  friend  ;  and  the  next  time  you  get  away 
from  there,  I  give  you  leave  to  keep  away.  Where's  the 
clothes  you  run  off  in,  you  ungrateful  robber?"  said  Mr. 
Squeers,  in  a  severe  voice. 

Smike  glanced  at  the  neat  attire  which  the  care  of 
Nicbolas  bad  provided  for  him,  and  wrung  his  hands. 

"Do  you  know  tbat  I  could  bang  you  up,  outside  of 
the  Old  Bailey,  for  making  away  with  them  articles  of 
property?"  said  Squeers.  "Do  you  know  that  it's  a 
hanging  matter — and  I  an't  quite  certain  whether  it  an't 
an  anatomy  one  besides — to  walk  off  with  up'ards  of  tbe 
valley  of  five  pound  from  a  dwelling  house?  Eh — do 
you  know  tbat  ?  What  do  you  suppose  was  the  worth 
of  them  clothes  you  had?  Do  you  know  tbat  tbat  Well- 
ington-boot you  wore,  cost  eight-and-tweniy  shillings 
when  it  was  a  pair,  and  tbe  shoe  seven-aud-six?  But 
you  came  to  the  right  shop  for  mercy  when  you  came  to 
me,  and  thank  your  stars  tbat  it  is  me  as  has  got  to  serve 
you  vnih.  the  article." 

Anybody  not  in  Mr.  Squeers's  confidence,  would  have 
supposed  tbat  he  was  quite  out  of  tbe  article  in  question, 
instead  of  having  a  large  stock  on  hand  ready  for  all 
comers  ;  nor  would  tbe  opinion  of  sceptical  persons  have 
undergone  much  alteration  when  be  followed  up  the  re- 
mark by  poking  Smike  in  the  chest  %%ith  the  ferrule  of 
his  umbrella,  and  dealing  a  smart  shower  of  blows,  with 
the  ribs  of  the  same  instrument,  upon  his  head  and 
shoulders. 

"  I  never  threshed  a  boy  in  a  hackney-coach  before," 
said  Mr.  Squeers,  wben  he  stopped  to  rest.  "There's 
inconveniency  in  it,  but  the  novelty  gives  it  a  sort  of 
relish,  too  ! " 

Poor  Smike  !  He  warded  off  tbe  blows,  as  well  as  be 
coi\ld,  and  now  shrunk  into  a  comer  of  the  coach,  witb 
his  bead  resting  on  bis  hands,  and  bis  elbows  on  bis 
knees  ;  he  was  stunned  and  stupefied,  and  bad  no  more 
idea  that  any  act  of  his,  would  enable  him  to  escape  from 


140 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


the  all-powerful  Squeers,  now  that  he  had  no  friend  to 
speak  to  or  to  advise  with,  than  he  had  had  in  all  the 
weary  years  of  his  Yorkshire  life  which  preceded  the 
arrival  of  Nicholas. 

The  journey  seemed  endless  ;  street  after  street  was 
entered  and  left  behind  ;  and  still  they  went  jolting  on. 
At  last  Mr.  Squeers  began  to  thrust  his  head  out  of  the 
window  every  half -minute,  and  to  bawl  a  variety  of  direc- 
tions to  the  coachman  ;  and  after  passing,  with  some 
difficulty,  through  several  mean  streets  which  the  appear- 
ance of  the  houses  and  the  bad  state  of  the  road  denoted 
to  have  been  recently  built,  Mr.  Squeers  suddenly  tugged 
at  the  check  string  with  all  his  might,  and  cried, 
''Stop!" 

"  What  are  you  pulling  a  man's  iarm  off  for  ?  "  said  the 
coachman,  looking  angrily  down. 

"  That's  the  house,"  replied  Squeers.  "  The  second  of 
them  four  little  houses,  one  story  high,  with  the  green 
shutters — there's  a  brass  plate  on  the  door,  with  the  name 
of  Snawley." 

"Couldn't  you  say  that  without  wrenching  a  man's 
limbs  off  his  body  ?  "  inquired  the  coachman. 

"  No  !  "  bawled  Mr.  Squeers.  "  Say  another  word, 
and  I'll  summons  you  for  having  a  broken  winder.  Stop  ! " 

Obedient  to  this  direction,  the  coach  stopped  at  Mr. 
Suawiey's  door.  Mr.  Snawley  may  be  remembered  as 
the  sleek  and  sanctified  gentleman  who  confided  two  sons 
{in  laic)  to  the  parental  care  of  Mr,  Squeers,  as  narrated 
in  the  fourth  chapter  of  this  history.  Mr.  Snawley's 
house  was  on  the  extreme  borders  of  some  new  settle- 
ments adjoining  Somers  Town,  and  Mr.  Squeers  had 
taken  lodgings  therein,  for  a  short  time,  as  his  stay  was 
longer  than  usual,  and  the  Saracen,  having  experience 
of  Master  Wackford's  appetite,  had  declined  to  receive 
him  on  any  other  terms  than  as  a  full-grown  customer. 

"Here  we  are!"  said  Squeers,  hurrying  Smike  into 
the  little  parlour,  where  Mr.  Snawley  and  his  wife  were 
taking  a  lobster  supper.  "  Here's  the  vagrant — the  felon 
— the  rebel — the  monster  of  un thankfulness." 

"What!  The  boy  that  run  away! "cried  Snawley, 
resting  his  knife  and  fork  upright  on  the  table,  and  open- 
ing his  eyes  to  their  full  width. 

"  The  very  boy,"  said  Squeers,  putting  his  fist  close  to 
Sraike's  nose,  and  drawing  it  away  again,  and  repeating 
the  process  several  times,  with  a  vicious  aspect.    "  If 

there  wasn't  a  lady  present,  I'd  fetch  him  such  a  : 

never  mind,  I'll  owe  it  him." 

And  here  Mr,  Squeers  related  how,  and  in  what  man- 
ner, and  when  and  where,  he  had  picked  up  the  run- 
away, 

"  It's  clear  that  there  has  been  a  Providence  in  it,  sir," 
said  Mr,  Snawley,  casting  down  his  eyes  with  an  air  of 
humility,  and  elevating  his  fork,  with  a  bit  of  lobster  on 
the  top  of  it,  towards  the  ceiling. 

"  Providence  is  against  him,  no  doubt,"  replied  Mr. 
Squeers,  scratching  his  nose,  "  Of  course  ;  that  was  to 
be  expected.    Anybody  might  have  known  that." 

"  Hard-heartedness  and  evil-doing  will  never  prosper, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Snawley. 

"  Never  was  such  a  thing  known,"  rejoined  Squeers, 
taking  a  little  roll  of  notes  from  his  pocKetbook,  to  see 
that  they  were  all  safe. 

"I  have  been,  Mrs.  Snawley,"  said  Mr.  Squeers,  when  he 
had  satisfied  himself  upon  this  point,  "  I  have  been  that 
chap's  benefactor,  feeder,  teacher,  and  clother.  I  have 
been  that  chap's  classical,  commercial,  mathematical, 
philosophical,  and  trigonomical  friend.  My  son— my 
only  son,  Wackford — has  been  his  brother  ;  Mrs.  Squeers 
has  been  his  mother,  grandmother,  aunt, — Ah  !  and  I 
may  say  uncle  too,  all  in  one.  She  never  cottoned  to 
anybody,  except  them  two  engaging  and  delightful  boys 
of  yours,  as  she  cottoned  to  this  chap.  What's  my  re- 
turn ?  What's  come  of  my  milk  of  human  kindness?  It 
turns  into  curds  and  whey  when  I  look  at  him. " 

"  Well  it  may,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Snawley.  "  Oh  I  Well 
it  may,  sir." 

"  Where  has  he  been  all  this  time  !"  inquired  Snaw- 
ley.   "  lias  he  been  living  with  ?  " 

"  Ah,  sir  !  "  interposed  Squeers,  confronting  him  again. 
"  Have  you  been  a  living  with  that  there  devilish  Nickle- 
by,  sir?" 

13ut  no  threats  or  cuffs  could  elicit  from  Smike  one 


word  of  reply  to  this  question  ;  for  he  had  internally  re- 
solved that  he  would  rather  perish  in  the  wretched  pris- 
on to  which  he  was  again  about  to  be  consigned,  than 
utter  one  syllable  which  could  involve  his  first  and  true 
friend.  He  had  already  called  to  mind  the  strict  injunc- 
tions of  secrecy  as  to  his  past  life,  which  Nicholas  had 
laid  upon  him  when  they  travelled  from  Yorkshire  ;  and 
a  confused  and  perplexed  idea  that  his  benefactor  might 
have  committed  some  terrible  crime  in  bringing  him 
away,  which  would  render  him  liable  to  heavy  punish- 
ment if  detected,  had  contributed,  in  some  degree,  to  re- 
duce him  to  his  present  state  of  apathy  and  terror. 

Such  were  the  thoughts — if  to  visions  so  imperfect  and 
undefined  as  tiiose  which  wandered  through  his  enfee- 
bled brain,  the  term  can  be  applied — which  were  present 
to  the  mind  of  Smike,  and  rendered  him  deaf  alike  to  in- 
timidation and  persuasion.  Finding  every  effort  useless, 
Mr,  Squeers  conducted  him  to  a  little  back  room  up- 
stairs, where  he  was  to  pass  the  night ;  and,  taking  the 
precaution  of  removing  his  shoes,  and  coat  and  waistcoat, 
and  also  of  locking  the  door  on  the  outside,  lest  he  should 
master  up  sufficient  energy  to  make  an  attempt  at  es- 
cape, that  worthy  gentleman  left  him  to  his  meditations. 

What  those  meditations  were,  and  how  the  poor  crea- 
ture's heart  sunk  within  him  when  he  thought — when 
did  he,  for  a  moment,  cease  to  think  ! — of  his  late  home, 
and  the  dear  friends  and  familiar  faces  with  which  it 
was  associated,  cannot  be  told.  To  prepare  the  mind  for 
such  a  heavy  sleep,  its  growth  must  be  stopped  by  rigour 
and  cruelty  in  childhood  ;  there  must  be  years  of  misery 
and  suffering  lightened  by  no  ray  of  hope  ;  the  chords  of 
the  heart,  which  beats  a  quick  response  to  the  voice  of 
gentleness  and  affection,  must  have  rusted  and  broken  in 
their  secret  places,  and  bear  the  lingering  echo  of  no  old 
word  of  love  or  kindness.  Gloomy,  indeed,  must  have 
been  the  short  day,  and  dull  the  long,  long  twilight,  pre- 
ceding such  a  night  of  intellect  as  his. 

There  were  voices  which  would  have  roused  him ,  even 
then  ;  but  their  welcome  tones  could  not  penetrate  there  ; 
and  he  crept  to  bed  the  same  listless,  hopeless,  blighted 
creature,  that  Nicholas  had  first  found  him  at  the  York- 
shire school. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

In  which  another  old  Friend  encounters  Smike,  very  o^m'tunely  and 
to  some  purpose.  • 

The  night,  fraught  with  so  much  bitterness  to  one  poor 
soul,  had  given  place  to  a  bright  and  cloudless  summer 
morning,  when  a  north-country  mail-coach  traversed, 
with  cheerful  noise,  the  yet  silent  streets  of  Islington j 
and,  giving  brisk  note  of  its  approach  with  the  lively 
winding  of  the  guard's  horn,  clattered  onward  to  its  halt- 
ing-place hard  by  the  Post-office. 

The  only  outside  passenger  was  a  burly,  honest-look- 
ing countryman  on  the  box,  who  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  appeared  so  wrapt  in 
admiring  wonder,  as  to  be  quite  insensible  to  all  the 
bustle  of  getting  out  the  bags  and  parcels,  until  one  of 
the  coach  windows  being  let  sharply  down,  he  looked 
round,  and  encountered  a  pretty  female  face  which  was 
just  then  thrust  out. 

"See  there,  lass!"  bawled  the  countryman,  pointing 
towards  the  object  of  his  admiration.  "  There  be  Paul's 
Church.    'Ecod,  he  be  a  soizable  'un,  he  be," 

"  Goodness  John  1  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it  could 
have  been  half  the  size.     What  a  monster  I " 

"Monsther  !— Ye're  aboot  right  there,  I  reckon,  Mrs. 
Browdie,"  said  the  countryman  good  humouredly,  as  he 
came  slowly  down  in  his  huge  top-coat,  "and  wa'at  dost 
thee  tak  yon  place  to  be  noo — thot  'un  ower  the  wa'; 
Ye'd  never  coom  near  it  'gin  ye  thried  for  twolve  moonthjs; 
It's  na'  but  a  Poast-office  !  Ho  !  ho  !  They  need  to 
charge  for  dooble-latthers.  A  Poast-office  !  Wa'at  dost 
thee  think  o'  thot?  'Ecod,  if  thot's  on'y  a  Poast-office^ 
I'd  loike  to  see  where  the  Lord  Mayor  o'  Lunnun  lives.'* 

So  saying,  John  Browdie — for  he  it  was — opened  the 
coach-door,  and  tapping  Mrs.  Browdie,  late  Miss  Price, 
on  the  cheek  as  he  looked  in,  burst  into  a  boisterous  fit 
of  laughter. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


141 


"Weel!"  said  John.  "Dang  my  bootuns  if  she 
bean't  asleep  agean  !  " 

"She's  been  asleep  all  night,  and  was,  all  yesterday, 
except  for  a  minute  or  two  now  and  then,"  replied  John 
Browdie's  choice,  "and  I  was  very  sorry  when  she  woke, 
for  she  has  been  so  cross  ! " 

The  subject  of  these  remarks  was  a  slumbering  figure, 
so  muffled  in  shawl  and  cloak,  that  it  would  have  been  a 
matter  of  impossibility  to  guess  at  its  sex  but  for  a 
brown- beaver  bonnet  and  green  veil  which  ornamented 
the  head,  and  which,  having  been  crushed  and  flattened, 
for  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  in  that  particular  angle 
of  the  vehicle  from  which  the  lady's  snores  now  pro- 
ceeded, presented  an  appearance  sufficiently  ludicrous  to 
have  moved  less  risible  muscles  than  those  of  John 
Browdie's  ruddy  face. 

"Hollo!"  cried  John,  twitching  one  end  of  the  drag- 
ged veil.    "  Coom,  wakken  oop,  will  'ee," 

After  several  burrowings  into  the  old  corner,  and  many 
exclamations  of  impatience  and  fatigue,  the  figure  strug- 
gled into  a  sitting  posture  ;  and  there,  under  a  mass  of 
crumpled  beaver,  and  surrounded  by  a  semicircle  of  blue 
curl-papers,  were  the  delicate  features  of  Miss  Fanny 
Squeers. 

"Oh,  'Tilda!"  cried  Miss  Squeers,  "How  you  have 
been  kicking  of  me  through  this  blessed  night  !  " 

"  Well,  I  do  like  that,"  replied  her  friend,  laughing, 
"  when  you  have  had  nearly  the  whole  coach  to  your- 
self." 

"Don't  deny  it,  'Tilda,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  impress- 
i  ively,  "  because  you  have,  and  it's  no  use  to  go  attempt- 
i  ing  to  say  you  haven't.  You  mightn't  have  known  it  in 
i  your  sleep,  'Tilda,  but  "I  haven't  closed  my  eyes  for  a 
I  single  wink,  and  so  I  thirik  I  am  to  be  believed. " 

With  which  reply,  Miss  Squeers  adjusted  the  bonnet 
I  and  veil,  which  nothing  but  supernatural  interference 
i  and  an  utter  suspension  of  nature's  laws  could  have  re- 
I  duced  to  any  shape  or  form  ;  and  evidently  flattering 
I  herself  that  it  looked  uncommonly  neat,  brushed  off  the 
sandwich-crumbs  and  bits  of  biscuit  which  had  accumu- 
lated in  her  lap,  and  availing  herself  of  John  Browdie's 
proffered  arm,  descended  from  the  coach. 

"  Noo,"  said  John,  when  a  hackney-coach  had  been 
called,  and  the  ladies  and  the  luggage  hurried  in,  "  gang 
to  the  Sarah's  Head,  mun." 

"To  the  '^erel "  cried  the  coachman. 

"  Lawk,  Mr.  Browdie  ! "  interrupted  Miss  Squeers. 
"  The  idea  !    Saracen's  Head." 

"Sure-ly,"  said  John,  "I  know'd  it  was  something 
aboot  Sarah's  Son's  Head.    Dost  thou  know  thot  ?  " 

"Oh,  ah — I  know  that,"  replied  the  coachman  gruffly, 
as  he  banged  the  door. 

"'Tilda,  dear — really,"  remonstrated  Miss  Squeers, 
'♦we  shall  be  taken  for  I  don't  know  what." 

"  Let  them  tak  us  as  they  foind  us,"  said  John  Brow- 
die  ;  "  we  dean't  come  to  Lunnun  to  do  nought  but  'joy 
oursel,  do  we  ?  " 

"I  hope  not,  Mr.  Browdie,"  replied  Miss  Squeers, 
looking  singularly  dismal. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  John,  "it's  no  matther.  I've  only 
beerf  a  married  man  fower  days,  'account  of  poor  old 
feyther  deein'  and  puttin'  it  off.  Here  be  a  weddin'  party 
'  — broide  and  broide's-maid,  and  the  groom — if  a  mun 
dean't  'joy  hirasel  noo,  when  ought  he,  hey  ?  Drat  it  all, 
thot's  what  I  want  to  know." 

So,  in  order  that  he  might  begin  to  enjoy  himself  at 
once,  and  lose  no  time,  Mr.  Browdie  gave  his  wife  a 
hearty  kiss,  and  succeeded  in  wresting  another  from  Miss 
Squeers,  after  a  maidenly  resistance  of  scratching  and 
Struggling  on  the  part  of  that  young  lady,  which  was 
aot  quite  over  when  they  reached  the  Saracen's  Head. 

Here,  the  party  straightway  retired  to  rest ;  the  re- 
freshment of  sleep  being  necessary  after  so  long  a  jour- 
ney ;  and  here  they  met  again  about  noon,  to  a  substan- 
tial breakfast,  spread  by  direction  of  Mr.  John  Browdie, 
i&  a  small  private  room  up-stairs  commanding  an  unin- 
Wrrupted  view  of  the  stables. 

To  have  seen  Miss  Squeers  now,  divested  of  the  brown 
beaver,  the  green  veil,  and  the  blue  curl-papers,  and 
arrayed  in  all  the  virgin  splendour  of  a  white  frock  and 
fpencer,  with  a  white  muslin  bonnet,  and  an  imitative 
damask  rose  in  full  bloom  on  the  inside  thereof  :  her 


luxuriant  crop  of  hair  arranged  in  curls  so  tight  that  it 
was  impossible  they  could  come  out  by  any  accident, 
and  her  bonnet  cap  trimmed  with  little  damask  roses, 
which  might  be  supposed  to  be  so  many  promising  scions 
of  the  big  one — to  have  seen  all  this,  and  to  have  seen 
the  broad  damask  belt,  matching  both  the  family  rose 
and  the  little  ones,  which  encircled  her  slender  waist, 
and  by  a  happy  ingenuity  took  off  from  the  shortness  of 
the  spencer  behind, — to  have  beheld  all  this,  and  to  have 
taken  further  into  account  the  coral  bracelets  (rather 
short  of  beads,  and  with  a  very  visible  black  string)  which 
clasped  her  wrists,  and  the  coral  necklace  which  rested 
on  her  neck,  supporting,  outside  her  frock,  a  lonely  corne- 
lian heart,  typical  of  her  own  disengaged  affections — to 
have  contemplated  all  these  mute  but  expressive  appeals 
to  the  purest  feelings  of  our  nature,  might  have  thawed 
the  frost  of  age,  and  added  new  and  inextinguishable 
fuel  to  the  fire  of  youth. 

The  waiter  was  touched.  Waiter  as  he  was,  he  had 
human  passions  and  feelings,  and  he  looked  very  hard 
at  Miss  Squeers  as  he  handed  the  muffins. 

"Is  my  pa  in,  do  you  know?"  asked  Miss  Squeers 
with  dignity. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  Miss  ! " 

"  My  pa,"  repeated  Miss  Squeers  ;  "  is  he  in?  " 

"  In  where.  Miss?" 

"In  here — in  the  house!"  replied  Miss  Squeers. 
"My  pa — Mr.  Wackford  Squeers — he's  stopping  here. 
Is  he  at  home  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  there  was  any  gen'l'man  of  that  name 
in  the  house,  Miss, "  replied  the  waiter.  "  There  may 
be,  in  the  coffee-room." 

May  be.  Very  pretty  this,  indeed  !  Here  was  Miss 
Squeers,  who  had  been  depending,  all  the  way  to  Lon- 
don, upon  showing  her  friends  how  much  at  home  she 
would  be,  and  how  much  respectful  notice  her  name  and 
connections  would  excite,  told  that  her  father  might  be 
there?  "  As  if  he  was  a  feller  ! "  observed  Miss  Squeers, 
with  emphatic  indignation. 

"  Ye'd  betther  inquire,  mun,"  said  John  Browdie. 
"  An  bond  up  another  pigeon-pie,  will  'ee  ?  Dang  the 
chap,"  muttered  John,  looking  into  the  empty  dish  as  the 
waiter  retired;  "Does  he  ca'  this ^ a  pie — three  yoong 
pigeons  and  a  troifling  matther  o'  steak,  and  a  crust  so 
loight  that  you  doant  know  when  it's  in  your  mooth  and 
when  it's  gane  ?  I  wonder  hoo  many  pies  goes  to  a 
breakfast ! " 

1  After  a  short  interval,  which  John  Browdie  employed 
,  upon  the  ham  and  a  cold  round  of  beef,  the  waiter  re- 
turned with  another  pie,  and  the  information  that  Mr. 
Squeers  was  not  stopping  in  the  house,  but  that  he  came 
there  every  day,  and  that  directly  he  arrived,  he  should 
be  shown  up-stairs.  With  this,  he  retired  ;  and  he  had 
not  retired  two  minutes,  when  he  returned  with  Mr. 
Squeers  and  his  hopeful  son. 

"Why,  who'd  have  thought  of  this?"  said  Mr. 
Squeers,  when  he  had  saluted  the  party,  and  received 
some  private  family  intelligence  from  his  daughter. 

"Who,  indeed,  pa!"  replied  that  young  lady,  spite- 
fully.   "  But  you  see  'Tilda  is  married  at  last." 

"And  I  stond  threat  for  a  soight  o'  Lunnun,  school- 
measther,"  said  John,  vigorously  attacking  the  pie. 

"  One  of  them  things  that  young  men  do  when  they 
get  married,"  returned  Squeers  ;  "  and  as  runs  through 
with  their  money  like  nothing  at  all  !  How  much  better 
wouldn't  it  be  now,  to  save  it  up  for  the  eddication  of 
any  little  boys,  for  instance.  They  come  on  you,"  said 
Mr.  Squeers  in  a  moralizing  way,  "  before  you're  aware 
of  it ;  mine  did  upon  me." 

"  Will  'ee  pick  a  bit  ?"  said  John. 

"  I  won't  myself,"  returned  Squeers  ;  "  but  if  you'll 
just  let  little  Wackford  tuck  into  something  fat,  I'll  be 
obliged  to  yoU.  Give  it  him  in  his  fingers,  else  the 
waiter  charges  it  on,  and  there's  lot  of  profit  on  this 
sort  of  vittles  without  that.  If  you  hear  the  waiter  com- 
ing, sir,  shove  it  in  your  pocket  and  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow, d'ye  hear  ?  " 

"  I'm  awake,  father,"  replied  the  dutiful  Wackford. 

"  Well,"  said  Squeers,  turning  to  his  daughter,  "It's 
your  turn  to  be  married  next.  You  must  make 
I  haste." 

i     ' '  Oh,  I'm  in  no  hurry, "  said  Miss  Squeers,  very  sharply. 


142 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  No,  Fanny  ?"  cried  her  old  friend  witli  some  arch- 
ness. 

"  No,  'Tilda,"  replied  Miss  Squeers,  shaking  her  head 
vehemently.      /—can  wait." 

"  So  can  the  young  men,  it  seems,  Fanny,"  observed 
Mrs.  Browdie. 

"  They  an't  draw'd  into  it  by  me,  'Tilda,"  retorted 
Miss  Squeers. 

No,"  returned  her  friend  ;  "  that's  exceedingly  true." 

The  sarcastic  tone  of  this  reply  might  have  provoked 
a  rather  acrimonious  retort  from  Miss  Squeers,  who,  be- 
sides being  of  a  constitutionally  vicious  temper— aggra- 
vated, jast  now,  by  travel  and  recent  jolting— was  some- 
what irritated  by  old  recollections  and  the  failure  of  her 
own  designs  upon  Mr.  Browdie  ;  and  the  acrimonious  re- 
tort might  have  led  to  a  great  many  other  retorts,  which 
might  have  led  to  Heaven  knows  what,  if  the  subject  of 
conversation  had  not  been,  at  that  precise  moment,  acci- 
dentally changed  by  Mr.  Squeers  himself. 

*•  What  do  yoa  think  ?  "  said  that  gentleman  ;  **  who 
do  you  suppose  we  have  laid  hands  on,  Wackford  and 
me?" 

"Pa  !  not  Mr.  ?"  Miss  Squeers  was  unable  to  fin- 
ish the  sentence,  but  Mrs.  Browdie  did  it  for  her,  and 
added,  "Nickleby?" 

"  No,"  said  Squeers.  "  But  next  door  to  him  though." 
.  **You  can't  mean  Smike  ?"  cried  Miss  Squeers,  clap- 
ping her  hands. 

"  Yes,  I  can  though,"  rejoined  her  father.  "  I've  got 
him,  hard  and  fast." 

"  Wa'at  !  "  exclaimed  John  Browdie,  pushing  away  his 
plate.    "  Got  that  poor — dom'd  scoundrel, — where?" 

"  Why,  in  the  top  back  room,  at  my  lodging,"  replied 
Squeers,  "  with  him  on  one  side,  and  the  key  on  the 
other." 

*'  At  thy  loodgin'  !  Thee'st  gotten  him  atthy  loodgin'  ? 
Ho  !  ho  !  The  schoolmeasther  agin  all  England.  Give 
us  thee  hond,  mun  ;  I'm  darned  but  I  must  shak  thee  by 
the  hond  for  thot. — Gotten  him  at  thy  loodgin'  !  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Squeers,  staggering  in  his  chair  under 
the  congratulatory  blow  on  tlie  chest  which  the  stout 
Yorksliireman  dealt  him — "  thankee.  Don't  do  it  again. 
You  mean  it  kindly,  I  know,  but  it  hurts  rather — ^yes, 
there  he  is.    That's  not  so  bad,  is  it  ?  " 

"Ba'ad!"  repeated  John  Browdie.  "It's  eneaf  to 
scare  a  mun  to  hear  tell  on." 

"  I  thought  it  would  surprise  you  a  bit, "  said  Squeers, 
rubbing  his  hands.  "It  was  pretty  neatly  done,  and 
pretty  quick  too." 

"  Hoo  wor  it?"  inquired  John,  sitting  down  close  to 
him.    "  Tell  us  all  aboot  it,  mun  ;  coom,  quick  !  " 

Although  he  could  not  keep  pace  with  John  Browdie's 
impatience,  Mr.  Squeers  related  the  lucky  chance  by 
which  Smike  had  fallen  into  his  hands,  as  quickly  as  he 
could,  and  except  when  he  was  interrupted  by  the  admir- 
ing remarks  of  his  auditors,  paused  not  in  the  recital 
until  he  had  brought  it  to  an  end, 

"  For  fear  he  should  give  me  the  slip,  by  any  chance," 
observed  Squeers,  when  he  had  finished,  looking  very 
cunning,  "  I've  taken  three  outsides  for  to-morrow  morn- 
ing— for  Wackford  and  him  and  me — and  have  arranged 
to  leave  the  accounts  and  the  new  boys  to  the  agent,  don't 
you  see  ?  So,  it's  very  lucky  you  come  to-day,  or  you'd 
have  missed  us  ;  and  as  it  is,  unless  you  could  come  and 
tea  with  me  to-night,  we  shan't  see  anything  more  of 
you  before  we  go  away." 

"  Dean't  say  anoother  wurd,"  returned  the  Yorkshire- 
man,  shaking  him  by  the  hand.  "  We'd  coom,  if  it  was 
twenty  mile." 

' '  No,  would  you  though  ?  "  returned  Mr.  Squeers,  who 
had  not  expected  quite  such  a  ready  acceptance  of  his 
invitation,  or  he  would  have  considered  twice  before  he 
gave  it. 

John  Browdie's  only  reply  was  another  squeeze  of 
the  hand,  and  an  assurance  that  they  would  not  begin  to 
see  London  till  to-morrow,  so  that  they  might  be  at  Mr. 
Snawley's  at  six  o'clock  without  fail  ;  and  after  some 
further  conversation,  Mr.  Squeers  and  his  son  departed. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  day,  Mr.  Browdie  was  in 
a  very  odd  and  excitable  state  ;  bursting  occasionally  into 
an  explosion  of  laughter,  and  then  taking  up  his  hat  and 
running  into  the  coach-yard  to  have  it  out  by  himself. 


He  was  very  restless  too,  constantly  walking  in  and  out, 
and  snapping  his  fingers,  and  dancing  scraps  of  uncouth 
country  dances,  and,  in  short,  conducting  himself  in 
such  a  very  extraordinary  manner,  that  Miss  Squeers 
opined  he  was  going  mad,  and  begging  her  dear  Tilda 
not  to  distress  herself,  communicated  her  suspicions  in  so 
many  words.  Mrs.  Browdie,  however,  without  discover- 
ing any  great  alarm,  observed  that  she  had  seen  him  so, 
once  before,  and  that  although  he  was  almost  sure  to  be 
ill  after  it,  it  would  not  be  anything  very  serious,  and 
therefore  he  was  better  left  alone. 

The  result  proved  her  to  be  perfectly  correct ;  for, 
while  they  were  all  sitting  in  Mr.  Snawley's  parlour 
that  night,  and  just  as  it  was  beginning  to  get  dusk,  John 
Browdie  was  taken  so  ill,  and  seized  with  such  an  alarm- 
ing dizziness  in  the  head,  that  the  whole  company  were 
thrown  into  the  utmost  consternation.  His  good  lady, 
indeed,  was  the  only  person  present,  who  retained 
presence  of  mind  ■'enough  to  observe  that  if  he  were 
allowed  to  lie  down  on  Mr.  Squeers's  bed  for  an  hour  or 
so,  and  left  entirely  to  himself,  he  would  be  sure  to  re- 
cover again  almost  as  quickly  as  he  had  been  taken  ill. 
Nobody  could  refuse  to  try  the  effect  of  so  reasonable  a 
proposal,  before  sending  for  a  surgeon.  Accordingly, 
John  was  supported  up-stairs,  with  great  difficulty  ;  be- 
ing a  monstrous  weight,  and  regularly  tumbling  down 
two  steps  every  time  they  hoisted  him  up  three  ;  and, 
being  laid  on  the  bed,  was  left  in  charge  of  his  wife, 
who,  after  a  short  interval  re- appeared  in  the  parlour, 
with  the  gratifying  intelligence  that  he  had  fallen  fast 
asleep. 

Now,  the  fact  was,  that  at  that  particular  moment, 
John  Browdie  was  sitting  on  the' bed  with  the  reddest 
face  ever  seen,  cramming  the  corner  of  the  pillow  into 
his  mouth,  to  prevent  his  roaring  out  loud  with  laughter. 
He  had  no  sooner  succeeded  in  suppressing  this  emotion, 
than  he  slipped  off  his  shoes,  and  creeping  to  the  adjoin- 
ing room  where  the  prisoner  was  confined,  turned  the 
key,  which  was  on  the  outside,  and  darting  in,  covered 
Smike's  mouth  with  his  huge  hand  before  he  could  utter 
a  sound. 

"  Ods-bobs,  dost  thee  not  know  me,  mun  ?  "  whispered 
the  Yorkshireman  to  the  bewildered  lad.  **  Browdie, — 
chap  as  met  thee  ef ther  schoolmeasther  was  banged  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Smike,    "  Oh  1  help  me." 

"  Help  thee  ! "  replied  John,  stopping  his  mouth  again, 
the  instant  he  had  said  this  much.  "  Thee  didn't  need 
help,  if  thee  warn't  as  silly  yoongster  as  ever  draw'd 
breath.    Wa'at  did  'ee  come  here  for,  then  ?  " 

"  He  brought  me  ;  oh  !  he  brought  me,"  cried  Smike. 

"  Brout  thee  1  "  replied  John.  "  Why  didn't  'ee  punch 
his  head,  or  lay  theeself  doon  and  kick,  and  squeal  out 
for  the  poUic?  I'd  ha'  licked  a  dozen  such  as  him  when 
I  was  yoong  as  thee.  But  thee  be'st  a  poor  broken-doon 
chap,"  said  John,  sadly,  "and  God  forgi'  me  for  brag- 
ging ower  yan  o'  his  weakest  creeturs  ! " 

Smike  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  John  Browdie 
stopped  him. 

"Stan  still,"  said  the  Yorkshireman,  "and  doant'ee 
speak  a  morsel  o'  talk  till  I  tell'ee." 

With  this  caution,  John  Browdie  shook  his  head  sig- 
nificantly, and  drawing  a  screw-driver  from  his  pocket, 
took  off  the  box  of  the  lock  in  a  very  deliberate  and  work- 
manlike manner,  and  laid  it,  together  with  the  imple- 
ment, on  the  floor. 

' '  See  thot  ?"  said  John.  "  Thot  be  thy  doin'.  Noo, 
coot  awa'  ! " 

Smike  looked  vacantly  at  him,  as  if  unable  to  compre- 
hend his  meaning. 

"I  say,  coot  awa',"  repeated  John,  hastily.  "Dost 
thee  know  where  thee  livest  ?  Thee  dost?  Weel.  Are 
yon  thy  clothes,  or  schoolmeasther's  ?  " 

"  Mine,"  replied  Smike,  as  the  Yorkshireman  hurried 
him  to  the  adjoining  room,  and  pointed  out  a  pair  of 
shoes  and  a  coat  which  were  lying  on  a  chair. 

"  On  wi'  'em,"  said  John,  forcing  the  wrong  arm  into 
the  wrong  sleeve,  and  winding  the  tails  of  the  coat  round 
the  fugitive's  neck.  "Noo,  foller  me,  and  when  thee 
get'st  ootside  door,  turn  to  the  right,  and  they  weau't 
see  thee  pass." 

"  But — but — he'll  hear  me  shut  the  door,"  replied 
Smike  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


143 


r  "Then  dean't  shut  it  at  all,"  retorted  John  Browdie. 
"  Dang  it,  thee  bean't  afeard  o'  schoolmeasther's  takkin 
cold,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  N-no,"  said  Smike,  his  teeth  chattering  in  his  head. 

But  he  brought  me  back  before,  and  will  again.  He 
will,  he  will  indeed." 

"  He  wull,  he  wull  !  "  replied  John  impatiently.  "  He 
wean't,  he  wean't.  Look'ee.  I  won't  to  do  this  neigh- 
bourly loike,  and  let  them  think  thee's  gotten  awa'  thee- 
self,  but  if  he  cooms  oot  o'  thot  parlour  awiles  theer't 
clerring  off,  he  mun'  have  mercy  on  his  oun  boans,  for  I 
wean't.  If  he  foinds  it  oot,  soon  efther,  I'll  put  'un  on  a 
wrong  scent,  I  warrant  'ee.  But  if  thee  keep'st  a  good 
hart,  thee'lt  be  at  whoam  afore  they  know  thee'st  gotten 
olf .    Coom  ! " 

Smike,  who  comprehended  just  enough  of  this  to  know 
it  was  intended  as  encouragement,  prepared  to  follow 
-with  tottering  steps,  when  John  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"  Thee'lt  just  tell  yoong  Measther,  that  I'm  sploiced  to 
'Tilly  Price,  and  to  be  heerd  on  at  the  Saracen  by  latther, 
and  that  I  been't  jealous  of  'un — dang  it,  I'm  loike  to 
boost  when  I  think  o'  that  neight !  'Cod,  I  think  1  see 
'un  now,  apowderin'  awa' at  the  thin  bread  anbutther  !" 

It  was  rather  a  ticklish  recollection  for  John  just  then, 
for  he  was  within  an  ace  of  breaking  out  into  a  loud  guf- 
faw. Restraining  himself,  however,  just  in  time,  by  a 
great  effort,  he  glided  down-stairs,  hauling  Smike  behind 
him;  and  placing  himself  close  to  the  parlour-door,  to  con- 
front the  first  person  that  might  come  out,  signed  to  him 
to  make  off. 

Having  got  so  far,  Smike  needed  no  second  bidding. 
Opening  the  house-door  gently,  and  casting  a  look  of 
mingled  gratitude  and  terror  at  his  deliverer,  he  took  the 
direction  which  had  been  indicated  to  him,  and  sped 
away,  like  the  wind. 

The  Yorkshi  reman  remained  on  his  post  for  a  few 
minutes,  but,  finding  that  there  was  no  pause  in  the  con- 
versation inside,  crept  back  again  unheard,  and  stood, 
listening  over  the  stair-rail,  for  a  full  hour.  Everything 
remaining  perfectly  quiet,  he  got  into  Mr.  Squeers's  bed, 
once  more,  and  drawing  the  clothes  over  his  head,  laughed 
till  be  was  nearly  smothered. 

If  there  could  only  have  been  somebody  by,  to  see  how 
the  bed-clothes  shook,  and  to  see  the  Yorkshireman's 
great  red  face  and  round  head  appear  above  the  sheets 
every  now  and  then,  like  some  jovial  monster  coming 
to  the  surface  to  breathe,  and  once  more  dive  down  con- 
vulsed with  the  laughter  which  came  bursting  forth 
afresh — that  somebody  would  have  been  scarcely  less 
amused  than  John  Browdie  himself. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Tn  which  Nicholas  falls  in  Love.  Ee  employs  a  Mediator,  whose  Pro- 
ceedinf/c  are  crowned  with  unexpected  Success,  excepting  in  one  soli- 
tary Particdar. 

Once  more  out  of  the  clutches  of  his  old  persecutor, 
it  needed  no  fresh  stimulation  to  call  forth  the  utmost 
energy  and  exertion  that  Smike  was  capable  of  sum- 
moning to  his  aid.  Without  pausing  for  a  moment  to 
reflect  upon  the  course  he  was  taking,  or  the  probability 
of  its  leading  him  homewards  or  the  reverse,  he  fled 
away  with  surprising  swiftness  and  constancy  of  pur- 
pose, borne  upon  such  wings  as  only  Fear  can  wear,  and 
impelled  by  imaginary  shouts  m  the  well-remembered 
voice  of  Squeers,  who,  with  a  host  of  pursuers,  seemed 
to  the  poor  fellow's  disordered  senses  to  press  hard  upon 
his  track  ;  now  left  at  a  greater  distance  in  the  rear,  and 
now  gaining  faster  and  faster  upon  him,  as  the  alterna- 
tions of  hope  and  terror  agitated  him  by  turns.  Long 
after  he  had  become  assured  that  these  sounds  were  but 
the  creation  of  his  excited  brain,  he  still  held  on,  at  a 
pace,  which  even  weakness  and  exhaustion  could  scarcely 
retard.  It  was  not  until  the  darkness  and  quiet  of  a 
country  road,  recalled  him  to  a  sense  of  external  objects, 
and  the  starry  sky,  above,  warned  him  of  the  rapid  flight 
of  time,  that,  covered  with  dust,  and  panting  for  breath, 
he^topped  to  listen  and  look  about  him. 

,  AH  was  still  and  silent.    A  glare  of  light  in  the  dis- 


tance, casting  a  warm  glow  upon  the  sky,  marked  whore 
the  huge  city  lay.  Solitary  fields,  divided  by  liedges 
and  ditches,  through  many  of  which  he  had  crashed  and 
scrambled  in  his  flight,  skirted  the  road,  both  by  the 
way  he  had  come  and  upon  the  opposite  side.  It  was 
late  now.  They  could  scarcely  trace  him  by  such  paths 
as  he  had  taken,  and  if  he  could  hope  to  regain  his  own 
dwelling,  it  must  surely  be  at  such  a  time  as  that,  and 
under  cover  of  the  darkness.  This,  by  degrees,  became 
pretty  plain,  even  to  the  mind  of  Smike.  He  had,  at 
first,  entertained  some  vague  and  childish  idea  of  travel- 
ling into  the  country  for  ten  or  a  dozen  miles,  and  then 
returning  homewards  by  a  wide  circuit,  which  should 
keep  him  clear  of  London — so  great  was  his  apprehen- 
sion of  traversing  the  streets  alone,  lest  he  should  again 
encounter  his  dreaded  enemy — but,  yielding  to  the  con- 
viction which  these  thoughts  insijired,  he  turned  back, 
and  taking  the  open  road,  though  not  without  many 
fears  and  misgivings,  made  for  London  again  with 
scarcely  less  speed  of  foot  than  that  with  which  he  had 
left  the  temporary  abode  of  Mr.  Squeers. 

By  the  time  he  re-entered  it,  at  the  western  extremity, 
the  greater  part  of  the  shops  were  closed.  Of  the  throngs 
of  people  who  had  been  tempted  abroad  after  the  heat 
of  the  day,  but  few  remained  in  the  streets,  and  they 
were  lounging  home.  But  of  these  he  asked  his  way 
from  time  to  time,  and,  by  dint  of  repeated  inquiries,  he 
at  length  reached  the  dwelling  of  Newman  Noggs. 

All  that  evening,  Newman  had  been  hunting  and 
searching  in  by-ways  and  corners  for  the  very  person 
who  now  knocked  at  his  door,  while  Nicholas  had  been 
pursuing  the  same  inquiry  in  other  directions.  He  was 
sitting,  with  a  melancholy  air,  at  his  poor  supper,  when 
Smike's  timorous  and  uncertain  knock  reached  his  ears. 
Alive  to  every  sound,  in  his  anxious  and  expectant  state, 
Newman  hurried  down-stairs,  and,  uttering  a  cry  of  joy 
ful  surprise,  dragged  the  welcome  visitor  into  the  pas- 
sage and  up  stairs,  and  said  not  a  w^ord  until  he  had  him 
safe  in  his  own  garret  and  the  door  was  shut  behind 
them,  when  he  mixed  a  great  mug-full  of  gin  and  water, 
and  holding  it  to  Smike's  mouth,  as  one  might  hold  a 
bowl  of  medicine  to  the  lips  of  a  refractory  child,  com- 
manded him  to  drain  it  to  the  last  drop. 

Newman  looked  uncommonly  blank  when  he  found 
that  Smike  did  little  more  than  put  his  lips  to  the  pre- 
cious mixture  ;  he  was  in  the  act  of  raising  the  mug  to 
his  own  mouth  with  a  deep  sigh  of  compassion  for  his 
poor  friend's  weakness,  when  Smike,  beginning  to  relate 
the  adventures  which  had  befallen  him,  arrested  him 
half-way,  and  he  stood  listening,  with  the  mug  in  his 
hand. 

It  was  odd  enough  to  see  the  change  that  came  over  New- 
man as  Smike  proceeded.  At  first  he  stood,  rubbing  his 
lips  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  as  a  preparatory  ceremony 
towards  composing  himself  for  a  draught  ;  then,  at  the 
mention  of  Squeers,  he  took  the  mug  under  his  arm,  and 
opening  his  eyes  very  wide,  looked  on,  in  the  utmost  as- 
tonishment. When  Smike  came  to  the  assault  upon 
himself,  in  the  hackney-coach,  he  hastily  deposited  the 
mug  upon  the  table,  and  limped  up  and  down  the  room 
in  a  state  of  the  greatest  excitement,  stopping  himself 
with  a  jerk,  every  now  and  then,  as  if  to  listen  more  at- 
tentively. When  John  Browdie  came  to  be  spoken  of, 
he  dropped,  by  slow  and  gradual  degrees,  into  a  chair, 
and  rubbing  his  hands  upon  his  knees — cjuicker  and 
quicker  as  the  story  reached  its  climax — burst,  at  last, 
into  a  laugh  composed  of  one  loud  sonorous  "  Ha  I  ha  !" 
having  given  vent  to  which,  his  countenance  immedi- 
ately fell  again  as  he  inquired,  with  the  utmost  anxiety, 
whether  it  was  probable  that  John  Browdie  and  Squeers 
had  come  to  blows. 

"  No  !  I  think  not,"  replied  Smike.  "I  don't  think 
he  could  have  missed  me  till  I  had  got  quite  away." 

Newman  scratched  his  head  with  a  show  of  great  dis- 
appointment, and  once  more  lifting  up  the  mug,  applied 
himself  to  the  contents  ;  smiling  meanwhile,  over  the 
rim,  with  a  grim  and  ghastly  smile  at  Smike. 

"  You  shall  stay  here,"  said  Newman  ;  "  you're  tired 
— fagged.  I'll  tell  them  you're  come  back.  They  have 
been  half  mad  about  you.    Mr.  Nicholas — " 

"  God  bless  him  !  "'  cried  Smike. 

"Amen!"   returned  Newman.     "He  hasn't  had  a 


144 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


minute's  rest  or  peace  ;  no  more  has  the  old  lady,  nor 

Miss  Nickleby." 

"  No,  no.  Has  she  thought  about  me?"  said  Smike. 
**  Has  she  though?  oh,  has  she — has  she?  Don't  tell 
me  so,  if  she  has  not." 

She  has,"  cried  Newman.  "  She  is  as  noble-hearted 
as  she  is  beautiful." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  cried  Smike.    "  Well  said  ! " 
So  mild  and  gentle,"  said  Newman. 

"Yes,  yes  !  "  cried  Smike,  with  increasing  eagerness. 

"And  with  such  a  true  and  gallant  spirit,"  pursued 
Newman. 

He  was  going  on,  in  his  enthusiasm,  when,  chancing 
to  look  at  his  companion,  he  saw  that  he  had  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  that  tears  were  stealing  out  be- 
tween his  fingers. 

A  moment  before,  the  boy's  eyes  were  sparkling  with 
im wonted  fire,  and  every  feature  had  been  lighted  up 
with  an  excitement  which  made  him  appear,  for  the  mo- 
ment, quite  a  different  being. 

*'  Well,  well,"  muttered  Newman,  as  if  he  were  a  lit- 
tle puzzled.  "It  has  touched  me,  more  than  once,  to 
think  such  a  nature  should  have  been  exposed  to  such 
trials  ;  this  poor  fellow — yes,  yes— he  feels  that  too — it 
softens  him — makes  him  think  of  his  former  misery. 
Hah  !   That's  it  ?   Yes,  that's— hum  ! " 

It  was  by  no  means  clear,  from  the  tone  of  these 
broken  reflections,  that  Newman  Noggs  considered  them 
as  explaining,  at  all  satisfactorily,  the  emotion  which 
had  suggested  them.  He  sat,  in  a  musing  attitude,  for 
some  time,  regarding  Smike  occasionally  with  an  anxious 
and  doubtful  glance,  which  sufliciently  showed  that  he 
was  not  very  remotely  connected  with  his  thoughts. 

At  length  he  repeated  his  proposition  that  Smike 
should  remain  where  he  was  for  that  night,  and  that  he 
(Noggs)  should  straightway  repair  to  the  cottage  to  re- 
lieve the  suspense  of  the  family.  But,  as  Smike  would 
not  hear  of  this — pleading  his  anxiety  to  see  his  friends 
again — they  eventually  sallied  forth  together  ;  and  the 
night  being,  by  this  time,  far  advanced,  and  Smike  be- 
ing, besides,  so  footsore  that  he  could  hardly  crawl 
along,  it  was  within  an  hour  of  sunrise  when  they 
reached  their  destination. 

At  the  first  sound  of  their  voices  outside  the  house, 
Nicholas,  who  had  passed  a  sleepless  night,  devising 
schemes  for  the  recovery  of  his  lost  charge,  started  from 
his  bed,  and  joyfully  admitted  them.  There  was  so 
much  noisy  conversation,  and  congratulation,  and  indig- 
nation, that  the  remainder  of  the  family  were  soon 
awakened,  and  Smike  received  a  warm  and  cordial  wel- 
come, not  only  from  Kate,  but  from  Mrs.  Nickleby  also, 
who  assured  him  of  her  future  favour  and  regard,  and 
was  so  obliging  as  to  relate,  for  his  entertainment  and 
that  of  the  assembled  circle,  a  most  remarkable  account 
extracted  from  some  work  the  name  of  which  she  had 
never  known,  of  a  miraculous  escape  from  some  prison, 
but  what  one  she  couldn't  remember,  effected  by  an 
officer  whose  name  she  had  forgotten,  confined  for  some 
crime  which  she  didn't  clearly  recollect. 

At  first  Nicholas  was  disposed  to  give  his  uncle  credit 
for  some  portion  of  this  bold  attempt  (which  had  so 
nearly  proved  successfal)  to  carry  off  Smike  ;  but,  on 
more  mature  consideration,  he  was  inclined  to  think  that 
the  full  merit  of  it  rested  with  Mr.  Squeers.  Determined 
to  ascertain,  if  he  could,  through  John  Browdie,  how  the 
case  really  stood,  he  betook  himself  to  his  daily  occupa- 
tion :  meditating  as  he  went,  on  a  great  variety  of 
schemes  for  the  punishment  of  the  Yorkshire  school- 
master, all  of  which  had  their  foundation  in  the  strictest 
principles  of  retributive  justice,  and  had  but  the  one 
drawback  of  being  wholly  impracticable. 

"A  fine  morning,  Mr.  Linldn water  1 "  said  Nicholas, 
entering  the  office. 

"Ah!"  replied  Tim,  "talk  of  the  country,  indeed  I 
What  do  you  think  of  this,  now,  for  a  dav — a  London 
day— eh?" 

"  It's  a  little  clearer  out  of  town,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Clearer  ! "  echoed  Tim  Linkinwater,  "  You  should 
see  it  from  my  bed-room  window." 

"  You  should  see  iitrom  mine,"  replied  Nicholas,  with 
a  smile. 

"Pooh!  pooh!"  said  Tim  Linkinwater,  "don't  tell 


me.  Country  !  "  (Bow  was  quite  a  rustic  place  to  Tim,) 
"  Nonsense  !  What  can  you  get  in  the  country  but 
new-laid  eggs  and  flowers?  I  can  buy  new-laid  eggs  in 
Leadenhall  market,  any  morning  before  breakfast  ;  and 
as  to  flowers,  it's  worth  a  run  up-stairs  to  smell  my  mign- 
onette, or  to  see  the  double- wallflower  in  the  back-attic 
window,  at  No.  6,  in  the  court." 

"  There  is  a  double-wall-flower  at  No,  6,  in  the  court, 
is  there  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 

"Yes,  is  there!"  replied  Tim,  "and  planted  in  a 
cracked  jug,  without  a  spout.  There  were  hyacinths 
there,  this  last  spring,  blossoming  in — but  you'll  laugh 
at  that,  of  course. " 

"At  what?" 

"At  their  blossoming  in  old  blacking-bottles,"  said 
Tim. 

"Not  I,  indeed,"  returned  Nicholas. 

Tim  looked  wistfully  at  him  for  a  moment,  as  if  he 
were  encouraged  by  the  tone  of  this  reply  to  be  more 
communicative  on  the  subject ;  and  sticking  behind  his 
ear,  a  pen  that  he  had  been  making,  and  shutting  up  his 
knife  with  a  smart  click,  said, 

"They  belong  to  a  sickly  bed-ridden  hump-backed 
boy,  and  seem  to  be  the  only  pleasures,  Mr.  Nickleby,  of 
his  sad  existence.  How  many  years  is  it,"  said  Tim,  pon- 
dering, "since  I  first  noticed  him,  quite  a  little  child, 
dragging  himself  about  on  a  pair  of  tiny  crutches  I 
Well  !  Well  !  not  many  ;  but  though  they  would  ap- 
pear nothing,  if  I  thought  of  other  things,  they  seem  a 
long,  long  time,  when  I  thitlk  of  him.  It  is  a  sad  thing," 
said  Tim,  breaking  off,  "  to  see  a  little  defonned  child 
sitting  apart  from  other  children,  who  are  active  and 
merry,  watching  the  games  he  is  denied  the  power  to 
share  in.    He  made  my  heart  ache  very  often." 

"It  is  a  good  heart,"  said  Nicholas,  "  that  disentangles 
itself  from  the  close  avocations  of  every  day,  to  heed  such 
things.    You  were  saying — " 

"That  the  flowers  belonged  to  this  poor  boy,"  said 
Tim  ;  "  that's  all.  When  it  is  fine  weather,  and  he  can 
crawl  ont  of  bed,  he  draws  a  chair  close  to  the  window, 
and  sits  there,  looking  at  them  and  arranging  them,  all 
day  long.  We  used  to  nod,  at  first,  and  then  we  came 
to  speak.  Formerly,  when  I  called  to  him  of  a  morning, 
and  asked  him  how  he  was,  he  would  smile,  and  say, 
*  better  ; '  but  now  he  shakes  his  head,  and  only  bends 
more  closely  over  his  old  plants.  It  must  be  dull  to 
watch  the  dark  house-tops  and  the  flying  clouds,  for  so 
many  months  ;  but  he  is  very  patient." 

"  Is  there  nobody  in  the  house  to  cheer  or  help  him  ?  " 
asked  Nicholas. 

"  His  father  lives  there,  I  believe,"  replied  Tim,  "  and 
other  people  too  ;  but  no  one  seems  to  care  much  for  the 
poor  sickly  cripple.  I  have  asked  him,  very  often,  if  I 
can  do  nothing  for  him  ;  his  answer  is  always  the  same. 
— 'Nothing.'  His  voice  is  growing  weak  of  late,  but  I 
can  see  that  he  makes  the  old  reply.  He  can't  leave  his 
bed  now,  so  they  have  moved  it  close  beside  the  window, 
and  there  he  lies,  all  day  :  now  looking  at  the  sky,  and 
now  at  the  flowers,  which  he  still  makes  shift  to  trim 
and  water,  with  his  own  thin  hands.  At  night,  when 
he  sees  my  candle,  he  draws  back  his  curtain,  and  leaves 
it  so,  till  I  am  in  bed.  It  seems  such  company  to  him  to 
know  that  I  am  there,  that  I  often  sit  at  my  window  for 
an  hour  or  more,  that  he  may  see  I  am  still  awake  ;  and 
sometimes  I  get  up  in  the  night  to  look  at  the  dull  mel- 
ancholy light  in  his  little  room,  and  wonder  whether  he 
is  awake  or  sleeping. 

"  The  night  will  not  be  long  coming,"  said  Tim,  when 
he  will  sleep,  and  neVer  wake  again  on  earth.  We  have 
never  so  much  as  shaken  hands  in  all  our  lives  ;  and  yet 
I  shall  miss  him  like  an  old  friend.  Are  there  any  coun- 
try flowers  that  could  interest  me  like  these,  do  you 
think  ?  Or  do  you  suppose  that  the  withering  of  a  hun- 
dred kinds  of  the  choicest  flowers  that  blow,  called  by 
the  hardest  Latin  names  that  were  ever  invented,  would 
give  me  one  fraction  of  the  pain  that  I  shall  feel  when 
these  old  jugs  and  bottles  are  swept  away  as  lumber  ! 
Country  ! "  cried  Tim,  with  a  contemptuous  emphasis  ; 
"  don't  you  know  that  I  couldn't  have  such  a  court  under 
my  bed-room  window,  anywhere,  but  in  London  ?" 

With  which  inquiry,  Tim  turned  his  back,  and  pre- 
tending to  be  ai)Sorbed  in  his  accounts,  took  an  opportu- 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


145 


nity  of  hastily  wiping  his  eyes  when  he  supposed  Nicholas  I 
was  looking  another  way. 

Whether  it  was  that  Tim's  accounts  were  more  than 
usually  intricate  that  morning,  or  whether  it  was  that 
his  habitual  serenity  had  been  a  little  disturbed  by  these  I 
recollections,  it  so  happened  that  when  Nicholas  returned 
from  executing  some  commission,  and  inquired  whether 
M^.  Charles  Cheeryble  was  alone  in  his  room,  Tim  promi)t- 
ly,  and  without  the  smallest  hesitation,  replied  in  the 
affirmative,  although  somebody  had  passed  into  the  room 
not  ten  minutes  before,  and  Tim  took  especial  and  partic- 
ular pride  in  preventing  any  intrusion  on  either  of  the  \ 
brothers  when  they  were  engaged  with  any  visitor  what-  | 
ever.  i 

"  I'll  take  this  letter  to  him  at  once,"  said  Nicholas,  ! 
"  if  that's  the  case."    And  with  that,  he  walked  to  the 
room  and  knocked  at  the  door.  | 

No  answer.  j 

Another  knock,  and  still  no  answer. 

"  He  can't  be  here,"  thought  Nicholas.  "  I'll  lay  it  on 
his  table."  ^ 

So,  Nicholas  opened  the  door  and  walked  in  ;  and  very 
quickly  he  turned  to  walk  out  again,  when  he  saw,  to  his 
great  astonishment  and  discomfiture,  a  young  lady  upon 
her  knees  at  Mr.  Cheeryble 's  feet,  and  Mr.  Cheeryble  be- 
seeching her  to  rise,  and  entreating  a  third  person,  who 
had  the  appearance  of  the  young  lady's  female  attendant, 
to  add  her  persuasions  to  his  to  induce  her  to  do  so. 

Nicholas  stammered  out  an  awkward  apology,  and  was 
precipitately  retiring,  when  the  young  lady,  turning  her 
head  a  little,  presented  to  his  view  the  features  of  the 
lovely  girl  whom  he  had  seen  at  the  register-office  on  his 
first  visit  long  before.  Glancing  from  her  to  the  atten- 
dant, he  recognised  the  same  clumsy  servant  who  had 
accompanied  her  then  ;  and  between  his  admiration  of 
the  young  lady's  beauty,  and  the  confusion  and  surprise 
of  this  unexpected  recognition,  he  stood  stock-still,  in 
such  a  bewildered  state  of  surprise  and  embarrassment, 
that,  for  the  moment,  he  was  quite  bereft  of  the  power 
either  to  speak  or  move. 

"  My  dear  ma'am — my  dear  young  lady,"  cried  brother 
Charles  in  violent  agitation,  "pray  don't — not  another 
word,  I  beseech  and  entreat  you  !  I  implore  you — I  beg 
of  you — to  rise.    We — we — are  not  alone." 

As  he  spoke,  he  raised  the  young  lady,  who  staggered 
to  a  chair  and  swooned  away. 

"  She  has  fainted,  sir,"  said  Nicholas,  darting  eagerly 
forward. 

"  Poor  dear,  poor  dear  !  "  cried  brother  Charles. 
"Where  is  ray  brother  Ned?  Ned,  my  dear  brother, 
come  here  pray." 

Brother  Charles,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  his  brother, 
hurrying  into  the  room,  "what  is  the — ah  !  what — " 

"  Hush  !  hush  ! — not  a  word  for  your  life,  brother 
Ned,"  reiurned  the  other.    "Ring  for  the  housekeeper, 
my  dear  brother — call  Tim  Linkinwater  !    Here,  Tim 
Linkinwater,  sir — Mr.  Nickleby,  my  dear  sir,  leave  the  | 
room,  I  beg  and  beseech  of  you." 

"I  think  she  is  better  now,"  said  Nicholas,  who  had 
been  watching  the  patient  so  eagerly,  that  he  had  not 
heard  the  request. 

"Poor  bird  !"  cried  brother  Charles,  gently  taking  her 
hand  in  his,  and  laying  her  head  upon  his  arm.  ' '  Brother 
Ned,  my  dear  fellow,  you  will  be  surprised,  I  know,  to 
witness  this,  in  business  hours  ;  but — "  here  he  was  again 
reminded  of  the  presence  of  Nicholas,  and,  shaking  him 
by  the  hand,  earnestly  requested  him  to  leave  the  room, 
and  to  send  Tim  Linkinwater  without  an  instant's  delay. 

Nicholas  immediately  withdrew,  and,  on  his  way  to  the 
counting-house,  met  both  the  old  housekeeper  and  Tim 
Linkinwater,  jostling  each  other  in  the  passage,  and  hur-  I 
rying  to  the  scene  of  action  with  extraordinary  speed. 
Without  waiting  to  hear  his  message,  Tim  Linkinwater 
darted  into  the  room,  and  presently  afterwards  Nicholas  { 
heard  the  door  shut  and  locked  on  the  inside. 

He  had  abundance  of  time  to  ruminate  on  this  discov-  j 
ery,  for  Tim  Linkinwater  was  absent  during  the  greater  | 
part  of  an  hour,  during  the  whole  of  which  time  Nicho-  | 
las  thought  of  nothing  but  the  young  lady,  and  her  ex- 
ceeding beauty,  and  what  could  possibly'have  brought 
her  there,  and  why  they  made  such  a  mystery  of  it.  The 
more  he  thought  of  all  this,  the  more  it  perplexed  him,  j 
Vol.  II.— 10 


and  the  more  anxious  he  became  to  know  who  and  what 
she  was.  ' '  I  should  have  known  her  among  ten  thou- 
sand," thought  Nicholas.  And  with  that  he  walked  up 
and  down  the  room,  and  recalling  her  face  and  figure  (of 
which  he  had  a  peculiarly  vivid  remembrance),  discarded 
all  other  subjects  of  reflection  and  dwelt  upon  that  alone. 

At  length  Tim  Linkinwater  came  back  provokingly 
cool,  and  with  papers  in  his  hand,  and  a  pen  in  his  mouth, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"  Is  she  quite  recovered  ?  "  said  Nicholas,  impetuously. 

"Who?"  returned  Tim  Linkinwater. 

"  Who  ! "  repeated  Nicholas.    "The  young  lady." 

"  What  do  you  make,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  Tim,  taking 
his  pen  out  of  his  mouth,  "  what  do  you  make  of  four 
hundred  and  twenty-seven  times  three  thousand  two 
hundred  and  thirty-eight  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  returned  J^icholas,  "what  do  you  make  of  my 
question  first  ?    I  asked  you — " 

"  About  the  young  lady,"  said  Tim  Linkinwater,  put- 
ting on  his  spectacles.  "To  be  sure.  Yes.  Oh  !  she's 
very  welL" 

"  Very  well,  is  she  ?"  returned  Nicholas. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Linkinwater,  gravely, 

"  Will  she  be  able  to  go  home  to-day?  "  asked  Nicho- 
las. 

"  She's  gone,"  said  Tim. 

"Gone!" 

"Yes." 

"I  hope  she  has  not  far  to  go?"  said  Nicholas,  look- 
ing earnestly  at  the  other. 

"Ay,"  replied  the  immovable  Tim,  "I  hope  she 
hasn't." 

Nicholas  hazarded  one  or  two  further  remarks,  but  it 
was  evident  that  Tim  Linkinwater  had  his  own  reasons 
for  evading  the  subject,  and  that  he  was  determined  to 
afford  no  further  information  respecting  the  fair  un- 
known, who  had  awakened  so  much  curiosity  in  the 
breast  of  his  young  friend.  Nothing  daunted  by  this  re- 
pulse, Nicholas  returned  to  the  charge  next  day,  em- 
boldened by  the  circumstance  of  Mr.  Linkinwater  being 
in  a  very  talkative  and  communicative  mood  ;  but,  di- 
rectly he  resumed  the  theme,  Tim 'relapsed  into  a  state 
of  most  provoking  taciturnity,  and  from  answering  in 
monosyllables,  came  to  returning  no  answers  at  all,  save 
such  as  were  to  be  inferred  from  several  grave  nods  and 
shrugs,  which  only  served  to  whet  that  appetite  for  in- 
telligence in  Nicholas,  which  had  already  attained  a 
most  unreasonable  height. 

Foiled  in  these  attempts,  he  was  fain  to  content  him- 
self with  watching  for  the  young  lady's  next  visit,  but 
here  again  he  was  disappointed.  Day  after  day  passed, 
and  she  did  not  return.  He  looked  eagerly  at  the  super- 
scription of  all  the  notes  and  letters,  but  there  was  not 
one  among  them  which  he  could  fancy  to  be  in  her  hand- 
writing. On  two  or  three  occasions  he  was  employed  on 
business  which  took  him  to  a  distance,  and  had  formerly 
been  transacted  by  Tim  Linkinwater.  Nicholas  could 
not  help  suspecting  that,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he 
was  sent  out  of  the  way  on  purpose,  and  that  the  young 
lady  was  there  in  his  absence.  Nothing  transpired  how- 
ever, to  confirm  this  suspicion,  and  Tim  could  not  be  en- 
trapped into  any  confession  or  admission  tending  to  sup- 
port it  in  the  smallest  degree. 

Mystery  and  disappointment  are  not  absolutely  indis- 
pensable to  the  growth  of  love,  but  they  are.  very  often, 
its  powerful  auxiliaries.  "Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind," 
is  well  enough  as  a  proverb  applicable  to  cases  of  friend- 
ship, though  absence  is  not  always  necessary  To  hollow- 
ness  of  heart,  even  between  friends,  and  truth  and  hon- 
esty, like  precious  stones,  are  perhaps  most  easily  imitated 
at  a  distance,  when  the  counterfeits  often  pass  for  real. 
Love,  however,  is  very  materially  assisted  by  a  warm 
and  active  imagination  :  which  has  a  long  meraory,  and 
will  thrive,  for  a  considerable  time,  on  very  slight  and 
sparing  food.  Thus  it  is,  that  it  often  attains  its  most 
luxuriant  growth  in  separation  and  under  circumstances 
of  the  utmost  difficulty  ;  and  thus  it  was,  that  Nicholas, 
thinking  of  nothing  but  the  unknown  young  lady,  from 
day  to  day  and  from  hour  to  hour,  began,  at  last,  to 
think  that  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  her,  and  that 
never  was  such  an  ill-used  and  persecuted  lover  as  he. 

Still,  though  he  loved  and  languished  after  the  most 


.146 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


orthodox  models,  and  was  only  deterred  from  making  a 
confidante  of  Kate  by  the  slight  considerations  of  having 
never,  in  all  his  life,  spoken  to  the  object  of  his  passion, 
and  having  never  set  eyes  upon  her,  except  on  two  occa- 
sions, on  both  of  which  she  had  come  and  gone  like  a 
flash  of  lightning — or,  as  Nicholas  himself  said  in  the 
numerous  conversations  he  held  with  himself,  like  a  vi- 
sion of  youth  and  beauty  much  too  bright  to  last — his 
ardour  and  devotion  remained  without  its  reward.  The 
young  lady  appeared  no  more  ;  so  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  love  wasted  (enough  indeed  to  have  set  up  half-a- 
dozen  young  gentleman,  as  times  go,  with  the  utmost 
decency)  and  nobody  was  a  bit  the  wiser  for  it  ;  not  even 
Nicholas  himself,  who,  on  the  contrary,  became  more 
dull,  sentimental,  and  lackadaisical,  every  day. 

While  matters  were  in  this  state,  the  failure  of  a  cor- 
respondent of  the  Brothers  Cheeryble,  in  Germany,  im- 
posed upon  Tim  Linkinwater  and  Nicholas  the  necessity 
of  going  through  some  very  long  and  complicated  ac- 
counts, extending  over  a  considerable  space  of  time.  To 
get  through  them  with  the  greater  dispatch,  Tim  Lin- 
kinwater proposed  that  they  should  remain  at  the  count- 
ing-house, for  a  week  or  so,  until  ten  o'clock  at  night ; 
to  this,  as  nothing  damped  the  zeal  of  Nicholas  in  the 
service  of  his  kind  patrons — not  even  romance,  which 
has  seldom  business  habits — he  cheerfully  assented. 
On  the  very  first  night  of  these  later  hours,  at  nine  ex- 
actly, there  came :  not  the  young  lady  herself,  but  her 
servant,  who,  being  closeted  with  brother  Charles  for 
some  time,  went  away,  and  returned  next  night  at  the 
same  hour,  and  on  the  next,  and  on  the  next  again. 

These  repeated  visits  inflamed  the  curiosity  of  Nicholas 
to  the  very  highest  pitch.  Tantalized  and  excited,  be- 
yond all  bearing,  and  unable  to  fathom  the  mystery  with- 
out neglecting  his  duty,  he  confided  the  whole  secret  to 
Newman  Noggs,  imploring  him  to  be  on  the  watch  next 
night  ;  to  follow  the  girl  home  ;  to  set  on  foot  such  in- 
quiries relative  to  the  name,  condition,  and  history  of 
her  mistress,  as  he  could,  without  exciting  suspicion  ; 
and  to  report  the  result  to  him  with  the  least  possible 
delay. 

Beyond  all  measure,  proud  of  this  commission,  Newman 
Noggs  took  up  his  post,  in  the  square,  on  the  following 
evening,  a  full  hour  before  the  needful  time,  and  planting 
himself  behind  the  pump  and  pulling  his  hat  over  his 
eyes,  began  his  watch  with  an  elaborate  appearance  of 
mystery,  admirably  calculated  to  excite  the  suspicion  of 
all  beholders.  Indeed,  divers  servant-girls  who  came  to 
draw  water,  and  sundry  little  boys  who  stopped  to  drink 
at  the  ladle,  were  almost  scared  out  of  their  senses,  by 
the  apparition  of  Newman  Noggs  looking  stealthily  round 
the  pump,  with  nothing  of  him  visible  but  his  face,  and 
that  wearing  the  expression  of  a  meditative  Ogre. 

Punctual  to  her  time,  the  messenger  came  again,  and, 
after  an  interview  of  rather  longer  duration  than  usual, 
departed.  Newman  had  made  two  appointments  with 
Nicholas  :  one  for  the  next  evening,  conditional  on  his 
success  :  and  one  the  next  night  following  which  was  to 
be  kept  under  all  circumstances.  The  first  night  he  was 
not  at  the  place, of  meeting  (a  certain  tavern  about  half- 
way between  the  City  and  Golden  Square),  but  on  the 
second  night  he  was  there,  before  Nicholas,  and  received 
him  with  open  arms. 

"It's  all  right,"  whispered  Newman.  "Sit  down — sit 
down,  there's  a  dear  young  man,  and  let  me  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

Nicholas  needed  no  second  invitation,  and  eagerly  in- 
quired what  was  the  news. 

"There's  a  great  deal  of  news,"  said  Newman  in  a 
flutter  of  exultation.  "  It's  all  right.  Don't  be  anxious. 
I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  Never  mind  that.  Keep 
up  your  spirits.    It's  all  right." 

"  Well  ?"  said  Nicholas  eagerly,  "  Yes?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Newman,    "  That's  it." 

"  What's  it  ?  "  said  Nicholas.  ' '  The  name — the  name, 
my  dear  fellow  !  " 

"  The  name's  Bobster,"  replied  Newman, 

"  Bobster  !  "  repeated  Nicholas,  indignantly. 

"  That's  the  name,"  said  Newman.  "  I  remember  it  by 
lobster." 

"  Bobster  !  "  repeated  Nicholas,  more  emphatically  than 
l>efore.    "  That  must  be  the  servant's  name." 


"  No,  it  an't,"  said  Newman,  shaking  his  head  with 
great  positiveness.    "  Miss  Cecilia  Bobster," 

"  Cecilia,  eh  ?  "  returned  Nicholas,  muttering  the  two 
names  together  over  and  over  again,  in  every  variety  of 
tone,  to  try  the  effect.  "  Well,  Cecilia  is  a  pretty  name." 

"  Very.    And  a  pretty  creature  to,"  said  Newman. 

"  Who  ?"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Miss  Bobster." 

"  Why,  where  have  you  seen  her  ?  "  demanded  Nicho- 
las. 

"  Never  mind,  my  dear  boy,"  retorted  Noggs,  clap-  i.. 
ping  him  on  the  shoulder.  * '  I  have  seen  her.  You  shall  ^ 
see  her.    I've  managed  it  all." 

"My  dear  Newman,"  cried  Nicholas,  grasping  his 
hand,  "are  you  serious?"  i 

"  I  am,"  replied  Newman.    "  I  mean  it  all.    Every  i 
word.    You  shall  see  her  to-morrow  night.  She  consents 
to  hear  you  speak  for  yourself,    I  persuaded  her.  She 
is  all  affability,  goodness,  sweetness,  and  beauty." 

"  I  know  she  is  ;  I  know  she  must  be,  Newman  ! " 
said  Nicholas,  wringing  his  hand. 

"  You  are  right,"  returned  Newman. 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?  "  cried  Nicholas.  "  What  have 
you  learnt  of  her  history  ?  Has  she  a  father — mother — 
any  brothers — sisters  ?  What  did  she  say  ?  How  came 
you  to  see  her  ?  Was  she  not  very  much  surprised  ? 
Did  you  say  how  passionately  I  have  longed  to  speak  to 
her  ?  Did  you  tell  her  where  I  had  seen  her  ?  Did  you 
tell  her  how,  and  when,  and  where,  and  how  long,  and 
how  often,  I  have  thought  of  that  sweet  face  which  came 
upon  me  in  my  bitterest  distress  like  a  glimpse  of  some 
better  world — did  you,  Newman — did  you?" 

Poor  Noggs  literally  gasped  for  breath  as  this  flood 
of  questions  rushed  upon  him,  and  moved  spasmodically 
in  his  chair  at  every  fresh  inquiry,  staring  at  Nicholas 
meanwhile  with  a  most  ludicrous  expression  of  perplex- 
ity. 

"  No,"  said  Newman,  "  I  didn't  tell  her  that." 

"  Didn't  tell  her  which  ?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"About  the  glimpse  of  the  better  world,"  said  New- 
man. "  I  didn't  tell  her  who  you  were,  either,  or  where 
you'd  seen  her.    I  said  you  loved  her  to  distraction." 

"  That's  true,  Newman,"  replied  Nicholas,  with  his 
characteristic  vehemence.    "  Heaven  knows  I  do  ! " 

"  I  said  too,  that  you  had  admired  her  for  a  long  time 
in  secret,"  said  Newman. 

"Yes,  yes,  what  did  she  say  to  that?"  asked  Nicho- 
las. 

"  Blushed,"  said  Newman. 

"To  be  sure.    Of  course  she  would,"  said  Nicholas 
approvingly. 

Newman  then  went  on  to  say,  that  the  young  lady 
was  an  only  child,  that  her  mother  was  dead,  that  she 
resided  with  her  father,  and  that  she  had  been  induced 
to  allow  her  lover  a  secret  interview,  at  the  intercession 
of  her  servant,  who  had  great  influence  with  her.  He 
further  related  how  it  required  much  moving  and  great 
eloquence  to  bring  the  young  lady  to  this  pass  ;  how  it 
was  expressly  understood  that  she  merely  afforded  Nicho- 
las an  opportunity  of  declaring  his  passion  ;  and  how  she 
by  no  means  pledged  herself  to  be  favourably  impressed 
with  his  attentions.  The  mystery  of  her  visits  to  the 
Brothers  Cheeryble,  remained  wholly  unexplained,  for 
Newman  had  not  alluded  to  them,  either  in  his  prelimi- 
nary conversations  with  the  servant  or  his  subsequent 
interview  with  the  mistress,  merely  remarking  that  he 
had  been  instructed  to  watch  the  girl  home  and  plead 
his  young  friend's  cause,  and  not  saying  how  far  he 
had  followed  her,  or  from  what  point.  But  Newman 
hinted  that  from  what  had  fallen  from  the  confidante, 
he  had  been  led  to  suspect  that  the  young  lady  led  a 
very  miserable  and  unhappy  life,  under  the  strict  con- 
trol of  her  only  parent,  who  was  of  a  violent  and  brutal 
temper — a  circumstance  which  he  thought  might  in 
some  degree  account,  both  for  her  having  sought  the 
protection  and  friendship  of  the  brothers,  and  her  suffer- 
ing herself  to  be  prevailed  upon  to  grant  the  promised 
interview.  The  last  he  held  to  be  a  very  logical  deduc- 
tion from  the  premises,  inasmuch  as  it  was  but  natural 
to  suppose  that  a  young  lady,  whose  present  condition 
was  so  unenviable,  woiUd  be  more  than  commonly  de- 
sirous to  change  it. 


THE  MEDITATIVE  OGRE. 


OF  THE 
UNIVERSITK  Of  ILLINOIS 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


147 


It  appeared,  on  further  questioning — for  it  was  only 
by  a  very  long  and  arduous  process  that  all  tliis  could  be 
i  got  out  of  Newman  Noggs— that  Newman,  in  explana- 
tion of  his  shabby  appearance,  had  represented  himself 
"  as  being,  for  certain  wise  and  indispensable  purposes, 
connected  with  that  intrigue,  in  disguise  ;  and,  being 
questioned  liow  he  had  come  to  exceed  his  commission 
so  far,  as  to  procure  an  interview,  he  responded,  that 
the  lady  appearing  willing  to  grant  it,  he  considered 
himself  bound,  both  in  duty  and  gallantry,  to  avail  him- 
self of  such  a  golden  means  of  enabling  Nicholas  to 
prosecute  his  addresses.  After  these  and  all  possible 
questions  had  been  asked  and  answered  twenty  times 
over,  they  parted,  undertaking  to  meet  on  the  following 
night  at  half -past  ten,  for  the  purpose  of  fulfilling  the 
appointment :  which  was  for  eleven  o'clock. 

"  Things  come  about  very  strangely  !"  thought  Nicho- 
las, as  he  walked  home.    "I  never  contemplated  any- 
thing of  this  kind  ;  never  dreamt  of  the  possibility  of  it. 
To  know  something  of  the  life  of  one  in  whom  I  felt 
such  interest  ;  to  see  her  in  the  street,  to  pass  the  house 
in  which  she  lived,  to  meet  her  sometimes  in  her  walks, 
to  hope  that  a  day  might  come  when  I  might  be  in  a 
condition  to  tell  her  of  my  love,  this  was  the  utmost 
extent  of  my  thoughts.    Now,  however— but  I  should 
be  a  fool,  indeed,  to  repine  at  my  own  good  fortune  !" 
Still,  Nicholas  was  dissatisfied  ;  and  there  was  more 
!  in  the  dissatisfaction  than  mere  revulsion  of  feeling, 
i  He  was  angry  with  the  young  lady  for  being  so  easily 
!  won,  "because,"  reasoned  Nicholas,  **it  is  not  as  if  she 
knew  it  was  I,  but  it  might  have  been  anybody,"— which 
(  was  certainly  not  pleasant.    The  next  moment,  he  was 
i  angry  with  himself  for  entertaining  such  thoughts,  argu- 
ing that  nothing  but  goodness  could  dwell  in  such  a 
temple,  and  that  the  behaviour  of  the  brothers  suflS- 
ciently  showed  the  estimation  in  which  they  held  her. 
:  *'The  fact  is,  she's  a  mystery  altogether,"  said  Nicho- 
I  las.    This  was  not  more  satisfactory  than  his  previous 
!  course  of  reflection,  and  only  drove  him  out  upon  a  new 
I  sea  of  speculation  and  conjecture,  where  he  tossed  and 
j  tumbled,  in  great  discomfort  of  mind,  until  the  clock 
I  struck  ten,  and  the  hour  of  meeting  drew  nigh. 

Nicholas  had  dressed  himself  with  great  care,  and 
even  Newman  Noggs  had  trimmed  himself  up  a  little  : 
his  coat  presenting  the  phenomenon  of  two  consecutive 
buttons,  and  the  supplementary  pins  being  inserted  at 
tolerably  regular  intervals.  He  wore  his  hat,  too,  in  the 
newest  taste,  with  a  pocket  handkerchief  in  the  crown, 
and  a  twisted  end  of  it  straggling  out  behind  after  the 
fashion  of  a  pigtail,  though  he  could  scarcelv  lay  claim 
to  the  ingenuity  of  inventing  this  latter  decoration,  inas- 
much as  he  was  utterly  unconscious  of  it :  being  in  a 
nervous  and  excited  condition  which  rendered  him  quite 
insensible  to  everything  but  the  great  object  of  the  ex- 
pedition. 

They  traversed  the  streets,  in  profound  silence  ;  and 
after  walking  at  a  round  pace  for  some  distance,  ar- 
rived in  one,  of  a  gloomy  appearance  and  very  little  fre- 
quented, near  the  Edge  ware- road. 

"Number  twelve,"  said  Newman. 

**  Oh  !  "  replied  Nicholas,  looking  about  him. 
;     **  Good  street,"  said  Newman. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Nicholas.    "  Rather  dull." 

Newman  made  no  answer  to  this  remark,  but,  halting, 
abruptly,  planted  Nicholas  with  his  back  to  some  area 
railmgs,  and  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  to  wait 
there,  without  moving  hand  or  foot,  until  it  was  satis- 
factorily ascertained  that  the  coast  was  clear.  This  done, 
Noggs  limped  away  with  great  alacrity  ;  looking  over 
his  shoulder  every  instant,  to  make  quite  certain  that  ; 
Nicholas  was  obeying  his  directions  ;  and,  ascending  the 
steps  of  a  house  some  half-dozen  doors  off,  was  lost  to 
I  view. 

!    After  a  short  delay,  he  re-appeared,  and  limping  back  : 
again,  halted  midway,  and  beckoned  Nicholas  to  follow 
:  mm. 

"Well?"  said  Nicholas,  advancing  towards  him  on 
tiptoe.  j 
t     "All  right,"  replied  Newman,  in  high  glee.  "All 
'^W^  '  "®!^"^y     home.  Couldn't  be  better.  Ha  !  ha  ! " 

With  this  fortifying  assurance,  he  stole  past  a  street-  1 
door,  on  which  Nicholas  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  brass  1 


^  plate,  with  "  Bobsteii,"  in  very  large  letters  ;  and,  stop- 
5  ping  at  the  area-gate,  which  was  open,  signed  to  his 

-  young  friend  to  descend. 

f  "What  the  devil!"  cried  Nicholas,  drawing  back. 
,  "  Are  we  to  sneak  into  the  kitchen,  as  if  we  came  after 
^  the  forks  ?  " 

1  "Hush!"  replied  Newman.  '*  Old  Bobster— fero- 
t  cious  Turk.  He'd  kill  'em  all — box  the  young  lady's  ears 
I  — he  does — often." 

"What!"  cried  Nicholas,  in  high  wrath,  "do  you 
)  mean  to  tell  me  that  any  man  would  dare  to  box  the 
3  ears  of  such  a  " 

3      He  had  no  time  to  sing  the  praises  of  his  mistress,  just 
X,  then,  for  Newman  gave  him  a  gentle  push  which'  had 
i  nearly  precipitated  him  to  the  bottom  of  the  area  steps. 
Thinking  it  best  to  take  the  hint  in  good  part,  Nicholas 

-  descended,  without  further  remonstrance,  but  with  a 

-  countenance  bespeaking  anything  rather  than  the  hope 

.   and  rapture  of  a  passionate  lover.    Newman  followed  

b  he  would  have  followed  head  first,  but  for  the  timely 
;  assistance  of  Nicholas— and,  taking  his  hand,  led  him 
,  through  a  stone  passage,  profoundly  dark,  into  a  black 
L  kitchen  or  cellar,  of  the  blackest  and  most  pitchy  obscur- 
t  ity,  where  they  stopped. 

I      "Well  !"  said  Nicholas,  in  a  discontented  whisper, 

"  this  is  not  all,  I  suppose,  is  it  ?  " 
!      "No,  no,"  rejoined  Noggs  ;  "  they'll  be  here  directly. 
It's  all  right." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Nicholas.  "  I  shouldn't 
!  have  thought  it,  I  confess. " 

They  exchanged  no  further  words,  and  there  Nicholas 
I  stood,  listening  to  the  loud  breathing  of  Newman  Noggs, 
and  imagining  that  his  nose  seemed  to  glow  like  a  red- 
hot  coal,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness  which  en- 
shrouded them.  Suddenly,  the  sound  of  cautious  foot- 
steps attracted  his  ear,  and  directly  afterwards  a  female 
voice  inquired  if  the  gentleman  was  there. 

"Yes,"  replied  Nicholas,  turning  towards  the  comer 
from  which  the  voice  proceeded.    "  Who  is  that  ?" 

"  Only  me,  sir,"  replied  the  voice.  "  Now  if  you  please, 
ma'am." 

A  gleam  of  light  shone  into  the  place,  and  presently 
the  servant-girl  appeared,  bearing  a  light,  and  followed 
by  her  young  mistress,  who  seemed  to  be  overwhelmed 
by  modesty  and  confusion. 

At  sight  of  the  young  lady,  Nicholas  started  and 
changed  colour  ;  his  heart  beat  violently,  and  he  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot.  At  that  instant,  and  almost  simul- 
taneously with  her  arrival  and  that  of  the  candle,  there 
was  heard  a  loud  and  furious  knocking  at  the  street-door, 
which  caused  Newman  Noggs  to  jump  up,  with  great 
agility,  from  a  beer-barrel  on  which  he  had  been  seated 
astride,  and  to  exclaim  abruptlv,  and  w  ith  a  face  of  ashy 
paleness,  * '  Bobster,  by  the  Lord  ! " 

The  young  lady  shrieked,  the  attendant  wrung  her 
hands,  Nicholas  gazed  from  one  to  the  other  in  apparent 
stupefaction,  and  Newman  hurried  to  and  fro,  thrusting 
his  hands  into  all  his  pockets  successively,  and  drawing 
out  the  linings  of  every  one  in  the  excess  of  his  irresolu- 
tion. It  was  but  a  moment,  but  the  confusion  crowded 
into  that  one  moment  no  imaginatioi:  can  exaggerate. 

"Leave  the  house,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  We  have 
done  wrong— we  deserve  it  all,"  cried  the  young  lady. 
"  Leave  the  house,  or  I  am  ruined  and  undone  for  ever* " 
"Will  you  hear  me  say  but  one  word  ! "  cried  Nicho- 
las. "  Only  one.  I  will  not  detain  you.  Will  vou  hear 
me  say  one  word,  in  explanation  of  this  mischance  ?  " 

But  Nicholas  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  wind, 
for  the  young  lady,  with  distracted  looks,  hurried  up  the 
stairs.  He  would  have  followed  her,  but  Newman,  twist- 
ing his  hand  in  his  coat  collar,  dragged  him  towards  the 
passage  by  which  they  had  entered. 

"Let  me  go,  Newman,  in  the  Devil's  name  !"  cried 
Nicholas.  "I  must  speak  to  her— I  will  I  I  will  not 
leave  this  house  without." 

"  Reputation  —  character  —  violence  —  consider,"  said 
Newman,  clinging  round  him  with  both  arms,  and  hurry- 
ing him  away.  "  Let  them  open  the  door.  We'll  go,  as 
we  came,  directly  it's  shut.    Come.    This  way.  Here." 

Overpowered  iDy  the  remonstrances  of  Newman,  and 
the  tears  and  prayers,  of  the  girl,  and  the  tremendous 
knocking  above,  which  had  never  ceased,  Nicholas 


148 


CHARLES  Die  KEN 8'  WORKS. 


allowed  himself  to  be  hurried  off  ;  and,  precisely  as  Mr. 
Bobster  made  his  entrance  by  the  street-door,  he  and 
Noggs  made  their  exit  by  the  area-gate. 

They  hurried  away,  through  several  streets,  without 
stopping  or  speaking.  At  last,  they  halted  and  con- 
fronted each  other,  with  blank  and  rueful  faces. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Newman,  gasping  for  breath. 
**  Don't  be  cast  down.  It's  all  right.  More  fortunate  next 
time.    It  couldn't  be  helped.    I  did  my  part." 

"  Excellently,"  replied  Nicholas,taking  his  hand.  **  Ex- 
cellently, and  like  the  true  and  zealous  friend  you  are. 
Only — mind,  I  am  not  disappointed,  Newman,  and  feel 
just  as  much  indebted  to  you — only  it  was  the  wrong 
lady." 

"Eh?"  cried  Newman  Noggs.  "Taken  in  by  the 
servant  ?  " 

"  Newman,  Newman,"  said  Nicholas,  laying  his  hand 
upon  his  shoulder  :  "  it  was  the  wrong  servant  too." 

Newman's  under-jaw  dropped,  and  he  gazed  at  Nicho- 
las, with  his  sound  eye  fixed  fast  and  motionless  in  his 
iiead. 

"  Don't  take  it  to  heart,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  it's  of  no 
consequence  ;  you  see  I  don't  care  about  it ;  you  followed 
the  wrong  person,  that's  all." 

That  was  all.  Whether  Newman  Noggs  had  looked 
round  the  pump,  in  a  slanting  direction,  so  long,  that  his 
sight  became  impaired  ;  or  whether,  finding  that  there 
was  time  to  spare,  he  had  recruited  himself  with  a  few 
drops  of  something  stronger  than  the  pump  could  yield 
— by  whatsoever  means  it  had  come  to  pass,  this  was  his 
mistake.  And  Nicholas  went  home  to  brood  upon  it,  and 
to  meditate  upon  the  charms  of  the  unknown  young  lady 
now  as  far  beyond  his  reach  as  ever. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

Containing  some  Romantic  Passages  between  Mrs.  NicUeby  and  the 
Gentleman  in  the  Small  Clothes  next  Door. 

Ever  since  her  last  momentous  conversation  with 
her  son,  Mrs.  Nickleby  had  begun  to  display  unusual 
care  in  the  adornment  of  her  person,  gradually  super- 
adding to  those  staid  and  matronly  habiliments,  which 
had,  up  to  that  time,  formed  her  ordinary  attire,  a  variety 
of  embellishments  and  decorations,  slight  perhaps  in 
themselves,  but,  taken  together,  and  considered  with  ref- 
erence to  the  subject  of  her  disclosure,  of  no  mean  im- 
portance. Even  her  black  dresS  assumed  something  of 
a  deadly-lively  air  from  the  jaunty  style  in  which  it 
was  worn  ;  and,  eked  out  as  its  lingering  attractions 
were,  by  a  prudent  disposal,  here  and  there,  of  certain 
juvenile  ornaments  of  little  or  no  value,  which  had,  for 
that  reason  alone,  escaped  the  general  wreck  and  been 
permitted  to  slumber  peacefully  in  odd  corners  of  old 
drawers  and  boxes  were  daylight  seldom  shone,  her 
mourning  garments  assumed  quite  a  new  character. 
From  being  the  outward  tokens  of  respect  and  sorrow 
for  the  dead,  they  became  converted  into  signals  of  very 
slaughterous  and  killing  designs  upon  the  living. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  might  have  been  stimulated  to  this  pro- 
ceeding by  a  lofty  sense  of  duty,  and  impulses  of  un- 
questionable excellence.  She  might,  by  this  time,  have 
become  impressed  with  the  sinfulness  of  long  indulgence 
in  unavailing  woe,  or  the  necessity  of  setting  a  proper 
example  of  neatness  and  decorum  to  her  blooming  daugh- 
ter. Considerations  of  duty  and  responsibility  apart, 
the  change  might  have  taken  its  rise  in  feelings  of  the 
purest  and  most  disinterested  charity.  The  gentleman 
next  door  had  been  vilified  by  Nicholas  ;  rudely  stigma- 
tised as  a  dotard  and  an  idiot  ;  and  for  these  attacks 
upon  his  understanding,  Mrs.  Nickleby  was,  in  some 
sort,  accountable.  She  might  have  felt  that  it  was  the 
act  of  a  good  Christian  to  show,  by  all  means  in  her 
power,  that  the  abused  gentleman  was  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other.  And  what  better  means  could  she  adopt, 
towards  so  virtuous  and  laudable  an  end,  than  proving 
to  all  men,  in  her  own  person,  that  his  ])aHsion  was  the 
most  rational  and  reasonable  in  the  world,  and  just  the 
very  result,  of  all  others  which  discreet  and  thinking 
persons  might  have  foreseen,  from  her  incautiously  dis- 
playing her  matured  charms,  without  reserve,  under  the 


very  eye,  as  it  were,  of  an  ardent  and  too-susceptible 
man  ? 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  gravely  shaking  her  head  ; 
"  if  Nicholas  knew  what  his  dear  papa  suffered  before 
we  were  engaged,  when  I  used  to  hate  him,  he  would 
have  a  little  more  feeling.  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  morn- 
ing I  looked  scornfully  at  him  when  he  offered  to  carry 
my  parasol  ?  Or  that  night  when  I  frowned  at  him  1  It 
was  a  mercy  he  didn't  emigrate.  It  very  nearly  drove 
him  to  it." 

Whether  the  deceased  might  not  have  been  better  off 
if  he  had  emigrated  in  his  bachelor  days,  was  a  question 
which  his  relict  did  not  stop  to  consider  ;  for  Kate  en- 
tered the  room,  with  her  work-box,  in  this  stage  of  her 
reflections  ;  and  a  much  slighter  interruption,  or  no  in- 
terruption at  all,  would  have  diverted  Mrs.  Nickleby's 
thoughts  into  a  new  channel  at  any  time. 

"Kate,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby  ;  "  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  but  a  fine  warm  summer  day  like  this,  with 
the  birds  singing  in  every  direction,  always  puts  me  in 
mind  of  roast  pig,  with  sage  and  onion  sauce,  and  made 
gravy." 

"  That's  a  curious  association  of  ideas,  is  it  not,  mam- 
ma?" 

"Upon  my  word,  my  dear,  I  don't  know,"  replied 
Mrs.  Nickleby.  * '  Roast  pig — let  me  see.  On  the  day 
five  weeks  after  you  were  christened,  we  had  a  roast — 
no,  that  couldn't  have  been  a  pig,  either,  because  I  recol- 
lect there  were  a  pair  of  them  to  carve,  and  your  poor 
papa  and  I  could  never  have  thought  of  sitting  down  to 
two  pigs — they  must  have  been  partridges.  Roast  pig  ! 
r  hardly  think  we  ever  could  have  had  one,  now  I  come 
to  remember,  for  your  papa  never  could  bear  the  sight 
of  them  in  the  shops,  and  used  to  say  that  they  always 
put  him  in  mind  of  very  little  babies,  only  the  pigs  had 
much  fairer  complexions  ;  and  he  had  a  horror  of  little 
babies,  too,  because  he  couldn't  very  well  afford  any  in- 
crease to  his  family,  and  had  a  natural  dislike  to  the 
subject.  It's  very  odd  now,  what  can  have  put  that  in 
my  head  !  I  recollect  dining  once  at  Mrs.  Bevans,  in 
that  broad  street  round  the  corner  by  the  coach-maker's, 
where  the  tipsy  man  fell  through  the  cellar-flap  of  an 
empty  house  nearly  a  week  before  the  quarter-day,  and 
wasn't  found  till  the  new  tenant  went  in — and  we  had 
roast  pig  there.  It  must  be  that,  I  think,  that  reminds 
me  of  it,  especially  as  there  was  a  little  bird  in  the  room 
that  would  keep  on  singing  all  the  time  of  dinner — at 
least,  not  a  little  bird,  for  it  was  a  parrot,  and  he  didn't 
sing  exactly,  for  he  talked  and  swore  dreadfully  ;  but  I 
think  it  must  be  that.  Indeed  I  am  sure  it  must. 
Shouldn't  you  say  so,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  there  was  not  a  doubt  about  it,  mamma," 
returned  Kate,  with  a  cheerful  smile. 

"  No  ;  but  do  you  think  so,  Kate  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by, with  as  much  gravity  as  if  it  were  a  question  of  the 
most  imminent  and  thrilling  interest.  "  If  you  don't,  say 
so  at  once,  you  know  ;  because  it's  just  as  well  to  be 
correct,  particularly  on  a  point  of  this  kind,  which  is 
very  curious  and  worth  settling  while  one  thinks  about 
it." 

Kate  laughingly  replied  that  she  was  quite  convinced  ; 
and  as  her  mamma  still  appeared  undetermined  whether 
it  was  absolutely  essential  that  the  subject  should  be 
renewed,  proposed  that  they  should  take  their  work  into 
the  summer-house,  and  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  after- 
noon. Mrs.  Nickleby  readily  assented,  and  to  the  sum- 
mer-house they  repaired,  without  further  discussion. 

"Well,  I  will  say,"  observed  Mrs.  Nickleby,  as  she 
took  her  seat,  "that  there  never  was  such  a  good  crea- 
ture as  Smike.  Upon  my  word,  the  pains  he  has  taken 
in  putting  this  little  arbour  to  rights,  and  training  the 
sweetest  flowers  about  it,  are  beyond  anything  I  could  - 
have — I  wish  he  wouldn't  put  all  the  gravel  on  your  side, 
Kate,  my  dear,  though,  and  leave  nothing  but  mould  for 
me." 

"Dear  mamma,"  returned  Kate,  hastily,  "take  this 
seat — do — to  oblige  me,  mamma." 

"  No,  indeed,  my  dear.  I  shall  keep  my  own  side,** 
said  Mrs.  Nickleby.    "Well  !  I  declare  !" 

Kate  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"If  he  hasn't  been, "  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "and  got, 
from  somewhere  or  other,  a  couple  of  roots  of  those 


NICHOLAS  NIC  RLE  BY, 


149 


flowers  that  I  said  I  was  so  fond  of,  the  other  night,  and 
asked  you  if  you  were  not — no,  that  you  said  you  were  so 
fond  of,  the  other  night,  and  asked  me  if  I  wasn't — it's 
the  same  thing — now,  upon  my  word,  I  take  that  as  very 
kind  and  attentive  indeed.  I  don't  see,"  added  Mrs. 
Xickleby,  looking  narrowly  about  her,  "  any  of  them  on 
my  side,  but  I  suppose  they  grow  best  near  the  gravel. 
You  may  depend  upon  it  they  do,  Kate,  and  tliut's  the 
reason  they  are  all  near  you,  and  he  has  put  the  gravel 
there,  because  it's  the  sunny  side.  Upon  my  word,  that's 
very  clever  now  !  I  shouldn't  have  had  half  as  much 
thought  myself  ! " 

"  Mamma,"  said  Kate,  bending  over  her  work  so  that 
her  face  was  almost  hidden,  "  before  you  were  married — " 
"  Dear  me,  Kate,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  what 
in  the  name  of  goodness  graciousness  makes  you  fly  off 
to  the  time  before  I  was  married,  when  I'm  talking  to 
you  about  his  thoughtf  ulness  and  attention  to  me  ?  You 
don't  seem  to  take  the  smallest  interest  in  the  garden." 

"Oh!  mamma,"  said  Kate,  raising Jier  face  again, 
**  you  know  I  do." 

' '  Well  then,  my  dear,  why  don't  you  praise  the  neat- 
ness and  prettiness  with  which  it's  kept,"  said  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby.   "  How  very  odd  you  are,  Kate  !" 

"I  do  praise  it,  mamma,"  answered  Kate,  gently. 
*'  Poor  fellow  !  " 

"  I  scarcely  ever  hear  you,  my  dear,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Nickleby  ;  "that's  all  I've  got  to  say."  By  this  time 
the  good  lady  had  been  a  long  while  upon  one  topic,  so 
she  fell  at  once  into  her  daughter's  little  trap — if  trap  it 
were — and  inquired  what  she  had  been  going  to  say. 

"About  what,  mamma?"  said  Kate,  who  had  appar- 
ently quite  forgotten  her  diversion. 

"  Lor,  Kate,  my  dear,"  returned  her  mother,  "  why, 
you're  asleep  or  stupid  !  About  the  time  before  I  was 
married." 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  said  Kate,  "  I  remember.  I  was  going  to 
ask,  mamma,  before  you  were  married,  had  you  many 
suitors  ?  " 

"Suitors,  my  dear!"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby,  with  a 
smile  of  wonderful  complacency.  "First  and  last, 
Kate,  I  must  have  had  a  dozen  at  least." 

"  Mamma  ! "  returned  Kate,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance. 
**  I  had  indeed,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby;  "not 
including  your  poor  papa,  or  a  young  gentleman  who 
used  to  go,  at  that  time,  to  the  same  dancing  school,  and 
ivho  would  send  gold  watches  and  bracelets  to  our  house 
in  gilt-edged  paper,  (which  were  always  returned,)  and 
who  afterwards  unfortunately  went  out  to  Botany  Bay 
in  a  cadet  ship — a  convict  ship  I  mean — and  escaped  into 
a  bush  and  killed  sheep,  (I  don't  know  how  they  got 
there,)  and  was  going  to  be  hung,  only  he  accidentally 
choked  himself,  and  the  government  pardoned  him. 
Then  there  was  young  Lukin,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  be- 
ginning with  her  left  thumb  and  checking  off  the  names 
on  her  fingers — "  Mogley — Tipslark — Cabbery  —  Smif- 
ser — " 

Having  now  reached  her  little  finger,  Mrs.  Nickleby 
was  carrying  the  account  over  to  the  other  hand,  when 
a  loud  "  Hem  !  "  which  appeared  to  come  from  the  very 
foundation  of  the  garden  wall,  gave  both  herself  and 
her  daughter  a  violent  start. 

"  Mamma  !  what  was  that  ?"  said  Kate,  in  a  low  tone 
of  voice. 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,"  returned  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
considerably  startled,  "  unless  it  was  the  gentleman  be- 
longing to  the  next  house,  I  don't  know  what  it  could 
possibly — " 

"  A — hem  !"  cried  the  same  voice  ;  and  that  not  in 
the  tone  of  an  ordinary  clearing  of  the  throat,  but  in  a 
kind  of  bellow,  which  woke  up  all  the  echoes  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  was  prolonged  to  an  extent  which 
must  have  made  the  unseen  bellower  quite  black  in  the 
face. 

**  I  understand  it  now,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
laying  her  hand  on  Kate's  ;  "  don't  be  alarmed,  my  love, 
it's  not  directed  to  you,  and  is  not  intended  to  frighten 
anybody.  Let  us  give  everybody  their  due,  Kate  ;  I  am 
bound  to  say  that." 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Nickleby  nodded  her  head,  and  patted 
the. back  of  her  daughter's  hand,  a  great  many  times, 
and  looked  as  if  she  could  tell  something  vastly  impor- 


tant if  she  chose,  but  had  self-denial,  thank  Heaven  ; 
and  wouldn't  do  it. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  mamma?"  demanded  Kate,  in 
evident  surprise. 

"Don't  be  flurried,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
looking  towards  the  garden-wall,  "  for  you  see  I'm  not, 
and  if  it  would  be  excusable  in  anybody  to  be  flurried, 
it  certainly  would — under  all  the  circumstances — be  ex- 
cusable in  me,  but  I  am  not,  Kate,  not  at  all." 

"  It  seems  designed  to  attract  our  attention,  mamma," 
said  Kate. 

"  It  is  designed  to  attract  our  attention,  my  dear — at 
least,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Nickleby,  drawing  herself  up,  and 
patting  her  daughter's  hand  more  blandly  than  before, 
"to  attract  the  attention  of  one  of  us.  Hem!  you 
needn't  be  at  all  uneasy,  my  dear." 

Kate  looked  very  much  x^erplexed,  and  was  apparently 
about  to  ask  for  further  explanation,  when  a  shouting 
and  scuffling  noise,  as  of  an  elderly  gentleman  whoop- 
ing, and  kicking  up  his  legs  on  loose  gravel,  with  great 
violence,  was  heard  to  proceed  from  the  same  direction 
as  the  former  sounds  ;  and,  before  they  had  subsided,  a 
large  cucumber  was  seen  to  shoot  up  in  the  air  with  the 
velocity  of  a  sky-rocket,  whence  it  descended,  tumbling 
over  and  over,  until  it  fell  at  Mrs.  Nickleby's  feet. 

This  remarkable  appearance  was  succeeded  by  another 
of  a  precisely  similar  description  ;  then  a  fine  vegetable 
marrow,  of  unusually  large  dimensions,  was  seen  to  whirl 
aloft,  and  come  toppling  down  ;  then,  several  cucumbers 
shot  up  together  ;  and,  finally,  the  air  was  darkened  by 
a  shower  of  onions,  turnip-radishes,  and  other  small 
vegetables,  which  fell  rolling  and  scattering,  and  bump- 
ing about,  in  all  directions. 

As  Kate  rose  from  her  seat,  in  some  alarm,  and  caught 
her  mother's  hand  to  run  with  her  into  the  house,  she 
felt  herself  rather  retarded  than  assisted  in  her  inten- 
tion ;  and  following  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Nickleby's 
eyes,  was  quite  terrified  by  the  apparition  of  an  old 
black  velvet  cap,  which,  by  slow  degrees  as  if  its  wearer 
were  ascending  a  ladder  or  pair  of  steps,  rose  above 
the  wall  dividing  their  garden  from  that  of  the  next  cot- 
tage, (which,  like  their  own,  was  a  detached  building,) 
and  was  gradually  followed  by  a  very  large  head,  and  an 
old  face,  in  which  were  a  pair  of  most  extraordinary  grey 
eyes  ;  very  wild,  very  wide  open,  and  rolling  in  their 
sockets,  with  a  dull,  languishing,  leering  look,  most 
ugly  to  behold. 

"  Mamma  !"  cried  Kate,  really  terrified  for  the  mo- 
ment, "  why  do  you  stop,  why  do  you  lose  an  instant? — 
Mamma,  pray  come  in  !  " 

"Kate,  my  dear,"  returned  her  mother,  still  holding 
back,  "how  can  you  be  so  foolish?  I'm  ashamed  of 
you.  How  do  you  suppose  you  are  ever  to  get  through 
life,  if  you're  such  a  coward  as  this  ?  \^Tiat  do  you 
want  sir  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  addressing  the  intruder 
with  a  sort  of  simpering  displeasure.  ' '  How  dare  you 
look  into  this  garden  ?  " 

"Queen  of  my  soul,"  replied  the  stranger,  folding  his 
hands  together,  "this  goblet  sip  !  " 

"Nonsense,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "Kate,  my 
love,  pray  be  quiet." 

"Won't  you  sip  the  goblet  ?  "  urged  the  stranger,  with 
his  head  imploringly  on  one  side,  and  his  right  hand  on 
his  breast.    "  Oh,  do  sip  the  goblet  ! " 

"  I  shall  not  consent  to  do  anything  of  the  kind,  sir," 
said  Mrs.  Nickleby.    "  Pray,  begone." 

"  Why  is  it,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  coming  up  a  step 
higher,  and  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  wall,  with  as  much 
complacency  as  if  he  were  looking  out  of  window,  "why 
is  it  that  beauty  is  always  obdurate,  even  when  admi- 
ration is  as  honourable  and  respectful  as  mine  ?  "  Here 
he  smiled  kissed  his  hand,  and  made  several  low  bows. 
"Is  it  owing  to  the  bees,  who,  when  the  honey  season 
is  over,  and  they  are  supposed  to  have  been  killed  with 
brimstone,  in  reality  fly  to  Barbary  and  lull  the  captive 
Moors  to  sleep  with  their  drowsy  songs?  Or  is  it,"  he 
added,  dropping  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper,  "  in  con- 
sequence of  the  statue  at  Charing  Cross  having  been 
lately  seen,  on  the  Stock  Exchange  at  midnight,  walking 
arm-in-arm  with  the  Pump  from  Aldgate,  in  a  riding- 
habit?" 

"  Mamma,"  murmured  Kate,  "  do  you  hear  him?" 


150 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Hush,  my  dear  !  "  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby,  in  the  same 
tone  of  voice,  "he  is  very  polite,  and  I  think  that  was  a 
quotation  from  the  poets.  Pray,  don't  worry  me  so — 
you'll  pinch  my  arm  black  and  blue.    Go  away,  sir  ! " 

"  Quite  away?"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a  languish- 
ing look,  "Oh!  quite  away?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "certainly.  You 
have  no  business  here.  This  is  private  property,  sir ; 
you  ought  to  know  that." 

"  I  do  know,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  laying  his  finger 
on  his  nose,  with  an  air  of  familiarity,  most  reprehensi- 
ble, "  that  this  is  a  sacred  and  enchanted  spot,  where 
the  most  divine  charms  " — here  he  kissed  his  hand  and 
bowed  again — "waft  mellifluousness  over  the  neigh- 
bours' gardens,  and  force  the  fruit  and  vegetables  into 
premature  existence.  That  fact  I  am  acquainted  with. 
But  will  you  permit  me,  fairest  creature,  to  ask  you  one 
question,  in  the  absence  of  the  planet  Venus,  who  has 
gone  on  business  to  the  Horse  Guards,  and  would  other- 
wise— jealous  of  your  superior  charms — interpose  be- 
tween us  ?" 

"  Kate,"  observed  Mrs.  Nickleby,  turning  to  her  daugh- 
ter, "  it's  very  awkward,  positively.  I  really  don't  know 
what  to  say  to  this  gentleman.  One  ought  to  be  civil, 
you  know. " 

"Dear  mamma,"  rejoined  Kate,  "don't  say  a  word  to 
him,  but  let  us  run  away,  as  fast  as  we  can,  and  shut 
ourselves  up  till  Nicholas  comes  home." 

Mrs.  Nickleby  looked  very  grand,  not  to  say  contempt- 
uous, at  this  humiliating  proposal  ;  and,  turning  to  the 
old  gentleman,  who  had  watched  them  during  these 
whispers  with  absorbing  eagerness,  said — 

"  If  you  will  conduct  yourself,  sir,  like  the  gentleman 
I  should  imagine  you  to  be,  from  your  language  and — 
and — appearance,  (quite  the  counterpart  of  your  grand- 
papa, Kate,  my  dear,  in  his  best  days, )  and  will  put  your 
question  to  me  in  plain  words,  I  will  answer  it." 

If  Mrs.  Nickleby's  excellent  papa  had  borne,  in  his 
best  days,  a  resemblance  to  the  neighbour  now  looking 
over  the  wall,  he  must  have  been,  to  say  the  least,  a 
very  queer-looking  old  gentleman  in  his  prime.  Perhaps 
Kate  thought  so,  for  she  ventured  to  glance  at  his  living 
portrait  with  some  attention,  as  he  took  off  his  black 
velvet  cap,  and,  exhibiting  a  perfectly  bald  head,  made 
a  long  series  of  bows,  each  accompanied  with  a  fresh 
kiss  of  the  hand.  After  exhausting  himself,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, with  this  fatiguing  performance,  he  covered  his 
head  once  more,  pulled  the  cap  very  carefully  over  the 
tips  of  his  ears,  and  resuming  his  former  attitude,  said, 

"The  question  is — " 

Here  he  broke  off  to  look  around  in  every  direction, 
and  satisfy  himself  beyond  all  doubt  that  there  were  no 
listeners  near.  Assured  that  there  were  not,  he  tapped 
his  nose  several  times,  accompanying  the  action  with  a 
cunning  look,  as  though  congratulating  himself  on  his 
caution  ;  and  stretching  ou'.  his  neck,  said  in  a  loud 
whisper, 

"  Are  you  a  princess  ?  " 

"You  are  mocking  me,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
making  a  feint  of  retreating  towards  the  house. 

"  No,  but  are  you  ?  "  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"You  know  I  am  not,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  Then  are  you  any  relation  to  the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury ?  "  inquired  the  old  gentleman  with  great  anxiety, 
"  or  to  the  Pope  of  Rome  ?  or  the  speaker  of  the  House 
of  Commons?  Forgive  me,  if  I  am  wrong,  but  I  was 
told  you  were  niece  to  the  Commissioners  of  Paving,  and 
daughter-in-law  to  the  Lord  Mayor  and  Court  of  Common 
Council,  which  would  account  for  your  relationship  to 
all  three." 

"  Whoever  has  spread  such  reports,  sir,"  returned 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  with  some  warmth,  "has  taken  great 
liberties  with  my  name,  and  one  which  I  am  sure  my 
son  Nicholas,  if  he  was  aware  of  it,  would  not  allow  for 
an  instant.  The  idea!"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  drawing 
herself  up,  "  niece  to  the  Commissioners  of  Paving  !  " 

"  Pray,  mamma,  come  away  !"  whispered  Kate. 

"  '  Pray,  mamma  !'  Nonsense,  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby, angrily,  "but  that's  just  the  way.  If  they  had 
said  I  was  niece  to  a  piping  bullfinch,  what  would  you 
care  I  But  I  have  no  sympathy " — whimpered  Mrs. 
Niciileby,  "  I  don't  expect  it,  that's  one  thing." 


"Tears!"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  with  such  an 
energetic  jump,  that  he  fell  down  two  or  three  steps  and 
grated  his  chin  against  the  wall.  "Catch  the  crystal 
globules — catch  'em — bottle  'em  up — cork  'em  tight — 
put  sealing-wax  on  the  top — seal  'em  with  a  cupid — label 
'em  '  Best  quality  ' — and  stow  'em  away  in  the  fourteen 
binn,  with  a  bar  of  iron  on  the  top  to  keep  the  thunder 
off!" 

Issuing  these  commands,  as  if  there  were  a  dozen  at- 
tendants all  actively  engaged  in  their  execution,  he 
turned  his  velvet  cap  inside  out,  put  it  on  with  great 
dignity  so  as  to  obscure  his  right  eye  and  three-fourths 
of  his  nose,  and  sticking  his  arms  a-kimbo,  looked  very 
fiercely  at  a  sparrow  hard  by,  till  the  bird  flew  away, 
when  he  put  his  cap  in  his  pocket  with  an  air  of  great 
satisfaction,  and  addressed  himself  with  respectful  de- 
meanour to  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  Beautiful  madam,"  such  were  his  words — "  if  I  have 
made  any  mistake  with  regard  to  your  family  or  connex- 
ions, I  humbly  beseech  you  to  pardon  me.  If  I  supposed 
you  to  be  related  to  Foreign  Powers  or  Native  Boards, 
it  is  because  you  have  a  manner,  a  carriage,  a  dignity, 
which  you  will  excuse  my  saying  that  none  but  yourself 
(with  the  single  exception  perhaps  of  the  tragic  muse, 
when  playing  extemporaneously  on  the  barrel  organ 
before  the  East  India  Company)  can  parallel.  I  am  not 
a  youth,  ma'am,  as  you  see  ;  and  although  beings  like  you 
never  grow  old,  I  venture  to  presume  that  we  are  fitted 
for  each  other." 

"  Really,  Kate,  my  love  !"said  Mrs.  Nickleby  faintly, 
and  looking  another  way. 

"  I  have  estates,  ma'am,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
flourishing  his  right  hand  negligently,  as  if  he  made 
very  light  of  such  matters,  and  speaking  very  fast ; 
"jewels,  light-houses,  fish-ponds,  a  whalery  of  my  own 
in  the  North  Sea,  and  several  oyster-beds  of  great  profit 
in  the  Pacific  Ocean.  If  you  will  have  the  kindness  to 
step  down  to  the  Royal  Exchange  and  to  take  the  cocked 
hat  off  the  stoutest  beadle's  head,  you  will  find  my  card 
in  the  lining  of  the  crown,  wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  blue 
paper.  My  walking-stick  is  also  to  be  seen  on  applica- 
tion to  the  chaplain  of  the  House  of  Commons,  who  is 
strictly  forbidden  to  take  any  money  for  showing  it.  I 
have  enemies  about  me,  ma'am, "  he  looked  towards  his 
house  and  spoke  very  low,  "  who  attack  me  on  all  occa- 
sions, and  wish  to  secure  my  property.  If  you  bless  me 
with  your  hand  and  heart,  you  can  apply  to  the  Lord 
Chancellor  or  call  out  the  military  if  necessary — sending 
my  toothpick  to  the  commander-in-chief  will  be  suflBcient 
— and  so  clear  the  house  of  them  before  the  ceremony  is 
performed.  After  that,  love  bliss  and  rapture  ;  rapture 
love  and  bliss.    Be  mine,  be  mine  !  " 

Repeating  these  last  words  with  great  rapture  and 
enthusiasm  the  old  gentleman  put  on  his  black  velvet 
cap  again,  and  looking  up  into  the  sky  in  a  hasty  manner, 
said  something  that  was  not  quite  intelligible  concerning 
a  balloon  he  expected,  and  which  was  rather  after  its 
time. 

"  Be  mine,  be  mine  !  "  repeated  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Kate,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  I  have  hardly 
the  power  to  speak  ;  but  it  is  necessary  for  the  happi- 
ness of  all  parties  that  this  matter  should  be  set  at  rest 
forever." 

"  Surely  there  is  no  necessity  for  you  to  say  one  word, 
mamma?"  reasoned  Kate. 

"  You  will  allow  me,  my  dear,  if  you  please,  to  judge 
for  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  Be  mine,  be  mine  ! "  cried  the  old  gentleman. 

"  It  can  scarcely  be  expected,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
fixing  her  eyes  modestly  on  the  ground,  "that  I  should 
tell  a  stranger  whether  I  feel  flattered  and  obliged  by 
such  proposals,  or  not.  They  certainly  are  made  under 
very  singular  circumstances  ;  still  at  the  same  time,  as 
far  as  it  goes,  and  to  a  certain  extent  of  course,"  (Mrs. 
Nickleby's  customary  qualification,)  "  they  must  be  grat- 
ifying and  agreeable  to  one's  feelings." 

"  Be  mine,  be  mine,"  cried  the  old  gentleman.  "Gog 
and  Magog,  Gog  and  Magog.    Be  mine,  be  mine  !  '^ 

"  It  will  be  sufficient  for  me  to  say,  sir,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  with  perfect  seriousness — "  and  I'm  sure  you'll 
see  the  propriety  of  taking  an  answer  and  going  away — 
that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  remain  a  widow,  and  to 


OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


NICHOLAS  NIGKLEBY, 


151 


devote  myself  to  my  children.  You  may  not  suppose  I 
am  the  mother  of  two  children — indeed  many  people  have 
doubted  it,  and  said  that  nothing  on  earth  could  ever 
make  'era  believe  it  possible — but  it  is  the  case,  and  they 
are  both  grown  up.  We  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  you 
for  a  neighbour — very  glad  ;  delighted,  I'm  sure — but  in 
any  other  character  it's  quite  impossible,  quite.  As  to 
my  being  young  enough  to  marry  again,  that  perhaps  may 
be  so,  or  it  may  not  be  ;  but  I  couldn't  think  of  it  for  an 
instant,  not  on  any  account  whatever.  I  said  I  never 
would,  and  I  never  will.  It's  a  very  painful  thing  to 
have  to  reject  proposals,  and  I  would  much  rather  that 
none  were  made  ;  at  the  same  time  this  is  the  answer 
that  I  determined  long  ago  to  make,  and  this  is  the  an- 
swer I  shall  always  give," 

These  observations  were  partly  addressed  to  the  old 
gentleman,  partly  to  Kate,  and  partly  delivered  in  solilo- 
quy. Towards  their  conclusion,  the  suitor  evinced  a  very 
irreverent  degree  of  inattention,  and  Mrs.  Nickleby  had 
scarcely  finished  speaking,  when,  to  the  great  terror  of 
both  that  lady  and  her  daughter,  he  suddenly  flung  off 
his  coat,  and  springing  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  threw  him- 
self into  an  attitude  which  displayed  his  small  clothes 
and  grey  worsteds  to  the  fullest  advantage,  and  conclud- 
ed by  standing  on  one  leg,  and  repeating  his  favourite 
bellow  with  increased  vehemence. 

While  he  was  still  dwelling  on  the  last  note,  and  em- 
bellishing it  with  a  prolonged  flourish,  a  dirty  hand  was 
observed  to  glide  stealthily  and  swiftly  along  the  top  of 
the  wall,  as  if  in  pursuit  of  a  fly,  and  then  to  clasp  with 
the  utmost  dexterity  one  of  the  old  gentleman's  ancles. 
This  done,  the  companion  hand  appeared  and  clasped  the 
other  ancle. 

Thus  encuifibered  the  old  gentleman  lifted  his  legs 
awkwardly  once  or  twice,  as  if  they  were  very  clumsy 
and  imperfect  pieces  of  machinery,  and  then  looking 
down  on  his  own  side  of  the  wall,  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh. 

"  It's  you,  is  it?"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
'*  Yes,  it's  me,"  replied  a  gruff  voice. 
"  How's  the  Emperor  of  Tartary  ?  "  said  the  old  gentle- 
man. 

'*0h  !  he's  much  the  same  as  usual,"  was  the  reply. 
"  No  better  and  no  worse." 

"  The  young  Prince  of  China,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
with  much  interest.  "Is  he  reconciled  to  his  father-in- 
law,  the  great  potato  salesman  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  gruff  voice;  "and  he  says  he 
never  will  be,  that's  more." 

"  If  that's  the  case,"  observed  the  old  gentleman,"  per- 
haps I'd  better  come  down." 

"  Well,"  said  the  man  on  the  other  side,  "I  think  you 
had,  perhaps." 

One  of  the  hands  being  then  cautiously  unclasped,  the 
old  gentleman  dropped  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  was 
-looking  round  to  smile  and  bow  to  Mrs.  Nickleby,  when 
he  disappeared  with  some  precipitation,  as  if  his  legs  had 
been  pulled  from  below. 

Very  much  relieved  by  his  disappearance,  Kate  was 
turning  to  speak  to  her  mamma,  when  the  dirty  hands 
again  became  visible,  and  were  immediately  followed  by 
the  figure  of  a  coarse  squat  man,  who  ascended  by  the 
steps  which  had  been  recently  occupied  by  their  singular 
neighbour. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  ladies,"  said  this  new  comer,  grin- 
ning and  touching  his  hat.  ' '  Has  he  been  making  love 
to  either  of  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Kate. 

"Ah  1 "  rejoined  the  man,  taking  his  handkerchief  out 
of  his  hat,  and  wiping  his  face,  ' '  he  always  will,  you 
know.    Nothing  will  prevent  his  making  love." 

"  I  need  not  ask  you  if  he  is  out  of  his  mind,  poor 
creature,"  said  Kate. 

"  Why  no,"  replied  the  man,  looking  into  his  hat, 
throwing  his  handkerchief  in  at  one  dab,  and  putting  it 
on  again.    "  That's  pretty  plain,  that  is." 

" Has  he  been  long  so?  "  asked  Kate. 

"  A  long  while." 

"And  is  there  no  hope  for  him?"  said  Kate,  compas- 
sionately. 

"Not  a  bit,  and  don't  deserve  to  be,"  replied  the 
keeper.    "  He's  a  deal  pleasanter  without  his  senses  than 


with  'em.    He  was  the  cruellest,  wickedest,  out-and- 
outerest  old  flint  that  ever  drawed  breath." 
"  Indeed  !  "  said  Kate. 

"  By  George  ! "  replied  the  keeper,  shaking  his  head 
so  emphatically  that  he  was  obliged  to  frown  U)  keep  his 
hat  on.  "  I  never  come  across  such  a  vagabond,  and  my 
mate  says  the  same.  Broke  his  poor  wife's  heart,  turned 
his  daughters  out  of  doors,  drove  his  sons  into  the 
streets — it  was  a  blessing  he  went  mad  at  last,  through 
evil  tempers,  and  covetousness,  and  selfishness,  and 
guzzling,  and  drinking,  or  he'd  have  drove  many  others 
so.  Hope  for  him,  an  old  rip  !  There  isn't  too  much  hope 
going,  but  I'll  bet  a  crown  that  what  there  is,  is  saved 
for  more  deserving  chaps  than  him,  anyhow." 

With  which  confession  of  his  faith,  the  keeper  shook 
his  head  again,  as  much  as  to  say  that  nothing  short  of 
this  would  do,  if  things  were  to  go  on  at  all  ;  and  touch- 
ing his  hat  sulkily — not  that  he  was  in  an  ill  humour, 
but  that  his  subject  ruflled  him — descended  the  ladder, 
and  took  it  away. 

During  this  conversation,  Mrs.  Nickleby  had  regarded 
the  man  with  a  severe  and  steadfast  look.  She  now 
heaved  a  profound  sigh,  and  pursing  up  her  lips,  shook 
her  head  in  a  slow  and  doubtful  manner. 

' '  Poor  creature  ! "  said  Kate. 

"Ah  !  poor  indeed  !"  rejoined  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  It's 
shameful  that  such  things  should  be  allowed — Shame- 
ful ! " 

"How  can  they  be  helped,  mamma?"  said  Kate, 
mournfully.    "  The  infirmities  of  nature? — " 

"Nature!"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "What!  Do  you 
suppose  this  poor  gentleman  is  out  of  his  mind  ?" 

"  Can  anybody  who  sees  him  entertain  any  other  opin- 
ion, mamma?" 

"  Why  then,  I  just  tell  you  this,  Kate,"  returned  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  "that  he  is  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  I  am  sur- 
prised you  can  be  so  imposed  upon.  It's  some  plot  of 
these  people  to  possess  themselves  of  his  property — 
didn't  he  say  so  himself?  He  may  be  a  little  odd  and 
flighty,  perhaps,  many  of  us  are  that ;  but  dow  nright 
mad  !  and  express  himself  as  he  does,  respectfully,  and  in 
quite  poetical  language,  and  making  offers  with  so  much 
thought,  and  care,  and  prudence — not  as  if  he  ran  into 
the  streets,  and  went  down  upon  his  knees  to  the  first 
chit  of  a  girl  he  met,  as  a  madman  would  !  No,  no, 
Kate,  there's  a  great  deal  too  much  method  in  his  mad- 
ness ;  depend  upon  that,  my  dear." 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Illustrative  of  the  Convitial  Sentiment,  that  the  best  of  Friends  must 
so/netimes  part. 

The  pavement  of  Snow  Hill  had  been  baking  and  fry- 
ing all  day  in  the  heat,  and  the  twain  Saracens'  heads 
guarding  the  entrance  to  the  hostelry  of  whose  name 
and  sign  they  are  the  duplicate  presentments,  looked — 
or  seemed  in  the  eyes  of  jaded  and  foot -sore  passers  by, 
to  look — more  vicious  than  usual,  after  blistering  and 
scorching  in  the  sun,  when,  in  one  of  the  inn's  smallest 
sitting-rooms,  through  whose  open  window  there  rose, 
in  a  palpable  steam,  wholesome  exhalations  from  reek- 
ing coach-horses,  the  usual  furniture  of  a  tea-table  was 
displayed  in  neat  and  inviting  order,  flanked  by  large 
joints  of  roast  and  boiled,  a  tongue,  a  pigeon-pie,  a  cold 
fowl,  a  tankard  of  ale,  and  other  little  matters  of  the 
like  kind,  which,  in  degenerate  towns  and  cities,  are  gen- 
erally understood  to  belong  more  particularly  to  solid 
lunches,  stage-coach  dinners,  or  unusually  substantial 
breakfasts. 

Mr.  John  Browdie,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
hovered  restlessly  about  these  delicacies,  stopping  oc- 
casionally to  whisk  the  flies  out  of  the  sugar-basin  with 
his  wife's  pocket-handkerchief,  or  to  dip  a  tea-spoon  in 
the  milk-pot  and  carry  it  to  his  mouth,  or  to  cut  off  a 
little  knob  of  crust,  and  a  little  corner  of  meat,  and 
swallow^  them  at- two  gulps  like  a  couple  of  pills.  After 
every  one  of  these  flirtations  with  the  eatables,  he  pulled 
out  his  watch,  and  declared  with  an  earnestness  quite 
pathetic  that  he  couldn't  undertake  to  hold  out  two 
minutes  longer. 


152 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


'"Tilly!"  said  John  to  his  lady,  who  was  reclining 
half  awake  and  half  asleep  upon  a*  sofa. 
"  Well,  John  !" 

"  Weel,  John  !  "  retorted  her  husband,  impatiently. 
"  Dost  thou  feel  hoongry,  lass?  " 
"  Not  very,"  said  Mrs.  Browdie. 

"Not  vary  !"  repeated  John,  raising  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling.  "  Hear  her  say  not  vary,  and  us  dining  at  three, 
and  loonching  off  pasthry  thot  aggravates  a  mon  'stead 
of  pacifying  him  !    Not  vary  !  " 

"Here's  a  gen'l'man  for  you,  sir,"  said  the  waiter, 
looking  in. 

"A  wa'at,  for  me?  "  cried  John,  as  though  he  thought 
it  must  be  a  letter  or  a  parcel. 
"  A  gen'l'man,  sir." 

"  Stars  and  garthers,  chap  !  "  said  John,  "  wa'at  dost 
thou  coom  and  say  thot  for.    In  wi'  'un." 
"  Are  you  at  home,  sir?  " 

"At  whoam  ! "  cried  John,  "  I  wish  I  wur  ;  I'd  ha  tea'd 
two  hour  ago.  Why,  I  told  t'oother  chap  to  look  sharp 
ootside  door,  and  tell  'un  d'rectly  he  coom,  thot  we  wur 
faint  wi'  hoonger.  In  wi'  'un.  Aha  !  Thee  hond,  Misther 
Nickleby.  This  is  nigh  to  be  the  proodest  day  o'  my 
life,  sir.  Hoo  be  all  wi'  ye  ?  Ding  !  But,  I'm  glod  o' 
this  !  " 

Quite  forgetting  even  his  hunger  in  the  heartiness  of 
the  salutation  John  Browdie  shook  Nicholas  by  the  hand 
again  and  again,  slapping  his  palm  with  great  violence 
between  each  shake,  to  add  warmth  tp  the  reception. 

"  Ah  !  there  she  be,"  said  John,  observing  the  look 
■which  Nicholas  directed  towards  hi»  wife.  "  There  she 
be — we  shan't  quarrel  about  her  noo — Eh  ?  Ecod,  when 
I  think  o'  thot — but  thou  want'st  soom'at  to  eat.  Pall 
to,  mun,  fall  to,  and  for  wa'at  we're  aboot  to  receive — " 

No  doubt  the  grace  was  properly  finished,  but  nothing 
more  was  heard,  for  John  had  already  begun  to  play 
such  a  knife  and  fork,  that  his  speech  was,  for  the  time, 
gone. 

"I  shall  take  the  usual  license,  Mr.  Browdie,"  said 
Nicholas,  as  he  placed  a  chair  for  the  bride. 

"  Tak'  whatever  thou  like'st,"  said  John,  "  and  when 
a's  gane,  ca'  for  more." 

Without  stopping  to  explain,  Nicholas  kissed  the 
blushing  Mrs.  Browdie,  and  handed  her  to  her  seat. 

"  I  say,"  said  John,  rather  astounded  for  the  moment, 
"mak'  theeself  quite  at  whoam,  will  'ee?" 

"You  may  depend  upon  that,"  replied  Nicholas  ;  "  on 
one  condition." 

"  And  wa'at  may  thot  be?"  asked  John. 

"That  you  make  me  a  godfather  the  very  first  time 
you  have  occasion  for  one." 

"  Eh  !  d'ye  hear  thot !  "  cried  John,  laying  down  his 
knife  and  fork.  "  A  godfeyther  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Tilly 
— hear  till  'un — a  godfeyther  !  Divn't  say  a  word  more, 
ye'll  never  beat  thot.  Occasion  for  'un — a  godfeyther  ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !" 

Never  was  man  so  tickled  with  a  respectable  old  joke, 
as  John  Browdie  was  with  this.  He  chuckled,  roared, 
half  suffocated  himself  by  laughing  large  pieces  of  beef 
into  his  windpipe,  roared  again,  persisted  in  eating  at 
the  same  time,  got  red  in  the  face  and  black  in  the  fore- 
head, coughed,  cried,  got  better,  went  off  again  laughing 
inwardly,  got  worse,  choked,  had  his  back  thumped, 
stamped  about,  frightened  his  wife,  and  at  last  recov- 
ered in  a  state  of  the  last  exhaustion  and  with  the  water 
streaming  from  his  eyes,  but  still  faintly  ejaculating  "A 
godfeyther— a  godfeyther,  Tilly  !  "  in  a  tone  bespeaking 
an  exquisite  relish  of  the  sally,  which  no  suffering  could 
diminish. 

"  You  remember  the  night  of  our  first  tea-drinking?  " 
said  Nicholas. 

"  Shall  I  e'er  forget  it,  mun?  "  replied  John  Browdie. 

"  He  was  a  desperate  fellow  that  night  though,  was 
he  not,  Mrs.  Browdie?"  said  Nicholas.  "Quite  a  mon 
ster?" 

"  If  you  had  only  heard  him  as  we  were  going  home, 
Mr.  Nickleby,  you'd  have  said  so  indeed,"  returned  the 
bride.    "  I  never  was  so  frightened  in  all  my  life." 

"Coom,  coom,"  said  John,  with  a  broad  grin  ;  "thou 
know'st  betther  than  thot,  Tilly." 

'•So  I  was,"  replied  Mrs.  Browdie.  "I  almost  made 
up  my  mind  never  to  speak  to  you  again." 


"  A'most!"  said  John,  with  a  broader  grin  than  the 
last.  "  A'most  made  up  her  mind  !  And  she  wur  coax- 
in',  and  coaxin',  and  wheedlin',  and  wheedlin',  a'  the 
blessed  wa'.  '  Wa'at  did'st  thou  let  yon  chap  mak'  oop 
tiv  'ee  for?'  says  I.  'I  deedn't,  John,'  says  she,  a 
squeedgin  my  arm.  '  You  deedn't,'  says  I.  *  Noa, '  says 
she,  a  squeedgin  of  me  agean." 

"Lor,  John!"  interposed  his  pretty  wife,  colouring 
very  much.  "How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense?  As  if 
I  should  have  dreamt  of  such  a  thing  !  " 

"I  dinnot  know  whether  thou'd  ever  dreamt  of  it, 
though  I  think  that's  loike  eneaf,  mind,"  retorted  John  ; 
"  but  thou  didst  it.  '  Ye're  a  feeckle,  changeable  weather- 
cock, lass,'  says  I.  '  Not  feeckle,  John,'  says  she.  '  Yes,' 
says  I,  '  feeckle,  dom'd  feeckle.  Dinnot  tell  me  thou 
bean't  efther  you  chap  at  schoolmeasther's,'  says  I. 
'  Him  !'  says  she,  quite  screeching.  'Ah  !  him  ! '  says  I. 
*  Why,  John,'  says  she — and  she  coom  a  deal  closer  and 
squeedged  a  deal  harder  than  she'd  deane  afore — '  dost 
thou  think  it's  nat'ral  noo,  that  having  such  a  proper  mun 
as  thou  to  keep  company  wi',  I'd  ever  tak'  oop  wi'  such 
a  leetle  scanty  whipper-snapper  as  yon?'  she  says.  Ha  ! 
ha  !  ha  !  She  said  whipper-snapper  !  '  Ecod  ! '  I  says, 
'  efther  thot,  neame  the  day,  and  let's  have  it  ower  ! ' 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! " 

Nicholas  laughed  very  heartily  at  this  story,  both  on 
account  of  its  telling  against  himself,  and  his  being  desir- 
ous to  spare  the  blushes  of  Mrs.  Browdie,  whose  protes- 
tations were  drowned  in  peals  of  laughter  from  her  hus- 
band. His  good-nature  soon  put  her  at  her  ease  ;  and 
although  she  still  denied  the  charge,  she  laughed  so 
heartily  at  it,  that  Nicholas  had  the  satisfaction  of 
feeling  assured  that  in  all  essential  respects  it  was  strict- 
ly true. 

"  This  is  the  second  time,"  said  Nicholas,  "  that  we 
have  ever  taken  a  meal  together,  and  only  the  third  I 
have  ever  seen  you  ;  and  yet  it  really  seems  to  me  as  if 
I  were  among  old  friends." 

"  Weel,"  observed  the  Yorkshireman,  "  so  I  say." 

"And  I  am  sure  I  do,"  added  his  young  wife. 

"  I  have  the  best  reason  to  be  impressed  with  the  feel- 
ing, mind,"  said  Nicholas  :  "  for  if  it  had  not  been  for 
your  kindness  of  heart,  my  good  friend,  when  I  had  no 
right  or  reason  to  expect  it,  I  know  not  what  might  have 
become  of  me  or  what  plight  I  should  have  been  in  by 
this  time." 

"  Talk  aboot  soom'at  else,"  replied  John,  gruffly,  "  and 
dinnot  bother." 

"  It  must  be  a  new  song  to  the  same  tune  then,"  said 
Nicholas,  smiling.  "  I  told  you  in  my  letter  that  I  deeply 
felt  and  admired  your  sympathy  with  that  poor  lad, 
whom  you  released  at  the  risk  of  involving  yourself  in 
trouble  and  diflficulty  ;  but  I  can  never  tell  you  how 
grateful  he  and  I,  and  others  whom  you  don't  know,  are 
to  you  for  taking  pity  on  him." 

"  Ecod  ! "  rejoined  John  Browdie,  drawing  up  his  chair ; 
"  and  I  can  never  tell  you  hoo  gratful  soom  folks  that  we 
do  know  would  be  loikewise,  if  they  know'd  I  had  takken 
pity  on  him." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Browdie,  "  what  a  state  I  was 
in,  that  night  !  " 

"  Were  they  at  all  disposed  to  give  you  credit  for 
assisting  in  the  escape  ? "  inquired  Nicholas  of  John 
Browdie. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  replied  the  Yorkshireman,  extending  his 
mouth  from  ear  to  ear.  "  There  I  lay,  snoog  in  school- 
measther's bed  long  efther  it  was  dark,  and  nobody  coom 
nigh  the  pleace.  '  Weel  !  *  thinks  I,  '  he's  got  a  pretty 
good  start,  and  if  he  bean't  whoam  by  noo,  he  never  will 
be  ;  so  you  may  coom  as  quick  as  you  loike,  and  foind 
us  reddy' — that  is,  you  know,  schoolmeasther  might 
coom." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Presently,"  resumed  John,  "  he  did  coom.  I  heerd 
door  shut  doon-stairs,  and  him  a  warking  oop  in  the 
daark.  '  Slow  and  steddy,'  I  says  to  myself,  '  tak'  your 
time,  sir — no  hurry.'  He  cooms  to  the  door,  turns  the 
key — turns  the  key  when  there  warn't  nothing  to  hoold 
the  lock — and  ca's  out  *  Hallo,  there  ! '— '  Yes,'  thinks  I, 
'you  may  do  thot  agean,  and  not  wakken  anybody,  sir.' 
'  Hallo,  there,'  he  says,  and  then  he  stops.  '  Thou'd 
betther  not  aggravate  me,'  says  schoolmeasther,  efther  a 


NICHOLAS  NWKLEBY, 


153 


little  time.  *  I'll  brak'  every  boan  in  your  boddy,  Smike,' 
he  says,  efther  another  little  time.  Then  all  of  a  sood- 
den,  he  sings  oot  for  a  loight,  and  when  it  cooms — ecod, 
such  a  hoorly-boorly  !  '  Wa'at's  the  matter?'  says  I. 
'  He's  gane,'  says  he — stark  mad  wi'  vengeance.  '  Have 
you  heer  nought'?'  *  Ees,'  says  I,  *I  heerd  street  door 
shut,  no  time  at  a'  ego.  I  heerd  a  person  run  doon  there 
(pointing  t'other  wa' — eh  ?)  '  Help  ! '  he  cries.  '  I'll  help 
you,'  says  I ;  and  off  we  set — the  wrong  wa'  I  Ho  1  ho  ! 
ho  !  " 

"Did  you  go  far?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"  Far  !  "  replied  John  ;  "I  run  him  clean  off  his  legs  in 
quarther  of  an  hoor.  To  see  old  schoolmeasther  wi'out 
his  hat,  skimming  along  oop  to  his  knees  in  mud  and 
wather,  tumbling  over  fences,  and  rowling  into  ditches, 
and  bawling  oot  like  mad,  wd'  his  one  eye  looking  sharp 
out  for  the  lad,  and  his  coat-tails  flying  out  behind,  and 
him  spattered  wi'  mud  all  ower,  face  and  all  ; — I  thot 
I  should  ha'  dropped  doon,  and  killed  myself  wi'  laugh- 
ing." 

John  laughed  so  heartily  at  the  mere  recollection,  that 
he  communicated  the  contagion  to  both  his  hearers,  and 
all  three  burst  into  peals  of  laughter,  which  were  renewed 
again  and  again,  until  they  could  laugh  no  longer. 

"He's  a  bad  'un,"  said  John,  wiping  his  eyes  ;  "a  very 
bad  'un,  is  schoolmeasther." 

"  I  can't  bear  the  sight  of  him,  John,"  said  his  wife. 

"Coom,"  retorted  John,  "  thot's  tidy  in  you,  thot  is. 
If  it  wa'nt  along  o'  you,  we  shouldn't  know  nought 
aboot  'un.    Thou  know'd  'un  first,  Tilly,  didn't  thou  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  help  knowing  Fanny  Squeers,  John,"  re- 
turned his  wife;  "  she  was  an  old  playmate  of  mine,  you 
know." 

"  Weel,"  replied  John,  "  dean't  I  say  say  so,  lass?  It's 
best  to  be  neighbourly,  and  keep  up  old  acquaintance 
loike  ;  and  what  I  say  is,  dean't  quarrel  if  'ee  can  help  it. 
Dinnot  think  so,  Mr.  Nickleby  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  returned  Nicholas  ;  "  and  you  acted  up- 
on that  principle  when  I  met  you  on  horseback  on  the 
road,  after  our  memorable  evening." 

"  Sure-ly,"  said  John.    "  Wa'at  I  say,  I  stick  by." 

"And  that's  a  fine  thing  to  do,  and  manly  too,"  said 
Nicholas,  "though  it's  not  exactly  what  we  understand 
by  '  coming  Yorkshire  over  us '  in  London.  Miss  Squeers 
is  stopping  with  you,  you  said  in  your  note. " 

"Yes,"  replied  John,  "Tilly's  bridesmaid;  and  a 
queer  bridesmaid  she  be,  too.  She  wean't  be  a  bride  in 
a  hurry,  I  reckon. " 

"  For  shame,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Browdie  ;  with  an  acute 
perception  of  the  joke  though,  being  a  bride  herself. 

"The  groom  will  be  a  blessed  mun,"  said  John,  his 
eyes  twinkling  at  the  idea.    "  He'll  be  in  luck,  he  will." 

"You  see,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  his  wife,  "  that  it  was 
in  consequence  of  her  being  here,  that  John  wrote  to  you 
and  fixed  to-night,  because  we  thought  that  it  wouldn't 
be  pleasant  for  you  to  meet,  after  what  has  passed — " 

"Unquestionably.  You  were  quite  right  in  that," 
said  Nicholas,  interrupting. 

"Especially,"  observed  Mrs.  Browdie,  looking  very 
sly,  "  after  what  we  know  about  past  and  gone  love  mat- 
ters." 

"We  know,  indeed  !  "  said  Nicholas,  shaking  his  head. 
"  You  behaved  rather  wickedly  there,  I  suspect." 

"  O'  course  she  did,"  said  John  Browdie,  passing  his 
huge  fore-finger  through  one  of  his  wife's  pretty  ringlets, 
and  looking  very  proud  of  her.  "  She  wur  always  as 
skittish  and  full  o'  tricks  as  a  " 

' '  Well,  as  a  what ! "  said  his  wife. 

"  As  a  woman,"  returned  John,  "  Ding  !  But  I  din- 
not  know  ought  else  that  cooms  near  it." 

"  You  were  speaking  about  Miss  Squeers,"  said  Nicho- 
las, with  the  view  of  stopping  some  slight  connubialities 
which  had  begun  to  pass  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browdie, 
and  which  rendered  the  position  of  a  third  party  in  some 
degree  embarrassing,  as  occasioning  him  to  feel  rather 
in  the  way  than  otherwise. 

"  Oh  yes."  rejoined  Mrs.  Browdie.  "  John  ha'  done- 
John  fixed  to-night,  because  she  had  settled  that  she 
would  go  and  drink  tea  with  her  father.  And  to  make 
quite  sure  of  there  being  nothing  amiss,  and  of  your  be- 
ing quite  alone  with  us,  he  settled  to  go  out  there  and 
fetch  her  home." 


"That  was  a  very  good  arrangement,"  said  Nicholas, 
"though  I  am  sorry  to  be  the  occasion  of  ho  much  trou- 
ble." 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  returned  Mrs.  Browdie  ; 
"  for  we  have  looked  forward  to  seeing  you — John  and  I 
have — with  the  greatest  possible  pleasure.  Do  you 
know,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  Mrs.  Browdie,  with  her  arch- 
est smile,  "that  I  really  think  Fanny  Squeers  was  very 
fond  of  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  her,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  but, 
upon  my  word,  I  never  aspired  to  making  any  impres- 
sion upon  her  virgin  heart." 

"How  you  talk  !"  tittered  Mrs.  Browdie.  "No,  but 
do  you  know  that  really — seriously  now  and  without  any 
joking— I  was  given  to  understand  by  Fanny  herself, 
that  you  had  made  an  offer  to  her,  and  that  you  two 
were  going  to  be  engaged  quite  solemn  and  regular." 

"  Was  you,  ma'am — was  you  ?"  cried  a  shrill  female 
voice,  "  was  you  given  to  understand  that  I — I — was  go- 
ing to  be  engaged  to  an  assassinating  thief  that  shed 
the  gore  of  my  Pa  ?  Do  you — do  you  think,  ma'am — 
that  I  was  very  fond  of  such  dirt  beneath  my  feet,  as  I 
qouldn't  condescend  to  touch  with  kitchen  tongs,  with- 
out blacking  and  crocking  myself  by  the  contract  ?  Do 
you,  ma'am — do  you  ?  Oh  !  base  and  degrading  'Tilda  !  " 

With  these  reproaches  Miss  Squeers  flung  the  door 
wide  open,  and  disclosed  to  the  eyes  of  the  astonished 
Browdies  and  Nicholas,  not  only  her  own  symmetrical 
form,  arrayed  in  the  chaste  white  garments  before  de- 
scribed, (a  little  dirtier)  but  the  form  of  her  brother  and 
father,  the  pair  of  Wackfords. 

"This  is  the  hend,  is  it?"  continued  Miss  Squeers, 
who,  being  excited,  aspirated  her  h's  strongly  ;  "this  is 
the  hend,  is  it,  of  all  my  forbearance  and  friendship  for 
that  double-faced  thing — that  viper,  that — that — mer- 
maid ? "  (Miss  Squeers  hesitated  a  long  time  for  this 
last  epithet,  and  brought  it  out  triumphantly  at  last,  as 
if  it  quite  clinched  the  business. )  ' '  This  is  the  hend,  is 
it,  of  all  my  bearing  with  her  deceitfulness,  her  lowness, 
her  falseness,  her  laying  herself  out  to  catch  the  admi- 
ration of  vulgar  minds,  in  a  way  which  made  me  blush 
for  my — for  my — " 

"Gender,"  suggested  Mr.  Squeers,  regarding  the  spec- 
tators with  a  malevolent  eye — literally  a  malevolent  eye. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Squeers  ;  "  but  I  thank  my  stars  that 
my  ma'  is  of  the  same — " 

"  Hear,  hear  !  "  remarked  Mr.  Squeers  ;  "  and  I  wish 
she  was  here  to  have  a  scratch  at  this  company." 

"This  is  the  hend,  is  it,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  tossing 
her  head,  and  looking  contemptuously  at  the  floor,  "of 
my  taking  notice  of  that  rubbishing  creature,  and  de- 
meaning myself  to  patronise  her  ?  " 

' '  Oh,  come, "  rejoined  Mrs.  Browdie,  disregarding  all 
the  endeavours  of  her  spouse  to  restrain  her,  and  forcing 
herself  into  a  front  row,  "don't  talk  such  nonsense  as 
that." 

' '  Have  I  not  patronised  you,  ma'am  ?  "  demanded  Miss 
Squeers. 

"No,"  returned  Mrs.  Browdie. 

"  I  will  not  look  for  blushes  in  such  a  quarter,"  said 
Miss  Squeers,  haughtily,  "  for  that  countenance  is  a 
stranger  to  everything  but  hignominiousness  and  red- 
faced  boldness. 

"  I  say,"  interposed  John  Browdie,  nettled  by  these 
accumulated  attacks  on  his  wife,  "  dra'  it  mild,  dra'  it 
mild." 

"You,  Mr.  Browdie,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  taking  him 
up  very  quickly,  "  I  pity.  I  have  no  feeling  for  you,  sir, 
but  one  of  unliquidated  pity." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  John. 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  looking  sideways  at  her 
parent,  "  although  I  am  a  queer  bridesmaid,  and  shan't 
be  a  bride  in  a  hurry,  and  although  my  husband  xnU  be 
in  luck,  I  entertain  no  sentiments  towards  you,  sir,  but 
sentiments  of  pity." 

Here  Miss  Squeers  looked  sideways  at  her  father  again, 
who  looked  sideways  at  her,  as  much  as  to  say,  *  There 
you  had  him.' 

"  i  know  what  you've  got  to  go  through,"  said  Miss 
Squeers,  shaking  her  curls  violently,  "/know  what 
life  is  before  you,  and  if  you  was  my  bitterest  and  dead- 
liest enemy,  I  could  wish  you  nothing  worse." 


154 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Couldn't  you  wish  to  be  married  to  him  yourself,  if 
that  was  the  case  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Browdie,  with  great 
suavity  of  manner. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  how  witty  you  are,"  retorted  Miss  Squeers 
with  a  low  curtsey,  "  almost  as  witty,  ma'am,  as  you  are 
clever.  How  very  clever  it  was  in  you,  ma'am,  to  choose 
a  time  when  I  had  gone  to  tea  with  my  pa',  and  was 
sure  not  to  come  back  without  being  fetched  !  What  a 
pity  you  never  thought  that  other  people  might  be  as 
clever  as  yourself  and  spoil  your  plans  ! " 

"  You  won't  vex  me,  child,  with  such  airs  as  these," 
said  the  late  Miss  Price,  assuming  the  matron. 

"  Don't  Missis  me,  ma'am,  if  you  please,"  returned 
Miss  Squeers,  sharply.  "  I'll  not  bear  it.  Is  this  the 
hend— " 

"  Dang  it  a',"  cried  John  Browdie,  impatiently.  "  Say 
thee  say  out,  Fanny,  and  make  sure  it's  the  end,  and 
dinnot  ask  nobody  whether  it  is  or  not." 

"  Thanking  you  for  your  advice  which  was  not  re- 
quired, Mr.  Browdie,"  returned  Miss  Squeers,  with  la- 
borious politeness,  "have  the  goodness  not  to  presume 
to  meddle  with  my  christian  name.  Even  my  pity  shall 
never  make  me  forget  what's  due  to  myself,  Mr.  Browdie. 
'Tilda,"  said  Miss  Squeers,  with  such  a  sudden  accession 
of  violence  that  John  started  in  his  boots,  "  I  throw  you 
off  forever,  Miss.  I  abandon  you.  I  renounce  you.  I 
wouldn't,"  cried  Miss  Squeers  in  a  solemn  voice,  "have 
a  child  named  'Tilda — not  to  save  it  from  its  grave. " 

"  As  for  the  matther  o'  that,"  observed  John,  "it'll  be 
time  eneaf  to  think  aboot  neaming  of  it,  when  it  cooms. " 

"  John  !  "  interposed  his  wife,  "  don't  tease  her." 

"Oh  !  Tease,  indeed  !"  cried  Miss  Squeers,  bridling 
up.  "Tease,  indeed  !  He,  he  !  Tease,  too  !  No,  don't 
tease  her.    Consider  her  feelings,  pray  ! " 

"  If  it's  fated  that  listeners  are  never  to  hear  any  good 
of  themselves,"  said  Mrs.  Browdie,  "  I  can't  help  it,  and  I 
am  very  sorry  for  it.  But  I  will  say,  Fanny,  that  times 
out  of  number  I  have  spoken  so  kindly  of  you  behind 
your  back,  that  even  you  could  have  found  no  fault  with 
what  I  said." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  not,  ma'am!"  cried  Miss  Squeers, 
with  another  curtsey.  ' '  Best  thanks  to  you  for  your 
goodness,  and  begging  and  praying  you  not  to  be  hard 
upon  me  another  time  !  " 

"I  don't  know,"  resumed  Mrs.  Browdie,  "  that  I  have 
said  anything  very  bad  of  you,  even  now — at  all  events, 
what  I  did  say  was  quite  true  ;  but  if  I  have,  I  am  very 
sorry  for  it,  and  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  have  said  much 
worse  of  me,  scores  of  times,  Fanny  ;  but  I  have  never 
borne  any  malice  to  you,  and  I  hope  you'll  not  bear  any 
to  me." 

Miss  Squeers  made  no  more  direct  reply  than  survey- 
ing her  former  friend  from  top  to  toe,  and  elevating  her 
nose  in  the  air  with  ineffable  disdain.  But  some  indis- 
tinct allusions  to  a  'puss,'  and  a  *minx,'  and  a  *  con- 
temptible creature,'  escaped  her;  and  this,  together 
with  a  severe  biting  of  the  lips,  great  difficulty  in  swal- 
lowing, and  very  frequent  comings  and  goings  of  breath, 
seemed  to  imply  that  feelings  were  swelling  in  Miss 
Squeers's  bosom  too  great  for  utterance. 

While  the  foregoing  conversation  was  proceeding. 
Master  Wackford,  finding  himself  unnoticed,  and  feeling 
his  preponderating  inclinations  strong  upon  him,  had 
by  little  and  little  sidled  up  to  the  table  and  attacked 
the  food  with  such  slight  skirmishing  as  drawing  his 
fingers  i-ound  and  round  the  inside  of  the  plates,  and 
afterwards  sucking  them  with  infinite  relish — picking  the 
bread,  and  dragging  the  pieces  over  the  surface  of  the 
butter — pocketing  lumps  of  sugar,  pretending  all  the 
time  to  be  absorbed  in  thought — and  so  forth.  Finding 
that  no  interference  was  attempted  with  these  small  lib- 
erties, he  gradually  mounted  to  greater,  and,  after  help- 
ing himself  to  a  moderately  good  cold  collation,  was,  by 
this  time,  deep  in  the  pie. 

Nothing  of  this  had  been  unobserved  by  Mr.  Squeers, 
who,  so  long  as  the  attention  of  the  company  was  fixed 
upon  other  objects,  hugged  himself  to  think  that  his 
son  and  heir  should  be  fattening  at  the  enemy's  expense. 
But  there  being  now  an  appearance  of  a,  temporary  calm 
in  which  the  j)roceedings  of  little  Wackford  could 
scarcely  fail  to  be  observed,  he  feigned  to  be  aware  of 
the  circumstance  for  the  first  time,  and  inflicted  upon 


the  face  of  that  young  gentleman  a  slap  that  made  the 
very  tea-cups  ring. 

"Eating!"  cried  Mr.  Squeers,  "  of  what  his  father's 
enemies  has  left  !  It's  fit  to  go  and  poison  you,  you  un- 
nat'ral  boy." 

"It  wean't  hurt  him,"  said  John,  apparently  very 
much  relieved  by  the  prospects  of  having  a  man  in  the 
quarrel;  "let  'un  eat.  I  wish  the  whole  school  was 
here.  I'd  give  'em  soom'ut  to  stay  their  unfort'nate 
stomachs  wi',  if  I  spent  the  last  penny  I  had  !" 

Squeers  scowled  at  him  with  the  worst  and  most 
malicious  expression  of  which  his  face  was  capable — it 
was  a  face  of  remarkable  capability,  too,  in  that  way — 
and  shook  his  fist  stealthily. 

"Coom,  coom,  schoolmeasther,"  said  John,  "dinnot 
make  a  fool  o'  thyself  ;  for  if  I  was  to  sheake  mine — 
only  once — thou'd  fa'  doon  wi'  the  wind  o't." 

"  It  was  you,  was  it,"  returned  Squeers,  "  that  helped 
off  my  runaway  boy  ?    It  was  you,  was  it  ?  " 

"Me  I"  returned  John  in  a  loud  tone.  "Yes,  it  wa' 
me,  coom  ;  wa'at  o'  that !    It  wa'  me.    Noo  then  !  " 

"You  hear  him  say  he  did  it,  my  child  1 "  said  Squeers, 
appealing  to  his  daughter.  "  You  hear  him  say  he  did 
it?" 

"  Did  it  1 "  cried  John.  "  I'll  tell  'ee  more  ;  hear  this, 
too.  If  thou'd  get  another  roonaway  boy,  I'd  do  it 
agean.  If  thou'd  got  twenty  roonaway  boys,  I'd  do  it 
twenty  times  ower,  and  twenty  more  to  thot ;  and  I  tell 
thee  more,"  said  John,  "noo  my  blood  is  oop,  that 
thou'rt  an  old  ra'ascal  ;  and  that  it's  weel  for  thou,  thou 
be'st  an  old  'un,  or  I'd  ha'  poonded  thee  to  flour,  when 
thou  told  an  honest  mun  hoo'  thou'd  licked  that  poor 
chap  in  t'  coorch." 

"  An  honest  man  !"  cried  Squeers,  with  a  sneer. 

"Ah!  an  honest  man,"  replied  John;  "honest  in 
ought  but  ever  putting  his  legs  under  seame  table  wv' 
such  as  thou." 

"  Scandal !"  said  Squeers,  exultingly.  "  Two  witnesses 
to  it ;  Wackford  knows  the  nature  of  an  oath,  he  does 
— we  shall  have  you  there,  sir.  Rascal,  eh?"  Mr. 
Squeers  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  made  a  note  of  it. 
"Very  good.  I  should  say  that  was  worth  full  twenty 
pound  at  the  next  assizes,  without  the  honesty,  sir." 

"  'Seizes,"  cried  John,  "  thou'd  betther  not  talk  tome 
o'  'Seizes.  Yorkshire  schools  have  been  shown  up  at 
'Seizes  afore  noo,  mun,  and  it's  a  ticklish  soobjact  to  re- 
vive, I  can  tell  ye." 

Mr.  Squeers  shook  his  head  in  a  threatening  manner, 
looking  very  white  with  passion  ;  and  taking  his  daugh- 
ter's arm,  and  dragging  little  Wackford  by  the  hand,  re- 
treated towards  the  door. 

"As  for  you,"  said  Squeers,  turning  round  and  ad- 
dressing Nicholas,  who,  as  he  had  caused  him  to  smart 
pretty  soundly  on  a  former  occasion,  purposely  abstained 
from  taking  any  part  in  the  discussion,  "  see  if  I  ain't 
down  upon  you  before  long.  You'll  go  a  kidnapping  of 
boys,  will  you  ?  Take  care  their  father's  don't  turn  up 
— mark  that — take  care  their  father's  don't  turn  up,  and 
send  'em  back  to  me  to  do  as  I  like  with,  in  spite  of  you.'* 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,"  replied  Nicholas,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  contemptuously,  and  turning  away. 

"  Ain't  you  !  "  retorted  Squeers,  with  a  diabolical  look. 
"Now  then,  come  along." 

"  I  leave  such  society,  with  my  pa',  for  hevei"  said 
Miss  Squeers,  looking  contemptuously  and  loftily  round. 
"  I  am  defiled  by  breathing  the  air  with  such  creatures. 
Poor  Mr.  Browdie  !  He  !  he  !  he  !  I  do  pity  him, 
that  I  do  ;  he's  so  deluded  !  He  !  he  !  he  ! — Artful  and 
designing  'Tilda  1 " 

With  this  sudden  relapse  into  the  sternest  and  most 
majestic  wrath.  Miss  Squeers  swept  from  the  room  ;  and 
having  sustained  her  dignity  until  the  last  possible  mo- 
ment, was  heard  to  sob  and  scream  and  struggle  in  the 
passage. 

John  Browdie  remained  standing  behind  the  table, 
looking  from  his  wife  to  Nicholas,  and  back  again,  with 
his  mouth  wide  open,  until  his  hand  accidentally  fell 
upon  the  tankard  of  ale,  when  he  took  it  up,  and  having 
obscured  his  features  therewith  for  some  time,  drew  a 
long  breath,  handed  it  over  to  Nicholas,  and  rang  the 
bell. 

"Here,  waither,"  said  John  briskly.    "Look  alive 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


155 


here.  Tak'  these  things  awa',  and  let's  have  soomat 
broiled  for  sooper — vary  comfortable  and  plenty  o'  it — 
at  ten  o'clock.  Bring  soom  brandy  and  soom  watlier,  and 
a  pair  o'  slippers — the  largest  pair  in  the  house — and 
be  quick  aboot  it.  Dash  ma'  wig  !  "  said  John,  rubbing 
his  hands,  "there's  no  ganging  oot  to  neeght,  noo,  to 
fetch  anybody  whoam,  and  ecod,  we'll  begin  to  spend 
the  evening  in  airnest." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Officiates  as  a  kind  of  Oentleman  Usher,  in  bringing  varioue  People 
together. 

The  storm  had  long  given  place  to  a  calm  the  most 
profound,  and  the  evening  was  pretty  far  advanced — in- 
deed supper  was  over,  and  the  process  of  digestion  pro- 
ceeding as  favourably  as,  under  the  influence  of  complete 
tranquillity,  cheerful  conversation,  and  a  moderate  allow- 
ance of  brandy  and  water,  most  wise  men  conversant 
with  the  anatomy  and  functions  of  the  human  frame  will 
consider  that  it  ought  to  have  proceeded,  when  the  three 
friends,  or  as  one  might  say,  both  in  a  civil  and  religious 
sense,  and  with  proper  deference  and  regard  to  the  holy 
state  of  matrimony,  the  two  friends,  (Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brow- 
die  counting  as  no  more  than  one,)  were  startled  by  the 
noise  of  loud  and  angry  threatenings  below-stairs,  which 
presently  attained  so  high  a  pitch  and  were  conveyed  be- 
sides in  language  so  towering,  sanguinary  and  ferocious, 
that  it  could  hardly  have  been  surpassed,  if  there  had 
actually  been  a  Saracen's  head  then  present  in  the  estab- 
lishment, supported  on  the  shoulders  and  surmounting 
the  trunk  of  a  real,  live,  furious,  and  most  unappeasable 
Saracen. 

The  turmoil,  instead  of  quickly  subsiding  after  the 
first  outburst,  (as  turmoils  not  unfrequently  do,  whether 
in  taverns,  legislative  assemblies,  or  elsewhere,)  into  a 
mere  grumbling  and  growling  squabble,  increased  every 
moment  ;  and  although  the  whole  din  appeared  to  be 
raised  by  but  one  pair  of  lungs,  yet  that  one  pair  was  of 
so  powerful  a  quality,  and  repeated  such  words  as 
"scoundrel,"  "rascal,"  "  insolent  puppy,"  and  a  variety 
of  expletives  no  less  flattering  to  the  party  addressed, 
with  such  great  relisb  and  strength  of  tone,  that  a  dozen 
voices  raised  in  concert  under  any  ordinary  circumstances 
would  have  made  far  less  uproar  and  created  much 
smaller  consternation. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter?"  said  Nicholas,  moving 
hastily  towards  the  door. 

John  Browdie  was  striding  in  the  same  direction  when 
Mrs.  Browdie  turned  pale,  and  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
requested  him  with  a  faint  voice  to  take  notice,  that  if 
he  ran  into  any  danger  it  was  her  intention  to  fall  into 
hysterics  immediately,  and  that  the  consequences  might 
be  more  serious  than  he  thought  for.  John  looked  rather 
disconcerted  by  this  intelligence,  though  there  was  a 
lurking  grin  on  his  face  at  the  same  time  :  but,  being 
quite  unable  to  keep  out  of  tbe  fray,  he  compromised 
the  matter  by  tucking  his  wife's  arm  under  his  own,  and, 
thus  accompanied,  following  Nicholas  down-stairs  with 
all  speed. 

The  passage  outside  the  coffee-room  door  was  the 
scene  of  disturbance,  and  here  were  congregated  the 
coffee-room  customers  and  waiters,  together  with  two  or 
three  coachmen  and  helpers  from  the  yard.  These  had 
hastily  assembled  round  a  young  man  who  from  his  ap- 
pearance might  have  been  a  year  or  two  older  than  Nicho- 
las, and  who,  besides  having  giving  utterance  to  the  de- 
fiances just  now  described,  seemed  to  have  proceeded  to 
even  greater  lengths  in  his  indignation,  inasmuch  as  his 
feet  had  no  other  covering  than  a  pair  of  stockings, 
while  a  couple  of  slippers  lay  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  head  of  a  prostrate  figure  in  an  opposite  corner,  who 
bore  the  appearance  of  having  been  shot  into  his  present 
retreat  by  means  of  a  kick,  and  complimented  by  having 
the  slippers  flung  about  his  ears  afterwards. 

The  coffee-room  customers,  and  the  waiters,  and  the 
coachmen,  and  the  helpers — not  to  mention  a  bar-maid 
who  was  looking  on  from  behind  an  open  sash  window — 
seemed  at  that  moment,  if  a  spectator  might  judge  from 
their  winks,  nods,  and  muttered  exclamations,  strongly 
disposed  to  take  part  against  the  young  gentleman  in  the 


stockings.  Observing  this,  and  that  the  young  gentle- 
man was  nearly  of  his  own  age  and  had  in  nothing  the 
appearance  of  an  habitual  brawler,  Nicholas,  impelled 
by  such  feelings  as  will  influence  young  men  sometimes, 
felt  a  very  strong  disposition  to  side  with  the  weaker 
party,  and  so  thrust  himself  at  once  into  the  centre  of 
the  group,  and  in  a  more  emphatic  tone,  perhaps,  than 
circumstances  might  seem  to  warrant,  demanded  what 
all  that  noise  was  about. 

"  Hallo  !  "  said  one  of  the  men  from  the  yard,  "  thia 
is  somebody  in  disguise,  this  is." 

"  Room  for  the  eldest  son  of  the  Emperor  of  Roosher, 
gen'l'men  !"  cried  another  fellow. 

Disregarding  these  sallies,  which  were  uncommonly 
well  received,  as  sallies  at  the  expense  of  the  best-dressed 
persons  in  a  crowd  usually  are,  Nicholas  glanced  care- 
lessly round,  and  addressing  the  young  gentleman,  who 
had  by  this  time  picked  up  his  slippers  and  thrust  his 
feet  into  them,  repeated  his  inquiries  with  a  courteous- 
air. 

"  A  mere  nothing  !  "  he  replied. 

At  this  a  murmur  was  raised  by  the  lookers-on,  and 
some  of  the  boldest  cried,  "Oh,  indeed! — Wasn't  it 
though? — Nothing,  eh? — He  called  that  nothing,  did  he? 
Lucky  for  him  if  he  found  it  nothing."  These  and  many 
other  expressions  of  ironical  disapprobation  having  been 
exhausted,  two  or  three  of  the  out-door  fellows  began  ta 
hustle  Nicholas  and  the  young  gentleman  who  made  the 
noise  :  stumbling  against  them  by  accident,  and  treading^ 
on  their  toes,  and  so  forth .  But  this  being  a  round  game 
and  one  not  necessarily  limited  to  three  or  four  players, 
was  open  to  John  Browdie  too,  who,  bursting  into  the 
little  crowd — to  the  great  terror  of  his  wife — and  falling 
about  in  all  directions,  now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left, 
now  forwards,  now  backwards,  and  accidentally  driving 
his  elbow  through  the  hat  of  the  tallest  helper,  who  had 
been  particularly  active,  speedily  caused  the  odds  to 
wear  a  very  different  appearance  ;  while  more  than  one 
stout  fellow  limped  away  to  a  respectful  distance,  anathe- 
matising with  tears  in  his  eyes  the  heavy  tread  and  pon- 
derous feet  of  the  burly  Yorkshi reman. 

"Let  me  see  him  do  it  again,"  said  he  who  had  been 
kicked  into  the  corner,  rising  as  he  spoke,  apparently 
more  from  the  fear  of  John  Browdie's  inadvertently 
treading  upon  him,  than  from  any  desire  to  place  himself 
on  equal  terms  with  his  late  adversary.  "  Let  me  see 
him  do  it  again.    That's  all." 

"  Let  me  hear  you  make  those  remarks  again,"  said 
the  young  man,  "  and  I'll  knock  that  head  of  yours  in 
among  the  wine-glasses  behind  you  there." 

Here  a  waiter  who  had  been  rubbing  his  hands  in  ex- 
cessive enjoyment  of  the  scene,  so  long  as  only  the  break- 
ing of  heads  was  in  question,  adjured  the  spectators 
with  great  earnestness  to  fetch  the  police,  declaring  that 
otherwise  murder  would  be  surely  done,  and  that  he  was 
responsible  for  all  the  glass  and  china  on  the  premises. 

"  No  one  need  trouble  himself  to  stir,"  said  the  young 
gentleman,  "  I  am  going  to  remain  in  the  house  all  night, 
and  shall  be  found  here  in  the  morning  if  there  is  any 
assault  to  answer  for." 

"  What  did  you  strike  him  for?"  asked  one  of  the 
bystanders. 

"Ah  !  what  did  you  strike  him  for?"  demanded  the 
others. 

The  \mpopular  gentleman  looked  coolly  round,  and 
addressing  himself  to  Nicholas,  said  : — 

"  You  inquired  just  now  what  was  the  matter  here.  The 
matter  is  simply  this.  Yonder  person,  who  was  drink- 
ing with  a  friend  in  the  coffee-room  when  I  took  my  seat 
there  for  half  an  hour  before  going  to  bed,  (for  I  have 
just  come  off  a  journey,  and  preferred  stopping  here  to- 
night, to  going  home  at  this  hour,  where  I  was  not  ex- 
pected until  to-morrow,)  chose  to  express  himself  in  very 
disrespectful,  and  insolently  familiar  terms,  of  a  young- 
lady,  whom  I  recognised  from  his  description  and  other 
circumstances,  and  whom  I  have  the  honour  to  know. 
As  he  spoke  loud  enough  to  be  overheard  by  the  other 
guests  who  were  present,  I  informed  him  most  civilly 
that  he  was  mistaken  in  his  conjectures,  which  were  of  an 
offensive  nature,  and  requested  him  to  forbear.  He  did 
so  for  a  little  time,  but  as  he  chose  to  renew  his  conver- 
sation when  leaving  the  room,  in  a  more  offensive  strain 


f 


156 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


than  before,  I  could  not  refrain  from  making  after  him, 
and  facilitating  his  departure  by  a  kick,  which  reduced 
him  to  the  posture  in  which  you  saw  him  just  now.  I 
am  the  best  judge  of  my  own  affairs,  I  take  it,"  said  the 
young  man,  who  had  certainly  not  quite  recovered  from 
iiis  recent  heat,  **  if  anybody  here  thinks  proper  to  make 
this  quarrel  his  own,  I  have  not  the  smallest  earthly  ob- 
jection, I  do  assure  him," 

Of  all  possible  courses  of  proceeding  under  the  cir- 
cumstances detailed,  there  was  certainly  not  one  which, 
in  his  then  state  of  mind,  could  have  appeared  more  laud- 
able to  Nicholas  than  this.  There  were  not  many  sub- 
jects of  dispute  which  at  that  moment  could  have  come 
home  to  his  own  breast  more  powerfully,  for  having  the 
unknown  uppermost  in  his  thoughts,  it  naturally  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  would  have  done  just  the  same  if 
any  audacious  gossiper  durst  have  presumed  in  his  hear- 
ing to  speak  lightly  of  her.  Influenced  by  these  consid- 
erations, he  espoused  the  young  gentleman's  quarrel  with 
great  warmth,  protesting  that  he  had  done  quite  right, 
and  that  he  respected  him  for  it ;  which  John  Browdie 
(albeit  not  quite  clear  as  to  the  merits)  immediately  pro- 
tested too,  with  not  inferior  vehemence. 

**  Let  him  take  care,  that's  all,"  said  the  defeated 
party,  who  was  being  rubbed  down  by  a  waiter,  after 
his  recent  fall  on  the  dusty  boards.  "He  don't  knock 
me  about  for  nothing,  I  can  tell  him  that.  A  pretty 
state  of  things,  if  a  man  isn't  to  admire  a  handsome  girl 
without  being  beat  to  pieces  for  it  !  " 

This  reflection  appeared  to  have  great  weight  with  the 
young  lady  in  the  bar,  who  (adjusting  her  cap  as  she 
spoke,  and  glancing  at  a  mirror)  declared  that  it  would 
be  a  very  pretty  state  of  things  indeed  ;  and  that  if  peo- 
ple were  to  be  punished  for  actions  so  innocent  and  nat- 
ural as  that,  there  would  be  more  people  to  be  knocked 
down  than  there  would  be  people  to  knock  them  down, 
and  that  she  wondered  what  the  gentleman  meant  by  it, 
that  she  did. 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  the  young  gentleman  in  £t  low 
voice,  advancing  towards  the  sash  window. 

''Nonsense,  sir!"  replied  the  young  lady  sharply, 
smiling  though  as  she  turned  aside,  and  biting  her  lip 
(whereat  Mrs.  Browdie,  who  was  still  standing  on  the 
stairs,  glanced  at  her  with  disdain,  and  called  to  her  hus- 
band to  come  away). 

"No,  but  listen  to  me,"  said  the  young  man.  "  If  ad- 
miration of  a  pretty  face  were  criminal,  I  should  be  the 
most  hopeless  person  alive,  for  I  cannot  resist  one.  It 
has  the  most  extraordinary  effect  upon  me,  checks  and 
controls  me  in  the  most  furious  and  obstinate  mood.  You 
see  what  an  effect  yours  has  upon  me  already. " 

"  Oh,  that's  very  pretty,"  replied  the  young  lady,  toss- 
ing her  head,  ' '  but — " 

"  Yes,  I  know  it's  very  pretty,"  said  the  young  man, 
looking  with  an  air  of  admiration  in  the  bar-maid's  face, 
"I  said  so,  you  know,  just  this  moment.  But  beauty 
should  be  spoken  of  respectfully — respectfully,  and  in 
proper  terms,  and  with  a  becoming  sense  of  its  worth  and 
excellence,  whereas  this  fellow  has  no  more  notion — " 

The  young  lady  interrupted  the  conversation  at  this 
point,  by  thrusting  her  head  out  of  the  bar- window,  and 
inquiring  of  the  waiter  in  a  shrill  voice  whether  that 
young  man  who  had  been  knocked  down  was  going  to 
stand  in  the  passage  all  night,  or  whether  the  entrance 
was  to  be  left  clear  for  other  people.  The  waiters  taking 
the  hint,  and  communicating  it  to  the  hostlers,  were  not 
slow  to  change  their  tone  too,  and  the  result  was,  that 
the  unfortunate  victim  was  bundled  out  in  a  twinkling. 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  that  fellow  before,"  said  Nich- 
olas. 

"  Indeed  !"  replied  his  new  acquaintance. 

"  I  am  certain  of  it,"  said  Nicholas,  pausing  to  reflect. 
'*  Where  can  I  have — stop  ! — yes,  to  be  sure — he  belongs 
to  a  register-office  up  at  the  west  end  of  the  town.  I 
knew  I  recollected  the  face." 

It  was,  indeed,  Tom — the  ugly  clerk. 

"  That  s  odd  enough  ! "  said  Nicholas,  ruminating  upon 
the  strange  manner  in  which  that  register-office  seemed 
to  start  up  and  stare  him  in  the  face  every  now  and  then, 
and  when  he  least  expected  it. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  advocacy  of 
my  cause  when  it  most  needed  an  advocate,"  said  the 


young  man,  laughing,  and  drawing  a  card  from  his  pock- 
et. "  Perhaps  you'll  do  me  the  favour  to  let  me  know 
where  I  can  thank  you." 

Nicholas  took  the  card,  and  glancing  at  it  involuntari- 
ly as  he  returned  the  compliment,  evinced  very  great  sur- 
prise. 

"  Mr.  Frank  Cheery ble  1 "  said  Nicholas.  "  Surely  not 
the  nephew  of  Cheery  ble  Brothers,  who  is  expected  to- 
morrow !  " 

"  I  don't  usually  call  myself  the  nephew  of  the  firm, " 
returned  Mr.  Frank,  good-humouredly  ;  "but  of  the  two 
excellent  individuals  who  compose  it,  I  am  proud  to  say 
I  am  the  nephew.  And  you,  I  see,  are  Mr.  Nickleby,  of 
whom  I  have  heard  so  much  !  This  is  a  most  unexpected 
meeting,  but  not  the  less  welcome,  I  assure  you." 

Nicholas  responded  to  these  compliments  with  others 
of  the  same  kind,  and  they  shook  hands  warmly.  Then 
he  introduced  John  Browdie,  who  had  remained  in  a  state 
of  great  admiration  ever  since  the  young  lady  in  the  bar 
had  been  so  skilfully  won  over  to  the  right  side.  Then 
Mrs.  John  Browdie  was  introduced,  and  finally  they  all 
went  up-stairs  together  and  spent  the  next  half  hour  with 
great  satisfaction  and  mutual  entertainment ;  Mrs.  John 
Browdie  beginning  the  conversation  by  declaring  that  of 
all  the  made-up  things  she  ever  saw,  that  young  woman 
below-stairs  was  the  vainest  and  the  plainest. 

This  Mr.  Frank  Cheery  ble,  although,  to  judge  from 
what  had  recently  taken  place,  a  hot-headed  young  man, 
(which  is  not  an  absolute  miracle  and  phenomenon  in  na- 
ture,) was  a  sprightly,  good-humoured,  pleasant  fellow, 
with  much  both  in  his  countenance  and  disposition  that 
reminded  Nicholas  very  strongly  of  the  kind-hearted 
brothers.  His  manner  was  as  unaffected  as  theirs,  and 
his  demeanour  full  of  that  heartiness  which,  to  most  peo- 
ple who  have  anything  generous  in  their  composition,  is 
peculiarly  prepossessing.  Add  to  this,  that  he  was  good- 
looking  and  intelligent,  had  a  plentiful  share  of  vivacity, 
was  extremely  cheerful,  and  accommodated  himself  in 
five  minutes'  time  to  all  John  Browdie's  oddities  with  as 
much  ease  as  if  he  had  known  him  from  a  boy  ;  and  it 
will  be  a  source  of  no  great  wonder  that,  when  they  part- 
ed for  the  night,  he  had  produced  a  most  favourable  im- 
pression, not  only  upon  the  worthy  Yorkshireman  and 
his  wife,  but  upon  Nicholas  also,  who,  revolving  all  these 
things  in  his  mind  as  he  made  the  best  of  his  way  home, 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had  laid  the  foundation 
of  a  most  agreeable  and  desirable  acquaintance. 

"But  it's  a  most  extraordinary  thing  about  that  regis- 
ter-oflfice  fellow  ! "  thought  Nicholas.  "  Is  it  likely  that 
this  nephew  can  know  anything  about  that  beautiful 
girl  ?  When  Tim  Linkinwater  gave  me  to  understand 
the  other  day  that  he  was  coming  to  take  a  share  in 
the  business  here,  he  said  he  had  been  superintending  it 
in  Germany  for  four  years,  and  that  during  the  last  six 
months  he  had  been  engaged  in  establishing  an  agency 
in  the  north  of  England.  That's  four  years  and  a  half — 
four  years  and  a  half.  She  can't  be  more  than  seventeen 
— say  eighteen  at  the  outside.  She  was  quite  a  child 
when  he  went  away,  then.  I  should  say  he  knew  nothing 
about  her  and  never  had  seen  her,  so  he  can  give  me  no 
information.  At  all  events,"  thought  Nicholas,  coming 
to  the  real  point  in  his  mind,  "  there  can  be  no  danger  of 
any  prior  occupation  of  her  affections  in  that  quarter  ; 
that's  quite  clear," 

Is  selfishnes  a  necessary  ingredient  in  the  composition 
of  that  passion  called  love,  or  does  it  deserve  all  the  fine 
things  which  poets,  in  the  exercise  of  their  undoubted 
vocation,  have  said  of  it  ?  There  are,  no  doubt,  authen- 
ticated instances  of  gentlemen  having  given  up  ladies 
and  ladies  having  given  up  gentlemen  to  meritorious 
rivals,  under  circumstances  of  great  high-mindedness  ; 
but  is  it  quite  established  that  the  majority  of  such  ladies 
and  gentlemen  have  not  made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and 
nobly  resigned  what  was  beyond  their  reach  ;  as  a  pri- 
vate soldier  might  register  a  vow  never  to  accept  the  or- 
der of  the  Garter,  or  a  poor  curate  of  great  piety  and 
learning,  but  of  no  family — save  a  very  large  family  of 
children — might  renounce  a  bishopric? 

Here  was  Nicholas  Nickleby,  who  would  have  scorned 
the  thought  of  counting  how  the  chances  stood  of  his  ris- 
ing in  favour  of  fortune  with  the  Brothers  Cheeryble,  now 
that  their  nephew  had  returned,  already  deep  in  calcula- 


NICHOLAS  NICK LE BY. 


157 


tions  whether  that  same  nephew  was  likely  to  rival  him 
iu  the  affections  of  the  fair  unknown — discussing  the 
matter  with  himself  too,  as  gravely  as  if,  with  that  one 
exception,  it  were  all  settled  :  and  recurring  to  the  sub- 
ject again  and  again,  and  feeling  quite  indignant  and 
ill-used  at  the  notion  of  anybody  else  making  love  to  one 
with  whom  he  had  never  exchanged  a  word  in  all  his  life. 
To  be  sure,  he  exaggerated  rather  than  depreciated  the 
merits  of  his  new  acquaintance  ;  but  still  he  took  it  as  a 
kind  of  personal  offence  that  ho  should  have  any  merits 
at  all — in  the  eyes  of  this  i)articular  young  lady,  that  is ; 
for  elsewhere  he  was  quite  welcome  to  have  as  many  as 
he  pleased.  There  was  undoubted  selfishness  in  all  this, 
and  yet  Nicholas  was  of  a  most  free  and  generous  nature, 
with  as  few  mean  or  sordid  thoughts,  perhaps,  as  ever 
fell  to  the  lot  of  any  man  ;  and  there  is  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose that,  being  in  love,  he  felt  and  thought  differently 
from  other  people  in  the  like  sublime  condition. 

He  did  not  stop  to  set  on  foot  an  inquiry  into  his  train 
of  thought  or  sense  of  feeling,  however  ;  but  went  think- 
ing on  all  the  way  home,  and  continued  to  dream  on  in 
the  same  strain  all  night.  For,  having  satisfied  himself 
that  Frank  Cheeryble  could  have  no  knowledge  of,  or 
acquaintance  with  the  mysterious  young  lady,  it  began 
to  occur  to  him  that  even  he  himself  might  never  see  her 
again  ;  upon  which  hypothesis  he  built  up  a  very  in- 
genious succession  of  tormenting  ideas  which  answered 
his  purpose  even  better  than  the  vision  of  Frank  Cheery- 
ble, and  tantalized  and  worried  him,  waking  and  sleep- 
ing. 

Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said  and  sung  to 
the  contrary,  there  is  no  well-established  case  of  morning 
having  either  deferred  or  hastened  its  approach  by  the 
term  of  an  hour  or  so  for  the  mere  gratification  of  a  sple- 
netic feeling  against  some  unoffending  lover:  the  sun  hav- 
ing, in  the  discharge  of  his  public  duty,  as  the  books  of 
precedent  report,  invariably  risen  according  to  the  al- 
manacks, and  without  suffering  himself  to  be  swayed  by 
any  private  considerations.  So,  morning  came  as  usual 
and  with  it  business-hours,  and  with  them  Mr.  Frank 
Cheeryble,  and  with  him  a  long  train  of  smiles  and  wel- 
comes from  the  worthy  brothers,  and  a  more  grave  and 
clerk-like,  but  scarcely  less  hearty  reception  from  Mr. 
Timothy  Linkinwater. 

''That  Mr,  Frank  and  Mr.  Nickleby  should  have  met 
last  night,"  said  Tim  Linkinwater,  getting  slowly  off  his 
stool,  and  looking  round  the  counting-house  with  his 
back  planted  against  the  desk,  as  was  his  custom  when 
he  had  anything  very  particular  to  say — "  that  those  two 
young  men  should  have  met  last  night  in  that  manner 
is,  I  say,  a  coincidence — a  remarkable  coincidence.  Why, 
I  don't  believe  now,"  added  Tim,  taking  off  his  specta- 
cles, and  smiling  as  with  gentle  pride,  "that  there's 
such  a  place  in  all  the  world  for  coincidences  as  London 
is  !" 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Frank  ;  "  but — " 

"Don't  know  about  it,  Mr.  Francis!"  interrupted 
Tim,  wdth  an  obstinate  air.  "Well,  but  let  us  know. 
If  there  is  any  better  place  for  such  things,  where  is  it  ? 
Is  it  in  Europe  ?  No,  that  it  isn't.  Is  it  in  Asia  ?  Why, 
of  course  it's  not.  Is  it  in  Africa  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Is  it 
in  America  ?  Tou  know  better  than  that  at  all  events. 
Well,  then,"  said  Tim,  folding  his  arms  resolutely, 
"  where  is  it?  " 

"  I  was  not  about  to  dispute  the  point,  Tim,"  said 
young  Cheeryble,  laughing.  "  I  am  not  such  a  heretic 
as  that.  All  I  was  going  to  say  was,  that  I  hold  myself 
under  an  obligation  to  the  coincidence,  that's  all." 

"Oh  !  if  you  don't  dispute  it,"  said  Tim,  quite  satis- 
fied, "  that's  another  thing.  I'll  tell  you  what  though — 
I  wish  you  had.  I  wish  you  or  anybody  would.  I  would 
so  put  that  man  down,"  said  Tim,  tapping  the  forefinger 
of  his  left  hand  emphatically  with  his  spectacles,  "so 
put  that  man  down  by  argument  —  " 

It  was  quite  impossible  to  find  language  to  express  the 
degree  of  mental  prostration  to  which  such  an  adventur- 
ous wight  would  he  reduced  in  the  keen  encounter  with 
Tim  Linkinwater,  so  Tim  gave  up  the  rest  of  his  declara- 
tion in  pure  lack  of  words,  and  mounted  his  stool  again. 

"We  may  consider  ourselves,  brother  Ned,"  said 
Charles,  after  he  had  patted  Tim  Linkinwater  approv- 
ingly on  the  back,  ' '  very  fortunate  in  having  two  such 


young  men  about  us  as  our  nephew  Frank  and  Mr.  Nick- 
leby. It  should  be  a  source  of  great  satisfaction  and 
pleasure  to  us." 

"Certainly,  Charles,  certainly,"  returned  the  other, 

"  Of  Tim,"  added  brother  Ned,  "  I  say  nothing  what- 
ever, because  Tim  is  a  mere  child — an  infant — a  noVjody 
— that  we  never  think  of  or  take  into  account  at  ali. 
Tim,  you  villain,  what  do  you  say  to  that,  sir?  " 

"I  am  jealous  of  both  of  'em,"  said  Tim,  "  and  mean 
to  look  out  for  another  situation  ;  so  provide  yourselves, 
gentlemen,  if  you  please, " 

Tim  thought  this  such  an  exquisite,  unparalleled,  and 
most  extraordinary  joke,  that  he  laid  his  pen  upon  the 
inkstand,  and  rather  tumbling  off  his  stool  than  getting 
down  with  his  usual  deliberation,  laughed  till  he  was 
quite  faint,  shaking  his  head  all  the  time  so  that  little 
particles  of  powder  flew  palpably  about  the  office.  Nor 
were  the  brothers  at  all  behind-hand,  for  they  laughed 
almost  as  heartily  at  the  ludicrous  idea  of  any  voluntary 
separation  between  themselves  and  old  Tim,  Nicho- 
las and  Mr.  Frank  laughed  quite  boisterously,  perhaps 
to  conceal  some  other  emotion  awakened  by  this  little 
incident,  (and  so,  indeed,  did  the  three  old  fellows  after 
the  first  burst,)  so  perhaps  there  was  as  much  keen  en- 
joyment and  relish  in  that  laugh  altogether,  as  the 
politest  assembly  ever  derived  from  the  most  poignant 
witticism  uttered  at  any  one  person's  expense. 

"Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  brother  Charles,  calling  him 
aside,  and  taking  him  kindly  by  the  hand,  "I — I — am 
anxious,  my  dear  sir,  to  see  that  you  are  properly  and 
comfortably  settled  in  the  cottage.  We  cannot  allow 
those  who  serve  us  well  to  labour  under  any  privation  or 
discomfort  that  it  is  in  our  power  to  remove,  I  wish,  too, 
to  see  your  mother  and  sister, — to  know  them,  Mr,  Nick- 
leby, and  have  an  opportunity  of  relieving  their  minds 
by  assuring  them  that  any  trifling  service  we  have  been 
able  to  do  them  is  a  great  deal  more  than  repaid  by  the 
zeal  and  ardour  you  display, — Not  a  word,  my  dear  sir, 
I  beg.  To-morrow  is  Sunday.  I  shall  make  bold  to 
come  out  at  tea-time,  and  take  the  chance  of  finding  you 
at  home  ;  if  you  are  not,  you  know,  or  the  ladies  should 
feel  a  delicacy  in  being  intruded  on,  and  would  rather 
not  be  known  to  me  just  now,  why  I  can  come  again  an- 
other time,  any  other  time  would  do  for  me.  Let  it  re- 
main upon  that  understanding.  Brother  Ned,  my  dear 
fellow,  let  me  have  a  word  with  you  this  way." 

The  twins  went  out  of  the  office  arm  in  arm,  and 
Nicholas,  who  saw  in  this  act  of  kindness,  and  many 
others  of  which  he  had  been  the  subject  that  morning, 
only  so  many  delicate  renewals  on  the  arrival  of  their 
nephew  of  the  kind  assurances  which  the  brothers  had 
given  him  in  his  absence,  could  scarcely  feel  sufficient 
admiration  and  gratitude  for  such  extraordinary  consid- 
eration. 

The  intelligence  that  they  were  to  have  a  visitor — and 
i  such  a  visitor — next  day,  awakened  in  the  breast  of  Mrs. 
\  Nickleby  mingled  feelings  of  exultation  and  regret  ;  for 
I  whereas  on  the  one  hand  she  hailed  it  as  an  omen  of  her 
speedy  restoration  to  good  society  and  the  almost-forgot- 
ten pleasures  of  morning  calls  and  evening  tea-drinkings, 
she  could  not,  on  the  other,  but  reflect  with  bitterness 
of  spirit  on  the  absence  of  a  silver  teapot  with  an  ivory 
knob  on  the  lid,  and  a  milk-jug  to  match,  which  had 
been  the  pride  of  her  heart  in  days  of  yore,  and  had  been 
kept  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  wrapped  up  in  wash- 
leather  on  a  certain  top  shelf  which  now  presented  itself 
in  lively  colours  to  her  sorrowing  imagination, 
j     "I  wonder  who's  got  that  spice-box,"  said  Mi-s.  Nick- 
i  leby,  shaking  her  head.    "  It  used  to  stand  in  the  left- 
hand  corner,  next  but  two  to  the  pickled  onions.  Ton. 
j  remember  that  spice-box,  Kate?  " 
i     "  Perfectlv  well,  mamma." 

i     "I  shouldn't  think  you  did,  Kate,"  returned  Mrs. 

!  Nickleby,  in  a  severe  manner,  ' '  talking  about  it  in  that 
cold  and  unfeeling  way  !  If  there  is  one  thing  that 
vexes  me  in  these  losses  more  than  the  losses  themselves, 
I  do  protest  and  declare,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  rubbing 
her  nose  with  an  impassioned  air,  "that  it  is  to  have 
people  about  me  who  take  things  with  such  provoking 

[calmness." 

I  "  My  dear  mamma,"  said  Kate,  stealing  her  arm  round 
,  her  mother's  neck,  ' '  why  do  you  say  what  I  know  you 


158 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


cannot  seriously  mean  or  think,  or  why  be  an^ry  with 
me  for  being  happy  and  content  ?  You  and  Nicholas  are 
left  to  me,  we  are  together  once  again,  and  what  regard 
can  I  have  for  a  few  trifling  things  of  which  we  never 
feel  the  want  ?  When  I  have  seen  all  the  misery  and 
desolation  that  death  can  bring,  and  known  the  lone- 
some feeling  of  being  solitary  and  alone  in  crowds,  and 
all  the  agony  of  separation  in  grief  and  poverty  when  we 
most  needed  comfort  and  support  from  each  other,  can 
you  wonder  that  I  look  upon  this  as  a  place  of  such  deli- 
cious quiet  and  rest,  that  with  you  beside  me  I  have 
nothing  to  wish  for  or  regret  ?  There  was  a  time,  and 
not  long  since,  when  all  the  comforts  of  our  old  home 
did  come  back  upon  me,  I  own,  very  often — oftener  than 
you  would  think  perhaps — but  I  affected  to  care  nothing 
for  them,  in  the  hope  that  you  would  so  be  brought  to 
regret  them  less.  I  was  not  insensible,  indeed.  I  might 
have  felt  happier  if  I  had  been.  Dear  mamma,"  said 
Kaie,  in  great  agitation,  *'I  know  no  difference  between 
this  home  and  that  in  which  we  were  all  so  happy  for 
so  many  years,  except  that  the  kindest  and  gentlest 
heart  that  ever  ached  on  earth  has  passed  in  peace  to 
heaven." 

"Kate  my  dear,  Kate,"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby,  folding 
her  in  her  arms. 

"  I  have  so  often  thought,"  sobbed  Kate,  "  of  all  his 
kind  words — of  the  last  time  he  looked  into  my  little 
room,  as  he  passed  up-stairs  to  bed,  and  said,  '  God  bless 
you,  darling.'  There  was  a  paleness  in  his  face,  mamma 
—the  broken  heart — I  know  it  was — I  little  thought  so — 
then — " 

A  gush  of  tears  came  to  her  relief,  and  Kate  laid  her 
head  upon  her  mother's  breast,  and  wept  like  a  little 
child. 

It  is  an  exquisite  and  beautiful  thing  in  our  nature, 
that  when  the  heart  is  touched  and  softened  by  some 
tranquil  happiness  or  affectionate  feeling,  the  memory  of 
the  dead  comes  over  it  most  powerfully  and  irresistibly. 
It  would  almost  seem  as  though  our  better  thoughts  and 
sympathies  were  charms,  in  virtue  of  which  the  soul  is 
enabled  to  hold  some  vague  and  mysterious  intercourse 
with  the  spirits  of  those  whom  we  dearly  loved  in  life. 
Alas  !  how  often  and  how  long  may  those  patient  angels 
hover  above  us,  watching  for  the  spell  which  is  so  seldom 
uttered,  and  so  soon  forgotten. 

Poor  Mrs.  Nickleby,  accustomed  to  give  ready  utter- 
ance to  whatever  came  uppermost  in  her  mind,  had  never 
conceived  the  possibility  of  her  daughter's  dwelling  upon 
those  thoughts  in  secret,  the  more  especially  as  no  hard 
trial  or  querulous  reproach  had  ever  drawn  them  from 
her.  But  now,  when  the  happiness  of  all  that  Nicholas 
had  just  told  them,  and  of  their  new  and  peaceful  life, 
brought  these  recollections  so  strongly  upon  Kate  that 
she  could  not  suppress  them,  Mrs.  Nickleby  began  to 
have  a  glimmering  that  she  had  been  rather  thoughtless 
now  and  then,  and  was  conscious  of  something  like  self- 
reproach  as  she  embraced  her  daughter,  and  pelded  to 
the  emotions  which  such  a  conversation  naturally  awak- 
ened. 

There  was  a  mighty  bustle  that  night,  and  a  vast 
•quantity  of  preparation  for  the  expected  visitor,  and  a 
very  large  nosegay  was  brought  from  a  gardener's  hard 
by  and  cut  up  into  a  number  of  very  small  ones  with 
which  Mrs.  Nickleby  would  have  garnished  the  little 
sitting-room,  in  a  style  that  certainly  could  not  have 
failed  to  attract  anybody's  attention,  if  Kate  had  not 
offered  to  spare  her  the  trouble,  and  arranged  them  in 
the  prettiest  and  neatest  manner  possible.  If  the  cottage 
ever  looked  pretty,  it  must  have  been  on  such  a  bright 
and  sunshiny  day  as  the  next  day  was.  But  Smike's 
pride  in  the  garden,  or  Mrs.  Nickleby's  in  the  condition 
of  the  furniture,  or  Kate's  in  everything,  was  nothing  to 
the  pride  with  which  Nicholas  looked  at  Kate  herself  ; 
and  surely  the  costliest  mansion  in  all  England  might 
have  found  in  her  beautiful  face  and  graceful  form  its 
most  exquisite  and  peerless  ornament. 

About  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Nickleby  was 
thrown  into  a  great  flutter  of  spirits  by  the  long-expected 
knock  at  the  door,  nor  was  this  flutter  at  all  composed 
by  the  audible  tread  of  two  pair  of  boots  in  the  passage, 
which  Mrs.  Nickleby  augured,  in  a  breathless  state,  must 
be  "the  two  Mr.  Cheerybles;"  as  it  certainly  was, 


though  not  the  two  Mrs.  Nickleby  expected,  because  it 
was  Mr.  Charles  Cheeryble,  and  his  nephew,  Mr.  Frank, 
who  made  a  thousand  apologies  for  his  intrusion,  which 
Mrs.  Nickleby  (having  teaspoons  enough  and  to  spare  for 
all)  most  graciously  received.  Nor  did  the  appearance 
of  this  unexpected  visitor  occasion  the  least  embarrass- 
ment, (save  in  Kate,  and  that  only  to  the  extent  of  a 
blush  or  two  at  first,)  for  the  old  gentleman  was  so  kind 
and  cordial,  and  the  young  gentleman  imitated  him  in 
this  respect  so  well,  that  the  usual  stiffness  and  formal- 
ity of  a  first  meeting  showed  no  signs  of  appearing,  and 
Kate  really  more  than  once  detected  herself  in  the  very 
act  of  wondering  when  it  was  going  to  begin. 

At  the  tea-table  there  was  plenty  of  conversation  on  a 
great  variety  of  subjects,  nor  were  there  wanting  jocose 
matters  of  discussion,  such  as  they  were  ;  for  young  Mr. 
Cheeryble's  recent  stay  in  Germany  happening  to  be 
alluded  to,  old  Mr.  Cheeryble  informed  the  company  that 
the  aforesaid  young  Mr.  Cheeryble  was  suspected  to  have 
fallen  deeply  in  love  vdth  the  daughter  of  a  certain  Ger- 
man burgomaster.  This  accusation  young  Mr.  Cheery- 
ble most  indignantly  repelled,  upon  which  Mrs.  Nickleby 
slily  remarked,  that  she  suspected,  from  the  very  warmth 
of  the  denial,  there  must  be  something  in  it.  Young 
Mr.  Cheeryble  then  earnestly  entreated  old  Mr.  Cheery- 
ble to  confess  that  it  was  all  a  jest,  which  old  Mr.  Cheery- 
ble at  last  did,  young  Mr.  Cheeryble  being  so  much  in 
earnest  about  it,  that — as  Mrs.  Nickleby  said  many  thou- 
sand times  afterwards  in  recalling  the  scene — he  "  quite 
coloured,"  which  she  rightly  considered  a  memorable 
circumstance,  and  one  worthy  of  remark,  young  men  not 
being  as  a  class  remarkable  for  modesty  or  self-denial, 
especially  when  there  is  a  lady  in  the  case,  when,  if  they 
colour  at  all,  it  is  rather  their  practice  to  colour  the 
story,  and  not  themselves. 

After  tea  there  was  a  walk  in  the  garden,  and  the 
evening  being  very  fine,  they  strolled  out  at  the  garden 
gate  into  some  lanes  and  bye-roads,  and  sauntered  up  and 
down  until  it  grew  quite  dark.  The  time  seemed  to  pass 
very  quickly  with  all  the  party.  Kate  went  first,  lean- 
ing upon  her  brother's  arm,  and  talking  with  him  and 
Mr.  Frank  Cheeryble  ;  and  Mrs.  Nickleby  and  the  elder 
gentleman  followed  at  a  short  distance,  the  kindness  of 
the  good  merchant,  his  interest  in  the  welfare  of  Nicholas, 
and  his  admiration  of  Kate,  so  operating  upon  the  good 
lady's  feelings,  that  the  usual  current  of  her  speech  was 
confined  within  very  narrow  and  circumscribed  limits. 
Smike  (who,  if  he  had  ever  been  an  object  of  interest  in 
his  life,  had  been  one  that  day)  accompanied  them,  join- 
ing sometimes  one  group  and  sometimes  the  other,  as 
brother  Charles,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  bade 
him  walk  with  him,  or  Nicholas,  looking  smilingly 
round,  beckoned  him  to  come  and  talk  with  the  old 
friend  who  understood  him  best,  and  who  could  win  a 
smile  into  his  care-worn  face  when  none  else  could. 

Pride  is  one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins ;  but  it  cannot 
be  the  pride  of  a  mother  in  her  children,  for  that  is  a 
compound  of  two  cardinal  virtues — faith  and  hope. 
This  was  the  pride  which  swelled  Mrs.  Nickleby's  heart 
that  night,  and  this  it  was  which  left  upon  her  face,  glis- 
tening in  the  light  when  they  returned  home,  traces  of 
the  most  grateful  tears  she  had  ever  shed. 

There  was  a  quiet  mirth  about  the  little  supper,  which 
harmonized  exactly  with  this  tone  of  feeling,  and  at 
length  the  two  gentlemen  took  their  leave.  There  was 
one  circumstance  in  the  leave-taking  which  occasioned  a 
vast  deal  of  smiling  and  pleasantry,  and  that  was,  that 
Mr.  Frank  Cheeryble  offered  his  hand  to  Kate  twice  ever, 
quite  foi^ettiag  that  he  had  bade  her  adieu  already. 
This  was  held  by  the  elder  Mr.  Cheeryble  to  be  a  con- 
vincing proof  that  he  was  thinking  of  his  German  flame, 
and  the  jest  occasioned  immense  laughter.  So  easy  is  it 
to  move  light  hearts. 

In  short,  it  was  a  day  of  serene  and  tranquil  happiness, 
and  as  we  all  have  some  bright  day — many  of  us,  let  us 
hope,  among  the  crowd  of  others — to  which  we  revert 
with  particular  delight,  so  this  one  was  often  looked 
back  to  afterwards,  as  holding  a  conspicuous  place  in  the 
calendar  of  those  who  shared  it. 

Was  there  one  exception,  and  that  one  he  who  needed 
to  have  been  most  happy? 

Who  was  that  who,  in  the  silence  of  his  own  chamber. 


NICHOLAS 

sunk  upon  his  knees  to  pray  as  his  first  friend  had  taught 
him,  and  folding  his  hands  and  stretching  them  wildly 
in  the  air,  fell  upon  his  face  in  a  passion  of  bitter 
grief  ? 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  cuts  an  old  Acquaintance.  It  would  also  appear 
from  the  contents  hereof,  that  a  joke,  even  between  Husband  and 
)\ye,  may  be  sometimes  carried  too  far. 

There  are  some  men  who,  living  with  the  one  object 
of  enriching  themselves,  no  matter  by  what  means,  and 
being  perfectly  conscious  of  the  baseness  and  rascality 
of  the  means  which  they  will  use  every  day  towards 
this  end,  affect  nevertheless — even  to  themselves — a  high 
tone  of  moral  rectitude,  and  shake  their  heads  and  sigh 
over  the  depravity  of  the  world.  Some  of  the  craftiest 
scoundrels  that  ever  walked  this  earth,  or  rather — for 
walking  implies,  at  least,  an  erect  position  and  the  bear- 
ing of  a  man — that  ever  crawled  and  crept  through  life 
by  its  dirtiest  and  narrowest  ways,  will  gravely  jot  down 
in  diaries  the  events  of  every  day,  and  keep  a  regular 
debtor  and  creditor  account  with  heaven,  which  shall 
always  show  a  floating  balance  in  their  own  favour. 
Whether  this  is  a  gratuitous  (the  only  gratuitous)  part 
of  the  falsehood  and  trickery  of  such  men's  lives,  or 
whether  they  really  hope  to  cheat  heaven  itself,  and  lay 
up  treasure  in  the  next  world  by  the  same  process  which 
has  enabled  them  to  lay  up  treasure  in  this — not  to  ques- 
tion how  it  is,  so  it  is.  And,  doubtless,  such  book-keep- 
ing (like  certain  autobiographies  which  have  enlightened 
the  world)  cannot  fail  to  prove  serviceable,  in  the  one 
respect  of  sparing  the  recording  Angel  some  time  and 
labour. 

Ralph  Nickleby  was  not  a  man  of  this  stamp.  Stern, 
unyielding,  dogged,  and  impenetrable,  Ralph  cared  for 
nothing  in  life,  or  beyond  it,  save  the  gratification  of 
two  passions,  avarice,  the  first  and  predominant  appe- 
tite of  his  nature,  and  hatred,  the  second.  Affecting  to 
consider  himself  bat  a  type  of  all  humanity,  he  was  at 
little  pains  to  conceal  his  true  character  from  the  world 
in  general,  and  in  his  own  heart  he  exulted  over  and 
cherished  every  bad  design  as  it  had  birth.  The  only 
scriptural  admonition  that  Ralph  Nickleby  heeded,  in  the 
letter,  was  "know  thyself."  He  knew  himself  well,  and 
choosing  to  imagine  that  all  mankind  were  cast  in  the 
same  mould,  hated  them  ;  for,  though  no  man  hates 
himself,  the  coldest  among  us  having  too  much  self-love 
for  that,  yet,  most  men  unconsciously  judge  the  world 
from  themselves,  and  it  will  be  very  generally  found 
that  those  who  sneer  habitually  at  human  nature,  and 
affect  to  despise  it,  are  among  its  worst  and  least  pleas- 
ant samples. 

But  the  present  business  of  these  adventures  is  with 
Ralph  himself,  who  stood  regarding  Newman  Noggs  with 
a  heavy  frown,  while  that  worthy  took  off  his  fingerless 
gloves,  and  spreading  them  carefully  on  the  palm  of  his 
left  hand,  and  flattening  them  with  his  right  to  take  the 
creases  out,  proceeded  to  roll  them  up  with  an  absent  air 
as  if  he  were  utterly  regardless  of  all  things  else,  in  the 
deep  interest  of  the  ceremonial. 

"  Gone  out  of  town  !  "  said  Ralph,  slowly.  "  A  mis- 
take of  yours.    Go  back  again." 

"  No  mistake,"  returned  Newman.  **  Not  even  going  ; 
— gone." 

**  Has  he  turned  girl  or  baby  ?  "  muttered  Ralph,  with 
a  fretful  gesture. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Newman,  "but  he's  gone." 

The  repetition  of  the  word  "gone,"  seemed  to  afford 
Newman  Noggs  inexpressible  delight,  in  proportion  as  it 
annoyed  Ralph  Nickleby.  He  uttered  the  word  with  a 
full  round  emphasis,  dwelling  upon  it  as  long  as  he  de- 
cently could,  and  when  he  could  hold  out  no  longer 
without  attracting  observation,  stood,  gasping  it  to  him- 
self, as  if  even  that  were  a  satisfaction. 

"  And  where  has  he  gone  ?  "  said  Ralph. 

"  France,"  replied  Newman.  "  Danger  of  another  at- 
tack of  erysipelas — a  worse  attack — in  the  head.  So  the 
doctors  ordered  him  off.    And  he's  gone." 

"And  Lord  Frederick  ?  "  began  Ralph. 

"He's  gone  too,"  replied  Newman. 


NICKLEBY.  159 

"And  he  carries  his  drubbing  with  him,  does  he!" 
said  Ralph,  turning  away — "pockets  his  bruises,  and 
sneaks  off  without  the  retaliation  of  a  word,  or  seeking 
the  smallest  reparation  ! " 

"  He's  too  ill,"  said  Newman. 

"  Too  ill  !  "  repeated  Ralph.  "  Why  /  would  have  it 
if  I  were  dying  ;  in  that  case  I  should  only  be  the  more 
determined  to  have  it,  and  that  without  delay — I  mean  if 
I  were  he.  But  he's  too  ill !  Poor  Sir  Mulberry  !  Too 
ill  !" 

Uttering  these  words  with  supreme  contempt  and 
great  irritation  of  manner,  Ralph  signed  hastily  to  New- 
man to  leave  the  room  ;  and  throwing  himself  into  his 
chair,  beat  his  foot  impatiently  upon  the  ground. 

"There  is  some  spell  about  that  boy,"  said  Ralph, 
grinding  his  teeth.  "Circumstances  conspire  to  help 
him.  Talk  of  fortune's  favours  !  What  is  even  money 
to  such  Devil's  luck  as  this  ?  " 

He  thrust  his  hands  impatiently  into  his  pockets,  but 
notwithstanding  his  previous  reflection  there  was  some 
consolation  there,  for  his  face  relaxed  a  little  ;  and  al- 
though there  was  still  a  deep  frown  upon  the  contracted 
brow,  it  was  one  of  calculation,  and  not  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

"This  Hawk  will  come  back,  however,"  muttered 
Ralph  ;  "  and  if  I  know  the  man — and  I  should  by  this 
time — his  wrath  will  have  lost  none  of  its  violence  in  the 
meanwhile.  Obliged  to  live  in  retirement— the  mono- 
tony of  a  sick-room  to  a  man  of  his  habits — no  life— no 
drink — no  play — nothing  that  he  likes  and  lives  by.  He 
is  not  likely  to  forget  his  obligations  to  the  cause  of  all 
this.    Few  men  would  ;  but  he  of  all  others — no,  no  ! " 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head,  and  resting  his  chin 
upon  his  hand,  fell  a  musing,  and  smiled  again.  After 
a  time  he  rose  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  That  Mr.  Squeers  ;  has  he  been  here  ? "  said  Ralph. 

"  He  was  here  last  night.  I  left  him  here  when  I  went 
home,"  returned  Newman. 

"I  know  that,  fool,  do  I  not?"  said  Ralph  irascibly. 
"Has  he  been  here  since?  Was  he  here  this  morn- 
ing?" . 

"No,"  bawled  Newman,  in  a  very  loud  key. 

"  If  he  comes  while  I  am  out — he  is  pretty  sure  to  be 
here  by  nine  to-night,  let  him  wait.  And  if  there's  an- 
other man  with  him,  as  there  will  be — perhaps,"  said 
Ralph,  checking  himself,  "  let  him  wait  too." 

"  Let  'em  both  wait  ? "  said  Newman. 

"  Ay,"  replied  Ralph,  turning  upon  him  with  an  angry 
look.  "Help  me  on  with  this  spencer,  and  don't  repeat 
after  me,  like  a  croaking  parrot." 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  parrot,"  said  Newman,  sulkily. 

"I  wish  you  were,"  rejoined  Ralph,  drawing  his 
spencer  on  ;  "  I'd  have  wrung  your  neck  long  ago." 

Newman  returned  no  answer  to  this  compliment,  but 
looked  over  Ralph's  shoulder  for  an  instant,  (he  was  ad- 
justing the  collar  of  the  spencer  behind,  just  then,)  as  if 
he  were  strongly  disposed  to  tweak  him  by  the  nose. 
Meeting  Ralph's  eye,  however,  he  suddenly  recalled  his 
wandering  fingers,  and  rubbed  his  own  red  nose  with 
a  vehemence  quite  astonishing. 

Bestowing  no  further  notice  upon  his  eccentric  fol- 
lower than  a  threatening  look,  and  an  admonition  to  be 
careful  and  make  no  mistake,  Ralph  took  his  hat  and 
gloves,  and  walked  out. 

He  appeared  to  have  a  very  extraordinary  and  miscel- 
laneous connection,  and  very  odd  calls  he  made — some 
at  great  rich  houses,  and  some  at  small  poor  ones — but 
all  upon  one  subject :  money.  His  face  was  a  talisman 
to  the  porters  and  servants  of  his  more  dashing  clients, 
and  procured  him  ready  admission,  though  he  trudged 
on  foot,  and  others,  who  were  denied,  rattled  to  the  door 
in  carriages.  Here  he  was  all  softness  and  cringing 
civility  ;  his  step  so  light,  that  it  scarcely  produced  a 
sound  upon  the  thick  carpets  ;  his  voice  so  soft  that  it 
was  not  audible  beyond  the  person  to  whom  it  Avas  ad- 
dressed. But  in  the  poorer  habitations  Ralph  was  an- 
other man  ;  his  boots  creaked  upon  the  passage  floor  as 
he  walked  boldly  in  ;  his  voice  was  harsh  and  loud  as 
he  demanded  the  money  that  was  overdue  ;  his  threats 
were  coarse  and  angry.  With  another  class  of  customers, 
Ralph  was  again  another  man.  These  were  attorneys  of 
more  than  doubtful  reputation,  who  helped  him  to  new 


160 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


business,  or  raised  fresh  profits  upon  old.  With  them 
Ralph  was  familiar  and  jocose — ^humorous  upon  the  top- 
ics of  the  day,  and  especially  pleasant  upon  bankruptcies 
and  pecuniary  difficulties  that  made  good  for  trade.  In 
short,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  recognised 
the  same  man  under  these  various  aspects,  but  for  the 
bulky  leather  case  full  of  bills  and  notes  which  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  at  every  house,  and  the  constant  repeti- 
tion of  the  same  complaint,  (varied  only  in  tone  and  style 
of  delivery,)  that  the  world  thought  him  rich,  and  that 
perhaps  he  might  be  if  he  had  his  own  ;  but  there  was 
no  getting  money  in  when  it  was  once  out,  either  princi- 
pal or  interest,  and  it  was  a  hard  matter  to  live — even 
to  live  from  day  to  day. 

It  was  evening  before  a  long  round  of  such  visits  (in- 
terrupted only  by  a  scanty  dinner  at  an  eating-house) 
terminated  at  Pimlico,  and  Ralph  walked  along  St. 
James's  Park,  on  his  way  home. 

There  were  some  deep  schemes  in  his  head,  as  the 
puckered  brow  and  firmly-set  mouth  would  have  abun- 
dantly testified,  even  if  they  had  been  unaccompanied 
by  a  complete  indifference  to,  or  unconsciousness  of,  the 
objects  about  him.  So  complete  was  his  abstraction, 
however,  that  Ralph,  usually  as  quick-sighted  as  any 
man,  did  not  observe  that  he  was  followed  by  a  sham- 
bling figure,  which  at  one  time  stole  behind  him  with 
noiseless  footsteps,  at  another  crept  a  few  paces  before 
him,  and  at  another  glided  along  by  his  side  ;  at  all  times 
regarding  him  with  an  eye  so  keen,  and  a  look  so  eager 
and  attentive,  that  it  was  more  like  the  expression  of  an 
intrusive  face  in  some  powerful  picture  or  strongly 
marked  dream,  than  the  scrutiny  of  a  most  interested 
and  anxious  observer. 

The  sky  had  been  lowering  and  dark  for  some  time, 
and  the  commencement  of  a  violent  storm  of  rain  drove 
Ralph  for  shelter  to  a  tree.  He  was  leaning  against  it 
with  folded  arms,  still  buried  in  thought,  when,  hap- 
pening to  raise  his  eyes,  he  suddenly  met  those  of  a  man 
who,  creeping  round  the  trunk,  peered  into  his  face  with 
a  searching  look.  There  was  something  in  the  usurer's 
expression  at  the  moment,  which  the  man  appeared  to 
remember  well,  for  it  decided  him  ;  and  stepping  close 
up  to  Ralph,  he  pronounced  his  name. 

Astonished  for  the  moment,  Ralph  fell  back  a  couple 
of  paces  and  surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot.  A  spare, 
dark,  withered  man,  of  about  his  own  age,  with  a  stoop- 
ing body,  and  a  very  sinister  face  rendered  more  ill-fa- 
voured by  hollow  and  hungry  cheeks,  deeply  sunburnt, 
and  thick  black  eyebrows,  blacker  in  contrast  with  the 
perfect  whiteness  of  his  hair  ;  roughly  clothed  in  shabby 
garments,  of  a  strange  and  uncouth  make  ;  and  having 
about  him  an  indefinable  manner  of  depression  and  deg- 
radation — this,  for  a  moment,  was  all  he  saw.  But  he 
looked  again,  and  the  face  and  person  seemed  gradually 
to  grow  less  strange  ;  to  change  as  he  looked,  to  subside 
and  soften  into  lineaments  that  were  familiar,  until  at 
last  they  resolved  themselves,  as  if  by  some  strange 
optical  illusion,  into  those  of  one  whom  he  had  known 
for  many  years,  and  forgotten  and  lost  sight  of  for  nearly 
as  many  more. 

The  man  saw  that  the  recognition  was  mutual,  and 
beckoning  to  Ralph  to  take  his  former  place  under  the 
tree,  and  not  to  stand  in  the  falling  rain,  of  which,  in  his 
first  surprise,  he  had  been  quite  regardless,  addressed 
him  in  a  hoarse,  faint  tone. 

*'  You  would  hardly  have  known  me  from  my  voice,  I 
suppose,  Mr.  Nickleby  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  returned  Ralph,  bending  a  severe  look  upon 
him.  "  Though  there  is  something  in  that,  that  I  re- 
member now." 

"  There  is  little  in  me  that  you  can  call  to  mind  as 
having  been  there  eight  years  ago,  I  dare  say  ? "  ob- 
served the  other. 

"Quite  enough,"  said  Ralph,  carelessly,  and  averting 
his  face.    "  More  than  enough." 

"If  I  had  remained  in  doubt  about  you,  Mr.  Nickle- 
by," said  the  other,  "  this  reception,  and  your  manner, 
would  have  decided  me  very  soon." 

"  Did  you  expect  any  other?"  asked  Ralph,  sharply. 

'*  No  I  "  said  the  man. 

"  You  were  right,"  retorted  Ralph  ;  '*and  as  you  feel 
no  surprise,  need  express  none." 


"Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  the  man,  bluntly,  after  a  brief 
pause,  during  which  he  had  seemed  to  struggle  with  an 
inclination  to  answer  him  by  some  reproach,  will  you 
hear  a  few  words  that  I  have  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  am  obliged  to  wait  here  till  the  rain  holds  a  little," 
said  Ralph,  looking  abroad.  "  If  you  talk,  sir,  I  shall 
not  put  my  fingers  in  my  ears,  though  your  talking  may 
have  as  much  effect  as  if  I  did." 

"  1  was  once  in  your  confidence — ,"  thus  his  companion 
began.    Ralph  looked  round,  and  smiled  involuntarily. 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  as  much  in  your  confidence 
as  you  ever  chose  to  let  anybody  be." 

"  Ah  !  "  rejoined  Ralph,  folding  his  arms  ;  '*  that's  an- 
other thing — quite  another  thing." 

"Don't  let  us  play  upon  words,  Mr.  Nickleby,  in  the 
name  of  humanity." 

Of  what  ?  "  said  Ralph.  /T 

"  Of  humanity,"  replied  the  other,  sternly.  "  I  am 
hungry  and  in  want.  If  the  change  that  you  must  see 
in  me  after  so  long  an  absence — must  see,  for  I,  upon 
whom  it  has  come  by  slow  and  hard  degrees,  see  it  and 
know  it  well — will  not  move  you  to  pity,  let  the  knowl- 
edge that  bread  ;  not  the  daily  bread  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  which,  as  it  is  offered  up  in  cities  like  this,  is 
understood  to  include  half  the  luxuries  of  the  world  for 
the  rich  and  just  as  much  coarse  food  as  will  support 
life  for  the  poor — not  that,  but  bread,  a  crust  of  dry  hard 
bread,  is  beyond  my  reach  to-day — let  that  have  some 
weight  with  you,  if  nothing  else  has." 

"  If  this  is  the  usual  form  in  which  you  beg,  sir," 
said  Ralph,  "  you  have  studied  your  part  well;  but  if 
you  will  take  advice,  from  one  who  knows  something  of 
the  world  and  its  ways,  I  should  recommend  a  lower 
tone— a  little  lower  tone,  or  you  stand  a  fair  chance  of 
being  starved  in  good  earnest. " 

As  he  said  this,  Ralph  clenched  his  left  wrist  tightly 
with  his  right  hand,  and  inclining  his  head  a  little  on 
one  side  and  dropping  his  chin  upon  his  breast,  looked 
at  him  whom  he  addressed  with  a  frowning,  sullen  face  ; 
the  very  picture  of  a  man  whom  nothing  could  move  or 
soften. 

"  Yesterday  was  my  first  day  in  London,"  said  the  old 
man,  glancing  at  his  travel-stained  dress  and  worn  shoes. 

"  It  would  have  been  better  for  you,  I  think,  if  it  had 
been  your  last  also,"  replied  Ralph. 

"  I  have  been  seeking  you  these  two  days,  where  I 
thought  you  were  most  likely  to  be  found,"  resumed 
the  other  more  humbly,  "and  I  met  you  here  at  last, 
when  I  had  almost  given  up  the  hope  of  encountering 
you,  Mr.  Nickleby." 

He  seemed  to  wait  for  some  reply,  but  Ralph  giving 
him  none,  he  continued — 

* '  I  am  a  most  miserable  and  wretched  outcast,  nearly 
sixty  years  old,  and  as  destitute  and  helpless  as  a  child 
of  six." 

"  I  am  sixty  years  old,  too, "  replied  Ralph,  "  and  am 
neither  destitute  nor  helpless.  Work.  Don't  make  fine 
play-acting  speeches  about  bread,  but  earn  it." 

"How?"  cried  the  other.  "Where?  Show  me  the 
means.    Will  you  give  them  to  me — will  you  ?  " 

"  I  did  once,"  replied  Ralph,  composedly,  "  you 
scarcely  need  ask  me  whether  I  will  again." 

"  It's  twenty  years  ago,  or  more,"  said  the  man,  in  a 
suppressed  voice,  "since  you  and  I  fell  out.  You  re- 
member that  ?  I  claimed  a  share  in  the  profits  of  some 
business  I  brought  to  you,  and,  as  I  persisted,  you  ar- 
rested me  for  an  old  advance  of  ten  pounds,  odd  shil- 
lings— including  interest  at  fifty  per  cent.,  or  so." 

"  I  remember  something  of  it,"  replied  Ralph,  care- 
lessly.   "What  then?" 

"  That  didn't  part  us,"  said  the  man.  "  I  made  sub- 
mission, being  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  bolts  and  bars  ; 
and  as  you  were  not  the  made  man  then  that  you  are 
now,  you  were  glad  enough  to  take  back  a  clerk  who 
wasn't  over  nice,  and  who  knew  something  of  the  trade 
you  drove." 

"  You  begged  and  prayed,  and  I  consented,"  returned 
Ralph.  "  That  was  kind  of  me.  Perhaps  I  did  want 
you — I  forget.  I  should  think  I  did,  or  you  would  have 
begged  in  vain.  You  were  useful — not  too  honest,  not 
too  delicate,  not  too  nice  of  hand  or  heart — but  useful." 

"  Useful,  indeed  I  "  said  the  man.    "  Come.   You  had  . 


NICHOLAS 

pinched  and  ground  mo  down  for  some  years  before  that, 
but  I  had  served  you  faithfully  up  to  that  time,  in  spite 
of  all  your  dog's  usage — had  11" 

Ralph  made  no  reply. 

"  Had  IV"  said  the  man  again. 

"You  had  had  your  wages,"  rejoined  Ralph,  "and 
had  done  your  work.  We  stood  on  equal  ground  so  far, 
and  could  both  cry  quits." 

"  Then,  but  not  afterwards,"  said  the  other. 

"  Not  afterwards,  certainly,  not  even  then,  for  (as  you 
have  just  said)  you  owed  me  money,  and  do  still,"  re- 
plied Ralph. 

"  That's  not  all,"  said  the  man,  eagerly.  "  That's  not 
all.  Mark  that.  I  didn't  forget  that  old  sore,  trust  me. 
Partly  in  remembrance  of  that,  and  partly  in  the  hope 
of  making  money  some  day  by  the  scheme,  I  took  advan- 
tage of  my  position  about  you,  and  possessed  myself  of 
a  hold  upon  you,  which  you  woald  give  half  of  all  you 
have,  to  know,  and  never  can  know  but  through  me.  I 
left  you — long  after  that  time,  remember — and,  for  some 
poor  trickery  that  came  within  the  law,  but  was  nothing 
to  what  you  money-makers  daily  practise  just  outside  its 
bonds,  was  sent  away  a  convict  for  seven  years.  I  have 
returned  what  you  see  me.  Now,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said 
the  man,  with  a  strange  mixture  of  humility  and  sense 
of  power,  "what  help  and  assistance  will  you  give  me 
— what  bribe,  to  speak  out  plainly  ?  My  expectations 
are  not  monstrous,  but  I  must  live,  and  to  live  I  must 
eat  and  drink.  Money  is  on  your  side,  and  hunger  and 
thirst  on  mine.    You  may  drive  an  easy  bargain." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Ralph,  still  eyeing  his  companion 
with  the  same  steady  look,  and  moving  nothing  but  his 
lips. 

"  It  depends  on  you,  Mr.  Nickleby,  whether  that's  all 
or  not,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"  Why  then,  harkye,  Mr.  ,  I  don't  know  by  what 

name  I  am  to  call  you,"  said  Ralph. 

"  By  my  old  one,  if  you  like." 

"  Why  then,  harkye,  Mr.  Brooker,"  said  Ralph,  in  his 
harshest  accents,  "  and  don't  expect  to  draw  another 
speech  from  me — harkye,  sir.  I  know  you  of  old  for  a 
ready  scoundrel,  but  you  never  had  a  stout  heart  ;  and 
hard  work,  with  (maybe)  chains  upon  those  legs  of  yours, 
and  shorter  food  than  when  I  *  pinched '  and  *  ground  ' 
you,  has  blunted  your  wits,  or  you  would  not  come  with 
such  a  tale  as  this  to  me.  You  a  hold  upon  me  !  Keep 
it,  or  publish  it  to  the  world,  if  you  like." 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  interposed  Brooker.  "  That  wouldn't 
serve  me." 

"Wouldn't  it?  "said  Ralph.  "  It  will  serve  you  as 
much  as  bringing  it  to  me,  I  promise  you.  To  be  plain 
with  you,  I  am  a  careful  man,  and  know  my  affairs 
thoroughly.  I  know  the  world,  and  the  world  knows  me. 
Whatever  you  gleaned,  or  heard,  or  saw,  when  you 
served  me,  the  world  knows  and  magnifies  already.  You 
could  tell  it  nothing  that  would  surprise  it — unless,  in- 
deed, it  redounded  to  my  credit  or  honour,  and  then  it 
would  scout  you  for  a  liar.  And  yet  I  don't  find  business 
slack,  or  clients  scrupulous.  Quite  the  contrary.  I  am 
reviled  or  threatened  every  day  by  one  man  or  another," 
said  Ralph,  "but  things  roll  on  just  the  same,  and  I 
don't  grow  poorer  either." 

"  I  neither  revile  nor  threaten,"  rejoined  the  man.  "  I 
can  tell  you  of  what  you  have  lost  by  my  act,  what  I 
only  can  restore,  and  what,  if  I  die  without  restoring, 
dies  with  me,  and  never  can  be  regained," 

"  I  tell  my  money  pretty  accurately,  and  generally 
keep  it  in  my  own  custody,"  said  Ralph.  "  I  look 
sharply  after  most  men  that  I  deal  with,  and  most  of  all 
I  look  sharply  after  you.  You  are  welcome  to  all  you 
have  kept  from  me." 

"  Are  those  of  your  own  name  dear  to  you  ?  "  said  the 
man  emphatically.    "  If  they  are — " 

"  They  are  not,"  returned  Ralph,  exasperated  at  this 
perseverance,  and  at  the  thought  of  Nicholas,  which  the 
last  question  awakened.  "  They  are  not.  If  you  had 
come  as  a  common  beggar,  I  might  have  thrown  a  six- 
penso  to  yon  in  remembrance  of  the  clever  knave  you 
used  to  be  ;  but  since  you  try  to  palm  these  stale  tricks 
upon  one  you  might  have  known  better,  I'll  not  part 
with  a  halfpenny — nor  would  I  to  save  you  from  rotting. 
And  remember  this,  'scape-gallows,"  said  Ralph,  menac- 

VOL.  II.— 11 


NICKLEBY,  IGl 

ing  him  with  his  hand,  "  that  if  we  meet  again,  and  you 
so  much  as  notice  mo  by  one  begging  gesture,  you  shall 
see  the  inside  of  a  jail  once  more,  and  tighten  this  hold 
upon  me  in  intervals  of  the  hard  labour  that  vagabonds 
are  put  to.  There'8  my  answer  to  your  trash.  Take 
it." 

With  a  disdainful  scowl  at  the  object  of  his  anger, 
who  met  his  eye  but  uttered  not  a  word,  Ralph  walked 
away  at  his  usual  pace,  without  manifesting  the  slightest 
curiosity  to  see  what  became  of  his  late  comjjanion,  or 
indeed  once  looking  behind  him.  The  man  remainc.d  on 
the  same  spot  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  retreating 
figure  until  it  was  lost  to  view,  and  then  drawing  his 
arms  about  his  chest,  as  if  the  damp  and  lack  of  food 
struck  coldly  to  him,  lingered  with  slouching  steps  by 
the  wayside,  and  begged  of  those  who  passed  along. 

Ralph,  in  no-wise  moved  by  what  had  lately  passed, 
further  than  as  he  had  already  expressed  himself,  walked 
deliberately  on,  and  turning  out  of  the  Park  and  leaving 
Golden  Square  on  his  right,  took  his  way  through  some 
streets  at  the  west  end  of  the  town,  until  he  arrived  in 
that  particular  one  in  which  stood  the  residence  of 
Madame  Mantalini.  The  name  of  that  lady  no  longer 
appeared  on  the  flaming  door-plate,  that  of  Miss  Knag 
being  substituted  in  its  stead  ;  but  the  bonnets  and 
dresses  were  still  dimly  visible  in  the  first  floor  windows 
by  the  decaying  light  of  a  summer's  evening,  and,  ex- 
cepting this  ostensible  alteration  in  the  proprietorship, 
the  establishment  wore  its  old  appearance, 

"Humph  !  "  muttered  Ralph,  drawing  his  hand  across 
his  mouth  with  a  connoisseur-like  air,  and  surveying  the 
house  from  top  to  bottom  :  "these  people  look  pretty 
well.  They  can't  last  long  ;  but  if  I  knowbf  their  going, 
in  good  time,  I  am  safe,  and  a  fair  profit  too.  I  must 
keep  them  closely  in  view — that's  all." 

So,  nodding  his  head  very  complacently,  Ralph  was 
leaving  the  spot,  when  his  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of 
a  confused  noise  and  hubbub  of  voices,  mingled  with  a 
great  running  up  and  down  stairs,  in  the  very  house 
which  had  been  the  subject  of  his  scrutiny  ;  and  while  he 
was  hesitating  whether  to  knock  at  the  door  or  listen  at 
the  key-hole  a  little  longer,  a  female  servant  of  Madame 
Mantalini's  (whom  he  had  often  seen)  opened  it  abruT)tly 
and  bounced  out,  with  her  blue  cap-ribands  streaming 
in  the  air. 

"Halloa  here.  Stop!"  cried  Ralph.  "What's  the 
matter.    Here  am  I,    Didn't  you  hear  me  knock  ?  " 

"Oh!  Mr.  Nickleby,  sir,"' said  the  girl.  "  G-o  up, 
for  the  love  of  Gracious.  Master's  been  and  done  it 
again. " 

"Done  what?"  said  Ralph,  tartly,  "what  d'ye 
mean  ?  " 

"  I  knew  he  would  if  he  was  drove  to  it,"  cried  the 
girl.    "  I  said  so  all  along," 

"Come  here,  you  silly  wench,"  said  Ralph,  catching 
her  by  the  wrist ;  "  and  don't  carry  family  matters  to 
the  neighbours,  destroying  the  credit  of  tlie  establish- 
ment.   Come  here  ;  do  you  hear  me,  girl?" 

Without  any  further  expostulation,  he  led  or  rather 
pulled  the'  frightened  hand-maid  into  the  house,  and 
shut  the  door  ;  then  bidding  her  walk  up-stairs  before 
him,  followed  without  more  ceremony. 

Guided  by  the  noise  of  a  great  many  voices  all  talking 
together,  and  passing  the  girl  in  his  impatience,  before 
they  had  ascended  many  steps,  Ralph  quickly  reached 
the  priv^ate  sitting-room,  when  he  was  rather  amazed  by 
the  confused  and  inexplicable  scene  in  which  he  suddenly 
found  himself. 

There  were  all  the  young-lady  workers,  some  with 
bonnets  and  some  witho'ut,in  various  attitudes  expressive 
of  alarm  and  consternation;  some  gathered  round  Madame 
Mantalini,  who  was  in  tears  upon  one  chair  ;  and  others 
round  Miss  Knag,  who  was  in  opposition  tears  upon 
another  ;  and  others  round  Mr.  Mantalini,  who  was  per- 
haps the  most  striking  figure  in  the  whole  group,  for 
Mr.  Mantalini's  legs  were  extended  at  full  length  upon 
the  floor,  and  his  head  and  shoulders  were  supported  by 
a  very  tall  footman,  who  didn't  seem  to  know  what  to 
do  with  them,  and  Mr.  Mantalini's  eyes  were  closed,  and 
his  face  was  pale,  and  his  hair  was  comparatively 
straight,  and  his  whiskers  and  moustache  were  limp, 
and  his  teeth  were  clenched,  and  he  had  a  little  bottle 


162 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


in  his  rigbt  hand,  and  a  little  tea-spoon  in  his  left ;  and 
his  hands,  arms,  legs,  and  shoulders,  were  all  stiff  and 
powerless.  And  yet  Madame  Mantalini  was  not  weeping 
upon  the  body,  but  was  scolding  violently  upon  her 
chair  ;  and  all  this  amidst  a  clamour  of  tongues,  per- 
fectly deafening,  and  which  really  appeared  to  have 
driven  the  unfortunate  footman  to  the  utmost  verge  of 
distraction. 

'  *  What  is  the  matter  here  ?  "  said  Ralph,  pressing  for- 
ward. 

At  this  inquiry,  the  clamour  was  increased  twenty- 
fold,  and  an  astounding  string  of  such  shrill  contradic- 
tions as  "He's  poisoned  himself" — "He  hasn't" — 
"Send  for  a  doctor" — "Don't" — "He's  dying" — "He 
isn't,  he's  only  pretending" — with  various  other  cries, 
poured  forth  with  bewildering  volubility,  until  Madame 
Mantalini  was  seen  to  address  herself  to  Ralph,  when 
female  curiosity  to  know  what  she  would  say,  prevailed, 
and,  as  if  by  general  consent,  a  dead  silence,  unbroken 
by  a  single  whisper,  instantaneously  succeeded. 

"Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  Madame  Mantalini ;  "  by  what 
chance  you  came  here,  I  don't  know. ' ' 

Here  a  gurgling  voice  was  heard  to  ejaculate — as  part 
of  the  wanderings  of  a  sick  man — the  words  "  Demnition 
sweetness  ! "  but  nobody  heeded  them  except  the  foot- 
man, who,  being  startled  to  hear  such  awful  tones  pro- 
ceeding, as  it  were,  from  between  his  very  fingers, 
dropped  his  master's  head  upon  the  floor  with  a  pretty 
loud  crash,  and  then,  without  an  effort  to  lift  it  up, 
gazed  upon  the  bystanders,  as  if  he  had  done  something 
rather  clever  than  otherwise. 

"I  will,  however,"  continued  Madame  Mantalini,  dry- 
ing her  eyes,  and  speaking  with  great  indignation,  "  say 
before  you,  and  before  everybody  here  for  the  first  time, 
ahid  once  for  all,  thtat  I  never  will  supply  that  man's  ex- 
travagances and  viciousness  again.  I  have  been  a  dupe 
and  a  fool  to  him  long  enough.  In  future,  he  shall  sup- 
port himself  if  he  can,  and  then  he  may  spend  what 
money  he  pleases,  upon  whom  and  how  he  pleases  ;  but 
it  shall  not  be  mine,  and  therefore  you  had  better  pause 
before  you  trust  him  further." 

Thereupon  Madame  Mantalini  quite  unmoved  by  some 
most  pathetic  lamentations  on  the  part  of  her  husband, 
that  the  apothecary  had  not  mixed  the  prussic  acid  strong 
enough,  and  that  he  must  take  another  bottle  or  two  to 
finish  the  work  he  had  in  hand,  entered  into  a  catalogue 
of  that  amiable  gentleman's  gallantries,  deceptions,  ex- 
travagances, and  infidelities  (especially  the  last),  wind- 
ing up  with  a  protest  against  being  supposed  to  entertain 
the  smallest  remnant  of  regard  for  him  ;  and  adducing, 
in  proof  of  the  altered  state  of  her  affections,  the  cir- 
cumstance of  his  having  poisoned  himself  in  private  no 
less  than  six  times  within  the  last  fortnight,  and  her  not 
having  once  interfered  by  word  or  deed  to  save  his  life. 

"And  1  insist  on  being  separated  and  left  to  myself," 
said  Madame  Mantalini,  sobbing.  "If  he  dares  to  re- 
fuse me  a  separation,  I'll  have  one  in  law — I  can — and  I 
hope  this  will  be  a  warning  to  all  girls  who  have  seen 
t^iis  disgraceful  exhibition." 

Miss  Knag,  who  was  unquestionably  the  oldest  girl  in 
company,  said  with  great  solemnity,  that  it  would  be  a 
warning  to  her,  and  so  did  the  young  ladies  generally, 
with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  who  appeared  to  en- 
tertain some  doubts  whether  such  whiskers  could  do 
wrong. 

"  Why  do  you  say  all  this  before  so  many  listeners  ?  " 
said  Ralph,  in  a  low  voice.  "  You  know  you  are  not  in 
earnest." 

"  I  am  in  earnest,"  replied  Madame  Mantalini,  aloud, 
and  retreating  towards  Miss  Knag. 

Well,  but  consider,"  reasoned  Ralph,  who  had  a 
great  interest  in  the  matter.  "It  would  be  well  to  re- 
flect.   A  married  woman  has  no  property." 

"  Not  a  solitary  single  individual  dem,  my  soul,"  said 
Mr.  Mantalini,  raising  himself  upon  his  elbow. 

"  I  am  ([uite  aware  of  that,"  retorted  Madame  Man- 
talini, tossing  her  head  ;  "and  /  have  none.  The  busi- 
ness, the  stock,  this  house,  and  everything  in  it,  all  be- 
long to  Miss  Knag." 

"  Tliat's  quite  true,  Madame  Mantalini,"  said  Miss 
Knag  with  whom  her  late  employer  had  secretly  come 
to  an  amicable  uudorstauding  on  this  point.  "  Very  true, 


!  indeed,  Madame  Mantalini — hem— very  true.  And  I 
never  was  more  glad  in  all  my  life,  that  I  had  strength  of 
mind  to  resist  matrimonial  offers,  no  matter  how  advan- 
tageous, than  I  am  when  I  think  of  my  present  position 
as  compared  with  your  most  unfortunate  and  most  un- 
deserved one,  Madame  Mantalini." 

"Demmit!"  cried  Mr.  Mantalini,  turning  his  head 
towards  his  wife.  "  Will  it  not  slap  and  pinch  the  en- 
vious dowager,  that  dares  to  reflect  upon  its  own  deli- 
cious ?  " 

But  the  day  of  Mr.  Mantalini's  blandishments  had  de- 
parted. "  Miss  Knag,  sir,"  said  his  wife,  "  is  my  par- 
ticular friend  ; "  and  although  Mr.  Mantalini  leered  till 
his  eyes  seemed  in  danger  of  never  coming  back  to  their 
right  places  again,  Madame  Mantalini,  showed  no  signs 
of  softening. 

To  do  the  excellent  Miss  Knag  justice,  she  had  been 
mainly  instrumental  in  bringing  about  this  altered  state 
of  things,  for,  finding  by  daily  experience,  that  there 
was  no  chance  of  the  business  thriving,  or  even  continu- 
ing to  exist,  while  Mr.  Mantalini  had  any  hand  in  the  ex- 
penditure, and  having  now  a  considerable  interest  in  its 
well-doing,  she  had  sedulously  applied  herself  to  the  in- 
vestigation of  some  little  matters  connected  with  that 
gentleman's  private  character,  which  she  had  so  well 
elucidated,  and  artfully  imparted  to  Madame  Mantalini, 
as  to  open  her  eyes  more  elfectually  than  the  closest  and 
most  philosophical  reasoning  could  have  done  in  a  series 
of  years.  To  which  end,  the  accidental  discovery  by 
Miss  Knag  of  some  tender  correspondence,  in  which 
Madame  Mantalini  was  described  as  ' '  old  "  and  ' '  ordi- 
nary," had  most  providentially  contributed. 

However,  notwithstanding  her  firmness,  Madame  Man- 
talini wept  very  piteously  ;  and  as  she  leant  upon  Miss 
Knag,  and  signed  towards  the  door,  that  young  lady  and 
all  the  other  young  ladies  with  sympathising  faces,  pro- 
ceeded to  bear  her  out. 

"Nickleby,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini  in  tears,  "you  have 
been  made  a  witness  to  this  demnition  cruelty,  on  the 
part  of  the  demdest  enslaver  and  captivater  that  never 
was,  oh  dem  !    I  forgive  that  woman." 

"  Forgive  !"  repeated  Madame  Mantalini,  angrily. 

"I  do  forgive  her,  Nickleby,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini. 
"  You  will  blame  me,  the  world  will  blame  me,  the 
women  will  blame  me  ;  everybody  will  laugh,  and  scoff, 
and  smile,  and  grin  most  demnebly.  They  will  say, 
*  She  had  a  blessing.  She  did  not  know  it.  He  was  too 
weak  ;  he  was  too  good  ;  he  was  a  dem'd  fine  fellow, 
but  he  loved  too  strong  ;  he  could  not  bear  her  to  be 
cross,  and  call  him  wicked  names.  It  was  a  dem'd 
case,  there  never  was  a  demder.' — But  I  forgive  her." 

With  this  affecting  speech  Mr.  Mantalini  fell  down 
again  very  flat,  and  lay  to  all  appearance  without  sense 
or  motion,  until  all  the  females  had  left  the  room,  when 
he  came  cautiously  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  confronted 
Ralph  with  a  very  blank  face,  and  the  little  bottle  still 
in  one  hand  and  the  tea-spoon  in  the  other. 

"  You  may  put  away  those  fooleries  now,  and  live  by 
your  wits  again,"  said  Ralph,  coolly  putting  on  his  hat, 

"Demmit,  Nickleby,  you're  not  serious?" 

"  I  seldam  joke,"  said  Ralph.    "  Good  night." 

"No,  but  Nickleby — "  said  Mantalini. 

"  I  am  wrong,  perhaps,"  rejoined  Ralph.  I  hope  so. 
You  should  know  best.    Good  night." 

Affecting  not  to  hear  his  entreaties  that  he  would  stay 
and  advise  with  him,  Ralph  left  the  crest-fallen  Mr.  Man- 
talini to  his  meditations,  and  left  the  house  quietly. 

"  Oho  !"  he  said,  "  sets  the  wind  that  way  so  soon? 
Half  knave  and  half  fool,  and  detected  in  both  charac- 
ters—hum— T  think  your  day  is  over,  sir." 

As  he  said  this,  he  made  some  memorandum  in  his 
pocket-book  in  which  Mr.  Mantalini's  name  figured  con- 
spicuously, and  finding  by  his  watch  that  it  was  between 
nine  and  ten  o'clock,  made  all  speed  home. 

"  Are  they  here?"  was  the  first  question  he  asked  of 
Newman. 

Newman  nodded.    "Been  here  half-an-hour." 
"  Two  of  them  ?  one  a  fat  sleek  man  ?  " 
"  Ay,"  said  Newman.    "  In  your  room  now." 
"  Good,"  rejoined  Ralph.    "  Get  me  a  coach." 
"  A  coach  1    What  you — going  to — Eh  !"  stammered 
Newman, 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


1G3 


Ralph  angrily  repeated  hLs  orders,  and  Noggs,  who  ] 
might  well  have  been  excused  for  wondering  at  such  an 
unusual  and  extraordinary  circumstance  -for  he  had 
never  seen  Ralph  in  a  coach  in  his  life — departed  on  his 
errand,  and  presently  returned  with  the  conveyance. 

Into  it  went  Mr.  Squeers,  and  Ralph,  and  the  third 
man,  whom  Newman  Noggs  had  never  seen.  Newman 
stood  upon  the  door  step  to  see  them  off,  not  troubling 
himself  to  wonder  where  or  upon  what  business  they 
were  going,  until  he  chanced  by  mere  accident  to  hear 
Ralph  name  the  address  whither  the  coachman  was  to 
drive. 

Quick  as  lightning  and  in  a  state  of  the  most  extreme 
wonder,  Newman  darted  into  his  little  office  for  his  hat, 
and  limped  after  the  coach  as  if  with  the  intention  of 
getting  up  behind  ;  but  in  this  design  he  was  balked, 
for  it  had  too  much  the  start  of  him,  and  was  soon  hope- 
lessly ahead,  leaving  him  gaping  in  the  empty  street. 

"I  don't  know  though,"  said  Noggs,  stopping  for 
breath,  "  any  good  that  I  could  have  done  by  going  too. 
He  would  have  seen  me  if  I  had.  Drive  there!  What 
can  come  of  this  !  If  1  had  only  known  it  yesterday  I 
could  have  told— drive  there  !  There's  mischief  in  it. 
There  must  be." 

His  reflections  were  interrupted  by  a  grey-haired  man 
of  a  very  remarkable,  though  far  from  prepossessing  ap- 
pearance, who,  coming  stealthily  towards  him,  solicited 
relief. 

Newman,  still  cogitating  deeply,  turned  away  ;  but  the 
man  followed  him,  and  pressed  him  with  such  a  tale  of 
misery  that  Newman  (who  might  have  been  considered  a 
hopeless  person  to  beg  from,  and  who  had  little  enough 
to  give)  looked  into  his  hat  for  some  halfpence  which  he 
usually  kept  screwed  up,  when  he  had  any,  in  a  corner  of 
his  pocket-handkerchief. 

While  he  was  busily  untwisting  the  knot  with  his  teeth, 
the  man  said  something  which  attracted  his  attention  ; 
whatever  that  something  was,  it  led  to  something  else, 
and  in  the  end  he  and  Newman  walked  away  side  by  side 
— the  strange  man  talking  earnestly,  and  Newman  listen- 
ing. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

Containing  Matter  of  a  Surprising  Kinds 

As  we  gang  awa'  fra'  Lunnun  to-morrow  neeght,  and  as 
I  dinnot  know  that  I  was  e'er  so  happy  in  a'  my  days, 
Misther  Nickleby,  Ding  !  but  I  will  tak'  another  glass'  to 
our  next  merry  meeting  ! " 

So  said  John  Browdie,  rubbing  his  hands  with  great 
joyousness,  and  looking  round  him  with  a  ruddy  shining 
face,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  declaration. 

The  time  at  which  John  found  himself  in  this  enviable 
condition,  was  the  same  evening  to  which  the  last  chap- 
ter bore  reference  ;  the  place  was  the  cottage ;  and  the 
assembled  company  were  Nicholas,  Mrs.  Nickleby,  Mrs. 
Browdie,  Kate  Nickleby,  and  Smike. 

A  very  merry  party  they  had  been.  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
knowing  of  her  son's  obligations  to  the  honest  Yorkshire- 
man,  had,  after  some  demur,  yielded  her  consent  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Browdie  being  invited  out  to  tea  ;  in  the  way  of 
which  arrangement,  there  were  at  first  sundry  diificulties 
and  obstacles,  arising  out  of  her  not  having  had  an 
opportunity  of  "calling"  upon  Mrs.  Browdie  first;  for 
although  Mrs.  Nickleby  very  often  observed  with  much 
complacency  (as  most  punctilious  people  do),  that  she 
had  not  an  atom  of  pride  or  formality  about  her,  still  she 
was  a  great  stickler  for  dignity  and  ceremonies  ;  and  as 
it  was  manifest  that,  until  a  call  had  been  made,  she 
could  not  be  (politely  speaking,  and  according  to  the 
laws  of  society)  even  cognizant  of  the  fact  of  Mrs.  Brow- 

I  die's  existence,  she  felt  her  situation  to  be  one  of  pecu- 

I  liar  delicacy  and  difficulty. 

"  The  call  mmt  originate  with  me,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  "that's  indispensable.    The  fact  is,  my  dear, 

I  that  it's  necessary  there  should  be  a  sort  of  condescension 

I  on  niy  part,  and  that  I  should  show  this  young  person 
that  I  am  willing  to  take  notice  of  her.  There's  a  very 
respectable-looking  young  man,"  added  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
after  a  short  consideration,  "who  is  conductor  to  one  of  i 


]  the  omnibuses  that  go  by  here,  and  who  wears  a  glazed 
hat — your  sister  and  I  have  noticed  him  very  often— he 
has  a  wart  upon  his  nose,  Kate,  you  know,  exactly  like 
a  gentleman's  servant." 

"Have  all  gentlemen's  servants  warts  upon  their 
noses,  mother?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"  Nicholas,  my  dear,  how  very  absurd  you  are, "  re- 
returned  his  mother  ;  "of  course  I  mean  that  his  glazed 
hat  looks  like  a  gentleman's  servant,  and  not  the  wart 
upon  his  nose — though  even  that  is  not  so  ridiculous  as 
it  may  seem  to  you,  for  we  had  a  footboy  once,  who  had 
not  only  a  wart,  but  a  wen  also,  and  a  very  large  wen 
too,  and  he  demanded  to  have  his  wages  raised  in  conse- 
quence, because  he  found  it  came  very  expensive.  Let 
me  see,  what  was  I — oh  yes,  I  know.  The  best  way  that 
I  can  think  of,  would  be  to  send  a  card,  and  my  compli- 
ments, (I've  no  doubt  he'd  take  'em  for  a  pot  of  porter), 
by  this  young  man,  to  the  Saracen  with  Two  Necks — if 
the  waiter  took  him  for  a  gentleman's  servant,  so  miich 
the  better.  Then  all  Mrs.  Browdie  would  have  to  do, 
would  be  to  send  her  card  back  by  the  carrier  (he  could 
easily  come  with  a  double  knock),  and  there's  an  end 
of  it." 

"My  dear  mother,"  said  Nicholas,  "I  don't  suppose 
such  unsophisticated  people  as  these  ever  had  a  card  of 
their  own,  or  ever  will  have." 

"Oh  that,  indeed,  Nicholas,  my  dear,"  returned  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  "that's  another  thing.  If  you  put  it  upon 
that  ground,  why,  of  course,  I  have  no  more  to  say,  than 
that  I  have  no  doubt  they  are  very  good  sort  of  persons, 
and  that  I  have  no  kind  of  objection  to  their  coming  to 
tea  if  they  like,  and  shall  make  a  point  of  being  very 
civil  to  them  if  they  do." 

The  point  being  thus  effectually  set  at  rest,  and  Mrs. 
Nickleby  duly  placed  in  the  patronising  and  mildly-con- 
descending position  which  became  her  rank  and  matri- 
monial years,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browdie  were  invited  and 
came  ;  and  as  they  were  very  deferential  to  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by, and  seemed  to  have  a  becoming  appreciation  of  her 
'  greatness,  and  were  very  much  pleased  with  everything, 
the  good  lady  had  more  than  once  given  Kate  to  under- 
stand, in  a  whisper,  that  she  thought  they  were  the  very 
best-meaning  people  she  had  ever  seen,  and  perfectly 
well  behaved. 

And  thus  it  came  to  pass,  that  John  Browdie  declared, 
in  the  parlour  after  supper,  to  wit,  at  twenty  minutes 
before  eleven  o'clock,  p.m.,  that  he  had  never  been  so 
happy  in  all  his  days. 

Nor  was  Mrs.  Browdie  much  behind  her  husband  in 
this  respect,  for  that  young  matron — whose  rustic  beauty 
contrasted  very  prettily  with  the  more  delicate  loveliness 
of  Kate,  and  without  suffering  by  the  contrast  either, 
for  each  seved  as  it  were  to  set  off  and  decorate  the 
other — could  not  sufficiently  admire  the  gentle  and  win- 
ning manners  of  the  young  lady,  or  the  engaging  affabil- 
ity of  the  elder  one.  Then  Kate  had  the  art  of  turning 
the  conversation  to  subjects  upon  which  the  country 
girl,  bashful  at  fii-st  in  strange  company,  could  feel  her- 
self at  home  ;  and  if  Mrs.  Nickleby  was  not  quite  so 
felicitous  at  times  in  the  selection  of  topics  of  discourse, 
or  if  she  did  seem,  as  Mrs.  Browdie  expressed  it,  "rather 
high  in  her  notions,"  still  nothing  could  be  kinder,  and 
that  she  took  considerable  interest  in  the  young  couple 
was  manifest  from  the  very  long  lectures  on  housewifery 
with  which  she  was  so  obliging  as  to  entertain  Mrs.  Brow- 
die's  private  ear,  which  were  illustrated  by  various  refer- 
ences to  the  domestic  economy  of  the  cottage,  in  which 
(those  duties  falling  exclusively  upon  Kate)  the  good 
lady  had  about  as  much  share,  either  in  theory  or  prac- 
tice, as  any  one  of  the  statues  of  the  Twelve  Apostles 
which  embellish  the  exterior  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 

"Mr,  Browdie,"  said  Kate,  addressing  his  young  wife, 
"is  the  best  humoured,  the  kindest  and  heartiest  crea- 
ture I  ever  saw.  If  I  were  oppressed  with  I  dou't  know 
how  many  cares,  it  would  make  me  happy  only  to  look 
at  him." 

"He  does  seem  indeed,  upon  my  word,  a  most  excel- 
lent creature,  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby  ;  "most  excel- 
lent. And  I  am  sure  that  at  all  times  it  will  give  me 
pleasure — really  pleasure  now— to  have  you,  Mrs.  Brow- 
die, to  see  me  in  this  plain  and  homely  manner.  We 
i  make  no  display,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  with  an  air  which 


164; 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


seemed  to  insinuate  that  tliey  could  make  a  vast  deal  if 
they  were  so  disposed — '*  no  fuss,  no  preparation  ;  I 
wouldn't  allow  it.  I  said  '  Kate,  my  dear,  you  will  only 
make  Mrs.  Browdie  feel  uncomfortable,  and  liow  very 
foolish  and  inconsiderate  that  would  be  ! '  " 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  I  am  sure,  ma'am," 
returned  Mrs.  Browdie,  gratefully.  "It's  nearly  eleven 
o'clock,  John.  I  am  afraid  we  are  keeping  you  up  very 
late,  ma'am," 

"Late!"  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby,  with  a  sharp  thin 
laugh,  and  one  little  cough  at  the  end,  like  a  note  of  ad- 
miration expressed.  "  This  is  quite  early  for  us.  We 
used  to  keep  suc^i  hours  !  Twelve,  one,  two,  three 
o'clock  was  nothing  to  us.  Balls,  dinners,  card-parties 
— never  were  such  rakes  as  the  people  about  where  we 
used  to  live.  I  often  think  now,  I  am  sure,  that  how 
we  ever  could  go  through  with  it  is  quite  astonishing — 
and  that  is  just  the  evil  of  having  a  large  connection  and 
being  a  great  deal  sought  after,  which  I  would  recommend 
all  young  married  people  steadily  to  resist  ;  though  of 
course,  and  it's  perfectly  clear,  and  a  very  happy  thing 
too,  /think,  that  very  few  young  married  people  can  be 
exposed  to  such  temptations.  There  was  one  family  in 
particular,  that  used  to  live  about  a  mile  from  us — not 
straight  down  the  road,  but  turning  sharp  off  to  the  left 
by  the  turnpike  where  the  Plymouth  mail  ran  over  the 
donkey — that  were  quite  extraordinary  people  for  giving 
the  most  extravagant  parties,  with  artificial  flowers  and 
champagne,  and  variegated  lamps,  and,  in  short,  every 
delicacy  of  eating  and  drinking  that  the  most  singular 
epicure  could  possibly  require — I  don't  think  there  ever 
were  such  people  as  those  Peltiroguses.  You  remember 
the  Peltiroguses,  Kate  ?  " 

Kate  saw  that  for  the  ease  and  comfort  of  the  visitors 
it  was  high  time  to  stay  this  flood  of  recollection,  so  an- 
swered that  she  entertained  of  the  Peltiroguses  a  most 
vivid  and  distinct  remembrance  ;  and  then  said  that  Mr. 
Browdie  had  half  promised,  early  in  the  evening,  that 
he  would  sing  a  Yorkshire  song,  and  that  she  was  most 
impatient  that  he  should  redeem  his  promise,  because 
she  was  sure  it  would  afford  her  mamma  more  amuse- 
ment and  pleasure  than  it  was  possible  to  express. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  confirming  her  daughter  with  the  best 
possible  grace — for  there  was  patronage  in  that  too,  and 
a  kind  of  implication  that  she  had  a  discerning  taste  in 
such  matters,  and  was  something  of  a  critic— John  Brow- 
die proceeded  to  consider  the  words  of  some  north-coun- 
try ditty,  and  to  take  his  wife's  recollection  respecting 
the  same.  This  done,  he  made  divers  ungainly  move- 
ments in  his  chair,  acd  singling  out  one  particular  fly 
on  the  ceiling  from  the  other  flies  there  asleep,  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  him,  and  began  to  roar  a  meek  sentiment 
(supposed  to  be  uttered  by  a  gentle  swain  fast  pining 
away  with  love  and  despair)  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  verse,  as  though  some  person 
■udthout  had  waited  until  then  to  make  himself  audible, 
was  heard  a  loud  and  violent  knocking  at  the  street- 
door — so  loud  and  so  violent,  indeed,  that  the  ladies 
started  as  by  one  accord,  and  Jodn  Browdie  stojDped. 

"  It  must  be  some  mistake,"  said  Nicholas,  carelessly. 
"  We  know  nobody  Avho  would  come  here  at  this  hour." 

Mrs.  Nickleby  surmised,  however,  that  perhaps  the 
counting-house  was  burnt  down,  or  perhaps  *  the  Mr. 
Cheery bles '  had  sent  to  take  Nicholas  into  partnership 
(which  certainly  appeared  highly  probable  at  that  time 
of  night),  or  perhaps  Mr.  Linkinwater  had  run  away 
with  the  property,  or  perhaps  Miss  La  Creevy  vi^as  taken 
ill,  or  x^erhaps — 

But  a  hasty  exclamation  from  Kate  stopped  her  ab- 
ruptly in  her  conjectures,  and  llalph  Nickleby  walked 
into  the  room. 

"  Stay,"  said  Ralph,  as  Nicholas  rose,  and  Kate,  mak- 
ing her  way  towards  him,  throw  herself  upon  his  arm. 
"  Before  that  boy  says  a  word,  hear  me." 

Nicholas  bit  his  lip  and  shook  his  head  in  a  threaten- 
ing manner,  but  appeared  for  the  moment  unable  to  ar- 
ticulate a  sylla1)le.  Kate  clung  closer  to  his  arm,  Smikc 
retrcat(;d  behind  them,  and  John  Browdie,  wlio  had  lieard 
of  Italph,  and  appeared  to  have  no  great  difficulty  in 
recognising  him,  stepped  between  the  old  man  and  his 
young  friend,  as  if  with  the  intention  of  preventing 
either  of  them  from  advancing  a  step  further. 


"  Hear  me,  I  say,"  said  Ralph,  "  and  not  him." 

"  Say  what  thou'st  gotten  to  say  then,  sir,"  retorted 
John  ;  "and  tak'  care  thou  dinnot  put  up  angry  bluid 
which  thou'dst  betther  try  to  quiet." 

"  I  should  know  you,"  said  Ralph,  "  by  your  tongue  ; 
and  Jdm"  (pointing  to  Smike)  "by  his  looks." 

"Don't  speak  to  him,"  said  Nicholas,  recovering  his 
voice.  "  I  will  not  have  it.  I  will  not  hear  him!  I  do 
not  know  that  man.  I  cannot  breathe  the  air  that  he  cor- 
rupts. His  presence  is  an  insult  to  my  sister.  It  is  a 
shame  to  see  him.    I  will  not  bear  it,  by — " 

"  Stand  ! "  cried  John,  laying  his  heavy  hand  upoa 
his  chest. 

"  Then  let  him  instantly  retire,"  said  Nicholas,  strug- 
gling. "  I  am  not  going  to  lay  hands  upon  him,  but  he 
shall  withdraw.  I  will  not  have  him  here.  John — John 
Browdie— is  this  my  house— am  I  a  child?  If  he  stands 
there,"  cried  Nicholas,  burning  with  fury,  "looking  so 
calmly  upon  those  who  know  his  black  and  dastardly 
heart,  he'll  drive  me  mad." 

To  all  these  exclamations  John  Browdie  answered  not 
a  word,  but  he  retained  his  hold  upon  Nicholas  ;  and 
when  he  was  silent  again,  spoke. 

"There's  more  to  say  and  hear  than  thou  think'st 
for,"  said  John.  "I  tell  'ee  I  ha' gotten  scent 'o  thot 
already.  Wa'at  be  that  shadow  ootside  door  there  ?  Noo 
schoolmeasther,  show  thyself,  mun  ;  dinnot  be  sheame- 
feaced.  Noo,  auld  gen'l'man,  let's  have  schoolmeasther, 
coom." 

Hearing  this  adjuration,  Mr.  Squeers,  who  had  been 
lingering  in  the  passage  until  such  time  as  it  should  be 
expedient  for  him  to  enter  and  he  could  aj^pear  with  ef- 
fect, was  fain  to  present  himself  in  a  somewhat  undig- 
nified and  sneaking  way  ;  at  which  John  Browdie  laughed 
with  such  keen  and  heartfelt  delight,  that  even  Kate,  in 
all  the  pain,  anxiety  and  surprise  of  the  scene,  and 
though  tears  were  in  her  eyes,  felt  a  disposition  to  join 
him. 

"  Have  you  done  enjoying  yourself,  sir?"  said  Ralph, 
at  length. 

"  Pratty  nigh  for  the  prasant  time,  sir,"  replied  John. 
"I  can  wait,"  said  Ralph.    "Take  your  own  time, 
pray." 

Ralph  waited  until  there  was  a  perfect  silence,  and 
then  turning  to  Mrs.  Nickleby,  but  directing  an  eager 
glance  at  Kate,  as  if  more  anxious  to  watch  his  effect 
upon  lier,  said  : — 

"  Now,  ma'am,  listen  to  me.    I  don't  imagine  that  you 
I  were  a  party  to  a  very  fine  tirade  of  words  sent  me  by 
that  boy  of  yours,  because  I  don't  believe  that  under  his 
control,  you  have  the  slightest  will  of  your  own,  or  that 
!  your  advice,  your  opinion,  your  wants,  your  wishes — 
1  anything  which  in  nature  and  reason  (or  of  what  use  is 
[  your  great  experience  ?)  ought  to  weigh  with  him — has 
I  the  slightest  influence  or  weight  whatever,  or  is  taken 
for  a  moment  into  account," 

Mrs.  Nickleby  shook  her  head  and  sighed,  as  if  there 
were  a  good  deal  in  that,  certainly. 

"For  this  reason,"  resumed  Ralph,  "I  address  my- 
self to  you,  ma'am.  For  this  reason,  partly,  and  partly 
because  I  do  not  wish  to  be  disgraced  by  the  acts  of  a 
vicious  stripling  whom  /  waa  obliged  to  disown,  and 
who,  afterwards,  in  his  boyish  majesty,  feigns  to — ha  ! 
ha  ! — to  disown  me,  I  present  myself  here  to-night.  I 
have  another  motive  in  coming — a  motive  of  humanity. 
I  come  here,"  said  Ralph,  looking  round  with  a  biting 
and  triumphant  smile,  and  gloating  and  dwelling  upon 
the  words  as  if  he  were  loath  to  lose  the  pleasure  of 
saying  them,  "to  restore  a  parent  his  child.  Ay,  sir," 
he  continued,  bending  eagerly  forward,  and  addressing 
Nicholas,  as  he  marked  the  change  of  his  countenance, 
"  to  restore  a  parent  his  child — his  son,  sir — trepanned, 
waylaid,  and  guarded  at  every  turn  by  you,  with  the 
base  design  of  robbing  him  some  day  of  any  little 
wretched  pittance  of  which  he  might  become  possessed." 
"  In  that,  you  know  you  lie,"  said  Nicholas,  proudly. 
"  In  this,  I  know  I  speak  the  truth — I  have  his  father 
here,"  retorted  Ralph. 

"Here!"  sneered  Squeers,  stepping  forward.  "Do 
you  hear  that  ?  Here  !  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  be  careful 
tiiat  his  father  didn't  turn  up,  and  send  him  back  to  me? 
Why,  his  father's  my  friend  ;  he's  to  come  back  to  me 


m  Clio  LAB  NIC  RLE  BY. 


105 


directly,  he  is.  Now,  what  do  yon  say — eh  ! — now- 
come — what  do  you  say  to  that — an't  you  sorry  you  took 
so  much  trouble  for  nothing  ?  an't  you  ?  an't  you  ?  " 

"  You  bear  upon  your  body  certain  marks  I  gave  you," 
said  Nicholas,  looking  quietly  away,  "  and  may  talk  in 
acknowledgment  of  them  as  much  as  you  please.  You'll 
talk  a  long  time  before  you  rub  them  out,  Mr.  Squeers." 

The  estimable  gentleman  last-named,  cast  a  hasty 
look  at  the  table  as  if  he  were  prompted  by  this  retort  to 
throw  a  jug  or  bottle  at  the  head  of  Nicholas,  but  he 
was  interrupted  in  this  design  (if  such  design  he  had) 
by.  Ralph,  who,  touching  him  on  the  elbow,  bade  him 
tell  the  father  that  he  might  now  appear  and  claim  his 
son. 

This  being  purely  a  labour  of  love,  Mr.  Squeers, 
readily  complied,  and  leaving  the  room  for  the  purpose, 
almost  immediately  returned,  supporting  a  sleek  person- 
age with  an  oily  face,  who,  bursting  from  him,  and  giv- 
ing to  view  the  form  and  face  of  Mr.  Snawley,  made 
straight  up  to  Smike,  and  tucking  that  poor  fellow's 
head  under  his  arm  in  a  most  uncouth  and  awkward 
embrace,  elevated  his  broad-brimmed  hat  at  arm's  length 
in  the  air  as  a  token  of  devout  thanksgiving,  exclaiming, 
meanwhile,  "How  little  did  I  think  of  this  here  joyful 
meeting,  when  1  saw  him  last !  Oh,  how  little  did  I 
think  it ! " 

"Be  composed,  sir,"  said  Ralph,  with  a  gruff  expres- 
sion of  sympathy,  "  you  have  got  him  now." 

"Got  him  !  Oh,  haven't  I  got  him  !  Have  I  got  him, 
though?"  cried  Mr.  Snawley,  scarcely  able  to  believe  it. 
"  Yes,  here  he  is,  flesh  and  blood,  flesh  and  blood." 

"  Vary  little  flesh,"  said  John  Browdie. 

Mr,  Snawley  was  too  much  occupied  by  his  parental 
feelings  to  notice  this  remark  ;  and,  to  assure  himself 
more  completely  of  the  restoration  of  his  child,  tucked 
his  head  under  his  arm  again,  and  kept  it  there. 

"What  was  it,"  said  Snawley,  "that  made  me  take 
such  a  strong  interest  in  him,  when  that  worthy  instruc- 
tor of  youth  brought  him  to  my  hcmse?  What  was  it 
that  made  me  burn  all  over  with  a  wish  to  chastise  him 
severely  for  cutting  away  from  his  best  friends — his  pas- 
tors and  masters  ?  " 

"It  was  parental  instinct,  sir,"  observed  Squeers. 

"That's  what  it  was,  sir,"  rejoined  Snawley;  "the 
elevated  feeling — the  feeling  of  the  ancient  Romans  and 
Grecians,  and  of  the  beasts  of  the  field  and  birds  of  the 
air,  with  the  exception  of  rabbits  and  tom-cats,  which 
sometimes  devour  their  offspring.  My  heart  ^^earned 
towards  him.  I  could  have — I  don't  know  what  I  couldn't 
have  done  to  him  in  the  anger  of  a  father." 

"It  only  shows  what  Natur  is,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Squeers. 

She's  a  rum  'un,  is  Nalur." 

"  She's  a  holy  thing,  sir,"  remarked  Snawley. 

"  I  believe  you,"  added  Mr.  Squeers,  with  a  moral  sigh. 
"I  should  nice  to  know  how  we  should  ever  get  on  with- 
out her.  Natur,"  said  Mr.  Squeers,  solemnly,  "  is  more 
easier  conceived  than  described.  Oh  what  a  blessed 
thing,  sir,  to  be  in  a  state  of  natur  !  " 

Pending  this  philosophical  discourse,  the  bystanders 
had  been  quite  stupefied  with  amazement,  while  Nicholas 
had  looked  keenly  from  Snawley  to  Squeers,  and  from 
Squeers  to  Ralph,  divided  between  his  feelings  of  disgust, 
doubt,  and  surprise.  At  this  juncture,  Smike  escaping 
from  his  father  fled  to  Nicholas,  and  implored  him,  in 
most  moving  terms,  never  to  give  him  up,  but  to  let  him 
live  and  die  beside  him. 

"  If  you  are  this  boy's  father,"  said  Nicholas,  "  look  at 
the  wreck  he  is,  and  tell  me  that  you  purpose  to  send  him 
back  to  that  loathsome  den  from  which  I  brought  him." 

"Scandal  again!"  cried  Squeers.  "Recollect,  you 
an't  worth  powder  and  shot,  but  I'll  be  even  with  you 
one  way  or  another." 

"  Stop,"  interposed  Ralph,  as  Snawley  was  about  to 
Speak.  "  Let  us  cut  this  matter  short,  and  not  bandy 
words  here  with  hair-brained  profligates.  This  is  your 
son,  as  you  can  prove — and  you,  Mr.  Squeers,  you  know 
this  boy  to  be  the  same  that  was  with  you  for  so  many 
years  under  the  name  of  Smike— Do  you?  " 

"  Do  I  !  "  returned  Squeers,    "  Don't  I?" 

"Good,"  said  Ralph  ;  "a  very  few  words  will  be  suf- 
ficient here.  You  had  a  son  by  your  first  wife,  Mr. 
Snawley?" 


"  I  had,"  replied  that  person,  "  and  there  he  sta.nds." 

"  We'll  show  that  presently,"  said  Ralph.  "  You  and 
your  wife  were  separated,  and  she  had  the  boy  to  live 
with  her,  when  he  was  a  year  old.  You  received  a  com- 
munication from  her  when  you  had  liverl  apart  a  year  or 
two,  that  the  boy  was  dead  ;  and  you  believed  it  f" 

"  Of  course  I  did  !  "  returned  Snawley.  "  Oh  the  joy 
of—" 

"Be  rational,  sir,  pray,"  said  Ralph.  "This  is  busi- 
ness, and  transports  interfere  with  it.  This  wife  died  a 
year  and  a  half  ago,  or  thereabouts — not  more — in  some 
obscure  place,  where  she  was  housekeeper  in  a  family. 
Is  that  the  case  ?  " 

"That's  the  case,"  replied  Snawley. 

"  Having  written  on  her  death -bed  a  letter  or  confes- 
sion to  you,  about  this  very  boy,  which,  as  it  was  not 
directed  otherwise  than  in  your  name,  only  reached  you, 
and  that  by  a  circuitous  course,  a  few  days  since  ?  " 

"  Just  so,"  said  Snawley.  "Correct  in  every  particu- 
lar, sir." 

"  And  this  confession,"  resumed  Ralph,  "  is  to  the  ef- 
fect that  his  death  was  an  invention  of  hers  to  wound 
you— was  a  part  of  a  system  of  annoyance,  in  short, 
which  you  seem  to  have  adopted  towards  each  other — that 
the  boy  lived,  but  was  of  weak  and  imperfect  intellect — 
that  she  sent  him  by  a  trusty  hand  to  a  cheap  school  in 
Yorkshire — that  she  had  paid  for  his  education  for  some 
years,  and  then,  being  poor,  and  going  a  long  way 
off,  gradually  deserted  him,  for  which  she  prayed  forgive- 
ness ?" 

Snawley  nodded  his  head,  and  wiped  his  eyes  ;  the 
first  slightly,  the  last  violently. 

"  The  school  was  Mr.  Squeers's,"  continued  Ralph  ; 
"the  boy  was  left  there  in  the  name  of  Smike  ;  every 
description  was  fully  given,  dates  tally  exactly  with  Mr. 
Squeers's  books,  Mr.  Squeers  is  lodging  with  you  at  this 
time  ;  you  have  two  other  boys  at  his  school  ;  you  com- 
municated the  whole  discovery  to  him,  he  brought  you 
to  me  as  the  person  who  had  recommended  to  him  the 
kidnapper  of  his  child  ;  and  I  brought  you  here.  Is  that 
so?" 

"  You  talk  like  a  good  book,  sir,  that's  got  nothing  in 
its  inside  but  what's  the  truth,"  replied  Snawley. 

"This  is  your  pocket-book,"  said  Ralph,  producing 
one  from  his  coat  ;  "the  certificates  of  your  first  mar- 
riage and  of  the  boy's  birth,  and  your  wife's  two  letters, 
and  every  other  paper  that  can  support  these  statements 
directly  or  by  implication,  are  here,  are  they?" 

"Every  one  of  'em,  sir." 

"  And  you  don't  object  to  their  being  looked  at  here, 
so  that  these  people  may  be  convinced  of  your  power  to 
substantiate  your  claim  at  once  in  law  and  reason,  and 
you  may  resume  your  control  over  your  own  son  without 
more  delay.    Do  I  understand  you?" 

"  I  couldn't  have  understood  myself  better,  sir.'* 
"There,  then,"  said  Ralph,  tossing  the  pocket-book 
upon  the  table.  "  Let  them  see  them  if  they  like  ;  and 
as  those  are  the  original  papers,  I  should  recommend 
you  to  stand  near  while  they  are  being  examined,  or  you 
may  chance  to  lose  some. "" 

With  these  words  Ralph  sat  down  unbidden,  and  com- 
pressing his  lips,  which  were  for  the  moment  slightly 
parted  by  a  smile,  folded  his  arms,  and  looked  for  the 
first  time  at  his  nepheAv. 

Nicholas,  stung  by  the  concluding  taunt,  darted  an  in- 
dignant glance  at  him  ;  but  commanding  himself  as  well 
as  he  could,  entered  upon  a  close  examination  of  the 
documents,  at  which  John  Browdie  assisted.    There  was 
[  nothing  about  them  which  could  be  called  in  question. 
I  The  certificates  were  regularly  signed  as  extracts  from 
'  the  parish  books,  the  fii-st  letter  had  a  genuine  appear- 
I  ance  of  having  been  written  and  preserved  for  some 
I  years,  the  handwriting  of  the  second  tallied  with  it  ex- 
'  actly,  (making  proper  allowance  for  its  having  been 
written  by  a  person  in  extremity,)  and  there  were  several 
other  corroboratory  scraps  of  entries  and  memoranda 
which  it  was  equally  diflficult  to  question. 

"  Dear  Nicholas,"  whispered  Kate,  who  had  been  look- 
ing anxiously  over  his  shoulder,  "  can  this  be  really  the 
case  ?    Is  this  statement  true  ?  " 

"  I  fear  it  is,"  answered  Nicholas.  "What  say  you, 
1  John?" 


16^ 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


John  scratclaed  his  head,  and  shook  it,  but  said  noth- 
ing at  all. 

"You  will  observe,  ma'am,"  said  Ralph,  addressing 
himself  to  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  that  this  boy  being  a  minor 
and  not  of  strong  mind,  we  might  have  come  here  to- 
night, armed  with  the  powers  of  the  law,  and  backed 
fey  a  troop  of  its  myrmidons.  I  should  have  done  so, 
ma'am,  unquestionably,  but  for  my  regard  for  the  feel- 
ings of  yourself — and  your  daughter." 

"  You  have  shown  your  regard  for  her  feelings  well," 
said  Nicholas,  drawing  his  sister  towards  him. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Ralph.  "Your  praise,  sir,  is 
commendation,  indeed." 

"Well,"  said  Squeers,  "  what's  to  be  done?"  Them 
hackney-coach  horses  will  catch  cold  if  we  don't  think 
of  moving  ;  there's  one  of  'em  a  sneezing  now,  so  that  he 
blows  the  street  door  right  open.  What's  the  order  of  the 
day — eh?    Is  Master  Snawley  to  come  along  with  us?" 

"No,  no,  no,"  replied  Smike,  drawing  back,  and 
clinging  to  Nicholas.  "  No.  Pray,  no.  I  will  not  go 
from  you  with  him.    No,  no." 

"  This  is  a  cruel  thing,"  said  Snawley,  looking  to  his 
friends  for  support.  "Do  parents  bring  children  into 
the  world  for  this  ?  " 

"Do  parents  bring  children  into  the  world  for  thot  ?  " 
said  John  Browdie  bluntly,  pointing,  as  he  spoke,  to 
Squeers. 

"Never  you  mind,"  retorted  that  gentleman,  tapping 
his  nose  derisively. 

"  Never  I  mind  ! "  said  John,  "  no,  nor  never  nobody 
mind,  say'st  thou,  schoolmeasther.  It's  nobody's  mind- 
ing that  keeps  sike  men  as  thou  afloat.  Noo  then, 
where  be'st  thou  coomin'  to  ?  Dang  it,  diunot  come 
treadin'  ower  me,  mun." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  John  Browdie  just 
jerked  his  elbow  into  the  chest  of  Mr.  Squeers  who  was 
advancing  upon  Smike,  with  so  much  dexterity  that  the 
schoolmaster  reeled  and  staggered  back  upon  Ralph 
Nickleby,  and  being  unable  to  recover  his  balance, 
knocked  that  gentleman  off  his  chair,  and  stumbled 
heavily  upon  him. 

This  accidental  circumstance  was  the  signal  for  some 
very  decisive  proceedings.  In  the  midst  of  a  great 
noise,  occasioned  by  the  prayers  and  entreaties  of  Smike, 
the  cries  and  exclamations  of  the  women,  and  the  ve- 
hemence of  the  men,  demonstrations  were  made  of  car- 
rying off  the  lost  son  by  violence  ;  and  Squeers  had 
actually  begun  to  haul  him  out,  when  Nicholas  (who, 
until  then,  had  been  evidently  undecided  how  to  act) 
took  him  by  the  collar,  and  shaking  him  so  that  such 
teeth  as  he  had  chattered  in  his  head,  politely  escorted 
him  to  the  room  door,  and  thrusting  him  into  the  pas- 
sage, shut  it  upon  hini. 

"Now,"  said  Nicholas,  to  the  other  two,  "have  the 
kindness  to  follow  your  friend." 

"  I  want  my  son,"  said  Snawley. 

"Your  son,"  replied  Nicholas,  "chooses  for  himself. 
He  chooses  to  remain  here,  and  he  shall." 
"  You  won't  give  him  up  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  give  him  up  against  his  will,  to  be  the 
victim  of  such  brutality  as  that  to  which  you  would  con- 
sign him,"  replied  Nicholas,  "  if  he  were  a  dog  or  a  rat." 

"Knock  that  Nickleby  down  with  a  candlestick,"  cried 
Mr.  Squeers  through  the  keyhole,  "  and  bring  out  my 
hat,  somebody,  will  you,  unless  he  wants  to  steal  it." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  who, 
with  Mrs.  Browdie,  had  stood  crying  and  biting  her  fin- 
gers in  a  corner,  while  Kate — very  pale,  but  perfectly 
quiet — had  kept  as  near  her  brother  as  she  could.  "  I  am 
very  sorry,  indeed,  for  all  this.  I  really  don't  know 
what  would  be  best  to  do,  and  that's  the  truth.  Nicho- 
las ought  to  be  the  best  judge,  and  I  hope  he  is.  Of 
course,  it's  a  hard  thing  to  have  to  keep  other  people's 
children,  though  young  Mr.  Snawley  is  certainly  as  use- 
ful and  willing  as  it's  possible  for  anybody  to  be  ;  but,  if 
it  could  be  settled  in  any  friendly  manner — if  old  Mr. 
Snawley,  for  instance,  would  settle  to  pay  something 
certain  for  his  board  and  lodging,  and  some  fair  arrange- 
ment was  come  to,  so  that  we  undertook  to  have  fish 
twice  a  week,  and  a  pudding  twice,  or  a  dumpling,  or 
something  of  that  sort,  I  do  think  that  it  might  be  very 
satisfactory  and  pleasant  for  all  parties. 


This  compromise,  which  was  proposed  with  abundance 
of  tears  and  sighs,  not  exactly  meeting  the  point  at  issue, 
nobody  took  any  notice  of  it ;  and  poor  Mrs.  Nickleby 
accordingly  proceeded  to  enlighten  Mrs.  Browdie  upon 
the  advantages  of  such  a  scheme,  and  the  unhappy  re- 
sults flowing,  on  all  occasions,  from  her  not  being  at- 
tended to  when  she  proffered  her  advice. 

"You,  sir,"  said  Snawley,  addressing  the  terrified 
Smike,  "  are  an  unnatural,  ungrateful,  unloveable  boy. 
You  won't  let  me  love  you  when  I  want  to.  Won't  you 
come  home — won't  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no,"  cried  Smike,  shrinking  back. 

"He  never  loved  nobody,"  bawled  Squeers,  through 
the  keyhole.  "  He  never  loved  me  ;  he  never  loved 
Wackford,  who  is  next  door  but  one  to  a  cherubim. 
How  can  you  expect  that  he'll  love  his  father  ?  He'll 
never  love  his  father,  he  won't.  He  don't  know  what 
it  is  to  have  a  father.  He  don't  understand.  It  an't  in 
him." 

Mr.  Snawley  looked  steadfastly  at  his  son  for  a  full 
minute,  and  then  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and 
once  more  raising  his  hat  in  the  air,  appeared  deeply  oc- 
cupied in  deploring  his  black  ingratitude.  Then  drawing 
his  arm  across  his  eyes,  he  picked  up  Mr.  Squeer's  hat, 
and  taking  it  under  one  arm,  and  his  own  under  the 
other,  walked  slowly  and  sadly  out. 

"Your  romance,  sir,"  said  Ralph,  lingering  for  a  mo- 
ment, "  is  destroyed,  I  take  it.  No  unknown  ;  no  perse- 
cuted descendant  of  a  man  of  high  degree ;  but  the 
weak,  imbecile  son  of  a  poor,  petty  tradesman.  We 
shall  see  how  your  sympathy  melts  before  plain  matter 
of  fact." 

"You  shall,"  said  Nicholas,  motioning  towards  the 
door. 

"  And  trust  me,  sir,"  added  Ralph,  "that  I  never  sup- 
posed you  would  give  him  up  to-night.  Pride,  obsti- 
nacy, reputation  for  fine  feeling,  were  all  against  it. 
These  must  be  brought  down,  sir,  lowered,  crushed,  as 
they  shall  be  soon..  The  protracted  and  wearing  anxiety 
and  expense  of  the  law  in  its  most  oppressive  form,  its 
torture  from  hour  to  hour,  its  weary  days  and  sleepless 
nights  —  with  these  I'll  prove  you,  and  break  your 
haughty  spirit,  strong  as  you  deem  it  now.  And  when 
you  make  this  house  a  hell,  and  visit  these  trials  upon 
yonder  wretched  object  (as  you  will  ;  I  know  you),  and 
those  who  think  you  now  a  young-fledged  hero,  we'll  go 
into  old  accounts  between  us  two,  and  see  who  stands 
the  debtor,  and  comes  out  best  at  last— even  before  the 
world." 

Ralph  Nickleby  withdrew.  But  Mr.  Squeers,  who  had 
heard  a  portion  of  this  closing  address,  and  was  by  this 
time  wound  up  to  a  pitch  of  impotent  malignity  almost 
unprecedented,  could  not  refrain  from  returning  to  the 
parlour-door,  and  actually  cutting  some  dozen  capers 
with  various  wry  faces  and  hideous  grimaces  expressive 
of  his  triumphant  confidence  in  the  downfall  and  defeat 
of  Nicholas. 

Having  concluded  this  war-dance,  in  which  his  short 
trousers  and  large  boots  had  borne  a  very  conspicuous 
figure,  Mr.  Squeers  followed  his  friends,  and  the  family 
were  left  to  meditate  upon  recent  occurrences. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

Throws  some  light  upon  Niclwlas''s  Lo7)e ;  but  whether  for  Good  or 
Evil  the  Beader  must  determine. 

After  an  anxious  consideration  of  the  painful  and 
embarrassing  position  in  which  he  was  placed,  Nicholas 
decided  that  he  ought  to  lose  no  time  in  frankly  stating 
it  to  the  kind  brothers.  Availing  himself  of  the  first 
opportunity  of  being  alone  with  Mr.  Charles  Cheeryble 
at  the  close  of  next  day,  he  accordingly  related  Smike's 
little  history,  and  modestly  but  firmly  expressed  his 
hope  that  the  good  old  gentleman  would,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances as  he  described,  hold  him  justified  in  adopt- 
ing the  extreme  course  of  interfering  between  parent 
and  child,  and  upholding  the  latter  in  his  disobedience  ; 
even  though  his  horror  and  dread  of  his  father  might 
seem,  and  would  doubtless  be  represented  as,  a  thing  so 
repulsive  and  unnatural,  as  to  render  those  who  counte- 


NICHOLAS 


NICKLEBY. 


nanced  him  in  it,  fit  objects  of  general  detestation  and 
abhorrence. 

"  So  deeply-rooted  does  this  horror  of  the  man  appear 
to  be,"  said  Nicholas,  "that  I  can  hardly  believe  he 
really  is  his  son.  Nature  does  not  seem  to  have  implanted 
in  his  breast  one  lingering  feeling  of  affection  for  him, 
and  surely  she  can  never  err." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  replied  brother  Charles,  "you  fall  into 
the  very  common  mistake  of  charging  upon  Nature,  mat- 
ters with  which  she  has  not  the  smallest  connexion,  and 
for  which  she  is  in  no  way  responsible.  Men  talk  of 
nature  as  an  abstract  thing,  and  lose  sight  of  what  is 
natural  while  they  do  so.  Here  is  a  poor  lad  who  has 
never  felt  a  parent's  care,  who  has  scarcely  known  any- 
thing  all  his  life  but  suffering  and  sorrow,  presented  to 
a  man  who  he  is  told  is  his  father,  and  whose  first  act  is 
to  signify  his  intention  of  putting  an  end  to  his  short 
term  of  happiness  :  of  consigning  him  to  his  old  fate,  and 
taking  him  from  the  only  friend  he  has  ever  had — which 
is  yourself.  If  Nature,  in  such  a  case,  put  into  that  lad's 
breast  but  one  secret  prompting  which  urged  him  to- 
wards his  father  and  away  from  you,  she  would  be  a  liar 
and  an  idiot. " 

Nicholas  was  delighted  to  find  that  the  old  gentleman 
spoke  so  warmly,  and  in  the  hope  that  he  might  say 
something  more  to  the  same  purpose  made  no  reply. 

**  The  same  mistake  presents  itself  to  me,  in  one  shape 
or  other,  at  every  turn,"  said  brother  Charles.  "  Parents 
who  never  showed  their  love,  complain  of  want  of  natu- 
ral affection  in  their  children — children  who  never  showed 
their  duty,  complain  of  want  of  natural  feeling  in  their 
parents — law^-makers  who  find  both  so  miserable  that 
their  affections  have  never  had  enough  of  life's  sun  to 
develop  them,  are  loud  in  their  moralisings  over  parents 
and  children  too,  and  cry  that  the  very  ties  of  nature  are 
disregarded.  Natural  affections  and  instincts,  my  dear  sir, 
are  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Almighty's  works,  but  like 
other  beautiful  works  of  His,  they  must  be  reared  and 
fostered,  or  it  is  as  natural  that  they  should  be  wholly 
obscured,  and  that  new  feelings  should  usurp  their  place, 
as  it  is  that  the  sweetest  productions  of  the  earth,  left 
untended,  should  be  choked  with  weeds  and  briars.  I 
wish  we  could  be  brought  to  consider  this,  and  remem- 
bering natural  obligations  a  little  more  at  the  right  time, 
talk  about  them  a  little  less  at  the  wrong  one." 

After  this,  brother  Charles,  who  had  talked  himself 
into  a  great  heat,  stopped  to  cool  a  little,  and  then  con- 
tinued : — 

"I  dare  say  you  are  surprised,  my  dear  sir,  that  I 
have  listened  to  your  recital  with  so  little  astonishment. 
That  is  easily  explained — your  uncle  has  been  here  this 
morning." 

Nicholas  coloured,  and  drew  back  a  step  or  two. 

'*  Yes,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  tapping  his  desk  em- 
phatically, "  here  —  in  this  room.  He  would  listen 
neither  to  reason,  feeling,  nor  justice.  But  brother  Ned 
was  hard  upon  him — brother  Ned,  sir,  might  have  melted 
a  paving-rstone." 

"  He  came  to — "  said  Nicholas. 

"  To  complain  of  you,"  returned  brother  Charles,  "  to 
poison  our  ears  with  calumnies  and  falsehoods  ;  but  he 
came  on  a  fruitless  errand,  and  went  away  with  some 
wholesome  truths  in  his  ear  besides.  Brother  Ned,  my 
dear  Mr.  Nickleby — brother  Ned,  sir,  is  a  perfect  lion. 
So  is  Tim  Linkinwater — Tim  is  quite  a  lion.  We  had 
Tim  in  to  face  him  at  first,  and  Tim  was  at  him,  sir,  be- 
fore you  could  say  '  Jack  Robinson.'  " 

"How  can  I  ever  thank  you,  for  all  the  deep  obliga- 
tions you  impose  upon  me  very  day  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 

"By  keeping  silence  upon  the  subject,  my  dear  sir," 
returned  brother  Charles,  "  You  shall  be  righted.  At 
least  you  shall  not  be  wronged.  Nobody  belonging  to 
you  shall  be  wronged.  They  shall  not  hurt  a  hair  of 
your  head,  or  the  boy's  head,  or  your  mother's  head,  or 
your  sister's  head.  I  have  said  it,  brother  Ned  has  said 
it,  Tim  Linkinwater  has  said  it.  We  have  all  said  it,  and 
we'll  all  do  it.  I  have  seen  the  father — if  he  is  the  father 
— and  I  suppose  he  must  be.  He  is  a  barbarian  and  a 
hypocrite,  Mr.  Nickleby.  I  told  him,  'You  are  a  bar- 
barian, sir,*  I  did.  I  said,  *  You're  a  barbarian,  sir,* 
And  I'm  glad  of  it — I  am  'oery  glad  I  told  him  he  was  a 
barbarian — very  glad,  indeed  ! " 


By  this  time  brother  Charles  wa,s  in  such  a  very  warm 
state  of  indignation,  that  Nicholas  thought  he  might 
venture  to  put  in  a  word,  but  the  moment  he  essayed  to 
do  so,  Mr,  Cheeryble  laid  his  hand  softly  upon  his  arm, 
and  pointed  to  a  chair, 

"The  subject  is  at  an  end  for  the  present,"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  wiping  his  face.  "Don't  revive  it  by  a 
single  word,  I  am  going  to  speak  upon  another  subject 
— a  confidential  subject,  Mr  Nickleby.  We  must  be  co<j1 
again,  we  must  be  cool," 

After  two  or  three  turns  across  the  room  he  resumed 
his  seat,  and  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  that  on  which 
Nicholas  was  seated,  said — 

"  I  am  about  to  employ  you,  my  dear  sir,  on  a  confi- 
dential and  delicate  mission." 

"You  might  employ  many  a  more  able  messenger, 
sir,"  said  Nicholas,  "but  a  more  trustworthy  or  zeal- 
ous one,  I  may  be  bold  to  say,  you  could  not  find." 

"Of  that  I  am  well  assured,"  returned  brother 
Charles,  "  well  assured.  You  Avill  give  me  credit  for 
thinking  so,  when  I  tell  you,  that  the  object  of  this  mis- 
sion is  a  young  lady," 

"A  young  lady,  sir  !"  cried  Nicholas,  quite  trembling 
for  the  moment  with  his  eagerness  to  hear  more. 

"A  very  beautiful  young  lady,"  said  Mr.  Cheeryble, 
gravely. 

"  Pray  go  on,  sir,"  returned  Nicholas. 

"lam  thinking  how  to  do  so,"  said  brother  Charles 
— sadly,  as  it  seemed  to  his  young  friend,  and  with  an 
expression  allied  to  pain.  "  You  accidentally  saw  a  young 
lady  in  this  room  one  morning,  my  dear  sir,  in  a  fainting 
fit.  Do  you  remember?  Perhaps  you  have  forgot- 
ten— " 

"Oh  no,"  replied  Nicholas,  hurriedly.  "I — I — re- 
member it  very  well  indeed." 

''She  is  the  lady  I  speak  of,"  said  brother  Charles. 
Like  the  famous  parrot,  Nicholas  thought  a  great  deal, 
but  was  unable  to  utter  a  word, 

"  She  is  the  daughter,"  said  Mr,  Cheeryble,  "  of  a  lady 
who,  when  she  was  a  beautiful  girl  herself,  and  I  was 
very  many  years  younger,  I — it  seems  a  strange  word 
for  me  to  utter  now — I  loved  very  dearly.  You  will 
smile,  perhaps,  to  hear  a  grey-headed  man  talk  about 
such  things  :  you  will  not  offend  me,  for  when  I  was 
as  young  as  you,  I  dare  say  I  should  have  done  the 
same." 

"I  have  no  such  inclination,  indeed,"  said  Nicholas. 

"My  dear  brother  Ned,"  continued  Mr,  Cheeryble, 
"was  to  have  married  her  sister,  but  she  died.  She  is 
dead  too  now,  and  has  been  for  many  years.  She  mar- 
ried— her  choice  ;  and  I  wish  I  could  add  that  her  after- 
life was  as  happy,  as  God  knows  I  ever  prayed  it  might 
be  ! " 

A  short  silence  intervened,  which  Nicholas  made  no 
effort  to  break. 

"If  trial  and  calamity  had  fallen  as  lightly  on  his 
head,  as  in  the  deepest  truth  of  my  own  heart  I  ever 
hoped  (for  her  sake)  it  would,  his  life  would  have  been 
one  of  peace  and  happiness,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
calmly.  "  It  will  be  enough  to  say  that  this  was  not  the 
case — that  she  was  not  happy — that  they  fell  into  com- 
plicated distresses  and  difficulties — that  she  came, 
twelve  months  before  her  death,  to  appeal  to  my  old 
friendship  ;  sadly  changed,  sadly  altered,  broken-spirited 
from  suffering  and  ill-usage,  and  almost  broken- 
hearted. He  readily  availed  himself  of  the  money 
which,  to  give  her  but  one  hour's  peace  of  mind,  I  would 
have  poured  out  as  freely  as  water — nay,  he  often  sent 
her  back  for  more — and  yet  even  while  he  squandered 
it,  he  made  the  very  success  of  these,  her  applications  to 
me,  the  groundwork  of  cruel  taunts  and  jeers,  protesting 
that  he  knew  she  thought  with  bitter  remorse  of  the 
choice  she  had  made,  that  she  bed  married  him  from 
motives  of  interest  and  vanity  (he  was  a  gay  young  man 
with  great  friends  about  liim  when  she  chose  him 
for  her  husband),  and  venting  in  short  upon  her,  by 
every  unjust  and  unkind  means,  the  bitterness  of  that 
ruin'and  disappointment  which  had  been  brought  about 
by  his  profligacy  alone.  In  those  times  this  young  lady 
was  a  mere  child.  I  never  saw  her  again  until  that 
morning  when  you  saw  her  also,  but  my  nephew 
Frank—" 


168 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Nicholas  started,  and  indistinctly  apologising  for  the 
iutermptiou,  begged  his  patron  to  proceed. 

"My  nephew,  Frank,  I  say,"  resumed  Mr.  Cheeryble, 
"  encountered  her  by  accident,  and  lost  sight  of  her  al- 
most in  a  minute  afterwards,  within  two  days  after  he 
returned  to  England.  Her  father  lay  in  some  secret 
place  to  avoid  his  creditors,  reduced,  between  sickness 
and  poverty,  to  the  verge  of  death,  and  she,  a  child, — 
we  might  almost  think,  if  we  did  not  know  the  wisdom 
of  all  Heaven's  decrees — who  should  have  blessed  a  bet- 
ter man,  was  steadily  braving  privation,  degradation, 
and  everything  most  terrible  to  such  a  young  and  deli- 
cate creature's  heart,  for  the  purpose  of  supporting  him. 
She  was  attended,  sir,"  said  brother  Charles,  "in  these 
reverses,  by  one  faithful  creature,  who  had  been,  in  old 
times,  a  poor  kitchen  wench  in  the  family,  who  was  then 
their  solitary  servant,  but  who  might  have  been,  for  the 
truth  and  fidelity  of  her  heart— who  might  have  been— 
ah  !  the  wife  of 'Tim  Linkin  water  himself,  sir  !" 

Pursuing  this  encomium  upon  the  poor  follower  with 
such  energy  and  relish  as  no  words  can  describe,  brother 
Charles  leant  back  in  his  chair,  and  delivered  the  re- 
mainder of  his  relation  with  greater  composure. 

It  was  in  substance  this  : — That  proudly  resisting  all 
offers  of  permanent  aid  and  support  from  her  late 
mother's  friends,  because  they  were  made  conditional 
upon  her  quitting  the  wretched  man,  her  father,  who 
had  no  friends  left,  and  shrinking  with  instinctive 
delicacy  from  appealing  in  their  behalf  to  that  true  and 
noble  heart  which  he  hated,  and  had,  through  its  great- 
est and  purest  goodness,  deeply  wronged  by  misconstruc- 
tion and  ill  report,  this  young  girl  had  struggled  alone 
and  unassisted  to  maintain  him  by  the  labour  of  her 
hands.  That  through  the  utmost  depths  of  poverty  and 
aiHiction  she  had  toiled,  never  turning  aside  for  an 
instant  from  her  task,  never  wearied  by  the  petulant 
gloom  of  a  sick  man  sustained  by  no  consoling  recollec- 
tions of  the  past  or  hopes  of  the  future  ;  never  repining 
for, the  comforts  she  had  rejected,  or  bewailing  the  hard 
lot  she  had  voluntarily  incurred.  That  every  little  ac- 
complishment she  had  acquired  in  happier  days  had  been 
put  into  requisition  for  this  purpose,  and  directed  to  this 
one  end.  That  for  two  long  years,  toiling  by  day,  and 
often  too  by  night,  working  at  the  needle,  the  pencil,  and 
the  pen,  and  submitting,  as  a  daily  governess,  to  such 
caprices  and  indignities  as  women  (with  daughters  too) 
too  often  love  to  infiict  upon  their  own  sex  when  they 
serve  in  such  capacities,  as  though  in  jealousy  of  the 
superior  intelligence  which  they  are  necessitated  to  em- 
ploy,— indignities,  in  ninety -nine  cases  out  of  every  hun- 
dred, heaped  upon  persons  immeasurably  and  incalcula- 
bly their  betters,  but  outweighing  in  comparison  any  that 
the  most  heartless  blackleg  would  put  upon  his  groom 
— that  for  two  long  years,  by  dint  of  labouring  in  all 
these  capacities  and  wearying  in  none,  she  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  the  sole  aim  and  object  of  her  life,  but  that, 
overwhelmed  by  accumuluated  difficulties  and  disap- 
pointments, she  had  been  compelled  to  seek  out  her 
mother's  old  friend,  and,  with  a  bursting  heart,  to  con- 
fide in  him  at  last. 

"K  I  had  been  poor,"  said  brother  Charles,  with 
sparkling  eyes  ;  "If  I  had  been  poor,  Mr.  Nickleby, 
my  dear  sir,  which  thank  God  I  am  not,  I  would  have 
denied  myself — of  course  anybody  would  under  such  cir- 
cumstances— the  commonest  necessaries  of  life,  to  help 
her.  As  it  is,  the  task  is  a  difficult  one.  If  her  father 
were  dead,  nothing  could  be  easier,  for  then  she  should 
share  and  cheer  the  happiest  home  that  brother  Ned  and 
I  could  have,  as  if  she  were  our  child  or  sister.  But  he 
is  still  alive.  Nobody  can  help  him — that  has  been  tried 
a  thousand  times  ;  he  was  not  abandoned  by  all  without 
good  cause,  I  know." 

"  Cannot  she  be  persuaded  to — "  Nicholas  hesitated 
when  he  had  got  thus  far. 

"To  leave  him?"  said  brother  Charles.  "Who 
could  entreat  a  child  to  desert  her  parent  ?  Such  entrea- 
ties, limited  to  her  seeing  him  occasionally,  have  been 
urged  upon  her — not  by  me — but  always  with  the  same 
result." 

"Is  he  kind  to  her?"  said  Nicholas.  "Does  he  re- 
quite her  affection  ?  " 

"  True  kindness,  considerate  self-denying  kindness,  is 


not  in  his  nature,"  returned  Mr.  Cheeryble.  "  Such  kind- 
ness as  he  knows,  he  regards  her  with,  I  believe.  The 
mother  was  a  gentle,  loving,  confiding  creature,  and  al- 
though he  wounded  her  from  their  marriage  till  her 
death  as  cruelly  and  wantonly  as  ever  man  did,  she  never 
ceased  to  love  him.  She  commended  him  on  her  death- 
bed to  her  child's  care.  Her  child  has  never  forgotten 
it,  and  never  will." 

"  Have  you  no  influence  over  him  ?  "  asked  Nicholas. 

"I,  my  dear  sir  !  The  last  man  in  the  world.  Such  is 
his  jealousy  and  hatred  of  me,  that  if  lie  knew  his 
daughter  had  opened  her  heart  to  me,  he  would  render 
her  life  miserable  with  his  reproaches  ;  although — this 
is  the  inconsistency  and  selfishness  of  his  character — al- 
though if  he  knew  that  every  penny  she  had  came  from 
me,  he  would  not  relinquish  one  personal  desiie  that  the 
most  reckless  expenditure  of  her  scanty  stock  could 
gratify." 

"  An  unnatural  scoundrel  ! "  said  Nicholas,  indig- 
nantly. 

"  We  will  use  no  harsh  terms,"  said  brother  Charles, 
in  a  gentle  voice  ;  "but  accommodate  ourselves  to  the 
circumstances  in  which  this  young  lady  is  placed.  Such 
assistance  as  I  have  prevailed  upon  her  to  accept,  I  have 
been  obliged,  at  her  own  earnest  request,  to  dole  out  in 
the  smallest  portions,  lest  he,  finding  how  easily  money 
is  procured,  should  squander  it  even  more  lightly  than 
he  is  accustomed  to  do.    She  has  come  to  and  fro, 
i  to  and  fro,  secretly  and  by  night,  to  take  even  this  :  and 
1 1  cannot  bear  that  things  should  go  on  in  this  way,  Mr. 
I  Nickleby — I  really  cannot  bear  it." 

I  Then  it  came  out  by  little  and  little,  how  that  the 
twins  had  been  revolving  in  their  good  old  heads  mani- 
fold plans  and  schemes  for  helping  this  young  lady  in 
the  most  delicate  and  considerate  way,  and  so  tLat  her 
father  should  not  suspect  the  source  whence  the  aid  was 
derived  ;  and  how  they  had  at  last  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion, that  the  best  course  would  be  to  make  a  feint  of 
purchasing  her  little  drawings  and  ornamental  work  at  a 
high  price,  and  keeping  up  a  constant  demand  for  the 
same.  For  the  furtherance  of  which  end  and  object  it 
was  necessary  that  somebody  should  represent  the  dealer 
in  such  commodities,  and  after  great  deliberation  they 
had  pitched  upon  Nicholas  to  support  his  character. 

"  He  knows  me,"  said  brother  Charles,  "  and  he  knows 
my  brother  Ned.  Neither  of  us  would  do.  Frank  is  a 
very  good  fellow — a  very  fine  fellow — but  we  are  afraid 
that  he  migth  be  a  little  flighty  and  thoughtless  in  such 
a  delicate  matter,  and  that  he  might,  perhaps — that  he 
might,  in  short,  be  too  susceptible  (for  she  is  a  beautiful 
j  creature,  sir  ;  just  what  her  poor  mother  was),  and  fall- 
ing in  love  with  her  before  he  well  knew  his  own  mind, 
carry  pain  and  sorrow  into  that  innocent  breast,  which  we 
would  be  the  humble  instruments  of  gradually  making 
happy.  He  took  an  extraordinary  interest  in  her  fortunes 
when  he  first  happened  to  encounter  her  ;  and  we  gather 
from  the  inquiries  we  have  made  of  him,  that  it  was  she 
j  in  whose  behalf  he  made  that  turmoil  which  led  to  your 
first  acquaintance." 

Nicholas  stammered  out  that  he  had  before  suspected 
the  possibility  of  such  a  thing  ;  and  in  explanation  of  its 
having  occurred  to  him,  described  when  and  where  he 
had  seen  the  young  lady  herself. 

"Well;  tlien  you  see,"  continued  brother  Charles, 
"  that  he  wouldn't  do.  Tim  Linkinwater  is  out  of  the 
question  ;  for  Tim,  sir,  is  such  a  tremendous  fellow,  that 
he  could  never  contain  himself,  but  would  go  to  logger- 
heads with  the  father  before  he  had  been  in  the  place 
five  minutes.  You  don't  know  what  Tim  is,  sir,  when 
he  is  roused  by  anything  that  appeals  to  his  feelings  very 
strongly— then  he  is  terrific,  sii-,  is  Tim  Linkinwater — 
absolutely  terrific.  Now,  in  you  we  can  repose  the  strict- 
est confidence  ;  in  you  we  have  seen — or  at  least  /  have 
seen,  and  that's  the  same  thing,  for  there's  no  difference 
between  me  and  my  brother  Ned,  except  that  he  is  the 
finest  creature  that  ever  lived,  and  that  there  is  not,  and 
never  will  be,  anybody  like  him  in  all  the  world— in  you 
we  have  seen  domestic  virtues  and  affections,  and  delicacy 
of  feeling,  which  exactly  qualify  you  for  such  an  office. 
And  you  are  the  man,  sir." 

"  The  young  lady,  sir,"  said  Nicholas,  who  felt  so  em- 
barrassed that  he  had  no  small  difficulty  in  saying  any- 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


169 


tiling  at  all — "  Does — is— is  she  a  party  to  tliis  innoc(mt 
deceit  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  returned  Mr.  Clieeryble  ;  "at  least  she 
knows  you  come  from  us  ;  she  does  not  know,  however, 
but  that  we  shall  dispose  of  these  little  productions  that 
you'll  purchase  from  time  to  time ;  and,  perhaps,  if  you 
did  it  very  well  (that  is,  very  well,  indeed),  perhaps  she 
might  be  brought  to  believe  that  we — that  we  made  a 
profit  of  them.    Eh  ?— Eh  ?  " 

In  this  guileless  and  most  kind  simplicity,  brother 
Charles  was  so  happy,  and  in  this  possibility  of  the  young 
lady  being  led  to  tliink  that  she  was  under  no  obligation 
to  him,  he  evidently  felt  so  sanguine  and  had  so  much 
delight,  that  Nicholas  would  not  breathe  a  doubt  upon 
the  subject. 

All  this  time,  however,  there  hovered  upon  the  tip  of 
his  tongue  a  confession  that  the  very  same  objections 
which  Mr.  Cheeryble  had  stated  to  the  employment  of 
his  nephew  in  this  commission  applied  with  at  least  equal 
force  and  validity  to  himself,  and  a  hundred  times  had  he 
been  upon  the  point  of  avowing  the  real  state  of  his  feel- 
ings, and  entreating  to  be  released  from  it.  But  as  of- 
ten, treading  upon  the  heels  of  this  impulse,  came  an- 
other which  urged  him  to  refrain,  and  to  keep  his  secret 
to  his  own  breast.  "  Wliy  should  I, "  thought  Nicholas, 
"  why  should  I  throw  diflBculties  in  the  way  of  this 
benevolent  and  high-minded  design  ?  What  if  I  do  love 
and  reverence  this  good  and  lovely  creature — should  I 
not  appear  a  most  arrogant  and  shallow  coxcomb  if  I 
gravely  re^jresented  that  there  was  any  danger  of  her 
falling  in  love  with  me  ?  Besides,  have  I  no  confidence 
in  myself  ?  Am  I  not  now  bound  in  honour  to  repress 
these  thoughts  ?  Has  not  this  excellent  man  a  right  to 
my  best  and  heartiest  services,  and  should  any  considera- 
tion of  self  deter  me  from  rendering  them  ?  " 

Asking  himself  such  questions  as  these,  Nicholas  men- 
tally answered  with  great  emphesis  "  No  !  "  and  persuad- 
ing himself  that  he  was  a  most  conscientious  and  glori- 
ous martyr,  nobly  resolved  to  do  what,  if  he  had  examined 
his  own  heart  a  little  more  carefully,  he  v/ould  have 
found,  he  could  not  resist.  Such  is  the  sleight  of  hand 
by  which  we  juggle  with  ourselves,  and  change  our  very 
weaknesses  into  stanch  and  most  magnanimous  virtues  ! 

Mr.  Cheeryble,  being  of  course  wholly  unsuspicious 
that  such  reflections  were  presenting  themselves  to  his 
young  friend,  proceeded  to  give  him  the  needful  creden- 
tials and  directions  for  his  first  visit,  which  was  to  be 
made  next  morning ;  and  all  preliminaries  being  ar- 
ranged, and  the  strictest  secrecy  enjoined,  Nicholas 
walked  home  for  the  night  very  thoughtfully  indeed. 

The  place  to  which  Mr.  Cheeryble  had  directed  him 
was  a  row  of  mean  and  not  over-cleanly  houses,  situated 
within  "  the  Rules"  of  the  King's  Bench  Prison,  and  not 
many  hundred  paces  distant  from  the  obelisk  in  Saint 
George's  Fields.  The  Rules  are  a  certain  liberty  adjoin- 
ing the  prison,  and  comprising  some  dozen  streets  in  which 
debtors  who  can  raise  money  to  pay  large  fees,  from 
which  their  creditors  do  not  derive  any  benefit,  are  per- 
mitted to  reside  by  the  wise  provisions  of  the  same  en- 
lightened laws  which  leave  the  debtor  who  can  raise  no 
money  to  starve  in  jail,  without  the  food,  clothing,  lodg- 
ing, or  warmth,  which  are  provided  for  felons  convicted 
of  the  most  atrocious  crimes  that  can  disgrace  humanity. 
There  are  many  pleasant  fictions  of  the  law  in  constant 
operation,  but  there  is  not  one  so  pleasant  or  practically 
humorous  as  that  which  supposes  every  man  to  be  of 
equal  value  in  its  impartial  eye,  and  the  benefits  of  all 
laws  to  be  equally  attainable  by  all  men,  without  the 
smallest  reference  to  the  furniture  of  their  pockets. 

To  the  row  of  houses  indicated  to  him  by  Mr.  Charles 
Cheeryble,  Nicholas  directed  his  steps,  without  much 
troubling  his  head  with  such  matters  as  these  ;  and  at 
this  row  of  houses — after  traversing  a  very  dirty  and 
dusty  suburb,  of  which  minor  theatricals,  shell-fish, 
ginger-beer,  spring  vans,  green  grocery,  and  brokers' 
shops,  appeared  to  compose  the  main  and  most  promi- 
nent features — he  at  length  arrived  with  a  palpitating 
heart.  There  were  small  gardens  in  front  which,  being 
wholly  neglected  in  all  other  respects,  served  as  little 
pens  for  the  dust  to  collect  in  until  the  wind  came  round 
the  corner  and  blew  it  down  the  road.  Opening  the 
rickety  gate  which,  dangling  on  its  broken  hinges  before 


one  of  these,  half  admitted  and  half  repulsed  the  visitor, 
Nicholas  knocked  at  the  street  door  with  a  faltering 
hand. 

It  was  in  truth  a  shabby  house  outside,  with  very  dim 
parlour  windows  and  very  small  show  of  blinds,  and 
very  dirty  muslin  curtains  dangling  across  the  lower 
panes  on  very  loose  and  limp  strings.  Neither,  when 
the  door  was  opened,  did  the  inside  appear  to  belie  the 
outward  promise,  as  there  was  faded  carpeting  on  the 
stairs  and  faded  oil-cloth  in  the  passage  ;  in  addition 
to  which  discomforts  a  gentleman  Ruler  was  smok- 
ing hard  in  the  front  parlour  (though  it  was  not  yet 
noon),  while  the  lady  of  the  house  was  busily  engaged 
in  turpentining  the  disjointed  fragments  of  a  tent-bed- 
stead at  the  door  of  the  back  parlour,  as  if  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  reception  of  some  new  lodger  who  had  been 
fortunate  enough  to  engage  it. 

Nicholas  had  ample  time  to  make  these  observations 
while  the  little  boy,  who  went  on  errands  for  the  lodgers, 
clattered  down  the  kitchen  stairs  and  was  heard  to 
scream,  as  in  some  remote  celler,  for  Miss  Brays'  servant, 
who,  presently  appeared  and  requesting  him  to  follow 
her,  caused  him  to  evince  greater  symptoms  of  nervous- 
ness and  disorder  than  so  natural  a  consequence  of  his 
having  inquired  for  that  young  lady  would  seem  calcu- 
lated to  occasion. 

Up-stairs  he  went,  however,  and  into  a  front  room  he 
was  shown,  and  there,  seated  at  a  little  table  by  the 
window,  on  which  were  drawing  materials  with  which  she 
was  occupied,  sat  the  beautiful  girl  who  had  so  engrossed 
his  thoughts,  and  who,  surrounded  by  all  the  new  and 
strong  interest  which  Nicholas  attached  to  her  story, 
seemed  now,  in  his  eyes,  a  thousand  times  more  beauti- 
ful than  he  had  ever  yet  supposed  her. 

But  how  the  graces  and  elegancies  which  she  had  dis- 
persed about  the  poorly-furnished  room,  went  to  the 
heart  of  Nicholas  !  Flowers,  plants,  birds,  the  harp,  the 
old  piano  whose  notes  had  sounded  so  much  sweeter  in 
by-gone  times — how  many  struggles  had  it  cost  her  to 
keep  these  two  last  links  of  that  broken  chain  which 
bound  her  yet  to  home  !  With  every  slender  ornament, 
the  occupation  of  her  leisure  hours,  replete  with  that 
graceful  charm  which  lingers  in  every  little  tasteful 
work  of  woman's  hands,  how  much  patient  endurance  and 
how  many  gentle  affections  were  entwined  !  He  felt 
as  though  the  smile  of  Heaven  were  in  the  little  chamber; 
as  though  the  beautiful  devotion  of  so  young  and  weak 
a  creature,  had  shed  a  ray  of  its  own  on  the  inanimate 
things  around  and  made  them  beautiful  as  itself  ;  as 
though  the  halo  with  which  old  painters  surround  the 
bright  angels  of  a  sinless  Avorld  played  about  a  being 
akin  in  spirit  to  them,  and  its  light  were  visibly  before 
him. 

And  yet  Nicholas  was  in  the  Rules  of  the  Kings'  Bench 
Prison  !  If  he  had  been  in  Italy  indeed,  and  the  time 
had  been  sunset,  and  the  scene  a  stately  terrace  ; — but, 
there  is  one  broad  sky  over  all  the  world,  and  whether 
it  be  blue  or  cloudy,  the  same  heaven  beyond  it,  so,  per- 
haps, he  had  no  need  of  compunction  for  thinking  as  he 
did. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  took  in  everything  at 
one  glance,  for  he  had  as  yet  been  unconscious  of  the 
presence  of  a  sick  man  propped  up  with  pillows  in  an 
easy-chair,  who  moving  restlessly  and  impatiently  in  his 
seat,  attracted  his  attention. 

He  was  scarce  fifty,  perhaps,  but  so  emaciated  as  to 
appear  much  older.  His  features  presented  the  remains 
of  a  handsome  countenance,  but  one  in  which  the  embers 
of  strong  and  impetuous  passions  were  easier  to  be  traced 
than  any  expression  which  would  have  rendered  a  far 
plainer  face  much  more  prepossessing.  His  looks  were 
very  haggard,  and  his  limbs  and  body  literally  worn  to  the 
bone,  but  there  was  something  of  the  old  fire  in  the 
large  sunken  eye  notwithstanding,  and  it  seemed  to 
kindle  afresh  as  lie  struck  a  thick  stick,  with  which  he 
seemed  to  have  supported  himself  in  his  seat,  impatiently 
on  the  floor  twice  or  thrice,  and  called  his  daughter  by 
her  name, 

"  Madeline,  who  is  this — what  does  anybody  want 
here — who  told  a  stranger  we  could  be  seen.  What  is 
it?  " 

"I  believe — "  the  young  lady  began,  as  she  inclined 


170 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


her  head  with  an  air  of  some  confusion,  in  reply  to  the 
salutation  of  Nicholas. 

"  You  always  believe,"  returned  her  father  petulantly. 
"  What  is  it?" 

By  this  time  Nicholas  had  recovered  sufficient  presence 
of  mind  to  speak  for  himself,  so  he  said  (as  it  had  been 
agreed  he  should  say)  that  he  had  called  about  a  pair  of 
hand-screens,  and  some  painted  velvet  for  an  ottoman, 
both  of  which  were  required  to  be  of  the  most  elegant 
design  possible,  neither  time  nor  expense  being  of  the 
smallest  consideration.  He  had  also  to  pay  for  the  two 
drawings,  with  many  thanks,  and,  advancing  to  the  lit- 
tle table,  he  laid  upon  it  a  bank  note,  folded  in  an  envel- 
ope and  sealed. 

"See  that  the  money  is  right,  Madeline,"  said  the 
father,  "open  the  paper,  my  dear." 

"  It's  quite  right,  papa,  I'm  sure." 

"Here  !"  said  Mr.  Bray,  putting  out  his  hand,  and 
opening  and  shutting  his  bony  fingers  with  irritable  im- 
patience. "  Let  me  see.  What  are  you  talking  about 
Madeline — you're  sure — how  can  you  be  sure  of  any  such 
thing — five  pounds — well,  is  that  right  ?" 

"Quite,"  said  Madeline,  bending  over  him.  She  was 
so  busily  employed  in  arranging  the  pillows  that  Nicho- 
las could  not  see  her  face,  but  as  she  stooped  he  thought 
he  saw  a  tear  fall, 

"Ring  the  bell,  ring  the  bell," said  the  sick  man,  with 
the  same  nervous  eagerness,  and  motioning  toward  it 
with  such  a  quivering  hand  that  the  bank  note  rustled  in 
the  air.  "  Tell  her  to  get  it  changed — to  get  me  a  news- 
paper— to  buy  me  some  grapes — another  bottle  of  the 
wine  that  I  had  last  week — and — and — I  forget  half  I  want 
just  now,  but  she  can  go  out  again.  Let  her  get  those 
first — those  first.  Now,  Madeline,  my  love,  quick,  quick  ! 
Good  God  !  how  slow  you  are  ! " 

"He  remembers  nothing  that  slie  wants  1 thought 
Nicholas.  Perhaps  something  of  what  he  thought  was 
expressed  in  his  countenance,  for  the  sick  man  turning 
towards  him  with  great  asperity,  demanded  to  know  if 
he  waited  for  a  receipt. 

"It  is  no  matter  at  all,"  said  Nicholas. 

' '  No  matter  !  what  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  "  was  the  tart  re- 
joinder. "No  matter?  Do  you  think  you  bring  your 
j)altry  money  here  as  a  favour  or  a  gift ;  or  as  a  matter 
of  business,  and  in  return  for  value  received  ?  D — n  you, 
sir,  because  you  can't  appreciate  the  time  and  taste  which 
are  bestowed  upon  the  goods  you  deal  in,  do  you  think 
you  give  your  money  away  ?  Do  you  know  that  you  are 
talking  to  a  gentleman,  sir,  who  at  one  time  could  have 
bought  UD  fifty  such  men  as  you  and  all  you  have  ?  What 
do  you  mean  ? 

"  I  merely  mean  that  as  I  shall  have  many  dealings 
with  this  lady,  if  she  will  kindly  allow  me,  I  will  not 
trouble  her  with  such  forms,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Then  /mean,  if  you  please,  that  we'll  have  as  many 
forms  as  we  can,"  returned  the  father.  "  My  daughter, 
sir,  requires  no  kindness  from  you  or  anybody  else.  Have 
the  goodness  to  confine  your  dealings  strictly  to  trade  and 
business,  and  not  to  travel  beyond  it.  Every  petty  trades- 
man is  to  begin  to  pity  her  now,  is  he?  Upon  my  soul  ! 
Very  pretty.  Madeline,  my  dear,  give  him  a  receipt ; 
and  mind  you  always  do  so." 

While  she  was  feigning  to  write  it,  and  Nicholas  was 
ruminating  upon  the  extraordinary  but  by  no  means  un- 
common character  thus  presented  to  his  observation,  the 
invalid,  who  appeared  at  times  to  suffer  great  bodily  pain, 
sank  back  in  his  chair  and  moaned  out  a  feeble  complaint 
that  the  girl  had  been  gone  an  hour,  and  that  everybody 
conspired  to  goad  him. 

"  When,"  said  Nicholas,  as  he  took  the  piece  of  paper, 
"when  shall  I — call  again?" 

This  was  addressed  to  the  daughter,  but  the  father  an- 
swered immediately — 

"When  you're  requested  to  call,  sir,  and  not  before. 
Don't  worry  and  persecute.  Madeline,  my  dear,  when  is 
this  person  to  call  again?" 

"  Oh,  not  for  a  long  time — not  for  three  or  four  weeks 
— it  is  not  necessary,  indeed — I  can  do  without,"  said  the 
young  lady,  with  great  eagerness. 

"  Why,  how  are  we  to  do  without?"  urged  her  father, 
not  speaking  above  his  breath.  "  Three  or  four  Weeks, 
Madeline  I    Three  or  four  weeks  I "  J 


"  Then  sooner — sooner,  if  you  please/'  said  the  yoilng 
lady,  turning  to  Nicholas. 

"  Tliree  or  four  weeks  ! "  muttered  the  father.  **  Mad- 
eline, what  on  earth — do  nothing  for  three  or  four 
weeks ! " 

"  It  is  a  long  time,  ma'am,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  You  think  so,  do  you?  "  retorted  the  father,  angrily. 
"If  I  chose  to  beg,  sir,  and  stoop  to  ask  assistance  from 
people  I  despise,  tliree  or  four  months  would  not  be  a  long 
time — three  or  four  years  would  not  be  along  time.  Un- 
derstand, sir,  that  is  if  I  chose  to  be  dependent ;  but  as  I 
don't,  you  may  call  in  a  week." 

Nicholas  bowed  low  to  the  young  lady  and  retired,  pon- 
dering upon  Mr.  Bray's  ideas  of  independence,  and  de- 
voutly hoping  that  there  might  be  few  such  independent 
spirits  as  he  mingling  with  the  baser  clay  of  humanity. 

He  heard  a  light  footstep  above  him  as  he  descended 
the  stairs,  and  looking  round  saw  that  the  young  lady 
was  standing  there,  and  glancing  timidly  towards  him, 
seemed  to  hesitate  whether  she  should  call  him  back  or 
no.  The  best  way  of  settling  the  question  was  to  turn 
back  at  once,  which  Nicholas  did. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  do  right  in  asking  you,  sir,'* 
said  Madeline,  hurriedly,  * '  but  pray — pray — do  not  men- 
tion to  my  poor  mother's  dear  friends  what  has  passed 
here  to-day.  He  has  suffered  much,  and  is  worse  this 
morning.    I  beg  you,  sir,  as  a  boon,  a  favour  to  myself." 

"  You  have  but  to  hint  a  wish,"  returned  Nicholas 
fervently,  "  and  I  would  hazard  my  life  to  gratify  it." 

"  You  speak  hastily,  sir." 

"Truly  and  sincerely,"  rejoined  Nicholas,  his  lips 
trembling  as  he  formed  the  words,  "  if  ever  man  spoke 
truly  yet.  I  am  not  skilled  in  disguising  my  feelings, 
and  if  I  were,  I  could  not  hide  my  heart  from  you.  Dear 
madam,  as  I  know  your  history,  and  feel  as  men  and 
angels  must  who  hear  and  see  such  things,  I  do  entreat 
you  to  believe  that  I  would  die  to  serve  you." 

The  young  lady  turned  away  her  head,  and  was  plainly 
weeping. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Nicholas,  with  respectful  earnest- 
ness, "if  I  seem  to  say  too  much,  or  to  presume  upon 
the  confidence  which  has  been  entrusted  to  me.  But  I 
could  not  leave  you  as  if  my  interest  and  sympathy  ex- 
pired with  the  commission  of  the  day.  I  am  your  faith- 
ful servant,  humbly  devoted  to  you  from  this  hour — 
devoted  in  strict  truth  and  honour  to  him  who  sent  me 
here,  and  in  pure  integrity  of  heart,  and  distant  respect 
for  you.  If  I  meant  more  or  less  than  this,  I  should  be 
unworthy  his  regard,  and  false  to  the  very  nature  that 
prompts  the  honest  words  I  utter." 

She  waved  her  hand,  entreating  him  to  be  gone,  but 
answered  not  a  word.  Nicholas  could  say  no  more,  and 
silently  withdrew.  And  thus  ended  his  first  interview 
with  Madeline  Bray. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

Mr.  Ralph  McJdebrj  has  some  confidential  intercourse  with  another  old 
Friend.  They  concert  between  them  a  Project,  which  promises  well 
fw  both. 

"  There  go  the  three  quarters  past !  "  muttered  New- 
man Noggs,  listening  to  the  chimes  of  some  neighbour- 
ing church,  "and  my  dinner  time's  two.  He  does  it  on 
purpose.    He  makes  a  point  of  it.    It's  just  like  him." 

It  was  in  his  own  little  den  of  an  oflBce  and  on  the  top 
of  his  official  stool  that  Newman  thus  soliloquised  ;  and 
the  soliloquy  referred,  as  Newman's  grumbling  solilo- 
quies usually  did,  to  Ralph  Nickleby. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  ever  had  an  appetite,"  said  New- 
man, "  except  for  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  and  with 
them  he's  as  greedy  as  a  wolf.  I  should  like  to  have 
him  compelled  to  swallow  one  of  every  English  coin. 
The  penny  would  be  an  awkward  morsel— but  the  crown 
— ha !  ha  ! " 

His  good  humour  being  in  some  degree  restored  by 
the  vision  of  Ralph  Nickleby  swallowing,  perforce,  a  five- 
shilling  piece,  Newman  slowly  brought  forth  from  his 
desk  one  of  those  portable  bottles,  currently  known  as 
pocket-pistols,  and  shaking  the  same  close  to  his  ear  so 
as  to  produce  a  rippling  sound  very  cool  and  pleasant  to 
J  listen  to,  suffered  his  features  to  relax,  and  took  a  gur- 


NICHOLAS  NICK LE BY. 


171 


glinpf  drink,  which  relaxed  them  still  more.  Replacing 
the  cork,  he  smacked  his  lips  twice  or  thrice  with  an  air 
of  great  relish,  and,  the  taste  of  the  liquor  having  by 
this  time  evaporated,  recurred  to  his  grievances  again. 

Five  minutes  to  three,"  growled  Newman,  "  it  can't 
■want  more  by  this  time  ;  and  I  had  my  breakfast  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  such  a  breakfast !  and  my  right  dinner  time 
two  !  And  I  might  have  a  nice  little  bit  of  hot  roast 
meat  spoiling  at  home  all  this  time — how  does  Jie  know 
I  haven't !  '  Don't  go  till  I  come  back,  don't  go  till  I 
come  back,'  day  after  day.  What  do  you  always  go  out 
at  my  dinner  time  for  then — eh?  Don't  you  know  it's 
nothing  but  aggravation — eh?" 

These  words,  though  uttered  in  a  very  loud  key,  were 
addressed  to  nothing  but  empty  air.    The  recital  of  his 


only  just  come  up  to  the  door  as  you  turned  the  cor* 
ner." 

"  I  am  very  lucky,"  observed  Gride. 

"So  men  say,"  replied  llalyjh,  drily. 

The  older  money-lender  wagged  his  chin  and  smiled, 
but  he  originated  no  new  remark,  and  they  sat  for  some 
little  time  without  speaking.  p]ach  was  looking  out  to 
take  the  other  at  a  disadvantage. 

"Come,  Oride,"  said  Ralph,  at  length;  "what's  in 
the  wind  to-day  ?  " 

"Aha!  you're  a  bold  man,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  cried  the 
other,  apparently  very  much  relieved  by  Ralph's  leading 
the  way  to  business.  "  Oh  dear,  dear,  what  a  bold  man 
you  are. " 

Why,  you  have  a  sleek  and  slinking  way  with  you 


wrongs,  however,  seemed  to  have  the  effect  of  making  '  that  makes  me  seem  so  by  contrast,"  returned  Ralph 


Newman  Noggs  desperate  ;  for  he  flattened  his  old  hat 
upon  his  head,  and  drawing  on  the  everlasting  gloves, 
declared  with  great  vehemence,  that  come  what  might, 
he  would  go  to  dinner  that  very  minute. 

Carrying  this  resolution  into  instant  effect,  he  had  ad- 
Tanced  as  far  as  the  passage,  when  the  sound  of  the 
latch-key  in  the  street  door  caused  him  to  make  a  precip- 
itate retreat  into  his  own  office  again. 

"  Here  he  is,"  growled  Newman,  "  and  somebody  with 
him.  Now  it'll  be  'Stop  till  this  gentleman's  gone.' 
But  I  won't — that's  flat." 

So  saying,  Newman  slipped  into  a  small  empty  closet 
which  opened  with  two  half  doors,  and  shut  himself  up  ; 
intending  to  slip  out  directly  Ralph  was  safe  inside  his 
own  room. 

"Noggs,"  cried  Ralph,  "where  is  that  fellow — 
Noggs." 

But  not  a  word  said  Newman. 

"The  dog  has  gone  to  his  dinner,  though  I  told  him 
not,"  muttered  Ralph,  looking  into  the  office  and  pulling 
out  his  watch.  "Humph!  You  had  better  come  in 
here,  Gride.  My  man's  out,  and  the  sun  is  hot  upon  my 
room.  This  is  cool  and  in  the  shade,  if  you  don't  mind 
roughing  it." 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Nickleby,  oh  not  at  all.  All  places 
are  alike  to  me,  sir.  Ah  !  verv  nice  indeed.  Oh  !  very 
nice  ! " 

The  person  who  made  this  reply  was  a  little  old  man, 
of  about  seventy  or  seventy-five  years  of  age,  of  a  very 
lean  figure,  much  bent,  and  slightly  twisted.  He  wore 
a  grey  coat  with  a  very  narrow  collar,  an  old-fashioned 
waistcoat  of  ribbed  black  silk,  and  such  scanty  trowsers 
as  displayed  his  shrunken  spindle-shanks  in  their  full 
ugliness.  The  only  articles  of  display  or  ornament  in 
his  dress,  were  a  steel  watch-chain  to  which  were  at- 
tached some  large  gold  seals ;  and  a  black  ribbon  into 
which,  in  compliance  with  an  old  fashion  scarcely  ever 
observed  in  these  days,  his  grey  hair  was  gathered  be- 
hind. His  nose  and  chin  were  sharp  and  prominent,  his 
jaws  had  fallen  inwards  from  loss  of  teeth,  his  face  was 
shrivelled  and  yellow,  save  where  the  cheeks  were 
streaked  with  the  colour  of  a  dry  winter  apple  ;  and 
where  his  beard  had  been,  there  lingered  yet  a  few  grey 
tufts  which  seemed,  like  the  ragged  eyebrows,  to  de- 
note the  badness  of  the  soil  from  which  they  sprung. 
The  whole  air  and  attitude  of  the  form,  was  one  of 
stealthy  cat-like  obsequiousness  ;  the  whole  expression 
of  the  face  was  concentrated  in  a  wrinkled  leer,  com- 
pounded of  cunning,  lecherousness,  slyness,  and  avarice. 

Such  was  old  Arthur  Gride,  in  whose  face  there  was 
not  a  wrinkle,  in  whose  dress  there  was  not  one  spare 
fold  or  plait,  but  expressed  the  most  covetous  and  grip- 
ing penury,  and  sufficiently  indicated  his  belonging  to 
that  class  of  which  Ralph  Nickleby  was  a  member. 
Such  was  old  Arthur  Gride,  as  he  sat  in  a  low  chair  look- 
ing up  into  the  face  of  Ralph  Nickleby,  who,  lounging 
upon  the  tall  office  stool,  with  his  arms  upon  his  knees, 
looking  down  into  his, — a  match  for  him  on  whatever 
errand  he  had  coiiie. 

"  And  how  have  you  been  ?  "  said  Gride,  feigning  great 
interest  in  Ralph's  state  of  health.  "  I  haven't  seen  you 
for — oh  !  not  for — " 


I  don't  know  but  that  yours  may  answer  better,  but  I 
want  the  patience  for  it." 

"You  were  born  a  genius,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  old 
Arthur.    "Deep,  deep,  deep.    Ah  !" 

*'  Deep  enough,"  retorted  Ralph,  "  to  know  that  I  shall 
need  all  the  depth  I  have,  when  men  like  you  begin  to 
compliment.  You  know  I  have  stood  by  when  you 
fawned  and  flattered  other  people,  and  I  remember  pretty 
well  what  that  always  led  to." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha,"  rejoined  Arthur,  rubbing  his  hands. 
"  So  you  do,  so  you  do,  no  doubt.  Not  a  man  knows  it 
better.  Well,  it's  a  pleasant  thing  now  to  think  that  you 
remember  old  times.    Oh  dear  ! " 

"  Now  then,"  said  Ralph,  composedly  ;  "  what's  in  the 
wind  I  ask  again — what  is  it  !  " 

"  See  that  now  !"  cried  the  other.  "He  can't  even 
keep  from  business  while  we're  chatting  over  bygones. 
Oh  dear,  dear,  what  a  man  it  is  !  " 

"Which  of  the  bygones  do  you  want  to  revive  ?"  said 
Ralph,  "  One  of  them,  I  know,  or  you  wouldn't  talk 
about  them." 

"He  suspects  even  me  !"  cried  old  Arthur,  holding 
up  his  hands.  "  Even  me — oh  dear,  even  me.  What  a 
man  it  is  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  What  a  man  it  is  1  Mr. 
Nickleby  against  all  the  world — there's  nobody  like  him. 
A  giant  among  pigmies— a  giant — a  giant  !  " 

Ralph  looked  at  the  old  dog  with  a  quiet  smile  as  he 
chuckled  on  in  this  strain,  and  Newman  Noggs  in  the 
closet  felt  his  heart  sink  within  him  as  the  prospect  of 
dinner  grew  fainter  and  fainter. 

"  I  must  humour  him  though,"  cried  old  Arthur  ;  "he 
must  have  his  way — a  wilful  man,  as  the  Scotch  say — 
well,  well,  they're  a  wise  people,  the  Scotch — he  will 
talk  about  business,  and  won't  give  away  his  time  for 
nothing.  He's  very  right.  Time  is  money — time  is 
money." 

"  He  was  one  of  us  who  made  that  saying,  I  should 
think,"  said  Ralph.  "  Time  is  money,  and  very  good 
money  too,  to  those  who  reckon  interest  by  it.  'Time  is 
money  !  Yes,  and  time  costs  money — it's  rather  an  ex- 
pensive article  to  some  people  we  could  name,  or  I  for- 
get my  trade." 

In  rejoinder  to  this  sally,  old  Arthur  again  raised  his 
hands,  again  chuckled,  and  again  ejaculated  "  What  a 
man  it  is  1 "  which  done,  he  dragged  the  low  chair  a 
little  nearer  to  Ralph's  high  stool,  and  looking  upwards 
into  his  immoveable  face,  said, 

"  What  would  you  say  to  me,  if  I  was  to  tell  you  that 
I  was — that  I  was — going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  I  should  tell  you,"  replied  Ralph,  looking  coldly 
down  upon  him,  "that  for  some  purpose  of  your  own 
you  told  a  lie,  and  that  it  wasn't  the  first  time  and 
wouldn't  be  the  last ;  that  I  wasn't  surprised  and  wasn't 
to  be  taken  in," 

"Then  I  tell  you  seriously  that  I  am,"  said  old  Ar- 
thur. 

"  And /tell  you  "seriously,"  rejoined  Ralph,  "what  I 
told  you  this  minute.  Stay.  Let  me  look  at  vou.  There's 
a  liquorish  devilry  in  your  face — what  is  this  ?  " 

"I  wouldn't  deceive  you,  you  know,"  whined  Arthur 
Gride  ;  "I  couldn't  do  it.  I  should  be  mad  to  try.  I— I — 
to  deceive  Mr.  Nickleby  !    The  pigmy  to  impose  upion 


"Not  for  a  long  time,"  said  Ralph,  with  a  peculiar  |  the  giant.  I  ask  again— he,  he,  he  I — what  should  you 
smile,  importing  that  he  very  well  knew  it  was  not  on  a  j  say  to  me  if  I  was  to  tell  you  that  I  was  going  t^  be 


mere  visit  of  compliment  that  his  friend  had  come, 
■was  a  narrow  chance  that  you  saw  me  now,  for  I 


It 
had 


married  ?' 

To  some  old  hag 


said  Ralph. 


172  * 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


*'No,  no,"  cried  Arthur,  interrupting  him,  and  rub- 
bing his  hands  in  an  ecstacy.  "  Wrong,  Avrong  again. 
Mr.  Nickleby  for  once  at  fault — out,  quite  out  !  To  a 
young  and  beautiful  girl ;  fresh,  lovely,  bewitching,  and 
not  nineteen.  Dark  eyes — long  eyelashes — ripe  and 
ruddy  lips  that  to  look  at  is  to  long  to  kiss — beautiful 
clustering  hair  that  one's  fingers  itch  to  play  with — such 
a  waist  as  might  make  a  man  clasp  the  air  involuntarily, 
thinking  of  twining  his  arm  about  it — little  feet  that 
tread  so  lightly  they  hardly  seem  to  walk  upon  the 
ground — to  marry  all  tliis,  sir, — this — hey,  hey  !  " 

"  This  is  sojnething  more  than  common  drivelling," 
said  Ralph,  after  listening  with  a  curled  lip  to  the  old 
sinner's  raptures.    ' '  The  girl's  name  ?  " 

"Oh  deep,  deep  !  See  now  how  deep  that  is  !"  ex- 
claimed old  Arthur.  "He  knows  I  want  his  help,  he 
knows  he  caa  give  it  me,  he  knows  it  must  all  turn  to  his 
advantage,  he  sees  the  thing  already.  Her  name — is 
there  nobody  within  hearing  ?  " 

"Why,  who  the  devil  should  there  be?"  retorted 
Ralph,  testily. 

"  I  didn't  know  but  that  perhaps  somebody  might  be 
passing  up  or  down  the  stairs,"  said  Arthur  Gride,  after 
looking  out  at  the  door  and  carefully  re-closing  it ;  "or 
but  that  your  man  might  have  come  back  and  might 
have  been  listening  outside — clerks  and  servants  have  a 
trick  of  listening,  and  I  should  have  been  very  uncom- 
fortable if  Mr.  Noggs — " 

"Curse  Mr.  Noggs,"  said  Ralph,  sharply,  "  and  go  on 
with  what  you  have  to  say. " 

"Curse  Mr.  Noggs,  by  all  means,"  rejoined  old  Ar- 
thur ;  "I  am  sure  I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  that. 
Her  name  is — " 

"  Well,"  said  Ralph,  rendered  very  irritable  by  old 
Arthur's  pausing  again,  "  What  is  it?" 

"Madeline  Bray." 

Whatever  reasons  there  might  have  been — and  Ar- 
thur Gride  appeared  to  have  anticipated  some — for  the 
mention  of  this  name  producing  an  effect  upon  Ralph,  or 
whatever  effect  it  really  did  produce  upon  him,  he  per- 
mitted none  to  manifest  itself,  but' calmly  repeated  the 
name  several  times,  as  if  reflecting  when  and  where  he 
had  heard  it  before. 

"Bray,"  said  Ralph.  "Bray — there  was  young  Bray 
of  no,  he  never  had  a  daughter." 

"  You  remember  Bray?"  rejoined  Arthur  Gride. 

"  No,"  said  Ralph,  looking  vacantly  at  him. 

"  Not  Walter  Bray  !  The  dashing  man,  who  used  his 
handsome  wife  so  ill?" 

"If  you  seek  to  recall  any  particular  dashing  man  to 
my  recollection  by  such  a  trait  as  that,"  said  Ralph, 
shrugging  his  shoulders,  "I  shall  confound  him  with 
nine-tenths  of  the  dashing  men  I  have  ever  known." 

"  Tut,  tut.  That  Bray  who  is  now  in  the  Rules  of  the 
Bench,"  said  old  Arthur.  "  You  can't  have  forgotten 
Bray.  Both  of  us  did  business  with  him.  Why,  he 
owes  you  money." 

"Oh  "  rejoined  Ralph.     "Ay,  ay.    Now  you 

speak.    Oh  !    It's  his  daughter,  is  it  ?  " 

Naturally  as  this  was  said,  it  was  not  said  so  naturally 
but  that  a  kindred  spirit  like  old  Arthur  Gride  might 
have  discerned  a  design  upon  the  part  of  Ralph  to  lead 
him  on  to  much  more  explicit  statements  and  explana- 
tions than  he  would  have  volunteered,  or  than  Ralph 
could  in  all  likelihood  have  obtained  by  any  other  means. 
Old  Arthur,  however,  was  so  intent  upon  his  own 
designs,  that  he  suffered  himself  to  be  over-reached, 
and  had  no  suspicion  but  that  his  good  friend  was  in 
earnest. 

"  I  knew  you  couldn't  forget  him,  when  you  came  to 
think  for  a  moment,"  he  said. 

"You  were  right,"  answered  Ralph.  "But  old  Ar- 
thur Gride  and  matrimony  is  a  most  anomalous  conjunc- 
tion of  words  ;  old  Arthur  Gride  and  dark  eyes  and  eye- 
lashes, and  lips  that  to  look  at  is  to  long  to  kiss,  and  clus- 
tering hair  that  he  wants  to  play  with,  and  waists  that  he 
wants  to  span,  and  little  feet  that  don't  tread  upon  any- 
thing— old  Arthur  Gride  and  such  things  as  these  is  more 
monstrous  still  ;  but  old  Arthur  Gride  marrying  the 
daughter  of  a  ruined  '  dashing  man  '  in  the  Rules  of  the 
Bench,  is  the  most  monstrous  and  incredible  of  all. 
Plainly,  friend  Arthur  Gride,  if  you  want  any  help  from 


I  me  in  this  business  (which  of  course  you  do,  or  you  would 
not  be  here),  speak  out,  and  to  the  purpose.  And  above 
all,  don't  talk  to  me  of  its  turning  to  my  advantage,  for 
I  know  it  must  turn  to  yours  also,  and  to  a  good  round 
tune  too,  or  you  would  have  no  finger  in  such  a  pie  as 
this. " 

There  was  enough  acerbity  and  sarcasm  not  only  in  the 
matter  of  Ralph's  speech,  hui  in  the  tone  of  voice  in 
which  he  uttered  it,  and  the  looks  with  which  he  eked 
it  out,  to  have  fired  even  the  ancient  usurer's  cold  blood 
and  flushed  even  his  withered  cheek.  But  he  gave  vent 
to  no  demonstration  of  anger,  contenting  himself  with 
exclaiming  as  before,  "  What  a  man  it  is  !  "  and  rolling 
his  head  from  side  to  side,  as  if  in  unrestrained  enjoy- 
ment of  his  freedom  and  drollery.  Clearly  observing, 
however,  from  the  expression  in  Ralph's  features,  that 
he  had  best  come  to  the  point  as  speedily  as  might  be,  he 
composed  himself  for  more  serious  business,  and  entered 
upon  the  pith  and  marrow  of  his  negotiation. 

First,  he  dwelt  upon  the  fact  that  Madeline  Bray  was 
devoted  to  the  support  and  maintenance,  and  was  a  sla\;p 
to  every  wish,  of  her  only  parent,  who  had  no  other  friend 
on  earth  ;  to  which  Ralph  rejoined  that  he  had  heard 
something  of  the  kind  before,  and  that  if  she  had  known 
a  little  more  of  the  world,  she  wouldn't  have  been  such 
a  fool. 

Secondly,  he  enlarged  upon  the  character  of  her  father, 
arguing,  that  even  taking  it  for  granted  that  he  loved 
her  in  return  with  the  utmost  affection  of  which  he 
was  capable,  yet  he  loved  himself  a  great  deal  better ; 
which  Ralph  said  it  was  quite  unnecessary  to  say  any 
thing  more  about,  as  that  was  very  natural,  and  prob- 
able enough. 

And,  thirdlj^,  old  Arthur  premised  that  the  girl  was  a 
delicate  and  beautiful  creature,  and  that  he  had  really 
a  hankering  to  have  her  for  his  wife.  To  this  Ralph 
deigned  no  other  rejoinder  than  a  harsh  smile,  and  a  glance 
at  the  shrivelled  old  creature  before  him,  which  were, 
however,  sufficiently  expressive. 

"  Now,"  said  Gride,  "  for  the  little  plan  I  have  in  my 
mind  to  bring  this  about ;  because,  I  haven't  offered  my- 
self even  to  the  father  yet,  I  should  have  told  you.  But 
that  you  have  gathered  already  ?  Ah  !  oh  dear,  oh  dear, 
what  an  edged -tool  you  are  !  " 

"  Don't  play  with  me,  then,"  said  Ralph,  impatiently. 
"You  know  the  proverb." 

"  A  reply  always  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  !  "  cried  old 
Arthur,  raising  his  hands  and  eyes  in  admiration.    "  He 
is  always  prepared  !    Oh  dear,  what  a  blessing  to  have 
such  a  ready  wit,  and  so  much  ready  money  to  back  it!" 
Then,  suddenly  changing  his  tone,  he  went  on  : — "  I  have 
been  backwards  and  forwards  to  Bray's  lodgings  several 
times  witliin  the  last  six  months.    It  is  just  half  a  year 
I  since  I  first  saw  this  delicate  morsel,  and,  oh  dear,  what  a 
i  delicate  morsel  it  is  !  But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
■  I  am  his    detaining  creditor  for  seventeen  hundred 
pounds." 

"You  talk  as  if  you  were  the  only  detaining  cred- 
itor," said  Ralph,  pulling  out  his  pocket-book.  "I  am 
another  for  nine  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds  four 
and  threepence." 

"  The  only  other,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  old  Arthur, 
eagerly.  "The  only  other.  Nobody  else  w^ent  to  the 
expense  of  lodging  a  detainer,  trusting  to  our  holding  him 
fast  enough,  I  warrant  you.  We  both  fell  into  the  same 
snare — oh  dear,  what  a  pitfall  it  was  ;  it  almost  ruined 
me!  And  lent  him  our  money  upon  bills,  with  only  one 
name  besides  his  own,  which  to  be  sure  everybody  sup- 
posed to  be  a  good  one,  and  was  as  negotiable  as  money, 
but  which  turned  out — you  know  how.  Just  as  we  should 
have  come  upon  him,  he  died  insolvent.  Ah  !  it  went 
very  nigh  to  ruin  me,  that  loss  did  !  " 

"Go  on  with  your  scheme."  said  Ralph.  "It's  of  no 
use  raising  the  cry  of  our  trade  just  now  ;  there's  nobody 
to  hear  us." 

"  It's  always  as  well  to  talk  that  way,"  returned  old 
Arthur,  with  a  chuckle,  "  whether  there's  anybody  to 
hear  us  or  not.  Practice  makes  perfect,  you  know. 
Now,  if  I  offer  myself  to  Bray,  as  his  son-in-law,  upon 
one  simple  condition  that  the  moment  I  am  fast  married 
he  shall  be  quietly  released,  and  have  an  allowance  to 
live  just  t'other  side  the  water  like  a  gentleman  (he  can't 


NICHOLAS  NIC  RLE  BY. 


173 


livelong,  for  T  have  asked  his  doctor,  and  he  declares 
that  his  coini)laint  is  one  of  the  Heart  and  it  is  impossi- 
ble), and  if  all  the  advantages  of  this  condition  are  prop- 
erly stated  and  dwelt  upon  to  him,  do  you  think  ho  could 
resist  me?  And  if  he  could  not  resist  we,  do  you  think 
his  daughter  could  resist  liimJ  Shouldn't  I  have  her 
Mrs.  Arthur  Gride — pretty  Mrs.  Arthur  Gride — a  tit-hit 
— a  dainty  chick — shouldn't  I  have  her  Mrs.  Arthur 
Gride  in  a  week,  a  month,  a  day — any  time  I  chose  to 
name?  " 

"Go  on,"  said  Ralph,  nodding  his  head  deliberately, 
and  speaking  in  a  tone  whose  studied  coldness  presented 
a  strange  contrast  to  the  rapturous  squeak  to  which  his 
friend  had  gradually  mounted.  "Go  on.  You  didn't 
come  here  to  ask  me  that." 

"  Oh  dear,  how  you  talk  1"  cried  old  Arthur,  edging 
himself  closer  still  to  Ralph.  "  Of  course,  I  didn't— I 
don't  pretend  I  did  !  I  came  to  ask  what  you  would 
take  from  me,  if  I  prospered  with  the  father,  for  this 
debt  of  yours — five  shillings  in  the  pound — six  and  eight- 
pence — ten  shillings?  I  would  go  as  far  as  ten  for  such 
a  friend  as  you,  we  have  always  been  on  such  good 
terms,  but  you  won't  be  so  hard  upon  me  as  that,  I  know. 
Now,  will  you  ?  " 

"There's  something  more  to  be  told,"  said  Ralph,  as 
stony  and  immovable  as  ever. 

"Yes,  yes,  there  is,  but  you  won't  give  me  time,"  re- 
turned Arthur  Gride.  "  I  want  a  backer  in  this  matter 
— one  who  can  talk,  and  urge,  and  press  a  point,  which 
you  can  do  as  no  man  can.  I  can't  do  that,  for  I  am  a 
poor,  timid,  nervous  creature.  Now,  if  you  get  a  good 
composition  for  this  debt,  which  you  long  ago  gave  up 
for  lost,  you'll  stand  my  friend,  and  help  me.  Won't 
you?" 

"There's  something  more,"  said  Ralph. 

"No,  no,  indeed,"  cried  Arthur  Gride. 

"  Yes,  yes,  indeed.    I  tell  you  yes,"  said  Ralph. 

"Oh  !"  returned  old  Arthur,  feigning  to  be  suddenly 
enlightened.  "  You  mean  something  more,  as  concerns 
myself  and  my  intention.  Ay,  surely,  surely.  Shall  I 
mention  that?" 

"  I  think  you  had  better,"  rejoined  Ralph,  drily. 

"  I  didn't  like  to  trouble  you  with  that,  because  I  sup- 
posed your  interest  would  cease  with  your  own  concern 
in  the  afEair,"  said  Arthur  Gride.  "  That's  kind  of  you 
to  ask.  Oh  dear,  how  very  kind  of  yoa  !  Why,  sup- 
posing I  had  a  knowledge  of  some  proj^erty — some  little 
property — very  little— to  which  this  pretty  chick  was 
entitled  ;  which  nobody  does  or  can  know  of  at  this 
time,  but  which  her  husband  could  sweep  into  his 
pouch,  if  he  knew  as  much  as  I  do,  would  that  account 
for—" 

"  For  the  whole  proceeding,"  rejoined  Ralph,  abruptly. 
"  Now,  let  me  turn  this  matter  over,  and  consider  what 
I  ought  to  have  if  I  should  help  you  to  success," 

"But  don't  be  hard,"  cried  old  Arthur,  raising  his 
hands  with  an  imploring  gesture,  and  speaking  in  a 
tremulous  voice.  "  Don't  be  too  hard  upon  me.  It's  a 
very  small  property,  it  is  indeed.  Say  the  ten  shillings, 
and  we'll  close  the  bargain.  It's  more  than  I  ought"  to 
give,  but  you're  so  kind — shall  we  say  the  ten  ?  Do  now, 
do." 

Ralph  took  no  notice  of  these  supplications,  but  sat 
for  tlu-ee  or  four  minutes  in  a  brown  study,  looking 
thoughtfully  at  the  person  from  whom  they  proceeded. 
After  sufficient  cogitation  he  broke  silence,  and  it  -cer- 
tainly could  not  be  objected  that  he  used  any  needless 
circumlocution,  or  failed  to  speak  directly  to  the  purpose. 

"  If  you  married  this  girl  without  me,"  said  Ralph, 
"you  must  pay  my  debt  in  full,  because  you  couldn't 
set  her  father  free  otherwise.  It's  plain,  then,  that  I 
must  have  the  whole  amount,  clear  of  all  deduction  or 
incumbrance,  or  I  should  lose  from  being  honoured  with 
your  confidence,  instead  of  gaining  by  it.  That's  the 
first  article  of  the  treaty.  For  the  second,  I  shall  stipu- 
late that  for  my  trouble  in  negotiation  and  persuasion, 
and  helping  you  to  this  fortune,  I  have  five  hundred 
pounds — that's  very  little,  because  you  have  the  ripe 
lips,  and  the  clustering  hair,  and  what  not,  all  to  your- 
self. For  the  third  and  last  article,  I  require  that  you  exe- 
cute a  bond  to  me,  this  day,  binding  yourself  in  the  pay- 
ment of  these  two  sums,  before  noon  of  the  day  of  your 


marriage  with  Madeline  Bray.  You  have  told  me  I  can 
urge  and  j)ress  a  point.  1  press  this  one,  and  will  take 
nothing  less  than  these  terms.  Accept  them  if  you  like. 
If  not,  marry  her  without  me  if  you  can.  I  shall  still 
get  my  debt." 

To  ail  entreaties,  protestations,  and  offers  of  compro- 
mise between  his  own  pro^josals  and  those  which  Arthur 
Gride  had  first  suggested,  Ralph  was  deaf  as  an  adder, 
lie  would  enter  into  no  further  discussion  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  while  old  Arthur  dilated  upon  the  (ifiormity  of 
his  demands  and  proposed  modifications  of  them,  ap- 
proaching by  degrees  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  terms  he 
resisted,  sat  perfectly  mute,  looking  with  an  air  of  quiet 
abstraction  over  the  entries  and  papers  in  his  i>ocket- 
book.  Finding  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  any  im- 
pression upon  his  stanch  friend,  Arthur  Gride,  who  had 
prepared  himself  for  some  such  result  before  he  came, 
consented  with  a  heavy  heart  to  the  proposed  treaty,  and 
upon  the  spot  filled  up  the  bond  required  (Ralph  kept 
such  instruments  handy),  after  exacting  the  condition 
that  Mr.  Nickleby  should  accompany  him  to  Bray's  lodg- 
ings that  very  hour,  and  open  the  negotiation  at  once, 
should  circumstances  appear  auspicious  and  favourable 
to  their  designs. 

In  pursuance  of  this  last  understanding  the  worthy 
gentlemen  went  out  together  shortly  afterwards,  and 
Newman  Noggs  emerged,  bottle  in  hand,  from  the  -cup- 
board, out  of  the  upper  door  of  which,  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  detection,  he  had  more  than  once  thrust  his  red 
nose  when  such  parts  of  the  subject  were  under  discus- 
sion as  interested  him  most. 

"  I  have  no  appetite  now,"  said  Newman,  putting  the 
flask  in  his  pocket.    "I've  had  my  dinner." 

Having  delivered  this  observation  in  a  very  grievous 
and  doleful  tone,  Newman  reached  the  door  in  one  long 
limp,  and  came  back  again  in  another. 

"  I  don't  know  who  she  may  be,  or  what  she  maybe," 
he  said  ;  "but  I  pity  her  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  ; 
and  I  can't  help  her,  nor  can  I  any  of  the  people  against 
whom  a  hundred  tricks — but  none  so  vile  as  this — are 
plotted  every  day  !  Well,  that  adds  to  my  pain,  but  not 
to  theirs.  The  thing  is  no  Avorse  because  I  know  it,  and 
it  tortures  me  as  well  as  them.  Gride  and  Nickleby  ! 
Good  pair  for  a  curricle  —  oh  roguery  !  roguery  ! 
roguery  ! " 

With  these  reflections,  and  a  very  hard  knock  on  the 
crown  of  his  unfortunate  hat  at  each  repetition  of  the 
last  word,  Newman  Noggs,  whose  brain  was  a  little  mud- 
dled by  so  much  of  the  contents  of  the  pocket-pistol  as 
had  found  their  w^ay  there  during  his  recent  conceal- 
ment, went  forth  to  seek  such  consolation  as  might  be 
derivable  from  the  beef  and  greens  of  some  cheap  eat- 
ing-house. 

Meanwhile  the  two  plotters  had  betaken  themselves  to 
the  same  house  whither  Nicholas  had  repaired  for  the 
first  time  but  a  few  mornings  before,  and  having  ob- 
tained access  to  Mr.  Bray,  and  found  his  daughter  from 
home,  had  by  a  train  of  the  most  masterly  approaches 
that  Ralph's  utmost  skill  could  frame,  at  length  laid 
open  the  real  object  of  their  visit. 

"  There  he  sits,  JMr.  Bray,"  said  Ralph,  as  the  invalid, 
not  yet  recovered  from  his  surprise,  reclined  in  his 
chair,  looking  alternately  at  him  and  Arthur  Gride. 
"  What  if  he  has  had  the  ill  fortune  to  be  one  cause  of 
your  detention  in  this  place — I  have  been  another  ;  men 
must  live  ;  you  are  too  much  a  man  of  the  world  not  to 
see  that  in  its  true  light.  We  offer  the  best  reparation 
in  our  power.  Reparation  !  Here  is  an  offer  of  mar- 
riage, that  many  a  titled  father  would  leap  at,  for  his 
child.  Mr.  Arthur  Gride,  with  the  fortime  of  a  prince. 
Think  what  a  haul  it  is  !  " 

"  My  daughter,  sir,"  returned  Bray,  haughtily,  "as  / 
have  brought  her  up,  would  be  a  rich  recompense  for 
the  largest  fortune  that  a  man  could  bestow  in  exchange 
for  her  hand." 

"  Precisely  what  I  told  vou,"  said  the  artful  Ralph, 
turning  to  his  friend,  old  Arthur.  "  Precisely  what 
made  me  consider  the  thing  so  fair  and  easy.  There  is 
no  obligation  on  either  side.  You  have  money,  and  Miss 
Madeline  has  beauty  and  worth.  She  has  youth,  you 
have  money.  She  has  not  money,  you  have  not  youth. 
Tit  for  tat — quits — a  match  of  Heaven's  own  making  !  " 


174 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WOIiKS 


"Matches  are  made  in  Heaven,  they  say,"  added  Ar- 
thur Gride,  leering  hideously  at  the  father-in-law  he 
wanted.  "  If  we  are  married,  it  will  be  destiny,  accord- 
ing to  that." 

"  Then  think,  Mr.  Bray,"  said  Ralph,  hastily  substi- 
tuting for  this  argument  considerations  more  nearly 
allied  to  earth.  "  Think  what  a  stake  is  involved  in  the 
acceptance  or  rejection  of  these  proposals  of  my  friend — " 

"How  can  I  accept  or  reject,"  interrupted  Mr.  Bray, 
with  an  irritable  consciousness  that  it  really  rested  with 
him  to  decide.  "  It  is  for  my  daughter  to  accept  or  re- 
ject ;  it  is  for  my  daughter.    You  know  that." 

"  True,"  said  Ralph,  emphatically  ;  "  but  you  have 
still  the  power  to  advise  ;  to  state  the  reasons  for  and 
against  ;  to  hint  a  wish." 

"To  hint  a  wish,  sir  1 "  returned  the  debtor,  proud 
and  mean  by  turns,  and  selfish  at  all  times.  "  I  am  her 
father,  am  I  not  ?  Why  should  I  hint,  and  beat  about 
the  bush  ?  Do  you  suppose,  like  her  mother's  friends 
and  my  enemies — a  curse  upon  them  all — that  there  is 
anything  in  what  she  has  done  for  me  but  duty,  sir,  but 
duty  ?  Or  do  you  think  that  my  having  been  unfortu- 
nate is  a  sufficient  reason  why  our  relative  positions 
should  be  changed,  and  that  she  should  command  and  I 
should  obey?  Hint  a  wish,  too  !  Perhaps  you  think  be- 
cause you  see  me  in  this  place  and  scarcely  able  to  leave 
this  chair  without  assistance,  that  I  am  some  broken- 
spirited  dependent  creature,  without  the  courage  or 
power  to  do  what  I  may  think  best  for  my  own  child. 
Still  the  power  to  hint  a  wish  !    I  hope  so! " 

"  Pardon  me,"  returned  Ralph,  who  thoroughly  knew 
his  man,  and  had  taken  his  ground  accordingly  ;  "  you  do 
not  hear  me  out.  I  was  about  to  say  that  your  hinting 
a  wish — even  hinting  a  wish — would  surely  be  equiva- 
lent to  commanding." 

"  Why,  of  course  it  would,"  retorted  Mr.  Bray,  in  an 
exasperated  tone.  ' '  If  you  don't  happen  to  have  heard 
of  the  time,  sir,  I  tell  you  that  there  was  a  time,  when 
I  carried  every  point  in  triumph  against  her  mother's 
whole  family,  although  they  had  power  and  wealth  on 
their  side— by  my  will  alone." 

"  Still,"  rejoined  Ralph,  as  mildly  as  his  nature  would 
allow  him,  "you  have  not  heard  me  out.  You  are  a 
man  yet  qualified  to  shine  in  society,  with  many  years 
of  life  before  3'ou — that  is,  if  you  lived  in  freer  air,  and 
under  brighter  skies,  and  chose  your  own  companions. 
Gaiety  is  your  element,  you  have  shone  in  it  before. 
Fashion  and  freedom  for  you.  France,  and  an  annuity 
that  would  support  you  there  in  luxury,  would  give  you 
a  new  lease  of  life — transfer  you  to  a  new  existence. 
The  town  rang  with  your  expensive  pleasures  once,  and 
you  could  blaze  up  on  a  new  scene  again,  profiting  by  ex- 
perience, and  living  a  little  at  other's  cost,  instead  of  let- 
ting others  live  at  yours.  What  is  there  on  the  reverse 
side  of  the  picture  ?  What  is  there  ?  I  don't  know 
which  is  the  nearest  churchyard,  but  a  gravestone  there, 
wherever  it  is,  and  a  date — perhaps  two  years  hence, 
perhaps  twenty.    That's  all." 

Mr.  Bray  rested  his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and 
shaded  his  face  with  his  hand. 

"I  speak  plainly,"  said  Ralph,  sitting  down  beside 
him,  "  because  I  feel  strongly.  It's  my  interest  that  you 
should  marry  your  daughter  to  my  friend  Gride,  because 
then  he  sees  me  paid — in  part,  that  is.  I  don't  disguise 
it.  I  acknowledge  it  openly.  But  what  interest  have 
you  in  recommending  her  to  such  a  step?  Keep  that  in 
view.  She  might  object,  remonstrate,  shed  tears,  talk 
of  his  being  too  old,  and  plead  that  her  life  M'ould  be  ren- 
dered miserable.    But  what  is  it  now  ?  " 

Several  slight  gestures  on  the  part  of  the  invalid, 
showed  that  these  arguments  were  no  more  lost  upon 
him,  than  the  smallest  iota  of  his  demeanour  was  upon 
Ralph. 

"  What  is  it  now,  I  say,"  pursued  the  wily  usurer, 
"  or  what  has  it  a  chance  of  being  ?  If  you  died,  indeed, 
the  people  you  hate  would  make  her  happy.  But  can 
you  bear  the  thought  of  that?" 

"  No  !  "  returned  Bray,  urged  by  a  vindictive  impulse 
he  could  not  repress. 

"  I  should  imagine  not,  indeed  !"  said  Ralph,  quietly, 
"If  she  profits  by  anybody's  death,"  this  was  said  in  a 
lower  tone,  "let  it  be  by  her  husband's — don't  let  her 


have  to  look  back  to  yours,  as  the  event  from  which  to 
date  a  happier  life.  Where  is  the  objection  ?  Let  me 
hear  it  stated.  What  is  it  ?  That  her  suitor  is  an  old 
man.  Why,  how  often  do  men  of  family  and  fortune, 
who  haven't  your  excuse,  but  have  all  the  means  and  su- 
perfluities of  life  within  their  reach — how  often  do  they 
marry  their  daughters  to  old  men,  or  (worse  still)  to 
young  men  without  heads  or  hearts,  to  tickle  some  idle 
vanity,  strengthen  some  family  interest,  or  secure  some 
seat  in  Parliament !  Judge  for  her,  sir,  judge  for  her. 
You  must  know  best,  and  she  will  live  to  thank  you." 

"Hush  !  hush  I"  cried  Mr.  Bray,  suddenly  starting 
up,  and  covering  Ralph's  mouth  with  his  trembling 
hand.    "  I  hear  her  at  the  door  !  " 

There  was  a  gleam  of  conscience  in  the  shame  and 
terror  of  this  hasty  action,  which,  in  one  short  moment, 
tore  the  thin  covering  of  sophistry  from  the  cruel  de- 
sign, and  laid  it  bare  in  all  its  meanness  and  heartless 
deformity.  The  father  fell  into  his  chair  pale  and  trem- 
bling ;  Arthur  Gride  plucked  and  fumbled  at  his  hat, 
and  durst  not  raise  his  eyes  from  the  floor  ;  even  Ralph 
crouched  for  the  moment  like  a  beaten  hound,  cowed  by 
the  presence  of  one  young  innocent  girl  ! 

The  effect  was  almost  as  brief  as  sudden.    Ralph  was 
1  the  first  to  recover  himself,  and  observing  Madeline's 
looks  of  alarm,  entreated  the  poor  girl  to  be  composed, 
assuring  her  that  there  was  no  cause  for  fear. 

"  A  sudden  spasm,"  said  Ralph,  glancing  at  Mr,  Bray. 
"He  is  quite  well  now." 

It  might  have  moved  a  very  hard  and  worldly  heart  to 
see  the  young  and  beautiful  creature,  whose  certain 
misery  they  had  been  contriving  but  a  minute  before, 
throw  her  arms  about  her  father's  neck,  and  pour  forth 
words  of  tender  sympathy  and  love,  the  sweetest  a 
father's  ear  can  know,  or  child's  lips  form.  But  Ralph 
looked  coldly  on  ;  and  Arthur  Gride,  whose  bleared  eyes 
!  gloated  only  over  the  outward  beauties,  and  were  blind 
to  the  spirit  which  reigned  within,  evinced— a  fantastic 
kind  of  warmth  certainly,  but  not  exactly  that  kind  of 
warmth  of  feeling  which  the  contemplation  of  virtue 
usually  inspires, 

"Madeline,"  said  her  father,  gently  disengaging  him- 
self, "it  was  nothing." 

"But  you  had  that  spasm  yesterday,  and  it  is  terrible 
to  see  you  in  such  pain.    Can  I  do  nothing  for  you?" 

"Nothing  just  now.  Here  are  two  gentlemen,  Made- 
line, one  of  whom  jom  have  seen  before.  She  used  to 
say,"  added  Mr.  Bray,  addressing  Arthur  Gride,  "  that 
the  sight  of  you  always  made  me  worse.  That  was  nat- 
ural, knowing  what  she  did,  and  only  what  she  did,  of 
our  connection  and  its  results.  Well,  well.  Perhaps 
I  she  may  change  her  mind  on  that  point ;  girls  have  leave 
to  change  their  minds,  you  know.  You  are  very  tired, 
my  dear." 

"  I  am  not,  indeed." 

"  Indeed  you  are.    You  do  too  much.** 

"I  wish  I  could  do  more." 

"  I  know  you  do,  but  you  overtask  your  strength. 
This  wretched  life,  my  love,  of  daily  labour  and  fatigue, 
is  more  than  you  can  bear,  I  am  sure  it  is.  Poor  Made- 
line ! " 

With  these  and  many  more  kind  words,  Mr,  Bray  drew 
his  daughter  to  him  and  kissed  her  cheek  affectionately. 
Ralph,  watching  him  sharply  and  closely  in  the  mean- 
:  time,  made  his  way  towards  the  door,  and  signed  to 
I  Gride  to  follow  him. 

"  You  will  communicate  with  us  again?*'  said  Ralph. 

"Yes,  yes,"  returned  Mr,  Bray,  hastily  thrusting  his 
daughter  aside.    "  In  a  week.    Give  me  a  week." 

"One  week,"  said  Ralph,  turning  to  his  companion, 
"from  to-day.  Good  morning.  Miss  Madeline,  I  kiss 
your  hand." 

"We  will  shake  hands,  Gride,"  said  Mr.  Bray,  ex- 
tending his,  as  old  Arthur  bowed.  "  You  mean  well,  no 
doubt.  I  am  bound  to  say  so  now.  If  I  owed  you  mo- 
ney, that  was  not  your  fault.  Madeline,  my  love — your 
hand  here." 

' '  Oh  dear  !  If  the  young  lady  would  condescend — only 
the  tips  of  her  fingers" — said  Arthur,  hesitating  and  half 
retreating. 

Madeline  shrunk  involuntarily  from  the  goblin  figure, 
but  she  placed  the  tips  of  her  fingers  in  his  hand  and  in- 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


175 


stantly  withdrew  them.  After  an  ineffectual  clutch,  in- 
tended to  detain  and  carry  them  to  his  lips,  old  Arthur 
gave  his  own  lingers  a  mumbling  kiss,  and  with  many 
amorous  distoitions  of  visage  went  in  pursuit  of  his 
friend,  who  was  by  this  time  in  the  street. 

"What  does  he  say,  what  does  he  say — what  does  the 
giant  say  to  the  pigmy?"  inquired  Arthur  (iride,  hob- 
bling up  to  Ralph. 

"What  does  the  pigmy  say  to  the  giant? "  rejoined 
Ralph,  elevating  his  eyebrows  and  looking  down  upon 
his  questioner. 

**  He  doesn't  know  what  to  say,"  replied  Arthur  Gride. 
"He  hopes  and  fears.    But  is  she  not  a  dainty  morsel ?" 

"  I  have  no  great  taste  for  beauty,"  growled  Ralph. 

"But  I  have,"  rejoined  Arthur,  rubbing  his  hands. 
"  Oh  dear  !  How  handsome  her  ey«s  looked  when  she 
was  stooping  over  him— such  long  lashes — such  delicate 
fringe  I    She — she — looked  at  me  so  soft." 

"Not  over  lovingly,  I  think?"  said  Ralph.  "Did 
she  ?  " 

"  No  you  think  not ? "  replied  old  Arthur.  "But  don't 
you  think  it  can  be  brought  about — don't  you  think  it 
can  ?  " 

Ralph  looked  at  him  with  a  contemptuous  frown,  and 
replied  with  a  sneer,  and  between  his  teeth — 

"  Did  you  mark  his  telling  her  she  was  tired  and  did 
too  much,  and  over-tasked  her  strength  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay.    What  of  it?" 

"  VVhen  do  you  think  he  ever  told  her  that  before? 
The  life  is  more  than  she  can  bear.  Yes,  yes.  He'll 
change  it  for  her." 

"D'ye think  it's  done?"  inquired  old  Arthur,  peering 
into  his  companion's  face  with  half-closed  eyes. 

"  I  am  sure  it's  done,"  said  Ralph.  "  He  is  trying  to 
deceive  himself,  even  before  our  eyes,  already — making 
believe  that  he  thinks  of  her  good  and  not  his  own — act- 
ing a  virtuous  part,  and  so  considerate  and  affectionate, 
sir,  that  the  daughter  scarcely  knew  him.  I  saw  a  tear 
of  surprise  in  her  eye.  There'll  be  a  few  more  tears  of 
surprise  there  before  long,  though  of  a  different  kind. 
Oh  !  we  may  wait  with  confidence  for  this  day  week." 


CHAPTER  XLVni. 

Bang  for  the  Benefit  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  and  Positively  his  last 
Appearance  on  this  Stage. 

It  was  with  a  very  sad  and  heavy  heart,  oppressed  by 
many  painful  ideas,  that  Nicholas  retraced  his  steps 
eastward  and  betook  himself  to  the  counting-house  of 
Cheeryble  Brothers.  Whatever  the  idle  hopes  he  had 
suffered  himself  to  entertain,  whatever  the  pleasant  vi- 
sions which  had  sprung  up  in  his  mind  and  grouped  them- 
selves round  the  fair  image  of  Madeline  Bray,  they  were 
now  dispelled,  and  not  a  vestige  of  their  gaie^  and 
brightness  remained. 

It  would  be  a  poor  compliment  to  Nicholas's  better 
nature,  and  one  which  he  was  very  far  from  deserving, 
to  insinuate  that  the  solution,  and  such  a  solution,  of  the 
mystery  which  had  seemed  to  surround  Madeline  Bray, 
when  he  was  ignorant  even  of  her  name,  had  damped  his 
ardour  or  cooled  the  fervour  of  his  admiration.  If  he 
had  regarded  her  before,  with  such  a  passion  as  young 
men  attracted  by  mere  beauty  and  elegance  may  enter- 
tain, he  was  now  conscious  of  much  deeper  and  stronger 
feelings.  But  reverence  for  the  truth  and  purity  of  her 
heart,  respect  for  the  helplessness  and  loneliness  of  her 
situation,  sympathy  with  the  trials  of  one  so  young  and 
fair,  and  admiration  of  her  great  and  noble  spirit,  all 
seemed  to  raise  her  far  above  his  reach,  and  while  they 
imparted  new  depth  and  dignity  to  his  love,  to  whisper 
that  it  was  hopeless. 

"I  will  keep  my  word,  as  I  have  pledged  it  to  her," 
said  Nicholas,  manfully.  "  This  is  no  common  trust 
that  I  have  to  discharge,  and  I  will  perform  the  double 
duty  that  is  imposed  upon  me  most  scrupulously  and 
strictly.  My  secret  feelings  deserve  no  consideration  in 
such  a  case  as  this,  and  they  shall  have  none." 

Still,  there  were  the  secret  feelings  in  existence  just 
the  same,  and  in  secret  Nicholas  rather  encouraged  them 
thau  otherwise  ;  reasoning  (if  he  reasoned  at  all)  that 


there  they  could  do  no  harm  to  anybody  but  hinisolf,  and 
that  if  he  kept  them  to  himself  from  a  sense  of  duty,  he 
hud  an  additional  right  to  entertain  himself  with  thein 
as  a  reward  for  his  heroism. 

All  these  thoughts,  coupled  with  what  he  had  seen 
that  morning  and  the  anticipation  of  his  next  visit,  ren- 
dered him  a  very  dull  and  abstracted  companion  ;  so  much 
so,  indeed,  that  Tim  Linkinwater  suspected  that  he  must 
have  made  the  mistake  of  a  figure  somewhere,  which 
was  preying  upon  his  mind,  and  seriously  conjured  him, 
if  such  were  the  case,  to  make  a  clean  breast  and  scratch 
it  out,  rather  than  have  his  whole  life  embittered  by  the 
tortures  of  remorse. 

But  in  reply  to  these  considerate  representations,  and 
many  others,  both  from  Tim  and  Mr.  Frank,  Nicholas 
could  only  be  brought  to  state  that  he  was  never  merrier 
in  his  life  ;  and  so  went  on  all  day,  and  so  went  towards 
home  at  night,  still  turning  over  and  over  again  the  same 
subjects,  thinking  over  and  over  again  the  same  things, 
and  arriving  over  and  over  again  at  the  same  conclusions. 

In  this  pensive,  wayward,  and  uncertain  state,  people 
are  apt  to  lounge  and  loiter  without  knowing  wliy,  to 
read  placards  on  the  walls  with  great  attention  and  with- 
out the  smallest  idea  of  one  word  of  their  contents,  and 
to  stare  most  earnestly  through  shop-windows  at  things 
which  they  don't  see.  It  was  thus  that  Nicholas  found 
himself  poring  with  the  utmost  interest  over  a  large 
play-bill  hanging  outside  a  Minor  Theatre  which  he  had 
to  pass  on  his  way  home,  and  reading  a  list  of  the  actors 
and  actresses  who  had  promised  to  do  honour  to  some 
approaching  benefit,  with  as  much  gravity  as  if  it  had 
been  a  catalogue  of  the  names  of  those  ladies  and  gentle- 
men who  stood  highest  upon  the  Book  of  Fate,  and  he 
had  been  looking  anxiously  for  his  own.  He  glanced  at 
the  top  of  the  bill,  with  a  smile  at  his  own  dulness,  as  he 
prepared  to  resume  his  walk,  and  there  saw  announced, 
in  large  letters  with  a  large  space  between  each  of  them, 
"Positively  the  last  appearance  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crum- 
mies of  Provincial  Celebrity  !  !  !  " 

"  Nonsense  I "  said  Nicholas,  turning  back  again.  "  It 
can't  be." 

But  there  it  was.  In  one  line  by  itself  was  an  an- 
nouncement of  the  first  night  of  a  new  melo-drama  ;  in 
another  line  by  itself  was  an  announcement  of  the  last 
six  nights  of  an  old  one  ;  a  third  line  was  devoted  to  the 
re- engagement  of  the  unrivalled  African  Knife-swal- 
low^er,  who  had  kindly  suffered  himself  to  be  prevailed 
upon  to  forego  his  country  engagements  for  one  week 
longer  ;  a  fourth  line  announced  that  Mr.  Snittle  Tim- 
berry,  having  recovered  from  his  late  severe  indisposi- 
tion, would  have  the  honor  of  appearing  that  evening  ; 
a  fifth  line  said  that  there  were  "Cheers,  Tears,  and 
Laughter  !  "  every  night  ;  a  sixth,  that  that  was  posi- 
tively the  last  appearance  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  of 
Provincial  Celebrity. 

"  Surely  it  must  be  the  same  man,"  thought  Nicholas. 
"  There  can't  be  two  Vincent  Crummleses." 

The  better  to  settle  this  question  he  referred  to  the 
bill  again,  and  finding  that  there  was  a  Baron  in  the  first 
piece,  and  that  Roberto  (his  son)  was  enacted  by  one 
Master  Crummies,  and  Spaletro  (his  nepheAv)  by  one 
Master  Percy  Crummies— ^/i^zV  last  appearances — and 
that,  incidental  to  the  piece,  was  a  characteristic  dance 
by  the  characters,  and  a  castanet  pas  seul  by  the  Infant 
Phenomenon — Jier  last  appearance — he  no  longer  enter- 
tained any  doubt ;  and  presenting  himself  at  the  stage 
door,  and  sending  in  a  scrap  of  paper  with  '-Mr.  John- 
son "  written  thereon  in  pencil,  was  presently  conducted 
by  a  Robber,  with  a  very  large  belt  and  buckle  round  his 
waist,  and  very  large  leather  gauntlets  on  his  hands,  into 
the  presence  of  his  former  manager. 

Mr.  Crummies  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  him,  and 
starting  up  from  before  a  small  dressing- glass,  with  one 
very  bushy  eve  brow  stuck  on  crooked  over  his  left  eye, 
and  the  fellow  eyebrow  and  the  calf  of  one  of  his  legs  in 
his  hand,  embraced  him  cordially  ;  at  the  same  time  ob- 
serving, that  it  would  do  Mrs.  Crummles's  heart  good  to 
bid  him  good-bye  before  they  went. 

"You  were  always  a  favourite  of  hers,  Johnson,"  said 
Crummies,  "always  were  from  the  first.  I  was  quite 
easy  in  my  mind  about  you  from  that  first  day  you  dined 
with  us.    One  that  Mrs.  Crummies  took  a  fancy  to,  was 


176. 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


sure  to  turn  out  right.  All !  Johnson,  what  a  woman 
that  is  ! " 

**  I  am  sincerely  obliged  to  her  for  her  kindness  in  this 
and  all  other  respects,"  said  Nicholas.  "But  where  are 
you  going,  that  you  talk  about  bidding  good-bye  ?" 

"  Haven't  you  seen  it  in  the  papers?  "  said  Crummies, 
with  some  dignity. 

*'No,"  replied  Nicholas. 

*'  I  wonder  at  that,"  said  the  manager,  "  It  was  among 
the  varieties.  I  had  the  paragraph  here  somewhere — 
but  I  don't  know — oh  yes,  here  it  is." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Crummies,  after  pretending  that  he 
thought  he  must  have  lost  it,  produced  a  square  inch  of 
newspaper  from  the  pocket  of  the  pantaloons  he  wore 
in  private  life  (which  together  with  the  plain  clothes  of 
several  other  gentlemen,  lay  scattered  about  on  a  kind 
of  dresser  in  the  room),  and  gave  it  to  Nicholas  to 
read  : — 

"The  talented  Vincent  Crummies,  long  favourably 
known  to  fame  as  a  country  manager  and  actor  of  no 
ordinary  pretensions,  is  about  to  cross  the  Atlantic  on  a 
histrionic  expedition.  Crummies  is  to  be  accompanied, 
we  hear,  by  his  lady  and  gifted  family.  We  know  no 
man  superior  to  Crummies  in  his  particular  line  of  char- 
acter, or  one  who,  whether  as  a  public  or  private  indi- 
vidual, could  carry  with  him  the  best  wishes  of  a  larger 
circle  of  friends.    Crummies  is  certain  to  succeed." 

"Here's  another  bit,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  handing 
over  a  still  smaller  scrap.  "  This  is  from  the  notices  to 
correspondents,  this  one." 

Nicholas  read  it  aloud.  "  '  Philo-Dramaticus. — Crum- 
mies, the  country  manager  and  actor,  cannot  be  more 
than  forty-three,  or  forty-four  years  of  age.  Crummies 
is  NOT  a  Prussian,  having  been  born  at  Chelsea.'  Humph  ! " 
said  Nicholas,  "that's  an  odd  paragraph." 

"Very,"  returned  Crummies,  scratching  the  side  of 
his  nose,  and  looking  at  Nicholas  with  an  assumption  of 
great  unconcern.  "  I  can't  think  who  puts  these  things 
in.  /didn't." 

Still  keeping  his  eye  on  Nicholas,  Mr.  Crummies  shook 
his  head  twice  or  thrice  with  profound  gravity,  and  re- 
marking, that  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  imagine 
how  the  newspapers  found  out  the  things  they  did,  folded 
up  the  extracts  and  put  them  in  his  pocket  again. 

"I  am  astonished  to  hear  this  news,"  said  Nicholas. 
"  Going  to  America  1  You  had  no  such  thing  in  contem- 
plation when  I  was  with  you." 

"No,"  replied  Crummies,  "I  hadn't  then.  The  fact 
is  that  Mrs.  Crummies  —  most  extraordinary  woman, 
Johnson  " — here  he  broke  off  and  whispered  something 
in  his  ear. 

"Oh  !"  said  Nicholas,  smiling.  "The  prospect  of  an 
addition  to  your  family  ?  " 

"  The  seventh  addition,  Johnson,"  returned  Mr.  Crum- 
mies, solemnly.  "I  thought  such  a  child  as  the  Phenom- 
enon must  have  been  a  closer ;  but  it  seems  we  are  to 
have  another.    She  is  a  very  remarkable  woman." 

"I  congratulate  you,"  said  Nicholas,  "and  I  hope  this 
may  prove  a  phenomenon  too." 

"  Why,  it's  pretty  sure  to  be  something  uncommon,  I 
suppose,"  rejoined  Mr.  Crummies.  "The  talent  of  the 
other  three  is  jn'incipally  in  combat  and  serious  panto- 
mime. I  should  like  this  one  to  have  a  turn  for  juvenile 
tragedy  ;  I  understand  they  want  something  of  that  sort 
in  America  very  much.  However,  we  must  take  it  as  it 
comes.  Perhaps  it  may  have  a  genius  for  the  tight- 
rope. It  may  have  any  sort  of  genius,  in  short,  if  it 
takes  after  its  mother,  Johnson,  for  she  is  an  universal 
genius  ;  but  whatever  its  genius  is,  that  genius  shall  be 
developed." 

Expressing  himself  after  these  terms,  Mr.  Crummies 
put  on  his  otlier  eyebrow,  and  the  calves  of  his  legs,  and 
then  put  on  his  legs,  which  were  of  a  yellowish  flesh- 
colour,  and  ratJier  soiled  about  the  knees,  from  frequent 
going  down  upon  those  joints,  in  curses,  prayers,  last 
struggles,  and  other  strong  ])assages. 

Wliile  the  ex-manager  completed  his  toilet,  he  in- 
formed Nicholas  that  as  he  should  have  a  fair  start  in 
America,  from  tlie  proceeds  of  a  tolerably  good  engage- 
ment which  he  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  obtain,  and 
as  he  and  Mrs.  Crummies  could  scarcely  hoi)e  to  act  for 
ever — not  being  immortal,  except  in  the  breath  of  Fame 


and  in  a  figurative  sense — he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
settle  there  permanently,  in  the  hope  of  acquiring  some 
land  of  his  own  which  would  support  them  in  their  old 
age,  and  which  they  could  afterwards  bequeath  to  their 
children.  Nicholas,  having  highly  commended  this 
resolution,  Mr.  Crummies  went  on  to  impart  such  fur- 
ther intelligence  relative  to  their  mutual  friends  as  he 
thought  might  prove  interesting  ;  informing  Nicholas, 
among  other  things,  that  Miss  Snevellicci  was  happily 
married  to  an  affluent  young  wax-chandler  who  had  sup- 
plied the  theatre  with  candles,  and  that  Mr.  Lillyvick 
didn't  dare  to  say  his  soul  was  his  own,  such  was  the 
tyrannical  sway  of  Mrs.  Lillyvick,  who  reigned  para- 
mount and  supreme. 

Nicholas  responded  to  this  confidence  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Crummies,  by  confiding  to  him  his  own  name,  situa- 
tion, and  prospects,  and  informing  him  in  as  few  general 
words  as  he  could,  of  the  circumstances  which  had  led 
to  their  first  acquaintance.  After  congratulating  him 
with  great  heartiness  on  the  improved  state  of  his  for- 
tunes, Mr.  Crummies  gave  him  to  understand  that  next 
morning  he  and  his  were  to  start  for  Liverpool,  where 
the  vessel  lay  which  was  to  carry  them  from  the  shores 
of  England,  and  that  if  Nicholas  wished  to  take  a  last 
adieu  of  Mrs.  Crummies,  he  must  repair  with  him  that 
night  to  a  farewell-supper,  given  in  honour  of  the 
family  at  a  neighbouring  tavern  ;  at  which  Mr.  Snittle 
Timberry  would  preside,  while  the  honours  of  the  vice- 
chair  would  be  sustained  by  the  African  Swallower. 

The  room  being  by  this  time  very  warm  and  somewhat 
crowded,  in  consequence  of  the  influx  of  four  gentlemen, 
who  had  just  killed  each  other  in  the  piece  under  repre- 
sentation, Nicholas  accepted  the  invitation,  and  promised 
to  return  at  the  conclusion  of  the  performances  ;  prefer- 
ring the  cool  air  and  twilight  out  of  doors  to  the  mingled 
perfume  of  gas,  orange-peel,  and  gunpowder,  which  per- 
vaded the  hot  and  glaring  theatre. 

He  availed  himself  of  this  interval  to  buy  a  silver 
snuff-box — the  best  his  funds  would  afford — as  a  token 
of  remembrance  for  Mr.  Crummies,  and  having  pur- 
chased besides  a  pair  of  ear-rings  for  Mrs.  Crummies,  a 
necklace  for  the  Phenomenon,  and  a  flaming  shirt-pin  for 
each  of  the  young  gentlemen,  he  refreshed  himself  with 
a  walk,  and  returning  a  little  after  the  appointed  time, 
found  the  lights  out,  the  theatre  empty,  the  curtain 
raised  for  the  night,  and  Mr.  Crummies  walking  up  and 
down  the  stage  expecting  his  arrival. 

"  Timberry  won't  be  long,"  said  Mr.  Crummies.  "  He 
played  the  audience  out  to-night.  He  does  a  faithful 
black  in  the  last  piece,  and  it  takes  him  a  little  longer  to 
wash  himself." 

"  A  very  unpleasant  line  of  character,  I  should  think  ?  " 
said  Nicholas. 

"  No,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr,  Crummies  ;  "  it  comes 
off  easily  enough,  and  there's  only  the  face  and  neck. 
We  had  a  first-tragedy  man  in  our  company  once,  who, 
when  he  played  Othello,  used  to  black  himself  all  over. 
But  that's  feeling  a  part  and  going  into  it  as  if  you 
meant  it ;  it  isn't  usual — more's  the  pity," 

Mr.  Snittle  Timberry  now  appeared,  arm  in  arm 
with  the  African  Swaliower,  and,  being  introduced  to 
Nicholas,  raised  his  hat  half-a-foot,  and  said  he  was 
proud  to  know  him.  The  Swallower  said  the  same,  and 
looked  and  spoke  remarkably  like  an  Irishman. 

"  I  see  by  the  bills  that  you  have  been  ill,  sir,"  said 
Nicholas  to  Mr.  Timberry.  "  I  hope  you  are  none  the 
worse  for  your  exertions  to-night?" 

Mr.  Timberry  in  reply,  shook  his  head  with  a  gloomy 
air,  tapped  his  chest  several  times  with  great  significancy, 
and  drawing  his  cloak  more  closely  about  him,  said, 
"  But  no  matter — no  matter.    Come  !  " 

It  is  observable  that  when  people  upon  the  stage  are 
in  any  strait  involving  the  very  last  extremity  of  weak- 
ness and  exhaustion,  they  invariably  perform  feats  of 
strength  requiring  great  ingenuity  and  muscular  power. 
Thus  a  wounded  prince  or  bandit-chief,  who  is  bleeding 
to  death  and  too  faint  to  move,  except  to  the  softest 
music  (and  then  only  upon  his  hands  and  knees),  shall 
be  seen  to  approach  a  cottage  door  for  aid,  in  such  a  se- 
ries of  writhings  and  twistings,  and  with  such  curlings  up 
of  the  legs,  and  such  rollings  over  and  over,  and  such  get- 
tings  up  and  tumblings  down  again,  as  could  never  be 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


177 


achieved  save  by  a  very  strong  man  skilled  in  posture- 
making.  And  so  natural  did  this  sort  of  performance 
ccme  to  Mr.  Snittle  Timberry,  that  on  their  way  out  of 
the  theatre  and  towards  the  tavern  where  the  supper 
was  to  be  holden,  he  testified  the  severity  of  his  recent 
indisposition  and  its  wasting  etTects  upon  tbe  nervous 
system,  by  a  series  of  gymnastic  performances,  which 
were  the  admiration  of  all  witnesses. 

"  Why  this  is  indeed  a  joy  I  had  not  looked  for?" 
said  Mrs.  Crummies,  when  Nicholas  was  presented. 

"  Nor  I,"  replied  Nicholas.  "It  is  by  a  mere  chance 
that  I  have  this  opportunity  of  seeing  you,  although  I 
would  have  made  a  great  exertion  to  have  availed  my- 
self of  it." 

"  Here  is  one  whom  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies, 
thrusting  forward  the  Phenomenon  in  a  blue  gauze  frock, 
extensively  flounced,  and  trousers  of  the  same;  "and 
here  another — and  another,"  presenting  the  Master 
Crummleses.  '*  And  how  is  your  friend,  the  faithful 
.T>igby  ?  " 

"  Digby  ! "  said  Nicholas,  forgetting  at  he  instant 
that  this  had  been  Smike's  theatrical  name.  "  Oh  yes. 
He's  quite — what  am  I  saying? — he  is  very  far  from 
well." 

"  How  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crummels,  with  a  tragic  re- 
coil. 

"I  fear,"  said  Nicholas,  shaking  his  head,  and  mak- 
ing an  attempt  to  smile,  "  that  your  better-half  would 
be  more  struck  with  him  now,  than  ever. " 

"  What  mean  you  ? "  rejoined  Mrs.  Crummies,  in  her 
most  popular  manner.  "Whence  comes  this  altered 
tone  ? " 

"I  mean  that  a  dastardly  enemy  of  mine,  has  struck 
at  me,  through  him,  and  that  while  he  thinks  to  torture 
me,  he  inflicts  on  him  such  agonies  of  terror  and  sus- 
pense as — You  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure,"  said  Nicho- 
las, checking  himself.  "  I  should  never  speak  of  this, 
and  never  do,  except  to  those  who  know  the  facts,  but 
for  a  moment  I  forgot  myself." 

With  this  hasty  apology  Nicholas  stooped  down  to 
salute  the  Phenomenon,  and  changed  the  subject ;  in- 
wardly cursing  his  precipitation,  and  very  much  won- 
dering what  Mrs.  Crummies  must  think  of  so  sudden  an 
explosion. 

That  lady  seemed  to  think  very  little  about  it,  for  the 
supper  being  by  this  time  on  table,  she  gave  her  hand 
to  Nicholas  and  repaired  with  a  stately  step  to  the  left 
hand  of  Mr.  Snittle  Timberry.  Nicholas  had  the  hon- 
our to  support  her,  and  Mr.  Crummies  was  placed  upon 
the  chairman's  right ;  the  Phenomenon  and  the  Masters 
Crummleses  sustained  the  vice. 

The  company  amounted  in  number  to  some  twenty-five 
or  thirty,  being  composed  of  such  members  of  the  the- 
atrical profession,  then  engaged  or  disengaged  in  Lon- 
don, as  were  numbered  among  the  most  intimate  friends 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crummies.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen 
were  pretty  equally  balanced;  the. expenses  of  the  en- 
tertainment being  defrayed  by  the  latter,  each  of  whom 
had  the  privilege  of  inviting  one  of  the  former  as  his 
guest. 

It  was  upon  the  whole  a  very  distinguished  party,  for 
independently  of  the  lesser  theatrical  lights  who  clus- 
tered on  this  occasion  round  Mr.  Snittle  Timberry,  there 
was  a  literary  gentleman  present  who  had  dramatised  in 
his  time  two  hundred  and  forty-seven  novels  as  fast  as 
they  had  come  out— some  of  them  faster  than  they 
had  come  out — and  was  a  literary  gentleman  in  conse- 
quence. 

This  gentleman  sat  on  the  left  hand  of  Nicholas,  to 
whom  he  was  introduced  by  his  friend  the  African  Swal- 
lower,  from  the  bottom  of  the  table,  with  a  high  eulo- 
gium  upon  his  fame  and  reputation. 

"  I  am  happy  to  know  a  gentleman  of  such  great  dis- 
tinction," said  Nicholas  politely. 

"Sir,"  replied  the  wit,  "you're  very  welcome,  I'm 
sure.  The  honour  is  reciprocal,  sir,  as  I  usually  say 
when  I  dramatise  a  book.  Did  you  ever  hear  a  definition 
of  fame,  sir?" 

"I  have  heard  several,"  replied  Nicholas,  with  a 
1  smile.    "  What  is  yours  ?  " 

,     "  When  I  dramati.se  a  book,  sir,"  said  the  literary 
\  gentleman,  "  thaVn  fame— for  its  author." 
i  Vol.  II.— 13 


"  Oh,  indeed  !  "  rejoined  Nichola.s. 

"  That's  fame,  sir,"  said  the  literary  gentleman. 

"  So  Richard  Tur])in,  Tom  King,  and  Jerry  Abershaw 
have  handed  down  to  fame  the  names  of  those  on  whom 
they  committed  their  most  impudent  robberies  ?  "  said 
NiclK)las. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,  sir,"  answered  the 
literary  gentleman. 

"  Shakspeare  dramatised  stories  which  had  previously 
appeared  in  print,  it  is  true,"  observed  Nicholas. 

"Meaning  Bill,  sir?"  said  the  literary  gentleman. 
"So  he  did.  Bill  was  an  adapter,  certainly,  so  he  was 
— and  very  well  he  adapted  too — considering.  " 

"  I  was  about  to  say,"  rejoined  Nicholas,  "  that  Shak- 
speare derived  some  of  his  plots  from  old  tales  and  leg- 
ends in  general  circulation  ;  but  it  seems  to  me,  that 
some  of  the  gentlemen  of  your  craft  at  the  present  day, 
have  shot  very  far  beyond  him — " 

"  You're  quite  right,  sir,"  interrupted  the  literary 
gentleman,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  exercising  his 
toothpick.  "Human  intellect,  sir,  has  progressed  since 
his  time — is  progressing — will  progress — " 

"  Shot  beyond  him,  I  mean,"  resumed  Nichola.s,  "in 
quite  another  respect,  for,  whereas  he  brought  within 
the  magic  circle  of  his  genius,  traditions  peculiarly 
adapted  for  his  purpose,  and  turned  familiar  things  into 
constellations  which  should  enlighten  the  world  for  ages, 
you  drag  within  the  ma^ic  circle  of  your  dulness,  sub- 
jects not  at  all  adapted  to  the  purposes  of  the  stage,  and 
debase  as  he  exalted.  For  instance,  you  take  the  un- 
completed books  of  living  authors,  fresh  from  their 
hands,  wet  from  the  press,  cut,  hack,  and  carve  them  to 
the  powers  and  capacities  of  your  actors,  and  the  capabil- 
ity of  your  theatres,  finish  unfinished  works,  hastily  and 
crudely  vamp  up  ideas  not  yet  worked  out  by  their  orig- 
inal projector,  but  which  have  doubtless  cost  him  many 
thoughtful  days  and  sleepless  nights  ;  by  a  comparison 
of  incidents  and  dialogue,  down  to  the  very  last  word  he 
may  have  written  a  fortnight  before,  do  your  utmost  to 
anticipate  his  plot — all  this  without  his  permission  and 
against  his  will  ;  and  then,  to  crown  the  whole  proceed- 
ing, publish  in  some  mean  pamphlet,  an  unmeaning  far- 
rago of  garbled  extracts  from  his  work,  to  which  you 
put  your  name  as  author,  with  the  honourable  distinc- 
tion annexed,  of  having  perpetrated  a  hundred  other 
outrages  of  the  same  description.  Now,  show  me  the 
distinction  between  such  pilfering  as  this,  and  picking  a 
man's  pocket  in  the  street :  unless,  indeed,  it  be,  that 
the  legislature  has  a  regard  for  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
and  leaves  men's  brains,  except  when  they  are  knocked 
out  by  violence,  to  take  care  of  themselves." 

"Men  must  live,  sir,"  said  the  literary  gentleman, 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"That  would  be  an  equally  fair  plea  in  both  cases,'*^ 
replied  Nicholas  ;  "  but  if  you  put  it  upon  that  ground,  I 
have  nothing  more  to  say,  than,  that  if  I  were  a  writer 
of  books,  and  you  a  thirsty  dramatist,  I  would  rather 
pay  your  tavern  score  for  six  months — large  as  it  might 
be — than  have  a  niche  in  the  Temple  of  Fame  with  you 
for  the  humblest  corner  of  my  pedestal,  through  six  hun- 
dred generations." 

The  conversation  threatened  to  take  a  somewhat  angry 
tone  when  it  had  arrived  thus  far,  but  Mrs.  Crummies 
opportunely  interposed  to  prevent  its  leading  to  any 
violent  outbreak,  by  making  some  inquiries  of  the  liter- 
ary gentleman  relative  to  the  plots  of  the  six  new  pieces 
which  he  had  written  by  contract  to  introduce  the 
African  Knife-swallower  in  his  various  unrivaled  per- 
fonnances.  This  speedily  engaged  him  in  an  animated 
conversation  with  that  lady,  in  the  interest  of  which,  all 
recollection  of  his  recent  discussion  with  Nicholas  very 
quickly  evaporated. 

The  board  being  now  clear  of  the  more  substantial 
articles  of  food,  and  punch,  wine,  and  spirits  being 
placed  upon  it  and  handed  about,  the  guests,  who  had 
been  previously  conversing  in  little  groups  of  three  or 
four,  gradually  fell  off  into  a  dead  silence,  while  the 
majority  of  those  present,  glanced  from  time  to  time  at 
Mr.  Snittle  Timberry,  and  the  bolder  spirits  did  not  even 
hesitate  to  strike  the  table  with  their  knuckles,  and 
plainly  intimate  their  expectations,  by  uttering  such  en- 
couragements as  "Now,  Tim,"  "  Wake  up,  Mr.  Chair- 


CHARLE8  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


man,"  "  All  charged,  sir,  and  waiting-  for  a  toast,"  and 
so  forth. 

To  these  remonstrances,  Mr.  Timberry  deigned  no 
other  rejoinder  than  striking  his  chest  and  gasping  for 
breath,  and  giving  many  other  indications  of  being  still 
the  victim  of  indisposition — for  a  man  must  not  make 
himself  too  cheap  either  on  the  stage  or  off — while  Mr. 
Crummies,  who  knew  full  well  that  he  would  be  the 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


Chronicles  ths  further  Proceedings  of  the  Nicklebij  Family,  and  the.  Se. 
quel  of  the  Adventure  of  the  Gentleman  in  the  Small- Clothes. 

While  Nicholas,  absorbed  in  the  one  engrossing  sub- 
ject of  interest  which  had  recently  opened  upon  him,  oc- 
cupied his  leisure  hours  with  thoughts  of  Madeline  Bray, 


subject  of  the  forthcoming  toast,  sat  gracefully  in  his  !  and  in  execution  of  the  commissions  which  the  anxiety  of 


chair  with  his  arms  thrown  carelessly  over  the  back,  and 
now  and  then  lifted  his  glass  to  his  mouth  and  drank  a 
little  punch  with  the  same  air  with  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  take  long  draughts  of  nothing,  out  of  the  paste- 
board goblets  in  banquet  scenes. 

At  length  Mr.  Snittle  Timberry  rose  in  the  most  ap- 
proved attitude,  with  one  hand  in  the  breast  of  his  waist- 
coat and  the  other  on  the  nearest  snuff-box,  and  having 
been  received  with  great  enthusiasm,  proposed  with 
abundance  of  quotations,  his  friend  Mr.  Vincent  Crum- 
mies :  ending  a  pretty  long  speech  by  extending  his  right 
hand  on  one  side  and  his  left  on  the  other,  and  severally 
calling  upon  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crummies  to  grasp  the  same. 
This  done,  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  returned  thanks,  and 
that  done,  the  African  Swallower  proposed  Mrs.  Vincent 
Crummies,  in  affecting  terms.  Then  were  heard  loud 
moans  and  sobs  from  Mrs.  Crummies  and  the  ladies, 
despite  of  which  that  heroic  woman  insisted  upon  re- 
turning thanks  herself,  which  ^le  did,  in  a  manner  and 
in  a  speech  which  has  never  been  surpassed  and  seldom 
equalled.  It  then  became  the  duty  of  Mr.  Snittle  Tim- 
berry to  give  the  young  Crummleses,  which  he  did  ; 
after  which  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  as  their  father,  ad- 
dressed the  company  in  a  supplementary  speech,  enlarg- 
ing on  their  virtues,  amiabilities,  and  excellences,  and 
wishing  that  they  were  the  sons  and  daughter  of  every 
lady  and  gentleman  present.  These  solemnities  having 
been  succeeded  by  a  decent  interval,  enlivened  by  musi- 
cal and  other  entertainments,  Mr.  Crummies  proposed 
that  ornament  of  the  profession,  Mr.  Snittle  Timberry  ; 
and  at  a  little  later  period  of  the  evening,  the  health  of 
that  other  ornament  of  the  profession,  the  African 
Swallower — his  very  dear  friend,  if  he  would  allow  him 
to  call  him  so  ;  which  liberty  (there  being  no  particular 
reason  why  he  should  not  allow  it)  the  African  Swallower 
graciously  permitted.  The  literary  gentleman  was  then 
about  to  be  drunk,  but  it  being  discovered  that  he  had 
been  drunk  for  some  time  in  another  acceptation  of  the 
term,  and  was  then  asleep  on  the  stairs,  the  intention 
was  abandonded,  and  the  honour  transferred  to  the 
ladies.  Finally,  after  a  very  long  sitting,  Mr.  Snittle 
Timberry  vacated  the  chair,  and  the  company  with  many 
adieu 5  and  embraces  dispersed, 

Nicholas  waited  to  the  last  to  give  his  little  presents. 
When  he  had  said  good-bye  all  round  and  came  to  Mr. 
Crummies,  he  could  not  but  mark  the  difference  between 
their  present  separation  and  their  parting  at  Portsmouth. 
Not  a  jot  of  his  theatrical  manner  remained  ;  he  put  out 
his  hand  with  an  air  which,  if  he  could  have  summoned 
it  at  will,  would  have  made  him  the  best  actor  of 
his  day  in  homely  parts,  and  when  Nicholas  shook  it 
with  the  warmth  he  honestly  felt,  appeared  thoroughly 
melted. 

"  We  were  a  very  happy  little  company,  Johnson,"  said 
poor  Crummies.  "  You  and  I  never  had  a  word.  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to-morrow  morning  to  think  that  I  saw  you 
again,  but  now  I  almost  wish  you  hadn't  come." 

Nicholas  was  about  to  return  a  cheerful  reply,  when  he 
was  greatly  disconcerted  by  the  sudden  apparition  of  Mrs. 
Grudden,  who  it  seemed  had  decrlined  to  attend  the  supper 
in  order  that  she  might  rise  earlier  in  the  morning,  and 
who  now  burst  out  of  an  adjoining  bedroom,  habited  in 
very  extraordinary  white  robes  :  and  throwing  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  hugged  him  with  great  affection. 

"  What  !  Are  you  going  too?  "  said  Nicholas,  submit- 
ting with  as  good  a  grace  as  if  she  had  been  the  finest 
young  creature  in  the  world. 

"Going?"  retuined  Mrs.  (irudden.  "  Lord  ha' mercy, 
what  do  you  think  they'd  do  without  mo?" 

Nicholas  submitted  to  another  hug  with  even  a  better 
grar-,0  than  before,  if  that  were  possible,  and  waving  his 
hat  as  cheerfully  as  he  could,  took  farewell  of  the  Vin- 
cent Crummleses. 


Brother  Charles  in  her  behalf  imposed  upon  him,  saw  her 
again  and  again,  and  each  time  with  greater  danger  to 
his  peace  of  mind  and  a  more  weakening  effect  upon  the 
lofty  resolutions  he  had  formed,  Mrs.  Nickleby  and  Kate 
continued  to  live  in  peace  and  quiet,  agitated  by  no  other 
cares  than  those  which  were  connected  with  certain  har- 
assing proceedings  taken  by  Mr.  Snawley  for  the  recov- 
ery of  his  son,  and  their  anxiety  for  Smike  himself, 
whose  health,  long  upon  the  wane,  began  to  be  so  much 
affected  by  apprehension  and  uncertainty  as  sometimes 
to  occasion  both  them  and  Nicholas  considerable  uneasi- 
ness, and  even  alarm. 

It  was  no  complaint  or  murmur  on  the  part  of  the  poor 
fellow  himself  that  thus  disturbed  them.  Ever  eager  to 
be  employed  in  such  slight  services  as  he  could  render, 
and  always  anxious  to  repay  his  benefactors  with  cheer- 
ful and  happy  looks,  less  friendly  eyes  might  have  seen 
in4iim  no  cause  for  any  misgiving.  But  there  were  times 
—  and  often  too — when  the  sunken  eye  was  too  bright, 
the  hollow  cheek  too  flushed,  the  breath  too  thick  and 
heavy  in  its  course,  the  frame  too  feeble  and  exhausted, 
to  escape  their  regard  and  notice. 

There  is  a  dread  disease  which  so  prepares  its  victim, 
as  it  were,  for  death  ;  which  so  refines  it  of  its  grosser 
aspect,  and  throws  around  familiar  looks  unearthly  indi- 
cations of  the  coming  change — a  dread  disease,  in  which 
the  struggle  between  soul  and  body  is  so  gradual,  quiet, 
and  solemn,  and  the  result  so  sure,  that  day  by  day,  and 
grain  by  grain,  the  mortal  part  wastes  and  withers  away, 
so  that  the  spirit  grows  light  and  sanguine  with  its  light- 
ening load  and  feeling  immortality  at  hand,  deems  it  but 
a  new  term  of  mortal  life — a  disease  in*  which  death  and 
life  are  so  strangely  blended,  that  death  takes  the  glow 
and  hue  of  life,  and  life  the  gaunt  and  grisly  form  of 
death — a  disease  which  medicine  never  cured,  wealth 
warded  off,  or  poverty  could  boast  exemption  from — 
which  sometimes  moves  in  giant  strides,  and  sometimes 
at  a  tardy  sluggish  pace,  but,  slow  or  quick,  is  ever  sure 
and  certain. 

It  was  with  some  faint  reference  in  his  own  mind  to 
this  disorder,  though  he  would  by  no  means  admit  it, 
even  to  himself,  that  Nicholas  had  already  carried  his 
faithful  companion  to  a  physician  of  great  repute.  There 
was  no  cause  for  immediate  alarm,  he  said.  There  were 
no  present  symptoms  which  could  be  deemed  conclusive. 
The  constitution  had  been  greatly  tried  and  injured  in 
childhood,  but  still  it  might  not  be — and  that  was  all. 

But  he  seemed  to  grow  no  worse,  and  as  it  was  not  dif- 
ficult to  find  a  reason  for  these  symptoms  of 'illness  in  the 
shock  and  agitation  he  had  recently  undergone,  Nicholas 
comforted  himself  with  the  hope  that  his  poor  friend 
would  soon  recover.  This  hope  his  mother  and  sister 
shared  with  him  ;  and  as  the  object  of  their  joint  solicitude 
seemed  to  have  no  uneasiness  or  despondency  for  him- 
self, but  each  day  answered  with  a  quiet  smile  that  he 
felt  better  than  he  had  upon  the  day  before,  their  fears 
abated,  and  the  general  happiness  was  by  degrees  re- 
stored. 

Many  and  many  a  time  in  after  years  did  Nicholas 
look  back  to  this  period  of  his  life,  and  tread  again  the 
humble  quiet  homely  scenes  that  rose  up  as  of  old  before 
him.  Many  and  many  a  time,  in  the  twilight  of  a  sum- 
mer evening,  or  beside  the  flickering  winter's  fire — but 
not  so  often  or  so  sadly  then — would  his  thoughts  wan- 
der back  to  these  old  days,  and  dwell  with  a  pleasant 
sorrow  upon  every  slight  remembrance  which  they 
brought  crowding  home.  The  little  room  in  which  they 
had  so  often  sat  long  after  it  was  dark,  figuring  such 
happy  futures — Kate's  clieerful  voice  and  merry  laugh  ; 
and  how,  if  she  were  from  home  they  used  to  sit  and 
watch  for  her  return,  scarcely  breaking  silence  but  to 
say  how  dull  it  seemed  without  her — the  glee  with  which 
poor  Smike  would  start  from  the  darkened  corner  where 


NJCII0LA8  NIC  RLE  BY. 


179 


lie  used  to  Bit,  and  hurry  to  admit  her,  and  the  tears 
they  often  saw  upon  his  face,  half  wondering'  to  see 
them  too  and  he  so  pleased  and  happy — every  little  inci- 
dent, and  even  slight  words  and  looks  of  those  old  days, 
little  heeded  then,  but  well  remembered  when  busy 
cares  and  trials  were  quite  forgot,  came  fresh  and  thick 
b3fore  him  many  and  many  a  time,  and,  rustling  above 
the  dusty  growth  of  years,  came  back  green  boughs  of 
yesterday. 

But  there  were  other  persons  associated  with  these 
recollections,  and  many  changes  came  about  before  they 
liad  being — a  necessary  reflection  for  the  purposes  of  these 
adventures,  which  at  once  subside  into  their  accustomed 
train,  and  shunning  all  flighty  anticipations  or  wayward 
wanderings,  pursue  their  steady  and  decorous  course. 

If  the  Brothers  Cheeryble,  as  they  found  Nicholas 
worthy  of  trust  and  confidence,  bestowed  upon  him 
every  day  some  new  and  substantial  mark  of  kindness, 
they  were  not  less  mindful  of  those  who  depended  on 
hini.  Various  little  presents  to  Mrs.  Nickleby — always 
of  the  very  things  they  most  required — tended  in  no 
slight  degree  to  the  improvement  and  embellishment  of 
the  cottage.  Kate's  little  store  of  trinkets  became  quite 
dazzling  ;  and  for  company —  !  If  Brother  Charles  and 
Brother  Ned  failed  to  look  in  for  at  least  a  few  minutes 
every  Sunday,  or  one  evening  in  the  week,  there  was 
Mr.  Tim  Linkin  water  (who  had  never  made  half-a-dozen 
other  acquaintances  in  all  his  life,  and  who  took  such 
delight  in  his  new  friends  as  no  words  can  express)  con- 
stantly coming  and  going  in  his  evening  walks,  and 
stopping  to  rest ;  while  Mr.  Frank  Cheeryble  happened, 
by  some  strange  CDnj unction  of  circumstances,  to  be  pass- 
ing the  door  on  some  business  or  other  at  least  three 
nights  in  the  week. 

He  is  the  most  attentive  young  man  /  ever  saw, 
Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby  to  her  daughter  one  evening, 
when  this  last-named  gentleman  had  been  the  subject  of 
the  worthy  lady's  eulogium  for  some  time,  and  Kate  had 
sat  perfectly  silent. 

"Attentive,  mama  !  "  rejoined  Kate. 

"  Bless  my  heart,  Kate  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby,  with 
her  wonted  suddenness,  "  what  a  colour  you  have  got ; 
why  you're  quite  flushed  ! 

"Oh,  mama  !  what  strange  things  you  fancy." 

"  It  wasn't  fancy,  Kate,  my  dear,  I'm  certain  of  that," 
returned  her  mother.  "  However,  it's  gone  now  at  any 
rate,  so  it  don't  much  matter  whether  it  was  or  not. 
What  was  it  we  were  talking  about  ?  Oh  !  Mr.  Frank, 
r  never  saw  such  attention  in  my  life,  never." 

"  Surely  you  are  not  serious,"  returned  Kate,  colour- 
ing again  ;  and  this  time  beyond  all  dispute. 

"Not  serious!"  returned  Mrs.  Nickleby;  "why 
shouldn't  I  be  serious  ?  I'm  sure  I  never  was  more  seri- 
ous I  will  say  that  his  politeness  and  attention  to  me 
is  one  of  the  mo.st  becoming,  gratifying,  pleasant  things 
I  have  seen  for  a  very  long  time.  You  don't  often  meet 
with  such  behaviour  in  young  men,  and  it  strikes  one 
more  when  one  does  meet  with  it." 

"Oh  !  attention  to  you,  mama,"  rejoined  Kate  quickly 
— "  oh  ye.s." 

"Dear  me,  Kate,"  retorted  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "what  an 
extraordinary  girl  yon  are.  Was  it  likely  I  should  be 
talking  of  his  attention  to  anybody  else?  I  declare  I'm 
quite  sorry  to  think  he  should  be  in  love  with  a  German 
lady,  that  I  am." 

"  He  said  very  positively  that  it  was  no  such  thing, 
mama,"  returned  Kate.  "  Don't  you  remember  his  say- 
ing so  that  very  first  night  he  came  here?  Besides,"  she 
added,  in  a  more  gentle  tone,  "why  should  we  be  sorry 
if  it  is  the  case  ?    What  is  it  to  us,  mama  ?  " 

"Nothing  to  us,  Kate,  perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby 
emphatically;  "but  something  to  me,  I  confess.  I  like 
English  people  to  be  thorough  English  people,  and  not 
half  English  and  half  I  don't  know  what.  I  shall  tell 
him  point  blank  next  time  he  comes,  that  I  wish  he 
would  marry  one  of  his  own  country-women  ;  and  see 
what  he  says  to  that." 

"  Pray  don't  think  of  such  a  thing,  mama,"  returned 
Kate  hastily;  "not  for  the  world.  Consider — how 
very—" 

"Well,  my  dear,  how  very  what?"  said  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby, opening  her  eyes  in  great  astonishment. 


Before  Kate  had  returned  any  reply,  a  queer  little 
double-knock  announced  that  Miss  La  (.'reevy  haxl  called 
to  see  them  ;  and  when  Miss  La  Creevy  presented  her- 
self, Mrs.  Nickleby,  though  strongly  disposed  to  be  ar- 
gumentative on  the  previous  question,  forgot  all  about  it 
j  in  a  gush  of  supposes  aV)out  tlie  coach  she  had  come  by  ; 
supposing  that  the  man  who  drove  miLst  have  been 
either  the  man  in  the  shirt-.sleeves  or  the  man  with  the 
black  eye  ;  that  whoever  he  was,  he  hadn't  found  that 
parasol  she  left  inside  last  week  ;  that  no  doubt  they 
liad  stopped  a  long  while  at  the  Ilalfvv&y  House,  com- 
ing down  ;  or  that  perhaps  being  full,  they  had  come 
straight  on  ;  and  lastly,  that  they,  surely,  must  have 
passed  Nicholas  on  the  road. 

"  I  saw  nothing  of  him,"  answered  Miss  La  Creevy; 
"  but  I  saw  that  dear  old  soul  Mr.  Linkinwater." 

"  Taking  his  evening  walk,  and  coming  on  to  rest 
here,  before  he  turns  back  to  the  city,  I'll  be  bound  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"  I  should  think  he  was,"  returned  Miss  La  Creevy  ; 
"  especially  as  young  Mr.  Cheeryble  was  with  him." 

"  Surely  that  is  no  reason  why  Mr.  Linkinwater  should 
be  coming  here,"  said  Kate. 

"Why  I  think  it  is,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  La  Creevy. 
"  For  a  young  man,  Mr.  Frank  is  not  a  very  great  walker  ; 
and  I  observe  that  he  generally  falls  tired,  and  requires 
a  good  long  rest,  when  he  has  come  as  far  as  this.  But 
where  is  my  friend  ? "  said  the  little  woman,  looking 
about,  after  having  glanced  slyly  at  Kate.  "  He  has  not 
been  run  away  with  again,  has  he?" 

"Ah!  where  is  Mr.  Smike?"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby; 
"  he  was  here  this  instant." 

Upon  further  inquiry,  it  turned  out,  to  the  good  lady's 
unbounded  astonishment,  that  Smike  had,  that  moment, 
gone  up-stairs  to  bed. 

"Well  now,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "he  is  the  strang- 
est creature  !  Last  Tuesday — was  it  Tue.-^day?  Yes 
to  be  sure  it  was  ;  you  recollect,  Kate,  my  dear,  the 
very  last  time  young  Mr.  Cheeryble  was  here — last 
Tuesday  night  he  went  off  in  just  the  same  strange  way, 
at  the  very  moment  the  knock  came  to  the  door.  It  can- 
not be  that  he  don't  like  company,  because  he  is  always 
fond  of  peojjle  who  are  fond  of  Nicholas,  and  I  am  sure 
young  Mr.  Cheeryble  is.  And  the  strangest  thing  is, 
that  he  does  not  go  to  bed  ;  therefore  it  cannot  be  be- 
cause he  is  tired.  I  know  he  doesn't  go  to  bed,  because 
my  room  is  the  next  one,  and  when  I  went  up-stairs 
last  Tuesday,  hours  after  him,  I  found  that  he  had  not 
even  taken  his  shoes  off  ;  and  he  had  no  candle,  so  he 
must  have  sat  moping  in  the  dark  all  the  time.  Now, 
upon  my  word,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "when  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  that's  very  extraordinary  !  " 
j  As  the  hearers  did  not  echo  this  sentiment,  but  re- 
I  mained  profoundly  silent,  either  as  not  knowing  what  to 
j  say,  or  as  being  unwilling  to  interrupt,  Mrs.  Nickleby 
I  pursued  the  thread  of  her  discourse  after  her  own  fash- 
ion. 

"I  hope,"  said  that  lady,  "that  this  unaccountable 

I  conduct  may  not  be  the  beginning  of  his  taking  to  his 

i  bed  and  living  there  all  his  life,  like  the  Thirsty  Wo- 
man of  Tutbury,  or  the  Cock-lane  Ghost,  or  some  of 
those  extraordinary  creatures.  One  of  them  had  some 
connection  with  our  family.    I  forget,  without  looking 

j  back  to  some  old  letters  I  have  up-stairs,  whether  it  was 
my  great-grandfather  who  went  to  school  ^vith  the  Cock- 
lane  Ghost,  or  the  Thirsty  Woman  of  Tutbury  who 
went  to  school  with  my  grandmother.  Miss  La  Creevy, 
you  know%  of  course.  Which  was  it  that  didn  t  mind 
what  the  clergyman  said  ?    The  Cock-lane  Ghost,  or  the 

j  Thirsty  Woman  of  Tutbury  ?  " 

I     "  The  Cock- lane  Ghost,  1  believe." 

i  "Then  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  that 
it  was  with  him  my  great-grandfather  went  to  school  ; 
for  I  know  the  master  of  his  school  was  a  dissenter,  and 
that  would,  in  a  great  measure,  account  for  the  Cock- 
lane  Ghost's  behaving  in  such  an  improper  manner  to 

I  the  clergyman  when  he  grew  up.    Ah  !   Train  up  a 

'  Ghost — child,  I  mean — " 

Any  further  reflections  on  this  fruitful  theme,  were 
abruptly  cut  short  by  the  arrival  of  Tim  Linkinwater  and 
Mr.  Frank  Cheeryble  ;  in  the  hurry  of  receiving  whom, 
Mrs.  Nickleby  speedily  lost  sight  of  everything  else. 


180 


CHARLES  DICKER'  WORKS, 


"  I  am  so  sorrv  Nicliolas  is  not  at  home,"  said  Mrs. 
Nickleby.  "  Kate,  my  dear,  you  must  be  botli  Nicholas 
and  yourself." 

"  Miss  Nickleby  need  be  but  herself,"  said  Frank. 
"I — if  I  may  venture  to  say  so — oppose  all  change  in 
her." 

"  Then  at  all  events,  she  shall  press  you  to  stay," 
returned  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "Mr.  Linkinwater  says  ten 
minutes,  but  I  cannot  let  you  go  so  soon  ;  Nicholas 
would  be  very  much  vexed,  I  am  sure.  Kate,  my  dear — " 

In  obedience  to  a  great  number  of  nods,  and  winks, 
and  frowns  of  extra  significance,  Kate  added  her  entrea- 
ties that  the  visitors  would  remain  ;  but  it  was  observa- 
ble that  she  addressed  them  exclusively  to  Tim  linkin- 
water ;  and  there  was,  besides,  a  certain  embarrassment 
in  her  manner,  which,  although  it  was  as  far  from  im- 
pairing its  graceful  character  as  the  tinge  it  communi- 
cated to  her  cheek  was  from  diminishing  her  beauty, 
was  obvious  at  a  glance  even  to  Mrs.  Nickleby.  Not  be- 
ing of  a  very  speculative  character,  however,  save  under 
circumstances  when  her  speculations  could  be  put  into 
words  and  uttered  aloud,  that  discreet  matron  attributed 
the  emotion  to  the  circumstance  of  her  daughter's  not 
happening  to  have  her  best  frock  on — "  though  I  never 
saw  her  look  better,  certainly,"  she  reflected  at  the  same 
time.  Having  settled  the  question  in  this  way,  and  be- 
ing most  complacently  satisfied  that  in  this,  as  in  all 
other  instances,  her  conjecture  could  not  fail  to  be  the 
right  one,  Mrs.  Nickleby  dismissed  it  from  her  thoughts, 
and  inwardly  congratulated  herself  on  being  so  shrewd 
and  knowing. 

Nicholas  did  not  come  home  nor  did  Smike  re-appear  ; 
but  neither  circumstance,  to  say  the  truth,  had  any  great 
eifoct  upon  the  little  party,  who  were  all  in  the  best  hu- 
mour possible.  Indeed,  there  sprung  up  quite  a  flirta- 
tion between  Miss  La  Creevy  and  Tim  Linkinwater,  who 
said  a  thousand  jocose  and  facetious  things,  and  became, 
by  degrees,  quite  gallant,  not  to  say  tender.  Little  Miss 
La  Creevy,  on  her  part,  was  in  high  spirits,  and  rallied 
Tim  on  having  remained  a  bachelor  all  his  life  with  so 
much  success,  that  Tim  was  actually  induced  to  declare, 
that  if  he  could  get  anybody  to  have  him,  he  didn't  know 
but  what  he  might  change  his  condition  even  yet.  Miss 
La  Creevy  earnestly  recommended  a  lady  she  knew,  who 
would  exactly  suit  Mr.  Linkinwater,  and  had  a  very 
comfortable  property  of  her  own  ;  but  this  latter  qualifi- 
cation had  very  little  effect  upon  Tim,  who  manfully 
protested  that  fortune  would  be  no  object  with  him,  but 
that  true  worth  and  cheerfulness  of  disposition  were 
what  a  man  should  look  for  in  a  wife,  and  that  if  he  had 
these,  he  could  find  money  enough  for  the  moderate 
wants  of  both.  This  avowal  wag  considered  so  honour- 
able to  Tim,  that  neither  Mrs.  Nickleby  nor  Miss  La 
Creevy  could  sufficiently  extol  it ;  and  stimulated  by 
their  praises,  Tim  launched  out  into  several  other  de- 
clarations also  manifesting  the  disinterestedness  of  his 
heart,  and  a  great  devotion  to  the  fair  sex  :  which  were 
received  with  no  less  approbation.  This  was  done  and 
said  with  a  comical  mixture  of  jest  and  earnest,  and, 
leading  to  a  great  amount  of  laughter,  made  them  very 
merry  indeed. 

Kate  was  commonly  the  life  and  soul  of  the  conversa- 
tion at  home  ;  but  she  was  more  silent  than  usual  upon 
this  occasion — perhaps  because  Tim  and  Miss  La  Creevy 
engrossed  so  much  of  it— and,  keeping  aloof  from  the 
talkers,  sat  at  the  window  watching  the  shadows  as  the 
evening  closed  in,  and  enjoying  the  quiet  beauty  of  the 
night,  which  seemed  to  have  scarcely  less  attractions  for 
Frank,  who  first  lingered  near,  and  then  sat  down  beside, 
her.  No  doubt,  there  are  a  great  many  things  to  be  said 
appropriate  to  a  summer  evening,  and  no  doubt  they  are 
best  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  being  most  suitable  to  the 
peace  and  serenity  of  the  hour  ;  lon'.»-  pauses,  too,  at 
times,  and  then  an  earnest  word  or  so,  and  then  another 
interval  of  silence  which,  somehow,  does  not  seem  like 
silence  either,  andperha])S  now  and  then  a  hasty  turning 
away  of  the  head,  or  drooping  of  the  eyes  towards  the 
ground — all  these  minor  circumstances,  with  a  disincli- 
nation to  have  candles  introdu(;ecl  and  a  tendency  to  con- 
fuses hours  with  ininutes,  are  doubtless  mere  influences 
of  the  time,  as  many  lovely  lips  can  clearly  testify. 
Neither  is  there  tho  slightest  reason  why  Mrs.  Nickleby 


should  have  expressed  surprise  when— candles  being  at 
length  brought  it— Kate's  bright  eyes  were  unable  to 
bear  the  light  which  obliged  her  to  avert  her  face,  and 
even  to  leave  the  room  for  some  short  time  ;  because 
when  one  has  sat  in  the  dark  so  long,  candles  are  daz- 
zling, and  nothing  can  be  more  strictly  natural  than  that 
such  results  should  be  produced,  as  all  well-informed 
young  people  know.  For  that  matter,  old  people  know 
it  too,  or  did  know  it  once,  but  they  forget  these  things 
sometimes,  and  more's  the  pity. 

The  good  lady's  surprise,  however,  did  not  end  here. 
It  was  greatly  increased  when  it  was  discovered  that 
Kate  had  not  the  least  appetite  for  supper  ;  a  discovery 
so  alarming  that  there  is  no  knowing  in  what  unaccount- 
able efforts  of  oratory  Mrs.  Nickleby's  apprehensions 
might  have  been  vented,  if  the  general  attention  had 
not  been  attracted,  at  the  moment,  by  a  very  strange  and 
uncommon  noise,  proceeding,  as  the  pale  and  trembling 
servant  girl  affirmed,  and  as  everybody's  sense  of  hear- 
ing seemed  to  affirm  also,  "  right  down"  the  chimney  of 
the  adjoining  room. 

It  being  quite  plain  to  the  comprehension  of  all  pres- 
ent that,  however  extraordinary  and  improbable  it  might 
appear,  the  noise  did  nevertheless  proceed  from  the 
chimney  in  question  ;  and  the  noise  (which  was  a  strange 
compound  of  various  shuffling,  sliding,  rumbling,  and 
struggling  sounds,  all  muffled  by  the  chimney)  still  con- 
tinuing, Frank  Cheeryble  caught  up  a  candle,  and  Tim 
Linkinwater  the  tongs,  and  they  would  have  very 
quickly  ascertained  the' cause  of  this  disturbance  if  Mrs. 
Nickleby  had  not  been  taken  very  faint,  and  declined 
being  left  behind,  on  any  account.  This  produced  a 
short  remonstrance,  which  terminated  in  their  all  pro- 
ceeding to  the  troubled  chamber  in  a  body,  excepting 
only  Miss  La  Creevy,  who — as  the  servant-girl  volun- 
teered a  confession  of  having  been  subject  to  fits  in 
her  infancy — remained  with  her  to  give  the  alarm  and 
apply  restoratives,  in  case  of  extremity. 

Advancing  to  the  door  of  the  mysterious  apartment, 
they  were  not  a  little  surprised  to  hear  a  human  voice, 
chaunting  with  a  highly  elaborated  expression  of  melan- 
choly, and  in  tones  of  suffocation  which  a  human  voice 
might  have  produced  from  under  five  or  six  feather-beds 
of  the  best  quality,  the  once  popular  air  of  "Has  ehe 
then  failed  in  her  truth,  the  beautiful  maid  I  adore  ! " 
Nor,  on  bursting  into  the  room  without  demanding  a 
parley,  was  their  astonishment  lessened  by  the  discoveiy 
!  that  these  romantic  sounds  certainly  proceeded  from  the 
j  throat  of  some  man  up  the  chimney,  of  whom  nothing 
j  was  visible  but  a  pair  of  legs,  which  were  dangling 
I  above  the   grate;   apparently  feeling,  with  extreme 
!  anxiety,  for  the  top  bar  whereon  to  effect  a  landing. 

A  sight  so  unusual  and  unbusiness-like  as  this,  ccm- 
I  pletely  paralyzed  Tim  Linkinwater,  who  after  one  or  two 
gentle  pinches  at  the  stranger's  ankles,  which  were  pro- 
ductive of  no  effect,  stood  clapping  the  tongs  together, 
as  if  he  were  sharpening  them  for  another  assault,  and 
did  nothing  else. 

"This  must  be  some  drunken  fellow,"  said  Frank. 
"No  thief  would  announce  his  presence  thus." 

As  he  said  this,  with  great  indignation,  he  raised  the 
candle  to  obtain  a  better  view  of  the  legs,  and  was  dart- 
ing forward  to  pull  them  down  with  very  little  ceremony, 
when  Mrs.  Nickleby,  clasping  her  hands,  uttered  a  sharp 
sound,  something  between  a  scream  and  an  exclamation, 
and  demanded  to  know  whether  the  mysterious  limbs 
were  not  clad  in  small-clothes  and  grey  worsted  stockings, 
or  whether  her  eyes  had  deceived  her. 

"Yes,"  cried  Frank,  looking  a  little  closer.  "  Small- 
clothes certainly,  and — and — rough  grey  stockings,  too. 
Do  you  know  him,  ma'am  ?" 

"Kate,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  deliberately 
sitting  herself  down  in  a  chair  with  that  sort  of  desper- 
ate resignation  which  seemed  to  imply  that  now  matters 
I  had  come  to  a  crisis,  and  all  disguise  was  useless,  "  you 
will  have  the  goodness,  my  love,  to  explain  precisely 
j  how  this  matter  stands.  I  have  given  him  no  encour- 
agement— none  whatever — not  the  least  in  the  world. 
You  know  that,  my  dear,  perfectly  well.  He  was  very 
respectful — exceedingly  respectful — when  he  declared, 
as  you  were  a  witness  to  ;  still  at  the  same  time,  if  I  am 
to  be  persecuted  in  this  way,  if  vegetable  what's-his- 


NICHOLAS 

names  and  all  kinds  of  garden-stuff  are  to  strew  my 
path  oat  of  doors,  and  gentlemen  are  to  coine  cliok- 
ing  up  our  chiinntys  at  home,  I  really  don't  know — upon 
ray  word  I  do  not  know — what  is  to  become  of  me.  It's  a 
very  hard  case — harder  than  anything  i  was  ever  exposed 
to,  before  I  married  your  poor  dear  papa,  tliou<^h  1  suffered 
a  good  deal  of  annoyance  then — but  that,  of  course,  I  ex- 
pacted,  and  made  up  ray  mind  for.  When  1  was  not 
nearly  so  old  a^  you,  ray  dear,  there  was  a  young  gentle- 
man who  sat  next  us  in  church,  who  used,  almost  every 
Sunday,  to  cut  ray  name  in  large  letters  in  the  front  of 
his  pew  while  the  sermon  was  going  on.  It  was  grati- 
fying of  course,  naturally  so,  but  still  it  was  an  annoy- 
ance, because  the  pew  was  in  a  very  conspicuous  place, 
and  he  was  several  times  publicly  taken  out  by  the  bea- 
dle for  doing  it.  But  that  was  nothing  to  this.  This  is 
a  great  deal  worse,  and  a  great  deal  more  embarrassing. 
I  vTould  rather,  Kate,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
with  great  solemnity,  and  an  effusion  of  tears — "I 
would  rather,  I  declare,  have  been  a  pig-faced  lady,  than 
be  exposed  to  such  a  life  as  this  !  " 

Frank  Cheeryble  and  Tim  Linkinwater  looked,  in  irre- 
pressible astonishment,  first  at  eadi  other  and  then  at 
Kate,  who  felt  that  some  explanation  was  necessary,  but 
who,  between  her  terror  at  the  apparition  of  the  legs, 
her  fear  lest  their  owner  should  be  smothered,  and  her 
anxiety  to  give  the  least  ridiculous  solution  of  the  mys- 
tery that  it  was  capable  of  bearing,  was  quite  unable  to 
utter  a  single  word. 

"  He  gives  me  great  pain,"  continued  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
drying  her  eyes — "great  pain;  but  don't  hurt  a  hair  of 
his  head,  I  beg.    On  no  account  hurt  a  hair  of  his  head." 

It  would  uot,  under  existing  circumstances,  have  been 
quite  so  easy  to  hurt  a  hair  of  the  gentleman's  head  as 
M;.*3.  Nickleby  seemed  to  imagine,  inasmuch  as  that  part 
of  his  person  was  some  feet  up  the  chimney,  which  was 
by  no  means  a  wide  one.  Bat,  as  all  this  time,  he  had 
never  left  off  singing  about  the  bankruptcy  of  the  beau- 
tiful maid  in  respect  of  truth,  and  now  began  not  only 
to  croak  very  feebly,  but  to  kick  with  great  violence  as 
if  respiration  became  a  task  of  difficulty,  Frank  Cheery- 
ble, without  further  hesitation,  pulled  at  the  shorts  and 
worsteds  with  such  heartiness  as  to  bring  him  flounder- 
ing into  the  room  with  greater  precipitation  than  he  had 
quite  calculated  upon. 

"Oh  !  yes,  yes,"  said  Kate,  directly  the  whole  figure 
of  this  singular  visitor  appeared  in  this  abrupt  manner. 
*'  I  know  who  it  is  now.  Pray  don't  be  rough  with  him. 
Is  he  hurt?    I  hope  not— oh,  pray  see  if  he  is  hurt." 

"  He  is  not,  I  assure  you,"  replied  Frank,  handling  the 
object  of  his  surprise,  after  this  appeal,  with  sudden 
te.iierness  and  respect.    "  He  is  not  hurt  in  the  least." 

"Don't  let  him  come  any  nearer,"  said  Kate,  retiring 
as  far  as  she  could. 

"  No,  no,  he  shall  not,"  rejoined  Frank.  "  You  see  I 
have  him  secure  hei-e.  But  may  I  ask  you,  what  this 
means,  and  whether  you  expected  this  old  gentleman?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Kate,  "  of  course  not ;  but  he — mamma 
does  not  think  so,  I  believe  —but  he  is  a  mad  gentleman 
who  has  escaped  from  the  next  house,  and  must  have 
found  an  opportunity  of  secreting  himself  here." 

"  Kate,"  interposed  Mrs.  Nickleby  with  severe  dignity, 
*'  I  am  surprised  at  you." 

"  Dear  mamma — "  Kate  gently  remonstrated. 

*'I  am  surprised  at  you,"  repeated  Mrs.  Nickleby; 
*'upon  ray  word,  Kate,  I  am  quite  astonished  that  you 
should  join  the  persecutors  of  this  unfortunate  gentle- 
man, when  you  know  very  well  that  they  have  the  bas- 
est designs  upon  his  property,  and  that  that  is  the  whole 
secret  of  it.  It  would  be  much  kinder  of  you,  Kate,  to 
ask  Mr.  Linkinwater  or  Mr.  Cheeryble  to  interfere  in  his 
behalf,  and  see  him  righted.  You  ought  not  to  allow 
your  feelings  to  influence  you  ;  it's  not  right — very  far 
from  it.  What  should  my  feelings  be,  do  you  suppose? 
If  anybody  ought  to  be  indignant,  who  is  it?  I,  of 
course,  and  very  properly  so.  Still,  at  the  same  time,  I 
wouldn't  commit  such  an  injustice  for  the  world.  No," 
continued  Mrs  Nickleby,  drawing  herself  up,  and  looking 
another  way  witli  a  kind  of  bashful  stateliness  ;  "  this 
gentleman  will  understand  me  when  I  tell  him  that  I 
repeat  the  answer  I  gave  him  the  other  day, — that  I  al- 
ways will  repeat  it,  though  I  do  believe  him  to  be  sincere 


NICKLEBY.  181 

when  I  find  him  placing  himself  in  such  dreadful  situa- 
tions on  my  account — and  tliat  I  request  him  to  have  the 
goodness  to  go  away  directly,  or  it  will  be  impossible  to 
keep  his  behaviour  a  secret  from  my  sun  Nicholas.  I 
am  obliged  to  him,  very  much  obliged  to  him,  but  I  can- 
not listen  to  his  addresses  for  a  moment.  It's  quite  im- 
possible." 

While  this  address  was  in  course  of  delivery,  the  old 
gentleman,  with  his  nose  and  cheeks  embellished  with 
large  patches  of  soot,  sat  ujjon  the  ground  with  his  arms 
folded,  eyeing  the  spectators  in  profound  silence,  and 
with  a  very  majestic  demeanour.  He  did  not  appear  to 
take  the  smallest  notice  of  what  Mrs.  Nickleby  said,  but 
when  she  ceased  to  speak  he  honoured  her  with  a  long 
stare,  and  inquired  if  she  had  quite  finished. 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,"  replied  that  lady  mod- 
estly.   "  I  really  cannot  say  anything  more." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  raising  his 
voice,  "  then  bring  in  the  bottled  lightning,  a  clean  tum 
bier,  and  a  corkscrew." 

Nobody  executing  this  order,  the  old  gentleman,  after 
a  short  pause,  raised  his  voice  again  and  demanded  a 
thunder  sandwich.  This  article  not  being  forthcoming 
either,  he  requested  to  be  served  with  a  fricassee  of 
boot-tops  and  gold-fish  sauce,  and  then  laughing  heartily, 
gratified  his  hearers  with  a  very  long,  very  loud,  and  most 
melodious  bellow. 

But  still  Mrs.  Nickleby,  in  reply  to  the  significant 
looks  of  all  about  her,  shook  her  head  as  though  to  as- 
sure them  that  she  saw  nothing  whatever  in  all  this,  un- 
less, indeed,  it  were  a  slight  degree  of  eccentricity.  She 
might  have  remained  impressed  with  these  opinions  down 
to  the  latest  moment  of  her  life,  but  for  a  slight  train  of 
circumstances,  which,  trivial  as  they  were,  altered  the 
whole  complexion  of  the  case. 

It  happened  that  Miss  La  Creevy,  finding  her  patient 
in  no  very  threatening  condition,  and  being  strongly  im- 
pelled by  curiosity  to  see  what  was  going  forward, 
bustled  into  the  room  while  the  old  gentleman  was  in  the 
very  act  of  bellowing.  It  happened,  too,  that  the  instant 
the  old  gentleman  saw  her,  he  stopped  short,  skipped 
suddenly  on  his  feet,  and  fell  to  kissing  his  hand  vic- 
lently  :  a  change  of  demeanour  which  almost  terrified 
the  little  portrait-painter  out  of  her  senses,  and  caused 
her  to  retreat  behind  Tim  Linkinwater  with  the  utmost 
expedition. 

"Aha  !"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  folding  his  hands, 
and  squeezing  tliera  with  great  force  against  each  other. 
"  I  see  her  now  ;  I  see  her  now  !  My  love,  my  life,  my 
bride,  my  peerless  beauty.  She  is  come  at  last — at  last 
— and  all  is  gas  and  gaiters  !  " 

Mrs.  Nickleby  looked  rather  disconcerted  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  immediately  recovering,  nodded  to  Miss  La 
Creevy  and  the  other  spectators  several  times,  and 
frowned,  and  smiled  gravely,  giving  them  to  understand 
that  she  saw  where  the  mistake  was,  and  would  set  it  all 
to  rights  in  a  minute  or  two. 

"  She  is  come  !  "  said  the  old  gentleman,  laying  his 
hand  upon  his  heart.  "  Cormoran  and  Blunderbore  ! 
She  is  come  !  All  the  wealth  I  have  is  hers  if  she  will 
take  me  for  her  slave.  Where  are  graces,  beauty,  and 
blandishments,  like  those  ?  In  the  Empress  of  Mada- 
gascar? No.  In  the  Queen  of  Diamonds?  No.  In 
Mrs.  Rowland,  who  every  morning  bathes  in  Kalydor  for 
nothing  ?  No.  Melt  all  these  down  into  one,  with  the 
three  Graces,  the  nine  Muses,  and  fourteen  biscuit-bak- 
ers' daughters  from  Oxford-Street,  and  make  a  woman 
half  as  lovely.    Pho  !    I  defy  you." 

After  uttering  this  rhapsody,  the  old  gentleman  snapped 
his  fingers  twenty  or  thirty  times,  and  then  subsided  into 
an  ecstatic  contemplation  of  Miss  La  Creevy's  charms. 
This  affording  Mrs.  Nickleby  a  favourable  opponunity 
of  explanation,  she  went  about  it  straight. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  the  worthy  lady,  with  a  prefatory 
cough,  "that  it's  a  great  relief,  under  such  trying  cir- 
cumstances as  these,  to  have  anybody  else  mistaken  for 
me— a  very  great  relief  ;  and  "it's  a  circumstance  that 
never  occurred  before,  although  I  have  several  times 
been  mistaken  for  my  daughter  Kate.  I  have  no  doubt 
the  people  were  very  foolish,  and  perhaps  ought  to  have 
known  better,  but  still  they  did  take  me  for  her,  and  of 
course  that  was  no  fault  of  mine,  and  it  would  be  verj 


182 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


hard  indeed  if  I  was  to  be  made  responsible  for  it.  How- 
ever, in  this  instance,  of  course,  I  must  feel  that  I  should 
do  exceeding-ly  wrong  if  I  suffered  anybody — especially 
anybody  that  I  am  under  great  obligations  to — to  be  made 
uncomfortable  on  my  account,  and  therefore  I  think  it 
my  duty  to  tell  that  gentleman  that  he  is  mistaken — that 
I  am  the  lady  who  he  was  told  by  some  impertinent  per- 
son was  niece  to  the  Council  of  Paving-stones,  and  that  I 
do  beg  and  intreat  of  him.  to  go  quietly  away,  if  it's  only 
for" — here  Mrs.  Nickleby  simpered  and  hesitated — "for 
my  sake." 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  the  old  gentleman 
would  have  been  pimetrated  to  the  heart  by  the  delicacy 
and  condescension  of  this  appeal,  and  that  he  would  at 
least  have  returned  a  courteous  and  suitable  reply. 
What,  then,  was  the  shock  which  Mrs.  Nickleby  re- 
ceived, when,  accosting  her  in  the  most  unmistakable 
manner,  he  replied  in  a  loud  and  sonorous  voice — 
*'Avaunt  Cat  !" 

"  Sir  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby,  in  a  faint  tone. 

"  Cat ! "  repeated  the  old  gentleman.  "  Puss,  Kit,  Tit, 
Grimalkin,  Tabby,  Brindle — Whoosh  !  "  with  which  last 
sound,  uttered  in  a  hissing  manner  between  his  teeth,  the 
old  gentleman  swung  his  arms  violently  round  and  round, 
and  at  the  same  time  alternately  advanced  on  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by, and  retreated  from  her,  in  that  species  of  savage  dance 
with  which  boys  on  market- days  may  be  seen  to  frighten 
pigs,  sheep,  and  other  animals  when  they  give  out  ob- 
stinate indications  of  turning  down  a  wrong  street. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  wasted  no  words,  but  uttered  an  excla- 
mation of  horror  and  surprise,  and  immediately  fainted 
away. 

"I'll  attend  to  mamma,"  said  Kate,  hastily  ;  "  I  am  not 
at  all  frightened.  But  pray  take  him  away ;  pray  take 
him  away  ! " 

Frank  was  not  at  all  confident  of  his  power  of  comply- 
ing with  this  request,  until  he  bethought  himself  of  the 
stratagem  of  sending  Miss  La  Creevy  on  a  few  paces  in 
advance,  and  urging  the  old  gentleman  to  follow  her.  It 
succeeded  to  a  miracle  ;  and  he  went  away  in  a  rapture  of 
admiration,  strongly  guarded  by  Tim  Linkinwater  on  one 
side,  and  Frank  himself  on  the  other. 

"  Kate,"  murmured  Mrs.  Nickleby,  reviving  when  the 
coast  was  clear,  "  is  he  gone  ? 

She  was  assured  that  he  was. 

"  I  iihall  never  forgive  myself,  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by ;  "Never  !  That  gentleman  has  lost  his  senses,  and  1 
am  the  unhappy  cause." 

"  You  the  cause  ! "  said  Kate,  greatly  astonished. 

"  I,  my  love,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby,  with  a  desperate 
calmness.  "  You  saw  what  he  was  the  other  day  ;  you 
see  what  he  is  now.  I  told  your  brother,  weeks  and  weeks 
ago,  Kate,  that  I  hoped  a  disappointment  might  not  be 
too  much  for  him.  You  see  what  a  wreck  he  is.  Making 
allowance  for  his  being  a  little  flighty,  you  know  hovv^ 
rationally,  and  sensibly,  and  honourably  he  talked,  when 
we  saw  him  in  the  garden.  Yon  have  heard  the  dreadful 
nonsense  he  has  been  guilty  of,  this  night,  and  the  manner 
in  which  he  has  gone  on  with  that  poor  unfortunate  little 
old  maid.  Can  anybody  doubt  bow  all  this  has  been 
brought  about ! " 

"  I  should  scarcely  think  they  could,"  said  Kate  mildly. 

"/should  scarcely  think  so,  either,"  rejoined  her  moth- 
er. "Well  !  if  I  am  the  unfortunate  cause  of  this,  I  have 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I  am  not  to  blame.  I 
told  Nicholas — I  said  to  him,  '  Nicholas,  my  dear,  we 
should  be  very  careful  how  we  proceed.'  He  would 
scarcely  hear  me.  If  the  matter  had  only  been  properly 
taken  up  at  first,  as  I  wished  it  to  be—.  But  you  are  both 
of  you  so  like  your  poor  papa.  However,  I  have  my  con- 
solution,  and  that  should  be  enough  for  me  !" 

Washing  her  hands,  thus,  of  all  responsibility  under 
this  head,  past,  present,  or  to  come,  Mrs.  NickleV)y  kindly 
added  that  she  hoped  her  children  might  never  have 
greater  cause  to  reproach  themselves  than  she  had,  and 
prepared  herself  to  receive  the  escort,  wlio  soon  returned 
with  the  intelligence  that  the  old  gentleman  was  safely 
housed,  and  that  they  found  his  custodians,  wlio  had  been 
making  merry  with  some  friends,  wholly  ignorant  of  his 
alisence. 

Quiet  being  again  restored,  a  delicious  half  hour--so 
Frank  called  it,  in  the  course  of  subsequent  conversation 


with  Tim  Linkinwater  as  they  were  walking  home— a 
delicious  half  hour  was  spent  in  conversation,  and  Tim's 
watch  at  length  apprising  him  that  it  was  high  time  to 
depart,  the  ladies  were  left  alone,  though  not  without 
many  offei's  on  the  part  of  Frank  to  remain  until  Nicho- 
las arrived,  no  matter  what  hour  of  the  night  it  might 
be,  if,  after  the  late  neighbourly  irruption,  they  enter- 
tained the  least  fear  of  being  left  to  themselves.  As 
their  freedom  from  all  further  apprehensions,  however, 
left  no  pretext  for  his  insisting  on  mounting  guard,  he 
was  obliged  to  abandon  the  citadel,  and  to  retire  with 
trusty  Tim. 

Nearly  three  hours  of  silence  passed  away.  Kate 
blushed  to  find,  when  Nicholas  returned,  how  long  she 
had  been  sitting  alone,  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts. 

"  I  really  thought  it  had  not  been  half  an  hour,"  she 
said. 

"  They  must  have  been  pleasant  thoughts,  Kate,"  re- 
joined Nicholas  gaily,  "to  make  time  pass  away  like 
that.     What  were  they  now  ?" 

Kate  was  confused  :  she  toyed  with  some  trifle  on  the 
table — looked  up  and  smiled — looked  down  and  dropped 
a  tear. 

"Why,  Kate,"  said  Nicholas,  drawing  his  sister  to- 
wards him  and  kissing  her,  "  let  me  see  your  face.  No  ? 
Ah  !  that  was  but  a  glimpse  :  that's  scarcely  fair.  A 
longer  look  than  that,  Kate.  Come — and  I'll  read  your 
thoughts  for  you. " 

There  was  something  in  his  proposition,  albeit  it  was 
said  without  the  slightest  consciousness  or  application, 
which  so  alarmed  his  sister,  that  Nicholas  laughingly 
changed  the  subject  to  domestic  matters,  and  thus  gath- 
ered, by  degrees,  as  they  left  the  room  and  went  up- 
stairs together,  how  lonely  Smike  had  been  all  night — 
and  by  very  slow  degrees,  too  ;  for  on  this  subject  also, 
Kate  seemed  to  speak  with  some  reluctance. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Nicholas,  tapping  gently  at  his 
door,  "  what  can  be  the  cause  of  all  this  ! " 

Kate  was  hanging  on  her  brother's  arm.  The  door  be- 
ing quickly  opened,  she  had  not  time  to  disengage  her- 
self, before  Smike,  very  pale  and  haggard,  and  completely 
dressed,  confronted  them. 

"  And  have  you  not  been  to  bed  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 

"N — n — no,"  was  the  reply. 

Nicholas  gently  detained  his  sister,  who  made  an  ef- 
fort to  retire  ;  and  asked,  "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  sleep,"  said  Smike,  grasping  the  hand 
which  his  friend  extended  to  him. 

"  You  are  not  well  ?  "  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"  1  am  better,  indeed — a  great  deal  better,"  said  Smike 
quickly. 

"  Then  why  do  you  give  way  to  these  fits  of  melan- 
choly?" inquired  Nicholas,  in  his  kindest  manner  ;  "or 
why  not  tell  us  the  cause  ?  You  grow  a  different  crea- 
ture, Smike." 

"  I  do  ;  I  know  I  do,"  he  replied.  "  I  will  tell  you  the 
reason  one  day,  but  not  now.  I  hate  myself  for  this  ; 
you  are  all  so  good  and  kind.  But  I  cannot  help  it.  My 
heart  is  very  full  ; — you  do  not  know  how  full  it  is." 

He  wrung  Nicholas's  hand  before  he  released  it  ;  and, 
glancing,  for  a  moment,  at  the  brother  and  sister  as  they 
stood  together,  as  if  there  were  something  in  their  strong 
affection  which  touched  him  very  deeply,  withdrew  into 
his  chamber,  and  was  soon  the  only  watcher  under  that 
quiet  roof. 


CHAPTER  L. 

Involves  a  Serious  Catastrophe. 

The  little  race- course  at  Hampton  was  in  the  full  tide 
and  height  of  its  gaiety  ;  the  day  as  dazzling  as  day 
could  be  ;  the  sun  high  in  the  cloudless  sky,  and  shin- 
ing in  its  fullest  splendour.  Every  gaudy  colour  that 
fluttered  in  the  air  from  carriage  seat  and  garish  tent 
top,  shone  out  in  its  gaudiest  hues.  Old  dingy  flags 
grew  new  again,  faded  gilding  was  reburnished,  stained 
rotten  canvas  looked  a  snowy  white,  the  very  beggar's 
rags  wore  freshened  up,  and  sentiment  quite  forgot  its 
charity  in  its  fervent  admiration  of  poverty  so  pictur- 
esque. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


183 


It  was  one  of  fhose  scenes  of  life  and  animation,  ] 
caught  in  its  very  briglitest  and  freshest  momentH,  vvliich 
C3n°scarce]y  fail  to  please  ;  for  if  the  eyo  b«;  tire.d  of 
show  and  ^lare,  or  the  ear  be  weary  with  a  ceaseless  i 
round  of  noise,  the  one  may  rejwse,  turn  almost  where  | 
it  will,  on  eager,  happy,  and  expectant  faces,  and  the 
other  deaden  all  consciousness  of  more  annoying  sounds  | 
in  those  of  mirth  and  exhilaration.  Even  the  sun-burnt 
faces  of  gipsy  children,  half  naked  though  they  be,  sug- 
gest a  drop  of  comfort.  It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  see  that 
the  sun  has  been  there  ;  to  know  that  the  air  and  light 
are  on  them  every  day  ;  to  feel  that  they  are  chihlren, 
and  lead  children's  lives  ;  that  if  their  pillows  be  damp, 
it  is  with  the  dews  of  Heaven,  and  not  with  tears  :  that 
the  limbs  of  their  girls  are  free,  and  that  they  are  not 
crippled  by  distortions,  imposing  an  unnatural  and  hor- 
rible penance  upon  their  sex  ;  that  their  lives  are  spent, 
from  day  to  day,  at  least  among  the  waving  trees,  and 
not  in  the  midst  of  dreadful  engines  which  make  young 
children  old  before  they  know  what  childhood  is,  and 
give  them  the  exhaustion  and  infirmity  of  age,  without, 
like  age,  the  privilege  to  die.  God  send  that  old  nursery 
tales  were  true,  and  that  gipsies  stole  such  children  by 
the  score  ! 

The  great  race  of  the  day  had  just  been  run  ;  and  the 
close  lines  of  people,  on  either  side  of  the  course,  sud- 
denly breaking  up  and  pouring  into  it,  imparted  a  new 
liveliness  to  the  scene,  which  was  again  all  busy  move- 
ment.  Some,  hurried  eagerly  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
winning  horse ;  others  darted  to  and  fro,  searching,  no 
less  eagerly,  for  the  carriages  they  had  left  in  quest  of 
better  stations.  Here,  a  little  knot  gathered  round  a 
pea  and  thimble  table  to  watch  the  plucking  of  some 
unhappy  greenhorn  ;  and  there,  another  proprietor  with 
his  confederates  in  various  disguises — one  man  in  spec- 
tacles, another,  with  an  eye-glass  and  a  stylish  hat ;  a 
third,  dressed  as  a  farmer  well  to  do  in  the  world,  with 
liis  top-coat  over  his  arm  and  his  Hash  notes  in  a  large 
leathern  pocket-book  :  and  all  with  heavy-handled  whips 
to  represent  most  innocent  country  fellows  who  had  trot- 
ted there  on  horseback — sought,  by  Joud  and  noisy  talk 
and  pretended  play,  to  entrap  some  unwary  customer, 
while  the  gentlemen  confederates  (of  more  villanous  as 
pect  still,  in  clean  linen  and  good  clothes),  betrayed  their 
close  interest  in  the  concern  by  the  anxious  furtive  glance 
they  cast  on  all  new  comers.  These,  would  be  hanging 
on  the  outskirts  of  a  wide  circle  of  people  assembled 
round  some  itinerant  juggler,  opposed,  in  his  turn,  by  a 
noisy  band  of  music,  or  the  classic  game  of  "  Ring  the 
Bull,"  while  ventriloquists  holding  dialogues  with 
wooden  dolls,  and  fortune-telling  women  smothering  the 
cries  of  real  babies,  divided  with  them,  and  many  more, 
the  general  attention  of  the  company.  Drinking-tents 
were  full,  glasses  began  to  clink  in  carriages,  hampers  to 
"be  unpacked,  tempting  provisions  to  be  set  forth,  knives 
and  forks  to  rattle,  champagne  corks  to  fly,  eyes  to  brighten 
that  were  not  dull  before,  and  pickpockets  to  count  their 
gains  during  the  last  heat.  The  attention  so  recently 
strained  on  one  object  of  interest,  was  now  divided 
among  a  hundred  ;  and,  look  where  you  would,  there 
was  a  motley  assemblage  of  feasting,  laughing,  talking, 
"begging,  gambling,  and  mummery. 

Of  the  gambling-booths  there  was  a  plentiful  show, 
flourishing  in  all  the  splendour  of  carpeted  ground, 
striped  hangings,  crimson  cloth,  pinnacled  roof  s, geranium 
pots,  and  livery  servants.  There  were  the  Stranger's 
club-house,  the  Athenaeum  club-house,  the  Hampton 
club-house,  the  Saint  James  club-house,  and  half-a- 
mile  of  club-houses  to  play  i/i;  and  there  were  rouge- 
et-noir,  French  Hazard,  and  La  MorveilU  to  play  at.  It 
is  into  one  of  these  booths  that  our  story  takes  its  way. 

Fitted  up  with  three  tables  for  the  purposes  of  play, 
and  crowded  with  players  and  lookers  on,  it  was — 
although  the  largest  place  of  the  kind  upon  the  course — 
intensely  hot,  notwithstanding  that  a  portion  of  the  can- 
vas roof  was  rolled  back  to  admit  more  air,  and  there 
were  two  doors  for  a  free  passage  in  and  out.  Except- 
ing one  or  two  men  who  — each  with  a  long  roll  of  half- 
crowns,  chequered  with  a  few  stray  sovereigns,  in  his 
left  hand — staked  their  money  at  every  roll  of  the  ball 
with  a  busineas-like  sedateness  whinh  showed  that  they 
were  used  to  it,  and  had  been  playing  all  day,  and  most 


probably  all  the  day  before,  there  was  no  very  distinctive 
character  about  the  j>layers,  who  were  cliielly  young 
men,  apparently  attracted  by  curiosity,  or  staking  smull 
sums  as  part  of  the  amusement  of  the  day,  with  no  very 
great  interest  in  winning  or  losing.  There  were  two 
persons  present,  however,  who,  as  peculiarly  gootl  speci- 
mens of  a  class,  deserve  a  passing  notice. 

Of  these,  one  was  a  man  of  six  or  eight  and  fifty,  who 
sat  on  a  chair  near  one  of  tlue  entrances  of  tin;  bo(4.h, 
with  his  hands  folded  on  the  top  of  his  stick,  and  his  chin 
appearing  above  them.  He  was  a  tall,  fat,  long-bodied 
man,  buttoned  up  to  the  throat  in  a  lijfht  green  coat, 
which  made  his  body  look  still  longer  than  it  was  :  and 
wore,  besides,  drab  breeches  and  gaiters,  a  white  necker- 
chief, and  a  broad-brimmed  white  hat.  Amid  all  the 
buzzing  noise  of  the  games,  and  the  perpetual  passing  in 
and  out  of  people,  he  seemed  perfectly  calm  and  ab- 
stracted, without  the  smallest  particle  of  excitement  in 
his  composition.  He  exhibited  no  indication  of  weari- 
ness, nor,  to  a  casual  observer,  of  interest  either.  There 
he  sat,  quite  still  and  collected.  Sometimes,  but  very 
rarely,  he  nodded  to  some  passing  face,  pr  beckoned  to  a 
waiter  to  obey  a  call  from  one  of  the  tables.  The  next 
instant  he  subsided  into  his  old  state.  He  might  have 
been  some  profoundly  deaf  old  gentleman,  who  had  come 
in  to  take  a  rest,  or  he  might  have  been  patiently  wait- 
ing for  a  friend,  without  the  least  consciousness  of  any- 
body's presence,  or  fixed  in  a  trance,  or  under  the  influ- 
ence of  opium.  People  turned  round  and  looked  at  him  ; 
he  made  no  gesture,  caught  nobody's  eye, — let  them  pass 
away,  and  others  come  on  and  be  succeeded  by  others, 
and  took  no  notice.  When  he  did  move,  it  seemed  won- 
derful how  he  could  have  seen  anything  to  occasion  it. 
And  so,  in  truth,  it  was.  But  there  was  not  a  face  that 
passed  in  or  out,  which  this  man  failed  to  see  ;  not  a 
gesture  at  any  one  of  the  three  tables  that  was  lost  upon 
him  ;  not  a  word,  spoken  by  the  bankers,  but  reached 
his  ear  ;  not  a  winner  or  loser  he  could  not  have  marked  ; 
and  he  was  the  proprietor  of  the  place. 

The  other  presided  over  the  rouge-et-noir  table.  He 
was  probably  some  ten  years  younger,  and  was  a  plump, 
paunchy,  sturdy-looking  fellow,  with  his  underlip  a  lit- 
tle pursed,  from  a  habit  of  couiiting  money  inwardly  as 
he  paid  it,  but  with  no  decidedly  bad  expression  in*  his 
face,  which  was  rather  an  honest  and  jolly  one  than 
otherwise.  He  wore  no  coat,  the  weather  being  hot,  and 
stood  behind  the  table  with  a  huge  mound  of  crowns  and 
half-crowns  before  him,  and  a  cash-box  for  notes.  This 
game  was  constantly  playing.  Perhaps  twenty  people 
would  be  staking  at  the  same  time.  This  man  had  to 
roll  the  ball,  to  watch  the  stakes  as  they  were  laid  down, 
to  gather  them  off  the  colour  which  lost,  to  pay  those 
who  won,  to  do  it  ail  with  the  utmost  dispatch,  to  roll 
the  ball  again,  and  to  keep  this  game  perpetually  alive. 
He  did  it  all  with  a  rapidity  absolutely  marvelous  ;  never 
hesitating,  never  making  a  mistake,  never  stojDping,  and 
never  ceasing  to  repeat  such  unconnected  phrases  as  the 
following,  which,  partly  from  habit,  and  partly  to  have 
something  appropriate  and  business-like  to  say,  he  con- 
stantly poured  out  with  the  same  monotonous  emphasis, 
and  in  nearly  the  same  order,  all  day  long  : — 

"  Rooge-a-nore  from  Paris  !  Gentlemen,  make  your 
game  and  back  your  own  opinions — any  time  while  the  ball 
rolls — rooge-a-nore  from  Paris  gentlemen,  it's  a  French 
game,  gentlemen,  I  brought  it  over  myself,  I  did  indeed  ! 
— rooge-a-nore  from  Paris — black  wins — black — stop  a 
minute,  sir,  and  I'll  pay  you  directly — two  there,  half  a 
pound  there,  three  there— and  one  tliere — gentlemen,  the 
ball's  a  rolling — any  time,  sir,  while  the  ball  rolls  !  -the 
beauty  of  this  game  is,  that  you  can  double  your  stakes 
or  put  down  your  money,  gentlemen,  any  time  while  the 
ball  rolls — black  again  *  black  wins— I  never  saw  such  a 
thing — I  never  did,  in  all  my  life,  upon  my  word  I  never 
did  ;  if  any  gentleman  had*  been  backing  the  black  in 
the  last  five  minutes  he  must  have  won  five-aud-forty 
pound  in  four  rolls  of  the  ball,  he  must  indeed — Gentle- 
men, we've  port,  sherry,  cigars,  and  most  excellent  cham- 
pagne. Here,  wai-ter,  bring  a  bottle  of  champagne,  and 
let's  have  a  dozen  or  fifteen  cigars  here — and  let's  be 
comfortable,  gentlemen — and  bring  some  clean  glasses — 
any  time  while  the  ball  rolls  ! — I  lost  one  hundred  and 
thirty-seven  pound  yesterday,  gentlemen,  at  one  roll  of 


184 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


the  ball,  T  did  indeed  ! — how  do  you  do,  sir,"  (recognising 
some  knowing  gentlemen  without  any  halt  or  change  of 
voice,  and  giving  a  wink  so  slight  that  it  seems  an  acci- 
dent) "will  you  take  a  glass  of  sherry,  sir — here,  wai-ter  ! 
bring  a  clean  glass,  and  hand  tlie  sherry  to  this  gentle- 
man— and  hand  it  round,  will  you,  waiter — this  is  the 
rooge-a-nore  from  Paris,  gentlemen — any  time  while  the 
ball  rolls  ! — gentlemen,  make  your  game,  and  back  your 
own  opinions — it's  the  rooge-a-nore  from  Paris — quite  a 
new  game,  I  brought  it  over  myself,  I  did  indeed — gentle- 
men, the  ball's  a  rolling  ! " 

This  officer  was  busily  plying  his  vocation  when  half-a- 
dozen  persons  sauntered  through  the  booth,  to  whom-- 
but  without  stopping  either  in  his  speech  or  work— he 
bowed  respectfully  ;  at  the  same  time,  directing  by  a 
look,  the  attention  of  a  man  beside  him  to  the  tallest 
figure  in  the  group,  in  recognition  of  whom  the  propri- 
etor pulled  off  his  hat.  This  was  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk, 
with  whom  were  his  friend  and  pupil,  and  a  small  train 
of  gentlemanly-dressed  men,  of  characters  more  doubt- 
ful than  obscure. 

The  proprietor,  in  a  low  voice,  bade  Sir  Mulberry  good 
day.  Sir  Mulberry,  in  the  same  tone,  bade  the  propri- 
etor go  to  the  devil,  and  turned  to  speak  to  his  friends. 

There  was  evidently  an  irritable  consciousness  about 
him  that  he  was  an  object  of  curiosity,  on  this  first  occa- 
sion of  showing  himself  in  public  after  the  accident  that 
had  befallen  him  ;  and  it  was  easy  to  perceive  that  he 
appeared  on  the  race-course,  that  day,  more  in  the  hope 
of  meeting  with  a  great  many  people  who  knew  him,  and 
so  getting  over  as  much  as  possible  of  the  annoyance  at 
once,  than  with  any  purpose  of  enjoying  the  sport. 
There  yet  remained  a  slight  scar  upon  his  face,  and 
whenever  he  was  recognised,  as  he  was  almost  every 
minute  by  people  sauntering  in  and  out,  he  made  a  rest- 
less  effort  to  conceal  it  with  his  glove  ;  showing  how 
keenly  he  felt  the  disgrace  he  had  undergone. 

"Ah  !  Hawk,"  said  one  very  sprucely  dressed  person- 
age in  a  Newmarket  coat,  a  choice  neckerchief,  and  all 
other    accessories  of  the  most   unexceptionable  kind, 

"  How  d'ye  do,  old  fellow  ?  " 

This  was  a  rival  trainer  of  young  noblemen  and  gen- 
tlemen, and  the  person  of  all  bthers  whom  Sir  Mulberry 
most  hated  and  dreaded  to  meet.  They  shook  hands  with 
excessive  cordiality. 

"And  how  are  you  now,  old  fellow,  hey  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,  quite  well,"  said  Sir  Mulberry. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  other.  "  How  d'ye  do,  Veri- 
sopht  ?  He's  a  little  pulled  down,  our  friend  here — rather 
out  of  condition  still,  hey  ?  " 

It  should  be  observed  that  the  gentleman  had  very 
white  teeth,  and  that  when  there  was  no  excuse  for 
laughing,  he  generally  finished  with  the  same  mono- 
syllable, which  he  uttered  so  as  to  display  them. 

"  He's  in  very  good  condition  ;  there's  nothing  the 
matter  with  him,"  said  the  young  man  carelessly. 

"  Upon  my  soul  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  rejoined  the  other. 
"  Have  you  just  returned  from  Brussels  ?" 

"  We  only  reached  town  late  last  night,"  said  Lord 
Frederick.  Sir  Mulberry  turned  away  to  speak  to  one  of 
hir  own  party,  and  feigned  not  to  hear. 

"  Now,  upon  my  life,"  said  the  friend,  affecting  to 
speak  in  a  whisper,  "it's  an  uncommonly  bold  and  game 
thing  in  Hawk  to  show  himself  so  soon.  I  say  it  ad- 
visedly ;  there's  a  vast  deal  of  courage  in  it.  You  see 
he  has  just  rusticated  long  enough  to  excite  curiosity, 
and  not  long  enough  for  men  to  have  forgotten  that 
deuced  unpleasant — by  the  bye— you  know  the  rights  of 
the  affair,  of  course  ?  Why  did  you  never  give  those 
confounded  papers  the  lie  ?  I  seldom  read  the  papers, 
but  I  looked  in  the  papers  for  that,  and  may  I  be — " 

"  Look  in  the  papers,"  interrupted  Sir  Mulberry,  turn- 
ing suddenly  round — "to-morrow — no,  next  day,  will 
you  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  life,  my  dear  fellow,  I  seldom  or  never 
read  the  papers,"  said  the  other,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
"but  I  will  at  your  recommendation.  What  shall  I  look 
for  ?  " 

"  Good  day,"  said  Sir  Mulberry,  turning  abruptly  on 
his  heel,  and  drawing  his  pupil  with  him.  Falling,  again, 
into  the  loitering  careless  pace  at  which  they  had  en- 
tered, they  lounged  out,  arm  in  arm. 


"  I  won't  give  him  a  case  of  murder  to  read,"  mut- 
tered Sir  Mulberry  with  an  oath  ;  but  it  shall  be  some- 
thing very  near  it  if  whip-cord  cuts  and  bludgeons 
bruise." 

His  companion  said  nothing,  but  there  was  something 
in  his  manner  which  galled  Sir  Mulberry  to  add,  with 
nearly  as  much  ferocity  as  if  his  friend  had  been  Nicho- 
las himself. 

"  I  sent  Jenkins  to  old  Nickleby  before  eight  o'clock 
this  morning.  He's  a  staunch  one  ;  he  was  back  with 
me  before  the  messenger.  I  had  it  all  from  him  in  the 
first  five  minutes.  I  know  where  this  hound  is  to  be 
met  with — time  and  place  both.  But  there's  no  need  to 
talk  ;  to-morrow  will  soon  be  here." 

"  And  wha-at's  to  be  done  to-morrow?  "  inquired  Lord 
Frederick. 

Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  honoured  him  with  an  angry 
glance,  but  condescended  to  return  no  verbal  answer  to 
this  inquiry.  Both  walked  sullenly  on,  as  though  their 
thoughts  were  busily  occujjied,  until  they  were  quite 
clear  of  the  crowd,  and  almost  alone,  when  Sir  Mulberry 
wheeled  round  to  rel  urn. 

"  Stop,"  said  his  companion,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
— in  earnest.  Don't  turn  back.  Let  us  walk  here,  a 
few  minntes." 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me,  that  you  could  not  say 
yonder  as  well  as  here?"  returned  his  Mentor,  disengag- 
ing his  arm. 

"Hawk,"  rejoined  the  other,  "tell  me;  I  must 
know — " 

"  Must  know,"  interrupted  the  other  disdainfully. 
"  Wliew  !  Go  on.  If  you  must  know,  of  course  there's 
no  escape  for  me.    Must  know?" 

"  Must  ask  then,"  returned  Lord  Frederick,  "  and 
must  press  you  for  a  plain  and  straight-forward  answer 
— is  what  you  have  just  said,  only  a  mere  whim  of  the 
moment,  occasioned  by  your  being  out  of  humour  and 
irritated,  or  is  it  your  serious  intention,  and  one  that  you 
have  actually  contemplated  t " 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  what  passed  on  the  sub- 
ject one  night,  when  I  was  laid  up  with  a  broken  limb  ?  " 
said  Sir  Mulberrv,  with  a  sneer. 

"Perfectly  well." 

"  Then  take  that  for  an  answer,  in  the  devil's  name," 
replied  Sir  Mulberry,  "and  ask  me  for  no  other." 

Such  was  the  ascendancy  he  had  acquired  over  his 
dupe,  and  such  the  latter's  general  habit  of  submission, 
that,  for  the  moment,  the  young  man  seemed  half -afraid 
to  pursue  the  subject.  He  soon  overcame  this  feeling, 
however,  if  it  had  restrained  him  at  all,  and  retorted 
angrily  : 

"  If  I  remember  what  passed  at  the  time  yon  speak  of, 
I  expressed  a  strong  opinion  on  this  subject,  and  said 
that,  with  my  knowledge  or  consent,  you  never  should 
do  what  you  threaten  now." 

"  Will  you  prevent  me?  "  asked  Sir  Mulberry,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Ye-es,  if  I  can  ;  "  returned  the  other  promptly. 

"A  yery  proper  saving  clause,  that  last,"  said  Sir 
Mulberry  ;  "  and  one  you  stand  in  need  of.  Oh  !  look 
to  your  own  business,  and  leave  me  to  look  to  mine." 

"  This  is  mine,"  retorted  Lord  Frederick.  "  I  make  it 
mine  ;  I  will  make  it  mine.  It's  mine  already.  I  am 
more  compromised  than  I  should  be,  as  it  is." 

"  Do  as  you  please,  and  what  you  please,  for  your- 
self," said  Sir  Mulberry,  affecting  an  easy  good  humour. 
"  Surely  that  must  content  you  !  Do  nothing  for  me  ; 
that's  all.  I  advise  no  man  to  interfere  in  proceedings 
that  I  choose  to  take.  I  am  sure  you  know  me  better 
than  to  do  so.  The  fact  is,  I  see,  you  mean  to  offer  me 
advice.  It  is  well  meant,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  I  reject 
it.  Now,  if  you  please,  we  will  return  to  the  carriage. 
I  find  no  entertainment  here,  but  quite  the  reverse.  If 
we  prolong  this  conversation,  we  might  quarrel,  which 
would  be  no  proof  of  wisdom  in  either  you  or  me." 

With  this  rejoinder,  and  waiting  for  no  further  dis- 
cussion. Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  yawned,  and  very  leisurely 
turned  back. 

There  was  not  a  little  tact  and  knowledge  of  the 
young  lord's  disposition  in  this  mode  of  treating  him. 
Sir  Mulberry  clearly  saw  that  if  his  dominion  were  to 
last,  it  must  be  established  now.    He  knew  that  the  mo- 


NICHOLAS 

ment  he  became  violent,  the  yoang  man  would  become 
violent  too.  He  had,  many  times,  been  enabled  to 
strengthen  his  influence,  when  any  circumstance  had  oc- 
curred to  weaken  it,  by  adoptin^^  this  cool  and  laconic 
style  ;  and  he  trusted  to  it  now,  with  very  little  doubt 
of  its  entire  success. 

But  while  he  did  this,  and  wore  the  most  careless  and 
indifferent  deportment  that  his  practised  arts  enabled 
him  to  assume,  he  inwardly  resolved,  not  only  to  visit 
all  the  mortification  of  bein^r  c(mipelled  to  suppress  his 
feelings,  with  additional  severity  upon  Nich(;Ias,  but 
also  to  make  the  young  lord  pay  dearly  for  it,  one  day, 
in  some  shape  or  other.  So  long  as  he  had  been  a  pas- 
sive instrument  in  his  hands,  Sir  Mulberry  had  regarded 
him  with  no  other  feeling  than  contempt  ;  but,  now,  that 
he  presumed  to  avow  opinions  in  opposition  to  his,  and 
even  to  turn  upon  him  with  a  lofty  tone  and  an  air  of 
superiority,  he  began  to  hate  him.  Conscious  that,  in 
the  vilest  and  most  worthless  sense  of  the  term,  he  was 
dependent  upon  the  weak  young  lord.  Sir  Mulberry  could 
the  less  brook  humiliation  at  his  hands  ;  and  when  he 
began  to  dislike  him  he  measured  his  dislike — as  men 
often  do — liy  the  extent  of  the  injuries  he  had  inflicted 
upon  its  object.  When  it  is  remembered  that  Sir  Mul- 
berry Hawk  had  plundered,  duped,  deceived,  and  fooled 
his  pupil  in  every  possible  way,  it  will  not  be  wondered 
at,  that,  beginning  to  hate  him,  he  began  to  hate  him 
cordially. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  young  lord  having  thought — 
which  he  very  seldom  did  about  anything — and  seriously 
too,  upon  the  affair  with  Nicholas,  and  the  circumstances 
which  led  to  it,  had  arrived  at  a  manly  and  honest  con- 
clusion. Sir  Mulberry's  coarse  and  insulting  behaviour 
on  the  occasion  in  question  had  produced  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  his  mind  ;  a  strong  suspicion  of  his  having  led 
him  on  to  pursue  Miss  Nickleby  for  purposes  of  his  own, 
had  been  lurking  there,  for  some  time  ;  he  was  really 
ashamed  of  his  share  in  the  transaction,  and  deeply  mor- 
tified by  the  misgiving  that  he  had  been  galled.  He 
had  had  sufficient  leisure  to  reflect  upon  these  things, 
during  their  late  retirement ;  and,  at  times,  when  his 
careless  and  indolent  nature  would  permit,  had  availed 
himself  of  the  opportunity.  Slight  circumstances,  too, 
had  occurred  to  increase  his  suspicion.  It  wanted  but  a 
very  slight  circumstance  to  kindle  his  wrath  against  Sir 
Mulberry.  This  his  disdainful  and  insolent  tone  in  their 
recent  conversation  (the  only  one  they  had  held  upon  the 
subject  since  the  period  to  which  Sir  Mulberry  referred) 
effected. 

Thus  they  joined  their  friends  :  each  with  causes  of 
dislike  against  the  other,  rankling  in  his  breast  :  and  the 
yoang  man  haunted,  besides,  with  thoughts  of  the  vin- 
dictive retaliation  which  was  threatened  against  Nicho- 
las, and  the  determination  to  prevent  it  by  some  strong 
step,  if  possible.  But  this  was  not  all.  Sir  Mulberry, 
conceiving  that  he  had  silenced  him  effectually,  could 
not  suppress  his  triumph,  or  forbear  from  following  up 
what  he  conceived  to  be  his  advantage.  Mr.  Pyke  was 
there,  and  Mr.  Pluck  was  there,  and  Colonel  Chouser, 
and  other  gentlemen  of  the  same  caste,  and  it  was  a 
great  point  for  Sir  Mulberry  to  show  them  that  he  had 
not  lost  his  influence.  At  first,  the  young  lord  contented 
himself  with  a  silent  determination  to  take  measures  for 
withdrawing  himself  from  the  connection  immediately. 
By  degrees,  he  grew  more  angry,  and  was  exasperated 
by  jests  and  familiarities  which,  a  few  hours  before, 
would  have  been  a  source  of  amusement  to  him.  This 
did  not  serve  him  ;  for,  at  such  bantering  or  retort  as 
suited  the  company,  he  was  no  match  for  Sir  Mulberry. 
Still,  no  violent  rupture  took  place.  They  returned  to 
town  ;  Messrs.  Pyke  and  Pluck  and  other  gentlemen 
frequently  protesting  on  the  way  thither,  that  Sir  Mul- 
berry had  never  been  in  such  tiptop  spirits  in  all  his  life. 

They  dined  together,  sumptuously.  The  wine  flowed 
freely,  as  indeed  it  had  done  all  "day.  Sir  Mulberry 
drank  to  recompense  himself  for  his  recent  abstinence  ; 
the  young,  lord,  to  drown  his  indignation  ;  and  the  re- 
mainder of  the  party,  because  the  wine  was  of  the  best 
and  they  had  nothing  to  pay.  It  was  nearly  midnight 
when  they  rushed  out,  wild,  burning  with  wine,  their 
blood  boiling,  and  their  brains  on  fire,  to  the  gaming- 
table. 


NICKLEBY.  185 

Here,  they  encountered  another  party,  mad  lilaj  them- 
selves. The  exciteinent  of  jjiay,  hot  rooms,  and  gluri!;g 
lights  was  not  calcuhiled  lo  allay  the  fever  of  the  tin.e. 
In  that  giddy  whirl  of  noise  and  confusion,  the  men  were 
delirious.  Who  thought  of  money,  ruin,  or  the  mor- 
row, in  the  savage  intoxication  of  the  moment?  More 
wine  was  called  for,  glass  after  glass  was  drained,  their 
parched  and  scalding  mouths  were  cracked  with  thirst. 
Down  poured  the  wine  like  oil  on  blazing  fire.  And  still 
the  riot  went  on.  The  debauchery  gained  its  height; 
glasses  were  da.shed  \\\)On  the  floor  by  hands  that  could 
not  carry  them  to  lips ;  oaths  were  shouted  out  by  lips 
which  could  scarcely  form  the  words  to  vent  them  in  ; 
drunken  losers  cursed  and  roared  ;  some  mounted  on  the 
tables,  waving  bottles  above  their  heads,  and  bidding 
defiance  to  the  rest ;  some  danced,  some  sang,  some  tore 
the  cards  and  raved.  Tumult  and  frensy  reigned  su- 
preme ;  when  a  noise  arose  that  drowned  all  others,  and 
two  men,  seizing  each  other  by  the  throat,  struggled 
into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

A  dozen  voices,  until  now  unheard,  called  aloud  to 
part  them.  Those  who  had  kept  themselves  cool,  to 
win,  and  who  earned  their  living  in  s^uch  scenes,  threw 
themselves  upon  the  combatants,  and,  forcing  them 
asunder,  dragged  them  some  space  apart. 

"  Let  me  go  !"  cried  Sir  Mulberry,  in  a  thick  hoarse 
voice  ;  "he  struck  me  !  Do  you  hear?  I  say,  he  struck 
me.  Have  I  a  friend  here  ?  Who  is  this  ?  Westwood. 
Do  you  hear  me  say  he  struck  me  !  " 

"I  hear,  I  hear,"  replied  one  of  those  who  held  him. 
"  Come  away,  for  to-night  !  " 

"I  will  not,  by  G — ,"  he  replied.  "A  dozen  men 
about  us  saw  the  blow." 

"To-morrow  will  be  ample  time,"  said  the  friend. 

"It  will  not  be  ample  time!"  cried  Sir  Mulberry. 
"  To-night — at  once — here  !"  His  passion  was  so  great, 
that  he  could  not  articulate,  but  stood  clenching  his  fist, 
tearing  his  hair,  and  stamping  upon  the  ground. 

"  What  is  this,  my  lord  ?"  said  one  of  those  who  sur- 
rounded him.    "  Have  blows  passed  ?  " 

"  Owe  blow  has,"  was  the  panting  reply.  "I  struck 
him — I  proclaim  it  to  all  here  !  I  struck  him,  and  he 
knows  why.  I  say,  with  him,  let  this  quarrel  be  ad- 
justed now.  Captain  Adams,"  said  the  young  lord, 
looking  hurriedly  about  him,  and  addressing  one  of 
those  who  had  interposed,  "  Let  me  siseak  with  you,  I 
beg." 

The  person  addressed,  stepped  forward,  and  taking 
the  young  man's  arm,  they  retired  together,  followed 
shortly  afterwards  by  Sir  Mulberry  and  his  friend. 

It  was  a  profligate  haunt,  of  the  worst  repute,  and  not 
a  place  in  which  such  an  affair  was  likely  to  awaken 
any  sympathy  for  either  party,  or  to  call  forth  any  fur- 
ther remonstrance  or  interposition.  Elsewhere,  its  fur- 
ther progress  would  have  been  instantly  prevented,  and 
time  allowed  for  sober  and  cool  reflection  ;  but  not  there. 
Disturbed  in  their  orgies,  the  party  broke  up  ;  some 
reeled  away  with  looks  of  tipsy  gravity  ;  others  with- 
drew noisily  discussing  what  had  just  occurred  ;  the 
gentlemen  of  honour  who  lived  upon  their  winnings  re- 
marked to  each  other,  as  they  went  out,  that  Hawk  was 
a  good  shot  ;  and  those  who  had  been  most  noisy,  fell 
fast  asleep  upon  the  sofas,  and  thought  no  more  about  it. 

Meanwhile,  the  two  seconds,  as  they  may  be  called 
now,  after  a  long  conference,  each  with  his  principal, 
met  together  in  another  room.  Both  utterly  heartless, 
both  men  upon  town,  both  thoroughly  initiated  in  its 
worst  vices,  both  deeply  in  debt,  both  fallen  from  some 
higher  estate,  both  addicted  to  every  depravity  for 
which  society  can  find  some  genteel  name  and  plead  its 
most  depraving  conventionalities  as  an  excuse,  they  were 
naturally  gentlemen  of  most  unblemished  honour  them- 
selves, and  of  great  nicety  concerning  the  honour  of 
other  people. 

These  two  gentlemen  were  unusually  cheerful,  just 
now  ;  for  the  affair  was  pretty  certain  to  make  some 
noise,  and  could  scarcely  fail  to  enhance  their  reputa- 
tions. 

"  This  is  an  awkward  affair,  Adams,"  said  Mr.  West- 
wood,  drawing  himself  up. 

"Very,"  returned  the  captain;  "a  blow  has  been 
struck,  and  there  is  but  one  course,  <)/ course." 


186 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"No  apology,  I  suppose?"  said  Mr.  Westwood. 

"Not  a  syllable,  sir,  from  my  man,  if  we  talk  till 
doomsday,"  returned  tlie  captain.  "The  original  cause 
of  dispute,  I  understand,  was  some  girl  or  other,  to  whom 
your  principal  applied  certain  terms,  which  Lord  Fred- 
erick, defending  the  girl,  repelled.  But  this  led  to  a 
long  recrimination  upon  a  great  many  sore  subjects, 
charges,  and  counter-charges.  Sir  Mulberry  was  sar- 
castic ;  Lord  Frederick  was  excited,  and  struck  him  in 
the  heat  of  provocation,  and  under  circumstances  of 
great  aggravation.  That  blow,  unless  there  is  a  full 
retraction  on  the  part  of  Sir  Mulberry,  Lord  Frederick  is 
ready  to  justify." 

.  "There  is  no  more  to  be  said,"  returned  the  other, 
"  but  to  settle  the  hour  and  the  place  of  meeting.  It's 
a  responsibility  ;  but  there  is  a  strong  feeling  to  have  it 
over.    Do  you  object  to  say  at  sunrise?" 

"Sharp  work,"  replied  the  captain,  referring  to  his 
watch;  "however,  as  this  seems  to  have  been  a  long 
time  breeding,  and  negotiation  is  only  a  waste  of  words 
— no." 

"  Something  may  possibly  be  said,  out  of  doors,  after 
what  passed  in  the  other  room,  which  renders  it  desir- 
able that  we  should  be  off  without  delay,  and  quite 
clear  of  town,"  said  Mr.  Westwood.  "  What  do  you 
say  to  one  of  the  meadows  opposite  Twickenham  by  the 
river-side  ?  " 

The  captain  saw  no  objection, 

"  Shall  we  join  company  in  the  avenue  of  trees  which 
leads  from  Petersham  to  Ham  House,  and  settle  the  ex- 
act spot  when  we  arrive  there  ?"  said  Mr.  Westwood. 

To  this  the  captain  also  assented.  After  a  few  other 
preliminaries,  equally  brief — and  having  settled  the  road 
each  party  should  take  to  avoid  suspicion — they  separ- 
ated. 

"  We  shall  just  have  comfortable  time,  my  lord,"  said 
the  captain,  when  he  had  communicated  the  arrange- 
ments, "  to  call  at  my  rooms  for  a  case  of  pistols,  and 
then  jog  coolly  down.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  dismiss 
your  servant,  we'll  take  my  cab ;  for  yours,  perhaps, 
might  be  recognised." 

What  a  contrast,  when  they  reached  the  street,  to  the 
scene  they  had  just  left !  It  was  already  daybreak. 
For  the  flaring  yellow  light  within,  was  substituted  the 
clear,  bright,  glorious  morning  ;  for  a  hot,  close  atmos- 
phere, tainted  with  the  smell  of  expiring  lamps,  and 
reeking  with  the  steams  of  riot  and  dissipation,  the  free, 
fresh,  wholesome  air.  But  to  the  fevered  head  on  which 
that  cool  air  blew,  it  seemed  to  come  laden  with  remorse 
for  time  mis-spent  and  countless  opportunities  neglected. 
With  throbbing  veins  and  burning  skin,  eyes  wild  and 
heavy,  thoughts  hurried  and  disordered,  he  felt  as 
though  the  light  were  a  reproach,  and  shrunk  involun- 
tarily from  the  day  as  if  he  were  some  foul  and  hideous 
thing. 

"  Shivering  ?  "  said  the  captain.    "  You  are  cold." 
"Rather." 

"  It  does  strike  cool,  coming  out  of  those  hot  rooms. 
Wrap  that  cloak  about  you.    So,  so  ;  now  we're  off." 

They  rattled  through  the  quiet  streets,  made  their  call 
at  the  captain's  lodgings,  cleared  the  town,  and  emerged 
upon  the  open  road,  without  hindrance  or  molestation. 

Fields,  trees,  gardens,  hedges,  everything  looked  very 
beautiful  ;  the  young  man  scarcely  seemed  to  have 
noticed  them  before,  though  he  had  passed  the  same  ob- 
jects a  thousand  times.  There  was  a  peace  and  serenity 
upon  them  all,  strangely  at  variance  with  the  bewilder- 
ment and  confusion  of  his  own  half-sobered  thoughts, 
and  yet  impressive  and  welcome.  He  had  no  fear  upon 
his  mind  ;  but,  as  he  looked  about  him,  he  had  less  an- 
ger ;  and  though  all  old  delusions,  relative  to  his  worth- 
less late  companion,  were  now  cleared  away,  he  rather 
wished  he  had  never  known  him  than  thought  of  its  hav- 
ing come  to  this. 

The  past  night,  the  day  before,  and  many  other  days 
and  nights  besides,  all  mingled  themselves  up  in  one  un- 
intelligible and  senseless  whirl  ;  he  could  not  separate 
the  transactions  of  one  time  from  those  of  another. 
Now,  the  noise  of  the  wheels  resolved  itself  into  some 
wild  tune  in  which  he  could  recognise  scraps  of  airs  he 
knew  ;  now,  there  was  nothing  in  lus  ears  but  a  stun- 
ning and  bewildering  sound  like  rushing  water.   But  his 


companion  rallied  him  on  being  so  silent,  and  they  talked 
and  laughed  boisterously.  When  they  stopped,  he  w^as 
a  little  surprised  to  find  himself  in  the  act  of  smoking  ; 
but  on  reflection,  he  remembered  when  and  where  he 
had  taken  the  cigar. 

They  stopped  at  the  avenue  gate  and  alighted,  leav- 
ing the  carriage  to  the  care  of  the  servant,  who  was  a 
smart  fellow,  and  nearly  as  well  accustomed  to  sach  pro- 
ceedings as  his  master.  Sir  Mulberry  and  his  friend 
were  already  there.  All  four  walked  in  profound  silence 
up  the  aisle  of  stately  elm  trees,  which,  meeting  far 
above  their  heads,  formed  a  long  green  perspective  of 
gothic  arches,  terminating,  like  some  old  ruin,  in  the 
open  sky. 

After  a  pause,  and  a  brief  conference  between  the 
seconds,  they,  at  length,  turned  to  the  right,  and  taking 
a  track  across  a  little  meadow,  passed  Ham  House  and 
came  into  some  fields  beyond.  In  one  of  these,  they 
stopped.  The  ground  was  measured,  some  usual  form's 
gone  through,  the  two  principals  were  placed  front  to 
front  at  the  distance  agreed  upon,  and  Sir  Mulberry 
turned  his  face  towards  his  young  adversary  for  the  first 
time.  He  was  very  pale — his  eyes  were  bloodshot,  his 
dress  disordered,  and  his  hair  dishevelled, — all,  most 
probably,  the  consequence  of  the  previous  day  and 
night.  For  the  face,  it  expressed  nothing  but  violent 
and  evil  passions.  He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  ; 
gazed  at  his  opponent,  stedfastly,  for  a  few  moments  ; 
and,  then  taking  the  weapon  which  was  tendered  to  him, 
bent  his  eyes  upon  that,  and  looked  up  no  more  until  the 
word  was  given,  when  he  instantly  fired. 

The  two  shots  were  fired,  as  nearly  as  possible,  at  the 
same  instant.  In  that  instant,  the  young  lord  turned 
his  head  sharply  round,  fixed  upon  his  adversary  a 
ghastly  stare,  and,  without  a  groan  or  stagger,  fell  down 
dead. 

"  He's  gone  !  "  cried  Westwood,  who,  with  the  other 
second,  had  run  up  to  the  body,  and  fallen  on  one  knee 
beside  it. 

"  His  blood  on  his  own  head,  said  Sir  Mulberry.  "He 
brought  this  upon  himself,  and  forced  it  upon  me." 

"Captain  Adams,"  cried  Westwood,  hastily,  "I  call 
you  to  witness  that  this  was  fairly  done.  Hawk,  we 
have  not  a  moment  to  lose.  We  must  leave  this  place 
immediately,  push  for  Brighton,  and  cross  to  France  with 
all  speed.  This  has  been  a  bad  business,  and  may  be 
worse,  if  we  delay  a  moment.  Adams,  consult  your  own 
safety,  and  don't  remain  here  ;  the  living  before  the 
dead—  good  bye  ! " 

With  these  words,  he  seized  Sir  Mulberry  by  the  arm, 
and  hurried  him  away.  Captain  Adams — only  pausing 
to  convince  himself,  beyond  all  question,  of  the  fatal  re- 
sult— sped  off  in  the  same  direction  to  concert  measures 
with  his  servant  for  removing  the  body,  and  securing 
his  own  safety  likewise. 

So  died  Lord  Frederick  Verisopht,  by  the  hand  which 
he  had  loaded  with  gifts,  and  clasped  a  thousand  times  ; 
by  the  act  of  him,  but  for  whom,  and  others  like  him, 
he  might  have  lived  a  happy  man,  and  died  with  chil- 
dren's faces  round  his  bed. 

The  sun  came  proudly  up  in  all  his  majesty,  the  noble 
river  ran  its  winding  course,  the  leaves  quivered  and 
rustled  in  the  air,  the  birds  poured  their  cheerful  songs 
fr'^m  every  tree,  the  short-lived  butterfly  fluttered  its 
little  wings  ;  all  the  light  and  life  of  day  came  on  ;  and 
amidst  it  all,  and  pressing  down  the  grass  whose  every 
blade  bore  twenty  tiny  lives,  lay  the  dead  man,  with  his 
stark  and  rigid  face  turned  upwards  to  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

The  project  of  Mr.  Ralph  NicUeby  and  his  Friend  approaching  a  svc- 
cessfvl  lisve,  becomes  unexpectedly  known  to  another  Party,  not  ad- 
mitted into  their  Vonfldence. 

In  an  old  house,  dismal  dark  and  dusty,  which  seemed 
to  have  withered,  like  himself,  and  to  have  grown  yellow 
and  shrivelled  in  hoarding  him  from  the  light  of  day,  as 
he  had,  in  hoarding  liis  money,  lived  Arthur  Gride. 
Meagre  old  chairs  and  tables,  of  spare  and  bony  make, 
and  hard  and  cold  as  misers'  hearts,  were  ranged,  in 


LibitARV 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


NICHOLAS  NIC  RLE  BY. 


187 


grim  array,  against  tlie  g-looray  walls  ;  attenuated  presses, 
grown  lank  and  lantern-jawed  in  guarding-  the  treas- 
ures they  inclosed,  and  tottering,  as  though,  from  con- 
stant fear  and  dread  of  thieves,  shrunk  up  in  dark  cor- 
ners, whence  they  cast  no  shadows  on  tlie  ground,  and 
seemed  to  hide  and  cower  from  observation.  A  tall  grim 
clock  upon  the  stairs,  with  long  lean  hands  and  famished 
face,  ticked  in  cautious  whispers  ;  and  when  it  struck 
the  time,  in  thin  and  piping  sounds,  like  an  old  man's 
voice,  rattled,  as  if  'twere  pinched  with  hunger. 

No  fireside  couch  was  there,  to  invite  repose  and  com- 
fort. Elbow-chairs  there  were,  but  they  looked  uneasy  in 
their  minds,  cocked  their  arms  suspiciously  and  timidly, 
and  kept  upon  their  guard.  Others,  were  fantastically 
grim  and  gaunt,  as  having  drawn  themselves  u])  to  their 
utmost  height,  and  put  on  their  fiercest  looks  to  stare  all 
comers  out  of  countenance.  Others,  again,  knocked  up 
against  their  neighbours,  or  leant  for  support  against  the 
wall — somewhat  ostentatiously,  as  if  to  call  all  men  to 
witness  that  they  were  not  worth  the  taking.  The  dark 
square  lumbering  bedsteads  seemed  built  for  restless 
dreams  ;  the  musty  hangings  seemed  to  creep  in  scanty 
folds  together,  whispering  among  themselves,  when 
rustled  by  the  wind,  their  trembling  knowledge  of  the 
tempting  wares  that  lurked  within  the  dark  and  tight- 
locked  closets. 

From  out  the  most  spare  and  hungry  room  in  all  this 
spare  and  hungry  house  there  came,  one  morning,  the 
tremulous  tones  of  old  Gride's  voice,  as  it  feebly  chir- 
ruped forth  the  fag  end  of  some  forgotten  song,  of  which 
the  burden  ran 

Ta— ran— tan— too, 
Throw  the  old  shoe, 
And  may  the  wedding  be  lucky  ! 

which  he  repeated,  in  the  same  shrill  quavering  notes, 
.again  and  again,  until  a  violent  fit  of  coughing  obliged 
him  to  desist,  and  to  pursue,  in  silence,  the  occupation 
upon  which  he  was  engaged. 

This  occupation  was,  to  take  down  from  the  shelves  of 
a  worm  eaten  wardrobe,  a  quantity  of  frowsy  garments, 
one  by  one  ;  to  subject  each  to  a  careful  and  minute  in- 
spection by  holding  it  up  against  the  light,  and  after 
folding  it  with  great  exactness,  to  lay  it  on  one  or  other 
of  t\yo  little  heaps  beside  him.  He  never  took  two  arti- 
cles of  clothing  out  together,  but  always  brought  them 
forth,  singly  :  and  never  failed  to  shut  the  wardrobe 
door,  and  turn  the  key,  between  each  visit  to  its  shelves. 

"The  snuff-coloured  suit,"  said  Arthur  Gride,  survey- 
ing a  threadbare  coat,  "Did  I  look  well  in  snuff-colour? 
let  me  think. ' ' 

The  result  of  his  cogitations  appeared  to  be  unfavour- 
able, for  he  folded  the  garment  once  more,  laid  it  aside, 
and  mounted  on  a  chair  to  get  down  another  :  chirping 
while  he  did  so — 

Youns,  loving,  and  fair, 

Oh  what  happiness  there  ! 

The  wedding  is  sure  to  be  lucky  ! 

"  They  always  put  in  *  young,' "  said  old  Arthur, 
"but  songs  are  only  written  for  the  sake  of  rhyme,  and 
this  is  a  silly  one  that  the  poor  country  people  sang, 
when  I  was  a  little  boy.  Though  stop — young  is  quite 
right  too— it  means  the  bride — yes.  He,  he,  he  !  It 
means  the  bride.  Oh  dear,  that's  good.  That's  very 
good.    And  true  besides — quite  true  !  " 

In  the  satisfaction  of  this  discovery,  he  went  over  the 
verse  again,  with  increased  expression,  and  a  shake  or 
two  here  and  there.    He  then  resumed  his  employment. 

"The  bottle-green,"  said  old  Arthur;  "the  bottle- 
green  was  a  famous  suit  to  wear,  and  I  bought  it  very 
cheap  at  a  pawn -broker's  and  there  was — he,  he,  he  ! — a 
tarnislied  shilling  in  the  waistcoat  pocket.  To  think 
that  the  pawnbroker  shouldn't  have  known  there  was  a 
shilling  in  it  !  1  knew  it  !  I  felt  it  when  I  was  exam- 
ining the  quality.  Oh,  what  a  dull  dog  !  It  was  a  lucky 
suit  too,  this  bottle-green.  The  very  day  I  put  it  on 
first,  old  Lord  Mallowford  was  burnt  to  death  in  his 
bed,  and  all  the  post  obits  fell  in.  I'll  be  married  in  the 
bottle-green,  Peg— Peg  Sliderskew— I'll  wear  the  bottle- 
green  I " 

This  call,  loudly  repeated  twice  or  thrice  at  the  room 


door,  brought  into  the  apartment  a  short,  thin,  weasen, 
blear-eyed  old  woman,  ])alsy-stricken  and  hideously 
ugly,  who,  wi])ing  her  shrivelled  fac(5  upon  her  dirty 
ai)ron,  inquired,  in  that  subdued  tone  in  which  deaf  peo- 
ple commonly  speak  : — 

"  Was  that  you  a  calling,  or  only  the  clock  a  strik- 
ing ?  My  hearing  gets  so  bad,  I  never  know  which  is 
which  ;  but  when  1  hear  a  noise,  I  know  it  must  be  one 
of  you,  because  nothing  else  never  stirs  in  the  house." 

"  Me,  Peg — me,"  said  Arthur  Gride,  tapping  himself 
on  the  breast  to  render  the  reply  more  intelligible. 

"You,  eh?"  returned  Peg.  "And  what  do  yrm 
want  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  married  in  the  bottle-green,"  cried  Arthur 
Gride. 

"  It's  a  deal  too  good  to  be  married  in,  master,"  re- 
joined Peg,  after  a  short  inspection  of  the  suit. 
"  Haven't  you  got  anything  worse  than  this?" 

"  Nothing  that'll  do,"  replied  old  Arthur. 

"  Why  not  do?  "  retorted  Peg.  "  Why  don't  you  wear 
your  every-day  clothes,  like  a  man — eh?" 

"  They  ain't  becoming  enough.  Peg,"  returned  the 
master. 

"  Not  what  enough?  "  said  Peg. 
"  Becoming." 

"  Becoming  what?"  said  Peg,  sharply.  "  Not  becom- 
ing too  old  to  wear?" 

Arthur  Gride  muttered  an  imprecation  on  his  house- 
keeper's deafness,  as  he  roared  in  her  ear  : — 

"  Not  smart  enough  !  I  want  to  look  as  well  as  I  can." 

"Look?"  cried  Peg.  "If  she's  as  handsome  as  you 
say  she  is,  she  won't  look  much  at  you,  master,  take 
your  oath  of  that ;  and  as  to  how  you  look  yourself — pep- 
per-and-salt, bottle-green,  sky-blue,  or  tartan-plaid  will 
make  no  difference  in  you." 

With  which  consolatory  assurance.  Peg  Sliderskew 
gathered  up  the  chosen  suit,  and  folding,  her  skinny 
arms  upon  the  bundle,  stood,  mouthing,  and  grinning, 
and  blinking  her  watery  eyes,  like  an  uncouth  figure  in 
some  monstrous  piece  of  carving. 

"  You're  in  a  funny  humour,  an't  you  Peg?  "  said  Ar- 
thur, with  not  the  best  possible  grace. 

"  Why,  isn't  it  enough  to  make  me  ?  "  rejoined  the  old 
woman.  "I  shall,  soon  enough,  be  put  out,  though,  if 
anybody  tries  to  domineer  it  over  me  :  and  so  I  give  you 
notice,  master.  Nobody  shall  be  put  over  Peg  Slider- 
skew's  head  after  so  many  years  ;  you  know  that,  and 
so  I  needn't  tell  you  !  That  won't  do  for  me — no,  no,  nor 
for  you.    Try  that  once,  and  come  to  ruin — ruin — ruin  !  " 

"Oh  dear,  dear,  I  shall  never  try  it,"  said  Arthur 
Gride,  appalled  by  thp  mention  of  the  word,  "not  for 
the  world.  It  would  be  very  easy  to  ruin  me  ;  we  must 
be  very  careful ;  more  saving  than  ever,  with  another 
mouth  to  feed.  Only  we — we  mustn't  let  her  lose  her 
good  looks.  Peg,  because  I  like  to  see  'em." 

"  Take  care  you  don't  find  good  looks  come  expen- 
sive," returned  Peg,  shaking  her  fore-finger. 

"  But  she  can  earn  money  herself,  Peg,"  said  Arthur 
Gride,  eagerly  watching  what  effect  his  communication 
produced  upon  the  old  woman's  countenance  :  "she  can 
draw,  paint,  work  all  manner  of  pretty  things  for  orna- 
menting stools  and  chairs  :  slippers.  Peg,  watch-guards, 
hair-chains,  and  a  thousand  little  dainty  trifles  that  I 
couldn't  give  you  half  the  names  of.  Then  she  can  play 
the  piano,  (and,  what's  more,  she's  got  one,)  and  sing  like 
a  little  bird.  She'll  be  very  cheap  to  dress  and  keep, 
Peg  ;  don't  you  think  she  will  ?  " 

I  "If  you  don't  let  her  make  a  fool  of  you,  she  may," 
j  returned  Peg. 

"A  fool  of  me!"  exclaimed  Arthur.  "Trust  your 
I  old  master  not  to  be  fooled  by  pretty  faces,  Peg  ;  no,  no, 
1  no — nor  by^  ugly  ones  neither,  Mrs.  Sliderskew,"  he  softly 
:  added  by  way  of  soliloquy. 

i  "  You're  a*  saying  something  you  don't  want  me  to 
i  hear,"  said  Peg  ;  "  I  know  you  are." 
j  "  Oh  dear  !  the  devil's  in  this  woman,"  muttered 
Arthur;  adding  with  an  ugly  leer,  "I  said  I  trusted 
j  everything  to  you.  Peg.  That  was  all." 
I  "  You  do  that,  master,  and  all  your  cares  are  over," 
j  said  Peg  approvingly. 

j  "When  I  do  that,  Peg  Sliderskew,"  thought  Arthur 
^ Gride,  "they  will  be." 


188 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


*  Although  he  thought  this,  very  distinctly,  he  durst 
not  move  his. lips  lest  the  old  woman  should  detect  him. 
He  even  seemed  half  afraid  that  she  might  have  read 
his  tlioughts  ;  for  he  leered  coaxingly  upon  her,  as  he 
said  aloud  :  — 

"  Take  up  all  loose  stitches  in  the  hottle-green  with 
the  best  black  silk.  Have  a  skein  of  the  best,  and  some 
new  buttons  for  the  coat,  and — this  is  a  good  idea.  Peg, 
and  one  you'll  like,  I  know — as  I  have  never  given  her 
anything  yet,  and  girls  like  such  attentions,  you  shall 
polish  up  a  sparkling  necklace  that  T  have  got  up-stairs, 
and  I'll  give  it  her  upon  the  wedding  morning — clasp 
it  round  her  charming  little  neck  myself — and  take  it 
away  again  next  day.  He,  he,  he  ! — lock  it  up  for  her, 
Peg,  and  lose  it.  Who'll  be  made  the  fool  of  there,  I 
wonder,  to  begin  with — eh  Peg  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sliderskew  appeared  to  approve  highly  of  this 
ingenious  scheme,  and  expressed  her  satisfaction  by  vari- 
ous rackings  and  twitcliings  of  her  head  and  body,  which 
by  no  means  enhanced  her  charms.  These  she  prolonged 
until  she  had  hobbled  to  the  door,  when  she  exchanged 
them  for  a  sour  malignant  look,  and  twisting  her  under 
jaw  from  side  to  side,  miittered  hearty  curses  upon  the 
future  Mrs,  Gride,  as  she  crept  slowly  down  the  stairs, 
and  paused  for  breath  at  nearly  every  one. 

"  She's  half  a  witch,  I  think,"  said  Arthur  Gride, 
■when  he  found  himself  again  alone.  "But  she's  very 
frugal,  and  she's  very  deaf.  Her  living  costs  me  next  to 
nothing  ;  and  it's  no  use  her  listening  at  keyholes  ;  for 
she  can't  hear.  She's  a  charming  woman — for  the  pur- 
pose ;  a  most  discreet  old  house-keeper,  and  worth  her 
weight  in — copper." 

Having  extolled  the  merits  of  his  domestic  in  these 
high  terms,  old  Arthur  went  back  to  the  burden  of  his 
song.  The  suit  destined  to  grace  his  approaching  nup- 
tials being  now  selected,  he  replaced  the  others  with  no 
less  care  than  he  had  displayed  in  drawing  them  from  the 
musty  nooks  where  they  had  silently  reposed  for  many 
years. 

Startled  by  a  ring  at  the  door,  he  hastily  concluded 
this  operation,  and  locked  the  press  ;  but,  there  was  no 
need  for  any  particular  hurry,  as  the  discreet  Peg  seldom 
knew  the  bell  was  rung  unless  she  happened  to  cast  her 
dim  eyes  upwards,  and  to  see  it  shaking  against  the  kit- 
chen ceiling.  After  a  short  delay,  however.  Peg  tottered 
in,  followed  by  Newman  Noggs. 

"  Ah  !  Mr.  Noggs  !  "  cried  Arthur  Gride,  rubbing  his 
hands,  "  My  good  friend,  Mr.  Noggs,  what  news  do 
you  bring  for  me  ?  " 

Newman  with  a  steadfast  and  immovable  aspect,  and 
his  fixed  eye  very  fixed  indeed,  replied,  suiting  the  action 
to  the  word,  "A  letter.  From  Mr.  Nickleby.  Bearer 
waits," 

"  Won't  you  take  a — a — " 

Newman  looked  up,  and  smacked  his  lips. 

" — A  chair?"  said  Arthur  Gride. 

"  No,"  replied  Newman.    "  Thank'ee." 

Arthur  opened  the  letter,  with  trembling  hands,  and  de- 
voured its  contents  with  the  utmost  greediness:  chuckling 
rapturously  over  it,  and  reading  it  several  times,  before 
he  could  take  it  from  before  his  eyes.  So  many  times 
did  he  peruse  and  re-peruse  it,  that  Newman  considered 
it  expedient  to  remind  him  of  his  presence. 

"  Answer,"  said  Newman.    "  Bearer  waits." 

"True,"  replied  old  Arthur.  "  Yes— yes  ;  1  almost 
forgot,  I  do  declare." 

"  I  thought  you  were  forgetting."  said  Newman. 

"Quite  right  to  remind  me,  Mr.  Noggs.  Oh,  very 
right  indeed,"  said  Arthur.  "Yes.  I'll  write  a  line. 
I'm — I'm — rather  flurried,  Mr.  Noggs.    The  news  is — " 

"Bad?"  interrux)ted  Newman. 

"  No,  Mr.  Noggs,  thank  you  ;  good,  good.  The  very 
best  of  news.  Sit  down.  I'll  get  the  pen  and  ink,  and 
writ'e  a  line  in  answer.  I'll  not  detain  you  long.  I 
know  you're  a  treasure  to  your  master,  Mr.  Noggs.  He 
speaks  of  you  in  such  terms,  sometimes,  that,  oh  dear  ! 
you'd  be  astoriished.  I  may  say  that  I  do  too,  and 
always  did.    I  always  say  the  same  of  you," 

"  That's  'Curse  Mr.  Noggs  with  all  my  heart  I'  then, 
if  yo'i  do,"  thought  Newman,  as  Gride  hurried  out. 

Th'5  letter  had  fallen  on  the  ground.  Looking  care- 
fully about  him,  for  an  instant,  Newman,  impelled  by 


curiosity  to  know  the  result  of  the  design  he  had  over- 
heard from  his  office  closet,  caught  it  up  and  read  rap- 
idly as  follows : 

"  Gride, 

"I  saw  Bray  again  this  morning,  and  proposed 
the  day  after  to-morrow  (as  you  suggested)  for  the  mar- 
riage. There  is  no  objection  on  his  part,  and  all  days 
are  alike  to  his  daughter.  We  will  go  together,  and  yoa 
must  be  with  me  by  seven  in  the  morning.  I  need  not 
tell  you  to  be  punctual. 

"  Make  no  further  visits  to  the  girl,  in  the  mean- 
time. You  have  been  there,  of  late,  much  oftener  than 
you  should.  She  does  not  languish  for  you,  and  it  might 
have  been  dangerous.  Restrain  your  youthful  ardour 
for  eight-and-forty  hours,  and  leave  her  to  the  father. 
You  only  undo  what  he  does,  and  does  well. 

"  Yours, 

"Ralph  Nickleby." 

A  footstep  was  heard  without.  Newman  dropped  the 
letter  on  the  same  spot  again,  pressed  it  with  his  foot  to 
prevent  its  fluttering  away,  regained  his  seat  in  a  single 
stride,  and  looked  as  vacant  and  unconscious  as  ever 
mortal  looked.  Arthur  Gride,  after  peering  nervously 
about  him,  spied  it  on  the  ground,  picked  it  up,  and  sit- 
ting down  to  write,  glanced  at  Newman  Noggs,  who  was 
staring  at  the  wall  with  an  intensity  so  remarkable,  that 
Arthur  was  quite  alarmed. 

' '  Do  you  see  anything  particular,  Mr.  Noggs  ?  "  said 
Arthur,  trying  to  follow  the  direction  of  Newman's  eyes 
— which  was  an  impossibility,  and  a  thing  no  man  had 
ever  done. 

"  Only  a  cobweb,"  replied  Newman. 

"Oh  !  is  that  all?" 

"  No,"  said  Newman.    "  There's  a  fly  in  it." 

"There  are  a  good  many  cobwebs  here,"  observed" 
Arthur  Gride. 

"  So  there  are  in  our  place,"  returned  Newman  ;  "and 
flies  too." 

Newman  appeared  to  derive  great  entertainment  from 
this  repartee,  and  to  the  great  discomposure  of  Arthur 
Gride's  nerves,  produced  a  series  of  sharp  cracks  from 
his  finger-joints,  resembling  the  noise  of  a  distant  dis- 
charge of  small  artillery.  Arthur  succeeded  in  finishing 
his  reply  to  Ralph's  note,  nevertheless,  and  at  length 
handed  it  over  to  the  eccentric  messenger  for  delivery. 

"  That's  it,  Mr.  Noggs,"  said  Gride. 

Newman  gave  a  nod,  put  it  in  his  hat,  and  was  shuf- 
fling away,  when  Gride,  whose  doting  delight  knew  no 
bounds,  beckoned  him  back  again,  and  said,  in  a  shrill 
whisper,  and  with  a  grin  which  puckered  up  his  whole 
face,  and  almost  obscured  his  eyes  : 

"Will  you — will  you  take  a  little  drop  of  something 
— just  a  taste  ?" 

In  good  fellowship  (if  Arthur  Gride  had  been  capable 
of  it)  Newman  would  not  have  drunk  with  him  one 
bubble  of  the  richest  wine  that  was  ever  made  ;  but  to 
see  what  he  would  be  at,  and  to  ymnish  him  as  much  as 
he  could,  he  accepted  the  offer  immediately. 

Arthur  Gride,  therefore,  again  applied  himself  to  the 
press,  and  from  a  shelf  laden  with  tall  Flemish  drinking- 
glasses,  and  quaint  bottles  :  some  with  necks  like  so 
many  storks,  and  others  with  square  Dutch-built  bodies 
and  short  fat  apoplectic  throats  :  took  down  one  dusty 
bottle  of  promising  appearance,  and  two  glasses  of  curi- 
ously small  size. 

"You  never  tasted  this,"  said  Arthur.  "It's  eau- 
d'or — golden  water.  I  like  it  on  account  of  its  name. 
It's  a  delicious  name.  Water  of  gold,  golden  water  ! 
0  dear  me,  it  seems  quite  a  sin  to  drink  it  !" 

As  his  courage  appeared  to  be  fast  failing  him,  and  he 
trifled  with  the  stopper  in  a  manner  which  threatened 
the  dismissal  of  the  bottle  to  its  old  place,  Newman  took 
up  one  of  the  little  glasses,  and  clinked  it,  twice  or 
thrico,  against  the  bottle,  as  a  gentle  reminder  that  he 
had  not  been  helped  yet.  With  a  deep  sigh,  Arthur 
Gride  slowly  filled  it — though  not  to  the  brim — and  then 
filled  his  own. 

"  Stop,  stop  ;  don't  drink  it  yet,"  he  said,  laying  his 
hand  on  Newman's  ;  "it  was  given  to  me,  twenty  years 
ago,  and  when  I  take  a  little  taste,  which  is  ve — ry  sel- 


NICHOLAS 

dom,  I  like  to  think  of  it  beforehand,  and  toaze  myself. 
We'll  drink  a  toast.  Shall  we  drink  a  toast,  Mr. 
Noggs?" 

"Ah  I"  said  Newman,  eyeing  his  little  glass  impa- 
tiently.   "  Look  sharp.    Bearer  waits." 

*'  Why,  then,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  tittered  Arthur, 
•*  we'll  drink — he,  he,  he  !— we'll  drink  a  lady." 

"  The  ladies?"  said  Newman. 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Noggs,"  replied  Gride,  arresting  his 
hand,  "  a  lady.  You  wonder  to  hear  me  say  a  lady — I 
know  you  do,  I  know  you  do.  Here's  little  Madeline — 
that's  the  toast.     Mr.  Noggs— little  Madeline!" 

"  Madeline  !"  said  Newman  ;  inwardly  adding,  "  and 
God  help  her  ! " 

The  rapidity  and  unconcern  with  which  Newman  dis- 
missed his  portion  of  the  golden  water,  had  a  great  effect 
upon  the  old  man,  wlio  sat  upright  in  his  chair,  and 
gazed  at  him,  o])en -mouthed,  as  if  the  sight  had  taken 
away  his  breath.  Quite  unmoved,  however,  Newman 
left  him  to  sip  his  own,  at  leisure,  or  to  pour  it  back 
again  into  the  bottle,  if  he  chose,  and  departed  ;  after 
{^reatly  outraging  the  dignity  of  Peg  Sliderskew  by 
brushing  past  her,  in  the  passage,  without  a  word  of 
apology  or  recognition. 

Mr.  Gride  and  his  housekeeper,  immediately  on  being 
left  alone,  resolved  themselves  into  a  committee  of  ways 
and  means,  and  discussed  the  arrangements  which  should 
be  made  for  the  reception  of  the  young  bride.  As  they 
were,  like  some  other  committees,  extremely  dull  and 
prolix  in  debate,  this  history  may  pursue  the  footsteps 
of  Newman  Noggs  ;  thereby  combining  advantage  with 
necessity  ;  for  it  would  have  been  necessary  to  do  so 
under  any  circumstances,  and  necessity  has  no  law,  as 
all  the  world  know. 

"You've  been  a  long  time,"  said  Ralph,  when  New- 
man returned. 

"  He  was  a  long  time,"  replied  Newman. 

"  Bah  ! "  cried  Ralph  impatiently.  "  Give  me  his  note, 
if  he  gave  you  one  :  his  message,  if  he  didn't.  And  don't 
go  away.    I  want  a  word  with  you,  sir." 

Newman  handed  in  the  note,  and  looked  very  virtuous 
and  innocent  while  his  employer  broke  the  seal,  and 
glanced  his  eye  over  it. 

"  He'll  be  sure  to  come  1"  muttered  Ralph,  as  he  tore 
it  to  pieces;  "  why  of  course,  I  know  he'll  be  sure  to 
come.    What  need  to  say  that  ?  Noggs  !  Pray  sir,  what  | 
man  was  that,  with  whom  I  saw  you  in  the  street  last  ! 
night  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Newman, 

"You  had  better  refresh  your  memory,  sir,"  said 
Ralph,  with  a  threatening  look. 

"  I  tell  you,"  returned  Newman  boldly,  "  that  I  don't 
know.  He  came  here,  twice,  and  asked  for  you.  You 
were  out.  He  came  again.  You  packed  him  off,  your- 
self.   He  gave  the  name  of  Brooker." 

"  I  know  he  did,"  said  Ralph  ;  "  what  then  ?  " 

* '  What  then  ?  Why,  then  he  lurked  about  and  dogged 
me  in  the  street.  He  follows  me,  night  after  night,  and 
urges  me  to  bring  him  face  to  face  with  you  ;  as  he  says 
he  has  been,  once,  and  not  long  ago  either.  He  wants  to 
see  you  face  to  face,  he  says,  and  you'll  soon  hear  him 
out,  he  warrants."  * 

"  And  what  say  you  to  that  ?  "  inquired  Ralph,  look- 
ing keenly  at  his  drudge. 

"  That  it's  no  business  of  mine,  and  I  won't.  I  told 
him  he  might  catch  you  in  the  street,  if  that  was  all  he 
wanted,  but  no  !  that  wouldn't  do.  You  wouldn't  hear 
a  word  there,  he  said.  He  must  have  you,  alone  in  a 
room  with  the  door  locked,  where  he  could  speak  with- 
out fear,  and  you'd  soon  change  your  tone,  and  hear  him  i 
patiently." 

"An  audacious  dog  1"  Ralph  muttered. 

"  That's  all  I  know,"  said  Newman.    "  I  say  again,  1 1 
don't  know  what  man  he  is.    I  don't  believe  he  knows, 
himself.    You  have  seen  him  ;  perhaps  you  do." 

"  I  think  I  do,"  replied  Ralph. 

"  Well,"  retorted  Newman,  sulkily,  "don't  expect  me 
to  know  him  too  ;  that's  all.  You'll  ask  me,  next,  why 
I  never  told  you  this,  before.  What  would  you  say,  if  I 
was  to  tell  you  all  that  peopie  say  of  you  ?  What  do  you 
call  me  when  I  sometimes  do  ?  *  Brute,  ass  1 '  and  snap 
at  me  like  a  dragon." 


NICKLEBY,  189 

This  was  true  enough  ;  though  the  question  which 
Newman  anticipated,  was,  in  fact,  upon  Ralph's  lips  at 
the  moment. 

"  He  is  an  idle  ruffian,"  said  Ralj>h  ;  "  a  vagabond 
from  beyond  the  sea  where  he  travelled  for  his  crimes; 
a  felon  let  loose  to  run  his  neck  into  the  halter  ;  a  swin- 
dler, who  has  the  audacity  to  try  his  schemes  on  me  who 
know  him  well.  The  next  time  he  tampers  with  you, 
fiand  him  over  to  the  police,  for  attempting  to  extort 
money  by  lies  and  threats  —  d'ye  hear?  —  and  leave 
the  rest  to  me.  He  shall  cool  his  heels  in  jail,  a  little 
time,  and  I'll  be  bound  he  looks  for  other  folks  to  fleece, 
when  he  comes  out.  You  mind  what  I  say,  do  you  V 
"  I  hear,"  said  Newman. 

"Do  it  then,"  returned  Ralph,  "and  I'll  reward  you. 
Now,  you  may  go." 

Newman  readily  availed  himself  of  the  permission, 
and,  shutting  himself  up  in  his  little  office,  remained 
there,  in  very  serious  cogitation,  all  day.  When  he  was 
released  at  night,  he  proceeded,  with  all  tht^  ex})edition 
he  could  use,  to  the  City,  and  took  up  his  old  position 
behind  the  pump,  to  watch  for  Nicholas — for  Newman 
Noggs  was  proud  in  his  way,  and  could  not  bear  to 
appear  as  his  friend,  before  the  brothers  Cheeryble,  in 
the  shabby  and  degraded  state  to  which  he  was  reduced. 

He  had  not  occupied  this  position  many  minutes,  when 
he  was  rejoiced  to  see  Nicholas  apy>roaching,  and  darted 
out  from  his  ambuscade  to  meet  him.  Nicholas,  on  his 
part,  was  no  less  pleased  to  encounter  his  friend,  whom 
he  had  not  seen  for  some  time  ;  so,  their  greeting  was  a 
warm  one. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,  at  that  moment,"  said  Nicho- 
las. 

"  That's  right,  "  rejoined  Newman,  "  and  I  of  you.  I 
couldn't  help  coming  up,  to-night.  I  say,  I  think  I'm 
going  to  find  out  something. " 

"  And  what  may  that  be  ?"  returned  Nicholas,  smiling 
at  this  odd  communication. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  may  be,  I  don't  know  what  it 
may  not  be,"  said  Newman  ;  "  it's  some  secret  in  which 
your  uncle  is  concerned,  but  what,  I've  not  yet  been 
able  to  discover,  although  I  have  my  strong  suspicions. 
I'll  not  hint  'em  now,  in  case  you  should  be  disappointed." 
"/disappointed  !  "  cried  Nicholas  ;  "  am  linleiested  ?  " 
"/  think  you  are,"  replied  Newman.    "I  have  a 
I  crotchet  in  my  head  that  it  must  be  so.    I  have  found 
!  out  a  man,  who  plainly  knows  more  than  he  cares  to  tell 
at,  once.    And  he  has  already  dropped  such  hints  to  me 
as  puzzle  me — I  say,  as  puzzle  me,"  said  Newman, 
scratching  his  red  nose  into  a  state  of  violent  infirmma- 
tion,  and  staring  at  Nicholas  with  all  his  might  and 
main  meanwhile. 

Admiring  what  could  have  wound  his  friend  up  to  such 
a  pitch  of  mystery,  Nicholas  endeavoured,  by  a  series 
of  questions,  to  elucidate  the  cause  ;  but  in  vain.  New- 
man could  not  be  drawn  into  any  more  explicit  statement 
than  a  repetition  of  the  perplexities  he  had  already 
thrown  out,  and  a  confused  oration,  showing,  How  it 
was  necessary  to  use  the  utmost  caution  ;  how  the  lynx- 
eyed  Ralph  had  already  seen  him  in  company  with 
his  unknoNvn  correspondent  ;  and  how  he  had  baffled 
the  ,said  Ralph  by  extreme  guardedness  of  manner  and 
ingenuity  of  speech  ;  having  prepared  himself  for  such 
a  contingency  from  the  first. 

Remembering  his  companion's  propensity, — of  which 
his  nose,  indeed,  perpetually  warned  all  beholders  like 
a  beacon, — Nicholas  had  drawn  him  into  a  sequestered 
tavern.  Here,  they  fell  to  reviewing  the  origin  and 
progress  of  their  acquaintance,  as  men  sometimes  do, 
and  tracing  out  the  little  events  by  which  it  was  most 
strongly  marked,  came  at  last  to  Miss  Cecilia  Bobster. 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  said  Newman,  "that  you 
never  told  me  the  young  lady's  real  name." 

"  Madeline  !"  said  Nicholas.  * 
"  Madeline  !  "  cried  Newman  ;  "  what  Madeline  ?  Her 
other  name — say  her  other  name." 

"  Bray,"  said  Nicholas,  in  great  astonishment. 
"It's  the  same  !  "  cried  Newman.    "  Sad  story  !  Can 
you  stand  idly  by,  and  let  that  unnatural  marriage  take 
place  without  one  attempt  to  save  her  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  exclaimed  Nicholas,  starting 
up  ;  "  marriage  !  are  you  mad  ?  " 


190 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"Are  you?  is  she?  are  you  blind,  deaf,  senseless, 
dead?"  said  Newman.  "  Do  you  know  that  within  one 
day,  by  means  of  your  uncle  Ralph,  she  will  be  married 
to  a  man  as  bad  as  he,  and  worse,  if  worse  there  is  ? 
Do  you  know  that,  within  one  day,  she  will  be  sacri- 
ficed, as  sure  as  you  stand  there  alive,  to  a  hoary  wretch 
— a  devil  born  and  bred,  and  grey  in  devils'  ways?" 

"  Be  careful  what  you  say,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  For 
Heaven's  sake  be  careful  !  I  am  left  here  alone,  and 
those  who  could  stretch  oud  a  hand  to  rescue  her,  are  far 
away.    What  is  it  that  you  mean  ?  " 

I  never  heard  her  name,"  said  Newman,  choking 
with  his  energy.  "  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  How  was 
I  to  know  ?  We  might,  at  least,  have  had  something  to 
think  ! " 

"  What  is  it  that  you  mean  1 "  cried  Nicholas. 

It  was  not  an  easy  task  to  arrive  at  this  information  ; 
but,  after  a  great  quantity  of  extraordinary  pantomime, 
which  in  no  way  assisted  it,  Nicholas,  who  was  almost  as 
wild  as  Newman  Noggs  himself,  forced  the  latter  down 
upon  his  seat  and  held  him  down  until  he  began  his 
tale. 

Rage,  astonishment,  indignation,  and  a  storm  of  pas- 
sions, rushed  through  the  listener's  heart,  as  the  plot 
was  laid  bare.  He  no  sooner  understood  it  all,  than 
with  a  face  of  ashy  paleness,  and  trembling  in  every 
limb,  he  darted  from  the  house. 

"  Stop  him  ! "  cried  Newman,  bolting  out  in  pursuit. 
"  He'll  be  doing  something  desperate — he'll  murder  some- 
body— hallo  !  there,  stop  him.    Stop  thief  !  stop  thief  !" 


CHAPTER  LH. 

Nicholas  despairs  of  rescuing  Madeline  Bray,  hut  plucks  up  his  spirits 
again,  and  determines  to  attempt  it.  Domestic  Intelligence  of  the 
Kenioigses  and  Lillyvicks. 

Finding  that  Newman  was  determined  to  arrest  his 
progress  at  any  hazard,  and  apprehensive  that  some 
well  intentione  passenger  attracted  by  the  cry  of  "  stop 
thief,"  might  lay  violent  hands  upon  his  person,  and 
place  him  in  a  disagreeable  predicament  from  which  he 
might  have  some  difficulty  in  extricating  himself,  Nicho- 
las soon  slackened  his  pace,  and  suffered  Nev/raan  Noggs 
to  come  up  with  him  :  which  he  did,  in  so  breathless  a 
condition,  that  it  seemed  impossible  he  could  have  led 
out  for  a  minute  longer. 

"I  will  go  straight  to  Bray's,"  said  Nicholas.  ''I 
will  see  this  man.  If  there  is  a  feeling  of  humanity  lin- 
gering in  his  breast,  a  spark  of  consideration  for  his  own 
child,  motherless  and  friendless  as  she  is,  I  will  avt^aken 
it." 

"  You  will  not,"  replied  Newman.  "  You  will  not  in- 
deed." 

"  Then,"  said  Nicholas,  pressing  onward,  "I  will  act 
upon  my  first  impulse,  and  go  straight  to  Ralph  Nick- 
leby." 

"  By  the  time  you  reach  his  house  he  will  be  in  bed," 
said  Newman. 

"  I'll  drag  him  from  it,"  cried  Nicholas, 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  Noggs.    '*  Be  yourself." 

"  You  are  the  best  of  friends  to  me,  Newman,"  re- 
joined Nicholas  after  a  pause,  and  taking  his  hand  as  he 
spoke.  "  I  have  made  head  against  many  trials  ;  but 
the  misery  of  another,  and  such  misery,  is  involved  in 
this  one,  that  I  declare  to  you  I  am  rendered  desperate, 
and  know  not  how  to  act." 

In  truth,  it  did  seem  a  hopeless  case.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  make  any  use  of  such  intelligence  as  Newman 
Noggs  had  gleaned,  when  ho  lay  concealed  in  the  closet. 
The  mere  circumstance  of  the  compact  between  Ralph 
Niclfleby  and  Gride  would  not  invalidate  the  marriage, 
or  render  Bray  averse  to  it,  who,  if  he  did  not  actually 
know  of  the  existence  of  some  such  understanding, 
donbtloss  suspected  it.  What  had  been  hinted  with  ref- 
erence to  some  fraud  on  Madeline,  had  been  put,  with 
sufficient  obscurity,  by  Arthur  Gride,  but  coming  from 
Newman  Noggs,  and  obscured  still  further  by  the  smoke 
of  his  pocket-pistol,  it  became  wholly  unintelligible,  and 
involved  in  utter  darkness. 


"  There  seems  no  ray  of  hope,"  said  Nicholas. 

"The  greater  necessity  for  coolnes's,  for  reason,  for 
consideration,  for  thought,"  said  Newman,  pausing  at 
every  alternate  word,  to  look  anxiously  in  his  friend's 
face.    "  Where  are  the  brothers?" 

"  Both  absent  on  urgent  business,  as  they  will  be  for 
a  week  to  come." 

"  Is  there  no  way  of  communicating  with  them  ?  no 
way  of  getting  one  of  them  here  by  to-morrow  night  ?  " 

"Impossible!"  said  Nicholas,  "the  sea  is  between 
us  and  them.  With  the  fairest  winds  that  ever  blew,  to 
go  and  return  would  take  three  days  and  nights." 

"Their  nephew — "  said  Newman,  •"  their  old  clerk." 

"What  could  either  do,  that  I  cannot?"  rejoined 
Nicholas.  "  With  reference  to  them,  especially,  I  am 
enjoined  to  the  strictest  silence  on  this  subject.  What 
right  have  I  to  betray  the  confidence  reposed  in  me, 
when  nothing  but  a  miracle  can  prevent  this  sacrifice?" 

"  Think,"  urged  Newman.     "  Is  there  no  way?" 

"  There  is  none,"  said  Nicholas,  in  utter  dejection. 
"Not  one.  The  father  urges — the  daughter  consents. 
These  demons  have  h^r  in  their  toils  ;  legal  right,  might,, 
power,  money,  and  every  influence  are  on  their  side. 
How  can  I  hope  to  save  her  ?  " 

"  Hope  to  the  last  !  "  said  Newman  clapping  him  on 
the  back.  "  Always  hope  ;  that's  a  dear  boy.  Never 
leave  off  hoping  ;  it  don't  answer.  Do  you  mind  me, 
Nick?  it  don't  answer.  Don't  leave  a  stone  unturned. 
It's  always  something  to  know  you've  done  the  most  you 
could.  But,  don't  leave  off  hoping,  or  it's  of  no  use  do- 
ing anything.    Hope,  hope,  to  the  last  ! " 

Nicholas  needed  encouragement.  The  suddenness 
with  which  intelligence  of  the  two  usurers'  plans  had 
come  upon  him,  the  little  time  which  remained  for  ex- 
ertion, the  probability,  almost  amounting  to  certainty 
itself,  that  a  few  hours  would  place  Madeline  Bray 
forever  beyond  his  reach,  consign  her  to  unspeakable 
misery,  and  perhaps  to  an  untimely  death  :  all  this  quite 
stunned  and  overwhelmed  him.  Every  hope  connected 
with  her  that  he  had  suffered  himself  to  form,  or  had 
entertained  unconsciously,  seemed  to  fall  at  his  feet, 
withered  and  dead.  Every  charm  with  which  his  mem- 
ory or  imagination  had  surrounded  her,  presented  it- 
self before  him,  only  to  heighten  his  anguish  and  add 
new  bitterness  to  his  despair.  Every  feeling  of  sympa- 
thy for  her  forlorn  condition,  and  of  admiration  for  her 
heroism  and  fortitude,  aggravated  the  indignation  which 
shook  him  in  every  limb,  and  swelled  his  heart  almost 
to  bursting. 

But,  if  Nicholas's  own  heart  embarrassed  him,  New- 
man's came  to  his  relief.  There  was  so  much  earnest- 
ness in  his  remonstrance,  and  such  sincerity  and  fervour 
in  his  manner,  odd  and  ludicrous  as  it  always  was,  that 
it  imparted  to  Nicholas  new  firmness  and  enabled  him 
to  say,  after  he  had  walked  on  for  some  little  way  in 
silence, 

"  You  read  me  a  good  lesson,  Newman,  and  I  will 
profit  by  it.  One  step,  at  least,  T  may  take — am  bound 
to  take  indeed — and  to  that  I  will  apply  myself  to-mor- 
row." 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Noggs  wistfully.  "Not  to 
threaten  Ralph  ?    Not  to  see  the  father  ?  " 

"To  see  the  daughter,  Newman,"  replied  Nicholas. 
"To  do  what,  after  all,  is  the  utmost  that  the  brothers 
could  do,  if  they  were  here,  as  Heaven  send  they  were  ! 
To  reason  with' her  upon  this  hideous  union,  to  point  out 
to  her  all  the  horrors  to  which  she  is  hastening  ;  rashly, 
it  may  be,  and  without  due  reflection.  To  entreat  her, 
at  least,  to  pause.  She  can  have  had  no  counsellor  for 
her  good.  Perhaps  even  I  may  move  her  so  far  yet, 
though  it  is  the  eleventh  hour,  and  she  upon  the  very 
brink  of  ruin." 

"Bravely  spoken!"  said  Newman.  "Well  done, 
well  done  !"  Yes.    Very  good." 

"  And  1  do  declare,"  cried  Nicholas,  with  honest  en- 
thusiasm, "  that  in  this  effort  I  am  influenced  by  no  self- 
ish or  personal  consideratiims,  but  by  pity  for  her,  and 
detestation  and  abhorrence  of  this  scheme  ;  and  that  I 
would  do  the  same,  were  there  twenty  rivals  in  the  field, 
and  I  the  last  and  least  favoured  of  them  all." 

"  You  would,  I  believe,"  said  Newman.    "But  where 
are  you  hurrying  now  ?  " 


NICHOLAS  NIC  RLE  BY. 


191 


"Homewards,"  answered  Nicholas.  "Do  you  come 
with  me,  or  sliall  I  say  good  night?" 

I'll  come  a  little  way,  if  you  will  but  walk  ;  not  run," 
said  No^gs. 

"  I  cauuot  walk  to-night,  Newman,"  returned  Nicho- 
las, hurriedly.  "I  must  move  rapidly,  or  I  could  not 
draw  my  breath.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  said  and  done 
to-morrow  1 " 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  darted  off  at  a  rapid 
])acc,  and,  plunging  into  the  crowds  which  thronged  the 
street,  was  quickly  lost  to  view. 

"  He's  a  violent  youth  at  times,"  said  Newman,  look- 
ing afcer  him;  "and  yet  I  like  him  for  it.  There's 
cause  enough  now,  or  the  deuce  is  in  it.  Hope  I  1  said 
hope,  I  think  !  Ralph  Nickleby  and  Gride  with  their 
lieads  together— and  hope  for  the  opposite  party.  Ho  ! 
ho  ! " 

It  was  with  a  very  melancholy  laugh  that  Newman 
Noggs  concluded  this  soliloquy  ;  and  it  was  with  a  very 

,  melancholy  shake  of  the  head,  and  a  very  rueful  coun- 
tenance, that  he  turned  about  and  went  plodding  on  his 

j  way. 

This,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  would  have  been 
to  some  small  tavern  or  dram-shop  ;  that  being  his  way, 
in  more  senses  than  one.  But,  Newman  was  too  much 
interested,  and  too  anxious,  to  betake  himself  even  to 
this  resource,  and  so,  with  many  desponding  and  dismal 
reflections,  went  straight  home. 

It  had  come  to  pass  that  afternoon,  that  Miss  Morleena 
Kenwigs  had  received  an  invitation  to  repair  next  day, 
per  steamer  from  Westminster  Bridge,  unto  the  Eel-pie 
Island  at  Twickenham  :  there  to  make  merry  upon  a  cold 
collation,  bottled-beer,  shrub,  and  shrimps,  and  to  dance 
in  the  open  air  to  the  music  of  a  locoinotive  band,  con- 
veyed thither  for  the  purpose  :  the  steamer  being  spe- 
cially engaged  by  a  dancing-master  of  extensive  connec- 
I  tion  for  the  accommodation  of  his  numerous  pupils,  and 
I  the  pupils  displaying  their  appreciation  of  the  dancing- 
master's  services,  by  purchasing  themselves,  and  induc- 
ing their  friends  to  do  the  like,  divers  light- blue  tickets, 
entitling  them  to  join  the  exi^edition.    Of  these  light- 
I  blue  tickets,  one  had  been  presented  by  an  ambitious 
1  neighbour  to  Miss  Morleena  Kenwigs,  with  an  invitation 
I  to  join  her  daughters  ;  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  rightly  deem- 
ing that  the  honour  of  the  family  was  involved  in  Miss 
Morleena's  making  the  most  spiendid  appearance  possible 
on  so  short  a  notice,  and  testifying  to  the  dancing-master 
tliat  there  were  gther  dancing-masters  beside  him,  and 
to  all  fathers  and  mothers  present  that  other  people's 
children  could  learn  to  be  genteel  besides  theirs,  had 
fainted  away,  twice,  under  the  magnitude  of  her  prepara- 
tions, but,  upheld  by  a  determination  to  sustain  the 
I  family  name  or  perish  in  the  attempt,  was  still  hard  at 
1  work  when  Newman  Noggs  came  home. 
'     Now,  between  the  italian-ironing  of  frills,  the  flouncing 
I  of  trow.sers,  the  trimming  of  frocks,  the  faintings,  and 
\  the  comings-to  again,  incidental  to  the  occasion,  Mrs. 
I  Kenwigs  had  been  so  entirely  occupied,  that  she  had 
I  not  observed,  until  within  half  an  hour  before,  that  the 
j  flaxen  tails  of  Miss  Morleena's  hair  were,  in  a  manner, 
I  run  to  seed  ;  and  that,  unless  she  were  put  under  the 
[.  hands  of  a  skilful  hair-dresser,  she  never  could  achieve 
^  that  signal  triumph  over  the  daughters  of  all  other  peo- 
i  pie,  anything  les^  than  which  would  be  tantamount  to 
d:?feat.    This  discovery  drove  Mrs.  Ken\vigs  to  despair  ; 
\  for  the  hair-dresser  lived  three  streets  and  eight  danger- 
:  ous  crossings  off;  Morleena  could  not  be  trusted  to  go  there 
alone,  even  if  such  a  proceeding  were  strictly  proper  :  of 
which  Mrs.  Kenwigs  had  her  doubts  ;  Mr.  Kenwigs  had 
not  returned  from  business  ;  and  there  was  nobody  to 
take  her.    So,  Mrs.  Kenwigs  first  slapped  Miss  Ken- 
v/igs  for  being  the  cause  of  her  vexation,  and  then  shed 
[  tears. 

;     "You  ungrateful  child!"  .said  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  "after 
I  have  gone  tlirouga  what  I  have,  this  night,  for  your 
\  good." 

"I  can't  help  it,  ma,"  replied  Morleena,  also  in  tears  ; 
*'  my  hair  will  grow." 

"Don't  talk  to  me,  you  naughty  thing!"  said  Mrs. 
Kenwigs,  "  don't  I  Even  if  I  was  to  trust  you  by  your- 
self  and  you  were  to  escape  being  run  over,  I  know  vou'd 
;  run  m  to  Laura  Chopkins,"  who  was  the  daughter  of 


the  ambitious  neighbour,  "  and  tell  her  what  you're 
going  to  wear  to-niorrow,  I  know  you  would.  You've 
no  proper  i)ride  in  yourself,  and  are  not  to  be  trusted 
out  of  sight,  for  an  instant." 

Deploring  the  evil  mindedness  of  her  eldest  daughter, 
in  these  terms,  Mrs.  Kenwigs  distilled  fresh  drops  of 
vexation  from  her  eyes,  and  declared  that  she  did  be- 
lieve there  never  was  anybody  .so  ti'ied  as  she  Avas. 
Thereupon,  Morleena  Kenwigs*  wept  afresh,  and  they 
bemoaned  themselves  together. 

Matters  were  at  this  point,  as  Newman  Noggs  was 
heard  to  limp  past  the  door  on  his  way  up  stairs  ;  when 
Mrs.  Kenwigs,  gaining  new  hope  from  the  sound  of 
bis  footsteps,  hastily  removed  from  her  countenance  as 
many  traces  of  her  late  emotion  as  were  effaceable  on  so 
short  a  notice  :  and  presenting  herself  before  him,  and 
representing  their  dilemma  :  entreated  that  he  would 
escort  Morleena  to  the  hair-dre.sser's  shop. 

"I  wouldn't  ask  you,  Mr.  Noggs,"  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs, 
"if  I  didn't  know  what  a  good,  kind-hearted  creature 
you  are — no,  not  for  worlds.  I  am  a  weak  constitution, 
Mr.  Noggs,  but  my  spirit  would  no  more  let  me  ask  a 
favour  where  I  thought  there  was  a  chance  of  its  being 
refused,  than  it  would  let  me  submit  to  see  my  children 
trampled  down  and  trod  upon,  by  envy  and  lowness  !" 

Newman  was  too  good-natured  not  to  have  consented, 
even  without  this  avowal  of  confidence  on  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Kenwigs.  Accordingly,  a  very  few  minutes  had 
elapsed,  when  he  and  Miss  Morleena  were  on  their  way 
to  the  hair-dresser's. 

It  was  not  exactly  a  hair- dresser's  ;  that  is  to  say,  peo- 
ple of  a  coarse  and  vulgar  turn  of  mind  might  have 
called  it  a  barber's  ;  for  they  not  only  cut  and  curled 
ladies  elegantly,  and  children  carefelly'  but  shaved  gen- 
tlemen easily.  Still,  it  was  a  highly' genteel  establi-sh- 
ment— quite  first-rate  in  fact— and  there  were  displaved 
in  the  window,  besides  other  elegancies,  waxen  busts  of 
a  light  lady  and  a  dark  gentleman  which  were  the  ad- 
miration of  the  whole  neighbourbood.  Indeed,  some 
ladies  had  gone  so  far  as  to  assert,  that  the  dark  gentle- 
man was  actually  a  portrait  of  the  spirited  young  pro- 
prietor ;  and  the  great  similarity  between  their  head- 
dresses— both  wore  very  glossy  hair,  with  a  narrow  walk 
straight  down  the  middle,  and  a  profusion  of  flat  circular 
curls  on  both  sides — encouraged  the  idea.  The  better 
informed  among  the  sex,  however,  made  light  of  this  as- 
sertion, for  however  willing  they  were  (and  thev  were 
very  willing)  to  do  full  justice  to  the  handsome  face  and 
figure  of  the  proprietor,  they  held  the  countenance  of 
the  dark  gentleman  in  the  window  to  be  an  exquisite  and 
abstract  idea  of  masculine  beauty,  realised  sometimes, 
perhaps,  among  angels  and  military  men,  but  very  rarelv 
embodied  to  gladden  the  eyes  of  mortals. 

It  was  to  this  establishment  that  Newman  Noggs  led 
Miss  Kenwigs  in  safety.  The  proprietor,  kno\Aing  that 
Miss  Kenwigs  had  three  sisters,  p^.ch  with  two  flaxen 
tails,  and  all  good  for  sixpence  a-piece,  once  a  month  at 
least,  promptly  deserted  an  old  gentleman  whom  he  had 
just  lathered  for  shaving,  and  handing  him  over  to  the 
journeyman,  (who  was  not  very  popular  among  the  ladies, 
by  reason  of  his  obesity  and  middle-age)  waited  on  the 
young  lady  himself. 

Just  as  this  change  had  been  effected,  there  presented 
himself  for  shaving,  a  big,  burly,  good-humoured  ccal- 
heaver  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,*  who,  drawing  his  hand 
across  his  chin,  requested  to  know  when  a  shaver  would 
be  disengaged. 

The  journeyman  to  whom  this  question  was  put,  looked 
doubtfully  at  the  young  proprietor,  and  the  young  pro- 
prietor looked  scornfully  at  the  coal-heaver  :*  observing 
at  the  same  time — 

"  You  won't  get  shaved  here,  my  man." 
"  Why  not?"  said  the  coal-heaver. 
"  We  don't  shave  gentlemen  in  your  line,"  remarked 
the  young  proprietor. 

"  Why,  I  see  you  a  shaving  of  a  baker,  when  I  was 
a-looking  through  the  winder,  last  week,"  said  the  coal- 
heaver. 

"  It's  necessary  to  draw  the  line  somewheres,  my  fine 
feller,"  replied  the  principal.  "  We  draw  the  line  there. 
We  can't  go  beyond  bakers.  If  we  was  to  get  any  lower 
than  bakers,  our  customers  would  desert  us,  and  w© 


19^ 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


miglifc  shut  up  shop.  You  must  try  some  other  establish- 
ment.   We  couldn't  do  it  here," 

The  applicant  stared  ;  grinned  at  Newman  Noggs,  who 
appeared  highly  entertained  ;  looked  slightly  round  the 
shop,  as  if  in  depreciation  of  the  pomatum  pots  and  other 
articles  of  stock  ;  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  gave 
a  very  loud  whistle  ;  and  then  put  it  in  again,  and  walked 
out. 

The  old  gentleman  who  had  just  been  lathered,  and 
who  was  sitting  in  a  melancholy  manner  with  his  face 
turned  towards  the  wall,  appeared  quite  unconscious  of 
this  incident,  and  to  be  insensible  to  everything  around 
him  in  the  depth  of  a  reverie — a  very  mournful  one,  to 
judge  from  the  sighs  he  occasionally  vented — in  which 
he  was  absorbed.  Affected  by  this  example,  the  propri- 
etor began  to  clip  Miss  Kenwigs,  the  journeyman  to 
scrape  the  old  gentleman,  and  Newman  Noggs  to  read 
last  Sunday's  paper,  all  three  in  silence  :  when  Miss  Ken- 
wigs  uttered  a  shrill  little  scream,  and  Newman,  raising 
his  eyes,  saw  that  it  had  been  elicited  by  the  circum- 
stance of  the  old  gentleman  turning  his  head,  and  disclos- 
ing the  features  of  Mr.  Lillyvick  the  collector. 

The  features  of  Mr.  Lillyvick  they  were,  but  strangely 
altered.  If  ever  an  old  gentleman  had  made  a  point  of 
appearing  in  public,  shaved  close  and  clean,  that  old  gen- 
tleman was  Mr.  Lillyvick,  If  ever  a  collector  had  borne 
himself  like  a  collector,  and  assumed,  before  all  men,  a 
solemn  and  portentous  dignity  as  if  he  had  the  world  on 
his  books  and  it  was  all  two  quarters  in  arrear,  that  col- 
lector was  Mr,  Lillyvick.  And  now,  there  he  sat,  with 
the  remains  of  a  beard  at  least  a  week  old,  encumbering 
his  chim  ;  a  soiled  and  crumpled  shirt-frill  crouching,  as 
it  were,  upon  his  breast,  instead  of  standing  boldly  out ; 
a  demeanour  so  abashed  and  drooping,  so  despondent, 
and  expressive  of  such  humiliation,  grief,  and  shame  ; 
that  if  the  souls  of  forty  unsubstantial  housekeepers,  all 
of  whom  had  had  their  water  cut  off  for  non-payment  of 
the  rate,  could  have  been  concentrated  in  one  body,  that 
one  body  could  hardly  have  expressed  such  mortification 
and  defeat  as  were  now  expressed  in  the  person  of  Mr. 
Lillyvick  the  collector. 

Newman  Noggs  uttered  his  name,  and  Mr.  Lillyvick 
groaned  :  then  coughed  to  hide  it.  But  the  groan  was  a 
full-sized  groan,  and  the  cough  was  but  a  wheeze. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  said  Newman  Noggs. 

"Matter,  sir!"  cried  Mr.  Lillyvick.  "The  plug  of 
life  is  dry,  sir,  and  but  the  mud  is  left." 

This  speech — the  style  of  which  Newman  attributed 
to  Mr,  Lillyvick's  recent  association  with  theatrical  char- 
acters— not  being  quite  explanatory,  Newman  looked  as 
if  he  were  about  to  ask  another  question,  when  Mr.  Lil- 
lyvick prevented  him  by  shaking  his  hand  mournfully, 
and  then  waving  his  own. 

"  Let  me  be  shaved  ! "  said  Mr.  Lillyvick.  "  It  shall  be 
done  before  Morleena— it  is  Morleena,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Newman. 

"  Kenwigses  have  got  a  boy,  haven't  they  ?  "  inquired 
tho  collector. 

Again  Newman  said  "  Yes." 

"Is  it  a  nice  boy?"  demanded  the  collector. 

"  It  ain't  a  very  nasty  one,"  returned  Newman,  rather 
embarrassed  by  the  question. 

"  Susan  Kenwigs  used  to  say,"  observed  the  collector, 
"  that  if  ever  she  had  another  boy,  she  hoped  it  might  be 
like  me.    Is  this  one  like  me,  Mr.  Noggs  ?  " 

This  was  a  puzzling  inquiry  ;  but  Newman  evaded  it, 
by  replying  to  Mr.  Lillyvick,  that  he  thought  the  baby 
might  possibly  come  like  him  in  time. 

"I  should  be  glad  to  have  somebody  like  me,  some- 
how," said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  "  before  I  die." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  do  that,  yet  a  while?"  said  New- 
man. Unto  which  Mr.  Lillyvick  replied  in  a  solemn  voice, 
"  Let  me  be  shaved  1"  and  again  consigning  himself  to 
the  hands  of  the  journeyman,  said  no  more. 

This  was  remarkable  behaviour.  So  remarkable  did  it 
seem  to  Miss  Morleena,  that  that  young  lady,  at  the  im- 
minent hazard  of  having  her  ear  sliced  off,  had  not  been 
able  to  forb(!ar  looking  round,  some  score  of  times,  dur- 
ing the  foregoing  colloquy.  Of  her,  however,  Mr.  Lilly- 
vick took  no  notice  :  rather  striving  (so,  at  least,  it  seemed 
to  Newman  Noggs)  to  evade  lier  observation,  and  to 
shrink  into  himself  whenever  he  attracted  her  regards. 


Newman-  wondered  very  much  what  could  have  occa- 
sioned this  altered  behaviour  on  the  part  of  the  collector  : 
but,  philosophically  reflecting  that  he  would  most  likely 
know,  sooner  or  later,  and  that  he  could  perfectly  afford 
to  wait,  he  was  very  little  disturbed  by  the  singularity 
of  the  old  gentleman's  deportment. 

The  cutting  and  curling  being  at  last  concluded,  the  old 
gentleman,  who  had  been  some  time  waiting,  rose  to  go, 
and,  walking  out  with  Newman  and  his  charge,  took 
Newman's  arm,  and  proceeded  for  some  time  without 
making  any  observation.  Newman,  who  in  power  of 
taciturnity  was  excelled  by  few  people,  made  no  attempt 
to  break  silence  ;  and  so  they  went  on,  until  they  had 
very  nearly  reached  Miss  Morleena's  home,  when  Mr, 
Lillyvick  said — 

"  Were  the  Kenwigses  very  much  overpowered,  Mr. 
Noggs,  by  that  news?" 

"  What  news  ?  "  returned  Newman. 

"  That  about — my — being — " 

"Married?"  suggested  Newman. 

"Ah  !"  replied  Mr,  Lillyvick,  with  another  groan — 
this  time  not  even  disguised  by  a  wheeze. 

"  It  made  ma  cry  when  she  knew  it,"  interposed  Miss 
Morleena,  "  but  we  kept  it  from  her  for  a  long  time  ; 
and  pa  was  very  low  in  his  spirits,  but  he  is  better  now  ; 
and  I  was  very  ill,  but  I  am  better  too, " 

"  Would  you  give  your  great  uncle  Lillyvick  a  kiss 
if  he  was  to  ask  you,  Morleena? "  said  the  collector, 
with  some  hesitation, 

"Yes, — uncle  Lillyvick,  I  would,"  returned  Miss  Mor- 
leena, with  the  energy  of  both  her  parents  combined  ; 
"  but  not  aunt  Lillyvick,  She's  not  an  aunt  of  mine,  and 
rU  never  call  her  one." 

Immediately  upon  the  utterance  of  these  words,  Mr. 
Lillyvick  caught  Miss  Morleena  up  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  her  ;  and,  being  by  this  time  at  the  door  of  the 
house  where  Mr,  Kenwigs  lodged  (which,  as  has  been 
before-mentioned,  usually  stood  wide  open\  he  walked 
straight  up  into  Mr.  Kenwigs'  sitting-room,  and  put  Miss 
Morleena  down  in  the  midst.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs 
were  at  supper.  At  sight  of  their  perjured  relative, 
Mrs.  Kenwigs  turned  faint  and  pale,  and  Mr.  Kenwigs 
rose  majestically. 

"Kenwigs,"  said  the  collector,  "shake  hands," 

"Sir,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  "the  time  has  been,  when  I 
was  proud  to  shake  hands  with  such  a  man  as  that  man 
as  now  surweys  me.  The  time  has  been,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Kenwigs,  "  when  a  wisit  from  that  man  has  excited  in 
me  and  my  family's  boozums  sensations  both  nateral  and 
awakening.  But,  now,  I  look  upon  that  man  with  emo- 
tions totally  surpassing  everythink,  and  I  ask  myeelf 
where  is  his  /ionour,  where  is  his  straight  for'ardness, 
and  where  is  his  human  natur?" 

"  Susan  Kenwigs,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  turning  humbly 
to  his  niece,  "  don't  you  say  anything  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  equal  to  it,  sir,"  ?aid  Mr,  Kenwigs,  strik- 
ing the  table  emphatically.  "  What  with  the  nursing 
of  a  healthy  babby,  and  the  reflections  upon  your  cruel 
conduct,  four  pints  of  malt  liquor  a  day  is  hardly  able 
to  sustain  her." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  the  poor  collector  meekly,  "that 
the  baby  is  a  healthy  one,    I  em  very  glad  of  that," 

This  was  touching  the  Kenwigses  on  their  tenderest 
point,  Mrs.  Kenwigs  instantly  burst  into  tears,  and  Mr. 
Kenwigs  evinced  great  emotion. 

"My  pleasantest  feeling,  all  the  time  that  child  was 
expected,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  mournfully,  "was  a 
thinking,  '  if  it's  a  boy,  as  I  hope  it  may  be  ;  for  I  have 
heard  its  uncle  Lillyvick  say  again  and  again  he  would 
prefer  our  having  a  boy  next — if  it's  a  boy,  what  will 
his  uncle  Lillyvick  say — what  will  he  like  him  to  be 
called— will  he  be  Peter,  or  Alexander,  or  Pompey,  or 
Diorgeenes,  or  what  will  he  be  ? '  and  now  when  I  look 
at  him — a  precious,  unconscious,  helpless  infant,  with 
no  use  in  his  little  arms  but  to  tear  his  little  cap,  and  no 
use  in  his  little  legs  but  to  kick  his  little  self — when  I 
see  him  a-lying  on  his  mother's  lap,  cooing  and  cooing, 
and,  in  his  innocent  state,  almost  a  choking  hisself  with 
his  little  fist — when  I  see  him  such  a  infant  as  he  is,  and, 
think  that  that  uncle  Lillyvick,  as  was  once  agoing  to 
be  so  fond  of  him,  has  withdrawed  himself  away,  such  a 
feeling  of  wengeance  comes  over  me  as  no  language  can 


NICHOLAS  NICK LE BY, 


193 


depicter,  and  I  feel  as  if  even  tliat  holy  babe  was  a  telling 
me  to  hate  him." 

The  affecting  picture  moved  Mrs.  Kenwigs  deeply. 
After  several  imperfect  words,  which  vainly  attempted 
to  struggle  to  the  surface,  but  were  drowned  and  washed 
away  by  the  strong  tide  of  her  tears,  she  spake. 

"  Uncle,"  said  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  "  to  think  that  you 
should  have  turned  your  back  upon  me  and  my  dear 
children,  and  upon  Kenwigs  which  is  the  author  of  their 
being— you  who  was  once  so  kind  and  affectionate,  and 
who,  if  anybody  had  told  us  such  a  thing  of,  we  should 
have  withered  with  scorn  like  lightning — you  that  little 
Lillyvick,  our  first  and  earliest  boy,  was  named  after 
at  the  very  altar — oh  gracious  !  " 

"Was  it  money  that  we  cared  for?"  said  Mr.  Ken- 
wigs.   "  Was  it  property  that  we  ever  thought  of  ?  " 

"  No,"  cried  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  "  I  scorn  it. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  "and  always  did." 

"  My  feelings  have  been  lancerated,"  said  Mrs.  Ken- 
wigs, "  my  heart  has  been  torn  asunder  with  anguish,  I 
have  been  thrown  back  in  my  confinement,  my  unoffend- 
ing infant  has  been  rendered  uncomfortable  and  frac- 
tious, Morleena  has  pined  herself  away  to  nothing  ;  all 
this  I  forget  and  forgive,  and  with  you,  uncle,  I  never 
can  quarrel.  But  never  ask  me  to  receive  her — never  do 
it,  uncle.  For  I  will  not^  I  will  not,  I  won't,  I  won't,  I 
won't !" 

"  Susan,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  "  consider  your 
child." 

"  Yes/*  shrieked  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  "I  will  consider  my 
child  !  I  will  consider  my  child  !  my  own  child,  that  no 
imcles  can  deprive  me  of  ;  my  own  hated,  despised,  de- 
serted, cut-off  little  child."  And,  here,  the  emotions  of 
Mrs.  Kenwigs  became  so  violent,  that  Mr.  Kenwigs  was 
fain  to  administer  hartshorn  internally,  and  vinegar  ex- 
ternally, and  to  destroy  a  staylace,  four  petticoat  strings, 
and  several  small  buttons. 

Xewraan  had  been  a  silent  spectator  of  this  scene  ;  for 
Mr.  Lillyvick  had  signed  to  him  not  to  withdraw,  and 
Mr.  Kenwigs  had  further  solicited  his  presence  by  a  nod 
of  invitation.  When  Mrs.  Kenwigs  had  been,  in  some 
degree,  restored,  and  Newman,  as  a  person  possessed  of 
some  influence  with  her,had  remonstrated  and  begged  her 
to  compose  herself,  Mr.  Lillyvick  said  in  a  faltering  voice  : 

' '  I  never  shall  ask  anybody  here  to  receive  my — I 
needn't  mention  the  word  ;  you  know  what  I  mean. 
Kenwigs  and  Susan,  yesterday  was  a  week  she  eloped 
with  a  half-pay  captain  !  " 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenwigs  started  together. 

"  Eloped  with  a  half- pay  captain,"  repeated  Mr,  Lilly- 
vick, "basely  and  falsely  eloped  with  a  half -pay  captain 
— with  a  bottle-nosed  captain  that  any  man  might  have 
considered  himself  safe  from.  It  was  in  this  room,"  said 
Mr.  Lillyvick,  looking  sternly  round,  "  that  I  first  see 
Henrietta  Petowker.  It  is  in  this  room  that  I  turn  her 
off,  for  ever." 

This  declaration  completely  changed  the  whole  pos- 
ture of  affairs.  Mrs.  Kenwigs  threw  herself  upon  the 
old  gentleman's  neck,  bitterly  reproaching  herself  for 
her  late  harshness,  and  exclaiming  if  she  had  suffered, 
what  must  his  sufferings  have  been  !  Mr.  Kenwigs 
grasped  his  hand,  and  vowed  eternal  friendship  and  re- 
morse. Mrs.  Kenwigs  was  horror-stricken  to  think  that 
she  should  ever  have  nourished  in  her  bosom  such  a 
snake,  adder,  viper,  serpent,  and  base  crocodile,  as  Hen- 
rietta Petowker.  Mr.  Kenwigs  argued  that  she  must 
have  been  bad  indeed  not  to  have  improved  by  so  long  a 
contemplation  of  Mrs.  Kenwigs's  virtue.  Mrs.  Ken- 
wigs remembered  that  Mr.  Kenwigs  had  often  said  that 
he  was  not  quite  satisfied  of  the  propriety  of  Miss  Pe- 
towker's  conduct,  and  wondered  how  it  was  that  she 
could  have  been  blinded  by  such  a  wretch.  Mr.  Ken- 
wigs remembered  that  he  had  had  his  suspicions,  but 
did  not  wonder  why  Mrs.  Kenwigs  had  not  had  hers,  as 
she  was  all  chastity,  purity,  and  truth,  and  Henrietta  all 
baseness,  falsehood,  and  deceit.  And  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ken- 
wigs both  said,  with  strong  feelings  and  tears  of  sym- 
pathy, that  everything  happened  for  the  best  ;  and  con- 
jured the  good  collector  not  to  give  way  to  unavailing 
grief,  but  to  seek  consolation  in  the  society  of  those  af- 
fectionate relations  whose  arms  and  hearts  were  ever 
open  to  him. 

Vol.  II.— 13 


I  "  Out  of  affection  and  regard  for  you,  Susan  and  Ken- 
'  wigs,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  "  and  not  out  of  revenge  and 
{  spite  against  her,  for  she  is  below  it,  I  shall,  to-morrow 
I  morning,  settle  upon  your  children,  and  make  i)ayable 
,  to  the  survivors  of  them  when  they  come  of  age  or  marry, 
!  that  money  that  I  once  meant  to  leave  'em  in  my  will. 
!  The  deed  shall  be  executed  to-morrow,  and  Mr.  Noggs 
1  shall  be  one  of  the  witnesses.  He  hears  me  promise 
.  this,  and  he  shall  see  it  done." 

Overpowered  by  this  noble  and  generous  offer,  Mr. 
!  Kenwigs,  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  and  Miss  Morleena  Kenwigs, 
j  all  b^gan  to  sob  together  ;  and  the  noise  of  their  sobbing, 
communicating  itself  to  the  next  room,  where  the  chil- 
dren lay  a-bed,  and  causing  them  to  cry  too,  Mr.  Ken- 
wigs rushed  wildly  in,  and  bringing  them  out  in  his 
arms,  by  two  and  two,  tumbled  them  down  in  their 
nightcaps  and  gowns  at  the  feet  of  Mr.  Lillyvick,  and 
ca.  iled  upon  them  to  thank  and  bless  him. 

"  And  now,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  when  a  heart-rending 
scene  had  ensued  and  the  children  were  cleared  away 
again,  "  Give  me  some  supper.    This  took  place  twenty 
mile  from  town.    I  came  up  this  morning,  and  have  been 
lingering  about,  all  day,  without  being  able  to  make  up 
my  mind  to  come  and  see  you.    I  humoured  her  in  every- 
I  thing,  she  had  her  own  way,  she  did  just  as  she  pleased, 
I  and  now  she  has  done  this.    There  was  twelve  teaspoons 
I  and  twenty -four  pound  in  sovereigns — I  missed  them 
I  first— it's  a  trial — I  feel  I  shall  never  be  able  to  knock  a 
I  double  knock  again,  when  I  go  my  rounds — don't  say 
I  anything  more  about  it,  please — the  spoons  were  worth 
'  — never  mind — never  mind  ! " 

With  such  muttered  outpourings  as  these,  the  old 
;  gentleman  shed  a  few  tears  ;  but,  they  got  him  into  the 
'  elbow-chair,  and  prevailed  upon  him,  without  much 
!  pressing,  to  make  a  hearty  supper,  and  by  the  time  he 
!  had  finished  his  first  pipe  and  disposed  of  half  a  dozen 
j  glasses  out  of  a  crown  bowl  of  punch,  ordered  by  Mr. 
i  Kenwigs,  in  celebration  of  his  return  to  the  bosom  of  his 
I  family,  he  seemed,  thou_gh  still  very  humble,  quite  re- 
j  signed  to  his  fate,  and  rather  relieved  than  otherwise  by 
1  the  flight  of  his  wife. 

"  When  I  see  that  man,"  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  with  one 
{  hand  round  Mrs.  Kenwigs's  waist  :  his  other  hand  sup- 
porting his  pipe  (which  made  him  wink  and  cough  very 
much,  for  he  was  no  smoker)  :  and  his  eyes  on  Morleena, 
who  sat  upon  her  uncle's  knee,  "when  I  see  that  man  as 
mingling,  once  again,  in  the  spear  which  he  adorns,  and 
see  his  affections  deweloping  themselves  in  legitimate 
sitiwations,  I  feel  that  his  nature  is  as  elewated  and  ex- 
panded, as  his  standing  afore  society  as  a  public  charac- 
ter is  unimpeached,  and  the  woices  of  my  infant  chil- 
dren purvided  for  in  life,  seem  to  whisper  to  me  softly, 
*  This  is  an  ewent  at  which  Evins  itself  looks  down  ! '  '*' 


CHAPTER  Lin. 

Containing  the  further  Progrei^s  of  the  Plot  contrived  by  Mr.  Halph 
Nickleby  and  Mr.  Arthur  Gride. 

With  that  settled  resolution,  and  steadiness  of  pur- 
pose to  which  extreme  circumstances  so  often  give  birth, 
acting  upon  far  less  excitable  and  more  sluggish  tempera- 
ments than  that  which  was  the  lot  of  Madeline  Bray's 
admirer,  Nicholas  started,  at  dawn  of  day,  from  the  rest- 
less couch  which  no  sleep  had  visited  on  the  previous 
night,  and  prepared  to  make  that  last  appeal,  by  whose 
slight  and  fragile  thread  her  only  remaining  hope  of  es- 
cape depended. 

Although  to  restless  and  ardent  minds,  morning  may 
be  the  fitting  season  for  exertion  and  activity,  it  is  not 
always  at  that  time  that  hope  is  strongest  or  the  spirit 
most  sanguine  and  buoyant.  In  trying  and  doubtful 
I  positions,  youth,  custom,  a  steady  contemplation  of  the 
difficulties  which  surround  us,  and  a  familiarity  with 
them,  imperceptibly  diminish  our  apprehensions  and  be- 
get comparative  indifference,  if  not  a  vague  and  reckless 
confidence  in  some  relief,  the  means  or  nature  of  which 
we  care  not  to  foresee.  But  when  we  come,  fresh,  upon 
such  things  in  the  morning,  with  that  dark  and  silent 
gap  between  us  and  yesterday ;  with  every  link  in  the 
brittle  chain  of  hope,  to  rivet  afresh  ;  our  hot  enthusiasm 


194 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


subdued,  and  cool  calm  reason  substituted  in  its  stead  ; 
doubt  and  misgiving  revive.  As  the  traveller  sees  far- 
thest, by  day,  and  becomes  aware  of  rugged  mountains 
and  trackless  plains  wMch  the  friendly  darkness  had 
shrouded  from  his  sight  and  mind  together,  so,  the  way- 
farer in  the  toilsome  path  of  human  life,  sees,  with  each 
returning  sun,  some  new  obstacle  to  surmount,  some  new 
height  to  be  attained.  Distances  stretch  out  before  him 
which,  last  night,  were  scarcely  taken  into  account,  and 
ihe  light  which  gilds  all  nature  with  its  cheerful  beams, 
seems  but  to  shine  upon  the  weary  obstacles  that  yet  lie 
strewn  between  him  and  the  grave.  • 

So  thought  Nicholas,  when,  with  the  impatience  nat- 
ural to  a  situation  like  his,  he  softly  left  the  house,  and, 
feeling  as  though  to  remain  in  bed  were  to  lose  most  pre- 
cious time,  and  to  be  up  and  stirring  were  in  some  way 
to  promote  the  end  he  had  in  view,  wandered  into  Lon- 
don ;  perfectly  well  knowing  that  for  hours  to  come  lie 
could  not  obtain  speech  with  Madeline,  and  could  do 
nothing  but  wish  the  intervening  time  away. 

And,  even  now,  as  he  paced  the  streets,  and  listlessly 
looked  round  on  the  gradually  increasing  bustle  and 
preparation  for  the  day,  everything  seemed  to  yield  him 
some  new  occasion  for  despondency.  Last  night,  the 
sacrifice  of  a  young,  affectionate,  and  beautiful  creature, 
to  such  a  wretch,  and  in  such  a  cause,  had  seemed  a 
thing  too  monstrous  to  succeed  ;  and  the  warmer  he 
grew,  the  more  confident  he  felt  that  some  interposition 
must  save  her  from  his  clutches.  But  now,  when  he 
thought  how  regularly  things  went  on,  from  day  to  day, 
in  the  same  unvarying  round — how  youth  and  beauty 
died,  and  ugly  griping  age  lived  tottering  on — how 
crafty  avarice  grew  rich,  and  manly  honest  hearts  were 
poor  and  sad — how  few  they  were  who  tenanted  the 
stately  houses,  and  how  many  those  who  lay  in  noisome 
pens,  or  rose  each  day  and  lay  them  down  each  night,  and 
lived  and  died,  father  and  son,  mother  and  child,  race 
upon  race,  and  generation  upon  generation,  without  a 
home  to  shelter  them  or  the  energies  of  one  single  man  di- 
rected to  their  aid — how,  in  seeking,  not  a  luxurious  and 
splendid  life,  but  the  bare  means  of  a  most  wretched  and 
inadequate  subsistence,  there  were  women  and  children 
in  that  one  town,  divided  into  classes,  numbered  and 
estimated  as  regularly  as  the  noble  families  and  folks  of 
great  degree,  and  reared  from  infancy  to  drive  most  crim- 
inal and  dreadful  trades — how  ignorance  was  punished 
and  never  taught — how,  jail-doors  gaped  and  gallows 
loomed,  for  thousands  urged  towards  them  by  circum- 
stances darkly  curtaining  their  very  cradles'  heads,  and 
but  for  which  they  might  have  earned  their  honest  bread 
and  lived  in  peace — how  many  died  in  soul,  and  had  no 
chance  of  life — how  many  who  could  scarcely  go  astray, 
be  they  vicious  as  they  would,  turned  haughtily  from 
the  crushed  and  stricken  wretch  who  could  scarce  do 
otherwise,  and  who  would  have  been  a  greater  wonder 
had  he  or  she  done  well,  than  even  they  had  they  done 
ill — how  much  injustice,  misery,  and  wrong,  there  was, 
and  yet  how  the  world  rolled  on  from  year  to  year,  alike 
careless  and  indifferent,  and  no  man  seeking  to  remedy 
or  redress  it — when  he  thought  of  all  this,  and  selected 
from  the  mass  the  one  slight  case  on  which  his  thoughts 
were  bent,  he  felt,  indeed,  that  there  was  little  ground 
for  hope,  and  little  reason  why  it  should  not  form  an 
atom  in  the  huge  aggregate  of  distress  and  sorrow,  and 
add  one  small  and  unimportant  unit  to  swell  the  great 
amount. 

But,  youth  is  not  prone  to  contemplate  the  darkest 
side  of  a  picture  it  can  shift  at  will.  By  dint  of  reflect- 
ing on  what  he  had  to  do,  and  reviving  the  train  of 
thought  which  night  had  interrupted,  Nicholas  gradually 
summoned  up  his  utmost  energy,  and  when  the  morning 
was  sufficiently  advanced  for  his  purpose,  had  no  thought 
but  that  of  using  it  to  the  best  advantage.  A  hasty 
breakfast  taken,  and  such  affairs  of  business  as  required 
prompt  attention,  disposed  of,  he  directed  his  steps  to 
the  residence  of  Madeline  Bray  :  whither  he  lost  no  time 
in  arriving. 

It  had  occurred  to  him  that,  very  possibly,  the  young 
lady  might  be  denied,  although  to  him  she  never  had 
been  ;  and  he  was  still  pondering  on  the  surest  method 
of  obtaining  access  to  her  in  that  case,  when,  coming  to 
tlic  door  of  the  house,  he  found  it  had  been  left  ajar — 


probably  by  the  last  person  who  had  gone  out.  The  oc- 
casion was  not  one  upon  which  to  observe  the  nicest  cere- 
mony ;  therefore,  availing  himself  of  this  advantage, 
Nicholas  walked  gently  up-stairs  and  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  room  into  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
be  shown.  Receiving  permission  to  enter,  from  some 
person  on  the  other  side,  he  opened  the  door  and  walked 
in. 

Bray  and  his  daughter  were  sitting  there  alone.  It 
was  nearly  three  weeks  since  he  had  seen  her  last,  but 
there  was  a  change  in  the  lovely  girl  before  him  which 
told  Nicholas,  in  startling  terms,  how  much  mental  suf- 
fering had  been  compressed  into  that  short  time.  There 
are  no  words  which  can  express,  nothing  with  whicli  can 
be  compared,  the  perfect  pallor,  the  clear  transparent 
whiteness,  of  the  beautiful  face  which  turned  towards 
him  when  he  entered.  Her  hair  was  a  rich  deep  brown, 
but  shading  that  face,  and  straying  upon  a  neck  that  ri- 
valled it  in  whiteness,  it  seemed  by  the  strong  contrast 
raven  black.  Something  of  wildness  and  restlessness 
there  was  in  the  dark  eye,  but  there  was  the  same  pa- 
tient look,  the  same  expression  of  gentle  mournfulness 
which  he  well  remembered,  and  no  trace  of  a  single  tear. 
Most  beautiful, —  more  beautiful,  perhaps,  than  ever — 
there  was  something  in  her  face  which  quite  unmanned 
him,  and  appeared  far  more  touching  than  the  wildest 
agony  of  grief.  It  was  not  merely  calm  and  composed, 
but  fi:?ed  and  rigid,  as  though  the  violent  effort  which 
had  summoned  that  composure  beneath  her  father's  eye, 
while  it  mastered  all  other  thoughts,  had  prevented  even 
the  momentary  expression  they  had  communicated  to  the 
features  from  subsiding,  and  had  fastened  it  there,  as  an 
evidence  of  its  triumph. 

The  father  sat  opposite  to  her — not  looking  directly  in 
her  face,  but  glancing  at  her,  as  he  talked  with  a  gay 
air  which  ill  disguised  the  anxiety  of  his  thoughts.  The 
drawing  materials  were  not  on  their  accustomed  table, 
nor  were  any  of  the  other  tokens  of  her  usual  occupations 
to  be  seen.  The  little  vases  which  Nicholas  had  always 
seen  filled  with  fresh  flowers,  were  empty,  or  supplied 
only  with  a  few  withered  stalks  and  leaves.  The  bird 
was  silent.  The  cloth  that  covered  his  cage  at  night, 
was  not  removed.    His  mistress  had  forgotten  him. 

There  are  times  when  the  mind,  being  painfully  alive 
to  receive  impressions,  a  great  deal  may  be  noted  at  a 
glance.  This  was  one,  for  Nicholas  had  but  glanced 
round  him  when  he  was  recognised  by  Mr.  Bray,  who 
said  impatiently, 

*'Now,  sir,  what  do  you  want?  Name  your  errand 
here,  quickly,  if  you  please,  for  my  daughter  and  I  are 
busily  engaged  with  other  and  more  important  matters 
than  those  you  come  about.  Come,  sir,  address  yourself 
to  your  business  at  once." 

Nicholas  could  very  well  discern  that  the  irritability  and 
impatience  of  this  speech  were  assumed,  and  that  Bray, 
in  his  heart,  was  rejoiced  at  any  interruption  which  prom- 
ised to  engage  the  attention  of  his  daughter.  IJe  bent 
his  eyes  involuntarily  as  he  spoke,  and  marked  his  un- 
easiness ;  for  he  coloured  and  turned  his  head  away. 

The  device,  however,  so  far  as  it  was  a  device  for  caus- 
ing Madeline  to  interfere,  was  successful.  She  rose,  and 
advancing  towards  Nicholas  paused  half  way,  and 
stretched  out  her  hand  as  expecting  a  letter. 

''Madeline,"  said  her  father  impatiently,  "my  love, 
what  are  you  doing?" 

"  Miss  Bray  expects  an  inclosure  perhaps,"  said  Nicho- 
las, speaking  very  distinctly,  and  with  an  emphasis  she 
could  scarcely  misunderstand.  "  My  employer  is  absent 
from  England,  or  I  should  have  brought  a  letter  with  me. 
I  hope  she  will  give  me  time — a  little  time — I  ask  a  very 
little  time." 

"If  that  is  all  you  come  about,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bray, 
"you  may  make  yourself  easy  on  that  head.  Madeline, 
my  dear,  I  didn't  know  this  person  was  in  your  debt  ?" 

"A — a  trifle  I  believe,"  returned  Madeline,  faintly. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  now,"  said  Bray,  wheeling  his 
chair  round  and  confronting  Nicholas,  "  that,  but  for 
such  pitiful  sums  as  you  bring  here,  because  my  daughter 
has  chosen  to  employ  her  time  as  she  has,  we  should 
starve  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  thought  about  it,"  returned  Nicholas. 
"You  have  not  thought  about  it  1"  sneered  the  in- 


NICHOLAS 

valid.  "  You  know  you  Jiave  thought  about  it,  and  have 
thought  that,  and  think  so  every  time  you  come  liere. 
Do  you  suppose,  young  man,  that  I  don't  know  what 
little  purse-proud  tradesmen  are,  when,  througli  some  for- 
tunate circutastances,  they  get  the  upper  liand  for  a  brief 
day — or  think  they  get  the  upper  hand — of  a  gentle- 
man ?  " 

"  My  business,"  said  Nicholas  respectfully,  "  is  with  a 
lady." 

"  With  a  gentleman's  daughter,  sir,"  returned  the  sick 
man,  "  and  the  pettifogging  spirit  is  the  same.  But  per- 
haps you  bring  orders  eh  ?  Have  you  any  fresh  orders 
for  my  daughter,  sir  ?  " 

Nicholas  understood  the  tone  of  triumph  in  which  this 
interrogatory  was  put  ;  but,  remembering  the  necessity 
of  supporting  his  assumed  character,  produced  a  scrap 
of  paper,  purporting  to  contain  a  list  of  some  subjects 
for  drawings  which  his  employer  desired  to  have  exe- 
cuted ;  and  with  which  he  had  prepared  himself  in  case 
of  any  such  contingency. 

"Oh  !"  said  Mr.  Bray.  "These  are  the  orders,  are 
they  ?  " 

"  Since  you  insist  upon  the  term,  sir — yes,"  replied 
Nicholas. 

"  Then  you  may  tell  your  master,"  said  Bray,  tossing 
the  paper  back  again,  with  an  exulting  smile,  "  that  my 

daughter  Miss  Madeline  Bray — condescends  to  employ 

herself  no  longer  in  such  labours  as  these  :  that  she  is 
not  at  his  beck  and  call,  as  he  supposes  her  to  be  ;  that 
we  don't  live  upon  his  money,  as  he  flatters  himself  we 
do  ;  that  he  may  give  whatever  he  owes  us,  to  the  first 
beggar  that  passes  his  shop,  or  add  it  to  his  own  profits 
next  time  he  calculates  them  ;  and  that  he  may  go  to 
the  devil,  for  me.  That's  my  acknowledgment  of  his 
orders,  sir  ! " 

"  And  this  is  the  independence  of  a  man  who  sells  his 
daughter  as  he  has  sold  that  weeping  girl  ! "  thought 
Nicholas. 

The  father  was  too  much  absorbed  with  his  own  ex- 
ultation to  mark  the  look  of  scorn  which,  for  an  instant, 
Nicholas  could  not  have  suppresedhad  he  been  upon  the 
rack.  "  There,"  he  continued,  after  a  short  silence, 
"you  have  your  message  and  can  retire-eunless  you 
have  any  further — ha  ! — any  further  orders." 

"  I  have  none,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  nor  in  consideration 
of  the  station  you  once  held,  have  I  used  that  or  any 
other  word  which,  however  harmless  in  itself,  could  be 
supposed  to  imply  authority  on  my  part  or  dependence 
on  yours.  I  have  no  orders,  but  I  have  fears — fears  that 
I  will  express,  chafe  as  you  may — fears  that  you  may  be 
consigning  that  young  lady  to  something  worse  than  sup- 
porting you  by  the  labour  of  her  hands,  had  she  worked 
herself  dead.  These  are  my  fears,  and  these  fears  I 
found  upon  your  own  demeanour.  Your  conscience  will 
tell  you,  sir,  whether  I  construe  it  well  or  not. " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  !  "  cried  Madeline,  interposing  in 
alarm  between  them.    "Remember,  sir,  he  is  ill." 

"111!"  cried  the  invalid,  gasping  and  catching  for 
breath.  "Ill  !  Ill  !  I  am  bearded  and  bullied  by  a  shop- 
boy,  and  she  beseeches  him  to  pity  and  remember  I  am 
ill  !" 

He  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of  his  disorder,  so  violent  that 
for  a  few  moments  Nicholas  was  alarmed  for  his  life  ; 
but  finding  that  he  began  to  recover,  he  withdrew,  after 
signifying  by  a  gesture  to  the  young  lady  that  he  had 
something  important  to  communicate,  and  would  wait 
for  her  outside  the  room.  He  could  hear  that  the  sick 
man  came,  gradually,  but  slowly  to  himself,  and  that 
without  any  reference  to  what  had  just  occurred,  as 
though  he  had  no  distinct  recollection  of  it,  as  yet,  he 
requested  to  be  left  alone. 

"Oh  ! "  thought  Nicholas  "  that  this  slender  chance 
might  not  be  lost,  and  that  I  might  prevail,  if  it  were 
but  for  one  week's  time  and  re-consideration  ! " 

"  You  are  charged  with  some  commission  to  me,  sir,*' 
said  Madeline,  presenting  herself  in  great  agitation. 
"  Do  not  press  it  now,  I  beg  and  pray  you.  The  day  af- 
ter to-morrow — come  here  then." 

"  It  will  be  too  late — too  late  for  what  I  have  to  say," 
rejoined  Nicholas,  "  and  you  will  not  be  here.  Oh, 
madam,  if  you  have  but  one  thought  of  him  who  sent 
me  here,  but  one  last  lingering  care  for  your  own  peace 


NICKLEBY.  195 

of  mind  and  heart,  I  do  for  God's  sake  urge  you  to  give 
me  a  hearing." 

She  attempted  to  pass  him,  but  Nicholas  gently  de- 
tained her. 

"  A  hearing,"  said  Nicholas.  "  I  ask  you  but  to  hear 
me — not  me  alone,  but  him  for  whom  I  speak,  who  irs 
far  away  and  does  not  know  your  danger.  In  the  name 
of  Heaven  hear  me  !  " 

The  poor  attendant,  with  her  eyes  swollen  and  red 
with  weeping,  stood  by  ;  and  to  her,  Nicholas  appealed 
in  such  passionate  terms  that  she  opened  a  side-do<^r, 
and,  supporting  her  mistress  into  an  adjoining  room, 
beckoned  Nicholas  to  follow  them. 

"  Leave  me,  sir,  pray,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"  I  cannot,  will  not  leave  you  thus,"  returned  Nicholas. 
"  I  have  a  duty  to  discharge  ;  and,  either  here,  or  in  the 
room  from  which  we  have  just  now  come,  at  whatever 
risk  or  hazard  to  Mr.  Bray,  I  must  beseech  you  lo  contem- 
plate again  the  fearful  course  to  which  you  have  been  im- 
pelled." 

"What  course  is  this  you  speak  of,  and  impelled  by 
whom,  sir?"  demanded  the  young  lady,  with  an  effort 
to  speak  proudly. 

"  I  speak  of  this  marriage,"  returned  Nicholas,  "of 
this  marriage,  fixed  for  to-morrow,  by  one  who  never 
faltered  in  a  bad  purpose,  or  lent  his  aid  to  any  good  de- 
sign ;  of  this  marriage,  the  history  of  which  is  known  to 
me,  better,  far  better,  than  it  is  to  you.  I  know  what 
web  is^vound  about  you.  I  know  what  men  they  are 
from  whom  these  schemes  have  come.  You  are  be- 
trayed, and  sold  for  money — for  gold,  whose  every  coin 
is  rusted  with  tears,  if  not  red  with  the  blood  of  ruined 
men,  who  have  fallen  desperately  by  their  own  mad 
hands." 

"You  say  you  have  a  duty  to  discharge,"  said  Made- 
line, "and  so  have  I.  And  with  the  help  of  Heaven,  I 
will  perform  it." 

"  Say  rather  with  the  help  of  devils,"  replied  Nicholas, 
"with  the  help  of  men,  one  of  them  your  destined 
husband,  who  are — " 

"I  must  not  hear  this,"  cried  the  young  lady,  striving 
to  repress  a  shudder,  occasioned,  as  it  seemed,  even  by  this 
slight  allusion  to  Arthur  Gride.  "  This  evil,  if  evil  it  be, 
has  been  of  my  own  seeking.  I  am  impelled  to  this 
course  by  no  one,  but  follow  it  of  my  own  free  will . 
You  see  I  am  not  constrained  or  forced.  Report  this," 
said  Madeline,  "to  my  dear  friend  and  benefactor,  and, 
taking  with  you  my  prayers  and  thanks  for  him  and  for 
yourself,  leave  me  for  ever  !" 

"  Not  until  I  have  besought  you,  with  all  the  earnest- 
ness and  fervour  by  which  I  am  animated,"  cried  Nicho- 
las, "to  postpone  *his  marriage  for  one  short  week. 
Not  until  I  have  besought  you  to  think,  more  deeply 
than  you  can  have  done,  influenced  as  you  are,  upon  the 
step  you  are  about  to  take.  Although  you  cannot  be 
fully  conscious  of  the  villainy  of  this  man  to  whom  you 
are  about  to  give  your  hand,  some  of  his  deeds  you 
know.  You  have  heard  him  speak,  and  have  looked 
upon  his  face.  Reflect,  reflect,  before  it  is  too  late,  on 
the  mockery  of  plighting  to  him  at  the  altar,  faith  in 
which  your  heart  can  have  no  share— of  uttering  solemn 
words,  against  which  nature  and  reason  must  rebel — of 
the  degradation  of  yourself  in  your  own  esteem,  which 
must  ensue,  and  must  be  aggravated  every  day,  as  his 
detested  character  opens  upon  you  more  and  more. 
Shrink  from  the  loathsome  companionship  of  this  wretch 
as  you  would  from  corruption  and  disease.  Suffer  toil 
and  labour  if  you  will,  but  shun  him,  shun  him.  and  be 
bappy.  For,  believe  me,  I  speak  the  truth  ; — the  most 
abject  poverty,  the  most  wretched  condition  of  human 
life,  with  a  pure  and  upright  mind,  would  be  happiness 
to  that  which  you  must  undergo  as  the  wife  of  such  a 
man  as  this  ! " 

Long  before  Nicholas  ceased  to  speak,  the  young  lady 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  gave  her  tears  free 
way.  In  a  voice  at  first  inarticulate  with  emotion,  but 
gradually  recovering  strength  as  she  proceeded,  she  an- 
swered him, 

"  I  will  not  disguise  from  you,  sir— though  perhaps  I 
ought — that  I  have  undergone  great  pain  of  mind,  and 
have  been  nearly  broken-hearted  since  I  saw  you  last. 
I  do  not  love  this  gentleman.    The  difference'between 


196 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


our  ages,  tastes,  and  liabits,  forbids  it.  This  lie  knows, 
and  knowing,  still  ofiers  me  liis  hand.  By  accepting  it, 
and  by  that  step  alone,  I  can  release  my  father  who  is 
dying  in  this  place  ;  prolong  his  life,  perhaps,  for  many 
years  ;  restore  him  to  comfort — I  may  almost  call  it  afflu- 
ence— and  relieve  a  generous  man  from  the  burden  of 
assisting  one,  by  whom,  I  grieve  to  say,  his  noble  heart 
is  little  understood.  Do  not  think  so  poorly  of  me  as  to 
believe  that  I  feign  a  love  I  do  not  feel.  Do  not  report 
so  ill  of  me,  for  that  I  could  not  bear.  If  I  cannot,  in 
reason  or  in  nature,  love  the  man  who  pays  this  price 
for  my  poor  hand,  I  can  discharge  the  duties  of  a  wife  ; 
I  can  be  all  he  seeks  in  me,  and  will.  He  is  content  to 
take  me  as  I  am.  I  have  passed  my  word,  and  should 
rejoice,  not  weep,  that  it  is  so — I  do.  The  interest  you 
take  in  one  so  friendless  and  forlorn  as  I,  the  delicacy 
with  which  you  have  discharged  your  trust,  the  faith 
you  have  kept  with  me,  have  my  warmest  thanks  :  and, 
while  I  make  this  last  feeble  acknowledgment,  move  me 
to  tears,  as  you  see.  But  I  do  not  repent,  nor  am  I  un- 
happy. I  am  happy  in  the  prospect  of  all  I  can  achieve 
so  easily.  I  shall  be  more  so  when  I  look  back  upon  it, 
and  all  is  done,  I  know." 

"  Your  tears  fall  faster  as  you  talk  of  happiness,"  said 
Nicholas,  ' '  and  you  shun  the  contemplation  of  that  dark 
future  which  must  be  laden  with  so  much  misery  to 
you.  Defer  this  marriage  for  a  week — for  but  one 
week  ! " 

"  He  was  talking,  when  you  came  upon  us  ju«t  now, 
with  such  smiles  as  I  remember  to  have  seen  of  old,  and 
have  not  seen  for  many  and  many  a  day,  of  the  freedom 
that  was  to  come  to-morrow,"  said  Madeline,  with  mo- 
mentary firmness,  "of  the  welcome  change,  the  fresh 
air  :  all  the  new  scenes  and  objects  that  would  bring 
fresh  life  to  his  exhausted  frame.  His  eye  grew  bright, 
and  his  face  lightened  at  the  thought.  I  will  not  defer 
it  for  an  hour." 

''These  are  but  tricks  and  wiles  to  urge  you  on," 
cried  Nicholas, 

"I'll  hear  no  more,"  said  Madeline  hurriedly,  "I 
have  heard  too  much — more  than  I  should — already. 
What  I  have  said  to  you,  sir,  I  have  said  as  to  that  dear 
friend  to  whom  I  trust  in  you  honourably  to  repeat  it. 
Sometime  hence,  when  I  am  more  composed  and  recon- 
ciled to  my  new  mode  of  life,  if  I  should  live  so  long,  I 
will  write  to  him.  Meantime,  all  holy  angels  shower 
blessings  on  his  head,  and  prosper  and  preserve  him." 

She  was  hurrying  past  Nicholas,  when  he  threw  him- 
self before  her,  and  implored  her  to  think,  but  once 
again,  upon  the  fate  to  which  she  was  precipitately  hast- 
ening. 

"  There  is  no  retreat,"  said  Nicholas,  in  an  agnoy  of 
supplication  ;  "no  withdrawing  !  All  regret  will  be  un- 
availing, and  deep  and  bitter  it  must  be.  What  can  I 
say,  that  will  induce  you  to  pause  at  this  last  moment  ! 
What  can  I  do,  to  save  you  !  " 

"Nothing,"  she  incoherently  replied.  "This  is  the 
hardest  trial  I  have  had.  Have  mercy  on  me,  sir,  I  be- 
seech, and  do  not  pierce  my  heart  with  such  appeals  as 
these.  I — I — hear  him  calling.  I — I — must  not,  will 
not,  remain  here  for  another  instant." 

"If  this  were  a  plot,"  said  Nicholas,  with  the  same 
violent  rapidity  with  which  she  spoke,  "  a  plot,  not  yet 
laid  bare  by  me,  but  which,  with  time,  I  might  unravel ; 
if  you  were  (not  knowing  it)  entitled  to  fortune  of  your 
own,  which,  being  recovered,  would  do  all  that  this 
marriage  can  accomplish,  would  you  not  retract  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no  ! — it  is  impossible  ;  it  is  a  child's  tale, 
time  would  bring  his  death.    He  is  calling  again  !  " 

"  It  may  be  the  last  time  we  shall  ever  meet  on  earth," 
said  Nicholas,  "it  may  be  better  for  me  that  vk^e  should 
never  meet  more." 

"  For  both — for  both,"  replied  Madeline,  not  heeding 
what  she  said.  "  The  time  will  come  when  to  recal  the 
memory  of  this  one  interview  might  drive  me  mad.  Be 
sure  to  tell  them  that  you  left  me  calm  and  happy. 
And  God  be  with  you,  sir,  and  my  grateful  heart  and 
blessing  !'* 

She  was  gone.  Nicholas,  staggering  from  the  house, 
thought  of  the  hurried  scene  which  had  just  closed  upon 
him,  as  if  it  were  the  phantom  of  some  wild,  unquiet 
dream.    The  day  wore  on  ;  at  night,  having  been  en- 


abled in  some  measure  to  collect  his  thoughts,  he  issued 
forth  again. 

That  night,  being  the  last  of  Arthur  Gride's  bachelor- 
ship, found  him  in  tip-toe  spirits  and  great  glee.  The 
bottle-green  suit  had  been  brushed,  ready  for  the  mor- 
row. Peg  Sliderskew  had  rendered  the  accounts  of  her 
past  housekeeping  ;  the  eighteenpence  had  been  rigidly 
accounted  for  (she  was  never  trusted  with  a  larger  sum 
at  once,  and  the  accounts  were  not  usually  balanced 
more  than  twice  a  day) ;  every  preparation  had  been 
made  for  the  coming  festival  ;  and  Arthur  might  have 
sat  down  and  contemplated  his  approaching  happiness, 
but  that  he  preferred  sitting  down  and  contemplating 
the  entries  in  a  dirty  old  vellum-book  with  rusty 
clasps. 

"  Well  a-day  !  "  he  chuckled,  as  sinking  on  his  knees 
before  a  strong  chest  screwed  down  -to  the  floor,  he 
thrust  in  his  arm  nearly  up  to  the  shoulder,  and  slowly 
drew  forth  this  greasy  volume,  "  Well-a-day  now,  this 
is  all  my  library,  but  it's  one  of  the  most  entertaining 
books  that  were  ever  written  !  It's  a  delightful  book, 
and  all  true  and  real — that's  the  best  of  it — true  as  the 
Bank  of  England,  and  real  as  its  gold  and  silver.  Writ- 
ten by  Arthur  Gride — he,  he,  he  !  None  of  your  story- 
book writers  will  ever  make  as  good  a  book  as  this,  I 
warrant  me.  It's  composed  for  private  circulation — for 
my  own  particular  reading,  and  nobody  else's.  He,  he, 
he  !" 

Muttering  this  soliloquy,  Arthur  carried  his  precious 
volume  to  the  table,  and,  adjusting  it  upon  a  dusty 
desk,  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  began  to  pore  among 
the  leaves. 

"  It's  a  large  sum  to  Mr.  Nickleby,"  he  said,  in  a  dolor- 
ous voice.  ' '  Debt  to  be  paid  in  full,  nine  hundred  and 
seventy-five,  four,  three.  Additional  sum  as  per  bond, 
five  hundred  pound.  One  thousand,  four  hundred  and 
seventy-five  pounds,  four  shillings,  and  threepence,  to- 
morrow at  twelve  o'clock.  On  the  other  side  though, 
there's  the  per  contra,  by  means  of  this  pretty  chick. 
But,  again,  there's  the  question  whether  I  mighn't  have 
brought  all  this  about,  myself.  'Faint  heart  never  won 
fair  lady. '  Why  was  my  heart  so  faint  ?  Why  didn't  I 
boldly  opon  it  to  Bray  myself,  and  save  one  thousand 
four  hundred  and  seventy-five,  four,  three  ! " 

These  reflections  depressed  the  old  usurer  so  much,  as 
to  wring  a  feeble  groan  or  two  from  his  breast,  and 
cause  him  to  declare,  with  uplifted  hands,  that  he  would 
die  in  a  work -house.  Remembering  on  further  cogita- 
tion, however,  that  under  any  circumstAuces  he  must 
have  paid,  or  handsomely  compounded  for,  Ralph's 
debt,  and  being  by  no  means  confident  that  he  would 
have  succeeded  had  he  undertaken  his  enterprise  alone, 
he  regained  his  equanimity,  and  chattered  and  mowed 
over  more  satisfactory  items,  until  the  entrance  of  Peg 
Sliderskew  interrupted  him. 

"Aha,  Peg  !"  said  Arthur,  "what  is  it?  What  is  it 
now.  Peg?" 

"It's  the  fowl,"  replied  Peg,  holding  up  a  plate  con- 
taining a  little — a  very  little  one — quite  a  phenomenon 
of  a  fowl — so  very  small  and  skinny. 

"  A  beautiful  bird  !"  said  Arthur,  after  inquiring  the 
price,  and  finding  it  proportionate  to  the  size.  "  With  a 
rasher  of  ham,  and  an  egg  made  into  sauce,  and  pota- 
toes, and  greens,  and  an  apple  pudding.  Peg,  and  a  little 
bit  of  cheese,  we  shall  have  a  dinner  for  an  emperor. 
There'll  only  be  she  and  me — and  you.  Peg,  when  we've 
done." 

"  Don't  you  complain  of  the  expense  afterwards,'*  said 
Mrs.  Sliderskew,  sulkily. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  must  live  expensively  for  the  first 
week,"  returned  Arthur,  with  a  groan,  "and  then  we 
must  make  up  for  it,  I  won't  eat  more  than  I  can  help, 
and  I  know  you  love  your  old  master  too  much  to  eat 
more  than  you  can  help,  don't  you.  Peg  ?" 

"  Don't  I  what  ?  "  said  Peg, 

"  Love  your  old  master  too  much — " 

"  No,  not  a  bit  too  much,"  said  Peg. 

"  Oh  dear,  I  wish  the  devil  had  this  woman  !"  cried 
Arthur — "love  him  too  much  to  eat  mora  than  you  can 
help  at  his  expense," 

"  At  his  what  ?  "  said  Peg. 

"  Oh  dear  1  she  can  never  hear  the  most  important 


NICHOLAS  mCKLEBY, 


197 


word,  and  hears  all  the  others  !"  whined  Gride.  "  At 
his  expense — you  catamaran  ! " 

The  last-mentioned  tribute  to  the  charms  of  Mrs.  Sli- 
derskew,  being  uttered  in  a  whisper,  that  lady  assented 
to  the  general  proposition  by  a  harsh  growl,  which  was 
accompanied  by  a  ring  at  the  street-door. 

"  There^  the  bell,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Ay,  ay  ;  I  know  that,"  rejoined  Peg. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  go  ?"  bawled  Arthur. 

"  Go  where  ?  "  retorted  Peg.  "  I  ain't  doing  any  harm 
here,  am  I  ?  " 

Arthur  Gride  in  reply  repeated  the  word  "bell"  as 
loud  as  he  could  roar  ;  and,  his  meaning  being  rendered 
further  intelligible  to  Mrs.  Slickerskew's  dull  sense  of 
hearing  by  pantomime  expressive  of  ringing  at  a  street- 
door,  Peg  hobbled  out,  after  sharply  demanding  why  he 
hadn't  said  there  was  a  ring,  before,  instead  of  talking 
about  all  manner  of  things  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  and  keeping  her  half-pint  of  beer  waiting  on  the 
steps. 

*' There's  a  change  come  over  you,  Mrs.  Peg,"  said 
Arthur,  following  her  out  with  his  eyes.  "  What  it  means 
I  don't  quite  know  ;  but,  if  it  lasts,  we  shan't  agree 
together  long  I  see.  You  are  turning  crazy,  I  think.  If 
you  are,  you  must  take  yourself  off,  Mrs.  Peg — or  be 
taken  off.  All's  one  to  me."  Turning  over  the  leaves  of 
his  book  as  he  muttered  this,  he  soon  lighted  upon  some- 
thing which  attracted  his  attention,  and  forgot  Peg  Sli- 
derskew  and  everything  else  in  the  engrossing  interest 
of  its  pages. 

The  room  had  no  other  light  than  that  which  it  de- 
rived from  a  dim  and  dirt-clogged  lamp,  whose  lazy  wick, 
being  still  further  obscured  by  a  dark  shade,  cast  its  fee- 
ble rays  over  a  very  little  space,  and  left  all  beyond  in 
heavy  shadow.  This  lamp,  the  money-lender  had  drawn 
so  close  to  him,  that  there  was  only  room  between  it  and 
himself  for  the  book  over  which  he  bent ;  and  as  he  sat, 
with  his  elbows  on  the  desk,  and  his  sharp  cheek-bones 
resting  on  his  hands,  it  only  served  to  bring  out  his  ugly 
features  in  strong  relief,  together  with  the  little  table  at 
which  he  sat,  and  to  shroud  all  the  rest  of  the  chamber 
in  a  deep  sullen  gloom.  Raising  his  eyes,  and  looking 
vacantly  into  this  gloom  as  he  made  some  mental  calcu- 
lation, Arthur  Gride  suddenly  met  the  fixed  gaze  of  a  man. 

"  Thieves  !  thieves  !  "  shrieked  the  usurer,  starting  up 
and  folding  his  book  to  his  breast,  ' '  robbers  !  murder  ! " 

"What  is  the  matter  ?"  said  the  form,  advancing. 

" Keep  off  !"  cried  the  trembling  wretch.  "Is  it  a 
man  or  a — a — "' 

"  For  what  do  you  take  me,  if  not  for  a  man?"  was 
the  inquiry. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Arthur  Gride,  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  hand,  "  it  is  a  man,  and  not  a  spirit.  It  is  a  man. 
Robbers  !  robbers  ! " 

"  For  what  are  these  cries  raised— unless  indeed  you 
know  me,  and  have  some  purpose  in  your  brain  ?  "  said 
the  stranger,  coming  close  up  to  him.    "  I  am  no  thief." 

"  What  then,  and  how  come  you  here  ?  "  cried  Gride, 
somewhat  re-assured,  but  still  retreating  from  his  visitor, 
"  what  is  your  name,  and  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"  My  name  you  need  not  know,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
came  here,  because  I  was  shown  the  way  by  your  ser- 
vant. I  have  addressed  you  twice  or  thrice,  but  you 
were  too  profoundly  engaged  mtli  your  book  to  hear  me, 
and  I  have  been  silently  waiting  until  you  should  be  less 
abstracted.  What  I  want,  I  will  tell  you,  when  you  can 
summon  up  courage  enough  to  hear  and  understand  me." 

Arthur  Gride  ventured  to  regard  his  visitor  more  atten- 
tively, and  perceiving  that  he  was  a  young  man  of  good 
mien  and  bearing,  returned  to  his  seat,  and  muttering 
that  there  were  bad  characters  about,  and  that  this,  with 
former  attemps  upon  his  house,  had  made  him  nervous, 
requested  his  visitor  to  sit  down.  This  however  ke  de- 
clined. 

"  Good  God  !  I  don't  stand  up  to  have  you  at  an  ad- 
vantage," said  Nicholas  (for  Nicholas  it  was),  as  he  ob- 
served a  gesture  of  alarm  on  the  part  of  Gride.  "  Listen 
to  me.    You  are  to  be  married  to-morrow  morning." 

"N — n — no,"  rejoined  Gride.  "Who  said  I  was? 
How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  No  matter  how,"  replied  Nicholas,  "  I  know  it.  The 
young  lady  who  is  to  give  you  her  hand,  hates  and  de- 


spises you.  Her  blood  runs  cold  at  the  mention  of  your 
name — the  vulture  and  the  lamb,  the  rat  and  the  dove, 
could  not  be  worse  matched  than  you  and  she.  You  see 
I  know  her." 

Gride  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  petrified  with  aston- 
ishment, but  did  not  speak  :  perhaps  lacking  the  powor. 

"  You  and  another  man,  Ralph  Nickleby  by  name, 
have  hatched  this  plot  between  you,"  pursued  Nicholas. 
"  You  pay  him  for  his  share  in  bringing  about  this  sale 
of  Madeline  Bray.  You  do.  A  lie  is  trembling  on  your 
lips,  I  see. " 

He  paused  ;  but,  Arthur  making  no  reply,  resumed 
again. 

"  You  pay  yourself  by  defrauding  her.  How  or  by 
what  means — for  I  scorn  to  sully  her  cause  by  falsehood 
or  deceit — I  do  not  know  ;  at  present  I  do  not  know,  but 
I  am  not  alone  or  single-handed  in  this  business.  If  the 
energy  of  man  can  compass  the  discovery  of  your  fraud 
and  treachery  before  your  death — if  wealth,  revenge,  and 
just  hatred,  can  hunt  and  track  you  through  your  wind- 
ings— you  will  yet  be  called  to  a  dear  account  for  this. 
We  are  on  the  scent  already — judge  you,  who  know 
what  we  do  not,  when  we  shall  have  you  down  ! " 

He  paused  again,  and  still  Arthur  Gride  glared  upon 
him  in  silence. 

"  If  you  were  a  man  to  whom  I  could  appeal  with  any 
hope  of  touching  his  compassion  or  humanity,"  said 
Nicholas,  "I  would  urge  upon  you  to  remember  the 
helplessness,  the  innocence,  the  youth,  of  this  lady  ;  her 
worth  and  beauty,  her  filial  excellence,  and  last,  and  more 
than  all  as  concerning  you.  more  nearly,  the  appeal 
she  has  made  to  your  mercy  and  your  manly  feeling. 
But,  I  take  the  only  ground  that  can  be  taken  with  men 
like  you,  and  ask  what  money  will  buy  you  off.  Remem- 
ber the  danger  to  which  you  are  exposed.  You  see  I 
know  enough,  to  know  much  more  with  very  little  help. 
Bate  some  expected  gain,  for  the  risk  you  save,  and 
say  what  is  your  price. " 

Old  Arthur  Gride  moved  his  lips,  but  they  only 
formed  an  ugly  smile  and  were  motionless  again.  ' 

"You  think,"  said  Nicholas,  "  that  the  price  would 
not  be  paid.  Miss  Bray  has  wealthy  frends  who  would 
coin  their  very  hearts  to  save  her  in  such  a  strait  as  this. 
Name  your  price,  defer  these  nuptials  for  but  a  few 
days,  and  see  whether  those  I  speak  of,  shrink  from  the 
payment.    Do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

When  Nicholas  began,  Arthur  Gride's  impression  was, 
that  Ralph  Nickleby  had  betrayed  him  ;  but,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, he  felt  convinced  that  however  he  had  come  by 
the  knowledge  he  possessed,  the  part  he  acted  was 
a  genuine  one,  and  that  with  Ralph  he  had  no  con- 
cern. All  he  seemed  to  know  for  certain,  was,  that  he, 
Gride,  paid  Ralph's  debt  ;  but  that,  to  anybody  who 
knew  the  circumstances  of  Bray's  detention — even  to 
Bray  himself  on  Ralph's  own  statement — must  be  per- 
fectly notorious.  As  to  the  fraud  on  Madeline  herself, 
his  visitor  knew  so  little  about  its  nature  or  extent,  that 
it  might  be  a  lucky  guess,  or  a  hap-hazard  accusation. 
Whether  or  no,  he  had  clearly  no  key  to  the  mystery, 
and  could  not  hurt  him  who  kept  it  close  within  his  own 
breast.  Tfce  allusion  to  friends,  and  the  offer  of  money. 
Gride  held  to  be  mere  empty  vapouring,  for  purposes  of 
delay.  "And  even  if  money  were  to  be  had,"  thought 
Arthur  Gride,  as  he  glared^  at  Nicholas,  and  trembled 
with  passion  at  his  boldness  and  audacity,  "I'd  have 
that  dainty  chick  for  my  wife,  and  cheat  you  of  her, 
young  smooth-face  !  " 

Long  habit  of  weighing  and  noting  well  what  clients 
said,  and  nicely  balancing  chances  in  his  mind  and  cal- 
culating odds  to  their  faces,  without  the  least  appear- 
ance of  being  so  engaged,  had  rendered  Gride  quick  iii 
forming  conclusions,  and  arriving,  from  puzzling,  intri- 
cate, and  often  contradictory  premises,  at  very  cunning 
deductions.  Hence  it  was,  that,  as  Nicholas  went  on, 
he  followed  him,  closely  with  his  own  constructions,  and, 
when  he  ceased  to  speak,  was  as  well  prepared  as  if  he 
had  deliberated  for  a  fortnight. 

"  I  hear  you,"  he  cried,  starting  from  his  seat,  casting 
back  the  fastenings  of  the  window  shutters,  and  throw- 
ing up  the  sash.    "Help  hear!    Help!  Help!" 

"  What  are  you  doing  !  "  said  Nicholas,  seizing  him  by 
the  arm. 


198 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  I'll  cry  robbers,  tliieves,  murder,  alarm  the  neigh- 
bourhood, struggle  with  you,  let  loose  some  blood,  and 
swear  you  come  to  rob  me,  if  you  don't  quit  my  house," 
replied  Gride,  drawing  in  his  head  with  a  frightful 
grin,  * '  I  will  !  " 

"  Wretch  !"  cried  Nicholas, 

"You'll  bring  your  threats  here,  will  you?"  said 
Gride,  whom  jealousy  of  Nicholas  and  a  sense  of  his  own 
triumph  had  converted  into  a  perfect  fiend.  "You,  the 
disappointed  lover — oh  dear  !  He  !  he  !  he  ! — but  you 
shan't  have  her,  nor  she  you.  She's  my  wife,  my  doting 
little  wife.  Do  you  think  she'll  miss  you?  Do  you 
think  she'll  weep?  I  shall  like  to  see  her  weep— I 
shan't  mind  it.    She  looks  prettier  in  tears." 

"  Villain  !  "  said  Nicholas,  choking  with  his  rage. 

"One  minute  more,"  cried  Arthur  Gride,  "and  I'll 
rouse  the  street  with  such  screams,  as,  if  they  were 
raised  by  anybody  else,  should  wake  me  even  in  the  arms 
of  pretty  Madeline." 

"You  hound  !"  said  Nicholas,  "If  you  were  but  a 
younger  man — " 

"Oh  yes  !"  sneered  Arthur  Gride,  "if  I  was  but  a 
younger  man  it  wouldn't  be  so  bad  ;  but  for  me,  so  old 
and  ugly — to  be  jilted  by  little  Madeline  for  me  !  " 

"  Hear  me,"  said  Nicholas,  "  and  be  thankful  I  have 
enough  command  over  myself  not  to  fling  you  into  the 
street,  which  no  aid  could  prevent  my  doing  if  I  once 
grappled  with  you.  I  have  been  no  lover  of  this  lady's. 
No  contract  or  engagement,  no  word  of  love,  has  ever 
passed  between  us.    She  does  not  even  know  my  name." 

"  I'll  ask  it  for  all  that — I'll  beg  it  of  her  with  kisses," 
said  Arthur  Gride.  "Yes,  and  she'll  tell  me,  and  pay 
them  back,  and  we'll  laugh  together,  and  hug  ourselves 
— and  be  very  merry — when  we  think  of  the  poor  youth 
that  wanted  to  have  her,  but  couldn't  because  she  was 
bespoke  by  me  !  " 

This  taunt  brought  such  an  expression  into  the  face  of 
Nicholas,  that  Arthur  Gride  plainly  apprehended  it  to  be 
the  forerunner  of  his  putting  his  threat  of  throwing  him 
into  the  street  in  immediate  execution  ;  for  he  thrust 
his  head  out  of  the  window,  and  holding  tight  on  with 
both  hands,  raised  a  pretty  brisk  alarm.  Not  thinking  it 
necessary  to  abide  the  issue  of  the  noise,  Nicholas  gave 
vent  to  an  indignant  defiance,  and  stalked  from  the  room 
and  from  the  house.  Arthur  Gride  watched  him  across 
the  street,  and  then,  drawing  in  his  head,  fastened  the 
wandow  as  before,  and  sat  down  to  take  breath. 

"  If  she  ever  turns  pettish  or  ill-humoured,  I'll  taunt 
her  with  that  spark,"  he  said,  when  he  had  recovered. 
"She'll  little  think  I  know  about  him  ;  and,  if  I  man- 
age it  well,  I  can  break  her  spirit  by  this  means  and 
have  her  under  my  thumb.  I'm  glad  nobody  came.  I 
didn't  call  too  loud.  The  audacity  to  enter  my  house,  and 
©pen  upon  me  ! — But  I  shall  have  a  very  good  triumph 
to-morrow,  and  he'll  be  knawing  his  fingers  off,  perhaps 
drown  himself,  or  cut  his  throat  !  I  shouldn't  wonder. 
That  would  make  it  quite  complete,  that  would — 
quite." 

When  he  had  become  restored  to  his  usual  condition 
by  these  and  other  comments  on  his  approaching  tri- 
umph, Arthur  Gride  put  away  his  book,  and,  having 
locked  the  chest  with  great  caution,  descended  into  the 
kitchen  to  warn  Peg  Sliderskew  to  bed,  and  scold  her 
for  having  afforded  such  ready  admission  to  a  stran- 
ger. 

The  unconscious  Peg,  however,  not  being  able  to 
comprehend  the  offence  of  which  she  had  been  guilty, 
he  summoned  her  to  hold  the  light,  while  he  made  a 
tour  of  the  fastenings,  and  secured  the  street  door  with 
his  own  hands. 

"  Top  bolt,"  muttered  Arthur,  fastening  as  he  spoke, 
"bottom  bolt — chain — bar— double-lock— and  key  out  to 
put  under  my  pillow  !  So,  if  any  more  rejected  admirers 
come,  they  may  come  througli  the  key-hole.  And  now 
I'll  go  to  sleep  till  half-past  five,  when  I  must  get  up  to 
be  married.  Peg  !  " 

With  that,  he  jocularly  tapped  Mrs.  Sliderskew  under 
the  chin,  and  appeared,  for  the  moment,  inclined  to  cel- 
ebrate the  close  of  his  bachelor  days  by  imprinting  a 
kiss  on  her  shrivelled  lips.  Thinking  better  of  it,  how- 
ever, he  gave  her  chin  another  tap,  in  lieu  of  that  warmer 
familiarity,  and  stole  away  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

The  Crisis  of  the  Pivject,  and  its  Jtesvlt. 

There  are  not  many  men  who  lie  abed  too  late,  or 
oversleep  themselves,  on  their  wedding  morning.  A  le- 
gend there  is,  of  somebody  remarkable  for  absence  of 
mind,  who  opened  his  eyes  upon  the  day  which  was  to 
give  him  a  young  wife,  and  forgetting  all  about  the 
matter,  rated  his  servants  for  providing  him  with  such 
fine  clothes  as  had  been  prepared  for  the  festival.  There 
is  also  a  legend  of  a  young  gentleman,  who,  not  having 
before  his  eyes  the  fear  of  the  canons  of  the  church  for 
such  cases  made  and  piovided,  conceived  a  passion  for 
his  grandmother.  Both  cases  are  of  a  singular  and 
special  kind,  and  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  either  can 
be  considered  as  a  precedent  likely  to  be  extensively  fol 
lowed  by  succeeding  generations. 

Arthur  Gride  had  enrobed  himself  in  his  marriage  gar- 
ments of  bottle-green,  a  full  hour  before  Mrs.  Sliderskew, 
shaking  off  her  more  heavy  slumbers,  knocked  at  his 
chamber  door  ;  and  he  had  hobbled  down-stairs  in  full  ar- 
ray and  smacked  his  lips  over  a  scanty  taste  of  his  fa- 
vourite cordial,  ere  that  delicate  piece  of  antiquity  en- 
lightened the  kitchen  with  her  presence. 

"  Faugh  !  "  said  Peg,  grubbing,  in  the  discharge  of  her 
domestic  functions,  among  a  scanty  heap  of  ashes  in  the 
rusty  grate,  ' '  Wedding  indeed  !  A  precious  wedding  ! 
He  wants  somebody  better  than  his  old  Peg  to  take  care 
of  him,  does  he  ?  And  what  has  he  said  to  me,  many  and 
many  a  time,  to  keep  me  content  with  short  food,  small 
wages,  and  little  fire?  'My  will.  Peg  !  my  will  !'  says 
he,  '  I'm  a  bachelor — no  friends — no  relations,  Peg.*  Lies  ! 
And  now  he's  to  bring  home  a  new  mistrei^^s,  a  baby-faced 
chit  of  a  girl  !  If  he  wanted  a  wife,  the  fool,  why  couldn't 
he  have  one  suitable  to  his  age  and  that  knew  his  ways  ? 
She  won't  come  in  my  way,  he  says.  No,  that  she  won't, 
but  you  little  think  why,  Arthur  boy  ! " 

While  Mrs.  Sliderskew,  influenced  possibly  by  some 
lingering  feelings  of  disappointment  and  personal  slight, 
occasioned  by  her  old  master's  preference  for  another, 
was  giving  loose  to  these  grumblings  below-stairs,  Ar- 
thur Gride  was  cogitating  in  the  parlour  upon  what  had 
taken  place  last  night. 

"I  can't  think  how  he  can  have  picked  up  what  he 
hnows,"  said  Arthur,  "unless  I  have  committed  myself 
— let  something  drop  at  Bray's,  for  instance,  which  has 
been  overheard.  Perhaps  I  may.  I  shouldn't  be  surpised 
if  that  was  it.  Mr.  Nickleby  was  often  angry  at  my  talk- 
ing to  him  before  we  got  outside  the  door.  1  mustn't 
tell  him  that  part  of  the  business,  or  he'll  put  me  out  of 
sorts,  and  make  me  nervous  for  the  day." 

Ralph  was  universally  looked  up  to,  and  recognised 
among  his  fellows  as  a  superior  genius,  but  upon  Arthur 
Gride  his  stern  unyielding  character  and  consummate 
art  had  made  so  deep  an  impression,  that  he  was  actual- 
ly afraid  of  him.  Cringing  and  cowardly  to  the  core,  by 
nature,  Arthur  Gride  humbled  himself  in  the  dust  before 
Ralph  Nickleby,  and,  even  when  they  had  not  this  stake  in 
common,  would  have  licked  his  shoes  and  crawled  upon 
the  ground  before  him  rather  than  venture  to  return  him 
word  for  word,  or  retort  upon  him  in  any  other  spirit 
than  one  of  the  most  slavish  and  abject  sycophancy. 

To  Ralph  Nickleby 's,  Arthur  Gride  now  betook  him- 
self according  to  appointment ;  and  to  Ralph  Nickleby 
he  related,  how,  last  night,  some  young  blustering  blade, 
whom  he  had  never  seen,  forced  his  way  into  his  house, 
and  tried  to  frighten  him  from  the  proposed  nuptials  :— 
told,  in  short,  what  Nicholas  had  said  and  done,  with  the 
slight  reservation  upon  which  he  had  determined. 

"Well,  and  what  then?"  said  Ralph. 

"Oh  !  nothing  more,"  rejoined  Gride. 

"  Hq tried  to  frighten  you,"  said  Ralph,  "  and  you  were 
frightened  I  suppose  ;  is  that  it  ?  " 

"  I  frightened  him  by  crying  thieves  and  murder,"  re- 
plied Gride.  "  Once  I  was  in  earnest,  I  tell  you,  for  I  had 
more  than  half  a  mind  to  swear  he  uttered  threats,  and 
demanded  my  life  or  my  money." 

"Oho!"  said  Ralph,  eyeing  him  askew.  "Jealous 
too  ! " 

"  Dear  now,  see  that  1 "  cried  Arthur,  rubbing  his  hands 
and  affecting  to  laugh. 


NICHOLAS 

"  Why  do  you  make  those  grimaces,  man  ?  "  said  Ralph  ; 
**  you  are  jealous — and  with  good  cause  I  think." 

"  No,  no,  no, — not  with  good  cause,  hey  ?  You  don't 
think  with  good  cause,  do  you  ?  "  cried  Arthur,  faltering, 
"  Do  you  though— hey  ?" 

"  Why,  how  stands  the  fact^  "  returned  Ralph.  "  Here 
is  an  old  man  about  to  be  forced  in  marriage  upon  a  girl  ; 
and  to  this  old  man  there  comes  a  handsome  young  fel- 
low— you  said  he  was  handsome,  didn't  you  ?" 

"  No  !"  snarled  Arthur  Gride. 

"  Oh  !"  rejoined  Ralph,  "  I  thought  you  did.  Well  ! 
Handsome  or  not  handsome,  to  this  old  man  there  comes 
a  young  fellow  who  casts  all  manner  of  fierce  defiances 
in  his  teeth — gums  I  should  rather  say — and  tells  him  in 
plain  terms  that  his  mistress  hates  him.  What  does  he 
do  that  for  ?    Philanthropy's  sake  ?  " 

"  Not  for  love  of  the  lady,"  replied  Gride,  "  for  he  said 
that  no  word  of  love — his  very  words — had  ever  passed 
between  'em." 

"  He  said  !  "  repeated  Ralph,  contemptuously.  "  But 
I  like  him  for  one  thing,  and  that  is,  his  giving  you  this 
fair  warning  to  keep  your — what  is  it  ? — Tit-bit  or  dainty 
chick — which  ?— under  lock  and  key.  Be  careful,  Gride, 
be  careful.  It's  a  triumph,  too,  to  tear  her  away  from  a 
gallant  young  rival  :  a  great  triumph  for  an  old  man  ! 
It  only  remains  to  keep  her  safe  when  you  have  her — 
that's  all. ' ' 

"  What  a  man  it  is  !  "  cried  Arthur  Gride,  affecting,  in 
the  extremity  of  his  torture,  to  be  highly  amused.  And 
then  he  added,  anxiously,  "  Yes  ;  to  keep  her  safe,  that's 
all.    And  that  isn't  much,  is  it  ?  " 

"Much  !  "  said  Ralph,  with  a  sneer.  "  Why,  every- 
body knows  what  easy  things  to  understand  and  to  con- 
trol, women  are.  But  come,  it's  very  nearly  time  for  you 
to  be  made  happy.  You'll  pay  the  bond,  now,  I  sup- 
pose, to  save. us  trouble  afterwards." 

"Oh  what  a  man  you  are  !  "  croaked  Arthur. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Ralph.  "  Nobody  will  pay  you  in- 
terest for  the  money,  I  suppose,  between  this  and  twelve 
o'clock,  will  they  ?  " 

"  But  nobody  would  pay  you  interest  for  it  either,  you 
know,"  returned  Arthur,  leering  at  Ralph  with  all  the 
cunning  and  slyness  he  could  throw  into  his  face. 

"Besides  which,"  said  Ralph,  suffering  his  lip  to  curl 
into  a  smile,  "  you  haven't  the  money  about  you,  and 
you  weren't  prepared  for  this,  or  you'd  have  brought  it 
with  you  ;  and  there's  nobody  you'd  so  much  like  to  ac- 
commodate as  me.  I  see.  We  trust  each  other  in  about 
an  equal  degree.    Are  you  ready  ?  ' ' 

Gride,  who  had  done  nothing  but  grin,  *nd  nod,  and 
chatter,  during  this  last  speech  of  Ralph's,  answered  in 
the  affirmative  ;  and  producing  from  his  hat  a  couple  of 
large  white  favours,  pinned  one  on  his  breast,  and  with 
considerable  difficulty  induced  his  friend  to  do  the  like. 
Thus  accoutred,  they  got  into  a  hired  coach  which  Ralph 
had  in  waiting,  and  drove  to  the  residence  of  the  fair  and 
most  wretched  bride. 

Gride,  whose  spirits  and  courage  had  gradually  failed 
him  more  and  more  as  they  approached  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  house,  was  utterly  dismayed  and  cowed  by 
the  mournful  silence  which  pervaded  it.  The  face  of  the 
poor  servant-girl,  the  only  person  they  saw,  was  dis- 
figured with  tears  and  v/ant  of  sleep.  There  was  no- 
body to  receive  or  welcome  them  ;  and  they  stole  up- 
stairs into  the  usual  sitting-room,  more  like  two  burg- 
lars than  the  bridegroom  and  his  friend. 

"One  would  think,"  said  Ralph,  speaking,  in  spite  of 
himself,  in  a  low  and  subdued  voice,  "  that  there  was  a 
funeral  going  on  here,  and  not  a  wedding. " 

"  He,  he  !"  tittered  his  friend,  "you  are  so — so  very 
funny  ! " 

"I  need  be,"  remarked  Ralph,  drily,  "for  this  is 
rather  dull  and  chilling.  Look  a  little  brisker,  man,  and 
not  so  hang-dog  like  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will,"  said  Gride.  *'  But — but — you  don't 
think  she's  coming  just  yet,  do  you  ?" 

"  Why,  I  suppose  she'll  not  come  till  she  is  obliged," 
returned  Ralph,  looking  at  his  watch,  "and  she  has 
a  good  half-hour  to  spare  vet.  Curb  your  impa- 
tience ." 

"I — I — am  not  impatient,"  stammered  Arthur.  "I 
wouldn't  be  hard  with  her  for  the  world.   Oh  dear,  dear 


NICKLEBY,  199 

not  on  any  account.  Let  her  take  her  time — her  own 
time.    Her  time  shall  be  ours  by  all  means." 

While  Ralph  bent  upon  his  trembling  friend  a  keen 
look,  which  showed  that  he  i)erfectly  understood  tlie  rea- 
son of  this  great  consideration  and  regard,  a  footstep 
was  heard  upon  the  stairs,  and  Bray  himself  came  into 
the  room  on  tiptoe,  and  holding  up  his  hand  with  a  cau- 
tious gesture,  as  if  there  were  some  sick  person  near, 
who  must  not  be  disturbed. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  She  was  very  ill, 
last  night.  I  thought  she  would  have  broken  her  heart. 
She  is  dressed,  and  crying  bitterly  in  her  own  room  ;  but 
she  is  better,  and  quite  quiet — that's  everything  !" 

"  She  is  ready,  is  she  ?"  said  Rali>h. 

"Quite  ready,"  returned  the  father. 

"And  not  likely  to  delay  us  by  any  young-lady  weak- 
nesses— fainting,  or  so  forth  ?  "  said  Ralph. 

"  She  may  be  safely  trusted  now,"  returned  Bray.  "  I 
have  been  talking  to  her,  this  morning.  Here,  come  a 
little  this  way." 

He  drew  Ralph  Nickleby  to  the  further  end  of  the 
room,  and  pointed  towards  Gride,  who  sat  huddled  to- 
gether in  a  comer,  fumbling  nervously  with  the  buttons 
of  his  coat,  and  exhibiting  a  face  of  which  every  skulk- 
ing and  base  expression  was  sharpened  and  aggravated 
to  the  utmost  by  his  anxiety  and  trepidation. 

"  Look  at  that  man,"  whispered  Bray,  emphatically. 
"This  seems  a  cruel  thing,  after  all." 

"  What  seems  a  cruel  thing?"  inquired  Ralph,  with  as 
much  stolidity  of  face,  as  if  he  really  were  in  utter  igno- 
rance of  the  other's  meaning. 

"This  marriage,"  answered  Bray.  "Don't  ask  me 
what.    You  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

Ralph  shrugged  his  shoulders,  in  silent  deprecation  of 
Bray's  impatience,  and  elevated  his  eyebrows,  and  pursed 
his  lips,  as  men  do  when  they  are  prepared  with  a  suffi- 
cient answer  to  some  remark,  but  wait  for  some  more 
favourable  opportunity  of  advancing  it,  or  think  it 
scarcely  worth  while  to  answer  their  adversary  at  all. 

"  Look  at  him.    Does  it  not  seem  cruel  ?"  said  Bray. 

"  No  !  "  replied  Ralph  boldly. 

"I  say  it  does,"  retorted  Bray,  with  a  show  of  much 
irritation.  "It  is  a  cruel  thing,  by  all  that's  bad  and 
treacherous  !  " 

When  men  are  about  to  commit,  or  to  sanction  the 
commission  of  some  injustice,  it  is  not  uncommon  for 
them  to  express  pity  for  the  object  either  of  that  or  some 
parallel  proceeding,  and  to  feel  themselves,  at  the 
time,  quite  virtuous  and  moral,  and  immensely  superior 
to  those  who  express  no  pity  at  all.  This  is  a  kind  of 
upholding  of  faith  above  works,  and  is  very  comfortable. 
To  do  Ralph  Nickleby  justice,  he  seldom  practised  this 
sort  of  dissimulation  ;  but  he  understood  those  who  did, 
and  therefore  suffered  Bray  to  say,  again  and  again,  with 
great  vehemence,  that  they  were  jointly  doing  a  very 
cruel  thing,  before  he  again  offered  to  interpose  a  word. 

"You  see  what  a  dry,  shrivelled,  withered  old  chip  it 
is,"  returned  Ralph,  when  the  other  was  at  length  silent. 
"If  he  were  younger,  it  might  be  cruel,  but  as  it  is — 
liarkee,  Mr.  Bray,  he'll  die  soon,  and  leave  her  a  rich 
young  widow  !  Miss  Madeline  consults  your  taste  this 
time  ;  let  her  consult  her  own  next." 

"True,  true,"  said  Bray,  biting  his  nails,  and  plainly 
very  ill  at  ease.  "  I  couldn't  do  anything  better  for  her 
than  advise  her  to  accept  these  proposals,  could  I  ?  Now, 
I  ask  you,  Nickleby,  as  a  man  of  the  world — could  I?" 

"Surely  not,"  answered  Ralph.  "I  tell  you  what, 
sir  ; — there  are  a  hundred  fathers,  within  a  circuit  of  five 
miles  from  this  place  ;  well  off ;  good,  rich,  substantial 
men  ;  who  would  gladly  give  their  daughters,  and  their 
own  ears  with  them,  to  that  very  man  yonder,  ape  and 
mummy  as  he  looks." 

"So  there  are  !"  exclaimed  Bray,  eagerly  catching  at 
anything  which  seemed  a  justification  of  himself.  "  And 
so  I  told  her,  both  last  night  and  to-day." 

"You  told  her  truth,"  said  Ralph,  "and  did  well  to  . 
do  so  ;  though  I  must  say,  at  the  same  time,  that  if  I  had 
a  daughter,  and  my  freedom,  pleasure,  nay,  my  very 
health  and  life,  depended  on  her  taking  a  husband  who 
I  pointed  out,  I  should  hope  it  would  not  be  necessary 
to  advance  any  other  arguments  to  induce  her  to  consent 
to  my  wishes." 


200 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Bray  looked  at  Ralpn  as  if  to  see  whether  he  spoke  in 
earnest,  and  having  nodded  twice  or  thrice  in  unqualified 
assent  to  what  had  fallen  from  him,  said  : 

"  I  must  go  up-stairs  for  a  few  minutes,  to  finish  dress- 
ing. When  I  come  down,  I'll  bring  Madeline  with  me. 
Do  you  know  I  had  a  very  strange  dream  last  night, 
which  I  have  not  remembered  till  this  instant !  I  dreamt 
that  it  was  this  morning  and  you  and  I  had  been  talking, 
as  we  have  been  this  minute  ;  that  I  went  up  stairs  for 
the  very  purpose  for  which  I  am  going  now  ;  and  that  as 
I  stretched  out  my  hand  to  take  Madeline's,  and  lead 
her  down,  the  floor  sunk  with  me,  and  after  falling  from 
such  an  indescribable  and  tremendous  height  as  the 
imagination  scarcely  conceives,  except  in  dreams,  I  alight- 
ed ia  a  grave." 

"And  you  awoke,  and  found  you  were  lying  on  your 
back,  or  with  your  head  hanging  over  the  bedside,  or 
suffering  some  pain  from  indigestion?"  said  Ralph. 
"  Pshaw,  Mr.  Bray,  do  as  I  do  (you  will  have  the  oppor- 
tunity, now  that  a  constant  round  of  pleasure  and  enjoy- 
ment opens  upon  you),  and,  occupying  yourself  a  little 
more  by  day,  have  no  time  to  think  of  what  you  dreara 
by  night." 

Ralph  followed  him,  with  a  steady  look,  to  the  door  ; 
and,  turning  to  the  bridegroom,  when  they  were  again 
alone,  said  : 

"Mark  my  words,  Gride,  you  won't  have  to  pay 
annuity  very  long.    You  have  the  devil's  luck  in  bar- 
gains, always.    If  he  is  not  booked  to  make  the  long 
voyage  before  many  months  are  past  and  gone,  I  wear  an 
orange  for  a  head  ! " 

To  this  prophecy,  so  agreeable  to  his  ears,  Arthur  re- 
turned no  answer  than  a  cackle  of  great  delight.  Ralph, 
throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  they  both  sat  waiting  in 
profound  silence.  Ralph  was  thinking,  with  a  sneer 
upon  his  lips,  on  the  altered  manner  of  Bray  that  day, 
and  how  soon  their  fellowship  in  a  bad  design  had 
lowered  his  pride  and  established  a  familiarity  between 
them,  when  his  attentive  ear  caught  the  rustling  of  a 
female  dress  upon  the  stairs,  and  the  footstep  of  a  man. 

"Wake  up,"  he  said  stamping  his  foot  impatiently 
upon  the  ground,  ' '  and  be  something  like  life,  man,  will 
you  ?  They  are  here.  Urge  those  dry  old  bones  of  yours 
this  way — quick,  man,  quick  !" 

Gride  shambled  forward,  and  stood,  leering  and  bow- 
ing, close  by  Ralph's  side,  when  the  door  opened  and 
there  entered  in  haste — not  Bray  and  his  daughter,  but 
Nicholas  and  his  sister  Kate. 

If  some  tremendous  apparition  from  the  world  of 
shadows  hadsuddenly  presented  itself  before  him,  Ralph 
Nickleby  could  not  have  been  more  thunder-stricken 
than  he  was  by  this  surprise.  His  hands  fell  powerless 
by  his  side,  he  reeled  back  ;  and  with  open  mouth,  and 
a  face  of  ashy  paleness,  stood  gazing  at  them  in  speech- 
less rage  :  his  eyes  so  prominent,  and  his  face  so  con- 
vulsed and  changed  by  the  passions  which  raged  within 
him,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  recognise  in  him 
the  same  stern,  composed,  hard-featured  man  he  had 
been  not  a  minute  ago. 

"  The  man  that  came  to  me  last  night,"  whispered 
Gride,  plucking  at  his  elbow.  "  The  man  that  came  to 
me  last  night ! " 

"I  see,"  muttered  Ralph,  "I  know  !  I  might  have 
guessed  as  much  before.  Across  my  every  path,  at  every 
turn,  go  where  I  will,  do  what  I  may,  he  comes  !  " 

The  absence  of  all  colour  from  the  face  ;  the  dilated 
nostril  ;  the  quivering  of  the  lips  which,  though  set 
firmly  against  each  other,  v^ould  not  be  still  ;  showed 
what  emotions  were  struggling  for  the  mastery  with 
Nicholas.  But  he  kept  them  down,  and  gently  pressing 
Kate's  arm  to  re-assure  her,  stood  erect  and  undaunted, 
front  to  front  with  his  unworthy  relative. 

As  the  brother  and  sister  stood  side  by  side,  with  a 
gallant  bearing  which  became  them  well,  a  close  like- 
ness between  them  was  apparent,  which  many,  had  they 
only  seen  them  apart,  might  have  failed  to  remark.  The 
air,  carriage,  and  very  look  and  expression  of  the  brother 
were  all  reflected  in  the  sister,  but  softened  and  refined 
to  the  nicest  limit  of  feminine  delicacy  and  attraction. 
More  striking  still,  was  some  indefinable  resemblance,  in 
the  face  of  Ralph,  to  both.  While  they  had  never  looked 
more  handsome,  nor  lie  more  ugly  ;  while  they  had  never 


held  themselves  more  proudly,  nor  he  shrunk  half  so 
low  ;  there  never  had  been  a  time  when  this  resemblance 
was  so  perceptible,  or  when  all  the  worst  characteristics 
of  a  face  rendered  coarse  and  harsh  by  evil  thoughts 
were  half  so  manifest  as  now. 

"Away  !"  was  the  first  word  he  could  utter  as  he 
literally  gnashed  his  teeth.  "Away  !  What  brings  you 
here  ? — liar — scoundrel — dastard — thief  !  " 

"I  come  here,"  said  Nicholas  in  a  low  deep  voice, 
"  to  save  your  victim  if  I  can.  Liar  and  scoundrel  you 
are,  in  every  action  of  your  life ;  theft  is  your  trade  ; 
and  double  dastard  you  must  be,  or  you  were  not  here 
to-day.  Hard  words  will  not  move  me,  nor  would  hard 
blows.  Here  I  stand,  and  will,  till  I  have  done  my 
errand. " 

"  Girl  !"  said  Ralph,  "retire  !  We  can  use  force  to 
him,  but  I  would  not  hurt  you  if  I  could  help  it.  Retire, 
you  weak  and  silly  wench,  and  leave  this  dog  to  be  dealt 
with  as  he  deserves." 

"  I  will  not  retire,"  cried  Kate,  with  flashing  eyes  and 
the  red  blood  mantling  in  her  cheeks.  "You  will  do 
him  no  hurt  that  he  will  not  repay.  You  may  use  force 
with  me  ;  I  think  you  will,  for  I  am  a  girl,  and  that 
would  well  become  you.  But  if  I  have  a  girl's  weak- 
ness, I  have  a  woman's  heart,  and  it  is  not  you  who  in  a 
cause  like  this  can  turn  that  from  its  purpose." 

"And  what  may  your  purpose  be,  most  lofty  lady?" 
said  Ralph. 

"  To  offer  to  the  unhappy  subject  of  your  treachery, 
at  this  last  moment,"  replied  Nicholas,  "a  refuge  and* a 
home.  If  the  near  prospect  of  such  a  husband  as  you 
have  provided,  will  not  prevail  upon  her,  I  hope  she 
may  be  moved  by  the  prayers  and  entreaties  of  one  of 
her  own  sex.  At  all  events  they  shall  be  tried.  I  my- 
self, avowing  to  her  father  from  whom  I  come  and  by 
whom  I  am  commissioned,  will  render  it  an  act  of  greater 
baseness,  meanness,  and  cruelty  in  him  if  he  still  dares 
to  force  this  marriage  on.  Here  I  wait  to  see  him  and 
his  daughter.  For  this  I  came  and  brought  my  sister  even 
into  your  presence.  Our  purpose  is  not  to  see  or  speak 
with  you  ;  therefore  to  you  we  stoop  to  say  no  more." 

"Indeed!"  said  Ralph.  "You  persist  in  remaining 
here,  ma'am,  do  you?" 

His  niece's  bosom  heaved  with  the  indignant  excite- 
ment into  which  he  had  lashed  her,  but  she  gave  him 
no  reply. 

"  Now,  Gride,  see  here,"  said  Ralph.  "This  fellow — 
I  grieve  to  say  my  brother's  son  :  a  reprobate  and  profli- 
gate, stained,  with  every  mean  and  selfish  crime — this 
fellow,  coming  here  to-day  to  disturb  a  solemn  ceremony, 
and  knowing  that  the  consequence  of  his  presenting  him- 
self in  another  man's  house  at  such  a  time,  and  persist- 
ing in  remaining  there,  must  be  his  being  kicked  into  the 
streets  and  dragged  through  them  like  the  vagabond  he 
is — this  fellow,  mark  you,  brings  with  him  his  sister  as 
a  protection,  thinking  we  would  not  expose  a  silly  girl 
to  the  degradation  and  indignity  which  is  no  noveltj?^  to 
him ;  and  even  after  I  have  warned  her  of  what  must 
ensue,  he  still  keeps  her  by  him,  as  you  see,  and  clings 
to  her  apron-strings  like  a  cowardly  boy  to  his  mother's. 
Is  this  a  pretty  fellow  to  talk  as  big  as  you  have  heard 
him  now  ! " 

"And  as  I  heard  him  last  night,"  said  Arthur  Gride  ; 
"as  I  beard  him  last  night  when  he  sneaked  into  my 
house,  and — he  !  he  !  he  ! — very  soon  sneaked  out  again, 
when  I  nearly  frightened  him  to  death.  And  he  wanting 
to  marry  Miss  Madeline  too  !  Oh,  dear  !  Is  there  any- 
thing else  he'd  like — anything  else  we  can  do  for  him, 
besides  giving  her  up?  Would  he  like  his  debts  paid 
and  his  house  furnished,  and  a  few  bank-notes  for  shav- 
ing paper  if  he  shaves  at  all  !    He  !  he  !  he  ! " 

"You  will  remain,  girl,  will  you?"  said  Ralph,  turn- 
ing upon  Kate  again,  "to  be  hauled  down-stairs  like  a 
drunken  drab — as  I  swear  you  shall  if  you  stop  here  ? 
No  answer  !  Thank  your  brother  for  what  follows. 
Gride,  call  down  Bray — and  not  his  daughter.  Let  them 
keep  her,  above." 

"  If  you  value  your  head,"  said  Nicholas,  taking  up  a 
position  before  the  door,  and  speaking  in  the  same  low 
voice  in  which  he  had  spoken  before,  and  with  no  more 
outward  passion  then  he  had  before  displayed  ;  "  stay 
where  you  are  !  " 


NICHOLAS 

**  Mind  me,  and  not  him,  and  call  down  Bray,"  said 
Ralph. 

"  Mind  yourself  rather  than  either  of  us,  and  stay 
where  you  are  I "  said  Nicholas. 

"  Will  you  call  down  Bray  ?  "  cried  Ralph. 

"  Remember  that  you  come  near  me  at  your  peril,"  said 
Nicholas. 

Gride  hesitated.  Ralph,  being,  by  this  time,  as  furi- 
ous as  a  baffled  tiger  made  for  the  door,  and,  attempting 
to  pass  Kate,  clasped  her  arm  roughly  with  his  hand, 
Nicholas,  with  his  eyes  darting  fire,  seized  him  by  the 
collar.  At  that  moment,  a  heavy  body  fell  with  great 
violence  on  the  floor  above,  and,  in  an  instant  afterwards, 
was  heard  a  most  appalling  and  terrific  scream. 

They  all  stood  still,  and  gazed  upon  each  other. 
Scream  succeeded  scream  ;  a  heavy  pattering  of  feet 
succeeded  ;  and  many  shrill  voices  clamouring  together 
were  heard  to  cry,     He  is  dead  ! " 

"  Stand  off  ! "  cried  Nicholas,  letting  loose  all  the  pas- 
sion he  had  restrained  till  now,  "if  this  is  what  I  scarcely 
dare  to  hope  it  is,  you  are  caught,  villains,  in  your  own 
toils." 

He  burst  from  the  room,  and  darting  up-stairs  to  the 
quarter  from  whence  the  noise  proceeded,  forced  his  way 
through  a  crowd  of  persons  who  quite  filled  a  small  bed- 
chamber, and  fond  Bray  lying  on  the  floor  quite  dead  ; 
his  daughter  clinging  to  the  body. 

"How  did  this  happen?"  he  cried,  looking  wildly 
about  him. 

Several  voices  answered  together,  that  he  had  been  ob- 
served, through  the  half -opened  door,  reclining  in  a 
strange  and  uneasy  position  upon  a  chair  ;  that  he  had 
been  spoken  to  several  times,  and  not  answering,  was 
supposed  to  be  asleep,  until  some  person  going  in  and 
shaking  him  by  the  arm,  he  fell  heavily  to  the  ground, 
and  was  discovered  to  be  dead. 

"  Wlio  is  the  owner  of  this  house?"  said  Nicholas, 
hastily. 

An  elderly  woman  was  pointed  out  to  him  ;  and  to  her 
he  said,  as  he  knelt  down  and  gently  unwound  Made- 
line's arms  from  the  lifeless  mass  round  which  they  were 
entwined:  "I  represent  this  lady's  nearest  friends,  as 
her  servant  here  knows,  and  must  remove  her  from  this 
dreadful  scene.  This  is  my  sister  to  whose  charge  you 
confide  her.  My  name  and  address  are  upon  that  card, 
and  you  shall  receive  from  me  all  necessary  directions  for 
the  arrangements  that  must  be  made.  Stand  aside,  every 
one  of  you,  and  give  me  room  and  air  for  God's  sake  ! " 

The  people  fell  back  scarce  wondering  more  at  what 
had  just  occurred,  than  at  the  excitement  and  impetuosity 
of  him  who  spoke.  Nicholas,  taking  the  insensible  girl 
in  his  arms,  bore  her  from  the  chamber  and  down-stairs 
into  the  room  he  had  just  quitted,  followed  by  his  sister 
and  the  faithful  servant,  whom  he  had  charged  to  procure 
a  coach  directly  while  he  and  Kate  bent  over  their  beau- 
tiful charge  and  endeavoured,  but  in  vain,  to  restore  her 
to  animation.  The  girl  performed  her  office  with  such 
expedition,  that  in  a  very  few  minutes  the  coach  was 
ready. 

Ralph  Nickleby  and  Gride,  stunned  and  paralyzed  by 
the  awful  event  which  had  so  .suddenly  overthrown  their 
schemes  (it  would  not  otherwise,  perhaps,  have  made 
much  impression  on  them),  and  carried  away  by  the  extra- 
ordinary energy  and  precipitation  of  Nicholas,  which  bore 
down  all  before  him,  looked  on  at  these  proceedings  like 
men  in  a  dream  or  trance.  It  was  not  until  every  pre- 
paration was  made  for  Madeline's  immediate  removal 
that  Ralph  broke  silence  by  declaring  she  should  not  be 
taken  away. 

"  Who  says  so?"  cried  Nicholas,  rising  from  his  knee 
and  confronting  them,  but  still  retaining  Madeline's  life- 
less hand  in  his. 

"I  !  "  answered  Ralph,  hoarsely. 

"  Hush,  hush  ! "  cried  the  terrified  Gride,  catching  him 
by  the  arm  again.    "Hear  what  he  says." 

"  Aye  ! "  said  Nicholas,  extending  his  disengaged  hand 
in  the  air,  "hear  what  he  says.  That  both  your  debts 
are  paid  in  the  one  great  debt  of  nature — that  the  bond 
dne  to-day  at  twelve,  is  now  waste  paper — that  your  con- 
templated fraud  shall  be  discovered  yet — that  your 
schemes  are  known  to  man,  and  overthrown  by  Heaven 
— wretches,  that  he  defies  you  both  to  do  your  worst !" 


NICKLEBY.  201 

"  This  man,"  said  Ralph,  in  a  voice  .scarcely  intelligi- 
ble, "  this  man  claims  his  wife,  and  he  shall  have  her." 

"  That  man  claims  what  is  not  his,  and  he  should  not 
have  her  if  he  wore  fifty  men,  with  fifty  more  to  back 
him,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  Who  shall  prevent  him  ?  " 
"  I  will." 

"By  what  right  I  should  like  to  know,"  said  Ralph. 
"By  what  right  I  ask?" 

"  By  this  right — that,  knowing  what  I  do,  you  dare 
not  tempt  me  further,"  said  Nicholas,  "  and  by  this  bet- 
ter right — that  those  I  serve,  and  v/ith  whom  you  would 
have  done  me  base  wrong  and  injury,  are  her  nearest 
and  her  dearest  friends.  In  their  name  I  bear  her  hence. 
Give  way  !  " 

"One  word  !"  cried  Ralph,  foaming  at  the  mouth. 
"  Not  one,"  replied  Nicholas,  "I  will  not  hear  of  one 
— save  this.    Look  to  yourself,  and  heed  this  warning 
that  I  give  you  !    Your  day  is  past,  and  night  is  coming 
on — " 

"  My  curse,  my  bitter,  deadly,  curse,  upon  you,  boy  !" 
"  Whence  will  curses  come  at  your  command  ?  or  what 
avails  a  curse  or  blessing  from  a  man  like  you  !  I  tell 
you,  that  misfortune  and  discovery  are  thickening  about 
your  head  ;  that  the  structures  you  have  raised,  through 
all  your  ill-spent  life,  are  crumbling  into  dust ;  that  your 
path  is  beset  with  spies  ;  that  this  very  day,  ten  thousand 
pounds  of  your  hoarded  wealth  have  gone  in  one  great 
crash  1" 

"  'Tis  false  !  "  cried  Ralph,  shrinking  back. 
"  'Tis  true,  and  you  shall  find  it  so.  I  have  no  more 
words  to  waste.  Stand  from  the  door.  Kate,  do  you  go 
first.  Lay  not  a  hand  on  her,  or  on  that  woman,  or  on 
me,  or  so  much  as  brush  their  garments  as  they  pass 
you  by  ! — You  let  them  pass  and  he  blocks  the  door 
again  !" 

Arthur  Gride  happened  to  be  in  the  doorway,  but 
whether  intentionally  or  from  confusion  was  not  quite 
apparent.  Nicholas  swung  him  away,  with  such  vio- 
lence as  to  cause  him  to  spin  round  the  room  until  he 
was  caught  by  a  sharp  angle  of  the  wall  and  there 
knocked  down  ;  and  then  taking  his  beautiful  burden  in 
his  arms  rushed  out.  No  one  cared  to  stop  him,  if  any 
were  so  disposed.  Making  his  way  through  a  mob  of 
people,  whom  a  report  of  the  circumstances  had  attracted 
round  the  house,  and  carrying  Madeline,  in  his  ex- 
citement, as  easily  as  if  she  were  an  infant,  he  reached 
the  coach  in  which  Kate  and  the  girl  were  already  wait- 
ing, and,  confiding  his  charge  to  them,  jumped  up  beside 
the  coachman  and  bade  him  drive  away. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

Of  Family  Matters,  Cares,  Hopes,  Disappointnmits,  and  Sorroics. 

Although  Mrs.  Nickleby  had  been  made  acquainted 
by  her  son  and  daughter  with  every  circumstance  of 
Madeline  Bray's  history  which  was  known  to  them  ; 
although  the  responsible  situation  in  which  Nicholas 
stood  had  been  carefully  explained  to  her,  and  she  had 
been  prepared,  even  for  the  possible  contingency  of  hav- 
ing to  receive  the  young  lady  in  her  own  house — impro- 
bable as  such  a  result  had  apx^eared  only  a  few  minutes 
before  it  came  about — still,  Mrs.  Nickleby,  from  the  mo- 
ment when  this  confidence  was  first  reposed  in  her.  late 
on  the  previous  evening,  had  remained  in  an  unsatisfac- 
tory and  profoundly  mystified  state,  from  which  no  ex- 
planations or  arguments  could  relieve  her,  and  which 
every  fresh  soliloquy  and  reflection  only  aggravated  more 
and  more. 

"  Bless  my  heart,  Kate;"  so  the  good  lady  argued; 
"  if  the  Mr.  Cheerybles  don't  want  this  young  lady  to  be 
married,  why  don't' they  file  a  bill  against  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, make  her  a  chancerv  ward,  and  shut  her  up  in  the 
Fleet  prison  for  safety  ?— I  have  read  of  such  things  in 
the  newspapers  a  hundred  times — or,  if  they  are  so  very 
fond  of  her  as  Nicholas  says  they  are,  why  don't  they 
marry  her  themselves — one  of  them  I  mean  ?  And  even 
supposing  they  don't  want  her  to  be  married,  and  don't 
want  to  marry  her  themselves,  why  in  the  name  of  won- 


202 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


der  sliould  Nicholas  go  about  the  world,  forbidding  peo- 
ple's banns  ?  " 

'*I  don't  think  you  quite  understand,"  said  Kate, 
gently. 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,  Kate,  my  dear,  you're  very  polite  !  " 
replied  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "  I  have  been  married  myself  I 
hope,  and  I  have  seen  other  people  married.  Not  under- 
stand, indeed  ! " 

"  I  know  you  have  had  great  experience,  dear  mamma," 
said  Kate  ;  "  I  mean  that  perhaps  you  don't  quite  under- 
stand all  the  circumstances  in  this  instance.  We  have 
stated  them  awkwardly,  I  dare  say." 

"That  I  dare  say  you  have,"  retorted  her  mother 
briskly.  "  That's  very  likely.  I  am  not  to  be  held  ac- 
countable for  that  ;  though,  at  the  same  time,  as  the  cir- 
cumstances speak  for  themselves,  I  shall  take  the  liberty, 
my  love,  of  saying  that  I  do  understand  them,  and  per- 
fectly well  too  :  whatever  you  and  Nicholas  may  choose 
to  think  to  the  contrary.  Why  is  such  a  great  fuss 
made  because  this  Miss  Magdalen  is  going  to  marry  some- 
body who  is  older  than  herself  ?  Your  poor  papa  was 
older  than  I  was — four  years  and  a  half  older.  Jane 
Dibabs — the  Dibabses  lived  in  the  beautiful  little 
thatched  white  house  one  story  high,  covered  all  over 
with  ivy  and  creeping  plants,  with  an  exquisite  little 
porch  with  twining  honeysuckles  and  all  sorts  of  things  : 
where  the  ear-wigs  used  to  fall  into  one's  tea  on  a  sum- 
mer evening,  and  always  fell  upon  their  backs  and  kicked 
dreadfully,  and  where  the  frogs  used  to  get  into  the 
rushlight  shades  when  one  stopped  all  night,  and  sit  up 
and  look  through  the  little  holes  like  Christians — Jane 
Dibabs,  she  married  a  man  who  was  a  great  deal  older 
than  herself,  and  would  marry  him,  notwithstanding  all 
that  could  be  said  to  the  contrary,  and  she  was  so  fond 
of  him  that  nothing  was  ever  equal  to  it.  There  was  no 
fuss  made  about  Jane  Dibabs,  and  her  husband  was  a 
most  honourable  and  excellent  man,  and  everybody 
spoke  well  of  him.  Then  why  should  there  be  any  fuss 
about  this  Magdalen  ?" 

Her  husband  is  much  older  :  he  is  not  her  own 
choice  ;  his  character  is  the  very  reverse  of  that  which 
you  have  just  described.  Don't  you  see  a  broad  distinc- 
tion between  the  two  cases?"  said  Kate. 

To  this,  Mrs.  Nickleby  only  replied  that  she  durst  say 
she  was  very  stupid,  indeed  she  had  no  doubt  she  was,  for 
her  own  children  almost  as  much  as  told  her  so,  every  day 
of  her  life  ;  to  be  sure  she  was  a  little  older  than  they, 
and  perha'ps  some  foolish  people  might  think  she  ought 
reasonably  to  know  best.  However,  no  doubt  she  was 
wrong  ;  of  course  she  was — she  always  was — she  couldn't 
be  right,  indeed — couldn't  be  expected  to  be — so  she  had 
better  not  expose  herself  any  more  ;  and  to  all  Kate's 
conciliations  and  concessions  for  an  hour  ensuing,  the 
good  lady  gave  no  other  replies  than — Oh,  certainly — 
why  did  they  ask  her — her  opinion  was  of  no  consequence 
— it  didn't  matter  what  she  said — with  many  other  re- 
joinders of  the  same  class. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  (expressed,  when  she  had  become 
too  resigned  for  speech,  by  nods  of  the  head,  upliftings 
of  the  eyes,  and  little  beginnings  of  groans,  converted, 
as  they  attracted  attention,  into  short  coughs),  Mrs. 
Nickleby  remained  until  Nicholas  and  Kate  returned 
with  the  object  of  their  solicitude  ;  when,  having  by 
this  time  asserted  her  own  importance,  and  becoming 
besides  interested  in  the  trials  of  one  so  young  and  beau 
tiful,  she  not  only  displayed  the  utmost  zeal  and  solici- 
tude, but  took  great  credit  to  herself  for  recommending 
the  course  of  procedure  which  her  son  had  adopted  :  fre- 
quently declaring,  with  an  expressive  look,  that  it  was 
very  fortunate  things  were  as  they  were  :  and  hinting, 
that  but  for  great  encouragement  and  wisdom  on  her 
own  part,  they  never  could  have  been  brought  to  that 
pass. 

Not  to  strain  the  question  whether  Mrs.  Nickleby  had 
or  had  not  any  great  hand  in  bringing  matters  about,  it 
is  unquestionable  that  she  had  strong  ground  for  exulta- 
tion. The  brothers,  on  their  return,  bestowed  such 
commendations  on  Nicholas  for  the  part  he  had  taken, 
and  evinced  so  much  joy  at  the  altered  state  of  events 
and  the  recovery  of  their  young  friend,  from  trials  so 
great  and  dangers  so  threatening,  that,  as  she  more  than 
once  informed  her  daughter,  she  now  considered  the  for- 


tunes of  the  family  "  as  good  as"  made.  Mr.  Charles 
Cheeryble,  indeed,  Mrs.  Nickleby  positively  asserted, 
had,  in  the  first  transports  of  his  surprise  and  delight, 
"as  good  as"  said  so.  Without  precisely  explaining 
what  this  qualification  meant,  she  subsided,  whenever 
she  mentioned  the  subject,  into  such  a  mysterious  and 
important  state,  and  had  such  visions  of  wealth  and 
dignity  in  prospective,  that  (vague  and  clouded  though 
they  were)  she  was,  at  such  times,  almost  as  happy  as  if 
she  had  really  been  permanently  provided  for,  on  a  scale 
of  great  splendour. 

The  sudden  and  terrible  shock  she  had  received,  com- 
bined with  the  great  affliction  and  anxiety  of  mind 
which  she  had,  for  a  long  time,  endured,  proved  too 
much  for  Madeline's  strength.  Recovering  from  the 
state  of  stupefaction  into  which  the  sudden  death  of  her 
father  happily  plunged  her,  she  only  exchanged  that 
condition  for  one  of  dangerous  and  active  illness.  When 
the  delicate  physical  powers  which  have  been  sustained 
by  an  unnatural  strain  upon  the  mental  energies  and  a 
resolute  determination  not  to  yield,  at  last  give  way, 
their  degree  of  prostration  is  usually  proportionate  to 
the  strength  of  the  effort  which  has  previously  upheld 
them.  Thus  it  was  that  the  illness  which  fell  on  Made- 
line was  of  no  slight  or  temporary  nature,  but  one 
which,  for  a  time,  threatened  her  reason,  and — scarcely 
worse — her  life  itself. 

Who,  slowly  recovering  from  a  disorder  so  severe  and 
dangerous,  could  be  insensible  to  the  unremitting  atten- 
tions of  such  a  nurse  as  gentle,  tender,  earnest  Kate? 
On  whom  could  the  sweet  soft  voice,  the  light  step,  the 
delicate  hand,  the  quiet,  cheerful,  noiseless  discharge  of 
those  thousand  little  offices  of  kindness  and  relief  which 
Ave  feel  so  deeply  when  we  are  ill,  and  forget  so  lightly 
when  we  are  well — on  whom  could  they  make  so  deep 
an  impression  as  on  a  young  heart  stored  with  every 
pure  and  true  affection,  that  women  cherish  ;  almost  a 
stranger  to  the  endearments  and  devotion  of  its  own  sex, 
save  as  it  learnt  them  from  itself  ;  and  rendered,  by  ca- 
lamity and  suffering,  keenly  susceptible  of  the  sympathy 
so  long  unknown  and  so  long  sought  in  vain  !  What 
wonder  that  days  became  as  years  in  knitting  them  to- 
gether !  What  wonder,  if  with  every  hour  of  returning 
health,  there  came  some  stronger  and  sweeter  recogni- 
tion of  the  praises  which  Kate,  when  they  recalled  old 
scenes — they  seemed  old  now,  and  to  have  been  acted 
years  ago — would  lavish  on  her  brother  !  Where  would 
have  been  the  wonder,  even,  if  those  praises  had  found 
a  quick  response  in  the  breast  of  Madeline,  and  if,  with 
the  image  of  Nicholas  so  constantly  recurring  in  the 
features  of  his  sister,  that  she  could  scarcely  separate 
the  two,  she  had  sometimes  found  it  equally  difficult  to 
assign  to  each  the  feelings  they  had  first  inspired,  and 
had  imperceptibly  mingled  with  her  gratitude  to  Nicho- 
las, some  of  that  warmer  feeling  which  she  had  assigned 
to  Kate ! 

"My  dear,"  Mrs,  Nickleby  would  say,  coming  into  the 
room  with  an  elaborate  caution,  calculated  to  discom- 
j  pose  the  nerves  of  an  invalid  rather  more  than  the  entry 
of  a  horse-soldier  at  full  gallop;  "how  do  you  find 
j  yourself  to-night?   I  hope  you  are  better." 
I     "Almost  well,  mamma,"  Kate  would  reply,  laying 
I  down  her  work,  and  taking  Madeline's  hand  in  hers. 
I     "Kate!"   Mrs.    Nickleby  would  say,  reprovingly, 
;  "don't  talk  so  loud"  (the  worthy  lady  herself  talking 
I  in  a  whisper  that  would  have  made  the  blood  of  the 
stoutest  man,  run  cold  in  his  veins). 

Kate  would  take  this  reproof  very  quietly,  and  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  making  every  board  creak,  and  every  thread 
rustle  as  she  moved  stealthily  about,  would  add  : 

"  My  son  Nicholas  has  just  come  home,  and  I  have 
come,  according  to  custom,  my  dear,  to  know,  from  your 
own  lips,  exactly  how  you  are  ;  for  he  won't  take  my 
account,  and  never  will," 

"  He  is  later  than  usual  to-night,"  perhaps  Madeline 
would  reply,    "Nearly  half  an  hour." 

"  Well,  I  never  saw  such  people  in  all  my  life  as  you 
are,  for  time,  up  here  I"  Mrs.  Nickleby  would  exclaim 
in  great  astonishment ;  "  I  declare  I  never  did  !  I  had 
not  the  least  idea  that  Nicholas  was  after  his  time — not 
the  smallest.  Mr.  Nickleby  used  to  say — your  poor  papa, 
I  am  speaking  of,  Kate  my  dear — used  to  say,  that  ap- 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


203 


petite  was  the  best  clock  in  the  world,  but  you  have  no 
appetite,  my  dear  Miss  Bray,  I  wish  you  had,  and  upon 
my  word  I  really  think  you  ought  to  take  something  that 
would  give  you  one — 1  am  sure  I  don't  know,  but  I  have 
heard  that  two  or  three  dozen  native  lobsters  give  an 
appetite,  though  that  comes  to  the  same  thing  after  all, 
for  I  suppose  you  must  have  tyi  appetite  before  you  can 
take  'em.  If  I  said  lobsters,  I  meant  oysters,  but  of 
course  it's  all  the  same,  though  really  how  you  came  to 
know  about  Nicholas — " 

"  We  happened  to  be  just  talking  about  him,  mamma  ; 
that  was  it." 

"You  never  seem  to  me,  to  be  talking  about  any- 
thing else,  Kate,  and  upon  my  word  I  am  quite  surprised 
at  your  being  so  very  thoughtless.  You  can  find  sub- 
jects enough  to  talk  about,  sometimes,  and  when  you 
know  how  important  it  is  to  keep  up  Miss  Bray's  spirits, 
and  interest  her,  and  all  that,  it  really  is  quite  extraor- 
dinary to  me  what  can  induce  you  to  keep  on  prose, 
prose,  prose,  din,  din,  din,  everlastingly,  upon  the  same 
theme.  You  are  a  very  kind  nurse,  Kate,  and  a  very 
good  one,  and  I  know  you  mean  very  well  ;  but  I  will 
say  this — that  if  it  wasn't  for  me,  I  really  don't  know 
what  would  become  of  Miss  Bray's  spirits,  and  so  I  tell 
the  doctor  every  day.  He  says  he  wonders  how  I  sus- 
tain my  own,  and  I  am  sure  I  very  often  wonder  myself 
how  I  can  contrive  to  keep  up  as  I  do.  Of  course  it's  an 
exertion,  but  still,  when  I  know  how  much  depends 
upon  me  in  this  house,  I  am  obliged  to  make  it.  There 
is  nothing  praise-worthy  in  that,  but  it's  necessary,  and 
I  do  it." 

With  that,  Mrs.  Nickleby  would  draw  up  a  chair,  and 
for  some  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  run  through  a  great 
variety  of  distracting  topics  in  the  most  distracting  man- 
ner possible  :  tearing  herself  away,  at  length,  on  the  plea 
that  she  must  now  go  and  amuse  Nicholas  while  he  took 
his  supper.  After  a  preliminary  raising  of  his  spirits 
with  the  information  that  she  considered  the  patient  de- 
cidedly worse,  she  would  further  cheer  him  up,  by  re- 
lating how  dull,  listless,  and  low-spirited  Miss  Bray 
was,  because  Kate  foolishly  talked  about  nothing  else 
but  him  and  family  matters.  When  she  had  made 
Nicholas  thoroughly  comfortable  with  these  and  other 
inspiriting  remarks,  she  would  discourse  at  length,  on 
the  arduous  duties  she  had  performed  that  day  ;  and, 
sometimes,  be  moved  to  tears,  in  wondering  how,  if  any- 
thing were  to  happen  to  herself,  the  family  would  ever 
get  on  without  her. 

At  other  times,  Avhen  Nicholas  came  home  at  night, 
he  would  be  accompanied  by  Mr.  Frank  Cheeryble,  who 
was  commissioned  b}^  the  brothers  to  inquire  how  Made- 
line was,  that  evening.  On  such  occasions  (and  they 
were  of  very  frequent  occurrence),  Mrs.  Nickleby  deemed 
it  of  particular  importance  that  she  should  have  her 
wits  about  her  ;  for,  from  certain  signs  and  tokens 
which  had  attracted  her  attention,  she  shrewdly  sus- 
pected that  Mr.  Frank,  interested  as  his  uncles  were  in 
Madeline,  came  quite  as  much  to  see  Kate  as  to  inquire 
after  her  ;  the  more  especially  as  the  brothers  were  in 
constant  communication  with  the  medical  man,  came 
backwards  and  forwards  very  frequently  themselves, 
and  received  a  full  report  fr<fm  Nicholas  every  morning. 
These  were  proud  times  for  Mrs.  Nickleby  ;  never  was 
anybody  half  so  discreet  and  sage  as  she,  or  |ialf  so  mys- 
terious withal  ;  and  never  were  there  such  cunning 
generalship,  and  such  unfathomable  designs,  as  she 
brought  to  bear  upon  Mr.  Frank,  with  the  view  of  as- 
certaining whether  her  suspicions  were  well  founded  : 
and  if  so,  of  tantalising  him  into  taking  her  into  his  con- 
fidence and  throwing  himself  upon  her  merciful  consid- 
eration. Extensive  was  the  artillery,  heavy  and  light, 
which  Mrs.  Nickleby  brought  into  play  for  the  further- 
ance of  these  great  schemes  :  various  and  opposite  the 
means  which  she  employed  to  bring  about  the  end  she 
had  in  view.  At  one  time,  she  was  all  cordiality  and 
ease  ;  at  another,  all  stiffness  and  frigidity.  Now,  she 
would  seem  to  open  her  whole  heart  to  her  unhappy  vic- 
tim ;  the  next  time  they  met,  she  would  receive  him 
with  the  most  distant  and  studious  reserve,  as  if  a  new 
light  had  broken  in  upon  her,  and,  guessing  his  inten- 
tion.s,  she  had  resolved  to  check  tliem  in  the  bud  :  as  if 
she  felt  it  her  bounden  duty  to  act  with  Spartan  firm- 


ness, and  at  once  and  for  ever  to  discourage  hopes  which 
never  could  be  realised.  At  other  times,  when  Nicholas 
was  not  there  to  overhear,  and  Kate  was  up-stairs  busily 
tending  her  sick  friend,  the  worthy  lady  would  throw 
out  dark  hints  o  f  an  intention  to  send  her  daughter  to 
France  for  three  or  four  years,  or  to  Scotland  for  the 
improvement  of  her  health  impaired  by  her  late  fatigues, 
or  to  America  on  a  visit,  or  anywhere  that  threatened  a 
long  and  tedious  separation.  Nay,  she  even  went  so  far 
as  to  hint,  obscurely,  at  an  attachment  entertained  for 
her  daughter  by  the  son  of  an  old  neighbour  of  theirs, 
one  Horatio  Peltirogus  (a  young  gentleman  wlio  might 
have  been,  at  that  time,  four  years  old,  or  thereabouts), 
and  to  represent  it,  indeed,  as  almost  a  settled  thing  be- 
tween the  families — only  waiting  for  her  daughter's 
final  decision,  to  come  off  with  the  sanction  of  the  church, 
and  to  the  unspeakable  happiness  and  content  of  all  par- 
ties. 

It  was  in  the  full  pride  and  glory  of  having  sprung  this 
last  mine  one  night,  with  extraordinary  success,  that 
Mrs.  Nickleby  took  the  opportunity  of  being  left  alone 
with  her  son  before  retiring  to  rest,  to  sound  him  on  the 
subject  which  so  occupied  her  thoughts  :  not  doubting 
that  they  could  have  but  one  opinion  respecting  it.  To 
this  end,  she  approached  the  question  with  divers  lauda- 
tory and  appropriate  remarks  touching  the  general  ami- 
ability of  Mr.  Frank  Cheeryble. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  mother,"  said  Nicholas,  "  quite 
right.    He  is  a  fine  fellow." 

*'  Good-looking,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"Decidedly  good-looking,"  answered  Nicholas. 

"  What  may  you  call  his  nose,  now,  my  dear?  "  pur- 
sued Mrs.  Nickleby,  wishing  to  interest  Nicholas  in  the 
subject  to  the  utmost. 

"  Call  it?"  repeated  Nicholas. 

"  Ah  !"  returned  his  mother,  "what  style  of  nose — 
what  order  of  architecture,  if  one  may  say  so.  I  am  not 
verv  learned  in  noses.  Do  you  call  it  a  Roman  or  a 
Grecian  ?  " 

Upon  my  word,  mother,"  said  Nicholas,  laughing, 
"  as  well  as  I  remember,  I  should  call  it  a  kind  of  Com- 
posite, or  mixed  nose.  But  I  have  no  very  strong  recol- 
lection on  the  subject.  If  it  will  aJfford  you  any  gratifi- 
cation, I'll  observe  it  more  closely,  and  let  you  know." 

'  I  wish  you  would,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
with  an  earnest  look. 

"  Very  well,"  returned  Nicholas.    "  I  will." 

Nicholas  returned  to  the  perusal  of  the  book  he  had 
been  reading,  when  the  dialogue  had  gone  thus  far. 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  after  stopping  a  little  for  consideration, 
resumed. 

"He  is  very  much  attached  to  you,  Nicholas,  my  dear." 

Nicholas  laughingly  said,  as  he  closed  the  book,  that 
he  was  glad  to  hear  it,  and  observed  that  his  mother 
seemed  deep  in  their  new  friend's  confidence  already. 

"Hem!"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby.  "I  don't  know  about 
that  my  dear,  but  I  think  it  is  very  necessary  that 
somebody  should  be  in  his  confidence — highly  neces- 
sary." 

Elated  by  a  look  of  curiosity  from  her  son,  and  the 
consciousness  of  possessing  a  great  secret,  all  to  herself, 
Mrs.  Nickleby  went  on  with  great  animation  : 

"I  am  sure,  my  dear  Nicholas,  how  you  can  have 
failed  to  notice  it,  is,  to  me,  quite  extraordinary  ;  though 
I  don't  know  why  I  should  say  that,  either,  because  of 
course,  as  far  as  it  goes,  and  to  a  certain  extent,  there  is 
a  great  deal  in  this  sort  of  thing,  especially  in  this  early 
stage,  which,  however  clear  it  may  be  to  females,  can 
scarcely  be  expected  to  be  so  evident  to  men.  I  don't 
say  that  I  have  any  particular  penetration  in  such  mat- 
ters. I  may  have  ;  those  about  me  should  Know  best 
about  that,  and  perhaps  do  know.  Upon  that  point,  I 
shall  express  no  opinion — it  wouldn't  become  me  to  do 
so — it's  quite  out  of  the  question — quite." 

Nicholas  snuffed  the  candles,  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  assumed  a  look 
of  patient  suffering  and  melancholy  resignatiou. 

"  I  think  it  my  duty,  Nicholas,  my  dear,"  resumed 
his  mother,  "  to  tell  you  wha^  I  know  :  not  only  because 
you  have  a  right  to  know  it  too,  and  to  know  everything 
that  happens  in  this  family,  but  because  you  have  it  in 
your  power  to  promote  and  assist  the  thing  very  much  ; 


204 


CHARLES  DIOKENS'  WORKS. 


and  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  sooner  one  can  come  to  a 
clear  understanding  on  such  subjects,  it  is  always  better 
every  way.  There  are  a  great  many  things  you  might 
do  ;  such  as  taking  a  walk  in  the  garden  sometimes,  or 
sitting  up-stairs  in  your  own  room  for  a  little  while,  or 
making  believe  to  fall  asleep  occasionally,  or  pretending 
that  you  recollected  some  business,  and  going  out  for  an 
hour  or  so,  and  taking  Mr.  Smike  with  you.  These 
seem  very  slight  things,  and  I  dare  say  you  will  be 
amused  at  my  making  them  of  so  much  importance  ;  at 
the  same  time  my  dear,  I  can  assure  you  (and  you'll  find 
this  out,  Nicholas,  for  yourself  one  of  these  days,  if  you 
ever  fall  in  love  with  anybody  :  as  I  trust  and  hope  you 
will,  provided  she  is  respectable  and  well  conducted,  and 
of  course  you'd  never  dream  of  falling  in  love  with  any- 
body who  Avas  not),  I  say  I  can  assure  you  that  a  great 
deal  more  depends  upon  these  little  things,  than  you 
would  suppose  possible.  If  your  poor  papa  was  alive,  he 
would  tell  you  how  much  depended  on  the  parties  being 
left  alone.  ^  Of  course,  3^ou  are  not  to  go  out  of  the  room 
as  if  you  meant  it  and  did  it  on  purpose,  but  as  if  it  was 
quite  an  accident,  and  to  come  back  again  in  the  same 
way.  If  you  cough  in  the  passage  before  you  open  the 
door,  or  whistle  carelessly,  or  hum  a  tune,  or  something 
of  that  sort,  to  let  them  know  you're  coming,  it's  always 
better  :  because,  of  course,  though  it's  not  only  natural 
but  perfectly  correct  and  proper  under  the  circumstances, 
still  it  is  very  confusing  if  you  interrupt  young  people 
when  they  are — when  they  are  sitting  on  the  sofa,  and — 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing  :  which  is  very  nonsenical  per- 
haps, but  still  they  will  do  it." 

The  profound  astonishment  with  which  her  son  regarded 
her  daring  this  long  address,  gradually  increasing  as  it 
approached  its  climax,  in  no  way  discomposed  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby,  but  rather  exalted  her  opinions  of  her  cleverness  ; 
therefore,  merely  stopping  to  remark,  with  much  com- 
placency, that  she  had  fully  expected  him  to  be  sur- 
prised, she  entered  on  a  vast  quantity  of  circumstantial 
evidence  of  a  particularly  incoherent  and  perplexing 
kind  ;  the  upshot  of  which,  was,  to  establish,  beyond  the 
possibility  of  doubt,  that  Mr.  Frank  Cheery ble  had  fallen 
desperately  in  love  with  Kate. 

"  With  whom  ?"  cried  Nicholas. 

Mrs.  Nickleby  repeated,  with  Kate. 

"  What  !  our  Kate — my  sister  ! " 

"Lord,  Nicholas  !"  returned  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "whose 
Kate  should  it  be,  if  not  ours  ;  or  what  should  I  care 
about  it,  or  take  any  interest  in  it  for,  if  it  was  anybody 
but  your  sister?" 

"  Dear  mother,"  said  Nicholas,  "  surely  it  can't  be  ! " 

"Very  good,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby,  with 
great  confidence.    "  Wait  and  see." 

Nicholas  had  never,  until  that  moment,  bestowed  a 
thought  upon  the  remote  jDossibility  of  such  an  occur- 
rence as  that  which, was  now  communicated  to  him  ;  for, 
besides  that  he  had  been  much  from  home  of  late  and 
closely  occupied  with  other  matters,  his  own  jealous 
fears  had  prompted  the  suspicion  that  some  secret  inter- 
est in  Madeline,  akin  to  that  which  he  felt  himself,  oc- 
casioned those  visits  of  Frank  Cheeryble  which  had  re- 
cently become  so  frequent.  Even  now,  although  he 
knew  that  the  observation  of  an  anxious  mother  was 
much  more  likely  to  be  correct  in  such  a  case  than  his 
own,  and  although  she  reminded  him  of  many  little  cir- 
cumstances which,  taken  together,  were  certainly  sus- 
ceptible of  the  construction  she  triumphantly  put  upon 
them,  he  was  not  quite  convinced  but  that  thev  arose 
from  mere  good-natured  thoughtless  gallantry, '  which 
would  have  dictated  the  same  conduct  towards  any  other 
girl  who  was  young  and  pleasing — at  all  events,  he  hoped 
so,  and  therefore  tried  to  believe  it. 

"  I  am  very  much  disturbed  by  what  you  tell  me," 
said  Nicholas,  after  a  little  reflection,  "though  I  yet 
hope  you  may  be  mistaken." 

"I  don't  understand  why  you  should  hope  so,"  said 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  I  confess  ;  but  you  may  depend  upon  it 
I  am  not." 

"  What  of  Kate?"  inquired  Nicholas. 

"  Why  that,  my  dear,"  returned  Mrs.  Nickleby,  "  is 
just  the  point  upon  which  I  am  not  yet  satisfied.  During 
this  sickness,  she  has  been  constantly  at  Madeline's  bed- 
side— never  were  two  people  so  fond  of  each  other  as  they 


have  grown — and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Nicholas,  I  have 
rather  kept  her  away  now  and  then,  because  I  think  it's 
a  good  plan,  and  urges  a  young  man  on.  He  doesn't  get 
too  sure,  you  know." 

She  said  this  with  such  a  mingling  of  high  delight  and 
self-congratulation,  that  it  was  inexpressibly  painful  to 
Nicholas  to  dash  her  hopes  ;  but  he  felt  that  there  was 
only  one  honourable  course  before  him,  and  that  he  was 
bound  to  take  it. 

"  Dear  mother,"  he  said  kindly,  "  don't  you  see  that  if 
there  were  really  any  serious  inclination  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Frank  towards  Kate,  and  we  suffered  ourselves  for 
a  moment  to  encourage  it,  we  should  be  acting  a  most 
dishonourable  and  ungrateful  part?  I  ask  you  if  you 
don't  see  it,  but  I  need  not  say,  that  I  know  you  don't, 
or  you  would  have  been  more  strictly  on  your  guard. 
Let  me  explain  my  meaning  to  you — remember  how  poor 
we  are." 

Mrs.  Nickleby  shook  her  head  and  said,  through  her 
tears,  that  poverty  was  not  a  crime. 

"  No,"  said  Nicholas,  "  and  for  that  reason  poverty 
should  engender  an  honest  pride,  that  it  may  not  lead 
and  tempt  us  to  unworthy  actions,  and  that  we  may  pre- 
serve the  self-respect  which  a  hewer  of  wood  and  drawer 
of  water  may  maintain — and  does  better  in  maintaining 
than  a  monarch  his.  Think  what  we  owe  to  these  two 
brothers  :  remember  what  they  have  done,  and  what 
they  do  every  day  for  us  with  a  generosity  and  delicacy 
for  which  the  devotion  of  our  whole  lives  would  be  a 
most  imperfect  and  inadequate  return.  What  kind  of 
return  would  that  be  which  would  be  comprised  in  our 
permitting  their  nephew,  their  only  relative,  whom  they 
regard  as  a  son,  and  for  whom  it  would  be  mere  childish- 
ness  to  suppose  they  have  not  formed  plans  suitably 
adapted  to  the  education  he  has  had,  and  the  fortune  he 
will  inherit — in  our  permitting  him  to  marry  a  portion- 
less girl  :  so  closely  connected  with  us,  that  the  irresis- 
tible inference  must  be,  that  he  was  entrapped  by  a 
plot  ;  that  it  was  a  deliberate  scheme  and  a  speculation 
amongst  us  three.  Bring  the  matter  clearly  before  your- 
self, mother.  Now,  how  would  you  feel  if  they  were 
married,  and  the  brothers,  coming  here  on  one  of  those 
kind  errands  which  bring  them  here  so  often,  you  had  to 
break  out  to  them  the  truth  ?  Would  you  be  at  ease, 
and  feel  that  you  had  played  an  open  part?  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Nickleby,  crying  more  and  more,  murmured 
that  of  course,  Mr.  Frank  would  ask  the  consent  of  his 
uncles  first. 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,  that  would  place  Mm  in  a  better 
situation  with  them,"  said  Nicholas,  "but  we  should 
still  be  open  to  the  same  suspicions  ;  the  distance  be- 
tween us  would  still  be  as  great  ;  the  advantages  to  be 
gained  would  still  be  as  manifest  as  now.  We  may  be 
reckoning  without  our  host,  in  all  this,"  he  added  more 
cheerfully,  "  and  I  trust,  and  almost  believe  we  are.  If 
it  be  otherwise  I  have  that  confidence  in  Kate  that  I 
know  she  will  feel  as  I  do — and  in  you,  dear  mother,  to 
be  assured  that  after  a  little  consideration  you  will  do 
the  same." 

After  many  more  representations  and  entreaties, 
Nicholas  obtained  a  promise  from  Mrs.  Nickleby  that 
she  would  try  all  she  could,  to  think  as  he  did ;  and 
that  if  Mr.  Frank  persevered  in  his  attentions  she 
would  endefivour  to  discourage  them,  or,  at  the  least, 
would  render  him  no  countenance  or  assistance.  He  de- 
termined to  forbear  mentioning  the  subject  to  Kate,  un- 
til he  was  quite  convinced  that  there  existed  a  real 
necessity  for  his  doing  so  ;  and  resolved  to  assure  himself, 
as  well  as  he  could,  by  close  personal  observation,  of  the 
exact  position  of  affairs.  This  was  a  very  wise  resolu- 
tion, but  he  was  prevented  from  putting  it  in  practice, 
by  a  new  source  of  anxiety  and  uneasiness. 

Smike  became  alarmingly  ill  ;  so  reduced  and  ex- 
hausted that  he  could  scarcely  move  from  room  to  room 
without  assistance  ;  and  so  worn  and  emaciated,  that  it 
was  painful  to  look  upon  him.  Nicholas  was  warned, 
by  the  same  medical  authority  to  whom  he  had  at  first 
appealed,  that  the  last  chance  and  hope  of  his  life  de- 
pended on  his  being  instantly  removed  from  London. 
That  part  of  Devonshire  in  which  Nicholas  had  been 
himself  bred,  was  named  as  the  most  favourable  spot  ; 
but  this  advice  was  cautiously  coupled  with  the  infer- 


NICHOLAS 

mation,  that  whoever  accompanied  him  thither,  must  be 
ppppared  for  the  worst  ;  for  every  token  of  rapid  con- 
sumption had  appeared,  and  he  might  never  return 
alive. 

The  kind  brothers,  who  were  acquaintcid  with  the  poor 
creature's  sad  history,  despatched  okl  Tim  to  be  present 
at  this  consultation.  That  same  morning,  Nicholas  was 
summoned  by  brother  Charles  into  his  private  room,  and 
thus  addressed  : 

"  My  dear  sir,  no  time  must  be  lost.  This  lad  shall 
not  die,  if  such  human  means  as  we  can  use,  can  save 
his  life  ;  neither  shall  he  die  alone,  and  in  a  strange 
place.  Remove  him  to-morrow  morning,  see  that  he  has 
every  comfort  that  his  situation  requires,  and  don't  leave 
him — don't  leave  him,  my  dear  sir,  until  you  know  that 
there  is  no  longer  any  immediate  danger.  It  would  be 
hard,  indeed,  to  part  you  now — no,  no,  no  !  Tim  shall 
wait  upon  you  to-night,  sir  ;  Tim  shall  wait  upon  you  to- 
night with  a  parting  word  or  two.  Brother  Ned,  my 
dear  fellow,  Mr.  Nickleby  waits  to  shake  hands  and  say 
good-bye  ;  Mr.  Nickleby  won't  be  long  gone  :  this  poor 
chap  will  soon  get  better — very  soon  get  better — and  then 
he'll  find  out  some  nice  homely  country  people  to  leave 
him  with,  and  will  go  backwards  and  forwards  some- 
times—backwards and  forwards  you  know,  Ned — and 
there's  no  cause  to  be  down-hearted,  for  he'll  very  soon 
get  better,  very  soon,  won't  he — won't  he,  Ned  ?  " 

What  Tim  Linkinwater  said,  or  what  he  brought  with 
him  that  night,  needs  not  to  be  told.  Next  morning 
Nicholas  and  his  feeble  companion  began  their  journey. 

And  who  but  one— and  that  one  he  who,  but  for  those 
who  crowded  round  him  then,  had  never  met  a  look  of 
kindness,  or  known  a  word  of  pity— could  tell  what 
agony  of  mind,  what  blighted  thoughts,  what  unavailing 
sorrow,  were  involved  in  that  sad  parting  ! 

"See,"  cried  Nicholas  eagerly,  as  he  looked  from  the 
coach  window,  "they  are  at  the  corner  of  the  lane  still  1 
And  now  there's  Kate— poor  Kate,  whom  you  said  you 
couldn't  bear  to  say  good  bye  to — waving  her  handker- 
chief. Don't  go,  without  one  gesture  of  farewell  to 
Kate  ! " 

' '  I  cannot  make  it  ! "  cried  his  trembling  companion, 
falling  back  in  his  seat  and  covering  his  eyes.  "  Do  you 
see  her  now  ?   Is  she  there  still  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes  1"  said  Nicholas  earnestly.  "There  !  She 
waves  her  hand  again  !  I  have  answered  it  for  you — and 
now  they  are  out  of  sight.  Do  not  give  way  so  bitterly, 
dear  friend,  don't.    You  will  meet  them  all  again." 

He  whom  he  thus  encouraged,  raised  his  withered 
hands  and  clasped  them  fervently  together. 

"  In  heaven — I  humbly  pray  to  God  in  heaven  ! " 

It  sounded  like  the  prayer  of  a  broken  heart. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

BcUph  NicMeby,  baffled  by  Jus  Nephew  in  Jus  late  Design,  hatches  a 
scheme  of  Retaliation  which  accident  suggests  to  him,  and  takes 
into  his  Counsels  a  tried  Auxiliary. 

The  course  which  these  adventures  shape  out  for 
themselves,  and  imperatively  call  upon  the  historian  to 
observe,  now  demands  that  they  should  revert  to  the 
point  they  attained  previous  to  the  commencement  of  the 
last  chapter,  when  Ralph  Nickleby  and  Arthur  Gride 
were  left  together  in  the  house  where  death  had  so  sud- 
denly reared  his  dark  and  heavy  banner. 

With  clenched  hands,  and  teeth  ground  together  so 
firm  and  tight  that  no  locking  of  the  jaws  could  have 
fixed  and  riveted  them  more  securely,  Ralph  stood,  for 
some  minutes,  in  the  attitude  in  which  he  had  last  ad- 
dressed his  nephew  :  breathing  heavily,  but  as  rigid  and 
motionless  in  other  respects  as  if  he  had  been  a  brazen 
statue.  After  a  time,  he  began,  by  slow  degrees,  as  a 
man  rousing  himself  from  heavy  slumber,  to  relax.  For 
a  moment  he  shook  his  clasped  fist  towards  the  door  by 
which  Nicholas  had  disappeared  ;  and  then  thrusting  it 
into  his  breast,  as  if  to  repress  by  force  even  this  show 
of  passion,  turned  round  and  confronted  the  less  hardy  ' 
usurer,  who  had  not  yet  risen  from  the  ground. 

The  cowering  wretch,  who  still  shook  in  every  limb, 
and  whose  few  grey  hairs  trembled  and  quivered  on  his 


NICKLEBY,  205 

head  with  abject  dismay,  tottered  to  his  foot  as  he  met 
Ralph's  eye,  and,  shielding  his  face  with  both  hands, 
protested,  while  he  crept  towards  the  door,  that  it  was 
no  fault  of  his. 

"Who  said  it  was,  man  ?"  returned  Ralph,  in  a  sup- 
pressed voice.    "  Vyiio  said  it  was  ?  " 

"You  looked  as  if  you  thought  I  was  to  blame,"  said 
Gride,  timidly. 

"Pshaw!"  Ralph  muttered,  forcing  a  laugh.  "1 
blame  him  for  not  living  an  hour  longer  —  one  hour 
longer  would  have  been  long  enough — 1  blame  no  one 
else." 

"  N — n — no  one  else  ?"  said  Gride. 

"Not  for  this  mischance,"  replied  Ralph.  "  I  have 
an  old  score  to  clear  with  that — that  young  fellow  who 
has  carried  off  your  mistress  ;  but  that  has  nothing  to  do 
with  his  blustering  just  now,  for  we  should  soon  have 
been  quit  of  him,  but  for  this  cursed  accident." 

There  was  something  so  unnatural  in  tbe  calmness 
with  which  Ralph  Nickleby  spoke,  when  coupled  with 
the  face,  the  expression  of  the  features,  to  which  every 
nerve  and  muscle,  as  it  twitched  and  throbbed  with  a 
spasm  whose  workings  no  effort  could  conceal,  gave, 
every  instant,  some  new  and  frightful  aspect — there  was 
something  so  unnatural  and  ghastly  in  the  contrast  be- 
tween his  harsh,  slow,  steady  voice  (only  altered  by  a 
certain  halting  of  the  breath  which  made  him  pause  be- 
tween almost  every  word  like  a  drunken  man  bent  upon 
speaking  plainly),  and  these  evidences  of  the  most  in- 
tense and  violent  passions,  and  the  struggle  he  made  to 
keep  them  under  —  that  if  the  dead  body  which  lay 
above,  had  stood,  instead  of  him,  before  the  cowering 
Gride,  it  could  scarcely  have  presented  a  spectacle  which 
would  have  terrified  him  more. 

"The  coach,"  said  Ralph  after  a  time,  during  which 
he  had  struggled  like  some  strong  man  against  a  fit. 
"  We  came  in  a  coach.    Is  it — waiting  ?  " 

Gride  gladly  availed  himself  of  the  pretest  for  going 
to  the  window  to  see.  Ralph,  keeping  his  face  steadily 
the  other  way,  tore  at  his  shirt  with  the  hand  which  he 
had  thrust  into  his  breast,  and  muttered  in  a  hoarse 
whisper  : 

"  Ten  thousand  pounds  !  He  said  ten  thousand  !  The 
precise  sum  paid  in  but  yesterday  for  the  two  mortgages, 
and  which  would  have  gone  out  again,  at  heavy  interest, 
to-morrow.  If  that  house  has  failed,  and  he  the  first 
to  bring  the  news  1 — is  the  coach  there  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Gride,  startled  by  the  fierce  tone  of 
the  inquiry.  "  It's  here.  Dear,  dear,  what  a  fiery  man 
you  are  ! " 

"Come  here,"  said  Ralph,  beckoning  to  him.  "We 
mustn't  make  a  show  of  being  disturbed.  We'll  go  down 
arm  in  arm." 

"  But  you  pinch  me  black  and  blue,"  urged  Gride. 

Ralph  let  him  go  impatiently,  and  descending  the  stairs 
with  his  usual  firm  and  heavy  tread,  got  into  the  coach. 
Arthur  Gride  followed.  After  looking  doubtfully  at 
Ralph  w^hen  the  man  asked  where  he  was  to  drive,  and 
finding  that  he  remained  silent,  and  expressed  no  wish 
upon  the  subject,  Arthur  mentioned  his  own  house,  and 
thither  they  proceeded. 

On  their  way,  Ralph  sat  in  the  furthest  comer  with 
folded  arms,  and  uttered  not  a  word.  With  his  chin 
sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  his  downcast  eyes  quite  hidden 
by  the  contraction  of  his  knotted  brows,  he  might  have 
been  asleep  for  any  sign  of  consciousness  he  gave,  until 
the  coach  stopped,  when  he  raised  his  head,  and,  glanc- 
ing through  the  window,  inquired  what  place  that  was. 

"My  house,"  answered  the  disconsolate  Gride,  affected 
perhaps  by  its  loneliness.    "  Oh  dear  !  my  house.  " 

"  True,"  said  Ralph.  "  I  have  not  observed  the  way 
we  came.  I  should  like  a  glass  of  water.  You  have 
that  in  the  house,  I  suppose  ?" 

"You  shall  have  a  glass  of— of  anything  you  like," 
answered  Gride,  with  a  groan.  "  It's  no  use  knocking, 
coachman.    Ring  the  bell  !  " 

The  man  rang,  and  rang,  and  rang  again  ;  then, 
knocked  until  the  street  re-echoed  Avith  the  sounds ; 
then,  listened  at  the  keyhole  of  the  door.  Nobody  came. 
The  house  w^as  silent  as  the  grave. 

"  How's  this  ?  "  said  Ralph  impatiently. 

"  Peg  is  so  very  deaf,"  answered  Gride  with  a  look  of 


206  CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


anxiety  and  alarm.  Oh  dear  !  Ring  again,  coachman. 
She  sees  the  bell." 

Again  the  man  rang  and  knocked,  and  knocked  and 
rang  again.  Some  of  the  neighbours  threw  up  their 
windows,  and  called  across  the  street  to  each  other  that 
old  Gride's  housekeeper  must  have  dropped  down  dead. 
Others  collected  round  the  coach,  and  gave  vent  to  vari- 
ous surmises  ;  some  held  that  she  had  fallen  asleep  ; 
some,  that  she  had  burnt  herself  to  death  ;  some  that 
she  had  got  drunk  ;  and  one  very  fat  man  that  she  had 
seen  something  to  eat  which  had  frightened  her  so  much 
(not  being  used  to  it)  that  she  had  fallen  into  a  fit.  This 
last  suggestion  particularly  delighted  the  bystanders, 
who  cheered  it  rather  uproariously,  and  were,  with  some 
difficulty,  deterred  from  dropping  down  the  area  and 
breaking  open  the  kitchen  door  to  ascertain  the  fact. 
Nor  was  this  all.  Rumours  having  gone  abroad,  that 
Arthur  was  to  be  married  that  morning,  very  particular 
inquiries  were  made  after  the  bride,  who  was  held  by 
the  majority  to  be  disguised  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Ralph 
Nickleby,  which  gave  rise  to  much  jocose  indignation 
at  the  public  appearance  of  a  bride  in  boots  and  panta- 
loons, and  called  forth  a  great  many  hoots  and  groans. 
At  length,  the  two  money-lenders  obtained  shelter  in  a 
house  next  door,  and,  being  accommodated  with  a  ladder, 
clambered  over  the  wall  of  the  back  yard,  which  was 
not  a  high  one,  and  descended  in  safety  on  the  other 
side. 

"  I  am  almost  afraid  to  go  in,  I  declare,"  said  Arthur, 
turning  to  Ralph  when  they  were  alone.  "  Suppose 
she  should  be  murdered — lying  with  her  brains  knocked 
out  by  a  poker — eh  ?  " 

"  Suppose  she  were,"  said  Ralph.  "  I  tell  you,  I  wish 
such  things  were  more  common  than  they  are,  and  more 
easily  done.    You  may  stare  and  shiver — I  do  !  " 

He  applied  himself  to  a  pump  in  the  yard  ;  and,  hav- 
ing taken  a  deep  draught  of  water  and  flung  a  quantity 
on  his  head  and  face,  regained  his  accustomed  manner 
and  led  the  way  into  the  house  :  Gride  following  close 
at  his  heels. 

It  was  the  same  dark  place  as  ever  :  every  room  dis- 
mal and  silent  as  it  was  wont  to  be,  and  every  ghostly 
article  of  furniture  in  its  customary  place.  The  iron 
heart  of  the  grim  old  clock,  undisturbed  by  all  the  noise 
without,  still  beat  heavily  within  its  dusty  case  ;  the 
tottering  presses  slunk  from  the  sight,  as  usual,  in 
their  melancholy  corners  ;  the  echoes  of  footsteps  re- 
turned the  same  dreary  sound  ;  the  long-legged  spider 
paused  in  his  nimble  run,  and,  scared  by  the  sight  of 
men  in  that  his  dull  domain,  hung  motionless  on  the 
wall,  counterfeiting  death  until  they  should  have  passed 
him  by. 

From  cellar  to  garret  went  the  two  usurers,  opening 
every  creaking  door  and  looking  into  every  deserted 
room.  But  no  Peg  was  there.  At  last,  they  sat  them 
down  in  the  apartment  which  Arthur  Gride  usually  in- 
habited, to  rest  after  their  search. 

"The  hag  is  out,  on  some  preparation  for  your  wed- 
ding festivities,  I  suppose,"  said  Ralph,  preparing  to 
depart.  "  See  here  !  I  destroy  the  bond  ;  we  shall  never 
need  it  now." 

Gride,  who  had  been  peering  narrowly  about  the  room, 
fell,  at  that  moment,  upon  his  knees  before  a  large 
chest,  and  uttered  a  terrible  yell. 

'*  How  now,"  said  Ralph  looking  sternly  round. 

"Robbed!  robbed  !"  screamed  ArthurGride. 

"Robbed  !  of  money  ?" 

"No,  no,  no.    Worse  !  far  worse  !  " 

"  Of  what  then  ?"  demanded  Ralph. 

"Worse  than  money,  worse  than  money  !"  cried  the 
old  man,  casting  the  papers  out  of  the  chest,  like  some 
beast  tearing  up  the  earth.  "  She  had  better  have 
stolen  money — all  my  money — I  haven't  much  !  She 
had  better  have  made  me  a  beggar,  than  have  done 
this  ! " 

"  Done  what  ?  "  said  Ralph.  "  Done  what,  you  devil's 
dotard?" 

Still  Gride  made  no  answer,  but  tore  and  scratched 
among  the  papers,  and  yelled  and  screeched  like  a  fiend 
in  torment. 

"There  is  something  missing,  you  say,"  said  Ralph, 
shaking  him  furiously  by  the  collar.    "  What  is  it  ?  " 


"  Papers,  deeds.  I  am  a  ruined  man — lost — lost !  I 
am  robbed,  I  am  ruined  !  She  saw  me  reading  it — read- 
ing it  of  late — I  did  very  often — She  watched  me — saw 
me  put  it  in  the  box  that  fitted  into  this — the  box  is  gone 
— she  has  stolen  it. — Damnation  seize  her,  she  has  robbed 
me  ! " 

"Of  what!"  cried  Ralph  on  whom  a  sudden  light 
appeared  to  break,  for  his  eyes  flashed  and  his  frame 
trembled  with  agitation  as  he  clutched  Gride  by  his 
bony  arm.    * '  Of  what  ?  " 

"She  don't  know  what  it  is;  she  can't  read!" 
shrieked  Gride,  not  heeding  the  inquiry.  "  There's  only 
one  way  in  which  money  can  be  made  of  it,  and  that  is 
by  taking  it  to  her.  Somebody  will  read  it  for  her  and 
tell  her  what  to  do.  She  and  her  accomplice  will  get 
the  money  for  it  and  be  let  off  besides  ;  they'll  make  a 
merit  of  it — say  they  found  it — knew  it— and  be  evidence 
against  me.  The  only  person  it  will  fall  upon,  is  me — 
me — me  !  " 

"Patience  !"  said  Ralph,  clutching  him  still  tighter 
and  eyeing  him  with  a  sidelong  look,  so  fixed  and  eager 
as  sufficiently  to  denote  that  he  had  some  hidden  purpose 
in  what  he  was  about  to  say.  "Hear  reason.  She  can't 
have  gone  long.  I'll  call  the  police.  Do  you  but  give 
information  of  what  she  has  stolen,  and  they'll  lay 
hands  upon  her,  trust  me. — Here— help  1" 

"No — no— no,"  screamed  the  old  man  putting  his 
hand  on  Ralph's  mouth.    "I  can't,  I  daren't." 

"  Help  !  help  !"  cried  Ralph. 

"No,  no,  no,"  shrieked  the  other,  stamping  on  the 
ground  with  the  energy  of  a  madman.  "  I  tell  you  no. 
I  daren't— I  daren't !  " 

"  Daren't  make  this  robbery  public  ?"  said  Ralph. 

"  No  !  "  rejoined  Gride,  wringing  his  hands.  "  Hush  ! 
Hush  !  Not  a  word  of  this  ;  not  a  word  to  be  said.  I 
am  undone.  Whichever  way  I  turn  I  am  undone.  I 
am  betrayed.  I  shall  be  given  up.  I  shall  die  in  New- 
gate ! " 

With  frantic  exclamations  such  as  these,  and  with 
many  others  in  which  fear,  grief,  and  rage,  were  strange- 
ly blended,  the  panic-stricken  wretch  gradually  subdued 
his  first  loud  outcry,  until  it  had  softened  down  into  a 
low  despairing  moan,  chequered  now  and  then  by  a  howl, 
as,  going  over  such  papers  as  were  left  in  his  chest,  he 
discovered  some  new  loss.  With  very  little  excuse  for 
departing  so  abruptly,  Ralph  left  him,  and,  greatly  dis- 
appointing the  loiterers  outside  the  house  by  telling  them 
there  was  nothing  the  matter,  got  into  the  coach  and 
was  driven  to  his  own  home. 

A  letter  lay  on  his  table.  He  let  it  lie  there,  for  some 
time,  as  if  he  had  not  the  courage  to  open  it,  but  at 
length  did  so  and  turned  deadly  pale. 

"The  worst  has  happened,"  he  said,  "the  house 
has  failed.  I  see — the  rumour  was  abroad  in  the  City 
last  night,  and  reached  the  ears  of  those  merchants. 
Well— well  ! " 

He  strode  violently  up  and  down  the  room  and 
stopped  again. 

"  Ten  thousand  pounds  !  And  only  lying  there  for  a 
day — for  one  day  1  How  many  anxious  years,  how  many 
pinching  days  and  sleepless  nights,  before  1  scraped 
together  that  ten  thousand  pounds  !  —  Ten  thousand 
pounds  !  How  many  proud  painted  dames  would  have 
fawned  and  smiled,  and  how  many  spendthrift  block- 
heads done  me  lip-service  to  my  face  and  cursed  me  in 
their  hearts,  while  I  turned  that  ten  thousand  pounds 
into  twenty  !  While  I  ground,  and  pinched,  and  used 
those  needy  borrowers  for  my  pleasure  and  profit,  what 
smooth-tongued  speeches,  and  courteous  looks,  and  civil 
letters  they  would  have  given  me  !  The  cant  of  the  ly- 
ing world  is,  that  men  like  me  compass  our  riches  by 
dissimulation  and  treachery  :  by  fawning,  cringing,  and 
stooping.  Why,  how  many  lies,  what  mean  and  abject 
evasions,  what  humbled  behaviour  from  up-starts  who, 
but  for  my  money,  would  spurn  me  aside  as  they  do 
their  betters  every  day,  would  that  ten  thousand  pounds 
have  brought  me  in  1— Grant  that  I  had  doubled  it — 
made  cent,  per  cent. — for  every  sovereign  told  another — 
there  would  not  be  one  piece  of  money  in  all  the  lieap 
which  wouldn't  represent  ten  thousand  mean  and  paltry 
lies,  told — not  by  the  money-lender,  oh  no  I  but  by  the 
money-borrowers — your  liberal,  thoughtless,  generous, 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


207 


dashing  folks  who  wouldn't  be  so  mean  as  save  a  six- 
pence for  the  world  ! " 

Strivinfi-,  as  it  would  seem,  to  lose  part  of  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  regrets  in  the  bitterness  of  these  other 
thoughts,  Ralph  continued  to  puce  the  room.  There 
was  less  and  less  of  resolution  in  his  manner  as  his  mind 
gradually  reverted  to  his  loss  ;  at  length,  dropping  into 
his  elbow-chair  and  grasping  its  sides  so  firmly  that  they 
creaked  again,  he  said  : 

"  The  time  has  been  when  nothing  could  have  moved 
me  like  the  loss  of  this  great  sum — nothing — for  births, 
deaths,  marriages,  and  all  the  events  which  are  of  inter- 
est to  most  men,  have  (unless  they  are  connected  with 
gain  or  loss  of  money)  no  interest  for  me.  But  now,  I 
swear,  I  mix  up  with  the  loss,  his  triumph  in  telling  it. 
If  he  had  brought  it  about, — I  almost  feel  as  if  he  had — 
I  couldn't  hate  him  more.  Let  me  but  retaliate  upon 
him,  by  degrees,  however  slow — let  me  but  begin  to  get 
the  better  of  him,  let  me  but  turn  the  scale — and  I  can 
bear  it." 

His  meditations  were  long  and  deep.  They  terminated 
in  his  dispatching  a  letter  by  Newman,  addressed  to  Mr. 
Squeers  at  the  Saracen's  Head,  with  instructions  to  in- 
quire whether  he  had  arrived  in  town,  and  if  so,  to  wait 
an  answer.  Newman  brought  back  the  information  that 
Mr.  Squeers  had  come  by  mail  that  morning,  and  had  re- 
ceived the  letter  in  bed  ;  but  that  he  sent  his  duty,  and 
word  that  he  would  get  up  and  wait  upon  Mr.  Nickleby 
directly. 

The  interval  between  the  delivery  of  this  message,  and 
the  arrival  of  Mr.  Squeers,  was  very  short ;  but,  before 
he  came,  Ralph  had  suppressed  every  sign  of  emotion, 
and  once  more  regained  the  hard,  immoveable,  inflex- 
ible manner  which  was  habitual  to  him,  and  to  which, 
perhaps,  was  ascribable  no  small  part  of  the  influence 
which,  over  many  men  of  no  very  strong  prejudices  on 
the  score  of  morality,  he  could  exert,  almost  at  will. 

Well,  Mr.  Squeers,"  he  said,  welcoming  that  worthy 
with  his  accustomed  smile,  of  which  a  sharp  look  and  a 
thoughtful  frown  were  part  and  parcel, — "how  do  you 
do?" 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Squeers,  "  I'm  pretty  well.  So's 
the  family,  and  so's  the  boj's,  except  for  a  sort  of  rash  as 
is  a  running  through  the  school,  and  rather  puts-  'em  off 
their  feed.  But  it's  a  ill  wind  as  blows  no  good  to  no- 
body ;  that's  what  I  always  say  when  them  lads  has  a 
wisitation.  A  wisitation,  sir,  is  the  lot  of  mortality.  Mor- 
tality itself,  sir,  is  a  wisitation.  The  world  is  chock  full 
of  wisitations  ;  and  if  a  boy  repines  at  a  wisitation  and 
makes  you  uncomfortable  with  his  noise,  he  must  have 
his  head  punched.  That's  going  according  to  scripter, 
that  is." 

"Mr.  Squeers,"  said  Ralph,  drily. 

"Sir." 

"  We'll  avoid  these  precious  morsels  of  morality  if  you 
please,  and  talk  of  business." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  sir,"  rejoined  Squeers,  "and  first 
let  me  say — " 

"  First  let  me  say,  if  you  please  Noggs  ?  " 

Newman  presented  himself  when  the  summons  had 
been  twice  or  thrice  repeated,  and  asked  if  his  master 
called. 

"  I  did.  Go  to  your  dinner.  And  go  at  once.  Bo  you 
hear?" 

"  It  an't  time,"  said  Newman,  doggedly. 
"  My  time  is  yours,  and  I  say  it  is,"  returned  Ralph. 
"You  alter  it  every  day,"  said  Newman.    "It  isn't 
fair. " 

"  You  don't  keep  many  cooks,  and  can  easily  apologise 
to  them  for  the  trouble,"  retorted  Ralph.  "Begone, 
sir  !" 

Ralph  not  only  issued  this  order  in  his  most  perempto- 
ry manner,  but,  under  pretence  of  fetching  some  papers 
from  the  little  office,  saw  it  obeyed,  and,  when  Newman 
had  left  the  house,  chained  the  door,  to  prevent  the  possi- 
bility of  his  returning  secretly,  by  means  of  his  latch  key. 

"I  have  reason  to  suspect  that  fellow,"  said  Ralph, 
when  he  returned  to  his  own  office.    "  Therefore  until  I 
have  thought  of  the  shortest  and  least  troublesome  way  j 
of  ruining  him,  I  hold  it  best  to  keep  him  at  a  distance. 

"  It  wouldn't  take  much  to  ruin  him,  I  should  think, 
said  Squeers,  with  a  grin. 


"  Perhaps  not,"  answered  Ralph.  "Norto  ruinagreat 
many  people  whom  I  know.    You  were  going  to  say —  ?  " 

Ralph's  summary  and  matter-of-course  way  of  holding 
up  this  example,  and  throwing  out  the  hint  that  followed 
it,  had  evidently  an  effect  (as  doubtless  it  was  designed 
to  have)  upon  Mr.  Squeers,  who  said,  after  a  little  hesi- 
tation and  in  a  much  more  subdued  tone — 

"  Why,  what  I  was  a  going  to  say,  sir,  is,  that  this 
here  business  regarding  of  that  ungrateful  and  hard- 
hearted chap,  Snawley  senior,  puts  me  out  of  my  way, 
and  occasions  a  inconveniency  quite  unparelleled,  be- 
sides, as  I  may  say,  making,  for  whole  weeks  together, 
Mrs.  Squeers  a  perfect  widder.  It's  a  x>leasure  to  me  to 
act  with  you,  of  course." 

"Of  course,"  said  Ralph,  drily. 

"Yes,  I  say  of  course,"  resumed  Mr.  Squeers,  rubbing 
his  knees,  "but  at  the  same  time,  when  one  comes,  as  I 
do  now,  better  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  mile  lo  take 
a  afferdavit,  it  does  put  a  man  out  a  good  deal,  letting 
alone  the  risk." 

"And  where  may  the  risk  be,  Mr.  Squeers?"  said 
Ralph. 

"  I  said,  letting  alone  the  risk,"  replied  Squeers, 
evasively. 

' '  And  I  said,  where  was  the  risk  ?  " 

"I  wasn't  complaining,  you  know,  Mr.  Nickleby." 
pleaded  Squeers.  "Upon  my  word  I  never  see  such 
a — " 

"I  ask  you  where  is  the  risk?"  repeated  Ralph,  em- 
phatically. 

"Where  the  risk?"  returned  Squeers,  rubbing  his 
knees  still  harder.  Why,  it  an't  necessary  to  mention — 
certain  subjects  is  best  awoided.  Oh,  you  know  what 
risk  I  mean." 

"  How  often  have  I  told  you,"  said  Ralph,  "  and  how 
often  am  I  to  tell  you,  that  you  run  no  risk  ?  "VMiat  have 
you  sworn,  or  what  are  you  asked  to  swear,  but  that  at 
such  and  such  a  time  a  boy  was  left  with  you  in  the 
name  of  Smike  ;  that  he  was  at  your  school  for  a  given 
number  of  years,  was  lost  under  such  and  such  circum- 
stances, is  now  found,  and  has  been  identified  by  you  in 
such  and  such  keeping.    This  is  all  true — is  it  not  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,"  replied  Squeers,  "that's  all  true." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Ralph,  "what  risk  do  you  run? 
Who  swears  to  a  lie  but  Snawley — a  man  whom  I  have 
paid  much  less  than  I  have  you  ?  " 

"He  certainly  did  it  cheap,  did  Snawley,"  observed 
Squeers. 

"He  did  it  cheap  !"  retorted  Ralph,  testily,  "yes,  and 
he  did  it  well,  and  carries  it  off  with  a  hypocritical  face 
and  a  sanctified  air,  but  you — risk  !  What  do  you  mean 
by  risk  ?  The  certificates  are  all  genuine,  Snawley  Tmd 
another  son,  he  lias  been  married  twice,  his  first  wife  is 
dead,  none  but  her  ghost  could  tell  that  she  didn't  write 
that  letter,  none  but  Snav/ley  himself  can  tell  that  this 
is  not  his  son,  and  that  his  son  is  food  for  worms  !  The 
only  perjury  is  Snawley's,  and  I  fancy  he  is  pretty  well 
used  to  it.    Where's  your  risk  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  know,"-  said  Squeers,  fidgeting  in  his 
chair,  "if  you  come  to  that,  I  might  say  where's  yours  ?  " 

"You  might  say  where's  mine!"  returned  Ralph; 
"you  may  say  where's  mine.  I  don't  appear  in  the  busi- 
ness— neither  do  you.  All  Snawley's  interest  is  to  stick 
well  to  the  story  he  has. told  ;  and  all  his  risk  is,  to  de- 
part from  it  in  the  least!  Talk  of  ymr  risk  in  the  con- 
spiracy ! " 

"  I  say,"  remonstrated  Squeers,  looking  uneasily 
round  ;  "  don't  call  it  that — just  as  a  favour,  don't." 

"Call  it  what  you  like,"  said  Ralph,  irritably,  "but 
attend  to  me.  This  tale  was  originally  fabricated  as  a 
means  of  annoyance  against  one  who  hurt  your  trade  and 
half  cudgelled* you  to  death,  and  to  enable  you  to  obtain 
repossession  of  a  half-dead  drudge,  whom  you  wished  to 
regain,  because,  while  you  wreaked  your  vengeance  on 
him  for  his  share  in  the  business,  you  knew  that  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  again  in  your  power  would  be 
the  best  punishment  you  could  inflict  upon  your  enemy. 
Is  that  so,  Mr.  Squeers  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  returned  Squeers,  almost  overpowered 
by  the  determination  which  Ralph  displayed  to  make 
everything  tell  against  him,  and  by  his  stern  unyielding 
manner,  "in  a  measure  it  was." 


208 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  said  Ralph. 

"  Why,  in  a  measure,  means,"  returned  Squeers,  "as 
it  may  be,  that  it  wasn't  all  on  my  account,  because  you 
had  some  old  grudge  to  satisfy,  too." 

"  If  I  had  not  had,"  said  Ralph,  in  no  way  abashed  by 
the  reminder,  "  do  you  think  I  should  have  helped 
you?" 

"Why  no,  I  don't  suppose  you  would,"  Squeers  re- 
plied. "  I  only  wanted  that  point  to  be  all  square  and 
straight  between  us." 

"  How  can  it  ever  be  otherwise  ! "  retorted  Ralph. 
"  Except  that  the  account  is  against  me,  for  I  spend 
money  to  gratify  my  hatred,  and  you  pocket  it,  and  gra- 
tify yours  at  the  same  time.  You  are,  at  least,  as  avari- 
cious as  you  are  revengeful — so  am  I.  Which  is  best 
off  ?  You  who  win  money  and  revenge,  at  the  same  time 
and  by  the  same  process,  and  who  are,  at  all  events, 
sure  of  money,  if  not  of  revenge  ;  or  I,  who  am  only  sure 
of  spending  money  in  any  case,  and  can  but  win  bare  re- 
venge at  last  ?  " 

As  Mr.  Squeers  could  only  answer  this  proposition  by 
shrugs  and  smiles,  Ralph  bade  him  be  silent,  and  thank- 
ful that  he  was  so  well  off ;  and  then,  fixing  his  eyes 
steadily  upon  him,  proceeded  to  say  : 

First,  that  Nicholas  had  thwarted  him  in  a  plan  he  had 
formed  for  the  disposal  in  marriage  of  a  certain  young 
lady,  and  had,  in  the  confusion  attendant  on  her  father's 
sudden  death,  secured  that  lady  himself,  and  borne  her 
off  in  triumph. 

Secondly,  that  by  some  will  or  settlement — certainly 
by  some  instrument  in  writing,  which  must  contain  the 
young  lady's  name,  and  could  be,  therefore,  easily  select- 
ed from  others,  if  access  to  the  place  where  it  was  de- 
posited were  once  secured — she  was  entitled  to  property 
which,  if  the  existence  of  this  deed  ever  became  known 
to  her,  would  make  her  husband  (and  Ralph  represented 
that  Nicholas  was  certain  to  marry  her)  a  rich  and  pros- 
perous man,  and  most  formidable  enemy. 

Thirdly,  that  this  deed  had  been,  with  others,  stolen 
from  one  who  had  himself  obtained  or  concealed  it 
fraudulently,  and  who  feared  to  take  any  steps  for  its 
recovery  ;  and  that  he  (Ralph)  knew  the  thief. 

To  all  this  Mr.  Squeers  listened,  with  greedy  ears  that 
devoured  every  syllable,  and  with  his  one  eye  and  his 
mouth  wide  open  :  marvelling  for  what  special  reason  he 
was  honoured  with  so  much  of  Ralph's  confidence,  and 
to  what  it  all  tended. 

"  Now,"  said  Ralph,  leaning  forward,  and  placing  his 
hand  on  Squeer's  arm,  "hear  the  design  which  I  have 
conceived,  and  which  I  must — I  say,  must,  if  I  can  ripen 
it — have  carried  into  execution.  No  advantage  can  be 
reaped  from  this  deed,  whatever  it  is,  save  by  the  girl 
herself,  or  her  husband  ;  and  the  possession  of  this  deed 
by  one  or  other  of  them  is  indispensable  to  any  advantage 
being  gained.  That,  I  have  discovered  beyond  the  pos- 
sibility of  doubt.  I  want  that  deed  brought  here,  that  I 
may  give  the  man  who  brings  it,  fifty  pounds  in  gold, 
and  burn  it  to  ashes  before  his  face." 

Mr.  Squeers,  after  following  w^th  his  eye  the  action  of 
Ralph's  hand  towards  the  fire-place  as  if  he  were  at  that 
moment  consuming  the  paper,  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
said  : 

"  Yes  ;  but  who's  to  bring  it  ?" 

"Nobody,  perhaps,  for  much  is  to  be  done  before  it 
can  be  got  at,"  said  Ralph.    "  But  if  anybody — you  !  " 

Mr.  Squeers's  first  tokens  of  consternation,  and  his  flat 
relinquishment  of  the  task,  would  have  staggered  most 
men,  if  they  had  not  immediately  occasioned  an  utter 
abandonment  of  the  proposition.  On  Ralph,  they  pro- 
duced not  the  slightest  effect.  Resuming,  when  the 
schoolmaster  had  quite  talked  himself  out  of  breath,  as 
coolly  as  if  he  had  never  been  interrupted,  Ralph  pro- 
ceeded to  expatiate  on  such  features  of  the  case  as  he 
deemed  it  most  advisable  to  lay  the  greatest  stress  on. 

These  were,  the  age,  decrepitude,  and  weakness  of 
Mrs.  Sliderskew  ;  the  great  improbability  of  her  having 
any  accomplice  or  even  acquaintance  :  taking  into  ac- 
count her  secluded  habits,  and  her  long  residence  in 
such  a  house  as  Gride's  ;  the  strong  reason  there  was  to 
suppose  that  the  robbery  was  not  the  result  of  a  concert- 
ed plan :  otherwise  she  would  have  watched  an  oppor- 
tunity of  carrying  off  a  sum  of  money  ;  the  difficulty  she 


would  be  placed  in  when  she  began  to  think  on  what  she 
had  done,  and  found  herself  incumbered  with  documents 
of  whose  nature  she  was  utterly  ignorant ;  and  the  com- 
parative ease  with  which  somebody,  with  a  full  knowl- 
edge of  her  position,  obtaining  access  to  her,  and  work- 
ing on  her  fears,  if  necessary,  might  worm  himself  into 
her  confidence,  and  obtain,  under  one  pretence  or  another, 
free  possession  of  the  deed.  To  these  were  added  such 
considerations,  as  the  constant  residence  of  Mr.  Squeers 
at  a  long  distance  from  London,  which  rendered  his  asso- 
ciation with  Mrs.  Sliderskew  a  mere  masquerading  frolic, 
in  which  nobody  was  likely  to  recognise  him,  either 
at  the  time  or  afterwards  ;  the  impossibility  of  Ralph's 
undertaking  the  task  himself,  he  being  already  known 
to  her  by  sight  ;  and  various  comments  on  the  uncom- 
mon tact  and  experience  of  Mr.  Squeers  :  which  would 
make  his  over-reaching  one  old  woman,  a  mere  matter 
of  child's  play  and  amusement.  In  addition  to  these  in- 
fluences and  persuasions,  Ralph  drew,  with  his  utmost 
skill  and  power,  a  vivid  picture  of  the  defeat  which 
Nicholas  would  sustain,  should  they  succeed,  in  linking 
himself  to  a  beggar,  where  he  expected  to  wed  an  heiress 
— glanced  at  the  immeasurable  importance  it  must  be  to 
a  man  situated  as  Squeers,  to  preserve  such  a  friend  as 
himself — dwelt  on  a  long  train  of  benefits,  conferred 
since  their  first  acquaintance,  when  he  had  reported 
favourably  of  his  treatment  of  a  sickly  boy  who  had  died 
under  his  hands  (and  whose  death  was  very  convenient 
to  Ralph  and  his  clients,  but  this  he  did  not  say) — and 
finally  hinted  that  the  fifty  pounds  might  be  increased  to 
seventy-five,  or,  in  the  event  of  very  great  success,  even 
to  a  hundred. 

These  arguments  at  length  concluded,  Mr.  Squeers 
crossed  his  legs.,  uncrossed  them,  scratched  his  head, 
rubbed  his  eye,  examined  the  palms  of  his  hands,  and 
bit  his  nails,  and  after  exhibiting  many  other  signs  of 
restlessness  and  indecision,  asked  "  whether  one  hun- 
dred pound  was  the  highest  that  Mr.  Nickleby  could 
go."  Being  answered  in  the  affirmative,  he  became  rest- 
less again,  and,  after  some  thought,  and  an  unsuccessful 
inquiry,  "whether  he  couldn't  go  another  fifty,"  said  he 
supposed  he  must  try  and  do  the  most  he  could  for  a 
friend  :  which  was  always  his  maxim,  and  therefore  he 
undertook  the  job. 

"  But  how  are  you  to  get  at  the  woman  ?  "  he  said  ; 
"  that's  with  it  is  as  puzzles  me." 

"  I  may  not  get  at  her  at  all,"  replied  Ralph,  "  but  I'll 
try.  I  have  hunted  people  in  this  city,  before  now,  who 
have  been  better  hid  than  she  ;  and  I  know  quarters  in 
which  a  guinea  or  two  carefully  spent,  will  often  solve 
darker  riddles  than  this — ay,  and  keep  them  close  too,  if 
need  be  !  I  hear  my  man  ringing  at  the  door.  We  may 
as  well  part.  You  had  better  not  come  to  and  fro,  but 
wait  till  you  hear  from  me." 

"  Good* !  "  returned  Squeers.  "  I  say  !  If  you  shouldn't 
find  her  out,  you'll  pay  expenses  at  the  Saracen,  and 
something  for  loss  of  time  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Ralph,  testily  ;  "  yes  !  You  have  nothing 
more  to  say  ?  " 

Squeers  shaking  his  head,  Ralph  accompanied  him  to 
the  street-door,  and,  audibly  wondering  for  the  edifica- 
tion of  Newman,  why  it  was  fastened  as  if  it  were  night, 
let  him  in  and  Squeers  out,  and  returned  to  his  own 
room. 

"  Now  !  "  he  muttered,  "  Come  what  may,  for  the  pres- 
ent I  am  firm  and  unshaken.  Let  me  but  retrieve  this 
one  small  portion  of  my  loss  and  disgrace  ;  let  me  but 
defeat  him  in  this  one  hope,  dear  to  his  heart  as  I.  know 
it  must  be  ;  let  me  but  do  this  ;  and  it  shall  be  the  first 
link  in  such  a  chain,  which  I  will  wind  about  him,  as 
never  man  forged  yet." 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

How  Ralph  Nlckleby''8  Auxiliary  went  abmt  Ids  woj  Jc,  and  Ivow  he 
prospered  with  it. 

It  was  a  dark,  wet,  gloomy  night  in  autumn,  when  in 
an  upper  room  of  a  mean  house  situated  in  an  obscure 
street  or  rather  court  near  Lambeth,  there  sat,  all  alone, 
a  one-eyed  man  grotesquely  habited,  either  for  lack  of 


NICHOLAS 

better  garments  or  for  purposes  of  disguise,  in  a  loose 
great-coat,  with  arms  half  as  long  again  as  his  own,  and 
a  capacity  of  breadth  and  length  which  would  have  ad- 
mitted of  his  winding  himself  in  it,  head  and  all,  with 
the  utmost  ease,  and  without  any  risk  of  straining  the 
old  and  greasy  material  of  which  it  was  composed. 

So  attired,  and  in  a  place  so  far  removed  from  his 
usual  haunts  and  occupations,  and  so  very  poor  and 
wretched  in  its  character,  perhaps  Mrs.  Squeers  herself 
would  have  had  some  difficulty  in  recognising  her  lord  : 
quickened  though  her  natural  sagacity  doubtless  would 
have  been,  by  the  affectionate  yearnings  and  impulses  of 
a  tender  wife.  But  Mrs.  Squeers's  lord  it  was  ;  and  in  a 
tolerably  disconsolate  mood  Mrs.  Squeers's  lord  appeared 
to  be,  as,  helping  himself  from  a  black  bottle  which 
stood  on  a  table  beside  him,  he  cast  round  the  chamber 
a  look,  in  which  very  slight  regard  for  the  objects 
within  view  was  plainly  mingled  with  some  regretful 
and  impatient  recollection  of  distant  scenes  and  persons. 

There  were,  certainly,  no  particular  attractions,  either 
in  the  room  over  which  the  glance  of  Mr.  Squeers  so  dis- 
contentedly wandered,  or  in  the  narrow  street  into  which 
it  might  have  penetrated,  if  he  had  thought  fit  to  ap- 
proach the  window.  The  attic-chamber  in  which  he  sat, 
was  bare  and  mean  ;  the  bedstead,  and  such  few  other 
articles  of  necessary  furniture  as  it  contained,  were  of  the 
commonest  description, in  a  most  crazy  state, and  of  a  most 
uninviting  appearance.  The  street  was  muddy,  dirty, 
and  deserted.  Having  but  one  outlet,  it  was  traversed 
by  few  but  the  inhabitants  at  any  time  ;  and  the  night 
being  one  of  those  on  which  most  people  are  glad  to  be 
withindoors,  it  now  presented  no  other  signs  of  life  than 
the  dull  glimmering  of  poor  candles  from  the  dirty  win- 
dows, and  few  sounds  but  the  pattering  of  the  rain,  and 
occasionally  the  heavy  closing  of  some  creaking  door. 

Mr.  Squeers  continued  to  look  disconsolately  about 
him,  and  to  listen  to  these  noises  in  profound  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  rustling  of  his  large  coat,  as  he  now 
and  then  moved  his  arm  to  raise  his  glass  to  his  lips — 
Mr.  Squeers  continued  to  do  this  for  some  time,  until  the 
increasing  gloom  warned  him  to  snuff  the  candle.  Seem- 
ing to  be  slightly  roused  by  this  exertion,  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  fixing  them  upon  some  uncouth 
and  fantastic  figures,  traced  upon  it  by  the  wet  and 
damp  which  had  penetrated  through  the  roof,  broke  into 
the  following  soliloquy  : 

"  Well,  this  is  a  pretty  go,  is  this  here  ! — an  uncom- 
mon pretty  go  !  Here  have  I  been,  a  matter  of  how 
many  weeks — hard  upon  six — a-follering  up  this  here 
blessed  old  dowager  petty  larcenerer," — Mr.  Squeers  de- 
livered himself  of  this  epithet  with  great  difficulty  and 
effort — "  and  Dotheboys  Hall  a-running  itself  regularly 
to  seed  the  while  !  that's  the  worst  of  ever  being  in 
with  a  ovvdacious  chap  like  that  old  Nickleby.  You 
never  know  when  he's  done  with  you,  and  if  you're  in 
for  a  penny,  your  in  for  a  pound." 

This  remark,  perhaps,  reminded  Mr.  Squeers  that  he 
was  in  for  a  hundred  pound  at  any  rate,  his  countenance 
relaxed,  and  he  raised  his  glass  to  his  mouth  with  an 
air  of  greater  enjoyment  of  its  contents  than  he  had  be- 
fore evinced. 

"  I  never  see,"  soliloquised  Mr.  Squeers  in  continua- 
tion, "I  never  see  nor  come  across  such  a  file  as  that  old 
Nickleby — never  !  He's  out  of  everybody's  depth,  he  is. 
He's  what  you  may  call  a  rasper,  is  Nickleby.  To  see 
how  sly  and  cunning  he  grubbed  on,  day  after  day, 
a-worming  and  plodding  and  tracing  and  turning  and 
twining  of  hisself  about,  till  he  found  out  where  this 
precious  Mrs.  Peg  was  hid,  and  cleared  the  ground  for 
me  to  work  upon — creeping  and  crawling  and  gliding, 
like  a  ugly,  old,  bright-eyed,  stagnation-blooded  adder  ! 
Ah  !  He'd  have  made  a  good  im  in  our  line,  but  it 
would  have  been  too  limited  for  him  ;  his  genius  would 
have  busted  all  bonds,  and  coming  over  every  obstacle, 
broke  down  all  before  it,  'till  it  erected  itself  into  a  mon- 
neyment  of — Well,  I'll  think  of  the  rest,  and  say  it  when 
conwenient." 

Making  a  halt  in  his  reflections  at  this  place,  Mr. 
Squeers  again  put  his  glass  to  his  lips,  and  drawing  a 
dirty  letter  from  his  pocket,  proceeded  to  con  over  its 
contents  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  read  it  very 
often,  and  now  refreshed  his  memory  rather  in  the  ab- 
Vol.  II.— 14 


NICKLEBY,  209 

sence  of  better  amusement  than  for  any  specific  informa- 
tion. 

"  The  pigs  is  well,"  f-aid  Mr.  Squeers,  "the  cows  is 
well,  and  the  boys  is  bobbish.  Young  Sprouter  has  been 
a-winking,  has  he?  I'll  wink  him  when  I  get  back. 
'  Cobbey  would  persist  in  sniffing  while  he  was  a-eating 
his  dinner,  and  said  that  the  beef  was  so  strong  it  made 
him.' — Very  good,  Cobbey,  we'll  see  if  we  can't  make 
you  sniff  a  little  without  beef.  '  Pitcher  was  took  with 
another  fever,' — of  course  he  was — '  and  being  fetched  by 
his  friends,  died  the  day  after  he  got  home,'— of  course 
he  did,  and  out  of  aggravation  ;  it's  part  of  a  deep-laid 
system.  There  an't  another  chap  in  the  school  but  that 
boy  as  would  have  died  exactly  at  the  end  of  the  quar- 
ter :  taking  it  out  of  me  to  the  very  last,  and  then  carry- 
ing his  spite  to  the  utmost  extremity.  'The  juniorest 
Palmer  said  he  wished  he  was  in  Heaven,' — I  really  doH't 
know,  I  do  not  know  what's  to  be  done  with  that  young 
fellow  ;  he's  always  a-wishing  something  horrid.  He 
said,  once,  he  wished  he  was  a  donkey,  because  then  he 
wouldn't  have  a  father  as  didn't  love  him  ! — pretty 
wicious  that  for  a  child  of  six  ! " 

Mr.  Squeers  was  so  much  moved  by  the  contemplation 
of  this  hardened  nature  in  one  so  young,  that  he  angrily 
put  up  the  letter,  and  sought,  in  a  new  train  of  ideas,  a 
subject  of  consolation. 

"  It's  a  long  time  to  have  been  a-lingering  in  London," 
he  said  ;  "  and  this  is  a  precious  hole  to  come  and  live  in, 
even  if  it  has  been  only  for  a  week  or  so.  Still,  one 
hundred  pound  is  five  boys,  and  five  boys  takes  a  whole 
year  to  pay  one  hundred  pound,  and  there's  their  keep 
to  be  subtracted,  besides.  There's  nothing  lost  neither, 
by  one's  being  here  ;  because  the  boys'  money  comes  in 
just  the  same  as  if  I  was  at  home,  and  Mrs.  Squeers  she 
keeps  them  in  order.  There'll  be  some  lost  time  to 
make  up,  of  course — there'll  be  an  arrear  of  flogging 
as'll  have  to  be  gone  through  ;  still,  a  couple  of  days 
makes  that  all  right,  and  one  don't  mind  a  little  work 
for  one  hundred  pound.  It's  pretty  nigh  the  time  to 
wait  upon  the  old  woman.  From  what  she  said  last 
night,  I  suspect  that  if  I'm  to  succeed  at  all,  I  shall  suc- 
ceed to-night  ;  so  I'll  have  half  a  glass  more,  to  wish 
myself  success,  and  put  myself  in  spirits.  Mrs.  Squeers, 
my  dear,  your  health  ! " 

Leering  with  his  one  eye  as  if  the  lady  to  whom  he 
drank,  had  been  actually  present,  Mr.  Squeers — in  his 
enthusiasm,  no  doubt — poured  out  a  full  glass,  and 
emptied  it  ;  and  as  the  liquor  was  raw  spirits,  and  he 
had  applied  himself  to  the  same  bottle  more  than  once 
already,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  found  himself,  by 
this  time,  in  an  extremely  cheerful  state,  and  quite 
enough  excited  for  his  purpose. 

What  this  purpose  was,  soon  appeared  ;  for,  after  a 
few  turns  about  the  room  to  steady  himself,  he  took 
the  bottle  under  his  arm  and  the  glass  in  his  hand,  and 
blowing  out  the  candle  as  if  he  purposed  being  gone 
some  time,  stole  out  upon  the  staircase  and  creeping 
softly  to  a  door  opposite  his  own,  tapped  gently  at  it. 

"I3ut  what's  the  use  of  tapping?"  he  said,  "she'll 
never  hear.  I  suppose  she  isn't  doing  anything  very  par- 
ticular ;  and  if  she  is,  it  don't  much  matter,  that  I  see." 

With  this  brief  preface,  Mr.  Squeers  applied  his  hand 
to  the  latch  of  the  door,  and  thrusting  his  head  into  a 
garret  far  more  deplorable  than  that  he  had  just  left, 
and  seeing  that  there  was  nobody  there,  but  an  old 
woman,  who  was  bending  over  a  wretched  fire  (for  al- 
though the  weather  was  still  warm,  the  evening  was 
chilly),  walked  in,  and  tapped  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Well,  my  Slider,"  said  Mr.  Squeers,  jocularly. 

"  Is  that  you  ?"  inquired  Peg. 
Ah  !  it's  me,  and  me's  the  first  person,  singular, 
nominative  case,  agreeing  with  the  verb  *  it's,'  and  gov- 
erned by  Squeers  understood,  as  a  acorn,  a  hour  ;  but 
when  the  h  is  sounded,  the  a  only  is  to  be  used,  as  a  and, 
a  art,  a  ighvvay,"  replied  Mr.  Squeers,  quoting  at  random 
from  the  grammar.  '"At  least,  if  it  isn't,  you  don't 
know  any  better,  and  if  it  is,  I've  done  it  accidentally." 

Delivering  this  reply  in  his  accustomed  tone  of  voice, 
in  which  of  course  it  was  inaudible  to  Peg,  Mr.  Squeers 
drew  a  stool  to  the  fire,  and  placing  himself  over  against 
her,  and  the  bottle  and  glass  on  the  floor  between  them, 
roared  out  again,  very  loud, 


210 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Well,  my  Slider  ! " 

"  I  liear  you,"  said  Peg,  receiving  him  very  graciously. 

"I've  come  according  to  promise,"  roared  Squeers. 

"  So  they  used  to  say  in  that  part  of  the  country  I 
come  from,"  observed  Peg,  complacently,  "  but  I  think 
oil's  better." 

"Better  than  what?"  roared  Squeers,  adding  some 
rather  strong  language  in  an  under- tone. 

"  No,'*  said  Peg,  "  of  course  not," 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  monster  as  you  are  !  "  muttered 
Squeers,  looking  as  amiable  as  he  possibly  could,  the 
while  ;  for  Peg's  eye  was  upon  him,  and  she  was  chuck- 
ling fearfully,  as  though  in  delight  at  having  made  a 
ehoice  repartee.    ' '  Do  you  see  this  ?  this  is  a  bottle. " 

"  I  see  it,"  answered  Peg. 

"  Well ,  and  do  you  see  this  ?  "  bawled  Squeers.  * '  This 
is  a  glass?  "    Peg  saw  that  too. 

"  See  here,  then,"  said  Squeers,  accompanying  his  re- 
marks Avith  appropriate  action,  "I  fill  the  glass  from  the 
bottle,  and  I  say  'your  health.  Slider,'  and  empty  it; 
then  I  rinse  it  genteelly  with  a  little  drop,  which  I  am 
forced  to  throw  into  the'  fire — Hallo  I  we  shall  have  the 
chimb]  ey  alight  next— fill  it  again,  and  hand  it  over  to 
you." 

"  Your  health,"  said  Peg. 

"  She  understands  that,  anyways,"  muttered  Squeers, 
watching  Mrs.  Sliderskew  as  she  despatched  her  portion, 
and  choked  and  gasped  in  a  most  awful  manner  after  so 
doing  ;  "  now  then,  let's  have  a  talk.  How's  the  rheu- 
matics ? " 

Mrs.  Sliderskew,  with  much  blinking  and  chuckling, 
and  with  looks  expressive  of  her  strong  admiration  of 
Mr.  Squeers,  his  person,  manners,  and  conversation,  re- 
plied that  the  rheumatics  were  better. 

"  What's  the  reason,"  said  Mr.  Squeers,  deriving  fresh 
facetiousness  from  the  bottle  ;  "  what's  the  reason  of 
rheumatics  ?  What  do  they  mean  ?  What  do  people 
have  'em  for— eh  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sliderskew  didn't  know,  but  suggested  that  it 
was  possibly  because  they  couldn't  help  it. 

"Measles,  rheumatics,  hooping-cough,  fevers,  agers, 
and  lumbagers,"  said  Mr.  Squeers,  "is  all  philosophy 
together ;  that's  what  it  is.  The  heavenly  bodies  is 
philosophy,  and  the  earthly  bodies  is  philosophy.  If 
there's  a  screw  loose  in  a  heavenly  body,  that's  philoso- 
phy ;  and  if  there's  a  screw  loose  in  a  earthly  body,  that's 
philosophy  too  ;  or  it  may  be  that  sometimes  there's  a 
little  metaphysics  in  it,  but  that's  not  often.  Philoso- 
phy's the  chap  for  me.  If  a  parent  asks  a  question  in 
the  classical,  commercial,  or  mathematical  line,  says  I, 
gravely,  '  Why,  sir,  in  the  first  place,  are  you  a  philoso- 
pher?'—'No,  Mr.  Squeers,'  he  says,  'I  an't.'  'Then, 
sir,'  says  I,  '  I  am  sorry  for  you,  for  I  shan't  be  able  to 
explain  it.'  Naturally,  the  parent  goes  away  and  wishes 
he  was  a  philosopher,  and,  equally  naturally,  thinks  I'm 
one." 

Saying  this,  and  a  great  deal  more,  with  tipsy  pro- 
fundity and  a  serio-comic  air,  and  keeping  his  eye  all 
the  time  on  Mrs.  Sliderskew,  who  was  unable  to  hear 
one  word,  Mr.  Squeers  concluded  by  helping  himself  and 
passing  the  bottle  :  to  which  Peg  did  becoming  rever- 
ence. 

"  That's  the  time  of  day  !  "  said  Squeers.  "You  look 
twenty  pound  ten,  better  than  you  did." 

Again  Mrs.  Sliderskew  chuckled,  but  modesty  forbade 
her  answering  verbally  to  the  compliment. 

"  Twenty  pound  ten  better,"  repeated  Mr.  Squeers, 
"than  you  did  that  day  when  I  first  introduced  myself 
— don't  you  know?" 

' '  Ah  ! "  said  Peg,  shaking  her  head,  "but  you  fright- 
ened me  that  day." 

"Did  I?"  said  Squeers  ;  "well,  it  was  rather  a  start- 
ling thing  for  a  stranger  to  come  and  recommend  him- 
self by  saying  that  he  knew  all  about  you,  and  what 
your  name  was,  and  why  you  were  living  so  quiet  here, 
and  what  you  h9,d  boned,  and  w'ho  you  boned  it  from, 
wasn't  it?" 

Peg  nodded  her  head  in  strong  assent. 

"But  I  know  everything  that  happens  in  that  way, 
you  see,"  continued  Squeers.  ''  Nothing  takes  i)lace,  of 
that  kind,  that  I  an't  up  to  entirely.  I'm  a  sort  of  a  law- 
yer. Slider,  of  first-rato  standing,  and  understanding 


too  ;  I'm  the  intimate  friend  and  confidential  adwiser  of 
pretty  nigh  every  man,  woman,  and  child  that  gets 
themselves  into  difficulties  by  being  too  nimble  with 
their  fingers,  I'm — " 

Mr.  Squeers's  catalogue  of  his  own  merits  and  accom- 
plishments, which  was  partly  the  result  of  a  concerted 
plan  between  himself  and  Ralph  Nickleby,  and  flowed, 
in  part,  from  the  black  bottle,  was  here  interrupted  by 
Mrs.  Sliderskew. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  1 "  she  cried,  folding  her  arms,  and  wag-' 
ging  her  head;  "and  so  he  wasn't  married  after  all, 
wasn't  he — not  married  after  all  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Squeers,  "  that  he  wasn't !  " 

"  And  a  young  lover  come  and  carried  off  the  bride, 
eh  ?  "  said  Peg. 

"  From  under  his  very  nose,"  replied  Squeers ;  "  and 
I'm  told  the  young  chap  cut  up  rough  besides,  and 
broke  the  winders,  and  forced  him  to  swaller  his  wed- 
ding favour  which  nearly  choked  him." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it  again,"  cried  Peg,  with  a  ma- 
licious relish  of  her  old  master's  defeat,  which  made  her 
natural  hideousness  something  quite  fearful  ;  "let's 
hear  it  all  again,  beginning  at  the  beginning  now,  as  if 
you'd  never  told  me.  Let's  have  it  every  word — now — 
now — beginning  at  the  very  first,  you  know,  when  he 
went  to  the  house  that  morning  !  " 

Mr.  Squeers,  plying  Mrs.  Sliderskew  freely  with  the 
liquor,  and  sustaining  himself  under  the  exertion  of 
speaking  so  loud  by  frequent  applications  to  it  himself, 
complied  with  this  request  by  describing  the  discomfi- 
ture of  Arthur  Gride,  with  such  improvements  on  the 
truth  as  happened  to  occur  to  him,  and  the  ingenious  in- 
vention and  application  of  which  had  been  very  instru- 
mental in  recommending  him  to  her  notice  in  the  begin- 
ning of  their  acquaintance.  Mrs.  Sliderskew  was  in  an 
ecstacy  of  delight,  rolling  her  head  about,  drawing  up 
her  skinny  shoulders,  and  wrinkling  her  cadaverous 
face  into  so  many  and  such  complicated  forms  of  ugli- 
ness, as  awakened  the  unbounded  astonishment  and  dis- 
gust even  of  Mr.  Squeers. 

" He's  a  treacherous  old  goat,"  said  Peg,  "and  coz- 
ened me  with  cunning  tricks  and  lying  promises,  but 
never  mind — I'm  even  with  him — I'm  even  with  him." 

"  More  than  even,  Slider,"  returned  Squeers  ;  "you'd 
have  been  even  with  him,  if  he'd  got  married  ;  but  with 
the  disappointment  besides,  you're  a  long  way  a-head — 
out  of  sight,  Slider,  quite  out  of  sight.  And  that  re- 
minds me,"  he  added,  handing  her  the  glass,  "  if  you 
want  me  to  give  you  my  opinion  of  them  deeds,  and  tell 
you  what  you'd  better  keep  and  what  you'd  better  burn, 
why,  now's  your  time,  Slider." 

"  There  an't  no  hurry  for  that,"  said  Peg,  with  sev- 
eral knowing  looks  and  winks. 

"  Oh  !  very  vrell  !"  observed  Squeers,  "  it  don't  mat- 
ter to  me  ;  you  asked  me,  you  know.  I  shouldn't 
charge  you  nothing,  being  a  friend.  You're  the  best 
judge  of  course,  but  you're  a  bold  woman.  Slider — that's 
all." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  bold  ?  "  said  Peg. 

"  Why,  I  only  mean  that  if  it  was  me,  I  wouldn't 
keep  papers  as  might  hang  me,  littering  about  when 
they  might  be  turned  into  money — them  as  wasn't  use- 
ful made  away  with,  and  them  as  was,  laid  by  some- 
wheres,  safe;  that's  all,"  returned  Squeers;  "but 
everybody's  the  best  judge  of  their  own  affairs.  All  I 
say  is,  Slider,  /  wouldn't  do  it." 

"  Come,"  said  Peg,  "  then  you  shall  see  'em." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  'em,"  replied  Squeers,  affecting 
to  be  out  of  humour,  "  don't  talk  as  if  it  was  a  treat. 
Show  'em  to  somebody  else,  and  take  their  advice. " 

Mr.  Squeers  would,  very  likely,  have  carried  on  the 
farce  of  being  offended,  a  little  longer,  if  Mrs.  Slider- 
skew, in  her  anxiety  to  restore  herself  to  her  former  high 
position  in  his  good  graces,  had  not  become  so  extremely 
affectionate  that  he  stood  at  some  risk  of  being  smothered 
by  her  caresses.  Repressing,  with  as  good  a  grace  as 
possible,  these  little  familiarities — for  which,  there  is 
reason  to  believe,  the  black  bottle  was  at  least  as  much 
to  blame  as  any  constitutional  infirmity  on  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Sliderskew — he  protested  that  he  had  only  been 
joking  :  and,  in  proof  of  his  unimpaired  good  humour, 
that  he  was  ready  to  examine  the  deeds  at  once,  if,  by 


NICHOLAS 

so  doing,  he  could  afford  any  satisfaction  or  relief  of 
mind  to  his  fair  friend. 

"And  now  you're  up,  my  Slider,"  bawled  Squeers,  as 
she  rose  to  fetch  them,  "bolt  the  door." 

Peg  trotted  to  the  door,  and  after  fumbling  at  the 
bolt,  crept  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  from  be- 
neath the  coals  which  filled  the  bottom  of  the  cupboard, 
drew  forth  a  small  deal  box.  Having  placed  this,  on 
the  floor  at  Squeers's  feet,  she  brought,  from  under  the 
pillow  of  her  bed,  a  small  key,  with  which  she  signed 
to  that  gentleman  to  open  it.  Mr.  Squeers,  who  had 
eagerly  followed  her  every  motion,  lost  no  time  in  obey- 
ing this  hint :  and,  throwing  back  the  lid,  gazed  with 
rapture  on  the  documents  which  lay  within. 

"  Now  you  see,"  said  Peg,  kneeling  down  on  the  floor 
beside  him,  and  staying  his  impatient  hand  ;  "  what's  of 
no  use  we'll  burn  ;  what  we  can  get  any  money  b}'', 
we'll  keep  ;  and  if  there's  any  we  could  get  him  into 
trouble  by,  and  fret  and  waste  away  his  heart  to  shreds, 
those  we'll  take  particular  care  of  ;  for  that's  what  I 
want  to  do,  and  what  I  hoped  to  do  when  I  left  him." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Squeers,  "  that  you  didn't  bear  him 
any  particular  good-will.  But,  I  say,  why  didn't  you 
take  some  money  besides  ?  " 

"Some  what?"  asked  Peg. 

"Some  money,"  roared  Squeers.  I  do  believe  the 
woman  hears  me,  and  wants  to  make  me  break  a  wessel,  so 
that  she  may  have  the  pleasure  of  nursing  me.  Some 
money.  Slider — money  ! " 

"  Why,  what  a  man  you  are  to  ask  ! "  cried  Peg,  with 
some  contempt.  "If  I  had  taken  money  from  Arthur 
Gride,  he'd  have  scoured  the  whole  earth  to  find  me — 
aye,  and  he'd  have  smelt  it  out,  and  raked  it  up,  some- 
how, if  .  I  had  buried  it  at  the  bottom  of  the  deepest  well 
in  England.  No,  no  !  I  knew  better  than  that.  I  took 
what  I  thought  his  secrets  were  hid  in  :  and  them  he 
couldn't  afford  to  make  public,  let  'em  be  worth  ever  so 
much  money.  He's  an  old  dog ;  a  sly,  old,  cunning, 
thankless  dog  !  He  first  starved,  and  then  tricked  me  ; 
and  if  I  could,  I'd  kill  him." 

"All  right,  and  very  laudable,"  said  Squeers.  "  But, 
first  and  foremost.  Slider,  burn  the  box.  You  should 
never  keep  things  as  may  lead  to  discovery — always 
'mind  that.  So  while  you  pull  it  to  pieces  (which  you 
can  easily  do,  for  it's  very  old  and  rickety)  and  burn  it 
in  little  bits,  I'll  look  over  the  papers  and  tell  you  what 
they  are." 

Peg,  expressing  her  acquiescence  in  this  arrangement, 
Mr.  Squeers  turned  the  box  bottom  upwards,  and  tum- 
bling the  contents  upon  the  floor,  handed  it  to  her  ;  the 
destruction  of  the  box  being  an  extemporary  device  for 
engaging  her  attention,  in  case  it  should  prove  desirable 
to  distract  it  from  his  own  proceedings. 

"There!"  said  Squeers;  "you  poke  the  pieces  be- 
tween the  bars,  and  make  up  a  good  fire,  and  I'll  read 
the  while — let  me  see — let  me  see."  And  taking  the 
candle  down  beside  him,  Mr.  Squeers,  with  great  eager- 
ness and  a  cunning  grin  overspreading  his  face,  entered 
upon  his  task  of  examination. 

If  the  old  woman  had  not  been  very  deaf,  she  must 
have  heard,  when  she  last  went  to  the  door,  the  breath- 
ing of  two  persons  close  behind  it  :  and  if  those  two  per- 
sons had  been  unacquainted  with  her  infirmity  they 
must  probably  have  chosen  that  moment  either  for  pre- 
senting themselves  or  taking  to  flight.    But,  knowing 
with  whom  they  had  to  deal,  they  remained  quite  still, 
and  now,  not  only  appeared  unobserved  at  the  door — 
which  was  not  bolted, for  the  bolt  had  no  hasp— but  warily, 
•     and  with  noiseless  footsteps  advanced  into  the  room. 
I        As  they  stole  farther  and  farther  in  by  slight  and 
I     scarcely  perceptible  degrees,  and  with  such  caution  that 
I     they  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe,  the  old  hag  and  Squeers 
little  dreaming  of  any  such  invasion,  and  utterly  uncon- 
scious of  there  being  any  soul  near,  but  themselves,  were 
busily  occupied  with  their  tasks.    The  old  woman,  with 
her  wrinkled  face  close  to  the  bars  of  the  stove,  pufling 
at  the  dull  embers  which  had  not  yet  caught  the  wood — 
'     Squeers  stooping  down  to  the  candle,  which  brought  out 
j     the  full  ugliness  of  his  face,  as  the  light  of  the  fire  did 
that  of  his  companion — both  intently  engaged,  and  wear- 
ing faces  of  exultation,  which  contrasted  strongly  with 
the  anxious  looks  of  those  behind,  who  took  advantage 


NICKLEBY.  211 

of  the  .slightest  sound  to  cover  their  advance,  and,  almost 
before  they  had  moved  an  inch,  and  all  was  silent,  stop- 
ped again — this,  with  the  large  bare  room,  damp  walls, 
and  flickering  doubtful  light,  combined  to  form  a  scene 
which  the  most  careless  and  indifferent  spectator  (could 
any  have  been  present)  could  scarcely  have  failed  to  derive 
some  interest  from, and  would  not  readily  have  forgotten. 

Of  the  stealthy  comers,  Frank  Cheeryble  was  one,  and 
Newman  Noggs  the  other.  Newman  had  caught  up,  by 
the  rusty  nozzle,  an  old  pair  of  bellows,  which  were 
just  undergoing  a  flourish  in  the  air  preparatory  to  a 
descent  upon  the  head  of  Mr.  Squeers,  when  Frank,  with 
an  earnest  gesture,  stayed  his  arm  ;  and,  taking  another 
step  in  advance,  came  so  close  behind  the  schoolmaster 
that,  by  leaning  slightly  forward,  he  could  plainly  dis- 
tinguish the  writing  which  he  held  up  to  his  eye. 

Mr.  Squeers,  not  being  remarkably  erudite,  appeared 
to  be  considerably  puzzled  by  this  first  prize,  which  was 
in  an  engrossing  hand,  and  not  very  legible  except  to  a 
practised  eye.  Having  tried  it  by  reading  from  left  to 
right,  and  from  right  to  left,  and  finding  it  equally  clear 
both  ways,  he  turned  it  upside  down  with  no  better 
success. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !"  chuckled  Peg,  who,  on  her  knees  be- 
fore the  fire,  was  feeding  it  with  fragments  of  the  box, 
and  grinning  in  most  devilish  exultation.  "What's  that 
writing  about,  eh  ?" 

"  Nothing  particular,"  replied  Squeers,  tossing  it 
towards  her.  "It's  only  an  old  lease,  as  well  as  I  can 
make  out.    Throw  it  in  the  fire." 

Mrs.  Sliderskew  compiled,  and  inquired  what  the  next 
one  was. 

"  This,"  said  Squeers,  "is  a  bundle  of  overdue  accept- 
ances and  renewed  bills  of  six  or  eight  young  gentle- 
men, but  they're  all  M.P's.,  so  it's  of  no  use  to  anybody. 
Throw  it  in  the  fire  ! " 
Peg  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  waited  for  the  next. 
"  This,"  said  Squeers,  "  seems  to  be  some  deed  of  sale 
of  the  right  of  presentation  to  the  rectory  of  Purechurch, 
in  the  valley  of  Cashup.  Take  care  of  that,  Slider — lit- 
terally  for  God's  sake.  It'll  fetch  its  price  at  the  Auc- 
tion Mart." 

"  What's  the  next  ?  "  inquired  Peg. 
"  Why,  this,"  said  Squeers,  "seems,  from  the  two  let- 
ters that's  with  it,  to  be  a  bond  from  a  curate  down  in 
the  country,  to  pay  half-a-year's  wages  of  forty  pound 
for  borrowing  twenty.  Take  care  of  that,  for  if  lie  don't 
pay  it,  his  bishop  will  very  soon  be  down  upon  him. 
We  know  what  the  camel  and  the  needle's  eye  means — 
no  man  as  can't  live  upon  his  income,  whatever  it  is,  must 
expect  to  go  to  heaven  at  any  price — it's  very  odd  ;  I 
don't  see  anything  like  it  yet." 
"  What's *the  matter  ?  "  said  Peg. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Squeers,  "only  I'm  looking  for — " 
Newman  raised  the  bellows  again.    Once  more,  Frank, 
by  a  rapid  motion  of  his  arm,  unaccompanied  by  any 
noise,  checked  him  in  his  purpose. 

"  Here  you  are,"  said  Squeers,  "bonds — take  care  of 
them.  Warrant  of  attorney — take  care  of  that.  Two 
cognovits — take  care  of  them.  Lease  and  release — bum 
that.  Ah  !  '  Madeline  Bray — come  of  age  or  marry — 
the  said  Madeline  ' — here,  burn  tliat !  " 

Eagerly  throwing  towards  the  old  woman  a  parchment 
that  he  caught  up  for  the  purpose,  Squeers,  as  she 
turned  her  head,  thrust  into  the  breast  of  his  large  coat, 
the  deed  in  which  these  words  had  caught  his  eye,  and 
burst  into  a  shout  of  triumph. 

"  I've  got  it  !  "  said  Squeers.  "I've  got  it  !  Hur- 
rah !  The  plan  was  a  good  one  though  the  chance  was 
desperate,  and  the  day's  our  own  at  last  ! " 

Peg  dmanded  what'he  laughed  at,  but  no  answer  was 
returned.  Newman's  arm  co  uld  no  longer  be  restrained; 
the  bellows,  descending  heavily  and  with  unerring  aim 
on  the  very  centre  of  Mr.  Squeers's  head,  felled  him  to 
the  floor,  and  stretched  him  on  it  flat  and  senseless. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

In  ivJdch  one  Scene  of  (his  History  is  closed. 

DiYiDiXG  the  distance  into  two  days'  journey,  in  or- 
der that  his  charge  might  sustain  the  less  exhaustion 


212 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


and  fatigue  from  travelling  so  far,  Nicholas,  at  the  end 
of  the  second  day  from  their  leaving  home,  found  him- 
self within  a  very  few  miles  of  the  spot  where  the  hap- 
piest years  of  his  life  had  been  passed,  and  which,  while 
it  filled  his  mind  with  pleasant  and  peaceful  thoughts, 
brought  back  many  painful  and  vivid  recollections  of  tlie 
circumstances  in  which  he  and  his  had  wandered  forth 
from  their  old  home,  cast  upon  the  rough  world  and  the 
mercy  of  strangers. 

It  needted  no  such  reflections  as  those  which  the  mem- 
ory of  old  days,  and  wanderings  among  scenes  where  our 
childhood  has  been  passed,  usually  awaken  in  the  most 
insensible  minds,  to  soften  the  heart  of  Nicholas,  and 
render  him  more  than  usually  mindf  al  of  his  drooping 
friend.  By  night  and  day,  at  all  times  and  seasons  :  al- 
ways watchful,  attentive,  and  solicitous,  and  never  vary- 
ing in  the  discharge  of  his  self-imposed  duty  to  one  so 
friendless  and  helpless  as  he  whose  sands  of  life  were 
now  fast  running  out  and  dwindling  rapidly  away  :  he 
was  ever  at  his  side.  He  never  left  him.  To  encourage 
and  animate  him,  administer  to  his  wants,  support  and 
cheer  him  to  the  utmoct  of  his  power,  was  now  his  con- 
stant and  unceasing  occupation. 

They  procured  a  humble  lodging  in  a  small  farm- 
house, surrounded  by  meadows  where  Nicholas  had  often 
revelled  when  a  child  with  a  troop  of  merry  schoolfel- 
lows ;  and  here  they  took  up  their  rest. 

At  first  Smike  was  strong  enough  to  walk  about,  for 
short  distances  at  a  time,  with  no  other  support  or  aid 
than  that  which  Nicholas  could  afford  him.  At  this 
time,  nothing  appeared  to  interest  him  so  much  as  visit- 
ing those  places  which  had  been  most  familiar  to  his 
friend  in  byegone  days.  Yielding  to  this  fancy,  and 
pleased  to  find  that  its  indulgence  beguiled  the  sick  boy 
of  many  tedious  hours,  and  never  failed  to  afford  him 
matter  for  thought  and  conversation  afterwards,  Nicho- 
las made  such  spots  the  scenes  of  their  daily  rambles  : 
driving  him  from  place  to  place  in  a  little  pony-chair, 
and  supporting  him  on  his  arm  while  they  walked  slowly 
among  these  old  haunts,  or  lingered  in  the  sunlight  to 
take  long  parting  looks  of  those  which  were  most  quiet 
and  beautiful. 

It  was  on  such  occasions  as  these,  that  Nicholas,  yield- 
ing almost  unconsciously  to  the  interest  of  old  associa- 
tions, would  point  out  some  tree  that  he  had  climbed,  a 
hundred  times,  to  peep  at  the  young  birds  in  their  nest  ; 
and  the  branch  from  which  he  used  to  shout  to  little 
Kate,  who  stood  below  terrified  at  the  height  he  had 
gained,  and  yet  urging  him  higher  still  by  the  intensity 
of  her  admiration.  There  was  the  old  house  too,  which 
they  would  pass  every  day,  looking  up  at  the  tiny  win- 
dow through  which  the  sun  used  to  stream  in  and  wake 
him  on  the  summer  mornings — they  were  all  summer 
mornings  then — and  climbing  up  the  garden-wall  and 
looking  over,  Nicholas  could  see  the  very  rose-bush  which 
had  come,  a  present  to  Kate,  from  some  little  lover,  and 
she  had  planted  with  her  own  hands.  There  were  the 
hedge-rows  where  the  brother  and  sister  had  so  often 
gathered  wild  flowers  together,  and  the  green  fields  and 
shady  paths  where  they  had  so  often  strayed.  There  was 
not  a  lane,  or  brook,  or  copse,  or  cottage  near,  with  which 
some  childish  event  was  not  entwined,  and  back  it  came  up- 
on the  mind — as  events  of  childhood  do — nothing  in  itself  : 
perhaps  a  word,  a  laugh,  a  look,  some  slight  distress,  a 
passing  thought  or  fear  :  and  yet  more  strongly  and  dis- 
tinctly marked,  and  better  remembered,  than  the  hard- 
est trials  or  severest  sorrows  of  a  year  ago. 

One  of  these  expeditions  led  them  through  the  church- 
yard where  was  his  father's  grave.  "  Even  here,"  said 
Nicholas,  softly,  "  we  used  to  loiter,  before  we  knew 
what  death  was,  and  when  we  little  thought  whose  ashes 
would  rest  beneath  ;  and,  wondering  at  the  silence,  sit 
down  to  rest  and  speak  below  our  breath.  Once,  Kate 
was  lost,  and  after  an  hour  of  fruitless  search,  they  found 
her,  fast  asleep,  under  that  tree  which  shades  my  father's 
grave.  He  was  very  fond  of  her,  and  said  when  ho  took 
her  up  in  his  arms,  still  sleeping,  that  whenever  he  died 
he  would  wish  to  be  buried  where  his  dear  little  child 
had  laid  her  head.    You  see  his  wi.sh  was  not  forgotten." 

Nothing  more  passed,  at  the  time,  bat  that  night,  as 
Nicholas  sat  beside  his  bed,  Smike  started  from  what 
had  aeemed,  to  be  a  ylumber,  and  laying  his  hand  in  his, 


prayed,  as  the  tears  coursed  down  his  face,  that  he  would 
make  him  one  solemn  promise. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  said  Nicholas,  kindly.  "  If  I  can  re- 
deem it,  or  hope  to  do  so,  you  know  I  will." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will,"  was  the  reply.  "  Promise  me 
that  when  I  die,  I  shall  be  buried  near — as  near  as  they 
can  make  my  grave — to  the  tree  we  saw  to-day." 

Nicholas  gave  the  promise  ;  he  had  few  words  to  give 
it  in,  but  they  were  solemn  and  earnest.  His  poor  friend 
kept  his  hand  in  his,  and  turned  as  if  to  sleep.  But  there 
were  stifled  sobs  ;  and  the  hand  was  pressed  more  than 
once,  or  twice,  or  thrice,  before  he  sank  to  rest,  and  slow- 
ly loosed  his  hold. 

In  a  fortnight's  time,  he  became  too  ill  to  move  about. 
Once  or  twice  Nicholas  drove  him  out,  propped  up  with 
pillows  ;  but  the  motion  of  the  chaise  was  painful  to  him, 
and  brought  on  fits  of  fainting,  which,  in  his  weakened 
state,  were  dangerous.  There  was  an  old  couch  in  the 
house,  which  was  his  favourite  resting-place  by  day  ; 
when  the  sun  shone,  and  the  weather  was  warm,  Nicho- 
las had  this  wheeled  into  a  little  orchard  which  was  close 
at  hand,  and  his  charge  being  well  wrapt  up  and  carried 
out  to  it,  they  used  to  sit  there  sometimes  for  hours  to- 
gether. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  a  circumstance 
took  place,  which  Nicholas,  at  the  time,  thoroughly  be- 
lieved to  be  the  mere  delusion  of  an  imagination  affected 
by  disease  ;  but  vs^hich  he  had,  afterwards,  too  good 
reason  to  know  was  of  real  and  actual  occurrence. 

He  had  brought  Smike  out  in  his  arms — poor  fellow  ! 
a  child  might  have  carried  him  then — to  see  the  sunset, 
and,  having  arranged  his  couch,  had  taken  his  seat  beside 
it.  He  had  been  watching  the  whole  of  the  night  before, 
and  being,  greatly  fatigued  both  in  mind  and  body,  grad- 
ually feel  asleep. 

He  could  not  have  closed  his  eyes  five  minutes,  when 
he  was  awakened  by  a  scream,  and  starting  up  in  that 
kind  of  terror  which  affects  a  person  suddenly  roused, 
saw,  to  his  great  astonishment,  that  his  charge  had  strug- 
gled into  a  sitting  posture,  and  with  eyes  almost  starting 
from  their  sockets,  cold  dew  standing  on  his  forehead, 
and  in  a  fit  of  trembling  which  quite  convulsed  his  frame, 
was  calling  to  him  for  help. 

"  Good  Heaven,  what  is  this  !"  said  Nicholas,  bending 
over  him.    "Be  calm  ;  you  have  been  dreaming." 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  cried  Smike,  clinging  to  him.  "Hold 
me  tight.  Don't  let  me  go.  There — there — behind  the 
tree  ! " 

Nicholas  followed  his  eyes,  which  were  directed  to  some 
distance  behind  the  chair  from  which  he  himself  had  just 
risen.    But,  there  was  nothing  there. 

"This  is  nothing  but  your  fancy,"  he  said,  as  he  strove 
to  compose  him  ;  "  nothing  else  indeed." 

"  I  know  better.  I  saw  as  plain  as  I  see  now,"  was 
the  answer.  "  Oh  !  say  you'll  keep  me  with  you — swear 
you  won't  leave  me,  for  an  instant  ! " 

"Do  I  ever  leave  you?"  returned  Nicholas.  "Lie 
down  again — there  !  You  see  I'm  here.  Now,  tell  me 
— what  was  it  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  Smike,  in  a  low  voice,  and 
glancing  fearfully  round,  "do  you  remember  my  telling 
you  of  the  man  who  first  took  me  to  the  school  ?" 

"  Yes,  surely." 

"I  raised  my  eyes,  just  now,  towards  that  tree— that 
one  with  the  thick  trunk— and  there  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me,  he  stood  ! " 

"  Only  reflect  for  one  moment,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  grant- 
ing, for  an  instant,  that  it's  likely  he  is  alive  and  wan- 
dering about  a  lonely  place  like  this,  so  far  removed  from 
the  public  road,  do  you  think  that  at  this  distance  of 
time  you  could  possibly  know  that  man  again  ?  " 

"Anywhere — in  any  dress,"  returned  Smike;  "but, 
just  now,  he  stood  leaning  upon  his  stick  and  looking  at 
me,  exactly  as  I  told  you  I  remembered  him.  He  was 
dusty  with  walking,  and  poorly  dressed — I  think  his 
clothes  were  ragged — but  directly  I  saw  him,  the  wet 
night,  his  face  when  he  left  me,  the  parlour  I  was  left 
in,  and  the  people  that  were  there,  all  seemed  to  come 
back  together.  When  he  knew  I  saw  him  he  lookedv 
frightened,  for  he  started,  and  shrunk  away.  I  have 
thought  of  him  by  day  and  dreamt  of  him  by  night. 
He  looked  in  my  sleep,  when  I  was  quite  a  little  child, 


NICHOLAS 

and  has  looked  in  my  sleep  ever  since,  as  he  did  just 
now." 

Nicholas  endeavoured,  by  every  persuasion  and  argu- 
ment he  could  think  of,  to  convince  the  terrified  creature 
that  his  imagination  had  deceived  him,  and  that  this 
close  resemblance  between  the  creation  of  his  dreams 
and  the  man  he  supposed  he  had  seen  was  but  a  proof 
of  it ;  but  all  in  vain.  "When  he  could  persuade  him  to 
remain,  for  a  few  moments,  in  the  care  of  the  people  to 
whom  the  house  belonged,  he  instituted  a  strict  inquiry 
w^hether  any  stranger  had  been  seen,  and  searched  him- 
self behind  the  tree,  and  through  the  orchard,  and  upon 
the  land  immediately  adjoining,  and  in  every  place  near, 
where  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to  lie  concealed  ;  but 
all  in  vain.  Satisfied  that  he  was  right  in  his  original 
conjecture,  he  applied  himself  to  calming  the  fears  of 
Smike,  which,  after  some  time,  he  partially  succeeded 
in  doing,  though  not  in  removing  the  impression  upon 
his  mind  ;  for  he  still  declared,  again  and  again  in  the 
most  solemn  and  fervid  manner,  that  he  had  positively 
seen  what  he  had  described,  and  that  nothing  could 
ever  remove  his  conviction  of  its  reality. 

And  now,  Nicholas  began  to  see  that  hope  was  gone, 
and  that,  upon  the  partner  of  his  poverty,  and  the  sharer 
of  his  better  fortune,  the  world  was  closing  fast.  There 
■was  little  pain,  little  uneasiness,  but  there  was  no  rally- 
ing, no  effort,  no  struggle  for  life.  He  was  worn  and 
wasted  to  the  last  degree  ;  his  voice  had  sunk  so  low, 
that  he  could  scarce  be  heard  to  speak.  Nature  was 
thoroughly  exhausted,  and  he  had  lain  him  down  to  die. 

On  a  fine,  mild  autumn  day,  when  all  was  tranquil 
and  at  peace  :  when  the  soft  sweet  air  crept  in  at  the 
open  window  of  the  quiet  room,  and  not  a  sound  was 
heard  but  the  gentle  rustling  of  the  leaves  ;  Nicholas 
sat  in  his  old  place  by  the  bedside,  and  knew  that  the 
time  was  nearly  come.  So  very  still  it  was,  that,  every 
now  and  then,  he  bent  down  his  ear  to  listen  for  the 
breathing  of  him  who  lay  asleep,  as  if  to  assure  himself 
that  life  was  still  there,  and  that  he  had  not  fallen  into 
that  deep  slumber  from  which  on  earth  there  is  no  wak- 
ing. 

While  he  was  thus  employed,  the  closed  eyes  opened, 
and  on  the  pale  face  there  came  a  placid  smile. 

"  That's  well !"  said  Nicholas.  "  The  sleep  has  done 
you  good," 

"  I  have  had  such  pleasant  dreams,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Such  pleasant,  happy  dreams  ! " 
"  Of  what  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 

The  dying  boy  turned  towards  him,  and,  putting  his 
arm  about  his  neck,  made  answer,  "I  shall  soon  be 
there  !  " 

After  a  short  silence,  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  to  die,"  he  said,  "  I  am  quite  con- 
tented. I  almost  think  that  if  I  could  rise  from  this  bed 
quite  well,  I  would  not  wish  to  do  so,  now.  You  have  so 
often  told  me  we  shall  meet  again — so  very  often  lately, 
and  now  I  feel  the  truth  of  that  so  strongly — that  I  can 
even  bear  to  part  from  you," 

The  trembling  voice  and  tearful  eye,  and  the  closer 
grasp  of  the  ann  which  accompanied  these  latter  words, 
showed  how  they  filled  the  speaker's  heart ;  nor  were 
there  wanting,  indications  of  how  deeply  they  had 
touched  the  heart  of  him  to  whom  they  were  addressed. 

"You  say,  well,"  returned  Nicholas  at  length,  "and 
comfort  me  very  much,  dear  fellow.  Let  me  hear  you 
say  you  are  happy,  if  you  can." 

"  I  must  tell  you  something  first,  I  should  not  have  a 
secret  from  you.  You  would  not  blame  me,  ai  a  time 
like  this,  I  know," 

"7  blame  you  !"  exclaimed  Nicholas. 

"  T  am  sure  you  would  not.  You  asked  me  why  I  was 
so  changed,  and— and  sat  so  much  alone.  Shall  I  tell 
you  why?" 

"  Not  if  it  pains  you,"  said  Nicholas.  "I  only  asked 
that  I  might  make  you  happier,  if  I  could." 

''I  know— I  felt  that,  at  the  time."  He  drew  his 
friend  closer  to  him.  "  You  will  forgive  me  ;  I  could 
not  help  it,  but  though  I  would  have  died  to  make  her 
^^PPy>  it  broke  my  heart  to  see — I  know  he  loves  her 
dearly — Oh  !  who  could  find  that  out,  so  soon  as  I  !" 

The  words  which  followed  were  feebly  and  faintly 
uttered,  and  broken  by  long  pauses ;  but,  from  them. 


NICK LE BY,  213 

Nicholas  learnt,  for  the  first  time,  that  tlie  dying  boy, 
with  all  the  ardour  of  a  nature  concentrated  on  one  ab- 
sorbing, hopeless,  secret  passion,  lov(;d  his  sister  Kate. 

He  had  procured  a  lock  of  her  hair,  which  liung  at 
his  breast,  folded  in  one  or  two  slight  ribands  she  hud 
worn.  He  prayed  that,  when  he  was  dead,  Nicholas 
would  take  it  off,  so  that  no  eyes  but  his  might  see  it, 
and  that  when  he  was  laid  in  his  coffin  and  about  to  be 
placed  in  the  earth,  he  would  hang  it  round  his  neck 
again,  that  it  might  rest  with  him  in  the  grave. 

Upon  his  knees  Nicholas  gave  him  this  pledge,  and 
promised  again  that  he  should  rest  in  the  spot  he  had 
pointed  out.  They  embraced,  and  kissed  each  other 
on  the  cheek. 

"Now,"  he  murmured,  "  I  am  happy." 

He  fell  into  a  light  slumber,  and  waking  smiled  as 
before  ;  then,  spoke  of  beautiful  gardens,  which  he  said 
stretched  out  before  him,  and  were  filled  with  figures 
of  men,  women,  and  many  children,  all  with  light  upon 
their  faces  ;  then,  whispered  that  it  was  Eden — and  so 
died. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

The  Plots  begin  to  fail,  and  Doubts  and  Dangers  to  disturb  the  Plotter. 

Ralph  sat  alone,  in  the  solitary  room  where  he  was 
accustomed  to  take  his  meals,  and  to  sit  of  nights  when 
no  profitable  occupation  called  him  abroad.  Before  him 
was  an  untasted  breakfast,  and  near  to  where  his  fingers 
beat  restlessly  upon  the  table,  lay  his  watch.  It  was 
long  past  the  time  at  which,  for  many  years,  he  had  put 
it  in  his  pocket  and  gone  with  measured  steps  down-stairs 
to  the  business  of  the  day,  but  he  took  as  little  heed  of 
its  monotonous  warning,  as  of  the  meat  and  drink  be- 
fore him,  and  remained  with  his  head  resting  on  one  hand, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  moodily  on  the  ground. 

This  departure  from  his  regular  and  constant  habit,  in 
one  so  regular  and  unvarying  in  all  that  appertained  to 
the  daily  pursuit  of  riches,  would  almost  of  itself  have 
told  that  the  usurer  was  not  well.  That  he  laboured 
under  some  mental  or  bodily  indisposition,  and  that  it  was 
one  of  no  slight  kind  so  to  aifect  a  man  like  him,  was  suf- 
ficiently shown  by  his  haggard  face,  jaded  air,  and  hol- 
low languid  eyes  :  which  he  raised  at  last  with  a  start 
and  a  hasty  glance  around  him,  as  one  who  suddenly 
awakes  from  sleep,  and  cannot  immediately  recognise 
the  place  in  which  he  finds  himself, 

"What  is  this,"  he  said,  "  that  hangs  over  me,  and 
I  cannot  shake  off?  I  have  never  pampered  myself,  and 
should  not  be  ill.  I  have  never  moped,  and  pined,  and 
yielded  to  fancies  ;  bat  what  can  a  man  do  without 
rest  ?  " 

He  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  forehead. 

*'  Night  after  night  comes  and  goes,  and  I  haver  no 
rest.  If  I  sleep,  what  rest  is  that  which  is  disturbed  by 
constant  dreams  of  the  same  detested  faces  crowding 
round  me — of  the  same  detested  people,  in  every  variety 
of  action,  mingling  with  all  I  say  and  do,  and  always  to  my 
defeat?  Waking,  what  rest  have  I,  constantly  haunted 
by  this  heavy  shadow  of — I  know  not  what — which  is  its 
worst  character  !  I  must  have  rest.  One  night's  un- 
broken rest,  and  I  should  be  a  man  again." 

Pushing  the  table  from  him  while  he  spoke,  as  though 
he  loathed  the  sight  of  food,  he  encountered  the  watch  : 
the  hands  of  which,  were  almost  upon  noon. 

"This  is  strange!"  he  said,  "noon,  and  Noggs  not 
here  !  what  drunken  brawl  keeps  him  away?  I  would 
give  something  now — something  in  money  even  after 
that  dreadful  loss — if  he  had  stabbed  a  man  in  a  tavern 
scuffle,  or  broken  into  a  house,  or  picked  a  pocket,  or 
done  anything  that  would  send  him  abroad  with  an  iron 
ring  upon  his  leg,  and  rid  me  of  him.  Better  still,  if  I 
could  throw  temptation  in  his  way,  and  lure  him  on  to 
rob  me.  He  should  be  welcome  to  what  he  took,  so  I 
brought  the  law  upon  him  ;  for  he  is  a  traitor,  I  swear  ! 
How,  or  when,  or  where  I  don't  know,  though  I  sus- 
pect." 

After  waiting  for  another  half-hour,  he  despatched  the 
woman  who  kept  his  house  to  Newman's  lodging,  to  in- 
quire if  he  were  ill,  and  why  he  had  not  come  or  sent. 


214 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


She  brouglit  back  answer  tliat  lie  had  not  been  home  all 
night,  and  that  no  one  could  tell  her  anything  about 
him. 

"  But  there  is  a  gentleman,  sir,"  she  said,  ''below, 
who  was  standing  at  the  door  when  I  came  in,  and  he 
says — " 

*'  What  says  he?"  demanded  Ralph,  turning  angrily 
upon  her.    "I  told  you  I  would  see  nobody." 

"He  says,"  replied  the  woman,  abashed  by  his  harsh- 
ness, "  that  he  comes  on  very  particular  business  which 
admits  of  no  excuse  ;  and  I  thought  j^erhaps  it  might  be 
about — " 

"About  what,  in  the  devil's  name?"  said  Ralph. 
' '  Toil  spy  and  speculate  on  people's  business  with  me, 
do  you  ?  " 

"  Dear,  no,  sir  !  I  saw  you  were  anxious,  and  thought 
it  might  be  about  Mr.  Noggs  :  that's  all." 

"Saw  I  was  anxious  !"  muttered  Ralph  ;  "they  all 
watch  me,  now.  Where  is  this  person  ?  You  did  not 
say  I  was  not  down  yet,  I  hope  ?  " 

The  woman  replied  that  he  was  in  the  little  office,  and 
that  she  had  said  her  master  was  engaged,  but  she  would 
take  the  message. 

"  W^ell,"  said  Ralph,  "  I'll  see  him.  Go  to  your 
kitchen,  and  keep  there, — do  you  mind  me  ?  " 

Glad  to  be  released,  the  woman  quickly  disappeared. 
Collecting  himself,  and  assuming  as  much  of  his  accus- 
tomed manner  as  his  utmost  resolution  could  summon, 
Ralph  descended  the  stairs.  After  pausing  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, with  his  hand  upon  the  lock,  he  entered  New- 
man's room,  and  confronted  Mr.  Charles  Cheery ble. 

Of  all  men  alive,  this  was  one  of  the  last  he  would 
have  wished  to  meet  at  any  time  ;  but,  now,  that  he 
recognised  iji  him  only  the  patron  and  protector  of  Nicho- 
las, he  would  rather  have  seen  a  spectre.  One  beneficial 
effect,  however,  the  encounter  had  upon  him.  It  instant- 
ly roused  all  his  dormant  energies  ;  rekindled  in  his 
breast  the  passions  that,  for  many  years,  had  found  an 
improving  home  there  ;  called  up  all  his  wrath,  hatred, 
and  malice;  restored  the  sneer  to  his  lip,  and  the  scowl 
to  his  brow  ;  and  made  him  again,  to  all  outward  appear- 
ance, the  same  Ralph  Nickleby  whom  so  many  had  bitter 
cause  to  remember. 

"  Humph  !"  said  Ralph,  pausing  at  the  door.  "  This 
is  an  unexpected  favour,  sir." 

"  And  an  unwelcome  one,"  said  brother  Charles  ;  "an 
unwelcome  one,  I  know," 

"^^  Men  say  you  are  truth  itself,  sir,"  replied  Ralph. 
"  You  speak  truth  now,  at  all  events,  and  I'll  not  con- 
tradict you.  The  favour  is,  at  least,  as  unwelcome 
as  it  is  unexpected.    I  can  scarcely  say  more  !  " 

"  Plainly,  sir — "  began  brother  Charles. 

*' Plainly,  sir,"  interrupted  Ralph,  "I  wish  this  con- 
ference to  be  a  short  one,  and  to  end  where  it  begins.  I 
guess  the  subject  upon  Avhich  you  are  about  to  speak, 
and  I'll  not  hear  you.  You  like  plainness,  I  believe  — 
there  it  is.  Here  is  the  door  as  you  see.  Our  way  lies 
in  very  different  directions.  Take  yours,  I  beg  of  you, 
and  leave  me  to  pursue  mine  in  quiet." 

"In  quiet!"  repeated  brother  Charles  mildly,  and 
looking  at  him  with  more  of  pity  than  reproach.  "  To 
pursue  Ms  way  in  quiet  !  " 

"  You  will  scarcely  remain  in  my  house,  1  presume,  sir, 
against  my  will,"  said  Ralph  :  "  or  you  can  scarcely  hope 
to  make  an  impression  upon  a  man  who  closes  his  ears 
to  all  that  you  can  say,  and  is  firmly  and  resolutely  de- 
termined not  to  hear  you." 

"Mr.  Nickleby,  sir,"  returned  brother  Charles:  no 
less  mildly  than  before,  but  firmly  too,  "I  come  here 
against  my  will — sorely  and  grievously  against  my  will. 
I  have  never  been  in  this  house  before  ;  and,  to  speak 
my  mind,  sir,  I  don't  feel  at  hom.e  or  easy  in  it,  and  have 
no  wish  ever  to  be  here  again.  You  do  not  guess  the 
subject  on  which  I  come  to  speak  to  you  ;  you  do  not  in- 
deed. I  am  sure  of  that,  or  your  manner  would  be  a 
very  different  one." 

Ralph  glanced  keenly  at  him,  but  the  clear  eye  and 
open  countenance  of  the  honest  old  merchant  underwent 
no  change  of  expression,  and  met  his  look  without 
reserve. 

"  Shall  I  go  on  ?  "  said  Mr.  Cheerj'ble. 

"  Oh,  by  all  means,  if  you  j^lease/'  returned  Ralph 


drily.  "  Here  are  the  walls  to  speak  to,  sir,  a  desk,  and 
two  stools — most  attentive  auditors,  and  certain  not  to 
interrupt  you.  Go  on,  I  beg  ;  make  my  house  yours, 
and  perhaps  by  the  time  I  return  from  my  walk,  you 
will  have  finished  what  you  have  to  say,  and  will  yield 
me  up  possession  again .' ' 

So  sajdng,  he  buttoned  his  coat,  and  turning  into  the 
passage,  took  down  his  hat.  The  old  gentleman  fol- 
lowed, and  was  about  to  speak,  when  Ralph  waved  him  off 
impatiently,  and  said  : 

"Not  a  word.  I  tell  you,  sir,  not  a  word.  Virtuous 
as  you  are,  you  are  not  an  angel  yet,  to  appear  in'men's 
houses  whether  they  will  or  no,  and  pour  your  speech 
into  unwilling  ears.  Preach  to  the  walls  I  tell  you— not 
to  me  ! " 

"I  am  no  angel.  Heaven  knows,"  returned  brother 
Charles,  shaking  his  head,  "but  an  erring  and  imperfect 
man  ;  nevertheless,  there  is  one  quality  which  all  men 
have,  in  common  with  the  angels,  blessed  opportunities 
of  exercising  if  they  will — mercy.  It  is  an  errand  of 
mercy  that  brings  me  here.    Pray,  let  me  discharge  it." 

"  I  show  no  mercy,"  retorted  Ralph  with  a  triumphant 
smile,  "  and  I  ask  none.  Seek  no  mercy  from  me,  sir, 
in  behalf  of  the  fellow  who  has  imposed  upon  your  child- 
ish credulity,  but  let  him  expect  the  worst  that  I  can  do." 

"He  ask  mercy  at  your  hands  ! "  exclaimed  the  old 
merchant  warmly,  "  ask  it  at  his,  sir  ;  ask  it  at  his.  If 
you  will  not  hear  me,  now,  when  you  may,  hear  me  when 
you  must,  or  anticipate  what  I  would  say,  and  take 
measures  to  prevent  our  ever  meeting  again.  Your 
nephew  is  a  noble  lad,  sir,  an  honest,  noble  lad.  What 
you  are,  Mr.  Nickleby,  I  will  not  say  ;  but  what  you 
have  done,  I  know.  Now,  sir,  when  you  go  about  the 
business  in  which  you  have  been  recently  engaged, and  find 
it  difficult  of  pursuing,  come  to  me  and  my  brother  Ned, 
and  Tim  Linkin water,  sir,  and  we'll  explain  it  for  you — 
and  come  soon,  or  it  may  be  too  late,  and  you  may  have 
it  explained  with  a  little  more  roughness,  and  a  little 
less  delicacy — and  never  forget,  sir,  that  I  came  here 
this  morning,  in  mercy  to  you,  and  am  still  ready  to  talk 
to  you  in  the  same  spirit." 

With  these  words,  uttered  with  great  emphasis  and 
emotion,  brother  Charles  put  on  his  broad-brimmed  hat, 
and,  passing  Ralph  Nickleby  without  any  other  remark, 
trotted  nimbly  into  the  street.  Ralph  looked  after  him, 
but  neither  moved  nor  spoke  for  some  time  :  when  he 
broke  what  almost  seemed  the  silence  of  stupefaction, 
by  a  scornful  laugh. 

"  This,"  he  said,  "  from  its  wildness,  should  be  another 
of  those  dreams  that  have  so  broken  my  rest  of  late.  In 
mercy  to  me  ! — Pho  !    The  old  simpleton  has  gone  mad." 

Although  he  expressed  himself  in  this  derisive  and 
contemptuous  manner,  it  was  plain  that,  the  more  Ralph 
pondered,  the  more  ill  at  ease  he  became,  and  the  more 
he  laboured  under  some  vague  anxiety  and  alarm,  which 
increased  as  the  time  passed  on  and  no  tidings  of  Newman 
Noggs  arrived.  After  waiting  until  late  in  the  afternoon 
tortured  by  various  apprehensions  and  misgivings,  and 
the  recollection  of  the  warning  which  his  nephew  had 
given  him  when  they  last  met :  the  further  confirmation 
of  which  now  presented  itself  in  one  shape  of  probability, 
now  in  another,  and  haunted  him  perpetually  :  he  left 
home,  and,  scarcely  knowing  why,  save  he  was  in  a  sus- 
picious and  agitated  mood,  betook  himself  to  Snawley's 
house.  His  wife  presented  herself  ;  and,  of  her,  Ralph 
inquired  whether  her  husband  was  at  home. 

"  No,"  she  said  sharply,  "  he  is  not  indeed,  and  I  don't 
think  he  will  be  at  home  for  a  very  long  time  ;  that's 
more." 

"  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?  "  asked  Ralph. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  you  very  well — too  well,  perhaps,  and 
perhaps  he  does  too,  and  sorry  am  I  that  I  should  have 
to  say  it." 

"  Tell  him  that  I  saw  him  through  the  window-blind 
above,  as  I  crossed  the  road  just  now,  and  that  I  would 
speak  to  him  on  business,"  said  Ralph.  "Do  you 
hear?" 

"  I  hear,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Snawley,  taking  no  further 
notice  of  the  request. 

"  I  knew  this  woman  was  a  hypocrite,  in  the  way  of 
psalms  and  Scripture  phrases,"  said  Ralph,  passing 
(quietly  by,  "  but  I  never  kneAv  she  drank  before." 


NICHOLAS 

"  Stop  !  You  don't  come  in  here,"  said  Mr.  Snawley's 
better-half,  interposing  her  person,  which  was  a  robust 
one,  in  the  door- way.  "  You  have  said  more  than 
enough  to  him  on  business,  before  now.  I  always  told 
him  what  dealing  with  you  and  working  out  your 
schemes  would  come  to.  It  was  either  you  or  the  school- 
master— one  of  you,  or  the  two  between  you — that  got 
the  forged  letter  done ;  remember  that  !  That  wasn't 
his  doing,  so  don't  lay  it  at  his  door." 

Hold  your  tongue,  you  Jezebel,"  said  Ralph,  looking 
fearfully  round. 

*'  Ah,*  I  know  when  to  hold  my  tongue,  and  when  to 
speak,  Mr.  Nickleby,"  retorted  the  dame.  "Take  care 
that  other  people  know  when  to  hold  theirs." 

"  You  jade,"  said  Ralph,  "  if  your  husband  has  been 
idiot  enough  to  trufst  you  with  his  secrets,  keep  them — 
keep  them,  she-devil  that  you'are  ! " 

"  Not  so  much  his  secrets  as  other  people's  secrets 
perhaps,"  retorted  the  woman  ;  "not  so  much  his  secrets 
as  yours.  None  of  your  black  looks  at  me  !  You'll 
want  'em  all  perhaps  for  another  time.  You  had  better 
keep  'em." 

"  Will  you,"  said  Ralph,  suppressing  his  passion  as 
well  as  he  could,  and  clutching  her  tightly  by  the  wrist  ; 
"  will  j'ou  go  to  your  husband  and  tell  him  that  I  know 
he  is  at  home,  and  that  I  must  see  him?  And  will  you 
tell  me  what  it  is,  that  you  and  he  mean,  by  this  new 
style  of  behaviour?" 

"No,"  replied  the  woman,  violently  disengaging  her- 
self, "  I'll  do  neither." 

"  You  set  me  at  defiance,  do  you?"  said  Ralph. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer.    "I  do. " 

For  an  instant  Ralph  had  his  hand  raised,  as  though  he 
were  about  to  strike  her  ;  but,  checking  himself,  and 
nodding  his  head  and  muttering  as  though  to  assure  her 
he  would  not  forget  this,  walked  away. 

Thence,  he  went  straight  to  the  inn  which  Mr.  Squeers 
frequented,  and  inquired  when  he  had  been  there  last  ; 
in  the  vague  hope  that,  successful  or  unsuccessful,  he 
might,  by  this  time,  have  returned  from  his  mission  and 
be  able  to  assure  him  that  all  was  safe.  But  Mr.  Squeers 
had  not  been  there,  for  ten  days,  and  all  that  the  people 
could  tell  about  him  was,  that  he  had  left  his  luggage 
and  his  bill. 

Disturbed  by  a  thousand  fears  and  surmises,  and  bent 
upon  ascertaining  whether  Squeers  had  any  suspicions  of 
Snawley,  or  was,  in  any  way,  a  party  to  this  altered  be- 
haviour, Ralph  determined  to  hazard  the  extreme  step  of 
inquiring  for  him  at  the  Lambeth  lodging,  and  having 
an  interview  with  him  even  there.  Bent  upon  this  pur- 
pose, and  in  that  mood  in  which  delay  is  insupportable, 
he  repaired  at  once  to  the  place  ;  and  being,  by  descrip- 
tion, perfectly  acquainted  with  the  situation  of  his  room, 
crept  up-stairs  and  knocked  gently  at  the  door. 

Not  one,  nor  two,  nor  three,  nor  yet  a  dozen  knocks, 
served  to  convince  Ralph,  against  his  wish,  that  there 
was  nobody  inside.  He  reasoned  that  he  might  be 
asleep  ;  and,  listening,  almost  persuaded  himself  that  he 
could  hear  him  breathe.  Even  when  he  was  satisfied 
that  he  could  not  be  there,  he  sat  patiently  on  a  broken 
stair  and  waited  ;  arguing  that  he  had  gone  out  upon 
some  slight  errand,  and  must  soon  return. 

Many  feet  came  up  the  creaking  stairs  ;  and  the  step  of 
some  seemed  to  his  listening  ear  so  like  that  of  the  man 
for  whom  he  waited,  that  Ralph  often  stood  up  to  be 
ready  to  address  him  when  he  reached  the  top  ;  but,  one 
by  one,  each  person  turned  off  into  some  room  short  of 
the  place  where  he  was  stationed  :  and  at  every  such  dis- 
appointment he  felt  quite  chilled  and  lonely. 

At  length  he  felt  it  was  hopeless  to  remain,  and  going 
down-stairs  again,  inquired  of  one  of  the  lodgers  if  he 
knew  anything  of  Mr.  Squeers's  movements — mention- 
ing that  worthy  by  an  assumed  name  which  had  been 
agreed  upon  between  them.  By  this  lodger  he  was  re- 
ferred to  another,  and  by  him  to  some  one  else,  from 
whom  he  learnt,  that,  late  on  the  previous  night,  he  had 
gone  out  hastily  with  two  men,  who  had  shortly  after- 
wards returned  for  the  old  woman  who  lived  on  the  same 
floor  ;  and  that,  although  the  circumstance  had  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  informant,  he  had  not  spoken  to 
them  at  the  time,  nor  made  any  inquiry  afterwards. 

This  po.ssessed  him  with  the  idea  that,  perhaps.  Peg 


mCKLEDY,  215 

Sliderskew  had  been  apprehended  for  the  robbery,  and 
that  Mr.  Squeers,  being  with  her  at  the  time,  had  been 
apprehended  also,  on  suspicion  of  being  a  confederate. 
If  this  were  so,  the  fact  must  be  known  to  Gride  ;  and 
to  Gride's  house  he  directed  his  steps  :  now  thoroughly 
alarmed,  and  fearful  that  there  were  indeed  plots  afoot, 
tending  to  his  discomfiture  and  ruin. 

Arrived  at  the  usurer's  house,  he  found  the  windows 
close  shut,  the  dingy  blinds  drawn  down  :  all  silent, 
melancholy  and  deserted.  But  this  was  its  usual  as- 
pect. He  knocked — gently  at  first — then  loud  and  vig- 
orously— but  nobody  came.  He  wrote  a  few  words  in 
pencil  on  a  card,  and  having  thrust  it  under  the  door  was 
going  away,  when  a  noise  above,  as  though  a  window- 
sash  were  stealtUily  raised,  caught  his  ear,  and  looking 
up  he  could  just  discern  the  face  of  Gride  himself,  cau- 
tiously peering  over  the  house  parapet  from  the  window 
of  the  garret.  Seeing  who  was  below,  he  drew  it  in 
again,  not  so  quickly,  however,  but  that  Ralph  let  him 
know  that  he  was  observed,  and  called  to  him  to  come 
down. 

The  call  being  repeated,  Gride  looked  out  again,  so 
cautiously  that  no  part  of  the  old  man's  body  was  visi- 
ble. The  sharp  features  and  white  hair  appearing  alone, 
above  the  parajjet,  looked  like  a  severed  head  garnishing 
the  wall. 

"  Hush  ! "  he  cried.    "  Go  away — go  away  !  " 

"  Come  down,"  said  Ralph,  beckoning  him. 

"  Go  a — way  !  "  squeaked  Gride,  shaking  his  head  in  a 
sort  of  ecstacy  of  impatience.  "Don't  speak  to  me, 
don't  knock,  don't  call  attention  to  the  house,  but  go 
away." 

"I'll  knock,  I  swear,  till  I  have  your  neighbours  up 
in  arms,"  said  Ralph,  "if  you  don't  tell  me  what  you 
mean  by  lurking  there,  you  whining  cur." 

"  I  can't  hear  what  you  say — don't  talk  to  me — it  isn't 
safe — go  awa}^ — go  away  !  "  returned  Gride. 

"Come  down,  I  say.  Will  you  come  down  !"  said 
Ralph  fiercely. 

"  No — o — o — o,"  snarled  Gride.  He  drew  in  his  head  ; 
and  Ralph,  left  standing  in  the  street,  could  hear  the 
sash  closed,  as  gently  and  carefully  as  it  had  been  opened. 

"  How  is  this,"  said  he,  "  that  they  all  fall  from  me, 
and  shun  me  like  the  plague — these  men  who  have  licked 
the  dust  from  my  feet  !  Is  my  day  past,  and  is  this 
indeed  the  coming  on  of  night?  I'll  know  what  it 
means  !  I  will,  at  any  cost.  I  am  firmer  and  more  my- 
self, just  now,  than  1  have  been  these  many  days." 

Turning  from  the  door,  which,  in  the  first  transport  of 
his  rage,  he  had  meditated  battering  upon,  until  Gride's 
very  fears  should  impel  him  to  open  it,  he  turned  his  face 
towards  the  city,  and  working  his  way  steadily  through 
the  crowd  which  was  pouring  from  it  (it  was  by  this 
time  between  five  and  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon) 
went  straight  to  the  house  of  business  of  the  Brothers 
Cheeryble,  and  putting  his  head  into  the  glass  case, 
found  Tim  Linkin water  alone. 

"My  name's  Nickleby,"  said  Ralph. 

"I  know  it,"  replied  Tim,  surveying  him  through  his 
spectacles. 

"  Which  of  your  firm  was  it  who  called  on  me  this 
morning?"  demanded  Ralph. 
"Mr.  Charles." 

"  Then,  tell  Mr.  Charles  I  want  to  see  him." 

"  You  shall  see,"  said  Tim,  getting  off  his  stool'  with 
great  agility,  "You  shall  see,  not  only  Mr.  Charles,  but 
Mr.  Ned  likewise." 

Tim  stopped,  looked  steadily  and  severely  at  Ralph, 
nodded  his  head  once,  in  a  curt  manner  which  seemed 
to  say  there  was  a  little  more  behind,  and  vanished. 
After  a  short  interval,  he  returned,  and,  ushering  Ralph 
into  the  presence  of  the  two  brothers,  remained  in  the 
room  himself. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  who  spoke  to  me  this  morn- 
ing," said  Ralph,  pointing  out  with  his  finger  the  man 
whom  he  addressed, 

"  I  have  no  secrets  from  my  brother  Ned,  or  from  Tim 
Linkinwater,"  observed  brother  Charles  quietly. 

"  I  have,"  said  Ralph. 

"Mr.  Nickleby,  sir,"  said  brother  Ned,  "the  matter 
upon  which  my  brother  Charles  called  upon  you  this 
morning,  is  one  which  is  already  perfectly  well  known 


216 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


to  us  three,  and  to  others  besides,  and  must  unhappily 
soon  become  known  to  a  great  many  more.  He  waited 
upon  you,  sir,  this  morning,  alone,  as  a  matter  of  deli- 
cacy and  consideration.  We  feel,  now,  that  farther 
delicacy  and  consideration  would  be  misplaced  ;  and,  if 
we  confer  together,  it  must  be  as  we  are  or  not  at  all." 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Ralph  with  a  curl  of  the  lip, 
"  talking  in  riddles  would  seem  to  be  the  peculiar  forte 
of  you  two,  and  I  suppose  your  clerk,  like  a  prudent 
man,  has  studied  the  art  also  with  a  view  to  your  good 
graces.  Talk  in  company,  gentlemen,  in  God's  name. 
I'll  humour  you." 

"Humour  !"  cried  Tim  Linkinwater,  suddenly  grow- 
ing very  red  in  the  face,  "He'll  humour  us  !  He'll  hu- 
mour Cheeryble  Brothers  !  Do  you  hear  that  ?  Do  you 
hear  him?  Do  you  hear  him  say  he'll  humour  Cheery- 
ble Brothers?" 

"Tim,"  said  Charles  and  Ned  together,  "pray  Tim — 
pray  now,  don't." 

Tim,  taking  the  hint,  stifled  his  indignation  as  well  as 
he  could,  and  suffered  it  to  escape  through  his  spectacles, 
with  the  additional  safety  valve  of  a  short  hysterical 
laugh  now  and  then,  which  seemed  to  relieve  him 
mightily. 

"As  nobody  bids  me  to  a  seat,"  said  Ralph,  looking 
round,  "I'll  take  one,  fori  am  fatigued  with  walking. 
And  now,  if  you  please,  gentlemen,  I  wish  to  know — I 
demand  to  know  ;  I  have  the  right — what  you  have  to  say 
to  me,  which  justifies  such  a  tone  as  you  have  assumed, 
and  that  underhand  interference  in  my  affairs  which,  I 
have  reason  to  suppose,  you  have  been  practising.  I  tell 
you  plainly,  gentlemen,  that  little  as  I  care  for  the  opin- 
ion of  the  world  (as  the  slang  goes),  I  don't  choose  to 
submit  quietly  to  slander  and  malice.  Whether  you 
suffer  yourselves  to  be  imposed  upon,  too  easily,  or  wil- 
fully make  yourselves  parties  to  it,  the  result  to  me  is 
the  same.  In  either  case,  you  can't  expect  from  a  plain 
man  like  myself  much  consideration  or  forbearance." 

So  coolly  and  deliberately  was  this  said,  that  nine  men 
out  of  ten,  ignorant  of  the  circumstances,  would  have 
supposed  Ralph  to  be  really  an  injured  man.  There  he 
sat,  with  folded  arms;  paler  than  usual,  certainly,  and 
sufficiently  iil-favoujed,  but  quite  collected — far  more  so, 
than  the  brothers  or  the  exasperated  Tim — and  ready  to 
face  out  the  worst. 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  brother  Charles.  "Very  well. 
Brother  Ned,  will  you  ring  the  bell  ?  " 

"Charles,  my  dear  fellow  !  stop  one  instant,"  returned 
the  other.  "It  will  be  better  for  Mr.  Nickleby  and  for 
our  object  that  he  should  remain  silent  if  he  can,  till  we 
have  said  what  we  have  to  say.  I  wish  him  to  under- 
stand that." 

"  Quite  right,  quite  right,"  said  brother  Charles. 

Ralph  smiled,  but  made  no  reply.  The  bell  was  rung  ; 
the  room-door  opened  ;  a  man  came  in,  with  a  halting 
walk  ;  and,  looking  round,  Ralph's  eyes  met  those  of 
Newman  Noggs.  From  that  moment  his  heart  began  to 
fail  him. 

"  This  is  a  good  beginning,"  he  said  bitterly.  "  Oh  ! 
this  is  a  good  beginning.  You  are  candid,  honest,  open- 
hearted,  fair-dealing  men  I  I  always  knew  the  real 
worth  of  such  characters  as  yours  !  To  tamper  with  a 
fellow  like  this,  who  would  sell  his  soul  (if  he  had  one) 
for  drink,  and  whose  every  word  is  a  lie, — what  men  are 
safe  if  this  is  done  ?    Oh  it's  a  good  beginning  ! " 

"  I  will  speak,"  cried  Newman,  standing  on  tiptoe  to 
look  over  Tim's  head,  who  had  interposed  to  prevent 
him.  "Hallo,  you  sir — old  Nickleby! — what  do  you 
mean  when  you  talk  of  'a  fellow  like  this?'  Who 
made  me  'a  fellow  like  this?'  If  I  would  sell  my 
soul  for  drink,  why  wasn't  I  a  thief,  a  swindler,  house- 
breaker, area  sneak,  robber  of  pence  out  of  the  trays  of 
blind  men's  dogs,  rather  than  your  drudge  and  pack- 
horse  ?  If  ray  every  word' was  a  lie,  why  wasn't  I  a  pet 
and  favourite  of  yours?  Lie  !  When  did  I  ever  cringe 
and  fawn  to  you — eh  ?  Tell  me  that  !  I  served  you 
faithfully.  I  did  more  work,  because  I  was  poor,  and 
took  more  hard  words  from  you  because  I  despised  you 
and  them,  than  any  man  you  could  have  got  from  the 
parish  workhouse.  I  did.  I  served  you  because  I  was 
proud  :  because  I  was  a  lonely  man  with  you,  and  there 
were  no  other  drudges  to  see  my  degradation  :  and  be- 


cause nobody  knew,  better  than  you,  that  I  was  a  ruined 
man  :  that  I  hadn't  always  been  what  I  am  :  and  that  I 
might  have  been  better  off,  if  I  hadn't  been  a  fool  and 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  you  and  others  who  were  knaves. 
Do  you  deny  that — eh  !  " 

"Gently,"  reasoned  Tim,  "you  said  you  wouldn't." 

"I  said  I  wouldn't  !"  cried  Newman,  thrusting  him 
aside,  and  moving  his  hand  as  Tim  moved,  so  as  to  keep 
him  at  arm's  length,  "don't  tell  me  !  Here,  you  Nickle- 
by !  don't  pretend  not  to  mind  me  ;  it  won't  do  ;  I  know 
better.  You  were  talking  of  tampering,  just  now.  Who 
tampered  with  Yorkshire  schoolmasters,  and,  whil^  they 
sent  the  drudge  out,  that  he  shouldn't  overhear,  forgot 
that  such  great  caution  might  render  him  suspicious, 
and  that  he  might  watch  his  master  out  at  nights,  and 
might  set  other  eyes  to  watch  the  schoolmaster  ?  Who 
tampered  with  a  selfish  father,  urging  him  to  sell  his 
daughter  to  old  Arthur  Gride,  and  tampered  with  Gride 
too,  and  did  so  in  the  little  office,  with  a  closet  in  the 
room!  " 

Ralph  had  put  a  great  command  upon  himself ;  but  he 
could  not  have  suppressed  a  slight  start,  if  he  had  been 
certain  to  be  beheaded  for  it  next  moment. 

"  Aha  ! "  cried  Newman,  "  you  mind  me  now,  do  you? 
What  first  set  this  fag  to  be  jealous  of  his  master's  ac- 
tions, and  to  feel  that,  if  he  hadn't  crossed  him  when  he 
might,  he  would  have  been  as  bad  as  he,  or  worse  ? 
That  master's  cruel  treatment  of  his  own  flesh  and 
blood,  and  vile  designs  upon  a  young  girl  who  interested 
even  his  broken-down,  drunken,  miserable  hack,  and 
made  him  linger  in  his  service,  in  the  hope  of  doing  her 
some  good  (as  thank  God,  he  had  done  others  once  or 
twice  before),  when  he  would,  otherwise,  have  relieved 
his  feelings  by  pummelling  his  master  soundly,  and  then 
going  to  the  Devil.  He  would — mark  that ;  and  mark 
this — that  I'm  here  now,  because  these  gentlemen 
thought  it  best.  When  I  sought  them  out  (as  I  did — 
there  was  no  tampering  with  me)  ;  I  told  them  I  wanted 
help  to  find  you  out,  to  trace  you  down,  to  go  through 
with  what  I  had  begun,  to  help  the  right  ;  and  that  when 
I  had  done  it,  I'd  burst  into  your  room  and  tell  you  all, 
face  to  face,  man  to  man,  and  like  a  man.  Now,  I've 
said  my  say,  and  let  anybody  else  say  theirs,  and  fire 
away  ! " 

With  this  concluding  sentiment,  Newman  Noggs,  who 
had  been  perpetually  sitting  down  and  getting  up  again 
all  through  his  speech,  which  he  had  delivered  in  a 
series  of  jerks  ;  and  who  was,  from  the  violent  exercise 
and  the  excitement  combined,  in  a  state  of  most  intense 
and  fiery  heat  :  became,  without  passing  through  any 
intermediate  stage,  stiff,  upright,  and  motionless,  and  so 
remained,  staring  at  Ralph  Nickleby  with  all  his  might 
and  main. 

Ralph  looked  at  him  for  an  instant,  and  for  an  instant 
only  ;  then,  waved  his  hand,  and  beating  the  ground 
with  his  foot,  said  in  a  choking  voice, 

"  Go  on,  gentlemen,  go  on  !  I'm  patient  you  see. 
There's  law  to  be  had,  there's  law.  I  shall  call  you  to 
an  account  for  this.  Take  care  what  you  say  ;  I  shatl 
make  you  prove  it." 

"  The  proof  is  ready,"  returned  Brother  Charles, 
"  quite  ready  to  our  hands.  The  man  Snawley,  last 
night,  made  a  confession." 

"  Who  may  '  the  man  Snawley'  be,"  returned  Ralph, 
"and  what  may  his  'confession'  have  to  do  with  my 
affairs  ?  " 

To  this  inquiry,  put  with  a  dogged  inflexibility  of  man- 
ner, the  old  gentleman  returned  no  answer,  but  went  on 
to  say,  that  to  show  him  how  much  they  were  in  earnest, 
it  would  be  necessary  to  tell  him,  not  only  what  accusa- 
tions were  made  against  him,  but  what  proof  of  them 
they  had,  and  how  that  proof  had  been  acquired.  This 
laying  open  of  the  whole  question,  brought  up  brother 
Ned,  Tim  Linkinwater,  and  Newman  Noggs,  all  three  at 
once,  who,  after  a  vast  deal  of  talking  together,  and  a 
scene  of  great  confusion,  laid  before  Ralph,  in  distinct 
terms,  the  following  statement. 

That,  Newman,  having  been  solemnly  assured  by  one 
not  then  producible  that  Smike  was  not  the  son  of  Snaw- 
ley, and  tliis  person  having  offered  to  make  oath  to  that 
elTect,  if  necessary,  they  had  by  this  communication 
been  first  led  to  doubt  the  claim  set  up,  which  they 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


217 


would  otherwise  have  seen  no  reason  to  dispute  ;  sup- 
ported as  it  was  by  evidence  which  tlicy  had  no  power 
of  disproving.  That,  once  suspecting  the  existence  of  a 
conspiracy,  they  had  no  difficulty  in  tracing  back  its 
origin  to  the  malice  of  Ralph,  and  the  vindictiveness  and 
avarice  of  Squeers.  That,  suspicion  and  proof  being 
two  very  different  things,  they  had  been  advised  by  a 
lawyer,  eminent  for  his  sagacity  and  acuteness  in  such 
practice,  to  resist  the  proceedings  taken  on  tlie  other  side 
for  the  recovery  of  the  youth,  as  slowly  and  artfully  as 
possible,  and  meanwhile  to  beset  Snawley  (with  whom  it 
was  clear  the  main  falsehood  must  rest)  ;  to  lead  him,  if 
possible,  into  contradictory  and  conflicting  statements  ; 
to  harass  him  by  all  available  means  ;  and  so  to  practise 
on  his  fears,  and  regard  for  his  own  safety,  as  to  induce 
him  to  divulge  the  whole  scheme,  and  to  give  up  his 
employer  and  whomsoever  else  he  could  implicate. 
That,  all  this  had  been  skilfully  done  ;  but  that  Snaw- 
ley, who  was  well  practised  in  the  arts  of  low  cunning 
and  intrigue,  had  successfully  baffled  all  their  attempts, 
until  an  unexpected  circumstance  had  brought  him,  last 
night,  upon  his  knees. 

It  thus  arose.  When  Newman  Noggs  reported  that 
Squeers  was  again  in  town,  and  that  an  interview  of 
such  secrecy  had  taken  place  between  him  and  Ralph 
that  he  had  been  sent  out  of  the  house,  plainly  lest  he 
should  overhear  a  word,  a  watch  was  set  upon  the 
schoolmaster,  in  the  hope  that  something  might  be  dis- 
covered which  would  throw  some  light  upon  the  sus- 
pected plot.  It  being  found,  however,  that  he  held  no 
further  communication  with  Ralph,  nor  any  with  Snaw- 
ley, and  lived  quite  alone,  they  were  completely  at 
fault ;  the  watch  was  withdrawn,  and  they  would  have 
observed  his  motions  no  longer,  if  it  had  not  happened 
that,  one  night,  Newman  stumbled  unobserved  on  him 
and  Ralph  in  the  street  together.  Following  them,  he 
discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that  they  repaired  to  various 
low  lodging-houses,  and  taverns  kept  by  broken  gam- 
blers, to  more  than  one  of  whom  Ralph  was  known,  and 
that  they  were  in  pursuit — so  he  found  by  inquiries 
when  they  had  left — of  an  old  woman,  whose  descrip- 
tion exactly  tallied  with  that  of  deaf  Mrs.  Sliderskew. 
Affairs  now  appearing  to  assume  a  more  serious  complex- 
ion, the  watch  was  renewed  with  increased  vigilance  ; 
an  officer  was  procured,  wUp  took  up  his  abode  in  the 
same  tavern  with  Squeers.;,  and  by  him  and  Frank 
Cheery ble,  the  footsteps  of',  ^lie  unconscious  schoolmaster 
were  dogged,  until  he  was  safely  housed  in  the  lodging 
at  Lambeth.  Mr.  Squeers  having  shifted  his  lodging, 
the  officer  shifted  his,  and  lying  concealed  in  the  same 
street,  and,  indeed,  in  the  opposite  house,  soon  found 
that  Mr.  Squeers  and  Mrs.  Sliderskew  were  in  constant 
communication. 

In  this  state  of  things,  Arthur  Gride  was  appealed  to. 
The  robbery,  partly  owing  to  the  inquisitiveness  of  the 
neighbours,  and  partly  to  his  own  grief  and  rage,  had, 
long  ago,  become  known  ;  but  he  positively  refused  to 
give  his  sanction  or  yield  any  assistance  to  the  old  wo- 
man's capture,  and  was  seized  with  such  a  panic  at  the 
idea  of  being  called  upon  to  give  evidence  against  her, 
that  he  shut  himself  up  close,  in  his  house,  and  refused 
to  hold  communication  with  anybody.  Upon  this,  the 
pursuers  took  counsel  together,  and,  coming  so  near  the 
truth  a"S  to  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  Gride  and  Ralph, 
with  Squeers  for  their  instrument,  were  negotiating  for 
the  recovery  of  some  of  the  stolen  papers  which  would 
not  bear  the  light,  and  might  possibly  explain  the  hints 
relative  to  Madeline  which  Newman  had  overheard,  re- 
solved that  Mrs.  Slikerskew  should  be  taken  into  custody 
before  she  had  parted  with  them  :  and  Squeers  too,  if 
anything  suspicious  could  be  attached  to  him.  Accord- 
ingly, a  search-warrant  being  procured,  and  all  prepared, 
Mr.  Squeers's  window  was  watched,  until  his  light  was 
put  out,  and  the  time  arrived  when,  as  had  been  pre- 
viously ascertained,  he  usually  visited  Mrs.  Sliderskew. 
This  done,  Frank  Cheery  ble  and  Newman  stole  up-stairs 
to  listen  to  their  discourse,  and  to  give  the  signal  to  the 
officer  at  the  most  favourable  time.  At  what  an  oppor- 
tune moment  they  arrived,  how  they  listened,  and  what 
they  heard,  is  already  known  to  the  reader.  Mr.  Squeers, 
still  half-stunned,  was  hurried  off  with  a  stolen  deed  in 
his  possession,  and  Mrs.  Sliderskew  was  apprehended 


likewise.  The  information  being  promptly  carried  to 
Snawley  that  Squeers  was  in  custody — he  was  not  told 
for  what — that  worthy,  first  extorting  a  promise  that  he 
should  be  kept  harmless,  declared  the  whole  tale  con- 
cerning Smike  to  be  a  fiction  and  forgery,  and  implicated 
Ralph  Nickleby  to  the  fullest  extent.  As  to  Mr.  Squeers, 
he  had,  that  morning,  undergone  a  private  examination 
before  a  magistrate  :  and,  being  unable  to  account  satis- 
factorily for  his  possession  of  the  deed  or  his  compan- 
ionship with  Mrs.  Sliderskew,  had  been,  with  her,  re- 
manded for  a  week. 

All  these  discoveries  were  now  related  to  Ralph,  cir- 
cumstantially, and  in  detail.  Whatever  impression  they 
secretly  produced,  he  suffered  no  sign  of  emotion  to  es- 
cape him,  but  sat  perfectly  still,  not  raising  his  frowning 
eyes  from  the  ground,  and  covering  his  mouth  with  his 
hand.  When  the  narrative  was  concluded,  he  raised  his 
head  hastily,  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  on  brother  Charles 
resuming,  fell  into  his  old  attitude  again. 

"I  told  you  this  morning,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
laying  his  hand  upon  his  brother's  shoulder,  "  that  I 
came  to  you  in  mercy.  How  far  you  may  be  implicated 
in  this  last  transaction,  or  how  far  the  person  who  is 
now  in  custody  may  criminate  you,  you  best  know.  But, 
justice  must  take  its  course  against  the  parties  impli- 
cated in  the  plot  against  this  poor,  unoffending,  injured 
lad.  It  is  not  in  my  power,  or  in  the  power  of  my  bro- 
ther Ned,  to  save  you  from  the  consequences.  The  ut- 
most we  can  do,  is,  to  warn  you  in  time,  and  to  give  you 
an  opportunity  of  escaping  them.  We  would  not  have 
an  old  man  like  you  disgraced  and  punished  by  your 
near  relation  :  nor  would  we  have  him  forget,  like  you, 
all  ties  of  blood  and  nature.  We  entreat  you — brother 
Ned,  you  join  me,  I  know%  in  this  entreaty,  and  so,  Tim 
Linkinwater,  do  you,  although  you  pretend  to  be  an  ob- 
stinate dog,  sir,  and  sit  there  frowning  as  if  you  didn't — 
we  entreat  you  to  retire  from  London,  to  take  shelter  in 
some  place  where  you  will  be  safe  from  the  consequen- 
ces of  these  wicked  designs,  and  where  you  may  have 
time,  sir,  to  atone  for  them,  and  to  become  a  better  man." 

"And  do  you  think,"  returned  Ralph,  rising,  "and  do 
you  think,  you  will  so  easily  crush  me  ?  Do  you  think 
that  a  hundred  well-arranged  plans,  or  a  hundred  sub- 
orned witnesses,  or  a  hundred  false  curs  at  my  heels,  or 
a  hundred  canting  speeches  full  of  oily  words,  will  move 
me  ?  I  thank  you  for  disclosing  your  schemes,  which  I 
am  now  prepared  for.  You  have  not  the  man  to  deal 
with  that  you  think  ;  try  me  !  and  remember  that  I  spit 
upon  your  fair  w-ords  and  false  dealings,  and  dare  you — 
provoke  you — taunt  you — to  do  to  me  the  very  worst  you 
can  ! " 

Thus  they  parted,  for  that  time  ;  but  the  worst  had 
not  come  yet. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

The  Bangers  thicken,  and  the  Worst  is  told. 

Instead  of  going  home,  Ralph  threw  himself  into  the 
first  street  cabriolet  he  could  find,  and,  directing  the  dri- 
ver towards  the  police-office  of  the  district  in  which  Mr. 
Squeer's  misfortunes  had  occurred,  alighted  at  a  short 
distance  from  it,  and,  discharging  the  man,  went  the 
rest  of  his  way  thither  on  foot.  Inquiring  for  the  object 
of  his  solicitude,  he  learnt  that  he  had  "timed  his  visit 
well ;  for  Mr.  Squeers  was,  in  fact,  at  that  moment  wait- 
ing for  a  hackney-coach  he  had  ordered,  and  in  which  he 
purposed  proceeding  to  his  week's  retirement,  like  a  gen- 
tleman. 

Demanding  speech  with  the  prisoner,  he  was  ushered 
into  a  kind  of  waiting-room  in  which,  by  reason  of  his 
scholastic  profession  and  superior  respectability,  Mr. 
Squeers  had  been  permitted  to  pass  the  day.  Here,  by 
the  light  of  a  guttering  and  blackened  candle,  he  could 
barely  discern  the  schoolmaster,  fast  asleep  on  a  bench 
in  a  remote  corner.  An  empty  glass  stood  on  a  table  be- 
fore him,  which,  with  his  somnolent  condition  and  a  very 
strong  smell  of  brandy  and  water,  forewarned  the  visitor 
that  Mr.  Squeers  had  been  seeking,  in  creature  comforts, 
a  temporary  forgetfnlness  of  his  unpleasant  situation. 

It  was  not  a  very  easy  matter  to  rouse  him  :  so  lethargic 


218 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


and  heavy  were  "his  slumbers.  Regaining  his  facul- 
ties by  slow  and  faint  glimmerings,  he  at  length  sat  up- 
right ;  and  displaying  a  very  yellow  face,  a  very  red  nose, 
and  a  very  bristly  beard  :  the  joint  elfect  of  which  was 
considerably  heightened  by  a  dirty  white  handkerchief, 
spotted  with  blood,  drawn  over  the  crown  of  his  head 
and  tied  under  his  chin  :  stared  ruefully  at  Ralph  in 
silence,  until  his  feelings  found  a  vent  in  this  pithy  sen- 
tence : 

"I  say,  young  fellow,  you've  been  and  done  it  now  ; 
you  have ! " 

"  What's  the  matter  with  your  head  ?"  asked  Ralph. 

"Why,  your  man,  your  informing  kidnapping  man, 
has  been  and  broke  it,"  rejoined  Squeers  sulkily  ;  "  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  it.  You've  come  at  last,  have 
you?" 

"  Why  have  you  not  sent  to  me  ?  "  said  Ralph.  "  How 
could  I  come  till  I  knew  what  had  befallen  you?" 

"My  family!"  hiccupped  Mr.  Squeers,  raising  his 
eye  to  the  ceiling  ;  "  my  daughter,  as  is  at  that  age  when 
all  the  sensibilities  is  a  coming  out  strong  in  blow — my 
son  as  is  the  young  Norval  of  private  life,  and  the  pride 
and  ornament  of  a  doting  willage — here's  a  shock  for  my 
family  !  The  coat  of  arms  of  the  Squeerses  is  tore,  and 
their  sun  is  gone  down  into  the  ocean  wave  ! " 

"You  have  been  drinking,"  said  Ralph,  "and  have 
not  yet  slept  yourself  sober." 

"  I  haven't  been  drinking  your  health,  my  codger," 
replied  Mr.  Squeers  ;  "  so  you  have  nothing  to  do  with 
that." 

Ralph  suppressed  the  indignation  which  the  school- 
ma.ster's  altered  and  insolent  manner  awakened,  and 
asked  again  why  he  had  not  sent  to  him. 

"  What  should  I  get  by  sending  to  you?"  returned 
Squeers.  "  To  be  known  to  be  in  with  you,  wouldn't 
do  me  a  deal  of  good,  and  they  won't  take  bail  till  they 
know  something  more  of  the  case,  so  here  am  I  hard  and 
fast  :  and  there  are  you,  loose  and  comfortable." 

"  And  so  must  you  be,  in  a  few  days,"  retorted  Ralph, 
with  affected  good-humour.  "  They  can't  hurt  you, 
man." 

"  Why,  T  suppose  they  can't  do  much  to  me,  if  I  ex- 
plain how  it  was  that  I  got  into  the  good  company  of 
that  there  ca-daverous  old  Slider,"  replied  Squeers  vi- 
ciously, "  who  I  wish  was  dead  and  buried,  resurrected 
and  dissected,  and  hung  upon  wires  in  a  anatomical  mu- 
seum, before  ever  I'd  had  anything  to  do  with  her.  This 
is  what  him  with  the  powdered  head  says  this  morning, 
in  so  many  words — '  Prisoner  !  As  you  have  been  found 
in  company  with  this  woman ;  as  you  were  detected  in 
possession  of  this  document  ;  as  you  were  engaged  with 
her  in  fraudulently  destroying  others,  and  can  give  no 
satisfactory  account  of  yourself  ;  I  shall  remand  you  for  a 
week,  in  order  that  inquiries  maybe  made,  and  evidence 
got — and  meanwhile  I  can't  take  any  bail  for  your  appear- 
ance.' Well  then,  what  I  say  now,  is,  that  I  can  give  a 
satisfactory  account  of  myself ;  I  can  hand  in  the  card 
of  my  establishment  and  say,  '  I  am  the  Wackford 
Squeers  as  is  therein  named,  sir.  I  am  the  man  as  is 
guaranteed,  by  unimpeachable  references,  to  be  a  out- 
and-outer  in  morals  and  uprightness  of  principle.  What- 
ever is  wrong  in  this  business  is  no  fault  of  mine.  I  had 
no  evil  design  in  it,  sir.  I  was  not  aware  that  anything 
was  wrong.  I  was  merely  employed  by  a  friend — my 
friend  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby,  of  Golden  Square — send  for 
him,  sir,  and  ask  him  what  he  has  to  say — he's  the  man  ; 
not  me  ! '  " 

"  What  document  was  it  that  you  had  ?  "  asked  Ralph, 
evading,  for  the  moment  the  point  just  raised. 

"What  document?  Why,  the  document,"  replied 
Squeers.  "The  Madeline  what's-her-name  one.  It 
was  a  will  ;  that's  what  it  was." 

"Of  what  nature,  whose  will,  when  dated,  how  ben- 
efiting her,  to  what  extent?  "  asked  Ralph  hurriedly. 

"  A  will  in  her  favour;  that's  all  I  know,"  rejoined 
Squeers,  "  and  that's  more  than  you'd  have  known,  if 
you'd  had  them  bellows  on  your  head.  It's  all  owing 
to  your  precious  caution  that  they  got  hold  of  it.  If 
you  had  let  me  burn  it,  and  taken  my  word  that  it  was 
one,  it  would  have  been  a  heap  of  ashes  behind  the 
re,  instead  of  being  whole  and  sound,  inside  of  my 
great-coat. " 


"  Beaten  at  every  point !  "  muttered  Ralph. 

"Ah  !  "  sighed  Squeers,  who,  between  the  brandy  and 
water  and  his  broken  head,  wandered  strangely,  "at  the 
delightful  village  of  Dotheboys  near  Greta 'Bridge  in 
Yorkshire,  youth  are  boarded,  clothed,  booked,  washed, 
furnished  with  pocket-money,  provided  with  all  neces- 
saries, instructed  in  all  languages  living  and  dead,  math- 
ematics, orthography,  geometry,  astronomy,  trigonome- 
try— this  is  a  altered  state  of  trigonomics,  this  is !  A 
double  1— all,  everything— a  cobbler's  weapon.  U-p-up, 
adjective,  not  down.  S-q-u-double  e-r-s-Squeers,  noun 
substantive,  a  educator  of  youth.  Total,  all  up  with 
Squeers  ! " 

His  running  on,  in  this  way,  had  afforded  Ralph  an 
opportunity  of  recovering  his  presence  of  mind,  which 
at  once  suggested  to  him  the  necessity  of  removing,  as 
far  as  possible,  the  schoolmaster's  misgivings,  and  lead- 
ing him  to  believe  that  his  safety  and  best  policy  lay  in 
the  ]ireservation  of  a  rigid  silence. 

"I  tell  you,  once  again,"  he  said,  "  they  can't  hurt 
you.  You  shall  have  an  action  for  false  imprisonment, 
and  make  a  profit  of  this,  yet.  We  will  devise  a  story 
for  you  that  should  carry  you  through  twenty  times  such 
a  trivial  scrape  as  this  ;  and  if  they  want  security  in  a 
thousand  pounds  for  your  reappearance  in  case  you 
should  be  called  upon,  you  shall  have  it.  All  you  have 
to  do,  is,  to  keep  back  the  truth.  You're  a  little  fuddled 
to-night,  and  may  not  be  able  to  see  this  as  clearly  as 
you  would  at  another  time  ;  but  this  is  what  you  must 
do,  and  you'll  need  all  your  senses  about  you  ;  for  a  slip 
might  be  awkward." 

"Oh  !"  said  Squeers,  who  had  looked  cunningly  at 
him,  with  his  head  stuck  on  one  side,  like  an  old  raven. 
"  That's  what  I'm  to  do,  is  it?  Now  then,  just  you  hear 
a  word  or  two  from  me.  I  an't  a  going  to  have  any  stories 
made  for  me,  and  I  an't  a  going  to  stick  to  any.  If  I 
find  matters  going  again  me,  I  shall  expect  you  to  take 
your  share,  and  I'll  take  care  you  do.  You  never  said 
anything  about  danger.  I  never  bargained  for  being 
brought  into  such  a  plight  as  this,  and  I  don't  mean  to 
take  it  as  quiet  as  you  think.  I  let  you  lead  me  on,  from 
one  thing  to  another,  because  we  had  been  mixed  up  to- 
gether in  a  certain  sort  of  a  way,  and  if  you  had  liked 
to  be  ill-natured  you  might  perhaps  have  hurt  the  busi- 
ness,  and  if  you  liked  to  be  good-natured  you  might 
throw  a  good  deal  in  my  way.  Well :  if  all  goes  right 
now,  that's  quite  correct,  and  I  don't  mind  it ;  but  if 
anyr.hing  goes  wrong,  then,  times  are  altered,  and  I  shall 
just  say  and  do  whatever  I  think  may  serve  me  most, 
and  take  advice  from  nobody.  My  moral  influence  with 
them  lads,"  added  Mr.  Squeers,  with  deeper  gravity,  "  is 
a  tottering  to  its  basis.  The  images  of  Mrs.  Squeers, 
my  daughter,  and  my  son  Wackford,  all  short  of  vittles, 
is  perpetually  before  me  ;  every  other  consideration 
melts  away  and  vanishes,  in  front  of  these  !  the  only 
number  in  all  arithmetic  that  I  know  of,  as  a  husband 
and  a  father,  is  number  one,  under  this  here  most  fatal 
go!" 

How  long  Mr.  Squeers  might  have  declaimed,  or  how 
stormy  a  discussion  his  declamation  might  have  led  to, 
nobody  knows.  Being  interrupted  at  this  point,  by  the 
arrival  of  the  coach  and  an  attendant  who  was  to  bear 
him  company,  he  perched  his  hat  with  great  dignity  on 
the  top  of  the  handkerchief  that  bound  his  head  ;  and, 
thrusting  one  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  taking  the  atten- 
dant's arm  with  the  other,  suffered  himself  to  be  led 
forth. 

"  As  I  supposed  from  his  not  sending  ! "  thought  Ralph. 
"  This  fellow,  I  plainly  see  through  all  his  tipsy  fool- 
ing, has  made  up  his  mind  to  turn  upon  me.  I  am  so 
beset  and  hemmed  in,  that  they  are,  not  only  all  struck 
with  fear,  but,  like  the  beasts  in  the  fable,  have  their 
fling  at  me  now,  though  time  was,  and  no  longer  ago 
than  yesterday  too,  when  they  were  all  civility  and  com- 
pliance. But  they  shall  not  move  me.  I'll  not  give 
way.    I  will  not  budge  one  inch  !  " 

He  went  home,  and  was  glad  to  find  his  housekeeper 
complaining  of  illness  that  he  might  have  an  excuse  for 
being  alone  and  sending  her  away  to  where  she  lived  : 
wliich  was  hard  by.  Then,  he  sat  down  by  the  light  of 
a  single  candle,  and  began  to  think,  for  the  first  time, 
on  all  that  had  taken  place  that  day. 


NICHOLAS 

He  had  neither  eaten  nor  drunk  since  last  nipjht,  and 
in  addition  to  the  anxiety  of  mind  lie  had  undergone, 
had  been  travelling  about,  from  place  to  ])lace  almost  in- 
cessantly, for  many  hours.  He  felt  sick  and  exhausted, 
but  could  taste  nothing  save  a  glass  of  water,  and  con- 
tinued to  sit  with  his  head  ux)on  his  hand— not  resting 
or  thinking,  but  laboriously  trying  to  do  both,  and  feel- 
ing that  every  sense  but  one  of  weariness  and  desolation 
was  for  the  time  benumbed. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  he  heard  a  knocking  at 
the  door,  and  still  sat  quiet  as  before,  as  if  he  could  not 
even  bring  his  thoughts  to  bear  upon  that.  It  had  been 
often  repeated,  and  he  had,  several  times,  heard  a  voice 
outside,  saying  there  was  a  light  in  the  window  (mean- 
ing, as  he  knew,  his  own  candle),  before  he  could  rouse 
himself  and  go  down -stairs. 

Mr.  Nickleby,  there  is  terrible  news  for  you,  and  I 
am  sent  to  beg  you  will  come  with  me  directly,"  said  a 
voice  he  seemed  to  recognise.  He  held  his  hand  above 
his  eyes,  and,  looking  out,  saw  Tim  Linkinwater  on  the 
steps. 

**  Come  where  ?  "  demanded  Ralph. 

"To  our  house — where  you  came  this  morning.  I 
have  a  coach  here." 

"  Why  should  I  go  there  ?  "  said  Ralph. 

*'  Don't  ask  me  why,  but  pray  come  with  me," 

"  Another  edition  of  to-day  !  "  returned  Ralph,  mak- 
ing as  though  he  would  shut  the  door. 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Tim,  catching  him  by  the  arm  and 
speaking  most  earnestly  ;  "  it  is  only  that  you  may  hear 
something  that  has  occurred — something  very  dreadful, 
Mr.  Nickleby,  which  concerns  you  nearly.  Do  you  think 
I  would  tell  you  so,  or  come  to  you  like  this,  if  it  were 
not  the  case  ?" 

Ralph  looked  at  him  more  closely.  Seeing  that  he 
was  indeed  greatly  excited,  he  faltered,  and  could  not 
tell  what  to  say  or  think. 

"  You  had  better  here  this,  now,  than  at  any  other 
time,"  said  Tim,  "  it  may  have  some  influence  with  you. 
For  Heaven's  sake  come  !  " 

Perhaps,  at  another  time,  Ralph's  obstinacy  and  dis- 
like would  have  been  proof  against  any  appeal  from  such 
a  quarter  however  emphatically  urged  ;  but  now,  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  he  went  into  the  hall  for  his  hat, 
and  returning,  got  into  the  coach  without  speaking  a 
word. 

Tim.  well  remembered  afterwards,  and  often  said,  that 
as  Ralph  Nickleby  went  into  the  house  for  this  purpose, 
he  saw  him,  by  the  light  of  the  candle  which  he  had  set 
down  upon  a  chair,  reel  and  ^tagger  like  a  drunken  man. 
He  well  remembered,  too,  that  when  he  had  placed  his 
foot  upon  the  coach-steps,  he  turned  round  and  looked 
upon  him  with  a  face  so  ashy  pale  and  so  very  wild  and 
vacant  that  it  made  him  shudder,  and  for  the  moment 
almost  afraid  to  follow.  People  were  fond  of  saying 
that  he  had  some  dark  presentiment  upon  him  then,  but 
his  emotion  might,  perhaps,  with  greater  show  of  rea- 
son, be  referred  to  what  he  had  undergone  that  day. 

A  profound  silence  was  observed  during  the  ride.  Ar- 
rived at  their  place  of  destination,  Ralph  followed  his 
conductor  into  the  house,  and  into  a  room  where  the  two 
brothers  were.  He  was  so  astounded,  not  to  say  awed, 
by  something  of  a  mute  compassion  for  himself  which 
was  visible  in  their  manner  and  in  that  of  the  old  clerk, 
that  he  could  scarcely  speak. 

Having  taken  a  seat,  however,  he  contrived  to  say, 
though  in  broken  words,  "  What — what  have  you  to  say 
to  me — more  than  has  been  said  already  ?  " 

The  room  was  old  and  large,  very  imperfectly  lighted, 
and  terminated  in  a  bay  window  :  about  which,  hung 
some  heavy  drapery.  Casting  his  eyes  in  this  direction, 
as  he  spoke,  he  thought  he  made  out  the  dusky  figure  of 
a  man.  He  was  confirmed  in  this  impression  by  seeing 
that  the  object  moved,  as  if  uneasy  under  his  scrutiny. 

**  Who's  that  yonder?"  he  said. 

"  One  who  has  conveyed  to  us,  within  these  two  hours, 
the  intelligence  which  caused  our  sending  to  you,"  re- 
plied brother  Charles.  "  Let  him  be,  sir,  let  him  be  for 
the  present." 

"  More  riddles  !  "  said  Ralph,  faintly.    "  Well,  sir  ?" 
In  turning  his  face  towards  the  brothers  he  was  obliged 
to  avert  it  from  the  window  ;  but,  before  either  of  them 


NICKLEBY.  219 

I  could  spoalf,  ho  had  looked  round  again.  It  was  evident 
that  he  was  r(!ndered  restless  and  uncomfortul^le  by  the 
presence  of  the  unseen  person  ;  for  he  rept'ated  this  ac- 
tion several  times,  and  at  leiigtli,  as  if  in  a  nervous  state 
which  rendered  him  positively  unable  to  turn  away  from 
the  place,  sat  so  as  to  have  it  opposite  liim,  muttering 
as  an  excuse  that  he  could  not  bear  the  light. 

The  brothers  conferred  apart  for  a  short  time  :  their 
manner  showing  that  they  were  agitated.  lialph  glanced 
at  them,  twice  or  thrice,  and  ultimately  said,  with  a  great 
oiTort  to  recover  his  self-possession,  "  Now,  what  is  this?" 
If  I  am  brought  from  home  at  this  time  of  night,  let  it 
be  for  something.  What  have  you  got  to  tell  me?" 
After  a  short  pause,  he  added,  "  Is  my  niece  dead  ?" 

He  had  struck  upon  a  key  which  rendered  the  task  of 
commencement  an  easier  one.  Brother  Charles  turned, 
and  said  that  it  was  a  death  of  which  they  had  to  tell 
him,  but  that  his  niece  was  well. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Ralph,  as  his  eyes 
brightened,  "  that  her  brother's  dead.  No,  that's  too 
good.  I'd  not  believe  it,  if  you  told  me  so.  It  would 
be  too  welcome  news  to  be  true." 

''Shame  on  you,  you  hardened  and  unnatural  man," 
cried  the  other  brother,  warmly  ;  "  prepare  yourself  for 
intelligence,  which,  if  you  have  any  human  feeling  in 
your  breast,  will  make  even  you  shrink  and  tremble. 
What  if  we  tell  you  that  a  poor  unfortunate  boy  :  a  child 
in  everything  but  never  having  known  one  of  those  tender 
endeannents,  or  one  of  those  lightsome  hours  which  make 
our  childhood  a  time  to  be  remembered  like  a  happy  dream 
through  all  our  after  life  :  a  warm-hearted,  harmles,s, 
affectionate  creature,  who  never  offended  you,  or  did  you 
wrong,  but  on  whom  you  have  vented  the  malice  and 
hatred  you  have  conceived  for  your  nephew,  and  whom 
you  have  made  an  instrument  for  wreaking  your  bad 
jjassions  ui3on  him  :  what  if  we  tell  you  that,  sinking 
under  your  persecution,  sir,  and  the  mis^ery  and  ill-usage 
of  a  life  short  in  years  but  long  in  suffering,  this  poor 
creature  has  gone  to  tell  his  sad  tale  where,  for  your 
part  in  it,  you  must  surely  answer?" 

"  If  you  tell  me,"  said  Ralph  ;  "  if  you  tell  me  that  he 
is  dead,  I  forgive  you  all  else.  If  you  tell  me  that  he  is 
dead,  I  am  in  your  debt  and  bound  to  you  for  life.  He 
is  !  I  see  it  in  your  faces.  Who  triumphs  now  ?  Is 
this  your  dreadful  news  ;  this  your  terrible  intelligence? 
You  see  how  it  moves  me.  You  did  well  to  send,  I 
would  have  travelled  a  hundred  miles  a-foot,  through 
mud,  mire,  and  darkness,  to  hear  this  news  just  at  this 
time." 

Even  then,  moved  as  he  was  by  this  savage  joy,  Ralph 
could  see  in  the  faces  of  the  two  brothers,  mingling  with 
their  look  of  disgust  and  horror,  something  of  "that  inde- 
finable compassion  for  himself  which  he  had  noticed  be- 
fore. 

"  And  lie  brought  you  the  intelligence,  did  he?"  said 
Ralph,  pointing  with  his  finger  towards  the  recess  al- 
ready mentioned  ;  "and  sat  there,  no  doubt,  to  see  me 
prostrated  and  overwhelmed  by  it  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  But  I 
tell  him  that  I'll  be  a  sharp  thorn  in  his  side  for  many  a 
long  day  to  come  ;  and  I  tell  you  two,  again,  that  you 
don't  know  him  yet  ;  and  that  you'll  rue  the  day  you 
took  compassion  on  the  vagabond." 

"You  take  me  for  your  nephew,"  said  a  hollow  voice  ; 
"  it  would  be  better  for  you  and  for  me  too,  if  I  were  he 
indeed." 

The  figure  that  he  had  seen  so  dimly,  rose,  and  came 
slowly  down.  He  started  back,  for  lie  found  that  he 
confronted  —  not  Nicholas,  as  he  had  supposed,  but 
Brooker. 

Ralph  had  no  reason,  that  he  knew,  to  fear  this  man  ; 
he  had  never  feared  him  before  ;  but  the  pallor  which 
had  been  observed  in  his  face  when  he  issued  forth  that 
night,  came  upon  him  again.  He  was  seen  to  tremble, 
and  his  voice  changed  as  he  said,  keeping  his  eyes  upon 
him, 

"\Miat  does  this  fellow  here?  Do  you  know  he  is  a 
convict — a  felon — a  common  thief  !  " 

"  Hear  what  he  has  to  tell  you — oh,  Mr,  Nickleby, 
hear  what  he  has  to  tell  you,  be  he  what  he  may  !"  cried 
the  brothers,  with  such  emphatic  earnestness,  that  Ralph 
turned  to  them  in  wonder.  They  pointed  to  Brooker. 
Ralph  again  gazed  at  him  :  as  it  seemed  mechanically. 


220 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


''That  boy/'  said  the  man,  "that  these  gentlemen 
have  been  talking  of — " 

"  That  boy,"  repeated  Ralph,  looking  vacantly  at  him. 

"  Whom  I  saw,  stretched  dead  and  cold  upon  his  bed, 
and  who  is  now  in  his  grave — " 

"WTio  is  now  in  his  grave,"  echoed  Ralph,  like  one 
who  talks  in  his  sleep. 

The  man  raised  his  eyes,  and  clasped  his  hands  sol- 
emnly together  : 

"  — Was  your  only  son,  so  help  me  God  in  heaven  ! " 

In  the  midst  of  a  dead  silence,  Ralph  sat  down,  press- 
ing his  two  hands  uj)on  his  temples.  He  removed  them, 
after  a  minute,  and  never  was  there  seen,  part  of  a  liv- 
ing man  undisfigured  by  any  wound,  such  a  ghastly  face 
as  he  then  disclosed.  He  looked  at  Brooker,  who  was 
by  this  time  standing  at  a  short  distance  from  him  ;  but 
did  not  say  one  word,  or  make  the  slightest  sound  or 
gesture. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  man,  "  I  offerno  excuses  for  my- 
self. I  am  long  past  that.  If,  in  telling  yow  how  this  has 
happened,  I  tell  you  that  I  was  harshly  used  and  perhaps 
driven  out  of  my  real  nature,  I  do  it,  only  as  a  necessary 
part  of  my  story,  and  not  to  shield  myself.  I  am  a 
guilty  man." 

He  stopped,  as  if  to  recollect,  and  looking  away  from 
Ralph,  and  addressing  himself  to  the  brothers,  proceeded 
in  a  subdued  and  humble  tone  : 

"  Among  those  wlio  once  had  dealings  with  this  man, 
gentlemen — that's  from  twenty  to  five-and-twenty  years 
ago — there  was  one  :  a  rough  fox-hunting,  hard-drinking 
gentleman,  who  had  run  through  his  own  fortune,  and 
wanted  to  squander  away  that  of  his  sister  ;  they  were 
both  orphans,  and  she  lived  with  him  and  managed  his 
house.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was,  originally,  to  back 
his  influence  and  try  to  over-persuade  the  young  woman 
or  not,  but  he,"  pointing  to  Ralph,  "  used  to  go  down 
to  the  house  in  Leicestershire  pretty  often,  and  stop 
there  many  days  at  a  time.  They  had  had  a  great  many 
dealings  together,  and  he  may  have  gone,  on  some  of 
those,  or  to  patch  up  his  client's  affairs,  which  were  in  a 
ruinous  state — of  course  he  went  for  profit.  The  gen- 
tlewoman was  not  a  girl,  but  she  was,  I  have  heard  say, 
handsome,  and  entitled  to  a  pretty  large  property.  In 
course  of  time  he  married  her.  The  same  love  of  gain 
which  led  him  to  contract  this  marriage,  led  to  its  being 
kept  strictly  private  ;  for  a  clause  in  her  father's  will 
declared  that  if  she  married  witiiout  her  brother's  con- 
sent the  property,  in  which  she  had  only  some  life  in- 
terest while  she  remained  single,  should  pass  away  alto- 
gether to  another  branch  of  the  family.  The  brother 
would  give  no  consent  that  the  sister  didn't  buy,  and  pay 
for  handsomely  ;  Mr.  Nickleby  would  consent  to  no  such 
sacrifice  ;  and  so,  they  went  on,  keeping  their  marriage 
secret,  and  waiting  for  him  to  break  his  neck  or  die  of  a 
fever.  He  did  neither,  and  meanwhile  the  result  of  this 
private  marriage  was  a  son.  The  child  was  put  out  to 
nurse,  a  long  way  off ;  his  mother  never  saw  him  but 
once  or  twice  and  then  by  stealth  ;  and  his  father — so 
eagerly  did  he  thirst  after  the  money  which  seemed  to 
come  almost  within  his  grasp  now,  for  his  brother-in- 
law  was  very  ill,  and  breaking  more  and  more  every 
day — never  went  near  him,  to  avoid  raising  any  suspicion. 
The  brother  lingered  on  ;  Mr.  Nickleby's  wife  constantly 
urged  him  to  avow  their  marriage  ;  he  peremptorily  re- 
f  ased.  She  remained  alone  in  a  dull  country  house  : 
seeing  little  or  no  company  but  riotous,  drunken  sports- 
men. Ho  lived  in  London  and  clung  to  his  business. 
Angry  quarrels  and  recriminations  toolc  place,  and  when 
they  had  been  married  nearly  seven  years,  and  were 
within  a  few  weeks  of  the  time  when  the  brother's  death 
would  have  adjusted  all,  she  eloped  with  a  young  man, 
and  left  him." 

Here,  he  paused,  but  Ralph  did  not  stir,  and  the  broth- 
ers signed  to  him  to  proceed. 

"It  was  then,  that  I  became  acquainted  with  these 
circumstances  from  his  own  lips.  They  were  no  secrets 
then  ;  for  the  brother,  and  others,  knew  them  ;  but  they 
were  communicated  to  me— not  on  this  account,  but  be- 
cause I  was  wanted.  He  followed  the  fugitives — some 
said  to  make  money  of  his  wife's  shame,  but,  I  believe, 
to  take  some  violent  revenge,  for  that  was  as  much  his 
character  as  the  other — perhaps  more.     He  didn't  find 


them,  and  she  died  not  long  after.  I  don't  know  whether 
he  began  to  think  he  might  like  the  child,  or  whether 
he  wished  to  make  sure. that  it  should  never  fall  into  its 
mother's  hands  ;  but  before  he  went,  he  entrusted  me 
with  the  charge  of  bringing  it  home.    And  I  did  so." 

He  went  on;  from  this  point,  in  a  still  more  humble 
tone,  and  spoke  in  a  very  low  voice  :  pointing  to  Ralph 
as  he  resumed. 

"He  had  used  me  ill — cruelly — I  reminded  him  in 
what,  not  long  ago  when  I  met  him  in  the  street — and  I 
hated  him.  I  brought  the  child  home  to  his  own  house 
and  lodged  him  in  the  front  garret.  Neglect  had  made 
him  very  sickly,  and  I  was  obliged  to  call  in  a  doctor, 
who  said  he  must  be  removed  for  change  of  air,  or  he 
would  die.  I  think  that,  first  put  it  in  my  head.  I  did 
it  then.  He  was  gone  six  weeks,  and  when  he  came 
back,  I  told  him — with  every  circumstance  well  planned 
and  proved  ;  nobody  could  have  suspected  me — that  the 
child  was  dead  and  buried.  He  might  have  been  disap- 
pointed in  some  intention  he  had  formed,  or  he  might 
have  had  some  natural  affection,  but  he  was  grieved  at 
that,  and  I  was  confirmed  in  my  design  of  opening  up  the 
secret  some  day,  and  making  it  a  means  of  getting 
money  from  him.  I  had  heard,  like  most  other  men,  of 
Yorkshire  schools.  I  took  the  child  to  one  kept  by  a 
man  named  Squeers,  and  left  it  there.  I  gave  him  the 
name  of  Smike.  Year  by  year,  I  paid  twenty  pounds 
a-year  for  him  for  six  years  :  never  breathing  the  secret 
all  the  time  :  for  I  had  left  his  father's  service  after 
more  hard  usage,  and  quarrelled  with  him  again.  I  was 
sent  away  from  this  country.  I  have  been  away,  nearly 
eight  years.  Directly  I  came  home  again,  I  travelled 
down  into  Yorkshire,  and,  skulking  in  the  village  of  an 
evening  time,  made  inquiries  about  the  boys  at  the 
school,  and  found  that  this  one,  whom  I  placed  there, 
had  run  away  with  a  young  man  bearing  the  name  of 
his  own  father.  I  sought  his  father  out  in  London,  and 
hinting  at  what  I  could  tell  him,  tried  for  a  little  money 
to  support  life  ;  but  he  repulsed  me  with  threats.  I 
then  found  out  his  clerk,  and,  going  on  from  little  to  lit- 
tle, and  showing  him  that  there  were  good  reasons  for  com- 
municating with  me,  learnt  what  was  going  on  ;  and  it  was 
I  who  told  him  that  the  boy  was  no  son  of  the  man  who 
claimed  to  be  his  father.  All  this  time  I  had  never  seen 
the  boy.  At  length,  I  heard  from  this  same  source  that 
he  was  very  ill,  and  where  he  was.  I  travelled  down 
there,  that  I  might  recall  myself,  if  possible,  to  his  rec- 
ollection and  confirm  my  story.  I  came  upon  him  un- 
expectedly ;  but  before  I  could  speak  he  knew  me — he 
had  good  cause  to  remember  me,  poor  lad  ! — and  I  would 
have  sworn  to  him  if  I  had  met  him  in  the  Indies.  I 
knew  the  piteous  face  I  had  seen  in  the  little  child. 
After  a  few  day's  indecision,  I  applied  to  the  young  gen- 
tleman in  whose  care  he  w^as,  and  I  found  that  he  was 
dead.  He  knows  how  quickly  he  recognised  me  again, 
how  often  he  had  descriljed  me  and  my  leaving  him  at 
the  school,  and  how  he  told  him  of  a  garret  he  recol- 
lected :  which  is  the  one  I  have  spoken  of,  and  in  his 
father's  house  to  this  day.  This  is  my  story,  I  demand 
to  be  brought  face  to  face  with  the  schoolmaster,  and 
put  to  any  possible  proof  of  any  part  of  it,  and  I  will 
show  that  it's  too  true,  and  that  I  have  this  guilt  upon 
my  soul." 

"  Unhappy  man  !  "  said  the  brothers.  "  What  repara- 
tion can  you  make  for  this  ?  " 

"None,  gentlemen,  none  I  I  have  none  to  make, 
and  nothing  to  hope  now.  I  am  old  in  years,  and  older 
still  in  misery  and  care.  This  confession  can  bring  noth- 
ing upon  me  but  new  suffering  and  punishment  ;  but  I 
make  it,  and  will  abide  by  it  whatever  comes.  I  have 
been  made  the  instrument  of  working  out  this  dreadful 
retribution  upon  the  head  of  a  man  who,  in  the  hot  pur- 
suit of  his  bad  ends,  has  persecuted  and  hunted  down 
his  own  child  to  death.  It  must  descend  upon  me  too — 
I  know  it  must  fall — my  reparation  comes  too  late  ;  and, 
neither  in  this  world  nor  in  the  next,  can  I  have  hope 
again  !" 

He  had  hardly  spoken,  when  the  lamp,  which  stood 
u])on  the  table  close  to  where  Ralph  was  seated,  and 
which  was  the  only  one  in  the  room,  was  thrown  to  the 
ground,  and  left  them  in  darkness.  There  was  some  tri- 
fling confusion  in  obtaining  another  light;  the  interval  was 


NICHOLAS  mCKLEBY, 


221 


a  mere  nothing ;  but  when  the  light  appeared,  Ralph 
Nickleby  was  gone. 

The  good  brothers  and  Tim  Linkinwater  occupied 
some  time  in  discussing  the  x)robability  of  his  return  ; 
and,  when  it  became  apparent  that  he  would  not  come 
back,  they  hesitated  whether  or  no  to  send  after  him. 
At  length,  remembering  how  strangely  and  silently  he 
sat  in  one  immoveable  position  during  the  interview,  and 
thinking  he  might  possibly  be  ill.  they  determined,  al- 
though it  was  now  very  late,  to  send  to  his  house  on 
some  pretence.  Finding  an  excuse  in  the  presence 
of  Brooker,  whom  they  knew  not  how  to  dispose  of,  with- 
out consulting  his  wishes,  they  concluded  to  act  upon 
this  resolution  before  going  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

Wherein  Nicholas  and  his  Sisfer  forfeit  the  Good  Opinion  of  all 
worldly  and  prudent  People. 

On  the  next  morning  after  Brooker's  disclosure  had 
been  made,  Nicholas  returned  home.  The  meeting  be- 
tween him  and  those  whom  he  had  left  there,  was  not 
without  strong  emotion  on  both  sides  ;  for  they  had  been 
Informed  by  his  letters  of  what  had  occurred  :  and,  be- 
sides that  his  griefs  were  theirs,  they  mourned  with  him 
thedeathof  one  whose  forlorn  and  helpless  state  had  first 
established  a  claim  upon  their  compassion,  and  whose 
truth  of  heart  and  grateful  earnest  nature  had,  every 
day,  endeared  him  to  them  more  and  more. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  wiping  her  eyes, 
and  sobbing  bitterly,  Ihave  lost  the  best,  the  most  zeal- 
ous, and  most  attentive  creature,  that  has  ever  been  a 
companion  to  me  in  my  life — putting  you,  my  dear  Nicho- 
las, and  Kate,  and  your  poor  papa,  and  that  well-be- 
haved nurse  who  ran  away  with  the  linen  and  the  twelve 
small  forks,  out  of  the  question,  of  course.  Of  all  the 
tractable,  equal-tempered,  attached,  and  faithful  beings 
that  ever  lived,  I  believe  he  was  the  most  so.  To  look 
round  upon  the  garden,  now,  that  he  took  so  much  pride 
in,  or  to  go  into  his  room  and  see  it  filled  with  so  many 
of  those  little  contrivances  for  our  comfort  that  he  was 
so  fond  of  making,  and  made  so  well,  and  so  little  thought 
he  would  leave  unfinished — I  can't  bear  it,  I  cannot 
really.  Ah  !  This  is  a  great  trial  to  me,  a  great  trial. 
It  will  be  a  comfort  to  you,  my  dear  Nicholas,  to  the  end 
of  your  life,  to  recollect  how  kind  and  good  you  always 
were  to  him — so  it  will  be  to  me,  to  think  what  excel- 
lent terms  we  were  always  upon,  and  how  fond  he  always 
was  of  me,  poor  fellow  !  It  was  very  natural  you  should 
have  been  attached  to  him,  my  dear  boy — very — and  of 
course  you  were,  and  are  very  much  cut  up  by  this.  I  am 
sure  it's  only  necessary  to  look  at  you  and  see  how 
changed  you  are,  to  see  that  ;  but  nobody  knows  what 
my  feelings  are— nobody  can — it's  quite  impossible?" 

While  Mrs.  Nickleby,  witli  the  utmost  sincerity,  gave 
■vent  to  her  sorrows  after  her  own  peculiar  fashion  of  con- 
sidering herself  foremost,  she  was  not  the  only  one  who 
indulged  such  feelings.  Kate,  although  well  accustomed 
to  forget  herself  when  others  were  to  be  considered, 
could  not  repress  her  grief  ;  Madeline  was  scarcely  less 
moved  than  she  ;  and  poor,  hearty,  honest,  little  Miss  La 
Creevy,  who  had  come  upon  one  of  her  visits  while  Nich- 
olas was  away,  and  had  done  nothing,  since  the  sad  news 
arrived,  but  console  and  cheer  them  all,  no  sooner  be- 
held him  coming  in  at  the  door,  than  she  sat  herself  down 
upon  the  stairs,  and  bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears,  refused 
for  a  long  time  to  be  comforted. 

"It  hurts  me  so,"  cried  the  poor  body,  "to  see  him 
come  back  alone.    I  can't  help  thinking  what  he  must  j 
have  suffered  himself.    I  wouldn't  mind  it  so  much  if  he  ' 
gave  way  a  little  more  ;  but  he  bears  it  so  manfully."  { 

"Why,  so  I  should,"  said  Nicholas,  "  should  I  not?"  i 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  little  woman,  "and  bless  you 
for  a  good  creature  !  but  this  does  seem  at  first  to  a  sim- 
ple Soul  like  me — I  know  it's  wrong  to  say  so,  and  I  shall  j 
be  sorry  for  it  presently — this  does  seem  such  a  poor  re-  ' 
ward  for  all  you  have  done."  | 

"Nay,"  said  Nicholas  gently,  "  what  better  reward, 
could  1  have,  than  the  knowledge  that  his  last  days  were  i 


peaceful  and  happy,  and  the  recollection  that  I  was  his 
constant  companion,  and  was  not  prevented,  as  I  might 
have  been  by  a  hundred  circumstances,  from  being  beside 
him  ! " 

"  To  be  sure,"  sobbed  Miss  La  Creevy  ;  "  it's  very  true, 
and  I'm  an  ungrateful,  impious,  wicked  little  fool,  I 
know." 

With  that,  the  good  soul  fell  to  crying  fifrosh,  and  en- 
deavouring to  recover  herself,  tried  to  lauf^h.  The  laugh 
and  the  cry  meeting  each  other  thus  abruptly,  had  a  strug- 
gle for  the  mastery  ;  the  result  was,  that  it  was  a  drawn 
battle,  and  Miss  La  Creevy  went  into  hysterics. 

Waiting  until  they  were  all  tolerably  quiet  and  com- 
posed again,  Nicholas,  who  stood  in  need  of  sfjme  rest 
after  his  long  journey,  retired  to  his  own  room,  and  throw- 
ing himself,  dressed  as  he  was,  upon  the  bed,  fell  into  a 
sound  sleep.  When  he  awoke,  he  found  Kate  sitting  by 
his  bed-side,  who,  seeing  that  he  had  opened  his  eyes, 
stooped  down  to  kiss  him. 

"I  came  to  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  home 
again." 

"  But  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  Kate." 

"  We  have  been  wearying  so  for  your  return,"  said 
Kate,  "mamma  and  I,  and — and  Madeline." 

"  You  said  in  your  last  letter  that  she  was  quite  well," 
said  Nicholas,  rather  hastily,  and  colouring  as  he  spoke. 
"Has  nothing  been  said,  since  I  have  been  away,  about 
any  future  arrangements  that  the  brothers  have  in  con- 
templation for  her?" 

"  Oh,  not  a  word,"  replied  Kate,  "  I  can't  think  of  part- 
ing from  her  without  sorrow ;  and  surely,  Nicholas,  you 
don't  wish  it  ! " 

Nicholas  coloured  again,  and,  sitting  down  beside  his 
sister  on  a  little  couch  near  the  window,  said  : 

"No,  Kate,  no,  I  do  not.  I  might  strive  to  disguise 
my  real  feelings  from  anybody  but  you  ;  but  I  will  tell 
you  that — briefly  and  plainly,  Kate — that  I  love  her." 

Kate's  eyes  brightened,  and  she  was  going  to  make 
some  reply,  when  Nicholas  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm, 
and  went  on  : 

"Nobody  must  know  this  but  you.  She,  last  of  all." 
"  Dear  Nicholas  !" 

"Lastof  all — never,  though  never  is  a  long  day.  Some- 
times, I  try  to  think  that  the  time  may  come  when  I  may 
honestly  tell  her  this  ;  but  it  is  so  far  off,  in  such  distant 
prospective,  so  many  years  must  elapse  before  it  comes, 
and  when  it  does  come  (if  ever)  I  shall  be  so  unlike  what 
I  am  now,  and  shall  have  so  outlived  my  days  of  youth 
and  romance— though  not,  I  am  sure,  of  love  for  her — 
that  even  I  feel  how  visionary  all  such  hopes  must  be, 
and  try  to  crush  them  rudely,  myself,  and  have  the  pain 
over,  rather  than  suffer  time  to  wither  them,  and  keep 
the  disappointment  in  store.  No,  Kate  !  Since  I  have 
been  absent,  I  have  had,  in  that  poor  fellow  who  is  gone, 
perpetually  before  my  eyes,  another  instance  of  the  mu- 
nificent liberality  of  these  noble  brothers.  As  far  as  in 
me  lies,  I  will  deserve  it,  and  if  I  have  vravered  in  my 
bounden  duty  to  them  before,  I  am  now  determined  to 
discharge  it  rigidh^  and  to  put  further  delays  and  temp- 
tations beyond  my  reach." 

"Before  you  say  another  word,  dear  Nicholas,"  said 
Kate,  turning  pale,  "you  must  hear  what  I  have  to  tell 
you.  I  came  on  purpose,  but  I  had  not  the  courage. 
What  you  say  now,  gives  me  new  heart."  She  faltered, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

There  was  that  in  her  manner,  which  prepared  Nicho- 
las for  what  was  coming.  Kate  tried  to  speak,  but  her 
tears  prevented  her. 

"  Come,  you  foolish  girl,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "  why  Kate, 
Kate,  be  fi  woman  !  I  think  I  know  what  you  would  tell 
me.    It  concerns  Mr.  Frank,  does  it  not  ?  " 

"Kate  sunk  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  sobbed 
out  "Yes." 

"And  he  has  offered  you  his  hand,  perhaps,  since  I 
have  been  awav,"  said 'Nicholas  ;  "is  that  it?  Yes. 
Well,  well  :  it's  not  so  difficult,  you  see,  to  tell  me,  after 
all.    He  offered  you  his  hand  ?" 

"  Which  I  refused,"  said  Kate. 

"Yes  ;  and  why?" 

"  I  told  him,"  she  said,  in  a  trembling  voice,  "  all  that 
I  have  since  found  you  told  mamma  ;  and  while  I  could 
not  conceal  from  him,  and  cannot  from  you  that — that  it 


222 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


■was  a  pang  and  a  great  trial,  I  did  so,  firmly,  and  begged 
liim  not  to  see  me  any  more." 

"That's  my  own  brave  Kate  !"  said  Nicholas,  press- 
ing her  to  his  breast.    I  knew  yon  would." 

"He  tried  to  alter  my  resolution,"  said  Kate,  "and 
declared  that,  be  my  decision  what  it  might,  he  would 
not  only  inform  his  uncles  of  the  step  he  had  taken,  but 
Avould  commuicate  it  to  you  also,  directly  you  returned. 
I  am  afraid,"  she  added  :  her  momentary  composure  for- 
saking her,  "  I  am  afraid  I  may  not  have  said,  strongly 
enough,  how  deeply  I  felt  such  disinterested  love,  and 
how  earnestly  I  prayed  for  his  future  happiness.  If  you 
do  talk  together,  I  should— I  should  like  him  to  know 
that. " 

"  And  did  you  suppose,  Kate,  when  you  had  made  this 
sacrifice  to  what  you  knew  was  right  and  honourable, 
that  I  should  shrink  from  mine  ?  "  said  Nicholas  tenderly. 

"  Oh,  no  !  not  if  your  position  had  been  the  same, 
but—" 

"But  it  is  the  same,"  interrupted  Nicholas  ;  "Made- 
line is  not  the  near  relation  of  our  benefactors,  but  she 
is  closely  bound  to  them  by  ties  as  dear  ;  and  I  was  first 
entrusted  with  her  history,  specially  because  they  re- 
posed unbounded  confidence  in  me,  and  believed  that  I 
was  as  true  as  steel.  How  base  it  would  be  of  me  to 
take  advantage  of  the  circumstances  which  placed  her 
here,  or  of  the  slight  service  I  was  happily  able  to  ren- 
der her,  and  to  seek  to  engage  her  affections  when  the 
result  must  be,  if  I  succeeded,  that  the  brothers  would  be 
disappointed  in  their  darling  wish  of  establishing  her  as 
their  own  child,  and  that  I  must  seem  to  hope  to  build 
my  fortunes  on  their  compassion  for  the  young  creature 
whom  I  had  so  meanly  and  unworthily  entrapped  ;  turn- 
ing her  very  gratitude  and  warmth  of  heart  to  my  own 
purpose  and  account,  and  trading  in  her  misfortunes  !  I, 
too,  whose  duty,  and  pride,  and  pleasure,  Kate,  it  is,  to 
have  other  claims  upon  me  which  I  will  never  forget : 
and  -who  have  the  means  of  a  comfortable  and  happy  life 
already,  and  have  no  right  to  look  beyond  it  !  I  have 
determined  to  remove  this  weight  from  my  mind.  I 
doubt  whether  I  have  not  done  wrong,  even  now  ;  and  to- 
day I  will,  without  reserve  or  equivocation,  disclose  my 
real  reasons  to  Mr.  Cheery ble,  and  implore  him  to  take 
immediate  measures  for  removing  this  young  lady  to  the 
shelter  of  some  other  roof.'' 

"  To-day?  so  very  soon  !  " 

"  I  have  thought  of  this,  for  weeks,  and  why  should  I 
postpone  it?  If  the  scene  through  which  I  have  just 
passed,  has  taught  me  to  reflect,  J^nd  has  awakened  me 
to  a  more  anxious  and  careful  sense  of  duty,  why  should 
I  wait  until  the  impression  has  cooled  ?  You  would  not 
dissuade  me,  Kate  ;  now  would  you  ?  " 

"  You  may  grow  rich,  you  know,"  said  Kate, 

"  I  may  grow  rich  ! "  repeated  Nicholas,  with  a  mourn- 
ful smile,  "  ay,  and  I  may  grow  old  !  But  rich  or  poor, 
or  old  or  young,  we  shall  ever  be  the  same  to  each  other, 
and  in  that  our  comfort  lies.  What  if  we  have  but  one 
home  ?  It  can  never  be  a  solitary  one  to  you  and  me. 
What  if  we  were  to  remain  so  true  to  these  first  impres- 
sions as  to  form  no  others  ?  It  is  but  one  more  link  to  the 
strong  chain  that  binds  us  together.  It  seems  but  yes- 
terday tliat  we  were  playfellows,  Kate,  and  it  will 
seem  but  to-morrow  when  we  are  staid  old  people,  look- 
ing back  to  these  cares  as  we  look  back,  now,  to  those  of 
our  childish  days  :  and  recollecting  with  a  melancholy 
pleasure  that  the  time  was,  when  they  could  move  us. 
Perhaps  then,  when  we  are  quaint  old  folks  and  talk  of 
the  times  when  our  step  was  lighter  and  our  hair  not  grey, 
we  may  bo  even  thankful  for  the  trials  that  so  endeared 
us  to  each  other,  and  turned  our  lives  into  that  current, 
down  which  wo  shall  have  glided  so  peacefully  and 
calmly.  And  having  caught  some  inkling  of  our  story, 
the  young  people  about  us — as  young  as  you  and  I  are 
now,  Kate — may  come  to  us  for  sympathy,  and  pour  dis- 
tresses which  hope  and  inexperience  could  scarcely  feel 
enough  for,  into  the  compassionate  ears  of  the  old  bach- 
elor brother  and  his  maiden  sister." 

Kate  smiled  through  her  tears,  as  Nicholas  drew  this 
])icturo  ;  but  they  were  not  tears  of  sorrow,  although 
they  continued  to  fall  when  he  had  ceased  to  speak. 

"Am  I  not  right,  Kate?"  he  said,  after  a  short  si- 
lence. 


"Quite,  quite,  dear  brother;  and  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  happy  I  am,  that  I  have  acted  as  you  would  have 
had  me." 

"  You  don't  regret?" 

"  N — n — no,"  said  Kate  timidly,  tracing  some  pattern 
upon  the  ground  with  her  little  foot.  "I  don't  re- 
gret having  done  what  was  honourable  and  right,  of 
course  ;  but  I  do  regret  that  this  should  have  ever  hap- 
pened—  at  least  sometimes  I  regret  it,  and  sometimes 
I — I  don't  know  what  I  say  ;  I  am  but  a  weak  girl,  Nicho- 
las, and  it  has  agitated  me  very  much." 

It  is  no  vaunt  to  affirm  that  if  Nicholas  had  had  ten 
thousand  pounds  at  the  minute,  he  would,  in  his  gener- 
ous affection  for  the  owner  of  the  blushing  cheek  and 
downcast  eye,  have  bestowed  its  utmost  farthing,  in  per- 
fect forgetfulness  of  himself,  to  secure  her  happiness. 
But  all  lie  could  do  was  to  comfort  and  console  her  by 
kind  words  ;  and  M'ords  they  were  of  such  love  and 
kindness,  and  cheerful  encouragement,  that  poor  Kate 
threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  declared  she  would 
weep  no  more. 

"  What  man,"  thought  Nicholas  proudly,  while  on 
his  way  soon  afterwards,  to  the  brothers'  house,  '  *  would 
not  be  sufficiently  rewarded  for  any  sacrifice  of  fortune, 
by  the  possession  of  such  a  heart  as  Kate's,  which,  but 
that  hearts  weigh  light,  and  gold  and  silver  heavy,  is  be- 
yond all  praise  !  Frank  has  money  and  wants  no  more. 
Where  would  it  buy  him  such  a  treasure  as  Kate  !  And 
yet,  in  unequal  marriages,  the  rich  party  is  always  sup- 
posed to  make  a  great  sacrifice,  and  the  other  to  get  a 
good  bargain  !  But  I  am  thinking  like  a  lover,  or  like 
an  ass  ;  which  I  suppose  is  pretty  nearly  the  same." 

Checking  thoughts  so  little  adapted  to  the  business  on 
which  he  was  bound,  by  such  self-reproofs  as  this  and 
many  others  no  less  sturdy,  he  proceeded  on  his  way 
and  presented  himself  before  Tim  Linkinwater. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Nickleby!"  cried  Tim,  "God  bless  you! 
how  d'ye  you  do  1  Well  ?  Say  you're  quite  well  and 
never  better — do  now." 

"Quite,"  said  Nicholas,  shaking  him  by  both  hands. 

"Ah!"  said  Tim,  "you  look  tired  though,  now  I 
come  to  look  at  you.  Hark  !  there  he  is,  d'ye  hear  him  ? 
That  was  Dick,  the  blackbird.  He  hasn't  been  himself, 
since  you've  been  gone.  He'd  never  get  on  without  you 
now  ;  he  takes  as  naturally  to  you,  as  he  does  to  me." 

"  Dick  is  a  far  less  sagacious  fellow  than  I  supposed 
him,  if  he  thinks  I  am  half  so  well  worthy  of  his  notice 
as  you,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  said  Tim,  standing  in 
his  favourite  attitude  and  pointing  to  the  cage  with  the 
feather  of  his  pen,  "  it's  a  very  extraordinary  thing 
about  that  bird,  that  the  only  people  he  ever  takes  the 
smallest  notice  of,  are  Mr.  Charles,  and  Mr.  Ned,  and 
you,  and  me." 

Here,  Tim  stopped  and  glanced  anxiously  at  Nicholas  ; 
then  unexpectedly  catching  his  eye  repeated,  "And  you 
and  me,  sir,  and  you  and  me."  And  then  he  glanced  at 
Nicholas  again,  and  squeezing  his  hand,  said,  "I  am 
a  bad  one  at  patting  off  anything  I  am  interested  in.  I 
didn't  mean  to  ask  you,  but  I  should  like  to  hear  a  few 
particulars  about  that  poor  boy.  Did  he  mention  Cheery- 
ble  Brothers  at  all  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Nicholas,  "  many  and  many  a  time." 

"  That  was  right  of  him,"  returned  Tim,  wiping  his 
eyes  ;  "  that  was  very  right  of  him." 

"And  he  mentioned  your  name  a  score  of  times," 
said  Nicholas,  "and  often  bade  me  carry  back  his  love 
to  Mr.  Linkinwater." 

"No,  no,  did  he  though?"  rejoined  Tim,  sobbing  out- 
right. "Poor  fellow  !  I  wish  we  could  have  had  him 
buried  in  town.  There  isn't  such  a  burying-ground  in 
all  London,  as  that  little  one  on  the  other  side  of  the 
square — there  are  counting-houses  all  round  it,  and  if 
3'ou  go  in  there  on  a  fine  day,  you  can  see  the  books  and 
safes  through  the  open  windows.  And  he  sent  his  love 
to  me,  did  he?  I  didn't  expect  he  would  have  thought 
of  me.    Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow  !    His  love  too  !  " 

Tim  Avas  so  completely  overcome  by  this  little  mark  of 
recollection,  that  he  was  quite  unequal  to  any  more  con- 
versation at  the  moment.  Nicholas  therefore  slippjed 
quietly  out,  and  went  to  brother  Charles's  room. 

11  he  had  previously  sustained  his  firmness  and  forti- 


NICHOLAS  NIGKLEBY. 


223 


tude,  it  had  been  by  an  effort  whicli  had  cost  him  no  lit- 
tle pain  ;  but  the  warm  welcome,  the  hearty  manner,  the 
homely  unaffected  commiseration,  of  the  good  old  man, 
went  to  his  heart,  and  no  inward  struggle  could  prevent 
his  showing  it. 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  benevolent  mer- 
chant ;  "  we  must  not  be  cast  down  ;  no,  no.  We  must 
learn  to  bear  misfortune,  and  we  must  remember  that 
there  are  many  sources  of  consolation  even  in  death. 
Every  day  that  this  poor  lad  had  lived,  he  must  have 
been  less  and  less  qualified  for  the  world,  and  more  and 
more  unhappy  in  his  own  deficiencies.  It  is  better  as  it 
is,  my  dear  sir.    Yes,  yes,  yes,  it's  better  as  it  is." 

"I  have  thought  of  all  that,  sir,"  replied  Nicholas, 
clearing  his  throat.    "  I  feel  it,  I  assure  you." 

"Yes,  that's  well,"  replied  Mr.  Cheery  ble,  who,  in  the 
midst  of  all  his  comforting,  was  quite  as  much  taken 
aback  as  honest  old  Tim  ;  "  that's  well.  Where  is  my 
brother  Ned  ?  Tim  Linkinwater,  sir,  where  is  my  brother 
Ned  ?  " 

"Gone  out  with  Mr.  Trimmers,  about  getting  that  un- 
fortunate man  into  the  hospital,  and  sending  a  nurse  to 
his  children,"  said  Tim. 

"My  brother  Ned  is  a  fine  fellow — a  great  fellow  !  " 
exclaimed  brother  Charles  as  he  shut  the  door  and  re- 
turned to  Nicholas.  "He  will  be  overjoyed  to  see  you, 
my  dear  sir.    We  have  been  speaking  of  you  every  day." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,  I  am  glad  to  find  you 
alone,"  said  Nicholas,  with  some  natural  hesitation ; 
"for  I  am  anxious  to  say  something  to  you.  Can  you 
spare  me  a  very  few  minutes  ?  " 

"Surely,  surely,"  returned  brother  Charles,  looking 
afc  him  with  an  anxious  countenance.  "  Say  on,  my  dear 
sir,  say  on." 

"  I  scarcely  know  how,  or  where  to  begin,"  said  Nicho- 
las. "If  ever  one  mortal  had  reason  to  be  penetrated 
with  love  and  reverence  for  another  :  with  such  attach- 
ment as  would  make  the  hardest  service  in  his  behalf  a 
pleasure  and  delight  :  with  such  grateful  recollections 
as  must  rouse  the  utmost  zeal  and  fidelity  of  his  nature  : 
those  are  the  feelings  which  I  should  entertain  for  you, 
and  do,  from  my  heart  and  soul,  believe  me  !  " 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  and  I 
am  happy  in  the  belief.  I  have  never  doubted  it ;  I 
never  shall.    I  am  sure  I  never  shall. " 

"Your  telling  me  that,  so  kindly,"  said  Nicholas, 
"emboldens  me  to  proceed.  When  you  first  took  me 
into  your  confidence,  and  despatched  me  on  those  missions 
to  Miss  Bray,  I  should  have  told  you  that  I  had  seen  her, 
long  before  :  that  her  beauty  had  made  an  impression 
upon  me  whicli  I  could  not  efface  ;  and  that  I  had  fruit- 
lessly endeavoured  to  trace  her,  and  become  acquainted 
with  her  history.  I  did  not  tell  you  so,  because  I  vainly 
thought  I  could  conquer  my  weaker  feelings,  and  render 
every  consideration  subservient  to  my  duty  to  you." 
•  "  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  brother  Charles,  "  you  did  not 
violate  the  confidence  I  placed  in  you,  or  take  an  un- 
worthy advantage  of  it.    I  am  sure  you  did  not." 

"I  did  not,"  said  Nicholas,  firmly.  "Although  I 
found  that  the  necessity  for  self-command  and  restraint 
became  every  day  more  imperious,  and  the  difficulty 

freater,  I  never,  for  one  instant,  spoke  or  looked  but  as 
would  have  done  had  you  been  by.  I  never,  for  one 
moment,  deserted  my  trust,  nor  have  I  to  this  instant. 
But  I  find  that  constant  association  and  companionship 
with  this  sweet  girl  is  fatal  to  my  peace  of  mind,  and 
may  prove  destructive  to  the  resolutions  I  made  in  the 
beginning  and  up  to  this  time  have  faithfully  kept.  In 
short,  sir,  I  cannot  trust  myself,  and  I  implore  and  be- 
seech you  to  remove  this  young  lady  from  under  the 
charge  of  my  mother  and  sister,  without  delay.  I  know 
that  to  any  one  but  myself — to  you,  who  consider  the 
immeasurable  distance  between  me  and  this  young  lady, 
who  is  now  your  ward,  and  the  object  of  your  peculiar 
care — my  loving  her,  even  in  thought,  must  appear  the 
height  of  rashness  and  presumption.  I  know  it  is  so. 
But,  who  can  see  her  as  I  have  seen, — who  can  know 
what  her  life  has  been — and  not  love  her?  I  have  no 
excuse  but  that ;  and  as  I  cannot  fly  from  this  tempta- 
tion, and  cannot  repress  this  passion,  with  its  object  con- 
stantly before  me,  what  can  I  do  but  pray  and  beseech 
jou  to  remove  it,  and  to  leave  me  to  forget  her  ! " 


"  Mr.  Nickleby,"  said  the  old  man,  after  a  short  silence, 
"you  can  do  no.  more.  I  was  wrong  to  expose  a  young 
man  like  you,  to  this  trial.  I  miglit  have  foreseen  what 
would  happen.  Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you.  Madeline 
shall  be  removed." 

"If  you  would  grant  me  one  favour,  dear  sir,  and 
suffer  her  to  remember  me  with  esteem,  by  never  re- 
vealing to  her  this  confession — " 

"  I  will  take  care," — said  Mr.  Cheeryble.  "  And  now, 
is  this  all  you  have  to  tell  me?" 

"No!"  returned  Nicholas,  meeting  his  eve,  "it  is 
not." 

"I  know  the  rest,"  said  Mr.  Cheeryble,  apparently 
very  much  relieved  by  this  prompt  reply.  "When  did 
it  come  to  your  knowledge?" 

"  When  I  reached  home  this  morning."  ' 

"  You  felt  it  your  duty  immediately  to  come  to  me,  and 
tell  me  what  your  sister  no  doubt  acquainted  you  with  ?  " 

"  I  did,"  said  Nicholas,  "though  I  could  have  wished 
to  have  spoken  to  Mr.  Frank  first." 

"  Frank  was  with  me  last  night,"  replied  the  old  gen- 
tleman. "You  have  done  well,  Mr.  Nickleby — very 
well,  sir — and  I  thank  you  again." 

Upon  this  head,  Nicholas  requested  permission  to  add 
a  few  words.  He  ventured  to  hope  that  nothing  he  had 
said,  would  lead  to  the  estrangement  of  Kate  and  Made- 
line, who  had  formed  an  attachment  for  each  other, 
any  interruption  of  which  would,  he  knew,  be  attended 
with  great  pain  to  them,  and  most  of  all,  with  remorse 
and  pain  to  him,  as  its  unhappy  cause.  When  these 
things  were  all  forgotten,  he  hoped  that  Frank  and  he 
might  still  be  warm  friends,  and  that  no  word  or  thought 
of  his  humble  home,  or  of  her  who  was  well  contented 
to  remain  there  and  share  his  quiet  fortunes,  would  ever 
again  disturb  the  harmony  between  them.  He  recounted, 
as  nearly  as  he  could,  what  had  passed  between  himself 
and  Kate  that  morning :  speaking  of  her  with  such 
warmth  of  pride  and  affection,  and  dwelling  so  cheer- 
fully upon  the  confidence  they  had,  of  overcoming  any 
selfish  regrets  and  living  contented  and  happy  in  each  oth- 
er's love,  that  few  could  have  heard  him  unmoved.  More 
moved  himself  than  he  had  been  yet,  he  expressed  in  a 
few  hurried  words — as  expressive,  perhaps,  as  the  most 
eloquent  phrases — his  devotion  to  the  brothers,  and  his 
hope,  that  he  might  live  and  die  in  their  service. 

To  all  this,  brother  Charles  listened  in  profound  si- 
lence, and  with  his  chair  so  turned  from  Nicholas  that 
his  face  could  not  be  seen.  He  had  not  spoken  either, 
in  his  accustomed  manner,  but  with  a  certain  stiffness 
and  embarrassment  very  foreign  to  it.  Nicholas  feared 
he  had  offended  him.  He  said,  "  No— no — he  had  done 
quite  right,"  but  that  was  all. 

"  Frank  is  a  heedless,  foolish  fellow,"  he  said,  aft«r 
Nicholas  had  paused  for  some  time  ;  "a  very  heedless, 
foolish  fellow,  I  will  take  care  that  this  is  brought  to  a 
close  without  delay.  Let  us  say  no  more  upon  the  sub- 
ject ;  it's  a  very  painful  one  to  me.  Come  to  me  in  half 
an  hour,  I  have  strange  things  to  tell  you,  my  dear  sir, 
and  your  uncle  has  appointed  this  afternoon  for  your 
waiting  upon  him  with  me." 

' '  Waiting  upon  him  !    With  you  sir  ! " 

"Ay,  with  me,"  replied  the  old  gentleman.  " Return 
to  me  in  half  an  hour,  and  I'll  tell  you  more." 

Nicholas  waited  upon  him  at  the  time  mentioned,  and 
then  learnt  all  that  had  taken  place  on  the  previous  day, 
and  all  that  was  known  of  the  appointment  Ealph  had 
made  with  the  brothers  ;  which  was  for  that  night :  and 
for  the  better  understanding  of  which  it  will  be  requisite 
to  return  and  follow  his  own  footsteps  from  the  house  of 
the  twin  brothers.  Therefore,  we  leave  Nicholas  some- 
what reassured  by  the  restored  kindness  of  their  manner 
towards  him,  and' yet  sensible  that  it  was  different  from 
what  it  had  been  (though  he  scarcely  knew  in  what  re- 
spect) :  full  of  uneasiness,  uncertainty,  and  disquiet. 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

Ralph  makes  one  last  AmxAntment—and  keeps  it. 
Creeping  from  the  house,  and  slinking  off  like  a 
thief  ;  groping  with  his  hands  when  first  he  got  into  the 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


street  as  if  lie  were  a  blind  man  ;  and  looking  often  over 
his  shoulder  while  he  hurried  away,  as  though  he  were 
followed  in  imagination  or  reality  l3y  some  one  anxious 
to  question  or  detain  him  ;  Ralph  Nickleby  left  the  city 
behind  him,  and  took  the  road  to  his  own  home. 

The  night  was  dark,  and  a  cold  wind  blew,  driving 
the  clouds,  furiously  and  fast,  before  it.  There  was  one 
black,  gloomy  mass  that  seemed  to  follow  him  :  not  hur- 
rying in  the  wild  chase  with  the  others,  but  lingering 
sullenly  behind,  and  gliding  darkly  and  stealthily  on. 
He  often  looked  back  at  this,  and  more  than  once,  stop- 
ped to  let  it  pass  over ;  but,  somehow,  when  he  went 
forward  again,  it  was  still  behind  him,  coming  mourn- 
fully and  slowly  up,  like  a  shadowy  funeral  train. 

He  had  to  pass  a  poor,  mean  burial  ground — a  dismal 
place,  raised  a  few  feet  above  the  level  of  the  street, 
and  parted  from  it  by  a  low  parapet- wall  and  an  iron 
railing  ;  a  rank,  unwholesome,  rotten  spot,  where  the 
very  grass  and  weeds  seemed,  in  their  frowsy  growth, 
to  tell  that  they  had  sprung  from  paupers'  bodies,  and 
had  struck  their  roots  in  the  graves  of  men,  sodden, 
while  alive,  in  steaming  courts  and  drunken  hungry  dens. 
And  here,  in  truth,  they  lay,  parted  from  the  living  by 
a  little  earth  and  a  board  or  two — lay  thick  and  close — 
corrupting  in  body  as  they  had  in  mind — a  dense  and 
squalid  crowd.  Here  they  lay,  cheek  by  jowl  with  life  : 
no  deeper  down  than  the  feet  of  the  throng  that  passed 
there,  every  day,  and  piled  high  as  their  throats.  Here 
they  lay,  a  grisly  family,  all  these  dear  departed  brothers 
and  sisters  of  the  ruddy  clergyman  who  did  his  task  so 
speedily  when  they  were  hidden  in  the  ground  ! 

As  he  passed  here,  Ralph  called  to  mind  that  he  had 
been  one  of  a  jury,  long  before,  on  the  body  of  a  man  who 
had  cut  his  throat ;  and  that  he  was  buried  in  this  place. 
He  could  not  tell  how  he  came  to  recollect  it  now,  when 
he  had  so  often  passed  and  never  thought  about  him,  or 
how  it  was  that  he  felt  an  interest  in  the  circumstance  ; 
but  he  did  both  ;  and  stopping,  and  clasj^ing  the  iron  rail- 
ings with  his  hands,  looked  eagerly  in,  wondering  which 
might  be  his  grave. 

While  he  was  thus  engaged,  there  came  towards  him, 
with  noise  of  shouts  and  singing,  some  fellows  full  of 
drink,  followed  by  others,  who  were  remonstrating  with 
them  and  urging  them  to  go  home  in  quiet.  They  were 
in  high  good-humour  ;  and  one  of  them,  a  little,  weazen, 
hump-backed  man,  began  to  dance.  He  was  a  grotesque, 
fantastic  figure,  and  the  few  bystanders  laughed.  Ralph 
himself  was  moved  to  mirth,  and  echoed  the  laugh  of  one 
who  stood  near  and  who  looked  round  in  his  face.  When 
they  had  passed  on,  and  he  was  left  alone  again,  he  re- 
sumed his  speculations  with  a  new  kind  of  interest ;  for 
he  recollected  tbat  the  last  person  who  had  seen  the  sui- 
cide alive,  had  left  him  very  merry,  and  he  remembered 
how  strange  he  and  the  other  jurors  had  thought  that,  at 
the  time. 

He  could  not  fix  upon  the  spot  among  such  a  heap  of 
graves,  but  he  conjured  up  a  strong  and  vivid  idea  of  the 
man  himself,  and  how  he  looked,  and  what  had  led  him 
to  do  it :  all  of  which  he  recalled  with  ease.  By  dint  of 
dwelling  upon  this  theme,  he  carried  the  impression  with 
him  when  he  went  away  :  as  he  remembered,  when  a 
child,  to  have  had  frequently  before  him  the  figure  of 
some  goblin  he  had  once  seen  chalked  upon  a  door.  But 
as  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  home  he  forgot  it  again, 
and  began  to  think  how  very  dull  and  solitary  the  house 
would  be  inside. 

This  feeling  became  so  strong  at  last,  that  when  he 
reached  his  own  door,  he  could  hardly  make  up  his  mind 
to  turn  the  key  and  open  it.  When  he  had  done  that, 
and  gone  into  the  passage,  he  felt  as  though  to  shut  it 
again  would  be  to  shut  out  the  world.  But  he  let  it  go, 
and  it  closed  with  a  loud  noise.  There  was  no  light. 
How  very  dreary,  cold,  and  still  it  was  ! 

Shivering  from  head  to  foot  he  made  his  way  up-stairs 
into  the  room  where  he  had  been  last  disturbed.  He  had 
made  a  kind  of  compact  with  himself  that  he  would  not 
think  of  what  had  happened,  until  he  got  home.  He  was 
at  home  now,  and  suffered  himself  to  consider  it. 

His  own  child — his  own  child  !  Ho  never  doubted  the 
tale  ;  he  felt  it  was  true  ;  knew  it  as  well,  now,  as  if  he 
had  been  privy  to  it  all  along.  His  own  child  !  And  dead 
too.    Dying  beside  Nicholas— loving  him,  and  looking 


upon  him  as  something  like  an  angel !  That  was  the 
worst. 

They  had  all  turned  from  him  and  deserted  him  in  his 
very  first  need.  Even  money  could  not  buy  them  now  ; 
everything  must  come  out,  and  everybody  must  know  all. 
Here  was  the  young  lord  dead,  his  companion  abroad  and 
beyond  his  reach,  ten  thousand  pounds  gone  at  one  blow, 
his  plot  with  Gride  overset  at  the  very  moment  of  tri- 
umph, his  after  schemes  discovered,  himself  in  danger, 
the  object  of  his  persecution  and  Nicholas's  love,  his  own 
wretched  boy  ;  every  thing  crumbled  and  fallen  upon  him, 
and  he  beaten  down  beneath  the  ruins  and  grovelling  in 
the  dust. 

If  he  had  known  his  child  to  be  alive  ;  if  no  deceit  had 
been  ever  practised,  and  he  had  grown  up  beneath  his 
eye  ;  he  might  have  been  a  careless,  indifferent,  rough, 
harsh  father — like  enough — he  felt  that ;  but  the  thought 
would  come  that  he  might  have  been  otherwise,  and  that 
his  son  might  have  been  a  comfort  to  him  and  they  two 
happy  together.  He  began  to  think  now,  that  his  sup- 
posed death  and  his  wife's  flight  had  had  some  share  in 
making  him  the  morose,  hard  man  he  was.  He  seemed 
to  remember  a  time  when  he  was  not  quite  so  rough  and 
obdurate  ;  and  almost  thought  that  he  had  first  hated 
Nicholas,  because  he  was  young  and  gallant,  and  perhaps 
like  the  stripling  who  had  brought  dishonour  and  loss  of 
fortune  on  his  head. 

But  one  tender  thought,  or  one  of  natural  regret,  in 
his  whirlwind  of  passion  and  remorse,  was  as  a  drop  of 
calm  water  in  a  stormy  maddened  sea.  His  hatred  of 
Nicholas  had  been  fed  upon  his  own  defeat,  nourished  on 
his  interference  with  his  schemes,  fattened  upon  his  old 
defiance  and  success.  There  were  reasons  for  its  increase  ; 
it  had  grown  and  strengthened  gradually.  Now  it  at- 
tained a  height  which  was  sheer  wild  lunacy.  That  his, 
of  all  others,  should  have  been  the  hands  to  rescue  his 
miserable  child  ;  that  he  should  have  been  his  protector 
and  faithful  friend  ;  that  he  should  have  shown  him  that 
love  and  tenderness  which,  from  the  wretched  moment  of 
his  birth,  he  had  never  known  ;  that  he  should  have 
taught  him  to  hate  his  own  parent  and  execrate  his  very 
name  ;  that  he  should  now  know  and  feel  all  this,  and 
triumph  in  the  recollection  ;  was  gall  and  madness  to  the 
usurer's  heart.  The  dead  boy's  love  for  Nicholas,  and 
the  attachment  of  Nicholas  to  him,  was  insupportable 
agony.  The  picture  of  his  death-J3ed,  with  Nicholas  at 
his  side,  tending  and  supporting  him,  and  he  breathing 
out  his  thanks,  and  expiring  in  his  arms,  when  he  would 
have  had  them  mortal  enemies  and  hating  each  other  to 
the  last,  drove  him  frantic.  He  gnashed  his  teeth,  and 
smote  the  air,  and  looking  wildly  round,  with  eyes  which 
gleamed  through  the  darkness,  cried  aloud  : 

"  I  am  trampled  down  and  ruined.  The  wretch  told 
me  true.  The  night  has  come  !  Is  there  no  way  to  rob 
them  of  further  triumph,  and  spurn  their  mercy  and 
compassion  ?    Is  there  no  devil  to  help  me  ?" 

Swiftly,  there  glided  again  into  his  brain  the  figure  he 
had  raised  that  night.  It  seemed  to  lie  before  him.  The 
head  was  covered  now.  So  it  was  when  he  first  saw  it. 
The  rigid,  upturned,  marble  feet  too,  he  remembered 
well.  Then  came  before  him  the  pale  and  trembling 
relatives  who  had  told  their  tale  upon  the  inquest — the 
shrieks  of  women — the  silent  dread  of  men — the  conster- 
nation and  disquiet — the  victory  achieved  by  that  heap 
of  clay,  which,  with  one  motion  of  its  hand,  had  let  out 
the  life  and  made  this  stir  among  them — 

He  spoke  no  more  ;  but,  after  a  pause,  softly  groped 
his  way  out  of  the  room,  and  up  the  echoing  stairs— up 
to  the  top — to  the  front  garret — where  he  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  and  remained — 

It  was  a  mere  lumber-room  now,  but  it  yet  contained 
an  old  dismantled  bedstead  ;  the  one  on  which  his  son 
had  slept ;  for  no  other  had  ever  been  there.  He 
avoided  it  hastily,  and  sat  down  as  far  from  it  as  he 
could. 

The  weakened  glare  of  the  lights  in  the  street  below, 
shining  through  the  window  which  had  no  blind  or  cur- 
tain to  intercept  it,  was  enough  to  show  the  character  of 
the  room,  though  not  suificient  fully  to  reveal  the  vari- 
ous articles  of  lumber,  old  corded  trunks  and  broken 
furniture,  which  were  scattered  about.  It  had  a  shelv- 
ing roof  ;  high  in  one  part,  and  at  another  deoqending 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSin  OF  ILLINOIS 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY, 


225 


almost  to  the  floor.  It  was  towards  the  highest  part, 
that  Ralph  directed  his  eyes  ;  and,  upon  it,  he  kept  them 
fixed  steadily  for  some  minutes,  when  ho  rose,  and  drag- 
ging thither  an  old  chest  upon  which  he  had  been  seated, 
mounted  on  it,  and  felt  along  the  wall  above  his  head 
with  both  hands.  At  length  they  touched  a  large  iron 
hook,  firmly  driven  into  one  of  the  beams. 

At  that  moment,  he  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  knock- 
ing at  the  door  below.  After  a  little  hesitation,  he 
opened  the  window  and  demanded  who  it  was. 

"  I  want  Mr.  Nickleby,"  replied  a  voice. 

''What  with  him?" 

"That's  not  Mr.  Nickleby's  voice  surely?"  was  the 
rejoinder. 

It  was  not  like  it ;  but  it  was  Ralph  who  spoke,  and 
so  he  said. 

The  voice  made  answer  that  the  twin  Brothers  wished 
to  know  whether  the  man  whom  he  had  seen  that  night, 
was  to  be  detained  ;  and  that  although  it  was  now  mid- 
night they  had  sent,  in  their  anxiety  to  do  right. 

"Yes,"  cried  Ralph,  "detain  him  till  to-morrow; 
then  let  them  bring  him  here — him  and  my  nephew — 
and  come  themselves,  and  be  sure  that  I  will  be  ready 
to  receive  them." 

"At  what  hour?"  asked  the  voice. 

"At  any  hour,"  replied  Ralph  fiercely.  "In  the 
afternoon,  tell  them.  At  any  hour — at  any  minute — all 
times  will  be  alike  to  me." 

He  listened  to  the  man's  retreating  footsteps,  until  the 
sound  had  passed,  and  then,  gazing  up  into  the  sky,  saw, 
or  thought  he  saw,  the  same  black  cloud  that  had  seemed 
to  follow  him  home  and  which  now  appeared  to  hover 
directly  above  the  house. 

"I  know  its  meaning  now,"  he  muttered,  "and  the 
restless  nights,  the  dreams,  and  why  I  have  quailed  of 
late — all  pointed  to  this.  Oh  !  if  men  by  selling  their 
own  souls  could  ride  rampant  for  a  term,  for  how  short 
a  term  would  I  barter  mine  to-night ! " 

The  sound  of  a  deep  bell  came  along  the  wind.  One. 

"  Lie  on  !  "  cried  the  usurer,  "  with  your  iron  tongue  ! 
Ring  merrily  for  births  that  make  expectants  writhe, 
and  marriages  that  are  made  in  hell,  and  toll  ruefully 
for  the  dead  whose  shoes  are  worn  already  !  Call  men 
to  prayers  who  are  godly  because  not  found  out,  and 
ring  chimes  for  the  coming  in  of  every  year  that  brings 
this  cursed  world  nearer  to  its  end.  No  bell  or  book  for 
me  !  Throw  me  on  a  dung-hill,  and  let  me  rot  there,  to 
infect  the  air  !  " 

With  a  wild  look  around,  in  which  frenzy,  hatred, 
and  despair,  were  horribly  mingled,  he  shook  his  clenched 
hand  at  the  sky  above  him,  which  was  still  dark  and 
threatening,  and  closed  the  window. 

The  rain  and  hail  pattered  against  the  glass  ;  the  chim- 
neys quaked  and  rocked  ;  the  crazy  casement  rattled 
with  the  wind,  as  though  an  impatient  hand  inside  were 
striving  to  burst  it  open.  But  no  hand  was  there,  and 
it  opened  no  more. 


"  How's  this  ?  "  cried  one.  "  The  gentlemen  say  they 
can't  make  anybody  hear,  and  have  been  trying  these 
two  hours  ?  " 

"And  yet  he  came  home  last  night,"  said  another  ;  '*  for 
bespoke  to  somebody  out  of  that  window  upstairs." 

They  were  a  little  knot  of  men,  and,  the  window  be- 
ing mentioned,  went  out  in  the  road  to  look  up  at  it. 
This  occasioned  their  observing  that  the  house  was  still 
close  shut,  as  the  house-keeper  had  said  she  had  left  it 
on  the  previous  night,  and  led  to  a  great  many  sugges- 
tions :  which  terminated  in  two  or  three  of  the  boldest 
getting  round  to  the  back  and  so  entering  by  a  window, 
while  the  others  remained  outside,  in  impatient  expec- 
tation. 

They  looked  into  all  the  rooms  below  :  opening  the 
shutters  as  they  went,  to  admit  the  fading  light :  but 
still  finding  nobody,  and  everything  quiet  and  in  its 
place,  doubted  whether  they  should  go  farther.  One 
man,  however,  remarking  that  they  had  not  yet  been 
into  the  garret,  and  that  it  was  there  he  had  been  last 
seen,  they  agreed  to  look  there  too,  and  went  up  softly  ; 
for  the  mystery  and  silence  made  them  timid. 
Vol.  II.— 15 


I  After  they  had  stood,  for  an  instant,  on  the  landing, 
eyeing  each  other,  he  who  had  proposed  their  carrying 
the  search  so  far,  turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  and, 
pushing  it  open,  looked  through  the  chink,  and  fell  back 
directly. 

"  It's  very  odd,"  he  whispered,  "he's  hiding  behind 
the  door  !    Look  I  " 

They  pressed  forward  to  see  ;  but  one  among  them 
thrusting  the  others  aside  with  aloud  exclamation,  drew 
a  clasp  knife  from  his  pocket  and  da.shing  into  the  room 
cut  down  the  body. 

lie  had  torn  a  rope  from  one  of  the  old  trunks,  and 
hung  himsel  f  on  an  iron  hook  immediately  below  the  trap- 
door in  the  ceiling — in  the  very  place  to  which  the  eyes 
of  his  son,  a  lonely,  desolate,  little  creature,  had  so 
often  been  directed  in  childish  terror,  fourteen  years  be- 
fore. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

The  Brothers  Cheeryhle  make  various  Declaratiom  for  iJiemselves  an/1 
others.    I'im  Linkimcater  makes  a  Declaration  for  himself. 

Some  weeks  had  passed,  and  the  first  shock  of  these 
events  had  subsided.  Madeline  had  been  removed  ; 
Frank  had  been  absent  ;  and  Nicholas  and  Kate  had  be- 
gun to  try  in  good  earnest  to  stifle  their  own  regrets,  and 
to  live  for  each  other  and  for  their  mother — who,  poor 
lady,  could  in  no  wise  be  reconciled  to  this  dull  and  al- 
tered state  of  affairs — when  there  came  one  evening,  per 
favour  of  Mr.  Linkin water,  an  invitation  from  the  Bro- 
thers, to  dinner  on  the  next  day  but  one  :  comprehend- 
ing, not  only  Mrs.  Nickleby,  Kate,  and  Nicholas,  but 
little  Miss  La  Creevy,  who  was  most  particularly  men- 
tioned. 

"  Now,  my  dears,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  when  they  had 
rendered  becoming  honour  to  the  bidding,  and  Tim  had 
taken  his  departure,  "  what  does  tlds  mean  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  mother?"  asked  Nicholas, 
smiling. 

"  I  say,  my  dear,"  rejoined  that  lady,  with  a  face  of 
unfathomable  mystery,  "  what  does  this  invitation  to 
dinner  mean, — what  is  its  intention  and  object?" 

"I  conclude  it  means,  that  on  such  a  day,  we  are  to 
eat  and  drink  in  their  house,  and  that  its  intent  and 
object  is  to  confer  pleasure  upon  us,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  And  that's  all  you  conclude  it  is,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  yet  arrived  at  anything  deeper,  mother." 

"  Then  I'll  just  t«ll  you  one  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Nickle- 
hy,  "you'll  find  yourself  a  little  surprised  ;  that's  all. 
You  may  depend  upon  it  that  this  means  something  be- 
sides dinner." 

"  Tea  and  supper,  perhaps,"  suggested  Nicholas. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  absurd,  my  dear,  if  I  were  you,"  replied 
Mrs.  Nickleby,  in  a  lofty  manner,  "because  it's  not  by 
any  means  becoming,  and  doesn't  suit  you  at  all.  ^^^lat 
I  mean  to  say  is,  that  the  Mr,  Cheerybles  don't  ask  us  to 
dinner  with  all  this  ceremony  for  nothing.  Nevermind  ; 
wait  and  see.  You  won't  believe  anything  I  say,  of 
course.  It's  much  better  to  wait  ;  a  great  deal  better  ; 
it's  satisfactory  to  all  parties,  and  there  can  be  no  dis- 
puting. All  I  say  is,  remember  what  I  say  now,  and 
when  I  say  I  said  so,  don't  say  I  didn't." 

With  this  stipulation,  Mrs.  Nickleby,  who  was  trou- 
bled, night  and  day,  with  a  vision  of  a  hot  messenger 
tearing  up  to  the  door  to  announce  that  Nicholas  had 
been  taken  into  partnership,  quitted  that  branch  of  the 
subject,  and  entered  upon  a  new  one. 

"It's  a  very  extraordinary  thing,"  she  said,  "a  most 
extraordinary  thing,  that  they  should  have  invited  Miss 
La  Creevy.  ^  It  quite  astonishes  me,  upon  my  word  it 
does.  Of  course  it's  very  pleasant  that  she  should  be  in- 
vited, very  pleasant,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  she'll  con- 
duct herself  extremely  well  ;  she  always  does.  It's  very 
gratifying  to  think  that  we  should  have  been  the  means 
of  introducing  her  into  such  society,  and  I'm  quite  glad 
of  it—quite  rejoiced — for  she  certainly  is  an  exceedingly 
I  well-behaved  and  good-natured  little  person.  I  could 
j  wish  that  some  friend  would  mention  to  her  how  very 
i  badly  she  has  her  cap  trimmed,  and  what  very  preposter- 
{  ous  bows  those  are,  but  of  course  that's  impossible,  and 
1  if  she  likes  to  make  a  fright  of  herself,  no  doubt  she  has 


226 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


a  perfect  riglit  to  do  so.  We  never  see  ourselves — never 
do,  and  never  did — and  I  suppose  we  never  shall." 

This  moral  reflection  reminding  her  of  the  necessity  of 
being  peculiarly  smart  on  the  occasion,  so  as  to  counter- 
balance Miss  La  Creevy,  and  be  herself  an  effectual  set- 
off and  atonement,  led  Mrs.  Nicldcby  into  a  consultation 
with  her  daughter  relative  to  certain  ribands,  gloves, 
and  trimmings  :  which,  being  a  complicated  question, 
and  one  of  paramount  importance,  soon  routed  the  pre- 
vious one,  and  put  it  to  flight. 

The  great  day  arriving,  the  good  lady  put  herself  un- 
der Kate's  hands  an  hour  or  so  after  breakfast,  and, 
dressing  by  easy  stages,  completed  her  toilet  in  sufficient 
time  to  allow  of  her  daughter's  making  hers,  which  was 
very  simple  and  not  very  long,  though  so  satisfactory 
that  she  had  never  appeared  more  charming  or  looked 
more  lovely.  Miss  La  Creevy,  too,  arrived  with  two 
bandboxes  (whereof  the  bottoms  fell  out,  as  they  were 
handed  from  the  coach)  and  something  in  a  newspaper, 
which  a  gentleman  had  sat  upon,  coining  down,  and 
which  was  obliged  to  be  ironed  again,  before  it  was  fit 
for  service.  At  last,  everybody  was  dressed,  including 
Nicholas,  who  had  come  home  to  fetch  them,  and  they 
went  away  in  a  coach  sent  by  the  Brothers  for  the  pur- 
pose :  Mrs,  Nickleby  wondering  very  much  wdiat  they 
would  have  for  dinner,  and  cross-examining  Nicholas  as 
to  the  extent  of  his  discoveries  in  the  morning  ;  whether 
he  had  smelt  anything  cooking,  at  all  like  turtle,  and  if 
not,  what  he  had  smelt  ;  and  diversifying  the  conversa- 
tion with  reminiscences  of  dinners  to  which  she  had  gone 
some  twenty  years  ago,  concerning  which  she  particu- 
larised not  only  the  dishes  but  the  guests,  in  whom  her 
hearers  did  not  feel  a  very  absorbing  interest,  as  not 
one  of  them  had  ever  chanced  to  hear  their  names  be- 
fore. 

The  old  butler  received  them  with  profound  respect 
and  many  smiles,  and  ushered  them  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where  they  were  received  by  the  Brothers  with  so 
much  cordiality  and  kindness  that  Mrs.  Nickleby  was 
quite  in  a  flutter,  and  had  scarcely  presence  of  mind 
enough,  even  to  patronise  Miss  La  Creevy.  Kate  was 
still  more  affected  by  the  reception  :  for,  knowing  that 
the  Brothers  were  acquainted  with  all  that  had  passed 
between  her  and  Frank,  she  felt  her  position  a  most  deli- 
cate and  trying  one,  and  was  trembling  on  the  arm  of 
Nicholas,  when  Mr.  Charles  took  her  in  his,  and  led  her 
to  another  part  of  the  room. 

"  Have  you  seen  Madeline,  my  dear,"  he  said,  **  since 
she  left  your  house  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ! "  replied  Kate.       Not  once." 

"  And  not  heard  from  her,  eh  ?  Not  heard  from  her  ?  " 

"I  have  only  had  one  letter,"  rejoined  Kate,  gently. 
"  I  thought  she  would  not  have  forgotten  me,  quite  so 
soon." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  old  man,  patting  her  on  the  head, 
and  speaking  as  affectionately  as  if  she  had  been  his  fa- 
vourite child.  "  Poor  dear  !  what  do  you  think  of  this, 
brother  Ned  !  Madeline  has  only  written  to  her  once — 
only  once,  Ned,  and  she  didn't  think  she  would  have 
forgotten  her  quite  so  soon,  Ned." 

"  Oh  !  sad,  sad — very  sad  !  "  said  Ned. 

The  Brothers  interchanged  a  glance,  and  looking  at 
Kate  for  a  little  time  without  speaking,  shook  hands,  and 
nodded  as  if  they  were  congratulating  each  other  on 
something  very  delightfuh 

"  Well,  well,"  said  brother  Charles,  "  go  into  that  room 
iTiy  dear — that  door  yonder — and  see  if  there's  not  a  let- 
ter for  you  from  her.  I  think  there's  one  upon  the  table. 
You  needn't  hurry  back,  my  love,  if  there  is,  for  we 
don't  dine  just  yet,  and  there's  plenty  of  time — plenty 
of  time." 

Kate  retired  as  she  was  di reeled.  Brother  Charles, 
having  followed  her  graceful  figure  with  his  eyes,  turned 
t/)  Mrs,  Nickleby,  and  said  — 

"  We  took  the  liberty  of  naming  one  hour  before  the 
real  dinner-time,  ma'am,  because  we  liad  a  little  business 
to  speak  about,  which  would  o(^cupy  the  interval.  Ned, 
my  dear  fellow,  will  you  mention  what  we  agreed  upon  ? 
Mr.  Nickleby,  sir,  have  the  goodness  to  follow  me." 

Without  any  further  explanation,  Mrs.  Nickleby,  Miss 
;La  Creevy,  .and  brother  Ned,  were  loft  alone  together, 
-anU  Nicholas  iollowed  brother  Charles  into  his  private 


room  ;  where,  to  his  great  astonishment,  he  encountered 
Frank,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  abroad. 

"Young  men,"  said  Mr.  Cheeryble,  "shake  hands  !" 

"  I  need  no  bidding  to  do  that,"  said  Nicholas,  extend- 
ing his. 

"  Nor  I,"  rejoined  Frank,  as  he  clasped  it  heartily. 

The  old  gentleman  thought  that  two  handsomer  or 
finer  young  fellows  could  scarcely  stand  side  by  side 
than  those  on  whom  he  looked  with  so  much  pleasure. 
Suffering  his  eyes  to  rest  upon  them,  for  a  short  time,  in 
silence,  he  said,  while  he  seated  himself  at  his  desk, 

"  I  wish  to  see  you  friends — close  and  firm  friends — 
and  if  I  thought  you  otherwise,  I  should  hesitate  in  what 
I  am  about  to  say.  Frank,  look  here  !  Mr.  Nickleby, 
will  you  come  on  the  other  side  ?  " 

The  young  men  stepped  up  on  either  hand  of  brother 
Charles,  who  produced  a  paper  from  his  desk,  and  un- 
folded it. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  a  copy  of  the  will  of  Made- 
line's maternal  grandfather,  bequeathing  her  the  sum  of 
twelve  thousand  pounds,  payable  either  upon  her  coming 
of  age  or  marrying.  It  would  appear  that  this  gentle- 
man, angry  with  her  (his  only  relation)  because  she 
would  not  put  herself  under  his  protection,  and  detach 
herself  from^  the  society  of  her  father,  in  compliance 
with  his  repeated  overtures,  made  a  will  leaving  this 
property  (which  was  all  he  possessed)  to  a  charitable  in- 
stitution. He  would  seem  to  have  repented  this  deter- 
mination, however,  for  three  weeks  afterwards,  and  in 
the  same  month,  he  executed  this.  By  some  fraud,  it  was 
abstracted  immediately  after  his  decease,  and  the  other 
— the  only  will  found — w^as  proved  and  administered. 
Friendly  negotiations,  which  have  only  just  now  termi- 
nated, have  been  proceeding  since  this  instrument  came 
into  our  hands,  and,  as  there  is  no  doubt  of  its  authenti- 
city, and  the  witnesses  have  been  discovered  (after  some 
trouble),  the  money  has  been  refunded.  Madeline  has 
therefore  obtained  her  right,  and  is,  or  will  be,  when 
either  of  the  contingencies  which  I  have  mentioned  has 
arisen,  mistress  of  this  fortune.    You  understand  me?" 

Frank  replied  in  the  affirmative.  Nicholas,  who  could 
not  trust  himself  to  speak  lest  his  voice  should  be  heard 
to  falter,  bowed  his  head. 

"  Now,  Frank,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "you  were  the 
immediate  means  of  recovering  this  deed.  The  fortune 
is  but  a  small  one  ;  but  w^e  love  Madeline  ;  and  such  as  it 
is,  we  would  rather  see  you  allied  to  her  with  that,  than 
to  any  other  girl  we  know  who  has  three  times  the 
money.    Will  you  become  a  suitor  to  her  for  her  hand  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I  interested  myself  in  the  recovery  of  that 
instrument,  believing  that  her  hand  was  already  pledged 
to  one  who  has  a  thousand  times  the  claim  upon  her 
gratitude,  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  upon  her  heart,  that  I 
or  any  other  man  can  ever  urge.  In  this  it  seems  I 
judged  hastily." 

"  As  you  always  do,  sir,"  cried  brother  Charles,  utterly 
forgetting  his  assumed  dignity,  "  as  you  always  do. 
How  dare  you  think,  Frank,  that  we  would  have  you 
many  for  money,  when  youth,  beauty,  and  every  ami- 
able virtue  and  excellence,  were  to  be  had  for  love  ? 
How  dared  you,  Frank,  go  and  make  love  to  Mr.  Nickle- 
by's  sister  without  telling  us  first,  what  you  meant  to  do, 
and  letting  us  speak  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  dared  to  hope — " 

"  You  hardly  dared  to  hope  !  Then,  so  much  the 
greater  reason  for  having  our  assistance  !  Mr.  Nickleby, 
sir,  Frank,  although  he  judged  hastily,  judged,  for  once, 
correctly.  Madeline's  heart  *s  occupied— give  me  your 
hand,  sir  ;  it  is  occupied  by  you,  and  worthily  and  natu- 
rally. This  fortune  is  destined  to  be  yours,  but  you  have 
a  greater  fortune  in  her,  sir,  than  you  would*  have  in 
money  were  it  forty  times  told.  She  chooses  you,  Mr, 
Nickleby.  She  chooses  as  we,  her  dearest  friends, 
would  liave  her  choose.  F'rank  chooses  as  we  would 
have  him  choose.  He  should  have  your  sister's  little 
hand,  sir,  if  she  had  refused  it  a  score  of  times — ay,  he 
should,  and  he  shall  !  You  acted  nobly,  not  knowing 
our  sentiments,  but  now  you  know  them,  sir.  you  must 
do  as  you  are  bid.  What !  You  are  the  children  of  a 
worthy  gentleman  I  The  time  was,  sir,  when  my  dear 
brother  Ned  and  I  were  two  poor  simple-hearted  boys, 
wandering,  almost  barefoot,  to  seek  our  fortunes  ;  are  we 


NICHOLAS  NICK LE BY, 


227 


changed  in  anything  but  years  and  worldly  circum- 
stances since  that  time?  No,  God  forbid?  Oh,  Ned, 
Ned,  Ned,  what  a  happy  day  this  is  for  you  and  me  !  If 
(mr  poor  mother  had  only  lived  to  see  us  now,  Ned,  how 
proud  it  would  have  made  her  dear  heart  at  last  1 " 

Tlius  apostrophised,  brother  Ned  who  hud  entered 
with  Mrs.  Nickleby,  and  who  had  been  before  unob- 
served by  the  young  men,  darted  forward,  and  fairly 
Imgged  brother  Charles  in  his  arms. 

"  Bring  in  my  little  Kate,"  said  the  latter,  after  a 
short  silence.  "  Bring  her  in,  Ned.  Let  me  see  Kate, 
let  me  kiss  her.  I  have  a  right  to  do  so  now  ;  I  was 
very  near  it  when  she  first  came  ;  I  have  often  been  very 
near  it.  Ah  I  Did  you  find  the  letter,  my  bird  ?  Did 
you  find  Madeline  herself,  waiting  for  you  and  expect- 
ing you?  Did  you  find  that  she  had  not  quite  forgotten 
her  friend  and  nurse  and  sweet  companion  ?  Why,  this 
is  almost  the  best  of  all !  " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Ned,  "  Frank  will  be  jealous,  and 
we  shall  have  some  cutting  of  throats  before  dinner." 

"  Then  let  him  take  her  away,  Ned,  let  him  take  her 
away.  Madeline's  in  the  next  room.  Let  all  the  lovers 
get  out  of  the  way,  and  talk  among  themselves,  if  they've 
anything  to  say.    Turn  'em  out,  Ned,  every  one  !  " 

Brother  Charles  began  the  clearance  by  leading  the 
blushing  girl  to  the  door,  and  dismissing  her  with  a  kiss. 
Frank  was  not  very  slow  to  follow,  and  Nicholas  had 
disappeared  first  of  all.  So  there  only  remained  Mrs. 
Nickleby  and  Miss  La  Creevy,  who  were  both  sobbing 
heartily  ;  the  two  brothers  ;  and  Tim  Linkinwater,  who 
now  came  in  to  shake  hands  with  everybody  :  his  round 
face  all  radiant  and  beaming  with  smiles. 

"Well,  Tim  Linkinwater,  sir,"  said  Brother  Charles, 
who  was  always  spokesman,  "now  the  young  folks  are 
happy,  sir." 

"You  didn't  keep  'em  in  suspense  as  long  as  you  said 
you  would,  though,"  returned  Tim,  archly.  "  Why,  Mr. 
Nickleby  and  Mr.  Frank  were  to  have  been  in  your  room 
for  I  don't  know  how  long  ;  and  I  don't  know  what  you 
weren't  to  have  told  them  before  you  came  out  with 
the  truth." 

"  Now,  did  you  ever  know  such  a  villain  as  this, 
Ned ?  "  said  the  old  gentleman,  "did  you  ever  know  such 
a  villain  as  Tim  Linldn water?  He  accusing  me  of  being 
impatient,  and  he  the  very  man  who  has  been  wearying 
us  morning,  noon,  and  night,  and  torturing  us  for  leave 
to  go  and  tell  'em  what  was  in  store,  before  our  plans 
were  half  complete,  or  we  had  arranged  a  single  thing — 
a  treacherous  dog  ! " 

"  So  he  is,  brother  Charles,"  returned  Ned,  "  Tim  is  a 
treacherous  dog.  Tim  is  not  to  be  trusted.  Tim  is  a 
wild  young  fellow — he  wants  gravity  and  steadiness  ;  he 
must  sow  his  wild  oats,  and  then  perhaps  he'll  become 
in  time  a  respectable  member  of  society." 

This  being  one*  of  the  standing  jokes  between  the  old 
fellows  and  Tim,  they  all  three  laughed  very  heartily, 
and  might  have  laughed  much  longer,  but  that  the 
Brothers  seeing  that  Mrs.  Nickleby  was  labouring  to  ex- 
press her  feelings,  and  was  really  overwhelmed  by  the 
happiness  of  the  time,  took  her  Ijetween  them,  and  led 
her  from  the  room  under  pretence  of  having  to  consult 
her  on  some  most  important  arrangements. 

Now,  Tim  and  Miss  La  Creevy  had  met  very  often, 
and  had  always  been  very  chatty  and  pleasant  together 
— had  always  been  great  friends — and  consequently  it 
was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  Tim,  find- 
ing that  she  still  sobbed,  should  endeavour  to  console 
her.  As  Miss  La  Creevy  sat  on  a  large  old-fashioned 
window-seat,  where  there  was  ample  room  for  two,  it 
was  also  natural  that  Tim  should  sit  down  beside  her ; 
and  as  to  Tim's  being  unusually  spruce  and  particular  in 
his  attire,  that  day,  why  it  was  a  higb  festival  and  a 
great  occasion,  and  that  was  the  most  natural  thins:  of 
all. 

Tim  sat  down  beside  Miss  La  Creevy,  and,  crossing  one 
leg  over  the  other  so  that  his  foot — he  had  very  comely 
feet,  and  happened  to  be  wearing  the  neatest  shoes  and 
black  silk  stockings  possible — should  come  easily  within 
the  range  of  her  eye,  said  in  a  soothing  way  : 

"  Don't  cry  !" 

"  I  must,"  rejoined  Miss  La  Creevy. 

"Nodou't,"  said  Tim.    "Please  don't;  pray  don't." 


"  I  am  so  happy  ! "  sobbed  the  little  woman. 

"Then  laugh,"  said  Tim,  "do  laugh." 

What  in  the  v*  orld  Tim  was  doing  with  his  arm,  it  is 
impossible  to  conjecture,  but  he  knocked  his  elbow 
against  that  part  of  the  window  which  was  quite  on  the 
other  side  of  Miss  La  Creevy  ;  and  it  is  clear  that  it 
could  have  no  business  there. 

"Do  laugh,"  said  Tim,  "or  I'll  cry." 

"Why  should  you  cry?"  asked  Miss  La  Creevy, 
smiling. 

"Because  I'm  happy  too,"  said  Tim.  "We  are  both 
happy,  and  I  should  like  to  do  as  you  do." 

Surely,  there  never  was  a  man  who  fidgetted  as  Tim 
must  have  done  then  ;  for  he  knocked  the  window  again 
— almost  in  the  same  place — and  Miss  La  Creevy  said 
she  was  sure  he'd  break  it." 

"  I  knew,"  said  Tim,  "  that  you  would  be  pleased  with 
this  scene." 

"  It  was  very  thoughtful  and  kind  to  remember  me," 
returned  Miss  La  Creevy.  "  Nothing  could  have  delight- 
ed me,  half  so  much." 

Why  on  earth  should  Miss  La  Creevy  and  Tim  Link- 
inwater have  said  all  this  in  a  whisper  ?  It  was  no 
secret.  And  why  should  Tim  Linkinwater  have  looked  so 
hard  at  Miss  La  Creevy,  and  why  should  Miss  La  Creevy 
have  looked  so  hard  at  the  ground  ? 

"  It's  a  pleasant  thi^ig,"  said  Tim,  "  to  people  like  us, 
who  have  passed  all  our  lives  in  the  world,  alone,  to  see 
young  folks  that  we  are  fond  of,  brought  together  with 
so  many  years  of  happiness  before  them." 

"  Ah  ! "  cried  the  little  woman  with  all  her  heart, 
"that  it  is!" 

"  Although,"  pursued  Tim — "although  it  makes  one 
feel  quite  solitary  and  cast  away — now  don't  it  ?  " 

Miss  La  Creevy  said  she  didn't  know.  And  why  should 
she  say  she  didn't  know  ?  Because  she  must  have 
known  whether  it  did  or  not. 

"  It's  almost  enough  to  make  us  get  married  after  all, 
isn't  it  ?  "  said  Tim. 

"Oh  nonsense!"  replied  Miss  La  Creevy,  laughing, 
"  we  are  too  old." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Tim,  "  we  are  too  old  to  be  single — 
why  shouldn't  we  both  be  married,  instead  of  sitting 
through  the  long  winter  evenings  by  our  solitary  fire- 
sides ?  Why  shouldn't  we  make  one  fireside  of  it,  and 
marry  each  other  ?  " 

"Oh  Mr.  Linkinwater,  you're  joking  !" 

"No,  no,  I'm  not.  I'm  not  indeed,"  said  Tim.  "I 
will,  if  you  will.    Do,  my  dear  !" 

"  It  would  make  people  laugh  so." 

"  Let  'em  laugh,"  cried  Tim,  stoutly,  "  we  have  good 
tempers  I  know,  and  we'll  laugh  too.  Why,  what 
hearty  laughs  we  have  had  since  we've  known  each 
other." 

"  So  vve  have,"  cried  Miss  La  Creevy — giving  w^ay  a 
little,  as  Tim  thought. 

"  It  has  been  the  happiest  time  in  all  my  life — at  least, 
away  from  the  counting-house  and  Cheery ble  Brothers," 
said  Tim.    "  Do,  my  dear  !    Now  say  you  >vill." 

"No,  no,  we  mustn't  think  of  it,"  returned  Miss  La 
Creevy.    "  What  would  the  Brothers  say?" 

"  Why,  God  bless  your  soul  !"  cried  Tim,  innocently, 
"  you  don't  suppose  I  should  think  of  such  a  thing  with- 
out their  knowing  it!  Why  they  left  us  here  on  pur- 
pose." 

"  I  can  never  look  'em  in  the  face  again  ! "  exclaimed 
Miss  La  Creevy,  faintly. 

"Come  !"  said  Tim,  "let's  be  a  comfortable  couple. 
We  shall  live  in  the  old  house  here,  where  I  have  been 
for  four-and-forty  year  ;  we  shall  go  to  the  old  church, 
where  I've  been,  every  Sunday  morning,  all  through 
that  time  ;  we  shall  have  all  my  old  friends  about  us— 
Dick,  the  archway,  the  pump,  the  flower-pots,  and  Mr. 
Frank's  children,  and  Mr.  Nickleby's  children,  that  we 
shall  seem  like  grandfather  and  grandmother  to.  Let's 
be  a  comfortable  couple,  and  take  care  of  each  other  I 
And  if  we  should  get  deaf,  or  lame,  or  blind,  or  bedrid- 
den, how  glad  we  shall  be  that  we  have  somebody  we 
are  fond  of,  always  to  talk  to  and  to  sit  with  !  Let's  be 
a  comfortable  couple.    Now,  do.  my  dear  !  " 

Five  minutes  after  this  honest  and  straight- forward 
speech,  little  Miss  La  Creevy  and  Tim  were  talking  as 


328 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


pleasantly  as  if  they  had  been  married  for  a  score  of  years, 
and  had  never  once  quarreled  all  the  time  ;  and  five  min- 
utes after  that,  when  Miss  La  Creevy  had  bustled  out  to 
see  if  her  eyes  were  red  and  put  her  hair  to  rights,  Tim 
moved  with  a  stately  step  towards  the  drawing-room, 
exclaiming  as,  he  went,  "  There  an't  such  another 
woman  in  all  London — I  know  there  an't  !" 

By  this  time,  the  apoplectic  butler  was  nearly  in  fits, 
in  consequence  of  the  unheard-of  postponement  of  din- 
ner. Nicholas,  who  had  been  engaged  in  a  manner  in 
which  every  reader  may  imagine  for  himself  or  herself, 
was  hurrying  down  stairs  in  obedience  to  his  angry  sum- 
mons, when  he  encountered  a  new  surprise. 

On  his  way  down,  he  overtook,  in  one  of  the  passages, 
a  stranger  genteelly  dressed  in  black,  who  was  also  mov- 
ing towards  the  dining-room.  As  he  was  rather  lame, 
and  walked  slowly,  Nicholas  lingered  behind,  and  was 
following  him  step  by  step,  wondering  who  he  v/as, 
when  he  suddenly  turned  round  and  caught  him  by  both 
hands. 

* '  Newman  Noggs  ! "  cried  Nicholas  joyfully. 

"Ah  !  Newman,  your  own  Newman,  your  own  old 
faithful  Newman  !  My  dear  boy,  my  dear  Nick,  I  give 
you  joy — health,  happiness,  every  blessing.  I  can't  bear 
it — it's^  too  much,  my  dear  boy — it  makes  a  child  of 
me  ! " 

Where  have  you  been?  "  said  Nicholas,  "  what  have 
you  been  doing?"  How  often  have  I  inquired  for  you, 
and  been  told  that  I  should  hear  before  long  ! " 

"I  know,  I  know!"  returned  Newman.  "They 
wanted  all  the  happiness  to  come  together.  I've  been 
helping  'em.    I — I — look  at  me,  Nick,  look  at  me  !  " 

"  You  would  never  let  me  do  that,"  said  Nicholas  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  reproach. 

"I  didn't  mind  what  I  was,  then.  I  shouldn't  have 
had  the  heart  to  pat  on  gentleman's  clothes.  They 
would  have  reminded  me  of  old  times  and  made  me  mis- 
erable, I  am  another  man  now,  Nick.  My  dear  boy,  I 
can't  speak— don't  say  anything  to  me — don't  think  the 
worse  of  me  for  these  tears — yoti  don't  know  what  I  feel 
to-day  ;  you  can't,  and  never  will  !  " 

They  walked  in  to  dinner,  arm-in-arm,  and  sat  down, 
side  by  side. 

Never  was  such  a  dinner  as  that,  since  the  world  be- 
gan. There  was  the  superannuated  bank  clerk,  Tim 
Linkin water's  friend  ;  and  there  was  the  cubby  old  lady, 
Tim  Linkinwater's  sister  ;  and  there  was  so  much  atten- 
tion from  Tim  Linkinwater's  sister  to  Miss  La  Creevy, 
and  there  were  so  many  jokes  from  the  superannuated 
bank  clerk,  and  Tim  Linkinwater  himself  was  in  such 
tiptop  spirits,  and  little  Miss  La  Creevy  was  in  such  a 
comical  state,  that  of  themselves  they  would  have  com- 
posed the  pleasantest  party  conceivable.  Then,  there 
was  Mrs.  Nickleby,  so  grand  and  complacent  ;  Madeline 
and  Kate,  so  blushing  and  beautiful  ;  Nicholas  and 
Frank,  so  devoted  and  proud  ;  and  all  four  so  silently 
and  tremblingly  happy — there  was  Newman  so  subdued 
yet  so  overjoyed,  and  there  were  the  twin  Brothers  so 
delighted  and  interchanging  such  looks,  that  the  old 
servant  stood  transfixed  behind  his  master's  chair,  and 
felt  his  eyes  grow  dim  as  they  wandered  round  the 
table. 

When  the  first  novelty  of  the  meeting  had  worn  off, 
and  they  began  truly  to  feel  how  happy  they  were,  the 
conversation  became  more  general,  and  the  harmony 
and  pleasure  if  possible  increased.  The  Brothers  were 
in  a  perfect  ecstacy  ;  and  their  insisting  on  saluting  the 
ladies,  all  round,  before  they  would  permit  them  to  re- 
tire, gave  occasion  to  the  superannuated  bank  clerk  to 
.say  so  many  good  things,  that  he  quite  outshone  himself, 
and  was  looked  upon  as  a  prodigy  of  humour. 

"  Kate,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  taking  her 
daughter  aside,  directly  they  got  up-stairs,  "you  don't 
really  mean  to  tell  me  that  this  is  actually  true  about 
Miss  La  Creevy  and  Mr.  Linkinwater?" 

"  Indeed  it  is,  mamma." 

"  Why,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  my  life  ! "  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Nickleby. 

"Mr.  Linkinwater  is  a  most  excellent  creature," 
reasoned  Kate,  "  and,  for  his  age,  quite  young  still." 

"For  Mh  age,  my  dear!"  returned  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
"yes  ;  nobody  says  anything  against  him,  except  that  I 


think  he  is  the  weakest  and  most  foolish  man  I  ever  knew. 
It's  her  age  I  speak  of.  That  he  should  have  gone  and 
offered  himself  to  a  woman  who  must  be — ah,  half  as 
old  again  as  I  am — and  that  she  should  have  dared  to 
accept  him  ?  It  don't  signify,  Kate  ; — I'm  disgusted 
with  her  !  " 

Shaking  her  head  very  emphatically  indeed,  Mrs.  Nick- 
leby swept  away  ;  and  all  the  evening,  in  the  midst  of 
the  merriment  and  enjoyment  that  ensued,  and  in  which 
with  that  exception  she  freely  participated,  cond acted 
herself  toward  Miss  La  Creevy  in  a  stately  and  distant 
manner,  designed  to  mark  her  sense  of  the  impropriety 
of  her  conduct,  and  to  signify  her  extreme  and  cutting 
disapprobation  of  the  misdemeanour  she  had  so  flagrantly 
committed. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

An  old  Acqnaintance  is  Hecognixed  vvder  jnelanclioly  Circvmstancef:, 
and  Dotheboys  Hall  breaks  vp forever. 

Nicholas  was  one  of  those  whose  joy  is  incomplete 
unless  it  is  shared  by  the  friends  of  adverse  and  less 
fortunate  days.  Surrounded  by  every  fascination  of  love 
and  hope,  his  warm  heart  yearned  towards  plain  John 
Browdie.  He  remembered  their  first  meeting  with  a 
smile,  and  their  second  with  a  tear  ;  saw  poor  Smike 
once  again  with  the  bundle  on  his  shoulder  trudging 
patiently  by  his  side  ;  and  heard  the  honest  Yorkshire- 
man's  rough  words  of  encouragement  as  he  left  them  on 
their  road  to  London. 

Madeline  and  he  sat  down,  very  many  times,  jointly  to 
produce  a  letter  which  should  acquaint  John  at  full  length 
with  his  altered  iiprtunes,  and  assure  him  of  his  friendship 
and  gratitude.  It  so  happened,  however,  that  the  letter 
could  never  be  written.  Although  they  applied  them- 
selves to  it  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  it 
chanced  that  they  always  fell  to  talking  about  something 
else,  and  when  Nicholas  tried  it  by  himself,  he  found  it 
impossible  to  write  one  half  of  what  he  wished  to  say, 
or  to  pen  anything,  indeed,  which  on  re-perusal  did  not 
appear  cold  and  unsatisfactory  compared  with  what  he 
had  in  his  mind.  At  last,  after  going  on  thus  from  day 
to  day,  and  reproaching  himself  more  and  more,  he  re- 
solved (the  more  readily  as  Madeline  strongly  urged  him) 
to  make  a  hasty  trip  into  Yorkshire,  and  present  him- 
self before  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browdie  without  a  word  of 
notice. 

Thus  it  was  that  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock  one 
evening,  he  and  Kate  found  themselves  in  the  Saracen's 
Head  booking-oflBce,  securing  a  place  to  Greta  Bridge 
by  the  next  morning's  coach.  They  had  to  go  westward 
to  procure  some  little  necessaries  for  his  journey,  and, 
as  it  was  a  fine  night,  they  agreed  to  walk  there,  and  ride 
home. 

The  place  they  had  just  been  in,  called  up  so  many  rec- 
ollections, and  Kate  had  so  many  anecdotes  of  Madeline, 
and  Nicholas  so  many  anecdotes  of  Frank,  and  each  was 
so  interested  in  what  the  other  said,  and  both  were  so 
happy  and  confiding,  and  had  so  much  to  talk  about, 
that  it  was  not  until  they  had  plunged  for  a  full  half 
hour  into  that  labyrinth  of  streets  which  lies  between 
Seven  Dials  and  Soho,  without  emerging  into  any  large 
thoroughfare,  that  Nicholas  began  to  think  it  just  possi- 
ble they  might  have  lost  their  way. 

The  possibility  was  soon  converted  into  a  certainty  ; 
for,  on  looking  about,  and  walking  first  to  one  end  of  the 
street  and  then  to  the  other,  he  could  find  no  land-mark 
he  could  recognise,  and  was  fain  to  turn  back  again  in 
quest  of  some  place  at  which  he  could  ^  eek  a  direction. 

It  was  a  by-street,  and  there  was  nobody  about,  or  in 
the  few  wretched  shops  they  passed.  Making  towards 
a  faint  gleam  of  light,  which  streamed  across  the  pave- 
ment from  a  cellar,  Nicholas  was  about  to  descend  two 
or  three  steps  so  as  to  render  himself  visible  to  those  be- 
low and  make  his  inquiry,  when  he  was  arrested  by  a 
loud  noise  of  scolding  in  a  woman's  voice. 

"  Oh  come  away  !  "  said  Kate,  "  they  are  quarrelling. 
You'll  be  hurt." 

"  Wait  one  instant,  Kate.  Let  us  hear  if  there's  any- 
thing the  matter,"  returned  her  brotlier.    "  Hush  !  " 

"You  nasty,  idle,  vicious,  good-for-nothing  brute/' 


NICHOLAS 

cried  tlie  woman,  stamping  on  the  ground,  "  why  don't 
you  turn  the  mangle  ?  " 

"  So  I  am,  my  life  and  soul  1"  replied  a  man's  voice. 
"  I  am  always  turning.  I  am  perpetually  turning,  like 
a  demd  old  horse  in  a  demnition  mill.  My  life  is  one 
demd  horrid  grind  I  " 

"  Then  why  don't  you  go  and  list  for  a  soldier?"  re- 
torted the  woman,  "  you're  welcome  to." 

"  For  a  soldier  I  "  cried  the  man.  "  For  a  soldier  1 
Would  his  joy  and  gladness  see  him  in  a  coarse  red  coat 
with  a  little  tail?  Would  she  hear  of  his  being  slapped 
and  beat  by  drummers  demnebly  ?  Would  she  have  him 
fire  off  real  guns  and  have  his  hair  cut,  and  his  whiskers 
shaved,  and  his  eyes  turned  right  and  left,  and  his 
trousers  pipeclayed  ?  " 

"  Dear  Nicholas,"  whispered  Kate,  "  you  don't  know 
who  that  is.    It's  Mr.  Mautalini  I  am  confident." 

"  Do  make  sure  1  Peep  at  him  while  I  ask  the  way," 
said  Nicholas.    "  Come  down  a  step  or  two — come  1" 

Drawing  her  after  him,  Nicholas  crept  down  the  steps 
and  looked  into  a  small  boarded  cellar.  There,  amidst 
clothes-baskets  and  clothes,  stripped  to  his  shirt-sleeves, 
but  wearing  still  an  old  patched  pair  of  pantaloons  of 
superlative  make,  a  once  brilliant  waistcoat,  and  mous- 
tache and  whiskers  as  of  yore,  but  lacking  their  lustrous 
dye — there,  endeavouring  to  mollify  the  wrath  of  a 
buxom  female — not  the  lawful  Madame  Mantalini,  but 
the  proprietress  of  the  concern — and  grinding  meanwhile 
as  if  for  very  life  at  the  mangle,  whose  creaking  noise, 
mingled  with  her  shrill  tones  appeared  almost  to  deafen 
him — there  was  the  graceful,  elegant,  fascinating,  and 
once  dashing  Mantalini. 

"Oh  you  false  traitor?"  cried  the  lady,  threatening 
personal  violence  on  Mr.  Mantalini's  face. 

"  False.  Oh  dem  1  Now  my  soul,  my  gentle,  capti- 
vating, bewitching,  and  most  demnebly  enslaving  chick- 
a-biddy,  be  calm,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  humbly. 

"I  won't  !"  screamed  the  woman.  "I'll  tear  your 
eyes  out !  "  • 

"Oh  !  What  a  demd  savage  lamb  ?"  cried  Mr.  Man- 
talini. 

"  You're  never  to  be  trusted,"  screamed  the  woman, 
"  you  were  out  all  day  yesterday,  and  gallivanting  some- 
where I  know — you  know  you  were  !  Isn't  it  enough 
that  I  paid  two  pound  fourteen  for  you,  and  took  you 
out  of  prison  and  let  you  live  here  like  a  gentleman,  but 
must  you  go  on  like  this  :  breaking  my  heart  besides  ?  " 

"  I  will  never  break  its  heart,  I  will  be  a  good  boy, 
and  never  do  so  any  more  ;  I  will  never  be  naughty 
again  ;  I  beg  its  little  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Mantalini, 
dropping  the  handle  of  the  mangle,  and  folding  his 
palms  together,  "it  is  all  up  with  its  handsome  friend  I 
He  has  gone  to  the  demnition  bow-wows.  It  will  have 
pity  ?  it  will  not  scratch  and  claw,  but  pet  and  comfort  ? 
Oh,  demmit." 

Very  little  affected,  to  judge  from  her  action,  by  this 
tender  appeal,  the  lady  was  on  the  point  of  returning 
some  angry  reply,  when  Nicholas,  raising  his  voice, 
asked  his  way  to  Piccadilly. 

Mr.  Mantalini  turned  round,  caught  sight  of  Kate, 
and,  without  another  word,  leapt  at  one  bound  into  a 
bed  which  stood  behind  the  door,  and  drew  the  counter- 
pane over  his  face  :  kicking  meanwhile  convulsively. 

"Demmit,"  he  cried,  in  a  suffocating  voice,  "it's 
little  Nickleby  !  Shut  the  door,  put  out  the  candle, 
turn  me  up  in  the  bedstead  !    Oh,  dem,  dem,  dem  ! " 

The  woman  looked,  first  at  Nicholas,  and  then  at  Mr. 
Mantalini,  as  if  uncertain  on  whom  to  visit  this  extraor- 
dinary behaviour  ;  but  Mr.  Mantalini  happening  by  ill 
luck  to  thrust  his  nose  from  under  the  bedclothes,  in  his 
anxiety  to  ascertain  whether  the  visitors  were  gone,  she 
suddenly,  and  with  a  dexterity  which  could  only  have 
been  acquired  by  long  practice,  flung  a  pretty  heavy 
clothes-basket  at  him,  with  so  good  an  aim  that  he 
kicked  more  violently  than  before,  though  without  ven- 
turing to  make  any  effort  to  disengajre  his  head,  which 
was  quite  extinguished.  Thinking  this  a  favourable  op- 
portunity for  departing  before  any  of  the  torrent  of  her 
wrath  discharged  itself  upon  him,  Nicholas  hurried 
Kate  off,  and  left  the  unfortunate  subject  of  this  unex- 
pected recognition  to  explain  his  conduct  as  he  best  could. 

The  next  morning  he  began  his  journey.    It  was  now 


NICKLEBY,  229 

cold,  winter  weather:  forcibly  recalling  to  his  mind 
under  what  circumstances  he  had  first  travelled  that 
road,  and  how  many  vicissitudes  and  clianges  he  had  Kinc<i 
undergone.  He  was  alone  inside,  the  greater  part  of  the 
way,  and  sometimes,  when  he  had  fallen  into  a  doze, 
and,  rousing  himself,  looked  out  of  the  window,  and 
recognised  some  place  which  he  well  remembered  aH 
having  passed,  either  on  his  journey  down,  or  in  the  long 
walk  back  with  poor  Smike,  he  could  hardly  believe  but 
that  all  which  had  since  happened  had  been  a  dream, 
and  that  they  were  still  plodding  wearily  on  towards 
London,  with  the  world  before  them. 

To  render  these  recollections  the  more  vivid,  it  came 
on  to  snow  as  night  set  in  ;  and,  passing  through  Stam- 
ford and  Grantham,  and  by  the  little  alehouse  where  he 
had  heard  the  story  of  the  bold  Baron  of  Grogzwig,  every- 
thing looked  as  if  he  had  seen  it  but  yesterday,  and  not 
even  a  flake  of  the  white  crust  on  the  roofs  had  melted 
away.  Encouraging  the  train  of  ideas  which  flocked 
upon  him,  he  could  almost  persuade  himself  that  he  sat 
again  outside  the  coach,  with  Squeeis  and  the  boys ; 
that  he  heard  their  voices  in  the  air  :  and  that  he  felt 
again,  but  with  a  mingled  sensation  of  pain  and  pleasure 
now,  that  old  sinking  of  the  heart,  and  longing  after 
home.  While  he  was  yet  yielding  himself  up  to  these 
fancies  he  fell  asleep,  and,  dreaming  of  Madeline,  forgot 
them. 

He  slept  at  the  inn  at  Greta  Bridge,  on  the  night  of  hia 
arrival,  and,  rising  at  a  very  early  hour  next  morning, 
walked  to  the  market  town,  and  inquired  for  John  Brow- 
die's  house.  John  lived  in  the  outskirts,  now  he  was  a 
family  man  ;  and,  as  everybody  knew  him,  Nicholas  had 
no  difficulty  in  finding  a  boy  who  undertook  to  guide  him 
to  his  residence. 

Dismissing  his  guide  at  the  gate,  and  in  his  impatience 
not  even  stopping  to  admire  the  thriving  look  of  cottage 
or  garden  either,  Nicholas  made  his  way  to  the  kitchen 
door,  and  knocked  lustily  with  his  stick. 

"  Halloa  !  "  cried  a  voice  inside,  "  waat  be  the  matther 
noo  ?  Be  the  toon  a-fire  ?  Ding,  but  thou  meik'est  noise 
eneaf  ! " 

With  these  words,  John  Browdie  opened  the  door  him- 
self, and  opening  his  eyes  too  to  their  utmost  width, 
cried,  as  he  clapped  his  hands  together,  and  burst  into  a 
hearty  roar  : 

"  Ecod,  it  be  the  godfeyther,  it  be  the  godfeyther  ! 
Tilly,  here  be  Misther  Nickleby.  Gi'  us  thee  bond,  mun. 
Coom  aw  a',  coom  awa'.  In  wi  'un,  doon  beside  the  fire  ; 
tak'  a  soop  o'  thot.  Dinnot  say  a  word  till  thou'st  droonk 
it  a' !  Oop  wi'  it,  mun.  Ding  !  but  I'm  reeght  glod  to 
see  thee." 

Adapting  his  action  to  his  text,  John  dragged  Nicholas 
into  the  kitchen,  forced  him  down  upon  a  huge  settle 
beside  a  blazing  fire,  poured  out  from  an  enormous  bot- 
tle about  a  quarter  of  a  pint  of  spirits,  thrust  it  into  his 
hand,  opened  his  mouth  and  threw  back  his  head  as  a  sign 
to  him  to  drink  it  instantly,  and  stood  with  a  broad  grin 
of  welcome  overspreading  his  great  red  face,  like  a  jolly 
giant. 

"  I  might  ha'  knowa'd,"  said  John,  "  that  nobody  but 
thou  would  ha'  coom  wi'  sike  a  knock  as  yon.  Thot  was 
the  wa'  thou  knocked  at  schoolmeasther's  door,  eh  ?  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !  But  I  say — waa't  be  a'  this  aboot  schoolmeas- 
ther  ? " 

"  You  know  it  then  ?  "  said  Nicholas. 
"  They  were  talking  aboot  it,  doon  toon,  last  neeght," 
replied  John,  "  but  neane  on  'em  seemed  quit«  to  un'er- 
stan'  it  loike." 

"  After  various  shiftings  and  delays,"  said  Nicholas, 
"he  has  been  sentenced  to  be  transported  for  seven 
years,  for  being  in  the  unlawful  possession  of  a  stolen 
will  ;  and,  after  that,  he  has  to  suffer  the  consequence 
of  a  conspiracy. " 

"  ^\Tiew  1 "'  cried  John,  "  a  conspiracy  !  Soomat  in  the 
pooder  plot  wa'— eh  ?    Soomat  in  the  Guy  Faurx  line  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no,  a  conspiracy  connected  with  his  school  ; 
I'll  explain  it  presently." 

"  Thot's  reeght  ! "  said  John,  "  explain  it  arter  break- 
fast, not  noo,  for  thou  bee'st  hoongry,  and  so  am  I ;  and 
Tilly  she  mun'  be  at  the  bottom  o'  a'  explanations,  for 
she  says  thot's  the  mutual  confidence.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Ecod  it's  a  room  start,  is  the  mutual  confidence  1 " 


230 


CHARLES  BIGKENB'  WORKS. 


The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Browdie,  with  a  smart  cap  on 
and  very  many  apologies  for  their  having  been  detected 
in  the  act  of  breakfasting  in  the  kitchen,  stopped  John 
in  his  discussion  of  this  grave  subject,  and  hastened  the 
breakfast  :  which,  being  composed  of  vast  mounds  of 
toast,  new-laid  eggs,  boiled  ham,  Yorkshire  pie,  and 
other  cold  substantial  (of  which  heavy  relays  were  con- 
stantly appearing  from  another  kitchen  under  the  direc- 
tion o*f  a  very  plump  servant),  was  admirably  adapted  to 
the  cold  bleak  morning,  and  received  the  utmost  justice 
from  all  parties.  At  last,  it  came  to  a  close  ;  and  the 
fire  which  had  been  lighted  in  the  best  parlour  having 
by  this  time  burnt  up,  they  adjourned  thither,  to  hear 
what  Nicholas  had  to  tell. 

Nicholas  told  them  all,  and  never  v^^as  there  a  story 
which  awakened  so  many  emotions  in  the  breast  of  two 
eager  listeners.  At  one  time,  honest  John  groaned  in 
sympathy,  and  at  another  roared  with  joy  ;  at  one  time 
he  vowed  to  go  up  to  London  on  purpose  to  get  a  sight 
of  the  Brothers  Cheeryble  ;  and,  at  another,  swore  that 
Tim  Linkin  water  should  receive  such  a  ham  by  coach,  and 
carriage  free,  as  mortal  knife  had  never  carved.  When 
Nicholas  began  to  describe  Madeline,  he  sat  with  his 
mouth  wide  open,  nudging  Mrs.  Browdie  from  time  to 
time,  and  exclaiming  under  his  breath  that  she  must  be 
"raa'ther  a  tidy  sart,"  and  when  he  heard  at  last  that 
his  young  friend  had  come  down,  purposely  to  communi- 
cate his  good  fortune,  and  to  convey  to  him  all  those  as- 
surances of  friendship  which  he  could  not  state  with 
sufficient  warmth  in  writing — that  the  only  object  of  his  i 
journey  was  to  share  his  happiness  with  them,  and  to 
tell  them  that  when  he  was  married  they  must  come  up 
to  see  him,  and  that  Madeline  insisted  on  it  as  well  as 
he — John  could  hold  out  no  longer,  but  after  looking  in- 
dignantly at  his  wife,  and  demanding  to  know  what  she 
was  whimpering  for,  drew  his  coat-sleeve  over  his  eyes 
and  blubbered  outright. 

"  Tell'ee  waa't  though,"  said  John  seriously,  when  a 
great  deal  had  been  said  on  both  sides,  "to  return  to 
schoolmeasther.  If  this  news  aboot  'un  has  reached 
school  to-day,  the  old  'ooman  wean't  have  a  whole  boan 
in  her  boddy,  nor  Fanny  neither." 

"Oh  John  !"  cried  Mrs.  Browdie. 

"  Ah  !  and  Oh  John  agean,"  replied  the  Yorkshireman. 
"  1  dinnot  know  what  they  lads  mightn't  do.  When  it 
first  got  aboot  that  schoolmeasther  was  in  trouble,  some 
fcythers  and  moothers  sent  and  took  their  young  chaps 
awa'.  If  them  as  is  left,  should  know  waa'ts  coom 
tiv'un,  there'll  be  sike  a  revolution  and  rebel  ! — Ding  ! 
But  I  think  they'll  a'  gang  daft,  and  spill  bluid  like 
wather  ! " 

In  fact  John  Browdie's  apprehensions  were  so  strong 
that  he  determined  to  ride  over  to  the  school  without 
delay,  and  invited  Nicholas  to  accompany  him,  which, 
however,  he  declined,  pleading  that  his  presence  miglit 
perhaps  aggravate  the  bitterness  of  their  adversity. 

"  Thot's  true  !  "  said  John,  "  I  should  ne'er  ha'  thought 
o'  thot." 

"I  must  return  to-morrow,"  said  Nicholas,  "but  I 
mean  to  dine  with  you  to-day,  and  if  Mrs.  Browdie  can 
give  me  a  bed — " 

"Bed!"  cried  John,  "I  wish  thou  couldst  sleep  in 
fower  beds  at  once.  Ecod  thou  should'st  have  'em  a'. 
Bide  till  I  coom  back,  on'y  bide  till  I  coom  back,  and 
ecod  we'll  make  a  day  of  it." 

Giving  his  wife  a  hearty  kiss,  and  Nicholas  a  no  less 
liearty  shake  of  the  hand,  John  mounted  his  horse  and 
rode  off  :  leaving  Mrs.  Browdie  to  apply  herself  to  hos- 
pitable preparations,  and  his  young  friend  to  stroll  about 
the  neighbourhood,  and  revisit  spots  which  were  ren- 
dered familiar  to  him  by  many  a  miserable  association. 

John  cantered  away,  and  arriving  at  Dotheboys  Ilall, 
tied  his  horse  to  a  gate  and  made  his  way  to  the  school- 
room door,  which  he  found  locked  on  the  inside.     A  | 
tremendous  noise  and  riot  arose  from  witliin,  and,  ap-  i 
plying  his  eye  to  a  convenient  crevice  in  the  wall,  he  did  : 
not  remain  long  in  ignorance  of  its  meaning.  j 

The  news  of  Mr.  Squeers's  downfall  had  reached 
Dotheboys  ;  that  was  quite  clear.  To  all  appearance,  it 
had  very  recently  become  known  to  the  young  gentle- 
men ;  for  the  rebellion  had  just  broken  out. 

It  was  one  of  the  brimstone-and-treacle  mornings,  and 


Mrs.  Squeers  had  entered  school  according  to  custom 
with  the  large  bowl  and  spoon,  followed  by  Miss 
Squeers  and  the  amiable  Wackford  :  who,  during  his 
father's  absence,  had  taken  upon  him  such  minor 
branches  of  the  executive  as  kicking  the  pupils  with  his 
nailed  boots,  pulling  the  hair  of  some  of  the  smaller 
boys,  pinching  the  others  in  aggravating  places,  and  ren- 
dering himself,  in  various  similar  ways,  a  great  comfort 
and  happiness  to  his  mother.  Their  entrance,  whether  by 
premeditation  or  a  simultaneous  impulse,  was  the  signal 
of  revolt.  While  one  detachment  rushed  to  the  door 
and  locked  it,  and  another  mounted  on  the  desks  and 
forms,  the  stoutest  (and  consequently  the  newest)  boy 
seized  the  cane,  and  confronting  Mrs.  Squeers  with  a 
stern  countenance,  snatched  off  her  cap  and  beaver-bon- 
net, put  it  on  his  own  head,  armed  himself  with  the 
wooden  spoon,  and  bade  her,  on  pain  of  death,  go  down 
upon  her  knees  and  take  a  dose  directly.  Before  that 
estimable  lady  could  recover  herself,  or  offer  the  slight- 
est retaliation,  she  was  forced  into  a  kneeling  posture 
by  a  crowd  of  shouting  tormentors,  and  compelled  to 
swallow  a  spoonful  of  the  odious  mixture,  rendered 
more  than  usually  savoury  by  the  immersion  in  the  bowl 
of  Master  Wackford's  head,  whose  ducking  was  en- 
trusted to  another  rebel.  The  success  of  this  first 
achievement  prompted  the  malicious  crowd,  whose  faces 
were  clustered  together  in  every  variety  of  lank  and 
half-starved  ugliness,  to  further  acts  of  outrage.  The 
leader  was  insisting  upon  Mrs.  Squeers  repeating  her 
dose.  Master  Squeers  was  undergoing  another  dip  in  the 
treacle,  and  a  violent  assault  had  been  commenced  on 
Miss  Squeers,  when  John  Browdie,  bursting  open  the 
door  with  a  vigorous  kick,  rushed  to  the  rescue.  The 
shouts,  screams,  groans,  hoots,  and  clapping  of  hands, 
suddenly  ceased,  and  a  dead  silence  ensued. 

"Yc  be  noice  chaps,"  said  John,  looking  steadily 
round.    ' '  What's  to  do  here,  thou  yoong  dogs  !  " 

"  Squeers  is  in  prison,  and  we  are  going  to  run 
away!"  cried  a  score  of  shritl  voices.  "We  won't 
stop,  we  won't  stop  ! " 

"  Weel  then,  dinnot  stop,"  replied  John,  "whowaants 
thee  to  stop  ?  Boon  awa'  loike  men,  but  dinnot  hurt  the 
women." 

"  Hurrah  !  "  cried  the  shrill  voices,  more  shrilly  still. 
"Hurrah  ?  "  repeated  John.   "Weel,  hurrah  loike  men 
too.    Noo  then,  look  out.    Hip — hip — hip — hurrah  ! " 
"  Hurrah  !"  cried  the  voices. 
"  Hurrah  !  agean,"  said  John.    "  Looder  still," 
The  boys  obeyed. 

"  Anoo'ther  !  "  said  John.    "Dinnot  be  af eared  on  it. 
Let's  have  a  good  'un  I" 
"  Hurrah  !" 

"  Noo  then,"  said  John,  "  let's  have  jan  more  to  end 
wi',  and  then  coot  off  as  quick  as  you  loike.  Tak'  a 
good  breath  noo — Squeers  be  in  jail — the  school's  brok- 
ken  oop — it's  a'  oAver — past  and  gane — think  o'  thot,  and 
let  it  be  a  hearty  'un  !    Hurrah  ! " 

Such  a  cheer  as  arose  the  walls  of  Dotheboys  Hall 
had  never  echoed  before,  and  were  destined  never  to  re- 
spond to  again.  When  the  sound  had  died  away,  the 
school  was  empty  ;  and  of  the  busy  noisy  crowd  which 
had  peopled  it  but  five  minutes  before,  not  one  re- 
mained, 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Browdie!"  said  Miss  Squeers,  hot 
and  flushed  from  the  recent  encounter,  but  vixenish  to 
the  last  ;  "  you've  been  and  excited  our  boys  to  run 
away.  Now  see  if  we  don't  pay  you  out  for  that,  sir  ! 
If  my  pa  is  unfortunate  and  trod  down  by  henemies, 
we're  not  going  to  be  basely  crowed  and  conquered  over 
by  you  and  Tilda." 

"Noa!"  replied  John  bluntly,  "thou  bean't.  Tak' 
thy  oath  o'  thot.  Think  betther  o'  us,  Fanny.  I  tell  'ee 
both,  that  I'm  glod  the  auld  man  has  been  caught  out  at 
last— dom'd  glod — but  yc'll  sooffer  eneaf  wi'out  any 
crowin'  fra'  me,  and  I  be  not  the  mun  to  crow,  nor  be 
Tilly  the  lass,  so  I  tell  'ee  flat.  More  than  thot,  I  tell 
'ce  noo,  that  if  thou  need'st  friends  to  help  thee  awa'  from 
this  place — dinnot  turn  up  thy  nose,  Fanny,  thou  may'st 
— thou'lt  foind  Tilly  and  I  wi'  a  thout  o'  old  times  aboot 
us,  ready  to  lend  thee  a  hond.  And  when  I  say  thot, 
dinnot  think  I  be  asheamed  of  waa't  I've  deane,  for  I  say 
agean,  Hurrah  I  and  dom  the  schoolmeasther — there  1 " 


NICHOLAS  mCKLEBY. 


231 


His  partinf^  words  concluded,  John  Browdie  strode 
heavily  out,  remounted  his  nag,  put  him  once  more  into 
a  smart  canter,  and,  carolling  lustily  forth  some  frag- 
ments of  an  old  song,  to  which  the  horse's  hoofs  rang  a 
merry  accompaniment,  sped  back  to  his  pretty  wife  and 
to  Nicholas. 

For  some  days  afterwards,  the  neighbouring  country 
was  overrun  with  boys,  who,  the  report  went,  had  been 
secretly  furnished  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browdie,  not  only 
with  a  hearty  meal  of  bread  and  meat,  but  with  sundry 
shillings  and  sixpences  to  help  them  on  their  way.  To 
this  rumour  John  always  returned  a  stout  denial,  which 
he  accompanied,  however,  with  a  lurking  grin,  that  ren- 
dered the  suspicious  doubtful,  and  fully  confirmed  all 
previous  believers. 

There  were  a  few  timid  young  children,  who,  miser- 
able as  they  had  been,  and  many  as  were  the  tears  they 
had  shed  in  the  wretched  school,  still  knew  no  other 
home,  and  had  formed  for  it  a  sort  of  attachment,  which 
made  them  weep  when  the  bolder  spirits  fled,  and  cling 
to  it  as  a  refuge.  Of  these,  some  were  found  crying  un- 
der hedges  and  in  such  places,  frightened  at  the  soli- 
tude. One  had  a  dead  bird  in  a  little  cage  ;  he  had  wan- 
dered nearly  twenty  miles,  and  when  his  poor  favourite 
died,  lost  courage  and  lay  down  beside  him.  Another 
was  discovered  in  a  yard  hard  by  the  school,  sleeping 
with  a  dog,  who  bit  at  those  who  came  to  remove  him, 
and  licked  the  sleeping  child's  pale  face. 

They  were  taken  back,  and  some  other  stragglers  were 
recovered,  but  by  degrees  they  were  claimed,  or  lost 
again  ;  and,  in  course  of  time,  Dotheboys  Hall  and  its 
last  breaking  up  began  to  be  forgotten  by  the  neigh- 
bours, or  to  be  only  spoken  of,  as  among  the  things  that 
had  been. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

Conclusion. 

When  her  terra  of  mourning  had  expired,  Madeline 
gave  her  hand  and  fortune  to  Nicholas  ;  and,  on  the  same 
day  and  at  the  same  time,  Kate  became  Mrs.  Frank 
Cheeryble.  It  was  expected  that  Tim  Linkinwater  and 
Miss  La  Creevy  would  have  made  a  third  couple  on  the 
occasion,  but  they  declined,  and  two  or  three  weeks  af- 
terwards went  out  together  one  morning  before  break- 
fast, and,  coming  back  with  merry  faces,  were  found  to 
have  been  quietly  married  that  day. 

The  money  which  Nicholas  acquired  in  right  of  his 
wife  he  invested  in  the  firm  of  Cheeryble  Brothers,  in 
which  Frank  had  become  a  partner.  Before  many  years 
elapsed,  the  business  began  to  be  carried  on  in  the  names 
of  "Cheeryble  and  Nickleby,"  so  that  Mrs.  Nickleby's 
prophetic  anticipations  were  realised  at  last. 

The  twin  brothers  retired.  Who  needs  to  be  told  that 
they  were  happy  ?  They  were  surrounded  by  happiness 
of  their  own  creation,  and  lived  but  to  increase  it, 

Tim  Linkinwater  condescended,  after  much  entreaty 
and  brow-beating,  to  accept  a  share  in  the  house  ;  but  he 
could  never  be  prevailed  upon  to  suffer  the  publication 
of  his  name  as  a  partner,  and  always  persisted  in  the 
punctual  and  regular  discharge  of  his  clerkly  duties. 

He  and  his  wife  lived  in  the  old  house,  and  occupied 
the  very  bedchamber  in  which  he  had  slept  for  four-and- 
forty  years.    As  his  wife  grew  older,  she  became  even  a 
more  cheerful  and  light-hearted  little  creature ;  and  it  ' 
was  a  common  saying  among  their  friends,  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  say  which  looked  the  happier — Tim.  as  he  sat 
calmly  smiling  in  his  elbow-chair  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  ' 
or  his  brisk  little  wife  chatting  and  laughing,  and  con-  I 
stantly  bustling  in  and  out  of  hers,  on  the  other. 

Dick,  the  blackbird,  was  removed  from  the  counting- 
house  and  promoted  to  a  warm  corner  in  the  common  sit-  ; 
ting- room.  Beneath  his  cage  hung  two  miniatures,  of  : 
Mrs,  Linkinwater's  execution  ;  one  representing  herself,  ! 
and  the  other  Tim  ;  and  both  smiling  very  hard  at  all  be-  \ 
holders.  Tim's  head  being  powdered  like  a  twelfth  cake,  i 
and  his  spectacles  copied  with  great  nicety,  strangers  de-  I 


tocted  a  close  resemblance  to  liim  at  the  first  glance,  and 
this  leading  ihem  to  suspect  that  the  other  must  be  hi.s 
wife,  and  emboldening  them  to  say  so  without  scrujjle, 
Mrs.  Linkinwater  grew  very  proud  of  these  achievements 
in  time,  and  considered  them  among  the  most  successful 
likenesses  she  had  ever  painted.  Tim  had  the  profound- 
est  faith  in  them,  likewise  ;  for  on  this,  as  on  all  other 
subjects,  they  held  but  one  opinion  ;  and  if  ever  there 
were  a  "  comfortable  couple"  in  the  world,  it  was  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Linkinwater. 

Ralph,  having  died  intestate,  and  having  no  relations 
but  those  with  whom  he  had  lived  in  such  enmity,  they 
would  have  become  in  legal  course  his  heirs.  But  they 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  growing  rich  on  money  so 
acquired,  and  felt  as  though  they  could  never  hope  to 
prosper  with  it.  They  made  no  claim  to  his  wealth  ;  and 
the  riches  for  which  he  had  toiled  all  his  days,  and  bur- 
dened his  soul  with  so  many  evil  deeds,  were  swept  at 
last  into  the  coffers  of  the  state,  and  no  man  was  the  bet- 
ter or  the  happier  for  them. 

Arthur  Gride  was  tried  for  the  unlawful  possession  of 
the  will,  which  he  had  either  procured  to  be  stolen,  or 
had  dishonestly  acquired  and  retained  by  other  means  as 
bad.  By  dint  of  an  ingenious  counsel,  and  a  legal  flaw, 
he  escaped  ;  but  only  to  undergo  a  worse  punishment ; 
for,  some  years  afterwards,  his  house  was  broken  open  in 
the  night  by  robbers,  tempted  by  the  rumours  of  his  great 
wealth,  and  he  was  found  murdered  in  his  bed, 

Mrs.  Sliderskew  went  beyond  the  seas  at  nearly  the 
same  time  as  Mr.  Squeers,  and  in  the  course  of  nature 
never  returned.  Brooker  died  penitent.  Sir  Mulberry 
Hawk  lived  abroad  for  some  years,  courted  and  caressed, 
and  in  high  repute  as  a  fine  dashing  fellow.  Ultimately, 
returning  to  this  country,  he  was  thrown  into  jail  for 
debt,  and  there  perished  miserably,  as  such  high  spirits 
generally  do. 

The  first  act  of  Nicholas,  when  he  became  a  rich  and 
prosperous  merchant,  was  to  buy  his  father's  old  house. 
As  time  crept  on,  and  there  came  gradually  about  him  a 
group  of  lovely  children,  it  was  altered  and  enlarged  ; 
but  none  of  the  old  rooms  were  ever  pulled  down,  no  old 
tree  was  ever  rooted  up,  nothing  with  which  there  was 
any  association  of  bygone  times  was  ever  removed  or 
changed. 

Within  a  stone's-throw,  was  another  retreat,  enlivened 
by  children's  pleasant  voices  too  ;  and  here  was  Kate, 
with  many  new  cares  and  occupations,  and  many  new 
faces  courting  her  sweet  smile  (and  one  so  like  her  own, 
that  to  her  mother  she  seemed  a  child  again),  the  same 
true  gentle  creature,  the  same  fond  sister,  the  same  in 
the  love  of  all  about  her,  as  in  her  girlish  days, 

Mrs.  Nickleby  lived,  sometimes  with  her  daughter, 
and  sometimes  with  her  son,  accompanying  one  or  other 
of  them  to  London  at  those  periods  when  the  cares  of 
business  obliged  both  families  to  reside  there,  and  always 
preserving  a  great  appearance  of  dignity,  and  relating 
her  experiences  (especially  on  points  connected  with  the 
management  and  bringing-up  of  children)  with  much 
solemnity  and  importance.  It  was  a  very  long  time 
before  she  could  be  induced  to  receive  Mrs.  Linkinwater 
into  favour,  and  it  is  even  doubtful  whether  she  ever 
thoroughly  forgave  her. 

There  was  one  grey-haired,  quiet,  harmless  gentle- 
man, who,  winter  and  summer,  lived  in  a  little  cottage 
hard  by  Nicholas's  house,  and  when  he  was  not  there, 
assumed  the  superintendence  of  affairs.  His  chief  pleas- 
ure and  delight  was  in  the  children,  with  whom  he  was 
a  child  himself,  and  master  of  the  revels.  The  little 
people  could  do  nothing  without  dear  Newman  Noggs. 

The  grass  was  green  above  the  dead  boy's  grave,  and 
trodden  by  feet  so  small  and  light,  that  not  a  daisy 
drooped  its  head  beneath  their  pressure.  Through  all 
the  spring  and  summer-time,  garlands  of  fresh  flowers, 
wreathed  by  infant  hands,  rested  on  the  stone  ;  and, 
when  the  children  came  to  change  them  lest  they  should 
wither  and  be  pleasant  to  him  no  longer,  their  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  they  spoke  low  and  softly  of  their 
poor  dead  cousin. 


Christmas  Books. 


A    CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


IN  PROSE. 


PREFACE. 

The  narrow  space  within  which  it  was  necessary  to 
confine  these  Christmas  Stories  when  they  were  origin- 
ally published,  rendered  their  construction  a  matter  of 
some  ditficalty,  and  almost  necessitated  what  is  peculiar 
in  their  machinery.  I  never  attempted  great  elaboration 
of  detail  in  the  working  out  of  character  within  such 
limits,  believing  that  it  could  not  succeed.  My  purpose 
was,  in  a  whimsical  kind  of  masque  which  the  good 
humour  of  the  season  justified,  to  awaken  some  loving 
and  forbearing  thoughts,  never  out  of  season  in  a  Chris- 
tian laud. 


STAVE  ONE. 

Marley's  Ghost. 


Marley  was  dead,  to  begin  with.  There  is  no  doubt 
whatever  about  that.  The  register  of  his  burial  was 
signed  by  the  clergyman,  the  clerk,  the  undertaker,  and 
the  chief  mourner.  Scrooge  signed  it.  And  Scrooge's 
name  was  good  upon  'Change,  for  anything  he  chose  to 
put  his  hand  to. 

Old  Marley  was  as  dead  as  a  door-nail. 

Mind !  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  know,  of  my  own 
knowledge,  what  there  is  particularly  dead  about  a  door- 
nail. I  might  have  been  inclined,  myself,  to  regard  a 
coffin-nail  as  the  deadest  piece  of  ironmongery  in  the 
trade.  But  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  is  in  the  simile  ; 
and  my  unhallowed  hands  shall  not  disturb  it,  or  the 
Country's  done  for.  You  will  therefore  permit  me  to 
repeat,  emphatically,  that  Marley  was  as  dead  as  a  door- 
nail. 

Scrooge  knew  he  was  dead?  Of  course  he  did.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Scrooge  and  he  were  partners 
for  I  don't  know  how  many  years.  Scrooge  was  his  sole 
executor,  his  sole  administrator,  his  sole  assign,  his  sole 
residuary  legatee,  his  sole  friend,  and  sole  mourner. 
And  even  Scrooge  was  not  so  dreadfully  cut  up  by  the  sad 
event,  but  that  he  was  an  excellent  man  of  business  on 
the  very  day  of  the  funeral,  and  solemnized  it  with  an 
undoubted  bargain. 

The  mention  of  Marley's  funeral  brings  me  back  to  the 
point  I  started  from.  There  is  no  doubt  that  Marley  was 
dead.  This  must  be  distinctly  understood,  or  nothing 
wonderful  can  come  of  the  story  I  am  going  to  relate.  If 
we  were  not  perfectly  convinced  that  Hamlet's  Father 
died  before  the  play  began,  there  would  be  noth-ingmore 
remarkable  in  his  taking  a  stroll  at  night,  in  an  easterly 
wind,  upon  his  own  ramparts,  than  there  would  be  in 
any  other  middle-aged  gentleman  rashly  turning  out 
after  dark  in  a  breezy  spot— say  Saint  Paul's  Church- 
yard for  instance— literally  to  astonish  his  son's  weak 
mind. 

Scrooge  never  painted  out  Old  Marley's  name.  There 
it  stood,  years  afterwards,  above  the  warehouse  door  : 
Scrooge  and  Marley.  The  firm  was  known  as  Scrooge 
and  Marley.  Sometimes  people  new  to  the  business 
called  Scrooge  Scrooge,  and  sometimes  Marley,  but  he 
answered  to  both  names.    It  was  all  the  same  to  him. 

Oh  1  But  he  was  a  tight-fisted  hand  at  the  grindstone. 
Scrooge  !  a  squeezing,  wrenching,  grasping,  scraping, 
clutching,  covetous,  old  sinner  !  Hard  and  sharp  as  flint, 
from  which  no  steel  had  ever  struck  out  generous  fire  ; 
secret,  and  self-contained,  and  solitary  as  an  oyster.  The 


cold  within  him  froze  his  old  features,  nipped  his  pointed 
nose,  shrivelled  his  cheek,  stiffened  his  gait  ;  made  his 
eyes  red,  his  thin  lips  blue  ;  and  spoke  out  shrewdly  in 
his  grating  voice.  A  frosty  rime  was  on  his  head,  and 
on  his  eyebrows,  and  his  wiry  chin.  He  carried  his  own 
low  temperature  always  about  with  him  ;  he  iced  his 
office  in  the  dog-days  ;  and  didn't  thaw  it  one  degree  at 
Christmas. 

External  heat  and  cold  had  little  influence  on  Scrooge. 
No  warmth  could  warai,  no  wintry  weather  chill  him. 
No  wind  that  blew  was  bitterer  than  he,  no  falling  snow 
was  more  intent  upon  its  purpose,  no  pelting  rain  less 
open  to  entreaty.  Foul  weather  didn't  know  where  to 
have  him.  The  heaviest  rain,  and  snow,  and  hail,  and 
sleet,  could  boast  of  the  advantage  over  him  in  only  one 
respect.  They  often  "came  down"  handsomely,  and 
Scrooge  never  did. 

Nobody  ever  stopped  him  in  the  street  to  say,  with 
gladsome  looks,  "My  dear  Scrooge,  how  are  you  ?  When 
will  you  come  to  see  me?"  No  beggars  implored  him 
to  bestow  a  trifle,  no  children  asked  him  what  it  was 
o'clock,  no  man  or  woman  ever  once  in  all  his  life  in- 
quired the  way  to  such  and  such  a  place,  of  Scrooge. 
Even  the  blindmen's  dogs  appeared  to  know  him  ;  and 
when  they  saw  him  coming  on,  would  tug  their  owners 
into  doorways  and  up  courts  ;  and  then  would  wag  their 
tails  as  though  they  said,  "no  eye  at  all  is  better  than 
an  evil  eye,  dark  master  ! " 

But  what  did  Scrooge  care  !  It  was  the  very  thing  he 
liked.  To  edge  his  way  along  the  crowded  paths  of  life, 
warning  all  human  sympathy  to  keep  its  distance,  was 
what  the  knowing  ones  call  "  nuts"  to  Scrooge. 

Once  upon  a  time — of  all  the  good  days  in  the  year,  on 
Christmas  Eve — old  Scrooge  sat  busy  in  his  counting- 
house.  It  was  cold,  bleak,  biting  weather  :  foggy  withal  : 
and  he  could  hear  the  people  in  the  court  outside,  go 
wheezing  up  and  down,  beating  their  hands  upon  their 
breasts,  and  stamping  their  feet  upon  the  pavement 
stones  to  warm  them.  The  city  clocks  had  only  just 
gone  three,  but  it  was  quite  dark  already — it  had  not 
been  light  all  day — and  candles  were  flaring  in  the  win- 
dows of  the  neighbouring  offices,  like  ruddy  smears  upon 
the  palpable  brown  air.  The  fog  came  pouring  in  at 
every  chink  and  keyhole,  and  was  £;o  dense  without,  that 
although  the  court  was  of  the  narrowest,  the  houses  oppo- 
site were  mere  phantoms.  To  see  the  dingy  cloud  come 
drooping  down,  obscuring  everything,  one  might  have 
thought  that  Nature  lived  hard  by,  and  was  brewing  on 
a  large  scale. 

The  door  of  Scrooge's  counting-house  was  open,  that 
he  might  keep  his  eye  upon  his  clerk,  who,  in  a  dismal 
little  cell  beyond,  a*  sort  of  tank,  v.'as  copying  letters. 
Scrooge  had  a  very  small  fire,  but  the  clerk's  fire  was  so 
very  much  smaller  that  it  looked  like  one  coal.  But  he 
couldn't  replenish  it,  for  Scrooge  kept  the  coal-box  in 
his  own  room  ;  and  so  surely  as  the  cleik  came  in  with 
the  shovel,  the  master  predicted  that  it  would  be  neces- 
sary for  them  to  part.  Wherefore  the  clerk  put  on  his 
white  comforter,  and  tried  to  warm  himself  at  the  can- 
dle ;  in  which  effort,  not  being  a  man  of  strong  imagin- 
ation, he  failed. 

"  A  merry  Christmas,  uncle  !  God  save  yon  !  "  cried  a 
cheerful  voice.  It  was  the  voice  of  Scrooge's  nephew, 
who  came  upon  him  so  quickly  that  this  was  the  first 
intimation  he  had  of  his  approach. 

"  Bah  !"  said  Scrooge,  "  Humbug  !  " 

He  had  so  heated  himself  with  rapid  walking  in  the 

233 


234 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


fog  and  frost,  tliis  nepliew  of  Scrooge's,  that  he  was  all 
in  a  glow  ;  his  face  was  ruddy  and  handsome  ;  his  eyes 
sparkled,  and  his  breath  smoked  again. 

Christmas  a  humbug,  uncle  !  "  said  Scrooge's  nephew. 

You  don't  mean  that,  I  am  sure  ?  " 

"1  do,"  said  Scrooge.  "Merry  Christmas!  What 
right  have  you  to  be  merry  ?  What  reason  have  you  to  be 
merry?    You're  poor  enough," 

"Come  then,"  returned  the  nephew,  gaily,  "What 
right  have  you  to  be  dismal  ?  What  reason  have  you  to 
be  morose  ?    You're  rich  enough. " 

Scrooge  having  no  better  answer  ready  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  said,  "Bah  !"  again;  and  followed  it  up 
with  "Humbug  ! " 

"  Don't  be  cross,  uncle  !  "  said  the  nephew. 

"What  else  can  I  be,"  returned  the  uncle,  "  when  I 
live  in  such  a  world  of  fools  as  this  ?  Merry  Christmas  1 
Out  upon  merry  Christmas  !  What's  Christmas  time  to 
you  but  a  time  for  paying  bills  without  money  ;  a  time 
for  finding  yourself  a  year  older,  and  not  an  hour 
richer  ;  a  time  for  balancing  your  books  and  having 
every  item  in  'em  through  a  round  dozen  of  months  pre- 
sented dead  against  you  ?  If  I  could  work  my  will," 
said  Scrooge,  indignantly,  "every  idiot  who  goes  about 
with  '  Merry  Christmas,'  on  his  lips,  should  be  boiled 
with  his  own  pudding,  and  buried  with  a  stake  of  holly 
through  his  heart.    He  should." 

"  Uncle  !  "  pleaded  the  nephev/. 

"Nephew!"  returned  the  uncle,  sternly,  "keep 
Christmas  in  your  own  way,  and  let  me  keep  it  in  mine.  " 

"  Keep  it  !  "  repeated  Scrooge's  nephew.  "But  you 
don't  keep  it." 

"  Let  me  leave  it  alone,  then,"  said  Scrooge.  "  Much 
good  may  it  do  you  !  Much  good  it  has  ever  done  you  !" 

"  There  are  many  things  from  which  I  might  have  de- 
rived good,  by  which  I  have  not  profited,  I  dare  say," 
returned  the  nephew,  "  Christmas  among  the  rest.  But 
I  am  sure  I  have  always  thought  of  Christmas  time, 
when  it  has  come  round— apart  from  the  veneration  due 
to  its  sacred  name  and  origin,  if  anything  belonging  to 
it  can  be  apart  from  that — as  a  good  time  ;  a  kind,  for- 
giving, charitable,  pleasant  time  ;  the  only  time  I  know 
of,  in  the  long  calendar  of  the  year,  when  men  and 
women  seem  by  one  consent  to  open  their  shut-up  hearts 
freely,  and  to  think  of  people  below  them  as  if  they 
really  were  fellow-passengers  to  the  grave,  and  not 
another  race  of  creatures  bound  on  other  journeys.  And 
therefore,  uncle,  though  it  has  never  put  a  scrap  of  gold 
or  silver  in  my  pocket,  I  believe  that  it  has  done  me 
good,  and  toill  do  me  good  ;  and  I  say,  God  bless  it  ! " 

The  clerk  in  the  tank  involuntarily  applauded.  Be- 
coming immediately  sensible  of  the  impropriety,  he 
poked  the  fire,  and  extinguished  the  last  frail  spark  for 
ever. 

"  Let  me  hear  another  sound  from  you,"  said  Scrooge, 
"and  you'll  keep  your  Christmas  by  losing  your  situa- 
tion. You're  quite  a  powerful  speaker,  sir,"  he  added, 
turning  to  his  nephew.  "  I  wonder  you  don't  go  into 
Parliament." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  uncle.  Come  !  Dine  with  us  to- 
morrow." 

Scrooge  said  that  he  would  see  him — yes,  indeed  he 
did.  He  went  the  whole  length  of  the  expression,  and 
said  that  he  would  see  him  in  that  extremity  first. 

"  But  why  ?  "  cried  Scrooge's  nephew.    "  Why  ?  " 

"Why  did  you  get  married?"  said  Scrooge. 

"  Because  I  fell  in  love." 

"Because  you  fell  in  love!"  growled  Scrooge,  as  if 
that  were  the  only  one  thing  in  the  world  more  ridicu- 
lous than  a  merry  Christmas.     "  Good  afternoon  !  " 

"Nay,  uncle,  but  you  never  came  to  see  me  before 
that  happened.  Why  give  it  as  a  reason  for  not  coming 
now  ?  " 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  Scrooge. 

"  I  want  nothing  from  you  ;  I  ask  nothing  of  you  ; 
why  cannot  we  be  friends  ?" 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  Scrooge. 

"  I  am  sorry,  with  all  my  heart,  to  find  you  so  reso- 
lute. Wo  have  never  had  any  quarrel,  to  which  I  have 
been  a  party.  But  I  have  made  the  trial  in  homage  to 
Christmas,  and  I'll  keep  my  Christmas  humour  to  the 
last.    So  A  Merry  Christmas,  uncle  !  " 


"  Good  afternoon,"  said  Scrogge. 
"  And  A  Happy  New  Year  !  " 
"  Good  afternoon,"  said  Scrooge. 

His  nephew  left  the  room  without  an  angry  word,  not- 
withstanding. He  stopped  at  the  outer  door  to  bestow 
the  greetings  of  the  season  on  the  clerk,  who,  cold  as 
he  was,  was  warmer  than  Scrooge  ;  for  he  returned  them 
cordially. 

"There's  another  fellow,"  muttered  Scrooge,  who 
overheard  him:  "my  clerk,  with  fifteen  shillings  a- 
week,  and  a  wife  and  family,  talking  about  a  merry 
Christmas.    I'll  retire  to  Bedlam," 

This  lunatic,  in  letting  Scrooge's  nephew  out,  had  let 
two  other  people  in.  They  were  portly  gentlemen, 
pleasant  to  behold,  and  now  stood,  with  their  hats  off, 
in  Scrooge's  office.  They  had  books  and  papers  in  their 
hands,  and  bowed  to  him. 

"  Scrooge  and  Marley's,  I  believe,"  said  one  of  the 
I  gentlemen,  referring  to  his  list.  "Have  I  the  pleasure 
of  addressing  Mr.  Scrooge,  or  Mr.  Marley  ?" 

"Mr.  Marley  has  been  dead  these  seven  years," 
Scrooge  replied.  "  He  died  seven  years  ago  this  very 
night. " 

"  We  have  no  doubt  his  liberality  is  well  represented 
by  his  surviving  partner,"  said  the  gentleman,  present- 
ing his  credentials. 

It  certainly  was,  for  they  had  been  two  kindred  spirts. 
At  the  ominous  word  "  liberality,"  Scrooge  frowned, 
and  shook  his  head,  and  handed  him  the  credentials 
1  back, 

1  "At  this  festive  seasen  of  the  year,  Mr.  Scrooge," 
j  said  the  gentleman,  taking  up  a  pen,  "  it  is  more  than 
I  usually  desirable  that  we  should  make  some  slight  pro- 
vision for  the  Poor  and  destitute,  who  suffer  greatly  at 
the  present  time.  Many  thousands  are  in  want  of  com- 
mon necessaries  ;  hundreds  of  thousands  are  in  want  of 
common  comforts,  sir," 

"Are  there  no  prisons?"  asked  Scrooge. 

"  Plenty  of  prisons,"  said  the  gentleman,  laying  down 
the  pen  again. 

"  And  the  Union  work-houses?"  demanded  Scrooge. 
"  Are  they  still  in  operation  ?" 

"  They  are.  Still,"  returned  the  gentleman,  "  I  wish 
I  could  say  they  were  not. " 

"  The  Treadmill  and  the  Poor  Law  are  in  full  vigour, 
then  ?  "  said  Scrooge. 

"Both  very  busy,  sir." 

"  Oh  !  I  was  afraid,  from  what  you  said  at  first,  that 
!  something  had  occurred  to  stop  them  in  their  useful 
course,"  said  Scrooge.     "I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  Under  the  impression  that  they  scarcely  furnish 
Christian  cheer  of  mind  or  body  to  the  multitude,"  re- 
turned the  gentleman,  "  a  few  of  us  are  endeavouring 
to  raise  a  fund  to  buy  the  Poor  some  meat  and  drink, 
and  means  of  warmth.  We  choose  this  time,  because 
it  is  a  time,  of  all  others,  when  Want  is  keenly  felt, 
and  Abundance  rejoices.  What  shall  I  put  you  down 
for  ?  " 

"  Nothing  ! "  Scrooge  replied. 
"  You  wish  to  be  anonymous?" 

"1  wish  to  be  left  alone,"  said  Scrooge.  "Since  you 
ask  me  what  I  wish,  gentlemen,  that  is  my  answer.  I 
don't  make  merry  myself  at  Christmas,  and  I  can't  afEord 
to  make  idle  people  merry.  I  help  to  support  the  estab- 
lishments I  have  mentioned — they  cost  enough  ;  and 
those  who  are  badly  ofE  must  go  there. 

"  Many  can't  go  there  ;  and  many  would  rather  die." 

"  If  they  would  rather  die,"  said  Scrooge,  "  they  had 
better  do  it,  and  decrease  the  surplus  population.  Be- 
sides— excuse  me — I  don't  know  that." 

"  But  you  might  know  it,"  observed  the  gentleman. 

"It's  not  my  business,"  Scrooge  returned.  "It's 
enough  for  a  man  to  understand  his  own  business,  and 
not  to  interfere  with  other  people's.  Mine  occupies  me 
constantly.    Good  afternoon,  gentlemen  !  " 

Seeing  clearly  that  it  would  be  useless  to  pursue  their 
point,  the  gentlemen  withdrew,  Scrooge  resumed  his 
labours  with  an  improved  opinion  of  himself,  and  in  a 
more  facetious  temper  than  was  usual  with  him. 

Meanwhile  the  fog  and  darkness  thickened  so,  that 
people  ran  about  with  flaring  links,  proffering  their  ser- 
vices to  go  before  horses  in  carriages,  and  conduct  them 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


235 


on  their  way.  The  ancient  tower  of  a  church,  whoso 
gruff  old  bell  was  always  peeping  slily  down  at  Scrooge 
out  of  a  gothic  window  in  the  wall,  became  invisible, 
and  struck  the  hours  and  quarters  in  the  clouds,  with 
tremulous  vibrations  afterwards,  as  if  its  teeth  were 
chattering  in  its  frozen  head  up  tliere.  The  cold  became 
intense.  In  the  main  street,  at  the  corner  of  the  court, 
some  labourers  were  repairing  the  gas-pipes,  and  had 
lighted  a  great  fire  in  a  brazier,  round  which  a  party  of 
ragged  men  and  boys  were  gathered  :  warming  their 
hands  and  winking  their  eyes  before  the  blaze  in  rapture. 
The  water-plug  being  left  in  solitude,  its  overflowings 
suddenly  congealed,  and  turned  to  misanthropic  ice. 
The  brightness  of  the  shops  where  holly  sprigs  and  ber- 
ries crackled  in  the  lamp  heat  of  the  windows,  made  pale 
faces  ruddy  as  they  passed.  Poulterers'  and  grocers' 
trades  became  a  splendid  joke  :  a  glorious  pageant,  with 
which  is  was  next  to  impossible  to  believe  that  such  dull 
principles  as  bargain  and  sale  had  anything  to  do.  The 
Lord  Mayor,  in  the  stronghold  of  the  mighty  Mansion 
House,  gave  orders  to  his  fifty  cooks  and  Lutlers  to 
keep  Christmas  as  a  Lord  Mayor's  household  should  ; 
and  even  the  little  tailor,  whom  he  had  fined  five  shil- 
lings on  the  previous  Monday  for  being  drunk  and  blood- 
thirsty in  the  streets,  stirred  up  to-morrow's  pudding  in 
his  garret,  while  his  lean  wife  and  the  baby  sallied  out 
to  buy  the  beef. 

Foggier  yet,  and  colder  !  Piercing,  searching,  biting 
cold.  If  the  good  St.  Dunstan  had  but  nipped  the  Evil 
Spirit's  nose  with  a  touch  of  such  weather  as  that,  in- 
stead of  using  his  familiar  weapons,  then  indeed  he 
would  have  roared  to  lusty  purpose.  The  owner  of  one 
scant  young  nose,  gnawed  and  mumbled  by  the  hungry 
cold  as  bones  are  gnawed  by  dogs,  stooped  down  at 
Scrooge's  key-hole  to  regale  him  with  a  Christmas  carol ; 
but  at  the  first  sound  of 

*'  God  bless  you  merry  gentleman, 
May  nothhig  you  dismay  !  " 

Scrooge  seized  the  ruler  with  such  energy  of  action, 
that  the  singer  fled  in  terror,  leaving  the  key-hole  to  the 
fog,  and  even  more  congenial  frost. 

At  length  the  hour  of  shutting  up  the  counting-house 
arrived.  With  an  ill-will  Scrooge  dismounted  from  his 
stool,  and  tacitly  admitted  the  fact  to  the  expectant  clerk 
in  the  Tank,  who  instantly  snuffed  his  candle  out,  and 
put  on  his  hat. 

"You'll  want  all  day  to-morrow,  I  suppose?"  said 
Scrooge. 

"  If  quite  convenient,  sir." 

"  It's  not  convenient,"  said  Scrooge,  "  and  it's  not  fair. 
If  I  was  to  stop  half-a-crown  for  it,  you'd  think  youself 
ill-used,  I'll  be  bound  ?  " 

The  clerk  smiled  faintly. 

''And  yet,"  said  Scrooge,  "  you  don't  think  me  ill-used, 
when  I  pay  a  day's  wages  for  no  work." 

The  clerk  observed  that  it  was  only  once  a  year. 

"  A  poor  excuse  for  picking  a  man's  pocket  every 
twenty-fifth  of  December  ! "  said  Scrooge,  buttoning  his 
great  coat  to  the  chin.  "But  I  suppose  you  must 
have  the  whole  day.  Be  here  all  the  earlier  next  morn- 
ing." 

The  clerk  promised  that  he  would  ;  and  Scrooge  walked 
out  with  a  growl.  The  office  was  closed  in  a  twinkling, 
and  the  clerk,  with  the  long  ends  of  his  white  comforter 
dangling  below  his  waist  (for  he  boasted  no  great  coat), 
went  down  a  slide  on  Cornhill,  at  the  end  of  a  lane  of 
boys,  twenty  times,  in  honour  of  its  being  Christmas- 
eve,  and  then  ran  home  to  Camden  Town  as  hard  as  he 
could  pelt,  to  play  at  blindman's  buff. 

Scrooge  took  his  melancholy  dinner  in  his  usually  mel- 
ancholy tavern  ;  and  having  read  all  the  newspapers, 
and  beguiled  the  rest  of  the  evening  with  his  banker' s- 
book,  went  home  to  bed.  He  lived  in  chambers  which 
had  once  belonged  to  his  deceased  partner.  They  were 
a  gloomy  suite  of  rooms,  in  a  lowering  pile  of  building  up 
a  yard,  where  it  had  so  little  business  to  be,  that  one 
could  .scarcely  help  fancying  it  must  have  run  there  when 
it  was  a  young  house,  playing  at  hide-and-seek  with  other 
houses,  and  have  forgotten  the  way  out  again.  It  was 
old  enough  now,  and  dreary  enough  ;  for  nobody  lived 


in  it  but  Scrooge,  the  other  rooms  being  all  let  out  as 
offices.  The  yard  was  so  dark  that  even  Scrooge,  who 
knew  its  every  stone,  was  fain  to  grope  with  his  hand.s. 
The  fog  and  frost  so  hung  about  the  black  old  gateway 
of  the  house,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  Genius  of  the 
Weather  sat  in  mournful  meditation  on  the  tlire.shold. 

Now,  it  is  a  fact,  that  there  was  nothing  at  ail  particu- 
lar about  the  knocker  on  the  door,  except  that  it  was 
very  large.  It  is  also  a  fact,  that  Scrooge  had  seen  it, 
night  and  morning,  during  his  whole  residence;  in  that 
place;  also  that  Scrooge  had  as  little  of  what  is  called 
fancy  about  him  as  any  man  in  the  City  of  London,  even 
including — which  is  a  bold  word — the  corporation,  alder- 
men, and  livery.  Let  it  also  be  borne  in  mind,  that 
Scrooge  had  not  bestowed  one  thought  on  Marley  since 
his  last  mention  of  his  seven-years'  dead  partner  that 
afternoon.  And  then  let  any  man  explain  to  me,  if  he 
can,  how  it  happened  that  Scrooge,  having  his  key  in 
the  lock  of  the  door,  saw  in  the  knocker,  without  its  un- 
dergoing any  intermediate  process  of  cijange — not  a 
knocker,  but  Marley's  face. 

Marley's  face.  It  was  not  in  impenetrable  shadow,  as 
the  other  objects  in  tlie  yard  were,  but  had  a  di.smal 
light  about  it,  like  a  bad  lobster  in  a  dark  cellar.  It 
was  not  angry  or  ferocious,  but  looked  at  Scrooge  as 
Marley  used  to  look  :  with  ghostly  spectacles  turned  up 
on  his  ghostly  forehead.  The  hair  was  curiously  stirred, 
as  if  by  breath  or  hot-air  ;  and,  though  the  eyes  were 
wide  open,  they  were  perfectly  motionless.  That,  and 
its  livid  colour,  made  it  horrible  ;  but  its  horror  seemed 
to  be  in  spite  of  the  face,  and  beyond  its  control,  rather 
than  a  part  of  its  own  expression. 

As  Scrooge  looked  fixedly  at  this  phenomenon,  it  was 
a  knocker  again. 

To  say  that  he  was  not  startled,  or  that  his  blood  was 
not  conscious  of  a  terrible  sensation  to  which  it  had 
been  a  stranger  from  infancy,  would  be  untrue.  But  he 
put  his  hand  upon  the  key  he  had  relinquished,  turned 
it  sturdily,  walked  in,  and  lighted  his  candle. 

He  did  pause,  with  a  moment's  irresolution,  before  he 
shut  the  door  ;  and  he  did  look  cautiously  behind  it  first, 
as  if  he  half-expected  to  be  terrified  with  the  sight  of 
Marley's  pigtail  sticking  out  into  the  hall.  But  there 
was  nothing  on  the  back  of  the  door,  except  the  screws 
and  nuts  that  held  the  knocker  on,  so  he  said,  "  Pooh, 
pooh  !  "  and  closed  it  with  a  bang. 

The  sound  resounded  through  the  house  like  thunder. 
Every  room  above,  and  every  cask  in  the  wine-mer- 
chant's cellars  below,  appeared  to  have  a  separate  peal 
of  echoes  of  its  own.  Scrooge  was  not  a  man  to  be 
frightened  by  echoes.  He  fastened  the  door,  and  walked 
across  the  hall,  and  up  the  stairs  ;  slowly  too  :  trimming 
his  candle  as  he  went. 

You  may  talk  vaguely  about  driving  a  coach-and-six 
up  a  good  old  flight  of  stairs,  or  through  a  bad  young 
Act  of  Parliament :  but  I  mean  to  say  you  might  have 
got  a  hearse  up  that  staircase,  and  taken  it  broadwise, 
with  the  splinter-bar  towards  the  wall  and  the  door  to- 
wards the  balustrades  :  and  done  it  easy.  There  was 
plenty  of  A\adth  for  that,  and  room  to  spare  ;  which  is 
perhaps  the  reason  why  Scrooge  thought  he  saw  a  loco- 
motive hearse  g'oing  on  before  him  in  the  gloom.  Half 
a  dozen  gas-lamps  out  of  the  street  Avouldn't  have  lighted 
the  entry  too  well,  so  you  may  suppose  that  it  was  pret- 
ty dark  with  Scrooge's  dip. 

Up  Scrooge  went,  not  caring  a  button  for  that.  Dark 
ness  is  cheap,  and  Scrooge  liked  it.  But  before  he  shut 
his  heavy  door,  he  walked  through  his  rooms  to  see  that 
all  was  right.  He  had  just  enough  recollection  of  the 
face  to  desire  to  do  that. 

Sitting-room,  bed-room,  lumber-i'com.  All  as  they 
should  be.  Nobody  under  the  table,  nobody  under  the 
sofa  ;  a  small  fire  in  the  grate  ;  spoon  and  basin  ready  ; 
and  the  little  saucepan  of  gruel  (Scrooge  had  a  cold  in 
his  head)  upon  the  hob.  Nobody  under  the  bed  ;  no- 
body in  the  closet ;  nobody  in  his  dressing-gown,  which 
was  hanging  up  in  a  suspicious  attitude  against  the  wall. 
Lumber-room  as  usual.  Old  fire-guard,  old  shoes,  two 
fish-baskets,  washing-stand  on  three  legs,  and  a  poker. 

Quite  satisfied,  he  closed  his  door,  and  locked  himself 
in  :  double-locked  himself  in,  which  was  not  his  custom. 
Thus  secured  against  surprise,  he  took  off  his  cravat ; 


236 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


put  on  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  and  his  night-cap  ; 
and  sat  down  before  the  fire  to  take  his  gruel. 

It  was  a  very  low  fire  indeed  ;  nothing  on  such  a  bit- 
ter night.  He  was  obliged  to  sit  close  to  it,  and  brood 
over  it,  before  he  could  extract  the  least  sensation  of 
warmth  from  such  a  handful  of  fuel.  The  fireplace  was 
an  old  one,  built  by  some  Dutch  merchant  long  ago,  and 
paved  all  round  with  quaint  Dutch  tiles,  designed  to  il- 
lustrate the  Scriptures,  There  were  Cains  and  Abels, 
Pharaoh's  daughters.  Queens  of  Sheba,  Angelic  messen- 
gers descending  through  the  air  on  clouds  like  feather- 
beds,  Abrahams,  Belshazzars,  Apostles  putting  off  to  sea 
in  butter  -  boats,  hundreds  of  figures  to  attract  his 
thoughts ;  and  yet  that  face  of  Marley,  seven  years 
dead,  came  like  the  ancient  Prophet's  rod,  and  swallowed 
up  the  whole.  If  each  smooth  tile  had  been  a  blank  at 
first,  with  power  to  shape  some  picture  on  its  surface 
from  the  disjointed  fragments  of  his  thoughts,  there 
would  have  been  a  copy  of  old  Marley's  head  on  every 
one. 

"Humbug!"  said  Scrooge;  and  walked  across  the 
room. 

After  several  turns,  he  sat  down  again.  As  he  threw 
his  head  back  in  the  chair,  his  glance  happened  to  rest 
upon  a  bell,  a  disused  bell,  that  hung  in  the  room,  and 
communicated  for  some  purpose  now  forgotten  with  a 
chamber  in  the  highest  story  of  the  building.  It  was 
with  great  astonishment,  and  with  a  strange,  inexplica- 
ble dread,  that  as  he  looked,  he  saw  this  bell  begin  to 
swing.  It  swung  so  softly  in  the  outset  that  it  scarcely 
made  a  sound  ;  but  soon  it  rang  out  loudly,  and  so  did 
every  bell  in  the  house. 

Tliis  might  have  lasted  half  a  minute,  or  a  minute, 
"but  it  seemed  an  hour.  The  bells  ceased  as  they  had 
l)egun,  together.  They  were  succeeded  by  a  clanking 
noise,  deep  down  below,  as  if  some  person  were  dragging 
a  heavy  chain  over  the  casks  in  the  wine-merchant's  cel- 
lar. Scrooge  then  remembered  to  have  heard  that  ghosts 
in  haunted  houses  were  described  as  dragging  chains. 

The  cellar-door  flew  open  with  a  booming  sound,  and 
then  he  heard  the  noise  much  louder,  on  the  floors 
below  ;  then  coming  up  the  stairs  ;  then  coming  straight 
towards  his  door. 

"  It's  humbug  still  !"  said  Scrooge.  "  I  won't  believe 
it." 

His  colour  changed  though,  when,  without  a  pause,  it 
came  on  through  the  heavy  door,  and  passed  into  the 
room  before  his  eyes.  Upon  its  coming  in,  the  dying 
flame  leaped  up,  as  though  it  cried  "  I  know  him  !  Mar- 
ley's  ghost  !  "  and  fell  again. 

The  same  face  :  the  very  same.  Marley  in  his  pig- 
tail, usual  waistcoat,  tights,  and  boots  ;  the  tassels  on 
the  latter  bristling,  like  his  pig-tail,  and  his  coat-skirts, 
and  the  hair  upon  his  head.  The  chain  he  drew  was 
clasped  about  his  middle.  It  was  long  and  wound  about 
him  like  a  tail  ;  and  it  was  made  (for  Scrooge  observed 
it  closely)  of  cash-boxes,  keys,  padlocks,  ledgers,  deeds, 
and  heavy  purses  wrought  in  steel.  His  body  was  trans- 
parent ;  so  that  Scrooge,  observing  him,  and  looking 
through  his  waistcoat,  could  see  the  two  buttons  on  his 
coat  behind. 

Scrooge  had  often  heard  it  said  that  Marley  had  no 
bowels,  but  he  had  never  believed  it  until  now. 

No,  nor  did  he  believe  it  even  now.  Though  he  looked 
the  phantom  through  and  through,  and  saw  it  standing 
before  him  ;  though  he  felt  the  chilling  influence  of  its 
death  cold  eyes  ;  and  marked  the  very  texture  of  the 
folded  kerchief  bound  about  its  head  and  chin,  which 
wrapper  he  had  not  observed  before  ;  he  was  still  incred- 
ulous, and  fought  against  his  senses. 

"  How  now  ! "  said  Scrooge,  caustic  and  cold  as  ever. 
"  What  do  you  want  with  me?  " 

"Much  !  " — Marley's  voice,  no  doubt  about  it. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Ask  me  who  I  was." 

"  Who  were  you  then  ?  "  said  Scrooge,  raising  his 
voice.  "  You're  particular,  for  a  shade. "  He  was  going 
to  say  "  to  a  shade,"  but  substituted  this,  as  more  appro- 
X)riate. 

"  In  life,  I  was  your  partner,  Jacob  Marley." 
"  Can  you — can  you  sit  down  ?  "  asked  Scrooge,  look- 
ing doubtfully  at  him. 


"I  can." 
"Do  it,  then." 

Scrooge  asked  the  question,  because  he  didn't  know 
whether  a  ghost  so  transparent  might  find  himself  in  a 
condition  to  take  a  chair  ;  and  felt  that  in  the  event  of 
its  being  impossible,  it  might  involve  the  necessity  of  an 
embarrassing  explanation.  But  the  ghost  sat  down  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace,  as  if  he  were  quite 
used  to  it. 

"You  don't  believe  in  me,"  observed  the  Ghost. 
"  I  don't,"  said  Scrooge. 

"  What  evidence  would  you  have  of  my  reality  beyond 
that  of  your  own  senses  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Scrooge. 

"  Why  do  you  doubt  your  senses  ?" 

"  Because,"  said  Scrooge,  "  a  little  thing  affects  fhem. 
A  slight  disorder  of  the  stomach  makes  them  cheats. 
You  may  be  an  undigested  bit  of  beef,  a  blot  of  mustard, 
a  crumb  of  cheese,  a  fragment  of  an  underdone  potato. 
There's  more  of  gravy  than  of  grave  about  you,  whatever 
you  are  ! " 

Scrooge  was  not  much  in  the  habit  of  cracking  jokes, 
nor  did  he  feel  in  his  heart  by  any  means  waggish  then. 
The  truth  is,  that  he  tried  to  be  smart,  as  a  means  of 
distracting  his  own  attention,  and  keeping  down  his  ter- 
ror ;  for  the  spectre's  voice  disturbed  the  very  marrow 
in  his  bones. 

To  sit,  staring  at  those  fixed  glazed  eyes,  in  silence  for 
a  moment,  would  play,  Scrooge  felt,  the  very  deuce  with 
him.  There  was  something  very  awful,  too,  in  the  spec- 
tre's being  provided  with  an  infernal  atmosphere  of  his 
own.  Scrooge  could  not  feel  it  himself,  but  this  was 
clearly  the  case  ;  for  though  the  Ghost  sat  perfectly  mo- 
tionless, its  hair,  and  skirts,  and  tassels,  were  still  agi- 
tated as  by  the  hot  vapour  from  an  oven. 

"You  see  this  toothpick?"  said  Scrooge,  returning 
quickly  to  the  charge,  for  the  reason  just  assigned  ;  and 
wishing,  though  it  were  only  for  a  second,  to  divert  the 
vision's  stony  gaze  from  himself. 

"I  do,"  replied  the  Ghost. 

"  You  are  not  looking  at  it,"  said  Scrooge. 

"But  I  see  it,"  said  the  Ghost,  "notwithstanding." 

"Well  !"  returned  Scrooge,  "  I  have  but  to  swallow 
this,  and  be  for  the  rest  of  my  days  persecuted  by  a 
legion  of  goblins,  all  of  my  own  creation.  Humbug,  1 
tell  you  ;  humbug  !  " 

At  this  the  spirit  raised  a  frightful  cry,  and  shook  its 
chain  with  such  a  dismal  and  appalling  noise,  that 
Scrooge  held  on  tight  to  his  chair,  to  save  himself  from 
falling  in  a  swoon.  But  how  much  greater  was  his 
horror,  when  the  phantom  taking  off  the  bandage  round 
his  head,  as  if  it  were  too  warm  to  wear  indoors,  its 
lower  jaw  dropped  down  upon  its  breast  ! 

Scrooge  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  clasped  his  hands  be- 
fore his  face. 

"Mercy!"  he  said.  "Dreadful  apparition,  why  do 
you  trouble  me?" 

"Man  of  the  worldly  mind  !"  replied  the  Ghost,  "do 
you  believe  in  me  or  not  ?  " 

"I  do,"  said  Scrooge.  "I  must.  But  why  do  spirits 
walk  the  earth,  and  why  do  they  come  to  me?" 

"  It  is  required  of  every  man,"  the  Ghost  returned, 
"  that  the  spirit  within  him  should  walk  abroad  among 
his  fellow-men,  and  travel  far  and  wide  ;  and  if  that 
spirit  goes  not  forth  in  life,  it  is  condemned  to  do  so 
after  death.  It  is  doomed  to  wander  through  the  world 
— oh,  woe  is  me  ! — and  witness  what  it  cannot  share,  but 
might  have  shared  on  earth,  and  turned  to  happiness  !" 

Again  the  spectre  raised  a  cry,  and  shook  its  chain  and 
wrung  its  shadowy  hands. 

"You  are  fettered,"  said  Scrooge,  trembling.  "Tell 
me  why  ? " 

"  I  wear  the  chain  I  forged  in  life,"  replied  the  Ghost. 
"I  made  it  link  by  link,  and  yard  by  yard  ;  I  girded  it 
on  of  my  own  free  will,  and  of  my  own  free  will  I  wore 
it.    Is  its  pattern  strange  to  you  ?  " 

Scrooge  trembled  more  and  more. 

"Or  would  you  know,"  pursued  the  Ghost,  "the 
weight  and  length  of  the  strong  coil  you  bear  yourself? 
It  was  full  as  heavy  and  as  long  as  this,  seven  Christmas 
Eves  ago.  You  have  laboured  on  it  since.  It  is  a  pon- 
derous chain  I " 


CHRISTMA  8    BO  OKS. 


237 


Scrooge  glanced  about  him  on  the  floor,  in  tiie  expecta- 
tion of  finding  himself  surrounded  by  some  fifty  or  sixty 
fathoms  of  iron  cable  ;  but  he  could  see  nothing. 

"Jacob,"  he  said,  imploringly.  "Old  Jacob  Marley, 
tell  me  more.    Speak  comfort  to  me,  Jacob  !  " 

"I  have  none  to  give,"  the  Ghost  replied.  "  It  comes 
from  other  regions,  Ebenezer  Scrooge,  and  is  conveyed 
by  other  ministers,  to  other  kinds  of  men.  Nor  can  I 
tell  you  what  I  would.  A  very  little  more,  is  all  per- 
mitted to  me.  I  cannot  rest,  I  cannot  stay,  I  cannot  lin- 
ger anywhere.  My  spirit  never  walked  beyond  our 
counting-house — mark  me  ! — in  life  my  spirit  never  roved 
beyond  the  narrow  limits  of  our  money-changing  hole  ; 
and  weary  journeys  lie  before  me  !  " 

It  was  a  habit  with  Scrooge,  whenever  he  became 
thoughtful,  to  put  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets. 
Pondering  on  what  the  Ghost  had  said,  he  did  so  now, 
but  without  lifting  up  his  eyes,  or  getting  off  his  knees. 

"You  must  have  been  very  slow  about  it,  Jacob," 
Scrooge  observed,  in  a  business-like  manner,  though 
with  humility  and  deference. 

"  Slow  !  "  the  Ghost  repeated. 

"  Seven  years  dead,"  mused  Scrooge.  "  And  travelling 
all  the  time?" 

"The  whole  time,"  said  the  Ghost.  "No  re.st,  no 
peace.    Incessant  torture  of  remorse." 

"  You  travel  fast '?"  said  Scrooge. 

"  On  the  wings  of  the  wind,"  replied  the  Ghost. 

"  You  might  have  got  over  a  great  quantity  of  ground 
in  seven  years,"  said  Scrooge. 

The  Ghost,  on  hearing  this  set  up  another  cry,  and 
clanked  its  chain  so  hideously  in  the  dead  silence  of  the 
night,  that  the  Ward  would  have  been  justified  in  in- 
dicting it  for  a  nuisance. 

"  O  !  captive,  bound,  and  double-ironed,"  cried  the 
phantom,  "not  to  know  that  ages  of  incessant  labour,  by 
immortal  creatures,  for  this  earth  must  pass  into  eternity 
before  the  good  of  which  it  is  susceptible  is  all  developed. 
Not  to  know  that  any  Christian  spirit  working  kindly  in 
its  little  sphere,  whatever  it  may  be,  will  find  its  mortal 
life  too  short  for  its  vast  means  of  usefulness.  Not  to 
know  that  no  space  of  regret  can  make  amends  for  one 
life's  opportunities  misused  !  Yet  such  was  I  !  Oh  ! 
sxich  was  I  !  " 

"  But  you  were  always  a  good  man  of  business,  Jacob," 
faltered  Scrooge,  who  now  began  to  apply  this  to  himself. 

"Business!"  cried  the  Ghost,  wringing  its  hands 
again.  "  Mankind  was  my  business.  The  common  wel- 
fare was  my  business  ;  charity,  mercy,  forbearance,  and 
benevolence,  were,  all,  my  business.  The  dealings  of  my 
trade  were  but  a  drop  of  water  in  the  comprehensive 
ocean  of  my  business  !  " 

It  held  up  its  chain  at  arm's  length,  as  if  that  were 
the  cause  of  all  its  unavailing  grief,  and  flung  it  heavily 
upon  the  ground  again. 

"  At  this  time  of  the  rolling  year,"  the  spectre  said, 
"I  suffer  most.  Why  did  I  walk  through  crowds  of 
fellow-beings  with  my  eyes  turned  down,  and  never 
raise  them  to  that  blessed  Star  which  led  the  Wise  Men 
to  a  poor  abode  !  Were  there  no  poor  homes  to  which 
its  light  would  have  conducted  me  !  " 

Scrooge  was  very  much  dismayed  to  hear  the  spectre 
going  on  at  this  rate,  and  began  to  quake  exceedingly. 

"Hear  me  1"  cried  the  Ghost.  "My  time  is  nearly 
gone." 

"  I  will,"  said  Scrooge.  "  But  don't  be  hard  upon  me  ! 
Don't  be  flowery,  Jacob  !    Pray  ! " 

"  How  it  is  that  I  appear  before  you  in  a  shape  that 
you  can  see,  I  may  not  tell.  I  have  sat  invisible  beside 
you  many  and  many  a  day  " 

It  was  not  an  agreeable  idea.  Scrooge  shivered,  and  * 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow. 

"That  is  no  light  part  of  my  penance,"  pursued  the 
Ghost.  "  I  am  here  to-night  to  warn  you,  that  you  have 
yet  a  chance  and  hope  of  escaping  rny  fate.  A  chance 
and  hope  of  my  procuring,  Ebenezer." 

"You  were  always  a  good  friend  to  me,"  said  Scrooge. 
"Thank'ee!" 

"You  will  be  haunted,"  resumed  the  Ghost,  "by 
Three  Spirits." 

Scrooge's  countenance  fell  almost  as  low  as  the  Ghost's 
had  done. 


"  Is  that  the  chance  and  hope  you  mentioned,  Jacob?" 
he  demanded,  in  a  faltering  voice. 
"It  is." 

"  I — I  think  I'd  rather  not,"  said  Scrooge, 

"Without  their  visits,"  .said  the  Ghost,  "  you  cannot 
hope  to  shun  the  path  I  tread.  Expect  the  first  to-mor- 
row, when  the  bell  tolls  One." 

"  Couldn't  I  take  'em  all  at  once,  and  have  it  over, 
Jacob  V  "  hinted  Scrooge. 

"Expect  the  second  on  the  next  night  at  the  same 
hour.  The  third,  upon  the  next  night  when  the  last 
stroke  of  Twelve  has  ceased  to  vibrate.  Look  to  see  me 
no  more  ;  and  look  that,  for  your  own  sake,  you  remem- 
ber what  has  passed  between  us  ?  " 

When  it  had  said  these  words,  the  spectre  took  its 
wrapper  from  the  table,  and  bound  it  round  its  head,  as 
before.  Scrooge  knew  this  by  the  smart  sound  its  teeth 
made,  when  the  jaws  were  brought  together  by  the  ban- 
dage. He  ventured  to  raise  his  eyes  again,  and  found 
his  supernatural  visitor  confronting  him  in  an  erect  atti- 
tude, with  its  chain  wound  over  and  about  its  aim. 

The  apparition  walked  backward  from  him  ;  and  at 
every  step  it  took,  the  window  raised  itself  a  little,  so 
that  when  the  spectre  reached  it,  it  was  wide  open.  It 
beckoned  Scrooge  to  approach,  which  he  did.  When 
they  were  within  two  paces  of  each  other,  Marley's  Ghost 
held  up  its  hand,  warning  him  to  come  no  nearer. 
Scrooge  stopped. 

Not  so  much  in  obedience,  as  in  surprise  and  fear ;  for 
on  the  raising  of  the  hand,  he  became  sensible  of  con- 
fused noises  in  the  air  ;  incoherent  sounds  of  lamenta- 
tion and  regret ;  wailings  inexpressibly  sorrowful  and 
self-accusatory.  The  spectre,  after  listening  for  a  mo- 
ment, joined  in  the  mournful  dirge  ;  and  floated  out 
upon  the  bleak,  dark  night. 

Scrooge  followed  to  the  window,  desperate  in  his  curi- 
osity.   He  looked  out. 

The  air  was  filled  with  phantoms,  wandering  hither 
and  thither  in  restless  haste,  and  meaning  as  they  went. 
Every  one  of  them  wore  chains  like  Marley's  Ghost  : 
some  few  (they  might  be  guilty  governments)  were  linked 
together  ;  none  were  free.  Many  had  been  personally 
known  to  Scrooge  in  their  lives.  He  had  been  quite 
familiar  with  one  old  Ghost,  in  a  white  waistcoat,  with  a 
monstrous  iron  safe  attached  to  his  ancle,  who  cried  pit- 
eously  at  being  unable  to  assist  a  wretched  woman  with 
an  infant,  whom  it  saw  below  upon  a  door-step.  The 
misery  with  them  all  was,  clearly,  that  they  sought  to 
interfere,  for  good,  in  human  matters  and  had  lost  the 
power  for  ever. 

Whether  these  creatures  faded  into  mist,  or  mist  en- 
shrouded them,  he  could  not  tell.  But  they  and  their 
spirit  voices  faded  together  ;  and  the  night  became  as  it 
had  been  when  he  walked  home. 

Scrooge  closed  the  window,  and  examined  the  door  by 
which  the  Ghost  had  entered.  It  was  double-locked,  as 
he  had  locked  it  with  his  own  hands,  and  the  bolts  were 
undisturbed.  He  tried  to  say  "  Humbug  !  "  but  stopped 
at  the  first  syllable.  And  being,  from  the  emotion  he 
had  undergone,  or  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  or  his  glimpse 
of  the  Invisible  World,  or  the  dull  conversation  of  the 
Ghost,  or  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  much  in  need  of  re- 
pose, went  straight  to  bed,  without  undressing,  and  fell 
asleep  upon  the  instant. 


STAVE  TWO. 

The  First  of  the  Three  Spinf-'. 

When  Scrooge  awoke,  it  was  so  dark,  that,  looking 
out  of  bed,  he  could  scarcely  distinguish  the  transparent 
window  from  the  opaque  walls  of  his  chamber.  He  was 
endeavouring  to  pierce  the  darkness  with  his  ferret  eye-s, 
when  the  chimes  of  the  neighbouring  church  struck  the 
four  quarters.    So  he  listened  for  the  hour. 

To  his  great  astonishment,  the  heavy  bell  went  on 
from  six  to  seven,  and  from  seven  to  eight,  and  regular 
ly  up  to  twelve  ;  then  stopped.  Twelve  !  It  was  pa.st 
two  when  he  went  to  bed.  The  clock  was  wrong.  An 
icicle  must  have  got  into  the  works.    Twelve  ! 

He  touched  the  spring  of  his  repeater,  to  correct  this 


238 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


most  preposterous  clock.  Its  rapid  little  pulse  beat 
twelve,  and  stopped. 

"  Why,  it  isn't  possible,"  said  Scrooge,  *'  that  I  can 
have  slept  through  a  whole  day  and  far  into  another 
night.  It  isn't  possible  that  anything  has  happened  to 
the  sun,  and  this  is  twelve  at  noon  ! " 

The  idea  being  an  alarming  one,  he  scrambled  out  of 
bed,  and  groped  his  way  to  the  window.  He  was 
obliged  to  rub  the  frost  ofE  with  the  sleeve  of  his  dress- 
ing-gown before  he  could  see  anything  ;  and  could  see 
very  little  then.  All  he  could  make  out  was,  that  it  was 
still  very  foggy  and  extremely  cold,  and  that  there  was 
no  noise  of  people  running  to  and  fro,  and  making  a 
great  stir,  as  there  unquestionably  would  have  been  if 
night  had  beaten  off  bright  day,  and  taken  possession  of 
the  world.  This  was  a  great  relief,  because  "Three 
days  after  sight  of  this  First  of  Exchange  pay  to  Mr. 
Ebenezer  Scrooge  or  his  order,"  and  so  forth,  would  have 
become  a  mere  United  States'  security  if  there  were  no 
days  to  count  by. 

Scrooge  went  to  bed  again,  and  thought,  and  thought, 
and  thought  it  over  and  over,  and  could  make  nothing  of 
it.  The  more  he  thought,  the  more  perplexed  he  was  ; 
and  the  more  he  endeavoured  not  to  think,  the  more  he 
thought. 

Marley's  Ghost  bothered  him  exceedingly.  Every  time 
he  resolved  within  himself,  after  mature  inquiry,  that  it 
was  all  a  dream,  his  mind  flew  back  again,  like  a  strong 
spring  released,  to  its  first  position,  and  presented  the 
same  problem  to  be  worked  all  through,  "  Was  it  a  dream 
or  not?" 

Scrooge  lay  in  this  state  until  the  chime  had  gone 
three  quarters  more,  when  he  remembered,  on  a  sudden, 
that  the  Ghost  had  warned  him  of  a  visitation  when  the 
bell  tolled  one.  He  resolved  to  lie  awake  until  the  hour 
was  passed  ;  and,  considering  that  he  could  no  more  go 
to  sleep  than  go  to  Heaven,  this  was  perhaps  the  wisest 
resolution  in  his  power. 

The  quarter  was  so  long,  that  he  was  more  than  once 
convinced  he  must  have  sunk  into  a  doze  unconsciously, 
and  missed  the  clock.  At  length  it  broke  upon  his  lis- 
tening ear. 

"  Ding,  dong  ! " 

"  A  quarter  past,"  said  Scrooge,  counting. 

"  Ding,  dong  !  " 

"  Half -past  !  "  said  Scrooge. 

"  Ding,  dong  !  " 

"  A  quarter  to  it,  "  said  Scrooge. 
"  Ding,  dong  ! " 

"  The  hour  itself,"  said  Scrooge,  triumphantly,  "and 
nothing  else  !  " 

He  spoke  before  the  hour  bell  sounded,  which  it  now 
did  with  a  deep,  dull,  hollow,  melancholy  One.  Light 
flashed  up  in  the  room  upon  the  instant,  and  the  curtains 
of  his  bed  were  drawn. 

The  curtains  of  his  bed  were  drawn  aside,  I  tell  you, 
by  a  hand.  Not  the  curtains  at  his  feet,  nor  the  curtains 
at  his  back,  but  those  to  which  his  face  was  addressed. 
The  curtains  of  his  bed  were  drawn  aside  ;  and  Scrooge, 
starting  up  into  a  half -recumbent  attitude,  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  the  unearthly  visitor  who  drew  them  : 
as  close  to  it  as  I  am  now  to  you,  and  I  am  standing  in 
the  spirit  at  your  elbow. 

It  was  a  strange  figure — like  a  child  :  yet  not  so  like 
a  child  as  like  an  old  man,  viewed  through  some  super- 
natural medium,  which  gave  him  the  appearance  of  hav- 
ing receded  from  the  view,  and  being  diminished  to  a 
child's  proportions.  Its  hair,  which  hung  about  its  neck 
and  down  its  back,  was  white  as  if  with  age  ;  and  yet 
the  face  had  not  a  wrinkle  in  it,  and  the  tenderest  bloom 
was  on  the  skin.  The  arms  were  very  long  and  muscu- 
lar ;  the  hands  the  same,  as  if  its  hold  were  of  uncom- 
mon strength.  Its  legs  and  feet,  most  delicately  formed, 
were,  like  those  upper  members,  bare.  It  wore  a  tunic 
of  the  purest  white  ;  and  round  its  waist  was  bound  a 
lustrous  belt,  the  sheen  of  which  was  beautiful.  It  held 
a  branch  of  fresh  green  holly  in  its  hand  ;  and,  in  singu- 
lar contradiction  of  that  wintry  emblem,  had  its  dress 
trimmed  with  summer  flowers.  But  the  strangest  thing 
about  it  was,  that  from  the  crown  of  its  head  there  sprung 
a  bright  clear  jet  of  light,  by  which  all  this  was  visible  ; 
and  which  was  doubtless  the  occasion  of  its  using,  in  its 


duller  moments,  a  great  extinguisher  for  a  cap,  which  it 
now  held  under  its  arm. 

Even  this,  though,  when  Scrooge  looked  at  it  with  in- 
creasing steadiness,  was  not  its  strangest  quality.  For 
as  its  belt  sparkled  and  glittered  now  in  one  part  and 
now  in  another,  and  what  was  light  one  instant,  at  an- 
other time  was  dark*  so  the  figure  itself  fluctuated  in  its 
distinctness  :  being  now  a  thing  with  one  arm,  now  with 
one  leg,  now  with  twenty  legs,  now  a  pair  of  legs  with- 
out a  head,  now  a  head  without  a  body  :  of  which  dis- 
solving parts,  no  outline  would  be  visible  in  the  dense 
gloom  wherein  they  melted  away.  And  in  the  very  won- 
der of  this,  it  would  be  itself  again  ;  distinct  and  clear 
as  ever. 

"  Are  you  the  Spirit,  sir,  whose  coming  was  foretold 
to  me  ?  "  asked  Scrooge. 
' ' I  am  ! ' ' 

The  voice  was  soft  and  gentle.  Singularly  low,  as  if 
instead  of  being  so  close  beside  him,  it  were  at  a  dis- 
tance. 

"  Who,  and  what  are  you?"  Scrooge  demanded, 
"  I  am  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Past." 
"Long  Past?"  inquired  Scrooge;  observant  of  its 
dwarfish  stature, 
"  No.    Your  past," 

Perhaps,  Scrooge  could  not  have  told  anybody  why, 
if  anybody  could  have  asked  him  ;  but  he  had  a  special 
desire  to  see  the  Spirit  in  his  cap ;  and  begged  him  to  be 
covered. 

"What  !"  exclaimed  the  Ghost,  "would  you  so  soon 
put  out,  with  worldly  hands,  the  light  I  give?  Is  not 
enough  that  you  are  one  of  those  whose  passions  made 
this  cap,  and  force  me  through  whole  trains  of  years  to 
wear  it  low  upon  my  brow  ! " 

Scrooge  reverently  disclaimed  all  intention  to  offend 
or  any  knowledge  of  having  wilfully  "bonneted"  the 
Spirit  at  any  period  of  his  life.  He  then  made  bold  to 
inquire  what  business  brought  him  there. 

' '  Your  welfare  ! "  said  the  Ghost. 

Scrooge  expressed  himself  much  obliged,  but  could 
not  help  thinking  that  a  night  of  unbroken  rest  would 
have  been  more  conducive  to  that  end.  The  Spirit  must 
have  heard  him  thinking,  for  it  said  immediately  : 

"  Your  reclamation,  then.    Take  heed  !  " 

It  put  out  its  strong  hand  as  it  spoke,  and  clasped  him 
gently  by  the  arm. 

"  Rise  !  and  walk  with  me  !  " 

It  would  have  been  in  vain  for  Scrooge  to  plead  that 
the  weather  and  the  hour  were  not  adapted  to  pedestrian 
purposes  ;  that  bed  was  warm,  and  the  thermometer  a 
long  way  below  freezing  ;  that  he  was  clad  but  lightly 
I  in  his  slippers,  dressing-gown,  and  night-cap  ;  and  that 
he  had  a  cold  upon  him  at  that  time.  The  grasp,  though 
gentle  as  a  woman's  hand,  was  not  to  be  resisted.  He 
rose  :  but  finding  that  the  Spirit  made  towards  the  win- 
dow, clasped  its  robe  in  supplication. 

"I  am  a  mortal,"  Scrooge  remonstrated,  "and  liable 
to  fall." 

"  Bear  but  a  touch  of  my  hand  there"  said  the  Spirit, 
laying  it  upon  his  heart,  "and  you  shall  be  upheld  in 
more  than  this  !  " 

As  the  words  were  spoken,  they  passed  through  the 
wall,  and  stood  upon  an  open  country  road,  with  fields 
on  either  hand.  The  city  had  entirely  vanished.  Not  a 
vestige  of  it  was  to  be  seen.  The  darkness  and  the  mist 
had  vanished  with  it,  for  it  was  a  clear,  cold,  winter  day, 
with  snow  upon  the  ground, 

"  Good  Heaven  1 "  said  Scrooge,  clasping  his  hands  to- 
gether, as  he  looked  about  him.  "I  was  bred  in  this 
place.    I  was  a  boy  here  !  " 

The  Spirit  gazed  upon  him  mildly.  Its  gentle  touch, 
though  it  had  been  light  and  instantaneous,  appeared 
still  present  to  the  old  man's  sense  of  feeling.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  thousand  odours  floating  in  the  air,  each 
one  connected  with  a  thousand  thoughts,  and  Jidpes,  and 
joys,  and  cares  long,  long,  forgotten  ! 

"  Four  lip  is  trembling,"  said  the  Ghost.  "  And  what 
is  that  upon  your  cheek  ?  " 

Scrooge  muttered,  with  an  unusual  catching  in  his 
voice,  that  it  was  a  pimple  ;  and  begged  the  Ghost  to 
lead  him  where  he  would. 

"You  recollect  the  way  ?  "  inquired  the  Spirit. 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


239 


"Remember  it!"  cried  Scrooge  witli  fervour;  "I 
could  walk  it  blindfold." 

"  Strange  to  have  forgotten  it  for  so  many  years  ! "  ob- 
served the  Ghost.    "  Let  us  go  on."  v 

They  v^alked  along  the  road.  Scrooge  recognising 
every  gate,  and  post,  and  tree  ;  until  a  little  market- 
town  appeared  in  the  distance,  with  its  bridge,  its  church, 
and  winding  river.  Some  shaggy  ponies  now  were  seen 
trotting  towards  them  with  boys  upon  their  backs,  who 
called  to  other  boys  in  country  gigs  and  carts,  driven  by 
farmers.  All  these  boys  were  in  great  spirits,  and  shouted 
to  each  other,  until  the  broad  fields  were  so  full  of  merry 
music,  that  the  crisp  air  laughed  to  hear  it. 

"  These  are  but  shadows  of  the  things  that  have  been," 
said  the  Ghost.    "  They  have  no  consciousness  of  us." 

The  jocund  travellers  came  on  ;  and  as  they  came, 
Scrooge  knew  and  named  them  every  one.  Why  was 
he  rejoiced  beyond  all  bounds  to  see  them  !  Why  did 
his  cold  eye  glisten,  and  his  heart  leap  up  as  they  went 
past  !  Why  was  he  filled  with  gladness  when  he  heard 
them  give  each  other  Merry  Christmas,  as  they  parted 
at  the  cross-roads  and  bye-ways,  for  their  several  homes! 
What  Avas  merry  Christmas  to  Scrooge  ?  Out  upon 
merry  Christmas  !    What  good  had  it  ever  done  to  him  ? 

"The  school  is  not  quite  deserted,"  said  the  Ghost. 
"  A  solitary  child,  neglected  by  his  friends,  is  left  there 
still." 

Scrooge  said  he  knew  it.    And  he  sobbed. 

They  left  the  high-road  by  a  well-remembered  lane, 
and  soon  approached  a  mansion  of  dull  red  brick,  with  a 
little  weather-cock-surmounted  cupola  on  the  roof,  and 
a  bell  hanging  in  it.  It  was  a  large  house,  but  one  of 
broken  fortunes  ;  for  the  spacious  offices  were  little  used, 
tlieir  walls  w^ere  damp  and  mossy,  their  windows  broken, 
and  their  gates  decayed.  Fowls  clucked  and  strutted 
in  the  stables  ;  and  the  coach-houses  and  sheds  were 
over-run  with  grass.  Nor  was  it  more  retentive  of  its 
ancient  state,  within  ;  for  entering  the  dreary  hall,  and 
glancing  through  the  open  doors  of  many  rooms,  they 
found  them  poorly  furnished,  cold,  and  vast.  There 
was  an  earthy  savour  in  the  air,  a  chilly  bareness  in  the 
place,  which  associated  itself  somehow  Avith  too  much 
getting  up  by  candle-light,  and  not  too  much  to  eat. 

They  went,  the  Ghost  and  Scrooge,  across  the  hall,  to 
a  door  at  the  back  of  the  house.  It  opened  before  them, 
and  disclosed  a  long,  bare,  melancholy  room,  made  barer 
still  by  lines  of  plain  deal  forms  and  desks.  At  one  of 
these  a  lonely  boy  was  reading  near  a  feeble  fire  ;  and 
Scrooge  sat  down  upon  a  form,  and  wept  to  see  his  poor 
forgotten  self  as  he  had  used  to  be. 

Not  a  latent  echo  in  the  house,  not  a  squeak  and  scuf- 
fle from  the  mice  behind  the  panelling,  not  a  drip  from 
the  half -thawed  water-spout  in  the  dull  yard  behind, 
not  a  sigh  among  the  leafless  boughs  of  one  despondent 
poplar,  not  the  idle  swinging  of  an  empty  storehouse- 
door,  no,  not  a  clicking  in  the  fire,  but  fell  upon  the 
heart  of  Scrooge  with  softening  influence,  and  gave  a 
freer  passage  to  his  tears. 

The  spirit  touched  him  on  the  arm,  and  pointed  to  his 
younger  self,  intent  upon  his  reading.  Suddenly  a  man 
in  foreign  garments  :  wonderfully  real  and  distinct  to 
look  at :  stood  outside  the  window  with  an  axe  stuck 
in  his  belt,  and  leading  by  the  bridle  an  ass  laden  with 
wood. 

**  Wliy,  it's  Ali  Baba  !  "  Scrooge  exclaimed  in  ecstasy. 
"It's  dear  old  honest  Ali  Baba!  Yes,  yes,  I  know. 
One  Christmas  time,  when  yonder  solitary  child  was  left 
here  all  alone,  he  did  come,  for  the  first  time,  j  r.st  like 
that.  Poor  boy!  And  Valentine,"  said  Scrooge,  "and 
his  wild'  brother,  Orson  ;  there  they  go  !  And  w^hat's 
his  name,  who  was  put  down  in  his  drawers,  asleep,  at 
the  gate  of  Damascus  ;  don't  you  see  him  !  And  the 
Sultan's  Groom  turned  upside  down  by  the  Genii  :  there 
hs  is  upon  his  head  !  Serve  him  right.  I'rii  glad  of  it. 
What  business  had  he  to  be  married  to  the  Princess  !" 

To  hear  Scrooge  expending  all  the  earnestness  of  his 
nature  on  such  subjects,  in  a  most  extraordinary  voice 
iKitween  laughing  and  crying  ;  and  to  see  his  heightened 
and  excited  face  ;  would  have  been  a  surprise  to  his 
bu-siness  friends  in  the  city,  indeed. 

"  There's  the  Parrot  !  "  cried  Scrooge.  "  Green  body 
p-nd  yellow  tail,  with  a  thing  like  a  lettice  growing  out 


of  the  top  of  his  head  ;  tliore  ho  is  !  Poor  Robin  Crusoe, 
he  called  him,  when  he  came  honje  again  after  sailing 
round  the  island.  '  Poor  Robin  Crusoe,  where  have  you 
been,  Robin  Crusoe?'  The  man  thought  he  was  dream- 
ing, but  he  wasn't.  It  was  the  Parrot,  you  know. 
There  goes  Friday,  running  for  his  life  to  tLe  little 
cieek  1    Halloa  !    Hoop  1    Halloo  !  " 

Then,  with  a  rapidity  of  transition  very  foreign  to  his 
usual  character,  he  said,  in  pity  for  his  fonner  self, 
"  Poor  boy  !"  and  cried  again. 

"  I  wish,"  Scrooge  muttered,  putting  his  hand  in  his 
pocket,  and  looking  about  him,  after  drying  his  eyes 
with  his  cuff  :  "but  it's  too  late  now." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  the  Spirit. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Scrooge.  "Nothing.  There  was  a 
boy  singing  a  Christmas  Carol  at  my  door  last  night.  I 
should  like  to  have  given  him  something  :  that's  all." 

The  Ghost  smiled  thoughtfully,  and  waved  its  hand  : 
saying  as  it  did  so,  "  Let  us  see  another  Christmas  !  " 

Scrooge's  former  self  grew  larger  at  the  words,  and 
the  room  became  a  little  darker  and  more  dirty.  The 
panels  shrunk,  the  windows  cracked  ;  fragments  of 
plaster  fell  out  of  the  ceiling,  and  the  naked  laths  were 
shown  instead  ;  but  how  all  this  was  brought  about, 
Scrooge  knew  no  more  than  you  do.  He  only  knew  that 
it  was  quite  correct  :  that  everything  had  happened  so  ; 
that  there  he  was,  alone  again,  when  all  the  other  boys 
had  gone  home  for  the  jolly  holidays. 

He  w^as  not  reading  now,  but  walking  up  and  down  de- 
spairingly. Scrooge  looked  at  the  Ghost,  and  with  a 
mournful  shaking  of  his  head,  glanced  anxiously  towards 
the  door. 

It  opened  ;  and  a  little  girl,  much  younger  than  the 
boy,  came  darting  in,  and  putting  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  and  often  kissing  him,  addressed  him  as  her  "  Dear, 
dear  brother." 

"  I  have  come  to  bring  you  home,  dear  brother  !  "  said 
the  child,  clapping  her  tiny  hands,  and  bending  down  to 
laugh.    "  To  bring  you  home,  home,  home  ! " 

"  Home,  little  Fan  ?  "  returned  the  boy. 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  child,  brimful  of  glee.  "  Home,  for 
good  and  all.  Home,  for  ever  and  ever.  Father  is  so 
much  kinder  than  he  used  to  be,  that  home's  like  Heav- 
en !  He  spoke  so  gently  to  me  one  dear  night  when  I 
was  going  to  bed,  that  I  was  not  afraid  to  ask  him  once 
more  if  you  might  come  home  ;  and  he  said  Yes,  you 
should  ;  and  sent  me  in  a  coach  to  bring  you.  And 
you're  to  be  a  man  ! "  said  the  child,  opening  her  eyes  ; 
"and  are  never  to  come  back  here  ;  but  first,  we're  to 
be  together  all  the  Christmas  long,  and  have  the  merriest 
time  in  all  the  world." 

"You  are  quite  a  woman,  little  Fan  1  "  exclaimed  the 
boy. 

She  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed,  and  tried  to  touch 
his  head  ;  but  being  too  little,  laughed  again,  and  stood 
on  tiptoe  to  embrace  him.  Then  she  began  to  drag  him, 
in  her  childish  eagerness,  towards  the  door ;  and  he, 
nothing  loth  to  go,  accompanied  her. 

A  terrible  voice  in  the  hall  cried,  "  Bring  down  Master 
Scrooge's  box,  there  1"  and  in  the  hall  appeared  the 
schoolmaster  himself,  who  glared  on  Master  Scrooge 
with  a  ferocious  condescension,  and  threw  him  into  a 
dreadful  state  of  mind  by  shaking  hands  with  him.  He 
then  conveyed  him  and  his  sister  into  the  veriest  old  well 
of  a  shivering  best-parlour  that  ever  was  seen,  where 
the  maps  upon  the  wall,  and  the  celestial  and  terrestrial 
globes  in  the  windows,  were  waxy  with  cold.  Here  he 
produced  a  decanter  of  curiously  light  wine,  and  a  block 
of  curiously  heavy  cake,  and  administered  instalments 
of  those  dainties  to  the  young  people  :  at  the  same  time, 
sending  out  a  meagre  servant  to  offer  a  glass  of  ' '  some- 
thing "  to  the  postboy,  who  answered  that  he  thanked 
the  gentleman,  but  if  it  was  the  same  tap  as  he  had 
tasted  before,  he  had  rather  not.  Master  Scrooge's  trunk 
being  by  this  time  tied  on  to  the  top  of  the  chaise,  the 
children  bade  the  schoolmaster  good-bye  right  willingly  ; 
i.nd  getting  into  it,  drove  gaily  down  the  garden-sweep  ; 
the  quick  wheels  dashing  the  hoar-frost  and  snow  from 
off  the  dark  leaves  of  the  evergreens  like  spray. 

"Always  a  delicate  creature,  whom  a  breath  might 
have  withered,"  said  the  Ghost.  "  But  she  had  a  large 
heart ! " 


240 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  So  she  had,"  cried  Scrooge.  "  You're  right.  I  will 
not  gainsay  it,  Spirit.    God  forbid  ! " 

"She  died  a  woman,"  said  the  Ghost,  "and  had,  as  I 
think,  children." 

"One  child,"  Scrooge  returned, 

"  True,"  said  the  Ghost.    "  Your  nephew  1 " 

Scrooge  seemed  uneasy  in  his  mind  ;  and  answered 
briefly,  "  Yes." 

Although  they  had  but  that  moment  left  the  school 
behind  them,  they  were  now  in  the  busy  thoroughfares 
of  a  city,  where  shadowy  passengers  passed  and  re- 
passed ;  where  shadowy  carts  and  coaches  battled  for 
the  way,  and  all  the  strife  and  tumult  of  a  real  city  were. 
It  was  made  plain  enough,  by  the  dressing  of  the  shops, 
that  here  too  it  was  Christmas  time  again  ;  but  it  was 
evening,  and  the  streets  were  lighted  up. 

The  Ghost  stopped  at  a  certain  warehouse  door,  and 
asked  Scrooge  if  he  knew  it. 

"Know  it!"  said  Scrooge.  "Was  I  apprenticed 
here  ! " 

They  went  in.  At  sight  of  an  old  gentleman  in  a 
Welsh  wig,  sitting  behind  such  a  high  desk,  that  if  he 
had  been  two  inches  taller  he  must  have  knocked  his 
head  against  the  ceiling,  Scrooge  cried  in  great  excite- 
ment : 

"  Why,  it's  old  Fezziwig  !  Bless  his  heart  ;  it's  Fezzi- 
wig  alive  again  !  " 

Old  Fezziwig  laid  down  his  pen,  and  looked  up  at  the 
clock,  which  pointed  to  the  hour  of  seven.  He  rubbed 
his  hands  ;  adjusted  his  capacious  waistcoat ;  laughed  all 
over  himself,  from  his  shoes  to  his  organ  of  benevolence  ; 
and  called  out  in  a  comfortable,  oily,  rich,  fat,  jovial 
voice  : 

"  Yo  ho,  there  !    Ebenezer  !    Dick  !  " 

Scrooge's  former  self,  now  grown  a  young  man,  came 
briskly  in,  accompanied  by  his  fellow-'prentice. 

"Dick  Wilkins,  to  be  sure!"  said  Scrooge  to  the 
Ghost.  "Bless  me,  yes.  There  he  is.*  He  was  very 
much  attached  to  me,  was  Dick.  Poor  Dick  !  Dear, 
dear!" 

"  Yo  ho,  my  boys  !"  said  Fezziwig.  "  No  more  work 
to-night.  Christmas  Eve,  Dick.  Christmas,  Ebenezer  ! 
Let's  have  the  shutters  up,"  cried  old  Fezziwig,  with  a 
sharp  clap  of  his  hands,  "  before  a  man  can  say  Jack 
Robinson  ! " 

You  wouldn't  believe  how  those  two  fellows  went  at  it ! 
They  charged  into  the  street  with  the  shutters — one,  two, 
three — had 'em  up  in  their  places — four,  five,  six — barred 
'em  and  pinned  'em — seven,  eight,  nine — and  came  back 
before  you  could  have  got  to  twelve,  panting  like  race- 
horses. 

"  Hilli-ho  !"  cried  old  Fezziwig,  skipping  down  from 
the  high  desk,  with 'wonderful  agility.  "Clear  away, 
my  lads,  and  let's  have  lots  of  room  here  !  Hilli-h'o, 
Dick  !    Chirrup,  Ebenezer  ! " 

Clear  away  !  There  was  nothing  they  wouldn't  have 
cleared  away,  or  couldn't  have  cleared  away,  with  old 
Fezziwig  looking  on.  It  was  done  in  a  minute.  Every 
movable  was  packed  off,  as  if  it  were  dismissed  from  pub- 
lic life  for  evermore  ;  the  floor  was  swept  and  watered, 
the  lamps  were  trimmed,  fuel  was  heaped  upon  the  fire  ; 
and  the  warehouse  was  as  snug,  and  warm,  and  dry,  and 
bright  a  ball-room,  as  you  would  desire  to  see  upon  a  win- 
ter's night. 

In  came  a  fiddler  with  a  music-book,  and  went  up  to 
the  lofty  desk,  and  made  an  orchestra  of  it,  and  tuned 
like  fifty  stomach-aches.  In  came  Mrs.  Fezziwig,  one 
vast  substantial  smile.  In  came  the  three  Miss  Fezziwigs,  I 
beamins:  and  lovable.  In  came  the  six  young  followers 
whose  liearts  they  broke.  In  came  all  the  young  men 
and  women  employed  in  the  business.  In  came  the  house- 
maid, with  her  cousin  the  baker.  In  came  the  cook,  with 
her  brother's  particular  friend,  the  milkman.  In  came 
the  boy  from  over  the  way,  who  was  suspected  of  not 
having  board  enough  from  his  master  ;  trying  to  hide 
himself  behind  the  girl  from  next  door  but  one,  who  was 
proved  to  have  had  her  cars  pulled  l)y  her  mistress.  In 
they  all  came,  one  after  another  ;  some  shyly,  some  bold- 
ly, some  gracefully,  some  awkwardly,  some  pushing, 
some  pulling ;  in  they  all  came,  anyhow  and  everyhow. 
Away  they  all  went,  twenty  couples  at  once  ;  hands  half 
round,  and  back  again  the  other  way  ;  down  the  middle 


and  up  again  ;  round  and  round  in  various  stages  of  af- 
fectionate grouping  ;  old  top  couple  always  turning  up  in 
the  wrong  place  ;  new  top  couple  starting  off  again,  as 
soon  as  they  got  there  ;  all  top  couples  at  last,  and  not  a 
bottom  one  to  help  them  !  When  this  result  was  brought 
about,  old  Fezziwig,  clapping  his  hands  to  stop  the  dance, 
cried  out,  "  Well  done  ! "  and  the  fiddler  plunged  his  hot 
face  into  a  pot  of  porter,  especially  provided  for  that  pur- 
pose. But  scorning  rest  upon  his  reappearance,  he  in- 
stantly began  again,  though  there  were  no  dancers  yet, 
as  if  the  other  fiddler  had  been  carried  home,  exhausted 
on  a  shutter,  and  he  were  a  bran-new  man  resolved  to 
beat  him  out  of  sight,  or  perish. 

There  were  more  dances,  and  there  were  forfeits,  and 
more  dances,  and  there  was  cake,  and  there  was  negus, 
and  there  was  a  great  piece  of  Cold  Roast,  and  there  was 
a  great  piece  of  Cold  Boiled,  and  there  were  mince-pies, 
and  plenty  of  beer.  But  the  great  effect  of  the  evening 
came  after  the  Roast  and  Boiled,  when  the  fiddler  (an 
artful  dog,  mind  !  The  sort  of  man  v/ho  knew  his  busi- 
ness better  than  you  or  I  could  have  told  it  him  !)  struck 
up  "  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley."  Then  old  Fezziwig  stood 
out  to  dance  with  Mrs.  Fezziwig.  Top  couple,  too  ;  with 
a  good  stiff  piece  of  work  cut  out  for  them  ;  three  or  four 
and  twenty  pair  of  partners  ;  peoj^le  who  were  not  to  be 
trifled  with  ;  people  who  would  dance,  and  had  no  notion 
of  walking. 

But  if  they  had  been  twice  as  many — ah,  four  times — 
old  Fezziwig  would  have  been  a  match  for  them,  and  so 
would  Mrs.  Fezziwig.  As  to  Iter,  she  was  worthy  to  be 
his  partner  in  every  sense  of  the  term.  If  that's  not  high 
praise,  tell  me  higher,  and  I'll  use  it.  A  positive  light 
appeared  to  issue  from  Fezzi  wig's  calves.  They  shone  in 
every  part  of  the  dance  like  moods.  You  couldn't  have 
predicted,  at  any  given  time,  what  would  become  of  them 
next.  And  when  old  Fezziwig  and  Mrs.  Fezziwig  had 
gone  all  through  the  dance ;  advance  and  retire,  both 
hands  to  your  partner,  bow  and  curtsey,  corkscrew, 
thread-the-needle,  and  back  again  to  your  j^lace  ;  Fezzi- 
wig "cut  " — cut  so  deftly,  that  he  appeared  to  wink  with 
his  legs,  and  came  upon  his  feet  again  without  a  stagger. 

When  the  clock  struck  eleven,  this  domestic  ball  broke 
up.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fezziwig  took  their  stations,  one  on 
either  side  the  door,  and  shaking  hands  with  every  per- 
son individually  as  he  or  she  went  out,  wished  him  or  her 
a  Merry  Christmas.  When  everybody  had  retired  but 
the  two  'prentices,  they  did  the  same  to  them  ;  and  thus 
the  cheerful  voices  died  away,  and  the  lads  were  left  to 
their  beds  ;  which  were  under  a  counter  in  the  back  shop. 

During  the  whole  of  this  time,  Scrooge  had  acted  like 
a  man  out  of  his  wits.  His  heart  and  soul  were  in  the 
scene,  and  with  his  former  self.  He  corroborated  every- 
thing, remembered  everything,  enjoyed  everything,  and 
underwent  the  strangest  agitation.  It  was  not  until  now, 
when  the  bright  faces  of  his  former  self  and  Dick  were 
turned  from  them,  that  he  remembered  the  Ghost,  and 
became  conscious  that  it  was  looking  full  upon  him,  while 
the  light  upon  his  head  burnt  very  clear. 

"A  small  matter,"  said  the  Ghost,  "  to  make  these 
silly  folks  so  full  of  gratitude." 

"  Small  !  "  echoed  Scrooge. 

The  Spirit  signed  to  him  to  listen  to  the  two  appren- 
tices, who  were  pouring  out  their  hearts  in  praise  of 
Fezziwig  ;  and  when  he  had  done  so  said, 

"  Why  !  Is  it  not  ?  He  has  spent  but  a  few  pounds  of 
your  mortal  money  :  three  or  four,  perhaps.  Is  that  so 
much  that  he  deserves  this  praise  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  that,"  said  Scrooge,  heated  by  the  remark, 
and  speaking  unconsciously  like  his  former,  not  his  lat- 
ter self.  "  It  isn't  that.  Spirit.  He  has  the  power  to 
render  us  happy  or  unhappy  ;  to  make  our  service  light 
or  burdensome  *;  a  pleasure  or  a  toil.  Say  that  his  power 
lies  in  words  and  looks  ;  in  things  so  slight  and  insigni- 
ficant that  it  is  impossible  to  add  and  count  'em  up  :  what 
then  ?  The  happiness  he  gives,  is  quite  as  great  as  if  it 
cost  a  fortune." 

He  felt  the  Spirit's  glance,  and  stopped. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  asked  the  Ghost. 

"Nothing  particular,"  said  Scrooge. 

"  Something,  I  think  ?  "  the  Ghost  insisted. 

"  No,"  said  Scrooge,  "  No.  I  should  like  to  be  able 
to  say  a  word  or  two  to  ray  clerk  just  now.    That's  all." 


CHRTSTMA8  BOOKS. 


241 


His  former  self  turned  down  the  lamps  as  he  gave  ut- 
terance to  the  wish  ;  and  Scrooge  and  the  Ghosl  again 
stood  side  by  side  in  the  open  air. 

"My  time  grows  short/'  observed  the  Spirit. 
"Quick  !" 

This  was  not  addressed  to  Scrooge,  or  to  any  one  whom 
he  could  see,  but  it  produced  an  immediate  effect.  For 
again  Scrooge  saw  himself.  He  was  older  now  ;  a  man 
in  the  prime  of  life.  His  face  had  not  the  harsh  and 
rigid  lines  of  later  years  ;  but  it  had  begun  to  wear  the 
signs  of  care  and  avarice.  There  was  an  eager,  greedy, 
restless  motion  in  the  eye,  which  showed  the  passion 
that  had  taken  root,  and  where  the  shadow  of  the  glow- 
ing tree  would  fall. 

He  was  not  alone,  but  sat  by  the  side  of  a  fair  young 
girl  in  a  mourning-dress  :  in  whose  eyes  there  were  tears, 
which  sparkled  in  the  light  that  shone  out  of  the  Ghost 
of  Christmas  Past. 

"  It  matters  little,"  she  said,  softly.  *'  To  you,  very 
little.  Another  idol  has  displaced  me  ;  and  if  it  can't 
cheer  and  comfort  you  in  time  to  come,  as  I  would  have 
tried  to  do,  I  have  no  just  cause  to  grieve." 

What  idol  has  displaced  you?"  he  rejoined. 

*'  A  golden  one." 

"  This  is  the  even-handed  dealing  of  the  world  !  "  he 
said.  "There  is  nothing  on  which  it  is  so  hard  as 
poverty  ;  and  there  is  nothing  it  professes  to  condemn 
with  siich  severity  as  the  pursuit  of  wealth  !  " 

"  You  fear  the  world  too  much,"  she  answered,  , gently. 
**  All  your  other  hopes  have  emerged  into  the  hope  of 
being  beyond  the  chance  of  its  sordid  reproach.  I  have 
seen  your  nobler  aspirations  fall  off  one  by  one,  until 
the  master-passion.  Gain,  engrosses  you.    Have  I  not  ?  " 

"  What  then?  "  he  retorted.  "  Even  if  I  have  grown  so 
much  wiser,  what  then  ?  I  am  not  changed  towards  you." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Am  I?" 

"  Our  contract  is  an  old  one.  It  was  made  when  we 
were  both  poor  and  content  to  be  so,  until  in  good  season, 
we  could  improve  our  worldly  fortune  by  our  patient  in- 
dustry. You  changed.  When  it  was  made,  you  were 
another  man." 

"  I  was  a  boy,"  he  said  impatiently. 

"  Your  own  feeling  tells  you  that  you  were  not  what 
you  are,"  she  returned.  "  I  am.  That  which  promised 
happiness  when  we  were  one  in  heart,  is  fraught  with 
misery  now  that  we  are  two.  How  often  and  how  keenly 
I  have  thought  of  this,  I  will  not  say.  It  is  enough  that 
I  have  thought  of  it,  and  can  release  you." 

"  Have  t  ever  sought  release  ?  " 

*' In  words.    No.  Never." 

"  In  what,  then?" 

"  In  a  changed  nature  ;  in  an  altered  spirit  ;  in  another 
atmosphere  of  life  ;  another  Hope  as  its  great  end.  In 
everything  that  made  my  love  of  any  worth  or  value  in 
your  sight.  If  this  had  never  been  between  us,"  said 
the  girl,  looking  mildly,  but  with  steadiness,  upon  him  ; 
"  tell  me,  would  you  seek  me  out  and  try  to  win  me 
now?  Ah,  no  !  " 

He  seemed  to  yield  to  the  justice  of  this  supposition, 
in  spite  of  himself.  But  he  said,  with  a  struggle,  "  You 
think  not." 

"  I  would  gladly  think  otherwise  if  I  could,"  she  an- 
swered. "Heaven  knows!  When  /  have  learned  a 
Truth  like  this,  I  know  how  strong  and  irresistible  it 
must  be.  But  if  you  were  free  to-day,  to-morrow,  yes- 
terday, can  even  I  believe  that  you  would  choose  a  dower- 
less  girl — you  who,  in  your  very  confidence  with  her, 
weigh  everything  by  Gain  :  or,  choosing  her,  if  for  a 
moment  you  were  false  enough  to  your  one  guiding  prin- 
ciple to  do  so,  do  I  not  know  that  your  repentance  and 
regret  would  surely  follow  ?  I  do  ;  and  I  release  you. 
With  a  full  heart,  for  the  love  of  him  you  once  were." 

He  was  about  to  speak  ;  but  with  her  head  turned 
from  him  she  resumed. 

"  You  may — the  memory  of  what  is  past  half  makes 
me  hope  you  will — have  pain  in  this.  A  very,  very 
brief  time,  and  you  will  dismiss  the  recollection  of  it, 
gladly,  as  an  unprofitable  dream,  from  which  it  hap- 
pened well  you  awoke.  May  you  be  happy  in  the  life 
you  have  chosen  !  " 

She  left  him  and  they  parted. 
Vol.  II.— 16 


"  Spirit  ! "  said  Scrooge,  "  show  me  no  more  !  Con- 
duct me  home.    Why  do  you  delight  to  torture  me?  " 

"  One  shadow  more  1 "  exclaimed  the  Ghost. 

"No  more!"  cried  Scrooge.  "No  more.  I  don't 
wish  to  see  it.    Show  me  no  more  ! " 

But  the  relentless  Ghost  jjinioned  him  in  both  his 
arms,  and  forced  him  to  observe  what  happened  next. 

They  were  in  another  scene  and  place  ;  a  room,  not 
very  large  or  handsome,  but  full  of  comfort.  Near  to 
the  winter  fire  sat  a  beautiful  young  girl,  so  like  that 
last  that  Scrooge  believed  it  was  the  .-^ame,  until  he  saw 
her,  now  a  comely  matron,  sitting  opposite  her  daugh- 
ter. The  noise  in  this  room  was  perfectly  tumultuous, 
for  there  were  more  children  there,  than  Scrooge  in  his 
agitated  state  of  mind  could  count ;  and,  unlike  the  cele- 
brated herd  in  the  poem,  they  were  not  forty  children 
conducting  themselves  like  one,  but  every  child  was 
conducting  itself  like  forty.  The  consequences  were  up- 
roarious beyond  belief  ;  but  no  one  seemed  to  care  ;  on 
the  contrary,  the  mother  and  daughter  laughed  heartily, 
and  enjoyed  it  very  much  ;  and  the  latter,  soon  begin- 
ning to  mingle  in  the  sports,  got  pillaged  by  the  young 
brigands  most  ruthlessly.  What  would  I  not  have  given 
to  be  one  of  them  1  Though  I  never  could  have  been  so 
rude,  no,  no  !  I  wouldn't  for  the  wealth  of  all  the 
world  have  crushed  that  braided  hair,  and  torn  it  down  ; 
and  for  the  precious  little  shoe,  I  wouldn't  have  plucked 
it  off,  God  bless  my  soul  !  to  save  my  life.  As  to  meas- 
uring her  waist  in  sport,  as  they  did,  bold  young  brood, 
I  couldn't  have  done  it  ;  I  should  have  expected  my  arm 
to  have  grown  round  it  for  a  punishment,  and  never 
come  straight  again.  And  yet  I  should  have  dearly 
liked,  I  own,  to  have  touched  her  lips ;  to  have  ques- 
tioned her,  that  she  might  have  opened  them  ;  to  have 
looked  upon  the  lashes  of  her  downcast  eyes,  and  never 
raised  a  blush  ;  to  have  let  loose  waves  of  hair,  an 
inch  of  which  would  be  a  keepsake  beyond  price  :  in 
short,  I  should  have  liked,  I  do  confess,  to  have  had  the 
lightest  licence  of  a  child,  and  yet  to  have  been  man 
enough  to  know  its  value. 

But  now  a  knocking  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  such 
a  rush  immediately  ensued  that  she  with  laughing  face 
and  plundered  dress  was  borne  towards  it  in  the  centre 
of  a  tiushed  and  boisterous  group,  just  in  time  to  greet 
the  father,  who  came  home  attended  by  a  man  laden 
with  Christmas  toys  and  presents.  Then  the  shouting 
and  the  struggling,  and  the  onslaught  that  was  made  on 
the  defenceless  porter  !  The  scaling  him,  with  chairs  for 
ladders,  to  dive  into  his  pockets,  despoil  him  of  brown 
paper  parcels,  hold  on  tight  by  his  cravat,  hug  him 
round  the  neck,  pommel  his  back,  and  kick  his  legs  in 
irrepressible  affection  !  The  shouts  of  wonder  and  de- 
light with  which  the  development  of  every  package  was 
received  !  The  terrible  announcement  that  the  baby  had 
been  taken  in  the  act  of  putting  a  doll's  frying-pan 
into  his  mouth,  and  was  more  than  suspected  of  having 
swallowed  a  fictitious  turkey,  glued  on  a  wooden  plat- 
ter !  The  immense  relief  of  finding  this  a  false  alarm  I 
The  joy,  and  gratitude,  and  ecstasy !  They  are  all  in- 
describable alike.  It  is  enough  that,  by  degrees,  the 
children  and  their  emotions  got  out  of  the  parlour,  and, 
by  one  stair  at  a  time,  up  to  the  top  of  the  house, 
where  they  went  to  bed,  and  so  subsided. 

And  now  Scrooge  looked  on  more  attentively  than 
ever,  when  the  master  of  the  house,  having  his  daugh- 
ter leaning  fondly  on  him,  sat  down  with  her  and  her 
mother  at  his  own  fireside  ;  and  when  he  thought  that 
such  another  creature,  quite  as  graceful  and  as  full  of 
promise,  might  have  called  him  father,  and  been  a 
spring-time  in  the  haggard  winter  of  his  life,  his  sight 
grew  very  dim  indeed. 

"  Belle,"  said  the  husband,  turning  to  his  wife  with  a 
smile,  "  I  saw  an  old  friend  of  yours  this  afternoon." 

"Who  was  it?" 

"Guess  1" 

"  How  can  I?  Tut,  don't  I  know,"  she  added,  in  the 
same  breath,  laughing  as  he  laughed.    "Mr.  Scrooge." 

"Mr.  Scrooge  it  was.  I  passed  his  oflBce  window  ;  and 
as  it  was  not  shut  up,  and  he  had  a  candle  inside,  I  could 
scarcely  help  seeing  him.  His  partner  lies  upon  the  point 
of  death,  I  hear,  and  there  he  sat  alone.  Quite  alone  in 
the  world,  I  do  believe." 


242 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Spirit  !"  said  Scrooge,  in  a  broken  voice,  "  remove 
me  from  this  place." 

"  I  told  you  these  were  shadows  of  the  things  that 
have  been,"  said  the  Ghost.  "  That  they  are  what  they 
are,  do  not  blame  me  ! " 

"Remove  me!"  Scrooge  exclaimed.  "I  cannot  bear 
it !" 

He  turned  upon  the  Ghost,  and  seeing  that  it  looked 
npon  him  with  a  face,  in  which  in  some  strange  way 
there  were  fragments  of  all  the  faces  it  had  shown  him, 
wrestled  with  it. 

"  Leave  me  !    Take  me  back.    Haunt  me  no  longer  ! " 

In  the  struggle— if  that  can  be  called  a  struggle  in 
which  the  Ghost,  with  no  visible  resistance  on  its  own 
part  was  undisturbed  by  any  effort  of  its  adversary- 
Scrooge  observed  that  its  light  was  burning  high  and 
bright ;  and  dimly  connecting  that  with  its  influence 
over  him,  he  seized  the  extinguisher-cap,  and  by  a  sud- 
den action  pressed  it  down  upon  its  head. 

The  Spirit  dropped  beneath  it,  so  that  the  extinguisher 
covered  its  whole  form  ;  but  though  Scrooge  pressed  it 
down  with  all  his  force,  he  could  not  hide  the  light, 
which  streamed  from  under  it,  in  an  unbroken  flood 
upon  the  ground. 

He  was  conscious  of  being  exhausted,  and  overcome 
by  an  irresistible  drowsiness  ;  and,  further,  of  being  in 
his  own  bed-room.  He  gave  the  cap  a  parting  squeeze, 
in  which  his  hand  relaxed  ;  and  had  barely  time  to  reel 
to  bed,  before  he  sank  into  a  heavy  sleep. 


STAVE  THREE. 

The  Second  of  the  Three  Spirits. 

Awaking  in  the  middle  of  a  prodigiously  tough  snore, 
and  sitting  up  in  bed  to  get  his  thoughts  together, 
Scrooge  had  no  occasion  to  be  told  that  the  bell  was 
again  upon  the  stroke  of  One.  He  felt  that  he  was  re- 
stored to  consciousness  in  the  right  nick  of  time,  for  the 
especial  purpose  of  holding  a  conference  with  the  second 
messenger  despatched  to  him  through  Jacob  Marley's  in- 
tervention. But,  finding  that  he  turned  uncomfortably 
cold  when  he  began  to  wonder  which  of  his  curtains  this 
new  spectre  would  draw  back,  he  put  them  every  one 
aside  with  his  own  hands,  and  lying  down  again,  estab- 
lished a  sharp  look-out  all  round  the  bed.  For  he 
wished  to  challenge  the  Spirit  on  the  moment  of  its  ap- 
pearance, and  did  not  wish  to  be  taken  by  surprise  and 
made  nervous. 

Gentlemen  of  the  free  and  easy  sort,  who  plume  them- 
selves on  being  acquainted  with  a  move  or  two,  and  being 
usually  equal  to  the  time-6f-day,  express  the  wide  range 
of  their  capacity  for  adventure  by  observing  that  they 
are  good  for  anything  from  pitch-and  toss  to  manslaugh- 
ter ;  between  which  opposite  extremes,  no  doubt,  there 
lies  a  tolerably  wide  and  comprehensive  range  of  sub- 
jects. Without  venturing  for  Scrooge  quite  as  hardily 
as  this,  I  don't  mind  calling  on  you  to  believe  that  he 
was  ready  for  a  good  broad  field  of  strange  appearances, 
and  that  nothing  between  a  baby  and  rhinoceros  would 
have  astonished  him  very  much. 

Now  being  prepared  for  almost  anything,  he  was  not 
by  any  means  prepared  for  nothing  ;  and,  consequently, 
when  the  Bell  struck  One,  and  no  shape  appeared,  he 
was  taken  with  a  violent  fit  of  trembling.  Five  minutes, 
ten  minutes,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  went  by,  yet  nothing 
came.  All  this  time,  he  lay  upon  his  bed,  the  very  core 
and  centre  of  a  blaze  of  ruddy  light,  which  streamed 
upon  it  when  the  clock  proclaimed  the  hour  ;  and  which, 
being  only  light,  was  more  alarming  than  a  dozen  ghosts, 
as  he  was  powerless  to  make  out  wliat  it  meant,  or  would 
be  at  ;  and  was  sometimes  apprehensive  that  he  might 
be  at  that  very  moment  an  interesting  case  of  spontane- 
ous combustion,  without  having  the  consolation  of  know- 
ing it.  At  last,  however,  he  began  to  think — as  you  or 
I  would  have  tliought  at  first ;  for  it  is  always  the  person 
not  in  the  predicament  who  knows  what  ought  to  have 
been  done  in  it,  and  would  uncjuestionahly  have  done  it 
too — at  last,  I  say,  he  began  to  think  that  the  S(jurce 
and  secret  of  thib  ghostly  light  might  be  in  the  adjoin- 


ing room,  from  whence,  on  further  tracing  it,  it  seemed 
to  shine.  This  idea  taking  full  possession  of  his  mind, 
he  got  up  softly  and  shuffled  in  his  slippers  to  the  door. 

The  moment  Scrooge's  hand  was  on  the  lock,  a  strange 
voice  called  him  by  his  name,  and  bade  him  enter.  He 
obeyed. 

It  was  his  own  room.  There  was  no  doubt  about  that. 
But  it  had  undergone  a  surprising  transformation.  The 
walls  and  ceiling  were  so  hung  with  living  green,  that 
it  looked  a  perfect  grove  ;  from  every  part  of  which, 
bright  gleaming  berries  glistened.  The  crisp  leaves  of 
holly,  mistletoe,  and  ivy  reflected  back  the  light,  as  if  so 
many  little  mirrors  had  been  scattered  there ;  and  such 
a  mighty  blaze  went  roaring  up  the  chimney,  as  that 
dull  petrifaction  of  a  hearth  had  never  known  in  Scrooge's 
time,  or  Marley's,  or  for  many  and  many  a  winter  season 
gone.  Heaped  up  on  the  floor,  to  form  a  kind  of  throne, 
were  turkeys,  geese,  game,  poultry,  brawn,  great  joints 
of  meat,  sucking-pigs,  long  wreaths  of  sausages,  mince- 
pies,  plum-puddings,  barrels  of  oysters,  red-hot  chest- 
nuts, cherry-cheeked  apples,  juicy  oranges,  luscious  pears, 
immense  twelfth-cakes,  and  seething  bowls  of  punch, 
that  made  the  chamber  dim  with  their  delicious  steam. 
In  easy  state  upon  this  couch  there  sat  a  jolly  Giant, 
glorious  to  see  ;  who  bore  a  glowing  torch,  in  shape  not 
unlike  Plenty's  horn,  and  held  it  up,  high  up,  to  shed 
its  light  on  Scrooge,  as  he  came  peeping  round  the  door. 

"Come  in  !"  exclaimed  the  Ghost.  "Come  in  I  and 
know  me  better,  man  ! " 

Scrooge  entered  timidly,  and  hung  his  head  before 
this  Spirit.  He  was  not  the  dogged  Scrooge  he  had  been  ; 
and  though  the  Spirit's  eyes  were  clear  and  kind,  he  did 
not  like  to  meet  them. 

"I  am  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Present,"  said  the 
Spirit.    ' '  Look  upon  me  I " 

Scrooge  reverently  did  so.  It  was  clothed  in  one  sim- 
ple deep  green  robe  or  mantle,  bordered  with  white  fur. 
This  garment  hung  so  loosely  on  the  figure,  that  its  ca- 
pacious breast  was  bare,  as  if  disdaining  to  be  warded  or 
concealed  by  any  artifice.  Its  feet,  observable  beneath 
the  ample  folds  of  the  garment,  were  also  bare  ;  and  on 
its  head  it  wore  no  other  covering  than  a  holly  wreath, 
set  here  and  there  with  shining  icicles.  Its  dark  brown 
curls  were  long  and  free  ;  free  as  its  genial  face,  its 
sparkling  eye,  its  open  hand,  its  cheery  voice,  its  uncon- 
strained demeanour,  and  its  joyful  air.  Girded  round 
its  middle  was  an  antique  scabbard  ;  but  no  sword  was 
in  it,  and  the  ancient  sheath  was  eaten  up  with  rust. 

"You  have  never  seen  the  like  of  me  before!  "ex- 
claimed the  Spirit. 

"  Never,"  Scrooge  made  answer  to  it." 

"  Have  never  walked  forth  with  the  younger  members 
of  my  family  ;  meaning  (for  I  am  very  young)  my  elder 
brothers  born  in  these  latter  years?"  pursued  the  Phan- 
tom. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have,"  said  Scrooge.  "  I  am  afraid  I 
have  not.    Have  you  had  many  brothers,  Spirit  ?  " 

"  More  .than  eighteen  hundred,"  said  the  Ghost. 

"A  tremendous  family  to  provide  for,"  muttered 
Scrooge. 

The  Ghost  of  Christmas  Present  rose. 

"Spirit,"  said  Scrooge,  submissively,  "conduct  me 
where  you  will.  I  went  forth  last  night  on  compulsion, 
and  1  learnt  a  lesson  which  is  working  now.  To-night, 
if  you  have  aught  to  teach  me,  let  me  profit  by  it." 

"  Touch  my  robe  ! " 

Scrooge  did  what  he  was  told,  and  held  it  fast. 

Holly,  mistletoe,  red  berries,  ivy,  turkeys,  geese,  game, 
poultry,  brawn,  meal,  pigs,  sausages,  oysters,  pies,  pud- 
dings, fruit,  and  punch,  all  vanished  instantly.  So  did 
the  room,  the  fire,  the  ruddy  glow,  the  hour  of  night, 
and  they  stood  in  the  city  streets  on  Christmas  morning, 
where  (for  the  weather  was  severe)  the  people  made  a 
rough,  but  brisk  and  not  unpleasant  kind  of  music,  in 
scraping  the  snow  from  the  pavement  in  front  of  their 
dwellings,  and  from  the  tops  of  their  houses,  whence  it 
was  mad  delight  to  the  boys  to  see  it  come  plumping 
down  into  the  road  below,  and  splitting  into  artificial  lit- 
tle snow-storms. 

The  house  fronts  looked  black  enough,  and  the  win- 
dows blacker,  contrasting  with  the  smooth  white  sheet 
of  snow  upon  the  roofs,  and  with  the  dirtier  snow  upon  the 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


243 


ground  ;  which  last  deposit  had  been  ploughed  up  in 
deep  furrows  by  the  heavy  wheels  of  carts  and  waggons  ; 
furrows  that  crossed  and  recrossed  each  other  hundreds 
of  times  where  the  great  streets  branched  off  ;  and  made 
intricate  channels,  hard  to  trace  in  the  thi(;k  yellow  mud 
and  icy  water.  The  sky  was  gloomy,  and  the  shortest 
streets  were  choked  up  with  a  dingy  mist,  half  thawed, 
half  frozen,  whose  heavier  particles  descended  in  a 
shower  of  sooty  atoms,  as  if  all  tlie  chimneys  in  Great 
Britain  had,  by  one  consent,  caught  fire,  and  were  blaz- 
ing away  to  their  dear  hearts'  content.  There  was  noth- 
ing very  cheerful  in  the  climate  or  the  town,  and  yet 
was  there  an  air  of  cheerfulness  abroad  that  the  clearest 
summer  air  and  brightest  summer  sun  might  have  en- 
deavoured to  diffuse  in  vain. 

For,  the  people  who  were  shovelling  away  on  the 
housetops  were  jovial  and  full  of  glee  ;  calling  out  to  one 
another  from  the  parapets,  and  now  and  then  exchang- 
ing a  facetious  snowball — better-natured  missile  far  than 
many  a  wordy  jest — laughing  heartily  if  it  went  right, 
and  not  less  heartily  if  it  went  wrong.  The  poulterers' 
shops  were  still  half  open,  and  the  fruiterers'  were  radi- 
ant in  their  glory.  There  were  great,  round,  pot-bellied 
baskets  of  chestnuts,  shaped  like  the  waistcoats  of  jolly 
old  gentlemen,  lolling  at  the  doors,  and  tumbling  out 
into  the  street  in  their  apoplectic  opulence.  There  were 
ruddy,  brown-faced,  broad-girthed  Spanish  onions,  shin- 
ing in  the  fatness  of  their  growth  like  Spanish  Friars, 
and  winking  from  their  shelves  in  wanton  slyness  at  the 
girls  as  they  went  by,  and  glanced  demurely  at  the 
hung-up  mistletoe.  There  were  pears  and  apples,  clus- 
tered high  in  blooming  pyramids  ;  there  were  bunches  of 
grapes,  made,  in  the  shopkeepers'  benevolence,  to  dan- 
gle from  conspicuous  hooks  that  people's  mouths  might 
water  gratis  as  they  passed  ;  there  were  piles  of  filberts, 
mossy  and  brown,  recalling,  in  their  fragrance,  ancient 
walks  among  the  woods,  and  pleasant  shufflings  ankle 
deep  through  withered  leaves  ;  there  "Were  Norfolk  Bif- 
fins, squab  and  swarthy,  setting  off  the  yellow  of  the 
oranges  and  lemons,  and,  in  the  great  compactness  of 
their  juicy  persons,  urgently  entreating  and  beseeching 
to  be  carried  home  in  paper  bags  and  eaten  after  dinner. 
The  very  gold  and  silver  fish,  set  forth  among  these 
choice  fruits  in  a  bowl,  though  members  of  a  dull  and 
stagnant- blooded  race,  appeared  to  know  that  there  was 
something  going  on  ;  and,  to  a  fish,  went  gasping  round 
and  round  their  little  world  in  slow  and  passionless  ex- 
citement. 

The  Grocers'  !  oh  the  Grocers'  !  nearly  closed,  with 
perhaps  two  shutters  down,  or  one  ;  but  through  those 
gaps  such  glimpses  !  It  was  not  alone  that  the  scales 
descending  on  the  counter  made  a  merry  sound,  or  that 
the  twine  and  roller  parted  company  so  briskly,  or  that 
the  canisters  were  rattled  up  and  down  like  juggling 
tricks,  or  even  that  the  blended  scents  of  tea  and  coffee 
were  so  grateful  to  the  nose,  or  even  that  the  raisins 
were  so  plentiful  and  rare,  the  almonds  so  extremely 
white,  the  sticks  of  cinnamon  so  long  and  straight,  the 
other  spices  so  delicious,  the  candied  fruits  so  caked  and 
spotted  with  molten  sugar  as  to  make  th^  coldest  lookers 
on  feel  faint  and  subsequently  bilious.  Nor  was  it  that 
the  figs  were  moist  and  pulpy,  or  that  the  French  plums 
blushed  in  modest  tartness  from  their  highly-decorated 
boxes,  or  that  everything  was  good  to  eat  and  in  its 
Christmas  dress  ;  but  the  customers  were  all  so  hurried 
and  so  eager  in  the  hopeful  promise  of  the  day,  that  they 
tumbled  up  against  each  other  at  the  door,  crashing  their 
wicker  baskets  wildly,  and  left  their  purciiases  upon  the 
counter,  and  came  running  back  to  fetch  them,  and  com- 
mitted hundreds  of  the  like  mistakes,  in  the  best  hu- 
mour possible ;  while  the  Grocer  and  his  people  were  so 
frank  and  fresh  that  the  polished  hearts  with  which  they 
fastened  their  aprons  behind  might  have  been  their  own, 
worn  outside  for  general  inspection,  and  for  Christmas 
daws  to  peck  at  if  they  chose. 

But  soon  the  steeples  called  good  people  all,  to  church 
and  chapel,  and  away  they  catne,  flocking  through  the 
streets  in  their  best  clothes,  and  with  their  gayest  faces. 
And  at  the  same  time  there  emerged  from  scores  of  bye- 
streets,  lanes,  and  nameless  turnings,  innumerable  peo- 
ple, carrying  their  dinners  to  the  bakers'  shops.  The 
Bight  of  these  poor  revellers  appeared  to  interest  the 


Spirit  very  much,  for  he  storxl  with  Scrooge  beside  him 
in  a  baker's  doorway,  and  taking  off  the  covers  as  tlieir 
bearers  passed,  sprinkled  incense  on  their  dinners  from 
his  torch.  And  it  was  a  very  uncommon  kind -of  torch, 
for  once  or  twice  when  there  were  angry  words  between 
some  dinner-carriers  who  had  jostled  each  other,  he  slied 
a  few  drops  of  water  on  them  from  it,  and  their  good 
humour  was  restored  directly.  For  they  said  it  was  a 
shame  to  quarrel  upon  Christmas  Day.  And  so  it  was  ! 
God  love  it,  so  it  was  ! 

In  time  the  bells  ceased,  and  the  bakers  were  shut  up  ; 
and  yet  there  was  a  genial  shadowing  forth  of  all  these 
dinners  and  the  progress  of  their  cooking,  in  the  thawed 
blotch  of  wet  above  each  baker's  oven  ;  where  the  pave- 
ment smoked  as  if  its  stones  were  cooking  too. 

"  Is  there  a  peculiar  flavour  in  what  you  sprinkle  from 
your  torch  ?  "  asked  Scrooge. 

"  There  is.    My  own." 

"  Would  it  apply  to  any  kind  of  dinner  on  this  day  ?" 
asked  Scrooge. 

To  any  kindly  given.    To  a  poor  one  most." 
"  Why  to  a  poor  one  most  ?  "  asked  Scrooge. 
"  Because  it  needs  it  most." 

"  Spirit,"  said  Scrooge,  after  a  moment's  thought,  "  I 
wonder  you,  of  all  the  beings  in  the  many  worlds  about 
us,  should  desire  to  cramp  these  people's  opportunities 
of  innocent  enjoyment." 

"I  1"  cried  the  Spirit. 

"You  would  deprive  them  of  their  means  of  dining 
every  seventh  day,  often  the  only  day  on  which  they  can 
be  said  to  dine  at  all,"  said  Scrooge  ;  "  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"I  !"  cried  the  Spirit. 

"  You  seek  to  close  these  places  on  the  Seventh  Day?" 
said  Scrooge.    "  And  it  comes  to  the  same  thing." 
"  1  seek  ! "  exclaimed  the  Spirit. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  am  wrong.  It  has  been  done  in  your 
name,  or  at  least  in  that  of  your  family,"  said  Scrooge. 

"  There  are  some  upon  this  earth  of  yours,"  returned 
the  Spirit,  "  wlio  lay  claim  to  know  us,  and  who  do  their 
deeds  of  passion,  pride,  ill-will,  hatred,  envy,  bigotry, 
and  selfishness  in  our  name,  who  are  as  strange  to  us  and 
all  our  kith  and  kin,  as  if  they  had  never  lived.  Remem- 
ber that,  and  charge  their  doings  on  themselves,  not  us." 

Scrooge  promised  that  he  would  ;  and  they  went  on, 
invisible,  as  they  had  been  before,  into  the  suburbs  of 
the  town.  It  was  a  remarkable  quality  of  the  Ghost 
(which  Scrooge  had  observed  at  the  baker's)  that  notwith- 
standing his  gigantic  size,  he  could  accommodate  him- 
self to  any  place  with  ease  ;  and  that  he  stood  beneath  a 
low  roof  quite  as  gracefully  and  like  a  supernatural 
creature  as  it  was  possible  he  could  have  done  in  any 
lofty  hall. 

And  perhaps  it  was  the  pleasure  the  good  Spirit  had  in 
showing  off  this  power  of  his,  or  else  it  was  his  own 
kind,  generous,  hearty  nature,  and  his  sympathy  with 
all  poor  men,  that  led  him  straight  to  Scrooge's  clerk's  ; 
for  there  he  went,  and  took  Scrooge  with  him,  holding 
to  his  robe  ;  and  on  the  threshold  of  the  door  the  Spirit 
smiled,  and  stopped  to  bless  Bob  Cratchit's  dwelling 
with  the  sprinklings  of  his  torch.  Think  of  that  I  Bob 
had  but  fifteen  "  Bob  "  a-week  himself  ;  he  pocketed  on 
Saturdays  but  fifteen  copies  of  his  Christian  name  ;  and 
yet  the  ghost  of  Christmas  Present  blessed  his  four- 
roomed  house  ! 

Then  up  rose  Mrs.  Cratchit,  Cratchit's  wife,  dressed 
out  but  poorly  in  a  twice-turned  gown,  but  brave  in  rib- 
bons, which  are  cheap  and  make  a  goodly  show  for  six- 
pence ;  and  she  laid  the  cloth,  assisted  by  Belinda  Crat- 
chit, second  of  her  daughters,  also  brave  in  ribbons  ; 
while  Master  Peter  Cratchit  plunged  a  fork  into  the 
saucepan  of  potatoes,  and  getting  the  corner  of  his  mon- 
strous shirt-collar  (Bob's  private  property,  conferred  upon 
his  son  and  heir  in  honour  of  the  day)  into  his  mouth, 
rejoiced  to  find  himself  so  gallantly  attired,  and  yearned 
to  show  his  linen  in  the  fashionable  Parks.  And  now 
two  smaller  Cratchits,  boy  and  girl,  came  tearing  in, 
screaming  that  outside  the*  baker's  they  had  smelt  the 
goose,  and  known  it  for  their  own  ;  and  basking  in  lux- 
urious thoughts  of  sage  and  onion,  these  young  Cratchits 
danced  about  the  tabfe.  and  exalted  Master  Peter  Crat- 
chit to  the  skies,  while  he  (not  proud,  although  his  col- 
lars near  choked  him)  blew  the  fire,  until  the  slow  pota- 


244 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


toes  bubbling  up,  knocked  loudly  at  the  saucepan-lid  to 
be  let  out  and  peeled. 

"  What  has  ever  got  your  precious  father  then  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Cratchit.  "And  your  brother,  Tiny  Tim  1  And 
Martha  warn't  as  late  last  Christmas  Day  by  half-an- 
hour ! " 

"  Here's  Martha,  mother  !  "  said  a  girl  appearing  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Here's  Martha,  mother  !  "  cried  the  two  young  Crat- 
chits.    "  Hurrah  !    There's  such  a  goose,  Martha  !  " 

*'  Why,  bless  your  heart  alive,  my  dear,  how  late  you 
are  !  "  said  Mrs.  Cratchit,  kissing  her  a  dozen  times,  and 
taking  oK  her  shawl  and  bonnet  for  her  with  officious 
zeal. 

"  We'd  a  deal  of  work  to  finish  up  last  night,"  replied 
the  girl,  "  and  had  to  clear  away  this  morning,  mother  I  " 
Well  !  never  mind  so  long  as  you  are  come,"  said 
Mrs.  Cratchit.  ' '  Sit  ye  down  before  the  fire,  my  dear, 
and  have  a  warm.  Lord  bless  ye  !  " 

"No,  no!  There's  father  coming,"  cried  the  two 
young  Cratchits,  who  were  everywhere  at  once.  "  Hide, 
Martha,  hide  ! " 

So  Martha  hid  herself,  and  in  came  little  Bob,  the  fa- 
ther, with  at  least  three  feet  of  comforter  exclusive  of 
the  fringe  hanging  down  before  him  ;  and  his  thread- 
bare clothes  darned  up  and  brushed,  to  look  seasonable  ; 
and  Tiny  Tim  upon  his  shoulder.  Alas  for  Tiny  Tim,  he 
bore  a  little  crutch,  and  had  his  limbs  supported  by  an 
iron  frame  ! 

"Why,  where's  our  Martha?"  cried  Bob  Cratchit 
looking  round. 

"Not  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Cratchit. 

"  Not  coming  ! "  said  Bob,  with  a  sudden  declension 
in  his  high  spirits  ;  for  he  had  been  Tim's  blood  horse 
all  the  way  from  church,  and  had  come  home  rampant. 
"Not  coming  upon  Christmas  Day  1 " 

Martha  did  not  like  to  see  him  disappointed,  if  it  were 
only  in  joke  ;  so  she  came  out  prematurely  from  behind 
the  closet  door,  and  ran  into  his  arms-,  while  the  two 
young  Cratchits  hustled  Tiny  Tim,  and  bore  him  off  into 
the  wash-house,  that  he  might  hear  the  pudding  sing- 
ing in  the  copper. 

"  And  how  did  little  Tim  behave  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Crat- 
chit, when  she  had  rallied  Bob  on  his  credulity,  and  Bob 
had  hugged  his  daughter  to  his  heart's  content. 

"  As  good  as  gold,"  said  Bob,  "  and  better.  Some- 
how he  gets  thoughtful,  sitting  by  himself  so  much,  and 
thinks  the  strangest  things  you  ever  heard.  He  told  me, 
coming  home,  that  he  hoped  the  people  saw  him  in  the 
church,  because  he  was  a  cripple,  and  it  might  be  pleas- 
ant to  them  to  remember  upon  Christmas  Day,  who  made 
lame  beggars  walk  and  blind  men  see." 

Bob's  voice  was  tremulous  when  he  told  them  this, 
and  trembled  more  when  he  said  that  Tiny  Tim  was 
growing  strong  and  hearty. 

His  active  little  crutch  was  heard  upon  the  floor,  and 
back  came  Tiny  Tim  before  another  word  was  spoken, 
escorted  by  his  brother  and  sister  to  his  stool  beside  the 
fire  ;  and  while  Bob,  turning  up  his  cuffs — as  if,  poor  fel- 
low, they  were  capable  of  being  made  more  shabby — 
compounded  some  hot  mixture  in  a  jug  with  gin  and 
lemons,  and  stirred  it  round  and  round  and  put  it  on  the 
hob  to  simmer  ;  Master  Peter  and  the  two  ubiquitous 
young  Cratchits  went  to  fetch  the  goose,  with  which  they 
soon  returned  in  high  procession. 

Such  a  bustle  ensued  that  you  might  have  thought  a 
goose  tlie  rarest  of  all  birds  ;  a  feathered  phenomenon, 
to  which  a  black  swan  was  a  matter  of  course — and  in 
truth  it  w^as  something  very  like  it  in  that  house.  Mrs. 
Cratchit  made  the  gravy  (ready  beforehand  in  a  little 
saucei>an)  hissing  hot  ;  Master  Peter  mashed  the  pota- 
toes with  incredible  vigour  ;  Miss  Belinda  sweetened  up 
the  apple  sauce  ;  Martha  dusted  the  hot  plates  ;  Bob 
took  Tiny  Tim  beside  him  in  a  tiny  corner  at  the  table  ; 
the  two  young  Cratchits  set  chairs  for  everybody,  not 
forgetting  themselves,  and  mounting  guard  u})on  their 
posts,  crammed  spoons  into  their  mouths,  lest  they  should 
shriek  for  goose  before  tlieir  turn  came  to  be  helped. 
At  last  the  dishes  were  set  on,  and  grace  was  said.  It 
■was  succeeded  by  a  breathless  pause,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit, 
looking  slowly  all  along  the  carving-knife,  prepared  to 
plunge  it  in  the  breast ;  but  when  she  did,  and  when  the 


long-expected  gush  of  stuffing  issued  forth,  one  mur- 
mur of  delight  arose  all  round  the  board,  and  even  Tiny 
Tim,  excited  by  the  two  young  Cratchits,  beat  on  the 
table  with  the  handle  of  his  knife,  and  feebly  cried  Hur- 
rah 1 

There  never  was  such  a  goose.  Bob  said  he  didn't  be- 
lieve there  ever  was  such  a  goose  cooked.  Its  tenderness 
and  flavour,  size  and  cheapness,  were  the  themes  of 
universal  admiration.  Eked  out  by  apple-sauce  and 
mashed  potatoes,  it  was  a  sufficient  dinner  for  the  whole 
family  ;  indeed,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  with  great  delight 
(surveying  one  small  atom  of  a  bone  upon  the  dish),  they 
hadn't  ate  it  all  at  last  !  Yet  every  one  had  had  enough, 
and  the  youngest  Cratchits  in  particular,  were  steeped  in 
sage  and  onion  to  the  eyebrows  !  But  now  the  plates 
being  changed  by  Miss  'Belinda,  Mrs.  Cratchit  left  the 
room  alone — too  nervous  to  bear  witnesses — to  take  the 
pudding  up,  and  bring  it  in. 

Suppose  it  should  not  be  done  enough  !  Suppose  it 
should  break  in  turning  out  1  Suppose  somebody  should 
have  got  over  the  wall  of  the  backyard,  and  stolen  it, 
while  they  were  merry  with  the  goose— a  supposition 
at  which  the  two  young  Cratchits  became  livid  !  All 
sorts  of  horrors  were  supposed. 

Hallo  !  A  great  deal  of  steam  1  The  pudding  was 
out  of  the  copper.  A  smell  like  a  washing-day  !  That 
was  the  cloth.  A  smell  like  an  eating-house  and  a  pas- 
try-cook's next  door  to  each  other,  with  a  laundress's  next 
door  to  that  !  That  was  the  pudding  !  Inhalf  a  minute 
Mrs.  Cratchit  entered — flushed,  but  smiling  proudly — 
with  the  pudding  like  a  speckled  cannon-ball,  so  hard 
and  firm,  blazing  in  half  of  half-a-quartern  of  ignited 
brandy,  and  bedight  with  Christmas  holly  stuck  into  the 
top. 

Oh,  a  wonderful  pudding  !  Bob  Cratchit  said,  and 
calmly  too,  that  he  regarded  it  as  the  greatest  success 
achieved  by  Mrs.  Cratchit  since  their  marriage.  Mrs. 
Cratchit  said  that  now  the  weight  was  off  her  mind,  she 
would  confess  she  had  her  doubts  about  the  quantity  of 
flour.  Everybody  had  something  to  say  about  it,  but 
nobody  said  or  thought  it  was  at  all  a  small  pudding  for 
a  large  family.  It  would  have  been  flat  heresy  to  do 
so.  Any  Cratchit  would  have  blushed  to  hint  at  such  a 
thing. 

At  last  the  dinner  was  all  done,  the  cloth  was  cleared, 
the  hearth  swept,  and  the  fire  made  up.  The  compound 
in  the  jug  being  tasted,  and  considered  perfect,  apples 
and  oranges  were  put  upon  the  table,  and  a  shovel  full 
of  chestnuts  on  the  fire.  Then  all  the  Cratchit  family 
drew  round  the  hearth,  in  what  Bob  Cratchit  called  a 
circle,  meaning  half  a  one  ;  and  at  Bob  Cratchit's  elbow 
stood  the  family  display  of  glass.  Two  tumblers  and  a 
custard-ciip  without  a  handle. 

These  held  the  hot  stuff  from  the  jug,  however,  as 
well  as  golden  goblets  would  have  done  ;  and  Bob  served 
it  out  with  beaming  looks,  while  the  chestnuts  on  the 
fire  sputtered  and  cracked  noisily.    Then  Bob  proposed  : 

"  A  Merry  Christmas  to  us  all,  my  dears.  God  bless 
us!" 

Which  all  the  family  re-echoed. 

"  God  bless  us  every  one  !  "  said  Tiny  Tim,  the  last  of 
all. 

He  sat  very  close  to  his  father's  side,  upon  his  little 
stool.  Bob  held  his  withered  little  hand  in  his,  as  if  he 
loved  the  child,  and  wished  to  keep  him  by  his  side, 
and  dreaded  that  he  might  be  taken  from  him. 

"  Spirit,"  said  Scrooge,  with  an  interest  he  had  never 
felt  before,  "tell  me  if  Tiny  Tim  will  live." 

"I  see  a  vacant  seat,"  replied  the  Ghost,  "in  the  poor 
chimney-corner,  and  a  crutch  without  an  owner,  care- 
fully preserved.  If  these  shadows  remain  unaltered  by 
the  Future,  the  child  will  die." 

"No,  no,"  said  Scrooge.  "Oh,  no,  kind  Spirit  I  say 
he  will  be  spared." 

"  If  these  shadows  remain  unaltered  by  the  future, 
none  other  of  my  race,"  returned  the  Ghost,  "  will  find 
him  here.  What  then?  If  he  be  like  to  die,  he  had 
better  do  it,  and  decrease  the  surplus  population." 

Scrooge  hung  his  head  to  hear  his  own  words  quoted 
by  the  Spirit,  and  was  overcome  wiih  penitence  and 
grief. 

"  Man,"  said  the  Ghost,  "if  man  you  be  in  heart,  not 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


24:5 


adamant,  forbear  that  wicked  cant  until  you  have  dis- 
covered Wliat  this  surplus  is,  and  Where  it  is.  Will 
you  decide  what  men  shall  live,  what  men  shall  die  ?  It 
may  be,  that  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  you  are  more  worth- 
less and  less  fit  to  live  than  millions  like  this  poor  man's 
child.  Oh  God  I  to  hear  the  Insect  on  the  leaf  pronounc- 
ing on  the  too  much  life  among  his  hungry  brothers  in 
the  dust  1 " 

Scrooge  bent  before  the  Ghost's  rebuke,  and  trembling 
cast  his  eyes  upon  the  ground.  But  he  raised  them 
speedily,  on  hearing  his  own  name. 

"Mr.  Scrooge  ! "  said  Bob  ;  "  I'll  give  you  Mr.  Scrooge, 
the  Founder  of  the  Feast !  '* 

**  The  Founder  of  the  Feast  indeed  !  '*  cried  Mrs.  Crat- 
chit,  reddening.  "I  wish  I  had  him  here.  I'd  give 
him  a  piece  of  my  mind  to  feast  upon,  and  I  hope  he'd 
have  a  good  appetite  for  it." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Bob,  "  the  children  !  Christmas  day." 

**  It  should  be  Christmas  Day,  I  am  sure,"  said  she, 
"on  which  one  drinks  the  health  of  such  an  odious, 
stingy,  hard,  unfeeling  man  as  Mr.  Scrooge.  You  "know 
he  is,  Robert !  Nobody  knows  it  better  than  you  do, 
poor  fellow?" 

"My  dear,"  was  Bob's  mild  answer.  "Christmas 
Day." 

"  I'll  drink  his  health  for  your  sake  and  the  Day's," 
said  Mrs.  Cratch  it,  "not  for  his.  Long  life  to  him  !  A 
merry  Christmas  and  a  happy  new  year  !  He'll  be  very 
merry  and  very  happy,  I  have  no  doubt  ! " 

The  children  drank  the  toast  after  her.  It  was  the 
first  of  their  proceedings  which  had  no  heartiness  in  it. 
Tiny  Tim  drank  it  last  of  all,  but  he  didn't  care  two- 
pence for  it.  Scrooge  was  the  Ogre  of  the  family.  The 
^mention  of  his  name  cast  a  dark  shadow  on  the  party, 
which  was  not  dispelled  for  full  five  minutes. 

After  it  had  passed  away,  they  were  ten  times  merrier 
than  before,  from  the  mere  relief  of  Scrooge  the  Baleful 
being  done  with.  Bob  Cratchit  told  them  how  he  had  a 
situation  in  his  eye  for  Master  Peter,  which  would  bring 
in,  if  obtained,  full  five-and-sixpence  weekly.  The  two 
young  Cratchits  laughed  tremendously  at  the  idea  of 
Peter's  being  a  man  of  business  ;  and  Peter  himself 
looked  thoughtfully  at  the  fire  from  between  his  collars, 
as  if  he  were  deliberating  what  particular  investment  he 
should  favour  when  he  came  into  the  receipt  of  that  be- 
wildering income.  Martha,  who  was  a  poor  apprentice 
at  a  milliner's,  then  told  them  what  kind  of  work  she 
had  to  do,  and  how  many  hours  she  Avorked  at  a  stretch, 
and  how  she  meant  to  lie  a-bed  to-morrow  morning  for  a 
good  long  rest ;  to-morrow  being  a  holiday  she  passed  at 
home.  Also  how  she  had  seen  a  countess  and  a  lord 
some  days  before,  and  how  the  lord  "was  much  about 
as  tall  as  Peter  ;"  at  which  Peter  pulled  up  his  collars 
so  high  that  you  couldn't  have  seen  his  head  if  you  had 
been  there.  All  this  time  the  chestnuts  and  the  jug 
went  round  and  round  ;  and  bye  and  bye  they  had  a  song, 
about  a  lost  child  travelling  in  the  snow,  from  Tiny  Tim, 
who  had  a  plaintive  little  voice,  and  sang  it  very  well 
indeed. 

There  was  nothing  of  high  mark  in  this.  They  were 
not  a  handsome  family  ;  they  were  not  well  dressed ; 
their  shoes  were  far  from  being  waterproof  ;  their  clothes 
were  scanty  ;  and  Peter  might  have  known,  and  very 
likely  did,  the  inside  of  a  pawnbroker's.  But,  they  were 
happy,  grateful,  pleased  with  one  another,  and  contented 
with  the  time  ;  and  when  they  faded,  and  looked  happier 
yet  in  the  bright  sprinklings  of  the  Spirit's  torch  at 
parting,  Scrooge  had  his  eye  upon  them,  and  especially 
on  Tiny  Tim,  until  the  last. 

By  this  time  it  was  getting  dark  and  snowing  pretty 
heavily ;  and  as  Scrooge  and  the  Spirit  went  along  the 
streets,  the  brightness  of  the  roaring  fires  in  kitchens, 
parlours,  and  all  sorts  of  rooms,  was  wonderful.  Here, 
the  flickering  of  the  blaze  showed  preparations  for  a  cosy 
dinner,  with  hot  plates  baking  through  and  through  be- 
fore the  fire,  and  deep  red  curtains,  ready  to  be  drawn 
to  shut  out  cold  and  darkness.  There,  all  the  children 
of  the  house  were  running  out  into  the  snow  to  meet 
their  married  sisters,  brothers,  cousins,  uncles,  aunts,  and 
be  the  first  to  greet  them.  Here,  again,  were  shadows 
on  the  window-blinds  of  guests  assembling  ;  and  there  a 
group  of  handyome  girls,  all  hooded  and  fur-booted,  and 


all  chattering  at  once,  tripped  lightly  off  to  some  near 
neighbour's  house  ;  where,  wo  upon  the  single  man  who 
saw  them  enter — artful  witches,  well  they  knew  it — In  a 
glow  ! 

But,  if  you  had  judged  from  the  numbers  of  people  on 
their  way  to  friendly  gatherings,  you  might  have  thought 
that  no  one  was  at  home  to  give  them  welcome  when 
they  got  there,  instead  of  every  house  expecting  com- 
pany, and  piling  up  its  fires  half-chimney  high.  Bless- 
ings on  it,  how  the  Ghost  exulted  !  How  it  bared  its 
breadth  of  breast,  and  opened  its  capacious  palm,  and 
floated  on,  outpouring,  with  a  generous  hand,  its  bright 
and  harmless  mirth  on  everything  within  its  reach  !  The 
very  lamp-lighter,  who  ran  on  before,  dotting  the  dusky 
street  with  si)ecks  of  light,  and  who  was  dressed  to 
spend  the  evening  somewhere,  laughed  out  loudly  as 
the  Spirit  passed,  though  little  kenned  the  lamplighter 
that  he  had  any  company  but  Christmas  ! 

And  now,  without  a  word  of  warning  from  the  Ghost, 
they  stood  upon  a  bleak  and  desert  moor,  where  mon- 
strous masses  of  rude  stone  were  cast  about,  as  though 
it  were  the  burial  place  of  giants  ;  and  water  spread  it- 
self wheresoever  it  listed  ;  or  would  have  done  so,  but 
for  the  frost  that  held  it  prisoner  ;  and  nothing  grew  but 
moss  and  furze,  and  coarse,  rank  grass.  Down  in  the 
west  the  setting  sun  had  left  a  streak  of  fiery  red,  which 
glared  upon  the  desolation  for  an  instant,  like  a  sullen 
eye,  and  frowning  lower,  lower,  lower  yet,  was  lost  in 
the  thick  gloom  of  darkest  night. 

"  What  place  is  this  ?"  asked  Scrooge. 

"  A  place  where  miners  live,  who  labour  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,"  returned  the  Spirit.  "  But  they  know  me. 
See  ! " 

A  light  shone  from  the  window  of  a  hut,  and  swiftly 
they  advanced  towards  it.  Passing  through  the  wall  of 
mud  and  stone,  they  found  a  cheerful  company  assem- 
bled round  a  glowing  fire.  An  old,  old  man  and  woman, 
with  their  children  and  their  children's  children,  and 
another  generation  beyond  that,  all  decked  out  gaily  in 
their  holiday  attire.  The  old  man,  in  a  voice  that  sel- 
dom rose  above  the  howling  of  the  wind  upon  the  barren 
waste,  was  singing  them  a  Christmas  song  ;  it  had  been 
a  very  old  song  when  he  was  a  boy  ;  and  from  time  to 
time  they  all  joined  in  the  chorus.  So  surely  as  ther 
raised  their  voices,  the  old  man  got  quite  blithe  and 
loud  ;  and  so  surely  as  they  stopped,  his  vigour  sank 
again. 

The  Spirit  did  not  tarry  here,  but  bade  Scrooge  hold 
his  robe,  and  passing  on  above  the  moor,  sped  whither  ? 
Not  to  sea  ?  To  sea.  To  Scrooge's  horror,  looking  back, 
he  saw  the  last  of  the  land,  a  frightful  range  of  rocks, 
behind  them  ;  and  his  ears  were  deafened  by  the  thun- 
dering of  water,  as  it  rolled,  and  roared,  and  raged 
among  the  dreadful  caverns  it  had  worn,  and  fiercely 
tried  to  undermine  the  earth. 

Built  upon  a  dismal  reef  of  sunken  rocks,  some  league 
or  so  from  shore,  on  which  the  waters  chafed  and 
dashed,  the  wild  year  through,  there  stood  a  solitary 
lighthouse.  Great  heaps  of  sea-weed  clung  to  its  base, 
and  storm-birds — born  of  the  wind  one  might  suppose, 
as  sea-weed  of  the  water — rose  and  fell  about  it,  like  the 
waves  they  skimmed. 

But  even  here,  two  men  who  watched  the  light  had 
made  a  fire,  that  through  the  loophole  in  the  thick  stone 
wall  shed  out  a  ray  of  brightness  on  the  awful  sea. 
Joining  their  horny  hands  over  the  rough  table  at  which 
they  sat,  they  wished  each  other  Merry  Christmas  in 
their  can  of  grog  ;  and  one  of  them  :  the  elder  too,  with 
his  face  all  damaged  and  scarred  with  hard  weather,  as 
the  figure-head  of  an  old  ship  might  be  :  struck  up  a 
sturdy  song  that  was  like  a  gale  in  itself. 

Again  the  Ghost  sped  on,  above  the  black  and  heaving 
sea — on,  on — until,  being  far  away,  as  he  told  Scrooge, 
from  any  shore,  they  lighted  on  a  ship.  They  stood 
beside  the  helmsman  at  the  wheel,  the  look-out  in  the 
bow,  the  officers  who  had  the  watch  ;  dark,  ghostly  fig- 
ures in  their  several  stations  ;  but  every  man  among 
them  hummed  a  Christmas  tune,  or  had  a  Christmas 
thought,  or  spoke  below  his  breath  to  his  companion  of 
some  by-gone  Christmas  Day,  with  homeward  hopes  be- 
longing to  it.  And  every  man  on  board,  waking  or 
sleeping,  good  or  bad,  had  had  a  kinder  word  for  one 


246 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


another  on  tliat  day  than  on  any  day  in  the  year  ;  and 
had  shared  to  some  extent  in  its  festivities  ;  and  had 
remembered  those  he  cared  for  at  a  distance,  and  had 
known  that  they  delighted  to  remember  him. 

It  was  a  great  surprise  to  Scrooge,  while  listening  to 
the  moaning  of  the  wind,  and  thinking  what  a  solemn 
thing  it  was  to  move  on  through  the  lonely  darkness 
over  an  unknown  abyss,  whose  depths  were  secrets  as 
profound  as  Death  :  it  was  a  great  surprise  to  Scrooge, 
while  thus  engaged,  to  hear  a  hearty  laugh.  It  was  a 
much  greater  surprise  to  Scrooge  to  recognise  it  as  his 
own  nephew's,  and  to  find  himself  in  a  bright,  dry, 
gleaming  room,  with  the  Spirit  standing  smiling  by  his 
side,  and  looking  at  the  same  nephew  with  approving 
afEability  ! 

"  Ha  !  ha  1 "  laughed  Scrooge's  nephew.  "  Ha,ha,ha! " 

If  you  should  happen,  by  any  unlikely  chance,  to 
know  a  man  more  blest  in  a  laugh  than  Scrooge's  nephew, 
all  I  can  say  is,  I  should  like  to  know  him  too.  Intro- 
duce him  to  me,  and  I'll  cultivate  his  acquaintance. 

It  is  a  fair,  even-handed,  noble  adjustment  of  things, 
that  while  there  is  infection  in  disease  and  sorrow,  there 
is  nothing  in  the  world  so  irresistibly  contagious  as 
laughter  and  good-humour.  When  Scrooge's  nephew, 
laughed  in  this  way  :  holding  his  sides,  rolling  his  head, 
and  twisting  his  face  into  the  most  extravagant  contor- 
tions, Scrooge's  niece,  by  marriage,  laughed  as  heartily 
as  he.  And  their  assembled  friends  being  not  a  bit  be- 
hindhand, roared  out  lustily. 

' '  Ha,  ha  !    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! " 

"  He  said  that  Christmas  was  a  humbug,  as  I  live  !  " 
cried  Scrooge's  nephew.    "  He  believed  it  too  ! " 

"More  shame  for  him,  Fred  !  "  said  Scrooge's  niece, 
indignantly.  Bless  those  women  !  They  never  do  any- 
thing by  halves.    They  are  always  in  earnest. 

She  was  very  pretty  ;  exceedingly  pretty.  With  a  dim- 
pled, surprised-looking,  capital  face  ;  a  ripe  little  mouth, 
that  seemed  made  to  be  kissed — as  no  doubt  it  was  ;  all 
kinds  of  good  little  dots  about  her  chin,  that  melted  into 
one  another  when  she  laughed  ;  and  the  sunniest  pair 
of  eyes  you  ever  saw  in  any  little  creature's  head.  Alto- 
gether she  was  what  you  would  have  called  provoking, 
you  know  ;  but  satisfactory,  too.  Oh,  perfectly  satisfac- 
tory. 

"  He's  a  comical  old  fellow,"  said  Scrooge's  nephew, 
"  that's  the  truth  ;  and  not  so  pleasant  as  he  might  be. 
However,  his  offences  carry  their  own  punishment,  and 
I  have  nothing  to  say  against  him." 

"I'm  sure  he  is  very  rich,  Fred,"  hinted  Scrooge's 
niece.    "  At  least  you  always  tell  me  so." 

"What  of  that,  my  dear  !  "  cried  Scrooge's  nephew. 
"  His  wealth  is  of  no  use  to  him.  He  don't  do  any  good 
with  it.  He  don't  make  himself  comfortable  with  it. 
He  hasn't  the  satisfaction  of  thinking — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — 
that  he  is  ever  going  to  benefit  Us  with  it." 

"  I  have  no  patience  with  him,"  observed  Scrooge's 
niece.  Scrooge's  niece's  sisters,  and  all  the  other  ladies, 
expressed  the  same  opinion. 

"  Oh,  I  have  I  "  said  Scrooge's  nephew.  "  I  nm  sorry 
for  him  ;  I  couldn't  be  angry  with  him  if  I  tried.  Who 
suffers  by  his  ill  whims  !  Himself,  always.  Here,  he 
takes  into  his  head  to  dislike  us,  and  he  won't  come  and 
dine  with  us.  What's  the  consequence  ?  He  don't  lose 
much  of  a  dinner." 

"  Indeed,  I  think  he  loses  a  very  good  dinner,"  inter- 
rupted Scrooge's  niece.  Everybody  else  said  the  same, 
and  they  must  be  allowed  to  have  been  competent  judges, 
because  they  had  just  had  dinner  ;  and  with  the  dessert 
upon  the  table,  were  clustered  round  the  fire,  by  lamp- 
light. 

"  Well  !  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Scrooge's 
nephew,  "  because  I  haven't  any  great  faith  in  these 
young  housekeepers.    What  do  you  say.  Topper?  " 

Topper  had  clearly  got  his  eye  upon  ©ne  of  Scrooge's 
niece's  sisters,  for  he  answered  that  a  bachelor  was  a 
wretched  outcast,  who  had  no  right  to  express  an  opinion 
on  the  subject.  Whereat  Scrooge's  niece's  sister— the 
1)1  ump  one  with  the  lace  tucker  :  not  the  one  with  the 
roses — blushed. 

"  Do  go  on,  Fred,"  said  Scrooge's  niece,  clapping  her 
hands.  "  He  never  finishes  what  he  begins  to  say  1  He 
is  such  a  ridiculous  fellow  1 " 


Scrooge's  nephew  revelled  in  another  laugh,  and  as  it 
was  impossible  to  keep  the  infection  off ;  though  the 
plump  sister  tried  hard  to  do  it  with  aromatic  vinegar  ; 
his  example  was  unanimously  followed. 

"I  was  only  going  to  say,"  said  Scrooge's  nephew, 
"that  the  consequence  of  his  taking  a  dislike  to  us,  and 
not  making  merry  with  us,  is,  as  I  think,  that  he  loses 
some  pleasant  moments,  which  could  do  him  no  harm. 
I  am  sure  he  loses  pleasanter  companions  than  he  can 
find  in  his  own  thoughts,  either  in  his  mouldy  old  office, 
or  his  dusty  chambers.  I  mean  to  give  him  the  same 
chance  every  year,  whether  he  likes  it  or  not,  for  I  pity 
him.  He  may  rail  at  Christmas  till  he  dies,  but  he  can't 
help  thinking  better  of  it — I  defy  him — if  he  finds  me 
going  there,  in  good  temper,  year  after  year,  and  saying, 
*  Uncle  Scrooge,  how  are  you  ? '  If  it  only  puts  him  in 
the  vein  to  leave  his  poor  clerk  fifty  pounds,  that's  sovciQ- 
tliing  ;  and  I  think  I  shook  him,  yesterday." 

It  was  their  turn  to  laugh  now,  at  the  notion  of  his 
shaking  Scrooge.  But  being  thoroughly  good-natured, 
and  not  much  caring  what  they  laughed  at,  so  that  they 
laughed  at  any  rate,  he  encouraged  them  in  their  merri- 
ment, and  passed  the  bottle  joyously. 

After  tea,  they  had  some  music.  For  they  were  a 
musical  family,  and  knew  what  they  were  about,  when 
they  sung  a  Glee  or  Catch,  I  can  assure  you  :  especially 
Topper,  who  could  growl  away  in  the  bass  like  a  good  one, 
and  never  swell  the  large  veins  in  his  forehead,  or  get 
red  in  the  face  over  it.  Scrooge's  niece  played  well  upon 
the  harp  ;  and  played  among  other  tunes  a  simple  little 
air  (a  mere  nothing  :  you  might  learn  to  whistle  it  in  two 
minutes),  which  had  been  familiar  to  the  child  who 
fetched  Scrooge  from  the  boarding-school,  as  he  had 
been  reminded  by  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Past.  When 
this  strain  of  music  sounded,  all  the  things  that  Ghost 
had  shown  him,  came  upon  his  mind  ;  he  softened  more 
and  more  ;  and  thought  that  if  he  could  have  listened 
to  it  often,  years  ago,  he  might  have  cultivated  the  kind- 
ness of  life  for  his  own  happiness  with  his  own  hands, 
without  resorting  to  the  sexton's  spade  that  buried  Jacob 
Marley. 

But  they  didn't  devote  the  whole  evening  to  music. 
After  a  while  they  played  at  forfeits  ;  for  it  is  good  to 
be  children  sometimes,  and  never  better  than  at  Christ- 
mas, when  its  mighty  Founder  was  a  child  himself. 
Stop  !  There  was  first  a  game  at  blind-man's  buff.  Of 
course  there  was.  And  I  no  more  believe  Topper  was 
really  blind  than  I  believe  he  had  eyes  in  his  boots.  My 
opinion  is,  that  it  was  a  done  thing  between  him  and 
Scrooge's  nephew ;  and  that  the  Ghost  of  Christmas 
Present  knew  it.  The  way  he  went  after  that  plump 
sister  in  the  lace  tucker,  was  an  outrage  on  the  credulity 
of  human  nature.  Knocking  down  the  fire-irons,  tum- 
bling over  the  chairs,  bumping  up  against  the  piano, 
smothering  himself  amongst  the  curtains,  wherever  she 
went,  there  went  he  !  He  always  knew  where  the  plump 
sister  was.  He  wouldn't  catch  anybody  else.  If  you 
had  fallen  up  against  him  (as  some  of  them  did),  on  pur- 
pose, he  would  have  made  a  feint  of  endeavouring  to 
seize  you  which  would  have  been  an  affront  to  your  un- 
derstanding, and  would  instantly  have  sidled  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  plump  sister.  She  often  cried  out  that 
it  wasn't  fair  ;  and  it  really  was  not.  But  when  at  last, 
he  caught  her  ;  when,  in  spite  of  all  her  silken  rustlings, 
and  her  rapid  flutterings  past  him,  he  got  her  into  a  cor- 
ner whence  there  was  no  escape  ;  then  his  conduct  was 
the  most  execrable.  For  his  pretending  not  to  know  her ; 
his  pretending  that  it  was  necessary  to  touch  her  head- 
dress, and  further  to  assure  himself  of  her  identity  by 
pressing  a  certain  ring  upon  her  finger,  and  a  certain 
chain  about  her  neck  ;  was  vile,  monstrous  !  No  doubt 
she  told  him  her  opinion  of  it,  when,  another  blind-man 
being  in  office,  they  were  so  very  confidential  together, 
behind  the  curtains. 

Scrooge's  niece  was  not  one  of  the  blind  man's  buff 
party,  but  was  made  comfortable  with  a  large  chair  and 
a  footstool,  in  a  snug  corner  where  the  Ghost  and  Scrooge 
were  close  behind  her.  But  she  joined  in  the  forfeits, 
and  loved  her  love  to  admiration  with  all  the  letters  of 
the  alphabet.  Likewise  at  the  game  of  How,  When,  and 
Where,  she  was  very  great,  and,  to  the  secret  joy  of 
Scrooge's  nephew,  beat  her  sisters  hollow  :  though  they 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


U1 


were  sharp  girls  too,  af?  Topper  could  have  told  you. 
There  might  have  been  twenty  peoy)lo  there,  young  and 
old,  but  they  all  played,  and  so  did  Scrooge  ;  for,  wholly 
forgetting  in  the  interest  be  had  in  what  was  going  on, 
that  his  voice  made  no  sound  in  their  ears,  he  sometimes 
came  out  with  his  guess  quite  loud,  and  very  often 
guessed  right,  too  ;  for  the  sharpest  needle,  best  White- 
chapel,  warranted  not  to  cut  in  the  eye,  was  not  sharper 
than  Scrooge  ;  blunt  as  he  took  it  in  his  head  to  be. 

The  Ghost  was  greatly  pleased  to  find  him  in  this  mood, 
and  looked  upon  him  with  such  favour,  that  he  begged 
like  a  boy  to  be  allowed  to  stay  until  the  guests  departed. 
But  this  the  Spirit  said  could  not  be  done. 

"  Here  is  a  new  game,"  said  Scrooge.  "One  half 
hour,  Spirit,  only  one  I  " 

It  was  a  Game  called  Yes  and  No,  w^here  Scrooge's 
nephew  had  to  think  of  something,  and  the  rest  must 
find  out  what  ;  he  only  answering  to  their  questions  yes 
or  no,  as  the  case  was.  The  brisk  fire  of  questioning  to 
which  he  was  exposed,  elicited  from  him  that  he  was 
thinking  of  an  animal,  a  live  animal,  rather  a  disagreea- 
ble animal,  a  savage  animal,  an  animal  that  growled  and 
grunted  sometimes,  and  talked  sometimes,  and  lived  in 
London,  and  walked  about  the  streets,  and  wasn't  made 
a  show  of,  and  wasn't  led  by  anybody,  and  didn't  live  in 
a  menagerie,  and  was  never  killed  in  a  market,  and  was 
not  a  horse,  or  an  ass,  or  a  cow,  or  a  bull,  or  a  tiger,  or 
a  dog,  or  a  pig,  or  a  cat,  or  a  bear.  At  every  fresh 
question  that  was  put  to  him,  this  nephew  burst  into  a 
fresh  roar  of  laughter  ;  and  was  so  inexpressibly  tickled, 
that  he  was  obliged  to  get  up  off  the  sofa  and  stamp. 
At  last  the  plump  sister,  falling  into  a  similar  state  cried 
out  : 

"  I  have  found  it  out  !  I  know  what  it  is,  Fred  !  I 
know  what  it  is  I  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  Fred. 

"  It's  your  uncle  Scro-o-o-o-oge  !  " 

Which  it  certainly  was.  Admiration  was  the  univer- 
sal sentiment,  though  some  objected  that  the  reply  to 
"  Is  it  a  bear  ?  "  ought  to  have  been  "  Yes  ; "  inasmuch 
as  an  answer  in  the  negative  was  sufficient  to  have  di- 
verted their  thoughts  from  Mr.  Scrooge,  supposing  they 
had  ever  had  any  tendency  that  way. 

"  He  has  given  us  plenty  of  merriment,  I  am  sure," 
said  Fred,  "  and  it  would  be  ungrateful  not  to  drink  his 
health.  Here  is  a  glass  of  mulled  wine  ready  to  our 
hand  at  the  moment ;  and  I  say,  '  Uncle  Scrooge  ! ' " 

*'  Well  !  Uncle  Scrooge  !  "  they  cried. 

*'  A  Merry  Christmas  and  a  happy  New  Yearto  the  old 
man,  where  v^er  he  is!"  said  Scrooge's  nephew.  "He 
wouldn't  take  it  from  me,  but  may  he  have  it,  neverthe- 
less.   Uncle  Scrooge  ! " 

Uncle  Scrooge  had  imperceptibly  become  so  gay  and 
light  of  heart,  that  he  would  have  pledged  the  unconscious 
company  in  return,  and  thanked  them  in  an  inaudible 
speech  if  the  Ghost  had  given  him  time.  But  the  whole 
scene  passed  off  in  the  breath  of  the  last  word  spoken 
by  his  nephew  ;  and  he  and  the  Spirit  were  again  upon 
their  travels! 

Much  they  saw,  and  far  they  went,  and  many  homes 
they  visited,  but  always  with  a  happy  end.  The  Spirit 
stood  beside  sick  beds,  and  they  were  cheerful  ;  on  for- 
sign  lands,  and  they  were  close  at  home  ;  by  strug- 
gling men,  and  they  were  patient  in  their  greater  hope  ; 
by  poverty,  and  it  was  rich.  In  alms-house,  hospital, 
and  jail,  in  misery's  every  refuge,  where  vain  man  in  his 
little  brief  authority  had  not  made  fast  the  door,  and 
barred  the  Spirit  out,  he  left  his  blessing,  and  taught 
Scrooge  his  precepts. 

It  was  a  long  night,  if  it  were  only  a  night  ;  but 
Scrooo:e  had  his  doubts  about  this,  because  the  Christ- 
mas Holidays  appeared  to  be  condensed  into  the  space  of 
time  they  passed  together.  It  was  strange,  too,  that 
while  Scrooge  remained  unaltered  in  his  outward  form, 
the  Ghost  grew  older,  clearly  older.  Scrooge  had  ob- 
served this  change,  but  never  spoke  of  it  until  they  left 
a  children's  Twelfth  Night  party,  when,  looking  at  the 
Spirit  as  they  stood  together  in  an  open  place,  he  noticed 
that  its  hair  was  gray. 

"  Are  spirits'  lives  so  short  ?"  asked  Scrooge. 

"My  life  upon  this  globe  is  very  brief,"  replied  the 
€Jhost.    "  It  ends  to-night." 


"  To-night  I"  cried  Scrooge. 

"  To-night  at  midnight.  Hark  1  The  time  is  drawing 
near." 

The  chimes  were  ringing  the  three  quarters  past  eleven 
at  that  moment. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  am  not  justified  in  what  I  ask,"  said 
Scrooge,  looking  intently  at  the  spirit's  robe,  "  but  I  fcee 
something  strange,  and  not  belonging  to  yourself,  pro- 
truding from  your  skirts.    Is  it  a  foot  or  a  claw  ?  " 

"  It  might  be  a  claw,  for  the  flesh  there  is  upon  it," 
was  the  Spirit's  sorrowful  reply.    "  Look  here," 

From  the  foldings  of  its  robe,  it  brought  two  children  ; 
wretched,  abject,  frightful,  hideous,  miserable.  They 
knelt  down  at  its  feet,  and  clung  upon  the  outside  of  its 
garment. 

"Oh,  Man  1  look  here.  Look,  look,  down  here  !"  ex- 
claimed the  Ghost. 

They  were  a  boy  and  girl.  Yellow,  meagre,  ragged, 
scowling,  wolfish  ;  but  prostrate,  too,  in  their  humility. 
Where  graceful  youth  should  have  filled  their  features 
out,  and  touched  them  with  its  freshest  tints,  a  stale  and 
shrivelled  hand,  like  that  of  age,  had  pinched,  and  twist- 
ed them,  and  pulled  them  into  shreds.  Where  angels 
might  have  sat  enthroned,  devils  lurked,  and  glared 
out  menacing.  No  change,  no  degradation,  no  perver- 
sion of  humanity,  in  any  grade,  through  all  the  myster- 
ies of  wonderful  creation,  has  monsters  half  so  horrible 
and  dread. 

Scrooge  started  back,  appalled.  Having  them  shown 
to  him  in  this  way,  he  tried  to  say  they  were  fine  chil- 
dren, but  the  words  choked  themselves,  rather  than  be 
parties  to  a  lie  of  such  enormous  magnitude. 

"  Spirit  1  are  they  yours?"  Scrooge  could  say  no 
more. 

"  They  are  Man's,"  said  the  Spirit,  looking  down  upon 
them.  "And  they  cling  to  me,  appealing  from  their 
fathers.  This  boy  is  Ignorance.  This  girl  is  Want.  Be- 
ware of  them  both,  and  all  of  their  degree,  but  most  of 
all  beware  this  boy,  for  on  his  brow  I  see  that  written 
which  is  Doom,  unless  the  writing  be  erased .  Deny  it  ?  " 
cried  the  Spirit,  stretching  out  its  hand  towards  the  city. 
"  Slander  those  who  tell  it  ye  !  Admit  it  for  your  fac- 
tious purposes,  and  make  it  worse  !   And  bide  the  end  !  " 

"  Have  they  no  refuge  or  resource  ?"  cried  Scrooge. 

"Are  there  no  prisons  !"  said  the  Spirit,  turning  on 
him  for  the  last  time  with  his  own  words.  "Are  there 
no  work -houses  ?  " 

The  bell  struck  twelve. 

Scrooge  looked  about  him  for  the  Ghost,  and  saw  it 
not.  As  the  last  stroke  ceased  to  vibrate,  he  remem- 
bered the  prediction  of  old  Jacob  Marley,  and  lifting  up 
his  eyes,  beheld  a  solemn  Phantom,  draped  and  hooded, 
coming  like  a  mist  along  the  ground  towards  him. 


STAVE  FOUR. 

Tlie  Last  of  the  Spirits. 

The  Phantom  slowly,  gravely,  silently,  approached. 
When  it  came  near  him,  Scrooge  bent  down  upon  his 
knee  ;  for  in  the  very  air  through  which  this  Spirit  moved 
it  seemed  to  scatter  gloom  and  mystery. 

It  was  shrouded  in  a  deep  black  garment,  which  con- 
cealed its  head,  its  face,  its  form,  and  left  nothing  of  it 
visible,  save  one  outstretched  hand.  But  for  this  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  detach  its  figure  from  the 
night,  and  separate  it  from  the  darkness  by  which  it 
was  surrounded. 

He  felt  that  it  was  tall  and  stately  when  it  came  be- 
side him,  and  that  its  mysterious  presence  filled  him 
with  a  solemn  dread.  He  knew  no  more,  for  the  Spirit 
neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

"  I  am  in  the  presence  of  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Yet 
To  Come  ?  "  said  Scrooge. 

The  Spirit  answered  not,  but  pomted  onward  with  its 
hand, 

"You  are  about  to  show  me  shadows  of  the  things 
that  have  not  happened,  but  will  happen  in  the  time  be- 
fore us,"  Scrooge  pursued.    "  Is  that  so.  Spirit  ?  " 

The  upper  portion  of  the  garment  was  contracted  for 


248 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


an  instant  in  its  folds,  as  if  tlie  Spirit  had  inclined  its 
head.    That  was  the  only  answer  lie  received. 

Although  well-used  to  gliostly  company  by  this  time, 
Scrooge  feared  the  silent  shape  so  much  that  liis  legs 
trembled  beneath  him,  and  he  found  that  he  could 
hardly  stand  when  he  prepared  to  follow  it.  The  Spirit 
paused  a  moment,  as  observing  his  condition,  and  giving 
kim  time  to  recover. 

But  Scrooge  was  all  the  worse  for  this.  It  thrilled 
him  with  a  vague  uncertain  horror,  to  know  that  behind 
the  dusky  shroud,  there  were  ghostly  eyes  intently  fixed 
upon  him,  while  he,  though  he  stretched  his  own  to  the 
utmost,  could  see  nothing  but  a  spectral  hand  and  one 
great  heap  of  black. 

"  Ghost  of  the  Future  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  fear  you 
more  than  any  spectre  I  have  seen.  But  as  I  know  your 
purpose  is  to  do  me  good,  and  as  I  hope  to  live  to  be  an- 
other man  from  what  I  was,  I  am  prepared  to  bear  you 
company,  and  do  it  with  a  thankful  heart.  Will  you 
not  speak  to  me  ?  " 

It  gave  him  no  reply.  The  hand  was  pointed  straight 
before  them. 

"Lead  on  ! "  said  Scrooge.  "  Lead  on  !  The  night  is 
waning  fast,  and  it  is  precious  time  to  me,  I  know.  Lead 
on.  Spirit ! " 

The  Phantom  moved  away  as  it  had  come  towards  him. 
Scrooge  followed  in  the  shadow  of  its  dress,  which  bore 
him  up,  he  thought,  and  carried  him  along. 

They  scarcely  seemed  to  enter  the  city  ;  for  the  city 
rather  seemed  to  spring  up  about  them,  and  encompass 
them  of  its  own  act.  But  there  they  were  in  the  heart 
ot  it ;  on  'Change  amongst  the  merchants  ;  who  hurried 
up  and  down,  and  chinked  the  money  in  their  pockets, 
and  conversed  in  groups,  and  looked  at  their  watches, 
and  trifled  thoughtfully  with  their  great  gold  seals  ;  and 
so  forth,  as  Scrooge  had  seen  them  often. 

The  Spirit  stopped  beside  one  little  knot  of  business 
men.  Observing  that  the  hand  was  pointed  to  them, 
Scrooge  advanced  to  listen  to  their  talk. 

''No,"  said  a  great  fat  man  with  a  monstrous  chin, 

I  don't  know  much  about  it  either  way.  I  only  know 
he's  dead." 

' '  When  did  he  die  ?  "  inquired  another. 

"Last  night,  I  believe." 

"Why,  what  was  the  matter  with  him?"  asked  a 
third,  taking  a  vast  quantity  of  snuff  out  of  a  very  large 
snuff-box.     "  I  thought  he'd  never  die." 

"  God  knows,"  said  the  first  with  a  yawn. 

"  What  has  he  done  with  his  money?  "  asked  a  red- 
faced  gentleman  with  a  pendulous  excrescence  on  the 
end  of  his  nose,  that  shook  like  the  gills  of  a  turkey- 
cock. 

"  I  haven't  heard,"  said  the  man  with  the  large  chin, 
yawning  again.  "  Left  it  to  his  company,  perhaps.  He 
hasn't  left  it  to  me.    That's  all  I  know." 

This  pleasantry  was  received  with  a  general  laugh. 

"It's  likely  to  be  a  very  cheap  funeral,"  said  the 
same  speaker  ;  "  for  upon  my  life  I  don't  know  of  any- 
body to  go  to  it.  Suppose  we  make  up  a  party  and 
volunteer  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  going  if  a  lunch  is  provided,"  observed 
the  gentleman  with  the  excrescence  on  his  nose.  "  But 
I  must  be  fed,  if  1  make  one." 

Another  laugh. 

"  Well,  I  am  the  most  disinterested  among  you,  after 
all,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "for  I  never  wear  black 
gloves,  and  I  never  eat  lunch.  But  I'll  offer  to  go,  if 
anybody  else  will.  When  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I'm  not 
at  all  sure  that  I  wasn't  his  most  particular  friend  ;  for 
we  used  to  stop  and  speak  whenever  we  met.  Bye, 
bye  !  " 

Speakers  and  listeners  strolled  away,  and  mixed  with 
other  groups.  Scrooge  knew  the  men,  and  looked  to- 
wards the  Spirit  for  an  explanation. 

The  Phantom  glided  on  into  a  street.  Its  finger 
pointed  to  two  persons  meeting,  Scrooge  listened  again, 
thinking  that  the  explanation  might  lie  here. 

He  knew  these  men,  also,  perfectly.  They  were  men 
of  business  :  very  wealthy,  and  of  great  importance. 
He  had  made  a  point  always  of  standing  well  in  their 
esteem  :  in  a  business  point  of  view,  that  is  ;  strictly  in 
a  business  point  of  view. 


"  How  are  you?  "  said  one. 

"  How  are  you  ?  "  returned  the  other. 

"Well!"  said  the  first.  "Old  Scratch  has  got  his 
own  at  last,  hey  ?  " 

"Sol  am  told,"  returned  the  second.  "Cold,  isn't 
it!" 

' '  Seasonable  for  Christmas  time.  You  are  not  a  skaiter, 
I  suppose  ?" 

"No.  No.  Something  else  to  think  of.  Good  morn- 
ing ! " 

Not  another  word.  That  was  their  meeting,  their 
conversation,  and  their  parting. 

Scrooge  was  at  first  inclined  to  be  surprised  that  the 
Spirit  should  attach  importance  to  conversations  appar- 
ently so  trivial  ;  but  feeling  assured  that  they  must 
have  some  hidden  purpose,  he  set  himself  to  consider 
what  it  was  likely  to  be.  They  could  scarcely  be  sup- 
posed to  have  any  bearing  on  the  death  of  Jacob,  his  old 
partner,  for  that  was  past,  and  this  Ghost's  province  was 
the  Future.  Nor  could  he  think  of  any  one  immediately 
connected  with  himself,  to  whom  he  could  apply  them. 
But  nothing  doubting  that  to  whomsoever  they  applied 
they  had  some  latent  moral  for  his  own  improvement, 
he  resolved  to  treasure  up  every  word  he  heard,  and 
everything  he  saw  ;  and  especially  to  observe  the  shadow 
of  himself  when  it  appeared.  For  he  had  an  expecta- 
tion that  the  conduct  of  his  future  self  would  give  him 
the  clue  he  missed,  and  would  render  the  solution  of 
these  riddles  easy. 

He  looked  about  in  that  very  place  for  his  own  image  ; 
but  another  man  stood  in  his  accustomed  corner,  and 
though  the  clock  pointed  to  his  usual  time  of  day  for  be- 
ing there,  he  saw  no  likeness  of  himself  among  the  mul- 
titudes that  poured  in  through  the  Porch.  It  gave  him 
little  surprise,  however  ;  for  he  had  been  revolving  in 
his  mind  a  change  of  life,  and  thought  and  hoped  he  saw 
his  new-born  resolutions  carried  out  in  this. 

Quiet  and  dark,  beside  him  stood  the  Phantom,  with 
its  outstretched  hand.  When  he  roused  himself  from 
his  thoughtful  quest,  he  fancied  from  the  turn  of  the 
hand,  and  its  situation  in  reference  to  himself,  that  the 
Unseen  Eyes  were  looking  at  him  keenly.  It  made  him 
shudder,  and  feel  very  cold. 

They  left  the  busy  scene,  and  went  into  an  obscure 
part  of  the  town,  where  Scrooge  had  never  penetrated 
before,  although  he  recognised  its  situation,  and  its  bad 
repute.  The  ways  were  foul  and  narrow  ;  the  shops  and 
houses  wretched  ;  the  people  half-naked,  drunken,  slip- 
shod, ugly.  Alleys  and  archways,  like  so  many  cess- 
pools, disgorged  their  offences  of  smell,  and  dirt,  and 
life,  upon  the  straggling  streets  ;  and  the  whole  quarter 
reeked  with  crime,  with  filth  and  misery. 

Far  in  this  den  of  infamous  resort,  there  was  a  low- 
browed, beetling  shop,  below  a  pent-house  roof,  where 
iron,  old  rags,  bottles,  bones,  and  greasy  offal  were 
bought.  Upon  the  floor  within,  were  piled  up  heaps  of 
rusty  keys,  nails,  chains,  hinges,  files,  scales,  weights, 
and  refuse  iron  of  all  kinds.  Secrets  that  few  would  like 
to  scrutinise  were  bred  and  hidden  in  moutftains  of  un- 
seemly rags,  masses  of  corrupted  fat,  and  sepulchres  of 
bones.  Sitting  in  among  the  wares  he  dealt  in ,  by  a  char- 
coal stove,  made  of  old  bricks,  was  a  grey-haired  rascal, 
nearly  seventy  years  of  age  ;  who  had  screened  himself 
from  the  cold  air  without,  by  a  frowsy  curtaining  of  mis- 
cellaneous tatters  hung  upon  a  line  ;  and  smoked  his  pipe 
in  all  the  luxury  of  calm  retirement. 

Scrooge  and  the  Phantom  came  into  the  presence  of 
this  man,  just  as  a  woman  with  a  heavy  bundle  slunk  in- 
to the  shop.  But  she  had  scarcely  entered,  when  another 
woman,  similarly  laden,  came  in  too  ;  and  she  was  close- 
ly followed  by  a  man  in  faded  black,  who  was  no  less 
startled  by  the  sight  of  them,  than  they  had  been  upon 
the  recognition  of  each  other.  After  a  short  period  of 
blank  astonishment,  in  which  the  old  man  with  the  pipe 
had  joined  them,  they  all  three  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  Let  the  charwoman  alone  to  be  the  first ! "  cried  she 
who  had  entered  first.  "Let  the  laundress  alone  to  be 
the  second  ;  and  let  the  undertaker's  man  alone  to  be  the 
third.  Look  here,  old  Joe,  here's  a  chance  I  If  we  haven't 
all  three  met  here  Avithout  meaning  it  !" 

"  You  couldn't  have  met  in  a  better  place,"  said  old 
Joe,  removing  his  pipe  fror-  his  mouth,    "  Come  into  the 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


249 


parlour.  You  were  made  free  of  it  lon^  apo,  you  know  ; 
and  the  other  two  an't  strangers.  Stop  till  I  shut  the 
door  of  the  shop.  Ah  I  How  it  skreeks  1  There  an't 
such  a  rusty  bit  of  metal  in  the  place  as  its  own  hinges, 
I  believe  ;  and  I'm  sure  there's  no  such  old  bones  here, 
as  mine.  Ha,  ha  1  We're  all  suitable  to  our  calling, 
we're  well  matched.  •  Come  into  the  parlour.  Come  in- 
to the  parlour." 

The  parlour  was  the  space  behind  the  screen  of  rags. 
The  old  man  raked  the  fire  together  with  an  old  stair- 
rod,  and  having  trimmed  his  smoky  lamp  (for  it  was 
night),  with  the  stem  of  his  pipe,  put  it  into  his  mouth 
again. 

While  he  did  this,  the  woman  who  had  already  spoken 
threw  her  bundle  on  the  floor  and  sat  down  in  a  flaunting 
manner  on  a  stool  ;  crossing  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
and  looking  with  a  bold  defiance  at  the  other  two. 

"  What  odds  then  !  What  odds,  Mrs.  Dilber?"  said 
the  woman.  "  Every  person  has  a  right  to  take  care  of 
themselves.    He  always  did  !  " 

"  That's  true,  indeed  1 "  said  the  laundress.  "No man 
more  so." 

"  Why  then,  don't  stand  staring  as  if  you  was  afraid, 
woman  ;  who's  the  wiser?  We're  not  going  to  pick  holes 
in  each  other's  coats,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  said  Mrs.  Dilber  and  the  man  together. 
"  We  should  hope  not." 

"Very  well,  then!'*  cried  the  woman.  "That's 
enough.  Who's  the  worse  for  the  loss  of  a  few  things 
like  these  ?   Not  a  dead  man,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Dilber,  laughing. 

"  If  he  wanted  to  keep  'em  after  he  was  dead,  a  wicked 
old  screw,"  pursued  the  woman,  "why  wasn't  he  natural 
in  his  lifetime  ?  If  he  had  been,  he'd  have  had  some- 
body to  look  after  him  when  he  was  struck  with  Death, 
instead  of  lying  gasping  out  his  last  there,  alone  by  him- 
self." 

"  It's  the  truest  word  that  ever  was  spoke,"  said  Mrs. 
Dilber.    "It's  a  judgment  on  him." 

"T  wish  it  was  a  little  heavier  judgment,"  replied 
the  woman  ;  "  and  it  should  have  been,  you  may  depend 
upon  it,  if  I  could  have  laid  my  hands  on  anything  else. 
Open  that  bundle,  old  Joe,  and  let  me  know  the  value  of 
it.  Speak  out  plain.  I'm  not  afraid  to  be  the  first,  nor 
afraid  for  them  to  see  it.  We  knew  pretty  well  that  we 
were  helping  ourselves,  before  we  met  here,  I  believe. 
It's  no  sin.    Open  the  bundle,  Joe." 

But  the  gallantry  of  her  friends  would  not  allow  of 
this  ;  and  the  man  in  faded  black,  mounting  the  breach 
first,  produced  Jiis  plunder.  It  was  not  extensive.  A 
seal  or  two,  a  pencil  case,  a  pair  of  sleeve  buttons,  and  a 
brooch  of  no  great  value,  were  all.  They  were  severally 
examined  and  appraised  by  old  Joe,  who  chalked  the 
sums  he  was  disposed  to  give  for  each,  upon  the  wall, 
and  added  them  up  into  a  total  when  he  found  there  was 
nothing  more  to  come. 

"That's  your  account,"  said  Joe,  "and  I  wouldn't  give 
another  sixpence,  if  I  was  to  be  boiled  for  not  doing  it. 
Who's  next  V 

Mrs.  Dilber,  was  next.  Sheets  and  towels,  a  little 
wearing  apparel,  two  old-fashioned  silver  teaspoons,  a 
pair  of  sugar-tongs,  and  a  few  boots.  Her  account  was 
stated  on  the  wall  in  the  same  manner. 

"  I  always  give  too  much  to  ladies.  It's  a  weakness 
of  mine,  and  that's  the  way  I  ruin  myself,"  said  old  Joe. 
"That's  your  account.  If  you  asked  me  for  another 
penny,  and  made  it  an  open  question,  I'd  repent  of  being 
so  liberal,  and  knock  off  half-a-crown." 

"  And  now  undo  my  bundle,  Joe,"  said  the  first  woman. 

Joe  went  down  on  his  knees  for  the  greater  conven- 
ience of  opening  it,  and  having  unfastened  a  great  many 
knots,  dragged  out  a  large  heavy  roll  of  dark  stuff. 

' '  What  do  you  call  this  ?  "  said  Joe.    ' '  Bed-curtains  ! " 

"Ah!"  returned  the  woman,  laughing  and  leaning 
forward  on  her  crossed  arms.    "  Bed-curtains  !  " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  took  'em  down  rings  and 
all,  with  him  lying  there  ?  "  said  Joe. 

"  Yes  I  do,"  replied  the  woman.    "  Why  not  ?" 

"You  were  born  to  make  your  fortune,"  said  Joe, 
"and  you'll  certainly  do  it." 

"  I  certainly  shan't  hold  my  hand,  when  I  can  get  any- 
thing in  it  by  reaching  it  out,  for  the  sake  of  such  a  man 


as  He  was,  I  promise  you,  Joe,"  returned  the  woman 
coolly.    "  Don't  drop  that  oil  upon  the  blankets,  now." 
"  His  blankets?"  asked  Joe. 

"Whose  else's  do  you  think?"  replied  the  woman. 
"He  isn't  likely  to  take  cold  without  'em,  I  dare  say." 

"  I  hope  he  didn't  die  of  anything  catching?  Eh?" 
said  old  Joe,  stopping  in  his  work,  and  looking  up. 

"  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  trhat,"  returned  the  woman. 
"  I  an't  so  fond  of  his  company  that  I'd  loiter  about  him 
for  such  things,  if  he  did.  Ah  I  You  may  look  through 
that  shirt  till  your  eyes  ache  ;  but  you  won't  find  a  hole 
in  it,  nor  a  threadbare  place.  It's  the  best  he  had,  and  a 
fine  one  too.  They'd  have  wasted  it,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  me." 

"  What  do  you  call  wasting  of  it  ?  "  asked  old  Joe, 
"Putting  it  on  him  to  be  buried  in,  to  be  sure,"  re- 
plied the  woman  with  a  laugh.  "Somebody  was  fool 
enough  to  do  it,  but  I  took  it  off  again.  If  calico  an't 
good  enough  for  such  a  purpose,  it  isn't  good  enough  for 
anything.  It's  quite  as  becoming  to  the  body.  He  can't 
look  uglier  than  he  did  in  that  one." 

Scrooge  listened  to  this  dialogue  in  horror.  As  they 
sat  grouped  about  their  spoil,  in  the  scanty  light  afforded 
by  the  old  man's  lamp,  he  viewed  them  with  a  detesta- 
tion and  disgust,  which  could  hardly  have  been  greater, 
though  they  had  been  obscene  demons,  marketing  the 
corpse  itself. 

"  Ha,  ha  !"  laughed  the  same  woman,  when  old  Joe, 
producing  a  flannel  bag  with  money  in  it,  told  out  their 
several  gains  upon  the  ground.  "  This  is  the  end  of  it, 
you  see?  He  frightened  every  one  away  from  him  when 
he  was  alive,  to  profit  us  when  he  was  dead  !  Ha,  ha, 
ha  !" 

"  Spirit  ! "  said  Scrooge,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot. 
"I  see,  I  see.  The  case  of  this  unhappy  man  might  be 
my  own.  My  life  tends  that  way,  now.  Merciful  Hea- 
ven, what  is  this  !  " 

He  recoiled  in  terror,'  for  the  scene  had  changed,  and 
now  he  almost  touched  a  bed  :  a  bare,  uncurtained  bed  : 
on  which,  beneath  a  ragged  sheet,  there  lay  a  something 
covered  up  which,  though  it  was  dumb,  announced  itself 
in  awful  language. 

The  room  was  very  dark,  too  dark  to  be  observed  with 
any  accuracy,  though  Scrooge  glanced  round  it  in  obedi- 
ence to  a  secret  impulse,  anxious  to  know  what  kind  of 
room  it  was.  A  pale  light  rising  in  the  outer  air,  fell 
straight  upon  the  bed  :  and  on  it,  plundered  and  bereft, 
un watched,  unwept,  uncared  for,  was  the  body  of  this 
man. 

Scrooge  glanced  towards  the  Phantom.  Its  steady 
hand  was  pointed  to  the  head.  The  cover  was  so  care- 
lessly adjusted  that  the  slightest  raising  of  it,  the  motion 
of  a  finger  upon  Scrooge's  part,  would  have  disclosed  the 
face.  He  thought  of  it,  felt  how  easy  it  would  be  to  do, 
and  longed  to  do  it  ;  but  had  no  more  power  to  withdraw 
the  veil  than  to  dismiss  the  spectre  at  his  side. 

Oh  cold,  cold,  rigid,  dreadful  Death,  set  up  thine  altar 
here,  and  dress  it  with  such  terrors  as  thou  hast  at  thy 
command  :  for  this  is  thy  dominion  I  But  of  the  loved, 
revered,  and  honoured  head,  thou  canst  not  turn  one  hair 
to  thy  dread  purposes,  or  make  one  feature  odious.  It 
is  not  that  the  hand  is  heavy  and  will  fall  dov^Ti  when 
released  ;  it  is  not  that  the  heart  and  pulse  are  still  ;  but 
that  the  hand  was  open,  generous,  and  true  ;  the  heart 
brave,  warm,  and  tender ;  and  the  pulse  a  man's. 
Strike,  Shadow,  strike  !  And  see  his  good  deeds 
springing  from  the  wound,  to  sow  the  world  with  life 
immortal  ! 

No  voice  pronounced  these  words  in  Scrooge's  ears, 
and  yet  he  heard  them  when  he  looked  upon  the  bed. 
He  thought,  if  this  man  could  be  raised  up  now,  what 
would  be  his  foremost  thoughts  ?  Avarice,  hard-dealing, 
griping  cares  ?  They  have  brought  him  to  a  rich  end, 
truly  ! 

He  lay,  in  the  dark,  empty  house,  with  not  a  man,  a 
woman  or  a  child,  to  say  he 'was  kind  to  me  in  this  or 
that,  and  for  the  memory  of  one  kind  word  I  will  be  kind 
to  him.  A  cat  was  tearing  at  the  door,  and  there  was 
a  sound  of  gnawing  rats  beneath  the  hearth-stone. 
What  tliey  wanted  in  the  room  of  death,  and  why  they 
were  so  restless  and  distui'bed,  Scrooge  did  not  dare  to 
think. 


250 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"  Spirit,"  lie  said,  "  tills  is  a  fearful  place.  In  leaving 
it,  I  shall  not  leave  its  lesson,  trust  me.    Let  us  go  !  " 

Still  the  Ghost  pointed  with  an  unmoved  finger  to  the 
head. 

"  I  understand  you,"  Scrooge  returned,  "  and  I  would 
do  it  if  I  could.  But  I  have  not  the  power.  Spirit.  I 
have  not  the  power." 

Again  it  seemed  to  look  upon  him. 

"  If  there  is  any  person  in  the  town,  who  feels  emo- 
tion caused  by  this  man's  death,"  said  Scrooge,  quite 
agonised,  "show  that  person  to  me.  Spirit,  I  beseech 
you  ! " 

The  phantom  spread  its  dark  robes  before  him  for  a 
moment,  like  a  wing  ;  and  withdrawing  it,  revealed  a 
a  room  by  daylight,  where  a  mother  and  her  children 
were. 

She  was  expecting  some  one,  and  with  anxious  eager- 
ness ;  for  she  walked  up  and  down  the  room  ;  started  at 
every  sound  ;  looked  out  from  the  window  ;  glanced  at 
the  clock  ;  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  work  with  her  needle  ; 
and  could  hardly  bear  the  voices  of  her  children  in  their 
play. 

At  length  the  long-expected  knock  was  heard.  She 
hurried  to  the  door  and  met  her  husband  ;  a  man  whose 
face  was  careworn  and  depressed,  though  he  was  young. 
There  was  a  remarkable  expression  in  it  now  ;  a  kind  of 
serious  delight  of  which  he  felt  ashamed,  and  which  he 
struggled  to  repress. 

He  sat  down  to  the  dinner  that  had  been  hoarding  for 
him  by  the  fire,  and  when  she  asked  him  faintly  what 
news  (which  was  not  until  after  a  long  silence),  he  ap- 
peared embarrassed  how  to  answer. 

" Is  it  good,"  she  said,  "  or  bad?" — to  help  him. 

"  Bad,"  he  answered. 

**  We  are  quite  ruined  ?  " 

**No.    There  is  hope  yet,  Caroline." 
If  he  relents,"  she  said,  amazed,  "there  is  I  Noth- 
ing is  past  hope,  if  such  a  miracle  has  happened, " 

"He  is  past  relenting,"  said  her  husband.  "He  is 
dead." 

She  was  a  mild  and  patient  creature,  if  her  face  spoke 
truth  ;  but  she  was  thankful  in  her  soul  to  hear  it,  and 
she  said  so,  with  clasped  hands.  She  prayed  forgiveness 
the  next  moment,  and  was  sorry  ;  but  the  first  was  the 
emotion  of  her  heart. 

"  What  the  half-drunken  woman,  whom  I  told  you  of 
last  night,  said  to  me,  when  I  tried  to  see  him  and  obtain 
a  week's  delay  ;  and  what  I  thought  was  a  mere  excuse 
to  avoid  me  ;  turns  out  to  have  been  quite  true.  He  was 
not  only  very  ill,  but  dying  then." 

"  To  whom  will  our  debt  be  transferred  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  But  before  that  time  we  shall  be  ready 
with  the  money  ;  and  even  though  we  were  not,  it  would 
be  bad  fortune  indeed  to  find  so  merciless  a  creditor  in 
his  successor.  We  may  sleep  to-night  with  light  hearts, 
Caroline  !  " 

Yes.  Soften  it  as  they  would,  their  hearts  were 
lighter.  The  children's  faces,  hushed  and  clustered 
round  to  hear  what  they  so  little  understood,  were 
brighter  ;  and  it  was  a  happier  house  for  this  man's 
death  !  The  only  emotion  that  the  Ghost  could  shov/  him, 
caused  by  the  event,  was  one  of  pleasure. 

"  Let  me  see  some  tenderness  connected  with  a  death," 
said  Scrooge  ;  "or  that  dark  chamber.  Spirit,  which 
we  left  just  now,  will  be  for  ever  present  to  me." 

The  Ghost  conducted  him  through  several  streets 
familiar  to  his  feet ;  and  as  they  went  along,  Scrooge 
looked  here  and  tlicre  to  find  himself,  but  nowhere  was 
he  to  be  seen.  They  entered  poor  Bob  Cratchit's  house  ; 
the  dwelling  he  had  visited  before  ;  and  found  the  moth- 
er and  the  cliildren  seated  round  the  fire. 

Quiet.  Very  quiet.  The  noisy  little  Cratchits  were 
as  still  as  statues  in  one  corner,  and  sat  looking  up  at 
Peter,  who  had  a  book  before  him.  The  mother  and 
her  daughters  were  engaged  in  sewing.  But  surely 
they  were  very  quiet  I 

"  '  And  he  took  a  child,  and  set  him  in  the  midst  of 
them.'" 

Where  had  Scrooge  heard  those  words?  He  had  not 
dreamed  them.  The  boy  must  have  read  them  out,  as 
he  and  the  Spirit  crossed  the  threshold.  Why  did  he 
not  go  on  ? 


The  mother  laid  her  work  upon  the  table,  and  put  her 
hand  up  to  her  face. 

"  The  colour  hurts  my  eyes,"  she  said. 

The  colour  ?   Ah,  poor  Tiny  Tim  ! 

"  They're  better  now  again,""  said  Cratchit's  wife.  "  It 
makes  them  weak  by  candle-light ;  and  I  wouldn't  show 
weak  eyes  to  your  father  when  he  comes  home,  for  the 
world.    It  must  be  near  his  time." 

"  Past  it  rather,"  Peter  answered,  shutting  up  his 
book.  "  But  I  think  he  has  walked  a  little  slower  than 
he  used,  these  few  last  evenings,  mother." 

They  were  very  quiet  again.  At  last  she  said,  and  in 
a  steady,  cheerful  voice,  that  only  faltered  once  : 

"  1  have  known  him  walk  with — I  have  known  him 
walk  with  Tiny  Tim  upon  his  shoulder,  very  fast  indeed." 

"  And  so  have  I,"  cried  Peter,    "  Often.  " 

"  And  so  have  I,"  exclaimed  another.    So  had  all. 

"  But  he  was  very  light  to  carry,"  she  resumed,  intent 
upon  her  work,  "  and  his  father  loved  him  so,  that  it 
was  no  trouble  :  no  trouble.  And  there  is  your  father  at 
the  door  ! " 

She  hurried  out  to  meet  him  ;  and  little  Bob  in  his 
comforter — he  had  need  of  it,  poor  fellow — came  in. 
His  tea  was  ready  for  him  on  the  hob,  and  they  all  tried 
who  should  help  him  to  it  most.  Then  the  two  young 
Cratchits  got  upon  his  knees  and  laid,  each  child,  a  little 
cheek  against  his  face,  as  if  they  said  "  Don't  mind  it, 
father."    "  Don't  be  grieved  !  " 

Bob  was  very  cheerful  with  them,  and  spoke  pleas- 
antly to  all  the  family.  He  looked  at  the  work  upon 
the  table,  and  praised  the  industry  and  speed  of  Mrs. 
Cratchit  and  the  girls.  They  would  be  done  long  before 
Sunday,  he  said. 

"  Sunday  !  You  went  to-day,  then,  Robert?  "  said  his 
wife. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  returned  Bob.  "I  wish  you  could 
have  gone.  It  would  have  done  you  good  to  see  how 
green  a  place  it  is.  But  you'll  see  it  often.  I  promised 
him  that  I  would  walk  there  on  a  Sunday.  My  little, 
little  child  !  "  cried  Bob.    My  little  child  !  " 

He  broke  down  all  at  once.  He  couldn't  help  it.  If 
he  could  have  helped  it,  he  and  his  child  would  have 
been  farther  apart  perhaps  than  they  were. 

He  left  the  room,  and  went  up-stairs  into  the  room 
above,  which  was  lighted  cheerfully,  and  hung  with 
Christmas.  There  was  a  chair  set  close  beside  the  child, 
and  there  were  signs  of  some  one  having  been  there, 
lately.  Poor  Bob  sat  down  in  it,  and  when  he  had 
thought  a  little  and  composed  himself,  he  kissed  the  little 
face.  He  was  reconciled  to  what  had  happened,  and  went 
down  again  quite  happy. 

They  drew  about  the  fire,  and  talked  ;  the  girls  and 
mother  working  still.  Bob  told  them  of  the  extraordi- 
nary kindness  of  Mr.  Scrooge's  nephew,  whom  he  had 
scarcely  seen  but  once,  and  who,  meeting  him  in  the 
street  that  day,  and  seeing  that  he  looked  a  little — "just 
a  little  down  you  know,"  said  Bob,  inquired  what  had 
happened  to  distress  him.  "  On  which,"  said  Bob,  "  for 
he  is  the  pleasantest-spoken  gentleman  you  ever  heard,  I 
told  him,  '  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  it,  Mr.  Cratchit,'  he 
said,  '  and  heartily  sorry  for  your  good  wife.'  By  the 
bye,  how  he  ever  knew  that  I  don't  know." 

"  Knew  what,  my  dear  ?  " 

"Why,  that  you  were  a  good  wife,"  replied  Bob. 

"  Everybody  knows  that !"  said  Peter. 

"  Very  well  observed,  my  boy  ! "  cried  Bob.  "  I  hope 
they  do.  *  Heartily  sorry,'  he  said,  '  for  your  good  wife. 
If  I  can  be  of  service  to  you  in  any  way,'  he  said,  giving 
me  his  card,  *  that's  where  I  live.  Pi  ay  come  to  me.' 
Now,  it  wasn't,"  cried  Bob,  "for  the  sake  of  anything 
he  might  be  able  to  do  for  us,  so  much  as  for  his  kind 
way,  that  this  was  quite  delightful.  It  really  seemed 
as  if  he  had  known  our  Tiny  Tim,  and  felt  with  us." 

"  I'm  sure  he's  a  good  soul  !  "  said  Mrs.  Cratchit. 

"  You  would  be  sure  of  it,  my  dear,"  returned  Bob, 
"if  you  saw  and  spoke  to  him.  I  shouldn't  be  at  all 
surprised — mark  what  I  say  !— if  he  got  Peter  a  better 
situation." 

"  Only  hear  that,  Peter,"  said  Mrs.  Cratchit. 

"And  then,"  cried  one  of  the  girls,  "Peter  will  be 
keeping  company  with  some  one,  and  setting  up  for  him- 
self." 


CIIRISTMA  S    B  0  0  KB. 


251 


"Get  along  Avith  you  I  "  retorted  Peter,  grinning'. 

"  It's  just  as  likely  as  not,"  said  Bob,  "  one  of  these 
days  ;  though  there's  plenty  of  time  for  that,  my  dear. 
But  however  and  whenever  we  part  from  one  another,  I 
am  sure  we  shall  none  of  us  forgot  jwor  Tiny  Tim — shall 
we — or  this  first  parting  that  there  way  among  us?" 

"  Never,  father  !  "  cried  they  all. 

"  And  I  know,"  said  Bob,  "  I  know,  my  dears,  that 
when  we  recollect  how  patient  and  how  mild  he  was  ;  al- 
though he  was  a  little,  little  child  ;  we  shall  not  quarrel 
easily  among  ourselves,  and  forget  poor  Tiny  Tim  in  do- 
ing it." 

"  No,  never,  father  I  "  they  all  cried  again. 
"  I  am  very  happy,"  said  little  Bob,  "  I  am  very  hap- 
py  5  " 

Mrs.  Cratchit  kissed  him,  his  daughters  kissed  him, 
the  two  young  Cratchits  kissed  him,  and  Peter  and  him- 
self shook  hands  Spirit  of  Tiny  Tim,  thy  childish  es- 
sence was  from  God  1 

'*  Spectre,"  said  Scrooge,  "  something  informs  me  that 
our  parting  moment  is  at  hand.  I  know  it,  but  I  know 
not  how.  Tell  me  what  man  that  was  whom  we  saw  ly- 
ing dead  ?  " 

The  Ghost  of  Cliristmas  Yet  To  Come  conveyed  him, 
as  before — though  at  a  different  time,  he  thought  :  in- 
deed, there  seemed  no  order  in  these  latter  visions,  save 
that  they  were  in  the  Future — into  the  resorts  of  business 
men,  but  showed  him  not  himself.  Indeed,  the  Spirit 
did  not  stay  for  anything,  but  went  straight  on,  as  to  the 
end  just  now  desired,  until  besought  by  Scrooge  to  tarry 
for  a  moment. 

"This  court,"  said  Scrooge,  "through  which  we  hurry 
now,  is  where  my  place  of  occupation  is,  and  has  been 
for  a  length  of  time.  I  see  the  house.  Let  me  behold 
what  I  shall  be,  in  days  to  come." 

The  Spirit  stopped  ;  the  hand  was  pointed  elsewhere. 

"The  house  is  yonder,"  Scrooge  exclaimed.  "Why 
do  you  point  away  ?" 

The  inexorable  finger  underwent  no  change. 

Scrooge  hastened  to  the  window  of  his  office,  and  looked 
in.  It  was  an  office  still,  but  not  his.  The  furniture 
was  not  the  same,  and  the  figure  in  the  chair  was  not 
himself.    The  Phantom  pointed  as  before. 

He  joined  it  once  again,  and  wondering  why  and  whith- 
er he  had  gone,  accompanied  it  until  they  reached  an 
iron  gate.    He  paused  to  look  round  before  entering. 

A  churchyard.  Here,  then,  the  wretched  man  whose 
name  he  had  now  to  learn,  lay  underneath  the  ground. 
It  was  a  worthy  place.  Walled  in  by  houses  ;  overrun 
by  grass  and  weeds,  the  growth  of  vegetation's  death,  not 
life  ;  choked  up  with  too  much  burying ;  fat  with  re- 
pleted  appetite.    A  worthy  place  ! 

The  Spirit  stood  among  the  graves,  and  pointed  down 
to  One.  He  advanced  towards  it  trembling.  The  phan- 
tom was  exactly  as  it  had  been,  but  he  dreaded  that  he 
saw  new  meaning  in  its  solemn  shape, 

"  Before  I  draw  nearer  to  that  stone  to  which  you 
point,"  said  Scrooge,  "  answer  me  one  question.  Are 
these  the  shadows  of  the  things  that  Will  be,  or  are  they 
shadows  of  the  things  that  May  be,  only  ?" 

Still  the  Ghost  pointed  downward  to  the  grave  by  which 
it  stood. 

"  Men's  courses  will  foreshadow  certain  ends,  to  which, 
if  persevered  in,  they  must  lead,"  said  Scrooge.  "But 
if  the  courses  be  departed  from,  the  ends  will  change. 
Say  it  is  thus  with  what  you  show  me  ! " 

The  spirit  was  as  immovable  as  ever. 

Scrooge  crept  towards  it,  trembling  as  he  went ;  and 
following  the  finger,  read  upon  the  stone  of  the  neglected 
grave  his  own  name,  Ebenezer  Scrooge. 

"Am /that  man  who  lay  upon  the  bed?  "he  cried, 
upon  his  knees. 

The  finger  pointed  from  the  grave  to  him,  and  back 
again. 

"  No,  Spirit  I    Oh,  no,  no  !" 
The  finger  still  was  there. 

"  Spirit  !  "  he  cried,  tight  clutching  at  its  robe,  "hear 
me  1  I  am  not  the  man  I  was.    I  will  not  be  the  man  I  j 
must  have  been  but  for  this  intercourse.    Why  show  me 
this,  if  I  am  past  all  hope  !  " 

For  the  first  time  the  hand  appeared  to  shake. 

"Good  Spirit,"  he  pursued,  as  down  upon  the  ground 


lie  foil  before  it;  "Your  nature  hitercodos  for  mo,  and 
pities  me.    Assure  ni(;  that  1  yet  may  change  these  shad- 
ows you  have  shown  me,  by  an  altered  life  ?  " 
The  kind  hand  trembled. 

"  I  will  honour  Cliristmas  in  my  heai-t,  and  try  to  keep 
it  all  the  year.  I  will  live  in  the  I^ast,  the  Present,  and 
the  Future.  The  Spirits  of  all  Three  shall  r-;trive  within 
me.  I  will  not  shut  out  the  lessons  that  they  teach.  Oh, 
tell  me  I  may  sponge  away  the  writing  on  this  stone  !" 

In  his  agony,  he  caught  the  spectral  hand.  It  sought 
to  free  itself,  but  he  was  strong  in  his  entreaty,  and  de- 
taind  it.    The  Spirit,  stronger  yet,  repulsed  iiim. 

Holding  up  his  hands  in  a  last  j>rayer  to  have  his  fate 
reversed,  he  saw  an  alteration  in  the  Phantom's  hood 
and  dress.  It  shrunk,  collapsed,  and  dwindled  down  in- 
to a  bedpost. 


STAVE  FIVE. 

The  End  of  It.  ^ 

Yes  !  and  the  bedpost  was  his  own.  The  bed  was  his 
own,  the  room  was  his  own.  Best  and  happiest  of  all, 
the  'Time  before  him  was  his  own,  to  make  amends  in  ! 

"  I  will  live  in  the  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future  !" 
Scrooge  repeated  as  he  scrambled  out  of  bed.  "The 
Spirits  of  all  Three  shall  strive  within  me.  Oh  Jacob 
Marley  I  Heaven  and  the  Christmas  Time  be  praised  for 
this  !    I  say  it  on  my  knees,  old  Jacob  ;  on  my  knees  ! " 

He  was  so  fluttered  and  so  glowing  with  his  good  in- 
tentions, that  his  broken  voice  would  scarcely  answer  to 
his  call.  He  had  been  sobbing  violently  in  his  conflict 
with  the  Spirit,  and  his  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

"  They  are  not  torn  down,"  cried  Scrooge,  folding  one 
of  his  bed-curtains  in  his  arms,  "  they  are  not  torn  down, 
rings  and  all.  They  are  here — I  am  here — the  shadows 
of  the  things  that  would  have  been,  may  be  dispelled. 
They  will  be.    I  know  they  will  ! " 

His  hands  were  busy  with  his  garments  all  this  time  ; 
turning  them  inside  out,  putting  them  on  upside  down, 
tearing  them,  mislaying  them,  making  them  parties  to 
every  kind  of  extravagance. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  !"  cried  Scrooge,  laughing 
and  crying  in  the  same  breath  ;  and  making  a  perfect 
Laocoon  of  himself  with  his  stockings.  "  I  am  as  light 
as  a  feather,  1  am  as  happy  as  an  angel,  I  am  as  merry 
as  a  school-boy.  I  am  as  giddy  as  a  drunken  man.  A 
merry  Christmas  to  everybody  !  A  happv  New  Year  to 
all  the  world  !    Hallo  here  !    Whoop  !    Hallo  ! " 

He  had  frisked  into  the  sitting-room,  and  was  now 
standing  there  :  perfectly  winded. 

"  There's  the  saucepan  that  the  gruel  was  in  !  "  cried 
Scrooge,  starting  off  again,  and  going  round  the  fire- 
place. "  There's  the  door  by  whicli  the  Ghost  of  Jacob 
Marley  entered  !  There's  the  corner  where  the  Ghost  of 
Christmas  Present  sat  !  There's  the  window  where  I 
saw  the  wandering  Spirits  !  It's  all  right,  its  all  true, 
it  all  happened.    Ha  ha  ha  !  " 

Really,  for  a  man  who  had  been  out  of  practice  for  so 
many  years,  it  was  a  splendid  laugh,  a,  most  illustrious 
laugh.  The  father  of  a  long,  long  line  of  brilliant 
laughs  ! 

"I  don't  know  what  day  of  the  month  it  is,"  said 
Scrooge,  "I  don't  know  how  long  I  have  been  among  the 
Spirits,  I  don't  know  anything.  I'm  quite  a  baby. 
Never  mind,  I  don't  care.  I'd  rather  be  a  baby.  Hallo  ! 
Whoop  !    Hallo  here  ! " 

He  was  checked  in  his  transports  by  the  churches  ring- 
ing out  the  lustiest  peals  he  had  ever  heard.  Clash, 
clash,  hammer ;  ding,  dong,  bell.  Bell,  dong,  ding  ; 
hammer,  clang,  clash  !    Oh,  glorious,  glorious  ! 

Running  to  the  window,  he  opened  it,  and  put  out  his 
head.  No  fog,  no  mist  ;  clear,  bright,  jovial,  stirring, 
cold  ;  cold,  piping  for  the  blood  to  dance  to  ;  Golden 
sunlight ;  Heavenly  sky  ;  sweet  fresh  air ;  merry  bells. 
Oh,  glorious.    Glorious  ! 

j  "What's  to-dav?"  cried  Scrooge,  calling  downward 
to  a  boy  in  Sunday  clothes,  who  perhaps  had  loitered  in 
to  look  about  him, 

"  Eij  ?  "  returned  the  boy  with  all  his  might  of  wonder. 
"  What's  to-day,  my  fine  fellow?  "  said  Scrooge. 


253 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"To-day!"  replied  the  boy.  "Why,  Christmas 
Day." 

"  It's  Christmas  Day  !  "  said  Scrooge  to  himself.  *'  I 
haven't  missed  it.  The  Spirits  have  done  it  all  in  one 
night.  They  can  do  anything  they  like.  Of  course  they 
can.    Of  course  they  can.    Hallo,  my  fine  fellow  I" 

"  Hallo  !  "  returned  the  boy. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Poulterer's,  in  the  next  street  but 
one,  at  the  corner  ?  "  Scrooge  inquired. 

"  I  should  hope  I  did,"  replied  the  lad. 

"  An  intelligent  boy  ! "  said  Scrooge.  "  A  remarkable 
boy  !  Do  you  know  whether  they've  sold  the  prize  Tur- 
key that  was  hanging  up  there  ?— Not  the  little  prize 
Turkey  :  the  big  one?" 

"  What,  the  one  as  big  as  me?"  returned  the  boy. 

"What  a  delightful  boy!"  said  Scrooge.  "It's  a 
pleasure  to  talk  to  him.    Yes,  my  buck  !  " 

"  It's  hanging  there  now,"  replied  the  boy. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Scrooge.    "  Go  and  buy  it." 

"  Walk-EE,  ! "  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Scrooge,  "  I  am  in  earnest.  Go  and 
buy  it,  and  tell  'em  to  bring  it  here,  that  I  may  give 
them  the  directions  where  to  take  it.  Come  back  with 
the  man,  and  I'll  give  you  a  shilling.  Come  back  with 
him  in  less  than  five  minutes,  and  I'll  give  you  half-a- 
crown  ! " 

The  boy  was  off  like  a  shot.  He  must  have  had  a 
steady  hand  at  a  trigger  who  could  have  got  a  shot  off 
half  so  fast. 

"I'll  send  it  to  Bob  Cratchit's,"  whispered  Scrooge, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  splitting  with  a  laugh.  "  He 
shan't  know  Avho  sends  it.  It's  twice  the  size  of  Tiny 
Tim.  Joe  Miller  never  made  such  a  joke  as  sending  it 
to  Bob's  will  be  I " 

The  hand  in  which  he  wrote  the  address  was  not  a 
steady  one  ;  but  write  it  he  did,  some  how,  and  went 
down-stairs  to  open  the  street  door,  ready  for  the  coming 
of  the  poulterer's  man.  As  he  stood  there,  waiting  his 
arrival,  the  knocker  caught  his  eye. 

"I  shall  love  it  as  long  as  I  live  !  "  cried  Scrooge  pat- 
ting it  with  his  hand.  "  I  scarcely  ever  looked  at  it  be- 
fore. What  an  honest  expression  it  has  in  its  face  !  It's 
a  wonderful  knocker  ! — Here's  the  Turkey.  Hallo. 
Whoop  !    How  are  you  !    Merry  Cliristmas  !  " 

It  was  a  Turkey  !  He  never  could  have  stood  upon 
his  legs,  that  bird.  He  would  have  snapped  *em  short 
off  in  a  minute,  like  sticks  of  sealing-wax. 

"  Why,  it's  impossible  to  carry  that  to  Camden  Town," 
said  Scrooge.    "  You  must  have  a  cab." 

The  chuckle  with  which  he  said  this,  and  the  chuckle 
with  which  he  paid  for  the  Turkey,  and  the  chuckle 
with  which  he  paid  for  the  cab,  and  the  chuckle  with 
which  he  recompensed  the  boy,  were  only  to  be  exceeded 
by  the  chuckle  with  which  he  sat  down  breathless  in  his 
chair  again,  and  chuckled  till  he  cried. 

Shaving  was  not  an  easy  task,  for  his  hand  continued 
to  shake  very  much  ;  and  shaving  requires  attention, 
even  when  you  don't  dance  while  you  are  at  it.  But  if 
he  had  cut  the  end  of  his  nose  off,  he  would  have  put  a 
piece  of  sticking-plaster  over  it,  and  been  quite  satis- 
fied. 

He  dressed  himself  "  all  in  his  best,"  and  at  last  got 
out  into  the  streets.  The  people  were  by  this  time  pour- 
ing forth,  as  he  had  seen  them  with  the  Ghost  of  Christ- 
mas Present ;  and  walking  with  his  hands  behind  him, 
Scrooge  regarded  every  one  with  a  delighted  smile.  He 
looked  so  irresistibly  pleasant,  in  a  word,  that  three  or 
four  good-humoured  fellows  said,  "Good  morning,  sir! 
A  merry  Cliristmas  to  you  ! "  And  Scrooge  said  often 
afterwards,  that  of  all  the  blithe  sounds  he  had  ever 
heard,  those  were  the  blithest  in  his  ears. 

He  liad  not  gone  far,  when  coming  on  towards  him  he 
beheld  the  portly  gentleman,  who  had  walked  into  his 
counting  house  the  day  before,  and  said  "Scrooge  and 
Marley's,  I  believe?"  It  sent  a  pang  across  his  heart 
to  think  how  this  old  gentleman  would  look  upon  him 
when  they  met ;  but  he  knew  what  path  lay  straight 
before  him,  and  he  took  it. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Scrooge,  quickening  his  pace,  and 
taking  the  old  gentleman  by  both  his  hands.  "  How  do 
you  do?  I  hope  you  succeeded  yesterday.  It  was  very 
kind  of  you.    A  merry  Christmas  to  you,  sir  I " 


"Mr.  Scrooge?'* 

"  Yes,"  said  Scrooge.  "  That  is  my  name,  and  I  fear 
it  may  not  be  pleasant  to  you.  Allow  me  to  ask  your 
pardon.  And  will  you  have  the  goodness  " — here  Scrooge 
whispered  in  his  ear. 

"Lord  bless  me  !"  cried  the  gentleman,  as  if  his 
breath  were  taken  away.  "  My  dear  Mr.  Scrooge,  are 
you  serious  ?  " 

"If  you  please,"  said  Scrooge.  "  Not  a  farthing  less. 
A  great  many  back-payments  are  included  in  it,  I  assure 
you.    Will  you  do  me  that  favour  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  other,  shaking  hands  with 
him,  "  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  such  munifi — " 

"  Don't  say  anything,  please,"  retorted  Scrooge. 
"  Come  and  see  me.    Will  you  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  !"  cried  the  old  gentleman.  And  it  was  clear 
he  meant  to  do  it. 

"Thank'ee,"  said  Scrooge.  "I  am  much  obliged  to 
you.    I  thank  you  fifty  times.    Bless  you  ! " 

He  went  to  church,  and  walked  about  the  streets,  and 
watched  the  people  hurrying  to  and  fro,  and  patted  the 
children  on  the  head,  and  questioned  beggars,  and  looked 
down  into  the  kitchens  of  houses,  and  up  to  the  windows ; 
and  found  that  everything  could  yield  him  pleasure. 
He  had  never  dreamed  that  any  walk — that  any  thing — 
could  give  him  so  much  happiness.  In  the  afternoon, 
he  turned  his  steps  toward  his  nephew's  house. 

He  passed  the  door  a  dozen  times,  before  he  had  the 
courage  to  go  up  and  knock.  But  he  made  a  dash,  and 
did  it  : 

"  Is  your  master  at  home,  my  dear?"  said  Scrooge  to 
the  girl.    Nice  girl  I    Very.  * 
"Yes,  sir." 

"  Where  is  he,  my  love  ?"  said  Scrooge. 

"  He's  in  the  dining-room,  sir,  along  with  mistress. 
I'll  show  you  up-stairs,  if  you  please. " 

"  Thank'ee.  He  knows  me,"  said  Scrooge,  with  his 
hand  already  on  the  dining-room  lock.  "  I'll  go  in  here, 
my  dear." 

He  turned  it  gently,  and  sidled  his  face  in,  round  the 
door.  They  were  looking  at  the  table  (which  was  spread 
out  in  great  array)  ;  for  these  young  housekeepers  are 
always  nervous  on  such  points,  and  like  to  see  that  every- 
thing is  right. 

' '  Fred  ! "  said  Scrooge. 

Dear  heart  alive,  how  his  niece  by  marriage  started  ! 
Scrooge  had  forgotten,  for  the  moment,  about  her  sitting 
in  the  corner  with  the  footstool,  or  he  wouldn't  have 
done  it,  on  any  account. 

"  Why  bless  my  soul  !"  cried  Fred,  "  who's  that?" 

"It's  I.  Your  Uncle  Scrooge.  I  have  come  to  dinner. 
Will  you  let  me  in,  Fred  ?" 

Let  him  in  !  It  is  a  mercy  he  didn't  shake  his  arm 
off.  He  was  at  home  in  five  minutes.  Nothing  could 
be  heartier.  His  niece  looked  just  the  same.  So  did 
Topper  when  Jie  came.  So  did  the  plump  sister,  when 
she  came.  So  did  every  one  when  they  came.  Wonder- 
ful party,  wonderful  games,  wonderful  unanimity  won- 
der-ful  happiness  ! 

But  he  was  early  at  the  office  next  morning.  Oh  he 
was  early  there.  If  he  could  only  be  there  first,  and 
catch  Bob  Cratchit  coming  late  !  That  was  the  thing  he 
had  set  his  heart  upon. 

And  he  did  it ;  yes  he  did  I  The  clock  struck  nine. 
No  Bob.  A  quarterpast.  No  Bob.  He  was  full  eight- 
een minutes  and  a  half  behind  his  time.  Scrooge  sat 
with  his  door  wide  open,  that  he  might  see  him  come 
into  the  Tank. 

His  hat  was  off,  before  he  opened  the  door  ;  his  com- 
forter too.  He  was  on  his  stool  in  a  jiffy  ;  driving  away 
with  his  pen  as  if  he  were  trying  to  overtake  nine 
o'clock, 

"Hallo?"  growled  Scrooge,  in  his  accustomed  voice 
as  near  as  he  could  feign  it.  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
coming  here  at  this  time  of  day  ?" 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  said  Bob.  "I  am  behind  my 
time." 

"  You  are  !"  repeated  Scrooge.  "Yes.  I  think  you 
are.    Step  this  way,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"  It's  only  once  a  year,  sir,"  pleaded  Bob,  appearing 
from  the  Tank.  "  It  shall  not  be  repeated.  I  was  mak- 
ing rather  merry  yesterday,  sir.'* 


CIIRISTMA  S    BOO  KS. 


253 


"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  friend,"  said  Scrooge. 
"  I  am  not  going  to  stand  this  sort  of  thing  any  longer. 
And  tlierefore,"  he  continued,  leaping  from  his  stool, 
and  giving  Bob  such  a  dig  in  the  waistcoat  that  ho  stag- 
gered back  into  the  Tank  again  :  "and  therefore  I  am 
about  to  raise  your  salary  ! " 

Bob  trembled,  and  got  a  little  nearer  to  the  ruler.  He 
had  a  momentary  idea  of  knocking  Scrooge  down  with 
it,  holding  him,  and  calling  to  the  people  in  the  court 
for  help  and  a  straight-waistcoat. 

"  A  merry  Christmas,  Bob  ! "  said  Scrooge,  with  an 
earnestness  that  could  not  be  mistaken,  as  he  clapped 
him  on  the  back.  "  A  merrier  Christmas,  Bob,  my  good 
fellow,  than  I  have  given  you  for  many  a  year  I  I'll 
raise  your  salary  and  endeavour  to  assist  your  struggling 
family,  and  we  will  discuss  your  affairs  this  very  after- 
noon, over  a  Christmas  bowl  of  smoking  bishop.  Bob  1 
Make  up  the  fires,  and  buy  another  coal-scuttle  before 
you  dot  another  i.  Bob  Cratchit ! " 

Scrooge  was  better  than  his  word.    He  did  it  all,  and 


infinitely  more  ;  and  to  Tiny  Tim,  who  did  xot  die,  he 
WHS  a  second  father.  He  became  as  good  a  friend,  as 
good  a  master,  and  as  good  a  man,  as  the  good  old  city 
knew,  or  any  other  good  old  city,  town,  or  borough,  in  the 
good  old  world.  Some  poeple  laughed  to  see  the  altera- 
tion in  him,  but  he  let  them  laugh,  and  little  heeded 
them  ;  for  he  was  wise  enough  to  know  that  nothing 
ever  happened  on  this  globe,  for  good,  at  which  some 
people  did  not  have  their  fill  of  laughter  in  the  outset  ; 
and  knowing  that  such  as  these  would  be  blind  anyway, 
he  thought  it  quite  as  well  that  they  should  wrinkle  up 
their  eyes  in  grins,  as  have  the  malady  in  less  attractive 
forms.  His  own  heart  laughed  :  and  that  was  quite 
enough  for  him. 

He  had  no  further  intercourse  with  Spirits,  but  lived 
upon  the  Total  Abstinence  Principle,  ever  afterwards  ; 
and  it  was  always  said  of  him,  that  he  knew  how  to 
keep  Christmas  well,  if  any  man  alive  possessed  the 
knowledge.  May  that  be  truly  said  of  us,  and  all  of  us  ! 
And  so,  as  Tiny  Tim  observed,  God  bless  Us,  Every  Ouel 


THE  CHIMES 
A  GOBLIN  STORY. 


FIRST  QUARTER. 

There  are  not  many  people — and  as  it  is  desirable  that 
a  story-teller  and  a  story-reader  should  establish  a  mu- 
tual understanding  as.  soon  as  possible,  I  beg  it  to  be 
noticed  that  I  confine  this  observation  neither  to  young 
people  nor  to  little  people,  but  extend  it  to  all  conditions 
of  people  :  little  and  big,  young  and  old  :  yet  growing 
up,  or  already  growing  down  again — there  are  not,  I  say, 
many  people  who  would  care  to  sleep  in  a  church.  I 
don't  mean  at  sermon-time  in  warm  weather  (when  the 
thing  has  actually  been  done,  once  or  twice),  but  in  the 
night,  and  alone.  A  great  multitude  of  persons  will  be 
violently  astonished,  I  know,  by  this  position,  in  the 
broad  bold  Day.  But  it  applies  to  Night.  It  must  be 
argued  by  night.  And  I  will  undertake  to  maintain  it 
successfully  on  any  gusty  winter's  night  appointed  for 
the  purpose,  with  any  one  opponent  chosen  from  the  rest, 
who  will  meet  me  singly  in  an  old  churchyard,  before  an 
old  churchdoor  ;  and  will  previously  empower  me  to  lock 
him  in,  if  needful  to  his  satisfaction,  until  morning. 

For  the  night- wind  has  a  dismal  trick  of  wandering 
round  and  round  a  building  of  that  sort,  and  moaning  as 
it  goes ;  and  of  trying  with  its  unseen  hand,  the  win- 
dows and  the  doors  ;  and  seeking  out  some  crevices  by 
which  to  enter.  And  when  it  has  got  in  ;  as  one  not  find- 
ing what  it  seeks,  whatever  that  may  be,  it  wails  and 
howls  to  issue  forth  again  ;  and  not  content  with  stalking 
through  the  isles,  and  gliding  round  and  round  the  pil- 
lars, and  tempting  the  deep  organ,  soars  up  to  the  roof, 
and  strives  to  rend  the  rafters  :  then  flings  itself  despair- 
ingly on  the  stones  below,  and  passes,  muttering,  into  the 
vaults.  Anon,  it  comes  up  stealthily,  and  creeps  along 
the  walls,  seeming  to  read,  in  whispers,  the  Inscriptions 
sacred  to  the  Dead.  At  some  of  these,  it  breaks  out 
shrilly,  as  with  laughter  :  and  at  others,  moans  and  cries 
as  if  it  were  lamenting.  It  has  a  ghostly  sound  too,  lin- 
gering within  the  altar  ;  where  it  seems  to  chaunt  in  its 
wild  way,  of  Wrong  and  Murder  done,  and  false  Gods 
whorshipped,  in  defiance  of  the  Tables  of  the  Law,  which 
look  so  fair  and  smooth,  but  are  so  flawed  and  broken. 
Ugh  I  Heaven  preserve  us,  sitting  snugly  round  the 
fire  1  It  has  an  awful  voice,  that  wind  at  Midnight,  sing- 
ing in  a  church  ! 

But,  high  up  in  the  steeple  I  There  the  foul  blast 
roars  and  whistles  !  High  up  in  the  steeple,  where  it  is 
free  to  come  and  go  through  many  an  airy  arch  and  loop- 


hole, and  to  twist  and  twine  itself  about  the  giddy  stair, 
and  twirl  the  groaning  weather-cock,  and  make  the  very 
tower  shake  and  shiver  !  High  up  in  the  steeple,  where 
the  belfry  is,  and  iron  rails  are  ragged  with  rust,  and 
sheets  of  lead  and  copper,  shrivelled  by  the  changing 
weather,  crackle  and  heave  beneath  the  unaccustomed 
tread  ;  and  birds  stuff  shabby  nests  into  corners  of  old 
oaken  joists  and  beams  ;  and  dust  grows  old  and  grey  ; 
and  speckled  spiders,  indolent  and  fat  with  long  security, 
swing  idly  to  and  fro  in  the  vibration  of  the  bells,  and 
never  lose  their  hold  upon  their  thread-spun  castles  in 
the  air,  or  climb  up  sailor-like  in  quick  alarm,  or  drop 
upon  the  ground  and  ply  a  score  of  nimble  legs  to  save 
one's  life  !  High  up  in  the  steeple  of  an  old  church,  far 
above  the  light  and  murmur  of  the  town  and  far  below 
the  flying  clouds  that  shadow  it,  is  the  wild  and  dreary 
place  at  night  :  and  high  up  in  the  steeple  of  an  old 
church,  dwelt  the  Chimes  I  tell  of. 

They  were  old  Chimes,  trust  me.  Centuries  ago,  these 
Bells  iiad  been  baptized  by  bishops  ;  so  many  centuries 
ago,  that  the  register  of  their  baptism  was  lost  long, 
long  before  the  memory  of  man,  and  no  one  knew  their 
names.  They  had  had  their  Godfathers  and  Godmotbers, 
these  Bells  (for  my  own  part,  by  the  way,  I  would  rather 
incur  the  responsibility  of  being  Godfather  to  a  Bell  than 
a  Boy),  and  had  had  their  silver  mugs  no  doubt,  besides. 
But  time  had  mowed  down  their  sponsors,  and  Henry 
the  Eighth  had  melted  down  their  mugs  ;  and  they  now 
hung,  nameless  and  mugless,  in  the  church  tower. 

Not  speechless,  though.  Far  from  it.  They  had  clear, 
loud,  lusty,  sounding  voices,  had  these  Bells  ;  and  far 
and  wide  they  might  be  heard  upon  the  whid.  Much 
too  sturdy  Chimes  were  they  to  be  dependent  on  the 
pleasure  of  the  wind,  moreover  ;  for,  fighting  gallantly 
against  it  when  it  took  an  adverse  whim,  they  would 
pour  their  cheerful  notes  into  a  listening  ear  right  roy- 
ally  ;  and  bent  on  being  heard,  on  stormy  nights,  by  some 
poor  mother  watching  a  sick  child,  or  some  lone  wife 
whose  husband  was  at  sea,  they  had  been  sometimes 
known  to  beat  a  blustering  Nor'  Wester  ;  aye,  "all  to 
fits,"  as  Toby  Veck  said  :— for  though  they  chose  to  call 
him  Trottv  Veck,  his  name  was  Toby,  and  nobody  could 
make  it  anything  else  either  (except  Tobias)  without  a 
special  act  of  parliament  ;  he  having  been  as  lawfully 
christened  in  his  day  as  the  Bells  had  been  in  theirs, 
though  with  not  quite  so  much  of  solemnity  or  public 
rejoicing. 


254 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


For  my  part,  I  confess  myself  of  Toby  Veck's  belief, 
for  I  am  sure  he  had  opportunites  enough  of  forming  a 
correct  one.  And  whatever  Toby  Veck  said,  I  say.  And 
I  take  my  stand  by  Toby  Veck,  althougli  he  did  stand 
all  day  long  (and  weary  work  it  was)  just  outside  the 
church-door.  In  fact,  he  was  a  ticket-porter,  Toby 
Veck,  and  waited  there  for  jobs. 

And  a  breezy,  goose-skinned,  blue-nose,  red-eyed, 
stony-toed,  tooth-chattering  place  it  was,  to  wait  in,  in 
the  winter- time,  as  Toby  Veck  well  knew.  The  wind 
came  teariog  round  the  corner — especially  the  east  wind 
— as  if  it  had  sallied  forth,  express,  from  the  confines  of 
the  earth,  to  have  a  blow  at  Toby.  And  oftentimes  it 
seemed  to  come  upon  him  sooner  than  it  had  expected, 
for  bouncing  round  the  corner,  and  passing  Toby,  it 
would  suddenly  wheel  round  again,  as  if  it  cried  "  Why, 
here  he  is  !  "  Incontinently  his  little  white  apron  would 
be  caught  up  over  his  head  like  a  naughty  boy's  gar- 
ments, and  his  feeble  little  cane  would  be  seen  to  wrestle 
and  straggle  unavailingly  in  his  hand,  and  his  legs 
would  undergo  tremendous  agitation,  and  Toby  himself 
all  aslant,  and  facing  now  in  this  direction,  now  in  that, 
would  be  so  banged  and  buffeted,  and  touzled,  and  wor- 
ried, and  hustled,  and  lifted  off  his  feet,  as  to  render  it 
a  state  of  things  but  one  degree  removed  from  a  positive 
miracle,  that  he  wasn't  carried  up  bodily  into  the  air  as 
a  colony  of  frogs  or  snails  or  other  very  portable  crea- 
tures sometimes  are,  and  rained  down  again,  to  the  great 
astonishment  of  the  natives,  on  some  strange  corner  of 
the  world  where  ticket-porters  are  unknown. 

But,  windy  weather,  in  spite  of  its  using  him  so 
roughly,  was,  after  all,  a  sort  of  holiday  for  Toby. 
That's  the  fact.  He  didn't  seem  to  wait  so  long  for  a 
sixpence  in  the  wind,  as  at  other  times  ;  the  having  to 
fight  with  that  boisterous  element  took  off  his  attention, 
and  quite  freshened  him  up,  when  he  was  getting  hun- 
gry and  low  spirited.  A  hard  frost  too,  or  a  fall  of  snow 
was  an  Event  ;  and  it  seemed  to  do  him  good,  somehow 
or  other — it  would  have  been  hard  to  say  in  what  respect 
though,  Toby  !  So  wind  and  frost  and  snow,  and  per- 
haps a  good  stiff  storm  of  hail,  were  Toby  Veck's  red- 
letter  days. 

Wet  weather  was  the  worst  ;  the  cold,  damp,  clammy 
wet,  that  wrapped  him  up  like  a  moist  great-coat — the 
only  kind  of  great-coat  Toby  owned,  or  could  have 
added  to  his  comfort  by  dispensing  with.  Wet  days, 
when  the  rain  came  slowly,  thickly,  obstinately  down  ; 
when  the  street's  throat,  like  his  own,  was  choked  with 
mist  ;  when  smoking  umbrellas  passed  and  repassed, 
spinning  round  and  round  like  so  many  teetotums,  as 
they  knocked  against  each  other  on  the  crowded  foot- 
way, throwing  off  a  little  whirlpool  of  uncomfortable 
sprinklings  ;  when  gutters  brawled  and  water-spouts  were 
full  and  noisy  ;  when  the  wet  from  the  projecting  stones 
and  ledges  of  the  church  fell  drip,  drip,  drip,  on  Toby, 
making  the  whisp  of  straw  on  which  he  stood  mere 
mud,  in  no  time  ;  those  were  the  days  that  tried  him. 
Then,  indeed,  you  might  see  Toby  looking  anxiously 
out  from  his  shelter  in  an  angle  of  the  church  wall — 
such  a  meagre  shelter  that  in  summer  time  it  never  cast 
a  shadow  thicker  than  a  good-sized  walking-stick  upon 
the  sunny  pavement— with  a  disconsolate  and  lengthened 
face.  But  coming  out  a  minute  afterwards,  to  warm 
himself  by  exercise,  and  trotting  up  and  down  some 
dozen  times,  he  would  brighten  even  then,  and  go  back 
more  brightly  to  his  niche. 

They  call  him  Trotty  from  his  pace,  which  meant 
speed  if  it  didn't  make  it.  He  could  have  Walked  faster 
perhaps  ;  most  likely  ;  but  rob  him  of  his  trot,  and  Toby 
would  have  taken  to  his  bed  and  died.  It  bespattered 
him  with  mud  in  dirty  weather  ;  it  cost  him  a  world  of 
trouble  ;  he  could  have  walked  with  infinitely  greater 
ease  ;  but  that  was  one  reason  for  his  clinging  to  it  so 
tenaciously.  A  weak,  small,  spare  old  man,  he  was  a 
very  lI(;rculos,  this  Toby,  in  his  good  intentions.  He 
loved  to  earn  his  money.  He  delighted  to  believe — Toby 
was  very  poor,  and  couldn't  well  afford  to  [)art  with  a 
delight — that  he  was  worth  his  salt.  With  a  shilling  or 
an  eighteen-penny  message  or  small  parcel  in  hand,  his 
courage,  always  high,  rose  higher.  As  he  trotted  on,  he 
would  call  out  to  fast  Postmen  ahead  of  him,  to  get  out 
of  the  way  ;  devoutly  believing  that  in  the  natural 


course  of  things  he  must  inevitably  overtake  and  run 
them  down  ;  and  he  had  perfect  faith — not  often  tested 
— in  his  being  able  to  carry  anything  that  man  could  lift. 

Thus  even  when  he  came  out  of  his  nook  to  warm  him- 
self on  a  wet  day,  Toby  trotted.  Making,  with  his  leaky 
shoes,  a  crooked  line  of  slushy  footprints  in  the  mire  ; 
and  blowing  on  his  chilly  hands  and  rubbing  them 
against  each  other,  poorly  defended  from  the  searching 
cold  by  threadbare  mufflers  of  grey  worsted,  with  a  pri- 
vate apartment  only  for  the  thumb,  and  a  common  room 
or  tap  for  the  rest  of  the  fingers  ;  Toby,  with  his  knees 
bent  and  his  cane  beneath  his  arm,  still  trotted.  Fall- 
ing  out  into  the  road  to  look  up  at  the  belfry  when  the 
Chimes  resounded,  Toby  trotted  still. 

He  made  this  last  excursion  several  times  a  day,  for 
they  were  company  to  him  ;  and  when  he  heard  their 
voices,  he  had  an  interest  in  glancing  at  their  lodging- 
place,  and  thinking  how  they  were  moved,  and  what 
hammers  beat  upon  them.  Perhaps  he  was  the  more 
curious  about  these  Bells,  because  there  were  points  of 
resemblance  between  themselves  and  him.  They  hung 
there,  in  all  weathers,  with  the  wind  and  rain  driving  in 
upon  them  ;  facing  only  the  outsides  of  all  those  houses  ; 
never  getting  any  nearer  to  the  blazing  fires  that  gleamed 
and  shone  upon  the  windows,  or  came  puffing  out  of  the 
chimney  tops  :  and  incapable  of  participation  in  any  of 
the  good  things  that  were  constantly  being  handed, 
through  the  street  doors  and  area  railings,  to  prodigious 
cooks.  Faces  came  and  went  at  many  windows  :  some- 
times pretty  faces,  youthful  faces,  pleasant  faces  :  some- 
times the  reverse  :  but  Toby  knew  no  more  (though  he 
often  specnilated  on  these  trifles,  standing  idle  in  the 
streets)  whence  they  came,  or  where  they  went,  or  wheth- 
er, when  the  lips  moved,  one  kind  word  was  said  of  him 
in  all  the  year,  than  did  the  Chimes  themselves. 

Toby  was  not  a  casuist — that  he  knew  of,  at  least — 
and  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  when  he  began  to  take  to 
the  Bells,  and  to  knit  up  his  first  rough  acquaintance 
with  them  into  something  of  a  closer  and  more  delicate 
woof,  he  passed  through  these- considerations  one  by 
one,  or  held  any  formal  review  or  great  field-day  in  his 
thoughts.  But  what  I  mean  to  say,  and  do  say  is,  that 
as  the  functions  of  Toby's  body,  his  digestive  organs  for 
example,  did  of  their  own  cunning,  and  by  a  great  many 
operations  of  which  he  was  altogether  ignorant,  and  the 
knowledge  of  which  would  have  astonished  him  very 
much,  arrive  at  a  certain  end  ;  so  his  mental  faculties, 
without  his  privity  or  concurrence,  set  all  these  wheels 
and  springs  in  motion,  with  a  thousand  others,  when  they 
worked  to  bring  about  his  liking  for  the  Bells. 

And  though  I  had  said  his  love,  I  would  not  have  re- 
called the  word,  though  it  would  scarcely  have  expressed 
his  complicated  feeling.  For  being  but  a  simple  man, 
he  invested  them  with  a  strange  and  solemn  character. 
They  were  so  mysterious,  often  heard  and  never  seen  ; 
so  high  up,  so  far  off,  so  full  of  such  a  deep  strong 
melody,  that  he  regarded  them  with  a  species  of  awe  ; 
and  sometimes  when  he  looked  up  at  the  dark  arched 
windows  in  the  tower,  he  half  expected  to  be  beckoned 
to  by  something  which  was  not  a  Bell,  and  yet  was  what 
he  heard  so  often  sounding  in  the  Chimes.  For  all  this, 
Toby  scouted  with  indignation  a  certain  flying  rumour 
that  the  Chimes  were  haunted,  as  implying  the  possi- 
bility of  their  being  connected  with  any  Evil  thing.  In 
short,  they  were  very  often  in  his  ears,  and  very  often 
in  his  thoughts,  but  always  in  his  good  opinion  ;  and  he 
very  often  got  such  a  crick  in  his  neck  by  staring  with 
his  mouth  wide  open,  at  the  steeple  where  tliey  hung, 
that  he  was  fain  to  take  an  extra  trot  or  two,  afterwards, 
to  cure  it. 

The  very  thing  he  was  in  the  act  of  doing  one  cold 
day,  when  the  last  drowsy  sound  of  Twelve  o'clock, 
just  struck,  was  humming  like  a  melodious  monster  of 
a  Bee,  and  not  by  any  means  a  busy  Bee,  all  through 
the  steeple  ! 

"  Dinner-time,  eh  !"  said  Toby,  trotting  up  and  down 
before  the  church.    "Ah  !" 

Toby's  nose  was  very  red,  and  his  eyelids  were  very 
red,  and  he  winked  very  much,  and  his  shoulders  were 
very  near  his  ears,  and  his  legs  were  very  stiff,  and  alto- 
gether he  was  evidently  a  long  way  upon  the  frosty  side 
of  cool. 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


255 


"  Dinner-time,  ell !  "  repeated  Toby,  using  his  right 
hand  muffler  lilce  an  infantine  boxing-glove,  and  punish- 
ing his  chest  for  being  cold.    "  Ah-h-h-h  !  " 

He  took  a  silent  trot,  after  that,  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"There's  nothing,"  said  Toby,  breaking  forth  afresh, 
— but  here  he  stopped  sliort  in  his  trot,  and  with  a  face 
of  great  interest  and  some  alarm,  felt  his  noso  carefully 
all  the  way  up.  It  was  but  a  little  way  (not  being  much 
of  a  nose)  and  he  had  soon  finished. 

"  I  thought  it  was  gone,"  said  Toby,  trotting  off  again. 
"It's  all  right,  however.  I  am  sure  I  couldn't  blame  it 
if  it  was  to  go.  It  has  a  precious  hard  service  of  it  in  the 
bitter  weather,  and  precious  little  to  look  forward  to  : 
for  I  don't  take  snuff  myself.  It's  good  deal  tried,  poor 
creetur,  at  the  best  of  times  ;  for  when  it  does  get  hold 
of  a  pleasant  whiff  or  so  (which  an't  too  often)  it's  gener- 
ally from  somebody  else's  dinner,  a-coming  home  from 
the  baker's." 

The  reflection  reminded  him  of  that  other  reflection, 
which  he  had  left  unfinished. 

"There's  nothing,"  said  Toby,  "more  regular  in  its 
coming  round  than  dinner-time,  and  nothing  less  regular 
in  its  coming  round  than  dinner.  That's  the  great  differ- 
ence between  'em.  It's  took  me  a  long  time  to  find  it 
out.  I  wouder  whether  it  would  be  worth  any  gentle- 
man's while,  now,  to  buy  thatobserwation  for  the  papers  ; 
or  the  Parliament  !  " 

Toby  was  only  joking,  for  he  gravely  shook  his  luead 
in  self-depreciation. 

"  Why  !  Lord  !  "  said  Toby.  "  The  Papers  is  full  of 
obserwations  as  it  is  ;  and  so's  the  Parliament.  Here's  a 
last  week's  paper,  now,"  taking  a  very  dirty  one  from  his 
pocket,  and  holding  it  from  him  at  arm's  length  ;  "full 
of  obserwations  !  Full  of  obserwations  !  I  lilte  to  know 
the  news  as  well  as  any  man,"  said  Toby,  slowly  ;  folding 
it  a  little  smaller,  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket  again : 
"  but  it  almost  goes  against  the  grain  with  me  to  read  a 
paper  now.  It  frightens  me  almost.  I  don't  know 
what  we  poor  people  are  coming  to.  Lord  send  we  may 
be  coming  to  something  better  in  the  New  Year  nigh 
upon  us  ! " 

"  Why,  father,  father  !"  said  a  pleasant  voice  hard  by. 

But  Toby,  not  hearing  it,  continued  to  trot  backwards 
and  forwards  :  musing  as  he  went,  and  talking  to  him- 
self. 

"It  seems  as  if  we  can't  go  right,  or  do  right,  or  be 
righted,"  said  Toby.  * '  I  hadn't  much  schooling  myself, 
when  I  was  young  ;  and  I  can't  make  out  whether  we 
have  any  business  on  the  face  of  the  earth  or  not.  Some- 
times I  think  we  must  have — a  little  ;  and  sometimes  I 
think  we  must  be  intruding.  I  get  so  puzzled  sometimes 
that  I  am  not  even  able  to  make  up  my  mind  whether 
there  is  any  good  at  all  in  us  or  whether  we  wete  born 
bad.  We  seem  to  do  dreadful  things  ;  we  seem  to  give 
a  deal  of  trouble  ;  we  are  always  being  complained  of 
and  guarded  against.  One  way  or  another,  we  fill  the 
papers.  Talk  of  a  New  Year  !  "  said  Toby,  mournfully  ; 
"  I  can  bear  up  as  well  as  another  man  at  most  times  ; 
better  than  a  good  many,  for  I  am  as  strong  as  a  lion, 
and  all  men  an't  ;  but  supposing  it  should  really  be  that 
we  have  no  right  to  New  a  Year — supposing  we  really  are 
intruding — " 

"  Why,  father,  father  1 "  said  the  pleasant  voice  again. 

Toby  heard  it  this  time  ;  started  ;  stopped  ;  and  short- 
ening his  sight,  which  had  been  directed  a  long  way  off 
as  seeking  for  enlightenment  in  the  very  heart  of  the  ap- 
proaching year,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  his  own 
child,  and  looking  close  into  her  eyes. 

Bright  eyes  they  were.  Eyes  that  would  bear  a  world 
of  looking  in,  before  their  depth  was  fathomed.  Dark 
eyes,  that  reflected  back  the  eyes  that  searched  them  ; 
not  flashingly,  or  at  the  owner's  will,  but  with  a  clear, 
honest,  patient  radiance,  claiming  kindred  with  that 
light  which  Heaven  called  into  being.  Eyes  that  were 
beautiful  and  true,  and  beaming  with  Hope.  With 
Hope  so  young  and  fresh  ;  witli  Hope  so  buoyant,  vigor- 
ous and  bright,  despite  the  twenty  years  of  work  and 
poverty  on  which  they  had  looked  ;  that  they  became  a 
voice  to  Trotty  Veck,'and  said  :  "  I  think  we  have  some 
bu.siness  here — a  little  !" 

Trotty  kissed  the  lips  belonging  to  the  eyes,  and 
squeezed  the  blooming  face  between  his  hands. 


"  Wliy  Pet,"  said  Trotty.  "  What's  to-do  ?  I  didn't 
expect  you  to-day,  Meg." 

"  Neither  did  I  expect  to  come,  father,"  cried  the  girl, 
nodding  her  head,  and  smiling  as  she  spoke.  "  But  here 
I  am  !    And  not  alone  ;  not  alone  !  " 

"  Why  you  don't  mean  to  say,"  observed  Trotty, 
looking  curiously  at  a  covered  basket  which  she  carried 
in  her  hand,  "  that  you — " 

"  Smell  it,  father  dear,"  said  Meg,  "  only  smell  it !  " 

Trotty  was  going  to  lift  up  the  cover  at  once,  in  a  great 
hurry,  when  she  gaily  interposed  her  hand. 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Meg,  with  the  ^'lee  of  a  child. 
"  Lengthen  it  out  a  little.  Let  me  just  lift  up  the  cor- 
ner, just  a  lit  tle  ti-ny  cor-ner,  you  know,"  said  Meg, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word  with  the  utmost  gentle- 
ness, and  speaking  very  softly,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of 
being  overheard  by  something  inside  the  basket  ;  "  there. 
Now.    What's  that?" 

Toby  took  the  shortest  possible  sniff  at  the  edge  of  tke 
basket,  and  cried  out  in  rapture  : 

"  Why,  its  hot  !" 

"It's  burning  hot!"  cried  Meg.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  It's 
scalding  hot  !  " 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  "  roared  Toby,  with  a  sort  of  kick.  **  It's 
scalding  hot  ! " 

"  But  what  is  it,  father?"  said  Meg.  "  Come  !  You 
haven't  guessed  what  it  is.  And  you  must  guess  what 
it  is.  I  cant  think  of  taking  it  out,  till  you  gue.ss  what 
it  is.  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry  !  Wait  a  minute  I  A 
little  bit  more  of  the  cover.    Now  guess  ! " 

Meg  was  in  a  perfect  fright  lest  he  should  guess  right 
too  soon  ;  shrinking  away  as  she  held  the  basket  towards 
him  ;  curling  up  her  pretty  shoulders  ;  stopping  her  ear 
with  her  hand,  as  if  by  so  doing  she  could  keep  the  right 
word  out  of  Toby's  lips  ;  and  laughing  softly  the  whole 
time. 

Meanwhile  Toby,  putting  a  hand  on  each  knee,  bent 
down  his  nose  to  the  basket,  and  took  a  long  inspiration 
at  the  lid  ;  the  grin  upon  his  withered  face  expanding  in 
the  process,  as  if  he  were  inhaling  laughing  gas. 

"  Ah  !  It's  very  nice,"  said  Toby.  "  It  an't — I  suppose 
it  an't  Polonies  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "  cried  Meg,  delighted.  "  Nothing  like 
Polonies  ! " 

"  No,"  said  Toby,  after  another  sniff.  "It's — it's  mel- 
lower than  Polonies.  It's  very  nice.  It  improves  every 
moment.    It's  too  decided  for  Trotters.    Aji't  it  ?" 

Meg  was  in  an  ecstasy.  He  could  not  have  gone  wider 
of  the  mark  than  Trotters — except  Polonies. 

"  Liver?"  said  Toby,  communing  with  himself.  "  No. 
There's  a  mildness  about  it  that  don't  answer  to  liver. 
Pettitoes?  No.  It  an't  faint  enough  for  pettitoes.  It 
wants  the  stringiness  of  Cocks'  heads.  And  I  know  it 
an't  sausages.   I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.   It's  chitterlings  ! " 

"  No,  it  an't  ! "  cried  Meg,  in  a  burst  of  delight.  "No, 
it  an't  ! " 

"  Why,  what  am  I  thinking  of  !  "  said  Toby,  suddenly 
recovering  a  position  as  near  the  perpendicular  as  it  was 
possible  for  him  to  assume .  "  I  shall  forget  my  own 
name  next.    It's  tripe." 

Tripe  it  was  ;  and  Meg,  in  high  joy,  protested  he  should 
say,  in  half  a  minute  more,  it  was  the  best  tripe  ever 
stewed. 

"  And  so,"  said  Meg,  busying  herself  exultingly  with 
her  basket ;  "  I'll  lay  the  cloth  at  once,  father  ;  for  I  have 
brought  the  tripe  in  a  basin,  and  tied  the  basin  up  in  a 
pocket-handkerchief  ;  and  if  I  like  to  be  proud  for  once, 
and  spread  that  for  a  cloth,  and  call  it  a  cloth,  there's  no 
law  to  prevent  me  ;  is  there,  father  ?  " 

j     "Not  that  I  know  of,  my  dear,"  said  Toby.  "But 

I  they're  always  a-bringing  up  some  new  law  or  other." 

"  And  according  to  w^hat  I  was  reading  you  in  the  pa- 
per the  other  day,  father  ;  what  the  Judge  said,  you 
know  ;  we  poor  people  are  supposed  to  know  them  all. 

j  Ha,  ha  !  What  a  mistake  !  My  goodness  me,  how  clever 

j  thev  think  us  !  " 

I     "*Yes,  my  dear,"  cried  Trotty  ;  "  and  they'd  be  very 
1  fond  of  any  one  of  us  that  did  know  'em  all.    He'd  grow 
fat  upon  the  work  he'd  get,  that  man,  and  be  popular 
with  the  gentlefolks  in  his  neighbourhood.    Yerv  much 
so  ! " 

"  He'd  eat  his  dinner  with  an  appetite,  whoever  he  was. 


256 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


if  it  smelt  lilce  this,"  said  Meg,  cheerfully.  "  Make  haste, 
for  there's  a  hot  potato  besides,  and  a  half  a  pint  of  fresh- 
drawn  beer  in  a  bottle.  Where  will  you  dine,  father? 
On  the  Post,  or  on  the  Steps?  Dear,  dear,  how  grand  we 
are.    Two  places  to  choose  from  ! " 

"The  steps  to-day,  my  Pet,"  said  Trotty.  "Steps  in 
dry  weather.  Post  in  wet.  There's  a  greater  conveni- 
ency  in  the  steps  at  all  times,  because  of  the  sitting  down  ; 
but  they're  rheumatic  in  the  damp." 

"  Then  here,"  said  Meg,  clapping  her  hands,  after  a 
moment's  bustle  ;  "here  it  is,  all  ready  !  And  beautiful 
it  looks  !    Come,  father.    Come  !" 

Since  his  discovery  of  the  contents  of  the  basket,  Trot- 
ty had  been  standing  looking  at  her — and  had  been  speak- 
ing too — in  an  abstracted  manner,  which  showed  that 
though  she  was  the  object  of  his  thoughts  and  eyes,  to 
the  exclusion  evpn  of  tripe,  he  neither  saw  nor  thought 
about  her  as  she  was  at  that  moment,  but  had  before  him 
some  imaginary  rough  sketch  or  drama  of  her  future  life. 
Roused,  now,  by  her  cheerful  summons,  he  shook  off  a 
melancholy  shake  of  the  head  which  was  just  coming  up- 
on him,  arid  trotted  to  her  side.  As  he  was  stooping  to 
sit  down,  the  Chimes  rang, 

"  Amen  ! "  said  Trotty,  pulling  off  his  hat  and  looking 
up  towards  them. 

"  Amen  to  the  Bells,  father  ?  "  cried  Meg. 

"They  broke  in  like  a  grace,  my  dear,"  said  Trotty, 
taking  his  seat.  "They'd  say  a  good  one,  I  am  sure,  if 
they  could.    Many's  the  kind  thing  they  say  to  me." 

"The  Bells  do,  father  !"  laughed  Meg,  as  she  set  the 
basin,  and  a  knife  and  fork  before  him.    "  Well  !  " 

"  Seem  to,  my  Pet,"  said  Trotty,  falling  to  with  great 
vigour.  "  And  where's  the  difference  ?  If  I  hear  *em, 
what  does  it  matter  whether  they  speak  it  or  not  ?  Why 
bless  you,  my  dear,"  said  Toby,  pointing  at  the  tower 
with  his  fork,  and  becoming  more  animated  under  the  in- 
fluence of  dinner,  "  how  often  have  I  heard  them  bells 
say,  *  Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  keep  a  good  heart  Toby  ! 
Toby  Veck,  Toby.  Veck,  keep  a  good  heart  Toby  !'  A 
million  times  ?    More  ! " 

"  Well,  I  never  !"  cried  Meg. 

She  had,  though — over  and  over  again.  For  it  was  To- 
by's constant  topic. 

"  Wlien  things  is  very  bad,"  said  Trotty  ;  "  very  bad, 
indeed,  I  mean  ;  almost  at  the  worst  ;  then  it's  '  Toby 
Veck,  Toby  Veck,  job  coming  soon,  Toby  I  Toby  Veck, 
Toby  Veck,  job  coming  soon,  Toby  ! '    That  way." 

"And  it  comes — at  last,  father,"  said  Meg,  with  a  touch 
of  sadness  in  her  pleasant  voice. 

"Always,"  answered  the  unconscious  Toby.  "Never 
fails." 

While  this  discourse  was  holding,  Trotty  made  no 
pause  in  his  attack  upon  the  savoury  meat  before  him, 
but  cut  and  ate,  and  cut  and  drank,  and  cut  and  chewed, 
and  dodged  about,  from  tripe  to  hot  potato,  and  from 
hot  potato  back  again  to  tripe,  with  an  unctuous  and 
unflagging  relish.  But  happening  now  to  look  all  round 
the  street — in  case  anybody  should  be  beckoning  from 
any  door  or  window,  for  a  porter — his  eyes,  in  coming 
back  again,  encountered  Meg  ;  sitting  opposite  to  him, 
with  her  arms  folded ;  and  only  busy  in  watching  his 
progress  with  a  smile  of  happiness. 

"  Why,  Lord  forgive  me  !"  said  Trotty,  dropping  his 
knife  and  fork,  "  My  dove  !  Meg  !  why  didn't  you  tell 
me  what  a  beast  I  was?" 

"Father?" 

"Sitting  here,"  said  Trotty,  in  penitent  explanation, 
"cramming,  and  stuffing,  and  gorging  myself  ;  and  you 
before  me  there,  never  so  much  as  breaking  your  i^re- 
cious  fast,  nor  wanting  to,  when — " 

"But  I  have  broken  it,  father,"  interposed  his  daugh- 
ter, laughing,  "all  to  bits.    I  have  had  my  dinner." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Trotty.  "  Two  dinners  in  one  day  ! 
It  an't  possible  !  You  might  as  well  tell  me  that  two 
New  Year's  Days  will  come  together,  or  that  I  have  had 
a  gold  head  all  my  life,  and  never  changed  it." 

"I  have  had  my  dinner,  father,  for  all  that,"  said 
Meg,  coming  nearer  to  him.  "And  if  you'll  go  on  with 
yours,  I'll  tell  you  how  and  where  :  and  how  your  dinner 
came  to  be  brought ;  and — and  something  else  be- 
sides." 

Toby  still  appeared  incredulous  ;  but  she  looked  into 


his  face  with  her  clear  eyes,  and  laying  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  motioned  him  to  go  on  v<'hile  the  meat  was 
hot.  So  Trotty  took  up  his  knife  and  fork  again,  and 
went  to  work.  But  much  more  slowly  than  before,  and 
shaking  his  head,  as  if  he  were  not  at  all  pleased  with 
himself, 

"  I  had  my  dinner,  father,"  said  Meg,  after  a  little 
hesitation,  "with— with  Richard.  His  dinner-time  was 
early  ;  and  as  he  brought  his  dinner  with  him  when  he 
came  to  see  me,  we — we  had  it  together,  father." 

Trotty  took  a  little  beer,  and  smacked  his  lips.  Then 
he  said,  "  Oh  !  " — because  she  waited. 

"  And  Richard  says,  father — "  Meg  resumed.  Then 
stopped. 

"  What  does  Richard  say,  Meg?"  asked  Toby. 

"  Richard  says,  father — "    Another  stoppage. 

"  Richard's  a  long  time  saying  it,"  said  Toby. 

"He  says  then,  father,"  Meg  continued,  lifting  up  her 
eyes  at  last,  and  speaking  in  a  tremble,  but  quite  plainly  ; 
"  another  year  is  nearly  gone,  and  where  is  the  use  of 
waiting  on  from  year  to  year,  when  it  is  so  unlikely  we 
shall  ever  be  better  off  than  we  are  now  ?  He  says  we 
are  poor  now,  father,  and  we  shall  be  poor  then,  but 
we  are  young  now,  and  years  will  make  us  old  before 
we  know  it.  He  says  that  if  we  wait :  people  in  our 
condition  :  until  we  see  our  way  quite  clearly,  the  way 
will  be  a  narrow  one  indeed — the  common  way — the 
Grave,  father," 

A  bolder  man  than  Trotty  Veck  must  needs  have 
drawn  upon  his  boldness  largely,  to  deny  it.  Trotty  held 
his  peace. 

"And  how  hard,  father,  to  grow  old,  and  die,  and 
think  we  might  have  cheered  and  helped  each  other  I 
How  hard  in  all  our  lives  to  love  each  other ;  and  to 
grieve,  apart,  to  see  each  other  working,  changing,  grow- 
ing old  and  grey.  Even  if  I  got  the  better  of  it,  and  for- 
got him  (which  I  never  could),  oh  father  dear,  how  hard 
to  have  a  heart  so  full  as  mine  is  now,  and  live  to  have 
it  slowly  drained  out  every  drop,  without  the  recollec- 
tion of  one  happy  moment  of  a  woman's  life,  to  stay  be- 
hind and  comfort  me,  and  make  me  better  ! " 

Trotty  sat  quite  still.  Meg  dried  her  eyes,  and  said 
more  gaily  :  that  is  to  say,  with  here  a  laugh,  and  there 
a  sob,  and  here  a  laugh  and  sob  together  :  , 

"So  Richard  says,  father  ;  as  his  work  was  yesterday 
made  certain  for  some  time  to  come,  and  as  I  love  him 
and  have  loved  him  full  three  years — ah  !  longer  than 
that,  if  he  knew  it  ! — will  I  marry  him  on  New  Year's 
Day  ;  the  best  and  happiest  day,  he  says,  in  the  whole 
year,  and  one  that  is  almost  sure  to  bring  good  fortune 
with  it.  It's  a  short  notice,  father — isn't  it  ? — ^but  I  haven't 
my  fortune  to  be  settled,  or  my  wedding  dresses  to  be 
madte,  like  the  great  ladies,  father,  have  I  ?  And  he  said 
so  much,  and  said  it  in  his  way  ;  so  strong  and  earnest, 
and  all  the  time  so  kind  and  gentle  that  I  said  I'd  come 
and  talk  to  you,  father.  And  as  they  paid  the  money 
for  that  work  of  mine  this  morning  (unexpectedly,  I  am 
sure  !),  and  as  you  have  fared  very  poorly  for  a  whole 
week,  and  as  I  couldn't  help  wishing  there  should  be 
something  to  make  this  day  a  sort  of  holiday  to  you  as 
well  as  a  dear  and  happy  day  to  me,  father,  I  made  a 
little  treat  and  brought  it  to  surprise  you." 

"  And  see  how  he  leaves  it  cooling  on  the  step  ! "  said 
another  voice. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  same  Richard,  who  had  come 
upon  them  unobserved,  and  stood  before  the  father  and 
daughter  ;  looking  down  upon  them  with  a  face  as  glow- 
ing as  the  iron  on  which  his  stout  sledge-hammer  daily 
rung.  A  handsome,  well-made,  powerful  youngster  he 
was  ;  with  eyes  that  sparkled  like  the  red-hot  droppings 
from  a  furnace  fire  ;  black  hair  that  curled  about  his 
swarthy  temples  rarely  ;  and  a  smile — a  smile  that  bore 
out  Meg's  eulogium  on  his  style  of  conversation. 

"  See  how  he  leaves  it  cooling  on  the  step  !"  said  Rich- 
ard.   "  Meg  don't  know  what  lie  likes.    Not  she  !  " 

Trotty,  all  action  and  enthusiasm,  immediately  reached 
up  his  hand  to  Richard,  and  was  going  to  address  him  in 
a  great  hurry,  when  the  house-door  opened  without  any 
warning,  and  a  footman  very  nearly  put  his  foot  in  the 
tripe. 

"Out  of  the  vays  here,  will  you  !  You  must  always 
go  and  be  a  settin  on  our  steps,  must  you  !    You  can't  go 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


257 


and  give  a  turn  to  none  of  tlie  neighbours  never,  can't 
you.    Will  you  clear  tlie  road,  or  won't  you?" 

Strictly  speaking,  the  last  question  was  irrelevant,  as 
they  had  already  done  it. 

"What's  the  matter,  what's  the  matter  !"  said  the 
gentleman  for  whom  the  door  was  opened  ;  coming  out 
of  the  house  at  that  kind  of  light-heavy  pace — that  pecu- 
liar compromise  between  a  walk  and  a  jog-trot — with 
which  a  gentleman  upon  the  smooth  down-hill  of  life, 
wearing  creaking  boots,  a  watch-chain,  and  clean  linen, 
may  come  out  of  his  house  ;  not  only  without  any  abate- 
ment of  his  dignity,  but  with  an  expression  of  having 
important  and  wealthy  engagements  elsewhere.  What's 
the  matter.    What's  the  matter  I  " 

"  You're  always  a  being  begged,  and  prayed,  upon  your 
bended  knees  you  are,"  said  the  footman  with  great  em- 
phasis to  Trotty  Veck,  "to  let  our  door-steps  be.  Why 
don't  you  let  'em  be  ?    Can't  you  let  'em  be  ?" 

"  There  !  That'll  do,  that'll  do  ! "  said  the  gentleman. 
"Hello  there!  Porter!"  beckoning  with  his  head  to 
Trotty  Veck.  "  Come  here.  What's  that?  Your  din- 
ner?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Trotty,  leaving  it  behind  him  in  a 
corner. 

"Don't  leave  it  there,"  exclaimed  the  gentleman. 
"  Bring  it  here,  bring  it  here.  So  !  This  is  your  dinner, 
is  it?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  repeated  Trotty,  looking  with  a  fixed  eye 
and  a  watery  mouth,  at  the  piece  of  tripe  he  had  re- 
served for  a  last  delicious  tit-bit ;  which  the  gentleman 
was  now  turning  over  and  over  on  the  end  of  tlie  fork. 

Two  other  gentlemen  had  come  out  with  him.  One 
was  a  low-spirited  gentleman  of  middle  age,  of  a  meagre 
habit  and  a  disconsolate  face  ;  who  kept  his  hands  contin- 
ually in  the  pockets  of  his  seamy  pepper-and-salt  trou- 
sers]! very  large  and  dog's-eared  from  that  custom  ;  and 
was  not  particularly  well  brushed  or  washed.  The  other, 
a  full  sized,  sleek,  well-conditioned  gentleman,  in  a  blue 
coat  with  bright  buttons,  and  a  white  cravat.  This  gen- 
tleman had  a  very  red  face,  as  if  an  undue  proportion  of 
the  blood  in  his  body  were  squeezed  up  into  his  head  ; 
which  perhaps  accounted  for  his  having  also  the  appear- 
ance of  being  rather  cold  about  the  heart. 

He  who  had  Toby's  meat  on  the  fork,  called  to  the 
first  one  by  the  name  of  Filer  ;  and  they  both  drew  near 
together.  Mr.  Filer  being  exceedingly  short-sighted, 
was  obliged  to  go  so  close  to  the  remnant  of  Toby's  din- 
ner before  he  could  make  out  what  it  was,  that  Toby's 
heart  leaped  up  into  his  mouth.  But  Mr.  Filer  didn't 
eat  it. 

"  This  is  a  description  of  animal  food.  Alderman,"  said 
Filer,  making  little  punches  in  it  with  a  pencil-case, 
"  commonly  known  to  the  labouring  population  of  this 
country,  by  the  name  of  tripe." 

The  Alderman  laughed,  and  winked  ;  for  he  was  a  mer- 
ry fellow.  Alderman  Cute.  Oh,  and  a  sly  fellow  too  ! 
A  knowing  fellow.  Up  to  everything.  Not  to  be  im- 
posed upon.  Deep  in  the  people's  hearts  !  He  knew 
them.  Cute  did.    I  believe  you  ! 

"  But  who  eats  tripe  ?  "  said  Mr.  Filer,  looking  round. 
"  Tripe  is  without  an  exception  the  least  economical,  and 
the  most  wasteful  article  of  consumption  that  the  mar- 
kets of  this  country  can  by  possibility  produce.  The 
loss  upon  a  pound  of  tripe  has  been  found  to  be,  in  the 
boiling,  seven-eighths  of  a  fifth  more  than  the  loss 
upon  a  pound  of  any  other  animal  substance  whatever. 
Tripe  is  more  expensive,  properly  understood,  than  the 
hothouse  pine-apple.  Taking  into  account  the  number 
of  animals  slaughtered  yearly  within  the  bills  of  mortal- 
ity alone  ;  and  forming  a  low  estimate  of  the  quantity  of  { 
tripe  which  the  carcasses  of  those  animals,  reasonably 
well  butchered,  would  yield  ;  I  find  that  the  waste  on 
that  amount  of  tripe,  if  boiled,  would  victual  a  garrison 
of  five  hundred  men  for  five  months  of  thirty-one  days 
each,  and  a  February  over.    The  Waste,  the  Waste  !'' 

Trotty  stood  aghast,  and  his  legs  shook  under  him. 
He  seemed  to  have  starved  a  garrison  of  five  hundred 
men  with  his  own  hand. 

"Who  eats  tripe?"  said  Mr.  Filer,  warmly.  "Who 
eats  tripe  ?  " 

Trotty  made  a  miserable  bow. 

"  You  do,  do  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Filer.  "  Then  I'll  tell  you 
Vol.  n.— 17 


something.  Yon  snatch  your  trlpo,  my  friend,  out  of 
the  mouths  of  widows  and  orphans." 

"I  hope  not,  sir,"  said  Trotty,  faintly.  "I'd  sooner 
die  of  want  !" 

"  Divide  the  amount  of  tripe  before-mentioned.  Alder- 
man," said  Mr.  Filer,  "by  the  estimated  number  of  ex- 
isting widows  and  orphans,  and  the  result  will  be  one 
pennyweight  of  tripe  to  each.  Not  a  grain  is  left  for 
that  man.    (Consequently  he's  a  robber." 

Trotty  was  so  shocked,  that  it  gave  him  no  concern  to 
see  the  Alderman  finish  the  tripe  himself.  It  was  a 
relief  to  get  rid  of  it,  anyhow. 

"And  what  do  you  say?"  asked  the  Alderman,  jo- 
cosely, of  the  red-faced  gentleman  in  the  blue  coat.  "You 
have  heard  friend  Filer.    What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  What's  it  possible  to  say  ?  "  returned  the  gentleman. 

"  What  is  to  be  said  ?  Who  can  take  any  interest  in  a 
fellow  like  this,"  meaning  Trotty  ;  "in  such  degenerate 
times  as  these.  Look  at  him  !  What  an  object  !  The 
good  old  times,  the  grand  old  times,  the  great  old  times  ! 
Those  were  the  times  for  a  bold  peasantry,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  Those  were  the  times  for  every  sort  of 
thing,  in  fact.  There's  nothing  now-a-days.  Ah!" 
sighed  the  red-faced  gentleman.  "  The  good  old  times, 
the  good  old  times  !" 

The  gentleman  didn't  specify  what  particular  times  he 
alluded  to ;  nor  did  he  say  whether  he  objected  to  the 
present  times,  from  a  disinterested  consciousness  that 
they  had  done  nothing  very  remarkable  in  producing 
himself. 

"The  good  old  times,  the  good  old  times,"  repeated 
the  gentleman.  "What  times  they  were  !  They  were 
the  only  times.  It's  of  no  use  talking  about  any  other 
times,  or  discussing  what  the  people  are  in  these  t^mes. 
You  don't  call  these,  times,  do  you  ?  I  don't.  Look  into 
Strutt's  Costumes,  and  see  what  a  Porter  used  to  be,  in 
any  of  the  good  old  English  reigns." 

"  He  hadn't,  in  his  very  best  circumstances,  a  shirt  to 
his  back,  or  a  stocking  to  his  foot  ;  and  there  was 
scarcely  a  vegetable  in  all  England  for  him  to  put  into 
his  mouth,"  said  Mr.  Filer.    "  I  can  prove  it,  by  tables." 

But  still  the  red-faced  gentleman  extolled  the  good  old 
times,  the  grand  old  times,  the  great  old  times.  No  mat- 
ter what  anybody  else  said,  he  still  went  turning  round 
and  round  in  one  set  form  of  words  concerning  them  ;  as 
a  poor  squirrel  turns  and  turns  in  its  revolving  cage  ; 
touching  the  mechanism,  and  trick  of  which,  it  has  prob- 
ably quite  as  distinct  perceptions,  as  ever  this  red-faced 
gentleman  had  of  his  deceased  Millennium. 

It  is  possible  that  -poor  Trotty's  faith  in  these  very 
vague  Old  Times  was  not  entirely  destroyed,  for  he  felt 
vague  enough  at  that  moment.  One  thing,  however,  was 
plain  to  him,  in  the  midst  of  his  distress  ;  to  wit,  that 
however  these  gentlemen  might  differ  in  details,  his 
misgivings  of  that  morning,  and  of  many  other  mom 
ings,  were  well  founded.  "No,  no.  We  can't  go  right 
or  do  right,"  thought  Trotty  in  despair,  "There  is  no 
good  in  us.    We  are  born  bad  ! " 

But  Trotty  had  a  father's  heart  within  him  ;  which 
had  somehow  got  into  his  breast  in  spite  of  this  decree  ; 
and  he  could  not  bear  that  Meg,  in  the  blush  of  her  brief 
joy,  should  have  her  fortune  read  by  these  wise  gentle- 
men. "God  help  her,"  thought  poor  Trotty.  "  She  will 
know  it  soon  enough." 

He  anxiously  signed,  therefore,  to  the  young  smith,  to 
take  her  away.  But  he  was  so  busy,  talking  to  her 
softly  at  a  little  distance,  that  he  only  became  conscious 
of  this  desire,  simultaneously  with  Alderman  Cute.  Now, 
the  Alderman  had  not  yet  had  his  say,  but  he  was  a  phi- 
losopher, too — practical,  though  !  Oh,  very  practical  !-- 
and,  as  he  had  no  idea  of  losing  any  portion  of  his  audi- 
ence, he  cried  "  Stop  !" 

"  Now,  you  know,"  said  the  Alderman,  addressing  his 
two  friends,  with  a  self-complacent  smile  upon  his  face, 
which  was  habitual  to  him,  "  I  am  a  plain  man,  and  a 
practical  man  ;  and  I  go  to  work  in  a  plain  practical  way. 
That's  my  way.  There  is  not  (he  least  mystery  or  difla- 
culty  in  dealing  with  this  sort  of  people  if  you  only  un- 
derstand 'em,  and  can  talk  to  'em  in  their  own  manner. 
Now,  you  Porter  !  Don't  you  ever  tell  me,  or  anybody 
else  my  friend,  that  you  haven't  always  enough  to  eat, 
and  of  the  best :  because  I  know  better.    I  have  tasted 


258 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


your  tripe,  you  know,  and  you  can't '  chaff '  me.  You 
understand  what  *  chaff '  means,  eh  ?  That's  the  right 
word,  isn't  it  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Lord  bless  you,"  said  the 
Alderman,  turning  to  his  friends  again,  "  it's  the  easiest 
thing  on  earth  to  deal  with  this  sort  of  people,  if  you 
only  understand  'em." 

Famous  man  for  the  common  people.  Alderman  Cute  ! 
Never  out  of  temper  with  them  !  Easy,  afEable,  joking, 
knowing  gentleman  ! 

**  You  see  my  friend,"  pursued  the  Alderman,  "  there's 
a  great  deal  of  nonsense  talked  about  Want—'  hard  up,' 
you  know  :  that's  the  phrase  isn't  it  ?  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !— and 
I  intend  to  Put  it  Down.  There's  a  certain  amount  of 
cant  in  vogue  about  Starvation,  and  I  mean  to  Put  it 
Down.  That's  all  !  Lord  bless  you,"  said  the  Alderman, 
turning  to  his  friends  again,  "you  may  Put  Down  any- 
thing among  this  sort  of  people,  if  you  only  know  the 
way  to  set  about  it ! " 

Trotty  took  Meg's  hand  and  drew  it  through  his  arm. 
He  didn't  seem  to  know  what  he  was  doing  though. 

"Your  daughter,  eli?"  said  the  Alderman,  chucking 
her  familiarly  under  the  chin. 

Always  afEable  with  the  working  classes.  Alderman 
Cute  !    Knew  what  pleased  them  !    Not  a  bit  of  pride  ! 

"Where's  her  mother?"  asked  that  worthy  gentle- 
man. 

"Dead,"  said  Toby.  " Her  mother  got  up  linen  ;  and 
was  called  to  Heaven  v?hen  She  was  born." 

"  Not  to  get  up  linen  there,  I  suppose,"  remarked  the 
Alderman  pleasantly. 

Toby  might  or  might  not  have  been  able  to  separate  his 
wife  in  Heaven  from  her  old  pursuits.  But  query  :  If 
Mrs.  Alderman  Cute  had  gone  to  Heaven,  would  Mr. 
Alderman  Cute  have  pictured  her  as  holding  any  state  or 
station  there  ? 

"  And  you're  making  love  to  her,  are  you?"  said  Cute 
to  the  young  smitli. 

"Yes,"  returned  Richard  quickly,  for  he  was  nettled 
by  the  question.  "And  we  are  going  to  be  married  on 
New  Year's  Day." 

"  What  do  you  mean  !"  cried  Filer  sharply,  "Mar- 
ried !  " 

"Why,  yes,  we're  thinking  of  it.  Master,"  said  Rich- 
ard. "  We're  rather  in  a  hurry  you  see,  in  case  it  should 
be  Put  Down  first." 

"Ah  !"  cried  Filer,  with  a  groan,  "Put  that  down 
indeed,  Alderman,  and  you'll  do  something.  Married  ! 
Married  !  !  The  ignorance  of  the  first  principles  of  politi- 
cal economy  on  the  part  of  these  people  ;  their  improvi- 
dence ;  their  wickedness  ;  is,  by  Heavens  !  enough  to — 
Now  look  at  that  couple,  will  you." 

Well  !  They  were  worth  looking  at.  And  marriage 
seemed  as  reasonable  and  fair  a  deed  as  they  need  have 
In  contemplation, 

"  A  man  may  live  to  be  as  old  as  Methusaleh,"  said 
Mr,  Filer,  "  and  may  labour  all  his  life  for  the  benefit  of 
such  people  as  those  ;  and  may  heap  up  facts  on  figures, 
facts  on  figures,  facts  on  figures,  mountains  high  and 
dry  ;  and  he  can  no  more  hope  to  persuade  'em  that  they 
have  no  right  or  business  to  be  married,  than  he  can 
hope  to  persuade  'em  that  they  have  no  earthly  right  or 
business  to  be  bom.  And  tJiat  we  know  they  haven't. 
We  reduced  it  to  a  mathematical  certainty  long  ago  !  " 

Alderman  Cute  was  mightily  diverted,  and  laid  his 
right  forefinger  on  the  side  of  his  nose,  as  much  as  to 
say  to  both  his  friends,  "  Observe  me,  will  you  ?  Keep 
your  eye  on  the  practical  man  1 " — and  called  Meg  to 
him. 

"Come  here,  my  girl  !"  said  Alderman  Cute, 

The  young  blood  of  her  lover  had  been  mounting 
wrathfully,  within  the  last  few  minutes  ;  and  he  was  in- 
disposed to  let  her  come.  But,  setting  a  constraint  upon 
himself,  he  came  forward  with  a  stride  as  Meg  ap- 
proached, and  stood  beside  her.  Trotty  kept  her  hand 
within  his  arm  still,  but  looked  from  face  to  face  as 
wildly  as  a  sleeppr  in  a  dream. 

"  Now,  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  word  or  two  of  good 
advice,  my  girl,"  said  the  Alderman,  in  his  nice  easy 
way.  "  It's  my  place  to  give  advice,  you  know,  because 
I'm  a  Justice.    You  know  I'm  a  Justice,  don't  you  ?  " 

Meg  timidly  said,  "Yes."  But  everybody  knew  Al- 
derman Cute  was  a  Justice  !   Oh  dear,  so  active  a  Jus- 


tice always  !  Who  such  a  mote  of  brightness  in  the 
public  eye,  as  Cute  ! 

"  You  are  going  to  be  married,  you  say,"  pursued  the 
Alderman.  "  Very  unbecoming  and  indelicate  in  one  of 
your  sex  !  But  never  mind  that.  After  you  are  married 
you'll  quarrel  with  your  husband,  and  come  to  be  a  dis- 
tressed wife.  You  may  think  not ;  but  you  will,  because 
I  tell  you  so.  Now,  I  give  you  fair  warning,  that  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  Put  distressed  wives  Down.  So, 
don't  be  brought  before  me.  You'll  have  children — 
boys.  Those  boys  will  grow  up  bad,  of  course,  and  run 
wild  in  the  streets,  without  shoes  and  stockings.  Mind, 
my  young  friend  !  I'll  convict  'em  summarily,  every 
one,  for  I  am  determined  to  Put  boys  without  shoes  and 
stockings  Down.  Perhaps  your  husband  will  die  young 
(most  likely)  and  leave  you  with  a  baby.  Then  you'll  be 
turned  out  of  doors,  and  wander  up  and  down  the  streets. 
Now,  don't  wander  near  me,  my  dear,  for  I'm  resolved  to 
Put  all  wandering  mothers  Down.  All  young  mothers, 
of  all  sorts  and  kinds,  it's  my  determination  to  Put 
Down,  Don't  think  to  plead  illness  as  an  excuse  with 
me  ;  or  babies  as  an  excuse  with  me  ;  for  all  sick  persons 
and  young  children  (I  hope  you  know  the  church-service, 
but  I'm  afraid  not)  I  am  determined  to  Put  Down,  And 
if  you  attempt,  desperately,  and  ungratefully,  and  im- 
piously, and  fraudulently  attempt,  to  drown  yourself,  or 
hang  yourself,  I'll  have  no  pity  on  you,  for  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  Put  all  suicide  Down  !  If  there  is  one 
I  thing,"  said  the  Alderman,  with  his  self-satisfied  smile, 
"  on  which  I  can  be  said  to  have  made  up  my  mind  more 
than  on  another,  it  is  to  Put  suicide  Down,  So  don't  try 
it  on.  That's  the  phrase,  isn't  it !  Ha,  ha  !  now  we  un- 
derstand each  other." 

Toby  knew  not  whether  to  be  agonised  or  glad,  to  see 
that  Meg  had  turned  a  deadly  white,  and  dropped  her 
lover's  hand, 

"  As  for  you,  you  dull  dog,"  said  the  Alderman,  turn- 
ing with  even  increased  cheerfulness  and  urbanity  to 
the  young  smith,  "  what  are  you  thinking  of  being 
married  for?  What  do  you  want  to  be  married  for,  you 
silly  fellow  1  If  I  was  a  fine,  young,  strapping  chap  like 
you,  I  should  be  ashamed  of  being  milksop  enough  to 
pin  myself  to  a  woman's  apron-strings  !  Why,  she'll  be 
an  old  woman  before  you're  a  middle-aged  man  !  And  a 
pretty  figure  you'll  cut  then,  with  a  draggle-tailed  wife 
and  a  crowd  of  squalling  children  crying  after  you 
wherever  you  go  !  " 

0,  he  knew  how  to  banter  the  common  people.  Alder- 
man Cute  ! 

"  There  !  Go  along  with  you,"  said  the  Alderman, 
"  and  repent.  Don't  make  such  a  fool  of  yourself  as  to 
get  married  on  New  Year's  Day.  You'll  think  very  dif- 
ferently of  it,  long  before  next  New  Year's  Day  :  a  trim 
young  fellow  like  you,  with  all  the  girls  looking  after 
you.    There!    Go  along  with  you  ! " 

They  went  along.  Not  arm  in  arm,  or  hand  in  hand, 
or  interchanging  bright  glances  ;  but,  she  in  tears  ;  he 
gloomy  and  down-looking.  Were  these  the  hearts  that 
had  so  lately  made  old  Toby's  leap  up  from  its  faint- 
ness  ?  No,  no.  The  Alderman  (a  blessing  on  his  head  !) 
had  Put  them  Down. 

"As  you  happen  to  be  here,"  said  the  Alderman  to 
Toby,  "you  shall  carry  a  letter  for  me.  Can  you  be 
quick  ?    You're  an  old  man. " 

Toby,  who  had  been  looking  after  Meg,  quite  stupidly, 
made  shift  to  murmur  out  that  he  was  very  quick,  and 
very  strong. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  inquired  the  Alderman. 

"  I  am  over  sixty,  sir,"  said  Toby. 

"0  !  This  man's  a  great  deal  past  the  average  age, 
you  know,"  cried  Mr,  Filer,  breaking  in  as  if  his  patience 
would  bear  some  trying,  but  this  was  really  carrying 
matters  a  little  too  far. 

"  I  feel  I'm  intruding,  sir,"  said  Toby.  "  I— I  mis- 
doubted it  this  morning.    0  dear  me  1" 

The  Alderman  cut  him  short  by  giving  him  the  letter 
from  his  pocket.  Toby  would  have  got  a  shilling  too  ; 
but  Mr.  Filer  clearly  showing  that  in  that  case  he  would 
rob  a  certain  given  number  of  persons  of  ninepence-half- 
penny  a-piece,  he  only  got  sixpence;  and  thought  himself 
very  well  off  to  get  that. 

Then  the  Alderman  gave  an  arm  to  each  of  his  friends, 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS, 


259 


and  walked  off  in  liigh  feather  ;  "but,  he  immediately 
came  harrying  back  alone,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  some- 
thing. 

"  Porter  !  "  said  the  Alderman. 
"Sir  I"  said  Toby. 

"Take  care  of  that  daughter  of  yours.  She's  much  too 
handsome." 

"  Even  her  good  looks  are  stolen  from  somebody  or 
other  I  suppose,"  thought  Toby,  looking  at  tiie  sixpence 
in  his  hand,  and  thinking  of, the  trix)e.  "  She's  been  and 
robbed  five  hundred  ladies  of  a  bloom  a-piece,  I  shouldn't 
wonder.    It's  very  dreadful  I " 

**  She's  much  too  handsome,  my  man,"  repeated  the 
Alderman.  "The  chances  are  that  she'll  come  to  no 
good,  I  clearly  see.  Observe  what  I  say.  Take  care  of 
her  !"    With  which,  he  hurried  off  again. 

"  Wrong  every  way.  Wrong  every  *vay  ! "  said  Trotty, 
clasping  his  hands.    "Born  bad.    No  business  here  !" 

The  Chimes  came  clashing  in  upon  him  as  he  said  the 
words.  Full,  loud,  and  sounding — but  with  no  en- 
couragement.   No,  not  a  drop. 

"  The  tune's  changed,"  cried  the  old  man,  as  he 
listened.  "There's  not  a  word  of  all  that  fancy  in  it. 
Why  should  there  be  ?  1  have  no  business  with  the  New 
Year  nor  with  the  old  one  neither.    Let  me  die  !  " 

Still  the  Bells,  pealing  forth  their  changes,  made  the 
very  air  spin.  Put  'em  down.  Put  'em  down  !  Good  old 
Tirnes,  Good  old  Times  !  Facts  and  Figures,  Facts  and 
Figures  !  Put  'em  down.  Put  'em  down  !  If  they  said 
anything  they  said  this,  until  the  brain  of  Toby  reeled. 

He  pressed  his  bewildered  head  between  his  hands  as 
if  to  keep  it  from  splitting  asunder.  A  well-timed  action 
as  it  happened  ;  for  finding  the  letter  in  one  of  them, 
and  being  by  that  means  reminded  of  his  charge,  he 
fell,  mechanically,  into  his  usual  trot,  and  trotted  off. 


SECOND  QUARTER. 

The  letter  Toby  had  received  from  Alderman  Cute, 
was  addressed  to  a  great  man  in  the  great  district  of  the 
town.  The  greatest  district  of  the  town.  It  must  have 
been  the  greatest  district  of  the  town,  because  it  was  com- 
monly called  the  "  world  "  by  its  inhabitants. 

The  letter  positively  seemed  heavier  in  Toby's  hand, 
than  another  letter.  Not  because  the  Alderman  had 
sealed  it  with  a  very  large  coat  of  arms  and  no  end  of 
wax,  but  because  of  the  weighty  name  on  the  superscrip- 
tion, and  the  ponderous  amount  of  gold  and  silver  with 
which  it  was  associated. 

"  How  diiferent  from  us  !  "  thought  Toby,  in  all  sim- 
plicity and  earnestness,  as  he  looked  at  the  direction. 
"Divide  the  lively  turtles  in  the  bills  of  mortality,  by 
the  number  of  gentlefolks  able  to  buy  'em  ;  and  whose 
share  does  he  take  but  his  own  !  As  to  snatching  tripe 
from  anybody's  mouth — he'd  scorn  it." 

With  the  involuntary  homage  due  to  such  an  exalted 
character,  Toby  interposed  a  corner  of  his  apron  between 
the  letter  and  his  fingers. 

"His  children,"  said  Trotty,  and  a  mist  rose  before 
his  eyes;  "his  daughters — Gentlemen  may  win  their 
hearts  and  marry  them  ;  they  may  be  happy  wives  and 
mothers  ;  they  may  be  handsome  like  my  darling  M — " 

He  couldn't  finish  her  name.  The  final  letter  swelled 
in  his  throat,  to  the  size  of  the  whole  alphabet. 

"Never  mind,"  thought  Trotty.  "I  know  what  I 
mean.  That's  more  than  enough  for  me. "  And  with 
this  consolatory  rumination,  trotted  on. 

It  was  a  hard  frost,  that  day.  The  air  was  bracing, 
crisp,  and  clear.  The  wintry  sun,  though  powerless  for 
warmth,  looked  brightly  down  upon  the  ice  it  was  too 
weak  to  melt,  and  set  a  radiant  glory  there.  At  other 
times,  Trotty  might  have  learned  a  poor  man's  lesson 
from  the  wintry  sun.  but,  he  was  past  that,  now. 

The  Year  was  Old,  that  day.  The  patient  Year  had 
lived  through  the  reproaches  and  misuses  of  its  slander- 
ers, and  faithfully  performed  its  work.  Spring,  summer, 
autumn,  winter.  It  had  laboured  through  the  destined 
round,  and  now  laid  down  its  weary  head  to  die.  Shut 
out  from  hope,  high  impulse,  active  happiness,  itself,  but 
messenger  of  many  joys  to  others,  it  made  appeal  in  its 


decline  to  ha^^eitq  toiling  days  and  patient  hours  remem- 
bered, and  to  die  in  peace.  Trotty  might  have  read  a 
poor  man's  allegory  in  the  fading  year  ;  but  he  was  past 
that,  now. 

And  only  he  ?  Or  has  the  like  appeal  been  ever  made, 
by  seventy  years  at  once  upon  an  English  labourer's  head, 
and  made  in  vain  ! 

The  streets  were  full  of  motion,  and  the  shops  were 
decked  out  gaily.  The  New  Year,  like  an  Infant  Heir 
to  the  whole  world,  was  waited  for,  with  welcomes,  pres- 
ents, and  rejoicings.  There  were  books  and  toys  for  the 
New  Year,  glittering  trinkets  for  the  New  Year,  dresses 
for  the  New  Year,  schemes  of  fortune  for  the  New  Year  ; 
new  invitations  to  beguile  it.  Its  life  was  parcelled  out 
in  almanacks  and  pocket  books  ;  the  coming  of  its  moons, 
and  stars,  and  tides,  was  known  beforehand  to  the  mo- 
ment ;  all  the  workings  of  its  seasons  in  their  days  and 
nights,  were  calculated  with  as  much  precision  as  Mr. 
Filer  could  work  sums  in  men  and  women. 

The  New,  Year,  the  New  Year.  Everywhere  the  New 
Year  !  The  Old  Year  was  already  looked  upon  as  dead  ; 
and  its  effects  were  selling  cheap,  like  some  drowned 
mariner's  aboardship.  Its  patterns  were  Last  Year's, 
and  going  at  a  sacrifice,  before  its  breath  was  gone.  Its 
treasures  were  mere  dirt,  beside  the  riches  of  its  unborn 
successor  ! 

Trotty  had  no  portion,  to  his  thinking,  in  the  New 
Year  or  the  Old. 

"  Put  'em  down.  Put  'em  down  !  Facts  and  Figures, 
Facts  and  Figures  !  Good  old  Times,  Good  old  Times  ! 
Put  'em  down.  Put  'em  down  ! " — his  trot  went  to  that 
measure,  and  would  fit  itself  to  nothing  else. 

But,  even  that  one,  melancholy  as  it  was,  brought  him, 
in  due  time,  to  the  end  of  his  journey.  To  the  mansion 
of  Sir  Joseph  Bowley,  Member  of  Parliament. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  Porter.  Such  a  Porter  ! 
Not  of  Toby's  order.  Quite  another  thing.  His  place 
was  the  ticket  though  ;  not  Toby's. 

This  Porter  underwent  some  hard  panting  before  he 
could  speak  ;  having  breathed  himself  by  coming  incau- 
tiously out  of  his  chair,  without  first  taking  time  to  think 
about  it  and  compose  his  mind.  When  he  had  found  his 
voice — which  it  took  him  some  time  to  do,  for  it  was  a 
long  way  off,  and  hidden  under  a  load  of  meat — he  said 
in  a  fat  whisper, 

"Who's  it  from?" 

Toby  told  him. 

"  You're  to  take  it  in,  yourself,"  said  the  Porter,  point- 
ing to  a  room  at  the  end  of  a  large  passage,  opening  from 
the  hall.  "  Everything  goes  straight  in,  on  this  day  of 
the  year.  You're  not  a  bit  too  soon  ;  for,  the  carriage  is 
at  the  door  now,  and  they  have  only  come  to  town  for  a 
couple  of  hours,  a'  purpose." 

Toby  wiped  his  feet  (which  were  quite  dry  already) 
with  great  care  and  took  the  way  pointed  out  to  him  ; 
observing  as  he  went  that  it  was  an  awfully  grand  house, 
but  hushed  and  covered  up,  as  if  the  family  were  in  the 
country.  Knocking  at  the  room  door,  he  was  told  to 
enter  from  within  ;  and  doing  so  found  himself  in  a 
spacious  library,  where,  at  a  table  strewn  with  files  and 
papers,^  were  a  stately  lady  in  a  bonnet  ;  and  a  not  very 
stately  gentleman  in  black  who  wrote  from  her  dicta- 
tion ;  while  another,  and  an  older,  and  a  much  statelier 
gentleman,  whose  hat  and  cane  were  on  the  table,  walked 
up  and  down,  with  one  hand  in  his  breast,  and  looked 
complacently  from  time  to  time  at  his  own  picture — a  full 
length  ;  a  very  full  length — hanging  over  the  fireplace. 

'''What  is  this?"  said  the  last-named  gentleman. 
"  Mr.  Fish,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  attend?  " 

Mr.  Fish  begged  pardon,  and  taking  the  letter  from 
Toby,  handed  \t,  with  great  respect. 

"  From  Alderman  Cute,  Sir  Joseph." 

"Is  that  all?  Have  you  nothing  else,  Porter  ?"  in- 
quired Sir.  Joseph. 

Toby  replied  in  the  negative. 

"  You  have  no  bill  or  demand  upon  me— my  name  is 
Bowley,  Sir  Joseph  Bowley— of  any  kind  from  anybody, 
have  you?"  said  Sir  Joseph.  "  If  you  have,  present  it. 
There  is  a  cheque-book  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Fish.  I  allow 
nothing  to  be  carried  into' the  New  Year.    Every  descrip- 

j  tion  of  account  is  settled  in  this  house  at  the  close  of  the 

I  old  one.    So  that  if  death  was  to — to — " 


260 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  To  cut,"  suggested  Mr.  Fisli. 

"  To  sever,  sir,"  returned  Sir  Joseph,  witli  great  as- 
perity," the  cord  of  existence — my  affairs  would  be  found, 
I  hope,  in  a  state  of  preparation." 

"  My  dear  Sir  Joseph  !  "  said  the  lady,  who  was  greatly 
younger  than  the  gentleman.    "  How  shocking  !" 

"  My  lady  Bowley,"  returned  Sir  Joseph,  floundering 
now  and  then,  as  in  the  great  depth  of  his  observations, 
*'  at  this  season  of  the  year  we  should  think  of — of — 
ourselves.  We  should  look  into  our — our  accounts. 
We  should  feel  that  every  return  of  so  eventful  a  period 
in  human  transacts '*ns,  involves  matter  of  deep  moment 
between  a  man  and  his — and  his  banker. " 

Sir  Joseph  delivered  these  words  as  if  he  felt  the  full 
morality  of  what  he  was  saying  ;  and  desired  that  even 
Trotty  should  have  an  opportunity  of  being  improved  by 
such  discourse.  Possibly  he  had  this  end  before  him 
in  still  forbearing  to  break  the  seal  of  the  letter,  and  in 
telling  Trotty  to  wait  where  he  was  a  minute. 

"  You  were  desiring  Mr,  Fish  to  say,  my  lady — "  ob- 
served Sir  Joseph. 

"Mr.  Fish  has  said  that,  T  believe,"  returned  his  lady, 
glancing  at  the  letter.  "But,  upon  my  word,  Sir 
Joseph,  I  don't  think  I  can  let  it  go  after  all.  It  is  so 
very  dear." 

"'What  is  dear  ?  "  inquired  Sir  Joseph. 

"  That  Charity,  my  love.  They  only  allow  two  votes 
for  a  subsciption  of  five  pounds.    Really  monstrous  !  " 

"  My  lady  Bowley,"  returned  Sir  Joseph,  "  you  sur- 
prise me.  Is  the  luxury  of  feeling  in  proportion  to  the 
number  of  votes  ;  or  is  it,  to  a  rightly-constituted  mind, 
in  proportion  to  the  number  of  applicants,  and  the 
wholesome  state  of  mind  to  which  their  canvassing 
reduces  them  !  Is  there  no  excitement  of  the  purest 
kind  in  having  two  votes  to  dispose  of  among  fifty 
people  ? " 

"  Not  to  me,  I  acknowledge,"  returned  the  lady.  "  It 
bores  one.  Besides,  one  can't  oblige  one's  acquaintance. 
But  you  are  the  Poor  Man's  Friend,  you  know.  Sir 
Joseph,    You  think  otherwise." 

"  I  am  the  Poor  Man's  Friend,"  observed  Sir  Joseph, 
glancing  at  the  poor  man  present.  "As  such  I  may  be 
taunted.  As  such  I  have  been  taunted.  But  I  ask  no 
other  title." 

"  Bless  him  for  a  noble  gentleman  !  "  thought  Trotty. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  Cute  here,  for  instance,"  said  Sir 
Joseph,  holding  out  the  letter.  "  I  don't  agree  with  the 
Filer  party.  I  don't  agree  with  any  party.  My  friend 
the  Poor  Man,  has  no  business  with  anything  of  that 
sort,  and  nothing  of  that  sort  has  any  business  with 
him.  My  friend,  the  Poor  man,  in  my  district,  is  my 
business.  No  man  or  body  of  men  has  any  right  to  in- 
terfere between  my  friend  and  me.  That  is  the  ground 
I  take.  I  assume  a — a  paternal  character  towards  my 
friend.  I  say,  'My  good  fellow,  I  will  treat  you  pater- 
nally." 

Toby  listened  with  great  gravity,  and  began  to  feel 
more  comfortable. 

"  Your  own  business,  my  good  fellow,"  pursued  Sir 
Joseph,  looking  abstractedly  at  Toby  :  "your  only  busi- 
ness in  life  is  with  me.  You  needn't  trouble  yourself  to 
think  about  anything.  I  will  think  for  you  ;"  I  know 
what  is  good  for  you  ;  I  am  your  perpetual  parent. 
Such  is  the  dispensation  of  an  all-wise  Providence  ! 
Now,  the  design  of  your  creation  is — not  that  you  should 
swill,  and  guzzle,  and  associate  your  enjoyments,  bru- 
tally, with  food  ; "  Toby  thought  remorsefully  of  the 
tripe  ;  "  but  that  you  should  feel  the  Dignity  of  Labour. 
Go  forth  erect  into  the  cheerful  morning  air,  and — and 
stop  there.  Live  hard  and  temperately,  be  respectful, 
exercise  your  self-denial,  bring  up  your  family  on  next 
to  nothing,  pay  your  rent  as  regularly  as  the  clock  strikes, 
be  punctual  in  your  dealings  (I  set  you  a  good  example  ; 
you  will  lind  Mr.  Fish,  my  confidential  secretary,  with  a 
cash-box  before  him  at  all  times)  ;  and  you  may  trust  to 
me  to  be  your  Friend  and  Father." 

"Nice  children,  indeed,  Sir  Josejjh  1 "  said' the  lady, 
with  a  shudder.  "  Rheumatisms,  and  fevers,  and  crooked 
legs,  and  asthmas,  and  all  kind  of  horrors  ! " 

"My  lady,"  returned  Sir  Joseph,  with  solemnity,  "not 
the  less  am  I  the  Poor  Man's  Friend  and  Father,  Not 
the  less  shall  he  receive  encouragement  at  my  Lauds. 


Every  quarter-day  he  will  be  put  in  communication  with 
Mr.  Fish.  Every  New-Year's  Day,  myself  and  friends 
will  drink  his  health.  Once  every  year,  myself  and  friends 
will  address  him  with  the  deepest  feeling.  Once  in  his 
life,  he  may  even  perhaps  receive  ;  in  public,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  gentry  ;  a  Trifle  from  a  friend.  And  when, 
upheld  no  more  by  these  stimulants,  and  the  Dignity  of 
Labour,  he  sinks  into  his  comfortable  grave,  then  my  la- 
dy " — here  Sir  Joseph  blew  his  nose  —  "  I  will  be  a  Friend 
and  Father — on  the  same  terms — to  his  children." 
Toby  was  greatly  moved. 

"  0  !  You  have  a  thankful  family,  Sir  Joseph  !  "  cried 
his  wife, 

"  My  lady,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  quite  majestically,  "In- 
gratitude is  known  to  be  the  sin  of  that  class,  I  expect 
no  other  return." 

"  Ah  !  Born  bad  ! "  thought  Toby.  "  Nothing  melts 
us." 

"  What  man  can  do,  Jdo,"  pursued  Sir  Joseph,  "I  do 
my  duty  as  the  Poor  Man's  Friend  and  Father  ;  and  I  en- 
deavour to  educate  his  mind,  by  inculcating  on  all  occa- 
sions the  one  great  moral  lesson  which  that  class  requires. 
That  is,  entire  Dependence  on  myself.  They  have  no 
business  whatever  with — with  themselves.  If  wicked 
and  designing  persons  tell  them  otherwise,  and  they  be- 
come impatient  and  discontented,  and  are  guilty  of  in- 
subordinate conduct  and  black-hearted  ingratitude  ; 
which  is  undoubtedly  the  case  ;  I  am  their  Friend  and 
Father  still.  It  is  so  Ordained.  It  is  in  the  nature  of 
things." 

With  that  great  sentiment,  he  opened  the  Alderman's 
letter  ;  and  read  it. 

"  Very  polite  and  attentive,  I  am  sure  ! "  exclaimed  Sir 
Joseph.  "  My  lady,  the  Alderman  is  so  obliging  as  to 
remind  me  that  he  has  had  *  the  distinguished  honour ' 
—he  is  very  good — of  meeting  me  at  the  house  of  our  mu- 
tual friend  Deedles,  the  banker  ;  and  he  does  me  the  fa- 
vour to  inquire  whether  it  will  be  agreeable  to  me  to  have 
Will  Fern  put  down." 

''Most  agreeable  !"  replied  my  lady  Bowley.  "The 
worst  man  among  them  1  He  has  been  committing  a  rob- 
bery, I  hope  ?  " 

"Why  no,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  referring  to  the  letter. 
"Not  quite.  Very  near.  Not  quite.  He  came  up  to 
London,  it  seems,  to  look  for  employment  (trying  to  bet- 
ter himself — that's  his  story),  and  being  found  at  night 
asleep  in  a  shed,  was  taken  into  custody,  and  carried  next 
morning  before  the  Alderman.  The  Alderman  observes 
(very  properly)  that  he  is  determined  to  put  this  sort  of 
thing  down  ;  and  that  if  it  will  be  agreeable  to  me  to 
have  Will  Fern  put  down,  he  will  be  happy  to  begin  with 
him." 

"  Let  him  be  made  an  example  of,  by  all  means,"  re- 
turned the  lady.  "  Last  winter,  when  I  introduced  pink- 
ing and  eyelet-holing  among  the  men  and  boys  in  the 
village,  as  a  nice  evening  employment,  and  had  the  lines, 

O  let  us  love  our  occupations, 
Bless  the  squire  and  his  relations, 
Live  upon  our  daily  rations, 
And  always  know  our  proper  stations, 

set  to  music  on  the  new  system,  for  them  to  sing  the 
while  ;  this  very  Fern — I  see  him  now— touched  that  hat 
of  his,  and  said,  '  I  humbly  ask  your  pardon,  my  lady, 
but  an't  I  something  different  from  a  great  girl  ? '  I  ex- 
pected it,  of  course  ;  who  can  expect  anything  but  inso- 
lence and  ingratitude  from  that  class  of  people.  That  is 
not  to  the  purpose,  however.  Sir  Joseph  !  Make  an  ex- 
ample of  him  ! " 

"Hem  !"  coughed  Sir  Joseph.  "Mr.  Fish,  if  you'll 
have  the  goodness  to  attend — " 

Mr.  Fish  immediately  seized  his  pen,  and  wrote  from 
Sis  Joseph's  dictation. 

"  Private,  My  dear  Sir.  I  am  very  much  indebted  to 
you  for  your  courtesy  in  the  matter  of  the  man  William 
Fern,  of  whom,  I  regret  to  add,  I  can  say  nothing  favour- 
able. I  have  uniformly  considered  myself  in  the  light  of 
his  Friend  and  Father,  but  have  been  repaid  (a  common 
case  I  grieve  to  say)  with  ingratitude,  and  constant  op- 
position to  my  plans.  He  is  a  turbulent  and  rebellious 
spirit.  His  character  will  not  bear  investigation.  Nothing 
will  persuade  him  to  bo  happy  when  he  might.  Under 


I  CIIRI&TMA 

[these  circumstances,  it  appears  to  me,  Town,  that  when 
!  be  comes  before  you  again  (as  you  informed  mo  hnprom- 
,  ised  to  do  to-morrow,  pending  your  inquiries,  and  I  tliink 

he  may  be  so  far  relied  upon),  his  committal  for  some 
I  short  term  as  a  Vagabond,  would  be  a  service  to  society, 

and  would  be  a  salutary  example  in  a  country  where — 
'  for  the  sake  of  those  who  are,  through  good  and  evil  re- 
!  port,  the  Friends  and  Fathers  of  the  Poor,  as  well  as 

with  a  view  to  that,  generally  speaking,  misguided  class 

themselves — examples  are  greatly  needed.    And  I  am," 

and  so  forth. 

"  It  appears,"  remarked  Sir  Joseph,  when  he  had 
signed  this  letter,  and  Mr.  Fish  was  sealing  it,  "  as  if  this 
were  Ordained  :  really.  At  the  close  of  the  year,  I 
wind  up  mv  account  and  strike  my  balance,  even  with 
William  Fern  ! " 

Trotty,  who  had  long  ago  relapsed,  and  was  very  low- 
spirited,  stepped  forward  with  a  rueful  face  to  take  the 
letter. 

"  With  my  compliments  and  thanks,"  said  Sir  Joseph. 
Stop  ! " 

"  Stop  !  "  echoed  Mr.  Fish. 

*' You  ha>'e  heard,  perhaps,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  oracu- 
larly, "  certain  remarks  into  which  I  have  been  led  re- 
specting the  solemn  period  of  time  at  which  we  have  ar- 
rived, and  the  duty  imposed  upon  us  of  settling  our 
affairs,  and  being  prepared.  You  have  observed  that  I 
don't  shelter  myself  behind  my  superior  standing  in 
society,  but  that  Mr.  Fish. — that  gentleman — has  a  cheque 
book  at  his  elbow,  and  is  in  fact  here,  to  enable  me  to 
turn  over  a  perfectly  new  leaf,  and  enter  on  the  epoch 
before  us  with  a  clean  account.  Now,  my  friend,  can 
you  lay  your  hand  upon  your  heart,  and  say,  that  you 
also  have  made  preparation  for  a  New  Year?" 

"I  am  afraid  sir,"  stammered  Trotty,  looking  meekly 
at  him,  "  that  I  am  a — a — little  behind-hand  with  the 
world," 

"Behind-hand  with  the  world  ! "  repeated  Sir  Joseph 
Bowley,  in  a  tone  of  terrible  distinctness. 

"I  am  afraid  sir,"  faltered  Trotty,  "that  there's  a 
matter  of  ten  or  twelve  shillings  owing  to  Mrs.  Chicken- 
stalker. 

"  To  Mrs.  Cliickenstalker  !  "  repeated  Sir  Joseph  in  the 
same  tone  as  before. 

"A  shop  sir,"  exclaimed  Toby,  "in  the  general  line. 
Also  a — a  little  money  on  account  of  rent.  A  very  little 
sir.  It  oughtn't  to  be  owing,  I  know,  but  we  have  been 
hard  put  to  it,  indeed  ?" 

Sir  Joseph  looked  at  his  lady,  and  at  Mr.  Fish,  and  at 
Trotty,  one  after  another,  twice  all  round.  He  then 
made  a  despondent  gesture  with  both  hands  at  once,  as 
if  he  gave  the  thing  up  altogether. 

"  How  a  man,  even  among  this  improvident  and  im- 
practicable race  ;  an  old  man  ;  a  man  grown  grey  ;  can 
look  a  New  Year  in  the  face,  with  his  affairs  in  this  con- 
dition ;  how  he  can  lie  down  on  his  bed  at  night,  and  get 
up  again  in  the  morning,  and — There  ! "  he  said,  turning 
his  back  on  Trotty.  "Take  the  letter.  Take  the  let- 
ter!" 

"  I  heartily  wish  it  was  otherwise,  sir,"  said  Trotty, 
anxious  to  excuse  himself.  "  We  have  been  tried  very 
hard." 

Sir  Joseph  still  repeating  "  Take  the  letter,  take  the 
letter  !  "  and  Mr,  Fish  not  only  saying  the  same  thing, 
but  giving  additional  force  to  the  request  by  motioning 
the  bearer  to  the  door,  he  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  make 
his  bow  and  leave  the  house.  And  in  the  street,  poor 
Trotty  pulled  his  worn  old  hat  down  on  his  head,  to  hide 
the  grief  he  felt  at  getting  no  hold  on  the  New  Year, 
anywhere. 

He  didn't  even  lift  his  hat  to  look  up  at  the  Bell  tower 
when  he  came  to  the  old  church  on  his  return.  He 
halted  there  a  moment,  from  habit ;  and  knew  that  it 
was  growing  dark,  and  that  the  steeple  rose  above  him, 
indistinct  and  faint,  in  the  murky  air.  He  knew,  too, 
that  the  chimes  would  ring  immediately  ;  and  that  they 
sounded  to  his  fancy,  at  such  a  time,  like  voices  in  the 
clouds.  But  he  only  made  the  more  haste  to  deliver  the 
Alderman's  letter,  and  get  out  of  the  way  before  they  be- 
gan ;  for  he  dreaded  to  hear  them  tagging  "  Friends  and 
Fathers,  Friends  and  Fathers,"  to  the  burden  they  had 
rung  out  last. 


8    BOOKS.  261 

Toby  discharged  himself  of  his  commission,  there- 
fore,  with  all  possible  speed,  and  setoff  trotting  home- 
ward. But  what  with  his  j)ace,  which  was  at  best  an 
awkward  one  in  the  street  ;  and  what  with  his  hat  which 
didn't  improve  it  ;  he  trotted  against  somebody  in  less 
than  no  time,  and  was  sent  staggering  out  into  the 
road. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure  !"  said  Trotty,  pulling 
up  his  hat  in  great  confusion,  and  between  the  hat  und 
the  torn  lining,  fixing  his  head  into  a  kind  of  bee-hive. 
"  I  hope  I  haven't  hurt  you." 

As  to  hurting  anybody,  Toby  was  not  such  an  absolute 
Samson,  but  that  he  was  much  more  likely  to  be  hurt 
himself  :  and  indeed,  he  had  flown  out  into  the  road,  like 
a  shuttlecock.  He  had  such  an  opinion  of  his  own 
strength,  however,  that  he  was  in  real  concern  for  the 
other  party  :  and  said  again, 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  hurt  you  ?  " 

The  man  against  whom  he  had  run  ;  a  sun-browned, 
sinewy,  country-looking  man,  with  grizzled  hair,  and  a 
rough  chin  ;  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  sus- 
pected him  to  be  in  jest.  But,  satisfied  of  his  good 
faith,  he  answered  : 

"  No,  friend.    Yoti  have  not  hurt  me." 

"Nor  the  child,  I  hope?"  said  Trotty. 

"  Nor  the  child,"  returned  the  man.  "  I  thank  you 
kindly." 

As  he  said  so,  he  glanced  at  a  little  girl  he  carried  in 
his  arms,  asleep  :  and  shading  her  face  with  the  long 
end  of  a  poor  handkerchief  he  wore  about  his  throat, 
went  slowly  on. 

The  tone  in  which  he  said  "  I  thank  you  kindly," 
penetrated  Trotty's  heart.  He  was  so  jaded  and  foot- 
sore, and  so  soiled  with  travel,  and  looked  about  him  so 
forlorn  and  strange,  that  it  was  a  comfort  to  him  to  be 
able  to  thank  any  one  :  no  matter  for  how  little.  Toby 
stood  gazing  after  him  as  he  plodded  wearily  away,  with 
the  child's  arm  clinging  round  his  neck. 

At  the  figure  in  the  worn  shoes — now  tlie  very  shade 
and  ghost  of  shoes — rough  leather  leggings,  common 
frock,  and  broad  slouched  hat,  Trotty  stood  gazing,  blind 
to  the  whole  street.  And  at  the  child's  arm,  clinging 
round  its  neck. 

Before  he  merged  into  the  darkness  the  traveller 
stopped  ;  and  looking  round,  and  seeing  Trotty  standing 
there  yet,  seemed  undecided  whether  to  return  or  go  on. 
After  doing  first  the  one  and  then  the  other,  he  came 
back,  and  Trotty  went  half  w^ay  to  meet  him. 

"  You  can  tell  me,  perhaps,"  said  the  man  with  a  faint 
smile,  "  and  if  you  can  I  am  sure  you  will,  and  I'd  rather 
ask  you  than  another — where  Alderman  Cute  lives," 

"Close  at  hand,"  replied  Toby.  "I'll  show  you  his 
house  with  pleasure." 

"  I  was  to  have  gone  to  him  elsewhere  to-morrow," 
said  the  man,  accompanying  Toby,  "but  I'm  uneasy  un- 
der suspicion,  and  w^ant  to  clear  myself,  and  to  be  free 
to  go  and  seek  my  bread — I  don't  know  where.  So, 
maybe  he'll  forgive  my  going  to  his  house  to-night." 

"  It's  impossible,"  cried  Toby  with  a  start,  "that  your 
name's  Fern  ! " 

"Eh!"  cried  the  other,  turning  on  him  in  astonish 
ment. 

"Fern  !  Will  Fern  !"  said  Trotty. 

"  That's  my  name,"  replied  the  other. 

"Why,  then,"  cried  Trotty,  seizing  him  by  the  arm, 
and  looking  cautiously  round,  "  for  Heaven's  sake  don't 
go  to  him  !  Don't  go  to  him  !  He'll  put  you  down  as 
sure  as  ever  you  were  born.  Here  !  come  up  this  alley, 
and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean.    Don't  go  to  him" 

His  new  acquaintance  looked  as  if  he  thought  him 
mad  ;  but  he  bore  him  company  nevertheless.  When 
they  were  shrouded  from  observation,  Trotty  told  him 
what  he  knew,  and  what  character  he  had  received,  and 
all  about  it. 

The  subject  of  his  history  listened  to  it  with  a  calm- 
ness that  surprised  him.  He  did  not  contradict  or  inter- 
rupt it,  once.  He  nodded  his  head  now  and  then — more 
in  corroboration  of  an  old  and  worn-out  story,  it  appeared, 
than  in  refutation  of  it  ;  and  once  or  twice  threw  back 
his  hat,  and  passed  his  freckled  hand  over  a  brow,  where 
every  furrow  he  had  ploughed  seemed  to  have  set  its 
image  in  little.    But  he  did  no  more 


26% 


CHAR  LBS  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"It's  true  enough  in  tlie  main,"  he  said,  "master;  I 
could  sift  grain  from  husk  here  and  there,  hut  let  it  be 
as  'tis.  What  odds  ?  I  have  gone  against  his  plans  ;  to 
my  misfortun'.  I  can't  help  it  ;  I  should  do  the  like  to- 
morrow. As  to  character,  them  gentlefolks  will  search 
and  search,  and  pry  and  pry,  and  have  it  as  free  from 
spot  or  speck  in  us,  afore  they'll  help  us  to  a  dry  good 
word  !— Well  !  I  hope  they  don't  lose  good  opinion  as  easy 
as  we  do,  or  their  lives  is  strict  indeed,  and  hardly  worth 
the  keeping.  For  myself,  master,  I  never  took  with  that 
hand" — holding  it  before  him — "  what  wasn't  my  own  ; 
and  never  held  it  back  from  work,  however  hard,  or 
poorly  paid.  Whoever  can  deny  it,  let  him  chop  it  off  ! 
But  when  work  won't  maintain  me  like  a  human  creetur  ; 
when  my  living  is  so  bad,  that  I  am  Hungry,  out  of  doors 
and  in  ;  when  I  see  a  whole  working  life  begin  that  way, 
go  on  that  way,  and  end  that  way,  without  a  chance  or 
change  ;  then  I  say  to  the  gentlefolks  '  Keep  away  from 
me  !  Let  my  cottage  be.  My  doors  is  dark  enough 
without  your  darkening  of  'em  more.  Don't  look  for 
me  to  come  up  into  the  Park  to  help  the  show  when 
there's  a  Birthday,  or  a  fine  Speechmaking,  or  what  not. 
Act  your  Plays  and  Games  without  me,  and  be  welcome 
to  'em  and  enjoy  'em.  We've  now  to  do  with  one  an- 
other.   I'm  best  let  alone  ! ' " 

Seeing  that  the  child  in  his  arms  had  opened  her  eyes, 
and  was  looking  about  her  in  wonder,  he  checked  him- 
self to  say  a  word  or  two  of  foolish  prattle  in  her  ear, 
and  stand  her  on  the  ground  beside  him.  Then  slowly 
winding  one  of  her  long  tresses  round  and  round  his 
rough  forefinger  like  a  ring,  while  she  hung  about  his 
dusty  leg,  he  said  to  Trotty, 

"  I  am  not  a  cross-grained  man  by  natur',  I  believe  ; 
and  easy  satisfied,  I'm  sure.  I  bear  no  ill  will  against 
none  of  'em.  I  only  want  to  live  like  one  of  the 
Almighty's  creeturs.  I  can't— I  don't — and  so  there's  a 
pit  dug  between  me,  and  them  that  can  and  do.  There's 
others  like  me.  You  might  tell  'em  off  by  hundreds  and 
by  thousands,  sooner  than  by  ones." 

Trotty  knew  he  spoke  the  truth  in  this,  and  shook  his 
head  to  signify  as  much. 

"  I've  got  a  bad  name  this  way,"  said  Fern  ;  "  and  I'm 
not  likely,  I'm  afeared,  to  get  a  better.  'Tan't  lawful  to 
be  out  of  sorts,  and  I  AM  out  of  sorts,  though  God  knows, 
I'd  sooner  bear  a  cheerful  spirit  if  I  could.  Well  I  I 
don't  know  as  this  Alderman  could  hurt  me  much  by 
sending  me  to  jail ;  but  without  a  friend  to  speak  a 
word  for  me,  he  might  do  it ;  and  you  see — !  "  pointing 
downward  with  his  finger,  at  the  child. 

"  She  has  a  beautiful  face,"  said  Trotty. 

"  Why,  yes  !  "  replied  the  other  in  a  low  voice,  as  he 
gently  turned  it  up  with  both  his  hands  towards  his  own, 
and  looked  upon  it  steadfastly.  "  I've  thought  so  many 
times.  I've  thought  so,  when  my  hearth  was  very  cold, 
and  cupboard  very  bare.  I  thought  so  t'other  night, 
when  we  were  taken  like  two  thieves.  But  they — they 
shouldn't  try  the  little  face  too  often,  should  they  Lilian? 
That's  hardly  fair  upon  a  man  ! " 

He  sunk  his  voice  so  low,  and  gazed  upon  her  with 
an  air  so  stern  and  strange,  that  Toby,  to  divert  the 
current  of  his  thoughts,  inquired  if  his  wife  were  liv- 
ing. 

"  I  never  had  one,"  he  returned,  shaking  his  head, 
"  She's  my  brother's  child  :  a  orphan.  Nine  year  old, 
though  you'd  hardly  think  it  ;  but  she's  tired  and  worn 
out  now.  They'd  have  taken  care  on  her,  the  Union — 
eight  and  twenty  mile  away  from  where  we  live — be- 
tween four  walls  (as  they  took  care  of  my  old  father 
when  he  couldn't  work  no  more,  though  he  didn't  trouble 
'em  long) ;  but  I  took  her  instead,  and  she's  lived  with 
me  ever  since.  Her  mother  had  a  friend  once,  in  London 
here.  We  are  trying  to  find  her,  and  to  find  work  too  ; 
but  it's  a  large  place.  Never  mind.  More  room  for  us 
to  walk  about  in,  Lilly  !  " 

Meeting  the  child's  eyes  with  a  smile  which  melted 
Toby  more  than  tears,  he  shook  him  by  the  hand. 

"  I  don't  so  much  as  know  your  name,"  he  said,  "  but 
I've  opened  my  heart  free  to  you,  for  I'm  thankful  to 
you  ;  with  good  reason.  I'll  take  your  advice  and  keep 
clear  of  this — " 

"Justice,"  suggested  Toby. 

"Ah  !"  he  said.    "If  that's  the  name  they  give  him. 


This  Justice.  And  to-morrow  will  try  whether  there's 
better  fortun'  to  be  met  with,  somewheres  near  London, 
Good  night.    A  Happy  New  Year  1 " 

"  Stay  !  "  cried  Trotty,  catching  at  his  hand,  as  he 
relaxed  his  grip.  "  Stay  I  The  New  Year  never  can  be 
happy  to  me,  if  we  part  like  this.  The  New  Year  never 
can  be  happy  to  me,  if  I  see  the  child  and  you,  go  wander- 
ing a^vay,  you  don't  know  where,  without  a  shelter  for 
your  heads.  Come  home  with  me  !  I'm  a  poor  man,  liv- 
ing in  a  poor  place  ;  but  I  can  give  you  lodging  for  one 
night  and  never  miss  it.  Come  home  with  me  !  Here  I 
I'll  take  her  !  "  cried.  Trotty,  lifting  up  the  child.  "  A 
pretty  one  !  I'd  carry  twenty  times  her  weight,  and  never 
know  I'd  got  it.  Tell  me  if  I  go  too  quick  for  you.  I'm 
very  fast.  I  always  was  ! "  Trotty  said  this,  taking  about 
six  of  his  trotting  paces  to  one  stride  of  his  fatigued  com- 
panion ;  and  with  his  thin  legs  quivering  again,  beneath 
the  load  he  bore. 

"Why  she's  as  light,"  said  Trotty,  trotting  in  his 
speech  as  well  as  in  his  gait  ;  for  he  couldn't  bear  to  be 
thanked,  and  dreaded  a  moment's  pause  ;  "as  light  as  a 
feather.  Lighter  than  a  Peacock's  feather — a  great  deal 
lighter.  Here  we  are,  and  here  we  go  I  Round  this 
first  turning  to  the  right,  Uncle  Will,  and  past  the  pump, 
and  sharp  off  up  the  passage  to  the  left,  right  opposite 
the  public-house.  Here  we  are,  and  here  we  go.  Cross 
over.  Uncle  Will,  and  mind  the  kidney  pieman  at  the 
corner  !  Here  we  are  and  here  we  go  I  Down  the  Mews 
here.  Uncle  Will,  and  stop  at  the  black  door,  with  '  T. 
Veck,  Ticket  Porter,'  wrote  upon  a  board  ;  and  here  we 
are,  and  here  go,  and  here  we  are  indeed,  my  precious 
Meg,  surprising  you  !" 

With  which  words  Trotty,  in  a  breathless  state,  set 
the  child  down  before  his  daughter  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  The  little  visitor  looked  once  at  Meg  ;  and  doubt- 
ing nothing  in  that  face,  but  trusting  everything  she 
saw  there  ;  ran  into  her  arms. 

"  Here  we  are,  and  here  we  go  !"  cried  Trotty,  run- 
ning round  the  room  and  choking  audibly.  "  Here,  Uncle 
Will,  here's  a  fire  you  know  !  Why  don't  you  come  to 
the  fire  ?  Oh  here  we  are  and  here  we  go  !  Meg,  rny 
precious  darling,  where's  the  kettle?  Here  it  is  and  here 
it  goes,  and  it'll  bile  in  no  time  ! " 

Trotty  really  had  picked  up  the  kettle  somewhere  or 
other  in  the  course  of  his  wild  career,  and  now  put  it  on 
the  fire  :  while  Meg,  seating  the  child  in  a  warm  corner, 
knelt  down  on  the  ground  before  her,  and  pulled  off  her 
shoes,  and  dried  her  wet  feet  on  a  cloth.  Ay,  and  she 
laughed  at  Trotty  too — so  pleasantly,  so  cheerfully,  that 
Trotty  could  have  blessed  her  where  she  kneeled  :  for  he 
had  seen  that,  when  they  entered,  she  was  sitting  by  the 
fire  in  tears. 

"  Why,  father  !  "  said  Meg.  "  You're  crazy  to-night, 
I  think.  I  don't  know  what  the  Bells  would  say  to  that. 
Poor  little  feet.    How  cold  they  are  !  " 

"Oh  they're  warmer  now!"  exclaimed  the  child. 
"  They're  quite  warm  now  !  " 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Meg.  "We  haven't  rubbed  'em 
half  enougii.  We're  so  busy.  So  busy  !  And  when 
they're  done,  we'll  brush  out  the  damp  hair ;  and  when 
that's  done,  we'll  bring  some  colour  to  the  poor  pale 
face,  with  fresh  water  ;  and  when  that's  done  we'll  be  so 
gay,  and  brisk,  and  happy — " 

The  child,  in  a  fit  of  sobbing,  clasped  her  round  the 
neck  ;  caressed  her  fair  cheek  with  its  hand  ;  and  said, 
"  Oh  Meg  !  oh  dear  Meg  ! " 

Toby's  blessing  could  have  done  no  more.  Who  could 
do  more  ! 

"  Why  father  I  "  cried  Meg,  after  a  pause. 

"  Here  I  am,  and  here  I  go,  my  dear  I*'  said  Trotty. 

"Good  Gracious  me!"  cried  Meg.  "He's  crazy! 
He's  put  the  dear  child's  bonnet  on  the  kettle,  and  hung 
the  lid  behind  the  door  !  " 

"  I  didn't  go  to  do  it,  my  love,"  said  Trotty,  hastily 
repairing  this  mistake.    "  Meg,  my  dear  ?  " 

Meg  looked  towards  liim  and  saw  that  he  had  elabor- 
ately stationed  himself  behind  the  chair  of  their  male 
visitor,  where  with  many  mysterious  gestures  he  was 
holding  up  the  sixpence  he  had  earned. 

"  I  see,  my  dear,"  said  Trotty,  "  as  1  was  coming  in, 
half  an  ounce  of  tea  lying  somewhere  on  the  stairs  ;  and 
I'm  jjretty  sure  there  was  a  bit  of  bacon  too.    As  I  don't 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


203' 


remember  where  it  was,  exactly,  I'll  go  myself  and  try 
to  find  'em." 

With  this  inscrutable  artifice,  Toby  withdrew  to  pur- 
chase the  viands  he  had  spoken  of,  for  ready  money,  at 
Mrs.  Chickenstalker's  :  and  presently  came  back,  pre- 
tending that  he  had  not  been  able  to  find  them,  at  first, 
in  the  dark 

"  But  here  they  are  at  last,"  said  Trotty,  setting  out 
the  tea-things,  "all  correct  I  I  was  pretty  sure  it  was 
tea  and  a  rasher.  So  it  is.  Meg  my  pet,  if  you'll  just 
make  the  tea,  while  your  unworthy  father  toasts  the 
bacon,  we  shall  be  ready  immediate.  It's  a  curious  cir- 
cumstance," said  Trotty,  proceeding  in  his  cookery,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  toasting-fork,  "  curious,  but  well 
known  to  my  friends,  that  I  never  care,  myself,  for 
rashers,  nor  for  tea.  I  like  to  see  other  people  enjoy 
'em."  said  Trotty,  speaking  very  loud  to  impress  the  fact 
upon  his  guest,  "  but  tome,  as  food,  they  are  disagree- 
able." 

Yet  Trotty  sniffed  the  savour  of  the  hissing  bacon — 
ah  ! — as  if  he  liked  it  ;  and  when  he  poured  the  boil- 
ing water  in  the  tea-pot,  looked  lovingly  down  into  the 
depths  of  that  snug  caldron,  and  suffered  the  fragrant 
steam  to  curl  about  his  nose,  aad  wreathe  his  head  and 
face  in  a  thick  cloud.  However,  for  all  this,  he  neither 
ate  nor  drank,  except  at  the  very  beginning,a  mere  morsel 
for  form's  sake,  which  he  appeared  to  eat  with  infinite 
relish,  but  declared  was  perfectly  uninteresting  to  him. 

No.  Trotty's  occupation  was  to  see  Will  Fern  and 
Lilian  eat  and  drink  ;  and  so  was  Meg's.  And  never  did 
spectators  at  a  city  dinner  or  court  banquet  find  such 
high  delight  in  seeing  others  feast  :  although  it  were  a 
monarch  or  a  pope  :  as  those  two  did,  in  loolting  on  that 
night.  Meg  smiled  at  Trotty,  Trotty  laughed  at  Meg. 
Meg  shook  her  head  and  made  believe  to  clap  her  hands, 
applauding  Trotty  ;  Trotty  conveyed,  in  dumb  show, 
unintelligible  narratives  of  how  and  when  and  where  he 
had  found  their  visitors,  to  Meg  ;  and  they  were  happy. 
Very  happy. 

*'  Although,"  thought  Trotty,  sorrowfully,  as  he 
watched  Meg's  face  ;  "  that  match  is  broken  off,  I  see  ! " 

*'  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Trotty  after  tea. 
**  The  little  one,  she  sleeps  with  Meg,  I  know." 

"  With  good  Meg  ! "  cried  the  child,  caressing  her. 
"  With  Meg." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Trotty,  '  *  And  I  shouldn't  wonder 
[  if  she  kiss  Meg's  father,  won't  she  ?  I'm  Meg's  father  !  " 

Mightily  delighted  Trotty  was,  when  the  child  went 
timidly  towards  him,  and  having  kissed  him,  fell  back 
upon  Meg  again, 

"She's  as  sensible  as  Solomon,"  said  Trotty,  "Here 
we  come,  and  here  we — no,  we  don't — I  don't  mean  that 
— I — what  was  I  saying,  Meg,  my  precious  ?" 

Meg  looked  towards  their  guest,  who  leaned  upon  her 
chair,  and  with  his  face  turned  from  her,  fondled  the 
child's  head,  half  hidden  in  her  lap. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Toby.  "To  be  sure!  I  don't 
know  what  I  am  rambling  on  about,  to-night.  My  wits 
are  wool-gathering,  I  think.  Will  Fern,  you  come  along 
with  me.  You're  tired  to  death,  and  broken  down  for 
want  of  rest.    You  come  along  with  me," 

The  man  still  played  with  the  child's  curls,  stillleaned 
upon  Meg's  chair,  still  turned  away  his  face.  He  didn't 
speak,  but  in  his  rough  coarse  fingers,  clenching  and  ex- 
panding in  the  fair  hair  of  the  child,  there  was  an  elo- 
quence that  said  enough, 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Trotty,  answering  unconsciously  what 
I  he  saw  expressed  in  his  daughter's  face.  "  Take  her  with 
you,  Meg,  Get  her  to  bed.  There  !  Now  Will,  I'll  show 
you  where  you  lie.  It's  not  much  of  a  place  ;  only  a  loft ; 
;  but,  having  a  loft,  I  always  say,  is  one  of  the  great  con- 
veniences of  living  in  a  mews  ;*  and  till  this  coach  house 
and  stable  gets  a  better  let,  we  live  here  cheap.  There's 
plenty  of  sweet  hay  up  there,  belonging  to  a  neighbour  ; 
and  it's  as  clean  as  hands  and  Meg  can  make  it.  Cheer 
j  up  !  Don't  give  way.  A  new  heart  for  a  New  Year, 
always  ! " 

The  hand  released  from  the  child's  hair,  had  fallen, 
I  trembling,  into  Trotty's  hand.  So  Trotty,  talkiner  with- 
j  oat  intermission,  led  him  out  as  tenderly  and  easily  as  if 
he  had  been  a  child  himself. 

Returning  before  Meg,  he  listened  for  an  instant  at 


the  door  of  her  little  chamber  ;  an  adjoining  room.  The 
child  was  murmuring  a  simple  Prayer  bf;fote  lying  down 
to  sleep  ;  and  when  she  had  remembered  Meg's  name, 
"Dearly,  Dearly" — so  her  words  ran— rTrotty  heard  her 
stop  and  ask  for  his. 

It  was  some  slH)rt  time  before  the  foolish  little  old  fel- 
low could  compose  himself  to  mend  the  fire,  and  draw  his 
chair  to  the  warm  hearth.  But  when  he  had  done  so,  and 
had  trimmed  the  light,  he  took  his  nevvspa7)er  from  his 
pocket,  and  began  to  read.  Carelessly  at  first,  and  skim- 
ming up  and  down  the  columns  ;  but  with  an  earnest 
and  a  sad  attention,  very  soon. 

For  thissame  dreaded  paper  redirected  Trotty's  thoughts 
into  the  channel  they  had  taken  all  that  day,  and  which 
the  day's  events  had  so  marked  out  and  shaped.  His  in- 
terest in  the  two  wanderers  had  set  him  on  another  course 
of  thinking,  and  a  happier  one,  for  the  time  ;  but  being 
alone  again,  and  reading  of  the  crimes  and  violences  of 
the  people,  he  relapsed  into  his  former  train. 

In  this  mood  he  came  to  an  account  (and  it  was  not  the 
first  he  had  ever  read)  of  a  woman  who  had  laid  her  des- 
perate hands  not  only  on  her  own  life  but  on  that  of  her 
young  child.  A  crime  so  terrible,  and  so  revolting  to  his 
soul, "dilated  with  the  love  of  Meg,  that  he  let  the  jour- 
nal drop,  and  fell  back  in  his  chair,  appalled  ! 

"Unnatural  and  cruel  1"  Toby  cried.  "Unnatural 
and  cruel  !  None  but  people  who  were  bad  at  heart, 
born  bad,  who  had  no  business  on  the  earth,  could  do 
such  deeds.  It's  too  true,  all  I've  heard  to-day  ;  too 
just,  too  full  of  proof.    We're  Bad  I  " 

The  Chimes  took  up  the  words  so  suddenly — burst  out 
so  loud,  and  clear,  and  sonorous — that  the  Bells  seemed 
to  strike  him  in  his  chair. 

And  what  was  that,  they  said  ? 

"  Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  waiting  for  you  Toby  !  Toby 
Veck,  Toby  Veck,  waiting  for  you  Toby  !  Come  and  see 
us,  come  and  see  us.  Drag  him  to  us,  drag  him  to  us. 
Haunt  and  hunt  him,  haunt  and  hunt  him.  Break  his 
slumbers,  break  his  slumbers!  Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck, 
door  open  wide,  Toby,  Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  door  open 
wide,  Toby — "  then  fiercely  back  to  their  impetuous 
strain  again,  and  ringing  in  the  very  bricks  and  plaster  on 
the  walls. 

Toby  listened.  Fancy,  fancy  I  His  remorse  for  hav- 
ing run  away  from  them  that  afternoon  !  No,  no.  Noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  Again,  again,  and  yet  a  dozen  times 
again.  "  Haunt  and  hunt  him,  haunt  and  hunt  him, 
Drag  him  to  us,  drag  him  to  us  ! "  Deafening  the  whole 
town  ! 

"Meg,"  said  Trotty,  softly  :  tapping  at  her  door,  "  Do 
you  hear  anything  ?  " 

"I  hear  the  Bells,  father.  Surely  they're  very  loud 
to-night. " 

.  "Is  she  asleep?"  said  Toby,  making  an  excuse  for 
peeping  in, 

"  So  peacefully  and  happily  I  I  can't  leave  her  yet 
though,  father.    Look  how  she  holds  my  hand  !  " 

"  Meg  !  "  whispered  Trotty.    "  Listen  to  the  Bells  !  " 

She  listened,  with  her  face  towards  her  all  the  time. 
But  it  underwent  no  change.  She  didn't  understand 
them, 

Trotty  withdrew,  resumed  his  seat  by  the  fire,  and 
once  more  listened  by  himself.  He  remained  here  a  little 
time. 

It  was  impossible  to  bear  it ;  their  energv  was  dread- 
ful. 

"  If  the  tower-door  is  really  open,"  said  Toby,  hastily 
laying  aside  his  apron,  but  never  thinking  of  his  hat, 
"what's  to  hinder  me  from  going  up  in  the  steeple  and 
satisfying  myself  ?  If  it's  shut,  I  don't  want  any  other 
satisfaction.    That's  enough." 

He  was  prettv  certain  as  he  slipped  out  quietly  into  the 
street  that  he  should  find  it  shut  and  locked,  for  he  knew 
the  door  well,  and  had  so  rarely  seen  it  open,  that  he 
couldn't  reckon  above  three  times  in  all.  It  was  a  low 
arched  portal,  outside  the  church,  in  a  dark  nook  behind 
a  column  ;  and  had  such  great  iron  hinges,  and  such  a 
monstrous  lock,  that  there  was  more  hinge  and  lock  than 
door. 

!  But  what  was  his  astonishment  when,  coming  bare- 
headed to  the  church,  and  putting  his  hand  into  this- 
dark  nook,  with  a  certain  misgiving  that  it  might  be  un- 


264: 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


expectedly  seized,  and  a  sbivering  propensity  to  draw  it 
back  ag-ain  ;  he  found  that  the  door,  which  opened  out- 
wards, actually  stood  ajar  ! 

He  thought,  on  the  first  surprise,  of  going  back  ;  or  of 
etting  a  light,  or  a  companion  ;  but  his  courage  aided 
im  immediately,  and  he  determined  to  ascend  alone. 

"  What  have  I  to  fear?"  said  Trotty.  It's  a  church  ! 
Besides  the  ringers  may  be  there,  and  have  forgotten  to 
shut  the  door." 

So  he  went  in,  feeling  his  way  as  he  went,  like  a  blind 
man ;  for  it  was  very  dark.  And  very  quiet,  for  the 
chimes  were  silent. 

The  dust  from  the  street  had  blown  into  the  recess  ; 
and  lying  there,  heaped  up,  made  it  so  soft  and  velvet- 
like to  the  foot,  that  there  was  something  startling  even 
in  that.  The  narrow  stair  was  so  close  to  the  door,  too, 
that  he  stumbled  at  the  very  first ;  and  shutting  the 
door  upon  himself,  by  striking  it  with  his  foot,  and  caus- 
ing it  to  rebound  back  heavily,  he  couldn't  open  it  again. 

This  was  another  reason,  however,  for  going  on. 
Trotty  groped  his  way,  and  went  on.  Up,  up,  up,  and 
round  and  round ;  and  up,  up,  up  higher,  higher,  higher 
up  ! 

It  was  a  disagreeable  staircase  for  that  groping  work  ; 
so  low  and  narrow,  that  his  groping  hand  was  always 
touching  something  ;  and  it  often  felt  so  like  a  man  or 
ghostly  figure  standing  up  erect  and  making  room  for 
him  to  pass  without  discovery,  that  he  would  rub  the 
smooth  wall  upward  searching  for  its  face,  and  down- 
ward searching  for  its  feet,  while  a  chill  tingling  crept 
all  over  him.  Twice  or  thrice,  a  door  or  niche  broke 
the  monotonous  surface  ;  and  then  it  seemed  a  gap  as 
wide  as  the  whole  church  ;  and  he  felt  on  the  brink  of 
an  abyss,  and  going  to  tumble  headlong  down,  until  he 
found  the  wall  again. 

Still  up,  up,  up ;  and  round  and  round  ;  and  up,  up, 
up  ;  higher,  higher,  higher  up  ! 

At  length  the  dull  and  stifliing  atmosphere  began  to 
freshen  :  presently  to  feel  quite  windy  :  presently  it  blew 
so  strong,  that  he  could  hardly  keep  his  legs.  But  he 
got  to  an  arched  window  in  the  tower,  breast  high,  and 
holding  tight,  looked  down  upon  the  house-tops,  on  the 
smoking  chimneys,  on  the  blurr  and  blotch  of  lights 
(towards  the  place  where  Meg  was  wondering  where  he 
was,  and  calling  to  him  perhaps),  all  kneaded  up  to- 
gether in  a  leaven  of  mist  and  darkness. 

This  was  the  belfry,  where  the  ringers  came.  He  had 
caught  hold  of  one  of  the  frayed  ropes  which  hung  down 
through  apertures  in  the  oaken  roof.  At  first  he  started, 
thinking  it  was  hair  ;  then  trembled  at  the  very  thought 
of  waking  the  deep  Bell.  The  Bells  themselves  were 
higher.  Higher,  Trotty,  in  his  fascination,  or  in  work- 
ing out  the  spell  upon  him,  groped  his  way.  By  ladders 
new  and  toilsomely,  for  it  was  steep,  and  not  too  certain 
holding  for  the  feet. 

Up,  up,  up  ;  and  climb  and  clamber ;  up,  up,  up ; 
higher,  higher,  higher  up  ! 

Until,  ascending  through  the  floor,  and  pausing  with 
his  head  just  raised  above  its  beams,  he  came  among  the 
Bells.  It  was  barely  possible  to  make  out  their  great 
shapes  in  the  gloom  ;  but  there  they  were.  Shadowy, 
and  dark,  and  dumb. 

A  heavy  sense  of  dread  and  loneliness  fell  instantly 
upon  him,  as  he  climbed  into  this  airy  nest  of  stone  and 
metal.  His  head  went  round  and  round.  He  listened 
and  then  raised  a  wild  "  Halloa  !  " 

Hallo  !  was  mournfully  protracted  by  the  echoes. 

Giddy,  confused,  and  out  of  breath,  and  frightened, 
Toby  looked  about  him  vacantly,  and  sunk  down  in  a 
swoon. 


THIRD  QUARTER. 

Black  are  the  brooding  clouds  and  troubled  the  deep 
waters,  when  the  Sea  of  Thought,  first  heaving  from  a 
calm,  gives  up  its  Dead.  Monsters  uncouth  and  wild, 
arise  in  premature,  imperfect  resurrection  ;  the  several 
parts  and  shapes  of  different  things  are  joined  and  mixed 
by  chance  ;  and  when,  and  how,  and  by  what  wonderful 
degrees  each  separates  from  each,  and  every  sense  and 
object  of  the  mind  resumes  its  usual  form  and  lives 


again,  no  man — though  every  man  is  every  day  the  cas- 
ket of  this  type  of  the  Great"  Mystery — can  tell. 

So,  when  and  how  the  darkness  of  the  night-black 
steeple  changed  to  shining  light ;  when  and  how  the 
solitary  tower  was  peopled  with  a  myriad  figures  ;  when 
and  how  the  whispered  "  Haunt  and  hunt  him,"  breath- 
ing monotonously  through  his  sleep  or  swoon,  became  a 
voice  exclaiming  in  the  waking  ears  of  Trotty,  "  Break 
his  slumbers  ; "  when  and  how  he  ceased  to  have  a  slug- 
gish and  confused  idea  that  such  things  were,  compan- 
ioning a  host  of  others  that  were  not  ;  there  are  no  dates 
or  means  to  tell.  But,  awake,  and  standing  on  his  feet 
upon  the  boards  where  he  had  lately  lain,  he  saw  this 
Goblin  Sight. 

He  saw  the  tower,  whither  his  charmed  footsteps  had 
brought  him,  swarming  with  dwarf  phantoms,  spirits, 
elfin  creatures  of  the  Bells.  He  saw  them  leaping,  fly- 
ing, dropping,  pouring  from  the  Bells  without  a  pause. 
He  saw  them,  round  him  on  the  ground  ;  above  him 
in  the  air,  clambering  from  him,  by  the  ropes  below  ; 
looking  down  upon  him,  from  the  massive  iron-girded 
beams ;  peeping  in  upon  him,  through  the  chinks  and 
loopholes  in  the  walls  ;  spreading  away  and  away  from 
him  in  enlarging  circles,  as  the  water  ripples  give 
place  to  a  huge  stone  that  suddenly  comes  splashing  in 
among  them.  He  saw  them,  of  all  aspects  and  all  shapes. 
He  saw  them  ugly,  handsome,  crippled,  exquisitely 
formed.  He*  saw  them  young,  he  saw  them  old,  he  saw 
them  kind,  he  saw  them  cruel,  he  saw  them  merry,  he 
saw  them  grim  ;  he  saw  them  dance,  and  heard  them 
sing  ;  he  saw  them  tear  their  hair,  and  heard  them  howl. 
He  saw  the  air  thick  with  them.  He  saw  them  come 
and  go,  incessantly.  He  saw  them  rising  downward, 
soaring  upward,  sailing  off  afar,  perching  near  at  hand, 
all  restless  and  all  violently  active.  Stone,  and  brick, 
and  slate,  and  tile,  became  transparent  to  him  as  to  them. 
He  saw  them  in  the  houses,  busy  at  the  sleepers'  beds. 
He  saw  them  soothing  people  in  their  dreams  ;  he  saw 
them  beating  them  with  knotted  whips  ;  he  saw  them 
yelling  in  their  ears  ;  he  saw  them  playing  sofest  music 
on  their  pillows  ;  he  saw  them  cheering  some  with  the 
songs  of  birds  and  the  perfume  of  flowers  ;  he  saw  them 
flashing  awful  faces  on  the  troubled  rest  of  others, 
from  enchanted  mirrors  which  they  carried  in  their 
hands. 

He  saw  these  creatures,  not  only  among  sleeping  men 
but  waking  also,  active  in  pursuits  irreconcileable  with 
one  another,  and  possessing  or  assuming  natures  the  most 
opposite.  He  saw  one  buckling  on  innumerable  wings 
to  increase  his  speed  ;  another  loading  himself  with 
chains  and  weights,  to  retard  his.  He  saw  some  putting 
the  hands  of  clocks  forward,  some  putting  the  hands  of 
clocks  backward,  some  endeavouring  to  stop  the  clock 
entirely.  He  saw  them  representing,  here  a  marriage 
ceremony,  there  a  funeral  ;  in  this  chamber  an  election, 
in  that  a  ball ;  he  saw,  everywhere,  restless  and  untiring 
motion. 

Bewildered  by  the  host  of  shifting  and  extraordinary 
figures,  as  well  as  by  the  uproar  of  the  Bells,  which  all 
this  while  were  ringing,  Trotty  clung  to  a  wooden  pillar 
for  support,  and  turned  his  white  face  here  and  there,  ia 
mute  and  stunned  astonishment. 

As  he  gazed,  the  Chimes  stopped.  Instantaneous 
change  !  The  whole  swarm  fainted  ;  their  forms  col- 
lapsed, their  speed  deserted  them  ;  they  sought  to  fly, 
but  in  the  act  of  falling  died  and  melted  into  air.  No 
fresh  supply  succeeded  them.  One  straggler  leaped  down 
pretty  briskly  from  the  surface  of  the  Great  Bell,  and 
alighted  on  his  feet,  but  he  was  dead  and  gone  before  h 
could  turn  round.  Some  few  of  the  late  company  Avh 
had  gambolled  in  the  tower,  remained  there,  spinnin 
over  and  over  a  little  longer  ;  but  these  became  at  ever; 
turn  more  faint,  and  few,  and  feeble,  and  soon  went  the' 
way  of  the  rest.  The  last  of  all  was  one  small  hunch- 
back, who  had  got  into  an  echoing  corner,  where  he  twirled 
and  twirled,  and  floated  by  himself  a  long  time  ;  showinff 
such  perseverance,  that  at  last  he  dwindled  to  a  leg  ana 
even  to  a  foot,  before  he  finally  retired  ;  but  he  vanished 
in  tlie  end,  and  then  the  tower  was  silent. 

Then  and  not  before,  did  Trotty  see  in  every  Bell 
bearded  figure  of  the  bulk  and  stature  of  the  Bell — io- 
comprehensibly,  a  figure  and  the  Bell  itself.  Gigantic, 


CHRISTMA> 

grave,  and  darkly  watchful  of  him,  as  he  stood  rooted  to 
the  ground. 

Mysterious  and  awful  figures  I  Resting  on  notliing  : 
poised  in  the  night  air  of  the  tower,  with  their  draped 
and  hooded  heads  merged  in  the  dim  roof  :  motionless 
and  shadowy.  Shadowy  and  dark,  althougli  he  saw  them 
by  some  light  belonging  to  themselves — none  else  was 
there — each  with  its  muffled  hand  upon  its  goblin 
mouth. 

He  could  not  plunge  down  wildly  through  the  opening 
in  the  floor  ;  for  all  power  of  motion  had  deserted  him. 
Otherwise  he  would  have  done  so— ay,  would  have 
thrown  himself,  head-foremost,  from  the  steeple-top, 
rather  than  have  seen  them  watching  him  with  eyes  that 
would  have  waked  and  watched  although  the  pupils  had 
been  taken  out. 

Again,  again,  the  dread  and  terror  of  the  lonely  place, 
and  of  the  wild  and  fearful  night  that  reigned  there, 
touched  him  like  a  spectral  hand.  His  distance  from  all 
help  ;  the  long,  dark,  winding,  ghost- be leagu red  way 
that  lay  between  him  and  the  earth  on  which  men  lived  ; 
his  being  high,  high,  high,  up  there,  where  it  had  made 
him  dizzy  to  see  the  birds  fly  in  the  day  ;  cut  off  from  all 
good  people,  who  at  such  an  hour  were  safe  at  home  and 
sleeping  in  their  beds  ;  all  this  struck  coldly  through 
him,  not  as  a  reflection  but  a  bodily  sensation.  Mean- 
time his  eyes  and  thoughts  and  fears  were  fixed  upon  the 
watchful  figures  :  which,  rendered  unlike  any  figures  of 
this  world  by  the  deep  gloom  and  shade  enwrapping  and 
enfolding  them,  as  well  as  by  their  looks  and  forms  and 
supernatural  hovering  above  the  floor,  were  nevertheless 
as  plainly  to  be  seen  as  were  the  stalwart  oaken  frames, 
cross-pieces,  bajrs  and  beams,  set  up  there  to  support  the 
Bells.  These  hemmed  them,  in  a  very  forest  of  hewn 
timber  ;  from  the  entanglements,  intricacies,  and  depths 
of  which,  as  from  among  the  boughs  of  a  dead  wood 
blighted  for  their  Phantom  use,  they  kept  their  darksome 
and  unwinking  watch. 

A  blast  of  air — how  cold  and  shrill  ! — came  moaning 
through  the  tower.  As  it  died  a^ay,  the  Great  Bell,  or 
the  Goblin  of  the  Great  Bell,  spoke. 

"  What  visitor  is  this  !  "  it  said.  The  voice  was  low 
and  deep,  and  Trotty  fancied  that  it  sounded  in  the  other 
figures  as  well. 

"  I  thought  my  name  was  called  by  the  Chimes  ! "  said 
Trotty,  raising  his  hands  in  an  attitude  of  supplication. 

I  hardly  l^now  why  I  am  here,  or  how  I  came.  I  have 
listened  to  the  Chimes  these  many  years.  They  have 
cheered  me  often. 

"  And  you  have  thanked  them  ?"  said  the  Bell. 

"  A  thousand  times?"  cried  Trotty. 

"How?" 

"  I  am  a  poor  man,"  faltered  Trotty,  ''and  could  only 
thank  them  in  words." 

"And  always  so?"  inquired  the  Goblin  of  the  Bell. 
**  Have  you  never  done  us  wrong  in  words  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  cried  Trotty  eagerly. 

"  Never  done  us  foul,  and  false,  and  wicked  wrong,  in 
words?  "  pursued  the  Goblin  of  the  Bell. 

Trotty  was  about  to  answer,  "  Never  ! "  but  he  stopped, 
and  was  confused. 

"The  voice  of  Time,"  said  the  Phantom,  "cries  to 
man.  Advance  !  Time  is  for  his  advancement  and  im- 
provement ;  for  his  greater  worth,  his  greater  happiness 
his  better  life  ;  his  progress  onward  to  that  goal  within 
its  knowledge  and  its  view,  and  set  there,  in  the  period 
when  Time  and  He  began.  Ages  of  darkness,  wickedness, 
and  violence,  have  come  and  gone — millions  uncountable, 
have  suffered,  lived  and  died — to  point  the  way  before 
him.  Who  seeks  to  turn  him  back,  or  stay  him  on  his  ' 
course,  arrests  a  mighty  engine  which  will  strike  the 
meddler  ;  and  be  the  fiercer  and  the  wilder,  ever,  for  its 
momentary  check  !  " 

"  I  never  did  so  to  my  knowledge,  sir,"  said  Trotty. 
"  It  was  quite  by  accident  if  I  did.  I  wouldn't  go  to  do 
it,  I'm  sure." 

"  Who  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Time,  or  of  its  servants," 
said  the  Goblin  of  the  Bell,  "  a  cry  of  lamentation  for 
days  which  have  had  their  trial  and  their  failure,  and 
have  left  deep  traces  of  it  which  the  blind  may  see — a 
cry  that  only  serves  the  present  time,  by  showing  men 
liow  much  it  needs  their  help  when  any  ears  can  listen 


.S'    BOOKS.  2G5 

to  regrets  for  such  a  past — who  does  this,  does  a  wrong. 
And  you  have  done  that  wrong  to  us,  tlie  C'liirnos." 

Trotty 's  first  excess  of  fear  was  gone.  But  he  had  felt 
tenderly  and  gratefully  towards  the  Bells,  as  you  have 
seen  ;  and  when  he  heard  himself  arraignf;d  as  one  who 
had  offended  them  so  weightily,  his  heart  was  touched 
with  penitence  and  grief. 

"If  you  knew,"  said  Trotty,  clasping  his  hands  ear- 
nestly— "  or  perhaps  you  do  know — if  you  know  how 
often  you  have  kept  me  company  ;  how  often  you  have 
cheered  me  up  when  I've  been  low ;  how  you  were 
quite  the  plaything  of  my  little  daughter  Meg  (almost 
the  only  one  she  ever  had)  when  first  her  mother  died, 
and  she  and  me  were  left  alone  ;  you  won't  bear  malice 
for  a  hasty  word  !  " 

"  Who  hears  in  us,  the  Chimes,  one  note  bespeaking 
disregard,  or  stern  regard,  of  any  hope,  or  joy,  or  x^ain, 
or  sorrow,  of  the  many-sorrowed  throng  ;  who  hears  us 
make  response  to  any  creed  that  gauges  human  passions 
and  affections,  as  it  gauges  the  amount  of  miserable  food 
on  which  humanity  may  pine  and  wither  ;  does  us  wrong, 
That  wrong  you  have  done  us  !"  said  the  Bell. 
"  I  have  !  "  said  Trotty.  "  Oh  forgive  me  !  " 
"  Who  hears  us  echo  the  dull  vermin  of  the  earth  : 
the  Putters  Down  of  crushed  and  broken  natures, 
formed  to  be  raised  up  higher  than  such  maggots  of  the 
time  can  crawl  or  can  conceive,"  pursued  the  Goblin  of 
the  Bell ;  "  who  does  so,  does  us  wrong.  And  you  have 
done  us  wrong  !  " 

"  Not  meaning  it,"  said  Trotty.  "In  my  ignorance. 
Not  meaning  it  ! " 

"  Lastly,  and  most  of  all,"  pursued  the  Bell.  "  Who 
turns  his  back  upon  the  fallen  and  disfigured  of  his 
kind  ;  abandons  them  as  vile  ;  and  does  not  trace  and 
track  with  pitying  eyes  the  unfenced  precipice  by  which 
they  fell  from  good — grasping  in  their  fall  some  tufts  and 
shreds  of  that  lost  soil,  and  clinging  to  them  still  when 
bruised  and  dying  in  the  gulf  below  ;  does  wrong  to 
Heaven  and  man,  to  time  and  to  eternity.  And  you 
have  done  that  wrong  ! " 

"  Spare  me,"  cried  Trotty  falling  on  his  knees  ;  "  for 
Mercy's  sake  ! " 

"  Listen  ! "  said  the  Shadow. 
"  Listen  ! "  cried  the  other  Shadows. 
"Listen!"  said  a  clear  and  child-like  voice,  wMch 
Trotty  thought  he  recognised  as  having  heard  before. 

The*organ  sounded  faintly  in  the  church  below.  Swell- 
ing by  degrees,  the  melody  ascended  to  the  roof,  and 
filled  the  choir  and  nave.  Expanding  more  and  more,  it 
rose  up,  up  ;  up,  up  ;  higher,  higher,  higher  up  ;  awaken- 
ing agitated  hearts  within  the  burly  piles  of  oak,  the 
hollow  bells,  the  iron-bound  doors,  the  stairs  of  solid 
stone  ;  until  the  tower  walls  were  insufficient  to  contain 
it,  and  it  soared  into  the  sky. 

No  wonder  that  an  old  man's  breast  could  not  contain 
a  sound  so  vast  and  mighty.  It  broke  from  that  weak 
prison  in  a  rush  of  tears  ;  and  Trotty  put  his  hands  be- 
fore his  face, 

"Listen  !"  said  the  Shadow. 
"Listen  !"  said  the  other  Shadows. 
"  Listen  !  "  said  the  child's  voice. 

A  solemn  strain  of  blended  voices,  rose  into  the  tower. 
It  was  a  very  low  and  mournful  strain — a  Dirge — and 
as  he  listened,  Trotty  heard  his  child  among  the  sing- 
ers. 

"She  is  dead!"  exclaimed  the  old  man.  "Meg  is 
dead  !    Her  Spirit  calls  to  me.    I  hear  it  ! " 

"  The  Spirit  of  your  child  bewails  the  dead,  and  min- 
gles with  the  dead — dead  hopes,  dead  fancies,  dead  im- 
'  aginingsof  youth,"  returned  the  Bell,  "  but  she  is  living. 
Learn  from  her  life,  a  living  truth.  Learn  from  the 
creature  dearest  to  your  heart,  how  bad  the  bad  are 
born.  See  every  bud  and  leaf  plucked  one  by  one  from 
off  the  fairest  stem,  and  know  how  bare  and  wretched  it 
mav  be.    Follow  her  !    To  desperation  !  " 

Each  of  the  shadowy  figures  stretched  its  right  arm 
forth,  and  pointed  downwards. 

"  The  Spirit  of  the  Chimes  is  your  companion,"  said 
the  figure.    "  Go  !    It  stands  behind  you  !  " 

Trottv  turned,  and  saw— the  child?  The  child  Will 
Fern  had  carried  in  the  street ;  the  child  whom  Meg  had 
watched,  but  now,  asleep  I 


266 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"I  carried  lier  myself,  to-niglit,"  said  Trotty.  "In 
these  arms  ! " 

"  Show  him  what  he  calls  himself,"  said  the  dark  fig- 
ures, one  and  all. 

The  tower  opened  at  his  feet.  He  looked  down,  and 
beheld  his  own  form  lying  at  the  bottom,  on  the  out- 
side :  crushed  and  motionless. 

"  No  more  a  living  man  ! "  cried  Trotty.    "  Dead  !  " 

"Dead  !  "  said  the  figures  all  together. 

"  Gracious  Heaven  !    And  the  New  Year — " 

"Past,"  said  the  figures. 

"What!"  he  cried  shuddering.  "  I  missed  my  way, 
and  coming  on  the  outside  of  this  tower  in  the  dark,  fell 
down — a  year  ago  ?  " 

"Nine  years  ago  !  "  replied  the  figures. 

As  they  gave  the  answer,  they  recalled  their  out- 
stretched hands  ;  and  where  the  figures  had  been,  there 
the  Bells  were. 

And  they  rung  ;  their  time  being  come  again.  And 
once  again,  vast  multitudes  of  phantoms  sprung  into  ex- 
istence ;  once  again,  were  incoherently  engaged,  as  they 
had  been  before  ;  once  again,  faded  on  the  stopping  of 
the  Chimes  ;  and  dwindled  into  nothing. 

"What  are  these?"  he  asked  his  guide.  "If  I  am 
not  mad,  what  are  these?" 

"  Spirits  of  the  Bells.  Their  sound  upon  the  air,"  re- 
turned the  child.  ' '  They  take  such  shapes  and  occu- 
pations as  the  hopes  and  thoughts  of  mortals,  and  the 
recollections  they  have  stored  up,  give  them." 

"  And  you,"  said  Trotty  wildly.    "What  are  you?" 

"  Hush,  hush  !  "  returned  the  child.    "  Look  here  !  " 

In  a  poor  mean  room  ;  working  at  the  same  kind  of 
embroidery,  which  he  had  often,  often,  seen  before  her ; 
Meg,  his  own  dear  daughter,  was  y)resented  to  his  view. 
He  made  no  effort  to  imprint  his  kisses  on  her  face  ;  he  did 
not  strive  to  clasp  her  to  his  loving  heart ;  he  knew  that 
such  endearments  were,  to  him,  no  more.  But  he  held 
his  trembling  breath,  and  brushed  away  the  blinding 
tears,  that  he  might  look  upon  her  ;  that  he  might  only 
see  her. 

Ah  !  Changed.  Changed.  The  light  of  the  clear 
eye,  how  dimmed.  The  bloom,  how  faded  from  the 
cheek.  Beautiful  she  was,  as  she  had  ever  been,  but 
Hope,  Hope,  Hope,  oh  where  was  the  fresh  Hope  that 
had  spoken  to  him  like  a  voice  I 

She  looked  up  from  her  work,  at  a  companion.  Fol- 
lowing her  eyes,  the  old  man  started  back.  ▼ 

In  the  woman  grown  he  recognised  her  at  a  glance. 
In  the  long  silken  hair,  he  saw  the  self -same  curls  ; 
around  the  lips,  the  child's  expression  lingering  still. 
See  !  In  the  eyes,  now  turned  inquiringly  on  Meg,  there 
shone  the  very  look  that  scanned  those  features  when 
he  brought  her  home  ! 

Then  what  was  this,  beside  him  ! 

Looking  with  awe  into  its  face,  he  saw  a  something 
reigning  there  :  a  lofty  something,  undefined  and  i^idis- 
tinct,  which  made  it  hardly  more  than  a  remembrance 
of  that  child — as  yonder  figure  might  be — yet  it  was  the 
same  :  the  same  :  and  wore  the  dress. 

Hark.    They  were  speaking  ! 

"Meg,"  said  Lilian,  hesitating.  "How  often  you 
raise  your  head  from  your  work  to  look  at  me  !  " 

"Are  my  looks  so  altered,  that  they  frighten  you?" 
asked  Meg. 

"Nay,  dear  !  But  you  smile  at  that  yourself  !  Why 
not  smile  when  you  look  at  me,  Meg  ?  " 

"  I  do  so.    Do  I  not?"  she  answered  :  smiling  on  her. 

"  Now  you  do," said  Lilian,  "but  not  usually.  When 
you  think  I'm  busy,  and  don't  see  you,  you  look  so  anxious 
and  so  doubtful,  that  I  hardly  like  to  raise  my  eyes. 
There  is  little  cause  for  smiling  in  this  hard  and  toil- 
some life,  but  you  were  once  so  cheerful." 

"Am  I  not  now  !"  cried  Meg,  speaking  in  a  tone  of 
strange  alarm,  and  rising  to  embrace  her.  "  Do  /make 
our  weary  life  more  weary  to  you,  Lilian  1" 

"  You  have  been  the  only  thing  that  made  it  life," 
said  Lilian,  fervently  kissing  her  ;  "  sometimes  the  only 
thing  that  made  me  care  to  live  so,  Meg.  Such  work, 
such  work  !  So  many  hours,  so  many  days,  so  many 
long,  long  nights  of  hopeless,  cheerless,  never-ending 
work — not  to  heap  up  riches,  not  to  live  grandly  or  gaily, 
not  to  live  upon  enough,  however  coarse  ;  but  to  earn  bare 


bread  ;  to  scrape  together  just  enough  to  toil  upon,  and 
want  upon,  and  keep  alive  in  us  the  consciousness  of  our 
hard  fate  !  Oh  Meg,  Meg  !  "  she  raised  her  voice  and 
twined  her  arms  about  her  as  she  spoke,  like  one  in  pain. 
"  How  can  the  cruel  world  go  round,  and  bear  to  look 
upon  such  lives  !  " 

"  Lilly  ! "  said  Meg,  soothing  her,  and  putting  back 
her  hair  from  her  wet  face.  "  Why,  Lilly  !  You  !  So 
pretty  and  so  young  !  " 

"Oh  Meg! "she  interrupted,  holding  her  at  armV 
length,  and  looking  in  her  face  imploringly,  "The 
worst  of  all,  the  worst  of  all  !  Strike  me  old,  Meg  I 
Wither  me  and  shrivel  me,  and  free  me  from  the  dread- 
ful thoughts  that  tempt  me  in  my  youth  I " 

Trotty  turned  to  look  upon  his  guide.  But,  the  Spirit 
of  the  child  had  taken  flight.    Was  gone. 

Neither  did  he  himself  remain  in  the  same  place  ;  for 
Sir  Joseph  Bowley,  Friend  and  Father  of  the  Poor,  held 
a  great  festivity  at  Bowley  Hall,  in  honour  of  the  natal  day 
of  Lady  Bowley.  And  as  Lady  Bowley  had  been  born  on 
New  Year's  Day  (which  the  local  newspapers  considered 
an  especial  pointing  of  the  finger  of  Providence  to  num- 
ber One,  as  Lady  Bowley's  destined  figure  in  Creation), 
it  was  on  a  New  Year's  Day  that  this  festivity  took  place. 

Bowley  Hall  was  full  of  visitors.  The  red-faced  gen- 
tleman was  there.  Mr.  Filer  was  there,  the  great  Al- 
dennan  Cute  was  there — Alderman  Cute  had  a  sympa- 
thetic feeling  with  great  people,  and  had  considerably  im- 
proved his  acquaintance  with  Sir  Joseph  Bowley  on  the 
strength  of  his  attentive  letter  :  indeed  had  become  quite 
a  friend  of  the  family  since  then — and  many  guests  were 
there.  Trotty 's  ghost  was  there,  wandering  about,  poor 
phantom,  drearily  ;  and  looking  for  its  guide. 

There  was  to  be  a  great  dinner  in  the  Great  Hall.  At 
which  Sir  Joseph  Bowley,  in  his  celebrated  character  of 
Friend  and  Father  of  the  Poor,  was  to  make  his  great 
speech.  Certain  plum  puddings  were  to  be  eaten  by  his 
Friends  and  Children  in  another  Hall  first ;  and,  at  a 
given  signal.  Friends  and  Children  flocking  in  among 
their  Friends  and  Fathers,  were  to  form  a  family  assem- 
blage, with  not  one  manly  eye  therein  unmoistened  by 
emotion. 

But  there  was  more  than  this  to  happen.  Even  more 
than  this.  Sir  Joseph  Bowley,  Baronet  and  Member  of 
Parliament,  was  to  play  a  match  at  skittles — real  skit- 
tles— with  his  tenants  ! 

Which  quite  reminds  one,"  said  Alderman  Cute,  "  of 
the  days  of  old  King  Hal.  stout  King  Hal,  bluff  King 
Hal.    Ah.    Fine  character  ! " 

"Very,"  said  Mr.  Filer,  dryly.  "For  marrying 
women  and  murdering  *em.  Considerably  more  than  the 
average  number  of  wives  by  the  bye." 

"  You'll  marry  the  beautiful  ladies,  and  not  murder 
'em,  eh  ? "  said  Alderman  Cute  to  the  heir  of  Bowley, 
aged  twelve.  "  Sweet  boy!  We  shall  have  this  little 
gentleman  in  Parliament  now,"  said  the  Alderman,  hold- 
ing him  by  the  shoulders,  and  looking  as  reflective  as  he 
could,  "before  we  know  where  we  are.  We  shall  hear 
of  his  successes  at  the  poll  ;  his  speeches  in  the  house;  his 
overtures  from  Governments  ;  his  brilliant  achievements 
of  all  kinds  ;  ah  !  we  shall  make  our  little  orations  about 
him  in  the  common  council,  I'll  be  bound  ;  before  we 
have  time  to  look  about  us  ! " 

"Oh,  the  difference  of  shoes  and  stockings  !  "  Trotty 
thought.  But  his  heart  yearned  towards  Ihe  child,  for 
the  love  of  those  same  shoeless  and  stockingless  boys, 
predestined  (by  the  Alderman)  to  turn  out  bad,  who 
might  have  been  the  children  of  poor  Meg. 

"  Richard,"  moaned  Trotty,  roaming  among  the  com- 
pany to  and  fro  ;  "  Where  is  he  ?  I  can't  find  Richard  ! 
Where  is  Richard  ?  " 

Not  likely  to  be  there,  if  still  alive  I  But  Trotty's 
grief  and  solitude  confused  him  ;  and  he  still  went  wan- 
dering among  the  gallant  company,  looking  for  his  guide, 
and  saying,  "  Where  is  Richard  ?    Show  me  Richard  !  " 

He  was  wandering  thus,  when  he  encountered  Mr. 
Fish,  the  confidential  Secretary  :  in  great  agitation. 

"  Bless  my  heart  and  soul  !"  cried  Mr.  Fish.  "  Where's 
Alderman  Cute?    Has  anybody  seen  the  Alderman?" 

Seen  the  Alderman  ?  Oh  dear  I  Who  could  ever  help 
seeing  the  Alderman?  He  was  so  considerate,  so  affa- 
ble, he  bore  so  much  in  mind  the  natural  desire  of  folks 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


207 


to  see  him,  tliat  if  he  had  a  fault,  it  was  tho  being  con- 
stantly On  View.  And  wherever  the  great  ])eople  were, 
there,  to  be  sure,  attracted  by  the  kindred  sympathy 
between  great  souls,  was  Cute. 

Several  voices  cried  that  he  was  in  the  circle  round 
Sir  Joseph.  Mr.  Fish  made  way  there  ;  found  him  ;  and 
took  him  secretly  into  a  window  near  at  hand.  Trotty 
joined  them.  Not  of  his  own  accord.  lie  felt  that  his 
steps  were  led  in  that  direction, 

"  My  dear  Alderman  Cute,"  said  Mr.  Fish.  "A  little 
more  this  way.  The  most  dreadful  circumstance  has 
occurred.  I  have  this  moment  received  tlio  intelligence. 
I  think  it  will  be  best  not  to  acquaint  Sir  Joseph  with  it 
till  the  day  is  over.  You  understand  Sir  Joseph,  and 
will  give  me  your  opinion.  The  most  frightful  and  de- 
plorable event ! " 

"  Fish  !  "  returned  the  Alderman.  "  Fish  !  My  good 
fellow,  what  is  the  matt(U'?  Nothing  revolutionary,  I 
hope  !  No — no  attempted  interference  with  the  magis- 
trates ?  ' ' 

"  Deedles,  the  banker,"  gasped  the  Secretary.  ''Dee- 
dies,  Brothers — who  was  to  have  been  here  to-day — 
high  in  office  in  the  Goldsmiths'  Company — " 

"Not  stopped  I"  exclaimed  the  Alderman.  "It  can't 
be!" 

"Shot  himself." 

"Good  God  !" 

"  Put  a  double-barrelled  pistol  to  his  mouth,  in  his 
o^\'n  counting-house,"  said  Mr.  Fish,  "and  blew  his 
brains  out.    No  motive.    Princely  circumstances  ! " 

"  Circumstances  ! "  exclaimed  the  Alderman.  "  A  man 
of  noble  fortune.  One  of  the  most  respectable  of  men. 
Suicide,  Mr.  Fish  !    By  his  own  hand  !  " 

"  This  very  morning,"  returned  Mr.  Fish. 

"Oh  the  brain,  the  brain  !  "  exclaimed  the  pious  Al- 
derman, lifting  up  his  hands.  "Oh  the  nerves,  the 
nerves  ;  the  mysteries  of  this  machine  called  Man  !  Oh 
the  little  that  unhinges  it :  poor  creatures  that  we  are  ! 
Perhaps  a  dinner,  Mr.  Fish.  Perhaps  the  conduct  of 
his  son,  who,  I  have  heard,  ran  very  wild,  and  was  in 
the  habit  of  drawing  bills  upon  him  without  the  least 
authority?  A  most  respectable  man.  One  of  the  most 
respectable  men  I  ever  knew?  A  lamentable  instance, 
Mr.  Fish.  A  public  calamity  !  I  shall  make  a  point  of 
wearing  the  deepest  mourning.  A  most  respectable 
man  !  But  there  is  One  above.  We  must  submit,  Mr. 
Fish.    We  must  submit  !  " 

What,  Alderman  !  No  word  of  Putting  Down?  Re- 
member, Justice,  your  high  moral  boast  and  pride. 
Come,  Alderman !  Balance  those  scales.  Throw  me 
into  this,  the  empty  one,  no  dinner,  and  Nature's  founts 
tn  some  poor  woman,  dried  by  starving  misery  and  ren- 
dered obdurate  to  claims  for  which  her  offspring  has 
authority  in  holy  mother  Eve.  Weigh  me  the  two,  you 
Daniel,  going  to  judgment,  when  your  day  shall  come  ! 
Weigh  them,  in  the  eyes  of  suffering  thousands,  audi- 
ence (not  unmindful)  of  the  grim  farce  you  play.  Or 
supposing  that  you  strayed  from  your  five  wits — it's  not 
so  far  to  go,  but  that  it  might  be— and  laid  hands  upon 
that  throat  of  yours,  warning  your  fellows  (if  you  have 
a  fellow)  how  they  croak  their  comfortable  wickedness 
to  raving  heads  and  stricken  hearts.    What  then  ? 

The  words  rose  up  in  Trotty's  breast,  as  if  they  had 
been  spoken  by  some  other  voice  within  him.  Alderman 
Cute  pledged  himself  to  Mr.  Fish  that  he  would  assist 
him  in  breaking  the  melancholy  catastrophe  to  Sir  Joseph, 
when  the  day  was  over.  Then,  before  they  parted, 
wringing  Mr.  Fish's  hand  in  bitterness  of  soul,  he  said, 
"The  most  respectable  of  men  I"  And  added  that  he 
hardly  knew  (not  even  he),  why  such  afflictions  were 
allowed  on  earth. 

"It's  almost  enough  to  make  one  think,  if  one  didn't 
know  better,"  said  Alderman  Cute,  "that  at  times  some 
motion  of  a  capsizing  nature  was  going  on  in  things, 
which  affected  the  general  economy  of  the  social  fabric. 
Deedles,  Brothers  ! " 

The  skittle-playing  came  off  with  immense  success. 
Sir  Joseph  knocked  the  pins  about  quite  skilfully  ;  Mas- 
ter Bowley  took  an  innings  at  a  shorter  distance  also ; 
and  everybody  said  that  now,  wlien  a  Baronet  and  the 
Son  of  a  Baronet  played  at  skittles,  the  country  was 
coming  round  again,  as  fast  as  it  could  come. 


At  its  proper  time,  the  Banquet  was  served  up,  Trotty 
involuntarily  repaired  to  th(^  Hall  witii  the  rest,  for  ho 
felt  hinis<;lf  conducted  thither  by  sonic  stronger  impulse 
than  his  own  free  will.  The  sight  was  gay  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  the  ladies  were  very  handsome  ;  the  visitors  de- 
lighted, cheerful,  and  good-tempered.  When  the  lower 
doors  were  opened,  and  the  people  flocked  in,  in  their 
rustic  dresses,  the  beauty  of  the  spectacle  was  at  its 
height  ;  but  Trotty  only  munnured  more  and  more. 
"  Where  is  Richard  !  He  should  help  and  comfort  her  ! 
I  can't  .see  Richard  1 " 

There  had  been  some  speeches  made  ;  and  Lady  Bow- 
ley's  health  had  been  proposed  ;  and  Sir  Jo.seph  Bowley 
had  returned  thanks,  and  had  made  his  great  speech, 
showing  by  various  pieces  of  evidence  that  he  was  the 
born  Friend  and  Father,  and  so  forth  ;  and  had  given  as 
a  Toast,  his  Friends  and  Children,  and  the  Dignity  of 
Labour  ;  when  a  slight  disturbance  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hall  attracted  Toby's  notice.  After  sf)me  confusion,  noise, 
and  opposition,  one  man  broke  through  the  rest,  and  stood 
forward  by  himself. 

Not  Richard,  No.  But  one  whom  he  had  thought  of, 
and  had  looked  for,  many  times.  In  a  scantier  su]')ply 
of  light,  he  might  have  doubted  the  identity  of  that  worn 
man,  so  old,  and  grey,  and  bent  ;  but  with  a  blaze  of 
lamps  upon  his  gnarled  and  knotted  head,  he  knew  Will 
Fern  as  soon  as  he  stepped  forth. 

"  What  is  this  1  "  exclaimed  Sir  Joseph,  rising.  "  Who 
gave  this  man  admittance  ?  This  is  a  criminal  from  pris- 
on !    Mr.  Fish,  sir,  icill  you  have  the  goodness — " 

"  A  minute  !  "  said  Will  Fern.  "  A  minute  !  My  Lady, 
you  was  born  on  this  day  along  with  a  New  Year,  Get 
me  a  minute's  leave  to  speak." 

She  made  some  intercession  for  him.  Sir  Joseph  took 
his  seat  again,  with  native  dignity. 

The  ragged  visitor — for  he  was  miserably  dressed — 
looked  round  upon  the  company,  and  made  his  homage  to 
them  with  a  humble  bow. 

"Gentlefolks  !  "  he  said.  "  You've  drunk  the  Labour- 
er.   Look  at  me  !  " 

"  Just  come  from  jail,"  said  Mr.  Fish, 

"Just  come  from  jail,"  said  Will.  "  And  neither  for 
the  first  time,  nor  the  second,  nor  the  third,  nor  yet  the 
fo«lrth." 

Mr.  Filer  was  heard  to  remark  testily,  that  four  times 
was  over  the  average  ;  and  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself, 

"Gentlefolks  !"  repeated  Will  Fern,  "Look  at  me  ! 
You  see  I'm  at  the  worst.  Beyond  all  hurt  or  harm  ;  be- 
yond your  help  ;  for  the  time  when  your  kind  words  or 
kind  actions  could  have  done  me  good," — he  struck  his 
hand  upon  his  breast,  and  shook  his  head,  "is  gone,  with 
the  scent  of  lasi  year's  beans  or  clover  on  the  air.  Let 
me  say  a  word  for  these,"  pointing  to  the  labouring  peo- 
ple in  the  hall ;  "  and  when  you're  met  together,  hear 
the  real  Truth  spoke  out  for  once." 

"  There's  not  a  man  here,"  said  the  host,  "  who  would 
have  him  for  a  spokesman," 

"  Like  enough.  Sir  Joseph,  I  believe  it.  Not  the  less 
true,  perhaps,  is  what  I  say.  Perhaps  that's  a  proof  on 
it.  Gentlefolks,  I've  lived  many  a  year  in  this  place. 
You  may  see  the  cottage  from  the  sunk  fence  over  yon- 
der, I've  seen  the  ladies  draw  i  t  in  their  books,  a  hundred 
times.  It  looks  well  in  a  picter,  I've  heerd  say  ;  but 
there  an't  weather  in  picters,  and  maybe  'tis  fitter  for 
that  than  for  a  place  to  live  in.  Well  !  I  lived  there. 
How  hard — how  bitter  hard,  I  lived  there,  I  won't  say. 
Any  day  in  the  year,  and  every  day,  you  can  judge  for 
your  own  selves." 

He  spoke  as  he  had  spoken  on  the  night  when  Trotty 
I  found  him  in  the  street.  His  voice  was  deeper  and  more 
j  husky,  and  had  a  trembling  in  it  now  and  then  ;  but  he 
never  raised  it,  passionately,  and  seldom  lifted  it  above 
the  firm  stern  level  of  the  homely  facts  he  stated. 

"  'Tis  harder  than  you  think  for,  gentlefolks,  to  grow 
up  decent,  commonly  decent,  in  such  a  place.  That  I 
growed  up  a  man  and  not  a  brute,  says  something  forme 
—as  I  was  then.  As  I  am  now,  there's  nothing  can  be 
said  for  me  or  done  for  me.    I'm  past  it." 

"  I  am  glad  this  man  has  entered, "  observed  Sir  Joseph, 
looking  round  serenely.  "  Don't  disturb  him.  It  appears 
to  be  Ordained.    He  is  an  example  :  a  living  example.  I 


268 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


tope  and  trust,  and  confidently  expect,  that  it  will  not  be 
lost  upon  my  Friends  here." 

"I  dragged  on,"  said  Fern,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
**  somehow.  Neither  me  nor  any  other  man  knows  how  ; 
"but  so  heavy,  that  I  couldn't  put  a  cheerful  face  upon  it, 
or  make  believe  that  I  was  anything  but  what  I  was. 
Now  gentlemen — you  gentlemen  that  sits  at  Sessions — 
when  you  see  a  man  with  discontent  writ  on  his  face,  you 
says  to  one  another  'he's  suspicious.  I  has  my  doubts,' 
says  you,  '  about  Will  Fern.  Watch  that  fellow!'  1 
don't  say,  gentlemen,  it  ain't  quite  nat'ral,  but  I  say  'tis 
so  ;  and  from  that  hour,  whatever  Will  Fern  does,  or  lets 
alone — all  one — it  goes  against  him." 

Alderman  Cute  stuck  his  thumbs  in  his  waistcoat-pock- 
ets, and  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  smiling  winked  at 
a  neighbouring  chandelier.  As  much  as  to  say,  "Of 
course  !  I  told  you  so.  The  common  cry  !  Lord  bless 
you,  we  are  up  to  all  this  sort  of  thing — myself  and  hu- 
man nature." 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  Will  Fern,  holding  out  his 
hands,  and  flushing  for  an  instant  in  his  haggard  face. 
**  See  how  your  laws  are  made  to  trap  and  hunt  us  when 
we're  brought  to  this.  I  tries  to  live  elsewhere.  And 
I'm  a  vagabond.  To  jail  with  him  !  I  comes  back  here. 
I  goes  a  nutting  in  your  woods,  and  breaks — who  don't? 
— a  limber  branch  or  two.  To  jail  with  him  !  One  of 
your  keepers  sees  me  in  the  broad  day,  near  my  own  patch 
of  garden,  with  a  gun.  To  jail  with  him  !  I  has  a  nat'ral 
angry  word  with  that  man,  when  I'm  free  again.  To  jail 
with  him  !  I  cuts  a  stick.  To  jail  with  him  !  I  eats  a 
rotten  apple  or  a  turnip.  To  jail  with  him  !  It's  twenty 
mile  away,  and  coming  back  I  begs  a  trifle  on  the  road. 
To  jail  with  him  !  At  last  the  constable,  the  keeper — 
anybody — finds  me  anywhere,  a  doing  anything.  To  jail 
with  him,  for  he's  a  vagrant,  and  a  jail-bird  known  ;  and 
jail's  the  only  home  he's  got." 

The  Alderman  nodded  sagaciously,  as  who  should  say, 
*'  A  very  good  home  too  !  " 

"  Do  I  say  this  to  serve  my  cause  ?  "  cried  Fern.  "  Who 
can  give  me  back  ni}^  liberty,  who  can  give  me  back  my 
good  name,  who  can  give  me  back  my  innocent  niece  ? 
Not  all  the  Lords  and  Ladies  in  wide  England.  But  gen- 
tlemen, gentlemen,  dealing  with  other  men  like  me,  be- 
gin at  the  right  end.  Give  us,  in  mercy,  better  honles 
when  we're  a  lying  in  our  cradles  ;  give  us  better  food 
when  we're  a  working  for  our  lives  ;  give  us  kinder 
laws  to  bring  us  back  when  we're  a  going  wrong  ;  and 
don't  set  Jail,  Jail,  Jail,  afore  us,  everywhere  we  turn. 
There  ain't  a  condescension  you  can  show  the  Labourer 
then,  that  he  won't  take,  as  ready  and  as  grateful  as  a 
man  can  be  ;  for  he  has  a  patient,  peaceful,  willing 
heart.  But  you  must  put  his  rightful  spirit  in  him  first  ; 
for,  whether  he's  a  reck  and  ruin  such  as  me,  or  is  like 
one  of  them  that  stand  here  now,  his  spirit  is  divided 
from  you  at  this  time.  Bring  it  back,  gentlefolks,  bring 
it  back  !  Bring  it  back,  afore  the  day  comes  when  even 
his  Bible  changes  in  his  altered  mind,  and  the  words 
seem  to  him  to  read,  as  they  have  sometimes  read  in  my 
own  eyes — in  Jail  :  '  Whither  thou  goest,  I  can  Not  go  ; 
where  thou  lodgest,  I  do  Not  Lodge  ;  thy  people  are  Not 
my  people  ;  Nor  thy  God  my  God  ! '  " 

A  sudden  stir  and  agitation  took  place  in  the  Hall. 
Trotty  thought  at  first,  that  several  had  risen  to  eject 
the  man  ;  and  hence  this  change  in  its  appearance.  But, 
another  moment  showed  him  that  the  room  and  all  the 
ct)mpany  had  vanished  from  his  sight,  and  that  his 
daughter  was  again  before  him,  seated  at  her  work. 
But  in  a  j)0()rer,  meaner  garret  than  before  ;  and  with 
no  Lilian  by  h(^r  side. 

The  frame  at  which  she  had  worked  was  put  away 
upon  a  shelf  and  covered  up.  The  chair  in  which  she  had 
sat,  was  turned  against  the  wall.  A  history  was  written 
in  these  little  things  and  in  Meg's  grief-worn  face.  Oh  ! 
who  could  fail  to  read  it  ! 

Meg  strained  her  eyes  upon  her  work  until  it  was  too 
dark  to  see  the  threads  ;  and  when  the  night  closed  in, 
she  lighted  her  feeble  candle  and  worked  on.  Still  her 
old  father  was  invisible  about  her  ;  looking  down  upon 
her ;  loving  her — how  dearly  loving  her  ! — and  talking 
to  her  in  a  tender  voice  about  the  old  times,  and  the 
Bells.  Though  he  knew,  poor  Trotty,  though  he  knew 
she  could  not  hear  him. 


A  great  part  of  the  evening  had  worn  away,  when  a 
knock  came  at  her  door.  She  opened  it.  A  man  was  on 
the  threshold.  A  slouching,  moody,  drunken  sloven, 
wasted  by  intemperance  and  vice,  and  with  his  matted 
hair  and  unshorn  beard  in  wild  disorder  ;  but,  with  some 
traces  on  him,  too,  of  having  been  a  man  of  good  propor- 
tion and  good  features  in  his  youth. 

He  stopped  until  he  had  her  leave  to  enter  ;  and  she, 
retiring  a  pace  or  two  from  the  open  door,  silently  and 
sorrowfully  looked  upon  him.  Trotty  had  his  wish.  He 
saw  Richard. 

"  May  I  come  in,  Margaret  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  Come  in.    Come  in  ! " 

It  was  well  that  Trotty  knew  him  before  he  spoke  ; 
for  with  any  doubt  remaining  on  his  mind,  the  harsh 
discordant  voice  would  have  persuaded  him  that  it  was 
not  Richard  but  some  other  man. 

There  were  but  two  chairs  in  the  room.  She  gave  hers, 
and  stood  at  some  short  distance,  from  him,  waiting  to 
hear  what  he  had  to  say. 

He  sat,  however,  staring  vacantly  at  the  floor  ;  with  a 
lustreless  and  stupid  smile.  A  spectacle  of  such  deep 
degradation,  of  such  abject  hopelessness,  of  such  a  mis- 
erable downfall,  that  she  put  her  hands  before  her  face 
and  turned  away,  lest  he  should  see  how  much  it  moved 
her. 

Roused  by  the  rustling  of  her  dress,  or  some  such 
trifling  sound,  he  lifted  his  head,  and  began  to  speak  as 
if  there  had  been  no  pause  since  he  entered. 

"  Still  at  work,  Margaret  ?  You  work  late." 

"  I  generally  do." 

"And  early?" 

"  And  early." 

"  So  she  said.  She  said  you  never  tired  ;  or  never 
owned  that  you  tired.  Not  all  the  time  you  lived  to- 
gether. Not  even  when  you  fainted,  between  work  and 
fasting.    But  I  told  you  that,  the  last  time  I  came." 

"  You  did,"  she  answered.  "  And  I  implored  you  to 
tell  me  nothing  more  ;  and  you  made  me  a  solemn  prom- 
ise, Richard,  that  you  never  would." 

"A  solemn  promise,"  he  repeated,  with  a  drivelling 
laugh  and  vacant  stare.  "A  solemn  promise.  To  be 
sure.  A  solemn  promise  ! "  Awakening,  as  it  were, 
after  a  time,  in  the  same  manner  as  before  ;  he  said  with 
sudden  animation. 

"How  can  I  help  it,  Margaret?  What  am  I  to  do? 
She  has  been  to  me  again  !" 

"Again  !"  cried  Meg,  clasping  her  hands.  "  0,  does 
she  think  of  me  so  often  !    Has  she  been  again  ?  " 

"  Twenty  times  again,"  said  Richard.  "  Margaret,  she 
haunts  me.  She  comes  behind  me  in  the  street,  and 
thrusts  it  in  my  hand.  I  hear  her  foot  upon  the  ashes 
when  I'm  at  my  work  (ha,  ha  !  that  an't  often),  and  be- 
fore I  can  turn  my  head,  her  voice  is  in  my  ear,  saying, 
'  Richard,  don't  look  round.  For  heaven's  love,  give  her 
this  ! '  She  brings  it  where  I  live  ;  she  sends  it  in  let- 
ters ;  she  taps  at  the  window  and  lays  it  on  the  sill. 
What  can  I  do  ?    Look  at  it !  " 

He  held  out  in  his  hand  a  little  purse,  and  chinked  the 
money  it  enclosed. 

"Hide  it,"  said  Meg.  "Hide  it  !  When  she  comes 
again  tell  her,  Richard,  that  I  love  her  in  my  soul.  That 
I  never  lie  down  to  sleep,  but  I  bless  her,  and  pray  for 
her.  That  in  my  solitary  work,  I  never  Cease  to  have 
her  in  my  thoughts.  That  she  is  with  me,  night  and  day. 
That  if  I  died  to-morrow,  I  would  remember  her  with  my 
last  breath.    But,  that  I  cannot  look  upon  it  ! " 

He  slowly  recalled  his  hand,  and  crushing  the  purse 
together,  said  with  a  kind  of  drowsy  thoughtfnlness  : 

"  I  told  her  so.  I  told  her  so,  as  plain  as  words  could 
speak.  I've  taken  this  gift  back  and  left  it  at  her  door, 
a  dozen  times  since  then.  Bu^  when  she  came  at  last, 
and  stood  before  me,  face  to  face,  what  could  I  do  ?  " 

"You  saw  her!"  exclaimed  Meg.  "You  saw  her  1 
O,  Lilian,  my  sweet  girl  !    O,  Lilian,  Lilian  ! " 

"  I  saw  her,"  he  went  on  to  say,  not  answering,  but 
engaged  in  the  same  slow  pursuit  of  his  own  thoughts. 
"There  she  stood  :  trembling!  'How  does  she  look, 
Richard  ?  Does  she  ever  speak  of  me  ?  Is  she  thinner  ? 
My  old  place  at  the  table  :  what's  in  my  old  place  ?  And 
the  frame  she  taught  me  our  old  work  on — has  she  burnt 
it,  Richard  ? '    There  she  was.    I  hear  her  say  it." 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


209 


Meg  checked  her  sobs,  and  with  the  tears  streaming 
from  her  eyes,  bent  over  him  to  listen.  Not  to  lose  a 
breath. 

With  his  arms  resting  on  his  knees  ;  and  stooping  for- 
ward in  his  chair,  as  if  what  he  said  were  written  on  the 
ground  in  some  half  legible  character,  which  it  was  his 
occupation  to  decipher  and  conrfect  ;  he  went  on. 

"  *  Richard,  I  have  fallen  very  low  ;  and  you  may 
guess  how  much  I  have  suffered  in  having  tins  sent  back, 
when  I  can  bear  to  brino;  it  in  my  hand  to  you.  But  you 
loved  her  once,  even  in  my  memory,  dearly.  Others 
stepped  in  between  you  ;  fears,  and  jealousies,  and 
doubts,  and  vanities,  estranged  you  from  her  ;  but  you 
did  love  her,  even  in  my  memory  ! '  I  suppose  I  did," 
he  said,  interrupting  himself  for  a  moment.  "  I  did  ! 
That's  neither  here  nor  there.  '  0  Richard  if  you  ever 
did ;  if  you  have  any  memory  for  what  is  gone  and  lost, 
take  it  to  her  once  more.  Once  more  !  Tell  her  how  I 
begged  and  prayed.  Tell  her  how  I  laid  my  head  upon 
your  shoulder,  where  her  own  head  might  have  lain, 
and  was  so  humble  to  you,  Richard.  Tell  her  that  you 
looked  into  my  face,  and  saw  the  beauty  which  she  used 
to  praise,  all  gone  :  all  gone  :  and  in  its  place,  a  poor, 
wan,  hollow  cheek,  that  she  would  weep  to  see.  Tell 
her  everything,  and  take  it  back,  and  she  will  not  refuse 
again.    She  will  not  have  the  heart  ! '  " 

So  he  sat  musing,  and  repeating  the  last  words,  until 
he  woke  again,  and  rose. 

"  You  won't  take  it,  Margaret  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  motioned  an  entreaty  to  him 
to  leave  her. 

Good  night,  Margaret." 
"  Good  night  ! " 

He  turned  to  look  upon  her  ;  struck  by  her  sorrow,  and 
perhaps  by  the  pity  for  himself  which  trembled  in  her 
voice.  It  was  a  quick  and  rapid  action  ;  and  for  the 
moment  some  flash  of  his  old  bearing  kindled  in  his  form. 
In  the  next  he  went  as  he  had  come.  Nor  did  this  glim- 
mer of  a  quenched  fire  seem  to  light  him  to  a  quicker 
sense  of  his  debasement. 

In  any  mood,  in  any  grief,  in  any  torture  of  the  mind 
or  body,  Meg's  work  must  be  done.  She  sat  down  to  her 
task,  and  plied  it.     Night,  midnight.    Still  she  worked. 

She  had  a  meagre  fire,  the^ight  being  very  cold  ;  and 
rose  at  intervals  to  mend  it.  The  Chimes  rang  half-past 
twelve  while  she  was  thus  engaged  ;  and  when  they 
ceased  she  heard  a  gentle  knocking  at  the  door.  Before 
she  could  so  much  as  wonder  who  was  there,  at  that  un- 
usual hour,  it  opened. 

0  Youth  and  Beauty,  happy  as  ye  should  be,  look  at 
this  !  0  Youth  and  Beauty,  blest  and  blessing  all  with- 
in your  reach,  and  working  out  the  ends  of  your  Benefi- 
cent Creator,  look  at  this! 

She  saw  the  entering  figure  ;  screamed  its  name  ; 
cried  "  Lilian  !  " 

It  was  swift,  and  fell  upon  its  knees  before  her  ;  cling- 
ing to  her  dress. 

"  Up,  dear  !    Up  !    Lilian  !    My  own  dearest  !  " 

"  Nevermore,  Meg  ;  nevermore!  Here  !  Here  !  Close 
to  you,  holding  to  you,  feeling  your  dear  breath  upon 
my  face  !" 

"  Sweet  Lilian  !  Darling  Lilian  !  Child  of  my  heart 
— no  mother's  love  can  be  more  tender — lay  your  head 
upon  my  breast  !  " 

"Never  more,  Meg.  Never  more!  When  I  first 
looked  into  your  face,  you  knelt  before  me.  On  my  knees 
before  you,  let  me  die.    Let  it  be  here  ! " 

"You  have  come  back.  My  Treasure!  We  will 
live  together,  work  together,  hope  together,  die  to- 
gether ! " 

"  Ah  1  Kiss  my  lips,  Meg ;  fold  your  arms  about 
me  ;  press  me  to  your  bosom  :  look  kindly  on  me  ;  but 
don't  raise  me.  Let  it  be  here.  Let  me  see  the  last  of 
your  dear  face  upon  my  knees  !  " 

O  Youth  and  Beauty,  happy  as  ye  should  be,  look  at 
this  !  O  Youth  and  Beauty,  working  out  the  ends  of 
your  Beneficent  Creator,  look  at  this  ! 

"  Forgive  me,  Meg  !  So  dear,  so  dear  !  Forgive  me  ! 
I  know  you  do,  I  see  you  do,  but  say  so,  Meg  I " 

She  said  so,  with  her  lips  on  Lilian's  cheek.  And 
with  her  arms  twined  round — she  knew  it  now — a  broken 
heart. 


"His  blessing  on  you,  dearest  love.  Kiss  me  once 
more  !  He  suffered  her  to  sit  beside  Ills  feet,  and  diy 
them  with  her  hair.  O  Meg,  what  Mercy  and  Compas- 
sion ! " 

As  she  died,  the  Spirit  of  the  child  returiiing,  inno- 
cent and  radiant,  touched  the  old  man  with  its  hand, 
and  beckoned  him  away. 


FOURTH  QUARTER. 

Some  new  remembrance  of  the  ghostly  figures  in  the 
Bells  ;  some  faint  impression  of  the  ringing  of  the 
Chimes  ;  some  giddy  consciousness  of  having  seen  the 
swarm  of  phantoms  reproduced  and  reproducr-d  until  the 
recollection  of  them  lost  itself  in  the  confusion  of  their 
numbers  ;  some  hurried  knowledge,  how  conveyed  to 
him  he  knew  not,  that  more  years  had  passed  ;  and 
Trotty,  with  the  Si)irit  of  the  child  attending  him,  stood 
looking  on  at  mortal  company. 

Fat  company,  rosy-cheeked  company,  comfortable  com- 
pany. They  were  but  two,  but  they  were  led  enough 
for  ten.  They  sat  before  a  bright  fire,  with  a  f-mall  low 
table  between  them  ;  and  unless  the  fragrance  of  hot 
tea  and  muffins  lingered  longer  in  that  room  than  in  most 
others,  the  table  had  seen  service  very  lately.  But  all 
the  cups  and  saucers  being  clean,  and  in  their  proper 
places  in  the  corner  cupboard;  and  the  brass  foasiing-fork 
hanging  in  its  usual  nook,  and  spreading  its  four  idle  fin- 
gers out,  as  if  it  wanted  to  be  measured  for  a  glove ; 
there  remained  no  other  visible  tokens  of  the  meal  just 
finished,  than  such  as  purred  and  washed  their  whiskers 
in  the  person  of  the  basking  cat,  and  glistened  in  the 
gracious,  not  to  say  the  greasy,  faces  of  her  patrons. 

This  cosy  couple  (married,  evidently^  had  made  a  fair 
division  of  the  fire  between  them,  and  sat  looking  at  the 
glowing  sparks  that  dropped  into  the  grate  ;  now  nod- 
ding off  into  a  doze  ;  now  waking  up  again  when  some 
hot  fragment,  larger  than  the  rest,  came  rattling  down, 
as  if  the  fire  were  coming  with  it. 

It  was  in  no  danger  of  sudden  extinction,  however  ;  for 
it  gleamed  not  only  in  the  little  room,  and  on  the  panes 
of  ^^dndow- glass  in  the  door  and  on  the  curtain  half 
drawn  across  them,  but  in  the  little  shop  beyond,  A  lit- 
tle shop,  quite  crammed  and  choked  with  the  abundance 
of  its  stock  ;  a  perfectly  voracious  little  shop,  with  a 
maw  as  accommodating  and  full  as  any  shark's.  Cheese, 
butter,  firewood,  soap,  pickles,  matches,  bacon,  table- 
beer,  peg-tops,  sweetmeats,  boys'  kites,  bird-seed,  cold 
ham,  birch  brooms,  hearth-stones,  salt,  vinegar,  black- 
ing, red-herrings,  stationery,  lard,  mushroom-ketchup, 
staylaces,  loaves  of  bread,  shuttlecocks,  eggs,  and  slate- 
pencils  ;  everything  was  fish  that  came  to  the  net  of  this 
greedy  little  shop,  and  all  articles  were  in  its  net.  How 
many  other  kinds  of  petty  merchandise  were  there,  it 
would  be  diflBcult  to  say  ;  but  balls  of  packthread,  ropes 
of  onions,  pounds  of  candles,  cabbage-nets,  and  brushes, 
hung  in  bunches  from  the  ceiling,  like  extraordinary 
fruit ;  while  various  odd  canisters  emitting  aromatic 
smells,  established  the  veracity  of  the  inscription  over 
the  outer  door,  which  informed  the  public  that  the 
keeper  of  this  little  shop  was  a  licensed  dealer  in  tea, 
coffee,  tobacco,  pepper,  and  snuff. 

Glancing  at  such  of  these  items  as  were  visible  in  the 
shining  of  the  blaze,  and  the  less  cheerful  radiance  of 
two  smoky  lamps  which  burnt  but  dimly  in  the  shop  it- 
self, as  though  its  plethora  sat  heavy  on  their  lungs  ;  and 
glancing,  then,  at  one  of  the  two  faces  by  the  parlour- 
fire  ;  Trotty  had  small  difficultv  in  recognizing  in  the 
stout  old  lady,  Mrs.  Chickenstalker  :  always  inclined  to 
corpulencv,  even  in  the  davs  when  he  had  known  her  as 
established  in  the  general  line,  and  having  a  small  bal- 
ance against  him  in  her  books. 

The  features  of  her  companion  were  less  easy  to  him. 
The  great  broad  chin,  with  creases  in  it  large  enough  to 
hide  a  finger  in  ;  the  astonished  eyes,  that  seemed  to  ex- 
postulate with  themselves  for  sinking  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  yielding  fat  of  the  soft  face  ;  the  nose  afflicted 
with  that  disordered  action  of  its  functions  which  is 
generally  termed  The  Snuffles  ;  the  short  thick  throat 
and  labouring  chest,  with  other  beauties  of  the  like  de- 


270 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


scription  ;  tliougli  calculated  to  impress  the  memory, 
Troxty  could  at  first  allot  to  nobody  he  had  ever  known  ; 
and  yet  he  had  some  recollection  of  them  too.  At 
length,  in  Mrs.  Chickenstalker's  partner  in  the  general 
line,  and  in  the  crooked  and  eccentric  line  of  life,  he 
recognised  the  former  porter  of  Sir  Joseph  Bowley  ;  an 
apoplectic  innocent,  who  had  connected  himself  in 
Trorty's  mind  with  Mrs.  Chickenstalker  years  ago,  by 
givin'of  him  admission  to  the  mansion  where  he  had  con- 
fessed his  obligations  to  that  lady,  and  drawn  on  his  un- 
lucky head  such  grave  reproach. 

Trotty  had  little  interest  in  a  change  like  this,  after 
the  changes  he  had  seen  ;  but  association  is  very  strong 
sometimes  ;  and  he  looked  involuntarily  behind  the  par- 
lour-door, where  the  accounts  of  credit  customers  were 
usually  kept  in  chalk.  There  was  no  record  of  his  name. 
Some  names  were  there,  but  they  were  strange  to  him, 
and  infinitely  fewer  than  of  old  ;  from  which  he  argued 
that  the  porter  was  an  advocate  of  ready  money  transac- 
tions, and  on  coming  into  business  had  looked  pretty 
sharp  after  the  Chickenstalker  defaulters. 

So  desolate  was  Trotty,  and  so  mournful  was  the  youth 
and  promise  of  his  blighted  child,  that  it  was  a  sorrow 
to  him,  even  to  have  no  place  in  Mrs.  Chickenstalker's 
ledger. 

"What  sort  of  a  night  is  it,  Anne?"  inquired  the 
former  porter  of  Sir  Joseph  Bowley,  stretching  out  his 
legs  before  the  fire,  and  rubbing  as  much  of  them  as  his 
short  arms  tould  reach  ;  with  an  air  that  added,  "  Here 
I  am  if  it's  bad,  and  I  don't  want  to  go  out  if  it's  good." 

"Blowing  and  sleeting  hard,"  returned  his  wife  ;  "  and 
threatening  snow.    Dark.    And  very  cold." 

"I'm  glad  to  think  we  had  muffins,"  said  the  former 
porter,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  set  his  conscience  at 
rest.  "  It's  a  sort  of  night  that's  meant  for  muffins.  Like- 
wise crumpets.    Also  Sally  Lunns." 

The  former  porter  mentioned  each  successive  kind  of 
eatable,  as  if  he  were  musingly  summing  up  his  good 
actions.  After  which,  he  rubbed  his  fat  legs  as  before, 
and  jerking  them  at  the  knees  to  get  the  fire  upon  the 
yet  unroasted  parts,  laughed  as  if  somebody  had  tickled 
him. 

"You're  in  spirits,  Tugby,  my  dear,"  observed  his 
wife. 

The  firm  was  Tugby,  late  Chickenstalker. 

"No,"  said  Tugby.  "No.  Not  particular.  I'm  a 
little  elewated.    The  muffins  came  so  pat  ! " 

With  that  lie  chuckled  until  he  was  black  in  the  face  ; 
and  had  so  much  ado  to  become  any  other  colour,  that 
his  fat  legs  took  the  strangest  excursions  into  the  air. 
Nor  were  they  reduced  to  anything  like  decorum  until 
Mrs.  Tugby  had  thumped  him  violently  on  the  back,  and 
shaken  him  as  if  he  were  a  great  bottle. 

"Good  gracious,  goodness,  lord-a- mercy  bless  and  save 
the  man  !"  cried  Mrs.  Tugby,  in  great  terror.  "  What's 
he  doing  ? " 

Mr.  Tugby  wiped  his  eyes,  and  faintly  repeated  that 
he  found  himself  a  little  elewated. 

"  Then  don't  be  so  again,  that's  a  dear  good  soul,"  said 
Mrs.  Tugby,  "if  you  don't  want  to  frighten  me  to  death, 
with  your  struggling  and  fighting  !  " 

Mr.  Tugby  said  he  wouldn't ;  but,  his  whole  existence 
was  a  fight,  in  which,  if  any  judgment  might  be  founded 
on  the  constantly-increasing  shortness  of  his  breath  and 
the  deepening  purple  of  his  face,  he  was  always  getting 
the  worst  of  it. 

"  So  it's  blowing,  and  sleeting,  and  threatening  snow  ; 
and  it's  dark,  and  very  cold,  is  it,  my  dear?"  said  Mr. 
Tugby,  looking  at  the  fire,  and  reverting  to  the  cream 
and  marrow  of  his  temporary  elevation. 

"  Hard  weather  indeed,"  returned  his  wife,  shaking 
her  head. 

"  Aye,  aye  !  Years,"  said  Mr.  Tugby,  "  are  like  Chris- 
tians in  that  rosnect.  Some  of 'em  die  hard;  some  of 
'em  die  easy.  This  one  hasn't  many  days  to  run,  and  is 
making  a  fight  for  it.  I  like  him  all  the  better.  There's 
a  customer,  my  love  I" 

Attentive  to  the  rattling  door,  Mrs.  Tugby  had  al- 
ready risen. 

"  Now  then  !"  said  the  lady,  passing  out  into  the  little 
shop.  "  What's  wanted  ?  Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir, 
I'm  sure.    I  didn't  think  it  was  you. 


She  made  this  apology  to  a  gentleman  in  black,  who, 
with  his  wristbands  tucked  up,  and  his  hat  cocked 
loungingly  on  one  side,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  sat 
down  astride  on  the  taljle-beer  barrel,  and  nodded  in  re- 
turn. 

"This  is  a  bad  business  up-stairs,  Mrs.  Tugby,"  said 
the  gentleman.    "  The  man  can't  live." 

"  Not  the  back-attic  can't  !  "  cried  Tugby,  coming  out 
into  the  shop  to  join  the  conference. 

"The  back-attic,  Mr.  Tugby," said  the  gentleman,  "is 
coming  down- stairs  fast,  and  will  be  below  the  basement 
veiy  soon." 

Looking  by  turns  at  Tugby  and  his  wife,  he  sounded 
the  barrel  with  his  knuckles  for  the  depth  of  beer,  and 
having  found  it,  played  a  tune  upon  the  empty  part. 

"The  back -attic,  Mr.  Tugby,"  said  the  gentleman; 
Tugby  having  stood  in  silent  consternation  for  some 
time  ;  "is  Going." 

"  Then,"  said  Tugby,  turning  to  his  wife,  "he  must 
Go,  you  know,  before  he's  Gone." 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  move  him,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, shaking  his  head,  "  I  wouldn't  take  the  responsi- 
bility of  saying  it  could  be  done,  myself.  You  had  bet- 
ter leave  him  where  he  is.    He  can't  live  long." 

"  It's  the  only  subject,"  said  Tugby,  bringing  the 
butter-scale  down  upon  the  counter  with  a  crash,  by 
weighing  his  fist  on  it,  "  that  we've  ever  had  a  word 
upon ;  she  and  me  ;  and  look  what  it  comes  to  !  He's 
going  to  die  here,  after  all.  Going  to  die  upon  the  prem- 
ises.   Going  to  die  in  our  house  ! " 

"  And  where  should  he  have  died,  Tugby  !  "  cried  his 
wife. 

"  In  the  workhouse,"  he  returned.  "  What  are  work- 
houses made  for  ?  " 

"  Not  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Tugby,  with  great  energy. 
"  Not  for  that  !  Neither  did  I  marry  you  for  that.  Don't 
think  it,  Tugby.  I  won't  have  it.  I  won't  allow  it,  I'd 
be  separated  first,  and  never  see  your  face  again.  When 
my  widow's  name  stood  over  that  door,  as  it  did  for  ma- 
ny many  years  :  this  house  beiHg  known  as  Mrs.  Chick- 
enstalker's far  and  wide,  and  never  known  but  to  its 
honest  credit  and  its  good  report  :  when  my  widow's 
name  stood  over  that  door,  Tugby,  I  knew  him  as  a 
handsome,  steady,  manly,  independent  youth  ;  I  knew 
her  as  the  sweetest-looking,  sweetest-tempered  girl,  eyes 
ever  saw  ;  I  knew  her  father  (poor  old  creetur,  he  fell 
down  from  the  steeple  walking  in  his  sleep,  and  killed 
himself),  for  the  simplest,  hardest- working,  childest- 
hearted  man,  that  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life  ;  and 
when  I  turn  them  out  of  house  and  home,  may  angels 
turn  me  out  of  heaven.  As  they  would  !  And  serve 
me  right  ! " 

Her  old  face,  which  had  been  a  plump  and  dimpled 
one  before  the  changes  which  had  come  to  pass,  seemed 
to  shine  out  of  her  as  she  said  these  words  ;  and  when 
she  dried  her  eyes,  and  shook  her  head  and  her  handker- 
chief at  Tugby,  with  an  expression  of  firmness  which  it 
w^as  quite  clear  was  not  to  be  easily  resisted,  Trotty  said, 
"Bless  her!    Bless  her!" 

Then  he  listened,  with  a  panting  heart,  for  what 
should  follow.  Knowing  nothing  yet,  but  that  they 
spoke  of  Meg. 

If  Tugby  had  been  a  little  elevated  in  the  parlour,  he 
more  than  balanced  that  account  by  being  not  a  little  de- 
pressed in  the  shop,  where  he  now  stood  staring  at  his 
wife,  without  attempting  a  reply  ;  secretly  conveying, 
however — either  in  a  fit  of  abstraction  or  as  a  precau- 
tionary measure — all  the  money  from  the  till  into  his 
own  pockets,  as  he  looked  at  her. 

The  gentleman  upon  the  table-beer  cask,  who  appeared 
to  be  some  authorised  medical  attendant  upon  the  poor, 
was  far  too  well  accustomed,  evidently,  to  little  differ- 
ences of  opinion  between  man  and  wife,  to  interpose  any 
remark  in  this  instance.  He  sat  softly  whistling,  and 
turning  little  drops  of  beer  out  of  the  tap  upon  the 
ground,  until  there  was  a  perfect  calm  :  when  he  raised 
his  head,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Tugby,  late  Chickenstalker: 

"  There's  something  interesting  about  the  woman, 
even  now.    How  did  she  come  to  marry  him  ?" 

"  Why  that,"  said  Mrs.  Tugby,  taking  a  seat  near 
him,  "  is  not  the  least  cruel  part  of  her  story,  sir.  Yea 
see  they  kept  company,  she  and  Richard,  many  yearS 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


271 


ftgo.  When  tliey  were  a  young  and  beautiful  couple, 
everything  was  settled,  and  they  were  to  have  been 
married  on  a  New  Year's  Day.  But,  somehow,  Richard 
got  into  his  head,  through  what  the  gentleman  told  him, 
that  he  might  do  better,  and  that  he'd  soon  repent  it,  and 
that  she  wasn't  good  enough  for  him,  and  that  a  young 
•  man  of  spirit  had  no  business  to  be  marri(!d.  And  the 
gentleman  frightened  her,  and  made  her  melancholy,  and 
timid  of  his  deserting  her,  and  of  her  children  coming  to 
the  gallows,  and  of  its  being  wicked  to  be  man  and  wife, 
and  a  good  deal  more  of  it.  And  in  short,  they  lingered 
and  lingered,  and  their  trust  in  one  another  was  broken, 
and  so  at  last  was  the  match.  But  the  fault  was  his. 
(She  would  have  married  him,  sir,  joyfully.  I've  seen 
her  heart  swell,  many  times  afterwards,  when  he  passed 
her  in  a  proud  and  careless  way  ;  and  never  did  a  woman 
grieve  more  truly  for  a  man,  than  she  for  Richard  when 
he  first  went  wrong." 

"  Oh  1  he  went  wrong,  did  he?"  said  the  gentleman, 
pulling  out  the  vent-peg  of  the  table  beer,  and  trying  to 
peep  down  into  the  barrel  through  the  hole. 

"Well,  sir,  I  don't  know  that  he  rightly  understood 
himself,  you  see.  I  think  his  mind  was  troubled  by  their 
having  broke  with  one  another  ;  and  that  but  for  being 
ashamed  before  the  gentleman,  and  perhaps  for  being 
uncertain  too,  how  she  might  take  it,  he'd  have  gone 
through  any  suffering  or  trial  to  have  had  Meg's  promise, 
and  Meg's  hand  again.  That's  my  belief.  He  never 
said  so  ;  more's  the  pity  !  He  took  to  drinking,  idling, 
bad  companions  ;  all  the  fine  resources  that  were  to  be 
so  much  better  for  him  than  the  Home  he  might  have 
had.  He  lost  his  looks,  his  character,  his  health,  his 
strength,  his  friends,  his  work  :  everything  !  " 

"He  didn't  lose  everything,  Mrs,  Tugby,"  returned 
the  gentleman,  "  because- he  gained  a  wife  ;  and  I  want 
to  know  how  he  gained  her." 

•*  I'm  coming  to  it,  sir,  in  a  moment.  This  went  on 
for  years  and  years  ;  he  sinking  lower  and  lower  ;  she 
enduring,  poor  thing,  miseries  enough  to  wear  her  life 
away.  At  last  he  was  so  cast  down,  and  cast  out,  that 
no  one  would  employ  or  notice  him  ;  and  doors  were  shut 
upon  him  ;  go  where  he  would.  Applying  from  place 
to  place,  and  door  to  door ;  and  coming  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  to  one  gentleman  who  had  often  and  often 
tried  him  (he  was  a  good  workman  to  the  very  end)  : 
that  gentleman,  who  knew  his  history,  said,  'I  believe 
you  are  incorrigible ;  there  is  only  one  person  in  the 
world  who  has  a  chance  of  reclaiming  you;  ask  me  to  trust 
you  no  more,  until  she  tries  to  do  it.'  Something  like 
that,  in  his  anger  and  vexation." 

" Ah  !"  said  the  gentleman.  "Well?" 

"  Well  sir,  he  went  to  her,  and  kneeled  to  her ;  said 
it  was  so  ;  said  it  ever  had  been  so  ;  and  made  a  prayer 
to  her  to  save  him. " 

"  And  she? — Don't  distress  yourself,  Mrs.  Tugby." 

"  She  came  to  me  that  night  to  ask  me  about  living 
here.  '  What  he  was  once  to  me,'  she  said,  '  is  buried  in 
a  grave,  side  by  side  with  what  I  was  to  him.  But  I 
have  thought  of  this  ;  and  I  will  make  the  trial.  In  the 
hope  of  saving  him  ;  for  the  love  of  the  light-hearted 
girl  (you  remember  her)  who  was  to  have  been  married 
on  a  New  Year's  Day  ;  and  for  the  love  of  her  Richard.' 
And  she  said  he  had  come  to  her  from  Lilian,  and  Lilian 
had  trusted  to  him,  and  she  never  could  forget  that.  So 
they  were  married  ;  and  when  they  came  home  here,  and 
I  saw  them,  I  hoped  that  such  prophecies  as  parted  them 
when  they  were  young,  may  not  often  fulfil  themselves 
as  they  did  in  this  case,  or  I  wouldn't  be  the  makers  of 
them  for  a  Mine  of  Gold." 

The  gentleman  got  off  the  cask,  and  stretched  himself, 
observing, 

"I  suppose  he  used  her  ill,  as  soon  as  they  were 
married  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  he  ever  did  that,"  said  Mrs.  Tugby, 
shaking  her  head  and  wiping  her  eyes.    "  He  went  on 
'     better  for  a  short  time  ;  but  his  habits  were  too  old  and 
strong  to  be  got  rid  of  ;  he  soon  fell  back  a  little  ;  and 
was  falling  fast  back,  when  his  illness  came  so  strong 
,     upon  him.    I  think  he  has  always  felt  for  her.    I  am 
'     sure  he  has.     I've  seen  him,  in  his  crying  fits  and 
[     tremblings,  try  to  kiss  her  hand  ;  and  I  have  heard  him 
j     call  her  '  Meg, '  and  say  it  was  her  nineteenth  birthday. 


There  he  has  been  lying,  now,  these  weeks  and  months. 
Between  him  and  her  baby,  she  has  not  been  able  to  do 
her  old  work  ;  and  by  not  being  able  to  be  regular,  she 
has  lost  it,  even  if  she  could  have  done  it.  How  they 
have  lived,  I  hardly  know  ! " 

"  /  know,"  muttered  Mr.  Tugby  ;  looking  at  the  till, 
and  round  the  shop,  and  at  his  wife  ;  and  rolling  his 
head  with  immense  intelligence.  "  Like  Fighting 
Cocks  1 " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  cry — a  sound  of  lamentation 
— from  the  upper  story  of  the  house.  The  gentleman 
moved  hurriedly  to  the  door. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said,  looking  back,  "  you  needn't  dis- 
cuss whether  lie  shall  be  removed  or  not.  He  has  spared 
you  that  trouble,  I  believe," 

Saying  so,  he  ran  up-stairs,  followed  by  Mrs,  Tugby  ; 
while  Mr.  Tugby  panted  and  grumbled  after  them  at  lei- 
sure ;  being  rendered  more  than  commonly  short-winded 
by  the  weight  of  the  till,  in  which  there  had  been  an 
inconvenient  quantity  of  copper.  Trotty,  with  the  child 
beside  him,  floated  up  the  staircase  like  mere  air. 

"Followher!  Follow  her  1  Follow  her!"  He  heard 
the  ghostly  voices  in  the  Bells  repeat  their  words  as  he 
ascended.  "Learn  it,  from  the  creature  dearest  to  your 
heart  1 " 

It  was  over.  It  was  over.  And  this  was  she,  her 
father's  pride  and  joy  1  This  haggard  wretched  woman, 
weeping  by  the  bed,  if  it  deserved  that  name,  and  press- 
ing to  her  breast,  and  hanging  down  her  head  upon,  an 
infant  ?  Who  can  tell  how  spare,  how  sickly,  and  how 
poor  an  infant?    Who  can  tell  how  dear  !  " 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Trotty,  holding  up  his  folded 
hands.    "  O,  God  be  thanked  !    She  loves  her  child  !  " 

The  gentleman,  not  otherwise  hard-hearted  or  indiffer- 
ent to  such  scenes,  than  that  he  saw  them  every  day, 
and  knew  that  they  were  figures  of  no  moment  in  the 
Filer  sums — mere  scratches  in  the  working  of  those  cal- 
culations— laid  his  hand  upon  the  heart  that  beat  no 
more,  and  listened  for  the  breath,  and  said,  "  His  pain  is 
over.  It's  better  as  it  is  ! "  Mrs.  Tugby  tried  to  comfort 
her  with  kindness.    Mr.  Tugby  tried  philosophy. 

"  Come,  come  !  "  he  said,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
"You  mustn't  give  way,  you  know.  That  won't  do. 
You  must  fight  up.  What  would  have  become  of  me  if  1 
had  given  way  when  I  was  porter,  and  we  had  as  many 
as  six  runaway  carriage -doubles  at  our  door  in  one  night ! 
But,  I  fell  back  upon  my  strength  of  mind,  and  didn't 
open  it  ! " 

Again  Trotty  heard  the  voices,  saying,  ''Followher  !'* 
He  turned  towards  his  guide,  and  saw  it  rising  from  him, 
passing  through  the  air.  "Follow  her  !  "  it  said.  And 
vanished. 

He  hovered  round  her  ;  sat  down  at  her  feet ;  looked 
up  into  her  face  for  one  trace  of  her  old  self  ;  listened 
for  one  note  of  her  old  pleasant  voice.  He  flitted  round 
the  child  :  so  wan,  so  prematurely  old,  so  dreadful  in  its 
gravity,  so  plaintive  in  its  feeble,  mournful,  miserable 
wail.  He  almost  worshipped  it.  He  clung  to  it  as  her 
only  safeguard  ;  as  the  last  unbroken  link  that  bound 
her  to  endurance.  He  set  his  father's  hope  and  trust  on 
the  frail  baby  ;  watched  her  every  look  upon  it  as  she 
held  it  in  her  arms  ;  and  cried  a  thousand  times,  "  She 
loves  it !  God  be  thanked,  she  loves  it  !  " 

He  saw  the  woman  tend  her  in  the  night ;  return  to  • 
her  when  her  grudging  husband  was  asleep,  and  all  was 
still ;  encourage  her,  shed  tears  with  her,  set  nourish- 
ment before  her.  He  saw  the  day  come,  and  the  night 
again  ;  the  day,  the  night  ;  the  time  go  by  ;  the  house 
of  death  relieved  of  death  ;  the  room  feft  to  herself  and 
to  the  child  ;  he  heard  it  moan  and  cry ;  he  saw  it  harass 
her,  and  tire  her  out,  and  when  she  slumbered  in  ex- 
haustion,  drag  her  back  to  consciousness,  and  hold  her 
with  its  little  hands  upon  the  rack  ;  but  she  was  con- 
stant to  it,  gentle  with  it,  patient  with  it.  Patient! 
Was  its  loving  mother  in  her  inmost  heart  and  soul,  and 
had  its  Being  knitted  up  with  hers  as  when  she  carried 
it  unborn. 

All  this  time,  she  was  in  want  ;  languishing  away,  in 
dire  and  pining  want.  With  the  baby  in  her  arms,  she 
wandered  here  and  there  in  quest  of  occupation ;  and 
with  its  thin  face  lying  in  her  lap,  and  looking  up  in 
hers,  did  any  work  for  any  wretched  sum  :  a  day  and 


272 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


night  of  labour  for  as  many  farthings  as  there  were 
figures  on  the  dial.  If  she  had  quarrelled  with  it ;  if 
she  had  neglected  it ;  if  she  had  looked  upon  it  with  a 
moment's  hate  ;  if,  in  the  frenzy  of  an  instant,  she  had 
struck  it !    No.    His  comfort  was,  She  loved  it  always. 

She  told  no  one  of  her  extremity,  and  wandered  abroad 
in  the  day  lest  she  should  be  questioned  by  her  only 
friend  :  for  any  help  she  received  from  her  hands,  oc- 
casioned fresh  disputes  betwen  the  good  woman  and  her 
husband  ;  and  it  was  new  bitterness  to  be' the  daily  cause 
of  strife  and  discord,  where  she  OAved  so  much. 

She  loved  it  still.  She  loved  it  more  and  more.  But 
a  change  fell  on  the  aspect  of  her  love.    One  night. 

She  was  singing  faintly  to  it  in  its  sleep,  and  walking 
to  and  fro  to  hush  it,  when  her  door  was  softly  opened, 
and  a  man  looked  in. 

"  For  the  last  time,'-'  he  said. 

*'  William  Fern  !  " 

*'For  the  last  time." 

He  listened  like  a  man  pursued  :  and  spoke  in  whispers. 

''Margaret,  my  race  is  nearly  run.  I  couldn't  finish 
it,  without  a  parting  word  with  you.  Without  one 
grateful  word." 

"What  have  you  done?"  she  asked:  regarding  him 
with  terror. 

He  looked  at  her,  but  gave  no  answer. 

After  a  short  silence,  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand, 
as  if  he  set  her  question  by  ;  as  if  he  brushed  it  aside  ; 
and  said, 

"  It's  long  ago,  Margaret,  now  ;  but  that  night  is  as 
fresh  in  my  memory  as  ever  'twas.  We  little  thought 
then,"  he  added,  looking  round,  "  that  we  should  ever 
meet  like  this.  Your  child,  Margaret  ?  Let  me  have  it 
in  my  arms.    Let  me  hold  your  child." 

He  put  his  hat  upon  the  floor,  and  took  it.  And  he 
trembled  as  he  took  it,  from  head  to  foot. 

"Is  it  a  girl?" 

"Yes." 

He  put  his  hand  before  its  little  face. 

"  See  how  weak  I'm  grown,  Margaret,  when  I  want 
the  courage  to  look  at  it  !  Let  her  be,  a  moment.  I 
won't  hurt  her.    It's  long  ago,  but — What's  her  name  ?" 

"  Margaret,"  she  answered  quickly. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said.    "I'm  glad  of  that  ! " 

He  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely  :  and  after  pausing 
for  an  instant,  took  away  his  hand,  and  looked  upon  the 
infant's  face.    But  covered  it  again,  immediately. 

"Margaret  ! "  he  said  ;  and  gave  her  back  the  child. 
"It's  Lilian's." 

"  Lilian's  ! " 

"  I  held  the  same  face  in  my  arms  when  Lilian's  mother 
died  and  left  her." 

"When  Lilian's  mother  died  and  left  her  ! "  she  re- 
peated, wildly. 

"  How  shrill  you  speak  !  Why  do  you  fix  your  eyes 
upon  me  so  ?  Margaret  !  " 

She  sunk  down  in  a  chair,  and  pressed  the  infant  to 
her  breast,  and  wept  over  it.  Sometimes,  she  released 
it  from  her  embrace,  to  look  anxiously  in  its  face  :  then 
strained  it  to  her  bosom  again.  At  those  time,  when  she 
gazed  upon  it,  then  it  was  that  something  fierce  and  ter- 
rible began  to  mingle  with  her  love.  Then  it  was,  that 
her  old  father  quailed. 

"Follow  her!"  was  sounded  through  the  house. 
"  Learn  it,  from  the  creature  dearest  to  your  heart  !  " 

"Margaret,"  said  Fern,  bonding  over  her,  and  kissing 
her  upon  the  brow:  "I  thank  you  for  the  last  time. 
Good  night.  Good  bye  !  Put  your  hand  in  mine,  and  tell 
m»  you'll  forget  me  from  this  hour,  and  try  to  think  the 
end  of  me  was  here." 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  "  she  asked  again. 

"There'll  be  a  Fire  to-night,"  he  said,  removing  from 
her.  "There'll  be  Fires  this  winter-time,  to  light  the 
dark  nights.  East,  West,  North,  and  South.  When  you 
see  the  distant  sky  red,  they'll  be  blazing.  When  you 
see  the  distant  sky  red,  think  of  me  no  more  ;  or,  if  you 
do,  remember  what  a  Hell  was  lighted  u])  inside  of  me, 
and  think  you  see  its  flames  reflected  in  the  clouds. 
Good  night.    Good  bye  !  " 

She  called  to  him  ;  but  he  was  gone.  She  sat  down 
stupefied,  until  her  infant  roused  her  to  a  sense  of  hun- 
ger, cold,  and  darkness.    She  paced  the  room  with  it  the 


livelong  night,  hushing  it  and  soothing  it.  She  said  at 
intervals,  "  Like  Lilian,  when  her  mother  died  and  left 
her  ! "  Why  was  her  step  so  quick,  her  eyes  so  wild, 
her  love  so  fierce  and  terrible,  whenever  she  repeated 
those  words? 

"  But,  it  is  Love,"  said  Trotty.  "It  is  Love.  She'll 
never  cease  to  love  it.   My  poor  Meg  ! " 

She  dressed  the  child  next  morning  with  unusual  care. 
— ah  vain  expenditure  of  care  upon  such  squalid  robes  I 
— and  once  more  tried  to  find  some  means  of  life.  It 
was  the  last  day  of  the  Old  Year.  She  tried  till  night, 
and  never  broke  her  fast.   "She  tried  in  vain. 

She  mingled  with  an  abject  crowd,  who  tarried  in  the 
snow,  until  it  pleased  some  officer  appointed  to  dispense 
the  public  charity  (the  lawful  charity  ;  not  that,  once 
preached  upon  a  Mount),  to  call  them  in,  and  question 
them,  and  say  to  this  one,  "go  to  such  a  place,"  to  that 
one,  "come  next  week  ;"  to  make  a  football  of  another 
wretch,  and  pass  him  here  and  there,  from  hand  to  hand, 
from  house  to  house,  until  he  wearied  and  lay  down  to 
die  ;  or  started  up  and  robbed,  and  so  became  a  higher 
sort  of  criminal,  whose  claims  allowed  of  no  delay. 
Here,  too,  she  failed. 

She  loved  her  child,  and  wished  to  have  it  lying  on  her 
breast.    And  that  was  quite  enough. 

It  was  night  :  a  bleak,  dark,  cutting  night  :  when, 
pressing  the  child  close  to  her  for  warmth,  she  arrived 
outside  the  house  she  called  her  home.  She  was  so  faint 
and  giddy,  that  she  saw  no  one  standing  in  the  doorway 
until  she  was  close  upon  it,  and  about  to  enter.  Then, 
she  recognised  the  master  of  the  house,  who  had  so  dis- 
posed himself — with  his  person  it  was  not  difficult— as  to 
fill  up  the  whole  entry. 

"Oh  !  "  he  said  softly.    "  You  have  come  back  ?  " 

She  looked  at  the  child,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  have  lived  here  long  enough 
without  paying  any  rent  ?  Don't  you  think  that,  without 
any  money,  you've  been  a  pretty  constant  customer  at 
this  shop,,  now  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tugby. 

She  repeated  the  same  mute  appeal. 

"  Suppose  you  try  and  deal  somewhere  else,"  he  said. 
"  And  suppose  you  provide  yourself  with  another  lodg- 
ing.   Come  !    Don't  you  think  you  could  manage  it  ?  " 

She  said,  in  a  low  voice,  that  it  was  very  late.  To- 
morrow. 

"  Now  I  see  what  you  want,  '*  said  Tugby  ;  "  and  what 
you  mean.  You  know  there  are  two  parties  in  this 
house  about  you,  and  you  delight  in  setting  'em  by  the 
ears.  /  don't  want  any  quarrels  ;  I'm  speaking  softly 
to  avoid  a  quarrel  ;  but  if  you  don't  go  away,  I'll  speak 
out  loud,  and  you  shall  cause  words  high  enough  to 
please  you.  But  you  shan't  come  in.  That  I  am  deter- 
mined." 

She  put  her  hair  back  with  her  hand,  and  looked  in  a 
sudden  manner  at  the  sky,  and  the  dark  lowering  dis- 
tance. 

"  This  is  the  last  night  of  an  Old  Year,  and  I  won't 
carry  ill-blood  and  quarrellings  and  disturbances  into  a 
New  One,  to  please  you  nor  anybody  else,"  said  Tugby, 
who  was  quite  a  retail  Friend  and  Father.  "  I  wonder 
you  an't  ashamed  of  yourself,  to  carry  such  practices 
into  a  New  Year.  If  you  haven't  any  business  in  the 
world,  but  to  be  always  giving  way,  and  always  making 
disturbances  between  man  and  wife,  you'd  be  better  out 
of  it.    Go  along  with  you  !" 

"  Follow  her  !    To  desperation  !  " 

Again  the  old  man  heard  the  voices.  Looking  up,  he 
saw  the  figures  hovering  in  the  air,  and  pointing  where 
she  went,  down  the  dark  street. 

"She  loves  it!"  he  exclaimed, 'in  agonised  entreaty 
for  her.    "  The  Chimes  !  she  loves  it  still ! " 

"  Follow  her  !  "  The  shadows  swept  upon  the  track 
she  had  taken,  like  a  cloud. 

He  joined  in  the  pursuit  :  he  kept  close  to  her ;  he 
looked  into  her  face.  He  saw  the  same  fierce  and  terri- 
ble expression  mingling  with  her  love,  and  kindling  in 
her  eyes.  He  heard  her  say  "  Like  Lilian  !  To  be 
changed  like  Lilian  ! "  and  her  speed  redoubled. 

O,  for  something  to  awaken  her  I  For  any  sight, 
or  sound,  or  scent,  to  call  up  tender  recollections  in  a 
brain  on  fire  !  For  any  gentle  image  of  the  Past,  to  rise 
before  her  I 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


273 


"  I  was  her  father  !  I  was  her  father  !  "  cried  the  old 
man,  stretching  out  his  hands  to  the  dark  shadows  flying 
on  above.  "Have  mercy  on  her,  and  on  nie  I  Where 
does  she  go  ?    Turn  her  back  I    I  was  her  father  !  " 

But  they  only  pointed  to  her,  as  she  hurried  on  ;  and 
said,  "  To  desperation  !  Learn  it  from  the  creature  dear- 
est to  your  heart  !  " 

A  hundred  voices  echoed  it.  The  air  was  made  of 
breath  expended  in  those  words.  He  seemed  to  take 
them  in,  at  every  gasp  he  drew.  They  were  everywhere, 
and  not  to  be  escaped.  And  still  she  hurried  on  ;  the 
same  light  in  her  eyes,  the  same  words  in  her  mouth  : 
"  Like  Lilian  !    To  be  changed  like  Lilian  !  " 

All  at  once  she  stopped. 

"  Now,  turn  her  back  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  tear- 
ing his  white  hair.  "  My  child  !  Meg  !  Turn  her  back  ! 
Great  Father,  turn  her  back  !  " 

In  her  own  scanty  shawl,  she  wrapped  the  baby  warm. 
With  her  fevered  hands,  she  smoothed  its  limbs,  com- 
posed its  face,  arranged  its  mean  attire.  In  her  wasted 
arms  she  folded  it,  as  though  she  never  would  resign  it 
more.  And  with  her  dry  lips,  kissed  it  in  a  final  pang, 
and  last  long  agony  of  Love. 

Putting  its  tiny  hand  up  to  her  neck,  and  holding  it 
there,  within  her  dress,  next  to  her  distracted  heart,  she 
set  its  sleeping  face  against  her  :  closely,  steadily,  against 
her  :  and  sped  onward  to  the  river. 

To  the  rolling  River,  swift  and  dim,  where  Winter 
Night  sat  brooding  like  the  last  dark  thoughts  of  many 
who  had  sought  a  refuge  there  before  her.  Where  scat- 
tered lights  upon  the  banks  gleamed  sullen,  red  and  dull, 
as  torches  that  were  burning  there,  to  show  the  way  to 
Death.  Where  no  abode  of  living  people  cast  its  shadow, 
on  the  deep,  impenetrable,  melancholy  shade. 

To  the  River  !  to  that  portal  of  Eternity,  her  desper- 
ate footsteps  tended  with  thp  swiftness  of  its  rapid  wa- 
ters running  to  the  sea.  He  tried  to  touch  her  as  she 
passed  him,  going  down  to  its  dark  level  ;  but,  the  ^vild 
distempered  form,  the  fierce  and  terrible  love,  the  des- 
peration that  had  left  all  human  check  or  hold  behind, 
swept  by  him  like  the  wind. 

He  followed  her.  She  paused  a  moment  on  the  brink, 
before  the  dreadful  plunge.  He  fell  down  on  his  knees, 
and  in  a  shriek  addressed  the  figures  in  the  Bells  now  hov- 
ering above  them. 

"  I  have  learnt  it  !"  cried  the  old  man.  "  From  the 
creature  dearest  to  my  heart  !  0,  save  her,  save  her  !" 

He  could  wind  his  fingers  in  her  dress  ;  could  hold  it  ! 
As  the  words  escaped  his  lips  he  felt  his  sense  of  touch 
return,  d,nd  knew  that  he  detained  her. 

The  figures  looked  down  steadfastly  upon  him. 

"I  have  learnt  it!  "cried  the  old  man.  "  O,  have 
mercy  on  me  in  this  hour,  if,  in  my  love  for  her,  so  young 
and  good,  I  slandered  Nature  in  the  breasts  of  mothers 
rendered  desperate  !  Pity  my  presumption,  wickedness, 
and  ignorance,  and  save  her  !  " 

He  felt  his  hold  relaxing.    They  were  silent  still. 

"Have  mercy  on  her  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "as  one  in 
whom  this  dreadful  crime  has  sprung  from  Love  per- 
verted ;  from  the  strongest,  deepest  Love  we  fallen  crea- 
tures know  !  Think,  what  her  misery  must  have  been, 
when  such  seed  bears  such  fruit.  Heaven  meant  her  to 
be  good.  There  is  no  loving  mother  on  earth  who  might 
not  come  to  this,  if  such  a  life  had  gone  before.  0,  have 
mercy  on  my  child,  who,  even  at  this  pass,  means  mercy 
to  her  own,  and  dies  herself,  and  perils  her  immortal 
soul,  to  save  it !  " 

She  was  in  his  arms.  He  held  her  now.  His  strength 
was  like  a  giant's. 

"  I  see  the  spirit  of  the  Chimes  among  you  ! "  cried 
the  old  man,  singling  out  the  child,  and  speaking  in  some 
inspiration,  which  their  looks  conveyed  to  him.  "I 
know  that  our  inheritance  is  held  in  store  for  us  by  Time. 
I  know  there  is  a  sea  of  Time  to  rise  one  day.  before 
which  all  who  wrong  us  or  oppress  us  will  be  swept 
away  like  leaves.  I  see  it,  on  the  flow  !  I  know  that 
we  must  trust  and  hope,  and  neither  doubt  ourselves, 
nor  doubt  the  good  in  one  another.  I  have  learnt  it  from 
the  creature  dearest  to  my  heart.  I  clasp  her  in  my 
arms  again.  0  Spirits,  merciful  and  good,  I  take  your 
lesson  to  my  breast  along  with  her  !  O  Spirits,  merciful 
and  good,  I  am  grateful! " 

Vol.  II.— 18 


He  might  have  said  more  ;  but,  the  Bells,  the  old  fa- 
miliar Bells,  his  own  dear,  constant,  steady  friends,  the 
Chimes,  began  to  ring  the  joy-peals  for  a  New  Year  :  so 
lustily,  so  merrily,  so  happily,  so  gaily,  that  he  leapt  upon 
his  feet,  and  broke  the  spell  that  bound  him. 

"  And  whatever  you  do,  father,"  said  Meg,  "  don't 
eat  tripe  again,  without  asking  some  doctor  whetlier  it 
is  likely  to  agree  with  you  ;  for  how  you  have  been  going 
on.  Good  gracious  !  " 

She  was  working  with  her  needle,  at  the  little  table  by 
the  fire  ;  dressing  her  simple  gown  with  ribbons  for  her 
wedding.  So  quietly  happy,  so  blooming  and  youthful, 
so  full  of  beautiful  promise,  that  he  uttered  a  great  cry 
as  if  it  were  an  Angel  in  his  house  ;  then  flew  to  clasp 
her  in  his  arms. 

But,  he  caught  his  feet  in  the  newspaper,  which  had 
fallen  on  the  hearth  ;  and  somebody  came  rushing  in 
between  them. 

"  No  !  "  cried  the  voice  of  this  same  somebody  ;  a  gen- 
erous and  jolly  voice  it  was  !  "  Not  even  you.  Not 
even  you.  The  first  kiss  of  Meg  in  the  New  Year  is 
mine.  Mine  !  I  have  been  waiting  outside  the  house, 
this  hour,  to  hear  the  Bells  and  claim  it.  Meg,  my  prec- 
ious prize,  a  happy  year  !  A  life  of  happy  years,  my 
darling  wife  ! " 

And  Richard  smothered  her  with  kisses. 

You  never  in  all  your  life  saw  anything  like  Trotty 
after  this.  I  don't  care  where  you  have  lived  or  what 
you  have  seen  ;  you  never  in  all  your  life  saw  anything 
at  all  approaching  him  !  He  sat  down  in  his  chair  and 
beat  his  knees  and  cried  ;  he  sat  down  in  his  chair  and 
beat  his  knees  and  laughed  ;  he  sat  down  in  his  chair 
and  beat  his  knees  and  laughed  and  cried  together  ;  he 
got  out  of  his  chair  and  hugged  Meg  ;  he  got  out  of  his 
chair  and  hugged  Richard  ;  he  got  out  of  his  chair  and 
hugged  them  both  at  once  ;  he  kept  running  up  to  Meg, 
and  squeezing  her  fresh  face  between  his  hands  and  kiss- 
ing it,  going  from  her  backwards  not  to  lose  sight  of  it, 
and  running  up  again  like  a  figure  in  a  magic  lantern  : 
and  whatever  he  did,  he  was  constantly  sitting  himself 
down  in  this  chair,  and  never  stopping  in  it  for  one  sin- 
gle moment  ;  being — that's  the  truth — beside  himself 
with  joy. 

"  And  to-morrow's  your  wedding-day,  my  pet  !  "  cried 
Trotty.    "  Your  real,  happy  wedding-day  I" 

"To-day  !"  cried  Richard,  shaking  hands  with  him. 
"  To-day.  The  chimes  are  ringing  in  the  New  Year. 
Hear  them  !  " 

They  were  ringing  I  Bless  their  sturdy  hearts,  they 
WERE  ringing  !  Great  Bells  as  they  were  ;  melodious, 
deep-mouthed,  noble  Bells  ;  cast  in  no  common  metal  ; 
made  by  no  common  founder  ;  when  had  they  ever 
chimed  like  that,  before  ! 

"But,  to-day,  my  pet,"  said  Trotty.  "  You  and  Rich- 
ard had  some  words  to-day." 

"Because  he's  such  a  bad  fellow,  father,"  said  Meg. 
"  An't  you,  Richard?  Such  a  headstrong,  violent  man  ! 
He'd  have  made  no  more  of  speaking  his  mind  to  that 
great  Alderman,  and  putting  him  down  I  don't  know 
where,  than  he  would  of — " 

" — Kissing  Meg,"  suggested  Richard.    Doing  it  too  I 

"No.  Not  a  bit  more,"  said  Meg.  "  But  I  wouldn't 
let  him,  father.    W^here  would  have  been  the  use  ! " 

' '  Richard,  my  boy  !  "  cried  Trotty.    "  You  was  turned 
up  Trumps  originally  ;  and  Trumps  you  must  be  till  you 
die  !    But,  you  were  crying  by  the  fire  to-night,  my  pet, 
j  when  I  came  home  !    Why  did  you  cry  by  the  fire  ?  " 
I     "I  was  thinking  of  the  years  we've  passed  together, 
j  father.    Only  that.    And  thinking  you  might  miss  me. 
and  be  lonelv." 

Trotty  was  backing  off  to  that  extraordinary  chair 
again,  Avhen  the  child,  w^ho  had  been  awakened  by  the 
noise,  came  running  in  half-dressed. 

"Why,  here  she  is  !  "  cried  Trotty.  catching  her  up. 
"Here's  little  Lilian!  Ha  ha  ha!  Here  we  are  and 
here  we  go  !  0,  here  we  are  and  here  we  go  again  !  And 
here  we  are  and  here  we  go  !  And  Uncle  Will  too  ! " 
Stopping  in  his  trot  to  greet  him  heartily.  "  O,  Uncle 
Will,  the  vision  that  I'v'e  had  to-night,  through  lodging 
you!  O,  Uncle  Will,  the  obligations  that  you've  laid 
me  under,  by  your  coming,  my  good  friend  ! " 


2n 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Before  Will  Fern  could  make  the  least  reply,  a  band 
of  music  burst  into  tlie  room,  attended  by  a  flock  of 
neighbours,  screaming  "A  Happy  New  Year,  Meg!" 
"A  Happy  Wedding!"  "Many  of 'em  !  "  and  other 
fragmentary  good  wishes  of  that  sort.  The  Drum  (who 
was  a  private  friend  of  Trotty's)  then  stepped  forward, 
and  said  : 

' '  Trotty  Veck,  my  boy  !  It's  got  about,  that  your 
daughter  is  going  to  be  married  to-morrow.  There  an't 
a  soul  that  knows  you  that  don't  wish  you  well,  or  that 
knows  her  and  don't  wish  her  well.  Or  that  knows  you 
both,  and  don't  wish  you  both  all  the  happiness  the  New 
Year  can  bring.  And  here  we  are,  to  play  it  in  and 
dance  it  in,  accordingly." 

Which  was  received  with  a  general  shout.  The 
Drum  was  rather  drunk,  by  the  bye  ;  but,  never  mind. 

"What  a  happiness  it  is,  I'm  sure,"  said  Trotty,  "to 
be  sof  esteemed  !  How  kind  and  neighbourly  you  are  ! 
It's  all  along  of  my  dear  daughter.    She  deserves  it  ! " 

They  were  ready  for  a  dance  in  half  a  second  (Meg 
and  Richard  at  the  top)  ;  and  the  Drum  was  on  the  very 
brink  of  leathering  away  with  all  his  power  ;  when  a 
combination  of  prodigious  sounds  was  heard  outside,  and 
a  good  humoured  comely  woman  of  some  fifty  years  of 
age,  or  thereabouts,  came  running  in,  attended  by  a  man 
bearing  a  stone  pitcher  of  terrific  size,  and  closely  fol- 
lowed by  the  marrow-bones  and  cleavers,  and  the  bells  ; 
not  the  Bells,  but  a  portable  collection,  on  a  frame. 

Trotty  said  "  It's  Mrs.  Chickenstalker  ! "  And  sat 
down  and  beat  his  knees  again. 

"Married,  and  not  tell  me,  Meg  !"  cried  the  good 
woman.  "  Never  !  I  couldn't  rest  on  the  last  night  of 
the  Old  Year  without  coming  to  wish  you  joy.  I  couldn't 
have  done  it,  Meg.  Not  if  I  had  been  bed-ridden.  So 
here  I  am  ;  and  as  it's  New  Year's  Eve,  and  the  Eve  of 
your  wedding  too,  my  dear,  I  had  a  little  flip  made,  and 
brought  it  with  me." 

Mrs.  Chickenstalker's  notion  of  a  little  flip,  did  honour 
to  her  character.  The  pitcher  steamed  and  smoked  and 
reeked  like  a  volcano  ;  and  the  man  who  carried  it,  was 
faint. 


"Mrs.  Tugby  !  "  said  Trotty,  who  had  been  going 
round  and  round  her,  in  an  ecstasy. — "1  should  say, 
Chickenstalker — Bless  your  heart  and  soul  !  A  happy 
New  Year,  and  many  of  'em  !  Mrs.  Tugby,"  said  Trotty 
when  he  had  saluted  her  ; — "  I  should  say  Chicken- 
stalker— This  is  William  Fern  and  Lilian." 

The  worthy  dame,  to  his  surprise,  turned  very  pale 
and  very  red. 

"  Not  Lilian  Fern  whose  mother  died  in  Dorsetshire  ! " 
said  she. 

Her  uncle  answered,  "  Yes,'*  and  meeting  hastily,  they 
exchanged  some  hurried  words  together  ;  of  which  the 
upshot  was,  that  Mrs,  Chickenstalker  shook  him  by  both 
hands  ;  saluted  Trotty  on  his  cheek  again  of  her  own 
free  will  ;  and  took  the  child  to  her  capacious  breast. 

"  Will  Fern  !  "  said  Trotty,  pulling  on  his  right-hand 
muffler.  ' '  Not  the  friend  that  you  were  hoping  to  find  ?  " 

"Ay!"  returned  Will,  putting  a  hand  on  each  of 
Trotty's  shoulders.  "  And  like  to  prove  a'most  as  good 
a  friend,  if  that  can  be,  as  one  I  found." 

"Oh  ! "  said  Trotty.    "  Please  to  play  up  there.  Will 
you  have  the  goodness  ! " 

To  the  music  of  the  band,  the  bells,  the  marrow  bones 
and  cleavers,  all  at  once  ;  and  while  The  Chimes  were 
yet  in  lusty  operation  out  of  doors  ;  Trotty  making  Meg 
and  Richard  second  couple,  led  off  Mrs.  Chickenstalker 
down  the  dance,  and  danced  it  in  a  step  unknown  before 
or  since  ;  founded  on  his  own  peculiar  trot. 

Had  Trotty  dreamed  ?    Or,  are  his  joys  and  sorrows, 
and  the  actors  in  them,  but  a  dream  ;  himself  a  dream  ; 
the  teller  of  this  tale  a  dreamer,  waking  but  now  ?    If  it 
be  so,  0  listener,  dear  to  him  in  all  his  visions,  try  to 
bear  in  mind  the  stern  realities  from  which  these  sha- 
dows come  ;  and  in  your  sphere — none  is  too  wide,  and 
none  too  limited  for  such  an  end — endeavour  to  correct, 
improve,  and  soften  them.'   So  may  the  New  Year  be  a 
happy  one  to  you,  happy  to  many  more  whose  happiness  , 
depends  on  you  !    So  may  each  year  be  happier  than  the  | 
last,  and  not  the  meanest  of  our  brethren  or  sisterhood  j 
debarred  their  rightful  share,  in  what  our  Great  Creator  c 
formed  them  to  enjoy.  \ 

\ 
I 


THE    CRICKET    ON    THE  HEARTH, 
A  FAIEY  TALE  OF  HOME. 


CHIRP  THE  FIRST. 

The  kettle  began  it  !  Don't  tell  me  what  Mrs.  Peery- 
bingle  said.  I  know  better.  Mrs.  Peerybingle  may  leave 
it  on  record  to  the  end  of  time  that  she  couldn't  say  which 
of  them  began  it ;  but,  I  say  the  kettle  did.  I  ought  to 
know,  I  hope.  The  kettle  began  it,  full  five  minutes  by 
the  little  waxy-faced  Dutch  clock  in  the  corner,  before 
the  Cricket  uttered  a  chirp. 

As  if  the  clock  hadn't  finished  striking,  and  the  con- 
vulsive little  Haymaker  at  the  top  of  it,  jerking  away 
right  and  left  with  a  scythe  in  front  of  a  Moorish  Palace, 
hadn't  mowed  down  half  an  acre  of  imaginary  grass  be- 
fore the  Cricket  joined  in  at  all  ! 

Why,  I  am  not  naturally  positive.  Everyone  knows 
that.  I  wouldn't  set  ray  own  opinion  against  the  opinion  of 
Mrs.  Peerybingle,  unless  I  were  quite  sure,  on  any  account 
whatever.  Nothing  should  induce  me.  But,  this  is  a 
question  of  fact.  And  the  fact  is,  that  the  kettle  began 
it,  at  least  five  minutes  before  the  Cricket  gave  any  sign 
of  being  in  existence.    Contradict  me,  and  I'll  say  ten. 

Let  me  narrate  exactly  how  it  happened.  I  should 
have  proceeded  to  do  so,  in  my  very  first  word,  but  for 
this  plain  consideration — if  I  am  to  tell  a  story  I  must  be- 
gin at  the  beginning  ;  and  how  is  it  possible  to  begin  at 
the  beginning,  without  beginning  at  the  kettle? 


It  appeared  as  if  there  were  a  sort  of  matcli,  or  trial  of 
skill,  you  must  understand,  between  the  kettle  and  the 
Cricket.  And  this  is  what  led  to  it,  and  how  it  came 
about. 

Mrs.  Peerybingle,  going  out  into  the  raw  twilight,  and 
clinking  over  the  wet  stones  in  a  pair  of  pattens  that 
worked  innumerable  rough  impressions  of  the  first  prop- 
osition in  Euclid  all  about  the  yard — Mrs.  Peerybingle 
filled  the  kettle  at  the  water  butt.  Presently  returning, 
less  the  pattens  (and  a  good  deal  less,  for  they  were  tall 
and  Mrs.  Peerybingle  was  but  short),  she  set  the  kettle 
on  the  fire.  In  doing  which  she  lost  her  temper,  or  mis- 
laid it  for  an  instant  ;  for,  the  water  being  uncomforta- 
bly cold,  and  in  that  slippy,  slushy,  sleety  sort  of  state 
wherein  it  seems  to  penetrate  through  every  kind  of  sub- 
stance, patten  rings  included — had  laid  hold  of  Mrs.  Pet> 
rybingle's  toes,  and  even  splashed  her  legs.  And  when 
we  rather  plume  ourselves  (with  reason  too)  upon  our  legs, 
and  keep  ourselves  particularly  neat  in  point  of  stock- 
ings, we  find  this,  for  the  moment,  hard  to  bear. 

Besides,  the  kettle  was  aggravating  and  obstinate.  It 
wouldn't  allow  itself  to  be  adjusted  on  the  top  bar  ;  it 
wouldn't  hear  of  accommodating  itself  kindly  to  the  knobs 
of  coal  ;  it  would  lean  forward  with  a  drunken  air,  and 
dribble,  a  very  Idiot  of  a  kettle,  on  the  hearth.  It  was 
quarrelsome,  and  hissed  and  spluttered  morosely  at  the 


CHUJSTMA^ 

fire.  To  sum  up  all,  the  lid,  resisting  Mrs.  Peerybingl(;'s 
fingers,  first  of  all  turned  topsy-turvy,  and  then  with  an 
ingenious  pertinacity  deserving  of  a  better  cause,  dived 
sideways  in — down  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  k(;ttle.  And 
the  hull  of  the  Royal  George  has  never  made  half  the 
monstrous  resistance  to  coming  out  of  the  water,  which 
the  lid  of  that  kettle  employed  against  Mrs.  Peerybingle, 
before  she  got  it  up  again. 

It  looked  sullen  and  pig-headed  enough,  even  then  ; 
carrying  its  handle  with  an  air  of  defiance,  and  cocking 
its  spout  pertly  and  mockingly  at  Mrs.  Peerybingle,  as  if 
it  said,  "I  won't  boil.    Nothing  shall  induce  me  ! " 

But,  Mrs.  Peerybingle,  with  restored  good  humour, 
dusted  her  chubby  little  hands  against  each  other,  and 
sat  down  before  the  kettle,  laughing.  Meantime,  the 
jolly  blaze  uprose  and  fell,  flashing  and  gleaming  on  the 
little  Haymaker  at  the  top  of  the  Dutch  clock,  until  one 
might  have  thought  he  stood  stock  still  before  the  Moor- 
ish Palace,  and  nothing  was  in  motion  but  the  flame. 

He  was  on  the  move,  however  ;  and  had  his  spasms, 
two  to  the  second,  all  right  and  regular.  But,  his  suf- 
ferings when  the  clock  was  going  to  strike,  were  fright- 
ful to  behold  ;  and  when  a  Cuckoo  looked  out  of  a  trap- 
door in  the  Palace,  and  gave  note  six  times,  it  shook  him, 
each  time,  like  a  spectral  voice — or  like  a  something 
wiry,  plucking  at  his  legs. 

It  was  not  until  a  violent  commotion  and  a  whirring 
noise  among  the  weights  and  ropes  below  him  had  quite 
subsided,  that  this  terrified  Haymaker  became  himself 
again.  Nor  was  he  startled  without  reason  ;  for,  these 
rattling,  bony  skeletons  of  clocks  are  very  disconcerting 
in  their  operation,  and  I  wonder  very  much  how  any  set 
of  men,  but  most  of  all  how  Dutchmen,  can  have  had  a 
liking  to  invent  them.  There  is  a  popular  belief  that 
Dutchmen  love  broad  cases  and  much  clothing  for  their 
own  lower  selves  ;  and  'they  might  know  better  than 
to  leave  their  clocks  so  very  lank  and  unprotected, 
surely. 

Now  it  was,  you  observe,  that  the  kettle  began  to 
spend  the  evening.  Now  it  was,  that  the  kettle,  grow- 
ing mellow  and  musical,  began  to  have  irrepressible 
gurglings  in  its  throat,  and  to  indulge  in  short  vocal 
snorts,  which  it  checked  in  the  bud,  as  if  it  hadn't  quite 
made  up  its  mind  yet,  to  be  good  company.  Now  it 
was,  that  after  two  or  three  such  vain  attempts  to  stifle 
its  convivial  sentiments,  it  threw  off  all  moroseness,  all 

i  reserve,  and  burst  into  a  scream  of  song  so  cosy  and 
hilarious,  as  never  maudlin  nightingale  yet  formed  the 

t  least  idea  of. 

So  plain  too  !  Bless  you,  you  might  have  understood 
it  like  a  book — better  than  some  books  you  and  I  could 
name,  perhaps.  With  its  warm  breath  gushing  forth  in 
a  light  cloud  which  merrily  and  gracefully  ascended  a 
few  feet,  then  hung  about  the  chimney-corner  as  its  own 
domestic  heaven,  it  trolled  its  song  with  that  strong 
energy  of  cheerfulness,  that  its  iron  body  hummed  and 
stirred  upon  the  fire  ;  and  the  lid  itself,  the  recently  re- 

I  bellious  lid — such  is  the  influence  of  a  bright  example — 
performed  a  sort  of  jig,  and  clattered  like  a  deaf  and 
dumb  young  cymbal  that  had  never  known  the  use  of 

[  its  twin  brother. 

J     That  this  song  of  the  kettle's  was  a  song  of  invitation 
t  and  welcome  to  somebody  out  of  doors  :  to  somebody  at 
I  that  moment  coming  on,  towards  the  snug  small  home 
and  the  crisp  fire  :  there  is  no  doubt  whatever.  Mrs. 
Peerybingle  knew  it,  perfectly,  as  she  sat  musing  before 
the  hearth.    It's  a  dark  night,  sang  the  kettle,  and  the 
rotten  leaves  are  lying  by  the  way  ;  and,  above,  all  is 
mist  and  darkness,  and,  below,  all  is  mire  and  clay  ;  and 
there's  only  one  relief  in  all  the  sad  and  murky  air  ;  and 
I  don't  know  that  it  is  one,  for  it's  nothing  but  a  glare  ; 
of  deep  and  angry  crimson,  where  the  sun  and  wind  to- 
gether ;  set  a  brand  upon  the  clouds  for  being  guilty  of 
I  such  weather;  and  the  widest  open  country  is  a  long 
dull  streak  of  black  ;  and  there's  hoar-frost  on  the  finger 
post,  and  thaw  upon  the  track  ;  and  the  ice  it  isn't  water, 
and  the  water  isn't  free  ;  and  you  couldn't  say  that  any- 
thing is  what  it  ought  to  be  ;  but  he's  coming,  coming, 
1  coming  ! — 

And  here,  if  you  like,  the  Cricket  did  chime  in  !  with 
I  a  Chirrup,  Chirrup,  Chirrup  of  such  magnitude,  by  way 
of  chorus  ;  with  a  voice,  so  astoundingly  disproportionate 


H    BOOKS.  275 

to  its  size,  as  compared  with  the  kettle  ;  (size  1  you 
couldn't  see  it  !)  that  if  it  had  then  and  tliere  burst  it- 
self like  an  over-cliarged  gun,  if  it  had  fallen  a  victim 
on  the  spot,  and  chirruped  its  little  body  into  fifty  pieces, 
it  would  have  seemed  a  natural  and  inevitable  conse- 
quence, for  which  it  had  expressly  laVjoured. 

The  kettle  had  had  the  last  of  its  solo  performance. 
It  persevered  with  undiminished  ardour  ;  but  the  Cricket 
took  first  fiddle  and  kept  it.  Good  Heaven,  how  it 
chirped  !  Its  shrill,  sharp,  piercing  voice  resounded 
through  the  house,  and  seemed  to  twinkle  in  the  outer 
darkness  like  a  star.  There  was  an  undescribable  little 
trill  and  tremble  in  it  at  its  loudest,  which  suggested  its 
being  carried  off  its  legs,  and  made  to  leap  again,  by  its 
own  intense  enthusiasm.  Yet  they  went  very  well 
together,  the  Cricket  and  the  kettle.  The  burden  of 
the  song  was  still  the  same  ;  and  louder,  louder,  louder 
still,  they  sang  it  in  their  emulation. 

The  fair  little  listener — for  fair  she  was,  and  young  : 
though  something  of  what  is  called  the  dumpling  shape  ; 
but  I  don't  myself  object  to  that — lighted  a  candle, 
glanced  at  the  Haymaker  on  the  top  of  the  clock,  who 
was  getting  in  a  pretty  average  crop  of  minutes  ;  and 
looked  out  of  the  window,  where  she  saw  nothing,  owing 
to  the  darkness,  but  her  own  face  imaged  in  the  glass. 
And  my  opinion  is  (and  so  would  yours  have  been),  that 
she  might  have  looked  a  long  way  and  seen  nothing  half 
so  agreeable.  When  she  came  back,  and  sat  down  in 
her  former  seat,  the  Cricket  and  the  kettle  were  still 
keeping  it  up,  with  a  perfect  fury  of  competition.  The 
kettle's  weak  side  clearly  being,  that  he  didn't  know 
when  he  was  beat. 

There  was  all  the  excitement  of  a  race  about  it. 
Chirp,  chirp,  chirp  I  Cricket  a  mile  ahead.  Hum,  hum, 
hum — m — m  !  Kettle  making  play  in  the  distance,  like 
a  great  top.  Chirp,  chirp,  chirp  !  Cricket  round  the 
corner.  Hum,  hum,  hum — m— m  !  Kettle  sticking  to 
him  in  his  own  w^ay  ;  no  idea  of  giving  in.  Chirp,  chir]3, 
chirp  !  Cricket  fresher  than  ever.  Hum,  hum,  hum — 
m — m  !  Kettle  slow  and  steady.  Chirp,  chirp,  chirp  ! 
Cricket  going  in  to  finish  him.  Hum,  hum,  hum — m — m  ! 
Kettle  not  to  be  finished.  Until  at  last,  they  get  so 
jumbled  together,  in  the  hurry-skurry,  helter-skelter, 
of  the  match,  that  whether  the  kettle  chirped  and  the 
Cricket  hummed,  or  the  Cricket  chirped  and  the  kettle 
hummed,  or  they  both  chirped  and  both  hummed,  it 
would  have  taken  a  clearer  head  than  yours  or  mine  to 
have  decided,  with  anything  like  certainty.  But,  of  this, 
there  is  no  doubt  :  that,  the  kettle  and  the  Cricket,  at  one 
and  the  same  moment,  and  by  some  power  of  amalgama- 
tion best  known  to  themselves,  sent,  each,  his  fireside 
song  of  comfort  streaming  into  a  ray  of  the  candle  that 
shone  out  through  the  window,  and  a  long  way  down  the 
lane.  And  this  light,  bursting  on  a  certain  person  who, 
on  the  instant,  approached  towards  it  through  the  gloom, 
expressed  the  whole  thing  to  him,  literally  in  a  twink- 
ling, and  cried,  "Welcome  home,  old  fellow!  Wel- 
come home,  my  boy  ! " 

This  end  attained,  the  kettle,  being  dead  beat,  boiled 
over,  and  was  taken  off  the  fire.  Mrs.  Peerybingle  then 
went  running  to  the  door,  where,  what  with  the  wheels 
of  a  cart,  the  tramp  of  a  horse,  the  voice  of  a  man,  the 
tearing  in  and  out  of  an  excited  dog,  and  the  surprising 
and  mysterious  appearance  of  a  baby,  there  was  soon 
the  very  What's-his-name  to  pay. 

Where  the  baby  came  from,  or  how  Mrs.  Peerybingle 
got  hold  of  it  in  that  flash  of  time,  /  don't  know.  But  a 
live  baby  there  was,  in  Mrs.  Peerybingle's  arms  ;  and  a 
pretty  tolerable  amount  of  pride  she  seemed  to  have  in 
it,  wiien  she  was  drawn  gently  to  the  fire,  bv  a  sturdy 
figure  of  a  man,  much  taller  and  much  older  than  herself 
who  had  to  stoop  a  long  way  down  to  kiss  her.  But,  she 
was  worth  the  trouble.  Six  foot  six,  with  the  lumbago, 
might  have  done  it. 

"  Oh  goodness,  John  !"  said  Mrs.  P.  "  What  a  state 
you're  in  with  the  weather  ! " 

He  was  something  the  worse  for  it  undeniably.  The 
thick  mist  hung  in  clots  upon  his  eyelashes  like  candied 
thaw  ;  and,  between  the  fog  and  fire  together,  there 
were  rainbows  in  his  very  whiskers. 

"Why  you  see,  Dot,"  John  made  answer,  slowly,  as 
he  unrolled  a  shawl  from  about  his  throat ;  and  warmed 


276 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


his  hands:  "it — it  an't  exactly  STimmer  weather.  So, 
no  wonder." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  Dot,  John.  I  don't  like 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Peerybingle  :  pouting  in  a  way  that  clearly 
showed  she  did  like  it,  very  much. 

"Why  what  else  are  you?"  returned  John,  looking 
down  upon  her  with  a  smile,  and  giving  her  waist  a  light 
squeeze  as  his  huge  hand  and  arm  could  give.  "  A  dot 
and" — here  he  glanced  at  the  baby — "a  dot  and 
carry — I  won't  say  it  for  fear  I  should  spoil  it  ;  but  I 
was  very  near  a  joke.  I  don't  know  as  ever  I  was 
nearer." 

He  was  often  near  to  something  or  other  very  clever, 
by  his  own  account  :  this  lumbering,  slow,  honest  John  ; 
this  John  so  heavy,  but  so  light  of  spirit  ;  so  rough  upon 
the  surface,  but  so  gentle  at  the  core  ;  so  dull  without, 
so  quick  within  ;  so  stolid,  but  so  good  !  Oh  Mother 
Naiare,  give  thy  children  the  true  poetry  of  heart  that 
hid  itself  in  this  poor  Carrier's  breast — he  was  but  a 
Carrier  by  the  way — and  we  can  bear  to  have  them  talk- 
ing prose,  and  leading  lives  of  prose  ;  and  bear  to  bless 
thee  for  their  company  ! 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  Dot,  with  her  little  figure  and 
her  baby  in  her  arms  :  a  very  doll  of  a  baby  :  glancing 
with  a  coquettish  thoughtfulness  at  the  fire,  and  inclin- 
ing her  delicate  little  head  just  enough  on  one  side  to  let 
it  rest  in  an  odd,  half -natural,  half-affected,  wholly  nest- 
ling and  agreeable  manner,  on  the  great  rugged  figure  of 
the  Carrier.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  him,  with  his  tender 
awkwardness,  endeavouring  to  adapt  his  rude  support  to 
her  slight  need,  and  make  his  burly  middle-age  aleaning- 
stafE  not  inappropriate  to  her  blooming  youth.  It  was 
pleasant  to  observe  how  Tilly  Slowboy,  waiting  in  the 
background  for  the  baby,  took  special  cognizance  (though 
in  her  earliest  teens)  of  this  grouping  ;  and  stood  with  her 
mouth  and  eyes  wide  open,  and  her  head  thrust  forward, 
taking  it  in  as  if  it  were  air.  Nor  was  it  less  agreeable 
to  observe  how  John  the  Carrier,  reference  being  made 
by  Dot  to  the  aforesaid  baby,  checked  his  hand  when  on 
the  point  of  touching  the  infant,  as  if  he  thought  he 
might  crack  it ;  and  bending  down,  surveyed  it  from  a 
safe  distance,  with  a  kind  of  puzzled  pride,  such  as  an 
amiable  mastiff  might  be  supposed  to  show,  if  he  found 
himself,  one  day,  the  father  of  a  young  canary. 

"  An't  he  beautiful,  John  ?  Don't  he  look  precious  in 
his  sleep  ?  " 

"  Very  precious,"  said  John.  "Very  much  so.  He 
generally  is  asleep,  an't  he  ?  " 

"  Lor,  John  !    Good  gracious  no  !" 

"Oh,"  said  John,  pondering.  "I  thought  his  eyes 
was  generally  shut.    Halloa  ! " 

"  Goodness  John,  how  you  startle  one  !" 

"  It  an't  right  for  him  to  turn  'em  up  in  that  way  I  " 
said  the  astonished  Carrier,  "  is  it  ?  See  how  he's  wink- 
ing with  both  of  'em  at  once  !  and  look  at  his  mouth  ! 
Why  he's  gasping  like  a  gold  and  silver  fish  !  " 

"You  don't  deserve  to  be  a  father,  you  don't,"  said 
Dot,  with  all  the  dignity  of  an  experienced  matron. 
"But  how  should  you  know  what  little  complaints  chil- 
dren are  troubled  with,  John  !  You  wouldn't  so  much 
as  know  their  names,  you  stupid  fellow."  And  when  she 
had  turned  the  baby  over  on  her  left  arm,  and  had  slapped 
its  back  as  a  restorative,  she  pinched  her  husband's  ear, 
laughing. 

"  No,"  said  John,  pulling  off  his  outer  coat.  "  It's 
very  true,  Dot.  I  don't  know  much  about  it.  I  only 
know  that  I've  been  fighting  pretty  stiffly  with  the  wind 
to-night.  It's  been  blowing  north-east,  straight  into  the 
cart,  the  whole  way  home." 

"Poor  old  man,  so  it  has  !"  cried  Mrs.  Peerybingle, 
instantly  becoming  very  active.  "  Here  !  take  the  pre- 
cious darling,  Tilly,  while  I  make  myself  of  some  use. 
Bless  it,  I  could  smother  it  witli  kissing  it,  I  could  !  Hie 
then,  good  dog  !  Hie  Boxer,  boy  !  Only  let  me  make  the 
tea  first,  John  ;  and  then  I'll  help  you  with  the  j^arcels, 
like  a  busy  bee.  *  How  doth  the  little  ' — and  all  the  rest 
of  it,  you  know,  John.  Did  you  ever  learn  '  how  doth 
the  little,'  when  you  went  to  school,  John  ?" 

"  Not  to  quite  know  it,"  John  returned.  "  I  was  very 
near  it  once.  But  I  should  only  have  spoilt  it,  I  dare 
say." 

"Ha,  ha,"  laughed  Dot.    She  had  the  blithest  little 


laugh  you  ever  heard.    "  WTiat  a  dear  old  darling  of  a 

dunce  you  are,  John,  to  be  sure  !  " 

Not  at  all  disputing  this  position,  John  went  out  to  see 
that  the  boy  with  the  lantern,  which  had  been  dancing 
to  and  fro  before  the  door  and  window,  like  a  Will  of 
the  Wisp,  took  due  care  of  the  horse  ;  who  was  fatter 
than  you  would  quite  believe,  if  I  gave  you  his  measure, 
and  so  old  that  his  birthday  was  lost  in  the  mists  of 
antiquity.  Boxer,  feeling  that  his  attentions  were  due  to 
the  family  in  general,  and  must  be  impartially  distrib- 
uted, dashed  in  and  out  with  bewildering  inconstancy  ; 
now,  describing  a  circle  of  short  barks  round  the  horse, 
where  he  was  being  rubbed  down  at  the  stable-door  ; 
now,  feigning  to  make  savage  rushes  at  his  mistress, 
and  facetiously  bringing  himself  to  sudden  stops  ;  now, 
eliciting  a  shriek  from  Tilly  Slowboy,  in  the  low  nursing- 
chair  near  the  fire,  by  the  unexpected  application  of  his 
moist  noise  to  her  countenance  ;  now,  exhibiting  an  ob- 
trusive interest  in  the  baby  ;  now,  going  round  and  round 
upon  the  hearth,  and  lying  down  as  if  he  had  established 
himself  for  the  night ;  now,  getting  up  again,  and  taking 
that  nothing  of  a  fag-end  of  a  tail  of  his,  out  into  the 
weather,  as  if  he  had  just  remembered  an  appointment, 
and  was  off,  at  a  round  trot,  to  keep  it. 

"  There  !  There's  the  tea-pot,  ready  on  the  hob  !  " 
said  Dot  ;  as  briskly  busy  as  a  child  at  play  at  keeping 
house.  "And  there's  the  cold  knuckle  of  ham;  and 
there's  the  butter  ;  and  there's  the  crusty  loaf,  and  all  ! 
Here's  a  clothes-basket  for  the  small  parcels,  John,  if 
you've  got  any  there — where  are  you,  John  ?  Don't  let 
the  dear  child  fall  under  the  grate,  Tilly,  whatever  you 
do  !" 

It  may  be  noted  of  Miss  Slowboy,  in  spite  of  her  re- 
jecting the  caution  with  some  vivacity,  that  she  had  a 
rare  and  surprising  talent  for  getting  this  baby  into  diffi- 
culties :  and  had  several  times  imperilled  its  short  life, 
in  a  quiet  way,  peculiarly  her  own.  She  was  of  a  spare 
and  straight  shape,  this  young  lady,  insomuch  that  her 
garments  appeared  to  be  in  constant  danger  of  sliding 
off  those  sharp  pegs,  her  shoulders,  on  which  they  were 
loosely  hung.  Her  costume  was  remarkable  for  the 
partial  development,  on  all  possible  occasions,  of  some 
flannel  vestment  of  a  singular  structure  ;  also  for  afford- 
ing glimpses,  in  the  region  of  the  back,  of  a  corset,  or 
pair  of  stays,  in  colour  a  dead-green.  Being  always  in  a 
state  of  gaping  admiration  at  everything,  and  absorbed, 
besides,  in  the  perpetual  contemplation  of  her  mistress's 
perfections  and  the  baby's.  Miss  Slowboy,  in  her  little 
errors  of  judgment,  may  be  said  to  have  done  equal 
honour  to  her  head  and  to  her  heart  ;  and  though  these 
did  less  honour  to  the  baby's  head,  which  they  were  the 
occasional  means  of  bringing  into  contact  with  deal 
doors,  dressers,  stair-rails,  bed-posts,  and  other  foreign  ' 
substances,  still  they  were  the  honest  results  of  Tilly 
Slowboy's  constant  astonishment  at  finding  herself  so 
kindly  treated,  and  installed  in  such  a  comfortable 
home.  For,  the  maternal  and  paternal  Slowboy  were 
alike  unknown  to  Fame,  and  Tilly  had  been  bred  by 
public  charity,  a  foundling  ;  which  word,  though  only 
differing  from  fondling  by  one  vowel's  length,  is  very 
different  in  meaning,  and  expresses  quite  another  thing. 

To  have  seen  little  Mrs.  Peerybingle  come  back  with 
her  husband,  tugging  at  the  clothes-basket,  and  making 
the  most  strenuous  exertions  to  do  nothing  at  all  (for  he 
carried  it)  ;  would  have  amused  you,  almost  as  much  as 
it  amused  him.  It  may  have  entertained  the  Cricket 
too,  for  anything  I  know  ;  but,  certainly,  it  now  began 
to  chirp  again,  vehemently. 

"  Heyday  ! "  said  John,  in  his  slow  way.   "  It's  merrier 
than  ever  to-night,  I  think. " 

"  And  it's  sure  to  bring  us  good  fortune,  John  !  It  al- 
ways has  done  so.  To  have  a  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  is 
the  luckiest  thing  in  all  the  world  ! " 

John  looked  at  her  as  if  he  had  very  nearly  got  th* 
thought  into  his  head,  that  she  was  his  Cricket  in  chief! 
and  he  quite  agreed  Avith  her.    But,  it  was  probably  on 
of  his  narrow  escapes,  for  he  said  nothing. 

"  The  first  time  I  heard  its  cheerful  little  note,  John, 
was  on  that  night  when  you  brought  me  home — when  yoii 
brought  me  to  my  new  home  here  ;  its  little  mistress. 
Nearly  a  year  ago.    You  recollect,  John  ?  " 

O  yes.    John  remembered.    I  should  think  so  ! 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


277 


*•  Its  chirp  was  such  a  welcome  to  me  !  It  seemed  so 
full  of  promise  and  encouragement.  It  seemed  to  say, 
you  would  be  kind  and  gentle  with  me,  and  would  not 
expect  (I  had  a  fear  of  that,  John,  then)  to  find  an  old 
head  on  the  shoulders  of  your  foolish  little  wife. " 

John  thoughtfully  patted  one  of  the  shoulders,  and 
then  the  head,  as  though  he  would  have  said  No,  no  ;  he 
had  had  no  such  expectation  ;  he  had  been  quite  content 
to  take  them  as  they  were.  And  really  he  had  reason. 
They  were  very  comely, 

"It  spoke  the  truth,  John,  when  it  seemed  to  say  so  : 
for  you  have  ever  been,  I  am  sure,  the  best,  the  most  con- 
siderate, the  most  affectionate  of  husbands  to  me.  This 
has  been  a  happy  home,  John  ;  and  I  love  the  Cricket  for 
its  sake  ! " 

"  Why  so  do  I  then,"  said  the  Carrier.   "  So  do  I,  Dot." 

"  I  love  it  for  the  many  times  I  have  heard  it,  and  the 
many  thoughts  its  harmless  music  has  given  me.  Some- 
times, in  the  twilight,  when  I  have  felt  a  little  solitary 
and  down-hearted,  John — before  baby  was  here,  to  keep 
me  company  and  make  the  house  gay — when  I  have 
thought  how  lonely  you  would  be  if  I  should  die  ;  how 
lonely  I  should  be,  if  I  could  know  that  you  had  lost  me, 
dear  ;  its  Chirp,  Chirp,  Chirp  upon  the  hearth,  has  seemed 
to  tell  me  of  another  little  voice,  so  sweet,  so  very  dear 
to  me,  before  whose  coming  sound,  my  trouble  vanished 
like  a  dream.  And  when  I  used  to  fear — I  did  fear  once, 
John,  I  was  very  young  you  know — that  ours  might  prove 
to  be  an  ill-assorted  marriage,  I  being  such  a  child,  and 
you  more  like  my  guardian  than  my  husband  ;  and  that 
you  might  not,  however  hard  you  tried,  be  able  to  learn 
to  love  me,  as  you  hoped  and  prayed  you  might  ;  its 
Chirp,  Chirp,  Chirp,  has  cheered  me  up  again,  and  filled 
me  with  new  trust  and  confidence.  I  was  thinking  of 
these  things  to-night,  dear,  when  I  sat  expecting  you  ; 
and  I  love  the  Cricket  for  their  sake  !  " 

"  And  so  do  I,"  repeated  John.  "But  Dot?  /hope 
and  pray  that  I  might  learn  to  love  you  ?  How  you  talk  ! 
I  had  learnt  that,  long  before  I  brought  you  here,  to  be 
the  Cricket's  little  mistress,  Dot  ! " 

She  laid  her  hand,  an  instant,  on  his  arm,  and  looked 
up  at  him  with  an  agitated  face,  as  if  she  would  have 
told  him  something.  Next  moment,  she  was  down  upon 
her  knees  before  the  basket  ;  speaking  in  a  sprightly 
voice,  and  busy  with  the  parcels. 

"  There  are  not  many  of  them  to-night,  John,  but  I  saw 
some  goods  behind  the  cart,  just  now  ;  and  though  they 
give  more  trouble,  perhaps,  still  they  pay  as  well  ;  so  we 
have  no  reason  to  grumble,  have  we  ?  Besides,  you  have 
been  delivering,  I  dare  say,  as  you  came  along  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  John  said.    "  A  good  many." 

"  Why  what's  this  round  box  !  Heart  alive,  John,  it's 
a  wedding-cake  !  " 

"  Leave  a  woman  alone  to  find  out  that,"  said  John  ad- 
miringly. "  Now  a  man  would  never  have  thought  of 
it  !  Whereas,  it's  my  belief  that  if  you  was  to  pack  a 
wedding-cake  up  in  a  tea-chest,  or  a  turn-up  bedstead,  or 
a  pickled  salmon  keg,  or  any  unlikely  thing,  a  woman 
would  be  sure  to  find  it  out  directly.  Yes  ;  I  called  for 
it  at  the  pastry-cook's." 

"  And  it  weighs  I  don't  know  what — whole  hundred- 
weights ! "  cried  Dot,  making  a  great  demonstration  of 
'  trying  to  lift  it.  "  Whose  is  it,  John  ?  where  is  it  go- 
ing ?  " 

"  Read  the  writing  on  the  other  side,"  said  John. 
"  Why,  John  !    My  Goodness,  John  !" 
"  Ah  !  who'd  have  thought  it  !"  John  returned. 
"  You  never  mean  to  say,"  pursued  Dot,  sitting  on  the 
floor  and  shaking  her  head  at  him,  "  that  it's  Grulf  and 
i  Tackleton  the  toymaker  ! " 
John  nodded. 

Mrs.  Peerybingle  nodded  also,  fifty  times  at  least.  Not 
in  assent — in  dumb  and  pitying  amazement ;  screwing  up 
i  her  lips,  the  while,  with  all  their  little  force  (they  were 
never  made  for  screwing  up  ;  I  am  clear  of  that),  and 
!  looking  the  good  Carrier  through  and  through,  in  her  ab- 
i  straction.    Miss  Slowboy,  in  the  mean  time,  who  had  a 
mechanical  power  of  reproducing  scraps  of  current  conver- 
I  sation  for  the  delectation  of  the  baby,  with  all  the  sense 
i  struck  out  of  them,  and  all  the  nouns  changed  into  the 
!  plural  number,  inquired  aloud  of  that  young  creature, 
1  Was  it  (xruffs  and  Tackletons  the  toymakers  then,  and 


Would  it  call  at  Pastry-cooks  for  wedding-cakes,  and  Did 
its  mothers  know  the  boxes  when  its  fathers  brought  them 
home  ;  and  so  on. 

"  And  that  is  really  to  come  about  !  "  said  Dot.  "  Why, 
she  and  I  were  girls  at  school  together,  John." 

He  might  have  been  thinking  of  her,  or  nearly  think- 
ing of  her,  perhaps,  as  she  was  in  that  same  school  time. 
He  looked  upon  her  with  a  thoughtful  pleasure,  but  he 
made  no  answer. 

"  And  he's  as  old  !  As  unlike  her  ! — Why,  how  many 
years  older  than  you,  is  Graft  and  Tackleton,  John  V" 

"How  many  more  cups  of  tea  shall  I  drink  to-night  at 
one  sitting,  than  Gruff  and  Tackleton  ever  took  in  four, 
I  wonder  !  "  replied  John,  good-humouredly,  as  he  drew 
a  chair  to  the  round  table,  and  began  at  the  cold  ham. 
"As to  eating,  I  eat  but  little  ;  but,  that  little  I  enjoy, 
Dot." 

Even  this,  his  usual  sentiment  at  meal  times,  one  of  his 
innocent  delusions  (for  his  apy>etite  was  always  obstinate, 
and  flatly  contradicted  him)  ;  awoke  no  smile  in  the  face 
of  his  little  wife,  who  stood  among  the  parcels,  pushing 
the  cake-box  slowly  from  her  with  her  foot,  and  never 
once  looked,  though  her  eyes  were  cast  down  too.  upon 
the  dainty  shoe  she  generally  was  so  mindful  of.  Ab- 
sorbed in  thought,  she  stood  there,  heedless  alike  of  the 
tea  and  John  (although  he  called  to  her,  and  rapped  the 
table  with  his  knife  to  startle  her),  until  he  rose  and 
touched  her  on  the  arm  ;  when  she  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment,  and  hurried  to  her  place  behind  the  tea-board, 
laughing  at  her  negligence.  But,  not  as  she  had  laughed 
before.   The  manner,  and  the  music  were  quite  changed. 

The  Cricket,  too,  had  stopped.  Somehow  the  room 
was  not  so  cheerful  as  it  had  been.    Nothing  like  it. 

"So,  these  are  all  the  parcels,  are  they,  John?"  she 
said,  breaking  a  long  silence,  which  the  honest  Carrier 
had  devoted  to  the  practical  illustration  of  one  part  of 
his  favourite  sentiment — certainly  enjoying  what  he  ate, 
if  it  couldn't  be  admitted  that  he  ate  but  little.  "  So 
these  are  all  the  parcels  ;  are  they,  John?  " 

"That's  all,"  said  John.  "Why — no — I — "  laying 
down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  taking  a  long  breath.  "  I 
declare — I've  clean  forgotten  the  old  gentleman  !  " 

"  The  old  gentleman  ?  " 

"  In  the  cart,"  said  John.  "  He  was  asleep,  among  the 
straw,  the  last  time  I  saw  him.  I've  very  nearly  remem- 
bered him,  twice,  since  I  came  in  ;  but,  he  went  out  of 
my  head  again.  Halloa  !  Yahip  there  !  Rouse  up  ! 
That's  my  hearty  ! ' ' 

John  said  these  latter  words  outside  the  door,  whither 
he  had  hurried  with  the  candle  in  his  hand. 

Miss  Slowboy,  conscious  of  some  mysterious  reference 
to  the  Old  Gentleman,  and  connecting  in  her  mystified 
imagination  certain  associations  of  a  religious  nature 
with  the  phrase,  was  so  disturbed,  that  hastily  rising 
from  the  low  chair  by  the  fire  to  seek  protection  near 
the  skirt  of  her  mistress,  and  coming  into  contact  as  she 
crossed  the  doorway  with  an  ancient  Stranger,  she  in- 
stinctively made  a  charge  or  butt  at  him  with  the  only 
offensive  instrument  within  her  reach.  This  instrument 
happening  to  be  the  baby,  great  commotion  and  alarm 
ensued,  which  the  sagacity  of  Boxer  rather  tended  to  in- 
crease ;  for,  that  good  dog  more  thoughtful  than  his 
master,  had,  it  seemed,  been  watching  the  old  gentleman 
in  his  sleep,  lest  he  should  walk  off  with  a  few  young 
poplar  trees  that  were  tied  up  behind  the  cart  ;  and  he 
still  attended  on  him  very  closely,  worrying  his  gaiters 
in  fact,  and  making  dead  sets  at  the  buttons. 

"You're  such  an  undeniable  good  sleeper,  sir,"  said 
John,  when  tranquillity  was  restored  ;  in  the  mean  time 
the  old  gentleman  had  stood,  bareheaded  and  motionless, 
in  the  centre  of  the  room  ;  "  that  I  have  half  a  mind  to 
ask  you  where  the  other  six  are— only  that  would  be  a 
joke,  and  I  know  I  should  spoil  it.  Very  near  though," 
murmured  the  Carrier,  with  a  chuckle  ;  "  very  near  ! " 

The  Stranger,  who  had  long  white  hair,  good  features, 
singularly  bold  and  well  defined  for  an  old  man,  and 
dark,  bright,  penetrating  eyes,  looked  round  with  a 
smile,  and  saluted  the  Carrier's  wife  by  gravely  inclining 
his  head. 

His  garb  was  very  quaint  and  odd— a  long,  long  way 
behind  the  time.  Its  hue  was  brown,  all  over.  In  his 
hand  he  held  a  great  brown  club  or  walking-stick  ;  and 


278 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


striking  this  upon  the  floor,  it  fell  asunder,  and  became 
a  chair.    On  which  he  sat  down,  quite  composedly. 

"There!"  said  the  Carrier,  turning  to  his  wife. 
"  That's  the  way  I  found  him,  sitting  by  the  roadside  ! 
Upright  as  a  milestone.    And  almost  as  deaf." 

"  Sitting  in  the  open  air,  John  !  " 

"In  the  open  air,"  replied  the  Carrier,  "just  at  dusk. 
'  Carriage  Paid,'  he  said  ;  and  gave  me  eighteenpence. 
Then  he  got  in.    And  there  he  is." 

"  He's  going,  John,  I  think  !  " 

Not  at  all.    He  was  only  going  to  speak. 

"  If  you  please,  I  was  to  be  left  till  called  for,"  said 
the  Stranger,  mildly.    "  Don't  mind  me." 

With  that,  he  took  a  pair  of  spectacles  from  one  of  his 
large  pockets,  and  a  book  from  another,  and  leisurely 
began  to  read.  Making  no  more  of  Boxer  than  if  he  had 
been  a  house  lamb  ! 

The  Carrier  and  his  wife  exchanged  a  look  of  perplex- 
ity. The  stranger  raised  his  head  ;  and  glancing  from 
the  latter  to  the  former,  said, 

' '  Your  daughter,  my  good  friend  ?  " 

' '  Wife,"  returned  John. 

"  Niece  ?  "  said  the  stranger. 

"Wife,"  roared  John. 

"  Indeed  !  "  observed  the  stranger.  "  Surely  ?  Very 
young  ! " 

He  quietly  turned  over,  and  resumed  his  reading. 
But,  before  he  could  have  read  two  lines,  he  again  inter- 
rupted himself,  to  say  : 

"  Baby,  yours  ?  " 

John  gave  him  a  gigantic  nod  :  equivalent  to  an  an- 
swer in  the  aflBrmative,  delivered  through  a  speaking- 
trumpet. 

"Girl?" 

"Bo-o-oy  !"  roared  John. 
"  Also  very  young,  eh  ?" 

Mrs.  Peerybingle  instantly  struck  in.  Two  months 
and  three  da-ays.  Vaccinated  just  six  weeks  ago-o  ! 
Took  very  fine-ly  !  Considered,  by  the  doctor,  a  remark- 
ably beautiful  chi-ild  !  Equal  to  the  general  run  of 
children  at  five  months  o-ld  !  Takes  notice,  in  a  way 
won-der-ful  !  May  seem  impossible  to  you,  but  feels  his 
legs  al-ready  ! " 

Here,  the  breathless  little  mother  who  had  been  shriek- 
ing these  short  sentences  into  the  old  man's  ear,  until  her 
pretty  face  was  crimsoned,  held  up  the  Baby  before  him 
as  a  stubborn  and  triumphant  fact  ;  while  Tilly  Slow- 
boy,  with  a  melodious  cry  of  "  Ketcher,  Ketcher " — 
which  sounded  like  some  unknown  words,  adapted  to  a 
popular  Sneeze  —  performed  some  cow-like  gambols 
around  that  all  unconscious  Innocent. 

"  Hark  !  He's  called  for,  sure  enough,"  said  John. 
"  There's  somebody  at  the  door.    Open  it,  Tilly." 

Before  she  could  reach  it,  however,  it  was  opened  from 
without  ;  being  a  primitive  sort  of  door,  with  a  latch 
that  any  one  could  lift  if  he  chose — and  a  good  many 
X>eople  did  choose,  for  all  kinds  of  neighbors  liked  to 
have  a  cheerful  word  or  two  with  the  Carrier,  though  he 
was  no  great  talker  himself.  Being  opened,  it  gave 
admission  to  a  little,  meagre,  thoughtful,  dingy-faced 
man,  who  seemed  to  have  made  himself  a  great-coat  from 
the  sack-cloth  covering  of  some  old  box  ;  for,  when  he 
turned  to  shut  tlie  door,  and  keep  the  weather  out,  he 
disclosed  upon  the  back  of  that  garment  the  inscription 
G  &  T  in  large  black  capitals.  Also  the  word  GLASS  in 
bold  characters. 

"Good  evening  John  !"  said  the  little  man.  "Good 
evening  Mum.  Good  evening  Tilly.  Good  evening  Un- 
beknown !  How's  Babv  Mum  ?  Boxer's  prettv  well  I 
hope  ?  " 

"All  thriving,  Caleb,"  replied  Dot.  "I  am  sure  you 
need  only  look  at  the  dear  child,  for  one  to  know  that." 

"  And  I'm  sure  I  need  only  look  at  you  for  another," 
said  Caleb. 

He  didn't  look  at  her  though  ;  he  had  a  wandering 
and  thoughtful  eye  which  seemed  to  be  always  project- 
ing itself  into  some  other  time  and  place,  no  matter  what 
he  said  ;  a  description  which  will  equally  apply  to  his 
voice. 

"Or  at  John  for  another,"  said  Caleb.    "  Or  at  Tilly, 
as  far  as  that  goes.    Or  certainly  at  Boxer." 
"  Busy  just  now,  Caleb?"  asked  the  Carrier. 


"  Why,  pretty  well,  John,"  he  returned,  with  the  dis- 
traught air  of  a  man  who  was  casting  about  for  the  Phi- 
losopher's stone,  at  least.  "Pretty  much  so.  There's 
rather  a  run  on  Noah's  Arks  at  present.  I  could  have 
wished  to  improve  upon  the  Family,  but  I  don't  see  how 
it's  to  be  done  at  the  price.  It  would  be  a  satisfaction  to 
one's  mind,  to  make  it  clearer  which  was  Shems  and 
Hams,  and  which  was  Wives.  Flies  an't  on  that  scale 
neither,  as  compared  with  elephant's  you  know  !  Ah  ! 
well  !  Have  you  got  anything  in  the  parcel  line  for  me, 
John  ?  " 

The  Carrier  put  his  hand  into  a  pocket  of  the  coat  he 
j  had  taken  off  ;  and  brought  out,  carefully  preserved  in 
!  moss  and  paper,  a  tiny  flower-pot. 

"  There  it  is  !"  he  said,  adjusting  it  with  great  care. 
"  Not  so  much  as  a  leaf  damaged.    Full  of  buds  !  " 

Caleb's  dull  eye  brightened,  as  he  took  it,  and  thanked 
him. 

"  Dear  Caleb,"  said  the  Carrier  "  Very  dear  at  this 
season." 

"  Never  mind  that.  It  would  be  cheap  to  me,  what- 
ever it  cost,"  returned  the  little  man.  "  Anything  else, 
John  ?  " 

"A  small  box,"  replied  the  Carrier.  "Here  you 
are  !  " 

"  '  For  Caleb  Plummer,' "  said  the  little  man,  spelling 
out  the  direction.  "'With  Cash.'  With  Cash,  John  ? 
I  don't  think  it's  for  me." 

"With  Care,"  returned  the  Carrier,  looking  over  his 
shoulder.    ' '  Where  do  you  make  out  cash  ?  " 

"Oh!  To  be  sure!"  said  Caleb.  "It's  all  right. 
With  care  I  Yes,  yes  ;  that's  mine.  It  might  have 
been  with  cash,  indeed,  if  my  dear  Boy  in  the  Golden 
South  Americas  had  lived,  John.  You  loved  him  like  a 
son  ;  didn't  you  ?  You  needn't  say  you  did.  /know,  of 
course.  '  Caleb  Plummer.  With  Care,'  Yes,  yes,  it's 
all  right.  It's  a  box  of  dolls'  eyes  for  my  daughter's 
work.    I  wish  it  was  her  own  sight  in  a  box,  John." 

"  I  wish  it  was,  or  could  be  ! "  cried  the  Carrier. 

"Thankee,"  said  the  little  man.  "You  speak  very 
hearty.  To  think  that  she  should  never  see  the  Dolls — 
and  them  a  staring  at  her.  so  bold,  all  day  long  !  That's 
where  it  cuts.    What's  the  damage,  John?  " 

"  I'll  damage  you,"  said  John,  "  if  you  inquire.  Dot ! 
Very  near?" 

"Well !  it's  like  you  to  say  so,"  observed  the  little 
man.  "  It's  your  kind  way.  Let  me  see.  I  think  that's 
all." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  the  Carrier.    "Try  again." 

"  Something  for  our  Governor,  eh?"  said  Caleb,  after 
pondering  a  little  while.  "To  be  sure.  That's  what  I 
came  for  ;  but  my  head's  so  running  on  them  Arks  and 
things  I    He  hasn't  been  here,  has  he  ?  " 

"Not  he,"  returned  the  Carrier.  "He's  too  busy, 
courting — ,"  " 

"He's  coming  round  though,"  said  Caleb;  "for  h 
told  me  to  keep  on  the  near  side  of  the  road  going  home 
and  it  was  ten  to  one  he'd  take  me  up.  I  had  better  go 
by  the  bye. — You  couldn't  have  the  goodness  to  let  m 
pinch  Boxer's  tail.  Mum,  for  a  half  a  moment,  could  you  ? ' 

"  Why,  Caleb  !  what  a  question  !  " 

"  Oh  never  mind.  Mum,"  said  the  little  man.  "H 
mightn't  like  it  perhaps.    There's  a  small  order  jus 
come  in,  for  barking  dogs  ;  and  I  should  wish  to  go 
close  to  Natur'  as  I  could  for  sixpence.    That's  all. 
Never  mind.  Mum." 

It  happened  opportunely,  that  Boxer,  without  receiv- 
ing the  proposed  stimulus,  began  to  bark  with  great 
zeal.  But,  as  this  implied  the  approach  of  some  new 
visitor,  Caleb,  postponing  his  study  from  the  life  to  a 
more  convenient  season,  shouldered  the  round  box,  and 
took  a  hurried  leave.  He  might  have  spared  himself  the 
trouble,  for  he  met  the  visitor  upon  the  threshold. 

"Oh  !  You  are  here,  are  you  !  Wait  a  bit  I'll  take 
you  home.  John  Peerybingle,  my  service  to  you.  More 
of  my  service  to  your  pretty  wife.  Handsomer  every 
day  !  Better  too,  if  possible  !  And  younger,"  mused 
the  speaker  in  a  low  voice,  "  that's  the  devil  of  it  !  " 

"I  should  be  astonished  at  your  paying  compliments, 
Mr.  Tackleton,"  said  Dot,  not  with  the  best  grace  in  the 
world,  "  but  for  your  condition." 

"  You  know  all  about  it,  then?"  | 


(JHRI8TMA  S    B  0  OKH. 


279 


**  I  have  ffot  myself  to  believe  it  somehow,"  said  Dot. 

"  After  a  hard  struggle,  I  suppose?  " 

"Very." 

Tackleton  the  Toy  merchant,  pretty  gcmerally  known 
as  Gruff  and  Tackleton — for  tliat  was  tlie  firm,  though 
Gruff  had  been  bought  out  long  ago ;  only  leaving  his 
name,  and  as  some  said  his  nature,  according  to  its  Dic- 
tionary meaning,  in  the  business — Tackleton  the  Toy 
merchant,  was  a  man  whose  vocation  had  been  quite 
misunderstood  by  his  Parents  and  Guardians.  If  they 
had  made  him  a  Money  Lender,  or  a  sharp  Attorney,  or 
a  Sheriff's  Officer,  or  a  Broker,  he  might  have  sown  his 
discontented  oats  in  his  youth,  and,  after  having  had 
the  full  run  of  himself  in  ill-natured  transactions,  might 
have  turned  out  amiable,  at  last,  for  the  sake  of  a  little 
freshness  and  novelty.  But,  cramped  and  chafing  in  the 
peaceable  pursuit  of  toy- making,  he  was  a  domestic 
Ogre,  who  had  been  living  on  children  all  his  life,  and 
was  their  implacable  enemy.  He  despised  all  toys ; 
wouldn't  have  bought  one  for  the  world  ;  delighted,  in 
his  malice,  to  insinuate  grim  expressions  into  the  faces 
of  brown  paper  farmers  who  drove  pigs  to  market,  bell- 
men who  advertised  lost  lawyers'  consciences,  moveable 
old  ladies  who  darned  stockings  or  carved  pies  ;  and 
other  like  samples  of  his  stock  in  trade.  In  appalling 
mask  ;  hideous,  hairy,  red- eyed  Jacks  in  Boxes  ;  Vam- 
pire Kites  ;  demoniacal  Tumblers  who  wouldn't  lie  down, 
and  were  perpetually  flying  forward,  to  stare  infants  out 
of  countenance  ;  his  soul  perfectly  revelled.  They  were 
his  only  relief,  and  safety-valve.  He  was  great  in  such 
inventions.  Anything  suggestive  of  a  Pony  nightmare, 
was  delicious  to  him.  He  had  even  lost  money  (and  he 
took  to  that  toy  very  kindly)  by  getting  up  Goblin  slides 
for  magic  lanterns,  whereon  the  Powers  of  Darkness 
were  depicted  as  a  sort  of  supernatural  shell-fish,  with 
human  faces.  In  intensifying  the  portraiture  of  Giants, 
he  had  sunk  quite  a  little  capital  ;  and,  though  no 
painter  himself,  he  could  indicate,  for  the  instruction  of 
his  artists,  with  a  piece  of  chalk,  a  certain  furtive  leer 
for  the  countenances  of  those  monsters,  which  was  safe 
to  destroy  the  peace  of  mind  of  any  young  gentleman  be- 
tween the  ages  of  six  and  eleven,  for  the  whole  Christ- 
mas or  Midsummer  Vacation. 

What  he  was  in  toys,  he  was  (as  most  men  are,)  in 
other  things.  You  may  easily  suppose,  therefore,  that 
within  the  great  green  cape,  which  reached  down  to  the 
calves  of  his  legs,  there  was  buttoned  up  to  the  chin  an 
uncommonly  pleasant  fellow  ;  and  that  he  was  about  as 
choice  a  spirit,  and  as  agreeable  a  companion,  as  ever 
stood  in  a  pair  of  bull-headed  looking  boots  with  mahog- 
any-coloured tops. 

Still,  Tackleton,  the  toy  merchant,  was  going  to  be 
married.  In  spite  of  all  this,  he  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. And  to  a  young  wife  too,  a  beautiful  young 
wife. 

He  didn't  look  much  like  a  Bridegroom,  as  he  stood  in 
the  Carrier's  kitchen,  with  a  twist  in  his  dry  face,  and  a 
screw  in  his  body,  and  his  hat  jerked  over  the  bridge  of 
his  nose,  and  his  hands  tucked  down  into  the  bottoms 
of  his  pockets,  and  his  whole  sarcastic  ill-conditioned 
self  peering  out  of  one  little  corner  of  one  little  eye, 
like  the  concentrated  essence  of  any  number  of  ravens. 
But,  a  Bridegroom  he  designed  to  be. 

In  three  days'  time.  Next  Thursday.  The  last  day 
of  the  first  month  in  the  year.  That's  my  wedding-day," 
said  Tackleton. 

Did  I  mention  that  he  had  always  one  eye  wide  open, 
and  one  eye  nearly  shut  ;  and  that  the  one  eye  nearly 
shut,  was  always  the  expressive  eye  ?  I  don't  think  I 
did. 

"That's  my  wedding-day  !"  said  Tackleton,  rattling 
his  money. 

"Why,  it's  our  wedding-day  too,"  exclaimed  the 
Carrier. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  laughed  Tackleton.  "  Odd  !  You're  just 
such  anotlier  couple.    Just  !  " 

The  indignation  of  Dot  at  this  presumptuous  assertion 
is  not  to  be  described.  What  next  ?  His  imagination 
would  compass  the  possibility  of  just  such  another  Baby, 
perhaps.    The  man  was  mad. 

"  I  say  !  A  word  with  you,"  murmured  Tackleton, 
nudging  the  Carrier  with  his  elbow,  and  taking  him  a 


little  apart,  "  You'll  come  to  the  wedding?  We're  in  the 
same  boat,  you  know." 

"  How  in  the  same  boat?"  inquired  the  Carrier. 

"  A  little  disparity  you  know  ;  "  said  Tackleton,  with 
another  nudge.  "Come  and  spend  an  evening  with  us, 
beforehand." 

"  Why,"  demanded  John,  astonished  at  this  f>ressing 
hospitality. 

"  Why  ?"  returned  the  other.  "  That's  a  new  way  of 
receiving  an  invitation.  Why,  for  pleasure — sociability, 
you  know,  and  all  that  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  sociable,"  said  John,  in  his 
plain  way. 

"  Tehah  !  It's  of  no  use  to  be  anything  but  free  with 
you  I  see,"  said  Tackleton.  "Why,  then,  the  truth  is 
you  have  a — what  tea-drinking  people  call  a  sort  of  a  com- 
fortable appearance  together,  you  and  your  wife.  We 
know  better,  you  know,  but — " 

"  No,  we  don't  know  better,"  interposed  John.  "  What 
are  you  talking  about?  " 

"  Well !  We  don't  know  better,  then,"  said  Tackleton. 
"  We'll  agree  that  we  don't.  As  you  like  ;  what  does  it 
matter  ?  I  was  going  to  say,  as  you  have  that  sort  of 
appearance,  your  company  will  produce  a  favourable,  ef- 
fect on  Mrs.  Tackleton  that  will  be.  And,  though  I  don't 
think  your  good  lady's  veiy  friendly  to  me,  in  this  mat- 
ter, still  she  can't  help  herself  from  falling  into  my 
views,  for  there's  a  compactness  and  cosiness  of  appear- 
ance about  her  that  always  tells,  even  in  an  indifferent 
case.    You'll  say  you'll  come  ?" 

"  We  have  arranged  to  keep  our  Wedding-day  (as  far 
as  that  goes)  at  home,"  said  John.  "  We  have  made  the 
promise  to  ourselves  these  six  months.  We  think,  you 
see,  that  home — " 

"  Bah  !  what's  home  ?  "  cried  Tackleton.  "  Four  walls 
and  a  ceiling  !  (why  don't  you  kill  that  Cricket  ;  /would! 
I  always  do.  I  hate  their  noise.)  There  are  four  walls 
and  a  ceiling  at  my  house.    Come  to  me  ! " 

"  You  kill  your  Crickets,  eh  ?"  said  John. 

"  Scrunch  'em,  sir,"  returned  the  other,  setting  his 
heel  heavily  on  the  floor.  "You'll  say  you'll  come? 
It's  as  much  your  interest  as  mine,  you  know,  that  the 
women  should  persuade  each  other  that  they're  quiet 
and  contented,  and  couldn't  be  better  off.  J  know  their 
way.  Whatever  one  woman  says,  another  woman  is  de- 
termined to  clinch,  always.  There's  that  spirit  of  emula- 
i  tion  among  'em,  sir,  that  if  your  wife  says  to  my  wife, 
'I'm  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world,  and  mine's  the 
I  best  husband  in  the  world,  and  I  dote  on  him,'  my  wife 
j  will  say  the  same  to  yours,  or  more,  and  half  bcl'cve 
!  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  she  don't,  then ?"  asked  ihe 
CarriCT. 

"  Don't  !  "  cried  Tackleton,  mth  a  short,  sharp  laurrli. 
"  Don't  what?" 
'     The  Carrier  had  some  faint  idea  of  adding,  ' '  dote  upon 
]  you."    But,  happening  to  meet  the  half-closed  eye,  as  it 
twinkled  upon  him  over  the  turned-up  collar  of  the  cape, 
which  was  within  an  ace  of  poking  it  out,  he  felt  it  such 
j  an  unlikely  part  and  parcel  of  anything  to  be  doted  on, 
j  that  he  substituted,  "  that  she  don't  believe  it  ?  " 
"  Ah  you  dog  !    You're  joking,"  said  Tackleton. 
But  the  Carrier,  though  slow  to  understand  the  full 
drift  of  his  meaning,  eyed  him  in  such  a  serious  manner, 
that  he  was  obliged  to  be  a  little  more  explanatory. 
I     "I  have  the  humour,"  said  Tackleton  :  holding  up  the 
finger  of  his  left  hand,  and  tapping  the  forefinger,  to  im- 
;  ply  *  there  I  am,  Tackleton  to  wit : '  "  I  have  the  humour, 
I  sir,  to  marry  a  young  wife,  and  a  pretty  wife  : "  here  he 
rapped  his  little  finger,  to  express  the  Bride  ;  not  spar- 
ingl,v,  but  sharply  ;  with  a  sense  of  power.  "  I'm  able  ti 
gratify  that  humour  and  I  do.    It  s  my  whim.  But— 
now  look  there  !  " 

He  pointed  to  where  Dot  was  sitting,  thoughtfully,  b(^- 
'  fore  the  fire  ;  leaning  her  dimpled  chin  upon  her  hand. 
I  and  watching  the  bright  blaze.    The  Carrier  looked  at 
I  her,  and  then  at  him,  and  then  at  her,  and  then  at  him 
again. 

"  She  honours  and  obeys,  no  doubt,  you  know,"  said 
Tackleton  ;  "  and  that,  as  I  am  not  a  man  of  sentiment, 
is  quite  enough  for  me.  But  do  you  think  there's  any- 
thing more  in  it  ?  " 


280 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  I  think,"  observed  tlie  Carrier,  "  that  I  should  chuck 
any  man  out  of  window,  who  said  there  wasn't." 

"  Exactly  so,"  returned  the  other  with  an  unusual 
alacrity  of  assent.  "To  be  sure !  Doubtless  you 
would.  Of  course.  I'm  certain  of  it.  Good  night. 
Pleasant  dreams  !  " 

The  Carrier  was  puzzled,  and  made  uncomfortable 
and  uncertain,  in  spite  of  himself.  He  couldn't  help 
showing  it,  in  his  manner. 

"Good  night,  my  dear  friend  !  "  said  Tackleton,  com- 
passionately. ' '  I'm  off.  We're  exactly  alike,  in  reality, 
I  see.  You  won't  give  us  to-morrow  evening  ?  Well  ! 
Next  day  you  go  out  visiting,  I  know.  I'll  meet  you 
there,  and  bring  my  wife  that  is  to  be.  It'll  do  her 
good.    You're  agreeable  ?    Thankee.    What's  that  !  " 

It  was  a  loud  cry  from  the  Carrier's  wife  :  a  loud, 
sharp,  sudden  cry,  that  made  the  room  ring,  like  a  glass 
vessel.  She  had  risen  from  her  seat,  and  stood  like  one 
transfixed  by  terror  and  surprise.  The  Stranger  had  ad- 
vanced towards  the  fire  to  warm  himself,  and  stood 
within  a  short  stride  of  her  chair.    But  quite  still. 

"  Dot  !  "  cried  the  Carrier.  "  Mary  !  Darling  !  What's 
the  matter  ?  " 

They  were  all  about  her  in  a  moment.  Caleb,  who 
had  been  dozing  on  the  cake-box,  in  the  first  imperfect 
recovery  of  his  suspended  presence  of  mind,  seized  Miss 
Slowboy  by  the  hair  of  her  head,  but  immediately  apol- 
ogised. 

*'  Mary  ! "  exclaimed  the  Carrier,  supporting  her  in  his 
arms.    "  Are  you  ill  !    What  is  it?    Tell  me,  dear  !  " 

She  only  answered  by  beating  her  hands  together,  and 
falling  into  a  wild  fit  of  laughter.  Then,  sinking  from 
his  grasp  upon  the  ground,  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  apron,  and  wept  bitterly.  And  then,  she  laughed 
again,  and  then  she  cried  again,  and  then  she  said  how 
cold  she  was,  and  suffered  him  to  lead  her  to  the  fire, 
where  she  sat  down  as  before.  The  old  man  standing, 
as  before,  quite  still. 

"  I'm  better,  John,"  she  said.  "I'm  quite  well  now 
—I—" 

"John  !"  But  John  was  on  the  other  side  of  her. 
Why  turn  her  face  towards  the  strange  old  gentleman, 
as  if  addressing  him  !    Was  her  brain  wandering  ? 

"  Only  a  fancy,  John  dear — a  kind  of  shock — a  some- 
thing coming  suddenly  before  my  eyes — I  don't  know 
what  it  was.    It's  quite  gone,  quite  gone." 

"  I'm  glad  it's  gone, "  muttered  Tackleton,  turning  the 
expressive  eye  all  round  the  room.  "I  wonder  where 
it's  gone,  and  what  it  was.  Humph  !  Caleb,  come  here  ! 
Who's  that  with  the  grey  hair?  " 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  returned  Caleb,  in  a  whisper. 
*' Never  see  him  before,  in  all  my  life.  A  beautiful 
figure  for  a  nutcracker  ;  quite  a  new  model.  With  a 
screw-jaw  opening  down  into  his  waistcoat,  he'd  be 
lovely." 

"  Not  ugly  enough,"  said  Tackleton. 

"Or  for  a  fire-box,  either,"  observed  Caleb,  in  deep 
contemplation,  "what  a  model  !  Unscrew  his  head  to 
put  the  matches  in  ;  turn  him  heels  up'ards  for  the  light  ; 
and  what  a  firebox  for  a  gentleman's  mantel-shelf,  just 
as  he  stands  !  " 

"  Not  half  ugly  enough,"  said  Tackleton.  "  Nothing 
in  him  at  all.  Come  !  Bring  that  box  !  All  right  now, 
I  hope? " 

"  Oh,  quite  gone  !  Quite  gone  !  "  said  the  little  wo- 
man waving  him  hurriedly  away.    "  Good  night  !  " 

"Good  night,"  said  Tackleton!  "Goodnight,  John 
Peerybingle  !  Take  care  how  you  carry  that  box,  Caleb. 
Let  it  fall  and  I'll  murder  you  !  Dark  as  pitch,  and 
weather  worse  than  ever,  eh  ?    Good  night !  " 

So,  with  another  sharp  look  round  the  room,  he  went 
out  at  the  door  ;  followed  by  Caleb  with  the  wedding- 
cake  on  his  head. 

The  Carrier  had  been  so  much  astounded  by  his  little 
wife,  and  so  busily  engaged  in  soothing  and  tending  her, 
that  he  had  scarcely  been  conscious  of  the  Stranger's  pres- 
ence, until  now,  when  he  again  stood  there,  their  only 
guest. 

"  He  don't  belong  to  them,  you  see,"  said  John.  "  I 
must  give  him  a  hint  to  go." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  friend,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
advancing  to  him  ;  "  the  more  so,  as  I  fear  your  wife  has 


not  been  well ;  but  the  Attendant  whom  my  infirmity,'*  he 
touched  his  ears  and  shook  his  head,  "  renders  almost 
indispensable,  not  having  arrived,  I  fear  there  must  be 
some  mistake.  The  bad  night  which  made  the  shelter 
of  your  comfortable  cart  (may  I  never  have  a  worse  !)  so 
acceptable,  is  still  as  bad  as  ever.  Would  you,  in  your 
kindness,  suffer  me  to  rent  a  bed  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Dot.    Yes  !    Certainly  !  " 

"Oh  ! "  said  the  Carrier,  surprised  by  the  rapidity  of 
this  consent.  "  Well  !  I  don't  object  ;  but  still  1  am  not 
quite  sure  that — " 

"  Hush  ! "  she  interrupted.    "  Dear  John  !  " 

"  Why,  he's  stone  deaf,"  urged  John. 

"  I  know  he  is,  but — Yes  sir,  certainly.  Yes  !  cer- 
tainly !  I'll  make  him  up  a  bed,  directly,  John." 

As  she  hurried  off  to  do  it  the  flutter  of  her  spirits, 
and  the  agitation  of  her  manner,  were  so  strange,  that 
the  Carrier  stood  looking  after  her,  quite  confounded. 
I  "  Did  its  mothers  make  it  up  a  Beds  then  1"  cried 
j  Miss  Slowboy  to  the  Baby;  "and  did  its  hair  grow 
brown  and  curly,  when  its  caps  was  lifted  off,  and 
frighten  it,  a  precious  Pets,  a  sitting  by  the  fires  !  " 

With  that  unaccountable  attraction  of  the  mind  to 
trifles,  which  is  often  incidental  to  a  state  of  doubt  and 
confusion  ;  the  Carrier,  as  he  walked  slowly  to  and  fro, 
found  himself  mentally  repeating  even  these  absurd 
words,  many  times.  So  many  times,  that  he  got  them 
by  heart,  and  was  still  conning  them  over  and  over,  like 
a  lesson,  when  Tilly,  after  administering  as  much  fric- 
tion to  the  little'bald  head  with  her  hand  as  she  thought 
wholesome  (according  to  the  practice  of  nurses),  and 
once  more  tied  the  Baby's  cap  on. 

"  And  frighten  it  a  precious  Pets,  a  sitting  by  the 
fires.  What  frightened  Dot,  I  wonder!"  mused  the 
Carrier,  pacing  to  and  fro. 

He  scouted,  from  his  heart,  the  insinuations  of  the 
Toy  merchant,  and  yet  they  filled  him  with  a  vague,  in- 
definite uneasiness.  For,  Tackleton  was  quick  and  sly  ; 
and.  he  had  that  painful  sense,  himself,  of  being  slow  of 
perception,  that  a  broken  hint  was  always  worrying  to 
him.  He  certainly  had  no  intention  in  his  mind  of  link- 
ing anything  that  Tackleton  had  said,  with  the  unusual 
conduct  of  his  wife,  but  the  two  subjects  of  reflection 
came  into  his  mind  together,  and  he  could  not  keep 
them  asunder. 

The  bed  was  soon  made  ready  ;  and  the  visitor,  de- 
clining all  refreshment  but  a  cup  of  tea,  retired.  Then, 
Dot — quite  well  again,  she  said,  quite  well  again, — ar- 
ranged the  great  chair  in  the  chimney  corner  for  her 
husband  ;  filled  his  pipe  and  gave  it  him  ;  and  took  her 
usual  little  stool  beside  him  on  the  hearth. 

She  always  would  sit  on  that  little  stool.  I  think  she 
must  have  had  a  kind  of  notion  that  it  was  a  coaxing, 
wheedling  little  stool. 

She  was,  out  and  out,  the  very  best  filler  of  a  pipe,  I 
should  say,  in  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe.  To  see 
her  put  that  chubby  little  finger  in  the  bowl,  and  then 
blow  down  ihe  pipe  to  clear  the  tube,  and,  when  she 
had  done  so,  affected  to  think  that  there  was  really 
something  in  the  tube,  and  blow  a  dozen  times  and  hold 
it  to  her  eye  like  a  telescope,  with  a  most  provoking 
twist  in  her  capital  little  face,  as  she  looked  down  it, 
was  quite  a  brilliant  thing.  As  to  the  tobacco,  she  was 
perfect  mistress  of  the  subject  ;  and  her  lighting  of  the 
pipe,  with  a  wisp  of  paper,  when  the  Carrier  had  it  in  his 
mouth — going  so  very  near  his  nose,  and  yet  not  scorch- 
ing it — was  Art,  high  Art. 

And  the  Cricket  and  the  Kettle,  tuning  up  again,  ac- 
knowledged it !  The  bright  fire,  blazing  up  again,  ac- 
knowledged it  !  The  little  Mower  on  the  clock,  in  his 
unheeded  work,  acknowledged  it !  The  Carrier,  in  his 
smoothing  forehead  and  expanding  face  acknowledged 
it,  the  readiest  of  all. 

And  as  he  soberly  and  thoughtfully  puffed  at  his  old 
pipe,  and  as  the  Dutch  clock  ticked,  and  as  the  red  figure 
gleamed,  and  as  the  Cricket  chirped  ;  that  Genius  of  his 
Heartli  and  Home  (for  such  the  Cricket  was)  came  out, 
in  fairy  shape,  into  the  room,  and  summoned  many 
forms  of  Home  about  him.  Dots  of  all  ages,  and  all 
sizes  filled  the  chamber.  Dots  who  were  merry  children, 
running  on  before  him,  gathering  flowers,  in  the  fields  ; 
coy  Dots,  half  shrinking  from,  half  yielding  to,  the  plead- 


ing  of  his  own  rough  image  ;  newly  married  Dots,  alight- 
ing at  the  door,  and  taking  wondering  possession  of  the 
household  keys  ;  motherly  little  Dots,  attended  by  ficti- 
tious Slowboys,  bearing  babies  to  be  christened  ;  matronly 
Dots,  still  young  and  blooming,  watching  Dots  of  daugh- 
ters, as  they  danced  at  rustic  balls  ;  fat  Dots,  encircled 
and  beset  by  Jtroops  of  rosy  grandchildren  ;  withered 
Dots,  who  leaned  on  sticks,  and  tottered  as  they  crept 
along.  Old  Carriers  too,  appeared,  with  blind  old 
Boxers  lying  at  their  feet ;  and  newer  carts  with  younger 
drivers  ("  Peerybingle  Brothers,"  on  the  tilt) ;  and  sick 
old  Carriers,  tendered  by  the  gentlest  hands  ;  find  graves 
of  dead  and  gone  old  Carriers,  green  in  the  churchyard. 
And  as  the  Cricket  showed  him  all  these  things — he  saw 
them  plainly,  though  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  fire 
— the  Carrier's  heart  grew  light  and  happy,  and  he 
thanked  his  Household  Gods  with  all  his  might,  and 
cared  no  more  for  Gruff  and  Tackleton  than  you  do. 

But,  what  was  that  young  figure  of  a  man,  which  the 
same  Fairy  Cricket  set  so  near  Her  stool,  and  which  re- 
mained there,  singly  and  alone  ?  Why  did  it  linger  still, 
so  near  her,  with  its  arm  upon  the  chimney-piece,  ever 
repeating  "  Married  !  and  not  to  me  !  " 

"  0  Dot  !  0  failing  Dot  !  There  is  no  place  for  it  in 
all  your  husband's  visions  ;  why  has  its  shadow  fallen 
on  his  hearth  ! 


CHIRP  THE  SECOND. 

Caleb  Plummer  and  his  Blind  Daughter  lived  all 
alone  by  themselves,  as  the  Story -Books  say — and  my 
blessing,  with  yours  to  back  it  I  hope,  on  the  Story- 
Books,  for  saying  anything  in  this  workaday  world  ! — 
Caleb  Plummer  and  his  Blind  Daughter  lived  all  alone 
by  themselves,  in  a  little  cracked  nutshell  of  a  wooden 
house,  which  was,  in  truth,  no  better  than  a  pimple  on 
the  prominent  red-brick  nose  of  Gruff  and  Tackleton. 
The  premises  of  Gruff  and  Tackleton  were  the  great 
feature  of  the  street  ;  but  you  might  have  knocked  down 
Caleb  Plummer's  dwelling  with  a  hammer  or  two,  and 
carried  off  the  pieces  in  cart. 

If  any  one  had  done  the  dwelling-house  of  Caleb 
Plummer  the  honour  to  miss  it  after  such  an  inroad,  it 
would  have  been,  no  doubt,  to  commend  its  demolition 
as  a  vast  improvement.  It  stuck  to  the  premises  of 
Gruff  and  Tackleton,  like  a  barnacle  to  a  ship's  keel,  or 
a  snail  to  a  door,  or  a  little  bunch  of  toad-stools  to  the 
stem  of  a  tree.  But,  it  was  the  germ  from  which  the 
full-grown  trunk  of  Gruff  and  Tackleton  had  sprung  ; 
and  under  its  crazy  roof,  the  Gruff  before  last,  had,  in  a 
small  way,  made  toys  for  a  generation  of  old  boys  and 
girls,  who  had  played  with  them,  and  found  them  out, 
and  broken  them,  and  gone  to  sleep. 

I  have  said  that  Caleb  and  his  poor  Blind  Daughter 
lived  here.  I  should  have  said  that  Caleb  lived  here, 
and  his  poor  Blind  Daughter  somewhere  esle — in  an  en- 
chanted home  of  Caleb's  furnishing,  where  scarcity  and 
shabbiness  were  not,  and  trouble  never  entered.  Caleb 
was  no  sorcerer,  but  in  the  only  magic  art  that  still  re- 
mains to  us,  the  magic  of  devoted,  deathless  love,  Na- 
ture had  been  the  mistress  of  his  study  ;  and  from  her 
teaching,  all  the  wonder  came. 

The  Blind  Girl  never  knew  that  ceilings  were  discol- 
oured, walls  blotched  and  bare  of  plaster  here  and  there, 
high  crevices  unstopped  and  widening  every  day,  beams 
mouldering  and  tending  downward.  The  Blind  Girl 
never  knew  that  iron  was  rusting,  wood  rotting,  paper 
pealing  off  ;  the  size,  and  shape,  and  true  proportion  of 
the  dwelling,  withering  away.  The  Blind  Girl  never 
knew  that  ugly  shapes  of  delf  and  earthenware  were  on 
the  board  ;  that  sorrow  and  f  aint-heartedness  were  in  the 
house  ;  that  Caleb's  scanty  hairs  were  turning  greyer  and 
more  grey,  before  her  sightless  face.  The  Blind  Girl 
never  knew  they  had  a  master,  cold,  exacting,  and  unin- 
terested— never  knew  that  Tackleton  was  Tackleton  in 
short ;  but  lived  in  the  belief  of  an  eccentric  humourist 
who  loved  to  have  his  jest  with  them,  and  who,  while  he 
was  the  Guardian  Angel  of  their  lives,  disdained  to  hear 
one  word  of  thank  fullness. 

And  all  was  Caleb's  doing  ;  all  the  doing  of  her  simple 


S'    BOOKS.  281 

father  !  But  he  too  liad  a  Cricket  on  his  Hearth  ;  and 
listening  sadly  to  its  music  when  the  motherless  Blind 
Child  was  very  young,  that  Spirit  had  inspired  him  with 
the  thought  that  even  her  great  deprivation  might  be  al- 
most changed  into  a  ];lessing,  and  the  girl  made  happy 
by  these  little  means.  For  all  the  Cricket  tribe  are  po- 
tent Spirits,  even  though  the  people  who  hold  converse 
with  them  do  not  know  it  (which  is  frequently  the  case) 
and  there  are  not  in  the  unseen  world  voices  more  gentle 
and  more  true,  that  may  be  so  implicitly  relied  on,  or 
that  are  so  certain  to  give  none  but  tenderest  counsel, 
as  the  Voices  in  which  the  Spirits  of  the  Fireside  and 
Hearth  address  themselves  to  human  kind. 

Caleb  and  his  daughter  were  at  work  together  in  their 
usual  working-room,  which  served  them  for  their  ordi- 
nary living-room  as  well  ;  and  a  strange  place  it  was. 
There  were  houses  in  it,  finished  and  unfinished,  for 
Dolls  of  all  stations  in  life.  Suburban  tenements  for 
Dolls  of  moderate  means  ;  kitchen  and  single  apartments 
for  Dolls  of  the  lower  classes  ;  capital  town  residences 
for  Dolls  of  high  estate.  Some  of  these  establishments 
were  already  furnished  according  to  estimate,  with  a 
view  to  the  convenience  of  Dolls  of  limited  income  ; 
others,  could  be  fitted  on  the  most  expensive  scale,  at  a 
moment's  notice,  from  whole  shelves  of  chairs  and 
tables,  sofas,  bedsteads,  and  upholstery.  The  nobility 
and  gentry  and  public  in  general,  for  whose  accommoda- 
tion these  tenements  were  designed,  lay,  here  and  there, 
in  baskets,  staring  straight  up  at  the  ceiling  ;  but,  in  de- 
noting their  degrees  in  society,  and  confining  them  to 
their  respective  stations  (which  experience  shows  to  be 
lamentably  difficult  in  real  life),  the  makers  of  these 
Dolls  had  far  improved  on  Nature,  who  is  often  froward 
and  perverse  ;  for,  they,  not  resting  on  such  arbitrary 
marks  as  satin,  cotton  print,  and  bits  of  rag,  had  super- 
added striking  personal  differences  which  allowed  of  no 
mistake.  Thus,  the  Doll-lady  of  distinction  had  wax 
limbs  of  perfect  symmetry  ;  but,  only  she  and  her  com- 
peers. The  next  grade  in  the  social  scale  being  made  of 
leather,  and  the  next  of  coarse  linen  stuff.  As  to  the 
common -people,  they  had  just  so  many  matches  out  of 
tinder-boxes,  for  their  arms  and  legs,  and  there  they 
were — established  in  their  sphere  at  once,  beyond  the 
possibility  of  getting  out  of  it. 

There  were  various  other  samples  of  his  handicraft 
besides  Dolls,  in  Caleb  Plummer's  room.  There  were 
Noah's  Arks,  in  which  the  Birds  and  Beasts  were  an  un- 
commonly tight  fit,  I  assure  you  ;  though  they  could  be 
crammed  in,  anyhow,  at  the  roof,  and  rattled  and  shaken 
into  the  smallest  compass.  By  a  bold  poetical  licence, 
most  of  these  Noah's  Arks  had  knockers  on  the  doors  ; 
inconsistent  appendages  perhaps,  as  suggestive  of  morn- 
ing callers  and  a  Postman,  yet  a  pleasant  finish  to  the 
outside  of  the  building.  There  were  scores  of  melan- 
choly little  carts,  which,  when  the  wheels  went  round, 
performed  most  doleful  music.  Many  small  fiddles, 
drums,  and  other  instruments  of  torture  ;  no  end  of  can- 
non, shields,  swords,  spears,  and  guns.  There  were 
little  tumblers  in  red  breeches,  incessantly  swarming  up 
high  obstacles  of  red  tape,  and  coming  down,  head  fii"st, 
on  the  other  side  ;  and  there  were  innumerable  old  gen- 
tlemen of  respectable,  not  to  say  venerable  appearance, 
insanely  fiying  over  horizontal  pegs,  inserted  for  the 
purpose,  in  their  own  street  doors.  There  were  beasts 
of  all  sorts  ;  horses,  in  particular,  of  every  breed,  from 
the  spotted  barrel  on  four  pegs,  with  a  small  tippet  for  a 
mane,  to  the  thoroughbred  rocker  on  his  highest  mettle. 
As  it  would  have  been  hard  to  count  the  dozens  upon 
dozens  of  grotesque  figures  that  were  ever  ready  to  com- 
mit all  sorts  of  absurdities  on  the  turning  of  a  handle,  so 
it  would  have  been  no  easy  task  to  mention  any  human 
folly,  vice,  or  weakness,  that  had  not  its  type,  immediate 
or  remote,  in  Caleb  Plummer's  room.  And  not  in  an  ex- 
aggerated form,  for  very  little  handles  will  move  men 
and  women  to  as  strange  performances,  as  any  Toy  was 
ever  made  to  undertake. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  objects,  Caleb  and  his  daugh- 
ter sat  at  work.  The  Blind  Girl  busy  as  a  Doll's  dress- 
maker ;  Caleb  painting  and  glazing  the  four-pair  front  of 
a  desirable  familv  mansion. 

The  care  imprinted  in  the  lines  of  Caleb's  face,  and 
his  absorbed  and  dreamy  manner,  which  would  have  sat 


282 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


well  on  some  alchemist  or  abstruse  student,  were  at  first 
sight  an  odd  contrast  to  his  occupation,  and  the  triviali- 
ties about  him.  But,  trivial  things,  invented  and  pur- 
sued for  bread,  become  very  serious  matters  of  fact ;  and, 
apart  from  this  consideration,  I  am  not  at  all  prepared  to 
say,  myself,  that  if  Caleb  had  been  a  Lord  Chamberlain, 
or  a  Member  of  Parliament,  or  a  lawyer,  or  even  a  great 
speculator,  he  would  have  dealt  in  toys  one  whit  less 
whimsical,  while  I  have  a  very  great  doubt  whether 
they  would  have  been  as  harmless. 

"  So  you  were  out  in  the  rain  last  night,  father,  in  your 
beautiful  new  great-coat,"  said  Caleb's  daughter. 

"  In  my  beautiful  new  great-coat,"  answered  Caleb, 
glancing  towards  a  clothes-line  in  the  room,  on  which 
the  sackcloth  garment  previously  described,  was  care- 
fully hung  up  to  dry. 

How  glad  I  am  you  bought  it,  father  !  " 

"And  of  such  a  tailor,  too,"  said  Caleb.  "Quite  a 
fashionable  tailor.    It's  too  good  for  me." 

The  Blind  Girl  rested  from  her  work,  and  laughed 
with  delight.  "Too  good,  father!  What  can  be  too 
good  for  you  ! " 

"I'm  half  ashamed  to  wear  it  though,"  said  Caleb, 
watching  the  effect  of  what  he  said  upon  her  brighten- 
ing face,  "  upon  my  word  !  When  I  hear  the  boys  and 
people  say  behind  me,  'Hal-loa!  Here's  a  swell!'  I 
don't  know  which  way  to  look.  And  when  the  beggar 
wouldn't  go  away  last  night  ;  and,  when  I  said  I  was  a 
very  common  man,  said  '  No,  your  Honour  !  Bless  your 
honour,  don't  say  that  ! '  I  was  quite  ashamed.  I  really 
felt  as  if  I  hadn't  a  right  to  wear  it." 

Happy  Blind  Girl  !  How  merry  she  was  in  her  exulta- 
tion ! 

"I  see  you,  father,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands,  "as 
plainly,  as  if  I  had  the  eyes  I  never  want  when  you  are 
with  me.    A  blue  coat  " — 

"  Bright  blue,"  said  Caleb. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  Bright  blue  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  turn- 
ing up  her  radiant  face  ;  "  the  colour  I  can  just  remem- 
ber in  the  blessed  sky  !  You  told  me  it  was  blue  before  ! 
A  bright  blue  coat" — 

"Made  loose  to  the  figure,"  suggested  Caleb. 

"Yes!  loose  to  the  figure!"  cried  the  Blind  Girl, 
laughing  heartily;  "and  in  it,  you,  dear  father,  with 
your  merry  eye,  your  smiling  face,  your  free  step,  and 
your  dark  hair — looking  so  young  and  handsome  ! " 

"Halloa!  Halloa!"  said  Caleb.  "I  shall  be  vain, 
presently. " 

"  /  think  you  are,  already,"  cried  the  Blind  Girl,  point- 
ing at  him,  in  her  glee.  "I  know  you,  father  !  Ha  ha 
ha  !    I've  found  you  out,  you  see  !  " 

How  different  the  picture  in  her  mind,  from  Caleb,  as 
he  sat  observing  her  !  She  had  spoken  of  his  free  step. 
She  was  right  in  that.  For  years  and  years,  he  had 
never  once  crossed  that  threshold  at  his  own  slow  pace, 
but  with  a  footfall  counterfeited  for  her  ear  ;  and  never 
had  he,  when  his  heart  was  lieaviest,  forgotten  the  light 
tread  that  was  to  render  hers  so  cheerful  and  courageous  ! 

Heaven  knows  !  But  I  think  Caleb's  vague  bewilder- 
ment of  manner  may  have  half  originated  in  his  having 
confused  himself  about  himself  and  everything  around 
him,  for  the  love  of  his  Blind  Daughter.  How  could  the 
little  man  be  otherwise  than  bewildered,  after  labouring 
for  so  many  years  to  destroy  his  own  identity,  and  that 
of  all  the  objects  that  had  any  bearing  on  it ! 

"There  we  are,"  said  Caleb,  falling  back  a  pace  or 
two  to  form  the  better  judgment  of  his  work  ;  "as  near 
the  real  thing  as  sixpenn'orth  of  halfpence  is  to  sixpence. 
Wiiat  a  pity  that  the  whole  front  of  the  house  opens 
at  once  !  If  there  was  only  a  staircase  in  it,  now,  and 
regular  doors  to  the  rooms  to  go  in  at  !  But  that's  the 
worst  of  my  calling,  I'm  always  deluding  myself,  and 
swindling  myself." 

"You  are  speaking  quite  softly.  You  are  not  tired, 
father?" 

"Tired,"  echoed  Caleb,  with  a  great  burst  of  anima 
tion,  "  what  should  tire  me,  Bertha?  /was  never  tired. 
What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

To  give  the  greater  force  to  his  words,  he  checked 
himself  in  an  involuntary  imitation  of  two  half-length 
stretching  and  yawning  figures  on  the  mantel-shelf,  who 
were  Yi^\)V('H('^\U'^^        in  one  eternal  state  of  wearine.ss 


from  the  waist  upwards  ;  and  hummed  a  fragment  of  a 
song.  It  was  a  Bacchanalian  song,  something  about  a 
Sparkling  Bowl,  He  sang  it  with  an  assumption  of  a 
Devil-may-care  voice,  that  made  his  face  a  thousand  times 
j  more  meagre  and  more  thoughtful  than  ever, 
]  "What!  You're  singing,  are  you?"  said  Tackleton, 
putting  his  head  in  at  the  door,    "  Go  it !  /can't  sing." 

Nobody  would  have  suspected  him  of  it.  He  hadn't 
what  is  generally  termed  a  singing  face,  by  any  means. 

"I  can't  afford  to  sing,"  said  Tackleton.  "I'm  glad 
you  can,  I  hope  you  can  afford  to  work  too.  Hardly 
time  for  b»th,  I  should  think?" 

"  If  you  could  only  see  him.  Bertha,  how  he's  winking 
at  me  ! "  whispered  Caleb,  "  Such  a  man  to  joke  !  you'd 
think,  if  you  didn't  know  him,  he  was  in  earnest — 
wouldn't  you  now  !" 

The  Blind  Girl  smiled  and  nodded, 

"  The  bird  that  can  sing  and  won't  sing,  must  be  made 
to  sing,  they  say,"  grumbled  Tackleton.  "  What  about 
the  owl  that  can't  sing,  and  oughtn't  to  sing,  and  will 
sing ;  is  there  anything  that  he  should  be  made  to  do  ?  " 

"  The  extent  to  which  he's  winking  at  this  moment !" 
whispered  Caleb  to  his  daughter.    "  0,  my  gracious  !  " 

"Always  merry  and  light-hearted  with  us  !"  cried  the 
smiling  Bertha. 

"O!  you're  there,  are  you?"  answered  Tackleton. 
"  Poor  Idiot !" 

He  really  did  believe  she  was  an  Idiot ;  and  he  founded 
the  belief,  I  can't  say  whether  consciously  or  not,  upon 
her  being  fond  of  him. 

"  Well  !  and  being  there, — how  are  you  ! "  said  Tackle- 
ton in  his  grudging  way. 

"Oh  !  well  ;  quite  well.  And  as  happy  as  even  you 
can  wish  me  to  be.  As  happy  as  you  would  make  the 
whole  world,  if  you  could  !" 

"Poor  Idiot!"  muttered  Tackleton,  "No  gleam  of 
reason.    Not  a  gleam  !  " 

The  Blind  Girl  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it ;  held  it  for 
a  moment  in  her  own  two  hands  ;  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  it  tenderly,  before  releasing  it.  There  was  such 
unspeakable  affection  and  such  fervent  gratitude  in  the 
act,  that  Tackleton  himself  was  moved  to  say,  in  a  milder 
growl  than  usual  : 

"  What's  the  matter  now?" 

"  I  stood  it  close  beside  my  pillow  when  I  went  to 
sleep  last  night,  and  remembered  it  in  my  dreams.  And 
when  the  day  broke,  and  the  glorious  red  sun— the  red 
sun,  father  ?" 

"  Red  in  the  mornings  and  the  evenings,  Bertha,"  said 
poor  Caleb,  with  a  woeful  glance  at  his  employer. 

"  When  it  rose,  and  the  bright  light  I  almost  fear  to 
strike  myself  against  in  walking;  came  into  the  room,  I 
turned  the  little  tree  towards  it,  and  blessed  Heaven  for 
making  things  so  precious,  and  blessed  you  for  sending 
them  to  cheer  me  !  " 

"Bedlam  broke  loose!"  said  Tackleton  under  his 
breath.  "  We  shall  arrive  at  the  strait  waistcoat  and 
mufflers  soon.    We're  getting  on  !  " 

Caleb,  with  his  hands  hooked  loosely  in  each  other  stared 
vacantly  before  him  while  his  daughter  spoke,  as  if  he 
really  were  uncertain  (I  believe  he  was)  whether  Tackle- 
ton had  done  anything  to  deserve  her  thanks,  or  not. 
If  he  could  have  been  a  perfectly  free  agent,  at  that 
moment  required,  on  pain  of  death,  to  kick  the  Toy 
merchant,  or  fall  at  his  feet,  according  to  his  merits, 
I  believe  it  would  have  been  an  even  chance  which 
course  he  would  have  taken.  Yet  Caleb  knew  that 
with  his  own  hands  he  had  brought  the  little  rose 
tree  home  for  her,  so  carefully,  and  that  with  his  own 
lips  he  had  forged  the  innocent  deception  which  should 
help  to  keep  her  from  suspecting  how  much,  how  very 
much,  he  every  day  denied  himself,  that  she  might  be 
the  happier. 

"  Bertha  ! "  said  Tackleton,  assuming,  for  the  nonce, 
a  little  cordiality,    "  Come  here." 

"Oh  I  I  can  come  straight  to  you  !  You  needn't 
guide  me  !  "  she  rejoined. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret,  Bertha?  " 

"If  you  will  !"  she  answered,  eagerly. 

How  bright  the  darkened  face  !  How  adorned  with, 
light,  the  listening  head  ! 

"  This  is  the  day  on  which  little  what's-her-name,  the 


CHRISTMA 

spoilt  child,  Peerybingle's  wife,  pays  her  regular  visit 
to  you — makes  her  fantastic  Pic-Nic  here,  an't  it?  "  said 
Tackleton,  with  a  strong  expression  of  distaste  for  the 
whole  concern. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Bertha,    "This  is  the  day." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Tackleton.  "1  should  like  to 
join  the  party." 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  father  ! "  cried  the  Blind  Girl,  in 
an  ecstasy. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  hear  it,"  murmured  Caleb,  with  the 
fixed  look  of  a  sleep-walker  :  "  but  I  don't  believe  it. 
It's  one  of  my  lies,  I've  no  doubt. " 

"  You  see  I — I  want  to  bring  the  Peerybingles  a  little 
more  into  company  with  May  Fielding,"  said  Tackleton. 
"  I  am  going  to  be  married  to  May." 

"  Married  '  "  cried  the  Blind  Girl,  starting  from  him. 

"  She's  such  a  con-founded  idiot,"  muttered  Tackle- 
ton, "  that  I  was  afraid  she'd  never  comprehend  me. 
Ah,  Bertha  !  Married  !  Church,  parson,  clerk,  beadle, 
glass-coach,  bells,  breakfast,  bride-cake,  fav'ours,  mar- 
rowbones, cleavers,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  tom-foolery. 
A  wedding,  you  know  ;  a  wedding.  Don't  you  know 
what  a  wedding  is  ?" 

"  I  know,"  replied  the  Blind  Girl,  in  a  gentle  tone. 
' '  I  understand  I " 

" Do  you? "  muttered  Tackleton.  "It's  more  than  I 
expected.  Well  !  On  that  account  I  want  to  join  the 
party,  and  to  bring  May  and  her  mother.  I'll  send  in  a 
little  something  or  other,  before  the  afternoon.  A  cold 
leg  of  mutton,  or  some  comfortable  trifle  of  that  sort. 
You'll  expect  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

She  had  drooped  her  head,  and  turned  away  ;  and  so 
stood,  with  her  hands  crossed,  musing. 

"  I  don't  think  you  will,"  muttered  Tackleton,  looking 
at  her ;  "  for  you  seem  to  have  forgotten  all  about  it, 
already.    Caleb  ! " 

"  I  mav  venture  to  say  I'm  here,  I  suppose,"  thought 
Caleb.    "  Sir  !  " 

"  Take  care  she  don't  forget  what  I've  been  saying  to 
her." 

"  She  never  forgets,"  returned  Caleb.  "It's  one  of 
the  few  things  she  an't  clever  in." 

"  Every  man  thinks  his  own  geese  swans,"  observed 
the  Toy  merchant,  with  a  shrug.    "  Poor  devil  !  " 

Having  delivered  himself  of  which  remark,  with  in- 
finite contempt,  old  Gruff  and  Tackleton  withdrew. 

Bertha  remained  where  he  had  left  her,  lost  in  medi- 
tation. The  gaiety  had  vanished  from  her  downcast 
face,  and  it  was  very  sad.  Three  or  four  times  she 
shook  her  head,  as  if  bewailing  some  remembrance  or 
some  loss  ;  but  her  sorrowful  reflections  found  no  vent 
in  words. 

It  was  not  until  Caleb  had  been  occupied,  some  time, 
in  yoking  a  team  of  horses  to  a  wagon  by  the  summary 
process  of  nailing  the  harness  to  the  vital  parts  of  their 
bodies,  that  she  drew  near  to  his  working-stool,  and 
sitting  down  beside  him,  said  : 

"  Father,  I  am  lonely  in  the  dark.  I  want  my  eyes, 
my  patient,  willing  eyes." 

"  Here  they  are,"  said  Caleb.  "  Always  ready.  They 
are  more  yours  than  mine,  Bertha,  any  hour  in  the  four 
and  twenty.    What  shall  your  eyes  do  for  you,  dear  ?  " 

"  Look  round  the  room,  father." 

"  All  right,"  said  Caleb.  "  No  sooner  said  than  done. 
Bertha." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"  It's  much  the  same  as  usual,"  said  Caleb.  "  Homely, 
but  very  snug.  The  gay  colours  on  the  walls  ;  the 
bright  flowers  on  the  plates  and  dishes  ;  the  shining 
wood,  where  there  are  beams  or  panels  ;  the  general 
cheerfulness  and  neatness  of  the  building  ;  make  it  very 
pretty ." 

Clieerful  and  neat  it  was,  wherever  Bertha's  hands 
could  busy  themselves.  But  nowhere  else  were  cheer- 
fulness and  neatness  possible,  in  the  old  crazy  shed  which 
Caleb's  fancy  so  transformed. 

"  You  have  your  working-dress  on,  and  are  not  so  gal- 
lant as  when  you  wear  the  handsome  coat?"  said  Bertha, 
touching  him. 

"Not  quite  so  gallant,"  answered  Caleb.  "Pretty 
brisk,  though." 


S    BOOKS.  283 

"  Father,"  said  the  blind  girl,  drawing  elowe  to  his  side, 
and  stealing  one  arm  round  his  neck,  "  tell  me  some- 
thing about  May.    She  is  very  fair?  " 

"  She  is  indeed,"  said  Caleb.  And  she  was  indeed.  It 
was  quite  a  rare  thing  to  Caleb,  not  to  have  to  draw  on 
his  invention. 

"Her  hair  is  dark,"  said  Bertha,  pensively,  "darker 
than  mine.  Her  voice  is  sweet  and  musical,  I  know.  I 
have  often  loved  to  hear  it.    Her  shape — " 

"  There's  not  a  Doll's  in  all  the  room  to  equal  it,"  said 
Caleb.    "  And  her  eyes  ! — " 

He  stopped  ;  for  Bertha  had  drawn  closer  round  his 
neck,  and,  from  the  arm  that  clung  about  him,  came  a 
warning  pressure  which  he  understood  too  well. 

He  coughed  a  monient,  hammered  for  a  moment,  and 
then  fell  back  upon  the  song  about  the  sparkling  bowl, 
his  infallible  resource  in  all  such  difliculties. 

"  Our  friend,  father,  our  benefactor.  I  am  never  tired 
you  know  of  hearing  about  him. — Now,  was  I  ever  ?  "  she 
said,  hastily. 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  Caleb,  "  and  with  reason." 

"Ah  !  With  how  much  reason  I"  cried  the  Blind  Girl. 
With  such  fervency,  that  Caleb,  though  his  motives  were 
so  pure,  could  not  endure  to  meet  her  face  ;  but  dropped 
his  eyes,  as  if  she  could  have  read  in  them  his  innocent 
deceit. 

"  Then  tell  me  again  about  him,  dear  father,"  said  Ber- 
tha. "  Many  times  again  !  His  face  is  benevolent,  kind, 
and  tender.  Honest  and  true,  I  am  sure  it  is.  The  man- 
ly heart  that  tries  to  cloak  all  favours  with  a  show  of 
roughness  and  unwillingness,  beats  in  its  every  look  and 
glance. " 

"And  makes  it  noble,"  added  Caleb,  in  his  quiet  des- 
peration. 

"  And  makes  it  noble  !  "  cried  the  Blind  Girl.  "  He  is 
older  than  May,  father." 

"  Ye-es,"  said  Caleb,  reluctantly.  "  He's  a  little  older 
than  May.    But  that  don't  signify. " 

"  Oh  father,  yes  !  To  be  his  patient  companion  in  in- 
firmity and  age  ;  to  be  his  gentle  nurse  in  sickness,  and 
his  constant  friend  in  suffering  and  sorrow  ;  to  know  no 
weariness  in  working  for  his  sake  ;  to  watch  him,  tend 
him,  sit  beside  his  bed  and  talk  to  him  awake,  and  pray 
for  him  asleep  ;  what  privileges  these  would  be  !  What 
opportunities  for  proving  all  her  truth  and  her  devotion 
to  him  !    Would  she  do  all  this,  dear  father  ?" 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  said  Caleb. 

"  I  love  her,  father  ;  I  can  love  her  from  my  soul  !  " 
exclaimed  the  Blind  Girl.  And  saying  so,  she  laid  her 
poor  blind  face  on  Caleb's  shoulder,  and  so  wept  and 
wept,  that  he  was  almost  sorry  to  have  brought  that  tear- 
ful happiness  upon  her. 

In  the  mean  time,  there  had  been  a  pretty  sharp  com- 
motion at  John  Peerybingle's,  for,  little  Mrs.  Peerybingle 
naturally  couldn't  think  of  going  anywhere  without  the 
Baby  ;  and  to  get  the  Baby  under  weigh,  took  time.  Not 
that  there  was  much  of  the  Baby,  speaking  of  it  as  a  thing 
of  weight  and  measure,  but,  there  was  a  vast  deal  to  do 
about  and  about  it,  and  it  all  had  to  be  done  by  easy 
stages.  For  instance,  when  the  Baby  was  got  by  hook 
and  by  crook,  to  a  certain  point  of  dressing,  and  you 
might  have  rationally  supposed  that  another  touch  or 
two  would  finish  him  off.  and  turn  him  out  a  tip-top 
Baby  challenging  the  world,  he  was  unexpectedly  extin- 
guished in  a  flannel  cap,  and  hustled  off  to  bed  ;  where 
he  simmered  (so  to  speak)  between  two  blankets  for  the 
best  part  of  an  hour.  From  this  state  of  inaction  he  was 
then  recalled,  shining  very  much  and  roaring  violently, 
to  partake  of— well  ?  I  would  rather  say,  if  you'll  per- 
mit me  to  speak  generally — of  a  slight  repast.  After 
which,  he  went  to  sleep  again.  Mrs.  Peerybingle  took 
advantage  of  this  interval  to  make  herself  as  smart  in  a 
small  way  as  ever  vou  saw  anybody  in  all  your  life  ;  and. 
during  the  same  short  truce]  Miss  Slowboy  insinuated 
herself  into  a  spencer  of  a  fashion  so  surprising  and  in- 
genious, that  it  had  no  connection  with  herself,  or  any- 
thing else  in  the  universe,  but  was  a  shrunken,  dog's- 
eared,  independent  fact,  pursuing  its  lonely  course  with- 
out the  least  regard  to  anybody.  By  this  time,  the  Baby, 
being  all  alive  again,  was  invested,  by  the  united  efforts 
of  Mrs.  Peerybingle  and  Miss  Slowboy,  with  a  cream- 
coloured  mantle  for  its  body,,  and  a.  sort  of  nankeen  raised- 


•284 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


pie  for  its  liead  ;  and  so  in  course  of  time  they  all  three 
got  down  to  the  door,  where  the  old  horse  had  already 
taken  more  than  the  full  value  of  his  day's  toll  out  of 
the  Turnpike  Trust,  by  tearing  up  the  road  with  his  im- 
patient autographs  ;  and  whence  Boxer  might  be  dimly 
seen  in  the  remote  perspective,  standing  looking  back, 
and  tempting  him  to  come  on  without  orders. 

As  to  a  chair,  or  anything  of  that  kind  for  helping 
Mrs.  Peerybingle  into  the  cart,  you  know  very  little  of 
John,  if  you  think  that  was  necessary.  Before  you  could 
have  seen  him  lift  her  from  the  ground,  there  she  was 
in  her  place,  fresh  and  rosy,  saying,  "John!  How  can 
you  !    Think  of  Tilly  !  " 

If  I  might  be  allowed  to  mention  a  young  lady's  legs, 
on  any  terms,  I  would  observe  of  Miss  Slowboy's  that 
there  was  a  fatality  about  them  which  rendered  them  sin- 
gularly liable  to  be  grazed  ;  and  that  she  never  effected 
the  sniallest  ascent  or  descent,  without  recording  the  cir- 
cumstance upon  them  with  a  notch,  as  Robinson  Crusoe 
marked  the  days  upon  his  wooden  calendar.  But  as  this 
might  be  considered  ungenteel.  Til  think  of  it. 

"John?  You've  got  the  basket  with  the  Veal  and 
Ham-Pie  and  things,  and  the  bottles  of  Beer  ?  "  said  Dot. 
*'  If  you  haven't,  you  must  turn  round  again,  this  very 
minute." 

"  You're  a  nice  little  article,"  returned  the  Carrier, 
"  to  be  talking  about  turning  round,  after  keeping  me 
a  full  quarter  of  an  hoar  behind  my  time." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,  John,"  said  Dot  in  a  great  bustle, 
"but  I  really  could  not  think  of  going  to  Bertha's — I 
would  not  do  it,  John,  on  any  account — without  the 
Veal  and  Ham-pie  and  things,  and  the  bottles  of  Beer. 
Way  !  " 

This  monosyllable  was  addressed  to  the  horse,  who 
didn't  mind  it  at  all. 

"  Oh  do  way,  John !  "  said  Mrs.  Peerybingle.  "  Please ! " 

"It'll  be  time  enough  to  do  that,"  returned  John, 
"  when  I  begin  to  leave  things  behind  me.  The  basket's 
here  safe  enough." 

"  What  a  hard-hearted  monster  you  must  be,  John,  not 
to  have  said  so,  at  once,  and  save  me  such  a  turn  !  I  de- 
clare I  wouldn't  go  to  Bertha's  without  the  Veal  and 
Ham-Pie  and  things,  and  the  bottles  of  Beer,  for  any 
money.  Regularly  once  a  fortnight  ever  since  we  have 
been  married,  John,  have  we  made  oar  little  Pic-Nic 
there.  If  anything  was  to  go  wrong  with  it,  I  should 
almost  think  we  were  never  to  be  lucky  again." 

"  It  was  a  kind  thought  in  the  first  instance,"  said  the 
Carrier,  "and  I  honour  you  for  it,  little  woman." 

"  My  dear  John,"  replied  Dot,  turning  very  red. 
"  Don't  talk  about  honouring  me.    Good  Gracious  !  " 

"By  the  bye — "  observed  the  Carrier.  "That  old 
gentleman — " 

Again  so  visibly  and  instantly  embarrassed  ! 

"  He's  an  odd  fish,"  said  the  Carrier,  looking  straight 
along  the  road  before  them.  "  I  can't  make  him  out.  I 
don't  believe  there's  any  harm  in  him." 

"  None  at  all.    I'm — I'm  sure  there's  none  at  all." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Carrier,  with  his  eyes  attracted  to  her 
face  by  the  great  earnestness  of  her  manner.  "  I'm  glad 
you  feel  so  certain  of  it,  because  it's  a  confirmation  to 
me.  It's  curious  that  he  should  have  taken  it  into  his 
head  to  ask  leave  to  go  on  lodging  with  us  ;  ain't  it  ? 
Things  come  about  so  strangely." 

"  So  very  strangely,"  she  rejoined  in  a  low  voice, 
scarcely  audible. 

"  However,  he's  a  good-natured  old  gentleman,"  said 
John,  "  and  pays  as  a  gentleman,  and  I  think  his  word 
is  to  be  relied  upon,  like  a  gentleman's.  I  had  quite  a 
long  talk  with  him  this  morning  :  he  can  hear  me  better 
already,  he  says,  as  he  gets  more  used  to  my  voice.  He 
told  me  a  great  deal  about  liimself,  and  I  told  him  a 
good  deal  about  myself,  and  a  rare  lot  of  questions  he 
asked  me.  I  gave  him  information  about  my  having  two 
beats,  you  know,  in  my  business  ;  one  day  to  the  right 
from  our  house  and  back  again  ;  another  day  to  the  left 
from  our  house  and  back  again  (for  he's  a  stranger  and 
don't  know  the  names  of  places  about  here)  ;  and  he 
seemed  quite  pleased,  '  Why,  then  I  shall  be  returning 
home  to-night  your  way,'  he  says,  '  when  I  thought  you'd 
be  coming  in  an  exactly  opposite  direction.  That's  capi- 
tal I    I  may  trouble  you  for  another  lift  perhaps,  but  I'll 


engage  not  to  fall  so  sound  asleep  again.'  He  was 
sound  asleep,  sure-ly! — Dot!  what  are  you  thinking  of?" 
"  Thinking  of,  John  ?  1 — I  was  listening  to  you." 
"  0  !  That's  all  right  !  "  said  the  honest  Carrier.  "  I 
was  afraid  from  the  look  of  your  face,  that  I  had  gone 
rambling  on  so  long,  as  to  set  you  thinking  about  some- 
thing else.    I  was  very  near  it,  I'll  be  bound." 

Dot  making  no  reply,  they  jogged  on,  for  some  little 
time,  in  silence.    But,  it  was  not  easy  to  remain  silent 
very  long  in  John  Peerybingle's  cart,  for  everybody  on 
the  road  had  something  to  say.    Though  it  might  only 
j  be  "how  are  you  !  "  and  indeed  it  was  very  often  noth- 
I  ing  else,  still,  to  give  that  back  again  in  the  right 
!  spirit  of  cordiality,  required,  not  merely  a  nod  and  a  smile, 
i  but  as  wholesome  an  action  of  the  lungs  withal,  as  a 
j  long-winded  Parliamentary  speech.    Sometimes,  passen- 
gers on  foot,  or  horseback,  plodded  on  a  little  way  beside 
the  cart,  for  the  express  purpose  of  having  a  chat  ;  and 
then  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be  said,  on  both  sides. 

Then,  Boxer  gave  occasion  to  more  good-natured  re- 
cognitions of,  and  by,  the  Carrier,  than  half  a  dozen 
Christians  could  have  done  !  Everybody  knew  him,  all 
along  the  road — especially  the  fowls  and  pigs,  who  when 
they  saw  him  approaching,  with  his  body  all  on  one  side, 
and  his  ears  pricked  up  inquisitively,  and  that  knob  of  a 
tail  making  the  most  of  itself  in  the  air,  immediately 
withdrew  into  remote  back  settlements,  without  waiting 
for  the  honour  of  a  nearer  acquaintance.  He  had  busi- 
ness everywhere  ;  going  down  all  the  turnings,  looking 
into  all  the  wells,  bolting  in  and  out  of  all  the  cottages, 
dashing  into  the  midst  of  all  the  Dame  Schools,  fluttering 
all  the  pigeons,  magnifying  the  tails  of  all  the  cats,  and 
trotting  into  the  public-houses  like  a  regular  customer. 
I  Wherever  he  went,  somebody  or  other  might  have  been 
!  heard  to  cry,  "  Halloa  !  Here's  Boxer  !  "  and  out  came 
i  that  somebody  forthwith,  accompanied  by  at  least  two 
or  three  other  somebodies,  to  give  John  Peerybingle  and 
his  pretty  wife,  Good  Day. 

The  packages  and  parcels  of  the  errand  cart  were 
numerous  ;  and  there  were  many  stoppages  to  take  them 
in  and  give  them  out,  which  were  not  by  any  means  the 
worst  parts  of  the  journey.  Some  people  were  so  full  of 
expectation  about  their  parcels,  and  other  people  were 
so  full  of  wonder  about  their  parcels,  and  other  people 
were  so  full  of  inexhaustible  directions  about  their  par- 
cels, and  John  had  such  a  lively  interest  in  all  the  par- 
cels, that  it  was  as  good  as  a  play.  Likewise,  there 
were  articles  to  carry,  which  required  to  be  considered 
and  discussed,  and  in  reference  to  the  adjustment  and 
disposition  of  which,  councils  had  to  be  holden  by  the 
Carrier  and  the  senders  :  at  which  Boxer  usually  assisted, 
in  short  fits  of  the  closest  attention,  and  long  fits  of  tearing 
round  and  round  the  assembled  sages  barking  liimself 
hoarse.  Of  all  these  little  incidents,  Dot  was  the  amused 
and  open-eyed  spectatress  from  her  chair  in  the  cart ; 
and  as  she  sat  there,  looking  on — a  charming  little  por- 
trait framed  to  admiration  by  the  tilt — there  was  no  lack 
of  nudgings  and  glancings  and  whisperings  and  envyings 
among  the  younger  men .  And  this  delighted  John  the 
Carrier,  beyond  measure  ;  for  he  was  proud  to  have  his 
little  wife  admired,  knowing  that  she  didn't  mind  it — 
that,  if  anything,  she  rather  liked  it  perhaps. 

The  trip  was  a  little  foggy,  to  be  sure,  in  the  January 
weather  ;  and  was  raw  and  cold.  But  who  cared  for 
such  tijfles?  Not  Dot,  decidedly.  Not  Tilly  Slowboy, 
for  she  deemed  sitting  in  a  cart,  on  any  terms,  to  be  the 
highest  point  of  human  joys  ;  the  crowning  circumstance 
of  earthly  hopes.  Not  the  Baby,  I'll  be  sworn  ;  for  it's 
not  in  baby  nature  to  be  warmer  or  more  sound  asleep, 
though  its  capacity  is  great  in  both  respects,  than  that 
blessed  young  Peerybingle  was,  all  the  way. 

You  coaldn't  see  very  far  in  the  fog,  of  course  ;  but 
you  could  see  a  great  deal  !  It's  astonishing  how  much 
you  may  see,  in  a  thicker  fog  than  that,  if  you  will  only 
take  the  trouble  to  look  for  it.  Why.  even  to  sit  watch- 
ing for  the  Fairy- rings  in  the  fields,  and  for  the  patches 
of  hoar-frost  still  lingering  in  the  shade,  near  hedges 
and  by  trees,  was  a  pleasant  occupation,  to  make  no 
mention  of  the  unexpected  shapes  in  which  the  trees 
themselves  came  starting  out  of  the  mist,  and  glided 
into  it  again.  The  hedges  were  tangled  and  bare,  and 
waved  a  multitude  of  blighted  garlands  in  the  wind  ; 


CHRISTMA  S    B  0  OK 8. 


285 


but,  there  was  no  discouragement  in  this.  It  was  agree- 
able to  contemplate  :  for,  it  made  the  fireside  warmer  in 
possession,  and  the  summer  greener  in  expectancy.  The 
river  looked  chilly  ;  but  it  was  in  motion,  and  moving 
at  a  good  pace — which  was  a  great  point.  The  canal 
was  rather  slow  and  torpid;  that  must  be  admitted. 
Never  mind.  It  would  freeze  the  sooner  when  the  frost 
set  fairly  in,  and  then  there  would  be  skating,  and  slid- 
ing ;  and  the  heavy  old  barges,  frozen  up  somewhere 
near  a  wharf,  would  smoke  their  rusty  iron  chimney 
pipes  all  day,  and  have  a  lazy  time  of  it. 

In  one  place,  there  was  a  great  mound  of  weeds  or 
stubble  burning ;  and  they  watched  the  fire,  so  white  in 
the  day  time,  flaring  through  the  fog,  with  only  here 
and  there  a  dash  of  red  in  it,  until,  in  consequence  as 
she  observed  of  the  smoke  getting  up  her  nose,"  Miss 
Slowboy  choked — she  could  do  anything  of  that  sort,  on 
the  smallest  provocation  —  and  woke  the  Baby,  who 
wouldn't  go  to  sleep  again.  But,  Boxer,  who  was  in  ad- 
vance some  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so,  had  already  passed 
the  outposts  of  the  town,  and  gained  the  corner  of  the 
street  where  Caleb  and  his  daughter  lived  ;  and  long  be- 
fore they  had  reached  the  door,  he  and  the  Blind  Girl 
were  on  the  pavement  waiting  to  receive  them. 

Boxer,  by  the  way,  made  certain  delicate  distinctions 
of  his  own,  in  his  communication  with  Bertha,  which 
persuade  me  fully  that  he  knew  her  to  be  blind.  He 
never  sought  to  attract  her  attention  by  looking  her,  as 
he  often  did  with  other  people,  but  touched  her  invari- 
ably. What  experience  he  could  ever  have  had  of 
blind  people  or  blind  dogs  I  don't  know.  He  had  never 
lived  with  a  blind  master :  nor  had  Mr.  Boxer  the  elder, 
nor  Mrs.  Boxer,  nor  any  of  his  respectable  family  on  either 
side,  ever  been  visited  with  blindness,  that  I  am  aware 
of.  He  may  have  found  it  out  for  himself,  perhaps, 
but  he  had  got  hold  of  it  somehow  ;  and  therefore  he  had 
hold  of  Bertha  too,  by  the  skirt,  and  kept  hold,  until 
Mrs.  Peerybingle  and  the  Baby,  and  Miss  Slowboy,  and 
the  basket,  were  all  got  safely  within  doors. 

May  Fielding  was  already  come ;  and  so  was  her 
mother — a  little  querulous  chip  of  an  old  lady  with  a 
peevish  face,  who,  in  right  of  having  preserved  a  waist 
like  a  bed-post,  was  supposed  to  be  a  most  transcendant 
figure  ;  and  who,  in  consequence  of  having  once  been 
better  off,  or  of  labouring  under  an  impression  that  she 
might  have  been,  if  something  had  happened  which 
never  did  happen,  and  seemed  to  have  never  been  par- 
ticularly likely  to  come  to  pass — but  it's  all  the  same — 
was  very  genteel  and  patronizing  indeed.  Gruff  and 
Tackleton  was  also  there,  doing  the  agreeable,  with 
the  evident  sensation  of  being  as  perfectly  at  home,  and 
as  unquestionably  in  his  own  element,  as  a  fresh  young 
salmon  on  the  top  of  the  Great  Pyramid. 

"  May  !  My  dear  old  friend  ! "  cried  Dot,  rnnning  up 
to  meet  her.    "  What  a  happiness  to  see  you  !  " 

Her  old  friend  was,  to  the  full,  as  hearty  and  as  glad 
as  she  ;  and  it  really  was,  if  you'll  believe  me,  quite  a 
pleasant  sight  to  see  them  embrace.  Tackleton  was  a 
man  of  taste,  beyond  all  question.    May  was  very  pretty. 

You  know  sometimes,  when  you  are  used  to  a  pretty 
face,  how,  when  it  comes  into  contact  and  comparison, 
with  another  pretty  face,  it  seems  for  the  moment  to  be 
homely  and  faded,  and  hardly  to  deserve  the  high  opin- 
ion you  have  had  of  it.  Now,  this  was  not  at  all  the 
case,  either  with  Dot  or  May  ;  for  May's  face  set  off  Dot's 
and  Dot's  face  set  off  May's,  so  naturally  and  agreeably, 
that,  as  John  Peerybingle  was  very  near  saying  when 
he  came  into  the  room,  they  ought  to  have  been  born  sis- 
ters— which  was  the  only  improvement  you  could  have 
suggested. 

Tackleton  had  brought  his  leg  of  mutton,  and,  won- 
derful to  relate,  a  tart  besides — bat  we  don't  mind  a  lit- 
tle dissipation  when  our  brides  are  in  the  case  ;  we  don't 
get  married  every  day — and  in  addition  to  these  dainties, 
there  were  the  Veal  and  Ham-Pie,  and  "  things,"  as 
Mrs.  Peerybingle  called  them  ;  which  were  chiefly  nuts 
and  oranges,  and  cake,  and  such  small  deer.  When  the 
repast  was  set  forth  on  the  board,  flanked  by  Caleb's  con- 
tribution, which  was  a  great  wooden  bowl  of  smoking 
potatoes  (he  was  prohibited,  by  solemn  compact,  from 
producing  any  other  viands),  Tackleton  led  his  intended 
7nother-in-law  to  the  post  of  honour.    For  the  better 


gracing  of  this  place  at  the  high  festival,  thf  majestic 
old  soul  had  adorned  herself  with  a  cap,  calculated  to  in- 
spire the  thoughtless  with  sentiments  of  awe.  She  al.so 
wore  her  gloves.    But  let  us  be  genteel  or  die  ! 

Caleb  sat  next  his  daughter  ;  Dot  and  her  old  scliwl- 
fellow  were  side  by  side  ;  the  good  Carrier  took  care  of 
the  bottom  of  the  table.  Miss  Slowboy  was  isolated  for 
the  time  being,  from  every  article  of  furniture  but  the 
chair  slie  sat  on,  that  she  might  have  nothing  else  to 
knock  the  Baby's  head  against. 

As  Tilly  stared  about  her  at  the  dolls  and  toys,  they 
stared  at  her  and  at  the  company.  The  venerable  old 
gentlemen  at  the  street  doors  (who  were  all  in  full  action) 
showed  especial  interest  in  the  party,  pausing  occasion- 
ally before  leaping,  as  if  they  were  listening  to  the  con- 
versation, and  then  plunging  wildly  over  and  over,  a 
great  many  times,  without  halting  for  breath — as  in  a 
frantic  state  of  delight  with  the  whole  proceedings. 

Certainly,  if  these  old  gentlemen  were  inclined  to  have 
a  fiendish  joy  in  the  contemplation  of  Tackleton's  dis- 
comfiture, they  had  good  reason  to  be  satisfied.  Tackle- 
ton couldn't  get  on  at  all  ;  and  the  more  cheerful  his  in- 
tended bride  became  in  Dot's  society,  the  less  he  liked 
it,  though  he  had  brought  them  together  for  tliat  pur- 
pose. For  he  was  a  regular  dog  in  the  manger,  was 
!  Tackleton  ;  and  when  they  laughed  and  he  couldn't,  he 
took  it  into  his  head,  immediately,  that  they  must  be 
laughing  at  him. 

"  Ah  May  !  "  said  Dot.  "  Dear  dear,  what  changes  I 
To  talk  of  those  merry  school-days  makes  one  young 
i  again." 

"Why,  you  an't  particularly  old,  at  any  time;  are 
you?  "  said  Tackleton. 

j     "■  Look  at  my  sober,  plodding  husband  there,"  returned 

I  Dot.    "  He  adds  twenty  years  to  my  age  at  least.  Don't 

I  you,  John?" 

"  Forty,"  John  replied. 

!  "  How  many  you'W  add  to  May's,  I  am  sure  I  don't 
know,"  said  Dot,  laughing.  "But  she  can't  be  much 
less  than  a  hundred  yearg  of  age  on  her  next  birthday." 

"Ha  ha  !"  laughed  Tackleton.  Hollow  as  a  drum 
that  laugh  though.  And  he  looked  as  if  he  could  have 
twisted  Dot's  neck,  comfortably, 

"Dear  dear  !"  said  Dot.  "  Only  to  remember  how 
we  used  to  talk,  at  school,  about  the  husbands  we  would 
choose.  I  don't  know  how  young,  and  how  handsome, 
and  how  gay,  and  how  lively,  mine  was  not  to  be  !  And 
as  to  May's  ! — Ah  dear  !  I  don't  know  whether  to  laugh 
or  cry,  when  I  think  what  silly  girls  we  were." 

May  seemed  to  know  which  to  do  ;  for  the  colour 
flashed  into  her  face,  and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  Even  the  very  persons  themselves — real  live  young 
men — we  fixed  on  sometimes,"  said  Dot.  "We  little 
thought  how  things  would  come  about.  I  never  fixed  on 
John  I'm  sure  ;  I  never  so  much  as  thought  of  him.  And 
if  I  had  told  you,  you  were  ever  to  be  married  to  Mr. 
Tackleton,  why  vou'd  have  slapped  me.    Wouldn't  vou, 

'  May  ?  "  * 

Though  May  didn't  say  yes,  she  certainly  didn't  say 
no,  or  express  no,  by  any  means. 

Tackleton  laughed — quite  shouted,  he  laughed  so  loud. 
John  Peerybingle  laughed  too,  in  his  ordinary  good- 
natured  and  contented  manner  ;  but  his  was  a  mere 
whisper  of  a  laugh,  to  Tackleton's. 

"You  couldn't  help  yourselves,  for  all  that.  You 
couldn't  resist  us,  you  see,"  said  Tackleton.  "  Here  we 
are  !    Here  we  are  !    Where  are  your  gay  young  bride- 

'  grooms  now  !  " 

"  Some  of  them  are  dead,"  said  Dot  ;  "  and  some  of 
them  forgotten.  Some  of  them,  if  they  could  stand 
among  us  at  this  moment,  would  not  believe  we  were 
the  same  creatures ;  would  not  believe  that  what  they 

:  saw  and  heard  was  real,  and  we  could  forget  them  so. 

I  No  !    They  would  not  believe  one  word  of  it  !  " 

j     "  Why,  Dot!  "  exclaimed  the  Carrier.  "  Little  woman!  " 

i  She  had  spoken  with  such  earnestness  and  fire,  that 
she  stood  in  need  of  some  recalling  to  herself,  without 

'  doubt.  Her  husband's  check  was  very  gentle,  for  he 
merely  interfered,  as  he  supposed,  to  shield  old  Tackle- 
ton ;  but  it  proved  effectual,  for  she  stopped,  and  said  no 
more.  There  was  an  uncommon  agitation,  even  in  her 
silence,  which  the  wary  Tackleton,  who  had  brought  his 


286 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


half -shut  eye  to  bear  upon  her,  noted  closely,  and  re- 
membered to  some  purpose  too. 

May  uttered  no  word,  good  or  bad,  but  sat  quite  still, 
with  her  eyes  cast  down,  and  made  no  sign  of  interest  in 
what  had  passed.  The  good  lady  her  mother  never  in- 
terposed, observing,  in  the  first  instance,  that  girls  were 
girls,  and  byegones  byegones,  and  that  so  long  as  young 
people  were  young  and  thoughtless,  they  would  probably 
conduct  themselves  like  young  and  thoughtless  persons  : 
with  two  or  three  other  positions  of  a  no  less  sound  and 
incontrovertible  character.  She  then  remarked,  in  a 
devout  spirit,  that  she  thanked  Heaven  she  had  always 
found  in  her  daughter  May,  a  dutiful  and  obedient  child  : 
for  which  she  took  no  credit  to  herself,  though  she  had 
every  reason  to  believe  it  was  entirely  owing  to  herself. 
With  regard  to  Mr.  Tackleton  she  said.  That  he  was  in 
a  moral  point  of  view  an  undeniable  individual,  and 
That  he  was  in  an  eligible  point  of  view  a  son-in-law  to 
be  desired,  no  one  in  their  senses  could  doubt.  (She 
was  very  emphatic  here.)  With  regard  to  the  family 
into  which  he  was  so  soon  about,  after  some  solicitation, 
to  be  admitted,  she  believed  Mr.  Tackleton  knew  that, 
although  reduced  in  purse,  it  had  some  pretensions  to 
gentility  ;  and  that  if  certain  circumstances,  not  wholly 
unconnected,  she  would  go  so  far  as  to  say,  with  the  Indigo 
Trade,  but  to  which  she  would  not  more  particularly 
refer,  had  happened  differently,  it  might  perhaps  have 
been  in  possession  of  wealth.  She  then  remarked  that 
she  would  not  allude  to  the  past,  and  would  not  men- 
tion that  her  daughter  had  for  some  time  rejected 
the  suit  of  Mr.  Tackleton  ;  and  that  she  would  not  say  a 
great  many  other  things  which  she  did  say,  at  great 
length.  Finally,  she  delivered  it  as  the  general  result 
of  her  observation  and  experience,  that  those  marriages 
in  which  there  was  least  of  what  was  romantically  and 
sillily  called  love,  were  always  the  happiest  ;  and  that 
she  anticipated  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  bliss — 
not  rapturous  bliss  ;  but  the  solid,  steady-going  article — 
from  the  approaching  nuptials.  She  concluded  by  in- 
forming the  company  that  to-mprrow  was  the  day  she  had 
lived  for  expressly  ;  and  that  when  it  was  over,  she 
would  desire  nothing  better  than  to  be  packed  up  and 
disposed  of,  in  any  genteel  place  of  burial. 

As  these  remarks  were  quite  unanswerable— which  is 
the  happy  property  of  all  remarks  that  are  sufficiently 
wide  of  the  purpose — they  changed  the  current  of  the 
conversation,  and  diverted  the  general  attention  to  the 
Veal  and  Ham-Pie,  the  cold  mutton,  the  potatoes,  and 
the  tart.  In  order  that  the  bottled  beer  might  not  be 
slighted,  John  Peerybingle  proposed  To-morrow  :  the 
Wedding-Day  ;  and  called  upon  them  to  drink  a  bumper 
to  it,  before  he  proceeded  on  his  journey. 

For  you  ought  to  know  that  he  only  rested  there,  and 
gave  the  old  horse  a  bait.  He  had  to  go  some  four  or 
five  miles  farther  on  ;  and  when  he  returned  in  the  even- 
ing, he  called  for  Dot,  and  took  another  rest  on  his  way 
home.  This  was  the  order  of  the  day  on  all  the  Pic-Nic 
occasions,  and  had  been,  ever  since  their  institution. 

There  were  two  persons  present,  besides  the  bride  and 
bridegroom-  elect,  who  did  but  indifferent  honour  to  the 
toast.  One  of  these  was  Dot,  too  flushed  and  discomposed 
to  adapt  herself  to  any  small  occurrence  of  the  moment  ; 
the  other.  Bertha,  who  rose  up  hurriedly  before  the  rest, 
and  left  the  table. 

"  Good  by  !  "  said  stout  John  Peerybingle,  pulling  on 
his  dreadnought  coat,  "  I  shall  be  back  at  the  old  time. 
Good  bye  all  !  " 

"  Good  by  John,"  returned  Caleb. 

He  seemed  to  say  it  by  rote,  and  to  wave  his  hand  in 
the  same  unconscious  manner  ;  for  he  stood  observing 
Bertha  with  an  anxious  wondering  face,  that  never 
altered  its  expression, 

"  Good  by  young  shaver  1 "  said  the  Jolly  Carrier, 
bending  down  to  kiss  the  child  ;  which  Tilly  Slowboy, 
now  intent  upon  her  knife  and  fork,  liad  deposited  asleep 
(and  strange  to  say,  without  damage)  in  a  little  cot  of 
Bertha's  furnishing;  "good  bye!  Time  will  come,  I 
suppose,  when  ^6»?/ll  turn  out  into  the  cold,  my  little 
friend,  and  leave  your  old  father  to  enjoy  liis  pipe  and 
his  rheumatics  in  the  chimney-corner ;  eh  ?  Where's 
Dot?" 

"  I'm  here,  John  I"  she  said,  starting. 


"Come,  come!"  returned  the  carrier,  clapping  his 
sounding  hands. 

"  Where's  the  pipe  ?  " 

"  I  quite  forgot  the  pipe,  John. " 

Forgot  the  pipe  !  Was  such  a  wonder  ever  heard  of  ! 
She  !    Forgot  the  pipe  ! 

"  I'll — I'll  fill  it  directly.    It's  soon  done." 
But  it  was  not  so  soon  done,  either.    It  lay  in  the 
usual  place — the  Carrier's  dreadnought  pocket — with  the 
little  pouch,  her  own  work,  from  which  she  was  used  to 
fill  it ;  but  her  hand  shook  so,  that  she  entangled  it  (and 
yet  her  hand  was  small  enough  to  have  come  out  easily, 
I  am  sure),  and  bungled  terribly.    The  filling  of  the 
pipe  and  lighting  it,  those  little  offices  in  which  I  have 
I  commended  her  discretion,  were  vilely  done  from  first 
{  to  last.     During  the  whoLe  process,  Tackleton  stood 
j  looking  on  maliciously  with  the  half-closed  eye  ;  which, 
}  whenever  it  met  hers — or  caught  it,  for  it  can  hardly  be 
j  said  to  have  ever  met  another  eye  ;  rather  being  a  kind  of 
I  trap  to  snatch  it  up — augmented  her  confusion  in  a  most 
\  remarkable  degree. 

"  Why,  what  a  clumsy  Dot  you  are,  this  afternoon  !" 
said  John.  "I  could  have  done  it  better  myself,  I 
verily  believe  ! " 

With  these  good-natured  words,  he  strode  away,  and 
presently  was  heard,  in  company  with  Boxer,  and  the 
old  horse,  and  the  cart,  making  lively  music  down  the 
road.  What  time  the  dreamy  Caleb  still  stood,  watch- 
ing his  blind  daughter,  with  the  same  expression  on  his 
I  face. 

"  Bertha  ! "  said  Caleb,  softly.  "  What  has  happened? 
!  How  changed  you  are,  my  darling  in  a  few  hours — since 
[  this  morning.  Yov.  silent  and  dull  all  day  !  What  is 
I  it  ?    Tell  me  ! " 

"Oh  father,  father!"  cried  the  Blind  Girl,  bursting 
into  tears.    "  Oh  my  hard,  hard  fate  !  " 

Caleb  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes  before  he  answered 
her. 

"  But  think  how  cheerful  and  how  happy  you  have 
been.  Bertha  !     How  good,  and  how  much  loved  by 
i  many  people." 

j     "  That  strikes  me  to  the  heart,  dear  father  !  Always 
so  mindful  of  me  !    Always  so  kind  to  me  ! " 
j     Caleb  was  very  much  perplexed  to  understand  her. 
I     "To  be — to  be  blind.  Bertha,  my  poor  dear,"  he 
!  faltered,  "  is  a  great  affliction  ;  but — " 
i     "I  have  never  felt  it!"  cried  the  Blind  Girl.  "I 
I  have  never  felt  it,  in  its  fulness.    Never  !  I  have  some- 
times wished  that  I  could  see  you,  or  could  see  him — 
!  only  once,  dear  father,  only  for  one  little  minute — that  I 
I  might  know  what  it  is  I  treasure  up,"  she  laid  her  hands 
!  upon  her  breast,  "  and  .hold  here  !    That  I  might  be 
I  sure  I  have  it  right !    And  sometimes  (but  then  I  was  a 
child)  I  have  wept,  in  my  prayers  at  night,  to  think  that 
I  when  your  images  ascended  from  my  heart  to  Heaven, 
they  might  not  be  the  true  resemblance  of  yourselves. 
But  I  have  never  had  these  feelings  long.    They  have 
passed  away,  and  left  me  tranquil  and  contented." 
!     "  And  they  will  again,"  said  Caleb. 

"  But  father  !  Oh  my  good  gentle  father,  bear  with  me 
if  I  am  wicked  !  "  said  the  Blind  Girl.  "  This  is  not  the 
sorrow  that  so  weighs  me  down  !  " 

Her  father  could  not  choose  but  let  his  moist  eyes 
overflow  ;  she  was  so  earnest  and  pathetic.  But  he  did 
not  understand  her,  yet. 

"Bring  her  to  me,"  said  Bertha.  "I  cannot  hold  it 
closed  and  shut  within  myself.  Bring  her  to  me, 
father  ! " 

She  knew  he  hesitated,  and  said,  "May;  Bring 

May  ! " 

May  heard  the  mention  of  her  name,  and  coming 
quietly  towards  her,  touched  her  on  the  arm.  The 
Blind  Girl  turned  immediately,  and  held  her  by  both 
hands. 

"  Look  into  my  face.  Dear  heart.  Sweet  heart  !"  said 
Bertha,  "  read  it  with  your  beautiful  eyes,  and  tell  me 
if  the  truth  is  written  on  it." 

"  Dear  Bertha,  yes  ! " 

The  Blind  Girl,  still  upturning  the  blank  sightless 
f  ace,  down  which  the  tears  were  coursing  fast,  addressed 
her  in  these  words  : 

"  There  is  not,  in  my  soul,  a  wish  or  thought  that  is 


CHRISTMA  8    B  0  OKS. 


287 


not  for  your  good,  bright  May  !  There  is  not,  in  my  soul, 
a  grateful  recollection  stronger  than  the  deep  remem- 
brance which  is  stored  there,  of  the  many  many  times 
when,  in  the  full  pride  of  sight  and  beauty,  you  have 
had  consideration  for  Blind  Bertha,  even  when  we  two 
were  children,  or  when  Bertha  was  as  much  a  child  as 
ever  blindness  can  be  !  Every  blessing  on  your  head  1 
Light  upon  your  happy  course  !    Not  the  less,  my  dear 

I  May  ; "  and  she  drew  towards  her,  in  a  closer  grasp  ; 
"  not  the  less,  my  bird,  because,  to-day,  the  knowledge 
that  you  are  to  be  His  wife  lias  wrung  my  heart  almost 
to  breaking  !  Father,  May,  Mary  !  oh  forgive  me  that  it 
is  so,  for  the  sake  of  all  he  has  done  to  relieve  the  weari- 
ness of  my  dark  life  :  and  for  the  sake  of  the  belief  you 
have  in  me,  when  I  call  Heaven  to  witness  that  I  could 
not  wish  him  married  to  a  wife  more  worthy  of  his 

I  goodness  ! " 

While  speaking,  she  had  released  May  Fielding's 
hands,  and  clasped  her  garments  in  an  attitude  of  min- 
gled supplication  and  love.  Sinking  lower  and  lower 
down,  as  she  proceeded  in  her  strange  confession,  she 
dropped  at  last  at  the  feet  of  her  friend,  and  hid  her 
blind  face  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

"Great  Power  1"  exclaimed  her  father,  smitten  at  one 
blow  with  the  truth,  "  have  I  deceived  her  from  her 
cradle,  but  to  break  her  heart  at  last  1 " 

It  was  well  for  all  of  them  that  Dot,  that  beaming, 
useful,  busy  little  Dot — for  such  she  was,  whatever 
faults  she  had,  and  however  you  may  learn  to  hate  her, 
in  good  time — it  was  well  for  all  of  them,  I  say,  that  she 
was  there  :  or  where  this  would  have  ended,  it  were 
hard  to  tell.  But  Dot,  recovering  her  self-possession, 
interposed,  before  May  could  reply,  or  Caleb  say  another 
word- 

"  Come,  come,  dear  Bertha  !  come  away  with  me  ! 
Give  her  your  arm.  May.  So  !  How  composed  she  is, 
you  see,  already  ;  and  how  good  it  is  of  her  to  mind  us," 
said  the  cheery  little  woman,  kissing  her  upon  the  fore- 
head. "Come  away,  dear  Bertha.  Come!  and  here's 
.  her  good  father  will  come  with  her;  won't  you,  Caleb? 
To— be — sure  ! " 

Well,  well  !  she  was  a  noble  little  Dot  in  such  things, 
and  it  must  have  been  an  obdurate  nature  that  could 
have  withstood  her  influence.  When  she  had  got  poor 
Caleb  and  his  Bertha  away,  that  they  might  comfort  and 
console  each  other,  as  she  knew  they  only  could,  she 
presently  came  bouncing  back, — the  saying  is  as  fresh  as 
any  daisy  ;  /  say  fresher — to  mount  guard  over  that 
bridling  little  piece  of  consequence  in  the  cap  and  gloves 
and  prevent  the  dear  old  creature  from  making  discov- 
eries. 

^'So  bring  me  the  precious  Baby,  Tilly,"  said  she, 
drawing  a  chair  to  the  fire  ;  "  and  while  I  have  it  in  my 
lap,  here's  Mrs.  Fielding,  Tilly,  will  tell  rae  all  about 
the  management  of  Babies,  and  put  me  right  in  twenty 
points  where  I'm  as  wrong  as  can  be.  Won't  you,  Mrs. 
Fielding  ?  " 

Not  even  the  Welsh  Giant,  who,  according  to  the  pop- 
ular expression,  was  so  "slow"  as  to  perform  a  fatal 
surgical  operation  upon  himself,  in  emulation  of  a  jug- 
gling-trick  achieved  by  his  arch  enemy  at  breakfast-time: 
not  even  he  fell  half  so  readily  into  the  snare  prepared 
for  him,  as  the  old  lady  into  this  artful  pitfall.  The  fact 
of  Tackleton  having  walked  out  ;  and  furthermore,  of 
two  or  three  people  having  been  talking  together  at  a 
distance,  for  two  minutes,  leaving  her  to  her  own  re- 
sources ;  was  quite  enough  to  have  put  her  on  her  digni- 
ty, and  the  bewailment  of  that  mysterious  convulsion  in 
the  indigo  trade,  for  four-and-twenty  hours.  But  this 
becoming  deference  to  her  experience,  on  the  part  of  the 
young  mother,  was  so  irresistible,  that  after  a  short  af- 
fectation of  humility,  she  began  to  enlighten  her  with 
the  best  grace  in  the  world  ;  and  sitting  bolt  upright  be- 
fore the  wicked  Dot,  she  did,  in  half  an  hour,  deliver 
more  infallible  domestic  recipes  and  precepts,  than  would 
(if  acted  on)  have  utterly  destroyed  and  done  up  that 
Young  Peerybingle,  though  he  had  been  an  Infant  Sam- 
son. 

To  change  the  theme,  Dot  did  a  little  needlework — she 
carried  the  contents  of  a  whole  workbox  in  her  pocket ; 
liowever  she  contrived  it,  /don't  know-r^then  did  a  little 
nursing  ;  then  a  little  more  needlework  ;  then  had  a  little 


whispering  chat  with  May,  while  the  old  lady  doz(;d  ; 
and  so  in  little  bits  of  bustle,  which  was  quite  her  man- 
ner always,  found  it  a  very  short  afternoon,  'i'hen,  as  it 
grew  dark,  and  as  it  was  a  solemn  [jartof  this  Institution 
of  the  Pic-Nic  that  she  should  perform  all  Bertha's 
household  tasks,  she  trimmed  the  fire,  and  Kwej>t  the 
hearth,  and  set  tl\,e  tea-board  out,  and  drew  tlie  curtain, 
and  lighted  a  candle.  Then  she  played  an  air  or  two  on 
a  rude  kind  of  harp,  which  ('aleb  had  contrived  for 
Bertha,  and  played  them  very  well  ;  for  Nature  had 
made  her  delicate  little  ear  as  choice  a  one  for  music  as 
it  would  have  been  for  jewels,  if  she  had  had  any  to 
wear.  By  this  time  it  was  the  established  hour  for 
having  tea  ;  and  Tackleton  came  hack  again,  to  share  the 
meal,  and  spend  the  evening. 

Caleb  and  Bertha  had  returned  some  time  before,  and 
Caleb  had  sat  down  to  his  afternoon's  work.  But  he 
couldn't  settle  to  it,  poor  fellow,  being  anxious  and  re- 
morseful for  his  daughter.  It  was  touching  to  see  him 
sitting  idle  on  his  working  stool,  regarding  her  so  wist- 
fully, and  always  saying  in  his  face,  "Have  I  deceived 
her  from  her  cradle,  but  to  break  her  heart ! " 

When  it  was  nighfc,  and  tea  was  done,  and  Dot  had 
nothing  more  to  do  In  washing  up  the  cups  and  saucers  ; 
in  a  word — for  I  must  come  to  it,  and  there  is  no  use  in 
j>utting  it  off — when  the  time  drew  nigh  for  expecting 
the  Carrier's  return  in  every  sound  of  distant  wheels,  her 
manner  changed  again,  her  colour  came  and  went,  and 
she  was  very  restless.  Not  as  good  wives  are,  when 
listening  for  their  husbands.  No,  no,  no.  It  was  an- 
other sort  of  restlessness  from  that. 

Wheels  heard.  A  horse's  feet.  The  barking  of  a  dog. 
The  gradual  approach  of  all  the  sounds.  The  scratching 
paw  of  Boxer  at  the  door  ! 

"  Whose  step  is  that !"  cried  Bertha,  starting  up. 

"  Whose  step  ?"  returned  the  Carrier,  standing  in  the 
portal,  with  his  brown  face  ruddy  as  a  winter  berry  from 
the  keen  night  air.    "  Why,  mine." 

"  The  other  step,"  said  Be^^tha,  "  The  man's  tread  be- 
hind you  !  " 

"She  is  not  to  be  deceived,"  observed  the  Carrier, 
laughing.  "  Come  along,  sir.  You'll  be  welcome,  never 
fear  ! " 

He  spoke  in  a  loud  tone  ;  and  as  he  spoke,  the  deaf  old 
gentleman  entered. 

"  He's  not  so  much  a  stranger  that  you  haven't  seen 
him  once,  Caleb,"  said  the  Carrier.  "You'll  give  him 
house-room  till  we  go?" 

"Oh  surely,  John,  and  take  it  as  an  honour." 

"  He's  the  best  company  on  earth,  to  talk  secrets  in," 
said  John.  "  I  have  reasonable  good  lungs,  but  he  tries 
'em,  T  can  tell  you.  Sit  down  sir.  All  friends  here,  and 
glad  to  see  you  !  " 

When  he  had  imparted  this  assurance,  in  a  voice  that 
amply  corroborated  what  he  had  said  about  his  lungs, 
he  added  in  his  natural  tone,  "  A  chair  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  and  leave  to  sit  quite  silent  and  look  pleasantly 
about  him,  is  all  he  cares  for.    He's  easily  pleased." 

Bertha  had  been  listening  intently.  She  called  Caleb 
to  her  side,  when  he  had  set  the  chair,  and  asked  him  in 
a  low  voice,  to  describe  their  visitor.  When  he  had  done 
so  (truly  now  ;  with  scrupulous  fidelity),  she  moved,  for 
the  first  time  since  he  had  come  in,  and  sighed,  and 
seemed  to  have  no  further  interest  concerning  him. 

The  Carrier  was  in  high  spirits,  good  fellow  that  he 
was,  and  fonder  of  his  little  wife  than  ever. 

"  A  clumsy  Dot  she  was,  this  afternoon  !  "  he  said,  en- 
circling her  with  his  rough  arm,  as  she  stood  removed 
from  the  rest  ;  "  and  yet  I  like  her  somehow.  See  yon- 
der. Dot  ! " 

He  pointed  to  the  old  man.  She  looked  down.  I 
think  she  trembled. 

"  He's— ha  ha  ha  !— he's  full  of  admiration  for  you  !" 
said  the  Carrier.  "Talked  of  nothing  else,  the  whole 
way  here.  Why,  he's  a  brave  old  boy.  I  like  him  for 
it  !"" 

"  I  wish  he  had  had  a  better  subject,  John,"  she  said, 
with  an  uneasy  glance  about  the  room.  At  Tackleton 
especiallv. 

"  A  better  subject  ! "  cried  the  jovial  John.  "  There's 
no  such  thing.  Come  !  off  with  the  great-coat,  off  with 
the  thick  shawl,  off  with  the  heavy  wrappers  !  and  a  cosy 


288 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


half-hour  by  the  fire  !  My  humble  service,  Mistress.  A 
game  at  cribbage,  you  and  I  ?  That's  hearty.  The  cards 
and  board,  Dot.  And  a  glass  of  beer  here,  if  there's  any 
left,  small  wife  !  " 

His  challenge  was  addressed  to  the  old  lady,  who  ac- 
cepting it  with  gracious  readiness,  they  were  soon  en- 
gaged upon  the  game.  At  first,  the  Carrier  looked  about 
him  sometimes,  with  a  smile,  or  now  and  then  called 
Dot  to  peep  over  his  shoulder  at  his  hand,  and  advise 
him  on  some  knotty  point.  But  his  adversary  being  a 
rigid  disciplinarian,  and  subject  to  an  occasional  weak- 
ness in  respect  of  begging  more  than  she  was  entitled  to, 
required  such  vigilance  on  his  part,  as  left  him  neither 
eyes  nor  ears  to  spare.  Thus  his  whole  attention  gradu- 
ally became  absorbed  upon  the  cards  ;  and  he  thought  of 
nothing  else,  until  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  restored 
him  to  a  consciousness  of  Tackleton. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you — but  a  word  directly." 

"  I  am  going  to  deal,"  returned  the  Carrier.  "It's  a 
crisis." 

"  It  is,"  said  Tackleton.    "  Come  here,  man  !  " 

There  was  that  in  bis  pale  face  which  made  the  other 
rise  immediately,  and  ask  him,  in  a  hurry,  what  the  mat- 
ter was. 

"Hush  !  John  Peerybingle,"  said  Tackleton.  "I  am 
sorry  for  this.  I  am  indeed.  I  have  been  afraid  of  it. 
I  have  suspected  it  from  the  first." 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  the  Carrier,  with  a  frightened 
aspect. 

"  Hush  ?    I'll  show  you,  if  you'll  come  with  me." 

The  Carrier  accompanied  him,  without  another  word. 
They  went  across  a  yard,  where  the  stars  were  shining, 
and  by  a  little  side  door,  into  Tackleton's  own  counting- 
house,  where  there  was  a  glass  window  commanding 
the  ware-room,  which  was  closed  for  the  night.  There 
was  no  light  in  the  counting-house  itself,  but  there  were 
lamps  in  the  long  narrow  ware-room  ;  and  consequently 
the  window  was  bright. 

"A  moment !"  said  Tackleton.  "Can  you  bear  to 
look  through  that  vdndow,*do  you  think  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?  "  returned  the  Carrier. 

"  A  moment  more,"  said  Tackleton.  "Don't  commit 
any  violence.  It's  of  no  use.  It's  dangerous  too.  You're 
a  strong-made  man  ;  and  you  might  do  murder  before 
you  know  it." 

The  Carrier  looked  him  in  the  face,  and  recoiled  a  step 
as  if  he  had  been  struck.  In  one  stride  he  was  at  the 
window,  and  he  saw — 

Oh  Shadow  on  the  Hearth  !  Oh  truthful  Cricket  !  Oh 
perfidious  Wife  ! 

He  saw  her  with  the  old  man — old  no  longer,  but  erect 
and  gallant — bearing  in  his  hand  the  false  white  hair 
that  had  won  his  way  into  their  desolate  and  miserable 
home.  He  saw  her  listening  to  him,  as  he  bent  his  head 
to  whisper  in  her  ear  ;  and  suffering  him  to  clasp  her 
round  the  waist,  as  they  moved  slowly  down  the  dim 
wooden  gallery  towards  the  door  by  which  they  had  en- 
tered it.  He  saw  them  stop,  and  saw  her  turn — to  have 
the  face,  the  face  he  loved  so,  so  presented  to  his  view  1 
— and  saw  her,  with  her  own  hands,  adjust  the  lie  upon 
his  head,  laughing,  as  she  did  it,  at  his  unsuspicious  na- 
ture I 

He  clenched  his  strong  right  hand  at  first,  as  if  it 
would  have  beaten  down  a  lion.  But  opening  it  imme- 
diately again,  he  spread  it  out  before  the  eyes  of  Tackle- 
ton (for  he  was  tender  of  her,  even  then),  and  so,  as  they 
passed  out,  fell  down  upon  a  desk,  and  was  as  weak  as 
any  infant. 

He  was  wrapped  up  to  the  chin,  and  busy  with  his 
horse  and  parcels,  when  she  came  into  the  room,  prepared 
for  going  home. 

"  Now  John,  dear  !  Good  night  May  !  Good  night 
Bertha  !  " 

Could  she  kiss  them  !  Could  she  be  ])lithe  and  cheer- 
ful in  her  parting?  Could  she  venture  to  reveal  her 
face  to  them  without  a  blush  ?  Yes.  Tackleton  observed 
her  closely,  and  she  did  all  this. 

Tilly  was  hushing  the  V)aby,  and  she  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  Tackleton  a  dozen  times,  repeating  drowsily  : 

"  Did  the  knowledge  that  it  was  to  be  its  wives,  then, 
wring  its  hearts  almost  to  breaking  ;  and  did  its  fathers 
dticeive  it  from  its  cradles  but  to  break  its  hearts  at  last  !  " 


"Now  Tilly,  give  me  the  baby  1  Good  night,  Mr. 
Tackleton.    Where's  John,  for  goodness  sake  !  " 

"  He's  going  to  walk  beside  the  horse's  head,"  said 
Tackleton  :  who  helped  her  to  her  seat. 

"  My  dear  John.    Walk  ?  To-night  ?  " 

The  muffled  figure  of  her  husband  made  a  hasty  sign 
in  the  affirmative  ;  and  the  false  stranger  and  the  little 
nurse  being  in  the  places,  their  old  horse  moved  off. 
Boxer,  the  unconscious  Boxer,  running  on  before,  run- 
ning back,  running  round  and  round  the  cart,  and  bark- 
ing as  triumphantly  and  merrily  as  ever. 

When  Tackleton  had  gone  off  likewise,  escorting  May 
and  her  mother  home,  poor  Caleb  sat  down  by  the  fire 
beside  his  daughter  ;  anxious  and  remorseful  at  the  core  ; 
and  still  saying  in  his  wistful  contemplation  of  her, 
"Have  I  deceived  her  from  her  cradle,  but  to  break  her 
heart  at  last  ! " 

The  toys  that  had  been  set  in  motion  for  the  Baby, 
had  all  stopped  and  run  down,  long  ago.  In  the  faint 
light  and  silence,  the  imperturbably  calm  dolls,  the  agi- 
tated rocking-horses  with  distended  eyes  and  nostrils,  the 
old  gentlemen  at  the  street  doors,  standing  half  doubled 
up  upon  their  failing  knees  and  ankles,  the  wry-faced 
nutcrackers,  the  very  Beasts  upon  their  way  into  the  Ark 
in  twos,  like  a  Boarding- School  out  walking,  might  have 
been  imagined  to  be  stricken  motionless  with  fantastic 
wonder,  at  Dot  being  false,  or  Tackleton  beloved,  under 
any  combination  of  circumstances. 


CHIRP  THE  THIRD. 

The  Dutch  clock  in  the  corner  struck  Ten,  when  the 
Carrier  sat  down  by  his  fireside.  So  troubled  and  grief- 
worn,  that  he  seemed  to  scarce  the  Cuckoo,  who,  hav- 
ing cut  his  ten  melodious  announcements  as  short  as  pos- 
sible, plunged  back  into  the  Moorish  Palace  again,  and 
clapped  his  little  door  behind  him,  as  if  the  unwonted 
spectacle  were  too  much  for  his  feelings. 

If  the  little  Haymaker  had  been  armed  with  the  sharp- 
est of  scythes,  and  had  cut  at  every  stroke  into  the  Car- 
rier's heart,  he  never  could  have  gashed  and  wounded  it 
as  Dot  had  done. 

It  was  a  heart  so  full  of  love  for  her  ;  so  bound  up  and 
held  together  by  innumerable  threads  of  winning  remem- 
brance, spun  from  the  daily  working  of  her  many  quali- 
ties of  endearment  ;  it  was  a  heart  in  which  she  had  en- 
shrined herself  so  gently  and  so  closely  ;  a  heart  so  single 
and  so  earnest  in  its  Truth,  so  strong  in  right,  so  weak  in 
wrong  ;  that  it  could  cherish  neither  passion  nor  revenge 
at  first,  and  had  only  room  to  hold  the  broken  image  of 
its  idol. 

But  slowly,  slowly,  as  the  Carrier  sat  brooding  on  hi» 
hearth,  now  cold  and  dark,  other  and  fiercer  thoughts, 
began  to  rise  within  him,  as  an  angry  wind  comes  rising- 
in  the  night.  The  Stranger  was  beneath  his  outraged 
roof.  Three  steps  would  take  him  to  his  chamber  door. 
One  blow  would  beat  it  in.  "  You  might  do  murder  be- 
fore you  know  it,"  Tackleton  had  said.  How  could  it  be 
murder,  if  he  gave  the  villain  time  to  grapple  with  him 
hand  to  hand  !    He  was  the  younger  man. 

It  was  an  ill-timed  thought,  bad  for  the  dark  mood  of 
his  mind.  It  was  an  angry  thought,  goading  him  to  some 
avenging  act,  that  should  change  the  cheerful  house  into 
a  haunted  place  which  lonely  travellers  would  dread  to 
pass  by  night  ;  and  where  the  timid  would  see  shadows 
struggling  in  the  ruined  windows  when  the  moon  was 
dim,  and  hear  wild  noises  in  the  stormy  weather. 

He  was  the  younger  man  !  Yes,  yes  ;  some  lover  who 
had  won  the  heart  that  he  had  never  touched.  Some  lov- 
er of  her  early  choice,  of  whom  she  had  thought  and 
dreamed,  for  whom  she  had  pined  and  pined,  when  he 
had  fancied  her  so  happy  by  his  side.  O  agony  to  think 
of  it  ! 

She  had  been  above  stairs  with  the  Baby,  getting  it  to 
bed.  As  he  sat  brooding  on  the  hearth,  she  came  close 
beside  him,  without  his  knowledge — in  the  turning  of 
the  rack  of  his  great  misery,  he  lost  all  other  sounds — 
and  put  her  little  stool  at  his  feet.  He  only  knew  it, 
when  he  felt  her  hand  upon  his  own,  and  saw  her  look- 
ing up  into  his  face. 


CHRIST  MA  S    B  0  OKH, 


289 


With  wonder?  No,  It  was  his  first  impression,  and 
he  was  fain  to  look  at  her  again,  to  .set  it  right.  No,  not 
with  wonder.  With  an  eager  and  inquiring  look  ;  but 
not  with  wonder.  At  first  it  was  alamied  and  serious  ; 
then,  it  changed  into  a  strange,  wild,  dreadful  smile  of 
recognition  of  his  thoughts  ;  then,  there  was  nothing  but 
her  clasped  hands  on  her  brow,  and  her  lient  head,  and 
falling  hair. 

Though  the  power  of  Omnipotence  had  been  his  to 
wield  at  that  moment,  he  had  too  much  of  its  diviner  prop- 
erty of  Mercy  in  his  breast,  to  have  turned  one  feather's 
weight  of  it  against  her.  But  he  could  not  bear  to  see 
her  crouching  down  upon  the  little  seat  where  he  had 
often  looked  on  her,  with  love  and  pride,  so  innocent  and 
gay  ;  and,  when  she  rose  and  left  him,  sobbing  as  she 
went,  he  felt  it  a  relief  to  have  the  vacant  place  beside 
him  rather  than  her  so  long- cherished  presence.  This 
in  itself  was  anguish  keener  than  all,  reminding  him 
how  desolate  he  was  become,  and  how  the  great  bond  of 
his  life  was  rent  asunder. 

The  more  he  felt  this,  and  the  more  he  knew,  he  could 
have  better  borne  to  see  her  lying  prematurely  dead  be- 
fore him  with  her  little  child  upon  her  breast,  the  higher 
and  the  stronger  rose  his  wrath  against  his  enemy.  He 
looked  about  him  for  a  weapon. 

There  was  a  gun,  hanging  on  the  wall.  He  took  it 
down,  and  moved  a  pace  or  two  towards  the  door  of  the 
perfidious  Stranger's  room.  He  knew  the  gun  was  load- 
ed. Some  shadowy  idea  that  it  was  just  to  shoot  this 
man  like  a  wild  beast,  seized  him,  and  dilated  in  his  mind 
until  it  grew  into  a  monstrous  demon  in  complete  posses- 
sion of  him,  casting  out  all  milder  thoughts  and  setting 
up  its  undivided  empire. 

That  phrase  is  wrong.  Not  casting  out  his  milder 
thoughts,  but  artfully  transforming  them.  Changing 
them  into  scourges  to  drive  him  on.  Turning  water  in- 
to blood,  love  into  hate,  gentleness  into  blind  ferocity. 
Her  image,  sorrowing,  humbled,  but  still  pleading  to  his 
tenderness  and  mercy  with  resistless  power,  never  left 
his  mind  ;  but,  staying  there,  it  urged  him  to  the  door  ; 
raised  the  weapon  to  his  shoulder  ;  fitted  and  nerved  his 
finger  to  the  trigger  ;  and  cried  "Kill  him  !  In  his  bed  !  " 

He  reversed  the  gun  to  beat  the  stock  upon  the  door  ; 
he  already  held  it  lifted  in  the  air  ;  some  indistinct  de- 
sign was  in  his  thoughts  of  calling  out  to  him  to  fly,  for 
God's  sake,  by  the  window — 

When,  suddenly  the  struggling  fire  illuminated  the 
whole  chimney  with  a  glow  of  light ;  and  the  Cricket  on 
the  Hearth  began  to  Chirp  ! 

No  sound  he  could  have  heard,  no  human  voice,  not 
even  hers,  could  so  have  moved  and  softened  him.  The 
artless  words  in  which  she  had  told  him  of  her  love  for 
this  same  Cricket,  were  once  more  freshly  spoken  ;  her 
trembling,  earnest  manner  at  the  moment,  was  again  be- 
fore him  ;  her  pleasant  voice — O  what  a  voice  it  was,  for 
making  household  music  at  the  fireside  of  an  honest  man  ! 
— thrilled  through  and  through  his  better  nature,  and 
awoke  it  into  life  and  action. 

He  recoiled  from  the  door,  like  a  man  walking  in  his 
sleep,  awakened  from  a  frightful  dream  ;  and  put  the 
gun  aside.  Clasping  his  hands  before  his  face,  he  then 
sat  down  again  beside  the  fire,  and  found  relief  in  tears. 

The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  came  out  into  the  room, 
and  stood  in  Fairy  shape  before  him. 

"  '  I  love  it,'  "  said  the  Fairy  Voice,  repeating  what  he 
well  remembered,  "  *  for  the  many  times  I  have  heard  it, 
and  the  many  thoughts  its  harmless  music  has  given  me. ' " 

* '  She  said  so  !  "  cried  the  Carrier.    '  True  !  " 

"  '  This  has  been  a  happy  home,  John  ;  and  I  love  the 
Cricket  for  its  sake! ' " 

"It  has  been.  Heaven  knows,"  returned  the  Carrier. 
"  She  made  it  happy,  always, — until  now." 

"  So  gracefully  sweet-tempered  ;  so  domestic,  joyful, 
busy,  and  light-hearted  !  "  said  the  Voice. 

"  Otherwise  I  never  could  have  loved  her  as  I  did," 
returned  the  Carrier, 

I    The  Voice,  correcting  him,  said  "do." 

The  Carrier  repeated  "  as  I  did."  But  not  firmly.  His 
I  faltering  tongue  resisted  his  control,  and  would  speak  in 
its  own  way  for  itself  and  him. 

1  The  Figure,  in  an  attitude  of  invocation,  raised  its 
I  hand  and  said  : 

Vol.  II.— 19 


"  Upon  your  own  hearth — " 

"The  hearth  she  has  blighted,"  interposed  the  Car- 
rier. 

"  The  hearth  she  has — how  often  ! — blessed  and  bright- 
ened," said  the  Cricket  ;  "  the  hearth  which,  but  for  her, 
were  only  a  few  stones  and  bricks  and  ru.sty  bars,  but 
which  has  been,  through  her,  the  Altar  of  your  Home  ; 
on  which  you  have  nightly  sacrificed  some  petty  passion, 
selfishness,  or  care,  and  offered  up  the  homage  of  a  tran- 
quil mind,  a  trusting  nature,  and  an  overflowing  heart;  .so 
that  the  smoke  from  this  poor  chimney  has  gone  upward 
with  a  better  fragrance  than  the  richest  incense  that  is 
burnt  before  the  richest  shrines  in  all  the  gaudy  temples 
of  this  world  ! — Upon  your  own  hearth  ;  in  its  quiet 
sanctuary  ;  surrounded  by  its  gentle  influences  and  asso- 
ciations ;  hear  her !  Hear  me  !  Hear  everything  that 
speaks  the  language  of  your  hearth  and  home  !  " 

"  And  pleads  for  her?"  inquired  the  Carrier. 

"  All  things  that  speak  the  language  of  your  hearth 
and  home,  must  plead  for  her!"  returned  the  Cricket. 
"  For  they  speak  the  truth." 

And  while  the  Carrier,  with  his  head  upon  his  hands, 
continued  to  sit  meditating  in  h's  chair,  the  Presence  stood 
beside  him,  suggesting  his  reflections  by  its  power,  and 
presenting  them  before  him,  as  in  a  glass  or  picture.  It 
was  not  a  solitary  Presence.  From  the  hearthstone,  from 
the  chimney,,  from  the  clock,  the  pipe,  the  kettle,  and 
the  cradle  ;  from  the  floor,  the  walls,  the  ceiling,  and  the 
stairs  ;  from  the  cart  without,  and  the  cupboard  within, 
and  the  household  implements  ;  from  everything  and 
every  place  with  which  she  had  ever  been  familiar,  and 
with  which  she  had  ever  entwined  one  recollection  of 
herself  in  her  unhappy  husband's  mind  ;  Fairies  came 
trooping  forth.  Not  to  stand  beside  him  as  the  Cricket 
did,  but  to  busy  and  bestir  themselves.  To  do  all  hon- 
our to  her  image.  To  pull  him  by  the  skirts,  and  point 
to  it  when  it  appeared.  To  cluster  round  it,  and  em- 
brace it,  and  strew  flowers  for  it  to  tread  on.  To  try  to 
crown  its  fair  head  with  their  t^ny  hands.  To  show  that 
they  were  fond  of  it,  and  loved  it  ;  and  that  there  was  not 
one  ugly,  wicked,  or  accusatory  creature  to  claim  knowl- 
edge of  it — none  but  their  playful  and  approving  selves. 

His  thoughts  were  constant  to  her  image.  It  was  al- 
ways there. 

She  sat  plying  her  needle,  before  the  fire,  and  singing 
to  herself.  Such  a  blithe,  thriving,  steady  little  Dot  ! 
The  fairy  figures  turned  upon  him  all  at  once,  by  one 
consent,  with  one  prodigious  concentrated  stare,  and 
seemed  to  say  "  Is  this  the  light  wife  you  are  mourning 
for  !  " 

There  were  sounds  of  gaiety  outside,  musical  instru- 
ments, and  noisy  tongues,  and  laughter.  A  crowd  of 
young  merry-makers  came  pouring  in,  among  whom 
were  May  Fielding  and  a  score  of  pretty  girls.  Dot  was 
the  fairest  of  them  all  ;  as  young  as  any  of  them  too. 
They  came  to  summon  her  to  join  their  party.  It  was  a 
dance.  If  ever  little  foot  were  made  for  dancing,  hers 
was,  surely.  But  she  laughed,  and  shook  her  head,  and 
pointed  to  her  cookery  on  the  fire,  and  her  table  ready 
spread  ;  with  an  exulting  defiance,  that  rendered  her 
more  charming  than  she  was  before.  And  so  she  merrily 
dismissed  them,  nodding  to  her  would-be  partners,  one 
by  one,  as  they  passed  out,  with  a  comical  indifference, 
enough  to  make  them  go  and  drown  themselves  imme- 
diately if  they  were  her  admirers — and  they  must  have 
been  so,  more  or  less  ;  they  couldn't  help  it.  And  yet 
indifference  was  not  her  character.  0  no  !  For  presently, 
there  came  a  certain  Carrier  to  the  door  ;  and  bless  her 
what  a  welcome  she  bestowed  upon  him  ! 

Again  the  staring  Sgures  turned  upon  him  all  at  once, 
and  seemed  to  say  "  Is  this  the  wife  who  has  forsaken 
you  ! " 

A  shadow  fell  upon  the  mirror  or  the  picture  ;  call  it 
what  you  will.  A  great  shadow  of  the  Stranger  as  he 
first  stood  underneath  their  roof  ;  covering  its  surface, 
and  blotting  out  all  other  objects.  But,  the  nimble  Fair- 
ies worked  like  bees  to  clear  it  off  again.  And  Dot  again 
was  there.    Still  bright  and  beautiful. 

Rocking  her  little  Baby  in  its  cradle,  singing  to  it 
softly,  and  resting  her  head  upon  a  shoulder  which  had 
its  counterpart  in  the  musing  figure  by  which  the  Fairy 
Cricket  stood. 


290 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


The  niglit — I  mean  tlie  real  night  :  not  going  by  Fairy 
clocks — was  wearing  now  :  and  in  this  stage  of  the  Car- 
rier's thoughts,  the  moon  burst  out,  and  shone  brightly 
in  the  sky.  Perhaps  some  calm  and  quiet  light  had  risen 
also,  in  his  mind  ;  and  he  could  think  more  soberly  of 
what  had  happened. 

Although  the  shadow  of  the  stranger  fell  at  intervals 
Upon  the  glass — always  distinct,  and  big,  and  thoroughly 
defined— it  never  fell  so  darkly  as  at  'first.  Whenever 
it  appeared,  the  Fairies  uttered  a  general  cry  of  conster- 
nation, and  plied  their  little  arms  and  legs,  with  incon- 
ceivable activity,  to  rub  it  out.  And  whenever  they  got 
at  Dot  again,  and  showed  her  to  him  once  more,  bright 
and  beautiful,  they  cheered  in  the  most  inspiring  man- 
ner. 

They  never  showed  her,  otherwise  than  beautiful  and 
bright ;  for  they  were  Household  Spirits  to  whom  false- 
hood is  an  annihilation  ;  and  being  so,  what  Dot  was 
there  for  them,  but  the  one  active,  beaming,  pleasant  lit- 
tle creature  who  had  been  the  light  and  sun  of  the  Car- 
rier's Home  ! 

The  Fairies  were  prodigiously  excited  when  they 
showed  her,  with  the  Baby,  gossiping  among  a  knot  of 
sage  old  matrons,  and  affecting  to  be  wondrous  old  and 
matronly  herself,  and  leaning  in  a  staid  demure  old  way 
upon  her  husband's  arm,  attempting — she  !  such  a  bud 
of  a  little  woman — to  convey  the  idea  of  leaving  abjured 
the  vanities  of  the  world  in  general,  and  of  being  the 
sort  of  person  to  whom  it  was  no  novelty  at  all  to  be  a 
mother  ;  yet  in  the  same  breath,  they  showed  her,  laugh- 
ing at  the  Carrier  for  being  awkward,  and  pulling  up 
his  shirt-collar  to  make  him  smart,  and  mincing  merrily 
about  that  very  room  to  teach  him  how  to  dance  ! 

They  turned,  and  stared  immensely  at  him  when  they 
showed  her  with  the  Blind  Girl  ;  for,  though  she  carried 
cheerfulness  and  animation  with  her  wheresoever  she 
went,  she  bore  those  influences  into  Caleb  Plummer's 
home,  heaped  up  and  running  over.  The  Blind  Girl's 
love  for  her,  and  trust  in  her,  and  gratitude  to  her  ;  her 
own  good  busy  way  of  setting  Bertha's  thanks  aside  ; 
her  dexterous  little  arts  for  filling  up  each  moment  of 
the  visit  in  doing  something  useful  to  the  house,  and 
really  working  hard  while  feigning  to  make  holiday  ; 
her  bountiful  provision  of  those  standing  delicacies,  the 
Veal  and  Ham-pie  and  the  bottles  of  Beer  ;  her  radiant 
little  face  arriving  at  the  door  and  taking  leave  ;  the 
wonderful  expression  in  her  whole  self,  from  her  neat 
foot  to  the  crown  of  her  head,  of  being  a  part  of  the  es- 
tablishment—a something  necessary  to  it,  which  it 
couldn't  be  without  ;  all  this  the  Fairies  revelled  in,  and 
loved  her  for.  And  once  again  they  looked  upon  him 
all  at  once,  appealingly,  and  seemed  to  say,  while  some 
of  them  nestled  in  her  dress  and  fondled  her,  "  Is  this 
the  wife  who  has  betrayed  your  confidence  ! " 

More  than  once,  or  twice,  or  thrice,  in  the  long 
thoughtful  night,  they  showed  her  to  him  sitting  on  her 
favourite  seat,  with  her  bent  head,  her  hands  clasped  on 
her  brow,  her  falling  hair.  As  he  had  seen  her  last. 
And  when  they  found  her  thus,  they  neither  turned  nor 
looked  upon  him,  but  gathered  close  round  her,  and  com- 
forted and  kissed  her,  and  pressed  on  one  another,  to 
show  sympathy  and  kindness  to  her,  and  forgot  him  al- 
together. 

Tims  the  night  passed.  The  moon  went  down  ;  the 
stars  grew  pale  :  the  cold  day  broke  :  the  sun  rose.  The 
Carrier  still  sat,  musing,  in  the  chimney  corner.  He  had 
sat  there,  with  his  head  upon  his  hands,  all  night.  All 
night  the  faithful  Cricket  had  been  Chirp,  Chirp,  Chirp- 
ing on  the  Hearth.  All  night  he  had  listened  to  its 
voice.  All  night,  the  household  Fairies  had  been  busy 
with  him.  All  night,  she  had  been  amiable  and  blame- 
less, in  the  glass,  except  when  that  one  shadow  fell 
upon  it. 

He  rose  up  when  it  was  broad  day,  and  washed  and 
dressed  himself.  He  couldn't  go  about  his  customary 
cheerful  vocations — he  wanted  spirit  for  them — but  it 
mattered  the  less,  that  it  was  Tackleton's  wedding-day, 
and  he  arranged  to  make  his  rounds  by  proxy.  He  had 
thought  to  have  gone  merrily  to  church  with  Dot.  But 
sucli  plans  were  at  an  end.  It  was  their  own  wedding- 
day  too.  Ah  !  how  little  he  had  looked  for  such  a  close 
to  such  a  year  ! 


The  Carrier  expected  that  Tackleton  would  pay  him 
an  early  visit;  and  he  was  right.  He  had  not  walked 
to  and  fro  before  his  own  door,  many  minutes,  when  he 
saw  the  Toy  Merchant  coming  in  his  chaise  along  the 
road.  As  tlie  chaise  drew  nearer,  he  perceived  that 
Tackleton  was  dressed  out  sprucely  for  his  marriage, 
and  that  he  had  decorated  his  horse's  head  with  flowers 
and  favours. 

The  horse  looked  much  more  like  a  bridegroom  than 
Tackleton,  whose  half-closed  eye  was  more  disagreeably 
expressive  than  ever.  But  the  Carrier  took  little  heed 
of  this.    His  thoughts  had  other  occupation. 

"John  Peerybingle  !  "  said  Tackleton,  with  an  air  of 
condolence.  "  My  good  fellow,  how  do  you  find  your- 
self this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  but  a  poor  night.  Master  Tackleton,"  re- 
turned the  Carrier,  shaking  his  head  :  "  for  I  have  beeu 
a  good  deal  disturbed  in  my  mind.  But  it's  over  now  I 
Can  you  spare  me  half  an  hour  or  so,  for  some  private 
talk  ?  " 

"I  came  on  purpose,"  returned  Tackleton,  alighting. 
"Never  mind  the  horse.  He'll  stand  quiet  enough, 
with  the  reins  over  this  post,  if  you'll  give  him  a  mouth- 
ful of  hay. " 

The  Carrier  having  brought  it  from  his  stable  and  set 
it  before  him,  they  turned  into  the  house. 

"You  are  not  married  before  noon?"  he  said,  "I 
think?" 

* '  No,"  answered  Tackleton.  ' '  Plenty  of  time.  Plenty 
of  time." 

When  they  entered  the  kitchen,  Tilly  Slowboy  was 
rapping  at  the  Stranger's  door  ;  which  was  only  re-  : 
moved  from  it  by  a  few  steps.    One  of  her  very  red  eyes 
(for  Tilly  had  been  crying  all  night  long,  because  her  • 
mistress  cried)  was  at  the  keyhole  ;  and  she  was  knock-  I 
ing  very  loud,  and  seemed  frightened. 

"  If  you  please  I  can't  make  nobody  hear,"  said  Tilly,  . 
looking  round.  "  I  hope  nobody  an't  gone  and  been.  \ 
and  died  if  you  please  !  "  | 

This  philanthropic  wish,  Miss  Slowboy  emphasised  > 
with  various  new  raps  and  kicks  at  the  door,  which  led 
to  no  result  whatever. 

"  Shall  I  go  ?  "  said  Tackleton.    "  It's  curious." 

The  Carrier,  who  had  turned  his  face  from  the  door 
signed  to  him  to  go  if  he  would. 

So  Tackleton  went  to  Tilly  Slowboy's  relief ;  and  he 
too  kicked  and  knocked  ;  and  he  too  failed  to  get  the 
least  reply.  But  he  thought  of  trying  the  handle  of  the 
door  ;  and  as  it  opened  easily,  he  peeped  in,  looked  in, 
went  in,  and  soon  came  running  out  again. 

"  John  Peerybingle,"  said  Tackleton,  in  his  ear. 
hope  there  has  been  nothing — nothing  rash  in  the 
night?" 

The  Carrier  turned  upon  him  quickly. 

"Because  he's  gone!"  said  Tackleton;   "and  th#^ 
window's  open.    I  don't  see  any  marks — to  be  sure,  iff 
almost  on  a  level  with  the  garden  :  but  I  was  afraid 
there  might  have  been  some — some  scuffle.    Eh  ?  " 

He  nearly  shut  up  the  expressive  eye,  altogether  ;  he 
looked  at  him  so  hard.    And  he  gave  his  eye,  and  h 
face,  and  his  whole  person,  a  sharp  twist.    As  if 
would  have  screwed  the  truth  out  of  him. 

"  Make  yourself  easy,"  said  the  Carrier.  "  He  we 
into  that  room  last  night,  without  harm  in  word  or  deed 
from  me,  and  no  one  lias  entered  it  since.  He  is  awapr 
of  his  own  free  will.  I'd  go  out  gladly  at  that  door,  aim 
beg  my  bread  from  house  to  house,  for  life,  if  I  could  so 
change  the  past  that  he  had  never  come.  But  he  has 
come  and  gone.    And  I  have  done  with  him  !  " 

"  Oh  ! — Well,  I  think  he  has  got  off  pretty  easy,"  sail 
Tackleton,  taking  a  chair. 

The  sneer  was  lost  upon  the  Carrier,  who  sat  dow  a 
too,  and  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand,  for  some  litt  a 
time,  before  proceeding. 

"  You  showed  me  last  night,"  he  said  at  length,  "  ny 
wife  ;  my  wife  that  I  love  ;  secretly  " — 

"  And  tenderly,"  insinuated  Tackleton, 

"Conniving  at  that  man's  disguise,  and  giving  hin 
opportunities  of  meeting  her  alone.  I  think  there's  i^o 
sight  I  wouldn't  have  rather  seen  than  that.  I  thii  k 
there's  no  man  in  the  world  I  wouldn't  have  rather  hid 
show  it  me." 


4 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS, 


201 


I  confess  to  having-  had  my  suspicions  always,"  said  j 
Tackleton.  "  And  that  has  made  me  objectionable  here,  [ 
I  know."  ■  I 

"But  as  you  did  show  it  me,"  pursued  the  Carrier,  | 
not  minding  him  ;  "and  as  you  saw  her,  my  wife,  my  j 
wife  that  I  love  " — his  voice,  and  eyes,  and  hand,  grew  | 
steadier  and  firmer  as  he  repeated  these  words  :  evident- 
ly in  pursuance  of  a  steadfast  purpose — "as  you  saw  | 
at  this  disadvantage,  it  is  right  and  just  that  you  should  j 
also  see  with  my  eyes,  and  look  into  my  breast,  and 
know  what  my  mind  is  upon  the  subject.    For  it's 
settled,"  said  the  Carrier,  regarding  him  attentively. 
"  And  nothing  can  shake  it  now." 

Tackleton  muttered  a  few  general  words  of  assent, 
about  its  being  necessary  to  vindicate  something  or 
other  ;  but  he  was  overawed  by  the  manner  of  his  com- 
panion. Plain  and  unpolished  as  it  was,  it  had  a  some- 
thing dignified  and  noble  in  it,  which  nothing  but  the 
soul  of  generous  honour  dwelling  in  the  man  could  have 
imparted. 

"  I  am  a  plain,  rough  man,"  pursued  the  Carrier, 
*' with  very  little  to  recommend  me.  I  am  not  a  clever 
man,  as  you  very  well  know.  I  am  not  a  young  man. 
I  loved  my  little  Dot,  because  I  had  seen  her  grow  up, 
from  a  child,  in  her  father's  house  ;  because  I  knew  how 
precious  she  was  ;  because  she  had  been  my  life,  for 
years  and  years.  There's  many  men  I  can't  compare 
with,  who  never  could  have  loved  my  little  Dot  like  me 
I  think  !  " 

He  paused,  and  softly  beat  the  ground  a  short  time 
with  his  foot,  before  resuming  : 

"I  often  thought  that  though  I  wasn't  good  enough 
for  her,  I  should  make  her  a  kind  husband,  and  perhaps 
know  her  value  better  than  another  :  and  in  this  way  I 
reconciled  it  to  myself,  and  came  to  think  it  might  be 
possible  that  we  shoald  be  married.  And  in  the  end,  it 
came  about,  and  we  were  married." 

*'  Hah  ! "  said  Tackleton,  with  a  signifiicant  shake  of 
his  head. 

"I  had  studied  myself  ;  I  had  had  experience  of  my- 
self ;  I  knew  how  much  I  loved  her,  and  how  happy  I 
should  be,"  pursued  the  Carrier.  "But  I  had  not — I 
feel  it  now — sufficiently  considered  her." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Tackleton,  "  Giddiness,  frivolity, 
fickleness,  love  of  admiration !  Not  considered !  All 
left  out  of  sight !    Hah  !  " 

"  You  had  best  not  interrupt  me,"  said  the  Carrier, 
with  some  sternness,  "till  you  understand  me;  and 
you're  wide  of  doing  so.  If,  yesterday,  I'd  have  struck 
that  man  down  at  a  blow,  who  dared  to  breathe  a  word 
against  her,  to-day  I'd  set  my  foot  upon  his  face,  if  he 
was  my  brother  !  " 

The  Toy  Merchant  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment.  He 
went  on  in  a  softer  tone  : 

"  Did  I  consider,"  said  the  Carrier,  "  that  I  took  her — 
at  her  age,  and  with  her  beauty — from  her  young  com- 
panions, and  the  many  scenes  of  which  she  was  the  or- 
nament ;  in  which  she  was  the  brightest  star  that  ever 
shone,  to  shut  her  up  from  day  to  day  in  my  dull  house, 
and  keep  my  tedious  company?  Did  I  consider  how 
little  suited  I  was  to  her  sprightly  humour,  and  how 
wearisome  a  plodding  man  like  me  must  be,  to  one  of  her 
quick  spirit?  Did  I  consider  that  it  was  no  merit  in  me, 
or  claim  in  me,  that  I  loved  her  when  everybody  must, 
who  knew  her?  Never.  I  took  advantage  of  her  hope- 
ful nature  and  her  cheerful  disposition  ;  and  I  married 
her.  I  wish  I  never  had !  For  her  sake  ;  not  for 
mine  ! " 

The  Toy  Merchant  gazed  at  him,  without  winking. 
Even  the  half -shut  eye  was  open  now, 

"Heaven  bless  her!"  said  the  Carrier,  "for  the 
cheerful  constancy  with  which  she  has  tried  to  keep  the 
knowledge  of  this  from  me  !  And  Heaven  help  me, 
that,  in  my  slow  mind,  I  have  not  found  it  out  before  ! 
Poor  child  !  Poor  Dot  !  /  not  to  find  it  out,  who  have 
seen  her  eyes  fill  with  tears,  when  such  a  marriage  as  our 
own  was  spoken  of  !  /,  who  have  seen  the  secret  trem- 
bling on  her  lips  a  hundred  times,  and  never  suspected 
it,  till  last  night  !  Poor  g-irl  !  That  I  could  ever  hope 
she  would  be  fond  of  me  !  That  I  could  ever  believe 
*he  was  ! " 

"She  made  a  show  of  it,"  said  Tackleton.  "She 


made  such  a  show  of  it  that  to  tell  you  the  truth  it  was 
the  origin  of  my  misgivings." 

And  here  he  asserted  the  superiority  of  May  Fielding, 
who  certainly  made  no  sort  of  show  of  being  fond  of 
Mm. 

"  She  has  tried,"  said  the  poor  Carrier,  with  greatf^r 
emotion  than  he  liad  exhibited  yet ;  "I  only  now  begin 
to  know  how  hard  she  has  tried,  to  be  my  dutiful  and 
zealous  wife.  How  good  she  has  been  ;  how  much  she 
has  done  ;  how  brave  and  strong  a  heart  she  has  ;  let  the 
happiness  I  have  known  under  this  roof  bear  witness  ! 
It  will  be  some  help  and  comfort  to  me,  when  I  am  here 
alone," 

"  Here  alone  ?"  said  Tackleton.  "  Oh  !  Then  you  do 
mean  to  take  some  notice  of  this  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  returned  the  Carrier,  "  to  do  her  the  great- 
est kindness,  and  make  her  the  best  reparation,  in  my 
power.  I  can  release  her  from  the  daily  pain  of  an  un- 
equal marriage,  and  the  struggle  to  conceal  it.  She 
shall  be  as  free  as  I  can  render  her." 

"  Make  her  reparation  !  "  exclaimed  Tackleton,  twist- 
ing, and  turning  his  great  ears  with  his  hands.  "  There 
must  be  something  wrong  here.  You  didn't  say  that, 
of  course." 

The  Carrier  set  his  grip  upon  the  collar  of  the  Toy 
Merchant,  and  shook  him  like  a  reed. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "And  take  care  that  you 
hear  me  right.    Listen  to  me.    Do  I  speak  plainly?" 

"Very  plainly  indeed,"  answered  Tackleton, 

"  As  if  I  meant  it?" 

"  Very  much  as  if  you  meant  it." 

"  I  sat  upon  that  hearth,  last  night,  all  night,"  ex- 
claimed the  Carrier,  "On  the  spot  where  she  has  often 
sat  beside  me,  with  her  sweet  face  looking  into  mine. 
I  called  up  her  whole  life,  day  by  day.  I  had  her  dear 
self,  in  its  every  passage,  in  review  before  me.  And 
upon  my  soul  she  is  innocent,  if  there  is  One  to  judge 
the  innocent  and  guilty  !" 

Staunch  Cricket  on  the  hearth  !  Loyal  household 
Fairies  ! 

"Passion  and  distrust  have  left  me  !"  said  the  Car- 
rier ;  "  and  nothing  but  my  grief  remains.  In  an  un- 
happy moment  some  old  lover,  better  suited  to  her 
tastes  and  years  than  I  ;  forsaken,  perhaps,  for  me, 
against  her  will ;  returned.  In  an  unhappy  moment, 
taken  by  surprise,  and  wanting  time  to  think  of  what 
she  did,  she  made  herself  a  party  to  his  treachery,  by 
concealing  it.  Last  night  she  saw  him,  in  the  interview 
we  witnessed.  It  was  wrong.  But  otherwise  than  this, 
she  is  innocent  if  there  is  truth  on  earth  ! " 

"  If  that  is  your  opinion  " — Tackleton  began. 

"So,  let  her  go  !"  pursued  the  Carrier.  "Go,  with 
my  blessing  for  the  many  happy  hours  she  had  given 
me,  and  my  forgiveness  for  any  pang  she  has  caused  me. 
Let  her  go,  and  have  the  peace  of  mind  I  wish  her  ! 
She'll  never  hate  me.  She'll  learn  to  like  me  better 
when  I'm  not  a  drag  upon  her,  and  she  wears  the  chain  I 
have  riveted,  more  lightly.  This  is  the  day  on  which  I 
took  her,  with  so  little  thought  for  her  enjoyment,  from 
her  home.  To-day  she  shall  return  to  it,*  and  I  will 
trouble  her  no  more.  Her  father  and  mother  will  be 
here  to-day — we  had  made  a  little  plan  for  keeping  it 
together — and  they  shall  take  her  home.  I  can  trust 
her,  there,  or  anywhere.  She  leaves  me  without  blame, 
and  she  will  live  so  I  am  sure.  If  I  should  die— I  may 
perhaps  while  she  is  still  young  ;  I  have  lost  some 
courage  in  a  few  hours — she'll  find  that  I  remembered 
her,  and  loved  her  to  the  last  !  This  is  the  end  of  what 
you  showed  me.    Now  it's  over  !  " 

"  0  no,  John,  not  over.  Do  not  say  it's  over  yet  !  Not 
quite  yet,  I  have  heard  your  noble  words.  I  could  not 
steal  away,  pretending  to  be  ignorant  of  what  has  affected 
me  with  such  deep  gratitude.  Do  not  say  it's  over,  "till 
the  clock  has  struck  again  ?  " 

She  had  entered  shortly  after  Tackleton,  and  had  re- 
mained there.  She  never  looked  at  Tackleton,  but  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  her  husband.  But  she  kept  away  from 
him,  setting  as  wide  a  space  as  possible  between  them  ; 
and  though  she  spoke  with  most  impassioned  earnest- 
ness, she  went  no  nearer  to  him  even  then.  How  differ- 
ent in  this  from  her  old  self  I 

* '  No  hand  can  make  the  clock  which  will  strike  again 


292 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


for  me  the  hours  that  are  gone,"  replied  the  Carrier, 
with  a  faint  smile.  "But  let  it  be  so,  if  you  will,  my 
dear.  It  will  strike  soon.  It's  of  little  matter  what  we 
say.    I'd  try  to  please  you  in  a  harder  case  than  that." 

"Well?"  muttered  Tackleton.  "I  must  be  off,  for 
when  the  clock  strikes  again,  it'll  be  necessary  for  me  to 
be  upon  my  way  to  church.  Good  morning,  John  Peery- 
bingle.  I'm  sorry  to  be  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  your 
company.  Sorry  for  the  loss,  and  the  occasion  of  it, 
too  !  " 

"  I  have  spoken  plainly  ?"  said  the  Carrier,  accompany- 
ing him  to  the  door. 
"Oh  quite  !" 

' '  And  you'll  remember  what  I  have  said  ?  " 

"  Why,  if  you  compel  me  to  make  the  observation," 
said  Tackleton  ;  previously  taking  the  precaution  of  get- 
ting into  his  chaise  ;  "I  must  say  that  it  was  so  very  un- 
expected, that  I'm  far  from  being  likely  to  forget  it." 

"  The  better  for  us  both,"  returned  the  Carrier. 
"  Good  bye.    I  wish  you  joy  ! " 

' '  I  wish  I  could  give  it  to  you,"  said  Tackleton.  "  As 
I  can't ;  thank'ee.  Between  ourselves,  (as  I  told  you  be- 
fore, eh?)  I  don't  much  think  I  shall  have  the  less  joy  in 
my  married  life,  because  May  hasn't  been  too  officious 
about  me,  and  too  demonstrative.  Good  bye !  Take 
care  of  yourself." 

The  Carrier  stood  looking  after  him  until  he  was  smaller 
in  the  distance  than  his  horse's  flowers  and  favours  near 
at  hand  ;  and  then,  with  a  deep  sigh,  went  strolling  like 
a  restless,  broken  man,  among  some  neighbouring  elms  ; 
unwilling  to  return  until  the  clock  was  on  the  eve  of 
striking. 

His  little  wife,  being  left  alone,  sobbed  piteously  ;  but 
often  dried  her  eyes  and  checked  herself,  to  say  how 
good  he  was,  how  excellent  he  was  !  and  once  or  twice 
she  laughed  ;  so  heartily,  triumphantly,  and  incoherently 
(still  crying  all  the  time),  that  Tilly  was  quite  horrified. 

"  Ow  if  you  please  don't  !"  said  Tilly.  "  It's  enough 
to  dead  and  bury  the  Baby,  so  it  is  if  you  please." 

"Will  you  bring  him  sometimes,  to  see  his  father, 
Tilly,"  inquired  her  mistress,  drying  her  eyes;  "when 
1  can't  live  here,  and  have  gone  to  my  old  home  ?  " 

"Ow  if  you  please  don't  !  "  cried  Tilly,  throwing  back 
her  head,  and  bursting  out  into  a  howl — she  looked  at 
the  moment  uncommonly  like  Boxer  ;  "  Ow  if  you  please 
don't?  Ow,  what  has  everybody  gone  and  been  and 
done  with  everybody,  making  everybody  else  so  wretched? 
Ow-w-w-w  ! " 

The  soft-hearted  Slowboy  tailed  off  at  this  juncture 
into  such  a  deplorable  howl,  the  more  tremendous  from 
its  long  suppression,  that  she  must  infallibly  have  awak- 
ened the  Baby,  and  frightened  him  into  something  seri- 
ous (probably  convulsions),  if  her  eyes  had  not  encoun- 
tered Caleb  Plummer,  leading  in  his  daughter.  This 
spectacle  restoring  her  to  a  sense  of  the  proprieties,  she 
stood  for  some  few  moments  silent,  with  her  mouth  wide 
open  ;  and  then,  posting  off  to  the  bed  on  which  the 
Baby  lay  asleep  danced  in  a  weird.  Saint  Vitus  manner 
on  the  floor,  and  at  the  same  time  rummaged  with  her 
face  and  head  among  the  bedclothes,  apparently  deriving 
much  relief  from  those  extraordinary  operations. 

"  Mary  ! "  said  Bertha.    "  Not  at  the  marriage  !  " 

"  I  told  her  you  would  not  be  there,  mum,"  whispered 
Caleb.  "  I  heard  as  much  last  night.  But  bless  you," 
said  the  little  man,  taking  her  tenderly  by  both  hands, 
"  /  don't  care  for  what  they  say.  1  don't  believe  them. 
There  ain't  much  of  me,  but  that  little  should  be  torn  to 
pieces  sooner  than  I'd  trust  a  word  against  you  !" 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  neck  and  hugged  her,  as  a 
child  might  have  hugged  one  of  his  own  dolls. 

"Bertha  couldn't  stay  at  home  this  morning,"  said 
Caleb.  "  She  was  afraid,  I  know,  to  hear  the  bells  ring, 
and  couldn't  trust  herself  to  be  so  near  them  on  their 
wedding-day.  So  we  started  in  good  time,  and  came 
here.  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  I  have  done,"  said 
Caleb,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "I  have  been  blaming 
myself  'till  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do  or  where  to  turn,  for 
the  distress  of  mind  I  have  caused  her  ;  and  I've  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  I'd  better,  if  you'll  stay  with  me, 
mum,  the  while,  tell  her  the  truth.  You'll  stay  with  me 
the  while?"  he  inquired,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
"I  don't  know  what  effect  it  may  have  upon  her  ;  I  don't 


know  what  she'll  think  of  me  ;  I  don't  know  that  she'll 
ever  care  for  her  poor  father  afterwards.  But  it's  best 
for  her  that  she  should  be  undeceived,  and  I  must  bear 
the  consequences  as  I  deserve  ! " 

"Mary,"  said  Bertha,  "where  is  your  hand!  Ah! 
Here  it  is  ;  here  it  is  ! "  pressing  it  to  her  lips,  with  a 
smile,  and  drawing  it  through  her  arm.  "  I  heard  them 
speaking  softly  among  themselves  last  night,  of  some 
blame  against  you.    They  were  wrong." 

The  Carrier's  Wife  was  silent.  Caleb  answered  for 
her. 

"They  were  wrong,"  he  said. 

"I  knew  it!  "cried  Bertha,  proudly.  "I  told  them 
so.  I  scorned  to  hear  a  word  !  Blame  her  with  jus- 
tice ! "  she  pressed  the  hand  between  her  own,  and  the 
soft  ckeek  against  her  face.  "  No  1  I  am  not  so  blind  as 
that." 

Her  father  went  on  one  side  of  her,  while  Dot  remained 
upon  the  other  :  holding  her  hand. 

"I  know  you  all,"  said  Bertha,  "better  than  you 
think.  But  none  so  well  as  her.  Not  even  you,  father. 
There  is  nothing  half  so  real  and  so  true  about  me,  as 
she  is.  If  I  could  be  restored  to  sight  this  instant,  and 
not  a  word  were  spoken,  I  could  choose  her  from  a 
crowd  !    My  sister  ! " 

"  Bertha,  my  dear  ! "  said  Caleb.  "  I  have  something 
on  my  mind  I  want  to  tell  you,  while  we  three  are  alone. 
Hear  me  kindly  I  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you, 
my  darling." 

"A  confession,  father?" 

"  I  have  wandered  from  the  truth  and  lost  myself,  my 
child,"  said  Caleb,  with  a  pitiable  expression  in  his  be- 
wildered face.  "  I  have  wandered  from  the  truth,  in- 
tending to  be  kind  to  you  ;  and  have  been  cruel." 

She  turned  her  wonder-stricken  face  towards  him,  and 
repeated  "  Cruel  I " 

"He  accuses  himself  too  strongly.  Bertha,"  said  Dot. 
"You'll  say  so,  presently.  You'll  be  the  first  to  tell 
him  so." 

"He  cruel  to  me  !"  cried  Bertha,  with  a  smile  of  in- 
credulity. 

"Not  meaning  it,  my  child,"  said  Caleb.  "But  I 
have  been  :  though  I  never  suspected  it  till  yesterday. 
My  dear  blind  daughter,  hear  me  and  forgive  me.  The 
world  you  live  in,  heart  of  mine,  doesn't  exist  as  I  have 
represented  it.  The  eyes  you  have  trusted  in  have  been 
false  to  you." 

She  turned  her  wonder-stricken  face  towards  him  still ; 
but  drew  back,  and  clung  closer  to  her  friend. 

"Your  road  in  life  was  rough,  my  poor  one,"  said 
Caleb,  "and  I  meant  to  smooth  it  for  you.  I  have 
altered  objects,  changed  the  characters  of  people,  invent- 
ed many  things  that  never  have  been,  to  make  you 
happier.  I  have  had  concealments  from  you,  put  de- 
ceptions on  you,  God  forgive  me  !  and  surrounded  you 
with  fancies." 

"  But  living  people  are  not  fancies?"  she  said  hur- 
riedly, and  turning  very  pale,  and  still  retiring  from 
him.    "  You  can't  change  them." 

"  I  have  done  so  Bertha,"  pleaded  Caleb.  "  There  i 
one  person  that  you  know,  my  dove  " — 

"  Oh  father  !  why  do  you  say,  I  know?  "  she  answered 
in  a  term  of  keen  reproach.    "  What  and  whom  do 
know  !    I  who  have  no  leader  !    I  so  miserably  blind  ! ' 

In  the  anguish  of  her  heart,  she  stretched  out  he 
hands,  as  if  she  was  groping  her  way  ;  then  spread  them 
in  a  manner  most  forlorn  and  sad,  upon  her  face. 

"  The  marriage  that  takes  place  to-day,"  said  Caleb 
"  is  with  a  stern,  sordid,  grinding  man.  A  hard  maste 
to  you  and  me,  my  dear,  for  many  years.  Ugly  in  hi 
looks,  and  in  his  nature.  Cold  and  callous  always.  Un 
like  what  I  have  painted  him  to  you  in  everything,  mj 
child.    In  everything." 

"Oh  why,"  cried  the  Blind  Girl,  tortured,  as  i1 
seemed,  almost  beyond  endurance,  "why  did  you  evei 
do  this  !  Why  did  you  ever  fill  my  heart  so  full,  anc 
then  come  in  like  Death,  and  tear  away  the  objects  oJ 
my  love  1  O  heaven,  how  blind  I  am  !  How  helpless 
and  alone  ! " 

Her  afflicted  father  hung  his  head,  and  offered  n< 
reply  but  in  his  penitence  and  sorrow. 

She  had  been  but  a  short  time  in  this  passion  of  re 


CHRIHTMA 

Sfret,  when  the  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  unheard  hy  all 
hut  her,  began  to  chirp.  Not  merrily,  hut  in  a  low, 
faint,  sorrowing  way.  It  was  so  mournful,  that  her 
tears  began  to  flow  ;  and  when  the  Presence  which  had 
been  beside  the  Carrier  all  night,  appeared  behind  her, 
pointing  to  her  father,  they  fell  down  like  rain. 

She  heard  the  Cricket- voice  more  plainly  soon,  and  was 
conscious,  through  her  blindness,  of  the  Presence  hover- 
ing about  her  father. 

"  Mary,"  said  the  Blind  Girl,  "tell  me  what  my  home 
is.    What  it  truly  is. " 

"  It  is  a  poor  place,  Bertha  ;  very  poor  and  bare  in- 
deed. The  house  will  scarcely  keep  out  wind  and  rain 
another  ^vinter.  It  is  as  roughly  shielded  from  the 
weather,  Bertha,"  Dot  continued  in  a  low,  clear  voice, 
*'  as  your  poor  father  in  his  sackcloth  coat." 

The  Blind  Girl,  greatly  agitated,  arose,  and  led  the 
Carrier's  little  wife  aside. 

"  Those  presents  that  I  took  such  care  of  ;  that  came 
almost  at  my  wish,  and  were  so  dearly  welcome  to  me," 
she  said,  trembling  ;  "  where  did  they  come  from  ?  Did 
you  send  them  ?  " 

"No." 

"Who  then?" 

Dot  saw  she  knew,  already,  and  was  silent.  The  Blind 
Girl  spread  her  hands  before  her  face  again.  But  in 
quite  another  manner  now. 

"  Dear  Mary,  a  moment.  One  moment.  More  this 
way.  Speak  softly  to  me.  You  are  true,  I  know. 
You'd  not  deceive  me  now  ;  would  you  ?" 

"  No,  Bertha,  indeed  !  " 

"No,  I  am  sure  you  would  not.  You  have  too  much 
pity  for  me,  Mary,  look  across  the  room  to  where  we 
were  just  now — to  where  my  father  is — my  father,  so 
compassionate  and  loving  to  me — and  tell  me  what  you 
see." 

"I  see,"  said  Dot,  who  understood  her  well,  "an  old 
man  sitting  in  a  chair,  and  leaning  sorrowfully  on  the 
back,  with  his  face  resting  on  his  hand.  As  if  his  child 
should  comfort  him,  Bertha." 

"  Yes,  yes.    She  will.    Go  on." 

"  He  is  an  old  man,  worn  with  care  and  work.  He  is 
a  spare,  dejected,  thoughtful,  grey-haired  man.  I  see 
him  now,  despondent  and  bowed  down,  and  striving 
against  nothing.  But,  Bertha,  I  have  seen  him  many 
times  before,  and  striving  hard  in  many  ways  for  one 
great  sacred  object.  And  I  honour  his  grey  head,  and 
hless  him  ! " 

The  Blind  Girl  broke  away  from  her  ;  and  throwing 
herself  upon  her  knees  before  him,  took  the  grey  head 
to  her  breast. 

"  It  is  my  sight  restored.  It  is  my  sight  !  "  she  cried. 
"  I  have  been  blind,  and  now  my  eyes  are  open.  I  never 
knew  him  !  To  think  I  might  have  died,  and  never  truly 
seen  the  father  who  has  been  so  loving  to  me  !  " 

There  were  no  words  for  Caleb's  emotion. 

"  There  is  not  a  gallant  figure  on  this  earth, "  exclaimed 
the  Blind  Girl,  holding  him  in  her  embrace,  "  that  I 
would  love  so  dearly,  and  would  cherish  so  devotedly, 
as  this  !  The  greyer,  and  more  worn,  the  dearer,  father  ! 
Never  let  them  say  I  am  blind  again.  There's  not  a  fur- 
row in  his  face,  there's  not  a  hair  upon  his  head,  that 
shall  be  forgotten  in  my  prayers  and  thanks  to  Heaven  !  " 

Caleb  managed  to  articulate,  "  My  Bertha  !  " 

"  And  in  my  blindness,  I  believed  him,"  said  the  girl, 
caressing  him  with  tears  of  exquisite  affection,  "to  be 
so  different  !  And  having  him  .beside  me,  day  by  day, 
so  mindful  of  me  always,  never  dreamed  of  this  ! " 

"  The  fresh  smart  father  in  the  blue  coat.  Bertha," 
said  poor  Caleb.    "He's  gone  !  " 

"  Nothing  is  gone,"  she  answered.  "  Dearest  father, 
no  !  Everything  is  here — in  you.  The  father  that  I 
loved  so  well ;  the  father  that  I  never  loved  enough,  and 
never  knew  ;  the  benefactor  whom  I  first  began  to  rever- 
ence and  love,  because  he  had  such  sympathy  for  me  ; 
All  are  here  in  you.  Nothing  is  dead' to  me.  The  soul 
of  all  that  was  most  dear  to  me  is  here — here,  with  the 
worn  face,  and  the  grey  head.  And  I  am  NOT  blind,  fa- 
ther, any  longer  !  " 

Dot's  whole  attention  had  been  concentrated,  during 
this  discourse,  upon  the  father  and  daughter  ;  but  look- 
ing, now,  towards  the  little  Haymaker  in  the  Moorish 


>S'    BOOKS.  293 

meadow,  she  saw  that  the  clock  was  within  a  few  minutes 
of  striking,  and  fell  immediately,  into  a  nervous  and  ex- 
cited state. 

"Father,"  said  Bertha,  hesitating.  "Mary." 

"  Yes  my  dear,"  returned  Caleb.     "  Here  she  is."* 

"  There  is  no  change  in  her.  You  never  told  me  any- 
thing of  her  that  was  not  true?" 

"  1  should  have  done  it  my  dear,  I  am  afraid,"  returned 
Caleb,  "  if  I  could  have  made  her  better  than  she  was. 
But  I  must  have  changed  her  for  the  worse,  if  I  had 
changed  her  at  all.  Nothing  could  improve  her,  Bertha." 

Confident  as  the  Blind  Girl  had  been  when  she  asked 
the  question,  her  delight  and  pride  in  the  reply  and  her 
renewed  embrace  of  Dot,  were  charming  to  behold. 

"More  changes  than  you  think  for,  may  happen 
though,  my  dear,"  said  Dot.  "Changes  for  the  better, 
I  mean  ;  changes  for  great  joy  to  some  of  us.  You 
musn't  let  them  startle  you  too  much,  if  any  such  should 
ever  happen,  and  effect  you  !  Are  those  wheels  uj^on  the 
road  ?    You've  a  quick  ear.  Bertha.   Are  they  wheels  1  " 

"  Ye.s.    Coming  very  fa'st." 

"  I — I — I  know  you  have  a  quick  ear,"  said  Dot,  plac- 
ing her  hand  upon  her  heart,  and  evidently  talking  on, 
as  fast  as  she  could,  to  hide  its  palpitating  state,  "be- 
cause I  have  noticed  it  often,  and  because  you  were  so 
quick  to  find  out  that  strange  step  last  night.  Though 
why  you  should  have  said,  as  I  very  well  recollect  you 
did  say.  Bertha,  '  whose  step  is  that  ! '  and  why  you 
should  have  taken  any  greater  observation  of  it  than  of 
any  other  step,  I  don't  know.  Though,  as  I  said  just 
now,  there  are  great  changes  in  the  world  :  great  changes  : 
and  we  can't  do  better  than  prepare  ourselves,  to  be  sur- 
prised at  hardly  anything." 

Caleb  wondered  what  this  meant  ;  perceiving  that  she 
spoke  to  him,  no  less  than  to  his  daughter.  He  saw  her 
with  astonishment,  so  fluttered  and  distressed  that  she 
could  scarcely  breathe  ;  and  holding  to  a  chair,  to  save 
herself  from  falling. 

"They  are  wheels  indeed!"  she  panted,  "Coming 
nearer  !  Nearer  !  Very  close  !  And  now  you  hear  them 
stopping  at  the  garden  gate  !  And  now  you  hear  a  step 
outside  the  door — the  same  step,  Bertha  is  it  not  ! — and 
now  !  " — 

She  uttered  a  wild  cry  of  uncontrollable  delight ;  and 
running  up  to  Caleb,  put  her  hands  upon  his  eyes,  as  a 
young  man  rushed  into  the  room,  and  flinging  away  his 
hat  into  the  air,  came  sweeping  down  upon  them. 

"  Is  it  over  ?  "  cried  Dot. 

"  Yes  ! " 

"  Happily  over  ?  " 
"  Yes  ! " 

"  Do  you  recollect  the  voice,  dear  Caleb  ?  Did  you 
ever  hear  the  like  of  it  before  ?  "  cried  Dot. 

"  If  my  boy  in  the  Golden  South  Americas  was  alive  " 
— said  Caleb,  trembling. 

"  He  is  alive  !  "  shrieked  Dot,  removing  her  hands  from 
his  eyes,  and  clapping  them  in  ecstasy  :  "  look  at  him  ! 
See  where  he  stands  before  you,  healthy  and  strong  ! 
Your  own  dear  son.  Your  own  dear  living,  loving  brother, 
Bertha  ! " 

All  honour  to  the  little  creature  for  her  transports  !  All 
honour  to  her  tears  and  laughter,  when  the  three  were 
locked  in  one  another's  arms  !  All  honour  to  the  hearti- 
ness with  which  she  met  the  sunburnt  sailor-fellow,  with 
his  dark  streaming  hair,  half  way,  and  never  turned  her 
rosy  little  mouth  aside,  but  suffered  him  to  kiss  it,  freely, 
and  to  press  her  to  his  bounding  heart  ! 

And  honour  to  the  Cuckcoo  too— why  not  ! — for  burst- 
ing out  of  the  trap-door  in  the  Moorish  Palace  like  a 
housebreaker,  and  hiccoughing  twelve  times  on  the  as- 
sembled company,  as  if  he  had  got  drunk  for  joy  ! 

The  Carrier,  entering,  started  back.  And  well  he 
might  to  find  himself  in  such  good  company. 

"  Look,  John  !"  said  Caleb,  exultingly,  "  look  here  1 
My  own  boy,  from  the  Golden  South  Americas  !  My  own 
son  !  Him  that  you  fitted  out,  and  sent  away  yourself  I 
Him  that  you  were  always  such  a  friend  to  1 " 

The  Carrier  advanced  to  seize  him  by  the  band  ;  but, 
recoiling,  as  some  feature  in  his  face  awakened  a  remem- 
brance of  the  Deaf  Man  in  the  Cart,  said  : 

"Edward!   Was  it  vou  ?  " 

"  Now  tell  him  all !  "  cried  Dot.    "  Tell  him  all,  Ed- 


«94 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


ward  ;  and  don't  spare  me,  for  nothing  shall  make  me 
spare  myself  in  his  eyes,  ever  again." 
"I  was  the  man,"  said  Edward, 

"  And  could  you  steal,  disguised,  into  the  house  of 
yo^r  old  friend  ?"  rejoined  the  Carrier.  "  There  was  a 
frank  boy  once — how  many  years  is  it,  Caleb,  since  we 
heard  that  he  was  dead,  and  had  it  proved,  we  thought  ? 
— who  never  would  have  done  that." 

"  There  was  a  generous  friend  of  mine,  once  ;  more  a 
father  to  me  than  a  friend,"  said  Edward  ;  "  who  never 
would  have  judged  me,  or  any  other  man,  unheard. 
You  were  he.    So  I  am  certain  you  will  hear  me  now." 

The  Carrier,  with  a  troubled  glance  at  Dot,  who  still 
kept  far  away  from  him,  replied  "  Well  !  that's  but  fair. 
I  will." 

"  You  must  know  that  when  I  left  here,  a  boy,"  said 
Edward,  "  I  was  in  love,  and  my  love  was  returned. 
She  was  a  very  young  girl,  who  perhaps  (you  may  tell 
me)  didn't  know  her  own  mind.  But  I  knew  mine,  and 
I  had  a  passion  for  her." 

"You  had  !  "  exclaimed  th-e  Carrier.    "  You  !  " 

*' Indeed  I  had,"  returned  the  other.  "And  she  re- 
turned it.  I  have  ever  since  believed  she  did,  and  now 
I  am  sure  she  did." 

"Heaven  help  me!"  said  the  Carrier.  "This  is 
worse  than  all." 

"Constant  to  her,"  said  Edward,  "and  returning, 
full  of  hope,  after  many  hardships  and  perils,  to  redeem 
my  part  of  our  old  contract,  I  heard,  twenty  miles 
away,  that  she  was  false  to  me  ;  that  she  had  forgotten 
me  ;  and  had  bestowed  herself  upon  another  and  a  richer 
man.  I  had  no  mind  to  reproach  her ;  but  I  wished  to 
see  her,  and  to  prove  beyond  dispute  that  this  was  true. 
I  hoped  she  might  have  been  forced  into  it,  against  her 
own  desire  and  recollection.  It  would  be  small  comfort, 
but  it  would  be  some,  I  thought,  and  on  I  came.  That  I 
might  have  the  truth,  the  real  truth  :  observing  freely 
for  myself,  and  judging  for  myself  without  obstruction 
on  the  one  hand,  or  presenting  my  own  influence  (if  I 
had  any)  before  her  on  the  other ;  I  dressed  myself  un- 
like myself — you  know  how  ;  and  waited  on  the  road — 
you  know  where.  You  had  no  suspicion  of  me  ;  neither 
had — had  she,"  pointing  to  Dot,  "  until  I  whispered  in 
her  ear  at  that  fireside,  and  she  so  nearly  betrayed 
me." 

"But  when  she  knew  that  Edward  was  alive,  and  had 
come  back,"  sobbed  Dot,  now  speaking  for  herself,  as 
she  had  burned  to  do,  all  through  this  narrative  ;  "and 
when  she  knew  his  purpose,  she  advised  him  by  all 
means  to  keep  his  secret  close  ;  for  his  old  friend  John 
Peerybingle  was  much  too  open  in  his  nature,  and  too 
clumsy  in  all  artifice— being  a  clumsy  man  in  general," 
said  Dot,  half  laughing  and  half  crying — "  to  keep  it 
for  him.  And  when  she— that's  me,  John,"  sobbed  the 
little  woman — "told  him  all,  and  how  his  sweetheart 
had  believed  him  to  be  dead  ;  and  how  she  had  at  last 
been  over  persuaded  by  her  mother  into  a  marriage 
which  the  silly,  dear  old  thing  called  advantageous  ; 
and  when  she— that's  me  again,  John — told  him  they 
were  not  yet  married  (though  close  upon  it),  and  that  it 
would  be  nothing  but  a  sacrifice  if  it  went  on,  for  there 
was  no  love  on  her  side  ;  and  when  he  went  nearly  mad 
with  joy  to  ^ear  it  ;  then  she — that's  me  again — said  she 
would  go  between  them,  as  she  had  often  done  before  in 
old  times,  John,  and  would  sound  his  sweetheart  and  be 
sure  that  what  she — me  again,  John — said  and  thought 
was  right.  And  it  was  right  John  !  And  they  were 
brought  together,  John  !  And  they  were  married,  John, 
an  hour  ago  !  And  here's  the  Bride  !  And  Gruff  and 
Tackleton  may  die  a  bachelor  !  And  I  am  a  happy  little 
woman.  May,  God  bless  you  !  " 

She  was  an  irresistible  little  woman,  if  that  be  any- 
thing to  the  j)urpo3e  ;  and  never  so  completely  irresist- 
ible as  in  her  present  transports.  There  never  were 
congratulation  so  endearing  and  delicious,  as  those  she 
lavished  on  herself  and  on  tlie  Bride. 

Amid  tlie  tumult  of  emotions  in  his  breast,  the  honest 
Carrier  had  stood  confounded.  Flying,  now,  towards 
her.  Dot  stretched  out  her  hand  to  stop  him,  and  re- 
treated as  before. 

"No  John,  no!  Hear  all  !  Don't  love  me  any  more, 
John,  till  you've  heard  every  word  I  have  to  say.  It 


was  wrong  to  have  a  secret  from  you,  John.  I'm  very 
sorry.  I  didn't  think  it  any  harm,  till  I  came  and  sat 
down  by  you  on  the  little  stool  last  night.  But  when  I 
knew  by  what  was  written  in  your  face,  that  you  had 
seen  me  walking  in  the  gallery  with  Edward,  and  when 
I  knew  what  you  thought,  I  felt  how  giddy  and  how 
wrong  it  was.  But  oh,  dear  John,  how  could  you,  could 
you  think  so!" 

Little  woman,  how  she  sobbed  again  !  John  Peery- 
bingle would  have  caught  her  in  his  arms.  But  no  ;  she 
wouldn't  let  him. 

"  Don't  love  me  yet,  please  John  !  Not  for  a  long 
time  yet !  When  I  was  sad  about  this  intended  mar- . 
riage,  dear,  it  was  because  I  remembered  May  and  Edward 
such  young  lovers ;  and  knew  that  her  heart  was  far 
away  from  Tackleton.  You  believe  that  now,  don't  you, 
John?" 

John  was  going  to  make  another  rush  at  this  appeal ; 
but  she  s':opped  him  again. 

"  No ;  keep  there,  please,  John  !  When  I  laugh  at 
you,  as  I  sometimes  do,  John,  and  call  you  clumsy  and  a 
dear  old  goose,  and  names  of  that  sort,  it's  because  I 
love  you,  John,  so  well,  and  take  such  pleasure  in  your 
ways,  and  wouldn't  see  you  altered  in  the  least  respect 
to  have  you  made  a  king  to-morrow." 

"Hooroar!"  said  Caleb,  with  unusual  vigour.  "My 
opinion  ! " 

"And  when  I  speak  of  people  being  middle-aged,  and 
steady,  John,  and  pretend  that  we  are  a  humdrum 
couple,  going  on  in  a  jog-trot  sort  of  way,  it's  only  be- 
cause I'm  such  a  silly  little  thing,  John,  that  I  like, 
sometimes,  to  act  as  a  kind  of  Play  with  Baby,  and  all 
that :  and  make  believe." 

She  saw  that  he  was  coming  ;  and  stopped  him  again. 
But  she  was  very  nearly  too  late. 

"No,  don't  love  me  for  another  minute  or  two,  if  you 
please  John  !  What  I  want  most  to  tell  you,  I  have  kept 
to  the  last.  My  dear,  good,  generous  John,  when  we 
were  talking  the  other  night  al)out  the  Cricket,  I  had  it  on 
my  lips  to  say,  that  at  first  I  did  not  love  you  quite  so  dearly 
as  I  do  now  ;  when  I  first  came  home  here,  I  was  half 
afraid  that  I  mightn't  learn  to  love  you  every  bit  as  well 
as  I  hoped  and  prayed  I  might — being  so  very  young, 
John  !  But,  dear  John,  every  day  and  hour,  I  loved  you 
more  and  more.  And  if  I  could  have  loved  you  better 
than  I  do,  the  noble  words  I  heard  you  say  this  morning 
would  have  made  me.  But  I  can't.  All  the  affection 
that  I  had  (it  was  a  great  deal,  John)  I  gave  you  as  you 
well  deserve,  long,  long  ago,  and  I  have  no  more  left  to 
give.  Now,  my  dear  husband  take  me  to  your  heart 
again  !  That's  my  home,  John  ;  and  never,  never  think 
of  sending  me  to  any  other  ! " 

You  never  will  deri  ve  so  much  delight  from  seeing  a 
glorious  little  woman  in  the  arms  of  a  third  party,  as  you 
would  have  felt  if  you  had  seen  Dot  run  into  the  Car- 
rier's embrace.  It  was  the  most  complete,  unmitigated, 
soul-frought  little  piece  of  earnestness  that  ever  yo  - 
beheld  in  all  your  days. 

You  may  be  sure  the  Carrier  was  in  a  state  of  perfect 
rapture  ;  and  you  may  be  sure  Dot  was  likewise  ;  and 
you  may  be  sure  they  all  were,  inclusive  of  Miss  Slow- 
boy,  who  wept  copiously  for  joy,  and  wishing  to  include 
her  young  charge  in  the  general  interchange  of  congrat- 
ulations handed  round  the  Baby  to  everybody  in  succes- 
sion, as  if  it  were  something  to  drink. 

But,  now,  the  sound  of  wheels  was  heard  again  outsid( 
the  door  ;  and  somebody  exclaimed  that  Gruff  and  Tack 
leton  was  coming  back.  Speedily  that  worthy  gentle- 
man appeared,  looking  warm  and  flustered. 

"Why,  what  the  Devil's  this,  John  Peerybingle!' 
said  Tackleton.  "There's  some  mistake.  I  appointee 
Mrs.  Tackleton  to  meet  me  at  the  church,  and  I'll  swea] 
I  passed  her  on  the  road,  on  her  way  here.  Oh  !  hen 
she  is  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;  I  haven't  the  pleasure 
of  knowing  you  ;  but  if  you  can  do  me  the  favour  te 
spare  this  young  lady,  she  has  rather  a  particular  en 
gagement  this  morning." 

"  But  I  can't  spare  hei*,"  returned  Edward.  "  I  couldn'j 
think  of  it." 

"  What  do  you,  mean  you  vagabond  ?  "  said  TackletonJ 
"  I  mean,  that  as  I  can  make  allowance  for  your  being 
vexed,"  returned  the  other  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  as  deaf 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


295 


to  harsli  discourse  this  morning,  as  I  was  to  all  discourse 
last  night." 

The  look  that  Tackleton  bestowed  upon  him,  and  the 
start  he  gave  I 

"  I  am  sorry  sir,"  said  Edward,  holding  out  May's  left 
hand,  and  especially  the  third  finger,  "that  the  young 
lady  can't  accompany  yon  to  church  ;  but  as  she  has  been 
there  once,  this  morning,  perhaps  you'll  excuse  her." 

Tackleton  looked  hard  at  the  third  finger,  and  took  a 
little  piece  of  silver  paper,  apparently  containing  a  ring, 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"  Miss  Slowboy,"  said  Tackleton.  "  Will  you  have 
the  kindness  to  throw  that  in  the  fire?  Thank'ee." 

"It  was  a  previous  engagement,  quite  an  old  engage 
ment,  that  prevented  my  wife  from  keeping  her  appoint- 
ment with  you,  I  assure  you,"  said  Edward. 

*'  Mr.  Tackleton  will  do  me  the  justice  to  acknowledge 
that  I  revealed  it  to  him  faithfully  ;  and  that  I  told  him, 
many  times,  I  never  could  forget  it,"  said  May,  blushing. 

"Oh  certainly!"  said  Tackleton.  "Oh  to  be  sure. 
Oh,  it's  all  right,  it's  quite  correct.  Mrs.  Edward  Plum- 
mer,  I  infer  ?" 

"  That's  the  name,"  returned  the  bridegroom. 

"  Ah  !  I  shouldn't  have  known  you,  sir,"  said  Tackle- 
ton, scrutinising  his  face  narrowly,  and  making  a  low 
bow.    "  I  give  you  joy,  sir  !  " 

"  Thank'ee." 

"Mrs.  Peerybingle,"  said  Tackleton,  turning  suddenly 
to  where  she  stood  with  her  husband  ;  "  I'm  sorry.  You 
haven't  done  me  a  very  great  kindness,  but  upon  my  life 
I  am  sorry.  You  are  better  than  I  thought  you.  John 
Peerybingle,  I  am  sorry.  You  understand  me  ;  that's 
enough.  It's  quite  correct,  ladies  and  gentlemen  all, 
and  perfectly  satisfactory.    Good  morning  !" 

With  these  words  he  carried  it  off,  and  carried  himself 
off  too  :  merely  stopping  at  the  door,  to  take  the  flowers 
and  favours  from  his  horse's  head,  and  to  kick  that  ani- 
mal once,  in  the  ribs,  as  a  means  of  informing  him  that 
there  was  a  screw  loose  in  his  arrangements. 

Of  course,  it  became  a  serious  duty  now,  to  make  such 
a  day  of  it,  as  should  mark  these  events  for  a  high  Feast 
and  Festival  in  the  Peerybingle  Calendar  for  evermore. 
Accordingly,  Dot  went  to  work  to  produce  such  an  enter- 
tainment, as  should  reflect  undying  honour  on  the  house 
and  on  every  one  concerned  ;  and  in  a  very  short  space 
of  time,  she  was  up  to  her  dimpled  elbows  in  flour,  and 
whitening  the  Carrier's  coat,  every  time  he  came  near 
her,  by  stopping  him  to  give  him  a  kiss.  That  good 
fellow  washed  the  greens  and  peeled  the  turnips,  and 
broke  the  plates,  and  upset  iron  pots  full  of  cold  water 
on  the  fire,  and  made  himself  useful  in  all  sorts  of  ways  : 
while  a  couple  of  professional  assistants,  hastily  called  in 
from  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood,  as  on  a  point  of 
life  or  death,  ran  against  each  other  in  all  the  doorways 
and  round  all  the  corners,  and  everybody  tumbled  over 
Tilly  Slowboy  and  the  Baby,  everywhere.  Tilly  never 
came  out  in  such  force  before.  Her  ubiquity  was  the 
theme  of  general  admiration.  She  was  a  stumbling-block 
in  the  passage  at  five  and  twenty  minutes  past  two  ;  a 
man-trap  in  the  kitchen  at  half-past  two  precisely  ;  and 
a  pit-fall  in  the  garret  at  five  and  twenty  minutes  to 
three.  The  Baby's  head  was,  as  it  were,  a  test  and  touch- 
stone for  every  description  of  matter,  animal,  vegetable, 
and  mineral.  Nothing  was  in  use  that  day  that  didn't 
come,  at  some  time  or  other,  into  close  acquaintance 
with  it. 

Then  there  was  a  great  Expedition  set  on  foot  to  go  ! 
and  find  out  Mrs.  Fielding  ;  and  to  be  dismally  penitent 
to  that  excellent  gentlewoman  ;  and  to  bring  her  back,  j 
by  force,  if  needful,  to  be  happy  and  forgiving.    And  { 
when  the  Expedition  first  discovered  her,  she  would 
listen  to  no  terms  at  all,  but  said,  an  unspeakable 
number  of  times,  that  ever  she  should  have  lived  to  see 
the  day  !  and  couldn't  be  got  to  say  anything  else,  except 
"Now  carry  me  to  the  grave  :  "  which  seemed  absurd, 
on  account  of  her  not  being  dead,  or  anything  at  all  like  , 
it.    After  a  time  she  lapsed  into  a  state  of  dreadful 
calmness,  and  observed  that  when  that  unfortunate  train  | 
of  circumstances  had  occurred  in  the  Indigo  Trade,  she 
had  foreseen  that  she  would  be  exposed,  during  her  , 
whole  life,  to  every  species  of  insult  and  contumely  ;  ! 
and  that  she  was  glad  to  find  it  was  the  case  ;  and  begged  j 


they  wouldn't  trouble  themselves  about  her, — for  wliat 
was  she  ! — oh,  dear  1  a  nobody  ! — but  would  forget  that 
such  a  being  lived,  and  would  take  their  course  in  life 
without  her.  From  this  bitterly  sarcastic  mood,  she 
passed  into  an  angry  one,  in  which  she  gave  vent  to  the 
remarkable  expression  that  the  worm  would  turn  if 
trodden  on  :  and,  after  that,  she  yielded  to  a  soft  regret, 
and  said,  if  they  had  only  given  her  their  confidence, 
what  might  she  not  have  had  it  in  her  power  to  suggest ! 
Taking  advantage  of  this  crisis  in  her  feelings,  the  Ex- 
pedition embraced  her  ;  and  she  very  soon  had  her 
gloves  on,  and  was  on  her  way  to  John  Peerybingle's  in 
a  state  of  unimpeachable  gentility  ;  with  a  paper  parcel 
at  her  side  containing  a  cap  of  state,  almost  as  tall,  and 
quite  as  stiff,  as  a  mitre. 

Then,  there  were  Dot's  father  and  mother  to  come,  in 
another  little  chaise  ;  and  they  were  behind  their  time  ; 
and  fears  were  entertained  ;  and  there  was  much  looking 
out  for  them  down  the  road  ;  and  Mrs.  Fielding  would 
always  look  in  the  wrong  and  mostly  impossible  direc^ 
tion  ;  and  being  apprised  thereof,  hoped  she  might  take 
the  liberty  of  looking  where  she  j)] eased.  At  last  they 
came  ;  a  chubby  little  couple,  jogging  along  in  a  snug 
and  comfortable  little  way  that  quite  belonged  to  the 
Dot  family  ;  and  Dot  and  her  mother,  side  by  side,  were 
wonderful  to  see.    They  were  so  like  each  other. 

Then  Dot's  mother  had  to  renew  her  acquaintance 
with  May's  mother  ;  and  May's  mother  always  stood  on 
her  gentility  ;  and  Dot's  mother  never  stood  on  anything 
but  her  active  little  feet.  And  old  Dot — so  to  call  Dot's 
father,  I  forgot  it  wasn't  his  right  name,  but  never  mind 
— took  liberties,  and  shook  hands  at  first  sight,  and 
seemed  to  think  a  cap  but  so  much  starch  and  muslin, 
and  didn't  defer  himself  at  all  to  the  Indigo  Trade,  but 
said  there  was  no  help  for  it  now  ;  and,  in  Mrs.  Fielding's 
summing  up,  was  a  good-natured  kind  of  man — but 
coarse,  my  dear. 

I  wouldn't  have  missed  Dot,  doing  the  honours  in  her 
wedding-gown,  my  benison  on  her  bright  face  !  for  any 
money.  No  !  nor  the  good  Carrier,  so  jovial  and  so 
ruddy,  at  the  bottom  of  the  table.  Nor  the  brown,  fresh 
sailor-fellow,  and  his  handsome  wife.  Nor  any  one 
among  them.  To  have  missed  the  dinner  would  have 
been  to  miss  as  jolly  and  as  stout  a  meal  as  man  need 
eat ;  and  to  have  missed  the  overflowing  cups  in  which 
they  drank  The  Wedding  Day,  would  have  been  the 
greatest  miss  of  all. 

After  dinner,  Caleb  sang  the  song  about  the  Sparkling 
Bowl.  As  I'm  a  living  man,  hoping  to  keep  so,  for  a 
year  or  two,  he  sang  it  through. 

And,  by-the-by,  a  most  unlooked-for  incident  occurred, 
just  as  he  finished  the  last  verse. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door  ;  and  a  man  came  stag- 
gering in,  without  saying  with  your  leave,  or  by  your 
leave,  with  something  heavy  on  his  head.  Setting  this 
down  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  symmetrically  in  the 
centre  of  the  nuts  and  apples,  he  said  : 

"Mr.  Tackleton's  compliments,  and  as  he  hasn't  got 
no  use  for  the  cake  himself,  p'raps  you'll  eat  it." 

And  vntla.  those  w^ords,  he  walked  off. 

There  was  some  surprise  among  the  company,  as  you 
may  imagine.  Mrs.  Fielding,  being  a  lady  of  infinite 
discernment,  suggested  that  the  cake  was  poisoned,  and 
related  a  narrative  of  a  cake,  which,  within  her  knoT<-l- 
edge,  had  turned  a  seminary  for  young  ladies,  blue.  But 
she  was  overruled  by  acclamation  ;  and  the  cake  was  cut 
by  May,  with  much  ceremony  and  rejoicing. 

I  don't  think  any  one  had  tasted  it,  when  there  came 
another  tap  at  the  door,  and  the  same  man  appeared 
again,  having  under  his  arm  a  vast  brown  paper  par- 
cel. 

"Mr.  Tackleton's  compliments,  and  he's  sent  a  few 
toys  for  the  Babby.    They  ain't  ugly." 

After  the  delivery  of  Which  expressions,  he  retired 
again. 

The  whole  party  would  have  experienced  great  diflB- 
culty  in  finding  words  for  their  astonishment,  even  if 
they  had  had  ample  time  to  seek  them.  But,  they  had 
none  at  all  ;  for,  the  messenger  had  scarcely  shut  the 
door  behind  him,  when  there  came  another  tap,  and 
Tackleton  himself  walked  in. 

"  Mrs.  Peerybingle  !  "  said  the  Toy  Merchant,  hat  in 


296 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


hand.  "I'm  sorry.  I'm  more  sorry  tlian  I  was  this 
morning.  I  have  had  time  to  think  of  it.  John  Peery- 
bingle  !  1  am  sour  by  disposition  ;  but  I  can't  help  being 
sweetened,  more  or  less,  by  coming  face  to  face  with 
such  a  man  as  you.  Caleb  !  This  unconscious  little 
nurse  gave  me  a  broken  hint  last  night,  of  which  I  have 
found  the  thread.  I  blush  to  think  how  easily  I  might 
have  bound  you  and  your  daughter  to  me,  and  what  a 
miserable  idiot  I  was,  when  I  took  her  for  one  1  Friends, 
one  and  all,  my  house  is  very  lonely  to-night.  I  have 
not  so  much  as  a  Cricket  on  my  Hearth.  I  have  scared 
them  all  away.  Be  gracious  to  me  ;  let  me  join  this 
happy  party  !  " 

He  was  at  home  in  five  minutes.  You  never  saw  such 
a  fellow.  What  had  he  been  doing  with  himself  all  his 
life,  never  to  have  known,  before,  his  great  capacity  for 
being  jovial  !  Or  what  had  the  Fairies  been  doing  with 
him,  to  have  effected  such  a  change  ! 

"John  !  you  won't  send  me  home  this  evening;  will 
you  ?  "  whispered  Dot. 

He  had  been  very  near  it  though. 

There  wanted  but  one  living  creature  to  make  the 
party  complete  ;  and,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  there 
he  was,  very  thirsty  with  hard  running,  arid  engaged  in 
hopeless  endeavours  to  squeeze  his  head  into  a  narrow 
pitcher.  He  had  gone  with  the  cart  to  its  journey's  end, 
very  much  disgusted  with  the  absence  of  his  master,  and 
stupendously  rebellious  to  the  Deputy.  After  lingering 
about  the  stable  for  some  little  time,  vainly  attempting 
to  incite  the  old  horse  to  the  mutinous  act  of  returning 
on  his  own  account,  he  had  walked  into  the  tap-room 
and  laid  himself  down  before  the  fire.  But  suddenly 
yielding  to  the  conviction  that  the  Deputy  was  a  hum- 
bug, and  must  be  abandoned,  he  had  got  up  again, 
turned  tail,  and  come  home. 

There  was  a  dance  in  the  evening.  With  which 
general  mention  of  that  recreation,  I  should  have  left 
it  alone,  if  I  had  not  some  reason  to  suppose  that  it 
was  quite  an  original  dance,  and  one  of  a  most  un- 


common figure.  It  was  formed  in  an  odd  way  ;  in  this 
way. 

Edward,  that  sailor-fellow — a  good  free  dashing  sort 
of  fellow  he  was — had  been  telling  them  various  marvels 
concerning  parrots,  and  mines,  and  Mexicans,  and  gold 
dust,  vvhen  all  at  once  he  took  it  in  his  head  to  jump  up 
from  his  seat  and  propose  a  dance  ;  for  Bertha's  harp 
was  there,  and  she  had  such  a  hand  upon  it  as  you  sel- 
dom hear.  Dot  (sly  little  piece  of  affectation  when  she 
chose)  said  her  dancing  days  were  over  ;  /  think  because 
the  Carrier  was  smoking  his  pipe,  and  she  liked  sitting 
by  him,  best.  Mrs.  Fielding  had  no  choice,  of  course, 
but  to  say  her  dancing  days  were  over,  after  that ;  and 
everybody  said  the  same,  except  May  ;  May  was  ready. 

So,  May  and  Edward  get  up,  amid  great  applause,  to 
dance  alone  ;  and  Bertha  plays  her  liveliest  tune. 

Well  !  if  you'll  believe  me,  they  have  not  been  danc- 
ing five  minutes,  when  suddenly  the  Carrier  flings  his 
pipe  away,  takes  Dot  around  the  waist,  dashes  out  into 
the  room,  and  starts  off  with  her,  toe  and  heel,  quite 
wonderfully.  Tackleton  no  sooner  sees  this,  than  he 
skims  across  to  Mrs.  Fielding,  takes  her  round  the  waist, 
and  follows  suit.  Old  Dot  no  sooner  sees  this,  than  up 
he  is,  all  alive,  whisks  off  Mrs.  Dot  into  the  middle  of 
the  dance,  and  is  the  foremost  there.  Caleb  no  sooner 
sees  this,  than  he  clutches  Tilly  Slowboy  by  both  hands 
and  goes  off  at  score  ;  Miss  Slowboy,  firm  in  the  belief 
that  diving  hotly  in  among  the  other  couples,  and  effect- 
ing any  number  of  concussions  with  them,  is  your  only 
principle  of  footing  it. 

Hark  !  how  the  Cricket  joins  the  music  with  its  Chirp, 
Chirp,  Chirp  ;  and  how  the  kettle  hums  ! 

*****  * 

But  what  is  this  I  Even  as  I  listen  to  them,  blithely, 
and  turn  towards  Dot,  for  one  last  glimpse  of  a  little  fig- 
ure very  pleasant  to  me,  she  and  the  rest  have  vanished 
into  air,  and  I  am  left  alone.  A  Cricket  sings  upon  the 
Hearth  ;  a  broken  child's- toy  lies  upon  the  ground  ;  and 
nothing  else  remains. 


THE    BATTLE    OF  LIFE. 
A  LOVE  STORY. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 

Once  upon  a  time,  it  matters  little  when,  and  in  stal- 
wart England,  it  matters  little  where,  a  fierce  battle  was 
fought.  It  was  fought  upon  a  long  summer  day  when 
the  waving  grass  was  green.  Many  a  wild  flower  formed 
by  the  Almighty  Hand  to  be  a  perfumed  goblet  for  the 
dew,  felt  its  enamelled  cup  filled  high  with  blood  that 
day,  and  shrinking  dropped.  Many  an  insect  deriving 
its  delicate  colour  from  harmless  leaves  and  herbs,  was 
stained  anew  that  day  by  dying  men,  and  marked  its 
frightened  way  with  an  unnatural  track.  The  painted 
butterfly  took  blood  into  the  air  upon  the  edges  of  its 
wings.  The  stream  ran  red.  The  trodden  ground  became 
a  quagmire,  whence,  from  sullen  pools  collected  in  the 
prints  of  human  feet  and  horses'  hoofs,  the  one  prevail- 
ing hue  still  lowered  and  glimmered  at  the  sun. 

Heaven  keep  us  from  a  knowledge  of  the  sights  the 
moon  beheld  upcm  that  field,  when,  coming  up  above 
the  black  line  of  distant  rising-ground,  softened  and 
blurred  at  the  edge  by  trees,  she  rose  into  the  sky  and 
looked  upon  the  plain,  strewn  with  upturned  faces  that 
had  once  at  mothers'  breasts  sought  mothers'  eyes,  or 
slumbered  happily.  Heaven  keep  us  from  a  knowledge 
of  the  secrets  whispered  afterwards  upon  the  tainted 
wind  that  blew  across  the  scene  of  that  day's  work  and 
that  night's  death  and  suffering  !  Many  a  lonely  moon 
was  bright  upon  the  battle-ground,  and  many  a  star  kept 


mournful  watch  upon  it,  and  many  a  wind  from  every 
quarter  of  the  earth  blew  over  it,  before  the  traces  of 
the  fight  were  worn  away. 

They  lurked  and  lingered  for  a  long  time,  but  sur- 
vived in  little  things ;  for.  Nature,  far  above  the  evil 
passions  of  men,  soon  recovered  Her  serenity,  and  smiled 
upon  the  guilty  battle-ground  as  she  had  done  before, 
when  it  was  innocent.  The  larks  sang  high  above  it  ; 
the  swallows  skimmed  and  dipped  and  flitted  to  and  fro; 
the  shadows  of  the  flying  clouds  pursued  each  other 
swiftly,  over  grass  and  corn  and  turnip-field  and  wood, 
and  over  roof  and  church-spire  in  the  nestling  town 
among  the  trees,  away  into  the  bright  distance  on  the 
borders  of  the  sky  and  earth,  where  the  red  sunsets 
faded.  Crops  were  sown,  and  grew  up,  and  were  gath- 
ered in  ;  the  stream  that  had  been  crimsoned,  turned  a 
watermill  ;  men  whistled  at  the  plough  ;  gleaners  and 
haymakers  were  seen  in  quiet  groups  at  work  ;  sheep  and 
oxen  pastured  ;  boys  whooped  and  called,  in  fields,  to 
scare  away  the  birds  ;  smoke  rose  from  cottage  chimneys; 
sabbath  bells  rang  peacefully  ;  old  people  lived  and  died; 
the  timid  creatures  of  the  field,  and  simple  flowers  of  the 
bush  and  garden,  grew  and  withered  in  their  destined 
terms  ;  and  all  upon  the  fierce  and  bloody  battle-ground, 
where  thousands  upon  thousands  had  been  killed  in  the 
great  fight. 

But,  there  were  deep  green  patches  in  the  growing 
corn  at  first,  that  people  looked  at  awfully.    Year  after 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


297 


year  they  reappeared  ;  and  it  was  known  that  underneath 
those  fertile  spots,  heaps  of  men  and  horses  lay  buried, 
indiscriminately,  enriching  the  ground.  The  husband- 
men who  ploughed  those  places,  shrunk  from  the  groat 
worms  abounding  there  ;  and  the  sheaves  they  yielded, 
were,  for  many  a  long  year,  called  the  Battle  Sheaves, 
and  set  apart  ;  and  no  one  ever  knew  a  Battle  Sheaf  to 
be  among  the  last  load  at  a  Harvest  Home.  For  a  long 
time,  every  furrow  that  was  turned,  revealed  some 
fragments  of  the  fight.  For  a  long  time,  there  were 
wounded  trees  upon  the  battle-ground  ;  and  scraps  of 
hacked  and  broken  fence  and  wall,  where  deadly  strug- 
gles had  been  made  ;  and  trampled  parts  where  not  a 
leaf  or  blade  would  grow.  For  a  long  time,  no  village 
girl  would  dress  her  hair  or  bosom  with  the  sweetest 
flower  from  that  field  of  death  :  and  after  many  a  year 
had  come  and  gone,  the  berries  growing  there  were  still 
believed  to  leave  too  deep  a  stain  upon  the  hand  that 
plucked  them. 

The  Seasons  in  their  course,  however,  though  they 
passed  as  lightly  as  the  summer  clouds  themselves,  ob- 
literated, in  the  lapse  of  time,  even  these  remains  of 
the  old  conflict  ;  and  wore  away  such  legendary  traces 
of  it  as  the  neighbouring  people  carried  in  their  minds, 
until  they  dwin<tled  into  old  wives'  tales,  dimly  remem- 
bered round  the  winter  fire,  and  waning  every  year. 
Where  the  wild  flowers  and  berries  had  solong  remained 
upon  the  stem  untouched,  gardens  arose,  and  houses 
were  built,  and  children  played  at  battles  on  the  turf. 
The  wounded  trees  had  long  ago  made  Christmas  logs, 
and  blazed  and  roared  away.  The  deep  green  patches 
were  no  greener  now  than  the  memory  of  those  who  lay  in 
dust  below.  The  ploughshare  still  turned  up  from  time 
to  time  some  rusty  bits  of  metal,  but  it  was  hard  to  say 
what  use  they  had  ever  served,  and  those  who  found  them 
wondered  and  disputed.  An  old  dinted  corslet,  and  a 
helmet,  had  been  hanging  in  the  church  so  long,  that  the 
same  weak  half-blind  old  man  who  tried  in  vain  to  make 
them  out  above  the  whitewashed  arch,  had  marveled  at 
them  as  a  baby.  If  the  host  slain  upon  the  field  could 
have  been  for  a  moment  reanimated  in  the  forms  in 
which  they  fell,  each  upon  the  spot  that  was  the  bed  of 
his  untimely  death,  gashed  and  ghastly  soldiers  would 
have  stared  in  hundreds  deep,  at  household  door  and 
window  ;  and  would  have  risen  on  the  hearths  of  quiet 
homes  ;  and  would  have  been  the  garnered  store  of 
barns  and  granaries  ;  and  would  have  started  up  be- 
tween the  cradled  infant  and  its  nurse  ;  and  would  have 
floated  with  the  stream,  and  whirled  round  on  the  mill, 
and  crowded  the  orchard,  and  burdened  the  meadow, 
and  piled  the  rickyard  high  with  dying  men.  So  altered 
was  the  battle-ground,  where  thousands  upon  thousands 
had  been  killed  in  the  great  fight. 

Nowhere  more  altered,  perhaps,  about  a  hundred 
years  ago,  than  in  one  little  orchard  attached  to  an  old 
stone  house  with  a  honeysuckle  porch  ;  where,  on  a 
bright  autumn  morning,  there  were  sounds  of  music  and 
laughter,  and  where  two  girls  danced  merrily  together 
on  the  grass,  while  some  half  dozen  peasant  women 
standing  on  ladders,  gathering  the  apples  from  the  trees, 
stopped  in  their  work  to  look  down,  and  share  their  en- 
joyment. It  was  a  pleasant,  lively,  natural  scene  ;  a 
beautiful  day,  a  retired  spot ;  and  the  two  girls,  quite 
unconstrained  and  careless,  danced  in  the  freedom  and 
gayety  of  their  hearts. 

If  there  were  no  such  thing  as  display  in  the  world,  my 
private  opinion  is,  and  I  hope  you  agree  with  me,  that 
we  might  get  on  a  great  deal  better  than  we  do,  and 
might  be  infinitely  more  agreeable  company  than  we 
are.  It  was  charming  to  see  how  these  girls  danced. 
They  had  no  spectators  but  the  apple-pickers  on  the 
ladders.  They  were  very  glad  to  please  them,  but  they 
danced  to  please  themselves  (or  at  least  you  would  have 
supposed  so);  and  you  could  no  more  help  admiring,  than 
they  could  help  dancing.    How  they  did  dance  ! 

Not  like  opera-dancers.  Not  at  all.  And  not  like 
Madame  Anybody's  finished  pupils.  Not  the  least.  It 
was  not  quadrille  dancing,  nor  minuet  dancing,  nor  even 
country-dance  dancing.  It  was  neither  in  the  old  style, 
nor  the  new  style,  nor  the  French  style,  nor  the  English 
style  :  though  it  may  have  been,  by  accident,  a  trifle  in 
the  Spanish  style,  which  is  a  free  and  joyous  one,  I  am 


told,  deriving  a  delightful  air  of  off  hand  inspiration, 
from  the  chirping  little  castanets.  As  they  danced 
among  the  orchard  trees,  and  down  the  groves  of  stems 
and  back  again,  and  twirled  each  other  lightly  round 
and  round,  the  influence  of  their  airy  motion  seemed  to 
spread  and  spread,  in  the  sun-lighted  scene,  like  an  ex- 
panding circle  in  the  water.  Their  streaming  hair  and 
fluttering  skirts,  the  elastic  grass  beneath  their  feet,  the 
boughs  that  rustled  in  the  morning  air — the  flashing 
leaves,  the  speckled  shadows  on  the  soft  green  ground 
— the  balmy  wind  that  swept  along  the  landscape,  glad 
to  turn  the  distant  windmill,  cheerily — everything  be- 
tween the  two  girls,  and  the  man  and  team  at  plough 
upon  the  ridge  of  land,  where  they  showed  against  the 
sky  as  if  they  were  the  last  things  in  the  world — seemed 
dancing  too. 

At  last,  the  younger  of  the  dancing  sisters,  out  of 
breath,  and  laughing  gaily,  threw  herself  upon  a  bench 
to  rest.  The  other  leaned  against  a  tree  hard  by.  The 
music,  a  wandering  harp  and  fiddle,  left  off  with  a  flour- 
ish, as  if  it  boasted  of  its  freshness  ;  though,  the  truth 
is,  it  had  gone  at  such  a  pace,  and  worked  itself  to  such 
a  pitch  of  competition  with  the  dancing,  that  it  never 
could  have  held  on,  half  a  minute  longer.  The  apple- 
pickers  on  the  ladders  raised  a  hum  and  murmur  of  ap- 
plause, and  then  in  keeping  with  the  sound,  bestirred 
themselves  to  work  again  like  bees. 

The  more  actively,  perhaps,  because  an  elderly  gen- 
tleman, who  was  no  other  than  Doctor  Jeddler  himself 
— it  was  Doctor  Jeddler's  house  and  orchard,  you  should 
know,  and  these  were  Doctor  Jeddler's  daughters — came 
bursting  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  and  who  the 
deuce  played  music  on  his  property,  before  breakfast. 
For  he  was  a  great  philosopher.  Doctor  Jeddler,  and  not 
very  musical. 

"Music  and  dancing  to-day!"  said  the  Doctor,  stop- 
ping short,  and  speaking  to  himself,  "I  thought  they 
dreaded  to-day.  But  it's  a  world  of  contradictions. 
Why,  Grace,  why,  Marion  !"  he  added  aloud,  "is  the 
world  more  mad  than  usual  this  morning  ?  " 

"Make  some  allowance  for  it,  father,  if  it  be,"  replied 
his  younger  daughter,  Marion,  going  close  to  him,  and 
looking  into  his  face,  "  for  it's  somebody's  birth-day." 

"  Somebody's  birth-day.  Puss,"  replied  the  Doctor. 
**  Don't  you  know  it's  always  somebody's  birth-day  ? 
Did  you  never  hear  how  many  new  performers  enter  on 
this — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! — it's  impossible  to  speak  gravely  of  it 
— on  this  preposterous  and  ridiculous  business  called 
Life,  every  minute  ?  " 

"  No,  father?" 

"  No,  not  you,  of  course  ;  you're  a  woman — almost," 
said  the  Doctor.  "By  the  by,"  and  he  looked  into  the 
pretty  face,  still  close  to  his,  "  I  suppose  it's  your  birth- 
day." 

"  No  !  Do  you  really,  father  ?  "  cried  his  pet  daughter, 
pursing  up  her  red  lips  to  be  kissed. 

"  There  !  Take  my  love  with  it,"  said  the  Doctor  im- 
printing his  upon  them  ;  "and  many  happy  returns  of 
the — the  idea  ! — of  the  day.  The  notion  of  wishing  hap- 
py returns  in  such  a  farce  as  this,"  said  the  Doctor  to 
himself,  "  is  good  !    Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !" 

Doctor  Jeddler  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  great  philosopher, 
and  the  heart  and  mystery  of  his  philosophy  was,  to  look 
upon  the  world  as  a  gigantic  practical  joke  ;  as  some- 
thing too  absurd  to  be  considered  seriously,  by  any  ration- 
al man.  His  system  of  belief  had  been,  in  the  beginning, 
part  and  parcel  of  the  battle-ground  on  which  he  lived, 
as  you  shall  presently  understand. 

"  Well  !  But  how  did  you  get  the  music  ?  "  asked  the 
Doctor.  "  Poultry-stealers,  of  course  !  Where  did  the 
minstrels  come  from  ?" 

"  x\lfred  sent  the  music,"  said  his  daughter  Grace,  ad- 
justing a  few  simple  flowers  in  her  sister's  hair,  with 
which,  in  her  admiration  of  that  youthful  beauty,  she 
had  herself  adorned  it  half-an-hour  before,  and  which 
the  dancing  had  disarranged. 

1  "Oh  !  Alfred  sent  the  music,  did  he  ?"  returned  the 
Doctor. 

"Yes.    He  met  it  coming  out  of  the  town  as  he  was 
entering  early.    The  men  are  travelling  on  foot,  and 
!  rested  there  last  night  ;  and  as  it  was  Marion's  birth- 
day, and  he  thought  it  would  please  her,  he  sent  them 


298 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


on,  with  a  pencilled  note  to  me,  saying  that  if  I  thought 
so  too,  they  had  come  to  serenade  her." 

"  Ay,  ay, "  said  the  Doctor,  carelessly,  "he  always  takes 
your  opinion." 

"  And  my  opinion  being  favourable,"  said  Grace,  good- 
humouredly  ;  and  pausing  for  a  moment  to  admire  the 
pretty  head  she  decorated,  with  her  own  thrown  back  ; 
"and  Marion  being  in  high  spirits,  and  beginning  to 
dance,  I  joined  her.  And  so  we  danced  to  Alfred's  mu- 
sic till  we  were  out  of  breath.  And  we  thought  the  music 
all  the  gayer  for  being  sent  by  Alfred.  Didn't  we,  dear 
ll  Marion  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Grace.  How  you  tease  me  about 
Alfred." 

"  Tease  you  by  mentioning  your  lover?"  said  her  sis- 
ter. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  much  care  to  have  him  mentioned," 
said  the  wilful  beauty,  stripping  the  petals  from  some 
flowers  she  held,  and  scattering  them  on  the  ground.  "I 
am  almost  tired  of  hearing  of  him  ;  and  as  to  his  being 
my  lover  " — 

"  Hush  !  Don't  speak  lightly  of  a  true  heart,  which  is 
all  your  own,  Marion,"  cried  her  sister,  "even  in  jest. 
There  is  not  a  truer  heart  than  Alfred's  in  the  world  !" 

"No — no,"  said  Marion,  raising  her  eyebrows  with  a 
pleasant  air  of  careless  consideration,  "  perhaps  not.  But 
I  don't  know  that  there's  any  great  merit  in  that.  1 — I 
don't  want  him  to  be  so  very  true.  I  never  asked  him. 
If  he  expects  that  I — .  But,  dear  Grace,  why  need  we 
talk  of  him  at  all,  just  now  ! " 

It  was  agreeable  to  s«e  the  graceful  figures  of  the 
blooming  sisters,  twined  together,  lingering  among  the 
trees,  conversing  thus,  with  earnestness  opposed  to  light- 
ness, yet,  with  love  responding  tenderly  to  love.  And  it 
was  very  curious  indeed  to  see  the  younger  sister's  eyes 
suffused  with  tears,  and  something  fervently  and  deeply 
felt,  breaking  through  the  wilfulness  of  what  she  said, 
and  striving  with  it  painfully. 

The  difference  between  them,  in  respect  of  age,  could 
not  exceed  four  years  at  most  ;  but,  Grace,  as  often  hap- 
pens in  such  cases,  where  no  mother  watches  over  both 
(the  Doctor's  wife  was  dead),  seemed,  in  her  gentle  care 
of  her  young  sister,  and  in  the  steadiness  of  her  devotion 
to  her,  older  than  she  was  ;  and  more  removed,  in  course 
of  nature,  from  all  competition  with  her,  or  participation, 
otherwise  than  through  her  sympathy  and  true  affection, 
in  her  wayward  fancies,  than  their  ages  seemed  to  war- 
rant. Great  character  of  mother,  that,  even  in  this  shad- 
ow and  faint  reflection  of  it,  purifies  the  heart,  and  raises 
the  exalted  nature  nearer  to  the  angels  ! 

The  Doctor's  reflections,  as  he  looked  after  them,  and 
heard  the  purport  of  their  discourse,  were  limited  at  first 
to  certain  merry  meditations  on  the  folly  of  all  loves  and 
likings,  and  the  idle  imposition  practised  on  themselves 
by  young  people,  who  believed  for  a  moment,  that  there 
could  be  anything  serious  in  such  bubbles,  and  were  al- 
ways undeceived — always  ! 

But  the  home-adorning,  self-denying  qualities  of  Grace, 
and  her  sweet  temper,  so  gentle  and  retiring,  yet  in- 
cluding so  much  constancy  and  bravery  of  spirit,  seemed 
all  expressed  to  him  in  the  contrast  between  her  quiet 
household  figure  and  that  of  his  younger  and  more  beau- 
tiful child  ;  and  he  was  sorry  for  her  sake — sorry  for 
them  both— that  life  should  be  such  a  very  ridiculous 
business  as  it  was. 

The  Doctor  never  dreamed  of  inquiring  whether  his 
children,  or  either  of  them,  helped  in  any  way  to  make 
the  scheme  a  serious  one.  But  then  he  was  a  Philoso- 
I)her. 

A  kind  and  generous  man  by  nature,  he  had  stumbled, 
by  chance,  over  that  common  Philosopher's  stone  (much 
more  easily  discovered  than  the  ol)ject  of  the  alchemist's 
researches),  which  sometimes  trips  up  kind  and  generous 
men,  and  has  the  fatal  property  of  turning  gold  to  dross 
and  every  precious  thing  to  poor  account. 

"  Britain  !  "  cried  the  Doctor.    "  Britain  !  Halloa  !" 

A  small  man  with  an  uncommonly  sour  and  discon- 
tented face,  emerged  from  the  house,  and  returned  to 
this  call  the  unceremonious  acknowledgment  of  "  Now 
then  ! " 

"  Where's  the  breakfast  table  ?  "  said  the  Doctor. 
"  In  the  house,"  returned  Britain. 


"  Are  you  going  to  spread  it  out  here,  as  you  were 
told  last  night?"  said  the  Doctor.  "Don't  you  know 
that  there  are  gentlemen  coming  ?  That  there's  business 
to  be  done  this  morning,  before  the  coach  comes  by  ? 
That  this  is  a  very  particular  occasion  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  do  anything.  Doctor  Jeddler,  till  the  women 
had  done  getting  in  the  apples,  could  I?"  said  Britain, 
his  voice  rising  with  his  reasoning,  so  that  it  was  very 
loud  at  last. 

"Well,  have  they  done  now?"  returned  the  Doctor, 
looking  at  his  watch,  and  clapping  his  hands.  "  Come  ! 
make  haste  !  where's  Clemency?" 

"  Here  I  am.  Mister,"  said  a  voice  from  one  of  the  lad- 
ders, which  a  pair  of  clumsy  feet  descended  briskly. 
"  It's  all  done  now.  Clear  away,  gals.  Everything  shall 
be  ready  for  you  in  half  a  minute.  Mister." 

With  that  she  began  to  bustle  about  most  vigorously  ; 
presenting,  as  she  did  so,  an  appearance  sufficiently  pe- 
culiar to  justify  a  word  of  introduction. 

She  was  about  thirty  years  old,  and  had  a  sufficiently 
plump  and  cheerful  face,  though  it  was  twisted  up  into 
an  odd  expression  of  tightness  that  made  it  comical. 
But,  the  extraordinary  homeliness  of  her  gait  and  man- 
ner, would  have  superseded  any  face  in  the  world.  To 
say  that  she  had  two  left  legs,  and  somebody  else's 
arms,  and  that  all  four  limbs  seemed  to  be  out  of  joint, 
and  to  start  from  perfectly  wrong  places  when  they  were 
set  in  motion,  is  to  offer  the  mildest  outline  of  the  reality. 
To  say  that  she  was  perfectly  content  and  satisfied  with 
these  arrangements,  and  regarded  them  as  being  no  busi- 
ness of  hers,  and  that  she  took  her  arms  and  legs  as 
they  came,  and  allowed  them  to  dispose  of  themselves 
just  as  it  happened,  is  to  render  faint  justice  to  her 
equanimity.  Her  dress  was  a  prodigious  pair  of  self- 
willed  shoes,  that  never  wanted  to  go  where  her  feet 
went ;  blue  stockings  ;  a  printed  gown  of  many  colours 
and  the  most  hideous  pattern  procurable  for  money  ;  and 
a  white  apron.  She  always  wore  short  sleeves,  and 
always  had,  by  some  accident,  grazed  elbows,  in  which 
she  took  so  lively  an  interest,  that  she  was  continually 
trying  to  turn  them  round  and  get  impossible  views  of 
them.  In  general,  a  little  cap  perched  somewhere  on 
her  head  ;  though  it  was  rarely  to  be  met  with  in  the 
place  usually  occupied  in  other  subjects,  by  that  article 
of  dress  ;  but,  from  head  to  foot  she  was  scrupulously 
clean,  and  maintained  a  kind  of  dislocated  tidiness.  In- 
deed, her  laudable  anxiety  to  be  tidy  and  compact  into 
her  own  conscience  as  well  as  in  the  public  eye,  gave 
rise  to  one  of  her  most  startling  evolutions,  which  was 
to  grasp  herself  sometimes  by  a  sort  of  wooden  handle 
(part  of  her  clothing,  and  familiarly  called  a  busk),  and 
wrestle  as  it  were  with  her  garments,  until  they  fell  into 
a  symmetrica]  arrangement. 

Such,  in  outward  form  and  garb,  was  Clemency  New- 
come  ;  who  was  supposed  to  have  unconsciously  origin- 
ated a  corruption  of  her  own  christian  name,  from  Clem- 
entina (but  nobody  knew,  for  the  deaf  old  mother,  a  very 
phenomenon  of  age,  whom  she  had  supported  almost 
from  a  child,  was  dead,  and  she  had  no  other  relation) ; 
who  now  busied  herself  in  preparing  the  table,  and  who 
stood  at  intervals,  with  her  bare  red  arms  crossed,  rub- 
bing her  grazed  elbows  with  opposite  hands,  and  staring 
at  it  very  composedly,  until  she  suddenly  remembered 
something  else  it  wanted,  and  jogged  off  to  fetch  it. 

"  Here  are  them  two  lawyers  a-coming,  Mister  ! "  said 
Clemency,  in  a  tone  of  no  very  great  good-will. 

"  Aha  !  "  cried  the  Doctor,  advancing  to  the  gate  to 
meet  them.  "  Good  morning,  good  morning.  Grace, 
my  dear  !  Marion  !  Here  are  Messrs,  Snitchey  and 
Craggs,    Where's  Alfred  ?  " 

"  He'll  be  back  directly,  father,  no  doubt,"  said  Grace. 
' '  He  had  so  much  to  do  this  morning  in  his  preparations, 
for  departure,  that  he  was  up  and  out  by  daybreak. 
Good  morning,  gentlemen." 

"  Ladies  !"  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  "for  Self  and  Craggs,'" 
who  bowed,  "good  morning!  Miss,"  to  Marion,  "I 
kiss  your  hand. "  Which  he  did.  "  And  I  wish  you  " — 
which  he  might  or  might  not,  for  he  didn't  look  at  first 
sight,  like  a  gentleman  troubled  with  many  warm  out- 
pourings of  soul,  in  behalf  of  other  people,  "  a  hundred 
happy  returns  yf  this  auspicious  day." 

"lia  ha  ha  !"  laughed  the  Doctor  thoughtfully,  with 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


299 


his  hands  in  his  pockets.  * '  The  great  farce  in  a  hundred 
acts  !  " 

"You  wouldn't,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  stand- 
ing a  small  professional  blue  bag  against  one  leg  of  the 
table,  "  cut  the  great  farce  short  for  this  actress,  at  all 
events.  Doctor  Jeddler," 

' '  No,"  returned  the  Doctor.  "  God  forbid  I  May  she 
live  to  laugh  at  it.  as  long  as  she  can  laugh,  and  then 
say,  with  the  French  wit,  '  The  farce  is  ended,  draw  the 
curtain.'  " 

"  The  French  wit,"  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  peeping  sharply 
into  his  blue  bag,  "was  wrong.  Doctor  Jeddler,  and 
your  philosophy  is  altogether  wrong,  depend  ui)on  it,  as 
I  have  often  told  you.  Nothing  serious  in  life  !  What 
do  you  call  law  ?  " 

"  A  joke,"  replied  the  Doctor. 

"Did  you  ever  go  to  law?"  asked  Mf.  Snitchey  look- 
ing out  of  the  blue  bag. 

"Never,"  returned  the  Doctor. 

"If  you  ever  do,"  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  "perhaps  you'll 
alter  that  opinion." 

Craggs,  who  seemed  to  be  represented  by  Snitchey,  and 
to  be  conscious  of  little  or  no  separate  existence  or  per- 
sonal individuality,  offered  a  remark  of  his  own  in  this 
place.  It  involved  the  only  idea  of  which  he  did  not 
stand  seized  and  possessed  in  equal  moieties  with 
Snitchey  ;  but,  he  had  some  partners  in  it  among  the 
wise  men  of  the  world, 

"It's  made  a  great  deal  too  easy,"  said  Mr.  Craggs. 

"  Law  is  ?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Craggs,  "  everything  is.  Everything 
appears  to  me  to  be  made  too  easy,  now-a-days.  It's  the 
vice  of  these  times.  If  the  world  is  a  joke  (I  am  not  pre- 
pared to  say  it  isn't),  it  ought  to  be  made  a  very  difficult 
joke  to  crack.  It  ought  to  be  as  hard  a  struggle,  sir,  as 
possible.  That's  the  intention.  But,  it's  being  made  far 
too  easy.  We  are  oiling  the  gates  of  life.  They  ought 
to  be  rusty.  We  shall  have  them  beginning  to  turn,  soon, 
with  a  smooth  sound.  Whereas  they  ought  to  grate  upon 
their  hinges,  sir." 

Mr.  Craggs  seemed  positively  to  grate  upon  his  own 
hinges,  as  he  delivered  this  opinion  ;  to  which  he  com- 
municated immense  effect — being  a  cold,  hard,  dry,  man, 
dressed  in  grey  and  white,  like  a  flint  ;  with  small 
twinkles  in  his  eyes,  as  if  something  struck  sparks  out 
of  them.  The  three  natural  kingdoms,  indeed,  had  each 
a  fanciful  representative  among  this  brotherhood  of  dis- 
putants :  for  Snitchey  was  like  a  magpie  or  a  raven  (only 
not  so  sleek),  and  the  Doctor  had  a  streaked  face  like  a 
winter-pippin,  with  here  and  there  a  dimple  to  express 
the  peckings  of  the  birds,  and  a  very  little  bit  of  little 
pigtail  behind  that  stood  for  the  stalk. 

As  the  active  figure  of  a  handsome  young  man,  dressed 
for  a  journey,  and  followed  by  a  porter  bearing  several 
packages  and  baskets,  entered  the  orchard  at  a  brisk 
pace,  and  with  an  air  of  gaiety  and  hope  that  accorded 
well  with  the  morning,  these  three  drew  together,  like 
the  brothers  of  the  sister  Fates,  or  like  the  Graces  most 
effectually  disguised,  or  like  the  three  weird  prophets 
on  the  heath,  and  greeted  him. 

"Happy  returns,  Alf  !  "  said  the  Doctor  lightly. 

"  A  hundred  happy  returns  of  this  auspicious  day, 
Mr.  Heathfield  1 "  said  Snitchey,  bowing  low. 

"Returns!"  Craggs  murmured  in  a  deep  voice,  all 
alone. 

"  Why,  what  a  battery  1"  exclaimed  Alfred,  stopping 
short,  "  and  one — two — three — all  foreboders  of  no  good, 
in  the  great  sea  before  me.  I  am  glad  you  are  not  the 
first  I  have  met  this  morning  :  I  should  have  taken  it  for 
a  bad  omen.  But,  Grace  was  the  first — sweet,  pleasant 
Grace — so  I  defy  you  all  !  " 

"If  you  please,  Mister,  I  was  the  first  you  know," 
said  Clemency  Newcome.  "  She  was  walking  out  here, 
before  sunrise,  you  remember.    I  was  in  the  house." 

"That's  true  1  Clemency  was  the  first,"  said  Alfred. 
"  So  I  defy  you  with  Clemency." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha  ! — for  Self  and  Craggs,"  said  Snitchey. 
What  a  defiance  !  " 

"  Not  so  bad  a  one  as  it  appears,  may  be,"  said  Alfred, 
shaking  hands  heartily  with  the  Doctor,  and  also  with 
Snitchey  and  C'raggs,  and  then  looking  round.  "  Where 
are  the — Good  Heavens  1 " 


With  a  start,  productive  for  the  moment  of  a  closer 
partnership  between  Jonathan  Snitchey  and  Thomas 
Craggs  than  the  subsisting  articles  of  agreement  in  that 
wise  contemplated,  he  hastily  betook  himself  to  where 
the  sisters  stood  together,  and — however,  I  needn't  more 
particularly  explain  his  manner  of  saluting  Marion  first, 
and  Grace  afterwards  than  by  hinting  that  Mr.  Craggs 
may  possible  have  considered  it  "too  easy." 

Perhaps  to  change  the  subject  Doctor  Jeddler  made  a 
hasty  move  towards  the  breakfast,  and  they  all  .sat  down 
at  the  table.  Grace  presided  ;  but  so  discreetly  stationed 
herself,  as  to  cut  off  her  sister  and  Alfred  from  the  rest 
of  the  company.  Snitchey  and  Craggs  sat  at  opposite 
corners,  with  the  blue  bag  between  them  for  safety  ;  the 
Doctor  took  his  usual  position,  opposite  to  Grace.  Clem- 
ency hovered  galvanically  about  the  table  as  waitress  ; 
and  the  melancholy  Britain,  at  another  and  a  smaller 
board,  acted  as  Grand  Carver  of  a  round  of  beef  and  a 
ham. 

"Meat?"  said  Britain,  approaching  Mr.  Snitchey, 
with  the  carving  knife  and  fork  in  his  hands,  and  throw- 
ing the  question  at  him  like  a  missile. 

"Certainly,"  returned  the  lawyer. 

"  Do  you  want  any  ?"  to  Craggs. 

"  Lean  and  well  done,"  replied  that  gentleman. 

Having  executed  these  orders,  and  moderately  supplied 
the  Doctor  (he  seemed  to  know  that  nobody  else  wanted 
anything  to  eat),  he  lingered  as  near  the  Firm  as  he  de- 
cently could,  watching  with  an  austere  eye  their  dispo- 
sition of  the  viands,  and  but  once  relaxing  the  severe  ex- 
pression of  his  face.  This  ws^fe  on  the  occasion  of  Mr. 
Craggs,  whose  teeth  were  not  of  the  best,  partially  chok- 
ing, when  he  cried  out  with  great  animation,  ' '  I  thought 
he  was  gone  !  " 

"Now  Alfred,"  said  the  doctor,  "for  a  word  or  two 
of  business,  while  we  are  yet  at  breakfast." 

"  While  we  are  yet  at  breakfast,"  said  Snitchey  and 
Craggs,  who  seemed  to  have  no  present  idea  of  leaving 
off. 

Although  Alfred  had  not  been  breakfasting,  and  seemed 
to  have  quite  enough  business  on  his  hands  as  it  was,  he 
respectfully  answered  : 
"  If  you  please,  sir." 

"  If  anything  could  be  serious,"  the  Doctor  began, 
"  in  such  a — " 

"  Farce  as  this,  sir,"  hinted  Alfred. 

"  In  such  a  farce  as  this,"  observed  the  Doctor,  "it 
might  be  this  recurrence,  on  the  eve  of  separation,  of 
a  double  birth-day,  which  is  connected  with  many  asso- 
ciations pleasant  to  us  four,  and  with  the  recollection  of 
a  long  and  amicable  intercourse.  That's  not  to  the  pur- 
pose." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  yes,  Dr.  Jeddler,"  said  the  young  man. 
"It  is  to  the  purpose.  Much  to  the  purpose,  as  my 
heart  bears  witness  this  morning  ;  and  as  yours  does  too, 
I  know,  if  you  would  let  it  speak.  I  leave  your  house 
to-day  ;  I  cease  to  be  your  ward  to-day  ;  we  part  with 
tender  relations  stretching  far  behind  us,  that  never 
can  be  exactly  renewed,  and  with  others  dawning  yet 
before  us,"  he  looked  down  at  Marion  beside  him, 
{"fraught  with  such  considerations  as  I  must  not  trust 
myself  to  speak  of  now.  Come,  come  ! "  he  added, 
\  rallying  his  spirits  and  the  Doctor  at  once,  "  there's  a 
serious  grain  in  this  large  foolish  dust-heap,  Doctor. 
Let  us  allow  to-day,  that  there  is  One." 

"To-day  !"  cried  the  Doctor.    "Hear  him  !  Ha,  ha, 
ha  !    Of  all  days  in  the  foolish  year.    Why.  on  this 
day,  the  great  battle  was  fought  on  this  ground.  On 
j  this  ground  where  we  now  sit,  where  I  saw  my  two  girls 
I  dance  this  morning,  where  the  fruit  has  just  been  gath- 
I  ered  for  our  eating  from  these  trees,  the  roots  of  which 
j  are  struck  in  Men,  not  earth, — so  many  lives  were  lost, 
that  within  my  recollection,  generations  afterwards,  a 
I  churchyard  full  of  bones,  and  dust  of  bones,  and  chips 
1  of  cloven  skulls,  has  been  dug  up  from  underneath  our 
j  feet  here.    Yet  not  a  hundred  people  in  that  battle  knew 
i  for  what  they  fought,  or  why  :  not  a  hundred  of  the  in- 
considerate rejoices  in  the  victory,  why  they  rejoiced. 
Not  half  a  hundred  people  were  the  better  for  the  gain 
or  loss.    Not  half.a-dozen  men  agree  to  this  hour  on  the 
cause  or  merits  ;  and  nobody,  in  short,  ever  knew  any- 
i  thing  distinct  about  it,  but  the  mourners  of  the  slain. 


300 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Serious,  too!"  said  the  Doctor,  laughing.  "Such  a 
system  ! " 

"  But  all  this  seems  to  me,"  said  Alfred,  "  to  be  very 
serious." 

"  Serious  ! "  cried  the  Doctor.  "  If  you  allowed  such 
things  to  be  serious,  you  must  go  mad,  or  die,  or  climb 
up  to  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  turn  hermit." 

"  Besides — so  long  ago,"  said  Alfred. 

"Long  ago  !  "  returned  the  Doctor.  "Do  you  know 
what  the  world  has  been  doing,  ever  since  ?  Do  you 
know  what  else  it  has  been  doing  ?  /  don't !  " 

"  It  has  gone  to  law  a  little,"  observed  Mr.  Snitchey, 
stirring  his  tea, 

"Although  the  way  out  has  been  always  made  too 
easy,"  said  his  partner. 

"And  you'll  excuse  my  saying.  Doctor,"  pursued  Mr. 
Snitchey,  "having  been  already  put  a  thousand  times 
in  possession  of  my  opinion,  in  the  course  of  our  discus- 
sions, that,  in  its  having  gone  to  law,  and  its  legal 
system  altogether,  I  do  observe  a  serious  side — now, 
really,  a  something  tangible,  and  with  a  purpose  and  in- 
tention in  it — " 

Clemency  Newcome  made  an  angular  tumble  against 
the  table,  occasioning  a  sounding  clatter  among  the  cups 
and  saucers. 

"Heyday!  what's  the  matter  there?"  exclaimed  the 
Doctor. 

"It's  this  evil-inclined  blue  bag,"  said  Clemency, 
"  always  tripping  up  somebody  !  " 

"  With  a  purpose  and  intention  in  it,  I  was  saying," 
resumed  Snitchey,  "that  commands  respect.  Life  a 
farce.  Doctor  Jeddler  ?    With  law  in  it  ?  " 

The  Doctor  laughed,  and  looked  at  Alfred. 

"  Granted,  if  you  please,  that  war  is  foolish,"  said 
Snitchey.  "  There  we  agree.  For  example.  Here's  a 
smiling  country,"  pointing  it  out  with  his  fork,  "once 
overrun  by  soldiers — trespassers  every  man  of  'em — and 
laid  waste  by  fire  and  swofd.  He,  he,  he  !  The  idea  of 
any  man  exposing  himself,  voluntarily,  to  fire  and  sword  ! 
Stupid,  wasteful,  positively  ridiculous  ;  you  laugh  at 
your  fellow-creatures,  you  know,  when  you  think  of  it ! 
But  take  this  smiling  country  as  it  stands.  Think  of  the 
laws  appertaining  to  real  property  ;  to  the  bequest  and 
devise  of  real  property  ;  to  the  mortgage  and  redemption 
of  real  property  ;  to  leasehold,  freehold,  and  copyhold 
estate  ;  think,"  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  with  such  great  emo- 
tion that  he  actually  smacked  his  lips,  "  of  the  compli- 
cated laws  relating  to  title  and  proof  of  title,  with  all 
the  contradictory  precedents  and  numerous  acts  of  par- 
liament connected  with  them  ;  think  of  the  infinite  num- 
ber of  ingenious  and  interminable  chancery  suits,  to 
which  this  pleasant  prospect  may  give  rise  ;  and  ac- 
knowledge, Doctor  Jeddler,  that  there  is  a  green  spot  in 
the  scheme  about  us  !  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Snitchey, 
looking  at  his  partner,  "  that  I  speak  for  Self  and 
Craggs  ?  " 

Mr.  Craggs  having  signified  assent,  Mr.  Snitchey, 
somewhat  freshened  by  his  recent  eloquence,  observed 
that  he  would  take  a  little  more  beef  and  another  cup  of 
tea. 

"  I  don't  stand  up  for  life  in  general,"  he  added,  rub- 
bing his  hands  and  chuckling,  "it's  full  of  folly  ;  full 
of  something  worse.  Professions  of  trust,  and  confi- 
dence, and  unselfishness,  and  all  that  !  Bah,  bah,  bah  ! 
We  see  what  they're  worth.  But,  you  mustn't  laugh  at 
life  ;  you've  got  a  game  to  play  ;  a  very  serious  game, 
indeed  !  Everybody's  playing  against  you,  you  know, 
and  you're  playing  against  them.  Oh  !  it's  a  very  inter- 
esting thing.  There  are  deep  moves  upon  the  board. 
You  must  only  laugh,  Doctor  Jeddler,  when  you  win — 
and  then  not  much.  He,  lie,  he  !  And  then  not  much," 
repeated  Snitchey,  rolling  his  head  and  winking  his  eye, 
as  if  he  would  have  added,  "  you  may  do  this  instead  !  " 

"  Well,  Alfred  ! "  cried  the  Doctor,  "  what  do  you  say 
now  V  " 

"  I  say,  sir,"  replied  Alfred,  "that  the  greatest  favour 
you  could  do  me,  and  yourself  too  I  am  inclined  to  think 
would  be  to  try  sometimes  to  forget  this  battle-field  and 
others  like  it  in  that  broader  battle-field  of  Life,  on 
which  the  sun  looks  every  day." 

"  Really,  I'm  afraid  that  wouldn't  soften  his  opinions, 
Mr.  Alfred,"  said  Snitchey.    "  The  combatants  are  very 


eager  and  very  bitter  in  that  same  battle  of  Life. 
There's  a  great  deal  of  cutting  and  slashing,  and  firing 
into  people's  heads  from  behind.  There  is  terrible 
treading  down,  and  trampling  on.  It  is  rather  a  bad 
business." 

"I  believe,  Mr.  Snitchey,"  said  Alfred,  "there  are 
quiet  victories  and  struggles,  great  sacrifices  of  self,  and 
noble  acts  of  heroism,  in  it — even  in  many  of  its  ap- 
parent lightnesses  and  contradictions — not  the  less  diffi- 
cult to  achieve,  because  they  have  no  earthly  chronicle 
or  audience — done  every  day  in  nooks  and  corners,  and 
in  little  households,  and  in  men's  and  women's  hearts — 
any  one  of  which  might  reconcile  the  sternest  man  to 
such  a  world,  and  fill  him  with  belief  and  hope  in  it, 
though  two-fourths  of  its  people  were  at  war,  and  an- 
other fourth  at  law  ;  and  that's  a  bold  word." 

Both  the  sisters  listened  keenly. 

"  Well,  well  ! "  said  the  Doctor,  "I  am  too  old  to  be 
converted,  even  by  my  friend  Snitchey  here,  or  my  good 
spinster  sister,  Martha  Jeddler  ;  who  had  what  she  calls 
her  domestic  trials  ages  ago,  and  has  led  a  sympathising 
life  with  all  sorts  of  people  ever  since  ;  and  who  is  so 
much  of  your  opinion  (only  she's  less  reasonable  and 
more  obstinate,  being  a  woman),  that  we  can't  agree,  and 
seldom  meet.  I  was  born  upon  this  battle-field.  I  be- 
gan, as  a  boy,  to  have  my  thoughts  directed  to  the  real 
history  of  a  battle-field.  Sixty  years  have  gone  over  my 
head,  and  I  have  never  seen  the  Christian  world,  includ- 
ing Heaven  knows  how  many  loving  mothers  and  good 
enough  girls  like  mine  here,  anything  but  mad  for  a 
battle-field.  The  same  contradictions  prevail  in  every- 
thing. One  must  either  laugh  or  cry  at  such  stupen- 
dous inconsistencies  :  and  I  prefer  to  laugh." 

Britain,  who  had  been  paying  the  profoundest  and 
most  melancholy  attention  to  each  speaker  in  his  turn, 
seemed  suddenly  to  decide  in  favour  of  the  same  prefer- 
ence, if  a  deep  sepulchral  sound  that  escaped  him  might 
be  construed  into  a  demonstration  of  risibility.  His 
face,  however,  was  so  perfectly  unaffected  by  it,  both 
before  and  afterwards,  that  although  one* or  two  of  the 
breakfast  party  looked  round  as  being  startled  by  a  mys- 
terious noise,  nobody  connected  the  offender  with  it. 

Except  his  partner  in  attendance.  Clemency  Newcome  ; 
who,  rousing  him  with  one  of  those  favourite  joints, 
her  elbows,  inquired,  in  a  reproachful  whisper,  what  he 
laughed  at.  , 

' '  Not  you  !  "  said  Britain. 

' '  Who  then  !  " 

"  Humanity,"  said  Britain.    "  That's  the  joke  I " 

"  What  between  master  and  them  lawyers,  he's  get- 
ting more  and  more  addle-headed  every  day  !  "  cried 
Clemency,  giving  him  a  lunge  with  the  other  elbow,  as 
a  mental  stimulant.  "  Do  you  know  where  you  are  ?  Do 
you  want  to  get  warning  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything,"  said  Britain,  with  a  leaden 
eye  and  an  immovable  visage.  "  I  don't  care  for  any- 
thing. I  don't  make  out  anything.  I  don't  believe  any- 
thing.   And  I  don't  want  anything. " 

Although  this  forlorn  summary  of  his  general  condi- 
tion may  have  been  overcharged  in  an  access  of  despon- 
dency, Benjamin  Britain — sometimes  called  little  Britain, 
to  distinguish  him  from  Great ;  as  we  might  say  Young 
England,  to  express  Old  England  with  a  decided  differ- 
ence— had  defined  his  real  state  more  accurately  than 
might  be  supposed.  For,  serving  as  a  sort  of  man  Miles 
to  the  Doctor's  Friar  Bacon,  and  listening  day  after  day 
to  innumerable  orations  addressed  by  the  Doctor  to  vari- 
ous people,  all  tending  to  show  that  his  very  existence 
was  at  best  a  mistake  and  an  absurdity,  this  unfortunate 
servitor  had  fallen,  by  degrees,  into  such  an  abyss  of 
confused  and  contradictory  suggestions  from  within  and 
without,  that  Truth  at  the  bottom  of  her  well,  was  on 
a  level  surface  as  compared  with  Britain  in  the  depths 
of  his  mystification.  The  only  point  he  clearly  compre- 
hended, was,  that  the  new  element  usually  brought  into 
these  discussions  by  Snitchey  and  Craggs,  never  served 
to  make  them  clearer,  and  always  seemed  to  give  the 
Doctor  a  species  of  advantage  and  confirmation.  There- 
fore, he  looked  upon  the  Firm  as  one  of  the  proximate 
causes  of  his  state  of  mind,  and  held  them  in  abhorrence 
accordingly. 

"  But  this  is  not  our  business,  Alfred,"  said  the  Doc- 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS 


301 


tor.  ' '  Ceasing  to  be  my  ward  (as  you  have  said)  to-day  ; 
and  leaving  us  full  to  the  brim  of  such  learning  as  the 
Grammar  School  down  here  was  able  to  give  you,  and 
your  studies  in  London  could  add  to  that,  and  such  prac- 
tical knowledge  as  a  dull  old  country  Doctor  like  myself 
could  graft  upon  both  ;  you  are  away,  now,  into  the 
world.  The  first  term  of  probation  appointed  by  your  poor 
father,  being  over,  away  you  go  now,  your  own  master, 
to  fulfil  his  second  desire.  And  long  before  your  three 
years'  tour  among  the  foreign  schools  of  medicine  is  fin- 
ished, you'll  have  forgotten  us.  Lord,  you'll  forget  us 
easily  in  six  months  !  " 

"  If  I  do — but  you  know  better  ;  why  should  I  speak 
to  you  ! "  said  Alfred,  laughing. 

"I  don't  know  anything  of  the  sort,"  returned  the 
Doctor.    "  What  do  you  say,  Marion  ?  " 

Marion,  trifling  with  her  teacup,  seemed  to  say — but 
she  didn't  say  it — that  he  was  welcome  to  forget  them,  if 
he  could.  Grace  pressed  the  blooming  face  against  her 
cheek,  and  smiled. 

I  haven't  been,  I  hope,  a  very  unjust  steward  in  the 
execution  of  my  trust,"  pursued  the  Doctor  ;  "  but  I  am 
to  be,  at  any  rate,  formally  discharged,  and  released, 
and  what  not  this  morning ;  and  here  are  our  good 
friends  Snitchey  and  Craggs,  with  a  bagful  of  papers, 
and  accounts,  and  documents,  for  the  transfer  of  the  bal- 
ance of  the  trust  fund  to  you  (I  wish  it  was  a  more  diffi- 
cult one  to  dispose  of,  Alfred,  but  you  must  get  to  be  a 
great  man,  and  make  it  so),  and  other  drolleries  of  that 
sort,  which  are  to  be  signed,  sealed,  and  delivered." 

"  And  duly  witnessed  as  by  law  required,"  said  Snitch- 
ey, pushing  away  his  plate,  and  taking  out  the  papers, 
which  his  partner  proceeded  to  spread  upon  the  table  ; 
**  and  Self  and  Craggs  having  been  co-trustees  with  you, 
Doctor,  in  so  far  as  the  fund  was  concerned,  we  shall 
want  your  two  servants  to  attest  the  signatures— can  you 
read,  Mrs.  Newcome  ?  " 

"  I  an't  married.  Mister,"  said  Clemency. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  should  think  not,"  chuck- 
led Snitchey,  casting  his  eyes  over  her  extraordinary  fig- 
ure.   ' '  You  can  read  ?  " 

"  A  little,"  answered  Clemency 

"The  marriage  service,  night  and  morning,  eh?"  ob- 
served the  lawyer,  jocosely. 

*' No,"  said  Clemency.  "Too  hard.  I  only  reads  a 
thimble." 

"Read  a  thimble!"  echoed  Snitchey.  "What  are 
you  talking  about,  young  woman  ?  " 

Clemency  nodded.    "  And  a  nutmeg-grater." 

"Why  this  is  a  lunatic  !  a  subject  for  the  Lord  High 
Chancellor  !  "  said  Snitchey,  staring  at  her. 

—  "If  possessed  of  any  property,"  stipulated  Craggs. 

Grace,  however,  interposing,  explained  that  each  of 
the  articles  in  question  bore  an  engraved  motto,  and  so 
formed  the  pocket  library  of  Clemency  Newcome,  who 
was  not  much  given  to  the  study  of  books. 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it,  Miss  Grace  !  "  said  Snitchey. 

"  Yes,  yes.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  I  thought  our  friend  was 
an  idiot.  She  looks  uncommonly  like  ii,"  he  muttered, 
with  a  supercilious  glance.  "  And  what  does  the  thim- 
ble say,  Mrs,  Newcome  ?  " 

"  I  an't  married,  Mistej,"  observed  Clemency. 

"  Well,  Newcome.  Will  that  do?"  said  the  lawyer. 
"  What  does  the  thimble  say,  Newcome  ?  " 

How  Clemency,  before  replying  to  this  question,  held 
one  pocket  open,  and  looked  down  into  its  yawning 
depths  for  the  thimble  which  wasn't  there, — and  how 
she  then  held  an  opposite  pocket  open,  and  seeming  to 
descry  it,  like  a  pearl  of  great  price,  at  the  bottom,  cleared 
away  such  intervening  obstacles  as  a  handkerchief,  an 
end  of  wax  candle,  a  flushed  apple,  an  orange,  a  lucky 
penny,  a  cramp  bone,  a  padlock,  a  pair  of  scissors  in  a 
sheath  more  expressly  describable  as  promising  young 
shears,  a  handful  or  so  of  loose  beads,  several  balls  of  cot- 
con,  a  needle-case,  a  cabinet  collection  of  curl-papers,  and 
a  biscuit,  all  of  which  articles  she  entrusted  individually 
and  severally  to  Britain  to  hold, — is  of  no  consequence. 
Nor  how,  in  her  determination  to  grasp  this  pocket  by 
the  throat  and  keep  it  a  prisoner  (for  it  had  a  tendency 
to  swing,  and  twist  itself  round  the  nearest  corner), 
she  assumed  and  commonly  maintained,  an  attitude  ap- 
parently inconsistent  with  the  human  anatomy  and  the 


laws  of  gravity.  It  is  enough  that  at  la.st  she  triumph- 
antly produced  the  thimble  on  her  finger,  and  rattled 
the  nutmeg-grater  :  the  literature  of  Ix^th  these  trinkets 
being  obviously  in  course  of  wearing  out  and  wasting 
away,  through  excessive  friction. 

"  That's  the  thimble,  is  it,  young  woman?"  said  Mr. 
Snitchey,  diverting  himself  at  her  expense.  "  And  what 
does  the  thimble  say  ?  " 

"  It  says,"  replied  Clemency,  reading  slowly  round  as. 
if  it  were  a  tower,  "  For-get  and  for-give. " 

Snitchey  and  Craggs  laughed  heartily.  "  So  new  !" 
said  Snitchey,  "So  easy!"  said  Craggs.  "Such  a 
knowledge  of  human  nature  in  it  !  "  said  Snitchey.  "  So 
applicable  to  the  affairs  of  life  !  "  said  Craggs. 

"  And  the  nutmeg-grater?"  inquired  the  head  of  the 
Firm. 

"  The  grater  says,"  returned  Clemency,  "Do  as  you — 
would — be — done  by." 

"  Do,  or  you'll  be  done  brown,  you  mean,"  said  Mr. 
Snitchey. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  retorted  Clemency,  shaking  her 
head  vaguely.    "  I  an't  no  lawyer." 

"I  am  afraid  that  if  she  was.  Doctor,"  said  Mr. 
Snitchey,  turning  to  him  suddenly,  as  if  to  anticipate  any 
effect  that  might  otherwise  be  consequent  on  this  retort, 
"  she'd  find  it  to  be  the  golden  rule  of  half  her  clients. 
They  are  serious  enough  in  that — whimsical  as  your 
world  is — and  lay  the  blame  on  us  afterwards.  We,  in 
our  profession,  are  little  else  than  mirrors  after  all,  Mr. 
Alfred  ;  but,  we  are  generally  consulted  by  angry  and 
quarrelsome  people  who  are  not  in  their  best  looks, 
and  it's  rather  hard  to  quarrel  with  us  if  we  reflect 
unpleasant  aspects.  I  think,"  said  Mr,  Snitchey,  "  that 
I  speak  for  Self  and  Craggs  ?  " 

"Decidedly,"  said  Craggs, 

"  And  so,  if  Mr.  Britain  will  oblige  us  with  a  mouth- 
ful of  ink,"  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  returning  to  the  papers, 
"  we'll  sign,  seal,  and  deliver  as  soon  as  possible,  or  the 
coach  will  be  coming  past  before  we  know  where  we 
are." 

If  one  might  judge  from  his  appearance,  there  was 
every  probability  of  the  coach  coming  past  before  Mr, 
Britain  knew  where  he  was  ;  for  he  stood  in  a  stale  of 
abstraction,  mentally  ballancing  the  Doctor  against  the 
lawyers,  and  the  lawyers  against  the  Doctor,  and  their 
clients  against  both,  and  engaged  in  feeble  attempts  to 
make  the  thimble  and  nutmeg-grater  (a  new  idea  to 
him)  square  with  anybody's  system  of  philosophy;  and,  int 
short,  bewildering  himself  as  much  as  ever  his  great 
namesake  has  done  with  theories  and  schools.  But,. 
Clemency,  who  was  his  good  genius — though  he  had 
the  meanest  possible  opinion  of  her  understanding,  by 
reason  of  her  seldom  troubling  herself  with  abstract 
speculations,  and  being  always  at  hand  to  do  the  right 
thing  at  the  right  time — having  produced  the  ink  in  a 
twinkling,  tendered  him  the  further  service  of  recalling 
him  to  himself  by  the  application  of  her  elbows  ;  with 
which  gentle  flappers  she  so  jogged  his  memory,  in  a 
more  literal  construction  of  that  phrase  than  usual,  that 
he  soon  became  quite  fresh  and  brisk. 

How  he  labored  under  an  apprehension  not  uncommon, 
to  persons  in  his  degree,  to  whom  the  use  of  pen  and 
ink  is  an  event,  that  he  couldn't  append  his  name  to 
a  document,  not  of  his  own  writing,  without  com- 
mitting himself  in  some  shadowy  manner,  or  somehow 
signing  away  vague  and  enormous  sums  of  money  ;  and 
how  he  approached  the  deeds  under  protest,  and  by  dint 
of  the  Doctor's  coercion,  and  insisted  on  pausing  to  look 
at  them  before  writing  ^the  cramped  hand,  to  say  noih^ 
ing  of  the  phraseology,  being  so  much  Chinese  to  him),, 
and  also  on  turning  them  round  to  see  whether  there  was 
anything  fraudulent  underneath  ;  and  how,  having 
signed  his  name,  he  became  desolate  as  one  who  had 
parted  with  his  property  and  rights  ;  I  want  the  time  to 
tell.  Also,  how  the  blue  bag  containing  his  signature, 
afterwards  had  a  mysterious  interest  for  him.  and  he 
couldn't  leave  it ;  also,  how  Clemency  Newcome,  in  an 
ecstasy  of  laughter  at  the  idea  of  her  own  importance 
and  dignity,  brooded  over  the  whole  table  with  her  two 
elbows,  like  a  spread  eagle,  and  reposed  her  head  upon 
her  left  arm  as  a  preliminary  to  the  formation  of  certain 
cabalistic  characters,  which  required  a  deal  of  ink,  and 


302 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORK 8, 


imaginary  counterparts  whereof  she  executed  at  the  same 
time  with  her  tongue.  Also,  how,  having  once  tasted 
ink,  she  became  thirsty  in  that  regard,  as  tame  tigers 
are  said  to  be  after  tasting  another  sort  of  fluid,  and 
wanted  to  sign  everything,  and  put  her  name  in  all  kinds 
of  places.  In  brief,  the  Doctor  was  discharged  of  his 
trust  and  all  its  responsibilities  ;  and  Alfred,  taking  it  on 
himself,  was  fairly  started  on  the  journey  of  life. 

"  Britain  !  "  said  the  Doctor.  "  Run  to  the  gate,  and 
watch  for  the  coach.    Time  flies,  Alfred  !  " 

"Yes,  sir,  yes,"  returned  the  joung  man,  hurriedly. 
"  Dear  Grace  !  a  moment  !  Marion — so  young  and  beau- 
tiful, so  winning  and  so  much  admired,  dear  to  my  heart 
as  nothing  else  in  life  is— remember  !  I  leave  Marion  to 
you  ! " 

"  She  has  always  been  a  sacred  charge  to  me,  Alfred. 
She  is  doubly  so,  now.  I  will  be  faithful  to  my  trust, 
believe  me." 

"  I  do  believe  it,  Grace.  I  know  it  well.  Who  could 
look  upon  your  face,  and  hear  your  voice,  and  not  know 
it  !  Ah,  Grace  !  If  I  had  your  well-governed  heart, 
and  tranquil  mind,  how  bravely  I  would  leave  this  place 
to-day  ! " 

"  Would  you?"  she  answered  with  a  quiet  smile. 
And  yet'  Grace — Sister  seems  the  natural  word." 

'*  Use  it  !  "  she  said  quickly.  "I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 
Call  me  nothing  else." 

"  And  yet,  sister,  then,"  said  Alfred,  "  Marion  and  I 
Tiad  better  have  your  true  and  steadfast  qualities  serving 
us  here,  and  making  us  both  happier  and  better.  I 
wouldn't  carry  them  away  to  sustain  myself,  if  I 
«ould  ! " 

"  Coach  upon  the  hill-top  !"  exclaimed  Britain. 

"  Time  flies,  Alfred,"  said  the  Doctor. 

Marion  had  stood  apart,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground  ;  but,  this  warning  being  given,  her  young  lover 
brought  her  tenderly  to  where  her  sister  stood,  and  gave 
her  into  her  embrace. 

"  I  have  been  telling  Grace,  dear  Marion,"  he  said, 
"that  you  are  her  charge  ;  my  precious  trust  at  parting. 
And  when  I  come  back  and  reclaim  you,  dearest,  and  the 
bright  prospect  of  our  married  life  lies  stretched  before 
us,  it  shall  be  one  of  our  chief  pleasures  to  consult  how 
we  can  make  Grace  happy  ;  how  we  can  anticipate  her 
wishes  ;  how  we  can  show  our  gratitude  and  love  to 
her  ;  how  we  can  return  her  something  of  the  debt  she 
will  have  heaped  upon  us." 

The  younger  sister  had  one  hand  in  his  hand  ;  the 
other  rested  on  her  sister's  neck.  She  looked  into  that 
sister's  eyes  so  calm,  serene,  and  cheerful,  with  a  gaze 
in  which  affection,  admiration,  sorrow,  wonder,  almost 
veneration,  were  blended.  She  looked  into  that  sister's 
face,  as  if  it  were  the  face  of  some  bright  angel.  Calm, 
serene,  and  cheerful,  the  face  looked  back  on  her  and  on 
her  lover. 

"  And  when  the  time  comes,  as  it  must,  one  day,"  said 
Alfred, — "I  wonder  it  has  never  come  yet,  but  Grace 
knows  best,  for  Grace  is  always  right, — when  she  will 
want  a  friend  to  open  her  whole  heart  to,  and  to  be  to 
her  something  of  what  she  has  been  to  us — then,  Marion, 
how  faithful  we  will  prove,  and  what  delight  to  us  to 
know  that  she,  our  dear  good  sister,  loves  and  is  loved 
again,  as  we  would  have  her  ! " 

Still  the  younger  sister  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  turned 
not — even  towards  him.  And  still  those  honest  eyes 
looked  back,  so  calm,  serene,  and  cheerful,  on  herself, 
and  on  her  lover. 

"  And  when  all  that  is  past,  and  we  are  old,  and  liv- 
ing (as  we  must  !)  together — close  together — talking 
often  of  old  times,"  said  Alfred — "these  shall  be  our 
favourite  times  among  them — this  day  most  of  all  ;  and, 
telling  each  other  what  we  have  thought  and  felt,  and 
hoped  and  feared  at  parting  ;  and  how  we  couldn't  bear 
to  say  good-bye — " 

"  Coach  coming  through  the  wood  !  "  cried  Britain. 

"Yes  !  I  am  ready — and  how  we  met  again  so  hap- 
X)ily,  in  spite  of  all  ;  we'll  make  this  day  the  happiest  in 
all  the  year,  and  keep  it  as  a  treble  birth-day.  Shall 
we ,  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes  !"  interposed  the  elder  sister  eagerly,  and  with 
a  radiant  smile.  "  Yes  !  Alfred,  don't  linger.  There's  no 
time.  Say  good-bye  to  Marion.  And  Heaven  be  with  you!  " 


He  pressed  the  younger  sister  to  his  heart.  Released 
from  his  embrace,  she  again  clung  to  her  sister  ;  and  her 
eyes,  with  the  same  blended  look,  again  sought  those  so 
calm,  serene,  and  cheerful. 

"Farewell,  my  boy!"  said  the  Doctor.  "To  talk 
about  my  serious  correspondence  or  serious  affections, 
and  engagements  and  so  forth,  in  such  a— ha  ha  ha  !— 
you  know  what  I  mean — why,  that,  of  course,  would  be 
sheer  nonsense.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  if  you  and  Marion 
should  continue  in  the  same  foolish  minds,  I  shall  not 
object  to  have  you  for  a  son-in-law  one  of  these  days. 

"  Over  the  bridge  !  "  cried  Britain. 

"Let  it  come!"  said  Alfred,  wringing  the  Doctor's 
hand  stoutly.  "  Think  of  me  sometimes,  my  old  friend 
and  guardian,  as  seriously  as  you  can  can  !  Adieu,  Mr. 
Snitchey  !    Farewell,  Mr.  Craggs  !" 

"  Coming  down  the  road  !"  cried  Britain. 

"  A  kiss  of  Clemency  Newcome,  for  long  acquaint- 
ance' sake  !  Shake  hands,  Britain  !  Marion,  dearest 
heart,  good  bye  !    Sister  Grace  I  remember  !  " 

The  quiet  household  figure,  and  the  face  so  beautiful 
in  its  serenity,  were  turned  towards  him  in  reply  ;  but 
Marion's  look  and  attitude  remained  unchanged. 

The  coach  was  at  the  gate.  There  was  a  bustle  with 
the  luggage.  The  coach  drove  away.  Marion  never 
moved. 

"  He  waves  his  hat  to  you,  my  love,"  said  Grace. 
"  Your  chosen  husband,  darling.    Look  !  " 

The  younger  sister  raised  her  head,  and,  for  a  mo- 
ment, turned  it.  Then,  turning  back  again,  and  fully 
meeting,  for  the  first  time,  those  calm  eyes,  fell  sobbing 
on  her  neck. 

"Oh,  Grace.  God  bless  you  !  But  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  it,  Grace  !    It  breaks  my  heart." 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

Snitchey  and  Craggs  had  a  snug  little  office  on  the 
old  Battle  Ground,  where  they  drove  a  snug  little  busi- 
ness, and  fought  a  great  many  small  pitched  battles  for 
a  great  many  contending  parties.  Though  it  could 
hardly  be  said  of  these  conflicts  that  they  were  running 
fights — for  in  truth  they  generally  proceeded  at  a  snail's 
pace — the  part  the  Firm  had  in  them  came  so  far  within 
the  general  denomination,  that  now  they  took  a  shot  at 
this  Plaintiff,  and  now  aimed  a  chop  at  that  Defendant, 
now  made  a  heavy  charge  at  an  estate  in  Chancery,  and 
now  had  some  light  skirmishing  among  an  irregular 
body  of  small  debtors,  just  as  the  occasion  served,  and 
the  enemy  happened  to  present  himself.  The  Gazette 
was  an  important  and  profitable  feature  in  some  of  their 
fields,  as  in  fields  of  greater  renown  ;  and  in  most  of 
the  Actions  wherein  they  showed  their  generalship,  it 
was  afterwards  observed  by  the  combatants  that  they 
had  had  great  difficulty  in  making  each  other  out,  or  in 
knowing  with  any  degree  of  distinctness  what  they 
were  about,  in  cbnsequence  of  the  vast  amount  of  smoke 
by  which  they  were  surrounded. 

The  offices  of  Messrs.  Snitchey  and  Craggs  stood  con- 
venient, with  an  open  door  down  two  smooth  steps,  in 
the  market-place  ;  so  that  any  angry  farmer  inclining 
towards  hot  water,  might  tumble  into  it  at  once.  Their 
special  council-chamber  and  hall  of  conference  was  an 
old  back  room  up-stairs,  with  a  low  dark  ceiling,  which 
seemed  to  be  knitting  its  brows  gloomily  in  the  consider- 
ation of  tangled  points  of  law.  It  was  furnished  with 
some  high-backed  leathern  chairs,  garnished  with  great 
goggle-eyed  brass  nails,  of  which,  every  here  and  there, 
two  or  three  had  fallen  out — or  had  been  picked  out, 
perhaps,  by  the  wandering  thumbs  and  forefingers  of 
bewildered  clients.  There  was  a  framed  print  of  a  great 
judge  in  it,  every  curl  in  whose  dreadful  wig  had  made 
a  man's  hair  stand  on  end.  Bales  of  papers  filled  the 
dusty  closets,  shelves,  and  tables  ;  and  round  the  wain- 
scot there  were  tiers  of  boxes,  padlocked  and  fireproof, 
with  people's  names  painted  outside,  which  anxious 
visitors  felt  themselves,  by  a  cruel  enchantment,  obliged 
to  spell  backwards  and  forwards,  and  to  make  anagrams 
of, while  they  sat,  seeming  to  listen  to  Snitchey  and  Craggs, 
without  comprehending  one  word  of  what  they  said. 


CHRISTMAi 

Snitchey  and  Craggs  had  each,  in  private  life  as  in  pro- 
fessional existence,  a  partner  of  liis  own.  Snitchey  and 
Craggs  were  the  best  friends  in  the  world,  and  had  a  real 
confidence  in  one  another  ;  but,  Mrs.  Snitchey,  by  a  dis- 
pensation not  uncommon  in  the  aifairs  of  life,  was  on 
principle  suspicious  of  Mr.  Craggs  ;  and  Mrs.  Craggs 
was  on  principal  suspicious  of  Mr.  Snitchey.  "Your 
Snitcheys  indeed,"  the  latter  lady  would  observe,  some- 
times, to  Mr,  Craggs  ;  using  that  imaginative  plural  as 
if  in  disparagement  of  an  objectionable  pair  of  panta- 
loons, or  other  articles  not  possessed  of  a  singular  num- 
ber ;  "  I  don't  see  what  you  want  with  your  Snitcheys, 
for  my  part.  You  trust  a  great  deal  too  much  to  your 
Snitcheys,  /think,  and  I  hope  you  may  never  find  my 
words  come  true."  While  Mrs.  Snitchey  would  observe 
to  Mr.  Snitchey,  of  Craggs,  that  if  ever  he  was  led 
away  by  man  he  was  led  away  by  that  man,  and  that  if 
ever  she  read  a  double  purpose  in  a  mortal  eye,  she  read 
that  purpose  in  Craggs's  eye."  Notwithstanding  this, 
however,  they  were  all  very  good  friends  in  general  : 
and  Mrs.  Snitchey  and  Mrs.  Craggs  maintained  a  close 
bond  of  alliance  against  the  office,"  which  they  both 
considered  the  Blue  Chamber,  and  common  enemy,  full 
of  dangerous  (because  unknown)  machinations. 

In  this  office,  nevertheless,  Snitchey  and  Craggs  made 
honey  for  their  several  hives.  Here,  sometimes,  they 
would  linger  of  a  fine  evening,  at  the  window  of  their 
council-chamber,  over-looking  the  old  battle-ground,  and 
wonder  (but  that  was  generally  at  assize  time,  when 
much  business  had  made  them  sentimental)  at  the  folly  of 
of  mankind,  who  couldn't  always  be  at  peace  with  one  an- 
other and  go  to  law  comfortably.  Here,  days,  and  weeks, 
and  months,  and  years,  passed  over  them  ;  their  calendar, 
the  gradually  diminishing  number  of  brass  nails  in  the 
leathern  chairs,  and  the  increasing  bulk  of  papers  on  the 
tables.  Here,  nearly  three  years'  flight  had  thinned 
the  one  and  swelled  the  other,  since  the  breakfast  in 
the  orchard  ;  when  they  sat  together  in  consultation  at 
night. 

Not  alone  :  but  with  a  man  of  thirty,  or  about  that 
time  of  life,  negligently  dressed,  and  somehow  haggard 
in  the  face,  but  well-made,  well-attired,  and  well  look- 
ing ;  who  sat  in  the  arm-chair  of  state,  with  one  hand, 
in  his  breast,  and  the  other  in  his  dishevelled  hair,  pon- 
dering moodily.  Messrs.  Snitchey  and  Craggs  sat  oppo- 
site each  other  at  a  neighbouring  desk.  One  of  the  fire- 
proof boxes,  unpadlocked  and  opened,  was  upon  it ;  a 
part  of  its  contents  lay  strewn  upon  the  table,  and  the 
rest  was  then  in  course  of  passing  through  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Snitchey  ;  who  brought  it  to  the  candle,  document 
by  document  ;  looked  at  every  paper  singly,  as  he  pro- 
duced it  ;  shook  his  head,  and  handed  it  to  Mr.  Craggs  ; 
who  looked  it  over  also,  shook  his  head  and  laid  it  down . 
Sometimes,  they  would  stop,  and  shaking  their  heads  in 
concert,  look  towards  the  abstracted  client.  And  the 
name  on  the  box  being  Michael  Warden,  Esquire,  we 
may  conclude  from  these  premises  that  the  name  and  the 
box  were  both  his,  and  that  the  affairs  of  Michael  War- 
den, Esquire,  were  in  a  bad  way. 

"That's  all,"  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  turning  up  the  last 
paper.  "  Really  there's  no  other  resource.  No  other 
resource." 

"  All  lost,  spent,  wasted,  pawned,  borrowed  and  sold, 
eh  ?  "  said  the  client,  looking  up. 

"  All,"  returned  Mr.  Snitchey. 

*'  Nothing  else  to  be  done,  you  say  ?  " 
Nothing  at  all." 

The  client  bit  his  nails,  and  pondered  again. 

* '  And  I  am  not  even  personally  safe  in  England  ? 
You  hold  to  that,  do  you  ?  " 

"In  no  part  of  the  United  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland,"  replied  Mr.  Snitchey. 

' '  A  mere  prodigal  son  with  no  father  to  go  back  to,  no 
swine  to  keep,  and  no  husks  to  share  with  them  ?  Eh  ?  " 
pursued  the  client,  rocking  one  leg  over  the  other,  and 
searching  the  ground  with  his  eyes. 

Mr  Snitchey  coughed  as  if  to  deprecate  the  being  sup- 
posed to  participate  in  any  figurative  illustration  of  a  le- 
gal position.  Mr.  Craggs,  as  if  to  express  that  it  was  a 
partnership  view  of  the  subject,  also  coughed. 

"  Ruined  at  thirty  !  "  said  the  client.    "  Humph  !  " 

*'  Not    ruined,    Mr.    Warden,"   returned  Snitchey. 


^S'    BOOKS.  303 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that.  You  have  done  a  good  deal  to- 
wards it,  I  must  say,  but  you  are  not  ruined.  A  little 
nursing" — 

"  A  little  Devil,"  said  the  client, 

"  Mr,  Craggs,"  said  Snitchey,  "  will  you  oblige  me 
with  a  pinch  of  snuff  V    Thank  you,  sir." 

As  the  imperturbable  lawyer  applied  it  to  his  nose, 
with  great  apparent  and  a  perfect  aljsorption  of  his  at- 
tention in  the  proceeding,  the  client  gradually  broke  in- 
to a  smile,  and,  looking  up,  said  : 

"  You  talk  of  nursing.    How  long  nursing  ?  " 
"  How  long  nursing  V"  repeated  Snitchey,  dusting  the 
snuff  from  his  fingers,  and  making  a  slow  calculation  in 
his  mind.    "  For  your  involved  estate,  sir?    In  good 
hands  ?    S,  and  C.'s,  say  ?   Six  or  seven  years." 

"To  starve  for  six  or  seven  years  1  "  said  the  client 
with  a  fretful  laugh,  and  an  impatient  change  of  his 
position. 

"  To  starve  for  six  or  seven  years,  Mr.  Warden,"  said 
Snitchey,  "  would  be  very  uncommon  indeed.  You 
might  get  another  estate  by  showing  yourself,  the  while. 
But,  we  don't  think  you  could  do  it — speaking  for  Self 
and  Craggs — and  consequently  don't  advise  it." 
"  What  do  you  advise  ? " 

"Nursing,  I  say,"  repeated  Snitchey.  "Some  few 
years  of  nursing  by  Self  and  Craggs  would  bring  it 
round.  But  to  enable  us  to  make  terms,  and  hold  terms, 
and  you  to  keep  terms,  you  must  go  away  ;  you  must  live 
abroad.  As  to  starvation,  we  could  ensure  you  some 
hundreds  a-year  to  starve  upon,  even  in  the  beginning — 
I  dare  say,  Mr  Warden." 

"  Hundreds,"  said  the  client.  "  And  I  have  spent 
thousands  !  " 

"That,"  retorted  Mr.  Snitchey,  putting  the  papers 
slowly  back  into  the  cast-iron  box,  "  there  is  no  doubt 
about.  No  doubt  a — bout,"  he  repeated  to  himself,  as 
he  thoughtfully  pursiied  his  occupation. 

The  lawyer  very  likely  knew  Ms  man  ;  at  any  rate  his 
dry,  shrewd,  whimsical  manner,  had  a  favourable  influ- 
ence on  the  client's  moody  state,  and  disposed  him  to  be 
more  free  and  unreserved.  Or,  perhaps  the  client  knew 
his  man,  and  had  elicited  such  encouragement  as  he  had 
received,  to  render  some  purpose  he  was  about  to  dis- 
close the  more  defensible  in  appearance.  Gradually  rais- 
ing his  head,  he  sat  looking  at  his  immovable  adviser 
with  a  smile,  which  presently  broke  into  a  laugh. 
"  After  all,"  he  said,  "  my  iron-headed  friend  " — 
Mr.  Snitchey  pointed  out  his  partner.  "  Self  and — 
excuse  me — Craggs." 

"  I  beg  Mr.  Craggs's  pardon,"  said  the  client.  "After 
all,  my  iron-headed  friends,"  he  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair  and  dropped  his  voice  a  little,  ' '  you  don't  know 
half  my  ruin  yet." 

Mr.  Snitchey  stopped  and  stared  at  him.  Mr.  Craggs 
also  stared. 

"  I  am  not  only  deep  in  debt,"  said  the  client,  "  but  I 
am  deep  in  " — 

"  Not  in  love  !  "  cried  Snitchey. 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  client,  falling  back  in  his  chair,  and 
surveying  the  Firm  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
"  Deep  in  love." 

"  Aiid  not  with  an  heiress,  sir?"  said  Snitchey. 
"  Not  with  an  heiress." 
"  Nor  a  rich  lady  ?  " 

"  Nor  a  rich  lady  that  I  know  of — except  in  beauty 
and  merit." 

"A  single  lady,  I  trust?"  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  with 
great  expression. 
"  Certainly." 

"  It's  not  one  of  Doctor  Jeddler's  daughters  ?  "  said 
Snitchey,  suddenly  squaring  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  advancing  his  face  at  least  a  yard. 
"Yes  !  "  returned  the  client. 
"  Not  his  younger  daughter  ?  "  said  Snitchey. 
"Yes  !  "  returned  the  client. 

"Mr.  Craggs,"  said  Snitchey,  much  relieved,  "will 
you  oblige  me  with  another  pinch  of  snuff"  ?  Thank  you  ! 
I  am  happy  to  say  it  don't  signify,  Mr.  Warden  ;  she's 
engaged,  sir,  she's  bespoke.  My  partner  can  corroborate 
me.    We  know  the  fact." 

"  We  know  the  fact,"  repeated  Craggs. 
"  Why,  so  do  I  perhaps,"  returned  the  client  quietly. 


304 


GHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  What  of  that  !  Are  you  men  of  the  world,  and  did 
you  never  hear  of  a  woman  changing  her  mind  ?  " 

"  There  certainly  have  been  actions  for  breach,"  said 
Mr.  Snitchey,  "  brought  against  both  spinsters  and  wid- 
ows, but,  in  the  majority  of  cases  " — 

"  Cases  !  "  interposed  the  client,  impatiently.  "  Don't 
talk  to  me  of  cases.  The  general  precedent  is  in  a  much 
larger  volume  than  any  of  your  law  books.  Besides,  do 
you  think  I  have  lived  six  weeks  in  the  Doctor's  house 
.for  nothing  ?  " 

"  I  think  sir,"  observed  Mr.  Snitchey,  gravely  address- 
ing himself  to  his  partner,  "  that  of  all  the  scrapes  Mr. 
Warden's  horses  have  brought  him  into  at  one  time  and 
another — and  they  have  been  pretty  numerous,  and  pretty 
expensive,  as  none  know  better  than  himself,  and  you, 
and  I — the  worst  scrape  may  turn  out  to  be,  if  he  talks 
this  way,  his  having  been  ever  left  by  one  of  them  at  the 
Doctors  garden  wall,  with  three  broken  ribs,  a  snapped 
collar-bone,  and  the  Lord  knows  how  many  bruises.  We 
didn't  think  so  much  of  it,  at  the  time  when  we  knew  he 
was  going  on  well  under  the  Doctor's  hands  and  roof  ; 
but  it  looks  bad  now,  sir.  Bad  ?  It  looks  very  bad. 
Dr.  Jeddler  too — our  client,  Mr.  Craggs." 

"Mr.  Alfred  Heathfield  too— a  sort  of  client,  Mr, 
Snitchey,"  said  Craggs, 

"  Mr.  Michael  Warden  too,  a  kind  of  client,"  said  the 
careless  visitor,  "  and  no  bad  one  either  :  having  played 
the  fool  for  ten  or  twelve  years.  However,  Mr.  Michael 
Warden  has  sown  his  wild  oats  now— there's  their  crop, 
in  that  box  ;  and  he  means  to  repent  and  be  wise.  And 
in  proof  of  it,  Mr,  Michael  Warden  means,  if  he  can,  to 
marry  Marion,  the  Doctor's  lovely  daughter,  and  to  carry 
her  away  with  him," 

"  Really,  Mr.  Craggs,"  Snitchey  began. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Snitchey,  and  Mr.  Craggs,  partners  both," 
said  the  client,  interrupting  him  :  "  you  know  your  duty 
to  your  clients,  and  you  know  well  enough  I  am  sure, 
that  it  is  no  part  of  it  to  interfere  in  a  mere  love  affair, 
which  I  am  obliged  to  confide  to  you.  I  am  not  going  to 
carry  the  young  lady  off,  without  her  own  consent. 
There's  nothing  illegal  in  it.  I  never  was  Mr.  Heath- 
field's  bosom  friend.  I  violate  no  confidence  of  his.  I 
love  where  he  loves,  and  I  mean  to  win  where  he  would 
win  if  I  can," 

"  He  can't,  Mr.  Craggs,"  said  Snitchey  evidently  anx- 
ious and  discomfited,  "He  can't  do  it,  sir.  She  dotes 
on  Mr,  Alfred." 

"Does  she?"  returned  the  client. 

"Mr.  Craggs,  she  dotes  on  him,  sir,"  persisted  Snit- 
chey. 

"  I  didn't  live  six  weeks,  some  few  months  ago,  in  the 
Doctor's  house  for  nothing  ;  and  I  doubted  that  soon," 
observed  the  client.  "  She  would  have  doted  on  him,  if 
her  sister  could  have  brought  it  about ;  but  I  watched 
them.  Marion  avoided  his  name,  avoided  the  subject  : 
shrunk  from  the  least  allusion  to  it,  with  evident  dis- 
tress." 

"Why  should  she,  Mr.  Craggs,  you  know?  Why 
should  she,  sir?"  inquired  Snitchey, 

"  I  don't  know  why  she  should,  though  there  are  many 
likely  reasons,"  said  the  client,  smiling  at  the  attention 
and  perplexity  expressed  in  Mr.  Snitchey's  shining  eye, 
and  at  his  cautious  way  of  carrying  on  the  conversation, 
and  making  himself  informed  upon  the  subject ;  "  but  I 
know  she  does.  She  was  very  young  when  she  made 
the  engagement — if  it  may  be  called  one,  I  am  not  even 
sure  of  that — and  has  repented  of  it  perhaps.  Perhaps 
— it  seems  a  foppish  thing  to  say,  but  upon  my  soul  I 
don't  mean  it  in  that  light — she  may  have  fallen  in  love 
with  me,  as  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  her. " 

"  He,  he  !  Mr.  Alfred,  her  old  playfellow  too,  you  re- 
member, Mr.  Craggs,"  said  Snitchey,  with  a  disconcerted 
laugh  ;  "knew  her  almost  from  a  baby  !" 

"  Which  makes  it  the  more  probable  that  she  may  be 
tired  of  his  idea,"  calmly  pursued  the  client,  "and  not 
indisposed  to  exchange  it  for  the  newer  one  of  another 
lover,  who  presents  himself  (or  is  presented  by  his  horse) 
under  romantic  circumstances  ;  has  the  not  unfavourable 
reputation — with  a  country  girl — of  having  lived  thought- 
lessly and  gaily,  without  doing  much  harm  to  anybody  ; 
and  who,  for  his  youth  and  figure,  and  so  fortli — this 
paay  seem  foppish  again,  but  upon  my  soul  I  don't  mean 


it  in  that  light — might  perhaps  pass  muster  in  a  crowd 
with  Mr.  Alfred  himself." 

There  was  no  gainsaying  the  last  clause,  certainly  ; 
and  Mr.  Snitchey,  glancing  at  him,  thought  so.  There 
was  something  naturally  graceful  and  pleasant  in  the 
very  carelessness  of  his  air.  It  seemed  to  suggest,  of 
his  comely  face  and  well-knit  figure,  that  they  might  be 
greatly  better  if  he  chose  :  and  that  once,  roused  and  made 
earnest  (but  he  never  had  been  earnest  yet),  he  could  be 
full  of  fire  and  purpose.  "A  dangerous  sort  of  liber- 
tine," thought  the  shrewd  lawyer,  "to  seem  to  catch  the 
spark  he  wants,  from  a  young  lady's  eyes." 

"  Now,  observe,  Snitchey,"  he  continued,  rising  and 
taking  him  by  the  button,  "  and  Craggs,"  taking  him  by 
the  button  also,  and  placing  one  partner  on  either  side  of 
him,  so  that  neither  might  evade  him.  "I  don't  ask 
you  for  any  advice.  You  are  right  to  keep  quite  aloof 
from  all  parties  in  such  a  matter,  which  is  not  one  in 
which  grave  men  like  you,  could  interfere,  on  any  side. 
I  am  briefly  going  to  review  in  half-a-dozen  words  my 
position  and  intention,  and  then  I  shall  leave  it  to  you  to 
do  the  best  for  me,  in  money  matters,  that  you  can ; 
seeing,  that,  if  I  run  away  with  the  Doctor's  beautiful 
daughter  (as  I  hope  to  do,  and  to  become  another  man 
under  her  bright  influence),  it  will  be,  for  the  moment, 
more  chargeable  than  running  away  alone.  But  I  shall 
soon  make  all  that  up  in  an  altered  life." 

' '  I  think  it  will  be  better  not  to  hear  this,  Mr.  Craggs  ?" 
said  Snitchey,  looking  at  him  across  the  client. 

"/think  not,"  said  Craggs. — Both  listening  attentively. 

"Well!  You  needn't  hear  it,"  replied  their  client. 
"  I'll  mention  it  however.  I  don't  mean  to  ask  the  Doc- 
tor's consent,  because  he  wouldn't  give  it  me.  But  I 
mean  to  do  the  Doctor  no  wrong  or  harm,  because  (be- 
sides there  being  nothing  serious  in  such  trifles,  as  he 
says)  I  hope  to  rescue  his  child,  my  Marion,  from  what  I 
see — I  know — she  dreads,  and  contemplates  with  misery  : 
that  is,  the  return  of  this  old  lover.  If  anything  in  the 
world  is  true,  it  is  true  that  she  dreads  his  return.  No- 
body is  inj  ured  so  far.  I  am  so  harried  and  worried 
here,  just  now,  that  I  lead  the  life  of  a  flying  fish,  I 
skulk  about  in  the  dark,  I  am  shut  out  of  my  own  house, 
and  warned  off  my  own  grounds  ;  but,  that  house,  and 
those  grounds,  and  many  an  acre  besides,  will  come 
back  to  me  one  day,  as  you  know  and  say  ;  and  Marion 
will  probably  be  richer — on  your  showing,  who  are  never 
sanguine  — ten  years  hence  as  my  wife,  than  as  the  wife 
of  Alfred  Heathfield,  whose  return  she  dreads  (remem- 
ber that),  and  in  whom  or  in  any  man,  my  passion  is  not 
surpassed.  Who  is  injured  yet  ?  It  is  a  fair  case 
throughout.  My  right  is  as  good  as  his,  if  she  decide 
in  my  favour  ;  and  I  will  try  my  right  by  her  alone. 
You  will  like  to  know  no  more  after  this,  and  I  will  tell 
you  no  more.  Now  you  know  my  purpose,  and  wants. 
When  must  I  leave  here  ?  " 

"  In  a  week,"  said  Snitchey.    "  Mr.  Craggs  ?" 

"  In  something  less,  I  should  say,"  responded  Craggs. 

"  In  a  month,"  said  the  client,  after  attentively  watch- 
ing the  two  faces.  "  This  day  month.  To  day  is  Thurs- 
day,   Succeed  or  fail,  on  this  day  month  I  go." 

"It's  too  long  a  delay,"  said  Snitchey;  "much  too 
long.  But  let  it  be  so.  I  thought  he'd  have  stipulated 
for  three,"  he  murpured  to  himself.  "  Are  you  going? 
Good  night,  sir  !  " 

"Good  night!"  returned  the  client,  shaking  hands 
with  the  Firm.  "You'll  live  to  see  me  making  a  good- 
use  of  riches  yet.  Henceforth  the  star  of  my  destiny  is> 
Marion  ! " 

"  Take  care  of  the  stairs,  sir,"  replied  Snitchey  ;  "  for 
she  don't  shine  there.    Good  night !  " 
"  Good  night  !" 

So  they  both  stood  at  the  stair-head  with  a  pair  of  of- 
fice candles,  watching  him  down.  When  he  had  gone 
away,  they  stood  looking  at  each  other, 

"What  do  you  think  of  all  this,  Mr.  Craggs?"  said 
Snitchey, 

Mr,  Craggs  shook  his  head, 

' '  It  was  our  opinion,  on  the  day  when  that  release 
was  executed,  that  there  was  something  curious  in  the 
parting  of  that  pair,  I  recollect,"  said  Snitchey. 

"  It  was,"  said  Mr,  Craggs. 

"Perhaps  he  deceives  himself  altogether,"  pursued 


CHRISTMA  S    B  0  OKS, 


305 


Mr.  Snitchey,  locking  up  the  fire-proof  box,  and  putting 
it  away  ;  "or,  if  he  don't,  a  little  bit  of  fickleness  and 
perfidy  is  not  a  miracle,  Mr.  Craggs.  And  yet  I  thought 
that  pretty  face  was  very  true.  I  thought,"  said  Mr. 
Snitchey,  putting  on  his  great  coat  (for  the  weather  was 
very  cold),  drawing  on  his  gloves,  and  snuffing  out  one 
candle,  "that  Iliad  even  seen  her  character  becoming 
stronger  and  more  resolved  of  late.  More  like  her  sis- 
ter's." 

"Mrs.  Craggs  was  of  the  same  opinion,"  returned 
Craggs. 

"I'd  really  give  a  trifle  to-night,"  observed  Mr. 
Snitchey,  who  was  a  good-natured  man,  "  if  I  could  be- 
lieve tliat  Mr.  Warden  was  reckoning  without  his  host  ; 
but,  light-headed,  capricious,  and  unballasted  as  he  is, 
he  knows  something  of  the  world  and  its  ])eople  (he 
ought  to,  for  he  has  bought  what  he  does  know,  dear 
enough)  ;  and  I  cnn't  quite  think  that.  We  had  better 
not  interfere  ;  we  can  do  nothing,  Mr.  Craggs,  but  keep 
quiet." 

"  Nothing,"  returned  Craggs. 

"  Our  friend  the  Doctor  makes  light  of  such  things," 
said  Mr.  Snitchey,  shaking  his  head.  "  I  hope  he 
mayn't  stand  in  need  of  his  philosophy.  Our  friend  Alfred 
talks  of  the  battle  of  life,"  he  shook  his  head  again,  "  I 
hope  he  mayn't  be  cut  down  early  in  the  day.  Have 
you  got  your  hat,  Mr.  Craggs  ?  I  am  going  to  put  the 
other  candle  out, " 

Mr.  Craggs  replying  in  the  affirmative,  Mr.  Snitchey 
suited  the  action  to  the  word,  and  they  groped  their 
way  out  of  the  council-chamber,  now  as  dark  as  the  sub- 
ject, or  the  law  in  general. 

My  story  passes  to  a  quiet  little  study,  where  on  that 
same  night,  the  sisters  and  the  hale  old  Doctor  sat  by  a 
cheerful  fireside,  Grace  was  working  at  her  needle. 
Marion  read  aloud  from  a  book  before  her.  The  Doctor 
in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  with  his  feet  spread 
out  upon  the  warm  rug,  leaned  back  in  his  easy  chair, 
and  listened  to  the  book,  and  looked  upon  his  daughters. 

They  were  very  beautiful  to  look  upon.  Two  better 
faces  for  a  fire-side,  never  made  a  fire-side  bright  and 
sacred.  Something  of  the  difference  between  them  had 
been  softened  down  in  three  years'  time  ;  and  enthroned 
upon  the  clear  brow  of  the  younger  sister,  looking 
through  her  eyes,  and  thrilling  in  her  voice,  was  the 
same  earnest  nature  that  her  own  motherless  youth  had 
ripened  in  the  elder  sister  long  ago.  But  she  still  ap- 
peared at  once  the  lovelier  and  weaker  of  the  two  ;  still 
seemed  to  rest  her  head  upon  her  sister's  breast,  and 
put  her  trust  in  her,  and  look  into  her  eyes  for  counsel 
and  reliance.  Those  loving  eyes,  so  calm,  serene,  and 
cheerful,  as  of  old. 

"  *  And  being  in  her  own  home,'"  read  Marion,  from 
the  book  ;  "  'her  home  made  exquisitely  dear  by  these 
remembrances,  she  now  began  to  know  that  the  great 
trial  of  her  heart  must  soon  come  on,  and  could  not  be 
delayed.  0  Home,  our  comforter  and  friend  when  others 
fall  away,  to  part  with  whom,  at  any  step  between  the 
cradle  and  the  grave '  " — 

"Marion,  my  love  !"  said  Grace. 

"Why,  Puss!"  exclaimed  her  father,  "what's  the 
matter  ! " 

She  put  her  hand  upon  the  hand  her  sister  stretched 
towards  her,  and  read  on  ;  her  voice  still  faltering  and 
trembling,  though  she  made  an  effort  to  command  it 
when  thus  interrupted. 

"  '  To  part  with  whom,  at  any  step  between  the  cradle 
and  the  grave,  is  always  sorrowful.^  0  Home,  so  true  to 
us,  so  often  slighted  in  return,  be  lenient  to  them  that 
turn  away  from  thee,  and  do  not  haunt  their  erring  foot- 
steps too  reproachfully  !  Let  no  kind  looks,  no  well-re- 
membered smiles  be  seen  upon  thy  phantom  face.  Let 
no  ray  of  affection,  welcome,  gentleness,  forbearance, 
cordiality,  shine  from  thy  white  head.  Let  no  old  loving 
word,  or  tone,  rise  up  in  judgment  against  thy  deserter  ; 
but  if  thou  canst  look  harshly,  and  severely,  do,  in 
mercy  to  the  Penitent  ! '  " 

"  Dear  Marion,  read  ho  more  to-night,"  said  Grace — 
for  she  was  weeping. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  replied,  and  closed  the  book.  "The 
words  seem  all  on  fire  ! " 

Vol.  II.— 20 


I     The  Doctor  was  amused  at  this  ;  and  laughed  as  he 

patted  her  on  the  head. 
I  "What!  overcome  by  a  story-book!"  said  Doctor 
Jeddler.  "  Print  and  pai>er  !  Well,  well,  it's  all  one. 
It's  as  rational  to  make  a  serious  matter  of  print  and 
paper  as  of  anything  else.  But,  dry  your  eyes,  love, 
dry  your  eyes.  I  dare  say  the  heroine  has  got  home  again 
long  ago,  and  made  it  up  all  round — and  if  she  hasn't,  a 
real  home  is  only  four  walls  ;  and  a  fictitious  one,  mere 
rags  and  ink.    What's  the  matter  now  ?" 

"  It's  only  me.  Mister,"  said  Clemency,  putting  in  her 
head  at  the  door. 

"  And  what's  the  matter  with  you?  "  said  the  Doctor. 

"Oh,  bless  you,  nothing  ain't  the  matter  with  me," 
returned  Clemency — and  truly  too,  to  jud^e  from  her 
well-soaped  face,  in  which  there  gleamed  as  usual  the 
very  soul  of  good-humour,  which,  ungainly  as  she  was, 
made  her  quite  engaging.  Abrasions  on  the  elbows  are 
not  generally  understood,  it  is  true,  to  range  within  that 
class  of  personal  charms  called  beauty-spots.  But,  it  is 
better,  going  through  the  world,  to  have  the  arms  chafed 
in  that  narrow  passage,  than  the  temper  :  and  Clemency's 
was  sound,  and  whole  as  any  beauty's  in  the  land. 

"Nothing  ain't  the  matter  with  me,"  said  Clemency, 
entering,  "  but — come  a  little  closer,  Mister." 

The  Doctor,  in  some  astonishment,  comjjlied  with  this 
invitation. 

"You  said  I  wasn't  to  give  you  one  before  them,  you 
know,"  said  Clemency. 

A  novice  in  the  family  might  have  supposed,  from  her 
extraordinary  ogling  as  she  said  it,  as  wxll  as  from  a 
singular  rapture  or  ecstasy  which  pervaded  her  elbows, 
as  if  she  were  embracing  herself,  that  "  one,"  in  its  most 
favourable  interpretation,  meant  a  chaste  salute.  In- 
deed the  Doctor  himself  seemed  alarmed,  for  the  mo- 
ment ;  but  quickly  regained  his  composure,  as  Clemency, 
having  had  recourse  to  both  her  pockets — beginning  with 
the  right  one,  going  away  to  the  wrong  one,  and  after- 
wards coming  back  to  the  right  one  again — produced  a 
letter  from  the  Post-office. 

"Britain  was  riding  by  on  an  errand,"  she  chuckled, 
handing  it  to  the  Doctor,  "  and  see  the  mail  come  in,  and 
waited  for  it.  There's  A.  H.  in  the  corner.  Mr.  Alfred's 
on  his  journey  home,  1  bet.  We  shall  have  a  wedding 
in  the  house — there  was  two  spoons  in  my  saucer  this 
morning..    Oh  Luck,  how  slow  he  opens  it  ! " 

All  this  she  delivered  by  way  of  soliloquy,  gradually 
rising  higher  and  higher  on  tiptoe,  in  her  impatience  to 
hear  the  news,  and  making  a  corkscrew  of  her  apron, 
and  a  bottle  of  her  mouth.  At  last,  arriving  at  a  climax 
of  suspense,  and  seeing  the  Doctor  still  engaged  in  the 
perusal  of  the  letter,  she  came  down  flat  upon  the  soles 
of  her  feet  again,  and  cast  her  apron,  as  a  veil,  over  her 
head,  in  a  mute  despair,  and  inability  to  bear  it  any 
longer. 

"  Here  !  Girls  !  "  cried  the  Doctor.  "  I  can't  help  it  : 
I  never  could  keep  a  secret  in  my  life.  There  are  not 
many  secrets,  indeed,  worth  being  kept  in  such  a — well  ! 
never  mind  that.  Alfred's  coming  home,  my  dears,  di- 
rectly. " 

"  Directly  !  "  exclaimed  Marion. 

"What  !  The  story-book  is  soon  forgotten  !"  said 
the  Doctor,  pinching  her  cheek.  "  I  thought  the  news 
would  dry  those  eyes.  Yes.  'Let  it  be  a  surprise,'  he 
says,  here  But  I  can't  let  it  be  a  surprise.  He  must 
have  a  welcome." 

"  Directly  !  "  repeated  Marion. 

"Why,  perhaps,  not  what  your  impatience  calls  'di- 
rectly, '  '*'  returned  the  Doctor  ;  ' '  but  pretty  soon  too. 
Let  us  see.  Let  u*  see.  To-day  is  Thursday,^  is  it  not  ? 
Then  he  promises  to  be  here,  this  day  month." 

"  This  day  month  I"  repeated  Marion,  softly. 

"A  gay  day  and  a  holiday  for  us,"  said  the  cheerful 
voice  of  her  sister  Grace,  kissing  her  in  congratulation. 
"Long  looked  forward  to,  dearest,  and  come  at  last."' 

She  answered  with  a  smile  ;  a  mournful  smile,  but  full 
of  sisterly  affection.  As  she  looked  in  her  sister's  face, 
and  listened  to  the  quiet  music  of  her  voice,  picturing 
the  happiness  of  this  return,  her  own  face  glowed  with 
hope  and  joy. 

And  with  a  something  else  ;  a  something  shining  more 
and  more  through  all  the  rest  of  its  expression  ;  for 


306 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


which  I  have  no  name.  It  was  not  exultation,  triumph, 
proud  enthusiasm.  They  are  not  so  calmly  shown.  It 
was  not  love  and  gratitude  alone,  though  love  and  grati- 
tude were  part  of  it.  It  emanated  from  no  sordid 
thought,  for  sordid  thoughts  do  not  light  up  the  brow, 
and  hover  on  the  lips,  and  move  the  spirit  like  a  flut- 
tered light,  until  the  sympathetic  figure  trembles. 

Doctor  Jeddler,  in  spite  of  his  system  of  philosophy — 
which  he  was  continually  contradicting  and  denying  in 
practice,  but  more  famous  philosophers  have  done  that 
— could  not  help  having  as  much  interest  in  the  return 
of  his  old  Avard  and  pupil,  as  if  it  had  been  a  serious 
event.  So,  he  sat  himself  down  in  his  easy  chair  again, 
stretched  out  his  slippered  feet  once  more  upon  the  rug, 
read  the  letter  over  and  over  a  great  many  times,  and 
talked  it  over  more  times  still. 

"  Ah  !  The  day  was,"  said  the  Doctor,  looking  at  the 
fire,  "  when  you  and  he,  Grace,  used  to  trot  about  arm- 
in-arm,  in  his  holiday  time,  like  a  couple  of  walking 
dolls.    You  remember  ?  " 

"  I  remember,"  she  answered,  with  her  pleasant  laugh, 
and  plying  her  needle  busily. 

"  This  day  month,  indeed  !  "  mused  the  Doctor.  "  That 
hardly  seems  a  twelvemonth  ago.  And  where  was  my 
little  Marion  then  !  " 

"Never  far  from  her  sister,"  said  Marion,  cheerily, 
"however  little,  Grace  was  everything  to  me,  even 
when  she  was  a  young  child  herself." 

"  True,  Puss,  true,"  returned  the  Doctor.  "  She  was 
a  staid  little  woman,  was  Grace,  and  a  wise  housekeeper, 
and  a  busy,  quiet,  pleasant  body  ;  bearing  with  our  hu- 
mours, and  anticipating  our  wishes,  and  always  ready  to 
forget  her  own,  even  in  those  times.  I  never  knew  you 
positive  or  obstinate,  Grace,  my  darling,  even  then,  on 
any  subject  but  one." 

**  I  am  afraid  I  have  changed  sadly  for  the  worse, 
since,"  laughed  Grace,  still  busy  at  her  work.  "  What 
was  that  one,  father?" 

"  Alfred,  of  course,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  Nothing 
would  serve  you  but  you  must  be  called  Alfred's  wife  ; 
so  we  called  you  Alfred's  wife  ;  and  you  liked  it  better  I 
believe  (odd  as  it  seems  now),  than  being  called  a  Duchess, 
if  we  could  have  made  you  one." 

"  Indeed  ?"  said  Grace  placidly. 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember?"  inquired  the  Doctor. 

"I  think  I  remember  something  of  it,"  she  returned, 
"but not  much.  It's  so  long  ago."  And  as  she  sat  at 
work,  she  hummed  the  burden  of  an  old  song,  which  the 
Doctor  liked. 

"  Alfred  will  find  a  real  wife  soon,"  she  said,  break- 
ing off  ;  "  and  that  will  be  a  happy  time  indeed  for  all  of 
us.  My  three  years'  trust  is  nearly  at  an  end,  Marion. 
It  has  been  a  very  easy  one.  I  shall  tell  Alfred,  when  I 
give  you  back  to  him,  that  you  have  loved  him  dearly 
all  the  time,  and  that  he  has  never  once  needed  my  good 
services.    May  I  tell  him  so,  love  ?  " 

"  Tell  him,  dear  Grace,"  replied  Marion,  "  that  there 
never  was  a  trust  so  generously,  nobly,  steadfastly  dis- 
charged ;  and  that  I  have  loved  you,  all  the  time,  dearer 
and  dearer,  every  day  ;  and  0  !  how  dearly  now  !  " 

"Nay,"  said  her  cheerful  sister,  returning  her  em- 
brace, "  I  can  scarcely  tell  him  that  ;  we  will  leave  my 
deserts  to  Alfred's  imagination.  It  will  be  liberal 
enough,  dear  Marion  ;  like  your  own." 

With  that,  she  resumed  the  work  she  had  for  a  mo- 
ment laid  down,  when  her  sister  spoke  so  fervently  ; 
and  with  it  the  old  song  the  Doctor  liked  to  hear.  And 
the  Doctor,  still  reposing  in  his  easy  chair,  with  his  slip- 
pered feet  stretched  out  before  him  on  the  rug,  listened 
to  the  tune,  and  beat  time  on  his  knee  with  Alfred's  let- 
ter, and  looked  at  his  two  daughters,  and  thought  that 
among  the  many  trifles  of  the  trifling  world,  these  trifles 
were  agreeable  enough. 

Clemency  Newcome,  in  the  meantime,  having  accom- 
plished her  mission  and  lingered  in  the  room  until  she 
had  made  herself  a  party  to  the  news,  descended  to  the 
kitchen,  where  her  coadjutor,  Mr.  Britain,  was  regaling 
after  supper,  surrounded  by  such  a  plentiful  collection 
of  bright  pot-lids,  well-scoured  saucepans,  burnished 
dinner-covers,  gleaming  kettles,  and  other  tokens  of  her 
industrious  habits,  arranged  upon  the  walls  and  shelves, 
that  he  sat  as  in  the  centre  of  a  hall  of  mirrors.  The 


majority  did  not  give  forth  very  flattering  portraits  of 
him,  certainly  ;  nor  were  they  by  any  means  unanimous 
in  their  reflections  ;  as  some  made  him  very  long-faced, 
others  very  broad-faced,  some  tolerably  well-looking, 
others  vastly  ill-looking,  according  to  their  several  man- 
ners of  reflecting  :  which  were  as  various,  in  respect  of 
one  fact,  as  those  of  so  many  kinds  of  men.  But  they 
all  agreed  that  in  the  midst  of  them  sat,  quite  at  his 
ease,  an  individual  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a  jug 
of  beer  at  his  elbow,  who  nodded,  condescendingly  to 
Clemency,  when  she  stationed  herself  at  the  same  table, 

"Well,  Clemmy,"  said  Britain,  "how  are  you  by 
this  time,  and  what's  the  news?" 

Clemency  told  him  the  news,  which  he  received  very 
graciously.  A  gracious  change  had  come  over  Benjamin 
from  head  to  foot.  He  was  much  broader,  much  redder, 
much  more  cheerful,  and  much  jollier  in  all  respects.  It 
seemed  as  if  his  face  had  been  tied  up  in  a  knot  before, 
and  was  now  untwisted  and  smoothed  out. 

"There'll  be  another  job  for  Snitchey  and  Craggs,  I 
suppose, "  he  observed,  puffing  slowly  at  his  pipe,  "  More 
witnessing  for  you  and  me,  perhaps,  Clemmy  !  " 

"  Lor  !  "  replied  his  fair  companion,  with  her  favourite 
twist  of  her  favourite  joints.  "  I  wish  it  was  me,  Brit- 
ain ! " 

"  Wish  what  was  you  ?" 
"  A  going  to  be  married,"  said  Clemency, 
Benjamin  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  laughed 
heartily.    "Yes  !  you're  a  likely  subject  for  that  !"  he 
said,    "  Poor  Clem  ! "  Clemency  for  her  part  laughed  as 
heartily  as  he,  and  seemed  as  much  amused  by  the  idea, 
*  Yes,"  she  assented,  "  I'm  a  likely  subject  for  that ;  an't 
I?" 

"  You'll  never  be  married,  you  know,"  said* Mr.  Britain, 
resuming  his  pipe. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  ever  shall  though?"  said  Clemen- 
cy, in  perfect  good  faith. 

j     Mr.  Britain  shook  his  head.    "  Not  a  chance  of  it !  " 

"Only  think  !"  said  Clemency.  "Well  ! — I  suppose 
you  mean  to,  Britain,  one  of  these  days  ;  don't  you?" 

A  question  so  abrupt,  upon  a  subject  so  momentous, re- 
quired consideration.  After  blowing  out  a  great  cloud 
of  smoke,  and  looking  at  it  with  his  head  now  on  this  side 
and  now  on  that,  as  if  it  were  actually  the  question,  and 
he  were  surveying  it  in  various  aspects,  Mr.  Britain  re- 
plied that  he  wasn't  altogether  clear  about  it,  but — ye-es 
— he  thought  he  might  come  to  that  at  last. 

"  I  wish  her  joy,  whoever  she  may  be  !"  cried  Clem- 
ency. 

"  Oh  she'll  have  that,"  said  Benjamin,  "  safe  enough." 

"  But  she  wouldn't  have  led  quite  such  a  joyful  life  as  i 
she  will  lead,  and  wouldn't  have  had  quite  such  a  sociable 
sort  of  husband  as  she  will  have,"  said  Clemency,  spread-l 
ing  herself  half  over  the  table,  and  staring  retrospective-l 
ly  at  the  candle,  "if  it  hadn't  been  for — not  that  I  went 
to  do  it,  for  it  was  accidental,  I  am  sure — if  it  hadn't  been 
for  me  ;  now  would  she,  Britain  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  returned  Mr.  Britain,  by  this  time  in 
that  high,  state  of  appreciation  of  his  pipe,  when  a  man 
can  open  his  mouth  but  a  very  little  way  for  speaking 
purposes  ;  and  sitting  luxuriously  immovable  in  his  chair, 
can  afEordto  turn  only  his  eyes  towards  a  companion,  am  ' 
that  very  passively  and  gravely.  "  Oh  !  I'm  greatly  be 
holden  to  you,  you  know,  Clem." 

"  Lor,  how  nice  that  is  to  think  of,"  said  Clemency. 

At  the  same  time  bringing  her  thoughts  as  well  as  he: 
sight  to  bear  upon  the  candle  grease,  and  becoming  ab 
ruptly  reminiscent  of  its  healing  qualities  as  a  balsam 
she  anointed  her  left  elbow  with  a  plentiful  applicatioi 
of  that  remedy, 

' '  You  see  I've  made  a  good  many  investigations  of  on( 
sort  and  another  in  my  time,"  pursued  Mr.  Britain,  witl 
the  profundity  of  a  sage  ;  "  having  been  always  of  an  in 
quiring  turn  of  mind  ;  and  I've  read  a  good  many  book  J 
about  the  general  Rights  of  things  and  Wrongs  of  things, 
for  I  went  into  the  literary  line  myself  when  I  began 
life," 

"  Did  you  though  !"  cried  the  admiring  Clemency. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Britain  :  "  I  was  hid  for  the  best  par 
of  two  years  behind  a  bookstall,  ready  to  fly  out  if  anj 
body  pocketed  a  volume  ;  and  after  that,  I  was  light  poi 
ter  to  a  stay  and  mantua-maker,  in  which  capacity  I  wa 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


307 


employed  to  carry  about,  in  oilskin  baskets,  nothing  but 
deceptions — which  soured  my  spirits  and  disturbed  my 
confidence  in  human  nature  ;  and  after  that,  I  heard  a 
world  of  discussions  in  this  house,  which  soured  my  spir- 
its fresh  ;  and  my  opinion  after  all  is,  that,  as  a  safe  and 
comfortable  sweetener  of  the  same,  and  as  a  pleasant 
guide  through  life,  there's  nothing  like  a  nutmeg  grat- 
er. 

Clemency  was  about  to  offer  a  suggestion,  but  he  stopped 
her  by  anticipating  it. 

"  Com-bined,"  he  added  gravely,  "  with  a  thimble." 

"  Do  as  you  wold,  you  know,  and  cetrer,  eh  !  "  observed 
Clemency,  folding  her  arms  comfortably  in  her  delight 
at  this  avowal,  and  patting  her  elbows.  "  Such  a  short 
cut,  an't  it?" 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  said  Mr.  Britain,  "  that  it's  what  would 
be  considered  good  philosophy.  I've  my  doubts  about 
that  ;  but  it  were  as  well,  and  saves  a  quantity  of  snarl- 
ing, which  the  genuine  article  don't  always." 

' '  See  how  you  used  to  go  on  once,  yourself,  you  know  1 " 
said  Clemency. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Britain.  "  But,  the  most  extraordi- 
nary thing,  Clemmy,  is  that  I  should  live  to  be  brought 
round,  through  you.  That's  the  strange  part  of  it. 
Through  you  !  Why,  I  suppose  you  haven't  so  much  as 
half  an  idea  in  your  head." 

Clemency,  without  taking  the  least  offence,  shook  it, 
and  laughed,  and  hugged  herself,  and  said,  "  No,  she 
didn't  suppose  she  had." 

"  I'm  pretty  sure  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Britain. 
*'  Oh  !    I  dare  say  you're  right,"  said  Clemency.    "  I 
don't  pretend  to  none.    I  don't  want  any." 

Benjamin  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  and  laughed  till 
the  tears  ran  down  his  face,  "  What  a  natural  you  are, 
Clemmy  ! "  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  with  an  infinite 
relish  of  the  joke,  and  wiping  his  eyes.  Clemency,  with- 
out the  smallest  inclination  to  dispute  it,  did  the  like, 
and  laughed  as  heartily  as  he. 

"  I  can't  help  liking  you,"  said  Mr.  Britain  ;  "you're 
a  regular  good  creature  in  your  way,  so  shake  hands 
Clem.  Whatever  happens,  I'll  always  take  notice  of 
you,  and  be  a  friend  to  you." 

"Will  you?"  returned  Clemency.  "Well!  that's 
very  good  of  you." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Britain,  giving  her  his  pipe  to 
knock  the  ashes  out  of  it ;  "  I'll  stand  by  you.  Hark  ! 
That's  a  curious  noise  !  " 

"  Noise  !  "  repeated  Clemency. 

"  A  footstep  outside.  Somebody  dropping  from  the 
wall,  it  sounded  like,"  said  Britain.  "  Are  they  all  abed 
np-stairs  ?  " 

"  Yes,  all  abed  by  this  time,"  she  replied. 

*'  Didn't  you  hear  anything  ?  " 

"No." 

They  both  listened,  but  heard  nothing. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  Benjamin,  taking  down  a 
lantern,  "  I'll  have  a  look  round,  before  I  go  to  bed  my- 
self, for  satisfaction  sake.  Undo  the  door  while  I  light 
this,  Clemmy  ! " 

Clemency  complied  briskly  ;  but  observed  as  she  did 
so,  that  he  would  only  have  his  walk  for  his  pains,  that 
it  was  all  his  fancy,  and  so  forth.  Mr.  Britain  said 
"  very  likely  ; "  but  sallied  out,  nevertheless,  armed, 
with  the  poker,  and  casting  the  light  of  the  lantern  far 
and  near  in  all  directions. 

"  It's  as  quiet  as  a  churchyard,"  said  Clemency,  look- 
ing after  him  :  "  and  almost  as  ghostly  too  !" 

Glancing  back  into  the  kitchen,  she  cried  fearfully,  as 
a  light  figure  stole  into  her  view,  ' '  What's  that !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Marion,  in  an  agitated  whisper.  "  You 
have  always  loved  me,  have  you  not !  " 

"  Loved  you,  child  !    You  may  be  sure  I  have." 

"  I  am  sure.  And  I  may  trust  you,  may  I  not  ?  There 
is  no  one  else  just  now,  in  whom  I  can  trust." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clemency,  with  all  her  heart. 

"  There  is  some  one  out  there,"  pointing  to  the  door, 
*'  whom  I  must  see,  and  speak  with,  to-night.  Michael 
Warden,  for  God's  sake  retire  !    Not  now  !  " 

Clemency  started  with  surprise  and  troubled  as,  follow- 
ing the  direction  of  the  speaker's  eyes,  she  saw  a  dark 
figure  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  In  another  moment  you  may  be  discovered,"  said 


Marion.  "  Not  now  !  Wait,  if  you  can,  in  some  con- 
cealment.   I  will  come  presently." 

He  waved  his  hand  to  her,  and  was  gone. 

"  Don't  go  to  bed.  Wait  here  for  me  !"  said  Marion 
hurriedly.  "  I  have  been  seeking  to  speak  to  you  for 
an  hour  past.    Oh,  be  true  to  me  !  " 

Eagerly  seizing  her  bewildered!  hand,  and  pressing  it 
with  both  her  own  to  her  breast — an  action  more  express- 
ive, in  its  passion  of  entreaty,  thtin  the  most  eloquent 
appeal  in  words, — Marion  withdrew  ;  as  the  light  of  the 
returning  lantern  flashed  into  the  room. 

"  All  still  and  peaceable.    Nobody  there.     Fancy,  I 
{  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Britain,  as  he  locked  and  barred  the 
door.    "  One  of  the  effects  of  having  a  lively  imagina- 
tion.   Holloa  !    Why  what's  the  matter?" 

Clemency,  who  could  not  conceal  the-  effects  of  her 
surprise  and  concern,  was  sitting  in  a  chair  :  pale,  and 
trembling  from  head  to  foot, 

"  Matter  1"  she  repeated,  chafing  her  hands  and 
elbows,  nervously,  and  looking  anywhere  but  at  him. 
"  That's  good  in  you,  Britain,  that  is  !  After  going  and 
frightening  one  out  of  one's  life  with  noises,  and  lanterns, 
and  I  don't  know  what  all.    Matter  !    Oh,  yes  !  " 

"  If  you're  frightened  out  of  your  life  by  a  lantern, 
Clemmy,"  said  Mr.  Britain,  composedly  blowing  it  out 
and  hanging  it  up  again,  "that  apparition's  very  soon 
got  rid  of.  But  you're  as  bold  as  brass  in  general,"  he 
said,  stopping  to  observe  her  ;  "  and  were,  after  the 
noise  and  the  lantern  too.  What  have  you  taken  into 
your  head  ?    Not  an  idea,  eh  ?  " 

But,  as  Clemency  bade  him  good  night  very  much 
after  her  usual  fashion,  and  began  to  bustle  about  with 
a  show  of  going  to  bed  herself  immediately,  Little  Britain, 
after  giving  utterance  to  the  original  remark  that  it  was 
impossible  to  account  for  a  woman's  whims,  bade  her 
good  night  in  return,  and  taking  up  his  candle  strolled 
drowsily  away  to  bed. 

When  all  was  quiet,  Marion  returned. 

"Open  the  door,"  she  said;  "and  stand  there  close 
beside  me  while  I  speak  to  him,  outside." 

Timid  as  her  manner  was,  it  still  evinced  a  resolute 
and  settled  purpose,  such  as  Clemency  could  not  resist. 
She  softly  unbarred  the  door ;  but  before  turning  the 
key,  looked  round  on  the  young  creature  waiting  to  issue 
forth  when  she  should  open  it. 

The  face  was  not  averted  or  cast  down,  but  looking 
full  upon  her,  in  its  pride  of  youth  and  beauty.  Some 
simple  sense  of  the  slightness  of  the  barrier  that  inter- 
posed itself  between  the  happy  home  and  honoured  love 
of  the  fair  girl,  and  what  might  be  the  desolation  of  that 
home,  and  shipwreck  of  its  dearest  treasure,  smote  so 
keenly  on  the  tender  heart  of  Clemency,  and  so  filled  it 
to  overflowing  with  sorrow  and  compassion,  that,  burst- 
ing into  tears,  she  threw  her  arms  round  Marion's  neck. 

"It's  little  that  I  know,  my  dear,"  cried  Clemency, 
"  very  little  ;  but  I  know  that  this  should  not  be.  Think 
of  what  you  do  !" 

"I  have  thought  of  it  many  times,"  said  Marion 
gently. 

"Once  more,"  urged  Clemency.  "Till  to-morrow." 
Marion  shook  her  head. 

"  For  Mr.  Alfred's  sake,"  said  Clemency,  with  homely 
earnestness.  "  Him  that  you  used  to  love  so  dearly, 
once  !  " 

She  hid  her  face,  upon  the  instant,  in  her  hands,  re- 
peating "  Once  !  "  as  if  it  rent  her  heart. 

"  Let  me  go  out,"  said  Clemency,  soothing  her.  "  I'll 
tell  him  what  you  like.  Don't  cross  the  door-step  to- 
night. I'm  sure  no  good  will  come  of  it.  Oh,  it  was  an 
unhappy  day  when  Mr,  Warden  was  ever  brought  here  ! 
Think  of  your  good  father,  darling — of  your  sister." 

"I  have,"  said  Marion,  hastily  raising  her  head, 
"  You  don't  know  what  I  do.  You  don't  know  what  I 
do.  I  must  speak  to  him.  You  are  the  best  and  truest 
friend  in  all  the  world  for  what  you  have  said  to  me, 
but  I  must  take  this  step.  Will  you  go  with  me.  Clem- 
ency," she  kissed  her  on  her  friendly  face,  "  or  shall  I 
go  alone  ?  " 

Sorrowing  and  wondering,  Clemency  turned  the  key, 
and  opened  the  door.  Into  the  dark  and  doubtful  night 
that  lay  beyond  the  threshold,  Marion  passed  quickly, 
holding  by  her  hand. 


308 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


In  the  dark  night  he  joined  her,  and  they  spoke  to- 
gether earnestly  and  long ;  and  the  hand  that  held  so 
fast  by  Clemency's,  now  trembled,  now  turned  deadly 
cold,  now  clasped  and  closed  on  hers,  in  the  strong  feel- 
ing of  the  speech  it  emphasised  unconsciously.  When 
they  returned,  he  followed  to  the  door,  and  pausing 
there  a  moment,  seized  the  other  hand,  and  pressed  it 
to  his  lips.    Then,  stealthily  withdrew. 

The  door  was  barred  and  locked  again,  and  once  again 
she  stood  beneath  her  father's  roof.  Not  bowed  down 
by  the  secret  that  she  brought  there,  though  so  young  ;  but 
with  that  same  expression  on  her  face  for  which  I  had 
no  name  before,  and  shining  through  her  tears. 

Again  she  thanked  and  thanked  her  humble  friend, 
and  trusted  to  her,  as  she  said,  with  confidence,  im- 
plicitly. Her  chamber  safely  reached,  she  fell  upon  her 
knees  ;  and  with  her  secret  weighing  on  her  heart,  could 
pray  ! 

Could  rise  up  from  her  prayers,  so  tranquil  and  serene, 
and  bending  over  her  fond  sister  in  her  slumber,  look 
upon  her  face  and  smile — though  sadly  :  murmuring  as 
she  kissed  her  forehead,  how  that  Grace  had  been  a 
mother  to  her,  ever,  and  she  loved  her  as  a  child  ! 

Could  draw  the  passive  arm  about  her  neck  when 
lying  down  to  rest — it  seemed  to  cling  there,  of  its  own 
will,  protectingly  and  tenderly  even  in  sleep — and 
breathe  upon  the  parted  lips,  God  bless  her  ! 

Could  sink  into  a  peaceful  sleep,  herself  ;  but  for  one 
dream,  in  which  she  cried  out,  in  her  innocent  and  touch- 
ing voice,  that  she  was  quite  alone,  and  they  had  all  for- 
gotten her. 

A  month  soon  passes,  even  at  its  tardiest  pace.  The 
month  appointed  to  elapse  between  that  night  and  the 
return,  was  quick  of  foot,  and  went  by,  like  a  vapour. 

The  day  arri  ved.  A  raging  winter  day,  that  shook  the 
old  house,  sometimes,  as  if  it  shivered  in  the  blast.  A 
day  to  make  home  doubly  home.  To  give  the  chimney- 
corner  new  delights.  To  shed  a  ruddier  glow  upon  the 
faces  gathered  round  the  hearth,  and  draw  each  fireside 
group  into  a  closer  and  more  social  league,  against  the 
roaring  elements  without.  Such  a  wild  winter  day  as 
best  prepares  the  way  for  shut-out  night  ;  for  curtained 
rooms,  and  cheerful  looks  ;  for  music,  laughter,  dancing, 
light,  and  jovial  entertainment  ! 

All  these  the  Doctor  had  in  store  to  welcome  Alfred 
back.  They  knew  that  he  could  not  arrive  till  night  ; 
and  they  would  make  the  night  air  ring,  he  said,  as  he 
approached.  All  his  old  friends  should  congregate 
about  him.  He  should  not  miss  a  face  that  he  had 
known  and  liked.  No  !  They  should  every  one  be 
there  ! 

So,  guests  were  bidden,  and  musicians  were  engaged, 
and  tables  spread,  and  floors  prepared  for  active  feet, 
and  bountiful  provision  made  of  every  hospitable  kind. 
Because  it  was  the  Christmas  season,  and  his  eyes  were 
all  unused  to  English  holly  and  its  sturdy  green,  the 
dancing-room  was  garlanded  and  hung  with  it ;  and  the 
red  berries  gleamed  an  English  welcome  to  him,  peeping 
from,  among  the  leaves. 

It  was  a  busy  day  for  all  of  them  ;  a  busier  day  for 
none  of  them  than  Grace,  who  noiselessly  presided 
everywhere,  and  was  the  cheerful  mind  of  all  the  prep- 
arations. Many  a  time  that  day  (as  well  as  many  a  time 
within  the  fleeting  month  preceding  it),  did  Clemency 
glance  anxiously,  and  almost  fearfully  at  Marion.  She 
saw  her  paler,  perhaps,  than  usual  ;  but  there  was  a 
sweet  composure  on  her  face  that  made  it  lovelier  than 
ever. 

At  night  when  she  was  dressed,  and  wore  upon  her 
head  a  wreath  that  Grace  had  proudly  twined  about  it — 
its  mimic  flowers  were  Alfred's  favourites,  as  Grace  re- 
membered when  she  chose  them — that  old  expression, 
pensive,  almost  sorrowful,  and  yet  so  spiritual,  high, 
and  stirring  sat  again  upon  her  brow,  enhanced  a  hun- 
dred fold. 

"The  next  wreath  I  adjust  on  this  fair  head,  will  be 
a  marriage  wreath,"  said  Grace  ;  "or  I  am  no  true  proph- 
et, dear." 

Her  sister  smiled,  and  held  her  in  her  arms. 
"A  moment,  Grace.    Don't  leave  me  yet.    Are  you 
sure  that  I  want  nothing  more?  " 


Her  care  was  not  for  that.  It  was  her  sister's  face  she 
thought  of,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  it,  tenderly. 

"  My  art,"  said  Grace,  "can  go  no  farther,  dear  ^irl  ; 
nor  your  beauty.  I  never  saw  you  look  so  beautiful  as 
now. " 

"  I  never  was  so  happy,"  she  returned. 

"Ay,  but  there  is  a  greater  happiness  in  store.  In 
such  another  home,  as  cheerful  and  as  bright  as  this 
looks  now,"  said  Grace,  "Alfred  and  his  young  wife  will 
soon  be  living." 

She  smiled  again.  "It  is  a  happy  home,  Grabe,  in 
your  fancy.  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  I  know  it  willhe 
happy,  dear.    How  glad  I  am  to  know  it." 

"  Well,"  cried  the  Doctor,  bustling  in.  "Here  we 
are,  all  ready  for  Alfred,  eh?  He  can't  be  here  until 
pretty  late — an  hour  or  so  before  midnight — so  there'll 
be  plenty  of  time  for  making  merry  before  he  comes. 
He'll  not  find  us  with  the  ice  unbroken.  Pile  up  the  fire 
here,  Britain  !  Let  it  shine  upon  the  holly  till  it  winks 
again.  It's  a  world  of  nonsense,  Puss  ;  true  lovers  and 
all  the  rest  of  it — all  nonsense  ;  but  we'll  be  nonsensical 
with  the  rest  of  'em  and  give  our  true  lover  a  mad  wel- 
come. Upon  my  word  !  "  said  the  old  Doctor,  looking  at 
his  daughters  proudly,  "I'm  not  clear  to-night,  among 
other  absurdities,  but  that  I'm  the  father  of  two  hand- 
some girls." 

"  All  that  one  of  them  has  ever  done,  or  may  do — may 
do,  dearest  father — to  cause  you  or  grief,  forgive 

her,"  said  Marion,  "forgive  her  now,  when  her  heart  is 
full.  Say  that  you  forgive  her.  That  you  will  forgive 
her.  That  she  shall  always  share  your  love,  and — ,"  and 
the  rest  was  not  said,  for  her  face  was  hidden  on  the 
old  man's  shoulder. 

"Tut,  tut,  tut,"  said  the  Doctor  gently.  "Forgive! 
What  have  I  to  forgive  ?  Heydey,  if  our  true  lovers 
come  back  to  flurry  us  like  this,  we  must  hold  them  at  a 
distance  ;  we  must  send  expresses  out  to  stop  'em  short 
upon  the  road,  and  bring  'em  on  a  mile  or  two  a  day, 
until  we're  properly  prepared  to  meet  'em.  Kiss  me, 
puss.  Forgive  !  Why,  what  a  silly  child  you  are.  If 
you  had  vexed  and  crossed  me  fifty  times  a  day,  instead 
of  not  at  all,  I'd  forgive  you  everything,  but  such  a  sup- 
plication. Kiss  me  again,  puss.  There  I  Prospective 
and  retrospective — a  clear  score  between  us.  Pile  up 
the  fire  here  !  Would  you  freeze  the  people  on  this 
bleak  December  night !  Let  us  be  light,  and  warm,  and 
merry,  or  I'll  not  forgive  some  of  you  !" 

So  gaily  the  old  Doctor  carried  it !  And  the  fire  was 
piled  up,  and  the  lights  were  bright,  and  company  ar- 
rived, and  a  murmuring  of  lively  tongues  began,  and 
already  there  was  a  pleasant  air  of  cheerful  excitement 
stirring  through  all  the  house. 

More  and  more  company  came  flocking  in.  Bright 
eyes  sparkled  upon  Marion  ;  smiling  lips  gave  her  joy  of 
his  return  ;  sage  mothers  fanned  themselves,  and  hoped 
she  mightn't  be  too  youthful  and  inconstant  for  the  quiet 
round  of  home  ;  impetuous  fathers  fell  into  disgrace,  for 
too  much  exaltation  of  her  beauty  ;  daughters  envied 
her ;  sons  envied  him  ;  innumerable  pairs  of  lovers 
profited  by  the  occasion  ;  all  were  interested,  animated, 
and  expectant. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craggs  came  arm  in  arm,  but  Mrs. 
Snitchey  came  alone.  "  Why,  what's  become  of  liim  ?  " 
inquired  the  Doctor. 

The  feather  of  a  Bird  of  Paradise  in  Mrs.  Snitchey's 
turban,  trembled  as  if  the  Bird  of  Paradise  were  alive 
again,  when  she  said  that  doubtless  Mr.  Craggs  knew. 
8he  was  never  told. 

"  That  nasty  office,"  said  Mrs.  Craggs. 

"  I  wish  it  was  burnt  down,"  said  Mrs.  Snitchey. 

"He's — he's — there's  a  little  matter  of  business  that 
keeps  my  partner  rather  late,"  said  Mr.  Craggs,  looking 
uneasily  about  him. 

"Oh— h!  Business.  Don't  tell  me!"  said  Mrs. 
Snitchey. 

"  We  know  what  business  means,"  said  Mrs.  Craggs. 

But  their  not  knowing  what  it  meant,  was  perhaps  the 
reason  why  Mrs.  Snitchey's  Bird  of  Paradise  feathei 
quivered  so  portentously,  and  why  all  the  pendant  bits 
on  Mrs.  Craggs's  ear  rings  shook  like  little  bells. 

"I  wonder  you  could  come  away,  Mr.  Craggs,"  saic 
his  wife. 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


309 


"Mr.  Craggs  is  fortunate,  I'm  sure!"  said  Mrs. 
Snitchey. 

"  That  office  so  engrosses  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Craggs. 

"  A  person  with  an  office  has  no  business  to  be  mar- 
ried at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Snitcliey. 

Then,  Mrs.  Snitchey  said,  within  herself,  that  that 
look  of  hers  had  pierced  to  Craggs's  soul,  and  he  knew 
it;  and  Mrs.  Craggs  observed,  to  Craggs,  that  "his 
Snitcheys"  were  deceiving  him  behind  his  back,  and  he 
would  find  it  out  when  it  was  too  late. 

Still,  Mr.  Craggs,  without  much  heeding  these  remarks, 
looked  uneasily  about  him  until  his  eye  rested  on 
Orace,  to  whom  he  immediately  presented  himself. 

"  Good  evening,  ma'am,"  said  Craggs.  "  You  look 
charmingly.  Your — Miss — yodr  sister,  Miss  Marion,  is 
she  " 

"  Oh  she's  quite  well,  Mr.  Craggs." 
"Yes — I — is  she  here  ?"  asked  Craggs. 
"  Here  !  Don't  you  see  her  yonder  ?  Going  to  dance?" 
said  Grace. 

Mr.  Craggs  put  on  his  spectacles  to  see  the  better  ; 
looked  at  her  through  them,  for  some  time  ;  coughed  ; 
and  put  them,  with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  into  their 
sheath  again,  and  into  his  pocket. 

Now  the  music  struck  up,  and  the  dance  commenced. 
The  bright  fire  crackled  and  sparkled,  rose  and  fell,  as 
though  it  joined  the  dance  itself,  in  right  good  fellow- 
ship. Sometimes,  it  roared  as  if  it  would  make  music 
too.  Sometimes,  it  flashed  and  beamed  as  if  it  were  the 
eye  of  the  old  room  :  it  winked  too,  sometimes,  like  a 
knowing  Patriarch,  upon  the  youthful  whisperers  in 
corners.  Sometimes,  it  sported  with  the  holly-boughs  ; 
and,  shining  on  the  leaves  by  fits  and  starts,  made  -them 
look  as  if  they  were  in  the  cold  winter  night  again,  and 
fluttering  in  the  wind.  Sometimes  its  genial  humour 
grew  obstreperous,  and  passed  all  bounds  ;  and  then  it 
cast  into  the  room,  among  the  twinkling  feet,  with  a  j 
loud  burst,  a  shower  of  harmless  little  sparks,  and  in  its 
exultation  leaped  and  bounded  like  a  mad  thing,  up  the 
broad  old  chimney. 

Another  dance  was  near  its  close,  when  Mr.  Snitchey 
touched  his  partner,  who  was  looking  on,  upon  the  arm. 

Mr.  Craggs  started,  as  if  his  familiar  had  been  a 
spectre. 

"  Is  he  gone  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Hush  !  He  has  been  with  me,"  said  Snitchey,  "  for 
three  hours  and  more.  He  went  over  everything.  He 
looked  into  all  our  arrangements  for  him,  and  was  very 
particular  indeed.    He — Humph  !" 

The  dance  was  finished.    Marion  passed  close  before 
him,  as  he  spoke.    She  did  not  observe  him,  or  his 
partner  ;  but  looked  over  her  shoulder  towards  her  sister 
in  the  distance,  as  she  slowly  made  her  way  into  the 
crowd,  and  passed  out  of  their  view.  i 
"  You  see  !  All  safe  and  well,"  said  Mr.  Craggs.  "  He  | 
didn't  recur  to  that  subject,  I  suppose  f  \ 
"  Not  a  word."  | 
"  And  is  he  really  gone  ?    Is  he  safe  away  ?  "  j 
"  He  keeps  to  his  word.  He  drops  down  the  river  with  \ 
the  tide  in  that  shell  of  a  boat  of  his,  and  so  goes  out 
to  sea  on  this  dark  night  ! — a  dare-devil  he  is — before 
the  wind.    There's  no  such  lonely  road  anywhere  else. 
That's  one  thing    The  tide  flows,  he  says  an  hour  before 
midnight — about  this  time.    I'm  glad  it's  over."  Mr. 
Snitchey  wiped  his  forehead,  which  looked  hot  and  anx- 
ious. I 
"What  do  you  think,"  said  Mr.  Craggs,  " about — " 
"  Hush  ! "    replied   his    cautious    partner,  looking 
straight  before  him.    "  I  understand  you.    Don't  men- 1 
tion  names,  and  don't  let  us  seem  to  be  talking  secrets. 
I  don't  know  what  to  think  ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  don't  care  now.    It's  a  great  relief.    His  self-love  de- 
ceived him,  I  suppose.    Perhaps  the  young  lady  co- 
quetted a  little.     The  evidence  would  seem  to  point 
that  way.    Alfred  not  arrived  ?  "  j 
"Not  yet,"   said  Mr.  Craggs.      "Expected  every; 
minute." 

"Good."    Mr.  Snitchey  wiped  his  forehead  again.  ' 
"  It's  a  great  relief.    I  haven't  been  so  nervous  since 
we've  been  in  partnership.    I  intend  to  spend  the  even- 
ing now,  Mr.  Craggs." 

Mrs.  Craggs  and  Mrs.  Snitchey  joined  them  as  he  an- 1 


nounced  this  intention.  The  Bird  of  Paradise  was  in  a 
state  of  extreme  vibration,  and  the  little  bells  were 
ringing  quite  audibly. 

"  It  has  been  the  theme  of  general  comment,  Mr. 
Snitchey,"  said  Mrs.  Snitchey.  "  I  hope  the  office  is 
satisfied." 

"  Satisfied  with  what,  my  dear?"  asked  Mr.  Snitchey. 

"With  the  exposure  of  a  defenceless  woman  to 
ridicule  and  remark,"  returned  his  wife.  "That  is 
quite  in  the  way  of  the  office,  tJiat  is." 

"I  reallj,  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Craggs,  "have  been  so 
long  accustomed  to  connect  the  office  with  everything 
opposed  to  domesticity,  that  I  am  glad  U)  know  it  as  the 
avowed  enemy  of  my  peace.  There  is  something  honest 
in  that,  at  all  events." 

"My  dear,"  urged  Mr.  Craggs,  "your  good  opinion  is 
invaluable,  but  /never  avowed  that  the  office  was  the 
enemy  of  your  peace." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Craggs,  ringing  a  perfect  peal  upon 
the  little  bells.  "  Not  you,  indeed.  You  wouldn't  be 
worthy  of  the  office  if  you  had  the  candour  to." 

"As  to  my  having  been  away  to-night,  my  dear,"  said 
Mr.  Snitchey,  giving  her  his  arm,  "  tlie  deprivation  has 
been  mine,  I'm  sure  ;  but,  as  Mr.  Craggs  knows — '' 

Mrs.  Snitchey  cut  this  reference  very  short  by  hitch- 
ing her  husband  to  a  distance,  and  asking  him  to  look  at 
that  man.    To  do  her  the  favour  to  look  at  him  ! 

"  At  which  man,  my  dear  ?"  said  Mr.  Snitchey. 

"  Your  chosen  companion  ;  I'm  no  companion  to  you, 
Mr.  Snitchey." 

"Yes,  yes,  you  are,  my  dear,"  he  interposed. 

"  No,  no,  I'm  not,"  said  Mrs.  Snitchey  with  a  majestic 
smile.  "  I  know  my  station.  Will  you  look  at  your 
chosen  companion,  Mr.  Snitchey  ;  at  your  referee,  at  the 
keeper  of  your  secrets,  at  the  man  you  trust  ;  at  your 
other  self,  in  short." 

The  habitual  association  of  Self  with  Craggs,  occa- 
sioned Mr.  Snitchey  to  look  in  that  direction. 

"  If  you  can  look  that  man  in  the  eye  this  night,"  said 
Mrs.  Snitchey,  "  and  not  know  that  you  are  deluded, 
practised  upon,  made  the  victim  of  his  arts,  and  bent 
down  prostrate  to  his  will  by  some  unaccountable  fasci- 
nation which  it  is  impossible  to  explain  and  against 
which  no  warning  of  mine  is  of  the  least  avail,  all  I  can 
say  is — I  pity  you  !  " 

At  the  very  same  moment  Mrs.  Craggs  was  oracular 
on  the  cross  subject.  Was  it  possible,  she  said,  that 
Craggs  could  so  blind  himself  to  his  Snitcheys,  as  not  to 
feel  his  true  position.  Did  he  mean  to  say  that  he  had 
seen  his  Snitcheys  come  into  that  room,  and  didn't  plain- 
ly see  that  there  was  reservation,  cunning,  treachery,  in 
the  man  ?  Would  he  tell  her  that  his  very  action,  when 
he  wiped  his  forehead  and  looked  so  stealthily  about 
him,  didn't  show  that  there  was  something  weighing  on 
the  conscience  of  his  precious  Snitcheys  (if  he  had  a  con- 
science), that  wouldn't  bear  the  light  ?  Did  anybody  but 
his  Snitcheys  come  to  festive  entertainments  like  a  bur- 
glar? which,  by  the  way,  was  hardly  a  clear  illustration 
of  the  case,  as  he  had  walked  in  very  mildly  at  the  door. 
And  would  he  still  assert  to  her  at  noon-day  (it  being 
nearly  midnight),  that  his  Snitcheys  were  to  be  justified 
through  thick  and  thin,  against  all  facts,  and  reason, 
and  experience  ? 

Neither  Snitchey  nor  Craggs  openly  attempted  to 
stem  the  current  which  had  thus  set  in,  but  both  were 
content  to  be  carried  gently  along  it,  until  its  force 
abated.  This  happened  at  about  the  same  time  as  a  gen- 
eral movement  for  a  country  dance  ;  when  Mr.  Snitchey 
proposed  himself  as  a  partner  to  Mrs.  Craggs.  and  Mr. 
Craggs  gallantly  otfered  himself  to  Mrs.  Snitchey  ;  and 
after  some  such  slight  evasions  as  "why  don't  you  ask 
somebody  else  ?"  and  "you'll  be  glad,  1  know,  if  I  de- 
cline," and  "I  wonder  you  can  dance  out  of  the  of- 
fice "  (but  this  jocosely  now,  each  lady  graciously  ac- 
cepted, and  took  her  place. 

It  was  an  old  custom  among  them,  indeed,  to  do  so, 
and  to  pair  oif ,  in  like  manner,  at  dinners  and  suppers  ; 
for  they  were  excellent  friends,  and  on  a  footing  of  easy 
familiarity.  Perhaps  the  false  Craggs  and  the  wicked 
Snitchey  were  a  recognised  fiction  with  the  two  wives,  as 
Doe  and  Roe,  incessantly  running  up  and  down  bailiwicks, 
were  with  the  two  husbands  ;  or,  perhaps  the  ladies 


310 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


had  instituted,  and  taken  upon  themselves,  these  two 
shares  in  the  business,  rather  than  be  left  out  of  it  alto- 
gether. But,  certain  it  is,  that  each  wife  went  as  grave- 
ly and  steadily  to  work  in  her  vocation  as  her  husband 
did  in  his,  and  would  have  considered  it  almost  impossi- 
ble for  the  Firm  to  maintain  a  successful  and  respectable 
existence,  without  her  laudable  exertions. 

But,  now,  the  Bird  of  Paradise  was  seen  to  flutter 
down  the  middle  ;  and  the  little  bells  began  to  bounce 
and  jingle  in  poussette  ;  and  the  Doctor's  rosy  face  spun 
round  and  round,  like  an  expressive  pegtop  Jiighly  var- 
nished ;  and  breathless  Mr.  Craggs  began  to  doubt  al- 
ready, whether  country  dancing  had  been  made  "too 
easy,"  like  the  rest  of  life  ;  and  Mr.  Snitchey,  with  his 
nimble  cuts  and  capers,  footed  it  for  Self,  and  Craggs, 
and  half  a  dozen  more. 

Now,  too,  the  fire  took  fresh  courage,  favoured  by  the 
lively  wind  the  dance  awakened,  and  burnt  clear  and 
high.  It  was  the  Genius  of  the  room,  and  present  every- 
where. It  shone  in  people's  eyes,  it  sparkled  in  the 
jewels  on  the  snowy  necks  of  girls,  it  twinkled  at  their 
ears,  as  if  it  whispered  to  them  slyly,  it  flashed  about 
their  waists,  it  flickered  on  the  ground  and  made  it  rosy 
for  their  feet,  it  bloomed  upon  the  ceiling  that  its  glow 
might  set  off  their  bright  faces,  and  it  kindled  up  a  gen- 
eral illumination  in  Mrs.  Craggs's  little  belfry. 

Now,  too,  the  lively  air  that  fanned  it,  grew  less  gen- 
tle as  the  music  quickened  and  the  dance  proceeded  with 
new  spirit  ;  and  a  breeze  arose  that  made  the  leaves  and 
berries  dance  upon  the  wall,  as  they  had  often  done 
upon  the  trees  ;  and  the  breeze  rustled  in  the  room  as  if 
an  invisible  company  of  fairies,  treading  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  good  substantial  revellers,  were  whirling  after 
them.  Now,  too,  no  feature  of  the  Doctor's  face  could 
be  distinguished  as  he  spun  and  spun  ;  and  n6w  there 
seemed  a  dozen  Birds  of  Paradise  in  fitful  flight  ;  and 
now  there  were  a  thousand  little  bells  at  work  ;  and  now 
a  fleet  of  flying  skirts  was  ruffled  by  a  little  tempest, 
when  the  music  gave  in,  and  the  dance  was  over. 

Hot  and  breathless  as  the  Doctor  was,  it  only  made 
him  the  more  impatient  for  Alfred's  coming. 

"Anything  been  seen,  Britain?  Anything  been 
heard  ! " 

"  Too  dark  to  see  far,  sir.  Too  much  noise  inside  the 
house  to  hear." 

* '  That's  right !  The  gayer  welcome  for  him.  How 
goes  the  time  ?  " 

"Just  twelve,  sir.    He  can't  be  long,  sir." 

"  Stir  up  the  fire,  and  throw  another  log  upon  it,"  said 
the  Doctor.  "  Let  him  see  his  welcome  blazing  out  upon 
the  night — good  boy  ! — as  he  comes  along  ! " 

He  saw  it — Yes  !  From  the  chaise  he  caught  the  light, 
as  he  turned  the  corner  by  the  old  church.  He  knew 
the  room  from  which  it  shone.  He  saw  the  wintry 
branches  of  the  old  trees  between  the  light  and  him. 
He  knew  that  one  of  those  trees  rustled  musically  in  the 
summer  time  at  the  window  of  Marion's  chamber. 

The  tears  were  in  his  eyes.  •  His  heart  throbbed  so 
violently  that  he  could  hardly  bear  his  happiness.  How 
often  he  had  thought  of  this  time — pictured  it  under  all 
circumstances — feared  it  might  never  come — yearned, 
and  wearied  for  it — far  away  ! 

Again  the  light !  Distinct  and  ruddy ;  kindled,  he 
knew,  to  give  him  welcome,  and  to  speed  him  home. 
He  beckoned  with  his  hand,  and  waved  his  hat,  and 
cheered  out,  loud,  as  if  the  light  were  they,  and  they 
could  see  and  hear  him,  as  he  dashed  towards  them 
through  the  mud  and  mire,  triumphantly. 

Stop  !  He  knew  the  Doctor,  and  understood  what  he 
had  done.  He  would  not  let  it  be  a  surprise  to  them. 
But  he  could  make  it  one,  yet,  by  going  forward  on  foot. 
If  the  orchard  gate  were  open,  he  could  enter  there  ;  if 
not,  the  wall  was  easily  climbed,  as  he  knew  of  old  ; 
and  he  would  be  among  them  in  an  instant. 

He  dismounted  from  the  chaise,  and  telling  the  driv- 
er— even  that  was  not  easy  in  his  agitation — to  remain 
behind  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  to  follow  slowly,  ran 
on  with  exceeding  swiftness,  tried  the  gate,  scaled  the 
wall,  jumped  down  on  the  other  side,  and  stood  panting 
in  the  old  orchard. 

There  was  a  frosty  rime  upon  the  trees,  which,  in  the 
faint  light  of  the  clouded  moon,  hung  upon  the  smaller 


branches  like  dead  garlands.  Withered  leaves  crackled 
and  snapped  beneath  his  feet,  as  he  crept  softly  on  to- 
wards the  house.  The  desolation  of  a  winter  night  sat 
brooding  on  the  earth,  and  in  the  sky.  But,  the  red 
light  came  cherrily  towards  him  from  the  windows  ; 
j  figures  passed  and  re-passed  there  ;  and  the  hum  and 
murmur  of  voices  greeted  his  ear,  sweetly. 

Listening  for  hers  :  attempting,  as  he  crept  on,  to 
detach  it  from  the  rest,  and  half -believing  that  he  heard 
it :  he  had  nearly  reached  the  door,  when  it  was  abrupt- 
ly opened,  and  a  figure  coming  out  encountered  his.  It 
instantly  recoiled  with  a  half -suppressed  cry. 

"Clemency,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  know  me?" 

"Don't  come  in  !"  she  answered,  pushing  him  back 
"  Go  away.    Don't  ask  me  why.    Don't  come  in." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  don't  know.    I — I  am  afraid  to  think.    Go  bac" 
Hark  ! " 

There  was  a  sudden  tumult  in  the  house.  She  pu 
her  hands  upon  her  ears.  A  wild  scream,  such  as  n 
hands  could  shut  out,  was  heard  ;  and  Grace — distractio 
in  her  looks  and  manner — rushed  out  at  the  door. 

"Grace  !"  He  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "What  i 
it  !    Is  she  dead  !  " 

She  disengaged  herself,  as  if  to  recognise  his  face,  an 
fell  down  at  his  feet. 

A  crowd  of  figures  came  about  them  from  the  house. 
Among  them  was^lier  father,  with  a  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  What  is  it  !  "  cried  Alfred,  grasping  his  Lair  wit" 
his  hands,  and  looking  in  an  agony  from  face  to  face, 
he  bent  upon  his  knee  beside  the  insensible  girl.    "  W' 
no  one  look  at  me  ?    Will  no  one  speak  to  me  ?   Does  n 
one  know  me?    Is  there  no  voice  among  you  all,  to  teU 
me  what  it  is  ! " 

There  was  a  murmur  among  them.    "  She  is  gone." 

"  Gone  1"  he  echoed. 

"  Fled,  my  dear  Alfred  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  broken 
voice,  and  with  his  hands  before  his  face.  "  Gone  from 
her  home  and  us.  To-night  !  She  writes  that  she  has 
made  her  innocent  and  blameless  choice — entreats  that 
we  will  forgive  her — prays  that  we  will  not  forget  her- 
and  is  gone." 

"  With  whom  ?    Where  ?  " 

He  started  up,  as  if  to  follow  in  pursuit  ;  but,  when 
they  gave  way  to  let  him  pass,  looked  wildly  round  up- 
on them,  staggered  back,  and  sank  down  in  his  former 
attitude,  clasping  one  of  Grace's  cold  hands  in  his  own. 

There  was  a  hurried  running  to  and  fro,  confusion, 
noise,  disorder,  and  no  purpose.  Some  proceeded  to  dis- 
perse themselves  about  the  roads,  and  some  took  horse, 
and  some  got  lights,  and  some  conversed  together,  urg- 
ing that  there  was  no  trace  or  track  to  follow.  Some 
approached  him  kindly,  with  the  view  of  offering  conso- 
lation ;  some  admonished  him  that  Grace  must  be  re- 
moved into  the  house,  and  that  he  prevented  it.  He 
never  heard  them,  and  he  never  moved. 

The  snow  fell  fast  and  thick.  He  loooked  up  for  a 
moment  in  the  air,  and  thought  that  those  white  ashes 
strewn  upon  his  hopes  and  misery,  were  suited  to  them 
well.  He  looked  round  on  the  whitening  ground,  an'" 
thought  how  Marion's  footprints  would  be  hushed  an 
covered  up,  as  soon  as  made,  and  even  that  remembranc 
of  her  blotted  out.  But  he  never  felt  the  weather,  an 
he  never  stirred. 


PART  THE  THIRD. 

The  world  had  grown  six  years  older  since  that  nigh 
of  the  return.  It  was  a  warm  autumn  afternoon,  an 
there  had  been  a  heavy  rain.  The  sun  burst  suddenl 
from  among  the  clouds  ;  and  the  old  battle-ground, 
sparkling  brilliantly  and  cheerfully  at  sight  of  it  in  on- 
green  place,  flashed  a  responsive  welcome  there,  which 
spread  along  the  country  side  as  if  a  joyful  beacon  had 
been  lighted  up,  and  answered  from  a  thousand  stations. 

How  beautiful  the  landscape  kindling  in  the  light, 
and  that  luxuriant  influence  passing  on  like  a  celestial 
presence,  brightening  everything  !  The  wood,  a  som 
bre  mass  before,  revealed  its  varied  tints  of  yellow, 
green,  brown,  red  :  its  different  forms  of  trees,  wl 
raindrops  glittering  on  their  leaves  and  twinkling 


CilRISTMA  S    BO  OKS. 


311 


they  fell.  The  verdant  meadow -land,  bright  and  glow- 
ing]^ seemed  as  if  it  had  been  blind,  a  minute  since,  and 
now  had  found  a  sense  of  light  wherewith  to  look  up  at 
the  shining  sky.  Cornfields,  hedge-rows,  fences,  home- 
steads, the  clustered  roofs,  the  steeple  of  the  church, 
the  stream,  the  watermill,  all  sprang  out  of  the  gloomy 
darkness,  smiling.  Birds  sang  sweetly,  flowers  raised 
their  doooping  heads,  fresh  scents  arose  from  the  invig- 
orated ground  ;  the  blue  expanse  above,  extended  and 
diffused  itself :  already  the  sun's  slanting  rays  pierced 
mortally  the  sullen  bank  of  cloud  that  lingered  in  its 
flight;  and  a  rainbow,  spirit  of  all  the  colours  that  adorned 
the  earth  and  sky,  spanned  the  whole  arch  with  its  tri- 
umphant glory. 

At  such  a  time,  one  little  roadside  Inn,  snugly  shel- 
tered behind  a  great  elm-tree  with  a  rare  seat  for  idlers 
encircling  its  capacious  bole,  addressed  a  cheerful  front 
towards  the  traveller,  as  a  house  of  entertainment  ought, 
and  tempted  him  with  many  mute  but  significant  assur- 
ances of  a  comfortable  welcome.  The  ruddy  sign-board 
perched  up  in  the  tree,  with  its  golden  letters  winking 
in  the  sun,  ogled  the  passer-by,  from  among  the  green 
leaves,  like  a  jolly  face,  and  promised  good  cheer.  The 
horse  trough,  full  of  clear  fresh  water,  and  the  ground 
below  it  sprinkled  with  droppings  of  fragrant  hay,  made 
every  horse  that  passed  prick  up  his  ears.  The  crimson 
curtains  in  the  lower  rooms,  and  the  pure  white  hang- 
ings in  the  little  bed-chambers  above,  beckoned.  Come 
in  !  with  every  breath  of  air.  Upon  the  bright  green 
shutters,  there  were  golden  legends  about  beer  and  ale, 
and  neat  wines,  and  good  beds  ;  and  an  affecting  picture 
of  a  brown  jug  frothing  over  at  the  top.  Upon  the  win- 
dow-sills were  flowering  plants  in  bright  red  pots,  which 
made  a  lively  show  against  the  white  front  of  the  house  ; 
and  in  the  darkness  of  the  doorway  there  were  streaks 
of  light,  which  glanced  off  from  the  surfaces  of  bottles 
and  tankards. 

On  the  door-step,  appeared  a  proper  figure  of  a  land- 
lord, too  ;  for,  though  he  was  a  short  man,  he  was  round 
and  broad,  and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
his  legs  Just  wide  enough  apart  to  express  a  mind  at  rest 
upon  the  subject  of  the  cellar,  and  an  easy  confidence — 
too  calm  and  virtuous  to  become  a  swagger — in  the  gen- 
eral resources,  of  the  Inn.  The  su^.erabundant  moisture, 
trickling  from  everything  after  the  late  rain,  set  him  off 
well.  Nothing  near  him  was  thirsty.  Certain  top-heavy 
dahlias,  looking  over  the  palings  of  his  neat  well-ordered 
garden,  had  swilled  as  much  as  they  could  carry — per- 
haps a  trifle  more — and  may  have  been  the  worse  for  liq- 
uor ;  but  the  sweet-briar,  roses,  wall-flowers,  the  plants 
at  the  windows,  and  the  leaves  on  the  old  tree,  were  in 
the  beaming  state  of  moderate  company  that  had  taken 
no  more  than  was  wholesome  for  them,  and  had  served 
to  develop  their  best  qualities.  Sprinkling  dewy  drops 
about  them  on  the  ground,  they  seemed  profuse  of  inno- 
cent and  sparkling  mirth,  that  did  good  where  it  lighted, 
softening  neglected  corners  which  the  steady  rain  could 
seldom  reach,  and  hurting  nothing. 

This  village  Inn  had  assumed,  on  being  established, 
an  uncommon  sign.  It  was  called  The  Nutmeg  Grater. 
And  underneath  that  household  word,  was  inscribed,  up 
in  the  tree,  on  the  same  flaming  board,  and  in  the  like 
golden  characters,  By  Benjamin  Britain. 

At  a  second  glance,  and  on  a  more  minute  examination 
of  his  face,  you  might  have  known  that  it  was  no  other 
than  Benjamin  Britain  himself  who  stood  in  the  door- 
way—reasonably changed  by  time,  but  for  the  better  ; 
a  very  comfortable  host  indeed. 

"  Mrs.  B.,"  said  Mr.  Britain,  looking  down  the  road, 
"  is  rather  late.    It's  tea  time." 

As  there  was  no  Mrs.  Britain  coming,  he  strolled  leis- 
urely out  into  the  road  and  looked  up  at  the  house, 
very  much  to  his  satisfaction.  "  It's  just  the  sort  of 
house,"  said  Benjamin,  "  I  should  wish  to  stop  at,  if  I 
didn't  keep  it." 

Then,  he  strolled  towards  the  garden  paling,  and  took 
a  look  at  the  dahlias.  They  looked  over  at  him,  with  a 
helpless  drowsy  hanging  of  their  heads  ;  which  bobbed 
again,  as  the  heavy  drops  of  wet  dripped  off  them. 

"  You  must  be  looked  after,"  said  Benjamin.  "Memo- 
randum, not  to  forget  to  tell  her  so.  She's  a  long  time 
coming." 


Mr.  Britain's  better  half  seemed  to  bo  by  so  very  much 
his  better  half,  that  his  own  moiety  of  himself  was 
utterly  cast  away  and  helpless  without  her. 

"  She  hadn't  much  to  do,  I  think,"  said  Ben.  "  There 
were  a  few  little  matters  of  business  after  market,  but 
not  many.    Oh  !  here  we  are  at  last  !  " 

A  chaise-cart, driven  by  a  boy,  came  clattering  along  the 
road  ;  and  seated  in  it,  in  a  chair,  with  a  large  well -sat- 
urated umbrella  spread  out  to  dry  her,  was  the  plump 
figure  of  a  matronly  woman,  with  her  bare  arms  folded 
across  a  basket  which  she  carried  on  her  knee,  several 
other  baskets  and  parcels  lying  crowded  about  her,  and  a 
certain  bright  good-nature  in  her  face  and  contented 
awkwardness  in  her  manner,  as  she  jogged  to  and  fro 
with  the  motion  of  her  carriage,  which  smacked  of  old 
times,  even  in  the  distance.  Upon  her  nearer  approach, 
this  relish  of  bygone  days  was  not  diminished  ;  and  when 
the  cart  stopped  at  the  Nutmeg  Grater  door,  a  pair  of 
shoes,  alighting  from  it,  slipped  nimbly  through  Mr. 
Britain's  open  arms,  and  came  down  with  a  suVjstantial 
weight  upon  the  pathway,  which  shoes  could  hardly 
have  belonged  to  any  one  but  Clemency  Newcome. 

In  fact  they  did  belong  to  her,  and  she  stood  in  them, 
and  a  rosy  comfortable -looking  soul  she  was  ;  with  as 
much  soap  on  her  glossy  face  as  in  times  of  yore,  but 
with  whole  elbows  now,  that  had  grown  quite  dimpled 
in  her  improved  condition. 

"  You're  late,  Clemmy  !  "  said  Mr.  Britain. 

"  Why,  you  see,  Ben,  I've  had  a  deal  to  do  ! "  she 
replied,  looking  busily  after  the  safe  removal  into  the 
house  of  all  the  packages  and  baskets  ;  "  eight,  nine, 
ten — where's  eleven?  Oh  !  my  basket's  eleven  !  It's  all 
right.  Put  the  horse  up,  Harry,  and  if  he  coughs  again 
give  him  a  warm  mash  to-night.  Eight,  nine,  ten.  Why, 
where's  eleven  !  Oh  I  forgot,  it's  all  right.  How's  the 
children,  Ben?" 

"  Hearty,  Clemmy,  hearty." 

"  Bless  their  precious  faces  !  "  said  Mrs.  Britain,  un- 
bonneting  her  own  round  countenance  (for  she  and  her 
husband  were  by  this  time  in  the  bar),  and  smoothing 
her  hair  with  her  open  hands.  "Give  us  a  kiss,  old 
man  ! " 

Mr.  Britain  promptly  complied. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Britain,  applying  herself  to  her 
pockets  and  drawing  forth  an  immense  bulk  of  thin 
books  and  crumpled  papers  :  a  very  kennel  of  dog's 
ears:  "I've  done  everything.  Bills  all  settled  —  tur- 
nips sold— brewer's  account  looked  into  and  paid — 'bacco 
pipes  ordered  —  seventeen  pound  four,  paid  into  the 
Bank— Doctor  Heathfield's  charge  for  little  Clem — you'll 
guess  what  that  is — Doctor  Heathfield  won't  take  nothing 
again,  Ben." 

"  I  thought  he  wouldn't,"  returned  Britain. 

"No.  He  says  whatever  family  you  was  to  have,  Ben, 
he'd  never  put  you  to  the  cost  of  a  halfpenny.  Not  if 
you  was  to  have  twenty." 

Mr.  Britain's  face  assumed  a  serious  expression,  and 
he  looked  hard  at  the  wall. 

"  An't  it  kind  of  him  ?  "  said  Clemency. 

"  Very,"  returned  Mr.  Britain.  "  It's  the  sort  of  kind- 
ness that  I  wouldn't  presume  upon,  on  any  account." 

"No,"  retorted  Clemency.  "Of  course  not.  Then 
there's  the  pony — he  fetched  eight  pound  two  ;  and  that 
an't  bad,  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's  very  good,"  said  Ben. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  pleased  !"  exclaimed  his  wife.  "  I 
thought  you  would  be  ;  and  I  think  that's  all,  and  so  no 
more  at  present  from  yours  and  cetrer,  C.  Britain.  Ha  ha 
ha  !  There  !  Take  ali  the  papers,  and  lock  'em  up.  Oh  ! 
Wait  a  minute.  Here's  a  printed  bill  to  stick  on  the 
wall.    Wet  from  the  printer's.    How  nice  it  smells  !  " 

"  What's  this?"  said  Ben,  looking  over  the  document. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  his  wife.  "  I  haven't  read  a 
word  of  it." 

"  '  To  be  sold  by  Auction,'  "  read  the  host  of  the  Nut- 
meg Grater,  "  '  unless  previously  disposed  of  by  private 
contract.'  " 

"They  always  put  that,"  said  Clemency. 

"l"es,  but  they  don't  always  put  this,"  he  returned. 
"Look  here,  'Mansion,'  &c. — 'offices,'  &c.,  'shrubber- 
ies,' &c.,  'ring  fence,'  &c.,  'Messrs.  Snitchey  and 
Craggs,'  &c. ,  '  ornamental  portion  of  the  unencumbered 


312 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


freehold  property  of  Michael  Warden,  Esquire,  intend- 
ing to  continue  to  reside  abroad '  !  " 

"  Intending  to  continue  to  reside  abroad!"  repeated 
Clemency. 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Britain.  "  Look  !  " 
And  it  was  only  this  very  day  that  I  heard  it  whis- 
pered at  the  old  house,  that  better  and  plainer  news  had 
been  half  promised  of  her,  soon  !  "  said  Clemency,  shak- 
ing her  head  sorrowfully,  and  patting  her  elbows  as  if 
the  recollection  of  old  times  unconsciously  awakened 
her  old  habits.  "  Dear,  dear,  dear  !  There'll  be  heavy 
hearts,  Ben,  yonder." 

Mr.  Britain  heaved  a  sigh,  and  shook  his  head,  and 
said  he  couldn't  make  it  out ;  he  had  left  ofE  trying  long 
ago.  With  that  remark,  he  applied  himself  to  putting 
up  the  bill  just  inside  the  bar  window.  Clemency,  after 
meditating  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  roused  herself, 
cleared  her  thoughtful  brow,  and  bustled  ofiE  to  look  after 
the  children. 

Though  the  host  of  the  Nutmeg  Grater  had  a  lively 
regard  for  his  good-wife,  it  was  of  the  old  patronising 
kind,  and  she  amused  him  mightily.  Nothing  would 
have  astonished  him  so  much,  as  to  have  known  for 
certain  from  any  third  party,  that  it  was  she  who 
managed  the  whole  house,  and  made  him,  by  her  plain, 
straightforward  thrift,  good-h amour,  honesty,  and  in- 
dustry, a  thriving  man.  So  easy  it  is,  in  any  degree  of 
life  (as  the  world  very  often  finds  it),  to  take  those  cheer- 
ful natures  that  never  assert  their  merit,  at  their  own 
modest  valuation  :  and  to  conceive  a  flippant  liking  of 
people  for  their  outward  oddities  and  eccentricities, 
whose  innate  worth,  if  we  would  look  so  far  might  make 
us  blush  in  the  comparison  ! 

It  was  comfortable  to  Mr.  Britain,  to  think  of  his  own 
condescension  in  having  married  Clemency.  She  was  a 
perpetual  testimony  to  him  of  the  goodness  of  his  heart, 
and  the  kindness  of  his  disposition  ;  and  he  felt  that  her 
being  an  excellent  wife  was  an  illustration  of  the  old 
precept  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward. 

He  had  finished  wafering  up  the  bill,  and  had  locked 
the  vouchers  for  her  day's  proceedings  in  the  cupboard 
— chuckling  all  the  time,  over  her  capacity  for  business 
— when,  returning  with  the  news  that  the  two  Master 
Britains  were  playing  in  the  coach-house  under  the 
superintendence  of  one  Betsey,  and  that  little  Clem  was 
sleeping  "  like  a  picture,"  she  sat  down  to  tea,  which 
had  awaited  her  arrival,  on  a  little  table.  It  was  a  very 
neat  little  bar,  with  the  usual  display  of  bottles  and 
glasses  ;  a  sedate  clock,  right  to  the  minute  (it  washalf- 
astfive);  everything  in  its  place,  and  everything  fur- 
ished  and  polished  up,  to  the  very  utmost. 

"  It's  the  first  time  I've  sat  down  quietly  to-day,  I  de- 
clare," said  Mrs.  Britain,  taking  a  long  breath,  as  if  she 
had  sat  down  for  the  night  ;  but  getting  up  again  imme- 
diately to  hand  her  husband  his  tea,  and  cut  him  his 
bread-and-butter  ;  "how  that  bill  does  set  me  thinking 
of  old  times  !  " 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Britain,  handling  his  saucer  like  an 
oyster,  and  disposing  of  its  contents  on  the  same  prin- 
ciple. 

"That  same  Mr.  Michael  Warden,"  said  Clemency, 
shaking  her  head  at  the  notice  of  sale,  "  lost  me  my 
old  place." 

"  And  got  you  your  husband,"  said  Mr.  Britain. 

"  Well  !  So  he  did,"  retorted  Clemency,  "and many 
thanks  to  him." 

"  Man's  the  creature  of  habit,"  said  Mr.  Britain,  sur- 
veying her,  over  his  saucer.  "  I  had  somehow  got  used 
to  you,  Clem  ;  and  I  found  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  get  on 
without  you.  So  we  went  and  got  made  man  and  wife. 
Ha  !  ha  !    We  !    Who'd  have  thought  it  !  " 

"  Who  indeed  !  "  cried  Clemency.  "  It  was  very  good 
of  you,  Ben." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  replied  Mr,  Britain,  with  an  air  of  self- 
denial.    "  Nothing  worth  mentioning." 

"  Oh  yes  it  was,  Ben,"  said  his  wife,  with  great  sim- 
plicity ;  "  I'm  sure  I  think  so,  and  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you.  All  !"  looking  again  at  the  bill  ;  "  when  she 
was  known  to  be  gone,  and  out  of  reach,  dear  girl,  I 
couldn't  help  telling — for  her  sake  quite  as  much  as 
theirs — what  I  knew,  could  I?  " 

"  You  told  it,  a:iyhow,"  observed  her  husband. 


"And  Doctor  Jeddler,"  pursued  Clemency,  putting 
down  her  tea-cup,  and  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  bill, 
"  in  his  grief  and  passion  turned  me  out  of  house  and 
home  !  I  never  have  been  so  glad  of  anything  in  all  my 
life,  as  that  I  didn't  say  an  angry  word  to  him,  and 
hadn't  an  angry  feeling  towards  him,  even  then  ;  for  he 
repented  that  truly,  afterwards.  How  often  he  has  sat 
in  this  room,  and  told  me  over  and  over  again  he  was 
sorry  for  it  ! — the  last  time,  only  yesterday,  when  you 
were  out.  How  often  he  has  sat  in  this  room  and  talked 
to  me,  hour  after  hour,  about  one  thing  and  another,  in 
which  he  made  believe  to  be  interested  ! — but  only  for 
the  sake  of  the  days  that  are  gone  by,  and  because  he 
knows  she  used  to  like  me,  Ben  ! " 

"  Why,  how  did  you  ever  come  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
that,  Clem?"  asked  her  husband  :  astonished  that  she 
should  have  a  distinct  perception  of  a  truth  which  had 
i  only  dimly  suggested  itself  to  his  inquiring  mind. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Clemency,  blowing  her 
tea,  to  cool  it.  "  Bless  you,  I  couldn't  tell  you,  if  you 
was  to  offer  me  a  reward  of  a  hundred  pound." 

He  might  have  pursued  this  metaphysical  subject  but 
for  her  catching  a  glimpse  of  a  substantial  fact  behind 
him,  in  the  shape  of  a  gentleman  attired  in  mourning, 
and  cloaked  and  booted  like  a  rider  on  horseback,  who 
stood  at  the  bar-door.  He  seemed  attentive  to  their  con- 
versation, and  not  at  all  impatient  to  interrupt  it. 

Clemency  hastily  rose  at  this  sight.  Mr.  Britain  also 
rose  and  saluted  the  guest.  "  Will  you  please  to  walk 
up-stairs,  sir.  There's  a  very  nice  room  up-stairs, 
sir." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  stranger,  looking  earnestly  at 
Mr.  Britain's  wife.    "  May  I  come  in  here  ?" 

"Oh,  surely  if  you  like,  sir,"  returned  Clemency,  ad- 
mitting him.    "  What  would  you  please  to  want,  sir?" 

The  bill  had  caught  his  eye,  and  he  was  reading  it. 

"Excellent  property  that,  sir,"  observed  Mr.  Britain. 

He  made  no  answer  ;  but,  turning  round,  when  he  had 
finished  reading,  looked  at  Clemency  with  the  same  ob- 
servant curiosity  as  before.  "You  were  asking  me," — 
he  said,  still  looking  at  her, — 

"What  would  you  please  to  take,  sir,"  answered 
Clemency,  stealing  a  glance  at  him  in  return. 

"  If  you  will  let  me  have  a  draught  of  ale,"  he  said, 
moving  to  a  table  by  the  window,  "  and  will  let  me  have 
it  here,  without  being  any  interruption  to  your  meal,  I 
shall  be  much  obliged  to  you." 

He  sat  down  as  he  spoke  without  any  further  parley, 
and  looked  out  at  the  prospect.  He  was  an  easy,  well- 
knit  figure  of  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life.  His  face, 
much  browned  by  the  sun,  was  shaded  by  a  quantity  of 
dark  hair  ;  and  he  wore  a  moustache.  His  beer  being 
set  before  him,  he  filled  out  a  glass,  and  drank,  good- 
humouredly,  to  the  house  ;  adding,  as  he  put  the  tumbler 
down  again  : 

"  It's  a  new  house,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Not  particularly  new,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Britain. 

"  Between  five  and  six  years  old,"  said  Clemency  : 
speaking  very  distinctly. 

"  I  think  I  heard  you  mention  Doctor  Jeddler's  name, 
as  I  came  in,"  inquired  the  stranger.  "  That  bill  re- 
minds me  of  iiim  ;  for  I  happen  to  know  something  of 
that  story,  by  hearsay,  and  through  certain  connections 
of  mine. — Is  the  old  man  living  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he's  living  sir,"  said  Clemency. 

"  Much  changed  ?" 

"  Since  when,  sir?"  returned  Clemency,  with  remark- 
able emphasis  and  expression. 

"  Since  his  daughter — went  away." 

"  Yes  !  he's  greatly  changed  since  then,"  said  Clem- 
ency. "  He's  grey  and  old,  and  hasn't  the  same  way 
with  him  at  all  ;  but,  I  think  he's  happy  now.  He  has 
taken  on  with  his  sister  since  then,  and  goes  to  see  her 
very  often.  That  did  him  good,  directly.  At  first,  he 
was  sadly  broken  down  ;  and  it  was  enough  to  make 
one's  heart  bleed,  to  see  him  wandering  about,  railing  at 
the  world  ;  but  a  great  change  for  the  better  came  over 
him  after  a  year  or  two,  and  then  he  began  to  like  to 
talk  about  his  lost  daughter,  and  to  praise  her,  ay,  and 
the  world  too  I  and  was  never  tired  of  saying,  with  the 
tears  in  his  poor  eyes,  how  beautiful  and  good  she  was. 
He  had  forgiven  her  then.    That  was  about  the  same 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


313 


time  as  Miss  Grace's  marriage.  Britain,  you  remem- 
J)er?" 

Mr.  Britain  remembered  very  well. 

"  The  sister  is  married  then,"  returned  the  stranger. 
He  paused  for  some  time  before  he  asked,  "  To  whom  ?" 

Clemency  narrowly  escaped  oversetting  the  tea-board, 
in  her  emotion  at  this  question. 

*'  Did  you  never  hear  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear,"  he  replied,  as  he  filled  his 
glass  again,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Ah  !  It  would  be  a  long  story,  if  it  was  properly 
told,"  said  Clemency,  resting  her  chin  on  the  palm  of 
her  left  hand,  and  supporting  that  elbow  on  her  right 
hand,  as  she  shook  her  head,  and  looked  back  through 
the  intervening  years,  as  if  she  were  looking  at  a  fire. 
"  It  would  be  a  long  story,  I  am  sure." 

"  But  told  as  a  short  one,"  suggested  the  stranger. 

"Told  as  a  short  one,"  repeated  Clemency  in  the 
same  thoughtful  tone,  and  without  any  apparent  refer- 
ence to  him,  or  consciousness  of  having  auditors,  **  what 
would  there  be  to  tell?  That  they  grieved  together,  and 
remembered  her  together,  like  a  person  dead  ;  that  they 
were  so  tender  of  her,  never  would  reproach  her,  called 
her  back  to  one  another  as  she  used  to  be,  and  found 
excuses  for  her  !  Every  one  knows  that.  I'm  sure  / 
do.  No  one  better,"  added  Clemency,  wiping  her  eyes 
with  her  hand. 

"And  so,"  suggested  the  stranger. 

"  And  so,"  said  Clemency,  taking  him  up  mechanical- 
ly, and  without  any  change  in  her  attitude  or  manner, 
"  they  at  last  were  married.  They  were  married  on  her 
birth-day — it  comes  round  again  to-morrow — very  quiet, 
very  humble  like,  but  very  happy.  Mr.  Alfred  said,  one 
night  when  they  were  walking  in  the  orchard,  '  Grace, 
shall  our  wedding-day  be  Marion's  birth-day?'  And  it 
was." 

"And  they  have  lived  happily  together  ?"  said  the 
stranger. 

"  Ay,"  said  Clemency.  "  No  two  people  ever  more  so. 
They  have  had  no  sorrow  but  this. " 

She  raised  her  head  as  with  a  sudden  attention  to  the 
circumstances  under  which  she  was  recalling  these  events, 
and  looked  quickly  at  the  stranger.  Seeing  that  his  face 
was  turned  towards  the  window,  and  that  he  seemed  in- 
tent upon  the  prospect,  she  made  some  eager  signs  to  her 
husband,  and  pointed  to  the  bill,  and  moved  her  mouth 
as  if  she  were  repeating  with  great  energy,  one  word  or 
phrase  to  him  over  and  over  again.  As  she  uttered  no 
sound,  and  as  her  dumb  motions  like  most  of  her  ges- 
tures were  of  a  very  extraordinary  kind,  this  unintelligi- 
ble conduct  reduced  Mr.  Britain  to  the  confines  of  despair. 
He  stared  at  the  table,  at  the  stranger,  at  the  spoons,  at 
his  wife— followed  her  pantomime  with  looks  of  deep 
amazement  and  perplexity — asked  in  the  same  language, 
was  it  property  in  danger,  was  it  he  in  danger,  was  it  she 
— answered  her  signals  with  other  signals  expressive  of 
the  deepest  distress  and  confusion — followed  the  motions 
of  her  lips — guessed  half  aloud  "milk  and  water," 
"  monthly  warning,"  "  mice  and  walnuts  " — and  couldn't 
approach  her  meaning. 

Clemency  gave  it  up  at  last,  as  a  hopeless  attempt  ;  and 
moving  her  chair  by  very  slow  degrees  a  little  nearer  to 
the  stranger,  sat  with  her  eyes  apparently  cast  down  but 
glancing  sharply  at  him  now  and  then,  waiting  until  he 
should  ask  some  other  question.  She  had  not  to  wait 
long  ;  for  he  said,  presently  : 

"  And  what  is  the  after  history  of  the  young  lady  who 
went  away?    They  know  it,  I  suppose  ?" 

Clemency  shook  her  head.  "  I've  heard,"  she  said, 
"  that  Doctor  Jeddler  is  thought  to  know  more  of  it  than 
he  tells.  Miss  Grace  has  had  letters  from  her  sister, 
saying  that  she  was  well  and  happy,  and  made  much  hap- 
pier  by  her  being  married  to  Mr.  Alfred  :  and  has  writ- 
ten letters  back.  But  there's  a  mystery  about  her  life 
and  fortunes,  altogether,  which  nothing  has  cleared  up 
to  this  hour,  and  which — " 

She  faltered  here,  and  stopped. 

"  And  which  " — repeated  the  stranger. 

"  Which  only  one  other  person,  I  believe,  could  ex- 
plain," said  Clemency,  drawing  her  breath  quickly. 
'  Who  may  that  be  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 
Mr.  Michael  Warden  !  "  answered  Clemency,  almost 


in  a  shriek  :  at  once  conveying  to  her  husband  what  she 
would  have  had  him  understand  before,  and  letting  Mi- 
chael Warden  know  that  he  was  recognised. 

"  You  remember  me,  sir?"  said  Clemency,  trembling 
with  emotion  ;  "  I  saw  just  now  you  did  !  You  remem- 
ber me,  that  night  in  the  garden.    I  was  with  her  !  " 

"  Yes.    You  were,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Clemency.  "Yes,  to  be  sure. 
This  is  my  husband,  if  you  please.  Ben,  my  dear  Ben, 
run  to  Miss  Grace — run  \a>  Mr.  Alfred — run  somewhere, 
Ben  !  bring  somebody  here,  directly  !  " 

"Stay!"  said  Michael  Warden,  quietly  interposing 
himself  between  the  door  and  Britain.  "  What  would 
you  do  ?  " 

"Let  them  know  that  you  are  here,  sir,"  answered 
Clemency,  clapping  her  hands  in  sheer  agitation.  "  Let 
them  know  that  they  may  hear  of  her,  from  your  own 
lips  ;  let  them  know  that  she  is  not  quite  lost  to  them, 
but  that  she  will  come  home  again  yet,  to  bless  her  father 
and  her  loving  sister-r-even  her  old  servant,  even  me," 
she  struck  herself  upon  the  breast  with  both  hands, 
' '  with  a  sight  of  her  sweet  face.  Run,  Ben,  run  !  "  And 
still  she  pressed  him  on  towards  the  door,  and  still  Mr. 
Warden  stood  before  it,  with  his  hand  stretched  out,  not 
angrily,  but  sorrowfully. 

"  Or,  perhaps,"  said  Clemency,  running  past  her  hus- 
band, and  catching  in  her  emotion  at  Mr.  Warden's  cloak, 
"perhaps  she's  here  now;  perhaps  she's  close  by.  I 
think  from  your  manner  she  is.  Let  me  see  her,  sir,  if 
you  please.  I  waited  on  her  when  she  was  a  little  child.  I 
saw  her  grow  to  be  the  pride  of  all  this  place.  I  knew 
her  when  she  was  Mr.  Alfred's  promised  wife.  I  tried  to 
warn  her  when  you  tempted  her  away.  I  know  what 
her  old  home  was  when  she  was  like  the  soul  of  it,  and 
how  it  changed  when  she  was  gone  and  lost.  Let  me 
speak  to  her,  if  you  please  !  " 

He  gazed  at  her  with  compassion,  not  unmixed  with 
wonder  :  but  he  made  no  gesture  of  assent. 

"I  don't  think  she  can  know,"  pursued  Clemency, 
"how  truly  they  forgive  her  ;  how  they  love  her  ;  what 
joy  it  would  be  to  them  to  see  her  once  more.  She  may 
be  timorous  of  going  home.  Perhaps  if  she  sees  me  it 
may  give  her  new  heart.  Only  tell  me  truly,  Mr.  War- 
den, is  she  with  you?" 

"  She  is  not,"  he  answered,  shaking  his  head. 

This  answer,  and  his  manner,  and  his  black  dress,  and 
his  coming  back  so  quietly,  and  his  announced  intention 
of  continuing  to  live  abroad,  explained  it  all.  Marion 
was  dead. 

He  didn't  contradict  her  ;  yes,  she  was  dead  !  Clem- 
ency sat  down,  hid  her  face  upon  the  table,  and  cried. 

At  that  moment,  a  grey-headed  old  gentleman  came 
running  in  :  quite  out  of  breath,  and  panting  so  much 
that  his  voice  was  scarcely  to  be  recognised  as  the  voice 
of  Mr.  Snitchey. 

"  Good  Heaven,  Mr.  Warden  !"  said  the  lawyer,  tak- 
ing him  aside,  "what  wind  has  blown" — .  He  was  so 
blown  himself,  that  he  couldn't  get  on  any  further  until 
after  a  pause,  when  he  added,  feebly,  "you  here  ?  " 

"An  ill  wind,  I  am  afraid,"  he  answered.  "If  you 
could  have  heard  what  has  just  passed — how  I  have 
been  besought  and  entreated  to  perform  impossibilities 
— what  confusion  and  affliction  I  carry  with' me  !  " 

"  I  can  guess  it  all.  But  why  did  you  ever  come  here, 
my  good  sir?"  retorted  Snitchey. 

'"  Come  !  How  should  I  know  who  kept  the  house  ? 
When  I  sent  my  servant  on  to  you,  I  strolled  in  here  be- 
cause the  place  was  new  to  me  ;  and  I  had  a  natural 
curiosity  in  everything  new  and  old  in  these  old  scenes  ; 
and  it  was  outside  the  town  I  wanted  to  communicate 
with  you,  first,  before  appearing  there.  I  wanted  to 
know  what  people  would  say  to  me.  I  see  by  your  man- 
ner that  you  can  tell  me.  If  it  were  not  for  your  con- 
founded caution,  I  should  have  been  possessed  of  every- 
thing long  ago." 

"bur  caution  !"  returned  the  lawyer,  "speaking  for 
Self  and  Craggs— deceased,"  here  Mr.  Snitchey,  glancing 
at  his  hat-band,  shook  his  head,  "  how  can  you  reasona- 
bly blame  us,  Mr.  Warden  ?  It  was  miderstood  between 
us'  that  the  subject  was  never  to  be  renewed,  and  that  it 
wasn't  a  subject  on  which  grave  and  sober  men  like  us 
(I  made  a  note  of  your  observations  at  the  time)  could  in- 


314 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


terfere  ?  Our  caution  too  !  When  Mr.  Craggs,  sir,  went 
down  to  his  respected  grave  in  the  full  belief  " — 

"I  have  given  a  solemn  promise  of  silence  until  I 
should  return,  whenever  that  might  be,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Warden  ;  "  and  I  have  kept  ic." 

"Well,  sir,  and  I  repeat  it,"  returned  Mr.  Snitchey, 
"  we  were  bound  to  silence  too.  We  were  bound  to  si- 
lence in  our  duty  towards  ourselves,  and  in  our  duty  to- 
wards a  variety  of  clients,  you  among  them,  who  were 
as  close  as  wax.  It  was  not  our  place  to  make  inquiries 
of  you  on  such  a  delicate  subject.  I  had  my  suspicions, 
sir  ;  but,  it  is  not  six  months  since  I  have  known  the 
truth,  and  been  assured  that  you  lost  her." 

"  By  whom  ?  "  inquired  his  client. 

"  By  Doctor  Jeddler,  himself,  sir,  who  at  last  reposed 
that  confidence  in  me  voluntarily.  He,  and  only  he,  has 
known  the  whole  truth,  years  and  years." 

"  And  you  know  it  ?  "  said  his  client. 

"I  do,  sir  !  "  replied  Snitchey  ;  "  and  I  have  also  rea- 
son to  know  that  it  will  be  broken  to  her  sister  to- 
morrow evening.  They  have  given  her  that  promise. 
In  the  meantime,  perhaps  you'll  give  me  the  honour  of 
your  company  at  my  house  ;  being  unexpected  at  your 
own.  But,  not  to  run  the  chance  of  any  more  such  dif- 
ficulties as  you  have  had  here,  in  case  you  should  be  re- 
cognised— though  you're  a  good  deal  changed  ;  I  think  I 
might  have  passed  you  myself,  Mr.  Warden — we  had 
better  dine  here,  and  walk  on  in  the  evening.  It's  a  very 
good  place  to  dine  at,  Mr.  Warden  ;  your  own  property, 
by  the  by.  Self  and  Craggs  (deceased)  took  a  chop  here 
sometimes,  and  had  it  very  comfortably  served.  Mr. 
Craggs,  sir,"  said  Snitchey,  shutting  his  eyes  tight  for 
an  instant,  and  opening  them  again,  *'  was  struck  off  the 
roll  of  life  too  soon." 

Heaven  forgive  me  for  not  condoling  with  you,"  re- 
turned Michael  Warden,  passing  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head, "but  I'm  like  a  man  in  a  dream  at  present.  I 
seem  to  want  my  wits.  Mr.  Craggs — yes — I  am  very 
sorry  we  have  lost  Mr.  Craggs."  But  he  looked  at  Clem- 
ency as  he  said  it,  and  seemed  to  sympathise  with  Ben, 
consoling  her. 

"Mr.  Craggs,  sir,"  observed  Snitchey,  "didn't  find 
life,  I  regret  to  say,  as  easy  to  have  and  to  hold  a^s  his 
theory  made  it  out,  or  he  would  have  been  among  us 
now.  It's  a  great  loss  to  me.  He  was  my  right  arm, 
my  right  leg,  my  right  ear,  my  right  eye,  was  Mr. 
Craggs.  I  am  paralytic  without  him.  He  bequeathed 
his  share  of  the  business  to  Mrs.  Craggs,  her  executors, 
administrators,  and  assigns.  His  name  remains  in  the 
Firm  to  this  hour.  I  try,  in  a  childish  sort  of  way,  to 
make  believe,  sometimes,  that  he's  alive.  You  may  ob- 
serve that  I  speak  for  Self  and  Craggs — deceased  sir — 
deceased,"  said  the  tender-hearted  attorney,  waving  his 
pocket  handkerchief. 

Michael  Warden,  who  had  still  been  observant  of 
Clemency,  turned  to  Mr.  Snitchey  when  he  ceased  to 
speak,  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"Ah,  poor  thing!"  said  Snitchey,  shaking  his  head. 
"Yes.  She  was  always  very  faithful  to  Marion.  She 
was  always  very  fond  of  her.  Pretty  Marion  !  Poor 
Marion  !  Cheer  up,  Mistress — you  are  married  now,  you 
know,  Clemency." 

Clemency  only  sighed,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Well,  well  !  Wait  till  to-morrow,"  said  the  lawyer, 
kindly. 

"  To-morrow  can't  bring  back  the  dead  to  life,  Mis- 
ter," said  Clemency,  sobbing. 

"No.  It  can't  do  that,  or  it  would  bring  back  Mr. 
Craggs,  deceased,"  returned  the  lawyer.  "But  it  may 
bring  some  soothing  circumstances  ;  it  may  bring  some 
comfort.    Wait  till  to-morrow  1 " 

So  Clemency,  shaking  his  proffered  hand,  said  she 
would  ;  and  Britain  who  had  been  terribly  cast  down  at 
sight  of  his  despondent  wife  (which  was  like  the  busi- 
ness hanging  its  head),  said  that  was  right  :  and  Mr. 
Snitchey  and  Michael  Warden  went  up-stairs  ;  and 
there  they  were  soon  engaged  in  a  conversation  so  cau- 
tiously conducted,  that  no  murmur  of  it  was  audible 
above  the  clatter  of  plates  and  dishes,  the  hissing  of  the 
frying-pan,  the  bubbling  of  saucepans,  the  low,  mono- 
tonous waltzing  of  the  jack — with  a  dreadful  click  every 
now  and  then  as  if  it  had  met  with  some  mortal  accident 


to  its  head,  in  a  fit  of  giddiness — and  all  the  other  pre- 
parations in  the  kitchen  for  their  dinner. 

To-morrow  was  a  bright  and  peaceful  day  ;  and  no- 
where were  the  autumn  tints  more  beautifully  seen,  than 
from  the  quiet  orchard  of  the  Doctor's  house.  The 
snows  of  many  winter  nights  had  melted  from  that 
ground,  the  withered  leaves  of  many  summer  times  had 
rustled  there,  since  she  had  fled.  The  honeysuckle 
porch  was  green  again,  the  trees  cast  bountiful  and 
changing  shadows  on  -  the  grass,  the  landscape  was  as 
tranquil  and  serene  as  it  had  ever  been  ;  but  where  was 
she  ! 

Not  there.  Not  there.  She  would  have  been  a 
stranger  sight  in  her  old  home  now,  even  than  that 
home  had  been  at  first,  without  her.  But,  a  lady  sat 
in  the  familiar  place,  from  whose  heart  she  had  never 
passed  away  ;  in  whose  true  memory  she  lived,  unchang- 
ing, youthful,  radiant  with  all  promise  and  all  hope  ;  in 
whose  affection — and  it  was  a  mother's  now,  there  was 
a  cherished  little  daughter  playing  by  her  side — she  had 
no  rival ,  no  successor  ;  upon  whose  gentle  lips  her  name 
was  trembling  then. 

The  spirit  of  the  lost  girl  looked  out  of  those  eyes. 
Those  eyes  of  Grace,  her  sister,  sitting  with  her  husband 
in  the  orchard,  on  their  wedding-day,  and  his  and  Mari- 
on's birth- day. 

He  had  not  become  a  great  man  ;  he  had  not  grown 
rich  ;  he  had  not  forgotten  the  scenes  and  friends  of  his 
youth  ;  he  had  not  fulfilled  any  one  of  the  Doctor's  old 
predictions.  But,  in  his  useful,  patient,  unknown  visit- 
ing of  poor  men's  homes  ;  and  in  his  watching  of  sick- 
beds ;  and  in  his  daily  knowledge  of  the  gentleness  and 
goodness  flowering  the  by-paths  of  this  world,  not  to  be 
trodden  down  beneath  the  heavy  foot  of  poverty,  but 
springing  up,  elastic,  in  its  track,  and  making  its  way 
beautiful  ;  he  had  better  learned  and  proved,  in  each 
succeeding  year,  the  truth  of  his  old  faith.  The  man- 
ner of  his  life,  though  quiet  and  remote,  had  shown  him 
how  often  men  still  entertained  angels,  unawares,  as  in 
the  olden  time  ;  and  how  the  most  unlikely  forms — even 
some  that  were  mean  and  ugly  to  the  view,  and  poorly 
clad — became  irradiated  by  the  couch  of  sorrow,  want, 
and  pain,  and  changed  to  ministering  spirits  with  a  glory 
round  their  heads. 

He  lived  to  better  purpose  on  the  altered  battle-ground 
perhaps,  than  if  he  had  contended  restlessly  in  more 
ambitious  lists  ;  and  he  was  happy  with  his  wife,  dear 
Grace. 

And  Marion.    Had  he  forgotten  her  ? 

"The  time  has  flown,  dear  Grace,"  he  said,  "since 
then  ;  "  they  had  been  talking  of  that  night ;  "  and  yet 
it  seems  a  long  while  ago.  We  count  by  changes  and 
events  within  us.    Not  by  years." 

' '  Yet  we  have  years  to  count  by,  too,  since  Marion 
was  with  us,"  returned  Grace.  "  Six  times,  dear  hus- 
band, counting  to-night  as  one,  we  have  sat  here  on  her 
birth-day,  and  spoken  together  of  that  happy  return,  so 
eagerly  expected  and  so  long  deferred.  Ah  when  will 
it  be  !    When  will  it  be  ! " 

Her  husband  attentively  observed  her,  as  the  tears 
collected  in  her  eyes  ;  and  drawing  nearer,  said  : 

"But,  Marion  told  you,  in  that  farewell  letter  which 
she  left  for  you  upon  your  table,  love,  and  which  you 
read  so  often,  that  years  must  pass  away  before  it  could 
be.    Did  she  not?" 

She  took  a  letter  from  her  breast,  and  kissed  it,  and 
said  "Yes." 

"That  through  those  intervening  years,  however 
happy  she  might  be,  she  would  look  forward  to  the  time 
when  you  would  meet  again,  and  all  would  be  made 
clear  ;  and  that  she  prayed  you,  trustfully  and  hope- 
fully, to  do  the  same.  The  letter  runs  so,  does  it  not, 
my  dear  ?  " 

"Yes,  Alfred." 

"And  every  other  letter  she  has  written  since  ?  " 

"  Except  the  last — some  months  ago — in  which  she 
spoke  of  you,  and  what  you  then  knew,  and  what  I  was 
to  learn  to-night." 

He  looked  towards  the  sun,  then  fast  declining,  and 
said  that  the  appointed  time  was  sunset. 

"Alfred!"  said  Grace,  laying  her  hand  upon  his 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


315 


shoulder  earnestly,  "  there  is  something  in  this  letter — 
this  old  letter,  which  you  say  I  read  so  often — that  I 
have  never  told  you.  But,  to-night,  dear  husband,  with 
that  sunset  drawing  near,  and  all  our  life  seeming  to 
soften  and  become  hushed  with  the  departing  day,  I 
cannot  keep  it  secret." 
"  What  is  it,  love  ?" 

"  When  Marion  went  away,  she  wrote  me,  here,  that 
you  had  once  left  her  a  sacred  trust  to  me,  and  that  now 
she  left  you,  Alfred,  such  a  trust  in  my  hands  :  praying 
and  beseeching  me,  as  I  loved  her,  and  as  I  loved  you, 
not  to  reject  the  affection  she  believed  (she  knew,  she 
said)  you  would  transfer  to  me  when  the  new  wound 
was  healed,  but  to  encourage  and  return  it." 

" — And  make  me  a  proud,  and  happy  man  again, 
Grace.    Did  you  say  so  ?  " 

"  She  meant,  to  make  myself  so  blest  and  honoured 
in  your  love,"  was  his  wife's  answer,  as  he  held  her  in 
his  arms. 

"Hear  me,  my  dear! "he  said. — "No.  Hear  me 
so  !  "—and  as  he  spoke,  he  gently  laid  the  head  she  had 
raised,  again  upon  his  shoulder.  "  I  know  why  I  have 
never  heard  this  passage  in  the  letter,  until  now.  I 
know  why  no  trace  of  it  ever  showed  itself  in  any  word 
or  look  of  yours  at  that  time.  I  know  why  Grace, 
although  so  true  a  friend  to  me,  was  hard  to  win  to  be 
my  wife.  And  knowing  it,  my  own  !  I  know  the  price- 
less val  ue  of  the  heart  I  gird  within  my  arms,  and  thank 
God  for  the  rich  possession  !  " 

She  wept,  but  not  for  sorrow,  as  he  pressed  her  to  his 
heart.  After  a  brief  space,  he  looked  down  at  the  child 
who  was  sitting  at  their  feet  playing  with  a  little  basket 
of  flowers,  and  bade  her  look  how  golden  and  how  red  the 
sun  was. 

"  Alfred, "  said  Grace,  raising  her  head  quickly  at  these 
words.  "The  sun  is  going  down.  You  have  not  for- 
gotten what  I  am  to  know  before  it  sets." 

"  You  are  to  know  the  truth  of  Marion's  history,  my 
love,"  he  answered. 

*'A11  the  truth,"  she  said  imploringly.  "Nothing 
veiled  from  me  any  more.  That  was  the  promise.  Was 
it  not  ?  " 

"  It  was,"  he  answered. 

"  Before  the  sun  went  down  on  Marion's  birth-day. 
And  you  see  it,  Alfred  ?    It  is  sinking  fast." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  looking  steadily 
into  her  eyes,  rejoined  : 

"  That  truth  is  not  reserved  so  long  for  me  to  tell,  dear 
Grace.    It  is  to  come  from  other  lips. " 

"  From  other  lips  !"  she  faintly  echoed. 

"  Yes.  I  know  your  constant  heart,  I  know  how  brave 
you  are,  I  know  that  to  you  a  word  of  preparation  is 
enough.  You  have  said,'^truly,  that  the  time  is  come. 
It  is.  Tell  me  that  you  have  present  fortitude  to  bear  a 
trial — a  surprise — a  shock  :  and  the  messenger  is  wait- 
ing at  the  gate." 

"  What  messenger?"  she  said.  "And  what  intelli- 
gence does  he  bring  ?  " 

"  I  am  pledged,"  he  answered  her,  preserving  his 
steady  look,  "to  say  no  more.  Do  you  think  you  under- 
stand me  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  to  think,"  she  said. 

There  was  that  emotion  in  his  face,  despite  its  steady 
gaze,  which  frightened  her.  Again  she  hid  her  own 
face  on  his  shoulder,  trembling,  and  entreated  him  to 
pause — a  moment. 

"Courage,  my  wife!  When  you  have  firmness  to 
receive  the  messenger,  the  messenger  is  waiting  at  the 
gate.  The  sun  is  setting  on  Marion's  birth-day.  Courage, 
courage,  Grace  !" 

She  raised  her  head,  and,  looking  at  him,  told  him 
she  was  ready.  As  she  stood,  and  looking  upon  him 
going  away,  her  face  was  so  like  Marion's  as  it  had  been 
in  her  later  days  at  home,  that  it  was  wonderful  to  see. 
He  took  the  child  with  him.  She  called  her  back— she 
bore  the  lost  girl's  name — and  pressed  her  to  her  bosom. 
The  little  creature,  being  released  again,  sped  after  him, 
and  Grace  was  left  alone. 

She  knew  not  what  she  dreaded,  or  what  hoped  ;  but 
reniained  there,  motionless,  looking  at  the  porch  by 
which  they  had  disappeared. 

Ah !  what  was  that,  emerging  from   its  shadow ; 


standing  on  its  threshold  !  That  figure,  with  its  white 
garments  rustling  in  the  evening  air  ;  its  head  laid  down 
upon  her  father's  breast,  and  pressed  against  it  to  his 
loving  heart  !  O  God  !  was  it  a  vision  that  came  burst 
ing  from  the  old  man's  arms,  and,  with  a  cry,  and  with 
a  waving  of  its  hands,  and  with  a  wild  precipitation  of 
itself  upon  her  in  its  boundless  love,  sank  down  in  her 
embrace  ! 

"  Oh,  Marion,  Marion  !  Oh,  my  sister  !  Oh,  my  heart's 
dear  love  !  Oh,  joy  and  happiness  unutterable,  so  to  meet 
again  !" 

It  was  no  dream,  no  phantom  conjured  ux>  by  hope  and 
fear,  but  Marion,  sweet  Marion  !  So  beautiful,  so  happy, 
so  unalloyed  by  care  and  trial,  so  elevated  and  exalted 
in  her  loveliness,  that,  as  the  setting  sun  shone  brightly 
on  her  upturned  face,  she  might  have  been  a  spirit  visit- 
ing the  earth  upon  some  healing  mission. 

Clinging  to  her  sister,  who  had  dropped  upon  a  seat 
and  bent  down  over  her — and  smiling  through  her  tears 
— and  kneeling,  close  before  her,  with  both  arms  twining 
round  her,  and  never  turning  for  an  instant  from  her 
face — and  with  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun  upon  her 
brow,  and  with  the  soft  tranquillity  of  evening  gathering 
around  them — Marion  at  length  broke  silence  ;  her 
voice,  so  calm,  low,  clear,  and  pleasant,  well-tuned  to  the 
time. 

"  When  this  was  my  dear  home,  Grace,  as  it  will  be 
now  again  " — 

"  Stay,  my  sweet  love  !  A  moment  !  0  Marion,  to 
hear  you  speak  again." 

She  could  not  bear  the  voice  she  loved,  so  well,  at 
first. 

"  When  this  was  my  dear  home,  Grace,  as  it  will  be 
now  again,  I  loved  him  from  my  soul.  I  loved  him  most 
devotedly.  I  would  have  died  for  him,  though  I  was  so 
young.  I  never  slighted  his  affection  in  my  secret  breast, 
for  one  brief  instant.  It  was  far  beyond  all  price  to  me. 
Although  it  is  so  long  ago,  and  past  and  gone,  and  every 
thing  is  wholly  changed,  I  could  not  bear  to  think  that 
you,  who  loved  so  well,  should  think  I  did  not  truly  love 
him  once.  I  never  loved  him  better,  Grace,  than  when 
he  left  this  very  scene  upon  this  very  day.  I  never 
loved  him  better,  dear  one,  than  I  did  that  night  when  / 
left  here." 

Her  sister,  bending  over  her,  could  look  into  her  face 
and  hold  her  fast. 

"  But  he  had  gained,  unconsciously,"  said  Marion,  with 
a  gentle  smile,  "  another  heart,  before  I  knew  that  1  had 
one  to  give  him.  That  heart — yours,  my  sister  ! — was 
so  yielded  up,  in  all  its  other  tenderness,  to  me  ;  was  so 
devoted,  and  so  noble  ;  that  it  plucked  its  love  away, 
and  kept  its  secret  from  all  eyes  but  mine — Ah  I  what 
other  eyes  were  quickened  by  such  tenderness  and  grati- 
tude ! — and  was  content  to  sacrifice  itself  to  me.  But,  I 
knew  something  of  its  depths.  I  knew  the  struggle  it 
had  made.  I  knew  its  high,  inestimable  worth  to  him, 
and  his  appreciation  of  it,  let  him  love  me  as  he  woiild. 
I  knew  the  debt  I  owed  it.  I  had  its  great  example 
every  day  before  me.  W^hat  you  had  done  for  me,  I  knew 
that  I  could  do,  Grace,  if  I  would,  for  you.  I  never  laid 
my  head  down  on  my  pillow,  but  I  prayed  vdih.  tears  to 
;  do  it.  I  never  laid  my  head  down  on  my  pillow,  but  I 
thought  of  Alfred's  own  words,  on  the  day  of  his  depart- 
ure, and  how  truly  he  had  said  (for  I  loiew  that,  know- 
ing you)  that  there  were  victories  gained  every  day.  in. 
struggling  hearts,  to  which  these  fields  of  battle  were  as 
I  nothing.  Thinking  more  and  more  upon  the  great  endur- 
ance cheerfully  sustained,  and  never  known  or  cared  for, 
that  there  must  be,  every  day  and  hour,  in  that  great 
strife  of  which  he  spoke,  my  trial  seemed  to  grow  light 
and  easy.  And  He  who  knows  our  hearts,  my  dearest, 
at  this  moment,  and  who  knows  there  is  no  drop  of  bit- 
terness or  grief— of  anything  but  unmixed  happiness — 
in  mine,  enabled  me  to'  make  the  resolution  that  I  never 
would  be  Alfred's  wife.  That  he  should  be  my  brother, 
and  your  husband,  if  the  course  I  took  could  bring  that 
happy  end  to  pass;  but  that  I  never  would  (Grace,  I  then 
loved  him  dearly,  dearly  !)  be  his  wife  !  " 

"  O  Marion  !  O  Marion  !" 

"I  had  tried  to  seem  indifferent  to  him;  "and  she 
pressed  her  sister's  face  against  her  own  ;  "  but  that 
was  hard,  and  you  were  always  his  true  advocate.   I  had 


316 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


tried  to  tell  you  of  my  resolution,  but  you  would  never 
iear  me  ;  you  would  never  understand  me.  The  time 
was  drawing  near  for  his  return.  I  felt  that  I  must  act, 
before  the  daily  intercourse  between  us  was  renewed.  I 
tnew  that  one  great  pang,  undergone  at  that  time,  would 
save  a  lengthened  agony  to  all  of  us.  I  knew  that  if  I 
went  away  then,  that  end  must  follow  which  has  fol- 
lowed, and  which  has  made  us  both  so  happy,  Grace  !  I 
wrote  to  good  Aunt  Martha,  for  a  refuge  in  her  house  :  I 
did  not  then  tell  her  all,  but  something  of  my  story,  and 
she  freely  promised  it.  While  I  was  contesting  that  step 
with  myself,  and  with  my  love  of  you,  and  home,  Mr. 
Warden,  brought  here  by  an  accident,  became,  for  some 
time,  our  companion." 

"  I  have  sometimes  feared  of  late  years,  that  this  might 
have  been,"  exclaimed  her  sister  ;  and  her  countenance 
-was  ashy-pale.  "You  never  loved  him — and  you  mar- 
ried him  in  your  self-sacrifice  to  me  !  " 

"  He  was  then,"  said  Marion,  drawing  her  sister  closer 
to  her,  "  on  the  eve  of  going  secretly  away  for  a  long 
time.  He  wrote  to  me,  after  leaving  here  ;  told  me  what 
his  condition  and  prospects  really  were  ;  and  offered  me 
his  hand.  He  told  me  he  had  seen  I  was  not  happy  in 
the  prospect  of  Alfred's  return.  I  believe  he  thought 
my  heart  had  no  part  in  that  contract  ;  perhaps  thought 
I  might  have  loved  him  once,  and  did  not  then  ;  perhaps 
thought  that  when  I  seemed  indifferent,  I  tried  to  hide 
indifference — I  cannot  tell.  But  I  wished  that  you 
should  feel  me  wholly  lost  to  Alfred — hopeless  to  him — 
dear.    Do  you  understand  me,  love  ?  "  t 

Her  sister  looked  into  her  face,  attentively.  She 
seemed  in  doubt. 

"I  saw  Mr.  Warden,  and  confided  in  his  honour; 
charged  him  with  my  secret,  on  the  eve  of  his  and  my 
departure.    He  kept  it.    Do  you  understand  me,  dear  ?" 

Grace  looked  confusedly  upon  her.  She  scarcely 
seemed  to  hear. 

"My  love,  my  sister!"  said  Marion,  "recall  your 
thoughts  a  moment ;  listen  to  me.  Do  not  look  so 
strangely  on  me.  There  are  countries,  dearest,  where 
those  who  would  abjure  a  misplaced  passion,  or  would 
strive  against  some  cherished  feeling  of  their  hearts  and 
conquer  it,  retire  into  a  hopeless  solitude,  and  close  the  \ 
world  against  themselves  and  worldly  loves  and  hopes 
for  ever.  When  women  do  so,  they  assume  that  name 
which  is  so  dear  to  you  and  me,  and  call  each  other  sis- 
ters. But,  there  may  be  sisters,  Grace,  who,  in  the  broad 
world  out  of  doors,  and  underneath  its  free  sky,  and  in 
its  crowded  places,  and  among  its  busy  life,  and  trying 
to  assist  and  cheer  it  and  to  do  some  good, — learn  the 
same  lesson  ;  and  who  with  hearts  still  fresh  and  young, 
and  open  to  all  happiness  and  means  of  happiness,  can 
say  the  battle  is  long  past,  the  victory  long  won.  And 
such  a  one  am  I !    You  understand  me  now  ?  " 

Still  she  looked  fixedly  upon  ber,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  Oh  Grace,  dear  Grace,"  said  Marion,  clinging  yet 
more  tenderly  and  fondly  to  that  breast  from  which  she 
had  been  so  long  exiled,  "  if  you  were  not  a  happy  wife 
and  mother — if  I  had  no  little  namesake  here — if  Alfred, 
my  kind  brother,  were  not  your  own  fond  husband — from 
whence  could  I  derive  the  ecstasy  I  feel  to-night  !  But, 
as  I  left  here,  so  I  have  returned.  My  heart  has  known 
no  other  love,  my  hand  has  never  been  bestowed  apart 
from  it.  I  am  still  your  maiden  sister,  unmarried,  unbe- 
trothed  :  your  own  old  loving  Marion,  in  whose  affection 
you  exist  alone  and  have  no  partner,  Grace  ! " 

She  understood  her  now.  Her  face  relaxed ;  sobs 
came  to  her  relief  ;  and  falling  on  her  neck,  she  wept 
and  wept,  and  fondled  her  as  if  she  were  a  child  again. 

When  they  were  more  composed,  they  found  that  the 
Doctor,  and  his  sister,  good  Aunt  Martha,  were  standing 
near  at  hand,  with  Alfred. 

"  This  is  a  weary  day  for  me,"  said  good  Aunt  Martha, 
smiling  through  her  tears,  as  she  embraced  her  nieces  ; 
*'  for  I  lose  my  dear  companion  in  making  you  all  happy  ; 
and  what  can  you  give  me,  in  return  for  my  Marion  ?  " 

"A  converted  brother,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  That's  something,  to  be  sure,"  retorted  Aunt  Martha, 

in  such  a  farce  as — " 

"  No,  pray  don't,"  said  the  Doctor,  penitently. 
"Well,  1  won't,"  replied  Aunt  Martha.    "But,  I  con- 
sider myself  ill-used.    I  don't  know  what's  to  become  of 


me  without  my  Marion,  after  we  have  lived  together 
half-a-dozen  years." 

"You  must  come  and  live  here,  I  suppose,"  replied 
the  Doctor.  "We  shan't  quarrel  now,  Martha." 
"  Or  you  must  get  married,  Aunt,"  said  Alfred. 
"Indeed,"  returned  the  old  lady.  "  I  think  it  might  be 
a  good  speculation  if  I  were  to  set  my  cap  at  Michael 
Warden,  who,  I  hear,  is  come  home  much  the  better  for 
his  absence  in  all  respects.  But  as  I  knew  him  when  he 
was  a  boy,  and  I  was  not  a  very  young  woman  then, 
perhaps  he  mightn't  respond.  So  I'll  make  up  my  mind 
to  go  and  live  with  Marion,  when  she  marries,  and  until 
then  (it  will  not  be  very  long,  I  dare  say)  to  live  alone. 
What  do  you  say.  Brother  ?  " 

"  I've  a  great  mind  to  say  it's  a  ridiculous  world  alto- 
gether, and  there's  nothing  serious  in  it,"  observed  the 
poor  old  Doctor. 

' '  You  might  take  twenty  affidavits  of  it  if  you  chose, 
Anthony,"  said  his  sister  ;  "  but  nobody  would  believe 
you  with  such  eyes  as  those." 

"  It's  a  world  full  of  hearts,"  said  the  Doctor,  hugging 
his  younger  daughter,  and  bending  across  her  to  hug 
Grace — for  he  couldn't  separate  the  sisters ;  "and  a  se- 
rious world,  with  all  its  folly — even  with  mine,  which 
was  enough  to  have  swamped  the  whole  globe  ;  and  it  is 
a  world  on  which  the  sun  never  rises,  but  it  looks  upon 
a  thousand  bloodless  battles  that  are  some  set-off  against 
the  miseries  and  wickedness  of  Battle-Fields  ;  and  it  is 
a  world  we  need  be  careful  how  we  libel.  Heaven  forgive 
t  us,  for  it  is  a  world  of  sacred  mysteries,  and  its  Creator 
only  knows  what  lies  beneath  the  surface  of  His  lightest 
image  !  " 

You  would  not  be  the  better  pleased  with  my  rude  pen, 
if  it  dissected  and  laid  open  to  your  view  the  transports 
of  this  family,  long  severed  and  now  reunited.  There- 
fore, I  will  not  follow  the  poor  Doctor  through  his 
humbled  recollection  of  the  sorrow  he  had  had,  when 
Marion  was  lost  to  him  ;  nor  will  I  tell  how  serious  he 
had  found  that  world  to  be  in  which  some  love,  deep- 
anchored,  is  the  portion  of  all  human  creatures  ;  nor, 
how  such  a  trifle  as  the  absence  of  one  little  unit  in  the 
!  great  absurd  account,  had  stricken  him  to  the  ground. 
Nor,  how,  in  compassion  for  his  distress,  his  sister  had, 
long  ago,  revealed  the  truth  to  him  by  slow  degrees, 
and  brought  him  to  the  knowledge  of  the  heart  of  his 
self -banished  daughter,  and  to  that  daughter's  side. 

Nor,  how  Alfred  Heathfield  had  been  told  the  truth, 
too,  in  the  course  of  that  then  current  year  ;  and  Marion 
had  seen  him,  and  had  promised  him,  as  her  brother, 
that  on  her  birth-day,  in  the  evening,  Grace  should 
know  it -from  her  lips  at  last. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Doctor,"  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  look- 
ing into  the  orchard,  "but  have  I  liberty  to  come  in  ?" 

Witho.ut  waiting  for  x>ermission,  he  came  straight  to 
Marion,  and  kissed  her  hand,  quite  joyfully. 

"  If  Mr.  Craggs  had  been  alive,  my  dear  Miss  Marion," 
said  Mr.  Snitchey,  "he  would  have  had  great  interest  in 
this  occasion.  It  might  have  suggested  to  him,  Mr.  Al- 
fred, that  our  life  is  not  too  easy  perhaps  ;  that,  taken 
altogether,  it  will  bear  any  little  smoothing  we  can  give 
it  ;  but  Mr.  Craggs  was  a  man  who  could  endure  to  be 
convinced,  sir.  He  was  always  open  to  conviction.  If 
he  were  open  to  conviction,  now,  I — this  is  weakness. 
Mrs.  Snitchey,  my  dear," — at  his  summons  that  lady  ap- 
peared from  behind  the  door,  "you  are  among  old 
friends." 

Mrs.  Snitchey  having  delivered  her  congratulations, 
took  her  husband  aside. 

"  One  moment,  Mr.  Snitchey,"  said  that  lady.    "It  is 
not  in  my  nature  to  rake  up  the  ashes  of  the  departed." 
"No,  my  dear,"  returned  her  husband. 
"  Mr.  Craggs  is — " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  he  is  deceased,"  said  Mr.  Snitchey. 
"  But  I  ask  you  if  you  recollect,"  pursued  his  wife, 
"that  evening  of  the  ball  ?    I  only  ask  you  that.    If  you 
do  ;  and  if  your  memory  has  not  entirely  failed  you,  Mr, 
Snitchey  :  and  if  you  are  not  absolutely  in  your  dotage  ; 
I  ask  you  to  connect  this  time  with  that — to  remember 
how  I  begged  and  prayed  you,  upon  my  knees — " 
"  Upon  your  knees,  my  dear  !"  said  Mr.  Snitchey. 
<*Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Snitchey,  confidently,  "and  you 


CHRISTMA 

know  it — to  beware  of  that  man — to  observe  his  eyes — and 
now  to  tell  me  whether  I  was  right,  and  whether  at  that 
moment  he  knew  secrets  which  he  didn't  choose  to  tell." 

"Mrs.  Snitchey,"  returned  her  husband,  in  her  ear, 
"  Madam.    Did  you  ever  observe  anything  in  my  eye  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Snitchey,  sharply.  "Don't  natter 
yourself. " 

'Because,  ma'am,  that  night,"  he  continued,  twitch- 
ing her  by  the  sleeve,  "  it  happens  that  we  both  knew 
secrets  which  we  didn't  choose  to  tell,  and  both  knew 
just  the  same  professionally.  And  so  the  less  you  say 
about  such  things  the  better,  Mrs.  Snitchey  ;  and  take 
this  as  a  warning  to  have  wiser  and  more  charitable  eyes 
another  time.  Miss  Marion,  I  brought  a  friend  of  yours 
along  with  me.    Here  !    Mistress  !  " 

Poor.  Clemency,  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  came  slow- 
ly in  escorted  by  hor  husband  ;  the  latter  doleful  with 
the  presentiment,  that  if  she  abandoned  herself  to  grief, 
the  Nutmeg  Grater  was  done  for. 

"  Now,  Mistress,"  said  the  lawyer,  checking  Marion 
as  she  ran  towards  her,  and  interposing  himself  between 
them,  "  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  The  matter,"  cried  poor  Clemency. — When,  looking 
up  in  wonder,  and  in  indignant  remonstrance,  and  in  the 
added  emotion  of  a  great  roar  from  Mr.  Britain,  and  see- 
ing that  sweet  face  so  well-remembered  close  before  her, 
she  stared,  sobbed,  laughed,  cried,  screamed,  embraced 
her,  held  her  fast,  released  her,  fell  on  Mr.  Snitchey  and 
embraced  him  (much  to  Mrs.  Snitchey's  indignation), 
fell  on  the  Doctor  and  embraced  him,  fell  on  Mr.  Britain 
and  embraced  him,  and  concluded  by  embracing  herself, 
throwing  her  apron  over  her  head,  and  going  into  hys- 
terics behind  it. 

A  stranger  had  come  into  the  orchard,  after  Mr.  Snit- 
chey, and  had  remained  apart,  near  the  gate,  without 
being  observed  by  any  of  the  group  ;  for  they  had  little 
spare  attention  to  bestow,  and  that  had  been  monopolised 
by  the  ecstasies  of  Clemency.  He  did  not  appear  to  wish 
to  be  observed,  but  stood  alone,  with  downcast  eyes  ;  and 
there  was  an  air  of  dejection  about  him  (though  he  was 
a  gentleman  of  a  gallant  appearance)  which  the  general 
happiness  rendered  more  remarkable. 

None  but  the  quick  eyes  of  Aunt  Martha,  however, 
remarked  him  at  all  ;  but,  almost  as  soon  as  she  espied 
him,  she  was  in  conversation  with  him.  Presently, 
going  to  where  Marion  stood  with  Grace  and  her  little 
namesake,  she  whispered  something  in  Marion's  ear,  at 
which  she  started,  and  appeared  surprised  ;  but  soon 


S    BOOKS.  317 

recovering  from  her  confusion,  she  timidly  approached 
the  stranger,  in  Aunt  Martha's  company,  and  engaged  in 
conversation  with  him  too. 

"  Mr.  Britain,"  said  the  lawyer,  putting  his  hand  in 
his  pocket,  and  bringing  out  a  legal-looking  document 
while  this  was  going  on,  "  1  congratulate  you.  You  are 
now  the  whole  and  sole  proprietor  of  that  freehold 
tenement,  at  present  occupied  and  held  by  yourself  as  a 
licensed  tavern,  or  house  of  public  entertainment,  and 
commonly  called  or  known  by  the  sign  of  the  Nutrneg^ 
Grater.  Your  wife  lost  one  house  through  my  client, 
Mr.  Warden  ;  and  now  gains  another.  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  canvassing  you  for  the  county,  one  of  these 
fine  mornings." 

*'  Would  it  make  any  difference  in  the  vote  if  the 
sign  was  altered,  sir?"    asked  Britain. 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  replied  the  lawyer. 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Britain,  handing  him  back  the  con- 
veyance, ' '  just  clap  in  the  words,  '  and  Thimble,'  will 
you  be  so  good  ;  and  I'll  have  the  two  mottoes  painted 
up  in  the  parlour,  instead  of  my  wife's  portrait." 

"  And  let  me,"  said  a  voice  behind  them  ;  it  was 
the  stranger's — Michael  Warden's  ;  "let  me  claim  the 
benefit  of  those  inscriptions.  Mr.  Heathfield  and 
Doctor  Jeddler,  I  might  have  deeply  wronged  you  both. 
That  I  did  not,  is  no  virtue  of  my  own.  1  will  not  say 
that  I  am  six  years  wiser  than  I  was,  or  better.  But  I 
have  known,  at  any  rate,  that  term  of  self-reproach.  I 
can  urge  no  reason  why  you.  should  deal  gently  with 
me.  I  abused  the  hospitality  of  this  house  ;  and  learnt 
my  own  demerits,  with  a  shame  I  never  have  forgotten, 
yet  with  some  profit  too  I  would  fain  hope,  from  one,"^ 
he  glanced  at  Marion,  "  to  whom  I  made  my  humble 
supplication  for  forgiveness,  when  I  knew  her  merit 
and  my  deep  un worthiness.  In  a  few  days  I  shall  quit 
this  place  for  ever.  I  entreat  your  pardon.  Do  as  you. 
would  be  done  by  !    Forget  and  forgive  !  " 

Time — from  whom  I  had  the  latter  portion  of  this 
story,  and  with  whom  I  have  the  pleasure  of  a  personal 
acquaintance  of  some  five-and- thirty  years'  duration — in- 
formed me,  leaning  easily  upon  his  scythe,  that  Michael 
Warden  never  went  away  again,  and  never  sold  his 
house,  but  opened  it  afresh,  maintained  a  golden  mean 
of  hospitality,  and  had  a  wife,  the  pride  and  honour  of 
that  country-side,  whose  name  was  Marion.  But,  as  I 
have  observed  that  Time  confuses  facts  occasionally,  I 
hardly  know  what  weight  to  give  to  his  authority. 


TH'E    HAUNTED  MAN, 

AND 

THE  GHOST'S  BARGAIN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  Gift  Bestowed. 

,  Everybody  said  so. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  assert  that  what  everybody  says 
must  be  true.  Everybody  is,  often,  as  likely  to  be 
wrong  as  right.  In  the  general  experience,  everybody 
has  been  wrong  so  often,  and  it  has  taken  in  most  in- 
stances such  a  weary  while  to  find  out  how  wrong,  that 
authority  is  proved  to  be  fallible.  Everybody  may 
sometimes  be  right  ;  "  but  that's  no  rule,"  as  the  ghost 
Of  Giles  Scroggins  says  in  the  ballad. 

The  dread  word.  Ghost,  recalls  me. 

Everybody  said  he  looked  like  a  haunted  man.  The  ex- 
tent of  my  present  claim  for  everybody  is,  that  they 
were  so  far  right.    He  did. 

Who  could  have  seen  his  hollow  cheek,  his  sunken 
brilliant  eye  ;  his  black-attired  figure,  indefinably  grim. 


although  well-knit  and  well-proportioned  ;  his  grizzled 
hair  hanging,  like  tangled  sea- weed,  about  his  face, — 
as  if  he  had  been,  through  his  whole  life,  a  lonely  mark 
for  the  chafing  and  beating  of  the  great  deep  of  human- 
ity,— but  might  have  said  he  looked  like  a  haunted 
man  ? 

WTio  could  have  observed  his  manner,  taciturn, 
thoughtful,  gloomy,  shadowed  by  habitual  reserve,  re- 
tiring always  and  jocund  never,  with  a  distraught  air  of 
reverting  to  a  bygone  place  and  time,  or  of  listening  to 
some  old  echoes  in  his  mind,  but  might  have  said  it  was 
the  manner  of  a  haunted  man  ? 

Who  could  have  heard  his  voice,  slow-speaking,  deep, 
and  grave,  with  a  natural  fulness  and  melody  in  it  which 
he  seemed  to  set  himself  against  and  stop,  but  might 
have  said  it  was  the  voice  of  a  haunted  man  ? 

Who  that  had  seen  him  in  his  inner  chamber,  part 
library  and  part  laboratory, — for  he  was,  as  the  world 
knew,  far  and  wide,  a  learned  man  in  chemistry,  and  a 


318 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


teacher  on  -whose  lips  and  hands  a  crowd  of  aspiring  ears 
and  eyes  hung  daily, — who  that  had  seen  him  there, 
upon  a  winter  night,  alone,  surrounded  by  his  drugs  and 
instruments  and  books  ;  the  shadow  of  his  shaded  lamp 
a  monstrous  beetle  on  the  wall,  motionless  among  a 
crowd  of  spectral  shapes  raised  there  by  the  flickering 
of  the  fire  upon  the  quaint  objects  around  him  ;  some 
of  these  phantoms  (the  reflection  of  glass  vessels  that 
held  liquids),  trembling  at  heart  like  things  that  knew 
his  power  to  uncombine  them,  and  to  give  back  their 
component  parts  to  fire  and  vapour  who  that  had  seen 
him  then,  his  work  done,  and  he  pondering  in  his  chair 
before  the  rusted  grate  and  red  flame,  moving  his  thin 
mouth  as  if  in  speech,  but  silent  as  the  dead,  would  not 
have  said  that  the  man  seemed  haunted  and  the  cham- 
ber too. 

Who  might  not,  by  a  very  easy  flight  of  fancy,  have 
believed  that  everything  about  him  took  this  haunted 
tone,  and  that  he  lived  on  haunted  ground  ? 

His  dwelling  was  so  solitary  and  vault-like, — an  old, 
retired  part  of  an  ancient  endowment  for  students,  once 
a  brave  edifice  planted  in  an  open  place,  but  now  the  ob- 
solete whim  of  forgotten  architects  ;  smoke -age-and- 
weather-darkened,  squeezed  on  every  side  by  the  over- 
growing of  the  great  city,  and  choked,  like  an  old  well, 
with  stones  and  bricks  ;  its  small  quadrangles,  lying  down 
in  very  pits  formed  by  the  streets  and  buildings,  which, 
in  course  of  time,  had  been  constructed  above  its  heavy 
chimney  stacks  ;  its  old  trees,  insulted  by  the  neighbour- 
ing smoke,  which  deigned  to  droop  so  low  when  it  was 
very  feeble  and  the  weather  very  moody  ;  its  grass-plots, 
struggling  with  the  mildewed  earth  to  be  grass,  or  to  win 
any  show  of  compromise  ;  its  silent  pavement,  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  tread  of  feet,  and  even  to  the  observa- 
tion of  eyes,  except  when  a  stray  face  looked  down  from 
the  upper  world,  wondering  what  nook  it  was  ;  its  sun- 
dial in  a  little  bricked- up  corner,  where  no  sun  had 
straggled  for  a  hundred  years,  but  where,  in  compensa- 
tion for  the  sun's  neglect,  the  snow  would  lie  for  weeks 
when  it  lay  nowhere  else,  and  the  black  east  wind  would 
spin  like  a  huge  humming-top,  when  in  all  other  places 
it  was  silent  and  still. 

His  dwelling,  at  its  heart  and  core — within  doors — at 
his  fireside — was  so  lowering  and  old,  so  crazy,  yet  so 
strong,  with  its  worm-eaten  beams  of  wood  in  the  ceiling 
and  its  sturdy  floor  shelving  downward  to  the  great  oak 
chimney-piece  ;  so  environed  and  hemmed  in  by  the  pres- 
sure of  the  town,  yet  so  remote  in  fashion,  age,  and  cus- 
tom ;  so  quiet,  yet  so  thundering  with  echoes  when  a 
distant  voice  was  raised  or  a  door  was  shut, — echoes  not 
confined  to  the  many  low  passages  and  empty  rooms,  but 
rumbling  and  grumbling  till  they  were  stifled  in  the 
heavy  air  of  the  forgotten  Crypt  where  the  Norman 
arches  were  half  buried  in  the  earth. 

You  should  have  seen  him  in  his  dwelling  about  twi- 
light, in  the  dead  winter  time. 

When  the  wind  was  blowing,  shrill  and  shrewd,  with 
the  going  down  of  the  blurred  sun.  When  it  was  just 
so  dark,  as  that  the  forms  of  things  were  indistinct  and 
big — but  not  wholly  lost.  When  sitters  by  the  fire  began 
to  see  wild  faces  and  figures,  mountains  and  abysses, 
ambuscades  and  armies,  in  the  coals.  When  people  in 
the  streets  bent  down  their  heads  and  ran  before  the 
weather.  When  those  who  were  obliged  to  meet  it, 
were  stopped  at  angry  corners,  stung  by  wandering  snow- 
flakes  alighting  on  the  lashes  of  their  eyes, — which  fell 
too  sparingly,  and  were  blown  away  too  quickly,  to  leave 
a  trace  upon  the  frozen  ground.  Wlien  windows  of  pri- 
vate houses  closed  up  tight  and  warm.  When  lighted 
gas  began  to  burst  forth  in  the  busy  and  the  quiet  streets, 
fast  blackening  otherwise.  When  stray  pedestrians, 
shivering  along  the  latter,  looked  down  at  the  glowing 
fires  in  kitchens,  and  sharpened  their  sharp  appetites  by 
sniffing  up  the  fragrance  of  whole  miles  of  dinners. 

When  travellers  by  land  were  bitter  cold,  and  looked 
wearily  on  gloomy  landscapes,  rustling  and  shuddering 
in  the  blast.  When  mariners  at  sea,  outlying  ui)on  icy 
yards,  were  tossed  and  swung  above  the  howling  ocean 
dreadfully.  When  light-houses,  on  rocks  and  headlands, 
showed  solitary  and  watchful  ;  and  benighted  sea-birds 
breasted  on  against  their  ponderous  lanterns,  and  fell 
dead.    When  little  readers  of  story-books,  by  the  fire- 


light, trembled  to  think  of  Cassim  Baba  cut  into  quar- 
ters, hanging  in  the  Robber's  Cave,  or  had  some  small 
misgivings  that  the  fierce  little  old  woman,  with  the 
crutch,  who  used  to  start  out  of  the  box  in  the  merchant 
Abudah's  bed-room,  might,  one  of  these  nights,  be  found 
upon  the  stairs,  in  the  long,  cold,  dusky  journey  up  to 
bed. 

When,  in  rustic  places,  the  last  glimmering  of  daylight 
died  away  from  the  ends  of  avenues  ;  and  the  trees, 
arching  overhead,  were  sullen  and  black.  When,  in 
parks  and  woods,  the  high  wet  fern  and  sodden  moss  and 
beds  of  fallen  leaves,  and  trunks  of  trees,  were  lost  to 
view,  in  masses  of  impenetrable  shade.  When  mists 
arose  from  dyke,  and  fen,  and  river, .  When  lights  in 
old  halls  and  in  cottage  windows  were  a  cheerful  sight. 
When  the  mill  stopped,  the  wheelright  and  the  black- 
smith shut  their  workshops,  the  turnpike-gate  closed, 
the  plough  and  harrow  were  left  lonely  in  the  fields,  the 
labourer  and  team  went  home,  and  the  striking  of  the 
church  clock  had  a  deeper  sound  than  at  noon,  and  the 
church-yard  wicket  would  be  swung  no  more  that  night. 

When  twilight  everywhere  released  the  shadows, 
prisoned  up  all  day,  that  now  closed  in  and  gathered 
like  mustering  swarms  of  ghosts.  When  they  stood  low- 
ering in  corners  of  rooms,  and  frowned  out  from  behind 
half -opened  doors.  When  they  had  full  possession  of 
unoccupied  apartments.  When  they  danced  upon  the 
floors,  and  walls,  and  ceilings  of  inhabited  chambers 
while  the  fire  was  low,  and  withdrew  like  ebbing  waters 
when  it  sprung  into  a  blaze.  When  they  fantastically 
mocked  the  shape  of  household  objects,  making  the 
nurse  and  ogress,  the  rocking-horse  a  monster,  the  won- 
dering child,  half-scared  and  half-amused,  a  stranger  to 
itself, — the  very  tongs  upon  the  hearth  a  straddling  giant 
with  his  arms  a-kimbo,  evidently  smelling  the  blood  of 
Englishmen,  and  wanting  to  grind  people's  bones  to  make 
his  bread. 

When  these  shadows  brought  into  the  minds  of  older 
people  other  thoughts,  and  showed  them  different  images. 
When  they  stole  from  their  retreats,  in  the  likenesses  of 
forms  and  faces  from  the  past,  from  the  grave,  from  the 
deep,  deep  gulf,  where  the  things  that  might  have  been, 
and  never  were,  are  always  wandering. 

When  he  sat,  as  already  mentioned,  gazing  at  the  fire. 
When,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  the  shadows  went  and  came. 
When  he  took  no  heed  of  them,  with  his  bodily  eyes  ; 
but,  let  them  come  or  let  them  go,  looked  fixedly  at  the 
fire.    You  should  have  seen  him,  then. 

When  the  sounds  that  had  arisen  with  the  shadows, 
and  come  out  of  their  lurking-places  at  the  twilight 
summons,  seemed  to  make  a  deeper  stillness  all  about 
him.  When  the  wind  was  rumbling  in  the  chimney,  and 
sometimes  crooning,  sometimes  howling,  in  the  house. 
When  the  old  trees  outward  were  so  shaken  and  beaten, 
that  one  querulous  old  rook,  unable  to  sleep,  protested 
now  and  then,  in  a  feeble,  dozy,  high-up  "  Caw  ! "  When, 
at  intervals,  the  window  trembled,  the  rusty  vane  upon 
the  turret-top  complained,  the  clock  beneath  it  recorded 
that  another  quarter  of  an  hour  was  gone,  or  the  fire 
collapsed  and  fell  in  with  a  rattle. 

— When  a  knock  came  at  his  door,  in  short,  as  he  was 
sitting  so,  and  roused  him. 

"  Who's  that?  "  said  he.    "Come  in  !" 

Surely  there  had  been  no  figure  leaning  on  the  back  of 
his  chair  ;  no  face  looking  over  it.  It  is  certain  that  no 
gliding  footstep  touched  the  floor,  as  he  lifted  up  his 
head  with  a  start,  and  spoke.  And  yet  there  was  no 
mirror  in  the  room  on  whose  surface  his  own  form  could 
have  cast  its  shadow  for  a  moment :  and  Something  had 
passed  darkly  and  gone  1 

"  I'm  humbly  fearful,  sir,"  said  a  fresh-coloured  busy 
man,  holding  the  door  open  with  his  foot  for  the  admis- 
sion of  himself  and  a  wooden  tray  he  carried,  and  letting 
it  go  again  by  very  gentle  and  careful  degrees,  when  he 
and  the  tray  had  got  in,  lest  it  should  close  noisily, 
' '  that  it's  a  good  bit  past  the  time  to-night.  But  Mrs. 
William  has  been  taken  off  her  legs  so  often — " 

"  By  the  wind  ?    Ay  !  I  have  heard  it  rising." 

" — By  the  wind,  sir — that  it's  a  mercy  she  got  home 
at  all.  Oh  dear,  yes.  Yes.  It  was  by  the  wind,  Mr. 
Redlaw.    By  the  wind." 

He  had,  by  this  time,  put  down  the  tray  for  dinner. 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


319 


and  was  employed  in  lighting  the  lamp,  and  spreading  I 
a  cloth  on  the  table.    From  this  employment  he  desisted  | 
in  a  hurry,  to  stir  and  feed  the  fire,  and  then  resumed  i 
it ;  the  lamp  he  had  lighted,  and  the  blaze  that  rose  j 
under  his  hand,  so  quickly  changing  the  appearance  of 
the  room,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  mere  coming  in  of  his 
fresh  red  face,  and  active  manner  had  made  the  pleasant 
alteration. 

Mrs.  William  is  of  course  subject  at  any  time,  sir, 
to  be  taken  off  her  balance  by  the  elements.  She  is  not 
formed  superior  to  that. " 

"No,"  returned  Mr.  Redlaw  good-naturedly,  though 
abruptly. 

"  No,  sir.  Mrs.  William  may  be  taken  off  her  bal- 
ance by  Earth  ;  as,  for  example,  last  Sunday  week, 
when  sloppy  and  greasy,  and  she  going  out  to  tea  with 
her  newest  sister-in-law,  and  having  a  pride  in  herself, 
and  wishing  to  appear  perfectly  spotless  though  pedes- 
trian. Mrs.  William  may  be  taken  off  her  balance  by 
Air  ;  as  being  once  over-persuaded  by  a  friend  to  try  a 
swing  at  Peckham  Fair,  which  acted  on  her  constitution 
instantly  like  a  steam-boat.  Mrs.  William  may  be  taken 
off  her  balance  by  Fire  ;  as  on  a  false  alarm  of  engines 
at  her  mother's,  when  she  went  two  mile  in  her  night- 
cap. Mrs.  William  may  be  taken  off  her  balance  by 
Water  ;  as  at  Batcersea,  when  rowed  into  the  piers  by 
her  young  nephew,  Charley  Swidger  junior,  aged 
twelve,  which  had  no  idea  of  boats  whatever.  But  these 
are  elements.  Mrs.  William  must  be  taken  out  of  ele- 
ments for  the  strength  of  her  character  to  come  into 
play. 

As  he  stopped  for  a  reply,  the  reply  was  "  Yes,"  in 
the  same  tone  as  before. 

"Yes,  sir.  Oh  dear,  yes!"  said  Mr.  Swidger,  still 
proceeding  with  his  preparations,  and  checking  them  off 
as  he  made  them.  "  That's  where  it  is,  sir.  That's 
what  I  always  say  myself,  sir.  Such  a  many  of  usSwid- 
gers  1 — Pepper.  Why  there's  my  father,  sir,  superan- 
nuated keeper  and  custodian  of  this  Institution,  eigh-ty- 
seven  year  old.    He's  a  Swidger  ! — Spoon." 

"True,  William,"  was  the  patient  and  abstracted  an- 
swer, when  he  stopped  again. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Swidger.  "  That's  what  I 
always  say,  sir.  You  may  call  him  the  trunk  of  the 
tree  ! — Bread.  Then  you  come  to  his  successor,  my  un- 
worthy self — Salt — and  Mrs.  William,  Swidgers  both. — 
Knife  and  fork.  Then  you  come  to  all  my  brothers  and 
their  families,  Swidgers,  man  and  woman,  boy  and  girl. 
Wky,  what  with  cousins,  uncles,  aunts,  and  relation- 
ships of  this,  that,  and  t'other  degree,  and  what-not 
degree,  and  marriages,  and  lyings-in,  the  Swidgers — 
Tumbler — might  take  hold  of  hands,  and  make  a  ring 
round  England  ! " 

Receiving  no  reply  at  all  here,  from  the  thoughtful 
man  whom  he  addressed,  Mr.  William  approached  him 
nearer,  and  made  a  feint  of  accidentally  knocking  the 
table  with  a  decanter  to  rouse  him.  The  moment  he 
succeeded,  he  went  on,  as  if  in  great  alacrity  of  acqui- 
escence. 

"  Yes,  sir  !  That's  just  what  I  say  myself,  sir.  Mrs. 
William  and  me  have  often  said  so.  '  There's  Swidg- 
ers enough,'  we.  say,  '  without  our  voluntary  contribu- 
tions,— Butter.  In  fact,  sir,  my  father  is  a  family  in^ 
himself — Castors — to  take  care  of  ;  and  it  happens  all 
for  the  best  that  we  have  no  child  of  our  own,  though 
it's  made  Mrs.  William  rather  quiet-like  too.  Quite 
ready  for  the  fowl  and  mashed  potatoes,  sir  ?  Mrs.  Wil- 
liam said  she'd  dish  in  ten  minutes  when  I  left  the 
Lodge  ?  " 

"I  am  quite  ready,"  said  the  other,  waking  as  from  a 
dream,  and  walking  slowly  to  and  fro. 

**  Mrs.  William  has  been  at  it  again,  sir  ! "  said  the 
keeper,  as  he  stood  warming  a  plate  at  the  fire,  and 
pleasantly  shading  his  face  with  it.  Mr.  Redlaw  stopped 
in  his  walking,  and  an  expression  of  interest  appeared 
in  him. 

"  What  I  always  say  myself,  sir.  She  ^cUl  do  it  ! 
There's  a  motherly  feeling  in  Mrs.  William's  breast  that 
must  and  will  have  went." 

**  What  has  she  done  ?  " 

"Why,  .sir,  not  satisfied  with  being  a  sort  of  mother  to 
all  the  young  gentlemen  that  come  up  from  a  wariety 


of  parts,  to  attend  your  courses  of  lectures  at  this  an- 
cient foundation — it's  suri)rising  lio  w  stone-chaney  catches 
the  heat,  this  frosty  weather,  to  be  sure  ! "    Here  he 
turned  the  plates,  and  cooled  his  fingers. 
"  WellV"  said  Mr.  Redlaw. 

"That  just  what  I  say  my.self,  sir,"  returned  Mr. 
William,  speaking  over  his  shoulder,  as  if  in  ready  and 
delighted  assent. 

"That's  exactly  where  it  is,  sir!  There  ain't  one  of 
our  students  but  appears  to  regard  Mrs.  William  in  that 
light.  Every  day,  right  through  the  course,  they  put 
their  heads  into  the  Lodge,  one  after  another,  and  have 
all  got  something  to  tell  her,  or  something  to  ask  her. 
'  Swidge  '  is  the  appellation  by  which  they  speak  of  Mrs. 
William  in  general,  among  themselves,  I'm  told  ;  but 
that's  what  1  say,  sir.  Better  be  called  ever  so  far  out 
of  your  name,  if  it's  done  in  real  liking,  than  have 
it  made  ever  so  much  of,  and  not  cared  about  !  What's 
a  name  for  ?  To  know  a  person  by.  If  Mrs.  William  is 
known  by  something  better  than  her  name — I  allude  to 
Mrs.  William's  qualities  and  disposition — never  mind  her 
name,  though  it  is  Swidger,  by  rights.  Let  'em  call  her 
Swidge,  Widge,  Bridge — Lord  !  London  Bridge,  Black- 
friars,  Chelsea,  Putney,  Waterloo,  or  Hammersmith  Sus- 
pension— if  they  like  !  " 

The  close  of  this  triumphant  oration  brought  him  and 
the  plate  to  the  table,  upon  which  he  half  laid  and  half 
dropped  it,  with  a  lively  sense  of  its  being  thoroughly 
heated,  just  as  the  subject  of  his  praises  entered  the 
room,  bearing  another  tray  and  a  lantern,  and  followed 
by  a  venerable  old  man  with  long  gray  hair. 

Mrs.  William,  like  Mr.  William,  was  a  simple,  inno- 
cent-looking person,  in  whose  smooth  cheeks  the  cheer- 
ful red  of  her  husband's  oflBcial  waiscoat  was  very  pleas- 
antly repeated.  But  whereas  Mr.  William's  light  hair 
stood  on  end  all  over  his  head,  and  seemed  to  draw  his 
eyes  up  with  it  in  an  excess  of  bustling  readiness  for 
anything,  the  dark  brown  hair  of  Mrs.  William  was 
carefully  smoothed  down,  and  waved  away  under  a  trim 
tidy  cap,  in  the  most  exact  and  quiet  manner  imaginable. 
Whereas  Mr.  William's  very  trousers  hitched  them- 
selves up  at  the  ankles,  as  if  it  were  not  in  their 
iron  grey  nature  to  rest  without  looking  about  them, 
Mrs.  William's  neatly- flowered  skirts — red  and  white, 
like  her  own  pretty  face — were  as  composed  and  orderly, 
as  if  the  very  wind  that  blew  so  hard  out  of  doors  could 
not  disturb  one  of  their  folds.  Whereas  his  coat  had 
something  of  a  flyaway  and  a  half  off  appearance  about 
the  collar  and  breast,  her  little  bodice  was  so  placid  and 
neat,  that  there  should  have  been  protection  for  her,  in 
it,  had  she  needed  any,  with  the  roughest  people. 
Who  could  have  had  the  heart  to  make  so  calm  a  bosom 
swell  with  grief,  or  throb  with  fear,  or  flutter  with  a 
thought  of  shame  !  To  whom  would  its  repose  and 
peace  have  not  appealed  against  disturbance,  like  the 
innocent  slumber  of  a  child  I 

"  Punctual,  of  course,  Milly,"  said  her  husband,  re- 
lieving her  of  the  tray,  "  or  it  wouldn't  be  you.  Here's 
Mrs.  William,  sir ! — He  looks  lonelier  than  ever  to- 
night," whispering  to  his  wife,  as  he  w^as  taking  the 
tray,  "and  ghostlier  altogether." 

Without  any  show  of  hurry  or  noise,  or  any  show  of 
herself  even,  she  was  so  calm  and  quiet,  Milly  set  the 
dishes  she  had  brought  upon  the  table, — Mr.  William, 
after  much  clattering  and  running  about,  having  only 
gained  possession  of  a  butter-boat  of  gravy,  which  he 
stood  ready  to  serve. 

"  What  is  that  the  old  man  has  in  his  arms  1 "  asked 
Mr.  Redlaw,  as  he  sat  down  to  his  solitary  meal. 

"  Holly,  sir,"  replied  the  quiet  voice  of  Milly. 

"That's  what  I  say  myself,  sir."  interposed  Mr. 
William,  striking  in  with  the  butter-boat.  "  Berries 
is  so  seasonable  to  the  time  of  year  !— Brown  gravy  !  " 

"  Another  Christmas  come,  another  year  gone  I " 
murmured  the  Chemist,  with  a  gloomy  sigh.  "More 
figures  in  the  lengthening  sum  of  recollection  that  we 
work  and  work  at  to  our  torment,  till  Death  idly 
jumbles  altogether,  and  rubs  all  out.  So,  Philip  I " 
breaking  off,  and  raising  his  voice  as  he  addressed  the 
old  man  standing  apart,  with  his  glistening  burden  in 
his  arms,  from  which  the  quiet  Mrs.  William  took  small 
branches,  which  she  noiselessly  trimmed  with  her  scis- 


320 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


sors,  and  decorated  the  room  with,  while  her  aged 
father-in-law  looked  on  much  interested  in  the  cere- 
money. 

"My  duty  to  you,  sir,"  returned  the  old  man. 
"  Should  have  spoke  before,  sir,  but  know  your  ways, 
Mr.  Redlaw — proud  to  say — and  wait  till  spoke  to  ! 
Merry  Christmas,  sir,  and  happy  New  Year,  and  many 
of  'em.  Have  had  a  pretty  many  of  'em  myself — ha, 
ha  ! —  and  may  take  the  liberty  of  wishing  'em.  I'm 
eighty-seven  !" 

' '  Have  you  had  so  many  that  were  merry  and  happy  ?  " 
asked  the  other. 

"  Ay,  sir,  ever  so  many,"  returned  the  old  man. 

"  Is  his  memory  impaired  with  age?  It  is  to  be  ex- 
pected now, "  said  Mr.  Redlaw,  turning  to  the  son,  and 
speaking  lower. 

"Not  a  morsel  of  it,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  William. 
"That's  exactly  what  I  say  myself,  sir.  There  never 
was  such  a  memory  as  my  father's.  He's  the  most 
wonderful  man  in  the  world.  He  don't  know  what  for- 
getting means.  It's  the  very  observation  I'm  always 
making  to  Mrs.  William,  sir,  if  you'll  believe  me  !  " 

Mr.  Swidger,  in  his  polite  desire  to  seem  to  acquiesce 
at  all  events,  delivered  this  as  if  there  were  no  iota  of 
contradiction  in  it,  and  it  were  all  said  in  unbounded 
and  unqualified  assent. 

The  Chemist  pushed  his  plate  away,  and,  rising  from 
the  table,  walked  across  the  room  to  where  the  old  man 
stood  looking  at  a  little  sprig  of  holly  in  his  hand. 

' '  It  recals  the  time  vi^hen  many  of  those  years  were 
old  and  new,  then  ?  "  he  said,  observing  him  attentively, 
and  touching  him  on  the  shoulder.    "  Does  it?" 

"Oh  many,  many!"  said  Philip,  half  awaking  from 
his  reverie.    "  I'm  eighty-seven  !  " 

"Merry  and  happy,  was  it?"  asked  the  Chemist,  in  a 
low  voice.    "  Merry  and  happy,  old  man?" 

"  May  be  as  high  as  that,  no  higher,"  said  the  old  man, 
holding  out  his  hand  a  little  way  above  the  level  of  his 
knee,  and  looking  retrospectively  at  his  questioner, 
"  when  I  first  remember  'em  !  Cold,  sunshiny  day  it 
was,  out  a- walking,  when  some  one — it  was  my  mother 
as  sure  as  you  stand  there,  though  I  don't  know  what 
her  blessed  face  was  like,  for  she  took  ill  and  died  that 
Christmas-time — told  me  they  were  food  for  birds.  The 
pretty  little  fellow  thought — that's  me,  you  understand 
— that  bird's  eyes  were  so  bright,  perhaps,  because  the 
berries  that  they  lived  on  in  the  winter  were  so  bright. 
I  recollect  that.    And  I'm  eighty-seven  ! " 

"Merry  and  happy!"  mused  the  other,  bending  his 
dark  eyes  upon  the  stooping  figure,  with  a  smile  of  com- 
passion.   "  Merry  and  happy — and  remember  well  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay  ! "  resumed  the  old  man,  catching  the  last 
words. 

"I  remember  'em  well  in  my  school  time,  year  after 
year,  and  all  the  merry-making  that  used  to  come  along 
with  them.  I  was  a  strong  chap  then,  Mr.  Redlaw  ; 
and,  if  you'll  believe  me,  hadn't  my  match  at  foot-ball 
within  ten  mile.  Where's  my  son  William?  Hadn't 
my  match  at  foot-ball,  William,  within  ten  mile  !" 

"That's  what  I  always  say,  father!"  returned  the 
son  promptly,  and  with  great  respect.  "You  are  a 
Swidger,  if  ever  there  was  one  of  the  family  ! " 

"Dear!"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head  as  he 
again  looked  at  the  holly.  "  His  mother — my  son 
William's  my  youngest  son — and  I,  have  set  among  'era 
all,  boys  and  girls,  little  children  and  babies,  many  a 
year,  when  the  berries  like  these  were  not  shining  half 
so  bright  all  around  us,  as  their  bright  faces.  Many  of 
'em  are  gone  ;  she's  gone  ;  and  my  George  (our  eldest, 
who  was  her  pride  more  than  all  the  rest  !)  is  fallen  very 
low  :  but  I  can  see  them,  when  I  look  here,  alive  and 
healthy,  as  they  used  to  be  in  those  days  ;  and  I  can  see 
him,  thank  God,  in  his  innocence.  It's  a  blessed  thing 
to  me,  at  eighty-seven." 

The  keen  look  that  had  been  fixed  upon  him  with  so 
much  earnestness,  had  gradually  sought  the  ground. 

"  When  my  circumstances  got  to  l)e  not  so  good  as 
formerly,  through  not  being  honestly  dealt  by,  and  I 
first  come  here  to  be  custodian,"  said  the  old  man,  "  — 
which  was  upwards  of  fifty  years  ago — where's  my  son, 
William  ?    More  than  half  a  century  ago,  William  !  " 

"That's  what  I  say,  father,"  replied   the  son,  as 


promptly  and  dutifully  as  before,  "  that's  exactly  where 
it  is.  Two  times  ought's  an  ought,  and  twice  five  ten, 
and  there's  a  hundred  of  'em." 

"  It  was  quite  a  pleasure  to  know  that  one  of  our 
founders — or  more  correctly  speaking,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  a  great  glory  in  his  subject  and  his  knowledge  of 
it,  "  one  of  the  learned  gentlemen  that  helped  endow  us 
in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  for  we  were  founded  afore 
her  day — left  in  his  will,  among  the  other  bequests  he 
made  us,  so  much  to  buy  holly,  for  garnishing  the  walls 
and  windows,  come  Christmas.  There  w^as  something 
homely  and  friendly  in  it.  Being  but  strange  here,  then, 
and  coming  at  Christmas  time,  we  took  a  liking  for  his 
very  picter  that  hangs  in  what  used  to  be,  anciently, 
afore  our  ten  poor  gentlemen  commuted  for  an  annual 
stipend  in  money,  our  great  Dinner  Hall.— A  sedate  gen- 
tleman in  a  peaked  beard,  with  a  ruff  round  his  neck, 
and  a  scroll  below  him,  in  old  English  letters,  '  Lord  I 
keep  my  memory  green  1 '  You  know  all  about  him, 
Mr.  Redlaw?" 

"  I  know  the  portrait  hangs  there,  Philip." 

"  Yes,  sure,  it's  the  second  on  the  right,  above  the  pan- 
elling. I  was  going  to  say — he  has  helped  to  keep  my 
memory  green,  I  thank  him  ;  for,  going  round  the  build- 
ing every  year,  as  I'm  a  doing  now,  and  freshening  up 
the  bare  rooms  with  these  branches  and  berries,  freshens 
up  my  bare  old  brain.  One  year  brings  back  another, 
and  that  year  another,  and  those  others  numbers  !  at  last, 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  birth-time  of  our  Lord  was  the 
birth -time  of  all  I  have  ever  had  affection  for,  or  mourned 
for,  or  delighted  in, — and  they're  a  pretty  many,  for  I'm 
eighty-seven  ! " 

"  Merry  and  happy,"  murmured  Redlaw  to  himself. 

The  room  began  to  darken  strangely. 

"  So  you  see,  sir,"  pursued  old  Philip,  whose  hale  win- 
try cheek  had  warmed  into  a  ruddier  glow,  and  whose  blue 
eyes  had  brightened  while  he  spoke,  "  I  have  plenty  to 
keep,  when  I  keep  this  present  season.  Now  where's  my 
quiet  Mouse  ?  Chattering's  the  sin  of  my  time  of  life, 
and  there's  half  the  building  to  do  yet,  if  the  cold  don't 
freeze  us  first,  or  the  wind  don't  blow  us  away,  or  the 
darkness  don't  swallow  us  up." 

The  quiet  Mouse  had  brought  her  calm  face  to  his  side, 
and  silently  taken  his  arm,  before  he  finished  speaking. 

"  Come  away,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Mr.  Red- 
law  won't  settle  to  his  dinner,  otherwise,  till  it's  cold  as 
the  winter.  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  rambling  on,  sir, 
and  I  wish  you  good  night,  and,  once  again,  a  merry — " 

"  Stay  !"  said  Mr.  Redlaw,  resuming  his  place  at  the 
table,  more,  it  would  have  seemed  from  his  manner,  to 
re-assure  the  old  keeper,  than  in  any  remembrance  of  his 
own  appetite.  "  Spare  me  another  moment,  Philip.  Wil- 
liam, you  were  going  to  tell  me  something  to  your  ex- 
cellent wife's  honour.  It  will  not  be  disagreeable  to  her 
to  hear  you  praise  her.    What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  that's  where  it  is,  you  see,  sir,"  returned  Mr. 
William  Swidger,  looking  towards  his  wife  in  consider- 
able embarrassment.  "  Mrs.  William's  got  her  eye  upon 
me. " 

"  But  you're  not  afraid  of  Mrs.  William's  eye  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Swidger,  "  that's  what  I 
say  myself.  It  wasn't  made  to  be  afraid  of.  It  wouldn't 
have  been  made  so  mild,  if  that  was  the  intention.  But 
'I  wouldn't  like  to — Milly  ! — him,  you  know.  Down  in 
the  Buildings." 

Mr.  William,  standing  behind  the  table,  and  rummag- 
ing disconcertedly  among  the  objects  upon  it,  directed 
persuasive  glances  at  Mrs.  William,  and  secret  jerks  of 
his  head  and  thumb  at  Mr.  Redlaw,  as  alluring  her  to- 
wards him. 

"  Him,  you  know,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  William.  "  Down 
in  the  Buildings.  Tell,  my  dear  !  You're  the  works  of 
Shakspeare  in  comparison  with  myself.  Down  in  the 
Buildings,  you  know,  my  love — Student. " 

"  Student  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Redlaw,  raising  his  head. 

"  That's  what  I  say,  sir  !"  cried  Mr.  William,  in  the 
utmost  animation  of  assent.  "  If  it  wasn't  the  poor  stu- 
dent down  in  the  Buildings,  why  should  you  wish  to  hear 
it  from  Mrs.  William's  lips  ?  Mrs.  William,  my  dear — 
Buildings." 

"  I  didn't  know,"  said  Milly,  with  a  quiet  frankness, 
free  from  any  haste  or  confusion,  "that  William  had 


CHRISTMA  S    B  0  0  KS. 


321 


said  anything'  about  it,  or  I  wouldn't  have  come.  I  asked 
him  not  to.  It's  a  sick  young  gentleman,  sir — and  very 
poor,  lam  afraid — who  is  too  ill  to  go  home  this  holiday- 
time,  and  lives,  unknown  to  any  one,  in  but  a  common 
kind  of  lodging  for  a  gentleman,  down  in  Jerusalem 
Buildings.    That's  all,  sir." 

"  Why  have  I  never  heard  of  him  ?"  said  the  Chemist, 
I  rising  hurriedly.  "  Why  has  he  not  made  his  situation 
I  known  to  me  ?  Sick  ! — give  me  my  hat  and  cloak.  Poor  ! 
— what  house — what  number  ?  " 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  go  there,  sir,"  said  Milly,  leaving 
her  father-in-law,  and  calmly  confronting  him  with  her 
collected  little  face  and  folded  hands. 

"  Not  go  there  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !  "  said  Milly,  shaking  her  head  as  at  a 
most  manifest  and  self-evident  impossibility.  **  It 
couldn't  be  thought  of  !  " 

'*  What  do  you  mean  ?    Why  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,"  said  Mr,  William  Swidger,  per- 
suasively and  confidentially,  "  that's  what  I  say.  Depend 
upon  it,  the  young  gentleman  would  never  have  made 
his  situation  known  to  one  of  his  own  sex.  Mrs.  William 
has  got  into  his  confidence,  but  that's  quite  different. 
They  all  confide  in  Mrs.  William  ;  they  all  trust  her.  A 
man,  sir,  couldn't  have  got  a  whisper  out  of  him  ;  but 
woman,  sir,  and  Mrs.  William  combined — !" 

"  There  is  good  sense  and  delicacy  in  what  you  say, 
William,"  returned  Mr.  Redlaw,  observant  of  the  gentle 
and  composed  face  at  his  shoulder.  And  laying  his 
finger,  on  his  lip,  he  secretly  put  his  purse  into  her 
hand. 

"  Oh  dear  no,  sir  ! "  cried  Milly,  giving  it  back  again. 

li  *'  Worse  and  worse  !    Couldn't  be  dreamed  of  1  " 

il  Such  a  staid  matter-of-fact  housewife  she  was,  and 
so  unruffled  by  the  momentary  haste  of  this  rejection, 
that,  an  instant  afterwards,  she  was  tidily  picking  up  a 
few  leaves  which  had  strayed  from  between  her  scissors 
and  her  apron,  when  she  had  arranged  the  holly. 

Finding,  when  she  rose  from  her  stooping  posture, 
that  Mr.  Redlaw  was  still  regarding  her  with  doubt 
and  astonishment,  she  quietly  repeated — looking  about, 

!  the  while,  for  any  other  fragments  that  might  have  es 

( caped  her  observation  : 

I  "Oh  dear  no,  sir  !  He  said  that  of  all  the  world  he 
would  not  be  known  to  you,  or  receive  help  from  you — 
though  he  is  a  student  in  your  class.  I  have  made  no 
terms  of  secrecy  with  you,  but  I  trust  to  your  honour 
completely." 

"  Why  did  he  say  so  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  can't  tell,  sir,"  said  Milly,  after  thinking  a 
little,  ' '  because  I  am  not  at  all  clever,  you  know  ;  and 
I  wanted  to  be  useful  to  him  in  making  things  neat  and 
comfortable  about  him,  and  employed  myself  that  way. 
1  But  I  know  he  is  poor,  and  lonely,  and  I  think  he  is 
somehow  neglected  too. — How  dark  it  is  !" 

The  room  had  darkened  more  and  more.  There  was 
a  very  heavy  gloom  and  shadow  gathering  behind  the 
Chemist's  chair. 

"  What  more  about  him?"  he  asked. 

"  He  is  engaged  to  be  married  when  he  can  afford  it," 
said  Milly,  "and  is  studying,  I  think,  to  qualify  him- 
self to  earn  a  living.  I  have  seen,  a  long  time,  that  he 
has  studied  hard  and  denied  himself  much. — How  very 
dark  it  is  ! " 

"It's  turned  colder,  too,"  said  the  old  man,  rubbing 
his  hands.  "  There's  a  chill  and  dismal  feeling  in  tht 
room.  Where's  my  son  William  ?  William,  my  boy, 
turn  the  lamp,  and  rouse  the  fire  ! "  ,  ' 

Milly's  voice  resumed,  like  quiet  music  very  softly 
played  : 

*'  He  muttered  in  his  broken  sleep  yesterday  after- 
noon, after  talking  to  me"  (this  was  to  herself)  about 
some  one  dead,  and  some  great  wrong  done  that  could 
never  be  forgotten  ;  but  whether  to  him  or  to  another 
person,  I  don't  know.    Not  hy  him,  I  am  sure." 

"And,  in  short,  Mrs.  William,  you  see — which  she 
wouldn't  say  herself,  Mr.  Redlaw,  if  she  was  to  stop 
here  till  the  new  year  after  this  next  one — "  said  Mr. 
'William,  coming  up  to  him  to  speak  in  his  ear,  "has 
done  him  worlds  of  good  !  Bless  you,  worlds  of  good  ! 
Ml  at  home  just  the  same  as  ever — my  father  made  as 
11  ug  and  comfortable— not  a  crumb  of  litter  to  be  found 
1  Vol.  II.— 21 


in  the  house,  if  you  were  to  offer  fifty  pound  ready 
money  for  it — Mrs.  William  apparently  never  out  of  the 
way — yet  Mrs.  William  ba<;k wards  and  forwards,  back- 
wards and  ff)rwards,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  a 
mother  to  him  !  " 

The  room  turned  darker  and  colder,  and  the  gloom 
and  shadow  gathering  behind  the  chair  was  heavier. 

"Not  content  with  this,  sir,  Mrs.  William  goes  and 
finds,  this  very  night,  when  she  was  coming  home  (why 
it's  not  above  a  couple  of  hours  ago),  a  creature  more 
like  a  young  wild  beast  than  a  young  child,  shivering 
upon  a  door-step.  What  does  Mrs.  William  do,  but 
brings  it  home  to  dry  it,  and  feed  it,  and  keep  it  till  our 
old  Bounty  of  food  and  flannel  is  given  ?>way  on  Christ- 
mas morning  !  If  it  ever  felt  a  fire  before,  it's  as  much 
as  it  ever  did  ;  for  it's  sitting  in  the  old  Lodge  chimney, 
staring  at  ours  as  if  its  ravenous  eyes  would  never  shut 
again.  It's  sitting  there,  at  least,"  said  Mr.  William, 
correcting  himself,  on  reflection,  "  unless  it's  bolted  !  " 

"  Loaven  keep  her  happy  !"  said  the  Chemist  aloud, 
"and  you  too,  Philip  !  and  you,  William  !  I  must  con- 
sidf  I-  what  to  do  in  this.  I  may  desire  to  see  this  stu- 
dent ;  ril  not  detain  you  longer  now.    Good  night  !" 

"I  thankee,  sir,  I  thankee  !"  said  the  old  man,  "  for 
Mouse,  and  for  my  son  William,  and  for  myself. 
Where's  my  son  William  ?  WiUiam,  you  take  the  lan- 
tern anu  go  on  6rst,  through  them  long  dark  passages,  as 
you  did  last  year  and  the  year  afore.  Ha,  ha  I  /  remem- 
ber- ti.  ugh  I'm  eighty-seven  !  '  Lord  keep  my  memory 
gref  1.  !'  It'b  a  very  good  prayer,  Mr.  Redlaw,  that  of 
tho  karnc  1  'gentleman  in  the  peaked  beard,  with  a  ruff 
rom^  ^  hi3  neck — hangs  up,  second  on  the  right  above  the 
panolliii^  -,  in  what  used  to  be,  afore  our  ten  poor  gentle- 
men commuted,  our  great  Dinner  Hall.  '  Lord  keep  my 
memory  green  ! '  It's  very  good  and  pious,  sir.  Amen  ! 
Amen  ! " 

As  they  passed  out  and  shut  the  heavy  door,  which, 
h-^wever  carefully  wiilih'-M,  fired  a  long  train  of  thun- 
dering reverberations  when  it  shut  at  last,  the  room 
turned  darker. 

As  he  fell  a-musing  in  his  chair  alone,  the  healthy 
holly  withered  on  the  wnM,  and  dropped — dead  branches. 

As  the  gloom  and  shadow  thickened  behind  him,  in 
that  place  where  it  had  been  gathering  so  darkly,  it 
took,  by  slow  degrees, — or  out  of  it  there  came,  by  some 
unreal,  unsubstantirJ  process — not  to  be  traced  by  any 
human  sense,  an  a\/ful  likeness  of  himself. 

Ghastly  and  cold,  colourless  in  its  leaden  face  and 
hands,  but  with  his  features,  and  his  bright  eyes,  and 
his  grizzled  hair,  and  dressed  in  the  jiloomy  shadow  of 
his  dress,  it  came  into  its  terrible  appearance  of  exist- 
ence, motionless,  without  a  sound.  As  Ti£  leaned  his 
arm  upon  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  ruminating  before  the 
fire,  it  leaned  upon  the  chair-back,  close  above  him, 
with  its  appalling  copy  of  his  face  looking  where  his 
face  looked,  and  bearing  the  expression  his  face  bore. 

This,  then,  was  the  Something  that  had  passed  and 
gone  already.  This  was  the  dread  companion  of  the 
haunted  man  ! 

It  took,  for  some  moments,  no  more  apparent  heed  of 
him,  than  he  of  it.  The  Christmas  Waits  were  playing 
somewhert  in  the  distance,  and,  through  his  thoughtful- 
ness,  he  seemed  to  listen  to  the  music.  It  seemed  to 
listen  too. 

At  length  he  spoke  ;  without  moving  or  lifting  up  his 
face. 

"  Here  again  !  "  he  said. 

**  Here  again  !  "  replied  the  Phantom. 

"I  see  you  in  the  fire,"  said  the  haunted  man  ;  "I 
hear  you  in  music,  in  the  wind,  in  the  dead  stillness  of 
the  night." 

The  Phantom  moved  his  head,  assenting. 
Why  do  you  come,  to  hauni  me  thus?"  ) 

"  I  come  as  I  am  called,"  replied  the  Ghost. 

"No.    Unbidden,"  exclaimed  the  Chemist. 

"  Unbidden  be  it,"  said  the  Spectre.    "  It  is  enough. 
I  am  here." 

Hitherto  the  light  of  the  fire  had  shone  on  the  two 
faces — if  the  dread  lineaments  behind  the  chair  might 
be  called  a  face — both  addressed  towards  it,  as  at  first, 
and  neither  looking  at  the  other.  But,  now,  the  haunted 
man  turned,  suddenly,  and  stared  upon  the  Ghost.  The 


322 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Ghost,  as  sudden  in  its  motion,  passed  to  before  the 
chair,  and  stared  on  him. 

The  living  man,  and  the  animated  image  of  himself 
dead,  might  so  have  looked,  the  one  upon  the  other.  An 
awful  survey,  in  a  lonely  and  remote  part  of  an  empty 
old  pile  of  building,  on  a  winter  night,  with  the  loud 
wind,  going  by  upon  its  journey  of  mystery — whence,  or 
whither,  no  man  knowing  since  the  world  began — and 
the  stars,  in  unimaginable  millions,  glittering  through 
it,  from  eternal  space,  where  the  world's  bulk  is  as  a 
grain,  and  its  hoary  age  is  infancy. 

"Look  upon  me  !"  said  the  Spectre.  "  I  am  he,  neg- 
lected in  my  youth,  and  miserably  poor,  who  strove  and 
suffered,  and  still  strove  and  suffered,  until  I  hewed  out 
knowledge  from  the  mine  where  it  was  buried,  and  made 
rugged  steps  thereof,  for  my  worn  feet  to  rest  and  rise 
on." 

"  I  am  that  man,"  returned  the  Chemist. 

"No  mother's  self-denying  love,"  pursued  the  Phan- 
tom, "no  father's  counsel,  aided  we.  A  stranger  came 
into  my  father's  place,  when  I  was  but  a  child,  and  I 
was  easily  an  alien  from  my  mother's  heart.  My  parents, 
at  the  best,  were  of  that  sort  whose  care  soon  ends,  and 
whose  duty  is  soon  done  ;  who  cast  their  offspring  loose, 
early,  as  birds  do  theirs  ;  and  if  they  do  well,  claim  the 
merit  ;  and  if  ill,  the  pity." 

It  paused,  and  seemed  to  tempt  and  goad  him  with  its 
look,  and  with  the  manner  of  its  speech,  and  with  its 
smile. 

"I  am  he,"  pursued  the  Phantom,  "who,  in  this 
struggle  upward,  found  a  friend.  I  made  him— won 
him — bound  him  to  me  !  We  worked  together,  side  by 
side.  All  the  love  and  confidence  that  in  my  earlier 
youth  had  had  no  outlet,  and  found  no  expression,  I  be- 
stowed on  him." 

"  Not  all,"  said  Redlaw,  hoarsely. 

"No,  not  all,"  returned  the  Phantom.  "I  had  a 
sister." 

The  haunted  man,  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hands, 
replied,  "I  had  !"  The  Phantom,  with  an  evil  smile, 
drew  closer  to  the  chair,  and  resting  its  chin  upon  its 
folded  hands,  its  folded  hands  upon  the  back,  and  look- 
ing down  into  his  face  with  searching  eyes,  that  seemed 
instinct  with  fire,  went  on  : 

"Such  glimpses  of  the  light  of  home  as  I  had  ever 
known,  had  streamed  from  her.  How  young  she  was, 
how  fair,  how  loving  !  I  took  her  to  the  first  poor  roof 
that  I  was  master  of,  and  made  it  rich.  She  came  into 
the  darkness  of  my  life,  and  made  it  bright. — She  is  be- 
fore me  ! " 

"  I  saw  her,  in  the  fiire,  but  now.  I  hear  her  in  music, 
in  the  wind,  in  the  dead  stillness  of  the  night,"  returned 
the  haunted  man, 

"Did  he  love  her?"  said  the  Phantom,  echoing  his 
contemplative  tone.  "  I  think  he  did  once.  I  am  sure 
he  did.  Better  had  she  loved  him  less — less  secretly, 
less  dearly,  from  the  shallower  depths  of  a  more  divided 
heart  ! " 

"  Let  me  forget  it,"  said  the  Chemist,  with  an  angry 
motion  of  his  hand.    "  Let  me  blot  it  from  my  memory  !  " 

The  Spectre,  without  stirring,  and  with  its  unwinking, 
cruel  eyes  still  fixed  upon  his  face,  went  on  : 

"  A  dream,  like  hers,  stole  upon  my  own  life." 
,"  It  did,"  said  Redlaw. 

"A  love,  as  like  hers,"  pursued  the  Phantom,  "as 
my  inferior  nature  might  cherish,  arose  in  my  own  heart. 
I  was  too  poor  to  bind  its  object  to  my  fortune  then,  by 
any  thread  of  promise  or  entreaty.  I  loved  her  far  too 
well,  to  seek  to  do  it.  But,  more  than  ever  I  had  striven 
in  my  life,  I  strove  to  climb  !  Only  an  inch  gained, 
brought  me  something  nearer  to  the  height.  I  toiled 
up  !  In  the  late  pauses  of  my  labour  at  that  time, — my 
sister  (sweet  companion  !)  still  sharing  with  me  the  ex- 
piring embers  and  the  cooling  hearth, — when  day  was 
breaking,  what  pictures  of  the  future  did  I  see  ! " 

"  I  saw  them  in  the  fire,  but  now,"  he  murmured. 
"  They  come  back  to  me  in  music,  in  the  wind,  in  the 
dead  stillness  of  the  night,  in  the  revolving  years." 

" — Pictures  of  my  own  domestic  life,  in  after- time, 
with  her  who  was  the  inspiration  of  my  toil.  Pictures 
of  my  sister,  made  the  wife  of  my  dear  friend,  on  equal 
terms — for  he  had  some  inheritance,  we  none — pictures 


of  our  sobered  age  and  mellowed  happiness,  smd  of  the 
golden  links,  extending  back  so  far,  that  should  bind 
us,  and  our  children,  in  a  radiant  garland,"  said  the 
Phantom. 

"Pictures,"  said  the  haunted  man,  "that  were  de- 
lusions. Why  is  it  my  doom  to  remember  them  too 
well !  " 

"  Delusions,"  echoed  the  Phantom  in  its  changeless 
voice,  and  glaring  on  him  with  its  changeless  eyes. 
"  For  my  friend  (in  whose  breast  my  confidence  was 
locked  as  my  own),  passing  between  me  and  the  centre 
of  the  system  of  my  hopes  and  struggles,  won  her  to 
himself,  and  shattered  my  frail  universe.  My  sister,^ 
doubly  dear,  doubly  devoted,  doubly  cheerful  in  my 
home,  lived  on  to  see  me  famous,  and  my  old  ambition 
so  rewarded  when  its  spring  was  broken,  and  then — " 

"  Then  died,"  he  interposed.  "  Died,  gentle  as  ever,; 
happy,  and  with  no  concern  but  for  her  brother.  Peace!" 

The  Phantom  watched  him  silently. 

"  Remembered  !  "  said  the  ,  haunted  man,  after  a 
pause.  "Yes.  So  well  remembered,  that  even  now, 
when  years  have  passed,  and  nothing  is  more  idle  or 
more  visionary  to  me  than  the  boyish  love  so  long  out- 
lived, I  think  of  it  with  sympathy,  as  if  it  were  a 
younger  brother's  or  a  son's.  Sometimes  I  even  wonder 
when  her  heart  first  inclined  to  him,  and  how  it  had 
been  affected  towards  me. — Not  lightly,  once,  I  think. 
— But  that  is  nothing.  Early  unhappiness,  a  wound 
from  a  hand  I  loved  and  trusted,  and  a  loss  that 
nothing  can  replace,  outlive  such  fancies." 

"Thus,"  said  the  Phantom,  "I  bear  within  me  a 
Sorrow  and  a  Wrong.  Thus  I  prey  upon  myself.  Thus, 
memory  is  my  curse  ;  and,  if  I  could  forget  my  sorrow 
and  my  wrong,  I  would  !  " 

"  Mocker  !  "  said  the  Chemist,  leaping  up,  and  making, 
with  a  wrathful  hand,  at  the  throat  of  his  other  self. 
* '  Wliy  have  I  always  that  taunt  in  my  ears  V  " 

"  Forbear  !  "  exclaimed  the  Spectre  in  an  awful  voice* 
"'  Lay  a  hand  on  me  and  die  !  " 

He  stopped  midway,  as  if  its  words  had  paralysed  him 
and  stood  looking  on  it.  It  had  glided  from  him  ;  it  had 
its  arm  raised  high  in  warning  ;  and  a  smile  passed  over 
its  unearthly  features,  as  it  reared  its  dark  figure  in 
triumph. 

"  If  I  could  forget  my  sorrow  and  wrong,  I  would," 
the  Ghost  repeated.  "  If  I  could  forget  my  sorrow  and 
my  wrong,  I  would  !  " 

"  Evil  spirit  of  myself,"  returned  the  haunted  man, 
in  a  low,  trembling  tone,  * '  my  life  is  darkened  by  that 
incessant  whisper." 

"  It  is  an  echo,"  said  the  Phantom. 

"If  it  be  an  echo  of  my  thoughts — as  now,  indeed,  I 
know  it  is,"  rejoined  the  haunted  man,  "why  should  I, 
therefore,  be  tormented?  It  is  not  a  selfish  thought. 
I  suffer  it  to  range  beyond  myself.  All  men  and  women  i 
have  their  sorrows, — most  of  them  their  wrongs  ;  in- 
gratitude, and  sordid  jealousy,  and  interest,  besetting  all 
degrees  of  life.  Who  would  not  forget  their  sorrows 
and  their  wrongs  ?  " 

"  Who  would  not,  truly,  and  be  the  happier  and  better 
for  it  ?  "  said  the  Phantom. 

"These  revolutions  of  years,  which  we  commemorate," 
proceeded  Redlaw,  "what  do  they  recall  Are  there 
any  minds  in  which  they  do  not  re-awaken  some  sorrow 
or  some  trouble  ?  What  is  the  remembrance  of  the  olc 
man  who  was  here  to-night?  A  tissue  of  sorrow  anc 
trouble." 

"  5ut  common  natures,"  said  the  Phantom,  with  its 
evil  smile  upon  its  glassy  face,  "  unenlightened  minds 
and  ordinary  spirits,  do  not  feel  or  reason  on  thest 
things  like  men  of  higher  cultivation  and  profoundej 
thought." 

"Tempter,"  answered  Redlaw,  "whose  hollow  loolJ 
and  voice  I  dread  more  than  words  can  express,  and 
from  whom  some  dim  foreshadowing  of  greater  fear  is 
stealing  over  me  while  I  speak,  I  hear  again  an  echo  oi 
my  own  mind." 

"  Receive  it  as  a  proof  that  I  am  powerful,"  returnee 
the  Ghost.  "  Hear  what  I  offer  !  Forget  the  sorrow 
wrong,  and  trouble  you  have  known  !  " 

"  Forget  them  !  "  he  repeated. 
I  have  the  power  to  cancel  their  remembrance — 1< 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


323 


leave  but  very  faint,  confused  traces  of  them,  that  will  ] 
die  out  soon,"  returned  the  Spectre.    "Say!     Is  it 
done?" 

"Stay!"  cried  the  haunted  man,  arresting  by  a 
terrified  gesture  the  uplifted  hand.  "  I  tremble  with 
distrust  and  doubt  of  you  ;  and  the  dim  fear  you  cast 
upon  me  deepens  into  a  nameless  horror  I  can  hardly 
bear. — I  would  not  deprive  myself  of  any  kindly  re- 
collection, or  any  sympathy  that  is  good  for  me,  or 
others.  What  shall  I  lose,  if  I  assent  to  this?  What 
else  will  pass  from  my  remembrance  ?" 

"  No  knowledge  ;  no  result  of  study  ;  nothing  but  the 
intertwisted  chain  of  feelings  and  associations,  each  in 
its  turn  dependent  on,  and  nourished  by,  the  banished 
recollections.    Those  will  go." 

"Are  they  so  many?"  said  the  haunted  man,  reflect- 
ing in  alarm. 

"They  have  been  wont  to  show  themselves  in  the  fire, 
in  music,  in  the  wind,  in  the  dead  stillness  of  the  night, 
in  the  revolving  years,"  returned  the  Phantom  scorn- 
fully. 

"  In  nothing  else  ?  " 

The  Phantom  held  its  peace. 

But,  having  stood  before  him,  silent,  for  a  little  while, 
it  moved  towards  the  fire  ;  then  stopped. 

"  Decide  I "  it  said,  "before  the  opportunity  is  lost  I " 
"  A  moment  !  I  call  Heaven  to  witness,"  said  the  agi- 
tated man,  "  that  I  have  never  been  a  hater  of  my  kind, 
— never  morose,  indifferent,  or  hard,  to  anything  around 
me.  If,  living  here  alone,  I  have  made  too  much  of  all 
that  was  and  might  have  been,  and  too  little  of  what  is, 
the  evil,  I  believe,  has  fallen  on  me,  and  not  on  others. 
But,  if  there  were  poison  in  my  body,  should  I  not,  pos- 
sessed of  antidotes  and  knowledge  how  to  use  them,  use 
them?  If  there  be  poison  in  my  mind,  and  through 
this  fearful  shadow  I  can  cast  it  out,  shall  I  not  cast  it 
out?" 

"  Say,"  said  the  Spectre,  "  is  it  done  ?  " 

"A  moment  longer!"  he  answered  hurriedly.  "/ 
wovld  forget  it  if  1  could  !  Have  /  thought  that,  alone, 
or  has  it  been  the  thought  of  thousands  upon  thousands, 
generation  after  generation  ?  All  h  uman  memory  is 
fraught  with  sorrow  and  trouble.  My  memory  is  as  the 
memory  of  other  men,  but  other  men  have  not  this 
choice.  Yes,  I  close  the  bargain.  Yes  !  I  will  forget 
my  sorrow,  wrong,  and  trouble  !  " 

"  Say,"  said  the  Spectre,  "  is  it  done  ?" 
It  is  ! " 

*'  It  is.  And  take  this  with  you,  man  whom  I  here 
renounce  !  The  gift  that  I  have  given,  you  shall  give 
again,  go  where  you  will.  Without  recovering  yourself 
the  power  that  you  have  yielded  up,  you  shall  henceforth 
destroy  its  like  in  all  whom  you  approach.  Your  wis- 
dom has  discovered  that  the  memory  of  sorrow,  wrong, 
and  trouble  is  the  lot  of  all  mankind,  and  that  mankind 
would  be  the  happier,  in  its  other  memories,  without  it. 
Go  !  Be  its  benefactor  !  Freed  from  such  remembrance, 
from  this  hour,  carry  involuntarily  the  blessing  of  such 
freedom  with  you.  Its  diffusion  is  inseparable  and  in- 
alienable from  you.  Go  1  Be  happy  in  the  good  you 
have  won,  and  in  the  good  you  do  !  " 

The  Phantom,  which  had  held  its  bloodless  hand 
above  him  while  it  spoke,  as  if  in  some  unholy  invoca- 
tion, or  some  ban  ;  and  which  had  gradually  advanced 
its  eyes  so  close  to  his,  that  he  could  see  how  they  did 
not  participate  in  the  terrible  smile  upon  its  face,  but 
were  a  fixed,  unalterable,  steady  horror  ;  melted  from 
before  him,  and  was  gone. 

As  he  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  possessed  by  fear  and 
wonder,  and  imagining  he  heard  repeated  in  melancholy 
echoes,  dying  away  fainter  and  fainter,  the  words,  "De- 
stroy its  like  in  all  whom  you  approach  ! "  a  shrill  cry 
reached  his  ears.  It  came,  not  from  the  passages  beyond 
the  door,  but  from  another  part  of  the  old  building,  and 
sounded  like  the  cry  of  some  one  in  the  dark  who  had 
lost  the  way. 

He  looked  confusedly  upon  his  hands  and  limbs,  as  if 
to  be  assured  of  his  identity,  and  then  shouted  in  reply, 
loudly  and  wildly  ;  for  there  was  a  strangeness  and  ter- 
ror upon  him,  as  if  he  too  were  lost. 

The  cry  responding,  and  being  nearer,  he  caught  up 
the  lamp,  and  raised  a  heavy  curtain  in  the  wall,  by 


which  he  was  accustomed  to  pass  into  and  out  of  the 
theatre  where  he  lectured, — which  adjoined  his  room. 
Associated  with  youth  and  animation,  and  a  high  amphi- 
theatre of  faces  which  his  entrance  charmed  to  interest 
in  a  moment,  it  was  a  ghostly  place  when  all  this  life 
was  faded  out  of  it,  and  stared  ux^on  him  like  an  emblem 
of  Death. 

"  Halloa  !  "  he  cried.  "  Halloa  I  This  way  !  Come 
to  the  light  I"  When,  as  he  held  the  curtain  with  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  raised  the  lamj)  and  tried  to 
pierce  the  gloom  that  filled  the  X'lace,  something  rushed 
past  him  into  the  room  like  a  wild-cat,  and  crouched 
down  in  a  corner. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  said,  hastily. 

He  might  have  asked  "  What  is  it  ?"  even  had  he  seen 
it  well,  as  presently  he  did  when  he  stood  looking  at  it 
gathered  up  in  its  comer, 

A  bundle  of  tatters,  held  together  by  a  hand,  in  size 
and  form  almost  an  infant's,  but,  in  its  greedy,  despe- 
rate little  clutch,  a  bad  old  man's.  A  face  rounded  and 
smoothed  by  some  half-dozen  years,  but  pinched  and 
twisted  by  the  experiences  of  a  life.  Bright  eyes,  but 
not  youthful.  Naked  feet,  beautiful  in  their  childish 
delicacy, — ugly  in  the  blood  and  dirt  that  cracked  upon 
them.  A  baby  savage,  a  young  monster,  a  child  who  had 
never  been  a  child,  a  creature  who  might  live  to  take  the 
outward  form  of  man,  but  who,  within,  would  live  and 
perish  a  mere  beast. 

Used,  already,  to  be  worried  and  hunted  like  a  beast, 
the  boy  crouched  down  as  he  was  looked  at,  and  looked 
back  again,  and  interposed  his  arm  to  ward  off  the  ex- 
pected blow. 

"  I'll  bite,"  he  said,  "  if  you  hit  me  !  " 

The  time  had  been,  and  not  many  minutes  since,  when 
such  a  sight  as  this  would  have  wrung  the  Chemist's 
heart.  He  looked  upon  it  now,  coldly  ;  but,  with  a 
heavy  effort  to  remember  something — he  did  not  know 
what — he  asked  the  boy  what  he  did  there,  and  whence 
he  came. 

"  Where's' the  woman?"  he  replied.     "I  want  to 
find  the  woman," 
"Who?" 

"  The  woman.  Her  that  brought  me  here,  and  set  me 
by  the  large  fire.  She  was  so  long  gone,  that  I  went  to 
look  for  her,  and  lost  myself.  I  don't  want  you.  I 
want  the  woman." 

He  made  a  spring,  so  suddenly  to  get  away,  that  the 
dull  sound  of  his  naked  feet  upon  the  floor  was  near  the 
curtain,  "svhen  Redlaw  caught  him  by  his  rags. 

"Come  !  you  let  me  go  !"  muttered  the  boy,  strug- 
gling, and  clenching  his  teeth.  "I've  done  nothing  to 
you.    Let  me  go,  will  you,  to  the  woman  !  " 

' '  That  is  not  the  way.  There  is  a  nearer  one,"  said 
Redlaw,  detaining  him,  in  the  same  blank  effort  to  re- 
member some  association  that  ought  of  right,  to  bear 
upon  this  monstrous  object.    "  W^hat  is  your  name  ?  " 

"Got  none." 

"  Where  do  vou  live  ?  " 

"  Live  !    What's  that  ?  " 

The  boy  shook  his  hair  from  his  eyes,  to  look  at  him 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  twisting  round  his  legs  and 
wrestling  with  him,  broke  again  into  the  repetition  of 
"You  let  me  go,  will  you?  I  want  to  find  the  wo- 
man." 

The  Chemist  led  him  to  the  door.  "  This  way,''  he 
said,  looking  at  him  still  confusedly,  but  with  repug- 
nance and  avoidance,  growing  out  of  his  coldness.  "  I'll 
take  you  to  her. " 

The  sharp  eyes  in  the  child's  head,  wandering  roimd 
the  room,  lighted  on  the  table  where  the  remnants  of  the 
dinner  were. 

"Give  me  some  of  that  !  "  he  said,  covetously. 

"  Has  she  not  fed  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  hungry  again  to-morrow,  shan't  I  ?  Ain't 
I  hungry  ev^erv  day?" 

Finding  himself* released,  he  bounded  at  the  table  like 
some  small  animal  of  prey,  and  hugging  to  his  breast 
bread  and  meat,  and  his  own  rags,  all  together,  said  : 

"  There  !    Now  take  me  to  the  woman  I  " 

As  the  Chemist,  with  a  new-born  dislike  to  touch  him, 
sternly  motioned  him  to  follow,  and  was  going  out  of 
the  door,  he  trembled  and  stopped. 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  The  gift  that  I  have  given,  you  shall  give  again,  go 
where  you  will  !  " 

The  Phantom's  words  were  blowing  in  the  wind,  and 
the  wind  blew  chill  upon  him. 

"  I'll  not  go  there,  to-night,"  he  murmured  faintly. 

"  I'll  go  nowhere  to-night.  Boy  !  straight  down  this 
long-arched  passage,  and  past  the  great  dark  door  into 
the  yard, — you  will  see  the  fire  shining  on  a  window 
there." 

"  The  woman's  fire  ?  "  inquired  the  boy. 

He  nodded,  and  the  naked  feet  had  sprung  away.  He 
came  back  with  his  lamp,  locked  his  door  hastily,  and 
sat  down  in  his  chair,  covering  his  face  like  one  who 
was  frightened  at  himself. 

For  now  he  was,  indeed,  alone.    Alone,  alone. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Gift  Diffused. 

A  SMALL  man  sat  in  a  small  parlour,  partitioned  off 
from  a  small  shop  by  a  small  screen,  pasted  all  over 
with  small  scraps  of  newspapers.  In  company  with  the 
small  man,  was  almost  any  amount  of  small  children  you 
may  please  to  name — at  least,  it  seemed  so  ;  they  made, 
in  that  very  limited  sphere  of  action,  such  an  imposing 
effect,  in  point  of  numbers. 

Of  these  small  fry,  two  had,  by  some  strong  machinery, 
been  got  into  bed  in  a  corner,  where  they  might  have 
reposed  snugly  enough  in  the  sleep  of  innocence,  but  for 
a  constitutional  propensity  to  keep  awake,  and  also  to 
scuffle  in  and  out  of  bed.  The  immediate  occasion  of 
these  predatory  dashes  at  the  waking  world,  was  the 
construction  of  an  oyster-shell  wall  in  a  comer,  by  two 
other  youths  of  tender  age  ;  on  which  fortification  the 
two  in  bed  made  harassing  descents  (like  those  accursed 
Picts  and  Scots  who  beleaguer  the  early  historical 
studies  of  most  young  Britons),  and  then  withdrew  to 
their  own  territory. 

In  addition  to  the  stir  attendant  on  these  inroads,  and 
the  retorts  of  the  invaded,  who  pursued  hotly,  and  made 
lunges  at  the  bed-clothes,  under  which  the  marauders 
took  refuge,  another  little  boy,  in  another  little  bed,  con- 
tributed his  mite  of  confusion  to  the  family  stock,  by 
casting  his  boots  upon  the  waters  ;  in  other  words,  by 
launching  these  and  several  small  objects,  inoffensive  in 
themselves,  though  of  a  hard  substance  considered  as 
missiles,  at  the  disturbers  of  his  repose, — w^ho  were 
not  slow  to  return  these  compliments. 

Besides  which,  another  little  boy — the  biggest  there, 
but  still  little — was  tottering  to  and  fro,  bent  on  one 
side,  and  considerably  affected  in  his  knees  by  the 
weight  of  a  large  baby,  which  he  was  supposed,  by  a 
fiction  that  obtains  sometimes  in  sanguine  families,  to  be 
hushing  to  sleep.  But  oh  !  the  inexhaustible  regions  of 
contemplation  and  watchfulness  into  which  this  baby's 
eyes  were  then  only  beginning  to  compose  themselves  to 
stare,  over  his  unconscious  shoulder. 

It  was  a  very  Moloch  of  a  baby,  on  whose  insatiate 
altar  the  whole  existence  of  this  particular  young  bro- 
ther was  offered  up  a  daily  sacrifice.  Its  personality  may 
be  said  to  have  consisted  in  its  never  being  quiet,  in  any 
one  place,  for  five  consecutive  minutes,  and  never  going 
to  sleep  when  required,  "  Tetterby's  baby,"  was  as  well 
known  in  the  neighbourhood  as  the  postman  or  the  pot- 
boy. It  roamed  from  door-step  to  door-step,  in  the  arms 
of  little  Johnny  Tetterby,  and  lagged  heavily  at  the  rear 
of  troops  of  juveniles  who  followed  the  Tumblers  or  the 
Monkey,  and  came  up,  all  on  one  side,  a  little  too  late 
for  everything  that  was  attractive,  from  Monday  morn- 
ing until  Saturday  night.  Wherever  childhood  congre- 
gated to  play,  there  was  little  Moloch  making  Johnny 
fag  and  toil.  Wherever  Johnny  desired  to  stay,  little 
Moloch  became  fractious,  and  would  not  remain.  When- 
ever Johnny  wanted  to  go  out,  Moloch  was  asleep,  and 
must  be  watched.  Whenever  Johnny  wanted  to  stay  at 
liome,  Moloch  was  awake,  and  must  be  taken  out.  Yet 
Johnny  was  verily  persuaded  that  it  was  a  faultless  baby, 
without  its  peer  in  the  realm  of  England  ;  and  was  quite 
content  to  catch  meek  glimpses  of  things  in  general  from 


behind  its  skirts,  or  over  its  limp  flapping  bonnet,  and 
to  go  staggering  about  with  it  like  a  very  little  porter 
with  a  very  large  parcel,  which  was  not  directed  to  any- 
body, and  could  never  be  delivered  anywhere. 

The  small  man  who  sat  in  the  small  parlour,  making 
fruitless  attempts  to  read  his  newspaper  peaceably  in  the 
midst  of  this  disturbance,  was  the  father  of  the  family, 
and  the  chief  of  the  firm  described  in  the  inscription 
over  the  front  little  shop,  by  the  name  and  title  of  A. 
Tetterby  and  Co.  ,  Newsmen.  Indeed,  strictly  speak- 
ing, he  was  the  only  personage  answering  to  that  desig- 
nation ;  as  Co.  was  a  mere  poetical  abstraction,  alto- 
gether baseless  and  impersonal. 

Tetterby's  was  the  corner  shop  in  Jerusalem  Buildings. 
There  was  a  good  show  of  literature  in  the  window, 
chiefly  consisting  of  picture-newspapers  out  of  date,  and 
serial  pirates,  and  footpads.  Walking-sticks,  likewise, 
and  marbles,  were  included  in  the  stock  in  trade.  It  had 
once  extended  into  the  light  confectionery  line  ;  but  it 
would  seem  that  those  elegancies  of  life  were  not  in  de- 
mand about  Jerusalem  Buildings,  for  nothing  connected 
with  that  branch  of  commerce  remained  in  the  window, 
except  a  sort  of  small  glass  lantern  containing  a  lan- 
guishing mass  of  bull's  eyes,  which  had  melted  in  the 
summer  and  congealed  in  the  winter  until  all  hope  of 
ever  getting  them  out,  or  of  eating  them  without  eating 
the  lantern  too,  was  gone  forever.  Tetterby's  had  tried 
its  hand  at  several  things.  It  had  once  made  a  feeble 
little  dart  at  the  toy  business  ;  for,  in  another  lantern, 
there  was  a  heap  of  minute  wax  dolls,  all  sticking  to- 
gether upside  down,  in  the  direst  confusion,  with  their 
feet  on  one  another's  heads,  and  a  precipitate  of  broken 
arms  and  legs  at  the  bottom.  It  had  made  a  move  in  the 
millinery  direction,  which  a  few  dry,  wiry  bonnet-shapes 
remained  in  a  corner  of  the  window  to  attest.  It  had 
fancied  that  a  living  might  lie  hidden  in  the  tobacco 
trade,  and  had  stuck  up  a  representation  of  a  native  of 
each  of  the  three  integral  portions  of  the  British  empire, 
in  the  act  of  consuming  that  fragrant  weed  ;  with  a 
poetic  legend  attached,  importing  that  united  in  one 
cause  they  sat  and  joked,  one  chewed  tobacco,  one  took 
snuff,  one  smoked  :  but  nothing  seemed  to  have  come  of 
it — except  flies.  Time  had  been  when  it  had  put  a  for- 
lorn trust  in  imitative  jewellery,  for  in  one  pane  of  glass 
there  was  a  card  of  cheap  seals,  and  another  of  pencil- 
cases,  and  a  mysterious  black  amulet  of  inscrutable  in- 
tention labelled  ninepence.  But,  to  that  hour,  Jerusalem 
Buildings  had  bought  none  of  them.  In  short,  Tetter- 
by's had  tried  so  hard  to  get  a  livelihood  out  of  Jerusa- 
lem Buildings  in  one  way  or  other,  and  appeared  to  have 
done  so  indifferently  in  all,  that  the  best  position  in  the 
firm  was  too  evidently  Co.'s  ;  Co.,  as  a  bodiless  creation, 
being  untroubled  with  the  vulgar  inconveniences  of  hun- 
ger and  thirst,  being  chargeable  neither  to  the  poor's- 
rates  nor  the  assessed  taxes,  and  having  no  young  family 
to  provide  for. 

Tetterby  himself,  however,  in  his  little  parlour,  as 
already  mentioned,  having  the  presence  of  a  young  fam- 
ily impressed  upon  his  mind  in  a  manner  too  clamorous 
to  be  disregarded,  or  to  comport  with  the  quiet  perusal 
of  a  newspaper,  laid  down  his  paper,  wheeled  in  his  dis- 
traction a  few  times  round  the  parlour,  like  an  undecided 
carrier-pigeon,  made  an  ineffectual  rush  at  one  or  two 
flying  little  figures  in  bed-gowns  that  skimmed  past  him, 
and  then  bearing  suddenly  down  upon  the  only,  unoffend- 
ing member  of  the  family,  boxed  the  ears  of  little  Mo- 
loch's nurse. 

"  You  bad  boy  !"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  "  haven't  you  any 
feeling  for  your  poor  father  after  the  fatigues  and  anxi- 
eties of  a  hard  winter's  day,  since  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  but  must  you  wither  his  rest,  and  corrode  his 
latest  intelligence,  with  your  wicious  tricks?  Isn't  it 
enough,  sir,  that  your  brother  'Dolphus  is  toiling  and 
moiling  in  the  fog  and  cold,  and  you  rolling  in  the  lap  of 
luxury  with  a — with  a  baby,  and  everythink  you  can 
wish  for,"  said  Mr,  Tetterby,  heaping  this  up  as  a  great 
climax  of  blessings  "but  must  you  make  a  wilderness 
of  home,  and  maniacs  of  your  parents  ?  Must  you, 
Johnny?  Hey?"  At  each  interrogation,  Mr.  Tetterby 
made  a  feint  of  boxing  his  ears  again,  but  thought  better 
of  it,  and  held  his  hand, 

"Oh,  father!"  whimpered  Johnny,  "when  I  wasn't 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS, 


325 


doing  anything",  I'm  sure,  but  taking  such  care  of  Sally, 
and  getting  her  to  sleep.    Oh,  father  ! " 

"  I  wish  my  little  woman  would  come  home!"  said 
Mr.  Tetterby,  relenting  and  repenting,  "  I  only  wish  my 
little  woman  would  come  home  !  I  ain't  fit  to  deal  with 
'em.  They  make  my  head  go  round,  and  get  the  better 
of  me.  Oh,  Johnny  !  Isn't  it  enough  that  your  dear 
mother  has  provided  you  with  that  sweet  sister?"  indi- 
cating Moloch  ;  "isn't  it  enough  that  you  were  seven 
boys  before,  without  a  ray  of  gal,  and  that  your  dear 
mother  went  through  what  she  did  go  through,  on  pur- 
pose that  you  might  all  of  you  have  a  little  sister,  but 
must  you  so  behave  yourself  as  to  make  my  head  swim?" 

Softening  more  and  more,  as  his  own  tender  feelings 
and  those  of  his  injured  son  were  worked  on,  Mr.  Tetter- 
by concluded  by  embracing  him,  and  immediately  break- 
ing away  to  catch  one  of  the  real  delinquents.  A  reason- 
ably good  start  occurring,  he  succeeded,  after  a  short 
but  smart  run,  and  some  rather  cross-country  work  under 
and  over  the  bedsteads,  and  in  and  out  among  the  intri- 
cacies of  the  chairs,  in  capturing  this  infant,  whom  he 
condignly  punished,  and  bore  to  bed.  This  example  had 
a  powerful,  and  apparently,  mesmeric  influence  on  him 
of  the  boots,  who  instantly  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  though 
he  had  been,  but  a  moment  before,  broad  awake,  and  in 
the  highest  possible  feather.  Nor  was  it  lost  upon  the 
two  young  architects,  who  retired  to  bed,  in  an  adjoining 
closet,  with  great  privacy  and  speed.  The  comrade  of 
the  Intercepted  One  also  shrinking  into  his  nest  with 
similar  discretion,  Mr.  Tetterby,  when  he  paused  for 
breath,  found  himself  unexpectedly  in  a  scene  of  peace. 

"My  little  woman  herself,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  wiping 
his  flushed  face,  "  could  hardly  have  done  it  better  !  I 
only  wish  my  little  woman  had  had  it  to  do,  I  do  indeed  ! " 

Mr.  Tetterby  sought  upon  his  screen  for  a  passage  ap- 
propriate to  be  impressed  upon  his  children's  minds  on 
the  occasion,  and  read  the  following. 

"  '  It  is  an  undoubted  fact  that  all  remarkable  men 
have  had  remarkable  mothers,  and  have  respected  them 
in  after  life  as  their  best  friends.'  Think  of  your  own 
remarkable  mother,  my  boys,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  "and 
know  her  value  while  she  is  still  among  you  I  " 

He  sat  down  again  in  his  chair  by  the  fire,  and  com- 
posed himself,  cross-legged,  over  his  newspaper. 

"Let  anybody,  I  don't  care  who  it  is,  get  out  of  bed 
again,"  said  Tetterby,  as  a  general  proclamation,  deliv- 
ered in  a  very  soft-hearted  manner,  "  and  astonishment 
will  be  the  portion  of  that  respected  contemporary  !  " — 
which  expression  Mr.  Tetterby  selected  from  his  screen. 
"Johnny,  my  child,  take  care  of  your  only  sister,  Sally  ; 
for  she's  the  brightest  gem  that  ever  sparkled  on  your 
early  brow." 

Johnny  sat  down  on  a  little  stool,  and  devotedly 
crushed  himself  beneath  the  weight  of  Moloch. 

"  Ah,  what  a  gift  that  baby  is  to  you,  Johnny  !  "  said 
his  father,  "  and  how  thankful  you  ought  to  be  !    '  It  is 
not  generally  known,'  Johnny,"  he  vv^as  now  referring  to 
the  screen  again,  "  '  but  it  is  a  fact  ascertained,  by  accu- 
rate calculations,  that  the  following  immense  per-centage 
j  of  babies  never  attain  to  two  years  old  ;  that  is  to  say ' " — 
"  Oh,  don't,  father,  please  !  "  cried  Johnny.    "  I  can't 
I  bear  it,  when  I  think  of  Sally." 

Mr.  Tetterby  desisting,  Johnny,  v^^ith   a  profounder 
I  sense  of  his  trust,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  hushed  his  sister. 
"  Your  brother  'Dolphus,"  said  his  father,  poking  the 
fire,  "  is  late  to-night,  Johnny,  and  will  come  home  like 
a  lump  of  ice.    What's  got  your  precious  mother  ?" 

"  Here's  mother,  and  'Dolphus  too,  father  !  "  exclaimed 
I  Johnny,  "  I  think." 

'  "  You're  right  !  "  returned  his  father,  listening.  "  Yes, 
I  that's  the  footstep  of  my  little  woman." 

The  process  of  induction,  by  which  Mr.  Tetterby  had 
i  come  to  the  conclusion  that  his  wife  was  a  little  woman, 
was  his  own  secret.    She  would  have  made  two  editions 
of  himself,  very  easily.     Considered  as  an  individual, 
she  was  rather  remarkable  for  being  robust  and  portly  ; 
;  but  considered  with  reference  to  her  husband,  her  dimen- 
sions became  magnificent.    Nor  did  they  assume  a  less 
I  imposing  proportion,  when  studied  with  reference  to  the 
I  size  of  her  seven  sons,  who  were  but  diminutive.    In  the 
I  case  of  Sally,  however,  Mrs.  Tetterby  had  asserted  her- 
I  self,  at  last  ;  as  nobodv  knew  better  than  the  victim 


Johnny,  who  weighed  and  measured  that  exacting  idol 
every  hour  in  the  day. 

Mrs.  Tetterby,  who  had  been  marketing,  and  carried 
a  ])asket,  threw  back  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  sitting 
down,  fatigued,  commanded  Johnny  to  bring  his  sweet 
I  charge  to  her  straightway,  for  a  kiss.  Johnny  having 
complied,  and  gone  back  to  his  stool,  and  again  crushed 
[  himself,  Master  Adolphus  Tetterby,  who  had  by  this 
time  unwound  his  Torso  out  of  a  prismatic  comforter, 
apparently  interminable,  requested  the  same  favour. 
Johnny  having  again  complied,  and  again  gone  back  to 
his  stool,  and  again  crushed  himself,  Mr.  Tetterby, 
struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  preferred  the  same  claim 
on  his  own  parental  part.  The  satisfaction  of  this  third 
desire  completely  exhausted  the  sacrifice,  who  had 
hardly  breath  enough  left  to  get  back  to  his  stool,  crush 
himself  again,  and  pant  at  his  relations. 

"  Whatever  you  do,  Johnn}',"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby, 
shaking  her  head,  "  take  care  of  her,  or  never  look  your 
mother  in  the  face  again." 

"  Nor  your  brother,"  added  Adolphus. 

"  Nor  your  father,  Johnny,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby. 

Johnny,  much  affected  by  this  conditional  renuncia- 
tion of  him,  looked  down  at  Moloch's  eyes  to  see  that 
they  were  all  right,  so  far,  and  skilfully  patted  her  back 
(which  was  uppermost),  and  rocked  her  with  his  foot. 

"  Are  you  wet,  'Dolphus,  my  boy  ?  "  said  his  father. 
"  Come  and  take  my  chair,  and  dry  yourself." 

"No,  father,  thankee,"  said  Adolphus,  smoothing 
himself  down  with  his  hands.  "  I  an't  very  wet,  I  don't 
think.    Does  my  face  shine  much,  father  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  does  look  waxy,  my  boy,"  returned  Mr. 
Tetterby. 

"It's  the  weather,  father,"  said  Adolphus,  polishing 
his  cheeks  on  the  worn  sleeve  of  his  jacket.  "What 
with  rain,  and  sleet,  and  wind,  and  snow,  and  fog,  my 
face  gets  quite  brought  out  into  a  rash  sometimes.  And 
shines,  it  does — oh,  don't  it,  though  !" 

Master  Adolphus  was  also  in  the  newspaper  line  of 
life,  being  employed,  by  a  more  thriving  firm  than  his 
father  and  Co. ,  to  vend  newspapers  at  a  railway  station, 
where  his  chubby  little  person,  like  a  shabbily  disguised 
Cupid,  and  his  shrill  little  voice  (he  was  not  much  more 
than  ten  years  old),  were  as  well  known  as  the  hoarse 
panting  of  the  locomotives,  running  in  and  out.  His 
juvenility  might  have  been  at  some  loss  for  a  harmless 
outlet,  in  this  early  application  to  traffic,  but  for  a 
fortunate  discovery  he  made  of  a  means  of  entertaining 
himself,  and  of  dividing  the  long  day  into  stages  of  in- 
terest, without  neglecting  business.  This  ingenious  in- 
vention, remarkable,  like  many  great  discoveries,  for  its 
simplicity,  consisted  in  varying  the  first  vowel  in  the 
word  "  paper,"  and  substituting  in  its  stead,  at  different 
periods  of  the  day,  all  the  other  vowels  in  grammatical 
succession.  Thus,  before  daylight  in  the  winter-time, 
he  went  to  and  fro,  in  his  little  oilskin  cap  and  cape, 
and  his  big  comforter,  piercing  the  heavy  air  with  his 
cry  of  "  Morn-ing  Pa-per  !  "  which,  about  an  hour  before 
noon,  changed  to  "  Morn-ing  Pep-per  !"  which,  at  about 
two,  changed  to  "Morn-ing  Pip-per  ! "  which,  in  a 
couple  of  hours,  changed  to  "  Morn-ing  Pop-per  I"  and 
so  declined  with  the  sun  into  "  Eve-ning  Pup- per  ."'  to 
the  great  relief  and  comfort  of  this  young  gentleman's 
spirits. 

Mrs.  Tetterby,  his  lady-mother,  who  had  been  sitting 
with  her  bonnet  and  shawl  thrown  back,  as  aforesaid 
thoughtfully  turning  her  wedding  ring  round  and  round 
upon  her  finger,  now  rose,  and  divesting  herself  of  her 
out-of-door  attire,  began  to  lay  the  cloth  for  supper. 

"  Ah,  dear  me,  dear  me,  dear  me  ! "  said  Mrs.  Tetterby. 
"  That's  the  way  the  world  goes  !  " 

"  Which  is  the  way  the  world  goes,  my  dear  ?  "  asked 
j  Mr.  Tetterby,  looking  round, 
j     "Oh,  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby. 

Mr.  Tetterby  elevated  his  eyebrows,  folded  his  news- 
i  paper  afresh,  and  carried  his  eyes  up  it,  and  down  it,  and 
'  across  it,  but  was  wandering  in  his  attention,  and  not 
reading  it. 

Mrs.  Tetterby,  at  the  same  time,  laid  the  cloth,  but 
rather  as  if  she*  were  punishing  the  table  than  preparing 
the  family  supper  ;  hitting  it  unnecessarily  hard  with 
the  knives  and  forks,  slapping  it  with  the  plates,  dinting 


326 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


it  with  the  salt  cellar,  and  coining  heavily  down  upon  it 
with  the  loaf. 

"Ah,  dear  me,  dear  me,  dear  me  !  "  said  Mrs.  Tetterby. 
"  That's  the  way  the  world  goes  ! " 

"  My  duck,"  returned  her  husband,  looking  round 
again,  "you  said  that  before.  Which  is  the  way  the 
world  goes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby. 

"  Sophia  ! "  remonstrated  her  husband,  "you  said  that 
before,  too." 

"Well,  I'll  say  it  again  if  you.  like,"  returned  Mrs. 
Tetterby.  "  Oh  nothing — there  !  And  again  if  you 
like,  oh  nothing— there  !  And  again  if  you  like,  oh 
nothing — now  then  !  " 

Mr.  Tetterby  brought  his  eye  to  bear  upon  the  part- 
ner of  his  bosom,  and  said,  in  mild  astonishment : 

"  My  little  woman,  what  has  put  you  out?" 

"  I'm  sure  /  don't  know,"  she  retorted.  "Don't  ask 
me.    Who  said  I  was  put  out  at  all  ?   /  never  did." 

Mr.  Tetterby  gave  up  the  perusal  of  his  newspaper  as 
a  bad  job,  and,  taking  a  slow  walk  across  the  room,  with 
his  hands  behind  him,  and  his  shoulders  raised — his 
gait  according  perfectly  with  the  resignation  of  his  man- 
ner— addressed  himself  to  his  two  eldest  offspring. 

"Your  supper  will  be  ready  in  a  minute,  'Dolphus," 
said  Mr.  Tetterby.  "  Your  mother  has  been  out  in  the 
wet,  to  the  cook's  shop,  to  buy  it.  It  was  very  good  of 
your  mother  so  to  do.  Tou  shall  get  some  supper  too, 
very  soon,  Johnny.  Your  mother's  pleased  with  you, 
my  man,  for  being  so  attentive  to  your  precious  sister." 

Mrs.  Tetterby,  without  any  remark,  but  with  a  decided 
subsidence  of  her  animosity  towards  the  table,  finished 
her  preparations,  and  took,  from  her  ample  basket,  a 
substantial  slab  of  hot  pease  pudding  wrapped  in  paper, 
and  a  basin  covered  with  a  saucer,  which,  on  being  un- 
covered, sent  forth  an  odour  so  agreeable,  that  the  three 
pair  of  eyes  in  the  two  beds  opened  wide  and  fixed 
themselves  upon  the  banquet.  Mr.  Tetterby,  without 
regarding  this  tacit  invitation  to  be  seated,  stood  repeat- 
ing slowly,  "Yes,  yes,  your  supper  will  be  ready  in  a 
minute,  'Dolphus — your  mother  went  out  in  the  wet,  to 
the  cook's  shop,  to  buy  it.  It  was  very  good  of  your 
mother  so  to  do  " — until  Mrs.  Tetterby,  who  had  been 
exhibiting  sundry  tokens  of  contrition  behind  him,  caught 
him  round  the  neck,  and  wept. 

"Oh,  'Dolphus!"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby,  "how  could  I 
go  and  behave  so  ! " 

This  reconciliation  affected  Adolphus  the  younger  and 
Johnny  to  that  degree,  that  they  both,  as  with  one  ac- 
cord, raised  a  dismal  cry,  which  had  the  effect  of  im- 
mediately shutting  up  the  round  eyes  in  the  beds,  and  ut- 
terly routing  the  two  remaining  little  Tetterbys,  just  then 
stealing  in  from  the  adjourning  closet  to  see  what  was 
going  on  in  the  eating  way. 

"  I  am  sure,  'Dolphus,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Tetterby,  "com- 
ing home,  I  had  no  more  idea  than  a  child  unborn — " 

Mr.  Tetterby  seemed  to  dislike  this  figure  of  speech, 
and  observed,  * '  Say  than  the  baby,  my  dear. " 

" — Had  no  more  idea  than  the  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Tet- 
terby.— "  Johnny,  don't  look  at  me,  but  look  at  her,  or 
she'll  fall  out  of  your  lap  and  be  killed,  and  then  you'll 
die  in  agonies  of  a  broken  heart,  and  serve  you  right. — 
No  more  idea  I  hadn't  than  that  darling,  of  being  cross 
when  I  came  home  ;  but  somehow,  'Dolphus — "  Mrs.  Tet- 
terby paused,  and  again  turned  her  wedding  ring  round 
and  round  upon  her  finger. 

"I  see!"  said  Mr.  Tetterby.  "I  understand!  My 
little  woman  was  put  out.  Hard  times,  and  hard  weather, 
and  hard  work,  make  it  trying  now  and  then.  I  see, 
bless  your  soul  !  No  wonder  !  'Dolph,  my  man,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Tetterby,  explorihg  the  basin  with  a  fork, 
"here's  your  mother  been  and  bought,  at  the  cook's 
shop,  besides  pease  pudding,  a  whole  knuckle  of  a  lovely 
roast  leg  of  pork,  with  lots  of  crackling  left  upon  it,  and 
with  seasoning  gravy  and  mustard  quite  unlimited. 
Hand  in  your  plate,  my  boy,  and  begin  while  it's  sim- 
mering." 

Master  Adolphus,  needing  no  second  summons,  re- 
ceived his  portion  with  eyes  rendered  moist  by  ap])etite, 
and  withdrawing  to  his  particular  stool,  fell  upon  his 
supper  tooth  and  nail.  Johnny  was  not  forgotten,  but 
received  his  rations  on  bread,  lest  he  should,  in  a  flush 


of  gravy,  trickle  any  on  the  baby.  He  was  required,  for 
similiar  reasons,  to  keep  his  pudding,  when  not  on  active 
service,  in  his  pocket. 

There  might  have  been  more  pork  on  the  knuckle- 
bone,— which  knucklebone  the  carver  at  the  cook's  shop 
had  assuredly  not  forgotten  in  carving  for  precious  cus- 
tomers,— but  there  was  no  stint  of  seasoning,  and  that 
is  an  accessory  dreamily  suggesting  pork,  and  pleasantly 
cheating  the  sense  of  taste.  The  pease  pudding,  too, 
the  gravy  and  mustard,  like  the  Eastern  rose  in  respect 
of  the  nightingale,  if  they  were  not  absolutely  pork,  had 
lived  near  it ;  so,  upon  the  whole,  there  was  the  flavour 
of  a  middle-sized  pig.  It  was  irresistible  to  the  Tetter- 
bys in  bed,  who,  though  professing  to  slumber  peace- 
fully, crawled  out  when  unseen  by  their  parents,  and 
silently  appealed  to  their  brothers  for  any  gastronomic 
token  of  fraternal  affection.  They,  not  hard  of  heart, 
presenting  scraps  in  return,  it  resulted  that  a  party  of 
light  skirmishers  in  night-gowns  were  careering  about 
the  parlour  all  through  supper,  which  harassed  Mr.  Tet- 
terby exceedingly,  and  once  or  twice  imposed  upon  him 
the  necessity  of  a  charge,  before  which  these  guerilla 
troops  retired  in  all  directions  and  in  great  confusion. 

Mrs.  Tetterby  did  not  enpy  her  supper.  There  seemed 
to  be  something  on  Mrs.  Tetterby's  mind.  At  one  time 
she  laughed  without  reason,  and  at  another  time  she 
cried  without  reason,  and  at  last  she  laughed  and  cried 
together  In  a  manner  so  very  unreasonable  that  her  hus- 
band was  confounded. 

"My  little  woman,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  "  if  the  world 
goes  that  way,  it  appears  to  go  the  wrong  way,  and  to 
choke  you. " 

' '  Give  me  a  drop  of  water, "  said  Mrs.  Tetterby,  strug- 
gling  with  herself,  "  and  don't  speak  to  me  for  the  pres- 
ent, or  take  any  notice  of  me.    Don't  do  it ! " 

Mr.  Tetterby  having  administered  the  water,  turned 
suddenly  on  the  unlucky  Johnny  (who  was  full  of  sym- 
pathy), and  demanded  why  he  was  wallowing  there,  in 
gluttony  and  idleness,  instead  of  coming  forward  with 
the  baby,  that  the  sight  of  her  might  revive  his  mother.' 
Johnny  immediately  approached,  borne  down  by  its 
weight  ;  but  Mrs.  Tetterby  holding  out  her  hand  to  sig- 
nify that  she  was  not  in  a  condition  to  bear  that  trying 
appeal  to  her  feelings,  he  was  interdicted  from  advancing 
another  inch,  on  pain  of  perpetual  hatred  from  all  his 
dearest  connections  ;  and  accordingly  retired  to  his  stool 
again,  and  crushed  himself  as  before. 

After  a  pause,  Mrs.  Tetterby  said  she  was  better  now, 
and  began  to  laugh. 

"  My  little  woman,"  said  her  husband,  dubiously,  "  are 
you  quite  sure  you're  better  ?  Or  are  you,  Sophia,  about 
to  break  out  in  a  fresh  direction  ?  " 

"No,  'Dolphus,  no,"  replied  his  wife.  "I'm  quite 
myself."  With  that,  settling  her  hair,  and  pressing  the 
palms  of  her  hands  upon  her  eyes,  she  laughed  again. 

' '  What  a  wicked  fool  I  was,  to  think  so  for  a  mo- 
ment!  "  said  Mrs.  Tetterby.  "Come  nearer,  '^Dolphus, 
and  let  me  ease  my  mind,  and  tell  you  what  I  mean.  Let 
me  tell  you  all  about  it." 

Mr.  Tetterby  bringing  his  chair  closer,  Mrs.  Tetterby 
laughed  again,  gave  him  a  hug,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  You  know,  'Dolphus,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby, 
"that  when  I  was  single,  I  might  have  given  myself 
away  in  several  directions.  At  one  time,  four  after  me 
at  once  ;  two  of  them  were  sons  of  Mars." 

"  We're  all  sons  of  Ma's,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby, 
"jointly  with  Pa's." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  replied  his  wife,  "  I  mean  soldiers 
— Serjeants." 

"Oh  !"  said  Mr.  Tetterby. 

"  Well,  'Dolphus,  I'm  sure  I  never  think  of  such  things 
now,  to  regret  them  ;  and  I'm  sure  I've  got  as  good  a 
husband,  and  would  do  as  much»to  prove  that  I  was  fond 
of  him,  as — " 

"As  any  little  woman  in  the  world,"  said  Mr.  Tet- 
terby.   "Very  good.     Very  goodi." 

If  Mr,  Tetterby  had  been  .ten  feet  high,  he  could  not 
have  expressed  a  gentler  consideration  for  Mrs.  Tet- 
terby's fairy-like  stature  ;  and  if  Mrs.  I'etterby  had  been 
two  feet  high,  she  could  not  have  felt  it  more  appropri- 
ately her  due. 

"But  you  see,  'Dolphus,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby,  "this 


CHRI8TMAS  BOOKS. 


327 


being  Christmas-time  when  all  people  who  can,  make 
holiday,  and  when  all  people  who  have  ^^ot  money,  like 

I  to  spend  some,  I  did,  somehow,  get  a  litth;  out  of 
sorts  when  I  was  in  the  streets  just  now.    Tliere  were 

I  so  many  things  to  be  sold — such  delicious  things  to 
eat,  such  fine  things  to  look  at,  such  delightful  things 
to  have — and  there  was  so  much  calculating  and  calcu- 
lating necessary,  before  I  durst  lay  out  a  sixpence  for 
the  commonest  thing  ;  and  the  basket  was  so  large,  and 
wanted  so  much  in  it  ;  and  my  stock  of  money  was  so 
small,  and  would  go  such  a  little  way  ; — you  hate  me, 
don't  you,  'Dolphus?  " 

j     "  Not  quite,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  "  as  yet." 

,  "  Well  !  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  truth,"  pursued  his 
wife,  penitently,  "  and  then  perhaps  you  will.  I  felt  all 
this,  so  much,  when  I  was  trudging  about  in  the  cold, 
and  when  I  saw  a  lot  of  other  calculating  faces  and  large 
baskets  trudging  about,  too,  that  I  began  to  think 
whether  I  mightn't  have  done  better,  and  been  happier, 
if — I — hadn't — "  the  wedding  ring  went  round  again, 
ajid  Mrs.  Tetterby  shook  her  downcast  head  as  she  turned 
it. 

"I  see,"  said  her  husband  quietly;  "if  you  hadn't 
married  at  all,  or  if  you  had  married  somebody  else  ?" 

"Yes,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Tetterby.  "That's  really  what  I 
thought.    Do  you  hate  me  now,  'Dolphus?" 

"  Why  no,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  "  I  don't  find  that  I  do 
as  yet. ' ' 

Mrs,  Tetterby  gave  him  a  thankful  kiss,  and  went  on. 

"  I  begin  to  hope  you  won't,  now,  'Dolphus,  though  I 
am  afraid  I  haven't  told  you  the  worst.  I  can't  think 
what  came  over  me.  I  don't  know  whether  I  was  ill,  or 
mad,  or  what  I  was,  but  I  couldn't  call  up  anything  that 
seemed  to  bind  us  to  each  other,  or  to  reconcile  me  to  my 
fortune.  All  the  pleasures  and  enjoyments  we  had  ever 
had— ^/iey  seemed  so  poor  and  insignificant,  I  hated  them. 
I  could  have  trodden  on  them.  And  I  could  think  of 
nothing  else  except  our  being  poor,  and  the  number  of 
mouths  there  were  at  home." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  shaking  her 
hand  encouragingly,  "  that's  truth,  after  all.  We  are 
poor,  and  there  are  a  number  of  mouths  at  home  here." 

"  Ah  !  but,  Dolf,  Dolf  !  "  cried  his  wife,  laying  her  hands 
upon  his  neck,  "  my  good,  kind,  patient  fellow,  when  I 
had  been  at  home  a  very  little  while — how  different  !  Oh, 
Dolf,  dear,  how  different  it  was  !  I  felt  as  if  there  was 
a  rush  of  recollection  on  me  all  at  once,  that  softened  my 
hard  heart,  and  filled  it  up  till  it  was  bursting.  All  our 
struggles  for  a  livelihood,  all  our  cares  and  wants  since 
we  have  been  married,  all  the  times  of  sickness,  all  the 
hours  of  watching,  we  have  ever  had,  by  one  another,  or 
by  the  children,  seemed  to  speak  to  me,  and  say  that 
they  had  made  us  one,  and  that  I  never  might  have  been, 
or  could  have  been,  or  would  have  been,  any  other  than 
the  wife  and  mother  I  am.  Then,  the  cheap  enjoyments 
that  I  could  have  trodden  on  so  cruelly,  got  to  be  so  pre- 
cious to  me — Oh  so  priceless,  and  dear  ! — that  I  couldn't 
bear  to  think  how  much  I  had  wronged  them  ;  and  I  said, 
and  say  again  a  hundred  times,  how  could  I  ever  behave 
so,  'Dolphus,  how  could  I  ever  have  the  heart  to  do  it  ! " 

The  good  woman,  quite  carried  away  by  her  honest 
tenderness  and  remorse,  was  weeping  with  all  her  heart, 
when  she  started  up  with  a  scream,  and  ran  behind  her 
husband.  Her  cry  was  so  terrified,  that  the  children 
started  from  their  sleep  and  from  their  beds,  and  clung 
about  her.  Nor  did  her  ga^e  belie  her  voice,  as  she  pointed 
to  a  pale  man  in  a  black  cloak  who  had  come  into  the 
room. 

"Look  at  that  man  !  Look  there  !  What  does  he 
want  ? " 

"My  dear,"  returned  her  husband,  "I'll  ask  him  if 
you'll  let  me  go.    What's  the  matter  ?   How  you  shake  !  " 

"  I  saw  him  in  the  street  when  I  was  out  just  now. 
He  looked  at  me,  and  stood  near  me.  I  am  afraid  of 
him," 

"  Afraid  of  him  !  Why?" 

"  I  don't  know  why — I — stop  !  husband  !  "  for  he  was 
going  towards  the  stranger. 

She  had  one  hand  pressed  upon  her  forehead,  and  one 
upon  her  breast  ;  and  there  was  a  peculiar  fluttering  all 
over  her,  and  a  hurried  unsteady  motion  of  her  eyes,  as 
if  she  had  lost  something. 


"  Are  you  ill,  my  dear?" 

"  What  is  it  that  is  going  from  me  again  ?  "  she  mut- 
tered, in  a  low  voice.     "  What  is  this  that  is  going 

away  ?  " 

Then  she  abruptly  answered  :  111  ?  No,  I  am  quite 
well,"  and  stood  looking  vacantly  at  the  floor. 

Her  husband,  who  had  not  been  altogether  free  from 
the  infection  of  her  fear  at  first,  and  whom  the  present 
strangeness  of  her  manner  did  not  tend  to  reassure,  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  pale  visitor  in  the  black  cloak, 
who  stood  still,  and  whose  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
ground. 

"What  may  be  your  pleasure,  sir,"  he  asked,  "  with 
us?" 

"  I  fear  that  my  coming  in  unperceived,"  returned  the 
visitor,  "  has  alarmed  you  ;  but  you  were  talking  and  did 
not  hear  me." 

"  My  little  woman  says — perhaps  you  heard  her  say 
it,"  returned  Mr.  Tetterby,  "that  it's  not  the  first  time 
you  have  alarmed  her  to-night." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  remember  to  have  observed  her, 
for  a  few  moments  only,  in  the  street.  I  had  no  inten- 
tion of  frightening  her." 

Ashe  raised  his  eyes  in  speaking,  she  raised  hers.  It 
was  extraordinary  to  see  what  dread  she  had  of  him,  and 
j  with  what  dread  he  observed  it — and  yet  how  narrowly 
j  and  closely. 

"  My  name,"  he  said,  "  is  Redlaw.  I  come  from  the 
old  college  hard  by.  A  young  gentleman  who  is  a  stu- 
dent there,  lodges  in  your  house,  does  he  not  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Denham  ?"  said  Tetterby. 

"Yes." 

It  was  a  natural  action,  and  so  slight  as  to  be  hardly 
noticeable  ;  but  the  little  man,  before  speaking  again, 
passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  looked  quickly 
round  the  room,  as  though  he  were  sensible  of  some 
change  in  its  atmosphere.  The  Chemist,  instantly  trans- 
ferring to  him  the  look  of  dread  he  had  directed  towards 
the  wife,  stepped  back,  and  his  face  turned  paler. 

"  The  gentleman's  room,"  said  Tetterby,  "  is  up-stairs, 
sir.  There's  a  more  convenient  private  entrance  ;  but  as 
you  have  come  in  here,  it  will  save  your  going  out  into 
the  cold,  if  you'll  take  this  little  staircase,"  showing  one 
communicating  directly  with  the  parlour,  "  and  go  up  to 
him  that  way,  if  you  wish  to  see  him." 

"Yes,  I  wish  to  see  him,"  said  the  Chemist,  "Can 
you  spare  a  light  ?" 

The  watchfulness  of  his  haggard  look,  and  the  inex- 
plicable distrust  that  darkened  it,  seemed  to  trouble  Mr. 
Tetterby,  He  paused  ;  and  looking  fixedly  at  him  in 
return,  stood  for  a  minute  or  so,  like  a  man  stupefied  or 
fascinated. 

At  length  he  said,  "  I'll  light  you,  sir,  if  you'll  follow 
me." 

"  No,"  replied  the  Chemist,  "  I  don't  wish  to  be  at- 
tended, or  announced  to  him.  He  does  not  expect  me, 
I  would  rather  go  alone.  Please  to  give  me  the  light,  if 
you  can  spare  it,  and  I'll  find  the  way." 

In  the  quickness  of  his  expression  of  this  desire,  and 
in  taking  the  candle  from  the  newsman,  he  touched  him 
on  the  breast.  Withdrawing  his  hand  hastily,  almost  as 
though  he  had  wounded  him  by  accident  (for  he  did  not 
know  in  what  part  of  himself  his  new  power  resided,  or 
how  it  was  communicated,  or  how  the  manner  of  its  re- 
ception varied  in  different  persons),  he  turned  and  as- 
cended the  stair. 

But  when  he  reached  the  top,  he  stopped  and  looked 
down.  The  wife  was  standing  in  the  same  place  twist- 
ing her  ring  round  and  round  upon  her  finger.  The  hus- 
band, with  his  head  bent  forward  on  his  breast,  was 
musing  heavily  and  sullenly.  The  children,  still  cluster- 
ing about  the*  mother,  gazed  timidly  after  the  visitor, 
and  nestled  together  when  they  saw  him  looking  down. 

"  Come  !  "  said  the  father,  roughly.  "  There's  enough 
of  this.    Get  to  bed,  here  ! " 

"The  place  is  inconvenient  and  small  enough,"  the 
mother  added,  "  without  you.    Get  to  bed  ! " 

The  whole  brood,  scared  and  sad,  crept  away  ;  little 
Johnny  and  the  baby  lagging  last.  The  mother,  glanc- 
ing contemptuously  round  the  sordid  room,  and  tossing 
from  her  the  fragments  of  their  meal,  stopped  on  the 
threshold  of  her  task  of  clearing  the  table,  and  sat  down, 


328 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


pondering  idly  and  dejectedly.  The  father  betook  him- 
self to  the  chimney-corner,  and  impatiently  raking  the 
small  fire  together,  bent  over  it  as  if  he  would  monopo- 
lise it  all.    They  did  not  interchange  a  word. 

The  Chemist,  paler  than  before,  stole  upward  like  a 
thief  ;  looking  back  upon  the  change  below,  and  dread- 
ing equally  to  go  on  or  return. 

"What  have  I  done  !"  he  said,  confusedly.  "  What 
am  I  going  to  do  !  " 

"To  be  the  benefactor  of  mankind,"  he  thought  he 
heard  a  voice  reply. 

He  looked  round,  but  there  was  nothing  there  ;  ^ind  a 
passage  now  shutting  out  the  little  parlour  from  his 
view,  he  went  on,  directing  his  eyes  before  him  at  the 
way  he  went. 

"It  is  only  since  last  night,"  he  muttered  gloomily, 
"that  I  have  remained  shut  up,  and  yet  all  things  are 
strange  to  me.  I  am  strange  to  myself.  I  am  here,  as 
in  a  dream.  What  interest  have  I  in  this  place,  or  in 
any  place  that  I  can  bring  to  my  remembrance  1  My  mind 
is  going  blind  ! " 

There  was  a  door  before  him,  and  he  knocked  at  it. 
Being  invited,  by  a  voice  within,  to  enter,  he  complied. 

"  Is  that  my  kind  nurse  ?"  said  the  voice.  But  I  need 
not  ask  her.    There  is  no  one  else  to  come  here. 

It  spoke  cheerfully,  though  in  a  languid  tone,  and  at- 
tracted his  attention  to  a  young  man  lying  on  a  couch, 
drawn  before  the  chimney-piece,  with  the  back  towards 
the  door.  A  meagre  scanty  stove,  pinched  and  hollowed 
like  a  sick  man's  cheeks,  and  pricked  into  the  centre  of  a 
hearth  that  it  could  scarcely  warm,  contained  the  fire,  to 
which  his  face  was  turned.  Being  so  near  the  windy 
house-top,  it  wasted  quickly,  and  with  a  busy  sound,  and 
the  burning  ashes  dropped  down  fast. 

"  They  chink  when  they  shoot  out  here,"  said  the 
student,  smiling,  "  so,  according  to  the  gossips,  they  are 
not  coffins,  but  purses.  I  shall  be  well  and  rich  yet, 
some  day,  if  it  please  God,  and  shall  live  perhaps  to  love 
a  daughter  Milly,  in  remembrance  of  the  kindest  nature 
and  the  gentlest  heart  in  the  world." 

He  put  up  his  hand  as  if  expecting  her  to  take  it,  but, 
being  weakened,  he  lay  still,  with  his  face  resting  on  his 
other  hand,  and  did  not  turn  round. 

The  Chemist  glanced  about  the  room  ; — at  the  student's 
books  and  papers,  piled  upon  a  table  in  a  corner,  where 
they,  and  his  extinguished  reading-lamp,  now  prohibited 
and  put  away,  told  of  the  attentive  hours  that  had  gone 
before  this  illness,  and  perhaps  caused  it  ; — at  such  signs 
of  his  old  health  and  freedom,  as  the  out-of-door  attire 
that  hung  idle  on  the  wall  ; — at  those  remembrances  of 
other  and  less  solitary  scenes,  the  little  miniatures  upon 
the  chimney-piece,  and  the  drawing  of  home  ;  — at  that 
token  of  his  emulation,  perhaps,  in  some  sort,  of  his  per- 
sonal attachment  too,  the  framed  engraving  of  himself, 
the  looker-on.  The  time  had  been,  only  yesterday,  when 
not  one  of  these  objects,  in  its  remotest  association  of 
interest  with  the  living  figure  before  him,  would  have 
lost  on  Redlaw.  Now,  they  were  but  objects  ;  or,  if  any 
gleam  of  such  connexion  shot  upon  him,  it  perplexed  and 
not  enlightened  him,  as  he  stood  looking  round  with  a 
dull  wonder. 

The  student,  recalling  the  thin  hand  which  had  re- 
mained so  long  untouched,  raised  himself  on  the  couch, 
and  turned  his  head. 

"  Mr.  Redlaw  !  "  he  exclaimed,  and  started  up. 

Redlaw  put  out  his  arm. 

"  Don't  come  near  to  me.  I  will  sit  here.  Remain 
you,  where  you  are  !" 

He  sat  down  on  a  chair  near  the  door,  and  having 
glanced  at  the  young  man  standing  leaning  with  his  hand 
upon  the  couch,  spoke  with  his  eyes  averted  towards  the 
ground. 

"  I  heard,  by  an  accident,  by  what  accident  is  no  mat- 
ter, that  one  of  my  class  was  ill  and  solitary.  I  received 
no  other  description  of  him,  than  that  he  lived  in  this 
street.  Beginning  my  inquiries  at  the  first  house  in  it, 
I  have  found  him." 

"  I  have  been  ill,  sir,"  returned  the  student,  not  merely 
with  a  modest  hesitation,  but  with  a  kind  of  awe  of  him, 
"but  am  greatly  better.  An  attack  of  fever — of  the 
brain,  I  believe — has  weakened  me,  but  I  am  much  bet- 
ter.   I  cannot  say  I  have  been  solitary  in  my  illness,  or 


I  should  forget  the  ministering  hand  that  has  been  near 
me." 

"You  are  speaking  of  the  keeper's  wife,"  said  Red- 
law. 

"  Yes."  The  student  bent  his  head,  as  if  he  rendered 
her  some  silent  homage. 

The  Chemist,  in  whom  there  was  a  cold,  monotonous 
apathy,  which  rendered  him  more  like  a  marble  image 
on  the  tomb  of  the  man  who  had  started  from  his  dinner 
yesterday  at  the  first  mention  of  this  student's  case,  than 
the  breathing  man  himself,  glanced  again  at  the  student 
leaning  with  his  hand  upon  the  couch,  and  looked  upon 
the  ground,  and  in  the  air,  as  if  for  light  for  his  blinded 
mind. 

"  I  remembered  your  name,"  he  said,  "when  it  was 
mentioned  to  me  down-stairs,  just  now  ;  and  I  recollect 
your  face.  We  have  held  but  very  little  personal  com- 
munication together?" 

"  Very  little." 

"  You  have  retired  and  withdrawn  from  me,  more 
than  any  of  the  rest,  I  think  ?"  • 
The  student  signified  assent. 

"And  why!"  said  the  Chemist;  not  with  the  least 
expression  of  interest,  but  with  a  moody,  wayward  kind 
of  curiosity.  "Why?  How  comes  it  that  you  have 
sought  to  keep  especially  from  me,  the  knowledge  of 
your  remaining  here,  at  this  season,  when  all  the  rest 
have  dispersed,  and  of  your  being  ill  ?  I  want  to  know 
why  this  is  ?  " 

The  young  man,  who  had  heard  him  with  increasing 
agitation,  raised  his  downcast  eyes  to  his  face,  and  clasp- 
ing his  hands  together,  cried  with  sudden  earnestness, 
and  with  trembling  lips  : 

"  Mr.  Redlaw  !  You  have  discovered  me.  You  know 
my  secret  ! " 

"  Secret  ?  "  said  the  Chemist,  harshly.    "/  know  ?" 

"  Yes  !  Your  manner,  so  different  from  the  interest 
and  sympathy  which  endear  you  to  so  many  hearts,  your 
altered  voice,  the  constraint  there  is  in  everything  you 
say,  and  in  your  looks,"  replied  the  student,  "  warn  me 
that  you  know  me.  That  you  would  conceal  it,  even 
now,  is  but  a  proof  to  me  (God  knows  I  need  none  !)  of 
your  natural  kindness,  and  of  the  bar  there  is  between 
us. " 

A  vacant  and  contemptuous  laugh,  was  all  his  answer. 

"  But,  Mr.  Redlaw,"  said  the  student,  "  as  a  just  man, 
and  a  good  man,  think  how  innocent  I  am,  except  in 
name  and  descent,  of  participation  in  any  wrong  inflicted 
on  you,  or  in  any  sorrow  you  have  borne." 

' '  Sorrow  ! "  said  Redlaw,  laughing.  ' '  Wrong  !  What 
are  those  to  me  ?  " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  entreated  the  shrinking  student, 
"  do  not  let  the  mere  interchange  of  a  few  words  with 
me  change  you  like  this,  sir  !  Let  me  pass  again  from 
your  knowledge  and  notice.  Let  me  occupy  my  old  re- 
served and  distant  place  among  those  whom  you  instruct. 
Know  me  only  by  the  name  I  have  assumed,  and  not  by 
that  of  Longford — " 

"  Longford  !  "  exclaimed  the  other. 

He  clasped  his  head  with  both  his  hands,  and  for  a 
moment  turned  upon  the  young  man  his  own  intelligent 
and  thoughtful  face.  But  the  light  passed  from  it,  like 
the  sunbeam  of  an  instant,  and  it  clouded  as  before. 

"  The  name  my  mother  bears,  sir,"  faltered  the  young 
man,  "the  name  she  took,  when  she  might,  perhaps, 
have  taken  one  more  honoured.  Mr.  Redlaw,"  hesitat- 
ing, "  I  believe  I  know  that  histoiy.  Where  my  infor- 
mation halts,  my  guesses  at  what  is  wanting  may  supply 
something  not  remote  from  the  truth.  I  am  the  child 
of  a  marriage  that  has  not  j)roved  itself  a  well-assorted 
or  a  happy  one.  From  infancy,  I  have  heard  you  spoken 
of  with  lionour  and  respect — with  something  that  was 
almost  reverence.  I  have  heard  of  such  devotion,  of 
such  fortitude  and  tenderness,  of  such  rising  up  against 
the  obstacles  which  press  men  down,  that  my  fancy, 
since  I  learnt  my  little  lesson  from  my  mother,  has  shed 
a  lustre  on  your  name.  At  last,  a  poor  student  myself, 
from  whom  could  I  learn  but  you  ?  " 

Redlaw,  unmoved,  unchanged,  and  looking  at  him 
with  a  staring  frown,  answered  by  no  word  or  sign. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  pursued  the  other,  "  I  should  try  in 
vain  to  say,  how  much  it  has  impressed  me,  and  affected 


1 


GHRI8TMA 

me,  to  find  the  gracious  traces  of  the  past,  in  that  cer- 
tain power  of  winning  gratitude  and  confidence  which  is 
associated  among  us  students  (among  tlie  humblest  of  us, 
most)  with  Mr.  Redlaw's  generous  name.  Our  ages  and 
positions  are  so  different,  sir,  and  1  am  so  accustomed 
to  regard  you  from  a  distance,  that  I  wonder  at  my  own 
presumption  when  1  touch,  however  lightly,  on  that 
theme.  But  to  one  who — I  may  say,  who  felt  no  com- 
mon interest  in  my  mother  once — it  may  be  something 
to  hear,  now  that  it  is  all  past,  with  what  indescribable 
feelings  of  affection  I  have,  in  my  obscurity,  regarded 
him  ;  with  what  pain  and  reluctance  I  have  kept  aloof 
from  his  encouragement,  when  a  word  of  it  would  have 
made  me  rich  ;  yet  how  I  have  felt  it  fit  that  I  should 
hold  my  course,  content  to  know  him,  and  to  be  un- 
known. Mr.  Redlaw,"  said  the  student,  faintly,  "  what 
I  would  have  said,  I  have  said  ill,  for  my  strength  is 
strange  to  me  as  yet  ;  but  for  anything  unworthy  in 
this  fraud  of  mine,  forgive  me,  and  for  all  the  rest  forget 
me  !" 

The  staring  frown  remained  on  Redlaw's  face,  and 
yielded  to  no  other  expression  until  the  student,  with 
these  words,  advanced  towards  him,  as  if  to  touch  his 
band,  when  he  drew  back  and  cried  to  him  : 

"  Don't  come  nearer  to  me  ! " 

The  young  man  stopped,  shocked  by  the  eagerness  of 
his  recoil,  and  by  the  sternness  of  his  repulsion  ;  and  he 
passed  his  hand,  thoughtfully,  across  his  forehead. 

**  The  past  is  past,"  said  the  Chemist.  "  It  dies  like 
the  brutes.  Who  talks  to  me  of  its  traces  in  my  life  ? 
He  raves  or  lies  !  What  have  I  to  do  with  your  dis- 
tempered dreams  ?  If  you  want  money,  here  it  is.  I 
came  to  offer  it ;  and  that  is  all  I  came  for.  There  can 
be  nothing  else  that  brings  me  here,"  he  muttered,  hold- 
ing his  head  again,  with  both  his  hands.  "  There  can 
be  nothing  else,  and  yet — " 

He  had  tossed  his  purse  upon  the  table.  As  he  fell 
into  this  dim  cogitation  vnth  himself,  the  student  took  it 
up,  and  held  it  out  to  him.  ' 

"Take  it  back,  sir,"  he  said  proudly,  though  not 
angrily.  "I  wish  you  could  take  from  me,  with  it,  the 
remembrance  of  your  words  and  offer." 

"You  do?"  he  retorted,  with  a  wild  light  in  his  eyes. 
''You  do?" 

"I  do!" 

The  Chemist  went  close  to  him,  for  the  first  time,  and 
took  the  purse,  and  turned  him  by  the  arm,  and  looked 
him  in  the  face. 

"  There  is  sorrow  and  trouble  in  sickness,  is  there 
not?  "  he  demanded,  with  a  laugh. 

The  wondering  student  answered,  "Yes." 

"  In  its  unrest,  in  its  anxiety,  in  its  suspense,  in  all  its 
train  of  physical  and  mental  miseries  ?  "  said  the  Chem- 
ist, with  a  wild  unearthly  exultation.  "All  best  for- 
gotten, are  they  not  ?  " 

The  student  did  not  answer,  but  again  passed  his 
hand,  confusedly,  across  his  forehead.  Redlaw  still 
held  him  by  the  sleeve,  when  Milly's  voice  was  heard 
outside. 

"lean  see  very  well  now,"  she  said,  "thank  you, 
Dolf.  Don't  cry  dear.  Father  and  mother  will  be  com- 
I  fortable  again  to-morrow,  and  home  will  be  comfortable 
too.    A  gentleman  with  him,  is  there  ! " 

Redlaw  released  his  hold,  as  he  listened. 

"  I  have  feared,  from  the  first  moment,"  he  murmured 
to  himself,  ' '  to  meet  her.  There  is  a  steady  quality  of 
goodness  in  her,  that  I  dread  to  influence.  I  may  be  the 
murderer  of  what  is  tenderest  and  best  within  her 
bosom." 

She  was  knocking  at  the  door. 

"  Shall  I  dismiss  it  as  an  idle  foreboding,  or  still  avoid 
her?"  he  muttered,  looking  uneasily  around, 
j     She  was  knocking  at  the  door  again. 

"  Of  all  the  visitors  who  could  come  here,"  he  said,  in 
'  a  hoarse  alarmed  voice,  turning  to  his  companion,  "  this 
I  is  the  one  I  should  desire  most  to  avoid.  Hide  me?" 
;  The  student  opened  a  frail  door  in  the  wall,  communi- 
1  eating,  where  the  garret-roof  began  to  slope  towards  the 
floor,  with  a  small  inner  room.  Redlaw  passed  in  hasti- 
ly, and  shut  it  after  him. 

The  student  then  resumed  his  place  upon  the  couch, 
and  called  to  her  to  enter. 


S    BOOKS.  329  j 

i 

"  Dear  Mr.  Edmund,"  said  Milly,  looking  round,  I 
"they  told  me  there  was  a  gentleman  here."  ; 

"  There  is  no  one  here  but  I."  j 

"  There  has  been  some  one?"  < 

"Yes,  yes,  there  has  been  some  one."  * 

She  put  her  little  basket  on  the  table,  and  went  up  to  I 
the  back  of  the  couch,  as  if  to  take  the  extended  hand  ■ 
— but  it  was  not  there.  A  little  surprised,  in  her  quiet  I 
way,  she  leaned  over  to  look  at  his  face,  and  gently  j 
touched  him  on  the  brow.  i 

"  Are  you  quite  as  well  to-night?  Your  head  is  not  \ 
so  cool  as  in  the  afternoon."  i 

"  Tut !"  said  the  student  petulantly,  "  very  little  ails 
me."  ! 

A  little  more  surprise,  but  no  reproach,  was  expressed  I 
in  her  face,  as  she  withdrew  to  the  other  side  of  the  i 
table  and  took  a  small  packet  of  needlework  from  her  \ 
basket.  But  she  laid  it  down  again,  on  second  thoughts,  i 
and  going  noiselessly  about  the  room,  set  everything  ex- 
actly in  its  place,  and  in  the  neatest  order ;  even  to  the  I 
cushions  on  the  couch,  which  she  touched  with  so  light  j 
a  hand,  that  he  hardly  seemed  to  know  it,  as  he  lay  | 
looking  at  the  fire.  When  all  this  was  done,  and  she  j 
had  swept  the  hearth,  she  sat  down,  in  her  modest  little  \ 
bonnet,  to  her  work,  and  was  quietly  busy  on  it  directly, 

"It's  the  new  muslin  curtain  for  the  window,  Mr. 
Edmund,"  said  Milly,  stitching  away  as  she  talked. 
"It  will  look  very  clean  and  nice,  though  it  cost  very 
little,  and  will  save  your  eyes,  too,  from  the  light.  My 
William  says  the  room  should  not  be  too  light  just  now, 
when  you  are  recovering  so  well,  or  the  glare  might 
make  you  giddy." 

He  said  nothing  ;  but  there  was  something  so  fretful  i 
and  impatient  in  his  change  of  position,  that  her  quick  j 
fingers  stopped,  and  she  looked  at  him  anxiously. 

"The  pillows  are  not  comfortable,"  she  said,  laying  i 
down  her  work  and  rising.  "  I  will  soon  put  them  | 
right."  ! 

"  They  are  very  well,"  he  answered.  "Leave  them  i 
alone,  pray.    You  make  so  much  of  everything." 

He  raised  his  head  to  say  this,  and  looked  at  her  so 
thanklessly,  that,  after  he  had  thrown  himself  down  i 
again,  she  stood  timidly  pa/using.  However,  she  re-  I 
sumed  her  seat,  and  her  needle,  without  having  directed  | 
even  a  murmuring  look  towards  him,  and  was  soon  as  | 
busy  as  before. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Mr.  Edmund,  that  you  have 
been  often  thinking  of  late,  when  I  have  been  sitting 
by,  how  true  the  saying  is,  that  adversity  is  a  good  I 
teacher.    Health  will  be  more  precious  to  you,  after  this  i 
illness,  than  it  has  ever  been.    And  years  hence,  when  ' 
.  this  time  of  year  comes  round,  and  you  remember  the  ■ 
days  when  you  lay  here  sick,  alone,  that  the  knowledge 
of  your  illness  might  not  afliict  those  who  are  dearest  to  ; 
you,  your  home  will  be  doubly  dear  and  doubly  blest. 
Now,  isn't  that  a  good,  true  thing  ?  "  "  ' 

She  was  too  intent  upon  her  work,  and  too  earnest  in  ! 
what  she  said,  and  too  composed  and  quiet  altogether, 
to  be  on  the  watch  for  any  look  he  might  direct  towards  j 
her  in  reply  ;  so  the  shaft  of  his  ungrateful  glance  fell 
harmless  and  did  not  wound  her. 

"Ah  !"  said  Milly,  with  her  pretty  head  inclining  i 
thoughtfully  on  one  side,  as  she  looked  down,  following 
her  busy  fingers  with  her  eyes.    "Even  on  me — and  I 
am  very  different  from  you,  Mr.  Edmund,  for  I  have  no 
learning,  and  don't  know  how  to  think  properly — this 
view  of  such  things  has  made  a  great  impression,  since 
you  have  been  lying  ill.    When  I  have  seen  you  so  j 
touched  by  the  kindness  and  attention  of  the  poor  people  , 
down-stairs,  iTiave  felt  that  you  thought  even  that  ex- 
perience some  repayment  for  the  loss  of  health,  and  I 
have  read  in  your  face,  as  plain  as  if  it  was  a  book,  that 
but  for  some  trouble  and  sorrow  we  should  never  know 
half  the  good  there  is  about  us. "  ' 

His  getting  up  from  the  couch  interrupted  her,  or  she 
was  going  on  to  say  more.  i 

"  We  needn't  magnify  the  merit,  Mrs.  William,"  he 
rejoined  slightingly.    "  The  people  down-stairs  will  be  ■ 
paid  in  good  time  i  dare  say,  for  any  little  extra  service  j 
they  may  have  rendered  me  ;  and  perhaps  they  antici- 
pate no  less.    I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  too."  \ 

Her  fingers  stopped,  and  she  looked  at  him. 


330 


CHARLES  DIGKEN8'  WORKS. 


*'  I  can't  be  made  to  feel  tbe  more  obliged  by  your  ex- 
aggerating the  case,"  he  said.  "  I  am  sensible  that  you 
have  been  interested  in  me,  and  I  say  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you.    What  more  would  you  have  ?  " 

Her  work  fell  on  her  lap,' as  she  still  looked  at  him 
walking  to  and  fro  with  an  intolerant  air,  and  stopping 
now  and  then. 

"  I  say  again,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  Why  weak- 
en my  sense  of  what  is  your  due  in  obligation,  by  prefer- 
ring enormous  claims  upon  me  ?  Tro utile,  sorrow,  afflic- 
tion, adversity  !  One  might  suppose  I  had  been  dying  a 
score  of  deaths  here  !  " 

''Do  you  believe,  Mr.  Edmund,"  she  asked,  rising  and 
going  nearer  to  him,  "  that  I  spoke  of  the  poor  people 
of  the  house,  with  any  reference  to  myself  ?  To  me  ?  " 
laying  her  hand  upon  her  bosom  with  a  simple  and  inno- 
cent smile  of  astonishment. 

"Oh!  I  think  nothing  about  it,  my  good  creature," 
he  returned.  "  I  have  had  an  indisposition,  which  your 
solicitude — observe  !  I  say  solicitude — makes  a  great 
deal  more  of,  than  it  merits  ;  and  its  over,  and  we  can't 
perpetuate  it." 

He  coldly  took  a  book,  and  sat  down  at  the  table. 

She  watched  him  for  a  little  while,  until  her  smile  was 
quite  gone,  and  then,  returning  to  where  her  basket  was, 
said  gently  : 

' '  Mr.  Edmund,  would  you  rather  be  alone  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  reason,  why  I  should  detain  you  here," 
he  replied. 

"Except — "  said  Milly  hesitating  and  showing  her 
work. 

"  Oh  the  curtain,"  he  answered,  with  a  supercilious 
laugh.    "  That's  not  worth  staying  for." 

She  made  up  the  little  packet  again,  and  put  it  in  her 
basket.  Then,  standing  before  him  with  such  an  air  of 
patient  entreaty  that  he  could  not  choose  but  look  at  her, 
she  said : 

"  If  you  should  want  me,  I  will  come  back  willingly. 
When  you  did  want  me,  I  was  quite  happy  to  come  ;  there 
was  no  merit  in  it,  I  think  you  must  be  afraid,  that, 
now  you  ^ire  getting  well,  I  may  be  troublesome  to  you  ; 
but  I  should  not  have  been,  indeed.  I  should  have  come 
no  longer  than  your  weakness  and  confinement  lasted. 
You  owe  me  nothing  ;  but  it  is  right  that  you  should 
deal  as  justly  by  me  as  if  I  was  a  lady — even  the  very 
lady  that  you  love  ;  and  if  you  suspect  me  of  meanly 
making  much  of  the  little  I  have  tried  to  do  to  comfort 
your  sick  room,  you  do  yourself  more  wrong  than  ever 
you  can  do  me.  That  is  why  I  am  sorry.  That  is  why 
I  am  very  sorry," 

If  she  had  been  as  passionate  as  she  was  quiet,  as 
indignant  as  she  was  calm,  as  angry  in  her  look  as  she 
was  gentle,  as  loud  of  tone  as  she  was  low  and  clear,  she 
might  have  left  no  sense  of  her  departure  in  the  room, 
compared  with  that  which  fell  upon  the  lonely  student 
when  she  went  away. 

He  was  gazing  drearily  upon  the  place  where  she  had 
been,  when  Redlaw  came  out  of  his  concealment,  and 
came  to  the  door. 

"  When  sickness  lays  its  hand  on  you  again,"  he  said, 
looking  fiercely  back  at  him,  "—may  it  be  soon  ! — Die 
here  !    Rot  here  !  " 

"  What  have  you  done  ?"  returned  the  other,  catching 
at  his  cloak.  "  What  change  have  you  wrought  in  me? 
What  curse  have  you  brought  upon  me  ?  Give  me  back 
myself  ! " 

"Give  me  back  m^/self  !"  exclaimed  Redlaw  like  a 
madman.  "  I  am  infected  !  I  am  infectious  !  I  am 
charged  with  poison  for  my  own  mind, and  the  minds  of  all 
mankind.  Where  I  felt  interest,  compassion,  sympathy, 
I  am  turning  into  stone.  Selfishness  and  ingratitude 
spring  up  in  my  blighting  footsteps.  I  am  only  so 
much  less  base  than  the  wretches  whom  I  make  so, 
that  in  the  moment  of  their  transformation  I  can  hate 
them." 

As  he  spoke — the  young  man  still  holding  to  his 
cloak — he  cast  him  off,  and  struck  him  ;  then,  wildly 
hurried  out  into  the  night  air  where  the  wind  was  blow- 
ing, the  snow  falling,  the  cloud-drift  sweeping  on,  the 
moon  dimly  shining  ;  and  where,  blowing  in  the  wind, 
falling  with  the  snow,  drifting  with  the  clouds,  shining 
in  the  moonlight,  and  heavily  looming  in  the  darkness, 


were  the  Phantom's  words,  "  The  gift  that  I  have  given, 
you  shall  give  again,  go  where  you  will  I" 

Whither  he  went.he  neither  knew  nor  cared,  so  that  he 
avoided  company.  The  change  he  left  within  him  made 
the  busy  streets  a  desert,  and  himself  a  desert,  and  the 
multitude  around  him,  in  their  manifold  endurances  and 
ways  of  life,  a  mighty  waste  of  sand,  which  the  winds 
tossed  into  intelligible  heaps  and  made  a  ruinous  confu- 
sion of.  Those  traces  in  his  breast  which  the  Phantom 
had  told  him  would  "  die  out  soon,"  were  not,  as  yet,  so 
far  upon  their  way  to  death,  but  that  he  understood 
enough  of  what  he  was,  and  what  he  made  of  others, 
to  desire  to  be  alone. 

This  put  it  in  his  mind— he  suddenly  bethought  him- 
self, as  he  was  going  along,  of  the  boy  who  had  rushed 
into  his  room.  And  then  he  recollected,  that  of  those 
with  whom  he  had  communicated  since  the  Phantom's 
disappearance,  that  boy  alone  had  shown  no  sign  of  be- 
ing changed. 

Monstrous  and  odious  as  the  wild  thing  was  to  him,  he 
determined  to  seek  it  out,  and  prove  if  this  were  really 
so ;  and  also  to  seek  it  with  another  intention,  which 
came  into  his  thoughts  at  the  same  time. 

So,  resolving  with  some  difficulty  where  he  was,  he 
directed  his  steps  back  tothe  old  college,  and  to  that  part 
of  it  where  the  general  porch  was,  and  where,  alone, 
the  pavement  was  worn  by  the  tread  of  the  students* 
feet. 

The  keeper's  house  stood  just  within  the  iron  gates, 
forming  a  part  of  the  chief  quadrangle.  There  was  a  little 
cloister  outside,  and  from  that  sheltered  place  he  knew 
he  could  look  in  at  the  window  of  their  ordinary  room, 
and  see  who  was  within.  The  iron  gates  were  shut,  but 
his  hand  was  familiar  with  the  fastening,  and  drawing 
it  back  by  thrusting  in  his  wrist  between  the  bars,  he 
passed  through  softly,  shut  it  again  and  crept  up  to 
the  window,  crumbling  the  thin  crust  of  snow  with  his 
feet. 

The  fire,  to  which  he  had  directed  the  boy  last  night, 
shining  brightly  through  the  glass,  made  an  illuminated 
place  upon  the  ground.  Instinctively  avoiding  this,  and 
going  round  it,  he  looked  in  at  the  ^vindow.  At  first,  he 
thought  there  was  no  one  there,  and  that  the  blaze  was 
reddening  only  the  old  beams  in  the  ceiling  and  the  dark 
walls  ;  but  peering  in  more  narrowly,  he  saw  the  object 
of  his  search  coiled  asleep  before  it  on  the  floor.  He 
passed  quickly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  went  in. 

The  creature  lay  in  such  a  fiery  heat,  that,  as  the 
Chemist  stooped  to  rouse  him,  it  scorched  his  head.  So 
soon  as  he  was  touched,  the  boy,  not  half  awake, 
clutched  his  rags  together  with  the  instinct  of  flight  up- 
on him,  half  rolled  and  half  ran  into  a  distant  corner  of 
the  room,  where,  heaped  upon  the  ground,  he  struck  his 
foot  out  to  defend  himself. 

"  Get  up  !  "  said  the  Chemist.  "You  have  not  forgot- 
ten me?" 

"  You  let  me  alone  !  "  returned  the  boy.  "  This  is 
the  woman's  house — not  yours." 

The  Chemist's  steady  eye  controlled  him  somewhat,  or 
inspired  him  with  enough  submission  to  be  raised  upon 
his  feet,  and  looked  at. 

"  Who  washed  them,  and  put  those  bandages  where 
they  were  bruised  and  cracked  ? "  asked  the  Chemist, 
pointing  to  their  altered  state, 

"  The  woman  did." 

"And  is  it  she  who  has  made  you  cleaner  in  the  face, 
too  ?  " 

"Yes,  the  woman." 

Redlaw  asked  these  questions  to  attract  his  eyes  to- 
wards himself  and  with  the  same  intent  now  held  him 
by  the  chin,  and  threw  his  wild  hair  back,  though  he 
loathed  to  touch  him.  The  boy  watched  his  eyes  keenly, 
as  if  he  thought  it  needful  to  his  own  defence,  not 
knowing  what  he  might  do  next  ;  and  Redlaw  could  see 
well,  that  no  change  came  over  him. 

"  Where  are  they  ?  "  he  inquired, 

"  The  woman's  out." 

"I  know  she  is.  Where  is  the  old  man  with  the 
white  hair,  and  his  son?" 

"The  woman's  husband,  d'ye  mean?"  inquired  the 
boy. 

* '  Aye.    Where  are  those  two  ?  " 


CHRISTMA  S    B  0  OKS. 


331 


"Out.  Something's  the  matter,  somewhere.  They 
were  fetched  out  in  a  hurry,  and  told  me  to  stop  here." 

"Come  with  me,"  said  the  Chemist,  "and  I'll  give 
you  money." 

"  Come  where  ?  and  how  much  will  you  give?  " 

"I'll  give  you  more  shillings  than  you  ever  saw,  and 
bring  you  back  soon.  Do  you  know  your  way  to  where 
you  came  from?" 

"  You  let  me  go,"  returned  the  boy,  suddenly  twisting 
out  of  his  grasp.  * '  I'm  not  a  going  to  take  you  there. 
Let  me  be,  or  I'll  heave  some  fire  at  you  !  " 

He  was  down  before  it,  and  ready,  with  his  savage 
little  hands,  to  pluck  the  burning  coals  out. 

What  the  Chemist  had  felt,  in  observing  the  effect  of 
his  charmed  influence  stealing  over  those  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact,  was  not  nearly  equal  to  the  cold  vague 
terror  with  which  he  saw  this  baby-monster  put  it  at  de- 
fiance. It  chilled  his  blood  to  look  on  the  immovable 
impenetrable  thing,  in  the  likeness  of  a  child,  with  its 
sharp  malignant  face  turned  up  to  his,  and  its  almost  in- 
fant hand,  ready  at  the  bars. 

"  Listen,  boy  !  "  he  said.  "  You  shall  take  me  where 
you  please,  so  that  you  take  me  where  the  people  are 
very  miserable  or  very  wicked.  I  want  to  do  them  good, 
and  not  to  harm  them.  You  shall  have  money,  as  I  have 
told  you,  and  I  will  bring  you  back.  Get  up  !  Come 
quickly  !  "  He  made  a  hasty  step  towards  the  door, 
afraid  of  her  returning. 

"  Will  you  let  me  walk  by  myself,  and  never  hold  me, 
nor  yet  touch  me?"  said  the  boy,  slowly  withdrawing 
the  hand  with  which  he  threatened,  and  beginning  to 
get  up. 

"I  will." 

"  And  let  me  go  before,  behind,  or  anyways  I  like  ?  " 
"I  will." 

"Give  me  some  money  first  then,  and  I'll  go." 

The  Chemist  laid  a  few  shillings,  one  by  one,  in  his 
extended  hand.  To  count  them  was  beyond  the  boy's 
knowledge,  but  he  said  "  one,"  every  time,  and  avari- 
ciously looked  at  each  as  it  was  given,  and  at  the  donor. 
He  had  nowhere  to -put  them,  out  of  his  hand,  but  in  his 
mouth  ;  and  he  put  them  there. 

Redlaw  then  wrote  with  his  pencil  on  a  leaf  of  his 
pocket-book,  that  the  boy  was  with  him  ;  and  laying  it 
on  the  table,  signed  to  him  to  follow.  Keeping  his  rags 
together,  as  usual,  the  boy  complied,  and  went  out  with 
his  bare  head  and  his  naked  feet  into  the  winter  night. 

Preferring  not  to  depart  by  the  iron  gate  by  which  he 
had  entered,  where  they  were  in  danger  of  meeting  her 
whom  he  so  anxiously  avoided,  the  Chemist  led  the  way, 
through  some  of  those  passages  among  which  the  boy  had 
lost  himself,  and  by  that  portion  of  the  building  where 
he  lived,  to  a  small  door  of  which  he  had  the  key.  When 
they  got  into  the  street,  he  stopped  to  ask  his  guide — 
who  instantly  retreated  from  him — if  he  knew  where 
they  were. 

The  savage  thing  looked  here  and  there,  and  at  length, 
nodding  his  head,  pointed  in  the  direction  he  designed  to 
take.  Redlaw  going  on  at  once,  he  followed,  somewhat 
less  suspiciously  ;  shifting  his  money  from  his  mouth 
into  his  hand,  and  back  again  into  his  mouth,  and 
stealthily  rubbing  it  bright  upon  his  shreds  of  dress,  as 
he  went  along. 

Three  times,  in  their  progress,  they  were  side  by  side. 
Three  times  they  stopped,  being  side  by  side.  Three 
times  the  Chemist  glanced  down  at  his  face,  and  shud- 
dered as  it  forced  upon  him  one  reflection. 

The  first  occasion  was  when  they  were  crossing  an  old 
churchyard,  and  Redlaw  stopped  among  the  graves,  ut- 
terly  at  a  loss  how  to  connect  them  with  any  tender,  sof- 
tening, or  consolatory  thought. 

The  second  was,  when  the  breaking  forth  of  the  moon 
induced  him  to  look  up  at  the  Heavens,  where  he  saw 
her  in  her  glory,  surrounded  by  a  host  of  stars  he  still 
knew  by  the  names  and  histories  which  human  science  | 
has  appended  to  them  ;  but  where  he  saw  nothing  else 
he  hail  been  wont  to  see,  felt  nothing  he  had  been  wont 
to  feel,  in  looking  up  there,  on  a  bright  night.  > 

The  third  was  when  he  stopped  to  listen  to  a  plaintive 
strain  of  music,  but  could  only  hear  a  tune,  made  mani- 
fest to  him  by  the  dry  mechanism  of  the  instruments 
and  his  own  ears,  with  no  address  to  any  mystery  within 


him,  without  a  whisper  in  it  of  the  past,  or  of  the 
future,  powerless  upon  him  as  the  sound  of  last  year's 
running  water,  or  the  rushing  of  last  year's  wind. 

At  each  of  these  three  times,  he  saw  with  horror  that 
in  spite  of  the  vast  intellectual  distance  between  them, 
and  their  being  unlike  each  other  in  all  physical  respects, 
the  expression  on  the  boy's  face  was  the  expression  on 
his  own. 

They  journeyed  on  for  some  time — now  through  such 
crowded  places,  that  he  often  looked  over  his  shoulder, 
thinking  he  had  lost  his  guide,  but  generally  finding 
him  within  his  shadow  on  his  other  side  ;  now  by  ways 
so  quiet,  that  he  could  have  counted  his  short,  quick, 
naked  footsteps  coming  on  behind — until  they  arrived 
at  a  ruinous  collection  of  houses,  and  the  boy  touched 
him  and  stopped. 

"  In  there  !"  he  said,  pointing  out  one  house  where 
there  were  scattered  lights  in  the  windows,  and  a  dim 
lantern  in  the  doorway,  with  "  Lodgings  for  Travellers" 
painted  on  it. 

Redlaw  looked  about  him  ;  from  the  houses,  to  the 
waste  piece  of  ground  on  which  the  houses  stood,  or 
rather  did  not  altogether  tumble  down,  un fenced,  un- 
drained,  unlighted,  and  bordered  by  a  sluggish  ditch  ; 
from  that,  to  the  sloping  line  of  arches,  i)art  of  some 
neighbouring  viaduct  or  bridge  with  which  it  was  sur- 
rounded, and  which  lessened  gradually  towards  them, 
until  the  last  but  one  was  a  mere  kennel  for  a  dog,  the 
last  a  plundered  little  heap  of  bricks  ;  from  that,  to  the 
child,  close  to  him,  cowering  and  trembling  with  the 
cold,  and  limping  on  one  little  foot,  while  he  coiled  the 
other  round  his  leg  to  warm  it,  yet  staring  at  all  these 
things  with  that  frightful  likeness  of  expression  so  ap- 
parent in  his  face,  that  Redlaw  started  from  him. 

"In  there!"  said  the  boy,  pointing  out  the  house 
again.    "  I'll  wait." 

"  Will  they  let  me  in  ?"  asked  Redlaw. 

"Say  you're  a  doctor,"  he  answered  with  a  nod. 
"  There's  plenty  ill  here." 

Looking  back  on  his  way  to  the  house-door,  Redlaw 
saw  him  trail  himself  upon  the  dust  and  crawl  within 
the  shelter  of  the  smallest  arch,  as  if  he  were  a  rat. 
He  had  no  pity  for  the  thing,  but  he  was  afraid  of  it ; 
and  when  it  looked  out  of  its  den  at  him,  he  hurried  to 
the  house  as  a  retreat. 

"  Sorrow,  wrong,  and  trouble,"  said  the  Chemist,  -with 
a  painful  effort  at  some  more  distinct  remembrance,  "  at 
least  haunt  this  place  darkly.  He  can  do  no  harm,  who 
brings  forgetfulness  of  such  things  here  !  " 

With  these  words,  he  pushed  the  yielding  door,  and 
went  in. 

There  was  a  woman  sitting  on  the  stairs,  either  asleep 
or  forlorn,  whose  head  was  bent  down  on  her  hands  and 
knees.  As  it  was  not  easy  to  pass  without  treading  on 
her,  and  as  she  was  perfectly  regardless  of  his  near  ap- 
proach, he  stopped,  and  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 
Looking  up,  she  showed  him  quite  a  young  face,  but  one 
whose  bloom  and  promise  were  all  swept  away,  as  if  the 
haggard  winter  should  unnaturally  kill  the  spring. 

With  little  or  no  show  of  concern  on  his  account,  she 
moved  nearer  to  the  wall  to  leave  him  a  wider  passage. 

"What  are  you?"  said  Redlaw,  pausing,  with  his 
hand  upon  the  broken  stair-rail. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  am?"  she  answered,  showing 
him  her  face  again. 

He  looked  upon  the  ruined  temple  of  God,  so  lately 
made,  so  soon  disfigured  ;  and  something,  which  was 
not  compassion— for  the  springs  in  which  a  true  com- 
passion for  such  miseries  has  its  rise,  were  dried  up  in 
his  breast — but  which  was  nearer  to  it,  for  the  moment, 
than  any  feeling  that  had  lately  struggled  into  the  dark- 
ening, but  not.  yet  wholly  darkened,  night  of  his  mind- 
mingled  a  touch  of  softness  with  his  next  words. 

"I  am  come  here  to  give  relief,  if  I  can,"  he  said. 
"  Are  you  thinking  of  any  wrong?  " 

She  frowned  at  him,  and  then  laughed  ;  and  then  her 
laugh  prolonged  itself  into  a  shivering  sigh,  as  she 
dropped  her  head  again,  and  hid  her  fingers  in  her  hair. 

"Are  you  thinking  of  a  wrong?"  he  asked,  once 
more. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  my  life,"  she  said,  with  a  momen- 
tary look  at  him. 


332 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


He  liad  a  perception  that  she  was  one  of  many,  and 
that  he  saw  the  type  of  thousands  when  he  saw  her, 
drooping  at  his  feet. 

' '  What  are  your  parents  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  had  a  good  home  once.  My  fathe'r  was  a  gardener, 
far  away,  in  the  country. " 

"  Is  he  dead  V" 

"  He's  dead  to  me.  All  such  things  are  dead  to  me. 
You  a  gentleman,  and  not  know  that  !  "  She  raised  her 
eyes  again,  and  laughed  at  him. 

"  Girl  !  "  said  Redlaw  sternly,  "  before  this  death,  of 
all  such  things,  was  brought  about,  was  there  no  wrong 
done  to  you  ?  In  spite  of  all  that  you  can  do,  does  no 
remembrance  of  wrong  cleave  to  you  ?  Are  there  not 
times  upon  times  when  it  is  misery  to  you?  " 

So  little  of  what  was  womanly  was  left  in  her  appear- 
ance, that  now,  when  she  burst  into  tears,  he  stood 
amazed.  But  he  was  more  amazed,  and  much  dis- 
quieted, to  note  that  in  her  awakened  recollection  of 
this  wrong,  the  first  trace  of  her  old  humanity  and  frozen 
tenderness  appeared  to  show  itself. 

He  drew  a  little  off,  and  in  doing  so,  observed  that  her 
arms  were  black,  her  face  cut,  and  her  bosom  bruised. 

"  What  brutal  hand  has  hurt  you  so  ?  "  he  asked. 

''Myown.  I  did  it  myself  ! "  she  answered  quickly. 
It  is  impossible." 

"  I'll  swear  I  did  !  He  didn't  touch  me.  I  did  it  to 
myself  in  a  passion,  and  threw  myself  down  here.  He 
wasn't  near  me.    He  never  laid  a  hand  upon  me  ! " 

In  the  white  determination  of  her  face,  confronting 
him  with  this  untruth,  he  saw  enough  of  the  last  perver- 
sion and  distortion  of  good  surviving  in  that  miserable 
breast,  to  be  stricken  with  remorse  that  he  had  ever 
come  near  her, 

"  Sorrow,  wrong,  and  trouble  !  "  he  muttered,  turning 
his  fearful  gaze  away.  "  All  that  connects  her  with  the 
state  from  which  she  has  fallen,  has  those  roots  !  In 
the  name  of  God,  let  me  go  by  I  " 

Afraid  to  look  at  her  again,  afraid  to  touch  her,  afraid 
to  think  of  having  sundered  the  last  thread  by  which 
she  held  upon  the  mercy  of  Heaven,  he  gathered  his 
cloak  about  him,  and  glided  swiftly  up  the  stairs. 

Opposite  to  him,  on  the  landing,  was  a  door,  which 
stood  partly  open,  and  which,  as  he  ascended,  a  man  with 
a  candle  in  his  hand,  came  forward  from  within  to  shut. 
But  this  man,  on  seeing  him,  drew  back,  with  emotion 
in  his  manner,  and,  as  if  by  a  sudden  impulse,  mentioned 
his  name  aloud. 

In  the  surprise  of  such  a  recognition  there,  he  stopped, 
endeavouring  to  recollect  the  wan  and  startled  face.  He 
had  no  time  to  consider  it,  for,  to  his  yet  greater  amaze- 
ment, old  Philip  came  out  of  the  room,  and  took  him  by 
the  hand. 

"Mr.  Redlaw,"  said  the  old  man,  "this  is  like  you, 
this  is  like  you,  sir  !  you  have  heard  of  it,  and  have  come 
after  us  to  render  any  help  you  can.  Ah,  too  late,  too 
late  ! " 

Redlaw,  with  a  bewildered  look,  submitted  to  be  led 
into  the  room.  A  man  lay  there,  on  a  truckle-bed,  and 
William  Swidger  stood  at  the  bedside. 

"  Too  late  !  "  murmured  the  old  man,  looking  wistfully 
into  the  Chemist's  face  ;  and  the  tears  stole  down  his 
cheeks. 

"  That's  what  I  say,  father,"  interposed  his  son  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  That's  where  it  is,  exactly.  To  keep  as  quiet  as 
ever  we  can  while  he's  a  dozing,  is  the  only  thing  to  do. 
You're  right,  father  ! " 

Redlaw  paused  at  the  bedside,  and  looked  down  on 
the  figure  that  was  stretched  upon  the  mattress.  It  was 
that  of  a  man,  who  should  have  been  in  the  vigour  of 
his  life,  but  on  whom  it  was  not  likely  that  the  sun 
would  ever  shine  again.  The  vices  of  his  forty  or  fifty 
years'  career  had  so  branded  him,  that,  in  comparison 
with  their  effects  upon  his  face,  the  heavy  hand  of  time 
upon  the  old  man's  face  who  watched  him  had  been  mer- 
ciful and  beautifying. 

"  Who  is  this?  "  asked  tlie  Chemist,  looking  round. 

"My  son  George,  Mr.  Redlaw,"  said  the  old  man, 
wringing  his  hands.  "  My  eldest  son,  George,  who  was 
more  his  mother's  pride  than  all  the  rest !  " 

Redlaw's  eyes  wandered  from  the  old  man's  grey  head. 


as  he  laid  it  down  upon  the  bed,  to  the  person  who  had 
recognised  him,  and  who  had  kept  aloof,  in  the  remotest 
corner  of  the  room.  He  seemed  to  be  about  his  own 
age  ;  and  although  he  knew  no  such  hopeless  decay  and 
broken  man  as  he  appeared  to  be,  there  was  something 
in  the  turn  of  his  figure  as  he  stood  with  his  back  towards 
him,  and  now  went  out  at  the  door,  that  made  him  pass 
his  hand  uneasily  across  his  brow. 

"  William,"  he  said  in  a  gloomy  whisper,  "  who  is  that 
man  ?  " 

"  Why  you  see,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  William,  "that's 
what  I  say  myself.  Why  should  a  man  ever  go  and 
gamble,  and  the  like  of  that,  and  let  himself  down  inch 
by  inch  till  he  can't  let  himself  down  any  lower  !  " 

"  Has  he  done  so?"  asked  Redlaw,  glancing  after  him 
with  the  same  uneasy  action  as  before. 

"Just  exactly  that,  sir,"  returned  William  Swidger, 
"  as  I'm  told.  He  knows  a  little  about  medicine,  sir,  it 
seems,  and  having  been  wayfaring  towards  London  with 
my  unhappy  brother  that  you  see  here,"  Mr.  William 
passed  his  coat- sleeve  across  his  eyes,  "and  being  lodg- 
ing up-stairs  for  the  night — what  I  say,  you  see,  is  that 
strange  companions  come  together  here  sometimes — he 
looked  in  to  attend  upon  him,  and  came  for  us  at  his  re- 
quest. What  a  mournful  spectacle,  sir  !  But  that's 
where  it  is.    It's  enough  to  kill  my  father  !  " 

Redlaw  looked  up,  at  these  words,  and,  recalling 
where  he  was  and  with  whom,  and  the  spell  he  carried 
with  him — which  his  surprise  had  obscured — retired  a 
little,  hurriedly,  debating  with  himself  whether  to  shun 
the  house  that  moment,  or  remain. 

Yielding  to  a  certain  sullen  doggedness,  which  it 
seemed  to  be  part  of  his  condition  to  struggle  with,  he 
argued  for  remaining. 

"  Was  it  only  yesterday,"  he  said,  "  when  I  observed 
the  memory  of  this  old  man  to  be  a  tissue  of  sorrow  and 
trouble,  and  shall  I  be  afraid,  to-night,  to  shake  it  ?  Are 
such  remembrances  as  I  can  drive  away,  so  precious  to 
this  dying  man  that  I  need  fear  for  Mm?  No,  I'll 
stay  here," 

But  he  stayed,  in  fear  and  trembling  none  the  less  for 
these  words  ;  and,  shrouded  in  his  black  cloak  with  his 
face  turned  from  them,  stood  away  from  the  bedside, 
listening  to  what  they  said,  as  if  he  felt  himself  a  de- 
mon in  the  place. 

"  Father  !"  murmured  the  sick  man,  rallying  a  little 
from  his  stupor. 

"  My  boy  !    My  son  George  !  "  said  old  Philip. 

"  You  spoke,  just  now,  of  my  being  mother's  favour- 
ite, long  ago.  It's  a  dreadful  thing  to  think  now,  of  long 
ago  !" 

"No,  no,  no  ;"  returned  the  old  man.  "Think  of 
it.  Don't  say  it's  dreadful.  It's  not  dreadful  to  me,  my 
son. " 

"  It  cuts  you  to  the  heart,  father,"  For  the  old  man's 
tears  were  falling  on  him. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Philip,  "so  it  does;  but  it  does  me 
good.  It's  a  heavy  sorrow  to  think  of  that  time,  but  it 
does  me  good,  George.  Oh,  think  of  it  too,  think  of  it 
too,  and  your  heart  will  be  softened  more  and  more  ! 
Where's  my  son  William?  William,  my  boy,  your 
mother  loved  him  dearly  to  the  last,  and  with  her  latest 
breath  said," '  Tell  him  I  forgave  him,  blessed  him,  and 
prayed  for  him.'  Those  were  her  words  to  me.  I  have 
never  forgotten  them,  and  I'm  eighty-seven  ! " 

"  Father  !"  said  the  man  upon  the  bed,  "  I  am  dying, 
I  know.  I  am  so  far  gone,  that  I  can  hardly  speak,  even 
of  what  my  mind  most  runs  on.  Is  there  any  hope  for 
me  beyond  this  bed  ?" 

"  There  is  hope,"  returned  the  old  man,  "  for  all  who 
are  softened  and  penitent.  There  is  hope  for  all  such. 
Ob  !  "  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands  and  looking  up, 
"  I  was  thankful,  only  yesterday,  that  I  could  remember 
this  unhappy  son  when  he  was  an  innocent  child.  But 
what  a  comfort  is  it,  now,  to  think  that  even  God  him- 
self has  that  remembrance  of  him  ! " 

Redlaw  spread  his  hands  upon  his  face,  and  shrunk 
like  a  murderer. 

"  Ah  !  "  feebly  moaned  the  man  upon  the  bed.  "  The 
waste  since  then,  the  waste  of  life,  since  then  !  " 

"  But  he  was  a  child  once,"  said  the  old  man.  "  He 
played  with  children.    Before  he  lay  down  on  his  bed  at 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


333 


night,  and  fell  into  his  guiltless  rest,  he  said  his  prayers 
at  his  poor  mother's  knee.  I  have  seen  him  do  it,  many 
a  time  ;  and  seen  her  lay  his  head  upon  her  breast,  and 
kiss  him.  Sorrowful  as  it  was  to  her,  and  to  me,  to  think 
of  this,  when  he  went  so  wrong,  and  when  our  hojjes 
and  plans  for  him  were  all  broken,  this  gave  him  still  a 
hold  upon  us,  that  nothing  else  could  have  given.  Oh, 
Father,  so  much  better  than  the  fathers  upon  earth  I  Oh, 
Father,  so  much  more  afflicted  by  the  errors  of  thy  chil- 
dren !  take  this  wanderer  back  !  Not  as  he  is,  but  as 
he  was  then,  let  him  cry  to  thee,  as  he  has  so  often 
seemed  to  cry  to  us  ! " 

As  the  old  man  lifted  up  his  trembling  hands,  the  son, 
for  whom  he  made  the  supplication,  laid  his  sinking  head 
against  him  for  support  and  comfort,  as  if  he  were 
indeed  the  child  of  whom  he  spoke.  j 

When  did  man  ever  tremble,  as  Redlaw  trembled,  in  | 
the  silence  that  ensued  !  He  knew  it  must  come  upon  j 
them,  knew  that  it  was  coming  fast.  i 

"  My  time  is  very  short,  my  breath  is  shorter,"  said  \ 
the  sick  man,  supporting  himself  on  one  arm,  and  with 
the  other  groping  in  the  air,  "  and  I  remember  there  is  j 
something  on  my  mind  concerning  the  man  who  was  here 
just  now.    Father  and  William — wait  !--is  there  really 
anything  in  black,  out  there  ?"  ! 

**  Yes,  yes,  it  is  real,"  said  his  aged  father. 

"  Is  it  a  man  ?" 

"What  I  say  myself,  George,"  interposed  his  brother, 
bending  kindly  over  him.    "  It's  Mr.  Redlaw." 

"  I  thought  I  had  dreamed  of  him.  Ask  him  to  come 
here." 

The  Chemist,  whiter  than  the  dying  man,  appeared 
before  him.  Oljedient  to  the  motion  of  his  hand,  he  sat 
upon  the  bed. 

I  "It  has  been  so  ripped  up  to-night,  sir,"  said  the  sick 
I  man,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  with  a  look  in 
i  which  the  mute,  imploring  agony  of  his  condition  was 
I  concentrated,  "by  the  sight  of  my  poor  old  father,  and 
'  the  thought  of  all  the  trouble  I  have  been  the  cause  of, 
and  all  the  wrong  and  sorrow  lying  at  my  door,  that — " 

Was  it  the  extremity  to  which  he  had  come,  or  was  it 
the  dawning  of  another  change,  that  made  him  stop  ? 

"  — that  what  I  can  do  right,  with  my  mind  running 
on  so  fast,  I'll  try  to  do.  There  was  another  man  here. 
Do  you  see  him  ?  " 

Redlaw  could  not  reply  by  any  word  ;  for  when  he 
saw  that  fatal  sign  he  knew  so  well  now,  of  the  wander- 
ing hand  upon  the  forehead,  his  voice  died  at  his  lips. 
But  he  made  some  indication  of  assent. 

"  He  is  penniless,  hungry,  and  destitute.    He  is  com- 
pletely beaten  down,  and  has  no  resource  at  all.  Look 
\  after  him  !    Lose  no  time  !    I  know  he  has  it  in  his  mind 
j  to  kill  himself." 

It  was  working.    It  was  on  his  face.    His  face  was 
changing,  hardening,  deeping  in  all  its  shades,  and  los-  j 
ing  all  its  sorrow.  | 
"  Don't  you  remember  !    Don't  you  know  him  ?  "  he  - 
pursued. 

He  shut  his  face  out  for  a  moment,  with  the  hand  that  ' 
again  wandered  over  his  forehead,  and  then  it  lowered 
on  Redlaw,  reckless,  ruffianly  and  callous. 

"Why,  d — n  you!"  he  said,  scowling  round,  "what 
have  you  been  doing  to  me  here  !  I  have  lived  bold,  and 
and  I  mean  to  die  bold.    To  the  Devil  with  you  !  " 

And  so  lay  down  upon  his  bed,  and  put  his  arms  up, 
over  his  head  and  ears,  as  resolute  from  that  time  to 
keep  out  all  access,  and  to  die  in  his  indifference. 

If  Redlaw  had  been  struck  by  lightning,  it  could  ; 
not  have  struck  him  from  the  beside  with  a  more  tre-  ' 
^  mendous  shock.    But  the  old  man,  who  had  left  the  bed 
I  while  his  son  was  speaking  to  him,  now  returning,  avoided 
I  it  quickly  likewise,  and  with  abhorrence.  j 
'      "  Where's  my  boy  William  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  hur-  ' 
riedly.  "William, come  away  from  here.  We'll  go  home." 
'      "  Home,  father  !  "  returned  William.    "  Are  you  gping  i 
to  leave  your  own  son  ?" 

"  Where's  my  own  son  ! "  replied  the  old  man. 
"  Where  ?  why,  there  !  " 

"That's  no  son  of  mine,"  said  Philip,  trembling  with 
resentment.  "  No  such  wretch  as  that,  has  any  claim 
on  me.  My  children  are  pleasant  to  look  at,  and  they 
wait  upon  me,  and  get  my  meat  and  drink  ready,  and 


are  useful  to  me.  I've  a  right  to  it  !  I'm  eighty- 
seven  !  " 

"You're  old  enough  to  be  no  older,"  muttered  Wil- 
liam, looking  at  him  grudgingly,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  "I  don't  know  what  good  you  are,  myself. 
We  could  have  a  deal  more  pleasure  without  you." 

"My  son,  Mr.  Redlaw  !  "  said  the  old  man.  "My  son, 
too  !  The  boy  talking  to  me  of  my  aon  !  Why,  what 
has  he  ever  done  to  give  me  any  pleasure,  1  should  like 
to  know  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  what  you  have  ever  done  to  give  rm 
any  pleasure,"  said  William,  sulkily. 

"  Let  me  think,"  said  the  old  man.  "  For  how  many 
Christmas  times  running,  have  I  sat  in  my  warm  place, 
and  never  had  to  come  out  in  the  cold  night  air  ;  and 
have  made  good  cheer,  without  being  disturbed  by  any 
such  uncomfortable,  wretched  sight  as  him  there  ?  Is 
it  twenty,  William?" 

"  Nigiier  forty,  it  seems,"  he  muttered.  "  Why,  when 
Hook  at  my  father,  sir,  and  come  to  think  of  it,"  address- 
ing Redlaw,  with  an  impatience  and  irritation  that  were 
quite  new,  "I'm  whipped  if  I  can  see  anything  in  him, 
but  a  calendar  of  ever  so  many  years  of  eating,  and  drink- 
ing, and  making  himself  comfortable,  over  and  over 
again." 

"I — I'm  eighty-seven,"  said  the  old  man,  rambling  on, 
childishly,  and  weakly,  "and  I  don't  know  as  I  ever 
was  much  put  out  by  anything.  I'm  not  a  going  to  begin 
now,  because  of  what  he  calls  my  son.  He's  not  my  son. 
I've  had  a  power  of  pleasant  times.  I  recollect  once — 
no  I  don't — no,  it's  broken  off.  It  w^as  something  about 
a  game  of  cricket  and  a  friend  of  mine,  but  it's  somehow- 
broken  off.  I  wonder  who  he  was — I  suppose  I  liked 
him?  And  I  wonder  what  became  of  him — I  suppose  he 
died  ?  But  I  don't  know.  And  I  don't  care,  neither  ;  I 
don't  care  a  bit." 

In  his  drowsy  chuckling,  and  the  shaking  of  his  head, 
he  put  his  hands  into  his  waistcoat  pockets.  In  one  of 
them  he  found  a  bit  of  holly  (left  there,  probably  last 
night),  which  he  now  took  out,  and  looked  at. 

"Berries,  eh?"  said  the  old  man.  "Ah  !  it's  a  pity 
they're  not  good  to  eat.  I  recollect  when  I  was  a  little 
chap  as  high  as  that,  and  out  a  walking  with — ^let  me 
see — who  was  I  out  a  walking  with?— -no,  I  don't  re- 
member how  that  was.  I  don't  remember  as  I  ever 
walked  with  any  one  particular,  or  cared  for  any  one,  or 
any  one  for  me.  Berries,  eh  ?  There's  good  cheer  when 
there's  berries.  Well  ;  I  ought  to  have  my  share  of  it, 
and  to  be  waited  on,  and  kept  warm  and  comfortable  ; 
for  I'm  eighty-seven,  and  a  poor  old  man.  I'm  eighty- 
seven.    Eighty-seven  ! " 

The  drivelling,  pitiable  manner  in  which,  as  he 
repeated  this,  he  nibbled  at  the  leaves,  and  spat  the  mor- 
sels out  ;  the  cold,  uninterested  eye  with  which  his 
youngest  son  (so  changed)  regarded  him  ;  the  deter- 
mined apathy  with  which  his  eldest  son  lay  hardened  in 
his  sin  ; — impressed  themselves  no  more  on  Redlaw's  ob- 
servation ;  for  he  broke  his  way  from  the  spot  to  which 
his  feet  seemed  to  have  been  fixed,  and  ran  out  of  the 
house. 

His  guide  came  crawling  forth  from  his  place  of  re- 
fuge,and  was  ready  for  him  before  he  reached  the  arches. 

"  Back  to  the  woman's  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Back,  quickly!"  answered  Redlaw.  "Stop  no- 
where on  the  way  ! " 

For  a  short  distance  the  boy  went  on  before  ;  but  their 
return  was  more  like  a  flight  than  a  walk,  and  it  was  as 
much  as  his  bare  feet  could  do,  to  keep  pace  with  the 
Chemist's  rapid  strides.  Shrinking  from  all  who  passed, 
shrouded  in  his  cloak,  and  keeping  it  drawn  closely 
about  him,  as  though  there  were  mortal  contagion  in  any 
fluttering  touch  of  his  garments,  he  made  no  pause  un- 
til they  reached  the  door  by  which  they  had  come  out. 
He  unlocked  it  with  his  key,  went  in,  accompanied  by 
the  boy,  and  hastened  through  the  dark  passage  to  his 
own  chamber. 

The  boy  watched  him  as  he  made  the  door  fast,  and 
withdrew  behind  the  table  when  he  looked  round. 

"  Come  !"  he  said.  "Don't  you  touch  me  !  You've 
not  brought  me  here  to  take  my  money  away  \  " 

Redlaw  threw  some  more  upon  the  ground.  He  flung 
his  body  on  it  immediately,  as  if  to  hide  it  from  him. 


334 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


lest  the  sight  of  it  should  tempt  him  to  reclaim  it ;  and 
not  until  he  saw  him  seated  by  his  lamp,  with  his  face 
hidden  in  his  hands,  began  furtively  to  pick  it  up. 
When  he  had  done  so,  he  crept  near  the  fire,  and  sitting 
down  in  a  great  chair  before  it,  took  from  his  breast 
some  broken  scraps  of  food,  and  fell  to  munching,  and 
to  staring  at  the  blaze,  and  now  and  then  to  glancing  at 
his  shillings,  which  he  kept  clenched  up  in  a  bunch,  in 
one  hand. 

"  And  this,"  said  Redlaw,  gazing  at  him  with  increas- 
ing repugnance  and  fear,  "  is  the  only  one  companion  I 
have  left  on  earth  !  " 

How  long  it  was  before  he  was  aroused  from  his 
contemplation  of  this  creature  whom  he  dreaded  *  so — 
whether  half  an  hour,  or  half  the  night— he  knew  not, 
Eut  the  stillness  of  the  room  Avas  broken  by  the  boy 
(whom  he  had  seen  listening)  starting  up,  and  running 
towards  the  door. 

"  Here's  the  woman  coming  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  Chemist  stopped  him  on  his  way,  at  the  moment 
when  she  knocked. 

"  Let  me  go  to  her,  will  you     said  the  boy. 

*'  Not  now,"  returned  the  Chemist.  "  Stay  here.  No- 
body must  pass  in  or  out  of  the  room, now.   Who's  that  ?  " 

"It's  I,  sir,"  cried  Milly.    "Pray,  sir,  let  me  in." 

"  No  !  not  for  the  world  !  "  he  said. 

"Mr.  Redlaw,  Mr.  Redlaw,  pray,  sir,  let  me  in." 
."  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  said,  holding  the  boy. 

"  The  miserable  man  you  saw,  is  worse,  and  nothing 
I  can  say  will  wake  him  from  his  terrible  infatuation. 
William's  father  has  turned  childish  in  a  moment. 
William  himself  is  changed.  The  shock  has  been  too 
sudd<m  for  him  ;  I  cannot  understand  him  ;  he  is  not  like 
Tiimself.    Oh,  Mr.  Redlaw,  pray  advise  me,  help  me  !  " 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  "  he  answered. 

"  Mr,  Redlaw  !  Dear  sir  !  George  has  been  mutter- 
ing in  his  doze,  about  the  man  you  saw  there,  who,  he 
fears,  will  kill  himself." 

"  Better  he  should  do  it,  than  come  near  me  !  " 

"  He  says,  in  his  wandering,  that  you  know  him  ;  that 
he  was  your  friend  once,  long  ago  ;  that  he  is  the  ruined 
father  of  a  student  here — my  mind  misgives  me,  of  the 
young  gentleman  who  has  been  ill.  What  is  to  be  done  ? 
How  is  he  to  be  followed  ?  How  is  he  to  be  saved  ? 
Mr.  Redlaw,  pray,  oh,  pray  advise  me  !    Help  me  ! " 

All  this  time  he  held  the  boy,  who  was  half-mad  to 
pass  him,  and  let  her  in. 

"Phantoms  !  Punishers  of  impious  thoughts  !  "  cried 
Redlaw,  gazing  round  in  anguish,  "  Look  upon  me  ! 
From  the  darkness  of  my  mind,  let  the  glimmering  of 
contrition  that  I  know  is  there,  shine  up,  and  show  my 
misery  !  In  the  material  world,  as  I  have  long  taught 
nothing  can  be  spared  ;  no  step  or  atom  in  the  wonder- 
ous  structure  could  be  lost,  without  a  blank  being  made 
in  the  great  universe.  I  know,  now,  that  it  is  the  same 
with  good  and  evil,  happiness  and  sorrow,  in  the  mem- 
ories of  men.    Pity  me  !    Relieve  me  !  " 

There  was  no  response,  bat  her  "  Help  me,  help  me, 
let  me  in  ! "  and  the  boy's  struggling  to  get  to  her, 

"  Shadow  of  myself  !  Spirit  of  my  darker  hours  !  " 
cried  Redlaw,  in  distraction,  "  Come  back  and  haunt 
me  day  and  night,  but  take  this  gift  away  !  Or,  if  it 
must  still  rest  with  me,  deprive  me  of  the  dreadful 
power  of  giving  it  to  others.  Undo  what  I  have  done. 
Leave  me  benighted,  but  restore  the  day  to  those  whom 
I  have  cursed.  As  I  have  spared  this  woman  from  the 
first,  and  as  I  never  will  go  forth  again,  but  will  die  here, 
with  no  hand  to  tend  me,  save  this  creature's  who  is 
proof  against  me, — hear  me  !" 

The  only  reply  still  was,  the  boy  struggling  to  get  to 
her,  while  he  held  him  back  ;  and  the  cry  increasing  in 
its  energy,  "  Help  !  let  me  in.  He  was  your  friend  once, 
how  shall  he  be  followed,  how  shall  he  be  saved  ?  They 
are  all  changed,  there  is  no  one  else  to  help  me,  pray, 
pray,  let  me  in  !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Gift  Reversed. 

Night  was  still  heavy  in  the  sky.  On  open  plains, 
from  hill-tops  and  from  the  decks  of  solitary  ships  at 


sea,  a  distant  low-lying  line,  that  promised  by-and-by  to 
change  to  light,  was  visible  in  the  dim  horizon  ;  but  its 
promise  was  remote  and  doubtful,  and  the  moon  was 
striving  with  the  night-clouds  busily. 

The  shadows  upon  Redlaw's  mind  succeeded  thick 
and  fast  to  one  another,  and  obscured  its  light  as  the 
night-clouds  hovered  between  the  moon  and  earth, 
and  kept  the  latter  veiled  in  darkness.  Fitful  and  un- 
certain as  the  shadows  which  the  night-clouds  cast, 
were  their  concealment  from  him,  and  imperfect  rev- 
elations to  him  ;  and,  like  the  night-clouds  still,  if  the 
clear  light  broke  forth  for  a  moment,  it  was  only  that 
they  might  sweep  over  it,  and  make  the  darkness 
deeper  than  before. 

Without  there  was  a  profound  and  solemn  hush  upon 
the  ancient  pile  of  building,  and  its  buttresses  and 
angles  made  dark  shapes  of  mystery  upon  the  ground, 
which  now  seemed  to  retire  into  the  smooth  white  snow 
and  now  seemed  to  come  out  of  it,  as  the  moon's  path 
was  more  or  less  beset.  Within,  the  Chemist's  room 
was  indistinct  and  murky,  by  the  light  of  the  expiring 
lamp  ;  a  ghostly  silence  had  succeeded  to  the  knocking 
and  the  voice  outside  ;  nothing  was  audible  but,  now 
and  then,  a  low  sound  among  the  whitened  ashes  of  the 
fire,  as  of  its  yielding  up  its  last  breath.  Before  it  on 
the  ground  the  boy  lay  fast  asleep.  In  his  chair,  the 
Chemist  sat,  as  he  had  sat  there  since  the  calling  at  his 
door  had  ceased — like  a  man  turned  to  stone. 

At  such  a  time,  the  Christmas  music  he  had  heard 
before,  began  to  play.  He  listened  to  it  at  first,  as  he 
had  listened  in  the  Churchyard  ;  but  presently — it 
playing  still,  and  being  borne  towards  him  on  the  night- 
air,  in  a  low,  sweet,  melancholy  strain — he  rose,  and 
stood  stretching  his  hands  about  him,  as  if  there 
were  some  friend  approaching  within  his  reach,  on 
whom  his  desolate  touch  might  rest,  yet  do  no  harm. 
As  he  did  this,  his  face  became  less  fixed  and  wonder- 
ing ;  a  gentle  trembling  came  upon  him  ;  and  at  last 
his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  put  his  hands  before 
them,  and  bowed  down  his  head. 

His  memory  of  sorrow,  wrong,  and  trouble,  had  not 
come  back  to  him ;  he  knew  that  it  was  not  re- 
stored ;  he  had  no  passing  belief  or  hope  that  it  was. 
But  some  dumb  stir  within  him  made  him  capable, 
again,  of  being  moved  by  what  was  hidden  afar  off,  in 
the  music.  If  it  were  only  that  it  told  him  sorrowfully 
the  value  of  what  he  had  lost,  he  thanked  Heaven  for 
it  with  a  fervent  gratitude. 

As  the  last  chord  died  upon  his  ear,  he  raised  his 
head  to  listen  to  its  lingering  vibration.  Beyond  the  boy, 
so  that  his  sleeping  figure  lay  at  its  feet,  the  Phantom 
stood,  immoveable  and  silent,  with  its  eyes  upon  him. 

Ghastly  it  was,  as  it  had  ever  been,  but  not  so 
cruel  and  relentless  in  its  aspect — or  he  thought  or 
hoped  so,  as  he  looked  upon  it,  trembling.  It  was  not 
alone,  but  in  its  shadowy  hand  it  held  another  hand. 

And  whose  was  that  ?  Was  the  form  that  stood  be- 
side it  indeed  Milly's,  or  but  her  shade  and  picture  ? 
The  quiet  head  was  bent  a  little,  as  her  manner  was,  and 
her  eyes  were  looking  down,  as  if  in  pity,  on  the  sleeping 
child.  A  radiant  light  fell  on  her  face,  but  did .  touch 
the  Phantom  ;  for,  though  close  beside  her,  it  was  dark 
and  colourless  as  ever. 

"Spectre  !"  said  the  Chemist,  newly  troubled  as  he 
looked,  "  I  have  not  been  stubborn  or  presumptuous  in 
respect  of  her.  Oh,  do  not  bring  her  here.  Spare  me 
that  ! " 

"  This  is  but  a  shadow,"  said  the  Phantom  ;  "  when 
the  morning  shines,  seek  out  the  reality  of  whose  image 
I  present  before  you." 

"  Is  it  my  inexorable  doom  to  do  so  ?  "  cried  the  Chem- 
ist. 

"  It  is,"  replied  the  Phantom. 

"  To  destroy  her  peace,  her  goodness ;  to  make  her 
what  I  am  myself,  and  what  I  have  made  of  others  ! " 

"  I  have  said  '  seek  her  out,' "  returned  the  Phantom. 
"  I  have  said  no  more." 

"Oh,  tell  me,"  exclaimed  Redlaw,  catching  at  the 
hope  which  he  fancied  might  lie  hidden  in  the  words. 
"  Can  I  undo  what  I  have  done  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  the  Phantom. 

"  I  do  not  ask  for  restoration  to  myself,"  said  Redlaw. 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


335 


*'  What  I  abandoned,  I  abandoned  of  my  own  will,  and 
have  justly  lost.  But  for  those  to  whom  I  have  trans- 
ferred the  fatal  gift ;  who  never  souglit  it  ;  who  unknow- 
ingly received  a  curse  of  which  they  had  no  warning,  and 
which  they  had  no  power  to  shun  ;  can  I  do  nothing  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  said  the  Phantom. 

"  If  I  cannot,  can  any  one?" 

The  Phantom,  standing  like  a  statue,  kept  its  gaze 
upon  him  for  a  while  ;  then  turned  its  head  suddenly, 
and  looked  upon  the  shadow  at  its  side. 

"Ah  !  can  she?"  cried  Redlaw,  still  looking  upon  the 
shade. 

The  Phantom  released  the  hand  it  had  retained  till 
now,  and  softly  raised  its  own  with  a  gesture  of  dis- 
missal. Upon  that,  her  shadow,  still  preserving  the 
same  attitude,  began  to  move  or  melt  away. 

"Sta3%"  cried  Redlaw,  with  an  earnestness  to  which 
he  could  not  give  enough  expression.  "  For  a  moment  ! 
As  an  act  of  mercy  !  I  know  that  some  change  fell 
upon  me,  when  those  sounds  were  in  the  air  just  now. 
Tell  me  have  I  lost  the  power  of  harming  her  ?  May  I 
go  near  her  without  dread  ?  Oh,  let  her  give  me  any 
sign  of  hope  !  " 

The  Phantom  looked  upon  the  shade  as  he  did — not  at 
him — and  gave  no  answer. 

"At  least,  say  this — has  she,  henceforth,  the  con- 
sciousness of  any  power  to  set  right  what  I  have  done?" 

"  She  has  not,"  the  Phantom  answered. 

"Had  she  the  power  bestowed  on  her  without  the 
consciousness  ?" 

The  Phantom  answered  :  "Seek  her  out."  And  her 
shadow  slowly  vanished. 

They  were  face  to  face  again,  and  looking  on  each 
other  as  intently  and  awfully  as  at  the  time  of  the  be- 
stowal of  the  gift,  across  the  boy  who  still  lay  on  the 
ground  between  them,  at  the  Phantom's  feet. 

"  Terrible  instructor,"  said  the  Chemist,  sinking  on  his 
knee  before  it,  in  an  attitude  of  supplication,  "  by  whom 
I  was  renounced,  but  by  whom  I  am  revisited  (in  which, 
and  in  whose  milder  aspect,  I  would  fain  believe  I  have 
a  gleam  of  hope),  I  will  obey  without  inquiry,  praying 
that  the  cry  I  have  sent  up  in  the  anguish  of  my  soul 
has  been,  or  will  be  heard,  in  behalf  of  those  whom  I 
have  injured  beyond  human  reparation.  But  there  is 
one  thing — " 

You  speak  to  me  of  what  is  lying  here,"  the  Phan- 
tom interposed,  and  pointed  with  its  finger  to  the  boy. 

"I  do,"  returned  the  Chemist.  "You  know  what  I 
would  ask.  Why  has  this  child  alone  been  proof 
against  my  influence,  and  why,  why,  have  I  detected  in 
its  thoughts  a  terrible  companionship  with  mine  ?  " 

"  This,"  said  the  Phantom,  pointing  to  the  boy,  is 
the  last  completest  illustration  of  a  human  creature,  ut- 
terly bereft  of  such  remembrances  as  you  have  yielded 
up.  No  softening  memory  of  sorrow,  wrong,  or  trouble 
enters  here,  because  this  wretched  mortal  from  his  birth 
has  been  abandoned  to  a  worse  condition  than  the  beasts, 
and  has,  within  his  knowledge,  no  one  contrast,  no  hu- 
manising touch,  to  make  a  grain  of  such  a  memory 
spring  up  in  his  hardened  breast.  All  within  this  deso- 
late creature  is  barren  wilderness.  All  within  the  man 
bereft  of  what  you  have  resigned,  is  the  same  barren 
wilderness.  Woe  to  such  a  man  !  Woe,  tenfold,  to  the 
nation  that  shall  count  its  monsters  such  as  this,  lying 
here  by  hundreds  and  by  thousands  !  " 

Redlaw  shrunk,  appalled,  from  what  he  heard. 

"  There  is  not,"  said  the  Phantom,  "  one  of  these — 
not  one — but  sows  a  harvest  that  mankind  must  reap. 
From  every  seed  of  evil  in  this  boy,  a  field  of  ruin  is 
^rown  that  shall  be  gathered  in,  and  garnered  up,  and 
sown  again  in  many  places  in  the  world,  until  regions 
are  overspread  with  wickedness  enough  to  raise  the 
water  of  another  Deluge.  Open  and  unpunished  murder 
in  a  city's  streets  would  be  less  guilty  in  its  daily  toler- 
ation, than  one  such  spectacle  as  this. " 

It  seemed  to  look  down  upon  the  boy  in  his  sleep. 
Redlaw,  too,  looked  down  upon  him,  with  a  new  emo- 
tion. 

"There  is  not  a  father,"  said  the  Phantom,  "  by  whose 
side  in  his  daily  or  his  nightly  walk,  these  creatures 
pass  ;  there  is  not  a  mother  among  all  the  ranks  of  loving 
jnothers  in  this  land  ;  there  is  no  one  risen  from  the 


state  of  childhood,  but  shall  be  responsible  in  his  or  her 
degree  for  this  enormity.  There  is  not  a  country  through- 
out the  earth  on  which  it  would  not  bring  a  curs<;. 
There  is  no  religion  upon  earth  that  it  would  not  deny  ; 
there  is  no  people  upon  earth  it  would  not  j^ut  to 
shame." 

The  Chemist  clasped  his  hands,  and  looked,  with 
trembling  fear  and  pity,  from  the  sleeping  boy  to  the 
Phantom,  standing  above  him  with  its  finger  pointing 
down. 

"Behold,  I  say,"  pursued  the  Spectre,  "the  perfect 
type  of  what  it  was  you  choice  to  be.  Yoar  influence  is 
powerless  here,  because  from  this  child's  bosom  you  can 
banish  nothing.  Mis  thoughts  have  been  in  '  terrible 
companionship'  with  yours  because  you  liave  gone  down 
to  his  unnatural  level.  He  is  the  growth  of  man's  in- 
difl^erence  ;  you  are  the  growth  of  man's  presumption. 
The  beneficent  design  of  Heaven  is,  in  each  case,  over- 
thrown, and  from  the  two  poles  of  the  immaterial  world 
you  come  together." 

The  Chemist  stooped  upon  the  ground  beside  the  boy, 
and  with  the  same  kind  of  compassion  for  him  that  he 
now  felt  for  himself,  covered  him  as  he  slept,  and  no 
longer  shrunk  from  him  with  abhorrence  or  indifference. 

Soon,  now,  the  distant  line  on  the  horizon  brightened, 
the  darkness  faded,  the  sun  rose  red  and  glorious,  and 
the  chimney  stacks  and  gables  of  the  ancient  building 
gleamed  in  the  clear  air,  which  turned  the  smoke  and 
vapour  of  the  city  into  a  cloud  of  gold.  The  very  sun- 
dial in  his  shady  corner,  where  the  wind  was  used  to 
spin  with  such  un- windy  constancy,  shook  ofE  the  finer  par- 
ticles of  snow  that  had  accumulated  on  his  dull  old  face 
in  the  night,  and  looked  out  at  the  little  white  wreaths 
eddying  round  and  round  him.  Doubtless  some  blind 
groping  of  the  morning  made  its  way  down  into  the  for- 
gotten crypt  so  cold  and  earthy,  where  the  Norman  arches 
were  half  buried  in  the  ground,  and  stirred  the  dull 
sap  in  the  lazy  vegetation  hanging  to  the  walls,  and 
quickened  the  slow  principle  of  life  within  the  little 
world  of  wonderful  and  delicate  creation  which  existed 
there,  with  some  faint  knowledge  that  the  sun  was  up. 

The  Tetterbys  were  up,  and  doing.  Mr.  Tetterby  took 
down  the  shutters  of  the  shop,  and  strip  by  strip,  re- 
vealed the  treasures  of  the  window  to  the  eyes,  so  proof 
against  their  seductions,  of  Jerusalem  Buildings.  Adol- 
j  phus  had  been  out  so  long  already,  that  he  was  halfway 
j  on  to  Morning  Pepper.  Five  small  Tetterbys,  whose 
ten  round  eyes  were  much  inflamed  by  soap  and  friction, 
were  in  the  tortures  of  a  cool  wash  in  the  back  kitchen  ; 
Mrs.  Tetterby  presiding.  Johnny,  who  was  pushed  and 
hustled  through  his  toilet  with  great  rapidity  when 
Moloch  chanced  to  be  in  an  exacting  frame  of  mind 
I  (which  was  always  the  case),  staggered  up  and  down 
with  his  charge  before  the  shop  door,  under  greater  dif- 
ficulties than  i^sual ;  the  weight  of  Moloch  being  much 
increased  by  a  complication  of  defences  against  the  cold, 
composed  of  knitted  worsted-work,  and  forming  a  com- 
plete suit  of  chain-armour,  with  a  head-piece  and  blue 
gaiters. 

It  was  a  peculiarity  of  this  baby  to  be  always  cutting 
teeth.     Whether  they  never  came,  or  whether  they 
came  and  went  away  again,  is  not  in  evidence  ;  but  it 
had  certainly  cut  enough  on  the  showing  of  Mrs.  Tet- 
terby, to  make  a  handsome  dental  provision  for  the  sign 
of  the  Bull  and  Mouth.    All  sorts  of  objects  were  im- 
pressed for  the  rubbing  of  its  gums,  notwithstanding  that 
it  always  carried,  dangling  at  its  waist  (which  was  im- 
mediately under  its  chin),  a  bone  ring,  large  enough  to 
have  represented  the  rosary  of  a  young  nun.  Knife- 
handles,  umbrella-tops,  the  heads   of  walking-sticks 
j  selected  from  the  stock,  the  fingers  of  the  family  in  gen- 
I  eral,  but  especially  of  Johnny,  nutmeg-graters,  crusts, 
]  the  handles  of  doors,  and  the  cool  knobs  on  the  tops  of 
j  pokers,  were  among  the  commonest  instruments  indis- 
;  criminately  applied  for  this  baby's  relief.    The  amount 
!  of  electricity  that  must  have  been  rubbed  out  of  it  in  a 
j  week,  is  not  to  be  calculated.    Still  Mn?.  Tetterby  al- 
ways said,  "it  was  coming  through,  and  then  the  child 
I  would  be  herself  ; "  and  still  it  never  did  come  through, 
'  and  the  child  continued  to  be  somebody  else. 

The  tempers  of  the  little  Tetterbys  had  sadly  changed 
with  a  few  hours.    Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tetterby  themselves 


336 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS.  . 


were  not  more  altered  than  their  offspring.  Usually 
they  were  an  unselfish,  good-natured  yielding  little  race, 
sharing  short -commons  when  it  happened  (which  was 
pretty  often)  contentedly  and  even  generously,  and  tak- 
ing a  great  deal  of  enjoyment  out  of  a  very  little  meat. 
But  they  were  fighting  now,  not  only  for  the  soap  and 
water,  but  even  for  the  breakfast  which  was  yet  in  per- 
spective. The  hand  of  every  little  Tetterby  was  against 
the  other  little  Tetterbys  ;  and  even  Johnny's  hand — the 
patient,  much-enduring,  and  devoted  Johnny  —  rose 
against  the  baby  !  Yes.  Mrs.  Tetterby,  going  to  the 
door  by  a  mere  accident,  saw  him  viciously  pick  out  a 
weak  place  in  the  suit  of  armour,  where  a  slap  would 
tell,  and  slap  that  blessed  child. 

Mrs.  Tetterby  had  him  into  the  parlour,  by  the  collar, 
in  that  same  flash  of  time,  and  repaid  hi*Q  the  assault 
with  usury  thereto. 

"You  brute,  you  murdering  little  boy,"  said  Mrs. 
Tetterby.    ' '  Had  you  the  heart  to  do  it  ?  " 

"  Why  don't  her  teeth  come  through,  then,"  retorted 
Johnny,  in  a  loud  rebellious  voice,  "  instead  of  bother- 
ing me  ?    How  would  you  like  it  yourself  ?  " 

"Like  it,  sir!"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby,  relieving  him  of 
his  dishonoured  load. 

"  Yes,  like  it,"  said  Johnny.  "  How  would  you  ?  Not 
at  all.  If  you  was  me,  you'd  go  for  a  soldier.  I  will, 
too.    There  an't  no  babies  in  the  army." 

Mr.  Tetterby,  who  had  arrived  upon  the  scene  of  ac- 
tion, rubbed  his  chin  thoughtfully,  instead  of  correcting 
the  rebel,  and  seemed  rather  struck  by  this  view  of  a 
military  life. 

"  I  wish  I  was  in  the  army  myself,  if  the  child's  in  the 
right,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby,  looking  at  her  husband,  "  for 
I  have  no  peace  of  my  life  here.  I'm  a  slave — a  Virginia 
slave  ; "  some  indistinct  association  with  their  weak 
descent  on  the  tobacco  trade  perhaps  suggested  this  aggra- 
vated expression  to  Mrs.  Tetterby.  "  I  never  have  a  holi- 
day, or  any  pleasure  at  all,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  ! 
Why,  Lord  bless  and  save  the  child,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby, 
shaking  the  baby  with  an  irritability  hardly  suited  to  so 
pious  an  aspiration,  "  what's  the  matter  with  her  now  ?  " 

Not  being  able  to  discover,  and  not  rendering  the  sub- 
ject much  clearer  by  shaking  it,  Mrs.  Tetterby  put  the 
baby  away  in  a  cradle,  and,  folding  her  arms,  sat  rocking 
it  angrily  with  her  foot. 

"  How  you  stand  there,  'Dolphus,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby 
to  her  husband.    "  Why  don't  you  do  something  ?" 

"Because  I  don't  care  about  doing  anything,"  Mr. 
Tetterby  replied. 

"  I'm  sure  /  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby. 

"  I'll  take  my  oath  /don't,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby. 

A  diversion  arose  here  among  Johnny  and  his  five 
younger  brothers,  who,  in  preparing  the  family  breakfast 
table,  had  fallen  to  skirmishing  for  the  temporary  pos- 
session of  the  loaf,  and  were  buffeting  oiys  another  with 
great  heartiness  ;  the  smallest  boy  of  all,  with  precocious 
discretion,  hovering  outside  the  knot  of  combatants,  and 
harassing  their  legs.  Into  the  midst  of  this  fray,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Tetterby  both  precipitated  themselves  with 
great  ardour,  as  if  such  ground  were  the  only  ground  on 
which  they  could  now  agree  ;  and  having,  with  no  visi- 
ble remains  of  their  late  soft-heartedness,  laid  about 
them  without  any  lenity,  and  done  much  execution,  re- 
sumed their  former  relative  positions. 

"  You  had  better  read  your  paper  than  do  nothing  at 
all,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby. 

"  What's  there  to  read  in  a  paper?"  returned  Mr.  Tet- 
terby, with  excessive  discontent. 

"  What  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tetterby.    "  Police." 

"It's  nothing  to  me,"  said  Tetterby.  "What  do  I 
care  what  people  do,  or  are  done  to  ? " 

"  Suicides,"  suggested  Mrs.  Tetterby. 

"  No  business  of  mine,"  replied  her  husband. 

"  Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  are  those  nothing  to 
you?"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby. 

"  If  the  births  were  all  over  for  good,  and  all  to-day  ; 
and  the  deaths  were  all  to  begin  to  come  off  to-morrow  ;  I 
don't  see  why  it  should  interest  me,  till  I  thought  it  was 
a-coming  to  my  turn,"  grumbled  Tetterby.  "  As  to 
marriages,  I've  done  it  myself.  I  know  quite  enough 
about  them." 

To  judge  from  the  dissatisfied  expression  of  her  face 


and  manner,  Mrs.  Tetterby  appeared  to  entertain  the 
same  opinions  as  her  husband  ;  but  she  opposed  him, 
nevertheless,  for  the  gratification  of  quarrelling  with 
him, 

"Oh,  you're  a  consistent  man,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby, 
"  an't  you  ?  You,  with  the  screen  of  your  own  making 
there,  made  of  nothing  else  but  bits  of  newspapers, 
which  you  sit  and  read  to  the  children  by  the  half-hour 
together  !  " 

"  Say  used  to,  if  you  please,"  returned  her  husband. 
"  You  won't  find  me  doing  so  any  more.  I'm  wiser 
now." 

"Bah!  wiser,  indeed  !"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby.  "Are 
you  better  ?  " 

The  question  sounded  some  discordant  note  in  Mr. 
Tetterby's  breast.  He  ruminated  dejectedly,  and  passed 
his  hand  across  and  across  his  forehead. 

"  Better  !  "  murmured  Mr.  Tetterby.  "  I  don't  know 
as  any  of  us  are  better,  or  happier  either.  Better,  is 
it?" 

He  turned  to  the  screen,  and  traced  about  it  with  his 
finger,  until  he  found  a  certain  paragraph  of  which  he 
was  in  quest. 

"  This  used  to  be  one  of  the  family  favourites,  I  rec- 
ollect," said  Tetterby,  in  a  forlorn  and  stupid  way,  "  and 
used  to  draw  tears  from  the  children,  and  make  'em 
good,  if  there  was  any  little  bickering  or  discontent 
among  'em,  next  to  the  story  of  the  robin  redbreasts  in 
the  wood.  '  Melancholy  case  of  destitution.  Yesterday 
a  small  man,  with  a  baby  in  his  arms,  and  surrounded 
by  half-a-dozen  ragged  little  ones,  of  various  ages  be- 
tween ten  and  two,  the  whole  of  whom  were  evidently 
in  a  famishing  condition,  appeared  before  the  worthy 
magistrate,  and  made  the  following  recital  : ' — Ha  !  I 
don't  understand  it,  I'm  sure,"  said  Tetterby  ;  "I  don't 
see  what  it  has  got  to  do  with  us. 

"  How  old  and  shabby  he  looks,"  said  Mrs.  Tetterby, 
watching  him.  "  I  never  saw  such  a  change  in  a  man. 
Ah  !  dear  me,  dear  me,  dear  me,  it  was  a  sacrifice  ! " 

"  What  was  a  sacrifice  ?"  her  husband  sourly  inquired. 

Mrs.  Tetterby  shook  her  head  ;  and  without  replying 
in  words,  raised  a  complete  sea-storm  about  the  baby, 
by  her  violent  agitation  of  the  cradle. 

"If  you  mean  your  marriage  was  a  sacrifice,  my  good 
woman — "  said  her  husband. 

"  1  do  mean  it,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Why,  then  I  mean  to  say,"  pursued  Mr.  Tetterby, 
as  sulkily  and  surlily  as  she,  "  that  there  are  two  sides 
to  that  affair  ;  and  that  /  was  the  sacrifice  ;  and  that  I 
wish  the  sacrifice  hadn't  been  accepted." 

"I  wish  it  hadn't,  Tetterby,  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul,  I  do  assure  you,"  said  his  wife.  "  You  can't  wish 
it  more  than  I  do,  Tetterby." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  saw  in  her,"  muttered  the  news- 
man, "  I'm  sure  ; — certainly,  if  I  saw  anything,  it's  not 
there  now.  I  was  thinking  so,  last  night,  after  supper, 
by  the  fire.  She's  fat,  she  ageing,  she  won't  bear  com- 
parison with  most  other  women." 

"He's  common-looking,  he  has  no  air  with  him,  he's 
small,  he's  beginning  to  stoop,  and  he's  getting  bald," 
muttered  Mrs.  Tetterby. 

"  I  must  have  been  half  out  of  my  mind  when  I  did 
it,"  muttered  Mr.  Tetterby. 

"  My  senses  must  hav^e  forsook  me.  That's  the  only 
way  in  which  I  can  explain  it  to  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Tet- 
terby, with  elaboration. 

In  this  mood  they  sat  down  to  breakfast.  The  little 
Tetterbys  were  not  habituated  to  regard  that  meal  in  the 
light  of  a  sedentary  occupation,  but  discussed  it  as  a 
dance  or  trot  ;  rather  resembling  a  savage  ceremony,  in 
the  occasional  shrill  whoops,  and  brandishings  of  bread 
and  butter,  with  which  it  was  accompanied,  as  well  as  in 
the  intricate  filings  off  into  the  street  and  back  again, 
and  the  hoppings  up  and  down  the  doorsteps,  which  were 
incidental  to  the  performance.  In  the  present  instance, 
the  contentions  between  these  Tetterby  children  for  the 
milk-and-water  jug,  common  to  all,  which  stood  upon 
the  table,  presented  so  lamentable  an  instance  of  angry 
passions  risen  very  high  indeed,  that  it  was  an  outrage 
on  the  memory  of  Dr.  Watts.  It  was  not  until  Mr.  Tet- 
terby had  driven  the  whole  herd  out  of  the  front  door, 
that  a  moment's  peace  was  secured  ;  and  even  that  was 


CHRISTMA  8    B  0  OKS. 


337 


broken  by  the  discovery  that  Johnny  had  surreptitiously 
come  back,  and  was  at  that  instant  choking  in  the  jug 
like  a  ventriloquist,  in  his  indecent  and  rapacious  haste, 
"  These  children  will  be  the  death  of  me  at  last!" 
said  Mrs.  Tetterby,  after  banishing  the  culprit.  "  And 
the  sooner  the  better,  I  think." 

"Poor  people,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  "ought  not  to 
have  children  at  all.    They  give  us  no  })leasure." 

He  was  at  that  moment  taking  up  the  cup  which  Mrs. 
Tetterby  had  rudely  pushed  towards  him,  and  Mrs.  Tet- 
terby was  lifting  her  own  cup  to  her  lips,  when  they 
both  stopped,  as  if  they  were  transfixed. 

"Here!  Mother!  Father!"  cried  Johnny,  running 
into  the  room.  "  Here's  Mrs.  William  coming  down  the 
street  !  " 

And  if  ever,  since  the  world  began,  a  young  boy  took 
a  baby  from  a  cradle  with  the  care  of  an  old  nurse,  and 
hushed  and  soothed  it  tenderly,  and  trotted  away  with 
it  cheerfully,  Johnny  was  that  boy,  and  Moloch  was  that 
baby,  as  they  went  out  together. 

Mr.  Tetterby  put  down  his  cup.  Mrs.  Tetterby  put 
down  her  cup.  Mr.  Tetterby  rubbed  his  forehead  ; 
Mrs.  Tetterby  rubbed  hers.  Mr.  Tetterby's  face  began 
to  smooth  and  brighten;  Mrs.  Tetterby's  began  to 
smooth  and  brighten. 

"  Why,  Lord  forgive  me,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby  to  him- 
self, "what  evil  tempers  have  I  been  giving  way  to? 
What  has  been  the  matter  here  ! " 

"  How  could  I  ever  treat  him  ill  again,  after  all  I  said 
and  felt  last  night ! "  sobbed  Mrs.  Tetterby,  with  her 
apron  to  her  eyes. 

"  Am  I  a  brute,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  "or  is  there  any 
good  in  me  at  all  ?    Sophia  I    My  little  woman  I " 

"'Dolphus  dear,"  returned  his  wife. 

"  I — I've  been  in  a  state  of  mind,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby, 
*'  that  1  can't  abear  to  think  of,  Sophy." 

"  Oh  !  It's  nothing  to  what  I've  been  in,  Dolf,"  cried 
his  wife  in  a  great  burst  of  grief. 

"My  Sophia,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  "don't  take  on.  I 
never  shall  forgive  myself.  I  must  have  nearly  broke 
your  heart  I  know." 

"No,  Dolf,  no.  It  was  me  !  Me  !"  cried  Mrs.  Tet- 
terby. 

" My  little  woman,"  said  her  husband,  "don't.  You 
make  me  reproach  myself  dreadful,  when  you  show  such 
a  noble  spirit.  Sophia,  my  dear,  you  don't  know  what 
I  thought.  I  showed  it  bad  enough,  no  doubt ;  but  what  I 
thought,  my  little  woman  !  " — 

"  Oh,  dear  Dolf,  don't  !    Don't  !  "  cried  his  wife. 

"Sophia,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  "I  must  reveal  it.  I 
couldn't  rest  in  my  conscience  unless  I  mentioned  it. 
My  little  woman  " — 

* '  Mrs.  William's  very  nearly  here  !  "  screamed  Johnny 
at  the  door. 

"My  little  woman,  I  wondered  how,"  gasped  Mr. 
Tetterby,  supporting  himself  by  his  chair,  "  I  wondered 
how  I  had  ever  admired  you — I  forgot  the  precious  chil- 
dren you  have  brought  about  me,  and  thought  you  didn't 
look  as  slim  as  I  could  wish.  I — I  never  gave  a  recol- 
lection," said  Mr.  Tetterby,  with  severe  self-accusation, 
"  to  the  cares  you've  had  as  my  wife,  and  along  of  me 
and  mine,  when  you  might  have  had  hardly  any  with 
another  man,  who  got  on  better  and  was  luckier  than 
me  (anybody  might  have  found  such  a  man  easily,  I  am 
sure) ;  and  I  quarrelled  with  you  for  having  aged  a  little 
in  the  rough  years  you  have  lightened  for  me.  Can 
you  believe  it,  my  little  woman  ?    I  hardly  can  myself." 

Mrs.  Tetterby,  in  a  whirlwind  of  laughing  and  crying, 
caught  his  face  within  her  hands,  and  held  it  there. 

"Oh,  Dolf!"  she  cried.  "I  am  so  happy  that  you 
thought  so !  For  I  thought  that  you  were  common- 
looking,  Dolf  ;  and  so  you  are,  my  dear,  and  may  you 
be  the  commonest  of  all  sights  in  my  eyes,  till  you  close 
them  with  your  own  good  hands.  I  thought  that  you 
were  small  ;  and  so  you  are,  and  I'll  make  much  of  you 
because  you  are,  and  more  of  you  because  I  love  my 
husband.  I  thought  that  you  began  to  stoop  ;  and  so 
vou  do,  and  you  shall  lean  on  me,  and  I'll  do  all  I  can  to 
keep  you  up.  I  thought  there  was  no  air  about  you  ; 
but  there  is  and  it's  the  air  of  home,  and  that's  the 
purest  and  the  best  there  is,  and  GOD  bless  home  once 
more,  and  all  belonging  to  it,  Dolf  ! " 
Vol.  II.— 22 


"  Hurrah  !    Here's  Mrs.  William  !  "  cried  Johnny. 

So  she  was,  and  all  the  children  with  her  ;  and  as  she 
came  in,  they  kissed  her,  and  one  anoiher,  and  kissed 
the  baby,  and  kissed  their  father  and  mother,  and  then 
ran  back  and  flocked  and  danced  about  her,  trooping  on 
with  her  in  triumph. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tetterby  were  not  a  bit  behind-hand  in 
the  warmth  of  their  reception.  They  were  as  much  at- 
tracted to  her  as  the  children  were  ;  they  ran  towards  her, 
kissed  her  hands,  pressed  round  her,  could  not  receive  her 
ardently  or  enthusiastically  enough.  She  came  among 
them  like  the  spirit  of  all  goodness,  affection,  gentle 
consideration,  love,  and  domesticity. 

"  What  !  are  you  all  so  glad  to  see  me,  too,  this  bright 
Christmas  morning?"  said  Milly,  clapping  her  hands 
in  a  pleasant  wonder.  "Oh  dear,  how  delightful  this 
is!" 

More  shouting  from  the  children,  more  kissing,  more 
trooping  round  her,  more  happiness,  more  love,  more 
joy,  more  honour,  on  all  sides,  than  she  could  bear. 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Milly,  "what  delicious  tears  you 
make  me  shed.  How  can  I  ever  have  deserved  this  ! 
What  have  I  done  to  be  so  loved  !  " 

"  Who  can  help  it !  "  cried  Mr.  Tetterby. 

"  Who  can  help  it  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Tetterby. 

"  Who  can  help  it !"  echoed  the  children,  in  a  joyful 
chorus.  And  they  trooped  and  danced  about  her  again, 
and  clung  to  her,  and  laid  their  rosy  faces  against  her 
dress,  and  kissed  and  fondled  it,  and  could  not  fondle 
it,  or  her  enough. 

"  I  never  was  so  moved,"  said  Milly,  drying  her  eyes, 
"as  I  have  been  this  morning.  I  must  tell  you,  as  soon 
as  I  can  speak. — Mr.  Redlaw  came  to  me  at  sunrise,  and 
with  a  tenderness  in  his  manner,  more  as  if  I  had  been 
his  darling  daughter  than  myself,  implored  me  to  go 
with  him  to  where  William's  brother  George  is  lying 
ill.  We  went  together,  and  all  the  way  along  he  was  so 
kind,  and  so  subdued,  and  seemed  to  put  such  trust  and 
hope  in  me,  that  I  could  not  help  crying  with  pleasure. 
When  we  got  to  the  hous^we  met  a  woman  at  the  door 
(somebody  had  bruised  and  hurt  her,  I  am  afraid)  who 
caught  me  by  the  hand,  and  blessed  me  as  I  passed." 

"  She  was  right,"  said  Mr.  Tetterby.  Mrs.  Tetterby 
said  she  was  right.  All  the  children  cried  out  she  was 
right. 

"  Ah,  but  there's  more  than  that,"  said  Milly.  "  When 
we  got  up-stairs,  into  the  room,  the  sick  man  who 
had  lain  for  hours  in  a  state  from  which  no  effort  could 
rouse  him,  rose  up  in  his  bed,  and,  bursting  into  tears, 
stretched  out  his  arm  to  me,  and  said,  that  he  had  led  a 
misspent  life,  but  that  he  was  truly  repentant  now,  in 
his  sorrow  for  the  past,  which  was  all  as  plain  to  him  as 
a  great  prospect  from  which  a  dense  black  cloud  had 
cleared  away,  and  that  he  entreated  me  to  ask  his  poor 
old  father  for  his  pardon  and  his  blessing,  and  to  say  a 
prayer  beside  his  bed.  And  when  I  did  so,  Mr.  Redlaw 
joined  in  so  fervently,  and  then  so  thanked  and  thanked 
me,  and  thanked  Heaven,  that  my  heart  quite  over- 
flowed, and  I  could  have  done  nothing  but  sob  and  cry, 
if  the  sick  man  had  not  begged  me  to  sit  down  by  him, 
— which  made  me  quiet  of  course.  As  I  sat  there,  he  held 
my  hand  in  his  until  he  sunk  in  a  doze  ;  and  even  then, 
when  I  withdrew  my  hand  to  leave  him  to  come  here 
(which  Mr.  Redlaw  was  very  earnest  indeed  in  wishing 
me  to  do),  his  hand  felt  for  mine,  so  that  some  one  else 
was  obliged  to  take  my  place  and  make  believe  to  give 
him  my  hand  back.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  said  Milly  sob- 
bing. *"How  thankful  and  how  happy  I  should  feel, 
and  do  feel,  for  all  this  !" 

While  she  was  speaking,  Redlaw  had  come  in,  and,  after 
pausing  for  a  moment  to  observe  the  group  of  which  she 
was  the  centre,  had  silently  ascended  the  stairs.  Upon 
those  stairs  he  now  appeared  again  ;  remaining  there, 
while  the  young  student  passed  him,  and  came  running 
down, 

"Kind  nurse,  gentlest,  best  of  creatures,"  he  said, 
falling  on  his  knee  to  her,  and  catching  at  her  hand, 
* '  forgive  my  cruel  ingratitude  !  '* 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !"  cried  Milly  innocently,  "here's 
another  of  them  !  Oh  dear,  here's  somebody  else  that 
likes  me.    What  shall  I  ever  do  ! " 

The  guileless,  simple  way  in  which  she  said  it,  and  in 


338 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


which  she  put  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  and  wept  for 
very  happiness,  was  as  touching  as  it  was  delightful. 

"  I  was  not  myself,"  he  said.  I  don't  know  what  it 
was — it  was  some  consequence  of  my  disorder  perhaps — 
I  was  mad.  But  I  am  so,  no  longer.  Almost  as  I  speak, 
I  am  restored.  I  heard  the  children  crying  out  your 
name,  and  the  shade  passed  from  me  at  the  very  sound 
of  it.  Oh  don't  weep  !  Dear  Milly,  if  you  could  read 
my  heart,  and  only  know  with  what  affection,  and  what 
grateful  homage  it  is  glowing,  you  would  not  let  me  see 
you  weep.    It  is  such  deep  reproach." 

"No,  no,"  said  Milly,  "  it's  not  that.  It's  not  indeed. 
It's  joy.  It's  wonder  that  you  should  think  it  necessary 
to  ask  me  to  forgive  so  little,  and  yet  it's  pleasure  that 
you  do." 

"  And  will  you  come  again  ?  and  will  you  finish  the 
little  curtain  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Milly,  drying  her  eyes,  and  shaking  her 
head.    "  You  won't  care  for  my  needlework  now." 
Is  it  forgiving  me,  to  say  that  ?  " 

She  beckoned  him  aside,  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"  There  is  news  from  your  home,  Mr.  Edmund." 

"News?  How?" 

"  Either  your  not  writing  when  you  were  very  ill,  or 
the  change  in  your  handwriting  when  you  began  to  be 
better,  created  some  suspicion  of  the  truth  ;  however, 

that  is  but  you're  sure  you'll  not  be  the  worse  for 

any  news,  if  it's  not  bad  news  ?  " 

"  Sure." 

"  Then  there's  some  one  come  !  "  said  Milly. 

"  My  mother?"  asked  the  student,  glancing  round  in- 
voluntarily towards  Redlaw,  who  had  come  down  from 
the  stairs. 

"  Hush  !    No,"  said  Milly. 
It  can  be  no  one  else." 

*'  Indeed  ?  "  said  Milly,  "  are  you  sure  ? 

"It  is  not"  — Before  he  could  say  more,  she  put  her 
hand  upon  his  mouth. 

"  Yes  it  is  !  "  said  Milly.  "  The  young  lady  (she  is 
very  like  the  miniature,  Mr.  Edmund,  but  she  is  prettier) 
was  too  unhappy  to  rest  without  satisfying  her  doubts, 
and  came  up,  last  night,  with  a  little  servant-maid.  As 
you  always  dated  your  letters  from  the  college,  she  came 
there  ;  and  before  T  saw  Mr.  Redlaw  this  morning,  I  saw 
her. — 87ie  likes  me  too  !  "  said  Milly.  "  Oh  dear,  that's 
another  !" 

"  This  morning  !    Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  Why,  she  is  now,"  said  Milly,  advancing  her  lips  to 
his  ear,  "  in  my  little  parlour  in  the  Lodge,  and  waiting 
to  see  you." 

He  pressed  her  hand,  and  was  darting  off,  but  she  de- 
tained him. 

"Mr.  Redlaw  is  much  altered,  and  has  told  me  this 
morning  that  his  memory  is  impaired.  Be  very  con- 
siderate to  him,  Mr.  Edmund  ;  he  needs  that  from  us 
all." 

The  young  man  assured  her,  by  a  look,  that  her  cau- 
tion was  not  ill-bestowed  ;  and  as  he  passes  the  Chemist 
on  his  way  out,  bent  respectfully  and  with  an  obvious 
interest  before  him. 

Redlaw  returned  the  salutation  courteously  and  even 
humbly,  and  looked  after  him  as  he  passed  on.  He 
drooped  his  head  upon  his  hand  too,  as  trying  to  re- 
awaken something  he  had  lost.    But  it  was  gone. 

The  abiding  change  that  had  came  upon  him  since 
the  influence  of  the  music,  and  the  Phantom's  reappear- 
ance, was,  that  now  he  truly  felt  how  much  he  had 
lost,  and  could  compassionate  his  own  condition,  and 
contrast  it,  clearly,  with  the  natural  state  of  those  who 
were  around  him.  In  this,  an  interest  in  those  who 
were  around  him  was  revived,  and  a  meek,  submissive 
sense  of  his  calamity  was  bred,  resembling  that  which 
sometimes  obtains  in  age,  when  its  mental  powers  are 
weakened,  without  insensibility  or  sullenness  being 
added  to  the  list  of  its  infirmities. 

He  was  conscious  that,  as  he  redeemed,  through 
Milly,  more  and  more  of  the  evil  he  had  done,  and  as  he 
was  more  and  more  with  her,  this  change  ripened  itself 
within  him.  Therefore,  and  because  of  the  attachment 
she  inspired  him  with  (but  without  other  hope),  he  felt 
that  he  was  quite  dependent  on  her,  and  that  she  was 
his  staff  in  his  aflliction. 


So,  when  she  asked  him  whether  they  should  go  home 
now,  to  where  the  old  man  and  her  hioisband  were,  and  he 
readily  replied  "  yes  " — being  anxious  in  that  regard — 
he  put  his  arm  through  hers,  and  walked  beside  her  ;  not 
as  if  he  were  the  wise  and  learned  man  to  whom  the  won- 
ders of  nature  were  an  open  book,  and  hers  were  the  un- 
instructed  mind,  but  as  if  their  two  p€>sitions  were  re- 
versed, and  he  knew  nothing,  and  she  alL 

He  saw  the  children  throng  about  her,,  and  caress  her, 
as  he  and  she  went  away  together  thus,  out  of  the  house  ; 
he  heard  the  ringing  of  their  laughter,  and  their  merry 
voices  ;  he  saw  their  bright  faces,  clustering  round  him 
like  flowers  ;  he  witnessed  the  renewed  contentment  and 
affection  of  their  parents  ;  he  breathed  the  simple  air  of 
their  poor  home,  restored  to  its  tranquillity  ;  he  thought 
of  the  unwholesome  blight  he  had  shed  upon  it,  and 
might,  but  for  her,  have  been  diffusing  then  ;  and  per- 
haps it  is  no  wonder  that  he  walked  submissively  beside 
her,  and  drew  her  gentle  bosom  nearer  to  his  own. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  Lodge,  the  old  man  was  sit- 
ting in  his  chair  in  the  chimney-corner,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground,  and  his  son  was  leaning  against  the 
opposite  side  of  the  fire-place,  looking  at  him.  As  she 
came  in  at  the  door,  both  started  and  turned  round  towards 
her,  and  a  radiant  change  came  upon  their  faces. 

"  Oh  dear,  dear,  dear,  they  are  pleased  to  see  me  like 
the  rest ! ' '  cried  Milly,  clapping  her  hands  in  an  ecstacy, 
and  stopping  short.    "  Here  are  two  more  !" 

Pleased  to  see  her  !  Pleasure  was  no  word  for  it.  She 
ran  into  her  husband's  arms,  thrown  wide  open  to  receive 
her,  and  he  would  have  been  glad  to  have  her  there,  with 
her  head  lying  on  his  shoulder,  through  the  short  win- 
ter's day.  But  the  old  man  couldn't  spare  her.  He  had 
arms  for  her  too,  and  he  locked  her  in  them. 

"  Why,  where  has  my  quiet  Mouse  been  all  this  time  ?'* 
said  the  old  man.  "  She  has  been  a  long  while  away. 
I  find  that  it's  impossible  for  me  to  get  on  without;  Mouse. 
I — Where's  my  son  William  ? — I  fancy  I  have  been 
dreaming,  William." 

"  That's  what  I  say  myself,  father,'*  returned  his  son. 
"  /  have  been  in  an  ugly  sort  of  dream,  I  think. — How 
are  you,  father ?    Are  you  pretty  well?" 

"  Strong  and  brave,  my  boy,"  returned  the  old  man. 

It  was  quite  a  sight  to  see  Mr.  William  shaking  hands 
with  his  father,  and  patting  him  on  the  back,  and  rub- 
bing him  gently  down  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  could  not 
possibly  do  enough  to  show  an  interest  in  him. 

"  What  a  wonderful  man  you  are,  father  ! — How  are 
you,  father  ?  Are  you  really  pretty  hearty,  though  ?  " 
said  William,  shaking  hands  with  him  again,  and  patting 
him  again,  and  rubbing  him  gently  down  again. 

"  I  never  was  fresher  or  stouter  in  my  life,  my  boy." 

"  What  a  wonderful  man  you  are,  father  !  But  that's 
exactly  where  it  is,"  said  Mr.  William,  with  enthusiasm. 
"  When  I  think  of  all  that  my  father's  gone  through,  and 
all  the  chances  and  changes,  and  sorrows  and  troubles, 
that  have  happened  to  him  in  the  course  of  his  long  life, 
and  under  which  his  head  has  grown  grey,  and  years  upon 
years  have  gathered  on  it,  I  feel  as  if  we  couldn't  do 
enough  to  hpnour  the  old  gentleman,  and  make  his  old 
age  easy. — How  are  you,  father?  Are  you  really  pretty 
well,  though?" 

Mr.  William  might  never  have  left  off  repeating  this 
inquiry  and  shaking  hands  with  him  again,  and  patting 
him  again,  and  rubbing  him  down  again,  if  the  old  man 
had  not  espied  the  Chemist,  whom  until  now  he  had  not 
seen. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  Mr.  Redlaw,*'  said  Philip,  "  but 
didn't  know  you  were  here,  sir,  or  should  have  made  less 
free.  It  reminds  me,  Mr.  Redlaw,  seeing  you  here  on  a 
Christmas  morning,  of  the  time  when  you  was  a  student 
yourself,  and  worked  so  hard  that  you  was  backwards 
and  forwards  in  our  library  even  at  Christmas  time.  Ha  ! 
ha  !  I'm  old  enough  to  remember  that  ;  and  I  remem- 
ber it  right  well,  I  do,  though  I  am  eighty-seven.  It  was 
after  you  left  here  that  my  poor  wife  died.  You  remem- 
ber my  poor  wife,  Mr.  Redlaw  ?" 

The  Chemist  answered  yes. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man.  "  She  was  a  dear  creetur. 
— I  recollect  you  come  here  one  Christmas  morning  with 
a  young  lady — I  ask  your  pardon,  Mr.  Redlaw,  but  I  think 
it  was  a  sister  you  was  very  much  attached  to  ?  " 


CHRISTMAS    BOOKS.  339 


The  Chemist  looked  at  him,  and  shook  his  head,  "I 
liad  a  sister,"  he  said  vacantly.    He  knew  no  more. 

"  One  Christmas  morning,"  pursued  the  old  man,  "that 
you  come  here  with  her — and  it  began  to  snow,  and  my 
wife  invited  the  young  lady  to  walk  in,  and  sit  by  the  fire 
that  is  always  a  burning  on  Christmas  day  in  what  used 
to  be,  before  our  ten  poor  gentlemen  commuted,  our  great 
Dinner  Hall.  I  was  there  ;  and  I  recollect,  as  I  was  stir- 
ring up  the  blaze  for  the  young  lady  to  warm  her  pretty 
feet  by,  she  read  the  scroll  out  loud,  that  is  underneath 
that  picter,  '  Lord  keep  my  memory  green  ! '  She  and 
my  poor  wife  fell  a  talking  about  it,  and  it's  a  strange 
thing  to  think  of,  now,  that  they  both  said  (both  being  so 
unlike  to  die)  that  it  was  a  good  prayer,  and  that  it  was 
one  they  would  put  up  very  earnestly,  if  they  were  called 
away  young,  with  reference  to  those  who  were  dearest  to 
them.  '  My  brother,'  says  the  young  lady — *  My  husband,' 
says  my  poor  wife. — '  Lord,  keep  his  memory  of  me, 
green,  and  do  not  let  me  be  forgotten  ! '  " 

Tears  more  painful,  and  more  bitter  than  he  had  ever 
shed  in  all  his  life,  coursed  down  Redlaw's  face.  Philip, 
fully  occupied  in  recalling  his  story,  had  not  observed 
lim  until  now,  nor  Milly's  anxiety  that  he  should  not 
proceed. 

"  Philip,"  said  Redlaw,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  arm, 
*'  I  am  a  stricken  man,  on  whom  the  hand  of  Providence 
lias  fallen  heavily,  although  deservedly.  You  speak  to 
me,  my  friend,  of  what  I  cannot  follow  ;  my  memory  is 
;gone." 

"  Merciful  Power  ! "  cried  the  old  man. 

"I  have  lost  my  memory  of  sorrow,  vv^rong,  and  trou- 
ble," said  the  Chemist ;  "  and  with  that  I  have  lost  all 
man  would  remember  ! " 

To  see  old  Philip's  pity  for  him,  to  see  him  wheel  his 
own  great  chair  for  him  to  rest  in,  and  look  down  upon 
him  with  a  solemn  sense  of  his  bereavement,  was  to  know 
in  some  degree,  how  precious  to  old  age  such  recollec- 
tions are. 

The  boy  came  running  in,  and  ran  to  Milly. 
"Here's  the  man,"  he  said,  "in  the  other  room.  I 
don't  want  him." 

"  What  man  does  he  mean?"  asked  Mr.  William. 
"  Hush  !  "  said  Milly. 

Obedient  to  a  sign  from  her,  he  and  his  old  father  softly 
withdrew.  As  they  went  out,  unnoticed,  Redlaw  beck- 
oned to  the  boy  to  come  to  him. 

"  I  like  the  woman  best,"  he  answered,  holding  to  her 
skirts. 

"You  are  right,"  said  Redlaw,  with  a  faint  smile. 
"But  you  needn't  fear  to  come  to  me.  I  am  gentler 
than  I  was.    Of  all  the  world,  to  you,  poor  child  !  " 

The  boy  still  held  back  at  first ;  but  yielding  little  by 
little  to  her  urging,  he  consented  to  approach,  and  even 
to  sit  down  at  his  feet.  As  Redlaw  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  shoulder  of  the  child,  looking  on  him  with  compas- 
sion and  a  fellow-feeling,  he  put  out  his  other  hand  to 
Milly.  She  stooped  down  on  that  side  of  him,  so  that 
she  could  look  into  his  face  ;  and  after  silence,  said  : 

"Mr,  Redlaw,  may  I  speak  to  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  her.  "  Your 
voice  and  music  are  the  same  to  me." 

"  May  I  ask  you  something  ?  " 

"  What  you  will." 

"Do  you  remember  what  I  said,  when  I  knocked  at 
your  door  last  night?  About  one  who  was  your  friend 
once,  and  who  stood  on  the  verge  of  destruction  ?  " 

"  Yes.    I  remember,"  he  said  with  some  hesitation. 

"  Do  you  understand  it  ?  " 

He  smoothed  the  boy's  hair — looking  at  her  fixedly  the 
while,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  This  person,"  said  Milly,  in  her  clear,  soft  voice, 
which  her  mild  eyes,  looking  at  him,  made  clearer  and 
softer,  "  I  found  soon  afterwards.  I  went  back  to  the 
house,  and,  with  Heaven's  help,  traced  him.  J  was  not 
too  soon.    A  very  little,  and  I  should  have  been  too  late." 

He  took  his  hand  from  the  boy,  and  laying  it  on  the 
back  of  that  hand  of  hers,  whose  timid  and  yet  earnest 
touch  addressed  him  no  less  appealingly  than  her  voice 
and  eyes,  looked  more  intently  on  her, 

"  He  18  the  father  of  Mr.  Edmund,  the  young  gentle- 
man we  saw  just  now.  His  real  name  is  Longford.— 
You  recollect  the  name  ?  " 


"  I  recollect  the  name." 
"  And  the  man?" 

"  No,  not  the  man.    Did  he  ever  wrong  me?" 
"  Yes  ! " 

"  Ah  !    Then  it's  hopeless — hopeless." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  softly  beat  ui)on  the  hand  he 
held,  as  though  mutely  asking  her  commiseration. 

"  I  did  not  go  to  Mr.  Edmund  last  night,"  said  Milly, 
— "  You  will  listen  to  me  just  the  same  as  if  you  did  re- 
member all  ?  " 

"  To  every  syllable  you  say." 

"  Both  because  I  did  not  know,  then,  that  this  really 
was  his  father,  and  because  I  was  fearful  of  the  effect 
of  such  intelligence  upon  him,  after  his  illness,  if  it 
should  be.  Since  I  have  known  who  this  j^erson  is,  I 
have  not  gone  either  ;  but  that  is  for  another  reason. 
He  has  long  been  separated  from  his  wife  and  son — has 
been  a  stranger  to  his  home  almost  from  his  son's  infancy, 
I  learn  from  him — and  has  abandoned  and  deserted  what 
he  should  have  held  most  dear.  In  all  that  time,  he  has 
been  falling  from  the  state  of  a  gentleman,  more  and 
more,  until — "  she  rose  up,  hastily,  and  going  out  for  a 
moment,  returned,  accompanied  by  the  wreck  that  Red- 
law  had  beheld  last  night. 

"  Do  you  know  me  ?  "  asked  the  Chemist. 

"  I  should  be  glad,"  returned  the  other,  "  and  that  is 
an  unwonted  word  forme  to  use,  if  I  could  answer  no." 

The  Chemist  looked  at  the  man,  standing  in  self-abase- 
ment and  degradation  before  him,  and  would  have  looked 
longer,  in  an  effectual  struggle  for  enlightenment,  but 
that  Milly  resumed  her  late  position  by  his  side,  and  at- 
tracted his  attentive  gaze  to  her  own  face. 

"  See  how  low  he  is  sunk,  how  lost  he  is  ! "  she  whis- 
pered, stretching  out  her  arm  towards  him,  without  look- 
ing from  the  Chemist's  face.  "  If  you  could  remember 
all  that  is  connected  with  him,  do  you  not  think  it  would 
move  your  pity  to  reflect  that  one  you  ever  loved  (do  not 
let  us  mind  how  long  ago,  or  in  what  belief  that  he  hts 
forfeited),  should  come  to  this  ?  " 

"  I  hope  it  would, "he  answered.  "  I  believe  it  would." 

His  eyes  wandered  to  the  figure  standing  near  the 
door,  but  came  back  speedily  to  her,  on  whom  he  gazed 
intently,  as  if  he  strove  to  learn  some  lesson  from  every 
tone  of  her  voice,  and  every  beam  of  her  eyes, 

"  I  have  no  learning,  and  you  have  much,"  said  Milly  ; 
"  I  am  not  used  to  think,  and  you  are  always  thinking. 
May  I  tell  you  why  it  seems  to  me  a  good  thing  for  us, 
to  remember  wroQg  that  has  been  done  to  us  ?  " 

"Yes."  • 

"  That  we  may  forgive  it," 

"Pardon  me,  great  Heaven  !"  said  Redlaw,  lifting  up 
his  eyes,  "  for  having  thrown  away  thine  own  high 
attribute  I" 

"And  if,"  said  Milly,  "if  your  memory  should  one 
day  be  restored,  as  we  will  hope  and  pray  it  may  be, 
would  it  not  be  a  blessing  to  you  to  recall  at  once  a 
wrong  and  its  forgiveness  ?  " 

He  looked  at  the  figure  by  the  door,  and  fastened  his 
attentive  eyes  on  her  again  ;  a  ray  of  clearer  light  ap- 
peared to  him  to  shine  into  his  mind,  from  her  bright 
face. 

"  He  cannot  go  to  his  abandoned  home.  He  does  not 
seek  to  go  there.  He  knows  that  he  could  only  carry 
shame  and  trouble  to  those  he  has  so  cruelly  neglected  : 
and  that  the  best  reparation  he  can  make  to  them  now,  is 
to  avoid  them,  A  very  little  money  carefully  bestowed, 
would  remove  him  to  some  distant  place,  where  he  might 
live  and  do  no  wrong,  and  make  such  atonement  as  is 
left  within  his  power  for  the  wrong  he  has  done.  To  the 
unfortunate  lady  who  is  his  wife,  and  to  his  son  this 
would  be  the  best  and  kindest  boon  that  their  best  friend 
could  give  them— one  too  that  they  need  never  know  of  ; 
and  to  him,  shattered  in  reputation,  mind,  and  body,  it 
I  might  be  salvation." 

I     He  took  her  head  between  his  bands,  and  kissed  it, 
i  and  said  :  "  It  shall  be  done,    I  trust  to  you  to  do  it  for 
me,  now  and  secretly  ;  and  to  tell  him  that  I  would  for- 
give him,  if  I  were  so  happy  as  to  know  for  what." 

As  she  rose,  and  turned  her  beaming  face  towards  the 
fallen  man,  implying  that  her  mediation  had  been  suc- 
cessful, he  advanced  a  step,  and  without  raising  his 
eyes,  addressed  himself  to  Redlaw, 


340 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"You  are  so  generous,"  lie  said,  " — you  ever  were — 
that  you  will  try  to  banish  your  rising  sense  of  retribu- 
tion in  the  spectacle  that  is  before  you.  I  do  not  try  to 
banish  it  from  myself,  Redlaw.   If  you  can,  believe  me. " 

The  Chemist  entreated  Milly,  by  a  gesture,  to  come 
nearer  to  him  ;  and,  as  he  listened,  looked  in  her  face,  as 
if  to  find  in  it  the  clue  to  what  he  heard. 

' '  I  am  too  decayed  a  wretch  to  make  professions  ;  I 
recollect  my  own  career  too  well,  to  array  any  such  be- 
fore you.  But  from  the  day  on  which  I  made  my  first 
step  downward,  in  dealing  falsely  by  you,  I  have  gone 
down  with  a  certain,  steady,  doomed  progression.  That 
I  say." 

Redlaw,  keeping  close  at  his  side,  turned  his  face 
towards  the  speaker,  and  there  was  sorrow  in  it.  Some- 
thing like  mournful  recognition  too. 

"  I  might  have  been  another  man,  my  life  might  have 
been  another  life,  if  I  had  avoided  that  first  fatal  step. 

I  don't  know  that  it  would  have  been.  I  claim  nothing 
for  the  possibility.  Your  sister  is  at  rest,  and  better  than 
she  could  have  been  with  me,  if  I  had  continued  even 
what  you  thought  me  :  even  what  I  once  supposed  my- 
self to  be." 

Redlaw  made  a  hasty  motion  with  his  hand,  as  if  he 
would  have  put  that  subject  on  one  side. 

"  I  speak,"  the  other  went  on,  "like  a  man  taken  from 
the  grave.  I  should  have  made  my  own  grave,  last 
night,  had  it  not  been  for  this  blessed  hand." 

"  Oh,  dear,  he  likes  me  too  !  "  sobbed  Mllly,  under  her 
breath.    "  That's  another. " 

"  I  could  not  have  put  myself  in  your  way,  last  night, 
even  for  bread.  But,  to-day,  my  recollection  of  what  has 
been  between  us  is  so  strongly  stirred,  and  is  presented  to 
me,  I  don't  know  how,  so  vividly,  that  I  have  dared  to 
come  at  her  suggestion,  and  to  take  your  bounty,  and  to 
thank  you  for  it,  and  to  beg  you,  Redlaw,  in  your  dying 
hpur,  to  be  as  merciful  to  me  in  your  thoughts,  as  you 
are  in  your  deeds." 

He  turned  towards  the  door,  and  stopped  a  moment  on 
his  way  forth. 

"I  hope  my  son  may  interest  you  for  his  mother's 
sake.  I  hope  he  may  deserve  to  do  so.  Unless  my  life 
should  be  preserved  a  long  time,  and  I  should  know  that 
I  have  not  misused  your  aid,  I  shall  never  look  upon  him 
more." 

Going  out,  he  raised  his  eyes  to  Redlaw,  for  the  first 
time.  Redlaw,  whose  steadfast  gaze  was  fixed  upon 
him,  dreamily  held  out  his  hand.  He  returned  and 
touched  it — little  more — with  both  his  own — and  bending 
down  his  head,  went  slowly  out. 

In  the  few  moments  that  elapsed,  while  Milly  silently 
took  him  to  the  gate,  the  Chemist  dropped  into  his  chair, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  Seeing  him  thus, 
when  she  came  back,  accompanied  by  her  husband  and 
his  father  (who  were  both  greatly  concerned  for  him), 
she  avoided  disturbing  him,  or  permitting  him  to  be  dis- 
turbed ;  and  kneeled  down  near  the  chair,  to  put  some 
warm  clothing  on  the  boy. 

"  That's  exactly  where  it  is.  That's  what  I  always  say, 
father  !  "  exclaimed  her  admiring  husband.  "  There's 
a  motherly  feeling  in  Mrs.  William's  breast  that  must 
and  will  have  went  ! " 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "you're  right.  My  son 
William's  right  !  " 

"  It  happens  all  for  the  best,  Milly  dear,  no  doubt," 
said  Mr.  William,  tenderly,  "  that  we  have  no  children 
of  our  own  ;  and  yet  I  sometimes  wish  you  had  one  to 
love  and  cherish.  Our  little  dead  child  that  you  built 
such  hopes  upon,  and  that  never  breathed  the  breath  of 
life — it  has  made  you  quiet-like,  Milly." 

"lam  very  happy  in  the  recollection  of  it,  William 
dear,"  she  answered.    "  I  think  of  it  every  day." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  thought  of  it  a  good  deal." 

"  Don't  say  afraid  ;  it  is  a  comfort  to  me  ;  it  speaks  to 
me  in  so  many  ways.  The  innocent  thing  that  never 
lived  on  earth,  is  like  an  angel  to  me,  William." 

"  You  are  like  an  angel  to  father  and  me,"  said  Mr. 
William,  softly.    "  I  know  that." 

"  When  I  think  of  all  those  hopes  I  built  upon  it,  and 
the  many  times  I  sat  and  pictured  to  myself  the  little 
smiling  face  upon  my  bosom  that  never  lay  there,  and 
the  sweet  eyes  turned  up  to  mine  that  never  opened  to 


the  light,"  said  Milly,  "I  can  feel  a  greater  tenderness, 
I  think,  for  all  the  disappointed  hopes  in  which  there  is 
no  harm.  When  I  see  a  beautiful  child  in  its  fond 
mother's  arms,  I  love  it  all  the  better,  thinking  that  my 
child  might  have  been  like  that,  and  might  have  made 
my  heart  as  proud  and  happy." 

Redlaw  raised  his  head,  and  looked  towards  her. 
"All  through  life,  it  seems  by  me,"  she  continued, 
"  to  tell  me  something.  For  poor  neglected  children, 
my  little  child  pleads  as  if  it  were  alive,  and  had  a  voice 
I  knew,  with  which  to  speak  to  me.  When  I  hear  of 
youth  in  suffering  or  shame,  I  think  that  my  child  might 
have  come  to  that,  perhaps,  and  that  God  took  it  f rom 
me  in  his  mercy.  Even  in  age  and  gray  hair,  such  as 
father's,  it  is  present ;  saying  that  it  too  might  have  lived 
to  be  old,  long  and  long  after  you  and  I  were  gone,  and 
to  have  needed  the  respect  and  love  of  younger  people." 

Her  quiet  voice  was  quieter  than  ever,  as  she  took  her 
husband's  arm,  and  laid  her  head  against  it. 

"  Children  love  me  so,  that  sometimes  I  half  fancy — 
it's  a  silly  fancy,  William — they  have  some  way  I  don't 
know  of,  of  feeling  for  my  little  child,  and  me,  and  un- 
derstanding why  their  love  is  precious  to  me.  If  I  have 
been  quiet  since,  I  have  been  more  happy,  William,  in  a 
hundred  ways.  Not  least  happy,  dear,  in  this — that 
even  when  my  little  child  was  born  and  dead  but  a  few 
days,  and  I  was  weak  and  sorrowful,  and  could  not  help 
grieving  a  little,  the  thought  arose,  that  if  I  tried  to 
lead  a  good  life,  I  should  meet  in  Heaven  a  bright  crea- 
ture who  would  call  me.  Mother  !  " 

Redlaw  fell  upon  his  knees,  with  a  loud  cry. 
"O  Thou,"  he  said,  "who,  through  the  teaching  of 
pure  love,  has  graciously  restored  me  to  the  memory 
which  was  the  memory  of  Christ  upon  the  cross,  and  of 
all  the  good  who  perished  in  His  cause,  receive  my 
thanks,  and  bless  her  ! " 

Then  he  folded  her  to  his  heart ;  and  Milly,  sobbing 
more  than  ever,  cried,  as  she  laughed,  "He  is  comeback 
to  himself  !  He  likes  me  very  much  indeed,  too?  Oh, 
dear,  dear,  dear  me,  here's  another  ! " 

Then  the  student  entered,  leading  by  the  hand  a  lovely 
girl,  who  was  afraid  to  come.  And  Redlaw  so  changed 
towards  him,  seeing  in  him  and  in  his  youthful  choice, 
the  softened  shadow  of  that  chastening  passage  in  his 

j  own  life,  to  which,  as  to  a  shady  tree,  the  dove  so  long  im- 
prisoned in  his  solitary  ark  might  fly  for  rest  and  company 
fell  upon  his  neck,  entreating  them  to  be  his  children. 

Then,  as  Christmas  is  a  time  in  which,  of  all  times  in 
the  year,  the  memory  of  every  remediable  sorrow,  wTong 

I  and  trouble  in  the  world  around  us,  should  be  active 

;  with  us,  not  less  than  our  own  experiences,  for  all  good, 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  boy,  and,  silently  calling  Him 
to  witness  who  laid  His  hand  on  children  in  old  time,  re- 
buking, in  the  majesty  of  his  prophetic  knowledge,  those 

:  who  kept  them  from  him,  vowed  to  protect  him,  teach 

j  him,  and  reclaim  him. 

1     Then,  he  gave  his  right  hand  cheerily  to  Philip,  and 
1  said  that  they  would  that  day  hold  a  Christmas  dinner 
j  in  what  used  to  be,  before  the  ten  poor  gentlemen  com- 
j  muted,  their  great  Dinner  Hall  ;  and  that  they  would 
j  bid  to  it  as  many  of  that  Swidger  family,  who,  his  son 
had  told  him,  were  so  numerous  that  they  might  join 
hands  and  make  a  ring  around  England,  as  could  be 
brought  together  on  so  short  a  notice. 

And  it  was  that  day  done.  There  were  so  many  Swidg- 
ers  there,  grown  up  and  children,  that  an  attempt  to 
state  them  in  round  numbers  might  engender  doubts  in 
the  distrustful  of  the  veracity  of  this  history.  Therefore 
the  attempt  shall  not  be  made.  But  there  they  were,  by 
dozens  and  scores — and  there  was  good  news  and  good 
hope  there,  ready  for  them,  of  George,  who  had  been 
visited  again  by  his  father  and  brother,  and  by  Milly, 
and  again  left  in  a  quiet  sleep.  There,  present  at  the 
dinner,  too,  were  the  Tetterbys,  including  young  Adol- 
phus,  who  arrived  in  his  prismatic  comforter,  in  good 
time  for  the  beef.  Johnny  and  the  baby  were  too  late, 
of  course,  and  came  in  all  on  one  side,  the  one  exhausted, 
the  other  in  a  supposed  state  of  double-tooth  ;  but  that 
was  customary,  and  not  alarming. 

It  was  sad  to  see  the  child  who  had  no  name  or  lin- 
eage, watching  the  other  children  as  they  played,  not 
knowing  how  to  talk  with  them,  or  sport  with  them,  and 


CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


341 


more  strange  to  the  ways  of  childhood  than  a  rough 
dog.  It  was  sad,  though  in  a  different  way,  to  see  what 
an  instinctive  knowledge  the  youngest  children  there 
had  of  his  being  different  from  all  the  rest,  and  how  they 
made  timid  approaches  to  him  with  soft  words  and 
touches,  and  with  little  presents,  that  he  might  not  be 
unhappy.  But  he  kept  by  Milly,  and  began  to  love  her 
— that  was  another,  as  she  said  ! — and,  as  they  all  liked 
her  dearly,  they  were  glad  of  that,  and  when  they  saw 
him  peeping  at  them  from  behind  her  chair,  they  were 
pleased  that  he  was  so  close  to  it. 

All  this,  the  Chemist,  sitting  with  the  student  and  his 
bride  that  was  to  be,  and  Philip,  and  the  rest,  saw. 

Some  people  have  said  since,  that  he  only  thought  what 
has  been  herein  set  down  ;  others,  that  he  read  it  in  the 
fire,  one  winter  night  about  the  twilight  time  ;  others, 
that  the  Ghost  was  but  the  representation  of  his  gloomy 
thoughts,  and  Milly  the  embodiment  of  his  better  wis- 
dom,   /say  nothing. 


!  — Except  this.  That  as  they  were  assembled  in  the 
[  old  Hall,  by  no  other  light  than  that  of  a  great  fire  fhav- 
ing  dined  early),  the  shadows  once  more  stole  out  of 
1  their  hiding-places,  and  danced  about  the  room,  showing 
I  the  children  marvellous  shapes  and  faces  on  the  walls, 
and  gradually  changing  what  was  real  and  familiar 
there,  to  what  was  wild  and  magical.  But  that  there 
was  one  thing  in  the  Hall,  to  which  the  eyes  of  Redlaw, 
and  of  Milly,  and  her  husband,  and  of  the  old  man,  and 
of  the  student,  and  his  bride  that  was  to  be,  were  often 
turned,  which  the  shadows  did  not  obscure  or  change. 
Deepened  in  its  gravity  by  the  firelight,  and  gazing  from 
the  darkness  of  the  panelled  wall  like  life,  the  sedate 
face  in  the  portrait,  with  the  beard  and  ruff,  looked 
down  at  them  from  under  its  verdant  wreath  of  holly,  as 
they  looked  up  at  it  ;  and,  clear  and  plain  below,  as  if  a 
voice  had  uttered  them,  were  the  words, 

"  l^orb,  keep  mg  ^nnorg  6rem." 


A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 

IN  THREE  BOOKS. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST-RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


PREFACE. 

When  I  was  acting,  with  my  children  and  friends,  in 
Mr.  WiLKiF.  CoLLiNS's  drama  of  the  Frozen  Deep,  I  first 
conceived  the  main  idea  of  this  story.  A  strong  desire 
was  upon  me  then,  to  embody  it  in  my  own  person  ;  and 
I  traced  out  in  my  fancy,  the  state  of  mind  of  which  it 
would  necessitate  the  presentation  to  an  observant  spec- 
tator, with  particular  care  and  interest. 

As  the  idea  became  familiar  to  me,  it  gradually  shaped 
itself  into  its  present  form.  Throughout  its  execution, 
it  has  had  complete  possession  of  me  ;  I  have  so  far  veri- 
fied what  is  done  and  suffered  in  these  pages,  as  that  I 
have  certainly  done  and  suffered  it  all  myself. 

Whenever  any  reference  (however  slight)  is  made  here 
to  the  conditiom  of  the  French  people  before  or  during 
the  Revolution,  it  is  truly  made,  on  the  faith  of  trust- 
worthy witnesses.  It  has  been  one  of  my  hopes  to  add 
something  to  the  popular  and  picturesque  means  of  un- 
derstanding that  terrible  time,  though  no  one  can  hope 
to  add  anything  to  the  philosophy  of  Mr.  Carlyle's 
wonderful  book. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  Period. 

It  was  the  best  of  times,  it  was  the  worst  of  times,  it 
was  the  age  of  wisdom,  it  was  the  age  of  foolishness,  it 
was  the  epoch  of  belief,  it  was  the  epoch  of  incredulity, 
it  was  the  season  of  Light,  it  was  the  season  of  Dark- 
ness, it  was  the  spring  of  hope,  it  was  the  winter  of 
despair,  we  had  everything  before  us,  we  had  nothing 
before  us,  we  were  all  going  direct  to  Heaven,  we  were 
all  going  direct  the  other  way — in  short,  the  period  was 
so  far  like  the  present  period,  that  some  of  its  noisiest 
authorities  insisted  on  its  being  received,  for  good  or  for 
evil,  in  the  superlative  degree  of  comparison  only. 

There  were  a  king  with  a  large  jaw,  and  a  queen  with 
a  plain  face,  on  the  throne  of  England  ;  there  were 
a  king  with  a  large  jaw  and  a  queen  with  a  fair  face, 
on  the  throne  of  France.  In  both  countries  it  was 
clearer  than  crystal  to  the  lords  of  the  State  preserves 
of  loaves  and  fishes,  that  things  in  general  were  settled 
for  ever. 

It  was  the  year  of  Our  Lord  one  thousand  seven  hun- 
dred and  seventy-five.  Spiritual  revelations  were  con- 
ceded to  England  at  that  favoured  period,  as  at  this. 
Mrs.  South cott  had  recently  attained  her  five-and-twen- 
tieth  blessed  birth-day,  of  whom  a  prophetic  private 
in  the  Life  Guards  had  heralded  the  sublime  appearance 
by  announcing  that  arrangements  were  made  for  the 
swallowing  up  of  London  and  Westminster.  Even  the 
Cock-lane  ghost  had  been  laid  only  a  round  dozen  of 
years,  after  rapping  out  its  messages,  as  the  spirits  of 
this  very  year  last  past  (superuaturally  deficient  in 
originality)  rapped  out  theirs.  Mere  messages  in  the 
earthly  order  of  events  had  lately  coniQ  to  the  English 
Crown  and  People,  from  a  congress  of  British  subjects 
in  America  :  which,  strange  to  relate,  have  proved  more 
important  to  the  human  race  than  any  communications 
yet  recei  ved  through  any  of  the  chickens  of  the  Cock- 
lane  brood. 


France,  less  favoured  on  the  whole  as  to  matters 
spiritual  than  her  sister  of  the  shield  and  trident,  rolled 
with  exceeding  smoothness  down  hill,  making  paper 
money  and  spending  it.  Under  the  guidance  of  her 
Christian  pastors,  she  entertained  herself,  besides,  with 
such  humane  achievements  as  sentencing  a  youth  to 
have  his  hands  cut  off,  his  tongue  torn  out  with  pincers, 
and  his  body  burned  alive,  because  he  had  not  kneeled 
down  in  the  rain  to  do  honour  to  a  dirty  procession  of 
monks  which  passed  within  his  view,  at  a  distance  of 
some  fifty  or  sixty  yards.  It  is  likely  enough  that, 
rooted  in  the  woods  of  France  and  Norway,  there  were 
growing  trees,  when  that  sufferer  was  put  to  death, 
already  marked  by  the  Woodman,  Fate,  to  come  down 
and  be  sawn  into  boards,  to  make  a  certain  movable 
framework  with  a  sack  and  a  knife  in  it,  terrible  in 
history.  It  is  likely  enough  that  in  the  rough  outhouses 
of  some  tillers  of  the  heavy  lands  adjacent  to  Paris, 
there  were  sheltered  from  the  weather  that  very  day,  rude 
carts,  bespattered  with  rustic  mire,  snuffed  about  by  pigs, 
and  roosted  in  by  poultry,  which  the  Farmer,  Death,  had 
already  set  apart  to  be  his  tumbrils  of  the  Revolution, 
But,  that  Woodman  and  that  Farmer,  though  they  work 
unceasingly,  work  silently,  and  no  one  heard  them  as  they 
went  about  with  muffled  tread  :  the  rather,  forasmuch 
as  to  entertain  any  suspicion  that  they  were  awake, 
was  to  be  atheistical  and  traitorous. 

In  England,  there  was  scarcel}^  an  amount  of  order 
and  protection  to  justify  much  national  boasting.  Dar- 
ing burglaries  by  armed  men,  and  highway  robber- 
ies, took  place  in  the  capital  itself  every  night  ;  families 
were  publicly  cautioned  not  to  go  out  of  town  without 
removing  their  furniture  to  upholsterers'  warehouses 
for  security  ;  the  highwayman  in  the  dark  was  a  City 
tradesman  in  the  light,  and,  being  recognised  and 
challenged  by  his  fellow-tradesman  whom  he  stopped 
in  his  character  of  "  the  Captain,"  gallantly  shot  him 
through  the  head  and  rode  away  ;  the  mail  was  waylaid  by 
seven  robbers,  and  the  guard  shot  three  dead;  and  then 
got  shot  dead  himself  by  the  other  four,  "  in  consequence 
of  the  failure  of  his  ammunition  :"  after  Avhich  the  mail 
was  robbed  in  peace  ;  that  magnificent  potentate,  the 
Lord  Mayor  of  London,  was  made  to  stand  aud  deliver 
on  Turnham  Green,  by  one  highwayman,  who  despoiled 
the  illustrious  creature  in  sight  of  all  his  retinue  ; 
prisoners  in  London  gaols  fought  battles  with  rheir 
turnkeys,  and  the  majesty  of  the  law  fired  blunderbusses 
in  among  them,  loaded  with  rounds  of  shot  aud  ball  ; 
thieves  snipped  off  diamond  crosses  from  the  necks  of 
noble  lords  at  Court  drawing-rooms  ;  musketeers  went 
into  St.  Giles's,  to  search  for  contraband  goods,  and  the 
mob  fired  on  the  musketeers,  and  the  musketeers  fired 
on  the  mob,  and  nobody  thought  any  of  these  occurrences 
much  out  of  the  common  way.  In  the  midst  of  them, 
the  hangman,  ever  busy  and'  ever  worse  than  useless, 
was  in  constant  requisition  ;  now,  stringing  up  long 
rows  of  miscellaneous  criminals  ;  now,  hanging  a  house- 
breaker on  Saturday  who  had  been  taken  on  Tuesday  ; 
now,  burning  people  in  the  hand  at  Newgate  by  the 
dozen,  and  now  burning  pamphlets  at  the  door  of 
Westminster  Hall  ;  to-day,  taking  the  life  of  an  atro- 
cious murderer,  and  to-morrow  of  a  wretched  pilferer 
who  had  robbed  a  farmer's  boy  of  sixpence. 

All  these  things  and  a  thousand  like  them,  came  to 

343 


344 


CHARLES  Die  KEN 8'  WORKS. 


pass  in  and  close  upon  the  dear  old  year  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five.  Environed  by  them, 
while  the  Woodman  and  the  Farmer  worked  unheeded, 
those  two  of  the  large  jaws,  and  those  other  two  of  the 
plain  and  the  fair  faces,  trod  with  stir  enough,  and 
carried  their  divine  rights  with  a  high  hand.  Thus  did 
the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy-five 
conduct  their  Greatnesses,  and  myriads  of  small  creatures 
— the  creatures  of  this  chronicle  among  the  rest — along 
the  roads  that  lay  before  them. 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  Mail. 


It  was  the  Dover  road  that  lay,  on  a  Friday  night  late 
in  November,  before  the  first  of  the  persons  with  whom 
this  history  has  business.  The  Dover  road  lay,  as  to  him, 
beyond  the  Dover  mail,  as  it  lumbered  up  Shooter's 
Hill.  He  walked  up-hill  in  the  mire  by  the  side  of  the 
mail,  as  the  rest  of  the  passengers  did  ;  not  because  they 
had  the  least  relish  for  walking  exercise,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, but  because  the  hill,  and  the  harness,  and 
the  mud,  and  the  mail,  were  all  so  heavy,  that  the 
horses  had  three  times  already  come  to  a  stop,  besides 
once  drawing  the  coach  across  the  road,  with  the  mu- 
tinous intent  of  taking  it  back  to  Blackheath.  Reins 
and  whip  and  coachman  and  guard,  however,  in  combi- 
nation, had  read  that  article  of  war  which  forbade  a 
purpose  otherwise  strongly  in  favour  of  the  argument, 
that  some  brute  animals  are  endued  with  Reason  ;  and 
the  team  had  capitulated  and  returned  to  their  duty. 

With  drooping  heads  and  tremulous  tails,  they  mashed 
their  way  through  the  thick  mud,  floundering  and 
stumbling  between  whiles  as  if  they  were  falling  to 
pieces  at  the  larger  joints.  As  often  as  the  driver 
rested  them  and  brought  them  to  a  stand,  with  a  wary 

Wo-ho  !  so- ho  then  !  "  the  near  leader  violently  shook 
his  head  and  everything  upon  it — like  an  unusually  em- 
phatic horse,  denying  that  the  coach  could  be  got  up  the 
hill.  Whenever  the  leader  made  this  rattle,  the  passen- 
ger started,  as  a  nervous  passenger  might,  and  was  dis- 
turbed in  mind. 

There  was  a  steaming  mist  in  all  the  hollows,  and  it 
had  roamed  in  its  forlornness  up  the  hill,  like  an  evil 
spirit,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none.  A  clammy  and 
intensely  cold  mist,  it  made  its  slow  way  through  the  air 
in  ripples  that  visibly  followed  and  overspread  one  an- 
other, as  the  waves  of  an  unwholesome  sea  might  do. 
It  was  dense  enough  to  shut  out  everything  from  the 
light  of  the  coach-lamps  but  these  its  own  workings,  and 
a  few  yards  of  road  ;  and  the  reek  of  the  labouring 
horses  steamed  into  it,  as  if  they  had  made  it  all. 

Two  other  passengers,  besides  the  one,  were  plodding 
up  the  hill  by  the  side  of  the  mail.  All  three  were 
wrapped  to  the  cheek-bones  and  over  the  ears,  and  wore 
jack-boots.  Not  one  of  the  three  could  have  said,  from 
anything  he  saw,  wliat  either  of  the  other  two  was 
like  ;  and  each  was  hidden  under  almost  as  many  wrap- 
pers from  the  eyes  of  the  mind,  as  from  the  eyes  of  the 
body,  of  his  two  companions.  In  those  days,  travellers 
were  very  shy  of  being  confidential  on  a  short  notice,  for 
anybody  on  the  road  might  be  a  robber  or  in  league 
with  robbers.  As  to  the  latter,  when  every  posting- 
house  and  ale-house  could  produce  somebody  in  "  the 
Captain's"  pay,  ranging  from  the  landlord  to  the  low- 
est stable  nondescript,  it  was  the  likeliest  thing  upon 
the  cards.  So  the  guard  of  the  Dover  mail  thought  to 
himself,  that  Friday  night  in  November  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five,  lumbering  up  Shooter's 
Hill,  as  he  stood  on  his  own  particular  perch  behind  the 
mail,  beating  his  feet  and  keeping  an  eye  and  a  hand  on 
the  arm-chest  before  him,  where  a  loaded  blunderbuss 
lay  at  the  top  of  six  or  eight  loaded  horse-pistols,  de- 
posited on  a  substratum  of  cutlass. 

The  Dover  mail  was  in  its  usual  genial  position  that 
the  guard  suspected  the  passengers,  the  passengers 
suspected  one  another  and  the  guard,  they  all  sus- 
pected everybody  else,  and  the  coachman  was  sure  of 
nothing  l)ut  the  horses;  as  to  which  cattle  he  could 


with  a  clear  conscience  have  taken  his  oath  on  the  two 
Testaments  that  they  were  not  fit  for  the  journey. 

"Wo-ho!"  said  the  coachman.  "So,  then!  One 
more  pull  and  you're  at  the  top  and  be  damned  to  you, 
for  I  have  had  trouble  enough  to  get  you  to  it ! — Joe  !  " 

"  Halloa  ! "  the  guard  replied. 

"  What  o'clock  do  you  make  it,  Joe  ?" 

"Ten  minutes,  good,  past  eleven." 

"  My  blood  !  "  ejaculated  the  vexed  coachman,  "  and 
not  atop  of  Shooter's  yet?  Tst  I  Yah  !  Get  on  with 
you  ! " 

The  emphatic  horse,  cut  short  by  the  whip  in  a  most 
decided  negative,  made  a  decided  scramble  for  it,  and 
the  three  other  horses  followed  suit.  Once  more,  the 
Dover  mail  struggled  on,  with  the  jack-boots  of  its  pas- 
sengers squashing  along  by  its  side.  They  had  stopped 
when  the  coach  stopped,  and  they  kept  close  company 
with  it.  If  any  one  of  the  three  had  had  the  hardihood 
to  propose  to  another  to  walk  on  a  little  ahead  into  the 
mist  and  darkness,  he  would  have  put  himself  in  a  fair 
way  of  getting  shot  instantly  as  a  highwayman. 

The  last  burst  carried  the  mail  to  the  summit  of  the 
hill.  The  horses  stopped  to  breathe  again,  and  the  guard 
got  down  to  skid  the  wheel  for  the  descent,  and  open  the 
coach  door  to  let  the  passengers  in. 

' '  Tst  !  Joe  ! "  cried  the  coachman  in  a  warning 
voice,  looking  down  from  his  box. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Tom?" 

They  both  listened. 

"  I  say  a  horse  at  a  canter  coming  up,  Joe." 

"/say  a  horse  at  a  gallop,  Tom,"  returned  the  guard, 
leaving  his  hold  of  the  door,  and  mounting  nimbly  to 
his  place.  "Gentlemen!  In  the  king's  name,  all  of 
you  ! " 

With  this  hurried  adjuration,  he  cocked  his  blunder- 
buss, and  stood  on  the  offensive. 

The  passenger  booked  by  this  history  was  on  the 
coach  step,  getting  in  ;  the  two  other  passengers  were 
close  behind  him,  and  about  to  follow.  He  remained  on 
the  step,  half  in  the  coach,  and  half  out  of  it  ;  they  re- 
mained in  the  road  below  him.  They  all  looked  from 
the  coachman  to  the  guard,  and  from  the  guard  to  the 
coachman,  and  listened.  The  coachman  looked  back, 
and  the  guard  looked  back,  and  even  the  emphatic  leader 
pricked  up  his  ears  and  looked  back,  without  contra- 
dicting. 

The  stillness  consequent  on  the  cessation  of  the  rum- 
bling and  labouring  of  the  coach,  added  to  the  stillness 
of  the  night,  made  it  very  quiet  indeed.  The  panting 
of  the  horses  communicated  a  tremulous  motion  to  the 
coach,  as  if  it  were  in  a  state  of  agitation.  The  hearts 
of  the  passengers  beat  loud  enough  perhaps  to  be  heard  ; 
but  at  any  rate,  the  quiet  pause  was  audibly  expressive 
of  people  out  of  breath,  and  holding  the  breath,  and 
having  the  pulses  quickened  by  expectation. 

The  sound  of  a  horse  at  a  gallop  came  fast  and  furi- 
ously up  the  hill. 

"  So-ho  ! "  the  guard  sang  out,  as  loud  as  he  could 
roar.    "  Yo  there  !    Stand  !    I  shall  fire  !  " 

The  pace  was  suddenly  checked,  and,  with  much 
splashing  and  floundering,  a  man's  voice  called  from  the 
mist,  "  Is  that  the  Dover  mail?" 

"Never  you  mind  what  it  is!"  the  guard  retorted. 
"What  are  you?" 

"Is  that  the  Dover  mail  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"I  want  a  passenger,  if  it  is." 

"  What  passenger  ?  " 

"Mr.  Jar  vis  Lorry." 

Our  booked  passenger  showed  in  a  moment  that  it 
was  his  name.  The  guard,  the  coachman,  and  the  two 
other  passengers,  eyed  him  distrustfully. 

"  Keep  where  you  are,"  the  guard  called  to  the  voice 
in  the  mist,  "  because,  if  I  should  make  a  mistake,  it 
could  never  be  set  right  in  your  lifetime.  Gentleman  of 
the  name  of  Lorry  answer  straight." 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  passenger,  then, 
with  mildly  quavering  speech.  "Who  wants  me.  Is  it 
Jerry  ? " 

("I  don't  like  Jerry's  voice,  if  it  is  Jerry,"  growled 
the  guard  to  himself.  "  He's  hoarser  than  suits  me,  is 
Jerry." 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


345 


"Yes,  Mr.  Lorry." 
|i     "  What  is  the  matter?" 

l'  "  A  despatch  sent  after  you  from  over  yonder.  T.  and 
\  Co." 

"  I  know  this  messenger,  Guard,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  get- 
ting down  into  the  road — assisted  from  behind  more 
swiftly  than  politely  by  the  other  two  passengers,  who 
immediately  scrambled  into  the  coach,  shut  the  door,  and 
pulled  up  the  window.  "  He  may  come  close  ;  there's 
nothing  wrong." 

"  I  hope  there  ain't,  but  I  can't  make  so  'Nation  sure  of 
that,"  said  the  guard,  in  gruff  soliloquy.  "  Halloa  you  !  " 

"  Well !  And  halloa  you  !  "  said  Jerry,  more  hoarsely 
than  before. 

"Come  on  at  a  footpace  ;  d'ye  mind  me  ?  And  if  you've 
got  holsters  to  that  saddle  o'  youm,  don't  let  me  see 
your  hand  go  nigh  'em.  For  I'm  a  Devil  at  a  quick  mis- 
take, and  when  I  make  one  it  takes  the  form  of  Lead. 
So  now  let's  look  at  you." 

The  figures  of  a  horse  and  rider  came  slowly  through 
the  eddying  mist,  and  came  to  the  side  of  the"  mail, 
where  the  passenger  stood.  The  rider  stooped,  and  cast- 
ing up  his  eyes  at  the  guard,  handed  the  passenger  a 
small  folded  paper.  The  rider's  horse  was  blown,  and 
both  horse  and  rider  were  covered  with  mud,  from  the 
hoofs  of  the  horse  to  the  hat  of  the  man. 

' '  Guard  !  "  said  the  passenger,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  busi- 
ness confidence. 

The  watchful  guard,  with  his  right  hand  at  the  stock 
of  his  raised .  blunderbuss,  his  left  at  the  barrel,  and 
I  Ms  eye  on  the  horseman,  answered  curtly,  "  Sir." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  apprehend.  I  belong  to  Tell- 
son's  Bank.  You  must  know  Tellson's  Bank  in  London. 
I  am  going  to  Paris  on  business.  A  crown  to* drink.  I 
may  read  this  ?  " 

^*If  so  be  as  you're  quick,  sir." 

He  opened  it  in  the  light  of  the  coach-lamp  on  that 
side,  and  read — first  to  himself  and  then  aloud  : 
"  •  Wait  at  Dover  for  Mam'selle.'  It's  not  long,  you  see, 
guard.    Jerry,  say  that  my  answer  was,  recalled  to 

LIFE." 

Jerry  started  in  his  saddle.  "  That's  a  Blazing  strange 
answer,  too,"  said  he,  at  his  hoarsest. 

"  Take  that  message  back,  and  they  will  know  that  I 
received  this,  as  well  as  if  I  wrote.  Make  the  best  of 
your  way.    Good  night." 

With  those  words  the  passenger  opened  the  coach- 
door  and  got  in  ;  not  at  all  assisted  by  his  fellow  passen- 
gers, who  had  expeditiously  secreted  their  watches  and 
purses  in  their  boots,  and  were  now  making  a  general 
pretence  of  being  asleep.  With  no  more  definite  pur- 
pose than  to  escape  the  hazard  of  originating  any  other 
;  kind  of  action. 

The  coach  1  umbered  on  again,  with  heavier  wreaths  of 
1  mist  closing  round  it  as  it  began  the  descent.    The  guard 
soon  replaced  his  blunderbuss  in  his  arm-chest,  and,  hav- 
I  ing  looked  to  the  rest  of  its  contents,  and  having  looked 
to  the  supplementary  pistols  that  he  wore  in  his  belt, 
looked  to  a  smaller  chest  beneath  his  seat,  in  which  there 
I  were  a  few  smith's  tools,a  couple  of  torches,  and  a  tinder- 
box.  For  he  was  furnished  with  that  completeness,  that  if 
j  the  coach  lamps  had  been  blown  and  stormed  out,  which 
did  occasionally  happen,  he  had  only  to  shut  himself  up 
inside,  keep  the  flint  and  steel  sparks  well  off  the  straw, 
and  get  a  light  with  tolerable  safety  and  ease  (if  he  were 
lucky)  in  five  minutes. 

"  Tom  ! "  softly  over  the  coach-roof. 
"Hallo,  Joe." 

**  Did  you  hear  the  message  ?  " 
"  I  did,  Joe." 

"  What  did  you  make  of  it,  Tom  ?  " 
"  Nothing  at  all,  Joe." 
.  *'  That's  a  coincidence,  too,"  the  guard  mused,  "  for  I 
made  the  same  of  it  myself. " 

Jerry,  left  alone  in  the  mist  and  darkness,  dismounted 
\  meanwhile,  not  only  to  ease  his  spent  horse,  but  to  wipe 
the  mud  from  his  face,  and  to  shake  the  wet  out  of  his 
hat-brim,  which  might  be  capable  of  holding  about  half 
'  A  gallon.  After  standing  with  the  bridle  over  his  heavily- 
I  splashed  arm,  until  the  wheels  of  the  mail  were  no 
I  longer  within  hearing  and  the  night  was  quite  still 
i  again,  he  turned  to  walk  down  the  hill. 


"  After  that  there  gallop  from  Tomploljar,  old  lady, 
I  won't  trust  your  fore-legs  till  I  get  you  on  the  level," 
said  this  hoarse  messenger,  glancing  at  his  mare.  "  *  Mi-. 
called  to  life.'  That's  a  Blazing  strange  message.  Much 
of  that  wouldn't  do  for  you,  Jerry  I  I  say,  Jerry  I  You'd 
be  in  a  Blazing  bad  way,  if  recalling  to  life  was  to  come 
into  fashion,  Jerry  !  " 


CHAPTER  HL 

The  Night  Shadows, 

A  WONDERFUL  fact  to  reflect  upon,  that  every  human 
creature  is  constituted  to  be  that  profound  secret  and 
mystery  to  every  other.  A  solemn  consideration,  when  I 
enter  a  great  city  by  night,  that  every  one  of  those  dark- 
ly clustered  houses  encloses  its  own  secret  ;  that  every 
room  in  every  one  of  them  encloses  its  own  secret ;  that 
every  beating  heart  in  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
breasts  there,  is,  in  some  of  its  imaginings,  a  secret  to 
the  heart  nearest  it !  Something  of  the  awfulness,  even 
of  Death  itself,  is  referable  to  this.  No  more  can  I  turn 
the  leaves  of  this  dear  book  that  I  loved,  and  vainly  hope 
in  time  to  read  it  all.  No  more  can  I  look  into  the  depths 
of  this  unfathomable  water,  wherein,  as  momentary  lights 
glanced  into  it,  I  have  had  glimpses  of  buried  treasure 
and  other  things  submerged.  It  was  appointed  that  the 
book  should  shut  with  a  spring,  for  ever  and  for  ever, 
when  I  had  read  but  a  page.  It  was  appointed  that  the 
water  should  be  locked  in  an  eternal  frost,  when  the  light 
was  playing  on  its  surface,  and  I  stood  in  ignorance  on  the 
shore.  My  friend  is  dead,  my  neighbour  is  dead,  my  love, 
the  darling  of  my  soul,  is  dead  ;  it  is  the  inexorable  con- 
solidation and  perpetuation  of  the  secret  that  was  al- 
ways in  that  individuality,  and  which  I  shall  carry  in 
mine  to  my  life's  end.  In  any  of  the  burial-places  in 
this  city  through  which  I  pass,  is  there  a  sleeper  more 
inscrutable  than  its  busy  inhabitants  are,  in  their  inner- 
most personality,  to  me,  or  than  I  am  to  them  ? 

As  to  this,  his  natural  and  not  to  be  alienated  inherit- 
ance, the  messenger  on  horseback  had  exactly  the  same 
possessions  as  the  King,  the  first  Minister  of  State,  or  the 
richest  merchant  in  London.  So  with  the  three  passen- 
gers shut  up  in  the  narrow  compass  of  one  lumbering  old 
mail  coach  ;  they  were  mysteries  to  one  another,  as  com- 
plete as  if  each  had  been  in  his  own  coach  and  six,  or  his 
own  coach  and  sixty,  with  the  breadth  of  a  county  be- 
tween him  and  the  next. 

The  messenger  rode  back  at  an  easy  trot,  stopping  pret- 
ty often  at  ale-houses  by  the  way  to  drink,  but  evincing 
a  tendency  to  keep  his  own  counsel,  and  to  keep  his  hat 
cocked  over  his  eyes.  He  had  eyes  that  assorted  very 
well  with  that  decoration,  being  of  a  surface  black,  with 
no  depth  in  the  colour  or  form,  and  much  too  near  to- 
gether— as  if  they  were  afraid  of  being  found  out  in 
something,  singly,  if  they  kept  too  far  apart.  They  had 
a  sinister  expression,  under  an  old  cocked-hat  like  a  three- 
cornered  spittoon,  and  over  a  great  muffler  for  the  chin 
and  throat,  which  descended  nearly  to  the  wearer's  knees. 
When  he  stopped  for  drink,  he  moved  this  muffler  with 
his  left  hand,  only  while  he  poured  his  liquor  in  with  his 
right  ;  as  soon  as  that  was  done,  he  muffled  again. 

"  No,  Jerry,  no  !"  said  the  messenger,  harping  on  one 
theme  as  he  rode.  "  It  wouldn't  do  for  you,  Jerry.  Jer- 
ry, you  honest  tradesman,  it  wouldn't  suit  your  line  of 
business  !  Recalled—  !  Bust  me  if  I  don't  think  he'd 
been  a  drinking  ! " 

His  message  perplexed  his  mind  to  that  degree  that  he 
was  fain,  several  times,  to  take  off  his  hat  to  scratch  his 
head.  Except  on  the  crown,  which  was  raggedly  bald, 
he  had  stiff,  black  hair,  standing  jaggedly  all  over  it,  and 
growing  downhill  almost  to  his  broad,  blunt  nose.  It 
was  so  like  smith's  work,  so  much  more  like  the  top  of  a 
strongly  spiked  wall  than  a  head  of  hair,  that  the  best  of 
players*  at  leap-frog  might  have  declined  him,  as  the  most 
dangerous  man  in  the  world  to  go  over. 

While  he  trotted  back  with  the  message  he  was  to  de- 
liver to  the  night  watchman  in  his  box  at  the  door  of 
Tellson's  Bank,  by  Temple-bar,  who  was  to  deliver  it  to 
greater  authorities  within,  the  shadows  of  the  night  took 
such  shapes  to  him  as  arose  out  of  the  message,  and  took 


346 


CHARLES  DIG  KEN 8'  WORKS. 


such  shapes  to  the  mare  as  arose  out  of  her  private  topics 
of  uneasiness.  They  seemed  to  be  numerous,  for  she 
shied  at  every  shadow  on  the  road. 

What  time,  the  mail-coach  lumbered,  jolted,  rattled, 
and  bumped  upon  its  tedious  way,  with  its  three  fellow 
inscrutables  inside.  To  whom,  likewise,  the  shadows  of 
the  night  revealed  themselves,  in  the  forms  their  dozing 
eyes  and  wandering  thoughts  suggested. 

Tellson's  Bank  had  a  run  upon  it  in  the  mail.  As  the 
bank  passenger —with  an  arm  drawn  through  the  leath- 
ern strap,  which  did  what  lay  in  it  to  keep  him  from 
pounding  against  the  next  passenger,  and  driving  him  in- 
to his  corner,  whenever  the  coach  got  a  special  jolt — 
nodded  in  his  place  with  half-shut  eyes,  the  little  coach- 
windows,  and  the  coach-lamp  dimly  gleaming  through 
them,  and  the  bulky  bundle  of  opposite  passenger,  be- 
came the  bank,  and  did  a  great  stroke  of  business.  The 
rattle  of  the  harness  was  the  chink  of  money,  and  more 
drafts  were  honoured  in  five  minutes  than  even  Tellson's, 
with  all  its  foreign  and  home  connexion,  ever  paid  in 
thrice  the  time.  Then  the  strong-rooms  underground,  at 
Tellson's,  with  such  of  their  valuable  stores  and  secrets 
as  were  known  to  the  passenger  (and  it  was  not  a  little 
that  he  knew  about  them),  opened  before  him,  and  he 
went  in  among  them  with  the  great  keys  and  the  feebly- 
burning  candle,  and  found  them  safe,  and  strong,  and 
sound,  and  still,  just  as  he  had  last  seen  them. 

Bur,  though  the  bank  was  almost  always  with  him, 
and  though  the  coach  (in  a  confused  way,  like  the  pres- 
ence of  pain  under  an  opiate)  was  always  with  him, 
there  was  another  current  of  impression  that  never 
ceased  to  run,  all  through  the  night.  He  was  on  his 
way  to  dig  some  one  out  of  a  grave. 

Now,  which  of  the  multitude  of  faces  that  showed 
themselves  before  him  was  the  true  face  of  the  buried 
person,  the  shadows  of  the  night  did  not  indicate  ;  but 
they  were  all  the  faces  of  a  man  of  five-and-forty  by 
years,  and  they  differed  principally  in  the  passions  they 
expressed,  and  in  the  ghastliness  of  their  worn  and 
wasted  state.  Pride,  contempt,  defiance,  stubbornness, 
submission,  lamentation,  succeeded  one  another  ;  so  did 
varieties  of  sunken  cheek,  cadaverous  colour,  emaciated 
hands  and  fingers.  But  the  face  was  in  the  main  one 
face,  and  every  head  was  prematurely  white.  A  hun- 
dred times  the  dozing  passenger  inquired  of  this  spectre  : 

"  Buried  how  long  ?  " 

The  answer  was  always  the  same  :  "  Almost  eighteen 
years. " 

"  You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out  ?  " 
"  Long  ago." 

"You  know  that  you  are  recalled  to  life  ?  " 

"  They  tell  me  so." 

*  *  I  hope  you  care  to  live  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say." 

"Shall  I  show  her  to  you?  Will  you  come  and  see 
her  ?  " 

The  answers  to  this  question  were  various  and  con- 
tradictory. Sometimes  the  broken  reply  was,  "  Wait ! 
It  would  kill  me  if  I  saw  her  too  soon."  Sometimes,  it 
was  given  in  a  tender  rain  of  tears,  and  then  it  was, 
"  Take  me  to  her."  Sometimes,  it  was  staring  and  be- 
wildered, and  then  it  was,  "I  don't  know  her.  I  don't 
understand." 

After  such  imaginary  discourse,  the  passenger  in  his 
fancy  would  dig,  and  dig,  dig— now,  with  a  spade,  now 
with  a  great  key,  now  with  his  hands — to  dig  this 
wretched  creature  out.  Got  out  at  last,  with  earth 
hanging  about  his  face  and  hair,  he  would  suddenly 
fall  away  to  dust.  The  passenger  would  then  start  to 
liimself,  and  lower  the  window,  to  get  the  reality  of 
mist  and  rain  on  his  cheek. 

Yet  even  when  his  eyes  were  opened  on  the  mist  and 
rain,  on  the  moving  patch  of  light  from  the  lamps,  and 
the  hedge  at  the  roadside  retreating  by  jerks,  the  night 
shadows  outside  the  coach  would  fall  into  the  train  of  the 
night  shadows  within.  The  real  Banking-house  by  Tem- 
ple-bar, the  real  business  of  the  past  day,  the  real  strong- 
rooms, the  real  express  sent  after  him,  and  the  real  mes- 
sage returned,  would  all  be  there.  Out  of  the  midst  of 
them,  the  ghostly  face  would  rise,  and  he  would  accost 
it  again. 

**  Buried  how  lo^g  ?  " 


"Almost  eighteen  years." 
"  I  hope  you  care  to  live  ?  " 
"  I  can't  say." 

Dig — dig—  dig — until  an  impatient  movement  from 
one  of  the  two  passengers  would  admonish  him  to  pull 
up  the  window,  draw  his  arm  securely  through  the 
leathern  strap,  and  speculate  upon  the  two  slumbering 
forms,  until  his  mind  lost  its  hold  of  them,  and  they 
again  slid  away  into  the  bank  and  the  grave. 

"  Buried  how  long  ?  " 

"Almost  eighteen  years." 

"  You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out  ?  " 
"  Long  ago." 

The  words  were  still  in  his  hearing  as  just  spoken — 
distinctly  in  his  hearing  as  ever  spoken  words  had  been 
in  his  life — when  the  weary  passenger  started  to  the 
consciousness  of  daylight,  and  found  that  the  shadows 
of  the  night  were  gone. 

He  lowered  the  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  rising 
sun.  .There  was  a  ridge  of  ploughed  land,  with  a  plough 
upon  it  where  it  had  been  left  last  night  when  the  horses 
were  unyoked  ;  beyond,  a  quiet  coppice-wood,  in  which 
many  leaves  of  burning  red  and  golden  yellow  still  re- 
mained upon  the  trees.  Though  the  earth  was  cold  and 
wet,  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  sun  rose  bright,  placid, 
and  beautiful. 

"  Eighteen  years  !  "  said  the  passenger,  looking  at  the 
sun.  "  Gracious  Creator  of  Day!  To  be  buried  alive 
for  eighteen  years  ! " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Preparation. 

When  the  mail  got  successfully  to  Dover,  in  the 
course  of  the  forenoon,  the  head-drawer  at  the  Royal 
George  Hotel  opened  the  coach-door  as  his  custom  was. 
He  did  it  with  some  flourish  of  ceremony,  for  a  mail 
journey  from  London  in  winter  was  an  achievement  to 
congratulate  an  adventurous  traveller  upon. 

By  that  time,  there  was  only  one  adventurous  traveller 
left  to  be  congratulated  ;  for  the  two  others  had  been 
set  down  at  their  respective  roadside  destinations.  The 
mildewy  inside  of  the  coach,  with  its  damp  and  dirty 
straw,  its  disagreeable  smell,  and  its  obscurity,  was 
rather  like  a  larger  dog-kennel.  Mr.  Lorry,  the  passen- 
ger, shaking  himself  out  of  it  in  chains  of  straw,  a  tangle 
of  shaggy  wrapper,  flapping  hat,  and  muddy  legs,  was 
rather  like  a  larger  sort  of  dog. 

"  There  will  be  a  packet  to  Calais  to-morrow%  drawer?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  the  weather  holds  and  the  wind  sets 
tolerable  fair.  The  tide  will  serve  pretty  nicely  at  about 
two  in  the  afternoon,  sir.    Bed,  sir  ?  " 

* '  I  shall  not  go  to  bed  till  night  ;  but  I  want  a  bed- 
room and  a  barber. 

"  And  then  breakfast,  sir?  Yes,  sir.  That  way,  sir, 
if  you  please.  Show  Concord  !  Gentleman's  valise  and 
hot  water  to  Concord.  Pull  off  gentleman's  boots  in 
Concord.  (You  will  find  a  fine  sea-coal  fire,  sir.)  Fetch 
barber  to  Concord.    Stir  about  there  now,  for  Concord  ! " 

The  Concord  bed-chamber  being  always  assigned  to  a. 
passenger  by  the  mail,  and  passengers  by  the  mail  being 
always  heavily  wrapped  up  from  head  to  foot,  the  room 
had  the  odd  interest  for  the  establishment  of  the  Royal 
George,  that  although  but  one  kind  of  man  was  seen  to 
go  into  it,  all  kinds  and  varieties  of  men  came  out  of  it. 
Consequently,  another  drawer,  and  two  porters,  and 
several  maids,  and  the  landlady,  were  all  loitering  by 
accident  at  various  points  of  the  road  between  the  Con- 
cord and  the  coffee-room,  when  a  gentleman  of  sixty, 
formally  dressed  in  a  brown  suit  of  clothes,  pretty  well 
worn,  but  very  well  kept,  with  large  square  cuffs  and 
large  flaps  to  the  pockets,  passed  along  on  his  way  to 
his  breakfast. 

The  coffee-room  had  no  other  occupant,  that  forenoon, 
than  the  gentleman  in  brown.  His  breakfast-table  was 
drawn  before  the  fire,  and  as  he  sat,  with  its  light  shining 
on  him,  waiting  for  his  meal,  he  sat  so  still,  that  he 
might  have  been  sitting  for  his  portrait. 

Very  orderly  and  methodical  he  looked,  with  a  hand 
on  each  knee,  and  a  loud  watch  ticking  a  sonorous  ser- 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


347 


mon  under  his  flapped  waistcoat,  as  though  it  pitted  its 
gravity  and  longevity  against  tlie  levity  and  evanescence 
of  the  brisk  fire.  He  had  a  g(M>d  leg,  and  was  a  little 
vain  of  it,  for  his  brown  stockings  fitted  sleek  and  close, 
and  were  of  a  fine  texture  ;  his  shoes  and  buckles,  too, 
thoua:h  plain,  were  trim.  He  wore  an  odd  little  sleek 
crisp  flaxen  wig,  setting  very  close  to  his  head  ;  which 
wig,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  was  made  of  hair,  but  which 
looked  far  more  as  though  it  were  spun  from  filaments 
of  silk  or  glass.  His  linen,  though  not  of  a  fineness  in 
accordance  with  his  stockings,  was  as  white  as  the  tops 
of  the  waves  that  broke  upon  the  neighbouring  beach, 
or  the  specks  of  sail  that  glinted  in  the  sunlight  far  at 
sea.  A  face  habitually  suppressed  and  quieted,  was  still 
lighted  up  under  the  quaint  wig  by  a  pair  of  moist  bright 
eyes  that  it  must  have  cost  their  owner,  in  years  gone 
by,  some  pains  to  drill  to  the  composed  and  reserved  ex- 
pression of  Tellson's  Bank.  He  had  a  healthy  colour  in 
his  cheeks,  and  his  face,  though  lined,  bore  few  traces 
of  anxiety.  But,  perhaps  the  confidential  bachelor  clerks 
in  Tellson's  Bank  were  principally  occupied  with  the 
cares  of  other  people  ;  and  perhaps  second-hand  cares, 
like  second-hand  clothes,  come  easily  off  and  on. 

Completing  his  resemblance  to  a  man  who  was  sitting 
for  his  portrait,  Mr.  Lorry  dropped  off  asleep.  The 
arrival  of  his  breakfast  roused  him,  and  he  said  to  the 
drawer,  as  he  moved  his  chair  to  it : 

I  wish  accommodation  prepared  for  a  young  lady 
who  may  come  here  at  any  time  to-day.    She  may  ask 
for  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry,  or  she  may  only  ask  for  a  gentleman 
from  Tellson's  Bank.    Please  to  let  me  know. " 
"  Yes,  sir.    Tellson's  Bank  in  Jjondon,  sir?" 
"Yes." 

"  Yes,  sir.-  We  have  oftentimes  the  honour  to  enter- 
tain your  gentlemen  in  their  travelling  backwards  and 
forwards  betwixt  London  and  Paris,  sir.  A  vast  deal  of 
travelling,  sir,  in  Tellson  and  Company's  House. " 

"Yes.  We  are  quite  a  French  house,  as  well  as  an 
English  one." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of  such  travel- 
ling yourself,  I  think,  sir?  " 

"  Not  of  late  years.  It  is  fifteen  years  since  we — since 
I — came  last  from  France." 

"Indeed,  sir?    That  was  before  my  time  here,  sir. 
Before  our  people's  time  here,  sir.    The  George  was  in 
other  hands  at  that  time,  sir." 
"  I  believe  so." 

' '  But  I  would  hold  a  pretty  wager,  sir,  that  a  House 
like  Tellson  and  Company  was  flourishing,  a  matter  of 
fifty,  not  to  speak  of  fifteen  years  ago  ?  " 

"  You  might  treble  that,  and  say  a  hundred  and  fifty, 
yet  not  be  far  from  the  truth." 
"  Indeed,  sir  !  " 

Rounding  his  mouth  and  both  his  eyes,  as  he  stepped 
backward  from  the  table,  the  waiter  shifted  his  napkin 
from  his  right  arm  to  his  left,  dropped  into  a  comforta- 
ble attitude,  and  stood  surveying  the  guest  while  he  ate 
and- drank,  as  from  an  observatory  or  watch-tower.  Ac- 
cording to  the  immemorial  usage  of  waiters  in  all  ages. 

When  Mr.  Lorry  had  finished  his  breakfast,  he  went 
out  for  a  stroll  on  the  beach.    The  little  narrow,  crooked 
town  of  Dover  hid  itself  away  from  the  beach,  and  ran 
its  head  into  the  chalk  cliffs,  like  a  marine  ostrich.  The 
beach  was  a  desert  of  heaps  of  sea  and  stones  tumbling 
I  wildly  about,  and  the  sea  did  what  it  liked,  and  what  it 
Hiked  was  destruction.    It  thundered  at  the  town,  and 
thundered  at  the  cliffs,  and  brought  the  coast  down, 
I  madly.    The  air  among  the  houses  was  of  so  strong  a 
|l  piscatory  flavour  that  one  might  have  supposed  sick  fish 
jiwent  up  to  be  dipped  in  it,  as  sick  people  went  down  to 
be  dipped  in  the  sea.    A  little  fishing  was  done  in  the 
port,  and  a  quantity  of  strolling  about  by  night,  and  look- 
ing seaward  ;  particularly  at  those  times  when  the  tide 
made,  and  was  near  flood.    Small  tradesmen,  who  did 
no  business  whatever,  sometimes  unaccountably  realized 
large  fortunes,  and  it  was  remarkable  that  nobody  in  the 
neighbourhood  could  endure  a  lamplighter. 

As  the  day  declined  into  the  afternoon,  and  the  air, 
which  had  been  at  intervals  clear  enough  to  allow  the 
French  coast  to  be  seen,  became  again  charged  with  mist 
and  vapour,  Mr.  Lorry's  thoughts  seemed  to  cloud  too. 
When  it  was  dark,  and  he  sat  before  the  coffee-room 


I  fire,  awaiting  his  dinner  as  he  had  awaited  his  break- 

I  fast,  his  mind  was  busily  digging,  digging,  digging,  in 

!  the  live  red  coals. 

A  bottle  of  good  claret  after  dinner  does  a  digger  in 
the  r(!d  coals  no  harm,  otherwise  than  as  it  has  a  ten- 

'  dency  to  throw  him  out  of  work.  Mr.  Lorry  had  been 
idle  a  long  time,  and  had  just  poured  out  his  last  glassful 
of  wine  with  as  complete  an  appearance  of  satisfaction 
as  is  ever  to  be  found  in  an  elderly  gentleman  of  a  fresh 
complexion  who  has  got  to  the  end  of  a  bottle,  when  a 
rattling  of  wheels  came  up  the  narrow  street,  and  rum- 
bled into  the  inn-yard. 

j  He  set  down  his  glass  untouched.  "This  is  mani'- 
j  selle  !  "  said  he. 

In  a  very  few  minutes  the  waiter  came  in,  to  announce 
[  that  Miss  Manette  had  arrived  from  London,  and  would 
be  happy  to  see  the  gentleman  from  Tellson's. 

"So  soon?" 

Miss  Manette  had  taken  some  refreshment  on  the 
road,  and  required  none  then,  and  was  extremely  anxious 
to  see  the  gentleman  from  Tellson's  immediately,  if  it 
suited  his  pleasure  and  convenience. 

The  gentleman  from  Tellson's  had  nothing  left  for  it 
but  to  empty  his  glass  with  an  air  of  stolid  desperation, 
settle  his  odd  little  flaxen  wig  at  the  ears,  and  follow  the 
waiter  to  Miss  Manette's  apartment.  It  was  a  large, 
dark  room,  furnished  in  a  funereal  manner  with  black 
horsehair,  and  loaded  with  heavy  dark  tables.  These 
had  been  oiled  and  oiled,  until  the  two  tall  candles  on 
the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  were  gloomily  re- 
flected on  every  leaf  ;  as  if  they  were  buried,  in  deep 
graves  of  black  mahogany,  and  no  light  to  speak  of 
could  be  expected  from  them  until  they  were  dug  out. 

The  obscurity  was  so  difficult  to  penetrate  that  Mr. 
Lorry  picking  his  way  over  the  well-worn  Turkey  car- 
pet, supposed  Miss  Manette  to  be,  for  the  moment,  in  some 
adjacent  room,  until,  having  got  past  the  two  tall  can- 
dles, he  saw  standing  to  receive  him  by  the  table  be- 
tween them  and  the  fire,  a  young  lady  of  not  more  than 
seventeen,  in  a  riding- cloak,  and  still  holding  her  straw 
travelling-hat  by  its  ribbon  in  her  hand.  As  his  eyes 
rested  on  a  short,  slight,  pretty  figure,  a  quantity  of 
golden  hair,  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  that  met  his  ovm  with 
an  inquiring  look,  and  a  forehead  with  a  singular  capac- 
ity (remembering  how  young  and  smooth  it  was),  of 
lifting  and  knitting  itself  into  an  expression  that  was  not 
quite  one  of  perplexity,  or  wonder,  or  alarm,  or  merely 
of  a  bright  fixed  attention,  though  it  included  all  the 
four  expressions — as  his  eyes  rested  on  these  things, 
a  sudden  vivid  likeness  passed  before  him,  of  a  child 
whom  be  had  held  in  his  arms  on  the  passage  across  that 
very  Channel,  one  cold  time,  when  the  hail  drifted  heav- 
ily and  the  sea  ran  high.  The  likeness  passed  away, 
say,  like  a  breath  along  the  surface  of  a  gaunt  pier  glass 
behind  her,  on  the  frame  of  which,  a  hospital  procession 
of  negro  cupids,  several  headless  and  all  cripples,  were 
offering  black  baskets  of  Dead  Sea  fruit  to  black  divini- 
ties of  the  feminine  gender — and  he  made  his  formal 
bow  to  Miss  Manette. 

"Pray  take  a  seat,  sir."  In  a  very  clear  and  pleasant 
young  voice  :  a  little  foreign  in  its  accent,  but  a  very 
little  indeed. 

"I  kiss  your  hand,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  the 
manners  of  an  earlier  date,  as  he  made  his  formal  bow 
again,  and  took  his  seat. 

"  I  received  a  letter  from  the  Bank,  sir,  yesterday, 
informing  me  that  some  intelligence — or  disco verv — " 

"  The  word  is  not  material,  miss  ;  either  word  will  do. " 

"—respecting  the  small  property  of  my  poor  father 
whom  I  never  saw — so  long  dead — " 

Mr.  Lorry  moved  in  his  chair,  and  cast  a  troubled  look 
towards  the  hospital  procession  of  negro  cupids.  As  if 
they  had  any  help  for  anybody  in  their  absurd  baskets  ! 

"—rendered  it  necessary  tiiat  I  should  go  to  Paris, 
there  to  communicate  with  a  gentleman  of  the  Bank,  so 
good  as  to  be  despatched  to  Paris  for  the  purpose. " 

"Myself." 

"  As  I  was  prepared  to  hear,  sir." 

She  curtseved  to  him  (young  ladies  made  curtseys  in 
these  days),  with  a  pretty  desire  to  convey  to  him  that 
she  felt  how  much  older  and  >viser  he  was  than  she. 
made  her  another  bow. 


He 


348 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


replied  to  the  Bank,  sir,  that  as  it  was  considered 
necessary,  by  those  who  know,  and  who  are  so  kind  as  to 
advise  me,  that  I  should  go  to  France,  and  that  as  I  am 
an  orphan  and  have  no  friend  who  could  go  with  me,  I 
should  esteem  it  highly  if  I  might  be  permitted  to  place 
myself  during  the  journey,  under  that  worthy  gentle- 
man's protection.  The  gentleman  had  left  London,  but 
I  think  a  messenger  was  sent  after  him  to  beg  the  favour 
of  his  waiting  for  me  here. " 

I  was  happy,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  to  be  entrusted  with 
the  charge.    I  shall  be  more  happy  to  execute  it." 

"  Sir,  T  thank  you  indeed.  I  thank  you  very  grate- 
fully. It  was  told  me  by  the  Bank  that  the  gentleman 
would  explain  to  me  the  details  of  the  business,  and 
that  I  must  prepare  myself  to  find  them  of  a  surprising 
nature.  I  have  done  my  best  to  prepare  myself,  and  I 
naturally  have  a  strong  and  eager  interest  to  know  what 
they  are. " 

"  Naturally,"  said  Mr.  Lorry.    "  Yes— I—" 
After  a  pause,  he  added,  again  settling  the  crisp  flaxen 
wig  at  the  ears  : 

"  It  is  very  difficult  to  begin." 

He  did  not  begin,  but,  in  his  indecision,  met  her 
glance.  The  young  forehead  lifted  itself  into  that  sin- 
gular expression — but  it  was  pretty  and  characteristic, 
besides  being  singular — and  she  raised  her  hand,  as  if 
with  an  involuntary  action  she  caught  at,  or  stayed,  some 
passing  shadow. 

"  Are  you  quite  a  stranger  to  me,  sir  ?  " 

"  Am  I  not?  "  Mr.  Lorry  opened  his  hands,  and  ex- 
tended them  outward  with  an  argumentative  smile. 

Between  the  eyebrows  and  just  over  the  little  feminine 
nose,  the  line  of  which  was  as  delicate  and  fine  as  it  was 
possible  to  be,  the  expression  deepened  itself  as  she  took 
her  seat  thoughtfully  in  the  chair  by  which  she  had 
hitherto  remained  standing.  He  watched  her  as  she 
mused,  and  the  moment  she  raised  her  eyes  again,  went 
on  : 

"  In  your  adopted  country,  I  presume,  I  cannot  do  bet- 
ter than  address  you  as  a  young  English  lady.  Miss 
Manette  ?  " 

If  you  please,  sir." 

"Miss  Manette,  I  am  a  man  of  business.  I  have  a 
business  charge  to  acquit  myself  of.  In  your  reception 
of  it,  don't  heed  me  any  more  than  if  I  was  a  speaking 
machine — truly,  I  am  not  much  else.  I  will,  with  your 
leave,  relate  to  you,  miss,  the  story  of  one  of  our  custo- 
mers." 

"  Story  !" 

He  seemed  wilfully  to  mistake  the  word  she  had  re- 
peated, when  he  added,  in  a  hurry,  "Yes,  customers  ; 
in  the  banking  business  we  usually  call  our  connexion 
our  customers.  He  was  a  French  gentleman  ;  a  scien- 
tific gentleman  ;  a  man  of  great  acquirements — a  doc- 
tor." 

"Not  of  Beauvais?" 

"  Why,  yes,  of  Beauvais.  Like  Monsieur  Manette, 
your  father,  the  gentleman  was  of  Beauvais.  Like 
Monsieur  Manette,  your  father,  the  gentleman  was  of 
repute  in  Paris.  1  had  the  honour  of  knowing  him  there. 
Our  relations  were  business  relations,  but  confidential. 
I  was  at  that  time  in  our  French  House,  and  had  been — 
oh  !  twenty  years." 

"  At  that  time — ^I  may  ask,  at  what  time,  sir  ?" 

"  I  speak,  miss,  of  twenty  years  ago.  He  married— an 
English  lady — and  I  was  one  of  the  trustees.  His  affairs, 
like  the  affairs  of  many  other  French  gentlemen  and 
French  families,  were  entirely  in  Tellson's  hands.  In  a 
similar  way,  I  am,  or  I  have  been,  trustee  of  one  kind  or 
other  for  scores  of  our  customers.  These  are  mere  busi- 
ness relations,  miss  ;  there  is  no  friendship  in  them,  no 
particular  interest,  nothing  like  sentiment.  I  have 
passed  from  one  to  another,  in  the  course  of  my  business 
life,  just  as  I  pass  from  one  of  our  customers  to  another 
in  the  course  of  my  business  day  ;  in  short,  I  have  no 
feelings  ;  I  am  a  mere  machine.    To  go  on — " 

"But  this  is  my  father's  story,  sir;  and  I  begin  to 
think  " — the  curiously  roughened  forehead  was  very  in- 
tent upon  him — "  that  when  I  was  left  an  orphan 
through  my  mother's  surviving  my  father  only  two 
years,  it  was  you  who  brought  me  to  England.  I  am 
almost  sure  it  was  you." 


Mr.  Lorry  took  the  hesitating  little  hand  that  confid- 
ingly advanced  to  take  his,  and  he  put  it  with  some 
ceremony  to  his  lips.  He  then  conducted  the  young  lady 
straightway  to  her  chair  again,  and,  holding  the  chair- 
back  with  his  left  hand,  and  using  his  right  by  turns  to 
rub  his  chin,  pull  his  wig  at  the  ears,  or  point  what  he 
said,  stood  looking  down  into  her  face  while  she  sat 
looking  up  into  his. 

"Miss  Manette,  it  was  I.  And  you  will  see  how  truly 
I  spoke  of  myself  just  now,  in  saying  I  had  no  feelings, 
and  that  all  the  relations  I  hold  with  my  fellow-creatures 
are  mere  business  relations,  when  you  reflect  that  I  have 
never  seen  you  since.  No  ;  you  have  been  the  ward  of 
Tellson's  House  since,  and  1  have  been  busy  with  the 
other  business  of  Tellson's  House  since.  Feelings  !  I 
have  no  time  for  them,  no  chance  of  them.  I  pass  my 
whole  life,  miss,  in  turning  an  immense  pecuniary  Man- 
gle." 

After  this  odd  description  of  his  daily  routine  of  em- 
ployment, Mr.  Lorry  flattened  his  flaxen  wig  upon  his 
head  with  both  hands  (which  was  most  unnecessary,  for 
nothing  could  be  flatter  than  its  shining  surface  was  be- 
fore), and  resumed  his  former  attitude. 

"  So  far,  miss  (as  you  have  remarked),  this  is  the  story 
of  your  regretted  father.  Now  comes  the  difference. 
If  your  father  had  not  died  when  he  did —  Don't  be 
frightened  !    How  you  start  I  " 

She  did,  indeed,  start.  And  she  caught  his  wrist  with 
both  her  hands. 

"Pray,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a  soothing  tone,  bringing 
his  left  hand  from  the  back  of  the  chair  to  lay  it  on  the 
supplicatory  fingers  that  clasped  him  in  so  violent  a 
tremble,  "  pray  control  your  agitation — a  matter  of 
business.    As  I  was  saying — " 

Her  look  so  discomposed  him  that  he  stopped,  wan- 
dered, and  began  anew : 

"  As  I  was  saying  ;  if  Monsieur  Manette  had  not  died  ; 
if  he  had  suddenly  and  silently  disappeared  ;  if  he  had 
been  spirited  away  ;  if  it  had  not  been  difficult  to  guess 
to  what  dreadful  place,  though  no  art  could  trace  him  ; 
if  he  had  an  enemy  in  some  compatriot  who  could  exer- 
cise a  privilege  that  I  in  my  own  time  have  known  the 
boldest  people  afraid  to  speak  of  in  a  whisper,  across 
the  water  there  ;  for  instance,  the  privilege  of  filling  up 
blank  forms  for  the  consignment  of  any  one  to  the  ob- 
livion of  a  prison  for  any  length  of  time  ;  if  his  wife 
had  implored  the  king,  the  queen,  the  court,  the  clergy, 
for  any  tidings  of  him,  and  all  quite  in  vain ;  then  the 
history  of  your  father  would  have  been  the  history  of 
this  unfortunate  gentleman,  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais." 

"  I  entreat  you  to  tell  me  more,  sir." 

"  I  will.    I  am  going  to.    You  can  bear  it?" 

"  I  can  bear  anything  but  the  uncertainty  you  leave 
me  in  at  this  moment." 

"  You  speak  collectedly,  and  you — are  collected. 
That's  good  !  "  (Though  his  manner  was  less  satisfied 
than  his  words.)  "A  matter  of  business.  Regard  it  as 
a  matter  of  business — business  that  must  be  done.  Now, 
if  this  Doctor's  wife,  though  a  lady  of  great  courage  and 
spirit,  had  suffered  so  intensely  from  this  cause  before 
her  little  child  was  born — " 

"The  little  child  was  a  daughter,  sir," 

"  A  daughter.  A — a — matter  of  business — don't  be 
distressed.  Miss,  if  the  poor  lady  had  suffered  so  in- 
tensely before  her  little  child  was  born,  that  she  came 
to  the' determination  of  sparing  the  poor  child  the  in- 
heritance of  any  part  of  the  agony  she  had  known  the 
pains  of,  by  rearing  her  in  the  belief  that  her  father  was 
dead —  No,  don't  kneel  !  In  Heaven's  name  why  should 
you  kneel  to  me  !  " 

"For  the  truth.  O  dear,  good,  compassionate  sir,  for 
the  truth  ! " 

"  A — a  matter  of  business.  You  confuse  me,  and  how 
can  I  transact  business  if  I  am  confused?  Let  us  be 
clear-headed.  If  you  could  kindly  mention  now,  for  in- 
stance, what  nine  times  ninepence  are,  or  how  many 
shillings  in  twenty  guineas,  it  would  be  so  encouraging. 
I  should  be  so  much  more  at  my  ease  about  your  state  of 
mind." 

Without  directly  answering  to  this  appeal,  she  sat  so 
still  when  he  had  very  gently  raised  her,  and  the  hands 
that  had  not  ceased  to  clasp  his  wrists  were  so  jnuch 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


349 


more  steady  than  they  had  been,  that  she  communicated 
some  reassurance  to  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

"That's  right,  that's  right.  Courage!  Business! 
You  have  business  before  you  ;  useful  business.  Miss 
Manette,  your  mothei^took  this  course  with  you.  And 
when  she  died — I  believe,  broken-hearted — having  never 
slackened  her  unavailing  search  for  your  father,  she  left 
you,  at  two  years  old,  to  grow  to  be  blooming,  beautiful, 
and  happy,  without  the  dark  cloud  upon  you  of  living 
in  uncertainty  whether  your  father  soon  wore  his  heart 
out  in  prison,  or  wasted  there  through  many  lingering 
years. " 

As  he  said  the  words,  he  looked  down,  with  an  admir- 
ing pity,  on  the  flowing  golden  hair  ;  as  if  he  pictured 
to  himself  that  it  might  have  been  already  tinged  with 
grey. 

"  You  know  that  your  parents  had  no  great  posses- 
sion, and  that  what  they  had  was  secured  to  your  mother 
and  to  you.  There  has  been  no  new  discovery,  of  money, 
or  of  any  other  property  ;  but — " 

He  felt  his  wrist  held  closer,  and  he  stopped.  The 
expression  in  the  forehead,  which  had  so  particularly  at- 
tracted his  notice,  and  which  was  now  immovable,  had 
deepened  into  one  of  pain  and  horror. 

*'  But  he  has  been — been  found.  He  is  alive.  Greatly 
changed  it  is  too  probable  ;  almost  a  wreck,  it  is  possi- 
ble ;  though  we  will  hope  the  best.  Still,  alive.  Your 
father  has  been  taken  to  the  house  of  a»  old  servant  in 
Paris,  and  we  are  going  there  :  I,  to  identify  him,  if  I 
can  :  you,  to  restore  him  to  life,  love,  duty,  rest,  com- 
fort." 

A  shiver  ran  through  her  frame,  and  from  it  through 
his.  She  said,  in  a  low,  distinct,  awe-stricken  voice,  as 
if  she  were  saying  it  in  a  dream, 

I  am  going  to  see  his  Ghost  !  It  will  be  his  Ghost — 
not  him ! " 

Mr.  Lorry  quietly  chafed  the  hands  that  held  his  arm. 
*'  There,  there,  there  !  See  now,  see  now  !  The  best 
and  the  worst  are  known  to  you  now.  You  are  well  on 
your  way  to  the  poor  wronged  gentleman,  and,  with  a 
fair  sea  voyage,  and  a  fair  land  journey,  you  will  be 
soon  at  his  dear  side." 

She  repeated  in  the  same  tone,  sunk  to  a  whisper,  **  I 
have  been  free,  I  have  been  happy,  yet  his  Ghost  has 
never  haunted  me  !  " 

**  Only  one  thing  more,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  laying  stress 
upon  it  as  a  wholesome  means  of  enforcing  her  atten- 
tion :  "he  has  been  found  under  another  name  ;  his  own, 
long  forgotten  or  long  concealed.  It  would  be  worse 
than  useless  now  to  inquire  which  ;  worse  than  useless 
to  seek  to  know  whether  he  has  been  for  years  over- 
looked, or  al  ways  designedly  held  prisoner.  It  would  be 
worse  than  useless  now  to  make  any  inquiries,  because 
it  would  be  dangerous.  Better  not  to  mention  the  sub- 
ject, anywhere  or  in  any  way,  and  to  remove  him — for  a 
while  at  all  events — out  of  France.  Even  I,  safe  as  an 
Englishman,  and  even  Tellson's,  important  as  they  are 
to  French  credit,  avoid  all  naming  of  the  matter.  I 
carry  about  me,  not  a  scrap  of  writing  openly  referring 
to  it.  This  is  a  secret  service  altogether.  My  creden- 
tials, entries,  and  memoranda,  are  all  comprehended  in 
the  one  line,  *  Recalled  to  Life  ;'  wbich  may  mean  any- 
thing. But  what  is  the  matter  !  She  doesn't  notice  a 
word  I    Miss  Manette  !  " 

Perfectly  still  and  silent,  and  not  even  fallen  back  in 
her  chair,  she  sat  under  his  hand,  utterly  insensible  ; 
with  her  eyes  open  and  fixed  upon  him,  and  with  that 
last  expression  looking  as  if  it  were  carved  or  branded 
into  her  forehead.  So  close  was  her  hold  upon  his 
arm,  that  he  feared  to  detatch  himself  lest  he  should 
hurt  her  ;  therefore  he  called  out  loudly  for  assistance 
without  moving. 

A  wild-looking  woman,  whom  even  in  his  agitation 
Mr.  Lorry  observed  to  be  all  of  a  red  colour,  and  to  have 
red  hair,  and  to  be  dressed  in  some  extraordinary  tight- 
fitting  fashion,  and  to  have  on  her  head  a  most  wonder- 
ful bonnet  like  a  Grenadier  wooden  measure,  and  good 
measure  too,  or  a  great  Stilton  cheese,  came  running 
into  the  room  in  advance  of  the  inn  servants,  and  soon 
,  settled  the  question  of  his  detachment  from  the  poor 
young  lady,  by  laying  a  brawny  hand  upon  his  chest, 
!  and  sending  him  flying  back  against  the  nearest  wall. 


("  I  really  think  this  must  be  a  man  !  "  was  Mr.  Lor- 
ry's breathless  reflection,  simultaneously  with  his  com- 
ing against  the  wall.) 

"  Why,  look  at  you  all  I"  bawled  this  figure,  address- 
ing the  inn  servants.  "  Why  don't  y(,>u  go  and  fetch 
things,  instead  of  standing  there  staring  at  me  ?  I  am 
not  so  much  to  look  at,  am  I?  Why  don't  you  go  and 
fetch  things?  I'll  let  you  know,  if  you  don't  bring 
smelling-salts,  cold  water,  and  vinegar,  quick,  I  will  !  '* 

There  was  an  immediate  dispersal  for  these  rest<^)ra- 
tives,  and  she  softly  laid  the  patient  on  a  sofa,  and 
tended  her  with  great  skill  and  gentleness  :  calling  her 
"my  precious  \  "  and  "my  bird!"  and  spreading  her 
golden  hair  aside  over  her  shoulders  with  great  pride 
and  care. 

"  And  you  in  brown  !"  she  said,  indignantly  turning- 
to  Mr.  Lorry  ;  "couldn't  you  tell  her  what  you  had  to 
tell  her,  without  frightening  her  to  death  ?  Look  at  her, 
with  her  pretty  pale  face  and  her  cold  hands.  Do  you 
call  that  being  a  Banker  ?" 

Mr.  Lorry  was  so  exceedingly  disconcerted  by  a  ques- 
tion so  hard  to  answer,  that  he  could  only  look  on,  at  a 
distance,  with  much  feebler  sympathy  and  humility, 
while  the  strong  woman,  having  banished  the  inn  ser- 
vants under  the  mysterious  penalty  of  "letting  them 
know  "  something  not  mentioned  if  they  stayed  there, 
staring,  recover  her  charge  by  a  regular  series  of  grada- 
tions, and  coaxed  her  to  lay  her  drooping  head  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"I  hope  she  will  do  well  now,"  said  Mr.  Lorry. 
"  No  thanks  to  you  in  brown,  if  she  does.   My  darling- 
pretty  ! 

"  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  after  another  pause  of  fee- 
ble sympathy  and  humility,  "  that  you  accompany  Miss 
Manette  to  France  ?  " 

"A  likely  thing,  too!"  replied  the  strong  woman. 
"  If  it  was  ever  intended  that  I  should  go  across  salt 
water,  do  you  suppose  Providence  would  have  cast  my 
lot  in  an  island  ?  " 

This  being  another  question  hard  to  answer,  Mr.  Jarvis 
Lorry  withdrew  to  consider  it. 


CHAPTER  V, 

The  Wine-shop. 

A  LARGE  cask  of  wine  had  been  dropped  and  broken, 
in  the  street.  The  accident  had  happened  in  getting  it 
out  of  a  cart ;  the  cask  had  tumbled  out  with  a  run, 
the  hoops  had  burst,  and  it  lay  on  the  stones  just  out- 
side the  door  of  the  wine-shop,  shattered  like  a  walnut- 
shell. 

All  the  people  within  reach  had  suspended  their  busi- 
ness, or  their  idleness,  to  run  to  the  spot  and  drink  the 
wine.  The  rough,  irregular  stones  of  the  street,  point- 
ing every  way,  and  designed,  one  might  have  thought, 
expressly  to  lame  all  living  creatures  that  approached 
them,  had  dammed  it  into  little  pools  ;  these  were  sur- 
rounded, each  by  its  own  jostling  group  or  crowd,  ac- 
cording to  its  size.  Some  men  kneeled  down,  made 
scoops  of  their  two  hands  joined,  and  sipped,  or  tried  to 
help  women,  who  bent  over  their  shoulders,  to  sip,  be- 
fore the  wine  had  all  run  out  between  their  fingers. 
Others,  men  and  women,  dipped  in  the  puddles  with  lit- 
tle mugs  of  multilated  earthenware,  or  even  with  hand- 
kerchiefs from  women's  heads,  which  were  squeezed 
dry  into  infants'  mouths  ;  others  made  small  mud-em- 
bankments, to  stem  the  wine  as  it  ran  :  others,  directed 
by  lookers-on  up  at  high  windows,  darted  here  and  there, 
to  cut  off  little  streams  of  wine  that  started  away  in  new 
directions  ;  others,  devoted  themselves  to  the  sodden 
and  lee-dyed  pieces  of  the  cask,  licking,  and  even  champ- 
ing the  moister  wine-rotted  fragments  with  eager  rehsh. 
There  was  no  drainage  to  carry  off  the  \Wne.  and  not 
only  did  it  all  get  taken  up,  but  so  much  mud  got  taken 
up  along  with  it,  that  there  might  have  been  a  scaven- 
ger in  the  street,  if  anybody  acquainted  with  it  could 
have  believed  in  such  a  miraculous  presence. 

A  shrill  sound  of  laughter  and  of  amused  voic^ — 
voices  of  men,  women,  and  children — resounded  in  the 


350 


CHARLES  DIGKEN8'  WORKS. 


street  wMle  this  wine-game  lasted.  There  was  little 
roughness  in  the  sport,  and  much  playfulness.  There  was 
a  special  companionship  in  it,  an  observable  inclination 
on  the  part  of  every  one  to  join  some  other  one,  which  led, 
especially  among  the  luckier  or  lighter-hearted,  to  frolic- 
some embraces,  drinking  of  healths,  shaking  of  hands, 
and  even  joining  of  hands  and  dancing,  a  dozen  together. 
When  the  wine  was  gone,  and  the  places  where  it  had 
been  most  abundant  were  raked  into  a  gridiron-pattern  by 
fingers,  these  demonstrations  ceased,  as  suddenly  as  they 
had  broken  out.  The  man  who  had  left  his  saw  sticking 
in  the  fire- wood  he  was  cutting,  set  it  in  motion  again  ; 
the  woman  who  had  left  on  a  door  step  the  little  pot  of 
hot-ashes,  at  which  she  had  been  trying  to  soften  the 
pain  in  her  own  starved  fingers  and  toes,  or  in  those  of 
her  child,  returned  to  it ;  men  with  bare  arms,  matted 
locks,  and  cadaverous  faces,  who  had  emerged  into  the 
winter  light  from  cellars,  moved  away  to  descend  again  ; 
and  a  gloom  gathered  on  the  scene  that  appeared  more 
natural  to  it  than  sunsliine. 

The  wine  was  red  wine,  and  had  stained  the  ground  of 
the  narrow  street  in  the  suburb  of  Saint  Antoine,  in 
Paris,  where  it  was  spilled.  It  had  stained  many  hands, 
too,  and  many  faces,  and  many  naked  feet,  and  many 
wooden  shoes.  The  hands  of  the  man  who  sawed  the 
wood.left  red  marks  on  the  billets  ;  and  the  forehead  of  the 
woman  who  nursed  her  baby,  was  stained  with  the  stain 
of  the  old  rag  she  wound  about  her  head  again.  Those 
who  had  been  greedy  with  the  staves  of  the  cask,  had 
acquired  a  tigerish  smear  about  the  mouth  ;  and  one  tall 
joker  so  besmirched,  his  head  more  out  of  a  long  squalid 
bag  of  a  nightcap  than  in  it,  scrawled  upon  a  wall  with 
his  finger  dipped  in  muddy  wine  lees — Blood. 

The  time  was  to  come,  when  that  wine  too  would  be 
spilled  on  the  street-stones,  and  when  the  stain  of  it 
would  be  red  upon  many  there. 

And  now  that  the  cloud  settled  on  Saint  Antoine,  which 
a  momentary  gleam  had  driven  from  his  sacred  counte- 
nance, the  darkness  of  it  was  heavy — cold,  dirt,  sickness, 
ignorance,  and  want,  were  the  lords  in  waiting  on  the 
saintly  presence — nobles  of  great  power  all  of  them;  but, 
most  especially  the  last.  Samples  of  a  people  that  had 
undergone  a  terrible  grinding  and  regrinding  in  the  mill, 
and  certainly  not  in  the  fabulous  mill  which  ground  old 
people  young,  shivered  at  every  corner,  passed  in  and 
out  at  every  doorway,  looked  from  every  window,  flut- 
tered in  every  vestige  of  a  garment  that  the  wind  shook. 
The  mill  which  had  worked  them  down,  was  the  mill 
that  grinds  young  people  old  ;  the  children  "had  ancient 
faces  and  grave  voices  ;  and  upon  them,  and  upon  the 
grown  faces,  and  ploughed  into  every  furrow  of  age  and 
coming  up  afresh,  was  the  sign,  Hunger.  It  was  preva- 
lent everywhere.  Hunger  was  pushed  out  of  the  tall 
liouses,  in  the  wretched  clothing  that  hung  upon  poles 
•and  lines  ;  Hunger  was  patched  into  them  with  straw 
and  rag  and  wood  and  paper  ;  Hunger  was  repeated  in 
every  fragment  of  the  small  modicum  of  firewood  that 
the  man  sawed  off  ;  Hunger  stared  down  from  the  smoke- 
less chimneys,  and  started  up  from  the  filthy  street  that 
had  no  offal,  among  its  refuse,  of  anything  to  eat.  Hun- 
ger was  the  inscription  on  the  baker's  shelves,  written  in 
every  small  loaf  of  his  scanty  stock  of  bad  bread  ;  at  the 
sausage-shop,  in  every  dead  dog  preparation  that  wa^ 
offered  for  sale.  liunger  rattled  its  dry  bones  among  the 
roasting  chestnuts  in  the  turned  cylinder  ;  Hunger  was 
shred  into  atomies  in  every  farthing  porringer  of  husky 
chips  of  potato,  fried  with  some  reluctant  drops  of  oil. 

Its  abiding-place  was  in  all  things  fitted  to  it.  A 
narrow  winding  street,  full  of  offence  and  stench,  with 
other  narrow  winding  streets  diverging,  all  peopled  by 
rags  and  nightcaps,  and  all  smelling  of  rags  and  night- 
caps, and  all  visible  things  with  a  brooding  look  upon 
them  that  looked  ill.  In  the  hunted  air  of  the  people 
there  was  yet  some  wild- beast  thought  of  the  possibility 
of  turning  at  bay.  Depressed  and  slinking  though  they 
were,  eyes  of  fire  were  not  wanting  among  them  ;  nor 
compressed  lip,  white  with  what  they  suppressed  ;  nor 
foreheads  knitted  into  the  likeness  of  the  gallows-rope 
they  mused  about  enduring,  or  inflicting.  The  trade- 
signs  (and  they  were  almost  as  many  as  the  shops),  were, 
all,  grim  illustrations  of  Want.  The  butcher  and  the 
porkman  painted  up,  only  the  leanest  scrags  of  meat ; 


the  baker,  the  coarsest  of  meagre  loaves.  The  people 
rudely  pictured  as  drinking  in  the  wine-shops,  croaked 
over  their  scanty  measures  of  thin  wine  and  beer,  and 
were  gloweringly  confidential  together.  Nothing  was 
represented  in  a  flourishing  condition,  save  tools  and 
weapons  ;  but,  the  cutler's  knives  and  axes  were  sharp 
and  bright,  the  smith's  hammers  were  heavy,  and  the 
gunmaker's  stock  was  murderous.  The  crippling  stones 
of  the  pavement,  with  their  many  little  reservoirs  of  mud 
and  water,  had  no  footways,  but  broke  off  abruptly  at 
the  doors.  The  kennel,  to  make  amends,  ran  down 'the 
middle  of  the  street— when  it  ran  at  all  :  which  was 
only  after  heavy  rains,  and  then  it  ran,  by  many  eccentric 
fits,  into  the  houses.  Across  the  streets,  at  wide  inter- 
vals, one  clumsy  lamp  was  slung  by  a  rope  and  pully  : 
at  night,  when  the  lamplighter  had  let  these  down,  and 
lighted,  and  hoisted  them  again,  a  feeble  grove  of  dim 
wicks  swung  in  a  sickly  manner  overhead,  as  if  they 
were  at  sea.  Indeed  they  were  at  sea,  and  the  ship  and 
crew  were  in  peril  of  tempest. 

For,  the  time  was  to  come,  when  the  gaunt  scarecrows 
of  that  region  should  have  watched  the  lamplighter,  in 
their  idleness  and  hunger,  so  long,  as  to  conceive  the 
idea  of  improving  on  his  method,  and  hauling  up  men  by 
those  ropes  and  pulleys,  to  flare  upon  the  darkness  of  their 
condition.  But,  the  time  was  not  come  yet ;  and  every 
wind  that  blew  over  France  shook  the  rags  of  the  scare- 
crows in  vain,  :^r  the  birds,  fine  of  song  and  feather, 
took  no  warning. 

The  wine-shop  was  a  corner  shop,  better  than  most 
others  in  its  appearance  and  degree,  and  the  master  of 
the  wine-shop  had  stood  outside  it,  in  a  yellow  waist- 
coat and  green  breeches,  looking  on  at  the  struggle  for 
the  lost  wine.  "  It's  not  my  affair,"  said  he,  with  a  final 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "  The  people  from  the  market 
did  it.    Let  them  bring  another." 

"  There,  his  eyes  happening  to  catch  the  tall  joker 
writing  up  his  joke,  he  called  to  him  across  the  way  : 

"  Say,  then,  my  Gaspard,  what  do  you  do  there  ?  " 

The  fellow  pointed  to  his  joke  with  immense  signifi- 
cance, as  is  often  the  way  with  his  tribe.  It  missed  its 
mark,  and  completely  failed,  as  is  often  the  way  with 
his  tribe  too. 

What  now  ?  Are  you  a  subject  for  the  mad-hospi- 
tal ?  "  said  the  wine-shop  keeper,  crossing  the  road,  and 
obliterating  the  jest  with  a  handful  of  mud,  picked  up 
for  the  purpose,  and  smeared  over  it.  "  Why  do  you 
write  in  the  public  streets  ?  Is  there — tell  me  thou — is 
there  no  other  place  to  write  such  words  in  ?  " 

In  his  expostulation  he  dropped  his  cleaner  hand  (per- 
haps accidentally,  perhaps  not),  upon  the  joker's  heart. 
The  joker  rapped  with  his  own,  took  a  nimble  spring 
upward,  and  came  down  in  a  fantastic  dancing  attitude, 
with  one  of  his  stained  shoes  jerked  off  his  foot  into  his 
hand,  and  held  out.  A  joker  of  an  extremely,  not  to  say 
wolfishly,  practical  character,  he  looked,  under  those  cir- 
cumstances. 

"  Put  it  on,  put  it  on,"  said  the  other.  "Call  wine, 
wine  ;  and  finish  there."  With  that  advice,  he  wiped 
his  soiled  hand  upon  the  joker's  dress,  such  as  it  was — 
quite  deliberately,  as  having  dirtied  the  hand  on  his  ac- 
count ;  and  then  re-crossed  the  road  and  entered  the 
wine  shop. 

The  wine-shop  keeper  was  a  bull -necked,  martial- 
looking  man  of  thirty,  and  he  should  have  been  of  a  hot 
temperament,  for,  although  it  was  a  bitter  day,  he  wore 
no  coat,  but  carried  one  slung  over  his  shoulder.  His 
shirt-sleeves  were  rolled  up,  too,  and  his  brown  arms 
were  bare  to  the  elbows.  Neither  did  he  wear  anything 
more  on  his  head  than  his  own  crisply-curling  short  dark 
hair.  He  was  a  dark  man  altogether,  with  good  eyes 
and  a  good  bold  breadth  between  them.  Good-hu- 
moured-looking on  the  whole,  but  implacable-looking, 
too ;  evidently  a  man  of  a  strong  resolution  and  a  set 
purpose  ;  a  man  not  desirable  to  be  met  rushing  down  a 
narrow  pass  with  a  gulf  on  either  side,  for  nothing 
would  turn  the  man. 

Madame  Defarge,  his  wife,  sat  in  the  shop  behind  the 
counter  as  he  came  in.  Madame  Defarge  was  a  stout 
woman  of  about  his  own  age,  with  a  watchful  eye  that 
seldom  seemed  to  look  at  anything,  a  large  hand  heavily 
ringed,  a  steady  face,  strong  features,  and  great  com- 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


351 


posure  of  manner.  There  was  a  character  about  Madame 
Defarge,  from  which  one  might  have  predicated  that  she 
did  not  often  make  mistakes  against  herself  in  any  of 
the  reckonings  over  which  she  presided.  Madame  De- 
farge  being  sensitive  to  cold,  was  wrapped  in  fur,  and 
had  a  quantity  of  bright  shawl  twined  about  her  head, 
though  not  to  the  concealment  of  her  large  ear-rings. 
Her  knitting  was  before  her,  but  she  had  laid  it  down  to 
pick  her  teeth  with  a  tooth-pick.  Thus  engaged,  with 
her  right  elbow  supported  by  her  left  hand,  Madame  De- 
farge  said  nothing  when  her  lord  came  in,  but  coughed 
just  one  grain  of  cough.  This,  in  combination  with  the 
lifting  of  her  darkly  defined  eyebrows  over  her  toothpick 
by  the  breadth  of  a  line,  suggested  to  her  husband  that 
he  would  do  well  to  look  round  the  shop  among  the  cus- 
tomers, for  any  new  customer  who  had  dropped  in  while 
he  stepped  over  the  way. 

The  wine-shop  keeper  accordingly  rolled  his  eyes 
about,  until  they  rested  upon  an  elderly  gentleman  and 
a  young  lady,  who  were  seated  in  a  corner.  Other  com- 
pany were  there  : .  two  playing  cards,  two  playing  domi- 
noes, three  standing  by  the  counter  lengthening  out  a 
short  supply  of  wine.  As  he  passed  behind  the  counter, 
he  took  notice  that  the  elderly  gentleman  said  in  a  look 
to  the  young  lady,  "  This  is  our  man." 

"  What  the  deVil  do  you  do  in  that  galley  there  !"  said 
Monsieur  Defarge  to  himself  ;  "I  don't  know  you." 

But  he  feigned  not  to  notice  the  two  strangers,  and 
fell  into  discourse  with  the  triumvirate  of  customers  who 
were  drinking  at  the  counter. 

"  How  goes  it,  Jacques  ?  "  said  one  of  these  three  to 
Monsieur  Defarge.    "Is  all  the  spilt  wine  swallowed?" 

"Every  drop,  Jacques,"  answered  Monsieur  Defarge. 

When  this  interchange  of  christian  name  was  effected, 
Madame  Defarge,  picking  her  teeth  with  her  toothpick, 
coughed  another  grain  of  cough,  and  raised  her  eyebrows 
by  the  breadth  of  another  line. 

"It  is  not  often,"  said  the  second  of  the  three,  ad- 
dressing Monsieur  Defarge,  "that  many  of  these  miser- 
able beasts  know  the  taste  of  wine,  or  of  anything  but 
black  bread  and  death.    Is  it  not  so,  Jacques  ?  " 

"  It  is  so,  Jacques,"  Monsieur  Defarge  returned. 

At  this  second  interchange  of  the  christian  name,  Ma- 
dame Defarge,  still  using  her  toothpick  with  profound 
composure,  coughed  another  grain  of  cough,  and  raised 
her  eyebrows  by  the  breadth  of  another  line. 

The  last  of  the  three  now  said  his  say,  as  he  put  down 
liis  empty  drinking  vessel  and  smacked  his  lips. 

"  Ah  !  So  much  the  worse  !  A  bitter  taste  it  is  that 
such  poor  cattle  always  have  in  their  mouths,  and  hard 
lives  they  live,  Jacques.    Am  I  right,  Jacques  ?  " 

"Yon  are  right,  Jacques,"  was  the  response  of  Mon- 
sieur Defarge. 

This  third  interchange  of  the  christian  name  was  com- 
pleted at  the  moment  when  Madame  Defarge  put  her 
toothpick  by,  kept  her  eyebrows  up,  and  slightly  rustled 
in  her  seat. 

"  Hold  then  !  True  ! "  muttered  her  husband.  "  Gen- 
tlemen— my  wife  !  " 

The  three  customers  pulled  off  their  hats  to  Madame 
Defarge,  with  three  flourishes.  She  acknowledged  their 
homage  by  bending  her  head,  and  giving  them  a  quick 
look.  Then  she  glanced  in  a  casual  manner  round  the 
wine-shop,  took  up  her  knitting  with  great  apparent 
calmness  and  repose  of  spirit,  and  became  absorbed  in  it. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  her  husband,  who  had  kept  his 
bright  eye  observantly  upon  her,  "good  day.  The 
chamber,  furnished  bachelor-fashion,  that  you  wished  to 
see,  and  were  inquiring  for  when  I  stepped  out,  is  on 
the  fifth  floor.  The  doorway  of  the  staircase  gives  on 
the  little  court-yard  close  to  the  left  here,"  pointing 
with  his  hand,  "near  to  the  window  of  my  establish- 
ment. But,  now  that  I  remember,  one  of  you  has  already 
been  there,  and  can  show  the  way.  Gentlemen,  adieu  I  " 

They  paid  for  their  wine,  and  left  the  place.  The  eyes 
of  Monsieur  Defarge  were  studying  his  wife  at  her 
knitting,  when  the  elderly  gentleman  advanced  from  his 
comer,  and  begged  the  favour  of  a  word. 

"Willingly,  sir,"  said  Monsieur  Defarge,  and  quietly 
stepped  with  him  to  the  door. 

Their  conference  was  very  short,  but  very  decided. 
Almost  at  the  first  word.  Monsieur  Defarge  started  and 


became  deeply  attentive.  It  had  not  lasted  a  minute, 
when  he  nodded  and  went  out.  The  gentleman  then 
Ixickoned  to  the  young  lady,  and  they,  too,  went  umx.. 
Madame  Defarge  knitted  with  nimble  fingers  and  steady 
eyebrows,  and  saw  nothing. 

Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  and  Miss  Manette,  emerging  from 
the  wine-shop  thus,  joined  Monsieur  Defarge  in  the  door- 
way to  which  he  had  directed  his  other  company  just 
before.  It  opened  from  a  stinking  little  black  court- 
yard, and  was  the  general  public  entrance  to  a  great 
pile  of  houses,  inhabited  by  a  great  number  of  people. 
In  the  gloomy  tile-paved  entry  to  the  gloomy  tile-paved 
staircase.  Monsieur  Defarge  bent  down  on  one  knee  to 
the  child  of  his  old  master,  and  put  her  hand  to  his  lips. 
It  was  a  gentle  action,  but  not  at  all  gently  done  ;  a  very 
remarkable  transformation  had  come  over  him  in  a  few 
seconds.  He  had  no  good  humour  in  his  face,  nor  any 
openness  of  aspect  left,  but  had  become  a  secret,  angry, 
dangerous  man. 

"  It  is  very  high  ;  it  is  a  little  difficult.  Better  to  be- 
gin slowly."  Thus,  Monsieur  Defarge,  in  a  stem  voice, 
to'Mr.  Lorry,  as  they  began  ascending  the  stairs. 

"  Is  he  alone  ?  "  the  latter  whispered. 

"Alone  !  God  help  him  who  should  be  with  him  !" 
said  the  other,  in  the  same  low  voice. 

"  Is  he  always  alone,  then  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Of  his  own  desire  ?  " 

"Of  his  own  necessity.  As  he  was  when  I  first  saw 
him  after  they  found  me  and  demanded  to  know  if  I 
would  take  him,  and,  at  my  peril  be  discreet — as  he  was 
then,  so  he  is  now." 

"  He  is  greatly  changed  ?  " 

"Changed  !" 

The  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  stopped  to  strike  the 
wall  with  his  hand,  and  mutter  a  tremendous  curse. 
No  direct  answer  could  have  been  half  so  forcible.  Mr. 
Lorry's  spirits  grew  heavier  and  heavier,  as  he  and  his 
two  companions  ascended  higher  and  higher. 

Such  a  staircase,  with  its  accessories,  in  the  older  and 
more  crowded  parts  of  Paris,  would  be  bad  enough  now  ; 
but,  at  that  time,  it  was  vile  indeed  to  unaccustomed 
and  unhardened  senses.  Every  little  habitation  within 
the  great  foul  nest  of  one  high  building — that  is  to  say, 
the  room  or  rooms  within  every  door  that  opened  on  the 
general  staircase — left  its  own  heap  of  refuse  on  its  own 
landing,  besides  flinging  other  refuse  from  its  own  win- 
dows. The  uncontrollable  and  hopeless  mass  of  decom- 
position so  engendered,  would  have  polluted  the  air, 
even  if  poverty  and  deprivation  had  not  loaded  it  with 
their  intangible  impurities  ;  the  two  bad  sources  com- 
bined made  it  almost  insupportable.  Through  such  an 
atmosphere,  by  a  steep  dark  shaft  of  dirt  and  poison,  the 
way  lay.  Yielding  to  his  own  disturbance  of  mind,  and 
to  his  young  companion's  agitation,  which  became  greater 
every  instant,  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  twice  stopped  to  rest. 
Each  of  these  stoppages  was  made  at  a  doleful  grating, 
by  which  any  languishing  good  airs  that  were  left  un- 
corrupted,  seemed  to  escape,  and  all  spoilt  and  sickly  va- 
pours seemed  to  crawl  in.  Through  the  rusted  bars, 
tastes,  rather  than  glimpses,  were  caught  of  the  jumbled 
neighljourhood  ;  and  nothing  within  range,  nearer  or 
lower  than  the  summits  of  the  two  great  towers  of  Xotre- 
Danie,  had  any  promise  on  it  of  healthy  life  or  whole- 
some aspirations. 

At  last,  the  top  of  the  staircase  was  gained,  and  they 
stopped  for  the  third  time.  There  was  yet  an  upper 
staircase,  of  a  steeper  inclination  and  of  contracted  di- 
mensions, to  be  ascended,  before  the  garret  story  was 
reached.  The  keeper  of  the  wine-shop,  always  going  a 
little  in  advance,  and  always  going  on  the  side  which 
Mr.  Lorry  took,  as  though  he  dreaded  to  be  asked  any 
questions*  by  the  young  lady,  turned  himself  about  here, 
and,  carefully  feeling  in  the  pockets  of  the  coat  he  car- 
ried over  his  shoulder,  took  out  a  key. 

"The  door  is  locked  then,  my  friend  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
surprised. 

"  Ay.    Yes,"  was  the  grim  reply  of  Monsieur  Defarge. 

"  You  think  it  necessary  to  keep  the  unfortunate  gen- 
tleman so  retired  ?  " 

"I  think  it  necessary  to  tum  the  key."  Monsieur  De- 
farge whispered  it  closer  in  his  ear,  and  frowned  heavily. 


352 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Why?" 

"  Why  !  Because  he  has  lived  so  long,  locked  up,  that 
he  would  be  frightened — rave — tear  himself  to  pieces — 
die — come  to  I  know  not  what  harm — if  his  door  was  left 
open." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Lorry. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  repeated  Defarge,  bitterly.  "  Yes. 
And  a  beautiful  world  we  live  in,  when  it  is  possible,  and 
when  many  other  such  things  are  possible,  and  not  only 
possible,  but  done  — done,  see  you!— under  that  sky 
there,  every  day.    Long  live  the  Devil.    Let  us  go  on." 

This  dialogue  had  been  held  in  so  very  low  a  whisper, 
that  not  a  word  of  it  had  reached  the  young  lady's  ears. 
But,  by  this  time  she  trembled  under  such  strong  emo- 
tion, and  her  face  expressed  such  deep  anxiety,  and,  above 
all,  such  dread  and  terror,  that  Mr.  Lorry  felt  it  incum- 
bent on  him  to  speak  a  word  or  two  of  reassurance. 

"Courage,  dear  Miss  !  Courage  !  Business  !  The 
worst  will  be  over  in  a  moment ;  it  is  but  passing  the 
room  door,  and  the  worst  is  over.  Then,  all  the  good 
you  bring  to  him,  all  the  relief,  all  the  happiness  you 
bring  to  him,  begin.  Let  our  good  friend  here,  assist  you 
on  that  side.  That's  well,  friend  Defarge.  Come,  now. 
Business,  business  !  " 

They  went  up  slowly  and  softly.  The  staircase  was 
short,  and  they  were  soon  at  the  top.  There,  as  it  had 
an  abrupt  turn  in  it,  they  came  all  at  once  in  sight  of 
three  men,  whose  heads  were  bent  down  close  together 
at  the  side  of  a  door,  and  who  were  intently  looking  into 
the  room  to  which  the  door  belonged,  through  some 
chinks  or  holes  in  the  wall  On  hearing  footsteps  close 
at  hand  these  three  turned,  and  rose,  and  showed  them- 
selves to  be  the  three  of  one  name  who  had  been  drink- 
ing in  the  wine-shop. 

"  I  forgot  them  in  the  surprise  of  your  visit,"  ex- 
plained Monsieur  Defarge.  "  Leave  us,  good  boys  ;  we 
have  business  here." 

The  three  glided  by,  and  went  silently  down. 

There  appearing  to  be  no  other  door  on  that  floor,  and 
the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  going  straight  to  this  one 
when  they  were  left  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  in  a 
whisper,  with  a  little  anger  : 

"  Do  you  make  a  show  of  Monsieur  Manette  ?" 

"  I  show  him,  in  the  way  you  have  seen,  to  a  chosen 
few." 

"  Is  that  well?" 

"/think  it  is  well." 

"  Who  are  the  few  ?   How  do  you  choose  them  ?  " 

"I  choose  them  as  real  men,  of  my  name — Jacques  is 
my  name  —  to  whom  the  sight  is  likely  to  do  good. 
Enough  ;  you  are  English  ;  that  is  another  thing.  Stay 
there,  if  you  please,  a  little  moment." 

With  an  admonitory  gesture  to  keep  them  back,  he 
stooped,  and  looked  in  through  the  crevice  in  the  wall. 
Soon  raising  his  head  again,  he  struck  twice  or  thrice 
upon  the  door — evidently  with  no  other  object  than  to 
make  a  noise  there.  With  the  same  intention,  he  drew 
the  key  across  it,  three  or  four  times,  before  he  put  it* 
clumsily  into  the  lock,  and  turned  it  as  heavily  as  he 
could. 

The  door  slowly  opened  inward  under  his  hand,  and 
he  looked  into  the  room  and  said  something.  A  faint 
voice  answered  something.  Little  more  than  a  single 
syllable  could  have  been  spoken  on  either  side. 
*  He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  and  beckoned  them 
to  enter.  Mr.  Lorry  got  his  arm  securely  round  the 
daughter's  waist,  and  held  her  ;  for  he  felt  that  she  was 
sinking. 

"A — a — a — business,  business!"  he  urged,  with  a 
moisture  that  was  not  of  business  shining  on  his  cheek. 
"  Come  in,  come  in  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  of  it,"  she  answered,  shuddering. 

"Of  it?  What?" 

"  I  mean  of  him.    Of  my  father." 

Rendered  in  a  manner  desperate,  by  her  state  and  by 
the  beckoning  of  their  conductor,  he  drew  over  his  neck 
the  arm  that  shook  upon  his  shoulder,  lifted  her  a  little, 
and  hurried  her  into  the  room.  He  set  her  down  just 
within  the  door,  and  held  her,  clinging  to  him. 

Defarge  drew  out  the  key,  closed  the  door,  locked  it  on 
the  inside,  took  out  the  key  again,  and  held  it  in  his 
hand.    All  this  he  did,  methodically,  and  with  as  loud 


'  and  harsh  an  accompaniment  of  noise  as  he  could  make. 
Finally,  he  walked  across  the  room  with  a  measured 
tread  to  where  the  window  was.  He  stopped  there,  and 
faced  round. 

The  garret,  built  to  be  a  depository  for  firewood  and 
the  like,  was  dim  and  dark  :  for,  the'window  of  dormer 
shape,  was  in  truth  a  door  in  the  roof,  with  a  little  crane 
over  it  for  the  hoisting  up  of  stores  from  the  street :  un- 
glazed,  and  closing  up  the  middle  in  two  pieces,  like  any 
other  door  of  French  construction.  To  exclude  the  cold, 
one  half  of  this  door  was  fast  closed,  and  the  other  was 
opened  but  a  very  little  way.  Such  a  scanty  portion  of 
light  was  admitted  through  these  means,  that  it  was 
difficult,  on  first  coming  in,  to  see  anything ;  and  long 
habit  alone  could  have  slowly  formed  in  any  one,  the 
ability  to  do  any  work  requiring  nicety  in  such  obscurity. 
Yet,  work  of  that  kind  was  being  done  in  the  garret  ; 
for,  with  his  back  towards  the  door,  and  his  face  towards 
the  window  where  the  keeper  of  the  wine- shop  stood 
looking  at  him,  a  white-haired  man  sat  on  a  low  bench, 
stooping  forward  and  very  busy,  making  shoes. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Shoemaker. 

"  Good  day  !  "  said  Monsieur  Defarge,  looking  down 
at  the  white  head  that  bent  low  over  the  shoemaking. 

It  was  raised  for  a  moment,  and  a  very  faint  voice 
responded  to  the  salutation,  as  if  it  were  at  a  distance  : 

"  Good  day  !  " 

"  You  are  still  hard  at  work,  I  see  ?  " 

After  a  long  silence,  the  head  was  lifted  for  another 
moment,  and  the  voice  replied,  "  Yes — I  am  working.** 
This  time,  a  pair  of  haggard  eyes  had  looked  at  the 
questioner,  before  the  face  had  dropped  again. 

The  faintness  of  the  voice  was  pitiable  and  dreadful. 
It  was  not  the  faintness  of  physical  weakness,  though 
confinement  and  hard  fare  no  doubt  had  their  part  in  it. 
Its  deplorable  peculiarity  was,  that  it  was  the  faintness 
of  solitude  and  disuse.  It  was  like  the  last  feeble  echo 
of  a  sound  made  long  and  long  ago.  So  entirely  had  it 
lost  the  life  and  resonance  of  the  human  voice,  that  it 
affected  the  senses  like  a  once  beautiful  colour,  faded 
away  into  a  poor  weak  stain.  So  sunken  and  suppressed 
it  was,  that  it  was  like  a  voice  underground.  So  ex- 
pressive it  was,  of  a  hopeless  and  lost  creature,  that  a 
famished  traveller,  wearied  out  by  lonely  wandering  in 
a  wilderness,  would  have  remembered  home  and  friends 
in  such  a  tone  before  lying  down  to  die. 

Some  minutes  of  silent  work  had  passed,  and  the  hag- 
gard eyes  had  looked  up  again  :  not  with  any  interest  or 
curiosity,  but  with  a  dull  mechanical  perception,  before- 
hand, that  the  spot  where  the  only  visitor  they  were 
aware  of  had  stood,  was  not  yet  empty. 

"  I  want,"  said  Defarge,  who  had  not  removed  his 
gaze  from  the  shoemaker,  "  to  let  in  a  little  more  light 
here.    You  can  bear  a  little  more  ?  " 

The  shoemaker  stopped  his  work  ;  looked,  with  a 
vacant  air  of  listening,  at  the  floor  on  one  side  of  him  ; 
then,  similarly,  at  the  floor  on  the  other  side  of  him ; 
then,  upward  at  the  speaker. 

"  What  did  you  say?" 

"  You  can  bear  a  little  more  light? " 

"  I  must  bear  it,  if  you  let  it  in."  (Laying  the  palest 
shadow  of  a  stress  upon  the  second  word.) 

The  opened  half-door  was  opened  a  little  further,  and 
secured  at  that  angle  for  the  time.  A  broad  ray  of 
light  fell  into  the  garret,  and  showed  the  workman,  with 
an  unfinished  shoe  upon  his  lap,  pausing  in  his  labour. 
His  few  common  tools  and  various  scraps  of  leather 
were  at  his  feet  and  on  his  bench.  He  had  a  white 
beard,  raggedly  cut,  but  not  very  long,  a  hollow  face, 
and  exceedingly  bright  eyes.  The  hollowness  and  thin- 
ness of  his  face  would  have  caused  them  to  look  large, 
under  his  yet  dark  eyebrows  and  his  confused  white  hair, 
though  they  had  been  really  otherwise  ;  but  they  were 
naturally  large,  and  looked  unnaturally  so.  His  yellow 
rags  of  shirt  lay  open  at  the  throat,  and  showed  his  body 
to  be  withered  and  worn.    He,  and  his  old  canvas  frock. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


353 


aod  his  loose  stockings,  and  all  his  poor  tatters  of  clothes, 
had,  in  a  long  seclusion  from  direct  light  and  air,  faded 
down  to  such  a  dull  uniformity  of  parchment-yellow, 
that  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say  which  was  which. 

He  had  put  up  a  hand  between  his  eyes  and  the  light, 
and  the  very  bones  of  it  seemed  transi)arent.  So  he  sat, 
with  a  steadfastly  vacant  gaze,  pausing  in  his  work. 
He  never  looked  at  the  figure  before  him,  without  first 
looking  down  on  this  side  of  himself,  then  on  that,  as  if 
he  had  lost  the  habit  of  associating  place  with  sound  ;  he 
never  spoke,  without  first  wandering  in  his  manner,  and 
forgetting  to  speak. 

"  Are  you  going  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day  ?  " 
asked  Defarge,  motioning  to  Mr.  Lorry  to  come  forward. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day  V  " 
"I  can't  say  that  I  mean  to.    I  suppose  so.    I  don't 
I  know." 

,  But,  the  question  reminded  him  of  his  work,  and  he 
'bent  over  it  again. 

1  Mr.  Lorry  came  silently  forward,  leaving  the  daughter 
I  by  the  door.  When  he  had  stood,  for  a  minute  or  two, 
by  the  side  of  Defarge,  the  shoemaker  looked  up.  He 
I  showed  no  surprise  at  seeing  another  figure,  but  the  un- 
steady fingers  of  one  of  his  hands  strayed  to  his  lips 
as  he  looked  at  it  (his  lips  and  his  nails  were  of  the  same 
pale  lead-colour),  and  then  the  hand  dropped  to  his  work, 
and  he  once  more  bent  over  the  shoe.  The  look  and  the 
action  had  occupied  but  an  instant. 

"  You  have  a  visitor,  you  see,"  said  Monsieur  Defarge. 
What  did  you  say  ?" 

**  Here  is  a  visitor." 

The  shoemaker  looked  up  as  before,  but  without  re- 
moving a  hand  from  his  work. 

"Come!"  said  Defarge.  "Here  is  monsieur,  who 
knows  a  well-made  shoe  when  he  sees  one.  Show  him 
that  shoe  you  are  looking  at.    Take  it  monsieur. " 

Mr.  Lorry  took  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Tell  monsieur  what  kind  of  shoe  it  is,  and  the  maker's 
name." 

There  was  a  longer  pause  than  usual,  before  the  shoe- 
maker replied  : 

"  I  forget  what  it  was  you  asked  me.  What  did  you 
say  ?  " 

"  I  said,  couldn't  you  describe  the  kind  of  shoe,  for 
monsieur's  information  ?  " 

"It  is  a  lady's  shoe.  It  is  a  young  lady's  walking- 
shoe.  It  is  in  the  present  mode.  I  never  saw  the  mode. 
I  have  had  a  pattern  in  my  hand."  He  glanced  at  the 
shoe,  with  some  little  passing  touch  of  pride. 

"  And  the  maker's  name?"  said  Defarge. 

Now  that  he  had  no  work  to  hold,  he  laid  the  knuckles 
of  the  right  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  left,  and  then  the 
knuckles  of  the  left  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  right,  and 
then  passed  a  hand  across  his  bearded  chin,  and  so  on 
ip  regular  changes,  without  a  moment's  intermission. 
The  task  of  recalling  him  from  the  vacancy  into  which 
he  always  sank  when  he  had  spoken,  was  like  recalling 
some  very  weak  person  from  a  swoon,  or  endeavouring, 
in  the  hope  of  some  disclosure,  to  stay  the  spirit  of  a 
fast-dying  man. 

'    "  Did  you  ask  me  for  my  name  ?  " 
**  Assuredly  I  did." 

"  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower." 
"Is  that  all?" 

"One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower." 
\    With  a  weary  sound  that  was  not  a  sigh,  nor  a  groan, 
jhe  bent  to  work  again,  until  the  silence  was  again 
i  broken. 

j  "  You  are  not  a  shoemaker  by  trade  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
I  looking  steadfastly  at  him. 

I  His  haggard  eyes  turned  to  Defarge  as  if  he  would 
{ have  transferred  the  question  to  him  ;  but  as  no  help 
I  came  from  that  quarter,  they  turned  back  on  the  ques- 
i  tioner  when  they  had  sought  the  ground, 
j  "I  am  not  a  shoemaker  by  trade  ?  No,  I  was  not  a 
j  shoemaker  by  trade.  I— I  learnt  it  here.  I  taught 
myself.    I  asked  leave  to — " 

He  lapsed  away,  even  for  minutes,  ringing  those 
I  measured  changes  on  his  hands  the  whole  time.  His 
I  eyes  came  slowly  back,  at  last,  to  the  face  from  which  they 
I  had  wandered  ;  when  they  rested  on  it,  he  started,  and  ; 
i  Vol.  II.— 23 


resumed,  in  the  manner  of  a  sleeper  that  moment  awake, 
reverting  to  a  subject  of  last  night. 

"  I  asked  leave  to  teach  myself,  and  I  got  it  with  much 
difficulty  after  a  long  while,  and  I  have  made  shoes  ever 
since." 

As  he  held  out  his  hand  for  the  shoe  that  had  been 
taken  from  him,  Mr.  Lorry  said,  still  looking  steadfastly 
in  his  face  : 

"  Monsieur  Manette,  do  you  remember  nothing  of 
me?" 

The  shoe  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  he  sat  looking 
fixedly  at  the  questioner. 

"Monsieur  Manette;"  Mr.  Lorry  laid  his  hand  upon 
Defarge's  arm  ;  "  do  you  remember  nothing  of  this  man? 
Look  at  him.  Look  at  me.  Is  there  no  old  banker,  no 
old  business,  no  old  servant,  no  old  time,  rising  iu  your 
mind.  Monsieur  Manette?" 

As  the  captive  of  many  years  sat  looking  fixedly,  by 
turns  at  Mr.  Lorry  and  at  Defarge,  some  long  obliterated 
marks  of  an  actively  intent  intelligence  in  the  middle  of 
the  forehead,  gradually  forced  themselves  through  the 
black  mist  that  had  fallen  on  him.  They  were  over- 
clouded again,  they  were  fainter,  they  were  gone  ;  but, 
they  had  been  there.  And  so  exactly  was  the  expression 
repeated  on  the  fair  young  face  of  her  who  had  crept 
along  the  wall  to  a  point  where  she  could  see  him,  and 
where  she  now  stood  looking  at  him,  with  hands  which 
at  first  had  been  only  raised  in  frightened  compassion,  if 
not  even  to  keep  him  off  and  shut  out  the  sight  of  him, 
but  which  were  now  extending  towards  him,  trembling 
with  eagerness  to  lay  the  spectral  face  upon  her  warm 
young  breast,  and  love  it  back  to  life  and  hope — so  ex- 
actly was  the  expression  repeated  (though  in  stronger 
characters)  on  her  fair  young  face,  that  it  looked  as 
though  it  had  passed,  like  a  moving  light,  from  him  to 
her. 

Darkness  had  fallen  on  him  in  its  place.  He  looked 
at  the  two,  less  and  less  attentively,  and  his  eyes  in. 
gloomy  abstraction  sought  the  ground  and  looked  about 
him  in  the  old  way.  Finally,  with  a  deep  long  sigh,  he 
took  the  shoe  up  and  resumed  his  work. 

"  Have  you  recognised  him,  monsieur  ?"  asked  Defarge, 
in  a  whisper. 

"  Yes  ;  for  a  moment.  At  first  I  thought  it  quite  hope- 
less, but  I  have  unquestionably  seen,  for  a  single  moment, 
the  face  that  I  once  knew  well.  Hush  !  Let  us  draw 
further  back.    Hush  !  " 

She  had  moved  from  the  wall  of  the  garret,  very  near 
to  the  bench  on  which  he  sat.  There  was  something  aw- 
ful in  his  unconsciousness  of  the  figure  that  could  have 
put  out  its  hand  and  touched  him  as  he  stooped  over  his 
labour. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken,  not  a  sound  was  made.  She 
stood,  like  a  spirit,  beside  him,  and  he  bent  over  his  work. 

It  happened,  at  length,  that  he  had  occasion  to  change 
the  instrument  in  his  hand,  for  his  shoemaker's  knife. 
It  lay  on  that  side  of  him  which  was  not  the  side  on  which 
she  stood.  He  had  taken  it  up,  and  was  stooping  to  work 
again,  when  his  eyes  caught  the  skirt  of  her  dress.  He 
raised  them,  and  saw  her  face.  The  two  spectators 
started  forward,  but  she  stayed  them  with  a  motion  of 
her  hand.  She  had  no  fear  of  his  striking  at  her  with 
the  knife,  though  they  had. 

He  stared  at  her  with  a  fearful  look,  and  after  a  while 
his  lips  began  to  form  some  words,  though  no  sound  pro- 
ceeded from  them.    By  degrees,  in  the  pauses  of  his 
quick  and  laboured  breathing,  he  was  heard  to  say  : 
"What  is  this  1" 

With  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  she  put  her 
two  hands  to  her  lips,  and  kissed  them  to  him  ;  then 
clasped  them  on  her  breast,  as  if  she  laid  his  ruined 
head  there. 

"  You  are  not  the  gaoler's  daughter  ?" 
She  sighed  "No." 
"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

Not  yet  trusting  the  tones  of  her  voice,  she  sat  down  on 
the  bench  beside  him.  He  recoiled,  bitt  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  arm.  A  strange  thrill  struck  him  when  she  did 
so,  and  visibly  passed  over  his  frame  ;  he  laid  the  knife 
down  softly,  as  he  sat  staring  at  her. 

Her  golden  hair,  which  she  wore  in  long  curls,  had 
i  been  hurriedly  pushed  aside,  and  fell  down  over  her 


354 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


neck.  Advancing  his  band  by  little  and  little,  be  took 
it  up,  and  looked  at  it.  In  the  midst  of  the  action  he 
went  astray,  and,  with  another  deep  sigh,  fell  to  work  at 
his  shoemaking. 

But,  not  for  long.  Releasing  his  arm,  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  shoulder.  After  looking  doubtfully  at  it, 
two  or  three  times,  as  if  to  be  sure  that  it  was  really 
there,  he  laid  down  his  work,  put  his  hand  to  his  neck, 
and  took  off  a  blackened  string  with  a  scrap  of  folded  rag 
attached  to  it.  He  opened  this,  carefully,  on  his  knee, 
and  it  contained  a  very  little  quantity  of  hair  :  not  more 
than  one  or  two  long  golden  hairs,  which  he  had,  in  some 
old  day,  wound  off  upon  his  finger. 

He  took  her  hair  into  his  hand  again,  and  looked  close- 
ly at  it.  "  It  is  the  same.  How  can  it  be  !  When  was 
it  !    How  was  it  !  " 

As  the  concentrating  expression  returned  to  his  fore- 
head, he  seemed  to  become  conscious  that  it  was  in  hers 
too.    He  turned  her  full  to  the  light,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  She  had  laid  her  head  upon  my  shoulder,  that  night 
when  I  was  summoned  out — she  had  a  fear  of  my  going, 
though  I  had  none — and  when  I  was  brought  to  the  North 
Tower  they  found  these  upon  my  sleeve.  '  You  will  leave 
me  them  ?  They  can  never  help  me  to  escape  in  the 
body,  though  they  may  in  the  spirit.'  Those  were  the 
words  I  said.    I  remember  them  very  well." 

He  formed  this  speech  with  his  lips  many  times  before 
he  could  utter  it.  But  when  he  did  find  spoken  words 
for  it,  they  came  to  him  coherently,  though  slowly. 

"  How  was  this  ? — Was  it  you  ?  " 

Once  more,  the  two  spectators  started,  as  he  turned 
upon  her  with  a  frightful  suddenness.  But  she  sat  per- 
fectly still  in  his  grasp,  and  only  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I 
entreat  you,  good  gentlemen,  do  not  come  near  us,  do  not 
speak,  do  not  move  !  " 

"  Hark  ! "  he  exclaimed.    "  Whose  voice  was  that  ?" 

His  hands  released  her  as  he  uttered  this  cry,  and  went 
up  to  his  white  hair,  which  they  tore  in  a  frenzy.  It 
died  out,  as  everything  but  his  shoemaking  did  die  out 
of  him,  and  he  refolded  his  little  packet  and  tried  to  se- 
cure it  in  his  breast ;  but,  he  still  looked  at  her,  and 
gloomily  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  no,  no  ;  you  are  too  young,  too  blooming.  It 
can't  be.  See  what  the  prisoner  is.  These  are  not  the 
hands  she  knew,  this  is  not  the  face  she  knew,  this  is  not 
a  voice  she  ever  heard.  No,  no.  She  was — and  He  was 
before  the  slow  years  of  the  North  Tower — ages  ago. 
What  is  your  name,  my  gentle  angel  ?  " 

Hailing  his  softened  tone  and  manner,  his  daughter  fell 
upon  her  knees  before  him,  with  her  appealing  hands 
upon  his  breast. 

' '  O,  sir,  at  another  time  you  shall  know  my  name,  and 
who  my  mother  was,  and  who  my  father,  and  how  I  never 
knew  their  hard,  hard  history.  But  I  cannot  tell  you  at 
this  time,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  here.  All  that  I  may  tell 
you,  here  and  now,  is,  that  I  pray  to  you  to  touch  me 
and  to  bless  me.  Kiss  me,  kiss  me  !  O  my  dear,  my 
dear  ! " 

His  cold  white  head  mingled  with  her  radiant  hair, 
which  warmed  and  lighted  it  as  though  it  were  the  light 
of  Freedom  shining  on  him. 

"If  you  hear  in  my  voice — I  don't  know  that  it  is  so, 
but  I  hope  it  is — if  you  hear  in  my  voice  any  resemblance 
to  a  voice  that  once  was  sweet  music  in  your  ears,  weep 
for  it,  weep  for  it  !  If  you  touch,  in  touching  my  hair, 
anything  that  recals  a  beloved  head  that  lay  in  your 
breast  when  you  were  young  and  free,  weep  for  it,  weep 
for  it  1  If,  when  I  hint  to  you  of  a  Home  there  is  before 
us,  where  I  will  be  true  to  you  with  all  my  duty  and 
with  all  my  faithful  service,  I  bring  back  the  remem- 
brance of  a  Home  long  desolate,  while  your  poor  heart 
pined  away,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it  !" 

She  held  him  closer  round  the  neck,  and  rocked  him 
on  her  breast  like  a  child. 

"  If,  when  I  tell  you,  dearest  dear,  that  your  agony  is 
over,  and  that  I  have  come  here  to  take  you  from  it,  and 
that  we  go  to  England  to  be  at  peace  and  at  rest,  I  cause 
you  to  think  of  your  useful  life  laid  waste,  and  of  our 
native  France  so  wicked  to  you,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it  I 
And  if,  when  I  shall  tell  you  of  my  name,  and  of  my  fa- 
ther who  is  living,  and  of  my  mother  who  is  dead,  you 
leam  that  I  have  to  kneel  to  my  honoured  father,  and 


implore  his  pardon  for  having  never  for  his  sake  striven 
all  day  and  lain  awake  and  wept  all  night,  because  the 
love  of  my  poor  mother  hid  his  torture  from  me,  weep 
for  it,  weep  for  it  !  Weep  for  her,  then,  and  for  me  ! 
Good  gentlemen,  thank  God  !  I  feel  his  sacred  tears 
upon  my  face,  and  his  sobs  strike  against  my  heart.  O, 
see  !    Thank  God  for  us,  thank  God  ! " 

He  had  sunk  in  her  arms,  with  his  face  dropped  on 
her  breast :  a  sight  so  touching,  yet  so  terrible  in  the 
tremendous  wrong  and  suffering  which  had  gone  before 
it,  that  the  two  beholders  covered  their  faces. 

When  the  quiet  of  the  garret  had  been  long  undis- 
turbed, and  his  heaving  breast  and  shaken  form  had 
long  yielded  to  the  calm  that  must  follow  all  storms — 
emblem  to  humanity,  of  the  rest  and  silence  into  which 
the  storm  called  Life  must  hush  at  last — they  came  for- 
ward to  raise  the  father  and  daughter  from  the  ground. 
He  had  gradually  drooped  to  the  floor,  and  lay  there  in  a 
lethargy,  worn  out.  She  had  nestled  down  with  him, 
that  his  head  might  lie  upon  her  arm  ;  and  her  hair 
drooping  over  him  curtained  him  from  the  light. 

"  If,  without  disturbing  him,"  she  said,  raising  her 
hand  to  Mr.  Lorry  as  he  stooped  over  them,  after  re- 
peated blowings  of  his  nose,  "  all  could  be  arranged  for 
our  leaving  Paris  at  once,  so  that,  from  the  very  door, 
he  could  be  taken  away — " 

"  But,  consider.  Is  he  fit  for  the  journey  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Lorry. 

"  More  fit  for  that,  I  thint,  than  to  remain  in  this  city, 
so  dreadful  to  him." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Defarge,  who  was  kneeling  to  lool 
on  and  hear.  ' '  More  than  that :  Monsieur  Manette  is 
for  all  reasons,  best  out  of  France.  Say,  shall  I  hire  i 
carriage  and  post-horses  ?  " 

"That's  business,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  resuming  on  the 
shortest  notice  his  methodical  manners;  "and  if  busi- 
ness  is  to  be  done,  I  had  better  do  it." 

"  Then  be  so  kind,"  urged  Miss  Manette,  "  as  to  leavi 
us  here.  You  see  how  composed  he  has  become,  an< 
you  cannot  be  afraid  to  leave  him  with  me  now.  Wh; 
should  you  be  ?  If  you  will  lock  the  door  to  secure  u 
from  interruption,  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  will  find  him 
when  you  come  back,  as  quiet  as  you  leave  him.  In  anj 
case,  I  will  take  care  of  him  until  you  return,  and  then 
we  will  remove  him  straight." 

Both  Mr.  Lorry  and  Defarge  were  rather  disinclined  to 
this  course,  and  in  favour  of  one  of  them  remaining. 
But,  as  there  were  not  only  carriage  and  horses  to  be 
seen  to,  but  travelling  papers  ;  and  as  time  pressed,  for 
the  day  was  drawdng  to  an  end,  it  came  at  last  to  their 
hastily  dividing  the  business  that  was  necessary  to  be 
done,  and  hurrying  away  to  do  it. 

Then,  as  the  darkness  closed  in,  the  daughter  laid  her 
head  down  on  the  hard  ground  close  at  the  father's  side, 
and  watched  him.  The  darkness  deepened  and  deep- 
ened, and  they  both  lay  quiet,  until  a  light  gleamed 
through  the  chinks  in  the  wall. 

Mr.  Lorry  and  Monsieur  Defarge  had  made  all  ready 
for  the  journey,  and  had  brought  vrith  them,  besides 
travelling  cloaks  and  wrappers,  bread  and  meat,  wine, 
and  hot  coffee.  Monsieur  Defarge  put  this  provender, 
and  the  lamp  he  carried,  on  the  shoemaker's  bench  (there 
was  nothing  else  in  the  garret  but  a  pallet  bed),  and  he 
and  Mr.  Lorry  roused  the  captive,  and  assisted  him  to 
his  feet. 

No  human  intelligence  could  have  read  the  mysteries 
of  his  mind,  in  the  scared  blank  wonder  of  his  face. 
Whether  he  knew  what  had  happened,  whether  he  rec- 
ollected what  they  had  said  to  him,  whether  he  knew 
that  he  was  free,  were  questions  which  no  sagacity  could 
have  solved.    They  tried  speaking  to  him  ;  but,  he  was 
so  confused,  and  so  very  slow  to  answer,  that  they  took 
fright  at  his  bewilderment,  and  agreed  for  the  time  to 
tamper  with  him  no  more.    He  had  a  wild,  lost  manner  j 
of  occasionally  clasping  his  head  in  his  hands,  that  had  j 
not  been  seen  in  him  before  ;  yet  he  had  some  pleasure  | 
in  the  mere  sound  of  his  daughter's  voice,  and  invariably  j 
turned  to  it  when  she  spoke.  ■  | 

In  the  submissive  way  of  one  long  accustomed  to  obej  \ 
under  coercion,  he  ate  and  drank  what  they  gave  hin 
to  eat  and  drink,  and  put  on  the  cloak  and  other  wrap 
pings  that  they  gave  him  to  wear.    He  readily  responde< 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


355 


to  his  daughter's  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  and 
took — and  kept — her  hand  in  both  of  his  own. 

They  began  to  descend  ;  Monsieur  Defarge  going  first 
with  the  lamp,  Mr.  Lorry  closing  the  little  procession. 
They  had  not  traversed  many  steps  of  the  long  main 
staircase  when  he  stopped,  and  stared  at  the  roof  and 
round  at  the  walls. 

I    "  You  remember  the  place,  my  father  ?    You  remem- 
j  bar  coming  up  here  ?  " 
i     "  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

But,  before  she  co\ild  repeat  the  question,  he  mur- 
t  mured  an  answer  as  if  she  had  repeated  it. 

"  Remember  ?  No,  I  don't  remember.  .  It  was  so  very 
loni^  ago." 

That  he  had  no  recollection  whatever  of  his  having 
been  brought  from  his  prison  to  that  house,  was  appa- 
rent to  them.    They  heard  him  mutter,  "  One  Hundred 
and  Five,  North  Tower;"  and  when  he  looked  about 
him,  it  evidently  was  for  the  strong  fortress- walls  which 
Tiad  long  encompassed  him.     On  their  reaching  the 
court-yard,  he  instinctively  altered  his  tread,  as  being 
jin  expectation  of  a  drawbridge  ;  and  when  there  was  no 
I  drawbridge,  and  he  saw  the  carriage  waiting  in  the  open 
i  street,  he  dropped  his  daughter's  hand  and  clasped  his 
;  head  again. 

No  crowd  was  about  the  door  ;  no  people  were  dis- 
cernible at  any  of  the  many  windows ;  not  even  a 
chance  passer-by  was  in  the  street.  An  unnatural 
silence  and  desertion  reigned  there.  Only  one  soul  was 
to  be  seen,  and  that  was  Madame  Defarge — who  leaned 
against  the  door-post,  knitting,  and  saw  nothing. 

The  prisoner  had  got  into  the  coach,  and  his  daughter 
liad  followed  him,  when  Mr.  Lorry's  feet  were  arrested 
on  the  step  by  his  asking,  miserably,  for  his  shoemak- 
ing  tools  and  the  unfinished  shoes.  Madame  Defarge 
immediately  called  to  her  husband  that  she  would  get 
them,  and  went,  knitting,  out  of  the  lamplight,  through 
the  court-yard.    She  quickly  brought  them  down  and 


handed  tliem  in  ; — and  immediately  afterwards  leaned 
against  the  door-post,  knitting,  and  saw  nothing. 

Defarge  got  upon  the  box,  and  gave  the  word  "To 
the  Barrier  !  "  The  postilion  cracked  his  whip,  and 
they  clattered  away  under  the  feeble  over-swinging 
lamps. 

Under  the  over-swinging  lamps  —  swinging .  ever 
brighter  in  the  better  streets,  and  ever  dimmer  in  tlie 
worse — and  by  lighted  shops,  gay  crowds,  illuminated 
coffe(;-houses,  and  theatre  doors,  to  one  of  the  city  gates. 
Soldiers  with  lanterns,  at  the  guard-house  there.  "  Your 
papers,  travellers  I "  "  See  here  then,  Monsieur  the 
Officer,"  said  Defarge,  getting  down  and  taking  him 
gravely  apart,  "  these  are  the  papers  of  monsieur  inside, 
with  the  white  head.  They  were  consigned  to  me,  with 
him  at  the  "  He  dropped  his  voice,  there  was  a  flut- 
ter among  the  military  lanterns,  and  one  of  them  being 
handed  into  the  coach  by  an  arm  in  uniform,  the  eyes 
connected  with  the  arm  looked,  not  an  every  day  or  an 
every  night  look,  at  monsieur  with  the  white  head. 
"  It  is  well.  Forward  !  "  from  the  uniform.  "  Adieu  1 " 
from  Defarge.  And  so,  under  a  short  grove  of  feebler 
and  feebler  over-swinging  lamps,  out  under  the  great 
grove  of  stars. 

Beneath  that  arch  of  unmoved  and  eternal*  lights  : 
some,  so  remote  from  this  little  earth  that  the  learned 
tell  us  it  is  doubtful  whether  their  rays  have  even  yet 
discovered  it,  as  a  point  in  space  where  anything  is  suf- 
fered or  done  :  the  shadows  of  the  night  were  broad  and 
black.  All  through  the  cold  and  re.stless  interval,  until 
dawn,  they  once  more  whispered  in  the  ears  of  Mr. 
Jarvis  Lorry — sitting  opposite  the  buried  man  who  had 
been  dug  out,  and  wondering  what  subtle  powers  were 
forever  lost  to  him,  and  what  were  capable  of  restora- 
tion— the  old  inquiry  : 

"  I  hope  you  care  to  be  recalled  to  life  ?" 

And  the  old  answer : 

**I  can't  say." 


H  » 


BOOK  THE  SECOND.-THE  GOLDEN  THREAD. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Five  Tears  Later. 


Tellson's  Bank  by  Temple  Bar  was  an  old-fashioned 
place,  even  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty.  It  was  very  small,  very  dark,  very  ugly,  very 
incommodious.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  place,  moreover, 
in  the  moral  attribute  that  the  partners  in  the  House 
were  proud  of  its  smallness,  proud  of  its  darkness,  proud 
of  its  ugliness,  proud  of  its  incommodiousness.  They 
were  even  boastful  of  its  eminence  in  those  particulars, 
and  were  fired  by  an  express  conviction  that,  if  it  were 
less  objectionable,  it  would  be  less  respectable.  This  was 
no  passive  belief,  but  an  active  weapon  which  they 
flashed  at  more  convenient  places  of  business.  Tellson's 
(they  said)  wanted  no  elbow-room,  Tellson's  wanted  no 
light.  Tellson's  wanted  no  embellishment.  Noakes  and 
Co.'s  might,  or  Snooks  Brothers'  might ;  but  Tellson's, 
thank  Heaven  ! —  , 

Any  of  these  partners  would  have  disinherited  his  son 
on  the  question  of  rebuilding  Tellson's,  In  this  respect 
the  House  was  much  on  a  par  with  the  Country  ;  which 
did  very  often  disinherit  its  sons  for  suggesting'  improve- 
ments  in  laws  and  customs  that  had  long  been  highly 
objectionable,  but  were  only  the  more  respectable. 

Thus  it  had  come  to  pass,  that  Tellson's  was  the  tri- 
umphant perfection  of  inconvenience.  After  bursting 
open  a  door  of  idiotic  obstinacy  with  a  weak  rattle  in  its 
throat,  you  fell  into  Tellson's  down  two  steps,  and  came 
to  your  senses  in  a  miserable  little  shop,  with  two  little 


counters,  where  the  oldest  of  men  made  your  cheque 
shake  as  if  the  wind  rustled  it,  while  they  examined  the 
signature  by  the  dingiest  of  vrindows,  which  were  always 
under  a  shower-bath  of  mud  from  Fleet-street,  and  which 
were  made  the  dingier  by  their  own  iron  bars  proper,  and 
the  heavy  shadow  of  Temple  Bar.  If  your  business  neces- 
sitated your  seeing  "the  House,"  you  were  put  into  a 
species  of  Condemned  Hole  at  the  back,  where  you  med- 
itated on  a  misspent  life,  until  the  House  came  with  its 
hands  in  its  pockets,  and  you  could  hardly  blink  at  it  in 
the  dismal  twilight.  Your  money  came  out  of,  or  went 
into,  wormy  old  wooden  drawers,  particles  of  which  flew 
up  your  nose  and  down  your  throat  when  they  were 
opened  and  shut.  Your  bank-notes  had  a  musty  odour, 
as  if  they  were  fast  decomposing  into  rags  again.  Your 
plate  was  stowed  away  among  the  neigbouring  cesspools, 
and  evil  communications  corrupted  its  good  polish  in  a 
day  or  two.  Your  deeds  got  into  extemporised  strong- 
rooms made  of  kitchens  and  sculleries,  and  fretted  all  the 
fat  out  of  their  parchments  into  the  banking-house  air. 
Your  lighter  boxes  of  familv  papers  went  up-stairs  into 
a  Barmecide  room,  that  always  had  a  great  dining-table 
in  it  and  never  had  a  dinner,  and  where,  even  m  the  year 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty,  the  first  letters 
written  to  you  by  your  old  love,  or  by  your  little  chil- 
dren, were  but  newlv  released  from  the  horror  of  being 
ogled  through  the  windows,  by  the  heads  exposed  on 
Temple  Bar  with  an  insensate  brutality  and  ferocity  wor- 
thy of  Abyssinia  or  Ashantee, 

But  indeed,  at  that  time,  putting  to  death  was  a  recipe 
much  in  vogue  with  all  trades  and  professions,  and  not 


356 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


least  of  all  with  Tellson's.  Death  is  Nature's  remedy  for 
ill]  things,  and  why  not  Legislation's  ?  Accordingly,  the 
forger  was  put  to  Death  ;  the  utterer  of  a  bad  note  was 
put  to  Death  ;  the  unlawful  opener  of  a  letter  was  put 
to  Death  ;  the  purloiner  of  forty  shillings  and  sixpence 
was  put  to  Death  ;  the  holder  of  a  horse  at  Tellson's 
door  who  made  off  with  it,  was  put  to  Death  ;  the  coiner 
of  a  bad  shilling  was  put  to  Death  ;  the  sounders  of 
three-fourths  of  the  notes  in  the  whole  gamut  of  Crime, 
were  put  to  Death.  Not  that  it  did  the  least  good  in  the 
way  of  prevention — it  might  almost  have  been  worth  re- 
marking that  the  fact  was  exactly  the  reverse — but,  it 
cleared  off  (as  to  this  world)  the  trouble  of  each  particu- 
lar case,  and  left  nothing  else  connected  with  it  to  be 
looked  after.  Thus,  Tellson's,  in  its  day,  like  greater 
places  of  business,  its  contemporaries,  had  taken  so  many 
lives,  that,  if  the  heads  laid  low  before  it  had  been 
ranged  on  Temple  Bar  instead  of  being  privately  disposed 
of,  they  would  probably  have  excluded  what  little  light 
the  ground  floor  had,  in  a  rather  significant  manner. 

Cramped  in  all  kinds  of  dim  cupboards  and  hutches  at 
Tellson's,  the  oldest  of  men  carried  on  the  business 
gravely.  When  they  took  a  young  man  into  Tellson's 
Londou  house,  they  hid  him  somewhere  till  he  was  old. 
They  kept  him  in  a  dark  place,  like  a  cheese,  until  he 
had  the  full  Tellson  flavour  and  blue-mould  upon  him. 
Then  only  was  he  permitted  to  be  seen,  spectacularly 
poring  over  large  books,  and  casting  his  breeches  and 
gaiters  into  the  general  weight  of  the  establishment. 

Outside  Tellson's — never  by  any  means  in  it,  unless 
called  in — was  an  odd- job-man,  an  occasional  porter  and  i 
messenger,  who  served  as  the  live  sign  of  the  house.  He 
was  never  absent  during  business  hours,  unless  upon  an 
errand,  and  then  he  was  represented  by  his  son  ;  a  grisly 
urchin  of  twelve,  who  was  his  express  image.  People 
understood  that  Tellson's,  in  a  stately  way,  tolerated  the 
odd-job-man.  The  House  had  always  tolerated  some 
person  in  that  capacity,  and  time  and  tide  had  drifted 
this  person  to  the  post.  His  surname  was  Cruncher, 
and  on  the  youthful  occasion  of  his  renouncing  by  proxy 
the  works  of  darkness,  in  the  easterly  parish  church  of 
Houndsditch,  he  had  received  the  added  appellation  of 
Jerry. 

The  scene,  was  Mr.  Cruncher's  private  lodging  in 
Hanging-sword-alley,  Whitefriars  ;  the  time,  half-past 
seven  of  the  clock  on  a  windy  March  morning.  Anno 
Domini  seventeen  hundred  and  eighty.  (Mr.  Cruncher 
himself  always  spoke  of  the  year  of  our  Lord  as  Anna 
Dominoes  :  apparently  under  the  impression  .that  the 
Christian  era  dated  from  the  invention  of  a  popular 
game,  by  a  lady  who  had  bestowed  her  name  upon  it.) 

Mr.  Cruncher's  apartments  were  not  in  a  savoury 
neighbourhood,  and  were  but  two  in  number,  even  if  a 
closet  with  a  single  pane  of  glass  in  it  might  be  counted 
as  one.  But,  they  were  very  decently  kept.  Early  as 
it  was,  on  the  windy  March  morning,  the  room  in  which 
he  lay  abed  was  already  scrubbed  throughout  ;  and  be- 
tween the  cups  and  saucers  arranged  for  breakfast,  and 
the  lumbering  deal  table,  a  very  clean  white  cloth  was 
spread. 

Mr.  Cruncher  reposed  under  a  patchwork  counter- 
pane, like  a  Harlequin  at  home.  At  first,  he  slept  heavily, 
but,  by  degrees,  began  to  roll  and  surge  in  bed,  until  he 
rose  above  the  surface,  with  his  spiky  hair  looking  as  if 
it  must  tear  the  sheets  to  ribbons.  At  which  juncture, 
he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  dire  exasperation  : 

"  Bust  me,  if  she  ain't  at  it  agin  ! " 

A  woman,  of  orderly  and  industrious  appearance  rose 
from  her  knees  in  a  corner,  with  sufficient  haste  and  trep- 
idation to  show  that  she  was  the  person  referred  to. 

"What !"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  out  of  bed  for  a 
boot.    "  You're  at  it  agin,  are  you  ?  " 

After  hailing  the  morn  with  this  second  salutation,  he 
threw  a  boot  at  the  woman  as  a  third.  It  was  a  very 
muddy  boot,  and  may  introduce  the  odd  circumstance 
connected  with  Mr.  Cruncher's  domestic  economy,  that, 
whereas  ho  often  came  home  after  banking  hours  with 
clean  boots,  he  often  got  up  next  morning  to  find  the 
same  boots  covered  with  clay. 

"  What,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  varying  his  apostrophe 
after  missing  his  mark — '*  what  are  you  up  to,  Aggera- 
wayter  ?  " 


I     "I  was  only  saying  my  prayers." 

"  Saying  your  prayers.  You're  a  nice  woman  [  What 
do  you  mean  by  flopping  yourself  down  and  praying  agin 
me  ?" 

*  *  I  was  not  praying  against  you  ;  I  was  praying  for 
you." 

"  You  weren't.  And  if  you  were,  I  won't  be  took  the 
liberty  with.  Here  !  your  mother's  a  nice  woman, 
young  Jerry,  going  a  praying  agin  your  father's  pros- 
perity. You've  got  a  dutiful  mother,  you  have,  my  son. 
You've  got  a  religious  mother,  you  have,  my  boy  :  going 
and  flopping  herself  down,  and  praying  that  the  bread- 
and-butter  may  be  snatched  out  of  the  mouth  of  her 
only  child  ! " 

Master  Cruncher  (who  was  in  his  shirt)  took  this  very 
ill,  and,  turning  to  his  mother,  strongly  deprecated  any 
praying  away  of  his  personal  board. 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose,  you  conceited  female,'* 
said  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  unconscious  inconsistency,  "that 
the  worth  of  your  prayers  may  be  ?  Name  the  price  that 
you  put  your  prayers  at  ?  " 

"They  only  come  from  the  heart,  Jerry.  They  are 
worth  no  more  than  that. " 

"Worth  no  more  than  that,"  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher. 
"  They  ain't  worth  much,  then.  Whether  or  no,  I  won't 
be  prayed  agin,  I  tell  you.  I  can't  afford  it.  I'm  not  a 
going  to  be  made  unlucky  by  your  sneaking.  If  you  must 
go  flopping  yourself  down,  flop  in  favour  of  your  husband 
and  child,  and  not  in  opposition  to  'em.  If  I  had  had 
any  but  a  unnat'ral  wife,  and  this  poor  boy  had  had  any 
I  but  a  unnat'ral  mother,  I  might  have  made  some  money 
last  week,  instead  of  being  counterprayed  and  counter- 
mined and  religiously  circumwented  into  the  worst  of 
luck.  Bu-u-ust  me  ! "  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  all  this 
time  had  been  putting  on  his  clothes,  "if  I  ain't,  what 
with  piety  and  one  blowed  thing  and  another,  been 
choused  this  last  week  into  as  bad  luck  as  ever  a  poor 
devil  of  a  honest  tradesman  met  with  !  Young  Jerry, 
dress  yourself,  my  boy,  and  while  I  clean  my  boots  keep 
a  eye  upon  your  mother  now  and  then,  and  if  you  see  any 
signs  of  more  flopping,  give  me  a  call.  For,  I  tell  you,** 
here  he  addressed  his  wife  once  more,  "  I  won't  be  gone 
agin,  in  this  manner.  I  am  as  rickety  as  a  hackney- 
coach,  I'm  as  sleepy  as  laudanum,  my  lines  is  strained 
to  that  degree  that  I  shouldn't  know,  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
pain  in  *em,  which  was  me  and  which  somebody  else, 
yet  I'm  none  the  better  for  it  in  pocket  ;  and  it's  my  sus- 
picion that  you've  been  at  it  from  morning  to  night  to 
prevent  me  from  being  the  better  for  it  in  pocket,  and  I 
won't  put  up  with  it,  Aggerawayter,  and  what  do  you 
say  now  ! " 

Growling,  in  addition,  such  phrases  as  "Ah!  yes! 
You're  religious,  too.    You  wouldn't  put  yourself  in  op- 
position to  the  interests  of  your  husband  and  child, 
would  you  ?    Not  you  ! "  and  throwing  off  other  sarcas- 
tic sparks  from  the  whirling  grindstone  of  his  indigna- 
tion, Mr.  Cruncher  betook  himself  to  his  boot-cleaning 
and  his  general  preparations  for  business.    In  the  mean- 
time, his  son,  whose  head  wss  garnished  with  tenderer 
spikes,  and  whose  young  eyes  stood  close  by  one  another, 
as  his  father's  did,  kept  the  required  watch  upon  his 
mother.    He  greatly  disturbed  that  poor  woman  at  in-  j 
tervals,  by  darting  out  of  his  sleeping  closet,  where  he  i 
made  his  toilet,  with  a  suppressed  cry  of  "  You  are  go-  I 
ing  to  flop,  mother.  — Halloa,  father  !  "  and,  after  rais-  ! 
ing  this  fictitious  alarm,  darting  in  again  with  an  undu- 
tiful  grin, 

Mr.  Cruncher's  temper  was  not  at  all  improved  when  j 
he  came  to  his  breakfast.  He  resented  Mrs.  Cruncher's  j 
saying  Grace  with  particular  animosity. 

"  Now,  Aggerawayter  !  What  are  you  up  to  ?  At  if 
agin  ?  " 

His  wife  explained  that  she  had  merely  "  asked  a 
blessing." 

"  Don't  do  it ! "  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  about,  as  if 
he  rather  expected  to  see  the  loaf  disappear  under  the 
efficacy  of  his  wife's  petitions,  "  I  ain't  a  going  to  be 
blest  out  of  house  and  home.  I  won't  have  my  wittles 
blest  off  my  table.    Keep  still  !  " 

Exceedingly  red-eyed  and  grim,  as  if  he  had  been  up 
all  night  at  a  party  which  had  taken  anything  but  a  con- 
vivial turn,  Jerry  Cruncher  worried  his  breakfast  rather 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


357 


tlian  ate  it,  growling  over  it  like  any  four-footed  inmate  j 
(.1  a  menagerie.    Towards  nine  o'clock  he  smoothed  his 
mtUed  aspect,  and,  presenting  as  respectable  and  busi- 
ness-like an  exterior  as  he  could  overlay  his  natural  self 
with,  issued  forth  to  the  occupation  of  the  day. 

It  could  scarcely  be  called  a  trade,  in  s])ite  of  his  fa- 
vourite description  of  himself  as  a  honest  tradesman." 
His  stock  consisted  of  a  wooden  stool,  made  out  of  a 
broken-backed  chait  cut  down,  which  stool  young  Jerry, 
walking  at  his  father's  side,  carried  every  morning  to 
beneath  the  banking-house  window  that  was  nearest 
Temple  Bar  :  where,  with  the  addition  of  the  first  hand- 
ful of  straw  that  could  be  gleaned  from  any  passing 
vehicle  to  keep  the  cold  and  wet  from  the  odd  job-man's 
feet,  it  formed  the  encampment  for  the  day.  On  this 
post  of  his,  Mr.  Cruncher  was  as  well  known  to  Fleet- 
street  and  the  Temple,  as  the  Bar  itself — and  was  almost 
as  ill-looking. 

Encamped  at  a  quarter  before  nine,  in  good  time  to 
touch  his  three-cornered  hat  to  the  oldest  of  men  as  they 
passed  in  to  Tellson's,  Jerry  took  up  his  station  on  this 
windy  March  morning,  with  Young  Jerry  standing  by 
him,  ^when  not  engaged  in  making  forays  through  the 
Bar,  to  inflict  bodily  and  mental  injuries  of  an  acute  de- 
scription on  passing  boys  who  were  small  enough  for 
his  amiable  purpose.  Father  and  son,  extremely  like 
each  other,  looking  silently  on  at  the  morning  traffic  in 
Fleet-street,  with  their  two  heads  as  near  to  one  another 
as  the  two  eyes  of  each  were,  bore  a  considerable  resem- 
blance to  a  pair  of  monkeys.  The  resemblance  was  not 
lessened  by  the  accidental  circumstance,  that  the  ma- 
ture Jerry  bit  and  spat  out  straw,  while  the  twinkling 
eyes  of  the  youthful  Jerry  were  as  restlessly  watchful  of 
him  as  of  everything  else  in  Fleet-street. 

The  head  of  one  of  the  regular  in-door  messengers  at- 
tached to  Tellson's  establishment  was  put  through  the 
door,  and  the  word  was  given  : 
"  Porter  wanted  !  " 

"  Hooray,  father  !  Here's  an  early  job  to  begin  with  !  " 

Having  thus  given  his  parent  God  speed,  Young  Jerry 
.Sieated  himself  on  the  stool,  entered  on  his  reversionary 
interest  in  the  straw  his  father  had  been  chewing,  and 
•cogitated. 

"  Al-ways  rusty!  His  fingers  is  al-ways  rusty  !" 
muttered  Young  Jerry.  "  Where  does  my  father  get  all 
that  iron  rust  from  ?    He  don't  get  no  iron  rust  here  !  " 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  Sight. 

"  You  know  the  Old  Bailey  well,  no  doubt  ?  "  said  one  of 
the  oldest  of  clerks  to  Jerry  the  messenger. 

"  Ye-es,  sir,"  returned  Jerry,  in  something  of  a  dogged 
manner.         do  know  the  Bailey." 

"  Just  so.    And  youknow  Mr.  Lorry?  " 
"  I  know  Mr.  Lorry,  sir,  much  better  than  I  know  the 
Bailey.    Much  better,"  said  Jerry,  not  unlike  a  reluc- 
tant witness  at  the  establishment  in  question,  "than  I, 
as  a  honest  tradesman,  wish  to  know  the  Bailey." 

"  Very  well.    Find  the  door  where  the  witnesses  go  in, 
and  show  the  doorkeeper  this  note  for  Mr.  Lorry.  He 
will  then  let  you  in." 
"Into  the  court,  sir?" 
"  Into  the  court." 

Mr.  Cruncher's  eyes  seemed  to  get  a  little  closer  to  one 
another,  and  to  interchange  the  inquirv,  "What  do  you 
think  of  this?" 

"Am  I  to  wait  in  the  court,  sir?  "  he  asked,  as  the  re- 
sult of  that  conference. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  The  doorkeeper  will  pass 
the  note  to  Mr.  Lorry,  and  do  you  make  any  gesture 
that  will  attract  Mr.  Lorry's  attention,  and  show  him 
where  you  stand.  Then  what  you  have  to  do,  is,  to  re- 
main there  until  he  wants  you." 
"  Is  that  all,  sir?" 

"  That's  all.  He  wishes  to  have  a  messenger  at  hand. 
This  is  to  tell  him  you  are  there." 

As  the  ancient  clerk  deliberately  folded  and  super- 
scribed the  note,  Mr.  Cruncher,  after  surveying  him  in 


silence  until  he  came  to  the  blotting-paper  stage,  re- 
marked : 

"I  suppose  they'll  be  trying  Forgeries  this  morning?  " 
"  Treason  ! " 

"  That's  quartering,"  said  Jerry.    "Barbarous  !  " 

"  It  is  the  law,"  remarked  the  ancient  clerk  turning 
his  surprised  spectacles  upon  him.    "  It  is  the  law." 

"  It's  hard  in  the  law  to  spile  a  man,  I  think.  It's  hard 
enough  to  kill  him,  but  it's  wery  hard  to  spile  him,  sir." 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  the  ancient  clerk,  "  Speak  well 
of  the  law.  Take  care  of  your  chest  and  voice,  my  good 
friend,  and  leave  the  law  to  take  care  of  itself.  I  give 
you  that  advice." 

"  It's  the  damp,  sir,  what  settles  on  my  chest  and 
voice,"  said  Jerry.  "I  leave  you  to  judge  what  a  damp 
way  of  earning  a  living  mine  is." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  old  clerk:  "  we  all  have  our 
various  ways  of  gaining  a  livelihood.  Some  of  us  have 
damp  ways,  and  some  of  us  have  dry  ways.  Here  is 
the  letter.    Go  along." 

Jerry  took  the  letter,  and,  remarking  to  himself  with 
less  internal  deference,  than  he  made  an  outward  show 
of,  "  You  are  a  lean  old  one  too,"  made  his  bow,  in- 
formed his  son,  in  passing,  of  his  destination,  and  went 
his  way. 

They  hanged  at  Tyburn,  in  those  days,  so  the  street 
outside  Newgate  had  not  obtained  one  infamous  notoriety 
that  has  since  attached  to  it.    But  the  gaol  was  a  vile 
place,  in  which  most  kinds  of  debauchery  and  villany 
were  practised,  and  where  dire  diseases  were  bred,  that 
came  into  court  with  the  prisoners,  and  sometimes  rushed 
straight  from  the  dock  at  my  Lord  Chief  Justice  himself, 
and  pulled  him  off  the  bench.    It  had  more  than  once 
happened,  that  the  judge  in  the  black  cap  pronounced 
his  own  doom  as  certainly  as  the  prisoner's,  and  even 
died  before    him.    For  the   rest,  the  Old  Bailey  was 
famous  as  a  kind  of  deadly  inn-yard,  from  which  pale 
travellers  set  out  continually,  in  carts  and  coaches,  on  a 
violent  passage  into  the  other  world  :  traversing  some 
two  miles  and  a  half  of  public  street  and  road,  and 
shaming  few  good  citizens,  if  any.    So  powerful  is  use, 
and  so  desirable  to  be  good  use  in  the  beginning.    It  was 
famous,  too,  for  the  pillory,  a  wise  old  institution,  that 
inflicted  a  punishment  of  which  no  one  could  foresee  the 
extent  ;  also,  for  the  whipping-post,  another  dear  old 
institution,  very  humanising  and  softening  to  behold  in 
action;  also,  for  extensive  transactions  in  blood-money,  an- 
other fragment  of  ancestral  wisdom,  systematically  lead- 
ing to  the  most  frightful  mercenary  crimes  that  could  be 
committed  under  heaven.    Altogether,  the  Old  Bailey,  at 
I  that  date,  was  a  choice  illustration  of  the  precept,'  that 
j  "  Whatever  is  is  right ;  "  an  aphorism  that  would  be  as 
i  final  as  it  is  lazy,  did  it  not  include  the  troublesome  con- 
j  sequence,  that  nothing  that  ever  was,  was  wrong, 
j     Making  his  way  through  the  tainted  crowd,  dispersed 
;  up  and  down  this  hideous  scene  of  action,  with  the  skill 
j  of  a  man  accustomed  to  make  his  way  quietly,  the  mes- 
[  senger  found  out  the  door  he  sought,  and  handed  in  his 
;  letter  through  a  trap  in  it.    For,  people  then  paid  to  see 
j  the  play  at  the  Old  Bailey,  just  as  they  paid  to  see  the 
1  play  in  Bedlam — only  the  former  entertainment  was 
much  the  dearer.    Therefore,  all  the  Old  Bailey  doors 
were  well  guarded — except,   indeed,  the    social  doors 
by  which  tlie    criminals  got  there,  and  those  were 
always  left  wide  open. 

After  some  delay  and  demur,  the  door  grudgingly 
turned  on  its  hinges  a  very  little  way,  and  allowed  Mr. 
Jerry  Cruncher  to  squeeze  himself  into  court. 

"  What's  on  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  whipser,  of  the  man  he 
found  himself  next  to. 
"  Nothing  yet." 
"  What's  coming  on  ?  " 
"  The  Treason  case." 
"  The  quartering  one,  eh  ?" 

"Ah!"  returned  the  man  -with  a  relish;  "he'll  be 
drawn  on  a  hurdle  to  be  half  hanged,  and  then  he'll  be 
taken  down  and  sliced  before  his  own  face,  and  then  his 
inside  ^vill  be  taken  out  and  burnt  while  he  looks  on, 
and  then  his  head  will  be  chopped  ofE,  and  he'll  be  cut 
into  quarters.    That's  the  sentence." 

"If  he's  found  Guilty,  you  mean  to  say?"  Jerry 
added,  by  way  of  proviso. 


358 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Oh  !  they'll  find  him  Guilty,"  said  the  other.  "  Don't 
you  be  afraid  of  that." 

Mr,  Cruncher's  attention  was  here  diverted  to  the 
doorkeeper,  whom  he  saw  making  his  way  to  Mr.  Lorry, 
with  the  note  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  a  table, 
among  the  gentlemen  in  wigs  :  not  far  from  a  wigged 
gentleman,  the  prisoner's  counsel,  who  had  a  great  bun- 
dle of  papers  before  him  :  and  nearly  opposite  another 
wigged  gentleman  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whose 
whole  attention,  when  Mr.  Cruncher  looked  at  him  then 
or  afterwards,  seemed  to  be  concentrated  on  the  ceiling 
of  the  court.  After  some  gruff  coughing  and  rubbing  of 
his  chin  and  signing  with  his  hand,  Jerry  attracted  the 
notice  of  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  stood  up  to  look  for  him, 
and  who  quietly  nodded,  and  sat  down  again. 

"  What's  he  got  to  do  with  the  case  ?"  asked  the  man 
he  had  spoken  with. 

"  Blest  if  I  know,"  said  Jerry. 

' '  What  have  you  got  to  do  with  it,  then,  if  a  person 
may  inquire  ?" 

"  Blest  if  I  know  that  either,"  said  Jerry. 

The  entrance  of  the  Judge,  and  a  consequent  great 
stir  and  settling-down  in  the  court,  stopped  the  dialogue. 
Presently,  the  dock  became  the  central  point  of  interest. 
Two  gaolers,  who  had  been  standing  there,  went  out, 
and  the  prisoner  was  brought  in,  and  put  to  the  bar. 

Everybody  present,  except  the  one  wigged  gentleman 
who  looked  at  the  ceiling,  stared  at  him.  All  the  human 
breath  in  the  place,  rolled  at  him,  like  a  sea,  or  a  wind, 
or  a  fire.  Eager  faces  strained  round  pillars  and  corners, 
to  get  a  sight  of  him  ;  spectators  in  back  rows  stood  up, 
not  to  miss  a  hair  of  him  ;  people  on  the  floor  of  the 
court,  laid  their  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the  people 
before  them,  to  help  themselves,  at  anybody's  cost,  to  a 
view  of  him — stood  a-tiptoe,  got  upon  ledges,  stood  upon 
next  to  nothing,  to  see  every  inch  of  him.  Conspicuous 
among  these  latter,  like  an  animated  bit  of  the  spiked 
wall  of  Newgate,  Jerry  stood  ;  aiming  at  the  prisoner 
the  beery  breath  of  a  whet  he  had  taken  as  he  came 
along,  and  discharging  it  to  mingle  with  the  waves  of 
other  beer,  and  gin,  and  tea,  and  coffee,  and  what  not, 
that  flowed  at  him,  and  already  broke  upon  the  great 
windows  behind  him  in  an  impure  mist  and  rain. 

The  object  of  all  this  staring  and  blaring,  was  a  young 
man  of  about  five-and- twenty,  well-grown  and  well-look- 
ing, with  a  sunburnt  cheek  and  a  dark  eye.  His  condi- 
tion was  that  of  a  young  gentleman.  He  was  plainly 
dressed  in  black,  or  very  dark  grey,  and  his  hair,  which 
was  long  and  dark,  was  gathered  in  a  ribbon  at  the  back 
of  his  neck  :  more  to  be  out  of  his  way  than  for  orna- 
ment. As  an  emotion  of  the  mind  will  express  itself 
through  any  covering  of  the  body,  so  the  paleness  which 
his  situation  engendered  came  through  the  brown  on  his 
cheek,  showing  the  soul  to  be  stronger  than  the  sun. 
He  was  otherwise  quite  self-possessed,  bowed  to  the 
Judge,  and  stood  quiet. 

The  sort  of  interest  with  which  this  man  was  stared 
and  breathed  at,  was  not  a  sort  that  elevated  humanity. 
Had  he  stood  in  peril  of  a  less  horrible  sentence — had 
there  been  a  chance  of  any  one  of  its  savage  details 
being  spared — by  just  so  much  would  he  have  lost  in  his 
fascination.  The  form  that  was  to  be  doomed  to  be  so 
shamefully  mangled,  was  the  sight ;  the  immortal  crea- 
ture that  was  to  be  so  butchered  and  torn  asunder, 
yielded  the  sensation.  Whatever  gloss  the  various  spec- 
tators put  upon  the  interest,  according  to  their  several 
arts  and  powers  of  self-deceit,  the  interest  was,  at  the 
root  of  it,  Ogreish. 

Silence  in  the  court !  Charles  Darnay  had  yesterday 
pleaded  Not  Guilty  to  an  indictment  denouncing  him 
(with  infinite  jingle  and  jangle)  for  that  he  was  a  false 
traitor  to  our  serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and  so  forth, 
prince,  our  Lord  the  King,  by  reason  of  his  having,  on 
divers  occasions,  and  by  divers  means  and  ways,  assisted 
Lewis,  the  French  King,  in  his  wars  against  our  said 
serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and  so  forth  ;  that  was  to 
say,  by  coming  and  going  between  the  dominions  of  our 
said  serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and  so  forth,  and  those 
of  the  said  French  Lewis,  and  wickedly,  falsely,  traitor- 
ously, and  otherwise  evil-adverbiously,  revealing  to  the 
said  French  Lewis  what  forces  our  said  serene,  illus- 
trious, excellent,  and  so  forth,  had  in  preparation  to 


send  to  Canada  and  North  America.  This  much,  Jerry, 
with  his  head  becoming  more  and  more  spiky  as  the  law 
terms  bristled  it,  made  out  with  huge  satisfaction,  and 
so  arrived  circuitously  at  the  understanding  that  the 
aforesaid,  and  over  and  over  again  aforesaid,  Charles 
Darnay,  stood  there  before  him  upon  his  trial  ;  that  the 
jury  were  swearing  in  ;  and  that  Mr.  Attorney-General 
was  making  ready  to  speak. 

The  accused,  who  was  (and  who  knew  he  was)  being 
mentally  hanged,  beheaded,  and  quartered,  by  everybody 
there,  neither  flinched  from  the  situation,  nor  assumed 
any  theatrical  air  in  it.  He  was  quiet  and  attentive  ; 
watched  the  opening  proceedings  with  a  grave  interest  ; 
and  stood  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  slab  of  wood  be- 
fore him,  so  composedly,  that  they  had  not  displaced  a 
leaf  of  the  herbs  with  which  it  was  strewn.  The  court 
was  all  bestrewn  with  herbs  and  sprinkled  with  vinegar, 
as  a  precaution  against  gaol  air  and  gaol  fever. 

Over  the  prisoner's  head,  there  was  a  mirror,  to  throw 
the  light  down  upon  him.  Crowds  of  the  wicked  and 
the  wretched  had  been  reflected  in  it,  and  had  passed 
from  its  surface  and  this  earth's  together.  Haunted  in  a 
most  ghastly  manner  that  abominable  place  would  have 
been,  if  the  glass  could  ever  have  rendered  back  its  re- 
flexions, as  the  ocean  is  one  day  to  give  up  its  dead. 
Some  passing  thought  of  the  infamy  and  disgrace  for 
which  it  had  been  reserved,  may  have  struck  the  prison- 
er's mind.  Be  that  as  it  may,  a  change  in  his  position 
making  him  conscious  of  a  bar  of  light  across  his  face, 
he  looked  up  ;  and  when  he  saw  the  glass  his  face 
flushed,  and  his  right  hand  pushed  the  herbs  away. 

It  happened  that  the  action  turned  his  face  to  that  side 
of  the  court  which  was  on  his  left.  About  on  a  level 
with  his  eyes,  there  sat  in  that  corner  of  the  Judge's 
bench,  two  persons  upon  whom  his  look  immediately 
rested  ;  so  immediately,  and  so  much  to  the  changing  of 
his  aspect,  that  all  the  eyes  that  were  turned  upon  him, 
turned  to  them. 

The  spectators  saw  in  the  two  figures,  a  young  lady 
little  more  than  twenty,  and  a  gentleman  who  is  evi- 
dently her  father  ;  a  man  of  a  very  remarkable  appear- 
ance in  respect  of  the  absolute  whiteness  of  his  hair,  and 
a  certain  indescribable  intensity  of  face  :  not  of  an  active- 
kind,  but  pondering  and,  self-communing.  When  this 
expression  was  upon  him,  he  looked  as  if  he  were  old  ; 
but,  when  it  was  stirred  and  broken  up — as  it  was  now, 
in  a  moment,  on  his  speaking  to  his  daughter — he  became 
a  handsome  man,  not  past  the  prime  of  life. 

His  daughter  had  one  of  her  hands  drawn  through  his 
arm,  as  she  sat  by  him,  and  the  other  pressed  upon  it. 
She  had  drawn  close  to  him,  in  her  dread  of  the  scene, 
and  in  her  pity  for  the  prisoner..  Her  forehead  had  been 
strikingly  expressive  of  an  engrossing  terror  and  com- 
passion that  saw  nothing  but  the  peril  of  the  accused. 
This  had  been  so  very  noticeable,  so  very  powerfully  and 
naturally  shown,  that  starers  who  had  had  no  pity  for 
him  were  touched  by  her  ;  and  the  whisper  went  about, 
' '  Who  are  they  ?  " 

Jerry  the  messenger,  who  had  made  his  own  observa- 
tions in  his  own  manner,  and  who  had  been  sucking  the 
rust  off  his  fingers,  in  his  absorption,  stretched  his  neck 
to  hear  who  they  were.  The  crowd  about  him  had 
pressed  and  passed  the  inquiry  on  to  the  nearest  attend- 
ant, and  from  him  it  had  been  more  slowly  pressed  and 
passed  back  ;  at  last  it  got  to  Jerry  : 

"  Witnesses." 

"  For  which  side?" 

**  Against." 

"  Against  what  side  ?  " 
"  The  prisoner's." 

The  Judge,  whose  eyes  had  gone  in  the  general  direc- 
tion, recalled  them,  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  looked 
steadily  at  the  man  whose  life  was  in  his  hand,  as  Mr. 
Attorney-General  rose  to  spin  the  rope,  grind  the  axe, 
and  hammer  the  nails  into  the  scaffold. 


CHAPTER  in. 

A  Disappointment. 

Mr.  Attorney  General,  had  to  inform  the  jury,  that 
the  prisoner  before  them,  though  young  in  years,  wa» 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


359 


old  in  the  treasonable  practices  which  claimed  the  forfeit 
of  his  life.  That  this  correspondence  with  the  public  ene- 
my was  not  a  correspondence  of  to-day,  or  of  yesterday, 
or  even  of  last  year,  or  of  the  year  before.  That,  it  was  cer- 
tain the  prisoner  had, for  longer  than  that,been  in  the  habit 
of  passing  and  repassing  between  France  and  England,  on 
secret  business  of  which  he  could  give  no  honest  account. 
That,  if  it  were  in  the  nature  of  traitorous  ways  to  thrive 
(which  happily  it  never  was),  the  real  wickedness  and  guilt 
of  his  business  might  have  remained  undiscovered.  That 
Providence,  however,  had  put  it  into  the  heart  of  a  per- 
son who  was  beyond  fear  and  beyond  reproach,  to  ferret 
out  the  nature  of  the  prisoner's  schemes,  and,  struck 
with  horror,  to  disclose  them  to  his  Majesty's  Chief  Secre- 
tary of  State  and  most  honourable  Privy  Council.  That, 
this  patriot  would  be  produced  before  them.  That,  his 
position  and  attitude  were,  on  the  whole,  sublime. 
That,  he  had  been  the  prisoner's  friend,  but,  at  once  in 
an  auspicious  and  an  evil  hour  detecting  his  infamy,  had 
resolved  to  immolate  the  traitor  he  could  no  longer  cher- 
ish in  his  bosom,  on  the  sacred  altar  of  his  country. 
That,  if  statues  were  decreed  in  Britain,  as  in  ancient 
Greece  and  Rome,  to  public  benefactors,  this  shining 
citizen  would  assuredly  have  had  one.  That,  as 
they  were  not  so  decreed,  he  probably  would  not  have 
one.  That,  Virtue,  as  had  been  observed  by  the 
poets  (in  many  passages  which  he  well  knew  the  jury 
would  have,  word  for  word,  at  the  tips  of  their  tongues  ; 
whereat  the  jury's  countenances  displayed  a  guilty  con- 
sciousness that  they  knew  nothing  about  the  passages), 
was  in  a  manner  contagious  ;  more  especially  the  bright 
virtue  known  as  patriotism,  or  love  of  country.  That, 
the  lofty  example  of  this  immaculate  and  unimpeacha- 
ble witness  for  the  Crown,  to  refer  to  whom  however  un- 
worthily was  an  honour,  had  communicated  itself  to  the 
prisoner's  servant,  and  had  engendered  in  him  a  holy  de- 
termination to  examine  his  master's  table-drawers  and 
pockets,  and  secrete  his  papers.  That,  he  (Mr.  Attor- 
ney-General) was  prepared  to  hear  some  disparagement 
attempted  of  this  admirable  servant  ;  but  that,  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  he  preferred  him  to  his  (Mr.  Attorney -Gener- 
al's) brothers  and  sisters,  and  honoured  him  more  than 
his  (Mr.  Attorney-General's)  father  and  mother.  That, 
he  calle*  with  confidence  on  the  jury  to  come  and  do 
likewise.  That,  the  evidence  of  these  two  witnesses, 
coupled  with  the  documents  of  their  discovering  that 
would  be  produced,  would  show  the  prisoner  to  have  been 
furnished  with  lists  of  his  Majesty's  forces,  and  of  their 
disposition  and  preparation,  both  by  sea  and  land,  and 
would  leave  no  doubt  that  he  had  habitually  conveyed 
such  information  to  a  hostile  power.  That,  these  lists 
could  not  be  proved  to  be  in  the  prisoner's  handwriting  ; 
but  that  it  was  all  the  same  ;  that,  indeed,  it  was  rather 
the  better  for  the  prosecution,  as  showing  the  prisoner 
to  be  artful  in  his  precautions.  That,  the  proof  would 
go  back  five  years,  and  would  show  the  prisoner  already 
engaged  in  these  pernicious  missions,  within  a  few 
weeks  before  the  date  of  the  very  first  action  fought  be- 
tween the  British  troops  and  the  Americans.  That,  for 
these  reasons  the  jury, being  a  loyal  jury  (as  he  knew  they 
were),  and  being  a  responsible  jury  (as  they  knew  they 
were),  must  positively  find  the  prisoner  Guilty,  and  make 
an  end  of  him,  whether  they  liked  it  or  not.  "  That,  they 
never  could  lay  their  heads  upon  their  pillows  ;  that, 
they  could  never  tolerate  the  idea  of  their  wives  laying 
their  heads  upon  their  pillows  ;  that,  they  never  could 
endure  the  notion  of  their  children  laying  their  heads 
upon  their  pillows  ;  in  short,  that  there  nevermore  could 
be,  for  them  or  theirs,  any  laying  of  heads  upon  pillows 
at  all,  unless  the  prisoner's  head  was  taken  off.  That 
head  Mr.  Attorney-General  concluded  by  demanding  of  ■ 
them,  in  the  name  of  everything  he  could  think  of  with  i 
a  round  turn  in  it,  and  on  the  faith  of  his  solemn  assev-  i 
eration  that  he  already  considered  the  prisoner  as  good 
as  dead  and  gone. 

When  the  Attorney-General  ceased,  a  buzz  arose  in  the 
court  as  if  a  cloud  of  great  blue  flies  were  swarming 
about  the  prisoner,  in  an  anticipation  of  what  he  was 
soon  to  become.    When  it  toned  down  again,  the  unini-  j 
peachable  patriot  appeared  in  the  witness-box. 

Mr.  Solicitor-General  then,  following  his  leader's  lead, 
examined  the  patriot :  John  Barsad,  gentleman  byname.  | 


I  The  story  of  his  pure  soul  was  exactly  what  Mr.  Attor- 
ney-General  had  described  it  to  be — perhaps,  if  it  had  a 
fault,  a  little  too  exactly.    Having  released  his  noble 
!  bosom  of  its  burden,  he  would  have  modestly  withdrawn 
]  himself,  but  that  the  wigged  gentleman  with  the  papers 
[  before  him,  sitting  not  far  from  Mr.  Lorry,  begged  to 
ask  him  a  few  questions.    The  wigged  gentleman  sitting 
,  opposite,  still  looking  at  the  ceiling  of  the  court. 

llad  he  ever  been  a  spy  himself?  No,  he  scorned  the 
ba.se  insinuation.  What  did  he  live  upon  ?  His  proper- 
ty. Where  was  his  property  ?  He  didn't  precisely  re- 
member where  it  was.  What  was  it  ?  No  business  of 
anybody's.  Had  he  inherited  it  ?  Yes,  he  had.  From 
whom  ?  Distant  relation.  Very  distant  ?  Rather.  Ever 
been  in  prison  ?  Certainly  not.  Never  in  a  debtor's 
prison  ?  Didn't  see  what  that  had  to  do  with  it.  Never 
in  a  debtor's  prison  ? — Come,  once  again.  Never  ?  Yes, 
How  many  times?  Two  or  three  times.  Not  five  or 
six?  Perhaps.  Of  what  profession?  Gentleman. 
Ever  been  kicked  ?  Might  have  been.  Frequently  ? 
No.  Ever  kicked  down-stairs  ?  Decidedly  not  ;  once 
received  a  kick  on  the  top  of  a  staircase,  and  fell  down 
of  his  own  accord.  Kicked  on  that  occasion  for  cheating 
at  dice?  Something  to  that  effect  was  said  by  the  in- 
toxicated liar  who  committed  the  assault,  but  it  was  not 
true.  Swear  it  was  not  true?  Positively.  Ever  live  by 
cheating  at  play  ?  Never.  Ever  live  by  play  ?  Not 
more  than  other  gentlemen.  Ever  borrow  money  of  the 
prisoner  ?  Yes.  Ever  pay  him  ?  No.  Was  not  this  in- 
timacy with  the  prisoner,  in  reality  a  very  slight  one, 
forced  upon  the  prisoner  in  coaches,  inns,  and  packets  1 
No.  Sure  he  saw  the  prisoner  with  these  lists  ?  Certain. 
Knew  no  more  about  the  lists?  No,  Had  not  procured 
them  himself,  for  instance  ?  No.  Expect  to  get  any- 
thing by  this  evidence  ?  No.  Not  in  regular  govern- 
ment pay  and  employment,  to  lay  traps?  Oh  dear  no. 
Or  to  do  anything  ?  Oh  dear  no.  Swear  that  ?  Over 
and  over  again.  No  motives  but  motives  of  sheer 
patriotism  ?    None  whatever. 

The  virtuous  servant,  Roger  Cly,  swore  his  way 
through  the  case  at  a  great  rate.  He  had  taken  service 
Avith  the  prisoner,  in  good  faith  and  simplicity,  four 
years  ago.  He  had  asked  the  prisoner,  aboard  the 
Calais  packet,  if  he  wanted  a  handy  fellow,  and  the  pris- 
oner had  engaged  him.  He  had  not  asked  the  prisoner 
to  take  the  handy  fellow  as  an  act  of  charity — never 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  He  began  to  have  suspicions 
of  the  prisoner,  and  to  kq^p  an  eye  upon  him,  soon  after- 
wards. In  arranging  his  clothes,  while  travelling,  he 
had  seen  similar  lists  to  these  in  the  prisoner's  pockets, 
over  and  over  again.  He  had  taken  these  lists  from  the 
drawer  of  the  prisoner's  desk.  He  had  not  put  them 
there  first.  He  had  seen  the  prisoner  show  these  identi- 
cal lists  to  French  gentlemen  at  Calais,  and  similar  lists 
to  French  gentlemen,  both  at  Calais  and  Boulogne, 
loved  his  country,  and  couldn't  bear  it,  and  had  given 
information.  He  had  never  been  suspected  of  stealing  a 
silver  teapot  ;  he  had  been  maligned  respecting  a  mus- 
tard-pot, but  it  turned  out  to  be  only  a  plated  one. 
He  had  known  the  last  witness  seven  or  eight  years  ; 
but  that  was  merely  a  coincidence.  He  didn't  call  it 
a  particularly  curious  coincidence  ;  most  coincidences 
were  curious.  Neither  did  he  call  it  a  curious  coinci- 
dence that  true  patriotism  was  Ids  only  motive  too.  He 
was  a  true  Briton,  and  hoped  there  were  many  like  him. 

The  blue-flies  buzzed  again,  and  Mr.  Attorney-General 
called  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

"  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry,  are  you  a   clerk  in  Tellson's 
bank?" 
"  I  am." 

"  On  a  certain  Friday  night  in  November  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five,  did  business  occasion 
you  to  travel  between  London  and  Dover  by  the  mail  ?  " 
"It  did." 

"  Were  there  anv  other  passengers  in  the  mail  ?  " 
"  Two." 

"  Did  they  alight  on  the  road  in  the  course  of  the 
night?" 

"They  did." 

"Mr.  Lorry,  look  upon  the  prisoner.  Was  he  one  of 
those  two  passengers  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  undertake  to  say  that  he  was." 


360 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Does  he  resemble  either  of  these  two  passengers?  " 

"  Both  were  so  wrapped  up,  and  the  night  was  so 
dark,  and  we  were  all  so  reserved,  that  I  cannot  under- 
take to  say  even  that." 

"Mr.  Lorry,  look  again  upon  the  prisoner.  Suppos- 
ing him  wrapped  up  as  those  two  passengers  were,  is 
there  anything  in  his  bulk  and  stature  to  render  it  un- 
likely that  he  was  one  of  them  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  will  not  swear,  Mr.  Lorry,  that  he  was  not  one 
of  them  ?  " 
"No." 

"  So  at  least  you  say  he  may  have  been  one  of  them?" 

"Yes.  Except  that  I  remember  them  both  to  have 
been — like  myself — timorous  of  highwaymen,  and  the 
prisoner  has  not  a  timorous  air." 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  counterfeit  of  timidity,  Mr. 
Lorry  V 

"  I  certainly  have  seen  that." 

"  Mr.  Lorry  look  once  more  upon  the  prisoner.  Have 
you  seen  him  to  your  certain  knowledge,  before  ?  " 
"I  have." 
"When?" 

"I  was  returning  from  France  a  few  days  afterwards, 
and,  at  Calais,  the  prisoner  came  on  board  the  packet- 
ship  in  which  I  returned,  and  made  the  voyage  with 
me." 

"  At  what  hour  did  he  come  on  board  ?  " 
At  a  little  after  midnight." 

"In  the  dead  of  the  night.  Was  he  the  only  passen- 
ger who  came  on  board  at  that  untimely  hour  ?  " 

"He  happened  to  be  the  only  one." 

"Never  mind  about  that  'happening,'  Mr.  Lorry. 
He  was  the  only  passenger  who  came  on  board  in  the 
dead  of  the  night  ?  " 

"He  was." 

"  Were  you  travelling  alone,  Mr.  Lorry,  or  with  any 
companion  ?  " 

"  With  two  companions.  A  gentleman  and  a  lady. 
They  are  here." 

"  They  are  here.  Had  you  any  conversation  with  the 
prisoner  ?  " 

"  Hardly  any.  The  weather  was  stormy,  and  the  pas- 
sage long  and  rough,  and  I  lay  on  a  sofa,  almost  from 
shore  to  shore." 

"Miss  Manette  !  " 

The  young  lady,  to  whom  all  eyes  had  been  turned  be- 
fore, and  were  now  turned  a^in,  stood  up  where  she 
had  sat.  Her  father  rose  with  her,  and  kept  her  hand 
drawn  through  his  arm. 

"  Miss  Manette,  look  upon  the  prisoner." 

To  be  confronted  with  such  pity,  and  such  earnest 
youth  and  beauty,  was  far  more  trying  to  the  accused 
than  to  be  confronted  with  all  the  crowd.  Standing,  as 
it  were,  apart  with  her  on  the  edge  of  his  grave,  not  all 
the  staring  curiosity  that  looked  on,  could,  for  the  mo- 
ment, nerve  him  to  remain  quite  still.  His  hurried  right 
hand  parcelled  out  the  herbs  before  him  into  imaginary 
beds  of  flowers  in  a  garden  ;  and  his  efforts  to  control 
and  steady  his  breathing,  shook  the  lips  from  which  the 
colour  rushed  to  his  heart.  The  buzz  of  the  great  flies 
was  loud  again. 

"  Miss  Manette,  have  you  seen  the  prisoner  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"On  board  of  the  packet-ship  just  now  referred  to, 
sir,  and  on  the  same  occasion." 

"  You  are  the  young  lady  just  now  referred  to?  " 
"Oh  !  most  unhappily,  I  am  !" 

The  plaintive  tone  of  her  compassion  merged  into  the 
less  musical  voice  of  the  Judge,  as  he  said,  something 
fiercely  :  "Answer  the  questions  put  to  you,  and  make 
no  remarks  uj)on  them." 

"  Miss  Manette,  had  you  any  conversation  with  the  pris- 
oner on  that  passage  across  the  Channel  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Recal  it." 

In  the  midst  of  a  profound  stillness,  she  faintly  began  : 
"  When  the  gentleman  came  on  board — " 
"Do  you  mean  the  prisoner?"  inquired  the  Judge, 
knitting  his  brows. 
"  Yes,  my  Lord." 


"Then  say  the  prisoner." 

"When  the  prisoner  came  on  board,  he  noticed  that 
my  father,"  turning  her  eyes  lovingly  to  him  as  he  stood 
beside  her,  "  was  much  fatigued  and  in  a  very  weak 
state  of  health.  My  father  was  so  reduced,  that  I  was 
afraid  to  take  him  out  of  the  air,  and  I  had  made  a  bed 
for  him  on  the  deck  near  the  cabin  steps,  and  I  sat  on 
the  deck  at  his  side  to  take  care  of  him.  There  were  no 
other  passengers  that  night,  but  we  four.  The  prisoner 
was  so  good  as  to  beg  permission  to  advise  me  how  I 
could  shelter  my  father  from  the  wind  and  weather,  bet- 
ter than  I  had  done.  1  had  not  known  how  to  do  it  well, 
not  understanding  how  the  wind  would  set  when  we  were 
out  of  the  harbour.  He  did  it  for  me.  He  expressed 
great  goodness  and  kindness  for  my  father's  state,  and  I 
am  sure  he  felt  it.  That  was  the  manner  of  our  begin- 
ning to  speak  together. " 

"  Let  me  interrupt  you  for  a  moment.  Had  he  come 
on  board  alone  ?  " 

"No." 

"  How  many  were  with  him?" 
"  Two  French  gentlemen." 
"Had  they  conferred  together?" 

"  They  had  conferred  together  until  the  last  moment, 
when  it  was  necessary  for  the  French  gentleman  to  be 
landed  in  their  boat. " 

"Had  any  papers  been  handed  about  among  them, 
similar  to  these  lists?" 

"  Some  papers  had  been  handed  about  among  them, 
but  I  don't  know  what  papers." 

"  Like  these  in  shape  and  size?" 

"  Possibly,  but  indeed  I  don't  know,  although  they 
stood  whispering  very  near  to  me  ;  because  they  stood  at 
I  the  top  of  the  cabin  steps  to  have  the  light  of  the  lamp 
that  was  hanging  there  ;  it  was  a  dull  lamp,  and  they 
spoke  very  low,  and  I  did  not  hear  what  they  said,  and 
saw  only  that  they  looked  at  papers." 

"Now,  to  the  prisoner's  conversation.  Miss  Manette." 

"The  prisoner  was  as  open  in  his  confidence  with  me 
— which  arose  out  of  my  helpless  situation — as  he  was 
kind,  and  good,  and  useful  to  my  father.  Ihope,"  burst- 
ing into  tears,  "  I  may  not  repay  him  by  doing  him  harm 
to-day."  ^ 

Buzzing  from  the  blue -flies. 

"  Miss  Manette,  if  the  prisoner  does  not  perfectly  un- 
derstand that  you  give  the  evidence  which  it  is  your  duty 
to  give — which  you  must  give — and  which  you  cannot 
escape  from  giving — with  great  unwillingness,  he  is  the 
only  person  present  in  that  condition.    Please  to  go  on." 

"  He  told  me  that  he  was  travelling  on  business  of  a 
delicate  and  difficult  nature,  which  might  get  people  into 
trouble,  and  that  he  was  therefore  travelling  under  an 
assumed  name.  He  said  that  this  business  had,  within 
a  few  days,  taken  him  to  France,  and  might,  at  intervals, 
take  him  backwards  and  forwards  between  France  and 
England  for  a  long  time  to  come. " 

"  Did  he  say  anything  about  America,  Miss  Manette? 
Be  particular." 

"  He  tried  to  explain  to  me  how  that  quarrel  had 
arisen,  and  he  said  that,  so  far  as  he  could  judge,  it  was 
a  wrong  and  foolish  one  on  England's  part.  He  added, 
in  a  jesting  way,  that  perhaps  George  Washington  might 
gain  almost  as  great  a  name  in  history  as  George  the  Third 
But  there  was  no  harm  in  his  way  of  saying  this  :  it  was 
said  laughingly,  and  to  beguile  the  time," 

Any  strongly  marked  expression  of  face  on  the  part  of 
a  chief  actor  in  a  scene  of  great  interest  to  whom  many 
eyes  are  directed,  will  be  unconsciously  imitated  by  the 
spectators.  Her  forehead  was  painfully  anxious  and  in- 
tent as  she  gave  this  evidence,  and,  in  the  pauses  when 
she  stopped  for  the  Judge  to  write  it  down,  watched  its 
effect  upon  the  Counsel  for  and  against.  Among  the 
lookers-on  there  was  the  same  expression  in  all  quarters 
of  the  court  ;  insomuch,  that  a  great  majority  of  the 
foreheads  there,  might  have  been  mirrors  reflecting  the 
witness,  when  the  Judge  looked  up  from  his  notes  to 
glare  at  that  tremendous  heresy  about  George  Washing- 
ton, 

Mr.  Attorney -General  now  signified  to  my  Lord,  that 
I  he  deemed  it  necessary,  as  a  matter  of  precaution  and 
j  form,  to  call  the  young  lady's  father,  Doctor  Manette. 
I  Who  was  called  acx'ordingly. 


A  TALE  OF 

"  Doctor  Manette,  look  upon  the  prisoner.  Have  you 
ever  seen  him  before  ?" 

"Once.  When  he  called  at  my  lodgings  in  London. 
Some  three  years,  or  three  years  and  a  half  ago." 

"Can  you  identify  him  as  your  fellow-passenffer,  on 
board  the*  packet,  or  speak  to  his  conversation  witli  your 
daughter  ?" 

I     "  Sir,  I  can  do  neither." 

"  Is  there  any  particular  and  special  reason  for  your  be- 
ing unable  to  do  either  ?  " 

He  .answered  in  a  low  voice,  **  There  is." 

* '  Has  it  been  your  misfortune  to  undergo  a  long  impris- 
onment, without  trial,  or  even  accusation,  in  your  native 
country.  Doctor  Manette?" 

He  answered,  in  a  tone  that  went  to  every  heart,  "  A 
long  imprisonment." 

"  Were  vou  newly  released  on  the  occasion  in  ques- 
tion ?  " 

"They  tell  me  so." 

Have  you  no  remembrance  of  the  occasion  ?" 

"  None.  My  mind  is  a  blank,  from  some  time — I  can-  | 
not  even  say  what  time — when  I  employed  myself,  in 
my  captivity,  in  making  shoes,  to  the  time  when  I  found 
myself  living  in  London  with  my  dear  daughter  here. 
She  hafl  become  familiar  to  me,  when  a  gracious  God 
restored  my  faculties  ;  but,  I  am  quite  unable  even  to  say 
how  she  had  become  familiar.  I  have  no  remembrance 
of  the  process." 

Mr.  Attorney-General  sat  down,  and  the  father  and 
daughter  sat  down  together, 

A  singular  circumstance  then  arose  in  the  case.  ^  The 
object  in  hand,  being,  to  show  that  the  prisoner  went 
down,  with  some  fellow-plotter  untracked,  in  the  Dover 
mail  on  that  Friday  night  in  November  five  years  ago, 
and  got  out  of  the  mail  in  the  night,  as  a  blind,  at  a 
place  where  he  did  not  remain,  but  from  which  he 
travelled  back  some  dozen  miles  or  more,  to  a  garrison  and 
dockyard,  and  there  collected  information  ;  a  witness 
was  called  to  identify  him  as  having  been  at  the  precise 
time  required,  in  the  coffee-room  of  an  hotel  in  that 
garrison-and-dockyard  town,  waiting  for  another  person. 
The  prisoner's  counsel  was  cross-examining  this  witness 
with  no  result,  except  that  he  had  never  seen  the  pris- 
oner on  any  other  occasion,  when  the  wigged  gentleman 
who  had  all  this  time  been  looking  at  the  ceiling  of  the 
court,  wrote  a  word  or  two  on  a  little  piece  of  paper, 
screwed  it  up,  and  tossed  it  to  him.  Opening  this  piece 
of  paper  in  the  next  pause,  the  counsel  looked  with  great 
attention  and  curiosity  at  the  prisoner. 

"You  say  again  you  are  quite  sure  that  it  was  the 
prisoner?" 

The  witness  was  quite  sure. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anybody  very  like  the  prisoner?" 
Not  so  like  (the  witness  said),  as  that  he  could  be  mis- 
taken. 

"  Look  well  for  upon  that  gentleman,my  learned  friend, 
there,"  pointing  to  him  who  had  tossed  the  paper  over, 
"  and  then  look  well  upon  the  prisoner.  How  say  you  ? 
Are  they  very  like  each  other  ?  " 

Allowing  for  my  learned  friend's  appearance  being 
careless  and  slovenly,  if  not  debauched,  they  were  suflS- 
ciently  like  each  other  to  surprise,  not  only  the  witness, 
but  everybody  present,  when  they  were  thus  brought  into 
comparison.  My  Lord  being  prayed  to  bid  my  learned 
friend  lay  aside  his  wig,  and  giving  no  very  gracious 
consent,  the  likeness  became  much  more  remarkable. 
My  Lord  inquired  of  Mr,  Stryver  (the  prisoner's  counsel), 
whether  they  were  next  to  try  Mr.  Carton  (name  of  my 
learned  friend)  for  treason?  But,  Mr.  Stryver  replied  to 
my  Lord,  no  ;  but  he  would  ask  the  witness  to  tell  him 
whether  what  happened  once,  might  happen  twice  ; 
whether  he  would  have  been  so  confident  if  he  had  seen 
this  illustration  of  his  rashness  sooner  ;  whether  he 
would  be  so  confident,  having  seen  it ;  and  more  The 
up.shot  of  which,  was,  to  smash  this  \vitness  like  a  crock- 
ery vessel,  and  shiver  his  part  of  the  case  to  useless 
lumber. 

Mr.  Cruncher  had  by  this  time  taken  quite  a  lunch 
of  rust  off  his  fingers,  in  his  following  of  the  evidence. 
He  had  now  to  attend  while  Mr,  Stryver  fitted  the  pris- 
oner's case  on  the  jury,  like  a  compact  suit  of  clothes  ; 
showing  them  how  the  patriot,  Barsad,  was  a  hired  spy 


TWO  CITIES.  301 

and  traitor,  an  unblushing  trafficker  in  blood,  and  one  of 
the  greatest  scoundrels  upon  earth  since  accursed  Judas 
— which  he  certainly  did  look  rather  like.  How  the  vir- 
tuous servant,  Cly,  was  his  friend  and  partner,  and  was 
worthy  to  be  ;  how  the  watcliful  eyes  of  tho.se  forgers 
and  false  swearers  had  rested  on  the  prisoner  as  a  vic- 
tim, because  some  family  affairs  in  France,  he  being  of 
French  extraction,  did  require  his  making  those  passages 
across  the  Channel — though  what  those  affairs  were,  a 
consideration  for  others  wlio  were  near  and  dear  to  him, 
forbad  him,  even  for  his  life,  to  disclose.  How  the  evi- 
dence that  had  been  war[)ed  and  wrested  from  the 
young  lady,  whose  anguish  in  giving  it  they  had  wit- 
nessed, came  to  nothing,  involving  the  mere  little  inno- 
cent gallantries  and  politenesses  lilcely  to  pass  between 
any  young  gentleman  and  young  lady  so  thrown  to- 
gether : — with  the  exception  of  that  reference  to  George 
Washington,  which  was  altogether  too  extravagant  and 
impossible,  to  be  regarded  in  any  other  light  than  as  a 
monstrous  joke.  How  it  would  be  a  weakness  in  the 
I  government  to  break  down  in  this  attempt  to  practise 
for  popularity  on  the  lowest  national  antipathies  and 
fears,  and  therefore  Mr.  Attorney-General  had  made  the 
most  of  it  ;  how,  nevertheless,  it  rested  upon  nothing, 
save  that  vile  and  infamous  character  of  evidence  too 
often  disfiguring  such  cases,  and  of  which  the  State 
Trials  of  this  country  were  full.  But,  there  My  Lord 
interposed  (with  as  grave  a  face  as  if  it  had  not  been 
true),  saying  that  he  could  not  sit  upon  that  Bench  and 
suffer  those  allusions. 

Mr.  Stryver  then  called  his  few  witnesses,  and  Mr. 
Cruncher  had  next  to  attend  while  Mr.  Attorney-General 
turned  the  whole  suit  of  clothes  Mr.  Stryver  had  fitted 
on  the  jury,  inside  out  ;  showing  how  Barsad  and  Cly 
were  even  a  hundred  times  better  than  he  had  thought 
them,  and  the  prisoner  a  hundred  times  worse.  Lastly, 
came  My  Lord  himself,  turning  the  suit  of  clothes,  now 
inside  out,  now  outside  in,  but  on  the  whole  decidedly 
trimming  and  shaping  them  into  grave-clothes -for  the 
prisoner. 

And  now,  the  jury  turned  to  consider,  and  the  great 
flies  swarmed  again. 

Mr.  Carton,  who  had  so  long  sat  looking  at  the  ceiling 
of  the  court,  changed  neither  his  place  nor  his  attitude, 
even  in  his  excitement.  W'hile  his  learned  friend,  Mr. 
Stryver,  massing  his  papers  before  him,  whispered  vnth 
those  who  sat  near,  and  from  time  to  time  glanced  anx- 
iously at  the  jury  ;  while  all  the  spectators  moved  more 
or  less,  and  grouped  themselves  anew  ;  while  even  My 
Lord  himself  arose  from  his  seat,  and  slowly  paced  up 
and  down  his  platform,  not  unattended  bv  a  suspicion  in 
the  minds  of  the  audience  that  his  state  was  feverish  ; 
this  one  man  sat  leaning  back,  with  his  torn  gown  half 
off  him,  his  untidy  wig  put  on  just  as  it  had  happened 
to  light  on  his  head  after  its  removal,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling  as  they  had  been  all 
day.  Something  especially  reckless  in  his  demeanour, 
not  only  gave  him.  a  disreputable  look,  but  so  diminished 
the  strong  resemblance  he  undoubtedly  bore  to  the  pris- 
oner (which  his  momentary  earnestness,  when  they  were 
compared  together,  had  strengthened),  that  many  of  the 
lookers-on,  taking  note  of  him  now,  said  to  one  another 
they  would  hardly  have  thought  the.  two  were  so  alike. 
Mr.  Cruncher  made  the  observation  to  his  next  neigh- 
bour, and  added,  "  I'd  hold  half  a  guinea  that  he  don't 
get  no  law-work  to  do.  Don't  look  like  the  sort  of  a  one 
to  get  any,  do  he  ?" 

Yet,  this  Mr.  Carton  took  in  more  of  the  details  of  the 
scene  than  he  appeared  to  take  in  ;  for  now,  when  Miss 
Manette's  head  dropped  upon  her  father's  breast,  he 
was  the  .first  to  see  it,  and  to  say  audibly  :  "  Officer  : 
look  to  that  young  lady.  Help  the  gentleman  to  take 
her  out.    Don't  vou  see  she  will  fall  I  " 

There  was  much  commiseration  for  her  as  she  was  re- 
moved, and  much  s>Tnpathy  -with  her  father.  It  had 
evidently  been  a  gre'at  distress  to  him.  to  have  the  days 
of  his  imprisonment  recalled.  He  had  shown  strong  in- 
ternal agitation  when  he  was  questioned,  and  that  pon- 
dering or  brooding  look  which  made  him  old,  had  been 
upon  him,  like  a  heavy  cloud,  ever  since.  As  he  passed 
out,  the  jury,  who  had  turned  back  and  paused  a  mo- 
ment, spoke,  through  their  foreman. 


362 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


They  were  not  agreed,  and  wished  to  retire.  My  Lord 
(perhaps  with  George  Washington  on  his  mind)  showed 
some  surprise  that  they  were  not  agreed,  but  signified 
his  pleasure  that  they  should  retire  under  watch  and 
ward,  and  retired  himself.  The  trial  had  lasted  all  day, 
and  the  lamps  in  the  court  were  now  being  lighted.  It 
began  to  be  rumoured  that  the  jury  would  be  out  a  long 
while.  The  spectators  dropped  oil  to  get  refreshment, 
and  the  prisoner  withdrew  to  the  back  of  the  dock,  and 
sat  down. 

Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  gone  out  when  the  young  lady 
and  her  father  went  out,  now  reappeared,  and  beckoned 
to  Jerry  :  who  in  the  slackened  interest,  could  easily 
get  near  him. 

"Jerry,  if  you  wish  to  take  something  to  eat,  you  can. 
But,  keep  in  the  way.  You  will  be  sure  to  hear  when 
the  Jury  come  in.  Don't  be  a  moment  behind  them,  for 
I  want  you  to  take  the  verdict  back  to  the  bank.  You 
are  the  quickest  messenger  I  know,  and  will  get  to 
Temple  Bar  long  before  I  can." 

Jerry  had  just  enough  forehead  to  knuckle,  and  he 
knuckled  it  in  acknowledgment  of  this  communication 
and  a  shilling.  Mr.  Carton  came  up  at  the  moment, 
and  touched  Mr.  Lorry  on  the  arm. 

"  How  is  the  young  lady  ?  " 

"  She  is  greatly  distressed  ;  but  her  father  is  comfort- 
ing her,  and  she  feels  the  better  for  being  out  of  court." 

"  I'll  tell  the  prisoner  so.  It  won't  do  for  a  respect- 
able bank  gentleman  like  you,  to  be  seen  speaking  to 
him  publicly,  you  know." 

Mr.  Lorry  reddened,  as  if  he  were  conscious  of  having 
debated  the  point  in  his  mind,  and  Mr.  Carton  made  his 
way  to  the  outside  of  the  bar.  The  way  out  of  court 
lay  in  that  direction,  and  Jerry  followed  him,  all  eyes, 
ears,  and  spikes. 

"  Mr.  Darnay  !  " 

The  prisoner  came  forward  directly. 

"  You  will  naturally  be  anxious  to  hear  of  the  witness. 
Miss  M^nette.  She  will  do  very  well.  You  have  seen 
the  worst  of  her  agitation." 

I  am  deeply  sorry  to  have  been  the  cause  of  it. 
Could  you  tell  her  so  for  me,  with  my  fervent  acknow- 
ledgments '? " 

"  Yes,  I  could.    I  will,  if  you  ask  it." 

Mr.  Carton's  manner  was  so  careless  as  to  be  almost 
insolent.  He  stood,  half  turned  from  the  prisoner, 
lounging  with  his  elbow  against  the  bar. 

"I  do  ask  it.    Accept  my  cordial  thanks." 

"  What,"  said  Carton,  still  only  half  turned  towards 
him,  "  do  you  expect,  Mr.  Darnay?" 

"  The  worst." 

"  It's  the  wisest  thing  to  expect,  and  the  likeliest.  But 
I  think  their  withdrawing  is  in  your  favour." 

Loitering  on  the  way  out  of  court  not  being  allowed, 
Jerry  heard  no  more  ;  but  left  them — so  like  each  other 
in  feature,  so  unlike  each  other  in  manner — standing 
side  by  side,  both  reflected  in  the  glass  above  them. 

An  hour  and  a  half  limped  heavily  away  in  the  thief - 
and-rascal-crowded  passages  below,  even  though  assisted 
off  with  mutton  pies  and  ale.  The  hoarse  messenger, 
uncomfortably  seated  on  a  form  after  taking  that  re- 
fection, had  dropped  into  a  doze,  when  a  loud  murmur 
and  a  rapid  tide  of  people  setting  up  the  stairs  that  led 
to  the  court,  carried 'him  along  with  them. 

"Jerry!  Jerry!"  Mr.  Lorry  was  already  calling  at 
the  door  when  he  got  there. 

"Here,  sir!  It's  a  fight  to  get  back  again.  Here  I 
am,  sir  ?  " 

Mr.  Lorry  handed  him  a  paper  through  the  throng. 
"Quick!    Have  you  got  it  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir." 

Hastily  written  on  the  paper  was  the  word  "Ac- 
quitted." 

"  If  you  had  sent  the  message,  '  Recalled  to  Life,' 
again,"  muttered  Jerry,  as  he  turned,  "I  should  have 
known  what  you  meant,  this  time." 

He  had  no  opportunity  of  saying,  or  so  much  as  think- 
ing anything  else,  until  he  was  clear  of  the  Old  Bailey  ; 
for,  the  crowd  came  pouring  out  with  a  vehemence  that 
nearly  took  him  off  his  legs,  and  a  loud  buzz  swept 
into  the  street  as  If  the  baffled  blue-flies  were  dispersing 
in  search  of  other  carrion. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Congratvlatwy . 

From  the  dimly-lighted  passages  of  the  court,  the 
last  sediment  of  the  human  stew  that  had  been  boiling 
there  all  day,  was  straining  off,  when  Doctor  Manette, 
Lucie  Manette  his  daughter,  Mr.  Lorry,  the  solicitor 
for  the  defence,  and  its  counsel  Mr.  Stryver,  stood 
gathered  around  Mr.  Charles  Darnay — just  released — 
congratulating  him  on  his  escape  from  death. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  by  a  far  brighter  light,  to 
recognise  in  Doctor  Manette,  intellectual  of  face  and 
upright  of  bearing,  the  shoemaker  of  the  garret  in  Paris. 
Yet,  no  one  could  have  looked  at  him  twice,  without 
looking  again:  even  though  the  opportunity  of  observation 
had  not  extended  to  the  mournful  cadence  of  his  low 
grave  voice,  and  to  the  abstraction  that  overclouded 
him  fitfully,  without  any  apparent  reason.  While  one 
external  cause,  and  that  a  reference  to  his  long  lingering 
agony,  would  always — as  on  the  trial — evoke  this  con- 
dition from  the  depths  of  his  soul,  it  was  also  in  its 
nature  to  arise  of  itself,  and  to  draw  a  gloom  over  him, 
as  incomprehensible  to  those  unacquainted  with  his 
story  as  if  they  had  seen  the  shadow  of  th©  actual 
Bastile  thrown  upon  him  by  a  summer  sun,  when  the 
substance  was  three  hundred  miles  away. 

Only  his  daughter  had  the  power  of  charming  this 
black  brooding  from  his  mind.  She  was  the  golden 
thread  that  united  him  to  a  Past  beyond  his  misery,  and 
to  a  Present  beyond  his  misery  :  and  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  the  light  of  her  face,  the  touch  of  her  hand,  had 
a  strong  beneficial  influence  with  him  almost  always. 
Not  absolutely  always,  for  she  could  recal  some  occa- 
sions on  which  her  power  had  failed  ;  but,  they  were 
few  and  slight,  and  she  believed  them  over. 

Mr.  Darnay  had  kissed  her  hand  fervently  and  grate- 
fully, and  had  turned  to  Mr.  Stryver,  whom  he  warmly 
thanked.  Mr.  Stryver,  a  man  of  little  more  than  thirty, 
but  looking  twenty  years  older  than  he  was,  stout,  loud, 
red,  bluff,  and  free  from  any  drawback  of  delicacy,  had 
a  pushing  way  of  shouldering  himself  (morally  and  phy- 
sically) into  companies  and  conversations,  that  argued 
well  for  his  shouldering  his  way  up  in  life. 

He  still  had  his  wig  and  gown  on,  and  he  said,  squar- 
ing himself  at  his  late  client  to  that  degree  that  he 
squeezed  the  innocent  Mr.  Lorry  clean  out  of  the  group  : 
"  I  am  glad  to  have  brought  you  off  with  honour,  Mr. 
Darnay.  It  was  an  infamous  prosecution,  grossly  infa- 
mous ;  but  not  the  less  likely  to  succeed,  on  that  ac- 
count." 

"  You  have  laid  me  under  an  obligation  to  you  for 
life — in  two  senses,"  said  his  late  client,  taking  his 
hand. 

"  I  have  done  my  best  for  you,  Mr.  Darnay  ;  and  my 
best  is  as  good  as  another  man's,  I  believe." 

It  clearly  being  incumbent  on  somebody  to  say,  "  Much 
better,"  Mr.  Lorry  said  it  ;  perhaps  not  quite  disinterest- 
edly, but  with  the  interested  obj'ect  of  squeezing  himself 
back  again. 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  said  Mr.  Stryver.  "  Well  !  you  have 
been  present  all  day,  and  you  ought  to  know.  You  are 
a  man  of  business,  too." 

"  And  as  such,"  quoth  Mr.  Lorry,  whom  the  counsel 
learned  in  the  law  had  now  shouldered  back  into  the  group, 
just  as  he  had  previously  shouldered  him  out  of  it — "  as 
such,  I  will  appeal  to  Doctor  Manette,  to  break  up  this 
conference  and  order  us  all  to  our  homes.  Miss  Lucie 
looks  ill,  Mr.  Darnay  has  had  a  terrible  day,  we  are  worn 
out." 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Mr.  Lorry,"  said  Stryver;  "I 
have  a  night's  work  to  do  yet.    Speak  for  yourself." 

"  I  speak  for  myself,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  "  and  for 
Mr.  Darney,  and  for  Miss  Lucie,  and — Miss  Lucie  do  you 
not  think  I  may  speak  for  us  all  ?  "  He  asked  her  the 
question  pointedly,  and  with  a  glance  at  her  father. 

His  face  had  become  frozen,  as  it  were,  in  a  very  curi- 
ous look  at  Darnay  :  an  intent  look,  deepening  into  a 
frown  of  dislike  and  distrust,  not  even  unmixed  with 
fear.  With  this  strange  expression  on  him  his  thoughts 
had  wandered  away. 

"  My  father,"  said  Lucie,  softly  laying  her  hand  on  hia. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


363 


He  slowly  shook  the  shadow  off,  and  turned  to  her. 

"  Shall  we  go  home,  my  father  ?" 

With  along  breath,  he  answered,  "Yes." 

The  friends  of  the  acquitted  prisoner  had  dispersed, 
under  the  impression — which  he  himself  had  originated 
— that  he  would  not  be  released  that  night.  The  lights 
were  nearly  all  extinguished  in  the  passages,  the  iron 
gates  were  being  closed  with  a  jar  and  a  rattle,  and  the 
dismal  place  was  deserted  until  to-morrow  morning's  in- 
terest of  gallows,  pillory,  whipping -post,  and  branding- 
iron,  should  repeople  it.  Walking  between  her  father 
and  Mr.  Darnay,  Lucie  Manette  passed  into  the  open  air. 
A  hackney-coach  was  called,  and  the  father  and  daughter 
departed  in  it. 

Mr.  Stryver  had  left  them  in  the  passages,  to  shoulder 
his  way  back  to  the  robing-room.  Another  person  who 
had  not  joined  the  group,  or  interchanged  a  word  with 
any  of  them,  but  who  had  been  leaning  against  the  wall 
where  its  shadow  was  darkest,  had  silently  strolled  out 
after  the  rest,  and  had  looked  on  until  the  coach  drove 
away.  He  now  stepped  up  to  where  Mr.  Lorry  and  Mr. 
Darnay  stood  upon  the  pavement. 

"  So,  Mr.  Lorry  !  Men  of  business  may  speak  to  Mr. 
Darnay  now  ?  " 

Nobody  had  made  any  acknowledgment  of  Mr.  Carton's 
part  in  the  day's  proceedings  ;  nobody  had  known  of  it. 
He  was  unrobed,  and  was  none  the  better  for  it  in  ap- 
pearance. 

"  If  you  knew  what  a  conflict  goes  on  in  the  business 
mind  when  the  business  mind  is  divided  between  good- 
natured  impulse  and  business  appearances,  you  would  be 
amused,  Mr.  Darnay." 

Mr.  Lorry  reddened,  and  said  warmly,  "  You  have 
mentioned  that  before,  sir.  We  men  of  business,  who 
serve  a  House,  are  not  our  own  masters.  We  have  to 
think  of  the  House  more  than  ourselves. " 

"/  know,  /  know,"  rejoined  Mr.  Carton,  carelessly. 
"  Don't  be  nettled,  Mr.  Lorry.  You  are  as  good  as  an- 
other, I  have  no  doubt  ;  better,  I  dare  say." 

"And  indeed,  sir,"  pursued  Mr.  Lorry,  not  minding 
him,  "  I  really  don't  know  what  you  have  to  do  with  the 
matter.  If  you'll  excuse  me,  as  very  much  your  elder, 
for  saying  so,  I  really  don't  know  that  it  is  your  busi- 


"  Business  !  Bless  you,  /have  no  business,"  said  Mr. 
Carton. 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  have  not,  sir." 
"  I  think  so  too." 

"  If  you  had,"  pursued  Mr.  Lorry,  "  perhaps  you  would 
attend  to  it." 

"Lord  love  you,  no! — I  shouldn't,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
ton. 

"  Well,  sir  !"  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  thoroughly  heated  by 
his  indifference,  "business  is  a  very  good  thing,  and  a 
very  respectable  thing.  And,  sir,  if  business  imposes 
its  restraints  and  its  silences  and  impediments,  Mr.  Dar- 
nay as  a  young  gentleman  of  generosity  knows  how  to 
make  allowance  for  that  circumstance.  Mr.  Darnay, 
good  night,  God  bless  you,  sir  !  I  hope  you  have  been 
this  day  preserved  for  a  prosperous  and  happy  life. — 
Chair  there  ! " 

Perhaps  a  little  angry  with  himself,  as  well  as  with 
the  barrister,  Mr.  Lorry  bustled  into  the  chair,  and  was 
carried  off  to  Tellson's.  Carton,  who  smelt  of  port 
wine,  and  did  not  appear  to  be  quite  sober,  laughed  then, 
and  turned  to  Darnay  : 

"  This  is  a  strange  chance  that  throws  you  and  me 
together.  This  must  be  a  strange  night  to  you,  stand- 
ing alone  here  with  your  counterpart  on  these  street- 
stones  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  seem  yet,"  returned  Charles  Darnay,  "to 
belong  to  this  world  again." 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  it  ;  it's  not  so  long  since  you  were 
pretty  far  advanced  on  your  way  to  another.  You 
speak  faintly." 

"  I  begin  to  think  I  am  faint." 

"Then  why  the  devil  don't  you  dine?  I  dined,  my- 
self, while  those  numskulls  were  deliberating  which 
world  you  should  belong  to — this,  or  some  other.  Let 
me  show  you  the  nearest  tavern  to  dine  well  at." 

Drawing  his  arm  through  his  own,  he  took  him  down 
Ludgate-hill  to  Fleet-street,  and  so,  up  a  covered  way, 


into  a  tavern.  Here,  they  were  shown  into  a  little 
room,  where  Charles  Darnay  was  soon  recruiting  hi» 
strength  with  a  good  plain  dinner  and  good  wine  ;  while 
Carton  sat  opposite  to  him  at  the  same  table,  with  his 
separate  bottle  of  port  before  him,  and  his  fully  half-in- 
solent manner  uy)on  him. 

"  Do  you  feel,  yet,  that  you  belong  to  this  terrestrial 
scheme  again,  Mr.  Darnay?" 

"  I  am  frightfully  confused  regarding  time  and  xdace  ; 
but  I  am  so  far  mended  as  to  feel  that." 

"  It  must  be  an  immense  satisfaction  !" 

He  said  it  bitterly,  and  filled  up  his  glass  again  : 
which  was  a  large  one. 

"  As  to  me,  the  greatest  desire  I  have,  is  to  forget  that 
I  belong  to  it.  It  has  no  good  in  it  for  me — except  wine 
like  this — nor  I  for  it.  So  we  are  not  much  alike  in  that 
particular.  Indeed,  I  begin  to  think  we  are  not  much 
alike  in  any  particular,  you  and  I." 

Confused  by  the  emotion  of  the  day,  and  feeling  that 
his  being  there  with  this  Double  of  coarse  deportment, 
to  be  like  a  dream,  Charles  Darnay  was  at  a  loss  how  to 
answer  ;  finally  answered  not  at  all. 

"Now  your  dinner  is  done,"  Carton  presently  said, 
"why  don't  you  call  a  health,  Mr.  Darnay  ;  why  don't 
you  give  your  toast  ?" 

' '  What  health  ?   What  toast  ?  " 

"  Why  it's  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue.    It  ought  to  be, 
it  must  be,  I'll  swear  it's  there." 
"Miss  Manette,  then  !" 
"Miss  Manette,  then  !" 

Looking  his  companion  full  in  his  face  while  he  drank 
the  toast.  Carton  flung  his  glass  over  his  shoulder  against 
the  wall,  where  it  shivered  to  pieces;  then,  rang  the 
bell,  and  ordered  in  another. 

"  That's  a  fair  young  lady  to  hand  to  a  coach  in  the 
dark,  Mr.  Darnay  !  "  he  said  filling  his  new  goblet. 

A  slight  frown  and  a  laconic  "  Yes,"  was  the  answer. 

"  That's  a  fair  young  lady  to  be  pitied  by  and  wept  for 
by!  How  does  it  feel?  Is  it  worth  being  tried  for 
one's  life,  to  be  the  object  of  such  sympathy  and  com- 
passion, Mr.  Darnay?" 

Again  Darnay  answered  not  a  word. 

"She  was  mightily  pleased  to  have  your  message, 
when  I  gave  it  her.  Not  that  she  showed  she  was 
pleased,  but  I  suppose  she  was." 

The  allusion  served  as  a  timely  reminder  to  Darnay 
that  this  disagreeable  companion  had,  of  his  own  free 
will,  assisted  him  in  the  strait  of  the  day.  He  turned 
the  dialogue  to  that  point,  and  thanked  him  for  it. 

"I  neither  want  any  thanks,  nor  merit  any,"  was  the 
careless  rejoinder.  "It  was  nothing  to  do,  in  the  first 
place  ;  and  I  don't  know  why  I  did  it,  in  the  second. 
Mr.  Darnay,  let  me  ask  you  a  question." 

"  Willingly,  and  a  small  return  for  your  good  oflSces." 

"  Do  you  think  I  particularly  like  you  ?  " 

"  Really,  Mr.  Carton,"  returned  the  other,  oddly  dis- 
concerted,  "  I  have  not  asked  myself  the  question." 

"  But  ask  yourself  the  question  now." 

"  You  have  acted  as  if  you  do  ;  but  I  don't  think  von 
do." 

"J  don't  think  I  do,"  said  Carton.  "I  begin  to  have 
a  very  good  opinion  of  your  understanding. " 

"  Nevertheless,"  pursued  Darnay,  rising  to  ring  the 
bell,  "there  is  nothing  in  that,  I  hope,  to  prevent  my 
calling  the  reckoning,  and  our  parting  without  ill-blood 
on  either  side." 

Carton  rejoining,  "  Nothing  in  life  !"  Darnay  rang. 
"Do  you  call  the  whole  reckoning?"  said  Carton.  On 
his  answering  in  the  aflBrmative,  "  Then  bring  me  an- 
other pint  of  this  same  wine,  drawer,  and  come  and 
wake  me  at  ten." 

The  bill  being  paid,  Charles  Darnay  rose  and  wished 
him  good  night.  Without  returning  the  wish.  Carton, 
rose  too,  with  something  of  a  threat  or  defiance  in  his 
manner,  and  said,  "A  last  word,  Mr.  Darnay  :  you  think 
I  am  drunk?" 

"I  think  you  have  been  drinking,  Mr.  Carton." 

"  Think  ?    You  know  I  have  been  drinking." 

"  Since  I  must  say  so.  I  know  it." 

"  Then  you  shall  likewise  know  why.  I  am  a  disap- 
pointed drudge,  sir.  I  care  for  no  man  on  earth,  and  no 
man  on  earth  cares  for  me. " 


564 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"'Much  to  be  regretted.  You  might  have  used  your 
talents  better." 

"May  be  so,  Mr.  Darnay  ;  may  be  not.  Don't  let 
your  sober  face  elate  you,  however ;  you  don't  know 
what  it  may  come  to.    Good  night  !  " 

When  he  was  left  alone,  this  strange  being  took  up  a 
candle,  went  to  a  glass  that  hung  against  the  wall,  and 
surveyed  himself  minutely  in  it. 

"Do  you  particularly  like  the  man?"  be  muttered,  at 
his  own  image  ;  "  why  should  you  particularly  like  a 
man  who  resembles  you  ?  There  is  nothing  in  you  to 
like ;  you  know  that.  Ah,  confound  you  !  What  a 
change  you  have  made  in  yourself  !  A  good  reason  for 
taking  to  a  man,  that  he  shows  you  what  you  have  fallen 
away  from,  and  what  you  might  have  been  !  Change 
places  with  him,  and  would  you  have  been  looked  at  by 
those  blue  eyes  as  he  was,  and  commiserated  by  that 
agitated  face  as  he  was  ?  Come  on,  and  have  it  out  in 
plain  words  !    You  hate  the  fellow." 

He  resorted  to  his  pint  of  wine  for  consolation,  drank 
It  all  in  a  few  minutes,  and  fell  asleep  on  his  arms,  with 
his  hair  straggling  over  the  table,  and  a  long  winding- 
sheet  in  the  candle  dripping  down  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Jackal. 

Those  were  drinking  days,  and  most  men  drank  hard. 
So  very  great  is  the  improvement  Time  has  brought 
about  in  such  habits,  that  a  moderate  staten;ient  of  the 
quantity  of  wine  and  punch  which  one  man  would  swal- 
low in  the  course  of  a  night,  without  any  detriment  to 
his  reputation  as  a  perfect  gentleman,  would  seem,  in 
these  days,  a  ridiculous  exaggeration.  The  learned  pro- 
fession of  the  Law  was  certainly  not  behind  any  other 
learned  profession  in  its  Bacchanalian  propensities ; 
neither  was  Mr.  Stryver,  already  fast  shouldering  his 
way  to  a  large  and  lucrative  practice,  behind  his  com- 
peers in  this  particular,  any  more  than  in  the  drier  parts 
of  the  legal  race. 

A  favourite  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  eke  at  the  Sessions, 
Mr.  Stryver  had  begun  cautiously  to  hew  away  the  lower 
staves  of  the  ladder  on  which  he  mounted.  Sessions  and 
Old  Bailey  had  now  to  summon  their  favourite,  specially, 
to  their  longing  arms  ;  and  shouldering  itself  towards 
the  visage  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  in  the  Cqurt  of 
King's  Bench,  the  florid  countenance  of  Mr.  Stryver 
might  be  daily  seen,  bursting  out  of  the  bed  of  wigs, 
like  a  great  sunflower  pushing  its  way  at  the  sun  from 
among  a  rank  garden- full  of  flaring  companions. 

It  had  once  been  noted  at  the  Bar,  that  while  Mr. 
Stryver  was  a  glib  man,  and  an  unscrupulous,  and  a 
ready,  and  a  bold,  he  had  not  that  faculty  of  extracting 
the  essence  from  a  heap  of  statements,  which  is  among 
the  most  striking  and  necessary  of  the  advocate's  accom- 
plishments. But,  a  remarkable  imp]  ovement  came  upon 
him  as  to  this.  The  more  business  he  got,  the  greater 
his  power  seemed  to  grow  of  getting  at  its  pith  and  mar- 
row ;  and  however  late  at  night  he  sat  carousing  with 
Sydney  Carton,  he  always  had  his  points  at  his  fingers' 
ends  in  the  morning. 

Sydney  Carton,  idlest  and  most  unpromising  of  men, 
was  Stryver's  great  ally.  What  the  two-drank  together, 
between  Hilary  Term  and  Michaelmas,  might  have  floated 
a  king's  ship.  Stryver  never  had  a  case  in  hand,  any- 
where, but  Carton  was  there  with  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, staring  at  the  ceiling  of  the  court ;  they  went  the 
same  Circuit,  and  even  there  they  prolonged  their  usual 
orgies  late  into  the  night,  and  Carton  was  rumoured  to 
be  seen  at  broad  day,  going  home  stealthily  and  un- 
steadily to  his  lodgings,  like  a  dissipated  cat.  At  last,  it 
began  to  get  about,  among  such  as  were  interested  in 
the  matter,  that  although  Sydney  Carton  would  never  be 
a  lion,  he  was  an  amazingly  good  jackal,  and  that  he 
rendered  suit  and  service  to  Stryver  in  that  humble  ca- 
pacity. 

"  Ten  o'clock,  sir,"  said  the  man  at  the  tavern,  whom 
he  had  charged  to  wake  him — "ten  o'clock,  sir." 
*'Whaf8  the  matter?" 


"Ten  o'clock,  sir." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    Ten  o'clock  at  night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.    Your  honour  told  me  to  call  you." 

"Oh  !  I  remember.    Very  well,  very  well." 

After  a  few  dull  efforts  to  get  to  sleep  again,  which 
the  man  dexterously  combatted  by  stirring  the  fire  con- 
tinuously for  five  minutes,  he  got  up,  tossed  his  hat  on, 
and  walked  out.  He  turned  into  the  Temple,  and,  hav- 
ing revived  himself  by  twice  pacing  the  pavements  of 
King's  Bench-walk  and  Paper- buildings,  turned  into  the 
Stryver  chambers. 

The  Stryver  clerk,  who  never  assisted  in  these  con- 
ferences, had  gone  home,  and  the  Stryver  principal 
opened  the  door.  He  had  his  slippers  on,  and  a  loose 
bedgown,  and  his  throat  was  bare  for  his  greater  ease. 
He  had  that  rather  wild,  strained,  seared  marking  about 
the  eyes,  which  may  be  observed  in  all  free  livers  of  his 
class,  from  the  portrait  of  Jeffries  downward,  and  which 
can  be  traced,  under  various  disguises  of  Art  through 
the  portraits  of  every  Drinking  Age. 

"You  are  a  little  late,  Memory,"  said  Stryver. 

"  About  the  usual  time  ;  it  may  be  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  later." 

They  went  into  a  dingy  room  lined  with  books  and 
littered  with  papers,  where  there  was  a  blazing  fire.  A 
kettle  steamed  upon  the  hob,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
wreck  of  papers  a  table  shone,  with  plenty  of  wine  upon 
it,  and  brandy,  and  rum,  and  sugar,  and  lemons. 

"  You  have  had  your  bottle,  I  perceive,  Sydney." 

"Two  to-night,  I  think.  I  have  been  dining  with  the 
day's  client  ;  or  seeing  him  dine — it's  all  one  !  " 

"That  was  a  rare  point,  Sydney,  that  you  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  identification.  How  did  you  come  by  it  ? 
When  did  it  strike  you  ?  " 

"  I  thought  he  was  rather  a  handsome  fellow,  and  I 
thought  I  should  have  been  much  the  same  sort  of  fel- 
low, if  I  had  had  any  luck." 

Mr.  Stryver  laughed,  till  he  shook  his  precocious 
paunch. 

"You  and  your  luck,  Sydney  !  Get  to  work,  get  to 
work." 

Sullenly  enough,  the  jackal  loosened  his  dress,  went 
into  an  adjoining  room,  and  came  back  with  a  large  jug 
of  cold  water,  a  basin,  and  a  towel  or  two.  Steeping 
the  towels  in  the  water,  and  partially  wringing  them 
out,  he  folded  them  on  his  head  in  a  manner  hideous  to 
behold,  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  said,  "Now  I  am 
ready  !  " 

"  Not  much  boiling  down  to  be  done  to-night.  Mem- 
ory," said  Mr.  Stryver,  gaily,  as  he  looked  among  his 
papers. 

"How  much? " 

"  Only  two  sets  of  them." 

' '  Give  me  the  worst  first. " 

"  There  they  are,  Sydney.    Fire  away  ! " 

The  lion  then  composed  himself  on  his  back  on  a  sofa 
on  one  side  of  the  drinking-table,  while  the  jackal  sat 
at  his  own  paper-bestrewn  table  proper,  on  the  other 
side  of  it,  with  the  bottles  and  glasses  ready  to  his  hand. 
Both  resorted  to  the  drinking-table  without  stint,  but 
each  in  a  different  way  ;  the  lion  for  the  most  part  re- 
clining with  his  hands  in  his  waistband,  looking  at  the 
fire,  or  occasionally  flirting  with  some  lighter  document ; 
the  jackal,  with  knitted  brows  and  intent  face,  so  deep 
in  his  task,  that  his  eyes  did  not  even  follow  the  hand 
he  stretched  out  for  Iiis  glass — which  often  groped 
about,  for  a  minute  or  more,  before  it  found  the  glass 
for  his  lips.  Two  or  three  times,  the  matter  in  hand 
became  so  knotty,  that  the  jackal  found  it  imperative  on 
him  to  get  up,  and  steep  his  towels  anew.  From  these 
pilgrimages  to  the  jug  and  basin,  he  returned  with  such 
eccentricities  of  damp  head-gear  as  no  words  can  de- 
scribe ;  which  were  made  the  more  ludicrous  by  his 
anxious  gravity. 

At  length  the  jackal  had  got  together  a  compact  repast 
for  the  lion,  and  proceeded  to  offer  it  to  him.  The  lion 
took  it  with  care  and  caution,  made  his  selections  from 
it,  and  his  remarks  upon  it,  and  the  jackal  assisted 
both.  When  the  rei)ast  was  fully  discussed,  the  lion 
put  his  hands  in  his  waistband  again,  and  lay  down  to 
meditate.  The  jackal  then  invigorated  himself  with  a 
bupiper  for  his  throttle,  and  a  fresh  application  to  his 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


365 


head,  and  applied  himself  to  the  collection  of  a  second 
meal  ;  this  was  administered  to  the  lion  in  the  same 
manner,  and  was  not  disposed  of  until  the  clocks  struck 
three  in  the  morning. 

"  And  now  we  have  done,  Sydney,  fill  a  bumper  of 
punch,"  said  Mr.  Stryver. 

The  jackal  removed  the  towels  from  his  head,  which 
had  been  steaming  again,  shook  himself,  yawned,  shiv- 
ered, and  complied. 

"  You  were  very  sound,  Sydney,  in  the  matter  of  those 
crown  witnesses  to-day.    Every  question  told." 
' '  I  always  am  sound  ;  am  I  not  ?  " 
"  I  don't  gainsay  it.    What  has  roughened  your  tem- 
per?   Put  some  punch  to  it  and  smooth  it  again." 
With  a  deprecatory  grunt,  the  jackal  again  complied. 
'*  The  old  Sydney  Carton  of  old  Shrewsbury  School," 
said  Stryver,  nodding  his  head  over  him  as  he  reviewed 
him  in  the  present  and  the  past,   '  the  old  seesaw  Syd- 
ney.   Up  one  minute  and  down  the  next ;  now  in  spirits 
and  now  in  despondency  !  " 

"Ah!"  returned  the  other,  sighing:   "yes!  The 
same  Sydney,  with  the  same  luck.    Even  then,  I  did 
exercises  for  other  boys,  and  seldom  did  my  own." 
"  And  why  not?" 

"  God  knows.    It  was  my  way,  I  suppose." 
He  sat,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs 
stretched  out  before  him,  looking  at  the  fire. 

"  Carton,"  said  his  friend,  squaring  himself  at  him 
with  a  bullying  air,  as  if  the  fire-grate  had  been  the  fur- 
nace in  which  sustained  endeavour  was  forged,  and  the 
one  delicate  thing  to  be  done  for  the  old  Sydney  Carton 
of  old  Shrewsbury  School  was  to  shoulder  him  into  it, 
"  your  way  is,  and  always  was,  a  lame  way.  You  sum- 
mon no  energy  and  purpose.    Look  at  me." 

"Oh,  botheration!"  returned  Sydney,  with  a  lighter 
and  more  good-humoured  laugh,  "  don't  you  be  moral !  " 
"  How  have  I  done  what  I  have  done?"  said  Stryver  ; 
how  do  I  do  what  I  do  ?  " 

"  Partly  through  paying  me  to  help  you,  I  suppose. 
But  it's  not  worth  your  while  to  apostrophise  me,  or  the 
air,  about  it  ;  what  you  want  to  do,  you  do.  You  were 
always  in  the  front  rank,  and  I  was  always  behind." 

"I  had  to  get  into  the  front  rank  ;  I  was  not  born 
there,  was  I  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  present  at  the  ceremony  ;  but  my  opinion 
is  you  were,"  said  Carton.  At  this,  he  laughed  again, 
and  they  both  laughed. 

"  Before  Shrewsbury,  and  at  Shrewsbury,  and  ever 
since  Shrewsbury,"  pursued  Carton,  "you  have  fallen 
into  your  rank,  and  I  have  fallen  into  mine.  Even  when 
we  were  fellow-students  in  the  Student-Quarter  of  Paris, 
picking  up  French,  and  French  law,  and  other  French 
cfumbs  that  we  didn't  get  much  good  of,  you  were  al- 
ways somewhere,  and  I  was  always — nowhere." 

"And  whose  fault  was  that?" 

"Upon  my  soul,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  yours. 
You  were  always  driving  and  riving  and  shouldering  and 
pressing,  to  that  restless  degree  that  I  had  no  chance  for 
my  life  but  in  rust  and  repose.  It's  a  gloomy  thing, 
however,  to  talk  about  one's  own  past,  with  the  day 
breaking.  Turn  me  in  some  other  direction  before  I 
go-" 

"  Well  then  !  Pledge  me  to  the  pretty  witness,"  said 
Stryver,  holding  up  his  glass.  "  Are 'you  turned  in  a 
pleasant  direction  ?  " 

Apparently  not,  for  he  became  gloomy  again. 

"  Pretty  witness,"  he  muttered,  looking  down  into  his 
glass.  "  I  have  had  enough  of  witnesses  to-day  and  to- 
night ;  who's  your  pretty  witness  ?" 

"  The  picturesque  doctor's  daughter,  Miss  Manette." 

"  She  pretty  ! " 

"  Is  she  not?" 

"  No." 

"Why,  man  alive,  she  was  the  admiration  of  the 
whole  Court ! " 

"  Rot  the  admiration  of  the  whole  Court !  Who  made 
the  Old  Bailey  a  judge  of  beauty  ?  She  was  a  golden- 
haired  doll?" 

"  Do  you  know,  Sydney,"  said  Mr.  Stryver,  looking  at 
him  with  sharp  eyes,  and  slowly  drawing  a  hand  across 
his  florid  face  :  "do  you  know,  I  rather  thought,  at  the 
time,  that  you  sympathized  with  the  golden-haired  doll. 


j  and  were  quick  to  see  what  happened  to  the  golden- 

I  haired  doll  ?" 

"Quick  to  see  what  happened  !  If  a  girl,  doll  or  no 
doll,  swoons  within  a  yard  or  two  of  a  man's  nose,  he 
can  see  it  without  a  perspective-glass,  I  pledge  you, 
but  I  deny  the  beauty.    And  now  I'll  have  no  more 

!  drink  ;  I'll  get  to  bed." 

When  bis  host  followed  him  out  on  the  staircase  with  a 

j  candle,  to  light  him  down  *the  stairs,  the  day  was  coldly 
looking  in  through  its  grimy  windows.  When  he  got 
out  of  the  house,  the  air  was  cold  and  sad,  the  dull  .sky 
overcast,  the  river  dark  and  dim,  the  whole  scene  like  a 

j  lifeless  desert.  And  wreaths  of  dust  were  spinning 
round  and  round  before  the  morning  blast,  as  if  the 

;  desert-sand  had  risen  far  away,  and  the  first  spray  of  it 

j  in  its  advance  had  begun  to  overwhelm  the  city. 

I  Waste  forces  within  him,  and  a  desert  all  around,  this 
man  stood  still  on  his  way  across  a  silent  terrace,  and 
saw  for  a  moment,  lying  in  the  wilderness  before  him,  a 

j  mirage  of  honourable  ambition,  self-denial  and  persever- 
ance. In  the  fair  city  of  this  vision,  there  were  airy  gal- 
leries from  which  the  loves  and  graces  looked  upon  him, 
gardens  in  which  the  fruits  of  life  hung  ripening,  waters 
of  Hope  that  sparkled  in  his  sight.  A  moment,  and  it 
was  gone.  Climbing  to  a  high  chamber  in  a  well  of 
houses,  he  threw  himself  down  in  his  clothes  on  a  neg- 
lected bed,  and  its  pillow  was  wet  with  wasted  tears. 

Sadly,  sadly,  the  sun  rose  ;  it  rose  upon  no  sadder 
sight  than  the  man  of  good  abilities,  and  good  emotions, 
incapable  of  their  directed  exercise,  incapable  of  his  own 
help  and  his  own  happiness,  sensible  of  the  blight  on 
him,  and  resigning  himself  to  let  it  eat  him  away. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Hundreds  of  People. 

The  quiet  lodgings  of  Doctor  Manette  were  fn  a  quiet 
street-corner  not  far  from  Soho-square.  On  the  after- 
noon of  a  certain  fine  Sunday  when  the  waves  of  four 
months  had  rolled  over  the  trial  for  treason,  and  carried 
it,  as  to  the  public  interest  and  memory,  far  out  to  sea, 
Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  w^alked  along  the  sunny  streets  from 
Clerkenwell  where  he  lived,  on  his  way  to  dine  with  the 
Doctor.  After  several  relapses  into  business-absorption, 
Mr.  Lorry  had  become  the  Doctor's  friend,  and  the  quiet 
street-corner  was  the  sunny  part  of  his  life. 

On  this  certain  fine  Sunday,  Mr.  Lorry  walked  towards 
Soho,  early  in  the  afternoon,  for  three  reasons  of  habit. 
Firstly,  because,  on  fine  Sundays,  he  often  walked  out, 
before  dinner,  with  the  Doctor  and  Lucie  ;  secondly,  be- 
cause, on  unfavourable  Sundays,  he  was  accustomed  to 
be  with  them  as  the  family  friend,  talking,  reading, 
looking  out  of  window,  and  generally  getting  through 
the  day  ;  thirdly,  because  he  happened  to  have  his  own 
little  shrewd  doubts  to  solve,  and  knew  how  the  ways  of 
the  Doctor's  household  pointed  to  that  time  as  a  likely 
time  for  solving  them. 

A  quainter  corner  than  the  corner  where  the  Doctor 
lived,  was  not  to  be  found  in  London.    There  was  no 
way  through  it,  and  the  front  windows  of  the  Doctor's 
lodgings  commanded  a  pleasant  little  vista  of  street 
that  had  a  congenial  air  of  retirement  on  it.  There 
were  few  buildings  then,  north  of  the  Oxford-road,  and 
forest-trees  flourished,  and  wild  flowers  grew,  and  the 
I  hawthorn  blossomed,  in  the  now  vanished  fields.    As  a 
1  consequence,  country  airs  circulated  in  Soho  with  vig- 
I  orous  freedom,  instead  of  languishing  into  the  parish 
!  like  stray  paupers  without  a  settlement  ;  and  there  was 
many  a  good  south  wall,  not  far  off,  on  which  the  peaches 
ripened  in  their  season. 

The  summer  light  struck  into  the  comer  brilliantly  in 
the  earlier  part  of  the  day  ;  but,  when  the  streets  grew 
i  hot,  the  corner  was  in  shadow,  though  not  in  shadow  so 
remote  but  that  you  could  see  beyond  it  into  a  glare  of 
brightness.  It  was  a  cool  spot,  staid  but  cheerful,  a 
wonderful  place  for  echoes,  and  a  very  harbour  from  the 
raging  streets. 

There  ought  to  have  been  a  tranquil  bark  in  such  an 
anchorage,  and  there  was.     The  Doctor  occupied  two 


366 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


floors  of  a  large  still  house,  wliere  several  callings  pur- 
ported to  be  pursued  by  day,  but  whereof  little  was  aud- 
ible any  day,  and  which  was  shunned  by  all  of  them  at 
night.  In  a  building  at  the  back,  attainable  by  a  court- 
yard where  a  plane-tree  rustled  its  green  leaves,  church- 
organs  claimed  to  be  made,  and  silver  to  be  chased,  and 
likewise  gold  to  be  beaten  by  some  mysterious  giant 
who  had  a  golden  arm  starting  out  of  the  wall  of  the 
front  hall — as  if  he  had  beaten  himself  precious,  and 
menaced  a  similar  conversion  of  all  visitors.  Very  little 
of  these  trades,  or  of  a  lonely  lodger  rumoured  to  live 
up-stairs,  or  of  a  dim  coach-trimming  maker  asserted  to 
have  a  counting-house  below,  was  ever  heard  or  seen. 
Occasionally,  a  stray  workman  putting  his  coat  on,  tra- 
versed the  hall,  or  a  stranger  peered  about  there,  or  a 
distant  clink  was  heard  across  the  court-yard,  or  a  thump 
from  the  golden  giant.  These,  however,  were  only  the 
■exceptions  reqiiired^to  prove  the  rule  that  the  sparrows 
in  the  plane-tree  behind  the  house,  and  the  echoes  in 
the  corner  before  it,  had  their  own  way  from  Sunday 
morning  into  Saturday  night. 

Doctor  Manette  received  such  patients  here  as  his  old 
reputation,  and  its  revival  in  the  floating  whispers  of  his 
story,  brought  him.  His  scientific  knowledge,  and  his 
vigilance  and  skill  in  conducting  ingenious  experiments, 
brought  him  otherwise  into  moderate  request,  and  he 
earned  as  much  as  he  wanted. 

These  things  were  within  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry's  knowl- 
edge, thoughts,  and  notice,  when  he  rang  the  door-bell 
of  the  tranquil  house  in  the  corner,  on  the  fine  Sunday 
afternoon. 

Doctor  Manette  at  home  ?  " 

Expected  home. 

"  Miss  Lucie  at  home  ?  " 

Expected  home. 
Miss  Pross  at  home  ?" 

Possibly  at  home,  but  of  a  certainty  impossible  for 
handmaid  to  anticipate  intentions  of  Miss  Pross,  as  to 
admission  or  denial  of  the  fact. 

As  I  am  at  home  myself,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  I'll  go  up- 
stairs." 

Although  the  Doctor's  daughter  had  known  nothing  of 
the  country  of  her  birth,  she  appeared  to  have  innately 
derived  from  it  that  ability  to  make  much  of  little  means, 
which  is  one  of  its  most  useful  and  most  agreeable  char- 
acteristics. Simple  as  the  furniture  was,  it  was  set  off 
by  so  many  little  adornments,  of  no  value  but  for  their 
taste  and  fancy,  that  its  effect  was  delightful.  The  dis- 
position of  everything  in  the  rooms,  from  the  largest  ob- 
ject to  the  least ;  the  arrangement  of  colours,  the  elegant 
variety  and  contrast  obtained  by  thrift  in  trifles,  by  deli- 
cate hands,  clear  eyes,  and  good  sense  ;  were  at  once  so 
pleasant  in  themselves,  and  so  expressive  of  their  origi- 
nator, that,  as  Mr.  Lorry  stood  looking  about  him,  the 
very  chairs  and  tables  seemed  to  ask  him,  with  some- 
thing of  that  peculiar  expression  which  he  knew  so  well 
by  this  time,  whether  he  approved  ? 

There  were  three  rooms  on  a  floor,  and,  the  doors  by 
which  they  communicated  being  put  open  that  the  air 
might  pass  freely  through  them  all,  Mr.  Lorry,  smilingly 
observant  of  that  fanciful  resemblance  which  he  detected 
all  around  him,  walked  from  one  to  another.  The  first 
was  the  best  room,  and  in  it  were  Lucie's  birds,  and  flow- 
ers, and  books,  and  desk,  and  work-table,  and  box  of 
water-colours  ;  the  second  was  the  Doctor's  consulting- 
room,  used  also  as  the  dining-room  ;  the  third,  changing- 
ly  speckled  by  the  rustle  of  the  plane-tree  in  the  yard, 
was  the  Doctor's  bedroom,  and  there,  in  a  comer,  stood 
the  disused  shoemaker's  bench  and  tray  of  tools,  much 
as  it  had  stood  on  the  fifth  floor  of  the  dismal  house 
by  the  wine-shop,  in  the  suburb  of  Saint  Antoine  in 
Paris. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  pausing  in  his  looking 
about,  "  that  he  keeps  that  reminder  of  his  sufferings  by 
him  ! " 

"  And  why  wonder  at  that?"  was  the  abrupt  inquiry 
that  made  him  start. 

It  proceeded  from  Miss  Pross,  the  wild  red  woman, 
strong  of  hand,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  first  made  at 
the  Royal  George  Hotel  at  Dover,  and  had  since  im- 
proved. 

"  I  should  have  thought — "  Mr.  Lorry  began. 


"  Pooh  !  You'd  have  thought ! "  said  Miss  Pross  ;  and 
Mr.  Lorry  left  off. 

"  How  do  you  do?  "  inquired  that  lady  then — sharply, 
and  yet  as  if  to  express  that  she  bore  him  no  malice. 

"  I  am  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry, 
with  meekness,  "  how  are  you?" 

"  Nothing  to  boast  of,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

"Indeed?" 

"  Ah  !  indeed  ! "  said  Miss  Pross.    "  I  am  very  much 
put  out  about  my  Ladybird." 
"  Indeed?" 

"For  gracious  sake  say  something  else  besides  'in- 
deed,' or  you'll  fidget  me  to  death,"  said  Miss  Pross  : 
whose  character  (dissociated  from  stature)  was  short- 
ness. 

"Really,  then?"  said  Mr.  Lorry  as  an  amendment. 
"  Really,  is  bad  enough,"  returned  Miss  Pross,  "  but 
better.    Yes,  I  am  very  much  put  out." 
' '  May  I  ask  the  cause  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  dozens  of  people  who  are  not  at  all 
worthy  of  Ladybird,  to  come  here  looking  after  her," 
said  Miss  Pross. 

"  Do  dozens  come  for  that  purpose  ?  " 

"Hundreds,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

It  was  characteristic  of  this  lady  (as  of  some  other  peo- 
ple before  her  time  and  since)  that  whenever  her  original 
proposition  was  questioned,  she  exaggerated  it. 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  the  safest  remark  "he 
could  think  of. 

"  I  have  lived  with  the  darling — or  the  darling  has 
lived  with  me,  and  paid  me  for  it ;  which  she  certainly 
should  never  have  done,  you  may  take  your  affidavit,  if 
I  could  have  afforded  to  keep  either  myself  or  her  for 
nothing — since  she  was  ten  years  old.  And  it's  really 
very  hard,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

Not  seeing  with  precision  what  was  very  hard,  Mr. 
Lorry  shook  his  head  ;  using  that  important  part  of  him- 
self as  a  sort  of  fairy  cloak  that  would  fit  anything. 

"  All  sorts  of  people  who  are  not  in  the  least  degree 
worthy  of  the  pet,  are  always  turning  up,"  said  Miss 
Pross.    "  When  you  began  it — " 

"i  began  it.  Miss  Pross?" 

"  Didn't  you  ?    Who  brought  her  father  to  life  ?  " 

"  Oh  !    If  that  was  beginning  it — "  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

"It  wasn't  ending  it,  I  suppose?  I  say,  when  you  be- 
gan it,  it  was  hard  enough  ;  not  that  I  have  any  fault  to 
find  with  Doctor  Manette,  except  that  he  is  not  worthy 
of  such  a  daughter,  which  is  no  imputation  on  him,  for 
it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  anybody  should  be,  under 
any  circumstances.  But  it  really  is  doubly  and  trebly 
hard  to  have  crowds  and  multitudes  of  people  turning 
up  after  him  (I  could  have  forgiven  him),  to  take  Lady- 
bird's affections  away  from  me." 

Mr.  Lorry  knew  Miss  Pross  to  be  very  jealous,  but  he 
also  knew  her  by  this  time  to  be,  beneath  the  surface  of 
her  eccentricity,  one  of  those  unselfish  creatures — found 
only  among  women — who  will,  for  pure  love  and  admi- 
ration, bind  themselves  willing  slaves,  to  youth  when 
they  have  lost  it,  to  beauty  that  they  never  had,  to  ac- 
complishmeuts  that  they  were  never  fortunate  enough 
gain,  to  bright  hopes  that  never  shone  upon  their  own 
sombre  lives.  He  knew  enough  of  the  world  to  know 
that  there  is  nothing  in  it  better  than  the  faithful 
service  of  the  heart ;  so  rendered  and  so  free  from  any 
mercenary  taint,  he  had  such  an  exalted  respect  for  it, 
that,  in  the  retributive  arrangements  made  by  his  own 
mind — we  all  make  such  arrangements,  more  or  less — he 
stationed  Miss  Pross  much  nearer  to  the  lower  Angels 
than  many  ladies  immeasurably  better  got  up  both  by 
Nature  and  Art,  who  had  balances  at  Tellson's. 

"  There  never  was,  nor  will  be,  but  one  man  worthy 
of  Ladybird,"  said  Miss  Pross  ;  "  and  that  was  my 
brother  Solomon,  if  he  hadn't  made  a  mistake  in  life." 

Here  again  :  Mr.  Lorry's  inquiries  into  Miss  Pross's 
personal  history,  had  established  the  fact  that  her  bro- 
ther Solomon  was  a  heartless  scoundrel  who  had  stripped 
her  of  everything  she  possessed,  as  a  stake  to  speculate 
with,  and  had  abandoned  her  in  her  poverty  for  ever- 
more, with  no  touch  of  compunction.  Miss  Pross's  fidel- 
ity of  belief  in  Solomon  (deducting  a  mere  trifle  for  this 
slight  mistake)  was  quite  a  serious  matter  with  Mr. 
Lorry,  and  had  its  weight  in  his  good  opinion  of  her. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UMIVLHiilTY  OIF  ILLINOIS 


"AND  SMOOTHING  HEll  RICH  HAIR  WITH  AS  MUCH  PRIDE  AS  SHE  COULD  POSSI- 
BLY HAVE  TAKEN  IN  HER  OWN  HAIR  IF  SUE  HAD  BEEN  THE  VAINEST  AND 
HANDSOMEST  OF  WOMEN." 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


367 


'  As  we  happen  to  be  alone  for  the  moment,  and  are  j 
both  people  of  business,"  he  said,  when  they  had  got  | 
back  to  the  drawing-room,  and  had  sat  down  there  in  j 
friendly  relations,  "  let  me  ask  you— does  the  Doctor,  in 
talking  with  Lucie,  never  refer  to  the  shoeniaking  time, 
yet?" 

'  Never."  .    ,  ^^ 

'  And  yet  keeps  that  bench  and  those  tools  beside 

^^''^Ah  ! "  returned  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head.    "  But 
don't  say  he  don't  refer  to  it  within  himself."^ 
"Do  you  believe  that  he  thinks  of  it  much  ? " 
"I  do,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

"Do  you  imagine—"  Mr.  Lorry  had  begun,  when 
Miss  Pross  took  him  up  short  with  : 

"  Never  imagine  anything.  Have  no  imagination  at 
all." 

"  I  stand  corrected  ;  do  you  suppose— you  go  so  tar  as 
to  suppose,  sometimes  ? " 

"  Now  and  then,"  said  Miss  Pross. 
"  Do  you  suppose,"  Mr.  Lorry  went  on,  with  a  laugh- 
ing twinkle  in  his  bright  eye,  as  he  looked  kindly  at  her, 
"  that  Doctor  Manette  has  any  theory  of  his  own,  pre- 
served through  all  those  years,  relative  to  the  cause  of 
his  being  so  oppressed  ;  perhaps,  even  to  the  name  of  his 
oppressor?"  t  j  v  j 

"  I  don't  suppose  anything  about  it  but  what  Ladybira 
tells  me." 

"And  that  is—?  " 
"  That  she  thinks  he  has." 

"  Now  don't  be  angry  at  my  asking  all  these  questions  ; 
because  I  am  a  mere  dull  man  of  business,  and  you  are  a 
woman  of  business." 

"  Dull  ?  "  Miss  Pross  inquired,  with  placidity. 
Rather  wishing  his  modest  adjective  away,  Mr.  Lorry 
replied,  "No,  no,  no.  Surely  not.  To  return  to  busi- 
ness :— Is  it  not  remarkable  that  Doctor  Manette,  un- 
questionably innocent  of  any  crime  as  we  are  well  as- 
sured he  is,  should  never  touch  upon  that  question  ?  I 
will  not  say  with  me,  though  he  had  business  relations 
with  me  many  years  ago,  and  we  are  now  intimate  ;  I 
will  say  with* the  fair  daughter  to  whom  he  is  so  devot- 
edly attached,  and  who  is  so  devotedly  attached  to  him? 
Believe  me.  Miss  Pross,  I  don't  approach  the  topic  with 
you,  out  of  curiosity,  but  out  of  zealous  interest." 

"  Well !    To  the  best  of  my  understanding,  and  bad's 
the  best  you'll  tell  me,"  said  Miss  Pross,  softened  by  the 
tone  of  the  apology,  "  he  is  afraid  of  the  whole  subject." 
"Afraid?" 

"It's  plain  enough,  I  should  think,  why  he  may  be. 
It's  a  dreadful  remembrance.  Besides  that,  his  loss  of 
himself  grew  out  of  it.  Not  knowing  how  he  lost  him- 
self, or  how  he  recovered  himself,  he  may  never  feel 
certain  of  not  losing  himself  again.  That  alone  wouldn't 
make  the  subject  pleasant,  I  should  think." 

It  was  a  profounder  remark  than  Mr.  Lorry  had  looked 
for.  "True,"  said  he,  "and  fearful  to  reflect  upon. 
Yet,  a  doubt  lurks  in  my  mind,  Miss  Pross,  whether  it 
is  good  for  Doctor  Manette  to  have  that  suppression  al- 
ways shut  up  within  him.  Indeed,  it  is  this  doubt  and 
the  uneasiness  it  sometimes  causes  me  that  has  led  me  to 
our  present  confidence." 

"Can't  be  helped,"  said  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head. 
*'  Touch  that  string,  and  he  instantly  changes  for  the 
worse.  Better  leave  it  alone.  In  short,  must  leave  it 
alone,  like  or  no  like.  Sometimes,  he  gets  up  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  and  will  be  heard,  by  us  overhead 
there,  walking  up  and  down,  walking  up  and  down,  in 
his  room.  Ladybird  has  learnt  to  know  then,  that  his 
mind  is  walking  up  and  down,  walking  up  and  down,  in 
his  old  prison,  ghe  hurries  to  him,  and  they  go  on  to- 
gether, walking  up  and  down,  walking  up  and  down, 
until  he  is  composed.  But  he  never  says  a  word  of  the 
true  reason  of  his  restlessness,  to  her,  and  she  finds  it 
best  not  to  hint  at  it  to  him.  In  silence  they  go  walking 
up  and  down  together,  walking  up  and  down  together, 
till  her  love  and  company  have  brought  him  to  himself." 

Notwithstanding  Miss  Pross's  denial  of  her  own  im- 
agination, there  was  a  perception  of  the  pain  of  being 
monotonously  haunted  by  one  sad  idea,  in  her  repetition  of 
the  phrase,  walking  up  and  down,  which  testified  to  her 
possessing  such  a  thing. 


The  comer  has  been  mentioned  as  a  wonderful  comer 
for  echoes  ;  it  had  begun  to  echo  so  resoundingly  to  the 
tread  of  coming  feet,  that  it  seemed  as  though  the 
very  mention  of  that  weary  pacing  to  and  fro  had  set  it 
going. 

"Here  they  are  !"  said  Miss  Pross,  rising  to  break  up 
the  conference  ;  "and  now  we  shall  have  hundreds  of 
people  pretty  soon  !  " 

It  was  such  a  curious  corner  in  its  acoustical  properties, 
such  a  peculiar  Ear  of  a  place,  that  as  Mr.  Lorry  stood 
at  the  open  window,  looking  for  the  fatiier  and  daugh- 
ter whose  steps  he  heard,  he  fancied  they  would  never 
approach.  Not  only  would  the  echoes  die  away,  as 
though  the  steps  had  gone  ;  but,  echoes  of  other  steps 
that  never  came,  would  be  heard  in  their  stead,  and 
would  die  away  for  good  when  they  seemed  close  at  hand. 
However,  father  and  daughter  did  at  last  appear,  and 
Miss  Pross  was  ready  at  the  street  door  to  receive  them. 

Miss  Pross  was  a  pleasant  sight,  albeit  wild,  and  red, 
and  grim,  taking  ofE  her  darling's  bonnet  when  she  came 
up-stairs,  and  touching  it  up  with  the  ends  of  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  blowing  the  dust  off  it,  and  folding  her 
mantle  ready  for  laying  by,  and  smoothing  her  rich  hair 
with  as  much  pride  as  she  could  possibly  have  taken  in 
her  own  hair  if  she  had  been  the  vainest  and  handsomest 
of  women.  Her  darling  was  a  pleasant  sight  too,  em- 
bracing her  and  thanking  her,  and  protesting  against  her 
taking  so  much  trouble  for  her— which  last  she  only 
dared  to  do  playfully,  or  Miss  Pross,  sorely  hurt,  would 
have  retired  to  her  own  chamber  and  cried.  The  Doctor 
was  a  pleasant  sight  too,  looking  on  at  them,  and  telling 
Miss  Pross  how  she  spoilt  Lucie,  in  accents  and  with  eyes 
that  had"  as  much  spoiling  in  them  as  Miss  Pross  had, 
and  would  have  had  more  if  it  were  possible,  Mr.  Lorry 
was  a  pleasant  sight  too,  beaming  at  all  this  in  his  little 
wig,  and  thanking  his  bachelor  stars  for  having  lighted 
him  in  his  declining  years  to  a  Home.  But,  no  Hundreds 
of  people  came  to  see  the  sights,  and  Mr.  Lorry  looked 
in  vain  for  the  fulfilment  of  Miss  Pross's  prediction. 

Dinner-time,  and  still  no  Hundreds  of  people.  In  the 
arrangements  of  the  little  household,  Miss  Pross  took 
charge  of  the  lower  regions,  and  always  acquitted  herself 
marvellously.  Her  dinners,  of  a  very  modest  qualitv, 
were  so  well  cooked  and  so  well  served,  and  so  neat  in 
their  contrivances,  half  English  and  half  French,  that 
nothing  could  be  better.  Miss  Pross's  friendship  being 
of  the  thoroughly  practical  kind,  she  had  ravaged  Soho 
and  the  adjacent  provinces,  in  search  of  impoverished 
French,  who,  tempted  by  shillings  and  half-crowns, 
would  impart  culinary  mysteries  to  her.  From  these 
decayed  sons  and  daughters  of  Gaul,  she  had  acquired 
such  wonderful  arts,  that  the  woman  and  girl  who 
formed  the  staff  of  domestics  regarded  her  as  quite  a 
Sorceress,  or  Cinderella's  Godmother :  who  would  send 
out  for  a  fowl,  a  rabbit,  a  vegetable  or  two  from  the 
garden,  and  change  them  into  anything  she  pleased. 

On  Sundays,  Miss  Pross  dined*  at  the  Doctor's  table, 
but  on  other  days  persisted  in  taking  her  meals  at  un- 
known periods,  either  in  the  lower  regions,  or  in  her  own 
room  on  the  second  floor — a  blue  chamber,  to  which  no 
one  but  her  Ladybird  ever  gained  admittance.  On  this 
occasion.  Miss  Pross,  responding  to  Ladybird's  pleasant 
face  and  pleasant  efforts  to  please  her,  unbent  exceeding- 
ly ;  so  the  dinner  was  very  pleasant,  too. 

It  was  an  oppressive  day.  and,  after  dinner,  Lucie  pro- 
posed that  the  wine  should  be  carried  out  under  the 
plane-tree,  and  they  should  sit  there  in  the  air.  As 
everything  turned  upon  her  and  revolved  about  her, 
they  went  out  under  the  plane-tree,  and  she  earned  the 
I  wine  down  for  the  special  benefit  of  Mr.  Lorrv.  She 
had  installed  herself  some  time  before,  as  Mr.  Lorry  s 
cup-bearer  ;  and  while  they  sat  under  the  plane-tree, 
talking,  she  kept  his  glass  replenished.  Mysterious 
backs  and  ends  of  houses  peeped  at  them  as  they  talked, 
and  the  plane-tree  whispered  to  them  in  its  own  way 
above  their  heads. 

Still,  the  Hundreds  of  people  did  not  present  them- 
selves.   Mr.  Darnay  presented  himself  while  they  were 
sitting  under  the  plane-tree,  but  he  was  only  One. 
:     Doctor  Manette  received  him  kindly,  and  so  did  Lucie, 
j  But,  Miss  Pross  suddenly  became  afliicted  with  a  twitch- 
ing in  the  head  and  body,  and  retired  into  the  house. 


368 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


She  was  not  unfrequently  the  victim  of  this  disorder,  j 
as  she  called  it,  in  familiar  conversation,  "a  fit  of  the  ; 
jerks."  ! 

The  Doctor  was  in  his  best  condition,  and  looked  spe-  I 
cially  young.  The  resemblance  between  him  and  Lucie  j 
was  very  strong  at  such  times,  and,  as  they  sat  side  by  \ 
side,  she  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  resting  his  arm  ! 
on  the  back  of  her  chair,  it  was  very  agreeable  to  trace  j 
the  likeness. 

He  had  been  talking  all  day,  on  many  subjects  and 
with  unusual  vivacity.  "  Pray,  Doctor  Manette,"  said 
Mr.  Darnay,  as  they  sat  under  the  plane-tree — and  he  said 
it  in  the  natural  pursuit  of  the  topic  in  hand,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  the  old  buildings  of  London — "  have  you 
seen  much  of  the  Tower?" 

"  Lucie  and  I  have  been  there  ;  but  only  casually. 
We  have  seen  enough  of  it  to  know  that  it  teems  with 
interest  ;  little  more." 

"/  have  been  there,  as  you  remember,"  said  Darnay, 
with  a  smile,  though  reddening  a  little  angrily,  "in  an- 
other character,  and  not  in  a  character  that  gives  facili-  ! 
ties  for  seeing  much  of  it.    They  told  me  a  curious  thing  | 
when  I  was  there." 

"  What  was  that  ?  "  Lucie  asked. 

"  In  making  some  alterations,  the  workmen  came  upon 
an  old  dungeon,  which  had  been,  for  many  years,  built  j 
up  and  forgotten.    Every  stone  of  its  inner  wall  was  cov- 
ered with  inscriptions  which  had  been  carved  by  prisoners 
— dates,  names,  complaints,  and  prayers.  Upon  a  corner  | 
stone  in  an  angle  of  the  wall,  one  prisoner  who  seemed  1 
to  have  gone  to  execution,  had  cut,  as  his  last  work,  j 
three  letters.    They  were  done  with  some  very  poor  in-  i 
strument,  and  hurridly,  with  an  unsteady  liand.  At 
first,  they  were  read  as  D.  L  C,  ;  but,  on  being  more  j 
carefully  examined,  the  last  letter  was  found  to  be  G. 
There  was  no  record  or  legend  of  any  prisoner  with  those  i 
initials,  and  many  fruitless  guesses  were  made  what  the 
name  could  have  been.    At  length,  it  was  suggested  | 
that  the  letters  were  not  initials,  but  the  complete  word,  i 
Dig.    The  floor  was  examined  very  carefully  under  the  j 
inscription,  and,  in  the  earth  beneath  a  stone,  or  tile,  or  | 
some  fragment  of  paving,  were  found  the  ashes  of  a 
paper,  mingled  with  the  ashes  of  a  small  leathern  case 
or  bag.    What  the  unknown  prisoner  had  written  will 
never  be  read,  but  he  had  written  something,  and  hidden 
it  away  to  keep  it  from  the  gaoler." 

"  My  father  !  "  exclaimed  Lucie,  "  you  are  ill  !  " 

He  had  suddenly  started  up,  with  his  hand  to  his 
head.    His  manner  and  his  look  quite  terrified  them  all. 

"  No,  my  dear,  not  ill.  There  are  large  drops  of  rain 
falling,  and  they  make  me  start.    We  had  better  go  in." 

He  recovered  himself  almost  instantly.  Rain  was 
really  falling  in  large  drops,  and  he  showed  the  back  of 
his  hand  with  rain-drops  on  it.  But,  he  said  not  a  sin- 
gle word  in  reference  to  the  discovery  that  had  been  told 
of,  and,  as  they  went  into  the  house,  the  business  eye  of 
Mr.  Lorr}'-,  either  detected,  or  fancied  it  detected,  on  his 
face,  as  he  turned  towards  Charles  Darnay,  the  same 
singular  look  that  had  been  upon  it  when  it  turned 
towards  him  in  the  passages  of  the  Court  House. 

He  recovered  himself  so  quickly,  however,  that  Mr. 
Lorry  had  doubts  of  his  business  eye.  The  arm  of  the 
golden  giant  in  the  hall  was  not  more  steady  than  he 
was,  when  he  stopped  under  it  to  remark  to  them  that 
he  was  not  yet  proof  against  slight  surprises  (if  he  ever 
would  be),  and  that  the  rain  had  startled  him. 

Tea-time,  and  Miss  Pross  making  tea,  with  another  fit 
of  the  jerks  upon  her,  and  yet  no  Hundreds  of  people. 
Mr.  Carton  had  lounged  in,  but  he  made  only  Two. 

The  night  was  so  very  sultry,  that  although  they  sat 
with  doors  and  windows  open,  they  were  overpowered 
by  heat.  When  the  tea-table  was  done  with,  they  all 
moved  to  one  of  the  windows,  and  looked  out  into  the 
heavy  twilight  Lucie  sat  by  her  father;  Darnay  sat  be- 
side her  ;  Carton  leaned  against  a  window.  The  curtains 
were  long  and  white,  and  some  of  the  thunder-gusts  that 
whirled  into  the  corner,  caught  them  up  to  the  ceiling, 
and  waved  them  like  spectral  wings. 

"The  rain-drops  are  still  falling,  large,  heavy,  and 
few,"  said  Doctor  Manette.    "  It  comes  slowly." 

"  It  comes  surely,"  said  Carton. 

They  spoke  low,  as  people  watching  and  waiting 


mostly  do ;  as  people  in  a  dark  room,  watching  and 
waiting  for  Lightning,  always  do. 

There  was  a  great  hurry  in  the  streets,  of  people 
speeding  away  to  get  shelter  before  the  storm  broke  ; 
the  wonderful  corner  for  echoes  resounded  with  the 
echoes  of  footsteps  coming  and  going,  yet  not  a  footstep 
was  there. 

"  A  multitude  of  people,  and  yet  a  solitude!"  said 
Darnay,  when  they  had  listened  for  a  while. 

"Is  it  not  impressive,  Mr.  Darnay?"  asked  Lucie. 
"Sometimes,  I  have  sat  here  of  an  evening,  until  I 
have  fancied — but  even  the  shade  of  a  foolish  fancy 
makes  me  shudder  to-night,  when  all  is  so  black  and 
solemn — " 

* '  Let  us  shudder  too.    We  may  know  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  It  will  seem  nothing  to  you.  Such  whims  are  only 
impressive  as  we  originate  them,  I  think  ;  they  are  not 
to  be  communicated.  I  have  sometimes  sat  alone  here 
of  an  evening,  listening,  until  I  have  made  the  echoes 
out  to  be  the  echoes  of  all  the  footsteps  that  are  coming 
by-and-by  into  our  lives." 

* '  There  is  a  great  crowd  coming  one  day  into  our 
lives,  if  that  be  so,"  Sydney  Carton  struck  in,  in  his 
moody  way. 

The  footsteps  were  incessant,  and  the  hurry  of  them 
became  more  and  more  rapid.  The  corner  echoed  and 
re-echoed  with  the  tread  of  feet  ;  some,  as  it  seemed, 
under  the  windows  ;  some,  as  it  seemed,  in  the  room  ; 
some  coming,  some  going,  some  breaking  off,  some 
stopping  altogether  ;  all  in  the  distant  streets,  and  not 
one  within  sight. 

"  Are  all  these  footsteps  destined  to  come  to  all  of  us. 
Miss  Manette,  or  are  we  to  divide  them  among  us  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Darnay  ;  I  told  you  that  it  was  a 
foolish  fancy,  but  you  asked  for  it.  When  I  have 
yielded  myself  to  it,  I  have  been  alone,  and  then  I  have 
imagined  them  the  footsteps  of  the  people  who  are  to 
come  into  my  life,  and  my  father's," 

"I  take  them  into  mine!"  said  Carton.     J  ask  na  ■ 
questions  and  make  no  stipulations.    There  is  a  great 
crowd  bearing  down  upon  us,  Miss  Manette,  and  I  see 
them  ! — by  the  Lightning. "    He  added  the  last  words, 
after  there  had  been  a  vivid  flash  which  had  shown  him  , 
lounging  in  the  window. 

' '  And  I  hear  them  !  "  he  added  again,  after  a  peal  of  ( 
thunder.    "  Here  they  come,  fast,  fierce,  and  furious  !"  | 

It  was  the  rush  and  roar  of  rain  that  he  typified,  and  l 
it  stopped  him,  for  no  voice  could  be  heard  in  it.  A  \ 
memorable  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  broke  with  < 
that  sweep  of  water,  and  there  was  not  a  moment's  > 
interval  in  crash,  and  fire,  and  rain,  until  after  the  moou 
rose  at  midnight. 

The  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's  was  striking  One  in  the 
cleared  air,  when  Mr,  Lorry,  escorted  by  Jerry,  high- 
booted  and  bearing  a  lantern,  set'  forth  on  his  return- 
passage  to  Clerkenwell.  There  were  solitary  patches  of 
road  on  the  way  between  Soho  and  Clerkenwell,  and  Mr. 
Lorry,  mindful  of  footpads,  always  retained  Jerry  for 
this  service  :  though  it  was  usually  performed  a  good 
two  hours  earlier. 

"  What  a  night  it  has  been  !  Almost  a  night,  Jerry," 
said  Mr.  Lorry,  "  to  bring  the  dead  out  of  their  graves." 

"I  never  see  the  night  myself,  master — nor  yet  I 
don't  expect  to  it — what  would  do  that,"  answered 
Jerry. 

"  Goodnight,  Mr.  Carton,"  said  the  man  of  business. 
"Goodnight,  Mr.  Darnay.  Shall  we  ever  see  such  a 
night  again,  together  j" 

Perhaps.  Perhaps,  see  the  great  crowd  of  people 
with  its  rush  and  roar,  bearing  down  upon  them,  too. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Monseigneur  in  Town. 

MONSEIGNETJK,  One  of  the  great  loids  in  power  at  the 
Court,  held  his  fortnightly  reception  in  his  grand  hotel  \ 
in  Paris.  Monseigneur  was  in  his  inner  room,  his  i 
sanctuary  of  sanctuaries,  the  Holiest  of  Holiests  to  the 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


309 


iMowd  of  worshippers  in  the  suite  of  rooms  without. 
^lollseigneu^  was  about  to  take  his  chocolate.  Mori- 
seigneur  could  swallow  a  great  many  things  with  ease,  and 
wiis  by  some  few  sullen  minds  supposed  to  Ije  ratlier 
rapidly  swallowing  France,  but,  his  morning's  cliocolate 
could  not  so  much  as  get  into  the  throat  of  Monseigneur, 
without  the  aid  of  four  strong  men  Ixisides  the  Cook. 

Yes.  It  took  four  men,  all  four  a- blaze  with  gorgeous 
ilf  (-oration,  and  the  Chief  of  them  unable  to  exist  with 
li'wer  than  two  gold  watches  in  his  pocket,  emulative  of 
the  noble  and  chaste  fashion  set  by  Monseigneur,  to 
conduct  the  happy  chocolate  to  Monseigneur's  lips.  One 
lacquey  carried  the  chocolate-pot  into  the  sacred  presence; 
a  second,  milled  and  frothed  the  chocolate  with  the 
little  instrument  he  bore  for  that  function;  a  third, 
presented  the  favoured  napkin  ;  a  fourth  (he  of  the  two 
gold  watches)  poured  the  chocolate  out.  It  was  im- 
possible for  Monseigneur  to  dispense  with  one  of  these 
attendants  on  the  chocolate  and  hold  his  high  place 
lunder  the  admiring  Heavens.  Deep  would  have  been 
ithe  blot  upon  his  escutcheon  if  his  chocolate  had  been 
ignobly  waited  on  by  only  three  men  ;  he  must  have  died 

two. 

j  Monseigneur  had  been  out  at  a  little  supper  last  night, 
where  the  Comedy  and  the  Grand  Opera  were  charmingly 
represented.  Monseigneur  was  out  at  a  little  supper 
most  nights,  with  fascinating  company.  So  polite  and 
30  impressible  was  Monseigneur,  that  the  Comedy  and 
the  Grand  Opera  had  far  more  influence  with  him  in  the 
tiresome  articles  of  state  affairs  and  state  secrets,  than 
the  needs  of  all  France.  A  happy  circumstance  for 
France,  as  the  like  always  is  for  all  countries  similarly 
favoured  ! — always  was  for  England  (by  way  of  exam- 
ple),in  the  regretted  days  of  the  merry  Stuart  who  sold  it. 

Monseigneur  had  one  truly  noble  idea  of  general  pub- 
lic business,  which  was,  to  let  everything  go  on  in  its 
own  way  ;  of  particular  public  business,  Monseigneur 
iiad  the  other  truly  noble  idea  that  it  must  all  go  his 
way — tend  to  his  own  power  and  pocket.  Of  his  pleas- 
ures, general  and  particular,  Monseigneur  had  the  other 
truly  noble  idea,  that  the  world  was  made  for  them. 
The  text  of  his  order  (altered  from  the  original  by  only 
a  pronoun,  which  is  not  much)  ran  :  "The  earth  and  the 
fulness  thereof  are  mine,  saith  Monseigneur." 

Yet,  Monseigneur  had  slowly  found  that  vulgar  em- 
barrassments crept  into  his  affairs,  both  private  and 
l)ublic  ;  and  he  had,  as  to  both  classes  of  alfairs,  allied 
himself  per  force  with  a  Farmer-General.  As  to  finan- 
ces public,  because  Monseigneur  could  not  make  any- 
thing at  all  of  them,  and  must  consequently  let  them 
out  to  somebody  who  could  ;  as  to  finances  private,  be- 
cause Farmer-Generals  were  rich,  and  Monseigneur, 
after  generations  of  great  luxury  and  expense,  was 
growing  poor.  Hence,  Monseigneur  had  taken  his  sister 
from  a  convent,  while  there  was  yet  time  to  wardofE  the 
impending  veil,  the  cheapest  garment  she  could  wear, 
and  had  bestowed  her  as  a  prize  upon  a  very  rich  Far- 
mer-General, poor  in  family.  Which  Farmer-General, 
carrying  an  appropriate  cane  with  a  golden  apple  on  the 
top  of  it,  was  now  among  the  company  in  the  outer 
rooms,  much  prostrated  before  by  mankind — always  ex- 
cepting superior  mankind  of  the  blood  of  Monseigneur, 
who,  his  own  wife  included,  looked  down  upon  him  with 
the  loftiest  contempt. 

A  sumptuous  man  was  the  Farmer-General.  Thirty 
horses  stood  in  his  stables,  twenty-four  male  domestics 
sat  in  his  halls,  six  body-women  waited  on  his  wife.  As 
one  who  pretended  to  do  nothing  but  plunder  and  forage 
where  he  could,  the  Farmer- General — howsoever  his 
matrimonial  relations  conduced  to  social  morality — was 
at  least  the  greatest  reality  among  the  personages  who 
attended  at  the  hotel  of  Monseigneur  that  day. 

For,  the  rooms,  though  a  beautiful  scene  to  look  at, 
and  adorned  with  every  device  of  decoration  that  the 
taste  and  skill  of  the  time  could  achieve,  were,  in  truth, 
not  a  sound  business  ;  considered  with  any  reference  to 
the  scarecrows  in  the  rags  and  nightcaps  elsewhere  (and 
not  so  far  off,  either,  but  that  the  -watching  towers  of 
Notre-Dame,  almost  equidistant  from  the  two  extremes, 
could  see  them  both),  they  vi'ould  have  been  an  exceed- 
ingly uncomfortable  business — if  that  could  have  been 
'  anybody's  business,  at  the  house  of  Monseigneur.  Mili- 
VOL.  II.— U 


tary  officers  destitute  of  military  knowledge  ;  naval  of- 
ficers with  no  idea  of  a  ship  ;  civil  officers  without  a 
notion  of  affairs ;  bra-zen  ecclesiastirs,  of  the  won^t 
world  worldly,  with  sensual  eyes,  loose  tongues,  and 
h)Oser  lives  ;  all  totally  unfit  for  their  several  callings, 
all  lying  liorribly  in  pretending  to  belong  to  them,  but 
all  nearly  or  remot(;]y  of  the  order  of  Monseigneur,  and 
therefore  f(jisted  on  all  public  em})loyments  from  which 
anything  was  to  be  got  ;  these  were  to  be  told  off  by  the 
sconi  and  the  score.  People  not  immediately  connected 
with  Monseigneur  or  the  State,  yet  equally  unconnected 
with  anything  that  was  real,  or  with  lives  passed  in  travel- 
ling by  any  straight  road  to  any  true  earthly  end,  were  no 
less  abundant.  Doctors  wlio  made  great  fortunes  out 
of  dainty  remedies  for  imaginary  disorders  that  never 
existed,  smiled  upon  their  courtly  patients  in  the  ante- 
chambers of  Monseigneur.  Projectors  who  had  dis- 
covered every  kind  of  remedy  for  the  little  evils  with 
which  the  State  was  touched,  except  the  remedy  of  set- 
ting to  work  in  earnest  to  root  out  a  single  sin,  poured 
their  distracting  babble  into  any  ears  they  could  lay  hold 
of,  at  the  reception  of  Monsiegneur.  Unbelieving 
Philosophers,  who  were  remodelling  the  world  with 
words,  and  making  card-towers  of  Babel  to  scale  the 
skies  with,  talked  with  Unbelieving  Chemists  who  had 
an  eye  on  the  transmutation  of  metals,  at  this  wonder- 
ful gathering  accumulated  by  Monseigneur.  Exquisite 
gentlemen  of  the  finest  breeding,  which  was  at  that  re- 
markable time — and  has  been  since — to  be  known  by  its 
fruits  of  indifference  to  every  natural  subject  of  human 
interest,  were  in  the  most  exemplary  state  of  exhaustion, 
at  the  hotel  of  Monseigneur.  Such  homes  had  these 
various  notabilities  left  behind  them  in  the  fine  world  of 
Paris,  that  the  Spies  among  the  assembled  devotees  of 
Monseigneur — forming  a  goodly  half  of  the  polite  com- 
pany— would  have  found  it  hard  to  discover  among  the 
angels  of  that  sphere  one  solitary  wife,  who,  in  her  man- 
ners and  appearance,  owned  to  being  a  Mother.  Indeed, 
except  for  the  mere  act  of  bringing  a  troublesome  crea- 
ture in  this  world — w^hich  does  not  go  far  towards  the 
realisation  of  the  name  of  mother — there  was  no  such 
thing  known  to  the  fashion.  Peasant  women  kept  the 
unfashionable  babies  close,  and  brought  them  up  ;  and 
charming  grand -mammas  of  sixty  dressed  and  supped  as 
at  twenty. 

The  leprosy  of  unreality  disfigured  every  human  crea- 
ture in  attendance  upon  Monseigneur.  In  the  outer- 
rj.ost  room  Avere  half  a  dozen  exceptional  people  who 
had  had,  for  a  few  years,  some  vague  misgiving  in  them 
that  things  in  general  were  going  rather  wrong.  As  a 
promising  way  of  setting  them  right,  half  of  the  half- 
dozen  had  become  members  of  a  fantastic  sect  of  Con- 
vulsionists,  and  were  even  then  considering  within  them- 
selves whether  they  should  foam,  rage,  roar,  and  turn 
cataleptic  on  the  spot — thereby  setting  up  a  highly  in- 
telligible finger-post  to  the  Future,  for  Monseigneur's 
guidance.  Besides  these  Dervishes,  were  other  three 
who  had  rushed  into  another  sect,  which  mended  matters 
with  a  jargon  about  "the  Centre  of  truth:"  holding 
that  Man  had  got  out  of  the  Centre  of  truth — which  did 
not  need  much  demonstration — but  had  not  got  out  of 
the  Circumference,  and  that  he  was  to  be  kept  from  fly- 
ing out  of  the  Circumference,  and  was  even  to  be  shoved 
back  into  the  Centre,  by  fasting  and  seeing  of  spirits. 
Among  these,  accordingly,  much  discoursing  with  spirits 
went  on — and  it  did  a  world  of  good  which  never  became 
manifest. 

But,  the  comfort  was,  that  all  the  company  at  the 
grand  hotel  of  Monseigneur  were  perfectly  dres?ed.  If 
the  Day  of  Judgment  had  only  been  ascertained  to  be  a 
dress  day ,  everybody  there  would  have  been  eternally 
correct.  Such  frizzling  and  powdering  and  sticking  up 
of  hair,  such  delicate  complexions  artificially  preserved 
and  mended,  such  gallant  swords  to  look  at.  and  such 
delicate  honour  to  the  sense  of  smell,  would  surely  keep 
an v thing  going,  for  ever  and  ever.  The  exquisite  gen- 
tlemen of  the  finest  breeding  wore  little  pendent  trinkets 
that  chinked  as  they  languidly  moved  :  these  golden 
fetters  rang  like  precious^  little  bells  ;  and  what  with 
that  ringing,  and  with  the  rustle  of  silk  and  brocade 
and  fine  linen,  there  was  a  flutter  in  the  air  that  fanned 
Saint  Antoine  and  his  devouring  hunger  far  away^ 


370 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Dress  was  tlie  one  unfailing  talisman  and  charm  used 
for  keeping  all  things  in  their  places.  Everybody  was 
dressed  for  a  Fancy  Ball  that  was  never  to  leave  off. 
From  the  Palace  of  Tuileries,  through  Monseigneur  and 
the  whole  Court,  though  the  Chambers,  the  Tribunals  of 
Justice,  and  all  society  (expect  the  scarecrows),  the 
Fancy  Ball  descended  to  the  Common  Executioner  :  who, 
in  pursuance  of  the  charm,  was  required  to  officiate 
"frizzled,  powdered,  in  a  gold-laced  coat,  pumps,  and 
white  silk  stockings."  At  the  gallows  and  the  wheel — 
the  axe  was  a  rarity— Monsieur  Paris,  as  it  was  the 
episcopal  mode  among  his  brother  Professors  of  the 
provinces.  Monsieur  Orleans,  and  the  rest,  to  call  him, 
presided  in  this  dainty  dress.  And  who  among  the  com- 
pany at  Monseigneur's  reception  in  that  seventeen  hun- 
dred and  eightieth  year  of  our  Lord,  could  possibly 
doubt,  that  a  system  rooted  in  a  frizzled  hangman,  pow- 
dered, gold-laced,  pumped,  and  white- silk  stockinged, 
would  see  the  very  stars  out  ! 

Monseigneur  having  eased  his  four  men  of  their 
burdens  and  taken  his  chocolate,  caused  the  doors  of 
the  Holiest  of  Holiests  to  be  thrown  open,  and  issued 
forth.  Then,  what  submisvsion,  what  cringing  and  fawn- 
ing, what  servility,  what  abject  humiliation  !  As  to  bow- 
ing down  in  body  and  spirit,  nothing  in  that  way  was  left 
for  Heaven — which  may  have  been  one  among  other 
reasons  why  the  worshippers  of  Monseigneur  never 
troubled  it. 

Bestowing  a  word  of  promise  here,  and  a  smile  there, 
a  whisper  on  one  heavy  slave  and  a  wave  of  the  hand  on 
another,  Monseigneur  affably  passed  through  his  room,s 
to  the  remote  region  of  the  Circumference  of  Truth. 
There,  Monseigneur  turned,  and  came  back  again,  and 
so  in  due  course  of  time  got  himself  shut  up  in  bis  sanc- 
tuary by  the  chocolate  sprites,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

The  show  being  over,  the  flutter  in  the  air  became 
quite  a  little  storm,  and  the  precious  little  bells  went 
ringing  down- stairs.  There  was  soon  but  one  person 
left  of  all  the  crowd,  and  he,  with  his  hat  under  his  arm 
and  his  snuff-box  in  his  hand,  slowly  passed  among  the 
mirrors  on  his  way  out. 

"  I  devote  you,"  said  this  person,  stopping  at  the  last 
door  on  his  way,  and  turning  in  the  direction  of  the 
sanctuary,  "  to  "the  Devil  !  " 

With  that,  he  shook  the  snuff  from  his  fingers  as  if 
he  had  shaken  the  dust  from  his  feet,  and  quietly  walked 
down-stairs. 

He  was  a  man  of  about  sixty,  handsomely  dressed, 
haughty  in  manner,  and  with  a  face  like  a  fine  mask.  A 
face  of  a  transparent  paleness  ;  every  feature  in  it  clearly 
defined  ;  one  set  expression  on  it.  The  nose,  beautifully 
formed  otherwise,-  was  very  slightly  pinched  at  the  top 
of  each  nostril.  In  those  two  compressions,  or  dints,  the 
only  little  change  that  the  face  ever  showed,  resided. 
They  persisted  in  changing  colour  sometimes,  and  they 
would  be  occasionally  dilated  and  contracted  by  some- 
thing like  a  faint  pulsation  ;  then,  they  gave  a  look  of 
treachery,  and  cruelty,  to  the  whole  countenance.  Ex- 
amined with  attention,  its  capacity  of  helping  such  a 
look  was  to  be  found  in  the  line  of  the  mouth,  and  the 
lines  of  the  orbits  of  the  eyes,  being  much  too  horizon- 
tal and  thin  ;  still,  in  the  effect  the  face  made,  it  was  a 
handsome  face,  and  a  remarkable  one. 

Its  ov/ner  went  down -stairs  into  the  court-yard,  got 
into  his  carnage,  and  drove  away.  Not  many  people  had 
talked  with  him  at  the  reception  ;  he  had  stood  in  a  lit- 
tle space  apart,  and  Monseigneur  might  have  been 
warmer  in  his  manner.  It  appeared,  under  the  circum- 
stances, rather  agreeable  to  him  to  sec  the  common-peo- 
ple dispersed  before  his  horses,  and  often  barely  escap- 
ing from  being  run  down.  His  man  drove  as  if  he  were 
charging  an  enemy,  and  the  furious  recklessness  of  the 
man  brought  no  chock  into  tiie  face,  or  to  tlie  lijis,  of  the 
master.  The  complaint  had  sometimes  made  itself  audi- 
ble, even  in  that  deaf  city  ajid  dumb  age,  that,  in  the 
narrow  streets  without  footways,  the  fiisrce  patrician 
custom  of  liard  driving  endangered  and  maimed  the 
mere  vulgar  in  a  barbarous  manner.  But,  few  cared 
enough  for  that  to  think  of  it  a  second  time,  and  in  tliis 
matter,  as  in  all  others,  the  common  wretches  were  left 
to  get  out  of  their  difficulties  as  they  could. 

With  a  wild  rattle  and  chatter,  and  an  inhuman  aban- 


donment of  consideration  not  easy  to  bo  understood  in 
these  days,  the  carriage  dashed  through  streets  and 
swept  round  corners,  with  women  screaming  before  it, 
and  men  clutching  each  other  and  clutching  children  out 
of  its  way.  At  last,  swooping  at  a  street  corner  by  a 
fountain,  one  of  its  wheels  came  to  a  sickening  little  jolt, 
and  there  was  a  loud  cry  from  a  number  of  voices,  and 
the  horses  reared  and  plunged. 

But  for  the  latter  inconvenience,  the  carriage  probably 
would  not  have  stopped  ;  carriages  were  often  known  to 
drive  on,  and  leave  their  wounded  behind,  and  why  not? 
But,  the  frightened  valet  had  got  down  in  a  hurry,  and 
there  were  twenty  hands  at  the  horses'  bridles. 

"What  has  gone  wrong?"  said  Monsieur,  calmly 
looking  out. 

A  tall  man  in  a  nightcap  had  caught  up  a  bundle  from 
among  the  feet  of  the  horses,  and  had  laid  it  on  the 
basement  of  the  fountain,  and  was  down  in  the  mud  and 
wet,  howling  over  it  like  a  wild  animal. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  !  "  said  a  ragged  and 
submissive  man,  "  it  is  a  child." 

"  Why  does  he  make  that  abominable  noise?  Is  it  his 
child?" 

"  Excuse  me, Monsieur  the  Marquis — it  is  a  pity — yes." 

The  fountain  was  a  little  removed  ;  for  the  street 
opened,  where  it  was,  into  a  space  some  ten  or  twelve 
yards  square.  As  the  tall  man  suddenly  got  up  from  the 
ground,  and  came  running  at  the  carriage.  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  clapped  his  hands  for  an  instant  on  his 
sword-hilt. 

"  Killed  !  "  shrieked  the  man,  in  wild  desperation,  ex- 
tending both  arms  at  their  length  above  his  head,  and 
staring  at  him.    "  Dead  ! " 

The  people  closed  round,  and  looked  at  Monsieur  the 
Marquis.  There  was  nothing  revealed  by  the  many  eyes 
that  looked  at  him  but  watchfulness  and  eagerness  ; 
there  was  no  visible  menacing  or  anger.  Neither  did 
the  people  say  anything  ;  after  the  first  cry,  they  had 
been  silent,  and  they  remained  so.  The  voice  of  the 
submissive  man  who  had  spoken,  was  flat  and  tame  in 
its  extreme  submission.  Monsieur  the  Marquis  ran  his 
eyes  over  them  all,  as  if  they  had  been  mere  rats  come 
out  of  their  holes. 

He  took  out  his  purse, 

"  It  is  extraordinary  to  me,"  said  he,  '*  that  you  peo- 
ple cannot  take  care  of  yourselves  and  your  children. 
One  or  the  other  of  you  is'  for  ever  in  the  way.  How  do 
I  know  what  injury  you  have  done  my  horses.  See  ! 
Give  him  that." 

He  threw  out  a  gold  coin  for  the  valet  to  pick  up,  and 
all  the  heads  craned  forward  that  all  the  eyes  might 
look  down  at  it  as  it  fell.  The  tall  man  called  out  again 
with  a  most  unearthly  cry,  "Dead  !" 

He  was  arrested  by  the  quick  arrival  of  another  man, 
for  whom  the  rest  made  way.  On  seeing  him,  the  mis- 
erable creature  fell  upon  his  shoulder,  sobbing  and  cry- 
ing, and  pointing  to  the  fountain,  where  some  women 
were  stooping  over  the  motionless  bundle,  and  moving 
gently  about  it.  They  were  as  silent,  however,  as  the 
men, 

"  I  know  all,  I  know  all,"  said  the  last  comer.  "  Be 
a  brave  man,  my  Gaspard  !  It  is  better  for  the  poor  lit- 
tle plaything  to  die  so,  than  to  live.  It  has  died  in  a 
moment  without  pain.  Could  it  have  lived  an  hour  as 
happily  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  philosopher,  you  there,"  said  the  Marquis, 
smiling.    "How  do  they  call  you ? " 
"  They  call  me  Defarge." 
"  Of  what  trade?" 

"  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  vendor  of  wine." 

"  Pick  up  that,  philosopher  and  vendor  of  wine,"  said 
the  Marquis,  throwing  him  another  gold  coin,  "  and 
spend  it  as  you  will.    The  horses  there  ;  are  they  right  ?  " 

Without*  deigning  to  look  at  the  assemblage  a  second 
time,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and 
was  just  being  driven  away  with  the  air  of  a  gentleman 
who  had  accidentally  broken  some  common  thing,  and 
had  paid  for  it,  and  could  afford  to  pay  for  it  ;  when 
his  ease  was  suddenly  disturbed  by  a  coin  flying  into  his 
carriage,  and  ringing  on  its  floor. 

"Hold!"  said  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  "Hold  the 
horses  1    Who  threw  that?  " 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


371 


He  looked  to  the  spot  where  Defarge  the  vendor  of 
wine  bad  stood  a  moment  before  ;  but  the  wretched 
father  was  grovelling  on  his  face  on  the  pavement  in 
that  spot,  and  the  figure  that  stood  beside  him  was  the 
figure  of  a  dark  and  stout  woman,  knitting. 

"  You  dogs  ]  "  said  the  Marquis,  but  smoothly,  and 
with  an  unchanged  front,  except  as  to  the  spots  on  his 
nose  :  "  I  would  ride  over  any  of  you  very  willingly, 
and  exterminate  you  from  the  earth.  If  I  knew  which 
rascal  threw  at  the  carriage,  and  if  that  brigand  were 
sufiiciently  near  it,  he  should  be  crushed  under  the 
wheels." 

So  cowed  was  their  condition,  and  so  long  and  hard 
their  experience  of  what  such  a  man  could  do  to  them, 
within  the  law  and  beyond  it,  that  not  a  voice,  or  a  hand, 
or  even  an  e3'e  was  raised.  Among  the  men,  not  one. 
But  the  women  who  stood  knitting  looked  up  steadily, 
and  looked  the  Marquis  in  the  face.  It  was  not  for  his 
dignity  to  notice  it ;  his  contemptuous  eyes  passed  over 
her,  and  over  all  the  other  rats  ;  and  he  leaned  back 
in  his  seat  again,  and  gave  the  word  *'Go  on  ! " 

He  was  driven  on,  and  other  carriages  came  whirl- 
ing by  in  quiclc  succession  ;  the  Minister,  the  State-Pro- 
jector, the  Farmer-General,  the  Doctor,  the  Lawyer,  the 
Ecclesiastic,  the  Grand  Opera,  the  Comedy,  the  whole 
Fancv  Ball,  in  a  bright  continuous  flow,  came  whirling 
by.  The  rats  had  crept  out  of  their  holes  to  look  on, 
and  they  remained  looking  on  for  hours  ;  soldiers  and 
police  often  passing  between  them  and  the  spectacle,  and 
making  a  barrier  behind  which  they  slunk,  and  through 
which  they  peeped.  The  father  had  long  ago  taken  up 
his  bundle  and  hidden  himself  away  with  it,  when  the 
woman  who  had  tended  the  bundle  while  it  lay  on  the 
base  of  the  fountain,  sat  there  watching  the  running  of 
the  water,  and  the  rolling  of  the  Fancy  Ball — when  tlie 
one  woman  who  had  stood  conspicuous,  knitting,  still 
knitted  on  with  the  steadfastness  of  Fate.  The  water 
of  the  fountain  ran,  the  swift  river  ran,  the  day  ran  into 
evening,  so  much  life  in  the  city  ran  into  death  accord- 
ing to  rule,  time  and  tide  waited  for  no  man,  the  rats  were 
sleeping  close  together  in  their  dark  holes  again,  the 
Fancy  Ball  was  lighted  up  at  supper,  all  things  ran  their 
course. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Monseigneiir  in  the  Country. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  landscape,  with  the  corn  bright  in  it  but 
not  abundant.  Patches  of  poor  rye  whfl.re  corn  should 
have  been,  patches  of  poor  peas  and  beans,  patches  of 
most  coarse  vegetable  substitutes  for  wheat.  On  inani- 
mate nature,  as  on  the  men  and  women  who  cultivated 
it,  a  prevalent  tendency  towards  an  appearance  of  vege- 
tating unwillingly — a  dejected  disposition  to  give  up 
and  wither  away. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  in  his  travelling  carriage  (which 
might  have  been  lighter),  conducted  by, four  post-horses 
and  two  postilions,  fagged  up  a  steep  hill.  A  blush  on 
the  countenance  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis  was  no  im- 
peachment of  his  high  breeding  ;  it  was  not  from  within  ; 
it  was  occasioned  by  an  external  circumstance  beyond  his 
control — the  setting  sun. 

The  sunset  struck  so  brilliantly  into  the  travelling 
carriage  when  it  gained  the  hill-top,  that  its  occupant 
was  steeped  in  crimson.  "  It  will  die  out,"  said  Mon- 
sieur the  Marquis,  glancing  at  his  hands,  "  directly  " 

In  effect,  the  sun  was  so  low  that  it  dipped  at  the  mo- 
ment. When  the  heavy  drag  had  been  adjusted  to  the 
v/heel,  and  the  carriage  slid  down  hill,  with  a  cinderous 
smell,  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  the  'red  glow  departed  quickly  ; 
the  sun  and  the  Marquis  going  down  together,  there  was 
no  glow  left  when  the  drag  was  taken  off. 

But,  there  remained  a  broken  country,  bold  and  open, 
a  little  village  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  a  broad  sweep 
and  ri.se  beyond  it,  a  church  tower,  a  wind-mill,  a  forest 
for  the  chase,  and  a  crag  with  a  fortress  on  it  used  as  a 
prison.  Round  upon  all  these  darkening  objects  as  the 
night  drew  on,  the  Marquis  looked,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  was  coming  near  home. 

The  village  had  its  one  poor  street,  with  its  poor  brew- 


ery, poor  tannery,  poor  tavern,  poor  stable-yard  for  re- 
lays of  post-horses,  poor  fountain,  all  usual  poor  apjjoint- 
ments.  It  had  its  poor  people  too.  All  its  people  were 
poor,  and  many  of  them  were  sitting  at  their  doors, 
shredding  spare  onions  and  the  like  for  supper,  while 
many  were  at  the  fountain,  washing  leaves,  and  grasses, 
and  any  such  small  yieldings  of  the  earth  that  could  be 
eaten.  Expressive  signs  of  what  made  them  poor,  were 
not  wanting ;  the  tax  for  the  state,  the  tax  for  tlie 
church,  the  tax  for  the  lord,  tax  local  and  tax  general, 
were  to  be  jjaid  here  and  to  be  paid  there,  according  to 
solemn  inscription  in  the  little  village,  until  the  wonder 
was,  that  there  was  any  village  left  unswallowed. 

Few  children  were  to  be  seen,  and  no  dogs.  As  to  the 
men  and  women,  their  choice  on  earth  was  stated  in  the 
prospect — Life  on  the  lowest  terms  that  couid  sustain  it, 
down  in  the  little  village  under  the  mill  ;  or  captivity 
and  Death  in  the  dominant  prison  on  the  crag. 

Heralded  by  a  courier  in  advance,  and  by  the  cracking 
of  his  postilions'  whips,  which  twined  snake-like  about 
their  heads  in  the  evening  air,  as  if  he  came  attended 
by  the  Furies,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  drew  up  in  his 
travelling  carrriage  at  the  posting-house  gate.  It  was 
hard  by  the  fountain,  and  the  peasants  suspended  their 
operations  to  look  at  him.  He  looked  at  them,  and  saw 
in  them,  without  knowing  it,  the  slow  sure  filing  down 
of  misery-worn  face  and  figure,  that  was  to  make  the 
meagreness  of  Frenchmen  an  English  superstition  which 
should  survive  the  truth  through  the  best  part  of  a  hun- 
dred years. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  cost  his  eyes  over  the  submis- 
sive faces  that  drooped  before  him,  as  the  like  of  himself 
had  drooped  before  Monseigneur  of  the  Court — only  the 
difference  was,  that  these  faces  drcoj^ed  merely  to  sufrer 
and  not  to  propitiate — when  a  grizzled  mender  of  the 
roads  joined  the  group. 

"  Bring  me  hither  that  fellow  ! "  said  the  Marquis  to 
the  courier. 

The  fellow  was  brought,  cap  in  hand,  and  the  other 
fellows  closed  round  to  look  and  listen,  in  the  manner 
of  the  people  at  the  Paris  fountain. 

"  I  passed  yon  on  the  road  ?  " 

"  Monseigneur,  it  is  true.  I  had  the  honour  of  being 
passed  the  road. 

"  Coming  up  the  hill,  and  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  both?" 

"  Monseigneur,  it  is  true." 
What  did  you  look  at,  so  fixedly?" 

"  Monseigneur,  I  looked  at  the  man." 

He  stooped  a  little,  and  with  his  tattered  blue  cap 
pointed  under  the  carriage.  All  his  fellows  stooped  to 
look  under  the  carriage. 

What  man,  pig?   And  why  look  there ?  " 

"  Pardon,  Monseigneur  ;  he  swung  by  the  chain  of  the 
shoe — the  drag." 

"  Who?"  demanded  the  traveller, 

"  Monseigneur,  the  man." 

"  May  the  Devil  carry  away  these  idiots  !  How  do 
you  call  the  man?  You  know  all  the  men  of  this  part 
I  of  the  country.    Who  was  he  ?  " 

"Your  clemency,  Monsiegneur  !  He  was  not  of  this 
part  of  the  country.  Of  all  the  days  of  my  life,  I  never 
saw  him." 

"  Swinging  by  the  chain  ?    To  be  suffocated  ?  " 

"  With  your  gracious  permission,  that  was  the  wonder 
of  it,  Monseigneur.    His  head  hanging  over — like  this  !  " 

He  turned  himself  sideways  to  the  carriage,  and 
leaned  back,  with  his  face  thrown  up  to  the  sky^  and 
his  head  hanging  down  ;  then  recovered  himself ,  fumbled 
with  his  cap,  and  made  a  bow. 

"  What  was  he  like?" 

"Monseigneur,  he  was  whiter  than  the  miller.  All 
covered  with  dust,  white  as  a  spectre,  tall  as  a  spectre  !  " 

The  picture  produced  an  immense  sensation  in  the 
little  crowd  :  but  all  eyes,  without  com)  aring  notes 
with  other  eyes,  looked  at  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  Per- 
haps, to  observe  whether  he  had  any  spectre  on  his 
conscience. 

"Truly,  you  did  well,"  said  the  Marquis,  felicitously 
sensible  that  such  vermin  were  not  to  rufHe  him,  "  to 
see  a  thief  accompanying  my  carriage,  and  not  open  that 
great  mouth  of  yours.  Bah!  Put  him  aside,  Monsieur 
Gabelle  !" 


372 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Monsieur  Gabelle  was  the  postmaster,  and  some  other 
taxing  functionary,  united  ;  he  had  come  out  with  great 
obsequiousness  to  assist  at  this  examination,  and  had 
held  the  examined  by  the  drapery  of  his  arm  in  an  official 
manner. 

Bah  !    Go  aside  !  "  said  Monsieur  Gabelle. 

*' Lay  hands  on  this  stranger  if  he  seeks  to  lodge  in 
your  village  to-night,  and  be  sure  that  his  business  is 
honest,  Gabelle." 

"  Monseigneur,  I  am  flattered  to  devote  myself  to  your 
orders." 

"  Did  he  run  away,  fellow  ?— where  is  that  Accursed?" 

The  accursed  was  already  under  the  carriage  with 
some  half-dozen  particular  friends,  pointing  out  the  chain 
Avith  his  blue  cap.  Some  half-dozen  other  particular 
friend"?  promptly  haled  him  out,  and  presented  him 
breathless  to  Monsieur  the  Marquis. 

' '  Did  the  man  run  away.  Dolt,  when  we  stopped  for 
the  drag  ?  " 

"  Monseigneur,  he  precipitated  himself  over  the  hill- 
side, head  first,  as  a  person  plunges  into  the  river." 
"  See  to  it,  Gabelle.    Go  on  !  " 

The  half-dozen  who  were  peering  at  the  chain  were 
still  among  the  wheels,  like  sheep  ;  the  wheels  turned  so 
suddenly  that  they  were  lucky  to  save  their  skins  and 
bones  ;  they  had  very  little  else  to  save,  or  they  might 
not  have  been  so  fortunate. 

The  burst  with  which  the  carriage  started  out  of  the 
village  and  up  the  rise  beyond,  was  soon  checked  by  the 
steepness  of  the  hill.  Gradually,  it  subsided  to  a  foot 
pace,  swinging  and  lumbering  upward  among  the  many 
sweet  scents  of  a  summer  night.  The  postilions,  with  a 
thousand  gossamer  gnats  circling  about  them  in  lieu  of 
the  Furies,  quietly  mended  the  points  to  the  lashes  of 
their  whips  ;  the  valet  walked  by  the  horses  ;  the  cou- 
rier was  audible,  trotting  on  ahead  into  the  dim  distance. 

At  the  steepest  point  of  the  hill  there  was  a  little  burial- 
ground,  with  a  Cross  and  a  new  large  figure  of  Our  Saviour 
on  it ;  it  was  a  poor  figure  in  wood,  done  by  some  inex- 
perienced rustic  carver,but  he  had  studied  the  figure  from 
the  life  —  his  own  life,  maybe  —  for  it  was  dreadfully 
spare  and  thin. 

To  this  distressful  emblem  of  a  great  distress  that  had 
long  been  growing  worse,  and  was  not  at  its  worst,  a 
woman  was  kneeling.  She  turned  her  head  as  the  car- 
riage came  up  to  her,  rose  quickly,  and  presented  herself 
at  tbe  carriage-door. 

"  It  is  you,  Monseigneur  !    Monseigneur  a  petition." 

With  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  but  with  his  un- 
changeable face,  Monseigneur  looked  out. 

"  How,  then  !    What  is  it?    Always  petitions  !  " 

"  Monseigneur.  For  the  love  of  the  great  God  !  My 
husband,  the  forester." 

"What  of  your  husband,  the  forester?  Always  the 
same  with  you  people.    He  cannot  pay  something  ! " 

"  He  has  paid  all,  Monseigneur.    He  is  dead." 

"  Well  !    He  is  quiet.    Can  I  restore  him  to  you  ?  " 

"  Alas  no,  Monseigneur  !  But  he  lies  yonder,  under  a 
little  heap  of  poor  grass." 

"Well?" 

"  Monseigneur,  there  are  so  many  little  heaps  of  poor 
grass  ! " 

"  Again,  well  ?" 

She  looked  an  old  woman,  but  was  young.  Her  man- 
ner was  one  of  passionate  grief  ;  by  turns  she  clasped 
her  veinous  and  knotted  hands  together  with  wild  en- 
ergy, and  laid  one  of  them  on  the  carriage-door— ten- 
derly, care.ssingly,  as  if  it  had  been  a  human  breast,  and 
could  be  expected  to  feel  the  appealing  touch. 

"  Monseigneur,  hear  me  !  Monseigneur  hear  my  pe- 
tition !  My  liusband  died  of  want ;  so  many  die  of  want ; 
so  many  more  will  die  of  want." 

"  Again,  well  ?    Can  I  feed  them  ?" 

"  Monseigneur,  the  good  God  knows  ;  but  I  don't  ask 
it.  My  petition  is,  that  a  morsel  of  stone  or  wood,  with 
my  husband's  name,  may  be  placed  over  him  to  show 
wiiere  he  lies.  Otlierwise,  the  place  will  be  quickly  for- 
gotten, it  will  never  be  found  when  I  am  dead  of  the 
same  malady,  I  shall  be  laid  under  some  otlier  heap  of 
poor  grass.  Monseigneur,  they  are  so  many,  they  in- 
crease so  fast,  there  is  so  much  want.  Monseigneur  ! 
Monseigneur  !" 


The  valet  had  put  her  away  from  the  door,  the  carriage 
had  broken  into  a  brisk  trot,  the  postilions  had  quickened 
the  pace,  she  was  left  far  behind,  and  Monseigneur,  again 
escorted  by  the  Furies,  was  rapidly  diminishing  the 
league  or  two  of  distance  that  remained  between  him 
and  his  chateau. 

The  sweet  scents  of  the  summer  night  rose  all  around 
him,  and  rose,  as  the  rain  falls,  impartially,  on  tbe  dusty, 
ragged,  and  toil-worn  group  at  the  fountain  not  far 
away  ;  to  whom  the  mender  of  roads,  with  the  aid  of  the 
blue  cap  without  which  he  was  nothing,  still  enlarged 
upon  his  man  like  a  spectre,  as  long  as  they  could  bear 
it.  By  degrees,  as  they  could  bear  no  more,  they  drop- 
ped off  one  by  one,  and  lights  twinkled  in  little  case- 
ments ;  which  lights,  as  the  casements  darkened,  and 
more  stars  came  out,  seemed  to  have  shot  up  into  the 
sky  instead  of  having  been  extinguished. 

The  shadow  of  a  larg-e  high-roofed  house,  and  of  many 
overhanging  trees,  was  upon  Monsieur  the  Marquis  by 
that  time  ;  and  the  shadow  was  exchanged  for  the  light 
of  a  flambeau,  as  his  carriage  stopped,  and  the  great 
door  of  his  chateau  was  opened  to  him. 

"Monsieur  Charles,  whom  I  expect;  is  he  arrived 
from  England  ?  " 

"  Monseigneur,  not  yet." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Gorgon's  Head. 

It  was  a  heavy  mass  of  building,  that  ch§,teau  of  Mon- 
sieur the  Marquis,  with  a  large  stone  court-yard  before 
it,  and  two  stone  sweeps  of  staircase  meeting  in  a  stone 

!  terrace  before  the  principal  door.    A  stony  business  al- 

!  together,  with  heavy  stone  balustrades,  and  stone  urns, 
and  stone  flowers,  and  stone  faces  of  men,  and  stone 
heads  of  lions,  in  all  directions.  As  if  the  Gorgon's  head 
had  surveyed  it,  when  it  was  finished,  two  centuries  ago. 
Up  the  broad  flight  of  shallow  steps,  Monsieur  the 
Marquis,  flambeau  preceded,  went  from  his  carriage, 
sufl^iciently  disturbing  the  darkness  to  elicit  loud  remon- 
strance from  an  owl  in  the  roof  of  the  great  pile  of 
stable-building  away  among  the  trees.  All  else  was  so 
quiet,  that  the  flambeau  carried  up  the  steps,  and  the 
other  flambeau  held  at  the  great  door,  burnt  as  if  they 
were  in  a  close  room  of  state,  instead  of  being  in  the 
open  night  air.  Other  sound  than  the  owl's  voice  there 
was  none,  save  the  falling  of  a  fountain  into  a  stone 
basin  ;  for,  it  was  one  those  dark  nights  that  hold  their 
breath  by  the  hour  together,  and  then  heave  a  long  low 
sigh,  and  hold  their  breath  again. 

The  great  door  clanged  behind  him,  and  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  crossed  a  hall  grim  with  certain  old  boar-spears, 
swords,  and  knives  of  the  chase  ;  grimmer  with  certain 
heavy  riding-rods  and  riding  whips,  of  which  many  a 
peasant,  gone  to  his  benefactor  Death,  had  felt  the 

I  weight  when  his  lord  was  angry. 

Avoiding  the  larger  rooms,  which  were  dark  and  made 
fast  for  the  night.  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  with  his  flam- 

I  beau-bearer  going  on  before,  went  up  the  staircase  to  a 
door  in  a  corridor.  This  thrown  open  admitted  him  to 
his  own  private  apartment  of  three  rooms  ;  his  bed- 
chamber and  two  others.  High  vaulted  rooms  with  cool 
uncarpeted  floors,  great  dogs  upon  the  hearths  for  the 
burning  of  wood  in  winter  time,  and  all  luxuries  be- 
fitting the  state  of  a  marquis  in  a  luxurious  age  and 
country.  The  fashion  of  the  last  Louis  but  one,  of  the 
line  that  was  never  to  break — the  fourteenth  Louis — 
was  conspicuous  in  their  rich  furniture ;  but  it  was 
diversified  by  many  objects  that  were  illustrations  of  old 
pages  in  the  history  of  France. 

A  supper-table  was  laid  for  two,  in  the  third  of  the 
rooms  ;  a  round  room,  in  one  of  the  chateau's  four  ex- 
tingui.sher-topped  towers.  A  small  lofty  room,  with  its 
window  wide  open,  and  the  wooden  jalousie-blinds 
closed,  so  that  the  dark  night  only  showed  in  slight  hori- 
zontal lines  of  black,  alternating  with  their  broad  lines 
of  stone  colour. 

"My  nephew,"  said  the  Marquis,  glancing  at  the  sup- 
per preparation  ;  "  they  said  he  was  not  arrived." 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


373 


Nor  was  lie ;  but,  he  had  been  expected  with  Mon- 
seigneur. 

Ah  I  It  is  not  probable  he  will  arrive  to-night  ; 
nevertheless,  leave  the  table  as  it  is.  I  shall  be  ready 
iu  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Monseigneur  was  ready,  and 
sat  down  alone  to  his  sumptuous  and  choice  supper. 
His  chair  was  opposite  to  the  window,  and  he  had  taken 
his  soup,  and  was  raising  his  glass  of  Bordeaux  to  his  lips, 
when  he  put  it  down. 

What  is  that?"  he  calmly  asked,  looking  with  atten- 
tion at  the  lioriaontal  lines  of  back  and  stone  colour. 

* '  Monseigneur  ?    That  ^' 

"  Oatside  the  blinds.    Open  the  blinds." 

It  was  done. 

"  Well  ?  " 

' '  Monseigneur,  it  is  nothing.  The  trees  and  the  night 
are  all  that  are  here." 

The  servant  who  spoke,  had  thrown  the  blinds  wide, 
had  looked  out  into  the  vacant  darkness,  and  stood,  with 
that  blank  behind  him,  looking  round  for  instructions. 

"Good,"  said  the  imperturbable  master.  *' Close 
them  again." 

That  was  done  too,  and  the  Marquis  went  on  with  his 
supper.  He  was  half  way  through  it,  when  he  again 
stopped  with  his  glass  in  his  hand,  hearing  the  sound  of 
wheels.  It  came  on  briskly,  and  came  up  to  the  front  of 
the  chateau. 

"  Ask  who  is  arrived." 

It  was  the  nephew  of  Monseigneur.  He  had  been 
some  few  leagues  behind  Monseigneur,  early  in  the  after- 
noon. He  had  diminished  the  distance  rapidly,  but  not 
so  rapidly  as  to  come  up  with  Monseigneur  on  the  road. 
He  had  heard  of  Monseigneur,  at  the  posting-houses,  as 
being  before  him. 

He  was  to  be  told  (said  Monseigneur)  that  supper 
awaited  him  then  and  there,  and  that  he  was  prayed  to 
come  to  it.  In  a  little  while,  he  came.  He  had  been 
known  in  England  as  Charles  Darnay. 

Monseigneur  received  him  in  a  courtly  manner,  but 
they  did  not  shake  hands. 

"  You  left  Paris  yesterday,  sir?  "  he  said  to  Monseig- 
neur, as  he  took  his  seat  at  table. 

"  Yesterday.    And  you  ?  " 

"  I  come  direct." 

"  From  London?" 

"  Yes." 

"You  have  been  a  long  time  coming,"  said  the  Mar- 
quis, with  a  smile. 

"  On  the  contrary  ;  I  come  direct. " 

"  Pardon  me  !  I  mean,  not  a  long  time  on  the  jour- 
ney ;  a  long  time  intending  the  journey." 

"I  have  been  detained  by" — the  nephew  stopped  a 
moment  in  his  answer — "  various  business." 

"  Without  doubt,"  said  the  polished  uncle. 

So  long  as  a  servant  was  present,  no  other  words 
passed  between  them.  When  coffee  had  been  served 
and  they  were  alone  together,  the  nephew,  looking  at 
the  uncle  and  meeting  the  eyes  of  the  face  that  was  like 
a  fine  mask,  opened  a  conversation. 

"  I  have  come  back,  sir,  as  you  anticipate,  pursuing 
the  object  that  took  me  away.  It  carried  me  into  great 
and  unexpected  peril  ;  but  it  is  a  sacred  object,  and  if  it 
had  carried  me  to  death  I  hope  it  would  have  sustained 
me." 

"  Not  to  death,"  said  the  uncle  ;  "  it  is  not  necessary 
to  say,  to  death." 

"  I  doubt,  sir,"  returned  the  nephew,  "  whether,  if  it 
had  carried  me  to  the  utmost  brink  of  death,  you  would 
have  cared  to  stop  me  there." 

The  deepened  marks  in  the  nose,  and  the  lengthening 
of  the  fine  straight  lines  in  the  cruel  face,  looked  onvin- 
ous  as  to  tliat  ;  the  uncle  made  a  graceful  gesture  of 
protest,  which  was  so  clearly  a  slight  form  of  good 
breeding  that  it  was  not  reassuring. 

*•  Indeed,  sir,"  pursued  the  nephew,  "  for  anything  I 
kno\y,  you  may  have  expressly  worked  to  give  a  more 
suspicious  appearance  to  the  suspicious  circumstances 
that  surrounded  me." 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  the  uncle,  pleasantly. 

"  But  however  that  may  be,"  resumed  the  nephew, 
glancing  at  him  with  deep  distrust,  "  I  know  that  your 


diplomacy  would  stop  me  by  any  means,  and  would  know 
no  scruple  as  to  means." 

"  My  friend,  I  told  you  so,"  said  the  uncle,  with  a  fine 
pulsation  in  the  two  marks.  "  Do  me  the  favour  to  re- 
cal  that  I  told  you  so,  long  ago," 

"  I  recal  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Marquis — very  sweetly  in- 
deed. 

His  tone  lingered  in  the  air,  almost  like  the  tone  of  a 
musical  instrument, 

"  In  effect,  sir,"  pursued  the  nephew,  "  I  believe  it  to 
be  at  once  your  bad  fortune,  and  my  good  fortune,  that 
has  kept  me  out  of  a  prison  in  France  here. " 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  returned  the  uncle,  sipping  his 
coffee.    "  Dare  I  ask  you  to  explain  ?  " 

"  I  believe  that  if  you  were  not  in  disgrace  with  the 
court,  and  had  not  been  overshadowed  by  that  cloud  for 
years  past,  a  letter  de  cachet  would  have  sent  me  to  some 
fortress  indefinitely." 

"  It  is  possible,"  said  the  uncle  with  great  calmness. 
"  For  the  honour  of  the  family,  I  could  even  resolve  to 
incommode  you  to  that  extent.    Pray  excuse  me  !  " 

"  I  perceive  that,  happily  for  me,  the  Reception  of  the 
day  before  yesterday  was,  as  usual,  a  cold  one,"  observed 
the  nephew. 

"I  would  not  say  happily,  my  fiiend,"  returned  the 
uncle,  with  refined  politeness  ;  "  I  would  not  be  sure  of 
that.  A  good  opportunity  for  consideration,  surrounded 
by  the  advantages  of  solitude,  might  influence  your  des- 
tiny to  far  greater  advantage  than  you  influence  it  for 
yourself.  But  it  is  useless  to  discuf^^s  the  question.  I 
am,  as  you  say,  at  a  disadvantage.  These  little  instru- 
ments of  correction,  these  gentle  aids  to  the  power  and 
honour  of  families,  these  slight  favours  that  might  so  in- 
commode you,  are  only  to  be  obtained  now  by  interest 
and  importuniCy.  They  are  sought  by  so  many,  and 
they  are  granted  (comparatively)  to  so  few  !  It  used 
not  to  be  so,  but  France  in  all  such  things  is  changed  for 
the  worse.  Our  not  remote  ancestors  held  the  ris:ht  of 
life  and  death  over  the  surrounding  vulgar.  From  this 
room,  many  such  dogs  have  been  taken  out  to  be  hanged  ; 
in  the  next  room  (my  bedroom),  one  fellow,  to  our  knowl- 
edge, was  poniarded  on  the  spot  for  professing  some  in- 
solent delicacy  respecting  his  daughter — Ms  daughter  ! 
We  have  lost  many  privileges  ;  a  new  philosophy  has 
become  the  mode  ;  and  the  assertion  of  our  station,  in 
these  days,  might  (I  do  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  would, 
but  might)  cause  us  real  inconvenience.  All  very  bad, 
very  bad  ! " 

The  Marquis  took  a  gentle  little  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
shook  his  head  ;  as  elegantly  despondent  as  he  could  be- 
comingly be,  of  a  country  still  containing  himself,  that 
great  means  of  regeneration. 

"  We  have  so  asserted  our  station,  both  in  the  old  time 
and  in  the  modem  time  also,"  said  the  nephew,  gloom- 
ily, "  that  I  believe  our  name  to  be  more  detested  than 
any  name  in  France," 

"Lotus  hope  so,"  said  the  uncle.  "Detestation  of 
the  high  is  the  involuntary  homage  of  the  low." 

"  There  is  not,"  pursued  the  nephew,  in  his  former 
tone,  "a  face  I  can  look  at,  in  all  this  country  round 
about  us,  which  looks  at  me  with  any  deference  on  it 
but  the  dark  deference  of  fear  and  slavery." 

"  A  compliment,"  said  the  Marquis,  "to  the  grandeur 
of  the  family,  merited  by  the  manner  in  Vvhich  the  fam- 
ily has  sustained  its  grandeur.  Hah  !  "  and  he  took 
another  gentle  little  pinch  of  snuff,  and  lightly  crossed 
his  legs. 

But,  when  his  nephew,  leaning  an  elbow  on  the  table, 
covered  his  eyes  thoughtfully  and  dejectedly  with  his 
hand,  the  fine  mask  looked  at  him  sideways  with  a 
stronger  concentration  of  keenness,  closeness,  and  dislike, 
than  was  comportable  with  its  wearer's  assumption  of 
indifference, 

"  Repression  is  the  only  lasting  philosophy.  The  dark 
deference  of  fear  and  slavery,  my  friend,"  observed  the 
Marquis,  "  will  keep  the  dogs  obedient  to  the  whip, 
as  long  as  this  roof,"  looking  up  to  it,  "shuts  out  the 
sky." 

That  might  not  be  so  long  as  the  Marquis  supposed. 
If  a  picture  of  the  chateau  as  it  was  to  be  a  very  few 
years  hence,  and  of  fifty  like  it  as  they  too  were  to  be  a 


374 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


very  few  years  hence,  could  have  been  shown  to  him  that 
night,  he  might  have  been  at  a  loss  to  claim  his  own  from 
the  ghastly,  fire-charred,  plunder-wrecked  ruins.  As  for 
the  roof  he  vaunted,  he  might  have  found  that  shutting 
out  the  sky  in  a  new  way— to  wit,  forever,  from  the  eyes 
of  the  bodies  into  which  its  lead  was  fired,  out  of  the 
barrels  of  a  hundred  thousand  muskets. 

"Meanwhile,"  said  the  Marquis,  "  I  will  preserve  the 
honour  and  repose  of  the  family,  if  you  will  not.  But 
you  must  be  fatigued.  Shall  we  terminate  our  confer- 
ence for  the  night  ?  " 

"  A  moment  more." 

"  An  hour,  if  you  please." 
Sir,"  said  tiie  nephew,  "  we  have  done  wrong,  and  are 
reapiiig  the  fruits  of  wrong." 

"TFd  have  done  wrong?"  repeated  the  Marquis,  with 
an  inquiring  smile,  and  delicately  pointing,  first  to  his 
nephev*',  then  to  himself. 

"  Our  family  ;  our  honourable  family,  whose  honour  is 
of  so  much  account  to  both  of  us,  in  such  different  ways. 
Even  in  my  father's  time,  we  did  a  world  of  wrong,  in- 
juring every  human  creature  that  came  between  us  and 
our  pleasure,  whatever  it  was.  Why  need  I  speak  of 
my  father's  time,  v/heu  it  is  equally  yours  ?  Can  I  sepa- 
rate my  father's  twin-brother,  joint  inheritor,  and  next 
successor,  from  himself  ?  " 

"  Death  has  done  that  !  "  said  the  Marquis. 

"  And  has  left  me,"  answered  the  nephew,  "bound  to 
a  system  that  is  frightful  to  me,  responsible  for  it,  but 
powerless  in  it ;  seeking  to  execute  the  last  request  of 
my  dear  mother's  lips,  and  obey  the  last  look  of  my  dear 
mother's  eyes,  which  implored  me  to  have  mercy  and 
to  redress  ;  and  tortured  by  seeking  assistance  and  power 
in  vain." 

"  Seeking  them  from  me,  my  nephew,"  said  the  Mar- 
quis, touching  him  on  the  breast  with  liis  forefinger — 
they  were  now  standing  by  the  hearth — "you  will  for 
ever  seek  them  in  vain,  be  assured." 

Every  fine  straight  line  in  the  clear  whiteness  of  his 
face,  was  cruelly,  craftily,  and  closely  compressed,  while 
he  stood  looking  quietly  at  his  nephew,  with  his  snuff- 
box in  his  hand.  Once  again  he  touched  him  on  the 
breast,  as  though  his  finger  were  the  fine  point  of  a  small 
sword,  with  which,  in  delicate  finesse,  he  ran  him 
through  the  body,  and  said, 

"  My  friend,  I  will  die,  perpetuating  the  system  under 
which  I  have  lived." 

When  he  had  said  it,  he  took  a  culminating  pinch  of 
snuff,  and  put  his  box  in  his  pocket. 

"  Better  to  be  a  rational  creature,"  he  added,  then, 
after  ringing  a  small  bell  on  the  table,  "  and  accept  your 
natural  destiny.  But  you  are  lost.  Monsieur  Charles,  I  see. " 

"  This  property  and  France  are  lost  to  me,"  said  the 
nephew,  sadly  ;  "I  renounce  them." 

"  Are  they  both  yours  to  renounce?  France  may  be, 
but  is  the  property  ?  It  is  scarcely  worth  mentioning  : 
but,  is  it  yet  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  intention,  in  the  words  I  used,  to  claim  it 
yet.    If  it  passed  to  me  from  you,  to-morrow —  " 

"  Which  I  have  the  vanity  to  hope  is  not  probable." 

**  — or  twenty  years  hence — " 

"You  do  me  too  much  honour,"  said  the  Marquis; 
"still,  I  prefer  that  supposition." 

"  — I  would  abandon  it,  and  live  otherwise  and  else- 
where. It  is  little  to  relinquish.  What  is  it  but  a  wil- 
derness of  misery  and  ruin  ?  " 

"  Hah  !"  said  the  Marquis,  glancing  round  the  luxuri- 
ous room. 

"  To  the  eye  it  is  fair  enough,  here  ;  but  seen  in  its 
integrity,  under  the  sky,  and  by  the  daylight,  it  is  a 
crumbling  tower  of  waste,  mismanagement,  extortion, 
de])t,  mortgage,  oppression,  hunger,  nakedness,  and  suf- 
fering." 

"Hah!"  said  the  Marquis  again,  in  a  well-satisfied 
manner. 

"If  it  ever  becomes  mine,  it  shall  bo  put  into  some 
hands  better  qualified  to  free  it  slowly  (if  such  a  thing 
is  possible)  from  the  weight  that  drags  it  down,  so  that 
the  miserable  people  who  cannot  leave  it  and  who  have 
been  long  wrung  to  the  last  point  of  endurance,  may,  in 
another  generation,  suffer  less  ;  but  it  is  not  for  me. 
There  is  a  curse  on  it,  and  on  all  this  land." 


"And  you?"  said  the  uncle.  "Forgive  my  curi- 
osity ;  do  you,  under  your  new  philosophy,  graciously 
intend  to  live  ?  " 

"I  must  do,  to  live,  what  others  of  my  countrymen, 
even  with  nobility  at  their  backs,  may  have  to  do  some 
day — work." 

"  In  England,  for  example?" 

"Yes.  The  family  honour,  sir,  is  safe  for  me  in  this 
country.  The  family  name  can  suffer  from  me  in  no 
other,  for  I  bear  it  in  no  other." 

The  ringing  of  the  bell  had  caused  the  adjoining  bed- 
chamber to  be  lighted.  It  now  shone  brightly,  through 
the  door  of  communication.  •The  Marquis  looked  that 
way,  and  listened  for  the  retreating  step  of  his  valet. 

"  England  is  very  attractive  to  you,  seeing  how  indif- 
ferently you  have  prospered  there,"  he  observed  then, 
turning  his  calm  face  to  his  nephew  with  a  smile, 

"  I  have  already  said,  that  for  my  prospering  there  I 
am  sensible  I  may  indebted  to  you,  sir.  For  the  rest,  it 
is  my  Refuge." 

"They  say,  those  boastful  English,  that  it  is  the 
Refuge  of  riiany.  You  know  a  compatriot  who  has 
found  a  Refuge  there  ?   A  Doctor  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  With  a  daughter?" 
"Yes." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Marquis.  "  You  are  fatigued.  Good 
night  ?  " 

As  he  bent  his  head  in  his  most  courtly  manner,  there 
was  a  secrecy  in  his  smiling  face,  and  he  conveyed  an 
air  of  mystery  to  those  words,  which  struck  the  eyes  and 
ears  of  his  nephew  forcibly.  At*  the  same  time,  the 
thin  straight  lines  of  the  setting  of  the  eyes  and  the 
thin  straight  lips,  and  the  markings  in  the  nose,  curved 
with  a  sarcasm  that  looked  handsomely  diabolic. 

"Yes,"  repeated  the  Marquis.  "A  Doctor  with  a 
daughter.  Yes.  So  commences  the  new  philosophy  ! 
You  are  fatigued.    Good  night  ! " 

It  would  have  been  of  as  much  avail  to  interrogate 
any  stone  face  outside  the  chateau  as  to  interrogate  that 
face  of  his.  The  nephew  looked  at  him,  in  vain,  in  pass- 
ing on  to  the  door. 

"  Good  night ! "  said  the  uncle.  "  I  look  to  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  again  in  the  morning.  Good  repose  \ 
Light  Monsieur  my  nephew  to  his  chamber  there  ! — And 
burn  Monsieur  my  nephew  in  his  bed,  if  you  will,"  he 
added  to  himself,  before  he  rang  his  little  bell  again, 
and  summoned  his  valet  to  his  own  bedroom. 

The  valet  come  and  gone.  Monsieur  the  Marquis 
walked  to  and  fro  in  his  loose  chamber-robe,  to  prepare 
himself  gently  for  sleep,  that  hot  still  night.  Rustling 
about  the  room,  his  softly-slippered  feet  making  no  noise 
on  the  floor,  he  moved  like  a  refined  tiger  :— looked  like 
some  enchanted  marqttis  of  the  impenitently  wicked 
sort,  in  story,  whose  periodical  change  into  tiger  form 
was  either  just  going  off,  or  just  coming  on. 

He  moved  from  end  to  end  of  his  voluptuous  bedroom, 
looking  again  at  the  scraps  of  the  day's  journey  that 
came  unbidden  into  his  mind  ;  the  slow  toil  up  the  hill 
at  sunset,  the  setting  sun,  the  descent,  the  mill,  the 
prison  on  the  crag,  the  little  village  in  the  hollow,  the 
peasants  at  the  fountain,  and  the  mender  of  roads  with 
his  blue  cap  pointing  out  the  chain  under  the  carriage. 
That  fountain  suggested  the  Paris  fountain,  the  little 
bundle  lying  on  the  step,  the  women  bending  over  it, 
and  the  tall  man  with  his  arras  up,  crying.  "Dead  !" 

"  I  am  cool  now,"  said  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  "and 
may  go  to  bed." 

So,  leaving  only  one  light  burning  on  the  large  hearth, 
he  let  his  thin  gauze  curtains  fall  around  him,  and  heard 
the  night  break  its  silence  with  a  long  sigh  as  he  com- 
posed himself  to  sleep. 

The  stone  faces  on  the  outer  walls  stared  blindly  at 
the  black  night  for  three  heavy  hours ;  for  three  heavy 
hours,  the  horses  in  the  stables  rattled  at  their  racks, 
the  dogs  barked,  and  the  owl  made  a  noise  with  very 
little  resemblance  in  it  to  the  noise  conventionally  as- 
signed to  the  owl  by  men-poets.  But,  it  is  the  obstinate 
custom  of  such  creatures  hardly  ever  to  say  what  is  set 
down  for  them. 

For  three  heavy  hours,  the  stone  faces  of  the  chateau, 
lion  and  human,  stared  blindly  at  the  night.  Dead 


A  TALE  OF 

darkness  lay  on  all  tlie  landscape,  dead  darkness  added 
its  own  hush  to  the  hushing  dust  on  all  the  roads.  The 
burial-place  has  got  to  the  pass  that  its  little  heaps  of 
poor  grass  were  undistinguishable  from  one  another  ; 
the  figure  on  the  Cross  might  have  come  down,  for  any- 
thing that  could  be  seen  of  it.  In  the  village,  taxers 
and  taxed  w^ere  fast  asleep.  Dreaming,  perhaps,  of 
banquets,  as  the  starved  usually  do,  and  of  ease  and 
rest,  as  the  driven  slave  and  the  yoked  ox  may,  its  lean 
inhabitants  slept  soundly,  and  were  fed  and  freed. 

The  fountain  in  the  village  flowed  unseen  and  un- 
heard, and  the  fountain  at  the  chateau  dropped  unseen 
and  unheard — both  melting  away,  like  the  minutes  that 
were  falling  from  the  spring  of  Time — through  three 
dark  hours.  Then,  the  grey  water  of  both  began  to  be 
ghostly  in  the  light,  and  the  eyes  'of  the  stone  faces  of 
the  chateau  v^ere  opened. 

Lighter  and  lighter,  until  at  last  the  sun  touched  the 
tops  of  the  still  trees,  and  poured  its  radiance  over  the 
hill.  In  the  glow,  the  water  of  the  chateau  fountain 
seemed  to  turn  to  blood,  and  the  stone  faces  crimsoned. 
The  carol  of  the  birds  was  loud  and  high,  and,  on  the 
weather-beaten  .sill  of  the  great  window  of  the  bed- 
chamber of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  one  little  bird  sang 
its  sweetest  song  with  all  its  might.  A%  this,  the  near- 
est stone  face  seemed  to  stare  amazed,  and,  with  open 
mouth  and  dropped  under- jaw,  looked  awe-stricken. 

Now,  the  sun  was  full  up,  and  movement  began  in  the 
village.  Casement  windows  opened,  crazy  dooi-s  were 
unbarred,  and  people  came  forth  shivering — chilled,  as 
yet,  by  the  new  sweet  air.  Then  began  the  rarely  light- 
ened toil  of  the  day  among  the  village  population. 
Some,  to  the  fountain  ;  some,  to  the  fields  ;  men  and 
women  here,  to  dig  and  delve  ;  men  and  women  there, 
to  see  to  the  poor  live  stock,  and  lead  the  bony  cows  out, 
to  such  pasture  as  could  be  ^ound  by  the  roadside.  In 
the  church  and  at  the  Cross,  a  kneeling  figure  or  two  ; 
attendant  on  the  latter  prayers,  the  led  cow,  trying  for  a 
breakfast  among  the  weeds  at  its  foot. 

The  chateau  awoke  later,  as  became  its  quality,  but 
awoke  gradually  and  surely.  First,  the  lonely  boar- 
spears  and  knives  of  the  chase  had  been  reddened  as  of 
old  ;  then,  had  gleamed  trenchant  in  the  morning  sun- 
shine ;  now,  doors  and  windows  were  thrown  open, 
horses  in  their  stables  looked  round  over  their  shoulders 
at  the  light  and  freshness  pouring  in  at  doorways,  leaves 
sparkled  and  rustled  at  iron-grated  windows,  dogs  pulled 
hard  at  their  chains,  and  reared  impatient  to  be  loosed. 

All  these  trivial  incidents  belonged  to  the  routine  of 
life,  and  the  return  of  morning.  Surely,  not  so  the  ring- 
ing of  the  great  bell  of  the  chateau,  nor  the  running  up 
and  down  the  stairs,  nor  the  hurried  figures  on  the  ter- 
race, nor  the  booting  and  tramping  here  and  there  and 
everywhere,  nor  the  quick  saddling  of  horses  and  riding 
away  ? 

What  winds  conveyed  this  hurry  to  the  grizzled  mender 
of  roads,  already  at  work  on  the  hill-top  beyond  the  vil- 
lage, with  his  day's  dinner  (not  much  to  carry)  lying  in 
a  bundle  that  it  was  worth  no  crow's  while  to  peck  at, 
on  a  heap  of  stones  ?  Had  the  birds,  carrying  some  grains 
of  it  to  a  distance,  dropped  one  over  him  as  they  sow 
chance  seeds?  Whether  or  no,  the  mender  of  roads  ran, 
on  the  sultry  morning,  as  if  for  his  life,  down  the  hill, 
knee-high  in  dust,  and  never  stopped  till  he  got  to  the 
fountain. 

All  the  people  of  the  village  were  at  the  fountain, 
standing  about  in  their  depressed  manner,  and  whisper- 
ing low,  but  showing  no  other  emotions  than  grim  curi- 
osity and  surprise.  The  led  cows,  hastily  brought  in 
and  tethered  to  anything  that  would  hold  them,  were 
looking  stupidly  on,  or  lying  down  chewing  the  cud 
of  nothing  particularly  repaying  their  trouble,  which 
they  had  picked  up  in  their  interrupted  saunter.  Some 
of  the  people  of  the  chateau,  and  some  of  those  of  the 
posting-house,  and  all  the  taxing  authorities,  were  armed 
more  or  less,  and  were  crowded  on  the  other  side  of  the 
httle  street  in  a  purposeless  way,  that  was  highly  fraught 
with  nothing.  Already,  the  mender  of  roads  had  pene- 
trated into  the  midst  of  a  group  of  fifty  particular  friends, 
and  was  smiting  himself  in  the  breast  with  his  blue  cap. 
What  did  all  this  portend,  and  what  portended  the  swift 
iioisting  up  of  Monsieur  Gabelle  behind  a  servant  on 


TWO  CITIES.  3T5 

horseback,  and  the  conveying  away  of  the  said  Gabelle 
(double-laden  though  the  horse  was),  at  a  gallop,  like  a 
new  version  of  the  German  ballad  of  Leonora? 

It  portended  that  there  was  one  stone  face  too  many, 
up  at  the  chateau. 

The  Gorgon  had  surveyed  the  building  again  in  the 
night,  and  had  added  the  one  stone  face  wanting ;  the 
stone  face  for  which  it  had  waited  through  about  two 
hundred  years. 

It  lay  back  on  the  pillow  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis. 
It  was  like  a  fine  mask,  suddenly  startled,  made  angry, 
and  petrified.  Driven  home  into  the  heart  of  the  stone 
figure  attached  to  it,  was  a  knife.  Round  its  hilt  was  a 
frill  of  paper,  on  which  was  scrawled  : 

"  Drive  him  fast  to  his  tomb.    This,  from  Jaques.'* 


CHAPTER  X. 

Two  Pi'omises. 

More  months,  to  the  number  of  twelve,  had  come  and 
gone,  and  Mr.  Charles  Darnay  was  established  in  Eng- 
land as  a  higher  teacher  of  the  French  language  who 
was  conversant  with  French  literature.  In  this  age,  he 
would  have  been  a  Professor  ;  in  that  age,  he  was  a 
Tutor.  He  read  with  young  men  who  could  find  any 
leisure  and  interest  for  the  study  of  a  living  tongue 
spoken  all  over  the  world,  and  he  cultivated  a  taste  for  its 
stores  of  knowledge  and  fancy.  He  could  write  of  them, 
besides,  in  sound  English,  and  render  them  into  sound 
English.  Such  masters  were  not  at  that  time  easily 
found  ;  Princes  that  had  been,  and  Kings  that  w^ere  to 
be,  were  not  yet  of  the  Teacher  class,  and  no  ruined 
nobility  had  dropped  out  of  Tellson's  ledgers,  to  turn 
cooks  and  carpenters.  As  a  tutor,  whose  attainments 
made  the  student's  way  unusually  pleasant  and  profita- 
ble, and  as  an  elegant  translator  who  brought  something 
to  his  work  besides  mere  dictionary  knowledge,  young 
Mr.  Darnay  soon  became  known  and  encouraged.  He 
was  well  acquainted,  moreover,  with  the  circumstances  of 
his  country,  and  those  were  of  ever-growing  interest. 
So,  with  great  perseverance  and  untiring  industry,  he 
prospered. 

In  London,  he  had  expected  neither  to  walk  on  pave- 
ments of  gold,  nor  to  lie  on  beds  of  roses  ;  if  he  had  had 
any  such  exalted  expectation,  he  would  not  have  pros- 
pered. He  had  expected  labour,  and  he  found  it,  and 
did  it,  and  made  the  best  of  it.  In  this,  his  prosperity 
consisted. 

A  certain  portion  of  his  time  was  passed  at  Cambridge, 
where  he  read  with  undergraduates  as  a  sort  of  tolerated 
smuggler  who  drove  a  contraband  trade  in  European 
languages,  instead  of  conveying  Greek  and  Latin  through 
the  Custom-house.  The  rest  of  his  time  he  passed  in 
London. 

Now,  from  the  days  when  it  was  always  summer  in 
Eden,  to  these  days  when  it  is  mostly  winter  in  fallen 
latitudes,  the  world  of  a  man  has  invariably  gone  one 
way — Charles  Darnay's  way — the  way  of  the  love  of  a 
woman. 

He  had  loved  Lucie  Manette  from  the  hour  of  his 
danger.  He  had  never  heard  a  sound  so  sweet  and  dear 
as  the  sound  of  her  compassionate  voice  ;  he  had  never 
seen  a  face  so  tenderly  beautiful,  as  hers  when  it  was 
confronted  with  his  own  on  the  edge  of  the  grave  that 
had  been  dug  for  him.  But,  he  had  not  yet  spoken  to 
her  on  the  subject  ;  the  assassination  at  the  deserted 
chateau  far  away  beyond  the  heaving  water  and  the 
long,  long,  dusty  roads — the  solid  stone  chateau  which 
had  itself  beconae  the  mere  mist  of  a  dream — had  been 
done  a  year,  and  he  had  never  yet,  by  so  much  as  a 
single  spoken  word,  disclosed  to  her  the  state  of  his 
heart. 

That  he  had  his  reasons  for  this,  he  knew  full  well. 
It  was  again  a  summer  day  when,  lately  arrived  in  Lon- 
don from  his  college  occupation,  he  turned  into  the  quiet 
corner  in  Soho,  bent  on  seeking  an  opportunity  of  open- 
ing his  mind  to  Doctor  Manette.  It  was  the  close  of  the 
summer  day,  and  he  knew  Lucie  to  be  out  with  Miss 
Press. 


376 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


He  found  the  Doctor  reading  in  his  arm-chair  at  a 
window.  The  energy  which  had  at  once  supported  him 
under  his  old  sufferings  and  aggravated  their  sharpness, 
had  been  gradually  restored  to  him.  He  was  now  a  very 
energetic  man  indeed,  with  great  firmness  of  purpose, 
strength  of  resolution,  and  vigour  of  action.  In  his  re- 
covered energy  he  was  sometimes  a  little  fitful  and  sud- 
den, as  he  had  at  first  been  in  the  exercise  of  his  other 
recovered  faculties  ;  but,  this  had  never  been  frequently 
observable,  and  had  grown  more  and  more  rare. 

He  studied  much,  slept  little,  sustained  a  great  deal 
of  fatigue  with  ease,  and  was  equably  cheerful.  To 
him,  now  entered  Charles  Darnay,  at  sight  of  whom  he 
laid  aside  his  book  and  held  out  his  hand. 

''Charles  Darnay!  I  rejoice  to  see  you.  We  have 
been  counting  on  your  return  these  three  or  four  days 
past.  Mr.  Stryver  and  Sydney  Carton  were  both  here 
yesterday,  and  both  made  you  out  to  be  more  than  due." 

"I  am  obliged  to  them  for  their  interest  in  the  mat- 
ter," he  answered,  a  little  coldly  as  to  them,  though  very 
warmly  as  to  the  Doctor.    "  Miss  Manette — " 

"  Is  well,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  stopped  short,  "  and 
your  return  will  delight  us  all.  She  has  gone  out  on 
some  household  matters,  but  will  soon  be  home." 

"  Doctor  Manette,  I  knew  she  was  from  home.  I  took 
the  opportunity  of  her  being  from  home,  to  beg  to  speak 
to  you." 

There  was  a  blank  silence. 

"Yes!"  said  the  Doctor,  with  evident  constraint. 
"Bring  your  chair  here,  and  speak  on." 

He  complied  as  to  the  chair,  but  appeared  to  find  the 
speaking  on  less  easy. 

"  I  have  had  the  happiness.  Doctor  Manette,  of  being 
so  intimate  here,"  so  he  at  length  began,  "  for  some  year 
and  a  half,  that  I  hope  the  topic  on  which  I  am  about  to 
touch  may  not — " 

He  was  stayed  by  the  Doctor's  putting  out  his  hand  to 
stop  him.  When  he  had  kept  it  so  a  little  while,  he 
said,  drawing  it  back  : 

* '  Is  Lucie  the  topic  ?  " 

"  She  is." 

"  It  is  hard  for  me  to  speak  of  her,  at  any  time.  It  is 
very  hard  for  me  to  hear  her  spoken  of  in  that  tone  of 
yours,  Charles  Darnay." 

"  It  is  a  tone  of  fervent  admiration,  true  homage  and 
deep  love.  Doctor  Manette  I  "  he  said,  deferentially. 

There  was  another  blank  silence  before  her  father  re- 
joined : 

"  I  believe  it.    I  do  you  justice,    I  believe  it." 

His  constraint  was  so  manifest,  and  it  was  so  manifest, 
too,  that  it  originated  in  an  unwillingness  to  approach 
the  subject,  that  Charles  Darnay  hesitated. 

"  Shall  I  go  on,  sir  ?  " 

Another  blank. 

"  Yes,  go  on." 

"  You  anticipate  what  I  would  say,  though  you  cannot 
know  how  earnestly  I  say  it,  how  earnestly  I  feel  it, 
without  knowing  my  secret  heart,  and  the  hopes  and 
fears  and  anxieties  with  which  it  has  long  been  laden. 
Dear  Doctor  Manette,  I  love  your  daughter  fondly,  dear- 
ly, disinterestedly,  devotedly.  If  ever  there  were  love 
in  the  world,  I  love  her.  You  have  loved  yourself  ;  let 
your  old  love  speak  for  me  !  " 

The  Doctor  sat  with  his  face  turned  away,  and  his  eyes 
bent  on  the  ground.  At  the  last  words,  he  stretched 
out  his  hand  again,  hurriedly,  and  cried  : 

"  Not  that,  sir  !  Let  that  be  !  I  adjure  you,  do  not 
recall  that  !  " 

His  cry  was  go  like  a  cry  of  actual  pain,  that  it  rang 
in  Charles  Darnay's  ears  long  after  lie  had  ceased.  He 
motioned  with  the  hand  he  had  extended,  and  it  seemed 
to  be  an  appeal  to  Darnay  to  pause.  The  latter  so  re- 
ceived it,  and  remained  silent. 

"I  ask  your  pardon,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  subdued 
tone,  after  some  moments.  "  I  do  not  doubt  your  loving 
Lucie  ;  you  may  be  satisfied  of  it." 

He  turned  towards  him  in  his  chair,  but  did  not  look 
at  him,  or  raise  his  eyes.  His  chin  dropped  upon  his 
hand,  and  his  white  hair  overshadowed  his  face  : 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  Lucie  ?" 

"No." 

"Nor  written?" 


"Never." 

"  It  would  be  ungenerous  to  affect  not  to  know  that 
your  self-denial  is  lo  be  referred  to  your  consideration 
for  her  father.    Her  father  thanks  you. " 

He  offered  his  hand  ;  but,  his  eyes  did  not  go  with 

it. 

"  I  know,"  said  Darnay,  respectfully,  "  how  can  I  fail 
to  know,  Doctor  Manette,  I  who  have  seen  you  together 
from  day  to  day,  that  between  you  and  Miss  Manette 
there  is  an  affection  so  unusual,  so  touching,  so  belong- 
ing to  the  circumstances  in  which  it  has  been  nurtured, 
that  it  can  have  few  parallels,  even  in  the  tenderness 
between  a  father  and  child.  I  know,  Doctor  Manette — 
how  can  I  fail  to  know — that,  mingled  with  the  affection 
and  duty  of  a  daughter  who  has  become  a  woman,  there 
is,  in  her  heart  towar^is  you,  all  the  love  and  reliance  of 
infancy  itself.  I  know  that,  as  in  her  childhood  she  had 
no  parent,  so  she  is  now  devoted  to  you  with  all  the  con- 
stancy and  fervour  of  her  present  years  and  character, 
united  to  the  trustfulness  and  attachment  of  the  early 
days  in  which  you  were  lost  to  her.  I  know  perfectly 
well  that  if  you  had  been  restored  to  her  from  the  world 
beyond  this  life,  you  could  hardly  be  invested,  in  her 
sight,  with  a  more  sacred  character  than  that  in  which 
you  are  always  with  her,  I  know  that  when  she  is 
clinging  to  you,  the  hands  of  baby,  girl,  and  woman,  all 
in  one,  are  round  your  neck.  I  know  that  in  loving  you 
she  sees  and  loves  her  mother  at  her  own  age,  sees  and 
loves  you  at  my  age,  loves  her  mother  broken-hearted, 
loves  you  through  your  dreadful  trial  and  in  your  blessed 
restoration.  I  have  known  this,  night  and  day,  since  I 
have  known  you  in  your  home." 

Her  father  sat  silent,  with  his  face  bent  down.  His 
breathing  was  a  little  quickened  ;  but  he  repressed  all 
other  signs  of  agitation. 

"  Dear  Doctor  Manette,  always  knowing  this,  always 
seeing  her  and  you  with  this  hallowed  light  about  you, 
I  have  forborne,  and  forborne,  as  long  as  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  man  to  do  it,  I  have  felt,  and  do  even  now 
feel,  that  to  bring  my  love — even  mine — between  you, 
is  to  touch  your  history  with  something  not  quite  so 
good  as  itself.  But  I  love  her.  Heaven  is  my  witness 
that  I  love  her  1 " 

"  I  believe  it,"  answered  her  father,  mournfully.  "  I 
thought  so,  before  now.    I  believe  it." 

"  But,*do  not  believe,"  said  Darney,  upon  whose  ear 
the  mournful  voice  struck  with  a  reproachful  sound, 
"  that  if  my  fortune  was  so  cast  as  that,  being  one  day 
so  happy  as  to  make  her  my  wife,  I  must  at  any  time  put 
any  separation  between  her  and  you,  I  could  or  would 
breathe  a  word  of  what  I  now  say.  Besides  that  I  should 
know  it  to  be  hopeless,  I  should  know  it  to  be  a  baseness. 
If  I  had  any  such  possibility,  even  at  a  remote  distance 
of  years,  harboured  in  my  thoughts  and  hidden  in  my 
heart — if  it  ever  had  been  there — if  it  ever  could  be 
there — I  could  not  now  touch  this  honoured  hand." 

He  laid  his  own  upon  it  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  dear  Doctor  Manette.  Like  you,  a  voluntary 
exile  from  France  ;  like  you,  driven  from  it  by  its  dis- 
tractions, oppressions,  and  miseries  ;  like  you,  striving  to 
live  away  from  it  by  my  own  exertions,  and  trusting  in 
a  happier  future  ;  I  look  only  to  sharing  youi  fortunes, 
sharing  your  life  and  home,  and  being  faithful  to  you  to 
the  death.  Not  to  divide  with  Lucie  her  privilege  as 
your  child,  companion,  and  friend  ;  but  to  come  in  aid 
of  it,  and  bind  her  closer  to  you,  if  such  a  thing  can 
be." 

His  touch  still  lingered  on  her  father's  hand.  An- 
swering the  touch  for  a  moment,  but  not  coldly,  her 
father  rested  his  hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and 
looked  up  for  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  the 
conference.  A  struggle  was  evidently  in  his  face  ;  a 
struggle  with  that  occasional  look  which  had  a  tendency 
in  it  to  dark  doubt  and  dread. 

"You  speak  so  feelingly  and  so  manfully,  Charles 
Darnay, that  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  will  open 
all  my  heart — or  nearly  so.  Have  you  any  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  Lucie  loves  you  ?  " 

"None,    As  yet,  none." 

"Is  it  the  immediate  object  of  this  confidence,  that 
you  may  at  once  ascertain  that,  with  my  knowledge  ?  " 
"  Not  even  so.    I  might  not  have  the  hopefulness  to 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


377 


do  it  for  weeks  ;  I  might  (mistaken  or  not  mistaken)  have 
that  hopefulness  to-morrow." 

' '  Do  you  seek  any  guidance  from  me  ?  " 

"I  ask  none,  sir.  But  I  liave  thought  it  possible  that 
you  might  have  it  in  your  power,  if  you  should  deem  it 
right,  to  give  me  some." 

"  Do  you  seek  any  promise  from  me  ? " 

"  I  do  seek  that." 

"  What  is  it?" 

"  I  well  understand  that,  without  you,  I  could  have  no 
hope.  I  well  understand  that,  even  if  Miss  Manette 
held  me  at  this  moment  in  her  innocent  heart — do  not 
think  I  have  the  presumption  to  assume  so  much — I 
could  retain  no  plac^  in  it  against  her  love  for  her 
father." 

"  If  that  be  so,  do  you  see  what,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  involved  in  it? " 

"I  understand  equally  well,  that  a  word  from  her 
father  in  any  suitor's  favour,  would  outweigh  herself 
and  all  the  world.  For  which  reason.  Doctor  Manette," 
said  Darney,  modestly  but  firmly,  "  I  would  not  ask  that 
word,  to  save  my  life." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Charley  Darney,  mysteries  arise 
out  of  close  love,  as  well  as  out  of  wide  division  ;  in  the 
former  case,  they  are  subtle  and  delicate,  and  difficult  to 
penetrate.  My  daughter  Lucie  is,  in  this  one  respect, 
such  a  mystery  to  me  ;  I  can  make  no  guess  at  the  state 
of  her  heart." 

May  I  ask,  sir,  if  you  think  she  is — "  As  he  hesi- 
tated, her  father  supplied  the  rest. 

"  Is  sought  by  any  other  suitor  ?  " 

"  It  is  what  I  meant  to  say," 

Her  father  considered  a  little  before  he  answered  : 
"  You  have  seen  Mr.  Carton  here,  yourself.  Mr.  Stry- 

ver  is  here  too,  occasionally.    If  it  be  at  all,  it  can  only 

be  by  one  of  these." 

"  Or  both,"  said  Darney. 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  both  ;  I  should  not  think 
either,  likely.  You  want  a  promise  from  me.  Tell  me 
what  it  is." 

"  It  is,  that  if  Miss  Manette  should  bring  to  you  at 
any  time,  on  her  own  part,  such  a  confidence  as  I  have 
ventured  to  lay  before  you,  you  will  bear  testimony  to 
what  I  have  said,  and  to  your  belief  in  it.  I  hope  you 
may  be  able  to  think  so  well  of  me,  as  to  urge  no  influ- 
ence against  me.  I  say  nothing  more  of  my  stake  in 
this  ;  this  is  what  I  ask.  The  condition  on  which  I  ask 
it,  and  which  you  have  an  undoubted  right  to  require, 
I  will  observe  immediately." 

"  I  give  the  promise,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  without  any 
condition.  I  believe  your  object  to  be,  purely  and  truth- 
fully, as  you  have  stated  it.  I  believe  your  intention  is 
to  perpetuate,  and  not  to  weaken,  the  ties  between  me 
and  my  other  and  far  dearer  self.  If  she  should  ever 
tell  me  that  you  are  essential  to  her  perfect  happiness,  I 
will  give  her  to  you.  If  there  were — Charles  Darnay,  if 
there  were — " 

The  young  man  had  taken  his  hand  gratefully  ;  their 
hands  were  joined  as  the  Doctor  spoke  : 

"  — any  fancies,^any  reasons,  any  apprehensions,  any- 
thing whatsoever,  new  or  old,  against  the  man  she  really 
loved — the  direct  responsibility  thereof  not  lying  on  his 
head — they  should  all  be  obliterated  for  her  sake.  She 
is  everything  to  me  ;  more  to  me  than  suffering,  more  to 
me  than  wrong,  more  to  me — Well  !    This  is  idle  talk." 

So  stj-ange  was  the  way  in  which  he  faded  into  silence, 
and  so  strange  his  fixed  look  when  he  had  ceased  to 
speak,  that  Darnay  felt  his  own  hand  turn  cold  in  the 
hand  that  slowly  released  and  dropped  it. 

"  You  said  something  to  me,"  said  Doctor  Manette, 
breaking  into  a  smile.    "  What  was  it  you  said  to  me  ?  " 

He  was  at  a  loss  how  to  answ^er,  until  he  remembered 
having  spoken  of  a  condition.  Relieved  as  his  mind  re- 
verted to  that,  he  answered  : 

"Your  confidence  in  me  ought  to  be  returned  with 
full  confidence  on  my  part.  My  present  name,  though 
but  slightly  changed  from  my  mother's,  is  not,  as  you 
will  remember,  my  own.  I  wish  to  tell  you  what  that 
is,  and  why  I  am  in  England." 

"  Stop  ! said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais. 

"I  wish  it,  that  I  may  the  better  deserve  your  confi- 
i  dence,  and  have  no  secret  from  you,'' 

! 


"Stop!" 

For  an  instant,  the  Doctor  even  had  his  two  hands  at 
his  ears  ;  for  another  instant,  even  had  his  two  hands 
laid  on  Darnay's  lips. 

"  Tell  me  when  I  ask  you,  not  now.  If  your  suit 
should  prosper,  if  Lucie  should  love  you,  you  shall  tell 
me  on  your  marriage  morning.    Do  you  promise 

"  Willingly." 

"  Give  me  your  hand.  She  will  be  home  directly,  and 
it  is  better  she  should  not  see  us  together  to-night. 
Go  !    God  bless  you  I  " 

It  was  dark  when  Charles  Darnay  left  him,  and  it  was 
an  hour  later  and  darker  when  Lucie  came  home  ;  she 
hurried  into  the  room  alone — for  Miss  Pross  had  gone 
straight  up-stairs — and  was  surprised  to  find  his  reading- 
chair  empty, 

"  My  father  ! "  she  called  to  him.    "  Father  dear  ! " 

Nothing  was  said  in  answer,  but  she  heard  a  low  ham- 
mering sound  in  his  bedroom.  Passing  lightly  across  the 
intermediate  room,  she  looked  in  at  his  door  and  came 
running  back  frightened,  crying  to  herself,  with  her 
blood  all  chilled,  ' '  What  shall  I  do  !  What  shall  I  do  ! " 

Her  uncertainty  lasted  but  a  moment  ;  she  hurried 
back  and  tapped  at  his  door,  and  softly  called  to  him. 
The  noise  ceased  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  he  pres- 
ently came  out  to  her,  and  they  walked  up  and  down  to- 
gether for  a  long  time. 

She  came  down  from  her  bed,  to  look  at  him  in  his 
sleep  that  night.  He  slept  heavily,  and  his  tray  of  shoe- 
making  tools  and  his  old  unfinished  work,  were  all  as 
usual. 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  Companion  Picture. 

"  Sydney,"  said  Mr.  Stryver,  on  that  self-same  night, 
or  morning,  to  his  jackal  ;  "  mix  another  bowl  of  punch  ; 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Sydney  had  been  working  double  tides  that  night,  and 
the  night  before,  and  the  night  before  that,  and  a  good 
many  nights  in  succession,  making  a  grand  clearance 
among  Mr.  Stryver's  papers  before  the  setting  in  of  the 
long  vacation.  The  clearance  was  effected  at  last  ;  the 
Stryver  arrears  were  handsomely  fetched  up  ;  every- 
thing was  got  rid  of  until  November  should  come  with 
its  fogs  atmospheric  and  fogs  legal,  and  bring  grist  to 
the  mill  again. 

Sydney  was  none  the  livelier  and  none  the  soberer  for 
so  much  application.  It  had  taken  a  deal  of  extra  wet- 
towelling  to  pull  him  through  the  night  ;  a  correspond- 
ingly extra  quantity  of  wine  had  preceded  the  towel- 
ling ;  and  he  was  in  a  very  damaged  condition,  as  he 
now  pulled  his  turban  off  and  threw  it  into  the  basin  in 
which  he  had  steeped  it  at  intervals  for  the  last  six 
hours. 

"Are  you  mixing  that  other  bowl  of  punch?"  said 
Stryver  the  portly,  with  his  hands  in  his  waistband, 
glancing  round  from  the  sofa  where  he  lay  on  his  back, 

"  I  am," 

"  Now  look  here  !  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something 
that  will  rather  surprise  you,  and  that  perhaps  will  make 
you  think  me  not  quite'  as  shrewd  as  you  usually  do 
think  me.    I  intend  to  marry  !  " 

''Do  you  !" 

"  Yes.    And  not  for  money.    What  do  you  say  now  ?  " 
"  I  don't  feel  disposed  to  say  much.    Who  is  she  ?  " 
"Guess." 

"  Do  I  know  her?  " 
"  Guess. " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  guess,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  my  brains  frying  and  sputtering  in  my  head. 
If  you  want  me  to  guess,  you  must  ask  me  to  dinner. " 

"  Well  then,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Stryver,  coming  slowly 
into  a  sitting  posture.  "  Sydney,  I  rather  despair  of 
making  myself  intelligible  to  you,  because  you  are  such 
an  insensible  dog. " 

"And  you,"  returned  Sydney,  busy  concocting  the 
punch,  "  are  such  a  sensitive  and  poetical  spirit." 

"Comel"  rejoined    Stryver,    laughing  boastfully, 


378 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  thougli  I  don't  prefer  any  claim  to  being  the  soul  of 
nomance  (for  I  liope  I  know  better),  still,  1  am  a  tenderer 
sort  of  fellow  than  you." 

"  You  are  a  luckier,  if  you  mean  that." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean,  I  am  a  man  of  more — 
more — " 

Say  gallantry,  while  you  are  about  it,"  suggested 
Carton. 

"  Well  !  I'll  say  gallantry.  My  meaning  is  that,  I  am 
a  man,"  said  Stryver,  inflating  himself  at  his  friend 
as  he  made  the  punch,  "  who  cares  more  to  be  agreeable, 
who  takes  more  pains  to  be  agreeable,  who  knows  better 
liow  to  be  agreeable,  in  a  woman's  society,  than  you  do." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Sydney  Carton. 

"  Xo  ;  but  b afore  I  go  on,"  said  Stryver,  shaking  his 
head  in  his  bullying  way,  "  I'll  have  this  out  v/ith  you. 
You  have  been  at  Doctor  Manette's  house  as  much  as  I 
have,  or  more  than  I  have.  Why,  I  have  been  ashamed 
of  your  moroseness  there  !  Your  manners  have  been  of 
that  silent  and  sullen  and  hang-dog  kind,  that,  upon  my 
life  and  soul,  I  have  been  ashamed  of  you,  Sydney  ! " 

"  It  should  be  very  beneficial  to  a  man  in  your  practice 
at  the  bar,  to  be  ashamed  of  anything,"  returned  Syd- 
ney ;  "  you  ought  to  be  much  obliged  to  me." 

"  You  shall  not  get  olf  in  that  way,"  rejoined  Stryver, 
shouldering  the  rejoinder  at  him  ;  "  no,  Sydney,  it's  my 
duty  to  tell  you — and  I  tell  you  to  your  face  to  do  you  good 
— that  you  are  a  de-vilish  ill-conditioned  fellow  in  that 
sort  of  society.    You  are  a  disagreeable  fellow." 

Sydney  drank  a  bumper  of  the  punch  he  had  made, 
and  laughed. 

"Look  at  me  !"  said  Stryver,  squaring  himself  ;  "  I 
have  less  need  to  make  myself  agreeable  than  you  have, 
being  more  independent  in  circumstances.  Whv  do  I  do 
it?" 

"  I  never  saw  you  do  it  yet,"  muttered  Carton. 

"  I  do  it  because  it's  politic  ;  I  do  it  on  principle.  And 
look  at  me  !    I  get  on." 

"  You  don't  get  on  with  your  account  of  your  matrimo- 
nial intentions,"  answered  Carton,  with  a  careless  air  : 
"I  wish  you  would  keep  to  that.  As  to  me — will 
you  never  understand  that  I  am  incorrigible?  " 

He  asked  the  question  with  some  appearance  of  scorn. 

*'  You  have  no  business  to  be  incorrigible,"  was  his 
friend's  answer,  delivered  in  no  very  soothing  tone. 

"  I  have  no  business  to  be,  at  all,  that  I  know  of," 
said  Sydney  Carton.    "  Who  is  the  lady?  " 

"  Now,  don't  let  my  announcement  of  the  name  make 
you  uncomfortable,  Sydney,"  said  Mr.  Stryver,  prepar- 
ing him  with  ostentatious  friendliness  for  the  disclosure 
he  was  about  to  make,  "  because  I  know  you  don't 
mean  half  you  say  ;  and  if  you  meant  it  all,  it  would  be 
of  no  importance.  I  make  this  little  preface,  because 
you  once  mentioned  the  young  lady  to  me  in  slighting 
terms. " 

"I  did  ?  " 

"Certainly;  and  in  these  chambers." 

Sydney  Carton  looked  at  his  punch  and  looked  at  his 
complacent  friend  ;  drank  his  punch  and  looked  at  his 
complacent  friend. 

"  You  made  mention  of  the  young  lady  as  a  golden- 
haired  doll.  The  young  lady  is  Miss  Manette.  If  you 
had  been  a  fellow  of  any  sensitiveness  or  delicacy  of 
feeling  in  that  kind  of  way,  S3^dney,  I  might  have  been 
a  little  resentful  of  your  employing  such  a  designation  ; 
but  you  are  not.  You  want  that  sense  altogether ; 
therefore,  I  am  no  more  annoyed  when  I  think  of  the 
expression,  than  I  should  be  annoyed  by  a  man's  opinion 
of  a  picture  of  mine,  who  had  no  eye  for  pictures  ;  or  of 
a  piece  of  music  of  mine,  who  had  no  ear  for  music." 

Sydney  Carton  drank  the  punch  at  a  great  rate ; 
drank  it  by  bumpers,  looking  at  his  friend. 

"Now  you  know  all  about  it,  Syd,"  said  Mr.  Stryver. 
"  I  don't  care  about  fortune  :  she  is  a  charming  creature, 
and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  please  myself  :  on  the 
whole,  I  think  I  can  afford  to  please  myself.  She  will 
have  in  me  a  man  already  pretty  well  off,  and  a  rapidly 
rising  man,  and  a  man  of  some  distinction  :  its  a  piece  of 
good  fortune  for  her,  but  she  is  worthy  of  good  fortune. 

Are  you  astonished?" 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined, "  Why  should 
I  be  astonished  ?  " 


"  You  approve  ?" 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined,  "  Why 
should  I  not  approve  ?  " 

"  Well  !  "  said  his  friend  Stryver,  "  you  take  it  more 
easily  than  I  fancied  you  would,  and  are  less  mercenary 
on  my  behalf  than  I  thought  you  would  be  ;  though,  to 
be  sure,  you  know  well  enough  by  this  time  that  your 
ancient  chum  is  a  man  of  a  pretty  strong  will.  Yes,  Syd- 
ney, I  have  had  enough  of  this  style  of  life,  with  no  other 
as  a  change  from  it ;  I  feel  that  it  is  a  pleasant  thing  for 
a  man  to  have  a  home  when  he  feels  inclined  to  go  to  it 
(when  he  doesn't,  he  can  stay  away),  and  I  feel  that  Miss 
Manette  will  tell  well  in  any  station,  and  will  always  do 
me  credit.  So  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  And  nov,', 
Sydney,  old  boy,  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  about  yo^ir 
prospects.  You  are  in  a  bad  way,  you  know  ;  you  really 
are  in  a  bad  way.  You  don't  know  the  value  of  money, 
you  live  hard,  you'll  knock  up  one  of  these  days,  and  be 
ill  and  poor  ;  you  really  ought  to  think  about  a  nurse." 

The  prosperous  patronage  with  which  he  said  it,  made 
him  look  twice  as  big  as  he  was,  and  four  times  as  offen- 
sive. 

"  Now,  let  me  recommend  you,"  pursued  Stryver,  "  to 
look  it  in  the  face.  I  have  looked  it  in  the  face,  in  my 
different  way  ;  look  it  in  the  face,  you,  in  your  different 
way.  Marry,  Provide  somebody  to  take  care  of  you. 
Never  mind  your  having  no  enjoyment  of  women's  soci- 
ety, nor  understanding  of  it,  nor  tact  for  it.  Find  out 
somebody.  Find  out  some  respectable  woman  with  a 
little  property — somebody  in  the  landlady  way,  or  lodg- 
ing-letting way — and  marry  her  against  a  rainy  day. 
That's  the  kind  of  thing  for  you.  Now  think  of  it,  Syd- 
ney." 

"  I'll  think  of  it,"  said  Sydney. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  Fellow  of  Delicacy. 

Mk.  Stryvek  having  made  up  his  mind  to  that  mag 
nanimous  bestowal  of  good  fortune  on  the  Doctor's  daugh- 
ter, resolved  to  make  her  happiness  known  to  her  before 
he  left  town  for  the  Long  Vacation.  After  some  mental 
debating  of  the  poin-t,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
would  be  as  well  to  get  all  the  preliminaries  done  with, 
and  they  could  then  arrange  at  their  leisure  whether  he 
should  give  her  his  hand  a  week  or  two  before  Michael- 
mas Term,  or  in  the  little  Christmas  vacation  between  it 
and  Hilary. 

As  to  the  strength  of  his  case,  he  had  not  a  doubt 
about  it,  but  clearly  saw  his  way  to  the  verdict.  Argued 
with  the  jury  on  substantial  worldly  grounds—  the  only 
grounds  ever  worth  taking  into  account — it  was  a  plain 
case,  and  had  not  a  weak  spot  in  it.  He  called  himself 
for  the  plaintiff,  there  was  no  getting  over  his  evidence, 
the  counsel  for  the  defendant  threw  up  his  brief,  and  the 
jury  did  not  even  turn  to  consider.  After  trying  it,  Stry- 
ver C.  J.  was  satisfied  that  no  plainer,  case  could  be. 

Accordingly,  Mr.  Stryver  inaugurated  the  Long  Vaca- 
tion with  a  formal  proposal  to  take  Miss  Manette  to  Vaus- 
hall  Gardens  ;  that  failing,  to  Eanelagh  ;  that  unaccount- 
ably failing  too,  it  behooved  him  to  present  himself  in 
Soho,  and  there  declare  his  noble  mind. 

Towards  Soho,  therefore,  Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his 
way  from  the  Temple,  while  the  bloom  of  the  Long  Va- 
cation's infancy  was  still  upon  it.  Anybody  who  liad 
seen  him  projecting  himself  into  Soho  while  he  was  yet 
on  Saint  Dunstan's  side  of  Temple  Bar,  bursting  in  his 
full-blown  way  along  the  pavement,  to  the  jostlement  of 
all  weaker  people,  might  have  seen  how  safe  and  strong 
he  was. 

His  way  taking  him  past  Tellson's,  and  he  both  bank- 
ing at  Tellson's  and  knowing  Mr.  Lorry  as  the  intimate 
friend  of  the  Manettes,  it  entered  Mr.  Stryver's  mind  to 
enter  the  bank,  and  reveal  to  Mr.  Lorry  the  brightness 
of  the  Soho  horizon.  So,  he  pushed  open  the  door  with 
the  weak  rattle  in  its  throat,  stumbled  down  the  two 
steps,  got  past  the  two  ancient  cashiers,  and  shouldered 
himself  into  the  musty  back  closet  where  Mr.  Lorry  sat 
at  great  books  ruled  for  figures,  with  perpendicular  iron 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


379 


bars  to  liis  window  as  if  that  were  ruled  for  figures  too, 
and  everything  under  the  clouds  were  a  sum. 

"  Halloa  !"  said  Mr.  Stryver.  "How  do  you  do?  I 
hope  you  are  well  ! " 

It  was  Stryver's  grand  peculiarity  that  he  always 
seemed  too  big  for  any  place,  or  space.  He  was  so  much 
too  big  for  Tellson's  that  old  clerks  in  distant  corners 
looked  up  with  looks  of  remonstrance,  as  though  he 
squeezed  them  against  the  wall.  The  House  itself, 
magnificently  reading  the  paper  quite  in  tlie  far-ofE  per- 
spective, lowered  displeased,  as  if  the  Stryver  liead  had 
been  butted  into  its  responsible  waistcoat. 

The  discreet  Mr.  Lorry  said,  in  a  sample  tone  of  tbe  voice 
lie  would  recommend  under  the  circumstances,  "How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Stryver?  How  do  you  do,  sir?"  and 
shook  hands.  There  was  a  peculiarity  in  his  manner  of 
shaking  hands,  always  to  be  seen  in  any  clerk  at  Tell- 
son's who  shook  hands  with  a  customer  when  the  House 
prevaded  the  air.  He  shook  in  a  self-abnegating  way,  as 
one  who  shook  for  Tellson  and  Co. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Mr.  Stryver  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Lorry,  in  his  business  character. 

"Why,  no  thank  you  ;  this  is  a  private  visit  to  your- 
self, Mr.  Lorry  ;  I  have  come  for  a  private  word." 

"  Oh  indeed  !  "  said  Mr.  Lorry,  bending  down  his  ear, 
while  his  eye  strayed  to  the  House  afar  off. 

"I  am  going,"  said  Mr.  Stryver,  leaning  his  arms 
confidentially  on  the  desk  :  whereupon,- although  it  was 
a  large  doable  one,  there  appeared  to  be  not  half  desk 
enough  for  him  :  "I  am  going  to  make  an  offer  of  my- 
self in  marriage  to  your  agreeable  little  friend  Miss  Ma- 
nette,  Mr.  Lorry." 

"  Oh  dear  me  ! "  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rubbing  his  chin,  and 
looking  at  his  visitor  dubiously. 

"Oh  dear  me,  sir?"  repeated  Stryver,  drawing  back. 
*'0h  dear  you,  sir?  What  may  your  meaning  be,  Mr. 
Lorry  ?" 

"  My  meaning  ?  "  answered  the  man  of  business,  "  is, 
of  course,  friendly  and  appreciative,  and  that  it  does  you 
the  greatest  credit,  and — in  short,  my  meaning  is  every- 
thing you  could  desire.  But — really,  you  know,  Mr. 
Stryver — "  Mr.  Lorry  paused,  and  shook  his  head  at 
him  in  the  oddest  manner,  as  if  he  were  compelled 
against  his  will  to  add,  internally,  "you  know  there 
really  is  so  much  too  much  of  you  \" 

"  Well  ! "  said  Stryver,  slapping  the  desk  with  his 
contentious  hand,  opening  his  eyes  wider,  and  taking 
along  breath,  "if  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Lorry,  I'll  be 
hanged !" 

Mr.  Lorry  adjusted  his  little  wig  at  both  ears  as  a 
means  towards  that  end,  and  bit  the  feather  of  a  pen. 

"D — n  it  all,  sir  !  "  said  Stryver,  staring  at  him,  "  am 
I  not  eligible?" 

"  Oh  dear  yes  !  Yes.  Oh  yes,  you're  eligible  !  "  said 
Mr.  Lorry.    "  If  you  say  eligible,  you  are  eligible." 

' '  Am  I  not  prosperous  ?  "  asked  Stryver. 

"  Oh  !  if  you  come  to  prosperous,  you  are  prosperous," 
said  Mr.  Lorry. 

"  And  advancing  ?  " 

"  If  you  come  to  advancing,  you  know,"  said  Mr. 
Lorry,  delighted  to  be  able  to  make  another  admission, 
"  nobody  can  doubt  that." 

"Then  what  on  earth  is  your  meaning,  Mr.  Lorry?" 
demanded  Stryver,  perceptibly  crestfallen. 

"  Well  !  I — Were  you  going  there  now  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Lorry. 

"  Straight  1 "  said  Stryver,  with  a  plump  of  his  fist  on 
the  desk. 

"  Then  I  think  I  wouldn't,  if  I  was  you." 

"  Why?  "  said  Stryver.  "  Now,  I'll  put  you  in  a  cor- 
ner," forensically  shaking  a  forefinger  at  him.  "You 
are  a  man  of  business  and  bound  to  have  a  reason. 
State  your  reason.    Why  wouldn't  you  go  ?  " 

"Because,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "I  wouldn't  go  on  such 
an  object  without  having  some  cause  to  believe  that  1 
should  succeed." 

"D— n  me! "cried  Stryver,  "but  this  beats  every- 
thing." 

Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and  glanced 
at  the  angry  Stryver. 

"  Here's  a  man  of  business — a  man  of  years — a  man  of 
experience— m  a  Bank,"  said  Stryver;  "and  having 


summed  up  three  leading  reasons  for  complete  success, 
he  says  there's  no  reason  at  all  !  Says  it  witli  his  head 
on  !  "  Mr.  Stryver  remarked  upon  the  peculiarity  as  if 
it  would  have  been  infinitely  less  remarkable  if  he  had 
said  it  with  his  head  off. 

"  When  I  speak  of  success,  I  speak  of  success  with  the 
young  lady  ;  and  when  I  speak  of  causes  and  reasons  to 
make  success  probable,  I  speak  of  causes  and  reasons 
that  will  tell  as  such  with  the  young  lady.  The  young 
lady,  my  good  sir,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  mildly  tapping  the 
Stryver  arm,  "the  young  lady.  The  young  lady  goes 
before  all." 

"Then  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Lorry,"  said  Stryver, 
squaring  his  elbows,  "  that  it  is  your  deliberate  opinion 
that  the  young  lady  at  present  in  question  is  a  mincing 
Fool  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  so.  I  mean  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Stryver," 
said  Mr.  Lorry,  reddening,  "  that  I  v/ill  hear  no  disre- 
spectful word  of  that  young  lady  from  any  lips  ;  and 
that  if  I  knew  any  man— which  I  hope  I  do  not — whose 
taste  was  so  coarse,  and  whose  temper  was  so  overbear- 
ing, that  he  could  not  restrain  himself  from  speaking 
disrespectfully  of  that  young  lady  at  this  desk,  not  even 
Tellson's  should  prevent  my  giving  him  a  piece  of  my 
mind." 

The  necessity  of  being  angry  in  a  suppressed  tone  had 
put  Mr.  Stryver's  blood-vessels  into  a  dangerous  state 
when  it  v/as  his  turn  to  be  angry ;  Mr.  Lorry's  veins, 
methodical  as  their  courses  could  usually  be,  were  in  no 
better  state  now  it  was  his  turn. 

"  That  is  what  I  mean  to  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Lorry. 
"  Pray  let  there  be  no  mistake  about  it. " 

Mr.  Stryver  sucked  the  end  of  a  ruler  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  stood  hitting  a  tune  out  of  his  teeth  with  it, 
which  probably  gave  him  the  toothache.  He  broke  the 
awkward  silence  by  saying  : 

"  This  is  something  new  to  me,  Mr.  Lorry.  You  delib- 
erately advise  me  not  to  go  up  to  Soho  and  offer  myself — 
myself,  Stryver  of  the  King's  Bench  bar  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ask  me  for  my  advice,  Mr.  Stryver?  " 

"Yes  I  do." 

"Very  good.  Then  I  give  it,  and  you  have  repeated 
it  correctly." 

!  "  And  all  I  can  say  of  it,  is,"  laughed  Stryver  with  a 
I  vexed  laugh,  "that  this  —  ha,  ha!  —  beats  everything 
i  past,  present,  and  to  come." 

"Now  understand  me,"  pursued  Mr.  Lorry.  "As  a 
man  of  business,  I  am  not  justified  in  saying  anything 
1  about  this  matter,  for,  as  a  man  of  business,  I  know 
nothing  of  it.  But,  as  an  old  fellow,  who  has  carried 
Miss  Manette  in  his  arms,  who  is  the  trusted  friend  of 
Miss  Manette  and  of  her  father  too,  and  who  has  a  great 
affection  for  them  both,  I  have  spoken.  The  confidence 
is  not  of  my  seeking,  recollect.  Now,  you  think  I  may 
not  be  right*?  " 

"Not  I!"  said  Stryver,  whistling.  "I  can't  under- 
take to  find  third  parties  in  common  sense  ;  I  can  only 
find  it  for  myself.  I  suppose  sense  in  certain  quarters  ; 
you  suppose  mincing  bread-and-butter  nonsense.  It's 
new  to  me,  but  you  are  right,  I  dare  say." 

"What  I  suppose,  Mr.  Stryver,  I  claim  to  characterise 
for  myself.  And  understand  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
quickly  flushing  again.  "I  will  not — not  even  at  Tell- 
son's— have  it  characterised  for  me  by  any  gentleman 
breathing." 

"  There  !  I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  said  Stryver. 
"Granted.    Thank  you.    Well,  Mr.  Stryver,  I  was 
about  to  say  : — it  might  be  painful  to  you  to  find  your- 
self mistaken,  it  might  be  painful  to  Doctor  Manette  to 
have  the  task  of  being  explicit  with  you,  it  might  be 
j  very  painful  to  Miss  Manette  to  have  the  task  of  being 
exp'licit  with  you.    You  know  the  terms  upon  which  I 
have  the  honour  and  happiness  to  stand  with  the  family. 
If  you  please,  committing  you  in  no  way,  representing 
you  in  no  way,  I  will  undertake  to  correct  my  advice  by 
the  exercise  of  a  little  new  observation  and  judgment 
!  expresssly  brought  to  bear  upon  it.    If  you  should  then 
I  be  dissatisfied  with  it,  you  can  but  test  its  soundness  for 
I  yourself  ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you  should  be  satisfied 
j  with  it,  and  it  should  be  what  it  now  is,  it  may  spare  aU 
I  sides  what  is  best  spared.    What  do  you  say  ?  " 
I     ' '  How  long  would  you  keep  me  in  town  ?  " 


380 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Oil  !  It  is  only  a  question  of  a  few  hours.  I  could 
go  to  Solio  in  tlie  evening,  and  come  to  your  chambers 
afterwards." 

"  Then  I  say  yes,"  said  Stryver  :  "I  won't  go  up  there 
now,  I  am  not  so  hot  upon  it  as  that  comes  to  ;  I  say  yes, 
and  I  shall  expect  you  to  look  in  to-night.  "  Good- 
morning." 

Then  Mr.  Stryver  turned  and  burst  out  of  the  Bank, 
causing  such  a  concussion  of  air  on  his  passage  through, 
that  to  stand  up  against  it  bowing  behind  the  two  count- 
ers, required  the  utmost  remaining  strength  of  the  two 
ancient  clerks.  Those  venerable  and  feeble  persons  were 
always  seen  by  the  public  in  the  act  of  bowing,  and  were 
popularly  believed,  when  they  had  bowed  a  customer 
out,  still  to  keep  on  bowing  in  the  empty  oflBce  until  they 
bowed  another  customer  in. 

The  barrister  was  keen  enough  to  divine  that  the 
banker  would  not  have  gone  so  far  in  his  expression  of 
opinion  on  any  less  solid  ground  than  moral  certainty. 
Unprepared  as  he  was  for  tlie  large  pill  he  had  to  swal- 
low, he  got  it  down.  "And  now,"  said  Mr.  Stryver, 
shaking  his  forensic  forefinger  at  the  Temple  in  general, 
when  it  was  down,  "my  way  out  of  this,  is,  to  put  you 
all  in  the  wrong." 

It  was  a  bit  of  the  art  of  an  Old  Bailey  tactician,  in 
which  he  found  great  relief.  "You  shall  not  put  me  in 
the  wrong,  young  lady,"  said  Mr,  Stryver  ;  "  I'll  do  that 
for  you." 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Lorry  called  that  night  as  late 
as  ten  o'clock,  Mr.  Stryver,  among  a  quantity  of  books 
and  papers  littered  out  for  the  purpose,  seemed  to  have 
nothing  less  on  his  mind  than  the  subject  of  the  morn- 
ing. He  even  showed  surprise  when  he  saw  Mr.  Lorry, 
and  was  altogether  in  an  absent  and  preoccupied  state. 

"Well!"  said  that  good-natured  emissary,  after  a 
full  half  hour  of  bootless  attempts  to  bring  him  round 
to  the  question,  "  I  have  been  to  Soho." 

"To  Soho?"  repeated  Mr.  Stryver,  coldly.  "  Oh,  to 
be  sure  !    What  am  I  thinking  of  !  " 

"  And  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  '"that  I  was 
right  in  the  conversation  we  had.  My  opinion  is  con- 
firmed, and  I  reiterate  my  advice." 

"  I  assure  you,"  returned  Mr.  Stryver,  in  the  friend- 
liest way,  "  that  I  am  sorry  for  it  on  your  account,  and 
sorry  for  it  on  the  poor  father's  account.  I  know  this 
must  always  be  a  sore  subject  with  the  family  ;  let  us 
say  no  more  about  it.  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

"  I  dare  not  say  not,"  rejoined  Stryver,  nodding  his 
head  in  a  smoothing  and  final  way;  "no  matter,  no 
no  matter." 

"  But  it  does  matter,"  Mr.  Lorry  urged. 

"  No  it  doesn't ;  I  assure  you  it  doesn't.  Having  sup- 
posed that  there  was  sense  where  there  is  no  sense,  and 
a  laudable  ambition  where  there  is  not  a  laudable  am- 
bition, I  am  well  out  of  my  mistake,  and  no  harm  is 
done.  Young  women  have  committed  similar  follies 
ofcen  before,  and  have  repented  them  in  poverty  and 
obscurity  often  before.  In  an  unselfish  aspect,  I  am 
sorry  that  the  thing  is  dropped,  because  it  would  have  been 
a  bad  thing  for  me  a  worldly  point  of  view  ;  in  a  selfish 
aspec.t,  I  am  glad  that  the  thing  has  dropped,  because 
it  would  have  been  a  bad  thing  for  me  in  a  worldly  point 
of  view — it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  I  could  have 
gained  nothing  by  it.  There  is  no  harm  at  all  done.  I 
have  not  proposed  to  the  young  lady,  and,  between  our- 
selves, I  am  by  no  means  certain,  on  reflection,  that  I 
ever  should  have  committed  myself  to  that  extent.  Mr. 
Lorry,  you  cannot  control  the  mincing  vanities  and 
giddinesses  of  empty-headed  girls  ;  you  must  not  expect 
to  do  it,  or  you  will  always  be  disappointed.  Now,  pray 
say  no  more  about  it.  I  tell  you,  I  regret  it  on  account 
of  others,  but  I  am  satisfiied  on  my  own  account.  And 
I  am  really  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  allowing  me 
to  sound  you,  and  for  giving  me  your  advice  :  you  know 
the  young  lady  better  than  I  do  ;  you  were  right,  it 
never  would  have  done." 

Mr.  Lorry  was  so  taken  aback,  that  he  looked  quite 
stupidily  at  Mr.  Stryver  shouldering  him  towards  the 
door,  with  an  appearance  of  showering  generosity,  for- 
bearance, and  good  will,  on  his  erring  head.  "Make 
the  best  of  it,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Stryver  ;  "say  no  more 


'  about  it ;  thank  you  again  for  allowing  me  to  sound 
1  you  ;  good  night  ! " 

Mr.  Lorry  was  out  in  the  night,  before  he  knew  where 
j  he  was.    Mr.  Stryver  was  lying  back  on  his  sofa,  wink- 
ing at  his  ceiling. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

TJie  Fellow  of  no  Delicacy. 

If  Sydney  Carton  ever  shone  anywhere,  he  certainly 
never  shone  in  the  house  of  Doctor  Manette.  He  had 
been  there  often,  during  a  whole  year,  and  had  always 
been  the  same  moody  and  morose  lounger  there.  When 
he  cared  to  talk,  he  talked  well  :  but,  the  cloud  of 
caring  for  nothing,  which  overshadowed  him  with  such 
a  fatal  darkness,  was  very  rarely  pierced  by  the  light 
i  within  him. 

I  And  yet  he  did  care  something  for  the  streets  that 
environed  that  house,  and  for  the  senseless  stones  that 
made  their  pavements.  Many  a  night  he  vaguely  and 
unhappily  wandered  there,  when  wine  had  brought  no 

^  transitory  gladness  to  him  ;  many  a  dreary  daybreak 

;  revealed  his  solitary  figure  lingering  there,  and  still  lin- 
gering there  when  the  first  beams  of  the  sun  brought 
into  strong  relief,  removed  beauties  of  architecture  in 
spires  of  churches  and  lofty  buildings,  as  perhaps  the 
quiet  time  brought  some  sense  of  better  things,  else 
forgotten  and  unattainable,  into  his  mind.  Of  late,  the 
neglected  bed  in  the  Temple  court  had  known  him  more 
scantily  than  ever  ;  and  often  when  he  had  thrown  him- 
self upon  it  no  longer  than  a  few  minutes,  he  had  got 

j  up  again,  and  haunted  that  neighborhood. 

I  On  a  day  in  August,  when  Mr.  Stryver  (after  notify- 
ing to  his  jackal  that  "  he  had  thought  better  of  that 
marrying  matter ")  had  carried  his  delicacy  into  De- 
vonshire, and  when  the  sight  and  scent  of  flowers  in  the 
City  streets  had  some  waifs  of  goodness  in  them  for  the 
worst,  of  health  for  the  sickliest,  and  of  youth  for  the 
oldest,  Sydney's  feet  still  trod  those  stones.  From  being 
irresolute  and  purposeless,  his  feet  became  animated  by 
an  intention,  and,  in  the  working  out  of  that  intention, 
they  took  him  to  the  Doctor's  door. 

He  was  shown  up-stairs,  and  found  Lucie  at  her  work, 
alone.  She  had  never  been  quite  at  her  ease  with  him, 
and  received  him  with  some  little  embarrassment  as  he 

!  seated  Limself  neai-  her  table.    But,  looking  up  at  his 

]  face  in  the  interchange  of  the  first  few  common-places, 
she  observed  a  change  in  it. 

"  I  fear  you  are  not  well,  Mr.  Carton  ! " 
"  No.    But  the  life  I  lead,  Miss  Manette,  is  not  con- 
ducive to  health.    What  is  to  be  expected  of,  or  by, 
such  profligates  ?  " 

"  Is  it  not — forgive  me  ;  I  have  begun  the  question 
on  my  lips — a  pity  to  live  no  better  life  ?  " 
"  God  knows  it  is  a  shame  !  " 
"  Then  why  not  change  it  ?" 

Looking  gently  at  him  again,  she  was  surprised  and 
saddened  to  see  that  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  There 
were  tears  in  his  voice  too,  as  he  answered  : 

"  It  is  too  late  for  that.  I  shall  never  be  better  than  I 
am.    I  shall  sink  lower,  and  be  worse." 

He  leaned  an  elbow  on  her  table,  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand.  The  table  trembled  in  the  silence  that 
followed. 

She  had  never  seen  him  softened,  and  was  much  dis- 
tressed. He  knew  her  to  be  so,  without  looking  at  her, 
and  said  : 

"Pray  forgive  me.  Miss  Manette.  I  break  down  be- 
fore the  knowledge  of  what  I  want  to  say  to  you.  Will 
you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  If  it  will  do  you  any  good.  Mr.  Carton,  if  it  would 
make  you  any  happier,  it  would  make  me  very  glad  !" 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  sweet  compassion  !  " 

He  unshaded  his  face  after  a  little  while,  and  spoke 
steadily. 

"Dont  be  afraid  to  hear  me.  Don't  shrink  from  any- 
thing I  say.  I  am  like  one  who  died  young.  All  my 
life  might  have  been." 

"  No,  Mr.  Carton.  I  am  sure  that  the  best  part  of  it 
might  still  be  ;  I  am  sure  that  you  might  be  much, 
much,  worthier  of  yourself." 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


381 


**  Say  of  you,  Miss  Manette,  and  altlioagh  I  know 
Ijetter — although  in  the  mystery  of  my  own  wretched 
heart  I  know  better — I  shall  never  forget  it  !  " 

She  was  pale  and  trembling.  He  came  to  her  relief 
-with  a  fixed  despair  of  himself  which  made  the  interview 
unlike  any  other  that  could  have  been  holden. 

"  If  it  had  been  possible,  Miss  Manette,  that  you  could 
Tiave  returned  the  love  of  the  man  you  see  before  you — 
self -flung  away,  wasted,  drunken,  poor  creature  of 
misuse  as  you  know  him  to  be — he  would  have  been 
conscious  this  day  and  hour,  in  spite  of  his  happiness, 
that  he  would  bring  you  to  miseryj'-bring  you  to  sorrow 
and  repentance,  blight  you,  disgrace  you,  pull  you 
down  with  him.  I  know  very  well  that  you  can  have  no 
tenderness  for  me  ;  I  ask  for  none  ;  I  am  even  thankful 
that  it  cannot  be." 

"  Without  it,  can  I  not  save  you,  Mr.  Carton  ?  Can  I 
not  recal  you — forgive  me  again  ! — to  a  better  course  ! 
Can  I  in  no  way  repay  your  confidence  ?  I  know  this  is 
a  confidence,"  she  modestly  said,  after  a  little  hesita- 
tion, and  in  earnest  tears,  "  I  know  you  would  say  this 
to  no  one  else.  Can  I  turn  it  to  no  good  account  for 
yourself,  Mr.  Carton  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  To  none.  No,  Miss  Manette,  to  none.  If  you  will 
hear  me  through  a  very  little  more,  all  you  can  ever  do 
for  me  is  done.  I  wish  3^ou  to  know  that  you  have  been 
the  last  dream  of  my  soul.  In  my  degradation,  I  have 
not  been  so  degraded  but  that  the  sight  of  you  with  your 
father,  and  of  this  home  made  such  a  home  by  you,  has 
stirred  old  shadows  that  I  had  thought  had  died  out  of 
me.  Since  I  knew  you,  I  have  been  troubled  by  a  remorse 
that  I  thought  would  never  reproach  me  again,  and  have 
heard  whispers  from  old  voices  impelling  me  upward, 
that  I  thought  were  silent  for  ever.  I  have  had  un- 
formed ideas  of  striving  afresh,  beginning  anew,  shaking 
off  sloth  and  sensuality,  and  fighting  out  the  abandoned 
fight.  A  dream,  all  a  dream,  that  ends  in  nothing, 
and  leaves  the  sleeper  where  he  lay  down,  but  I  wish 
you  to  know  that  you  inspired  it." 

"  Will  nothing  of  it  remain  ?  O  Mr.  Carton,  think 
again  !    Try  again  ! " 

"  No,  Miss  Manette  ;  all  through  it,  I  have  known 
myself  to  be  quite  undeserving.  And  yet  I  have  had  the 
weakness,  and  have  still  the  weakness,  to  wish  you  to 
know  with  what  a  sudden  mastery  you  kindled  me,  heap 
'  of  ashes  that  I  am,  into  fire — a  fire,  however,  inseparable 
in  its  nature  from  myself,  quickening  nothing,  light- 
ing nothing,  doing  no  service,  idly  burning  away." 

"  Since  it  is  my  misfortune,  Mr.  Carton,  to  have  made 
you  more  unhappy  than  you  were  before  you  knew 
me—" 

"  Don't  say  that,  Miss  Manette,  for  you  would  have 
reclaimed  me,  if  anything  could.  You  will  not  be  the 
cause  of  my  becoming  worse." 

"  Since  the  state  of  your  mind  that  you  describe  is,  at 
all  events,  attributable  to  some  influence  of  mine — this  is 
what  I  mean,  if  I  can  make  it  plain — can  I  use  no  in- 
fluence to  serve  you  ?  Have  I  no  power  for  good,  with 
you,  at  all  ? " 

"  The  utmost  good  that  I  am  capable  of  now.  Miss 
Manette,  I  have  come  here^  to  realise.  Let  me  carry 
through  the  rest  of  my  misdirected  life,  the  remem- 
brance that  I  opened  my  heart  to  you,  last  of  all  the 
world  ;  and  that  there  was  something  left  in  me  at  this 
time  which  you  could  deplore  and  pity." 

"  Which  I  entreated  you  to  believe,  again  and  again, 
most  fervently,  with  all  my  heart,  was  capable  of  better 
things,  Mr.  Carton  !  " 

"  Entreat  me  to  believe  it  no  more,  Miss  Manette.  I 
have  proved  myself,  and  I  know  better.  I  distress  you  ; 
I  draw  fast  to  an  end.  Will  you  let  me  believe,  when  I 
recal  this  day,  that  the  last  confidence  of  my  life  was 
reposed  in  your  pure  and  innocent  breast,  and  that  it 
i  lies  there  alone,  and  will  be  shared  by  no  one  ?  " 
i     "If  that  will  be  a  consolation  to  you,  yes." 

"  Not  even  by  the  dearest  one  ever  to  be  known  to 
you?" 

'  "  Mr.  Carton,"  she  answered,  after  an  agitated  pause, 
"  the  secret  is  yours,  not  mine  ;  and  I  promise  to  re- 
spect it." 

"  Thank  you.    And  again,  God  bless  you." 


He  put  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  moved  towards  the 
door. 

"  Be  under  no  apprehension,  Miss  Manette,  of  my  ever 
resuming  this  conversation  by  so  much  as  a  passing 
word.  I  will  never  refer  to  it  again.  If  I  were  dead, 
that  could  not  be  surer  than  it  is  henceforth.  In  the 
hour  of  my  death,  I  shall  hold  sacred  the  one  good  re- 
membrance—and shall  thank  and  bless  you  for  it — that 
my  last  avowal  of  myself  was  made  to  you,  and  that  my 
name,  and  faults,  and  miseries,  were  gently  carried  in 
your  heart.    May  it  otherwise  be  light  and  happy  ! " 

He  was  so  unlike  what  he  had  ever  shown  himself  to 
be,  and  it  was  so  sad  to  think  how  much  he  had  thrown 
away,  and  how  much  he  every  day  kept  down  and  per- 
verted, that  Lucie  Manette  wept  mournfully  for  him  as 
he  stood  looking  back  at  her. 

"Be  comforted!"  he  said,  "I  am  not  worth  such 
feeling.  Miss  Manette.  An  hour  or  two  hence,  and  any 
low  companions  and  low  habits  that  I  scorn  but  yield  to, 
will  render  me  less  worth  such  tears  as  those,  than  any 
wretch  who  creeps  along  the  streets.  Be  comforted  ! 
But,  within  myself,  I  shall  always  be  towards  you,  what 
I  am  now,  though  outwardly  I  shall  be  what  you  have 
heretofore  seen  me.  The  last  supplication  but  one  I 
make  to  you,  is,  that  you  will  believe  this  of  me." 

"I  will,  Mr.  Carton." 

"  My  last  supplication  of  all,  is  this  ;  and  with  it,  I 
will  relieve  you  of  a  visitor  with  whom  I  well  know  you 
have  nothing  in  unison,  and  between  whom  and  you 
there  is  an  impassable  space.  It  is  useless  to  say  it,  I 
know,  but  it  rises  oat  of  my  soul.  For  you,  and  for  any 
dear  to  you,  I  would  do  anything.  If  my  career  were  of 
that  better  kind  that  there  was  any  opportunity  or 
capacity  of  sacrifice  in  it,  I  would  embrace  any  sacrifice 
for  you  and  for  those  dear  to  you.  Try  to  hold  me  in 
your  mind,  at  some  quiet  times,  as  ardent  and  sincere  in 
this  one  thing.  The  time  will  come,  the  time  will  not 
be  long  in  coming,  when  new  ties  will  be  formed  about 
you — ties  that  will  bind  you  yet  more  tenderly  and 
strongly  to  the  home  you  so  adorn — the  dearest  ties  that 
will  ever  grace  and  gladden  you.  O  Miss  Manette,  when 
the  little  picture  of  a  happy  father's  face  looks  up  in 
yours,  when  you  see  your  own  bright  beauty  springing 
up  anew  at  your  feet,  think  now  and  then  that  there  is 
a  man  who  would  give  his  life,  to  keep  a  life  you  love 
beside  you  !  " 

He  said  "  Farewell !  "  said  "  A  last  God  bless  you  '  " 
and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  Honest  Tradesman. 

To  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Jeremiah  Cruncher,  sitting  on  his 
stool  in  Fleet-street  with  his  grisly  urchin  beside  him,  a 
vast  number  and  variety  of  objects  in  movement  were 
every  day  presented.  Who  could  sit  upon  anything  in 
Fleet-street  during  the  busy  hours  of  the  day,  and  not 
be  dazed  and  deafened  by  two  immense  processions,  one 
ever  tending  westward  with  the  sun,  the  other  ever  tend- 
ing eastward  from  the  sun,  both  ever  tending  to  the 
plains  beyond  the  range  of  red  and  purple  where  the  sui? 
goes  down  ! 

With  his  straw  in  his  mouth,  Mr.  Cruncher  sat  watch- 
ing the  two  streams,  like  the  heathen  rustic  who  has 
for  several  centuries  been  on  duty  watching  one  stream 
— saving  that  Jerry  had  no  expectation  of  their  ever  run- 
ning dry.  Nor  would  it  have  been  an  expectation  of  a 
hopeful  kind,  since  a  small  part  of  his  income  was  de- 
rived from  the  pilotage  of  timid  women  (mostly  of  a  full 
habit  and  past  the  middle  term  of  life)  from  Tellson's 
side  of  the  tides  to  the  opposite  shore.  Brief  as  such 
companionship  was  in  every  separate  instance,  Mr. 
Cruncher  never  failed  to  become  so  interested  in  the 
lady  as  to  express  a  strong  desire  to  have  the  honour  of 
drinking  her  very  good  health.  And  it  was  from  the 
gifts  bestowed  upon  him  towards  the  execution  of  this 
benevolent  purpose,  that  he  recruited  his  finances,  as 
just  now  observed. 

Time  was,  when  a  poet  sat  upon  a  stool  in  a  public 
place,  and  mused  in  the  sight  of  men.    Mr.  Cruncher, 


382 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


sitting  on  a  stool  in  a  public  place,  but  not  being  a  poet, 
mu  jed  as  little  as  possible,  and  looked  about  liim. 

It  fell  out  tbat  he  was  thus  engaged  in  a  season  wben 
crowds  were  few,  and  belated  women  few,  and  when  his 
affairs  in  general  were  so  unprosperous  as  to  awaken  a 
strong  suspicion  in  his  breast  that  Mrs.  Cruncher  must 
have  been  "  flopping"  in  some  pointed  manner,  when  an 
unusual  concourse  pouring  down  Fleet-street  westward, 
attracted  his  attention.  Looking  that  way,  Mr.  Cruncher 
made  out  that  some  kind  of  funeral  was  coming  along, 
and  that  there  was  popular  objection  to  this  funeral, 
which  engendered  uproar. 

"  Young  Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  turning  to  his  off- 
spring, "it's  a  buryin'." 

Hooroar,  father  !  "  cried  young  Jerry. 

The  young  gentleman  uttered  this  exultant  sound 
with  mysterious  significance.  The  elder  gentleman  took 
the  cry  so  ill,  that  he  watched  his  opportunity,  and 
smote  the  young  gentleman  on  the  ear. 

"What  d'ye  mean?  What  are  you  hooroaring  at? 
What  do  you  want  to  conwey  to  your  own  father,  you 
young  Rip  ?  This  boy  is  getting  too  many  for  me  I  " 
said  Mr.  Cruncher,  surveying  him.  "Him  and  his 
hooroars  !  Don't  let  me  hear  no  more  of  you,  or  you 
shall  feel  some  more  of  me.    D'ye  hear?" 

"  I  warn't  doing  no  harm,"  Young  Jerry  protested, 
rubbing  his  cheek. 

"Drop  it  then,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher  ;  "I  won't  have 
none  of  your  no  harms.  Get  a  top  of  that  there  seat, 
and  look  at  the  crowd." 

His  son  obeyed,  and  the  crowd  approached  ;  they  were 
bawling  and  hissing  round  a  dingy  hearse  and  dingy 
mourning  coach,  in  which  mourning  coach  there  was 
only  one  mourner,  dressed  in  the  dingy  trappings  that 
were  considered  essential  to  the  dignity  of  the  position. 
The  position  appeared  by  no  means  to  please  him,  how- 
ever, with  an  increasing  rabble  surrounding  the  coach, 
deriding  him,  making  grimaces  at  him,  and  incessantly 
groaning  and  calling  out  :  "Yah  !  Spies  !  Tst  !  Yaha  ! 
Spies  !  "  with  many  compliments  too  numerous  and  for- 
cible to  repeat. 

Funerals  had  at  all  times  a  remarkable  attraction  for 
Mr,  Cruncher  ;  he  always  pricked  up  his  senses,  and  be- 
came excited,  when  a  funeral  passed  Tellson's.  Natu- 
rally, therefore,  a  funeral  with  this  uncommon  attendance 
excited  him  greatly,  and  he  asked  of  the  first  man  w^ho 
ran  against  him  : 

"  What  is  it,  brother  ?    What's  it  about  ?  " 

"1  don't  know,"  said  the  man.  "Spies!  Yaha! 
Tst  !    Spies  !  " 

He  asked  another  man.    ".Who  is  it?" 

"/  don't  know,"  returned  the  man  :  clapping  his 
hands  to  his  mouth  nevertheless,  and  vociferating  in  a 
surprising  heat  and  with  the  greatest  ardour,  "Spies! 
Yaha  I    Tst,  tst !    Spi-ies  !" 

At  length,  a  person  better  informed  on  the  merits  of 
the  case,  tumbled  against  him,  and  from  this  person  he 
learned  that  the  funeral  was  the  funeral  of  one  Roarer 
Cly. 

"  Was  He  a  spy  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Cruncher, 

"  Old  Bailey  spy,"  returned  his  informant.  "Yaha  ! 
Tst!    Yah!    Old  Bailey  Spi-i-ies  ! " 

"Why,  to  be  sure  !"  exclaimed  Jerry,  recalling  the 
Trial  at  which  he  had  assisted.  "  Fve  seen  him.  Dead, 
is  he  ? " 

"  Dead  as  mutton,"  returned  the  other,  "and  can't  be 
too  dead.  Have  'em  out,  there  !  Spies  !  Pull  'em  out 
there  !    Spies  !  " 

The  idea  was  so  acceptable  in  the  prevalent  absence 
of  any  idea,  that  the  crowd  caught  it  up  with  eagerness, 
and  loudly  repeating  the  suggestion  to  have  'em  out, 
and  to  pull  'em  out,  mobbed  the  two  vehicles  so  closely 
that  they  came  to  a  stop.  On  the  crowds  opening  the 
coach  doors,  the  one  mourner  scuffled  out  of  himself  and 
was  in  their  hands  for  a  moment ;  but  he  was  so  alert, 
and  made  such  good  use  of  his  time,  that  in  in  another 
moment  he  was  scouring  away  up  a  by-street,  after 
shedding  his  cloak,  hat,  long  liatl)and,  white  pocket- 
handkerchief,  and  other  symbolical  tears. 

These,  the  people  tore  to  pieces,  and  scattered  far  and  j 
wide  with  great  enjoyment,  while  the  tradesmen  hurriedly  , 
shut  up  their  shops ;  for  a  crowd  in  those  times  stopped  ! 


at  nothing,  and  was  a  monster  much  dreaded.  They 
had  already  got  the  length  of  opening  the  hearse  to  take 
the  coffin  out,  when  some  brighter  genius  proposed  in- 
stead, its  being  escorted  to  its  destination  amidst  general 
rejoicing.  Practical  suggestions  being  much  needed, 
this  suggestion,  too,  was  received  with  acclamation,  and 
the  coach  was  immediately  filled  with  eight  inside  and  a 
dozen  out,  while  as  many  people  got  on  the  roof  of  the 
hearse  as  could  by  any  exercise  of  ingenuity  stick  upon 
it.  Among  the  first  of  these  volunteers  was  Jerry 
Cruncher  himself,  who  modestly  concealed  his  spiky 
head  from  the  obsei^^ation  of  Tellson's,  in  the  further 
corner  of  the  mourning  coach. 

The  officiating  vindertakers  made  some  protest  against 
these  changes  in  the  ceremonies  ;  but,  the  river  being 
alarmingly  near,  and  several  voices  remarking  on  the 
eflncacy  of  cold  immersion  in  bringing  refractory  mem- 
bers of  the  profession  to  reason,  the  protest  was  faint 
and  brief.  The  remodelled  procession  started,  with  a 
chimney-sweep  driving  the  hearse — advised  by  the  reg- 
ular driver,  who  was  perched  beside  him,  under  close 
inspection,  for  the  purpose — and  with  a  pieman,  also  at- 
tended by  his  cabinet  minister,  driving  the  mourning 
coach.  A  bear-leader,  a  popular  street  character  of  the 
time,  was  impressed  as  an  additional  ornament,  before 
the  cavalcade  had  gone  far  down  the  Strand  ;  and  his 
bear,  who  was  black  and  very  mangy,  gave  quite  an 
Undertaking  air  to  that  part  of  the  procession  in  which 
he  walked. 

Thns,  with  beer-drinking,  pipe-smoking,  song-roaring, 
and  infinite  caricaturing  of  woe,  the  disorderly  proces- 
sion went  its  way,  recruiting  at  every  step,  and  all  the 
shops  shutting  up  before  it.  Its  destination  was  the  old 
church  of  Saint  Pancras,  far  off  in  the  fields.  It  got 
there  in  the  course  of  time  ;  insisted  on  pouring  into  the 
burial-ground  ;  finally  accomplished  the  interment  of 
the  deceased  Roger  Cly  in  its  own  way,  and  highly  to  its 
own  satisfaction. 

The  dead  man  disposed  of,  and  the  crowd  being  under 
the  necessity  of  providing  some  other  entertainment  for 
itself,  another  brighter  genius  (or  perhaps  the  same)  con- 
ceived the  humour  of  impeaching  casual  passers-by,  as 
Old  Bailey  spies,  and  wreaking  vengeance  on  them. 
Chase  was  given  to  some  scores  of  inoffensive  persons 
who  had  never  been  near  the  Old  Bailey  in  their  lives, 
in  the  realisation  of  this  fancy,  and  they  were  roughly 
hustled  and  maltreated.  The  transition  to  the  sport  of 
window-breaking,  and  thence  to  the  plundering  of  pub- 
lic-houses, was  easy  and  natural.  At  last,  after  several 
hours,  when  sundry  summer-houses  had  been  pulled 
down,  and  some  area  railings  had  been  torn  up,  to  arm 
the  more  belligerent  spirits,  a  rumour  got  about  that  the 
Guards  were  coming.  Before  this  rumour,  the  crowd 
gradually  melted  away,  and  perhaps  the  Guards  came, 
and  perhaps  they  never  came,  and  this  w^as  the  usual 
progress  of  a  mob. 

Mr.  Cruncher  did  not  assist  at  the  closing  sports,  but 
had  remained  behind  in  the  churchyard  to  confer  and 
condole  with  the  undertakers.  The  place  had  a  soothing 
influence  on  him.  He  procured  a  pipe  from  a  neigh- 
bouring public-house,  and  smoked  it,  looking  in  at  the 
railings  and  maturely  considering  the  spot. 

"Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  apostrophising  himself  in 
his  usual  way,  "you  see  that  there  Cly  that  day,  and 
you  see  with  your  own  eyes  that  he  was  a  young 'un  and 
a  straight  made  'un." 

Having  smoked  his  pipe  out,  and  ruminated  a  little 
longer,  he  turned  himself  about,  that  he  might  appear 
before  the  hour  of  closing,  on  his  station  at  Tellson's, 
Whether  his  meditations  on  morality  had  touched  his 
liver,  or  whether  his  general  health  iiad  been  previously 
at  all  amiss,  or  whether  he  desired  to  show  a  little  at- 
tention to  an  eminent  man,  is  not  so  much  to  the  pur- 
pose, as  that  he  made  a  short  call  upon  his  medical  ad- 
viser— a  distinguished  surgeon — on  his  way  back. 

Young  Jerry  relieved  his  father  with  dutiful  interest, 
and  reported  No  job  in  his  absence.  The  bank  closed, 
the  ancient  clerks  came  out,  the  usual  watch  was  set, 
and  Mr.  Cruncher  and  his  son  went  home  to  tea. 

"  Now,  I  tell  you  where  it  is  ! "  said  Mr.  Cruncher  to 
his  wife,  on  entering.  "  If.  as  a  honest  tradesman,  my 
wenturs  goes  wrong  to-night,  I  shall  make  sure  that 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


383 


you've  been  praying  again  me,  and  I  shall  work  you  for 
it  just  the  same  as  if  1  seen  you  do  it." 

The  dejected  Mrs.  Cruncher  shook  her  head. 

"  Why,  you're  at  it  afore  my  face  !  "  said  Mr.  Crunch- 
er, with  signs  of  angry  apprehension. 

"  I  am  saying  nothing." 

"  Well,  then  ;  don't  meditate  nothing.  You  might  as 
well  flop  as  meditate.  You  may  as  well  go  again  me 
one  way  as  another.    Drop  it  altogether. " 

"  Yes,  Jerry." 

"Yes,  Jerry,"  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher,  sitting  down  to 
tea.  "Ah!  It  is  yes,  Jerry.  That's  about  it.  You 
may  say  yes,  Jerry." 

Mr.  Cruncher  had  no  particular  meaning  in  these 
sulky  corroborations,  but  made  use  of  them,  as  people 
not  unfrequently  do,  to  express  general  ironical  dissatis- 
faction. 

"  You  and  your  yes,  Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  taking 
a  bite  out  of  his  bread-and-butter,  and  seeming  to  help 
it  down  with  a  large  invisible  oyster  out  of  his  saucer. 
*' Ah  !  I  think  so.    I  believe  you." 

"  You  are  going  out  to-night?"  asked  his  decent  wife, 
when  he  took  another  bite. 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"May  I  go  with  you,  father?"  asked  his  son  briskly. 

"  No,  you  mayn't.  I'm  a  going — as  your  mother 
knows— a  fishing.  That's  where  I'm  going  to.  Going 
a  fishing." 

' '  Your  fishing-rod  gets  ray  ther  rusty  ;  don't  it,  father  ?  " 
"  Never  you  mind. " 

"Shall  you  bring  any  fish  home,  father?" 

"If  I  don't,  you'll  have  short  commons  to-morrow," 
returned  that  gentleman,  shaking  his  head ;  "  that's 
questions  enough  for  you  ;  I  ain't  a  going  out,  till  you've 
been  long  a-bed." 

He  devoted  himself  during  the  remainder  of  the  even- 
ing to  keeping  a  most  vigilant  watch  on  Mrs.  Cruncher, 
and  sullenly  holding  her  in  conversation  that  she  might 
be  prevented  from  meditating  any  petitions  to  his  dis- 
advantage. With  this  view,  he  urged  his  son  to  hold 
her  in  conversation  also,  and  led  the  unfortunate  woman 
a  hard  life  by  dwelling  on  any  causes  of  complaint  he 
could  bring  against  her,  rather  than  he  would  leave  her 
for  a  moment  to  her  own  reflections.  The  devoutest 
person  could  have  rendered  no  greater  homage  to  the 
efficacy  of  an  honest  prayer  than  he  did  in  this  distrust 
of  his  wife.  It  was  as  if  a  professed  unbeliever  in 
ghosts  should  be  frightened  by  a  giiost  story. 

"And  mind  you!"  said  Mr.  Cruncher.  "No  games 
to-morrow!  If  I,  as  a  honest  tradesman,  succeed  in 
p.'oviding  a  jinte  of  meat  or  two,  none  of  your  not  touch- 
ing of  it,  and  sticking  to  bread.  If  I,  as  a  honest 
tradesDian,  am  able  to  provide  a  little  beer,  none  of  your 
declaring  on  water.  When  you  go  to  Rome,  do  as  Rome 
•does.  Rome  will  be  a  ugly  customer  to  you,  if  you 
don't.    I'm  your  Rome,  you  know." 

Then  he  began  grumbling  again  : 

"  With  your  flying  into  the  face  of  your  own  wittles 
and  drink  !  I  don't  know  how  scarce  you  mayn't  make 
tlie  wittles  and  drink  here,  by  your  flopping  tricks  and 
your  unfeeling  conduct.  Look  at  your  boy  ;  he^s  your'n, 
ain't  he  ?  He's  as  thin  as  a  lath.  Do  you  call  yourself 
a  mother,  and  not  know  that  a  mother's  first  duty  is  to 
blow  her  boy  out?  " 

This  touched  young  Jerry  on  a  tender  place  ;  who  ad- 
jured his  mother  to  perform  her  first  duty,  and,  what 
ever  else  she  did  or  neglected,  above  all  tlnngs  to  lay 
especial  stress  on  the  discharge  of  that  maternal  function 
so  affectingly  and  delicately  indicated  by  his  other  parent. 

Thus  the  evening  wore  away  with  the  Cruncher  fam- 
ily, until  Young  .Jerry  was  ordered  to  bed,  and  his 
mother,  laid  under  similar  injunctions,  obeyed  them. 
Mr.  Cruncher  beguiled  the  earlier  watches  of  the  night 
with  solitary  pipes,  and  did  not  start  upon  his  excursion  | 
until  nearly  one  o'clock.  Towards  that  small  and  ghostly 
hour,  he  rose  up  from  his  chaiT*,  took  a  key  out  of  his  • 
pr)cket,  opened  a  locked  cupboard,  and  brought  forth  a 
Kack,  a  crowbar  of  convenient  size,  a  rope  and  chain,  and 
other  fishing-tackle  of  that  nature.  Disposing  these 
articles  about  him  in  skilful  manner,  he  bestowed  a 
parting  defiance  on  Mrs.  Cruncher,  extinguished  the 
light,  and  went  out. 


Young  Jerry,  \vho  had  only  made  a  feint  of  undress- 
ing when  he  went  to  bed,  was  not  long  after  his  father. 
Under  cover  of  the  darkness  he  followed  out  of  the 
room,  followed  down  the  stairs,  followed  down  the  court, 
followed  out  into  the  streets.  He  was  in  no  uneasiness 
concerninc:  his  getting  into  the  house  again,  for  it  was 
full  of  lodgers,  and  the  door  stood  ajar  all  night. 

Impelled  by  a  laudable  ambition  to  study  the  art  and 
mystery  of  his  father's  honest  calling.  Young  Jerry,  keep- 
ing as  close  to  house- fronts,  walls,  and  doorways,  as  his 
eyes  were  close  to  one  another,  held  his  honoured  parent 
in  view.  The  honoured  parent  steering  Northward,  had 
not  gone  far,  when  he  was  joined  by  another  disciple  of 
Izaak  Walton,  and  the  two  trudged  on  together. 

Within  half  an  hour  from  the  first  starting,  they  were 
beyond  the  winking  lamps,  and  the  more  than  winking 
Avatchmen,  and  were  out  upon  a  lonely  road.  Another 
fisherman  was  picked  up  here — and  that  so  silently, 
that  if  Young  Jerry  had  been  superstitious,  he  might 
have  supposed  the  second  follower  of  the  gentle  craft 
to  have,  all  of  a  sudden,  split  himself  into  two. 

The  three  went  on,  and  Young  Jerry  went  on,  until 
the  three  stopped  under  a  bank  overhanging  the  road. 
Upon  the  top  of  the  bank  was  a  low  brick  wall  sur- 
mounted by  an  iron  railing.  In  the  shadow  of  bank  and 
wall,  the  three  turned  out  of  the  road,  and  up  a  blind 
lane,  of  which  the  wall — there,  risen  to  some  eight  or 
ten  feet  high — formed  one  side.  Crouching  down  in  a 
corner,  peeping  up  the  lane,  the  next  object  that  Young 
Jerry  saw,  was  the  form  of  his  honoured  parent,  pretty 
well  defined  against  a  watery  and  clouded  moon,  nimbly 
scaling  an  iron  gate.  He  was  soon  over,  and  then  the 
second  fisherman  got  over,  and  then  the  third.  They  all 
dropped  softly  on  the  ground  within  the  gate,  and  lay 
there  a  little— listening  perhaps.  Then,  they  moved 
away  on  their  hands  and  knees. 

It  was  now  Young  Jerry's  turn  to  approach  the  gate  : 
which  he  did,  holding  his  breath.  Crouching  down 
again  in  a  corner  there,  and  looking  in,  he  made  out  the 
three  fishermen  creeping  through  some  rank  grass  ;  and 
all  the  gravestones  in  the  churchyard — it  was  a  large 
churchyard  that  they  were  in — looking  on  like  ghosts  in 
white,  while  the  church  tower  itself  looked  on  like  the 
gho5^t  of  a  monstrous  giant.  They  did  not  creep  far,  be- 
fore they  stopped  and  stood  upright.  And  then  they 
began  to  fish. 

They  fished  with  a  spade,  at  first.  Presently  the  hon- 
oured parent  appeared  to  be  adjusting  some  instrument 
like  a  great  corkscrew.  Whatever  tools  they  worked 
with,  they  worked  hard,  until  the  awful  striking  of  the 
church  clock  so  terrified  Young  Jerry,  that  he  made  off, 
with  his  hair  as  stiff  as  his  father's. 

But,  his  long-cherished  desire  to  know  more  about 
these  matters,  not  only  stopped  him  in  his  running 
away,  but  lured  him  back  again.  They  were  still  fish- 
ing perseveringly,  when  he  peeped  in  at  the  gate  for 
the  second  time  ;  but,  now  they  seemed  to  have  got  a 
bite.  There  was  a  screwing  and  complaining  sound  down 
below,  and  their  bent  figures  were  strained,  as  if  by  a 
weight.  By  slow  degrees  the  weight  broke  away  the 
earth  upon  it,  and  came  to  the  surface.  Young  Jerry 
very  well  knew  what  it  would  be  ;  but,  when  he  saw  it, 
and  saw  his  honoured  parent  about  to  wrench  it  open, 
he  Avas  so  frightened,  being  new  to  the  sight,  that  he 
made  off  again,  and  never  stopped  until  had  run  a  mile 
or  more. 

He  would  not  have  stopped  then,  for  anything  less 
necessary  than  breath,  it  being  a  spectral  sort  of  race 
that  he  ran,  and  one  highly  desirable  to  get  to  the  end 
of.  He  had  a  strong  idea  that  the  coflin  he  had  seen 
was  running  after  him  ;  and,  pictured  as  hopping  on 
behind  him,  bolt  upright  upon  its  narrow  end,  alwavs 
on  the  point  of  overtaking  him  and  hopping  on  at  his 
side— perhaps  taking  his  arm— it  was  a  pursuer  to  shun. 
It  was  an  inconsistent  and  ubiquitous  fiend  too.  for, 
I  while  it  was  making  the  whole  night  behind  him  dread- 
ful, he  darted  out  into  the  roadway  to  avoid  dark  alleys, 
fearful  of  its  coming  hopping  out  of  them  like  a  drop- 
sical boy's  Kite  without  tail  and  wings.  It  hid  in 
doorwavs  too,  rubbing  its  horrible  shoulders  against 
I  doors,  'and  drav.ing  them  up  to  its  ears,  a>  if  it  were 
1  laughing.    It  got  into  shadows  on  the  road,  and  lay 


384 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


cumiingly  upon  its  back  to  trip  him  up.  All  this  time, 
it  was  incessantly  hopping  on  behind  him  and  gaining 
on  him,  so  that  when  the  boy  got  to  his  own  door  he 
had  reason  for  being  half  dead.  And  even  then  it 
■would  not  leave  him,  but  followed  him  up-stairs  with 
a  bump  on  every  stair,  scrambled  into  bed  with  him, 
and  bumped  down,  dead  and  hea  vy,  on  his  breast  when 
he  fell  asleep. 

From  his  oppressed  slumber,  Young  Jerry  in  his 
closet  was  awakened  after  daybreak  and  before  sun- 
sunrise,  by  the  presence  of  his  father  in  the  family 
room.  Something  had  gone  wrong  with  him  ;  at  least, 
so  Young  Jerry  inferred,  from  the  circumstance  of  his 
holding  Mrs.  Cruncher  by  the  ears,  and  knocking  the 
back  of  head  against  the  head-board  of  the  bed. 

"  I  told  you  I  would,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  "  and  I  did." 

"Jerry,  Jerry,  Jerry  ! "  his  wife  implored. 

"You  oppose  yourself  to  the  profit  of  the  business," 
said  Jerry,  "and  me  and  my  partners  suffer.  You 
was  to  honour  and  obey  ;  why  the  devil  don't  you?  " 

"I'll  try  to  be  a  good  wife,  Jerry,"  the  poor  woman 
protested,  with  tears. 

"Is  it  being  a  good  wife  to  oppose  your  husband's 
business  *?  Is  it  honouring  your  husband  to  dishonour 
his  business?  Is  it  obeying  your  husband  to  disobey 
him  on  the  wital  subject  of  his  business?" 

"You  hadn't  taken  to  the  dreadful  business  then, 
Jerry." 

"It's  enough  for  you,"  retorted  Mr.  Cruncher,  "  to  be 
the  wife  of  a  honest  tradesman,  and  not  to  occupy 
your  female  mind  with  calculations  when  he  took  to 
his  trade  or  when  he  didn't.  A  honouring  and  obey- 
ing wife  would  let  his  trade  alone  altogether.  Call 
yourself  a  religious  woman.  If  you're  a  religious  wo- 
man, give  me  a  irreligious  one  !  You  have  no  more 
nat'ral  sense  of  duty  than  the  bed  of  this  here  Thames 
river  has  of  a  pile,  and  similarly  it  must  be  knocked 
into  you." 

The  altercation  was  conducted  in  a  low  tone  of  voice, 
and  terminated  in  the  honest  tradesman's  kicking  off 
his  clay-soiled  boots,  and  lying  down  at  his  length  on 
the  floor.  After  taking  a  timid  peep  at  him  lying  on 
his  back,  with  his  rusty  hands  under  his  head  for  a 
pillov/,  his  son  lay  down  too,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

There  was  no  fish  for  breakfast,  and  not  much  of 
anything  else.  Mr.  Cruncher  was  out  of  spirits,  and  out 
of  temper,  and  kept  an  iron  pot-lid  by  him  as  a  pro- 
jectile for  the  correction  of  Mrs.  Cruncher,  in  case  he 
should  observe  any  symptoms  of  her  saying  Grace. 
He  was  brushed  and  washed  at  the  usual  hour,  and 
set  off  with  his  son  to  pursue  his  ostensible  calling. 

Young  Jerry,  walking  with  the  stool  under  his  arm 
at  his  father's  side  along  sunny  and  crowded  Fleet- 
street,  was  a  very  different  Young  Jerry  from  him  of 
the  previous  night,  running  home  through  darkness  and 
solitude  from  his  grim  pursuer.  His  cunning  was  fresh 
with  the  day,  and  his  qualms  were  gone  with  the  night 
—in  which  particulars  it  is  not  improbable  that  he  had 
compeers  in  Fleet-street  and  the  City  of  London  that 
fine  morning. 

"Father,"  said  young  Jerry,  as  they  walked  along  ; 
taking  care  to  keep  at  arm's  length  *and  to  have  the 
stool  well  between  them :  "  What's  a  Resurrection- 
Man?" 

Mr.  Cruncher  came  to  a  stop  on  the  pavement  before 
he  answered,  "  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  knowed  everything,  father,"  said  the 
artless  boy." 

"Hem!  Well,''  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  going  on 
again,  and  lifting  off  his  hat  to  give  his  spikes  free 
play,  "he's  a  tradesman." 

"  What's  his  goods,  father?"  asked  the  brisk  Young 
Jerry. 

"  His  goods,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  after  turning  it  over 
in  his  mind,  "is  a  branch  of  Scientific; goods." 

"Persons'  bodies,  ain't  it,  father?"  asked  the  lively 
boy. 

"I  believe  it  is  something  of  that  sort,"  said  Mr. 
Cruncher.  » 

"Oh,  father,  I  should  so  like  to  be  a  Resurrection- 
Man  when  I'm  quite  growed  up  !  " 

Mr.  Cruncher  was  soothed,  but  shook  his  head  in  a 


dubious  and  moral  way.  "  It  depends  upon  how  you  de- 
welop  your  talents.  Be  careful  to  dewelop  your  talents, 
and  never  to  say  no  more  than  you  can  help  to  nobody, 
and  there's  no  telling  at  the  present  time  v/hat  you  may  not 
come  to  be  fit  for."  As  Young  Jerry,  thus  encouraged, 
went  on  a  few  yards  in  advance,  to  plant  the  stool  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Bar,  Mr.  Cruncher  added  to  himself  : 
"Jerry,  you  honest  tradesman,  there's  hopes  wot  that 
boy  will  yet  be  a  blessing  to  you,  and  a  recompense  to 
you,  for  his  mother  !  " 


CHAPTER  XV. 
Knitting. 

There  had  been  earlier  drinking  than  usual  in  the 
wine-shop  of  Monsieur  Defarge.  As  early  as  six  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  sallow  faces  peeping  through  its  barred 
windows  had  descried  other  faces  within,  bending  over 
measures  of  wine.  Monsieur  Defarge  sold  a  very  thin 
wine  at  the  best  of  times,  but  it  would  seem  to  have 
been  an  unusually  thin  wine  that  he  sold  at  this  time. 
A  sour  wine,  moreover,  or  a  souring,  for  its  influence  on 
the  mood  of  those  who  drank  it  was  to  make  them 
gloomy.  No  vivacious  Bacchanalian  flame  leaped  out  of 
the  pressed  grape  of  Monsieur  Defarge  :  but,  a  smoulder- 
ing fire  that  burnt  in  the  dark,  lay  hidden  in  the  dregs 
of  it. 

This  had  been  the  third  morning  in  succession,  on 
which  there  had  been  early  drinking  at  the  wine-shop  of 
Monsieur  Defarge.  It  had  begun  on  Monday,  and  here 
was  Wednesday  come.  There  had  been  more  of  early 
brooding  than  drinking  ;  for,  many  men  had  listened 
and  whispered  and  slunk  about  there  from  the  time  of 
the  opening  of  the  door,  who  could  not  have  laid  a  piece 
of  money  on  the  counter  to  save  their  souls.  These  were 
to  the  full  as  interested  in  the  place,  however,  as  if  they 
could  have  commanded  whole  barrels  of  wine  ;  and  they 
glided  from  seat  to  seat,  and  from  corner  to  corner, 
swallowing  talk  in  lieu  of  drink,  with  greedy  looks. 

Notwithstanding  an  unusual  flow  of  company,  the 
master  of  the  wine-shop  was  not  visible.  He  was  not 
missed  ;  for,  nobody  who  crossed  the  threshold  looked 
for  him,  nobody  asked  for  him,  nobody  wondered  to  see 
only  Madame  Defarge  in  her  seat,  presiding  over  the  dis- 
tribution of  wine,  with  a  bowl  of  battered  small  coins 
before  her,  as  much  defaced  and  beaten  out  of  there 
original  impress  as  the  small  coinage  of  humanity  from 
whose  ragged  pockets  they  had  come. 

A  suspended  interest  and  a  prevalent  absence  of  mind, 
were  perhaps  observed  by  the  spies  who  looked  in  at  the 
wine-shop,  as  they  looked  in  at  every  place,  high  and 
low,  from  the  king's  palace  to  the  criminal's  goal. 
Games  at  cards  languished,  players  at  dominoes  musing-  * 
ly  built  towers  with  them,  drinkers  drew  figures  on  the 
tables  with  spilt  drops  of  wine,  Madame  Defarge  herself 
picked  out  the  pattern  on  her  sleeve  with  her  toothpick, 
and  saw  and  heard  something  inaudible  and  invisible  a 
long  way  off. 

Thus,  Saint  Antoine  in  this  vinous  feature  of  his,  un- 
til midday.  It  was  high  noontide,  when  two  dusty  men 
passed  through  his  streets  and  under  his  swinging 
lamps  :  of  whom,  one  was  Monsieur  Defarge  :  the  other, 
a  mender  of  roads  in  a  blue  cap.  All  adust  and  athirst, 
the  two  entered  the  wine-shop.  Their  arrival  had 
lighted  a  kind  of  fire  in  the  breast  of  Saint  Antoine,  fast 
spreading  as  they  came  along,  which  stirred  and  flickered 
in  flames  of  faces  at  most  doors  and  windows.  Yet,  no 
one  had  followed  them,  and  no  man  spoke  when  they 
entered  the  wine-shop,  though  the  eyes  of  every  man 
there  were  turned  upon  them. 

"  Good  day,  gentlemen  !  "  said  Monsieur  Defarge. 

It  may  have  been  a  signal  for  loosening  the  general 
tongue.  It  elicited  an  answering  chorus  of  "Good 
day  ! " 

"  It  is  bad  weather,  gentlemen,"  said  Defarge,  shak- 
ing his  head. 

Upon  which,  every  man  looked  at  his  neighbour,  and 
then  all  cast  down  their  eyes  and  sat  silent.  Except  one 
man,  who  got  up  and  went  out. 

".  My  wife,"  said  Defarge  aloud,  addressing  Madame 


A  TALE  OF 

Defarge  ;  "I  have  travelled  certain  leagues  with  this 
good  mender  of  roads,  called  Jacques.  I  met  him — by 
accident — a  day  and  a  half's  journey  out  of  Paris.  He 
is  a  good  child,  this  mender  of  roads,  called  Jacques. 
Give  him  to  drink,  my  wife  !  " 

A  second  man  got  up  and  went  out.  Madame  Defarge 
set  wine  before  the  mender  of  roads  called  Jacques,  who 
doffed  his  blue  cap  to  the  company,  and  drank.  In  the 
breast  of  his  blouse,  he  carried  some  coarse  dark  bread  ; 
he  ate  of  this  between  whiles,  and  sat  munching  and 
drinking  near  Madame  Defarge's  counter.  A  third  man 
got  up  and  went  out. 

Defarge  refreshed  himself  with  a  draught  of  wine — 
but,  he  took  less  than  was  given  to  the  stranger,  as  be- 
ing himself  a  man  to  whom  it  was  no  rarity — and  stood 
waiting  until  the  countryman  had  made  his  breakfast. 
He  looked  at  no  one  present,  and  now  no  one  looked  at 
him  ;  not  even  Madame  Defarge,  who  had  taken  up  her 
knitting,  and  was  at  work. 

**  Have  you  finished  your  repast,  friend?"  he  asked, 
in  due  season. 

"  Yes,  thank  you." 

**  Come  then  !  You  shall  see  the  apartment  that  I 
told  you  you  could  occupy.  It  will  suit  you  to  a  mar- 
vel." 

Out  of  the  wine-shop  into  the  street,  out  of  the  street 
into  a  court-yard,  out  of  the  court-yard  up  a  steep  stair- 
case, out  of  the  staircase  into  a  garret — formerly  the 
garret  where  a  white-haired  man  sat  on  a  low  bench, 
stooping  forward  and  very  busy  making  shoes. 

No  white-haired  man  was  there  now  ;  but  the  three 
men  were  there  who  had  gone  out  of  the  wine-shop 
singly.  And  between  them  and  the  white-haired  man 
afar  off,  was  the  one  small  link,  that  they  had  once  looked 
in  at  him  through  the  chinks  in  the  wall. 

Defarge  closed  the  door  carefully,  and  spoke  in  a 
subdued  voice  : 

"  Jacques  One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  Three  !  This  is 
the  witness  encountered  by  appointment,  by  me,  Jacques 
Four.    He  will  tell  you  all.    Speak,  Jacques  Five  ! " 

The  mender  of  roads,  blue  cap  in  hand,  wiped  his 
swarthy  forehead  with  it,  and  said,  "  Where  shall  I 
commence,  monsieur?" 

"  Commence,"  was  Monsieur  Defarge's  not  unreason- 
able reply,  "  at  the  commencement." 

"  I  saw  him  then,  messieurs,"  began  the  mender  of 
roads,  "  a  year  ago  this  running  summer,  underneath 
the  carriage  of  the  Marquis,  hanging  by  the  chain. 
Behold  the  manner  of  it.  I  leaving  my  work  on  the 
road,  the  sun  going  to  bed,  the  carriage  of  the  Marquis 
slowly  ascending  the  bill,  he  hanging  by  the  chain — like 
this."  I 

Again  the  mender  of  roads  went  through  the  old  per- 
formance ;  in  which  he  ought  to  have  been  perfect  by 
that  time,  seeing  that  it  had  been  the  infallible  resource 
and  indispensable  entertainment  of  his  village  during 
a  whole  year. 

Jacques  One  struck  in,  and  asked  if  he  had  ever  seen 
the  man  before? 

"  Never,"  answered  the  mender  of  roads,  recovering 
his  perpendicular. 

Jacques  Three  demanded  how  he  afterwards  recognised 
him  then  ? 

"  By  his  tall  figure,"  said  the  mender  of  roads,  softly, 
and  with  his  finger  at  his  nose.  "  When  Monsieur  the 
Marquis. demands  that  evening,  '  Say,  what  is  he  like?' 
I  make  response,  '  Tall  as  a  spectre.'  " 

"  You  should  have  said,  short  as  a  dwarf,"  returned 
Jacques  Two. 

"  But  what  did  I  know  !  The  deed  was  not  then  ac- 
complished, neither  did  he  confide  in  me.  Observe  ! 
Under  those  circumstances  even,  I  do  not  offer  my  testi- 
mony. Monsie  ur  the  Marquis  indicates  me  wi  th  his  finger, 
standing  near  our  little  fountain,  and  says,  'To  me  ! 
Bring  that  rascal  I '  My  faith,  messieurs,  I  offer  noth- 
ing."" 

"He  is  right  there,  Jacques,"  murmured  Defarge,  to 
him  who  had  interrupted.    "  Go  on  1 " 

"Good! "said  the  mender  of  roads,  with  an  air  of 
mystery.  "  The  tall  man  is  lost,  and  he  is  sought — how 
many  months  ?    Nine,  ten,  eleven  ?  " 

"No  matter,  the  number,"  said  Defarge.  "He  is 
Vol.  II.— 25 


TWO  CITIES,  385 

well  hidden,  but  at  last  he  is  unluckily  found.  Go 
on  !" 

"  I  am  again  at  work  upon  the  hill-side,  and  the  sun 
is  again  about  to  go  to  bed.  I  am  collecting  my  tools  to 
descend  to  my  cottage  down  in  the  village  below,  where 
it  is  already  dark,  when  I  raise  my  eyes,  and  see  coming 
over  the  hill,  six  soldiers.  In  the  midst  of  them  is  a  tall 
man  with  his  arms  bound — tied  to  his  sides,  like  this  !  " 

With  the  aid  of  his  indispensable  cap,  he  represented 
a  man  with  his  elbows  bound  fast  at  his  hips,  with  cords 
that  were  knotted  behind  him. 

"I  stand  aside  messieurs,  by  my  heap  of  stones,  to 
see  the  soldiers  and  their  prisoner  pass  (for  it  is  a  soli- 
tary road,  that,  where  any  spectacle  is  well  worth  look- 
ing at),  and  at  first,  as  they  approach,  I  see  no  more  than 
that  they  are  six  soldiers  with  a  tall  man  bound,  and  that 
they  are  almost  black  to  my  sight — except  on  the  side  of 
the  sun  going  to  bed,  where  they  have  a  red  edge,  mes- 
sieurs. Also,  I  see  that  their  long  shadows  are  on  the 
hollow  ridge  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  are  on 
the  hill  above  it,  and  are  like  the  shadows  of  giants. 
Also,  I  see  that  they  are  covered  with  dust,  and  that  the 
dust  moves  with  them  as  they  come,  tramp,  tramp  ! 
But  when  they  advance  quite  near  to  me,  I  recognise 
the  tall  man,  and  he  recognises  me.  Ah,  but  he  would 
be  well  content  to  precipitate  himself  over  the  hill -side 
once  again,  as  on  the  evening  when  he  and  I  first  en- 
countered, close  to  the  same  spot  !  " 

He  described  it  as  if  he  were  there,  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  saw  it  vividly  ;  perhaps  he  had  not  seen  much 
in  his  life. 

"I  do  not  show  the  soldiers  that  I  recognise  the  tall 
man  ;  he  does  not  show  the  soldiers  that  he  recognises 
me  ;  we  do  it,  and  we  know  it,  with  our  eyes.  '  Come 
on  ! '  says  the  chief  of  that  company,  pointing  to  the  vil- 
lage, '  bring  him  fast  to  his  tomb  ! '  and  they  bring  him 
faster.  I  follow.  His  arms  are  swelled  because  of  being 
bound  so  tight,  his  wooden  shoes  are  large  and  clumsy, 
and  he  is  lame.  Because  he  is  lame,  and  consequently 
slow,  they  drive  him  with  their  guns — like  this  !  " 

He  imitated  the  action  of  a  man's  being  impelled  for- 
ward by  the  butt-ends  of  muskets. 

"As  they  descend  the  hill  like  madmen  running  a 
race,  he  falls.  They  laugh,  and  pick  him  up  again. 
His  face  is  bleeding  and  covered  with  dust,  but  he  can- 
not touch  it ;  thereupon  they  laugh  again.  They  bring 
him  into  the  village  ;  all  the  village  runs  to  look  ;  they 
take  him  past  the  mill,  and  up  to  the  prison  ;  all  the  vil- 
lage sees  the  prison  gate  open  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  and  swallow  him — like  this  ! " 

He  opened  his  mouth  as  wide  as  he  could,  and  shut  it 
I  with  a  sounding  snap  of  his  teeth.    Observant  of  his  un- 
willingness to  mar  the  effect  by  opening  'it  again,  De- 
farge said,  "Go  on,  Jacques." 

"All  the  village,"  pursued  the  mender  of  roads,  on 
tiptoe  and  in  a  low  voice,  "  withdraws  ;  all  the  village 
whispers  by  the  fountain  ;  all  the  village  sleeps  :  all  the 
village  dreams  of  that  unhappy  one,  within  the  locks 
and  bars  of  the  prison  on  the  crag,  and  never  to  come 
out  of  it,  expect  to  perish.  In  the  morning,  with  my 
tools  upon  my  shoulder,  eating  my  morsel  of  black  bread 
as  I  go,  I  made  a  circuit  by  the  prison,  on  my  way  to  my 
work.  There,  I  see  him,  high  up,  behind  the  bars  of  a 
lofty  iron  cage,  bloody  and  dusty  as  last  night,  looking 
through.  He  has  no  hand  free,  to  wave  to  me  ;  I  dare 
not  call  to  him  ;  he  regards  me  like  a  dead  man." 

Defarge  and  the  three  glanced  darkly  at  one  another. 
The  looks  of  all  of  them  were  dark,  repressed,  and  re- 
vengeful, as  they  listened  to  the  countryman's  story  ; 
the  manner  of  all  of  them,  while  it  was  secret  was 
authoritative  too.  They  had  the  air  of  a  rough  tribunal  ; 
Jacques  One  and  Two  sitting  on  the  old  pallet-bed,  each 
with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  intent  on 
the  road  mender  ;  Jacques  Three,  equally  intent,  on  one 
knee  behind  them,  with  his  agitated  hand  always  gliding 
over  the  network  of  fine  nerves  about  his  mouth,  and 
nose  ;  Defarge  standing  between  them  and  the  narrator, 
whom  he  had  stationed  in  the  light  of  the  window,  by 
turns  looking  from  him  to  them,  and  from  them  to  him. 
"  Go  on,  Jacques,"  said  Defarge. 

"  He  remains  up  there  in  his  iron  cage,  some  days. 
The  village  looks  at  him  by  stealth,  for  it  is  afraid.  But 


386 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


it  alwavs  looks  ub  from  a  distance,  at  the  prison  on  the  |  They  looked  at  one  another,  as  he  used  blue  cap  to 
cragT  Jnd  in  the^^  work  li  the  day  is  '  wipe  his  face,  on  which  the  perspiration  had  started 

^chiVed  and  it  assembles  to  gossip  at  the  fountain,  al    af resh  whi  e  he  re^ 


faces  are  turned  towards  the  prison.   Formerly,  they  were 
turned  towards  the  posting-house  ;  now,  they  are  turned 
towards  the  prison.    They  whisper  at  the  fountain  that 
although  condemned  to  death  he  will  not  be  executed 
they  sav  that  petitions  have  been  presented  in  Fans 


It  is  frightful,  messieurs.    How  can  the  women  and 
now  "they  are  turned  the  children  draw  water  !    Who  can  gossip  of  an  even- 
■     '       ing,  under  that  shadow  !    Under  it,  have  I  said  ?  When 
I  left  the  village,  Monday  evening  as  the  sun  was  going 
to  bed,  and  looked  back  from  the  hill,  the  shadow  struck 


sWvinJ  t£a     e  waT  enraged  a  d  "^oiade  n,ad  by  the  across  the  church,  across  the  mill,  across  the  prison- 
dea  h  of  his  ch  id    they  saf  that  a  petition  has  been  :  seemed  to  strike  across  the  earth,  messieurs,  to  where 
-presented  to  the  King  Wmself.    What'do  I  know  ?  It  is  ;  the  sky.  rests  upon  .t ! 
possible.    Perhaps  yes,  perhaps  no." 

"Listen  then,  Jacques,"  Number  One  of  that  name 
sternly  interposed.  "  Know  that  a  petition  was  pre- 
sented to  the  King  and  Queen.  All  here,  yourself  ex- 
cepted saw  the  King  take  it,  in  his  carriage  in  the  street, 
sitting  beside  the  Queen.  It  is  Defarge  whom  you  see 
here  who,  at  the  hazard  of  his  life,  darted  out  before 
the  horses,  with  the  petition  in  his  hand." 

"  And  once  again  listen,  Jacques  !  "  said  the  kneeling 
Number  Three  :  his  fingers  ever  wandering  over  and 
over  those  fine  nerves,  with  a  strikingly  greedy  air  as  if 
he  hungered  for  something— that  was  neither  food  nor 
drink-  "the  guard,  horse  and  foot,  surrounded  the 
the  petitioner,  and  struck  him  blows.  You  hear  ?  " 
"  I  hear,  messieurs." 
"  Go  on  then,"  said  Defarge. 

"  Again  ;  on  the  other  hand,  they  whisper  at  the  foun- 
tain "resumed  the  countryman,"  that  he  is  brought  down 
into' our  country  to  be  executed  on  the  spot,  and  that  he 
will  very  certainly  be  executed.  They  even  whisper  that 
because  he  has  slain  Monseigneur,  and  because  Monseig- 
neur  was  the  father  of  his  tenants— serfs— what  you  will 
—he  will  be  executed  as  a  parricide.  One  old  man  says 
at  the  fountain,  that  his  right  hand,  armed  with  the 
knife,  will  be  burnt  off  before  his  face  ;  that,  into  wounds  i 
which  will  be  made  in  his  arms,  his  breast,  and  his  legs, 
there  will  be  poured  boiling  oil,  melted  lead,  hot  resin,  wax 
and  sulphur  ;  finally,  that  he  will  be  torn  limb  from  limb 
by  four  strong  horses.    That  old  man  says,  all  this  was 

actually  done  to  a  prisoner  who  made  an  attempt  on  the 
life  of  the  last  King,  Louis  Fifteen.    But  how  do  I  know 

if  he  lies  ?    I  am  not  a  scholar." 

"  Listen  once  again  then,  Jacques  !"  said  the  man  with 

the  restless  hand  and  the  craving  air.    "  The  name  of 

that  prisoner  was  Damiens,  and  it  was  all  done  in  open 

day,  in  the  open  streets  of  this  city  of  Paris  ;  and  noth- 
ing was  more  noticed  in  the  vast  concourse  that  saw  it 

done,  than  the  crowd  of  ladies  of  quality  and  fashion, 

who  were  full  of  eager  attention  to  the  last— to  the  last, 

Jacques,  prolonged  until  nightfall,  when  he  had  lost  two 

legs,  and  an  arm,  and  still  breathed  I    And  it  was  done 

— why,  how  old  are  you  ? "  i    i    j  ' 

"  Thirty-five,"  said  the  mender  of  roads,  who  looked  j 

sixty. 

"  It  was  done  when  you  were  more  than  ten  years  old ; 
you  might  have  seen  it." 

"  Enough  ! "  said  Defarge,  with  grim  impatience. 
"  Long  live  the  Devil  !    Go  on." 

"  Well  !  Some  whisper  this,  some  whisper  that ;  they 
speak  of  nothing  else  ;  even  the  fountain  appears  to  fall 
to  that  tune.  At  length,  on  Sunday  night  when  all  the 
village  is  asleep,  come  soldiers,  winding  down  from  the 
prison,  and  their  guns  ring  on  the  stones  of  the  little 
street.'  Workmen  dig,  workmen  hammer,  soldiers  laugh 
and  sing  ;  in  the  morning,  by  the  fountain,  there  is  raised 
a  gallows  forty  feet  high,  poisoning  the  water." 

The  mender  of  roads  looked  through  rather  than  at  the 
low  ceiling,  and  pointed  as  if  he  saw  the  gallows  some- 
where in  the  sky.  ^  ,  ,  , 

"All  work  is  stopped,  all  assemble  there,  nobody  leads 
the  cows  out,  the  cows  are  there  with  the  rest.  At  mid- 
day, the  roll  of  drums.  Soldiers  have  marched  into  the 
prison  in  the  night,  and  he  is  in  the  midst  of  many  sol- 
diers. He  is  bound  as  before,  and  in  his  mouth  there  is  a 
gag— tied  so,  with  a  tight  string,  making  him  look  almost 
as  if  he  laughed. "  He  suggested  it,  by  creasing  his  face 
with  his  two  thumbs,  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth  to 
his  ears.  "  On  the  top  of  the  gallows  is  fixed  the  knife, 
blade  upwards,  with  its  point  in  the  air.    He  is  hanged 


The  hungry  man  gnawed  one  of  his  fingers  as  he  looked 
at  the  other  three,  and  his  finger  quivered  with  the  crav- 
ing that  was  on  him. 

"  That's  all,  messieurs.  I  left  at  sunset  (as  I  had  been 
warned  to  do),  and  1  walked  on,  that  night  and  half  next 
day,  until  I  met  (as  I  was  warned  I  should)  this  comrade. 
With  him,  I  came  on,  now  riding  and  now  walking, 
through  the  rest  of  yesterday  and  through  last  night. 
And  here  you  see  me  ! " 

After  a  gloomy  silence,  the  first  Jacques  said,  "Good  ! 
You  have  acted  and  recounted,  faithfully.  Will  you 
wait  for  us  a  little,  outside  the  door? 

"Very  willingly,"  said  the  mender  of  roads.  Whom 
Defarge  escorted  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and,  leaving 
seated  there,  returned. 

The  three  had  risen,  and  their  heads  were  together 
when  he  came  back  to  the  garret. 

"How  say  you,  Jacques?"  demanded  Number  One. 
"  To  be  registered  ?  " 

"  To  be  registered,  as  doomed  to  destruction,"  returned 
Defarge.  .  ,  , 

"  Magnificent  !  "  croaked  the  man  with  the  craving. 
"  The  chateau,  and  all  the  race  ! "  inquired  the  first. 
"  The  chateau  and  all  the  race,"  returned  Defarge. 
i  "  Extermination.' 

The  hungry  man  repeated,  in  a  rapturous  croak, ' *  Mag-! 
nificent  !  "  and  began  gnawing  another  finger. 

"  Are  you  sure,"  asked  Jacques  Two,  of  Defarge,  "  that 
no  embarrassment  can  arise  from  our  manner  of  keeping 
the  register  ?  Without  doubt  it  is  safe,  for  no  one  beyond 
ourselves  can  decipher  it  ;  but  shall  we  always  be  able  to 
decipher  it— or,  I  ought  to  say,  will  she  ?" 

"Jacques,"  returned  Defarge,  drawing  himself  up, 
"  if  madame  my  wife  undertook  to  keep  the  register  in 
her  memory  alone,  she  would  not  lose  a  word  of  it— not 
a  syllable  of  it.  Knitted,  in  her  own  stitches,  and  her 
own  symbols,  it  will  always  be  as  plain  to  her  as  the 
sun.  Confide  in  Madame  Defarge.  It  would  be  easier 
for  the  weakest  poltroon  that  lives,  to  erase  himself  from 
existence,  than  to  erase  one  letter  of  his  name  or  crimes 
from  the  knitted  register  of  Madame  Defarge." 
I  There  was  a  murmur  of  confidence  and  approval,  and 
then  the  man  who  hungered,  asked  :  "Is  this  rustic  to 
be  sent  back  soon  ?  I  hope  so.  He  is  very  simple  ;  is  he 
not  a  little  dangerous?" 

"He  knows  nothing,"  said  Defarge;  "at  least  noth- 
ing more  than  would  easily  elevate  himself  to  a  gallows 
of  the  same  height.  I  charge  myself  with  him  ;  let  him 
remain  with  me  ;  I  will  take  care  of  him,  and  set  him  on 
his  road.  He  wishes  to  see  the  fine  world— the  King, 
the  Queen,  and  Court :  let  him  see  them  on  Sunday." 

"What?"  exclaimed  the  hungry  man,  staring.  "Is 
it  a  good  sign,  that  he  wishes  to  see  Royalty  and  Nobil- 
ity *>• " 

"Jacques,"  said  Defarge;  "judiciously  show  a  cat, 
milk  if  you  wish  her  to  thirst  for  it.  Judiciously  show 
a  dog  his  natural  prey,  if  you  wish  him  to  bring  it  down 

one  day."  ,  ,      »      j    i.  • 

Nothing  more  was  said,  and  the  mender  of  roads,  being 
found  already  dozing  on  the  topmost  stair,  was  advised 
to  lay  himself  down  on  the  pallet-bed  and  take  some  rest. 
He  needed  no  persuasion,  and  was  soon  asleep. 

Worse  quarters  than  Defarge's  wine-shop,  could  easily 
have  been  found  in  Paris  for  a  provincial  slave  of  that 
degree  Saving  for  a  mysterious  dread  of  madame  by 
which  he  was  constantly  haunted,  his  life  was  very  new 
and  agreeable.  But,  madame  sat  all  day  at  her  counter, 
so  expressly  unconscious  of  him  and  so  particularly  de- 
termined not  to  perceive  that  his  being  there  had  any 


blade  upwards,  witn  its  poini  in  xue  an.  la  .^wxaix.^v.  ^^.^^  ^^I* i^^lnw  thP  surface   that  he 

there  Jrty  feet  high-and  is  left  hanging,  po.sonmg  the  co™^.-f„X  S  wtTev^Vs  e^e  UgMed  ol 
water. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIE8, 


387 


her.  For,  he  contended  with  himself  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  foresee  what  that  lady  might  pretend  next :  and 
he  felt  assured  that  if  she  should  take  it  into  her 
brightly  ornamented  head  to  pretend  that  she  had  seen 
him  do  a  murder  and  afterwards  flay  the  victim,  she 
would  infallibly  go  through  with  it  until  the  play  was 
played  out. 

Therefore,  when  Sunday  came,  the  mender  of  roads 
was  not  enchanted  (thougii  he  said  he  was)  to  find  that 
madame  was  to  accompany  monsieur  and  himself  to 
Versailles.  It  was  additionally  disconcerting  to  have 
madame  knitting  all  the  way  there,  in  a  public  convey- 
ance ;  it  was  additionally  disconcerting  yet,  to  have  ma- 
dame in  the  crowd  in  the  afternoon,  still  with  her  knit- 
ting in  her  hands  as  the  crowd  waited  to  see  the  carriage 
of  the  King  and  Queen. 

"  You  work  hard,  madame,"  said  a  man  near  her. 

"Yes,"  answered  Madame  Defarge  ;  "I  have  a  good 
deal  to  do." 

"What  do  you  make,  madame  ?  " 

"  Many  things." 

"  For  instance—" 

"For  instance,"  returned  Madame  Defarge,  compos- 
edly, "  shrouds." 

The  man  moved  a  little  further  away,  as  soon  as  he 
could,  and  the  mender  of  roads  fanned  himself  with  his 
blue  cap  :  feeling  it  mightily  close  and  oppressive.  If  he 
needed  a  King  and  Queen  to  restore  him,  he  was  fortu- 
nate in  having  his  remedy  at  hand  ;  for,  soon  the  large- 
faced  King  and  the  fair-faced  Queen  came  in  their  golden 
coach,  attended  by  the  shining  Bull's  Eye  of  their  Court, 
a  glittering  multitude  of  laughing  ladies  and  fine  lords  ; 
and  in  jewels  and  silks  and  powder  and  splendour  and 
elegantly  spurning  figures  and  handsomely  disdainful 
faces  of  both  sexes,  the  mender  of  roads  bathed  himself, 
so  much  to  his  temporary  intoxication,  that  he  cried  Long 
live  the  King,  Long  live  the  Queen,  Long  live  everybody 
and  everything  !  as  if  he  had  never  heard  of  ubiquitous 
Jacques  in  his  time.  Then,  there  were  gardens,  court- 
yards, terraces,  fountains,  green  banks,  more  King  and 
Queen,  more  Bull's  Eye,  more  lords  and  ladies,  more 
Long  live  they  all !  until  he  absolutely  wept  with  senti- 
ment. During  the  whole  of  this  scene,  which  lasted 
some  three  hours,  he  had  plenty  of  shouting  and  weep- 
ing and  sentimental  company,  and  throughout  Defarge 
held  him  by  the  collar,  as  if  to  restrain  him  from  flying 
at  the  objects  of  his  brief  devotion  and  tearing  them  to 
pieces. 

"Bravo  !"  said  Defarge,  clapping  him  on  the  back 
when  it  was  over,  like  a  patron  ;  "  you  are  a  good  boy  ! " 

The  mender  of  roads  was  now  coming  to  himself,  and 
was  mistrustful  of  having  made  a  mistake  in  his  late 
demonstrations ;  but  no. 

"You  are  the  fellow  we  want,"  said  Defarge  in  his 
ear  ;  "  you  make  these  fools  believe  that  it  will  last  for 
ever.  Then,  they  are  the  more  insolent,  and  it  is  the 
nearer  ended." 

"  Hey ! "  cried  the  mender  of  roads,  reflectively  ; 
"  that's  true." 

' '  These  fools  know  nothing.  While  they  despise  your 
breath,  and  would  stop  it  for  ever  and  ever,  in  you  or 
in  a  hundred  like  you  rather  than  in  one  of  their  own 
horses  or  dogs,  they  only  know  what  your  breath  tells 
them.  Let  it  deceive  them,  then,  a  little  longer ;  it 
cannot  deceive  them  too  much." 

Madame  Defarge  looked  superciliously  at  the  client,  | 
and  nodded  in  confirmation. 

"  As  to  you,"  said  she,  "you  would  shout  and  shed 
tears  for  anything,  if  it  made  a  show  and  a  noise.  Say  1 
Would  you  not  ?  " 

"  Truly,  madame,  I  think  so.    For  the  moment." 

' '  If  you  were  shown  a  great  heap  of  dolls,  and  were 
set  upon  them  to  pluck  them  to  pieces  and  despoil  them 
for  your  own  advantage,  you  would  pick  out  the  richest 
and  gayest.    Say  !    Would  you  not  ?  " 

"  Truly  yes,  madame." 

"  Yes.  And  if  you  were  shown  a  flock  of  birds, 
unable  to  fly,  and  were  set  upon  them  to  strip  them  of 
their  feathers  for  your  own  advantage,  you  would  set 
upon  the  birds  of  the  finest  feathers ;  would  you 
not?" 

*'  It  is  true,  madame." 


"You  have  seen  both  dolls  and  birds  to-day,"  said 
Madame  Defarge,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  towards  the 
place  where  they  had  last  been  apparent;  "now  go 
home  ! " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
Stm  Knitting. 

Madame  Defarge  and  monsieur  her  husband  returned 
amicably  to  the  bosom  of  Saint  Antoine,  while  a  speck 
in  a  blue  cap  toiled  through  the  darkness,  and  through 
the  dust,  and  down  the  weary  miles  of  avenue  by  the 
wayside,  slowly  tending  towards  that  point  of  the  com- 
pass where  the  chateau  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  now 
in  his  grave,  listened  to  the  whispering  trees.  Such 
ample  leisure  had  the  stone  faces,  now,  for  listening  to 
the  trees  and  to  the  fountain,  that  the  few  village  scare- 
crows who,  in  their  quest  for  herbs  to  eat  and  fragments 
of  dead  stick  to  burn,  strayed  within  sight  of  the  great 
stone  court-yard  and  terrace  staircase,  had  it  borne  in 
upon  their  starved  fancy  that  the  expression  of  the  faces 
was  altered.  A  rumour  just  lived  in  the  village — had  a 
faint  and  bare  existence  there,  as  its  people  had — that 
when  the  knife  struck  home,  the  faces  changed,  from 
faces  of  pride  to  faces  of  anger  and  pain  ;  also,  that 
when  that  dangling  figure  was  hauled  up  forty  feet 
above  the  fountain,  they  changed  again,  and  bore  a  cruel 
look  of  being  avenged,  which  they  would  henceforth  bear 
for  ever.  In  the  stone  face  over  the  great  window  of 
the  bedchamber  where  the  murder  was  done,  two  fine 
dints  were  pointed  out  in  the  sculptured  nose,  which 
everybody  recognised,  and  which  nobody  had  seen  of 
old  ;  and  on  the  scarce  occasions  when  two  or  three 
ragged  peasants  emerged  from  the  crowd  to  take  a  hur- 
ried peep  at  Monsieur  the  Marquis  petrified,  a  skinny 
finger  would  not  have  pointed  to  it  for  a  minute,  before 
they  all  started  away  among  the  moss  and  leaves,  like 
the  more  fortunate  hares  who  could  find  a  living  there. 

Chateau  and  hut,  stone  face  and  dangling  figure,  the 
red  stain  on  the  stone  floor,  and  the  pure  water  in  the 
village  well— thousands  of  acres  of  land— a  whole  prov- 
ince of  France — all  France  itself — lay  under  the  night 
sky,  concentrated  into  a  faint  hair-breadth  line.  So  does 
a  whole  world  with  all  its  greatness  and  littleness,  lie  in 
a  twinkling  star.  And  as  mere  human  knowledge  can 
split  a  ray  of  light  and  analyse  the  manner  of  its  com- 
position, so,  sublimer  intelligences  may  read  in  the  fee- 
ble shining  of  this  earth  of  ours,  every  thought  and  act, 
every  vice  and  virtue,  of  every  responsible  creature  on 
it. 

The  Defarges,  husband  and  wife,  came  lumbering 
under  the  starlight,  in  their  public  vehicle,  to  that  gate 
of  Paris  whereunto  their  journey  naturally  tended. 
There  was  the  usual  stoppage  at  the  barrier  guard-house, 
and  the  usual  lanterns  came  glancing  forth  for  the  usual 
examination  and  inquiry.  Monsieur  Defarge  alighted  : 
knowing  one  or  two  of  the  soldiery  there,  and  one  of  the 
police.  The  latter  he  was  intimate  with,  and  affection- 
ately embraced. 

When  Saint  Antoine  had  again  enfolded  the  Defarges 
in  his  dusky  wings,  and  they  having  finally  alighted 
near  the  Saint's  boundaries,  were  picking  their  way  on 
foot  through  the  black  mud  and  offal  of  his  streets, 
Madame  Defarge  spoke  to  her  husband  : 

"  Say  then,  my  friend  :  what  did  Jacques  of  the  police 
tell  thee?" 

"Very  little  to-night,  but  all  he  knows.  There  is 
another  spy  commissioned  for  our  quarter.  There  may 
be  many  more,  for  all  that  he  can  say,  but  he  knows  of 
one." 

"  Eh  well  !"  said  Madame  Defarge,  raising  her  eye- 
brows with  a  cool  business  air.  "  Itis  necessary  to  regis- 
ter him.    How  do  they  call  that  man  ?  " 

"  Heis  English." 

"  So  much  the  better.    His  name  ?  " 
"Barsad,"   said  Defarge,  making  it  French  by  pro- 
nunciation.    But,  he  had    been  so  careful  to   get  it 
accurately,  that  he  then  spelt  it  with  perfect  correctness. 
<<  Tin^cKx^  "  i.Arwaai£>/i  MoHflinA       "  Good .  ChrlstlaQ 


Barsad,"  repeated  Madame, 
name  ? 


388 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"John." 

John  Bar  sad/*  repeated  madame,  after  murmuring 
it  once  to  herself.  "Good.  His  appearance;  is  it 
known  ?  " 

"  Age,  about  forty  years  ;  height,  about  five  feet  nine  ; 
black  hair  ;  complexion  dark  ;  generally,  rather  hand- 
some visage  ;  eyes  dark,  face  thin,  long,  and  sallow  ; 
nose  aquiline,  but  not  straight,  having  a  peculiar  incli- 
nation towards  the  left  cheek  ;  expression,  therefore, 
sinister." 

•  "Eh  my  faith.  It  is  a  portrait  ! "  said  madame,  laugh- 
ing.   "  He  shall  be  registered  to-morrow." 

They  turned  into  the  wine-shop,  which  was  closed  (for 
it  was  midnight),  and  where  Madame  Defarge  immedi- 
ately took  her  post  at  the  desk,  counted  the  small  moneys 
that  had  been  taken  during  her  absence,  examined  the 
stock,  went  through  the  entries  in  the  book,  made  other 
entries  of  her  own,  checked  the  serving  man  in  every 
possible  way,  and  finally  dismissed  him  to  bed.  Then 
she  turned  out  the  contents  of  the  bowl  of  money  for  the 
second  time,  and  began  knotting  them  up  in  her  hand- 
kerchief, in  a  chain  of  separate  knots,  for  safe  keeping 
through  the  night.  All  this  while,  Defarge,  with  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  walked  up  and  down,  complacently 
admiring,  but  never  interfering  ;  in  which  condition  in- 
deed, as  to  the  business  and  his  domestic  affairs,  he 
walked  up  and  down  through  life. 

The  night  was  hot,  and  the  shop,  close-shut  and  sur- 
rounded by  so  foul  a  neighbourhood,  was  ill-smelling. 
Monsieur  Defarge's  olfactory  sense  was  by  no  means 
delicate,  but  the  stock  of  wine  smelt  much  stronger  than 
it  ever  tasted,  and  so  did  the  stock  of  rum  and  brandy  and 
aniseed.  He  whiffed  the  compound  of  scents  away,  as  he 
put  down  his  smoked-out  pipe. 

"  You  are  fatigued,"  said  madame,  raising  her  glance 
as  she  knotted  the  money.  "  There  are  only  the  usual 
odours." 

I  am  a  little  tired,"  her  husband  acknowledged. 
"You  are  a  little  depressed,  too,"  said  madame,  whose 
quick  eyes  had  never  been  so  intent  on  the  accounts,  but 
they  had  had  a  ray  or  two  for  him.    "  Oh,  the  men,  the 
men  !" 

"  But  my  dear,"  began  Defarge. 

"But  my  dear  !"  repeated  madame,  nodding  firmly  : 
"  but  my  dear  !  You  are  faint  of  heart  to-night,  my 
dear  ! " 

"Well,  then,"  said  Defarge,  as  if  a  thought  were 
wrung  oat  of  his  breast,  "  it  is  a  long  time." 

"  It  is  a  long  time,"  repeated  his  wife  ;  "  and  when  is 
it  not  a  long  time  ?  Vengeance  and  retribution  require 
a  long  time  ;  it  is  the  rule." 

"  It  does  not  take  a  long  time  to  strike  a  man  with 
Lightning,"  said  Defarge. 

"How  long,"  demanded  the  madame,  composedly, 
* '  does  it  take  to  make  and  store  the  lightning  ?  Tell 
me?" 

Defarge  raised  his  head  thoughtfully,  as  if  there  were 
something  in  that,  too. 

"  It  does  not  take  a  long  time,"  said  madame,  "  for  an 
earthquake  to  swallow  a  town.  Eh  well !  Tell  me  how 
long  it  takes  to  prepare  the  earthquake  ?  " 

"  A  long  time,  I  suppose,"  said  Defarge. 

"  But  when  it  is  ready,  it  takes  place,  and  grinds  to 
pieces  everything  before  it.  In  the  mean  time,  it  is  al- 
ways preparing,  though  it  is  not  seen  or  heard.  That  is 
your  consolation.    Keep  it." 

She  tied  a  knot  with  flashing  eyes,  as  if  it  throttled  a 
foe. 

"  I  tell  thee,"  said  madame,  extending  her  right  hand, 
for  emphasis,  "  that  although  it  is  a  long  time  on  the 
road,  it  is  on  the  road  and  coming.  I  tell  thee  it  never 
retreats,  and  never  stops.  I  tell  thee  it  is  always 
advancing.  Look  around  and  consider  the  lives  of  all 
the  world  that  we  know,  consider  the  faces  of  all  the 
world  that  we  know,  consider  the  rage  and  discontent  to 
which  the  Jacquerie  addresses  itself  with  more  and  more 
of  certainty  every  hour.  Can  such  things  last  ?  Bah  ! 
I  mock  you." 

"  My  brave  wife,"  returned  Defarge,  standing  before  | 
her  with  his  head  a  little  bent,  and  his  hands  clasped  at 
his  back,  like  a  docile  and  attentive  pui)il  before  his 
catechist,  "  I  do  not  question  all  this.    But  it  has  lasted  | 


along  time,  and  it  is  possible — you  know  well,  my  wife, 
it  is  possible — that  it  may  not  come,  during  our  lives." 

"Eh  well!  How  then?"  demanded  madame,  tying 
another  knot,  as  if  there  were  another  enemy  strangled. 

"  Well  ! "  said  Defarge  with  a  half  complaining  and 
half  apologetic  shrug.  "  We  shall  not  see  the  triumph." 

"  We  shall  have  helped  it,"  returned  madame,  with 
her  extended  hand  in  strong  action.  "  Nothing  that  we 
do,  is  done  in  vain.  I  believe,  with  all  my  soul,  that  we 
shall  see  the  triumph.  But  even  if  not,  even  if  I  knew 
certainly  not,  show  me  the  neck  of  an  aristocrat  and 
tyrant,  and  still  I  would — " 

There  madame  with  her  teeth  set,  tied  a  very  terrible 
knot  indeed. 

"Hold!"  cried  Defarge,  reddening  a  little  as  if  he 
felt  charged  with  cowardice  ;  "  I  too,  my  dear,  will  stop  at 
nothing." 

' '  Yes  !  But  it  is  your  weakness  that  you  sometimes 
need  to  see  your  victim  and  your  opportunity,  to  sustain 
you.  Sustain  yourself  without  that.  When  the  time 
comes,  let  loose  a  tiger  and  a  devil  ;  but  wait  for  the 
time  with  the  tiger  and  the  devil  chained — not  shown — 
yet  always  ready." 

Madame  enforced  the  conclusion  of  this  piece  of  advice 
by  striking  her  little  counter  with  her  chain  of  money 
as  if  she  knocked  its  brains  out,  and  then  gathering 
the  heavy  handkerchief  under  her  arm  in  a  serene 
manner,  and  observing  that  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Next  noontide  saw  the  admirable  woman  in  her  usual 
place  in  the  wine-shop,  knitting  away  assiduously.  A 
rose  lay  beside  her,  and  if  she  now  and  then  glanced  at 
the  flower,  it  was  with  no  infraction  of  her  usual  pre 
occupied  air.    There  were  a  few  customers,  drinking  or 
not  drinking,  standing  or  seated,  sprinkled  about.  The 
day  was  very  hot,  and  heaps  of  flies,  who  were  extending 
their  inquisitive  and  adventurous  perquisitions  into  all 
the  glutinous  little  glasses  near  madame,  fell  dead  at  th 
bottom.    Their  decease  made  no  impression  on  the  othe 
flies  out  promenading,  who  looked  at  them  in  the  cooles 
manner  (as  if  they  themselves  were  elephants,  or  some- 
thing as  far  removed),  until  they  met  the  same  fate. 
Curious  to  consider  how  heedless  flies  are  ! — perhaps 
they  thought  as  much  at  Court  that  sunny  summer 
day. 

A  figure  entering  at  the  door  threw  a  shadow  on 
Madame  Defarge  which  she  felt  to  be  a  new  one.  She 
laid  down  her  knitting,  and  began  to  pin  her  rose  in  her 
head-dress,  before  she  looked  at  the  figure. 

It  was  curious.    The  moment  Madame  Defarge  took 
up  the  rose,  the  customers  ceased  talking,  and  began 
gradually  to  drop  out  of  the  wine-shop. 
"Good  day,  madame,"  said  the  new  comer. 
"  Good  day,  monsieur." 

She  said  it  aloud,  but  added  to  herself,  as  she  resumed 
her  knitting  :  "  Hah  !  Good  day,  age  about  forty,  height 
about  five  feet  nine,  black  hair,  generally  rather  hand- 
some visage,  complexion  dark,  eyes  dark,  thin  long  and 
sallow  face,  aquiline  nose  but  not  straight,  having  a 
peculiar  inclination  towards  the  left  cheek  which  imparts 
a  sinister  expression  !    Good  day,  one  and  all  !  " 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  give  me  a  little  glass  of  old 
cognac,  and  a  mouthful  of  cool  fresh  water,  madame  I " 
Madame  complied  with  a  polite  air. 
"Marvellous  cognac  this,  madame  !" 
It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  been  so  complimented, 
and  Madame  Defarge  knew  enough  of  its  antecedents  to 
know  better.    She  said,  however,  that  the  cognac  was 
flattered,  and  took  up  her  knitting.    The  visitor  watched 
her  fingers  for  a  few  moments,  and  took  the  opportunity 
of  observing  the  place  in  general. 

"  You  knit  with  great  skill,  madame." 
"  I  am  accustomed  to  it." 
"  A  pretty  pattern  too  !  " 

' '  You  think  so  ?  "  said  madame,  looking  at  him  with 
a  smile. 

"  Decidedly.    May  one  ask  what  it  is  for?  " 
"Pastime,"  said*  madame,  looking  at  him  with  a 
smile,  while  her  fingers  moved  nimbly. 
I     "Not  for  use?" 

"  That  depends.    I  may  find  a  use  for  it,  one  day.  If 
I  do — well,"  said  madame,  drawing  a  breath  and  nodding 
I  her  head  with  a  stern  kind  of  coquetry,  "  I'll  use  it  ! " 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


389 


It  was  remarkable  ;  but,  the  taste  of  Saint  Antoine 
seemed  to  be  decidedly  opposed  to  a  rose  on  the  head- 
dress of  Madame  Defarge.  Two  men  had  entered 
separately,  and  had  been  about  to  order  drink,  when, 
catching  sight  of  that  novelty,  they  faltered,  made  a 
pretence  of  looking  about  as  if  for  some  friend  wlio  was 
not  there,  and  went  away.  Nor,  of  those  who  had  been 
there  when  this  visitor  entered,  was  there  one  left. 
They  had  all  dropped  off.  The  spy  had  kept  his  eyes 
open,  but  had  been  able  to  detect  no  sign.  They  had 
lounged  away  in  a  poverty-stricken,  purposeless,  ac- 
cidental manner,  quite  natural  and  unimpeachable. 

"John,"  thought  madame,  checking  off  her  work  as 
her  fingers  knitted,  and  her  eyes  looked  at  the  stranger. 
*'  stay  long  enough,  and  I  shall  knit  *  Barsad  '  before  you 
go." 

"  You  have  a  husband,  madame  ?" 
"  I  have." 
"Children?" 
"  No  children." 
"  Business  seems  bad?" 

"  Business  is  very  bad  ;  the  people  are  so  poor." 

"  Ah  the  unfortunate,  miserable  people  1  So  oppressed 
too— as  you  say." 

"  As  you  say,"  madame  retorted,  correcting  him,  and 
deftly  knitting  an  extra  something  into  his  name  that 
boded  him  no  good. 

"  Pardon  me  ;  certainly  it  was  I  who  said  so,  but  you 
naturally  think  so.    Of  course." 

"  J  think  ?"  returned  madame,  in  a  high  voice.  "I 
and  my  husband  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  this  wine- 
shop open,  without  thinking.  All  we  think,  here,  is, 
how  to  live.  That  is  the  subject  we  think  of,  and  it 
gives  us,  from  morning  to-night,  enough  to  think  about, 
without  embarrassing  our  heads  concerning  others.  / 
think  for  others?    No,  no." 

The  spy,  who  was  there  to  pick  up  any  crumbs  he 
could  find  or  make,  did  not  allow  his  baffled  state  to  ex- 
press itself  in  his  sinister  face  ;  but,  stood  with  an  air 
of  gossiping  gallantry,  leaning  his  elbow  on  Madame  De- 
farge's  little  counter,  and  occasionally  sipping  his  cognac. 

"A  bad  business  this,  madame,  of  Gaspard's  execu- 
tion. Ah !  the  poor  Gaspard  ! "  With  a  sigh  of  great 
compassion. 

"My  faith  !"  returned  madame,  coolly  and  lightly, 
' '  if  people  use  knives  for  such  purposes,  they  have  to 
pay  for  it.  He  knew  beforehand  what  the  price  of  his 
luxury  was  ;  he  has  paid  the  price." 

"  I  believe,"  said  the  spy,  dropping  his  soft  voice  to 
a  tone  that  invited  confidence,  and  expressing  an  injured 
revolutionary  susceptibility  in  every  muscle  of  his  wicked 
face  ;  "  I  believe  there  is  much  compassion  and  anger  in 
this  neighbourhood,  touching  the  poor  fellow  ?  Between 
ourselves." 

"  Is  there?  "  asked  madame,  vacantly. 

"  Is  there  not  ?  " 

" — Here  is  my  husband  !  "  said  Madame  Defarge. 

As  the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  entered  at  the  door, 
the  spy  saluted  him  by  touching  his  hat,  and  saying, 
with  an  engaging  smile,  * '  Good  day,  Jacques  ! "  De- 
farge stopped  short,  and  stared  at  him. 

"Good  day,  Jacques  !"  the  spy  repeated  ;  with  not 
quite  so  much  confidence,  or  quite  so  easy  a  smile  under 
the  stare. 

'  *  You  deceive  yourself,  monsieur, "  returned  the  keeper 
of  the  wine-shop.  "You  mistake  me  for  another.  That 
is  not  my  name.    I  am  Ernest  Defarge. " 

"  It  is  all  the  same,"  said  the  spy,  airily,  but  discom- 
fited too  :  "  good  day  ! " 

"  Good  day  !"  answered  Defarge,  dryly. 

"  I  was  saying  to  madame,  with  whom  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  chatting  when  you  entered,  that  they  tell 
me  there  is — and  no  wonder  ! — much  sympathy  and  an- 
ger in  Saint  Antoine,  touching  the  unhappy  fate  of  poor 
Gaspard."  j 

"  No  one  has  told  me  so,"  said  Defarge,  shaking  his 
head.    "  I  know  nothing  of  it."  j 

Having  said  it,  he  passed  behind  the  little  counter,  | 
and  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  his  wife's  chair,  | 
looking  over  that  barrier  at  the  person  to  whom  they  j 
were  both  opy^osed,  and  whom  either  of  them  would 
have  shot  with  the  greatest  satisfaction.  i 


The  spy,  well  used  to  his  business,  did  not  change  his 
unconscious  attitude,  but  drained  his  little  glass  of 
cognac,  took  a  sip  of  fresh  water,  and  asked  for  another 
glass  of  cognac.  Madame  Defarge  poured  it  out  for  him, 
took  to  her  knitting  again,  and  hummed  a  little  song 
over  it. 

"  You  seem  to  know  this  quarter  well  ;  that  is  to  say, 
better  than  I  do  ?  "  observed  Defarge. 

"  Not  at  all,  but  I  hope  to  know  it  better.    I  am  so 
profoundly  interested  in  its  miserable  inhabitants." 
"  Hah  ! "  muttered  Defarge. 

"  The  pleasure  of  conversing  with  you,  Monsieur  De- 
farge, recals  to  me,"  pursued  the  spy,  "  that  I  have  the 
honour  of  cherishing  some  interesting  associations  with 
your  name," 

"  Indeed?"  said  Defarge,  with  much  indifference. 
"  Yes  indeed.    When  Doctor  Manette  was  released, 
you  his  old  domestic  had  the  charge  of  him,  I  know. 
He  was  delivered  to  you.    You  see  I  am  informed  of  the 
circumstances  ?  " 

"Such  is  the  fact,  certainly,"  said  Defarge.  He  had 
had  it  conveyed  to  him,  in  an  accidental  touch  of  his 
%vife's  elbow  as  she  knitted  and  warbled,  that  he  would 
do  best  to  answer,  but  always  with  brevity. 

"It  was  to  you,"  said  the  spy,  "that  his  daughter 
came  ;  and  it  was  from  your  care  that  his  daughter  took 
him,  accompanied  by  a  neat  brown  monsieur  ;  how  is  he 
called? — in  a  little  wig — Lorry — of  the  bank  of  Tellson 
and  Company — over  to  England." 

"  Such  is  the  fact,"  repeated  Defarge. 
"  Very  interesting  remembrances  ! "  said  the  spy.    "  I 
have  known  Doctor  Manette  and  his  daughter,  in  Eng- 
land." 

"Yes,"  said  Defarge. 

"  You  don't  hear  much  about  them  now,"  said  the 

spy- 

"  No,"  said  Defarge. 

"In  effect,"  madame  struck  in,  looking  up  from  her 
work  and  her  little  song,  "we  never  hear  about  them. 
We  received  the  news  of  their  safe  arrival,  and  perhaps 
another  letter  or  perhaps  two  ;  but  since  then,  they  have 
gradually  taken  their  road  in  life — we,  ours — and  we 
have  held  no  correspondence." 

"Perfectly  so,  madame,"  replied  the  spy.  "She  is 
going  to  be  married." 

"Going?"  echoed  madame.  "She  was  pretty  enough 
to  have  been  married  long  ago.  You  English  are  cold, 
it  seems  to  me. " 

"  Oh  !    You  know  I  am  English  ?  " 
"  I  perceive  your  tongue  is,"  returned  madame  :  "  and 
what  the  tongue  is,  I  suppose  the  man  is." 

He  did  not  take  the  identification  as  a  compliment : 
but,  he  made  the  best  of  it,  and  turned  it  off  with  a 
laugh.    After  sipping  his  cognac  to  the  end,  he  added  : 

"Yes,  Miss  Manette  is  going  to  be  married.  But  not 
to  an  Englishman  ;  to  one  who,  like  herself,  is  French 
by  birth.  And  speaking  of  Gaspard  (ah,  poor  Gaspard  ! 
It  was  cruel,  cruel  !),  it  is  a  curious  thing  that  she  4s  go- 
ing to  marry  the  nephew  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  for 
whom  Gaspard  was  exalted  to  that  height  of  so  many 
feet ;  in  other  words,  the  present  Marquis.  But  he  lives 
unknown  in  England,  he  is  no  Marquis  there  ;  he  is  Mr. 
Charles  Darnay.  D'Aulnais  is  the  name  of  his  mother's 
family." 

Madame  Defarge  knitted  steadily,  but  the  intelligence 
j  had  a  palpable  effect  upon  her  husband.  Do  what  he 
I  would,  behind  the  little  counter,  as  to  the  striking  of  a 
i  light  and  the  lighting  of  his  pipe,  he  was  troubled,  and 
his  hand  was  not  trustworthy.  The  spy  would  have 
been  no  spy  if  he  had  failed  to  see  it,  or  to  record  it  in 
his  mind. 

Having  made,  at  least,  this  one  hit,  whatever  it  might 
prove  to  be  worth,  and  no  customers  coming  in  to  help 
him  to  any  other,  Mr.  Barsad  paid  for  what  he  had 
drunk,  and  took  his  leave  :  taking  occasion  to  say,  in  a 
genteel  manner,  before  he  departed,  tbat  he  looked  for- 
ward to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Defarge  again.  For  some  minutes  after  he  had  emerged 
into  the  outer  presence  of  Saint  Antoine,  the  husband 
and  wife  remained  exactly  as  he  had  left  them,  lest  he 
should  come  back. 

"  Can  it  be  true,"  said  Defarge,  in  a  low  voice,  look- 


390 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


ing  down  at  his  wife  as  he  stood  smoking  with  his  hand 
on  the  back  of  her  chair  :  '*  what  he  has  said  of  Ma'am - 
selle  Manette?" 

"As  he  has  said  it,"  returned  madame,  lifting  her 
eyebrows  a  little,  "  it  is  probably  false.  But  it  may  be 
true." 

"  If  it  is — "  Defarge  began  ;  and  stopped. 
"  If  it  is?  "  repeated  his  wife. 

"  — And  if  it  does  come  while  we  live  to  see  it  triumph 
— I  hope,  for  her  sake,  Destiny  will  keep  her  husband 
out  of  France." 

"  Her  husband's  destiny,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  with 
her  usual  composure,  "  will  take  him  where  he  is  to  go, 
and  will  lead  him  to  the  end  that  is  to  end  him.  That  is 
all  I  know." 

*'  But  it  is  very  strange — now,  at  least  is  it  not  very 
strange" — said  Defarge,  rather  pleading  with  his  wife 
to  induce  her  to  admit  it,  "  that,  after  all  our  sympathy 
for  Monsieur  her  father  and  herself,  her  husband's  name 
should  be  proscribed  under  your  hand  at  this  moment, 
by  the  side  of  that  infernal  dog's  who  has  just  left  us  ?  " 

"  Stranger  things  than  that,  will  happen  when  it  does 
come,"  answered  madame.  "  I  have  them  both  here  of 
a  certainty  ;  and  they  are  both  here  for  their  merits  ; 
that  is  enough." 

She  rolled  up  her  knitting  when  she  had  said  those 
words,  and  presently  took  the  rose  out  of  the  handker- 
chief that  was  wound  about  her  head.  Either  Saint  An- 
toine  had  an  instinctive  sense  that  the  objectionable  de- 
coration was  gone,  or  Saint  Antoine  was  on  the  watch 
for  its  disappearance  ;  howbeit,  the  Saint  took  courage  to 
lounge  in,  very  shortly  afterwards,  and  the  wine-shop 
recovered  its  habitual  aspect. 

In  the  evening,  at  which  season  of  all  others.  Saint 
Antoine  turned  himself  inside  out,  and  sat  on  door-steps 
and  window-ledges,  and  came  to  the  corners  of  vile 
streets  and  courts,  for  a  breath  of  air,  Madame  Defarge 
with  her  work  in  her  hand  was  accustomed  to  pass  from 
place  to  place  and  from  group  to  group  :  a  Missionary — 
there  were  many  like  her — such  as  the  world  will  do 
well  never  to  breed  again.  All  the  women  knitted. 
They  knitted  worthless  things ;  but,  the  mechanical 
work  was  a  mechanical  substitute  for  eating  and  drink- 
ing ;  the  hands  moved  for  the  jaws  and  the  digestive  ap- 
paratus ;  if  the  bony  fingers  had  been  still,  the  stomachs 
would  have  been  more  famine-pinched. 

But,  as  the  fingers  went,  the  eyes  went,  and  the 
thoughts.  And  as  Madame  Defarge  moved  on  from 
group  to  group,  all  three  went  quicker  and  fiercer 
among  every  little  knot  of  women  that  she  had  spoken 
with,  and  left  behind 

Her  husband  smoked  at  his  door,  looking  after  her 
with  admiration.  "  A  great  woman,"  said  he,  "  a  strong 
woman,  a  grand  woman,  a  frightfully  grand  woman." 

Darkness  closed  around,  and  then  came  the  ringing  of 
church  bells  and  the  distant  beating  of  the  military 
drums  in  the  Palace  Court- Yard,  as  the  women  sat  knit- 
ting,* knitting.  Darkness  encompassed  them.  Another 
darkness  was  closing  in  as  surely,  when  the  church  bells, 
then  ringing  pleasantly  in  many  an  airy  steeple  over 
France,  should  be  melted  into  thundering  cannon  ;  when 
the  military  drums  should  be  beating  to  drown  a  wretched 
voice,  that  night  all  potent  as  the  voice  of  Power  and 
Plenty,  Freedom  and  Life.  So  much  was  closing  in 
about  the  women  who  sat  knitting,  knitting,  that  they 
their  very  selves  were  closing  in  around  a  structure  yet 
unbuilt,  where  they  were  to  sit  knitting,  knitting,  count- 
ing dropping  heads. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

One  Night. 

Never  did  the  sun  go  down  with  a  brighter  glory  on 
the  quiet  corner  in  Sono,  than  one  memorable  evening 
when  the  Doctor  and  his  daughter  sat  under  the  ])lane- 
tree  together.  Never  did  the  moon  rise  with  a  milder 
radiance  over  great  London,  than  on  that  night  when 
it  found  them  still  seated  under  the  tree,  and  shone  upon 
their  faces  through  its  leaves. 

Lucie  was  to  be  married  to-morrow.    She  had  reserved 


this  last  evening  for  her  father,  and  they  sat  alone  under 
the  plane-tree. 

"  You  are  happy,  my  dear  father  ?  '* 

"  Quite,  my  child." 

They  had  said  little,  though  they  had  been  there  a  long 
time.  When  it  was  yet  light  enough  to  work  and  read, 
she  had  neither  engaged  herself  in  her  usual  work,  nor 
had  she  read  to  him.  She  had  employed  herself  in  both 
ways,  at  his  side,  under  the  tree,  many  and  many  a 
time  ;  but,  this  time  was  not  quite  like  any  other,  and 
nothing  could  make  it  so. 

"And,  I  am  very  happy  to-night,  dear  father.  I  am 
deeply  happy  in  the  love  that  Heaven  has  so  blessed  my 
love  for  Charles,  and  Charles's  love  for  me.  But,  if  my  life 
were  not  to  be  still  consecrated  to  you,  or  if  my  marriage 
were  so  arranged  as  that  it  would  part  us,  even  by  the 
length  of  a  few  of  these  streets,  I  should  be  more  un- 
happy and  self-reproachful  now,  than  I  can  tell  you. 
Even  as  it  is — " 

Even  as  it  was,  she  could  not  command  her  voice. 

In  the  sad  moonlight,  she  clasped  him  by  the  neck, 
and  laid  her  face  upon  his  breast.  In  the  moonlight 
which  is  always  sad,  as  the  light  of  the  sun  itself  is — as 
the  light  called  human  life  is — at  its  coming  and  its  go- 
ing. 

**  Dearest  dear  !  Can  you  tell  me,  this  last  time,  tha>t 
you  feel  quite,  quite  sure,  no  new  affections  of  mine,  and 
no  new  duties  of  mine,  will  ever  interpose  between  us  ? 
/  know  it  well,  but  do  you  know  it  ?  In  your  own  heart, 
do  you  feel  quite  certain  ?  " 

Her  father  answered,  with  a  cheerful  firmness  of  con- 
viction he  could  scarcely  have  assumed,  "Quite  sure, 
my  darling  !  More  than  that,"  he  added,  as  he  tenderly 
kissed  her :  "  my  future  is  far  brighter,  Lucie,  seen 
through  your  marriage,  than  it  could  have  been — nay, 
than  it  ever  was — without  it." 

"  If  I  could  hope  that,  my  father  !— '* 

"Believe  it,  love!  Indeed  it  is  so.  Consider  how 
natural  and  how  plain  it  is,  my  dear,  that  it  should  be 
so.  You,  devoted  and  young,  cannot  fully  appreciate 
the  anxiety  I  have  felt  that  your  life  should  not  be 
wasted — " 

She  moved  her  hand  towards  his  lips,  but  he  took  it 
in  his,  and  repeated  the  word. 

" — wasted,  my  child — should  not  be  wasted,  struck 
aside  from  the  natural  order  of  things — for  my  sake. 
Your  unselfishness  cannot  entirely  comprehend  how 
much  my  mind  has  gone  on  this  ;  but,  only  ask  yourself, 
how  could  my  happiness  be  perfect,  while  yours  was  in- 
complete? " 

"  If  I  had  never  seen  Charles,  my  father,,  I  should  have 
been  quite  happy  with  you." 

He  smiled  at  her  unconscious  admission  that  she 
would  have  been  unhappy  without  Charles,  having  seen 
him  ;  and  replied  : 

"  My  child,  you  did  see  him,  and  it  is  Charles.  If  it 
had  not  been  Charles,  it  would  have  been  another.  Or, 
if  it  had  been  no  other,  I  should  have  been  the  cause, 
and  then  the  dark  part  of  my  life  would  have  cast  its 
shadow  beyond  myself,  and  would  have  fallen  on  you." 

It  was  the  first  time,  except  at  the  trial,  of  her  ever 
hearing  him  refer  to  the  period  of  his  sufferings.  It 
gave  her  a  strange  and  new  sensation  while  his  words 
were  in  her  ears ;  and  she  remembered  it  long  after- 
wards. 

"  See  ! "  said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais,  raising  his  hand 
towards  the  moon.  ' '  I  have  looked  at  her  from  my 
prison-window,  when  I  could  not  bear  her  light.  I 
have  looked  at  her  when  it  has  been  such  torture  to  me 
to  think  of  her  shining  upon  what  I  had  lost,  that  I  have 
beaten  my  head  against  my  prison  walls.  I  have  looked 
at  her  in  a  state  so  dulled  and  lethargic,  that  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  but  the  number  of  horizontal  lines  I 
could  draw  across  her  at  the  full,  and  the  number  of 
perpendicular  lines  with  which  I  could  intersect  them."^ 
He  added  in  his  inward  and  pondering  manner,  as  he 
looked  at  the  moon,  "  It  was  twenty  either  way,  I 
remember,  and  the  twentieth  was  difficult  to  squeeze 
in." 

The  strange  thrill  with  which  she  heard  him  go  back 
to  that  time,  deepened  as  he  dwelt  upon  it  ;  but,  there 
was  nothing  to  shock  her  in  the  manner  of  his  reference. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


391 


He  only  seemed  to  contrast  his  present  cheerfulness  and 
felicity  with  the  dire  endurance  that  was  over. 

"  I  have  looked  at  her,  speculating  thousands  of  times 
upon  the  unborn  child  from  whom  I  had  been  rent. 
Whether  it  was  alive.  Whether  it  had  been  born  alive, 
or  the  poor  mother's  shock  had  killed  it.  Whether  it 
was  a  son  who  would  some  day  avenge  his  father. 
(There  was  a  time  in  my  imprisonment,  when  my  desire 
for  vengeance  was  unbearable.)  Whether  it  was  a  son 
who  would  never  know  his  father's  story  ;  who  might 
even  live  to  weigh  the  possibility  of  his  father's  having 
disappeared  of  his  own  will  and  act.  Whether  it  was  a 
daughter,  who  would  grow  to  be  a  woman." 

She  drew  closer  to  him,  and  kissed  his  cheek  and  his 
hand. 

"I  have  pictured  my  daughter,  to  myself,  as  perfectly 
forgetful  of  me — rather,  altogether  ignorant  of  me,  and 
unconscious  of  me.  I  have  cast  up  the  years  of  her  age, 
year  after  year.  I  have  seen  her  married  to  a  man  who 
knew  nothing  of  my  fate.  I  have  altogether  perished 
from  the  remembrance  of  the  living,  and  in  the  next 
generation  my  place  was  a  blank." 

' '  My  father  !  Even  to  hear  that  you  had  such  thoughts 
of  a  daughter  who  never  existed,  strikes  to  my  heart  as 
if  I  had  been  that  child." 

"You,  Lucie?  It  is  out  of  the  consolation  and  res- 
toration you  have  brought  to  me,  that  these  remem- 
brances arise,  and  pass  between  us  and  the  moon  on  this 
last  night. — What  did  I  say,  just  now?" 

"  She  knew  nothing  of  you.  She  cared  nothing  for 
you." 

"  So  !  But  on  other  moonlight  nights,  when  the  sad- 
ness and  the  silence  have  touched  me  in  a  different  way 
— have  affected  me  with  something  as  like  a  sorrowful 
sense  of  peace,  as  any  emotion  that  had  pain  for  its 
foundations  could — I  have  imagined  her  as  coming  to  me 
in  my  cell,  and  leading  me  out  into  the  freedom  beyond 
the  fortress.  I  have  seen  her  image  in  the  moonlight, 
often,  as  I  now  see  you  ;  except  that  I  never  held  her  in 
my  arms  ;  it  stood  between  the  little  grated  window  and 
the  door.  But,  you  understand  that  that  was  not  the 
child  I  am  speaking  of  ?  " 

"  The  figure  was  not ;  the — the — image  ;  the  fancy? " 

* '  No,  That  was  another  thing.  It  stood  before  my 
disturbed  sense  of  sight,  but  it  never  moved.  The 
phantom  that  my  mind  pursued,  was  another  and  more 
real  child.  Of  her  outward  appearance  I  know  no  more 
than  that  she  was  like  her  mother.  The  other  had  that 
likeness  too — as  you  have — but  was  not  the  same.  Can 
you  follow  me,  Lucie  ?  Hardly,  I  think  ?  I  doubt  you 
must  have  been  a  solitary  prisoner  to  understand  these 
perplexed  distinctions." 

His  collected  and  calm  manner  could  not  prevent  her 
blood  from  running  cold,  as  he  thus  tried  to  anatomise 
his  old  condition. 

"In  that  more  peaceful  state,  I  have  imagined  her,  in 
the  moonlight,  coming  to  me  and  taking  me  out  to  show 
me  that  the  home  of  her  married  life  was  full  of  her  lov- 
ing remembrance  of  her  lost  father.  My  picture  was  in 
her  room,  and  I  was  in  her  prayers.  Her  life  was  active, 
cheerful,  useful  ;  but  my  poor  history  pervaded  it  all." 

"  I  was  that  child,  my  father,  I  was  not  half  so  good 
but  in  my  love  that  was  I," 

"  And  she  showed  me  her  children,"  said  the  Doctor 
of  Beauvais,  "and  they  had  heard  of  me,  and  had  been 
taught  to  pity  me.  When  they  passed  a  prison  of  the 
State,  they  kept  far  from  its  frowning  walls,  and  looked 
up  at  its  bars,  and  spoke  in  whispers.  She  could  never 
deliver  me  ;  I  imagined  that  she  always  brought  me  back 
after  showing  me  such  things.  But  then,  blessed  with 
the  relief  of  tears,  I  fell  upon  my  knees,  and  blessed  her. " 

"  I  am  that  child,  I  hope,  my  father.  O  my  dear,  my 
dear,  will  you  bless  me  as  fervently  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Lucie,  I  recal  these  old  troubles  in  the  reason  that  I 
have  to-night  for  loving  you  better  than  words  can  tell, 
and  thanking  God  for  my  great  happiness.  My  thoughts, 
when  they  were  wildest,  never  rose  near  the  happiness 
that  I  have  known  with  you,  and  that  we  have  before 
us." 

He  embraced  her,  solemnly  commended  her  to  Heaven, 
and  humbly  thanked  Heaven  for  having  bestowed  her 
on  him,    By-and-by,  they  went  into  the  house. 


There  was  no  one  bidden  to  the  marriage  but  Mr. 
Lorry  ;  there  was  even  to  be  no  bridesmaid  but  the 
gaunt  Miss  Pross.  The  marriage  was  to  make  no  change 
in  their  place  of  residence ;  they  had  been  able  to 
extend  it,  by  taking  to  themselves  the  upper  rooms 
formerly  belonging  to  the  apocryphal  invisible  lodger, 
and  they  desired  nothing  more. 

Doctor  Manette  was  very  cheerful  at  the  little  supper. 
They  were  only  three  at  table,  and  Miss  Pross  made  the 
third.  He  regretted  that  Charles  was  not  there  ;  was 
more  than  half  disposed  to  object  to  the  loving  little 
plot  that  kept  him  away  ;  and  drank  to  him  affection- 
ately. 

So,  the  time  came  for  him  to  bid  Lucie  good  night,  and 
they  separated.  But  in  the  stillness  of  the  third  hour  of 
the  morning,  Lucie  came  down-stairs  again,  and  stole 
into  his  room  :  not  free  from  unshaped  fears,  before- 
hand. 

All  things,  however,  were  in  their  places ;  all  was 
quiet ;  and  he  lay  asleep,  his  white  hair  picturesque  on 
the  untroubled  pillow,  and  his  hands  lying  quiet  on  the 
coverlet.  She  put  her  needless  candle  in  the  shadow  at 
a  distance,  crept  up  to  his  bed,  and  put  her  lips  to  his  ; 
then,  leaned  over  him  and  looked  at  him. 

Into  his  handsome  face,  the  bitter  waters  of  captivity 
had  worn  ;  but,  he  covered  up  their  tracks  with  a  deter- 
mination so  strong,  that  he  held  the  mastery  of  them, 
even  in  his  sleep,  A  more  remarkable  face  in  its  quiet, 
resolute,  and  guarded  struggle  with  an  unseen  assailant, 
was  not  to  be  beheld  in  all  the  wide  dominions  of  sleep, 
that  night. 

She  timidly  laid  her  hand  on  his  dear  breast,  and  put 
up  a  prayer  that  she  might  ever  be  as  true  to  him  as 
her  love  aspired  to  be,  and  as  his  sorrows  deserved. 
Then,  she  withdrew  her  hand,  and  kissed  his  lips  once 
more,  and  went  away.  So,  the  sunrise  came,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  leaves  of  the  plane-tree  moved  upon  his 
face,  as  softly  as  her  lips  had  moved  in  praying  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Nine  Days. 

The  marriage  day  was  shining  brightly,  and  they 
were  ready  outside  the  closed  door  of  the  Doctor's  room, 
where  he  was  speaking  with  Charles  Darnay,  They 
were  ready  to  go  to  church  ;  the  beautiful  bride,  Mr. 
Lorry,  and  Miss  Pross— to  whom  the  event,  through  a 
gradual  process  of  reconcilement  to  the  inevitable,  would 
have  been  one  of  absolute  bliss,  but  for  the  yet  lingering 
consideration  that  her  brother  Solomon  should  have  been 
the  bridegroom. 

"  And  so,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  who  could  not  sufficiently 
;  admire  the  bride,  and  who  had  been  moving  round  her 
to  take  in  every  point  of  her  quiet,  pretty  dress  ;  "and 
;  so  it  was  for  this,  my  sweet  Lucie,  that  I  brought  you 
!  across  the  Channel,  such  a  baby  !  Lord  bless  me  !  How 
little  I  thought  what  I  was  doing.   How  lightly  I  valued 
the  obligation  I  was  conferring  on  my  friend  Mr. 
Charles  ! " 

"You  didn't  mean  it,"  remarked  the  matter-of-fact 
Miss  Pross,  "and  therefore  how  could  you  know  it? 
Nonsense  !  " 

"  Really  ?  Well  ;  but  don't  cry,"  said  the  gentle  Mr. 
Lorry. 

" I  am  not  crying,"  said  Miss  Pross  ;  "you  are." 

"I,  my  Pross?"  (By  this  time,  Mr.  Lorry  dared  to 
be  pleasant  with  her,  on  occasion.) 

"You  were  just  now;  I  saw  you  do  it,  and  I  don't 
wonder  at  it.  Such  a  present  of  plate  as  you  have  made 
'em,  is  enough  to  bring  tears  into  anybody's  eyes.  There's 
not  a  fork  or  a  spoon  in  the  collection,"  said  Miss  Pross, 
"  that  I  didn't  cry  over,  last  night  after  the  box  came, 
till  I  couldn't  see  it." 

"I  am  highly  gratified,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "though, 
upon  my  honour,  I  had  no  intention  of  rendering  those 
trifling  articles  of  remembrance,  invisible  to  any  one. 
Dear  me  !  This  is  an  occasion  that  makes  a  man  specu- 
late on  all  he  has  lost.  Dear,  dear,  dear  !  To  think  that 
there  might  have  been  a  Mrs.  Lorry,  any  time  these  fifty 
years  almost  1 " 


392 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"  Not  at  all  !  "    From  Miss  Pross. 

"  You  think  there  never  might  have  been  a  Mrs. 
liorry  ?  "  asked  the  gentleman  of  that  name. 

"Pooh  ! "  rejoined  Miss  Pross  ;  "  you  were  a  bachelor 
in  your  cradle." 

•'Well!"  observed  Mr.  Lorry,  beamingly  adjusting 
his  little  wig,  "that  seems  probable,  too." 

"  And  you  were  cut  out  for  a  bachelor,"  pursued  Miss 
Pross,  "  before  you  were  put  in  your  cradle." 

"  Then,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "that  I  was  very 
unhandsomely  dealt  with,  and  that  I  ought  to  have 
had  a  voice  in  the  selection  of  my  pattern.  Enough  ! 
Now,  my  dear  Lucie,"  drawing  his  arm  soothingly  round 
"her  waist,  "  I  hear  them  moving  in  the  next  room,  and 
Miss  Pross  and  I,  as  two  formal  folks  of  business,  are 
anxious  not  to  lose  the  final  opportunity  of  saying  some- 
thing to  j'ou  that  you  wish  to  hear.  You  leave  your 
good  father,  my  dear,  in  hands  as  earnest  and  as  loving 
as  your  own  ;  he  shall  be  taken  every  conceivable  care 
of  ;  during  the  next  fortnight,  while  you  are  in  War- 
wickshire and  thereabouts,  even  Tellson's  shall  go  to  the 
wall  (comparatively  speaking)  before  him.  And  when, 
at  the  fortnight's  end,  he  comes  to  join  you  and  your 
beloved  husband,  on  your  other  fortnight's  trip  in  Wales, 
you  shall  say  that  we  have  sent  him  to  you  in  the  best 
health  and  in  the  happiest  frame.  Now,  I  hear  Some- 
body's step  coming  to  the  door.  Let  me  kiss  my  dear 
girl  with  an  old-fashioned  bachelor  blessing,  before 
Somebody  comes  to  claim  his  own. 

For  a  moment,  he  held  the  fair  face  from  him  to  look 
at  the  well-remembered  expression  on  the  forehead,  and 
then  laid  the  bright  golden  hair  against  his  little  brown 
wig,  with  a  genuine  tenderness  and  delicacy,  which,  if 
such  things  be  old-fashioned,  were  as  old  as  Adam. 

The  door  of  the  Doctor's  room  opened,  and  he  came 
out  with  Charles  Darnay.  He  was  so  deadly  pale — which 
had  not  been  the  case  when  they  went  in  together — that 
no  vestige  of  colour  was  to  be  seen  in  his  face.  But,  in 
the  composure  of  his  manner  he  was  unaltered,  except 
that  to  the  shrewd  glance  of  Mr.  Lorry  it  disclosed  some 
shadowy  indication  that  the  old  air  of  avoidance  and 
dread  had  lately  passed  over  him,  like  a  cold  wind. 

He  gave  his  arm  to  his  daughter,  and  took  her  down- 
stairs to  the  chariot  which  Mr.  Lorry  had  hired  in  honour 
of  the  day.  The  rest  followed  in  another  carriage,  and 
soon,  in  a  neighbouring  church  where  no  strange  eyes 
looked  on,  Charles  Darnay  and  Lucie  Manette  were  hap- 
pily married. 

Besides  the  glancing  tears  that  shone  among  the  smiles 
of  the  little  group  when  it  was  done,  some  diamonds, 
very  bright  and  sparkling,  glanced  on  the  bride's  hand, 
which  were  newly  released  from  the  dark  obscurity  of 
one  of  Mr.  Lorry's  pockets.  They  returned  home  to 
breakfast,  and  all  went  well,  and  in  due  course  the 
golden  hair  that  had  mingled  with  the  poor  shoemaker's 
white  locks  in  the  Paris  garret,  were  mingled  with  them 
again  in  the  morning  sunlight,  on  the  threshold  of  the 
door  at  parting. 

It  was  a  hard  parting,  though  it  was  not  for  long. 
But,  her  father  cheered  her,  and  said  at  last,  gently  dis- 
engaging himself  from  her  enfolding  arms,  "  Take'  her, 
Charles  !  She  is  yours  !  "  And  her  agitated  hand  waved 
to  them  from  a  chaise  window  and  she  was  gone. 

The  corner  being  out  of  the  way  of  the  idle  and 
curious,  and  the  preparations  having  been  very  simple 
and  few,  the  Doctor,  Mr.  Lorry,  and  Miss  Pross,  were 
left  quite  alone.  It  was  when  they  turned  into  the  wel- 
come shade  of  the  cool  old  hall,  that  Mr.  Lorry  observed 
a  great  change  to  have  come  over  the  Doctor  ;  as  if  the 
golden  arm  uplifted  there,  had  struck  him  a  poisoned 
blow. 

He  had  naturally  repressed  much,  and  some  revulsion 
might  have  been  expected  in  him  when  the  occasion  for 
repression  was  gone.  But,  it  was  the  old  scared  lost 
look  that  troubled  Mr.  Lorry  ;  and  through  his  absent 
manner  of  clasping  his  head  and  drearily  wandering 
away  into  his  own  room  when  they  got  up-stairs,  Mr. 
Lorry  was  reminded  of  Defarge  the  wine-shop  keeper, 
and  the  starlight  ride. 

"  I  think,"  he  whis])ered  to  Miss  Pross,  after  anxious 
consideration,  "  1  think  we  had  best  not  to  speak  to  him 
just  now,  or  at  all  disturb  him.    I  must  look  in  at  Tell- 


son's  ;  so  I  will  go  there  at  once  and  come  back  pres- 
ently. Then,  we  will  take  him  a  ride  into  the  country, 
and  dine  there,  and  all  will  be  well." 

It  was  easier  for  Mr.  Lorry  to  look  in  at  Tellson's  than 
to  look  out  of  Tellson's.  He  was  detained  two  hours. 
When  he  came  back,  he  ascended  the  old  staircase  alone, 
{  having  asked  no  question  of  the  servant  ;  going  thus 
into  the  Doctor's  rooms,  he  was  stopped  by  a  low  sound 
of  knocking. 

' '  Good  God  ! "  he  said,  with  a  start.    ' '  What's  that  ?  " 

Miss  Pross,  with  a  terrified  face,  was  at  his  ear.  "  O 
me,  O  me  !  All  is  lost  !  "  cried  she  wringing  her  hands. 
"  What  is  to  be  told  to  Ladybird?  He  doesn't  know  me, 
and  is  making  shoes  !  " 

Mr.  Lorry  said  what  he  could  to  calm  her,  and  went 
himself  into  the  Doctor's  room.    The  bench  was  turned 
'  towards  the  light,  as  it  had  been  when  he  had  seen  the 
!  shoemaker  at  his  work  before,  and  his  head  was  bent 
I  down,  and  he  was  very  busy. 

!     "  Doctor  Manette.    My  dear  friend.  Doctor  Manette  ! " 

i  The  Doctor  looked  at  him  for  a  moment — half  inquir- 
ingly, half  as  if  he  were  angry  at  being  spoken  to — and 
bent  over  his  work  again. 

He  had  laid  aside  his  coat  and  waistcoat ;  his  shirt  was 
open  at  the  throat,  as  it  used  to  be  when  he  did  that 
work  ;  and  even  the  old  haggard  faded  surface  of  face 
had  come  back  to  him.    He  worked  hard — impatiently 

I  — as  if  in  some  sense  of  having  been  interrupted. 

'  Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  work  in  his  hand,  and  ob- 
served that  it  was  a  shoe  of  the  old  size  and  shape.  He 
took  up  another  that  was  lying  by  him,  and  asked  him 
what  it  was  ? 

"  A  young  lady's  walking  shoe,"  he  muttered,  without 
looking  up.  "  It  ought  to  have  been  finished  long  ago. 
Let  it  be." 

"But,  Doctor  Manette.    Look  at  me  !  " 
He  obeyed,  in  the  old  mechanically  submissive  man- 
ner, without  pausing  in  his  work. 

"  You  know  me,  my  dear  friend  ?   Think  again.  This 
}  is  not  your  proper  occupation.    Think,  dear  friend  ! " 
!     Nothing  would  induce  him  to  speak  more.   He  looked 
ap,  for  an  instant  at  a  time,  when  he  was  requested  to  do 
so  ;  but,  no  persuasion  could  extract  a  word  from  him. 
He  worked,  and  worked,  and  worked,  in  silence,  and 
words  fell  on  him  as  they  would  have  fallen  on  an  echo- 
less  wall,  or  on  the  air.    The  only  ray  of  hope  that  Mr. 
Lorry  could  discover,  was,  that  he  sometimes  furtively 
looked  up  without  being  asked.    In  that,  there  seemed 
a  faint  expression  of  curiosity  or  perplexity — as  though 
i  he  were  trying  to  reconcile  some  doubts  in  his  mind. 

Two  things  at  once  impressed  themselves  on  Mr. 
Lorry,  as  important  above  all  others  ;  the  first,  that  this 
!  must  be  kept  secret  from  Lucie  ;  the  second,  that  it 
I  m.ust  be  kept  secret  from  all  who  knew  him.    In  conjunc- 
tion with  Miss  Pross,  he  took  immediate  steps  towards 
the  latter  precaution,  by  giving  out  that  the  Doctor  was 
not  well,  and  required  a  few  days  of  complete  rest.  In 
aid  of  the  kind  deception  to  be  practised  on  his  daughter, 
j  Miss  Pross  was  to  write,  describing  his  having  been  called 
!  away  professionally,  and  referring  to  an  imaginary  letter 
!  of  two  or  three  hurried  lines  in  his  own  hand,  represented 
to  have  been  addressed  to  her  by  the  same  post. 

These  measures,  advisable  to  be  taken  in  any  case, 
Mr.  Lorr}^  took  in  the  hope  of  his  coming  to  himself.  If 
that  should  happen  soon,  he  kept  another  course  in  re- 
serve ;  which  was,  to  have  a  certain  opinion  that  he 
thought  the  best,  on  the  Doctor's  case. 

In  the  hope  of  his  recovery,  and  of  resort  to  this  third 
course  being  thereby  rendered  practicable,  Mr.  Lorry  re- 
solved to  watch  him  attentively,  with  as  little  appear- 
ance as  possible  of  doing  so.  He  therefore  made  arrange- 
ments to  absent  himself  from  Tellson's  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  and  took  his  post  by  the  window  in  the  same 
room. 

He  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  it  was  worse  than 
useless  to  speak  to  him,  since,  on  being  pressed,  he  be- 
came worried.  He  abandoned  that  attempt  on  the  first 
day,  and  resolved  merely  to  keep  himself  always  before 
him,  as  a  silent  protest  against  the  delusion  into  which 
he  had  fallen,  or  was  falling.  He  remained,  therefore, 
in  his  seat  near  the  window,  reading  and  writing,  and 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


393 


expressing  in  as  many  pleasant  and  natural  ways  as  he 
could  think  of,  that  it  was  a  free  place. 

Doctor  Manette  took  what  was  given  him  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  worked  on  that  first  day,  until  it  was  too  dark 
to  see — worked  on,  half  an  hour  after  Mr.  Lorry  could 
not  have  seen,  for  his  life,  to  read  or  write.  When  he 
put  his  tools  aside  as  useless,  until  morning,  Mr.  Lorry 
rose  and  said  to  him  • 
Will  you  go  out?" 

He  looked  down  at  the  floor  on  either  side  of  him  in 
the  old  manner,  looked  up  in  the  old  manner  and  re- 
peated in  the  old  low  voice  : 

"Out?" 

"Yes  ;  for  a  walk  with  me.    Why  not?" 

He  made  no  effort  to  say  why  not,  and  said  not  a  word 
more.  But,  Mr.  Lorry  thought  he  saw,  as  he  leaned  for- 
ward on  his  bench  in  the  dusk,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  head  in  his  hands,  that  he  was  in  some 
misty  way  asking  himself,  "  Why  not?"  The  sagacity 
of  the  man  of  business  perceived  an  advantage  here,  and 
determined  to  hold  it. 

Miss  Pross  and  he  divided  the  night  into  two  watches, 
and  observed  him  at  intervals  from  the  adjoining  room. 
He  paced  up  and  down  for  a  long  time  before  he  lay 
down ;  but,  when  he  did  finally  lay  himself  down,  he 
fell  asleep.  In  the  morning,  he  was  up  betimes,  and 
went  straight  to  his  bench  and  to  work. 

On  this  second  day,  Mr.  Lorry  saluted  him  cheerfully 
by  his  name,  and  spoke  to  him  on  topics  that  had  been  of 
late  familiar  to  them.  He  returned  no  reply,  but  it  was 
evident  that  he  heard  what  was  said,  and  that  he  thought 
about  it,  however  confusedly.  This  encouraged  Mr. 
Lorry  to  have  Miss  Pross  in  with  her  work,  several  times 
during  the  day  ;  at  those  times,  they  quietly  spoke  of 
Lucie,  and  of  her  father  then  present,  precisely  in  their 
usual  manner,  and  as  if  there  were  nothing  amiss. 
This  was  done  without  any  demonstative  accompani- 
ment, not  long  enough,  or  often  enough  to  harass  him  ; 
and  it  lightened  Mr.  Lorry's  friendly  heart  to  believe 
that  he  looked  up  oftener,  and  that  he  appeared  to  be 
stirred  by  some  perception  of  inconsistencies  surround- 
ing him. 

When  it  fell  dark  again,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  as  be- 
fore : 

"  Dear  Doctor,  will  you  go  out?" 

As  before,  he  repeated,  "  Out  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  for  a  walk  with  me.    Why  not  ?  " 

This  time,  Mr.  Lorry  feigned  to  go  out  when  he  could 
extract  no  answer  from  him,  and,  after  remaining  absent 
for  an  hour,  returned.  In  the  mean  while,  the  Doctor 
had  removed  to  the  seat  in  the  window,  and  had  sat 
there  looking  down  at  the  plane-tree  ;  but,  on  Mr. 
Lorry's  return,  he  slipped  avi^ay  to  his  bench. 

The  time  went  very  slowly  on,  and  Mr.  Lorry's  hope 
darkened,  and  his  heart  grew  heavier  again,  and  grew 
yet  heavier  and  heavier  every  day.  The  third  day  came 
and  went,  the  fourth,  the  fifth.  Five  days,  six  days, 
seven  days,  eight  days,  nine  days. 

With  a  hope  ever  darkening,  and  with  a  heart  always 
growing  heavier  and  heavier,  Mr.  Lorry  passed  through 
this  anxious  time.  The  secret  was  well  kept,  and  Lucie 
was  unconscious  and  happy  ;  but,  he  could  not  fail  to 
observe  that  the  shoen^ker,  whose  hand  had  been  a  lit- 
tle out  at  first,  was  groVing  dreadfully  skilful,  and  that 
he  had  never  been  so  intent  on  his  work,  and  that  his 
hands  had  never  been  so  nimble  and  expert,  as  in  the 
dusk  of  the  ninth  evening. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

An  Opinion. 

Worn  out  by  anxious  watching,  Mr.  Lorry  fell  asleep 
at  his  post.  On  the  tenth  morning  of  liis  suspense,  he 
was  startled  by  the  shining  of  the  sun  into  the  room 
where  a  heavy  slumber  had  overtaken  him  when  it  was 
dark  night. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  roused  himself ;  but  he 
doubted  when  he  had  done  so,  whether  he  was  not  still 
asleep.    For,  going  to  the  door  of  the  Doctor's  room  and 


looking  in,  he  perceived  that  the  shoemaker's  bench  and 
tools  were  put  aside  again,  and  that  the  Doctor  himself 
sat  reading  at  the  window.  He  was  in  his  usual  morn- 
ing dress,  and  his  face  (which  Mr.  Lorry  could  distinctly 
see),  though  still  very  pale,  was  calmly  studious  and 
attentive. 

Even  when  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  he  was  awake, 
Mr.  Lorry  felt  giddily  uncertain  for  some  few  moments 
whether  the  late  shoemaking  might  not  be  a  disturbed 
dream  of  his  own  ;  for,  did  not  his  eyes  show  him  his 
friend  before  him  in  his  accustomed  clothing  and  aspect, 
and  employed  as  usual  ;  and  was  there  any  sign  within 
their  range,  that  the  change  of  which  he  had  so  strong 
an  impression  had  actually  happened  ? 

It  was  but  the  inquiry  of  his  first  confusion  and  aston- 
ishment, the  answer  being  obvious.  If  the  impression 
were  not  produced  by  a  real  corresponding,  and  sufficient 
cause,  how  came  he,  Jarvis  Lorry,  there  ?  How  came  he 
to  have  fallen  asleep,  in  his  clothes,  on  the  sofa  in  Doc- 
tor Manette's  consulting-room,  and  to  be  debating  these 
points  outside  the  Doctor's  bedroom  door  in  the  early 
morning  ? 

Within  a  few  minutes,  Miss  Pross  stood  whispering  at 
his  side.  If  he  had  had  any  particle  of  doubt  left,  her 
talk  would  of  necessity  have  resolved  it  ;  but  he  was  by 
that  time  clear-headed,  and  had  none.  He  advised  that 
they  should  let  the  time  go  by  until  the  regular  break- 
I  fast-hour,  and  should  then  meet  the  Doctor  as  if  nothing 
unusual  had  occurred.  If  he  appeared  to  be  in  his  cus- 
tomary state  of  mind,  Mr.  Lorry  would  then  cautiously 
proceed  to  seek  direction  and  guidance  from  the  opinion 
he  had  been,  in  his  anxiety,  so  anxious  to  obtain. 

Miss  Pross,  submitting  herself  to  his  judgment,  the 
scheme  was  worked  out  with  care.  Having  abundance 
of  time  for  his  usual  methodical  toilette,  Mr.  Lorry  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  breakfast-hour  in  his  usual  white 
linen  and  with  his  usual  neat  leg.  The  Doctor  was 
summoned  in  the  usual  way,  and  came  to  breakfast. 

So  far  as  it  was  possible  to  comprehend  him  without 
overstepping  those  delicate  and  gradual  approaches 
which  Mr.  Lorry  felt  to  be  the  only  safe  advance,  he  at 
first  supposed  that  his  daughter's  marriage  had  taken 
place  yesterday.  An  incidental  allusion,  purposely 
thrown  out,  to  the  day  of  the  week,  and  the  day  of  the 
month,  set  him  thinking  and  counting,  and  evidently 
made  him  uneasy.  In  all  other  respects,  however,  he 
was  so  composedly  himself,  that  Mr.  Lorry  determined 
to  have  the  aid  he  sought.    And  that  aid  was  his  own. 

Therefore,  when  the  breakfast  was  -done  and  cleared 
away,  and  he  and  the  Doctor  were  left  together,  Mr. 
Lorry  said,  feelingly  : 

"  My  dear  Manette,  I  am  anxious  to  have  your  opinion, 
in  confidence,  on  a  very  curious  case  in  which  I  am  deeply 
interested  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  is  very  curious  to  me  ;  per- 
haps, to  your  better  information  it  may  be  less  so. " 

Glancing  at  his  hands,  which  were  discoloured  by  his 
late  work,  the  Doctor  looked  troubled,  and  listened  at- 
tentively. He  had  already  glanced  at  his  hands  more 
than  once. 

"  Doctor  Manette,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  touching  him 
affectionately  on  the  arm, "  the  case  is  a  case  of  a  particu- 
larly dear  friend  of  mine.  Pray  give  your  mind  to  it,  and 
advise  me  well  for  his  sake — and  above  all  for  his  daugh- 
ter's— his  daughter's,  my  dear  Manette." 

"  If  I  understand,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  subdued  tone, 
"  some  mental  shock  ?  " 

"  Yes  !" 

"  Be  explicit,"  said  the  Doctor.    "  Spare  no  details." 
Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  they  understood  one  another,  and 
proceeded. 

"  My  dear  Manette,  it  is  the  case  of  an  old  and  a 
prolonged  shock,  of  great  acuteness  and  severity,  to  the 
affections,  the  feelings,  the— the— as  you  express  it— the 
mind.  The  mind.  It  is  .  the  case  of  a  shock  under 
which  the  sufferer  was  borne  down,  one  cannot  say  for 
how  long,  because  I  believe  he  cannot  calculate  the  time 
himself,  and  there  are  no  other  means  of  getting  at  it. 
It  is  the  case  of  a  shock  from  which  the  sufferer  recov- 
ered, by  a  process  that  he  cannot  trace  himself —as  I  once 
heard  him  publicly  relate  in  a  striking  manner.  It  is 
the  case  of  a  shock  from  which  he  has  recovered,  so 
completely,  as  to  be  a  highly  intelligent  man,  capable  of 


394 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


close  application  of  mind,  and  great  exertion  of  body, 
and  of  constantly  making  fresh  additions  to  his  stock 
of  knowledge,  which  was  already  very  large.  But,  un- 
fortunately, there  has  been,"  he  paused  and  took  a  deep 
breath — "  a  slight  relapse." 

The  Doctor,  in  a  low  voice,  asked,  Of  how  long  du- 
ration  ?  " 

"  Nine  days  and  nights." 

"How  did  it  show  itself?  I  infer,"  glancing  at  his 
hands  again,  "  in  the  resumption  of  some  old  pursuit 
connected  with  the  shock  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  fact." 

"  Now,  did  you  ever  see  him,"  asked  the  Doctor,  dis- 
tinctly and  collectedly,  though  in  the  same  low  voice, 
"  engaged  in  that  pursuit  originally  ?  " 

"Once." 

"  And  when  the  relapse  fell  on  him,  was  he  in  most 
respects — or  in  all  respects — as  he  was  then  ?  " 
"  I  think,  in  all  respects." 

"  You  spoke  of  his  daughter.  Does  his  daughter 
know  of  the  relapse  ?  " 

"No.  It  has  been  kept  from  her,  and  I  hope  will 
always  be  kept  from  her.  It  is  known  only  to  myself, 
and  to  one  other  who  may  be  trusted." 

The  Doctor  grasped  his  hand,  and  murmured,  * '  That 
was  very  kind.  That  was  very  thoughtful  ! "  Mr. 
Lorry  grasped  his  hand  in  return,  and  neither  of  the  two 
spoke  for  a  little  while. 

"Now,  my  dear  Manette,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  at  length, 
in  his  most  considerate  and  most  affectionate  way,  ' '  I 
am  a  mere  man  of  business,  and  unfit  to  cope  with  such 
intricate  and  difficult  matters.  I  do  not  possess  the  kind 
of  information  necessary  ;  I  do  not  possess  the  kind  of 
intelligence  ;  I  want  guiding.  There  is  no  man  in  this 
world  on  whom  I  could  so  rely  for  right  guidence,  as  on 
you.  Tell  me,  how  does  this  relapse  come  about  ?  Is 
there  danger  of  another  ?  Could  a  repetition  of  it  be 
prevented  ?  How  should  a  repetition  of  it  be  treated  ? 
How  does  it  come  about  at  all  ?  What  can  I  do  for  my 
friend  ?  No  man  ever  can  have  been  more  desirous  in 
his  heart  to  serve  a  friend,  than  I  am  to  serve  mine,  if  I 
knew  how.  But  I  don't  know  how  to  originate,  in  such 
a  case.  If  your  sagacity,  knowledge,  and  experience, 
could  put  me  on  the  right  track,  I  might  be  able  to  do 
so  much  ;  unenlightened  and  undirected,  I  can  do  so 
little.  Pray  discuss  it  with  me  ;  pray  enable  me  to  see 
it  a  little  more  clearly,  and  teach  me  how  to  be  a  little 
more  useful." 

Doctor  Manette  sat  meditating  after  these  earnest 
words  were  spoken,  and  Mr.  Lorry  did  not  press  him. 

"  I  think  it  probable,"  said  the  Doctor,  breaking  silence 
with  an  effort,  "  that  the  relapse  you  have  described, 
my  dear  friend,  was  not  quite  unforeseen  by  its  sub- 
ject." 

"Was  it  dreaded  by  him? "Mr.  Lorry  ventured  to 
ask. 

"Very  much."  He  said  it  with  an  involuntary 
shudder.  "  Yoa  have  no  idea  how  such  an  apprehen- 
sion weighs  on  the  sufferer's  mind,  and  how  difficult — 
how  almost  impossible — it  is  for  him  to  force  himself 
to  utter  a  word  upon  the  topic  that  oppresses  him. " 

"  Would  he,"  asked  Mr.  Lorry,  "  be  sensibly  relieved  if 
he  could  prevail  upon  himself  to  impart  that  secret 
brooding  to  any  one,  when  it  is  on  him  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  But  it  is,  as  I  have  told  you,  next  to  im- 
possible. I  even  believe  it — in  some  cases — to  be  quite 
impossible." 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  gently  laying  his  hand  on  the 
Doctor's  arm  again,  after  a  short  silence  on  both  sides, 
"  to  what  would  you  refer  this  attack  ?" 

"I  believe,"  returned  Doctor  Manette,  "that  there 
had  been  a  strong  and  extraordinary  revival  of  the  train 
of  thought  and  remembrance  that  was  the  first  cause  of 
the  malady.  Some  intense  associations  of  a  most  dis- 
tressing nature  were  vividly  recalled,  I  think.  It  is 
probable  that  there  had  long  been  a  dread  lurking  in  his 
mind,  thai  those  associations  would  be  recalled — say, 
under  certain  circumstances — say,  on  a  particular  occa- 
sion. He  tried  to  prepare  himself,  in  vain  ;  perhaps  the 
effort  to  prepare  himself,  made  him  less  able  to  bear  it." 

"  Would  he  remember  what  took  place  in  the  relapse?" 
asked  Mr.  Lorry,  with  natural  liesitation. 


1  The  Doctor  looked  desolately  round  the  room,  shook 
j  his  head,  and  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Not  at  all." 

"  Now,  as  to  the  future,"  hinted  Mr.  Lorry. 

"As  to  the  future,"  said  the  Doctor,  recovering  firm- 
ness, "  I  should  have  great  hope.  As  it  pleased  Heaven 
in  its  Mercy  to  restore  him  so  soon,  I  should  have  great 
hope.  He,  yielding  under  the  pressure  of  a  complicated 
something,  long  dreaded  and  long  vaguely  foreseen  and 
contended  against,  and  recovering  after  the  cloud  had 
burst  and  passed,  I  should  hope  that  the  worst  was  over." 

"Well,  well  1  That's  good  comfort.  I  am  thankful  ! " 
said  Mr,  Lorry. 

"  I  am  thankful !  "  repeated  the  Doctor,  bending  his 
J  head  with  reverence. 

"There  are  two  other  points,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "on 
which  I  am  anxious  to  be  instructed.    I  may  go  on  ?  " 
.  "You  cannot  do  your  friend  a  better  service."  The 
Doctor  gave  him  his  hand. 

"  To  the  first,  then.  He  is  of  a  studious  habit,  and 
unusually  energetic  ;  he  applies  himself  with  great  ar- 
dour to  the  acquisition  of  professional  knowledge,  to  the 
conducting  of  experiments,  to  many  things.  Now,  does 
he  do  too  much  ?  " 

"  I  think  not.  It  may  be  the  character  of  his  mind,  to 
be  always  in  singular  need  of  occupation.  That  may  be, 
in  part,  natural  to  it ;  in  part,  the  result  of  affliction. 
The  less  it  was  occupied  with  healthy  things,  the  more 
it  would  be  in  danger  of  turning  in  the  unhealthy  direc- 
tion. He  may  have  observed  himself,  and  made  the  dis- 
covery." 

"  You  are  sure  that  he  is  not  under  too  great  a  strain  ?  " 
j     "I  think  I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

"  My  dear  Manette,  if  he  were  overworked  now — " 
"My  dear  Lorry,  I  doubt  if  that  could  easily  be. 
There  has  been  a  violent  stress  in  one  direction,  and  it 
needs  a  counter- weight." 

"Excuse  me,  as  a  persistent  man  of  business.  As- 
suming for  a  moment,  that  he  was  overworked  ;  it  would 
show  itself  in  some  renewal  of  this  disorder?  " 

"I  do  not  think  so.    I  do  not  think,"  said  Doctor  Ma 
nette  v^^ith  the  firmness  of  self- conviction,  "that  any 
thing  but  the  one  train  of  association  would  renew  i 
j  I  think  that,  henceforth,  nothing  but  some  extraordinar 
[  jarring  of  that  chord  could  renew  it.    After  what  has 
!  happened,  and  after  his  recovery,  I  find  it  difficult  to 
imagine  any  such  violent  sounding  of  that  string  again. 
!  I  trust,  and  I  almost  believe,  that  the  circumstances 
j  likely  to  renew  it  are  exhausted." 

i     He  spoke  with  the  diffidence  of  a  man  who  knew  how 
slight  a  thing  would  overset  the  delicate  organisation  of 
the  mind,  and  yet  with  the  confidence  of  a  man  who  had 
slowly  won  his  assurance  out  of  personal  endurance  and 
distress.    It  was  not  for  his  friend  to  abate  that  confi- 
\  dence.    He  professed  himself  more  relieved  and  encour- 
aged than  he  really  was,  and  approached  his  second  and 
j  last  poiilt.    He  felt  it  to  be  the  most  difficult  of  all ;  but, 
I  remembering  his  old  Sunday  morning  conversation  with 
j  Miss  Pross,  and  remembering  what  he  had  seen  in  the 
i  last  nine  days,  he  knew  that  he  must  face  it. 

"The  occupation  resumed  under  the  influence  of  this 
!  passing  affliction  so  happily  recovered  from,"  said  Mr. 
Lorry,  clearing  his  throat,  "we  will  call — Blacksmith's 
work.  Blacksmith's  work.  W£  will  say,  to  put  a  case 
and  for  the  sake  of  illustration,  Biat  he  had  been  used  in 
his  bad  time,  to  work  at  a  little  forge.  We  will  say 
that  he  was  unexpectedly  found  at  his  forge  again.  Is 
it  not  a  pity  that  he  should  keep  it  by  him  ?  " 

The  Doctor  shaded  his  forehead  with  his  hand,  and 
beat  his  foot  nervously  on  the  ground. 

"  He  has  always  kept  it  by  him,"  said  Mr,  Lorry,  with 
an  anxious  look  at  his  friend.  "  Now,  would  it  not  be 
better  that  he  should  let  it  go  ?  " 

Still,  the  Doctor,  with  shaded  forehead,  beat  his  foot 
nervously  on  the  ground, 

\  "You  do  not  find  it  easy  to  advise  me?"  said  Mr. 
Lorry,  ' '  I  quite  understand  it  to  be  a  nice  question. 
And  yet  I  think — "  And  there  he  shook  his  head,  and 
stopped. 

"  You  see,"  said  Doctor  Manette,  turning  to  him  after 
an  uneasy  pause,  it  is  very  hard  to  explain,  consistently, 
the  innermost  working  of  this  poor  man's  mind.  He 
once  yearned  so  frightfully  for  that  occupation,  and  it 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


395 


was  so  welcome  when  it  came  ;  no  doubt  it  relieved  his 
pain  so  much,  by  substituting  the  perplexity  of  the  fin- 
gers for  the  perplexity  of  the  brain,  and  by  substituting, 
as  he  became  more  practised,  the  ingenuity  of  the  hands 
for  the  ingenuity  of  the  mental  torture  ;  that  he  has 
never  been  able  to  bear  the  thought  of  putting  it  quite 
out  of  his  reach.  Even  now,  when,  I  believe,  he  is  more 
hopeful  of  himself  than  he  has  ever  been,  and  even 
speaks  of  himself  with  a  kind  of  confidence,  the  idea 
that  he  might  need  that  old  employment,  and  not  find  it, 
gives  him  a  sudden  sense  of  terror,  like  that  which  one 
may  fancy  strikes  to  the  heart  of  a  lost  child." 

He  looked  like  his  illustration,  as  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  Mr.  Lorry's  face. 

"  But  may  not — mind  !  I  ask  for  information,  as  a 
plodding  man  of  business  who  only  deals  with  such  ma- 
terial objects  as  guineas,  shillings,  and  bank-notes — may 
not  the  retention  of  the  thing,  involve  the  retention  of 
the  idea  ?  If  the  thing  were  gone,  my  dear  Manette, 
might  not  the  fear  go  with  it  ?  In  short,  is  it  not  a  con- 
cession to  the  misgiving,  to  keep  the  forge  ?" 

There  was  another  silence. 

"You  see,  too,"  said  the  Doctor,  tremulously,  "it  is 
such  an  old  companion." 

"I  would  not  keep  it,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  shaking  his 
head  ;  for  he  gained  in  firmness  as  he  saw  the  Doctor 
disquieted.  "I  would  recommend  him  to  sacrifice  it, 
I  only  want  your  authority.  I  am  sure  it  does  no  good. 
Come  !  Give  me  your  authority,  like  a  dear  good  man. 
For  his  daughter's  sake,  my  dear  Manette  ! " 

Very  strange  to  see  what  a  struggle  there  was  within 
him  ! 

' '  In  her  name,  then,  let  it  be  done  ;  I  sanction  it.  But, 
I  would  not  take  it  away  while  he  was  present.  Let  it 
be  removed  when  he  is  not  there  ;  let  him  miss  his  old 
companion  after  an  absence." 

Mr.  Lorry  readily  engaged  for  that,  and  the  confer- 
ence was  ended.    They  passed  the  day  in  the  country, 
;  and  the  Doctor  was  quite  restored.    On  the  three  follow- 
I  ing  days,  he  remained  perfectly  well,  and  on  the  four- 
i  teenth  day,  he  went  away  to  join  Lucie  and  her  husband. 
I  The  precaution  that  had  been  taken  to  account  for  his 
silence,  Mr.  Lorry  had  previously  explained  to  him,  and 
he  had  written  to  Lucie  in  accordance  with  it,  and  she 
had  no  suspicions. 

On  the  night  of  the  day  on  which  he  left  the  house, 
Mr.  Lorry  went  into  his  room  with  a  chopper,  saw,  chisel, 
and  hammer,  attended  by  Miss  Pross  carrying  a  light. 
There,  with  closed  doors,  and  in  a  mysterious  and  guilty 
manner,  Mr.  Lorry  hacked  the  shoemaker's  bench  to 
pieces,  while  Miss  Pross  held  the  candle,  as  if  she  were 
assisting  at  a  murder — for  which,  indeed,  in  her  grim- 
I  ness,  she  was  no  unsuitable  figure.    The  burning  of  the 
'  body  (previously  reduced  to  pieces  convenient  for  the 
purpose),  was  commenced  without  delay  in  the  kitchen 
I  fire  ;  and  the  tools,  shoes,  and  leather,  were  buried  in 
I  the  garden.    So  wicked  do  destruction  and  secrecy  ap- 
pear to  honest  minds,  that  Mr.  Lorry  and  Miss  Pross, 
while  engaged  in  the  commission  of  their  deed  and  in 
i  the  removal  of  its  traces,  almost  felt,  and  almost  looked, 
\  like  accomplices  in  a  horrible  crime. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


A  Plea. 


When  the  newly-married  pair  came  home,  the  first 
person  who  appeared,  to  offer  his  congratulations,  was 
Sydney  Carton.  They  had  not  been  at  home  many 
hours,  when  he  presented  himself.  He  was  not  improved 
in  habits,  or  in  looks,  or  in  manner  ;  but,  there  was  a 
certain  rugged  air  of  fidelity  about  him,  which  was  new 
to  the  observation  of  Charles  Darnay. 

He  watched  his  opportunity  of  taking  Darnay  aside 
into  a  window,  and  of  speaking  to  him  when  no  one  over- 
heard. 

"Mr.  Darnay,"  said  Carton,  "I  wish  we  might  be 
friends." 

"  We  are  already  friends,  I  hope." 

"You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  as  a  fashion  of 


speech  ;  but,  I  don't  mean  any  fashion  of  speech.  In- 
deed, when  I  say  I  wish  we  might  be  friends,  I  scarcely 
mean  quite  that,  either." 

Charles  Darnay — as  was  natural — asked  him,  in  all 
good  humour  and  good-fellowship,  what  he  did  mean  ? 

"Upon  my  life,"  said  Carton,  smiling,  "I  find  that 
easier  to  comprehend  in  my  own  mind,  than  to  convey  to 
yours.  However,  let  me  try.  You  remember  a  certain 
famous  occasion  when  I  was  more  drunk  than — than 
usual  ?" 

"I  remember  a  certain  famous  occasion  when  you. 
forced  me  to  confess  that  you  had  been  drinking." 

"  I  remember  it  too.  The  curse  of  those  occasions  is 
heavy  upon  me,  for  I  always  remember  them.  I  hope 
it  may  be  taken  into  account  one  day,  when  all  days  are 
at  an  end  for  me  ! — Don't  be  alarmed  ;  I  am  not  going 
to  preach." 

' '  I  am  not  at  all  alarmed.  Earnestness  in  you,  is  any- 
thing but  alarming  to  me." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Carton,  with  a  careless  wave  of  his  hand, 
as  if  he  waved  that  away.  "On  the  drunken  occasion 
in  question  (one  of  a  large  number,  as  you  know),  I  was 
insufferable  about  liking  you,  and  not  liking  you.  I  wish 
you  would  forget  it." 

"  I  forgot  it  long  ago." 

"  Fashion  of  speech  again  !  But,  Mr.  Darnay,  obli- 
vion is  not  so  easy  to  me,  as  you  represent  it  to  be  to 
you.  I  have  by  no  means  forgotten  it,  and  a  light  answer 
does  not  help  me  to  forget  it." 

"If  it  was  a  light  answer,"  returned  Darney,  "  I  beg 
your  forgiveness  for  it.  I  had  no  other  object  than  to 
turn  a  slight  thing,  which,  to  my  surprise,  seems  to 
trouble  you  too  much,  aside.  I  declare  to  you,  on  the 
faith  of  a  gentleman,  that  I  have  long  dismissed  it  from 
my  mind.  Good  Heaven,  what  was  there  to  dismiss  t 
Have  I  had  nothing  more  important  to  remember,  in  the 
great  service  you  rendered  me  that  day?" 

"As  to  the  great  service,"  said  Carton,  "  I  am  bound 
to  avow  to  you,  when  you  speak  of  it  in  that  way,  that 
it  was  mere  professional  clap-trap.  I  don't  know  that  I 
cared  what  became  of  you,  when  I  rendered  it. — Mind  f 
I  say  when  I  rendered  it ;  I  am  speaking  of  the  past." 

"  You  make  light  of  the  obligation,"  returned  Dar- 
nay, "  but  I  will  not  quarrel  with  your  light  answer." 

"  Genuine  truth,  Mr.  Darnay,  trust  me  !  I  have  gone 
aside  from  my  purpose  ;  I  was  speaking  about  our  being 
friends.  Now,  you  know  me  ;  you  know  I  am  incapable 
of  all  the  higher  and  better  flights  of  men.  If  you  doubt 
it,  ask  Stryver,  and  he'll  tell  you  so." 

"I  prefer  to  form  my  own  opinion,  without  the  aid  of 
his." 

"  Well  !  At  any  rate  you  know  me  as  a  dissolute  dog^ 
who  has  never  done  any  good,  and  never  will." 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  'never  will.^'* 

"  But  I  do,  and  you  must  take  my  word  for  it.  Well  I 
If  you  could  endure  to  have  such  a  worthless  fellow,  and 
a  fellow  of  such  indifferent  reputation,  coming  and  go- 
ing at  odd  times,  I  should  ask  that  I  might  be  permitted 
to  come  and  go  as  a  privileged  person  here  ;  that  I  might 
be  regarded  as  an  useless  (and  I  would  add,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  resemblance  I  detected  between  you  and  me, 
an  unornamental)  piece  of  furniture,  tolerated  for  its  old 
service,  and  taken  no  notice  of.  I  doubt  if  I  should 
abuse  the  permission.  It  is  a  hundred  to  one  if  I  should 
avail  myself  of  it  four  times  in  a  year.  It  would  satisfy 
me,  I  dare  say,  to  know  that  I  had  it." 

"Will  you  try?" 

"  That  "is  another  way  of  saying  that  I  am  placed  oa 
the  footing  I  have  indicated.  I  thank  you,  Darnay.  I 
may  use  that  freedom  with  your  name  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  Carton,  by  this  time." 

They  shook  hands  upon  it,  and  Sydney  turned  away. 
Within  a  minute  "afterwards,  he  was  to  all  outward 
appearance,  as  unsubstantial  as  ever. 

When  he  was  gone,  and  in  the  course  of  an  evening 
passed  with  Miss  Pross,  the  Doctor,  and  Mr.  Lorry, 
Charles  Darnay  made  some  mention  of  this  conversation 
in  general  terms,  and  spoke  of  Sydney  Carton  as  a 
problem  of  carelessness  and  recklessness.  He  spoke  of 
him,  in  short,  not  bitterly  or  meaning  to  bear  hard  upon 
him,  but  as  anybody  might  who  saw  him  as  be  showed 
himself. 


396 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


He  had  no  idea  that  this  could  dwell  in  the  thoughts 
of  his  fair  young  wife  ;  but,  when  he  afterwards  joined 
her  in  their  own  rooms,  he  found  her  waiting  for  him 
with  the  old  pretty  lifting  of  the  forehead  strongly 
marked. 

"  We  are  thoughtful  to-night  !  "  said  Darnay,  drawing 
his  arm  about  her. 
■  "  Yes,  dearest  Charles,"  with  her  hands  on  his  breast, 
and  the  inquiring  and  attentive  expression  fixed  upon 
him  ;  "we  are  rather  thoughtful  to-night,  for  we  have 
something  on  our  mind  to  night." 

"  What  is  it,  my  Lucie  ?  " 

"  Will  you  promise  not  to  press  one  question  on  me,  if 
I  beg  you  not  to  ask  it  ?  " 

**Will  I  promise?  What  will  I  not  promise  to  my 
Love  ? " 

What,  indeed,  with  his  hand  putting  aside  the  golden 
hair  from  the  cheek,  and  his  other  hand  against  the 
heart  that  beat  for  him  ! 

"  I  think,  Charles,  poor  Mr.  Carton  deserves  more 
consideration  and  respect  than  you  expressed  for  him  to- 
night." 

"  Indeed,  my  own  ?   Why  so  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  you  are  not  to  ask  me  ?  But  I  think — 
I  know — he  does. ' ' 

"  If  you  know  it,  it  is  enough.  What  would  you  have 
me  do,  my  Life  ?  " 

*'  I  would  ask  you,  dearest,  to  be  very  generous  with 
him  always,  and  very  lenient  on  his  faults  when  he  is 
not  by.  I  would  ask  you  to  believe  that  he  has  a  heart 
he  very,  very  seldom  reveals,  and  that  there  are  deep 
wounds  in  it.    My  dear,  I  have  seen  it  bleeding." 

"  It  is  a  painful  reflection  to  me,"  said  Charles  Darnay, 
quite  astounded,  "that  I  should  have  done  him  any 
wrong.    I  never  thought  this  of  him." 

"  My  husband,  it  is  so.  I  fear  he  is  not  to  be  reclaimed  ; 
there  is  scarcely  a  hope  that  anything  in  his  character 
or  fortunes  is  reparable  now.  But,  I  am  sure  that  he  is 
capable  of  good  things,  gentle  things,  even  magnanimous 
things." 

She  looked  so  beautiful  in  the  purity  of  her  faith  in 
this  lost  man,  that  her  husband  could  have  looked  at 
her  as  she  was,  for  hours. 

"And,  0  my  dearest  Love!"  she  urged,  clinging 
nearer  to  him,  laying  her  head  upon  his  breast,  and 
raising  her  eyes  to  his,  "  remember  how  strong  we  are 
in  our  happiness,  and  how  weak  he  is  in  his  misery  !  " 

The  supplication  touched  him  home.  "  I  will  always 
remember  it,  dear  Heart  I  I  will  remember  it  as  long  as 
I  live." 

He  bent  over  the  golden  head,  and  put  the  rosy  lips 
to  his,  and  folded  her  in  his  arms.  If  one  forlorn 
wanderer  then  pacing  the  dark  streets,  could  have  heard 
her  innocent  disclosure,  and  could  have  seen  the  drops 
of  pity  kissed  away  by  her  husband,  from  the  soft  blue 
eyes  so  loving  of  that  husband,  he  might  have  cried  to 
the  night — and  the  words  would  not  have  parted  from 
his  lips  for  the  first  time — 

"  God  bless  her  for  her  sweet  compassion  I  '* 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Echoing  Footsteps, 

A  WONDERFUL  corner  for  echoes,  it  has  been  remarked, 
that  corner  where  the  Doctor  lived.  Ever  busily  winding 
the  golden  thread  which  bound  her  husband,  and  her 
father,  and  herself,  and  her  old  directress  and  companion, 
in  a  life  of  quiet  bliss,  Lucie  sat  in  the  still  house  in  the 
tranquility  resounding  corner  listening  to  the  echoeing 
footsteps  of  years. 

At  first,  there  were  times,  though  she  was  a  perfectly 
happy  young  wife,  when  her  work  would  slowly  fall 
from  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  would  be  dimmed.  For 
there  was  something  coming  in  the  echoes,  something 
Mght,  afar  off,  and  scarcely  audible  yet,  that  stirred  her 
heart  too  much.  Fluttering  hopes  and  doubts — hopes, 
of  a  love  as  yet  unknown  to  her  ;  doubts,  of  her  remain- 
ing upon  earth,  to  enjoy  that  new  delight — divided  her 
breast.    Among  the  echoes  then,  there  would  arise  the 


sound  of  footsteps  at  her  own  early  grave  ;  and  thoughts 
of  the  husband  who  would  be  left  so  desolate,  and  who 
would  mourn  for  her  so  much,  swelled  to  her  eyes  and 
broke  like  waves. 

That  time  passed,  and  her  little  Lucie  lay  on  her  bosom. 
Then,  among  the  advancing  echoes,  there  was  the 
tread  of  her  tiny  feet  and  the  sound  of  her  prattling 
words.  Let  greater  echoes  resound  as  they  would,  the 
young  mother  at  the  cradle  side  could  always  hear  those 
coming.  They  came,  and  the  shady  house  was  sunny 
with  a  child's  laugh,  and  the  Divine  friend  of  children, 
to  whom  in  her  trouble  she  bad  confided  hers,  seemed 
to  take  her  child  in  his  arms,  as  He  took  the  child  of 
old,  and  made  it  a  sacred  joy  to  her. 

Ever  busily  winding  the  golden  thread  that  bound 
them  all  together,  weaving  the  service  of  her  happy  in- 
fluence  through  the  tissue  of  all  their  lives,  and  making 
it  predominate  nowhere.  Lucie  heard  in  the  echoes  of 
years  none  but  friendly  and  soothing  sounds.  Her  hus- 
band's step  was  strong  and  prosperous  among  them  ;  her 
father's,  firm  and  equal.  Lo,  Miss  Press,  in  harness  of 
string,  awakening  the  echoes,  as  an  unruly  charger, 
whip-corrected,  snorting  and  pawing  the  earth  under  the 
plane-tree  in  the  garden  1 

Even  when  there  were  sounds  of  sorrow  among  the 
rest,  they  were  not  harsh  nor  cruel.  Even  when  golden 
hair,  like  her  own,  lay  in  a  halo,  on  a  pillow  round  the 
worn  face  of  a  little  boy,  and  he  said,  with  a  radiant 
smile,  "  Dear  papa  and  mamma,  I  am  very  sorry  to  leave 
you  both,  and  to  leave  my  pretty  sister  ;  but  I  am  called, 
and  I  must  go  1 "  those  were  not  tears  all  of  agony  that 
wetted  his  young  mother's  cheek,  as  the  spirit  departed 
from  her  embrace  that  had  been  entrusted  to  it.  Suffer 
them  and  forbid  them  not.  They  see  my  Father's  face. 
0  Father,  blessed  words  ! 

Thus,  the  rustling  of  an  Angel's  wings  got  blended 
with  the  other  echoes,  and  they  were  not  wholly  of  earth, 
but  had  in  them  that  breath  of  Heaven.  Sighs  of  the 
winds  that  blew  over  a  little  garden-tomb  were  mingled 
with  them  also,  and  both  were  audible  to  Lucie,  in  a 
hushed  murmur — like  the  breathing  of  a  summer  sea 
asleep  upon  a  sandy  shore — as  the  little  Lucie,  comically 
studious  at  the  task  of  the  morning,  or  dressing  a  doll  at 
her  mother's  footstool,  chattered  in  the  tongues  of  the 
Two  Cities  that  were  blended  in  her  life. 

The  echoes  rarely  answered  to  the  actual  tread  of 
Sydney  Carton.  Some  half-dozen  times  a  year,  at  most, 
he  claimed  his  privilege  of  coming  in  uninvited,  and 
would  sit  among  them  through  the  evening  as  he  had 
once  done  often.  He  never  came  there,  heated  with 
wine.  And  one  other  thing  regarding  him  was  whisp- 
ered in  the  echoes,  which  has  been  whispered  by  all  true 
echoers  for  ages  and  ages. 

No  man  ever  really  loved  a  woman,  lost  her,  and  knew 
her  with  a  blameless  though  an  unchanged  mind,  when 
she  was  a  wife  and  a  mother,  but  her  children  had  a 
strange  sympathy  with  him — an  instinctive  delicacy  of 
pity  for  him.  What  fine  hidden  sensibilities  are  touched 
in  such  a  case,  no  echoes  tell ;  but  it  is  so,  and  it  was  so 
here.  Carton  was  the  first  stranger  to  whom  little  Lu- 
cie held  out  her  chubby  arms,  and  he  kept  his  place 
with  her  as  she  grew.  The  little  boy  had  spoken  of 
him,  almost  at  the  last.  "Poor  Carton  !  Kiss  him  for 
me  !  " 

Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his  way  through  the  law,  like 
some  great  engine  forcing  itself  through  turbid  water, 
and  dragged  his  useful  friend  in  his  wake,  like  a  boat 
towed  astern.  As  the  boat  so  favored  is  usually  in  a 
rough  plight  and  mostly  under  water,  so  Sydney  had  a 
swamped  life  of  it.  But,  easy  and  strong  custom,  un- 
happily so  much  easier  and  stronger  in  him  than  any 
stimulating  sense  of  desert  or  disgrace,  made  it  the  life 
he  was  to  lead  ;  and  he  no  more  thought  of  emerging 
from  his  state  of  lion's  jackal,  than  any  real  jackal  may 
be  supposed  to  think  of  rising  to  be  a  lion.  Stryver  was 
rich  ;  had  married  a  florid  widow  with  property  and 
three  boys,  who  had  nothing  particularly  shining  about 
them  but  the  straight  hair  of  their  dumpling  heads. 

These  three  young  gentleman.  Mr.  Stryver,  exuding 
patronage  of  the  most  offensive  quality  from  every  pore, 
had  walked  before  him,  like  three  sheeif,  to  the  quiet 
corner  in-Soho,  and  had  offered  as  pupils  to  Lucie's  hus- 


A  TALE  OF 

baud  :  delicately  saying,  "Halloa  !  here  are  three  lumps 
of  bread-and-cheese  towards  your  matrimonial  pic-nic, 
Darnay  !  "  The  polite  rejection  of  the  three  lumps  of 
bread-and-cheese  had  quite  bloated  Mr.  Stryver  with  in- 
dignation, which  he  afterwards  turned  to  account  in  the 
training  of  the  young  gentlemen,  by  directing  them  to 
beware  of  the  pride  of  Beggars,  like  that  tutor-fellow. 
He  was  also  in  the  habit  of  declaiming  to  Mrs.  Stryver, 
over  his  full-bodied  wine,  on  the  arts  Mrs.  Darnay  had 
once  put  in  practice  to  "  catch"  him,  and  oh  the  dia- 
mond-cut-diamond arts  in  himself,  madam,  which  had 
rendered  him  "  not  to  be  caught."  Some  of  his  King's 
Bench  familiars,  who  were  occasionally  parties  to  the 
full-bodied  wine  and  the  lie,  excused  him  for  the  latter 
by  saying  that  he  had  told  it  so  often,  that  he  believed 
it  himself — which  is  surely  such  an  incorrigible  aggrava- 
tion of  an  originally  bad  offence,  as  to  justify  any  such 
offender's  being  carried  off  to  some  suitable  retired  spot 
and  there  hanged  out  of  the  way. 

These  were  among  the  echoes  to  which  Lucie,  some- 
times pensive,  sometimes  amused  and  laughing,  listened 
in  the  echoing  corner,  until  her  little  daughter  was  six 
years  old.  How  near  to  her  heart  the  echoes  of  her 
child's  tread  came,  and  those  of  her  own  dear  father's, 
always  active  and  self-possessed,  and  those  of  her  dear 
husband's,  need  not  be  told.  Nor,  how  the  lightest  echo 
of  their  united  home,  directed  by  herself  with  such  a 
wise  and  elegant  thrift  that  it  was  more  abundant  than 
any  waste,  was  music  to  her.  Nor,  how  there  were 
echoes  all  about  her,  sweet  in  her  ears,  of  the  many 
times  her  father  had  told  her  that  he  found  her  more  de- 
voted to  him  married  (if  that  could  be)  than  single,  and 
of  the  many  times  her  husband  had  said  to  her  that  no 
cares  and  duties  seemed  to  divide  her  love  for  him  or 
her  help  to  him,  and  asked  her  "  What  is  the  magic 
secret,  my  darling,  of  your  being  everything  to  all  of  us, 
as  if  there  were  only  one  of  us,  yet  never  seeming  to  be 
hurried,  or  to  have  too  much  to  do  ? " 

But,  there  were  other  echoes,  from  a  distance,  that 
rumbled  menacingly  in  the  corner  all  through  this  space 
of  time.  And  it  was  now,  about  little  Lucie's  sixth 
birthday,  that  they  began  to  have  an  awful  sound,  as  of 
a  great  storm  in  France  with  a  dreadful  sea  rising. 

On  a  night  in  mid  July,  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  eighty-nine,  Mr.  Lorry  came  in  late,  from  Tellson's, 
and  sat  himself  down  by  Lucie  and  her  husband  in  the 
dark  window.  It  was  a  hot  wild  night,  and  they  were  all 
three  reminded  of  the  old  Sunday  night  when  they  had 
looked  at  the  lightning  from  the  same  place. 

"  I  began  to  think,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  pushing  his  brown 
wig  back,  "  that  I  should  have  to  pass  the  night  at  Tell- 
son's. We  have  been  so  full  of  business  all  day,  that  we 
have  not  known  what  to  do  first,  or  which  way  to  turn. 
There  is  such  an  uneasiness  in  Paris,  that  we  have  actu- 
ally a  run  of  confidence  upon  us  !  Our  customers  over 
there,  seem  not  to  be  able  to  confide  their  property  to  us 
fast  enough.  There  is  positively  a  mania  among  some  of 
them  for  sending  it  to  England." 

"  That  has  a  bad  look,"  said  Darnay. 

"  A  bad  look,  you  say,  my  dear  Darnay  ?  Yes,  but  we 
don't  know  what  reason  there  is  in  it.  People  are  so  un- 
reasonable !  Some  of  us  at  Tellson's  are  getting  old,  and 
we  really  can't  be  troubled  out  of  the  ordinary  course 
without  due  occasion." 

"Still,"  said  Darnay,  "you  know  how  gloomy  and 
threatening  the  sky  is." 

"I  know  that,  to  be  sure,"  assented  Mr.  Lorry,  trying 
to  persuade  himself  that  his  sweet'  temper  was  soured, 
and  that  he  grumbled,  "but  I  am  determined  to  be  peev- 
ish after  my  long  day's  botheration.  Where  is  Ma- 
nette  ?  " 

"  Here  he  is  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  entering  the  dark  room 
at  the  moment, 

"  I  am  quite  glad  you  are  at  home  ;  for  these  hurries 
and  forebodings  by  which  I  have  been  surrounded  all 
day  long,  have  made  me  nervous  without  reason.  You 
are  not  going  out,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  am  going  to  play  backgammon  with  you,  if  you 
like,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  1  don't  think  I  do  like,  if  I  may  speak  my  mind,  I 
am  not  fit  to  be  pitted  against  vou  to-night.  Is  the  tea- 
board  still  there,  Lucie  ?    I  can't  see." 


TWO  CITIES.  397 

"  Of  course,  it  has  been  kept  for  you." 
' '  Thank  ye,  my  dear.    The  precious  child  is  safe  in 
bed?" 

"  And  sleeping  soundly," 

"  That's  right ;  all  safe  and  well  !  I  don't  know  why 
anything  should  be  otherwise  than  safe  and  well  here, 
thank  God  ;  but  I  have  been  so  put  out  all  day,  and  I  am 
not  as  young  as  I  was  !  My  tea,  my  dear  ?  Thank  ye. 
Now,  come  and  take  your  place  in  the  circle,  and  lei  us 
sit  quiet,  and  hear  the  echoes  about  which  you  have  your 
theory." 

"  Not  a  theory  ;  it  was  a  fancy." 

"  A  fancy,  then,  my  wise  pet,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  patting 
her  hand.  "  They  are  very  numerous  and  very  loud, 
though,  are  they  not  ?   Only  hear  them  ! " 

Headlong  mad  and  dangerous  footsteps  to  force  their 
way  into  anybody's  life,  footsteps  not  easily  made  clean 
again  if  once  stained  red,  the  footsteps  raging  in  Saint 
Antoine  afar  off,  as  the  little  circle  sat  in  the  dark  Lon- 
don window. 

Saint  Antoine  had  been,  that  morning,  a  vast  dusky 
mass  of  scarecrows  heaving  to  and  fro,  with  frequent 
gleams  of  light  above  the  billowy  heads,  where  steel 
blades  and  bayonets  shone  in  the  sun.  A  tremendous 
roar  arose  from  the  throat  of  Saint  Antoine,  and  a  forest 
of  naked  arms  struggled  in  the  air  like  shrivelled  branches 
of  trees  in  a  winter  wind  :  all  the  fingers  convulsively 
clutching  at  every  weapon  or  semblance  of  a  weapon  that 
was  thrown  up  from  the  depths  below,  no  matter  how  far 
off. 

Who  gave  them  out,  whence  they  last  came,  where 
they  began,  through  what  agency  they  crookedly  quiv- 
ered and  jerked,  scores  at  a  time,  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd,  like  a  kind  of  lightning,  no  eye  in  the  throng  could 
have  told  ;  but,  muskets  were  being  distributed — so  were 
cartridges,  powder,  and  ball,  bars  of  iron  and  wood, 
knives,  axes,  pikes,  every  weapon  that  distracted  inge- 
nuity could  discover  or  devise.  People  who  could  lay 
hold  of  nothing  else,  set  themselves  with  bleeding  hands 
to  force  stones  and  bricks  out  of  their  places  in  walls. 
Every  pulse  and  heart  in  Saint  Antoine  was  on  high-fever 
strain  and  at  high-fever  heat.  Every  living  creature 
there,  held  life  as  of  no  account,  and  was  demented  with 
a  passionate  readiness  to  sacrifice  it. 

As  a  whirlpool  of  boiling  waters  as  a  centre  point,  so, 
all  this  raging  circled  round  Defarge's  wine-shop,  and 
every  human  drop  in  the  caldron  had  a  tendency  to  be 
sucked  towards  the  vortex  where  Defarge  himself,  al- 
ready begrimed  with  gunpowder  and  sweat,  issued  or- 
ders, issued  arms,  thrust  this  man  back,  dragged  this 
I  man  forward,  disarmed  one  to  arm  another,  laboured  and 
strove  in  the  thickest  of  the  uproar. 

"Keep  near  to  me,  Jacques  Three,"  cried  Defarge; 
"and  do  you,  Jacques  One  and  Two,  separate  and  put 
yourselves  at  the  head  of  as  many  of  these  patriots  as 
you  can.    Where  is  my  wife  ?  " 

"Eh,  well  !  Here  you  see  me  !"  said  madame,  com- 
posed as  ever,  but  not  knitting  to-day.  Madame's  reso- 
lute right  hand  was  occupied  with  an  axe,  in  place  of 
the  usual  softer  implements,  and  in  her  girdle  were  a 
pistol  and  a  cruel  knive. 

"  Where  do  you  go,  my  wife  ?  " 

"  I  go,"  said  madam ei^'  with  you,  at  present.  You 
shall  see  me  at  the  head  of  women,  by-and-by." 

"  Come,  then  !"  cried  Defarge,  in  a  resounding  voice. 
"  Patriots  and  friends,  we  are  ready  !    The  Bastille  ! " 

With  a  roar  that  sounded  as  if  all  the  breath  in  France 
had  been  shaped  into  the  detested  word,  the  living  sea 
rose,  wave  on  wave,  depth  on  depth,  and  overflowed  the 
city  to  that  point.  Alarm-bells  ringing,  drums  beating, 
the  sea  raging  and  thundering  on  its  new  beach,  the  at- 
tack begun. 

Deep  ditches,  double  drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls, 
eight  great  towers,  cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke. 
Through  the  fire  and  through  the  smoke — in  the  fire  and 
in  the  smoke,  for  the  sea  cast  him  up  against  a  cannon, 
and  on  the  instant  he  became  a  cannonier — Defarge  of 
the  wine-shop  worked  like  a  manful  soldier.  Two  fierce 
hours. 

Deep  ditch,  single  drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls, 
eight  great  towers,  cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke. 


398 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


One  drawbridge  down  !  "  Work,  comrades  all,  work  ! 
Work,  Jacques  One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  One  Thou- 
sand, Jacques  Two  Thousand,  Jacques  Five-and-Twenty 
Thousand  ;  in  the  name  of  all  the  angels  or  the  devils — 
which  you  prefer — work  !  "  Thus  Defarge  of  the  wine- 
shop, still  at  his  gun,  which  had  long  grown  hot. 

"  To  me,  women  ! "  cried  madame  his  wife.  "  What! 
We  can  kill  as  well  as  the  men  when  the  place  is 
taken  !  "  And  to  her,  with  a  shrill  thirsty  cry,  trooping 
women  variously  armed,  but  all  armed  alike  in  hunger 
and  revenge. 

Cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke  ;  but,  still  the  deep 
ditch,  the  single  drawbridge,  the  massive  stone  walls, 
and  the  eight  great  towers.  Slight  displacements  of  the 
raging  sea,  made  by  the  falling  wounded.  Flashing 
weapons,  blazing  torches,  smoking  wagon-loads  of  wet 
straw,  hard  work  at  neighbouring  barricades  in  all  di- 
rections, shrieks,  volleys,  execrations,  bravery  without 
stint,  boom  smash  and  rattle,  and  the  furious  sounding  of 
the  living  sea  ;  but,  still  the  deep  ditch,  and  the  single 
drawbridge,  and  the  massive  stone  walls,  and  the  eight 
great  towers,  and  still  Defarge  of  the  wine-shop  at  his 
gun,  grown  doubly  hot  by  the  service  of  Four  fierce  hours. 

A  white  flag  from  within  the  fortress,  and  a  parley — 
this  dimly  perceptible  through  the  raging  storm,  nothing 
audible  in  it — suddenly  the  sea  rose  immeasurably 
wider  and  higher,  and  swept  Defarge  of  the  wine-shop 
over  the  lowered  drawbridge,  past  the  massive  stone 
outer  walls,  in  among  the  eight  great  towers  surren- 
dered ! 

So  resistless  was  the  force  of  the  ocean  bearing  him 
on,  that  even  to  draw  his  breath  or  turn  his  head  was  as 
impracticable  as  if  he  had  been  struggling  in  the  surf  of 
the  South  Sea,  until  he  was  landed  in  the  outer  court- 
yard of  the  Bastille.  There,  against  an  angle  of  a  wall, 
he  made  a  struggle  to  look  about  him.  Jacques  Three 
was  nearly  at  his  side ;  Madame  Defarge  still  heading 
some  of  her  women,  was  visible  in  the  inner  distance, 
and  her  knife  was  in  her  hand.  Everywhere  was  tu- 
mult, exultation,  deafening  and  maniacal  bewilderment, 
astounding  noise,  yet  furious  dumbshow. 

"  The  Prisoners  !  " 

"  The  Records  ?  " 

^'  The  secret  cells  !" 

"  The  instruments  of  torture  !  " 

*'  The  Prisoners  !  " 

Of  all  these  cries,  and  ten  thousand  incoherencies, 
"  The  Prisoners  !"  was  the  cry  most  taken  up  by  the 
sea  that  rushed  in,  as  if  there  were  an  eternity  of  peo- 
ple, as  well  as  of  time  and  space.  When  the  foremost  bil- 
lows rolled  past,  bearing  the  prison  ofl&cers  with  them, 
and  threatening  them  all  with  instant  death  if  any  secret 
nook  remained  undisclosed,  Defarge  laid  his  strong  hand 
on  the  breast  of  one  these  men — a  man  with  a  grey  head 
who  had  a  lighted  torch  in  his  hand — separated  him 
from  the  rest,  and  got  him  between  himself  and  the 
wall. 

"  Show  me  the  North  Tower  ! "  said  Defarge. 
"Quick  !" 

"I  will  faithfully,"  replied  the  man,  "if  you  will 
come  with  me.    But  there  is  no  one  there." 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  One  Hundred  and  Five, 
North  Tower?"  asked  Defarge.    "  Quick  !" 

' '  The  meaning,  monsieur  ? 

"  Does  it  mean  a  captive,  or  a  place  of  captivity?  Or 
do  you  mean  that  I  shall  strike  you  dead  ?  " 

"  Kill  him  !  "  croaked  Jacques  Three,  who  had  come 
close  up. 

"  Monsieur,  it  is  a  cell." 

"  Show  it  me  !" 

"Pass  this  way,  then." 

Jacques  Three,  with  his  usual  craving  on  him,  and 
evidently  disappointed  by  the  dialogue  taking  a  turn 
that  did  not  seem  to  promise  bloodshed,  held  by  De- 
farge's  arm  as  he  held  by  the  turnkey's.  Their  three 
heads  had  been  close  together  during  this  brief  dis- 
course, and  it  had  been  as  much  as  they  could  do  to  hear 
one  another,  even  then  :  so  tremendous  was  the  noise  of 
the  living  ocean,  in  its  irruption  into  the  Fortress,  and 
its  inundation  of  the  courts  and  passages  and  staircases. 
All  around,  outside,  too,  it  beat  the  walls  with  a  deep, 
hoarse  roar,  from  which,  occasionally,   some  partial 


shouts  of  tumult  broke  and  leaped  into  the  air  like 
spray. 

Through  gloomy  vaults  where  the  light  of  day  had 
never  shone,  past  hideous  doors  of  dark  dens  and  cages, 
down  cavernous  flights  of  steps,  and  again  up  steep  rug- 
ged ascents  of  stone  and  brick,  more  like  dry  waterfalls 
than  staircases,  Defarge,  the  turnkey,  and  Jacques  Three, 
linked  hand  and  arm,  went  with  all  the  speed  they 
could  make.  Here  and  there,  especially  at  first,  the  in- 
undation started  on  them  and  swept  by  ;  but  when  they 
had  done  descending,  and  were  winding  and  climbing  up 
a  tower,  they  were  alone.  Hemmed  in  here  by  the  mass- 
ive thickness  of  walls  and  arches,  the  storm  within  the 
fortress  and  without  was  only  audible  to  them  in  a  dull, 
subdued  way,  as  if  the  noise  out  of  which  they  had 
come  had  almost  destroyed  their  sense  of  hearing, 
j  The  turnkey  stopped  at  a  low  door,  put  a  key  in  a 
I  clashing  lock,  swung  the  door  slowly  open,  and  said,  as 
they  all  bent  their  heads  and  passed  in  : 

"  One  hundred  and  five.  North  Tower  !" 

There  was  a  small  heavily-grated  unglazed  window 
high  in  the  wall,  with  a  stone  screen  before  it,  so  that 
the  sky  could  be  only  seen  by  stooping  low  and  looking 
up.  There  was  a  small  chimney,  heavily  barred  across, 
a  few  feet  within.  There  was  a  heap  of  old  feathery 
wood  ashes  on  the  hearth.  There  were  a  stool,  and 
table,  and  a  straw  bed.  There  were  the  four  blackened 
walls,  and  a  rusted  iron  ring  in  one  of  them. 

"  Pass  that  torch  slowly  along  these  walls,  that  I  may 
see  them,"  said  Defarge  to  the  turnkey. 

The  man  obeyed,  and  Defarge  followed  the  light 
closely  with  his  eyes. 

"  Stop  ! — Look  here,  Jacques  ! " 

"A.  M.  !"  croaked  Jacques  Three,  as  he  read 
greedily. 

"  Alexandre  Manette,"  said  Defarge  in  his  ear,  fol- 
lowing the  letters  with  his  swart  forefinger,  deeply  en- 
grained with  gunpowder.  "  And  here  he  wrote  *  a  poor 
physician.'  And  it  was  he,  without  doubt,  who  scratched 
a  calendar  on  this  stone.  What  is  that  in  your  hand  1 
A  crowbar  ?    Give  it  me  !  " 

He  had  still  the  linstock  of  his  gun  in  his  own  hand. 
He  made  a  sudden  exchange  of  the  two  instruments, 
and  turning  on  the  wormeaten  stool  and  table,  beat 
them  to  pieces  in  a  few  blows. 

"  Hold  the  light  higher  !  "  he  said  wrathfully,  to  the 
turnkey.  "Look  among  those  fragments  with  care, 
Jacques.  And  see  !  Here  is  my  knife,"  throwing  it  to 
him  ;  "  rip  open  that  bed,  and  search  the  straw.  Hold 
the  light  higher,  you  !  " 

With  a  menacing  look  at  the  turnkey  he  crawled  upon 
the  hearth,  and,  peering  up  the  chimney,  struck  and 
prised  at  its  sides  with  the  crowbar,  and  worked  at  the 
iron  grating  across  it.  In  a  few  minutes,  some  mortar 
and  dust  came  dropping  down,  which  he  averted  his  face 
to  avoid  ;  and  in  it,  and  in  the  old  wood-ashes,  and  in  a 
crevice  in  the  chimney  into  which  his  weapon  had  slip- 
ped or  wrought  itself,  he  groped  with  a  cautious  touch. 

"  Nothing  in  the  wood,  and  nothing  in  the  straw, 
Jacques  ? " 

' '  Nothing. " 

"  Let  us  collect  them  together,  in  the  middle  of  the 
cell.    So  !    Light  them,  you  !  " 

The  turnkey  fired  the  little  pile,  which  blazed  high 
and  hot.  Stooping  again  to  come  out  of  the  low-arched 
door,  they  left  it  burning,  and  retraced  their  way  to  the 
court-yard  :  seeming  to  recover  their  sense  of  hearing  as 
they  came  down,  until  they  were  in  the  raging  flood 
once  more. 

They  found  it  surging  and  tossing,  in  quest  of  De- 
farge himself.  Saint  Antoine  was  clamorous  to  have  its 
wine-shop-keeper  foremost  in  the  guard  upon  the  gov- 
ernor who  had  defended  the  Bastille  and  shot  the  peo- 
ple. Otherwise,  the  governor  would  not  be  marched  to 
the  H6tel  de  Ville  for  judgment.  Otherwise,  the  gov- 
ernor would  escape,  and  the  people's  blood  (suddenly  of 
some  value,  after  many  years  of  worthlessness)  be  un- 
avenged. 

In  the  howling  universe  of  passion  and  contention  that 
seemed  to  encompass  this  grim  old  ofiicer  conspicuous  in 
his  grey  coat  and  red  decoration,  there  was  but  one  quite 
steady  figure,  and  that  was  a  woman's.     "  See,  there  is 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


399 


my  husband  !  "  she  cried,  pointing  him  out.  * '  See  De- 
farge  !  "  She  stood  immovable  close  to  the  grim  old  of- 
ficer, and  remained  immovable  close  to  him  ;  remained 
immovable  close  to  him  through  the  streets,  as  Defarge 
and  the  rest  bore  him  along ;  remained  immovable  close 
to  him  when  he  was  got  near  his  destination,  and  began 
to  be  struck  at  from  behind  ;  remained  immovable  close 
to  him  when  the  long-gathering  rain  of  stabs  and  blows 
fell  heavy ;  was  so  close  to  him  when  he  dropped  dead 
under  it,  that,  suddenly  animated,  she  put  her  foot  upon 
his  neck,  and  with  her  cruel  knife — long  ready — hewed 
off  his  head 

The  hour  was  come,  when  St.  Autoine  was  to  execute 
liis  horrible  idea  of  hoisting  up  men  for  lamps  to  show 
what  he  could  be  and  do.  Saint  Antoine's  blood  was  up, 
and  the  blood  of  tyranny  and  domination  by  the  iron 
hand  was  down — down  on  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de 
Ville  where  the  governor's  body  lay — down  on  the  sole 
of  the  shoe  of  Madame  Defarge  where  she  had  trodden 
on  the  body  to  steady  it  for  mutilation.  "Lower  the 
lamp  yonder  !  "  cried  Saint  Antoine,  after  glaring  round 
for  a  new  means  of  death  :  "  here  is  one  of  the  soldiers 
to  be  left  on  guard  !  "  The  swinging  sentinel  was  post- 
ed, and  the  sea  rushed  on. 

The  sea  of  black  and  threatening  waters,  and  of  de- 
structive upheaving  of  wave  against  wave,  whose 
depths  were  yet  unfathomed  and  whose  forces  were  yet 
unknown.  The  remorseless  sea  of  turbulently  swaying 
shapes,  voices  of  vengeance,  and  faces  hardened  in  the 
furnaces  of  suffering  until  the  touch  of  pity  could  make 
DO  mark  on  them. 

But,  in  the  ocean  of  faces  where  every  fierce  and  furi- 
ous expression  was  in  vivid  life,  there  were  two  groups  of 
faces — each  seven  in  number — so  fixedly  contrasting  with 
the  rest,  that  never  did  sea  roll  which  bore  more  memor- 
able wrecks  with  it.  Seven  faces  of  prisoners,  suddenly 
released  by  the  storm  that  had  burst  their  tomb,  were 
carried  high  over  head  :  all  scared,  all  lost,  all  wonder- 
ing and  amazed,  as  if  the  Last  Day  were  come,  and 
those  who  rejoiced  around  them  were  lost  spirits.  Other 
seven  faces  there  were,  carried  higher,  seven  dead  faces, 
whose  drooping  eyelids  and  half-seen  eyes  awaited  the 
Last  Day.  Impassive  faces,  yet  with  a  suspended — not 
an  abolished — expression  on  them  ;  faces,  rather,  in  a 
fearful  pause,  as  having  yet  to  raise  the  dropped  lids  of 
the  eyes,  and  bear  witness  with  the  bloodless  lips, 
"  Thou  didst  it  ! " 

Seven  prisoners  released,  seven  gory  heads  on  pikes, 
the  keys  of  the  accursed  fortress  of  the  eight  strong 
towers,  some  discovered  letters  and  other  memorials  of 
prisoners  of  old  time,  long  dead  of  broken  hearts, — 
such,  and  such-like,  the  loudly  echoing  footsteps  of 
Saint  Antoine  escort  through  the  Paris  streets  in  mid- 
July,  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty-nine. 
Now,  Heaven  defeat  the  fancy  of  Lucie  Darnay,  and 
keep  these  feet  far  out  of  her  life  !  For,  they  are  head- 
long, mad,  and  dangerous  ;  and  in  the  years  so  long 
after  the  iDreaking  of  the  cask  at  Defarge's  wine-shop 
door,  they  are  not  easily  purified  when  once  stained  red. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


The  Sea  Still  Rises. 


Haggard  Saint  Antoine  had  had  only  one  exultant 
week,  in  which  to  soften  his  modicum  of  hard  and  bit- 
ter bread  to  such  extent  as  he  could,  with  the  relish  of 
fraternal  embraces  and  congratulations,  when  Madame 
Defarge  sat  at  at  her  counter,  as  usual,  presiding  over 
the  customers.  Madame  Defarge  wore  no  rose  in  her 
head,  for  the  great  brotherhood  of  Spies,  had  become, 
even  in  one  snort  week,  extremely  chary  of  trusting 
themselves  to  the  saint's  mercies.  The  lamps  across 
his  streets  had  a  portentously  elastic  swing  with  them. 

Madame  Defarge,  with  her  arms  folded,  sat  in  the 
morning  light  and  heat,  contemplating  the  wine-shop  and 
the  street.  In  both,  were  several  knots  of  loungers, 
squalid  and  miserable,  but  now  with  a  manifest  sense  of 
power  enthroned  on  their  distress.  The  raggedest  night- 
cap, awry  on  the  wretchedest  head,  had  this  crooked 


significance  in  it  :  "I  know  how  hard  it  has  grown 
for  me,  the  wearer  of  this,  to  support  life  in  myself  ; 
but  do  you  know  how  easy  it  has  grown  for  me,  the  wearer 
of  this,  to  destroy  life  in  you  ?  "  Every  lean  bare  arm, 
that  had  been  without  work  before,  had  this  work  al- 
ways ready  for  it  now,  that  it  could  strike.    The  fingers 

j  of  the  knitting  women  were  vicious,  with  the  experience 
that  they  could  tear.  There  was  a  change  in  the  appear- 
ance of  Saint  Antoine  ;  the  image  had  been  hammering 
into  this  for  hundreds  of  years,  and  the  last  finishing 

j  blows  had  told  mightly  on  the  expression. 

I  Madame  Defarge  sat  observing  it,  with  such  suppressed 
approval  as  was  to  be  desired  in  the  leader  of  the  Saint 
Antoine  women.  One  of  her  sisterhood  knitted  beside 
her.  The  short,  rather  plump  wife  of  a  starved  grocer, 
and  the  mother  of  two  children  withal,  this  lieutenant 
had  already  earned  the  complimentary  name  of  The 
Vengeance. 

"  Hark  ! "  said  The  Vengeance.  Listen,  then  !  Who 
comes  ?  " 

As  if  a  train  of  powder  laid  from  the  outermost  bound 
of  the  Saint  Antoine  Quarter  to  the  wine-shop  door,  had 
been  suddenly  fired,  a  fast-spreading  murmur  came  rush- 
ing along. 

"  It  is  Defarge,"  said  madame.    "  Silence,  patriots  !  " 

Defarge  came  in  breathless,  pulled  off  a  red  cap  he 
wore,  and  looked  around  him  !  "  Listen,  everywhere  !" 
said  madame  again  !  ' '  Listen  to  him  ! "  Defarge  stood, 
panting,  against  a  background  of  eager  eyes  and  open 
mouths,  formed  outside  the  door ;  all  those  within  the 
wine-shop,  had  sprung  to  their  feet. 

"  Say  then,  my  husband.    What  is  it  ?  " 

"  News  from  the  other  world  ! " 

"  How,  then  ? "  cried  madame,  contemptuously.  "The 
other  world  ?  " 

"  Does  everybody  here  recal  old  Foulon  who  told  the 
famished  people  that  they  might  eat  grass,  and  who  died, 
and  went  to  Hell  ?  " 

"  Everybody  !  "  from  all  throats. 

"  The  news  is  of  him.    He  is  among  us  ! " 

"  Among  us  ! "  from  the  universal  throat  again.  "  And 
dead  ?  " 

**  Not  dead  !  He  feared  us  so  much — and  with  reason 
— that  he  caused  himself  to  be  represented  as  dead,  and 
had  a  grand  mock-funeral.  But  they  have  found  him 
alive,  hiding  in  the  country,  and  have  brought  him  in. 
I  have  seen  him  but  now,  on  his  way  to  the  Hotel  De 
Ville,  a  prisoner..  I  have  said  that  he  had  reason  to  fear 
us.    Say  all  !    Had  he  reason  ?  " 

Wretched  old  sinner  of  more  than  threescore  years 
and  ten,  if  he  had  never  known  it  yet,  he  would  have 
known  it  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  if  he  could  have  heard  the 
answering  cry. 

A  moment  of  profound  silence  followed.  Defarge  and 
his  wife  looked  steadfastly  at  one  another.  The  Ven- 
geance stooped,  and  the  jar  of  a  drum  was  heard  as  she 
moved  it  at  her  feet  behind  the  counter. 

"  Patriots  1 "  said  Defarge,  in  a  determined  voice,  "  are 
we  ready  ?  " 

Instantly  Madame  Defarge's  knife  was  in  her  girdle  ; 
the  drum  was  beating  in  the  streets,  as  if  it  and  a  drum- 
mer had  flown  together  by  magic  ;  and  The  Vengeance, 
uttering  terrific  shrieks,  and  flinging  her  arms  about  her 
head  like  all  the  forty  Furies  at  once,  was  tearing  from 
house  to  house,  rousing  the  women. 

The  men  were  terrible,  in  the  bloody-minded  anger 
with  which  they  looked  from  windows,  caught  up  what 
arms  they  had,  and  came  pouring  down  into  the  streets  ; 
but,  ,the  women  were  a  sight  to  chill  the  boldest.  From 
such  household  occupations  as  their  bare  poverty  yielded, 
from  their  children,  from  their  aged  and  their  sick  crouch- 
ing on  the  bare  ground  famished  and  naked,  they  ran 
out  with  streaming  hair,  urging  one  another,  and  them- 
selves, to  madness  with  the  wildest  cries  and  actions.  Vil- 
lain Foulon  taken,  my  sister  !  Old  Foulon  taken,  my 
mother  !  Miscreant  Foulon  taken,  my  daughter  !  Then 
a  score  of  others  ran  into  the  midst  of  these,  beating  their 
breasts,  tearing  their  hair,  and  screaming,  Foulon  alive  ! 
Foulon  who  told  the  starving  people  they  might  eat 
grass  !  Foulon  who  told  my  old  father  that  he  might 
eat  grass,  when  I  had  no  bread  to  give  him  !  Foulon 
who  told  my  baby  it  might  suck  grass,  when  these  breasts 


400 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


werfe  dry  with  want !  0  mother  of  God,  this  Foulon  !  I 
O  Heaven,  our  suffering  !  Hear  me,  my  dead  baby  and 
my  withered  father  :  I  swear  on  my  knees,  on  these  stones, 
to  avenge  you  on  Foulon  !  Husbands,  and  brothers,  and 
young  men.  Give  us  the  blood  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  head 
of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  heart  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  body 
and  soul  of  Foulon,  Rend  Foulon  to  pieces,  and  dig  him 
into  the  ground,  that  grass  may  grow  from  him  !  With 
these  cries,  numbers  of  the  women,  lashed  into  blind 
frenzy,  whirled  about,  striking  and  tearing  at  their  own 
friends  until  they  dropped  in  a  passionate  swoon,  and 
were  only  saved  by  the  men  belonging  to  them  from  be- 
ing trampled  under  foot. 

Nevertheless,  not  a  moment  was  lost ;  not  a  moment  I 
This  Foulon  was  at  the  Hotel  De  Ville,  and  might  be 
loosed  Never,  if  Saint  Antoine  knew  his  own  suffer- 
ings, insults,  and  wrongs  !  Armed  men  and  women 
flocked  out  of  the  Quarter  so  fast,  and  drew  even  these 
last  dregs  after  them  with  such  a  force  of  suction,  that 
within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  there  was  not  a  human  crea- 
ture  in  Saint  Antoine's  bosom  but  a  few  ofd  crones  and 
the  wailing  children. 

No.  They  were  all  by  that  time  choking  the  Hall  of 
examination  where  this  old  man,  ugly  and  wicked,  was, 
and  overflowing  into  the  adjacent  open  space  and  streets. 
The  Defarges,  husband  and  wife,  The  Vengeance,  and 
Jacques  Three,  were  in  the  first  press,  and  at  no  great 
distance  from  him  in  the  Hall. 

"  See  !  "  cried  madame,  pointing  with  her  knife.  "  See 
the  old  villain  bound  with  ropes.  That  was  well  done  to 
tie  a  bunch  of  grass  upon  his  back.  Ha,  ha  !  That  was 
well  done.  Let  him  eat  it  now  ! "  Madame  put  her  knife 
under  her  arm,  and  clapped  her  hands  as  at  a  play. 

The  people  immediately  behind  Madame  Defarge, 
explaining  the  cause  of  her  satisfaction  to  those  behind 
them,  and  those  again  explaining  to  others,  and  those  to 
others,  the  neighbouring  streets  resounded  with  the  clap- 
ping of  hands.  Similarly,  during  two  or  three  hours  of 
drawl,  and  the  winnowing  of  many  bushels  of  words, 
Madame  Defarge's  frequent  expressions  of  impatience 
were  taken  up,  with  marvellous  quickness,  at  a  distance  : 
the  more  readily,  because  certain  men  who  had  by  some 
wonderful  exercise  of  agility  climbed  up  the  external 
architecture  to  look  in  from  the  windows,  knew  Madame 
Defarge  well,  and  acted  as  a  telegraph  between  her  and 
the  crowd  outside  the  building. 

At  length,  the  sun  rose  so  high  that  it  struck  a  kindly 
ray,  as  of  hope  or  protection,  directly  down  upon  the  old 
prisoner's  head.  The  favour  was  too  much  to  bear ;  in 
an  instant  the  barrier  of  dust  and  chaff  that  had  stood 
surprisingly  long,  went  to  the  winds,  and  Saint  Antoine 
had  got  him  ! 

It  was  known  directly,  to  the  furthest  confines  of  the 
crowd.  Defarge  had  but  sprung  over  a  railing  and  a 
table,  and  folded  the  miserable  wretch  in  a  deadly  em- 
brace— Madame  Defarge  had  but  followed  and  turned 
her  hand  in  one  of  the  ropes  with  which  he  was  tied — 
The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  were  not  yet  up  with 
them,  and  the  men  at  the  windows  had  not  yet  swooped 
into  the  Hall,  like  birds  of  prey  from  their  high  perches 
— when  the  cry  seemed  to  go  up,  all  over  the  city, 
"  Bring  him  out  !    Bring  him  to  the  lamp  !  " 

Down,  and  up,  and  head  foremost  on  the  steps  of  the 
building  ;  now,  on  his  knees  ;  now,  on  his  feet ;  now, 
on  his  back  ;  dragged,  and  struck  at,  and  stifled  by  the 
bunches  of  grass  and  straw  that  were  thrust  into  his  face 
by  hundreds  of  hands  ;  torn,  bruised,  panting,  bleeding, 
yet  always  entreating  and  beseeching  for  mercy  ;  now, 
full  of  vehement  agony  of  action,  with  a  small  clear 
space  about  him  as  the  people  drew  one  another  back 
that  they  might  see  ;  now,  a  log  of  dead  wood  drawn 
through  a  forest  of  legs  ;  he  was  hauled  to  the  nearest 
street  corner  where  one  of  the  fatal  lamps  swung,  and 
there  Madame  Defarge  let  him  go — as  a  cat  might  have 
done  to  a  mouse — and  silently  and  composedly  looked  at 
him  while  they  made  ready,  and  while  he  besought  her  : 
the  women  passionately  screeching  at  him  all  the  time, 
and  the  men  sternly  calling  out  to  have  hiui  killed 
with  grass  in  his  mouth.  On*ce,  he  went  aloft,  and  the 
rope  broke,  and  they  caught  him  shrieking  ;  twice,  he 
went  aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and  they  caught  him 
shrieking;  then  the  rope  was  merciful  and  held  him,  \ 


I  and  his  head  was  soon  upon  a  pike,  with  grass  enough  in 
the  mouth  for  all  Saint  Antoine  to  dance  at  the  sight  of. 

Nor  was  this  the  end  of  the  day's  bad  work,  for  Saint 
Antoine  so  shouted  and  danced  his  angry  blood  up,  that 
it  boiled  again,  on  hearing  when  the  day  closed  in  that 
the  son-in-law  of  the  despatched,  another  of  the  people's 
enemies  and  insulters,  was  coming  into  Paris  under  a 
guard  five  hundred  strong,  in  cavalry  alone.  Saint  An- 
toine wrote  his  crimes  on  flaring  sheets  of  paper,  seized 
him — would  have  torn  him  out  of  the  breast  of  an  army 
to  bear  Foulon  company — set  his  head  and  heart  on 
pikes,  and  carried  the  three  spoils  of  the  day,  in  Wolf- 
procession  through  the  streets. 

Not  before  dark  night  did  the  men  and  women  come 
back  to  the  children,  wailing  and  breadless.  Then,  the 
miserable  bakers'  shops  were  beset  by  long  files  of  them 
patiently  waiting  to  buy  bad  bread ;  and  while  they 
waited  with  stomachs  faint  and  empty,  they  beguiled  the 
time  by  embracing  one  another  on  the  triumphs  of  the 
day,  and  achieving  them  again  in  gossip.  Gradually, 
these  strings  of  ragged  people  shortened  and  frayed 
away  ;  and  then  poor  lights  began  to  shine  in  high  win- 
dows, and  slender  fires  were  made  in  the  streets,  at 
which  neighbours  cooked  in  common,  afterwards  sup- 
ping at  their  doors. 

Scanty  and  insufiicient  suppers  those,  and  innocent  of 
meat,  as  of  most  other  sauce  to  wretched  bread.  Yet, 
human  fellowship  infused  some  nourishment  into  the 
flinty  viands,  and  struck  some  sparks  of  cheerfulness  out 
of  them.  Fathers  and  mothers  who  had  had  their  full 
share  in  the  worst  of  the  day,  played  gently  with  their 
meagre  children  ;  and  lovers,  with  such  a  world  around 
them  and  before  them,  loved  and  hoped. 

It  was  almost  morning,  when  Defarge's  wine-shop 
parted  with  its  last  knot  of  customers,  and  Monsieur 
Defarge  said  to  madame  his  wife,  in  husky  tones,  while 
fastening  the  door  : 

"  At  last  it  is  come,  my  dear  !  " 
"  Eh  well  !  "  returned  madame.  "  Almost." 
Saint  Antoine  slept,  the  Defarges  slept  ;  even  the 
Vengeance  slept  with  her  starved  grocer,  and  the  drum 
was  at  rest.  The  drum's  was  the  only  voice  in  Saint  An- 
toine, that  blood  and  hurry  had  not  changed.  The  Ven- 
geance, as  custodian  of  the  drum,  could  have  wakened 
him  up  and  had  the  same  speech  out  of  him  as  before 
the  Bastille  fell,  or  old  Foulon  was  seized ;  not  so  with 
the  hoarse  tones  of  the  men  and  women  in  Saint  An- 
toine's bosom. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Fire  Rises. 

There  was  a  change  on  the  village  where  the  fountain 
fell,  and  where  the  mender  of  roads  went  forth  daily  to 
hammer  out  of  the  stones  of  the  highway  such  morsels 
of  bread  as  might  serve  for  patches  to  hold  his  poor  igno- 
rant soul  and  his  poor  reduced  body,  together.  The 
prison  on  the  crag  was  not  so  dominant  as  of  yore  ;  there 
were  soldiers  to  guard  it,  but  not  many  ;  there  were  offi- 
cers to  guard  the  soldiers,  but  not  one  of  them  knew 
what  his  men  would  do — beyond  this  :  that  it  would 
probably  not  be  what  he  was  ordered. 

Far  and  wide,  lay  a  ruined  coimtry,  yielding  nothing 
but  desolation.  Every  green  leaf,  every  blade  of  grass 
and  blade  of  grain,  was  as  shrivelled  and  poor  as  the 
miserable  people.  Everything  was  bowed  down,  de- 
jected, oppressed,  and  broken.  Habitations,  fences, 
domesticated  animals,  men,  women,  and  children,  and 
the  soil  that  bore  them — all  worn  out. 

Monseigneur  (often  a  most  worthy  individual  gentle- 
man) was  a  national  blessing,  gave  a  chivalrous  tone  to 
things,  was  a  polite  example  to  luxurious  and  shining 
life,  and  a  great  deal  more  to  the  equal  purpose  ;  never- 
theless, Monseigneur  as  a  class  had,  somehow  or  other, 
brought  things  to  this.  Strange  that  Creation,  designed 
expressly  for  Monseigneur,  should  be  so  wrung  dry  and 
squeezed  out  !  There  must  be  something  short-sighted 
in  the  eternal  arrangements,  surely  !  Thus  it  was,  how- 
ever ;  and  the  last  drop  of  blood  having  been  extracted 
\  from  the  flints,  and  the  last  screw  of  the  rack  having^^ 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


401 


been  turned  so  often  that  its  purchase  crumbled,  and  it 
noV  turned  and  turned  and  turned  with  nothing  to  bite, 
Monseigneur  began  to  run  away  from  a  phenomenon  so 
low  and  unaccountable. 

But,  this  was  not  the  change  on  the  village,  and  on 
many  a  village  like  it.    For  scores  of  years  gone  by, 
Monseigneur  had  squeezed  it  and  wrung  it,  and  had 
seldom  graced  it  with  his  presence  except  for  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  chase— now,  found  in  hunting  the  people  ; 
now,  found  in  hunting  the  beasts,  for  whose  preservation 
Monseigneur  made  edifying  spaces  of  barbarous  and  bar- 
ren wilderness.    No.    The  change  consisted  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  strange  faces  of  low  caste,  rather  than  in  the 
disappearance  of  the  high-caste,  chiselled,  and  otherwise 
beatified  and  beatifying  features  of  Monseigneur. 
,     For,  in  these  times,  as  the  mender  of  roads  worked, 
j  solitaiy  in  the  dust,  not  often  troubling  himself  to  reflect 
that  dust  he  was  and  to  dust  he  must  return— being  for 
the  most  part  too  much  occupied  in  thinking  how  little 
he  had  for  supper  and  how  much  more  he  would  eat  if 
he  had  it— in  these  times,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  from  his 
lonely  labour  and  viewed  the  prospect,  he  would  see  some 
rough  figure  approaching  on  foot,  the  like  of  which  was 
once  a  rarity  in  those  parts,  but  was  now  a  frequent  pres- 
ence. As  it  advanced,  the  mender  of  roads  would  discern 
without  surprise  that  it  was  a  shaggy-haired  man,  of  al- 
most barbarian  aspect,  tall,  in  wooden  shoes  that  were 
clumsy  even  to  the  eyes  of  a  mender  of  roads,grim,  rough, 
swart,  steeped  in  the  mud  and  dust  of  many  highways] 
dank  with  the  marshy  moisture  of  many  low  grounds' 
^sprinkled  with  the  thorns  and  leaves  and  moss  of  many 
1  byways  through  woods. 

[  Such  a  man  came  upon  him,  like  a  ghost,  at  noon  in 
[the  July  weather,  as  he  sat  on  his  heap  of  stones  under 
a  bank,  taking  such  shelter  as  he  could  get  from  a  shower 
of  hail. 

The  man  looked  at  him,  looked  at  the  village  in  the 
hollow,  at  the  mill,  and  at  the  prison  on  the  crag 
When  he  had  identified  these  objects  in  what  benighted 
mind  he  had,  he  said,  in  a  dialect  that  was  iust  intelli- 
gible : 

*'  How  goes  it,  Jacques  ?  " 
"  All  well,  Jacques." 
"  Touch  then  !  " 

They  joined  hands,  and  the  man  sat  down  on  the  heap 
n  stones. 
"  No  dinner  ?  " 

"  Nothing  but  supper  now/'  said  the  mender  of  roads, 
with  a  hungry  face. 

"It  is  the  fashion,"  growled  the  man.  "I  meet  no 
linner  anywhere." 

He  took  out  a  blackened  pipe,  filled  it,  lighted  it  with 
lint  and  steel,  pulled  at  it  until  it  was  in  a  bright  glow  • 
ihen,  suddenly  held  it  from  him  and  dropped  some- 
thing into  it  from  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  that 
)lazed  and  went  out  in  a  pufE  of  smoke. 

"  Touch  then."  It  was  the  turn  of  the  mender  of  roads 

0  say  It  this  time,  after  observing  these  operations. 
Iney  again  joined  hands. 

I*  To-night  ?  "  said  the  mender  of  roads. 

l!'^?;,^^^^^*' '  nian,putting  the  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

Where  ?  " 
"Here." 

He  and  the  mender  of  roads  sat  on  the  heap  of  stones 
ooking  silently  at  one  another,  with  the  hail  driving  in 
)etween  them  like  a  pigmy  charge  of  bayonets,  until  the 
Ky  began  to  clear  over  the  village. 

"Show  me!"  said  the  traveller  then,  moving  to  the 
)rt)w  of  the  hill.  '  o 

"  See  ! "  returned  the  mender  of  roads,  with  extended 
inger.  "  You  go  down  here,  and  straight  through  the 
treet,  and  past  the  fountain—" 

"  To  the  Devil  with  all  that  ! "  interrupted  the  other, 
ouing  his  eye  over  the  landscape.    "  /  go  through  no 
treets  and  past  no  fountains.    Well  ?  " 
u  1  ^?}^  \  About  two  leagues  beyond  the  summit  of 
Qat  hill  above  the  village. " 

Good.    When  do  you  cease  to  work  ?  " 
At  sunset. 

Will  you  wake  me,  before  departing.  I  have  walked 
ok  ^^P^}^  without  resting.    Let  me  fini.sh  my  pipe,  and 

1  sliall  sleep  like  a  child.    Will  you  wake  me  ?  " 

Vol.  II.— 26 


"  Surely." 

The  wayfarer  smoked  his  pipe  out,  put  it  in  his  breast, 
slipped  off  his  great  wooden  shoes,  and  lay  down  on  his 
back  on  the  heap  of  stones.  He  was  fast  asleep  di- 
rectly. 

As  the  road-mender  plied  his  dusty  labour,  and  the 
hail-clouds,  rolling  away,  revealed  'bright  bars  and 
streaks  of  sky  which  were  responded  to  by  silver  gleams 
upon  the  landscape,  the  little  man  (who  wore  a  red  cap 
now,  in  place  of  his  blue  one)  seemed  fascinated  by  the 
figure  on  the  heap  of  stones.  His  eyes  were  so  often 
turned  towards  it,  that  he  used  bis  tools  mechanically, 
and,  one  would  have  said,  to  very  poor  account.  The 
bronze  face,  the  shaggy  black  hair  and  beard,  the  coarse 
woolen  red  cap,  the  rough  medley  dress  of  homespun 
stuff  and  hairy  skins  of  beasts,  the  powerful  frame  at- 
tenuated by  spare  living,  and  the  sullen  and  desperate 
compression  of  the  lips  in  sleep,  inspired  the  mender  of 
roads  with  awe.  The  traveller  had  travelled  far,  and 
his  feet  were  foot-sore,  and  his  ankles  chafed  and  bleed- 
ing ;  his  great  shoes,  stuffed  with  leaves  and  grass,  had 
been  heavy  to  drag  over  the  many  long  leagues,  and  his 
clothes  were  chafed  into  holes,  as  he  himself  was  into 
sores.  Stooping  down  beside  him.  the  road-mender 
tried  to  get  a  peep  at  secret  weapons  in  his  breast  or 
where  not  ;  but,  in  vain,  for  he  slept  with  his  arras 
crossed  upon  him,  and  set  as  resolutely  as  his  lips.  For- 
tified towns  with  their  stockades,  guard-houses,  gates, 
trenches,  and  drawbridges,  seemed,  to  the  mender  of 
roads,  to  be  so  much  air  as  against  this  figure.  And 
when  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  it  to  the  horizon  and  looked 
around,  he  saw  in  his  small  fancy  similiar  figures,  stop- 
ped by  no  obstacle,  tending  to  centres  all  over  France. 

The  man  slept  on,  indifferent  to  showers  of  hail  and 
intervals  of  brightness,  to  sunshine  on  his  face  and 
shadow,  to  the  pattering  lumps  of  dull  ice  on  his  body 
and  the  diamonds  into  which  the  sun  changed  them,  un- 
til the  sun  was  low  in  the  west,  and  the  skv  was  glow- 
ing. Then,  the  mender  of  roads  having  got  his  tools 
together  and  all  things  ready  to  go  down  into  the  village 
roused  him.  ' 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  sleeper,  rising  on  his  elbow.  "Two 
leagues  beyond  the  summit  of  the  hill?" 
"  About." 
"About.    Good  ! " 

The  mender  of  roads  went  home,  with  the  dust  going 
on  before  him  according  to  the  set  of  the  wind,  and  was 
soon  at  the  fountain,  squeezing  himself  in  among  the 
lean  kine  brought  there  to  drink,  and  appearing  even  to 
whisper  to  them  in  his  whispering  to  all  the  village. 
When  the  village  had  taken  its  poor  supper,  it  did  not 
creep  to  bed,  as  it  usually  did,  but  came  out  of  doors 
again,  and  remained  there.  A  curious  contagion  of 
whispering  was  upon  it,  and  also,  when  it  gathered  to- 
gether at  the  fountain  in  the  dark,  another  curious  con- 
tagion of  looking  expectantly  at  the  sky  in  one  direction 
only.  Monsieur  Gabelle,  chief  functionary  of  the  place, 
became  uneasy  ;  went  out  on  his  house-top  alone,  and 
looked  in  that  direction  too  ;  glanced  down  from  behind 
his  chimneys  at  the  darkening  faces  by  the  fountain  be- 
low, and  sent  word  to  the  sacristan  who  kept  the  kevs 
of  the  church,  that  there  might  be  need  to  ring  the  toc- 
sin by-and-by. 

The  night  deepened.  The  trees  environing  the  old 
chateau,  keeping  its  solitary  state  apart,  moved  in  a 
rising  wind,  as  though  they  threatened  the  pile  of  build- 
ing massive  and  dark  in  the  gloom.  Up  the  two  ter- 
race flights  of  steps  the  rain  ran  wildly,  and  beat  at  the 
great  door,  like  a  swift  messenger  rousing  those  within  ; 
uneasy  rushes  of  wind  went  through  the  hall,  among 
the  old  spears  and  knives,  and  passing  lamenting  up  the 
stairs,  and  shook  the  curtains  of  the  bed  where  the  last 
Marquis  had  slept.  East,  West,  North,  and  South, 
through  the  w^oods,  four  heavy-treading,  unkempt  fig- 
ures  crushed  the  high  grass  and  cracked  the  branches, 
striding  on  cautiously  to  come  together  in  the  court- 
yard. Four  lights  broke  out  there,  and  moved  away  in 
different  directions,  and  all  wa.s  black  again. 

But  not  for  long.  Presently  the  Chateau  began  to 
make  itself  strangely  visible  by  some  light  of  its  own, 
as  though  it  were  growing  luminous.  Then,  a  flickering 
streak  played  behind  the  architecture  of  the  front,  pick- 


402 


CHARLES  DICKERS'  WORKS. 


inff  out  transparent  places,  and  showing  where  balus- 
trades, arches,  and  windows  were.  Then  it  soared 
higher,  and  grew  broader  and  brighter.  Soon,  from  a 
score  of  the  great  windows,  flames  burst  forth,  and  the 
stone  faces,  awakened,  stared  out  of  fire. 

A  faint  murmur  arose  about  the  house  from  the  tew 
people  who  were  left  there,  and  there  was  saddlmg  ot  a 
horse  and  riding  away.  There  was  spurring  and  splash- 
ing through  the  darkness,  and  bridle  was  drawn  in  the 
space  by  the  village  fountain,  and  the  horse  m  a  foam 
stood  at  Monsieur  Gabelle's  door.  "  Help,  Gabelle  ! 
Help,  every  one!"  The  tocsin  rang  impatiently,  but 
other  help  (if  that  were  any)  there  was  none  The 
mender  of  roads,  and  two  hundred  and  fifty  particular 
friends,  stood  with  folded  arms  at  the  fountain,  looking 
at  the  pillar  of  fire  in  the  sky.  "It  must  be  forty  feet 
high,"  said  they,  grimly  ;  and  never  moved.  _ 

The  rider  from  the  chateau,  and  the  horse  in  a  toam, 
clattered  away  through  the  village,  and  galloped  up  the 
stony  steep,  to  the  prison  on  the  crag.  At  the  gate,  a 
group  of  officers  were  looking  at  the  fire  ;  removed  from 
them,  a  group  of  soldiers.  "  Help,  gentlemen-officers  ! 
The  chateau  is  on  fire  ;  valuable  objects  may  be  saved 
from  the  flames  bv  timely  aid  !  Help,  help  !"  The  offi- 
cers looked  towards  the  soldiers  who  looked  at  the  hre  ; 
gave  no  orders  ;  aufl  answered,  with  shrugs  and  biting 
of  lips,  "It  must  burn."  ^ 

As  the  rider  rattled  down  the  mil  again  and  through 
the  street,  the  village  was  illuminating.  The  mender  of 
roads,  and  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  particular  friends, 
inspired  as  one  man  and  woman  by  the  idea  of  lighting 
up,  had  darted  into  their  houses,  and  were  putting  can- 
dle's in  every  dull  little  pane  of  glass.  The  general 
scarcity  of  everything,  occasioned  candles  to  be  borrowed 
in  a  rather  peremptory  manner  of  Monsieur  Gabelle  ;  and 
in  a  moment  of  reluctance  and  hesitation  on  that  func- 
tionary's part,  the  mender  of  roads,  once  so  submissive 
to  authority,  had  remarked  that  carriages  were  good  to 
make  bonfires  with,  and  that  post-horses  would  roast. 

The  chateau  was  left  to  itself  to  flame  and  burn.  In 
the  roaring  and  raging  of  the  conflagration,  a  red-hot 
wind,  driving  straight  from  the  infernal  regions,  seemed 
to  be  blowing  the  edifice  away.  With  the  rising  and 
falling  of  the  blaze,  the  stone  faces  showed  as  if  they 
were  in  torment.  When  great  masses  of  stone  and  tim- 
ber fell,  the  face  with  the  two  dints  in  the  nose  became 
obscured:  anon  struggled  out  of  the  smoke  again,  as  if 
it  were  the  face  of  the  cruel  Marquis,  burning  at  the 
stake  and  contending  with  the  fire. 

The  cliateau  burned  ;  the  nearest  trees,  laid  hold  of 
by  the  fire,  scorched  and  shrivelled  ;  trees  at  a  distance, 
fired  by  the  four  fierce  figures,  begirt  the  blazing  edifice 
with  a  new  forest  of  smoke.  Molten  lead  and  iron  boiled 
in  the  marble  basin  of  the  fountain  ;  the  water  ran  dry  ; 
the  extinguisher  tops  of  the  towers  vanished  like  ice  be- 
fore the  heat,  and  trickled  down  into  four  rugged  wells 
of  flame.  Great  rents  and  splits  branched  out  in  the 
solid  walls,  like  crystallisation  ;  stupified  birds  wheeled 
about,  and  dropped  into  the  furnace  ;  four  fierce  figures 
trudged  away,  East,  West,  North,  and  South,  along  the 
night-enshrouded  roads,  guided  by  the  beacon  they  had 
lighted,  towards  their  next  destination.  The  illuminated 
village  had  seized  hold  of  the  tocsin,  and,  abolishing  the 
lawful  ringer,  rang  for  joy. 

Not  only  that ;  but,  the  village,  light-headed  with 
famine,  fire  and  bell-ringing,  and  ^bethinking  itself  that 
Monsieur  Gabelle  had  to  do  with  the  collection  of  rent 
and  taxes— though  it  was  but  a  small  instalment  of 
taxes,  and  no  rent  at  all,  tliat  Gabelle  had  got  in  in  those 
latter  day.s — became  impatient  for  an  interview  with  him, 
and,  surrounding  his  house,  summoned  him  to  come 
forth  for  personal  conference.  Whereupon,  Monsieur 
Gabelle  did  heavilv  bar  his  door,  and  retire  to  hold 
counsel  with  himself.  The  result  of  that  conference 
was,  that  Gabelle  again  withdrew  himself  to  his  house- 
top behind  his  stack  of  chimneys  :  this  time  resolved,  if 
his  door  were  broken  in  (he  was  a  small  Southern  man 
of  retaliative  temperament),  to  ])itch  himself  head  fore- 
most over  the  parapet,  and  crush  a  man  or  two  below. 

Probably,  Monsieur  Gabelle  passed  a  long  night  up 
there,  with  the  distant  chateau  for  fire  and  candle,  and 
the  beating  at  his  door,  combined  with  the  joy-ringing, 


for  music  ;  not  to  mention  his  having  an  ill-omened  laipp 
slung  across  the  road  before  his  posting-house  gate, 
which  the  village  showed  a  lively  inclination  to  displace 
in  his  favour.  A  trying  suspense,  to  be  passing  a  whole 
summer  night  on  the  brink  of  the  black  ocean,  ready  to 
take  that  plunge  into  it  upon  which  Monsieur  Gabelle 
had  resolved  !  But,  the  friendly  dawn  appearing  at  last, 
and  the  rush-candles  of  the  village  guttering  out,  the 
people  happily  dispersed,  and  Monsieur  Gabelle  came 
down,  bringing  his  life  with  him  for  that  while. 

Within  a  hundred  miles,  and  in  the  light  of  other 
fires,  there  were  other  functionaries  less  fortunate,  that 
night  and  other  nights,  whom  the  rising  sun  found 
hanging  across  once-peaceful  streets,  where  they  had 
been  born  and  bred  ;  also,  there  were  other  villagers  and 
townspeople  less  fortunate  than  the  mender  of  roads  and 
his  fellows,  upon  whom  the  functionaries  and  soldiery 
turned  with  success,  and  whom  they  strung  up  in  their 
turn.  But,  the  fierce  figures  were  steadily  wending 
East,  West,  North,  and  South,  be  that  as  it  would  ;  and 
whosoever  hung,  fire  burned.  The  altitude  of  the 
gallows  that  would  turn  to  water  and  quench  it,  no  func- 
tionary, by  any  stretch  of  mathematics,  was  able  to 
calculate  successfully. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Drawn  to  the  Loadstojie  Rock. 

In  such  risings  of  fire  and  risings  of  sea— the  firm 
earth  shaken  by  the  rushes  of  an  angry  ocean  which  had 
now  no  ebb  but  was  always  on  the  flow,  higher  and 
higher,  to  the  terror  and  wonder  of  the  beholders  on  the 
shore— three  years  of  tempest  were  consumed.  Three 
more  birthdays  of  little  Lucie  had  been  woven  by  the 
golden  thread  into  the  peaceful  tissue  of  the  life  of  her 

home.  .  T  X  J 

Many  a  night  and  many  a  day  had  its  inmates  listened 
to  the  echoes  in  the  corner,  with  hearts  that  failed  them 
when  they  heard  the  thronging  feet.  For,  the  footsteps 
had  become  to  their  minds  as  the  footsteps  of  a  people, 
tumultuous  under  a  red  flag  and  with  their  country  de- 
clared in  danger,  changed  into  wild  beasts  by  terrible 
enchantment  long  persisted  in. 

Monseigneur,  as  a  class,  had  dissociated  himself  from 
the  phenomenon  of  his  not  being  appreciated  :  of  his 
being  so  little  wanted  in  France,  as  to  incur  considerable 
danger  of  receiving  his  dismissal  from  it  and  this  life 
together.  Like  the  fabled  rustic  who  raised  the  Devil 
with  infinite  pains,  and  was  so  terrified  at  the  sight  of 
him  that  he  could  ask  the  Enemy  no  question,  but  imme- 
diately fled  ;  so,  Monseigneur,  after  boldly  reading  the 
Lord's  Prayer  backwards  for  a  great  number  of  years, 
and  performing  many  other  potent  spells  for  compelling 
the  Evil  One,  no  sooner  beheld  him  in  his  terrors  than 
he  took  to  his  noble  heels. 

The  shining  Bull's  Eye  of  the  Court  was  gone,  or  it 
would  have  been  the  mark  for  a  hurricane  of  national 
bullets.  It  had  never  been  a  good  eye  to  see  with— had 
long  had  the  mote  in  it  of  Lucifer's  pride,  Sardanapalus's 
luxury  and  a  mole's  blindness— but  it  had  dropped  out 
and  was  gone.  The  Court,  from  that  exclusive  inner 
circle  to  its  outermost  rottening  of  intrigue,  corruption, 
and  dissimulation,  was  all  gone  together.  Royalty  was 
gone  ;  had  been  besieged  in  its  Palace  and  "  suspended, 
when  the  last  tidings  came  over. 

The  August  of  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  ninety- two  was  come,  and  Monseigneur  was  by  this 
time  scattered  far  and  wide.  , 

As  was  natural,  the  head-quarters  and  great  gathering- 
place  of  Monseigneur,  in  London,  was  Tellson's  Bank. 
Spirits  are  supposed  to  haunt  the  places  where  their 
bodies  most  resorted,  and  Monseigneur  without  a  guinea 
haunted  the  spot  where  his  guineas  used  to  be.  More- 
over, it  was  the  spot  to  which  such  French  intelligence 
as  vvas  most  to  be  relied  upon,  came  quickest.  Again: 
Tellson's  was  a  munificent  house,  and  extended  great 
liberality  to  old  customers  who  had  fallen  from  their 
high  estate.  Again  :  those  nobles  who  had  seen  the 
coming  storm  in  time,  and,  anticipating  plunder  or  confis- 
cation,  had  made  provident  remittances  to  Tellson's,  were 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


403 


always  to  be  heard  of  there  by  their  needy  brethren. 
To  which  it  must  be  added  that  every  new  comer  from 
France  reported  himself  and  his  tidings  at  Tellson's, 
almost  as  a  matter  of  course.  For  such  variety  of  reasons 
Tellson's  was  at  that  time,  as  to  French  intelligence,  a 
kind  of  High  Exchange  ;  and  this  was  so  well  known  to 
the  public,  and  the  inquiries  made  there  were  in  conse- 
quence so  numerous,  that  Tellson's  sometimes  wrote  the 
latest  news  out  in  a  line  or  so  and  posted  it  in  the  Bank 
windows,  for  all  who  ran  through  Temple  Bar  to  read. 

On  a  steaming,  misty  afternoon,  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  his 
desk,  and  Charles  Darnay  stood  leaning  on  it,  talking 
with  him  in  a  low  voice.  The  penitential  den  once  set 
apart  for  interviews  with  the  House,  was  now  the  news- 
Exchange,  and  was  filled  to  overflowing.  It  was  within 
half  an  hour  or  so  of  the  time  of  closing. 

"But,  although  you  are  the  youngest  man  that  ever 
lived,"  said  Charles  Darnay,  rather  hesitating,  *'  I  must 
still  suggest  to  you — " 

"  I  understand.  That  I  am  too  old  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lorry. 
Unsettled  weather,  a  long  journey,  uncertain  means 
of  travelling,  a  disorganised  country,  a  city  that  may  not 
even  be  safe  for  you." 

"  My  dear  Charles,"  said  Mr.  Lorry  Avith  cheerful  con- 
fidence, "  you  touch  some  of  the  reasons  for  my  going  : 
not  for  my  staying  away.  It  is  safe  enough  for  me  ; 
nobody  will  care  to  interfere  with  an  old  fellow  of  hard 
upon  fourscore  when  there  are  so  many  people  there 
much  better  worth  interfering  with.  As  to  its  being  a 
disorganised  city  if  it  were  not  a  disorganised  city  there 
would  be  no  occasion  to  send  somebody  from  our  House 
here  to  our  House  there,  who  knows  the  city  and  the 
business,  of  old,  and  is  in  Tellson's  confidence.  As  to 
the  uncertain  travelling,  the  long  journey,  and  the  win- 
ter weather,  if  I  were  not  prepared  to  submit  myself  to 
a  few  inconveniences  for  the  sake  of  Tellson's,  after  all 
these  years,  who  ought  to  be  ?  " 

"I  wish  I  were  going  myself,"  said  Charles  Darnay, 
somewhat  restlessly,  and  like  one  thinking  aloud. 

"  Indeed  !  You  are  a  pretty  fellow  to  object  and  ad- 
vise !  "  exclaimed  Mr,  Lorry.  "You  wish  you  were 
going  yourself  ?  And  you  a  Frenchman  born  ?  You  are 
a  wise  counsellor." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Lorry,  it  is  because  I  am  a  Frenchman 
born,  that  the  thought  (which  I  did  not  mean  to  utter 
here,  however)  has  passed  through  my  mind  often.  One 
cannot  help  thinking,  having  had  some  sympathy  for 
the  miserable  people,  and  having  abandoned  something 
to  them,"  he  spoke  here  in  his  former  thoughtful  man- 
ner, "  that  one  might  be  listened  to,  and  might  have  the 
power  to  persuade  to  some  restraint.  Only  last  night, 
after  you  had  left  us,  when  I  was  talking  to  Lucie — " 

"  When  you  were  talking  to  Lucie,"  Mr.  Lorry  re- 
peated. "  Yes.  I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  to  men- 
tion the  name  of  Lucie  !  Wishing  you  were  going  to 
France  at  this  time  of  day  !  " 

"  However,  I  am  not  going,"  said  Charles  Darnay, 
with  a  smile.  "  It  is  more  to  the  purpose  that  you  say 
you  are." 

"And  I  am,  in  plain  reality.    The  truth  is,  my  dear 
Charles,"  Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and 
lowered  his  voice,  "  you  can  have  no  conception  of  the 
difficulty  with  which  our  business  is  transacted,  and  of 
the  peril  in  which  our  books  and  papers  over  yonder  are 
involved.    The  Lord  above  knov«^s  what  the  compro- 
mising consequences  would  be  to  numbers  of  people,  if 
some  of  our  documents  were  seized  or  destroyed  ;  and 
they  might  be,  at  any  time,  you  know,  for  who  can  say 
that  Paris  is  not  set  a-fire  to-day,  or  sacked  to-morrow  ! 
Now,  a  judicious  selection  from  these  with  the  least  pos- 
'^'lo  deiay,  and  the  burying  of  them,  or  otherwise  getting  i 
liem  out  of  harm's  way,  is  within  the  power  (without 
of  precious  time)  of  scarcely  any  one  but  myself,  if  j 
one.    And  shall  I  hang  back,  when  Tellson's  knows 
and  says  this — Tellson's,  whose  bread  I  have  eaten  ! 
0  sixty  years — because  I  am  a  little  stiff  about  the 
fs?  Why,  I  am  a  boy,  sir,  to  half  a  dozen  old  codgers 

"  How  I  admire  the  gallantry  of  your  youthful  spirit,  | 
1  ^  Ivorry  1 " 

'  Tut  !    Nonsense,  sir  !— And,  my  dear  Charles,"  said 
Ir.  Lorry,  glancing  at  the  House  again,  "you  are  to  re- 


member, that  getting  things  out  of  Paris  at  this  present 
time,  no  matter  what  things,  is  next  to  an  impossibility. 
Papers  and  precious  matters  were  this  very  day  brought 
to  us  here  (I  speak  in  strict  confidence  ;  it  is  not  business 
like  to  whisper  it,  even  to  you),  by  the  strangest  bearer- 
you  can  imagine,  every  one  of  whom  had  his  head  hangs 
ing  on  by  a  single  hair  as  he  passed  the  Barriers.  At 
another  time,  our  parcels  will  come  and  go,  as  easily  as 
in  business-like  old  England  ;  but  now,  everything  is 
stopped. " 

"And  do  you  really  go  to-night?" 

"I  really  go  to-night,  for  the  case  has  become  too 
pressing  to  admit  of  delay." 

"  And  do  you  take  no  one  with  you?" 

"  All  sorts  of  people  have  been  jjroposed  to  me,  but  I 
will  have  nothing  to  say  to  any  of  them.  I  intend  to 
take  Jerry.  Jerry  has  been  my  body-guard  on  Sunday- 
nights  for  a  long  time  past,  and  I  am  used  to  him. 
Nobody  will  suspect  Jerry  of  being  anything  but  an 
English  bull-dog,  or  of  having  any  design  in  his  head 
but  to  fly  at  anybody  who  touches  his  master." 

"  I  must  say  again  that  I  heartily  admire  your  gal- 
lantry and  youthfulness."  • 

"  I  must  say  again,  nonsense,  nonsense  !  When  I  have 
executed  this  little  commission,  I  shall,  perhaps,  accept 
Tellson's  proposal  to  retire  and  live  at  my  ease.  Time 
enough,  then,  to  think  about  growing  old." 

This  dialogue  had  taken  place  at  Mr.  Lorry's  usual 
desk,  with  Monseigneur  swarming  within  a  yard  or  two 
of  it,  boastful  of  what  he  would  do  to  avenge  himself  on 
the  rascal-people  before  long.  It  was  too  much  the  way 
of  Monseigneur  under  his  reverses  as  a  refugee,  and  it 
was  too  much  the  way  of  native  British  orthodoxy,  to 
talk  of  this  terrible  Revolution  as  if  it  were  the  one  only 
harvest  ever  known  under  the  skies  that  had  not  been 
sown — as  if  nothing  had  ever  been  done,  or  omitted  to 
be  done,  that  had  led  to  it — as  if  observers  of  the 
wretched  millions  in  France,  and  of  the  misused  and 
perverted  resources  that  should  have  made  them  pros- 
perous, had  not  seen  it  inevitably  coming,  years  before, 
and  had  not  in  plain  words  recorded  Avhat  they  saw. 
Such  vapouring,  combined  with  the  extravagant  plots 
of  Monseigneur  for  the  restoration  of  a  state  of  things 
that  had  utterly  exhausted  itself,  and  worn  out  Heaven 
and  earth  as  well  as  itself,  was  hard  to  be  endured  with- 
out some  remonstrance  by  any  sane  man  w'ho  knew  the 
truth.  And  it  was  such  vapouring  all  about  his  ears, 
like  a  troublesome  confusion  of  blood  in  his  own  head, 
added  to  a  latent  uneasiness  in  his  mind,  which  had 
already  made  Charles  Darnay  restless,  and  which  still 
kept  him  so. 

Among  the  talkers,  was  Stryver,  of  the  King's  Bench 
Bar,  far  on  his  way  to  state  promotion,  and,  therefore, 
loud  on  the  theme  :  broaching  to  Monseigneur,  his  de- 
vices for  blowing  the  people  up  and  exterminating  them 
from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  doing  without  them  : 
and  for  accomyilishing  many  similar  objects  akin  in 
their  nature  to  the  abolition  of  eagles  by  sprinkling  salt 
on  the  tails  of  the  race.  Him,  Darnay  heard  with  a  par- 
ticular feeling  of  objection  ;  and  Darnay  stood  divided 
between  going  away  that  he  might  hear  no  more,  and 
remaining  to  interpose  his  word,  when  the  thing  that 
was  to  be,  went  on  to  shape  itself  out. 

The  House  approached  Mr.  Lorry,  and  laying  a  soiled 
and  unopened  letter  before  him,  asked  if  he  had  yet  dis- 
covered any  traces  of  the  person  to  whom  it  was  ad- 
dressed ?  The  House  laid  the  letter  down  so  close  to 
Darnay  that  he  saw  the  direction— the  more  quickly,  be- 
cause it  was  his  own  right  name.  The  address,  turned 
into  English,  ran  :  "  Very  pressing.  To  Monsieur  here- 
tofore the  Marquis  St.  Evremonde,  of  France,  confided 
to  the  cares  of  Messrs.  Tellson  and  Co.,  Bankers,  London, 
England." 

On  the  marriage  morning.  Doctor  Manette  had  made 
it  his  one  urgent  and  express  request  to  Charles  Darnay, 
that  the  secret  of  his  name  should  be— unless  he.  the 
Doctor,  dissolved  the  obligation— kept  inviolate  between 
them.  Nobody  else  knew  it  to  be  his  name  ;  his  own  wife 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  fact ;  Mr.  Lorry  could  have  none. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  reply  to  the  House  ;  "  I  have 
referred  it,  I  think,  to' everybody  now  here,  and  no  one 
can  tell  me  where  this  gentleman  is  to  be  found." 


404 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


The  hands  of  the  clock  verging  upon  the  hour  of  clos- 
ing the  Bank,  there  was  a  general  set  of  the  current  of 
talkers  past  Mr.  Lorry's  desk.  He  held  the  letter  out 
inquiringly  ;  and  Monseigneur  looked  at  it,  in  the  per- 
son of  this  plotting  and  indignant  refugee  ;  and  Mon- 
seigneur looked  at  it,  in  the  person  of  that  plotting  and 
indignant  refugee  ;  and  This,  That,  and  The  Other,  all 
had  something  disparaging  to  say,  in  French  or  in 
English,  concerning  the  Marquis  who  was  not  to  be  found. 

'•  Nephew,  I  believe — but  in  any  case  degenerate  suc- 
cessor—of  the  polished  Marquis  who  was  murdered," 
said  one.       Happy  to  say,  I  never  knew  him." 

"  A  craven  who  abandoned  his  post,"  said  another — this 
Monseigneur  had  been  got  out  of  Paris,  legs  uppermost  i 
and  half  suffocated  in  a  load  of  hay — "some  years  ago." 

"  Infected  with  the  new  doctrines,"  said  a  third,  eye- 
ing the  direction  through  his  glass  in  passing  ;  "set  him- 
self in  opposition  to  the  last  Marquis,  abandoned  the 
estates  when  he  inherited  them,  and  left  them  to  the 
ruffian  herd.  They  will  recompense  him  now,  I  hope, 
as  he  deserves." 

"  Hey  ?  "  cried  the  blatant  Stry  ver.  "  Did  he  though  ? 
Is  that  the  sort  of  fellow  ?  Let  us  look  at  his  infamous 
name.    D — n  the  fellow?" 

Darnay,  unable  to  restrain  himself  any  longer,,  touched 
Mr.  Stryver  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  : 

"I  know  the  fellow." 

"Do  you,  by  Jupiter?"  said  Stryver.    "I  am  sorry 
for  it." 
"Why?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Darnay?    D'ye  hear  what  he  did?  Don't 
ask,  why,  in  these  times." 
"  But  I  do  ask  why." 

"  Then  I  tell  you  again,  Mr.  Darnay,  I  am  sorry  for  it. 
I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  putting  any  such  extraordinary 
questions.  Here  is  a  fellow,  who,  infected  by  the  most 
pestilent  and  blasphemous  code  of  devilry  that  ever 
was  known,  abandoned  his  property  to  the  vilest  scum 
of  the  earth  that  ever  did  murder  by  wholesale,  and  you 
ask  me  why  I  am  sorry  that  a  man  who  instructs  youth 
knows  him.  Well,  but  I'll  answer  you.  I  am  sorry,  be- 
cause I  "believe  there  is  contamination  in  such  a  scoun- 
drel.   That's  why." 

Mindful  of  the  secret,  Darnay  with  great  difficulty 
checked  himself  and  said:  "  You  may  not  understand 
the  gentleman." 

"I  understand  how  to  put  yotc  in  a  corner,  Mr.  Dar- 
nay," said  Bully  Stryver,  "  and  I'll  do  it.  If  this  fellow 
is  a  gentleman,  I  don't  understand  him.  You  may  tell 
him  so,  with  my  compliments.  You  may  also  tell  him, 
from  me,  that  after  abandoning  his  worldly  goods  and 
position  to  this  butcherly  mob,  I  wonder  he  is  not  at  the 
head  of  them.  But,  no,  gentlemen,"  said  Stryver,  look- 
ing all  round,  and  snapping  his  fingers,  "  I  know  some- 
thing of  human  nature,  and  I  tell  you  that  you'll  never 
find  a  fellow  like  this  fellow,  trusting  himself  to  the 
mercies  of  such  precious  proteges.  No,  gentlemen  ;  he'll 
always  show  'em  a  clean  pair  of  heels  very  early  in  the 
scuffle,  and  sneak  away." 

With  those  words,  and  a  final  snap  of  his  fingers,  Mr. 
Stryver  shouldered  himself  into  Fleet-street,  amidst  the 
general  approbation  of  his  hearers.  Mr.  Lorry  and 
Charles  Darnay  were  left  alone  at  the  desk,  in  the  gen- 
eral departure  from  the  Bank. 

"  Will  you  take  charge  of  the  letter?"  said  Mr.- Lorry. 
"  You  know  where  to  deliver  it  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"Will  you  undertake  to  explain  that  we  suppose  it  to 
have  been  addressed  here,  on  the  chance  of  our  knowing 
where  to  forward  it,  and  that  it  has  been  here  some 
time?" 

"  I  wijl  do  so.    Do  you  start  for  Paris  from  here  ?  " 

"  From  here,  at  eight." 

"  I  will  come  back,  to  see  you  off." 

Very  ill  at  ease  with  himself,  and  with  Stryver  and 
most  other  men,  Darnay  made  the  best  of  his  way  into 
the  quiet  of  the  Temple,  opened  the  letter,  and  read  it. 
These  were  its  contents  : 

"Prison  of  tlio  Abbnyo,  Paris.    Juiu  21,  1792. 

"  Monsieur  nERETOKOiiE  the  Makquih. 
"  After  having  long  been  in  danger  of  my  life  at  the 


hands  of  the  village,  I  have  been  seized  with  great  vio- 
lence and  indignity,  and  brought  a  long  journey  on  foot 
to  Paris.  On  the  road  I  have  suffered  a  great  deal.  Nor 
is  that  all  ;  my  house  has  been  destroyed — razed  to  the 
ground. 

"  The  crime  for  which  I  am  imprisoned.  Monsieur 
heretofore  the  Marquis,  and  for  which  I  shall  be  sum- 
moned before  the  tribunal,  and  shall  lose  my  life  (with- 
out your  so  generous  help),  is,  they  tell  me,  treason 
against  the  majesty  of  the  people,  in  that  I  have  acted 
against  them  for  an  emigrant.  It  is  in  vain  I  represent 
that  I  have  acted  for  them,  and  not  against,  according  to 
your  commands.  It  is  in  ,vain  I  represent  that,  before 
the  sequestration  of  emigrant  property,  I  had  remitted 
the  imposts  they  had  ceased  to  pay  ;  that  I  had  collected 
no  rent  ;  that  I  had  had  recourse  to  no  process.  The 
only  response  is,  that  I  have  acted  for  an  emigrant,  and 
where  is  that  emigrant  ? 

"Ah!  most  gracious  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Mar- 
quis, where  is  that  emigrant  I  I  cry  in  my  sleep  where 
is  he  !  I  demand  of  Heaven,  will  he  not  come  to  deliver 
me  !  No  answer.  Ah  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis, 
I  send  my  desolate  cry  across  the  sea,  hoping  it  may  per- 
haps reach  your  ears  through  the  great  bank  of  Tilson 
known  at  Paris  ! 

"  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  justice,  of  generosity,  of 
the  honour  of  your  noble  name,  I  supplicate  you.  Mon- 
sieur heretofore  the  Marquis,  to  succour  and  release  me. 
My  fault  is,  that  I  have  been  true  to  you.  Oh  Monsieur 
heretofore  the  Marquis,  I  pray  you  be  you  true  to  me  ! 

"  From  this  prison  here  of  horror,  whence  I  every  hour 
tend  nearer  and  nearer  to  destruction,  I  send  you.  Mon- 
sieur heretofore  the  Marquis,  the  assurance  of  my  dolor- 
ous and  unhappy  service. 

"  Your  afflicted, 

"  Gabelle." 

The  latent  uneasiness  in  Darnay 's  mind  was  roused  to 
vigorous  lite  by  this  letter.  The  peril  of  an  old  servant 
and  a  good  servant,  whose  only  crime  was  fidelity  to 
himself  and  his  family,  stared  him  so  reproachfully  in 
the  face,  that,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  Temple 
considering  what  to  do,  he  almost  hid  his  face  from  the 
passers-by. 

He  knew  very  well,  that  in  his  horror  of  the  deed 
which  had  culminated  the  bad  deeds  and  bad  reputation 
of  the  old  family  house,  in  his  resentful  suspicions  of 
his  uncle,  and  in  the  aversion  with  which  his  conscience 
regarded  the  crumbling  fabric  that  he  was  supposed  to 
uphold,  he  had  acted  imperfectly.  He  knew  very  well, 
that  in  his  love  for  Lucie,  his  renunciation  of  his  social 
place,  though  by  no  means  new  to  his  own  mind,  had 
been  hurried  and  incomplete.  He  knew  that  he  ought 
to  have  systematically  worked  it  out  and  supervised  it, 
and  that  he  had  meant  to  do  it,  and  that  it  had  never 
been  done. 

The  happiness  of  his  own  chosen  English  home,  the 
necessity  of  being  always  actively  employed,  the  swift 
changes  and  troubles  of  the  time  which  had  followed  on 
one  another  so  fast,  that  the  events  of  this  week  annihi 
lated  the  immature  plans  of  last  week,  and  the  events  of 
the  week  following  made  all  new  again  ;  he  knew  very 
well,  that  to  the  force  of  these  circumstances  he  had 
yielded: — not  without  disquiet,  but  still  without  contin 
uous  and  accumulating  resistance.  That  he  had  watched 
the  times  for  a  time  of  action,  and  that  they  had  shifted 
and  struggled  until  the  time  had  gone  by,  and  the  nobil- 
ity were  trooping  from  France  by  every  highway  and  by 
way,  and  their  property  was  in  course  of  confiscation  and 
destruction,  and  their  very  names  were  blotting  out,  was 
as  well  known  to  himself  as  it  could  be  to  any  new 
authority  in  France  that  might  impeach  him  for  it. 

But,  he  had  oppressed  no  man,  he  had  imprisoned  no 
man  ;  he  was  so  far  from  having  harshly  exacted  pay- 
ment of  his  dues,  that  he  had  relinquished  them  of  his 
own  will,  thrown  himself  on  a  world  with  no  favour  in 
it,  won  his  own  private  place  there,  and  earned  his  own 
bread.  Monsieur  Gabelle  had  held  the  impoverished 
and  involved  estate  on  written  instructions  to  spare  the 
])eople,  to  give  them  what  little  there  was  to  give — such 
fuel  as  the  heavy  creditors  would  let  them  have  in  the 
winter,  and  such  produce  as  could  be  saved  from  the 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


405 


same  grip  in  the  summer — and  no  doubt  he  had  put  the 
fact  in  plea  and  proof,  for  his  own  safety,  so  that  it  could 
not  but  appear  now. 

This  favoured  the  desperatfe  resolution  Charles  Darnay 
had  begun  to  make,  that  he  would  go  to  Paris. 

Yes,  Like  the  mariner  in  the  old  story,  the  winds  and 
streams  had  driven  him  within  the  influence  of  the  Load- 
stone Rock,  and  it  was  drawing  him  to  itself,  and  he 
must  go.  Everything  that  arose  before  his  mind  drifted 
him  on,  faster  and  faster,  more  and  more  steadily,  to  the 
terrible  attraction.  His  latent  uneasiness  had  been, 
that  bad  aims  were  being  worked  out  in  his  own  un- 
happy land  by  bad  instruments,  and  that  he  who  could 
not  fail  to  know  that  he  was  better  than  they,  was  not 
there,  trying  to  do  something  to  stay  bloodshed,  and 
assert  the  claims  of  mercy  and  humanity.  With  this 
uneasiness  half  stifled,  and  half  reproaching  him,  he  had 
been  brought  to  the  pointed  comparison  of  himself  with 
the  brave  old  gentleman  in  whom  duty  was  so  strong  ; 
upon  that  comparison  (injurious  to  himself),  had  instantly 
followed  the  sneers  of  Monseigneur,  which  had  stung 
him  bitterly,  and  those  of  Stryver,  which  above  all 
were  coarse  and  galling,  for  old  reasons.  Upon  those, 
had  followed  Gabelle's  letter  :  the  appeal  of  an  inno- 
cent prisoner,  in  danger  of  death,  to  his  justice,  honour, 
and  good  name. 

His  resolution  was  made.    He  must  go  to  Paris. 

Yes.  The  Loadstone  Rock  was  drawing  him,  and  he 
must  sail  on,  until  he  struck.  He  knew  of  no  rock  ;  he 
saw  hardly  any  danger.  The  intention  with  which  he 
had  done  what  he  had  done,  even  although  he  had  left 
it  incomplete,  presented  it  before  him  in  an  aspect  that 
would  be  gratefully  acknowledged  in  France  on  his  pre- 
senting himself  to  assert  it.  Then,  that  glorious  vision 
of  doing  good,  which  is  so  often  the  sanguine  mirage  of 
so  many  good  minds,  arose  before  him,  and  he  even  saw 
himself  in  the  illusion  with  some  influence  to  guide 
this  raging  Revolution  that  was  running  so  fearfully 
wild. 

As  he  walked  to  and  fro  with  his  resolution  made,  he 
considered  that  neither  Lucie  nor  her  father  must  know 
of  it  until  he  was  gone.  Lucie  should  be  spared  the 
pain  of  separation  ;  and  her  father,  always  reluctant  to 
turn  his  thoughts  towards  the  dangerous  ground  of  old, 
should  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  step,  as  a  step 
taken,  and  not  in  the  balance  of  suspense  and  doubt. 
How  much  of  the  incompleteness  of  his  situation  was 
referable  to  her  father,  through  the  painful  anxiety  to 
avoid  reviving  old  associations  of  France  in  his  mind,  he 
did  not  discuss  with  himself.  But,  that  circumstance 
too,  had  had  its  influence  in  his  course. 

He  walked  to  and  fro,  with  thoughts  very  busy,  until 
it  was  time  to  return  to  Tellson's,  and  take  leave  of  Mr. 
Lorry.  As  soon  as  he  arrived  in  Paris  he  would  present 
himself  to  this  old  friend,  but  he  must  say  nothing  of 
his  intention  now. 

A  carriage  with  post-horses  was  ready  at  the  Bank 
door,  and  Jerry  was  booted  and  equipped, 

"  I  have  delivered  that  letter,"  said  Charles  Darnay 
to  Mr.  Lorry.    "I  would  not  consent  to  your  being 


charged  with  any  written  answer,  but  perhaps  you  will 
take  a  verbal  one  ?  " 

"  That  I  will,  and  readily,"  said  Mr,  Lorry,  "if  it  is 
not  dangerous." 

Not  at  all.  Though  it  is  to  a  prisoner  in  the 
Abbaye." 

"  What  is  his  name?"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  his  open 
pocket-book  in  his  hand. 
"  Gabelle." 

Gabelle.  And  what  is  the  message  to  the  unfortun- 
ate Gabelle  in  prison  ?  " 

"Simply,  '  that  he  has  received  the  letter,  and  will 
come.'  " 

"  Any  time  mentioned  ? " 

"  He  will  start  upon  his  journey  to-morrow  night." 

"  Any  person  mentioned  ?  " 

"No!" 

He  helped  Mr.  Lorry  to  wrap  himself  in  a  number  of 
coats  and  cloaks,  and  went  out  with  him  from  the  warm 
atmosphere  of  the  old  bank,  into  the  misty  air  of  Fleet- 
street. 

"  My  love  to  Lucie,  and  to  little  Lucie,"  said  Mr.  Lorry 
at  parting,  "  and  take  precious  care  of  them  till  I  come 
back."  Charles  Darnay  shook  his  head  and  doubtfully 
smiled,  as  the  carriage  rolled  away. 

That  night — it  was  the  fourteenth  of  August — he  sat 
up  late,  and  wrote  two  fervent  letters  ;  one  was  to  Lucie, 
explaining  the  strong  obligation  he  was  under  to  go  to 
Paris,  and  showing  her,  at  length,  the  reasons  that  he 
had,  for  feeling  confident  that  he  could  become  involved 
in  no  personal  danger  there  ;  the  other  was  to  the 
Doctor,  confiding  Lucie  and  their  dear  child  to  his  care, 
and  dwelling  on  the  same  topics  with  the  strongest 
assurances.  To  both,  he  wrote,  that  he  would  dispatch 
letters  in  proof  of  his  safety,  immediately  after  his 
arrival. 

It  was  a  hard  day,  that  day  of  being  among  them, 
with  the  first  reservation  of  their  joint  lives  on  his 
mind.  It  was  a  hard  matter  to  preserve  the  innocent 
deceit  of  which  they  were  profoundly  unsuspicious. 
But,  an  affectionate  glance  at  his  wife,  so  happy  and 
busy,  made  him  resolute  not  to  tell  her  what  impended 
(he  had  been  half  moved  to  do  it,  so  strange  it  was  to 
him  to  act  in  anything  without  her  quiet  aid),  and  the 
day  passed  quickly.  Early  in  the  evening  he  embraced 
her,  and  her  scarcely  less  dear  namesake,  pretending 
that  he  would  return  by  and-by  (an  imaginary  engage- 
ment took  him  out,  and  he  had  secreted  a  valise  of 
clothes  ready),  and  so  he  emerged  into  the  heavy  mist  of 
the  heavy  streets,  with  a  heavier  heart. 

The  unseen  force  was  drawing  him  fast  to  itself,  now, 
and  all  the  tides  and  winds  were  setting  straight  and 
strong  towards  it.  He  left  his  two  letters  with  a  trusty 
porter,  to  be  delivered  half  an  hour  before  midnight, 
and  no  sooner  ;  took  horse  for  Dover  ;  and  began  his 
journey.  "For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  justice,  of  gen- 
erosity, of  the  honour  of  your  noble  name!"  was  the 
poor  prisoner's  cry  with  which  he  strengthened  his  sink- 
ing heart,  as  he  left  all  that  was  dear  on  earth  behind 
him,  and  floated  away  for  the  Loadstone  Rock. 


BOOK  THE  THIRD.-THE  TRACK  OF  A  STORM. 


CHAPTER  L 

In  Secret. 

The  traveller  fared  slowly  on  his  way,  who  fared  to- 
wards Paris  from  England  in  the  autumn  of  the  year 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety-two.  More  than 
enough  of  bad  roads,  bad  equipages,  and  bad  horses,  he 
would  have  encountered  to  delay  him,  though  the  fallen 
and  unfortunate  King  of  France  had  been  upon  his 
throne  in  all  his  glory  ;  but,  the  changed  times  were 


fraught  with  other  obstacles  than  these.  Every  town 
gate  and  village  taxing-house  had  its  band  of  citizen- 
patriots,  with  their  national  muskets  in  a  most  explosive 
state  of  readiness,  who  stopped  all  comers  and  goers, 
cross-questioned  them,  inspected  their  papers,  looked 
for  their  names  in  lists  of  their  own,  turned  them  back, 
or  sent  them  on,  or  stopped  them  and  laid  them  in  hold, 
as  their  capricious  judgment  or  fancy  deemed  best  for 
the  dawninc:  Republic" One  and  Indivisible,  of  Liberty, 
Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death. 


406 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


A  very  few  French  leagues  of  his  journey  were  ac- 
complished, when  Charles  Darnay  began  to  perceive 
that  for  him  along  these  country  roads  there  was  no 
hope  of  return  until  he  should  have  been  declared  a 
good  citizen  at  Paris.  Whatever  might  befal  now,  he 
must  on  to  his  journey's  end.  Not  a  mean  village  closed 
upon  him,  not  a  common  barrier  dropped  across  the  road 
behind  him,  but  he  knew  it  to  be  another  iron  door  in 
the  series  that  was  barred  between  him  and  England, 
universal  watchfulness  so  encompassed  him,  that  if  he 
had  been  taken  in  a  net,  or  were  being  forwarded  to  his 
destination  in  a.cage,  he  could  not  have  felt  his  freedom 
more  completely  gone. 

This  universal  watchfulness  not  only  stopped  him  on 
the  highway  twenty  times  in  a  stage,  but  retarded  his 
progress  twenty  times  in  a  day,  by  riding  after  him  and 
taking  him  back,  riding  before  him  and  stopping  him  by 
anticipation,  riding  with  him  and  keeping  him  in  charge. 
He  had  been  days  upon  his  journey  in  France  alone, 
when  he  went  to  bed  tired  out,  in  a  little  town  on  the 
high  road,  still  a  long  way  from  Paris, 

Nothing  but  the  production  of  the  afflicted  Gabelle's 
letter  from  his  prison  of  the  Abbaye  would  have  got  him 
on  so  far.  His  difficulty  at  the  guard-house  in  this  small 
place  had  been  such,  that  he  felt  his  journey  to  have 
come  to  a  crisis.  And  he  was,  therefore,  as  little  sur- 
prised as  a  man  could  be  to  find  himself  awakened  at  the 
small  inn  to  which  he  had  been  remitted  until  morning, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Awakened  by  a  timid  local  functionary  and  three 
armed  patriots  in  rough  red  caps  and  with  pipes  in  their 
mouths,  who  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"Emigrant,"  said  the  functionary,  "I  am  going  to 
send  you  on  to  Paris,  under  an  escort." 

"Citizen,  I  desire  nothing  more  than  to  get  to  Paris, 
though  I  could  dispense  with  the  escort." 

"  Silence  !"  growled  a  red-cap,  striking  at  the  cover- 
let with  the  butt-end  of  his  musket.  "  Peace,  aristo- 
crat ! " 

"It  is  as  the  good  patriot  says,"  observed  the  timid 
functionary.  "  You  are  an  aristocrat,  and  must  have  an 
escort — and  must  pay  for  it." 

"  I  have  no  choice,"  said  Charles  Darnay. 

"  Choice  !  Listen  to  him  !  "  cried  the  same  scowling 
red-cap.  "  As  if  it  was  not  a  favour  to  be  protected  from 
the  lamp-iron. " 

"It  is  always  as  the  good  patriot  says,"  observed  the 
functionary.    "  Rise  and  dress  yourself,  emigrant." 

Darnay  complied,  and  was  taken  back  to  the  guard- 
house where  other  patriots  in  rough  red  caps  were  smok- 
ing, drinking,  and  sleeping,  by  a  watch-fire.  Here  he 
paid  a  heavy  price  for  his  escort,  and  hence  he  started 
with  it  on  the  wet,  wet  roads  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

The  escort  were  two  mounted  patriots  in  red  caps  and 
tricoloured  cockades,  armed  with  national  muskets  and 
sabres,  who  rode  one  on  either  side  of  him.  The  escorted 
governed  his  own  horse,  but  a  loose  line  was  attached 
to  his  bridle,  the  end  of  which  one  of  the  patriots  kept 
girded  round  his  wrist.  In  this  state  they  set  forth  with 
the  sharp  rain  driving  in  their  faces  :  clattering  at  a 
heavy  dragoon  trot  over  the  uneven  town  pavement,  and 
out  upon  the  mire-deep  roads.  In  this  state  they  tra- 
versed without  change,  except  of  horses  and  pace,  all  the 
mire-deep  leagues  that  lay  between  them  and  the  capital. 

They  travelled  in  the  night,  halting  an  hour  or  two 
after  day-break,  and  lying  by  until  the  twilight  fell. 
The  e.scort  were  so  wretchedly  clothed,  that  they  twisted 
straw  round  their  bare  legs,  and  thatched  their  ragged 
shoulders  to  keep  the  wet  off.  Apart  from  the  personal 
discomfort  of  being  so  attended,  and  apart  from  such 
considerations  of  present  danger  as  arose  from  one  of  the 
patriots  being  chronically  drunk,  and  carrying  his  mus- 
ket very  recklessly,  Charles  Darnay  did  not  allow  the 
restraint  that  was  laid  upon  him  to  awaken  any  serious 
fears  in  his  breast ;  for,  he  reasoned  with  himself  that 
it  could  have  no  reference  to  the  merits  of  an  individual 
case  that  was  not  yet  stated,  and  of  representations,  con- 
firmable  by  the  prisoner  in  the  Abbaye,  that  were  not 
yet  made. 

But  when  they  came  to  the  town  of  Beauvais — which 
they  did  at  eventide,  when  the  streets  were  filled  with 


people — he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  the 
aspect  of  affairs  was  very  alarming.  An  ominous  crowd 
gathered  to  see  him  dismount  at  the  posting-yard,  and 
many  voices  in  it  called  out  loudly,  "Down  with  the 
emigrant  ! " 

He  stopped  in  the  act  of  swinging  himself  out  of  his 
saddle,  and,  resuming  it  as  his  safest  place,  said  : 

"  Emigrant,  my  friends  !  Do  you  not  see  me  here,  in 
France,  of  my  own  will  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  cursed  emigrant,"  cried  a  farrier,  making 
at  him  in  a  furious  manner  through  the  press,  hammer 
in  hand  ;  "  and  you  are  a  cursed  aristocrat  !  " 

The  postmaster  interposed  himself  between  this  man 
and  the  rider's  bridle  (at  which  he  was  evidently  making), 
and  soothingly  said,  "  Let  him  be  !  let  him  be  !  He  will 
be  judged  at  Paris  !  " 

"Judged  !"  repeated  the  farrier,  swinging  his  ham- 
mer. "  Ay  !  and  condemned  as  a  traitor."  At  this,  the 
crov.'d  roared  approval. 

Checking  the  postmaster,  who  was  for  turning  his 
horse's  head  to  the  yard  (the  drunken  patriot  sat  com- 
posedly in  his  saddle  looking  on,  with  the  line  round  his 
wrist),  Darnay  said,  as  soon  as  he  could  make  his  voice 
heard  : 

"  Friends,  you  deceive  yourselves,  or  you  are  deceived. 
I  am  not  a  traitor." 

"  He  lies  ! "  cried  the  smith.  "He  is  a  traitor  since 
the  decree.  His  life  is  forfeit  to  the  people.  His  cursed 
life  is  not  his  own  !  " 

At  the  instant  when  Darnay  saw  a  rush  in  the  eyes  of 
the  crowd,  which  another  instant  would  have  brought 
upon  him,  the  postmaster  turned  his  horse  into  the  yard, 
the  escort  rode  in  close  upon  his  horse's  flanks,  and  the 
postmaster  shut  and  barred  the  crazy  double  gates.  The 
farrier  struck  a  blow  upon  them  with  his  hammer,  and 
the  crowd  groaned  ;  but,  no  more  was  done. 

"  What  is  this  decree  that  the  smith  spoke  of?" 
Darnay  asked  the  postmaster,  when  he  had  thanked 
them,  and  stood  beside  him  in  the  yard. 

"Truly,  a  decree  for  selling  the  property  of  emi- 
grants." 

"  When  passed?" 

"On  the  fourteenth." 

"  The  day  I  left  England  !  " 

"  Everybody  says  it  is  but  one  of  several,  and  that 
there  will  be  others — if  there  are  not  already — banish- 
ing all  emigrants,  and  condemning  all  to  death  who  re- 
turn. That  is  what  he  meant  when  he  said  your  life 
was  not  your  own." 

"  But  there  are  no  such  decrees  yet?" 

"What  do  I  know  !"  said  the  postmaster,  shrugging 
his  shoulders  ;  "  there  may  be,  or  there  will  be.  It  is 
all  the  same.    What  would  you  have  ?  " 

They  rested  on  some  straw  in  a  loft  until  the  middle 
of  the  night,  and  then  rode  forward  again  when  all  the 
town  was  asleep.  Among  the  many  wild  changes  ob- 
servable on  familiar  things  which  makes  this  wild  ride 
unreal,  not  the  least  was  the  seeming  rarity  of  sleep. 
After  long  and  lonely  spurring  over  dreary  roads,  they 
would  come  to  a  cluster  of  poor  cottages,  not  steeped  in 
darkness,  but  all  glittering  with  lights,  and  would  find 
the  people,  in  a  ghostly  manner  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  circling  hand  in  hand  round  a  shrivelled  tree  of 
Liberty,  or  all  drawn  up  together  singing  a  Liberty 
song.  Happily,  however,  there  was  sleep  in  Beauvais 
that  night  to  help  them  out  of  it,  and  they  passed  on 
once  more  into  solitude  and  loneliness  :  jingling  through 
the  untimely  cold  and  wet,  among  impoverished  fields 
that  had  yielded  no  fruits  of  the  earth  that  y^ar,  diver- 
sified by  the  blackened  remains  of  burnt  houses,  and  by 
the  sudden  emergence  from  ambuscade,  and  sharp  rein- 
ing uj)  across  their  way,  of  patriot  patrols  on  the  watch 
on  all  the  roads. 

Daylight  at  last  found  them  before  the  wall  of  Paris. 
The  l)arrier  was  closed  and  strongly  guarded  when  they 
rode  up  to  it.  j 

"  Where  are  the  papers  of  this  prisoner?"  demandedl 
a  resolute-looking  man  in  authority,  who  was  summoned 
out  by  the  guard. 

Naturally  struck  by  the  disagreeable  word,  Charles 
Darnay  requested  the  speaker  to  take  notice  that  he  was 
a  free  traveller  and  French  citizen,  in  charge  of  an 


ubRm 
OF  THE 
UNiVEHSITV  Of  ILLINOIS 


A  TALE  OF 

escort  which  the  disturbed  state  of  the  country  had  im- 
posed upon  him,  and  which  he  had  paid  for. 

"  Where,"  repeated  the  same  personage,  without  tak- 
ing any  heed  of  him  whatever,  "are  the  papers  of  this 
prisoner  ?  " 

The  drunken  patriot  had  them  in  his  cap,  and  pro- 
duced them.  Casting  his  eyes  over  Gabelle's  letter, 
the  same  personage  in  authority  showed  some  disorder 
^d  surprise,  and  looked  at  Darnay  with  a  close  attent- 
ion. 

He  left  both  escort  and  escorted  without  saying  a 
word,  however,  and  went  into  the  guard -room  ;  mean- 
while, they  sat  upon  their  horses  outside  the  gate. 
Looking  about  him  while  in  this  state  of  suspense, 
Charles  Darnay  observed  that  the  gate  was  held  by  a 
mixed  guard  of  soldiers  and  patriots,  the  latter  far  out- 
numbering the  former  ;  and  that  while  ingress  into  the 
city  for  peasants'  carts  bringing  in  supplies,  and  for 
similar  traffic  and  traffickers,  was  easy  enough,  egress, 
even  for  the  homeliest  people,  was  very  difficult.  A 
numerous  medley  of  men  and  women,  not  to  mention 
beasts  and  vehicles  of  various  sorts,  was  waiting  to  issue 
forth  ;  but,  the  previous  identification  was  so  strict  that 
they  filtered  through  the  barrier  very  slowly.  Some  of 
these  people  knew  their  turn  for  examination  to  be  so 
far  off,  that  they  lay  down  on  the  ground  to  sleep  or 
smoke,  while  others  talked  together,  or  loitered  about. 
The  red  cap  and  tricolor  cockade  were  universal,  both 
among  men  and  women. 

When  he  had  sat  in  his  saddle  some  half -hour,  taking 
note  of  these  things,  Darnay  found  himself  confronted 
by  the  same  man  in  authority,  who  directed  the  guard 
to  open  the  barrier.  Then  he  delivered  to  the  escort, 
drunk  and  sober,  a  receipt  for  the  escorted,  and  requested 
him  to  dismount.  He  did  so,  and  the  two  patriots,  lead- 
ing his  tired  horse,  turned  and  rode  away  without  enter- 
ing the  city. 

He  accompanied  his  conductor  into  a  guard-room, 
smelling  of  common  wine  and  tobacco,  where  certain  sol- 
diers and  patriots,  asleep  and  awake,  drunk  and  sober, 
and  in  various  neutral  states  between  sleeping  and  wak- 
ing, drunkenness  and  sobriety,  were  standing  and  lying 
about.  The  light  in  the  guard -house,  half  derived  from 
the  waning  oil-lamps  of  the  night,  and  half  from  the 
overcast  day,  was  in  a  correspondingly  uncertain  condi- 
tion. Some  registers  were  lying  open  on  a  desk,  and  an 
officer  of  a  coarse  dark  aspect,  presided  over  these. 

"  Citizen  Defarge,"  said  he  to  Darnay's  conductor,  as 
he  took  a  slip  of  paper  to  write  on.  "  Is  this  the  emi- 
grant Evremonde  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  man." 

"  Your  age,  Evremonde  ?  " 

"  Thirty-seven." 

"  Married,  Evremonde  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Where  married  ?  " 
"  In  England." 

"  Without  doubt.  Where  is  your  wife,  Evremonde  ?  " 
"  In  England." 

"  Without  doubt.  You  are  consigned,  Evremonde,  to 
the  prison  of  La  Force. " 

"  Just  Heaven  !"  exclaimed  Darnay.  "Under  what 
law,  and  for  what  offence  ?  " 

The  officer  looked  up  from  his  slip  of  paper  for  a 
moment. 

"  We  have  new  laws,  Evremonde,  and  new  offences, 
since  you  were  here."  He  said  it  with  a  hard  smile,  and 
went  on  writing. 

"  I  entreat  you  to  observe  that  I  have  come  here  volun- 
tarily, in  respond  to  that  written  appeal  of  a  fellow  coun- 
tryman which  lies  before  you.  I  demand  no  more  than 
the  opportunity  to  do  so  without  delay.  Is  not  that 
my  right  ?  " 

"Emigrants  have  no  rights,  Evremonde,"  was  the 
stolid  reply.  The  officer  wrote  until  he  had  finished, 
read  over  to  himself  which  he  had  written,  sanded  it, 
and  handed  it  to  Defarge,  with  the  words  "  In  secret." 

Defarge  motioned  with  the  paper  to  the  prisoner  thfit 
he  must  accompany  him.  The  prisoner  oljeyed,  and  a 
guard  of  two  armed  patriots  attended  them. 

"  Is  it  you,"  said  Defarge,  in  a  low  voice,  as  they  went 
down  the  guard-house  steps  and  turned  into  Paris,  "who 


TWO  CITIES.  407 

married  the  daughter  of  Doctor  Manette,  once  a  prisoner 
in  the  Bastille  that  is  no  more." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Darnay,  looking  at  him  with  surprise. 

"  My  name  is  Defarge,  and  I  keep  a  wine-shop  in  the 
Quarter  Saint  Antoine.  Possibly  you  have  heard  of 
me." 

"  My  wife  came  to  your  house  to  reclaim  her  father  ? 
Yes!" 

The  word  *' wife "  seemed  to  serve  as  a  gloomy  re- 
minder to  Defarge,  to  say  with  sudden  impatience,  "  In 
the  name  of  that  sharp  female  newly  born  and  called 
La  Guillotine,  why  did  you  come  to  France?" 

"  You  heard  me  say  why,  a  minute  ago.  Do  you  not 
believe  it  is  the  truth  ?  " 

"A  bad  truth  for  you,"  said  Defarge,  speaking  with 
knitted  brows,  and  looking  straight  before  him. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  lost  here.  All  here  is  so  unprecedent- 
ed, so  changed,  so  sudden  and  unfair,  that  lam  absolute- 
ly lost.    Will  you  render  me  a  little  help  ?  " 

"None."  Defarge  spoke,  always  looking  straight  be- 
fore him. 

"  Will  you  answer  me  a  single  question  ?" 
"  Perhaps.    According  to  its  nature.    You  can  say 
what  it  is." 

"  In  this  prison  that  I  am  going  to  so  unjustly,  shall  I 
have  some  free  communication  with  the  world  out- 
side?" 

"You  will  see." 

"  I  am  not  to  be  buried  there,  prejudged,  and  without 
any  means  of  presenting  my  case  ?  " 

"  You  will  see.  But,  what  then?  Other  people  have 
been  similarly  buried  in  worse  prisons,  before  now." 

"  But  never  by  me.  Citizen  Defarge." 

Defarge  glanced  darkly  at  him  for  answer,  and  walked 
on  ifi  a  steady  and  set  silence.  The  deeper  he  sank  into 
this  silence,  the  fainter  hope  there  was — or  so  Darnay 
thought — of  his  softening  in  any  slight  degree.  He, 
therefore,  made  haste  to  say  : 

"  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  me  (you  know.  Citi- 
zen, even  better  than  I,  of  how  much  importance),  that 
I  should  be  able  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Lorry  of  Tell- 
son's  Bank,  an  English  gentleman  who  is  now  in  Paris, 
the  simple  fact,  without  comment,  that  I  have  been 
thrown  into  the  prison  of  La  Force.  Will  you  cause 
that  to  be  done  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  do,"  Defarge  doggedly  rejoined,  "  nothing  for 
you.  My  duty  is  to  my  country  and  the  People.  I  am 
the  sworn  servant  of  both,  against  you,  I  will  do  noth- 
ing for  you." 

Charles  Darnay  felt  it  hopeless  to  entreat  him  further, 
and  his  pride  was  touched  besides.  As  they  walked  on 
in  silence,  he  could  not  but  see  how  used  the  people 
were  to  the  spectacle  of  prisoners  passing  along  the 
streets.  The  very  children  scarcely  noticed  him.  A  few 
passers  turned  their  heads,  and  a  few  shook  their  fingers 
at  him  as  an  aristocrat  ;  otherwise,  that  a  man  in  good 
clothes  should  be  going  to  prison,  was  no  more  remarka- 
ble than  that  a  labourer  in  working  clothes  should  be 
going  to  work.  In  one  narrow,  dark,  and  dirty  street 
through  which  they  passed,  an  excited  orator,  mounted 
on  a  stool,  was  addressing  an  excited  audience  on  the 
crimes  against  the  people, of  the  king  and  the  royal  family. 
The  few. words  that  he  caught  from  the  man's  lips,  first 
made  it  known  to  Charles  Darnay  that  the  king  was  in 
prison,  and  that  the  foreign  ambassadors  had  one  and 
all  left  Paris.  On  the  road  (except  at  Beauvais)  he  had 
heard  absolutely  nothing.  The  escort  and  the  universal 
watchfulness  had  completely  isolated  him. 

That  he  had  fallen  among  far  greater  dangers  than 
those  which  had  developed  themselves  when  he  left 
England,  he  of  course  knew  now.  That  perils  had 
thickened  about  him  fast,  and  might  thicken  faster  and 
faster  yet,  he  of  course  knew  now.  He  could  not  but 
admit  to  himself  that  he  might  not  have  made  this  jour- 
nev,  if  he  could  have  foreseen  the  events  of  a  few  days. 
And  yet  his  mi.sgivings  were  not  so  dark  as,  imagined  by 
the  light  of  this  later  time,tbey  would  appear.  Troubled 
as  the  future  was,  it  was  the  Unknown  future,  and  in  its 
obscurity  there  was  ignorant  hope.  The  horrible  mas- 
sacre, days  and  nights  long,  which,  within  a  few  rounds  of 
the  clock,  was  to  set  a  great  mark  of  blood  upon  the 
blessed  garnering  time  of  harvest,  was  as  far  out  of  his 


408 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


knowledge  as  if  it  had  been  a  hundred  tliousand  years 
away.  The  "sharp  female  newly  born  and  called  La 
Guillotine,"  was  hardly  known  to  him,  or  to  the  gener- 
ality of  people,  by  name.  The  frightful  deeds  that 
were  to  be  soon  done,  were  probably  unimagined  at  that 
time  in  the  brains  of  the  doers.  How  could  they  have 
a  place  in  the  shadowy  conceptions  of  a  gentle  mind  ? 

Of  unjust  treatment  in  detention  and  hardship,  and  in 
cruel  separation  from  his  wife  and  child,  he  foreshad- 
owed the  likelihood,  or  the  certainty  ;  but,  beyond  this, 
he  dreaded  nothing  distinctly.  With  this  on  his  mind, 
which  was  enough  to  carry  into  a  dreary  prison  court- 
yard, he  arrived  at  the  prison  of  La  Force. 

A  man  with  a  bloated  face  opened  the  strong  wicket,  to 
whom  Defarge  presented  * '  The  Emigrant  Evremonde." 

"  What  the  Devil  !  How  many  more  of  them  !  "  ex- 
claimed the  man  with  the  bloated  face. 

Defarge  took  his  receipt  without  noticing  the  exclam- 
ation, and  withdrew,  with  his  two  fellow-patriots. 

"  What  the  Devil,  I  say  again  !  "  exclaimed  the  gaoler, 
left  with  his  wife.    "  How  many  more  !  " 

The  gaoler's  wife,  being  provided  with  no  answer  to 
the  question,  merely  replied,  "  One  must  have  patience, 
my  dear  !  "  Three  turnkeys  who  entered  responsive  to 
the  bell  she  rang,  echoed  the  sentiment,  and  one  added, 
"  For  the  love  of  Liberty  ;  "  which  sounded  in  that 
place  like  an  inappropriate  conclusion. 

The  prison  of  La  Force  was  a  gloomy  prison,  dark  and 
filthy,  and  with  a  horrible  smell  of  foul  sleep  in  it.  Ex- 
traordinary how  soon  the  noisome  flavour  of  imprisoned 
sleep,  becomes  manifest  in  all  such  places  that  are  ill- 
cared  for ! 

'*In  secret,  too,"  grumbled  the  gaoler,  looking  at  the 
written  paper.  "As  if  I  was  not  already  full  to  burst- 
ing !  " 

He  stuck  the  paper  on  a  file,  in  an  ill-humour,  and 
Charles  Darnay  awaited  his  further  pleasure  for  half  an 
hour  :  sometimes,  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  strong  arched 
room  :  sometimes,  resting  on  a  stone  seat :  in  either  case 
detained  to  be  imprinted  on  the  memory  of  the  chief  and 
his  subordinated. 

"Come  ! "  said  the  chief,  at  length  taking  up  his  keys, 
"come  with  me,  emigrant." 

Through  the  dismal  prison  twilight,  his  new  charge 
accompanied  him  by  corridor  and  staircase,  many  doors 
clanging  and  locking  behind  them,  until  they  came  into 
a  large,  low,  vaulted  chamber,  crowded  with  prisoners 
of  both  sexes.  The  women  were  seated  at  a  long  table, 
reading  and  writing,  knitting,  sewing,  and  embroidering  ; 
the  men  were  for  the  most  part  standing  behind  their 
chairs,  or  lingering  up  and  down  the  room. 

In  the  instinctive  association  of  prisoners  with  shame- 
ful crime  and  disgrace,  the  new  comer  recoiled  from  this 
company.  But,  the  crowning  unreality  of  his  long  un- 
real ride,  was,  their  alias  one  rising  to  receive  him,  with 
every  refinement  of  manner  known  to  the  time,  and  with 
all  the  engaging  graces  and  courtesies  of  life. 

So  strangely  clouded  were  these  refinements,  by  the 
prison  manners  and  gloom,  so  spectral  did  they  become 
in  the  inappropriate  squalor  and  misery  through  which 
they  were  seen,  that  Charles  Darnay  seemed  to  stand  in 
a  company  of  the  dead.  Ghosts  all  !  The  ghost  of 
beauty,  the  ghost  of  stateliness,  the  ghost  of  elegance, 
the  ghost  of  pride,  the  ghost  of  frivolity,  the  ghost  of 
wit,  the  ghost  of  youth,  the  ghost  of  age,  all  waiting 
their  dismissal  from  the  desolate  shore,  all  turning  on 
him  eyes  that  were  changed  by  the  death  they  had  died 
in  coming  there. 

It  struck  him  motionless.  The  gaoler  standing  at  his 
side,  and  the  other  gaolers  moving  about,  who  would 
have  been  well  enough  as  to  appearance  in  tlie  ordinary 
exercise  of  their  functions,  looked  so  extravagantly 
coarse  contrasted  with  sorrowing  mothers  and  blooming 
daughters  who  were  there — with  the  apparitions  of  the 
coquette,  the  young  beauty,  and  the  mature  woman  deli- 
cately bred — that  the  inversion  of  all  experience  and 
likelihood  which  the  scene  of  shadows  presented  was 
heightened  to  its  utmost.*  Surely,  ghosts  all.  Surely, 
the  long  unreal  ride  some  progress  of  disease  that  had 
brought  him  to  these  gloomy  shades  1 

"In  the  name  of  the  assembled  companions  in  mis- 
fortune," said  a  gentleman  of  courtly  appearance  and 


address,  coming  forward,  "  I  have  the  honour  of  giving 
you  welcome  to  La  Force,  and  of  condoling  with  you  on 
the  calamity  that  has  brought  you  among  us.  May  it 
soon  terminate  happily  !  It  would  be  an  impertinence 
elsewhere,  but  it  is  not  so  here,  to  ask  your  name  and 
condition?" 

Charles  Darnay  roused  himself,  and  gave  the  required 
information,  in  words  as  suitable  as  he  could  find. 

"  But  I  hope,"  said  the  gentleman,  following  the  chi^f 
gaoler  with  his  eyes,  who  moved  across  the  room,  "  th&t 
you  are  not  in  secret  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  term,  but  I 
have  heard  them  say  so." 

"Ah,  what  a  pity  !  We  so  much  regret  it !  But  take 
courage ;  several  members  of  our  society  have  been  in 
secret,  at  first,  and  it  has  lasted  but  a  short  time."  Then 
he  added,  raising  his  voice,  "  I  grieve  to  inform  the 
society — in  secret." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  commiseration  as  Charles  Dar- 
nay crossed  the  room  to  a  grated  door  where  the  gaoler 
awaited  him,  and  many  voices — among  which,  the  soft 
and  compassionate  voices  of  women  were  conspicuous — 
gave  him  good  wishes  and  encouragement.  He  turned 
at  the  grated  door,  to  render  the  thanks  of  his  heart ;  it 
closed  under  the  gaoler's  hand  ;  and  the  apparitions  van- 
ished from  his  sight  for  ever. 

The  wicket  opened  on  a  stone  staircase,  leading  up- 
ward. When  they  had  ascended  forty  steps  (the  prisoner 
of  half  an  hour  already  counted  them),  the  gaoler  opened 
a  low  black  door,  and  they  passed  into  a  solitary  cell. 
It  struck  cold  and  damp,  but  was  not  dark. 

"  Yours,"  said  the  gaoler. 

"  Why  am  I  confined  alone?" 

"  How  do  I  know  ! " 

"I  can  buy  pen,  ink,  and  paper?" 

"  Such  are  not  my  orders.  You  will  be  visited,  and 
can  ask  then.  At  present,  you  may  buy  your  food,  and 
nothing  more." 

There  were  in  the  cell,  a  chair,  a  table,  and  a  straw 
mattress.  As  the  gaoler  made  a  general  inspection  of 
these  objects,  and  of  the  four  walls,  before  going  out, 
a  wandering  fancy  wandered  through  the  mind  of  the 
prisoner  leaning  against  the  wall  opposite  to  him,  that 
this  gaoler  was  so  unwholesomely  bloated,  both  in  face 
and  person,  as  to  look  like  a  man  who  had  been  drowned 
and  filled  with  water.  When  the  gaoler  was  gone,  he 
thought,  in  the  same  wandering  way,  "Now  am  I  left, 
as  if  I  were  dead."  Stopping  then,  to  look  down  at  the 
mattress,  he  turned  from  it  with  a  sick  feeling,  and 
thought,  "  And  here  in  the^e  crawling  creatures  is  the 
first  condition  of  the  body  after  death." 

"  Five  paces  by  four  and  a  half,  five  paces  by  four  and 
a  half,  five  paces  by  four  and  a  half."  The  prisoner 
walked  to  and  fro  in  his  cell,  counting  its  measurement, 
and  the  roar  of  the  city  rose  like  muffled  drums  with  a 
wild  swell  of  voices  added  to  them.  "He  made  shoes, 
he  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes."  The  prisoner  counted 
the  measurement  again,  and  paced  faster,  to  draw  his 
mind  with  him  from  that  latter  repetition .  ' '  The  ghosts 
that  vanished  when  the  wicket  closed.  There  was  one 
among  them,  the  appearance  of  a  lady  dressed  in  black, 
who  was  leaning  in  the  embrasure  of  a  window,  and  she 
had  a  light  shining  upon  her  golden  hair,  and  she  looked 
like  *  -fr  *  *  Let  us  ride  on  again,  for  God's  sake, 
through  the  illuminated  villages  with  the  people  all 
awake  i  *  *  *  *  He  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes,  he 
made  shoes.  *  *  «  *  Five  paces  by  four  and  a  half." 
With  such  scraps  tossing  and  rolling  upward  from  the 
depths  of  his  mind,  the  prisoner  walked  faster  and 
faster,  obstinately  counting  and  counting  ;  and  the  roar 
of  the  city  changed  to  this  extent— that  it  still  rolled  in 
like  muffled  drums,  but  with  the  wail  of  voices  that  he 
knew,  in  the  swell  that  rose  above  them. 


CHAPTER  II. 
The  Grindstone. 

Tellson's  Bank,  established  in  the  Saint  Germain 
Quarter  of  Paris,  was  in  a  wing  of  a  large  house  ap- 


A  TALE  OF 

preached  by  a  court-yard  and  shut  off  from  the  street  by 
a  high  wall  and  a  strong  gate.  The  house  belonged  to 
a  great  nobleman  who  had  lived  in  it  until  he  made  a 
flight  from  the  troubles,  in  his  own  cook's  dress,  and  got 
across  the  borders.  A  mere  beast  of  the  chase  flying 
from  hunters,  he  was  still  in  his  metempsychosis  no 
other  than  the  same  Monseigneur,  the  preparation  of 
whose  chocolate  for  whose  lips  had  once  occupied  three 
strong  men  besides  the  cook  in  question. 

Monseigneur  gone,  and  the  three  strongmen  absolving 
themselves  from  the  sin  of  having  drawn  his  high  wages, 
by  being  more  than  ready  and  willing  to  cut  his  throat 
on  the  altar  of  the  dawning  Republic  one  and  indivisible 
of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  Monseigneur's 
house  had  been  first  sequestrated,  and  then  confiscated. 
For,  all  things  moved  so  fast,  and  decree  followed  de- 
cree with  that  fierce  precipitation,  that  now  upon  the 
third  night  of  the  autumn  month  of  September,  patriot 
emissaries  of  the  law  were  in  possession  of  Monseigneur's 
house,  and  had  marked  it  with  the  tricolour,  and  were 
drinking  brandy  in  its  state  apartments. 

A  place  of  business  in  London  like  Tellson's  place  of 
business  in  Paris,  would  soon  have  driven  the  House  out 
of  its  mind  and  into  the  Gazette.  For,  what  would  staid 
British  responsibility  and  respectability  have  said  to 
orange-trees  in  boxes  in  a  Bank  court-yard,  and  even  to 
a  Cupid  over  the  counter  ?  Yet  such  things  were.  Tell- 
son's had  whitewashed  the  Cupid,  but  he  was  still  to  be 
seen  on  the  ceiling,  in  the  coolest  linen,  aiming  (as  he 
very  often  does)  at  money  from  morning  to-night.  Bank- 
ruptcy must  inevitably  have  come  of  this  young  Pagan, 
in  Lombard-street,  London,  and  also  of  a  curtained  al- 
cove in  the  rear*  of  the  immortal  boy,  and  also  of  a  look- 
ing-glass let  into  the  wall,  and  also  of  clerks  not  at  all 
old  who  danced  in  public  on  the  slightest  provocation . 
Yet,  a  French  Tellson's  could  get  on  with  these  things 
exceedingly  well,  and,  as  long  as  the  times  held  together, 
no  man  had  taken  fright  at  them,  and  drawn  out  his 
money. 

What  money  would  be  drawn  out  of  Tellson's  hence- 
forth; and  what  would  lie  there,  lost  and  forgotten  ; 
what  plate  and  jewels  would  tarnish  in  Tellson's  hiding- 
places,  while  the  depositors  rusted  in  prisons,  and  when 
they  should  have  violently  perished  ;  how  many  ac- 
counts with  Tellson's  never  to  be  balanced  in  this  world, 
must  be  carried  over  into  the  next ;  no  man  could  have 
said,  that  night,  any  more  than  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  could, 
though  he  thought  heavily  of  these  questions.  He  sat 
by  a  newly  lighted  wood  fire  (the  blighted  and  unfruit- 
ful year  was  prematurely  cold),  and  on  his  honest  and 
courageous  face  there  was  a  deeper  shade  than  the 
pendent  lamp  could  throw,  or  any  object  in  the  room  dis- 
tortedly  reflect — a  shade  of  horror. 

He  occupied  rooms  in  the  Bank,  in  his  fidelity  to  the 
House  of  which  he  had  grown  to  be  a  part,  like  strong 
root-ivy.  It  chanced  that  they  derived  a  kind  of  security 
from  the  patriotic  occupation  of  the  main  building,  but 
the  true-hearted  old  gentleman  never  calculated  about 
that.    All  such  circumstances  were  indifferent  to  him, 
so  that  he  did  his  duty.    On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
court-yard,  under  a  colonnade,  wa^  extensive  standing 
for  carriages — where,  indeed,  some  carriages  of  Mon- 
'     seigneur  yet  stood.    Against  two  of  the  pillars  were 
fastened  two  great  flaring  flambeaux,  and,  in  the  light 
of  these,  standing  out  in  the  open  air,  was  a  large  grind- 
stone :  a  roughly  mounted  thing  which  appeared  to  have 
hurriedly  been  brought  there  from  some  neighbouring 
smithy,  or  other  workshop.    Rising  and  looking  out  of 
window  at  these  harmless  objects,  Mr.  Lorry  shivered, 
I     and  retired  to  his  seat  by  the  fire.    He  had  opened,  not 
I     only  the  glass  window,  but  the  lattice  blind  outside  it, 
i     and  he  had  closed  both  again,  and  he  shivered  through 
I     his  frame. 

I  From  the  streets  beyond  the  high  wall  and  the  strong 
gate,  there  came  the  usual  night  hum  of  the  city,  with 
now  and  then  an  indescribable  ring  in  it,  weird  and  un- 
earthly, as  if  some  unwonted  sounds  of  a  terrible  nature 
were  going  up  to  Heaven. 

'*  Thank  God,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  clasping  his  hands, 
"  that  no  one  near  and  dear  to  me  is  in  this  dreadful 
town  to-night.  May  He  have  mercy  on  all  who  are  in 
danger  ! " 


TWO  CITIES.  409 

Soon  afterwards,  the  bell  at  the  great  gate  sounded, 
and  he  thought,  "  They  have  come  back  !"  and  sat  lis- 
tening. But,  there  was  no  loud  irruption  into  the  court- 
yard, as  he  had  expected,  and  he  heard  the  gate  clash 
again,  and  all  was  quiet. 

The  nervousness  and  dread  that  were  upon  him  in- 
spired that  vague  uneasiness  respecting  the  Bank,  which 
a  great  charge  would  naturally  awaken,  with  such  feel- 
ings roused.  It  was  well  guarded,  and  he  got  up  to  go 
among  the  trusty  people  who  were  watching  it,  when  his 
door  suddenly  opened,  and  two  figures  rushed  in,  at  sight 
of  which  he  fell  back  in  amazement. 

Lucie  and  her  father  !  Lucie  with  her  arms  stretched 
out  to  him,  and  with  that  old  look  of  earnestness  so  con- 
centrated and  intensified,  that  it  seemed  as  though  it 
had  been  stamped  upon  her  face  expressly  to  give  force 
and  power  to  it  in  this  one  passage  of  her  life. 

"What  is  this  !  "  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  breathless  and  con- 
fused. '*  What  is  the  matter?  Lucie!  Manette  !  What 
has  happened  ?  What  has  brought  you  here  ?  What  is 
it  ?  " 

With  the  look  fixed  upon  him,  in  her  paleness  and 
wildness,  she  panted  out  in  his  arms,  imploringly,  *'  O 
my  dear  friend.    My  husband  !  " 

"  Your  husband,  Lucie  ?  " 
Charles." 

"What  of  Charles?" 

"Here." 

"  Here,  in  Paris  ?  " 

"Has  been  here,  some  days — three  or  four — I  don't 
know  how  many — I  can't  collect  my  thoughts.  An  er- 
rand of  generosity  brought  him  here  unknown  to  us  ; 
be  was  stopped  at  the  barrier,  and  sent  to  prison." 

The  old  man  uttered  an  irrepressible  cry.  Almost  at 
the  same  moment,  the  bell  of  the  great  gate  rang  again, 
and  a  loud  noise  of  feet  and  voices  came  pouring  into 
the  court-yard. 

"What  is  that  noise?"  said  the  Doctor,  turning  to- 
wards the  window. 

"Don't  look!"  cried  Mr.  Lorry.  "Don't  look  out! 
Manette,  for  your  life,  don't  touch  the  blinds  !  " 

The  Doctor  turned,  with  his  hand  upon  the  fastening 
of  the  window,  and  said,  with  a  cool  bold  smile  : 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  haVe  a  charmed  life  in  this  city.  I 
have  been  a  Bastille  prisoner.  There  is  no  patriot  in  Paris 
— in  Paris  ?  In  France — who,  knowing  me  to  have  been  a 
prisoner  iii  the  Bastille,  would  touch  me,  except  to  over- 
whelm me  with  embraces,  or  carry  me  in  triumph.  My 
old  pain  has  given  me  a  power  that  has  brought  us  through 
the  barrier,  and  gained  us  news  of  Charles  there,  and 
brought  us  here.  I  knew  it  would  be  so  ;  I  knew  I  could 
help  Charles  out  of  all  danger  ;  I  told  Lucie  so. — What 
is  that  noise  ?  "    His  hand  was  again  upon  the  window. 

"  Don't  look  !  "  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  absolutely  desperate. 
"No,  Lucie,  my  dear,  nor  you  !  "  He  got  his  arm  round 
her,  and  held  her.  "Don't  be  so  terrified,  my  love.  I 
solemnly  swear  to  you  that  I  know  of  no  harm  hav- 
ing happened  to  Charles,  that  I  had  no  suspicion  even, 
of  his  being  in  this  fatal  place.  What  prison  is  he 
in?" 

"  La  Force?" 

"  La  Force  !  Lucie,  my  child,  if  ever  you  were 
brave  *  and  serviceable  in  your  life — and  you  were  al- 
ways both — you  will  compose  yourself  now,  to  do  ex- 
actly as  I  bid  you  :  for,  more  depends  upon  it  than  you 
can  think,  or  I  can  say.  There  is  no  help  for  you  in 
any  action  on  your  part  to-night  ;  you  cannot  possibly 
stir  out.  I  say  this,  because  what  I  must  bid  you  to 
do  for  Charles's  sake,  is  the  hardest  thing  to  do  of  all. 
You  must  instantly  be  obedeient,  still,  and  qiuet. 
You  must  let  me  put  you  in  a  room  at  the  back  here. 
You  must  leave  your  father  and  me  alone  for  two  min- 
utes, and  as  there  are  Life  and  Death  in  the  world 
you  must  not  delay." 

"I  will  be  submissive  to  you.  I  see  in  your  face 
that  you  know  I  can  do  nothing  else  than  this.  I  know 
you  are  true." 

The  old  man  kissed  her,  and  hurried  her  into  his 
room,  and  turned  the  key  ;  then,  came  hurrying  back  to 
the  Doctor,  and  opened  the  window  and  partly  opened 
the  blind,  and  put  his  hand  upon  the  Doctor's  arm, 
and  looked  out  with  him  into  the  court-yafd. 


410 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Looked  out  upon  a  throng  of  men  and  women  :  not 
enough  in  number,  or  near  enough,  to  fill  the  court- 
yard :  not  more  than  forty  or  fifty  in  all.  The  people 
in  possession  of  the  house  had  let  them  in  at  the  gate, 
and  they  had  rushed  in  to  work  at  the  grindstone  ;  it 
h'ad  evidently  been  set  up  there  for  their  purpose,  as 
in  a  convenient  and  retired  spot. 

But,  such  awful  workers,  and  such  awful  work  ! 

The  grindstone  had  a  double  handle,  and,  turning  at  it 
madly  were  two  men,  whose  faces,  as  their  long  hair 
flapped  back  when  the  whirlings  of  the  grindstone  brought 
their  faces  up,  were  more  horrible  and  cruel  than  the 
visages  of  the  wildest  savages  in  their  most  barbarous 
disguise.  False  eyebrows  and  false  moustaches  were 
stuck  upon  them,  and  their  hideous  countenances  were 
all  bloody  and  sweaty,  and  all  awry  with  howling,  and 
all  staring  and  glaring  with  beastly  excitement  and  want 
of  sleep.  As  these  ruffians  turned  and  turned,  their 
matted  locks  now  flung  forward  over  their  eyes,  now 
flung  backward  over  their  necks,  some  women  held 
wine  to  their  mouths  that  they  might  drink  ;  and  what 
with  dropping  blood,  and  what  with  dropping  wine,  and 
what  wiLh  the  stream  of  sparks  struck  out  of  the 
stone,  all  their  wicked  atmosphere  seemed  gore  and  fire. 
The  eye  could  not  detect  one  creature  in  the  group,  free 
from  the  smear  of  blood.  Shouldering  one  another  to 
get  next  at  the  sharpening-stone,  were  men  stripped  to 
the  waist,  with  the  stain  all  over  their  limbs  and  bodies; 
men  in  all  sorts  of  rags,  with  the  stain  upon  those  rags  ; 
men  devilishly  set  off  with  spoils  of  women's  lace  and 
silk  and  ribbon,  with  the  stain  dyeing  those  trifles  through 
and  through.  Hatchets,  knives,  bayonets,  swords,  all 
brought  to  be  sharpened,  were  all  red  with  it.  Some  of 
the  hacked  swords  were  tied  to  the  wrists  of  those  who 
carried  them,  witd  strips  of  linen  and  fragments  of  dress: 
ligatures  various  in  kind,  but  all  deep  of  the  one  colour. 
Aid  as  the  frantic  wieiders  of  these  weapons  snatched 
them  from  the  stream  of  sparks  and  tore  away  into  the 
streets,  the  same  red  hue  Avas  red  in  their  frenzied  eyes  ; 
— eyes  which  any  unbrutalised  beholder  would  have 
given  twenty  years  of  his  life,  to  petrify  with  a  well-di- 
rected gun. 

All  this  was  seen  in  a  moment,  as  the  vision  of  a  drown- 
ing man,  or  of  any  human  creature  at  any  very  great  pass, 
could  see  a  world  if  it  were  there.  They  drew  back  from 
the  window,  and  the  Doctor  looked  for  explanation  in 
his  friend's  ashy  face. 

"  They  are,"  Mr.  Lorry  whispered  the  words,  glancing 
fearfully  round  at  the  locked  room,  "Murdering  the 
prisoners.  If  you  are  sure  of  what  you  say  ;  if  you  real- 
ly have  the  power  you  think  you  have — as  I  believe  you 
have — make  yourself  known  to  these  devils,  and  get 
taken  to  La  Force.  It  may  be  too  late,  I  don't  know,  but 
let  it  not  be  a  minute  later  !  " 

Doctor  Manette  pressed  his  hand,  hastened  bareheaded 
out  of  the  room,  and  was  in  the  court-yard  when  Mr. 
Lorry  regained  the  blind. 

His  streaming  white  hair,  his  remarkable  face,  and 
the  impetuous  confidence  of  his  manner,  as  he  put  the 
weapons  aside  like  water,  carried  him  in  an  instant  to 
the  heart  of  the  concourse  at  the  stone.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments there  was  a  pause,  and  a  hurry,  and  a  murmur, 
and  the  unintelligible  sound  of  his  voice  ;  and  then  Mr. 
Lorry  saw  him,  surrounded  by  all,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
line  twenty  men  long,  all  linked  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
and  hand  to  shoulder,  hurried  out  with  cries  of  "  Live 
the  Bastille  X)risoner  !  Help  for  the  Bastille  prisoner's 
kindred  in  La  Force  !  Room  for  the  Bastille  prisoner  in 
front  there  !  Save  the  prisoner  Evremonde  at  La  Force  !  " 
and  a  thousand  answering  shouts. 

He  closed  the  lattice  again  with  a  fluttering  heart, 
closed  the  window  and  the  curtain,  hastened  to  Lucie, 
and  told  her  that  her  father  was  assisted  by  the  people, 
and  gone  in  search  of  her  husband.  He  found  her  child 
and  Miss  Pross  with  her  ;  but,  it  never  occurred  to  him 
to  be  surprised  by  their  appearance  until  a  long  time 
afterwards,  when  he  sat  watching  them  in  such  quiet  as 
the  night  knew. 

Lucie  had,  by  that  time,  fallen  into  a  stupor  on  the 
floor  at  his  feet,  clinging  to  his  hand.  Miss  Pross  had 
laid  the  child  down  on  his  own  bed,  and  her  head  had 
gradually  fallen  on  the  pillow  beside  her  pretty  charge. 


O  the  long,  long  night,  with  the  moans  of  the  poor  wife. 
And  0  the  long,  long  night,  with  no  return  of  her  father 
and  no  tidings  ! 

Twice  more  in  the  darkness  the  bell  at  the  great  gate 
sounded,  and  the  irruption  was  repeated,  and  the  grind- 
stone whirled  and  spluttered.  "What  is  it?"  cried 
Lucie,  affrighted.  "Hush!  the  soldiers'  swords  are 
sharpened  there,"  said  Mr.  Lorry.  "The  place  is  Na- 
tional property  now,  and  used  as  a  kind  of  armoury,  my 
love." 

Twice  more  in  all ;  but  the  last  spell  of  work  was  fee- 
ble and  fitful.  Soon  afterwards  the  day  began  to  dawn, 
and  he  softly  detached  himself  from  the  clasping  hand, 
and  cautiously  looked  out  again.  A  man,  so  besmeared 
that  he  might  have  been  a  sorely  wounded  soldier  creep- 
ing back  to  consciousness  on  a  field  of  slain,  was  rising 
from  the  pavement  by  the  side  of  the  grindstone,  and 
looking  about  him  with  a  vacant  air.  Shortly,  this 
worn-out  murderer  descried  in  the  imperfect  light  one 
of  the  carriages  of  Monseigneur,  and,  staggering  to  that 
gorgeous  vehicle,  climbed  in  at  the  door,  and  shut  him- 
self up  to  take  his  rest  on  its  dainty  cushions. 

The  great  grindstone.  Earth,  had  turned  when  Mr. 
Lorry  looked  out  again,  and  the  sun  was  red  on  the 
court-yard.  But,  the  lesser  grindstone  stood  alone  there 
in  the  calm  morning  air,  with  a  red  upon  it  that  the  sun 
had  never  given,  and  would  never  take  away. 


CHAPTER  TIL 

The  Shadow. 

One  of  the  first  considerations  which  arose  in  the 
business  mind  of  Mr.  Lorry  when  business  hours  came 
round,  was  this  : — that  he  had  no  right  to  imperil  TelL 
son's  by  sheltering  the  wife  of  an  emigrant  prisoner 
under  the  Bank  roof.  His  own  possessions,  safety,  life, 
he  would  have  hazarded  for  Lucie  and  her  child,  with- 
out a  moment's  demur  ;  but  the  great  trust  he  held  was 
not  his  own,  and  as  to  that  business  charge  he  was  a 
strict  man  of  business. 

At  first,  his  mind  reverted  to  Defarge,  and  he  thought 
of  finding  out  the  wine-shop  again,  and  taking  counsel 
with  its  master  in  reference  to  the  safest  dwelling-place 
in  the  distracted  state  of  the  city.  But,  the  same  con- 
sideration that  suggested  him,  repudiated  him  ;  he  lived 
in  the  most  violent  Quarter,  and  doubtless  was  influen- 
tial there,  and  deep  in  its  dangerous  workings. 

Noon  coming,  and  the  Doctor  not  returning,  and  every 
minute's  delay  tending  to  compromise  Tellson's,  Mr. 
Lorry  advised  with  Lucie.  She  said  that  her  father  had 
spoken  of  hiring  a  lodging  for  a  short  term,  in  that  Quar- 
ter, near  the  Banking-house.  As  there  was  no  business 
objection  to  this,  and  as  he  foresaw  that  even  if  it  were 
all  well  with  Charles,  and  he  were  to  be  released,  he 
could  not  hope  to  leave  the  city,  Mr.  Lorry  went  out  in 
quest  of  such  a  lodging,  and  found  a  suitable  one,  high 
up  in  a  removed  by-street  where  the  closed  blinds  in  all 
the  other  windows  of  a  high  melancholy  square  of  build- 
ings marked  desertecl  homes. 

To  this  lodging  he  at  once  removed  Lucie  and  her 
child,  and  Miss  Pross  :  giving  them  what  comfort  he 
could,  and  much  more  than  he  had  himself.    He  left 
Jerry  with  them,  as  a  figure  to  fill  a  doorway  that  would 
j  bear  considerable  knocking  on  the  head,  and  returned  to 
I  his  own  occupations.    A  disturbed  and  doleful  mind  he 
j  brought  to  bear  upon  them,  and  slowly  and  heavily  the 
day  lagged  on  with  him. 

It  wore  itself  out,  and  wore  him  out  with  it,  until  the 
Bank  closed.  He  was  again  alone  in  his  room  of  the 
previous  night,  considering  what  to  do  next,  when  he 
heard  a  foot  upon  the  stair.  In  a  few  moments,  a  man 
stood  in  his  presence,  who,  with  a  keenly  observant  look 
at  him,  addressed  him  by  his  name. 

"  Your  servant,"  said  Mr.  Lorry.  "  Do  you  know 
me?" 

He  was  a  strongly  made  man  with  dark  curling  hair, 
from  forty-five  to  fifty  years  of  age.    For  answer  he  re 
peated,  without  any  change  of  emphasis,  the  words  : 
"  Do  you  know  me  ?  " 


A  TALE  OF 

"  I  have  seen  you  somewhere." 
"  Perhaps  at  my  wine-shop  ?  " 

Much  interested  and  agitated,  Mr.  Lorry  said  :  **  You 
come  from  Doctor  Mauette  ?  " 

"  Yes.    I  come  from  Doctor  Manette." 

"  And  what  says  he  ?    What  does  lie  send  me  ?  " 

Defarge  gave  into  his  anxious  hand,  an  open  scrap  of 
paper.    It  bore  the  words  in  the  Doctor's  writing, 

"Charles  is  safe,  but  I  cannot  safely  leave  this  place 
yet.  I  have  obtained  the  favour  that  the  bearer  has  a 
short  note  from  Charles  to  his  wife.  Let  the  bearer  see 
his  wife." 

It  was  dated  from  La  Force,  within  an  hour. 

"  Will  you  accompany  me,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  joyfully 
relieved  after  reading  this  note  aloud,  "  to  where  his  wife 
resides  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Defarge. 

Scarcely  noticing,  as  yet,  in  what  a  curiously  re- 
served and  mechanical  way  Defarge  spoke,  Mr.  Lorry 
put  on  his  hat  and  they  went  down  into  the  court-yard. 
There,  they  found  two  women,  one,  knitting. 

"Madame  Defarge,  surely  !"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had 
left  her  in  exactly  the  same  attitude  some  seventeen 
years  ago. 

"  It  is  she,"  observed  her  husband. 

"  Does  Madame  go  with  us  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Lorry, 
seeing  that  she  moved  as  they  moved. 

"Yes.  That  she  may  be  able  to  recognise  the  faces 
and  know  the  persons.    It  is  for  their  safety." 

Beginning  to  be  struck  by  Defarge 's  manner,  Mr. 
Lorry  looked  dubiously  at  him,  and  led  the  way.  Both 
the  women  followed  ;  the  second  woman  being  The 
Vengeance. 

They  passed  through  the  intervening  streets  as  quick- 
ly as  they  might,  ascended  the  staircase  of  the  new  dom- 
icile, were  admitted  by  Jerry,  and  found  Lucie  weeping, 
alone.  She  was  thrown  into  a  transport  by  the  tidings 
Mr,  Lorry  gave  her  of  her  husband,  and  clasped  the  hand 
that  delivered  his  note — little  thinking  what  it  had 
been  doing  near  him  in  the  night,  and  might,  but  for  a 
chance,  have  done  to  him. 

"■  Dearest, — Take  courage.  I  am  well,  and  your 
father  has  influence  around  me.  You  cannot  answer 
this.    Kiss  our  child  for  me." 

That  was  all  the  writing.  It  was  so  much,  however, 
to  her  who  received  it,  that  she  turned  from  Defarge  to 
his  wife,  and  kissed  one  of  the  hands  that  knitted.  It 
was  a  passionate,  loving,  thankful,  womanly  action,  but 
the  hand  made  no  response — dropped  cold  and  heavy, 
and  took  to  its  knitting  again. 

There  was  something  in  its  touch  that  gave  Lucie  a 
check.  She  stopped  in  the  act  of  putting  the  note  in  her 
bosom,  and,  with  her  hands  yet  at  her  neck,  looked  ter- 
rified at  Madame  Defarge.  Madame  Defarge  met  the 
lifted  eyebrows  and  forehead  with  a  cold  impassive  stare. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  striking  in  to  explain  ; 
"  there  are  frequent  risings  in  the  streets  ;  and,  although 
it  is  not  likely  they  will  ever  trouble  you,  Madame  De- 
farge wishes  to  see  those  whom  she  has  the  power  to 
protect  at  such  times,  to  the  end  that  she  may  know 
them — that  she  may  identify  them.  I  believe,"  said  Mr. 
Lorry,  rather  halting  in  his  reassuring  words,  as  the 
stony  manner  of  all  the  three  impressed  itself  upon  him 
more  and  more,  "I  state  the  case,  Citizen  Defarge  ?  " 

Defarge  looked  gloomily  at  his  wife,  and  gave  no 
other  answer  than  a  gruflE  sound  of  acquiescence. 

"  You  had  better,  Lucie,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  doing  all  he 
could  to  propitiate,  by  tone  and  manner,  "  have  the  dear 
child  here,  and  our  good  Pross.  Our  good  Pross,  De- 
farge, is  an  English  lady,  and  knows  no  French." 

The  lady  in  question,  whose  rooted  conviction  that  she 
was  more  than  a  match  for  any  foreigner,  was  not  to  be 
shaken  by  distress  and  danger,  appeared  with  folded 
arms,  and  observed  in  English  to  The  Vengeance,  whom 
her  eyes  first  encountered,  "  Well,  I  am  sure,  Boldface  ! 
I  hope  you  are  ])retty  well  ! "  She  also  bestowed  a 
British  cough  on  Madame  Defarge  ;  but,  neither  of  the 
two  took  much  heed  of  her. 


TWO  CITIES,  411 

"  Is  that  his  child  ?  "  said  Madame  Defarge,  stopping  in 
her  work  for  the  first  time,  and  pointing  her  knitting- 
needle  at  little  Lucie  as  if  it  were  the  finger  of  Fate. 

"  Yes,  madame,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry  ;  "  this  is  our 
poor  prisoner's  darling  daughter  and  only  child." 

The  shadow  attendant  on  Madame  Defarge  and  her 
party  seemed  to  fall  so  threatening  and  dark  on  the  child, 
that  her  mother  instinctively  kneeled  on  the  ground  be- 
side her,  and  held  her  to  her  breast.  The  shadow  at- 
tendant on  Madame  Defarge  and  her  party  seemed  then 
to  fall,  threatening  and  dark,  on  both  the  mother  and 
the  child. 

"It  is  enough,  my  husband,"  said  Madame  Defarge. 
"  I  have  seen  them.    We  may  go." 

But,  the  suppressed  manner  had  enough  of  menace  in 
it — not  visible  and  presented,  but  indistinct  and  withheld 
— to  alarm  Lucie  into  saying,  as  she  laid  her  appealing 
hand  on  Madame  Defarge's  dress  : 

"  You  will  be  good  to  my  poor  husband.  You  will  do 
him  no  harm.    You  will  help  me  to  see  him  if  you  can  ?  " 

"Your  husband  is  not  my  bu.siness  here,"  returned 
Madame  Defarge,  looking  down  at  her  with  jjerfect  com- 
posure. "  It  is  the  daughter  of  your  father  who  is  my 
business  here." 

"  For  my  sake,  then,  be  merciful  to  my  husband.  For 
my  child's  sake  !  She  will  put  her  hands  together  and 
pray  you  to  be  merciful.  We  are  more  afraid  of  you 
than  of  these  others." 

Madame  Defarge  received  it  as  a  compliment,  and 
looked  at  her  husband.  Defarge,  who  had  been  uneasily 
biting  his  thumb-nail  and  looking  at  her,  collected  his 
face  into  a  sterner  expression. 

"  What  is  it  that  your  husband  says  in  that  little  let- 
ter?" asked  Madame  Defarge,  with  a  lowering  smile. 
"  Influence  ;  he  says  something  touching  influence?" 

"  That  my  father,"  said  Lucie  hurriedly  taking  the  paper 
from  her  breast,  but  with  her  alarmed  eyes  on  her  ques- 
tioner and  not  on  it,  "  has  much  influence  around  him." 

"  Surely  it  will  release  him  !  "  said  Madame  Defarge. 
"Let  it  do  so." 

"  As  a  wife  and  mother,"  cried  Lucie,  most  earnestly, 
"  I  implore  you  to  have  pity  on  me  and  not  to  exercise 
any  power  that  you  possess,  against  my  innocent  hus- 
band, but  to  use  it  in  his  behalf. ,  O,  sister- woman,  think 
of  me.    As  a  wife  and  mothei  !  " 

Madame  Defarge  looked,  coldly  as  ever,  at  the  suppli- 
ant, and  said,  turning  to  her  friend  The  Vengeance  : 

"  The  wives  and  mothers  we  have  been  used  to  see, 
since  we  were  as  little  as  this  child,  and  much  less,  have 
not  been  greatly  considered  ?  We  have  known  tlieii'  hus- 
bands and  fathers  laid  in  prison  and  kept  from  them, 
often  enough  ?  All  our  lives,  we  have  seen  our  sister- 
women  suffer,  in  themselves  and  in  their  children,  pover- 
ty, nakedness,  hunger,  thirst,  sickness,  misery,  oppres- 
sion and  neglect  of  all  kinds  ?  " 

"We  have  seen  nothing  else,"  returned  The  Ven- 
geance. 

"  We  have  borne  this  a  long  time,"  said  Tkfadame  De- 
farge, turning  her  eyes  again  upon  Lucie.  "Judge  you  ! 
Is  it  likely  that  the  trouble  of  one  wife  and  mother  would 
be  much  to  us  now  ?  " 

She  resumed  her  knitting  and  went  out.  The  Ven- 
geance followed.   Defarge  went  last,  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Courage,  my  dear  Lucie,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  he  raised 
her.  "  Courage,  courage  !  So  far  all  goes  well  with  us — 
much,  much  better  than  it  has  of  late  gone  with  many 
poor  souls.    Cheer  up,  and  have  a  thankful  heart." 

"  I  am  not  thankless,  I  hope,  but  that  dreadful  womaii 
seems  to  throw  a  shadow  on  me  and  on  all  my  hopes." 

"  Tut,  tut  !  "  said  Mr.  Lorry  ;  "  what  is  this  despond- 
ency in  the  brave  little  breast  ?  A  shadow  indeed  !  No 
substance  in  it,  Lucie." 

But  the  shadow  of  the  manner  of  these  Defarges  was 
dark  upon  himself,  for  all  that,  and  in  his  secret  mind  it 
troubled  him  greatly. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Calm  in  Storm. 

Doctor  Manette  did  not  return  until  the  morning  of 
the  fourth  day  of  his  absence.    So  much  of  what  had 


412 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


happened  in  tliat  dreadful  time  as  could  be  kept  from 
the  knowledge  of  Lucie  was  so  well  concealed  from  her, 
that  not  until  long  afterwards  when  France  and  she  were 
wide  apart,  did  she  know  that  eleven  hundred  defence- 
less prisoners  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  had  been  killed 
by  the  populace  ;  that  four  days  and  nights  had  been 
darkened  by  this  deed  of  horror  ;  and  that  the  air  around 
her  had  been  tainted  by  the  slain.  She  only  knew  that 
there  had  been  an  attaclv  upon  the  prisons,  that  all  polit- 
ical prisoners  had  been  in  danger,  and  that  some  had 
been  dragged  out  by  the  crowd  and  murdered. 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  the  Doctor  communicated  under  an  in- 
junction of  secrecy  on  which  he  had  no  need  to  dwell, 
that  the  crowd  had  taken  him  through  a  scene  of  car- 
nage to  the  prison  of  La  Force.  That,  in  the  prison  he 
had  found  a  self-appointed  Tribunal  sitting,  before 
which  the  prisoners  were  brought  singly,  and  by  which 
they  were  rapidly  ordered  to  be  put  forth  to  be  massa- 
cred, or  to  be  released,  or  (in  a  few  cases)  to  be  sent 
back  to  their  cells.  That,  presented  by  his  conductors 
to  this  Tribunal,  he  had  announced  himself  by  name  and 
profession  as  having  been  for  eighteen  years  a  secret 
and  an  unaccused  prisoner  in  the  Bastille  ;  that,  one  of 
the  body  so  sitting  in  judgment  had  risen  and  identified 
him,  and  that  this  man  was  Defarge. 

That,  hereupon  he  had  ascertained,  through  the  regis- 
ters on  the  table,  that  his  son-in-law  was  among  the 
living  prisoners,  and  had  pleaded  hard  to  the  Tribunal 
— of  whom  some  members  were  asleep  and  some  awake, 
some  dirty  with  murder  and  some  clean,  some  sober  and 
some  not — for  his  life  and  liberty.  That,  in  the  first 
frantic  greetings  lavished  on  himself  as  a  notable  suf- 
ferer under  the  overthrown  system,  it  had  been  accorded 
to  him  to  have  Charles  Darnay  brought  before  the  law- 
less Court,  and  examined.  That,  he  seemed  on  the 
point  of  being  at  once  released,  when  the  tide  in  his 
favour  met  with  some  unexplained  check  (not  intelligible 
to  the  Doctor),  which  led  to  a  few  words  of  secret  confer- 
ence. That  the  man  sitting  as  President  h  ad  then  in  formed 
Doctor  Manette  that  the  prisoner  must  remain  in  custody, 
but  should,  for  his  sake,  be  held  inviolate  in  safe  custody. 
That,  immediately,  on  a  signal,  the  prisoner  was  re- 
moved to  the  interior  of  the  prison  again  ;  but,  that  he, 
the  Doctor,  had  then  so  strongly  pleaded  for  permission 
to  remain  and  assure  himself  that  his  son-in-law  was, 
through  no  malice  or  mischance,  delivered  to  the  con- 
course whose  murderous  yells  outside  the  gate  had  often 
drowned  the  proceedings,  that  he  had  obtained  the  per- 
mission, and  had  remained  in  that  Hall  of  Blood  until 
the  danger  was  over. 

The  sights  he  had  seen  there,  with  brief  snatches  of 
food  and  sleep  by  intervals,  shall  remain  untold.  The 
mad  joy  over  the  prisoners  who  were  saved,  had  as- 
tounded him  scarcely  less  than  the  mad  ferocity  against 
those  who  were  cut  to  pieces.  One  prisoner  there  was, 
he  said,  who  had  been  discharged  into  the  street  free, 
but  at  whom  a  mistaken  savage  had  thrust  a  pike  as  he 
passed  out.  Being  besought  to  go  to  him  and  dress  the 
wound,  the  Doctor  had  passed  out  at  the  same  gate,  and 
had  found  him  in  the  arms  of  a  company  of  Samaritans, 
who  were  seated  on  the  bodies  of  their  victims.  With 
an  inconsistency  as  monstrous  as  anything  in  this  awful 
nightmare,  they  had  helped  the  healer,  and  tended  the 
wounded  man  with  the  gentlest  solicitude — had  made  a 
litter  for  him  and  escorted  him  carefully  from  the  spot 
— had  then  caught  up  their  weapons  and  plunged  anew 
into  a  butchery  so  dreadful,  that  the  Doctor  had  covered 
his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  swooned  away  in  the  midst 
of  it. 

As  Mr.  Lorry  received  these  confidences,  and  as  he 
"watched  the  face  of  his  friend  now  sixty-two  years  of 
age,  a  misgiving  arose  within  him  that  such  dread  ex- 
periences would  revive  the  old  danger.  But,  he  had 
never  seen  his  friend  in  his  present  aspect  ;  he  had 
never  at  all  known  him  in  his  present  character.  For 
the  first  time  the  Doctor  felt,  now,  that  his  suffering 
was  strength  and  power.  For  the  first  time,  he  felt  that 
in  that  sharp  fire,  ho  had  slowly  forged  the  iron  which 
could  break  the  prison  door  of  his  daughter's  husband, 
and  deliver  him.  "It  all  tended  to  a  good  end,  my 
friend  ;  it  was  not  mere  waste  and  ruin.  As  my  be- 
loved child  was  helpful  in  restoring  me  to  myself,  I  will 


be  helpful  now  in  restoring  the  dearest  part  of  herself 
to  her  ;  by  the  aid  of  Heaven  I  will  do  it  ! "  Thus, 
Doctor  Manette.  And  when  Jarvis  Lorry  saw  the  kindled 
eyes,  the  resolute  face,  the  calm  strong  look  and  bearing 
of  the  man  whose  life  always  seemed  to  him  to  have 
been  stopped,  like  a  clock,  for  so  many  years,  and  then 
set  going  again  with  an  energy  which  had  lain  dormant 
during  the  cessation  of  its  usefulness,  he  believed. 

Greater  things  than  the  Doctor  had  at  that  time  to 
contend  with,  would  have  yielded  before  his  persevering 
purpose.  While  he  kept  himself  in  his  place,  as  a  phy- 
sician whose  business  was  with  all  degrees  of  mankind, 
bond  and  free,  rich  and  poor,  bad  and  good,  he  used  his 
personal  influence  so  Avisely,  that  he  was  soon  the  in- 
specting physician  of  three  prisons,  and  among  them  of 
La  Force.  He  could  now  assure  Lucie  that  her  husband 
was  no  longer  confined  alone,  but  was  mixed  with  the 
general  body  of  prisoners  ;  he  saw  her  husband  weekly, 
and  brought  sweet  messages  to  her,  straight  from  his 
lips  ;  sometimes  her  husband  himself  sent  a  letter  to 
her  (though  never  by  the  Doctor's  hand),  but  she  was 
not  permitted  to  write  to  him  ;  for,  among  the  many 
wild  suspicions  of  plots  in  the  prisoners,  the  wildest  of 
all  pointed  at  emigrants  who  were  known  to  have  made 
friends  or  permanent  connexions  abroad. 

This  new  life  of  the  Doctor's  was  an  anxious  life,  no 
doubt,  still,  the  sagacious  Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  there  was 
a  new  sustaining  pride  in  it.  Nothing  unbecoming 
tinged  the  pride  ;  it  was  a  natural  and  worthy  one  ;  but 
he  observed  it  as  a  curiosity.  The  Doctor  knew,  that  up 
to  that  time,  his  imprisonment  had  been  associated  in 
the  minds  of  his  daughter  and  his  friend,  with  his  per- 
sonal affliction,  deprivation,  and  weakness.  Now  that 
this  was  changed,  and  he  knew  himself  to  be  invested 
through  that  old  trial  with  forces  to  which  they  both 
looked  for  Charles's  ultimate  safety  and  deliverance,  he 
became  so  far  exalted  by  the  change,  that  he  took  the  lead 
and  direction,  and  required  them  as  the  weak,  to  trust  to 
him  as  the  strong.  The  preceding  relative  positions  of 
himself  and  Lucie  were  reversed,  yet  only  as  the  live- 
liest gratitude  and  affection  could  reverse  them,  for  he 
could  have  had  no  pride  but  in  rendering  some  service 
to  her  who  had  rendered  so  much  to  him.  "  All  curious 
to  see,"  thought  Mr.  Lorry,  in  his  amiably  shrewd  way, 
"but  all  natural  and  right ;  so,  take  the  lead,  my  dear 
friend,  and  keep  it ;  it  couldn't  be  in  better  hands," 

But,  though  the  Doctor  tried  hard,  and  never  ceased 
trying,  to  get  Charles  Darnay  set  at  liberty,  or  at  least  to 
get  him  brought  to  trial,  the  public  current  of  the  time 
set  too  strong  and  fast  for  him.  The  new  Era  began  ; 
the  king  was  tried,  doomed,  and  beheaded  ;  the  Repub- 
lic of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  declared 
for  victory  or  death  against  the  world  in  arms  ;  the  black 
flag  waved  night  and  day  from  the  great  towers  of 
Not  re-Dame  ;  three  hundred  thousand  men,  summoned 
to  rise  against  the  tyrants  of  the  earth,  rose  from  all  the 
varying  soils  of  France,  as  if  the  dragon's  teeth  had  been 
sown  broadcast,  and  had  yielded  fruit  equally  on  hill 
and  plain,  on  rock  in  gravel  and  alluvial  mud,  under  the 
bright  sky  of  the  South  and  under  the  clouds  of  the 
North,  in  fell  and  forest,  in  the  vineyards  and  the  olive 
grounds  and  among  the  cropped  grass  and  the  stubble  of 
the  corn,  along  the  fruitful  banks  of  the  broad  rivers, 
and  in  the  sand  of  the  sea-shore.  What  private  solici- 
tude could  rear  itself  against  the  deluge  of  the  Year  One 
of  Liberty — the  deluge  rising  from  below,  not  falling 
from  above,  and  with  the  windows  of  Heaven  shut,  not 
opened  ! 

There  was  no  pause,  no  pity,  no  peace,  no  interval  of 
relenting  rest,  no  measurement  of  time.  Though  days 
and  nights  circled  as  regularly  as  when  time  was  young, 
and  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first  day, 
other  count  of  time  there  was  none.  Hold  of  it  was  lost 
in  the  raging  fever  of  a  nation,  as  it  is  in  the  fever  of 
one  patient.  Now,  breaking  the  unnatural  silence  of  a 
whole  city,  the  executioner  showed  the  people  the  head 
of  the  king — and  now,  it  seemed  almost  in  the  same 
breath,  the  head  of  his  fair  wife  which  had  had  eight 
weary  months  of  imprisoned  widowhood  and  misery,  to 
turn  it  grey. 

And  yet,  observing  the  strange  law  of  contradiction 
which  obtains  in  all  such  cases,  the  time  was  long,  while 


A  TALE  OF 

it  flamed  by  so  fast.  A  revolutionary  tribunal  in  the 
capital,  and  forty  or  fifty  thousand  revolutionary  com- 
mittees all  over  the  land  ;  a  law  of  the  Suspected,  which 
Struck  away  all  security  for  liberty  or  life,  and  delivered 
over  any  good  and  innocent  person  to  any  bad  and  guilty 
one  ;  prisons  gorged  with  people  who  had  committed  no 
offence,  and  could  obtain  no  hearing  ;  these  things  be- 
came the  established  order  and  nature  of  appointed 
things,  and  sfeemed  to  be  ancient  usage  before  they  were 
many  weeks  old.  Above  all,  one  hideous  figure  grew  as 
familiar  as  if  it  had  been  before  the  general  gaze  from 
the  foundations  of  the  world — the  figure  of  the  sharp 
female  called  La  Guillotine. 

It  was  the  popular  theme  for  jests  ;  it  was  the  best 
cure  for  headache,  it  infallibly  prevented  the  hair  from 
turning  grey,  it  imparted  a  peculiar  delicacy  to  the  com- 
plexion, it  was  the  National  Razor  which  shaved  close  : 
who  kissed  La  Guillotine,  looked  through  the  little  win- 
dow and  sneezed  into  the  sack.  It  was  the  sign  of  the 
regeneration  of  the  human  race.  It  superseded  the 
Cross.  Models  of  it  were  worn  on  breasts  from  which 
the  Cross  was  discarded,  and  it  was  boWed  down  to  and 
believed  in  where  the  Cross  was  denied. 

It  sheared  off  heads  so  many,  that  it,  and  the  ground 
it  most  polluted,  were  a  rotten  red.  It  was  taken  to 
pieces,  like  a  toy-puzzle  for  a  young  Devil,  and  was  put 
together  again  when  the  occasion  wanted  it.  It  hushed 
the  eloquent,  struck  down  the  powerful,  abolished  the 
beautiful  and  good.  Twenty-two  friends  of  high  public 
mark,  twenty-one  living  and  one  dead,  it  had  lopped  the 
heads  off,  in  one  morning,  in  as  many  minutes. 

Among  these  terrors,  and  the  brood  belonging  to  them, 
the  Doctor  walked  with  a  steady  head  :  confident  in  his 
power,  cautiously  persistent  in  his  end,  never  doubting 
that  he  would  save  Lucie's  husband  at  last.  Yet  the 
current  of  the  time  swept  by,  so  strong  and  deep,  and 
carried  the  time  away  so  fiercely,  that  Charles  had  lain 
in  prison  one  year  and  three  months  when  the  Doctor 
was  thus  steady  and  confident.  So  much  more  wicked 
and  distracted  had  the  Revolution  grown  in  that  Decem- 
ber month,  that  the  rivers  of  the  South  were  encumbered 
with  the  bodies  of  the  violently  drowned  by  night,  and 
prisoners  were  shot  in  lines  and  squares  under  the  south- 
ern wintry  sun.  Still,  the  Doctor  walked  among  the  ter- 
rors with  a  steady  head.  No  man  better  known  than  he,  in 
Paris  at  that  day  ;  no  man  in  a  stranger  situation.  Silent, 
humane,  indispensable  in  hospital  and  prison,  using  his 
art  equally  among  assassins  and  victims,  he  was  a  man 
apart.  In  the  exercise  of  his  skill,  the  appearance  and 
the  story  of  the  Bastille  Captive  removed  him  from  all 
other  men.  He  was  not  suspected  or  brought  in  ques- 
tion, any  more  than  if  he  had  indeed  been  recalled  to 
life  some  eighteen  years  before,  or  were  a  Spirit  moving 
among  mortals. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Wood-Sawyer. 

One  year  and  three  months.  During  all  that  time 
Lucie  was  never  sure,  from  hour  to  hour,  but  that  the 
Guillotine  would  strike  off  her  husband's  head  next  day. 
Every  day,  through  the  stony  streets,  the  tumbrils  now 
jolted  heavily,  filled  with  Condemned.  Lovely  girls  ; 
bright  women,  brown-haired,  black-haired,  and  grey  ; 
youths  ;  stalwart  men  and  old  ;  gentle  born  and  peasant 
born  ;  all  red  wine  for  La  Guillotine,  all  daily  brought 
into  light  from  the  dark  cellars  of  the  loathsome  prisons, 
and  carried  to  her  through  the  streets  to  slake  her  de- 
vouring thirst.  Liberty,  equality,  fraternity,  or  death  ; 
— the  last,  much  the  easiest  to  bestow,  O  Guillotine  I 

If  the  suddenness  of  her  calamity,  and  the  whirling 
wheels  of  the  time,  had  stunned  the  Doctor's  daughter 
into  awaiting  the  result  in  idle  despair,  it  would  but 
have  been  with  her  as  it  was  with  many.  But,  from  the 
hour  when  she  had  taken  the  white  head  to  her  fresh 
young  bosom  in  the  garret  of  Saint  Antoine,  she  had  been 
true  to  her  duties.  She  was  truest  to  them  in  the  season 
of  trial,  as  all  the  quietly  loyal  and  good  will  always  be. 

As  soon  as  they  were  established  in  their  new  resi- 
dence, and  her  father  had  entered  on  the  routine  of  his 


TWO  CITIES,  413 

avocations,  she  arranged  the  little  household  as  exactly 
as  if  her  husband  had  been  there.  Everything  had  its 
appointed  place  and  its  appointed  time.  Little  Lucie  she 
taught,  as  regularly,  as  if  they  had  all  been  united  in 
their  English  home.  The  slight  devices  with  which  she 
cheated  herself  into  the  show  of  a  belief  that  they  would 
i  soon  be  reunited — the  little  preparations  for  his  speedy 
return,  the  setting  aside  of  his  chair  and  his  books — 
these,  and  the  solemn  prayer  at  night  for  one  dear  pris- 
oner especially,  among  the  many  unhappy  souls  in  prison 
and  the  shadow  of  death — were  almost  the  only  out- 
spoken reliefs  of  her  heavy  mind. 

She  did  not  greatly  alter  in  appearance.  The  plain 
dark  dresses,  akin  to  mourning  dresses,  which  she  and 
her  child  wore,  were  as  neat  and  as  well  attended  to 
as  the  brighter  clothes  of  happy  days.  She  lost  her 
colour,  and  the  old  intent  expression  was  a  constant,  not 
an  occasional,  thing  ;  otherwise,  she  remained  very  pretty 
and  comely.  Sometimes,  at  night,  on  kissing  her  father, 
she  would  burst  into  the  grief  she  had  repressed  all  day, 
j  and  would  say  that  her  sole  reliance,  under  Heaven,  was 
on  him.  He  always  resolutely  answered  :  "  Nothing  can 
happen  to  him  without  my  knowledge,  and  I  know  that  I 
can  save  him,  Lucie." 

They  had  not  made  the  round  of  their  changed  life, 
many  weeks,  when  her  father  said  to  her,  on  coming 
home  one  evening  : 

"My  dear,  there  is  an  upper  window  in  the  prison,  to 
which  Charles  can  sometimes  gain  access  at  three  in  the 
afternoon.  When  he  can  get  to  it — which  depends  on 
many  uncertainties  and  incidents — he  might  see  you  in 
the  street,  he  thinks,  if  you  stood  in  a  certain  place  that 
I  can  show  you.  But  you  will  not  be  able  to  see  him, 
my  poor  child,  and  even  if  you  could,  it  would  be  unsafe 
for  you  to  make  a  sign  of  recognition." 

"  0  show  me  the  place,  my  father,  and  I  will  go  there 
every  day." 

From  that  time,  in  all  weathers,  she  waited  there  two 
hours.  As  the  clock  struck  two,  she  was  there,  and  at 
four  she  turned  resignedly  away.  When  it  was  not  too 
wet  or  inclement  for  her  child  to  be  with  her,  they  went 
together  ;  at  other  times  she  was  alone  ;  but,  she  never 
missed  a  single  day. 

It  was  the  dark  and  dirty  corner  of  a  small  winding 
street.  The  hovel  of  a  cutter  of  wood  into  lengths  for 
burning,  was  the  only  house  at  that  end  ;  all  else  was 
wall.  On  the  third  day  of  her  being  there,  he  noticed 
her. 

"  Good  day,  citizeness." 
"  Good  day,  citizen." 

This  mode  of  address  was  now  prescribed  by  decree. 
It  had  been  established  voluntarily  some  time  ago, 
among  the  more  thorough  patriots  ;  but,  it  was  now  law 
for  everybody. 

"  Walking  here  again,  citizeness  ?  " 

"  You  see  me,  citizen  ! " 

The  wood-sawyer,  who  was  a  little  man  with  a  re- 
dundancy of  gesture  (he  had  once  been  a  mender  of 
roads),  cast  a  glance  at  the  prison,  pointed  at  the  prison, 
and  putting  his  ten  fingers  before  his  face  to  represent 
bars,  peeped  through  them  jocosely. 

"But  it's  not  my  business,"  said  he.  And  went  on 
sawing  his  wood. 

Next  day,  he  was  looking  out  for  her,  and  accosted 
her  the  moment  she  appeared. 

"  What  !    Walking  here  again,  citizeness  ?  " 

"  Yes,  citizen." 

"  Ah  !  A  child  too  !  Your  mother,  is  it  not,  my  little 
citizeness  ?  " 

"Do  I  say  yes,  mamma?"  whispered  little  Lucie, 
drawing  close  to  her. 
"  Yes,  dearest." 
"  Yes,  citizen." 

"Ah  !  But  it's  not  my  business.  My  work  is  my 
business.  See  my  saw  !  I  call  it  my  Little  Guillotine. 
La,  la,  la  ;  La,  la,  la  !    And  off  his  head  comes  ! " 

The  billet  fell  as  he  spoke,  and  he  threw  it  into  a 
basket. 

"  I  call  myself  the  Sanson  of  the  firewood  guillotine. 
See  here  again  !  Loo,  loo,  loo  ;  Loo,  loo,  loo  !  And  off 
her  head  comes  !  Now,  a  child.  Tickle,  tickle  ;  Pickle, 
pickle  !    And  off  its  head  comes.    All  the  family  I " 


414 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Lucie  shuddered  as  lie  tlirew  two  more  billets  into  his 
basket,  but  it  was  impossible  to  be  there  while  the 
wood-sawyer  was  at  work,  and  not  be  in  his  sight. 
Thenceforth,  to  secure  his  good  will,  she  always  spoke 
to  him  first,  and  often  gave  him  drink-money,  which  he 
readily  received. 

He  was  an  inquisitive  fellow,  and  sometimes  when  she 
had  quire  forgotten  him  in  gazing  at  the  prison  roof  and 
grates,  and  in  lifting  her  heart  up  to  her  husband,  she 
would  come  to  herself  to  find  him  looking  at  her,  with 
his  knee  on  his  bench  and  his  saw  stopped  in  its  work. 
"  But  it's  not  my  business  \  "  he  would  generally  say  at 
those  times,  and  would  briskly  fall  to  his  sawing  again. 

In  all  weathers,  in  the  snow  and  frost  of  winter,  in 
the  bitter  v/inds  of  spring,  in  the  hot  sunshine  of  sum- 
mer, in  the  rains  of  autumn,  and  again  in  the  snow  and 
frost  of  winter,  Lucie  passed  two  hours  of  every  day  at 
this  place  ;  and  every  day,  on  leaving  it,  she  kissed  the 
prison  wall.  Her  husband  saw  her  (so  she  learned  from 
her  father)  it  might  be  once  in  five  or  six  times  ;  it  might 
be  twice  or  thrice  running ;  it  might  be,  not  for  a  week 
or  a  fortnight  together.  It  was  enough  that  he  could 
and  did  see  her  when  the  chances  served,  and  on  that 
possibility  she  would  have  waited  out  the  da}^  seven 
days  a  week. 

These  occupations  brought  her  round  to  the  Decem- 
ber month,  wherein  her  father  walked  among  the  ter- 
rors with  a  steady  head.  On  a  lightly-snowing  afternoon 
she  arrived  at  the  usual  corner.  It  was  a  day  of  some 
wild  rejoicing,  and  a  festival.  She  had  seen  the  houses 
as  she  came  along,  decorated  with  little  pikes,  and  with 
little  red  caps  stuck  upon  them  ;  also,  with  tricoloured 
ribbons  ;  also,  with  the  standard  inscription  (tricoloured 
letters  were  the  favourite),  Republic  One  and  Indivisible. 
Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death  ! 

The  miserable  shop  of  the  wood-sawyer  was  so  small, 
that  its  whole  surface  furnished  very  indifferent  space 
for  this  legend.  He  had  got  somebody  to  scrawl  it  up 
for  him,  however,  who  had  squeezed  Death  in  with  most 
inappropriate  difficulty.  On  his  house-top,  he  displayed 
pike  and  cap,  as  a  good  citizen  must,  and  in  a  window 
he  had  stationed  his  saw,  inscribed  as  his  "  Little  Sainte 
Guillotine  " — for  the  great  sharp  female  was  by  that 
time  popularly  canonised.  His  shop  was  shut  and  he 
was  not  there,  which  was  a  relief  to  Lucie,  and  left  her 
quite  alone. 

But  he  was  not  far  off,  for  presently  she  heard  a 
troubled  movement  and  a  shouting  coming  along,  Avhich 
filled  her  with  fear.  A  moment  afterwards,  and  a  throng 
of  people  came  pouring  round  the  corner  by  the  prison 
wall,  in  the  midst  of  whom  was  the  wood-sawyer  hand 
in  hand  with  The  Vengeance.  There  could  not  be  fewer 
than  five  hundred  people,  and  they  were  dancing  like 
five  thousand  demons.  There  was  no  other  music  than 
their  own  singing.  They  danced  to  the  popular  Revolu- 
tion song,  keeping  a  ferocious  time  that  was  like  a 
gnashing  of  teeth  in  unison.  Men  and  women  danced 
together,  women  danced  together,  men  danced  together, 
as  hazard  had  brought  them  together.  At  first,  they 
were  a  mere  storm  of  coarse  red  caps  and  coarser  woollen 
rags  ;  but,  as  they  filled  the  place,  and  stopped  to  dance 
about  Lucie,  some  ghastly  apparition  of  a  dance-figure 
gone  raving  mad  arose  among  them.  They  advanced, 
retreated,  struck  at  one  another's  hands,  clutched  at  one 
another's  heads,  spun  round  alone,  cp,ught  one  another 
and  spun  round  in  pairs,  until  many  of  them  dropped. 
While  those  were  down,  the  rest  linked  hand  in  hand, 
and  all  spun  round  together  :  then  the  ring  broke,  and 
in  separate  rings  of  two  and  four  they  turned  and  turned 
until  they  all  stopped  at  once,  began  again,  struck, 
clutched,  and  tore,  and  then  reversed  the  spin,  and  all 
spun  round  another  way.  Suddenly  they  stopped  again, 
paused,  struck  out  the  time  afresh,  formed  into  lines 
the  width  of  the  public  way,  and,  with  their  heads  low 
down  and  their  hands  high  up,  swooped  screaming  off. 
No  fight  could  have  been  half  so  terrible  as  this  dance. 
It  was  so  emphatically  a  fallen  sport — a  something,  once 
innocent,  delivered  over  to  all  devilry — a  healthy  pas- 
time changed  into  a  means  of  angering  the  blood,  be- 
wildering the  senses,  and  steeling  the  heart.  Such  grace 
as  was  visible  in  it,  made  it  the  uglier,  showing  how 
warped  and  perverted  all  things  good  by  nature  were  be- 


come. The  maidenly  bosom  bared  to  this,  the  pretty 
almost-child's  head  thus  distracted,  the  delicate  foot 
mincing  in  this  slough  of  blood  and  dirt,  were  types  of 
the  disjointed  time. 

This  was  the  Carmagnole.  As  it  passed,  leaving 
Lucie  frightened  and  bewildered  in  the  doorway  of  the 
wood-sawyer's  house,  the  feathery  snow  fell  as  quietly 
and  lay  as  white  and  soft,  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

"O  my  father!"  for  he  stood  before  hir  when  she 
lifted  up  the  eyes  she  had  momentarily  darkened  with 
her  hand  ;  "  such  a  cruel,  bad  sight." 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  I  know.  I  have  seen  it  many 
times.  Don't  be  frightened  !  Not  one  of  them  would 
harm  you." 

"I  am  not  frightened  for  myself,  my  father.  But 
when  I  think  of  my  husband,  and  the  mercies  of  these 
people — " 

"  We  will  set  him  above  their  mercies,  very  soon.  I 
left  him  climbing  to  the  window,  and  I  came  to  tell  you. 
There  is  no  one  here  to  see.  You  may  kiss  your  hand 
towards  that  highest  shelving  roof. " 

"  I  do  so,  father,  and  I  send  him  my  Soul  with  it !  " 

"  You  cannot  see  him,  my  poor  dear  ?" 

"  No,  father,"  said  Lucie,  yearning  and  weeping  as 
she  kissed  her  hand,  "no." 

A  footstep  in  the  snow.  Madame  Defarge.  **  I  salute 
you,  citizeness,"  from  the  Doctor.  "  I  salute  you,  citi- 
zen." This  in  passing.  Nothing  more.  Madame  De- 
farge gone,  like  a  shadow  over  the  white  road. 

"  Give  me  your  arm,  my  love.  Pass  from  here  with 
an  air  of  cheerfulness  and  courage,  for  his  sake.  That 
was  well  done  ;  "  they  had  left  the  spot ;  "it  shall  not 
be  in  vain.    Charles  is  summoned  for  to-morrow." 

"  For  to-morrow  ?  " 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose.  I  am  well  prepared,  but 
there  are  precautions  to  be  taken,  that  could  not  be 
taken  until  he  was  actually  summoned  before  the 
Tribunal.  He  has  not  received  the  notice  yet,  but  I 
know  that  he  will  presently  be  summoned  for  to-mor- 
row, and  removed  to  the  Conciergerie  ;  I  have  timely  in- 
formation.   You  are  not  afraid  ?  " 

She  could  scarcely  answer,  "  I  trust  in  you." 

"  Do  so,  inaplicitiy.  Your  suspense  is  nearly  ended, 
my  darling  ;  he  shall  be  restored  to  you  within  a  few 
hours  ;  I  have  encompassed  him  with  every  protection. 
I  must  see  Lorry." 

He  stopped.  There  was  a  heavy  lumbering  of  wheels 
within  hearing.  They  both  knew  too  well  what  it 
meant.  One.  Two.  Three.  Three  tumbrilg  faring 
away  with  their  dread  loads  over  the  hushing  snow. 

"  I  must  see  Lorry,"  the  Doctor  repeated,  turning  her 
another  way. 

The  staunch  old  gentleman  was  still  in  his  trust  ;  had 
never  left  it.  He  and  his  books  were  in  frequent  requi- 
sition as  to  property  confiscated  and  made  national. 
What  he  could  save  for  the  owners,  he  saved.  No 
better  man  living  to  hold  fast,  by  what  Tellson's  had  in 
keeping,  and  to  hold  his  peace. 

A  murky  red  and  yellow  sky,  and  a  rising  mist  from 
the  Seine,  denoted  the  approach  of  darkness.  It  was 
almost  dark  when  l\i.ey  arrived  at  the  Bank.  The  stately 
residence  of  Monseigneur  was  altogether  blighted  and 
deserted.  Above  a  heap  of  dust  and  ashes  in  the  court, 
ran  the  letters  :  National  Property.  Rejmblic  One  and 
Indivisible.    Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death. 

Who  could  that  be  with  Mr.  Lorry — the  owner  of  the 
riding-coat  upon  the  chair — who  must  not  be  seen? 
From  whom  newly  arrived,  did  he  come  out,  agitated 
and  surprised,  to  take  his  favourite  in  his  arms?  To 
whom  did  he  appear  to  repeat  her  faltering  words,  when, 
raising  his  voice  and  turning  his  head  towards  the  door 
of  the  room  from  which  he  had  issued,  he  said:  "Re- 
moved to  the  Conciergerie,  and  summoned  for  to- 
morrow." 


CHAPTER  VI. 
Triumph, 

The  dread  Tribunal  of  five  Judges,  Public  Prosecutor, 
and  determined  Jury  sat  every  day.    Their  lists  went 


A  TALE  OF 

forth  every  evening,  and  were  read  out  by  the  gaolers 
of  the  various  prisons  to  their  prisoners.  The  standard 
gaoler-joke  was,  "  Come  out  and  listen  to  the  Evening 
Paper,  you  inside  there  !" 

"  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay  ! " 

So,  at  last,  began  the  Evening  Paper  at  La  Force. 

"When  a  name  was  called,  its  owner  stepped  apart  into 
a  spot  reserved  for  those  who  were  announced  as  being 
thus  fatally  recorded.  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Dar- 
nay, had  reason  to  know  the  usage ;  he  had  seen  hun- 
dreds pass  away  so. 

His  bloated  gaoler,  who  wore  spectacles  to  read  with, 
glanced  over  them  to  assure  himself  that  he  had  taken 
his  place,  and  went  through  the  list,  making  a  similar 
short  pause  at  each  name.  There  were  twenty-three 
names,  but  only  twenty  were  responded  to  ;  for,  one  of 
the  prisoners  so  summoned  had  died  in  gaol  and  been 
forgotten,  and  two  had  been  already  guillotined  and  for- 
gotten. The  list  was  read,  in  the  vaulted  chamber 
where  Darnay  had  seen  the  associated  prisoners  on  the 
night  of  his  arrival.  Every  one  of  those  had  perished  in 
the  massacre  ;  every  human  creature  he  had  since  cared 
for  and  parted  with,  had  died  on  the  scaffold. 

There  were  hurried  words  of  farewell  and  kindness, 
but  the  parting  was  soon  over.  It  was  the  incident  of 
every  day,  and  the  society  of  La  Force  were  engaged  in 
the  preparations  of  some  games  of  forfeits  and  a  little 
concert,  for  that  evening.  They  crowded  to  the  grates 
and  shed  tears  there  ;  but,  twenty  places  in  the  projected 
entertainments  had  to  be  refilled,  and  the  time  was,  at 
best,  short  to  the  lock-up  hour,  when  the  common  rooms 
and  corridors  would  be  delivered  over  to  the  great  dogs 
who  kept  watch  there  through  the  night.  The  prisoners 
were  far  from  insensible  or  unfeeling  ;  there  ways  arose 
out  of  the  condition  of  the  time.  Similarly,  though 
with  a  subtle  difference,  a  species  of  fervour  or  intoxi- 
cation, known,  without  doubt,  to  have  led  some  persons 
to  brave  the  guillotine  unnecessarily,  and  to  die  by  it, 
was  not  mere  boastfulness,  but  a  wild  infection  of  the 
wildly  shaken  public  mind.  In  seasons  of  pestilence, 
some  of  us  ^vill  have  a  secret  attraction  to  the  disease — 
a  terrible  passing  inclination  to  die  of  it.  And  all  of  us 
have  like  wonders  hidden  in  our  breasts,  only  needing 
circumstances  to  evoke  them. 

The  passage  to  the  Conciergerie  was  short  and  dark  ; 
the  night  in  its  vermin-haunted  cells  was  long  and  cold. 
Next  day,  fifteen  prisoners  were  put  to  the  bar  before 
Charles  Darnay's  name  was  called.  All  the  fifteen  were 
condemned,  and  the  trials  of  the  whole  occupied  an 
hour  and  a  half. 

*' Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,"  was  at  length 
arraigned. 

His  Judges  sat  upon  the  Bench  in  feathered  hats  ;  but 
the  rough  red  cap  and  tricoloured  cockade  was  the  head- 
dress otherwise  pervailing.  Looking  at  the  jury  and 
the  turbulent  audience,  he  might  have  thought  that  the 
usual  order  of  things  was  reversed,  and  that  the  felons 
were  trying  the  honest  men.  The  lowest,  crudest,  and 
worst  populace  of  a  city,  never  without  its  quantity  of 
low,  cruel,  and  bad,  were  the  directing  spirits  of  the 
scene  :  noisily  commenting,  applauding,  disapproving, 
anticipating,  and  precipitating  the  result,  without  a 
check.  Of  the  men,  the  greater  part  were  armed  in  va- 
rious ways ;  of  the  women,  some  wore  knives,  some  dag- 
gers, some  ate  and  drank  as  they  looked  on,  many  knit- 
ted. Among  these  last,  was  one,  with  a  spare  piece  of 
knitting  under  her  arm  as  she  worked.  She  was  in  a 
front  row,  by  the  side  of  a  man  whom  he  had  never  seen 
since  his  arrival  at  the  Barrier,  but  Avhom  he  directly 
remembered  as  Defarge.  He  noticed  that  she  once  or 
twice  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  that  she  seemed  to  be 
his  wife ;  but,  what  he  most  noticed  in  the  two  figures 
was,  that  although  they  were  posted  as  close  to  himself 
as  they  could  be,  they  never  looked  towards  him.  They 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something  with  a  dogged  de- 
termination, and  they  looked  at  the  Jury,  but  at  nothing  j 
else.  Under  the  President  sat  Doctor'  Manette,  in  his 
usual  quiet  dress.  As  well  as  the  prisoner  could  see,  he 
and  Mr.  Lorry  were  the  only  men  there,  unconnected 
with  the  Tribunal,  who  wore  their  usual  clothes,  and 
had  not  assumed  the  coarse  garb  of  the  Carmagnole. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  was  accused  by 


TWO  CITIES.  415 

the  public  prosecutor  as  an  emigrant,  whose  life  was 
forfeit  to  the  Republic,  under  the  decree  which  banished 
all  emigrants  on  pain  of  Death.  It  was  nothing  that 
the  decree  bore  date  since  his  return  to  France.  There 
he  was,  and  there  was  the  decree  ;  he  had  been  taken  in 
France,  and  his  head  was  demanded. 

"  Take  off  his  head  !  "  cried  the  audience.  "  An  en- 
emy to  the  Republic  !  " 

The  President  rang  his  bell  to  silence  those  cries,  and 
asked  the  prisoner  whether  it  was  not  true  that  he  had 
lived  many  years  in  England  ? 
Undoubtedly  it  was. 

Was  he  not  an  emigrant  then  ?  What  did  he  call  him- 
self? 

Not  an  emigrant,  he  hoped,  within  the  sense  and 
spirit  of  the  law. 

Why  not  ?  the  President  desired  to  know. 
Because  he  had  voluntarily  relinquished  a  title  that 
was  distasteful  to  him,  and  a  station  that  was  distasteful 
to  him,  and  had  left  his  country — he  submitted  before 
the  word  emigrant  in  the  present  acceptation  by  the 
Tribunal  was  in  use— to  live  by  his  own  industry  in 
England,  rather  than  on  the  industry  of  the  overladen 
people  of  France. 

What  proof  had  he  of  this  ? 

He  handed  in  the  names  of  two  witnesses  :  Theophile 
Gabelle,  and  Alexandre  Manette. 

But  he  had  married  in  England  ?  the  President  re- 
minded him. 

True  but  not  an  English  woman. 
A  citizeness  of  France  ? 
Yes.    By  birth. 
Her  name  and  family. 

"  Lucie  Manette,  only  daughter  of  Doctor  Manette, 
the  good  physician  who  sits  there." 

This  answer  had  a  happy  effect  upon  the  audience. 
Cries  in  exaltation  of  the  well-known  good  physician 
rent  the  hall.  So  capriciously  were  the  people  moved, 
that  tears  immediately  rolled  down  several  ferocious 
countenances  which  had  been  glaring  at  the  prisoner  a 
moment  before,  as  if  with  impatience  to  pluck  him  out 
into  the  street  and  kill  him. 

On  these  few  steps  of  his  dangerous  way,  Charles 
Darnay  had  set  his  foot  according  to  Doctor  Manette's 
reiterated  instructions.  The  same  cautious  counsel 
directed  every  step  that  lay  before  him,  and  had  prepared 
every  inch  of  his  road . 

The  President  asked  why  he  had  returned  to  France 
when  he  did,  and  not  sooner? 

He  had  not  returned  sooner,  he  replied,  simply  because 
he  had  no  means  of  living  in  France,  save  those  he  had 
resigned ;  whereas,  in  England,  he  lived  by  giving  in- 
struction in  the  French  language  and  literature.  He 
had  returned  when  he  did,  on  the  pressing  and  written 
entreaty  of  a  French  citizen,  who  represented  that  his 
life  was  endangered  by  his  absence.  He  had  come  back 
to  save  a  citizen's  life,  and  to  bear  his  testimony,  at 
whatever  personal  hazard,  to  the  truth.  Was  that 
criminal  in  the  eyes  of  the  Republic  ? 

The  populace  cried  enthusiastically,  "No!"  and  the 
President  rang  his  bell  to  quiet  them.  Which  it  did 
not,  for  they  continued  to  cry  "  No  !  "  until  they  left 
off,  of  their  own  will. 

The  President  required  the  name  of  that  Citizen? 
The  accused  explained  that  the  citizen  was  his  first 
witness.  He  also  referred  with  cofidence  to  the  citizen's 
letter,  which  had  been  taken  from  him  at  the  Barrier, 
but  which  he  did  not  doubt  would  be  found  among  the 
papers  then  before  the  President. 

The  Doctor  had  taken  care  that  it  should  be  there- 
had  assured  him  that  it  would  be  there — and  at  (his 
stage  of  the  proceedings  it  was  produced  and  read. 
Citizen  Gabelle  was  called  to  confirm  it,  and  did  so. 
Citizen  Gabelle  hinted,  with  infinite  delicacy  and- polite- 
ness, that  in  the  pressure  of  business  imposed  on  the 
i  Tribunal  by  the  multitude  of  enemies  of  the  Republic 
with  Avhich  he  had  to  deal,  he  had  been  slightly  over- 
looked in  his  prison  of  the  x\bbaye— in  fact,  had  rather 
passed  out  of  the  Tribunal's  patriotic  remembrance— 
until  three  days  ago  ;  when  he  had  been  summoned 
before  it,  and  had  been  set  at  liberty  on  the  J ury's  de- 
claring themselves  satisfied  that  the  accusation  against 


416 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


him  was  answered,  as  to  himself,  by  the  surrender  of 
the  citizen  Evremonde,  called  Darnay. 

Doctor  Manette  was  next  questioned.  His  high  per- 
sonal popularity,  and  the  clearness  of  his  answers,  made 
a  great  impression  ;  but,  as  he  proceeded,  as  he  showed 
that  the  Accused  was  his  first  friend  on  his  release  from 
his  long  imprisonment  ;  that,  the  accused  had  remained 
in  England,  always  faithful  and  devoted  to  his  daughter 
and  himself  in  their  exile  ;  that,  so  far  from  being  in 
favour  with  the  Aristocrat  government  there,  he  had 
actually  been  tried  for  his  life  by  it,  as  the  foe  of 
England  and  friend  of  the  United  States— as  he  brought 
these  circumstances  into  view,  with  the  greatest  discre- 
tion and  with  the  straightforward  force  of  truth  and 
earnestness,  the  Jury  and  the  populace  became  one. 
At  last,  when  he  appealed  by  name  to  Monsieur  Lorry, 
an  English  gentleman  then  and  there  present,  who,  like 
himself,  had  been  a  witness  on  that  English  trial  and 
could  corroborate  his  account  of  it,  the  Jury  declared 
that  they  had  heard  enough,  and  that  they  were  ready 
with  their  votes  if  the  President  were  content  to  receive 
them. 

At  every  vote  (the  Jurymen  voted  aloud  and  individ- 
ually), the  populace  set  up  a  shout  of  applause.  All  the 
voices  were  in  the  prisoner's  favour,  and  the  President 
declared  him  free. 

Then,  began  one  of  those  extraordinary  scenes  with 
which  the  populace  sometimes  gratified  their  fickleness, 
or  their  better  impulses  towards  generosity  and  mercy, 
or  which  they  regarded  as  some  set-off  against  their 
swollen  account  of  cruel  rage.  No  man  can  decide  now 
to  which  of  these  motives  such  extraordinary  scenes 
were  referable  ;  it  is  probable,  to  a  blending  of  all  the 
three,  with  the  second  predominating.  No  sooner  was 
the  acquittal  pronounced,  than  tears  were  shed  as  freely 
as  blood  at  another  time,  and  such  fraternal  embraces 
were  bestowed  upon  the  prisoner  by  as  many  of  both 
sexes  as  could  rush  at  him,  that  after  his  long  and  un- 
wholesome confinement  he  was  in  danger  of  fainting 
from  exhaustion  ;  none  the  less  because  he  knew  very 
well,  that  the  very  same  people,  carried  by  another  cur- 
rent, would  have  rushed  at  him  with  the  very  same  in- 
tensity, to  rend  him  to  pieces  and  strew  him  over  the 
streets. 

His  removal,  to  make  way  for  other  accused  persons 
who  were  to  be  tried,  rescued  him  from  these  caresses 
for  the  moment.  Five  were  to  be  tried  together,  next, 
as  enemies  of  the  Republic,  forasmuch  as  they  had  not 
assisted  it  by  word  or  deed.  So  quick  was  the  Tribunal 
to  compensate  itself  and  the  nation  for  a  chance  lost, 
that  these  five  came  down  to  him  before  he  left  the 
place,  condemned  to  die  within  twenty-four  hours.  The 
first  of  them  told  him  so,  with  the  customary  prison 
sign  of  Death — a  raised  finger — and  they  all  added  in 
words,  "  Long  live  the  Republic  !  " 

The  five  had  had,  it  is  true,  no  audience  to  lengthen 
their  proceedings,  for  when  he  and  Doctor  Manette 
emerged  from  the  gate,  there  was  a  great  crowd  about 
it,  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  every  face  he  had  seen 
in  Court — except  two,  for  which  he  looked  in  vain.  On 
his  coming  out,  the  concourse  made  at  him  anew,  weep- 
ing, embracing,  and  shouting,  all  by  turns  and  all  to- 
gether, until  the  very  tide  of  the  river  on  the  bank  of 
which  the  mad  scene  was  acted,  seemed  to  run  mad, 
like  the  people  on  the  shore. 

They  put  him  into  a  great  chair  they  had  among  them, 
and  which  they  had  taken  either  out  of  the  Court  itself, 
or  one  of  its  rooms  or  passages.  Over  the  chair  they 
had  thrown  a  red  flag,  and  to  the  back  of  it  they  had 
bound  a  pike  with  a  red  cap  on  its  top.  In  this  car  of 
triumph,  not  even  the  Doctor's  entreaties  could  prevent 
his  being  carried  to  his  home  on  men's  shoulders,  with  a 
confused  sea  of  red  caps  heaving  about  him,  and  casting 
up  to  sight  from  the  stormy  deep  such  wrecks  of  faces, 
that  he  more  than  once  misdoubted  his  mind  being  in 
confusion,  and  that  he  was  in  the  tumbril  on  his  way  to 
the  Guillotine. 

In  wild  dreamlike  procession,  embracing  whom  they 
met  and  pointing  him  out,  they  carried  him  on.  Redden- 
ing the  snowy  streets  with  the  prevailing  Republican 
colour,  in  winding  and  tramping  through  them,  as  they 
had  reddened  them  below  the  snow  with  a  deeper  dye, 


they  carried  him.  thus  into  the  court-yard  of  the  building 
where  he  lived.  Her  father  had  gone  on  before  to  pre- 
pare her,  and  when  her  husband  stood  upon  his  feet, 
she  dropped  insensible  in  his  arms. 

As  he  held  her  to  his  heart  and  turned  her  beautiful 
head  between  his  face  and  the  brawling  crowd,  so  that 
his  tears  and  her  lips  might  come  together  unseen,  a 
few  of  the  jDeople  fell  to  dancing.  Instantly  all  the 
rest  fell  to  dancing,  and  the  court-yard  overflowed  with 
the  Carmagnole.  Then,  they  elevated  into  the  vacant 
chair  a  young  woman  from  the  crowd  to  be  carried  as 
the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  and  then,  swelling  and  over- 
flowing out  into  the  adjacent  streets,  and  along  the 
river's  bank,  and  over  the  bridge,  the  Carmagnole  ab- 
sorbed them  every  one  and  whirled  them  away. 

After  grasping  the  Doctor's  hand,  as  he  stood  victori- 
ous and  proud  before  him  ;  after  grasping  the  hand  of 
Mr.  Lorry,  who  came  panting  in  breathless  from  his 
struggle  against  the  water-spout  of  the  Carmagnole  ; 
after  liissing  little  Lucie,  who  was  lifted  up  to  clasp  her 
arms  round  his  neck  ;  and  after  embracing  the  ever 
zealous  and  faithful  Press  who  lifted  her  ;  he  took  his 
wife  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  up  to  their  rooms. 

"  Lucie  !  My  own  !    I  am  safe." 

"0  dearest  Charles,  Jet  me  thank  God  for  this  on  my 
knees  as  I  have  prayed  to  him." 

They  all  reverently  bowed  their  heads  and  hearts. 
When  she  was  again  in  his  arms,  he  said  to  her : 

"  And  now  speak  to  your  father,  dearest.  No  other 
man  in  all  this  France  could  have  done  what  he  has 
done  for  me." 

She  laid  her  head  upon  her  father's  breast  as  she  had 
laid  his  poor  head  on  her  own  breast,  long,  long  ago. 
He  was  happy  in  the  return  he  had  made  her,  he  was 
recompensed  for  his  suffering,  he  was  proud  of  his 
strength.  "You  must  not  be  weak,  my  darling,"  he 
remonstrated ;  "  don't  tremble  so.    1  have  saved  him." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  Knock  at  tJie  Dooi\ 

"  I  HAVE  saved  him."  It  was  not  another  of  the  dreams 
in  which  he  had  often  come  back  ;  he  was  really  here. 
And  yet  his  wife  trembled,  and  a  vague  but  heavy  fear 
was  upon  her. 

All  the  air  around  was  so  thick  and  dark,  the  people 
were  so  passionately  revengeful  and  fitful,  the  innocent 
were  so  constantly  put  to  death  on  vague  suspicion  and 
black  malice,  it  was  so  impossible  to  forget  that  many 
as  blameless  as  her  husband  and  as  dear  to  others  as  he 
was  to  her,  every  day  shared  the  fate  from  which  he 
had  been  clutched,  that  her  heart  could  not  be  as  light- 
ened of  its  load  as  she  felt  it  ought  to  be.  The  shadows 
of  the  wintry  afternoon  were  beginning  to  fall,  and  even 
now  the  dreadful  carts  were  rolling  through  the  streets. 
Her  mind  pursued  them,  looking  for  him  among  the 
Condemned  ;  and  then  she  clung  closer  to  his  real  pres- 
ence and  trembled  more. 

Her  father,  cheering  her,  showed  a  compassionate 
superiority  to  this  woman's  weakness,  which  was  won- 
derful to  see.  No  garret,  no  shoemaking,  no  One  Hun- 
dred and  Five,  North  Tower,  now  !  He  had  accom- 
plished the  task  he  had  set  himself,  his  promise  was 
redeemed,  he  had  saved  Charles.  Let  them  all  lean 
upon  him. 

Their  housekeeping  was  of  a  very  frugal  kind  :  not 
only  because  that  was  the  safest  way  of  life,  involving 
the  least  offence  to  the  people,  but  because  they  were 
not  rich,  and  Charles,  throughout  his  imprisonment,  had 
had  to  pay  heavily  for  his  bad  food,  and  for  his  guard, 
and  towards  the  living  of  the  poorer  prisoners.  Partly 
on  this  account,  and  partly  to  avoid  a  domestic  spy,  they 
kept  no  servant ;  the  citizen  and  citizeness  who  acted 
as  porters  at  the  court-yard  gate,  rendered  them  occa- 
sional service  ;  and  Jerry  (almost  wholly  transferred  to 
them  by  Mr.  Lorry)  had  become  their  daily  retainer,  and 
had  his  bed  there  every  night. 

It  was  an  ordinance  of  the  Republic  One  and  Indivisi- 
ble of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  that  on 


A  TALE  OF 

the  door  or  doorpost  of  every  "house,  tlie  name  of  every 
inmate  must  be  legibly  inscribed  in  letters  of  a  certain 
size,  at  a  certain  convenient  height  from  the  ground. 
Mr.  Jerry  Cruncher's  name,  therefore,  duly  embellished 
the  doorpost  down  below  ;  and,  as  the  afternoon  shadows 
deepened,  the  owner  of  tliat  name  himself  appeared, 
from  overlooking  a  painter  whom  Doctor  Manette  had 
employed  to  add  to  the  list  the  name  of  Charles  Evre- 
monde,  called  Darnay. 

In  the  universal  fear  and  distrust  that  darkened  the 
time,  all  the  usual  harmless  ways  of  life  were  changed. 
In  the  Doctor's  little  household,  as  in  very  many  others, 
the  articles  of  daily  consumption  that  were  wanted, 
were  purchased  every  evening,  in  small  quantities  and 
at  various  small  shops.  To  avoid  attracting  notice,  and 
to  give  as  little  occasion  as  possible  for  talk  and  envy, 
was  the  general  desire. 

For  some  months  past,  Miss  Pross  and  Mr.  Cruncher 
had  discharged  the  office  of  purveyors  ;  the  former  car- 
rying the  money  ;  the  latter,  the  basket.  Every  after- 
noon at  about  the  time  when  the  public  lamps  were 
lighted,  they  fared  forth  on  this  duty,  and  made  and 
brought  home  such  purchases  as  were  needful.  Although 
Miss  Pross,  through  her  long  association  with  a  French 
family,  might  have  known  as  much  of  their  language  as 
of  her  own,  if  she  had  had  a  mind,  she  had  no  mind  in 
that  direction  ;  consequently  she  knew  no  more  of  "that 
nonsense"  (as  she  was  pleased  to  call  it),  than  Mr. 
Cruncher  did.  So  her  manner  of  marketing  was  to  plump 
a  noun-substantive  at  the  head  of  a  shopkeeper  without 
any  introduction  in  the  nature  of  an  article,  and,  if  it 
happened  not  to  be  the  name  of  the  thing  she  wanted,  to 
look  round  for  that  thing,  lay  hold  of  it,  and  hold  on  by 
it  until  the  bargain  was  concluded.  She  always  made  a 
bargain  for  it,  by  holding  up,  as  a  statement  of  its  just 
price,  one  finger  less  than  the  merchant  held  up,  what- 
his  number  might  be. 

"Now,  Mr.  Cruncher,"  said  Miss  Pross,  whose  eyes 
were  red  with  felicity  ;  "if  you  are  ready,  I  am." 

Jerry  hoarsely  professed  himself  at  Miss  Press's  ser- 
vice. He  had  worn  all  his  rust  off  long  ago,  but  nothing 
would  file  his  spiky  head  down. 

"There's  all  manner  of  things  wanted,"  said  Miss 
Pross,  "  and  we  shall  have  a  precious  time  of  it.  We 
want  wine,  among  the  rest.  Nice  toasts  these  Redheads 
will  be  drinking,  wherever  we  buy  it." 

"  It  will  be  much  the  same  to  your  knowledge,  ijjiss, 
I  should  think,"  retorted  Jerry,  "  whether  they  drink 
your  health  or  the  Old  Un's." 

"  Who's  he?"  said  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher,  with  some  diffidence,  explained  himself 
as  meaning  "  Old  Nicks." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Miss  Pross,  "it  doesn't  need  an  interpre- 
ter to  explain  the  meaning  of  these  creatures.  They  have 
but  one,  and  it's  Midnight  Murder,  and  Mischief."* 

"Hush,  dear  !    Pray,  pray  be  cautious  !  "  cried  Lucie. 

"  Yes,  yes, yes,  I'll  be  cautious,"  said  Miss  Pross  ;  "but 
I  may  say  among  ourselves,  that  I  do  hope  there  will  be 
no  oniony  and  tobaccoey  smotherings  in  the  form  of  em- 
bracings  all  round,  going  on  in  the  streets.  Now,  Lady- 
bird, never  you  stir  from  that  fire  till  I  come  back.  Take 
care  ofthe  dear  husband  you  have  recovered,  and  don't 
move  your  pretty  head  from  his  shoulder  as  you  have  it 
now,  till  you  see  me  again  !  May  I  ask  a  question,  Doc- 
tor Manette,  before  I  go  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  may  take  that  liberty,"  the  Doctor  an- 
swered, smiling. 

"  For  gracious  sake,  don't  talk  about  Liberty  ;  we  have 
quite  enough  of  that,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

"Hush,  dear  !    Again?"  Lucie  remonstrated. 

"  Well,  my  sweet,"  said  Miss  Pross,  nodding  her  head 
emphatically,  "  the  short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  that  I  am 
a  subject  of  His  Most  Gracious  Majesty  King  George  the 
Third;"  Miss  Pross  curtseyed  at  the  name;  "and  as 
such,  my  maxim  is,  C^onfound  their  politics,  Frustrate 
their  knavish  tricks.  On  him  our  hopes  we  fix,  God  save 
the  King  ! " 

Mr,  Cruncher,  in  an  access  of  loyalty,  growlingly  re- 
peated the  words  after  Miss  Pross,  like  somebody  at 
church. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  so  much  of  the  Englishman  in 
you,  though  I  wish  you  had  never  taken  that  cold  in  your  , 
Vol.  II.--27 


TWO  CITIES,  417 

voice,"  said  Miss  Pross,  approvingly.  "But  the  ques- 
tion. Doctor  Manette.  Is  there  " — it  was  the  good  crea- 
ture's way  to  affect  to  make  light  of  anything  that  was  a 
great  anxiety  with  them  all,  and  to  come  at  it  in  this 
chance  manner—"  is  there  any  prospect  yet,  of  our  get- 
ting out  of  this  place  ?  " 

"I  fear  not  yet.  It  would  be  dangerous  for  Charles 
yet." 

"  Heigh-ho-hum  !"  said  Miss  Pross,  cheerfully  repres- 
sing a  sigh  as  she  glanced  at  her  darling's  golden  hair  in 
the  light  of  the  fire, "then  we  must  have  i)atience  and 
wait  :  that's  all.  We  must  hold  up  our  heads  and  fight 
low,  as  my  brother  Solomon  used  to  say.  Now,  Mr. 
Cruncher  !— Don't  you  move.  Ladybird  !" 

They  went  out,  leaving  Lucie,  and  her  husband,  her 
father^  and  the  child,  by  a  bright  fire.  Mr.  Lorry  was 
expected  back  presently  from  the  Banking  House.  Miss 
Pross  had  lighted  the  lamp,  but  had  put  it  aside  in  a  cor- 
ner, that  they  might  enjoy  the  firelight  undisturbed.  Lit- 
tle Lucie  sat  by  her  grandfather  with  her  hands  clasped 
through  his  arm  ;  and  he,  in  a  tone  not  rising  much  above 
a  whisper,  began  to  tell  her  a  story  of  a  great  and  pow- 
erful Fairy  who  had  opened  a  prison-wall  and  let  out  a 
captive  who  had  once  done  the  Fairy  a  service.  All  was 
subdued  and  quiet,  and  Lucie  was  more  at  ease  than  she 
had  been. 

"  What  is  that  ! "  she  cried,  all  at  once. 
' '  My  dear  ! "  said  her  father,  stopping  in  his  story,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  hers,  "command  yourself.    What  a 
disordered  state  you  are  in  !    The  least  thing — nothing 
— startles  you.     You,  your  father's  daughter?" 

"  I  thought,  my  father,"  said  Lucie,  excusing  herself, 
with  a  pale  face  and  in  a  faltering  voice,  "that  I  heard 
strange  feet  upon  the  stairs." 

"  My  love,  the  staircase  is  as  still  as  Death." 
As  he  said  the  word,  a  blow  was  struck  upon  the  door. 
"  0  father,  father.    What  can  this  be  !    Hide  Charles. 
Save  him  ! " 

"  My  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  rising  and  laying  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder,  "  I  have  saved  him.  What  weakness 
is  this,  my  dear  !    Let  me  go  to  the  door. " 

He  took  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  crossed  the  two  inter- 
vening outer  rooms,  and  opened  it.  A  rude  clattering  of 
feet  over  the  floors,  and  four  rough  men  in  red  caps, 
armed  vnih.  sabres  and  pistols,  entered  the  room. 

"  The  Citizen  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,"  said  the 
first. 

"  Who  seeks  him  ?"  answered  Darnay. 
"  I  seek  him.   We  seek  him.    I  know  you,  Evremonde  ; 
I  saw  you  before  the  Tribunal  to-day.    You  are  again 
the  prisoner  of  the  Republic." 

The  four  surrounded  him,  where  he  stood  with  his  wife 
and  child  clinging  to  him. 

"  Tell  me  how  and  why  I  am  again  a  prisoner  ?  " 
"  It  is  enough  that  you  return  straight  to  the  Concier- 
gerie,  and  will  know  to-morrow.    You  are  summoned 
for  to-morrow. " 

Dr.  Manette,  whom  this  visitation  had  so  turned  into 
stone,  that  he  stood  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  as  if  he 
were  a  statue  made  to  hold  it,  moved  after  these  words 
were  spoken,  put  the  lamp  down,  and  confronting  the 
speaker,  and  taking  him,  not  ungently,  by  the  loose  front 
of  his  red  woollen  shirt,  said  : 

"  You  know  him,  you  have  said.    Do  you  know  me  ?" 
"  Yes,  I  know  you,  Citizen  Doctor." 
"We  all  know  you,  Citizen  Doctor,"  said  the  other 
three. 

He  looked  abstractedly  from  one  to  another,  and  said, 
in  a  lower  voice,  after  a  pause  : 

"  Will  you  answer  his  question  to  me  then?  How 
does  this  happen  ?  " 

"  Citizen  Doctor,"  said  the  first,  reluctantly  ;  "he  has 
been  denounced  to  the  Section  of  Saint  Antoine.  This 
citizen,"  pointing  out  the  second  who  had  entered,  "  is 
from  Saint  Antoine.  ' 

The  citizen  here  indicated  nodded  his  head,  and 
added  : 

"  He  is  accused  by  Saint  Antoine." 
"  Of  what?  "  asked  the  Doctor. 

"Citizen  Doctor,"  said  the  first,  with  his  former  re- 
luctance, "  ask  no  more.    If  the  Republic  demands  sac- 
,  rifices  from  you,  without  doubt  you  as  a  good  patriot 


418 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


will  be  liappy  to  make  them.  The  Republic  goes  before 
all.  The  People  is  supreme.  Evremonde,  we  are 
pressed." 

"One  word,"  the  Doctor  entreated.  "Will  you  tell 
me  who  denounced  him  ?  " 

"  It  is  against  rule,"  answered  the  first ;  "  but  you  can 
ask  Him  of  Saint  Antoine  here." 

The  Doctor  turned  his  eyes  upon  that  man.  Who 
moved  uneasily  on  his  feet,  rubbed  his  beard  a  little, 
and  at  length  said  : 

"Well!  Truly  it  is  against  rule.  But  he  is  de- 
nounced— and  gravely — by  the  Citizen  and  Citizeuess 
Defarge.    And  by  one  other." 

"What  other?" 

"  Do  you  ask,  Citizen  Doctor  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then,"  said  he  of  Saint  Antoine,  with  a  strange 
look,  "  you  will  be  answered  to-morrow.  Now,  I  am 
dumb  ! " 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

A  Hand  at  Cards. 

Happily  unconscious  of  the  new  calamity  at  home. 
Miss  Pross  threaded  her  way  along  the  narrow  streets 
and  crossed  the  river  by  the  bridge  of  the  Pont-Neuf, 
reckoning  in  her  mind  the  number  of  indispensable  pur- 
chases she  had  to  make.  Mr,  Cruncher,  with  the  basket, 
walked  at  her  side.  They  both  looked  to  the  right  and 
to  the  left  into  most  of  the  shops  they  passed,  had  a 
wary  eye  for  all  gregarious  assemblages  of  people,  and 
turned  out  of  their  road  to  avoid  any  very  excited  group  of 
talkers.  It  was  a  raw  evening,  and  the  misty  river, 
blurred  to  the  eye  with  blazing  lights,  and  to  the  ear 
with  harsh  noises,  showed  where  the  barges  were 
stationed  in  which  the  smiths  worked,  making  guns  for 
the  Army  of  the  Republic.  Woe  to  the  man  who  played 
tricks  with  that  Army,  or  got  undeserved  promotion  in 
it  !  Better  for  him  that  his  beard  had  never  grown,  for 
the  National  Razor  shaved  him  close. 

Having  purchased  a  few  small  articles  of  grocery,  and 
a  measure  of  oil  for  the  lamp.  Miss  Pross  bethought  her- 
self of  the  wine  they  wanted.  Aitev  peeping  into  sev- 
eral wine-shops,  she  stopped  at  the  sign  of  The  Good 
Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity,  not  far  from  the  Na- 
tional Palace,  once  (and  twice)  the  Tuileries,  where  the 
aspect  of  things  rather  took  her  fancy.  It  a  had  quieter 
look  than  any  other  place  of  the  same  description  they 
had  passed,  and,  though  red  with  patriotic  caps,  was  not 
so  red  as  the  rest.  Sounding  Mr.  Cruncher  and  finding 
him  of  her  opinion.  Miss  Pross  resorted  to  the  Good  Re- 
publican Brutus  of  Antiquity,  attended  by  her  cavalier. 

Slightly  observant  of  the  smoky  lights  ;  of  the  people 
pipe  in  mouth,  playing  with  limp  cards  and  yellow  dom- 
inoes ;  of  the  one  bare- breasted,  bare-armed,  soot-be- 
grimed workman  reading  a  journal  aloud,  and  of  the 
others  listening  to  him  ;  of  the  weapons  worn,  or  laid 
aside  to  be  resumed  ;  of  the  two  or  three  customers 
fallen  forward  asleep,  who  in  the  popular,  high-shoul- 
dered, shaggy  black  spencer  looked,  in  that  attitude, 
like  slumbering  bears  or  dogs  ;  the  two  outlandish  cus- 
tomers approached  the  counter,  and  showed  what  they 
wanted. 

As  their  wine  was  measuring  out,  a  man  parted  from 
another  man  in  a  corner,  and  rose  to  depart.  In  going, 
he  had  to  face  Miss  Pross.  No  sooner  did  he  face  her, 
than  M1.SS  Pross  uttered  a  scream,  and  clapped  her 
hands. 

In  a  moment,  the  whole  company  were  on  their  feet. 
That  somebody  was  assa.ssinated  by  somebody  vindica- 
ting a  difference  of  opinion,  was  the  likeliest  occurrence. 
Everybody  looked  to  see  somebody  fall,  but  only  saw  a 
man  and  women  standing  staring  at  each  other  ;  the  man 
with  all  the  outward  aspect  of  a  Frenchman  and  a 
thorough  Republican  ;  the  woman,  evidently  English. 

What  was  said  in  this  disappointing  anti-climax,  by 
the  disciples  of  the  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity, 
except  that  it  was  something  very  voluble  and  loud, 
would  have  been  as  so  much  Hebrew  or  Chaldean  to  Miss 
Pross  and  her  protector,  though  they  had  been  all  ears. 


But,  they  had  no  ears  for  anything  in  their  surprise. 
For  it  must  be  recorded,  that  not  only  was  Miss  Pross 
lost  in  amazement  and  agitation  ;  but,  Mr.  Cruncher — 
though  it  seemed  on  his  own  separate  and  individual  ac- 
count— was  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  wonder. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  said  the  man  who  had  caused 
Miss  Pross  to  scream  ;  speaking  in  a  vexed  abrupt  voice 
(though  in  a  low  tone),  and  in  English. 

"  Oh,  Solomon,  dear  Solomon  !  "  cried  Miss  Pross,  clap- 
ping her  hands  again.  "  After  not  setting  eyes  upon 
vou  or  hearing  of  you  for  so  long  a  time,  do  I  find  you 
here  ! " 

"  Don't  call  me  Solomon.  Do  you  want  to  be  the 
death  of  me  ?  "  asked  the  man,  in  a  furtive  frightened 
way. 

"  Brother,  brother  ! "  cried  Miss  Pross,  bursting  into 
tears.  "  Have  I  ever  been  so  hard  with  you  that  you  ask 
me  such  a  cruel  question  !  " 

"  Then  hold  your  meddlesome  tongue,"  said  Solomon, 
"  and  come  out,  if  you  want  to  speak  to  me.  Pay  for 
your  wine,  and  come  out.    Who's  this  man  ?  " 

Miss  Pross  shaking  her  loving  and  dejected  head  at 
her  by  no  means  affectionate  brother,  said,  through  her 
tears,  "  Mr,  Cruncher," 

"Let  him  come  out  too,"  said  Solomon.  "Does  he 
think  me  a  ghost  ?  " 

:    Apparently,  Mr.  Cruncher  did,  to  judge  from  his  looks. 
He  said  not  a  word,  however,  and  Miss  Pross,  exploring 
;  the  depths  of  her  reticule  through  her  tears  with  great 
{  difficulty,  paid  for  the  wine.    As  she  did  so,  Solomon 
i  turned  to  the  followers  of  the  Good  Republican  Brutus 
•  of  Antiquity,  and  offered  a  few  words  of  explanation  in 
I  the  French  language,  which  caused  them  all  to  relapse 
into  their  former  places  and  pursuits, 
j     "  Now,"  said  Solomon,  stopping  at  the  dark  street  cor- 
ner, "  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

j     "  How  dreadfully  unkind  in  a  brother  nothing  has  ever 

,  turned  my  love  away  from  ! "  cried  Miss  Pross,  "  to  give 
me  such  a  greeting,  and  show  me  no  affection." 

i     "There.    Con-found  it  !    There,"  said  Solomon,  mak- 

j  ing  a  dab  at  Miss  Press's  lips  with  his  own.    "  Now  are 

j  you  content?  " 

Miss  Pross  only  shook  her  head  and  wept  in  silence. 

I  "If  you  expect  me  to  be  surprised,"  said  her  brother 
Solomon,  "  I  am  not  surprised,"  I  knew  you  were  here  ; 

!  I  know  of  most  people  who  are  here.  If  you  really  don't 
want  to  endanger  my  existence — which  I  half  believe 
you  do — go  your  ways  as  soon  as  possible,  and  let  me  go 
mine.    I  am  busy.    I  am  an  official." 

j  "  My  English  brother  Solomon,"  mourned  Miss  Pross, 
casting  up  her  tear-fraught  eyes,  "  that  had  the  makings 
in  him  of  one  of  the  best  and  greatest  of  men  in  his  na- 
tive country,  an  official  among  foreigners,  and  such  for- 
eigners !  I  would  almost  sooner  have  seen  the  dear  boy 
lying  in  his — " 

"I  said  so  !"  cried  her  brother,  interrupting.  "I 
knew  it  !  You  want  to  be  the  death  of  me.  I  shall 
be  rendered  Suspected,  by  my  own  sister.  Just  as  I  am 
getting  on ! " 

j  "  The  gracious  and  merciful  Heavens  forbid  !"  cried 
j  Miss  Pross.  "  Far  rather  would  I  never  see  you  again, 
I  dear  Solomon,  though  I  have  ever  loved  you  truly,  and 
ever  shall.  Say  but  one  affectionate  word  to  me,  and 
j  tell  me  there  is  nothing  angry  or  estranged  between  us, 
I  and  I  will  detain  you  no  longer," 

'  Good  Miss  Pross  !  As  if  the  estrangement  between 
j  them  had  come  of  any  culpability  of  hers.  As  if  Mr. 
Lorry  had  not  known  it  for  a  fact,  years  ago,  in  the  quiet 
corner  in  Soho,  that  this  precious  brother  had  spent  her 
money  and  left  her  ! 

He  was  saying  the  affectionate  word,  however,  with  a 
far  more  grudging  condescension  and  patronage  than  he 
could  have  shown  if  their  relative  merits  and  positions 
had  been  reversed  (which  is  invariably  the  case,  all  the 
world  over),  when  Mr.  Cruncher,  touching  him  on  the 
shoulder,  hoarsely  and  unexpectedly  interposed  with  the 
following  singular  question  : 

"I  say!  Might  I  ask  the  favour?  As  to  whether 
your  name  is  John  Solomon,  or  Solomon  John  ?  " 

The  official  turned  towards  him  wi*h  sudden  distrust. 
He  had  not  previously  uttered  a  word. 

"  Come  1 "  said  Mr.  Cruncher.  "  Speak  out,  you  know.'* 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


419 


(Wliicb,  by  tlie  way,  was  more  than  he  could  do  hhn- 
self.)  "  John  Solomon,  or  Solomon  John  ?  She  calls  you 
Solomon,  and  she  must  know,  being  your  sister.  And  / 
know  you're  John,  you  know.  Which  of  the  two  goes 
first?  And  regarding  that  name  of  Pross,  likewise. 
That  warn't  your  name  over  the  water." 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  all  I  mean,  for  I  can't  call  to 
mind  what  your  name  was,  over  the  water," 
"No?" 

"No.  But  I'll  swear  it  was  a  name  of  two  syllables." 
"  Indeed  ?" 

"  Yes.  T'other  one's  was  one  syllable.  I  know  you. 
You  was  a  spy- witness  at  the  Bailey.  What  in  the  name 
of  the  Father  of  Lies,  own  father  to  yourself,  was  you 
called  at  that  time?" 

"  Barsad,"  said  another  voice,  striking  in. 

"  That's  the  name  for  a  thousand  pound  !  "  cried  Jerry. 

The  speaker  who  struck  in,  was  Sydney  Carton.  He 
had  his  bauds  behind  him  under  the  skirts  of  his  riding- 
coat,  and  he  stood  at  Mr.  Cruncher's  elbow  as  negligently 
as  he  might  have  stood  at  the  Old  Bailey  itself. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Miss  Pross.  I  arrived  at 
Mr.  Lorry's,  to  his  surprise,  yesterday  evening ;  we 
agreed  that  I  would  not  present  myself  elsewhere  until 
all  was  well,  or  unless  I  could  be  useful  ;  I  present  my- 
self here,  to  beg  a  little  talk  with  your  brother.  I  wish 
you  had  a  better  employed  brother  than  Mr.  Barsad.  I 
wish  for  your  sake  Mr.  Barsad  was  not  a  Sheep  of  the 
Prisons. " 

Sheep  was  a  cant  word  of  the  time  for  a  spy,  under 
the  gaolers.  The  spy,  who  was  pale,  turned  paler,  and 
asked  him  how  he  dared — 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Sydney.  "I  lighted  on  you,  Mr. 
Barsad,  coming  out  of  the  prison  of  the  Conciergerie 
while  I  was  contemplating  the  walls,  an  hour  or  more 
ago.  You  have  a  face  to  be  remembered,  and  I  remem- 
ber faces  well.  Made  curious  by  seeing  you  in  that 
connexion,  and  having  a  reason,  to  which  you  are  no 
stranger,  for  associating  you  with  the  misfortunes  of  a 
friend  now  very  unfortunate,  I  walked  in  your  direction. 
I  walked  into  the  wine-shop  here,  close  after  you,  and 
sat  near  you.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  deducing  from  your 
unreserved  conversation,  and  the  rumour  openly  going 
about  among  your  admirers,  the  nature  of  your  calling. 
And  gradually,  what  I  had  done  at  random,  seemed  to 
shape  itself  into  a  purpose,  Mr.  Barsad." 

"  What  purpose  ?  "  the  spy  asked. 

"It  would  be  troublesome,  and  might  be  dangerous, 
to  explain  in  the  street.  Could  you  favour  me,  in  con- 
fidence, with  some  minutes  of  your  company — at  the 
office  of  Tellson's  Bank,  for  instance  ? ' 

"  Under  a  threat  ?" 

"  Oh  I    Did  I  say  that !  " 

"  Then  why  should  I  go  there  ?  " 

"  Really,  Mr.  Barsad,  I  can't  say,  if  you  can't." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  won't  say,  sir?"  the  spy  ir- 
resolutely asked. 

"You  apprehend  me  very  clearly,  Mr.  Barsad.  I 
won't." 

Carton's  negligent  recklessness  of  manner  came  power- 
fully m  aid  of  his  quickness  and  skill,  in  such  a  business 
as  he  had  in  his  secret  mind,  and  with  such  a  man  as  he 
had  to  do  with.  His  practised  eye  saw  it,  and  made  the 
most  of  it. 

"Now,  I  told  you  so,"  said  the  spy,  casting  a  re- 
proachful look  at  his  sister  ;  "  if  any  trouble  comes  of 
this,  it's  your  doing." 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Barsad!"  exclaimed  Sydney. 
*' Don't  be  ungrateful.  But  for  my  great  respect  for 
your  sister,  I  might  not  have  led  up  so  pleasantly  to  a 
little  proposal  that  I  wish  to  make  for  our  mutual  satis- 
faction.   Do  you  go  with  me  to  the  Bank  ?  " 

"  I'll  hear  what  you  have  got  to  say.  Yes,  I'll  go  with 
you." 

"  I  propose  that  we  first  conduct  your  sister  safely  to 
the  corner  of  her  own  street.    Let  me  take  your  arm. 
Miss  Pross.    This  is  not  a  good  city,  at  this  time,  for  you  I 
to  be  out  in,  unprotected  ;  and  as  your  escort  knows  Mr.  i 
Barsad,  I  will  invite  him  to  Mr.  Lorry's  with  us.    Are  j 
we  ready?    Come  then  !  "  I 

Misa  Press  recalled  soon  afterwards,  and  to  the  end  of  i 


her  life  remembered,  that  as  she  pressed  her  hands  on 
Sydney's  arm  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  imploring  him 
to  do  no  hurt  to  Solomon,  there  was  a  braced  purpose  in 
the  arm  and  a  kind  of  inspiration  in  the  eyes,  which  not 
only  contradicted  his  light  manner,  but  changed  and 
raised  the  man.  She  was  too  much  occupied  then,  with 
fears  for  the  brother  who  so  little  deserved  her  affection, 
and  with  Sydney's  friendly  reassurances,  adequately  to 
heed  what  she  observed. 

They  left  her  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  Carton 
led  the  way  to  Mr.  Lorry's,  which  was  within  a  few 
minutes'  walk.  John  Barsad,  or  Solomon  Pross,  walked 
at  his  side. 

Mr.  Lorry  had  just  finished  his  dinner,  and  was  sitting 
before  a  cheery  little  log  or  two  of  fire — perliaps  looking 
into  their  blaze  for  the  picture  of  that  younger  elderly 
gentleman  from  Tellson's,  who  had  looked  into  the  red 
coals  at  the  Royal  George  at  Dover,  now  a  good  many 
years  ago.  He  turned  his  head  as  they  entered,  and 
showed  the  surprise  with  which  he  saw  a  stranger. 

"Miss  Press's  brother,  sir,"  said  Sydnev.  "Mr. 
Barsad." 

"Barsad?"  repeated  the  old  gentleman,  "Barsad? 
I  have  an  association  with  the  name — and  with  the 
face." 

"  I  told  you  you  had  a  remarkable  face,  Mr.  Barsad," 
observed  Carton,  coolly.    "  Pray  sit  down." 

As  he  took  a  chair  himself  he  supplied  the  link  that 
Mr.  Lorry  wanted,  by  saying  to  him  with  a  frown, 
"Witness  at  that  trial."  Mr.  Lorry  immediately  re- 
membered, and  regarded  his  new  visitor  with  an  undis- 
guised look  of  abhorrence. 

"  Mr.  Barsad  has  been  recognised  by  Miss  Pross  as  the 
affectionate  brother  you  have  heard  of,"  said  Sydney, 
"and  has  acknowledged  the  relationship.  I  pass  to 
worse  news.    Darnay  has  been  arrested  again." 

Struck  with  consternation,  the  old  gentleman  ex- 
claimed, "  What  do  you  tell  me!  I  left  him  safe  and  free 
within  these  two  hours,  and  am  about  to  return  to  him  ! " 

"Arrested  for  all  that.  When  was  it  done,  Mr.  Bar- 
sad? " 

"Just  now,  if  at  all." 

"Mr.  Barsad  is  the  best  authority  possible,  sir,"  said 
Sydney,  "and  I  have  it  from  Mr.  Barsad's  communica- 
tion to  a  friend  and  brother  Sheep  over  a  bottle  of  wine, 
that  the  arrest  has  taken  place.  He  left  the  messengers 
at  the  gate,  and  saw  them  admitted  by  the  porter.  There 
is  no  earthly  doubt  that  he  is  retaken." 

Mr.  Lorry's  business  eye  read  in  the  speaker's  face 
that  it  was  loss  of  time  to  dwell  upon  the  point.  Con- 
fused, but  sensible  that  something  might  depend  on  his 
presence  of  mind,  he  commanded  himself,  and  was 
silently  attentive. 

"  Now,  I  trust,"  said  Sydney  to  him,  "that  the  name 
and  influence  of  Doctor  Manette  may  stand  him  in  as 
good  stead  to-morrow — you  said  he  would  be  before  the 
Tribunal  again  to-morrow.  Mr.  Barsad? — " 

"  Yes  ;  I  believe  so." 

"  —  In  as  good  stead  to-morrow  as  to-day.  But  it  may 
not  be  so.  I  own  to  you,  I  am  shaken,  Mr.  Lorry,  by 
Doctor  Manette's  not  having  had  the  power  to  prevent 
this  arrest." 

"  He  may  not  have  known  of  it  beforehand,"  said  Mr. 
Lorry. 

"  But  that  very  circumstance  would  be  alarming,  when 
we  remember  how  identified  he  is  with  his  son-in-law. " 

"That's  true,"  Mr.  Lorry  acknowledged,  with  his 
troubled  hand  at  his  chin,  and  his  troubled  eyes  on  Car- 
ton. 

"In  short,"  said  Sydney,  "this  is  a  desperate  time, 
when  desperate  games  are  played  for  desperate  stakes. 
Let  the  Doctor  play  the  winning  game  ;  I  will  play  the 
losing  one.  No  man's  life  here  is  worth  purchase.  Any 
one  carried  home  by  the  people  to-day,  may  be  con- 
demned to-morrow.  Now,  the  stake  I  have  resolved  to 
play  for,  in  case  of  the  worst,  is  a  friend  in  the  Concier- 
gerie. And  the  friend  I  purpose  to  myself  to  win,  is 
Mr.  Barsad." 

"You  need  bave  good  cards,  sir,'*  said  the  spy. 

"I'll  run  them  over.  I'll  see  what  I  hold.— Mr.  Lorry, 
jcii  know  what  a  brute  I  am ;  I  wish  you'd  give  me  a 
little  brandy." 


420 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


It  was  put  before  him,  and  lie  drank  oif  a  glassful — 
drank  off  another  glassful— pushed  the  bottle  thought- 
fully away. 

"Mr.  Barsad,"  he  went  on,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
really  was  looking  over  a  hand  at  cards  :  "  Sheep  of  the 
prisons,  emissary  of  Republican  Committees,  now  turn- 
key, now  prisoner,  always  spy  and  secret  informer,  so 
much  the  more  valuable  here  for  being  English  that  an 
Englishman  is  less  open  to  suspicion  of  subornation  in 
those  characters  than  a  Frenchman,  represents  himself 
to  his  employers  under  a  false  name.  That's  a  very 
good  card.  Mr.  Barsad,  now  in  the  employ  of  the  re- 
publican French  government,  was  formerly  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  aristocratic  English  government,  the  enemy 
of  France  and  freedom.  That's  an  excellent  card.  In- 
ference clear  as  day  in  this  region  of  suspicion,  that  Mr. 
Barsad,  still  in  the  pay  of  the  aristocratic  English  gov- 
ernment, is  the  spy  of  Pitt,  the  treacherous  foe  of  the 
Republic  crouching  in  its  bosom,  the  English  traitor  and 
agent  of  all  mischief  so  much  spoken  of  and  so  difficult 
to  find.  That's  a  card  not  to  be  beaten.  Have  you  fol- 
lowed my  hand,  Mr.  Barsad  ?  " 

"Not  to  understand  your  play,"  returned  the  spy, 
somewhat  uneasily. 

"I  play  my  Ace,  Denunciation  of  Mr.  Barsad  to  the 
nearest  Section  Committee.  Look  over  your  hand,  Mr. 
Barsad,  and  see  what  you  have.    Don't  hurry." 

He  drew  the  bottle  near,  poured  out  another  glassful 
of  brandy,  and  drank  it  off.  He  saw  that  the  spy  was 
fearful  of  his  drinking  himself  into  a  fit  state  for  the 
immediate  denunciation  of  him.  Seeing  it,  he  poured 
out  and  drank  another  glassful. 

"  Look  over  your  hand  carefully,  Mr.  Barsad.  Take 
time. " 

It  was  a  poorer  hand  than  he  suspected.  Mr.  Barsad 
saw  losing  cards  in  it  that  Sydney  Carton  knew  nothing 
of.  Thrown  out  of  his  honourable  employment  in  Eng- 
land, through  too  much  unsuccessful  hard  swearing  there 
— not  because  he  was  not  wanted  there  ;  our  English 
reasons  for  vaunting  our  superiority  to  secrecy  and  spies 
are  of  very  modern  date — he  knew  that  he  had  crossed 
the  Channel,  and  accepted  service  in  France  :  first,  as  a 
tempter  and  an  eavesdropper  among  his  own  countrymen 
there  :  gradually,  asatempter  and  an  eavesdropper  among 
the  natives.  He  knew  that  under  the  overthrown  gov- 
ernment he  had  been  a  spy  upon  Saint  Antoine  and  De- 
farge's  wine-shop ;  had  received  from  the  watchful 
police  such  heads  of  information  concerning  Doctor 
Manette's  imprisonment,  release,  and  history,  as  should 
serve  him  for  an  introduction  to  familiar  conversation 
with  the  Defarges  ;  and  tried  them  on  Madame  Defarge, 
and  had  broken  down  with  them  signally.  He  always 
remembered  with  fear  and  trembling,  that  that  terrible 
woman  had  knitted  when  he  talked  with  her,  and  had 
looked  ominously  at  him  as  her  fingers  moved.  He  had 
since  seen  her,  in  the  Section  of  Saint  Antoine,  over  and 
over  again  produce  her  knitted  registers,  and  denounce 
people  whose  lives  the  guillotine  then  surely  swallowed 
up.  He  knew,  as  every  one  employed  as  "he  was,  did, 
that  he  was  never  safe  ;  that  flight  was  impossible  ;  that 
he  was  tied  fast  under  the  shadow  of  the  axe  ;  and  that 
in  spite  of  his  utmost  tergiversation  and  treachery  in 
furtherance  of  the  reigning  terror,  a  word  might  bring 
it  down  upon  him.  Once  denounced,  and  on  such  grave 
grounds  as  had  just  now  been  suggested  to  his  mind,  he 
foresaw  that  the  dreadful  woman  of  whose  unrelenting 
character  he  had  seen  many  proofs,  would  produce 
against  him  that  fatal  register,  and  would  quash  his  last 
chance  of  life.  Besides  that  all  secret  men  are  men  soon 
terrified,  here  were  surely  cards  enough  of  one  black 
suit,  to  justify  the  holder  in  growing  rather  livid  as  he 
turned  them  over. 

"  You  scarcely  seem  to  like  your  hand,"  said  Sydney, 
with  the  greatest  composure.    "  Do  you  play  ?" 

*'  I  think,  sir,"  said  the  spy,  in  the  meanest  manner, 
as  he  turned  to  Mr.  Lorry,  "  I  may  appeal  to  a  gentleman 
of  your  years  and  benevolence,  to  put  it  to  this  other 
gentleman,  so  much  your  junior,  whether  he  can  under 
any  circumstances  reconcile  it  to  his  station  to  play  that 
Ace  of  which  he  has  spoken.  I  admit  that  /  am  a  spy, 
and  that  it  is  considered  a  discreditable  station — though  it 
must  be  filled  by  somebody  ;  but  this  gentleman  is  no  spy, 


and  why  should  he  so  demean  himself  as  to  make  himself 
one  ?  " 

"  I  play  my  Ace,  Mr.  Barsad,"  said  Carton,  taking  the 
answer  on  himself,  and  looking  at  his  watch,  "  without 
any  scruple,  in  a  very  few  minutes." 

"  I  should  have  hoped,  gentlemen  both,"  said  the  spy, 
always  striving  to  hook  Mr.  Lorry  into  the  discussion, 
"  that  your  respect  for  my  sister — " 

"  I  could  not  better  testify  my  respect  for  your  sister 
than  by  finally  relieving  her  of  her  brother,"  said  Sydney 
Carton. 

"  You  think  not,  sir?" 

"  I  have  thoroughly  made  up  my  mind  about  it." 

The  smooth  manner  of  the  spy,  curiously  in  dissonance 
with  his  ostentatiously  rough  dress,  and  probably  with 
his  usual  demeanour,  received  such  a  check  from  the  in- 
scrutability of  Carton, — who  was  a  mystery  to  wiser  and 
honester  men  than  he — that  it  faltered  here  and  failed 
him.  VVhile  he  was  at  a  loss,  Carton  said,  resuming 
his  former  air  of  contemplating  cards  : 

"  And  indeed,  now  I  think  again,  I  have  a  strong  im- 
pression that  I  have  another  good  card  here,  not  yet 
enumerated.  That  friend  and  fellow-Sheep,  who  spoke 
of  himself  as  pasturing  in  the  country  prisons  ;  who  was 
he?" 

"  French.  You  don't  know  him,"  said  the  spy, 
quickly. 

"French,  eh?"  repeated  Carton,  musing,  and  not  ap- 
pearing to  notice  him  at  all,  though  he  echoed  his  word. 
"  Well  ;  he  may  be." 

"Is,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  spy;  "though  it's  not 
important." 

"Though  it's  not  important,"  repeated  Carton,  in 
the  same  mechanical  way — "  though  it's  not  important 
— No,  it's  not  important.    No,    Yet  I  know  the  face." 

"  I  think  not.  I  am  sure  not.  It  can't  be,"  said  the 
spy. 

"It — can't — be,"  muttered  Sydney  Carton,  retrospec- 
tively, and  filling  his  glass  (which  fortunately  was  a 
small  one)  again.  "  Can't — be.  Spoke  good  French. 
Yet  like  a  foreigner,  I  thought?" 

"Provincial,"  said  the  spy. 

"No.  Foreign!"  cried  Carton,  striking  his  open 
hand  on  the  table  as  a  light  broke  clearly  on  his  mind. 
"  Cly  !  Disguised,  but  the  same  man.  We  had  that 
man  before  us  at  the  Old  Bailey." 

"  Now,  there  you  are  hasty,  sir,"  said  Barsad,  with  a 
smile  that  gave  his  aquiline  nose  an  extra  inclination  to  one 
side  ;  "  there  you  really  give  me  an  advantage  over  you. 
Cly  (who  I  will  unreservedly  admit,  at  this  distance  of 
time,  was  a  partner  of  mine)  has  been  dead  several  years. 
I  attended  him  in  his  last  illness.  He  was  buried  in 
London,  at  the  church  of  Saint  Pancras-in-tlie-Fields. 
His  unpopularity  with  the  blackguard  multitude  at  the 
moment,  prevented  my  following  his  remains,  but  I 
helped  to  lay  him  in  his  coffin. " 

Here,  Mr.  Lorry  became  aware,  from  where  he  sat,  of 
a  most  remarkable  goblin  shadow  on  the  wall.  Tracing 
it  to  its  source,  he  discovered  it  to  be  caused  by  a 
sudden  extraordinary  rising  and  stiffening  of  all  the  risen 
and  stiff  hair  on  Mr.  Cruncher's  head. 

"  Let  us  be  reasonable,"  said  the  spy,  "  and  let  us  be 
fair.  To  show  you  how  mistaken  you  are,  and  what  an 
unfounded  assumption  yours  is,  I  will  lay  before  you  a 
certificate  of  Cly's  burial,  which  I  happen  to  have  car- 
ried in  my  pocket-book,"  with  a  hurried  hand  he  pro- 
duced and  opened  it,  "ever  since.  There  it  is.  Oh, 
look  at  it,  look  at  it  !  You  may  take  it  in  your  hand  ; 
it's  no  forgery." 

Here,  Mr.  Lorry  perceived  the  reflection  on  the  wall 
to  elongate,  and  Mr  Cruncher  rose  and  stepped  forward. 
His  hair  could  not  have  been  more  violently  on  end,  if 
it  had  been  that  moment  dressed  by  the  Cow  with  the 
crumpled  horn  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

Unseen  by  the  spy,  Mr.  Cruncher  stood  at  his  side, 
and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  like  a  ghostly 
bailiff. 

"That  there  Roger  Cly,  master,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher, 
with  a  taciturn  and  iron-bound  visage.  "  So  you  put  him 
in  his  coffin  ?  " 

"I  did." 

* '  Who  took  him  out  of  it  ?  " 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Barsad  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  stammered, 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Crancher,  "that  he  warn't  never 
in  it.  No  !  Not  he  I  I'll  have  my  head  took  off,  if  he 
was  ever  in  it. " 

The  spy  looked  round  at  the  two  gentlemen  ;  they 
both  looked  in  unspeakable  astonishment  at  Jerry. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Jerry,  "that  you  buried  paving- 
stones  and  earth  in  that  there  coffin.  Don't  go  and  tell 
me  that  you  buried  Cly.  It  was  a  take  in.  Me  and  two 
more  knows  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"What's  that  to  you?  Ecod  !"  growled  Mr.  Crun- 
cher, "  it's  you  I  have  got  a  old  grudge  again,  is  it, 
with  your  shameful  impositions  upon  tradesmen  !  I'd 
catch  hold  of  your  throat  and  choke  you  for  half  a 
guinea." 

Sydney  Carton,  who,  with  Mr.  Lorry,  had  been  lost 
in  amazement  at  this  turn  of  the  business,  here  re- 
quested Mr.  Cruncher  to  moderate  and  explain  him- 
self. 

"At  another  time,  sir,"  he  returned,  evasively,  "the 
present  time  is  ill-conwenient  for  explainin'.  What  I 
stand  to,  is,  that  he  knows  well  wot  that  there  Cly  was 
never  in  that  there  coffin.  Let  him  say  he  was,  in  so  much 
as  a  word  of  one  syllable,  and  I'll  either  catch  hold  of 
his  throat  and  choke  him  for  half  a  guinea  ;  "  Mr.  Crun- 
cher dwelt  upon  this  as  quite  a  liberal  offer  ;  "  or  I'll  out 
and  announce  him." 

"Humph!  I  see  one  thing,"  said  Carton.  "I  hold 
another  card,  Mr  Barsad.  -  Impossible,  here  in  raging 
Paris,  with  Suspicion  filling  the  air,  for  you  to  outlive 
denunciation,  when  you  are  in  communication  with  an- 
other aristocratic  spy  of  the  same  antecedents  as  your- 
self, who,  moreover,  has  the  mystery  about  him  of 
having  feigned  death  and  come  to  life  again  !  A  plot 
in  the  prisons,  of  the  foreigner  against  the  Republic. 
A  strong  card — a  certain  Guillotine  card  !  Do  you 
play?" 

"No!"  returned  the  spy.  "I  throw  up.  I  confess 
that  we  were  so  unpopular  with  the  outrageous  mob,  that 
I  only  got  away  from  England  at  the  risk  of  being  ducked 
to  death,  and  that  Cly  was  so  ferreted  up  and  down, 
that  he  never  would  have  got  away  at  all  but  for  that 
sham.  Though  how  this  man  knows  it  was  a  sham,  is  a 
wonder  of  wonders  to  me." 

"  Never  you  trouble  your  head  about  this  man,"  re- 
torted the  contentious  Mr.  Cruncher  ;  "  you'll  have  trou- 
ble enough  with  giving  your  attention  to  that  gentleman. 
And  look  here  !  Once  more  !  " — Mr.  Cruncher  could  not 
be  restrained  from  making  rather  an  ostentatious  parade 
of  his  liberality — "  I'd  catch  hold  of  your  throat  and 
choke  you  for  half  a  guinea. 

The  Sheep  of  the  prisons  turned  from  him  to  Sydney 
Carton,  and  said,  with  more  decision,  "It  has  come  to  a 
point.  I  go  on  duty  soon,  and  can't  overstay  my  time. 
You  told  me  you  had  a  proposal  ;  what  is  it?  Now,  it  is 
of  no  use  asking  too  much  of  me.  Ask  me  to  do  anything 
in  my  office,  putting  my  head  in  great  extra  danger,  and 
I  had  better  trust  my  life  to  the  chances  of  a  refusal  than 
the  chances  of  consent.  In  short,  I  should  make  that 
choice.  You  talk  of  desperation.  We  are  all  desperate 
here.  Remember !  I  may  denounce  you  if  I  think 
proper,  and  I  can  swear  my  way  through  stone  walls, 
and  so  can  others.  Now,  what  do  you  want  with 
me?  " 

"  Not  very  much.  You  are  a  turnkey  at  the  Con- 
ciergerie  ?  " 

"I  tell  you  once  for  all,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an 
escape  possible,"  said  the  Spy,  firmly. 

"  Why  need  you  tell  what  I  have  not  asked  ?  You  are 
a  turnkey  at  the  Conciergerie  ?  " 

"  I  am  sometimes." 

"  You  can  be  when  you  choose?" 

"  I  can  pass  in  and  out  when  I  choose." 

Sydney  Carton  filled  another  glass  with  brandy,  poured 
it  slowly  out  upon  the  hearth,  and  watched  it  as  it 
dropped.    It  being  all  spent,  he  said,  rising  : 

"  So  far,  we  have  spoken  before  these  two,  because 
it  was  as  well  that  the  merits  of  the  cards  should 
not  rest  solely  between  you  and  me.  Come  into  the 
dark  room  here,  and  let  us  have  one  final  word  alone." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Game  Made. 

Wnn.E  Sydney  Carton  and  the  Sheep  of  the  prisons 
were  in  the  adjoining  dark  room,  speaking  so  lovv  that 
not  a  sound  was  heard,  Mr.  Lorry  looked  at  Jerry  in  con- 
siderable doubt  and  mistrust.  That  honest  tradesman's 
manner  of  receiving  the  look,  did  not  inspire  confidence  ; 
ho  changed  the  leg  on  which  he  rested,  as  often  as  if  he 
had  fifty  of  those  limbs,  and  were  trying  them  all  ;  he 
examined  his  finger-nails  with  a  very  questionable  close- 
ness of  attention  ;  and  whenever  Mr.  Lorry's  eye  caught 
his,  he  was  taken  with  that  peculiar  kind  of  short  cough 
requiring  the  hollow  of  a  hand  before  it,  which  is  sel- 
dom, if  ever,  known  to  be  an  infirmity  attendant  on  per- 
fect openne.'-s  of  character. 

"Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Lorry.    "  Come  here." 

Mr.  Cruncher  came  forward  sideways,  with  one  of  his 
shoulders  in  advance  of  hiin. 

"  What  have  you  been,  besides  a  messenger  ?  " 

After  some  cogitation,  accompanied  with  an  intent 
look  at  his  patron,  Mr.  Cruncher  conceived  the  luminous 
idea  of  replying,  "  Agricultooral  character." 

"My  mind  misgives  me  much,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  an- 
grily shaking  a  forefinger  at  him,  "  that  you  have  used 
the  respectable  and  great  house  of  Tellson's  as  a  blind, 
and  that  you  have  had  an  unlawful  occupation  of  an  in- 
famous description.  If  you  have,  don't  expect  me  to 
befriend  you  when  you  get  back  to  England.  If  you 
have,  don't  expect  me  to  keep  your  secret.  Tellson's 
shall  not  be  imposed  upon." 

"I  hope,  sir,"  pleaded  the  abashed  Mr.  Cruncher, 
"  that  a  gentleman  like  yourself  wot  I've  had  the  honour 
of  odd  jobbing  till  I'm  grey  at  it,  would  think  twice 
about  harming  of  me,  even  if  it  wos  so — I  don't  say  it 
is,  but  even  if  it  wos.  And  which  it  is  to  be  took  into 
account  that  if  it  wos,  it  wouldn't,  even  then,  be  all  o' 
one  side.  There'd  be  two  sides  to  it.  There  might  be 
medical  doctors  at  the  present  hour,  a  picking  up  their 
guineas  where  a  honest  tradesman  don't  pick  up  his 
fardens — fardens  !  no,  nor  yet  his  half  fardens — half 
fardens  !  no,  nor  yet  his  quarter — a  banking  away  like 
smoke  at  Tellson's,  and  a  cocking  their  medical  eyes  at 
that  tradesman  on  the  sly,  a  going  in  and  going  out  to 
their  own  carriages — ah  !  equally  like  smoke,  if  not  more 
so.  Well,  that  'ud  be  imposing  too,  on  Tellson's.  For 
you  cannot  sarse  the  goose  and  not  the  gander.  And 
here's  Mrs.  Cruncher,  or  leastways  wos  in  the  Old  Eng- 
land times,  and  would  be  to-morrow,  if  cause  given,  a 
floppin'  again  the  business  to  that  degree  as  is  ruinating 
— stark  ruinating  !  W^hereas  them  medical  doctors* 
wives  don't  flop — catch  'em  at  it !  Or,  if  they  flop,  their 
floppings  goes  in  favour  of  more  patients,  and  how  can  you 
rightly  have  one  without  the  t'other?  Then,  wot  with 
undertakers,  and  wot  with  parish  clerks,  and  wot  with 
sextons,  and  wot  with  private  watchmen  (all  awaricious 
and  all  in  it),  a  man  wouldn't  get  much  by  it,  even  if  it 
wos  so.  And  wot  little  a  man  did  get,  would  never 
prosper  with  him,  Mr.  Lorry.  He'd  never  have  no  good 
of  it  ;  he'd  want  all  along  to  be  out  of  the  line,  if  he 
could  see  his  way  out,  being  once  in — even  if  it  wos  so." 

"  Ugh  ! "  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rather  relenting,  neverthe- 
less.   "  I  am  shocked  at  the  sight  of  you." 

"  Now,  what  I  would  humbly  offer  to  you,  sir,"  pur- 
sued Mr.  Cruncher,  "  even  if  it  wos  so,  which  I  don't 
say  it  is — " 

"  Don't  prevaricate,"  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

"No,  I  will  7iot,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Crimcher,  as  if 
nothing  were  further  from  his  thoughts  or  practice — 
"  which  I  don't  say  it  is — wot  I  would  humbly  offer  to 
you,  sir,  would  be  this.  Upon  that -there  stool,  at  that  there 
Bar,  sets  that  there  boy  of  mine,  brought  up  and  growed 
up  to  be  a  man,  wot  will  errand  you,  message  you,  gen- 
eral-light-job you,  till  your  heels  is  where  your  head  is,  if 
such  should  be  your  wishes.  If  it  wos  so,  which  I  still 
don't  say  it  is  (for  I  will  not  prewaricate  to  you,  sir),  let 
that  there  boy  keep  his  father's  place,  and  take  care  of 
his  mother  ;  don't  blow  upon  that  boy's  father — do  not 
do  it,  sir — and  let  that  father  go  into  the  line  of  the 
reg'lar  diggin',  and  make  amends  for  what  he  would 
have  un-dug — if  it  wos  so — by  diggin*  of  'em  in  with  a 


422 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


will,  and  witli  conwictions  respectin'  the  futur'  keepin*  of 
'em  safe.  That,  Mr.  Lorry,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  wiping 
his  forehead  with  his  arm,  as  an  announcement  that  he 
had  arrived  at  the  peroration  of  his  discourse,  "  is  wot  I 
would  respectfully  offer  to  you,  sir.  A  man  don't  see 
all  this  here  a  goin'  on  dreadful  round  him  in  the  way 
of  Subjects  without  heads,  dear  me,  plentiful  enough 
fur  to  bring  the  price  down  to  porterage  and  hardly  that, 
without  havin'  his  serious  thoughts  of  things.  And 
these  here  would  be  mine,  if  it  wos  so,  entreatin'  of  you 
fur  to  bear  in  mind  that  wot  I  said  just  now,  I  up  and 
said  in  the  good  cause  when  I  might  have  kep'  it  back," 

"  That  at  least  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Lorry.  "  Say  no 
more  now.  It  may  be  that  I  shall  yet  stand  your  friend, 
if  you  deserve  it,  and  repent  in  action — not  in  words.  I 
want  no  more  words." 

Mr.  Cruncher  knuckled  his  forehead,  as  Sydney  Carton 
and  the  spy  returned  from  the  dark  room.  "  Adieu,  Mr. 
Barsad!"  said  the  former;  "our  arrangement  thus 
made,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me." 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  on  the  hearth,  over  against  Mr. 
Lorry.  When  they  were  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him 
what  he  had  done  ? 

Not  much.  If  it  should  go  ill  with  the  prisoner,  I 
have  ensured  access  to  him,  once." 

Mr.  Lorry's  countenance  fell. 

"  It  is  all  T  could  do,"  said  Carton.  "  To  propose  too 
much,  would  be  to  put  this  man's  head  under  the  axe, 
and,  as  he  himself  said,  nothing  worse  could  happen  to 
him  if  he  were  denounced.  It  was  obviously,  the  weak- 
ness of  the  position.    There  is  no  help  for  it." 

"  But  access  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  "if  it  should  go 
ill  before  the  tribunal,  will  not  save  him." 

"  I  never  said  it  would." 

Mr.  Lorry's  eyes  gradually  sought  the  fire  ;  his  sym- 
pathy with  his  darling,  and  the  heavy  disappointment  of 
this  second  arrest,  gradually  weakened  them  ;  he  was  an 
old  man  now,  overborne  with  anxiety  of  late,  and  his 
tears  fell. 

"You  are  a  good  man  and  a  true  friend,"  said  Carton, 
in  an  altered  voice.  "  Forgive  me  if  I  notice  that  you 
are  affected.  I  could  not  see  my  father  weep,  and  sit  by, 
careless.  And  I  could  not  respect  your  sorrow  more,  if 
you  were  my  father.  You  are  free  from  that  misfortune, 
however." 

Though  he  said  the  last  words,  with  a  slip  into  his 
usual  manner,  there  was  a  true  feeling  and  respect  both 
in  his  tone  and  in  his  touch,  that  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had 
never  seen  the  better  side  of  him,  was  wholly  impre- 
pared  for.  He  gave  him  his  hand,  and  Carton  gently 
pressed  it. 

"  To  return  to  poor  Darnay,"  said  Carton.  "  Don't  tell 
Her  of  this  interview,  or  this  arrangement.  It  would 
not  enable  Her  to  go  to  see  him.  She  might  think  it  was 
contrived,  in  case  of  the  worst,  to  convey  to  him  the 
means  of  anticipating  the  sentence." 

Mr.  Lorry  had  not  thought  of  that,  and  he  looked 
quickly  at  Carton  to  see  if  it  were  in  his  mind.  It 
seemed  to  be ;  he  returned  the  look,  and  evidently  under- 
stood it. 

"She  might  think  a  thousand  things,"  Carton  said, 
"  and  any  of  them  would  only  add  to  her  trouble.  Don't 
speak  of  me  to  her.  As  I  said  to  you  when  I  first  came, 
I  had  better  not  see  her,  I  can  put  my  hand  out,  to  do 
any  little  helpful  work  for  her  that  my  hand  can  find  to 
do,  without  that.  You  are  going  to  her,  I  hope  ?  She 
must  be  very  desolate  to-night." 

"  I  am  going  now,  directly." 

"I  am  glad  of  that.    She  has  such  a  strong  attacli- 
ment  to  you  and  reliance  on  you.    How  does  she  look  ?" 
"  Anxious  and  unhappy,  but  very  beautiful." 
"  Ah  I " 

It  was  a  long,  grieving  sound,  like  a  sigh — almost  like 
a  Bob.  It  attracted  Mr.  Lorry's  eyes  to  Carton's  face, 
which  was  turned  to  the  fire.  A  light,  or  a  shade  (the 
old  gentleman  could  not  have  said  wliich),  passed  from 
it  as  swiftly  as  a  change  will  sweep  over  a  hill -side  on  a 
wild  bright  day,  and  he  lifted  his  foot  to  put  back  one 
of  the  little  flaming  logs,  which  was  tumbling  forward. 
He  wore  the  white  riding-coat  and  top-boots,  then  in 
vogue,  and  the  light  of  the  fire  touching  their  light  sur- 
faces made  him  look  very  pale,  with  his  long  brown  hair,  I 


all  untrimmed,  hanging  loose  about  him.  His  indiffer- 
ence to  fire  was  sufficiently  remarkable  to  elicit  a  word  of 
remonstrance  from  Mr.  Lorry ;  his  boot  was  still  upon 
the  hot  embers  of  the  flaming  log,  when  it  had  broken 
under  the  weight  of  his  foot. 
"  I  forgot  it,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Lorry's  eyes  were  again  attracted  to  his  face. 
Taking  note  of  the  wasted  air  which  clouded  the  natur- 
ally handsome  features,  and  having  the  expression  of 
prisoners'  faces  fresh  in  his  mind,  he  was  strongly  re- 
minded of  that  expression, 

"  And  your  duties  here  have  drawn  to  an  end,  sir?  " 
said  Carton,  turning  to  him. 

"Yes.  As  I  was  telling  you  last  night  when  Lucie 
came  in  so  unexpectedlj^  I  have  at  length  done  all  that 
I  can  do  here.  I  hoped  to  have  left  them  in  perfect 
safety,  and  then  to  have  quitted  Paris,  I  have  my  Leave 
to  Pass.    I  was  ready  to  go." 

They  were  both  silent. 

"  Yours  is  a  long  life  to  look  back  upon,  sir  ?  "  said 
Carton,  wistfully. 

"I  am  in  my  seventy-eighth  year." 

"You  have  been  useful  all  your  life;  steadily  and 
constantly  occupied  ;  trusted,  respected,  and  looked  up 
to?" 

"  I  have  been  a  man  of  business,  ever  since  I  have 
been  a  man.  Indeed,  I  may  say  that  I  was  a  man  of 
business  when  a  boy." 

"  See  what  a  place  you  fill  at  seventy-eight.  How 
many  people  will  miss  you  when  you  leave  it  empty  !  " 

"  A  solitary  old  bachelor,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  shak- 
ing his  head.    "  There  is  nobody  to  weep  for  me." 

"How  can  you  say  that?  Wouldn't  she  weep  for 
you  ?    Wouldn't  her  child  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  thank  God.  I  didn't  quite  mean  what  I 
said." 

' '  It  is  a  thing  to  thank  God  for  ;  is  it  not  ?  " 
"  Surely,  surely." 

' '  If  you  could  say,  with  truth,  to  your  own  solitary 
heart,  to-night,  *  I  have  secured  to  myself  the  love  and 
attachment,  the  gratitude  or  respect,  of  no  human 
creature  ;  I  have  won  myself  a  tender  place  in  no  re- 
gard ;  I  have  done  nothing  good  or  serviceable  to  be 
remembered  by  ! '  your  seventy-eight  years  would  be 
seventy-eight  heavy  curses  ;  would  they  not?" 

"You  say  truly,  Mr.  Carton  ;  I  think  they  would  be." 

Sydney  turned  his  eyes  again  upon  the  fire,  and,  after 
a  silence  of  a  few  moments,  said  : 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  : — Does  your  childhood  seem 
far  off?  Do  the  days  when  you  sat  at  your  mother's 
knee,  seem  days  of  very  long  ago  ?  " 

Responding  to  his  softened  manner,  Mr.  Lorry  an- 
swered : 

"  Twenty  years  back,  yes  ;  at  this  time  of  my  life,  no. 
For,  as  I  draw  closer  and  closer  to  the  end,  I  travel  in 
the  circle,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  beginning.  It  seems 
to  be  one  of  the  kind  smoothings  and  preparings  of  the 
way.  My  heart  is  touched  now,  by  many  remembrances 
that  had  long  fallen  asleep,  of  my  pretty  young  mother 
(and  I  so  old  !),  and  by  many  associations  of  the  days 
when  what  we  call  the  World  was  not  so  real  with  me, 
and  my  faults  were  not  confirmed  in  me." 

"I  understand  the  feeling  I"  exclaimed  Carton,  with 
a  bright  flush.    "  And  you  are  the  better  for  it?" 

"  I  hope  so." 

Carton  terminated  the  conversation  here,  by  rising  to 
help  him  on  with  his  outer  coat  ;  "  but  you,"  said  Mr. 
Lorry,  reverting  to  the  theme,  "you  are  young." 

"  Yes,"  said  Carton.  "I  am  not  old,  but  my  young 
way  was  never  the  way  to  age.    Enough  of  me," 

"And  of  me,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr  Lorry.  "Are  you 
going  out  ?  " 

"I'll  walk  with  you  to  her  gate.  You  know  my  vag- 
abond and  restless  habits.  If  I  should  prowl  about  the 
streets  a  long  time,  don't  be  uneasy  ;  I  shall  reappear  in 
the  morning,  '  You  go  to  the  Court  to-morrow?" 

"  Yes,  unhappily." 

"  I  shall  be  there,  but  only  as  one  of  the  crowd.  My 
Spy  will  find  a  place  for  mo.    Take  my  arm,  sir." 

Mr.  Lorry  did  so,  and  they  went  down-stairs  and  out 
in  the  streets.  A  few  minutes  brought  them  to  Mr. 
Lorry's  destination.    Carton  left  him  there  ;  but  lingered 


A  TALE  OF 

at  a  little  distance,  and  turned  back  to  the  gate  again 
•when  it  was  shut,  and  touched  it.  He  had  heard  of  her 
going  to  the  prison  every  day.  "  She  came  out  here," 
he  said,  looking  about  him,  "  turned  this  way,  must  have 
trod  on  these  stones  often.  Let  me  follow  in  her 
steps." 

It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night  when  he  stood  before  the 
prison  of  La  Force,  where  she  had  stood  hundreds  of 
times.  A  little  wood-sawyer,  having  closed  his  shop, 
was  smoking  his  pipe  at  his  shop-door. 

"  Good  night,  citizen,"  said  Sydney  Carton,  pausing  in 
going  by  ;  for,  the  man  eyed  him  inquisitively. 

"  Good  night,  citizen." 

"  Plow  goes  the  Republic  ?  " 

"You  mean  the  Guillotine.  Not  ill.  Sixty-three  to- 
day. We  shall  mount  to  a  hundred  soon.  Sanson  and 
his  men  complain  sometimes,  of  being  exhausted.  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !    He  is  so  droll,  that  Sanson.    Such  a  Barber  ! " 

"  Do  you  often  go  to  see  him — " 

"  Shave  ?    Always.    Every  day.     What  a  Barber  ! 
You  have  seen  him  at  work  ?  " 
"  Never." 

"  Go  and  see  him  when  he  has  a  good  batch.  Figure 
this  to  yourself,  citizen  ;  he  shaved  the  sixty-three  to- 
day, in  less  than  two  pipes  !  Less  than  two  pipes  ! 
Word  of  honour  ! " 

As  the  grinning  little  man  held  out  the  pipe  he  was 
smoking,  to  explain  how  he  timed  the  executioner,  Car- 
ton was  so  sensible  of  a  rising  desire  to  strike  the  life  out 
of  him,  that  he  turned  away. 

"But  you  are  not  English,"  said  the  wood-sawyer, 
** though  you  wear  English  dress?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Carton,  pausing  again,  and  answering 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  You  speak  like  a  Frenchman." 

"  I  am  an  old  student  here." 

"  Aha,  a  perfect  Frenchman  !  Good  night.  English- 
man." 

*'  Good  night,  citizen." 

"  But  go  and  see  that  droll  dog,"  the  little  man  per- 
sisted, calling  after  him.    "  And  take  a  pipe  with  you  ! " 

Sydney  had  not  gone  far  out  of  sight,  when  he  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  under  a  glimmering  lamp, 
and  wrote  with  his  pencil  on  a  scrap  of  paper.  Then, 
traversing  with  the  decided  step  of  one  who  remembered 
the  way  well,  several  dark  and  dirty  streets — much  dir- 
tier than  usual,  for  the  best  public  thoroughfares  re- 
mained uncleansed  in  those  times  of  terror — he  stopped 
at  a  chemist's  shop,  which  the  owner  was  closing  with 
his  own  hands.  A  small,  dim,  crooked  shop,  kept  in  a 
tortuous,  up-hill  thoroughfare,  by  a  small,  dim,  crooked 
man. 

Giving  this  citizen,  too,  good-night,  as  he  confronted 
him  at  his  counter,  he  laid  the  scrap  of  paper  before 
him.  "  Whew  ! "  the  chemist  whistled  softly,  as  he  read 
it.    "  Hi !  hi  !  hi  !  " 

Sydney  Carton  took  no  heed,  and  the  chemist  said  : 

"  For  you,  citizen  ?  " 

"  For  me." 

"You  will  be  careful  to  keep  them  separate,  citizen  ? 
You  know  the  consequences  of  mixing  them  ?  " 
"  Perfectly." 

Certain  small  packets  were  made  and  given  to  him. 
He  put  them,  one  by  one,  in  the  breast  of  his  inner  coat, 
counted  out  the  money  for  them,  and  deliberately  left 
the  shop.  "There  is  nothing  more  to  do,"  said  he, 
glancing  upward  at  the  moon,  "  until  to-morrow.  I  can't 
sleep." 

It  was  not  a  reckless  manner,  the  manner  in  which  he 
said  these  words  aloud  under  the  fast-sailing  clouds, 
nor  was  it  more  expressive  of  negligence  than  defiance. 
It  was  the  settled  manner  of  a  tired  man,  who  had  wan- 
dered and  struggled  and  got  lost,  but  who  at  length 
struck  into  his  road  and  saw  its  end. 

Long  ago,  when  he  had  been  famous  among  his  ear- 
liest competitors  as  a  youth  of  great  promise,  he  had 
followed  his  father  to  the  grave.  His  mother  had  died 
years  before.  These  solemn  words,  which  had  been  read 
at  his  father's  grave,  arose  in  his  mind  as  he  went  down 
the  dark  streets,  among  thw  heavy  shadows,  with  the 
moon  and  the  clouds  sailing  on  high  above  him,  "  I  am 
the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord  :  be  that 


TWO  CITIES,  423 

belicveth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live  : 
and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall  never 
die." 

In  a  city  dominated  by  the  axe,  alone  at  night,  with 
natural  sorrow  rising  in  him  for  the  sixty-three  who  had 
been  that  day  put  to  death,  and  for  to-morrow's  victims 
then  awaiting  their  doom  in  the  prisons,  and  still  of  to- 
morrow's, and  to-morrow's,  the  chain  of  association  that 
brought  the  words  home,  like  a  ru.sty  old  ship's  anchor 
from  the  deep,  might  have  been  easily  found.  He  did 
not  seek  it,  but  repeated  them  and  went  on. 

With  a  solemn  interest  in  the  lighted  windows  where 
the  people  were  going  to  rest,  forgetful  through  a  ferr 
calm  hours  of  the  horrors  surrounding  them  ;  in  the 
towers  of  the  churches,  where  no  prayers  were  said,  for 
the  popular  revulsion  had  even  travelled  that  length  of 
self-destruction  from  years  of  priestly  impostors,  plun- 
derers, and  profligates  ;  in  the  distant  burial-places,  re- 
served, as  they  wrote  upon  the  gates,  for  Eternal  Sleep  ; 
it  the  abounding  gaols  ;  and  in  the  streets  along  which 
the  sixties  rolled  to  a  death  which  had  become  so  com- 
mon and  material,  that  no  sorrowful  story  of  a  haunting 
Spirit  ever  arose  among  the  people  out  of  all  the  work- 
ing of  the  Guillotine  ;  with  a  solemn  interest  in  the 
whole  life  and  death  of  the  city  settling  down  to  its 
short  nightly  pause  in  fury  ;  Sydney  Carton  crossed  the 
Seine  again  for  the  lighter  streets. 

Few  coaches  were  abroad,  for  riders  in  coaches  were 
liable  to  be  suspected,  and  gentility  hid  its  head  in  red 
nightcaps,  and  put  on  heavy  shoes,  and  trudged.  But, 
the  theatres  were  all  well  filled,  and  the  people  poured 
cheerfully  out  as  he  passed,  and  went  chattering  home. 
At  one  of  the  theatre  doors,  there  was  a  little  girl  with 
a  mother,  looking  for  a  way  across  the  street  through 
the  mud.  He  carried  the  child  over,  and  before  the 
timid  arm  was  loosened  from  his  neck  asked  her  for  a 
kiss. 

"  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord  : 
he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall 
he  live  :  and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me, 
shall  never  die." 

Now,  that  the  streets  were  quiet,  and  the  night  wore 
on,  the  words  were  in  the  echoes  of  his  feet,  and  were 
in  the  air.  Perfectly  calm  and  steady,  he  sometimes 
repeated  them  to  himself  as  he  walked  ;  but,  he  heard 
them  always. 

The  night  wore  out,  and,  as  he  stood  upon  the  bridge 
listening  to  the  water  as  it  splashed  the  river- walls  of 
the  Island  of  Paris,  where  the  picturesque  confusion  of 
houses  and  cathedral  shone  bright  in  the  light  of  the 
moon,  the  day  came  coldly,  loooking  like  a  dead  face 
out  of  the  sky.  Then,  the  night,  with  the  moon  and 
the  stars,  turned  pale  and  died,  and  for  a  little  while  it 
seemed  as  if  Creation  were  delivered  over  to  Death's  do- 
minion. 

But,  the  glorious  sun,  rising,  seemed  to  strike  those 
words,  that  burden  of  of  the  night,  straight  and  warm 
to  his  heart  in  its  long  bright  rays.  And  looking  along 
them,  with  reverently  shaded  eyes,  a  bridge  of  light  ap- 
peared to  span  the  air  between  him  and  the  sun,  while 
the  river  sparkled  under  it. 

The  strong  tide,  so  swift,  so  deep,  and  certain,  was 
like  a  congenial  friend,  in  the  morning  stillness.  He 
walked  by  the  stream,  far  from  the  houses,  and  in  the 
light  and  wf^rmth  of  the  sun  fell  asleep  on  the  bank. 
When  he  awoke  and  was  afoot  again,  he  lingered  there 
yet  a  little  longer,  watching  an  eddy  that  turned  and 
turned  purposeless,  until  the  stream  absorbed  it,  and 
carried  it  on  to  the  sea. — "  Like  me  !  " 

A  trading-boat,  with  a  sail  of  the  softened  colour  of  a 
dead  leaf,  then  glided  into  his  view,  floated  by  him,  and 
died  away.  As  its  silent  track  in  the  water  disappeared, 
the  prayer  that  had  broken  up  out  of  his  heart  for  a 
merciful  consideration  of  all  his  poor  blindnesses  and 
errors,  ended  in  the  words,  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and 
the  life." 

Mr.  Lorry  was  already  out  when  he  got  back,  and  it 
was  easy  to  surmise  where  the  good  old  man  was  gone. 
Sydney  Carton  drank  nothing  but  a  little  coffee,  ate 
some  bread,  and,  having  washed  and  changed  to  refresh 
himself,  went  out  to  the  place  of  trial. 

The  court  was  all  astir  and  a-buzz,  when  the  black 


424 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


sheep — whom  many  fell  away  from  in  dread — pressed 
him  into  an  obscure  corner  among  the  crowd.  Mr.  Lorry 
was  there,  and  Doctor  Manette  was  there.  She  was 
there,  sitting  beside  her  father. 

When  her  husband  was  brought  in,  she  turned  a  look 
upon  him,  so  sustaining,  so  encouraging,  so  full  of  ad- 
miring love  and  pitying  tenderness,  yet  so  courageous 
for  his  sake,  that  it  called  the  healthy  blood  into  his 
face,  brightened  his  glance,  and  animated  his  heart.  If 
there  had  been  any  eyes  to  notice  the  influence  of  her 
look,  on  Sydney  Carton,  it  would  have  been  seen  to  be 
the  same  induence  exactly. 

Before  that  unjust  Tribunal,  there  was  little  or  no 
order  of  procedure,  ensuring  to  any  accused  person  any 
reasonable  hearing.  There  could  have  been  no  such 
Revolution,  if  all  laws  and  forms,  and  ceremonies,  had 
not  first  been  so  monstrously  abused,  that  the  suicidal 
vengeance  of  the  Revolution  was  to  scatter  them  all  to 
the  winds. 

Every  eye  was  turned  to  the  jury.  The  same  deter- 
mined patriots  and  good  republicans  as  yesterday  and 
the  day  before,  and  to-morrow  and  the  day  after.  Eager 
and  prominent  among  them,  one  man  with  a  craving 
face,  and  his  fingers  perpetually  hovering  about  his  lips, 
"whose  appearance  gave  great  satisfaction  to  the  specta- 
tors. A  life-thirsting,  cannibal-Jooking,  bloody-minded 
juryman,  the  Jacques  Three  of  Saint  Antoine.  The 
whole  jury,  as  a  jury  of  dogs  empannelled  to  try  the 
deer. 

Every  eye  then  turned  to  the  five  judges  and  the  pub- 
lic prosecutor.  No  favourable  leaning  in  that  quarter 
to-day.  A  fell,  uncompromising,  murderous  business- 
meaning  there.  Every  eye  then  sought  some  other  eye 
in  the  crowd,  and  gleamed  at  it  approvingly  ;  and  heads 
nodded  at  one  another,  before  bending  forward  with  a 
strained  attention. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay.  Released  yester- 
day. Re-accused  and  re-taken  yesterday.  Indictment 
delivered  to  him  last  night.  Suspected  and  Denounced 
enemy  of  the  Republic,  Aristocrat,  one  of  a  family  of 
tyrants,  one  of  a  race  proscribed,  for  that  they  had  used 
their  abolished  privileges  to  the  infamous  oppression  of 
the  people.  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  in  right 
of  such  proscription,  absolutely  Dead  in  Law. 

To  this  effect,  in  as  few  or  fewer  words,  the  Public 
Prosecutor. 

The  President  asked,  was  the  .Accused  openly  de- 
nounced or  secretly  ? 
"Openly,  President." 
"By  whom?" 

"  Three  voices.     Ernest  Defarge,  wine-vender  of 
Saint  Antoine." 
"Good," 

"Therese  Defarge,  his  wife." 
"Good." 

"  Alexandre  Manette,  physician." 

A  great  uproar  took  place  in  the  court,  and  in  the 
midst  of  it,  Doctor  Manette  was  seen,  pale  and  trem- 
bling, standing  where  he  had  been  seated. 

"  President,  I  indignantly  protest  to  you  that  this  is  a 
forgery  and  a  fraud.  You  know  the  accused  to  be  the 
husband  of  my  daughter.  My  daughter,  and  those  dear 
to  her,  are  far  dearer  to  me  than  my  life.  Who  and 
where  is  the  false  conspirator  who  says  that  I  denounce 
the  husband  of  my  child  ?" 

"Citizen  Manette,  be  tranquil.  To  fail  in  submission 
to  the  authority  of  the  Tribunal  would  be  to  put  your- 
self out  of  Law.  As  to  what  is  dearer  to  you  than  life, 
nothing  can  be  so  dear  to  a  good  citizen  as  the  Repub- 
lic." 

Loud  acclamations  hailed  this  rebuke.  The  President 
rang  his  bell,  and  with  warmth  resumed. 

"If  the  Republic  should  demand  of  you  the  sacrifice 
of  your  child  herself,  you  would  have  no  duty  but  to 
sacrifice  her.  Listen  to  what  is  to  follow.  In  the  mean- 
while, be  silent  I " 

Frantic  acclamations  were  again  raised.  Doctor 
Manette  sat  down,  with  his  eyes  looking  around,  and  his 
lips  trembling  ;  his  daughter  drew  closer  to  him.  The 
craving  man  on  the  jury  rubbed  his  hands  together,  and 
restored  the  usual  hand  to  his  mouth. 

Defarge  was  produced,  when  the  court  was  quiet 


enough  to  admit  of  his  being  heard,  and  rapidly  expound- 
ed the  story  of  the  imprisonment,  and  of  his  having 
been  a  mere  boy  in  the  doctor's  service,  and  of  the  release, 
and  of  the  state  of  the  prisoner  when  released  and  de- 
livered to  him.  This  short  examination  followed,  for 
the  court  was  quick  with  its  work. 

"  You  did  good  service  at  the  taking  of  the  Bastille, 
citizen  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so." 

Here,  an  excited  woman  screeched  from  the  crowd  : 
"  You  were  one  of  the  best  patriots  there.  Why  not  say 
so?  You  were  a  cannonier  that  day  there,  and  you  were 
among  the  first  to  enter  the  accursed  fortress  when  it  fell. 
Patriots,  I  speak  the  truth  !  " 

It  was  The  Vengeance  who,  amidst  the  warm  com- 
mendations of  the  audience,  thus  assisted  the  proceedings. 
The  President  rang  his  bell  ;  but,  The  Vengeance,  warm- 
ing with  encouragement,  shrieked,  "  I  defy  that  bell  !" 
wherein  she  was  likewise  much  commended. 

"  Inform  the  Tribunal  of  what  you  did  that  day  within 
the  Bastille,  citizen." 

"  I  knew,"  said  Defarge,  looking  down  at  his  wife, who 
stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  on  which  he  was  raised, 
looking  steadily  up  at  him  ;  "I  knew  that  this  prisoner, 
of  whom  I  speak,  had  been  confined  in  a  cell  known  as 
One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower.  I  knew  it  from 
himself.  He  knew  himself  by  no  other  name  than  One 
Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower,  when  he  made  shoes 
under  my  care.  As  I  serve  my  gun  that  day,  I  resolve 
when  the  place  shall  fall,  to  examine  that  cell.  It  falls. 
I  mount  to  the  cell,  with  a  fellow-citizen  who  is  one  of 
the  Jury,  directed  by  a  gaoler.  I  examine  it,  very  closely. 
In  a  hole  in  the  chimney,  where  a  stone  had  been  worked 
out  and  replaced,  I  find  a  written  paper.  This  is  that 
written  paper.  I  have  made  it  my  business  to  examine 
some  specimens  of  the  writing  of  Doctor  Manette.  This 
is  the  writing  of  Doctor  Manette.  I  confide  this  paper, 
in  the  writing  of  Doctor  Manette,  to  the  hands  of  the 
President." 

"  Let  it  be  read." 

In  a  dead  silence  and  stillness — the  prisoner  under 
trial  looking  lovingly  at  his  wife,  his  wife  only  looking 
from  him  to  look  with  solicitude  at  her  father.  Doctor 
Manette  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  reader,  Madame 
Defarge  never  taking  hers  from  the  prisoner,  Defarge 
never  taking  his  from  his  feasting  wife,  and  all  the 
other  eyes  there  intent  upon  the  Doctor,  who  saw  none 
of  them — the  paper  was  read,  as  follows. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Tlie  Substance  of  the  Shadow. 

"  I,  Alexandre  Manette,  unfortunate  physician,  na- 
tive of  Beauvais  and  afterwards  resident  in  Paris,  write 
this  melancholy  paper  in  my  doleful  cell  in  the  Bastille, 
during  the  last  month  of  the  year  1767.  I  w^rite  it  at 
stolen  intervals,  under  every  difficulty.  I  design  to 
secrete  it  in  the  wall  of  the  chimney,  where  I  have 
slowly  and  laboriously  made  a  place  of  concealment  for 
it.  Some  pitying  hand  may  find  it  there,  when  I  and 
my  sorrows  are  dust. 

"  These  words  are  formed  by  the  rusty  iron  point  with 
which  I  write  with  difficulty  'in  scrapings  of  soot  and 
charcoal  from  the  chimney,  mixed  with  blood,  in  the 
last  month  of  the  tenth  year  of  my  captivity.  Hope  has 
quite  departed  from  my  breast.  I  know  from  terrible 
warnings  I  have  noted  in  myself  that  my  reason  will  not 
long  remain  unimpaired,  but  I  solemnly  declare  that  I  am 
at  this  time  in  the  possession  of  my  right  mind — that 
my  memory  is  exact  and  circumstantial — and  that  I 
write  the  truth  as  I  shall  answer  for  these  my  last  re- 
corded words,  whether  they  be  ever  read  by  men  or  not, 
at  the  Eternal  Judgment-seat. 

"One  cloudy  moonlight  night,  in  the  third  week  of 
December  (I  think  the  twenty-second  of  the  month),  in 
the  year  1757,  I  was  walking  on  a  retired  part  of  the 
quay  by  the  Seine  for  the  refreshment  of  the  frosty  air, 
at  an  hour's  distance  from  my  place  of  residence  in  the 
Street  of  the  School  of  Medicine,  when  a  carriage  came 


OF  IHE  ♦  ^ 


A  TALE  OF 

along  behind  me,  driven  very  fast.  As  I  stood  aside  to 
let  that  carriage  pass,  apprehensive  that  it  might  other- 
wise run  me  down,  a  head  was  put  out  at  the  window, 
and  a  voice  called  to  the  driver  to  stop. 

"The  carriage  stopped  as  soon  as  the  driver  could  rein 
in  his  horses,  and  the  same  voice  called  to  me  by  my 
name.  I  answered.  The  carriage  was  then  so  far  in  ad- 
vance of  me  that  two  gentlemen  had  time  to  open  the 
door  and  alight  before  I  came  up  with  it.  I  observed 
that  they  were  both  wrapped  in  cloaks,  and  app§ared  to 
conceal  themselves.  As  they  stood  side  by  side  near  the 
cairiage  door,  I  also  observed  that  they  both  looked  of 
about  my  own  age,  or  rather  younger,  and  that  they  were 
greatly  alike,  in  stature,  manner,  voice,  and  (as  far  as  I 
could  see)  face  too. 

"  '  You  are  Doctor  Manette  ?  '  said  one. 

"  '  I  am.' 

"  '  Doctor  Manette,  formerly  of  Beauvais,'  said  the 
other ;  '  the  young  physician,  originally  an  expert  sur- 
geon, who  within  the  last  year  or  two,  has  made  a  rising 
reputation  in  Paris  ? ' 

"  '  Gentlemen,'  I  returned,  '  I  am  that  Doctor  Manette 
of  whom  you  speak  so  graciously.' 

"  '  We  have  been  to  your  residence,'  said  the  first,'  and 
not  being  so  fortunate  as  to  find  you  there,  and  being  in- 
formed that  you  were  probably  walking  in  this  direction, 
we  followed,  in  the  hope  of  overtaking  you.  Will  you 
please  to  enter  the  carriage  ?  ' 

"The  flaanner  of  both  was  imperious,  and  they  both 
moved,  as  these  v/ords  were  spoken,  so  as  to  place  me 
between  themselves  and  the  carriage  door.  They  were 
armed.    I  was  not. 

"  'Gentlemen,'  said  I,  'pardon  me  ;  but  I  usually  in- 
quire who  does  me  the  honour  to  seek  my  assistance,  and 
what  is  the  nature  of  the  case  to  which  I  am  summoned.' 

"  The  reply  to  this,  was  made  by  him  who  had  spoken 
second.  'Doctor,  your  clients  are  people  of  condition. 
As  to  the  nature  of  the  case,  our  confidence  in  your  skill 
assures  us  that  you  will  ascertain  it  for  yourself  better 
than  we  can  describe  it.  Enough.  Will  you  please  to 
enter  the  carriage  ?  ' 

"  I  could  do  nothing  but  comply,  and  I  entered  it  in 
silence.  They  both  entered  after  me — the  last  springing 
in,  after  putting  up  the  steps.  The  carriage  turned  about, 
and  drove  on  at  its  former  speed. 

"  I  repeat  this  conversation  exactly  as  it  occurred.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  it  is,  word  for  word,  the  same.  I  de- 
scribe everything  exactly  as  it  took  place,  constraining  my 
mind  not  to  wander  from  the  task.  Where  I  make  the 
broken  marks  that  follow  here,  I  leave  olf  for  the  time, 
and  put  my  paper  in  its  hiding-place.  ****** 

"  The  carriage  left  the  streets  behind,  passed  the  North 
Barrier,  and  emerged  upon  the  country  road.  At  two- 
thirds  of  a  league  from  the  Barrier — I  did  not  estimate 
the  distance  at  that  time,  but  afterwards  when  I  traversed 
it — it  struck  out  of  the  main  avenue,  and  presently  stopped 
at  a  solitary  house.  We  all  three  alighted,  and  walked, 
by  a  damp  soft  footpath  in  a  garden  where  a  neglected 
fountain  had  overflowed,  to  the  door  of  the  house.  It 
was  not  opened  immediately,  in  answer  to  the  ringing  of 
the  bell,  and  one  of  my  two  conductors  struck  the  man 
who  opened  it,  with  his  heavy  riding-glove,  across  the 
face. 

"  There  was  nothing  in  this  action  to  attract  my  par- 
ticular attention,  for  I  had  seen  common  people  struck 
more  commonly  than  dogs.  But,  the  other  of  the  two, 
being  angry  likewise,  struck  the  man  in  like  manner 
with  his  arm  ;  the  look  and  bearing  of  the  brothers  were 
then  so  exactly  alike,  that  I  then  first  perceived  them  to 
be  twin  brothers. 

"From  the  time  of  our  alighting  at  the  outer  gate 
(which  we  found  locked,  and  which  one  of  the  brothers 
had  opened  to  admit  us,  and  had  re-locked),  I  had  heard 
cries  proceeding  from  an  upper  chamber.  I  was  conduct- 
ed to  this  chamber  straight,  the  cries  growing  louder  as 
we  ascended  the  stairs,  and  I  found  a  patient  in  a  high 
fever  of  the  brain,  lying  upon  a  bed. 

"  The  patient  was  a  woman  of  great  beauty,  and 
young  ;  assuredly  not  much  past  twenty.  Her  hair  was 
torn  and  ragged,  and  her  arms  were  bound  to  her  sides 
with  sashes  and  handkerchiefs.  I  noticed  that  these 
bonds  were  all  portions  of  a  gentleman's  dress.    On  one 


TWO  CITIES,  425 

of  them,  which  was  a  fringed  scarf  for  a  dress  of  cere- 
mony, I  saw  the  armorial  bearing  of  a  Noble,  and  the 
letter  E. 

"  I  saw  this,  within  the  first  minute  of  my  contempla- 
tion of  the  patient  ;  for,  in  her  restless  strivings  she  had 
turned  over  on  her  face  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  had  drawn 
the  end  of  the  scarf  into  her  mouth,  and  was  in  danger  of 
suffocation.  My  first  act  was  to  put  out  my  hand  to  re- 
lieve her  breathing  ;  and  in  moving  the  scarf  aside,  the 
embroidery  in  the  corner  caught  my  sight. 

"  I  turned  her  gently  over,  placed  my  hands  upon  her 
breast  to  calm  her  and  keep  her  down,  and  looked  into 
her  face.  Her  eyes  were  dilated  and  wild,  and  she  con- 
stantly uttered  piercing  shrieks,  and  repeated  the  words, 
'  My  husband,  my  father,  and  my  brother  ! '  and  then 
counted  up  to  twelve,  and  said,  '  Hush  ! '  For  an  instant, 
and  no  more,  she  would  pause  to  listen,  and  then  the 
piercing  shrieks  would  begin  again,  and  she  would  re- 
peat the  cry,  *  My  husband,  my  father,  and  my  brother  !  * 
and  would  count  up  to  twelve,  and  say  '  Hush  ! '  There 
was  no  variation  in  the  order,  or  the  manner.  There  was 
no  cessation,  but  the  regular  moment's  pause,  in  the  ut- 
terance of  these  sounds, 

"  '  How  long,'  I  asked,  '  has  this  lasted  ? ' 

"  To  distinguish  the  brothers,  I  will  call  them  the 
elder  and  the  younger  ;  by  the  elder,  I  mean  him  who 
exercised  the  most  authority.  It  was  the  elder  who 
replied,  '  Since  about  this  hour  last  night.' 

"  '  She  has  a  husband,  a  father,  and  a  brother  ?  ' 

"  '  A  brother.' 

"  '  I  do  not  address  her  brother?' 
"He  answered  with  great  contempt,  '  No.' 
'  'She  has  some  recent  association  with  the  number 
twelve  ? ' 

"The  younger  brother  impatiently  rejoined,  'With 
twelve  o'clock? ' 

"  '  See,  gentlemen,'  said  I,  still  keeping  my  hands  upon 
her  breast,  '  how  useless  I  am  as  you  have  brought  me  ! 
If  I  had  known  what  I  was  coming  to  see,  I  could  have 
come  provided.  As  it  is,  time  must  be  lost.  There  are 
no  medicines  to  be  obtained  in  this  lonely  place.' 

"  The  elder  brother  looked  at  the  younger,  who  said 
haughtily,  '  There  is  a  case  of  medicines  here  ; '  and 
brought  it  from  a  closet,  and  put  it  on  the  table.  ***** 

"  I  opened  some  of  the  bottles,  smelt  them,  and  put 
the  stoppers  to  my  lips.  If  I  had  wanted  to  use  anything 
save  narcotic  medicines  that  were  poisons  in  themselves, 
I  would  not  have  administered  any  of  those. 

"  '  Do  you  doubt  them  ?'  asked  the  younger  brother. 

"  '  You  see,  monsieur,  I  am  going  to  use  them,'  I  re- 
plied, and  said  no  more. 

"  I  made  the  patient  swallow,  with  great  difiiculty,  and 
after  many  efforts,  the  dose  that  I  desired  to  give.  As  I 
intended  to  repeat  it  after  a  while,  and  as  it  was  necessary 
to  watch  its  influence,  I  then  sat  doAvn  by  the  side  of  the 
bed.  There  was  a  timid  and  suppresed  woma^n  in  attend- 
ance (wife  of  the  man  down-stairs),  who  had  retreated 
into  a  corner.  The  house  was  damp  and  decayed,  indif- 
ferently furnished — evidently,  recently  occupied  and 
temporarily  used.  Some  thick  old  hangings  had  been 
nailed  up  before  the  windows,  to  deaden  the  sound  of 
the  shrieks.  They  continued  to  be  uttered  in  their  regu- 
lar succession,  with  the  cry,  '  My  husband,  my  father, 
my  brother  ! '  the  counting  up  to  twelve,  and  '  Hush  ! ' 
The  frenzy  was  so  violent,  that  I  had  not  unfastened  the 
bandages  restraining  the  arms  ;  but,  I  had  looked  to  them, 
to  see  that  they  were  not  painful.  The  only  spark  of 
encouragement  in  the  case,  was,  that  my  hand  upon  the 
sufferer's  breast  had  this  much  soothing  influence,  that 
for  minutes  at  a  time  it  tranquillised  the  figure.  It  had 
no  effect  upon  the  cries  ;  no  pendulum  could  be  more 
regular. 

"For  the  reason  that  my  hand  had  this  effect  (I  as- 
sume), I  sat  by  the  side  of  the  bed  for  a  half  an  hour, 
with  the  two  brothers  looking  on,  before  the  elder  %aid  : 

"  '  There  is  another  patient.' 

"  I  was  startled,  and  asked,  '  Is  it  a  pressing  case  ? ' 

"'You  had  better  see,  he  carelessly  answered  ;  and 
took  up  a  light.  ***** 

"  The  other  patient  lay  in  a  back  room  across  a  sec- 
ond staircase,  which  was  species  of  loft  over  a  stable. 
There  was  a  low  plastered  ceiling  to  a  part  of  it ;  the 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


rest  was  open,  to  the  ridge  of  the  tiled  roof,  and  there  I 
were  beams  across.    Hay  and  straw  were  stored  in  that  I 
portion  of  the  place,  fagots  for  firing,  and  a  heap  of  ap-  j 
pies  in  sand.    I  had  to  pass  through  that  part,  to  get  at  ] 
the  other.    My  memory  is  circumstantial  and  unshaken. 
I  try  it  with  these  details,  and  I  see  them  all,  in  this  my 
cell' in  the  Bastille,  near  the  close  of  the  tenth  year  of 
my  captivity,  as  I  saw  them  all  that  night. 

"On  some  hay  on  the  ground,  with  a  cushion  thrown 
under  his  head,  lay  a  handsome  peasant  boy — a  boy  of 
not  more  than  seventeen  at  the  most.  He  lay  on  his 
back,  with  his  teeth  set,  his  right  hand  clenched  on  his 
breast,  and  his  glaring  eyes  looking  straight  upward. 
I  could  not  see  where  his  wound  was,  as  I  kneeled  on 
one  knee  over  him  ;  but,  I  could  see  that  he  was  dying 
of  a  wound  from  a  sharp  point. 

"  '  I  am  a  doctor,  my  poor  fellow,'  said  I.  '  Let  me 
examine  it.' 

I  do  not  want  it  examined,'  he  answered  ;  '  let  it  be.' 

*'  It  was  under  his  hand,  and  I  soothed  him  to  let  me 
move  his  hand  away.  The  wound  was  a  sword-thrust, 
received  from  twenty  to  twenty-four  hours  before,  but 
no  skill  could  have  saved  him  if  it  had  been  looked  to 
without  delay.  He  was  then  dying  fast.  As  I  turned 
my  eyes  to  the  elder  brother,  I  saw  him  looking  down 
at  this  handsome  boy  whose  life  was  ebbing  out,  as  if  he 
were  a  wounded  bird,  or  hare,  or  rabbit  :  not  at  all 
as  if  he  were  a  fellow-creature. 

"  '  How  has  this  been  done,  monsieur? '  said  I. 

"  '  A  crazed  young  common  dog  !  A  serf  !  Forced 
my  brother  to  draw  upon  him,  and  has  fallen  by  my 
brother's  sword — like  a  gentleman.' 

*'  There  was  no  touch  of  pity,  sorrow,  or  kindred  hu- 
manity, in  this  answer.  The  speaker  seemed  to  acknowl- 
edge that  it  was  inconvenient  to  have  that  different  or- 
der of  creature  dying  there,  and  that  it  would  have  been 
better  if  he  had  died  in  the  usual  obscure  routine  of  his 
vermin  kind.  He  was  quite  incapable  of  any  compas- 
sionate feeling  about  the  boy,  or  about  his  fate. 

"  The  l)oy's  eyes  had  slowly  moved  to  him  as  he  had 
spoken,  and  they  now  slowly  moved  to  me. 

"  '  Doctor,  they  are  very  proud,  these  Nobles  ;  but  we 
common  dogs  are  proud  too,  sometimes.  They  plunder 
us,  outrage  us,  beat  us,  kill  us  ;  but  we  have  a  little 
pride  left,  sometimes.  She — have  you  seen  her,  Doc- 
tor?' 

"  The  shrieks  and  the  cries  were  audible  there,  though 
subdued  by  the  distance.  He  referred  to  them,  as  if  she 
were  lying  in  our  presence. 

"  I  said,  '  I  have  seen  her.* 

"  '  She  is  my  sister.  Doctor.  They  have  had  their 
shameful  rights,  these  Nobles,  in  the  modesty  and  vir- 
tue of  our  sisters,  many  years,  but  we  have  had  good 
girls  among  us.  I  know  it,  and  have  heard  my  father 
say  so.  She  was  a  good  girl.  She  was  betrothed  to  a 
good  young  man,  too  :  a  tenant  of  his.  We  were  all 
tenants  of  his — that  man's  who  stands  there.  The  other 
is  his  brother,  the  worst  of  a  bad  race.' 

*'  It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  the  boy  gath- 
ered bodily  force  to  speak  ;  but,  his  spirit  spoke  with  a 
dreadful  emphasis. 

"  '  We  were  so  robbed  by  that  man  who  stands  there, 
as  all  we  common  dogs  are  by  those  superior  Beings — 
taxed  by  him  without  mercy,  obliged  to  work  for  him 
without  pay,  obliged  to  grind  our  corn  at  his  mill,  obliged 
to  feed  scores  of  his  tame  birds  on  our  wretched  crops, 
and  forbidden  for  our  lives  to  keep  a  single  tame  bird  of 
our  own,  pillaged  and  plundered  to  that  degree  that 
when  we  chanced  to  have  a  bit  of  meat,  we  ate  it  in  fear, 
with  the  door  barred  and  the  shutters  closed,  that  his 
people  should  not  see  it  and  take  it  from  us — I  say,  we 
were  so  robbed,  and  hunted,  and  were  made  so  poor, 
that  our  father  told  us  it  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  bring  a 
child  into  the  world,  and  that  what  we  should  most  pray 
for,  was,  that  our  women  might  be  barren  and  our  miser- 
able race  die  out.' 

"  I  had  never  before  seen  the  sense  of  being  oppressed, 
bursting  forth  like  a  fire.  I  had  supposed  that  it  must 
be  latent  in  the  people  somewhere  ;  but,  I  had  never  seen 
it  break  out,  until  I  saw  it  in  the  dying  boy. 

"  '  Nevertheless,  Doctor,  my  sister  married.  He  was 
ailing  at  that  time,  poor  fellow,  and  she  married  her  lov- 


[  er,  that  she  might  tend  and  comfort  him  in  our  cottage — 
I  our  dog -hut,  as  that  man  would  call  it.    She  had  not 
I  been  married  many  weeks,  when  that  man's  brother  saw 
]  her  and  admired  her,  and  asked  that  man  to  lend  her  to 
him — for  what  are  husbands  among  us  !    He  was  will- 
ing enough,  but  my  sister  was  good  and  virtuous,  and 
hated  his  brother  with  a  hatred  as  strong  as  mine. 
What  did  the  two  then,  to  persuade  her  husband  to 
use  his  influence  with  her,  to  make  her  willing?' 

"  The  boy's  eyes,  which  had  been  fixed  on  mine,  slowly 
turned  to  the  looker-on,  and  I  saw  in  the  two  faces  that 
all  he  said  was  true.  The  two  opposing  kinds  of  pride 
confronting  one  another,  I  can  see,  even  in  this  Bastille  ; 
the  gentleman's,  all  negligent  indifference  ;  the  peasant's, 
all  trodden-down  sentiment,  and  passionate  revenge. 

"  *  You  know.  Doctor,  that  it  is  among  the  Rights  of 
these  Nobles  to  harness  us  common  dogs  to  carts,  and 
drive  us.  They  so  harnessed  him  and  drove  him.  You 
know  that  it  is  among  their  Rights  to  keep  us  in  their 
grounds  all  night,  quieting  the  frogs,  in  order  that  their 
noble  sleep  may  not  be  disturbed.  They  kept  him  out  in 
the  unwholesome  mists  at  night,  and  ordered  him  back 
into  his  harness  in  the  day.  But  he  was  not  persuaded. 
No  !  Taken  out  of  harness  one  day  at  noon,  to  feed — if 
he  could  find  food — he  sobbed  twelve  times,  once  for 
every  stroke  of  the  bell,  and  died  on  her  bosom.' 

"  Nothing  human  could  have  held  life  in  the  boy  but 
his  determination  to  tell  all  his  wrong.  He  forced  back 
the  gathering  shadows  of  death,  as  he  rorced  his 
clenched  right  hand  to  remain  clenched,  and  to  cover  his 
wound. 

' ' '  Then,  with  that  man's  permission  and  even  with 
his  aid,  his  brother  took  her  away  ;  in  spite  of  what  I 
know  she  must  have  told  his  brother — and  what  that  is, 
will  not  be  long  unknown  to  you.  Doctor,  if  it  is  now — 
his  brother  took  her  away — for  his  pleasure  and  diver- 
sion, for  a  little  while.  I  saw  her  pass  me  on  the  road. 
When  I  took  the  tidings  home,  our  father's  heart  burst ; 
he  never  spoke  one  of  the  words  that  filled  it.  I  took  my 
young  sister  (for  I  have  another)  to  a  place  beyond  the 
reach  of  this  man,  and  where,  at  least,  she  will  never  be 
Ms  vassal.  Then,  I  tracked  the  brother  here,  and  last 
night  climbed  in — a  common  dog,  but  sword  in  hand. — 
Where  is  the  loft  window  ?    It  was  somewhere  here  ? ' 

"  The  room  was  darkening  to  his  sight  ;  the  world  was 
narrowing  around  him.  I  glanced  about  me,  and  saw 
that  the  hay  and  straw  were  trampled  over  the  floor,  as 
if  there  had  been  a  struggle. 

*'  *  She  heard  me,  and  ran  in.  I  told  her  not  to  come 
near  us  till  he  was  dead.  He  came  in  and  first  tossed 
me  some  pieces  of  money  ;  then  struck  at  me  with  a 
whip.  But  I,  though  a  common  dog,  so  struck  at  him  as 
to  make  him  draw.  Let  him  break  into  as  many  pieces 
as  he  will,  the  sword  that  he  stained  with  my  common 
blood  ;  he  drew  to  defend  himself — thrust  at  me  with  all 
his  skill  for  his  life.' 

"  My  glance  had  fallen,  but  a  few  moments  before,  on 
the  fragments  of  a  broken  sword,  lying  among  the  hay. 
That  weapon  was  a  gentleman's.  In  another  place,  lay 
an  old  sword  that  seemed  to  have  been  a  soldier's. 

"  '  Now,  lift  me  up.  Doctor  ;  lift  me  up.  Where  is 
he?' 

"  '  He  is  not  here,'  I  said,  supporting  the  boy,  and 
thinking  that  he  referred  to  the  brother. 

"  *  He  I  Proud  as  these  nobles  are,  he  is  afraid  to  see 
me.  Where  is  the  man  who  was  here  ?  Turn  my  face 
to  him.' 

"I  did  so,  raising  the  boy's  head  against  my  knee. 
But,  invested  for  the  moment  with  extraordinary  power, 
he  raised  himself  completely  :  obliging  me  to  rise  too, 
or  I  could  not  have  still  supported  him. 

"  '  Marquis,'  said  the  boy,  turned  to  him  with  his  eyes 
opened  wide  and  his  right  hand  raised,  *  in  the  days 
when  all  these  things  are  to  be  answered  for,  I  summon 
you,  and  yours  to  the  last  of  your  bad  race,  to  answer  for 
them.  I  mark  this  cross  of  blood  upon  you,  as  a  sign 
that  I  do  it.  In  the  days  when  all  these  things  are  to 
be  answered  for,  I  summon  your  brother,  the  worst  of 
the  bad  race,  to  answer  for  them  separately.  I  mark 
this  cross  of  blood  upon  him,  as  a  sign  that  I  do  it.' 

"  Twice,  he  put  his  hand  to  the  wound  in  his  breast, 
and  with  his  forefinger  drew  a  cross  in  the  air.  He 


A  TALE  OF 

stood  for  an  instant  witli  the  finger  yet  raised,  and,  as 
it  dropped,  he  dropped  with  it,  and  I  laid  him  down 
dead  *  *  *  * 

"  When  I  returned  to  the  bedside  of  the  young  woman, 
I  found  her  raving  in  precisely  the  same  order  and  con- 
tinuity. I  knew  that  this  might  last  for  many  hours, 
and  that  it  would  probably  end  in  the  silence  of  the 
grave. 

"  I  repeated  the  medicines  I  had  given  her,  and  I  sat 
at  the  side  of  the  bed  until  the  night  was  far  advanced. 
She  never  abated  the  piercing  quality  of  her  shrieks, 
never  stumbled  in  the  distinctness  or  the  order  of  her 
words.  They  were  always  '  My  husband,  my  father, 
and  my  brother  !  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven, 
eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven,  twelve.  Hush!' 

"  This  lasted  twenty-six  hours  from  the  time  when  I 
first  saw  her.  I  had  come  and  gone  twice,  and  was 
again  sitting  by  her,  when  she  began  to  falter.  I  did 
what  little  could  be  done  to  assist  that  opportunity,  and 
by-and-by  she  sank  into  a  lethargy,  and  lay  like  the 
dead. 

"  It  was  as  if  the  wind  and  rain  had  lulled  at  last, 
after  a  long  and  fearful  storm.  I  released  her  arms, 
and  called  the  woman  to  assist  me  to  compose  her  figure 
and  the  dress  she  had  torn.  It  was  then  that  I  knew 
her  condition  to  be  that  of  one  in  whom  the  first  expec- 
tations of  being  a  mother  have  arisen  ;  and  it  was  then 
that  I  lost  the  little  hope  I  had  had  of  her. 

•"Is  she  dead  ?'  asked  the  Marquis,  whom  I  will  still 
describe  as  the  elder  brother,  coming  booted  into  the 
room  from  his  horse. 

"  *  Not  dead,'  said  I  ;  *  but  like  to  die.' 

"  *  What  strength  there  is  in  these  common  bodies  ! ' 
he  said,  looking  down  at  her  with  some  curiosity. 

'* '  There  is  prodigious  strength,'  I  answered  him,  *  in 
sorrow  and  despair.' 

"  He  first  laughed  at  my  words,  and  then  frowned  at 
them.  He  moved  a  chair  with  his  foot  near  to  mine, 
ordered  the  woman  away,  and  said  in  a  subdued  voice, 

"  '  Doctor,  finding  my  brother  in  this  difficulty  with 
these  hinds,  I  recommended  that  your  aid  should  be  in- 
vited. Your  reputation  is  high,  and,  as  a  young  man 
with  your  fortune  to  make,  you  are  probably  mindful  of 
your  interest.  The  things  that  you  see  here,  are  things 
to  be  seen,  and  not  spoken  of.' 

"  I  listened  to  the  patient's  breathing,  and  avoided 
answering. 

"  '  Do  you  honour  me  with  your  attention,  Doctor  ? ' 

"  '  Monsieur,'  said  T,  *  in  my  profession,  the  communi- 
cations of  patients  are  always  received  in  confidence.'  I 
was  guarded  in  my  answer,  for  I  was  troubled  in  my 
mind  by  what  I  had  heard  and  seen. 

"  Her  breathing  was  so  difficult  to  trace,  that  I  care- 
fully tried  the  pulse  and  the  heart.  There  was  life,  and 
no  more.  Looking  round  as  I  resumed  my  seat,  I  found 
both  the  brothers  intent  upon  me.  ***** 

"  I  write  with  so  much  difficulty,  the  cold  is  so  severe, 
I  am  so  fearful  of  being  detected  and  consigned  to  an 
Underground  cell  and  total  darkness,  that  I  roust  abridge 
this  narrative.  There  is  no  confusion  or  failure  in  my 
memory  ;  it  can  recal,  and  could  detail,  every  word  that 
was  ever  spoken  between  me  and  those  brothers. 

"  She  lingered  for  a  week.  Towards  the  last,  I  could 
understand  some  few  syllables  that  she  said  to  me,  by 
placing  my  ear  close  to  her  lips.  She  asked  me  where 
she  was,  and  I  told  her ;  who  I  was,  and  I  told  her.  It 
was  in  vain  that  I  asked  her  for  her  family  name.  She 
faintly  shook  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  kept  her 
secret  as  the  boy  had  done. 

"  I  had  no  opportunity  of  asking  her  any  question, 
until  I  had  told  the  brothers  she  was  sinking  fast,  and 
could  not  live  another  day.  Until  then,  though  no  one 
was  ever  presented  to  her  consciousness  save  the  woman 
and  myself,  one  or  other  of  them  had  always  jealously 
sat  behind  the  curtain  at  the  head  of  the  bed  when  I  was 
there.  But  when  it  came  to  that,  they  seemed  careless 
what  communication  I  might  hold  with  her  ;  as  if — the 
thought  passed  through  my  mind — I  were  dying  too. 

"  I  always  observed  that  their  pride  bitterly  resented 
the  younger  brother's  (as  I  call  him)  having  crossed 
swords  with  a  peasant,  and  that  peasant  a  boy.  The 
only  consideration  that  appeared  really  to  affect  the 


TWO  CITIES,  427 

mind  of  either  of  them,  was  the  consideration  that  this 
was  highly  degrading  to  the  family,  and  was  ridiculous. 
As  often  as  I  caught  the  younger  brother's  eyes,  their 
expression  reminded  me  that  he  disliked  me  deeply,  for 
knowing  what  I  knew  from  the  boy.  He  was  smoother 
and  more  polite  to  me  than  the  elder  ;  but  I  saw  this. 
I  also  saw  that  I  was  an  encumbrance  in  the  mind  of  the 
elder  too. 

"My  patient  died,  two  hours  before  midnight — at  a 
time,  by  my  watch,  answering  almost  to  the  minute 
when  I  had  first  seen  her.  I  was  alone  with  her,  when 
her  forlorn  young  head  drooped  gently  on  one  side,  and 
all  her  earthly  wrongs  and  sorrows  ended. 

"  The  brothers  were  waiting  in  a  room  down-stairs. 
Impatient  to  ride  away.  I  had  heard  them,  alone  at  the 
bedside,  striking  their  boots  with  their  riding- whips,  and 
loitering  up  and  down. 

"  *  At  last  she  is  dead  ?'  said  the  elder,  when  I  went 

in. 

"  '  She  is  dead,'  said  I. 

"  '  I  congratulate  you,  my  brother,'  were  his  words  as 
he  turned  round. 

"  He  had  before  offered  me  money,  which  I  had  post- 
poned taking.  He  now  gave  me  a  rouleau  of  gold.  I 
took  it  from  his  hand,  but  laid  it  on  the  table  I  had 
considered  the  question,  and  had  resolved  to  accept 
nothing. 

"  '  Pray  excuse  me,'  said  I.  *  Under  the  circumstan- 
ces, no.' 

"  They  exchanged  looks,  but  bent  their  heads  to  me 
as  I  bent  mine  to  them,  and  we  parted  without  another 
word  on  either  side.  *  *  *  * 

"  I  am  weary,  weary,  weary — worn  down  by  misery. 
I  cannot  read  what  I  have  written  with  this  gaunt  hand. 

"  Early  in  the  morning,  the  rouleau  of  gold  was  left 
at  my  door  in  a  little  box,  with  my  name  on  the  outside. 
From  the  first,  I  had  anxiously  considered  what  I  ought 
to  do.  I  decided,  that  day,  to  write  privately  to  the 
Minister,  stating  the  nature  of  the  two  cases  to  which  I 
had  been  summoned,  and  the  place  to  which  I  had  gone  : 
in  effect,  stating  all  the  circumstances.  I  knew  what 
Court  influence  was,  and  what  the  immunities  of  the 
Nobles  were,  and  I  expected  that  the  matt*  would  never 
be  heard  of  ;  but,  I  wished  to  relieve  my  own  mind.  I 
had  kept  the  matter  a  profound  secret,  even  from  ray 
wife  ;  and  this,  too,  I  resolved  to  state  in  my  letter.  I 
had  no  apprehension  whatever  of  my  real  danger  ;  but,  I 
was  conscious  that  there  might  be  danger  for  others,  if 
others  were  compromised  by  possessing  the  knowledge 
that  I  possessed. 

I  was  much  engaged  that  day,  and  could  not  com- 
plete my  letter  that  night.  I  rose  long  before  my  usual 
time  next  morning  to  finish  it  It  was  the  last  day  of 
the  year.  The  letter  was  l^nng  before  me,  just  completed, 
when  I  was  told  that  a  lady  waited,  who  wished  to  see 
me.  *  *  * 

"  I  am  growing  more  and  more  unequal  to  the  task  I 
have  set  myself.  It  is  so  cold,  so  dark,  my  senses  are 
so  benumbed,  and  the  gloom  upon  me  is  so  dreadful. 

"  The  lady  was  young,  engaging,  and  handsome,  but 
not  marked  for  long  life.  She  was  in  great  agitation. 
She  presented  herself  to  me,  as  the  wife  of  the  Marquis 
St.  Evremonde.  I  connected  the  title  by  which  the  boy 
h.ad  addressed  the  elder  brother,  with  the  initial  letter 
embroidered  on  the  scarf,  and,  had  do  difficulty  in  ar- 
riving at  the  conclusion  that  I  had  seen  that  nobleman 
very  lately. 

"My  memory  is  still  accurate,  but  I  cannot  write  the 
words  of  our  conversation.  I  suspect  that  I  am  watched 
more  closely  than  I  was,  and  I  know  not  at  what  times 
I  may  be  watched.  She  had  in  part  suspected,  and  in 
part  discovered,  the  main  facts  of  the  cruel  story,  of  her 
husband's  share  in  it,  and  my  being  resorted  to.  She 
did  not  know  that  the  girl  was  dead.  Her  hope  had 
been,  she  said  in  great  distress,  to  show  her,  in  secret,  a 
woman's  sympathy.  Her  hope  had  been  to  avert  the 
wrath  of  Heaven  from  a  House  that  had  long  been  hate- 
ful to  the  suffering  'many. 

"She  had  reasons  for  believing  that  there  was  a 
young  sister  living,  and  her  greatest  desire  was  to  help 
that  sister.  I  could  tell  her  nothing  but  that  there  was 
such  a  sister ;  beyond  that,  I  knew  nothing.    Her  in- 


428 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


ducement  to  come  to  me,  relying  on  my  confidence,  had 
been  the  hope  that  I  could  tell  her  the  name  and  place 
of  abode.  Whereas,  to  this  wretched  hour  I  am  igno- 
rant of  both.  *  *  *  * 

"These  scraps  of  paper  fail  me.  One  was  taken  from 
me,  with  a  warning,  yesterday.  I  must  finish  my  record 
to-day. 

"  She  was  a  good,  compassionate  lady,  and  not  happy 
in  her  marriage.  How  could  she  be  !  The  brother 
distrusted  and  disliked  her,  and  his  influence  was  all  op- 
posed to  her  ;  she  stood  in  dread  of  him,  and  in  dread 
of  her  husband  too.  When  I  handed  her  down  to  the 
door,  there  was  a  child,  a  pretty  boy  from  two  to  three 
years  old  in  her  carriage. 

"  '  For  his  sake,  Doctor,'  she  said,  pointing  to  him  in 
tears,  '  I  would  do  all  I  can  to  make  what  poor  amends 
I  can.  He  will  never  prosper  in  his  inheritance  other- 
wise. I  have  a  presentiment  that  if  no  other  innocent 
atonement  is  made  for  this,  it  will  one  day  be  required 
of  him.  What  I  have  left  to  call  my  own — it  is  little 
beyond  the  worth  of  a  few  jewels — I  will  make  it  the 
first  charge  of  his  life  to  bestow,  with  the  compassion  and 
lamenting  of  his  dead  mother,  on  this  injured  family,  if 
the  sister  can  be  discovered.' 

*'  She  kissed  the  boy,  and  said,  caressing  him,  *  It  is 
for  thine  own  dear  sake.  Thou  wilt  be  faithful,  little 
Charles  ?  '  The  child  answered  her  bravely,  '  Yes  I '  I 
kissed  her  hand,  and  she  took  him  in  her  arms,  and 
went  away  caressing  him.    I  never  saw  her  more. 

"  As  she  had  mentioned  her  husband's  name  in  the 
faith  that  I  knew  it,  I  added  no  mention  of  it  to  my 
letter.  I  sealed  my  letter,  and,  not  trusting  it  out  of 
my  own  hands,  delivered  it  myself  that  day. 

"  That  night,  the  last  night  of  the  year,  towards 
nine  o'clock,  a  man  in  a  black  dress  rang  at  my  gate,  de- 
manded to  see  me,  and  softly  followed  my  servant, 
Ernest  Defarge,  a  youth,  up-stairs.  When  my  servant 
came  into  the  room  where  I  sat  with  my  wife — 0  my 
wife,  beloved  of  my  heart !  My  fair  young  English 
wife  ! — we  saw  the  man,  who  was  supposed  to  be  at  the 
gate,  standing  silent  behind  him. 

"An  urgent  case  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  he  said.  It 
would  not  detain  me,  he  had  a  coach  in  waiting. 

"  It  brought  me  here,  it  brought  me  to  my  grave. 
When  I  was  clear  of  the  house,  a  black  muffler  was 
drawn  tightly  over  my  mouth  from  behind,  and  my 
arms  were  pinioned.  The  two  brothers  crossed  the  road 
from  a  dark  corner,  and  identified  me  with  a  single 
gesture.  The  Marquis  took  from  his  pocket  a  letter  I 
had  written,  showed  it  me,  burnt  it  in  the  light  of  a 
lantern  that  was  held,  and  extinguished  the  ashes  with 
his  foot.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  I  was  brought  here, 
I  was  brought  to  my  living  grave. 

"  If  it  had  pleased  God  to  put  it  in  the  hard  heart  of 
either  of  the  brothers,  in  all  these  frightful  years,  to 
grant  me  any  tidings  of  my  dearest  wife — so  much  as  to  let 
me  know  by  a  word  whether  alive  or  dead — I  might  have 
thought  that  He  bad  not  quite  abandoned  them.  But,  now 
I  believe  that  the  mark  of  the  red  cross  is  fatal  to  them, 
and  that  they  have  no  part  in  His  mercies.  And  them 
and  their  decendants,  to  the  last  of  their  race,  I  Alexan- 
dre Manette,  unhappy  prisoner,  do  this  last  night  of  the 
year  1767,  in  my  unbearable  agony,  denounce  to  the 
times  when  all  these  things  shall  be  answered  for.  I 
denounce  them  to  Heaven  and  to  earth." 

A  terrible  sound  arose  when  the  reading  of  this  docu- 
ment was  done.  A  sound  of  craving  and  eagerness  that 
had  nothing  articulate  in  it  but  blood.  The  narrative 
called  up  the  most  revengeful  passions  of  the  time,  and 
there  was  not  a  head  in  the  nation  but  must  have 
dropped  before  it. 

Little  need,  in  presence  of  that  tribunal  and  that 
auditory,  to  show  how  the  Defarges  had  not  made  the 
paper  public,  with  the  other  captured  Bastille  memo- 
rials borne  in  procession,  and  had  kept  it,  biding  their 
time.  Little  need  to  show  that  this  detested  family 
name  had  been  long  anathematised  by  Saint  Antoino, 
and  was  wrought  into  the  fatal  register.  The  man 
never  trod  ground,  whose  virtues  and  services  would 
have  sustained  him  in  that  place  that  day,  against  such 
denunciation. 


And  all  the  worse  for  the  doomed  man,  that  the  denoun- 
cer was  a  well-known  citizen,  his  own  attached  friend, 
the  father  of  his  wife.  One  of  the  frenzied  aspirations 
of  the  populace  was,  for  imitations  of  the  questionable 
public  virtues  of  antiquity,  and  for  sacrifices  and  self- 
immolations  on  the  people's  altar.  Therefore,  when  the 
President  said  (else  had  his  own  head  quivered  on  his 
shoulders)  that  the  good  physician  of  the  Republic  would 
deserve  better  still  of  the  Republic  by  rooting  out  an 
obnoxious  family  of  Aristocrats,  and  would  doubtless 
feel  a  sacred  glow  and  joy  in  making  his  daughter 
a  widow  and  her  child  an  orphan,  there  was  wild 
excitement,  patriotic  fervour,  not  a  touch  of  human 
sympathy. 

"  Much  influence  around  him,  has  that  Doctor  ?  "  mur- 
mured Madame  Defarge,  smiling  to  The  Vengeance. 
"  Save  him  now,  my  Doctor,  save  him  !  " 

At  every  juryman's  vote,  there  was  a  roar.  Another 
and  another.    Roar  and  roar. 

Unanimously  voted.  At  heart  and  by  descent  an  Aris- 
tocrat, an  enemy  of  the  Republic,  a  notorious  oppressor 
of  the  People.  Back  to  the  Conciergerie,  and  Death 
within  four-and-twenty  hours ! 


CHAPTER  XI. 
Dusk. 

The  wretched  wife  of  the  innocent  man  thus  doomed 
to  die,  fell  under  the  sentence,  as  if  she  had  been  mor- 
tally stricken.  But,  she  uttered  no  sound  ;  and  so  strong 
was  the  voice  within  her,  representing  that  it  was  she  of 
all  the  world  who  must  uphold  him  in  his  misery  and 
not  augment  it,  that  it  quickly  raised  her,  even  from 
that  shock. 

The  judges  having  to  take  part  in  a  public  demonstra- 
tion out  of  doors  the  tribunal  adjourned.  The  quick 
noise  and  movement  of  the  court's  emptying  itself  by 
many  passages  had  not  ceased,  when  Lucie  stood  stretch- 
ing out  her  arms  towards  her  husband,  with  nothing  in 
her  face  but  love  and  consolation. 

*'  If  I  might  touch  him  !  If  I  might  embrace  him 
once  !  O,  good  citizens,  if  you  would  have  so  much 
compassion  for  us  !  " 

There  was  but  a  gaoler  left,  along  with  two  of  the 
four  men  who  had  taken  him  last  night,  and  Barsad. 
The  people  had  all  poured  out  to  the  show  in  the  streets. 
Barsad  proposed  to  the  rest,  "  Let  her  embrace  him, 
then  ;  it  is  but  a  moment."  It  was  silently  acquiesced 
in,  and  they  passed  her  over  the  seats  in  the  hall  to  a 
raised  place,  where  he,  by  leaning  over  the  dock,  could 
fold  her  in  his  arms. 

"Farewell,  dear  darling  of  my  soul.  My  parting 
blessing  on  my  love.  We  shall  meet  again,  where  the 
weary  are  at  rest  ! " 

They  were  her  husband's  words,  as  he  held  her  to  his 
bosom. 

"  I  can  bear  it,  dear  Charles.  I  am  supported  from 
above  ;  don't  suffer  for  me.  A  parting  blessing  for  our 
child." 

"  I  send  it  to  her  by  you.  I  kiss  her  by  you.  I  say 
farewell  to  her  by  you." 

"  My  husband.  No!  A  moment!"  He  was  tearing 
himseif  apart  from  her.  "  We  shall  not  be  separated 
long.  I  feel  that  this  will  break  my  heart  by-and-by  ; 
but  I  will  do  my  duty  while  I  can,  and  when  I  leave 
her,  God  will  raise  up  friends  for  her,  as  He  did  for  me." 

Her  father  had  followed  her,  and  would  have  fallen 
on  his  knees  to  both  of  them,  but  that  Darnay  put  out  a 
hand  and  seized  him,  crying  : 

"  No,  no  !  What  have  you  done,  what  have  you 
done,  that  you  should  kneel  to  us  !  We  know  now, 
what  a  struggle  you  made  of  old.  We  know  now,  what 
you  underwent  when  you  suspected  my  descent,  and 
when  you  knew  it.  We  know  now,  the  natural  antipa- 
thy you  strove  against,  and  conquered,  for  her  dear  sake. 
We  thank  you  with  all  our  hearts,  and  all  our  love  and 
duty.    Heaven  be  with  you  !  " 

Her  father's  only  answer  was  to  draw  his  hands 
through  his  white  hair,  and  wring  them  with  a  shriek 
of  anguish. 


A  TALE  OF 

"  It  could  not  be  otherwise,"  said  tlie  prisoner.  "  All 
tilings  have  worked  together  as  they  have  fallen  out. 
It  was  the  always  vain  endeavour  to  discharge  my  poor 
mother's  trust,  that  first  brought  my  fatal  presence  near 
you.  Good  could  never  come  of  such  evil,  a  happier 
end  was  not  in  nature  to  so  unhappy  a  beginning.  Be 
comforted,  and  forgive  me.    Heaven  bless  you  I  " 

As  he  was  drawn  away,  his  wife  released  him,  and 
stood  looking  after  him  with  her  hands  touching  one 
another  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  and  with  a  radiant 
look  upon  her  face,  in  which  there  was  even  a  comfort- 
ing smile.  As  he  went  out  at  the  prisoners'  door,  she 
turned,  laid  her  head  lovingly  on  her  father's  breast, 
tried  to  speak  to  him,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

Then,  issuing  from  the  obscure  corner  from  which  he 
had  never  moved,  Sydney  Carton  came  and  took  her  up. 
Only  her  father  and  Mr.  Lorry  were  with  her.  His  arm 
trembled  as  it  raised  her,  and  supported  her  head.  Yet, 
there  was  an  air  about  him  that  was  not  all  of  pity — that 
had  a  flush  of  pride  in  it. 

"  Shall  I  take  her  to  a  coach  ?  I  shall  never  feel  her 
weight  ?  " 

He  carried  her  lightly  to  the  door,  and  laid  her  ten- 
derly down  in  a  coach.  Her  father  and  their  old  friend 
got  into  it,  and  he  took  his  seat  beside  the  driver. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  gateway  where  he  had 
paused  in  the  dark  not  many  hours  before,  to  picture  to 
himself  on  which  of  the  rough  stones  of  the  street  her 
feet  had  trodden,  he  lifted  her  again,  and  carried  her 
up  the  staircase  to  their  rooms.  There,  he  laid  her 
down  on  a  coach,  where  her  child  and  Miss  Pross  wept 
over  her. 

"Don't  recal  her  to  herself,"  he  said,  softly,  to  the 
latter,  "  she  is  better  so  ;  don't  revive  her  to  conscious- 
ness, while  she  only  faints." 

"Oh,  Carton,  Carton,  dear  Carton  ! "  cried  little  Lucie, 
springing  up  and  throwing  her  arms  passionately  round 
him,  in  a  burst  of  grief.  "Now  that  you  have  come,  I 
think  you  will  do  something  to  help  mamma,  something 
to  save  papa  !  0,  look  at  her,  dear  Carton  !  Can  you, 
of  all  the  people  who  love  her,  bear  to  see  her  so  ?  " 

He  bent  over  the  child,  and  laid  her  blooming  cheek 
against  his  face.  He  put  her  gently  from  him,  and 
looked  at  her  unconscious  mother. 

"Before  I  go,"  he  said,  and  paused. — "I  may  kiss 
her?" 

It  was  remembered  afterwards  that  when  he  bent 
down  and  touched  her  face  with  his  lips,  he  murmured 
some  words.  The  child,  who  was  nearest  to  him,  told 
them  afterwards,  and  told  her  grandchildren  when  she 
was  a  handsome  old  lady,  that  she  heard  him  say,  "A 
life  you  love." 

When  he  had  gone  out  into  the  next  room,  he  turned 
suddenly  on  Mr.  Lorry  and  her  father,  who  were  follow- 
ing, and  said  to  the  latter  : 

"  You  had  great  influence  but  yesterday.  Doctor  Man- 
ette  ;  let  it,  at  least,  be  tried.  These  judges,  and  all  the 
men  in  power,  are  very  friendly  to  you,  and  very  recog- 
nisant  of  your  services  ;  are  they  not  ?  " 

"  Nothing  connected  with  Charles  was  concealed  from 
me.  I  had  the  strongest  assurances  that  I  should  save 
him  ;  and  I  did."  He  returned  the  answer  in  great  trou- 
ble, and  very  slowly. 

"Try  them  again.  The  hours  between  this  and  to- 
morrow afternoon  are  few  and  short,  but  try." 

"  I  intend  to  try.    I  will  not  rest  a  moment." 

"That's  well.  I  have  known  such  energy  as  yours  do 
great  things  before  now — though  never,"  he  added,  with 
a  smile  and  a  sigh  together,  "  such  great  things  as  this. 
But  try  !  Of  little  worth  as  life  is  when  we  misuse  it, 
it  is  worth  that  effort.  It  would  cost  nothing  to  lay 
down  if  it  were  not." 

"I  will  go,"  said  Doctor  Manette,  "to  the  Prosecutor 
and  the  President  straight,  and  I  will  go  to  others  whom 
it  is  better  not  to  name.  I  will  write  too,  and — But 
stay  1  There  is  a  celebration  in  the  streets,  and  no  one 
will  be  accessible  until  dark." 

"  That's  true.  Well  I  It  is  a  forlorn  hope  at  the  best, 
and  not  much  the  forlorner  for  being  delayed  till  dark. 
I  should  like  to  know  how  you  .speed  ;  though,  mind  !  I 
expect  nothing  I  When  are  you  likely  to  have  seen 
these  dread  powers.  Doctor  Manette  ?  " 


TWO  CITIES.  429 

"  Immediately  after  dark,  I  should  hope.  Within  an 
hour  or  two  from  this." 

"It  will  be  dark  soon  after  four.  Let  us  stretch  the 
hour  or  two.  If  I  go  to  Mr.  Lorry's  at  nine,  shall  I  hear 
what  you  have  done,  either  from  our  friend  or  from 
vourself  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  May  you  prosper  ! " 

Mr.  Lorry  folio v/ed  Sydney  to  the  outer  door,  and,  touch- 
ing him  on  the  shoulder  as  he  was  going  away,  caused 
him  to  turn. 

"I  have  no  hope,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a  low  and  sor- 
rowful whisper. 
"  Nor  have  I." 

"  If  any  one  of  these  men,  or  all  of  these  men,  were 
disposed  to  spare  him — which  is  a  large  supposition  ;  for 
what  is  his  life,  or  any  man's  to  them  ! — I  doubt  if  they 
durst  spare  him  after  the  demonstration  in  the  court." 

"  And  so  do  I.  I  heard  the  fall  of  the  axe  in  that 
sound." 

Mr.  Lorry  leaned  his  arm  upon  the  door-post,  and 
bowed  his  face  upon  it. 

"Don't  despond,"  said  Carton,  very  gently;  "don't 
grieve.  I  encouraged  Doctor  Manette  in  this  idea,  be- 
cause I  felt  that  it  might  one  day  be  consolatory  to  her. 
Otherwise,  she  might  think  '  his  life  was  wantonly 
thrown  away  or  wasted,'  and  that  might  trouble  her." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  returned  Mr.  Lorry,  drying  his  eyes, 
' '  you  are  righ  t.  But  he  will  perish  ;  there  is  no  real 
hope." 

"  Yes.  He  will  perish  ;  there  is  no  real  hope,"  echoed 
Carton.    And  walked  with  a  settled  step,  down  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Darkness. 

Sydney  Carton  paused  in  the  street,  not  quite  de- 
cided where  to  go.  "At  Tellson's  banking-house  at 
nine,"  he  said,  with  amusing  face.  "Shall  I  do  well, 
in  the  mean  time,  to  show  myself?  I  think  so.  It  is 
best  that  these  people  should  know  there  is  such  a  man 
as  I  here  ;  it  is  a  sound  precaution,  and  may  be  a  neces- 
sary preparation.  But  care,  care,  care  !  Let  me  think 
it  out  ! " 

Checking  his  steps  which  had  begun  to  tend  towards 
an  object,  he  took  a  turn  or  two  in  the  already  darken- 
ing street,  and  traced  the  thought  in  his  mind  to  its 
possible  consequences.  His  first  impression  was  con- 
firmed. "It  is  best,"  he  said,  finally  resolved,  "that 
these  people  should  know  there  is  such  a  man  as  I  here." 
And  he  turned  his  face  towards  Saint  Antoine. 

Defarge  had  described  himself,  that  day,  as  the  keeper 
of  a  wine-shop  in  the  Saint  Antoine  suburb.  It  was  not 
diflBcult  for  one  who  knew  the  city  well,  to  find  his  house 
without  asking  any  question.  Having  ascertained  its 
situation.  Carton  came  out  of  those  closer  streets  again, 
and  dined  at  a  place  of  refreshment  and  fell  sound  asleep 
after  dinner.  For  the  first  time  in  many  years,  he  had 
no  strong  drink.  Since  last  night  he  had*  taken  nothing 
but  a  little  light  wine,  and  last  night  he  had  dropped  the 
brandy  slowly  down  on  Mr.  Lorry's  hearth  like  a  man 
who  had  done  with  it. 

It  was  as  late  as  seven  o'clock  when  he  awoke  re- 
freshed, and  went  out  into  the  streets  again.  As  he 
passed  along  towards  Saint  Antoine,  he  stopped  at  a 
shop-wdndow  where  there  was  a  mirror,  and  slightly 
altered  the  disordered  arrangement  of  his  loose  cravat, 
and  his  coat-collar,  and  his  wild  hair.  This  done,  he 
went  on  direct  to  Defarge's,  and  went  in. 

Tliere  happened  to  be  no  customer  in  the  shop  but 
Jacques  Three,  of  the  restless  fingers  and  the  croaking 
voice.  This  man  whom  he  had  seen  upon  the  Jury, 
stood  drinking  at  the  little  counter,  in  conversation  with 
the  Defarges,  man  and  wife.  The  Vengeance  assisted 
in  the  conversation,  like  a  regular  member  of  the  estab- 
lishment. 

As  Carton  walked  in,  took  his  seat,  and  asked  (in  very 
indifferent  French)  for  a  small  measure  of  wine,  Madame 
Defarge  cast  a  careless  glance  at  him,  and  then  a  keener. 


430 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


and  tlien  a  keener,  and  then  advanced  to  liim  herself, 
and  asked  him  what  it  was  he  had  ordered. 

He  repeated  what  he  had  already  said. 

"English?"  asked  Madame  Defarge,  inquisitively 
raising  her  dark  eyebrows. 

After  looking  at  her,  as  if  the  sound  of  even  a  single 
French  word  were  slow  to  express  itself  to  him,  he  an- 
swered, in  his  former  strong  foreign  accent.  "Yes, 
madame,  yes.    I  am  English  ! " 

Madame  Defarge  returned  to  her  counter  to  get  the 
wine,  and,  as  he  took  up  a  Jacobin  journal  and  feigned 
to  pore  over  it  puzzling  out  its  meaning,  he  heard  her 
say,  "  I  swear  to  you,  like  Evremonde  !  " 

Defarge  brought  him  the  wine,  and  gave  him  Good 
Evening. 

How?" 

"Good  evening." 

"  Oh  !  Good  evening,  citizen,"  filling  his  glass.  "  Ah  I 
and  good  wine.    I  drink  to  the  Republic." 

Defarge  went  to  the  counter,  and  said,  "Certainly,  a 
little  like."  Madame  sternly  retorted,  "I  tell  you  a 
good  deal  like."  Jacques  Three  pacifically  remarked, 
"He  is  so  much  in  your  mind,  see  you,  madame."  The 
amiable  Vengeance  added,  with  a  laugh,  "  Yes,  my  faith  ! 
And  you  are  looking  forward  with  so  much  pleasure  to 
seeing  him  once  more  to-morrow  !." 

Carton  followed  the  lines  and  words  of  his  paper,  with 
a  slow  forefinger,  and  with  a  studious  and  absorbed  face. 
They  were  all  leaning  their  arms  on  the  counter  close 
together,  speaking  low.  After  a  silence  of  a  few  mo- 
ments, during  which  they  all  looked  towards  him  with- 
out disturbing  his  outward  attention  from  the  Jacobin 
editor,  they  resumed  their  conversation. 

"It  is  true  what  madame  says,"  observed  Jacques 
Three.  "Why  stop?  There  is  great  force  in  that. 
Why  stop  ?  " 

"Well,  well,"  reasoned  Defarge,  "but  one  must  stop 
somewhere.    After  all,  the  question  is  still  where  ?  " 

"  At  extermination,"  said  madame. 

"Magnificent!"  croaked  Jacques  Three.  The  Ven- 
geance, also,  highly  approved. 

"Extermination  is  good  doctrine,  my  wife,"  said  De- 
farge, rather  troubled  ;  "in  general,  I  say  nothing  against 
it.  But  this  Doctor  has  suffered  much  ;  you  have  seen 
him  to-day  ;  you  have  observed  his  face  when  the  paper 
was  read." 

"  I  have  observed  his  face  !"  repeated  madame  con- 
temptuously and  angrily.  "Yes,  I  have  observed  his 
face.  I  have  observed  his  face  to  be  not  the  face  of  a 
true  friend  of  the  Republic.  Let  him  take  care  of  his 
face  ! " 

"And  you  have  observed,  my  wife,"  said  Defarge,  in 
a  deprecatory  manner,  "  the  anguish  of  his  daughter, 
which  must  be  dreadful  anguish  to  him  !  " 

"  I  have  observed  his  daughter,"  repeated  madame  ; 
"  yes,  I  have  observed  his  daughter,  more  times  than 
one.  I  have  observed  her  to-day,  and  I  have  observed 
her  other  days.  I  have  observed  her  in  the  court,  and  I 
have  observed  her  in  the  street  by  the  prison.  Let  me 
but  lift  my  finger—  !  "  She  seemed  to  raise  it  (the  lis- 
tener's eyes  were  ahvays  on  his  paper),  and  to  let  it  fall 
with  a  rattle  on  the  ledge  before  her,  as  if  the  axe  had 
dropped. 

"  The  citizeness  is  superb  !  "  croaked  the  Juryman. 
* '  She  is  an  Angel ! "  said  The  Vengeance,  and  em- 
braced her. 

"As  to  thee,"  pursued  madame,  implacably,  address- 
ing her  husband,  "  if  it  depended  on  thee — which,  hap- 
pily, it  does  not — thou  wouldst  rescue  this  man  even 
now." 

*'  No  I "  protested  Defarge.  "  Not  if  to  lift  this  glass 
would  do  it?  But  I  would  leave  the  matter  there.  I 
say,  stop  there." 

"  See  you  then,  Jacques,"  said  Madame  Defarge, 
wrathfully  ;  "and  see  you,  too,  my  little  Vengeance  ; 
see  you  both  I  Listen  1  For  other  crimes  as  tyrants  and 
oppressors,  I  have  this  race  a  long  time  on  my  register, 
doomed  to  destruction  and  extermination.  Ask  my  hus- 
band is  that  so. " 

"It  is  so,"  assented  Defarge,  without  being  asked. 

"  In  the  beginning  of  the  great  days,  when  the  Bas- 
tille falls,  he  finds  this  paper  of  to-day,  and  he  brings  it 


home,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  this  place  is 
clear  and  shut,  we  read  it,  here  on  this  spot,  by  the 
light  of  this  lamp.    Ask  him,  is  that  so." 
"  It  is  so,"  assented  Defarge. 

"  That  night,  I  tell  him,  when  the  paper  is  read 
through,  and  the  lamp  is  burnt  out,  and  the  day  is  gleam- 
ing in  above  those  shutters  and  between  those  iron  bars, 
that  I  have  now  a  secret  to  communicate.  Ask  him,  is 
that  so." 

"  It  is  so,"  assented  Defarge  again. 

"  I  communicate  to  him  that  secret.  I  smite  this 
bosom  with  these  two  hands  as  I  smite  it  now,  and  I  tell 
him,  *  Defarge,  I  was  brought  up  among  the  fishermea 
of  the  sea-shore,  and  that  peasant- family  so  injured  by 
the  two  Evremonde  brothers,  as  that  Bastille  paper  de- 
scribes, is  my  family.  Defarge,  that  sister  of  the  mor- 
tally wounded  boy  upon  the  ground  was  my  sister,  that 
husband  was  my  sister's  husband,  that  unborn  child  was 
their  child,  that  brother  was  my  brother,  that  father 
was  my  father,  those  dead  are  my  dead,  and  that  sum- 
mons to  answer  for  those  things  descends  to  me  1 '  Ask 
him,  is  that  so." 

"  It  is  so,"  assented  Defarge  once  more. 

"Then  tell  Wind  and  Fire  where  to  stop,"  returned 
madame  ;  "but  don't  tell  me." 

Both  her  hearers  derived  a  horrible  enjoyment  from 
the  deadly  nature  of  her  wrath — the  listener  could  feel 
how  white  she  was,  without  seeing  her — and  both  highly 
commended  it.  Defarge,  a  weak  minority,  interposed  a 
few  words  for  the  memory  of  the  compassionate  wife  of 
the  Marquis  ;  but,  only  elicited  from  his  own  wife  a  rep- 
etition of  her  last  reply.  "  Tell  the  Wind  and  the  Fire 
where  to  stop  ;  not  me  !  " 

Customers  entered,  and  the  group  was  broken  up. 
The  English  customer  paid  for  what  he  had  had,  per- 
plexedly counted  his  change,  and  asked,  as  a  stranger, 
to  be  directed  towards  the  National  Palace.  Madame 
Defarge  took  him  to  the  door,  and  put  her  arm  on  his, 
in  pointing  out  the  road.  The  English  customer  was 
not  without  his  reflections  then,  that  it  might  be  a  good 
deed  to  seize  that  arm,  lift  it,  and  strike  under  it  sharp 
and  deep. 

But,  he  went  his  way,  and  was  soon  swallowed  up  in 
the  shadow  of  the  prison  wall.  At  the  appointed  hour, 
he  emerged  from  it  to  present  himself  in  Mr.  Lorry's 
room  again,  where  he  found  the  old  gentleman  walking 
to  and  fro  in  restless  anxiety.  He  said  he  had  been 
with  Lucie  until  just  now,  and  had  only  left  for  a  few 
minutes,  to  come  and  keep  his  appointment.  Her  father 
had  not  been  seen  since  he  quitted  the  banking-house 
towards  four  o'clock.  She  had  some  faint  hopes  that  his 
meditation  might  save  Charles,  but  they  were  very 
slight.  He  had  been  more  than  five  hours  gone  ;  where 
could  he  be  ? 

Mr.  Lorry  waited  until  ten  ;  but  Doctor  Manette  not 
returning,  and  he  being  unwilling  to  leave  Lucie  any 
longer,  it  was  arranged  that  he  should  go  back  to  her, 
and  come  to  the  banking-house  again  at  midnight.  In 
the  meanwhile,  Carton  would  wait  alone  by  the  fire  for 
the  Doctor. 

He  waited  and  waited,  and  the  clock  struck  twelve; 
but.  Doctor  Manette  did  not  come  back.  Mr.  Lorry  re- 
turned, and  found  no  tidings  of  him,  and  brought  none. 
Where  could  he  be  ? 

They  were  discussing  this  question,  and  were  almost 
building  up  some  weak  structure  of  hope  on  his  pro- 
longed absence,  when  they  heard  him  on  the  stairs.  The 
instant  he  entered  the  room,  it  was  plain  that  all  was 
lost. 

Whether  he  had  really  been  to  any  one,  or  whether  he 
had  been  all  that  time  traversing  the  streets,  was  never 
known.  As  he  stood  staring  at  them,  they  asked  him  no 
question,  for  his  face  told  them  everything. 

"I  cannot  find  it,"  said  he,  "and  I  must  have  it. 
Where  is  it?" 

His  head  and  throat  were  bare,  and,  as  he  spoke  with 
a  helpless  look  straying  all  around,  he  took  his  coat  off, 
and  let  it  drop  on  the  floor. 

"Where  is  my  bench  ?  I  have  been  looking  every- 
where for  my  bench,  and  I  can't  find  it,  Wliat  have 
they  done  with  my  work  ?  Time  presses  :  I  must  finish 
those  shoes." 


s  ^ 

«  o 


OF  THE 
UNIVESSIiy  Ot  ILLINOIS 


A  TALE  OF 

Tliey  looked  at  one  another,  and  their  hearts  died  with- 
in them. 

"  Come,  come  !"  said  he,  in  a  whimpering  miserable 
way  ;  "  let  me  get  to  work.    Give  me  my  work." 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  tore  his  hair,  and  beat  his 
feet  upon  che  ground,  like  a  distracted  child. 

"Don't  torture  a  poor  forlorn  wretch,"  he  implored 
them,  with  a  dreadful  cry;  "but  give  me  my  work! 
What  is  to  become  of  us,  if  those  shoes  are  not  done  to- 
night ?  " 

Lost,  utterly  lost  ! 

It  was  so  clearly  beyond  hope,  to  reason  with  him,  or 
try  to  restore  him,  that — as  if  by  agreement — they  each 
put  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  soothed  him  to  sit 
down  before  the  fire,  with  a  promise  that  he  should  have 
his  work  presently.  He  sank  into  the  chair,  and  brooded 
over  the  embers,  and  shed  tears.  As  if  all  that  had  hap- 
pened since  the  garret  time  were  a  momentary  fancy,  or 
a  dream,  Mr.  Lorry  saw  him  shrink  into  the  exact  figure 
that  Defarge  had  had  in  keeping. 

Affected  and  impressed  with  terror  as  they  both  were, 
by  this  spectacle  of  ruin,  it  was  not  a  time  to  yield  to 
such  emotions.  His  lonely  daughter,  bereft  of  her  final 
hope  and  reliance,  appealed  to  them  both,  too  strongly. 
Again,  as  if  by  agreement,  they  looked  at  one  another 
with  one  meaning  in  their  faces.  Carton  was  the  first  to 
speak 

"  The  last  chance  is  gone  :  it  was  not  much.  Yes  ;  he 
had  better  be  taken  to  her.  But,  before  you  go,  will 
you,  for  a  moment,  steadily  attend  to  me  ?  Don't  ask 
me  why  I  make  the  stipulations  I  am  going  to  make,  and 
exact  the  promise  I  am  going  to  exact ;  I  have  a  reason 
— a  good  one." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  answered  Mr.  Lorry.  "Say 
on." 

The  figure  in  the  chair  between  them,  was  all  the  time 
monotonously  rocking  itself  to  and  fro,  and  moaning. 
They  spoke  in  such  a  tone  as  they  would  have  used  if 
they  had  been  watching  by  a  sick-bed  in  the  night. 

Carton  stooped  to  pick  up  the  coat,  which  lay  almost 
entangling  his  feet.  As  he  did  so,  a  small  case  in  which 
the  Doctor  was  accustomed  to  carry  the  list  of  his  day's 
duties,  fell  lightly  on  the  floor.  Carton  took  it  up,  and 
there  was  a  folded  paper  in  it.  "  We  should  look  at 
this  ? "  he  said.  Mr.  Lorry  nodded  his  consent.  He 
opened  it,  and  exclaimed,  "  Thank  God  !" 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Lorry,  eagerly. 

"  A  moment !  Let  me  speak  of  it  in  its  place.  First," 
he  put  his  hand  in  his  coat,  and  took  another  paper  from 
it,  "  that  is  the  certificate  which  enables  me  to  pass  out 
of  this  city.  Look  at  it.  You  see — Sydney  Carton,  an 
Englishman  ?" 

Mr.  Lorry  held  it  open  in  his  hand,  gazing  in  his  ear- 
nest face. 

"  Keep  it  for  me  until  to-morrow.  I  shall  see  him  to- 
morrow, you  remember,  and  I  had  better  not  take  it  into 
the  prison." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  know  :  I  prefer  not  to  do  so.  Now,  take  this 
paper  that  Doctor  Manette  has  carried  about  him.  It  is 
a  similar  certificate,  enabling  him  and  his  daughter  and 
her  chiJd,  at  any  time,  to  pass  the  Barrier  and  the  fron- 
tier ?   You  see  ?  " 

"Yes  !" 

"  Perhaps  he  obtained  it  as  his  last  and  utmost  precau- 
tion against  evil,  yesterday.  When  is  it  dated  ?  But  no 
matter  ;  don't  stay  to  look  ;  put  it  up  carefully  with 
mine  and  your  own.  Now,  observe  !  I  never  doubted 
until  within  this  hour  or  two,  that  he  had,  or  could  have, 
such  a  paper.  It  is  good,  until  recalled.  But  it  may  be 
soon  recalled,  and,  I  have  reason  to  think,  will  be." 

"  They  are  not  in  danger  ?  " 

"  They  are  in  great  danger.  They  are  in  danger  of 
denunciation  by  Madame  Defarge.  f  know  it  from  her 
own  lips.  I  have  overheard  words  of  that  woman's,  to- 
night, which  have  presented  their  danger  to  me  in  strong 
colours.  I  have  lost  no  time,  and  since  then,  I  have  seen 
the  spy.  He  confirms  me.  He  knows  that  a  wood-sawyer, 
living  by  the  prison  wall,  is  under  the  control  of  the 
Defarges,  and  has  been  rehearsed  by  Madame  Defarge, 
as  to  his  having  seen  Her" — he  never  mentioned  Lucie's 
name — "making  signs  and  signals  to  prisoners.    It  is 


TWO  CITIES.  431 

easy  to  foresee  that  the  pretence  will  be  the  common  one, 
a  prison  plot,  and  that  it  will  involve  her  life — and  per- 
haps her  child's — and  perhaps  her  father's — for  both  have 
been  seen  with  her  at  that  place.  Don't  look  so  horrified. 
You  will  save  them  all." 

"Heaven  grant  I  may.  Carton  !    But  how?" 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  how.  It  will  depend  on  you, 
and  it  could  depend  on  no  better  man.  This  new  denun- 
ciation will  certainly  not  take  place  until  after  to-mor- 
row ;  probably  not  yntil  two  or  three  days  afterwards  ; 
more  probably  a  week  afterwards.  You  know  it  is  a  cap- 
ital crime,  to  mourn  for,  or  sympathise  with,  a  victim  of 
the  Guillotine.  She  and  her  father  would  unquestiona- 
bly be  guilty  of  this  crime,  and  this  woman  (the  invet- 
eracy of  whose  pursuit  cannot  be  described)  would  wait 
to  add  that  strength  to  her  case,  and  make  herself  doubly 
sure.    You  follow  me?" 

"  So  attentively,  and  with  so  much  confidence  in  what 
you  say,  that  for  the  moment  I  lose  sight,"  touching  the 
back  of  the  Doctor's  chair,  "even  of  this  distress." 

"  You  have  money,  and  can  buy  the  means  of  travel- 
ling to  the  sea- coast  as  quickly  as  the  journey  can  be 
made.  Your  preparations  have  been  completed  for  some 
days,  to  return  to  England.  Early  to-morrow,  have  your 
horses  ready,  so  that  they  may  be  in  starting  trim  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon." 

"  It  shall  be  done  !  " 

His  manner  was  so  fervent  and  inspiring,  that  Mr.  Lor- 
ry caught  the  flame,  and  was  as  quick  as  youth. 

"  You  are  a  noble  heart.  Did  I  say  we  could  depend 
upon  no  better  man  ?  Tell  her,  to-night,  what  you  know 
of  her  danger  as  involving  her  child  and  her  father. 
Dwell  upon  that,  for  she  would  .lay  her  own  fair  head 
beside  her  husband's,  cheerfully."  He  faltered  for  an 
instant  ;  then  went  on  as  before.  "For  the  sake  of  her 
child  and  her  father,  press  upon  her  the  necessity  of  leav- 
ing Paris,  with  them  and  you,  at  that  hour.  Tell  her 
that  it  was  her  husband's  last  arrangement.  Tell  her 
that  more  depends  upon  it  than  she  dare  believe,  or  hope. 
You  think  her  father,  even  in  this  sad  state,  will  submit 
himself  to  her  ;  do  you  not  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"I  thought  so.  Quietly  and  steadily,  have  all  these 
arrangements  been  made  in  the  court-yard  here,  even  to 
the  taking  of  your  own  seat  in  the  carriage.  The  mo- 
ment I  come  to  you,  take  me  in,  and  drive  away." 

"  I  understand  that  I  wait  for  you,  under  all  circum- 
stances ?" 

"  You  have  my  certificate  in  your  hand  with  the  rest, 
you  know,  and  will  reserve  my  place.  Wait  for  noth- 
ing but  to  have  my  place  occupied,  and  then  for  Eng- 
land !  " 

"  Why,  then,"  said  Mr.  Lorry,  grasping  his  eager  but 
so  firm  and  steady  hand,  "  it  does  not  all  depend  on  one 
old  man,  but  I  shall  have  a  young  and  ardent  man  at  my 
side." 

"  By  the  help  of  Heaven  you  shall  !  Promise  me  sol- 
emnly, that  nothing  will  influence  you  to  alter  the  course 
on  which  we  now  stand  pledged  to  one  another." 

"Nothing,  Carton." 

"  Remember  these  words  to-morrow  :  change  the 
course,  or  delay  in  it — for  any  reason — and  no  life  can 
possibly  be  saved,  and  many  lives  must  inevitably  be  sac- 
rificed." 

"  I  will  remember  them.  I  hope  to  do  mv  part  faith- 
fully." 

"  And  I  hope  to  do  mine.    Now,  good-bye  !  " 

Though  he  said  it  with  a  grave  smile  of  earnestness, 
and  though  he  even  put  the  old  man's  hand  to  his  lips, 
he  did  not  part  from  him  then.  He  helped  him  so  far  to 
arouse  the  rocking  figure  before  the  dying  embers,  as  to 
get  a  cloak  and  hat  put  upon  it,  and  to  tempt  it  forth  to 
find  where  the  bench  and  work  were  hidden  that  it  still 
meaningly  besought  to  have.  He  walked  on  the  other 
side  of  it*^and  protected  it  to  the  court-yard  of  the  house 
where  the  afflicted  heart— so  happy  in  the  memorable 
time  when  he  had  levealed  his  own  desolate  heart  to  it 
— outwatched  the  awful  night.  He  entered  the  court- 
yard and  remained  there  for  a  few  moments  alone,  look- 
ing up  at  the  light  in  the  window  of  her  room.  Before 
he  went  away,  he  breathed  a  blessing  towards  it,  and  a 
Farewell. 


432 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

Fifty-two. 

In  the  black  prison  of  the  Conciergerie,  the  doomed  of 
the  day  awaited  their  fate.  They  were  in  number  as 
the  weeks  of  the  year.  Fifty-two  were  to  roll  that  af- 
ternoon on  the  life-tide  of  the  city  to  the  boundless  ever- 
lasting sea.  Before  their  cells  were  quit  of  them,  new 
occupants  were  appointed  ;  before  their  blood  ran  into 
the  blood  spilled  yesterday,  the  blood  that  was  to  mingle 
with  theirs  to-morrow  was  already  set  apart. 

Two  score  and  twelve  were  told  off.  From  the  farmer- 
general  of  seventy,  whose  riches  could  not  buy  his  life, 
to  the  seamstress  of  twenty,  whose  poverty  and  obscurity 
could  not  save  her.  Physical  diseases  engendered  in  the 
vices  and  neglects  of  men,  will  seize  on  victims  of  all  de- 
grees ;  and  the  frightful  moral  disorder,  born  of  un- 
speakable suffering,  intolerable  oppression,  and  heartless 
indifference,  smote  equally  without  distinction. 

Charles  Darnay,  alone  in  a  cell,  had  sustained  himself 
with  no  flattering  delusion  since  he  came  to  it  from  the 
Tribunal.  In  every  line  of  the  narrative  he  had  heard, 
lie  had  heard  his  condemnation.  He  had  fully  compre- 
hended that  no  personal  influence  could  possibly  save 
him,  that  he  was  virtually  sentenced  by  the  millions, 
and  that  units  could  avail  him  nothing. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  easy,  with  the  face  of  his  be- 
loved wife  fresh  before  him,  to  compose  his  mind  to 
what  it  must  bear.  His  hold  on  life  was  strong,  and  it 
was  very,  very  hard  to  loosen  ;  by  gradual  efforts  and 
degrees  unclosed  a  little  here,  it  clenched  the  tighter 
there  ;  and  when  he  brought  his  strength  to  bear  on 
that  hand  and  it  yielded,  this  was  closed  again.  There 
was  a  hurry,  too,  in  all  his  thoughts,  a  turbulent  and 
heated  working  of  his  heart,  that  contended  against  res- 
ignation. If,  for  a  moment,  he  did  feel  resigned,  then 
his  wife  and  child  who  haH  to  live  after  him,  seemed  to 
protest  and  to  make  it  a  selfish  thing. 

But,  all  this  was  at  first.  Before  long,  the  considera- 
tion that  there  was  no  disgrace  in  the  fate  he  must  meet, 
and  that  numbers  went  the  same  road  wrongfully,  and 
trod  it  firmly,  every  day,  sprang  up  to  stimulate  him. 
Next  followed  the  thought  that  much  of  the  future 
peace  of  mind  enjoyable  by  the  dear  ones,  depended  on 
his  quiet  fortitude.  So,  by  degrees  he  calmed  into  the 
better  state,  when  he  could  raise  his  thoughts  much 
higher,  and  draw  comfort  down. 

Before  it  had  set  in  dark  on  the  night  of  his  condem- 
nation, he  had  travelled  thus  far  on  his  last  way.  Being 
allowed  to  purchase  the  means  of  writing,  and  a  light, 
he  sat  down  to  write  until  such  time  as  the  prison  lamps 
should  be  extinguished. 

He  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Lucie,  showing  her  that  he 
had  known  nothing  of  her  father's  imprisonment  until 
he  had  heard  of  it  from  herself,  and  that  he  had  been  as 
ignorant  as  she  of  his  father's  and  uncle's  responsibility 
for  that  misery,  until  the  paper  had  been  read.  He  had 
already  explained  to  her  that  his  concealment  from  her- 
self of  the  name  he  had  relinquished,  was  the  one  con- 
dition—fully intelligible  now — that  her  father  had  at- 
tached to  their  betrothal,  and  was  the  one  promise  he 
had  still  exacted  on  the  morning  of  their  marriage.  He 
entreated  her,  for  her  father's  sake,  never  to  seek  to 
know  whether  her  father  had  become  oblivious  of  the 
existence  of  the  paper,  or  had  had  it  recalled  to  him  (for 
the  moment,  or  for  good,  by  the  story  of  the  Tower,  on 
that  old  Sunday  under  the  dear  plane-tree  in  the  garden. 
If  he  had  preserved  any  definite  remembrance  of  it, 
there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  supposed  it  de- 
stroyed with  the  Bastille,  when  he  had  found  no  mention 
of  it  among  the  relics  of  prisoners  which  the  populace 
had  discovered  there,  and  which  had  been  described  to 
all  the  world.  He  besought  her — though  he  added  that 
he  knew  it  was  needless — to  console  her  father,  by  im- 
pressing him  through  every  tender  means  she  could 
think  of,  with  the  truth  that  he  had  done  nothing  for 
which  he  could  justly  reproach  himself,  but  had  uni- 
formly forgotten  himself  for  their  joint  sakos.  Next  to 
her  preservation  of  his  own  last  grateful  love  and  bless- 
ing, and  her  overcoming  of  her  sorrow,  to  devote  herself 
to  their  dear  child,  he  adjured  her,  as  they  would  meet 
in  Heaven,  to  comfort  her  father. 


To  her  father  himself,  he  wrote  in  the  same  strain  ; 
but,  he  told  her  father  that  he  expressly  confided  his 
wife  and  child  to  his  care.  And  he  told  him  this,  very 
strongly,  with  the  hope  of  rousing  him  from  any  de- 
spondency or  dangerous  retrospect  towards  vvhicli  he  fore- 
saw he  might  be  tending. 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  he  commended  them  all,  and  explained 
his  worldly  affairs.  That  done,  with  many  added  sen- 
tences of  grateful  friendship  and  warm  attachment,  all 
was  done.  He  never  thought  of  Carton.  His  mind  was 
so  full  of  the  others,  that  he  never  once  thought  of  him. 

He  had  time  to  finish  these  letters  before  the  lights 
were  put  out.  When  he  lay  down  on  his  straw  bed,  he 
thought  he  had  done  with  this  world. 

But,  it  beckoned  him  back  in  his  sleep,  and  showed 
itself  in  shining  forms.  Free  and  happy,  back  in  the 
old  house  in  Soho  (though  it  had  nothing*  in  it  like  the 
real  house),  unaccountably  released  and  light  of  heart, 
he  was  with  Lucie  again,  and  she  told  him  it  was  all  a 
dream,  and  he  had  never  gone  away.  A  pause  of  for- 
getf ulness,  and  then  he  had  even  suffered,  and  had  come 
back  to  her,  dead  and  at  peace,  and  yet  there  was  no 
difference  in  him.  Another  pause  of  oblivion,  and  he 
awoke  in  the  sombre  morning,  unconscious  where  he 
was  or  what  had  happened,  until  it  flashed  upon  his 
mind,  "this  is  the  day  of  my  death  ! " 

Thus,  had  he  come  through  the  hours,  to  the  day 
when  the  fifty-two  heads  were  to  fall.  And  now,  while 
he  was  composed,  and  hoped  that  he  could  meet  the  end 
with  quiet  heroism,  a  new  action  began  in  his  waking 
thoughts,  which  was  very  difficult  to  master. 

He  had  never  seen  the  instrument  that  was  to  termi- 
nate his  life.  How  high  it  was  from  the  ground,  how 
many  steps  it  had,  where  he  would  be  stood,  how  he 
would  be  touched,  whether  the  touching  hands  would 
be  dyed  red,  which  way  his  face  would  be  turned, 
w^hetiier  he  would  be  the  first,  or  might  be  the  last  ; 
these  and  many  similar  questions,  in  no  wise  directed  by 
his  will,  obtruded  themselves  over  and  over  again, 
countless  times.  Neither  were  they  connected  with 
fear  :  he  was  conscious  of  no  fear.  Rather,  they  origi- 
nated  in  a  strange  besetting  desire  to  know  v/hat  to  do 
when  the  time  came  ;  a  desire  gigantically  dispropor- 
tionate to  the  few  swift  moments  to  which  it  referred  ;  a 
wondering  that  was  more  like  the  wondering  of  some 
other  spirit  within  his,  than  his  own. 

The  hours  went  on  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  and  the 
clocks  struck  the  numbers  he  would  never  hear  again. 
Nine  gone  for  ever,  ten  gone  for  ever,  eleven  gone  for 
ever,  twelve  coming  on  to  pass  away.  After  a  hard 
contest  with  that  eccentric  action  of  thought  which  had 
last  perplexed  him,  he  had  got  the  better  of  it.  He 
walked  up  and  down,  softly  repeating  their  names  to 
himself.  The  worst  of  the  strife  was  over.  He  could 
walk  up  and  dovi^n,  free  from  distracting  fancies,  praying 
for  himself  and  for  them. 

Twelve  gone  for  ever. 

He  had  been  apprised  that  the  final  hour  was  Three, 
and  he  knew  he  would  be  summoned  some  time  earlier, 
inasmuch  as  the  tumbrils  jolted  heavily  and  slowly 
through  the  streets.  Therefore,  he  resolved  to  keep 
Two  before  liis  mind,  as  the  hour,  and  so  to  strengthen 
himself  in  the  interval  that  he  might  be  able,  after  that 
time,  to  strengthen  others. 

Walking  regularly  to  and  fro  with  bis  arms  folded  on 
his  breast,  a  very  different  man  from  the  prisoner  who 
had  walked  to  and  fro  at  La  Force,  he  heard  One  struck 
away  from  him,  without  surprise.  The  hour  had  meas- 
ured like  most  other  hours.  Devoutly  thankful  to 
Heaven  for  his  recovered  self-possession,  he  thought, 
"  There  is  but  another  now,"  and  turned  to  walk  again. 

Footsteps  in  the  stone  passage,  outside  the  door.  He 
stopped. 

The  key  was  put  in  the  lock,  and  turned.  Before  the 
door  was  opened,  or  as  it  opened,  a  man  said  in  a  low 
voice,  in  English  :  "He  has  never  seen  me  here  ;  I  have 
kept  out  of  his  way.  Go  you  in  alone  ;  I  wait  near. 
Lose  no  time  !  " 

The  door  was  quickly  opened  and  closed,  and  there 
stood  before  him,  face  to  face,  quiet,  intent  upon  him, 
with  the  light  of  a  smile  on  his  features  and  a  cautionary- 
finger  on  his  lip,  Sydney  Carton. 


A  TALE  OF 

There  was  something  so  bright  and  remarkable  in  his 
look,  that,  for  the  first  moment,  the  prisoner  misdoubted 
him  to  be  an  apparition  of  his  own  imagining.  But, 
he  spoke,  and  it  was  his  voice  ;  he  took  the  prisoner's 
hand,  and  it  was  his  real  grasp. 

"  Of  all  the  people  upon  earth,  you  least  expected  to 
see  me  ?  "  he  said. 

**  I  could  not  believe  it  to  be  you.  I  can  scarcely 
believe  it  now.  You  are  not  " — the  apprehension  came 
suddenly  into  his  mind — "  a  prisoner  ?" 

*'  No.  I  am  accidentally  possessed  of  a  power  over  one 
of  the  keepers  here,  and  in  virtue  of  it  I  stand  before 
you.    I  come  from  her — your  wife,  dear  Darnay." 

The  prisoner  wrung  his  hand. 

"  I  bring  you  a  request  from  her." 

"What  is  it?" 

"A  most  earnest,  pressing,  and  emphatic  entreaty, 
addressed  to  you  in  the  most  pathetic  tones  of  the  voice 
so  dear  to  you,  that  you  well  remember." 

The  prisoner  turned  his  face  partly  aside. 

"  You  have  no  time  to  ask  me  why  I  bring  it,  or  what 
it  means  ;  I  have  no  time  to  tell  you.  You  must  comply 
with  it — take  off  those  boots  you  wear,  and  draw  on 
these  of  mine." 

There  was  a  chair  against  the  wall  of  the  cell,  behind 
the  prisoner.  Carton,  pressing  forward,  had  already, 
with  the  speed  of  lightning,  got  him  down  into  it,  and 
stood  over  him  barefoot. 

"Draw  on  these  boots  of  mine.  Put  your  hands  to 
them  ;  put  your  will  to  them.    Quick  !  " 

"Carton,  there  is  no  escaping  from  this  place  ;  it  never 
can  be  done.  You  will  only  die  with  me.  It  is  madness." 

"  It  would  be  madness  if  I  asked  you  to  escape  ;  but 
do  I  ?  When  I  ask  you  to  pass  out  at  that  door,  tell  me 
it  is  madness  and  remain  here.  Change  that  cravat  for 
this  of  mine,  that  coat  for  this  of  mine.  While  you  do 
it,  let  me  take  this  ribbon  from  your  hair,  and  shake 
out  your  hair  like  this  of  mine  !  " 

With  wonderful  quickness,  and  with  a  strength  both 
of  will  and  action,  that  appeared  quite  supernatural,  he 
forced  all  these  changes  upon  him.  The  prisoner  was 
like  a  young  child  in  his  hands. 

"Carton!  Dear  Carton!  It  is  madness.  It  cannot 
be  accomplished,  it  never  can  be  done,  it  has  been  at- 
tempted, and  has  always  failed.  I  implore  you  not  to 
add  your  death  to  the  bitterness  of  mine." 

"Do  I  ask  you,  my  dear  Darnay,  to  pass  the  door? 
When  I  ask  that,  refuse.  There  are  pen  and  ink  and 
paper  on  this  table.  Is  your  hand  steady  enough  to 
write  ?  " 

"  It  was,  when  you  came  in." 

"  Steady  it  again,  and  write  what  I  shall  dictate,  j 
Quick,  friend,  quick  ! " 

Pressing  his  hand  to  his  bewildered  head,  Darnay  sat 
down  at  the  table.  Carton,  with  his  right  hand  in  his 
breast,  stood  close  beside  him. 

"  Write  exactly  as  I  speak." 

"  To  whom  do  I  address  it? " 

"  To  no  one. "    Carton  still  had  his  hand  in  his  breast. 

"Do  I  date  it?" 

"No." 

The  prisoner  looked  up,  at  each  question.  .  Carton, 
standing  over  him  with  his  hand  in  his  breast,  looked 
down. 

"'If  you  remember,'"  said  Carton,  dictating,  "  'the 
words  that  passed  between  us,  long  ago,  you  will  readily 
comprehend  this  when  you  see  it.  You  do  remember 
them,  I  know.    It  is  not  in  your  nature  to  forget  them.' " 

He  was  drawing  his  hand  from  his  breast  ;  the  pris- 
oner chancing  to  look  up  in  his  hurried  wonder  as  he 
wrote,  the  hand  stopped,  closing  upon  something. 

"  Have  you  written  *  forget  them?'  "  Carton  asked. 

"  I  have.    Is  that  a  weapon  in  your  hand  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  am  not  armed." 

"  What  is  it  in  your  hand  ?" 

"You  shall  know  directly.  Write  on  ;  there  are  but 
a  few  words  more,"  He  dictated  again.  "  '  I  am  thank- 
ful that  the  time  has  come,  when  I  can  prove  them. 
That  I  do  so,  is  no  subject  for  regret  or  grief.'"  As  he 
said  these  words  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  writer,  his 
hand  slowly  and  softly  moved  down  close  to  the  writer's 
1  face. 

I  Vol.  II. -28 

\ 


TWO  CITIES,  433 

The  pen  dropped  from  Darnay's  fingers  on  the  table, 
and  he  looked  about  him  vacantly. 
"  What  vapour  is  that  ?  "  he  asked. 
"Vapour?" 

"  Something  that  crossed  me  ?" 

"  I  am  conscious  of  nothing  ;  there  can  be  nothing 
here.    Take  up  the  pen  and  finish.    Hurry,  hurry  I " 

As  if  his  memory  were  impaired,  or  his  faculties  dis- 
ordered, the  prisoner  made  an  effort  to  rally  his  atten- 
tion. As  he  looked  at  Carton  with  clouded  eyes  and 
with  an  altered  manner  of  breathing,  Carton — his  hand 
again  in  his  breast — looked  steadily  at  him. 

"Hurry,  hurry  1 " 

The  prisoner  bent  over  the  paper,  once  more. 

"'If  it  had  been  otherwise ;'"  Carton's  hand  was 
again  watchfully  and  softly  stealing  down  ;  "  '  I  never 
should  have  used  the  longer  opportunity.  If  it  had  been 
otherwise  ; '  "  the  hand  was  at  the  prisoner's  face  ;  "  '  I 
should  but  have  had  so  much  the  more  to  answer  for. 
If  it  had  been  otherwise — '  "  Carton  looked  at  the  pen, 
and  saw  that  it  was  trailing  off  into  unintelligible  signs. 

Carton's  hand  moved  back  to  his  breast  no  more.  The 
prisoner  sprang  up,  with  a  reproachful  look,  but  Car- 
ton's hand  was  close  and  firm  at  his  nostrils,  and  Carton's 
left  arm  caught  him  round  the  waist.  For  a  few  seconds 
he  faintly  struggled  with  the  man  who  had  come  to  lay 
down  his  life  for  him  ;  but,  within  a  minute  or  so,  he 
was  stretched  insensible  on  the  ground. 

Quickly,  but  with  hands  as  true  to  the  purpose  as  his 
heart  was,  Carton  dressed  himself  in  the  clothes  the  pris- 
oner had  laid  aside,  combed  back  his  hair,  and  tied  it 
with  the  ribbon  the  prisoner  had  worn.  Then,  he  softly 
called  "  Enter  there  !  Come  in  ! "  and  the  spy  presented 
himself. 

"  You  see  ?"  said  Carton,  looking  up,  as  he  kneeled 
on  one  knee  beside  the  insensible  figure,  putting  the 
paper  in  the  breast :  "Is  your  hazard  very  great  ? " 

"Mr.  Carton,"  the  spy  answered^  with  a  timid  snap  of 
his  fingers,  "  my  hazard  is  not  that^  in  the  thickness  of 
business  here,  if  you  are  true  to  the  whole  of  your  bar- 
gain." 

"  Don't  fear  me.    I  will  be  true  to  the  death." 

"  You  must  be,  Mr.  Carton,  if  the  tale  of  fifty -two  is 
to  be  right.  Being  made  right  by  you  in  that  dress,  I 
shall  have  no  fear." 

' '  Have  no  fear  1  I  shall  soon  be  out  of  the  way  of 
harming  you,  and  the  rest  will  soon  be  far  from  here, 
please  God  I  Now,  get  assistance  and  take  me  to  the 
coach." 

"  You  ?  "  said  the  spy,  nervously. 

"Him,  man,  with  whom  I  have  exchanged.    You  go 
out  at  the  gate  by  which  you  brought  me  in  ?  " 
"  Of  course." 

"I  was  weak  and  faint  when  you  brought  me  in,  and  I 
am  fainter  now  you  take  me  out.  The  parting  interview 
has  overpowered  me.  Such  a  thing  has  happened  here, 
often,  and  too  often.  Your  life  is  in  your  own  hands. 
Quick  !    Call  assistance  ! " 

"  You  swear  not  to  betray  me  ?  "  said  the  trembling  spy, 
as  he  paused  for  a  last  moment. 

"  Man,  man  ! "  returned  Carton,  stamping  his  foot ; 
'  *  have  I  sworn  by  no  solemn  vow  already,  to  go  through 
with  this,  that  you  waste  the  precious  moments  now  ? 
Take  him  yourself  to  the  court-yard  you  know  of,  place 
him  yourself  in  the  carriage,  show  him  yourself  to  Mr. 
Lorry,  tell  him  yourself  to  give  him  no  restorative  but 
air,  and  to  remember  my  words  of  last  night,  and  his 
promise  of  last  night,  and  drive  away  !  " 

The  spy  withdrew,  and  Carton  seated  himself  at  the 
table,  resting  his  forehead  on  his  hands.  The  spy  re- 
turned imm^iately,  with  two  men. 

"How,  then?"  said  one  of  them,  contemplating  the 
fallen  figure.  "  So  afiiicted  to  find  that  his  friend  has 
drawn  a  prize  in  the  lottery  of  Sainte  Guillotine  ?  " 

"  A  good  patriot,"  said  the  other,  "  could  hardly  have 
been  more  afiiicted  if  the  Aristocrat  had  drawn  a 
blank." 

They  raised  the  unconscious  figure,  placed  it  on  a 
litter  they  had  brought  to  the  door,  and  bent  to  carry  it 
away. 

"  The  time  is  short,  Evremonde,"  said  the  spy,  in  a 
warning  voice. 


434 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  I  know  it  well,"  answered  Carton.  Be  careful  of 
my  friend,  I  entreat  you,  and  leave  me." 

"  Come,  then,  my  children,"  said  Barsad.  "Lift  him, 
and  come  away  !  " 

The  door  closed,  and  Carton  was  left  alone.  Straining 
Ms  powers  of  listening  to  the  utmost,  he  listened  for  any 
sound  that  might  denote  suspicion  or  alarm.  There  was 
none.  Keys  turned,  doors  clashed,  footsteps  passed 
through  long  distant  passages  :  no  cry  was  raised,  or 
hurry  made, that  seemed  unusual.  Breathing  more  freely 
in  a  little  while,  he  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  listened 
again  until  the  clock  struck  Two. 

Sounds  that  he  was  not  afraid  of,  for  he  divined  their 
meaning,  then  began  to  be  audible.  Several  doors  were 
opened  in  succession,  and  finally  his  own.  A  gaoler, 
with  a  list  in  his  hand,  looked  in,  merely  saying,  "  Fol- 
low me,  Evremonde  !  "  and  he  followed  into  a  large  dark 
room,  at  a  distance.  It  was  a  dark  winter  day,  and  what 
with  the  shadows  within,  and  what  with  the  shadows 
without,  he  could  but  dimly  discern  the  others  who 
were  brought  there  to  have  their  arms  bound.  Some 
were  standing ;  some  seated.  Some  were  lamenting, 
and  in  restless  motion  ;  but.  these  were  few.  The 
great  majority  were  silent  and  still,  looking  fixedly  at 
the  ground. 

As  he  stood  by  the  wall  in  a  dim  corner,  while  some 
of  the  fifty -two  were  brought  in  after  him,  one  man 
stopped  in  passing,  to  embrace  him,  as  having  a  know- 
ledge of  him.  It  thrilled  him  with  a  great  dread  of  dis- 
covery ;  but  the  man  went  on.  A  very  few  moments 
after  that,  a  young  woman,  with  a  slight  girlish  form,  a 
sweet  spare  face  in  which  there  was  no  vestige  of  colour,  j 
and  large  widely  opened  patient  eyes,  rose  from  the  seat  | 
where  he  had  observed  her  sitting,  and  came  to  speak  to 
him  I 

"Citizen  Evremonde,"  she  said,  touching  him  with' 
her  cold  hand.    "  I  am  a  poor  little  seamstress,  who  was 
with  you  in  La  Force." 

He  murmured  for  answer  :  "  True.  I  forget  what  you 
were  accused  of  ?  " 

"  Plots.  Though  the  just  Heaven  knows  I  am  inno- 
cent of  any.  Is  it  likely  ?  Who  would  think  of  plotting 
with  a  poor  little  weak  creature  like  me  ?" 

The  forlorn  smile  with  which  she  said  it,  so  touched 
■him  that  tears  started  from  his  eyes.  | 

"  I  am  not  afraid  to  die,  Citizen  Evremonde,  but  I  i 
have  done  nothing.    I  am  not  unwilling  to  die,  if  the  ' 
Republic  which  is  to  do  so  much  good  to  us  poor,  will 
profit  by  my  death  ;  but  I  do  not  know  how  that  can 
be,  Citizen  Evremonde.    Such  a  poor  weak  little  crea- 
ture !  ! 

As  the  last  thing  on  earth  that  his  heart  was  to  warm 
.and  soften  to,  it  wanned  and  softened  to  this  pitiable  ^ 
giri. 

"  I  heard  you  were  released.  Citizen  Evremonde.  I 
hoped  it  was  true!  " 

"It  was.    But,  I  was  again  taken  and  condemned." 

"  If  I  may  ride  with  you.  Citizen  Evremonde,  will  you 
let  me  hold  your  hand  ?  I  am  not  afraid,  but  I  am  little 
.and  weak,  and  it  will  give  me  more  courage." 

As  the  patient  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  face,  he  saw  a 
sudden  doubt  in  them, and  then  astonishment.  He  pressed 
tlie  work-worn,  hunger- worn,  young  fingers,  and  touched 
his  lips. 

"Are  you  dying  for  him  ?"  she  whispered. 
'"  And  his  wife  and  child.    Hush  1  Yes." 

"Oh  you  will  let  me  hold  your  brave  hand,  stranger  ?  " 

"  Hush  !    Yes,  my  poor  sister  ;  to  the  last." 

The  same  shadows  that  are  falling  on  the  prison,  are 
falling,  in  the  same  howr  of  that  early  afternoon,  on  the 
Barrier  with  the  crowd  about  it,  when  a  coach  going  out 
of  Paris  drives  up  to  be  examined. 

"Who  goes  here?  Whom  have  we  within?  Pa- 
pers !" 

The  papers  are  handed  out  and  read. 

'"Alexandre  Man«tte.  Physician.  French.  Which 
ishe?"  i 

This  is  he  ;  this  helpless,  inarticulately  murmuring,  i 
.wandering  old  man  pointed  out.  j 

"  Apparently  the  Citizen-Doctor  is  not  in  his  right  i 
mind  ?  The  Revolution-fever  will  have  been  too  much  I 
tor  him  ?  "  I 


Greatly  too  much  for  him. 

"Hah!    Many  suffer  with  it.    Lucie.    His  daughter. 
French.    Which  is  she?" 
This  is  she. 

"Apparently  it  must  be.    Lucie,  the  wife  of  Evre- 
monde ;  is  it  not?" 
It  is. 

"  Hah  !    Evremonde  has  an  assignation  elsewhere. 
Lucie,  her  child.    English.    This  is  she?" 
She  and  no  other. 

"  Kiss  me,  child  of  Evremonde.  Now,  thou  hast 
kissed  a  good  Republican  ;  something  new  in  thy  family  ; 
remember  it !  Sydney  Carton.  Advocate.  English, 
which  is  he  ?  " 

He  lies  here,  in  this  corner  of  the  carriage.  He,  too, 
is  pointed  out. 

"  Apparently  the  English  advocate  is  in  a  swoon  ?  " 

It  is  hoped  he  will  recover  in  the  fresher  air.  It  is 
represented  that  he  is  not  in  strong  health,  and  has  sep- 
arated sadly  from  a  friend  who  is  under  the  displeasure 
of  the  Republic. 

"  Is  that  all?  It  is  not  a  great  deal,  that  !  Many  are 
under  the  displeasure  of  the  Republic,  and  must  look 
out  at  the  little  window.  Jarvis  Lorry.  Banker.  Eng- 
lish.   Which  is  he  ?  " 

"I  am  he.    Necessarily,  being  the  last." 

It  is  Jarvis  Lorry  who  has  replied  to  all  the  previous 
questions.  It  is  Jarvis  Lorry  who  has  alighted  and 
stands  with  his  hand  on  the  coach  door,  replying  to  a 
group  of  officials.  They  leisurely  walk  round  the  car- 
riage and  leisurely  mount  the  box,  to  look  at  what  little 
luggage  it  carries  on  the  roof  ;  the  country-people  hang- 
ing about,  press  nearer  to  the  coach  doors  and  greedily 
stare  in  ;  a  little  child,  carried  by  its  mother,  has  its 
short  arm  held  out  for  it,  that  it  may  touch  the  wife  of 
an  aristocrat  who  has  gone  to  the  Guillotine. 

"Behold  your  papers,  Jarvis  Lorry,  countersigned." 

"  One  can  depart,  citizen  ?  " 

"  One  can  depart.  Forward,  my  postilions  !  A  good 
journey  ! " 

"  I  salute  you,  citizens. — And  the  first  danger  passed  1 " 

These  are  again  the  words  of  Jarvis  Lorry,  as  he  clasps 
his  hands  and  looks  upward.  There  is  terror  in  the  car- 
riage, there  is  weeping,  there  is  the  heavy  breathing  of 
the  insensible  traveller.* 

' '  Are  we  not  going  too  slowly  ?  Can  they  not  be  in- 
duced to  go  faster  ?"  asks  Lucie,  clinging  to  the  old  man. 

"  It  would  seem  like  flight,  my  darling.  I  must  not 
urge  them  too  much  ;  it  would  rouse  suspicion." 

"  Look  back,  look  back,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued  !" 

"The  road  is  clear,  my  dearest.  So  far,  we  are  not 
pursued. " 

Houses  in  twos  and  threes  pass  by  us,  solitary  farms, 
ruinous  buildings,  dye-works,  tanneries  and  the  like,  open 
country,  avenues  of  leafless  trees.  The  hard  uneven 
pavement  is  under  us,  the  soft  deep  mud  is  on  either 
side.  Sometimes,  we  strike  into  the  skirting  mud,  to 
avoid  the  stones  that  clatter  us  and  shake  us  ;  sometimes, 
we  stick  in  ruts  and  sloughs  there.  The  agony  of  our 
impatience  is  then  so  great,  that  in  our  wild  alarm  and 
hurry  we  are  for  getting  out  and  running — hiding— do- 
ing anything  but  stopping. 

Out  of  the  open  country,  in  again  among  ruinous 
buildings,  solitary  farms,  dye-works  tanneries  and  the 
like,  cottages  in  twos  and  threes,  avenues  of  leafless 
trees.  Have  these  men  deceived  us,  and  taken  us  back 
by  another  road  ?  Is  not  this  the  same  place  twice  over  ? 
Thank  Heaven  no.  A  village.  Look  back,  look  back, 
and  see  if  we  are  pursued  !    Hush  !  the  posting-house. 

Leisurely,  our  four  horses  are  taken  out ;  leisurely, 
the  coach  stands  in  the  little  street,  bereft  of  horses,  and 
with  no  likelihood  upon  it  of  ever  moving  again  ;  leisure- 
ly, the  new  horses  come  into  visible  existence,  one  by 
one  ;  leisurely,  the  new  postilions  follow,  sucking  and 
plaiting  the  lashes  of  their  whips  ;  leisurely,  the  old  pos- 
tilions count  their  money,  make  wrong  additions,  and 
arrive  at  dissatisfied  results.  All  the  time,  our  over- 
fraught  hearts  are  beating  at  a  rate  that  would  far  out- 
strip the  fastest  gallop  of  the  fastest  horses  ever  foaled. 

At  length  the  new  postilions  are  in  their  saddles,  and 
the  old  are  left  behind.  We  are  through  the  village,  up 
the  hill,  and  down  the  hill,  and  on  the  low  watery 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


435 


grounds.  Suddenly,  the  postilions  exchange  speech  with 
animated  gesticulation,  and  the  horses  are  pulled  up, 
almost  on  their  haunches.    We  are  pursued  ! 

"  Ho  !    Within  the  carriage  there.    Speak  then  !  " 

"What  is  it?"  asks  Mr.  Lorry,  looking  out  at  win- 
dow. 

"  How  many  did  they  say  ?  " 
"  I  do  not  understand  you," 

"  — At  the  last  j^ost.  How  many  to  the  Guillotine  to- 
day?" 

"  Fifty -two." 

"I  said  so!  A  brave  number!  My  fellow-citizen 
here,  would  have  it  forty-two  ;  ten  more  heads  are 
worth  having.  The  Guillotine  goes  handsomely.  I  love 
it.    Hi  forward.    Whoop  !  " 

The  night  comes  on  dark.  He  moves  more  ;  he  is  be- 
ginning to  revive,  and  to  speak  intelligibly  ;  he  thinks 
they  are  still  together  ;  he  asks  him,  by  his  name,  what 
he  has  in  his  hand.  0  pity  us,  kind  Heaven  and  help 
us  !    Look  out,  look  out,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued. 

The  wind  is  rushing  after  us,  and  the  clouds  are  fly- 
ing after  us,  and  the  moon  is  plunging  after  us,  and  the 
whole  wild  night  is  in  pursuit  of  us  ;  but,  so  far,  we  are 
pursued  by  nothing  else. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The  Knitiiiig  Bone. 

In  that  same  juncture  of  time  when  the  Fifty-Two 
awaited  their  fate,  Madame  Defarge  held  darkly  omi- 
nous council  with  Tlie  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  of 
the  Revolutionary  Jury.  Not  in  the  wine-shop  did 
Madame  Defarge  confer  with  these  ministers,  but  in  the 
shed  of  the  wood-sawyer,  erst  a  mender  of  roads.  The 
sawyer  himself  did  not  participate  in  the  conference,  but 
abided  at  a  little  distance,  like  an  outer  satellite  who  was 
not  to  speak  until  required,  or  to  offer  an  opinion  until 
invited. 

"But  our  Defarge,"  said  Jacques  Three,  "is  un- 
doubtedly a  good  Republican  ?    Eh  ?  " 

"There  is  no  better,"  the  voluble  Vengeance  pro- 
tested in  her  shrill  notes,  "  in  Prance." 

"  Peace,  little  Vengeance,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  lay- 
ing her  hand  with  a  slight  frown  on  her  lieutenant's 
lips,  "  hear  me  speak.  My  husband,  fellow- citizen,  is  a 
good  Republican  and  a  bofd  man  ;  he  has  deserved  well 
of  the  Republic,  and  possesses  its  confidence.  But  my  i 
husband  has  his  weaknesses,  and  he  is  so  weak  as  to  re-  ,' 
lent  towards  this  Doctor."  1 

"It  is  a  great  pity,"  croaked  Jacques  Three,  dubious- 
ly shaking  his  head,  with  his  cruel  fingers  at  his  hungry  j 
mouth  :  "  it  is  not  quite  like  a  good  citizen  ;  it  is  a  thing 
to  regret." 

"See  you,"  said  madame,  "I  care  nothing  for  this: 
Doctor,  I.  He  may  wear  his  head  or  lose  it,  for  any  inter-  j 
est  I  have  in  him  ;  it  is  all  one  to  me.  But,  the  Evre-  j 
monde  people  are  to  be  exterminated,  and  the  wife  and  j 
child  must  follow  the  husband  and  father."  i 

"  She  has  a  fine  head  for  it,"  croaked  Jacques  Three.  ■ 
"I  have  seen  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair  there,  and  they 
looked  charming  when  Sanson  held  them  up."  Ogre 
that  he  was,  he  spoke  like  an  epicure.  | 

Madam.e  Defarge  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  reflected  a 
little. 

"  The  child  also,"  observed  Jacques  Three,  with  a 
meditative  enjoyment  of  his  words,  "has  golden  hair 
and  blue  eyes.  And  we  seldom  have  a  child  there.  It 
is  a  pretty  sight  ! " 

"  In  a  word,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  coming  out  of  her 
short  abstraction,  "  I  cannot  trust  ray  husband  in  this 
matter.  Not  only  do  I  feel,  since  last  night,  that  I  dare 
not  confide  to  him  the  details  of  my  projects  ;  but  also  I 
feel  that  if  I  delay,  there  is  danger  of  his  giving  warn- 
ing, and  then  they  might  escape." 

"  That  must  never  be,"  croaked  Jacques  Three  ;  "  no 
one  must  escape.  We  have  not  half  enough  as  it  is. 
We  ought  to  have  six  score  a  day." 

"In  a  word,"  Madame  Defarge  went  on,  "my  hus- 
band has  not  my  reason  for  pursuing  this  family  to  an- 


j  nihilation,  and  I  have  not  his  reason  for  regarding  this 
I  Doctor  with  any  sensibility.  I  must  act  for  myself, 
i  therefore.    Come  hither,  little  citizen." 

The  wood-sawyer,  who  held  her  in  the  respect,  and 
himself  in  the  submission,  of  mortal  fear,  advanced  with 
his  hand  to  his  red  cap. 

"  Touching  those  signals,  little  citizen,"  said  Madame 
Defarge,  sternly,  "that  she  made  to  the  prisoners  ;  you 
are  ready  to  bear  witness  to  them  this  very  day  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  why  not  !  "  cried  the  sawyer.  "  Every  day, 
in  all  weathers,  from  two  to  four,  always  signalling, 
sometimes  with  the  little  one,  sometimes  without.  I 
know  what  I  know.    I  have  seen  with  my  eyes." 

He  made  all  manner  of  gestures  while  he  spoke,  as  if 
in  incidental  imitation  of  some  few  of  the  great  diversity 
of  signals  that  he  had  never  seen. 

"Clearly  plots,"  said  Jacques  Three.  "Transpar- 
ently ! " 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  the  Jury?"  inquired  Madame 
Defarge,  letting  her  eyes  turn  to  him  with  a  gloomy 
smile. 

"Rely  upon  the  patriotic  Jury,  dear  citizeness.  I 
answer  for  my  fellow-Jurymen." 

"Now,  let  me  see,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  pondering 
again.  "  Yet  once  more!  Can  I  spare  this  Doctor  to 
my  liusband  ?  I  have  no  feeling  either  way.  Can  I  spare 
him?" 

"He  would  count  as  one  head,"  observed  Jacques 
Three,  in  a  low  voice.  "We  really  have  not  heads 
enough  ;  it  would  be  a  pity,  I  think." 

"  He  was  signalling  with  her  when  I  saw  her,"  argued 
Madame  Defarge  ;  "I  cannot  speak  of  one  without  the 
other  ;  and  I  must  not  be  silent,  and  trust  the  case 
wholly  to  him,  this  little  citizen  here.  For,  I  am  not  a 
bad  witness." 

The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  vied  with  each 
other  in  their  fervent  protestations  that  she  was  the 
most  admirable  and  marvellous  of  witnes.ses.  The  little 
citizen,  not  to  be  outdone,  declared  her  to  be  a  celestial 
witness. 

"  He  must  take  his  chance,"  said  Madame  Defarge. 
"  No,  I  cannot  spare  him  !  You  are  engaged  at  three 
o'clock  ;  you  are  going  to  see  the  batch  of  to-day  ex- 
ecuted.— You?" 

The  question  was  addressed  to  the  wood-sawyer,  who 
hurriedly  replied  in  the  afiirmative  :  seizing  the  occasion 
to  add  that  he  was  the  most  ardent  of  Republicans,  and 
that  he  would  be  in  effect  the  most  desolate  of  Repub- 
licans, if  anything  prevented  him  from  enjoying  the 
pleasure  of  smoking  his  afternoon  pipe  in  the  contem- 
plation of  the  droll  national  barbar.  He  was  so  very 
demonstrative  herein,  that  he  might  have  been  suspected 
[perhaps  was,  by  the  dark  eyes  that  looked  contemptu- 
ously at  him  out  of  Madame  Defarge's  head)  of  having 
his  small  individual  fears  for  his  own  personal  safety, 
every  hour  in  the  day. 

"I,"  said  madame,  "am  equally  engaged  at  the  same 
place.  After  it  is  over — say  at  eight  to-night — come  you 
to  me,  in  Saint  Antoine,  and  we  will  give  information 
against  the  people  at  my  Section." 

The  wood-sawyer  said  he  would  be  proud  and  flattered 
to  attend  the  citizeness.  The  citizeness  looking  at  him, 
he  became  embarrassed,  evaded  her  glance  as  a  small 
dog  would  have  done,  retreated  among  his  wood,  and 
hid  his  confusion  over  the  handle  of  his  saw. 

Madame  Defarge  beckoned  the  Juryman  and  The 
Vengeance  a  little  nearer  to  the  door,  and  there  expound- 
ed her  further  views  to  them  thus  : 

"  She  will  now  be  at  home,  awaiting  the  moment  of 
his  death.  She  will  be  mourning  and  grieving.  She 
will  be  in  a  state  of  mind  to  impeach  the  justice  of  the 
Republic.  She  will  be  full  of  sympathy  with  its  ene- 
mies.   I  will  go  to  her." 

"  What  an  admirable  woman  ;  what  an  adorable 
woman  !"  exclaimed  Jacques  Three,  rapturously.  "Ah, 
my  cherished  ! "  cried  The  Vengeance  ;  and  embraced 
lier. 

"Take  you  my  knitting,"  said  Madame  Defarge, 
placing  it  in  her  lieutenant's  hands,  "  and  have  it  ready 
for  me  in  my  usual  seat.  Keep  me  my  usual  chair.  Go 
you  there  straight,  for  there  will  probably  be  a  greater 
concourse  than  usual,  to-day." 


436 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  I  willingly  obey  the  orders  of  my  Chief,"  said  The 
Vengeance,  with  alacrity,  and  kissing  her  cheek.  "  You 
will  not  be  late  ? " 

"  I  shall  be  there  before  the  commencement." 

"And  before  the  tumbrils  arrive.  Be  sure  you  are 
there,  my  soul,"  said  The  Vengeance,  calling  after  her, 
for  she  had  already  turned  into  the  street,  "  before  the 
tumbrils  arrive  ! " 

Madame  Defarge  slightly  waved  her  hand,  to  imply 
that  she  heard,  and  might  be  relied  upon  to  arrive  in 
good  time,  and  so  went  through  the  mud,  and  round  the 
corner  of  the  prison  wall.  The  Vengeance  and  the 
Jurymen,  looking  after  her  as  she  walked  away,  were 
highly  appreciative  of  her  fine  figure,  and  her  superb 
moral  endowments. 

There  were  many  women  at  that  time,  upon  whom 
the  time  laid  a  dreadfully  disfiguring  hand  ;  but,  there 
was  not  one  among  them  more  to  be  dreaded  than  this 
ruthless  woman,  now  taking  her  way  along  the  streets. 
Of  a  strong  and  fearless- character,  of  shrewd  sense  and 
readiness,  of  great  determination,  of  that  kind  of  beauty 
which  not  only  seems  to  impart  to  its  possessor  firmness 
and  animosity,  but  to  strike  into  others  an  instinctive 
recognition  of  those  qualities  ;  the  troubled  time  would 
have  heaved  her  up,  under  any  circumstances.  But, 
imbued  from  her  childhood  with  a  brooding  sense  of 
wrong,  and  an  inveterate  hatred  of  a  class,  opportunity 
had  developed  her  into  a  tigress.  She  was  absolutely 
without  pity.  If  she  had  ever  had  the  virtue  in  her,  it 
had  quite  gone  out  of  her. 

It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  an  innocent  man  was  to  die 
for  the  sins  of  his  forefathers  ;  she  saw,  not  him,  but 
them.  It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  his  wife  was  to  be 
made  a  widow  and  his  daughter  an  orphan  ;  that  was 
insufficient  punishment,  because  they  were  her  natural 
enemies  and  her  prey,  and  as  such  had  no  right  to  live. 
To  appeal  to  her,  was  made  hopeless  by  her  having  no 
sense  of  pity,  even  for  herself.  If  she  had  been  laid 
low  in  the  streets,  in  any  of  the  many  encounters  in 
which  she  had  been  engaged,  she  would  not  have  pitied 
herself  ;  nor,  if  she  had  been  ordered  to  the  axe  to-mor- 
row, would  she  have  gone  to  it  with  any  softer  feeling 
than  a  fierce  desire  to  change  places  with  the  man  who 
sent  her  there. 

Such  a  heart  Madame  Defarge  carried  under  her  rough 
robe.  Carelessly  worn,  it  was  a  becoming  robe  enough, 
in  a  certain  weird  way,  and  her  dark  hair  looked  rich 
under  her  coarse  red  cap.  Lying  hidden  in  her  bosom, 
was  a  loaded  pistol.  Lying  hidden  at  her  waist,  was  a 
sharpened  dagger.  Thus  accoutred,  and  walking  with 
the  confident  tread  of  such  a  character,  and  with  the 
supple  freedom  of  a  woman  who  had  habitually  walked 
in  her  girlhood,  bare-foot  and  bare-legged,  on  the  brown 
sea-sand,  Madame  Defarge  took  lier  way  along  the 
streets. 

Now,  when  the  journey  of  the  travelling  coach,  at  that 
very  moment  waiting  for  the  completion  of  its  load,  had 
been  planned  out  last  night,  the  difficulty  of  taking  Miss 
Pross  in  it  had  much  engaged  Mr.  Lorry's  attention.  It 
was  not  merely  desirable  to  avoid  overloading  the  coach, 
but  it  was  of  the  highest  importance  that  the  time  occu- 
pied in  examining  it  and  its  passengers,  should  be  re- 
duced to  the  utmost ;  since  their  escape  might  depend  on 
saving  of  only  a  few  seconds  here  and  there.  Finally, 
he  had  proposed,  after  anxious  consideration,  that  Miss 
Pross  and  Jerry,  who  were  at  liberty  to  leave  the  city, 
should  leave  it  at  three  o'clock  in  the  lightest- wheeled 
conveyance  known  to  that  period.  Unencumbered  with 
luggage,  they  would  soon  overtake  the  coach,  and,  pass- 
ing it  and  preceding  it  on  the  road,  would  order  its  horses 
in  advance,  and  greatly  facilitate  its  progress  during  the 
precious  hours  of  the  night,  when  delay  was  the  most  to 
be  dreaded. 

Seeing  in  this  arrangement  the  hope  of  rendering  real 
•jervice  in  that  pressing  emergency,  Miss  Pross  hailed  it 
with  joy.  She  and  Jerry  had  beheld  the  coach  start, 
had  known  who  it  was  that  Solomon  brought,  had  passed 
some  ten  minutes  in  tortures  of  suspense,  and  were  now 
concluding  their  arrangements  to  follow  the  coach,  even 
as  Madame  Defarge,  taking  her  way  through  the  streets, 
now  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  else-deserted  lodging 
iu  which  they  held  their  consultatiou. 


"  Now  what  do  you  think,  Mr,  Cruncher,"  said  Miss 
Pross,  whose  agitation  was  so  great  that  she  could  hard- 
ly speak,  or  stand,  or  move,  or  live  :  "  what  do  you 
think  of  our  not  starting  from  this  court  yard  ?  Another 
carriage  having  already  gone  from  here  to-day,  it  might 
awaken  suspicion." 

"My  opinion,  miss,"  returned  Mr.  Cuncher,  "is  as 
you're  right.  Likewise  wot  I'll  stand  by  you,  right  or 
wrong." 

"  I  am  so  distracted  with  fear  and  hope  for  our  pre- 
cious creatures,"  said  Miss  Pross,  wildly  crying,  "that  I 
am  incapable  of  forming  any  plan.  Are  you  capable  of 
forming  any  plan,  my  dear  good  Mr.  Cruncher  ?  " 

"  Respectin'  a  future  spear  o'  life,  miss,"  returned  Mr. 
Cruncher,  "I  hope  so.  Respectin' any  present  use  o' 
this  here  blessed  old  head  o'  mine,  I  think  not.  V^^ould 
you  do  me  the  favour,  miss,  to  take  notice  o'  two  prom- 
ises and  wows  wot  it  is  my  wishes  fur  to  record  in  this 
here  crisis  V  " 

"Oh,  for  gracious  sake!"  cried  Miss  Pross,  still 
wildly  crying,  "  record  them  at  once,  and  get  them  out 
of  the  way,  like  an  excellent  man." 

"  First,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  was  all  in  a  tremble, 
and  who  spoke  with  an  ashy  and  solemn  visage,  "them 
poor  things  well  out  o'  this,  never  no  more  will  I  do  it, 
never  no  more  !  " 

"I  am  quite  sure,  Mr.  Cruncher,"  returned  Miss 
Pross,  "that  you  never  will  do  it  again,  whatever  it  is, 
and  I  beg  you  not  to  think  it  necessary  to  mention  more 
particularly  what  it  is." 

"  No,  miss,"  returned  Jerry,  "it  shall  not  be  named 
to  you.  Second  :  them  poor  things  well  out  o'  this,  and 
never  no  more  will  I  interfere  with  Mrs.  Cruncher's 
flopping,  never  no  more  ! " 

"  Whatever  housekeeping  arrangement  that  may  be," 
said  Miss  Pross,  striving  to  dry  her  eyes  and  compose 
herself,  "  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  best  that  Mrs.  Cruncher 
should  have  it  entirely  under  her  own  superintendence 
— 0  my  poor  darlings  !  " 

"I  go  so  far  as  to  say,  miss,  morehover,"  proceeded 
Mr.  Cruncher,  with  a  most  alarming  tendency  to  hold 
forth  as  from  a  pulpit — "  and  let  my  words  be  took  down 
and  took  to  Mrs.  Cruncher  through  yourself — that  wot 
my  opinions  respectin'  flopping  has  undergone  a  change, 
and  that  wot  I  only  hope  with  all  my  heart  as  JVlrs. 
Cruncher  may  be  a  flopping  at  the  present  time." 

"  There,  there,  there  !  I  hope  she  is,  my  dear  man," 
cried  the  distracted  Miss  Pross,  "and  I  hope  she  finds  it 
answering  her  expectations." 

"  Forbid  it,"  proceeded  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  additional 
solemnity,  additional  slowness,  and  additional  tendency 
to  hold  forth  and  hold  out,  "as  anything  wot  I  have 
ever  said  or  done  should  be  wisited  on  my  earnest  wishes 
for  them  poor  creeturs  now  !  Forbid  it  as  we  shouldn't 
all  flop  (if  it  was  anyways  conwenient)  to  get  'em  out  o' 
this  here  dismal  risk  !  Forbid  it,  miss  !  Wot  I  say,  for 
—BID  it  ! "  This  was  Mr.  Cruncher's  conclusion  after  a 
protracted  but  vain  endeavour  to  find  a  better  one. 

And  still  Madame  Defarge  pursuing  her  way  along  the 
streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

"  If  we  ever  get  back  to  our  native  land,"  said  Miss 
Pross,  "you  may  rely  upon  my  telling  Mrs.  Cruncher 
as  much  as  I  may  be  able  to  remember  and  understand 
of  what  you  have  so  impressively  said;  and  at  all  events 
you  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  bear  witness  to  your  being 
thoroughly  in  earnest  at  this  dreadful  time.  Now,  pray 
let  us  think  !    My  esteemed  Mr.  Cruncher,  let  us  think  !  " 

Still,  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along  the 
streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

"If  you  were  to  go  before,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "and 
stop  the  vehicle  and  horses  from  coming  here,  and  were 
to  wait  somewhere  for  me  ;  wouldn't  that  be  best  ?  " 

Mr.  Cruncher  thought  it  might  be  best. 

"  Where  could  you  wait  for  me  ?  "  asked  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher  was  so  bewildered  that  he  could  think 
of  no  locality  but  Temple  Bar.  Alas,  Temple  Bar  was 
hundreds  of  miles  away,  and  Madame  Defarge  was 
drawing  very  near  indeed. 

"  By  the  cathedral  door,"  said  Miss  Pross.  "Would 
it  be  much  out  of  the  way,  to  take  me  in,  near  the 
great  cathedral  door  between  the  two  towers  ?  " 

"  No,  miss,"  answered  Mr.  Cruncher. 


A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


437 


"  Tten,  like  the  best  of  men," said  Miss  Pross,  "  goto 
the  posting-house  straight,  and  make  that  change." 

"  I  am  doubtful,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  hesitating  and 
shaking  his  head,  "  about  leaving  of  you,  you  see.  We 
don't  know  what  may  happen." 

*'  Heaven  knows  we  don't,"  returned  Miss  Pross,  "  but 
have  no  fear  for  me.  Take  me  in  at  the  cathedral,  at 
Three  o'Clock  or  as  near  it  as  you  can,  and  I  am  sure  it 
will  be  better  than  our  going  from  here.  I  feel  certain 
of  it.  There  !  Bless  you,  Mr.  Cruncher !  Think — not 
of  me,  but  of  the  lives  that  may  depend  on  both  of  us  ! " 

This  exordium,  and  Miss  Press's  two  hands  in  quite 
agonised  entreaty  clasping  his,  decided  Mr.  Cruncher. 
With  an  encouraging  nod  or  two,  he  immediately  went 
out  to  alter  the  arrangements,  and  left  her  by  herself  to 
follow  as  she  had  proposed. 

The  having  originated  a  precaution  which  was  already 
in  course  of  execution,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  Miss 
Pross.  The  necessity  of  composing  her  appearance  so 
that  it  should  attract  no  special  notice  in  the  streets,  was 
another  relief.  She  looked  at  her  watch,  and  it  was 
twenty  minutes  past  two.  She  had  no  time  to  lose,  but 
must  get  ready  at  once. 

Afraid,  in  her  extreme  perturbation,  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  deserted  rooms,  and  of  half -imagined  faces 
peeping  from  behind  every  open  door  in  them,  Miss  Pross 
got  a  basin  of  cold  water  and  began  laving  her  eyes, 
which  were  swollen  and  red.  Haunted  by  her  feverish 
apprehensions,  she  could  not  bear  to  have  her  sight  ob- 
scured for  a  minute  at  a  time  by  the  dripping  water,  but 
constantly  paused  and  looked  round  to  see  that  there 
was  no  one  watching  her.  In  one  of  those  pauses  she 
recoiled  and  cried  out,  for  she  saw  a  figure  standing  in 
the  room. 

The  basin  fell  to  the  ground  broken,  and  the  water 
flowed  to  the  feet  of  Madame  Defarge.  By  strange  stern 
ways,  and  through  much  staining  blood,  those  feet  had 
come  to  meet  that  water. 

Madame  Defarge  looked  coldly  at  her,  and  said,  **  The 
wife  of  Evremonde  ;  where  is  she  ?  " 

It  flashed  upon  Miss  Press's  mind  that  the  doors  were 
all  standing  open,  and  would  suggest  the  flight.  Her 
first  act  was  to  shut  them.  There  were  four  in  the 
room,  and  she  shut  them  all.  She  then  placed  herself 
before  the  door  of  the  chamber  which  Lucie  had  occu- 
pied.' 

Madame  Defarge's  dark  eyes  followed  her  through  this 
rapid  movement,  and  rested  on  her  when  it  was  finished. 
Miss  Pross  had  nothing  beautiful  about  her  ;  years  had 
not  tamed  the  wildness,  or  softened  the  grimness,  of  her 
appearance  ;  but,  she  too  was  a  determined  woman  in 
her  different  way,  and  she  measured  Madame  Defarge 
"with  her  eyes,  every  inch. 

*'  You  might,  from  your  appearance,  be  the  wife  of 
Lucifer,"  said  Miss  Pross,  in  her  breathing.  "Never- 
theless, you  shall  not  get  the  better  of  me.  I  am  an 
Englishwoman." 

Madame  Defarge  looked  at  her  scornfully,  but  still 
with  something  of  Miss  Press's  own  perception  that  they 
two  were  at  bay.  She  saw  a  tight,  wiry  woman  before 
her,  as  Mr.  Lorry  had  seen  in  the  same  figure  a  woman 
with  a  strong  hand,  in  the  years  gone  by.  She  knew 
full  well  that  Miss  Pross  was  the  family's  devoted  friend; 
Miss  Pross  knew  full  well  that  Madame  Defarge  was  the 
family's  malevolent  enemy. 

"On  my  way  yonder,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  with  a 
slight  movement  of  her  hand  towards  the  fatal  spot, 
"  where  they  reserve  my  chair  and  my  knitting  for  me. 
I  am  come  to  make  any  compliments  to  her  in  passing.  I 
wish  to  see  her." 

"I  know  that  your  intentions  are  evil,"  said  Miss 
Pross,  "and  you  may  depend  upon  it,  I'll  hold  my  own 
against  them." 

Each  spoke  in  her  own  language  ;  neither  understood 
the  other's  words  ;  both  were  very  watchful,  and  intent 
to  deduce  from  look  and  manner,  what  the  vinintelligible 
words  meant. 

"  It  will  do  her  no  good  to  keep  herself  concealed  from 
meat  this  moment,"  said  Madame  Defarge.  "Good 
patriots  will  know  what  that  means.  Let  me  see  her. 
Go  tell  her  that  I  wish  to  see  her.    Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  If  those  eyes  of  your's  were  bed- winches,"  returned 


Miss  Pross,  "and  I  was  an  English  four-poster,  they 
shouldn't  loose  a  splinter  of  me.  No,  you  wicked 
foreign  woman  ;  I  am  your  match." 

Madame  Defarge  was  not  likely  to  follow  those  idio- 
matic remarks  in  detail  ;  but,  she  so  far  understood  them 
as  to  perceive  that  she  was  set  at  naught. 

"Woman  imbecile  and  pig-like!"  said  Madame 
Defarge,  frowning.  "  I  take  no  answer  from  you.  I 
demand  to  see  her.  Either  tell  her  that  I  demand  to  see 
her,  or  stand  out  of  the  way  of  the  door  and  let  me  go 
to  her  1"  This,  with  an  angry  explanatory  wave  of  the 
right  arm. 

i     "I  little  thought,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "that  I  should 
j  ever  want  to  understand  your  nonsensical  language  : 
I  but  I  would  give  all  I  have,  except  the  clothes  I  wear,  to 
know  whether  you  suspect  the  truth,  or  any  part  of  it." 

Neither  of  them  for  a  single  moment  released  the 
other's  eyes.  Madame  Defarge  had  not  moved  from  the 
spot  where  she  stood  when  Miss  Pross  first  became 
aware  of  her  ;  but,  she  now  advanced  one  step. 

"lama  Briton,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "lam  desperate. 
I  don't  care  an  English  Twopence  for  myself.  I  know 
that  the  longer  I  keep  you  here,  the  greater  hope  there  is 
for  my  Ladybird,  I'll  not  leave  a  handful  of  that  dark 
hair  upon  your  head,  if  you  lay  a  finger  on  me  !  " 

Thus  Miss  Pross,  with  a  shake  of  her  head  and  a  flash 
of  her  eyes  between  every  rapid  sentence,  and  every 
rapid  sentence  a  whole  breath.  Thus  Miss  Pross,  who 
had  never  struck  a  blow  in  her  life. 

But,  her  courage  was  of  that  emotional  nature  that  it 
brought  the  irrepressible  tears  into  her  eyes.  This  was 
a  courage  that  Madame  Defarge  so  little  comprehended 
as  to  mistake  for  weakness.  "  Ha,  ha  !  "  she  laughed, 
"  you  poor  wretch  !  What  are  you  worth  !  I  address 
myself  to  that  Doctor."  Then  she  raised  her  voice  and 
called  out,  "Citizen  Doctor!  Wife  of  Evremonde! 
Child  of  Evremonde  !  Any  person  but  this  miserable 
fool,  answer  the  Citizeness  Defarge  ! " 

Perhaps  the  following  silence,  perhaps  some  latent 
disclosure  in  the  expression  of  Miss  Press's  face,  perhaps 
a  sudden  misgiving  apart  from  either  suggestion,  whis- 
pered to  Madame  Defarge  that  they  were  gone.  Three 
I  of  the  doors  she  opened  swiftly,  and  looked  in. 
j  "  Those  rooms  are  all  in  disorder,  there  has  been 
hurried  packing,  there  are  odds  and  ends  upon  the 
ground.  There  is  no  one  in  that  room  behind  you  !  Let 
me  look." 

"Never!"  said  Miss  Pross,  who  vmderstood  the  re- 
quest as  perfectly  as  Madame  Defarge  understood  the 
answer. 

"  If  they  are  not  in  that  room,  they  are  gone,  and  can 
be  pursued  and  brought  back,"  said  Madame  Defarge  to 
herself. 

"  As  long  as  you  don't  know  whether  they  are  in  that 
room  or  not,  you  are  uncertain  what  to  do,"  said  Miss 
Pross  to  herself  ;  "  and  you  shall  not  know  that,  if  I  can 
prevent  your  knowing  it  ;  and  know  that,  or  not  know 
that,  you  shall  not  leave  here  while  I  can  hold  you." 

"  I  have  been  in  the  streets  from  the  first,  nothing  hr.s 
\  stopped  me,  I  will  tear  you  to  pieces  but  I  will  have  you 
'  from  that  door,"  said  Madame  Defarge. 
;  "  We  are  alone  at  the  top  of  a  high  house  in  a  solitary 
:  court-yard,  we  are  not  likely  to  be  heard,  and  I  pray  for 
bodily  strength  to  keep  you  here,  while  every  minute 
you  are  here  is  worth  a  hundred  thousand  guineas  to  my 
!  darling,"  said  Miss  Pross. 

Madame  Defarge  made  at  the  door.    Miss  Pross,  on 
the  instinct  of  the  moment,  seized  her  round  the  waist 
j  in  both  her  arms,  and  held  her  tight.    It  Avas  in  vain 
j  for  Madame  Defarge  to  struggle  and  to  strike  ;  Miss 
I  Pross,  Avith  the  vigorous  tenacity  of  love,  always  so 
!  much  stronger  than  hate,  clasped  her  tight,  and  even 
lifted  her  from  the  floor  in  the  struggle  that  they  had. 
The  two  hands  of  Madame  Defarge  buffeted  and  tore  her 
face  ;  but.  Miss  Pross,  with  her  head  down,  held  her 
round  the  waist,  and  clung  to  her  with  more  than  the 
hold  of  a  drowning  woman. 

Soon,  Madame  Defarge's  hands  ceased  to  strike,  and 
felt  at  her  encircled  waist.  "  It  is  under  my  arm,"  said 
Miss  Pross,  in  smothered  tones,  "  you  shall  not  draw  it. 
I  am  stronger  than  you,  I  bless  Heaven  for  it,  I'll  hold 
you  till  one  or  other  of  us  faints  or  dies  ! " 


438 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Madame  Defarge's  hands  were  at  her  bosom.  Miss 
Pross  looked  up,  saw  what  it  was,  struck  at  it,  struck 
out  a  flash  and  a  crash,  and  stood  alone — blinded  with 
smoke.  * 

All  this  was  in  a  second.  As  the  smoke  cleared,  leav- 
ing an  awful  stillness,  it  passed  out  on  the  air,  like  the 
soul  of  the  furious  woman  whose  body  lay  lifeless  on 
the  ground. 

In  the  first  fright  and  horror  of  her  situation.  Miss 
Pross  passed  the  body  as  far  from  it  as  she  could,  and 
ran  down  the  stairs  to  call  for  fruitless  help.  Happily, 
she  bethought  herself  of  the  consequences  of  what  she 
did,  in  time  to  check  herself  and  go  back.  It  was  dread- 
ful to  go  in  at  the  door  again  ;  but,  she  did  go  in,  and 
even  went  near  it,  to  get  the  bonnet  and  other  things 
that  she  must  wear.  These  she  put  on,  out  on  the  stair- 
case, first  shutting  and  locking  the  door  and  taking  away 
the  key.  She  then  sat  doAvn  on  the  stairs  a  few  moments, 
to  breathe  and  to  cry,  and  then  got  up  and  hurried  away. 

By  good  fortune  she  had  a  veil  on  her  bonnet,  or  she 
could  hardly  have  gone  along  the  streets  without  being 
stopped.  By  good  fortune,  too,  she  was  naturally  so 
peculiar  in  appearance  as  not  to  show  disfigurement  like 
any  other  woman.  She  needed  both  advantages,  for  the 
marks  of  griping  fingers  were  deep  in  her  face,  and  her 
hair  was  torn,  and  her  dress  (hastily  composed  with  un- 
steady hands)  was  clutched  and  dragged  a  hundred 
ways. 

In  crossing  the  bridge,  she  dropped  the  door  key  in 
the  ri¥.€r.  Arriving  at  the  cathedral  some  few  minutes 
before  her  escort,  and  waiting  there,  she  thought,  what 
if  the  key  were  already  taken  in  a  net,  what  if  it  were 
identified,  what  if  the  door  were  opened  and  the  remains 
discovered,  what  if  she  were  stopped  at  the  gate,  sent  to 
prison,  and  charged  with  murder  !  In  the  midst  of  these 
fluttering  thoughts,  the  escort  appeared,  took  her  in, 
and  took  her  away. 

"  Is  there  any  noise,  in  the  streets?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  The  usual  noises,"  Mr.  Cruncher  replied ;  and 
looked  surprised  by  the  question  and  by  her  aspect. 

"  I  don't  hear  you,"  said  Miss  Pross.  What  do  you 
say  ?" 

it  was  in  vain  for  Mr.  Cruncher  to  repeat  what  he 
said  :  Miss  Pross  could  not  hear  him.  ' '  So  I'll  nod  my 
head,"  thought  Mr.  Cruncher,  amazed,  "  at  all  events 
she'll  see  that,"  And  she  did. 

"  Is  there  any  noise  in  the  streets  now  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Pross  again,  presently. 

Again  Mr.  Cruncher  nodded  his  head. 

"  I  don't  hear  it." 

"  Gone  deaf  in  an  hour  ?  "  said  Mr,  Cruncher,  ruminat- 
ing, with  his  mind  much  disturbed  ;  "  wot's  come  to 
her  ?  " 

"I  feel,"  said  Miss  Pross,  "as  if  there  had  been  a 
flash  and  a  crash,  and  that  crash  was  the  last  thing  I 
should  ever  hear  in  this  life." 

"  Blest  if  she  ain't  in  a  queer  condition!"  said  Mr. 
Cruncher,  more  and  more  disturbed.  "Wot  can  she 
have  been  a  takin',  to  keep  her  courage  up?  Hark  ! 
There's  the  roll  of  them  dreadful  carts  !  You  can  hear 
that,  miss?" 

"  I  can  hear,"  said  Miss  Pross,  seeing  that  he  spoke  to 
her,  "  nothing.  O,  my  good  man,  there  was  first  a  great 
crash,  and  then  a  great  stillness,  and  that  stillness 
seems  to  be  fixed  and  unchangeable,  never  to  be  broken 
any  more  as  long  as  my  life  lasts." 

"  If  she  don't  hear  the  roll  of  those  dreadful  carts, 
now  very  nigh  their  journey's  end,"  said  Mr.  Cruncher, 
glancing  over  his  shoulder,  "  it's  my  o])inion  that  indeed 
she  never  will  hear  anything  else  in  this  world." 

And  indeed  she  never  did. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  FocjUteps  Die  out  for  Ever. 

Along  the  Paris  streets,  the  death-carts  rumble,  hol- 
low and  harsh.  Six  tumbrils  carry  the  day's  wine  to 
La  Guillotine.  All  the  devouring  and  insatiate  Mon- 
sters imagined  since  imagination  could  record  itself,  are 


fused  in  the  one  realisation.  Guillotine.  And  yet  there 
is  not  in  France,  with  its  rich  variety  of  soil  and  climate, 
a  blade,  a  leaf,  a  root,  a  sprig,  a  peppercorn,  which  will 
grow  to  maturity  under  conditions  more  certain  than 
those  that  have  produced  this  horror.  Crush  humanity 
out  of  shape  once  more,  under  similar  hammers,  and  it 
will  twist  itself  into  the  same  tortured  forms.  Sow  the 
same  seed  of  rapacious  licence  and  oppression  ever  again, 
and  it  will  surely  yield  the  same  fruit  according  to  its 
kind. 

Six  tumbrils  roll  along  the  streets.  Change  these 
back  again  to  what  they  were,  thou  powerful  enchanter, 
Time,  and  they  shall  be  seen  to  be  the  carriages  of  abso- 
lute monarchs,  the  equipages  of  feudal  nobles,  the  toi- 
lettes of  flaring  Jezabels,  the  churches  that  are  not  my 
father's  house  but  dens  of  thieves,  the  huts  of  millions 
of  starving  peasants  !  No  ;  the  great  magician  who 
m,ajestically  works  out  the  appointed  order  of  the  Crea- 
tor, never  reverses  his  transformations.  "If  thou  be 
changed  into  this  shape  by  the  will  of  God,"  say  the 
seers  to  the  enchanted,  in  the  wise  Arabian  stories, 
"  then  remain  so  !  But,  if  thou  wear  this  form  through 
mere  passing  conjuration,  then  resume  thy  former  as- 
pect !  "  Changeless  and  hopeless,  the  tumbrils  roll  along. 

As  the  sombre  wheels  of  the  six  carts  go  round,  they 
seem  to  plow  up  a  long  crooked  furrow  among  the  pop- 
ulace in  the  streets.  Ridges  of  faces  are  thrown  to 
this  side  and  to  that,  and  the  ploughs  go  steadiW  oiv 
ward.  So  used  are  the  regular  inhabitants  of  the  h 
to  the  spectacle,  that  in  many  windows  there  are  nj 
pie,  and  in  some  the  occupations  of  the  hands  are 
much  as  suspended,  while  the  eyes  survey  the  faces] 
tumbrils.  Here  and  there,  the  inmate  has  visitors/ 
the  sight  ;  then  he  points  his  finger,  with  somethj 
the  complacency  of  a  curator  or  authorised  expOnc 
this  cart  and  to  this,  and  seems  to  tell  who  sat| 
yesterday,  and  who  there  the  day  before. 

Of  the  riders  in  the  tumbrils,  some  observe 
things,  and  all  things  on  their  last  roadside,  with  r| 
passive  stare;  others,  with  a  lingering  interest  i] 
ways  of  life  and  men.  Some,  seated  with  dro^ 
heads,  are  sunk  in  silent  despair  ;  again,  there  are  S(5!l!f 
so  heedful  of  their  looks  that  they  cast  upon  the  multi- 
tude such  glances  as  they  have  seen  in  theatres,  and  in 
pictures.  Several  close  "their  eyes,  and  think,  or  try  to 
get  their  straying  thoughts  together.  Only  one,  and  he 
a  miserable  creature  of  a  crazed  aspect,  is  so  shattered 
and  made  drunk  by  horror  that  he  sings,  and  tries  to 
dance.  Not  one  of  the  whole  number  appeals,  by  look 
or  gesture,  to  the  pity  of  the  people. 

There  is  a  guard  of  sundry  horsemen  riding  abreast  of 
the  tumbrils,  and  faces  are  often  turned  up  to  some  of 
them  and  they  are  asked  some  question.  It  would  seem 
to  be  always  the  same  question,  for,  it  is  always  followed 
by  a  press  of  people  towards  the  third  cart.  The  horse- 
men abreast  of  that  cart,  frequently  point  out  one  man 
in  it  with  their  swords.  The  leading  curiosity  is,  to 
know  which  is  he  ;  he  stands  at  the  back  of  the  tumbril 
with  his  head  bent  down,  to  converse  with  a  mere  girl 
who  sits  on  the  side  of  the  cart,  and  holds  his  hand. 
He  has  no  curiosity  or  care  for  the  scene  about  him,  and 
always  speaks  to  'the  girl.  Here  and  there  in  a  long 
Street  of  St.  Honore,  cries  are  raised  against  him.  If 
they  moved  him  at  all,  it  is  only  to  a  quiet  smile,  as  he 
shakes  his  hair  a  little  more  loosely  about  his  face.  He 
cannot  easily  touch  his  face,  his  arms  being  bound. 

On  the  steps  of  a  church,  awaiting  the  coming- up  of 
the  tumbrils,  stands  the  spy  and  prison-sheep.  He  looks 
into  the  first  of  them  :  not  there.  He  looks  into  the  sec- 
ond :  not  there.  He  already  asks  himself,  "  Has  he  sac- 
rificed me?"  when  his  face  clears,  as  he  looks  into  the 
third. 

"  Which  is  Evremonde?  "  said  a  man  behind  him.  j 
"  That.   At  the  back  there." 
"  With  his  hand  in  the  girl's  ?  " 
"Yes." 

The  man  cries,  "  Down,  Evremonde  I    To  the  Guil- 
lotine all  aristocrats  !    Down,  Evremonde  !  " 
"  Hush,  hush  I  "  the  spy  entreats  him,  timidly, 
"  And  why  not,  citizen?  " 

"  He  is  going  to  pay  the  forfeit  ;  it  will  be  paid  in  five 
minutes  more.    Let  him  be  at  peace." 


THE  THIRD  TUMBREL. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVEKSITK  Of  ILLINOIS 


A  TALE  OF 

But,  the  man  continuing  to  exclaim,  "  Down,  Evre- 
monde  !  "  the  face  of  Evremonde  is  for  a  moment  turned 
towards  liim.  Evremonde  then  sees  the  spy,  and  looks 
attentively  at  him,  and  goes  his  way. 

The  clocks  are  on  the  stroke  of  three,  and  the  furrow 
ploughed  among  the  populace  is  turning  round,  to  come 
on  into  the  place  of  execution,  and  end.  The  ridges 
thrown  to  this  side  and  to  that,  now  crumble  in  and 
close  behind  the  last  plough  as  it  passes  on,  for  all  are 
following  to  the  Guillotine.  In  front  of  it,  seated  in 
chairs  as  in  a  garden  of  public  diversion,-  are  a  number 
of  women,  busily  knitting.  On  one  of  the  foremost  chairs, 
stands  The  Vengeance,  looking  about  for  her  friend. 

"  Therese  !  "  she  cries,  in  her  shrill  tones.  "Who  has 
seen  her  ?   Therese  Def arge  ! ' ' 

"  She  never  missed  before,"  says  a  knitting- woman  of 
the  sisterhood. 

"No  ;  nor  will  she  miss  now,"  cries  The  Vengeance, 
petulantly.  "Therese." 

"Louder,"  the  woman  recommends. 

Ay  !  Louder,  Vengeance,  much  louder,  and  still 
she  will  scarcely  hear  thee.  Louder  yet,  Vengeance, 
with  a  little  oath  or  so  added,  and  yet  it  will  hardly 
bring  her.  Send  other  women  up  and  down  to  seek  her, 
lingering  somewhere  ;  and  yet,  although  the  messengers 
have  done  dread  deeds,  it  is  questionable  whether  of 
their  own  wills  they  will  go  far  enough  to  find  her  ! 

"Bad  Fortune  !"  cries  The  Vengeance,  stamping  her 
foot  in  the  chair,  "and  here  are  the  tumbrils  !  And 
Evremonde  will  be  despatched  in  a  wink,  and  she  not 
here  !  See  her  knitting  in  my  hand,  and  her  empty 
Chair  ready  for  her.  I  cry  with  vexation  and  disappoint- 
ment ! " 

As  The  Vengeance  descends  from  her  elevation  to  do 
it,  the  tumbrils  begin  to  discharge  their  loads.  The 
ministers  of  Sainte  Guillotine  are  robed  and  ready.  Crash ! 
— a  head  is  held  up,  and  the  knitting- women  who  scarce- 
ly lifted  their  eyes  to  look  at  it  a  moment  ago  when  it 
could  think  and  speak,  count  One. 

The  second  tumbril  empties  and  moves  on  ;  the  third 
comes  up.  Crash  ! — And  the  knitting- women,  never  fal- 
tering or  pausing  in  their  work,  count  Two. 

The  supposed  Evremonde  descends,  and  the  seamstress 
is  lifted  out  next  after  him.  He  has  not  relinquished 
her  patient  hand  in  getting  out,  but  still  holds  it  as  he 
promised.  He  gently  places  her  with  her  back  to  the 
crashing  engine  that  constantly  whirrs  up  and  falls,  and 
she  looks  into  his  face  and  thanks  him. 

"But  for  you,  dear  stranger,  I  should  not  be  so  com- 
posed, for  I  am  naturally  a  poor  little  thing,  faint  of 
heart ;  nor  should  I  have  been  able  to  raise  my  thoughts 
to  Him  who  was  put  to  death,  that  we  might  have  hope 
and  comfort  here  to-day.  I  think  you  were  sent  to  me 
by  Heaven." 

"Or  you  to  me,"  says  Sydney  Carton.  "Keep  your 
eyes  upon  me,  dear  child,  and  mind  no  other  object." 

"  I  mind  nothing  while  I  hold  your  hand.  I  shall 
mind  nothing  when  I  let  it  go,  if  they  are  rapid." 

"  They  will  be  rapid.    Fear  not  !  " 

The  two  stand  in  the  fast- thinning  throng  of  victims, 
but  they  speak  as  if  they  were  alone.  Eye  to  eye,  voice 
to  voice,  hand  to  hand,  heart  to  heart,  these  two'children 
of  the  Universal  Mother,  else  so  wide  apart  and  differing, 
have  come  together  on  the  dark  highway,  to  repair  home 
together  and  to  rest  in  her  bosom. 

"  Brave  and  generous  friend,  will  you  let  me  ask  you 
one  last  question  ?  I  am  very  ignorant,  and  it  troubles 
me — just  a  little." 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is." 

**  I  have  a  cousin,  an  only  relative  and  an  orphan,  like 
myself,  whom  I  love  very  dearly.  She  is  five  years 
younger  than  I,  and  she  lives  in  a  farmer's  house  in  the 
south  country.  Poverty  parted  us,  and  she  knows  noth- 
ing of  my  fate — for  I  cannot  write — and  if  I  could,  how 
should  I  tell  her  !    It  is  better  as  it  is." 

"Yes,  yes  :  better  as  it  is." 

"  What  I  have  been  thinking  as  we  came  along,  and 
what  I  am  still  thinking  now,  as  I  look  into  your  kind 
strong  face  which  gives  me  so  much  support,  is  this  : — 


TWO  CITIES.  439 

If  the  Republic  really  does  good  to  the  poor,  and  they 
come  to  be  less  hungry,  and  in  all  ways  to  suffer  less, 
she  may  live  a  long  time  ;  she  may  even  live  to  be  old." 
"  What  then,  my  gentle  sister?  " 

"  Do  you  think  :  "  the  uncomplaining  eyes  in  which 
there  is  so  much  endurance,  fill  with  tears,  and  the  lips 
part  a  little  more  and  tremlale  :  "  that  it  will  seem  long 
to  me,  while  I  wait  for  her  in  the  better  land  where  I 
trust  both  you  and  I  will  be  mercifully  sheltered  ?  " 

"  It  cannot  be,  my  child  ;  there  is  no  Time  there,  and 
no  trouble  there." 

"  You  comfort  me  so  much  !  I  am  so  ignorant.  Am 
I  to  kiss  you  now  ?    Is  the  moment  come  ?  " 

"Yes." 

She  kisses  his  lips  ;  he  kisses  hers  ;  they  solemnly 
bless  each  other.  The  spare  hand  does  not  tremble  as 
he  releases  it  ;  nothing  worse  than  a  sweet,  bright  con- 
stancy is  in  the  patient  face.  She  goes  next  before  him 
— is  gone  ;  the  knitting-women  count  Twenty  Two. 

"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord  : 
he  that  belie veth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall 
he  live  :  and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall 
never  die." 

The  murmuring  of  many  voices,  the  upturning  of 
many  faces,  the  pressing  on  of  many  footsteps  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  crowd,  so  that  it  swells  forward  in  a  mass, 
like  one  great  heave  of  water,  all  flashes  away.  Twenty- 
Three. 


They  said  of  him,  about  the  city  that  night,  that  it 
was  the  peacefullest  man's  face  ever  beheld  there.  Many 
added  that  he  looked  sublime  and  prophetic. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  sufferers  by  the  same  axe — 
a  woman — had  asked  at  the  foot  of  the  same  scaffold,  not 
long  before,  to  be  allowed  to  write  down  the  thoughts 
that  were  inspiring  her.  If  he  had  given  any  utterance 
to  his,  and  they  were  prophetic,  they  would  have  been 
these  : 

"I  see  Barsad,  and  Cly,  Defarge,  The  Vengeance,  the 
Juryman,  the  Judge,  long  ranks  of  the  new  oppressors 
who  have  risen  on  the  destruction  of  the  old,  perishing 
by  this  retributive  instrument,  before  it  shall  cease  out 
of  its  present  use.  I  see  a  beautiful  city  and  a  brilliant 
people  rising  from  this  abyss,  and,  in  their  struggles  to 
be  truly  free,  in  their  triumphs  and  defeats,  through  long 
long  years  to  come,  I  see  the  evil  of  this  time  and  of  the 
previous  time  of  which  this  is  the  natural  birth,  grad- 
ually making  expiation  for  itself  and  wearing  out. 

"  I  see  the  lives  for  which  I  lay  down  my  life,  peace- 
ful, useful,  prosperous  and  happy,  in  that  England 
which  I  shall  see  no  more.  I  see  Her  with  a  child  upon 
her  bosom,  who  bears  my  name.  I  see  her  father,  aged 
and  bent,  but  otherwise  restored,  and  faithful  to  all  men 
in  his  healing  office,  and  at  peace.  I  see  the  good  old 
man,  so  long  their  friend,  in  ten  year's  time  enriching 
them  with  all  he  has,  and  passing  tranquilly  to  his  re- 
ward. 

"I  see  that  I  hold  a  sanctuary  in  their  hearts,  and  in 
the  hearts  of  their  descendants,  generations  hence.  I 
see  her,  an  old  woman,  weeping  for  me  on  the  anniver- 
sary of  this  day.  I  see  her  and  her  husband,  their 
course  done,  lying  side  by  side  in  their  last  earthly  bed, 
and  I  know  that  each  was  not  more  honoured  and 
held  sacred  in  the  other's  soul,  than  I  was  in  the  souls 
of  both. 

"I  see  that  child  who  lay  upon  her  bosom  and  who 
bore  my  name,  a  man,  winning  his  way  up  in  that  path 
of  life  which  once  was  mine.  I  see  him  winning  it  so 
well,  that  my  name  is  made  illustrious  there  by  the  light 
of  his.  I  see  the  blots  I  threw  upon  it,  . faded  away.  I 
see  him,  foremost  of  just  judges  and  honoured  men, 
bringing  a  boy  of  my  name,  with  a  forehead  that  I  know 
and  golden  hair,  to  this  place— then  fair  to  look  upon, 
with  not  a  trace  of  this  day's  disfigurement— and  I  hear 
hiai  tell  the  child  my  story,  with  a  tender  and  a  falter- 
ing voice. 

"  It  is  a  far,  far  better  thing  that  I  do,  than  I  have 
ever  done  ;  it  is  a  far,  far  better  rest  that  I  go  to,  than 
I  have  ever  known." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


PREFACE. 

I  MAKE  SO  bold  as  to  believe  that  the  faculty  (or  the 
habit)  of  closely  and  carefully  observing  the  charactery 
of  men,  is  a  rare  one.  I  have  not  even  found,  within 
my  experience,  that  the  faculty  (or  the  habit)  of  closels 
and  carefully  observing  so  much  as  the  faces  of  men,  is 
a  general  one  by  any  means.  The  two  commonest  mis- 
takes in  judgment  that  1  suppose  to  arise  from  the 
former  default,  are,  the  confounding  of  shyness  with 
arrogance,  and  the  not  understanding  that  an  obstinate 
nature  exists  in  a  perpetual  struggle  with  itself. 

Mr.  Dombey  undergoes  no  violent  internal  change, 
either  in  this  book,  or  in  life.  A  sense  of  his  injustice 
is  within  him  all  along.  The  more  he  represses  it,  the 
more  unjust  he  necessarily  is.  Internal  shame  and  ex- 
ternal circumstances  may  bring  the  contest  to  the  sur- 
face in  a  week,  or  a  day  ;  but,  it  has  been  a  contest  for 
years,  and  is  only  fought  out  after  a  long  balance  of 
victory. 

Years  have  elapsed  since  I  dismissed  Mr.  Dombey.  I 
have  not  been  impatient  to  offer  this  critical  remark 
upon  him,  and  I  offer  it  with  some  confidence. 

I  began  this  book  by  the  lake  of  Geneva,  and  went  on 
with  it  for  some  months  in  France.  The  association  be- 
tween the  writing  and  the  place  of  writing  is  so  curiously 
strong  in  my  mind,  that  at  this  day,  although  I  know 
every  stair  in  the  little  Midshipman's  house,  and  could 
swear  to  every  pew  in  the  church  in  which  Florence  was 
married,  or  to  every  young  gentleman's  bedstead  in 
Doctor  Blimber's  establishment,  I  yet  confusedly  imagine 
Captain  Cuttle  as  secluding  himself  from  Mrs.  MacStin- 
ger  among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland.  Similarly, 
when  I  am  reminded  by  any  chance  of  what  it  was  that 
the  waves  were  always  saying,  I  wander  in  my  fancy  for 
a  whole  night  about  the  streets  of  Paris — as  I  really  did, 
with  a  heavy  heart,  on  the  night  when  my  little  friend 
and  I  parted  company  for  ever. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Dombey  and  Son. 

Dombey  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  darkened  room  in  the 
great  arm-chair  by  the  bedside,  and  Son  lay  tucked  up 
warm  in  a  little  basket  bedstead,  carefully  disposed  on 
a  low  settee  immediately  in  front  of  the  fire  and  close 
to  it,  as  if  his  constitution  were  analogous  to  that  of  a 
muffin,  and  it  was  essential  to  toast  him  brown  while  he 
was  very  new. 

Dombey  was  about  eight-and-forty  years  of  age.  Son 
about  eight-and  -forty  minutes.  Dombey  was  rather  bald, 
rather  red,  and  though  a  handsome  well-made  man,  too 
stem  and  pompous  in  appearance,  to  be  prepossessing. 
Son  was  very  bald,  and  very  red,  and  though  (of  course) 
an  undeniably  fine  infant,  somewhat  crushed  and  spotty 
in  his  general  effect  as  yet.  On  the  brow  of  Dombey, 
Time  and  his  brother  Care  had  set  some  marks,  as  on  a 
tree  that  was  to  come  down  in  good  time — remorseless 
twins  they  are  for  striding  through  their  human  forests, 
notching  as  they  go— while  the  countenance  of  Son  was 
crossed  and  re-crossed  with  a  thousand  little  creases, 
which  the  same  deceitful  Time  would  take  delight  in 
smoothing  out  and  wearing  away  with  the  flat  part  of  his 
scythe,  as  a  preparation  of  the  surface  for  his  deeper 
operations. 

Domboy,  exulting  in  the  long-looked-for  event,  jingled 
and  jingled  the  heavy  gold  watch-chain  that  depended 
frow  below  his  trim  blue  coat,  whereof  the  buttons 


sparkled  phosphorescently  in  the  feeble  rays  of  the 
distant  fire.  Son,  with  his  little  fists  curled  up  and 
clenched,  seemed,  in  his  feeble  way,  to  be  squaring  at 
existence  for  having  come  upon  him  so  unexpectedly. 

"The  house  will  once  again,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  "  be  not  only  in  name  but  in  fact  Dombey  and 
Son  ;  Dom-bey  and  Son  ! " 

The  words  had  such  a  softening  influence,  that  he  ap- 
pended a  term  of  endearment  to  Mrs.  Dombey 's  name 
(though  not  without  some  hesitation,  as  being  a  man  but 
little  used  to  that  form  of  address)  :  and  said,  "Mrs. 
Dombey,  my — my  dear." 

A  transient  flush  of  faint  surprise,  overspread  the  sick 
lady's  face  as  she  raised  her  eyes  towards  him. 

"  He  will  be  christened  Paul,  my — Mrs.  Dombey — of 
course. " 

She  feebly  echoed,  *'  Of  course,"  or  rather  expressed 
it  by  the  motion  of  her  lips,  and  closed  her  eyes  again. 

"  His  father's  name,  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  his  grand- 
father's I  I  wish  his  grandfather  were  alive  this  day  ! " 
And  again  he  said  "  Dom-bey  and  Son,"  in  exactly  the 
same  tone  as  before. 

Those  three  words  conveyed  the  one  idea  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  life.  The  earth  was  made  for  Dombey  and  Son 
to  trade  in,  and  the  sun  and  moon  were  made  to  give 
them  light.  Rivers  and  seas  were  formed  to  float  their 
ships  ;  rainbows  gave  them  promise  of  fair  weather  : 
winds  blew  for  or  against  their  enterprises  ;  stars  and 
planets  circled  in  their  orbits,  to  preserve  inviolate  a 
system  of  which  they  were  the  centre.  Common  abbre- 
viations took  new  meanings  in  his  eyes,  and  had  sole 
reference  to  them.  A.  D.  had  no  concern  with  anno 
Domini,  but  sood  for  anno  Dombei— and  Son. 

He  had  risen,  as  his  father  had  before  him,  in  the 
course  of  life  and  death,  from  Son  to  Dombey,  and  for 
nearly  twenty  years  had  been  the  sole  representative  of 
the  firm.    Of  those  years  he  had  been  married,  ten — 
married,  as  some  said,  to  a  lady  with  no  heart  to  give 
him  ;  whose  happiness,  was  in  the  past,  and  who  was 
i  content  to  bind  her  broken  spirit  to  the  dutiful  and  meek 
I  endurance  of  the  present.    Such  idle  talk  was  little  like- 
ly to  reach  the  ears  of  Mr.  Dombey,  whom  it  nearly  con- 
cerned ;  and  probably  no  one  in  the  world  would  have 
received  it  with  such  utter  incredulity  as  he,  if  it  had 
reached  him.    Dombey  and  Son  had  often  dealt  in 
hides,  but  never  in  hearts.    They  left  that  fancy  ware  to 
boys  and  girls,  and  boarding-schools  and  books.  Mr. 
Dombey  would  have  reasoned  :  That  a  matrimonial  alli- 
ance with  himself  must,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  grati- 
fying and  honourable  to  any  woman  of  common  sense. 
That  the  hope  of  giving  birth  to  a  new  partner  in  such  a 
house,  could  not  fail  to  awaken  a  glorious  and  stirring 
ambition  in  the  breast  of  the  least  ambitious  of  her  sex. 
That  Mrs.  Dombey  had  entered  on  that  social  contract  of 
matrimony  :   almost  necessarily  part  of  a  genteel  and 
wealthy  station,  even  without  reference  to  the  perpetua- 
tion of  family  firms  :  with  her  eyes  fully  open  to  these 
advantages.    That  Mrs.  Dombey*  had  had  daily  practical 
knowledge  of  his  position  in  society.    That  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey had  always  sat  at  the  head  ol  his  table,  and  done 
the  honours  of  his  house  in  a  remarkably  lady-like  and 
becoming  manner.    That  Mrs.  Dombey  must  have  been 
happy.    That  she  couldn't  help  it. 

Or,  at  all  events,  with  one  drawback.  Yes.  That  he 
would  have  allowed.  With  only  one  ;  but  that  one 
certainly  involving  much.  They  had  been  married  ten 
years,  and  until  this  present  day  on  which  Mr.  Dombey 
sat  jingling  and  jingling  his  heavy  gold  watch-chain  in 
the  great  arm-chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  had  had  no 
issue, 

— To  speak  of ;  none  worth  mentioning.    There  had 

441 


442 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


been  a  girl  some  six  years  before,  and  the  cliild,  wlio  had 
stolen  into  the  chamber  unobserved,  was  now  crouching 
timidly,  in  a  corner  whence  she  could  see  her  mother's 
face.  But  what  was  a  girl  to  Dombey  and  Son  !  In  the 
capital  of  the  House's  name  and  dignity,  such^  a  child 
was  merely  a  piece  of  base  coin  that  couldn't  be  invested 
— a  bad  boy — nothing  more.  ; 

Mr.  Donibey's  cup  of  satisfaction  was  so  full  at  this 
moment,  however,  that  he  felt  he  could  afford  a  drop  or 
two  of  its  contents,  even  to  sprinkle  on  the  dust  in  the 
by-path  of  his  little  daughter. 

So  he  said,  "Florence,  you  may  go  and  look  at  your 
pretty  brother,  if  you  like,  I  dare  say.  Don't  touch 
iiim  ! " 

The  child  glanced  keenly  at  the  blue  coat  and  stiff 
white  cravat,  which,  with  a  pair  of  creaking  boots  and  a 
very  loud-ticking  watch,  embodied  her  idea  of  a  father  ; 
but  her  eyes  returned  to  her  mother's  face  immediately, 
and  she  neither  moved  nor  answered. 

Next  moment,  the  lady  had  opened  her  eyes  and  seen 
the  child  ;  and  the  child  had  run  towards  her  ;  and, 
standing  on  tiptoe,  the  better  to  hide  her  face  in  her 
embrace,  had  clung  about  her  with  a  desperate  affection 
very  much  at  variance  with  her  years. 

*'  Oh  Lord  bless  me  !"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  testily. 
"  A  very  ill-advised  and  feverish  proceeding  this,  I  am 
sure.  I  had  better  ask  Dr.  Peps  if  he'll  have  the  good- 
ness to  step  up-stairs  again  perhaps.  I'll  go  down.  I'll 
go  down.  I  needn't  beg  you,"  he  added,  pausing  for  a 
moment  at  the  settee  before  the  fire,  "  to  take  particiilar 
care  of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  " 

"Blockitt,  sir?"  suggested  the  nurse,  a  simpering 
piece  of  faded  gentility,  who  did  not  presume  to  state  her 
name  as  a  fact,  but  merely  offered  it  as  a  mild  sugges- 
tion. 

"Of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  Blockitt." 
"No  sir,  indeed.     I  remember  when  Miss  Florence 
was  born — " 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  bending  over  the 
basket  bedstead,  and  slightly  bending  his  brows  at  the 
same  time.  "Miss  Florence  was  all  very  well,  but  this 
is  another  matter.  This  young  gentleman  has  to  accom- 
plish a  destiny.  A  destiny,  little  fellow  ! "  As  he  thus 
apostrophised  the  infant  he  raised  one  of  his  hands  to 
his  lips,  and  kissed  it  ;  then,  seeming  to  fear  that  the 
action  involved  some  compromise  of  his  dignity,  went, 
awkwardly  enough,  away. 

Doctor  Parker  Peps,  one  of  the  court  physicians,  and 
a  man  of  immense  reputation  for  assisting  at  the  increase 
of  great  families,  was  walking  up  and  down  the  draw- 
ing-room with  his  hands  behind  him,  to  the  unspeakable 
admiration  of  the  family  surgeon,  who  had  regularly 
puffed  the  case  for  the  last  six  weeks,  among  all  his 
patients,  friends,  and  acquaintances,  as  one  to  which  he 
was  in  hourly  expectation  day  and  night  of  being  sum- 
moned, in  conjunction  with  Doctor  Parker  Peps. 

"  Well  sir,"  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps  in  a  round,  deep, 
sonorous  voice,  muffled  for  the  occasion,  like  the 
knocker;  "do  you  find  that  your  dear  lady  is  at  all 
roused  by  your  visit? " 

"  Stimulated  as  it  were? "  said  the  family  practitioner 
faintly:  bowing  at  the  same  time  to  the  doctor,  as  much 
as  to  say  "  Excuse  my  putting  in  a  word,  but  this  is  a 
valuable  connexion." 

Mr.  Dombey  was  quite  discomfitted  by  the  question. 
He  had  thought  so  little  of  the  patient,  that  he  was  not 
in  a  condition  to  answer  it.  lie  said  that  it  would  be  a 
satisfaction  to  him,  if  Doctor  Parker  Peps  would  walk 
up-stairs  again. 

"  Good  !  We  must  not  disguise  from  you,  sir,"  said 
Doctor  Parker  Peps,  "that  there  is  a  want  of  power  in 
Her  Grace  the  Duchess— I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  confound 
names  ;  I  should  say,  in  your  amiable  lady.  That  there 
is  a  certain  degre(3  of  languor,  and  a  general  absence  of 
elasticity,  whicii  we  would  rather — not — " 

"  See,"  interposed  the  family  i)ractiLioner  with  another 
inclination  of  tlie  head. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  "which  we 
would  rather  not  see.  It  would  appear  that  the  system 
of  Lady  Cankaby — excuse  me  :  I  should  say  of  Mrs. 
Dombey  :  I  confuse  the  names  of  cases — " 

"So  very  numerous."  murmured  the  family  practi- 


tioner— "  can't  be  expected  I'm  sure — quite  wonderful  if 
otherwise — Doctor  Parker  Peps's  west-end  practice — " 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  doctor,  "quite  so.  It  would 
appear,  I  was  observing,  that  the  system  of  our  patient 
has  sustained  a  shock  from  which  it  can  only  hope  to 
rally  by  a  great  and  strong — " 

"  And  vigorous/'  murmured  the  family  practitioner. 

"Quite  so,"  assented  the  doctor — "and  vigorous  ef- 
1  fort.    Mr.  Pilkins  here,  who  from  his  position  of  medi- 
cal adviser  in  this  family — no  one  better  qualified  to  fill 
that  position,  I  am  sure." 

"Oh  !  "  murmured  the  family  practitioner.  "  *  Praise 
from  Sir  Hubert  Stanley  ! 

"  You  are  good  enough,"  returned  Doctor  Parker  Peps, 
"to  say  so.  Mr.  Pilkins,  who,  from  his  position,  is  best 
j  acquainted  with  the  patient's  constitution  in  its  normal 
state  (an  acquaintance  very  valuable  to  us  in  forming  our 
opinions  on  these  occasions),  is  of  opinion  with  me,  that 
Nature  must  be  called  upon  to  make  a  vigorous  effort  in 
this  instance  ;  and  that  if  our  interesting  friend  the 
Countess  of  Dombey — I  heg  your  pardon  !  Mrs.  Dombey 
— should  not  be — " 

"  Able,"  said  the  family  practitioner. 

"  To  make  that  effort  successfully,"  said  Doctor  Parker 
Peps,  "then  a  crisis  might  arise,  which  we  should  both 
sincerely  deplore." 

With  that,  they  stood  for  a  few  seconds  looking  at  the 
ground.  Then,  on  the  motion — made  in  dumb  show — of 
Doctor  Parker  Peps,  they  went  up-stairs  ;  the  family- 
practitioner  opening  the  room  door  for  that  distinguished 
professional,  and  following  him  out  with  most  ol3sequi- 
ous  politeness. 

To  record  of  Mr.  Dombey  that  he  was  not  in  his  way- 
affected  by  this  intelligence,  would  be  to  do  him  an  in- 
justice. He  was  not  a  man  of  whom  it  could  properly  be 
said  that  he  was  ever  startled  or  shocked  ;  but  he  cer- 
\  tainly  had  a  sense  within  him,  that  if  his  wife  should 
sicken  and  decay,  he  would  be  very  sorry,  and  that  he 
would  find  a  something  gone  from  among  his  plate  and 
furniture,  and  other  household  possessions,  which  was 
well  worth  the  having,  and  could  not  be  lost  without 
sincere  regret.  Though  it  would  be  a  cool,  business- 
like, gentlemanly,  self-possessed  regret,  no  doubt. 

His  meditations  on  the  subject  were  soon  interrupted, 
I  first  by  the  rustling  of  garments  on  the  staircase,  and 
i  then  by  the  sudden  whisking  into  the  room  of  a  lady 
i  rather  past  the  middle  age  than  otherwise,  but  dressed 
i  in  a  very  juvenile  manner,  particularly  as  to  the  tight- 
I  ness  of  her  boddice,  who,  running  up  to  him  with  a  kind 
of  screw  in  her  face  and  carriage,  expressive  of  sup- 
pressed emotion,  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  said 
in  a  choking  voice, 

"  My  dear  Paul  !    He's  quite  a  Dombey  ! " 

"  Well,  well  !"  returned  her  brother — for  Mr.  Dombey 
was  her  brother — "I  think  he  is  like  the  family.  Don't 
agitate  yourself,  Louisa." 

"It's  very  foolish  of  me,"  said  Louisa,  sitting  down, 
and  taking  out  her  pocket-handkerchief,  "  but  he's — he's 
such  a  perfect  Dombey  !  /  never  saw  anything  like  it 
in  my  life  !  " 

"But  what  is  this  about  Fanny,  herself?"  said  Mr. 
Dombey.    ' '  How  is  Fanny  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  returned  Louisa,  "  it's  nothing  what- 
ever. Take  my  word,  it's  nothing  whatever.  There  is 
exhaustion,  certainly,  but  nothing  like  what  I  underwent 
myself,  either  with  George  or  Frederick.  An  effort  is 
necessary.  That's  all.  If  dear  Fanny  were  a  Dombey  ! 
— but  I  dare  say  she'll  make  it ;  I  have  no  doubt  she'll 
make  it.  Knowing  it  to  be  required  of  her,  as  a  duty, 
i  of  course  she'll  make  it.  My  dear  Paul,  it's  very  weak 
and  silly  of  me,  I  know,  to  be  so  trembly  and  shaky  from 
head  to  foot ;  but  I  am  so  very  queer  that  I  must  ask 
you  for  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  morsel  of  that  cake.  I 
thought  I  should  have  fallen  out  of  the  staircase  window 
as  I  came  down  from  seeing  dear  Fanny,  and  that  tiddy 
ickle  sing."  These  last  words  originated  in  a  sudden 
vivid  reminiscence  of  the  baby. 

They  were  succeeded  by  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door. 

"Mrs.  Chick," said  a  very  bland  female  voice  outside,, 
"how  are  you  now,  my  dear  friend  ?" 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  said  Louisa  in  a  low  voice,  as  she 
rose  from  her  seat,  "it's  Miss  Tox.    The  kindest  crea- 


DOMBEY  AND  BON, 


443 


ture  !  1  never  could  have  got  here  without  her  !  Miss 
Tox,  my  brother  Mr.  Dombey.  Paul  my  dear,  my  very 
particular  friend  Miss  Tox." 

The  lady  thus  specially  presented,  was  a  long  lean 
fig-ure,  wearing  such  a  faded  air  that  she  seemed  not  to 
have  been  made  in  what  linen-drapers  call  "  fast  colours  " 
originally,  and  to  have,  by  little  and  little,  washed  out. 
But  for  this  she  might  have  been  described  as  the  very 
pink  of  general  propitiation  and  politeness.  From  a  long 
habit  of  listening  admirably  to  everything  that  was  said 
in  her  presence,  and  looking  at  the  speakers  as  if  she 
were  mentally  engaged  in  taking  off  impressions  of  their 
images  upon  her  soul,  never  to  part  with  the  same  but 
with  life,  her  head  had  quite  settled  on  one  side.  Her 
hands  had  contracted  a  spasmodic  habit  of  raising  them- 
selves of  their  own  accord  as  in  involuntary  admiration. 
Her  eyes  were  liable  to  a  similar  affection.  She  had  the 
softest  voice  that  ever  was  heard ;  and  her  nose,  stu- 
pendously acquiline,  had  a  little  knob  in  the  very  centre 
or  keystone  of  the  bridge,  whence  it  tended  downwards 
towards  her  face,  as  in  an  invincible  determination  never 
to  turn  up  at  anything. 

Miss  Tox's  dress,  though  perfectly  genteel  and  good, 
had  a  certain  character  of  angularity  and  scantiness. 
She  was  accustomed  to  wear  odd  weedy  little  llowers  in 
her  bonnets  and  caps.  Strange  grasses  were  sometimes 
perceived  in  her  hair  ;  and  it  was  observed  by  the  curious, 
of  all  her  collars,  frills,  tuckers,  wristbands,  and  other  gos- 
samer articles — indeed  of  everything  she  wore  which  had 
two  ends  to  it  intended  to  unite — that  the  two  ends  were 
never  on  good  terms,  and  wouldn't  quite  meet  without  a 
struggle.  She  had  furry  articles  for  winter  wear,  as  tip- 
pets, boas,  and  muffs,  which  stood  up  on  end  in  a  ram- 
pant manner,  and  were  not  at  all  sleek.  She  was  much 
given  to  the  carrying  about  of  small  bags  with  snaps  to 
them,  that  went  off  like  little  pistols  when  they  were 
shut  up  ;  and  when  full-dressed,  she  wore  round  her 
neck  the  barrenest  of  lockets,  representing  a  fishy  old 
eye,  with  no  approach  to  speculation  in  it.  These  and 
other  appearances  of  a  similar  nature,  had  served  to  prop- 
agate the  opinion,  that  Miss  Tox  was  a  lady  of  what  is 
called  a  limited  independence,  which  she  turned  to  the 
best  account.  Possibly  her  mincing  gait  encouraged  the 
belief,  and  suggested  that  her  clipping  a  step  of  ordinary 
compass  into  two  or  three,  originated  in  her  habit  of  mak- 
ing the  most  of  everything. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  prodigious  curtsey, 
"  that  to  have  the  honour  of  being  presented  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey is  a  distinction  which  I  have  long  sought,  but  very 
little  expected  at  the  present  moment.  My  dear  Mrs. 
Chick — may  I  say  Louisa  ?  " 

Mrs.  Chick  took  Miss  Tox's  hand  in  hers,  rested  the 
foot  of  her  wine-glass  upon  it,  repressed  a  tear,  and  said 
in  a  low  voice  "  Bless  you  !  " 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  then,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  my  sweet 
friend,  how  are  you  now  ?  " 

"  Better,"  Mrs,  Chick  returned.  "Take  some  wine. 
You  have  been  almost  as  anxious  as  I  have  been,  and 
must  want  it,  I  am  sure." 

Mr.  Dombey  of  course  officiated. 

"Miss  Tox,  Paul/'  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  still  retaining 
her  hand,  "  knowing  how  much  I  have  been  interested 
in  the  anticipation  of  the  event  of  to-day,  has  been  work- 
ing at  a  little  gift  for  Fanny,  which  I  promised  to  present. 
It  is  only  a  pincushion  for  the  toilet  table,  Paul,  but  I  do 
say,  and  will  say,  and  must  say,  that  Miss  Tox  has  very 
])rottily  adapted  the  sentiment  to  the  occasion.  I  call 
*  Welcome  little  Dombey'  poetry,  mysetf  !  " 

"  Is  that  the  device  ?"  inquired  her  brother. 

"  That  is  the  device,"  returned  Louisa. 

"  But  do  me  the  justice  to  remember,  my  dear  Louisa," 
said  Miss  Tox  in  a  tone  of  low  and  earnest  entreaty,  "that 
nothing  but  the — I  have  some  difficulty  in  expressing  my- 
self— the  dubiousness  of  the  result  would  have  induced 
me  to  take  so  great  a  liberty  :  '  Welcome,  Master  Dom- 
bey,' would  have  been  much  more  congenial  to  my  feel- 
ings, as  I  am  sure  you  know.  But  the  uncertainty  at- 
tendant on  angelic  strangers,  will,  I  hope,  excuse  what 
must  otherwise  appear  an  unwarrantable  familiarity." 
Miss  Tox  made  a  graceful  bend  as  she  spoke,  in  favour 
of  Mr.  Dombey,  which  that  gentleman  graciously  ac- 
knowledged.   Even  the  sort  of  recognition  of  Dombey 


I  and  Son,  conveyed  in  the  foregoing  conversation,  was  so 
I)alatuble  to  him,  that  his  sister,  Mrs.  Chick— though  he 
affected  to  consider  her  a  weak  good-natured  jjerson — 

I  had  perhaps  more  influence  over  him  than  anybody  else. 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  sweet  smile,  "after 
this,  I  forgive  Fanny  everything  !  " 

I  It  was  a  declaration  in  a  Christian  spirit,  and  Mrs.  Chick 
i  felt  that  it  did  her  good.  Not  that  she  had  anything  par- 
j  ticular  to  forgive  in  her  sister-in-law,  nor  indeed  any- 
I  thing  at  all,  except  her  having  married  her  brother — in 
I  itself  a  species  of  audacity — and  her  having,  in  the  course 
j  of  events,  given  birth  to  a  girl  instead  of  a  boy:  which,  as 
i  Mrs.  Chick  had  frequently  observed,  was  not  quite  what 
I  she  had  expected  of  her,  and  was  not  a  pleasant  return  for 
I  all  the  attention  and  distinction  she  had  met  with, 
i  Mr.  Dombey  being  hastily  summoned  out  of  the  room 
at  this  moment,  the  two  ladies  were  left  alone  together, 
j  Miss  Tox  immediately  became  spasmodic. 
1  "  I  knew  you  would  admire  my  brother.  I  had  told 
I  you  so  beforehand,  my  dear,"  said  Louisa. 

Miss  Tox's  hands  and  eyes  expressed  how  much. 

"  And  as  to  his  property,  my  dear  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Miss  Tox,  with  deep  feeling. 

"  Im — mense  ! " 

"But  his  deportment,  my  dear  Louisa!"  said  Miss 
Tox.  "  His  presence  !  His  dignity  !  No  portrait  that 
I  have  ever  seen  of  any  one  has  been  half  so  replete  with 
those  qualities.  Something  so  stately,  you  know  :  so 
uncompromising  :  so  very  wdde  across  the  chest :  so  up- 
right !  A  pecuniary  Duke  of  York,  my  love,  and  noth- 
ing short  of  it  !  "  said  Miss  Tox.  "  That's  what  1  should 
designate  him." 

"Why,  my  dear  Paul  !"  exclaimed  his  sister,  as  he 
returned,  "  you  look  quite  pale  !  There's  nothing  the 
matter  ? " 

"lam  sorry  to  say,  Louisa,  that  they  tell  me  that 
Fanny — " 

"  Now,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  rising, 
"don't  believe  it.  If  j^ou  have  any  reliance  on  my  ex- 
perience, Paul,  you  may  rest  assured  that  there  is  noth- 
ing wanting  but  an  effort  on  Fanny's  part.  And  that 
effort,"  she  continued,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  and  ad- 
justing her  cap  and  gloves,  in  a  business-like  manner, 
"she  must  be  encouraged,  and  really,  if  necessary, 
urged  to  make.  Now,  my  dear  Paul,  come  up-stairs 
with  me." 

Mr.  Dombey,  who,  besides  being  generally  influenced 
by  his  sister  for  the  reason  already  mentioned,  had 
really  faith  in  her  as  an  experienced  and  bustling  matron, 
acquiesced  :  and  followed  her,  at  once,  to  the  sick  cham- 
ber. 

The  lady  lay  upon  her  bed  as  he  had  left  her,  clasp- 
ing her  little  daughter  to  her  breast.  The  child  clung 
close  about  her,  with  the  same  intensity  as  before,  and 
never  raised  her  head,  or  moved  her  soft  cheek  from  her 
mother's  face,  or  looked  on  those  who  stood  around,  or 
\  spoke,  or  moved,  or  shed  a  tear. 

:  "  Restless  without  the  little  girl,"  the  doctor  whis- 
j  pered  to  Mr.  Dombey.  "  We  found  it  best  to  have  her 
i  in  again." 

!  There  was  such  a  solemn  stillness  round  the  bed  ;  and 
,  the  two  medical  attendants  seemed  to  look  on  the  impas- 
I  sive  form  with  so  much  compassion  and  so  little  hope, 
:  that  Mrs.  Chick  was  for  the  moment  diverted  from  her 
:  purpose.  But  presently  summoning  courage,  and  what 
j  she  called  presence  of  mind,  she  sat  down  by  the  bed- 
side, and  said  in  the  low  precise  tone  of  one  who  en- 
deavours to  awaken  a  sleeper  : 
I     "  Fanny  !  Fanny  !  " 

[  There  was  no  sound  in  answer  but  the  loud  ticking  of 
,  Mr.  Dombey's  watch  and  Doctor  Parker  Peps's  watch, 
I  which  seemed  in  the  silence  to  be  running  a  race. 

"Fanny,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  assumed 
lightness,  "here's  Mr.  Dombey  come  to  see  you.  Won't 
you  speak  to  him  ?  They  want  to  lay  your  little  boy— 
the  baby,  Fanny,  you  know  ;  you  have  hardly  seen  him 
yet,  I  think— in  bed  ;  but  they  can't  till  you  rouse  your- 
self a  little.  Don't  you  think  it's  time  you  roused  your- 
self a  little  ?    Eh  ?  " 

She  bent  her  ear  to  the  bed,  and  listened  :  at  the  same 
time  looking  round  at  the  bystanders,  and  holding  up 
her  finger. 


444 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Eh  ?  "  she  repeated,  "  what  was  it  you  said,  Fanny  ? 
I  didn't  hear  you." 

No  word  or  sound  in  answer.  Mr.  Dombey's  watch, 
and  Dr.  Parker  Peps's  watch  seemed  to  be  racing  faster. 

Now,  really  Fanny  my  dear,"  said  the  sister-in-law, 
altering  her  position,  and  speaking  less  confidently,  and 
more  earnestly,  in  spite  of  herself,  "I  shall  have  to  be 
quite  cross  with  you,  if  you  don't  rouse  yourself.  It's 
necessary  for  you  to  make  an  effort,  and  perhaps  a  very 
great  and  painful  effort  which  you  are  not  disposed  to 
make  ;  but  this  is  a  world  of  effort  you  know,  Fanny, 
and  we  must  never  yield,  when  so  much  depends  upon 
us.  Come  !  Try  !  I  must  really  scold  you  if  you 
don't ! " 

The  race  in  the  ensuing  pause  was  fierce  and  furious. 
The  watches  seemed  to  jostle,  and  to  trip  each  other  up. 

"Fanny  !  "  said  Louisa,  glancing  round  with  a  gather- 
ing alarm.  "  Only  look  at  me.  Only  open  your  eyes  to 
show  me  that  you  hear  and  understand  me  ;  will  you  ? 
Good  Heaven,  gentlemen,  what  is  to  be  done  !  " 

The  two  medical  attendants  exchanged  a  look  across 
the  bed  ;  and  the  physician,  stooping  down,  whispered 
in  the  child's  ear.  Not  having  understood  the  purport 
of  his  whisper,  the  little  creature  turned  her  perfectly 
colourless  face,  and  deep  dark  eyes  towards  him  ;  but 
without  loosening  her  hold  in  the  least. 

The  whisper  was  repeated. 

"Mama  !  "  said  the  child. 

The  little  voice,  familiar  and  dearly  loved,  awakened 
some  show  of  consciousness,  even  at  that  ebb.  For  a 
moment,  the  closed  eyelids  trembled,  and  the  nostril 
quivered,  and  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  was  seen. 

"Mama  !"  cried  the  child  sobbing  aloud.  "Oh  dear 
mama  !  oh  dear  mama  !  " 

The  doctor  gently  brushed  the  scattered  ringlets  of 
the  child,  aside  from  the  face  and  mouth  of  the  mother. 
Alas  how  calm  they  lay  there  ;  how  little  breath  there 
was  to  stir  them  ! 

Thus,  clinging  fast  to  that  slight  spar  within  her 
arms,  the  mother  drifted  out  upon  the  dark  and  un- 
known sea  that  rolls  round  all  the  world. 


CHAPTER  II. 

In  which  Timely  Pivvision  is  made  for  an  Emergency  that  will  some- 
times arise  in  the  best-regulated  Families. 

"I  SHALL  never  cease  to  congratulate  myself,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  "  on  having  said,  when  I  little  thought  what 
was  in  store  for  us, — really  as  if  I  was  inspired  by  some- 
thing,— that  I  forgave  poor  dear  Fanny  everything. 
Whatever  happens,  that  must  always  be  a  comfort  to 
me  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  made  this  impressive  observation  in  the 
drawing-room,  after  having  descended  thither  from  the 
inspection  of  the  mantua-makers  up-stairs,  who  were 
busy  on  the  family  mourning.  She  delivered  it  for  the 
behoof  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  was  a  stout  bald  gentleman, 
with  a  very  large  face,  and  his  hands  continually  in  his 
pockets,  and  who  had  a  tendency  in  his  nature  to  whistle 
and  hum  tunes,  which,  sensible  of  the  indecorum  of 
such  sounds  in  a  house  of  grief,  he  was  at  some  pains  to 
repress  at  present, 

"Don't  you  over-exert  yourself.  Loo,"  said  Mr.  Chick, 
"or  you'll  be  laid  up  with  spasms,  I  see.  Right  tol  loor 
rul !  Bless  my  soul,  I  forgot  1  We're  here  one  day  and 
gone  the  next !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  contented  herself  with  a  glance  of  reproof, 
and  then  proceeded  with  the  thread  of  her  discourse. 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  I  hope  this  heart-rending  oc- 
currence will  be  a  warning  to  all  of  us,  to  accustom  our- 
selves to  rouse  ourselves  and  to  make  efforts  in  time 
where  they're  reqviired  of  us.  There's  a  moral  in  every- 
thing, if  we  would  only  avail  ourselves  of  it.  It  will 
be  our  own  faults  if  we  lose  sight  of  this  one." 

Mr.  Chick  invaded  the  grave  silence  Avhich  ensued  on 
this  remark  with  the  singularly  inappropriate  air  of 
'  A  cobbler  there  was;'  and  checking  himself,  in  some 
confusion,  observed  that  it  was  undoubtedly  our  own 
faults  if  we  didn't  improve  such  melancholy  occasions 
as  the  present. 


"Which  might  be  better  improved,  I  should  think, 
Mr.  C,"  retorted  his  helpmate,  after  a  gliort  pause, 
than  by  the  introduction,  either  of  the  college  hornpipe, 
or  the  equally  unmeaning  and  unfeeling  remark  of  rump- 
te-iddity,  bow- wow- wow  !" — which  Mr.  Chick  had  in- 
deed indulged  in,  under  his  breath,  and  which  Mrs. 
Chick  repeated  in  a  tone  of  withering  scorn. 
"Merely  habit,  my  dear,"  pleaded  Mr.  Chick, 
"  Nonsense  !  Habit  !"  returned  his  wife.  "  If  you're 
a  rational  being,  don't  make  such  ridiculous  excuses. 
Habit !  If  I  was  to  get  a  habit  (as  you  call  it)  of  walking 
on  the  ceiling,  like  the  flies,  I  should  hear  enough  of  it, 
I  dare  say." 

It  appeared  so  probable  that  such  a  habit  might  be  at- 
tended with  some  degree  of  notoriety,  that  Mr.  Chick 
didn't  venture  to  dispute  the  position. 

"  How's  the  baby.  Loo?"  asked  Mr.  Chick  :  to  change 
the  subject. 

"What  baby  do  you  mean?"  answered  Mrs.  Chick. 
"  I  am  sure  the  morning  I  have  had,  with  that  dining- 
room  down-stairs  one  mass  of  babies,  no  one  in  their 
senses  would  believe." 

"One  mass  of  babies!"  repeated  Mr.  Chick,  staring 
with  an  alarmed  expression  about  him. 

"  It  would  have  occurred  to  most  men,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  "that  poor  dear  Fanny  being  no  more,  it  be- 
comes necessarv  to  provide  a  nurse." 

"Oh!  Ah!'*'  said  Mr.  Chick.  " Toor-rul— such  is 
life,  I  mean.    I  hope  you  are  suited,  my  dear." 

"  Indeed  I  am  not,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  "  nor  likely  to 
be,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  Meanwhile,  of  course,  the  child 
is—" 

"Going  to  the  very  deuce,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  thought- 
fully, "to  be  sure." 

Admonished,  however,  that  he  had  committed  himself, 
by  the  indignation  expressed  in  Mrs.  Chick's  counte- 
nance at  the  idea  of  a  Dombey  going  there  ;  and  thinking 
to  atone  for  his  misconduct  by  a  bright  suggestion,  he 
added  : 

"  Couldn't  something  temporary  be  done  ^vith  a  tea- 
pot?" 

If  he  had  meant  to  bring  the  subject  prematurely  to  a 
close,  he  could  not  have  done  it  more  effectually.  After 
looking  at  him  for  some  moments  in  silent  resignation, 
Mrs.  Chick  walked  majestically  to  the  window  and 
peeped  through  the  blind,  attracted  by  the  sound  of 
wheels.  Mr.  Chick,  finding  that  his  destiny  was,  for 
the  time  against  him,  said  no  more,  and  walked  off. 
But  it  was  not  always  thus  with  Mr.  Chick.  He  was 
often  in  the  ascendant  himself,  and  at  those  times  pun- 
ished Louisa  roundly.  In  their  matrimonial  bickerings 
they  were,  upon  the  whole,  a  well-matched,  fairly- 
balanced,  give-and-take  couple.  It  would  have  been, 
generally  speaking,  very  difl3cu.lt  to  have  betted  on  the 
winner.  Often  when  Mr.  Chick  seemed  beaten,  he 
would  suddenly  make  a  start,  turn  the  tables,  clatter 
them  about  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Chick,  and  carry  all  before 
him.  Being  liable  himself  to  similiar  unlooked-for 
checks  from  Mrs.  Chick,  their  little  contests  usually 
possessed  a  character  of  uncertainty  that  was  very  ani- 
mating. 

Miss  Tox  had  arrived  on  the  wheels  just  now  alluded 
to,  and  came  running  into  the  room  in  a  breathless  con- 
dition. 

"My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "is  the  vacancy 
still  unsupplied?" 

"You  good  soul,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"Then,  my  dear  Louisa,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "I  hope 
and  believe — but  in  one  moment,  my  dear,  I'll  introduce 
the  party." 

Running  down-stairs  again  as  fast  as  she  had  run  up. 
Miss  Tox  got  the  party  out  of  the  hackney-coach,  and 
soon  returned  with  it  under  convoy. 

It  then  appeared  that  she  had  used  the  word  not  in 
its  legal  or  business  acceptation,  when  it  merely  ex- 
presses an  individual,  but  as  a  noun  of  multitude,  or 
signifying  many  :  for  Miss  Tox  escorted  a  plump  rosy- 
cheeked  wholesome  apple-faced  young  woman,  with  an 
infant  in  her  arms  ;  a  younger  woman  not  so  plump,  but 
apple-faced,  also,  who  led  a  plump  and  apple- faced  child 
in  each  hand  ;  another  plump  and  also  apple-faced  boy 
who  walked  by  himself  ;  and  finally,  a  plump  and 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON, 


445 


apple-faced  man,  who  carried  in  his  arms  another  plump 
and  apple-faced  boy,  whom  he  stood  down  on  the  floor, 
and  admonished  in  a  husky  whisper  to  "kitch  hold  of 
his  brother  Johnny." 

"My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "knowing  your 
great  anxiety,  and  wishing  to  relieve  it,  1  posted  off  my- 
self to  the  Queen  Charlotte's  Royal  Married  Females, 
which  you  had  forgot,  and  put  the  question,  Was  there 
anybody  there  that  they  thought  would  suit?  No,  they 
said,  there  was  not.  When  they  gave  me  that  answer, 
I  do  assure  you,  my  dear,  I  was  almost  driven  to  de- 
spair on  your  account.  But  it  did  so  happen,  that  one 
of  the  Royal  Married  Females,  hearing  the  inquiry,  re- 
minded the  matron  of  another  who  had  gone  to  her  own 
home,  and  who,  she  said,  would  in  all  likelihood  be  most 
satisfactory.  The  moment  1  heard  this,  and  had  it  cor- 
roborated by  the  matron — excellent  references  and  un- 
impeachable character — I  got  the  address,  my  dear,  and 
posted  off  again." 

"  Like  the  dear  good  Tox,  you  are  !  "  said  Louisa. 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  "Don't  say  so. 
Arriving  at  the  house  (the  cleanest  place,  my  dear  1  You 
might  eat  \  our  dinner  off  the  floor),  I  found  the  whole 
family  sitting  at  table  ;  and  feeling  that  no  account  of 
them  could  be  half  so  comfortable  to  you  and  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  as  the  sight  of  them  all  together,  I  brought  them  all 
away.  This  gentleman,"  said  Miss  Tox,  pointing  out 
the  apple- faced  man,  "  is  the  father.  Will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  come  a  little  forward,  sir  ?  " 

The  apple-faced  man  having  sheepishly  complied  with 
this  request,  stood  chuckling  and  grinning  in  a  front 
row. 

"  This  is  his  wife,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Tox,  singling 
out  the  young  woman  with  the  baby.  "How  do  you 
do,  Polly  ?  " 

"I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Polly. 

By  way  of  bringing  her  out  dexterously,  Miss  Tox  had 
made  the  inquiry  as  in  condescension  to  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, whom  she  hadn't  seen  for  a  fortnight  or  so. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "The  other 
young  woman  is  her  unmarried  sister  who  lives  with 
them,  and  would  take  care  of  her  children.  Her  name's 
Jemima.    How  do  you  do,  Jemima?" 

"  I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  Je- 
mima. 

"I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Tox. 
"  I  hope  you'll  keep  so.  Five  children.  Youngest  six 
weeks.  The  fine  little  boy  with  the  blister  on  his  nose 
is  the  eldest.  The  blister,  I  believe,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
looking  round  upon  the  family,  "is  not  constitutional, 
but  accidental  ?  " 

The  apple-faced  man  was  understood  to  growl,  "  Flat 
iron." 

"I  beg  vour  pardon,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "did 
you?—" 

"  Flat  iron,"  he  repeated. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  Yes  !  Quite  true.  I 
forgot.  The  little  creature,  in  his  mother's  absence, 
smelt  a  warm  flat  iron.  You're  quite  right,  sir.  You 
were  going  to  have  the  goodness  to  inform  me,  when  we 
arrived  at  the  door,  that  you  were  by  trade,  a — " 

"Stoker,"  said  the  man. 

"  A  choker  !  "  said  Miss  Tox,  quite  aghast, 

"  Stoker,"  said  the  man.    "  Steam  engine." 

"Oh-h  !  Yes  !"  returned  Miss, Tox,  looking  thought- 
fully at  him,  and  seeming  still  to  have  but  a  very  imper- 
fect understanding  of  his  meaning. 

"And  how  do  you  like  it,  sir?" 

"  Which,  mum  ?  "  said  the  man. 

"That,"  replied  Miss  Tox.    "  Your  trade." 

"Oh!  Pretty  well,  mum.  The  ashes  sometimes  gets 
in  here;"  touching  his  chest:  "and  makes  a  man 
speak  gruff,  as  at  the  present  time.  But  it  is  ashes, 
mum,  not  crustiness." 

Miss  Tox  seemed  to  be  so  little  enlightened  by  this 
reply,  as  to  find  a  difficulty  in  pursuing  the  subject. 
But  Mrs.  Chick  relieved  her,  by  entering  into  a  close 
private  examination  of  Polly,  her  children,  her  marriage 
certificate,  testimonials,  and  so  forth.  Polly  coming  out 
unscathed  from  this  ordeal,  Mrs.  Chick  withdrew  with 
her  report  to  her  brother's  room,  and  as  an  emphatic 
comment  on  it,  and  corroboration  of  it,  carried  the  two 


rosiest  little  Toodles  with  her,  Toodle  being  the  family 
name  of  the  apple-faced  family. 

Mr.  Dombey  had  remained  in  his  own  apartment  since 
the  death  of  his  wife,  absorbed  in  visions  of  tlie  youth, 
education,  and  destination  of  his  balry-  son.  Something 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  cool  heart,  colder  and  heavier 
than  its  ordinary  load  ;  but  it  was  more  a  sense  of  the 
child's  loss  than  his  own,  awakening  within  him  an 
almost  angry  sorrow.  That  the  life  and  progress  on 
which  he  built  such  hopes,  should  be  endangered  in  the 
outset  by  so  mean  a  want  ;  that  Dombey  and  Son  should 
be  tottering  for  a  nurse,  was  a  sore  humiliation.  And 
yet  in  his  pride  and  jealousy,  he  viewed  with  so  much 
bitterness  the  thought  of  being  dependent  for  the  very 
first  step  towards  the  accomplishment  of  his  soul's  desire, 
on  a  hired  serving- woman  who  would  be  to  the  child, 
for  the  time,  all  that  even  his  alliance  could  have  made 
his  own  wife,  that  in  every  new  rejection  of  a  candidate 
he  felt  a  secret  pleasure.  The  time  had  now  come,  how- 
ever, when  he  could  no  longer  be  divided  between  those 
two  sets  of  feelings.  The  less  so,  as  there  seemed  to  be 
no  flaw  in  the  title  of  Polly  Toodle  after  his  sister  had 
set  it  forth,  with  many  commendations  on  the  indefatiga- 
ble friendship  of  Miss  Tox. 

"These  children  look  healthy,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"But  to  think  of  their  some  day  claiming  a  sort  of  rela- 
tionship to  Paul  I  Take  them  away,  Louisa  !  Let  me 
see  this  woman  and  her  husband." 

Mrs.  Chick  bore  off  the  tender  pair  of  Toodles,  and 
presently  returned  with  the  tougher  couple  whose  pres- 
ence her  brother  had  commanded. 

"My  good  woman,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  round 
in  his  easy-chair,  as  one  piece,  and  not  as  a  man  with 
limbs  and  joints,  "  I  understand  you  are  poor,  and  wish 
to  earn  money  by  nursing  the  little  boy,  my  son,  who 
has  been  so  prematurely  deprived  of  what  can  never  be 
replaced.  I  have  no  objection  to  your  adding  to  the  com- 
forts of  your  family  by  that  means.  So  far  as  I  can  tell, 
you  seem  to  be  a  deserving  object.  But  I  must  impose 
one  or  two  conditions  on  you,  before  you  enter  my  house 
in  that  capacity.  While  you  are  here,  I  must  stipulate 
that  you  are  always  known  as — say  as  Richards — an 
ordinary  name  an€  convenient.  Have  you  any  objection  to 
be  known  as  Richards?  You  had  better  consult  your 
husband." 

As  the  husband  did  nothing  but  chuckle  and  grin,  and 
continually  draw  his  right  hand  across  his  mouth,  moist- 
ening the  palm,  Mrs.  Toodle  after  nudging  him  twice 
or  thrice  in  vain,  dropped  a  curtsey  and  replied  "that 
perhaps  it  she  was  to  be  called  out  of  her  name,  ii  would 
be  considered  in  the  wages." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "I  desire  to 
make  it  a  question  of  wages,  altogether.  Now,  Richards, 
if  you  nurse  my  bereaved  child,  I  wish  you  to  remember 
this  always.  You  will  receive  a  liberal  stipend  in  return 
for  the  discharge  of  certain  duties,  in  the  performance 
of  which,  I  wish  you  to  see  as  little  of  your  family  as 
possible.  When  those  duties  cease  to  be  required  and 
rendered,  and  the  stipend  ceases  to  be  paid,  there  is  an 
end  of  all  relations  between  us.  Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Toodle  seemed  doubtful  about  it ;  and  as  to  Too- 
dle himself,  he  had  evidently  no  doubt  v^hatever,  that 
he  was  all  abroad. 

"You  have  children  of  your  own,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  It  is  not  at  all  in  this  bargain  that  you  need  become 
attached  to  my  child,  or  that  my  child  need  become  at- 
tached to  you.  I  don't  expect  or  desire  anything  of  the 
kind.  Quite  the  reverse.  When  you  go  away  from 
here,  you  will  have  concluded  what'is  a  mere  matter  of 
bargain  and  sale,  hiring  and  letting  :  and  will  stay  away. 
The  child  will  cease  to  remember  you  ;  and  you  will 
cease,  if  you  please  to  remember  the  child." 

Mrs.  Toodle,  with  a  little  more  colour  in  her  cheeks 
than  she  had  had  before,  said  "she  hoped  she  knew  her 
place." 

"I  hope  you  do,  Richards,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "I 
have  no  doubt  you  know  it  very  well.  Indeed  it  is  so 
plain  and  obvious  that  it  could  hardly  be  otherwise. 
Louisa,  my  dear,  arrange  with  Richards  about  money, 
and  let  her  have  it  when  and  how  she  pleases.  Mr. 
what's-your-name,  a  word  with  you,  if  you  please  !  " 

Thus  arrested  on  the  threshold  as  he  was  following 


446 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


his  wife  out  of  the  room,  Toodle  returned  and  confronted 
Mr.  Dombey  alone.  He  was  a  strong,  loose,  round- 
shouldered,  shuffling,  shaggy  fellow,  on  whom  his  clothes 
sat  negligently  :  with  a  good  deal  of  hair  and  whisker, 
deepened  in  its  natural  tint,  perhaps,  by  smoke  and  coal- 
dust  :  hard  knotty  hands  :  and  a  square  forehead,  as 
coarse  in  grain  as  the  bark  of  an  oak.  A  thorough  con- 
trast in  all  respects  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  one  of 
those  close-shaved  close-cut  monied  gentlemen  who  are 
glossy  and  crisp  like  new  bank  notes,  and  who  seem 
to  be  artificially  braced  and  tightened  as  by  the  stimu- 
lating action  of  golden  shower-baths. 

"  You  have  a  son,  I  believe  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Four  on  'em,  sir.  Four  hims  and  a  her.  All 
alive  ! " 

"  Why,  it's  as  much  as  you  can  afford  to  keep  them  !  " 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  1  couldn't  hardly  afford  but  one  thing  in  the  world 
less,  sir." 

"  What  is  that?" 

"  To  lose  'em,  sir." 

"  Can  you  read  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Why,  not  partick'ler,  sir." 

"Write?" 

"With  chalk,  sir." 

"  With  anything  ?  " 

"  I  could  make  shift  to  chalk  a  little  bit,  I  think,  if  I 
was  put  to  it,"  said  Toodle,  after  some  reflection. 

And  yet,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  two  or  three 
and  thirty,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Thereabouts,  I  suppose,  sir,"  answered  Toodle,  after 
more  reflection. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  learn  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  So  I'm  a  going  to,  sir.  One  of  my  little  boys  is  a 
going  to  learn  me,  when  he's  old  enough,  and  been  to 
school  himself." 

"Well  !"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  looking  at  him  at- 
tentively and  with  no  great  favour,  as  he  stood  gazing 
around  the  room  (principally  the  ceiling)  and  still  draw- 
ing his  hand  across  and  across  his  mouth.  "  You  heard 
what  I  said  to  your  wife  just  now  ?  " 

"Polly  heerd  it,"  said  Toodle,  jerking  his  hat  over 
his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  d.o&t,  with  an  air  of 
perfect  confidence  in  his  better  half,    "  It's  all  right." 

"  As  you  appear  to  leave  everything  to  her,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  frustrated  in  his  intention  of  impressing  his 
views  still  more  distinctly  on  the  husband,  as  the 
stronger  character,  "I  suppose  it  is  of  no  use  my  saying 
anything  to  you." 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Toodle.  "Polly  heerd *it.  She's 
awake,  sir." 

"  I  won't  detain  you  any  longer  then,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey  disappointed.  "Where  have  you  worked  all 
your  life  ?" 

"  Mostly  underground,  sir,  till  I  got  married.  I  come 
to  the  level  then.  I'm  a  going  on  one  of  these  here  rail- 
roads when  they  comes  into  full  play." 

As  the  last  straw  breaks  the  laden  camel's  back,  this 
piece  of  underground  information  crushed  the  sinking 
spirits  of  Mr.  Dombey.  He  motioned  his  child's  foster- 
father  to  the  door,  who  departed  by  no  means  unwilling- 
ly :  and  then  turning  the  key,  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  in  solitary  wretchedness.  For  all  his  starched  im- 
penetrable dignity  and  composure,  he  wiped  blinding 
tears  from  his  eyes  as  he  did  so  :  and  often  said,  with  an 
emotion  of  which  he  would  not,  for  the  world,  have  had 
a  witness,  "  Poor  little  fellow  1 " 

It  may  have  been  characteristic  of  Mr.  Dombey's  pride 
that  he  pitied  himself  through  the  child.  Not  poor  me. 
Not  poor  widower,  confiding  by  constraint  in  the  wife  of 
an  ignorant  Hind  who  had  been  working  *  mostly  under- 
ground' all  his  life,  and  yet  at  whose  door  Death  has 
never  knocked,  and  at  whose  poor  table  four  sons  daily 
sit — but  poor  little  felloAV  ! 

Those  words  being  on  his  lips,  it  occurred  to  him — and 
it  is  an  instance  of  the  strong  attraction  with  which  his 
hopes  and  fears  and  all  his  thoughts  were  tending  to  one 
centre — that  a  great  temptation  was  being  placed  in  this 
woman's  way.  Her  infant  was  a  boy  too.  Now,  would 
it  be  possible  for  her  to  change  them  ? 

Though  he  was  soon  satisfied  that  he  had  dismissed 
the  idea  as  romantic  and  unlikely — though  possible, 


I  there  was  no  denying — he  could  not  help  pursuing  it  so 
far  as  to  entertain  within  himself  a  picture  of  what  his 
condition  would  be,  if  he  should  discover  such  an  im- 
posture when  he  was  grown  old.  Whether  a  man  so 
situated,  would  be  able  to  pluck  away  the  result  of  so 
many  years  of  usage,  confidence,  and  belief,  from  the 
imposture,  and  endow  a  stranger  with  it  ? 

As  his  unusual  emotion  subsided,  these  misgivings 
gradually  melted  away,  though  so  much  of  their  shadow 
remained  behind,  that  he  was  constant  in  his  resolution 
to  look  closely  after  Richards  himself,  without  appearing 
to  do  so.  Being  now  in  an  easier  frame  of  mind,  he  re- 
garded the  woman's  station  as  rather  an  advantageous 
circumstance  than  otherwise,  by  placing,  in  itself,  a 
broad  distance  between  her  and  the  child,  and  rendering 
their  separation  easy  and  natural. 

Meanv/hile  terms  were  ratified  and  agreed  upon  be- 
tween Mrs.  Chick  and  Richards,  with  the  assistance  of 
Miss  Tox  ;  and  Richards  being  with  much  ceremony  in- 
vested with  the  Dombey  baby,  as  if  it  were  an  Order,  re- 
signed her  own,  with  many  tears  and  kisses  to  Jemima. 
Glasses  of  wine  were  then  produced,  to  sustain  the 
drooping  spirits  of  the  family. 

"You'll  take  a  glass  yourself,  sir,  won't  you?"  said 
Miss  Tox,  as  Toodle  appeared. 

"  Thankee,  mum,"  said  Toodle,  "  since  you  arg  sup- 
pressing." 

"  And  you're  very  glad  to  leave  your  dear  good  wife 
in  such  a  comfortable  home,  ain't  you,  sir?"  said  Miss 
Tox,  nodding  and  winking  at  him  stealthily. 

"No,  mum,"  said  Toodle.  "Here's  wishing  of  her 
back  agin." 

Polly  cried  more  than  ever  at  this.  So  Mrs.  Chick, 
who  had  her  matronly  apprehension  that  this  indulgence 
in  grief  might  be  prejudicial  to  the  little  Dombey 
("acid,  indeed,"  she  whispered  Miss  Tox)  hastened  to 
the  rescue. 

"Your  little  child  will  thrive  charmingly  with  your 
sister  Jemima,  Richards,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  "and  you 
have  only  to  make  an  effort — this  is  a  world  of  effort,  you 
know,  Richards — to  be  very  happy  indeed.  You  have 
been  already  measured  for  your  mourning,  haven't  you, 
Richards  ?  " 

"  Ye — es,  ma'am,"  sobbed  Polly. 

"  And  it'll  fit  beautifully,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
"  for  the  same  young  person  has  made  me  many  dresses. 
The  very  best  materials,  too  ! " 

"  Lor,  you'll  be  so  smart,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "that  your 
husband  won't  know  you  ;  will  you,  sir  ?  " 

"I  should  know  her,  said  Toodle,  gruffly,  "  anyhows 
and  anywheres." 

Toodle  was  evidently  not  to  be  bought  over, 

"As  to  living,  Richards,  you  know,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Chick,  "why  the  very  best  of  everything  will  be  at  your 
disposal.  You  will  order  your  little  dinner  every  day  ; 
and  anything  you  take  a  fancy  to,  I'm  sure  will  be  as 
readily  provided  as  if  you  were  a  lady." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  !  "  said  Miss  Tox,  keeping  up  the 
ball  with  great  sympathy.  "  And  as  to  porter  !— quite 
unlimited,  will  it  not,  Louisa?" 

"Oh,  certainly!"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  in  the  same 
tone.  "  With  a  little  abstinence,  you  know,  my  dear,  in 
point  of  vegetables," 

"  And  pickles,  perhaps,"  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"With  such  exceptions,"  said  Louisa,  "she'll  consult 
her  choice  entirely,  and  be  under  no  restraint  at  all,  my 
love," 

"  And  then,  of  course,  yoit  know,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"however  fond  she  is  of  her  own  dear  little  child — and 
I'm  sure,  Louisa,  you  don't  blame  her  for  being  fond  of 
it?" 

"Oh  no  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  benignantly. 

"  Still,"  resumed  Miss  Tox,  "she  naturally  must  be 
interested  in  her  young  charge,  and  must  consider  it  a 
privilege  to  see  a*  little  cherub  closely  connected  with 
the  superior  classes,  gradually  unfolding  itself  from  day- 
today  at  one  common  fountain.    Is  it  not  so,  Louisa?" 

"Most  undoubtedly!"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "You  see, 
my  love,  she's  already  quite  contented  and  comfortable, 
and  means  to  say  good-bye  to  her  sister  Jemima  and  her 
little  pets,  and  her  good  honest  husband,  with  a  light 
heart  and  a  smile  ;  don't  she,  my  dear  I  " 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


447 


**  Oh  yes  ! "  cried  Miss  Tox.    "  To  be  sure  she  does  ! " 

Notwithstanding  which,  however,  poor  Polly  embraced 
them  all  round  in  great  distress,  and  finally  ran  away  to 
I  avoid  any  more  particular  leave-taking  between  herself 
and  the  children.  But  the  stratagem  hardly  succeeded 
as  well  as  it  deserved  ;  for  the  smallest  boy  but  one 
divining  her  intent,  immediately  began  swarming  up- 
stairs after  her — if  that  word  of  doubtful  etymology  be 
admissible — on  his  arms  and  legs  ;  while  the  eldest 
(known  in  the  family  by  the  name  of  Biler,  in  remem- 
brance of  the  steam-engine)  beat  a  demoniacal  tattoo 
with  his  boots,  expressive  of  grief  ;  in  which  he  was 
joined  by  the  rest  of  the  family. 

A  quantity  of  oranges  and  halfpence,  thrust  indiscrim- 
inately on  each  young  Toodle,  checked  the  first  violence 
of  their  regret,  and  the  family  were  speedily  transported 
to  their  own  home,  by  means  of  the  hackney-coach  kept 
in  waiting  for  that  purpose.  The  children,  under  the 
guardianship  of  Jemima,  blocked  up  the  window,  and 
dropped  out  oranges  and  halfpence  all  the  way  along, 
Mr.  Toodle  himself  preferred  to  ride  behind  among 
the  spikes,  as  being  the  mode  of  conveyance  to  which 
he  was  best  accustomed. 


CHAPTER  III. 

In  whicli  Mr.  Bonxbey.,  as  a  Man  and  a  Father,  is  seen  at  the  Head  of 
the  Home- Department. 

The  funeral  of  the  deceased  lady  having  been  "  per- 
formed "  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  undertaker,  as 
well  as  of  the  neighbourhood  at  large,  which  is  generally 
disposed  to  be  captious  on  such  a  point,  and  is  prone  to 
take  ofiFence  at  any  omissions  or  shortcomings  in  the 
ceremonies,  the  various  members  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
household  subsided  into  their  several  places  in  the  do- 
mestic system.  That  small  Avorld,  like  the  great  one 
out  of  doors,  had  the  capacity  of  easily  forgetting  its 
dead  ;  and  when  the  cook  had  said  she  was  a  quiet-tem- 
pered lady,  and  the  house-keeper  said  it  was  the  common 
lot,  and  the  butler,  had  said  who'd  have  thought  it,  and 
the  housemaid  had  said  she  couldn't  hardly  believe  it, 
and  the  footman  had  said  it  seemed  exactly  like  a  dream, 
they  had  quite  worn  the  subject  out,  and  began  to  think 
their  mourning  was  wearing  rusty  too. 

On  Richards,  who  was  established  up- stairs  in  a  state 
of  honourable  captivity,  the  dawn  of  her  new  life  seemed 
to  break  cold  and  grey.  Mr.  Dombey's  house  was  a  large 
one,  on  the  shady  side  of  a  tall,  dark,  dreadfully  genteel 
street  in  the  region  between  Portland-place  and  Bryan- 
stone-square.  It  was  a  corner  house,  with  great  wide 
areas  containing  cellars  frowned  upon  by  barred  win- 
dows, and  leered  at  by  crooked-eyed  doors  leading  to 
dustbins.  It  was  a  house  of  dismal  state,  with  a  circu- 
lar back  to  it,  containing  a  whole  suite  of  drawing-rooms 
looking  upon  a  gravelled  yard,  where  two  gaunt  trees, 
with  blackened  trunks  and  branches,  rattled  rather  than 
rustled,  their  leaves  were  so  smoke-dried.  The  summer 
sun  was  never  on  the  street  but  in  the  morning  about 
breakfast  time,  when  it  came  with  the  water-carts  and  the 
the  old-clothes  men,  and  the  people  with  geraniums,  and 
umbrella-mender,  and  the  man  who  trilled  the  little  bell 
of  the  Dutch  clock  as  he  went  along.  It  was  soon  gone 
again  to  return  no  more  that  day  ;  and  the  bands  of 
music  and  the  straggling  Punch's  shows  going  after  it, 
left  it  a  prey  to  the  most  dismal  of  organs,  and  white 
mice  ;  with  now  and  then  a  porcupine,  to  vary  the  en- 
tertainments ;  until  the  butlers  whose  families  were 
dining  out,  began  to  stand  at  the  house  doors  in  the  twi- 
light, and  the  lamp-lighter  made  his  nightly  failure  in 
attempting  to  brighten  up  the  street  with  gas. 

It  was  as  blank  a  house  inside  as  outside.  When  the 
funeral  was  over,  Mr.  Dombey  ordered  the  furniture  to 
be  covered  up — perhaps  to  preserve  it  for  the  son  with 
whom  his  plana  were  all  associated — and  the  rooms  to 
be  ungamished,  saving  such  as  he  retained  for  himself 
on  the  ground  floor.  Accordingly,  mysterious  .shapes 
were  made  of  tables  and  chairs,  heaped  together  in  the 
middle  of  rooms,  and  covered  over  with  great  winding- 
sheets.  Bell-handles,  window-blinds,  and  looking- 
glasses,  being  papered  up  in  journals,  daily  and  weekly, 


obtruded  fragmentary  accounts  of  deaths  and  dreadful 
murders.  P]very  chandelier  or  lustre,  muffled  in  holland, 
looked  like  a  monstrous  tear  depending  from  the  ceil- 
ing's eye.  Odours,  as  from  vaults  and  damp  places, 
came  out  of  the  chimneys.  The  dead  and  buried  lady 
was  awful  in  a  picture  frame  of  ghastly  bandages. 
Every  gust  of  wind  that  rose,  brought  eddying  round 
the  corner  from  the  neighbouring  mews,  some  fragments 
of  the  straw  that  had  been  strewn  before  the  house  when 
she  was  ill ,  mildewed  remains  of  which  were  still  cleaving 
to  the  neighbourhood  ;  and  these,  being  always  drawn, 
by  some  invisible  attraction  to  the  threshold  of  the  dirty 
house  to  let  immediately  opposite,  addressed  a  dismal 
eloquence  to  Mr.  Dombey's  windows. 

The  apartments  which  Mr.  Dombey  reserved  for  his 
own  inhabiting,  were  g.ttainable  from  the  hall,  and  con- 
sisted of  a  sitting-room  ;  a  library,  which  was  in  fact  a 
dressing-room,  so  that  the  smell  of  hot-pressed  paper, 
vellum,  morocco,  and  Russia  leather,  contended  in  it  with 
the  smell  of  divers  pairs  of  boots  ;  and  a  kind  of  conser- 
vatory or  little  glass  breakfast-room  beyond,  commanding 
a  prospect  of  the  trees  before  mentioned,  and  generally 
speaking  of  a  few  prowling  cats.  These  three  rooms 
opened  upon  one  another.  In  the  morning,  when  Mr. 
Dombey  was  at  his  breakfast  in  one  or  other  of  the  two 
first  mentioned  of  them,  as  well  as  in  the  afternoon  when 
he  came  home  to  dinner,  a  bell  was  rung  for  Richards  to 
repair  to  this  glass  chamber,  and  there  walk  to  and  fro 
with  her  young  charge.  From  the  glimpses  she  caught 
of  Mr.  Dombey  at  these  times,  sitting  in  the  dark  dis- 
tance, looking  out  towards  the  infant  from  among  the 
dark  heavy  furniture — the  house  had  been  inhabited  for 
years  by  his  father,  and  in  many  of  its  appointments  was 
old-fashioned  and  grim — she  began  to  entertain  ideas  of 
him  in  his  solitary  state,  as  if  he  were  a  lone  prisoner  in 
a  cell,  or  a  strange  apparition  that  was  not  to  be  accost- 
ed or  understood. 

Little  Paul  Dombey's  fosler-mother  had  led  this  life 
herself  and  had  carried  little  Paul  through  it  for  some 
weeks  ;  and  had  returned  up- stairs  one  day  from  a  mel- 
ancholy saunter  through  the  dreary  rooms  of  state  (she 
never  went  out  without  Mrs.  Chick,  who  called  on  fine 
mornings,  usually  accompanied  by  Miss  Tox,  to  take  her 
and  Baby  for  an  airing — or  in  other  words,  to  march 
them  gravely  up  and  down  the  pavement ;  like  a  walk- 
ing funeral) ;  when,  as  she  was  sitting  in  her  own  room, 
the  door  was  slowly  and  quietly  opened,  and  a  dark -eyed 
little  girl  looked  in. 

"  It's  Miss  Florence  come  home  from  her  aunt's,  no 
doubt,"  thought  Richards,  who  had  never  seen  the  child 
before.    *'  Hope  I  see  you  well,  miss." 

"Is  that  my  brother?"  asked  the  child,  pointing  to 
the  baby. 

"Yes,  my  pretty,"  answered  Richards.  "Come  and 
kiss  him." 

But  the  child,  instead  of  advancing,  looked  her  ear- 
nestly in  the  face,  and  said  : 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  Mama  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  the  little  creeter  !  "  cried  Richards,  "  what 
a  sad  question  !  I  done  ?   Nothing,  miss. " 

"What  have  tJiey  done  with  my  Mama?"  inquired 
the  child. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  melting  thing  in  all  my  life  !" 
said  Richards,  who  naturally  substituted  for  this  child 
one  of  her  own,  inquiring  for  herself  in  like  circum- 
stances. "Come  nearer  here,  my  dear  miss  !  Don't  be 
afraid  of  me." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  you,"  said  the  child,  drawing 
nearer.  "But  I  want  to  know  what  they  have  done 
with  my  Mama." 

"My  darling,"  said  Richards,  "  you  wear  that  pretty 
black  frock  in  remembrance  of  your  Mama." 

"  I  can  remember  my  Mama,"  returned  the  child,  with 
tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  "  in  any  frock." 

"But  people  put  on  black,  to  remember  people  when 
they're  gone." 

"  Where  gone  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

"Come  and  sit  down  by  me,"  said  Richards,  "  and  I'll 
tell  you  a  story." 

With  a  quick  perception  that  it  was  intended  to  relate 
to  what  she  had  asked,  little  Florence  laid  aside  the 
bonnet  she  had  held  in  her  hand  until  now,  and  sat 


448 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


down  on  a  stool  at  tlie  nurse's  feet,  looking  up  into  her 
face. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Richards,  "there  was  a 
lady — a  very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly 
loved  her." 

"A  very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly 
loved  her,"  repeated  the  child. 

"Who,  when  God  thought  it  right  that  it  should  be 
so,  was  taken  ill  and  died." 

The  child  shuddered. 
Died,  never  to  be  seen  again  by  any  one  on  earth, 
and  was  buried  in  the  ground  where  the  trees  grow." 

"  The  cold  ground,"  said  the  child  shuddering  again. 

"  No  !  The  warm  ground,"  returned  Polly,  seizing 
her  advantage,  "  where  the  ugly  little  seeds  turn  into 
beautiful  flowers,  and  into  grass,  and  corn,  and  I  don't 
know  what  all  besides.  Where  good  people  turn  into 
bright  angels,  and  fly  away  to  Heaven  !  " 

The  child,  who  had  drooped  her  head,  raised  it  again, 
and  sat  looking  at  her  intently. 

"  So  ;  let  me  see,"  said  Polly,  not  a  little  flurried  be- 
tween this  earnest  scrutiny,  her  desire  to  comfort  the 
child,  her  sudden  success,  and  her  very  slight  confi- 
dence in  her  own  powers.  "  So,  when  this  lady  died, 
wherever  they  took  her,  or  wherever  they  put  her,  she 
went  to  God  !  and  she  prayed  to  Him,  this  lady  did," 
said  Polly,  affecting  herself  beyond  measure  ;  being 
heartily  in  earnest,  "to  teach  her  little  daughter  to  be 
sure  of  that  in  her  heart  :  and  to  know  that  she  was 
happy  there  and  loved  her  still  :  and  to  hope  and  try — 
Oh  all  her  life — to  meet  her  there  one  day,  never,  never, 
never  to  part  any  more." 

"  It  was  my  Mama  !  "  exclaimed  the  child,  springing 
up,  and  clasping  her  round  the  neck. 

"And  the  child's  heart,"  said  Polly,  drawing  her  to 
her  breast :  "the  little  daughter's  heart  was  so  full  of 
the  truth  of  this,  that  even  when  she  heard  it  from  a 
strange  nurse  that  couldn't  tell  it  right,  but  was  a  poor 
mother  herself  and  that  was  all,  she  found  a  comfort  in 
it — didn't  feel  so  lonely — sobbed  and  cried  upon  her 
bosom — took  kindly  to  the  baby  lying  in  her  lap — and — 
there,  there,  there  ! "  said  Polly  smoothing  the  child's 
curls  and  dropping  tears  upon  them.  "  There, poor  dear ! " 

"  Oh  well.  Miss  Floy  !  And  won't  your  Pa  be  angry 
neither ! "  cried  a  quick  voice  at  the  door,  proceeding 
from  a  short,  brown,  womanly  girl  of  fourteen,  with  a 
little  snub  nose  and  black  eyes  like  jet  beads.  "  When 
it  was  'tickerlerly  given  out  that  you  wasn't  to  go  and 
worrit  the  wet  nurse." 

"  She  don't  worry  me,"  was  the  surprised  rejoinder  of 
Polly.    "I  am  very  fond  of  children." 

"Ohl  but  begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Richards,  that 
don't  matter  you  know,"  returned  the  black-eyed  girl, 
who  was  so  desperately  sharp  and  biting  that  she  seemed 
to  make  one's  eyes  water.  "  I  may  be  very  fond  of 
penny  winkles,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  it  don't  follow  that  I'm 
to  have  'em  for  tea." 

"  Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  thankee,  Mrs.  Richards,  don't  it  1 "  returned  the 
sharp  girl.  "  Remembering,  however,  if  you'll  be  so 
good,  that  Miss  Floy's  under  my  charge,  and  Master 
Paul's  under  your'n." 

"  But  still  we  needn't  quarrel,"  said  Polly. 

"Oh  no,  Mrs.  Richards,"  rejoined  Spitfire.  "Not  at 
all,  I  don't  wish  it,  we  needn't  stand  upon  that  footing. 
Miss  Floy  being  a  permanency.  Master  Paul  a  tem- 
porary." Spitfire  made  use  of  none  but  comma  pauses  ; 
shooting  out  whatever  she  had  to  say  in  one  sentence, 
and  in  one  breath,  if  possible. 

" Miss  Florence  has  just  come  home,  hasn't  she?" 
asked  Polly. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  just  come  home,  and  here,  Miss 
Floy,  before  you've  been  in  the  house  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  you  go  a  smearing  your  wet  face  against  the  ex- 
pensive mourning  that  Mrs.  Richards  is  a  wearing  for  your 
Ma  !  "  With  tins  remonstrance,  young  Spitfire,  whose 
real  name  was  Susan  Nipper,  detached  the  child  from 
her  new  friend  by  a  wrench — as  if  she  were  a  tooth. 
But  she  seemed  to  do  it,  more  in  the  excessively  sharp 
exercise  of  her  official  functions,  than  with  any  deliber- 
ate unkindness. 

"  She'll  be  quite  happy,  now  she  has  come  home 


again,"  said  Polly,  nodding  to  her  with  an  encouraging 
smile  upon  her  wholesome  face,  "  and  will  be  so  pleased 
to  see  her  dear  Papa  to-mght." 

"Lork,  Mrs.  Richards  !"  cried  Miss  Nipper,  taking 
up  her  words  with  a  jerk.  "  Don't.  See  her  dear  Papa 
indeed  !    I  should  like  to  see  her  do  it  1 " 

"  Won't  she  then  ?"  asked  Polly. 

"Lork,  Mrs.  Richards,  no,  her  Pa's  a  deal  too  wrapped 
up  in  somebody  else,  and  before  there  was  a  somebody 
else  to  be  wrapped  up  in  she  never  was  a  favourite, 
girls  are  thrown  away  in  this  house,  Mrs.  Richards,  / 
assure  you." 

The  child  looked  quickly  from  one  nurse  to  the  other, 
i  as  if  she  understood  and  felt  what  was  said. 
I     "You  surprise  me!"  cried    Polly.     "Hasn't  Mr. 
:  Dombey  seen  her  since — " 

j     "No,"  interrupted  Susan  Nipper.    "  Not  once  since, 
!  and  he  hadn't  hardly  set  his  eyes  upon  her  before  that 
!  for  months  and  months,  and  I  don't  think  he'd  have 
known  her  for  his  own  child  if  he  had  met  her  in  the 
streets,  or  would  know  her  for  his  own  child  if  he  was 
to  meet  her  in  the  streets  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Richards, 
as  to  me,"  said  Spitfire,  with  a  giggle,  "  I  doubt  if  he's 
1  aweer  of  my  existence." 

j  "Pretty  dear!"  said  Richards;  meaning,  not  Miss 
j  Nipper,  but  the  little  Florence. 

I  "  Oh  !  there's  a  Tartar  within  a  hundred  miles  of 
!  where  we're  now  in  conversation,  I  can  tell  you,  Mrs. 
i  Richards,  present  company  always  excepted  too, "  said 
Susan  Nipper  ;  "wish  you  good  morning,  Mrs.  Richards, 
now  Miss  Floy,  you  come  along  with  me,  and  don't  go 
hanging  back  like  a  naughty  wicked  child  that  judg- 
ments is  no  examples  to,  don't." 

In  spite  of  being  thus  adjured,  and  in  spite  also  of 
some  hauling  on  the  part  of  Susan  Nipper,  tending  to- 
!  wards  the  dislocation  of  her  right  shoulder,  little  Flor- 
'  ence  broke  away,  and  kissed  her  new  friend,  affection- 
;  ately. 

"Goodbye!"  said  the  child.    "God  bless  you!  I 
j  shall  come  to  see  you  again  soon,  and  you'll  come  to  see 
me  I    Susan  will  let  us.    Won't  you,  Susan  ?  " 

Spitfire  seemed  to   be  in  the  main  a  good-natured 
j  little  body,  although  a  disciple  of  that  school  of  trainers 
j  of  the  young  idea  which  holds  that  childhood,  like 
I  money,  must  be  shaken  and  rattled  and  jostled  about  a 
I  good  deal  to  keep  it  bright.    For,  being  thus  appealed 
to  with  some  endearing  gestures  and  caresses,  £?he  folded 
her  small  arms  and  shook  her  head,  and  conveyed  a  re- 
lenting expression  into  her  very-wide-open  black  eyes. 

"  It  ain't  right  of  you  to  ask  it.  Miss  Floy,  for  you 
know  I  can't  refuse  you,  but  Mrs.  Richards  and  me 
will  see  what  can  be  done,  if  Mrs.  Richards  likes,  I  may 
wish,  you  see,  to  take  a  voyage  to  Chaney,  Mrs.  Richards, 
but  I  mayn't  know  how  to  leave  the  Loudon  Docks." 
Richards  assented  to  the  proposition. 
"  This  house  ain't  so  exactly  ringing  with  merry- 
making," said  Miss  Nipper,  "  that  one  need  be  lonelier 
than  one  must  be.  Your  Toxes  and  your  Chickses  may 
draw  out  my  two  front  double  teeth,  Mrs.  Richards,  but 
that's  no  reason  why  I  need  offer  'em  the  whole  set." 

This  proposition  was  also  assented  to  by  Richards,  as 
an  obvious  one. 

"  So  I'm  agreeable,  I'm  sure,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  to 
lire  friendly,  Mrs.  Richards,  while  Master  Paul  contin- 
ues a  permanency,  if  the  means  can  be  planned  out 
without  going  openly  against  orders,  but  goodness 
gracious  ME,  Miss  Floy,  you  haven't  got  your  things  off 
yet,  you  naughty  child,  you  haven't,  come  along  !  " 

With  these  words  Susan  Nipper,  in  a  transport  of 
coercion,  made  a  charge  at  her  young  ward,  and  swept 
her  out  of  the  room. 

The  child,  in  her  grief  and  neglect,  was  so  gentle,  so 
quiet,  and  uncomplaining  ;  was  possessed  of  so  much 
affection,  that  no  one  seemed  to  care  to  have,  and  so 
much  sorrowful  intelligence  that  no  one  seemed  to  mind 
or  think  about  the  wounding  of  ;  that  Polly's  heart  was 
sore  when  she  was  left  alone  again.  In  the  simple  pas- 
sage that  had  taken  place  between  herself  and  the 
motherless  little  girl,  her  own  motherly  heart  had  been 
touched  no  less  than  the  child's  ;  and  she  felt,  as  the 
child  did,  that  there  was  something  of  confidence  and 
interest  between  them  from  that  moment. 


DOMBEY 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Toodle's  great  reliance  on  Polly, 
she  was  perhaps  in  point  of  artificial  accomplishments 
very  little  his  superior.  But  she  was  a  good  plain  sam- 
ple of  a  nature  that  is  ever,  in  the  mass,  better,  truer, 
higher,  nobler,  quicker  to  feel,  and  much  more  constant 
to  retain,  all  tenderness  and  pity,  self-denial  and  devo- 
tion, than  the  nature  of  men.  And,  perhaps,  unlearned 
as  she  was,  she  could  have  brought  a  dawning  knowledge 
home  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  that  early  day,  which  would  not 
then  have  struck  him  in  the  end  like  lightning. 

But  this  is  from  the  purpose.  Polly  only  thought,  at 
that  time,  of  improving  on  her  successful  propitiation  of 
Miss  Nipper,  and  devising  some  means  of  having  little 
Florence  beside  her,  lawfully,  and  without  rebellion. 
An  opening  happened  to  present  itself  that  very  night. 

She  had  been  rung  down  into  the  glass  room  as  usual, 
and  had  walked  about  and  about  it  a  long  time,  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  when,  to  her  great  surprise  and  dis- 
may, Mr.  Dombey  came  out  suddenly  and  stopped  before 
her. 

"Good  evening,  Richards." 

Just  the  same  austere,  stiff  gentleman,  as  he  had  ap- 
peared to  her  on  that  first  day.  Such  a  hard-looking 
gentleman,  that  she  involuntanly  dropped  her  eyes  and 
her  curtsey  at  the  same  time. 

"  How  is  Master  Paul,  Richards  ?  " 

"Quite  thriving,  sir,  and  well." 

*'  He  looks  so,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  glancing  with  great 
interest  at  the  tiny  face  she  uncovered  for  his  observa- 
tion, and  yet  affecting  to  be  half  careless  of  it.  "  They 
give  you  everything  you  want,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  thank  you,  sir." 

She  suddenly  appended  such  an  obvious  hesitation  to 
this  reply,  however,  that  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  turned 
away,  stopped,  and  turned  round  again,  inquiringly. 

"  I  believe  nothing  is  so  good  for  making  children  lively 
and  cheerful,  sir,  as  seeing  other  children  playing  about 
'em,"  observed  Polly,  taking  courage. 

"  I  think  I  mentioned  to  you,  Richards,  when  you  came 
here,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  with  a  frown,  "that  I  wished 
you  to  see  as  little  of  your  family  as  possible.  You  can 
continue  your  walk  if  you  please." 

With  that,  he  disappeared  into  his  inner  room  ;  and 
Polly  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  he  had  thor- 
oughly misunderstood  her  object,  and  that  she  had  fallen 
into  disgrace  without  the  least  advancement  of  her 
purpose. 

Next  night,  she  found  him  walking  about  the  conserva- 
tory when  she  came  down.  As  she  stopped  at  the  door, 
checked  by  this  unusual  sight,  and  uncertain  whether  to 
advance  or  retreat,  he  called  her  in. 

"  If  you  really  think  that  sort  of  society  is  good  for  the 
child,"  he  said  sharply,  as  if  there  had  been  no  interval 
since  she  proposed  it,  ' '  where's  Miss  Florence  ?  " 

"Nothing  could  be  better  than  Miss  Florence,  sir," 
said  Polly  eagerly,  ' '  but  I  understood  from  her  little  maid 
that  they  were  not  to — " 

Mr.  Dombey  rang  the  bell,  and  walked  till  it  was  an- 
swered. 

"  Tell  them  always  to  let  Miss  Florence  be  with  Rich- 
ards when  she  chooses,  and  go  out  with  her,  and  so  forth. 
Tell  them  to  let  the  children  be  together,  when  Richards 
wishes  it." 

The  iron  was  now  hot,  and  Richards  striking  on  it 
boldly — it  was  a  good  cause  and  she  was  bold  in  it,  though 
instinctively  afraid  of  Mr.  Dombey — requested  that  Miss 
Florence  might  be  sent  down  then  and  there,  to  make 
friends  with  her  little  brother. 

She  feigned  to  be  dandling  the  child  as  the  servant  re- 
tired on  this  errand,  but  she  thought  she  saw  that  Mr. 
Dombey's  colour  changed  ;  that  the  expression  of  his 
face  quite  altered ;  that  he  turned  hurriedly,  as  if  to 
gainsay  what  he  had  said,  or  she  had  said,  or  both,  and 
was  only  deterred  by  very  shame. 

And  she  was  right.  The  last  time  he  had  seen  his 
•lighted  child,  there  had  been  that  in  the  sad  embrace 
between  her  and  her  dying  mother,  which  was  at  cmce  a 
revelation  and  a  reproach  to  him.  Let  him  be  absorbed 
as  he  would  in  the  Son  on  whom  he  built  such  high 
hopes,  he  could  not  forget  that  closing  scene.  He  could 
not  forget  that  he  had  had  no  part  in  it.  That,  at  the 
hottom  of  its  clear  depths  of  tenderness  and  truth,  lay 
Vol.  II.— 29 


AND  8 ON.  449 

those  two  figures  clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  while  he 
stood  on  the  bank  above  them,  looking  down  a  mere 
spectator— not  a  sharer  with  them — quite  shut  out. 

Unable  to  exclude  these  things  from  his  remembrance, 
or  to  keep  his  mind  free  from  such  imperfect  shapes  of 
the  meaning  with  which  they  were  fraught,  as  were  able 
to  make  themselves  visible  to  him  through  the  mist  of 
his  pride,  his  previous  feelings  of  indifference  towards 
little  Florence  changed  into  an  uneasiness  of  an  extra- 
ordinary kind.  He  almost  felt  as  if  she  watched  and 
distrusted  him.  As  if  she  held  the  clue  to  something 
secret  in  his  breast,  of  the  nature  of  which  he  was  hardly 
informed  himself.  As  if  she  had  an  innate  knowledge  of 
one  jarring  and  discordant  string  within  lum,  and  her 
very  breath  could  sound  it. 

His  feeling  about  the  child  had  been  negative  from  her 
birth.  He  had  never  conceived  an  aversion  to  her  ;  it  had 
not  been  worth  his  while  or  in  his  humour.  She  had 
never  been  a  positively  disagreeable  object  to  him.  But 
now  he  was  ill  at  ease  about  her.  She  troubled  his  peace. 
He  would  have  preferred  to  put  her  idea  aside  altogether, 
if  he  had  known  how.  Perhaps — who  shall  decide  on 
such  mysteries? — he  was  afraid  that  he  might  come  to 
hate  her. 

When  little  Florence  timidly  presented  herself,  Mr. 
Dombey  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  and  down,  and  looked 
towards  her.  Had  he  looked  with  greater  interest  and 
with  a  father's  eye,  he  might  have  read  in  her  keen 
glance  the  impulses  and  fears  that  made  her  waver  ; 
the  passionate  desire  to  run  clinging  to  him,  crying,  as 
she  hid  her  face  in  his  embrace,  "  Oh,  father,  try  to  love 
me  !  there's  no  one  else  I"  the  dread  of  a  repulse  ;  the 
fear  of  being  too  bold,  and  of  offending  him  ,  tlie  pitia- 
ble need  in  which  she  stood  of  some  assurance  and  en- 
couragement ;  and  how  her  overcharged  young  heart  was 
wandering  to  find  some  natural  resting-place,  for  its 
sorrow  and  affection. 

But  he  saw  nothing  of  this.  He  saw  her  pause  ir- 
resolutely at  the  door  and  look  towards  him  ;  and  he  saw 
no  more. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  "  come  in  :  what  is  the  child  afraid 
of?" 

She  came  in  ;  and  after  glancing  round  her  for  a  mo- 
ment with  an  uncertain  air,  stood  pressing  her  small 
hands  hard  together,  close  within  the  door. 

"  Come  here,  Florence,"  said  her  father,  coldly.  "  Do 
you  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

The  tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  raised  them 
quickly  to  his  face,  were  frozen  by  the  expression  it 
wore.  She  looked  down  again,  and  put  out  her  trembling 
hand. 

Mr.  Dombey  took  it  loosely  in  his  own,  and  stood  look- 
ing down  upon  her  for  a  moment  as  if  he  knew  as  little 
as  the  child,  what  to  say  or  do. 

"  There  !  Be  a  good  girl  !  "  he  said,  patting  her  on  the 
head,  and  regarding  her  as  it  were  by  stealth  with  a  dis- 
turbed and  doubtful  look.    "  Go  to  Richards  !  Go  !  "' 

His  little  daughter  hesitated  for  another  instant  as 
though  she  would  have  clung  about  him  still,  or  had 
some  lingering  hope  that  he  might  raise  her  in  his  arms 
and  kiss  her.  She  looked  up  in  his  face  once  more.  He 
thought  how  like  her  expression  was  then,  to  what  it 
had  been  when  she  looked  round  at  the  doctor — that 
night — and  instinctively  dropped  her  hand  and  turned 
away. 

It' was  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  Florence  was  at 
a  great  disadvantage  in  her  father's  presence.  It  was 
not  only  a  constraint  upon  the  child's  mind,  but  e\'en 
upon  the  natural  grace  and  freedom  of  her  actions.  Still 
Polly  persevered  with  all  the  better  heart  for  seeing  this; 
and,  judging  of  Mr.  Dombey  by  herself,  had  great  confi- 
dence in  the  mute  appeal  of'poor  little  Florence's  moum- 
ingdress.  "  It's  hard  indeed,"  thought  Polly,  "  if  betakes 
only  to  one  little  motherless  child,  when  he  has  another, 
and'  that  a  girl,  before  his  eyes." 

So,  Polly  kept  her  before  his  eyes,  as  long  as  she 
could,  and'raanaged  so  well  with  little  Paul,  as  to  make 
it  very  plain  that  he  was  all  the  livelier  for  his  sister's 
company.  When  it  was  time  to  withdraw  up-stairs 
again,  she  would  have  sent  Florence  into  the  inner  room 


450 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


to  say  good-niglit  to  lier  father,  but  the  child  was  timid 
and  drew  back  ;  and  when  she  urged  her  again,  said, 
spreading  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out 
her  own  un worthiness,  "  Oh  no  no  !  He  don't  want  me. 
He  don't  want  me." 

The  little  altercation  between  them  had  attracted  the 
notice  of  Mr.  Dombey,  who  inquired  from  the  table  where 
he  was  sitting  at  his  wine,  what  the  matter  was. 

"Miss  Florence  was  afraid  of  interrupting,  sir,  if  she 
came  in  to  say  good-night,"  said  Richards. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  "You 
can  let  her  come  and  go  without  regarding  me." 

The  child  shrunk  as  she  listened — and  was  gone,  before 
her  humble  friend  looked  round  again. 

However,  Polly  triumphed  not  a  little  in  the  success 
of  her  well-intentioned  scheme,  and  in  the  address  with 
which  she  had  brought  it  to  bear  ;  whereof  she  made  a 
full  disclosure  to  Spitfire  when  she  was  once  more  safely 
intrenched  up-stairs.  Miss  Nipper  received  that  proof  of 
her  confidence,  as  well  as  the  prospect  of  their  free  asso- 
ciation for  the  future,  rather  coldly,  and  was  anything 
but  enthusiastic  in  her  demonstrations  of  joy. 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  been  pleased,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  I  am  very  well  pleased,  thank 
you,"  returned  Susan,  who  had  suddenly  become  so  very 
upright  that  she  seemed  to  have  put  an  additional  bone 
in  her  stays. 

"You  don't  show  it,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  !  Being  only  a  permanency  I  couldn't  be  ex- 
pected to  show  it  like  a  temporary,"  said  Susan  Nipper. 
"  Temporaries  carries  it  all  before  'em  here,  I  find,  but 
though  there's  a  excellent  party- wall  between  this  house 
and  the  next,  1  mayn't  exactly  like  to  go  to  it,  Mrs. 
Richards,  notwithstanding  !  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

//I  wJiich  some  more  First  A2)peara7ices  are  made  on  the  Stage  of  these 
Adventures. 

Though  the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  were  within 
the  liberties  of  the  city  of  London,  and  within  hearing 
of  Bow  Bells,  when  their  clashing  voices  were  not 
drowned  by  the  uproar  in  the  streets,  yet  were  there 
hints  of  adventurous  and  romantic  story  to  be  observed 
in  some  of  the  adjacent  objects.  Gog  and  Magog  held 
their  state  within  ten  minutes'  walk  ;  the  Royal  Ex- 
change was  close  at  hand  ;  the  Bank  of  England  with  its 
vaults  of  gold  and  silver  "  down  among  the  dead  men" 
underground,  was  their  magnificent  neighbour.  Just 
round  the  corner  stood  the  rich  East  India  House,  teem- 
ing with  suggestions  of  precious  stuffs  and  stones,  tigers, 
elephants,  howdahs,  hookahs, umbrellas,  palm-trees,  pal- 
anquins, and  gorgeous  princes  of  a  brown  complexion  sit- 
ting on  carpets  with  their  slippers  very  much  turned  up 
at  the  toes.  Anywhere  in  the  immediate  vicinity  there 
might  be  seen  pictures  of  ships  speeding  away  full  sail 
to  all  parts  of  the  world  ;  outfitting  ware-houses  ready  to 
pack  off  anybody  anywhere,  fully  equipped  in  half  an 
hour  ;  and  little  timber  midshipmen  in  obsolete  naval  uni- 
forms, eternally  employed  outside  the  shop-doors  of  nau- 
tical instrument-makers  in  taking  observations  of  the 
hackney-coaches. 

Sole  master  and  proprietor  of  one  of  these  effigies — 
of  that  which  might  be  called,  familiarly,  the  wooden- 
est — of  that  which  thrust  itself  out  above  the  pave- 
ment, right  leg  foremost,  with  a  suavity  the  least  endur- 
able, and  had  the  shoe-biickles  and  flapped  waistcoat  the 
least  reconcileable  to  human  reason,  and  bore  at  its 
right  eye  the  most  offensively  disproportionate  piece  of 
machinery — solo  master  and  proprietor  of  that  midship- 
man, and  proud  of  him  too,  an  elderly  gentleman  in  a 
Welsh  wig,  had  paid  house-rent,  taxes,  and  dues,  for 
more  years  tlian  many  a  full-grown  midshipman  of  flesh 
and  blood  has  numbered  in  his  life  ;  and  midshii)men 
who  have  attained  a  ])retty  green  old  age,  have  not  been 
wanting  in  tlie  English  nvLwy. 

The  stock-in-trade  of  this  old  gentleman  comprised 
chronometers,  barometers,  telescopes,  compasses,  charts, 
maps,  sextants,  quadrants,  and  specimens  of  every  kind 
t'f  instrument  used  in  the  working  of  a  ship's  course,  or 


the  keeping  of  a  ship's  reckoning,  or  the  prosecuting  of 
a  ship's  discoveries.  Objects  in  brass  and  glass  were  in 
his  drawers  and  on  his  shelves,  which  none  but  the  ini- 
tiated could  have  found  the  top  of,  or  guessed  the  use  of, 
or  having  examined,  could  have  ever  got  back  again  into 
their  mahogany  nests  without  assistance.  Everything 
was  jammed  into  the  tightest  cases,  fitted  into  the  nar- 
rowest corners,  fenced  up  behind  the  most  impertinent 
cushions,  and  screwed  into  the  acutest  angles,  to  prevent 
its  philosophical  composure  from  being  distui  bed  by  the 
rolling  of  the  sea.  Such  extraordinary  precautions  were 
taken  in  every  instance  to  save  room,  and  keep  the  thing 
compact  ;  and  so  much  practical  navigation  was  fitted, 
and  cushioned,  and  screwed  into  every  box  (whether  the 
box  was  a  mere  slab,  as  some  were,  or  something  between 
a  cocked  hat  and  a  star-fish,  as  others  were,  and  those 
quite  mild  and  modest  boxes  as  compared  with  others)  ; 
that  the  shop  itself,  partaking  of  the  general  infection, 
seemed  almost  to  become  a  snug,  sea-going,  ship-shape 
concern,  wanting  only  good  sea-room,  in  the  event  of  an 
unexpected  launch, to  work  its  way  securely  to  any  desert 
island  in  the  world. 

Many  minor  incidents  in  the  household  life  of  the  Ship's 
Instrument-maker  who  was  proud  of  his  little  midship- 
man, assisted  and  bore  out  this  fancy.  His  acquaintance 
lying  chiefly  among  ship-chandlers  and  so  forth,  he  had 
always  plenty  of  the  veritable  ships'  biscuit  on  bistable. 
It  was  familiar  with  dried  meats  and  tongues,  possess- 
ing an  extraordinary  flavour  of  rope  yarn.  Pickles  were 
produced  upon  it,  in  great  wholesale  jars,  with  "dealer 
in  all  kinds  of  Ships'  Provisions"  on  the  label  ;  spirits 
were  set  forth  in  case  bottles  with  no  throats.  Old  prints 
of  ships  with  alphabetical  references  to  their  various 
mysteries,  hung  in  frames  upon  the  walls  ;  the  Tartar 
Frigate  under  weigh,  was  on  the  plates  ;  outlandish 
shells,  seaweeds,  and  mosses,  decorated  the  chimney- 
piece  ;  the  little  wainscoted  back  parlour  was  lighted 
by  a  skylight,  like  a  cabin. 

Here  he  lived  too,  in  skipper-like  state,  all  alone  with 
his  nephew  Walter  :  a  boy  of  fourteen  who  looked  quite 
enough  like  a  midshipman,  to  carry  out  the  prevailing 
idea.  But  there  it  ended,  for  Solomon  Gills  himself 
(more  generally  called  old  Sol)  was  far  from  having  a  mar- 
itime appearance.  To  say  nothing  of  his  Welsh  wig, 
which  was  as  plain  and  stubborn  a  Welsh  wig  as  ever  was 
worn,  and  in  which  he  looked  like  anything  but  a  Rover, 
he  was  a  slow,  quietspoken,  thoughtful  old  fellow,  with 
eyes  as  red  as  if  they  had  been  small  suns  looking  at  you, 
through  a  fog  ;  and  a  newly  awakened  manner,  such  as  he 
might  have  acquired  by  having  stared  for  three  or  four 
days  successively  through  every  optical  instrument  in  his 
shop, and  suddenly  came  back  to  the  world  again,  to  find  it 
green.  The  only  change  ever  known  in  his  outward  man, 
was  from  a  complete  suit  of  coffee-colour  cut  very  square, 
and  ornamented  with  glaring  buttons,  to  the  same  suit  of 
coffee  colour  minus  the  inexpressibles,  which  were  then 
of  a  pale  nankeen.  He  wore  a  very  precise  shirt-frill,  and 
carried  a  pair  of  first-rate  spectacles  on  his  forehead, 
and  a  tremendous  chronometer  in  his  fob,  rather  than 
doubt  which  precious  possession,  he  would  have  believed 
in  a  conspiracy  against  it  on  the  part  of  all  the  clocks  and 
watches  in  the  city,  and  even  of  the  very  Sun  itself. 
Such  as  he  was,  such  he  had  been  in  the  shop  and  par- 
lour, behind  the  little  midshipman,  for  years  upon  years  ; 
going  regularly  aloft  to  bed  every  night  in  a  howling 
garret  remote  from  the  lodgers,  where,  when  gentlemen 
of  England  who  lived  below  at  ease  had  little  or  no  idea 
of  the  state  of  the  weather,  it  often  blew  great  guns. 

It  is  half- past  five  o'clock,  and  an  autumn  afternoon 
when  the  reader  and  Solomon  Gills  become  acquainted. 
Solomon  Gills  is  in  the  act  of  seeing  what  time  it  is  by 
the  unimpeachable  chronometer.  The  usual  daily  clear- 
ance has  been  making  in  the  city  for  an  hour  or  more  ; 
and  the  human  tide  is  still  rolling  westward.  *  The 
streets  have  thinned,' as  Mr.  Gills  says,  'very  much.' 
It  threatens  to  be  wet  to-night.  All  the  weather-glasses 
in  the  shop  are  in  low  spirits,  and  the  rain  already.shines 
upon  the  cocked  hat  of  the  wooden  midshipman. 

"Where's  Walter,  I  wonder!"  said  Solomon  Gills, 
after  he  had  carefully  put  up  the  chronometer  again. 
"Hero's  dinner  been  ready,  half  an  hour,  and  no  Wal- 
ter 1" 


DOMBEY 

Turning  round  upon  his  stool  behind  the  counter,  Mr. 
Gills  looked  out  among-  the  instruments  in  the  window, 
to  see  if  his  nephew  might  be  crossing  the  road.  No. 
He  was  not  among  the  bobbing  umbrellas,  and  he  cer- 
tainly was  not  the  newspaper  boy  in  the  oilskin  cap  who 
was  slowly  working  his  way  along  the  piece  of  brass 
outside,  writing  his  name  over  Mr.  Gills'  name  with  his 
forefinger. 

"  If  I  didn't  know  he  was  too  fond  of  me  to  make  a  run 
of  it,  and  go  and  enter  himself  aboard  ship  against  my 
wishes,  I  should  begin  to  be  fidgetty,"  said  Mr.  Gills, 
tapping  two  or  three  weather  glasses  with  his  knuckles. 
"I  really  should.  All  in  the  Downs,  eh  1  Lots  of  mois- 
ture !    Well  !  it's  wanted." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  blowing  the  dust  off  the 
glass  top  of  a  compass  case,  "  that  you  don't  point  more 
direct  and  due  to  the  back  parlour  than  the  boy's  incli- 
nation does  after  all.  And  the  parlour  couldn't  bear 
straighter  either.  Due  north.  Not  the  twentieth  part 
of  a  point  either  way." 

"Halloa  Uncle  Sol  !" 

"Halloa  my  boy  !"  cried  the  Instrument-maker,  turn- 
ing briskly  round.    "  What  !  you  are  here,  are  you  I  " 

A  cheerful-looking,  merry  boy,  fresh  with  running 
home  in  the  rain  ;  fair-faced,  bright-eyed,  and  curly- 
haired. 

"  Well  uncle,  how  have  you  got  on  without  me  all 
day!    Is  dinner  ready?    I'm  so  hungry." 

"  As  to  getting  on,"  said  Solomon  good-naturedly,  "it 
w^ould  be  odd  if  I  couldn't  get  on  without  a  young  dog 
like  you  a  great  deal  better  than  with  you.  As  to  din- 
ner being  ready,  it's  been  ready  this  half  hour  and  wait- 
ings for  you.    As  to  being  hungry.  Jam  !  " 

"  Come  along  then,  uncle  ! "  cried  the  boy.  "  Hurrah 
for  the  admiral  !  " 

"Confound  the  admiral!"  returned  Solomon  Gills. 
"  You  mean  the  Lord  Mayor." 

"  No  I  don't !"  cried  the  boy.  "  Hurrah  for  the  ad- 
miral.   Hurrah  for  the  admiral  !    For — ward  !" 

At  this  word  of  command,  the  Welsh  wig  and  its  wear- 
er were  borne  without  resistance  into  the  back  parlour, 
as  at  the  head  of  a  boarding  party  of  five  hundred  men  ; 
and  uncle  Sol  and  his  nephew  were  speedily  engaged  on 
a  fried  sole  with  a  prospect  of  steak  to  follow. 

"  The  Lord  Mayor,  Wally,"  said  Solomon,  "for  ever  ! 
No  more  admirals.    The  Lord  Mayor  s  your  admiral." 

"  Oh,  is  he  though  !  "  said  the  boy,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Why,  the  Sword  Bearer's  better  than  him.  He  draws 
his  sword  sometimes." 

"  And  a  pretty  figure  he  cuts  with  it  for  his  pains,"  re- 
turned the  uncle.  "Listen  to  me  Wally,  listen  to  me. 
Look  on  the  mantel-shelf." 

"  Why  who  has  cocked  my  silver  mug  up  there,  on  a 
nail?"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"I  have,"  said  his  uncle.    "No  more  mugs  now. 
We  must  begin  to  drink  out  of  glasses  to-day,  Walter. 
We  are  men  of  business.    We  belong  to  the  city.  We 
I    started  in  life  this  morning." 

"  Well,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  "I'll  drink  out  of  any- 
thing you  like,  so  long  as  I  can  drink  to  you.    Here's  to 
[    you.  Uncle  Sol,  and  hurrah  for  the — " 

"  Lord  Mayor,"  interrupted  the  old  man. 
'      "  For  the  Lord  Mayor,  Sheriffs,  Common  Council,  and 
Livery,"  said  the  boy.    "  Long  life  to  'em  !  " 

The  uncle  nodded  his  head  with  great  satisfaction. 
"And  now,"  he  said,  "let's  hear  something  about  the 
Firm." 

"Oh  !  there's  not  much  to  be  told  about  the  Firm, 
uncle,"  said  the  boy,  plying  his  knife  and  fork.  "  It's  a 
precious  dark  set  of  offices,  and  in  the  room  where  I  sit, 
there's  a  high  fender,  and  an  iron  safe,  and  some  cards 
about  ships  that  are  going  to  sail,  and  an  almanack,  and 
some  desks  and  stools,  and  an  ink-bottle,  and  some 
books,  and  some  boxes,  and  a  lot  of  cobwebs,  and  in  one 
of  'em,  just  over  my  head,  a  shrivelled-up  blue-bottle 
that  looks  as  if  it  had  hung  there  for  ever  so  long." 

"  Nothing  else  ?  "  said  the  uncle. 

"No,  nothing  else,  except  an  old  bird-cage  (I  wonder 
how  that  ever  came  there  !)  and  a  coal-scuttle." 

"No  bankers'  books,  or  cheque  books,  or  bills,  or 
I  »uch  tokens  of  wealth  rolling  in  from  day  to  day  ?"  said 
I  old  Sol,  looking  wistfully  at  his  nephew  out  of  the  fog 


AND  SON.  451 

that  always  seemed  to  hang  about  him,  and  laying  an 
unctuous  emphasis  upon  the  words. 

"Oh  yes,  plenty  of  that  I  suppose,"  returned  his 
nephew  carelessly  ;  "  but  all  that  sort  of  thing's  in  Mr. 
Carker's  room,  or  Mr.  Morfin's,  or  Mr.  Dombey's." 

"Has  Mr.  Dombey  been  there  to-day?"  inquired  the 
uncle. 

"  Oh  yes  !    In  and  out  all  day." 

"  He  didn't  take  any  notice  of  you,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes  he  did.  He  walked  up  to  my  seat, — I  wish  he 
wasn't  so  solemn  and  stiff,  uncle — and  said '  Oh  1  yow 
are  the  son  of  Mr.  Gills  the  Ships'  Instrument-maker.' 
'  Nephew,  sir,'  I  said.  '  I  said  nephew,  boy,'  said  he. 
But  I  could  take  my  oath  he  said  son,  uncle." 

"  You're  mistaken  I  dare  say.    It's  no  matter." 

"  No,  it's  no  matter,  but  he  needn't  have  been  so 
sharp,  I  thought.  There  was  no  harm  in  it  though  he 
did  say  son.  Then  he  told  me  that  you  had  spoken  to 
him  about  me,  and  that  he  had  found  me  employment  in 
the  House  accordingly,  and  that  I  was  expected  to  be  at- 
tentive and  punctual,  and  then  he  went  away.  I  thought 
he  didn't  seem  to  like  me  much." 

You  mean,  I  suppose,"  observed  the  Instrument- 
maker,  "  that  you  didn't  seem  to  like  him  much." 

"Well,  uncle,"  returned  the  boy,  laughing.  "Per- 
haps so  ;  I  never  thought  of  that." 

Solomon  looked  a  little  graver  as  he  finished  his  din- 
ner, and  glanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  boy's  bright 
face.  When  dinner  was  done,  and  the  cloth  was  cleared 
away  (the  entertainment  had  been  brought  from  a  neigh- 
bouring eating-house),  he  lighted  a  candle,  and  went 
down  below  into  a  little  cellar,  while  his  nephew,  stand- 
ing on  the  mouldy  staircase,  dutifully  held  the  light. 
After  a  moment's  groping  here  and  there,  he  presently 
returned  with  a  very  ancient-looking  bottle,  covered 
with  dust  and  dirt. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Sol  !"  said  the  boy,  "  what  are  you 
about  !  that's  the  wonderful  Madeira — there's  only  one 
more  bottle  ! " 

Uncle  Sol  nodded  his  head,  implying  that  he  knew 
very  well  what  he  was  about  ;  and  having  drawn  the 
cork  in  solemn  silence,  filled  two  glasses  and  set  the  bot- 
tle and  a  third  clean  glass  on  the  table. 

"  You  shall  drink  the  other  bottle,  Wally,"  he  said. 
"  when  you  come  to  good  fortune  ;  when  you  are  a 
thriving,  respected,  happy  man  ;  when  the  start  in  life 
you  have  made  to-day  shall  have  brought  you,  as  I  pray 
Heaven  it  may  ! — to  a  smooth  part  of  the  course  you 
have  to  run,  my  child.    My  love  to  you  ! " 

Some  of  the  fog  that  hung  about  old  Sol  seemed  to 
have  got  into  his  throat ;  for  he  spoke  huskily.  His 
hand  shook  too,  as  he  clinked  his  glass  against  his  neph- 
ew's. But  having  once  got  the  wine  to  his  lips,  he 
tossed  it  oft'  like  a  man,  and  smacked  them  afterwards. 

"Dear  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  affecting  to  make  light  of 
it,  while  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  "  for  the  honour  you 
have  done  me,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  I  shall  now  beg  to 
propose  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  with  three  times  three  and 
one  cheer  more.  Hurrah  !  and  you'll  return  thanks, 
uncle,-  when  we  drink  the  last  bottle  together  ;  Avon't 
you  ?  " 

They  clinked  their  glasses  again  ;  and  Walter,  who 
was  hoarding  his  wine,  took  a  sip  of  it,  and  held  the 
i  glass  up  to  his  eye  with  as  critical  an  air  as  he  could  pos- 
sibly assume. 

His  uncle  sat  looking  at  him  for  some  time  in  silence. 
When  their  eyes  at  last  met,  he  began  at  once  to  pursue 
the  theme  that  had  occupied  his  thoughts,  aloud,  as  if 
he  had  been  speaking  all  the  while. 

"  You  see,  Walter,"  he  said,  "  in  truth  this  business 
is  merelv  a  habit  with  me.  I  am  so  accustomed  to  the 
habit  that  I  could  hardly  live  if  I  relinquished  it  :  but 
there's  nothing  doing,  nothing  doing.  When  that  uni- 
form was  worn,"  pointing  out  towards  the  little  mid- 
shipman, "then  indeed,  fortunes  were  to  be  made,  and 
were  made.  But  competition,  competition— new  inven- 
tion, new  invention — alteration,  alteration— the  world's 
gone  past  me.  I  hardly  know  where  I  am  myself  ;  much 
less  where  my  customers  are." 

"  Never  mind  'em  uncle  !" 

"Since  you  came  home  from  weekly  boarding-school 
at  Peckham,  for  instance— and  that's  ten  days,"  said 


452 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Solomon,  "  I  don't;  remember  more  than  one  person 
that  has  come  into  the  shop." 

"  Two  uncle,  don't  you  recollect  ?  There  was  the  man 
who  came  to  ask  for  change  for  a  sovereign — " 

"  That's  the  one,"  said  Solomon. 

"  Why  uncle  !  don't  you  call  the  woman  anybody,  who 
came  to  ask  the  way  to  Mile-end  Turnpike?  " 

''  Oh  !  it's  true,"  said  Solomon,  "  I  forgot  her.  Two 
persons. " 

"To  be  sure,  they  didn't  buy  anything,"  cried  the 
boy. 

"No.  They  didn't  buy  anything,"  said  Solomon, 
quietly. 

"  Nor  want  anything,"  cried  the  boy. 

"  No.  If  they  had,  they'd  gone  to  another  shop,"  said 
Solomon,  in  the  same  tone. 

"Bat  there  were  two  of  'em  uncle,"  cried  the  boy, 
as  if  that  were  a  great  triumph.    "  You  said  only  one." 

"Well,  Wally,"  resumed  the  old  man,  after  a  short 
pause  :  "not  being  like  the  savages  who  came  on  Rob- 
inson Crusoe's  island,  we  can't  live  on  a  man  who  asks 
for  change  for  a  sovereign,  and  a  woman  who  inquires  the 
way  to  Mile-end  Turnpike.  As  I  said  just  now,  the 
world  has  gone  past  me.  I  don't  blame  it  ;  but  I  no 
longer  understand  it.  Tradesmen  are  not  the  same  as 
they  used  to  be,  apprentices  are  not  the  same,  business 
is  not  the  same,  business  commodities  are  not  the  same. 
Seven-eighths  of  my  stock  is  old-fashioned.  I  am  an 
old-fashioned  man  in  an  old-fashioned  shop,  in  a  street 
that  is  not  the  same  as  I  remember  it.  I  have  fallen 
behind  the  time,  and  am  too  old  to  catch  it  again.  Even 
the  noise  it  makes  a  long  way  ahead,  confuses  me." 

Walter  was  going  to  speak,  but  his  uncle  held  up  his 
hand. 

"  Therefore  Wally — therefore  it  is  that  I  am  anxious 
you  should  be  early  in  the  busy  world,  and  on  the  world's 
track.  I  am  only  the  ghost  of  this  business — its  sub- 
stance vanish-ed  long  ago  :  and  when  I  die,  its  ghost 
will  be  laid.  As  it  is  clearly  no  inheritance  for  you 
then,  I  have  thought  it  best  to  use  for  your  advantage, 
almost  the  only  fragment  of  the  old  connexion  that 
stands  by  me,  through  long  habit.  Some  people  suppose 
me  to  be  wealthy.  I  wish  for  your  sake,  they  were  right. 
But  whatever  I  leave  behind  me,  or  whatever  I  can  give 
you,  you  in  such  a  house  as  Dombey's  are  in  the  road  to 
use  well  and  make  the  most  of.  Be  diligent,  try  to  like 
it,  my  dear  boy,  work  for  a  steady  independence,  and  be 
happy  !  " 

"  I'll  do  everything  I  can,  uncle,  to  deserve  your  affec- 
tion.   Indeed  I  will,"  said  the  boy,  earnestly. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Solomon.  "  I  am  sure  of  it,"  and 
lie  applied  himself  to  a  second  glass  of  the  old  Madeira, 
with  increased  relish.  "As  to  the  sea,"  he  pursued, 
"that's  well  enough  in  fiction,  Wally,  but  it  won't  do 
in  fact  :  it  won't  do  at  all.  It's  natural  enough  that 
you  should  think  about  it,  associating  it  with  all  these 
familiar  things  ;  but  it  won't  do,  it  won't  do." 

Solomon  Gills  rubbed  his  hands  with  an  air  of  stealthy 
enjoyment,  as  he  talked  of  the  sea,  though  ;  and  looked 
on  the  seafaring  objects  about  him  with  inexpressible 
complacency. 

"Think  of  this  wine  for  instance,"  said  old  Sol, 
"  which  has  been  to  the  East  Indies  and  back,  I'm  not 
able  to  say  how  often,  and  has  been  once  round  the 
world.  Think  of  the  pitch-dark  nights,  the  roaring 
winds,  and  rolling  seas  : " 

"The  thunder,  lightning,  rain,  hail,  storms  of  all 
kinds,"  said  the  boy. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Solomon,— "  that  this  wine  has 
passed  through.  Think  what  a  straining  and  creaking 
of  timbers,  and  masts  :  what  a  whistling  and  howling 
of  the  gale  through  ropes  and  rigging  :  " 

"  What  a  clambering  aloft  of  men,  vying  with  each 
other  who  shall  lie  out  first  upon  the  yards  to  furl  the 
icy  sails,  while  the  ship  rolls  and  pitches,  like  mad  !  " 
cried  his  nephew. 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Solomon  :  "  has  gone  on,  over  the 
old  casks  that  held  this  wine.  Why,  when  the  Charm- 
ing Sally  went  down  in  the — " 

"In  the  Baltic  Sea,  in  the  dead  of  night;  five-and- 
twenty  minutes  past  twelve  when  the  captain's  watch 
stopped  in  his  pocket ;  he  lying  dead  against  the  main- 


mast—on the  fourteenth  of  February,  seventeen  forty- 
nine  !  "  cried  Walter  with  great  animation. 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure  ! "  cried  old  Sol,  "  quite  right  !  Then, 
there  were  five  hundred  casks  of  such  wine  aboard  ;  and 
all  hands  (except  the  first  mate,  first  lieutenant,  two  sea- 
men, and  a  lady,  in  a  leaky  boat),  going  to  work  to  stave 
the  casks,  got  drunk,  and  died  drunk,  smging  '  Rule 
Britannia,'  when  she  settled  and  went  down,  and  ending 
with  one  awful  scream  in  chorus." 

"But  when  the  George  the  Second  drove  ashore,  un- 
cle, on  the  coast  of  CornAvall,  in  a  dismal  gale  two  hours 
before  daybreak,  on  the  fourth  of  March,  'seventy-one, 
she  had  near  two  hundred  horses  aboard  ;  and  the  horses 
breaking  loose  down  below,  early  in  the  gale,  and  tear- 
ing to  and  fro,  and  trampling  each  other  to  death,  made 
such  noises,  and  set  up  such  human  cries,  that  the  crew 
believing  the  ship  to  be  full  of  devils,  some  of  the  best 
men,  losing  heart  and  head,  went  overboard  in  despair, 
and  only  two  were  left  alive,  at  last,  to  tell  the  tale." 

"  And  when,"  said  old  Sol,  "  when  the  Polyphemus — " 

"Private  West  India  Trader,  burden  three  hundred 
and  fifty  tons.  Captain,  John  Brown  of  Deptford.  Ov/n- 
ers,  Wiggs  and  Co.,"  cried  Walter. 

"The  same,"  said  Sol;  "when  she  took  fire,  four 
days'  sail  with  a  fair  wind  out  of  Jamaica  Harbour,  in 
the  night — " 

"There  were  two  brothers  on  board,"  interposed  his 
nephew,  speaking  very  fast  and  loud,  "  and  there  not 
being  room  for  both  of  them  in  the  only  boat  that  wasn't 
swamped,  neither  of  them  would  consent  to  go,  until  the 
elder  took  the  younger  by  the  waist,  and  fiung  him  in. 
And  then  the  younger,  rising  in  the  boat,  cried  out, 
*  Dear  Edward,  think  of  your  promised  wife  at  home. 
I'm  only  a  boy.  No  one  waits  at  home  for  me.  Leap 
down  into  my  place  I '  and  flung  himself  in  the  sea  !  " 

The  kindling  eye  and  heightened  colour  of  the  boy, 
who  had  risen  from  his  seat  in  the  earnestness  of  what 
he  said  and  felt,  seemed  to  remind  old  Sol  ot  something 
he  had  forgotten,  or  that  his  encircling  mist  had  hitherto 
shut  out.  Instead  of  proceeding  with  any  more  anec- 
dotes, as  he  had  evidently  intended  but  a  moment  before, 
he  gave  a  short  dry  cough,  and  said,  "  Well !  suppose 
we  change  the  subject." 

The  truth  was,  that  the  simple-minded  uncle  in  his 
secret  attraction  towards  the  marvellous  and  adventur- 
ous— of  which  he  was,  in  some  sort,  a  distant  relation, 
by  his  trade — had  greatly  encouraged  the  same  attrac- 
tion in  the  nephew  ;  and  that  everything  that  had  ever 
been  put  before  the  boy  to  deter  him  from  a  life  of  ad- 
venture, had  had  the  usual  unaccountable  effect  of 
sharpening  his  taste  for  it.  This  is  invariable.  It  would 
seem  as  if  there  never  was  a  book  written,  or  a  story 
told,  expressly  with  the  object  of  keeping  boys  on  shore, 
which  did  not  lure  and  charm  them  to  the  ocean,  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

But  an  addition  to  the  little  party  now  made  its  ap- 
pearance, in  the  shape  of  a  gentleman  in  a  wide  suit  of 
blue,  with  a  hook  instead  of  a  hand  attached  to  his 
right  wrist  ;  very  bushy  black  eyebrows  ;  and  a  thick 
stick  in  his  left  hand,  covered  all  over  (like  his  nose) 
with  knobs.  He  wore  a  loose  black  silk  handkerchief 
round  his  neck,  and  such  a  very  large  coarse  shirt  col- 
lar, that  it  looked  like  a  small  sail.  He  was  evidently 
the  person  for  whom  the  spare  wine-glass  was  intended, 
and  evidently  knew  it ;  for  having  taken  off  his  rough 
outer  coat,  and  hung  up,  on  a  particular  peg  behind  the 
door,  such  a  hard  glazed  hat  as  a  sympathetic  person's 
head  might  ache  at  the  si^ht  of,  and  which  left  a  red 
rim  round  his  own  forehead  as  if  he  had  been  wearing  a 
tight  basin,  he  brought  a  chair  to  where  the  clean  glass 
was,  and  sat  himself  down  behind  it.  He  was  usually 
addressed  as  Captain,  this  visitor  ;  and  had  been  a  pilot, 
or  a  slvipper,  or  a  privateersman,  or  all  three  perhaps  ; 
and  was  a  very  salt-looking  man  indeed. 

His  face,  remarkable  for  a  brown  solidity,  brightened  as 
he  shook  hands  with  uncle  and  nephew  ;  but  he  seemed 
to  be  of  a  laconic  disposition,  and  merely  said  : 

"  How  goes  it?" 

"x\ll  well,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  pushing  the  bottle  towards 
him. 

Ho  took  it  up,  and  having  surveyed  and  smelt  it,  said 
with  extraordinary  expression  : 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


453 


"  Tlief" 

"  The,"  returned  the  Instrument-maker. 

Upon  that  he  whistled  as  he  filled  his  glass,  and 
seemed  to  think  they  were  making  holiday  indeed. 

"  Wal'r  ! "  he  said,  arranging  his  hair  (which  was 
thin)  with  his  hook,  and  then  pointing  it  at  the  Instru- 
ment-maker. "  Look  at  him  !  Love  !  Honour  I  And 
Obey  !  Overhaul  your  catechism  till  you  find  that  pas- 
sage, and  when  found  turn  the  leaf  down.  Success  my 
boy 

He  was  so  perfectly  satisfied  both  with  his  quotation 
and  his  reference  to  it,  that  he  could  not  help  repeating 
the  words  again  in  a  low  voice,  and  saying  he  had  for- 
gotten 'em  these  forty  year. 

"But  I  never  wanted  two  or  three  words  in  my  life 
that  I  didn't  know  where  to  lay  my  hand  upon  'em, 
Gills,"  he  observed.  "  It  comes  of  not  wasting  lan- 
guage as  some  do." 

The  reflection  perhaps  reminded  him  that  he  had  bet- 
ter, like  young  Norval's  father,  "increase  his  store." 
At  any  rate  he  became  silent,  and  remained  so  until  old 
Sol  went  out  into  the  shop  to  light  it  up,  when  he 
turned  to  Walter,  and  said,  without  any  introductory 
remark : 

"  I  suppose  he  could  make  a  clock  if  he  tried  ?  " 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  the  boy. 

"And  it  would  go  ! "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  making  a  spe- 
cies of  serpent  in  the  air  with  his  hook.  "Lord,  how 
that  clock  would  go  ! " 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  seemed  quite  lost  in  contem- 
plating the  pace  of  this  ideal  timepiece,  and  sat  looking 
at  the  boy  as  i  f  his  face  were  the  dial. 

"  But  he's  chockfull  of  science,"  he  observed,  waving 
his  hook  towards  the  stock-in-trade.  "  Look  'ye  here  ! 
Here's  a  collection  of  'em.  Earth,  air,  or  water.  It's  all 
one.  Only  say  where  you'll  have  it.  Up  in  a  balloon  ? 
There  you  are.  Down  in  a  bell  ?  There  you  are.  D'ye 
want  to  put  the  North  Star  in  a  pair  of  scales,  and 
weigh  it  ?  He'll  do  it  for  you." 

It  may  be  gathered  from  these  remarks  that  Captain 
Cuttle's  reverence  for  the  stock  of  instruments  was  pro- 
found, and  that  his  philosophy  knew  little  or  no  distinc- 
tion between  trading  in  it  and  inventing  it. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "it's  a  fine  thing  to  un- 
derstand 'em.  And  yet  it's  a  fine  thing  not  to  under- 
stand 'em.  I  hardly  know  which  is  best.  It's  so  com- 
fortable to  sit  here  and  feel  that  you  might  be  weighed, 
measured,  magnified,  electrified,  polarized,  played  the 
very  devil  with  :  and  never  know  how." 

Nothing  short  of  the  Avonderful  Madeira,  combined 
with  the  occasion  (which  rendered  it  desirable  to  improve 
and  expand  Walter's  mind),  could  have  ever  loosened 
his  tongue  to  the  extent  of  giving  utterance  to  this 
prodigious  oration.  He  seemed  quite  amazed  himself 
at  the  manner  in  which  it  opened  up  to  view  the  sources 
of  the  taciturn  delight  he  had  had  in  eating  Sunday  din- 
ners in  that  parlour  for  ten  years.  Becoming  a  sadder 
and  a  wiser  man  he  mused  and  held  his  peace. 

"  Come  ! "  cried  the  subject  of  his  admiration,  return- 
ing. "Before  you  have  your  glass  of  grog,  Ned,  we 
must  finish  the  bottle." 

"  Stand  by  ! "  said  Ned,  filling  his  glass.  "  Give  the 
boy  some  more." 

"  No  more,  thank'e,  uncle  ! " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Sol,  "a  little  more.  We'll  finish 
the  bottle,  to  the  House,  Ned — Walter's  house.  Why  it 
may  be  his  house  one  of  these  days,  in  part.  Who 
knows  ?  Sir  Richard  Whittington  married  his  master's 
daughter." 

"Turn  again  Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
and  when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it," 
interposed  the  Captain.  "  Wal'r  !  Overhaul  the  book, 
my  lad." 

"  And  although  Mr.  Dombey  hasn't  a  daughter,"  Sol 
began. 

"  Yes,  yes,  he  has,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  reddening 
and  laughing. 

"Has  he?"  cried  the  old  man.  "Indeed  I  think  he 
has  too." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  he  has,"  said  the  boy,  "  Some  of  'em 
were  talking  about  it  in  the  office  to-day.  And  they  do 
say,  uncle  and  Captain  Cuttle,"  lowering  his  voice, 


"that  he's  taken  a  dislike  to  her,  and  that  she's  left  un- 
noticed, among  the  servants,  and  that  his  mind's  so  set 
all  the  while  upon  having  his  son  in  the  House,  that  al- 
though he's  only  a  baby  now  he  is  going  to  have  balances 
struck  oftener  than  formerly,  and  the  books  kept  closer 
than  they  used  to  be,  and  has  even  been  seen  (when  he 
thought  he  wasn't)  walking  in  the  Docks  looking  at  his 
ships  and  property  and  all  that,  as  if  he  was  exulting 
like,  over  what  he  and  his  son  will  possess  t<jgether. 
That's  what  they  say.    Of  course  /  don't  know." 

"He  knows  ail  about  her  already,  you  see,"  said  the 
Instrument-maker. 

"Nonsense,  uncle,"  cried  the  boy,  still  reddening  and 
laughing,  boy-like.  "How  can  1  help  hearing  what 
they  tell  me  ?" 

j     "The  son's  a  little  in  our  way  at  present,  I'm  afraid, 
j  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  humouring  the  joke. 
[     "Very  much,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Nevertheless,  we'll  drink  him,"  pursued  Sol.  "So 
I  here's  to  Dombey  and  Son." 

!  "Oh,  very  well,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  merrily. 
"  Since  you  have  introduced  the  mention  of  her,  and 
have  connected  me  with  her,  and  have  said  that  I  know 
all  about  her,  I  shall  make  bold  to  amend  the  toast.  So 
here's  to  Dombey — and  Son — and  Daughter  !  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

Paul's  Progress  and  Christening. 

Little  Paul,  suffering  no  contamination  from  the 
blood  of  the  Toodles,  grew  stouter  and  stronger  every 
day.  Every  day,  too,  he  was  more  and  more  ardently 
cherished  by  Miss  Tox,  whose  devotion  was  so  far  ap- 
preciated by  Mr.  Dombey  that  he  began  to  regard  her  as 
a  woman  of  great  natural  good  sense,  whose  feelings 
did  her  credit  and  deserved  encouragement.  He  was  so 
lavi&ii  of  this  condescension,  that  he  not  only  bowed  to 
her,  in  a  particular  manner,  on  several  occasions,  but 
even  entrusted  such  stately  recognitions  of  her  to  his 
sister  as  "  pray  tell  your  friend,  Louisa,  that  she  is  very 
good,"  or  "mention  to  Miss  Tox,  Louisa,  that  I  am 
obliged  to  her  ; "  specialities  which  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  the  lady  thus  distinguished. 

Miss  Tox  vv'as  often  in  the  habit  of  assuring  Mrs.  Chick, 
that  "  nothing  could  exceed  her  interest  in  all  connected 
with  the  development  of  that  sweet  child  ;  "  and  an  ob- 
server of  Miss  Tox's  proceedings  might  have  inferred  so 
much  without  declaratory  confirmation.  She  would  pre- 
side over  the  innocent  repasts  of  the  young  heir,  with 
ineffable  satisfaction,  almost  with  an  air  of  joint  pro- 
prietorship with  Richards  in  the  entertainment.  At  the 
little  ceremonies  of  the  bath  and  toilette,  she  assisted 
with  enthusiasm.  The  administration  of  infantine 
doses  of  physic  awakened  all  the  active  sympathy  of  her 
character  ;  and  being  on  one  occasion  secreted  in  a  cup- 
board (whither  she  had  fled  in  modesty),  when  Mr.  Dom- 
bey was  introduced  into  the  nursery  by  his  sister,  to 
behold  his  son,  in  the  course  of  preparation  for  bed, 
taking  a  short  walk  uphill  over  Richard's  gown,  in  a 
short  and  airy  linen  jacket,  Miss  Tox  was  so  transported 
beyond  the  ignorant  present  as  to  be  unable  to  refrain 
from  crying  out,  "Is  he  not  beautiful,  Mr.  Dcmbey  ! 
Is  he  not  a  Cupid,  sir  ! "  and  then  almost  sinking  behind 
the  closet  door  with  confusion  and  blushes. 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  one  day,  to  his  sister,  "  I 
really  think  I  must  present  your  friend  with  some  little 
token  on  the  occasion  of  Paul's  christening.  She  has  ex- 
erted herself  so  warmly  in  the  child's  behalf  from  the 
first,  and  seems  to  understand  her  position  so  thoroughly 
(a  very  rare  merit  in  this  world,  I  am  sorry  to  say),  that 
it  would  really  be  agreeable  to  me  to  notice  her." 

Let  it  be  no  detraction  from  the  merits  of  Miss  Tox,  to 
hint  that  in  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes,  as  in  some  others  that 
occasionally  see  the  light,  they  only  achieved  that  mighty 
piece  of  knowledge,  the  understanding  of  their  own  po- 
sition, who  showed  a  fitting  reverence  for  his.  It  was 
not  so  much  their  merit  that  they  knew  themselves,  as 
that  they  knew  him,  and  bowed  low  before  him. 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  "  you  do  Miss  Tox 


454 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WOEKS, 


but  justice,  as  a  man  of  your  penetration  was  sure,  I 
knew,  to  do.  I  believe  if  there  are  three  words  in  the 
English  language  for  which  she  has  a  respect  amount- 
ing almost  to  veneration,  those  words  are,  Dombey  and 
Son." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  believe  it.  It  does  Miss 
Tox  credit." 

"And  as  to  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  token,  my  dear 
Paul,"  pursued  his  sister,  "  all  I  can  say  is  that  anything 
you  give  Miss  Tox  will  be  hoarded  and  prized,  I  am  sure, 
like  a  relic.  But  there  a  way,  my  dear  Paul,  of  showing 
your  sense  of  Miss  Tox's  friendliness  m  a  still  more  flat- 
tering and  acceptable  manner,  if  you  should  be  so  in- 
clined." 

*  *  How  is  that  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Godfathers,  of  course,"  continued  Mrs.  Chick,  "are 
important  in  point  of  connexion  and  influence." 

"I  don't  know  why  they  should  be,  to  my  son,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey  coldly. 

"Very  true,  my  dear  Paul,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with 
an  extraordinary  show  of  animation,  to  cover  the  sudden- 
ness of  her  conversion;  "  and  spoken  like  yourself.  I 
might  have  expected  •nothing  else  from  you.  I  might 
have  known  that  such  would  have  been  your  opinion. 
Perhaps  ; "  here  Mrs.  Chick  flattered  again,  as  not  quite 
comfortably  feeling  her  way  ;  "  perhaps  that  is  a  reason 
why  you  might  have  the  less  objection"  to  allowing  Miss 
Tox  to  be  godmother  to  the  dear  thing,  if  it  were  only  as 
deputy  and  proxy  for  some  one  else.  That  it  would  be 
received  as  a  great  honour  and  distinction,  Paul,  I  need 
not  say." 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  a  short  pause,  "  it  is 
not  to  be  supposed — " 

"  Certainly  not,"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  hastening  to  antici- 
j)ate  a  refusal,  "  I  never  thought  it  was." 

Mr.  Dombey  looked  at  her  impatiently. 

"  Don't  flurry  me,  my  dear  Paul,"  said  his  sister  ;  ' '  for 
that  destroys  me.  I  am  far  from  strong.  I  have  not  been 
quite  myself,  since  poor  dear  Fanny  departed." 

Mr.  Dombey  gl&nced  at  the  pocket-handkerchief  which 
his  sister  applied  to  her  eyes,  and  resumed  : 

"It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  I  say— ^" 

"And  I  say,"  murmured  Mrs.  Chick,  "that  I  never 
thought  it  was." 

"  Good  Heaven,  Louisa  !"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  No,  my  dear  Paul,"  she  remonstrated  with  tearful 
dignity,  ' '  I  must  really  be  allowed  to  speak.  I  am  not  so 
clever,  or  so  reasoning,  or  so  eloquent,  or  so  an\"thing,  as 
you  are.  I  know  that  very  v.'ell.  So  much  the  worse 
for  me.  But  if  they  were  the  last  words  I  had  to  utter 
— and  last  words  should  be  very  solemn  to  you  and  me, 
Paal,  after  poor  dear  Fanny — I  should  still  say  I  never 
thought  it  was.  And  what  is  more,"  added  Mrs.  Chick 
with  increased  dignity,  as  if  she  had  withheld  her  crush- 
ing argument  until  now,  "  I  never  did  'think  it  was." 

Mr.  Dombey  walked  to  the  window  and  back  again. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  Louisa,"  he  said  (Mrs.  Chick 
had  nailed  her  colours  to  the  mast,  and  repeated,  "  I  know 
it  isn't,"  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it),  "  but  that  there  are 
many  persons  who,  supposing  that  I  recognized  any  claim 
at  all  in  such  a  case,  have  a  claim  upon  me  superior  to 
Miss  Tox's.  But  I  do  not.  I  recognize  no  such  thing. 
Paul  and  myself  will  be  able,  when  the  time  comes,  to 
hold  our  own — the  house,  in  other  words,  will  be  able  to 
hold  its  own,  and  maintain  its  own,  and  hand  down  its 
own  of  itself,  and  without  any  such  common-place  aids. 
The  kind  of  foreign  help  which  people  usually  seek  for 
their  children,  I  can  afford  to  despise  ;  being  above  it, 
I  hope.  So  that  Paul's  infancy  and  childhood  pass  away 
well,  and  I  see  him  becoming  qualified  without  waste  of 
time  for  the  career  on  which  he  is  destined  to  enter,  I  am 
satisfied.  He  will  make  what  powerful  friends  he  pleases 
in  after-life,  when  he  is  actively  maintaining — and  ex- 
tending, if  that  is  possible — the  dignity  and  credit  of  the 
Firm.  Until  then,  I  am  enough  for  him,  perhaps,  and  all 
in  all.  I  have  no  wish  that  people  sliould  step  in  be- 
tween us.  I  would  much  rather  show  my  sense  of  the 
obliging  conduct  of  a  deserving  person  like  your  friend. 
Therefore  let  it  be  so  ;  and  your  husband  and  myself 
will  do  well  enough  for  the  other  sponsors,  I  dare  say." 

In  the  course  of  these  remarks,  delivered  with  great 
majesty  and  grandeur,  Mr.  Dombey  had  truly  revealed 


the  secret  feelings  of  his  breast.  An  indescribable  dis- 
trust of  anybody  stepping  in  between  himself  and  his 
son  ;  a  haughty  dread  of  having  any  rival  or  partner  in 
the  boy's  respect  and  deference  ;  a  sharp  misgiving,  re- 
cently acquired,  that  he  was  not  infallible  in  his  power 
of  bending  and  binding  human  wills  ;  as  sharp  a  jeal- 
ousy of  any  second  check  or  cross  ;  these  were,  at  that 
time,  the  master  keys  of  his  soul.  In  all  his  life  he  had 
never  made  a  friend.  His  cold  and  distant  nature  had 
neither  sought  one,  nor  found  one.  And  now  when  that 
nature  concentrated  its  whole  force  so  strongly  on  a 
partial  scheme  of  parental  interest  and  ambition,  it 
seemed  as  if  its  icy  current,  instead  of  being  released  by 
this  influence,  and  running  clear  and  free,  had  thawed 
for  but  an  instant  to  admit  its  burden,  and  then  frozen 
with  it  into  one  unyielding  block. 

Elevated  thus  to  the  godmothership  of  little  Paul,  in 
virtue  of  her  insignificance,  Miss  Tox  was  from  that 
hour  chosen  and  appointed  to  office ;  and  Mr.  Dombey 
further  signified  his  pleasure  that  the  ceremony,  already 
long  delayed,  should  take  place  without  further  post- 
ponement. His  sister,  who  had  been  far  from  anticipat- 
ing so  signal  a  success,  withdrew  as  soon  as  she  could, 
to  communicate  it  to  her  best  of  friends  ;  and  Mr. 
Dombey  was  left  alone  in  his  library. 

There  was  anything  but  solitude  in  the  nursery  ;  for 
there,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  enjoying  a  social 
evening,  so  much  to  the  disgust  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper 
that  that  young  lady  embraced  every  opportunity  of 
making  wry  faces  behind  the  door.  Her  feelings  were 
so  much  excited  on  the  occasion,  that  she  found  it  in- 
dispensable to  afford  them  this  relief,  even  without 
having  the  comfort  of  any  audience  or  sympathy  what- 
ever. As  the  knight-errants  of  old  relieved  their  minds 
by  carving  their  mistress's  names  in  deserts  and  wilder- 
nesses, and  other  savage  places  where  there  was  no 
probability  of  there  ever  being  anybody  to  read  them, 
so  did  Miss  Susan  Nipper  curl  her  snub  nose  into 
drawers  and  wardrobes,  put  away  winks  of  disparage- 
ment in  cupboards,  shed  derisive  squints  into  stone 
pitchers,  and  contradict  and  call  names  out  in  the  pas- 
sage. 

The  two  interlopers,  however,  blissfully  unconscious 
of  the  young  lady's  sentiments,  saw  little  Paul  safe 
through  all  the  stages  of  undressing,  airy  exercise, 
supper  and  bed  ;  and  then  sat  down  to  tea  before  the 
fire.  The  two  children  now  lay,  through  the  good  offi- 
ces  of  Polly,  in  one  room  ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  ladies 
were  established  at  their  tea-table  that  happening  to 
look  towards  the  little  beds,  they  thought  of  Florence. 

"  How  sound  she  sleeps  !  "  said  Miss  Tox, 

"  Why,  you  know  my  dear,  she  takes  a  great  deal  of 
exercise  in  the  course  of  the  day,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick, 
"  playing  about  little  Paul  so  much." 

"  She  is  a  curious  child,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"My  dear,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  low  voice: 
"  Her  mama,  all  over  !  " 

"  In-deed  !"  said  Miss  Tox.    "Ah  dear  me  !" 

A  tone  of  most  extraordinary  compassion  Miss  Tox 
said  it  in,  though  she  had  no  distinct  idea  why,  except 
that  it  was  expected  of  her. 

"  Florence  will  never,  never,  never,  be  a  Dombey,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  "  not  if  she  lives  to  be  a  thousand  years  old." 

Miss  Tox  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  was  again  full  of 
commiseration. 

"  I  quite  fret  and  worry  myself  about  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  a  sigh  of  modest  merit.  "I  really  don't 
see  what  is  to  become  of  her  when  she  grows  older,  or 
what  position  she  is  to  take.  She  don't  gain  on  her 
papa  in  the  least.  How  can  one  expect  she  should, 
when  she  is  so  very  unlike  a  Dombey  ?  " 

Miss  Tox  looked  as  if  she  saw  no  way  out  of  such  a 
cogent  argument  as  that  at  all. 

"  And  the  child,  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  deep 
confidence,  "has  poor  Fanny's  nature.  She'll  never 
make  an  effort  in  after-life,  I'll  venture  to  say.  Never  ! 
She'll  never  wind  and  twine  herself  about  her  papa's 
heart  like — " 

"  Like  the  ivy  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"Like  the  ivy,"  Mrs.  Chick  assented.  "Never! 
She'll  never  glide  and  nestle  intothe  bosom  of  herpapa's 
affections  like — the — " 


DOMBEY 

"  Startlfid  fawn  V  suggested  Miss  Tox. 
*'  Like  the  startled  fawn,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.    "  Never! 
Poor  Fanny  !    Yet  how  I  loved  her  !  " 

"  You  must  not  distress  yourself,  my  dear,"  said  Miss 
Tox,  in  a  soothing  voice.  "Now,  really!  You  have 
too  much  feeling. " 

"  We  have  all  our  faults,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  weeping 
and  shaking  her  head.  "  I  dare  say  we  have.  I  never 
was  blind  to  hers.  I  never  said  I  was.  Far  from  it. 
Yet  how  I  loved  her  I " 

What  a  satisfaction  it  was  to  Mrs.  Chick — a  common- 
place piece  of  folly  enough,  compared  with  whom  her 
sister-in-law  had  been  a  very  angel  of  womanly  intelli- 
gence and  gentleness — to  patronise  and  be  tender  to  the 
memory  of  that  lady  :  in  exact  pursuance  of  her  conduct 
to  her  in  her  life-time  ;  and  to  thoroughly  believe  her- 
self, and  take  herself  in,  and  make  herself  uncommonly 
comfortable  on  the  strength  of  her  toleration  !  What  a 
mighty  pleasant  virtue  toleration  should  be  when  we  are 
right,  to  be  so  very  pleasant  when  we  are  wrong,  and 
quite  unable  to  demonstrate  how  we  come  to  be  invested 
with  the  privilege  of  exercising  it  ! 

Mrs.  Chick  was  yet  drying  her  eyes  and  shaking  her 
head,  when  Richards  made  bold  to  caution  her  that  Miss 
Florence  was  awake  and  sitting  in  her  bed.  She  had 
risen,  as  the  nurse  said,  and  the  lashes  of  her  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears.  But  no  one  saw  them  glistening  save 
Polly.  No  one  else  leant  over  her,  and  whispered  sooth- 
ing words  to  her,  or  was  near  enough  to  hear  the  flutter 
of  her  beating  heart. 

"  Oh  !  dear  nurse  ! "  said  the  child,  looking  earnestly 
up  in  her  face,  "  let  me  lie  by  my  brother  1 " 

"  Why,  my  pet?"  said  Richards. 

"Oh  !  I  think  he  loves  me,"  cried  the  child  wildly. 
"  Let  me  lie  by  him.    Pray  do  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  interposed  with  some  motherly  words 
about  going  to  sleep  like  a  dear,  but  Florence  repeated 
her  supplication,  with  a  frightened  look,  and  in  a  voice 
broken  by  sobs  and  tears. 

"I'll  not  wake  him,"  she  said,  covering  her  face  and 
hanging  down  her  head,  "  I'll  only  touch  him  with  my 
hand,  and  go  to  sleep.  Oh,  pray,  pray,  let  me  lie  by  my 
brother,  to-night,  for  I  believe  he  is  fond  of  me  !  " 

Richards  took  her  without  a  word,  and  carrying  her  to 
the  little  bed  in  which  the  infant  was  sleeping,  laid  her 
down  by  his  side.  She  crept  as  near  as  she  could  with- 
out disturbing  his  rest  ;  and  stretching  out  one  arm  so 
that  it  timidly  embraced  his  neck,  and  hiding  her  face 
on  the  other,  over  which  her  damp  and  scattered  hair 
fell  loose,  lay  motionless. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  "she  has  been 
dreaming,  I  dare  say." 

This  trivial  incident  had  so  interrupted  the  current  of 
conversation,  that  it  was  difficult  of  resumption  ;  and 
Mrs.  Chick  moreover  had  been  so  affected  by  the  con- 
templation of  her  own  tolerant  nature,  that  she  was  not 
in  spirits.  The  two  friends  accordingly  soon  made  an 
end  of  their  tea,  and  a  servant  was  despatched  to  fetch 
a  hackney  cabriolet  for  Miss  Tox.  Miss  Tox  had  great 
experience  in  hackney  cabs,  and  her  starting  in  one  was 
generally  a  work  of  time,  as  she  was  systematic  in  the 
preparatory  arrangements. 

"  Have  the  goodness,  if  you  please,  Towlinson,"  said 
Miss  Tox,  "  first  of  all  to  carry  out  a  pen  and  ink  and 
take  his  number  legibly." 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  Then  if  you  please,  Towlinson,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"  have  the  goodness  to  turn  the  cushion.  Which,"  said 
Miss  Tox  apart  to  Mrs.  Chick,  "  is  generally  damp,  my 
dear." 

"Yes,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  I'll  trouble  you  also,  if  you  please,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"  with  this  card  and  this  shilling.  He's  to  drive  to  the 
card,  and  is  to  understand  that  he  will  not  on  any  ac- 
count have  more  than  the  shilling." 

"  No,  miss,"«feaid  Towlinson. 

"And — I'm  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble,  Tow- 
linson,"— said  Miss  Tox,  looking  at  him  pensively. 

"Not  at  all,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  Mention  to  the  man,  then,  if  you  please,  Towlin- 
son," said  Mi.ss  Tox,  "  that  the  lady's  uncle  is  a  magis- 
trate, and  that  if  he  gives  her  any  of  his  impertinence  he 


Am  SOK  455 

will  be  punished  terribly.  You  can  pretend  to  say  that, 
if  you  please,  Towlinson,  in  a  friendly  way,  and  because 
you  know  it  was  done  to  another  man,  who  died." 

"  Certainly,  miss,"  said  Towlinson, 

"  And  now  good  night  to  my  sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 
godson,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  soft  shower  of  kisses  at 
efich  repetition  of  the  adjective  ;  "  and  Louisa,  my  dear 
friend,  promise  me  to  take  a  little  something  warm  be- 
fore you  go  to  bed,  and  not  to  distress  yourself  !  " 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  Nipper,  the  black- 
eyed,  who  looked  on  steadfastly,  contained  herself  at 
this  crisis,  and,  until  the  subsequent  departure  of  Mrs. 
Chick.  But  the  nursery  being  at  length  free  of  visitors, 
she  made  herself  some  recompense  for  her  late  restraint. 

"You  might  keep  me  in  a  strait  waistcoat  for  six 
weeks,"  said  Nipper,  "and  when  I  got  it  off  I'd  only  be 
more  aggravated,  who  ever  heard  the  like  of  them  two 
Griffins,  Mrs.  Richards  ?  " 

"And  then  to  talk  of  having  been  dreaming,  poor 
dear  !  "  said  Polly. 

"Oh  you  beauties  I  "  cried  Susan  Nipper,  affecting  to 
salute  the  door  by  which  the  ladies  had  departed. 
"  Never  be  a  Dombey,  won't  sh^,  it's  to  be  hoped  she 
won't,  we  don't  want  any  more  such,  one's  enough." 

"  Don't  wake  the  children,  Susan  dear,"  said  Polly. 

"  I'm  very  much  beholden  to  you,  Mrs.  Richards," 
said  Susan,  who  was  not  by  any  means  discriminating 
in  her  wrath,  "  and  really  feel  it  as  a  honour  to  receive 
your  commands,  being  a  black  slave  and  a  mulotter. 
Mrs.  Richards,  if  there's  any  other  orders  you  can  give 
me,  pray  mention  'em." 

"  Nonsense  ;  orders,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  !  bless  your  heart,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Susan, 
"temporaries  always  orders  permanencies  here,  didn't 
you  know  that,  why  wherever  was  you  born,  Mrs. 
Richards?  But  wherever  you  was  born,  Mrs.  Richards," 
pursued  Spitfire,  shaking  her  head  resolutely,  "and 
whenever,  and  however  (which  is  best  known  to  your- 
self), 3'ou  may  bear  in  mind,  please,  that  it's  one  thing 
to  give  orders,  and  quite  another  thing  to  take  'em.  A 
person  may  tell  another  person  to  dive  off  a  bridge  head 
foremost  into  five-and-forty  feet  of  water,  Mrs.  Richards, 
but  a  person  may  be  very  far  from  diving." 

"  There  now,"  said  Polly,  "  you're  angry  because 
you're  a  good  little  thing,  and  fond  of  Miss  Florence  ; 
and  yet  you  turn  round  on  me,  because  there's  nobody 
else." 

"  It's  very  easy  for  some  to  keep  their  tempers,  and 
be  soft-spoken,  Mrs.  Richards,"  returned  Susan,  slightly 
mollified,  "when  their  child's  made  as  much  of  as  a 
prince,  and  is  petted  and  patted  till  it  wishes  its  friends 
further,  but  when  a  sweet  young  pretty  innocent,  that 
never  ought  to  have  a  cross  word  spoken  to  or  of  it,  is 
run  down,  the  case  is  very  difficult  indeed.  My  goodness 
gracious  me.  Miss  Floy,  you  naughty,  sinful  child,  if 
you  don't  shut  your  eyes  this  minute,  I'll  call  in  them 
iiob-goblins  that  lives  in  the  cock-loft  to  come  and  eat 
you  up  alive  !  " 

Here  Miss  Nipper  made  a  horrible  lowing,  supposed 
to  issue  from  a  conscientious  goblin  of  the  bull  species, 
impatient  to  discharge  the  severe  duty  of  his  position. 
Having  further  composed  her  young  charge  by  covering 
her  head  with  the  bed-clothes,  and  making  three  or 
four  angry  dabs  at  the  pillow,  she  folded  her  arms,  and 
screwed  up  her  mouth,  and  sat  looking  at  the  fire  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Though  little  Paul  Avas  said,  in  nursery  phrase,  "  to 
take  a  deal  of  notice  for  his  age,"  he  took  as  little  notice 
of  all  this  as  of  the  preparations  for  his  christening  on 
the  next  day  but  one  ;  which  nevertheless  went  on  about 
him,  as  to  his  personal  apparel,  and  that  of  his  sister 
and  the  two  nurses,  with  great  activity.  Neither  did 
he,  on  the  arrival  of  the  appointed  morning,  show  any 
sense  of  its  importance  ;  being,  on  the  contrary,  unusually 
inclined  to  sleep,  and  unusually  inclined  to  take  it  ill  in 
his  attendants  that  they  dressed  him  to  go  out. 

It  happened  to  be  an  iron-grey  autumnal  day,  with  a 
shrewd  east  wind  blowing— a  day  in  keeping  with  the 
proceedings.  Mr.  Dombey  represented  in  himself  the 
wind,  the  shade,  and  the  autumn  of  the  christening. 
He  stood  in  his  library  to  receive  the  company,  as  hard 
and  cold  as  the  weather ;  and  when  he  looked  out 


456 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


througli  the  glass  room,  at  tlie  trees  in  the  little  garden, 
their  brown  and  yellow  leaves  came  fluttering  down,  as 
if  he  blighted  them. 

Ugh  !  They  Avere  black,  cold  rooms  ;  and  seemed  to 
be  in  mourning,  like  the  inmates  of  the  house.  The 
books  precisely  matched  as  to  size,  and  drawn  up  in 
line,  like  soldiers,  looked  in  their  cold,  hard,  slippery 
uniforms,  as  if  they  had  but  one  idea  among  them,  and 
that  was  a  freezer.  The  bookcase,  glazed,  and  locked, 
repudiated  all  familiarities.  Mr.  Pitt,  in  bronze  on  the 
top,  with  no  trace  of  his  celestial  origin  about  him, 
guarded  the  unattainable  treasure  like  an  enchanted 
Moor.  A  dusty  urn  at  each  high  corner,  dug  up  from  an 
ancient  tomb,  preached  desolation  and  decay  as  from  two 
pulpits  ;  and  the  chimney-glass,  reflecting  Mr,  Dombey 
and  his  portrait  at  one  blow,  seemed  fraught  with  mel- 
ancholy meditations. 

The  stiff  and  stark  fire-irons  appeared  to  claim  a  nearer 
relationship  than  anything  else  there  to  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  his  buttoned  coat,  his  white  cravat,  his  heavy  gold 
watch-chain,  and  his  creaking  boots.  But  this  was 
before  the  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chick,  his  lawful  rel- 
atives, who  soon  presented  themselves. 

"My  dear  Paul,"  Mrs.  Chick  murmured,  as  she  em- 
braced him,  "  the  beginning,  I  hope,  of  many  joyful 
days  ! " 

"Thank  you,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  grimly. 
"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  John  ?" 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir,"  said  Chick. 

He  gave  Mr.  Dombey  his  hand,  as  if  he  feared  it 
might  electrify  him.  Mr.  Dombey  took  it  as  if  it  were  a 
fish,  or  seaweed,  or  some  such  clammy  substance,  and 
immediately  returned  it  to  him  with  exalted  politeness. 

"  Perhaps,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  slightly  turn- 
ing his  head  in  his  cravat,  as  if  it  were  a  socket,  "  you 
would  have  preferred  a  fire  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Paul,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  had 
much  ado  to  keep  her  teeth  from  chattering;  "not  for 
me." 

"Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "you  are  not  sensible 
of  any  chill  ?  " 

Mr.  John,  who  had  already  got  both  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  over  the  wrists,  and  was  on  the  very  threshold 
of  that  same  canine  chorus  which  had  given  Mrs.  Chick 
so  much  offence  on  a  former  occasion,  protested  that  he 
was  perfectly  comfortable. 

He  added  in  a  low  voice,  "  With  my  tiddle  tol  toor 
rul  " — when  he  was  providentially  stopped  by  Towlin- 
son,  who  announced  : 

"MissTox!" 

And  enter  that  fair  enslaver,  with  a  blue  nose  and  in- 
describably  frosty  face,  referable  to  her  being  very 
thinly  clad  in  a  maze  of  fluttering  odds  and  ends,  to  do 
honour  to  the  ceremony. 

"  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Tox  ?"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Miss  Tox  in  the  midst  of  her  spreading  gauzes,  went 
down  altogether  like  an  opera-glass  shutting  up  ;  she 
curtseyed  so  low,  in  acknowledgment  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
advancing  a  step  or  two  to  meet  her. 

"I  can  never  forget  this  occasion,  sir,"  said  Miss 
Tox,  softly.  "  'Tis  impossible.  My  dear  Louisa,  I  can 
hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  my  senses." 
.  If  Miss  Tox  could  believe  the  evidence  of  one  of  her 
senses,  it  was  a  very  cold  day.  That  was  quite  clear. 
She  took  an  early  opportunity  of  promoting  the  circula- 
tion in  the  tip  of  her  nose  by  secretly  chafing  it  with  her 
pocket-handkerchief,  lest,  by  its  very  low  temperature, 
it  should  disagreeably  astonish  the  baby  when  she  came 
to  kiss  it. 

The  baby  soon  appeared,  carried  in  great  glory  by 
Richards  ;  while  Florence,  in  custody  of  that  active 
young  constable,  Susan  Nipper,  brought  up  the  rear. 
Though  the  whole  nursery  party  were  dressed  by  this 
time  in  lighter  mourning  than  at  first,  there  was  enough 
in  the  appearance  of  the  bereaved  children  to  make  the 
day  no  brighter.  The  baby  too — it  might  have  been 
Miss  Tox's  nose — began  to  cry.  Thereby,  as  it  happened, 
preventing  Mr.  Chick  from  the  awkward  fulfilment  of 
a  very  honest  purpose  he  had  ;  which  was,  to  make 
much  of  Florence.  For  this  gentleman,  insensible  to  the 
superior  claims  of  a  perfect  Dombey  (perhaps  on  account 
of  having  the  honour  to  be  united  to  a  Dombey  himself, 


and  being  familiar  with  excellence),  really  liked  her, 
and  showed  that  he  liked  her,  and  was  about  to  show  it 
in  his  own  way  now,  when  Paul  cried,  and  his  helpmate 
stopped  him  short. 

"  Now  Florence  child  !  "  said  her  aunt,  briskly,  "  what 
are  you  doing,  love?  Show  yourself  to  him.  Engage 
his  attention,  my  dear  !  " 

The  atmosphere  became,  or  might  have  become,  colder 
and  colder,  when  Mr.  Dombey  stood  frigidly  watching 
his  little  daughter,  who,  clapping  her  hands,  and  stand- 
ing on  tip-toe  before  the  throne  of  his  son  and  heir, 
lured  him  to  bend  down  from  his  high  estate,  and  look 
at  her.  Some  honest  act  of  Richards'  may  have  aided 
the  effect,  but  he  did  look  down,  and  held  his  peace. 
As  his  sister  hid  behind  her  nurse,  he  followed  her  with 
his  eyes  ;  and  when  she  peeped  out  with  a  merry  cry  to 
him,  he  sprang  up  and  crowed  lustily — laughing  out- 
right when  she  ran  in  upon  him  ;  and  seeming  to  fondle 
her  curls  with  his  tiny  hands,  while  she  smothered  him 
with  kisses. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey  pleased  to  see  this  ?  He  testified 
no  pleasure  by  the  relaxation  of  a  nerve  ;  but  outward 
tokens  of  any  kind  of  feeling  were  unusual  with  him. 
If  any  sunbeam  stole  into  the  room  to  light  the  children 
at  their  i^lay,  it  never  reached  his  face.  He  looked  on 
so  fixedly  and  coldly,  that  the  warm  light  vanished  even 
from  the  laughing  eyes  of  little  Florence,  when,  at  last, 
they  happened  to  meet  his. 

It  was  a  dull,  grey,  autumn  day  indeed,  and  in  a 
minute's  pause  and  silence  that  took  place,  the  leaves 
fell  sorrowfully. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  referring  to  his  watch, 
and  assuming  his  hat  and  gloves.  "  Take  my  sister,  if 
you  please  :  my  arm  to-day  is  Miss  Tox's.  You  had  bet- 
ter go  first  with  Master  Paul,  Richards.  Be  very  care- 
ful." 

In  Mr.  Dombey's  carriage,  Dombey  and  Son,  Miss 
Tox,  Mrs.  Chick,  Richards,  and  Florence.  In  a  little 
carriage  following  il,  Susan  Nipper  and  the  owner  Mr. 
Chick.  Susan  looking  out  of  window,  without  inter- 
mission, as  a  relief  from  the  embarrassment  of  confront- 
ing the  large  face  of  that  gentleman,  and  thinking 
whenever  anything  rattled  that  he  was  putting  up  in 
paper  an  appropriate  pecuniary  compliment  for  herself. 

Once  upon  the  road  to  church,  Mr.  Dombey  clapped 
his  hands  for  the  amusement  of  his  son.  At  which  in- 
stance of  parental  enthusiasm  Miss  Tox  was  enchanted. 
But  exclusive  of  this  incident,  the  chief  difference  be- 
tween the  christening  party  and  a  party  in  a  mourning 
coach,  consisted  in  the  colours  of  the  carriage  and  horses. 

Arrived  at  the  church  steps,  they  were  received  by  a 
portentous  beadle.  Mr.  Dombey  dismounting  first  to 
help  the  ladies  out,  and  standing  near  him  at  the  church 
door,  looked  like  another  beadle.  A  beadle  less  gor- 
geous, but  more  dreadful  ;  the  beadle  of  private  life  : 
the  beadle  of  our  business  and  our  bosoms. 

Miss  Tox's  hand  trembled  as  she  slipped  it  through 
Mr.  Dombey's  arm,  and  felt  herself  escorted  up  the 
steps,  preceded  by  a  cocked  hat  and  a  Babylonian  collar. 
It  seemed  for  a  moment  like  that  other  solemn  institu- 
tion, "Wilt  thou  have  this  man,  Lucretia?"  "Yes,  I 
will." 

"Please  to  bring  the  child  in  quick  out  of  the  air 
there,"  whispered  the  beadle,  holding  open  the  inner 
door  of  the  church. 

Little  Paul  might  have  asked  with  Ilamlet  "into  my 
grave? "so  chill  and  earthy  was  the  place.  The  tall 
shrouded  pulpit  and  reading-desk  ;  the  dreary  perspect- 
ive of  empty  pews  stretching  away  imder  the  galleries, 
and  empty  benches  mounting  to  the  roof  and  lost  in  the 
shadow  of  the  great  grim  organ  ;  the  dusty  matting  and 
cold  stone  slabs  ;  the  grisly  free  seats  in  the  aisles  ;  and 
the  damp  corner  by  the  bell-rope,  where  the  black  tres- 
sels  used  for  funerals  Avere  stowed  away,  along  with 
some  shovels  and  baskets,  and  a  coil  or  two  of  deadly- 
looking  rope  ;  the  strange,  unusual,  uncoHifortable  smell, 
and  the  cadaverous  light  ;  were  all  in  unison.  It  was  a 
cold  and  dismal  scene. 

"There's  a  wedding  just  on,  sir,"  said  the  beadle, 
"  but  it'll  be  over  directly,  if  you'll  walk  into  the  westry 
here." 

Before  he  turned  again  to  lead  the  way,  he  gave  Mr. 


DO  MB  BY  AKD  SON. 


457 


Donibey  a  bow  and  a  half  smile  of  recognition,  importing 
tliat  he  (the  beadle)  remembered  to  have  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  attending  on  him  when  he  buried  his  wife,  and 
hoped  he  had  enjoyed  himself  since. 

The  very  wedding  looked  dismal  as  they  passed  in 
front  of  the  altar.  The  bride  was  too  old  and  the  bride- 
groom too  young,  and  a  superannuated  beau  with  one 
eye  and  an  eye-glass  stuck  in  its  blank  companion,  was 
giving  away  the  lady,  while  the  friends  were  shivering. 
In  the  vestry  the  fire  was  smoking ;  and  an  over-aged 
and  over- worked  and  under-paid  attorney's  clerk,  "  mak- 
ing a  search,"  was  running  his  fore-finger  down  the 
parchment  pages  of  an  immense  register  (one  of  a  long 
series  of  similar  volumes)  gorged  with  burials.  Over 
the  fireplace  was  a  ground-plan  of  the  vaults  underneath 
the  church  ;  and  Mr.  Chick,  skimming  the  literary  por- 
tion of  it  aloud,  by  way  of  enlivening  the  company,  read 
the  reference  to  Mrs.  Dombey's  tomb  in  full,  before  he 
could  stop  himself. 

After  another  cold  interval,  a  wheezy  little  pew-opener 
afflicted  with  an  asthma,  appropriate  to  the  church-yard, 
if  not  to  the  church,  summoned  them  to  the  font.  Here 
they  waited  some  little  time  while  the  marriage  party 
enrolled  themselves  ;  and  meanwhile  the  wheezy  little 
pew-opener — partly  in  consequence  of  her  infirmity, 
and  partly  that  the  marriage  party  might  not  forget 
her — went  about  the  building  coughing  like  a  gram- 
pus. 

Presently  the  clerk  (the  only  cheerful-looking  object 
there,  and  Jie  was  an  undertaker)  came  up  with  a  jug  of 
warm  water,  and  said  something,  as  he  poured  it  into 
the  font,  about  taking  the  chill  off ;  which  millions  of 
gallons  boiling  hot  could  not  have  done  for  the  occasion. 
Then  the  clergyman,  an  amiable  and  mild-looking  young 
curate,  but  obviously  afraid  of  the  baby,  appeared  like 
the  principal  character  in  a  ghost-story,  "a  tall  figure 
all  in  white  at  sight  of  whom  Paul  rent  the  air  with 
bis  cries,  and  never  left  off  again  till  he  was  taken  out 
black  in  the  face. 

Even  when  that  event  had  happened,  to  the  great  re- 
lief of  everybody,  he  was  heard  under  the  portico,  during 
the  rest  of  the  ceremony,  now  fainter,  now  louder,  now 
hushed,  now  bursting  forth  again  with  an  irrepressible 
sense  of  his  wrongs.  This  so  distracted  the  attention  of 
the  two  ladies,  that  Mrs.  Chick  was  constantly  deploy- 
ing into  the  centre  aisle,  to  send  out  messages  by  the 
pew-opener,  while  Miss  Tox  kept  her  prayer-  book  open 
at  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  and  occasionally  read  responses 
from  that  service. 

During  the  whole,  of  these  proceedings,  Mr.  Dombey 
remained  as  impassive  and  gentlemanly  as  ever,  and 
perhaps  assisted  in  making  it  so  cold,  that  the  young 
curate  smoked  at  the  mouth  as  he  read.  The  only  time 
that  he  unbent  his  visage  in  the  least,  was  when  the 
clergyman,  in  delivering  (very  unaffectedly  and  simply) 
the  closing  exhortation,  relative  to  the.  future  examina- 
tion of  the  child  by  the  sponsors,  happened  to  rest  his 
eye  on  Mr.  Chick  ;  and  then  Mr,  Dombey  might  have 
been  seen  to  express  by  a  majestic  look,  that  he  would 
like  to  catch  him  at  it. 

It  might  have  been  well  for  Mr.  Dombey,  if  he  had 
thought  of  his  own  dignity  a  little  less  ;  and  had  thought 
of  the  great  origin  and  purpose  of  the  ceremony  m  which 
he  took  so  fonnal  and  so  stiff  a  part,  a  little  more.  His 
arrogance  contrasted  strangely  with  its  history. 

When  it  was  all  over  he  again  gave  his  arm  to  Miss  Tox, 
and  conducted  her  to  the  vestry,  where  he  informed  the 
clergyman  how  much  pleasure  it  would  have  given  him 
to  have  solicited  the  honour  of  his  company  at  dinner, 
but  for  the  unfortunate  state  of  his  household  affairs. 
The  register  signed,  and  the  fees  paid,  and  the  pew- 
opener  (whose  cough  was  very  bad  again)  remembered, 
and  the  beadle  gratified,  and  the  sexton  (who  was  acci- 
dentally on  the  door-steps,  looking  with  great  interest 
at  the  weather)  not  forgotten,  they  got  into  the  carriage 
again,  and  drove  home  in  the  same  bleak  fellowship. 

There  they  found  Mr.  Pitt  turning  up  his  nose  at  a 
eold  collation,  set  forth  in  a  cold  pomp  of  glass  and  silver, 
and  looking  more  lilce  a  dead  dinner  lying  in  state  than 
a  social  refreshment.  On  their  arrival.  Miss  Tox  pro- 
duced a  mug  for  her  godson,  and  Mr.  Chick  a  knife  and 
fork  and  spoon  in  a  case.     Mr.  Dombey  also  produced  a 


bracelet  for  Miss  Tox  ;  and,  on  the  receipt  of  this  token, 
Miss  Tox  was  tenderly  affected. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  will  you  take  the 
bottom  of  the  table,  if  you  please.  What  have  you  got 
there,  Mr.  John  ?  " 

"  I  have  got  a  cold  fillet  of  veal  here,  sir,"  replied  Mr. 
Chick,  rubbing  his  numbed  hands  hard  together.  What 
have  you  got  there,  sir?" 

"  This,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  is  some  cold  prepara- 
tion of  calf's  head,  I  think.  1  see  cold  fowLs — ham — 
patties — salad — lobster.  Miss  Tox  will  do  me  the  hon- 
our of  taking  some  wine?    Champagne  to  Miss  Tox." 

There  was  a  toothache  in  everything.  The  wine  was  so 
bitter  cold  that  it  forced  a  little  scream  from  Miss  Tox, 
which  she  had  great  difficulty  in  turning  into  a  "  Hem  1" 
The  veal  had  come  from  such  an  airy  pantry,  that  the 
first  taste  of  it  had  struck  a  sensation  as  of  cold  lead  to 
Mr.  Chick's  extremities.  Mr.  Dombey  alone  remained 
unmoved.  He  might  have  been  hung  up  for  sale  at  a 
Russian  fair  as  a  specimen  of  a  frozen  gentleman. 

The  prevailing  influence  was  too  much  even  for  his 
sister.  She  made  no  effort  at  flattery  or  small-talk,  and 
directed  all  her  efforts  to  looking  as  warm  as  she  could. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  making  a  desperate 
plunge,  after  a  long  silence,  and  filling  a  glass  of 
i  sherry  ;  "I  shall  drink  this,  if  you'll  allow  me,  sir,  to 
little  Paul." 

"Bless  him!"  murmured  Miss  Tox,  taking  a  sip  of 
wine. 

' '  Dear  little  Dombey  ! "  murmured  Mrs.  Chick. 

"Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  severe  gravity, 
"my  son  would  feel  and  express  himself  obliged  to  you, 
I  have  no  doubt,  if  he  could  appreciate  the  favour  you 
have  done  him.  He  will  prove,  in  time  to  come,  I  trust, 
equal  to  any  responsibility  that  the  obliging  disposition 
of  his  relations  and  friends,  in  private,  or  the  onerous 
nature  of  our  position,  in  public,  may  impose  upon 
him." 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said  admitting  of  nothing 
more,  Mr.  Chick  relapsed  into  low  spirits  and  silence. 
Not  so  Miss  Tox,  who,  having  listened  to  Mr.  Dombey 
with  even  a  more  emphatic  attention  than  usual,  and 
with  a  more  expressive  tendency  of  her  head  to  one 
side,  now  leant  across  the  table,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Chick 
softly  : 

"  Louisa  !" 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"Onerous  nature  of  our  position  in  public  may — 1 
have  forgotten  the  exact  term. " 

"Expose  him  to,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "I  think 
not.  It  was  more  rounded  and  flowing.  Obliging  dis- 
position of  relations  and  friends  in  private,  or  onerous 
nature  of  position  in  public — may — impose  upon  him?" 

"Impose  upon  him,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Miss  Tox  struck  her  delicate  hands  together  lightly, 
in  triumph  ;  and  added,  casting  up  her  eyes,  "  eloquence 
indeed  ! " 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  issued  orders  for 
the  attendance  of  Richards,  who  now  entered  courtesy- 
ing,  but  without  the  baby  ;  Paul  being  asleep  after  tlie 
fatigues  of  the  morning.  Mr.  Dombey,  having  deliv- 
ered a  glass  of  wine  to  this  vassal,  addressed  her  in  the 
following  words  :  Miss  Tox  previously  settling  her  head 
on  one  side,  and  making  other  little  arrangements  for 
engraving  them  on  her  heart. 

"During  the  six  months  or  so,  Richards,  which  have 
seen  you  an  inmate  of  this  house,  you  have  done  your 
duty.  Desiring  to  connect  some  little  service  to  you 
with  this  occasion,  I  considered  how  I  could  best  effect 
that  object,  and  I  also  advised  with  my  sister  Mrs.—" 

"  Chick,"  interposed  the  gentleman  of  that  name. 

"Oh,  hush  if  you  please!  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

"I  was  about  to  say  to  you,  Richards,"  resumed  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  an  appalling  glance  at  John,  "  that  I  was 
further  assisted  in  my  decision,  by  the  recollection  of  a 
conversation  I  held  with  your  husband  in  this  room,  on 
the  occasion  of  your  being  hired,  when  he  disclosed  to 
me  the  melancholy  fact  that  your  family,  himself  at  the 
head,  were  sunk  and  steeped  in  ignorance." 

Richards  quailed  under  the  magnificence  of  the  re- 
proof. 


458 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  I  am  far  from  being  friendly,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey, 
"to  what  is  called  by  persons  of  levelling  sentiments, 
general  education.  But  it  is  necessary  that  the  inferior 
classes  should  continue  to  be  taught  to  know  their  posi- 
tion, and  to  conduct  themselves  properly.  So  far  I  ap- 
prove of  schools.  Having  the  power  of  nominating  a 
child  on  the  foundation  of  an  ancient  establishment, 
called  (from  a  worshipful  company)  the  Charitable 
Grinders  ;  where  not  only  is  a  wholesome  education  be- 
stowed upon  the  scholars,  but  where  a  dress  and  badge 
is  likewise  provided  for  them  ;  I  have  (first  communi- 
cating, through  Mrs.  Chick,  with  your  family)  nomin- 
ated your  eldest  son  to  an  existing  vacancy  ;  and  he  has 
this  day,  I  am  informed,  assumed  the  habit.  The  num- 
ber of  her  son,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  to 
his  sister  and  speaking  of  the  child 'as  if  he  were  a  hack- 
ney-coach, "is  one  hundred  and  forty-seven.  Louisa, 
you  can  tell  her." 

*'  One  hundred  and  forty-seven,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 
"The  dress,  Richards,  is  a  nice,  warm,  blue  baize 
tailed  coat  and  cap,  turned  up  with  orange-coloured 
binding  ;  red  worsted  stockings  ;  and  very  strong  leather 
small-clothes.  One  might  wear  the  articles  one's-self," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  enthusiasm,  "and  be  grateful." 

"There,  Richards  !"  said  Miss  Tox.  "Now,  indeed, 
you  may  be  proud.    The  Charitable  Grinders  !  " 

"I  am  sure  I  am  very  much  obliged,  sir,"  returned 
Richards  faintly,  "  and  take  it  very  kind  that  you  should 
remember  my  little  ones. "  At  the  same  time  a  vision 
of  Biler  as  a  Charitable  Grinder,  with  his  very  small 
legs  encased  in  the  serviceable  clothing  described  by 
Mrs.  Chick,  swam  before  Richards'  eyes,  and  made  their, 
water. 

*  *  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  have  so  much  feeling, 
Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"It  makes  one  almost  hope,  it  really  does,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  who  prided  herself  on  taking  trustful  views  of 
human  nature,  "  that  there  may  yet  be  some  faint  spark 
of  gratitude  and  right  feeling  in  the  world." 

Richards  deferred  to  these  compliments  by  curtseying 
and  murmuring  her  thanks  ;  but  finding  it  quite  impos- 
sible to  recover  her  spirits  from  the  disorder  into  which 
they  had  been  thrown  by  the  image  of  her  son  in  his 
precocious  nether  garments,  she  gradually  approached 
the  door  and  was  heartily  relieved  to  escape  by  it. 

Such  temporary  indications  of  a  partial  thaw  that  had 
appeared  with  her,  vanished  with  her  ;  and  tlie  frost  set 
in  again,  as  cold  and  hard  as  ever.  Mr.  Chick  was  twice 
heard  to  hum  a  tune  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  but  on 
both  occasions  it  was  a  fragment  of  the  Dead  March  in 
Saul.  The  party  seemed  to  get  colder  and  colder,  and 
to  be  gradually  resolving  itself  into  a  congealed  and 
solid  state,  like  the  collation  round  which  it  was  as- 
sembled. At  length  Mrs.  Chick  looked  at  Miss  Tox, 
and  Miss  Tox  returned  the  look,  and  they  both  rose  and 
said  it  was  really  time  to  go.  Mr.  Dombey  receiving 
this  announcement  with  perfect  equanimity,  they  took 
leave  of  that  gentleman,  and  presently  departed  under 
the  protection  of  Mr.  Chick  ;  who,  when  they  had  turned 
their  backs  upon  the  house  and  left  its  master  in  his 
usual  solitary  state,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  threw 
himself  back  in  the  carriage,  and  whistled  "  With  a 
hey  ho  chevy  ! "  all  tlirough  ;  conveying  into  his  face  as 
he  did  so,  an  expression  of  such  gloomy  and  terrible  de- 
fiance, that  Mrs.  Chick  dared  not  protest,  or  in  any  way 
molest  him. 

Richards,  though  she  had  little  Paul  on  her  lap,  could 
not  forget  her  own  first-born.  She  felt  it  was  ungrate- 
ful ;  but  the  influence  of  the  day  fell  even  on  the  Chari- 
table Grinders,  and  she  could  hardly  help  regarding  his 
pewter  badge,  number  one  hundred  and  forty-seven,  as, 
somehow,  a  part  of  its  formality  and  sternness.  She 
spoke,  too,  in  the  nursery,  of  his  "  blessed  legs,"  and 
was  again  troubled  by  his  spectre  in  uniform. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  wouldn't  give,"  said  Polly,  "  to 
see  the  poor  little  dear  before  he  gets  used  to  'em." 

"  Why,  then,  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Richards,"  re- 
torted Nipper,  who  had  been  admitted  to  her  confidence, 
"see  him  and  make  your  mind  easy." 

"Mr.  Dombey  wouldn't  like  it,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  wouldn't  he,  Mrs.  Richards  ! "  retorted  Nipper, 
"he'd  like  it  very  much,  I  think,  when  he  was  asked." 


"You  wouldn't  ask  him,  I  supi)Ose,  at  all?"  said 
Polly. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Richards,  quite  contrairy,"  returned  Susan, 
"  and  them  two  inspectors  Tox  and  Chick,  not  intending 
to  be  on  duty  to-morrow,  as  I  heard  'em  say,  me  and 
Miss  Floy  will  go  along  with  you  to-morrow  morning, 
and  welcome,  Mrs.  Richards,  if'  you  like,  for  we  may  as 
well  walk  there  as  up  and  down  a  street,  and  better 
too." 

Polly  rejected  the  idea  pretty  stoutly  at  first  ;  but  by 
little  and  little  she  began  to  entertain  it,  as  she  enter- 
tained more  and  more  distinctly  the  forbidden  pictures 
of  her  children,  and  her  own  home.  At  length,  arguing 
that  there  could  be  no  great  harm  in  calling  for  a  moment 
at  the  door,  she  yielded  to  the  Nipper  proposition. 

The  matter  being  settled  thus,  little  Paul  began  to  cry 
most  piteously,  as  if  he  had  a  foreboding  that  no  good 
would  come  of  it. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  child  ?"  asked  Susan. 

"  He's  cold,  I  think,"  said  Polly,  walking  with  him  to 
and  fro,  and  hushing  him. 

It  was  a  bleak  autumnal  afternoon  indeed  ;  and  as  she 
walked,  and  hushed,  and,  glancing  through  the  dreary 
windows,  pressed  the  little  fellow  closer  to  her  breast, 
the  withered  leaves  came  showering  down. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
PauVs  Second  Deprivation. 

Polly  was  beset  by  so  many  misgivings  in  the  morn- 
ing, that  but  for  the  incessant  promptings  of  her  black- 
eyed  companion,  she  would  have  abandoned  all  thoughts 
of  the  expedition,  and  formally  petitioned  for  leave  to 
see  number  one  hundred  and  forty-seven  under  the  awful 
shadow  of  Mr.  Dombey's  roof.  But  Susan  who  was  per- 
sonally disposed  in  favour  of  the  excursion,  and  who 
(like  Tony  Lumpkin),  if  she  could  bear  the  disappoint- 
ments of  other  people  with  tolerable  fortitude,  could  not 
abide  to  disappoint  herself,  threw  so  many  ingenious 
doubts  in  the  way  of  this  second  thought,  and  stimulated 
the  original  intention  with  so  many  ingenious  arguments, 
that  almost  as  soon  as  Mr.  Dombey's  stately  back  was 
turned,  and  that  gentleman  was  pursuing  his  daily  road 
toward  the  city,  his  unconscious  son  was  on  his  way  to 
Staggs's  Gardens. 

This  euphonious  locality  was  situated  in  a  suburb, 
known  by  the  inhabitants  of  Staggs's  Gardens  by  the 
name  of  Camberling  Town  ;  a  designation  which  the 
Strangers'  Map  of  London,  as  printed  (with  a  view  to 
pleasant  and  commodious  reference)  on  pocket-handker- 
chiefs, condenses,  with  some  show  of  reason,  into  Cam- 
den Town.  Hither  the  two  nurses  bent  their  steps,  ac- 
companied by  their  charges  ;  Richards  carrying  Paul,  of 
course,  and  Susan  leading  little  Florence  by  the  hand, 
and  giving  her  such  jerks  and  pokes  from  time  to  time, 
as  she  considered  it  wholesome  to  administer. 

The  first  shock  of  a  great  earthquake  had,  just  at  that 
period,  rent  the  Avhole  neighbourhood  to  its  centre. 
Traces  of  its  course  were  visible  on  every  side.  Houses 
were  knocked  down;  streets  broken  through  and  stopped  ; 
deep  pits  and  trenches  dug  in  the  ground  ;  enormous 
heaps  of  earth  and  clay  thrown  up  ;  buildings  that  were 
undermined  and  shaking,  propped  by  great  beams  of 
wood.  Here,  a  chaos  of  carts,  overthrown  and  jumbled 
together,  lay  topsy-turvy  at  the  bottom  of  a  steep  un- 
natural hill  :  there,  confused  treasures  of  iron  soaked 
and  rusted  in  something  that  had  accidentally  become  a 
pond.  Everywhere  were  bridges  that  led  nowhere  ; 
thoroughfares  that  were  wholly  impassable  ;  Babel 
towers  of  chimneys,  wanting  half  their  height  ;  tempor- 
ary wooden  houses  and  enclosures,  in  the  most  unlikely 
situation  ;  carcases  of  ragged  tenements,  and  fragments 
of  unfinished  walls  and  arches,  and  piles  of  scaffolding, 
and  wildernesses  of  bricks,  and  giant  forms  of  cranes, 
and  tripods  straddling  above  nothing.  There  were  a 
hundred  thousand  shapes  and  substances  of  incomplete- 
ness, wildly  mingled  out  of  their  places,  upside  down, 
burrowing  in  the  earth,  aspiring  in  the  air,  mouldering 
in  the  water,  and  unintelligible  as  any  dream.  Hot 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


459 


springs  and  fiery  eruptions,  the  usual  attendants  upon 
earthquakes,  lent  their  contributions  of  confusion  to  the 
scene.    Boiling  water  hissed  and  heaved  within  dilapi- 

j  dated  walls  ;  whence,  also,  the  glare  and  roar  of  flames 
came  issuing  forth  ;  and  mounds  of  ashes  blocked  up 
rights  of  way,  and  wholly  changed  the  law  and  custom 
of  the  neighbourhood. 

In  short,  the  yet  unfinished  and  unopened  railroad  was 
in  progress  ;  and  from  the  very  core  of  all  this  dire  dis- 

I  order,  trailed  smoothly  away,  ujion  its  mighty  course  of 

i  civilisation  and  improvement. 

I  But  as  yet,  the  neighbourhood  was  shy  to  own  the 
I  Railroad.  One  or  two  bold  speculators  had  projected 
I  streets  ;  and  one  had  built  a  little,  but  had  stopped 
I  among  the  mud  and  ashes  to  consider  farther  of  it,  A 
bran-new  travern,  redolent  of  fresh  mortar  and  size, 
and  fronting  nothing  at  all,  had  taken  for  its  sign  The 
Railway  Arms  ;  but  that  might  be  rash  enterprise — and 
then  it  hoped  to  sell  drink  to  the  workmen.  So,  the 
Excavators'  House  of  Call  had  sprung  up  from  a  beer 
shop  ;  and  the  old-established  Ham  and  Beef  Shop  had 
become  the  Railway  Eating  House,  with  a  roa^t  leg  of 
pork  daily,  through  interested  motives  of  a  similar  im- 
mediate and  popular  description .  Lodging-house  keepers 
were  favourable  in  like  manner  ;  and  for  the  like  reasons 
were  not  to  be  trusted.  The  general  belief  was  very 
slow.  There  were  frowzy  fields,  and  cow-houses,  and 
dung-hills,  and  dustheaps,  and  ditches,  and  gardens,  and 
summer-houses,  and  carpet-beating  grounds,  at  the  very 
door  of  the  railway.  Little  tumuli  of  oyster  shells  in 
the  oyster  season,  and  of  lobster  shells  in  the  lobster 
season,  and  of  broken  crockery  and  faded  cabbage 
leaves  in  all  seasons,  encroached  upon  its  high  places. 
Posts  and  rails,  and  old  cautions  to  trespassers,  and  backs 
of  mean  houses,  and  patches  of  wretched  vegetation, 
stared  it  out  of  countenance.  Nothing  was  the  better 
for  it,  or  thought  of  being  so.  If  the  miserable  waste 
ground  lying  near  it  could  have  laughed,  it  would  have 
laughed  it  to  scorn,  like  many  of  the  miserable  neigh- 
bours. 

Staggs's  Gardens  was  uncommonly  incredulous.  It 
was  a  little  row  of  houses,  with  little  squalid  patches  of 
ground  before  them,  fenced  off  with  old  doors,  barrel 
staves,  scraps  of  tarpaulin,  and  dead  bushes  ;  with  bot- 
tomless tin  kettles  and  exhausted  iron  fenders,  thrust 
into  the  gaps.  Here,  the  Staggs's  Gardeners  trained 
scarlet  beans,  kept  fowls  and  rabbits,  erected  rotten 
summer  houses  (one  was  an  old  boat),  dried  clothes,  and 
smoked  pipes.  Some  were  of  opinion  that  Staggs's  Gar- 
dens derived  its  name  from  a  deceased  capitalist,  one 
Mr.  Staggs,  who  had  built  it  for  his  delectation.  Others, 
who  had  a  natural  taste  for  the  country,  held  that  it 
dated  from  those  rural  times  when  the  antlered  herd, 
under  the  familiar  denomination  of  Staggses  had  re- 
sorted to  its  shady  precincts.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Staggs's 
Gardens  was  regarded  by  its  population  as  a  sacred 
grove  not  to  be  withered  by  railroads  ;  and  so  confident 
were  they  generally  of  its  long  outliving  any  such  ridicu- 
lous inventions  that  the  master  chimney-sweeper  at  the 
corner,  who  was  understood  to  take  the  lead  in  the  local 
politics  of  the  Gardens,  had  publicly  declared  that  on 
the  occasion  of  the  railroad  opening,  if  ever  it  did  open, 
two  of  his  boys  should  ascend  the  flues  of  his  dwelling, 
with  instructions  to  hail  the  failure  with  derisive  jeers 
from  the  chimney  pots. 

To  this  unhallowed  spot,  the  very  name  of  which  had 
hitherto  been  carefully  concealed  from  Mr.  Dombey  by 
his  sister,  was  little  Paul  now  borne  by  Fate  and  Rich- 
ards. 

That's  my  house,  Sus/ln,"  said  Polly,  pointing  it 

out. 

"  Is  it,  indeed,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Susan,  condescend- 
ingly. 

"And  there's  my  sister  Jemima  at  the  door,  I  do  de- 
clare cried  Polly,  "with  my  own  sweet  i)recious  baby 
in  her  arms  ! " 

The  sight  added  such  an  extensive  pair  of  wings  to 
Polly's  impatience,  that  she  set  off  down  the  Gardens  at 
a  run,  and  bouncing  on  Jemima,  changed  babies  with 
her  in  a  twinkling,  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  that 
young  damsel,  on  whom  the  heir  of  the  Dombey s  seemed 
to  have  fallen  from  the  clouds. 


"  Why,  Polly  !"  cried  Jemima.  "You  !  what  a  turn 
you  have  given  me  !  who'd  have  thought  it  !  come  along 
in  Polly  1  How  well  you  do  look  to  be  sure  !  The  chil- 
dren will  go  half  wild  to  see  you  Polly,  that  they  will." 

That  they  did,  if  one  might  judge  from  the  noise  they 
made,  and  the  way  in  which  they  dashed  at  Polly  and 
dragged  her  to  a  low  chair  in  the  chimney  corner,  where 
her  own  honest  apple  face  became  immediately  the  cen- 
tre of  a  bunch  of  smaller  pippins,  all  laying  their  rosy 
cheeks  close  to  it,  and  all  evidently  the  growth  of  the 
same  tree.  As  to  Polly,  she  was  full  as  noisy  and  vehe- 
ment as  the  children  ;  and  it  was  not  until  she  was 
quite  out  of  breath,  and  her  hair  was  hanging  all  about 
her  flushed  face,  and  her  new  christening  attire  was  very 
much  dishevelled,  that  any  pause  took  ]jlace  in  the  con- 
fusion. Even  then,  the  smallest  Toodle  but  one  remained 
in  her  lap,  holding  on  tight  with  both  arms  round  her 
neck,  while  the  smallest  Toodle  but  two  mounted  on  the 
back  of  the  chair,  and  made  desperate  efforts,  with  one 
leg  in  the  air,  to  kiss  her  round  the  corner. 

"  Look  !  there's  a  pretty  little  lady  come  to  see  you," 
said  Polly  ;  "  and  see  how  quiet  she  is  !  what  a  beauti- 
ful little  lady,  ain't  she  ?  " 

This  reference  to  Florence,  who  had  been  standing  by 
the  door  not  unobservant  of  what  passed,  directed  the 
attention  of  the  younger  branches  towards  her  ;  and  had 
likewise  the  happy  effect  of  leading  to  the  formal  recog- 
nition of  Miss  Nipper,  who  was  not  quite  free  from  a 
misgiving  that  she  had  been  already  slighted. 

"  Oh  do  come  in  and  sit  down  a  minute,  Susan,  plea^^e," 
said  Polly.  "  This  is  my  sister  Jemima,  this  is.  Jemi- 
ma, I  don't  know  what  I  should  ever  do  with  myself,  if 
it  wasn't  for  Susan  Nipper  ;  I  shouldn't  be  here  now  but 
for  her," 

"  Oh  do  sit  down  Miss  Nipper,  if  you  f)l^ase,"  quoth 
Jemima. 

Susan  took  the  extreme  corner  of  a  chair,  with  a 
stately  and  ceremonious  aspect. 

"I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  anybody  in  all  my  life  ; 
now  really,  I  never  was.  Miss  Nipper,"  said  Jemima. 

Susan  relaxing,  took  a  little  more  of  the  chair,  and 
smiled  graciously. 

"  Do  untie  your  bonnet-strings  and  make  yourself  at 
home.  Miss  Nipper,  please,"  entreated  Jemima.  "  I  am 
afraid  it's  a  poorer  place  than  you're  used  to  ;  but  you'll 
make  allowances,  I'm  sure." 

The  black-eyed  was  so  softened  by  this  deferential  be- 
haviour, that  she  caught  up  little  Miss  Toodle  who  was 
running  past,  and  took  her  to  Banbury  Cross  immedi- 
ately. 

"But  Where's  my  pretty  boy?"  said  Polly.  "My 
poor  fellow  ?  I  came  all  this  way  to  see  him  in  his  new 
clothes." 

"  Ah  what  a  pity  !"  cried  Jemima.  "  He'll  break  his 
heart,  when  he  hears  his  mother  has  been  here.  He's  at 
school,  Polly." 

"  Gone  already  !  " 

"  Yes.  He  went  for  the  first  time  yesterday,  for  fear 
he  should  lose  any  learning.  But  it's  half -holiday,  Polly: 
if  you  could  only  stop  'till  he  comes  home — you  and  Miss 
Nipper,  leastways,"  said  Jemima,  mindful  in  good  time 
of  the  dignity  of  the  black-eyed. 

"And  how  does  he  look,' Jemima,  bless  him  I  "fal- 
tered Polly. 

"  Well,  really  he  don't  look  so  bad  as  you'd  suppose," 
returned  Jemima. 

"Ah  !"  said  Polly,  with  emotion,  "I  knew  his  legs 
must  be  too  short." 

"  His  legs  is  short,"  returned  Jemima;  "  especially  be- 
hind ;  but  they'll  get  longer,  Polly,  every  day." 

It  was  a  slow,  prospective  kind  of  consolation  ;  but  the 
cheerfulness  and  good  nature  with  which  it  was  admin- 
istered, gave  it  a  value  it  did  not  intrinsically  possess. 
After  a  moment's  silence,  Polly  asked,  in  a  more  spright- 
ly manner  : 

"And  Where's  father,  Jemima  dear  ?  "—for  by  the 
patriarchal  appellation,  Mr.  Toodle  was  generally  known 
in  the  family. 

"There  again  !  "  said  Jemima.  "  What  a  pity  !  Fa- 
ther took  his  dinner  with  him  this  morning,  and  isn't 
coming  home  till  night.  But  he's  always  talking  of  you, 
Polly,  and  telling  the  children  about  you  ;  and  is  the 


460 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


peaceablest,  patientest,  best  tempered  est  soul  in  tlie 
world,  as  he  always  was  and  will  be  ! " 

"  Thankee,  Jemima,"  cried  the  simple  Polly;  delighted 
by  the  speech,  and  disappointed  by  the  absence. 

"  Oh  you  needn't  thank  me,  Polly,"  said  her  sister, 
giving  her  a  sound  kiss  upon  the  cheek,  and  then  danc- 
ing little  Paul  cheerfully.  "I  say  the  same  of  you  some- 
times, and  think  it  too." 

In  spite  of  the  double  disappointment,  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  regard  in  the  light  of  a  failure  a  visit  which  was 
greeted  with  such  a  reception  ;  so  the  sisters  talked 
hopefully  about  family  matters,  and  about  Biler,  and 
about  all  his  brothers  and  sisters  ;  while  the  black-eyed, 
having  performed  several  journeys  to  Banbury  Cross  and 
back,  took  sharp  note  of  the  furniture,  the  Dutch  clock, 
the  cupboard,  the  castle  on  the  mantel-piece,  with  red 
and  green  windows  in  it,  susceptible  of  illumination  by 
a  candle-end  within ;  and  a  pair  of  small  black  velvet 
kittens,  each  with  a  lady's  reticule  in  its  mouth  ;  re- 
garded by  the  Stagg's  Gardeners  as  prodigies  of  imitative 
art.  The  conversation  soon  becoming  general  lest  the 
black-eyed  should  go  off  at  score  and  turn  sarcastic,  that 
young  lady  related  to  Jemima  a  summary  of  everything 
she  knew  concerning  Mr.  Dombey,  his  prospects,  family, 
pursuits,  and  character.  Also  an  exact  inventory  of  her 
personal  wardrobe,  and  some  account  of  her  principal 
relations  and  friends.  Having  relieved  her  mind  of  these 
disclosures,  she  partook  of  shrimps  and  porter,  and 
evinced  a  disposition  to  swear  eternal  friendship. 

Little  Florence  herself  was  not  behind-hand  in  improv- 
ing the  occasion  ;  for,  being  conducted  forth  by  the 
young  Toodles  to  inspect  some  toadstools,  and  other  cu- 
riosities of  the  Gardens,  she  entered  with  them,  heart 
and  soul,  on  the  formation  of  a  temporary  breakwater 
across  a  small  green  pool  that  had  collected  in  a  corner. 
She  was  still  busily  engaged  in  that  labour,  when  sought 
and  found  by  Susan  ;  who,  such  was  her  sense  of  duty, 
even  under  the  humanising  influence  of  shrimps,  deliv- 
ered a  moral  address  to  her  (punctuated  with  thumps) 
on  her  degenerate  nature,  while  washing  her  face  and 
hands  ;  and  predicted  that  she  woald  bring  the  grey 
hairs  of  her  family  in  general,  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 
After  some  delay,  occasioned  by  a  pretty  long  confiden- 
tial interwiew  above  stairs  on  pecuniary  subjects, between 
Polly  and  Jemima,  an  interchange  of  babies  was  again  ef- 
fected— for  Polly  had  all  this  time  retained  her  own 
child,  and  Jemima  little  Paul — and  the  visitors  took  leave. 

But  first  the  young  Toodles,  victims  of  a  pious  fraud, 
were  deluded  into  repairing  in  a  body  to  a  chandler's  shop 
in  the  neighbourhood,  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of  spend- 
ing a  penny  ;  and  when  the  coast  was  clear,  Polly  fled  : 
Jemima  calling  after  her  that  if  they  could  only  go 
round  towards  the  City  Road  on  their  way  back,  they 
would  be  sure  to  meet  little  Biler  coming  from  school. 

"Do  you  think  that  we  might  make  time  to  go  a  little 
round  in  that  direction,  Susan? "  inquired  Polly,  when 
they  halted  to  take  breath. 

"'Why  not,  Mrs.  Richards?"  returned  Susan. 

"  It's  getting  on  towards  our  dinner  time  you  know," 
said  Polly. 

But  lunch  had  rendered  her  companion  more  than  in- 
different to  this  grave  consideration,  so  she  allowed  no 
weight  to  it,  and  they  resolved  to  go  "a  little  round." 

Now,  it  happened  that  poor  Biler's  life  had  been,  since 
yesterday  morning,  rendered  weary  by  the  costume  of 
the  Charitable  Grinders.  The  youth  of  the  streets  could 
not  endure  it.  No  young  vagabond  could  be  brought  to 
bear  its  contemplation  for  a  moment,  without  throwing 
himself  upon  the  unoffending  wearer,  and  doing  him  a 
mischief.  His  social  existence  had  been  more  like  that  of 
an  early  Christian,  than  an  innocent  child  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  He  had  been  stoned  in  the  streets.  He 
had  been  overthrown  into  gutters  ;  bespattered  with 
mud  ;  violently  flattened  against  posts.  Entire  strangers 
to  his  person  had  lifted  his  yellow  cap  off  his  head,  and 
cast  it  to  the  winds.  His  legs  had  not  only  undergone 
verbal  criticisms  and  revilings,  but  had  been  handled  and 
pinched.  That  very  morning,  he  had  received  a  perfect- 
ly unsolicited  black  eye  on  his  way  to  the  Grinders '  es- 
tablishment, and  had  been  punished  for  it  by  the  master  : 
a  superannuated  old  Grinder  of  savage  disposition,  who 
had  been  appointed  schoolmaster  because  he  didn't  know 


anything,  and  wasn't  fit  for  anything,  and  for  whose 
cruel  cane  all  chubby  little  boys  had  a  perfect  fascina- 
tion. 

Thus  it  fell  out  that  Biler,  on  his  way  home,  sought 
unfrequented  paths,  and  slunk  along  by  narrow  pas- 
sages and  back  streets,  to  avoid  his  tormentors.  Being 
compelled  to  emerge  into  the  main  road,  his  ill  fortune 
brought  him  at  last  where  a  small  party  of  boys,  headed 
by  a  ferocious  young  butcher,  were  lying  in  wait  for  any 
means  of  pleasurable  excitement  that  might  happen. 
Tliese,  finding  a  Charitable  Grinder  in  the  midst  of  them 
— unaccountably  delivered  over,  as  it  were,  into  their 
hands— set  up  a  general  yell  and  rushed  upon  him. 

But  it  so  fell  out  likewise,  that,  at  the  same  time,  Polly, 
looking  hopelessly  along  the  road  before  her,  after  a  good 
hour's  walk,  had  said  it  was  no  use  going  any  farther, 
when  suddenly  she  saw  this  sight.  She  no  sooner  saw  it 
than,  uttering  a  hasty  exclamation,  and  giving  Master 
Dombey  to  the  black-eyed,  she  started  to  the  rescue  of 
her  unhappy  little  son. 

Surprises,  like  misfortunes,  rarely  come  alone.  The 
astonished  Susan  Nipper  and  her  two  young  charges  were 
rescued  by  the  bystanders  from  under  the  very  wheels  of 
a  passing  carriage  before  they  knew  what  had  happened  ; 
and  at  that  moment  (it  was  market  day)  a  thundering 
alarm  of  "  Mad  Bull  1"  was  raised. 

With  a  wild  confusion  before  her,  of  people, running  up 
and  down,  and  shouting,  and  wheels  running  over  them, 
and  boys  fighting,  and  mad  bulls  coming  up,  and  the 
nurse  in  the  midst  of  all  these  dangers  being  torn  to 
pieces,  Florence  screamed  and  ran.  She  ran  till  she  was 
exhausted,  urging  Susan  to  do  the  same  ;  and  then,  stop- 
ping and  wringing  her  hands  as  she  remembered  they 
had  left  the  other  nurse  behind,  found,  with  a  sensation 
of  terror  not  to  be  described,  that  she  was  quite  alone. 

"  Susan  !  Susan  !  "  cried  Florence,  clapping  her  hands 
in  the  very  ecstacy  of  her  alarm,  "  Oh,  where  are  they  I 
where  are  they  ! " 

"  Where  are  they  ?"  said  an  old  woman,  coming  hob- 
bling across  as  fast  as  she  could  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  way.    ' '  Why  did  you  run  away  from  'em  ?" 

"I  was  frightened,"  answered  Florence.  "I  didn't 
know  what  I  did.  I  thought  they  were  with  me.  Where 
are  they  ?" 

The  old  woman  took  her  by  the  wrist,  and  said,  "  I'll 
show  you." 

She  was  a  very  ugly  old  woman,  with  red  rims  round 
her  eyes,  and  a  mouth  that  mumbled  and  chattered  of 
itself  when  she  was  not  speaking.  She  was  miserably 
dressed,  and  carried  some  skins  over  her  arm.  She 
seemed  to  have  followed  Florence  some  little  way  at  all 
events,  for  she  had  lost  her  breath  ;  and  this  made  her 
uglier  still,  as  she  stood  trying  to  regain  it :  working  her 
shrivelled  yellow  face  and  throat  into  all  sorts  of  contor- 
tions. 

Florence  was  afraid  of  her,  and  looked,  hesitating,  up 
the  street,  of  which  she  had  almost  reached  the  bottom. 
It  was  a  solitary  place — more  a  back  road  than  a  street — 
and  there  was  no  one  in  it  but  herself  and  the  old  woman. 

"  You  needn't  be  frightened  now,"  said  the  old  woman, 
still  holding  her  tight.    "  Come  along  with  me." 

"I — I  don't  know  you.  What's  your  name?"  asked 
Florence. 

"Mrs.  Brown,"  said  the  old  woman.  "Good  Mrs. 
Brown." 

"Are  they  near  here  ?"  asked  Florence,  beginning  to 
be  led  away. 

"Susan  an't  far  off,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown  ;  "and  the 
others  are  close  to  her." 

"  Is  anybody  hurt  ?  "  cried  (Florence. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown. 

The  child  shed  tears  of  delight  on  hearing  this,  and  ac- 
companied the  old  woman  willingly ;  though  she  could 
not  help  glancing  at  her  face  as  they  went  along — par- 
ticularly at  that  industrious  mouth— and  wondering 
whether  Bad  Mrs.  Brown,  if  there  were  such  a  person, 
was  at  all  like  her. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  but  had  gone  by  some  very  un- 
comfortable places,  such  as  brick-fields  and  tile-yards, 
when  the  old  woman  turned  down  a  dirty  lane,  where 
the  mud  lay  in  deep  black  ruts  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
She  stopped  before  a  shabby  little  house,  as  closely  shut 


DOMBEY 

up  as  a  house  that  was  full  of  cracks  and  crevices  could 
be.  Opening  the  door  with  a  key  she  took  out  of  her 
bonnet,  she  pushed  the  child  before  her  into  a  back  room, 
where  there  was  a  great  heap  of  rags  of  different  colours 
lying  on  the  floor  ;  a  heap  of  bones,  and  a  heap  of  sifted 
dust  or  cinders  ;  but  there  was  no  furniture  at  all,  and 
the  walls  and  ceiling  were  quite  black. 

The  child  became  so  terrified  that  she  was  stricken 
speechless,  and  looked  as  though  about  to  swoon. 

"  Now  don't  be  a  young  mule,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown, 
reviving  her  with  a  shake.  "  I'm  not  a  going  to  hurt 
you.    Sit  upon  the  rags." 

Florence  obeyed  her,  holding  out  "her  folded  hands,  in 
mute  supplication, 

"  I'm  not  a  going  to  keep  you,  even,  above  an  hour," 
said  Mrs.  Brown.    "D'ye  understand  what  I  say?" 

The  child  answered  with  great  difficulty,  "  Yes." 

"  Then,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown,  taking  her  own  seat 
on  the  bones,  "don't  vex  me.  If  you  don't,  I  tell  you  I 
won't  hurt  you.  But  if  you  do,  I'll  kill  you.  I  could 
have  you  killed  at  any  time — even  if  you  was  in  your  own 
bed  at  home.  Now  let's  know  who  you  are,  and  what 
you  are,  and  all  about  it." 

The  old  woman's  threats  and  promises  ;  the  dread  of 
giving  her  offence  ;  and  the  habit,  unusual  to  a  child, 
but  almost  natural  to  Florence  now,  of  being  quiet,  and 
repressing  what  she  felt,  and  feared,  and  hoped  ;  enabled 
her  to  do  this  bidding,  and  to  tell  her  little  history,  or 
what  she  knew  of  it.  Mrs.  Brown  listened  attentively, 
until  she  had  finished. 

"  So  your  name's  Dombey,  eh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"Yes  ma'am," 

"I  want  that  pretty  frock.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Good 
Mrs.  Brown,  "  and  that  little  bonnet,  and  a  petticoat  or 
two,  and  anything  else  you  can  spare.  Come  !  Take 
'em  off." 

Florence  obeyed  as  fast  as  her  trembling  hands  would 
allow  ;  keeping,  all  the  while,  a  frightened  eye  on  Mrs. 
Brown,  When  she  had  divested  herself  of  all  the  arti- 
cles of  apparel  mentioned  by  that  lady,  Mrs.  B.  exam- 
ined them  at  leisure,  and  seemed  tolerably  well  satisfied 
with  their  quality  and  value. 

"  Humph  !  "  she  said,  running  her  eyes  over  the  child's 
slight  figure,  "I  don't  see  anything  else  —  except  the 
shoes.    I  must  have  the  shoes.  Miss  Dombey." 

Poor  little  Florence  too\x.  them  off  with  equal  alacrity, 
only  too  glad  to  have  any  more  means  of  conciliation 
about  her.  The  old  woman  then  produced  some  wretched 
substitutes  from  the  bottom  of  the  heap  of  rags,  which 
she  turned  up  for  that  purpose  ;  together  with  a  girl's 
cloak,  quite  worn  out  and  very  old  ;  and  the  crushed 
remains  of  a  bonnet  that  had  probably  been  picked  up 
from  some  ditch  or  dunghill.  In  this  dainty  raiment, 
she  instructed  Florence  to  dress  herself ;  and  as  such 
preparation  seemed  a  prelude  to  her  release,  the  child 
complied  with  increased  readiness,  if  possible. 

In  hurriedly  putting  on  the  bonnet,  if  that  may  be 
called  a  bonnet  which  was  more  like  a  pad  to  carry  loads 
on,  she  caught  it  in  her  hair  which  grew  luxuriantly, 
and  could  not  immediately  disentangle  it.  Good  Mrs, 
Brown  whipped  out  a  large  pair  of  scissors,  and  fell  mto 
an  unaccountable  state  of  excitement. 

"Why  couldn't  you  let  me  be,"  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
*'  when  I  was  contented.    You  little  fool  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  don't  know  what  I  have  done," 
panted  Florence.    "  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Couldn't  help  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Brown.  "How  do 
you  expect  I  can  help  it?  Why,  Lord  !"  said  the  old 
woman,  ruffling  her  curls  with  a  furious  pleasure.  "  any- 
body but  me  would  have  had  'em  off  first  of  all." 

Florence  was  so  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  only  her 
hair  and  not  her  head  which  Mrs.  Brown  coveted,  that 
she  offered  no  resistance  or  entreaty,  and  merely  raised 
her  mild  eyes  towards  the  face  of  that  good  soul. 

"  If  I  hadn't  once  had  a  gal  of  my  own — beyond  seas 
now — that  was  proud  of  her  hair,"  said  Mrs,  Brown, 
"  I'd  have  had  every  lock  of  it.  She's  far  away,  she's 
far  away  !    Oho  !  Oho  !  " 

Mr.  Brown's  was  not  a  melodious  cry,  but,  accom- 
panied with  a  wild  tossing  up  of  her  lean  arms,  it  was 
full  of  pa.ssionate  grief,  and  thrilled  to  the  heart  of 
Florence,  whom  it  frightened  more  than  ever.   It  had  its 


AND  SDK  461 

part,  perhaps,  in  saving  her  curls  ;  for  Mrs.  Brown  after 
hovering  about  her  with  the  scissors  for  some  moments, 
like  a  new  kind  of  butterfly,  bade  her  hide  them  under 
the  bonnet  and  let  no  trace  of  them  escape  to  tempt  her. 
Having  accomplished  this  victory  over  herself,  Mrs. 
Brown  resumed  her  seat  on  the  bones,  and  smoked  a  very 
short  black  pipe,  mowing  and  mumbling  all  the  time,  as 
if  she  were  eating  the  stem. 

When  the  pipe  was  smoked  out,  she  gave  the  child  a 
rabbit-skin  to  carry,  that  she  might  appear  more  like  her 
ordinary  companion,  and  told  her  that  she  was  now  go- 
ing to  lead  her  to  a  public  street  whence  she  could  in- 
quire her  way  to  her  friends.  But  she  cautioned  her, 
with  threats  of  summary  and  deadly  vengeance  in  case 
of  disobedience,  not  to  talk  to  strangers,  nor  to  repair  to 
her  own  home  (which  may  have  been  too  near  for  Mrs. 
Brown's  convenience),  but  to  her  father's  office  in  the 
city  ;  also  to  wait  at  the  street  corner  where  she  would 
be  left,  until  the  clock  struck  three.  These  directions 
Mrs.  Brown  enforced  with  assurances  that  there  would  be 
potent  eyes  and  ears  in  her  employment  cognisant  of  all 
she  did  ;  and  these  directions  Florence  promised  faith- 
fully and  earnestly  to  observe. 

At  length  Mrs.  Brown,  issuing  forth,  conducted  her 
changed  and  ragged  little  friend  through  a  labyrinth  of 
narrow  streets  and  lanes  and  alleys,  which  emerged 
after  a  long  time,  upon  a  stable  yaid,  with  a  gateway  at 
the  end,  whence  the  roar  of  a  great  thoroughfare  made 
itself  audible.  Pointing  out  this  gateway,  and  inform- 
ing Florence  that  when  the  clock  struck  three  she  was 
to  go  to  the  left,  Mrs.  Brown,  after  making  a  parting 
grasp  at  her  hair  which  seemed  involuntary  and  quite 
beyond  her  own  control,  told  her  she  knew  what  to  do, 
and  bade  her  go  and  do  it  ;  remembering  that  she  was 
watched. 

With  a  lighter  heart,  but  still  sore  afraid,  Florence 
felt  herself  released,  and  tripped  off  to  the  corner. 
When  she  reached  it,  she  looked  back  and  saw  the  head 
of  Good  Mrs.  Brown  peeping  out  of  the  low  wooden  pas- 
sage, where  she  had  issued  her  parting  injunctions  ;  like- 
wise the  fist  of  Good  Mrs.  Brown  shaking  towards  her. 
But  though  she  often  looked  back  afterwards — every 
minute,  at  least,  in  her  nervous  recollection  of  the  old 
woman — she  could  not  see  her  again. 

Florence  remained  there,  looking  at  the  bustle  in  the 
street,  and  more  and  more  bewildered  by  it ;  and  in  the 
meanwhile  the  clocks  appeared  to  have  made  up  their 
minds  never  to  strike  three  any  more.  At  last  the  steeples 
rang  out  three  o'clock  ;  there  was  one  close  by,  so  she 
couldn't  be  mistaken  ;  and — after  often  looking  over  her 
shoulder,  and  often  going  a  little  way,  and  as  often  com- 
ing back  again,  lest  the  all-powerful  spies  of  Mrs. 
Brown  should  take  offence — she  hurried  off,  as  fast  as 
she  could  in  her  slipshod  shoes,  holding  the  rabbit-skin 
tight  in  her  hand. 

All  she  knew  of  her  father's  offices  was  that  they  be- 
longed to  Dombey  and  Son,  and  that  that  was  a  great 
power  belonging  to  the  city.  So  she  could  only  ask  the 
way  to  Dombey  and  Son's  in  the  city  ;  and  as  she  gener- 
ally made  inquiry  of  children — being  afraid  to  ask 
grown  people — she  got  very  little  satisfaction  indeed. 
But  by  dint  of  asking  her  way  to  the  city  after  a  while 
and  dropping  the  rest  of  her  inquiry  for  the  present,  she 
really  did  advance,  by  slow  degrees,  towards  the  heart 
of  that  great  region  which  is  governed  by  the  terrible 
Lord  Mayor, 

Tired  of  walking,  repulsed  and  pushed  about,  stunned 
by  the  noise  and  confusion,  anxious  for  her  brother  and 
the  nurses,  terrified  by  what  she  had  undergone,  and  the 
prospect  of  encountering  her  angry  father  in  such  an 
altered  state  ;  perplexed  and  frightened  alike  by  what 
had  passed,  and  what  was  passing,  and  what  was  yet 
before  her  ;  Florence  went  upon  her  weary  way  with 
tearful  eyes,  and  once  or  twice  could  not  help  stopping 
to  ease  her  bursting  heart  by  crying  bitterly.  But  few 
people  noticed  her  at  those  times,  in  the  garb  she  wore  ; 
or  if  they  did,  believed  that  she  was  tutored  to  excite 
compassion,  and  passed  on.  Florence,  too,  called  to  her 
aid  all  the  firmness  and  self-reliance  of  a  character  that 
her  sad  experience  had  prematurely  formed  and  tried  ; 
and  keeping  the  end  she  had  in  view,  steadily  before 
her,  steadily  pursued  it. 


462 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


It  was  full  two  hours  later  in  the  afternoon  than  when 
she  had  started  on  this  strange  adventure,  when,  escap- 
ing from  the  clash  and  clangour  of  a  narrow  street  full 
of  carts  and  waggons,  she  peeped  into  a  kind  of  wharf 
or  landing-place,  upon  the  river  side,  where  there  were 
a  great  many  packages,  casks,  and  boxes,  strewn  about ; 
a  large  pair  of  wooden  scales  ;  and  a  little  wooden  house 
on  wheels,  outside  of  which,  looking  at  the  neighbour- 
ing masts  and  boats,  a  stout  man  stood  whistling,  with 
his  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  as 
if  his  day's  work  were  nearly  done. 

"  Now  then  ! "  said  this  man,  happening  to  turn  round. 
"  We  haven't  got  anything  for  you,  little  girl.  Be 
off!" 

"  If  you  please,  is  this  the  city  ?  "  asked  the  trembling 
daughter  of  the  Dombeys. 

"Ah!  it's  the  city.  You  know  that  well  enough,  I 
daresay.    Be  oif  !    We  haven't  got  anything  for  you." 

I  don't  want  anything,  thanls:  you,"  was  the  timid 
answer.  ' '  Except  to  know  the  way  to  Dombey  and 
Son's." 

The  man  who  had  been  strolling  carelessly  towards 
her,  seemed  surprised  by  this  reply,  and  looking  atten- 
tively in  her  face,  rejoined : 

"  Why,  what  can  you  want  with  Dombey  and  Son's?  " 

"  To  know  the  way  there,  if  you  please." 

The  man  looked  at  her  j'etmore  curiously,  and  rubbed 
the  back  of  his  head  so  hard  in  his  wonderment  that  he 
knocked  his  own  hat  off. 

"Joe  !  "  he  called  to  another  man — a  labourer — as  he 
picked  it  up  and  put  it  on  again. 

"Joe  it  is  !  "  said  Joe. 

"  Where's  that  young  spark  of  Dombey's  who's  been 
watching  the  shipment  of  them  goods  ?  " 
"  Just  gone,  by  the  t'other  gate,"  said  Joe. 
'  *  Call  him  back  a  minute. " 

Joe  ran  up  an  archway,  bawling  as  he  went,  and  very  j 
soon  returned  with  a  blithe-looking  boy. 

"  You're  Dombey's  jockey,  ain't  you?"  said  the  first  j 
man.  | 

"I'm  in  Dombey's  House,  Mr.  Clark,"  returned  the  I 
boy. 

"  Look'ye,  here,  then,"  said  Mr.  Clark.  j 

Obedient  to  the  indication  of  Mr.  Clark's  hand,  the  | 
boy  approached  towards  Florence,  wondering,  as  well  ! 
he  might,  what  he  had  to  do  with  her.  But  she,  who 
had  heard  what  passed,  and  who,  besides  the  relief  of  so 
suddenly  considering  herself  safe  and  at  her  journey's 
end,  felt  reassured  beyond  all  measure  by  his  lively 
youthful  face  and  manner,  ran  eagerly  up  to  him,  leav- 
ing one  of  the  slipshod  shoes  upon  the  ground  and 
caught  his  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"  I  am  lost,  if  you  please  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Lost !  "  cried  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  I  vv^as  lost  this  morning,  a  long  way  from  here — 
and  I  have  had  my  clothes  taken  away,  since — and  I  am 
not  dressed  in  my  own  now — and  my  name  is  Florence 
Dombey,  my  little  brother's  only  sister — and,  oh  dear, 
dear,  take  care  of  me,  if  you  please  !  "  sobbed  Florence, 
giving  full  vent  to  the  cliildish  feelings  she  had  so  long 
suppressed,  and  bursting  into  tears.  At  the  same  time 
her  miserable  bonnet  falling  off,  her  hair  came  tumbling 
down  about  her  face  :  moving  to  speechless  admiration 
and  commiseration,  young  Walter,  nephew  of  Solomon 
Gills,  Ships'  Instrument-maker  in  general. 

Mr.  Clark  stood  rapt  in  amazement  :  observing  under 
his  breath,  /never  saw  such  a  start  on  this  wharf  before. 
Walter  picked  up  the  shoe,  and  put  it  on  the  little  foot 
as  the  Prince  in  the  story  might  have  fitted  Cinderella's 
slipper  on.  He  hung  the  rabbit-skin  over  his  left  arm  ; 
gave  the  right  to  Florence  :  and  felt  not  to  say  like  Rich- 
ard Whittington — that  is  a  tamo  comparison — but  like 
Saint  George  of  England,  with  the  dragon  lying  dead 
before  him. 

"  Don't  cry.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Walter,  in  a  transport 
of  enthusiasm.  "  What  a  wonderful  thing  for  me 
that  I  am  here.  You  arc  as  safe  now  as  if  you  were 
guarded  by  a.  v.'holc  boat's  crew  of  picked  men  from  a 
man-of-war.    Oh  don't  cry." 

"  I  won't  cry  any  more,"  said  Florence.  "  I  am  only 
crying  for  joy." 

"Crying  for  joy  !"  thought  Walter,  "and  I'm  the 


cause  of  it.  Come  along.  Miss  Dombey.  There's  the 
other  shoe  off  now  !    Take  mine.  Miss  Dombey." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  Florence,  checking  him  in  the  act 
of  impetuously  pulling  off  his  own.  "  These  do  better. 
These  do  very  well." 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,"  said  Walter,  glancing  at  her  foot, 
"  mine  are  a  mile  too  large.  What  am  I  thinking  about  ! 
You  never  could  walk  in  mine  !  Come  along.  Miss  Dom- 
bey. Let  me  see  the  villain  who  will  dare  molest  you 
now." 

So  Walter,  looking  immensely  fierce,  led  off  Florence, 
looking  very  happy  ;  and  they  went  arm  in  arm  along 
the  streets,  perfectly  indifferent  to  any  astonishment 
that  their  appearance  might  or  did  excite  by  the  way. 

It  was  growing  dark  and  foggy,  and  beginning  to  rain 
too  ;  but  they  cared  nothing  for  this  :  being  both  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  late  adventures  of  Florence,  which  she 
related  with  the  innocent  good  faith  and  confidence  of 
her  years,  while  Walter  listened,  as  if,  far  from  the  mud 
and  grease  of  Thames-street,  they  were  rambling  alone 
among  the  broad  leaves  and  tall  trees  of  some  desert 
island  in  the  tropics — as  he  very  likely  fancied,  for  the 
time,  they  were. 

"Have  we  far  to  go ?"  asked  Florence  at  last,  lifting 
her  eyes  to  her  companion's  face. 

"  Ah  !  By  the  bye,"  said  Walter,  stopping,  "  let  me 
see  ;  where  are  we  ?  Oh  !  I  know.  But  the  offices  are 
shut  up  now.  Miss  Dombey,  There's  nobody  there.  Mr. 
Dombey  has  gone  home  long  ago.  I  suppose  we  must 
go  home  too  ?  or,  stay.  Suppose  I  take  you  to  my 
uncle's,  where  I  live — it's  very  near  here — and  go  to 
your  house  in  a  coach  to  tell  them  you  are  safe,  and 
bring  you  back  some  clothes.    Won't  that  be  best  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  Florence.  "  Don't  you  ?  What 
do  you  think  ?  " 

As  they  stood  deliberating  in  the  street,  a  man  passed 
them,  who  glanced  quickly  at  Walter  as  he  went  by,  as 
if  he  recognised  him  ;  but  seeming  to  correct  that  first 
impression,  he  passed  on  without  stopping. 

"Why,I  think  it's  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Walter,  "Carker 
in  our  House.  Not  Carker  our  manager.  Miss  Dombey 
— the  other  Carker  ;  the  junior — Halloa  !  Mr.  Carker  ! 

"  Is  that  Walter  Gay  ?  "  said  the  other,  stopping  and 
returning.  "I  couldn't  believe  it,  with  such  a  strange 
companion." 

As  he  stood  near  a  lamp,  listening  with  surprise  to 
Walter's  hurried  explanation,  he  presented  a  remark- 
able contrast  to  the  two  youthful  figures  arm-in-arm 
before  him.  He  was  not  old,  but  his  hair  was  white  ; 
his  body  was  bent,  or  bowed  as  if  by  the  weight  of  some 
great  trouble  ;  and  there  were  deep  lines  in  his  worn 
and  melancholy  face.  The  fire  of  his  eyes,  the  expres- 
sion of  his  features,  the  very  voice  in  which  he  spoke, 
were  all  subdued  and  quenched,  as  if  the  spirit  within 
him  lay  in  ashes.  He  was  respectably,  though  very 
plainly  dressed  in  black  ;  but  his  clothes,  moulded  to 
the  general  character  of  his  figure,  seemed  to  shrink 
and  abase  themselves  upon  him,  and  to  jjoin  in  the 
sorrowful  solicitation  which  the  whole  man  from  head 
to  foot  expressed,  to  be  left  unnoticed,  and  alone  in  his 
humility. 

And  yet  his  interest  in  youth  and  hopefulness  was  not 
extinguished  with  the  other  embers  of  his  soul,  for  he 
watched  the  boy's  earnest  countenance  as  he  spoke  with 
unusual  sympathy,  though  with  an  inexplicable  show 
of  trouble  and  compassion,  which  escaped  into  his  looks, 
however  hard  he  strove  to  hold  it  prisoner.  When 
Wjilter,  in  conclusion,  put  to  him  the  question  he  had 
put  to  Florence,  he  still  stood  glancing  at  him  with  the 
same  expression,  as  if  he  read  some  fate  upon  his  face, 
mournfully  at  variance  with  its  present  brightness. 

"What  do  you  advise,  Mr.  Carker?"  said  Walter, 
smiling.  "  You  always  give  me  good  advice,  you  know, 
when  you  do  speak  to  me.    That's  not  often,  though." 

"I  think  your  own  idea  is  the  best,"  he  answered  : 
looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  back  again. 

"Mr,  Carker,"  said  Walter,  brightening  with  a  gen- 
erous thought,  "Come  !  Here's  a  chance  for  you.  Go 
you  to  Mr,  Dombey's,  and  be  the  messenger  of  good 
news.  It  may  do  you  some  good,  sir.  I'll  remain  at 
home.    You  shall  go." 

"  I  !  "  returned  the  other. 


I 


LIBRARY 

OF  m 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON, 


4G3 


**  Yes.    Why  not,  Mr.  Carker  ? ' '  said  the  boy. 

He  merely  shook  him  by  the  hand  in  answer  ;  he 
seemed  in  a  manner  ashamed  and  afraid  even  to  do  that ; 
and  bidding  him  good  night,  and  advising  him  to  make 
haste,  turned  away. 

'-'Come,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Walter,  looking  after 
him  as  they  turned  away  also,  "  we'll  go  to  my  uncle's 
as  quick  as  we  can.  Did  you  ever  hear  Mr.  Dombey 
speak  of  Mr.  Carker  the  junior,  Miss  Florence?" 

"  No,"  returned  the  child,  mildly,  "  I  don't  often  hear 
papa  speak," 

"Ah  !  true  !  more  shame  for  him,"  thought  Walter. 
After  a  minute's  pause,  during  which  he  had  been  look- 
ing down  upon  the  gentle  patient  little  face  moving  on 
at  his  side,  he  bestirred  himself  with  his  accustomed 
boyish  animation  and  restlessness  to  change  the  subject ; 
and  one  of  the  unfortunate  shoes  coming  off  again  op- 
portunely, proposed  to  carry  Florence  to  his  uncle's  in 
his  arms.  Florence,  though  very  tired,  laughingly  de- 
clined the  proposal,  lest  he  should  let  her  fall  ;  and  as 
they  were  already  near  the  wooden  midshipman,  and  as 
Walter  went  on  to  cite  various  precedents,  from  ship- 
wrecks and  other  moving  accidents,  where  younger  boys 
than  he  had  triumphantly  rescued  and  carried  off  older 
girls  than  Florence,  they  were  still  in  full  conversation 
about  it  when  tliey  arrived  at  the  Instrument- maker's 
door. 

•'Halloa,  TJncle  Sol!"  cried  Walter,  bursting  into 
the  shop,  and  speaking  incoherently,  and  out  of  breath, 
from  that  time  forth,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
**  Here's  a  wonderful  adventure  !  Here's  Mr.  Dombey's 
daughter  lost  in  the  streets,  and  robbed  of  her  clothes  by 
an  old  witch  of  a  vroman — found  by  me — brought  home 
to^ur  parlour  to  rest — look  here  !  " 

"  Good  Heaven  ! "  said  Uncle  Sol,  starting  back  against 
his  favourite  compass-case.  "  It  can't  be  !  Well,  I — " 
"No.  nor  anybody  else,"  said  Walter,  anticipating 
the  rest.  "Nobody  would,  nobody  could,  you  know. 
Here  !  just  help  me  lift  the  little  sofa  near  the  fire,  will 
you.  Uncle  Sol — take  care  of  the  plates — cut  some  dinner 
for  her,  will  you  uncle— throw  those  shoes  under  the 
grate.  Miss  Florence — put  your  feet  on  the  fender  to 
dry — how  damp  they  are — here's  an  adventure,  uncle, 
eh? — God  bless  my  soul,  how  hot  I  am  ! " 

Solomon  Gills  was  quite  as  hot,  by  sympathy,  and  in 
excessive  bewilderment.  He  patted  Florence's  head, 
pressed  her  to  eat,  pressed  her  to  drink,  rubbed  the 
soles  of  her  feet  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  heated 
at  the  fire,  followed  his  locomotive  nephew  with  his 
eyes,  and  ears,  and  had  no  clear  perception  of  anything 
except  that  he  was  being  constantly  knocked  against 
and  tumbled  over  by  that  excited  young  gentleman,  as 
he  darted  about  the  room  attempting  to  accomplish 
twenty  things  at  once,  and  doing  nothing  at  all. 

"Here,  wait  a  minute,  uncle,"  he  continued,  catching 
up  a  candle,  "till  I  run  up-stairs,  and  get  another  jacket 
on,  and  then  I'll  be  off.  I  say,  uncle,  isn't  this  an  ad- 
venture ?  " 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  who,  with  his  specta- 
cles on  his  forehead  and  the  great  chronometer  in  his 
pocket,  was  incessantly  oscillating  between  Florence  on 
the  sofa  and  his  nephew  in  all  parts  of  the  parlour, 
"it's  the  most  extraordinary — " 

"No,  but  do,  uncle,  please— do,  Miss  Florence— din- 
ner, you  know,  uncle." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  cried  Solomon,  cutting  instantly  into 
a  leg  of  mutton,  as  if  he  were  catering  for  a  giant.  "I'll 
take  care  of  her,  Wally  !  I  understand.  Pretty  dear  ! 
Famished,  of  course.  You  go  and  get  ready.  Lord  bless 
ine  1  Sir  Richard  Whittington  thrice  Lord  Mayor  of 
I  London  ! " 

Walter  was  not  very  long  in  mounting  to  his  lofty 

f arret  and  descending  from  it,  but  in  the  mean  time 
iorence,  overcome  by  fatigue,  had  sunk  into  a  doze  be- 
fore the  fire.  The  short  interval  of  quiet,  though  only  a 
few  minutes  in  duration,  enabled  Solomon  Gills  so  far 
to  collect  his  wits  as  to  make  some  little  arrangements 
'for  her  comfort,  and  to  darken  the  room,  and  to  screen 
her  from  the  blaze.  Thus,  when  the  boy  returned,  she 
was  sleeping  peacefully. 

"  That's  capital  !"  lie  whispered,  giving  Solomon  such 
a  hug  that  it  squeezed  a  new  expression  into  his  face. 


"Now  I'm  off.  I'll  just  take  a  crust  of  bread  with  me, 
for  I'm  very  hungry — and — don't  wake  her.  Uncle  Sol." 

"No,  no,"  said  Solomon.    "  Pretty  child." 

"  Pretty,  indeed  !  "  cried  Walter.  "  /  never  saw  such 
a  face.  Uncle  Sol.    Now  I'm  off." 

"That's  right,"  said  Solomon,  greatly  relieved. 

"I  say,  Uncle  Sol,"  cried  Walter,  putting  his  face  in 
at  the  door. 

"  Here  he  is  again,"  said  Solomon. 

"  How  does  she  look  now  ?  " 

"  Quite  happy,"  said  Solomon. 

"  That's  famous  !  now  I'm  off." 

"  I  hope  you  are,"  said  Solomon  to  himself. 

"  I  say,  Uncle  Sol,"  cried  Walter,  reajjpearing  at  the 
door. 

"  Here  he  is  again  !"  said  Solomon. 

"We  met  Mr,  Carker  the  junior  in  the  street,  queerer 
than  ever.  He  bade  me  good  bye,  but  came  behind  us 
here — there's  an  odd  thing  ! — for  when  we  reached  the 
shop  door,  I  looked  round,  and  saw  him  going  quietly 
awa.y,  like  a  servant  who  had  seen  me  home,  or  a  faith- 
ful dog.    How  does  she  look  now,  uncle  ?" 

"Pretty  much  the  same  as  before,  Wallv,"  replied 
Uncle  Sol. 

"  That's  right.    Now  I  am  off  ! " 

And  this  time  he  really  was  :  and  Solomon  Gills,  with 
no  appetite  for  dinner,  gat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fire,  watching  Florence  in  her  slumber,  building  a  great 
many  airy  castles  of  the  most  fantastic  architecture  ;  and 
looking  in  the  dim  shade,  and  in  the  close  vicinity  of  all 
the  instruments,  like  a  magician  disguised  in  a  Welsh 
wig  and  a  suit  of  coffee  colour,  who  held  the  child  in  an 
enchanted  sleep. 

In  the  meantime  Walter  proceeded  towards  Mr,  Dom- 
bey's house  at  a  pace  seldom  achieved  by  a  hack  horse 
from  the  stand ;  and  yet  with  his  head  out  of  window 
every  two  or  three  minutes,  in  impatient  remonstrance 
with  the  driver.  Arriving  at  his  journey's  end,  he 
leaped  out,  and  breathlessly  announcing  his  errand  to 
the  servant,  followed  him  straight  into  the  library,  where 
there  was  a  great  confusion  of  tongues,  and  where  Mr. 
Dombey,  his  sister,  and  Miss  Tox,  Eichards,  and  Nipper, 
were  all  congregated  together, 

"Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Walter,  rushing 
up  to  him,  "  but  I'm  happy  to  say  it's  all  right,  sir.  Miss 
Dombey's  found  !" 

The  boy  with  his  open  face,  and  flowing  hair,  and 
sparkling  eyes,  panting  with  pleasure  and  excitement, 
was  wonderfully  opposed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  as  he  sat  con- 
fronting him  in  his  library  chair. 

"I  told  you,  Louisa,  that  she  would  certainly  be 
found,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  looking  slightly  over  his 
shoulder  at  that  lady,  who  wept  in  company  with  Miss 
Tox.  "  Let  the  servants  know  that  no  further  steps  are 
necessary.  This  boy  who  brings  the  information,  is 
young  Gay,  from  the  ofiice.  How  was  my  daughter 
found,  sir  ?  I  know  how  she  was  lost."  Here  he  looked 
majestically  at  Richards,  "But  how  was  she  found? 
who  found  her?  " 

"  Why,  I  believe  /  found  Miss  Dombey,  sir,"  said 
Walter  modestly ;  "  at  least  I  don't  know-' that  I  can 
claim  the  merit  of  having  exactly  found  her,  sir,  but  I 
was  the  fortunate  instrument  of—" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dombey, 
regarding  the  boy's  evident  pride  and  pleasure  in  his 
share  of  the  transaction  with  an  instinctive  dislike,  "by 
not  having  exactly  found  my  daughter,  and  by  being  a 
fortunate  instrument?  Be  plain  and  coherent,  if  you 
please." 

It  was  quite  out  of  Walter's  power  to  be  coherent  ;  biit 
he  rendered  himself  as  explanatory  as  he  could,  in  his 
breathless  state,  and  stated  why  he  had  come  alone. 

"You  hear  this,  girl  ?"  said  Mr.  Dombey  sternly  to 
the  black  eyed.  "  Take  what  is  necessary,  and  return 
immediately  with  this  young  man  to  fetch  Miss  Florence 
home.    Gay,  you  will  be  rewarded  to-morrow." 

"Oh  !  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Walter,  "You  are  very 
kind.    I'm  sure' I  Avas  not  thinking  of  any  levs-ard,  sir," 

"  You  are  a  boy,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  suddenly  and  al- 
most fiercely  ;  "and  what  you  think  of,  or  aft'ect  to  think 
of,  is  of  little  consequence.  You  have  done  well,  sir. 
Don't  undo  it.  Louisa,  please  to  give  the  lad  some  wine. " 


464 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Mr.  Dombey's  giance  followed  Walter  Gay  with  sharp 
disfavour,  as  he  left  the  room  under  the  pilotage  of  Mrs. 
Chick  ;  and  it  may  be  that  his  mind's  eye  followed  him 
with  no  greater  relish  as  he  rode  back  to  his  uncle's  with 
Miss  Susan  Nipper. 

There  they  found  that  Florence,  much  refreshed  by 
sleep,  had  dined,  and  greatly  improved  the  acquaintance 
of  Solomon  Gills,  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of  per- 
fect confidence  and  ease.  The  black-eyed  (who  had 
cried  so  much  tliat  she  might  now  be  called  the  red-eyed, 
and  who  was  very  silent  and  depressed)  caught  her  in 
her  arms  without  a  word  of  contradiction  or  reproach, 
and  made  a  very  hysterical  meeting  of  it.  Then  con- 
verting the  parlour  for  the  nonce,  into  a  private  tyring 
room,  she  dressed  her,  with  great  care,  in  proper  clothes  ; 
and  presently  led  her  forth,  as  like  a  Dombey  as  her 
natural  disqualifications  admitted  of  her  being  made. 

"  Good  night  ! "  said  Florence,  running  up  to  Solomon. 
"You  have  bsen  very  good  to  me." 

Old  Sol  was  quite  delighted,  and  kissed  her  like  her 
grandfather. 

' '  Good  night,  Walter  !    Good  bye  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Good  bye  !"  said  Walter,  giving  both  his  hands. 

"  I'll  never  forget  you,"  pursued  Florence.  "No  !  in- 
deed I  never  will.    Good  bye,  Walter  !" 

In  the  innocence  of  her  grateful  heart,  the  child  lifted 
up  her  face  to  his.  Walter,  bending  down  his  own, 
raised  it  again,  all  red  and  burning  ;  and  looked  at  Uncle 
Sol,  quite  sheepishly. 

' '  Where's  Walter  ?  "  "  Good  night,  Walter  ! "  "  Good 
bye,  Walter!"  "Shake  hands,  once  more,  Walter  1 " 
This  was  still  Florence's  cry,  after  she  was  shut  up  with 
her  little  maid,  in  the  coach.  And  when  the  coach  at 
length  moved  off,  Walter  on  the  doorstep  gaily  returned 
the  waving  of  her  handkerchief,  while  the  wooden  mid- 
shipman behind  him  seemed,  like  himself,  intent  upon 
that  coach  alone,  excluding  all  the  other  passing  coaches 
from  his  observation. 

In  good  time  Mr.  Dombey's  mansion  was  gained  again, 
and  again  there  was  a  noise  of  tongues  in  the  library. 
Again,  too,  the  coach  was  ordered  to  wait — "for  Mrs. 
Richards,"  one  of  Susan's  fellow-servants  ominously 
v/hispered,  as  she  passed  with  Florence. 

The  entrance  of  the  lost  child  made  a  slight  sensation, 
but  not  much.  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  never  found  her, 
kissed  her  once  upon  the  forehead,  and  cautioned  her 
not  to  run  away  again,  or  wander  anywhere  with  treach- 
erous attendants.  Mrs.  Chick  stopped  in  her  lamenta- 
tions on  the  corruption  of  human  nature,  even  when 
beckoned  to  the  paths  of  virtue  by  a  Charitable  Grinder  ; 
and  received  her  with  a  welcome  something  short  of  the 
reception  due  to  none  but  perfect  Dombeys.  Miss  Tox 
regulated  her  feelings  by  the  models  before  her.  Rich- 
ards, the  culprit  Richards,  alone  poured  out  her  heart  in 
broken  words  of  welcome,  and  bowed  herself  over  the 
little  wandering  head  as  if  she  really  loved  it. 

"  Ah  Richards  ! "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  sigh.  "It 
would  have  been  much  more  satisfactory  to  those  who 
wish  to  think  well  of  their  fellow  creatures,  and  much 
more  becoming  in  you,  if  you  had  shown  some  proper 
feeling,  in  time,  for  the  little  child  that  is  now  going  to 
be  prematurely  deprived  of  its  natural  nourishment." 

"Cut  off,"  said  Miss  Tox,  in  a  plaintive  whisper, 
"  from  one  common  fountain  !" 

"  If  it  was  my  ungrateful  case,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  sol- 
emnly, "and  I  had  your  reflections,  Richards,  I  should 
feel  as  if  the  Charitable  Grinders'  dress  would  blight  my 
child,  and  the  education  choke  him." 

For  the  matter  of  that — but  Mrs.  Chick  didn't  know  it 
— he  had  been  pretty  well  blighted  by  the  dress  already  ; 
and  as  to  the  education,  even  its  retributive  effect  might 
be  produced  in  time,  for  it  was  a  stonn  of  sobs  and  blows. 

"  Louisa  ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  It  is  not  necessary  to 
prolong  these  observations.  The  woman  is  discharged 
and  paid.  You  leave  this  house,  Richards,  for  taking 
my  son— my  son,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  emphatically  re- 
peating these  two  words,  "into  haunts  and  into  society 
which  are  not  to  be  thought  of  without  a  shudder.  As 
to  the  accident  which  befell  Miss  Florence  this  morning, 
I  regard  that,  as,  in  one  great  sense,  a  happy  and  fortu- 
nate circumstance  ;  inasmuch  as,  but  for  that  occurrence, 
I  never  could  have  known — and  from  your  own  lips  too 


— of  what  you  had  been  guilty.  I  think,  Louisa,  the 
other  nurse,  the  young  person,"  here  Miss  Nipper  sobbed 
aloud,  "  being  so  much  younger,  and  necessarily  influ- 
enced by  Paul's  nurse,  may  remain.  Have  the  goodness 
to  direct  that  this  woman's  coach  is  paid  to — "  Mr.  Dom- 
bey stopped  and  winced—"  to  Staggs's  Gardens." 

Polly  moved  towards  the  door,  with  Florence  holding 
to  her  dress,  and  crying  to  her  in  the  most  pathetic  man- 
ner not  to  go  away.  It  was  a  dagger  in  the  haughty 
father's  heart,  an  arrow  in  his  brain,  to  see  how  the  flesh 
and  blood  he  could  not  disown  clung  to  this  obscure 
stranger,  and  he  sitting  by.  Not  that  he  cared  to  whom 
his  daughter  turned,  or  from  whom  turned  away.  The 
swift  sharp  agony  struck  through  him,  as  he  thought  of 
what  his  son  might  do. 

His  son  cried  lustily  that  night,  at  all  events.  Sooth 
to  say,  poor  Paul  had  better  reason  for  his  tears  than 
sons  of  that  age  often  have,  for  lie  had  lost  his  second 
mother — his  first,  so  far  as  he  knew — by  a  stroke  as  sud- 
den as  that  natural  afl[liction  which  had  darkened  the  be- 
ginning of  his  life.  At  the  same  blow,  his  sister  too, 
who  cried  herself  to  sleep  so  mournfully,  had  lost 
as  good  and  true  a  friend.  But  that  is  quite  beside  the 
question.    Let  us  waste  no  words  about  it. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  BircVs-eye  Glimpse  of  M^s  Tox's  Divelling-place ;  also  of  the 
State  of  Miss  Tax's  Affections. 

Miss  Tox  inhabited  a  dark  little  house  that  had  been 
squeezed,  at  some  remote  period  of  English  History, 
into  a  fashionable  neighbourhood  at  the  west  end  of  the 
town,  where  it  stood  in  the  shade  like  a  poor  relation 
of  the  great  street  round  the  corner,  coldly  looked  down 
upon  by  mighty  mansions.  It  was  not  exactly  in  a 
court,  and  it  was  not  exactly  in  a  yard  ;  but  it  was  in  the 
dullest  of  No- Thoroughfares,  rendered  anxious  and  hag- 
gard by  distant  double  knocks.  The  name  of  this  re- 
tirement, where  grass  grew  between  the  chinks  in  the 
stone  pavement,  was  Princess's-place  ;  and  in  Princess's- 
place  was  Princess's  Chapel,  with  a  tinkling  bell,  Avhere 
sometimes  as  many  as  five-and-twenty  people  attended 
service  on  a  Sunday.  The  Princess's  Arms  was  also 
there,  and  much  resorted  to  by  splendid  footmen.  A  se- 
dan chair  was  kept  inside  the  railing  before  the  Princess's 
Arms,  but  it  had  never  come  out,  within  the  memory  of 
man  ;  and  on  fine  mornings  the  top  of  every  rail  (there 
are  eight- and-forty,  as  Miss  Tox  had  often  counted)  was 
decorated  with  a  pewter- pot. 

There  was  another  private  house  besides  Miss  Tox's 
in  Princess's-place  :  not  to  mention  an  immense  pair  of 
gates,  with  an  immense  pair  of  lion-headed  knockers  on 
them,  which  were  never  opened  by  any  chance,  and  were 
supposed  to  constitute  a  disused  entrance  to  somebody's 
stables.  Indeed,  there  was  a  smack  of  stabling  in  the 
air  of  Princess's-place  :  and  Miss  Tox's  bedroom  (which 
was  at  the  back)  commanded  a  vista  of  Mews,  where 
hostlers,  at  whatever  sort  of  work  engaged,  were  con- 
tinually accompanying  themselves  with  effervescent 
noises  ;  and  where  the  most  domestic  and  confidential 
garments  of  coachmen  and  their  wives  and  families, 
usually  hung,  like  Macbeth's  banners,  on  the  outward 
walls. 

At  this  outer  private  house  in  Princess's-place, tenanted 
by  a  retired  butler  who  had  married  a  housekeeper, 
apartments  were  let,  Furnished,  to  a  single  gentleman  :  to 
wit  a  wooden-featured,  blue-faced,  Major,  with  his  eyes 
starting  out  of  his  head,  in  whom  Miss  Tox  recognised,  as 
she  herself  expressed  it,  "  something  so  truly  military  ;  " 
and  between  whom  and  herself,  an  occasional  inter- 
change of  newspapers  and  pamphlets,  and  such  Platonic 
dalliance,  was  effected  through  the  medium  of  a  dark 
servant  of  the  major's  whom  Miss  Tox  was  quite  con- 
tent to  classify  as  a  "native,"  without  connecting  him 
with  any  geographical  idea  whatever. 

Perhaps  there  never  was  a  smaller  entry  and  staircase, 
than  the  entry  and  staircase  of  Miss  Tox's  house.  Per- 
haps, taken  altogether,  from  top  to  bottom,  it  was  the 
most  inconvenient  little  house  in  England,  and  the 
crookedest ;  but  then,  Miss  Tox  said,  what  a  situation  ! 


DOMBEY 


AND  8 ON, 


There  was  very  little  daylight  to  be  got  there  in  the 
winter  ;  no  sun  at  the  best  of  times  :  air  was  out  of  tlie 
question,  and  traffic  was  walled  out.  Still  Miss  Tox  said, 
think  of  the  situation  !  So  said  the  blue-faced  major, 
whose  eyes  were  starting  out  of  his  head  :  who  gloried 
in  Princess's-place  :  and  who  delighted  to  turn  the  con- 
versation at  his  club,  whenever  he  could,  to  something 
connected  with  some  of  the  great  people  in  the  great 
street  round  the  corner,  that  he  might  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  saying  they  were  his  neighbours. 

The  dingy  tenement  inhabited  by  Miss  Tox  was  her 
own  ;  having  been  devised  and  bequeathed  to  her  by  the 
deceased  owner  of  the  fishy  eye  in  the  locket,  of  whom 
a  miniature  portrait,  with  a  powdered  head  and  a  pig- 
tail, balanced  the  kettle-holder  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
parlour  fire-place.  The  greater  part  of  the  furniture 
was  of  the  powdered  head  and  pigtail  period  :  compris- 
ing a  plate-warmer,  always  languishing  and  sprawling 
its  four  attenuated  bow  legs  in  somebody's  way  ;  and  an 
obsolete  harpsichord,  illuminated  round  the  maker's 
name  with  a  painted  garland  of  sweet  peas. 

Although  Major  Bagstock  had  arrived  at  what  is  called 
in  polite  literature,  the  grand  meridian  of  life,  and  was 
proceeding  on  his  journey  down-hill  with  hardly  any 
throat,  and  a  very  rigid  pair  of  jaw  bones,  and  long- 
flapped  elephantine  ears,  and  his  eyes  and  complexion 
in  the  state  of  artificial  excitement  already  mentioned, 
he  was  mightily  proud  of  awakening  an  interest  in  Miss 
Tox,  and  ticlded  his  vanity  with  the  fiction  that  she  was 
a  splendid  woman  who  had  her  eye  on  him.  This  he 
had  several  times  hinted  at  the  club  :  in  connection  with 
little  jocularities,  of  which  old  Joe  Bagstock,  old  Joey 
Bagstock,  old  J.  Bagstock,  old  Josh  Bagstock,  or  so 
forth,  was  the  perpetual  theme  :  it  being,  as  it  were,  the 
major's  stronghold  and  donjon  keep  of  light  humour,  to 
be  on  the  most  familiar  terms  with  his  own  name. 

"Joey  B.,  sir,"  the  major  would  say,  with  a  flourish 
of  his  walking-stick,  "  is  worth  a  dozen  of  you.  If  you 
had  a  few  more  of  the  Bagstock  breed  among  you,  sir, 
you'd  be  none  the  worse  for  it.  Old  Joe,  sir,  needn't 
look  far  for  a  wife  even  now,  if  he  was  on  the  lookout  ; 
but  he's  hard-hearted,  sir,  is  Joe — he's  tough,  sir,  tough, 
and  de-vilish  sly  !  "  After  such  a  declaration  wheezing 
sounds  would  be  heard  ;  and  the  major's  blue  eyes  would 
deepen  into  purple,  while  his  eyes  strained  and  started 
convulsively. 

Notwithstanding  his  very  liberal  laudation  of  himself, 
however,  the  major  was  selfish.  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  there  ever  was  a  more  entirely  selfish  person  at 
heart  ;  or  at  stomach  is  perhaps  a  better  expression, 
seeing  that  he  was  more  decidedly  endowed  with  that 
latter  organ  than  with  the  former.  He  had  no  idea  of 
being  overlooked  or  slighted  by  anybody  ;  least  of  all, 
had  he  the  remotest  comprehension  of  being  overlooked 
and  slighted  by  Miss  Tox. 

And  yet,  Miss  Tox,  as  it  appeared,  forgot  him — grad- 
ually forgot  him.  She  began  to  forget  him  soon  after 
her  discovery  of  the  Toodle  family.  She  continued  to 
forget  him  up  to  the  time  of  the  christening.  She  went 
on  forgetting  him  with  compound  interest  after  that. 
Something  or  somebody  had  superseded  him  as  a  source 
of  interest. 

"  Good  morning,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  meeting  Miss 
Tox  in  Princess's-place,  some  weeks  after  the  changes 
chronicled  in  the  last  chapter. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  very  coldly. 

"Joe  Bagstock,  ma'am,"  observed  the  major,  with 
his  usual  gallantry,  "  has  not  had  the  happiness  of 
bowing  to  you  at  your  window,  for  a  considerable  period. 
Joe  has  been  hardly  used,  ma'am.  His  sun  has  been 
behind  a  cloud." 

Miss  Tox  inclined  her  head  ;  but  very  coldly  indeed. 

"Joe's  luminary  has  been  out  of  town  ma'am,  per- 
haps," inquired  the  major. 

"  I  ?  out  of  town  ?  oh  no,  I  have  not  been  out  of  town," 
said  Miss  Tox.  "  I  have  been  much  engaged  lately.  My 
time  is  nearly  all  devoted  to  some  very  intimate  friends. 
I  am  afraid  I  have  none  to  spare,  even  now  Good 
morning,  sir  !  " 
^  As  Miss  Tox,  with  her  most  fascinating  step  and  car- 
riage, disappeared  from  Princess's-place,  the  major  stood 
looking  after  her  with  a  bluer  face  than  ever  :  mutter- 
VOL.  II.— 30 


ing  and  growling  some  not  at  all  complimentary  re- 
marks. 

"  Why,  damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  rolling  his  lob- 
ster eyes  round  and  round  Princess's-place,  and  apostro- 
phising its  fragrant  air,  "six  months  ago,  the  woman 
loved  the  ground  Josh  Bagstock  walked  on.  What's 
the  meaning  of  it?  " 

The  major  decided,  after  some  consideration,  that  it 
meant  man-traps ;  that  it  meant  plotting  and  .snaring  ; 
that  Miss  Tox  was  digging  pitfalls.  "But  you  won't 
catch  Joe,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.  "He's tough,  ma'am, 
tough,  is  J.  B.  Tough,  and  de-vilish  sly  !  "  over  which 
reflection  he  chuckled  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

But  still,  when  that  day  and  many  other  days  were 
gone  and  x>ast,  it  seemed  that  Miss  Tox  took  no  heed 
whatever  of  the  major,  and  thought  nothing  at  all  about 
him.  She  had  been  wont,  once  upon  a  time,  to  look  out 
at  one  of  her  little  dark  windows  by  accident,  and 
blushingly  return  the  major's  greeting  ;  but  now,  she 
never  gave  the  major  a  chance,  and  cared  nothing  at  all 
whether  he  looked  over  the  way  or  not.  Other  changes 
had  come  to  pass  too.  The  major,  standing  in  the  shade 
of  his  own  apartment,  could  make  out  that  an  air  of 
greater  smartness  had  recently  come  over  Miss  Tox's 
house  ;  that  a  new  cage  with  gilded  wires  had  been  pro- 
vided for  the  ancient  little  canary  bird  ;  that  divers  orna- 
ments, cut  out  of  coloured  card-boards  and  paper,  seemed 
to  decorate  the  chimney-piece  and  tables  ;  that  a  plant 
or  two  had  suddenly  sprung  up  in  the  windows  ;  that 
Miss  Tox  occasionally  practised  on  the  harpsichord, 
whose  garland  of  sweet  peas  was  always  displayed  os- 
tentatiously, crowned  with  the  Copenhagen  and  Bird 
Waltzes  in  a  music-book  of  Miss  Tox's  own  copying. 

Over  and  above  all  this.  Miss  Tox  had  long  been 
dressed  with  uncommon  care  and  elegance  .in  slight 
mourning.  But  this  helped  the  major  out  of  his  diffi- 
culty ;  and  he  determined  within  himself  that  she  had 
come  into  a  small  legacy,  and  grown  proud. 

It  was  on  the  very  next  day  after  he  had  eased  his 
mind  by  arriving  at  this  decision,  that  the  major,  sitting 
at  his  breakfast,  saw  an  apparition  so  tremendous  and 
wonderful  in  Miss  Tox's  little  drawing-room,  that  he  re- 
mained  for  some  time  rooted  to  his  chair  ;  then,  rushing 
into  the  next  room  returned  with  a  double-barreled  opera- 
glass,  through  which  he  surveyed  it  intently  for  some 
minutes. 

"It's  a  Baby,  sir,"  said  the  major,  shutting  up  the 
glass  again,  "  for  fifty  thousand  pounds  !  " 

The  major  couldn't  forget  it.  He  could  do  nothing 
but  whistle,  and  stare  to  that  extent,  that  his  eyes  com- 
pared with  what  they  now  became,  had  been  in  former 
times  quite  cavernous  and  sunken.  Day  after  day,  two, 
three,  four  times  a  week,  this  baby  reappeared.  The 
major  continued  to  stare  and  whistle.  To  all  other 
intents  and  purposes  he  was  alone  in  Princess's-place. 
Miss  Tox  had  ceased  to  mind  what  he  did.  He  might 
have  been  black  as  well  as  blue,  and  it  would  have 
been  of  no  consequence  to  her. 

The  perseverance  with  which  she  walked  out  of  Prin- 
cess's-place to  fetch  this  baby  and  its  nurse,  and  walked 
back  with  them,  and  walked  home  with  them  again, 
and  continually  mounted  guard  over  them  ;  and  the  per- 
severance with  which  she  nursed  it  herself,  and  fed 
it,  and  played  with  it,  and  froze  its  young  blood  with 
airs  upon  the  harpsicord  ;  was  extraordinary.  At  about 
the  same  period  too,  she  was  seized  with  a  passion  for 
looking  at  a  certain  bracelet  ;  also  with  a  passion  for  look- 
ing at  the  moon,  of  which  she  would  take  long  obser- 
vations from  her  chamber  window.  But  whatever  she 
looked  at  ;  sun,  moon,  stars,  or  bracelets  ;  she  looked 
no  more  at  the  major.  And  the  major  whistled,  and 
stared,  and  wondered,  and  dodged  about  his  room,  and 
could  make  nothing  out  of  it. 

You'll  quite  win  my  brother  Paul's  heart,  and  that's 
the  truth,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  one  day. 

Miss  Tox  turned  pale. 

"He  grows  more  like  Paul  every  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick. 

Miss  Tox  returned  no  other  reply  than  by  taking  the 
little  Paul  in  her  arms,  and  making  his  cockade  per- 
fectly flat  and  limp  with  her  caresses. 

"His  mother,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  whose  ac- 


466 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


quaintance  I  was  to  have  made  through  you,  does  he 
at  all  resemble  her?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  Louisa. 

"  She  was— she  was  pretty,  I  believe  ?  "  faltered  Miss 
Tox. 

"Why,  poor  dear  Fanny  was  interesting,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  after  some  judicial  consideration.  "  Certainly 
interesting.  She  had  not  that  air  of  commanding  su- 
periority which  one  would  somehow  expect,  almost  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  find  in  my  brother's  wife  ;  nor 
had  she  that  strength  and  vigour  of  mind  which  such 
a  man  requires." 

Miss  Tox  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"But  she  was  pleasing:"  said  Mrs.  Chick:  "ex- 
tremely so.  And  she  meant  1 — oh,  dear,  how  well  poor 
Fanny  meanfc  ! " 

"You  angel  !"  cried  Miss  Tox  to  little  Paul.  "You 
picture  of  your  own  papa  !  " 

If  the  major  could  have  known  how  many  hopes  and 
ventures,  what  a  multitude  of  plans  and  speculations, 
rested  on  that  baby  head  ;  and  could  have  seen  them 
hovering,  in  all  their  heterogeneous  confusion  and  dis- 
order, round  the  puckered  cap  of  the  unconscious  lit- 
tle Paul  ;  he  might  have  stared  indeed.  Then  would  he 
have  recognised,  among  the  crowd,  some  few  ambitious 
motes  and  beams  belonging  to  Miss  Tox  :  then  would  he 
perhaps  have  understood  the  nature  of  that  lady's  falter- 
ing investment  in  the  Dombey  Firm. 

If  the  child  himself  could  have  awakened  in  the  night, 
and  seen,  gathered  about  his  cradle-curtains,  faint  re- 
flections of  the  dreams  that  other  peoj^le  had  of  him,  they 
might  have  scared  him,  with  good  reason.  But  he  slum- 
bered on,  alike  unconscious  of  the  kind  intentions  of 
Miss  Tox,  the  wonder  of  the  major,  the  early  sorrows  of 
his  sister,  and  the  sterner  visions  of  his  father  ;  and  in- 
nocent that  any  spot  of  earth  contained  a  Dombey  or  a 
Son. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PanTs further  Progress,  Groivth,  and  Character. 

Beneath  the  watching  and  attentive  eyes  of  Time — 
so  far  another  Major — Paul's  slumbers  gradually  changed. 
More  and  more  light  broke  in  upon  them  ;  distincter  and 
distincter  dreams  disturbed  them;  an  accumulating  crowd 
of  objects  and  impressions  swarmed  about  his  rest  ;  and 
so  he  passed  from  babyhood  to  childhood,  and  became 
a  talking,  walking,  wondering  Dombey. 

On  the  downfall  and  banishment  of  Richards,  the 
nursery  may  be  said  to  have  been  put  into  commission  ; 
as  a  Public  Department  is  sometimes,  when  no  individual 
Atlas  can  be  found  to  support  it.  The  Commissioners 
were,  of  course.  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  :  who  devoted 
themselves  to  their  duties  with  such  astonishing  ardour 
that  Major  Bagstock  had  every  day  some  new  reminder 
of  his  being  forsaken,  while  Mr.  Chick,  bereft  of  domes- 
tic supervision,  cast  himself  upon  the  gay  world,  dined 
at  clubs  and  coffee-houses,  smelt  of  smoke  on  three  dis- 
tinct occasions,  went  to  the  play  by  himself,  and  in 
short,  loosened  (as  Mrs.  Chick  once  told  him)  every  social 
bond,  and  moral  obligation. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  his  early  promise,  all  this  vigilance 
and  care  could  not  make  little  Paul  a  thriving  boy. 
Naturally  delicate,  perhaps,  he  pined  and  wasted  after 
the  dismissal  of  his  nurse,  and,  for  a  long  time,  seemed 
but  to  wait  his  opportunity  of  gliding  through  their 
hands,  and  seeking  his  lost  mother.  This  dangerous 
ground  in  his  steeple-chase  towards  manhood  passed,  he 
still  found  it  very  rough  riding,  and  was  grieviously  be- 
set by  all  the  obstacles  in  his  course.  Every  tooth  was 
a  break-neck  fence,  and  every  pimple  in  the  measles  a 
stone  wall  to  him.  He  was  down  in  every  fit  of  the 
hooping-cough,  and  rolled  upon  and  crushed  by  a  whole 
field  of  small  diseases,  that  came  trooping  on  each  other's 
heels  to  prevent  his  getting  up  again.  Some  bird  of 
prey  got  into  his  tliroat  instead  of  the  thrush  ;  and  the 
very  chickens  turning  ferocious — if  they  have  anything 
to  do  with  that  infant  malady  to  which  they  lend  their 
name — worried  him  like  tiger-cats. 

The  chill  of  Paul's  christening  had  struck  home,  per- 


haps  to  some  sensitive  part  of  his  nature,  which  could 
not  recover  itself  in  the  cold  shade  of  his  father ;  but 
he  was  an  unfortunate  child  from  that  day.  Mrs. 
Wickam  often  said  she  never  see  a  dear  so  put  upon. 

Mrs.  Wickam  was  a  waiter's  wife— which  would  seem 
equivalent  to  being  any  other  man's  widow — whose  ap- 
.plication  for  an  engagement  in  Mr.  Dom  bey's  service  had 
been  favourably  considered,  on  account  of  the  apparent 
impossibility  of  her  having  any  followers,  or  any  one  to 
follow  ;  and  who,  from  within  a  day  or  two  of  Paul's 
sharp  weaning,  had  been  engaged  as  his  nurse.  Mrs. 
Wickam  was  a  meek  woman,  of  a  fair  complexion, 
with  her  eyebrows  always  elevated,  and  her  head  al- 
ways drooping  ;  who  was  always  ready  to  pity  herself, 
or  to  be  pitied,  or  to  pity  anybody  else  ;  and  who  had  a 
surprising  natural  gift  of  viewing  all  subjects  in  an  ut- 
terly forlorn  and  pitiable  light,  and  bringing  dreadful 
precedents  to  bear  upon  them,  and  deriving  the  greatest 
consolation  from  the  exercise  of  that  talent. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe  that  no  touch  of  this 
quality  ever  reached  the  magnificent  knowledge  of  Mr. 
Dombey.  It  would  have  been  remarkable,  indeed,  if 
any  had  ;  when  no  one  in  the  house — not  even  Mrs. 
Chick  or  Miss  Tox — dared  ever  whisper  to  him  that 
there  had,  on  any  one  occasion,  been  the  least  reason  for 
uneasiness  in  reference  to  little  Paul.  He  had  settled, 
within  himself,  that  the  child  must  necessarily  pass 
through  a  certain  routine  of  minor  maladies,  and  that 
the  sooner  he  did  so  the  better. 

If  he  could  have  bought  him  off,  or  provided  a  substi- 
tute, as  in  the  case  of  an  unlucky  drawing  for  the  mil- 
itia, he  would  have  been  glad  to  do  so  on  liberal  terms. 
But  as  this  was  not  feasible,  he  merely  wondered,  in 
•his  haughty  manner,  now  and  then,  what  nature  meant 
by  it ;  and  comforted  himself  with  the  reflection  that 
there  was  another  milestone  passed  upon  the  road,  and 
that  the  great  end  of  the  journey  lay  so  much  the  nearer. 
For  the  feeling  uppermost  in  his  mind,  now  and  con- 
stantly intensifying,  and  increasing  in  it  as  Paul  grew 
older,  was  impatience.  Impatience  for  the  time  to  come, 
when  his  visions  of  their  united  consequence  and  gran- 
deur would  be  triumphantly  realised. 

Some  philosophers 'tell  us  that  selfishness  is  at  the  root 
of  our  best  loves  and  affections,  Mr,  Dombey's  young 
child  was,  from  the  beginning,  so  distinctly  important  to 
him  as  a  part  of  his  own  greatness,  or  (which  is  the  same 
thing)  of  the  greatness  of  Dombey  and  Son,  that  there 
is  no  doubt  his  parental  affection  might  have  been  easily 
traced,  like  many  a  goodly  superstructure  of  fair  fame, 
to  a  very  low  foundation.  But  he  loved  his  son  with  all 
the  love  he  had.  If  there  were  a  warm  place  in  his 
frosty  heart,  his  son  occupied  it ;  if  its  very  hard  sur- 
face could  receive  the  impression  of  any  image,  the  im- 
age of  that  son  was  there  ;  though  not  so  much  as  an 
infant,  or  as  a  boy,  but  as  a  grown  man — the  "  Son"  of 
the  Firm.  Therefore  he  was  impatient  to  advance  into 
the  future,  and  to  hurry  over  the  intervening  passages 
of  his  history.  Therefore  he  had  little  or  no  anxiety 
about  them,  in  spite  of  his  love  ;  feeling  as  if  the  boy 
had  a  charmed  life,  and  must  become  the  man  with 
whom  he  held  such  constant  communication  in  his 
thoughts,  and  for  whom  he  planned  and  projected,  as 
for  an  existing  realit}'-,  every  day. 

Thus  Paul  grew  to  he  nearly  five  years  old.  He  was 
a  pretty  little  fellow  ;  though  there  was  something  wan 
and  wistful  in  his  small  face,  that  gave  occasion  to  many 
significant  shakes  of  Mrs.  Wickam 's  head,  and  many 
long-drawn  inspirations  of  Mrs.  Wickam's  breath.  His 
temper  gave  abundant  promise  of  being  imperious  in 
after-life  ;  and  he  had  as  hopeful  an  apprehension  of  his 
own  importance,  and  the  rightful  subservience  of  all 
other  things  and  persons  to  it,  as  heart  could  desire. 
He  was  childish  and  sportive  enough  at  times,  and  not 
of  a  sullen  disposition  ;  but  he  had  a  strange  old-fashi- 
oned, thoughtful  way,  at  other  times,  of  sitting  brooding 
in  his  miniature  arm-chair,  when  he  looked  (and  talked) 
like  one  of  those  terrible  little  Beings  in  the  Fairy  tales, 
who,  at  a  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  years  of 
age,  fantastically  represented  the  children  for  whom 
they  have  been  substituted.  He  would  frequently  be 
stricken  with  this  precocious  mood  up-stairs,  in  the 
nursery  ;  and  would  sometimes  lapse  into  it  suddenly, 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


4G7 


exclaiming  that  he  was  tired  :  even  while  playing  with 
Florence,  or  driving  Miss  Tox  in  single  harness.  But  at 
no  time  did  he  fall  into  it  so  surely,  as  when,  his  little 
chair  being  carried  down  into  his  father's  room,  he  sat 
there  with  him  after  dinner,  by  the  fire.  They  were  the 
strangest  pair  at  such  a  time  that  ever  firelight  shone 
upon.  Mr.  Dombey  so  erect  and  solemn,  gazing  at  the 
blaze  ;  his  little  image,  with  an  old,  old,  face,  peering 
into  the  red  perspective  with  the  fixed  and  rapt  attention 
of  a  sage.  Mr.  Dombey  entertaining  complicated  worldly 
schemes  and  plans  ;  the  little  image  entertaining  Heaven 
knows  what  wild  fancies,  half-formed  thoughts,  and 
wandering  speculations.  Mr.  Dombey  stiff  with  starch 
and  arrogance  ;  the  little  image  by  inheritance,  and  in 
imconscious  imitation.  The  two  so  very  much  alike, 
and  yet  so  monstrously  contrasted. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  when  they  had  both  been 
perfectly  quiet  for  a  long  time,  and  Mr.  Dombey  only 
knew  that  the  child  was  awake  by  occasionally  glancing 
at  his  eye,  where  the  bright  fire  was  sparkling  like  a 
jewel,  little  Paul  broke  silence  thus  : 

"  Papa  !  what's  money?  " 

The  abrupt  question  had  such  immediate  reference  to 
the  subject  of  Mr.  Dombey's  thoughts,  that  Mr.  Dombey 
was  quite  disconcerted. 

What  is  money,  Paul  ?"  he  answered.    "  Money  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child,  laying  his  hands  upon  the  el- 
bows of  his  little  chair,  and  turning  the  old  face  up  to- 
wards Mr.  Dombey's  ;  "  what  is  money  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  was  in  a  difficulty.  He  would  have  liked 
to  give  him  some  explanation  involving  the  terms  circu- 
lating-medium, currency,  depreciation  of  currency,  pa- 
per, bullion,  rates  of  exchange,  value  of  precious  met- 
als in  the  market,  and  so  forth  ;  but  looking  down  at 
the  little  chair,  and  seeing  what  a  long  way  down  it 
was,  he  answered  :  "  Gold,  and  silver,  and  copper, 
Guineas,  shillings,  half-pence.  You  know  what  they 
are  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  what  they  are,"  said  Paul.  "I 
don't  mean  that,  papa.    1  mean  what's  money  after  all." 

Heaven  and  Earth;  how  old  his  face  was  as  he  turned 
it  up  again  towards  his  father's  ! 

"  What  is  money  after  all  !  "  said  Mr,  Dombey,  back- 
ing his  chair  a  little,  that  he  might  the  better  gaze  in 
sheer  amazement  at  the  presumptuous  atom  that  pro- 
pounded such  an  inquiry. 

"  I  mean,  papa,  what  can  it  do  ! "  returned  Paul, 
folding  his  arms  (they  were  hardly  long  enough  to  fold), 
and  looking  at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him,  and  at  the  fire, 
and  up  at  him  again. 

Mr.  Dombey  drew  his  chair  back  to  its  former  place, 
and  patted  him  on  the  head.  "You'll  know  better  by- 
and-by,  my  man,"  he  said.  "Money,  Paul,  can  do  any- 
thing." He  took  hold  of  the  little  hand,  and  beat  it 
softly  against  one  of  his  own,  as  he  said  so. 

But  Paul  got  his  hand  free  as  soon  as  he  could  ;  and 
rubbing  it  gently  to  and  fro  om  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  as 
if  his  wit  were  in  the  palm,  and  he  were  sharpening  it 
— and  looking  at  the  fire  again,  as  though  the  fire  had 
been  his  adviser  and  prompter — repeated,  after  a  short 
pause  : 

"  Anything,  papa  ?  " 

*'Yes.    Anything — almost,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Anything  means  everything,  don't  it,  papa  ?  "  asked 
his  son  :  not  observing,  or  possibly  not  understanding, 
the  qualification. 

"It  includes  it ;  yes,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Why  didn't  money  save  me  my  mama  ?  "  returned 
the  child.    "  It  isn't  cruel,  is  it  ?  " 

"Cruel!"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neckcloth, 
and  seeming  to  resent  the  idea.  "  No.  A  good  thing 
can't  be  cruel." 

"  If  it's  a  good  thing,  and  can  do  anything,"  said  the 
little  fellow,  thoughtfully,  as  he  looked  back  at  the  fire, 
**  I  wonder  why  it  didn't  save  me  my  mama." 

He  didn't  ask  the  question  of  his  father  this  time. 
Perhaps  he  had  seen,  with  a  child's  quickness,  that  it 
had  already  made  his  father  uncomfortable.  But  he  re- 
peated the  thought  aloud,  as  if  it  were  quite  an  old  one 
to  him,  and  had  troubled  him  very  much  ;  and  sat  with 
his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  still  cogitating  and  look- 
ing for  an  explanation  in  the  fire. 


Mr.  Dombey  having  recovered  from  his  surprise,  not 
to  say  his  alarm  (for  it  was  the  very  first  occasion  ou 
which  the  child  had  ever  broached  the  subject  of  his 
mother  to  him,  though  he  had  had  him  sitting  by  his 
side,  in  this  same  manner,  evening  after  evening),  ex- 
pounded to  him  how  that  money,  though  a  very  potent 
spirit,  never  to  be  disparaged  on  any  account  whatever, 
would  not  keep  people  alive  whose  time  was  come  to  die, 
and  how  that  we  must  all  die,  unfortunately,  even  in  the 
city,  though  we  were  never  so  rich.  But  how  that 
money  caused  us  to  be  honoured,  feared,  respected, 
courted,  and  admired,  and  made  us  powerful  and 
glorious  in  the  eyes  of  all  men  ;  and  how  that  it  could, 
very  often,  even  keep  off  death,  for  a  long  time  togeth- 
er. How,  for  example,  it  had  secured  to  his  mama  the 
services  of  Mr.  Pilkins,  by  which  he,  Paul,  had  often 
X)rofited  himself  ;  likewise  of  the  great  Doctor  Parker 
Peps,  whom  he  had  never  known.  And  how  it  could  do 
all,  that  could  be  done.  This,  with  more  to  the  same 
purpose,  Mr  Dombey  instilled  into  the  mind  of  his  son, 
who  listened  attentively,  and  seemed  to  understand  the 
greater  part  of  what  was  said  to  him. 

"  It  can't  make  me  strong  and  quite  well,  either  papa; 
can  it  ?  "  asked  Paul,  after  a  short  silence  ;  rubbing  his 
tiny  hands. 

"  Why,  you  are  strong  and  quite  well,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey.  "  Are  you  not?" 

Oh  !  the  age  of  the  face  that  was  turned  up  again, 
with  an  expression,  half  of  melancholy,  half  of  slyness, 
on  it  ! 

"  You  are  as  strong  and  well  as  such  little  people 
usually  are?    Eh?"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Florence  is  older  than  I  am,  but  I  am  not  as  strong 
and  well  as  Florence,  1  know,"  returned  the  child  ;  "  but 
I  believe  that  when  Florence  was  as  little  as  me,  she 
could  play  a  great  deal  longer  at  a  time  without  tiring 
herself.  I  am  so  tired  sometimes,"  said  little  Paul, 
warming  his  hands,  and  looking  in  between  the  bars  cf 
the  grate,  as  if  some  ghostly  puppet-show  were  perform- 
ing there,  "  and  my  bones  ache  so  (Wickam  says  it's 
my  bones),  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Ay  !  But  that's  at  night,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  draw- 
ing his  own  chair  closer  to  his  son's,  and  laying  his  hand 
gently  on  his  back  ;  "  little  people  should  be  tired  at 
night,  for  then  they  sleep  well," 

"  Oh,  it's  not  at  night,  papa,"  returaed  the  child,  "it's 
in  the  day  ;  and  I  lie  down  in  Florence's  lap,  and  she 
sings  to  me.  At  night  I  dream  about  such  cu-ri-ous 
things !  " 

And  he  went  on,  warming  his  hands  again,  and  think- 
ing about  them,  like  an  old  man  or  a  young  goblin, 

Mr.  Dombey  was  so  astonished,  and  so  uncomfoi table, 
and  so  perfectly  at  a  loss  how  to  pursue  the  conversation, 
that  he  could  only  sit  looking  at  his  son  by  the  light  of 
the  fire,  with  his  hand  resting  on  his  back,  as  if  it  were 
detained  there  by  some  magnetic  attraction.  Once  he 
advanced  his  other  hand,  and  turned  the  contemplative 
face  towards  his  own  for  a  moment.  But  it  sought  the 
fire  again  as  soon  as  he  released  it :  and  remained,  ad- 
dressed towards  the  flickering  blaze,  until  the  nurse 
appeared,  to  summon  him  to  bed, 

"  I  want  Florence  to  come  for  me,"  said  Paul. 

"  Won't  you  come  with  your  poor  Nurse  Wickam, 
Master  Paul?"  inquired  that  attendant,  with  great 
pathos, 

"No,  I  won't,"  replied  Paul,  composing  himself  in  his 
arm-chair  again,  like  the  master  of  the  house. 

Invoking  a  blessing  upon  his  innocence,  Mrs.  Wickam 
withdrew,  and  presentlv  Florence  appeared  in  her  stead. 
The  child  immediately  started  up  with  suddeii  readiness 
and  animation,  and  raised  towards  his  father  iii  bidding 
him  good  night,  a  countenance  so  much  brighter,  so 
much  younger,  and  so  much  more  child-like  altogether, 
that  Mr,  Dombey,  while  he  felt  greatly  reassured  by 
the  change,  was  quite  amazed  at  it. 

After  they  had  left  the  room  together,  he  thought  he 
heard  a  soft  voice  singing  ;  and  remembering  that  Paul 
had  said  his  sister  sung  to  him,  he  had  the  curiosity  to 
open  the  door  and  listen,  and  look  after  them.  She  was 
toiling  up  the  great,  wide,  vacant  staircase,  with  him  in 
her  arms  ;  his  head  was  lying  on  her  shoulder,  one  of  his 
arms  thrown  negligently  round  her  neck.   So  they  went, 


468 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


toiling  up  ;  she  singing  all  tlie  way,  and  Paul  sometimes 
crooning  out  a  feeble  accompaniment,  Mr.  Dombey 
looked  after  them  until  they  reached  the  top  of  the 
staircase— not  without  halting  to  rest  by  the  way — and 
passed  out  of  his  sight  ;  and  then  he  still  stood  gazing 
upwards,  until  the  dull  rays  of  the  moon,  glimmering 
in  a  melancholy  manner  through  the  dim  skylight,  sent 
him  back  to  his  own  room. 

Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  convoked  in  council  at 
dinner  next  day  ;  and  when  the  cloth  was  removed,  Mr. 
Dombey  opened  the  proceedings  by  requiring  to  be  in- 
formed', without  any  gloss  or  reservation,  whether  there 
was  anything  the  matter  with  Paul,  and  what  Mr. 
Pilkins  said  about  him. 

"  For  the  child  is  hardly,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  as 
stout  as  I  could  wish." 

"  With  your  usual  happy  discrimination,  my  dear 
Paul,''  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  "  you  have  hit  the  point  at 
once.  Our  darling  is  not  altogether  as  stout  as  we  could 
wish.  The  fact  is,  that  his  mind  is  too  much  for  him. 
His  soul  is  a  great  deal  too  large  for  his  frame.  I  am 
sure  the  way  in  which  that  dear  child  talks  ! "  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  shaking  her  head  ;  "no  one  would  believe. 
His  expressions,  Lucretia,  only  yesterday  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  funerals  ! — " 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  interrupting  her  test- 
ily, that  some  of  those  persons  up-stairs  suggest  im- 
proper subjects  to  the  child.  He  was  speaking  to  me  last 
night  about  his — about  his  bones,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  lay- 
ing an  irritated  stress  upon  the  word.  "  What  on  earth 
has  anybody  to  do  with  the — vi^ith  the — bones  of  my  son  ? 
He  is  not  a  living  skeleton,  I  suppose." 

**  Very  far  from  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  unspeakable 
•expression. 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  her  brother..  "  Funerals  again  ! 
who  talks  to  the  child  of  funerals  ?  We  are  not  under- 
takers, or  mutes,  or  grave-diggers,  I  believe." 

"Very  far  from  it,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  the 
same  profound  expression  us  before. 

"  Then  who  puts  such  things  into  his  head  ?"  said  Mr. 
Dombey.  "  Really  I  was  quite  dismayed  and  shocked 
last  night.    Who  put  such  things  into  his  head,  Louisa  ?  " 

"My  dear  Paul,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  moment's  si- 
lence, "  it  is  of  no  use  inquiring.  I  do  not  think,  I  will 
tell  you  candidly,  that  Wickam  is  a  person  of  very 
cheerful  spirits,  or  what  one  would  call  a — " 

"A  daughter  of  Momus,"  Miss  Tox  softly  suggested. 

"Exactly  so,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  "but  she  is  exceeding- 
ly attentive  and  useful,  and  not  at  all  presumptuous  ;  in- 
deed I  never  saw  a  more  biddable  woman.  If  the  dear 
child,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was 
summing  up  what  had  been  previously  quite  agreed  upon, 
instead  of  saying  it  all  for  the  first  time,  "  is  a  little 
weakened  by  that  last  attack,  and  is  not  in  quite  such 
vigorous  health  as  we  could  wish  ;  and  if  he  has  some 
temporary  weakness  in  his  system,  and  does  occasionally 
seem  about  to  lose,  for  the  moment,  the  use  of  his — " 

Mrs.  Chick  was  afraid  to  say  limbs,  after  Mr.  Dombey's 
recent  objection  to  bones,  and  therefore  waited  for  a  sug- 
gestion from  Miss  Tox,  who,  true  to  her  office,  hazarded 
"members." 

' '  Members  ! "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey. 

"I  think  the  medical  gentleman  mentioned  legs  this 
morning,  my  dear  Louisa  ;  did  he  not  ?  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

"Why,  of  course  he  did,  my  love,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Chick,  mildly  reproachful.  "How  can  you  ask  me ?  You 
heard  him.  I  say,  if  our  dear  Paul  should  lose,  for  the 
moment,  the  use  of  his  legs,  these  are  casualties  common 
to  many  children  at  his  time  of  life,  and  not  to  be  pre- 
vented by  any  care  or  caution.  The  sooner  you  under- 
stand that,  Paul,  and  admit  that,  the  better." 

"Surely  you  must  know,  Louisa,"  observed  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "  that  I  don't  question  your  natural  devotion  to,  and 
natural  regard  for,  the  future  head  of  my  house.  Mr. 
Pilkins  saw  Paul  this  morning,  I  believe?"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Yes,  he  did,"  returned  his  sister.  "Miss  Tox  and 
myself  were  present.  Miss  Tox  and  myself  are  always 
present.  We  make  a  point  of  it.  Mr.  Pilkins  has  seen 
him  for  some  days  past,  and  a  very  clever  man  I  believe 
him  to  be.  He  says  it  is  nothing  to  speak  of  ;  which  I 
can  confirm,  if  that  is  any  consolation ;  but  he  recom- 


mended, to-day,  sea-air.  Very  wisely,  Paul,  I  feel  con- 
vinced." 

"  Sea-air,"  repeated  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  his  sister. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  made  uneasy  by,  in  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick.  "  My  George  and  Frederick  were  both  or- 
dered sea-air,  when  they  were  about  his  age  ;  and  I  have 
been  ordered  it  myself  a  great  many  times.  I  quite  agree 
with  you,  Paul,  that  perhaps  topics  may  be  incautiously 
mentioned  up-stairs  before  him,  which  it  would  be  as  well 
for  his  little  mind  not  to  expatiate  upon  ;  but,  1  really 
don't  see  how  that  is  to  be  helped  in  the  case  of  a  child 
of  his  quickness.  If  he  were  a  common  child,  there  would 
be  nothing  in  it.  I  must  say  I  think,  with  Miss  Tox,  that 
a  short  absence  from  this  house,  the  air  of  Brighton,  and 
the  bodily  and  mental  training  of  so  judicious  a  person 
as  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  instance — " 

"  Who  is  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Louisa  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey  ; 
aghast  at  this  familiar  introduction  of  a  name  he  had 
never  heard  before. 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  "  is 
an  elderly  lady — Miss  Tox  knows  her  whole  history — 
who  has  for  some  time  devoted  all  the  energies  of  her 
mind,  with  the  greatest  success,  to  the  study  and  treat- 
ment of  infancy,  and  who  has  been  extremely  well  con- 
nected. Her  husband  broke  his  heart  in — how  did  you 
say  her  husband  broke  his  heart,  my  dear  ?  I  forget  the 
precise  circumstances." 

"  In  pumping  water  out  of  the  Peruvian  Mines,"  re- 
plied Miss  Tox. 

"Not  being  a  Pumper  himself,  of  course,"  said  Mrs. 
1  Chick,  glancing  at  her  brother  ;  and  it  really  did  seem 
I  necessary  to  offer  the  explanation,  for  Miss  Tox  had  spok- 
j  en  of  him  as  if  he  had  died  at  the  handle  ;  "  but  having 
j  invested  money  in  the  speculation,  which  failed.  I  be- 
1  lieve  that  Mrs.  Pipchin's  management  of  children  is  quite 
astonishing,  I  have  heard  it  commended  in  private  cir- 
cles ever  since  I  was — dear  me — how  high  ! "  Mrs,  Chick's 
eye  wandered  about  the  bookcase  near  the  bust  of  Mr. 
Pitt,  which  was  about  ten  feet  from  the  ground. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  say  of  Mrs,  Pipchin,  my  dear  sir," 
observed  Miss  Tox,  with  an  ingenuous  blush,  "having 
been  so  pointedly  referred  to,  that  the  encomium  which 
has  been  passed  upon  her  by  your  sweet  sister  is  well 
merited.  Many  ladies  and  gentlemen,  now  grown  up 
to  be  interesting  members  of  society,  have  been  indebted 
to  her  care.  The  humble  individual  who  addresses  you 
was  once  under  her  charge.  I  believe  juvenile  nobility 
itself  is  no  stranger  to  her  establishment," 

"  Do  I  understand  that  this  respectable  matron  keeps 
an  establishment.  Miss  Tox?"  inquired  Mr,  Dombey, 
condescendingly. 

"  Why,  I  really  don't  know,"  rejoined  that  lady, 
"  whether  I  am  justified  in  calling  it  so.  It  is  not  a  Pre- 
paratory School  by  any  means.  Should  I  express  my 
meaning,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  peculiar  sweetness,  "  if  I 
designated  it  an  infantine  Boarding-House  of  a  very 
select  description  ?  " 

"On  an  exceedingly  limited  and  particular  scale," 
suggested  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  glance  at  her  brother, 

"Oh  !  Exclusion  itself  !  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

There  was  something  in  this.  Mrs,  Pipchin's  husband 
having  broken  his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mines  was  good. 
It  had  a  rich  sound.  Besides,  Mr,  Dombey  was  in  a 
state  almost  amounting  to  consternation  at  the  idea  of 
Paul  remaining  where  he  was  one  hour  after  his  removal 
had  been  recommended  by  the  medical  practitioner.  It 
was  a  stoppage  and  delay  upon  the  road  the  child  must 
traverse,  slowly  at  the  best,  before  the  goal  was  reached. 
Their  recommendation  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  great  weight 
with  him  ;  for  he  knew  that  they  were  jealous  of  any  in- 
terference with  their  charge,  and  he  never  for  a  moment 
took  it  into  account  that  they  might  be  solicitous  to  di- 
vide a  responsibility,  of  which  he  had,  as  shown  just 
now,  his  own  established  views.  Broke  his  heart  of  the 
Peruvian  mines,  mused  Mr,  Dombey.  Well,  a  very  re- 
spectable way  of  doing  it. 

"Supposing  we  should  decide,  on  to-morrow's  in- 
quiries, to  send  Paul  down  to  Brighton  to  this  lady,  who 
would  go  with  him?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey,  after  some 
refioction, 

"  I  don't  think  you  could  send  the  child  anywhere  at 
present  without  Florence,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


469 


sister  hesitating.  "It's  quite  an  infatuation  with  him. 
He's  very  young,  you  know,  and  has  his  fancies." 

Mr.  Dombey  turned  his  head  away,  and  going  slowly 
to  the  bookcase,  and  unlocking  it,  brought  back  a  book 
to  read. 

"Anybody  else,  Louisa?  "he  said,  without  looking 
up,  and  turning  over  the  leaves. 

"  Wickam,  of  course.  Wickam  would  be  quite  suffi- 
cient, I  should  say,"  returned  his  sister.  "Paul  being 
in  such  hands  as  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  you  could  hardly  send 
anybody  who  would  be  a  further  check  upon  her.  You 
would  go  down  yourself  once  a-week  at  least,  of  course," 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  sat  looking  at  one 
page  for  an  hour  afterwards,  without  reading  a  word. 

This  celebrated  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a  marvellous  ill- 
favoured,  ill-conditioned  old  lady,  of  a  stooping  figure, 
with  a  mottled  face,  like  bad  marble,  a  hook  nose,  and  a 
hard  gray  eye,  that  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  ham- 
mered at  on  an  anvil  without  sustaining  any  injury. 
Forty  years  at  least  had  elapsed  since  the  Peruvian 
mines  had  been  the  death  of  Mr.  Pipchin  ;  but  his  relict 
still  wore  black  bombazeen,  of  such  a  lustreless,  deep, 
dead,  sombre  shade,  that  gas  itself  couldn't  light  her  up 
after  dark,  and  her  presence  was  a  quencher  to  any  num- 
ber of  candles.  She  was  generally  spoken  of  as  "a 
great  manager  "  of  children  ;  and  the  secret  of  her  man- 
agement, was,  to  give  them  everything  that  they  didn't 
like,  and  nothing  that  they  did — which  was  fovind  to 
sweeten  their  dispositions  very  much.  She  was  such  a 
bitter  old  lady,  that  one  was  tempted  to  believe  there 
had  been  some  mistake  in  the  application  of  the  Peru- 
vian machinery,  and  that  all  her  waters  of  gladness  and 
milk  of  human  kindness  had  been  pumped  out  dry,  in- 
stead of  the  mines. 

The  castle  of  this  ogress  and  child-queller  was  in  a 
steep  by-street  at  Brighton  ;  where  the  soil  was  more 
than  usually  chalky,  flinty,  and  sterile,  and  the  houses 
were  more  than  usually  brittle  and  thin  ;  where  the 
small  front-gardens  had  the  unaccountable  property  of 
producing  nothing  but  marigolds,  whatever  was  sown  in 
them  ;  and  where  snails  were  constantly  discovered  hold- 
ing on  to  the  street  doors,  and  other  public  places  they 
were  not  expected  to  ornament,  with  the  tenacity  of  cup- 
ping-glasses. In  the  winter  time  the  air  couldn't  be  got 
out  of  the  castle,  and  in  the  summer  time  the  air  couldn't 
be  got  in.  There  was  such  a  continual  reverberation  of 
wind  in  it,  that  it  sounded  like  a  great  shell,  which  the 
inhabitants  were  obliged  to  hold  to  their  ears  night  and 
day,  whether  they  liked  it  or  no.  It  was  not,  naturally, 
a  fresh -smelling  house  ;  and  in  the  window  of  the  front 
parlour,  which  was  never  opened,  Mrs.  Pipchin  kept  a 
collection  of  plants  in  pots,  which  imparted  an  earthy 
flavour  of  their  own  to  the  establishment.  However 
choice  examples  of  their  kind,  too,  these  plants  were  of 
a  kind  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  embowerment  of  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  There  were  half-a-dozen  specimens  of  the  cac- 
tus, writhing  round  bits  of  lath,  like  hairy  serpents  ;  an- 
other specimen  shooting  out  broad  claws,  like  a  green 
lobster  ;  several  creeping  vegetables,  possessed  of  sticky 
and  adhesive  leaves  ;  and  one  uncomfortable  flower-pot 
hanging  to  the  ceiling,  which  appeared  to  have  boiled 
over,  and  tickling  people  underneath  with  its  long  green 
.  ends,  reminded  them  of  spiders — in  which  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
dwelling  was  uncommonly  prolific,  though  perhaps  it 
challenged  competition  still  more  proudly,  in  the  season, 
[  in  point  of  earwigs. 

(      Mrs.  Pipchin's  scale  of  charges  being  high,  however, 
'  to  all  who  could  afford  to  pay,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  very 
seldom  sweetening  the  equable  acidity  of  her  nature  in 
favour  of  anybody,  she  was  held  to  be  an  old  lady  of 
remarkable  firmness,  who  was  quite  scientific  in  her 
knowledge  of  the  childish  character.    On  this  reputa- 
tion, and  on  the  broken  heart  of  Mr.  Pipchin,  she  had 
contrived,  taking  one  year  with  another,  to  eke  out  a 
tolerably  sufficient  living  since  her  husband's  demise. 
Within  three  days  after  Mrs.  Chick's  first  allusion  to 
j   her,  this  excellent  old  lady  had  the  satisfaction  of  antic- 
i    ipating  a  handsome  addition  to  her  current  receipts,  from 
I   the  pocket  of  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  of  receiving  Florence  | 
i  and  her  little  brother  Paul,  as  inmates  of  the  castle. 
[      Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox,  who  had  brought  them  down 
\  on  the  previous  night  (which  they  all  passed  at  an  hotel), 


had  just  driven  away  from  the  door,  on  their  journey 
home  again  ;  and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  her  back  to  the 
fire,  stood,  reviewing  the  new-comers,  like  an  old  soldier. 
Mrs,  Pipchin's  middle-aged  niece,  her  good-natured  and 
devoted  slavo,  but  possessing  a  gaunt  and  iron-bound 
aspect,  and  much  afliicted  with  boils  on  her  nose,  was 
divesting  Master  Bitherstone  of  the  clean  collar  he  had 
worn  on  parade.  Miss  Pankey,  the  only  other  little 
boarder  at  present,  had  that  moment  been  walked  off  U) 
the  castle  dungeon  (an  empty  apartment  at  the  back, 
devoted  to  correctional  purposes),  for  having  sniffed 
thrice,  in  the  presence  of  visitors. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  Paul,  "  how  do  you 
think  you  shall  like  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  you  at  all,"  replied  Paul. 
"  I  want  to  go  away.    This  isn't  my  house." 
"  No.    It's  mine,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin. 
"  It's  a  very  nasty  one,"  said  Paul. 
"There's  a  worse  place  in  it  than  this,  though,"  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  where  we  shut  up  our  bad  boys." 

"  Has  he  ever  been  in  it  ?"  asked  Paul  :  pointing  out 
Master  Bitherstone. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  nodded  assent  ;  and  Paul  had  enough  to 
do,  for  the  rest  of  that  day,  in  surveying  Master  Bither- 
stone from  head  to  foot,  and  watching  all  the  workings 
of  his  countenance,  with  the  interest  attaching  to  a  boy 
of  mysterious  and  terrible  experiences. 

At  one  o'clock  there  was  a  dinner,  chiefly  of  the  farin- 
aceous and  vegetable  kind,  when  Miss  Pankey,  (a  mild 
little  blue-eyed  morsel  of  a  child,  who  was  shampoo'd 
every  morning  and  seemed  in  danger  of  being  rubbed 
away,  altogether)  was  led  in  from  captivity  by  the 
ogress  herself,  and  instructed  that  nobody  who  sniffed 
before  visitors  ever  went  to  Heaven.  When  this  great 
truth  had  been  thoroughly  impressed  upon  her,  she  was 
regaled  with  rice  ;  and  subsequently  repeated  the  form 
of  grace  established  in  the  castle,  in  which  there  was  a 
special  clause,  thanking  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  a  good  dinner. 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  niece,  Berinthia,  took  cold  pork.  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  whose  constitution  required  warm  nourishment, 
made  a  special  repast  of  mutton-chops,  which  were 
brought  in  hot  and  hot,  between  two  plates,  and  smelt 
very  nice. 

As  it  rained  after  dinner,  and  they  couldn't  go  out 
walking  on  the  beach,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution 
required  rest  after  chops,  they  went  away  with  Berry 
(otherwise  Berinthia)  to  the  dungeon  ;  an  empty  room 
looking  out  upon  a  chalk  wall  and  water-butt,  and  made 
ghastly  by  a  ragged  fire-place  without  any  stove  in  it. 
Enlivened  by  company,  however,  this  was  the  best  place 
after  all  ;  for  Berry  played  with  them  there,  and  seemed 
to  enjoy  a  game  at  romps  as  much  as  they  did  ;  until 
Mrs.  Pipchin  knocking  angrily  at  the  wall,  like  the  Cock- 
lane  ghost  revived,  they  left  off,  and  Berry  told  them 
stories  in  a  whisper  until  twilight. 

For  tea  there  was  plenty  of  milk  and  water,  and  bread 
and  butter,  with  a  little  black  tea-pot  for  Mrs.  Pipchin 
and  Berry,  and  buttered  toast  unlimited  for  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, which  was  brought  in,  hot  and  hot,  like  the  chops. 
Though  Mrs.  Pipchin  got  very  greasy,  outside,  over  this 
dish,  it  didn't  seem  to  lubricate  her,  internally,  at  all  ; 
for  she  was  as  fierce  as  ever,  and  the  hard  gray  eye  knew 
no  softening. 

After  tea.  Berry  brought  out  a  little  work-box,  with 
the  Royal  Pavilion  on  the  lid,  and  fell  to  working  busily  ; 
while  Mrs.  Pipchin,  having  put  on  her  spectacles  and 
opened  a  great  volume  bound  in  green  baize,  began  to 
nod.  And  whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  caught  herself  fall- 
ing forward  into  the  fire,  and  woke  up,  she  filliped  Mas- 
ter Bitherstone  on  the  nose  for  nodding  too. 

At  last  it  was  the  children's  bedtime,  and  after  prayers 
they  went  to  bed.  As  little  Miss  Pankey  was  afraid  of 
sleeping  alone  in  the  dark,  Mrs.  Pipchin  always  made  a 
point  of  driving  her  up-stairs  herself,  like  a  sheep  ;  and 
it  was  cheerful  to  hear -Miss  Pankey  moaning  long  after- 
wards, in  the  least  eligible  chamber,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin 
now  and  then  going  in'to  shake  her.  At  about  half -past 
nine  o'clock  the  odour  of  a  warm  sweet-bread  (Mrs.  Pip- 
I  chin's  constitution  wouldn't  go  to  sleep  without  sweet- 
bread) diversified  the  prevailing  fragrance  of  the  house, 
which  Mrs.  Wickam  said  was  "a  smell  of  building;" 
and  slumber  fell  upon  the  castle  shortly  after. 


470 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


The  breakfast  next  morning  was  like  the  tea  over 
night,  except  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  her  roll  instead  of 
toast,  and  seemed  a  little  more  irate  when  it  was  over. 
Master  Bitherstone  read  aloud  to  the  rest  a  pedigree  from 
Genesis  (judiciously  selected  by  Mrs.  Pipchin),  getting 
over  the  names  with  the  ease  and  clearness  of  a  person 
tumbling  up  the  treadmill.  That  done,  Miss  Pankey 
was  borne  away  to  be  sliampoo'd  ;  and  Master  Bither- 
stone to  have  something  else  done  to  him  with  salt  water, 
from  which  he  always  returned  very  blue  and  dejected. 
Paul  and  Florence  went  out  in  the  meantime  on  the  beach 
with  Wickam — who  was  constantly  in  tears — and  at 
about  noon  Mrs.  Pipchin  presided  over  some  Early  Read- 
ings. It  being  a  part  of  Mrs.  Pipcliin's  system  not 
to  encourage  a  child's  mind  to  develope  and  expand 
itself  like  a  young  flower,  but  to  open  it  by  force  like  an 
oyster,  the  moral  of  these  lessons  was  usually  of  a  violent 
and  stunning  character  :  the  hero — a  naughty  boy — sel- 
dom, in  the  mildest  catastrophe,  being  finished  off  by 
anything  less  than  a  lion,  or  a  bear. 

Such  was  life  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's.  On  Saturday  Mr. 
Dombey  came  down  ;  and  Florence  and  Paul  would  go 
to  his  hotel,  and  have  tea.  They  passed  the  whole  of 
Sunday  with  him,  and  generally  rode  out  before  dinner  ; 
and  on  these  occasions  Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  grow,  like 
Falstaff's  assailants,  and  instead  of  being  one  man  in 
buckram,  to  become  a  dozen.  Sunday  evening  was  the 
most  melancholy  evening  in  the  week  ;  for  Mrs.  Pipchin 
always  made  a  point  of  being  particularly  cross  on 
Sunday  nights.  Miss  Pankey  was  generally  brought 
back  from  an  aunt's  at  Rottingdean,  in  deep  distress  ; 
and  Master  Bitherstone,  whose  relatives  were  all  in 
India,  and  who  was  required  to  sit,  between  the  services, 
in  an  erect  position  with  his  head  against  the  parlour 
wall  neither  moving  hand  nor  foot,  suffered  so  acutely 
in  his  young  spirits  that  he  once  asked  Florence,  on  a 
Sunday  night,  if  she  could  give  liim  any  idea  of  the  way 
back  to  Bengal. 

But  it  was  generally  said  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a 
woman  of  system  with  children  ;  and  no  doubt  she  was. 
Certainly  the  wild  ones  went  home  tame  enough,  after 
sojourning  for  a  few  months  beneath  her  hospitable  roof. 
It  was  generally  said,  too,  that  it  was  highly  creditable 
of  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  have  devoted  herself  to  this  way  of 
life,  and  to  have  made  such  a  sacrifice  of  her  feelings, 
and  such  a  resolute  stand  against  her  troubles,  when  Mr. 
Pipchin  broke  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian  mines. 

At  this  exemplary  old  lady,  Paul  would  sit  staring  in 
his  little  arm-chair,  by  the  fire,  for  any  length  of  time. 
He  never  seemed  to  know  what  weariness  was,  when  he 
was  looking  fixedly  at  Mrs.  Pipchin.  He  was  not  fond 
of  her  ;  he  was  not  afraid  of  her  ;  but  in  those  old  old 
moods  of  his,  she  seemed  to  have  a  grotesque  attraction 
for  him.  There  he  would  sit,  looking  at  her,  and  warm- 
ing his  hands,  and  looking  at  her,  until  he  sometimes 
quite  confounded  Mrs.  Pipchin, ogress  as  she  was.  Once 
she  asked  him,  when  they  were  alone,  what  he  was 
thinking  about. 

"  You,"  said  Paul,  without  the  least  reserve. 

'*  And  what  are  you  thinking  about  me  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Pipchin. 

"  I'm  thinking  how  old  you  must  be,"  said  Paul. 
"  You  mustn't  say  such  things  as  that,  young  gentle- 
man," returned  the  dame.    **  That'll  never  do." 
"  Why  not?"  asked  Paul. 

"  Because  it's  not  polite,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  snap- 
pishly. 

"  Not  polite?"  said  Paul. 
"No." 

"It's  not  polite,"  said  Paul,  innocently,  "to  eat  all 
the  mutton-chops  and  toast,  Wickam  says." 

"Wickam,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  colouring,  "is  a 
wicked,  impudent,  bold-faced  hussy. " 

"  What's  that?"  inquired  Paul.  ' 

"  Never  you  mind,  sir,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  Re- 
member the  story  of  the  little  boy  that  was  gored  to 
death  by  a  mad  bull  for  asking  questions." 

"  If  the  bull  was  mad,"  said  Paul,  "  how  did  he  know 
that  the  boy  had  asked  questions  ?  Nobody  can  go  and 
whisper  secrets  to  a  mad  bull.  I  don't  believe  that  story." 

"You  don't  believe  it,  sir?"  repeated  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
amazed. 


"  No,"  said  Paul. 

"  Not  if  it  should  happen  to  have  been  a  tame  bull, 
you  little  infidel  ?"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

As  Paul  had  not  considered  the  subject  in  that  light, 
and  had  founded  his  conclusions  on  the  alleged  lunacy 
of  the  bull,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  put  down  for  the 
present.  But  he  sat  turning  it  over  in  his  mind,  with  such 
an  obvious  intention  of  fixing  Mrs.  Pipchin  presently, 
that  even  that  hardy  old  lady  deemed  it  prudent  to  re- 
treat until  he  should  have  forgotten  the  subject. 

From  that  time,  Mrs.  Pipchin  appeared  to  have  some- 
thing of  the  same  odd  kind  of  attraction  towards  Paul, 
as  Paul  had  towards  her.  She  would  make  him  move 
his  chair  to  her  side  of  the  fire,  instead  of  sitting  oppo- 
site ;  and  there  he  would  remain  in  a  nook  between 
Mrs.  Pipchin  and  the  fender,  with  all  the  light  of  his 
little  face  absorbed  into  the  black  bombazeen  drapery, 
studying  every  line  and  wrinkle  of  her  countenance,  and 
peering  at  the  hard  gray  eye  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  was 
sometimes  fain  to  shut  it,  on  pretence  of  dozing.  Mrs. 
Pipchin  had  an  old  black  cat,  who  generally  lay  coiled 
upon  the  centre  foot  of  the  fender,  purring  egotistically, 
and  winking  at  the  fire  until  the  contracted  pupils  of  his 
eyes  were  like  two  notes  of  admiration.  The  good  old 
lady  might  have  been — not  to  record  it  disrespectfully 
— a  witch,  and  Paul  and  the  cat  her  two  familiars,  as 
they  all  sat  by  the  fire  together.  It  would  have  been 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  appearance  of  the  party  if  they 
had  all  sprung  up  the  chimney  in  a  high  wind  one  night, 
and  nev«r  been  heard  of  any  more. 

This,  however,  never  came  to  pass.  The  cat,  and 
Paul,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  were  constantly  to  be  found  in 
their  usual  places  after  dark  ;  and  Paul,  eschewing  the 
championship  of  Master  Bitherstone,  went  on  studying 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  the  cat,  and  the  fire,  night  after  night, 
as  if  they  were  a  book  of  necromancy,  in  three  volumes. 

Mrs.  Wickam  put  her  own  construction  on  Paul's  ec- 
centricities ;  and  being  confirmed  in  her  low  spirits  by  a 
perplexed  view  of  chimneys  from  the  room  where  she 
was  accustomed  to  sit,  and  by  the  noise  of  the  wind, 
and  by  the  general  dulness  (gashliness  was  Mrs.  Wick- 
am's  strong  expression)  of  her  present  life,  deduced 
the  most  dismal  reflections  from  the  foregoing  prem- 
ises. It  was  a  part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  policy  to  prevent 
her  own  '  *  young  hussy  " — that  was  Mrs.  Pipchin's  gene- 
ric name  for  a  female  servant — from  communicating  with 
Mrs.  Wickam  :  to  which  end  she  devoted  much  of  her 
time  to  concealing  herself  behind  doors,  and  springing 
out  on  that  devoted  maiden,  whenever  she  made  an  ap- 
proach towards  Mrs.  Wickam's  apartment.  But  Berry 
was  free  to  hold  what  converse  she  could  in  that  quarter 
consistently  with  the  discharge  of  the  multifarious  duties 
at  which  she  toiled  incessantly  from  morning  to  night  ; 
and  to  Berry  Mrs.  Wickam  unburdened  her  mind. 

"  What  a  pretty  fellow  he  is  when  he's  asleep  !  " 
said  Berry,  stopping  to  look  at  Paul  in  bed,  one  night 
when  she  took  up  Mrs.  Wickam's  supper. 

"  Ah  !  "•sighed  Mrs.  Wickam.    "  He  need  be." 

"  Why,  he's  not  ugly  when  he's  awake,"  observed 
Berry. 

"No,  ma'am.  Oh,  no.  No  more  was  my  uncle's  Betsey 
Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam. 

Berry  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to  trace  the  connex- 
ion of  ideas  between  Paul  Dombey  and  Mrs,  Wickam's 
uncle's  Betsey  Jane. 

"My  uncle's  wife,"  Mrs.  Wickam  went  on  to  say, 
"died  just  like  his  mama.  My  uncle's  child  took  on 
just  as  Master  Paul  do.  My  uncle's  child  made  people's 
blood  run  cold,  sometimes,  she  did  ! " 

"  How  ?  "  asked  Berry. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  sat  up  all  night  alone  with  Betsey 
Jane  ! "  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  not  if  you'd  have  put 
Wickam  into  business  next  morning  for  himself.  I 
couldn't  have  done  it.  Miss  Berry." 

Miss  Berry  naturally  asked,  why  not  ?  But  Mrs. 
Wickam,  agreeably  to  the  usage  of  some  ladies  in  her 
condition,  pursued  her  own  branch  of  the  subject  with- 
out any  compunction. 

"  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  was  as  sweet  a 
child  as  I  could  wish  to  see.  I  couldn't  wish  to  see  a 
sweeter.  Everything  that  a  child  could  have  in  the  way 
of  illnesses,  Betsey  Jane  had  come  through.   The  cramps 


DOMBEY 

was  as  common  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  as  biles  is 
to  yourself,  Miss  Berry."  Miss  Berry  involuntarily 
wrinkled  her  nose. 

"  But  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  lowering'  her 
voice,  and  looking  round  the  room,  and  towards  Paul  in 
bed,  "had  been  minded,  in  her  cradle,  by  her  departed 
mother.  I  couldn't  say  how,  nor  I  couldn't  say  when, 
nor  I  couldn't  say  whether  the  dear  child  knew  it  or 
not,  but  Betsey  Jane  had  been  watched  by  her  mother, 
Miss  Berry  !  You  may  say  nonsense  !  I  an't  offended, 
miss.  I  hope  you  may  be  able  to  think  in  your  own 
conscience  that  it  is  nonsense;  you'll  find  your  spirits  all 
the  better  for  it  in  this — you'll  excuse  my  being  so  free- 
in  this  burying  ground  of  a  place  ;  which  is  wearing 
of  me  down.  Master  Paul's  a  little  restless  in  his  sleep. 
Pat  his  back,  if  you  please." 

"  Of  course  you  think,"  said  Berry,  gently  doing  what 
she  was  asked,  "  that  lie  has  been  nursed  by  his  mother, 
too?" 

"  Betsey  Jane,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickam,  in  her  most 
solemn  tones,  "  was  put  upon  as  that  child  has  been  put 
upon,  and  changed  as  that  child  has  changed.  I  have 
seen  her  sit,  often  and  often,  think,  think,  thinking,  like 
him.  I  have  seen  her  look,  often  and  often,  old,  old, 
old,  like  him.  I  have  heard  her,  many  a  time,  talk  just 
like  him.  I  consider  that  child  and  Betsey  Jane  on  the 
same  footing  entirely.  Miss  Berry." 

"  Is  your  uncle's  child  alive  :  "  asked  Berry. 

"Yes,  miss,  she  is  alive,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickam, 
with  an  air  of  triumph,  for  it  was  evident  Miss  Berry 
expected  the  reverse  ;  "  and  is  married  to  a  silver- chaser. 
Oh  yes,  miss.  She  is  alive,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  laying 
strong  stress  on  her  nominative  case. 

It  being  clear  that  somebody  was  dead,  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
niece  inquired  who  it  was. 

"  I  wouldn't  wish  to  make  you  uneasy,"  returned  Mrs. 
Wickam,  pursuing  her  supper.    "  Don't  ask  me." 

This  was  the  surest  way  of  being  asked  again.  Miss 
Berry  repeated  her  question,  therefore  ;  and  after  some 
resistance,  and  reluctance,  Mrs.  Wickam  laid  down  her 
knife,  and  again  glancing  round  the  room  and  at  Paul 
in  bed,  replied  : 

"  She  took  fancies  to  people  ;  whimsical  fancies,  some 
of  them  ;  others,  affections  that  one  might  expect  to  see 
— only  stronger  than  common.    They  all  died." 

This  was  so  very  unexpected  and  awful  to  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's  niece,  that  she  sat  upright  on  the  hard  edge  of 
the  bedstead,  breathing  short,  and  surveying  her  infor- 
mant with  looks  of  undisguised  alarm. 

Mrs.  Wickam  shook  her  left  forefinger  stealthily  to- 
wards the  bed  where  Florence  lay  ;  then  turned  it  upside 
down,  and  made  several  emphatic  points  at  the  floor  ; 
immediately  below  which  was  the  parlour  in  which  Mrs. 
Pipchin  habitually  consumed  the  toasfc. 

"  Remember  my  words.  Miss  Berry,"  said  Mrs.  Wick- 
am, "  and  be  thankful  that  Master  Paul  is  not  too  fond  of 
you.  I  am,  that  he's  not  too  fond  of  me,  I  assure  you  ; 
though  there  isn't  much  to  live  for — you'll  excuse  my 
being  so  free — in  this  jail  of  a  house  !  " 

Miss  Berry's  emotion  might  have  led  to  her  patting 
Paul  too  hard  on  the  back,  or  might  have  produced  a 
cessation  of  that  soothing  monotony,  but  he  turned  in 
his  bed  just  now,  and,  presently  awaking,  sat  up  in  it 
with  his  hair  hot  and  wet  from  the  effects  of  some  child- 
ish dream,  and  asked  for  Florence. 

She  was  out  of  her  own  bed  at  the  first  sound  of  his 
voice ;  and  bending  over  his  pillow  immediately,  sang 
him  to  sleep  again.  Mrs.  Wickam  shaking  her  head, 
and  letting  fall  several  tears,  pointed  out  the  little  group 
to  Berry,  and  turned  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling. 

"Good  night,  miss!"  said  Wickam,  softly.  "Good 
night !  Your  aunt  is  an  old  lady.  Miss  Berry,  and  it's 
what  you  must  have  looked  for,  often." 

This  consolatory  farewell,  Mrs.  Wickam  accompanied 
with  a  look  of  heartfelt  anguish  ;  and  being  left  alone 
with  the  two  children  again,  and  becoming  conscious 
that  the  wind  was  blowing  mournfully,  she  indulged  in 
melancholy — that  cheapest  and  most  accessible  of  luxu- 
ries — until  she  was  overpowered  by  slumber. 

Although  the  niece  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  did  not  expect  to 
find  that  exemplary  dragon  prostrate  on  the  hearth-rug 
when  she  went  down-stairs,  she  was  relieved  to  find  her 


AND  SOK  471 

unusually  fractious  and  severe,  and  with  every  present 
appearance  of  intending  to  live  a  long  time  to  be  a  com- 
fort to  all  who  knew  her.  Nor  had  she  any  symptoms 
of  declining,  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  week,  when 
the  constitutional  viands  still  continued  to  disai)pear  in 
regular  succession,  notwithstanding  that  Paul  studied 
her  as  attentively  as  ever,  and  occupied  his  usual  seat 
between  the  black  skirts  and  the  fender,  with  unwaver- 
ing constancy. 

But  as  Paul  himself  was  no  stronger  at  the  expiration 
of  that  time  than  he  had  been  on  his  first  arrival,  though 
he  looked  much  healthier  in  the  face,  a  little  carriage 
was  got  for  him,  in  which  he  could  lie  at  his  ease,  with 
an  alphabet  and  other  elementary  works  of  reference, 
and  be  wheeled  down  to  the  seaside.  Consistent  in  his 
odd  tastes,  the  child  set  aside  a  ruddy-faced  lad  who 
was  proposed  as  the  drawer  of  this  carriage,  and  selected, 
instead,  his  grandfather — a  weazen,  old,  crab-faced 
man,  in  a  suit  of  battered  oilskin,  who  had  got  tough 
and  stringy  from  long  pickling  in  salt  water,  and  who 
smelt  like  a  weedy  sea-beach  when  the  tide  is  out. 

With  this  notable  attendant  to  pull  him  along,  and 
Florence  always  walking  by  his  side,  and  the  despondent 
Wickam  bringing  up  the  rear,  he  went  down  to  the  mar- 
gin of  the  ocean  every  day  ;  and  there  he  would  sit  or  lie 
in  his  carriage  for  hours  together  :  never  so  distressed  as 
by  the  company  of  children — Florence  alone  excepted, 
always. 

"  Go  away,  if  you  please,"  he  would  say  to  any  child 
who  came  to  bear  him  company.  "Thank  you,  but  I 
don't  want  you. " 

Some  small  voice,  near  his  ear,  would  ask  him  how  he 
was,  perhaps. 

"  I  am  very  well,  I  thank  you,"  he  would  answer. 
"  But  you  had  better  go  and  play,  if  you  please." 

Then  he  would  turn  his  head,  and  watch  the  child 
away,  and  say  to  Florence,  "  We  don't  want  any  others, 
do  we?    Kiss  me,  Floy." 

He  had  even  a  dislike,  at  such  times,  to  the  company 
of  Wickam,  and  was  well  pleased  when  she  strolled 
away,  as  she  generally  did,  to  pick  up  shells  and  ac- 
quaintances. His  favourite  spot  was  quite  a  lonely  one, 
far  away  from  most  loungers  ;  and  with  Florence  sitting 
by  his  side  at  work,  or  reading  to  him,  or  talking  to  him, 
and  the  wind  blowing  on  his  face,  and  the  water  comb- 
ing up  among  the  wheels  of  his  bed,  he  wanted  nothing 
more. 

"Floy,"  he  said  one  day,  "where's  India,  where 
that  boy's  friends  live  ?  " 

"Oh,  it's  a  long,  long  distance  off,"  said  Florence, 
raising  her  eyes  from  her  work. 

"Weeks  off?"  asked  Pauh 

"  Yes,  dear.    Many  week's  journey,  night  and  day." 

"  If  you  were  in  India,  Floy,"  said  Paul,  after  being 
silent  for  a  minute,  "  I  should — what  is  that  mama  did  ? 
I  forget." 

"  Loved  me  !  "  answered  Florence. 

"  No,  no.  Don't  I  love  you  now,  Floy  ?  What  is  it  ? 
— Died.    If  you  were  in  India,  I  should  die,  Floy." 

SliT?  hurriedly  put  her  work  aside,  and  laid  her  head 
down  on  his  pillow,  caressing  him.  And  so  would 
she,  she  said,  if  he  were  there.  He  would  be  better 
soon. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  a  great  deal  better  now  !"  he  answered. 
"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  that  I  should  die  of  being 
so  sorry  and  so  lonely,  Floy  ! " 

Another  time,  in  the  same  place,  he  fell  asleep,  and 
slept  quietly  for  a  long  time.  Awaking  suddenly,  he 
listened,  started  up,  and  sat  listening. 

Florence  asked  him  what  he  thought  he  heard. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  it  says,"  he  answered,  looking 
steadily  in  her  face.  "  The  sea,  Floy,  what  is  it  that  it 
keeps  on  saying  ?  " 

She  told  him  that  it  was  only  the  noise  of  the  rolling 
waves. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "But  I  know  that  they  are 
always  saying  something.  Always  the  same  thing. 
What  place  is  over  there  ?  "  He  rose  up,  looking  eager- 
ly at  the  horizon. 

She  told  him  that  there  was  another  country  opposite, 
but  he  said  he  didn't  mean  that ;  he  meant  farther 
away — farther  away  ! 


472 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Very  often  afterwards,  in  the  midst  of  their  talk,  he 
would  break  off,  to  try  to  understand  what  it  was  that 
the  waves  were  always  saying  ;  and  would  rise  up  in 
his  couch  to  look  towards  that  invisible  region  far  away. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

In  iohich  the  Wooden  Midshipman  gets  into  Trouble. 

That  spice  of  romance  and  love  of  the  marvellous, 
of  which  there  was  a  pretty  strong  infusion  in  the  nature 
of  Young  Walter  Gay,  and  which  the  guardianship  of 
his  uncle,  old  Solomon  Gills,  had  not  very  much  weak- 
ened by  the  waters  of  stern  practical  experience,  was 
the  occasion  of  his  attaching  an  uncommon  and  delight- 
ful interest  to  the  adventure  of  Florence  with  good  Mrs. 
Brown.  He  pampered  and  cherished  it  in  his  memory, 
especially  that  part  of  it  with  which  he  had  been  associ- 
ated ;  until  it  became  the  spoiled  child  of  his  fancy,  and 
took  its  own  way,  and  did  what  it  liked  with  it. 

The  recollection  of  those  incidents,  and  his  own  share 
in  them, may  have  been  made  the  more  captivating,  per- 
haps, by  the  weekly  dreamings  of  old  Sol  and  Captain 
Cuttle  on  Sundays.  Hardly  a  Sunday  passed,  without 
mysterious  references  being  made  by  one  or  other  of 
those  worthy  chums  to  Richard  Whittington  ;  and  the 
latter  gentleman  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  purchase  a 
ballad  of  considerable  antiquity,  that  had  long  fluttered 
among  many  others,  chiefly  expressive  of  maritime  sen- 
timents, on  a  dead  wall  in  the  Commercial-road  :  which 
poetical  performance  set  forth  the  courtship  and  nup- 
tials of  a  promising  young  coal-whipper  with  a  certain 
"  lovely  Peg,"  the  accomplished  daughter  of  the  master 
and  part-owner  of  a  Newcastle  collier.  In  this  stirring 
legend,  Captain  Cuttle  descried  a  profound  metaphysi- 
cal bearing  on  the  case  of  Walter  and  Florence  ;  and  it 
excited  him  so  much,  that  on  very  festive  occasions,  as 
birthdays  and  a  few  other  non-Dominical  holidays,  he 
would  roar  through  the  whole  song  in  the  little  back 
parlour  ;  making  an  amazing  shake  on  the  word  Pe — e- 
— eg,  with  which  every  verse  concluded,  in  compliment 
to  the  heroine  of  the  piece. 

But  a  frank,  free-spirited,  open-hearted  boy,  is  not 
much  given  to  analysing  the  nature  of  his  own  feelings, 
however  strong  their  hold  upon  him  :  and  Walter  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  decide  this  point.  He  bad  a  great 
affection  for  the  -wharf  where  he  had  encountered  Flor- 
ence, and  for  the  streets  (albeit  not  enchanting  in  them- 
selves by  which  they  had  come  home.  The  shoes  that 
had  so  often  tumbled  off  by  the  way,  he  preserved  in  his 
own  room  ;  and  sitting  in  the  little  back  parlour  of  an 
evening,  he  had  drawn  a  whole  gallery  of  fancy  portraits 
of  Good  Mrs.  Brown,  It  may  be  that  he  became  a  little 
smarter  in  his  dress  after  that  memorable  occasion  ;  and 
ho  certainly  liked  in  his  leisure  time  to  walk  towards 
that  quarter  of  the  town  where  Mr.  Dombey's  house 
was  situated,  on  the  vague  chance  of  passing  little  Flor- 
ence in  the  street.  But  the  sentiment  of  all  this  was  as 
boyish  and  innocent  as  could  be.  Florence  was  very 
pretty,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  admire  a  pretty  face.  Flor- 
ence was  defenceless  and  weak,  and  it  was  a  proud 
thought  that  he  had  been  able  to  render  her  any  protec- 
tion and  assistance.  Florence  was  the  most  grateful  little 
creature  in  the  world,  and  it  was  delightful  to  see  her 
bright  gratitude  beaming  in  her  face.  Florence  was 
neglected  and  coldly  looked  upon,  and  his  breast  was 
full  of  youthful  interest  for  the  slighted  child  in  her 
dull,  stately  home. 

Thus  it  came  about  that,  perhaps  some  half-a-dozen 
time  in  the  course  of  the  year,  Walter  pulled  off  his  hat 
to  Florence  in  the  street,  and  Florence  would  stop  to 
shake  hands.  Mrs.  Wickam  (who,  with  a  characteristic 
alteration  of  his  name  invariably  spoke  of  him  as 
"Young  Graves")  was  so  well  used  to  this,  knowing 
the  story  of  their  acquaintance,  that  she  took  no  hoed  of 
it  at  all.  Miss  Nipper,  on  the  other  hand,  rather  looked 
out  for  these  occasions  :  her  sensitive  young  heart  being 
secrectly  propitiated  by  Walter's  good  looks,  and  inclin- 
ing to  the  belief  that  its  sentiments  were  responded  to. 

In  this  way,  Walter,  so  far  from  forgetting  or  losing 
sight  of  his  acquaintance  with  Florence,  only  remem- 


bered it  better  and  better.  As  to  its  adventurous  begin- 
ning, and  all  those  little  circumstances  which  gave  it  a 
distinctive  character  and  relish,  he  took  them  into  ac- 
count, more  as  a  pleasant  story  very  agreeable  to  his 
imagination,  and  not  to  be  dismissed  from  it,  than  as  a 
part  of  any  matter  of  fact  with  which  Jie  was  concerned. 
They  set  off  Florence  very  much,  to  his  fancv  ;  but  not 
himself.  Sometimes,  he  thought  (and  then  "he  walked 
very  fast)  what  a  grand  thing  it  would  have  been  for 
him  to  have  been  going  to  sea  on  the  day  after  that  first 
meeting,  and  to  have  gone,  and  to  have  done  wonders 
there,  and  to  have  stopped  away  a  long  time,  and  to  have 
come  back  an  admiral  of  all  the  colours  of  the  dolphin, 
or  at  least  a  post-captain  with  epaulettes  of  insupportable 
brightness,  and  have  married  Florence  (then  a  beautiful 
young  woman)  in  spite  of  Mr.  Dombey's  teeth,  cravat, 
and  watch-chain,  and  borne  her  away  to  the  blue  shores 
of  somewhere  or  other,  triumphantly.  But  these  flights 
of  fancy  seldom  burnished  the  brass  plate  of  Dombey 
and  Son's  offices  into  a  tablet  of  golden  hope,  or  shed  a 
brilliant  lustre  on  their  dirty  skylights  ;  and  when  the 
captain  and  Uncle  Sol  talked  about  Richard  Whitting- 
ton and  masters'  daughters,  Walter  felt  that  he  under- 
stood his  true  position  at  Dombey  and  Sons,  much  better 
than  they  did. 

So  it  was  that  he  went  on  doing  what  he  had  to  do 
from  day  to  day,  in  a  cheerful,  pains-taking,  merry  spirit ; 
and  saw  through  the  sanguine  complexion  of  Uncle 
Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  ;  and  yet  entertained  a  thousand 
indistinct  and  visionary  fancies  of  his  own,  to  which 
theirs  were  work-a-day  probabilities.  Such  was  his  con- 
dition at  the  Pipchin  period,  when  he  looked  a  little  old- 
er than  of  yore,  but  not  much  ;  and  was  the  same  light- 
footed,  light-hearted,  light-headed  lad,  as  when  he 
charged  into  the  parlour  at  the  head  of  Uncle  Sol  and 
the  imaginary  boarders,  and  lighted  him  to  bring  up  the 
Madeira, 

"  Uncle  Sol,"  said  Walter,  "I  don't  think  you're  well. 
You  haven't  eaten  any  breakfast.  I  shall  bring  a  doctor 
to  you,  if  you  go  on  like  this." 

"  He  can't  give  me  what  I  want,  my  boy,"  eaid  Uncle 
Sol.  "At  least  he  is  in  good  practice  if  he  can  and  then 
he  wouldn't." 

"  What  is  it,  uncle  ?    Customers  ?  " 

"Aye,"  returned  Solomon,  with  a  sigh.  "Customers 
would  do." 

"  Confound  it,  uncle  1"  said  Walter,  putting  down  his 
breakfast-cup  with  a  clatter,  and  striking  his  hand  on 
the  table  :  "when  I  see  the  people  going  up  and  down 
the  street  in  shoals  all  day,  and  passing  and  repassing 
the  shop  every  minute  by  scores,  I  feel  half  tempted  to 
rush  out,  collar  somebody,  bring  him  in,  and  make  him 
buy  fifty  pounds'  worth  of  instruments  for  ready  money. 
What  are  you  looking  in  at  the  door  for? — "  continued 
Walter,  apostrophizing  an  old  gentleman  with  a  pow- 
dered head  (inaudibly  to  him  of  course),  who  was  staring 
at  a  ship's  telescope  with  all  his  might  and  main. 
"That's  no  use.    I  could  do  that.    Come  in  and  buy  it  ! " 

The  old  gentleman,  however,  having  satiated  his  cur- 
iosity, walked  calmly  away. 

"There  he  goes  f"  said  Walter.  "That's  the  way 
with 'em  all.  But  uncle — I  say,  Uncle  Sol  " — for  the  old 
man  was  meditating,  and  had  not  responded  to  his  first 
appeal.  "Don't  be  cast  down.  Don't  be  out  of  spirits, 
uncle.  When  orders  do  come,  they'll  come  in  such  a 
crowd  you  won't  be  able  to  execute  'em." 

"  I  shall  be  past  executing  'em,  whenever  they  come, 
my  boy,"  returned  Solomon  Gills.  "They'll  never  come 
to  this  shop  again,  till  I  am  out  of  it." 

"I  say,  uncle!  You  mustn't  really,  you  know!" 
urged  Walter,    "  Don't  !  " 

Old  Sol  endeavoured  to  assume  a  cheery  look, .  and 
smiled  across  the  little  table  at  him  as  pleasantly  as  he 
could, 

"  There's  nothing  more  than  usual  the  matter  ;  is 
there,  uncle?"  said  Walter,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the 
tea-tray,  and  bending  over,  to  speak  the  more  confiden- 
tially and  kindly.  "  Bo  open  with  me,  uncle,  if  there  is- 
and  toll  me  all  about  it." 

"No,  no,  no,"  returned  Old  Sol.  "More  than  usual? 
No,  no.  What  should  there  be  the  matter  more  than 
usual?" 


DOMBEY 

Walter  answered  with  an  incredulous  shake  of  his 
head.  "That's  what  I  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "and 
you  ask  me!  I'll  tell  you  what,  uncle,  when  I  see  you 
like  this,  I  am  quite  sorry  that  I  live  with  you." 

Old  Sol  opened  his  eyes  involuntarily. 

"Yes.  Though  nobody  was  ever  happier  than  I  am 
and  always  have  been  with  you,  I  am  quite  sorry  that  I 
live  with  you,  when  I  see  you  with  anything  on  your 
mind." 

"  I  am  a  little  dull  at  such  times,  I  know,"  observed 
Solomon,  meekly  rubbing  his  hands. 

"  What  I  mean,  Uncle  Sol,"  pursued  Walter,  bending 
over  a  little  more  to  pat  him  on  the  shoulder,  "  is,  that 
then  I  feel  you  ought  to  have,  sitting  here  and  pouring 
out  the  tea,  instead  of  me,  a  nice  little  dumpling  of  a 
wife,  you  know — a  comfortable,  capital,  cosey  old  lady, 
•who  was  just  a  match  for  you,  and  knew  how  to  manage 
you,  and  keep  you  in  good  heart.  Here  am  I,  as  loving 
a  nephew  as  ever  was  (I  am  sure  I  ought  to  be  !)  but  I  am 
only  a  nephew,  and  I  can't  be  such  a  companion  to  you 
when  you're  low  and  out  of  sorts  as  she  would  have  made 
herself,  years  ago,  though  I  am  sure  Fd  give  any  money 
if  I  could  cheer  you  up.  And  so  I  say,  when  I  see  you 
with  anything  on  your  mind,  that  I  feel  quite  sorry  you 
haven't  got  somebody  better  about  you  than  a  blundering 
young  rough -and-tough  boy  like  me,  who  has  got  the  will 
to  console  you,  uncle,  but  hasn't  got  the  way — hasn't  got 
the  way,"  repeated  Walter,  reaching  over  further  yet,  to 
shake  his  uncle  by  the  hand. 

"  Wally,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  "  if  the  cosey 
little  old  lady  had  taken  her  place  in  this  parlour  five- 
and  forty  years  ago,  I  never  could  have  been  fonder  of 
her  than  I  am  of  you." 

"/know  that,  Uncle  Sol,"  returned  Walter.  "Lord 
bless  you,  I  know  that.  But  you  wouldn't  have  had  the 
whole  weight  of  any  uncomfortable  secrets  if  she  had 
been  with  you,  because  she  would  have  known  how  to 
relieve  you  of  'em,  and  I  don't." 

"Yes,  yes,  you  do,"  returned  the  instrument-maker. 

"Well  then,  what's  the  matter,  Uncle  Sol  ?"  said 
Walter,  coaxingly.    "  Come  ?    What's  the  matter  ?  " 

Solomon  Gills  persisted  that  there  was  nothing  the 
mattter  ;  and  maintained  it  so  resolutely,  that  his  nephew 
had  no  resource  but  to  make  a  very  indifferent  imitation 
of  believing  him. 

"  All  I  can  say  is,  Uncle  Sol,  that  if  there  is — " 

"  But  there  isn't,"  said  Solomon. 

"Very  well,"  said  Walter.  "Then  I've  no  more  to 
say ;  and  that's  lucky,  for  my  time's  up  for  going  to 
business.  I  shall  look  in  bye-and-bye  when  I'm  out,  to 
see  how  you  get  on,  uncle.  And  mind,  uncle  !  I'll  never 
believe  you  again,  and  never  tell  you  anything  more 
about  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior,  if  I  find  out  that  you  have 
been  deceiving  me  !  " 

Solomon  Gills  laughingly  defied  him  to  find  out  any- 
thing of  the  kind  ;  and  Waltei",  revolving  in  his  thoughts 
all  sorts  of  impracticable  ways  of  making  fortunes  and 
placing  the  wooden  midshipman  in  a  position  of  inde- 
pendence, betook  himself  to  the  offices  of  Dombey  and 
Son  with  a  heavier  countenance  than  he  usually  carried 
there. 

There  lived  in  those  days,  round  the  corner  —  in 
'  Bishopsgate-street  Without — one  Brogley,  sworn  broker 
and  appraiser,  who  kept  a  shop  where  every  description 
of  second-hand  furniture  was  exhibited  in  the  most  un- 
comfortable aspect,  and  under  circumstances  and  in  com- 
binations the  most  completely  foreign  to  its  purpose. 
Dozens  of  chairs  hooked  on  to  washing-stands,  which  with 
!  difficulty  poised  themselves  on  the  shoulders  of  side- 
I  boards,  which  in  their  turn  stood  upon  the  wrong  side  of 
dining-tables,  gymnastic  with  their  legs  upward  on  the 
tops  of  other  dining-tables,  were  among  its  most  reasona- 
ble arrangements.  A  banquet  array  of  dish-covers,  wine- 
glasses, and  decanters,  was  generally  to  be  seen  spread 
forth  upon  the  bosom  of  a  four-post  bedstead,  for  the 
entertainment  of  such  genial  company  as  half-a-dozen 
pokers,  and  a  hall  lamp.  A  set  of  window  curtains,  with 
no  windows  belonging  to  them,  would  be  seen  gracefully 
draping  a  barricade  of  chests  of  drawers,  loaded  with 
little  jars  from  chemist's  shops  ;  while  a  homeless  heartli- 
Tug,  severed  from  its  natural  companion  the  fire-side, 
braved  the  shrewd  east  wind  in  its  adversity,  and  trem- 


AND  SON.  473 

bled  in  melancholy  accord  with  the  shrill  complainings  of 
a  cabinet  piano,  wasting  away,  a  string  a  day,  and  faintly 
resounding  to  the  noises  of  the  street  in  its  jangling  and 
distracted  brain.  Of  motionless  clocks  that  never  stirred 
a  finger,  and  seemed  as  incapable  of  being  successfully 
wound  up,  as  the  pecuniary  affairs  of  their  former  own- 
ers, there  was  always  great  choice  in  Mr,  Brogley 's  shop; 
and  various  looking-glasses,  accidentally  y)laced  at  com- 
pound interest  of  reflection  and  refraction,  presented  to 
the  eye  an  eternal  perspective  of  bankruptcy  and  ruin. 

Mr.  Brogley  himself  was  a  moist-eyed,  pink-complex- 
ioned,  crisp-haired  man,  of  a  bulky  figure  and  an  easy 
temper — for  that  class  of  Caius  Marius  who  sits  upon  the 
ruins  of  other  people's  Carthages,  can  keep  up  his 
spirits  well  enough.  He  had  looked  in  at  Solomon's 
shop  sometimes,  to  ask  a  question  about  articles  in  Solo- 
mon's way  of  business  ;  and  Walter  knew  himself  suffi- 
ciently to  give  him  good  day  when  they  met  in  the  street, 
but  as  that  was  the  extent  of  the  broker's  acquaintance 
with  Solomon  Gills  also,  Walter  was  not  a  little  sur- 
prised Avhen  he  came  back  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon, 
agreeably  to  his  promise,  to  find  Mr.  Brogley  sitting  in 
the  back  parlour  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his 
hat  hanging  up  behind  the  door. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Sol  !  "  said  Walter.  The  old  man  was 
sitting  ruefully  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  with 
his  spectacles  over  his  eyes,  for  a  wonder,  instead  of  on 
his  forehead.    "How  are  you  now  ? " 

Solomon  shook  his  head,  and  waved  one  hand  towards 
the  broker,  as  introducing  him. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter?"  asked  Walter,  with 
a  catching  in  his  breath. 

"  No,  no.  There's  nothing  the  matter."  said  Mr.  Brog- 
ley,   "  Don't  let  it  put  you  out  of  the  way." 

Walter  looked  from  the  broker  to  his  uncle  in  mute 
amazement. 

"  The  fact  is, "  said  Mr,  Brogley,  "  there's  a  little  pay- 
ment on  a  bond  debt — three  hundred  and  seventy  odd, 
over  due  :  and  I'm  in  possession." 

"  In  possession  !  "  cried  Walter,  looking  round  at  the 
shop. 

"Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Brogley,  in  confidential  assent,  and 
nodding  his  head  as  if  he  would  urge  the  advisability 
of  their  all  being  comfortably  together.  "  It's  an  exe- 
cution. That's  what  it  is.  Don't  let  me  put  you  out  of 
the  way.  I  come  myself  because  of  keeping  it  quietand 
sociable.    You  know  me.    It's  quite  private." 

"  Uncle  Sol !  "  faltered  Walter, 

"  Wally,  my  boy,"  returned  his  uncle.  "  It's  the  first 
time.  Such  a  calamity  never  happened  to  me  before. 
I'm  an  old  man  to  begin."  Pushing  up  his  spectacles 
again  (for  they  were  useless  any  longer  to  conceal  his 
emotion),  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  sob- 
bed aloud,  and  his  tears  fell  down  upon  his  coffee-col- 
oured waistcoat. 

"  Uncle  Sol  !  Pray  !  oh  don't!"  exclaimed  Walter, 
who  really  felt  a  thrill  of  horror,  in  seeing  the  old  man 
weep,  "For  God's  sake  don't  do  that.  Mr.  Brogley, 
what  sUall  I  do  ?  " 

"/should  recommend  your  looking  up  a  friend  or  so," 
said  Mr,  Brogley,  "  and  talking  it  over," 

"  To  be  sure  ! "  cried  Walter,  catching  at  anything. 
"Certainly!  Thankee.  Captain  Cuttle's  the  man,  uncle. 
Wait  till  I  run  to  Captain  Cuttle.  Keep  your  eye  upon 
my  uncle,  will  you,  Mr.  Brcgley,  and  make  him  as  com- 
fortable as  you  can  while  I  am  gone  ?  Don't  despair. 
Uncle  Sol.  Try  and  keep  a  good  heart,  there's  a  dear 
fellow  ! " 

Saying  this  with  great  fervour,  and  disregarding  the 
old  man's  broken  remonstrances,  Walter  dashed  out  of 
the  shop  again  as  hard  as  he  could  go  ;  and,  having  hur- 
ried round  to  the  office  to  excuse  himself  on  the  plea  of 
his  uncle's  sudden  illness,  set  off,  full  speed,  for  Cap- 
tain Cuttle's  residence. 

Everything  seemed  altered  as  he  ran  along  the  streets. 
There  was  the  usual  entanglement  and  noise  of  carts, 
drays,  omnibuses,  waggons,  and  foot  passengers,  but  the 
misfortufle  that  had  fallen  on  the  wooden  midshipman 
made  it  strange  and  new.  Houses  and  shops  were  differ- 
ent from  what  they  used  to  be,  and  bore  Mr.  Brogley's 
warrant  on  their  fronts  in  large  characters.  The  broker 
seemed  to  have  got  hold  of  the  very  churches  ;  for  their 


474 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


spires  rose  into  the  sky  with  an  unwonted  air.  Even 
the  sky  itself  was  changed,  and  had  an  execution  in  it 
plainly. 

Captain  Cattle  lived  on  the  brink  of  a  little  canal  near 
the  India  Docks,  where  there  was  a  swivel  bridge  which 
opened  now  and  then  to  let  some  wandering  monster  of 
a  ship  come  roaming  up  the  street  like  a  stranded  levia- 
than. The  gradual  change  from  land  to  water,  on  the 
approach  to  Captain  Cuttle's  lodgings,  was  curious.  It 
began  with  the  erection  of  flag  staffs,  as  appurtenances 
to  public-houses ;  then  came  slopsellers'  shops,  with 
Guernsey  shirts,  sou'wester  hats,  and  canvas  pantaloons, 
at  once  the  tightest  and  the  loosest  of  their  order,  hang- 
ing up  outside.  These  were  succeeded  by  anchor  and 
chain-cable  forges,  where  sledge  hammers  were  dinging 
upon  iron  all  day  long.  Then  came  rows  of  houses,  with 
little  vane-surmounted  masts  uprearing  themselves  from 
amoiig  the  scarlet  beans.  Then,  ditches.  Then,  pollard 
willows.  Then,  more  ditches.  Then,  unaccountable 
patches  of  dirty  water,  hardly  to  be  described,  for  the 
ships  that  covered  them.  Then,  the  air  was  perfumed 
with  chips  ;  and  all  other  trades  were  swallowed  up  in 
mast,  oar,  and  block  making,  and  boat  building.  Then, 
the  ground  grew  marshy  and  unsettled.  Then,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  smelt  but  rum  and  sugar.  Then,  Cap- 
tain Cuttle's  lodgings  — at  once  a  first  floor  and  a  top 
story,  in  Brig-place — were  close  before  you. 

The  captain  was  one  of  those  timber-looking  men, 
suits  of  oak  as  well  as  hearts,  w;hom  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible for  the  liveliest  imagination  to  separate  from  any 
part  of  their  dress,  however  insignificant.  Accordingly 
when  "Walter  knocked  at  the  door,  and  the  captain  in- 
stantly poked  his  head  out  of  one  of  his  little  front  win- 
dows, and  hailed  him,  with  the  hard  glazed  hat  already 
on  it,  and  the  shirt-collar  like  a  sail,  and  the  wide  suit 
of  blue  all  standing  as  usual,  Walter  was  as  fully  per- 
suaded that  he  was  always  in  that  state,  as  if  the  Cap- 
tain had  been  a  bird  and  those  had  been  his  feathers. 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad  ! "  said  Captain  Cuttle.  "Stand  by 
and  knock  again.    Hard  !    It's  washing  day." 

Walter,  in  his  impatience,  gave  a  prodigious  thump 
with  the  knocker. 

"Hard  it  is  !"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  and  immediately 
drew  in  his  head,  as  if  he  expected  a  squall. 

Nor  was  he  mistaken  ;  for  a  widow  lady,  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  up  to  her  shoulders,  and  her  arms  frothy 
with  soap-suds  and  smoking  with  hot-water,  replied  to 
the  summons  with  startling  rapidity.  Before  she  looked 
at  Walter  she  looked  at  the  knocker,  and  then,  measur- 
ing him  with  her  eyes  from  head  to  foot,  said  she  won- 
dered he  had  left  any  of  it. 

"  Captain  Cuttle's  at  home,  I  know,"  said  Walter,  with 
a  conciliatory  smile. 

"  Is  he  ?  "  replied  the  widow  lady.    "  In-deed  ! " 

"  He  has  just  been  speaking  to  me,"  said  Walter,  in 
breathless  explanation. 

"Has  he?"  replied  the  widow  lady.  "Then  p'raps 
you'll  give  him  Mrs.  MacStinger's  respects  and  say  that 
the  next  time  he  lowers  himself  and  his  lodgings  by 
talking  out  of  winder,  she'll  thank  him  to  come  down 
and  open  the  door  too."  Mrs.  MacStinger  spoke  loud, 
and  listened  for  any  observations  that  might  be  offered 
from  the  first  floor. 

"I'll  mention  it,"  said  Walter,  "if  you'll  have  the 
goodness  to  let  me  in,  ma'am," 

For  he  was  repelled  by  a  wooden  fortification  extend- 
ing across  the  doorway,  and  put  there  to  prevent  the 
little  MacStingers  in  their  moments  of  recreation  from 
tumbling  down  the  steps. 

"  A  boy  that  can  knock  my  door  down,"  said  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  contemptuously,  "can  get  over  that,  I 
should  hope  !"  But  Walter,  taking  this  as  a  permission 
to  enter,  and  getting  over  it,  Mrs.  MacStinger  immedi- 
ately demanded  whether  an  Englishwoman's  house  was 
her  castle  or  not ;  and  whether  she  was  to  be  broke  in 
upon  by  'raff.'  On  these  subjects  her  thirst  for  in- 
formation was  still  very  importunate,  when  Walter,  hav- 
ing made  his  way  up  the  little  staircase  through  an  arti- 
ficial fog  occasioned  by  the  washing,  which  covered  the 
banisters  with  a  clammy  perspiration,  entered  Captain 
Cuttle's  room,  and  found  that  gentleman  in  ambush  be- 
hind the  door. 


"  Never  owed  her  a  penny,  Wal'r,"  said  Captain  Cuttle, 
in  a  low  voice,  and  with  visible  marks  of  trepidation  on 
his  countenance.  "  Done  her  a  world  of  good  turns,  and 
the  children  too.    Vixen  at  times,  though.    Whew  !" 

"  1  should  go  away,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter. 

"  Dursn't  do  it,  Wal'r,"  returned  the  captain.  "  She'd 
find  me  out,  wherever  I  went.  Sit  down.   How's  Gills?" 

The  captain  was  dining  (in  his  hat)  off  cold  loin  of 
mutton,  porter,  and  some  smoking  hot  potatoes,  which 
he  had  cooked  himself,  and  took  out  of  a  little  saucepan 
before  the  fire  as  he  wanted  them.  He  unscrewed  his 
hook  at  dinner-time,  and  screwed  a  knife  into  its  wooden 
socket  instead,  with  which  he  had  already  begun  to  peel 
one  of  these  potatoes  for  Walter.  His  rooms  were  very 
small,  and  strongly  impregnated  with  tobacco-smoke, 
but  snug  enough  :  everything  being  stowed  away,  as  if 
there  were  an  earthquake  regularly  every  half  hour. 

"  How's  Gills?"  inquired  the  captain. 

Walter,  who  had  by* this  time  recovered  his  breath, 
and  lost  his  spirits — or  such  temporary  spirits  as  his 
rapid  journey  had  given  him — looked  at  his  questioner 
for  a  moment,  said  "Oh,  Captain  Cuttle  !  " and  burst  into 
tears. 

No  words  can  describe  the  captain's  consternation  at 
this  sight.  Mrs.  MacStinger  faded  into  nothing  before 
it.  He  dropped  the  potato  and  the  fork — and  would 
have  dropped  the  knife  too  if  he  could — and  sat  gazing 
at  the  boy,  as  if  he  expected  to  hear  next  moment  that  a 
gulf  had  opened  in  the  city,  which  had  swallowed  up 
his  old  friend,  coffee-coloured  suit,  buttons,  chronometer, 
spectacles,  and  all. 

But  when  Walter  told  him  wliat  was  really  the  matter. 
Captain  Cuttle,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  started  up 
into  full  activity.  He  emptied  out  of  a  little  tin  canister 
on  the  top  shelf  of  the  cupboard,  his  whole  stock  of 
ready  money  (amounting  to  thirteen  pounds  and  half-a- 
crown),  which  he  transferred  to  one  of  the  pockets  of  his 
square  blue  coat  :  further  enriched  that  repository  with 
the  contents  of  his  plate  chest,  consisting  of  two  withered 
atomies  of  tea-spoons,  and  an  obsolete  pair  of  knock- 
knee'd  sugar-tongs  ;  pulled  up  his  immense  double- 
cased  silver  watch  from  the  depths  in  which  it  reposed, 
to  assure  himself  that  that  valuable  was  sound  and 
whole  ;  re-attached  the  hook  to  his  right  wrist  :  and 
seizing  the  stick  covered  over  with  knobs,  bade  Walter 
come  along. 

Rememljering,  however,  in  the  midst  of  his  virtuous 
excitement,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  might  be  lying  in  wait 
below.  Captain  Cuttle  hesitated  at  last,  not  without 
glancing  at  the  window,  as  if  he  had  some  thought  of 
escaping  by  that  unusual  means  of  egress,  rather  than 
encounter  his  terrible  enemy.  He  decided,  however,  in 
favour  of  stratagem. 

"  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  timid  wink,  "  go 
afore,  my  lad.  Sing  out,  '  good  bye.  Captain  Cuttle,' 
when  you're  in  the  passage,  and  shut  the  door.  Then 
wait  at  the  corner  of  the  street  'till  you  see  me." 

These  directions  were  not  issued  without  a  previous 
knowledge  of  the  enemy's  tactics,  for  when  Walter  got 
down-stairs,  Mrs.  MacStinger  glided  out  of  the  little 
back  kitchen,  like  an  avenging  spirit.  But  not  gliding 
out  upon  the  captain,  as  she  liad  expected,  she  merely 
made  a  further  allusion  to  the  knocker,  and  glided  in 
again. 

Some  five  minutes  elapsed  before  Captain  Cuttle  could 
summon  courage  to  attempt  his  escape  ;  for  Walter 
waited  so  long  at  the  street  corner,  looking  back  at  the 
house,  before  there  were  any  symptoms  of  the  hard 
glazed  hat.  At  length  the  cay^tain  burst  out  of  the  door 
with  the  suddenness  of  an  explosion,  and  coming  towards 
him  at  a  great  pace,  and  never  once  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  pretended  as  soon  as  they  were  well  out  of  the 
street,  to  whistle  a  tune. 

"  Uncle  much  hove  down,  Wal'r?"  inquired  the  cap- 
tain as  they  were  walking  along. 

"  I  am  afraid  so.  If  you  had  seen  him  this  morning, 
you  would  never  have  forgotten  it." 

"  Walk  fast,  Wal'r  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain; 
mending  his  pace  ;  "  and  walk  the  same  all  the  days  of 
your  life.  Over-haul  the  catechism  for  that  advice,  and 
keop  it  1 " 

The  captain  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  of 


D 0MB BY  AND  SOK 


475 


Solomon  Gills,  mingled  perhaps  with  some  reflections  on 
his  late  escape  from  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to  offer  any  further 
quotations  on  the  way  for  Walter's  moral  improvement. 
They  interchanged  no  other  word  until  they  arrived  at  old 
Sol's  door,  where  the  unfortunate  wooden  midshipman, 
with  his  instrument  at  his  eye,  seemed  to  be  surveying  the 
whole  horizon  in  search  of  some  friend  to  help  him  out 
of  his  difficulty. 

"  Gills  !"  said  the  captain,  hurrying  into  the  back  par- 
lour, and  taking  him  by  the  hand  quite  tenderly.  "  Lay 
your  head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll  fight  through  it. 
All  you've  got  to  do,"  said  the  captain,  with  the  solem- 
nity of  a  man  who  was  delivering  himself  of  one  of  the 
most  precious  practical  tenets  ever  discovered  by  human 
wisdom,  "  is  to  lay  your  head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll 
fight  through  it!" 

Old  Sol  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  thanked 
him. 

Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  a  gravity  suitable  to  the 
nature  of  the  occasion,  put  down  upon  the  table  the  two 
tea-spoons  and  the  sugar-tongs,  the  silver  watch,  and  the 
ready  money  ;  and  asked  Mr.  Brogley,  the  broker,  what 
the  damage  was. 

"Come!  What  do  you  make  of  it?  "said  Captain 
Cuttle. 

"  Why,  Lord  help  you  ! "  returned  the  broker  ;  "you 
don't  suppose  that  property's  of  any  use,  do  you  ?" 

"Why  not?"  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Why  ?  The  amount's  three  hundred  and  seventy, 
odd,"  replied  the  broker. 

"Never  mind,"  returned  the  captain,  though  he  was 
evidently  dismayed  by  the  figures  :  "  all's  fish  that  comes 
to  your  net,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brogley.  "But  sprats  an't 
whales,  you  know." 

The  philosophy  of  this  observation  seemed  to  strike 
the  captain.  He  ruminated  for  a  minute  ;  eyeing  the 
broker,  meanwhile,  as  a  deep  genius  ;  and  then  called 
the  instrument-maker  aside. 

"Gills,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  what's  the  bearings  of 
this  business  ?    Who's  the  creditor  ?  " 

"Hush!"  returned  the  old  man.  "Come  away. 
Don't  speak  before  Wally.  It's  a  matter  of  security  for 
Wally's  father — an  old  bond.  I've  paid  a  good  deal  of 
it,  Ned,  but  the  times  are  so  bad  with  me  that  I  can't 
do  more  just  now.  I've  foreseen  it,  but  I  couldn't  help 
it.    Not  a  word  before  Wally,  for  all  the  world." 

"You've  got  some  money,  haven't  you?"  whispered 
the  captain. 

"  Yes,  yes — oh  3^es — I've  got  some,"  returned  old  Sol, 
first  putting  his  hands  into  his  empty  pockets,  and  then 
squeezing  his  Welsh  wig  between  them,  as  if  he  thought 
he  might  wring  some  gold  out  of  it  ;  "  but  I — the  little 
I  have  got,  isn't  convertible,  Ned  ;  it  can't  be  got  at.  I 
have  been  trying  to  do  something  with  it  for  Wally,  and 
I'm  old-fashioned,  and  behind  the  time.  It's  here  and 
there,  and — and,  in  short,  it's  as  good  as  nowhere,"  said 
the  old  man,  looking  in  bewilderment  about  him. 

He  had  so  much  the  air  of  a  half-witted  person  who 
had  been  hiding  his  money  in  a  variety  of  places,  and 
had  forgotten  where,  that  the  captain  followed  his  eyes, 
not  without  a  faint  hope  that  he  might  remember  some 
few  hundred  pounds  concealed  up  the  chimney,  or  down 
in  the  cellar.  But  Solomon  Gills  knew  better  than 
that. 

"  I'm,  behind  the  time  altogether,  my  dear  Ned,"  said 
Sol,  in  resigned  despair,  "a  long  way.  It's  no  use  my 
lagging  on  so  far  behind  it.  The  stock  had  better  be  sold 
— it's  worth  more  than  this  debt— and  I  had  better  go 
and  die  somewhere  on  the  balance.  I  haven't  any  energy 
left.  I  don't  understand  things.  This  had  better  be 
the  end  of  it.  Let  'em  sell  the  stock  and  take  Mm 
down,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing  feebly  to  the  wooden 
midshipman,  "  and  let  us  both  be  broken  up  together." 
j  "And  what  d'ye  mean  to  do  with  Wal'r?"  said  the 
'  captain.  "There,  there  !  Sit  ye  down.  Gills,  sit  ye 
down,  and  let  me  think  o'  this.  If  I  warn't  a  man  on  a 
small  annuity,  that  was  large  enough  till  to-day,  I  hadn't 
need  u>  think  of  it.  But  you  only  lay  your  head  well  to 
the  wind,"  said  the  captain,  again  administering  that 
unanswerable  piece  of  consolation,  "  and  you're  all 
i  right  1" 


Old  Sol  thanked  him  from  his  heart,  and  went  and 
laid  it  against  the  back  parlour  fire-jjlace  instead. 

Captain  Cuttle  walked  up  and  down  the  shop  for  some 
time,  cogitating  profoundly,  and  bringing  his  bushy 
black  eyebrows  to  bear  so  heavily  on  his  nose,  like 
clouds  settling  on  a  mountain,  that  Walter  was  afraid 
to  offer  any  interruption  to  the  current  of  his  reflec- 
tions. Mr.  Brogley,  who  was  averse  to  being  any  con- 
straint upon  the  party,  and  who  had  an  ingenious  cast 
of  mind,  went,  softly  whistling,  among  the  stock  ;  rat- 
tling weather  glasses,  shaking  compasses  as  if  they 
were  physic,  catching  up  keys  with  loadstones,  looking 
through  telescopes,  endeavouring  to  make  himself  ac- 
quainted with  the  use  of  the  globes,  setting  parallel 
rulers  astride  on  to  his  nose,  and  amusing  himself  with 
other  philosophical  transactions. 

"  Wal'r  ! "  said  the  captain  at  last.    "  I've  got  it." 

"Have  you.  Captain  Cuttle?"  cried  Walter,  with 
great  animation. 

"Come  this  way,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain.  "The 
stock's  one  security.  I'm  another.  Your  governor's  the 
man  to  advance  the  money." 

"Mr.  Dombey  !  "  faltered  Walter. 

The  captain  nodded  gravely.  "Look  at  him,"  he 
said.  "  Look  at  Gills.  If  they  was  to  sell  off  these 
things  now,  he'd  die  of  it.  You  know  he  would.  W^e 
mustn't  leave  a  stone  unturned — and  there's  a  stone  for 
you." 

"  A  stone  ! — Mr.  Dombey  I  "  faltered  Walter. 

"  You  run  round  to  the  office,  first  of  all,  and  see  if 
he's  there,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  clapping  him  on  the 
back.  "Quick!" 

Walter  felt  he  must  not  dispute  the  command — a  glance 
at  his  uncle  would  have  determined  him  if  he  had  felt 
otherwise — and  disappeared  to  execute  it.  He  soon  re- 
turned, out  of  breath,  to  say  that  Mr,  Dombey  was  not 
there.    It  was  Saturday,  and  he  had  gone  to  Brighton. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Wal'r!"  said  the  captain,  who 
seemed  to  have  prepared  himself  for  this  contingency  in 
his  absence.  "  We'll  go  to  Brighton.  I'll  back  you, 
my  boy.  I'll  back  you,  W^al'r.  We'll  go  to  Brighton 
by  the  afternoon's  coach." 

If  the  application  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Dombey  at 
all,  which  was  awful  to  think  of,  Walter  felt  that  he 
would  rather  prefer  it  alone  and  unassisted,  than  backed 
by  the  personal  influence  of  Captain  Cuttle,  to  which  he 
hardly  thought  Mr.  Dombey  would  attach  much  weight. 
But  as  the  captain  appeared  to  be  of  quite  another  opin- 
ion, and  was  bent  upon  it,  and  as  his  friendship  was  too 
zealous  and  serious  to  be  trifled  with  by  one  so  much 
younger  than  himself,  he  forebore  to  hint  the  least  ob- 
jection. Cuttle,  therefore,  taking  a  hurried  leave  of 
Solomon  Gills,  and  returning  the  ready  money,  the  lea- 
spoons,  the  sugar-tongs,  and  the  silver  watch,  to  his 
pocket — with  a  view,  as  Walter  thought,  with  horror, 
to  making  a  gorgeous  impression  on  Mr.  Dombey — bore 
him  off  to  the  coach-office,  without  a  minute's  delay, 
and  repeatedly  assured  him,  on  the  road,  that  he  would 
stick  by  him  to  the  last. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Containing  the  Sequel  of  the  JUdshipman's  Disaster. 

Major  Bagstock,  after  long  and  frequent  observa- 
tion of  Paul,  across  Princess's-place,  through  his  double 
barrelled  opera  glass  ;  and  after  receiving  many  minute 
reports,  daily,  weekly,  and  monthly,  on  that  subject, 
from  the  native,  who  kept  himself  in  constant  communi- 
cation with  Miss  Tox's  maid  for  that  purpose  ;  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  Dombey,  sir,  was  a  man  to  be 
known,  and  that  J.  B.  was  the  boy  to  make  his  acquain- 
tance. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  maintaining  her  reserved  beha- 
viour, and  frigidly  declining  to  understand  the  major 
whenever  he  called  (which  he  often  did)  on  any  little 
fishing  excursion  connected  with  this  project,  the  major, 
in  spite  of  his  constitutional  toughness  and  slyness,  was 
fain  to  leave  the  accomplishment  of  his  desire  in  some 
measure  to  chance,  "  which,"  as  he  was  used  to  observe 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


with  clmckles  at  his  club,  has  been  fifty  to  one  in 
favour  of  Joey  B.,  sir,  ever  since  his  elder  brother  died 
of  Yellow  Jack  in  the  West  Indies." 

It  was  some  time  coming  to  his  aid  in  the  present  in- 
stance, but  it  befriended  him  at  last.  When  the  dark 
servant,  with  full  particulars,  reported  Miss  Tox  absent 
on  Brighton  service,  the  major  was  suddenly  touched 
with  affectionate  reminiscences  of  his  friend  Bill  Bither- 
stone  of  Bengal,  who  had  written  to  ask  him,  if  he  ever 
went  that  way,  to  bestow  a  call  upon  his  only  son.  But 
when  the  same  dark  servant  reported  Paul  at  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's,  and  the  major,  referring  to  the  letter  favoured  by 
Master  Bitherstone  on  his  arrival  in  England — to  which 
he  had  never  had  the  least  idea  of  paying  any  attention 
— saw  the  opening  that  presented  itself,  he  was  made  so 
rabid  by  the  gout,  with  which  he  happened  to  be  then 
laid  up,  that  he  threw  a  footstool  at  the  dark  servant 
in  return  for  his  intelligence,  and  swore  he  would  be  the 
death  of  the  rascal  before  he  had  done  with  him  :  which 
the  dark  servant  was  more  than  half  disposed  to  believe. 

At  length  the  major  being  released  from  his  fit,  went 
one  Saturday  growling  down  to  Brighton,  with  the  native 
behind  him  :  apostrophising  Miss  Tox  all  the  way,  and 
gloating  over  the  prospect  of  carrying  by  storm  the  dis- 
tinguished friend  to  whom  she  attached  so  much  mys- 
tery, and  for  whom  she  had  deserted  him. 

"Would  you,  ma'am,  would  you!"  said  the  major, 
straining  with  vindictiveness,  and  swelling  every  already 
swollen  vein  in  his  head.  "Would  you  give  Joey  B. 
the  go-by,  ma'am  ?  Not  yet,  ma'am,  not  yet  !  Damme, 
not  yet,  sir.  Joe  is  awake,  ma'am.  Bagstock  is  alive, 
sir.  J.  B,  knows  a  move  or  two,  ma'am.  Josh  has  his 
weather-eye  open,  sir.  You'll  find  him  tough,  ma'am. 
Tough,  sir,  tough  is  Joseph.  Tough,  and  de-vil-ish 
sly!" 

And  very  tough  indeed  Master  Bitherstone  found  him, 
when  he  took  that  young  gentleman  out  for  a  walk.  But 
the  major,  with  his  complexion  like  a  Stilton  cheese,  and 
his  eyes  like  a  prawn's,  went  roving  about,  perfectly  in- 
different to  Master  Bitherstone's  amusement,  and  drag- 
ging Master  Bitherstone  along,  while  he  looked  about 
him  high  and  low  for  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  children. 

In  good  time  the  major,  previously  instructed  by 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  spied  out  Paul  and  Florence,  and  bore 
down  upon  them  ;  there  being  a  stately  gentleman  (Mr. 
Dombey,  doubtless)  in  the  company.  Charging  with 
Master  Bitherstone  into  the  very  heart  of  the  little 
squadron,  it  fell  out,  of  course,  that  Master  Bitherstone 
spoke  to  his  fellow-sufferers.  Upon  that  the  major 
stopped  to  notice  and  admire  them  ;  remembered  with 
amazement  that  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  them  at  his 
friend  Miss  Tox's  in  Princess's-place  :  opined  that  Paul 
was  a  devilish  fine  fellow,  and  his  own  little  friend  ;  in- 
quired if  he  remembered  Joey  B.  the  major  ;  and  finally, 
with  a  sudden  recollection  of  the  conventionalities  of 
life,  turned  and  apologised  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"But  my  little  friend  here,  sir,"  said  the  major, 
*^ makes  a  boy  of  me  again.  An  old  soldier,  sir — Major 
Bagstock,  at  your  service — is  not  ashamed  to  confess  it." 
Here  the  major  lifted  his  hat.  "  Damme,  sir,"  cried  the 
major  with  sudden  warmth,  "  I  envy  you."  Then  he 
recollected  himself,  and  added,  "Excuse  my  freedom." 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  he  wouldn't  mention  it. 

"  An  old  campaigner,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  a  smoke- 
dried,  sun-burnt,  used-up,  invalided  old  dog  of  a  major, 
sir,  was  not  afraid  of  being  condemned  for  his  whim  by 
a  man  like  Mr.  Dombey.  I  have  the  honour  of  address- 
ing Mr.  Dombey,  1  believe  ! " 

"  I  am  the  present  unworthy  representative  oi  that 
name,  major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  By  G — ,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "it's  a  great  name. 
It's  a  name,  sir,"  said  the  major  firmly,  as  if  he  defied 
Mr.  Dombey  to  contradict  him,  and  would  feel  it  his 
painful  daty  to  bully  him  if  he  did,  "that  is  known  and 
honoured  in  the  British  possessions  abroad.  It  is  a 
name,  sir,  that  a  man  is  proud  to  recognise.  There  is 
nothing  adulatory  in  Joseph  Bagstock,  sir.  His  Royal 
Highness  the  Duko  of  York  observed  on  more  than  one 
occasion  '  there  is  no  adulation  in  Joey.  He  is  a  plain 
old  soldier  is  Joe.  He  is  tough  to  a  fault  is  Joseph  : ' 
but  it's  a  great  name,  sir.  By  the  Lord,  it's  a  great 
name  1 "  said  the  major,  solemnly. 


"  You  are  good  enough  to  rate  it  higher  than  it  de- 
serves perhaps,  major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  major.  "  My  little  friend  here, 
sir,  will  certify  for  Joseph  Bagstock  that  he  is  a  thor- 
ough-going, down-right,  plain-spoken,  old  Trump,  sir, 
and  nothing  more.  That  boy,  sir,"  said  the  major  in  a 
low  tone,  "  will  live  in  history.  That  boy,  sir,  is  not  a 
common  production.    Take  care  of  him,  Mr.  Dombey." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  intimate  that  he  would  endeav- 
our to  do  so, 

"  Here  is  a  boy  here,  sir,"  pursued  the  major,  confiden- 
tially, and  giving  him  a  thrust  Avith  his  cane.  "  Son  of 
Bitherstone  of  Bengal.  Bill  Bitherstone  formerly  of  ours. 
That  boy's  father  and  myself,  sir,  were  sworn  friends. 
Wherever  you  went,  sir,  you  heard  of  nothing  but  Bill 
Bitherstone  and  Joe  Bagstock.  Am  I  blind  to  that  boy's 
defects  ?    By  no  means.    He's  a  fool,  sir." 

Mr.  Dombey  glanced  at  the  libelled  Master  Bither- 
stone of  whom  he  knew  at  least  as  much  as  the  major 
did,  and  said,  in  quite  a  complacent  manner,  "  Really?" 

"That  is  what  he  is,  sir,"  said  the  major.  "  He's  a 
fool.  Joe  Bagstock  never  minces  matters.  The  son  of 
my  old  friend  Bill  Bitherstone  of  Bengal  is  a  born  fool, 
sir."  Here  the  major  laughed  till  he  was  almost  black. 
"  My  little  friend  is  destined  for  a  public  school,  I  pre- 
sume, Mr.  Dombey  ? "  said  the  major  when  he  had  re- 
covered. 

"  I  am  not  quite  decided,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I 
think  not.    He  is  delicate." 

••  If  he's  delicate,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "you  are  right. 
None  but  the  tough  fellows  could  live  through  it,  sir,  at 
Sandhurst.  We  put  each  other  to  the  torture  there,  sir. 
We  roasted  the  new  fellows  at  a  slow  fire,  and  hung  'em 
out  of  a  three  pair  of  stairs  window,  with  their  heads 
downwards.  Joseph  Bagstock,  sir,  was  held  out  of  the 
window  by  the  heels  of  his  boots  for  thirteen  minutes 
by  the  college  clock." 

The  major  might  have  appealed  to  his  countenance  in 
corroboration  of  this  story.  It  certainly  looked  as  if  he 
had  hung  out  a  little  too  long. 

"But  it  made  us  what  we  were,  sir,"  said  the  major, 
settling  his  shirt  frill.  "  We  were  iron,  sir,"  and  it 
forged  us.    Are  you  remaining  here,  Mr.  Dombey  ?  " 

"  I  generally  come  down  once  a  week,  major,"  re- 
turned that  gentleman.    "I  stay  at  the  Bedford.' 

"  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  calling  at  the  Bedford, 
sir,  if  you'll  permit  me,"  said  the  major.  "  Joey  B , 
sir,  is  not  in  general  a  calling  man,  but  Mr.  Dombey's  is 
not  a  common  name.  I  am  much  indebted  to  my  little 
friend,  sir,  for  the  honour  of  this  introduction." 

Mr.  Dombey  made  a  very  gracious  reply  ;  and  Major 
Bagstock,  having  patted  Paul  on  the  head,  and  said  of 
Florence  that  her  eyes  would  play  the  devil  with  the 
youngsters  before  long — "and  the  oldsters  too,  sir,  if  you 
come  to  that,"  added  the  major,  chuckling  very  much — 
stirred  up  Master  Bitherstone  with  his  walking-stick, 
and  departed  with  that  young  gentleman,  at  a  kind  of 
half -trot ;  rolling  his  head  and  coughing  with  great 
dignity,  as  he  staggered  away,  with  his  legs  very  wide 
asunder. 

In  fulfilment  of  his  promise,  the  major  afterwards 
called  on  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  having  re- 
ferred to  the  army  list,  afterwards  called  on  the  major. 
Then  the  major  called  at  Mr.  Dombey's  house  in  town  ; 
and  came  down  again,  in  the  same  coach  as  Mr.  Dombey. 
In  short,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  got  on  uncommon- 
ly well  together,  and  uncommonly  fast  ;  and  Mr.  Dom- 
bey observed  of  the  major,  to  his  sister,  that  besides  be- 
ing quite  a  military  man  he  was  really  something  more, 
as  he  had  a  very  admirable  idea  of  the  importance  of 
things  unconnected  with  his  own  profession. 

At  length  Mr.  Dombey,  bringing  down  Miss  Tox  and 
Mrs.  Chick  to  see  the  children,  and  finding  the  major 
again  at  Brighton,  invited  him  to  dinner  at  the  Bedford, 
and  complimented  Miss  Tox  highly,  beforehand,  on  her 
neighbour  and  acquaintance.  Notwithstanding  the  pal- 
pitation of  the  heart  which  these  allusions  occasioned 
her,  they  were  anj'thing  but  disagreeable  to  Miss  Tox, 
as  they  enabled  her  to  be  extremely  interesting,  and  to 
manifest  an  occasional  incoherence  and  distraction  which 
she  was  not  at  all  unwilling  to  display.  The  major  gave 
her  abundant  opportunities  of  exhibiting  this  emotion  : 


D 0MB BY  AND  80 K 


477 


being  profuse  in  his  complaints,  at  dinner,  of  her  deser- 
tion of  him  and  Princess's-place  :  and  as  he  appeared  to 
derive  great  enjoyment  from  making  them,  they  all  got 
on  very  well. 

None  the  worse  on  account  of  the  major  taking  charge 
of  the  whole  conversation,  and  showing  as  great  an  ap- 
petite in  that  respect  as  in  regard  of  the  various  dainties 
on  the  table,  among  which  he  may  be  almost  said  to  have 
wallowed  :  greatly  to  the  aggravation  of  his  inflammatory 
tendencies.  Mr.  Dombey's  habitual  silence  and  reserve 
yielding  readily  to  this  usurpation,  the  major  felt  that 
he  was  coming  out  and  shining  :  and  in  the  flow  of  spirits 
thus  engendered,  rang  such  an  infinite  number  of  new 
changes  on  his  own  name  that  he  quite  astonished  him- 
self. In  a  word,  they  were  all  very  well  pleased.  The 
major  was  considered  to  possess  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
conversation  ;  and  when  he  took  a  late  farewell,  after  a 
long  rubber,  Mr.  Dombey  again  complimented  the  blush- 
ing Miss  Tox  on  her  neighbour  and  acquaintance. 

But  all  the  way  home  to  his  own  hotel,  the  major  in- 
cessantly said  to  himself,  and  of  himself,  "  Sly,  sir — sly, 
sir — de-vil-ish  sly  ! "  And  when  he  got  there,  sat  down 
in  a  chair,  and  fell  into  a  silent  fit  of  laughter,  with  which 
he  was  sometimes  seized,  and  which  was  always  particu- 
larly awful.  It  held  him  so  long  on  this  occasion  that 
the  dark  servant,  who  stood  watching  him  at  a  distance, 
but  dared  not  for  his  life  approach,  twice  or  thrice  gave 
him  over  for  lost.  His  whole  form,  but  especially  his 
face  and  head,  dilated  beyond  all  former  experience  ; 
and  presented  to  the  dark  man's  view,  nothing  but  a 
heaving  mass  of  indigo.  At  length  he  burst  into  a  vio- 
lent paroxysm  of  coughing,  and  when  that  was  a  little 
better  burst  into  such  ejaculations  as  the  following  : 

"Would  you,  ma'am,  would  you?  Mrs.  Dombey,  eh 
ma'am  ?  I  think  not,  ma'am.  Not  while  Joe  B.  can  put 
a  spoke  in  your  wheel,  ma'am.  J.  B.'s  even  with  you 
now,  ma'am.  He  isn't  altogether  bowled  out,  yet,  sir, 
isn't  Bagstock.  She's  deep,  sir,  deep,  but  Josh  is  deeper. 
Wide  awake  is  old  Joe — broad  awake,  and  staring,  sir  ! " 
There  was  no  doubt  of  this  last  assertion  being  true,  and 
to  a  very  fearful  extent ;  as  it  continued  to  be  during  the 
greater  part  of  that  night,  which  the  major  chiefly  passed 
in  similar  exclamations,  diversified  with  fits  of  coughing 
and  choking  that  startled  the  whole  house. 

It  was  on  the  day  after  this  occasion  (being  Sunday) 
when,  as  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Chick,  and  Miss  Tox  were 
sitting  at  breakfast,  still  eulogising  the  major,  Florence 
came  running  in  ;  her  face  suffused  with  a  bright  colour, 
and  her  eyes  sparkling  joyfully  ;  and  cried, 

"Papa  !  Papa  !  Here's  \y  alter  !  and  he  won't  come  in." 

"  Who  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Dombey.  "  What  does  she  mean  ? 
What  is  this  ?  " 

"Walter,  papa,"  said  Florence  timidly;  sensible  of 
having  approached  the  presence  with  too  much  familiar- 
ity.   "  Who  found  me  when  I  was  lost." 

''Does  she  mean  young  Gay,  Louisa ?"  inquired  Mr. 
Dombey,  knitting  his  brows.  "Really,  this  child's  man- 
ners have  become  very  boisterous.  She  cannot  mean 
young  Gay,  I  think.    See  what  it  is,  will  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Chick  hurried  into  the  passage,  and  returned  with 
the  information  that  it  was  young  Gay,  accompanied  by 
a  very  strange-looking  person  ;  and  that  young  Gay  said 
he  would  not  take  the  liberty  of  coming  in,  hearing  Mr. 
Dombey  was  at  breakfast,  but  would  wait  until  Mr. 
Dombey  should  signify  that  he  might  approach. 

"Tell  the  boy  to  come  in  now,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  Now,  Gay,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Who  sent  you  down 
here  ?    Was  there  nobody  else  to  come  ?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  returned  Walter.  "I  have 
not  been  sent.  I  have  been  so  bold  as  to  come  on  my 
own  account,  which  I  hope  you'll  pardon  when  I  mention 
the  cause." 

But  Mr.  Dombey  without  attending  to  what  he  said, 
was  looking  impatiently  on  either  side  of  him  (as  if  he 
were  a  pillar  in  his  wav)  at  some  object  behind. 

"What's  that?"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "Who  is  that? 
I  think  you  have  made  some  mistake  in  the  door,  sir." 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  sorry  to  intrude  with  any  one,  sir,"  cried 
Walter,  hastily:  "but  this  is — this  is  Captain  Cuttle,  sir." 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  observed  the  captain  in  a  deep  voice, 
"Btand  by  I" 

At  the  same  time  the  captain,  coming  a  little  farther  in, 


brought  out  his  wide  suit  of  blue,  his  conspicuous  shirt- 
collar,  and  his  nobby  nose  in  full  relief,  and  stood  bow- 
ing to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  waving  his  hook  politely  to  the 
ladies,  with  the  hard  glazed  hat  in  his  one  hand,  and  a 
red  equator  round  his  liead  which  it  had  newly  imprinted 
there. 

Mr.  Dombey  regarded  this  phenomenon  with  amaze- 
ment and  indignation,  and  seemed  by  his  looks  to  appeal 
to  Mrs.  Chicl<  and  Miss  Tox  against  it.  Little  Paul, 
who  had  come  in  after  Florence,  backed  towards  Miss 
Tox  as  the  captain  waved  his  hook,  and  stood  on  the 
defensive. 

"  Now,  Gay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  What  have  you 
got  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

Again  the  captain  observed,  as  a  general  opening  of  the 
conversation  that  could  not  fail  to  propitiate  all  parties, 
"  Wal'r,  stand  by  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,"  began  Walter,  trembling  and  look- 
ing down  at  the  ground,  "  that  I  take  a  very  great  liberty 
in  coming — indeed,  I  am  sure  I  do.  I  should  hardly  have 
had  the  courage  to  ask  to  see  you,  sir,  even  after  coming 
down,  I  am  afraid,  if  I  had  not  overtaken  Miss  Dombey, 
and — " 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mr,  Dombey,  following  his  eyes  as  he 
glanced  at  the  attentive  Florence,  and  frowning  uncon- 
sciously as  she  encouraged  him  with  a  smile.  "  Go  on, 
if  you  please." 

"Aye,  aye,"  observed  the  captain,  considering  it  in- 
cumbent on  him,  as  a  point  of  good  breeding,  to  support 
Mr.  Dombey.    "  Well  said  !    Go  on,  Wal'r." 

Captain  Cuttle  ought  to  have  been  withered  by  the 
look  which  Mr.  Dombey  bestowed  upon  him  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  patronage.  But  quite  innocent  of  this,  he 
closed  one  eye  in  reply,  and  gave  Mr.  Dombey  to  under- 
stand, by  certain  significant  motions  of  his  hook,  that 
Walter  was  a  little  bashful  at  first,  and  might  be  expected 
to  come  out  shortly. 

"It  is  entirely  a  private  and  personal  matter  that  has 
brought  me  here,  sir,"  continued  Walter,  faltering,  "  and 
Captain  Cuttle — " 

"  Here  ! "  interposed  the  captain,  as  an  assurance  that 
he  was  at  hand,  and  might  be  relied  upon. 

"  Who  is  a  very  old  friend  of  my  poor  uncle's,  and  a 
most  excellent  man,  sir,"  pursued  Walter,  raising  his 
eyes  with  a  look  of  entreaty  in  the  captain's  behalf,  "was 
so  good  as  to  offer  to  come  with  me,  which  I  could  hardly 
refuse."  , 

"  No,  no,  no,"  observed  the  captain  complacently. 
"  Of  course  not.    No  call  for  refusing.    Go  on,  Wal'r." 

"  And  therefore,  sir,"  said  Walter,  venturing  to  meet 
Mr.  Dombey's  eyes  and  proceeding  with  better  courage 
in  the  very  desperation  of  the  case,  now  that  there  was 
no  avoiding  it,  "  therefore  I  have  come  with  him,  sir,  to 
say  that  my  poor  old  uncle  is  in  very  great  affliction  and 
distress.  That  through  the  gradual  loss  of  his  business, 
and  not  being  able  to  make  a  payment,  the  apprehension 
of  which  has  weighed  very  heavily  upon  his  mind, 
months  and  months,  as  indeed  I  know,  sir,  he  has  an  ex- 
ecution in  his  house,  and  is  danger  of  losing  all  he  has, 
and  breaking  his  heart.  And  that  if  you  would,  in  your 
kindness, and  in  your  old  knowledge  of  him  as  a  respecta- 
ble man,  do  anything  to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulty,  sir, 
we  never  could  thank  you  enough  for  it." 

Walter's  filled  with  tears  as  he  spoke  ;  and  so  did 
those  of  Florence.  Her  father  saw  them  glistening, 
though  he  appeared  to  look  at  Walter  only. 

"  It  is  a  very  large  sum,  sir,"  said  Walter.  "  More 
than  three  hundred  pounds.  My  uncle  is  quite  beaten 
down  by  his  misfortune,  it  lies  so  heavy  on  him  ;  and  is 
quite  unable  to  do  anything  for  his  own  relief.  He 
doesn't  even  know  yet  that  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you. 
You  would  wish  me  to  say,  sir,"  added  Walter,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  "  exactly  what  it  is  I  want,  I  re- 
ally don't  know,  sir.  There  is  my  imcle's  stock,  on 
which  I  believe  I  may  say,  confidently,  there  are  no  other 
demands,  and  there  is  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  wish 
to  be  security  too.  I— I  hardly  like  to  mention,"  said 
Walter,  "  Such  earnings  as  mine  ;  but  if  you  will  allow 
them — accumulate — payment —  advance — uncle — frugal, 
honourable  old  man."  Walter  trailed  off  through  these 
broken  sentences,  into  silence,  and  stood,  with  down- 
cast head,  before  his  employer. 


m 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


Considering  this  a  favourable  moment  for  the  display 
of  the  valuables,  Captain  Cuttle  advanced  to  the  table  ; 
and  clearing  a  space  among  the  breakfast-cups  at  Mr. 
Dombey's  elbow,  produced  the  silver  watch,  the  ready 
money,  the  teaspoons,  and  the  sugar-tongs  ;  and  piling 
them  into  a  heap  that  they  might  look  as  precious  as 
possible,  delivered  himself  of  these  words  : 

"  Half  a  loafs  better  than  no  bread,  and  the  same  re- 
mark holds  good  with  crumbs.  There's  a  few.  Annuity 
of  one  hundred  pound  prannum  also  ready  to  be  made 
over.  If  there  is  a  man  chock  full  of  science  in  the 
world,  it's  old  Sol  Giils.  If  there  is  a  lad  of  promise — 
one  flowing,"  added  the  captain,  in  one  of  his  happy 
quotations,  "  with  milk  and  honey — it's  his  nevy  ! " 

The  captain  then  withdrew  to  his  former  place,  where 
he  stood  arranging  his  scattered  locks  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  given  the  finishing  touch  to  a  diflBcult  per- 
formance. 

When  Walter  ceased  to  speak,  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes 
were  attracted  to  little  Paul,  who,  seeing  his  sister  hang- 
ing down  her  head  and  silently  weeping  in  her  commis- 
eration for  the  distress  she  had  heard  described,  went 
over  to  her,  and  tried  to  comfort  her  :  looking  at  Walter 
and  his  father  as  he  did  so,  with  a  very  expressive  face. 
After  the  momentary  distraction  of  Captain  Cuttle's 
address,  which  he  regarded  with  lofty  indifference,  Mr. 
Dombey  again  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  son,  and  sat 
steadily  regarding  the  child,  for  some  moments,  in 
silence. 

"What  was  this  debt  contracted  for?"  asked  Mr. 
Dombey,  at  length.    "  Who  is  the  creditor?" 

*'  He  don't  know,"  replied  the  captain,  putting  his 
hand  on  Walter's  shoulder.  "  I  do.  It  came  of  helping 
a  man  that's  dead  now,  and  that's  cost  my  friend  Gills 
many  a  hundred  pound  already.  More  particulars  in 
private,  if  agreeable." 

*' People  who  have  enough  to  do  to  hold  their  own 
way,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  unobservant  of  the  captain's 
mysterious  signs  behind  Walter,  and  still  looking  at  his 
son,  "  had  better  be  content  with  their  own  obligations 
and  difficulties,  and  not  increase  them  by  engaging  for 
other  men.  It  is  an  act  of  dishonesty,  and  presumption 
too,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly  ;  "great  presumption  ;  for 
the  wealthy  could  do  no  more.    Paul,  come  here  !  " 

The  child  obeyed  :  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  him  on  his 
knee. 

"  If  you  had  money  now — "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  Look  at  me  !  " 

Paul,  whose  eyes  had  wandered  to  his  sister,  and  to 
Walter,  looked  his  father  in  the  face. 

"  If  you  had  money  now — "  said  Mr.  Dombey;  "as 
much  money  as  young  Gay  has  talked  about ;  what 
would  you  do?" 

"  Give  it  to  his  old  uncle,"  returned  Paul. 

"  Lend  it  to  his  uncle,  eh  ? "  retorted  Mr.  Dombey. 
**  Well  !  When  you  are  old  enough,  you  know  you  will 
share  my  money,  and  we  shall  use  it  together." 

"Dombey  and  Son,"  interrupted  Paul,  who  had  been 
tutored  early  in  the  phrase. 

"  Dombey  and  Son,"  repeated  his  father.  "  Would 
you  like  to  begin  to  be  Dombey  and  Son  now,  and  lend 
this  money  to  young  Gay's  uncle  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  if  you  please  papa  ! "  said  Paul  ;  "  and  so  would 
Florence." 

"  Girls,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "have  nothing  to  do  with 
Dombey  and  Son.    Would  you  like  it  ?  " 
"  Yes,  papa,  yes  !  " 

"  Then  you  shall  do  it,"  returned  his  father.  "And 
you  see,  Paul,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  "how 
powerful  money  is,  and  how  anxious  people  are  to  get 
it.  Young  Gay  comes  all  this  way  to  beg  for  money,  and 
you,  who  are  so  grand  and  great,  having  got  it,  are 
going  to  let  him  have  it  as  a  great  favour  and  obli- 
gation." 

Paul  turned  up  the  old  face  for  a  moment,  in  which 
there  was  a  sharp  understanding  of  the  reference  con- 
veyed in  these  words  :  but  it  was  a  young  and  childish 
face  immediately  afterwards,  when  he  slipped  down 
from  his  father's  knee,  and  ran  to  tell  Florence  not  to 
cry  any  more,  for  he  was  going  to  let  young  Gay  have 
the  money. 

Mr.  Dombey  then  turned  to  a  side -table,  and  wrote  a 


note  and  sealed  it.  During  the  interval,  Paul  and  Flor- 
ence whispered  to  Walter,  and  Captain  Cuttle  beamed  on 
the  three  with  such  aspiring  and  ineffably  presumptuous 
thoughts  as  Mr.  Dombey  never  could  have  believed  in. 
The  note  being  finished,  Mr.  Dombey  turned  round  to 
his  former  place,  and  held  it  out  to  Walter. 

"Give  that,"  he  said,  "the  first  thing  to-morrow 
morning,  to  Mr.  Carker.  He  will  immediately  take  care 
that  one  of  my  people  releases  your  uncle  from  his 
present  position,  by  paying  the  amount  at  issue  ;  and 
that  such  arrangements  are  made  for  its  repayment  as 
may  be  consistent  with  your  uncle's  circumstances.  You 
will  consider  that  this  is  done  for  you  by  Master  Paul." 

Walter,  in  the  emotion  of  holding  in  his  hand  the 
means  of  releasing  his  good  uncle  from  his  trouble,  would 
have  endeavoured  to  express  something  of  his  gratitude 
and  joy.    But  Mr.  Dombey  stopped  him  short. 

"You  will  consider  thai  it  is  done,"  he  repeated,  "by 
Master  Paul.  I  have  explained  that  to  him,  and  he  un- 
derstands it.    I  wish  no  more  to  be  said." 

As  he  motioned  towards  the  door,  Walter  could  only 

[  bow  his  head  and  retire.  Miss  Tox,  seeing  that  the 
captain  appeared  about  to  do  the  same,  interposed. 

"My  dear  sir,"  she  said,  addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  at 
whose  munificence  both  she  and  Mrs.  Chick  were  shed- 
ding tears  copiously  ;  "I  think  you  have  overlooked 
something.  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Dombey,  I  think  in  the 
nobility  of  your  character,  and  its  exalted  scope,  you 
have  omitted  a  matter  of  detail." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Tox  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"The  gentleman  with  the  Instrument,"  pursued 

Miss  Tox,  glancing  at  Captain  Cuttle,  "  has  left  upon  the 
table,  at  your  elbow — " 

"Good  Heaven!"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sweeping  the 
captain's  property  from  him,  as  if  it  were  so  much 
crumb  indeed.    '  *  Take  these  things  away.    I  am  obliged 

I  to  you,  Miss  Tox  ;  it  is  like  your  usual  discretion.  Have 

j  the  goodness  to  take  these  things  away,  sir  !" 

J     Captain  Cuttle  felt  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  comply. 

;  But  he  was  so  much  struck  by  the  magnanimity  of  Mr. 

'  Dombey,  in  refusing  treasures  lying  heaped  up  to  his 

!  hand,  that  when  he  had  deposited  the  teaspoons  and 
sugar-tongs  in  one  pocket,  and  the  ready  money  in 
another,  and  had  lowered  the  great  watch  down  slowly 
into  its  proper  vault,  he  could  not  refrain  from  seizing 
that  gentleman's  right  hand  in  his  own  solitary  left,  and 
while  he  held  it  open  with  his  powerful  fingers,  bring- 
ing the  hook  down  upon  its  palm  in  a  transport  of  admi- 
ration. At  this  touch  of  warm  feeling  and  cold  iron,  Mr. 
Dombey  shivered  all  over. 

Captain  Cuttle  then  kissed  his  hook  to  the  ladies 
several  times,  with  great  elegance  and  gallantry  ;  and 
having  taken  a  particular  leave  of  Paul  and  Florence, 
accompanied  Walter  out  of  the  room.  Florence  was 
running  after  them  in  the  earnestness  of  her  heart,  to 
send  some  message  to  old  Sol,  when  Mr.  Dombey  called 
her  back,  and  bade  her  stay  where  she  was. 

"  Will  you  never  be  a  Dombey,  my  dear  child  !"  said 
Mrs.  Chick  with  pathetic  reproachfulness. 

"  Dear  aunt,"  said  Florence.  "  Don't  be  angry  with 
me.    I  am  so  thankful  to  papa  !  " 

She  would  have  run  and  thrown  her  arms  about  his 
neck  if  she  had  dared  ;  but  as  she  did  not  dare,  she 
glanced  with  thankful  eyes  towards  him,  as  he  sat  musing; 
sometimes  bestowing  an  uneasy  glance  on  her,  but  for 
the  most  part,  watching  Paul,  who  walked  about  the 
room  with  the  new-blown  dignity  of  having  let  young 
Gay  have  the  money. 

And  young  Gay— Walter — what  of  him? 
He  was  overjoyed  to  purge  the  old  man's  hearth  from 
bailiffs  and  brokers,  and  to  hurry  back  to  his  uncle  with 
the  good  tidings.  He  was  overjoyed  to  have  it  all  ar- 
ranged and  settled  next  day  before  noon  ;  and  to  sit 
down  at  evening  in  the  little  back  parlour  with  Old  Sol 
and  Captain  Cuttle  ;  and  to  see  the  Instrument-maker 
already  reviving,  and  hopeful  for  the  future,  and  feeling 
that  the  wooden  midshipman  was  his  own  again.  But 
without  the  least  impeachment  of  his  gratitude  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Walter  was  humbled 
and  cast  down.  It  is  when  our  budding  hopes  are  nipped 
beyond  recovery  by  some  rough  wind,  that  we  are  the 
most  disposed  to  picture  to  ourselves  what  flowers  they 


DO  MB  BY  AND  80  K 


479 


might  have  borne,  if  they  had  flourished  ;  and  now,  when 
Walter  felt  himself  cut  off  from  that  great  Dombey  height 
by  the  depth  of  a  new  and  terrible  tumble,  and  felt  that 
ail  his  old  wild  fancies  had  been  scattered  to  the  winds 
in  the  fall,  he  began  to  suspect  that  they  might  have 
led  him  on  to  harmless  visions  of  aspiring  to  Florence  in 
the  remote  distance  of  time. 

The  captain  viewed  the  subject  in  quite  a  different 
light.  He  appeared  to  entertain  a  belief  that  the  inter- 
view at  which  he  had,  assisted  was  so  very  satisfactory 
and  encouraging,  as  to  be  only  a  step  or  two  removed 
from  a  regular  betrothal  of  Florence  to  Walter  ;  and 
that  the  late  transaction  had  immensely  forwarded,  if 
not  thoroughly  established,  the  Whittingtonian  hopes. 
Stimulated  by  this  conviction,  and  by  the  improvement 
in  the  spirits  of  his  old  friend,  and  by  his  own  conse- 
quent gaiety,  he  even  attempted,  in  favouring  them 
with  the  ballad  of  "Lovely  Peg"  for  the  third  time 
in  one  evening,  to  make  an  extemporaneous  substitu- 
tion of  the  name  "  Florence  ;  "  but  finding  this  difficult, 
on  account  of  the  word  Peg  invariably  rhyming  to 
leg  (in  which  personal  beauty  the  original  was  described 
as  having  excelled  all  competitors),  he  hit  upon  the  happy 
thought  of  changing  it  to  Fie— e— eg  ;  which  he  accord- 
ingly did,  with  an  archness  almost  supernatural,  and  a 
voice  quite  vociferous,  notwithstanding  that  the  time  was 
close  at  hand  when  he  must  seek  the  abode  of  the 
dreadful  Mrs.  MacStinger. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

PavTs  Introduction  to  a  New  Scene. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution  was  made  of  such  hard 
metal,  in  spite  of  its  liability  to  the  fleshly  weaknesses  of 
standing  in  need  of  repose  after  chops,  and  of  requiring 
to  be  coaxed  to  sleep  by  the  soporific  agency  of  sweet- 
breads, that  it  utterly  set  at  nought  the  predictions  of 
Mrs.  Wickam,  and  showed  no  symptoms  of  decline. 
Yet,  as  Paul's  rapt  interest  in  the  old  lady  continued  un- 
abated, Mrs.  Wickam  would  not  budge  an  inch  from  the 
position  she  had  taken  up.  Fortifying  and  entrenching 
herself  on  the  strong  ground  of  her  uncle's  Betsey  Jane, 
she  advised  Miss  Berry,  as  a  friend,  to  prepare  herself 
for  the  worst  ;  and  forewarned  her  that  her  aunt  might, 
at  any  time,  be  expected  to  go  off  suddenly,  like  a  pow- 
der-mill. 

Poor  Berry  took  it  all  in  good  part,  and  drudged  and 
slaved  away  as  usual  ;  perfectly  convinced  that  Mrs. 
Pipchin  was  one  of  the  most  meritorious  persons  in  the 
world,  and  making  every  day  innumerable  sacrifices  of 
herself  upon  the  altar  of  that  noble  old  woman.  But  all 
these  immolations  of  Berry  were  somehow  carried  to 
the  credit  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  by  Mrs.  Pipchin's  friends 
and  admirers  ;  and  were  made  to  harmonise  with,  and 
carry  out,  that  melancholy  fact  of  the  deceased  Mr. 
Pipchin  having  broken  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian  mines. 

For  example,  there  was  an  honest  grocer  and  general 
dealer  in  the  retail  line  of  business,  between  whom  and 
Mrs.  Pipchin  there  was  a  small  memorandum  book,  with 
a  greasy  red  cover,  perpetually  in  question,  and  concern- 
ing which  divers  secret  councils  and  conferences  were 
continually  being  held  between  the  parties  to  the  regis- 
ter, on  the  mat  in  the  passage,  and  with  closed  doors  in 
the  parlour.  Nor  were  there  wanting  dark  hints  from 
Master  Bitherstone  (whose  temper  had  been  made  re- 
vengeful by  the  solar  heats  of  India  acting  on  his  blood), 
of  balances  unsettled,  and  of  a  failure,  on  one  occasion 
\yithin  his  memory,  in  the  supply  of  moist  sugar  at  tea- 
time.  This  grocer  being  a  bachelor,  and  not  a  man  who 
looked  upon  the  surface  for  beauty,  had  once  made  hon- 
ourable offers  for  the  hand  of  Berry,  which  Mrs.  Pipchin 
had  with  contumely  and  scorn,  rejected.  Everybody 
said  how  laudable  this  was  in  Mrs.  Pipchin,  relict  of  a 
man  who  had  died  of  the  Peruvian  mines  ;  and  what  a 
staunch,  high,  independent  spirit,  the  old  lady  had. 
But  nobody  said  anything  about  poor  Berry,  who  cried 
for  six  weeks  (being  soundly  rated  by  her  good  aunt  all 
the  time),  and  lapsed  into  a  state  of  hopeless  spinster- 
'  hood. 


"Berry's  very  fond  of  you,  ain't  she?"  Paul  once 
asked  Mrs.  Pipchin  when  they  were  sitting  by  the  fire 
with  the  cat. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  Why?"  asked  Paul. 

"  Why  !  "  returned  the  disconcerted  old  lady.  "  How 
can  you  ask  such  things,  sir  !  why  are  you  fond  of  your 
sister  Florence  ?  " 

"  Because  she's  very  good,"  said  Paul.  "  There's  no- 
body like  Florence." 

"  Well !"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shortly,  "  and  there's 
nobody  like  me,  I  suppose." 

"  Ain't  there  really  though?"  asked  Paul  leaning  for- 
ward in  his  chair,  and  looking  at  her  very  hard. 

"No,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  observed  Paul,  rubbing  his 
hands  thoughtfully.    "  That's  a  very  good  thing." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  didn't  dare  to  ask  him  why,  lest  she 
should  receive  some  perfectly  annihilating  answer.  But 
as  a  compensation  to  her  wounded  feelings,  she  harassed 
Master  Bitherstone  to  that  extent  until  bed-time,  that  he 
began  that  very  night  to  make  arrangements  for  an  over- 
land return  to  India,  by  secreting  from  his  supper  a 
quarter  of  a  round  of  bread  and  a  fragment  of  moist 
Dutch  cheese,  as  the  beginning  of  a  stock  of  provision 
to  support  him  on  the  voyage. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  had  kept  watch  and  ward  over  little  Paul 
and  his  sister  for  nearly  twelve  months.  They  had  beea 
home  twice,  but  only  for  a  few  days  ;  and  had  been  con- 
stant in  their  weekly  visits  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  the  hotel. 
By  little  and  little  Paul  had  grown  stronger,  and  had  be- 
come able  to  dispense  with  his  carriage ;  though  he  still 
looked  thin  and  delicate  ;  and  still  remained  the  same 
old,  quiet,  dreamy  child,  that  he  had  been  when  first 
consigned  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  care.  One  Saturday  after- 
noon, at  dusk,  great  consternation  was  occasioned  in  the 
castle  by  the  unlooked-for  announcement  of  Mr.  Dombey 
as  a  visitor  to  Mrs.  Pipchin.  The  population  of  the  par- 
lour was  immediately  swept  up-stairs  as  on  the  wings 
of  a  whirlwind,  and  after  much  slamming  of  bedroom 
doors,  and  trampling  overhead,  and  some  knocking  about 
of  Master  Bitherstone  by  Mrs.  Pipchin,  as  a  relief  to  the 
perturbation  of  her  spirits,  the  black  bombazeen  gar- 
ments of  the  worthy  old  lady  darkened  the  audience- 
chamber  where  Mr.  Dombey  was  contemplating  the  va- 
cant arm-chair  of  his  son  and  heir. 

"Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "How  do  you 
do?"  .  * 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "I  am  pretty 
well,  considering." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  always  used  that  form  of  words.  It 
meant,  considering  her  virtues,  sacrifices,  and  so 
forth. 

"  I  can't  expect,  sir,  to  be  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, taking  a  chair,  and  fetching  her  breath ;  "  but 
such  health  as  I  have,  I  am  grateful  for." 

Mr.  Dombey  inclined  his  head  with  the  satisfied  air 
of  a  patron,  who  felt  that  this  was  the  sort  of  thing  for 
which  he  paid  so  much  a  quarter.  After  a  moment's 
silence  he  went  on  to  say  : 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling,  to 
consult  you  in  reference  to  my  son.  I  have  had  it  in 
my  mind  to  do  so  for  some  time  past ;  but  have  deferred 
it  from  time  to  time,  in  order  that  his  health  might 
be  thoroughly  re-established.  You  have  no  misgivings 
on  that  subject,  Mrs.  Pipchin?" 

"  Brighton  has  proved  very  beneficial,  sir,"  returned 
Mrs.  Pipchin.    "  Very  beneficial,  indeed." 

"  I  purpose,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "his  remaining  at 
Brighton." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  rubbed  her  hands,  and  bent  her  gray 
eyes  on  the  fire. 

"But,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  stretching  out  his  fore- 
finger, "but  possiblv  that  he  should  now  make  a  change, 
and  lead  a  different  kind  of  life  here.  In  short,  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  that  is  the  object  of  my  visit.  My  son  is  get- 
ting on,  Mrs.  Pipchin.    Really,  he  is  getting  on." 

There  was  something  melancholy  in  the  triumphant  air 
with  which  Mr.  Dombey  said  this.  It  showed  how  long 
Paul's  childish  life  had  been  to  him,  and  how  his  hopes 
were  set  upon  a  later  stage  of  his  existence.  Pity  may 
appear  a  strange  word  to  connect  ^vith  any  one  so  haugh- 


480 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


ty  and  so  cold,  and  yet  he  seemed  a  worthy  subject  for  it 
at  that  moment. 

"Six  years  old  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neck- 
cloth— perhaps  to  hide  an  irrepressible  smile  that  rather 
seemed  to  strike  upon  the  surface  of  his  face  and  glance 
away,  as  finding  no  resting  place,  than  to  play  there  for 
an  instant.  "  Dear  me,  six  will  be  changed  to  sixteen, 
before  we  have  time  to  look  about  us." 

"Ten  years,"  croaked  the  unsympathetic  Pipchin, 
with  a  frosty  glistening  of  her  hard  gray  eye,  and  a 
dreary  shaking  of  her  bent  head,  "  is  a  long  time." 

"  It  depends  on  circumstances,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey  ; 
"  at  all  events,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  son  is  six  years  old, 
and  there  is  no  doubt,  I  fear,  that  in  his  studies  he  is 
behind  many  children  of  hisage— or  his  youth,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  quickly  answering  what  he  mistrusted  was  a 
shrewd  twinkle  of  the  frosty  eye,  "  his  youth  is  a  more 
appropriate  expression.  Now,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  instead  of 
being  behind  his  peers,  my  son  ought  to  be  before  them  ; 
far  before  them.  There  is  an  eminence  ready  for  him 
to  mount  upon.  There  is  nothing  of  chance  or  doubt  in 
the  course  before  my  son.  His  way  in  life  was  clear  and 
prepared,  and  marked  out,  before  he  existed.  The  edu- 
cation of  such  a  young  gentleman  must  not  be  delayed. 
It  must  not  be  left  imperfect.  It  must  be  very  steadily 
and  seriously  undertaken,  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  I  can  say  nothing  to 
the  contrary." 

"  I  was  quite  sure,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  returned  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, approvingly,  "that  a  person  of  your  good  sense 
could  not,  and  would  not." 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  nonsense — and  worse — 
talked  about  young  people  not  being  pressed  too  hard  at 
first,  and  being  tempted  on,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  sir," 
said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  impatiently  rubbing  her  hooked  nose. 
"  It  never  was  thought  of  in  my  time,  and  it  has  no 
business  to  be  thought  of  now.  My  opinion  is  'keep 
'em  at  it.' " 

"  My  good  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  have 
not  acquired  your  reputation  undeservedly  ;  and  I  beg 
you  to  believe,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  I  am  more  than  satis- 
fied with  your  excellent  system  of  management,  and 
shall  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  commending  it  when- 
ever my  poor  commendation  " — Mr.  Dombey's  loftiness 
when  he  affected  to  disparage  his  own  importance, 
passed  all  bounds — "  can  be  of  any  service.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  Doctor  Blimber's,  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  My  neighbour,  sir?"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "I  believe 
the  doctor's  is  an  excellent  establishment.  I've  heard 
that  it's  very  strictly  conducted,  and  that  there's  nothing 
but  learning  going  on  from  morning  to  night." 

"And  it's  very  expensive,"  added  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  And  it's  very  expensive,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin 
catching  at  the  fact,  as  if  in  omitting  that,  she  had 
omitted  one  of  its  leading  merits. 

"  I  have  had  some  communication  with  the  doctor, 
Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  hitching  his  chair 
anxiously  a  little  nearer  to  the  fire,  "and  he  does  not 
consider  Paul  at  all  too  young  for  his  purpose.  He  men- 
tioned several  instances  of  boys  in  Greek  at  about  the 
same  age.  If  I  have  any  little  uneasiness  in  my  own 
mind,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  on  the  subject  of  this  change,  it  is 
not  on  that  head.  My  son  not  having  known  a  mother 
has  gradually  concentrated  much — too  much — of  his 
childish  affection  on  his  sister.  Whether  their  separa- 
tion— "  Mr.  Dombey  said  no  more,  but  sat  silent. 

"Hoity-toity  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  out 
her  black  bombazeen  skirts,  and  plucking  up  all  the 
ogress  within  her.  "  If  she  don't  like  it,  Mr.  Dombey, 
she  must  be  taught  to  lump  it."  The  good  lady  apolo- 
gised immediately  afterwards  for  using  so  common  a 
figure  of  speech,  but  said  (and  truly)  that  that  was  the 
way  she  reasoned  with  'cm. 

Mr.  Dombey  waited  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  done 
bridling  and  shaking  her  head,  and  frowning  down  a 
legion  of  Bitherstones  and  Pankeys  ;  and  then  said 
quietly,  but  correctively,  "  He,  my  good  madam,  he." 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  system  would  have  applied  very  much 
the  same  mode  of  cure  to  any  uneasiness  on  the  part  of 
Paul,  too  ;  but  as  the  hard  gray  eye  was  sharp  enough 
to  see  that  the  recipe,  however  Mr.  Dombey  might  admit 
its  efficacy  in  the  case  of  the  daughter,  was  not  a  sov- 


ereign remedy  for  the  son,  she  argued  the  point  :  and 
contended  that  change,  and  new  society,  and  the  differ- 
ent form  of  life  he  would  lead  at  Doctor  Blimber's,  and 
the  studies  he  would  have  to  master,  would  very  soon 
prove  sufficient  alienations.  As  this  chimed  in  with  Mr. 
Dombey's  own  hope  and  belief,  it  gave  that  gentleman  a 
still  higher  opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  understanding  ; 
and  as  Mrs.  Pipchin,  at  the  same  time,  bewailed  the  loss 
of  her  dear  little  friend  (which  was  not  an  overwhelming 
shock  to  her,  as  she  had  long  expected  it,  and  had  not 
looked,  in  the  beginning,  for  his  remaining  with  her 
longer  than  three  months),  he  formed  an  equally  good 
opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  disinterestedness.  It  was  plain 
that  he  had  given  the  subject  anxious  consideration,  for 
he  had  formed  a  plan,  which  he  announced  to  the  ogress, 
of  sending  Paul  to  the  doctor's  as  a  weekly  boarder  for 
the  first  half  year,  during  which  time  Florence  would 
remain  at  the  castle,  that  she  might  receive  her  brother 
there,  on  Saturdays.  This  would  wean  him  by  degrees, 
Mr.  Dombey  said  :  probably  with  a  recollection  of  his 
not  having  been  weaned  by  degrees  on  a  former  occa- 
sion. 

Mr.  Dombey  finished  the  interview  by  expressing  his 
hope  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  would  still  remain  in  office  as 
general  superintendent  and  overseer  of  her  son,  pending 
his  studies  at  Brighton  ;  and  having  kissed  Paul,  and 
shaken  hands  with  Florence,  and  beheld  Master  Bither- 
stone  in  his  collar  of  state,  and  made  Miss  Pankey  cry 
by  patting  her  on  the  head  (in  which  region  she  was  un- 
commonly tender,  on  account  of  a  habit  Mrs.  Pipchin 
had  of  sounding  it  with  her  knuckles,  like  a  cask),  he 
withdrew  to  his  hotel  and  dinner  :  resolved  that  Paul, 
now  that  he  was  getting  so  old  and  well,  should  begin  a 
vigorous  course  of  education  forthwith,  to  qualify  him 
for  the  position  in  which  he  was  to  shine  ;  and  that  Doc- 
tor Blimber  should  take  him  in  hand  immediately. 

Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  taken  in  hand  by 
Doctor  Blimber,  he  might  consider  himself  sure  of  a 
pretty  tight  squeeze.  The  doctor  only  undertook  the 
charge  of  ten  young  gentlemen,  but  he  had,  always 
ready,  a  supply  of  learning  for  a  hundred,  on  the  lowest 
estimate  ;  and  it  was  at  once  the  business  and  delight 
of  his  life  to  gorge  the  unhappy  ten  with  it. 

In  fact,  Doctor  Blimber's  establishment  was  a  great 
hot-house,  in  which  there  was  a  forcing  apparatus  inces- 
santly at  work.  All  the  boys  blew  before  their  time. 
Mental  green-peas  were  produced  at  Christmas,  and  in- 
tellectual asparagus  all  the  year  round.  Mathematical 
gooseberries  (very  sour  ones  too)  were  common  at  un- 
timely seasons,  and  from  mere  sprouts  of  bushes,  under 
Doctor  Blimber's  cultivation.  Every  description  cf 
Greek  and  Latin  vegetable  was  got  off  the  driest  twigs 
of  boys,  under  the  frostiest  circumstances.  Nature  was 
of  no  consequence  at  all.  No  matter  what  a  young  gen- 
tleman was  intended  to  bear,  Doctor  Blimber  made  him 
bear  to  pattern,  somehow  or  other. 

This  was  all  very  pleasant  and  ingenious,  but  the  sys- 
tem of  forcing  was  attended  with  its  usual  disadvan- 
tages. There  was  not  the  right  taste  about  the  prema- 
ture productions,  and  they  didn't  keep  well.  Moreover, 
one  young  gentleman,  with  a  swollen  nose  and  an  exces- 
sively large  head  (the  oldest  of  the  ten  who  had  "gone 
through"  everything),  suddenly  left  off  blowing  one 
day,  and  remained  in  the  establishment  a  mere  stalk. 
And  i>eople  did  say  that  the  doctor  had  rather  overdone 
it  with  young  Toots,  and  that  when  he  began  to  have 
whiskers  he  left  off  having  brains. 

There  young  Toots  was,  at  any  rate  ;  possessed  of  the 
gruffest  of  voices  and  the  shrillest  of  minds  ;  sticking 
ornamental  pins  into  his  shirt,  and  keeping  a  ring  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket  to  put  on  his  little  finger  by  stealth, 
when  the  pupils  went  out  walking  ;  constantly  falling 
in  love  by  sight  with  nurserymaids,  who  had  no  idea  of 
his  existence  ;  and  looking  at  the  gas-lighted  world  over 
the  little  iron  bars  in  the  left-hand  corner  window  of  the 
front  three  pairs  of  stairs,  after  bed- time,  like  a  greatly 
overgrown  cherub  who  had  sat  up  aloft  much  too  long. 

The  doctor  was  a  portly  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  black, 
with  strings  at  his  knees,  and  stockings  below  then}. 
He  had  a  bald  head,  highly  polished  ;  a  deep  voice  ;  and 
a  chin  so  very  double,  that  it  was  a  wonder  how  he 
managed  to  shave  into  the  creases.    He  had  likewise  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


481 


pair  of  little  eyes  that  were  always  half  shut  up,  and  a  I 
mouth  that  was  always  half  expanded  into  a  grin,  as  if  \ 
he  had,  that  moment,  posed  a  boy,  and  were  waiting  to  I 
convict  him  from  his  own  lips.  Insomuch,  that  when 
the  doctor  put  his  right  hand  into  the  breast  of  his  coat,  j 
and  with  his  other  hand  behind  him,  and  a  scarcely  per-  j 
ceptible  wag  of  his  head,  made  the  commonest  observa-  | 
tion  to  a  nervous  stranger,  it  was  like  a  sentiment  from 
the  sphyns,  and  settled  his  business.  I 

The  doctor's  was  a  mighty  line  house,  fronting  the  , 
sea.    Not  a  joyful  style  of  house  within,  but  quite  the  ' 
contrary.     Sad-coloured   curtains,    whose  proportions 
were  spare  and  lean,  hid  themselves  despondently  behind 
the  windows.    The  tables  and  chairs  were  put  away  in 
rows,  like  figures  in  a  sum  :  fires  were  so  rarely  lighted 
in  the  rooms  of  ceremony,  that  they  felt  like  wells,  and 
a  visitor  represented  "the   bucket  ;  the  dining-room 
seemed  the  last  place  in  the  world  where  any  eating  or  ' 
drinking   was  likely  to  occur  ;   there  was  no  sound 
through  all  the  house  but  the  ticking  of  a  great  clock  in 
the  hall,  which  made  itself  audible  in  the  very  garrets  ; 
and  sometimes  a  dull  crying  of  young  gentlemen  at  their 
lessons,  like  the  murmurings  of  an  assemblage  of  mel- 
ancholy pigeons. 

Miss  Blimber,  too,  although  a  slim  and  graceful  maid, 
did  no  soft  violence  to  the  gravity  of  the  house.  There 
was  no  light  nonsense  about  Miss  Blimber.  She  kept 
her  hair  short  and  crisp,  and  wore  spectacles.  She  was 
dry  and  sandy  with  working  in  the  graves  of  deceased 
languages.  None  of  your  live  languages  for  Miss  Blim- 
ber. They  must  be  dead — stone  dead — and  then  Miss 
Blimber  dug  them  up  like  a  Ghoul. 

Mrs.  Blimber,  her  mamma,  was  not  learned  herself, 
but  she  pretended  to  be,  and  that  did  quite  as  well.  She 
said  at  evening  parties,  that  if  she  could  have  known 
Cicero,  she  thought  she  could  have  died  contented.  It 
was  the  steady  joy  of  her  life  to  see  the  doctor's  young 
gentlemen  go  out  walking,  unlike  all  other  young  gen- 
tlemen, in  the  largest  possible  shirt-collars  and  the  still- 
est possible  cravats.    It  was  so  classical,  she  said. 

As  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  Doctor  Blimber's  assistant,  he 
was  a  kind  of  human  barrel-organ  with  a  little  list  of 
tunes  at  which  he  was  continually  working,  over  and 
over  again,  without  any  variation.  He  might  have  been 
fitted  up  with  a  change  of  barrels,  perhaps,  in  early  life, 
if  his  destiny  had  been  favourable  ;  but  it  had  not  been  ; 
and  he  had  only  one,  with  which,  in  a  monotonous  round, 
it  was  his  occupation  to  bewilder  the  young  ideas  of 
Doctor  Blimber's  young  gentlemen.  The  young  gentle- 
men were  prematurely  full  of  carking  anxieties.  They 
knew  no  rest  from  the  pursuit  of  stony-hearted  verbs, 
savage  noun-substantives,  inflexible  syntactic  passages, 
and  ghosts  of  exercises  that  appeared  to  them  in  their 
dreams.  Under  the  forcing  system,  a  young  gentleman 
usually  took  leave  of  his  spirits  in  three  weeks.  He  had 
all  the  cares  of  the  world  on  his  head  in  three  months. 
He  conceived  bitter  sentiments  against  his  parents  or 
guardians  in  four ;  he  was  an  old  misanthrope,  in  five  ; 
envied  Curtius  that  blessed  refuge  in  the  earth,  in  six  ; 
and  at  the  end  of  the  first  twelvemonth  had  arrived  at 
the  conclusion,  from  which  he  never  afterwards  de- 
parted, that  all  the  fancies  of  the  poets,  and  lessons  of 
the  sages,  were  a  mere  collection  of  words  and  grammar, 
and  bad  no  other  meaning  in  the  world. 

But  he  went  on,  blow,  blow,  blowing,  in  the  doctor's 
hot-house,  all  the  time  ;  and  the  doctor's  glory  and  rep- 
utation were  great,  when  he  took  his  wintry  growth 
home  to  his  relations  and  friends. 

Upon  the  doctor's  door-steps  one  day,  Paul  stood  with 
a  fluttering  heart,  and  with  his  small  right  hand  in  his 
father's.  His  other  hand  was  locked  in  that  of  Florence. 
How  tight  the  tiny  pressure  of  that  one  ;  and  how  loose 
and  cold  the  other  ! 

Mrs.  Pipchin  hovered  behind  the  victim,  with  her  sable 
plumage  and  her  hooked  beak,  like  a  bird  of  ill-omen. 
3he  was  out  of  breath — for  Mr.  Dombey,  full  of  great 
thoughts,  had  walked  fast— and  she  croaked  hoarsely  as 
}he  waited  for  the  opening  of  the  door. 

"  Now,  Paul,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  exultingly.  "This  is 
ihe  way  indeed  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  and  have  money, 
ifou  are  almost  a  man  already. " 

"  Almost,"  returned  the  child. 
Vol.  II.-31 


Even  his  childish  agitation  could  not  master  the  sly 
and  quaint  yet  touching  look,  with  which  he  accom- 
panied the  reply. 

It  brought  a  vague  expression  of  dissatisfaction  into 
Mr.  Dombey 's  face  ;  but  the  door  being  opened,  it  was 
quickly  gone. 

Doctor  Blimber  is  at  home,  I  believe?"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

The  man  said  yes  ;  and  as  they  passed  in,  looked  at 
Paul  as  if  he  were  a  little  mouse,  and  the  house  were  a 
trap.  He  was  a  weak-eyed  young  man,  with  the  first 
faint  streaks  or  early  dawn  of  a  grin  on  his  countenance. 
It  was  mere  imbecility  ;  but  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  it  into 
her  head  that  it  was  impudence,  and  made  a  snap  at  hiHi 
directly. 

"  How  dare  you  laugh  behind  the  gentleman's  back?" 
said  Mrs.  Pipchin.    "  And  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?  '* 

"  I  ain't  a  laughing  at  nobody,  and  I  am  sure  I  don't 
take  you  for  nothing,  ma'am,"  returned  the  young  man, 
in  consternation. 

"  A  pack  of  idle  dogs  !  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  only  fit 
to  be  turnspits.  Go  and  tell  your  master  that  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  here,  or  it'll  be  worse  for  you  !  " 

The  weak-eyed  young  man  went,  very  meekly,  to  dis- 
charge himslf  of  this  commission  ;  and  soon  came  back 
to  invite  them  to  the  doctor's  study. 

"You're  laughing  again,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  when 
it  came  to  her  turn,  bringing  up  the  rear,  to  pass  him  in 
the  hall. 

"  I  ain't,"  returned  the  young  man,  grievously  op- 
pressed.    "  I  never  see  such  a  thing  as  this  !" 
I     "  What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ?"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, looking  round.    "  Softly  !    Pray  !  " 

Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  deference,  merely  muttered  at 
the  young  man  as  he  i^assed  on,  and  said,  "Oh,  he  was 
a  precious  fellow" — leaving  the  young  man,  who  was 
all  meekness  and  incapacity,  affected  even  to  tears  by 
the  incident.  But  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  a  way  of  falling 
foul  of  all  meek  people  ;  and  her  friends  said  who  could 
wonder  at  it,  after  the  Peruvian  mines  ! 

The  doctor  was  sitting  in  his  portentous  study,  with  a 
globe  at  each  knee,  books  all  round  him,  Homer  over 
the  door,  and  Minerva  on  the  mantel-shelf.  "And  how 
do  you  do,  sir,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Dombey,  "and  how  is 
my  little  friend?"  Grave  as  an  organ  was  the  doctor's 
speech  ;  and  when  he  ceased,  the  great  clock  in  the  hall 
seemed  (to  Paul  at  least)  to  take  him  up,  and  to  go  on 
saying,  "how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit, 
tie,  friend,"  over  and  over  and  over  again. 

The  little  friend  being  something  too  small  to  be  seen 
at  all  from  where  the  doctor  sat,  over  the  books  on  his 
table,  the  doctor  made  several  futile  attempts  to  get  a 
view  of  him  round  the  legs ;  which  Mr.  Dombey  per- 
ceiving, relieved  the  doctor  from  his  embarrassment  by 
taking  Paul  up  in  his  arms,  and  sitting  him  on  another 
little  table,  over  against  the  doctor,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  doctor,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with 
his  hand  in  his  breast.  "  Now  I  see  my  little  friend. 
How  do  you  do,  my  little  friend  ?  " 

The  clock  in  the  hall  wouldn't  subscribe  to  this  altera- 
tion in  the  form  of  words,  but  continued  to  repeat  "  how, 
is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend  ! " 

"Very  well,  I  thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Paul,  answer- 
ing the  clock  quite  as  much  as  the  doctor. 

"Ha  !"  said  Dr.  Blimber.  "  Shall  we  make  a  man  of 
him?" 

"Do  you  hear,  Paul?"  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  Paul  being 
silent. 

"  Shall  we  make  a  man  of  him?  "  repeated  the  doctor. 
"  I  had  rather  be  a  child,"  replied  Paul. 
"  Indeed  ! "  said  the  doctor.    "  Why?" 
The  child  sat  on  the  table  looking  at  him,  with  a  curi- 
ous expression  of  suppressed  emotion  in  his  face,  and 
beating  one  hand  proudly  on  his  knee  as  if  he  had  the 
rising  tears  beneath  it,'  and  crushed  them.     But  his 
other  hand  straved  a  little  way  the  while,  a  little  farther 
—farther  from  him  yet— until  it  lighted  on  the  neck  of 
Florence.    "This  is  why,"  it  seemed  to  say,  and  then 
the  steady  look  was  broken  up  and  gone  ;  the  work- 
ing lip  was  loosened  ;  and  the  tears  came  streaming 
forth. 


^82 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"Mrs.  Pipcllin,"  said  his  father,  in  a  querulous  man- 
ner, "I  am  really  very  sorry  to  see  this." 

"Come  away  from  him,  do.  Miss  Dombey,"  quoth  the 
matron. 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  doctor,  blandly  nodding  his 
head,  to  keep  Mrs.  Pipchin  back.  "  Ne-ver  mind  ;  we 
shall  substitute  new  cares  and  new  impressions,  Mr. 
Dombey,  very  shortly.  You  would  still  wish  my  little 
friend  to  acquire — " 

"  Everything,  if  you  please,  doctor,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey  firmly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  who,  with  his  half -shut  eyes, 
and  his  usual  smile,  seemed  to  survey  Paul  with  the  sort 
of  interest  that  might  attach  to  some  choice  little  animal 
he  was  going  to  stuff.  " Yes,  exactly.  Ha!  We  shall 
impart  a  great  variety  of  information  to  our  little  friend, 
and  bring  him  quickly  forward,  I  dare  say.  1  dare  say. 
Quite  a  virgin  soil,  I  believe  you  said,  Mr.  Dombey?" 

"  Except  some  ordinary  preparation  at  home,  and  from 
this  lady,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey,  introducing  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  who  instantly  communicated  a  rigidity  to  her  whole 
muscular  system,  and  snorted  defiance  beforehand,  in 
case  the  doctor  should  disparage  her  ;  "  except  so  far, 
Paul  has,  as  yet,  applied  himself  to  no  studies  at  all. " 

Doctor  Blimber  inclined  his  head,  in  gentle  tolerance 
of  such  insignificant  poaching  as  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  and  said 
he  was  glad  to  hear  it.  It  was  much  more  satisfactory, 
he  observed,  rubbing  his  hands,  to  begin  at  the  founda- 
tion. And  again  he  leered  at  Paul,  as  if  he  would  have 
liked  to  tackle  him  with  the  Greek  alphabet  on  the 
spot. 

"  That  circumstance,  indeed.  Doctor  Blimber,"  pur- 
sued Mr.  Dombey,  glancing  at  his  little  son,  "and  the 
interview  I  have  already  had  the  pleasure  of  holding 
with  you,  renders  any  further  explanation,  and  conse- 
quently, any  further  intrusion  on  your  valuable  time, 
so  unnecessary,  that — " 

"  Now,  Miss  Dombey  !  "  said  the  acid  Pipchin. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  the  doctor,  * '  one  moment.  Allow 
me  to  present  Mrs.  Blimber  and  my  daughter,  who  will 
be  associated  with  the  domestic  life  of  our  young  Pil- 
grim to  Parnassus.  Mrs.  Blimber,"  for  the  lady,  who 
had  perhaps  been  in  waiting,  opportunely  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  her  daughter,  that  fair  sexton  in  spectacles, 
"Mr.  Dombey.  My  daughter  Cornelia,  Mr.  Dombey. 
Mr.  Dombey,  my  love,"  pursued  the  doctor,  turning  to 
his  wife,  "is  so  confiding  as  to — do  you  see  our  little 
friend?" 

Mrs.  Blimber,  in  an  excess  of  politeness,  of  which  Mr. 
Dombey  was  the  object,  apparently  did  not,  for  she  was 
backing  against  the  little  friend,  and  very  much  endan- 
gering his  position  on  the  table.  But,  on  this  hint,  she 
turned  to  admire  his  classical  and  intellectual  linea- 
ments, and  turning  again  to  Mr.  Dombey,  said,  with  a 
sigh,  that  she  envied  his  dear  son. 

"  Like  a  bee,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  uplifted 
eyes,"  about  to  plunge  into  a  garden  of  the  choicest  flow- 
ers, and  sip  tlie  sweets  for  the  first  time.  Virgil,  Horace, 
Ovid,  Terence,  Plautus,  Cicero.  What  a  world  of  honey 
have  we  here.  It  may  appear  remarkable,  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  one  who  i«  a  wife— the  wife  of  such  a  husband — " 

"  Hush,  hush,"  said  Doctor  Blimber.   "  Fie  for  shame." 

"Mr.  Dombey  will  forgive  the  partiality  of  a  wife," 
said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  an  engaging  smile. 

Mr.  Dombey  answered  "  Not  at  all :  "  applying  those 
words,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  to  the  partiality,  and  not  to 
the  forgiveness. 

'" — And  it  may  seem  remarkable  in  one  who  is  a  moth- 
er al.so,"  resumed  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"  And  such  a  mother,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  bowing 
with  some  confused  idea  of  being  complimentary  to  Cor- 
;nelia. 

'"But  really,"  pursued  Mrs.  Blimber,  "I  think  if  I 
rcould  have  known  Cicero,  and  been  his  friend,  and  talked 
with  him  in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum  (beau-ti-ful  Tus- 
culum  !),  I  could  have  died  contented." 

A. learned  enthusiam  is  so  very  contagious,  that  Mr. 
Donlbeyhalf  believed  this  was  exactly  his  case;  and 
•  even  Mrs.  Pipcliin,  who  was  not,  as  we  have  seen,  of 
any  accommodating  disjwsition,  generally,  gave  utter- 
ance to  a  little  sound  between  a  groan  and  a  sigh,  as  if 
she  would  have  said  that  nobody  but  Cicero  could  have 


proved  a  lasting  consolation  under  that  failure  of  the 
Peruvian  Mines,  but  that  he  indeed  would  have  been 
a  very  Davy-lamp  of  refuge. 

Cornelia  looked  at  Mr.  Dombey  through  her  spectacles, 
as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  crack  a  few  quotations  with 
him  from  the  authority  in  question.  But  this  design, 
if  she  entertained  it,  was  frustrated  by  a  knock  at  the 
room-door, 

"  Who  is  that?"  said  the  doctor.  "Oh  !  Come  in, 
Toots  ;  come  in.  Mr.  Dombey,  sir,"  Toots  bowed. 
"Quite  a  coincidence  !"  said  Doctor  Blimber.  "Here 
we  have  the  beginning  and  the  end.  Alpha  and  Omega. 
Our  head  boy,  Mr.  Dombey." 

The  doctor  might  have  called  him  their  head  and 
shoulders  boy,  for  he  was  at  least  that  much  taller  than 
any  of  the  rest.  He  blushed  very  much  at  finding  him- 
self among  strangers,  and  chuckled  aloud. 

"  An  addition  to  our  little  Portico,  Toots,"  said  the 
doctor  ;  "  Mr.  Dombey 's  son." 

Young  Toots  blushed  again  ;  and  finding,  from  a  sol- 
emn silence  which  prevailed,  that  he  was  expected  to 
say  something,  said  to  Paul,  "  How  are  you  ?  "  in  a  voice 
so  deep,  and  a  manner  so  sheepish,  that  if  a  lamb  had 
roared  it  couldn't  have  been  more  surprising. 

"  Ask  Mr.  Feeder,  if  you  please.  Toots,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, "to  prepare  a  few  introductory  volumes  for  Mr. 
Dombey's  son,  and  to  allot  him  a  convenient  seat  for 
study.  My  dear,  I  believe  Mr.  Dombey  has  not  seen  the 
dormitories. " 

"  If  Mr.  Dombey  will  walk  up-stairs,"  said  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber, "  I  shall  be  more  than  proud  to  show  him  the  do- 
minions of  the  drowsy  god." 

With  that,  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  was  a  lady  of  great  su- 
avity, and  a  wiry  figure,  and  who  wore  a  cap  composed 
of  sky-blue  materials,  proceeded  up-stairs  with  Mr.  Dom- 
bey and  Cornelia  ;  Mrs.  Pipchin  following,  and  looking 
out  sharp  for  her  enemy  the  footman. 

While  tliey  were  gone,  Paul  sat  upon  the  table  hold- 
ing Florence  by  the  hand,  and  glancing  timidly  from 
the  doctor  round  and  round  the  room,  while  the  doctor, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hand  in  his  breast  as 
usual,  held  a  book  from  him  at  arm's  length,  and  read. 
There  was  something  very  awful  in  this  manner  of  read- 
ing. It  was  such  a  determined,  unimpassioned,  inflexi- 
ble, cold-blooded  way  of  going  to  work.  It  left  the 
doctor's  countenance  exposed  to  vie^y  ;  and  when  the 
doctor  smiled  auspiciously  at  his  author,  or  knit  his 
brows,  or  shook  his  head  or  made  wry  faces  at  him  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  tell  me,  sir.  I  know  better,"  it 
was  terrific. 

Toots,  too,  had  no  business  to  be  outside  the  door,  os- 
tentatiously examining  the  wheels  in  his  watch,  and 
counting  his  half-crowns.  But  that  didn't  last  long  ; 
for  Dr,  Blimber,  happening  to  change  the  position  of  his 
tight  plump  legs,  as  if  he  were  going  to  get  up,  Toots 
swiftly  vanished,  and  appeared  no  more. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  his  conductress  we^e  soon  heard  com- 
ing down -stairs  again,  talking  all  the  way  ;  and  pres- 
ently they  entered  the  doctor's  study. 

"I  hope,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  doctor,  laying 
down  his  book,  "  that  the  arrangements  meet  your  ap- 
proval.' 

"  They  are  excellent,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Very  fair,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  a  low 
voice  ;  never  disposed  to  give  too  much  encouragement. 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  wheeling  round, 
"will,  with  your  permission.  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber, 
visit  Paul  now  and  then." 

"Whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  pleases,"  observed  the 
doctor. 

"  Always  happy  to  see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  have  given  all  the 
trouble  I  need,  and  may  take  my  leave,  Paul,  my 
child."  he  went  close  to  him,  as  he  sat  upon  the  table. 
" Good  bye." 

"  Good  bye,  papa." 

The  limp  and  careless  little  hand  that  Mr.  Dombey 
took  in  his,  was  singularly  out  of  keeping  with  th 
wistful  face.    But  he  had  no  part  in  its  sorrowful  ex 
])ression.    It  was  not  addressed  to  him.    No,  no.  T 
Florence — all  to  Florence. 

If  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  insolence  of  wealth,  had  ev 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


483 


made  an  enemy,  hard  to  appease  and  cruelly  vindictive 
in  his  hate,  even  such  an  enemy  might  have  received 
the  pang  that  wrung  his  proud  heart  then,  as  compensa- 
tion for  his  injury. 

He  bent  down  over  his  boy,  and  kissed  him.  If  his 
sight  were  dimmed  as  he  did  so,  by  something  that  for 
a  moment  blurred  the  little  face,  and  made  it  indistinct 
to  him,  his  mental  vision  may  have  been,  for  that  sliort 
time,  the  clearer  perhaps. 

*'  I  shall  see  you  soon,  Paul.  You  are  free  on  Satur- 
days and  Sundays,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  papa,"  returned  Paul  :  looking  at  his  sister. 
"  On  Saturdays  and  Sundays." 

"  And  you'll  try  and  learn  a  great  deal  here,  and  be  a 
clever  man,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;     won't  you?" 

"  I'll  try,"  returned  the  child  wearily. 

"  And  you'll  be  soon  grown  up  now  ! "  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

"Oh  !  very  soon  !"  replied  the  child.  Once  more  the 
old,  old  look,  passed  rapidly  across  his  features  like  a 
strange  light.  It  fell  on  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  extinguished 
itself  in  her  black  dress.  That  excellent  ogress  stepped 
forward  to  take  leave  and  bear  off  Florence,  which  she 
had  long  been  thirsting  to  do.  The  move  on  her  part 
roused  Mr.  Dombey,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  Paul. 
After  patting  him  on  the  head,  and  pressing  his  small 
hand  again,  he  took  leave  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  with  his  usual  polite  frigidity, 
and  walked  out  of  the  study. 

Despite  his  entreaty  that  they  would  not  think  of  stir- 
ring. Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber 
all  pressed  forward  to  attend  him  to  the  hall ;  and  thus 
Mrs.  Pipchin  got  into  a  state  of  entanglement  with  Miss 
Blimber  and  the  doctor,  and  was  crowded  out  of  the 
study  before  she  could  clutch  Florence.  To  which  happy 
accident  Paul  stood  afterwards  indebted  for  the  dear  re- 
membrance, that  Florence  ran  back  to  throw  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  that  hers  was  the  last  face  in  the 
doorway  :  turned  towards  him  with  a  smile  of  encourage- 
ment, the  brighter  for  the  tears  through  which  it  beamed. 

It  made  his  childish  bosom  heave  and  swell  when  it 
was  gone  ;  and  sent  the  globes,  the  books,  blind  Homer 
and  Minerva,  swimming  round  the  room,  But  they 
stopped,  all  of  a  sudden  ;  and  then  he  heard  the  loud 
clock  in  the  hall  still  gravely  inquiring  *  how,  is,  my, 
lit,  tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend,'  as  it  had 
done  before. 

He  sat,  with  folded  hands,  upon  his  pedestal,  silentlj 
listening.  But  he  might  have  answered  '  weary,  weary  ! 
very  lonely,  very  sad  ! '  And  there,  with  an  aching 
void  in  his  young  heart,  and  all  outside  so  cold,  and 
bare,  and  strange,  Paul  sat  as  if  he  had  taken  life  un- 
furnished, and  the  upholsterer  were  never  coming. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

PmiVs  Edux^ation. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  minutes,  which  appeared  an 
immense  time  to  little  Paul  Dombey  on  the  table.  Doc- 
tor Blimber  came  back.  The  doctor's  walk  was  stately, 
and  calculated  to  impress  the  juvenile  mind  with  solemn 
feelings.  It  was  a  sort  of  march  ;  but  when  the  doctor 
put  out  his  right  foot,  he  gravely  turned  upon  his 
axis,  with  a  semi-circular  sweep  towards  the  left;  and 
when  he  put  out  his  left  foot,  he  turned  in  the  same 
manner  towards  the  right.  So  that  he  seemed,  at  every 
stride  he  took,  to  look  about  him  as  though  he  was  say- 
ing, "  Can  anybody  have  the  goodness  lo  indicate  any 
subject,  in  any  direction,  on  which  I  am  uninformed  I  I 
rather  think  not." 

Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber  came  back  in  the  doc- 
tor's company  ;  and  the  doctor,  lifting  his  new  pupil  off 
the  table,  delivered  him  over  to  Miss  Blimber. 

"  Cornelia,"  said  the  doctor,  "  Dombey  will  be  your 
charge  at  first.    Bring  him  on,  Cornelia,  bring  him  on,  '  j 

Miss  Blimber  received  her  young  ward  from  the  Doc-  i 
tor's  hands  ;  and  Paul,  feeling  that  the  spectacles  were  : 
surveying  him,  cast  down  his  eyes.  I 

"  How  old  are  you,  Dombey  ?  "  said  Miss  Blimber.  I 


"  Six,"  answered  Paul,  wondering,  as  he  stole  a  glance 
at  the  young  lady,  why  her  hair  didn't  grow  long  like 
Florence's,  and  why  she  was  like  a  boy. 

"  How  much  do  you  know  of  your  Latin  Grammar, 
Dombey  V  "  said  Miss  Blimber. 

"None  of  it,"  answered  Paul.  Feeling  that  the  an- 
swer was  a  shock  to  Miss  Blimber's  sensibility,  he  looked 
up  at  the  three  faces  that  were  looking  down  at  him,  and 
said  : 

"  I  haven't  been  well.  I  have  been  a  weak  child.  I 
couldn't  llarn  a  Latin  Grammar  when  I  was  out,  every 
day,  with  old  Glubb.  I  wish  you'd  tell  old  Glubb  to 
come  and  see  me,  if  you  please." 

"  What  a  dreadfully  low  name  !  "  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 
"  Unclassical  to  a  degree  !  Who  is  the  monster,  child  ?  " 
"  What  monster  ?"  inquired  Paul. 
"Glubb,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  a  great  disrelish. 
"  He's  no  more  a  monster  than  you  are,"  returned  Paul. 
"  What  !  "  cried  the  doctor,  in  a  terrible  voice.  "Aye, 
aye,  aye  !    Aha  !    What's  that  ?  " 

Paul  was  dreadfully  frightened  ;  but  still  he  made  a 
stand  for  the  absent  Glubb,  though  he  did  it  trembling. 

"  He's  a  very  nice  old  man,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "He 
used  to  draw  my  couch.  He  knows  all  about  the  deep 
sea,  and  the  fish  that  are  in  it,  and  the  great  monsters 
that  come  and  lie  on  rocks  in  the  sun,  and  dive  into  the 
water  again  when  they're  startled,  blowing  and  splashing 
so,  that  they  can  be  heard  for  miles.  There  are  some 
creatures,"  said  Paul,  warming  with  his  subject,  "  I 
don't  know  how  many  yards  long,  and  I  forget  their  names, 
but  Florence  knows,  that  pretend  to  be  in  distress .;  and 
when  a  man  goes  near  them,  out  of  compassion,  they 
open  their  great  jaws,  and  attack  him.  But  all  he  has 
got  to  do,"  vsaid  Paul,  boldly  tendering  this  information 
to  the  very  doctor  himself,  "  is  to  keep  on  turning  as 
he  runs  away,  and  then,  as  they  turn  slowly,  because 
they  are  so  long,  and  can't  bend,  he's  sure  to  beat  them. 
And  though  old  Glubb  don't  know  why  the  sea  should 
make  me  think  of  my  mama  that's  dead,  or  what  it  is 
that  it  is  always  saying — always  saying  !  he  knows  a 
great  deal  about  it.  And  I  wish,"  the  child  concluded, 
with  a  sudden  falling  of  his  countenance,  and  failing  in 
his  animation,  as  he  looked  like  one  forlorn,  upon  the 
three  strange  faces,  "  that  you'd  let  old  Glubb  come  here 
to  see  me,  for  I  know  him  very  well,  and  he  knows  me." 

"  Ha  1 "  said  the  doctor,  shaking  his  head  ;  "  this  is 
bad  but  study  will  do  much." 

Mrs.  Blimber  opined,  with  something  like  a  shiver, 
that  he  was  an  unaccountable  child  ;  and  allowing  for  the 
difference  of  visage,  looked  at  him  pretty  much  as  Mrs. 
Pipchin  had  been  used  to  do. 

"Take  him  round  the  house,  Cornelia,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  and  familiarise  him  with  his  new  sphere.  Go  with  that 
young  lady,  Dombey." 

Dombey  obej^ed ;  giving  his  hand  to  the  abstruse 
Cornelia,  and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  timid  curi- 
osity, as  they  went  away  together.  For  her  spectacles, 
by  reason  of  the  glistening  of  the  glasses,  made  her  so 
mysterious,  that  he  didn't  know  where  she  was  looking, 
and  was  not  indeed  quite  sure  that  she  had  any  eyes  at 
all  behind  them. 

Cornelia  took  him  first  to  the  school-room,  which  was 
situated  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  and  was  approached 
through  two  baize  doors,  which  deadened  and  muffled 
the  young  gentlemen's  voices.  Here,  there  were  eight 
young  gentlemen  in  various  stages  of  mental  prostration, 
all  very  hard  at  work,  and  very  grave  indeed,  Toots, 
as  an  old  hand,  had  a  desk  to  himself  in  one  corner  :  and 
a  magnificent  man,  of  immense  age,  he  looked,  in  Paul's 
young  eyes,  behind  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  who  sat  at  another  little  desk,  had 
his  Virgil  stop  on,  and  was  slowly  grinding  that  tune  to 
four  young  gentlemen.    Of  the  remaining  four,  two,  who 
grasped  their  foreheads  convulsively,  were  engaged  in 
solving  mathematical  problems  :  one  with  his  face  like  a 
dirty  window,  from  much  crying,  was  endeavouring  to 
flounder  through  a  hopeless  number  of  lines  before  dm- 
I  ner  ;  and  one  s^at  looking  at  his  task  in  stony  stupefac- 
I  tion  and  despair— which  it  seemed  had  been  his  con- 
:  dition  ever  since  breakfast  time. 

I  The  appearance  of  a  new  boy  did  not  create  the  sen- 
I  sation  that  might  have  been  expected.  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A. 


484 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


(who  was  in  the  habit  of  shaving  his  head  for  coolness, 
and  had  nothing  but  little  bristles  on  it),  gave  him  a  bony- 
hand,  and  told  him  he  was  glad  to  see  him — which  Paul 
would  have  been  very  glad  to  have  told  Mm,  if  he  could 
have  done  so  with  the  least  sincerity.  Then  Paul,  in- 
structed by  Cornelia,  shook  hands  with  the  four  young 
gentlemen  at  Mr.  Feeder's  desk  ;  then  with  the  two 
young  gentlemen  at  work  on  the  problems,  who  were 
very  feverish  ;  then  with  the  young  gentleman  at  work 
against  time,  who  was  very  inky  ;  and  lastly  with  the 
young  gentleman  in  a  state  of  stupefaction,  who  was 
flabby  and  quite  cold. 

Paul  having  been  already  introduced  to  Toots,  that 
pupil  merely  chuckled  and  breathed  hard,  as  his  custom 
was,  and  pursued  the  occupation  in  which  he  was  en- 
gaged. It  was  not  a  severe  one  ;  for  on  account  of  his 
having  "gone  through  "  so  much  (in  more  senses  than 
one),  and  also  of  his  having,  as  before  hinted,  left  ofE 
blowing  in  his  prime,  Toots  now  had  licence  to  pursue  his 
own  course  of  study  ;  which  was  chiefly  to  write  long 
letters  to  himself  from  persons  of  distinction,  addressed 
'  P.  Toots,  Esquire,  Brighton,  Sussex,'  and  to  preserve 
them  in  his  desk  with  great  care. 

These  ceremonies  passed,  Cornelia  led  Paul  up-stairs 
to  the  top  of  the  house  ;  which  was  rather  a  slow  journey, 
on  account  of  Paul  being  obliged  to  land  both  feet  on 
every  stair,  before  he  mounted  another.  But  they  reached 
their  journey's  end  at  last ;  and  there,  in  a  front  room, 
looking  over  the  wild  sea,  Cornelia  showed  him  a  nice 
little  bed  with  white  hangings,  close  to  the  vrindow,  on 
which  there  was  already  beautifully  written  on  a  card  in 
round  text — down  strokes  very  thick,  and  up  strokes  very 
fine — DoMBEY  ;  while  two  other  little  bedsteads  in  the 
same  room  were  announced,  through  like  means,  as  re- 
spectively appertaining  unto  Briggs  and  TozER. 

Just  as  they  got  down-stairs  again  into  the  hall,  Paul 
saw  the  weak-eyed  young  man  who  had  given  that  mor- 
tal offence  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  suddenly  seize  a  very  large 
drumstick,  and  fly  at  a  gong  that  was  hanging  up,  as  if 
he  had  gone  mad,  or  wanted  vengeance.  Instead  of  re- 
ceiving warning,  however,  or  being  instantly  taken  into 
custody,  the  young  man  left  off  unchecked,  after  having 
made  a  dreadful  noise.  Then  Cornelia  Blimber  said  to 
Dombey  that  dinner  would  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  and  perhaps  he  hud  better  go  into  the  schoolroom 
among  his  "  friends." 

So  Dombey,  deferentially  passing  the  great  clock  which 
was  still  as  anxious  as  ever  to  know  how  he  found  himself, 
opened  the  schoolroom  door  a  very  little  way,  and  strayed 
in  like  a  lost  boy  :  shutting  it  after  him  with  some  diffi- 
culty. His  friends  were  all  dispersed  about  the  room 
except  the  stony  friend,  who  remained  immoveable.  Mr. 
Feeder  was  stretching  himself  in  his  gray  gown,  as  if, 
regardless  of  expense,  he  were  resolved  to  pull  the  sleeves 
off^ 

"  Heigh  ho  hum  !  "  cried  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  himself 
like  a  cart-horse,  "  Oh  dear  me,  dear  me  !    Ya-a-a-ah  !  " 

Paul  was  quite  alarmed  by  Mr.  Feeder's  yawning  ;  it 
was  done  on  such  a  great  scale,  and  he  was  so  terribly 
in  earnest.  All  the  boys  too  (Toots  excepted)  seemed 
knocked  up,  and  were  getting  ready  for  dinner — some 
newly  tying  their  neck-cloths,  which  were  very  stiff  in- 
deed ;  and  others  washing  their  hands  or  brushing  their 
hair,  in  an  adjoining  ante -chamber —as  if  they  didn't 
think  they  should  enjoy  it  at  all. 

Young  Toots  who  was  ready  beforehand,  and  had  there- 
fore nothing  to  do,  and  had  leisure  to  bestow  upon  Paul, 
said,  with  heavy  good  nature  : 

"Sit down,  liombey." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Paul. 

His  endeavouring  to  hoist  himself  (m  to  a  very  high 
window-seat,  and  his  slipping  down  again,  appeared  to 
prepare  Toots's  mind  for  the  reception  of  a  discovery. 

"  You're  a  very  small  chap,"  sakl  Mr.  Toots. 

"Yes,  sir,  I'm  small,"  returned  Paul.  "  Thank  you, 
sir." 

For  Toots  had  lifted  him  into  the  seat,  and  done  it  kind- 
ly too. 

"  Who's  your  tailor?"  inquired  Toots,  after  looking  at 
him  for  some  moments. 

"  It's  a  woman  that  has  made  my  clothes  as  yet,"  said 
Paul.    "  My  sister's  dressmaker." 


"  My  tailor's  Burgess  and  Co.,"  said  Toots.  "  Fash'na- 
ble.    But  very  dear." 

Paul  had  wit  enough  to  shake  his  head,  as  if  he  would 
have  said  it  was  easy  to  see  tliat :  and  indeed  he  thought 
so. 

"  Your  father's  regularly  rich,  ain't  he  ?"  inquired  Mr. 
Toots. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Paul.    "  He's  Dombey  and  Son." 
"  And  which  ?"  demanded  Toots. 
"  And  Son,  sir,"  replied  Paul. 

Mr.  Toots  made  one  or  two  attempts,  in  a  low  voice,  to 
fix  the  firm  in  his  mind  ;  but  not  quite  succeeding,  said 
he  would  get  Paul  to  mention  the  name  again  to-morrow 
morning,  as  it  was  rather  important.  And  indeed  he 
purposed  nothing  less  than  writing  himself  a  private  and 
confidential  letter  from  Dombey  and  Son  immediately. 

By  this  time  the  other  pupils  (always  excepting  the 
stony  boy)  gathered  round.  They  were  polite,  but  pale  ; 
and  spoke  low  ;  and  they  were  so  depressed  in  their  spir- 
its, that  in  comparison  with  the  general  tone  of  that  com- 
pany. Master  Bitherstone  was  a  perfect  Miller,  or  complete 
Jest  Book.  And  yet  he  had  a  sense  of  injury  upon  him 
too,  had  Bitherstone. 

"You  sleep  in  my  room,  don't  you?"  asked  a  solemn 
young  gentleman,  whose  shirt-collar  curled  up  the  lobes 
of  his  ears. 

"  Master  Briggs  ?"  inquired  Paul. 

"  Tozer,"  said  the  young  gentleman. 

Paul  answered  yes  ;  and  Tozer  pointing  out  the  stony 
pupil,  said  that  was  Briggs.  Paul  had  already  felt  cer- 
tain that  it  must  be  either  Briggs  or  Tozer,  though  he 
didn't  know  why. 

"Is  yours  a  strong  constitution  ?"  inquired  Tozer. 

Paul  said  he  thought  not.  Tozer  replied  that  he 
thought  not  also,  judging  from  Paul's  looks,  and  that  it 
was  a  pity,  for  it  need  be.  He  then  asked  Paul  if  he 
were  going  to  begin  with  Cornelia  ;  and  on  Paul  saying 
"  yes,"  all  the  young  gentlemen  (Briggs  excepted)  gave 
a  low  groan. 

It  was  drowned  in  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  gong, 
which  sounding  again  with  great  fury,  there  was  a  general 
move  towards  the  dining-room  ;  still  excepting  Briggs  the 
stony  boy,  who  remained  where  he  was,  and  as  he  was  ; 
and  on  its  way  to  whom  Paul  presently  encountered  a 
round  of  bread  genteelly  served  on  a  plate  and  napkin, 
and  with  a  silver  fork  lying  crosswise  on  the  top  of  it. 
Doctor  Blimber  was  already  in  his  place  in  the  dining- 
room,  at  the  top  of  the  table,  with  Miss  Blimber  and 
Mrs.  Blimber  on  either  side  of  him,  Mr.  Feeder  in  a 
black  coat  was  at  the  bottom.  Paul's  chair  was  next  to 
Miss  Blimber  ;  but  it  being  found,  when  he  sat  in  it, 
that  his  eyebrows  were  not  much  above  the  level  of  the 
table-cloth,  some  books  were  brought  in  from  the  doc- 
tor's study,  on  which  he  was  elevated,  and  on  which 
he  always  sat  from  that  time — carrying  them  in  and  out 
himself  on  after  occasions,  like  a  little  elephant  and 
castle. 

Grace  having  been  said  by  the  doctor,  dinner  began. 
There  was  some  nice  soup  ;  also  roast  meat,  boiled  meat, 
vegetables,  pie,  and  cheese.  Every  young  gentleman 
had  a  massive  silver  fork,  and  a  napkin  ;  and  all  the  ar- 
rangements were  stately  and  handsome.  In  particular, 
there  was  a  butler  in  a  blue  coat  and  bright  buttons, 
who  gave  quite  a  winey  flavour  to  the  table  beer  ;  he 
poured  it  out  so  superbly. 

Nobody  spoke,  unless  spoken  to,  except  Doctor  Blim- 
ber, Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  who  conversed  oc- 
casionally. Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  not  ac- 
tually engaged  with  his  knife  and  fork  or  spoon,  his  eye, 
with  an  irresistible  attraction,  sought  the  eye  of  Doctor 
Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber  or  Miss  Blimber,  and  modestly 
rested  there.  Toots  appeared  to  be  the  only  exception  to 
this  rule.  He  sat  next  Mr.  Feeder  on  Paul's  side  of  the 
table,  and  frequently  looked  behind  and  before  the  in- 
tervening boys  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Paul. 

Only  once  during  dinner  was  there  any  conversation 
that  included  the  young  gentlemen.  It  happened  at  the 
e])och  of  the  cheese,  when  the  doctor  having  taken  a 
glass  of  port  wine,  and  hemmed  twice  or  thrice,  said  : 

"  It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,  that  the  Romans — " 

At  the  mention  of  this  terrible  people,  their  implac- 
able enemies,  every  young  gentleman  fastened  his  gaze 


LiBRARV 
OF  THE 
UNIVtk5.in  Of  ILLINOIS 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


485 


npon  the  doctor,  with  an  assumption  of  the  deepest  inter- 
est. One  of  the  number  who  happened  to  be  drinking, 
and  who  caught  the  doctor's  eye  glaring  at  him  through 
the  side  of  his  tumbler,  left  off  so  hastily  that  he  was 
convulsed  for  some  moments,  and  in  the  sequel  ruined 
Doctor  Blimber's  point. 

"  It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,"  said  the  doctor,  be- 
ginning again  slowly,  "  that  the  Romans,  in  those  gor- 
geous and  profuse  entertainments  of  which  we  read  in 
the  days  of  the  Emperors,  when  luxury  had  attained  a 
height  unknown  before  or  since,  and  when  whole  pro- 
vinces were  ravaged  to  supply  the  splendid  means  of 
one  imperial  banquet — " 

Here  the  offender,  who  had  been  swelling  and  straining, 
and  waiting  in  vain  for  a  full  stop,  broke  out  violently. 

"Johnson,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  in  a  low  reproachful 
voice,  "  take  some  water." 

The  doctor,  looking  very  stern,  made  a  pause  until  the 
water  was  brought,  and  then  resumed  : 

"  And  when,  Mr.  Feeder—" 

But  Mr.  Feeder,  who  saw  that  Johnson  must  break 
out  again,  and  who  knew  that  the  doctor  would  never 
come  to  a  period  before  the  young  gentlemen  until  he 
had  finished  all  he  meant  to  say,  couldn't  keep  his  eye 
off  Johnson  :  and  thus  was  caught  in  the  fact  of  not 
looking  at  the  doctor,  who  consequently  stopped. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  sir,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  reddening. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Doctor  Blimber." 

"And*  when,"   said  the  doctor,  raising  his  voice, 

when,  sir,  as  we  read,  and  have  no  reason  to  doubt — 
incredible  as  it  may  appear  to  the  vulgar  of  our  time — 
the  brother  of  Vitellius  prepared  for  him  a  feast,  in 
which  were  served  of  fish,  two  thousand  dishes — " 

*'Take  some  water,  Johnson — dishes,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Feeder. 

"Of  various  sorts  of  fowl,  five  thousand  dishes." 

"Or  try  a  crust  of  bread,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  And  one  dish,"  pursued  Doctor  Blimber,  raising  his 
voice  still  higher  as  he  looked  all  round,  the  table, 
"called,  from  its  enormous  dimensions,  the  Shield  of 
Minerva,  and  made,  among  other  costly  ingredients,  of 
tlie  brains  of  pheasants — " 

"Ow,  ow,  ow  ! "  (from  Johnson.) 

"  Woodcocks." 

"  Ow,  ow,  ow  ! " 

"  The  sounds  of  the  fish  called  scari," 

"  You'll  burst  some  vessel  in  your  head,"  said  Mr. 
Feeder.    "  You  had  better  let  it  come." 

"  And  the  spawn  of  the  lamprey,  brought  from  the 
Carpathian  Sea,"  pursued  the  doctor  in  his  severest 
voice  ;  "when  we  read  of  costly  entertainments  such  as 
these,  and  still  remember,  that  we  have  a  Titus," 

"  What  would  be  your  mother's  feelings  if  you  died  of 
apoplexy  !  "  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  A  Domitian," 

"  And  you're  blue,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"A  Nero,  a  Tiberius,  a  Caligula,  a  Heliogabalus,  and 
many  more,"  pursued  the  doctor  ;  "  it  is,  Mr.  Feeder — 
if  you  are  doing  me  the  honour  to  attend — remarkable  : 
VERY  remarkable,  sir — " 

But  Johnson,  unable  to  suppress  it  any  longer,  burst 
at  that  moment  into  such  an  overwhelming  fit  of  cough- 
ing, that,  although  both  his  immediate  neighbours 
thumped  him  on  the  back,  and  Mr.  Feeder  himself 
held  a  glass  of  water  to  his  lips,  and  the  butler  walked 
him  up  and  down  several  times  between  his  own  chair 
and  the  sideboard,  like  a  sentry,  it  was  full  five  minutes 
before  he  was  moderately  composed,  and  then  there  was 
a  profound  silence. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  "rise  for  Grace  ! 
Cornelia,  lift  Dombey  down  " — nothing  of  whom  but  his 
scalp  was  accordingly  seen  above  the  table-cloth. 
"Johnson  will  repeat  to  me  to-morrow  morning  before 
breakfast,  without  book,  and  from  the  Greek  Testament, 
the  first  chapter  of  the  Epistle  of  Saint  Paul  to  the 
Ephesians.  We  will  resume  our  studies,  Mr.  Feeder,  in 
half-an-hour." 

The  young  gentlemen  bowed  and  withdrew.  Mr. 
Feeder  did  likewise.  During  the  half-hour,  the  young 
gentlemen,  broken  into  pairs,  loitered  arm-in-arm  up  and 
down  a  small  piece  of  ground  behind  the  house,  or  en- 
deavoured to  kindle  a  spark  of  animation  in  the  breast 


I  of  Briggs,  But  nothing  happened  so  vulgar  as  play. 
Punctually  at  the  appointed  time,  the  gong  was  sounded, 

!  and  the  studies,  under  the  joint  auspices  of  Doct^jr 

I  Blimber  and  Mr.  Feeder,  were  resumed. 

!  As  the  Olympic  game  of  lounging  up  and  down  had 
been  cut  shorter  than  usual  that  day,  on  Johnson's  ac- 
count, they  all  went  out  for  a  walk  before  tea.  Even 
Briggs  (though  he  liadTi't  begun  yet)  partook  of  this 

i  dissipation  ;  in  the  enjoyment  of  which  he  looked  over 
the  cliff  two  or  three  times  darkly.  Doctor  Blimber  ac- 
companied them  ;  and  Paul  had  the  honour  of  being 
taken  in  tow  by  the  doctor  himself  :  a  distinguished 
state  of  things,  in  which  he  looked  very  little  and 
feeble. 

Tea  was  served  in  a  style  no  less  polite  than  the 
dinner  ;  and  after  tea,  the  young  gentlemen  rising  and 
bowing  as  before,  withdrew  to  fetch  up  the  unfinished 
tasks  of  that  day,  or  to  get  up  the  already  looming  tasks 
of  to-morrow.  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Feeder  withdrew 
to  his  own  room  ;  and  Paul  sat  in  a  corner  wondering 
whether  Florence  was  thinking  of  him,  and  what  they 
were  all  about  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's. 

Mr.  Toots,  who  had  been  detained  by  an  important 
letter  from  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  found  Paul  out 
after  a  time  ;  and  having  looked  for  him  a  long  while, 
as  before,  inquired  if  he  was  fond  of  waistcoats. 

Paul  said  "  Yes,  sir." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Toots. 

No  word  more  spake  Toots  that  night  ;  but  he  stood 
looking  at  Paul  as  if  he  liked  him  ;  and  as  there  was 
company  in  that,  and  Paul  was  not  inclined  to  talk,  it 
answered  his  purpose  better  than  conversation. 

At  eight  o'clock  or  so,  the  gong  sounded  again  for 
I  prayers  in  the  dining-room,  where  the  butler  afterwards 
presided  over  a  side  table,  on  which  bread  and  cheese 
and  beer  were  spread  for  such  young  gentlemen  as  de- 
sired to  partake  of  those  refreshments.  The  ceremonies 
concluded  by  the  doctor's  saying,  "Gentlemen,  we  ^xi\\ 
resume  our  studies  at  seven  to-morrow  ;  "  and  then,  for 
the  first  time,  Paul  saw  Cornelia  Blimber's  eye,  and 
saw  that  it  was  upon  him.  When  the  doctor  had  said 
these  words,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies 
at  seven  to-morrow,"  the  pupils  bowed  again,  and  went 
to  bed. 

In  the  confidence  of  their  own  room  up-stairs,  Briggs 
said  his  head  ached  ready  to  split,  and  that  he  should 
wish  himself  dead  if  it  wasn't  for  his  mother,  and  a 
blackbird  he  had  at  home.    Tozer  didn't  say  much,  but 
he  sighed  a  good  deal,  and  told  Paul  to  look  out,  for  his 
turn  would  come  to-morrow.    After  uttering  those  pro- 
phetic words,  he  imdressed  himself  moodily,  and  got 
I  into  bed.    Briggs  was  in  his  bed  too,  and  Paul  in  his  bed 
j  too,  before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  appeared  to  take 
j  away  the  candle,  when  he  wished  them  good  night  and 
I  pleasant  dreams.    But  his  benevolent  wishes  were  in 
vain,  as  far  as  Briggs  and  Tozer  were  concerned  ;  for 
I  Paul,  who  lay  awake  for  a  long  while,  and  often  woke 
:  afterwards,  found  that  Briggs  was  ridden  by  his  lesson  as 
a  nightmare  ;  and  that  Tozer,  whose  mind  was  affected 
j  in  his  sleep  by  similar  causes,  in  a  minor  degree, 
i  talked  unknown  tongues,  or  scraps  of  Greek  and  Latin 
— it  was  all  one  to  Paul — which,  in  the  silence  of  the 
night,  had  an  inexpressibly  wicked  and  guilty  effect. 

Paul  had  sunk  into  a  sweet  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  he 
was  walking  hand  in  hand  with  Florence  through  beau- 
tiful gardens,  when  they  came  to  a  large  sunflower  which 
suddenly  expanded  itself  into  a  gong,  and  began  to 
sound.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  foimd  that  it  was  a  dark, 
windy  morning,  with  a  drizzling  raiu  ;  and  that  the  real 
gong'was  giving  dreadful  note  of  preparation,  down  in 
the  hall. 

So  he  got  up  directly,  and  found  Briggs  with  hardly 
any  eyes,  for  nightmare  and  grief  had  made  his  face 
puffy,  putting  his  boots  on  :  while  Tozer  stood  .'shivering 
and  rubbing  his  shoulders  in  a  very  bad  humour.  Poor 
Paul  couldn't  dress  himself  easily,  not  being  used  to  it, 
and  asked  them  if  they  would  have  the  goodness  to  tie 
some  strings  for  him  ;  but  as  Briggs  merely  said 
"  Bother  !  "  and  Tozer,  "  Oh  yes  !  "  he  went  down  when 
he  was  otherwise  ready,  to  the  next  story,  where  he  saw 
a  pretty  voung  woman'in  leather  gloves,  cleaning  a  stove. 
The  young  woman  seemed  surprised  at  his  appearance, 


486 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


and  asked  liim  where  his  mother  was.  When  Paul  told 
her  she  was  dead,  she  took  her  gloves  off,  and  did  what 
he  wanted  ;  and  furthermore  rubbed  his  hands  to  warm 
them  ;  and  gave  him  a  kiss  ;  and  told  him  whenever  he 
wanted  anything  of  that  sort— meaning  in  the  dressing 
■^vay — to  ask  for  'Melia  :  which  Paul,  thanking  her  very 
much,  said  he  certainly  would.  He  then  proceeded 
softly  on  his  journey  down-stairs,  towards  the  room  in 
which  the  young  gentlemen  resumed  their  studies,  when, 
passing  by  a  door  that  stood  ajar,  a  voice  from  within 
cried  "Is  that  Dombey?"  On  Paul  replying,  "Yes, 
ma'am  for  he  knew  the  voice  to  be  Miss  Blimber's  : 
Miss  Blimber  said  "Come  in,  Dombey."  And  in  he 
went. 

Miss  Blimber  presented  exactly  the  appearance  she  had 
presented  yesterday,  except  that  she  wore  a  shawl.  Her 
little  light  curls  were  as  crisp  as  ever,  and  she  had 
already  her  spectacles  on,  which  made  Paul  wonder 
whether  she  went  to  bed  in  them.  She  had  a  cool  little 
sitting-room  of  her  own  up  there,  with  some  books  in 
it,  and  no  fire.  But  Miss  Blimber  was  never  cold,  and 
never  sleepy. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  I'm  going  out 
for  a  constitutional." 

Paul  wondered  what  that  was,  and  why  she  didn't  send 
the  footman  out  to  get  it  in  such  unfavourable  weather. 
But  he  made  no  observation  on  the  subject  :  his  atten- 
tion being  devoted  to  a  little  pile  of  new  books,  on 
which  Miss  Blimber  appeared  to  have  been  recently  en- 


These  are  yours,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber. 
"  AH  of  'em,  ma'am  ?  "  said  Paul. 
"  Yes,"  returned  Miss  Blimber  ;  "  and  Mr.  Feeder  will 
look  you  out  some  more  very  soon  if  you  are  as  studious 
as  I  expect  you  will  be,  Dombey." 
"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"I  am  going  out  for  a  constitutional,"  resumed  Miss 
Blimber  ;  "and  while  I  am  gone,  that  is  to  say  in  the 
interval  between  this  and  breakfast,  Dombey,  I  wish 
you  to  read  over  what  I  have  marked  in  these  books, 
and  to  tell  me  if  you  quite  understand  what  you  have 
got  to  learn.  Don't  lose  time,  Dombey,  for  you  have 
none  to  spare,  but  take  them  down-stairs,  and  begin  di- 
rectly." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Paul. 

There  were  so  many  of  them,  that  although  Paul  put 
one  hand  under  the  bottom  book  and  his  other  hand  and 
his  chin  on  the  top  book,  and  hugged  them  all  closely, 
the  middle  book  slipped  out  before  he  reached  the  door, 
and  then  they  all  tumbled  down  on  the  floor.  Miss  Blim- 
ber said,  "Oh  Dombey,  Dombey,  this  is  really  very  care- 
less !  "  and  piled  them  up  afresh  for  him  ;  and  this  time, 
by  dint  of  balancing-  them  with  great  nicety,  Paul  got 
out  of  the  room,  and  down  a  few  stairs  before  two  of 
them  escaped  again.  But  he  held  the  rest  so  tight,  that 
he  only  left  one  more  on  the  fir.st  floor,  and  one  in  the 
passage  ;  and  when  he  had  got  the  main  body  down  into 
the  school -room,  he  set  off  up-stairs  again  to  collect  the 
stragglers.  Having  at  last  amassed  the  whole  library, 
and  climbed  into  his  place,  he  fell  to  work,  encouraged 
by  a  remark  from  Tozer  to  the  effect  that  he  "was  in 
for  it  now  ; "  which  was  the  only  interruption  he  re- 
ceived till  breakfast  time.  At  that'  meal,  for  which  he 
had  no  appetite,  everything  was  quite  as  solemn  and 
genteel  as  at  the  others  ;  and  when  it  was  finished,  he 
followed  Miss  Blimber  up-stairs. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber.  "How  have 
you  got  on  with  those  books  ?" 

They  comprised  a  little  English,  and  a  deal  of  Latin — 
names  of  things,  declensions  of  articles  and  substan- 
tives, exercises  thereon,  and  preliminary  rules — a  trifle 
of  orthography,  a  glance  at  ancient  history,  a  wink  or  two 
at  modern  ditto,  a  few  tables,  two  or  three  weights  and 
measures,  and  a  little  general  information.  When  poor 
Paul  had  spelt  out  number  two,  he  found  he  had  no 
idea  of  number  one  ;  fragments  whereof  afterwards  ob- 
truded themselves  into  number  three,  which  slided  into 
number  four,  which  grafted  itself  on  to  number  two. 
So  that  whether  twenty  Komuluscs  made  a  Remus,  or 
hie  hsec  hoc  was  Troy  weight,  or  a  verb  always  agreed 
with  an  ancient  Briton,  or  three  times  four  was  Taurus  a 
bull,  were  open  questions  with  him. 


!    "Oh,  Dombey,  Dombey  !  "  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  this  is 

very  shocking." 

"If  you  please,"  said  Paul,  "I  think  if  I  miffht  some- 
:  times  talk  a  little  to  old  Glubb,  I  should  be  able  to  do 

better." 

,  ' '  Nonsense,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber.  "  I  couldn't 
hear  of  it.    This  is  not  the  place  for  Glubbs  of  any  kind. 

i  You  must  take  the  books  down,  I  suppose,  Dombey,  one 

I  by  one,  and  perfect  yourself  in  the  day's  instalment  of 
subject  A,  before  you  turn  at  all  to  subject  B.  And  now 
take  away  the  top  book,  if  you  please,  Dombey,  and  re- 
turn when  you  are  master  of  the  theme." 

Miss  Blimber  expressed  her  opinions  on  the  subject  of 
Paul's  uninstructed  state  with  a  gloomy  delight,  as  if 
she  had  expected  this  result,  and  were  glad  to  find  that 
they  must  be  in  constant  communication.  Paul  with- 
drew with  the  top  task,  as  he  was  told,  and  laboured  away 
at  it,  down  below  :  sometimes  remembering  every  word 
of  it,  sometimes  forgetting  it  all,  and  everything  else  be- 

j  sides  :  until  at  last  he  ventured  up-stairs  again  to  repeat 
the  lesson,  when  it  was  nearly  all  driven  out  of  his  head 
before  he  began,  by  Miss  Blimber's  shutting  up  the  book, 
and  saying,  "  Go  on,  Dombey  !  "  a  proceeding  so  sugges- 
tive of  the  knowledge  inside  of  her,  that  Paul  looked 
upon  the  young  lady  with  consternation,  as  a  kind  of 
learned  Guy  Faux,  or  artificial  Bogle,  stuffed  full  of 
scholastic  straw. 

He  acquitted  himself  veiy  well,  nevertheless  ;  and 
Miss  Blimber,  commending  him  as  giving  promise  of  get- 
ting on  fast,  immediately  provided  him  with  subject  B  ; 
from  which  he  passed  to  C,  and  even  to  D  before  dinner. 
It  was  hard  work,  resuming  his  studies,  soon  after  din- 
ner ;  and  he  felt  giddy  and  confused,  and  drowsy  and 
dull.  But  all  the  other  young  gentlemen  had  similar 
sensations,  and  were  obliged  to  resume  their  studies  too, 
if  there  were  any  comfort  in  that.  It  was  a  wonder  that 
the  great  clock  in  the  hall,  instead  of  being  constant  to 
its  first  inquiry,  never  said,  "Gentlemen,  we  will,  now 
resume  our  studies,"  for  that  phrase  was  often  enough 
repeated  in  its  neighbourhood.    The  studies  went  round 

!  like  a  mighty  wheel,  and  the  young  gentlemen  were  al- 

]  ways  stretched  upon  it. 

After  tea  there  were  exercises  again,  and  preparations 
for  next  day  by  candle-light.  And  in  due  course  there 
was  bed  ;  where,  but  for  that  resumption  of  the  studies 
which  took  place  in  dreams,  were  rest  and  sweet  forget- 
fulness. 

Oh  Saturdays  !  Oh  happy  Saturdays  !  when  Florence 
always  came  at  noon,  and  never  would,  in  any  weather, 
stay  away,  though  Mrs.  Pipchin  snarled  and  growled, 
and  worried  her  bitterly.  Those  Saturdays  were  Sab- 
baths for  at  least  two  little  Christians  among  all  the 
:  Jews,  and  did  the  holy  Sabbath  work  of  strengthening 
j  and  knitting  up  a  brother's  and  a  sister's  love. 

Not  even  Sunday  nights — the  heavy  Sunday  nights, 
I  whose  shadow  darkened  the  first  waking  burst  of  light 
I  on  Sunday  mornings — could  mar  those  precious  Satur- 
days.   Whether  it  was  the  great  sea-shore,  where  they 
;  sat,  and  strolled  together  ;  or  whether  it  was  only  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  dull  back  room,  in  which  she  sang  to  him  so 
softly,  with  his  drowsy  head  upon  her  arm  ;  Paul  never 
cared.    It  was  Florence.    That  was  all  he  thought  of. 
So,  on  Sunday  nights,  when  the  Doctor's  dark  door  stood 
agape  to  swallow  him  up  for  another  week,  the  time  was 
come  for  taking  leave  of  Florence  ;  no  one  else. 

Mrs.  Wickam  had  been  drafted  home  to  the  house  in 
town,  and  Miss  Nipper,  now  a  smart  young  woman,  had 
come  down.    To  many  a  single  combat  with  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  did  Miss  Nipper  gallantly  devote  herself  ;  and  if 
ever  Mrs.  Pipchin  in  all  her  life  had  found  her  match, 
she  had  found  it  now.    Miss  Nipper  threw  away  the 
scabbard  the  first  morning  she  arose  in  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
1  house.    She  asked  and  gave  no  quarter.    She  said  it 
!  must  be  war,  and  war  it  was  ;  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  lived 
i  from  that  time  in  the  midst  of  surprises,  harassings, 
and  defiances  ;  and  skirmishing  attacks  that  came  bounc- 
j  ing  in  upon  her  from  the  passage, even  in  unguarded  mo- 
i  mentsof  chops,  and  carried  desolation  to  her  very  toast. 
;     Miss  Nipper  had  returned  one  Sunday  night  with  Flor- 
;  ence,  from  w^alking  back  with  Paul  to  the  Doctor's,  when 
I  Florence  took  from  her  bosom  a  little  piece  of  paper,  on 
i  which  she  had  pe^piled  down  some  words. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


"See  here,  Susan,"  she  said.  "  These  are  the  Eames 
of  the  little  books  that  Paul  brings  home  to  do  those  long 
exercises  with,  when  he  is  so  tired.  I  copied  them  last 
night  while  he  was  writing." 

"  Don't  show 'em  to  me  Miss  Floy,  if  you  please," 
returned  Nipper,  "I'd  as  soon  see  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  I  want  you  to  buy  them  for  me,  Susan,  if  you  will, 
to-morrow  morning.  I  have  money  enough,"  said  Flor- 
ence. 

"Why,  goodness  gracious  me.  Miss  Floy,"  returned 
Nipper,  "how  can  you  talk  like  that,  when  you  have 
books  upon  books  already,  and  masterses  and  missesses 
a  teaching  of  you  everything  continual,  though  my 
belief  is  that  yoiir  pa.  Miss  Dombey,  never  would  have 
learnt  you  nothing,  never  would  have  thought  of  it, 
unless  you'd  asked  him — when  he  couldn't  well  refuse  ; 
but  giving  consent  when  asked,  and  offering  when  un- 
asked, miss,  is  quite  two  things  ;  I  may  not  have  my 
objections  to  a  young  man's  keeping  company  with  me, 
and  when  he  puts  the  question,  may  say  'yes,'  but  that's 
not  saying  '  would  you  be  so  kind  as  like  me.'  " 

"  But  you  can  buy  me  the  books,  Susan  ;  and  you  will, 
when  you  know  I  want  them." 

"  Well,  miss,  and  why  do  you  want  'em?"  replied 
Nipper  ;  adding,  in  a  lower  voice,  "if  it  was  to  fling  at 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  head,  I'd  buy  a  cart-load." 

"I  think  I  could  perhaps  give  Paul  some  help,  Susan, 
if  I  had  these  books,"  said  Florence,  "and  make  the 
coming  week  a  little  easier  to  him.  At  least  I  want  to 
try.  So  buy  them  for  me,  dear,  and  I  will  never  forget 
how  kind  it  was  of  you  to  do  it ! " 

It  must  have  been  a  harder  heart  than  Susan  Nipper's 
that  could  have  rejected  the  little  purse  Florence  held 
out  with  these  words,  or  the  gentle  look  of  entreaty  with 
which  she  seconded  her  petition.  Susan  put  the  purse 
in  her  pocket  without  reply,  and  trotted  out  at  once  upon 
her  errand . 

The  books  were  not  easy  to  procure  ;  and  the  answer 
at  several  shops  was,  either  that  they  were  just  out  of 
them,  or  that  they  never  kept  them,  or  that  they  had 
had  a  great  many  last  month,  or  that  they  expected  a 
great  many  next  week.  But  Susan  was  not  easily  baffled 
in  such  an  enterprise  ;  and  having  entrapped  a  white- 
haired  youth,  in  a  black  calico  apron,  from  a  library 
where  she  was  known,  to  accompany  her  in  her  quest, 
she  led  him  such  a  life  in  going  up  and  down,  that  he 
exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  if  it  were  only  to  get  rid 
of  her  ;  and  finally  enabled  her  to  return  home  in  tri- 
umph. 

With  these  treasures  then,  after  her  own  daily  lessons 
were  over,  Florence  sat  down  at  night  to  track  Paul's 
footsteps  through  the  thorny  ways  of  learning  ;  and  being 
possessed  of  a  naturally  quick  and  sound  capacity,  and 
taught  by  that  most  wonderful  of  masters,  love,  it  was 
not  long  before  she  gained  upon  Paul's  heels,  and  caught 
and  passed  him. 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  breathed  to  Mrs.  Pipchin  :  but 
many  a  night  when  they  were  all  in  bed,  and  when  Miss 
Nipper,  with  her  hair  in  papers  and  herself  asleep  in 
some  uncomfortable  attitude,  reposed  unconscious  by 
her  side  ;  and  when  the  chinking  ashes  in  the  grate 
were  cold  and  grey  ;  and  when  the  candles  were  burnt 
down  and  guttering  out ; — Florence  tried  so  hard  to  be 
a  substitute  for  one  small  Dombey,  that  her  fortitude 
and  perseverance  might  have  almost  won  her  a  free 
right  to  bear  the  name  herself. 

And  high  was  her  reward,  when  one  Saturday  evening, 
as  little  Paul  was  sitting  down  as  usual  to  "  resume  his 
studies,"  she  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  showed  him  all 
that  was  so  rough,  made  smooth,  and  all  that  was  so 
dark,  made  clear  and  plain,  before  him.  It  was  nothing 
but  a  startled  look  in  Paul's  wan  face— a  flush — a  smile 
— and  then  a  close  embrace — but  God  knows  how  her 
heart  leaped  up  at  this  rich  payment  for  her  trouble. 

"Oh,  Floy  I"  cried  her  brother,  "how  I  love  you! 
How  I  love  you,  Floy  ! " 

"  And  I  you,  dear  !  " 

"Oh  !  I  am  sure  of  that,  Floy." 

He  said  no  more  about  it,  but  all  that  evening  sat 
close  by  her,  very  quiet  ;  and  in  the  night  he  called  out 
from  his  little  room  within  hers,  three  or  four  times, 
that  he  loved  her. 


Regularly,  after  that,  Florence  was  prepared  to  sit 
down  with  Paul  on  Saturday  night,  and  patiently  assist 
him  through  so  much  as  they  could  anticipate  together, 
of  his  next  week's  work.  The  cheering  thought  that  he 
was  labouring  on  where  Florence  had  just  toiled  before 
him,  would,  of  itself,  have  been  a  stimulant  to  Paul  in 
the  perpetual  resumption  of  his  studies  ;  but  coupled 
with  the  actual  lightening  of  his  load,  consequent  on 
this  assistance,  it  saved  him,  possibly  from  sinking  un- 
derneath the  burden  which  the  fair  Cornelia  Blimber 
piled  upon  his  back. 

It  was  not  that  Miss  Blimber  meant  to  be  too  hard 
upon  him,  or  that  Doctor  Blimber  meant  to  bear  too 
heavily  on  the  young  gentlemen  in  general.  Cornelia 
merely  held  the  faith  in  which  she  had  been  bred  ;  and 
the  doctor,  in  some  partial  confusion  of  his  ideas,  re- 
garded the  young  gentlemen  as  if  they  were  all  doctors, 
and  were  born  grown  up.  Comforted  by  the  applause 
of  the  young  gentlemen's  relations,  and  urged  on  by 
their  blind  vanity  and  ill-considered  haste,  it  would 
have  been  strange  if  Doctor  Blimber  had  discovered  his 
mistake,  or  trimmed  his  swelling  sails  to  any  other  tack. 

Thus  in  the  case  of  Paul.  When  Doctor  Blimber  said 
he  made  great  progress,  and  was  naturally  clever,  Mr. 
Dombey  was  more  bent  than  ever  on  his  being  forced  and 
crammed.  In  the  case  of  Briggs,  when  Dr.  Blimber  re- 
ported that  he  did  not  make  great  progress  yet,  and  was 
not  naturally  clever,  Briggs  senior  was  inexorable  in  the 
same  purpose.  In  short,  however  high  and  false  the 
temperature  at  which  the  doctor  kept  his  hothouse,  the 
owners  of  the  plants  were  always  ready  to  lend  a  helping 
hand  at  the  bellows,  and  to  stir  the  Are. 

Such  spirits  as  he  had  in  the  outset,  Paul  soon  lost  of 
course.  But  he  retained  all  that  was  strange,  and  old, 
and  thoughtful  in  his  character  ;  and  under  circum- 
stances so  favourable  to  the  development  of  these  tenden- 
cies, became  even  more  strange,  and  old,  and  thought- 
ful, than  before. 

The  only  difference  was,  that  he  kept  his  character  to 
himself.  He  grew  more  thoughtful  and  reserved,  every 
day  ;  and  had  no  such  curiosity  in  any  living  member  of 
the  doctor's  household,  as  he  had  had  in  Mrs.  Pipchin. 
He  loved  to  be  alone  ;  and  in  those  short  intervals  when 
he  was  not  occupied  with  his  books,  liked  nothing  so 
well  as  wandering  about  the  house  by  himself,  or  sit- 
ting on  the  stairs,  listening  to  the  great  clock  in  the 
hall.  He  was  intimate  with  all  the  paper-hangings  in 
the  house  ;  saw  things  that  no  one  else  saw  in  the  pat- 
terns ;  found  out  miniature  tigers  and  lions  running  up 
the  bedroom  walls,  and  squinting  faces  leering  in  the 
squares  and  diamonds  of  the  floor  cloth. 

The  solitary  child  lived  on,  surrounded  by  this  ara- 
besque work  of  his  musing  fancy,  and  no  one  under- 
stood him.  Mrs.  Blimber  thought  him  "odd,"  and 
sometimes  the  servants  said  among  themselves  that  little 
Dombey  "  moped  ;  "  but  that  was  all. 

Unless  young  Toots  had  some  idea  on  the  subject,  to 
the  expression  of  which  he  was  wholly  unequal.  Ideas, 
like  ghosts  (according  to  the  common  notion  of  ghosts), 
must  be  spoken  to  a  little  before  they  will  explain  them- 
selves ;  and  Toots  had  long  left  off  asking  any  questions 
of  his  own  mind.  Some  mist  there  may  have  been,  issu- 
ing from  that  leaden  casket,  his  cranium,  which,  if  it  could 
have  taken  shape  and  form,  would  have  become  a  genie  ; 
but  it  could  not ;  and  it  only  so  far  followed  the  exam- 
ple of  the  smoke  in  the  Arabian  story,  as  to  roll  out  in  a 
thick  cloud,  and  there  hang  and  hover.  But  it  left  a 
little  figure  visible  upon  a  lonely  shore,  and  Toots  was 
always  staring  at  it. 

"How  are  you?"  he  would  say  to  Paul  fifty  times  a 
day. 

"Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you,"  Paul  would  answer. 

"  Shake  hands,"  would  be  Toots's  next  advance. 

Which  Paul,  of  course,  would  immediately  do.  Mr. 
Toots  generally  said  again,  after  a  long  interval  of  star- 
ing and  hard  breathing,  "How  are  you?"  To  which 
Paul  again  replied,  "Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you." 

One  evening  Mr.  Toots  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  op- 
pressed by  correspondence,  when  a  great  purpose  seemed 
to  flash  upon  him.  He  laid  down  his  pen,  and  went  off 
to  seek  Paul,  whom  he  found  at  last,  after  a  long  search, 
looking  through  the  window  of  his  little  bedroom. 


488 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"I  say  !"  cried  Toots,  speaking  tlie  moment  he  en- 
tered the  room,  lest  he  should  forget  it ;  "  what  do  you 
think  about  ?  " 

"Oh  !  I  think  about  a  great  many  things,"  replied 
Paul. 

Do  you,  though  ?"  said  Toots,  appearing  to  consider 
that  fact  in  itself  surprising. 

"  If  you  had  to  die,"  said  Paul,  looking  up  into  his 
face — Mr.  Toots  started,  and  seemed  much  disturbed. 

— Don't  you  think  you  would  rather  die  on  a  moon- 
light night  when  the  sky  was  quite  clear,  and  the  wind 
blowing,  as  it  did  last  night?  " 

Mr.  Toots  said,  looking  doubtfully  at  Paul,  and  shak- 
ing his  head,  that  he  didn't  know  about  that. 

"Not  blowing,  at  least,"  said  Paul,  "but  sounding 
in  the  air  like  the  sea  sounds  in  the  shells.  It  w^as  a 
beautiful  night.  When  I  had  listened  to  the  water  for 
a  long  time,  I  got  up  and  looked  out.  There  was  a  boat 
over  there,  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon  ;  a  boat  with  a 
sail." 

The  child  looked  at  him  so  steadfastly,  and  spoke  so 
earnestly,  that  Mr.  Toots,  feeling  himself  called  upon 
to  say  something  about  this  boat,  said,  "Smugglers." 
But  with  an  impartial  remembrance  of  there  being  two 
sides  to  every  question,  he  added,  "Or  Preventive." 

"A  boat  with  a  sail,"  repeated  Paul,  "in  the  full 
light  of  the  moon.  The  sail  like  an  arm,  all  silver.  It 
went  away  into  the  distance,  and  what  do  you  think  it 
seemed  to  do  as  it  moved  with  tlie  waves '? " 

"Pitch,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"It  seemed  to  beckon,"  said  the  child,  "to  beckon 
me  to  come  ! — There  she  is  !    There  she  is  !" 

Toots  was  almost  beside  himself  with  dismay  at  this 
sudden  exclamation,  after  what  had  gone  before,  and 
cried  "  Who?" 

"My  sister  Florence  !  "  cried  Paul,  "looking  up  here, 
and  waving  her  hand.  She  sees  me — she  sees  me  !  Good 
night,  dear,  good  night,  good  night." 

His  quick  transition  to  a  state  of  unbounded  pleasure, 
as  he  stood  at  his  window,  kissing  and  clapping  his 
hands  :  and  the  way  in  which  the  light  retreated  from  his 
features  as  she  passed  out  of  his  view,  and  left  a  patient 
melancholy  on  the  little  face  :  were  too  remarkable 
wholly  to  escape  even  Toots's  notice.  Their  interview 
being  interrupted  at  this  moment  by  a  visit  from  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  Avho  usually  brought  her  black  skirts  to  bear 
upon  Paul  just  before  dusk,  once  or  twice  a  week.  Toots 
had  no  opportunity  of  improving  the  occasion  ;  but  it 
left  so  marked  an  impression  on  his  mind,  that  he  twice 
returned,  after  having  exchanged  the  usual  salutations, 
to  ask  Mrs.  Pipchin  how  she  did.  This  the  irascible 
old  lady  conceived  to  be  a  deeply-devised  and  long- 
meditated  insult,  originating  in  the  diabolical  invention 
of  the  weak-eyed  young  man  down-stairs,  against  whom 
she  accordingly  lodged  a  formal  complaint  with  Doctor 
Blimber  that  very  night  ;  who  mentioned  to  the  young 
man  that  if  he  ever  did  it  again,  he  should  be  obliged 
to  part  with  him. 

The  evenings  being  longer  now,  Paul  stole  up  to  his 
window  every  evening  to  look  out  for  Florence.  She 
always  passed  and  repassed  at  a  certain  time,  until  she 
saw  him  ;  and  their  mutual  recognition  was  a  gleam  of 
sunshine  in  Paul's  daily  life.  Often  after  dark,  one 
other  figure  walked  alone  before  the  doctor's  house.  He 
rarely  joined  them  on  the  Saturday  now.  He  could  not 
bear  it.  He  would  rather  come  unrecognised,  and  look 
up  at  the  windows  where  his  son  was  qualifying  for  a 
man  ;  and  wait,  and  watch,  and  plan,  and  hope. 

Oh  !  could  he  but  have  seen,  or  seen  as  others  did,  the 
slight  spare  boy  above,  watching  the  waves  and  clouds 
at  twilight,  with  his  earnest  eyes,  and  breasting  the  win- 
dow of  his  solitary  cage  when  birds  flew  by,  as  if  he 
would  have  emulated  them,  and  soared  away  ! 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SIdpping  latellirjence  and  Office  Jhisiness. 

Mr.  Dombey's  offices  were  in  a  coart  where  there  was 
an  old-established  stall  of  choice  fruit  at  the  corner  ; 


I  where  perambulating  merchants,  of  both  sexes,  offered 
!  for  sale  at  any  time  between  the  hours  of  ten  and  five, 
I  slippers,  pocket-books,  sponges,  dogs'  collars,  and  Wind- 
I  sor  soap  ;  and  sometimes  a  pointer  or  an  oil-painting. 
I     The  pointer  always  came  that  way,  with  a  view  to  the 
.  Stock  Exchange,  where  a  sporting  taste  (originating  gen- 
;  erally  in  bets  of  new  hats)  is  much  in  vogue.   The  other 
I  commodities  were  addressed  to  the  general  public  ;  but 
they  were  never  offered  by  the  vendors  to  Mr.  Dombey. 
When  he  appeared,  the  dealers  in  those  wares  fell  off 
respectfully.    The  principal  slipper  and  dogs'  collar 
man — who  considered  himself  a  public  character,  and 
whose  portrait  was  screwed  on  to  an  artist's  door  in 
Cheapside — threw  up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  his 
hat  as  Mr.  Dombey  went  by.    The  ticket-porter,  if  he 
were  not  absent  on  a  job,  always  ran  officiously  before, 
to  open  Mr.  Dombey's  office  door  as  wide  as  possible,  and 
I  hold  it  open,  with  his  hat  off,  while  he  entered. 
I     The  clerks  within  were  not  a  whit  behind-hand  in 
[  their  demonstrations  of  respect.    A  solemn  hush  pre- 
vailed, as  Mr.  Dombey  passed  through  the  outer  office. 
;  The  wit  of  the  Counting-House  became  in  a  moment  as 
mute,  as  the  row  of  leathern  fire-buckets,  hanging  up 
:  behind  him.    Such  vapid  and  flat  day-light  as  filtered 
through  the  ground-glass  windows,  and  skylights,  leav- 
ing a  black  sediment  upon  the  panes,  showed  the  books 
■  and  papers,  and  the  figures  bending  over  them,  envel- 
oped in  a  studious  gloom,  and  as  much  abstracted  in  ap- 
j  pearance,  from  the  world  without,  as  if  they  were  as- 
sembled at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  ;  while  a  mouldy  little 
strong  room  in  the  obscure  perspective,  where  a  shaded 
I  lamp  was  always  burning,  might  have  represented  the 
cavern  of  some  ocean-monster,  looking  on  with  a  red  eye 
;  at  these  mysteries  of  the  deep. 

j     When  Perch,  the  messenger,  whose  place  was  on  a  lit- 
j  tie  bracket,  like  a  time-piece,  saw  Mr.  Dombey  come  in 
I  — or  rather,  when  he  felt  that  he  was  coming,  for  he  had 
I  usually  an  instinctive  sense  of  his  approach — he  hurried 
j  into  Mr.  Dombey's  room,  stirred  the  fire,  quarried  fresh 
j  coals  from  the  bowels  of  the  coal  box,  hung  the  news- 
j  paper  to  air  upon  the  fender,  put  the  chair  ready, 
j  and  the  screen  in  its  place,  and  was  round  upon  his  heel 
1  on  the  instant  of  Mr.  Dombey's  entrance,  to  take  his 
j  great-coat  and  hat,  and  hang  them  up.    Then  Perch 
took  the  nevs^spaper,  and  gave  it  a  turn  or  two  in  his 
hands  before  the  fire,  and  laid  it,  deferentially,  at  Mr. 
Dombey's  elbow.    And  so  little  objection  had  Perch  to 
doing  deferential  in  the  last  degree,  that  if  he  might 
have  laid  himself  at  Mr.  Dopibey's  feet,  or  might  have 
called  him  by  some  such  title  as  used  to  be  bestowed 
upon  the  Caliph  Haroun  Alraschid,  he  would  have  been 
all  the  better  pleased. 

As  this  honour  would  have  been  an  innovation  and  an 
experiment,  Perch  was  fain  to  content  himself  by  ex- 
pressing as  well  as  he  could,  in  his  manner.  You  are  the 
light  of  my  Eyes.     You  are  the  Breath  of  my  Soul. 
I  You  are  the  commander  of  the  Faithful  Perch  !  With 
this  imperfect  happiness  to  cheer  him,  he  would  shut 
i  the  door  softly,  walk  away  on  tiptoe,  and  leave  his  great 
I  chief  to  be  stared  at,  through  a  dome-shaped  window  in 
i  the  leads,  by  ugly  chimney  pots  and  backs  of  houses, 
and  especially  by  the  bold  window  of  a  hair-cutting 
saloon  on  a  first  floor,  where  a  waxen  effigy,  bald  as  a 
Mussulman  in  the  morning,  and  covered  after  eleven 
.  o'clock  in  the  day,  with  luxuriant  hair  and  whiskers  in 
the  latest  Christian  fashion,  showed  him  the  wrong  side 
of  its  head  for  ever. 

Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  common  world,  as  it 
was  accessible  through  the  medium  of  the  outer  office — 
to  which  Mr.  Dombey's  presence  in  his  own  room  maybe 
1  said  to  have  struck  like  damp,  or  cold  air — there  were 
two  degrees  of  descent.  Mr.  Carker  in  his  own  office 
I  was  the  first  step  ;  Mr.  Morfin,  in  his  own  office,  was 
the  second.  Each  of  these  gentleinen  occupied  a  little 
chamber  like  a  bath-room,  opening  from  the  passage 
outside  Mr,  Dombey's  door.  Mr.  Carker,  as  Grand 
Vizier,  inhabited  the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  Sul- 
tan. Mr.  Morfin,  as  an  officer  of  inferior  state,  inhabited 
tlio  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  clerks. 

The  gentleman  last  mentioned  was  a  cheerful-looking 
hazel-eyed  elderly  bachelor:  gravely  attired,  as  to  his 
i  upper  man,  in  black  ;  and  as  to  his  legs,  in  pepper  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


480 


salt  colour.  His  dark  hair  was  just  touched  here  and 
there  with  specks  of  gray,  as  though  the  tread  of  Time 
had  splashed  it  :  and  his  whiskers  were  already  white. 
He  had  a  mighty  respect  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  rendered 
hira  due  homage  ;  but  as  he  was  of  a  genial  temper  him- 
self, and  never  wholly  at  his  ease  in  that  stately  pres- 
ence, he  was  disquieted  by  no  jealousy  of  the  many 
conferences  enjoyed  by  Mr.  Carker,  and  felt  a  secret 
satisfaction  in  having  duties  to  discharge,  which  rarely 
exposed  hira  to  be  singled  out  for  such  distinction.  He 
was  a  great  musical  amateur  in  his  way — after  business  ; 
and  had  a  paternal  affection  for  his  violoncello,  which  was 
once  in  every  week  transported  from  Islington,  his  place 
of  abode,  to  a  certain  club-room  hard  by  the  Bank,  where 
quartettes  of  the  most  tormenting  and  excruciating 
nature  were  executed  every  Wednesday  evening  by  a 
private  party.  Mr.  Carker  was  a  gentleman  thirty-eight 
or  forty  years  old,  of  a  florid  complexion,  and  with  two 
unbroken  rows  of  glistening  teeth,  whose  regularity  and 
whiteness  were  quite  distressing.  It  was  impossible  to 
escape  the  observation  of  them,  for  he  showed  them 
whenev^er  he  spoke ;  and  bore  so  wide  a  smile  upon  his 
countenance  (a  smile,  however,  very  rarely,  indeed,  ex- 
tending beyond  his  mouthy  that  there  was  something  in 
it  like  the  snarl  of  a  cat.  He  affected  a  stiff  white  cra- 
vat, after  the  example  of  his  principal,  and  was  always 
closely  buttoned  up  and  tightly  dressed.  His  manner 
towards  Mr.  Dombey  was  deeply  conceived  and  perfectly 
expressed.  He  was  familiar  with  him,  in  the  very  ex- 
tremity of  his  sense  of  the  distance  between  them.  "  Mr. 
Dombey,  to  a  man  in  your  position  from  a  man  in  mine, 
there  is  no  shoAV  of  subservience  compatible  with  the 
transaction  of  Imsiness  between  us,  that  I  should  think 
sufficient.  I  frankly  tell  you,  sir,  I  give  it  up  altogether. 
I  feel  that  I  could  not  satisfy  my  own  mind ;  and  Hea- 
ven knows,  Mr.  Dombey,  you  can  afford  to  dispense  with 
the  endeavour."  If  he  had  carried  these  words  about 
with  him,  printed  on  a  placard,  and  constantlv  offered  it 
to  Mr.  Dombey's  perusal  on  the  breast  of  his  coat,  he 
could  not  have  been  more  explicit  than  he  was. 

This  was  Carker  the  manager.  Mr.  Carker  the  junior, 
Walter's  friend,  was  his  brother  ;  two  or  three  years 
older  than  he,  but  widely  removed  in  station.  The 
younger  brother's  post  was  on  the  top  of  the  official  lad- 
der ;  the  elder  brother's  at  the  bottom.  The  elder 
brother  never  gained  a  stave,  or  raised  his  foot  to  mount 
one.  Young  men  passed  above  his  head,  and  rose  and 
rose  :  but  he  was  always  at  the  bottom.  He  was  quite 
resigned  to  occupy  that  low  condition  :  never  complained 
of  it :  and  certainly  never  hoped  to  escape  from  it, 

"How  do  you  do  this  morning?"  said  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager,  entering  Mr.  Dombey's  room  soon  after  his 
arrival  one  day  :  with  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

"How  do  you  do,  Carker?"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising 
from  his  chair,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 
"Have  you  anything  there  for  me?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  need  trouble  you,"  returned 
Carker,  turning  over  the  papers  in  his  hand.  "You 
have  a  committee  to-day  at  three,  you  know." 

"And  one  at  three,  three  quarters,"  added  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  Catch  you  forgetting  anything  !  "  exclaimed  Carker, 
still  turning  over  his  papers.     "  If  Mr.  Paul  inherits 
your  memory,  he'll  be  a  troublesome  customer  in  the 
House.    One  of  you  is  enough." 

"You  have  an  accurate  memory  of  your  own,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey, 

"  Oh  1  returned  the  manager,  "  It's  the  only  capi- 
tal of  a  man  like  me." 

Mr.  Dombey  did  not  look  less  pompous  or  at  all  dis- 
pleased, as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece. 
Purveying  his  (of  course  unconscious)  clerk,  from  head 
to  foot.  The  stiffness  and  nicety  of  Mr.  Carker's  dress, 
and  a  certain  arrogance  of  manner,  either  natural  to  him 
or  imitated  from  a  pattern  not  far  off,  gave  great  addi- 
tional effect  to  his  humility.  He  seemed  a  man  who 
would  contend  against  the  power  that  vanquished  him, 
if  he  could,  but  who  was  utterly  borne  down  by  the 
greatness  and  superiority  of  Mr.  Dombev. 

"IsMorfin  here?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey  after  a  short 
pause,  during  which  Mr.  Carker  had  been  fluttering 
his  papers,  and  muttering  little  abstracts  of  their  con- 
tents to  himself. 


"  Mor fin's  here,"  he  answered,  looking  up  with  his 
widest  and  most  sudden  smile  ;  "humming  musical  re- 
collections— of  his  last  night's  quartette  party,  I  suppose 
— through  the  walls  between  us,  and  driving  me  half 
mad.  I  wish  he'd  make  a  bonfire  of  his  violoncello,  and 
burn  his  music  books  in  it." 

"You  respect  nobody,  Carker,  1  think,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  No?  "  inquired  Carker,  with  another  wide  and  most 
feline  show  of  his  teeth.  "Well  !  Not  many  people  I 
believe.  I  wouldn't  answer,  perhaps,"  he  murmured, 
as  if  he  were  only  thinking  it,  "  for  more  than  one." 

A  dangerous  quality,  if  real  ;  and  a  not  less  dangerous 
one  if  feigned.  But  Mr.  Dombey  hardly  seemed  to 
think  so,  as  he  still  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  drawn 
up  to  his  full  height,  and  looking  at  his  head-clerk  with 
a  dignified  composure,  in  which  there  eeemed  to  lurk  a 
stronger  latent  sense  of  power  than  usual, 

"  Talking  of  Morfin,"  resumed  Mr.  Carker,  taking 
out  one  paper  from  the  rest,  "  he  reports  a  junior  dead 
in  the  agency  at  Barbados,  and  proposes  to  reserve  a 
passage  in  the  Son  and  Heir — she'll  sail  in  a  month  or  so 
— for  the  successor.  You  don't  care  who  goes,  I  sup- 
pose ?    We  have  nobody  of  that  sort  here." 

Mr.  Dombey  shook  his  head  with  supreme  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  It's  no  very  precious  appointment,"  observed  Mr. 
Carker,  taking  up  a  pen,  with  which  to  endorse  a  mem- 
orandum on  the  back  of  the  paper.  "  I  hope  he  may  be- 
stow it  on  some  orphan  nephew  of  a  musical  friend.  It 
may  perhaps  stop  Ms  fiddle-playing,  if  he  has  a  gift  that 
way.    Who's  that  ?  Come  in  !  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Carker.  I  didn't  know  you 
were  here,  sir,"  answered  Walter,  appearing  with  some 
letters  in  his  hand,  unopened,  and  newly  arrived.  "Mr. 
Carker  the  junior,  sir — " 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
was,  or  affected  to  be,  touched  to  the  quick  with  shame 
and  humiliation.  He  cast  his  eyes  full  on  Mr.  Dombey 
with  an  altered  and  apologetic  look,  abased  them  on  the 
ground,  and  remained  for  a  moment  without  speaking. 

"  I  thought,  sir,"  he  said  suddenly  and  angrily,  turn- 
ing on  Walter,  "that  you  had  been  before  requested  not 
to  drag  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  into  your  conversation." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  Walter.  "I  was  only 
going  to  say  that  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  had  told  me  he 
believed  you  were  gone  out,  or  I  should  not  have  knocked 
at  the  door  when  you  were  engaged  with  Mr.  Dombey. 
These  are  letters  for  Mr.  Dombey,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 
plucking  them  sharply  from  his  hand.  "  Go  about  your 
business." 

But  in  taking  them  with  so  little  ceremony,  Mr.  Car- 
ker dropped  one  on  the  floor,  and  did  not  see  what  he 
had  done  ;  neither  did  Mr.  Dombey  observe  the  letter 
lying  near  his  feet.  Walter  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
thinking  that  one  or  the  other  of  them  would  notice  it ; 
but  finding  that  neither  did,  he  stopped,  came  back, 
picked  it  up,  and  laid  it  himself  on  Mr.  Dombey's  desk. 
The  letters  were  post-letters  ;  and  it  happened'that  the 
one  in  question  was  Mrs.  Pipchin's  regular  report,  di- 
rected as  usual— for  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  but  an  indifferent 
pen-woman — by  Florence.  Mr.  Dombey  having  his  at- 
tention silently  called  to  this  letter  by  Walter,  started, 
and  looked  fiercely  at  him,  as  if  he  believed  that  he  had 
purposely  selected  it  from  all  the  rest. 

"  You  can  leave  the  room,  sir  ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
haughtily. 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand  ;  and  having  watched 
Walter  out  at  the  door,  put  it  in  his  pocket  without 
breaking  the  seal. 

"  You  want  somebody  to  send  to  the  West  Indies,  you 
were  saying,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  hurriedly. 
"  Yes, "  replied  Carker. 
"  Send  young  Gay." 

"  Good,  very  good  indeed.  Nothing  easier,"  said  Mr. 
Carker,  without  any  show  of  surprise,  and  taking  up  the 
pen  to  re-indoi'se  the  letter,  as  coolly  as  he  had  done  be- 
fore.   "  '  Send  young  Gay.'  " 

"Call  him  back,"  said  Mr,  Dombey. 
Mr.  Carker  was  quick  to  do  so,  and  Walter  was  quick 
to  return. 


490 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Gay,"  said  Mr.  DomlDey,  turning  a  little  to  look  at 
him  over  his  shoulder.    "  Here  is  a — " 

"An  opening-,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth 
stretched  to  the  utmost. 

"  In  the  West  Indies.  At  Barbados.  I  am  going  to 
send  you,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  scorning  to  embellish  the 
bare  truth,  "  to  fill  a  junior  situation  in  the  counting- 
house  at  Barbados.  Let  your  uncle  know  from  me,  that 
I  have  chosen  you  to  go  to  the  West  Indies." 

Walter's  breath  was  so  completely  taken  away  by  his 
astonishment,  that  he  could  hardly  find  enough  for  the 
repetition  of  the  words  "West  Indies." 

"Somebody  must  go,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "and  you 
are  young  and  healthy,  and  your  uncle's  circumstances 
are  not  good.  Tell  your  uncle  that  you  are  appointed. 
You  wiil  not  go  yet.  There  will  be  an  interval  of  a 
month — or  two  perhaps." 

"  Shall  I  remain  there,  sir?"  inquired  Walter. 

"  Will  you  remain  there,  sir  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey, 
turning  a  little  more  round  towards  him.  "What  do 
you  mean  ?    What  does  he  mean,  Carker  ?  " 

"  Live  there,  sir,"  faltered  Walter. 

"  Certainly,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

Walter  bowed. 

"  That's  all,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  his  letters. 
"  You  will  explain  to  him  in  good  time  about  the  usual 
outfit  and  so  forth,  Carker,  of  course.  He  needn't  wait, 
Carker." 

"  You  needn't  wait.  Gray,"  observed  Mr.  Carker  :  bare 
to  the  gums. 

"  Unless,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  in  his  reading 
without  looking  off  the  letter,  and  seeming  to  listen. 
"  Unless  he  has  anything  to  say," 

"  No,  sir,"  returned  Walter,  agitated  and  confused, 
and  almost  stunned,  as  an  infinite  variety  of  pictures 
presented  themselves  to  his  mind  ;  among  which  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  in  his  glazed  hat,  transfixed  with  astonish- 
ment at  Mrs.  MacStinger's,  and  his  uncle  bemoaning  his 
loss  in  the  little  back  parlour,  held  prominent  places. 
"  I  hardly  know — I — I  am  much  obliged,  sir." 

"  He  needn't  wait,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

And  as  Mr.  Carker  again  echoed  the  words,  and  also 
collected  his  papers  as  if  he  were  going  away  too,  Wal- 
ter felt  that  his  lingering  any  longer  would  be  an  unpar- 
donable intrusion — especially  as  he  had  nothing  to  say — 
and  therefore  walked  out  quite  confounded. 

Going  along  the  passage,  with  the  mingled  conscious- 
ness and  helplessness  of  a  dream,  he  heard  Mr.  Dombey's 
door  shut  again,  as  Mr.  Carker  came  out  ;  and  immedi- 
ately afterwards  that  gentleman  called  to  him. 

"  Bring  your  friend  Mr.  Carker  the  j  unior  to  my  room, 
sir,  if  you  please." 

Walter  went  to  the  outer  office  and  apprised  Mr.  Car- 
ker the  junior  of  his  errand,  who  accordingly  came  out 
from  behind  a  partition  where  he  sat  alone  in  one  corner, 
and  returned  with  him  to  the  room  of  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager. 

That  gentleman  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
and  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  looking  over  his  white 
cravat,  as  unproraisingly  as  Mr.  Dombey  himself  could 
have  looked.  He  received  them  without  any  change  in 
his  attitude  or  softening  of  his  harsh  and  black  expres- 
sion: merely  signing  to  Walter  to  close  the  door. 

"  John  Carker,"  said  the  manager,  when  this  was 
done,  turning  suddenly  upon  his  brother,  with  his  two 
rows  of  teeth  bristling  as  if  he  would  have  bitten  him, 
"  what  is  the  league  between  you  and  this  young  man, 
in  virtue  of  which  I  am  haunted  and  hunted  by  the 
mention  of  your  name  ?  Is  it  not  enough  for  you,  John 
Carker,  that  I  am  your  near  relation  and  can't  detach 
myself  from  that — " 

"  Say  disgrace,  James,"  interposed  the  other  in  a  low 
voice,  finding  that  he  stammered  for  a  word.  "  You 
mean  it,  and  have  reason,  say  disgrace." 

"  From  that  disgrace,"  assented  his  brother,  with 
keen  emphasis,  "  but  is  the  fact  to  be  blurted  out  and 
trumpeted,  and  proclaimed  continually  in  the  presence 
of  the  very  house  I  In  moments  of  confidence  too?  Do 
you  think  your  name  is  calculated  to  harmonise  in  this 
place  with  trust  and  confidence,  John  Carker?" 

"  No,"  returned  the  other.  "  No,  James.  God  knows 
I  have  no  such  thought." 


"  What  is  your  thought  then  ?"  said  his  brother,  "and 
why  do  you  thrust  yourself  in  my  way  ?  Haven't  you 
injured  me  enough  already?" 

"  I  have  never  injured  you,  James,  willfully." 

"  You  are  my  brother,"  said  the  manager.  "That's 
injury  enough." 

"  I  wish  1  could  undo  it,  James," 

"  I  wish  you  could  and  would." 

During  this  conversation,  Walter  had  looked  from  one 
brother  to  the  other,  with  pain  and  amazement.  He 
who  was  the  senior  in  years,  and  junior  in  the  house, 
stood,  with  his  eyes  cast  upon  the  ground,  and  his  head 
bowed,  humbly  listening  to  the  reproaches  of  the  other. 
Though  these  were  rendered  very  bitter  by  the  tone  and 
look  with  which  they  were  accompanied,  and  by  the 
presence  of  Walter  whom  they  so  much  surprised  and 
shocked,  he  entered  no  other  protest  against  them  than 
by  slightly  raising  his  right  hand  in  a  deprecatory  man- 
ner, as  if  he  would  have  said  "  Spare  me  !"  So,  had 
they  been  blows,  and  he  a  brave  man,  under  strong  con- 
straint, and  weakened  by  bodily  suffering,  he  might  have 
stood  before  the  executioner. 

Generous  and  quick  in  all  his  emotions,  and  regarding 
himself  as  the  innocent  occasion  of  these  taunts,  Wal- 
ter now  struck  in,  with  all  the  earnestness  he  felt, 

Mr.  Carker,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  man- 
ager. "Indeed,  indeed,  this  is  my  fault  solely.  In  a 
kind  of  heedlessness  for  which  I  cannot  blame  myself 
enough,  I  have,  I  have  no  doubt,  mentioned  Mr.  Carker 
the  junior  much  oftener  than  was  necessary  ;  and  have 
allowed  his  name  sometimes  to  slip  through  my  lips, 
when  it  was  against  your  express  wish.  But  it  has  been 
my  own  mistake,  sir.  We  have  never  exchanged  one 
word  upon  the  subject — very  few,  indeed,  upon  any  sub- 
ject. And  it  has  not  been,"  added  Walter  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  "  all  heedlessness  on  my  part,  sir ;  for  I 
have  felt  an  interest  in  Mr.  Carker  ever  since  I  have  been 
here,  and  have  hardly  been  able  to  help  speaking  of  him 
sometimes,  when  I  have  thought  of  him  so  much  !  " 

Walter  said  this  from  his  soul,  and  with  the  very  breath 
of  honour.  For  he  looked  upon  the  bowed  head,  and  the 
downcast  eyes,  and  upraised  hand,  and  thought,  *  I  have 
felt  it ;  and  why  should  I  not  avow  it  in  behalf  of  this 
unfriended,  broken  man  ! " 

"In  truth  you  have  avoided  me,  Mr.  Carker,"  said 
Walter,  with  the  tears  rising  to  his  eyes  ;  so  true  was  his 
compassion.  "I  know  it  to  my  disappointment  and  re- 
gret. When  I  first  came  here,  and  ever  since,  I  am  sure 
I  have  tried  to  be  as  much  your  friend  as  one  of  my  age 
could  presume  to  be  ;  but  it  has  been  of  no  use." 

"And  observe,"  said  the  manager,  taking  him  up 
quickly,  "it  will  be  of  still  less  use.  Gay,  if  you  persist 
in  forcing  Mr.  John  Carker's  name  on  people's  attention. 
That  is  not  the  way  to  befriend  Mr.  John  Carker.  Ask 
him  if  he  thinks  it  is." 

"  It  is  no  service  to  me,"  said  the  brother.  "  It  only 
leads  to  such  a  conversation  as  the  present,  which  I  need 
not  say  I  could  have  well  spared.  No  one  can  be  a  bet- 
ter friend  to  me  : "  he  spoke  here  very  distinctly,  as  if 
he  would  impress  it  upon  Walter  :  "  than  in  forgetting 
me,  and  leaving  me  to  go  my  way,  unquestioned  and  un- 
noticed." 

"  Your  memory  not  being  retentive.  Gay,  of  what  you 
are  told  by  others,"  said  Mr,  Carker  the  manager,  warm- 
ing himself  with  great  and  increased  satisfaction,  "  I 
thought  it  well  that  you  should  be  told  this  from  the 
best  authority,"  nodding  towards  his  brother.  "  You 
are  not  likely  to  forget  it  now,  I  hope.  That's  all.  Gay. 
You  can  go," 

Walter  passed  out  at  the  door  and  was  about  to  close 
it  after  him,  when  hearing  the  voice  of  the  brothers  again, 
and  also  the  mention  of  his  own  name,  he  stood  irreso- 
lutely, with  his  hand  upon  the  lock,  and  the  door  ajar, 
uncertain  whether  to  return  or  go  away.  In  this  position 
he  could  not  help  overhearing  what  followed. 

"  Think  of  me  more  leniently,  if  you  can,  James,"  said 
John  Carker,  "  when  I  tell  you  I  have  had — how  could  I 
hel])  having,  with  my  history,  written  here" — striking 
himself  upon  the  breast,  "  my  whole  heart  awakened  by 
my  observation  of  that  boy,  Walter  Gay,  1  saw  in  him 
when  he  first  came  here,  almost  my  other  self." 

"  Your  other  self  1 "  repeated  the  manager,  disdainfully. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


m 


"  Not  as  I  am,  but  as  I  was  when  I  first  came  hero  too  ; 
as  sanguine,  giddy,  youthful,  inexperienced  ;  flushed 
with  the  same  restless  and  adventurous  fancies  ;  and  full 
of  the  same  qualities,  fraught  with  the  same  capacity  of 
leading  on  to  good  or  evil." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  his  brother,  with  some  hidden  and 
sarcastic  meaning  in  his  tone. 

' '  You  strike  me  sharply  ;  and  your  hand  is  steady,  and 
your  thrust  is  very  deep,"  returned  the  other,  speaking 
(or  so  Walter  thought)  as  if  some  cruel  weapon  actually 
stabbed  him  as  he  spoke.  "  I  imagined  all  this  when 
he  was  a  boy.  I  believed  it.  It  was  a  truth  to  me.  I 
saw  him  lightly  walking  on  the  edge  of  an  unseen  gulf 
where  so  many  others  walk  with  equal  gaiety,  and  from 
which — " 

"  The  old  excuse,"  interrupted  his  brother  as  he  stirred 
the  fire.    ''So  many.    Goon.    Say,  so  many  fall." 

"  From  which  ONE  traveller  fell,"  returned  the  other, 
"  who  set  forward,  on  his  way,  a  boy  like  him,  and  missed 
his  footing  more  and  more,  and  slipped  a  little  and  a 
little  lower,  and  went  on  stumbling  still,  until  he  fell 
headlong  and  found  himself  below  a  shattered  man. 
Think  what  I  suffered  when  I  watched  that  boy." 

"  You  have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  it,"'  returned  the 
brother. 

"Only  myself,"  he  assented  with  a  sigh.  "I  don't 
seek  to  divide  the  blame  or  shame." 

"You  have  divided  the  shame,"  James  Carker  mut- 
tered through  his  teeth.  And  through  so  many  and  such 
close  teeth,  he  could  mutter  well. 

"  Ah  James,"  returned  his  brother,  speaking  for  the 
first  time  in  an  accent  of  reproach,  and  seeming,  by  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  to  have  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  "  I  have  been,  since  then,  a  useful  foil  to  you. 
You  have  trodden  on  me  freely  in  your  climbing  up. 
Don't  spurn  me  with  your  heel  !  " 

A  silence  ensued.  After  a  time,  Mr.  .Carker  the  man- 
ager was  heard  rustling  among  his  papers,  as  if  he 
had  resolved  to  bring  the  interview  to  a  conclusion. 
At  the  same  time  his  brother  withdrew  nearer  to  the 
door. 

"That's  all,"  he  said.  "I  watched  him  with  such 
trembling  and  such  fear,  as  was  some  little  punishment 
to  me,  until  he  passed  the  place  where  I  first  fell  ;  and 
then,  though  I  had  been  his  father,  I  believe  I  never 
could  have  thanked  God  more  devoutly,  I  didn't  dare  to 
warn  him,  and  advise  him  :  but  if  I  had  seen  direct  cause, 
I  would  have  shown  him  my  example.  I  was  afraid  to 
be  seen  speaking  with  him,  lest  it  should  be  thought  I 
did  him  harm,  and  tempted  him  to  evil,  and  corrupted 
him  :  or  lest  I  really  should.  There  may  be  such  con- 
tagion in  me  ;  I  don't  know.  Piece  out  my  history,  in 
connexion  with  young  Walter  Gay,  and  what  he  has 
made  me  feel,  and  think  of  me  more  leniently,  James,  if 
you  can." 

With  these  words  he  came  out  to  where  Walter  was 
standing.  He  turned  a  little  paler  when  he  saw  him 
there,  and  paler  yet  when  Walter  caught  him  by  the 
hand,  and  said  in  a  whisper  : 

"Mr.  Carker,  pray  let  me  thank  you  !  Let  me  say  how 
much  I  feel  for  you  !  How  sorry  I  am  to  have  been  the 
unhappy  cause  of  all  this  !  How  I  almost  look  upon  you 
now  as  my  protector  and  guardian  !  How  very,  very 
much,  I  feel  obliged  to  you  and  pity  you  ! "  said  Walter, 
squeezing  both  his  hands,  and  hardly  knowing,  in  his 
agitation,  what  he  did  or  said. 

Mr.  Morfin's  room  being  close  at  hand  and  empty,  and 
the  door  wide  open,  they  moved  thither  by  one  accord  ; 
the  passage  being  seldom  free  from  some  one  passing  to 
or  fro.  When  they  were  there,  and  Walter  saw  in  Mr. 
Carker's  face  some  traces  of  the  emotion  within,  he  al- 
most felt  as  if  he  had  never  seen  the  face  before  ;  it  was 
so  greatly  changed. 

"  Walter,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"  I  am  far  removed  from  you,  and  may  I  ever  be.  Do 
you  know  what  I  am  V  " 

"What  you  are  !"  appeared  to  liang  on  Walter's  lips, 
as  he  regarded  him  attentively. 

"  It  was  begun,"  said  Carker,  "  before  my  twenty-first 
birthday — led  up  to,  long  before,  but  not  begun  till  near 
that  time.  I  liad  robbed  them  when  I  came  of  age.  I 
robbed  them  afterwards.  Before  my  twenty -second  birth- 


day, it  was  all  found  out ;  and  then,  Walter,  from  all 
men's  society,  I  died." 

Again  his  last  few  words  hung  trembling  upon  Walter's 
lips,  but  he  could  neither  utter  them,  nor  any  of  his  own. 

"The  House  was  very  good  to  me.  May  Heaven 
reward  the  old  man  for  his  forbearance  !  This  one,  too, 
his  son,  who  was  then  newly  in  the  firm,  where  I  had 
held  great  trust !  I  was  called  into  that  room  which  is 
now  his — I  have  never  entered  it  since— and  came  out 
what  you  know  me.  For  many  years  I  sat  in  my  present 
seat,  alone  as  now,  but  then  a  known  and  recognized  ex- 
ample to  the  rest.  They  were  all  merciful  to  me,  and  I 
lived.  Time  has  altered  that  part  of  my  j)oor  exjjiation  ; 
and  I  think,  except  the  three  heads  of  the  House,  there 
is  no  one  here  who  knows  my  story  rightly.  Before  the 
little  boy  grows  up,  and  has  it  told  to  him,  my  corner  may 
be  vacant.  I  would  rather  that  it  might  be  so  !  This  is 
the  only  change  to  me  since  that  day,  when  I  left  all 
youth,  and  hope,  and  good  men's  company,  behind  me 
in  that  room.  God  bless  you,  Walter  !  Keep  you,  and 
all  dear  to  you,  in  honesty,  or  strike  them  dead  !  " 

Some  recollection  of  his  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
as  if  with  excessive  cold,  and  of  his  bursting  into  tears, 
was  all  that  Walter  could  add  to  this,  when  he  tried  to 
recall  exactly  what  had  passed  between  them. 

When  Walter  saw  him  next,  he  was  bending  over  his 
desk,  in  his  old  silent,  drooping,  humbled  way.  Then, 
observing  him  at  his  work,  and  feeling  how  resolved  he 
evidently  was  that  no  further  intercourse  should  arise 
between  them,  and  thinking  again  and  again  on  all  he 
had  seen  and  heard  that  morning  in  so  short  a  time,  in 
connexion  with  the  history  of  both  the  Carkers,  Walter 
could  hardly  believe  that  he  was  under  orders  for  the 
West  Indies,  and  would  soon  be  lost  to  Uncle  Sol,  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  and  to  glimpses  few  and  far  between  of 
Florence  Dombey — no,  he  meant  Paul — and  to  all  he 
loved  and  liked,  and  looked  for,  in  his  daily  life. 

But  it  was  true,  and  the  news  had  already  penetrated 
to  the  outer  office  ;  for  while  he  sat  with  a  heavy  heart, 
pondering  on  these  things,  and  resting  his  head  upon  his 
arm.  Perch,  the  messenger,  descending  from  his  mahog- 
any bracket,  and  jogging  his  elbow,  begged  his  pardon, 
but  wished  to  say  in  his  ear,  Did  he  think  he  could  ar- 
range to  send  home  to  England  a  jar  of  preserved  ginger, 
cheap,  for  Mrs.  Perch's  own  eating,  in  the  course  of  her 
recoverv  from  her  next  confinement  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Paul  grows  more  and  more  Old-fashioned,  and  goes  Home  for  theHd'^ 
days. 

When  the  Midsummer  vacation  approached,  no  inde- 
cent manifestations  of  joy  were  exhibited  by  the  leaden- 
eyed  young  gentlemen  assembled  at  Doctor  Blimber's. 
Any  such  violent  expression  as  "breaking  up,"  would 
have  been  quite  inapplicable  to  that  polite  establish- 
ment. The  young  gentlemen  oozed  away,  semi-annually, 
to  their  own  homes  ;  but  they  never  broke  up.  They 
would  have  scorned  the  action. 

Tozer,  who  was  constantly  galled  and  tormented  by  a 
starched  white  cambric  neck -kerchief,  which  he  wore  at 
the  express  desire  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  his  parent,  who,  de- 
signing him  for  the  Church,  was  of  opinion  that  he 
couldn't  be  in  that  forward  state  of  preparation  too  soon 
— Tozer  said,  indeed,  that  choosing  betAveen  two  evils, 
he  thought  he  would  rather  stay  where  he  was  than  go 
home.  However  inconsistent  this  declaration  might  ap- 
pear with  that  passage  in  Tozer's  Essay  on  the  subject, 
wherein  he  had  observed  "that  the  thoughts  of  home 
and  all  its  recollections,  awakened  in  his  mind  the  most 
pleasing  emotions  of  anticipation  and  delight,"  and  had 
also  likened  himself  to  a  Roman  general,  flushed  with  a 
recent  victory  over  the  Iceni,  or  laden  with  Carthaginian 
spoil,  advancing  within  a  few  hours*  march  of  the  Capi- 
tol, presupposed,  for  the  purposes  of  the  simile,  to  be 
the  dwelling-place  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  still  it  was  very  sin- 
cerely made.  For  it  seemed  that  Tozer  had  a  dreadful 
uncle,  who  not  only  volunteered  examinations  of  him,  in 
the  holidays,  on  abstruse  points,  but  twisted  innocent 
events  and  things,  and  wrenched  them  to  the  same  fell 


492 


CHARLES  DIOKENS'  WORKS, 


purpose.  So  that  if  this  uncle  took  him  to  the  play,  or, 
on  a  similar  pretence  of  kindness,  carried  him  to  see  a 
^^iant,  or  a  dwarf,  or  a  conjuror,  or  anythin;^,  Tozer  knew 
he  had  read  up  some  classical  allusion  to  the  subject  be- 
forehand, and  w^as  thrown  into  a  state  of  mortal  appre- 
hension :  not  foreseeing  where  he  might  break  out,  or 
what  authority  he  might  not  quote  against  him. 

As  to  Briggs,  Ms  father  made  no  show  of  artifice  about 
it.  He  never  would  leave  him  alone.  So  numerous  and 
severe  were  the  mental  trials  of  that  unfortunate  youth 
in  vacation  time,  that  the  friends  of  the  family  (then 
resident  near  Bayswater,  London)  seldom  approached 
the  ornamental  piece  of  water  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
without  a  vague  expectation  of  seeing  Master  Briggs's 
hat  floating  on  the  surface,  and  an  unfinished  exercise 
lying  on  the  bank.  Briggs,  therefore,  was  not  at  all 
sanguine  on  the  subject  of  holidays ;  and  these  two 
sharers  of  little  Paul's  bedroom  were  so  fair  a  sample  of 
the  young  gentlemen  in  general,  that  the  most  elastic 
among  them  contemplated  the  arrival  of  those  festive 
periods  with  genteel  resignation. 

It  was  far  otherwise  with  little  Paul.  The  end  of 
these  first  holidays  was  to  witness  his  separation  from 
Florence,  but  who  ever  looked  forward  to  the  end  of 
holidays  whose  beginning  was  not  yet  come  !  Not  Paul, 
assuredly.  As  the  happy  time  drew  near,  the  lions  and 
tigers  climbing  up  the  bedroom  walls,  became  quite  tame 
and  frolicsome.  The  grim  sly  faces  in  the  squares  and 
diamonds  of  the  floor-cloth,  relaxed  and  peeped  out  at 
him  with  less  wicked  eyes.  The  grave  old  clock  had 
more  of  personal  interest  in  the  tone  of  its  formal  in- 
quiry ;  and  the  restless  sea  went  rolling  on  all  night  to 
the  sounding  of  a  melancholy  strain — yet  it  was  pleasant 
too — that  rose  and  fell  with  the  waves,  and  rocked  him, 
as  it  were,  to  sleep. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  seemed  to  think  that  he,  too,  would 
enjoy  the  holidays  very  much.  Mr.  Toots  projected  a 
life  of  holidays  from  that  time  forth  ;  for,  as  he  regularly 
informed  Paul  every  day,  it  was  his  "  last  half  "  at  Doc- 
tor Blimber's,  and  he  was  going  to  begin  to  come  into 
his  property  directly. 

It  was  perfectly  understood  between  Paul  and  Mr. 
Toots,  that  they  were  intimate  friends,  notwithstanding 
their  distance  in  point  of  years  and  station.  As  the  va- 
cation approached,  and  Mr.  Toots  breathed  harder  and 
stared  oftener  in  Paul's  society,  than  he  had  done  before, 
Paul  knew  that  he  meant  he  was  sorry  they  were  going 
to  lose  sight  of  each  other,  and  felt  very  much  obliged 
to  him  for  his  patronage  and  good  opinion. 

It  was  even  understood  by  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  as  well  as  by  the  young  gentle- 
men in  general,  that  Toots  had  somehow  constituted 
himself  protector  and  guardian  of  Dombey,  and  the  cir- 
cumstance became  so  notorious,  even  to  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
that  the  good  old  creature  cherished  feelings  of  bitter- 
ness and  jealousy  against  Toots  ;  and,  in  the  sanctuary 
of  her  own  home,  repeatedly  denounced  him  as  "a 
cliuckleheaded  noodle."  Whereas  the  innocent  Toots 
had  no  more  idea  of  awakening  Mrs.  Pipchin's  wrath, 
than  he  had  of  any  other  definite  possibility  or  proposi- 
tion. On  the  contrary,  he  was  disposed  to  consider  her 
rather  a  remarkable  character,  with  many  points  of  in- 
terest about  her.  For  this  reason  he  smiled  on  her  with 
so  much  urbanity,  and  asked  her  how  she  did,  so  often, 
in  the  course  of  her  visits  to  little  Paul,  that  at  last  she 
one  night  told  him  plainly,  she  wasn't  used  to  it,  what- 
ever he  might  think  ;  and  she  could  not,  and  she  would 
not  bear  it,  either  from  himself  or  any  other  puppy  then 
existing  ;  at  which  unexpected  acknowledgment  of  his 
civilities,  Mr,  Toots  was  so  alarmed  that  he  secreted  him- 
self in  a  retired  spot  until  she  had  gone.  Nor  did  he 
ever  again  face  the  doughty  Mrs.  Pipchin,  under  Doctor 
Blimber's  roof. 

They  were  within  two  or  three  weeks  of  the  holidays, 
when,  one  day,  Cornelia  Blimber  called  Paul  into  her 
room,  and  said,  "  Dombey,  I  am  going  to  send  home  your 
analysis," 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  Paul. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  do  you,  Dombey?  "  inquired 
Miss  Blimber,  looking  hard  at  him  through  the  specta- 
cles. 

"No,  ma'am/'  said  Paul. 


"Dombey,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "I  begin  to 
be  afraid  you  are  a  sad  boy.  When  you  don't  know 
the  meaning  of  an  expression,  why  don't  you  seek  for 
information  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin  told  me  I  wasn't  to  ask  questions,"  re- 
turned Paul. 

"  I  must  beg  you  not  to  mention  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  me, 
on  any  account,  Dombey,"  returned  Miss  Blimber.  "I 
couldn't  think  of  allowing  it.  The  course  of  study  here, 
is  very  far  removed  from  anything  of  that  sort,  A  repe- 
tition of  such  allusions  would  make  it  necessary  for  me 
to  request  to  hear  without  a  mistake,  before  breakfast- 
time  to-morrow  morning,  from  Verhum  personale  down 
to  simillima  cygno." 

"  I  didn't  mean,  ma'am,"  began  little  Paul. 

"  I  must  trouble  you  not  to  tell  me  that  you  didn't 
mean,  if  you  please,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  who 
preserved  an  awful  politeness  in  her  admonitions. 
"That  is  a  line  of  argument  I  couldn't  dream  of  per- 
mitting. " 

Paul  felt  it  safest  to  say  nothing  at  all,  so  he  only 
looked  at  Miss  Blimber's  spectacles.  Miss  Blimber  hav- 
ing shaking  her  head  at  him  gravely,  referred  to  a  paper 
lying  before  her. 

"'Analysis  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.'  If  my 
recollection  serves  me,"  said  Miss  Blimber  breaking  off, 
"  the  word  analysis  as  opposed  to  synthesis,  is  thus  de- 
fined  by  Walker  'The  resolution  of  an  object,  whether 
of  the  senses  or  of  the  intellect,  into  its  first  elements.' 
As  opposed  to  synthesis,  you  observe.  JS/ow  you  know 
what  analysis  is,  Dombey." 

Dombey  didn't  seem  to  be  absolutely  blinded  by  the 
light  let  in  upon  his  intellect,  but  he  made  Miss  Blimber 
a  little  bow. 

"'Analysis,'  resumed  Miss  Blimber,  casting  her  eye 
over  the  paper,  'of  the  character  of  P,  Dombey.'  I 
find  that  the  natural  capacity  of  Dombey  is  extremely 
!  good  ;  and  that  his  general  disposition  to  study  may  be 
stated  in  an  equal  ratio.  Thus  taking  eight  as  our 
standard  and  highest  number,  I  find  these  qualities  in 
Dombey  stated  each  at  six  three-foarths  !" 

Miss  Blimber  paused  to  see  how  Paul  received  this 
news.  Being  undecided  whether  six  three-fourths, 
meant  six  pounds  fifteen,  or  sixpence  three  farthings,  or 
six  foot  three,  or  three  quarters  past  six,  or  six  some- 
things that  he  hadn't  learn't  yet,  with  three  unknown 
something  elses  over,  Paul  rubbed  his  hands  and  looked 
straight  at  Miss  Blimber.  It  happened  to  answer  as 
well  as  anything  else  he  could  have  done  ;  and  Cornelia 
proceeded. 

"  '  Violence  two.  Selfishness  two.  Inclination  to  low 
company,  as  evinced  in  the  case  of  a  person  named 
Glubb,  originally  seven,  but  since  reduced.  Gentle- 
manly demeanour  four,  and  improving  with  advancing 
years,'  Now  what  I  particularly  wish  to  call  your  at- 
tention to,  Dombey,  is  the  general  observation  at  the 
close  of  this  analysis." 

Paul  set  himself  to  follow  it  with  great  care. 

"  '  It  may  be  generally  observed  of  Dombey,*"  said 
Miss  BlimlDcr,  reading  in  a  loud  voice,  and  at  every 
second  word  directing  her  spectacles  towards  the  little 
figure  before  her :  "'that  his  abilities  and  inclinations 
are  good,  and  that  he  has  made  as  much  progress  as  un- 
der the  circumstances  could  have  been  expected.  But 
it  is  to  be  lamented  of  this  young  gentleman  that  he  is 
singular  (what  is  usually  termed  old-fashioned)  in  his 
character  and  conduct,  and  that,  without  presenting  any- 
thing in  either  which  distinctly  calls  for  reprobation,  he 
is  often  very  unlike  other  young  gentlemen  of  his  age 
and  social  position.'  Now  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber, 
laying  down  the  paper,  "do  you  understand  that?" 

"I  think  I  do,  ma'am,"  said  Paul, 

"  This  analysis,  you  see,  Dombey,"  Miss  Blimber  con- 
tinued, "  is  going  to  be  sent  home  to  your  respected 
parent.  It  will  naturally  be  very  painful  to  him  to  find 
that  you  are  singular  in  your  character  and  conduct.  It  is 
naturally  painful  to  us  ;  for  we  can't  like  you,  you  know, 
Dombey,  as  well  as  we  could  wish." 

She  touched  the  child  upon  a  tender  point.  He  had 
secretly  become  more  and  more  solicitous  from  day  to 
day,  as  the  time  of  his  departure  drew  more  near,  that 
all  the  house  should  like  him.    For  some  hidden  reason. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


493 


very  imperfectly  understood  by  himself — if  understood 
at  all — he  felt  a  gradually  increasing  impulse  of  affec- 
tion, towards  almost  everything  and  everybody  in  the 
place.  He  could  not  bear  to  think  that  they  would  be 
quite  indifferent  to  him  when  he  was  gone.  He  wanted 
them  to  remember  him  kindly  ;  and  he  had  made  it  his 
business  even  to  conciliate  a  great  hoarse  shaggy  dog, 
chained  up  at  the  back  of  the  house,  who  had  previously 
been  the  terror  of  his  life  :  that  even  he  might  miss  him 
when  he  was  no  longer  there. 

Little  thinking  that  in  this,  he  only  showed  again 
the  difference  between  himself  and  his  compeers,  poor 
tiny  Paul  set  it  forth  to  Miss  Blimber  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  begged  her,  iu  despite  of  the  official  analysis, 
to  have  the  goodness  to  try  and  like  him.  To  Mrs. 
Blimber,  who  had  joined  them,  he  preferred  the  same 
petition  :  and  when  that  lady  could  not  forbear,  even  in 
his  presence,  from  giving  utterance  to  her  often-re- 
peated opinion,  that  he  was  an  odd  child,  Paul  told  her 
that  he  was  sure  she  was  quite  right  ;  that  he  thought 
it  must  be  his  bones,  but  he  didn't  know  ;  and  that  he 
hoped  she  would  overlook  it,  for  he  was  fond  of  them 
all. 

"  Not  so  fond,"  said  Paul,  with  a  mixture  of  timidity 
and  perfect  frankness,  which  was  one  of  the  most  pecu- 
liar and  most  engaging  qualities  of  the  child,  "not  so 
fond  as  I  am  of  Florence,  of  course  :  that  could  never  be. 
You  couldn't  expect  that,  could  you,  ma'am  ?  " 

"Oh!  the  old-fashioned  little  soul!"  cried  Mrs. 
Blimber  in  a  whisper. 

"  But  I  like  everybody  here  very  much,"  pursued  Paul, 
"and  I  should  grieve  to  go  away,  and  think  that  any  one 
was  glad  that  I  was  gone,  or  didn't  care." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  now  quite  sure  that  Paul  was  the 
oddest  child  in  the  world  ;  and  when  she  told  the  doc- 
tor what  had  passed,  the  doctor  did  not  controvert  his 
wife's  opinion.  But  he  said,  as  he  had  said  before,  when 
Paul  first  came,  that  study  would  do  much  ;  and  he  also 
said,  as  he  had  said  on  that  occasion,  "Bring  him  on, 
Cornelia  I  Bring  him  on  ! " 

Cornelia  had  always  brought  him  on  as  vigorously  as 
she  could  ;  and  Paul  had  had  a  hard  life  of  it.  But 
over  and  above  his  getting  through  the  tasks,  he  had 
long  had  another  purpose  always  present  to  him, 
and  to  which  he  still  held  fast.  It  was,  to  be  a  gentle, 
useful,  quiet  little  fellow,  always  striving  to  secure  the 
love  and  attachment  of  the  rest  ;  and  though  he  was  yet 
often  to  be  seen  at  his  old  post  on  the  stairs,  or  watching 
the  waves  and  clouds  from  his  solitary  window,  he  was 
oftener  found,  too,  among  the  other  boys,  modestly  ren- 
dering them  some  little  voluntary  service.  Thus  it  came 
to  pass,  that  even  among  those  rigid  and  absorbed  young 
anchorites,  who  mortified  themselves  beneath  the  roof 
of  Doctor  Blimber,  Paul  was  an  object  of  general  inter- 
est ;  a  fragile  little  plaything  that  they  all  liked,  and  that 
no  one  would  have  thought  of  treating  roughly.  But 
he  could  not  change  his  nature,  or  rewrite  the  analy- 
sis ;  and  so  they  all  agreed  that  Dombey  was  old-fash- 
ioned. 

There  were  some  immunities,  however,  attaching  to 
the  character  enjoyed  by  no  one  else.  They  could  have 
better  spared  a  newer-fashioned  child,  and  that  alone 
was  much.  When  the  others  only  bowed  to  Doctor 
Blimber  and  family  on  retiring  for  the  nicfht,  Paul  would 
stretch  out  his  morsel  of  a  hand,  and  boldly  shake  the 
doctor's  ;  also  Mrs.  Blimber's  ;  also  Cornelia's.  If  any- 
body was  to  be  begged  off  from  impending  punishment, 
Paul  was  always  the  delegate.  The  weak-eyed  young 
man  himself  had  once  consulted  him,  in  reference  to  a 
little  breakage  of  glass  and  china.  And  it  was  darkly 
rumoured  that  the  butler,  regarding  him  with  favour 
such  as  that  stem  man  had  never  shown  before  to  mortal 
boy,  had  sometimes  mingled  porter  with  his  table-beer 
to  make  him  strong. 

Over  and  above  these  extensive  privileges,  Paul  had 
free  right  of  entry  to  Mr.  Feeder's  room,  from  which 
apartment  he  had  twice  led  Mr.  Toots  into  the  open  air, 
In  a  state  of  faintness,  consequent  on  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  smoke  a  very  blunt  cigar  :  one  of  a  bundle 
which  that  young  gentleman  had  covertly  purchased  on 
the  shingle  from  a  most  desperate  smuggler,  who  had 
acknowledged,  in  confidence,  that  two  hundred  pounds 


I  vvas  the  price  set  upon  his  head,  dead  or  alive,  by  the 
I  Custom  House.     It  was  a  snug  room,  Mr.  Feeder's, 
with  his  bed  in  another  little  room  inside  of  it  ;  and  a 
j  flute,  which  Mr.  Feeder  couldn't  play  yet,  but  was  go- 
I  ing  to  make  a  point  of  learning,  he  said,  hanging  up 
over  the  fire-place.    There  were  some  books  in  it,  too, 
and  a  fishing-rod  ;  for  Mr.  Feeder  said  he  should  cer- 
I  tainly  make  a  point  of  learning  to  fish,  when  he  could 
find  time.    Mr.  Feeder  had  amassed,  with  similar  in- 
tentions, a  beautiful  little  curly  sec:nd-hand  key-bugle, 
a  chess-board  and  men,  a  Spanish  Grammar,  a  set  of 
sketching-materials,  and  a  pair  of  boxing  gloves.  The 
art  of  self-defence  Mr.  Feeder  said  he  should  undoubt- 
edly make  a  point  of  learning,  as  he  considered  it  the 
duty  of  every  man  to  do  ;  for  it  might  lead  to  the  protec- 
tion of  a  female  in  distress. 

But  Mr.  Feeder's  great  possession  was  a  large  green 
jar  of  snuff,  which  Mr.  Toots  had  brought  down  as  a 
present,  at  the  close  of  the  last  vacation  ;  and  for  which 
he  had  paid  a  high  price,  as  having  been  the  genuine 
property  of  the  Prince  Regent.  Neither  Mr.  Toots  nor 
Mr.  Feeder  could  partake  of  this  or  any  other  snuff,  even 
in  the  most  stinted  and  moderate  degree,  without  being 
seized  with  convulsions  of  sneezing.  Nevertheless  it 
was  their  great  delight  to  moisten  a  box-full  with  cold 
tea,  stir  it  up  on  a  piece  of  parchment  with  a  paper- 
knife,  and  devote  themselves  to  its  consumption  then 
and  there.  In  the  course  of  which  cramming  of  their 
noses,  they  endured  surprising  torments  with  the  con- 
stancy of  martyrs  :  and  drinking  table-beer  at  intervals, 
felt  all  the  glories  of  dissipation. 

To  little  Paul  sitting  silent  in  their  company,  and  by 
the  side  of  his  chief  patron,  Mr.  Toots,  there  was  a  dread 
charm  in  these  reckless  occasions  ;  and  when  Mr.  Feeder 
I  spoke  of  the  dark  mysteries  of  London,  and  told  Mr. 
i  Toots  that  he  Avas  going  to  observe  it  himself  closely  in 
j  all  its  ramifications  in  the  approaching  holidays,  and  for 
I  that  purpose  had  made  arrangements  to  board  with  two 
I  old  maiden  ladies  at  Peckham,  Paul  regarded  him  as  if 
I  he  were  the  hero  of  some  book  of  travels  or  wild  adven- 
ture, and  was  almost  afraid  of  such  a  slashing  person. 

Going  into  this  room  one  evening,  when  the  holidays 
were  very  near,  Paul  found  Mr.  Feeder  filling  up  the 
blanks  in  some  printed  letters,  while  some  others,  already 
\  filled  up  and  strewn  before  him,  were  being  folded  and 
sealed  by  Mr.  Toots.  Mr.  Feeder  said,  "  Aha,  Dombey, 
there  you  are,  are  you  ?" — for  they  were  always  kind  to 
him,  and  glad  to  see  him — and  then  said,  tossing  one  of 
the  letters  towards  him,  "  And  there  you  are,  too,  Dom- 
bey. That's  yours." 
"  Mine,  sir  ?"  said  Paul. 
"  Your  invitation,"  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 
Paul,  looking  at  it,  found,  in  copper-plate  print,  with 
the  exception  of  his  own  name  and  the  date,  which  were 
in  Mr.  Feeder's  penmanship,  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber requested  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  P.  Dombey's  company 
at  an  early  party  on  Wednesday  evening  the  seventeenth 
instant ;  and  that  the  hour  was  half -past  seven  o'clock  ; 
and  that  the  object  was  quadrilles.  Mr.  Toots  also 
showed  him,  by  holding  up  a  comp'hnion  sheet  of  paper, 
that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  requested  the  pleasure  of 
Mr.  Toots 's  company  at  an  early  party  on  Wednesday 
evening  the  seventeenth  instant,  when  the  hour  was 
half-past  seven  o'clock,  and  when  the  object  was  qua- 
drilles. He  also  found,  on  glancing  at  the  table  where 
Mr.  Feeder  sat,  that  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Briggs's  com- 
pany, and  of  Mr.  Tozer's  company,  and  of  every  young 
gentleman's  company,  was  requested  by  Doctor  and  Mrs. 
Blimber  on  the  same  genteel  occasion. 

Mr.  Feeder  then  told  him,  to  his  great  joy,  that  his 
sisier  was  invited,  and  that  it  was  a  half-yearly  event, 
and  that,  as  the  holidays  began  that  day,  he  could  go 
away  with  his  sister  after  the  party,  if  he  liked,  which 
Paul  interrupted  him  to  say  he  icould  like,  very  much. 
Mr.  Feeder  then  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  would 
be  expected  to  inform  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  in 
superfine  small-hand,  that  Mr.  P.  Dombey  would  be 
happy  to  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  them,  in  accord- 
ance with  their  polite  invitation.  Lastly,  Mr.  Feeder 
said,  he  had  better  not  refer  to  the  festive  occasion,  in 
the  hearing  of  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  ;  as  these  pre- 
liminaries, and  the  whole  of  the  arrangements,  were 


494 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


conducted  on  principles  of  classicality  and  high  breed- 
ing ;  and  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  young  gentlemen  on  the  other,  were  supposed, 
in  their  scholastic  capacities,  not  to  have  the  least  idea 
of  what  was  in  the  wind. 

Paul  thanked  Mr.  Feeder  for  these  hints,  and  pocket- 
ing his  invitation,  sat  down  on  a  stool  by  the  side  of  Mr. 
Toots  as  usual.  But  Paul's  head,  which  had  long  been 
ailing  more  or  less,  and  was  sometimes  very  heavy  and 
painful,  felt  so  uneasy  that  night,  that  he  was  obliged 
to  support  it  on  his  hand.  And  yet  it  dropped  so  that, 
by  little  and  little  it  sunk  on  Mr.  Toots's  knee,  and  rested 
there,  as  if  it  had  no  care  to  be  ever  lifted  up  again. 

That  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  deaf  ;  but  he 
must  have  been,  he  thought,  for,  by  and  by,  he  heard 
Mr.  Feeder  calling  in  his  ear,  and  gently  shaking  him  to 
rouse  his  attention.  And  when  he  raised  his  head,  quite 
scared,  and  looked  about  him,  he  found  that  Doctor 
Blimber  had  come  into  the  room  ;  and  that  the  window 
was  open,  and  that  his  forehead  was  wet  with  sprinkled 
water  ;  though  how  all  this  had  been  done  without  his 
knowledge,  was  very  curious  indeed. 

"Ah  !  Come,  come  !  That's  well  !  How  is  my  little 
friend  now  ?  "  said  Doctor  Blimber,  encouragingly. 

"Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Paul. 

But  there  seemed  to  be  something  the  matter  with  the 
floor,  for  he  couldn't  stand  upon  it  steadily  ;  and  with 
the  w^alls  too,  for  they  were  inclined  to  turn  round  and 
round,  and  could  only  be  stopped  by  being  looked  at  very 
hard  indeed.  Mr.  Toots's  head  had  the  appearance  of 
being  at  once  bigger  and  farther  off  than  was  quite  nat- 
ural ;  and  when  he  took  Paul  in  his  arms,  to  carry  him 
up-stairs,  Paul  observed  v/ith  astonishment  that  the  door 
was  in  quite  a  different  place  from  that  in  which  he  had 
expected  to  find  it,  and  almost  thought,  at  first,  that  Mr. 
Toots  was  going  to  walk  straight  up  the  chimney. 

It  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Toots  to  carry  him  to  the  top 
of  the  house  so  tenderly  ;  and  Paul  told  him  that  it  was. 
But  Mr.  Toots  said  that  he  would  do  a  great  deal  more 
than  that,  if  he  could  ;  and  indeed  he  did  more  as  it 
was  :  for  he  helped  Paul  to  undress,  and  helped  him  to 
bed,  in  the  kindest  manner  possible,  and  then  sat  down 
by  the  bedside  and  chuckled  very  much  ;  while  Mr. 
Feeder,  B.A.,  leaning  over  the  bottom  of  the  bedstead, 
set  all  the  little  bristles  on  his  head  bolt  upright  with 
his  bony  hands,  and  then  made  believe  to  spar  at  Paul 
with  great  science,  on  account  of  his  being  all  right 
again,  which  was  so  uncommonly  facetious,  and  kind  too 
in  Mr.  Feeder,  that  Paul,  not  being  able  lo  make  up  his 
mind  whether  it  was  best  to  laugh  or  cry  at  him,  did 
both  at  once. 

How  Mr.  Toots  melted  away,  and  Mr.  Feeder  changed 
into  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Paul  never  thought  of  asking  ;  neither 
was  he  at  all  curious  to  know  :  but  when  he  saw  Mrs. 
Pipchin  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed  instead  of  Mr, 
Feeder,  he  cried  out,  "Mrs.  Pipchin,  don't  tell  Flor- 
ence ! " 

"Don't  tell  Florence  what,  my  little  Paul?"  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  coming  round  to  the  bedside,  and  sitting 
down  in  the  chair. 

"About  me,"  said  Paul. 

"No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  mean  to  do  when  I  grow  up, 
Mrs.  Pipchin  ?  "  inquired  Paul,  turning  his  face  towards 
her  on  his  pillow,  and  resting  his  chin  wistfully  on  his 
folded  hands. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  couldn't  guess. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Paul,  "  to  put  my  money  all  together 
in  one  Bank,  never  try  to  get  any  more,  go  away  into  the 
country  with  my  darling  Florence,  have  a  beautiful  gar- 
den, fields  and  woods,  and  live  there  with  her  all  my 
life  ! " 

"  Indeed  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul.  "  That's  what  I  mean  to  do,  when 
I — "    He  stopped,  and  pondered  for  a  momcmt. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  gray  eye  scanned  his  thoughtful  face. 

"  If  I  grow  up,"  said  Paul,  Then  lie  went  on  imme- 
diately to  tell  Mrs.  Pipchin  all  about  the  party,  about 
Florence's  invitation,  about  the  pride  he  would  have 
in  the  admiration  that  would  be  felt  for  her  by  all  the 
boys,  about  their  being  so  kind  to  him  and  fond  of  him, 
about  his  being  so  fond  of  them,  and  about  his  being  so 


glad  of  it.  Then  he  told  Mrs.  Pipchin  about  the  analy- 
sis, and  about  his  being  certainly  old-fashioned,  and  took 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  opinion  on  that  point,  and  whether  she 
knew  why  it  was,  and  what  it  meant.  Mrs,  Pipchin  de- 
nied the  fact  altogether,  as  the  shortest  way  of  getting 
out  of  the  difficulty  ;  but  Paul  was  far  from  satisfied 
with  that  reply,  and  looked  so  searchingly  at  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin for  a  truer  answer,  that  she  was  obliged  to  get  up 
and  look  out  of  the  window  to  avoid  his  eyes. 

There  was  a  certain  calm  apothecary,  who  attended  at 
the  establishment  when  any  of  the  young  gentlemen 
were  ill,  and  somehow  he  got  into  the  room  and  appeared 
at  the  bedside,  with  Mrs.  Blimber.  How  they  came 
there,  or  how  long  they  had  been  there,  Paul  didn't 
know  ;  but  when  he  saw  them,  he  sat  up  in  bed,  and 
answered  all  the  apothecary's  questions  at  full  length, 
and  whispered  to  him  that  Florence  was  not  to  know  any- 
thing about  it  if  he  pleased,  and  that  he  had  set  his 
mind  upon  her  coming  to  the  party.  He  was  very  chatty 
with  the  apothecary,  and  they  parted  excellent  friends. 
Lying  down  again  with  his  eyes  shut,  he  heard  the 
apothecary  say,  out  of  the  room  and  quite  a  long  way  off 
—or  he  dreamed  it — that  there  was  a  waat  of  vital 
power  (what  was  that,  Paul  wondered  !)  and  great  con- 
stitutional weakness.  That  as  the  little  fellow  had  set 
his  heart  on  parting  with  his  schoolmates  on  the  seven- 
teenth, it  would  be  better  to  indulge  the  fancy  if  he 
grew  no  worse.  That  he  was  glad  to  hear  from  Mrs, 
Pipchin,  that  the  little  fellow  would  go  to  his  friends  in 
London  on  the  eighteenth.  That  he  would  write  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  when  he  should  have  gained  a  better  know- 
ledge of  the  case,  and  before  that  day.  That  there  was 
no  immediate  cause  for — what?  Paul  lost  that  word. 
And  that  the  little  fellow  had  a  fine  mind,  but  was  an 
old-fashioned  boy. 

What  old  fashion  could  that  be,  Paul  w^ondered  with  a 
palpitating  heart,  that  w^as  so  visibly  expressed  in  him  ; 
so  plainly  seen  by  so  many  people  ! 

He  could  neither  make  it  out,  nor  trouble  himself  long 
Avith  the  effort.  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  again  beside  him,  \i 
she  had  ever  been  away  (he  thought  she  had  gone  out 
with  the  doctor,  but  it  was  all  a  dream  perhaps),  and 
presently  a  bottle  and  glass  got  into  her  hands  magically, 
and  she  poured  out  the  contents  for  him,  After  that,  he 
had  some  real  good  jelly,  which  Mrs.  Blimber  brought 
to  him  herself  ;  and  then  he  was  so  well,  that  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin went  home,  at  his  urgent  solicitation,  and  Briggs 
and  Tozer  came  to  bed.  Poor  Briggs  grumbled  terribly 
about  his  own  analysis,  which  could  hardly  have  discom- 
posed him  more  if  it  had  been  a  chemical  process  ;  but 
he  was  very  good  to  Paul,  and  so  was  Tozer,  and  so  were 
all  the  rest,  for  they  every  one  looked  in  before  going  to 
bed,  and  said,  "  How  are  you  now,  Dombey? "  "  Cheer 
up,  little  Dombey  !  "  and  so  forth.  After  Briggs  had  got 
into  bed,  he  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  still  bemoaning 
his  analysis,  and  saying  he  knew  it  was  all  wrong,  and 
they  couldn't  have  analysed  a  murderer  worse,  and  how 
would  Doctor  Blimber  like  it  if  his  pocket-money  de- 
pended on  it  ?  It  was  very  easy,  Briggs  said,  to  make  a 
galley-slave  of  a  boy  all  the  half-year,  and  then  score 
him  up  idle  ;  and  to  crib  two  dinners  a- week  out  of  his 
board,  and  then  score  him  up  greedy  ;  but  that  wasn't 
going  to  be  submitted  to,  he  believed,  was  it !  Oh  ! 
Ah  ! 

Before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  performed  on  the 
gong  next  morning,  he  came  up-stairs  to  Paul  and  told 
him  he  was  to  lie  still,  which  Paul  very  gladly  did.  Mrs, 
Pipchin  reappeared  a  little  before  the  apothecary,  and  a 
little  after  the  good  young  woman  whom  Paul  had 
seen  cleaning  the  stove  on  that  first  morning  (how  long 
ago  it  seemed  now  !)  had  brought  him  his  breakfast. 
There  was  another  consultation  a  long  way  off,  or  else 
Paul  dreamed  it  again  ;  and  then  the  apothecary,  coming 
back  with  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  said  : 

"  Yes,  I  think.  Doctor  Blimber,  we  may  release  this 
young  gentleman  from  his  books  just  now  ;  the  vacation 
being  so  very  near  ut  hand," 

"By  all  mea/is,"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  "My  love, 
you  will  inforn)  Cornelia,  if  youiilease," 

"  Assuredly,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber, 

The  apothecary  bending  down,  looked  closely  into 
Paul's  eyes,  and  felt  his  head,  and  his  pulse,  and  his 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVLKSHY  Of  ILLINOIS 


PAUL  ALSO  ASKED  HIM,  AS  A  rUAOTICAL  MAN,  WHAT  HE  THOUGHT  ABOUT  KING  ALFRED  S  IDEA 
OF  MEA8UBING  TIME  BY  THE  BURNING  OP  CANDLES  ;  TO  WHICH  THE  WORKMAN  REPLIED, 
THAT  HE  THOUGHT  IT  WOULD  BE   THE  RUIN  OP  THE  CLOCK  TRADE  IP  IT  WAS  TO  COME  UP 


AGAIN. 


DOMBEY 

heart,  with  so  much  interest  and  care,  that  Paul  said, 
"  Thank  you,  sir." 

"Our  little  friend,"  observed  Doctor  Blimber,  '*  has 
never  complain." 

"Oh  no!"  replied  the  apothecary.  "He  was  not 
likely  to  complain." 

"  You  find  him  greatly  better?"  said  Doctor  Blimber. 

"  Oh  !  He  is  greatly  better,  sir,"  returned  the  apothe- 
cary. 

Paul  had  begun  to  speculate,  in  his  own  odd  way,  on 
the  subject  that  might  occupy  the  apothecary's  mind 
just  at  that  moment  ;  so  musingly  had  he  answered  the* 
two  questions  of  Doctor  Blimber.  But  the  apothecary 
happening  to  meet  his  little  patient's  eyes,  as  the  latter 
set  off  on  that  mental  expedition,  and  coming  instantly 
out  of  his  abstraction  with  a  cheerful  smile,  Paul  smiled 
in  return  and  abandoned  it. 

He  lay  in  bed  all  that  day,  dozing  and  dreaming,  and 
looking  at  Mr.  Toots  ;  but  got  up  on  the  next,  and  went 
down-stairs.  Lo  and  behold,  there  was  something  the 
matter  with  the  great  clock  ;  and  a  workman  on  a  pair 
of  steps  had  taken  its  face  off,  and  was  poking  instru- 
ments into  the  works  by  the  light  of  a  candle  1  This 
was  a  great  event  for  Paul,  who  sat  down  on  the  bottom 
stair,  and  watched  the  operation  attentively  :  now  and 
then  glancing  at  the  clock  face,  leaning  all  askew, 
against  the  wall  hard  by,  and  feeling  a  little  confused 
by  a  suspicion  that  it  was  ogling  him. 

The  workman  on  the  steps  was  very  civil  ;  and  as  he 
said,  when  he  observed  Paul,  "How  do  you  do,  sir?" 
Paul  got  into  conversation  with  him,  and  told  him  he 
hadn't  been  quite  well  lately.  The  ice  being  thus  broken 
Paul  asked  him  a  multitude  of  questions  about  chimes 
and  clocks  :  as,  whether  people  watched  up  in  the  lonely 
church  steeples  by  night  to  make  them  strike,  and  how 
the  bells  were  rung  when  people  died,  and  whether 
those  were  different  bells  from  wedding  bells,  or  only 
sounded  dismal  in  the  fancies  of  the  living.  Finding 
that  his  new  acquaintance  was  not  very  well  informed 
on  the  subject  of  the  curfew  bell  of  ancient  days,  Paul 
gave  him  an  account  of  that  institution  ;  and  also  asked 
him  as  a  practical  man,  what  he  thought  about  King 
Alfred's  idea  of  measuring  time  by  the  ljuming  of  can- 
dles ;  to  which  the  workman  replied,  that  he  thought  it 
would  be  the  ruin  of  the  clock  trade  if  it  was  to  come  up 
again.  In  fine,  Paul  looked  on,  until  the  clock  had  quite 
recovered  its  familiar  aspect,  and  resumed  its  sedate 
inquiry  ;  when  the  workman,  putting  away  his  tools 
in  a  long  basket,  bade  him  good  day,  and  went  away. 
Though  not  before  he  had  whispered  something,  on  the 
door  mat,  to  the  footman,  in  which  there  was  the  phrase 
"  old-fashioned  " — for  Paul  heard  it. 

What  could  that  old  fashion  be,  that  seemed  to  make 
the  people  sorry  !    What  could  it  be  ! 

Having  nothing  to  learn  now,  he  thought  of  this  fre- 
quently ;  though  not  so  often  as  he  might  have  done,  if 
he  had  had  fewer  things  to  think  of.  But  he  had  a 
great  many  ;  and  was  always  thinking,  all  day  long. 

First,  there  was  Florence  coming  to  the  party.  Flor- 
ence would  see  that  the  boys  were  fond  of  him  ;  and 
that  would  make  her  happy.  This  was  his  great  theme. 
Let  Florence  once  be  sure  that  they  were  gentle  and 
good  to  him,  and  that  he  had  become  a  little  favourite 
among  them,  and  then  she  would  always  think  of  the 
time  he  had  passed  there,  without  being  very  sorry. 
Florence  might  be  all  the  happier  loo  for  that,  perhaps, 
when  he  came  back. 

^  When  he  came  back  !  Fifty  times  a  day,  his  noiseless 
little  feet  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  own  room,  as  he  col- 
lected every  book,  and  scrap,  and  trifle  that  belonged  to 
him,  and  pat  them  all  together  there,  down  to  the  mi- 
nutest thing,  for  taking  home  I  There  was  no  shade  of 
coming  back  on  little  Paul  ;  no  preparation  for  it,  or 
other  reference  to  it,  grew  out  of  anything  he  thought 
or  did,  except  this  slight  one  in  connexion  with  his  sister. 
On  the  contrary,  he  had  to  think  of  everything  familiar 
to  him,  in  his  contemplative  moods  and  in  his  wander- 
ings about  the  house,  as  being  to  be  parted  with  ;  and 
hence  the  many  things  he  had  to  think  of,  all  day 
lonff. 

He  had  to  peep  into  those  rooms  up-stairs,  and  think 
how  solitary  they  would  be  when  ho  was  gone,  and 


AND  80 K  495 

wonder  through  how  many  silent  days,  weeks,  months, 
and  years,  they  would  continue  just  as  grave  and  undis- 
turbed. He  had  to  think— would  any  other  child  fold- 
fashioned,  like  himself)  stray  there  at,  any  time,  to  whom 
the  same  grotesque  distortions  of  pattern  and  furniture 
would  manifest  themselves  ;  and  would  anybody  tell  that 
boy  of  little  Dombey,  who  had  been  tiiere  once. 

He  had  to  think  of  a  portrait  on  the  stairs,  Avhich  al- 
ways looked  earnestly  after  him  as  he  went  away,  eyeing 
it  over  his  shoulder;  and  which,  when  he  passed  it  in  the 
company  of  any  one,  still  seemed  to  gaze  at  him,  and 
not  at  his  companion.  He  had  much  to  think  of,  in  as- 
sociation with  a  print  that  hung  up  in  another  place, 
where,  in  the  centre  of  a  wondering  group,  one  figure 
that  he  knew,  a  figure  with  a  light  about  its  head — be- 
nignant, mild,  and  merciful— stood  pointing  upward. 

At  his  own  bedroom  window,  there  were  crowds  of 
thoughts  that  mixed  with  these,  and  came  on,  one  upon 
another,  one  upon  another,  like  the  rolling  waves. 
Where  those  wild  birds  lived,  that  were  always  hovering 
out  at  sea  in  troubled  weather  ;  where  the  clouds  rose, 
and  first  began  ;  whence  the  wind  issued  on  its  rushing 
flight,  and  where  it  stopped  ;  whether  the  spot  where 
he  and  Florence  had  so  often  sat,  and  watched,  and 
talked  about  these  things,  could  ever  bs  exactly  as  it 
used  to  be  without  them  ;  whether  it  could  ever  be  the 
same  to  Florence,  if  he  were  in  some  distant  place,  and 
she  were  sitting  there  alone. 

He  had  to  think,  too,  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  Mr.  Feeder, 
B.A. ;  of  all  the  boys;  and  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs. 
Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber;  of  home,  and  of  his  aunt  and 
Miss  Tox  ;  of  his  father,  Dombey  and  Son,  Walter  with 
the  poor  old  uncle  who  had  got  the  money  he  wanted, 
and  that  gruff- voiced  captain  with  the  iron  hand.  Be- 
sides all  this,  he  had  a  number  of  little  visits  to  pay,  in 
the  course  of  the  day  ;  to  the  school-room,  to  Doctor 
Blimber's  study,  to  Mrs.  Blimber's  private  apartment,  to 
Miss  Blimber's,  and  to  the  dog.  For  he  was  free  of  the 
whole  hovise  now,  to  range  it  as  he  chose  ;  and  in  his 
desire  to  part  with  everybody  on  affectionate  terms,  he 
attended,  in  his  way,  to  them  all.  Sometimes  he  found 
places  in  books  for  Briggs,  who  was  always  losing  them; 
sometimes  he  looked  up  words  in  dictionaries  for  other 
young  gentlemen  who  were  in  extremity  ;  sometimes  he 
held  skeins  of  silk  for  Mrs.  Blimber  to  wind  :  sometimes 
he  put  Cornelia's  desk  to  rights  ;  sometimes  he  would 
even  creep  into  the  doctor's  study,  and  sitting  on  the 
carpet  near  his  learned  feet,  turn  the  globes  softly,  and 
go  round  the  world,  or  take  a  flight  among  the  far-off 
stars. 

In  those  days  immediately  before  the  holidays,  in  short, 
when  the  other  young  gentlemen  were  labouring  for 
dear  life  through  a  general  resumption  of  the  studies  of 
the  whole  half-year,  Paul  was  such  a  privileged  pupil 
as  had  never  been  seen  in  that  house  before.  He  could 
hardly  believe  it  himself  ;  but  his  liberty  lasted  from 
hour  to  hour,  and  from  day  to  day  ;  and  little  Dombey 
was  caressed  by  every  one.  Doctor  Blimber  was  so  par- 
ticular about  him,  that  he  requested  Johnson  to  retire 
from  the  dinner-table  one  day,  for  having  thoughtlessly 
spoken  to  him  as  "poor  little  Dombey  ;"  which  Paul 
thought  rather  hard  and  severe,  though  he  had  flushed 
at  the  moment,  and  wondered  why  Johnson  should  pity 
him.  It  was  the  more  questionable  justice,  Paul 
thought,  in  the  doctor,  from  his  having  certainly  over- 
heard that  great  authority  give  his  assent  on  the  previ- 
ous evening,  to  the  proposition  (stated  by  Mrs.  Blimber) 
that  poor  dear  little  Dombey  was  more  old-fashioned 
than  ever.  And  now  it  was  that  Paul  began  to  think 
it  must  surely  be  old-fashioned  to  be  very  thin,  and 
light,  and  easily  tired,  and  soon  disposed  to  lie  down 
anywhere  and  rest  ;  for  he  couldn't  help  feeling  that 
these  were  more  and  more  his  habits  every  day. 

At  last  the  party-day  arrived  ;  and  Doctor  Blimber 
said  at  breakfast,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  stud- 
ies on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next  month."  Mr.  Toots  im- 
mediately threw'  off  his  allegiance,  and  put  on  his  ring  : 
and  mentioning  the  doctor  in^casual  conversation  shortly 
afterwards,  spoke  of  him  as  "  Blimber  !  "  This  act  of  free- 
dom inspired  the  older  pupils  with  admiration  and  envy; 
but  the  younger  spirits  were  appalled,  and  seemed  to 
marvel  that  no  beam  fell  down  and  crushed  him. 


496 


CHABLES  DICKENS'  W0RK8. 


Not  the  least  allusion  was  made  to  the  ceremonies  of 
the  evening,  either  at  breakfast  or  at  dinner  ;  but  there 
was  a  bustle  in  the  house  all  day,  and  in  the  course  of 
his  perambulations,  Paul  made  acquaintance  with  various 
strange  benches  and  candlesticks,  and  met  a  harp  in  a 
green  great-coat  standing  on  the  landing  outside  the 
drawing-room  door.  There  was  something  queer,  too, 
about  Mrs.  Blimber's  head  at  dinner-time,  as  if  she  had 
screwed  her  hair  up  too  tight  ;  and  though  Miss  Blimber 
showed  a  graceful  bunch  of  plaited  hair  on  each  temple, 
she  seemed  to  have  her  own  little  curls  in  paper  under- 
neath, and  in  a  play -bill  too  ;  for  Paul  read  "  Theatre 
Royal  "  over  one  of  her  sparkling  spectacles,  and  "  Brigh- 
ton "  over  the  other. 

There  was  a  grand  array  of  white  waistcoats  and  cra- 
vats in  the  young  gentlemen's  bedrooms  as  evening  ap- 
proached ;  and  such  a  smell  of  singed  hair,  that  Doctor 
Blimber  sent  up  the  footman  with  his  compliments,  and 
wished  to  know  if  the  house  was  on  fire.  But  it  was 
only  the  hair-dresser  curling  the  young  gentlemen,  and 
overheating  his  tongs  in  the  ardour  of  business. 

When  Paul  was  dressed — which  was  very  €oon  done, 
for  he  felt  unwell  and  drowsy,  and  was  not  able  to  stand 
about  it  very  long — he  went  down  into  the  drawing-room  ; 
where  he  found  Doctor  Blimber  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room  full  dressed,  but  with  a  dignified  and  unconcerned 
demeanour,  as  if  he  thought  it  barely  possible  that  one 
or  two  people  might  drop  in  by  and  bye.  Shortly  after- 
wards, Mrs.  Blimber  appeared,  looking  lovely,  Paul 
thought ;  and  attired  in  such  a  number  of  skirts  that  it 
was  quite  an  excursion  to  walk  round  her.  Miss  Blim- 
ber came  down  soon  after  her  mama  ;  a  little  squeezed  in 
appearance,  but  very  charming. 

Mr.  Toots  and  Mr.  Feeder  were  the  next  arrivals. 
Each  of  these  gentlemen  brought  his  hat  in  his  hand,  as 
if  he  lived  somewhere  else  ;  and  when  they  were  an- 
nounced by  the  butler,  Doctor  Blimber  said,  "Aye,  aye, 
aye  !  God  bless  my  soul  ! "  and  seemed  extremely  giad 
to  see  them.  Mr.  Toots  was  one  blaze  of  jewellery  and 
buttons  ;  and  he  felt  the  circumstance  so  strongly,  that 
when  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the  doctor,  and  had 
bowed  to  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber,  he  took  Paul 
aside,  and  said,  "  What  do  you  think  of  this,  Dombey  ! " 

But  notwithstanding  this  modest  confidence  in  him- 
self, Mr.  Toots  appeared  to  be  involved  in  a  good  deal  of 
uncertainty  whether,  on  the  whole,  it  was  judicious  to 
button  the  bottom  button  of  his  waistcoat,  and  whether, 
on  a  calm  revision  of  all  the  circumstances,  it  was  best  to 
wear  his  wristbands  turned  up  or  turned  down.  Observ- 
ing that  Mr.  Feeder's  were  turned  up,  Mr.  Toots  turned  his 
up  ;  but  the  wristbands  of  the  next  arrival  being  turned 
down,  Mr.  Toots  turned  his  down.  The  differences  in 
point  of  waistcoat-buttoning,  not  only  at  the  bottom,  but 
at  the  top  too,  became  so  numerous  and  complicated  as 
the  arrivals  thickened,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  continually 
fingering  that  article  of  dress,  as  if  he  were  performing 
on  some  instrument ;  and  appeared  to  find  the  incessant 
execution  it  demanded,  quite  bewildering. 

All  the  young  gentlemen  tightly  cravatted,  curled,  and 
pumped,  and  with  their  best  hats  in  their  hands,  having 
been  at  different  times  announced  and  introduced,  Mr. 
Baps,  the  dancing-master,  came,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Baps,  to  whom  Mrs.  Blimber  was  extremely  kind  and  con- 
descending. Mr.  Baps  was  a  very  grave  gentleman,  with 
a  slow  and  measured  manner  of  speaking  ;  and  before  he 
had  stood  under  the  lamp  five  minutes,  he  began  to  talk 
to  Toots  (who  had  been  silently  comparing  pumps  with 
him)  about  what  you  were  to  do  with  your  raw  ma- 
terials when  they  came  into  your  ports  in  return  for  your 
drain  of  gold.  Mr.  Toots,  to  whom  the  question  seemed 
perplexing,  suggested  "  Cook  'em."  But  Mr.  Baps  did 
not  appear  to  think  that  would  do. 

Paul  now  slipped  away  from  the  cushioned  corner  of 
a  sofa,  which  had  been  his  post  of  observation,  and  went 
down-stairs  into  the  tea-room  to  be  ready  for  Florence, 
whom  he  had  not  seen  for  nearly  a  fortnight,  as  ho  had 
remained  at  Doctor  Blintiber's  on  the  previous  Saturday 
and  Sunday,  lest  he  should  take  cold.  Presently  she 
came  :  looking  so  beautiful  in  her  simple  ball  dress,  with 
her  fresh  fiowers  in  her  hand,  that  when  she  kncilt  down 
on  the  ground  to  take  Paul  round  the  neck  and  kiss  hiui 
(for  there  was  no  one  there  but  his  friend  and  another 


j  young  woman  waiting  to  serve  out  the  tea),  he  could 
I  hardly  make  up  his  mind  to  let  her  go  again  or  take 
away  her  bright  and  loving  eyes  from  his  face. 

"But  what  is  the  matter,  Floy?"  asked  Paul,  almost 
sure  that  he  saw  a  tear  there. 

"  Nothing,  darling,  nothing,"  returned  Florence. 

Paul  touched  her  cheek  gently  with  his  finger — and  it 
was  a  tear  I    "  Why,  Floy  ! "  said  he. 

"We'll  go  home  together,  and  I'll  nurse  you,  love," 
said  ITlorence. 

"  Nurse  me  ! "  echoed  Paul. 

Paul  couldn't  understand  what  that  had  to  do  with  it, 
nor  why  the  two  young  women  looked  on  so  seriously, 
nor  why  Florence  turned  away  her  face  for  a  moment, 
and  then  turned  it  back,  lighted  up  again  with  smiles. 

"Floy,"  said  Paul,  holding  a  ringlet  of  her  dark  hair 
in  his  hand.  "Tell  me,  dear.  Do  you  think  I  have 
grown  old-fashioned?" 

His  sister  laughed,  and  foniled  him,  and  told  him 
"No." 

"  Because  I  know  they  say  so,"  returned  Paul,  "  and 
I  want  to  know  what  they  mean,  Floy." 

But  a  loud  double  knock  coming  at  the  door,  and 
Florence  hurrying  to  the  table,  there  was  no  more  said 
between  them.  Paul  wondered  again  when  he  saw  his 
friend  whisper  to  Florence,  as  if  she  were  comforting 
her  ;  but  a  new  arrival  put  that  out  of  his  head  speedily. 

It  was  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  Lady  Skettles,  and  Master 
Skettles.  Master  Skettles  was  to  be  a  new  boy  after 
I  the  vacation,  and  Fame  had  been  busy,  in  Mr.  Feeder's 
I  room,  with  his  father,  who  was  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  of  whom  Mr.  Feeder  had  said  that  when  he 
did  catch  the  Speaker's  eye  (which  he  had  been  expected 
to  do  for  three  or  four  years),  it  was  anticipated  that  he 
would  rather  touch  up  the  Radicals. 

"And  what  room  is  this  now,  for  instance?"  said 
Lady  Skettles  to  Paul's  friend,  'Melia. 

"  Doctor  Blimber's  study,  ma'am,"  was  the  reply. 

Lady  Skettles  took  a  panoramic  survey  of  it  through 
her  glass,  and  said  to  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  with  a  nod 
of  approval,  "Very  good."  Sir  Barnet  assented,  but 
Master  Skettles  looked  suspicious  and  doubtful. 

"And  this  little  creature,  now,"  said  Lady  Skettles, 
turning  to  Paul.    "  Is  he  one  of  the — " 

"Young  gentlemen,  ma'am  ;  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Paul's 
friend. 

"And  what  is  your  name,  my  pale  child  ?  "  said  Lady 
Skettles. 

"  Dombey,"  answered  Paul. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  immediately  interposed,  and  said 
that  he  had  had  the  honour  of  meeting  Paul's  father  at 
a  public  dinner,  and  that  he  hoped  he  was  very  well. 
Then  Paul  heard  him  say  to  Lady  Skettles,  *  City — very 
rich — most  respectable — doctor  mentioned  it."  And  then 
he  said  to  Paul,  "  Will  you  tell  your  good  papa  that  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  rejoiced  to  hear  that  he  was  very  well, 
and  sent  him  his  best  compliments?" 

* '  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Paul. 

"That  is  my  brave  boy,"  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 
"  Barnet,"  to  Master  Skettles,  who  was  revenging  him- 
self for  the  studies  to  come,  on  the  plum-cake,  "  this  is 
a  young  gentleman  you  ought  to  know.  This  is  a  young 
gentleman  you  way  know,  Barnet,"  said  Sir  Barnet  Sket- 
tles, with  an  emphasis  on  the  permission. 

"What  eyes!  What  hair!  What  a  lovely  face!" 
exclaimed  Lady  Skettles  softly,  as  she  looked  at  Florence 
through  her  .glass. 

"  My  sister,"  said  Paul,  presenting  her. 
The  satisfaction  of  the  Skettleses  was  now  complete. 
And  as  Lady  Skettles  had  conceived,  at  first  sight,  a 
liking  for  Paul,  they  all  went  up-stairs  together  :  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  taking  care  of  Florence,  and  young 
j  Barnet  following. 

Young  Barnet  did  not  remain  long  in  the  back -ground 
after  they  had  reached  the  drawing-room,  for  Doctor 
Blimber  had  him  out  in  no  time  dancing  with  Florence. 
\  He  did  not  appear  to  Paul  to  be  particularly  happy,  or 
particularly  anything  but  sulky,  or  to  care  much  what 
I  ho  was  about ;  but  as  Paul  heard  Lady  Skettles  say  to 
I  Mrs.  Blimber,  while  she  beat  time  with  her  fan,  that 
her  dear  boy  was  evidently  smitten  to  death  by  that 
I  angel  of  a  child,  Miss  Dombey,  it  would  seem  that 


D  0MB  FY 

Skettles  junior  was  in  a  state  of  bliss  without  showing 
it. 

Little  Paul  thought  it  a  singular  coincidence  that  no- 
body had  occupied  his  place  among  the  pillows  ;  and 
that  when  he  came  into  the  room  again,  they  should  all 
make  way  for  him  to  go  back  to  it,  remembering  it  was 
his.  Nobody  stood  before  him  either,  when  they  ob- 
served that  he  liked  to  see  Florence  dancing,  but  they 
left  the  space  in  front  quite  clear,  so  that  he  might  fol- 
low her  with  his  eyes.  They  were  so  kind,  too,  even 
the  strangers,  of  whom  there  were  soon  a  great  many, 
that  they  came  and  spoke  to  him  every  now  and  then, 
and  asked  him  how  he  was,  and  if  his  head  ached,  and 
whether  he  was  tired.  He  was  very  much  obliged  to 
them  for  all  their  kindness  and  attention,  and  reclining 
propped  up  in  his  corner,  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Lady 
Skettles  on  the  same  sofa,  and  Florence  coming  and  sit- 
ting by  his  side  as  soon  as  every  dance  was  ended,  he 
looked  on  very  happily  indeed. 

Florence  would  have  sat  by  him  all  night,  and  would 
not  have  danced  at  all  of  her  own  accord,  but  Paul  made 
her,  by  telling  her  how  much  it  pleased  him.  And  he 
told  her  the  truth,  too  ;  for  his  small  heart  swelled,  and 
his  face  glowed,  when  he  saw  how  much  they  all  ad- 
mired her,  and  how  she  was  the  beautiful  little  rosebud 
of  the  room. 

From  his  nest  among  the  pillows,  Paul  could  see  and 
hear  almost  everything  that  passed,  as  if  the  whole 
were  being  done  for  his  amusement.  Among  other  little 
incidents  that  he  observed,  he  observed  Mr.  Baps  the 
dancing-master  get  into  conversation  with  Sir  Barnet 
Skettles,  and  very  soon  ask  him,  as  he  had  asked  Mr. 
Toots,  what  you  were  to  do  with  your  raw  materials, 
when  they  came  into  your  ports  in  return  for  your  drain 
of  gold — which  was  such  a  mystery  to  Paul  that  he  was 
quite  desirous  to  know  what  ought  to  be  done  with 
them.  Sir  Barnet  Skettles  had  much  to  say  upon  the 
question,  and  said  it ;  but  it  did  not  appear  to  solve 
the  question,  for  Mr.  Baps  retorted,  Yes,  but  supposing 
Russia  stepped  in  with  her  tallows  ;  which  sfruck  Sir 
Barnet  almost  dumb,  for  he  could  only  shake  his  head 
after  that,  and  say,  why  then  you  must  fall  back  upon 
your  cottons,  he  supposed. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  looked  after  Mr.  Baps  when  he 
went  to  cheer  up  Mrs.  Baps  (who,  being  quite  deserted, 
was  pretending  to  look  over  the  music  book  of  the  gen- 
tleman who  played  the  harp),  as  if  he  thought  him  a 
remarkable  kind  of  man  ;  and  shortly  afterwards  he  said 
so  in  those  words  to  Doctor  Blimber,  and  inquired  if  he 
might  take  the  liberty  of  asking  who  he  was,  and  whether 
he  had  ever  been  in  the  Board  of  Trade.  Doctor  Blim- 
ber answered  no,  he  believed  not  ;  and  that  in  fact  he 
was  a  professor  of — 

"  Of  something  connected  with  statistics,  I'll  swear?" 
observed  Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 

"Why  no.  Sir  Barnet,"  replied  Doctor  Blimber,  rub- 
bing his  chin.    "  No,  not  exactly." 

"  Figures  of  some  sort  I  would  venture  a  bet,"  said 
Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 

"Why  yes,"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  "yes,  but  not  of 
that  sort.  Mr.  Baps  is  a  very  worthy  sort  of  man. 
Sir  Barnet,  and — in  fact  he's  our  professor  of  danc- 
ing." 

Paul  was  amazed  to  see  that  this  piece  of  information 
quite  altered  Sir  Barnet  Skettles'  opinion  of  Mr.  Baps, 
and  that  Sir  Barnet  flew  into  a  perfect  rage,  and  glow- 
ered at  Mr.  Baps  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  D  Mr.  Bajjs  to  Lady  Skettles, 
in  telling  her  what  had  happened,  and  to  say  that  it 
was  like  his  most  con-sum-mate  and  con-foun-ded  im- 
pudence. 

There  was  another  thing  that  Paul  observed.  Mr. 
Feeder,  after  imbibing  several  custard -cups  of  negus, 
began  to  enjoy  himself.  The  dancing  in  general  was 
ceremonious,  and  the  music  rather  solemn — a  little  like 
church  music  in  fact  :  but  after  the  custard-cups,  Mr. 
Feeder  told  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was  going  to  throw  a  lit- 
tle spirit  into  the  thing.  After  that,  Mr.  Feeder  not 
only  began  to  dance  as  if  he  meant  dancing  and  nothing 
else,  but  secretly  to  stimulate  the  music  to  perform  wild 
tunes.  Further,  he  became  particular  in  his  attentions 
to  the  ladies  ;  and  dancing  with  Miss  Blimber,  whispered 
Vol.  II.— 33 


Am  SOK  497 

to  her — whispered  to  her  ! — though  not  so  softly  but  that 
Paul  heard  him  say  this  remarkable  poetry, 

"  Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 
I  ne'er  could  injure  You  !  " 

This,  Paul  heard  him  repeat  to  four  young  ladies  in  suc- 
cession. Well  might  Mr.  Feeder  say  to  Mr.  Toots, 
that  he  was  afraid  he  should  be  the  worse  for  it  to-mor- 
row ! 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  a  little  alarmed  by  this— compara- 
tively speaking — profligate  behaviour  ;  and  especially 
by  the  alteration  in  the  character  of  the  music,  which, 
beginning  to  comprehend  low  melodies  that  v.ere  popu- 
lar in  the  streets,  might  not  unnaturally  be  supposed  to 
give  offence  to  Lady  Skettles.  But  Lady  Skettles  was 
so  very  kind  as  to  beg  Mrs.  Blimber  not  to  mention  it  ; 
and  to  receive  her  explanation  that  Mr.  Feeder's  sjnrits 
sometimes  betrayed  him  into  excesses  on  these  occasions, 
with  the  greatest  courtesy  and  politeness  ;  observing, 
that  he  seemed  a  very  nice  sort  of  person  for  his  situa- 
tion, and  that  she  particularly  liked  the  unassuming 
style  of  his  hair — which  (as  already  hinted)  was  about  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  long. 

Once,  when  there  was  a  pause  in  the  dancing.  Lady 
Skettles  told  Paul  that  he  seemed  very  fond  of  music. 
Paul  replied,  that  he  was ;  and  if  she  was,  too,  she 
ought  to  hear  his  sister  Florence  sing.  Lady  Skettles 
presently  discovered  that  she  was  dying  with  anxiety  to 
have  that  gratification  ;  and  though  Florence  was  at 
first  very  much  frightened  at  being  asked  to  sin^  before 
so  many  people,  and  begged  earnestly  to  be  excused, 
yet,  on  Paul  calling  her  to  him,  and  saying,  "  Do,  Floy  ! 
Please  !  For  me,  my  dear  ! "  she  went  straight  to  the 
piano,  and  began.  When  they  all  drew  a  little  away, 
that  Paul  might  see  her  ;  and  when  he  saw  her  sitting 
there  alone,  so  young,  and  good,  and  beautiful,  and  kind 
to  him  ;  and  heard  her  thrilling  voice,  so  natural  and 
sweet,  and  such  a  golden  link  between  him  and  all  his 
life's  love  and  happiness,  rising  out  of  the  silence  ;  he 
turned  his  face  away,  and  hid  his  tears.  Not,  as  he  told 
them  when  they  spoke  to  him,  not  that  the  music  was 
too  plaintive  or  too  sorrowful,  but  it  was  so  dear  to  him. 

They  all  loved  Florence  !  How  could  they  help  it  ! 
Paul  had  known  beforehand  that  they  must  and  would  ; 
and  sitting  in  his  cushioned  corner,  with  calmly  folded 
hands,  and  one  leg  loosely  doubled  under  him,  few 
would  have  thought  what  triumph  and  delight  expanded 
his  childish  bosom  while  he  watched  her,  or  what  a 
sweet  tranquillity  he  felt.  Lavish  encomiums  on  "  Dom- 
bey's  sister,"  reached  his  ears  from  all  the  boys  :  ad- 
miration of  the  self-possessed  and  modest  little  beauty, 
was  on  every  lip  :  reports  of  her  intelligence  and  ac- 
complishments floated  past  him,  constantly  ;  and,  as  if 
borne  in  upon  the  air  of  the  summer  night,  there  was  a 
half  intelligible  sentiment  diffused  around,  referring  to 
Florence  and  himself,  and  breathing  sympathy  for  both, 
that  soothed  and  touched  him. 

He  did  not  know  why.  For  all  that  the  child  ob- 
served, and  felt,  and  thought,  that  night — the  present 
and  the  absent ;  what  was  then  and  what  had  been — 
were  blended  like  the  colours  in  the  rainbow,  or  in  the 
plumage  of  rich  birds  when  the  sun  is  shining  on  them, 
or  in  the  softening  sky  when  the  same  sun  is  setting. 
The  many  things  he  had  had  to  think  of  lately,  passed 
before  him  in  tlie  music  ;  not  as  claiming  his  attention 
over  again,  or  as  likely  ever  more  to  occupy  it,  but  as 
peacefully  disposed  of  and  gone.  A  solitary  window, 
gazed  through  years  ago,  looked  out  upon  an  ocean, 
miles  and  miles  away  ;  upon  its  waters,  fancies,  busy 
with  him  only  yesterday,  were  hushed  and  lulled  to 
rest  like  broken  waves.  The  same  mysterious  murmur 
he  had  wondered  at,  when  lying  on  his  couch  upon  the 
beach,  he  thought  he  still  heard  sounding  through  his 
sister's  song,  and  through  the  hum  of  voices,  and  the 
tread  of  feet,  and  having  some  part  in  the  faces  flitting 
by,  and  even  in  the  heavy  gentleness  of  Mr.  Toots,  who 
frequently  came  up  to  shake  him  by  the  hand.  Through 
the  universal  kindness  he  still  thought  he  heard  it, 
speaking  to  him  ;  and  even  his  old-fashioned  reputation 
seemed  to  be  allied  to  it,  he  knew  not  how.  Thus  little 
Paul  sat  musing,  listening,  looking  on,  and  dreaming  ; 
and  was  very  happy. 


498 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Until  tlie  time  arrived  for  taking  leave  :  and  then,  in- 
deed, there  was  a  sensation  in  the  party.  Sir  Barnet 
Skettles  brought  up  Skettles  Junior  to  shake  hands  with 
him,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  remember  to  tell  his 
good  Papa,  with  his  best  compliments,  that  he,  Sir  Bar- 
net  Skettles,  had  said  he  hoped  the  two  young  gentle- 
men would  become  intimately  acquainted.  Lady  Skettles 
kissed  him,  and  parted  his  hair  upon  his  brow,  and  held 
him  in  her  arms  ;  and  even  Mrs.  Baps— poor  Mrs.  Baps  ! 
Paul  was  glad  of  that— came  over  from  beside  the 
music-book  of  the  gentleman  who  played  the  harp,  and 
took  leave  of  him  quite  as  heartily  as  anybody  in  the 
room. 

"Good  bye,  Doctor  Blimber,"  said  Paul,  stretching 
out  his  hand. 

"  Good  bye,  my  little  friend,"  returned  the  doctor. 

"I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said  Paul,  look- 
ing innocently  up  into  his  awful  face.  "  Ask  them  to 
take  care  of  Diogenes,  if  you  please." 

Diogenes  was  the  dog  ;  who  had  never  in  his  life  re- 
ceived a  friend  into  his  confidence,  before  Paul.  The 
doctor  promised  that  every  attention  should  be  paid  to 
Diogenes  in  Paul's  absence,  and  Paul  having  again 
thanked  him,  and  shaken  hands  with  him,  bade  adieu  to 
Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia  with  such  heartfelt  earnest- 
ness that  Mrs.  Blimber  forgot  from  that  moment  to  men- 
tion Cicero  to  Lady  Skettles,  though  she  had  fully  in- 
tended it,  all  the  evening.  Cornelia  taking  both  Paul's 
hands  in  hers,  said,  "  Dombey,  Dombey,  you  have  al- 
ways been  my  favourite  pupil.  God  bless  you  !  "  And 
it  showed,  Paul  thought,  how  easily  one  might  do  in- 
justice to  a  person  ;  for  Miss  Blimber  meant  it — though 
she  was  a  Forcer — and  felt  it. 

A  buzz  then  went  round  among  the  young  gentlemen, 
of  "  Dombey's  going  !  "  "  Little  Dombey's  going  !  "  and 
there  was  a  general  move  after  Paul  and  Florence  down 
the  staircase  and  into  the  hall,  in  which  the  whole 
Blimber  family  were  included.  Such  a  circumstance, 
Mr.  Feeder  said  aloud,  as  had  never  happened  in  the 
case  of  any  former  young  gentleman  within  his  experi- 
ence ;  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  if  this  were  sober 
fact  or  custard-cups.  The  servants  with  the  butler  at 
their  head,  had  all  an  interest  in  seeing  Little  Dombey 
go  ;  and  even  the  weak-eyed  young  man,  taking  out  his 
books  and  trunks  to  the  coach  that  was  to  carry  him  and 
Florence  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  for  the  night,  melted  visibly. 

Not  even  the  influence  of  the  softer  passion  on  the 
young  gentlemen — and  they  all,  to  a  boy,  doted  on  Flor- 
ence— could  restrain  them  from  taking  quite  a  noisy 
leave  of  Paul ;  waving  hats  after  him,  pressing  down- 
stairs to  shake  hands  with  him,  crying  individually 
"Dombey,  don't  forget  me  !"  and  indulging  in  many 
such  ebullitions  of  feeling,  uncommon  among  those 
young  Chesterfields.  Paul  whispered  Florence,  as  she 
wrapped  him  up  before  the  door  was  opened.  Did  she 
hear  them  ?  Would  she  ever  forget  it  ?  Was  she  glad 
to  know  it?  And  a  lively  delight  was  in  his  eyes  as  he 
spoke  to  her. 

Once,  for  a  last  look,  he  turned  and  gazed  upon  the 
faces  thus  addressed  to  him,  surprised  to  see  how  shin- 
ing and  how  bright,  and  numerous  they  were,  and  how 
they  were  all  piled  and  heaped  up,  as  faces  are  at 
crowded  theatres.  They  swam  before  him  as  he  looked, 
like  faces  in  an  agitated  glass  ;  and  next  moment  he 
was  in  the  dark  coach  outside,  holding  close  to  Florence. 
From  that  time,  whenever  he  thought  of  Doctor  Blim- 
ber's,  it  came  back  as  he  had  seen  it  in  this  last  view  ; 
and  it  never  seemed  to  be  a  real  place  again,  but  always 
a  dream,  full  of  eyes. 

This  was  not  quite  the  last  of  Doctor  Blimber's,  how- 
ever. There  was  something  else.  There  was  Mr.  Toots. 
Who,  unexpectedly  letting  down  one  of  the  coach- 
windows,  and  looking  in,  said,  with  a  most  egregious 
chuckle,  "Is  Dombey  there?"  and  immediately  put  it 
up  again,  without  waiting  for  an  answer.  Nor  was  this 
quite  the  last  of  Mr.  Toots,  even  ;  for  before  the  coach- 
man could  drive  off,  he  as  suddenly  let  down  the  other 
window,  and  lookingin  witha  precisely  similiarchucldo, 
said  in  a  precisely  similiar  tone  of  voice,  "  Is  Dombey 
there?"  and  disappeared  precisely  as  before. 

How  Florence  laughed  1  Paul  often  remembered  it, 
and  laughed  himself  whenever  he  did  so. 


But  there  was  much,  soon  afterwards — next  day,  and 
after  that — which  Paul  could  only  recollect  confusedly. 
As,  why  they  stayed  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's  days  and  nights, 
instead  of  going  home  ;  why  he  lay  in  bed,  with  Florence 
sitting  by  his  side  ;  whether  that  had  been  his  father  in 
the  room,  or  only  a  tall  shadow  on  the  wall  ;  whether 
he  had  heard  his  doctor  say,  of  some  one,  that  if  they 
had  removed  him  before  the  occasion  on  which  he  had 
built  up  fancies,  strong  in  proportion  to  his  own  weak- 
ness, it  was  very  possible  he  might  have  pined  away. 

He  could  not  even  remember  whether  he  had  often 
said  to  Florence,  "Oh  Floy,  take  me  home  and  never 
leave  me  !  "  but  he  thought  he  had.  He  fancied  some- 
times he  had  heard  himself  repeating,  "Take  me  home, 
Floy  !  take  me  home  !" 

But  he  could  remember,  when  he  got  home,  and  was 
carried  up  the  well-remembered  stairs,  that  there  had 
been  a  rumbling  of  a  coach  for  many  hours  together, 
while  he  lay  upon  the  seat,  with  Florence  still  beside 
him,  and  old  Mrs.  Pipchin  sitting  opposite.  Pie  remem- 
bered his  old  bed  too,  when  they  laid  him  down  in  it  : 
his  aunt.  Miss  Tox,  and  Susan  :  but  there  was  some- 
thing else,  and  recent  too,  that  ctill  perplexed  him. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  Florence,  if  you  please,"  he  said. 
"  To  Florence  by  herself  for  a  moment  !  " 

She  bent  down  over  him,  and  the  others  stood  away. 

"  Floy,  my  pet,  wasn't  that  papa  in  the  hall  when 
thev  brought  me  from  the  coach  ?  " 

"'Yes,  dear." 

"  He  didn't  cry,  and  go  into  his  room,  Floy,  did  he, 
when  he  saw  me  coming  in  ?" 

Florence  shook  her  head,  and  pressed  her  lips  against 
his  cheek. 

"I'm  very  glad  he  didn't  cry,"  said  little  Paul.  "I 
thought  he  did.    Don't  tell  them  that  I  asked." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Amazing  Artfulness  of  Captain  Cuttle,  and  a  new  Pursuit  fwWalter 
Gay. 

Walter  could  not,  for  several  days,  decide  what  to 
do  in  the  Barbados  business  ;  and  even  cherished  some 
faint  hope  that  Mr.  Dombey  might  not  have  not  meant 
what  he  had  said,  or  that  he  might  change  his  mind,  and 
tell  him  he  was  not  to  go.  But  as  nothing  occurred  to 
give  this  idea  (which  was  sufficiently  improbable  in 
itself)  any  touch  Of  confirmation,  and  as  time  was  slip- 
ping by,  and  he  had  none  to  lose,  he  felt  that  he  must 
act,  without  hesitating  any  longer. 

Walter's  chief  difficulty  was,  how  to  break  the  change 
in  his  affairs  to  Uncle  Sol,  to  whom  he  was  sensible  it 
would  be  a  terrible  blow.  He  had  the  greater  difficulty 
in  dashing  Uncle  Sol's  spirits  with  such  an  astounding 
piece  of  intelligence,  because  they  had  lately  recovered 
very  much,  and  the  old  man  had  become  so  cheerful, 
that  the  little  back  parlour  was  itself  again.  Uncle 
Sol  had  paid  the  first  appointed  portion  of  the  debt  to 
Mr.  Dombey,  and  was  hopeful  of  working  his  way 
through  the  rest  ;  and  to  cast  him  down  afresh,  when 
he  had  sprung  up  so  manfully  from  his  troubles,  was  a 
ver}'^  distressing  necessity. 

Yet  it  would  never  do  to  run  away  from  him.  He 
must  know  of  it  beforehand  ;  and  how  to  tell  him  was 
the  point.  As  to  the  question  of  going  or  not  going, 
Walter  did  not  consider  that  he  had  any  power  of  choice 
in  the  matter.  Mr.  Dombey  had  truly  told  him  that  he 
was  young,  and  that  his  uncle's  circumstances  were  not 
good  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  had  plainly  expressed,  in  the 
glance  with  which  he  had  accompanied  that  reminder, 
that  if  he  declined  to  go  he  might  stay  at  home  if  ho 
chose,  but  not  in  his  counting-house.  His  uncle  and  he 
lay  under  a  great  obligation  to  Mr.  Dombey,  which  was 
of  Walter's  own  soliciting.  He  might  have  begun 
secret  to  despair  of  ever  winning  that  gentleman's  favou 
and  might  have  thought  that  he  was  now  and  then  d' 
posed  to  put  a  slight  upon  him,  which  was  hardly  jus 
But  what  would  have  been  duty  without  that,  was  sti 
duty  with  it — or  Walter  thought  so — and  duty  must 
done. 

When  Mr.  Dombey  had  looked  at  him,  and  told  h* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


499 


lie  was  young,  and  that  his  uncle's  circumstances  were 
not  good,  there  had  been  an  expression  of  dit-dain  in  his 
face  ;  a  contemptuous  and  disparaging  assumption  that 
he  would  be  quite  content  to  live  idly  on  a  reduced  old 
man,  which  stung  the  boy's  generous  soul.  Determined 
to  assure  Mr.  Dombey,  in  so  far  as  it  was  possible  to  give 
him  the  assurance  without  expressing  it  in  words  that 
indeed  he  mistook  his  nature,  Walter  had  been  anxious 
to  show  even  more  cheerfulness  and  activity  after  tlie 
West-Indian  interview  than  he  had  shown  before  :  if 
that  were  possible,  in  one  of  his  quick  and  zealous  dis- 
position. He  was  too  young  and  inexperienced  to  think, 
that  possibly  this  very  quality  in  him  was  not  agreeable 
to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  that  it  was  no  stepping-stone  to  his 
good  opinion  to  be  elastic  and  hopeful  of  pleasing  under 
the  shadow  of  his  powerful  displeasure,  whether  it  were 
right  or  wrong.  But  it  may  have  been — it  may  have 
been — that  the  great  man  thought  himself  defied  in  this 
new  exposition  of  an  honest  spirit,  and  purposed  to  bring 
it  down. 

"  Well  !  at  last  and  at  least.  Uncle  Sol  must  be  told," 
thought  Walter  with  a  sigh.  And  as  Walter  was  appre- 
hensive that  his  voice  might  perhaps  quaver  a  little,  and 
that  his  countenance  might  not  be  quite  as  hopeful  as  he 
could  wish  it  to  be,  if  he  told  the  old  man  himself,  and 
saw  the  first  effects  of  his  communication  on  his  wrin- 
kled face,  he  resolved  to  avail  himself  of  the  services  of 
that  powerful  mediator.  Captain  Cuttle.  Sunday  coming 
round,  he  set  off,  therefore,  after  breakfast,  once  more 
to  beat  up  Captain  Cuttle's  quarters. 

It  was  not  unpleasant  to  remember,  on  the  way  thither, 
that  Mrs.  MacStinger  resorted  to  a  great  distance  every 
Sunday  morning,  to  attend  the  ministry  of  the  Reverend 
Melchisedech  Howler,  who,  having  been  one  day  dis- 
charged from  the  West  India  Docks  on  a  false  suspicion 
(got  up  expressly  against  him  by  the  general  enemy)  of 
screwing  gimlets  into  puncheons,  and  applying  his  lips 
to  the  orifice,  had  announced  the  destruction  of  the  world 
for  that  day  two  years,  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and  opened 
a  front  parlour  for  the  reception  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
of  the  Ranting  persuasion,  upon  whom,  on  the  first  oc- 
casion of  their  assemblage,  the  admonitions  of  the  Rev- 
erend Melchisedech  had  produced  so  powerful  an  effect, 
that,  in  their  rapturous  performance  of  a  sacred  jig, 
which  closed  the  service,  the  whole  flock  broke  through 
into  a  kitchen  below,  and  disabled  a  mangle  belonging 
to  one  of  the  fold. 

This  the  captain,  in  a  moment  of  uncommon  convivial- 
ity, had  confided  to  Walter  and  his  uncle,  between  the 
repetitions  of  lovely  Peg,  on  the  night  when  Brogley  the 
broker  was  paid  out.  The  captain  himself  was  punctual 
in  his  attendance  at  a  church  in  his  own  neighbourhood, 
which  hoisted  the  union  jack  every  Sunday  morning  ; 
and  where  he  was  good  enough — the  lawful  beadle  being 
infirm — to  keep  an  eye  upon  the  boys,  over  whom  he 
exercised  great  power,  in  virtue  of  his  mysterious  hook. 
Knowing  the  regularity  of  the  captain's  habits,  Walter 
made  all  the  haste  he  could,  that  he  might  anticipate  his 
going  out  ;  and  he  made  such  good  speed,  that  he  had 
the  pleasure,  on  turning  into  Brig  Place,  to  behold  the 
broad  blue  coat  and  waistcoat  hanging  out  of  the  cap- 
tain 's  open  window,  to  air  in  the  sun. 

It  appeared  incredible  that  the  coat  and  waistcoat  could 
be  seen  by  mortal  eyes  without  the  captain  ;  but  he  cer- 
tainly was  not  in  them,  otherwise  his  legs — the  houses  in 
Brig  Place  not  being  lofty— would  have  obstructed  the 
street  door,  which  was  perfectly  clear.  Quite  wondering 
at  this  discovery,  Walter  gave  a  single  knock. 

"  Stinger,"  he  distinctly  heard  the  captain  say,  up  in 
his  room,  as  if  that  were  no  business  of  his.  Therefore 
Walter  gave  two  knocks. 

"  Cuttle,"  he  heard  the  captain  say  upon  that  ;  and 
immediately  afterwards  the  captain,  in  his  clean  shirt 
and  braces,  with  his  neckerchief  hanging  loosely  round 
his  throat  like  a  coil  of  rope,  and  his  glazed  hat  on,  ap- 
peared at  the  window,  leaning  out  over  the  broad  blue 
coat  and  waistcoat. 

"  Wal'r  I  "  cried  the  captain,  looking  down  upon  him 
in  amazement. 

"Ay,  ay,  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  "only 
me." 

**  What's  the  matter,  my  lad  ?"  inquired  the  captain, 


with  great  concern,  "  Gills  an't  been  and  sprung  nothing 
again  ?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Walter.  "  My  uncle's  all  right,  Cap- 
tain Cuttle. " 

The  captain  expressed  his  gratification,  and  said  he 
would  come  down  below  and  open  the  door,  which  he 
did. 

"  Though  you're  early,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  eyeing 
him  still  doubtfully,  when  they  got  up-tairs. 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter, 
sitting  down,  "I  was  afraid  you  would  have  gone  out, 
and  I  want  to  benefit  by  your  friendly  counsel." 

"So  you  shall,"  said  the  captain;  "  What'U  you 
take?" 

"  I  want  to  take  your  opinion,  Captain  Cuttle," 
returned  Walter,  smiling.  "  That's  the  only  thing  for 
me. " 

"  Come  on  then,"  said  the  captain.  "  With  a  will, 
my  lad  !  " 

Walter  related  to  him  what  had  happened  ;  and  the 
difiiculty  in  which  he  felt  respecting  his  uncle,  and  the 
relief  it  would  be  to  him  if  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  kind- 
ness, would  help  him  to  smooth  it  away  ;  Captain  Cut- 
tle's infinite  consternation  and  astonishment  at  the  pros- 
pect unfolded  to  him,  gradually  swallowing  that  gentle- 
man up,  until  it  left  his  face  quite  vacant,  and  the  suit 
of  blue,  the  glazed  hat,  and  the  hook,  apparently  with- 
out an  owner. 

"You  see,  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Walter,  "for 
myself,  I  am  young,  as  Mr.  Dombey  said,  and  not  to  be 
considered.  I  am  to  fight  my  way  through  the  world,  I 
know  ;  but  there  are  two  points  I  was  thinking,  as  I 
came  along,  that  I  should  be  very  particular  about,  in 
respect  to  my  uncle.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  deserve 
to  be  the  pride  and  delight  of  his  life — you  believe  me,  I 
know — but  I  am.    Now,  don't  you  think  I  am  ?  " 

The  captain  seemed  to  make  an  endeavour  to  rise 
from  the  depths  of  his  astonishment,  and  get  back  to  his 
face  ;  but  the  effort  being  ineffectual,  the  glazed  hat 
merely  nodded  with  a  mute  unutterable  meaning. 

"  If  I  live  and  have  my  health,"  said  Walter,  "  and  I 
am  not  afraid  of  that,  still,  when  I  leave  England  I  can 
hardly  hope  to  see  my  uncle  again.  He  is  old.  Captain 
Cuttle  ;  and  besides,  his  life  is  a  life  of  custom — " 

"Steady,  Wal'r!  Of  a  want  of  custom?"  said  the 
captain,  suddenly  reappearing. 

"  Too  true,"  returned  Walter,  shaking  his  head  ;  "but 
I  meant  a  life  of  habit,  Captain  Cuttle — that  sort  of  cus- 
tom. And  if  (as  you  very  truly  said,  I  am  sure)  he 
would  have  died  the  sooner  for  the  loss  of  the  stock,  and 
all  those  objects  to  which  he  has  been  acccustomed  for  so 
many  years,  don't  you  think  he  might  die  a  little  sooner 
for  the  loss  of — " 

"  Of  his  nevy,"  interposed  the  captain.    "  Eight !  " 

"  Well  then,"  said  Walter,  trying  to  speak  gaily,  "  we 
must  do  our  best  to  make  him  believe  that  the  separa- 
tion is  but  a  temporary  one,  after  all ;  but  as  I  know 
better,  or  dread  that  I  know  better,  Captain  Cuttle,  and  as 
I  have  so  many  reasons  for  regarding  him  with  affection, 
and  duty,  and  honour,  I  am  afraid  I  should  make  but  a 
very  poor  hand  at  that,  if  I  tried  to  persuade  him  of  it. 
That's  my  great  reason  for  wishing  you  to  break  it  out 
to  him  ;  and  that's  the  first  point." 

"  Keep  her  off  a  point  or  so  !  "  observed  the  captain, 
in  a  contemplative  voice. 

"  What  did  yovi  say.  Captain  Cuttle?"  inquired  Wal- 
ter. 

"  Stand  by  !  "  returned  the  captain,  thoughtfully. 

Walter  paused  to  ascertain  if  the  captain  had  any  par- 
ticular information  to  add  to  this,  but  as  he  said  no  more, 
went  on. 

"  Now,  the  second  point.  Captain  Cuttle.  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  I  am  not  a  favourite  with  Mr.  Dombey.  I  have 
always  tried  to  do  my  best,  and  I  have  always  done  it ; 
but  he  does  not  like  me.  He  can't  help  his  likings  and 
dislikings,  perhaps.  I  say  nothing  of  that.  I  only  say 
that  I  am  certain  he  does  not  like  me.  He  does  not  send 
me  to  this  post  as  a  good  one  ;  he  disdains  to  represent 
it  as  being  better  than  it  is  ;  and  I  doubt  very  much  if  it 
will  ever  lead  me  to  advancement  in  the  House — whether 
it  does  not,  on  the  contrary,  dispose  of  me  for  ever,  and 
put  me  out  of  the  way.    Now,  we  must  say  nothing  of 


CHAHLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


this  to  my  uncle,  Captain  Cuttle,  but  must  make  it  out 
to  be  as  favourable  and  promising  as  we  can  ;  and  when 
I  tell  you  what  it  really  is,  I  only  do  so,  that  in  case  any 
means  should  ever  arise  of  lending  me  a  hand,  so  far  off, 
I  may  have  one  friend  at  home  who  knows  my  real  situa- 
tion." 

"  Wal'r,  my  boy,"  replied  the  captain,"  in  the  Proverbs 
of  Solomon  you  will  find  the  following  words,  '  May  we 
never  want  a  friend  in  need,  nor  a  bottle  to  give  him  ! ' 
When  found,  make  a  note  of." 

Here  the  captain  stretched  out  his  hand  to  Walter,  with 
an  air  of  downright  good  faith  that  spoke  volumes  ;  at 
the  same  time  repeating  (for  he  felt  prond  of  the  accur- 
acy and  pointed  application  of  his  quotation),  "  When 
found,  make  a  note  of." 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  taking  the  immense 
fist  extended  to  him  by  the  captain  in  both  his  hands, 
which  it  completely  filled,  *'  next  to  my  Uncle  Sol,  I  love 
you.  There  is  no  one  on  earth  in  whom  I  can  more 
safely  trust,  I  am  sure.  As  to  the  mere  going  away. 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  don't  care  for  that ;  why  should  I  care 
for  that  !  If  I  were  free  to  seek  ray  own  fortune — if  I 
were  free  to  go  as  a  common  sailor — if  I  were  free  to 
venture  on  my  own  account  to  the  farthest  end  of  the 
world — I  would  gladly  go  1  I  would  have  gladly  gone, 
years  ago,  and  taken  my  chance  of  what  might  come  of 
it.  But  it  was  against  my  uncle's  wishes,  and  against 
the  plans  he  had  formed  for  me,  and  there  was  an  end  of 
that.  But  what  I  feel.  Captain  Cuttle,  is  that  we  have 
been  a  little  mistaken  all  along,  and  that,  so  far  as  any 
improvement  in  my  prospects  is  concerned,  I  am  no  bet- 
ter oif  now  than  I  was  when  I  first  entered  Dombey's  House 
— perhaps  a  little  worse,  for  the  House  may  have  been 
kindly  inclined  towards  me  then,  and  it  certainly  is  not 
now." 

"  Turn  again,  Whittington,"  muttered  the  disconsolate 
captain,  after  looking  at  Walter  for  some  time. 

"Ay!"  replied  Walter,  laughing,  "and  turn  a  great 
many  times,  too,  Captain  Cuttle,  I'm  afraid,  before  such 
fortune  as  his  ever  turns  up  again.  Not  that  I  complain," 
he  added,  in  his  lively,  animated,  energetic  way.  "I 
have  nothing  to  complain  of.  I  am  provided  for.  I  can 
live.  When  I  leave  my  uncle,  I  leave  him  to  you  ;  and 
I  can  leave  him  to  no  one  better.  Captain  Cuttle.  I 
haven't  told  you  all  this  because  I  despair,  not  I  ;  it's  to 
convince  you  that  I  can't  pick  and  choose  in  Dombey's 
House,  and  that  where  I  am  sent,  there  I  must  go,  and 
what  I  am  offered,  that  I  must  take.  It's  better  for  my 
uncle  that  I  should  be  sent  away  ;  for  Mr.  Dombey  is  a 
valuable  friend  to  him,  as  he  proved  himself,  you  know 
when.  Captain  Cuttle  ;  and  I  am  persuaded  he  won't  be 
less  valuable  when  he  hasn't  me  there,  every  day,  to 
awaken  his  dislike.  So  hurrah  for  the  West  Indies, 
Captain  Cuttle  !  How  does  that  tune  go  that  the  sailors 
sing  ? 

"  For  the  Port  of  Barbados,  boys  ! 

Clieerily 

Leaving  old  England  behind  ns,  boys  ! 

Cheerily ! 

Here  the  captain  roared  in  chorus 

"  Oh  cheerily,  cheerily  ! 

"  Oh  cheer— i—ly  !" 

The  last  line  reaching  the  quick  ears  of  an  ardent 
skipper  not  quite  sober,  who  lodged  opposite,  and  who 
instantly  sprung  out  of  bed,  threw  up  his  window,  and 
joined  in  across  the  street,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  pro- 
duced a  fine  effect.  When  it  was  impossible  to  sustain 
the  concluding  note  any  longer,  the  skipper  bellowed 
forth  a  terrific  "ahoy  !"  intended  in  part  as  a  friendly 
greeting,  and  in  part  to  show  that  he  was  not  at  all 
breathed.  That  done,  he  shut  down  his  window,  and 
went  to  bed  again. 

"  And  now,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  handing 
him  tlie  blue  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  bustling  very  much, 
"  if  you'll  come  and  break  the  news  to  Uncle  Sol  (which 
lie  ought  to  have  known,  days  upon  days  ago,  by  rights) 
I'll  leave  you  at  the  door,  you  know,  and  walk  about 
until  the  afternoon." 

The  captain,  however,  scarcely  appeared  to  relish  the 
commission,  or  to  be  by  any  means  confident  of  his  power 
of  executing  it.    He  had  arranged  the  future  life  and 


adventures  of  Walter  so  very  differently,  and  so  entirely 
to  his  own  satisfaction  ;  he*  had  felicitated  himself  so 
often  on  the  sagacity  and  foresight  displayed  in  that  ar- 
rangement, and  had  found  it  so  complete  and  perfect  in 
all  its  parts  ;  that  to  suffer  it  to  go  to  pieces  all  at  once, 
and  even  to  assist  in  breaking  it  up,  required  a  great 
effort  of  his  resolution.  The  captain,  too,  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  unload  his  old  ideas  upon  the  subject,  and  to 
take  a  perfectly  new  cargo  on  board,  with  that  rapidity 
which  the  circumstances  required,  or  without  jumbling 
and  confounding  the  two.  Consequently,  instead  of 
putting  on  his  coat  and  waistcoat  with  anything  like  the 
impetuosity  that  could  alone  have  kept  pace  with  Walter's 
mood,  he  declined  to  invest  himself  with  those  garments 
at  all  at  present  ;  and  informed  Walter  that  on  such  a 
serious  matter,  he  must  be  allowed  to  "  bite  his  nails  a 
bit." 

"  It's  an  old  habit  of  mine,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain, 
"  any  time  these  fifty  year.  When  you  see  Ned  Cuttle 
bite  his  nails,  Wal'r,  then  you  may  know  that  Ned  Cut- 
tle's aground." 

Thereupon  the  captain  put  his  iron  hook  between  his 
teeth,  as  if  it  were  a  liand  ;  and  with  an  air  of  wisdom 
and  profundity  that  was  the  very  concentration  and  sub- 
limation of  all  philosophical  refiection  and  grave  inquiry, 
applied  himself  to  the  consideration  of  the  subject  in 
its  various  branches. 

"  There's  a  friend  of  mine,"  murmured  the  captain,  in 
an  absent  manner,  "  but  he's  at  present  coasting  round 
to  Whitby,  that  would  deliver  such  an  opinion  on  this 
subject,  or  any  other  that  could  be  named,  as  would 
give  Parliament  six  and  beat  'em.  Been  knocked  over- 
board that  man,"  said  the  captain,  "  twice,  and  none  the 
worse  for  it.  Was  beat  in  his  apprenticeship,  for  three 
weeks  (off  and  on),  about  the  head  with  a  ring-bolt.  And 
yet  a  clearer-minded  man  don't  walk." 

In  spite  of  his  respect  for  Captain  Cuttle,  Walter  could 
not  help  inwardly  rejoicing  at  the  absence  of  this  sage, 
and  devoutly  hoping  that  his  limpid  intellect  might  not 
be  brought  to  bear  on  his  difficulties  until  they  were 
quite  settled. 

"  If  you  was  to  take  and  show  that  man  the  buoy  at 
the  Nore,"  said  Captain  Cuttle  in  the  same  tone,  "  and 
ask  him  his  opinion  of  it,  Wal'r,  he'd  give  you  an  opinion 
that  was  no  more  like  that  buoy  than  your  uncte's 
buttons  are.  There  an't  a  man  that  walks — certainly 
not  on  two  legs — that  can  come  near  him.  Not  near 
him  ! " 

"  What's  his  name,  Captain  Cuttle?"  inquired  Walter, 
determined  to  be  interested  in  the  captain's  friend. 

"  His  name's  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain.  "  But  Lord, 
it  might  be  anything  for  the  matter  of  that,  with  such  a 
mind  as  his  !  " 

The  exact  idea  which  the  captain  attached  to  this  con- 
cluding piece  of  praise,  he  did  not  further  elucidate  ; 
neither  did  Walter  seek  to  draw  it  forth.  For  on  his 
beginning  to  review,  with  the  vivacity  natural  to  him- 
self and  to  his  situation,  the  leading  points  in  his  own 
affairs,  he  soon  discovered  that  the  captain  had  relapsed 
into  his  former  profound  state  of  mind  ;  and  that  while 
he  eyed  him  steadfastly  from  beneath  his  bushy  eye- 
brows, he  evidently  neither  saw  nor  heard  him,  but  re- 
mained immersed  in  cogitation. 

In  fact.  Captain  Cuttle  was  labouring  with  such  great 
designs,  that  far  from  being  aground,  he  soon  got  off 
into  the  deepest  of  water,  and  could  find  no  bottom  to 
his  ])enetration.  By  degrees  it  became  perfectly  plain 
to  the  captain  that  there  was  some  mistake  here  ;  that  it 
was  undoubtedly  much  more  likely  to  be  Walter's  mis- 
take than  his  ;  that  if  there  were  really  any  West  India 
scheme  afoot,  it  was  a  very  different  one  from  what 
Walter,  who  was  young  and  rash,  supposed  ;  and  could 
only  be  some  new  device  for  making  his  fortune  with 
unusual  celerity.  "  Or  if  there  should  beany  little  hitch 
between  'em,"  thought  the  captain,  meaning  between 
Walter  and  Mr.  Dombey,  "  it  only  wants  a  word  in  sea- 
son from  a  friend  of  both  parties,  to  set  it  right  and 
smooth,  and  make  all  taut  again."  Captain  Cuttle's  de- 
duction from  these  considerations  was.  that  as  he  al- 
ready enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey, 
from  having  spent  a  very  agreeable  half-hour  in  his 
company  at  Brighton  (on  the  morning  when  they  bor- 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

uNivERsrnf  Of  Illinois 


"bkfore  they  had  gone  very  far,  they  encountered  a  woman  selling 
flowers  ;  when  the  captain,  stopping  short,  as  if  struck  by  a 
happy  idea,  made  a  purchase  of  the  largest  bundle  in  her  basket." 


DOMBEY 

rowed  the  money) ;  and  that,  as  a  couple  of  men  of  the 
world,  who  understood  each  other,  and  were  mutually- 
disposed  to  make  things  comfortable,  could  easily  ar- 
range any  little  difficulty  of  this  sort,  and  come  at  the 
real  facts  ;  the  friendly  thing  for  him  to  do  would  be, 
without  saying  anything  about  it  to  Walter,  at  present 
just  to  step  up  to  Mr.  l)om bey's  house — say  to  the  ser- 
vant "  Would  ye  be  so  good,  my  lad,  as  report  Cap'en 
Cuttle  here?" — meet  Mr.  Dombey  in  a  confidential  spirit 
— hook  him  by  the  button  hole — talk  it  over — make  it  all 
right — and  come  away  triumphant. 

As  these  reflections  presented  themselves  to  the  cap- 
tain's mind,  and  by  slow  degrees  assumed  this  shape  and 
form,  his  visage  cleared  like  a  doubtful  morning  when 
it  gives  place  to  a  bright  noon.  His  eyebrows,  which 
had  been  in  the  highest  degree  portentous,  smoothed 
their  rugged  bristling  aspect,  and  became  serene  ;  his 
eyes,  which  had  been  nearly  closed  in  the  severity  of  his 
mental  exercise,  opened  freely  ;  a  smile  which  had  been 
at  first  but  three  specks — one  at  the  right-hand  corner  of 
his  mouth,  and  one  at  the  corner  of  each  eye— gradually 
overspread  his  whole  face,  and  rippling  up  into  his  fore- 
head, lifted  the  glazed  hat :  as  if  that  too  had  been 
aground  with  Captain  Cuttle,  and  were  now,  like  him, 
happily  afloat  again. 

Finally  the  captain  left  off  biting  his  nails,  and  said. 
Now,  Wal'r,  my  boy,  you  may  help  me  on  with  them 
slops."    By  which  the  captain  meant  his  coat  and  waist- 
coat. 

Walter  little  imagined  why  the  captain  was  so  partic- 
ular in  the  arrangement  of  his  cravat,  as  to  twist  the 
pendent  ends  into  a  sort  of  pigtail,  and  pass  them 
through  a  massive  gold  ring  with  a  picture  of  a  tomb 
upon  it,  and  a  neat  iron  railing,  and  a  tree,  in  memory 
of  some  deceased  friend.  Nor  why  the  captain  pulled 
up  his  shirt  collar  to  the  utmost  limits  allowed  by  the 
Irish  linen  below,  and  by  so  doing  decorated  himself 
with  a  complete  pair  of  blinkers  ;  nor  why  he  changed 
his  shoes,  and  put  on  an  unparalleled  pair  of  ankle- 
jacks,  which  he  only  wore  on  extraordinary  occasions. 
The  captain  being  at  length  attired  to  his  own  complete 
satisfaction,  and  having  glanced  at  himself  from  head  to 
foot  in  a  shaving-glass  which  he  removed  from  a  nail 
for  that  purpose,  took  up  his  knotted  stick,  and  said  he 
was  ready. 

The  captain's  walk  was  more  complacent  than  usual 
when  they  got  out  into  the  street ;  but  this  Walter  sup- 
posed to  be  the  effect  of  the  ankle- jacks,  and  took  little 
heed  of.  Before  they  had  gone  very  far,,  they  encoun- 
tered a  woman  selling  flowers ;  when  the  captain  stop- 
ping short,  as  if  struck  by  a  happy  idea,  made  a  purchase 
of  the  largest  bundle  in  her  basket  ;  a  most  glorious 
nosegay,  fan-shaped,  some  two  feet  and  a  half  round, 
and  composed  of  all  the  j oiliest-looking  flowers  that 
blow. 

Armed  with  this  little  token  which  he  designed  for 
Mr.  Dombey,  Captain  Cuttle  walked  on  with  Walter 
until  they  reached  the  Instrument-maker's  door,  before 
which  they  both  paused. 

"You're  going  in?  "  said  Walter. 

"Yes;"  returned  the  captain,  who  felt  that  Walter 
must  be  got  rid  of  before  he  proceeded  any  further,  and 
that  he  had  better  time  his  projected  visit  somewhat 
later  in  the  day. 

"  And  you  won't  forget  anything?  "  said  Walter. 

"No,"  returned  the  captain. 

"I'll  go  upon  my  walk  at  once,"  said  Walter,  "and 
then  I  shall  be  out  of  the  way.  Captain  Cuttle." 

"  Take  a  good  long  'un,  my  lad  !"  replied  the  captain, 
'  calling  after  him.  Walter  waved  his  hand  in  assent,  and 
went  his  way. 

His  way  was  nowhere  in  particular  ;  but  he  thought  he 
j  would  go  out  into  the  fields,  where  he  could  reflect  upon 
!  the  unknown  life  before  him,  and  resting  under  some 
tree,  ponder  quietly.  He  knew  no  better  fields  than 
those  near  Hampstead,  and  no  better  means  of  getting  at 
them  than  by  passing  Mr.  Dombey's  house. 

It  was  as  stately  and  as  dark  as  ever,  when  he  went  by 
and  glanced  up  at  its  frowning  front.  The  blinds  were 
all  pulled  down,  but  the  upper  windows  stood  wide  open, 
and  the  pleasant  air  stirring  those  curtains  and  waving 
them  to  and  fro,  was  the  only  sign  of  animation  in  the 


AND  SON,  501 

whole  exterior.  Walter  walked  softly  as  he  passed,  and 
was  glad  when  he  had  left  the  house  a  door  or  two  be- 
hind. 

He  looked  back  then  ;  with  the  interest  he  had  always 
felt  for  the  place  since  the  adventure  of  the  lost  child, 
years  ago  ;  and  looked  especially  at  those  upper  windows. 
While  he  was  thus  engaged,  n  chariot  drove  to  the  door, 
and  a  portly  gentleman  in  black,  with  a  heavy  watch- 
chain,  alighted,  and  went  in.  When  he  afterwards  re- 
membered this  gentleman  and  his  equipage  together, 
Walter  had  no  doubt  he  was  a  physician  ;  and  then  he 
wondered  who  was  ill  ;  but  the  discovery  did  not  occur 
to  him  until  he  had  walked  some  distance,  thinking  list- 
lessly of  other  things. 

Though  still,  of  what  the  house  had  suggested  to  him  ; 
for  Walter  pleased  himself  with  thinking  that  perhaj)S 
the  time  might  come,  when  the  beautiful  child  who  was 
his  old  friend  and  had  always  been  so  grateful  to  him  and 
so  glad  to  see  him  since,  might  interest  her  brother  in 
his  behalf  and  influence  his  fortunes  for  the  better.  He 
liked  to  imagine  this — more,  at  that  moment,  for  the 
pleasure  of  imagining  her  continued  remembrance  of  him, 
than  for  any  worldly  profit  he  might  gain  :  but  another 
and  more  sober  fancy  whispered  to  him  that  if  he  were 
alive  then,  he  would  be  beyond  the  sea  and  forgotten  ; 
she  married,  rich,  proud,  happy.  There  was  no  more 
reason  why  she  should  remember  him  with  any  interest 
in  such  an  altered  state  of  things,  than  any  plaything  she 
ever  had.    No,  not  so  much. 

Yet  Walter  so  idealised  the  pretty  child  whom  he  had 
found  wandering  in  the  rough  streets,  and  so  identified 
her  with  her  innocent  gratitude  of  that  night  and  the 
simplicity  and  truth  of  its  expression,  that  he  blushed 
for  himself  as  a  libeller  when  he  argued  that  she  could 
ever  grow  proud.  On  the  other  hand,  his  meditations 
were  of  that  fantastic  order  that  it  seemed  hardly  less  li- 
bellous in  him  to  imagine  her  grown  a  woman  :  to  think 
of  her  as  anything  but  the  same  artless,  gentle,  winning 
little  creature,  that  she  had  been  in  the  days  of  good  Mrs. 
Brown.  In  a  word,  Walter  found  out  that  to  reason  with 
himself  about  Florence  at  all,  was  to  become  very  un- 
reasonable indeed  ;  and  that  he  could  do  no  better  than 
preserve  her  image  in  his  mind  as  something  precious, 
unattainable,  unchangeable,  and  indefinite — indefinite  in 
all  but  its  power  of  giving  him  pleasure,  and  restraining 
him  like  an  angel's  hand  from  anything  unworthy. 

It  was  a  long  stroll  in  the  fields  that  Walter  took  that 
day,  listening  to  the  birds,  and  the  Sunday  bells,  and  the 
softened  murmur  of  the  town — breathing  sweet  scents  ; 
glancing  sometimes  at  the  dim  horizon  beyond  which  his 
voyage  and  his  place  of  destination  lay  ;  then  looking 
round  on  the  green  English  grass  and  the  home  landscape. 
But  he  hardly  once  thought  even  of  going  away,  distinct- 
ly ;  and  seemed  to  put  off  reflection  idly,  from  hour  to 
hour,  and  from  minute  to  minute,  while  he  yet  went  on 
reflecting  all  the  time. 

Walter  had  left  the  fields  behind  him,  and  was  plod- 
ding homeward  in  the  same  abstracted  mood,  when  he 
heard  a  shout  from  a  man,  and  then  a  woman's  voice  call- 
ing to  him  loudly  by  name.  Turning  quickly  in  his 
surprise,  he  saw  that  a  hackney-coach,  going  in  the  con- 
trary direction,  had  stopped  at  no  great  distance  ;  thai 
the  coachman  was  looking  back  from  his  box,  and  mak- 
ing signals  to  him  with  his  whip  ;  and  that  a  young 
woman  inside  was  leaning  out  of  the  window,  and  beck- 
oning with  immense  energy.  Running  up  to  this  coach, 
he  found  that  the  young  woman  was  Miss  Nipper,  and 
that  Miss  Nipper  was  in  such  a  flutter  as  to  be  almost 
beside  herself. 

"  Staggs's  Gardens,  Mr.  Walter  !  "  said  Miss  Nipper  ; 
"if  you  please,  oh  do  !" 

"Eh  ?"  cried  Walter  :  "  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  Staggs's  Gardens,  if  you  please  !" 
said  Susan. 

"  There  !  "  cried  the  coachman,  appealing  to  Walter, 
with  a  sort  of  exulting  despair  ;  "  that's  the  way  the 
young  lady's  been  a  goin'  on  for  up'ards  of  a  mortal  hour, 
and  me  continivally  backing  out  of  no  thoroughfares, 
where  she  would  drive  up.  I've  had  a  many  fares  in  this 
coach,  first  and  last,  but  never  such  a  fare  as  her." 

* '  Do  you  want  to  go  to  Staggs's  Gardens,  Susan  ?  "  in- 
quired Walter. 


502 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  All !  She  wants  to  go  there  !  Where  is  it  ?  "  growled 
the  coachman. 

"  I  don't  know  where  it  is  !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  wildly. 
"Mr.  Walter,  I  was  there  once  myself,  along  with  Miss 
Floy  and  our  poor  darling  Master  Paul,  on  the  very  day 
when  you  found  Miss  Floy  in  the  city,  for  we  lost  her 
coming  home,  Mrs.  Richards  and  me,  and  a  mad  bull, 
and  Mrs.  Richards'  eldest,  and  though  I  went  there 
afterwards,  I  can't  remember  where  it  is,  I  think  it's 
sunk  into  the  ground.  Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  don't  desert 
rae.  Staggs's  Gardens,  if  you  please  !  Miss  Floy's 
darling — all  our  darlings— little,  meek,  meek  Master 
Paul !    Oh  Mr.  Walter  !  " 

"  Good  God  ! "  cried  Walter.    "  Is  he  very  ill  ?  " 

"  The  pretty  flower ! "  cried  Susan,  wringing  her 
hands,  "has  took  the  fancy  that  he'd  like  to  see  his  old 
nurse,  and  I've  come  to  bring  her  to  his  bedside,  Mrs. 
Staggs's  of  Polly  Toodie's  Gardens,  some  one  pray  \  " 

Greatly  moved  by  what  he  heard,  and  catching  Susan's 
earnestness  immediately,  Walter,  now  that  he  imder- 
stood  the  nature  of  her  errand,  dashed  into  it  with  such 
ardour  that  the  coachman  had  enough  to  do  to  follow 
closely  as  he  ran  before,  inquiring  here  and  there  and 
every  where,  the  way  to  Staggs's  Gardens. 

There  was  no  such  place  as  Staggs's  Gardens.  It  had 
vanished  from  the  earth.  Where  the  old  rotten  sum- 
mer-houses once  had  stood,  palaces  now  reared  their 
heads,  and  granite  columns  of  gigantic  girth  opened  a 
vista  to  the  railway  world  beyond.  The  miserable  waste 
ground,  where  the  refuse  matter  had  been  heaped  of 
yore,  was  swallowed  up  and  gone  ;  and  in  its  frowsy 
stead  were  tiers  of  warehouses,  crammed  with  rich 
goods  and  costly  merchandise.  The  old  by-streets  now 
swarmed  with  passengers  and  vehicles  of  every  kind  : 
the  new  streets  that  had  stopped  disheartened  in  the 
mud  and  waggon-ruts,  formed  towns  within  themselves, 
originating  wholesome  comforts  and  conveniences  be- 
longing to  themselves,  and  never  tried  nor  thought  of 
until  tliey  sprung  into  existence.  Bridges  that  had  led 
to  nothing,  led  to  villas,  gardens,  churches,  healthy 
public  walks.  The  carcasses  of  houses,  and  beginnings 
of  new  thoroughfares,  had  started  off  upon  the  line  at 
steam's  own  speed,  and  shot  away  into  the  country  in  a 
monster  train. 

As  to  the  neighbourhood  which  had  hesitated  to  ac- 
knowledge the  railroad  in  its  straggling  days,  that  had 
grown  wise  and  penitent,  as  any  Christian  might  in  such 
a  case,  and  now  boasted  of  its  powerful  and  prosperous 
relation.  There  were  railway  patterns  in  its  drapers' 
shops,  and  railway  journals  in  the  windows  of  its  news- 
men. There  were  railway  hotels,  coffee-houses,  lodging- 
houses,  boarding-houses  ;  railway  plans,  maps,  views, 
wrappers,  bottles,  sandwich -boxes,  and  time-tables  : 
railway  hackney-coach  and  cabstands  ;  railway  omni- 
buses, railway  streets  and  buildings,  railway  hangers- 
on  and  parasites,  and  flatterers  out  of  all  calculation. 
There  was  even  railway  time  observed  in  clocks,  as  if 
the  sun  itself  had  given  in.  Among  the  vanquished 
was  the  master  chimney-sweeper,  whilom  incredulous 
at  Staggs's  Gardens,  who  now  lived  in  a  stuccoed  house 
three  stories  high,  and  gave  himself  out,  with  golden 
flourishes  upon  a  varnished  board,  as  contractor  for  the 
cleansing  of  railway  chimneys  by  machinery. 

To  and  from  the  heart  of  this  great  change,  all  day 
and  night,  throbbing  currents  rushed  and  returned  in- 
cessantly like  its  life's  blood.  Crowds  of  people,  and 
mountains  of  goods,  departing  and  arriving  scores  upon 
scores  of  times  in  every  four-and-twenty  hours,  pro- 
duced a  fermentation  in  the  place  that  was  always  in 
action.  The  very  houses  seemed  disposed  to  pack  up 
and  take  trips.  Wonderful  members  of  Parliament, 
who,  little  more  than  twenty  years  before,  had  made 
themselves  merry  with  the  wild  railroad  theories  of  en- 
gineers, and  given  them  the  liveliest  rubs  in  cross-exam- 
ination, went  down  into  the  north  with  their  watches  in 
their  hands,  and  sent  on  messages  before  by  the  electric 
telegraph  to  say  that  they  were  coming.  Night  and  day 
the  conquering  engines  rumbled  at  their  distant  work, 
or,  advancing  smoothly  to  their  journey's  end,  and  glid- 
ing like  tame  dragons  into  the  allotted  corners  grooved 
out  to  the  inch  for  their  reception,  stood  bul>bling  and 
trembling  there,  making  the  walls  quake,  as  if  they 


were  dilating  with  the  secret  knowledge  of  great  powers 
yet  unsuspected  in  them,  and  strong  purposes  not  yet 
achieved. 

But  Staggs's  Gardens  had  been  cut  up  root  and  branch. 
Oh  woe  the  day  !  when  "  not  a  rood  of  English  ground  " 
— laid  out  in  Staggs's  Gardens — is  secure  ! 

At  last,  after  much  fruitless  inquiry,  Walter,  fol- 
lowed by  the  coach  and  Susan,  found  a  man  who  had 
once  resided  in  that  vanished  land,  and  who  was  no 
other  than  the  master  sweep  before  referred  to,  grown 
stout,  and  knocking  a  double  knock  at  his  own  door. 
He  knowed  Toodle,  he  said,  well.  Belonged  to  the 
Railroad,  didn't  he?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes  ! "  cried  Susan  Nipper  from  the  coach 
window. 

Where  did  he  live  now  ?  hastily  inquired  Walter. 

He  lived  in  the  company's  own  buildings,  second  turn- 
ing to  the  right,  down  the  yard,  cross  over,  and  take  the 
second  on  the  right  again.  It  was  number  eleven  ;  they 
couldn't  mistake  it  ;  but  if  they  did,  they  had  only  to 
ask  for  Toodle,  Engine  Fireman,  and  any  one  would 
show  them  which  was  his  house.  At  this  unexpected 
stroke  of  success,  Susan  Nipper  dismounted  from  the 
coach  with  all  speed,  took  Walter's  arm,  and  set  off  at 
a  breathless  pace  on  foot  ;  leaving  the  coach  there  to 
await  their  return. 

"Has  the  little  boy  been  long  ill,  Susan?"  inquired 
Walter,  as  they  hurried  on. 

"Ailing  for  a  deal  of  time,  but  no  one  knew  how 
much,"  said  Susan  ;  adding,  with  excessive  sharpness, 
"  Oh,  them  Blimbers  !  " 

' '  Blimbers  ?  "  echoed  Walter. 

"  I  couldn't  forgive  myself  at  such  a  time  as  this,  Mr. 
Walter,"  said  Susan,  "  and  when  there's  so  much  seri- 
ous distress  to  think  about,  if  I  rested  hard  on  any  one, 
especially  on  them  that  little  darling  Paul  speaks  well 
of,  but  I  may  wish  that  the  family  was  set  to  work  in  a 
stony  soil  to  make  new  roads,  and  that  Miss  Blimber 
went  in  front,  and  had  the  pickaxe  ! " 

Miss  Nipper  then  took  breath,  and  went  on  faster  than 
before,  as  if  this  extraordinary  aspiration  had  relieved 
her.  Walter,  who  had  by  this  time  no  breath  of  his  own 
to  spare,  hurried  along  without  asking  any  more  ques- 
tions ;  and  they  soon,  in  their  impatience,  burst  in  at  a 
little  door  and  came  into  a  clean  parlour  full  of  children. 

"Where's  Mrs.  Richards  !"  exclaimed  Susan  Nipper, 
looking  round.  "  Oh  Mrs.  Richards,  Mrs.  Richards, 
come  along  with  me,  my  dear  creetur  ! " 

"  Why,  if  it  ain't  Susan  ! "  cried  Polly  rising  with  her 
honest  face  and  motherly  figure  from  among  the  group, 
in  great  surprise. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  it's  me,"  said  Susan,  "and  I 
wish  it  wasn't,  though  I  may  not  seem  to  flatter  when  I 
say  so,  but  little  Master  Paul  is  very  ill,  and  told  his  Pa 
to-day  that  he  would  like  to  see  the  face  of  his  old 
nurse,  and  him  and  Miss  Floy  hope  you'll  come  along 
with  me — and  Mr.  Walter,  Mrs.  Richards — forgetting 
what  is  past,  and  do  a  kindness  to  the  sweet  dear  that  is 
withering  away.  Oh,  Mrs.  Richards,  withering  away  ! " 
Susan  Nipper  crying,  Polly  shed  tears  to  see  her,  and 
to  hear  what  she  had  said  ;  and  all  the  children  gathered 
round  (including  numbers  of  new  babies)  ;  and  Mr. 
Toodle  who  had  just  come  home  from  Birmingham,  and 
was  eating  his  dinner  out  of  a  basin,  laid  down  his  knife 
and  fork,  and  put  on  his  wife's  bonnet  and  shawl  for  her, 
which  were  hanging  up  behind  the  door ;  then  tapped 
her  on  the  back  ;  and  said  with  more  fatherly  feeling 
than  eloquence,  "  Polly  !  cut  away  !" 

So  they  got  back  to  the  coach,  long  before  the  coach- 
man expected  them  ;  and  Walter  putting  Susan  tmd 
Mrs.  Richards  inside,  took  his  seat  on  the  box  himself 
that  there  might  be  no  more  mistakes,  and  deposited 
them  safely  in  the  hall  of  Mr.  Dombey's  house — where, 
by  the  bye,  he  saw  a  mighty  nosegay  lying,  which  re- 
minded him  of  the  one  Captain  Cuttle  had  purchased  in 
his  company  that  morning.  He  would  have  lingered  to 
know  more  of  the  young  invalid,  or  vvaited  any  length 
of  time  to  see  if  he  could  render  the  least  service  ; 
but  painfully  sensible  that  such  conduct  would  be 
looked  uj)on  by  Mr.  Dombey  as  presumptuous  and  for- 
ward, he  turned  slowly,  sadly,  anxiously,  away. 

He  had  not  gone  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  door. 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


503 


when  a  man  came  running  after  bim,  and  beg-ged  bim 
to  return.  Walter  retraced  bis  steps  as  quickly  as  be 
could,  and  entered  tbe  gloomy  bouse  vvitb  a  sorrowful 
foreboding. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

What  (he  Waves  were  always  naying. 

Paul  bad  never  risen  from  bis  little  bed.  He  lay 
tbere,  listening  to  tbe  noises  in  tbe  street,  quite  tran- 
quilly ;  not  caring  mucb  bow  time  went,  but  watcbing 
it  and  watcbing  everything  about  bim  with  observing 
eyes. 

When  tbe  sunbeams  struck  into  bis  room  tbrougb  tbe 
rustling  blinds,  and  quivered  on  tbe  opposite  wall  like 
golden  water,  be  knew  tbat  evening  was  coming  on, 
and  tbat  tbe  sky  was  red  and  beautiful.  As  tbe  reflec- 
tion died  away,  and  a  gloom  went  creeping  up  tbe  wall, 
he  watched  it  deepen,  deepen,  deepen,  into  night.  Then 
he  thought  how  the  long  streets  were  dotted  with  lamps, 
and  how  the  peaceful  stars  were  shining  o^rbead.  His 
fancy  had  a  strange  tendency  to  wander  to  tlie  river, 
which  he  knew  was  flowing  through  the  great  city  :  and 
now  be  thought  bow  black  it  was,  and  how  deep  it 
would  look,  reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars — and  more  than 
all,  how  steadily  it  rolled  away  to  meet  tbe  sea. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the 
street  became  so  rare  that  he  could  hear  them  coming, 
count  them  as  they  passed,  and  lose  them  in  the  hollow 
distance,  be  would  lie  and  watch  the  many-coloured 
ring  about  the  candle  and  wait  patiently  for  day.  His 
only  trouble  was,  the  swift  and  rapid  river.  He  felt 
forced,  sometimes,  to  try  to  stop  it— to  stem  it  with  bis 
childish  hands — or  choke  its  way  with  sand — and  when 
be  saw  it  coming  on,  resistless,  be  cried  out !  But  a 
word  from  Florence,  who  was  always  at  bis  side,  re- 
stored bim  to  himself  ;  and  leaning  his  poor  bead  upon 
her  breast,  he  told  Floy  of  his  dream,  and  smiled. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  be  watched  for  tbe 
sun  ;  and  when  its  cheerful  light  began  to  sparkle  in 
the  room,  he  pictured  to  himself — pictured  !  be  saw — 
the  high  church  towers  rising  up  into  tbe  morning  sky, 
the  town  reviving,  waking,  starting,  into  life  once  more, 
tbe  river,  glistening  as  it  rolled  (but  rolling  fast  as  ever), 
and  tbe  country  bright  with  dew.  Familiar  sounds  and 
cries  came  by  degrees  into  the  street  below  ;  tbe  ser- 
vants in  tbe  house  were  roused  and  busy  ;  faces  looked 
in  at  the  door,  and  voices  asked  his  attendants  softly 
how  be  was.  Paul  always  answered  for  himself,  "  I  am 
better.  I  am  a  great  deal  better,  thank  you  I  Tell  papa 
so  ! " 

By  little  and  little,  be  got  tired  of  tbe  bustle  of  tbe 
day,  the  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  and  people  passing 
and  re-passing  ;  and  would  fall  asleep,  or  be  troubled 
vnth  a  restless  and  uneasy  sense  again — the  child  could 
hardly  tell  whether  this  were  in  bis  sleeping  or  bis  wak- 
ing moments — of  that  rushing  river.  Why,  will  it 
never  stop,  Floy  ?  "  be  would  sometimes  ask  her.  "  It 
is  bearing  me  away,  1  think  ! " 

But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  reassure  bim  ;  and 
it  was  bis  daily  delight  to  make  her  lay  her  bead  down 
on  his  pillow,  and  take  some  rest. 

"  You  are  always  watching  me,  Floy.  Let  me  watch 
you,  now  \"  They  would  prop  him  up  with  cushions 
in  a  corner  of  bis  bed,  and  tbere  be  would  recline  tbe 
while  she  lay  beside  him  ;  bending  forward  oftentimes 
to  kiss  her,  and  whispering  to  those  who  were  near  tbat 
she  was  tired,  and  how  she  bad  sat  up  so  many  nights 
beside  him. 

Thus,  tbe  flush  of  the  day,  in  its  beat  and  light,  would 
gradually  decline  ;  and  again  the  golden  water  would 
be  dancing  on  tbe  wall. 

He  was  visited  by  as  many  as  three  grave  doctors — 
they  used  to  assemble  down-stairs,  and  come  up  together 
— and  the  room  was  so  quiet,  and  Paul  was  so  observant 
of  them  (though  he  never  asked  of  anybody  what  they 
said),  that  he  even  knew  tbe  difference  in  the  sound  of 
their  watches.  But  his  interest  centred  in  Sir  Parker 
Peps,  who  always  took  his  seat  on  tbe  side  of  the  bed. 
For  Paul  bad  heard  them  say  long  ago,  tbat  tbat  gentle- 
man bad  been  with  bis  mamma  when  she  clasped  Flor- 


ence in  her  arms,  and  died.  And  be  could  not  forget  it, 
now.    He  liked  him  for  it.    He  was  not  afraid. 

Tbe  people  round  bim  changed  as  unaccountably  as  on 
tbat  first  night  at  Doctor  Blimber's— except  Florence  ; 
Florence  never  changed— and  what  bad  been  Sir  Parker 
Peps,  was  now  bis  father,  sitting  with  his  bead  upon  his 
band.  Old  Mrs.  Pipchin  dozing  in  an  easy  chair,  often 
cbanged  to  Miss  Tox,  or  his  aunt ;  and  Paul  was  quite 
content  to  shut  bis  eyes  again,  and  see  what  happened 
next  without  emotion.  But  this  figure  with  its  bead 
upon  its  band  returned  so  often,  and  remained  so  long, 
and  sat  so  still  and  solemn,  never  speaking,  never  being 
spoken  to,  and  rarely  lifting  up  its  face,  that  Paul  began 
to  wonder  languidly,  if  it  were  real ;  and  in  tbe  night- 
time saw  it  sitting  there,  with  fear, 
Floy  ! "  be  said.    "  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  Where,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Tbere  !  at  tbe  bottom  of  the  bed." 

"  There's  nothing  tbere,  except  papa  !  " 

Tbe  figure  lifted  up  its  head,  and  rose,  and  coming  to 
tbe  bedside,  said:  "My  own  boy!  Don't  you  know 
me?" 

Paul  looked  it  in  the  face,  and  thought,  was  this 
his  father  ?  But  tbe  face,  so  altered  to  his  thinking, 
thrilled  while  be  gazed,  as  if  it  were  in  pain  ;  and  before 
be  could  reach  out  both  bis  bands  to  take  it  between 
them,  and  drav/  it  towards  bim,  tbe  figure  turned  away 
quickly  from  tbe  little  bed,  and  went  out  at  tbe  door, 

Paul  looked  at  Florence  with  a  fluttering  heart,  but 
be  knew  what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  stopped  her 
with  bis  face  against  her  lips.  The  next  time  he  ob- 
served tbe  figure  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  tbe  bed,  he 
called  to  it, 

"Don't  be  so  sorry  for  me,  dear  papa  !  Indeed  I  am 
quite  happy  ! " 

His  father  coming,  and  bending  down  to  bim — which 
be  did  quickly,  and  without  first  pausing  by  tbe  bedside 
— Paul  held  bim  round  the  neck,  and  repeated  those 
words  to  him  several  times,  and  very  earnestly  ;  and 
Paul  never  saw  bim  in  his  room  again  at  any  time, 
whether  it  were  day  or  night,  but  he  called  out,  "Don't 
be  so  sorry  for  me  !  Indeed  I'm  quite  happy  ! "  This 
was  tbe  beginning  of  bis  always  saying  in  the  morning 
tbat  be  was  a  great  deal  better,  and  that  they  were  to 
tell  bis  father  so. 

How  many  times  the  golden  water  danced  upon  the 
wall  ;  how  many  nights  the  dark,  dark  river  rolled  to- 
wards the  sea  in  spite  of  bim  ;  Paul  never  counted, 
never  sought  to  know.  If  their  kindness  or  his  sense  of 
it,  could  have  increased,  they  were  more  kind,  and  he 
more  grateful  every  day  ;  but  whether  they  were  many 
days  or  few,  appeared  of  little  moment  now  to  the  gentle 
boy. 

One  night  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  mother,  and  her 
picture  in  tbe  drawing-room  down-stairs,and  had  thought 
she  must  have  loved  sweet  Florence  better  than  his  father 
did,  to  have  held  her  in  her  arms  when  she  felt  that  she 
was  dying — for  even  he,  her  brother,  who  bad  such  dear 
love  for  her,  could  have  no  greater  wish  than  that. 
The  train  of  thought  suggested  to  bim  to  inquire  if  he 
bad  ever  seen  his  mother  ;  for  be  could  not  remember 
whether  they  bad  told  him  yes  or  no,  the  river  running 
very  fast,  and  confusing  his  mind. 

"  Floy,  did  I  ever  see  mama?  " 

"  No,  darling,  why?" 

"  Did  I  never  see  any  kind  face,  like  mama's,  looking 
at  me  when  I  was  a  baby,  Floy  ?  " 

He  asked,  incredulously,  as  if  he  bad  some  vision  of  a 
face  before  bim. 

"  Oh  yes,  dear  !  " 

"  Whose,  Floy?" 

"  Your  old  nurse's.  Often." 

"  And  where  is  my  old  nurse  !  "  said  Paul.  "  Is  she 
dead  too?    Floy,  are  we  all  dead,  except  you  ?" 

Tbere  was  a  hurry  in  tbe  room  for  an  instant — longer, 
perhaps  ;  but  it  seemed  no  more — then  all  was  still 
again  ;  and  Florence,  with  her  face  quite  colourless, 
but  smiling,  held  bis  bead  upon  her  arm.  Her  arm 
trembled  very  much. 

"  Show  me  that  old  nurse,  Floy,  if  you  please  ! " 

"She  is  not  here,  darling.  She  shall  come  to-mor- 
row." 


504 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Thank  you,  Floy  !  " 

Paul  closed  his  eyes  with  those  words,  and  fell  asleep. 
When  he  awoke  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day 
was  clear  and  warm.  He  lay  a  little,  looking  at  the  win- 
dows, which  were  open,  and  the  curtains  rustling  in  the 
air,  and  waving  to  and  fro  :  then  he  said,  "  Floy,  is  it 
to-morrow  ?    Is  she  come  ?  " 

Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it 
was  Susan.  Paul  thought  he  heard  her  telling  him 
when  he  had  closed  his  eyes  again,  that  she  would  soon 
be  back  ;  but  he  did  not  open  them  to  see.  She  kept 
her  word— perhaps  she  had  never  been  away — but  the 
next  thing  that  happened  was  a  noise  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  and  then  Paul  woke — woke  mind  and  body — and 
sat  upright  in  his  bed.  He  saw  them  now  about  him. 
Tliere  was  no  grey  mist  before  them,  as  there  had  been 
sometimes  in  the  night.  He  knew  them  every  one,  and 
called  them  by  their  names. 

"  And  who  is  this  ?  Is  this  my  old  nurse  ?  "  said  the 
child,  regarding  Avith  a  radiant  smile,  a  figure  coming 
in. 

Yes,  yes.  No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  those 
tears  at  sight  of  him,  and  called  him  her  dear  boy, 
her  pretty  boy,  her  own  poor  blighted  child.  No  other 
woman  would  have  stooped  down  by  his  bed,  and  taken 
up  his  wasted  hand,  and  put  it  to  her  lips  and  breast, 
as  one  who  had  some  right  to  fondle  it.  No  other  wo- 
man would  have  so  forgotten  everybody  there  but 
him  and  Floy,  and  been  so  full  of  tenderness  and 
pity. 

"  Floy  this  is  a;  kind  good  face  !  "  said  Paul.  "  I  am 
glad  to  see  it  again.  Don't  go  away,  old  nurse  !  Stay 
here  !  " 

His  senses  were  all  quickened,  and  he  heard  a  name 
he  knew. 

"Who  was  that,  who  said  *  Walter  ?' "  he  asked, 
looking  round.  "Some  one  said  Walter.  Is  he  here  ? 
I  should  like  to  see  him  very  much." 

Nobody  replied  directly  ;  but  his  lather  soon  said  to 
Susan,  "Call  him  back,  then  :  let  him  come  up  ! "  After 
a  short  pause  of  expectation,  during  which  he  looked 
with  smiling  interest  and  wonder  on  his  nurse,  and 
saw  that  she  had  not  forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was 
brought  into  the  room.  His  open  face  and  manner,  and 
his  cheerful  eyes,  had  always  made  him  a  favourite 
with  Paul ;  and  when  Paul  saw  him,  he  stretched  out 
his  hand,  and  said,  "  Good-bye  !  " 

"  Good-bye,  my  child  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin,  hurrying 
to  his  bed's  head.    "  Not  good-bye  ?  " 

For  an  instant  Paul  looked  at  her  with  the  wistful 
face  with  which  he  had  so  often  gazed  upon  her  in  his 
corner  by  the  fire.  "Ah  yes,"  he  said,  placidly,  "good- 
bye !  Walter  dear,  good-bye  ! " — turning  his  head  to 
where  he  stood,  and  putting  out  his  hand  again. 
"  Where,  is  papa  ?  " 

He  felt  his  father's  breath  upon  his  cheek,  before  the 
words  had  parted  from  his  lips. 

"  Remember  Walter,  dear  papa,"  he  whispered,  look- 
ing in  his  face.  "Remember  Walter.  I  was  fond  of 
Walter  !  "  The  feeble  hand  waved  in  the  air,  as  if  it 
cried  "  good-bye  !  "  to  Walter  once  again. 

"  Now  lay  me  down,"  he  said,  "  and  Floy,  come  close 
to  me  and  let  me  see  you  !  " 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each 
other,  and  the  golden  light  came  streaming  in,  and  fell 
upon  them  locked  together. 

"How  fast  the  river  runs,  between  its  green  banks 
and  the  rushes,  Floy  !  But  it's  very  near  the  sea.  I  hear 
the  waves  !    They  always  said  so  !  " 

Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the  boat  upon 
the  stream  was  lulling  him  to  rest.  How  green  the  banks 
were  now,  how  bright  the  flowers  growing  on  them,  and 
how  tall  the  rushes  !  Now  the  boat  was  out  at  sea,  but 
gliding  smoothly  on.  And  now  there  was  a  shore  before 
him.    Who  stood  on  the  bank  I — 

He  put  his  hands  together,  as  he  had  been  used  to  do 
at  his  prayers.  He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do  it ;  but 
they  saw  him  fold  them  so,  behind  her  neck. 

"Mama  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by  the  face  ! 
But  tell  them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is 
not  divine  enough.  The  light  about  the  head  is  shining 
on  me  as  I  go  I '' 


The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again,  and 
nothing  else  stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  old  fashion  ! 
The  fashion  that  came  in  with  our  first  garments,  and 
will  last  unchanged  until  our  race  has  run  its  course, 
and  the  wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a  scroll.  The 
old,  old  fashion — Death  ! 

Oh  thank  God,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older  fashion 
yet,  of  Immortality  !  And  look  upon  us,  angels  of  young 
children,  with  regards  not  quite  estranged,  when  the 
swift  river  bears  us  to  the  ocean  ! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Captain  Cuttle  does  a  little  Business  for  the  Yoimg  People. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  the  exercise  of  that  surprising 
talent  for  deep-laid  and  unfathomable  scheming,  with 
which  (as  is  not  unusual  in  men  of  transparent  simplici- 
ty) he  sincerely  believed  himself  to  be  endowed  by  na- 
ture, had  gone  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house  on  the  eventful 
Sunday,  winl^ng  all  the  way  as  a  vent  for  his  superfluous 
sagacity,  and  had  presented  himself  in  the  full  lustre  of 
the  ankle-jacks  before  the  eyes  of  Towlinsoi'.  Hearing 
!  from  that  individual,  to  his  great  concern,  of  the  impend- 
ing calamity,  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  delicacy,  sheered  off 
again  confounded  ;  merely  handing  in  the  nosegay  as  a 
small  mark  of  his  solicitude,  and  leaving  his  respectful 
compliments  for  the  family  in  general,  which  he  accom- 
panied with  an  expression  of  his  hope  that  they  would 
lay  their  heads  well  to  the  wind  under  existing  circum- 
stances, and  a  friendly  intimation  that  he  would  "  look 
up  again  "  to-morrow. 

The  captain's  compliments  were  never  heard  of  any 
more.  The  captain's  nosegay,  after  lying  in  the  hall  ail 
night,  was  swept  into  the  dust-binn  next  morning  ;  and 
the  captain's  sly  arrangement,  involved  in  one  catastrophe 
with  greater  hopes  and  loftier  designs,  was  crushed  to 
pieces.  So,  when  an  avalanche  bears  down  a  mountain- 
forest,  twigs  and  bushes  suffer  with  the  trees,  and  all 
perish  together. 

When  Walter  returned  home  on  the  Sunday  evening 
from  his  long  walk,  and  its  memorable  close,  he  was  too 
much  occupied  at  first  by  the  tidings  he  had  to  give  them, 
and  by  the  emotions  naturally  awakened  in  his  breast  by 
the  scene  through  which  he  had  passed,  to  observe  either 
that  his  uncle  was  evidently  unacquainted  with  the  in- 
telligence the  captain  had  undertaken  to  impart,  or  that 
the  captain  made  signals  with  his  hook,  warning  him  to 
avoid  the  subject.  Not  that  the  captain's  signals  were 
calculated  to  have  proved  very  comprehensible,  however 
attentively  observed  ;  for,  like  those  Chinese  sages  who 
are  said  in  their  conferences  to  write  certain  learned 
words  in  the  air  that  are  wholly  impossible  of  pronunci- 
ation, the  captain  made  such  waves  and  flourishes  as 
nobody  without  a  previous  knowledge  of  his  mystery, 
would  have  been  at  all  likely  to  understand. 

Captain  Cuttle,  however,  becoming  cognisant  of  what 
had  happened,  relinquished  these  attempts,  as  he  per- 
ceived the  slender  chance  that  now  existed  of  his  be- 
ing able  to  obtain  a  little  easy  chat  with  Mr.  Dombey 
before  the  period  of  Walter's  departure.  But  in  admit- 
ting to  himself,  with  a  disappointed  and  crest-fallen 
countenance,  that  Sol  Gills  must  be  told,  and  that  Wal- 
ter must  go — taking  the  case  for  the  present  as  he  found 
it,  and  not  having  it  enlightened  or  improved  before- 
hand by  the  knowing  management  of  a  friend — the  cap- 
tain still  felt  an  unabated  confidence  that  he,  Ned  CuUle, 
was  the  man  for  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  that,  to  set  Walter's 
fortunes  quite  square,  nothing  was  wanted  but  that  they 
two  should  come  together.  For  the  captain  never  could 
forget  how  well  he  and  Mr.  Dombey  had  got  on  at  3rig}i- 
ton  ;  with  what  nicety  each  of  them  had  put  in  a  word 
when  it  was  wanted;  how  exactly  they  had  taken  one 
another's  measure  ;  nor  how  Ned  Cuttle  had  pointed  out 
that  resource  in  the  first  extremity,  and  had  brought  the 
interview  to  the  desired  termination.  On  all  these 
grounds  the  captain  soothed  himself  with  thinking  that 
though  Ned  Cuttle  was  forced  by  the  pressure  of  events 
to  "  stand  by"  almost  useless  for  the  present,  Ned  would 
fetch  up  with  a  wet  sail  in  good  time,  and  carry  all  be- 
fore him. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


505 


Under  the  influence  of  this  good-natured  delusion, 
Captain  Cuttle  even  went  so  far  as  to  revolve  in  his  own 
bosom,  while  he  sat  looking  at  Walter  and  listening 
with  a  tear  on  his  shirt-collar  to  what  he  related,  whether 
it  might  not  be  at  once  genteel  and  politic  to  give  Mr. 
Dombey  a  verbal  invitation,  whenever  they  should  meet, 
to  come  and  cut  his  mutton  in  Brig  Place  on  some  day 
of  his  own  naming,  and  enter  on  the  question  of  his 
young  friend's  prospects  over  a  social  glass.  But  the 
uncertain  temper  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  the  possibility 
of  her  setting  up  her  rest  in  the  passage  during  such  an 
entertainment,  and  there  delivering  some  homily  of  an 
uncomplimentary  nature,  operated  as  a  check  on  the 
captain's  hospitable  thoughts,  and  rendered  him  timid 
of  giving  them  encouragement. 

One  fact  was  quite  clear  to  the  captain,  as  Walter,  sit- 
ting thoughtfully  over  his  untasted  dinner,  dwelt  on  all 
that  had.  happened ;  namely,  that  however  Walter's 
modesty  might  stand  in  the  way  of  his  perceiving  it  him- 
self, he  was,  as  one  might  say,  a  member  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  family.  He  had  been,  in  his  own  person,  connected 
with  the  incident  he  so  pathetically  described  ;  he  had 
been  by  name  remembered  and  commended  in  close  as- 
sociation with  it  ;  and  his  fortunes  must  have  a  particu- 
lar interest  in  his  employer's  eyes.  If  the  captain  had 
any  lurking  doubt  whatever  of  his  own  conclusions,  he 
had  not  the  least  doubt  that  they  were  good  conclusions 
for  the  peace  of  mind  of  the  Instrument-maker.  There- 
fore he  availed  himself  of  so  favourable  a  moment  for 
breaking  the  West  Indian  intelligence  to  his  old  friend, 
as  a  piece  of  extraordinary  preferment ;  declaring  that 
for  his  part  he  would  freely  give  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  (if  he  had  it)  for  Walter's  gain  in  the  long-run, 
and  that  he  had  no  doubt  such  an  investment  would  yield 
a  handsome  premium. 

Solomon  Gills  was  at  first  stunned  by  the  communica- 
tion, which  fell  upon  the  little  back  parlour  like  a  thun- 
derbolt, and  tore  up  the  hearth  savagely.  But  the  cap- 
tain flashed  such  golden  prospects  before  his  dim  sight  : 
hinted  so  mysteriously  at  Whittingtonian  consequences  : 
laid  such  emphasis  on  what  Walter  had  just  now  told 
them  :  and  appealed  to  it  so  confidently  as  a  corrobora- 
tion of  his  predictions,  and  a  great  advance  towards  the 
realization  of  the  romantic  legend  of  Lovely  Peg  :  that 
he  bewildered  the  old  man.  Walter  for  his  part,  feigned 
to  be  so  full  of  hope  and  ardour,  and  so  sure  of  coming 
home  again  soon,  and  backed  up  the  captain  with  such 
expressive  shakings  of  his  head  and  rubbings  of  his 
hands,  that  Solomon,  looking  first  at  him  and  then  at 
Captain  Cuttle,  began  to  think  he  ought  to  be  transported 
with  joy. 

"But  I'm  behind  the  time,  you  understand,"  he  ob- 
served in  apology,  passing  his  hand  nervously  down  the 
whole  row  of  bright  buttons  on  his  coat,  and  then  up 
again,  as  if  they  were  beads  and  he  were  telling  them 
twice  over  :  "and  I  would  rather  have  my  dear  boy  here. 
It's  an  old-fashioned  notion,  I  dare  say.  He  was  always 
fond  of  the  sea.  He's  " — and  he  looked  wistfully  at 
Walter — "  he's  glad  to  go. " 

"  Uncle  Sol  !  "  cried  Walter,  quickly,  "  if  you  say  that, 
I  won't  go.  No,  Captain  Cuttle,  I  won't.  If  my  uncle 
thinks  I  could  be  glad  to  leave  him,  though  I  am  going 
to  be  made  Governor  of  all  the  Islands  in  the  West  In- 
dies, that's  enough.    I'm  a  fixture." 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain.  "Steady!  Sol 
Gills,  take  an  observation  of  your  nevy." 

Following  with  his  eyes  the  majestic  action  of  the 
captain's  hook,  the  old  man  looked  at  Walter. 

"  Here  is  a  certain  craft,"  said  the  captain,  with  a 
magnificent  sense  of  the  allegory  into  which  he  was  soar- 
ing, "  a-going  to  put  out  on  a  certain  voyage.  What 
name  is  wrote  upon  that  craft  indelibly  ?  Is  it  The  Gay  ? 
or,"  said  the  captain  raising  his  voice  as  much  as  to  say, 
observe  the  point  of  this,  "is  it  The  Gills?" 

"Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  drawing  Walter  to  his  side, 
and  taking  his  arm  tenderly  through  his,  "I  know.  I 
know.  Of  course  I  know  that  Wally  considers  me  more 
than  himself  always.  That's  in  my  mind.  When  I  say  he 
in  glad  to  go,  I  mean  I  hope  he  is.  Eh  ?  look  you,  Ned, 
and  you  too,  Wally,  my  dear,  this  is  new  and  unexpected 
to  mc  ;  and  I  am  afraid  my  being  behind  the  time,  and 
poor,  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.    Is  it  really  good  fortune 


for  him,  do  you  tell  me,  now?  "  said  the  old  man,  look- 
ing anxiously  from  one  to  the  other.  "  Really  and  truly? 
Is  it?  I  can  reconcile  myself  to  almost  anything  that 
advances  Wally,  but  I  won't  have  Wally  putting  him- 
self at  any  disadvantage  for  me,  or  keeping  anything 
from  me.  You,  Ned  Cuttle  !"  said  the  old  man,  fasten- 
ing on  the  captain,  to.  the  manifest  confusion  of  that 
diplomatist;  "are  you  dealing  j)lainly  by  your  old 
friend?  Speak  out,  Ned  Cuttle.  Is  there  anything  be- 
hind ?  Ought  he  to  go  ?  How  do  you  know  it  first,  and 
why?" 

As  it  was  a  contest  of  affection  and  self-denial,  Walter 
struck  in  with  infinite  effect,  to  the  captain's  relief  ;  and 
between  them  they  tolerably  reconciled  old  Sol  Gills,  by 
continued  talking,  to  the  project  ;  or  rather  so  confused 
him,  that  nothing,  not  even  the  pain  of  separation,  was 
distinctly  clear  to  his  mind. 

He  had  not  much  time  to  balance  the  matter  ;  for  on 
the  very  next  day,  Walter  received  from  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager,  the  necessary  credentials  for  his  passage  and 
outfit,  together  with  the  information  that  the  Son  and 
Heir  would  sail  in  a  fortnight,  or  within  a  day  or  two 
afterwards  at  latest.  In  the  hurry  of  preparation : 
which  Walter  purposely  enhanced  as  much  as  possible  ; 
the  old  man  lost  what  little  self-possession  he  ever  had  ; 
and  so  the  time  of  departure  drew  on  rapidly. 

The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  make  himself  ac- 
quainted with  all  that  passed,  through  inquiries  of  Wal- 
ter from  day  to  day,  found  the  time  still  tending  on  to- 
wards his  going  away  without  any  occasion  offering 
itself,  or  seeming  likely  to  offer  itself,  for  a  better  un- 
derstanding of  his  position.  It  was  after  much  consider- 
ation of  this  fact,  and  much  pondering  over  such  an  un- 
fortunate combination  of  circumstances,  that  a  bright 
idea  occurred  to  the  captain.  Sup]jose  he  made  a  call  on 
Mr.  Carker,  and  tried  to  find  out  from  Mm  how  the  laud 
really  lay  ! 

Captain  Cuttle  liked  this  idea  very  much.  It  came 
upon  him  in  a  moment  of  inspiration,  as  he  was  smoking 
an  early  pipe  in  Brig-place  after  breakfast  ;  and  it  was 
worthy  of  the  tobacco.  It  would  quiet  his  conscience, 
which  was  an  honest  one,  and  was  made  a  litt]e  uneasy 
by  what  Walter  had  confided  to  him,  and  what  Sol  Gills 
had  said  ;  and  it  would  be  a  deep,  shrewd  act  of  friendship. 
He  would  sound  Mr.  Carker  carefully,  and  say  much  or 
little,  just  as  he  read  that  gentleman's  character,  and 
discovered  that  they  got  on  well  together  or  the  reverse. 

Accordingly,  without  the  fear  of  Walter  before  his 
eyes  (who  he  knew  was  at  home  packing),  Captain  Cuttle 
again  assumed  his  ankle-jacks  and  mourning  brooch,  and 
issued  forth  on  this  second  expedition.  He  purchased  no 
propitiatory  nosegay  on  the  present  occasion,  as  he  was 
going  to  a  place  of  business  ;  but  he  put  a  small  sun- 
flower in  his  button-hole  to  give  himself  an  agreeable 
relish  of  the  country  ;  and  with  this,  and  the  knobby 
stick,  and  the  glazed  hat,  bore  dow^n  upon  the  offices  of 
Domi)ey  and  Son. 

After  taking  a  glass  of  warm  rum-and-water  at  a 
tavern  close  by,  to  collect  his  thoughts,  the  captain  made 
a  rush  down  the  court  lest  its  good  effects  should  evapo- 
rate, and  appeared  suddenly  to  Mr.  Perch. 

"  Matey,"  said  the.  captain,  in  persuasive  accents. 
"  One  of  your  governors  is  named  Carker." 

Mr.  Perch  admitted  it  ;  but  gave  him  to  understand, 
as  in  official  duty  bound,  that  all  his  governors  were  en- 
gaged, and  never  expected  to  be  disengaged  any  more. 

"  Look'ee  here,  mate,"  said  the  captain  in  his  ear  ; 
"  my  name's  Cap'en  Cuttle." 

The  captain  would  have  hooked  Perch  gently  to  him, 
but  Mr.  Perch  eluded  the  attempt  ;  not  so  much  in  de- 
sign, as  in  starting  at  the  sudden  thought  that  such  a 
weapon  unexpectedly  exhibited  to  Mrs.  Perch  might,  in 
her  then  delicate  condition,  be  destructive  to  that  lady's 
hopes. 

"  If  you'll  be  so  good  as  just  report  Cap'en  Cuttle  here, 
when  you  get  a  chance,"  said  the  captain,  "  I'll  w^ait." 

Saying  which,  the  captain  took  his  seat  on  Mr.  Perch's 
bracket,  and  drawing  out  his  handkerchief  from  the 
crown  of  the  glazed  hat,  which  he  jammed  between  his 
knees  (without  injury  to  its  shape,  for  nothing  human 
could  bend  it),  rubbed  his  head  well  all  over,  and  ap- 
peared refreshed.    He  subsequently  arranged  his  hair 


506 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


with  liis  hook,  and  sat  looking  round  the  office,  contem- 
plating the  clerks  with  a  serene  aspect. 

The  captain's  equanimity  was  so  impenetrable,  and  he 
was  altogether  so  mysterious  a  being,  that  Perch  the 
messenger  was  daunted. 

"  What  name  was  it  you  said?"  asked  Mr.  Perch, 
bending  down  over  him  as  he  sat  on  the  bracket. 
Cap'en,"  in  a  deep  hoarse  whisper. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  keeping  time  with  his  head. 
'  Cuttle. " 

"Oh  !"  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  the  same  tone,  for  he 
caught  it,  and  couldn't  help  it ;  the  captain  in  bis  diplo- 
macy, was  so  impressive.  "I'll  see  if  he's  disengaged 
now.    I  don't  know.    Perhaps  he  may  be  for  a  minute." 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,  I  won't  detain  him  longer  than  a 
minute,"  said  the  captain,  nodding  with  all  the  weighty 
importance  that  he  felt  within  him.  Perch,  soon  re- 
turning, said,  "Will  Captain  Cuttle  walk  this  way?" 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  standing  on  the  hearth-rug 
before  the  empty  fire-place,  which  was  ornamented  with 
a  castellated  sheet  of  brown  paper,  looked  at  the  captain 
as  he  came  in,  with  no  very  special  encouragement. 

"Mr.  Carker?"  said  Captain  Cuttle. 

"  1  believe  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  showing  all  his  teeth. 
The  captain  liked  his  answering  with  a  smile  :  it  looked 
pleasant.  "  You  see,"  began  the  captain,  rolling  his 
eyes  slowly  round  the  little  room,  and  taking  in  as  much 
of  it  as  his  shirt  collar  permitted  ;  "I'm  a  seafaring  man 
myself,  Mr.  Carker,  and  Wal'r,  as  is  on  your  books  here, 
is  a'most  a  son  of  mine." 

"Walter  Gay?"  said  Mr.  Carker,  showing  all  his 
teeth  again, 

"  Wal'r  Gay  it  is,"  replied  the  captain,  "  right !  "  The 
captain's  manner  expressed  a  warm  approval  of  Mr. 
Carker 's  quickness  of  perception.  "  I'm  a  intimate 
friend  of  his  and  his  uncle's.  Perhaps,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  you  may  have  heard  your  head  governor  mention 
my  name  ? — Captain  Cuttle." 

"  No  !"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  still  wider  demonstra- 
tion than  before. 

"  Well,"  resumed  the  captain,  "I've  the  pleasure  of 
his  acquaintance.  I  waited  upon  him  down  on  the  Sus- 
sex coast  there,  with  my  young  friend  Wal'r,  when — in 
short,  when  there  was  a  little  accommodation  wanted." 
The  captain  nodded  his  head  in  a  manner  that  was  at 
once  comfortable,  easy,  and  expressive.  "You  re- 
member, I  dare  say  ?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  had  the  honour  of  ar- 
ranging the  business." 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  returned  the  captain.  "Right  again  ! 
you  had.    Now  I've  took  the  liberty  of  coming  here — " 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  said  Mr.  Carker,  smiling, 

"  Thank'ee,"  returned  the  captain,  availing  himself 
of  the  offer,  "  A  man  does  get  more  way  upon  himself, 
perhaps,  in  his  conversation,  when  he  sits  down.  Won't 
you  take  a  cheer  yourself  ?" 

"  No  thank  you,"  said  the  manager,  standing,  perhaps 
from  the  force  of  winter  habit,  with  his  back  against  the 
chimney-piece,  and  looking  down  upon  the  captain  with 
an  eye  in  every  tooth  and  gum.  "  You  have  taken  the 
liberty,  you  were  going  to  say — though  it's  none — '* 

"  Thank'ee  kindly,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain  : 
"  of  coming  here,  on  account  of  my  friend  Wal'r.  Sol 
Gills,  his  uncle,  is  a  man  of  science,  and  in  science  he 
may  be  considered  a  clipper  ;  but  he  ain't  what  I  should 
altogether  call  a  able  seaman — not  a  man  of  practice. 
Wal'r  is  as  trim  a  lad  as  ever  stepped  ;  but  he's  a  little 
down  by  the  head  in  one  respect,  and  that  is  modesty. 
Now  what  I  should  wish  to  put  to  you,"  said  the  captain, 
lowering  his  voice,  and  speaking  in  a  kind  of  confidential 
growl,  "in  a  friendly  way,  entirely  between  you  and  me, 
and  for  my  own  private  reckoning,  'till  your  head  gover- 
nor has  wore  round  a  bit,  and  I  can  come  alongside  of  him, 
is  this. — Is  everything  riglit  and  comfortable  here,  and 
is  Wal'r  out'ard  bound  with  a  pretty  fair  wind  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  now.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned 
Carker,  gathering  up  his  skirts  and  settling  himself  in 
his  position.  "  You  are  a  practical  man  ;  what  do  you 
think?" 

The  acuteness  and  significance  of  the  captain's  eye,  as 
he  cocked  it  in  reply,  no  words  short  of  those  unutter- 
able Chinese  words  before  referred  to  could  describe. 


"Come  I"  said  the  captain,  unspeakably  encouraged, 
"What  do  you  say  ?    Am  I  right  or  wrong  ?  " 

So  much  had  the  captain  expressed  in  his  eye,  em- 
boldened and  incited  by  Mr,  Carker's  smiling  urbanity, 
that  he  felt  himself  in  as  fair  a  condition  to  put  the 
question,  as  if  he  had  expressed  his  sentiments  with  the 
utmost  elaboration. 

"  Right,"  said  Mr,  Carker,  "  I  have  no  doubt." 

"Out'ard  bound  with  fair  weather,  then,  I  say,"  cried 
Captain  Cuttle. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent. 

"  Wind  right  astarn,  and  plenty  of  it,"  pursued  the 
captain. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent  again. 

"Ay,  ay  !"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  greatly  relieved  and 
pleased.  "I  know'd  how  she  headed,  well  enough  ;  I 
told  Wal'r  so.    Thank'ee,  thank'ee." 

"  Gay  has  brilliant  prospects,"  observed  Mr.  Carker, 
stretching  his  mouth  wider  yet ;  "all  the  world  before 
him." 

"  All  the  world  and  his  wife  too,  as  the  saying  is,"  re- 
turned the  delighted  captain. 

At  the  word  "  wife"  (which  he  had  uttered  without 
design),  the  captain  stopped,  cocked  his  eye  again,  and 
putting  the  glazed  hat  on  the  top  of  the  knobby  stick, 
gave  it  a  twirl,  and  looked  sideways  at  his  always  smil- 
ing friend. 

"  I'd  bet  a  gill  of  old  Jamaica,"  said  the  captain,  eye- 
ing him  attentively,  "  that  I  know  what  you're  smiling 
at !" 

Mr.  Carker  took  his  cue,  and  smiled  the  more. 

"It  goes  no  farther?'*  said  the  captain,  making  a  poke 
at  the  door  with  the  knobby  stick  to  assure  him  that  it 
was  shut. 

"  Not  an  inch,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  You're  a  thinking  of  a  capital  F  perhaps  ?  "  said  the 
captain. 

Mr.  Carker  didn't  dony  it. 

"  Anything  about  a  L,"  said  the  captain,  "  or  a  O  ?  " 
Mr,  Carker  still  smiled. 

"  Am  I  right  again?"  inquired  the  captain  in  a  whis- 
per, with  the  scarlet  circle  on  his  forehead,  swelling  in 
his  triumphant  joy. 

Mr,  Carker,  in  reply,  still  smiling,  and  now  nodding  as- 
sent, Captain  Cuttle  rose  and  squeezed  him  by  the  hand, 
assuring  him  warmly,  that  they  were  on  the  same  tack, 
and  that  as  for  him  (Cuttle)  he  had  laid  his  course  that 
way,  all  along,  "He  know'd  her  first,"  said  the  captain, 
with  all  the  secrecy  and  gravity  that  the  subject  de- 
manded, "  in  an  uncommon  manner  — you  remember  his 
finding  her  in  the  street,  when  she  was  almost  a  babby 
— he  has  liked  her  ever  since,  and  she  him,  as  much  as 
two  such  youngsters  can.  We've  always  said,  Sol  Gills 
and  me,  that  they  was  cut  out  for  each  other." 

A  cat,  or  a  monkey,  or  a  hyena,  or  a  death's-head, 
could  not  have  shown  the  captain  more  teeth  at  one  time, 
than  Mr.  Carker  showed  him  at  this  period  of  their  inter- 
view. 

"  There's  a  general  in-draught  that  way,"  observed 
the  happy  captain.  "Wind  and  water  sets  in  that 
direction,  you  see.  Look  at  his  being  present  t'other 
day  ! " 

"  Most  favourable  to  his  hopes,"  said  Mr,  Carker. 

"  Look  at  his  being  towed  along  in  the  wake  of  that 
day  !  "  pursued  the  captain.  "  Why  what  can  cut  him 
adrift  now?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Carker, 

"You're  right  again,"  returned  the  captain,  giving  his 
hand  another  squeeze,  "Nothing  it  is.  So!  steady  I 
There's  a  son  gone  :  pretty  little  creatur.    Ain't  there?" 

"Yes,  there's  a  son  gone,"  said  the  acquiescent  Carker. 

"  Pass  the  word  and  there's  another  ready  for  you," 
quoth  the  captain.  "  Nevy  of  a  scientific  uncle  !  Nevy 
of  Sol  Gills  !  Wal'r  1  Wai'r  as  is  already  in  your  busi- 
ness !  And  " — said  the  captain,  rising  gradually  to  a 
quotation  he  was  preparing  for  a  final  burst,  "who — 
comes  from  Sol  Gill's  daily,  to  your  business,  and  your 
bu/zums. " 

The  captain's  complacency  as  he  gently  jogged  Mr. 
Carker  with  his  elbow,  on  concluding  each  of  the  fore- 
going short  sentences,  could  be  surpassed  by  nothing 
but  the  exultation  with  which  he  fell  back  and  eyed  him 


LOMBEY  AND  SDK 


507 


when  he  had  finished  this  brilliant  display  of  eloquence 
and  sagacity  ;  his  great  blue  waistcoat  heaving  with  the 
throes  of  such  a  masterpiece,  and  his  nose  in  a  state  of 
violent  inflammation  from  the  same  cause. 
"Am  I  right  ?"  said  the  captain. 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  bending  down  at 
the  knees,  for  a  moment,  in  an  odd  manner,  as  if  he 
were  falling  together  to  hug  the  whole  of  himself  at 
once,  "your  views  in  reference  to  Walter  Gay  are 
thoroughly  and  accurately  right,  I  understand  that  we 
speak  together  in  confidence." 

"  Honour  !  "  interposed  the  captain.    "  Not  a  word." 

"  To  him  or  any  one  ?  "  pursued  the  manager. 

Captain  Cuttle  frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

"  But  merely  for  your  own  satisfaction  and  guidance 
— ^and  guidance,  of  course,"  repeated  Mr.  Carker,  "  with 
a  view  to  your  future  proceedings." 

"  Thank'ee  kindly,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  captain,  listen- 
ing with  great  attention. 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that's  the  fact.  You 
have  hit  the  probabilities  exactly." 

"And  with  regard  to  your  head  governor,"  said  the 
captain,  "why  an  interview  had  better  come  about 
nat'ral  between  us.    There's  time  enough." 

Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  repeated, 
"  Time  enough."  Not  articulating  the  words,  but  bow- 
ing his  head  affably,  and  forming  them  with  his  tongue 
and  lips. 

"  And  as  I  know  now — it's  what  I  always  said — that 
Wal'r's  in  a  way  to  make  his  fortune,"  said  the  captain. 

*'  To  make  his  fortune,"  Mr.  Carker  repeated,  in  the 
same  dumb  manner. 

"  And  as  Wal'r's  going  on  this  little  voyage  is,  as  I 
may  say,  in  his  day's  work,  and  a  part  of  his  general  ex- 
pectations here,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Of  his  general  expectations  here,"  assented  Mr.  Car- 
ker, dumbly  as  before. 

"  Why,  so  long  as  I  know  that,"  pursued  the  captain, 
"there's  no  hurry,  and  my  mind's  at  ease." 

Mr.  Carker  still  blandly  assenting  in  the  same  voiceless 
manner,  Captain  Cuttle  was  strongly  confirmed  in  his 
opinion  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  men  he  had 
ever  met,  and  that  even  Mr.  Dombey  might  improve  him- 
self on  such  a  model.  With  great  heartiness,  therefore, 
the  captain  once  again  extended  his  enormous  hand  (not 
unlike  an  old  block  in  colour),  and  gave  him  a  grip  that 
left  upon  his  smoother  flesh  a  proof  impression  of  the 
chinks  and  crevices  with  which  the  captain's  palm  was 
liberally  tattoo'd. 

"Farewell!"  said  the  captain.  "I  ain't  a  man  of 
many  words,  but  I  take  it  very  kind  of  you  to  be  so 
friendly,  and  above-board.  You'll  excuse  me  if  I've  been 
at  all  intruding,  will  you  ?''  said  the  captain. 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  the  other. 

"  Thank'ee.  My  berth  ain't  very  roomy,"  said  the 
captain,  turning  back  again,  "  but  it's  tolerably  snug  ; 
and  if  you  was  to  find  yourself  near  Brig-place,  number 
nine,  at  any  time — will  you  make  a  note  of  it  ? — and 
would  come  up-stairs,  without  minding  what  was  said  by 
the  person  at  the  door,  I  should  be  proud  to  see  you." 

With  that  hospitable  invitation,  the  captain  said  "  Good 
day  !"  and  walked  out  and  shut  the  door  ;  leaving  Mr. 
Carker  still  reclining  against  the  chimney-piece.  In 
whose  sly  look  and  watchful  manner  ;  in  whose  false 
mouth,  stretched  but  not  laughing  ;  in  whose  spotless 
cravat  and  very  whiskers  ;  even  in  whose  silent  passing 
of  his  soft  hand  over  his  white  linen  and  his  smooth 
face  ;  there  was  something  desperately  cat-like. 

The  unconscious  captain  walked  out  in  a  state  of  self- 
glorification  that  imparted  quite  a  new  cut  to  the  broad 
blue  suit.  "  Stand  by,  Ned  1"  said  the  captain  to  him- 
self, "  You've  done  a  little  business  for  the  youngsters 
to-day,  my  lad  !" 

In  his  exultation,  and  his  familiarity,  present  and 
prospective,  with  the  House,  the  captain,  when  he 
reached  the  outer  office,  could  not  refrain  from  rallying 
Mr,  Perch  a  little,  and  asking  him  whether  he  thought 
everybody  was  still  engaged.  But  not  to  be  bitter  on  a 
man  who  had  done  his  duty,  the  captain  whispered  in 
his  ear,  that  if  he  felt  disposed  for  a  glass  of  rum-and- 
water,  and  would  follow,  he  would  be  happy  to  bestow 
the  same  upon  him. 


Before  leaving  the  premises,  the  captain,  somewhat  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  clerks,  looked  round  from  a  cen- 
tral point  of  view,  and  took  a  general  survey  of  the 
office  as  part  and  parcel  of  a  project  in  which  his  young 
friend  was  nearly  interested.  The  strong-room  excited 
his  especial  admiration  ;  but,  that  he  might  not  appear  too 
particular,  he  limited  himself  to  an  approving  glance, 
and,  with  a  graceful  recognition  of  the  clerks  as  a  body, 
that  was  full  of  politeness  and  patronage,  passed  out  into 
the  court.  Being  promptly  joined  by  Mr.  Perch,  he 
conveyed  that  gentleman  to  the  tavern,  and  fulfilled 
his  pledge — hastily,  for  Perch's  time  was  precious. 

"  I'll  give  you  for  a  toast,"  said  the  captain,  "  Wal'r  ! " 

"  Who?"  submitted  Mr.  Perch. 

"  Wal'r  !"  repeated  the  captain,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

Mr.  Perch,  who  seemed  to  remember  having  heard  in 
infancy  that  there  was  once  a  poet  of  that  name,  made 
no  objection  ;  but  he  was  much  astonished  at  the  cap- 
tain's coming  into  the  city  to  propose  a  poet ;  indeed  if  he 
had  proposed  to  put  a  poet's  statue  up — say  Shake- 
speare's for  example — in  a  civic  thoroughfare,  he  could 
hardly  have  done  a  greater  outrage  to  Mr.  Perch's  experi- 
ence. On  the  whole,  he  was  such  a  mysterious  and  in- 
comprehensible character,  that  Mr.  Perch  decided  not  to 
mention  him  to  Mrs.  Perch  at  all,  in  case  of  giving  rise 
to  any  disagreeable  consequences. 

Mysterious  and  incomprehensible  the  captain,  with  that 
lively  sense  upon  him  of  having  done  a  little  business 
for  the  youngsters,  remained  all  day,  even  to  his  most 
intimate  friends  ;  and  but  that  Walter  attributed  his 
winks  and  grins,  and  other  such  pantomimic  reliefs  of 
himself,  to  his  satisfaction  in  the  success  of  their  inno- 
cent deception  upon  old  Sol  Gills,  he  would  assuredly 
have  betrayed  himself  before  night.  As  it  was,  how- 
ever, he  kept  his  own  secret ;  and  went  home  late  from 
the  instrument-maker's  house,  wearing  the  glazed  hat  so 
much  on  one  side,  and  carrying  such  a  beaming  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  (who  might  have 
been  brought  up  at  Doctor  Blimber's,  she  was  such  a 
Roman  matron)  fortified  herself,  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
him,  behind  the  open  street  door,  and  refused  to  come 
out  to  the  contemplation  of  her  blessed  infants,  until  he 
was  securely  lodged  in  his  own  room. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

•  Father  and  Bavghter. 

There  is  a  hush  through  Mr.  Dombey's  house.  Ser- 
vants gliding  up  and  down  stairs  rustle  but  make  no 
sound  of  footsteps.  They  talk  together  constantly,  and 
sit  long  at  meals,  making  much  of  tlieir  meat  and  drink, 
and  enjoying  themselves  after  a  grim  unholy  fashion. 
Mrs.  Wickam,  with  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  relates 
melancholy  anecdotes  ;  and  tells  them  how  she  always 
said  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's  that  it  would  be  so,  and  takes 
more  table-ale  than  usual,  and  is  very  sorry  but  sociable. 
Cook's  state  of  mind  is  similar.  She  promises  a  little 
fry  for  supper,  and  struggles  about  equally  against  her 
feelings  and  the  onions.  Towlinson  begins  to  think 
there's  a  fate  in  it,  and  wants  to  know  if  anybody  can  tell 
him  of  any  good  that  ever  came  of  living  in  a  corner 
house.  It  seems  to  all  of  them  as  Jiaving  happened  a 
long  time  ago  ;  though  yet  the  child  lies,  calm  and  beauti- 
ful, upon  his  little  bed. 

After  dark  there  come  some  visitors — noiseless  visitors, 
with  shoes  of  felt — who  have  been  there  before  ;  and 
with  them  comes  that  bed  of  rest  which  is  so  strange  a 
one  for  infant  sleepers.  All  this  time,  the  bereaved 
father  has  not  been  seen  even  by  his  attendant ;  for  he 
sits  in  a  corner  of  his  own  dark  room  when  any  one  is 
there,  and  never  seems  to  move  at  other  times,  except  to 
pace  it  to  and  fro.  But  in  the  morning  it  is  whispered 
among  the  ho.usehold  that  he  was  heard  to  go  upstairs  in 
the  dead  night,  and  that  he  stayed  there — in  the  room — 
until  the  sun  was  shining. 

At  the  offices  in  the  city,  the  ground-glass  endows 
are  made  more  dim  by  shutters  ;  and  while  the  lighted 
lamps  upon  the  desks  are  half  extinguished  by  the  day 
that  wanders  in,  the  day  is  half  extingiiiBhed  by  the 


508 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


lamps,  and  an  unusual  gloom  prevails.  Tliere  is  not 
much  business  done.  The  clerks  are  indisposed  to  work; 
and  they  make  assignations  to  eat  chops  in  the  afternoon, 
and  go  up  the  river.  Perch,  the  messenger,  stays  long 
upon  his  errands  ;  and  finds  himself  in  bars  of  public 
houses,  invited  thither  by  friends,  and  holding  forth  on 
the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs.  He  goes  home  to 
Ball's  Pond  earlier  in  the  evening  than  usual,  and  treats 
Mrs.  Perch  to  a  veal  cutlet  and  Scotch  ale.  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager  treats  no  one ;  neither  is  he  treated  ;  but 
alone  in  his  own  room  he  shows  his  teeth  all  day  ;  and 
it  would  seem  that  there  is  something  gone  from  Mr. 
Carker's  path — some  obstacle  removed — which  clears  his 
way  before  him. 

Now  the  rosy  children  living  opposite  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
house,  peep  from  their  nursery  windows  down  into  the 
street ;  for  there  are  four  black  horses  at  his  door,  with 
feathers  on  their  heads  ;  and  feathers  tremble  on  the 
carriage  that  they  draw  ;  and  these,  and  an  array  of  men 
Avitli  scarves  and'  staves,  attract  a  crowd.  The  juggler 
who  was  going  to  whirl  the  basin,  puts  his  loose  coat  on 
again  over  his  fine  dress  ;  and  his  trudging  wife,  one- 
sided with  her  heavy  baby  in  her  arms,  loiters  to  see  the 
company  come  out.  "  But  closer  to  her  dingy  breast  she 
presses  her  baby,  when  the  burden  that  is  so  easily 
carried  is  borne  forth  ;  and  the  youngest  of  the  rosy 
children  at  the  high  window  opposite,  needs  no  restrain- 
ing hand  to  check  her  in  her  glee,  when,  pointing  with 
her  dimpled  finger,  she  looks  into  her  nurse's  face,  and 
asks  "  What's  that  !  " 

And  now,  among  the  knot  of  servants  dressed  in  mourn- 
ing, and  the  weeping  women,  Mr.  Dombey  passes  through 
the  hall  to  the  other  carriage  that  is  waiting  to  receive 
him.  He  is  not "  brought  down,"  these  observers  think,  by 
sorrow  and  distress  of  mind.  His  walk  is  as  erect,  his 
bearing  is  as  stiff  as  it  ever  has  been.  He  hides  his  face 
behind  no  handkerchief,  and  looks  before  him.  But 
that  his  face  is  something  sunk,  and  rigid,  and  is  pale, 
it  bears  the  same  expression  as  of  old.  He  takes  his 
place  within  the  carriage,  and  three  other  gentlemen 
follow.  Then  the  grand  funeral  moves  slowly  down 
the  street.  The  feathers  are  yet  nodding  in  the  distance, 
when  the  juggler  has  the  basin  spinning  on  a  cane,  and 
has  the  same  crowd  to  admire  it.  But  the  juggler's 
wife  is  less  alert  than  usual  with  the  money-box,  for  a 
child's  burial  has  set  her  thinking  that  peihaps  the 
baby  underneath  her  shabby  shawl  may  not  grow  up  to 
be  a  man,  and  wear  a  sky-blue  fillet  round  his  head,  and 
salmon-coloured  worsted  drawers,  and  tumble  in  the  mud. 

The  feathers  wind  their  gloomy  way  along  the  streets, 
and  come  within  the  sound  of  a  church  bell.  In  this 
same  church,  the  pretty  boy  received  all  that  will  soon 
be  left  of  him  on  earth — a  name.  All  of  him  that  is 
dead,  they  lay  there,  near  the  perishable  substance  of 
his  mother.  It  is  well.  Their  ashes  lie  where  Florence 
in  her  walks — oh  lonely,  lonely  walks  ! — may  pass  them 
any  day. 

The  service  over,  and  the  clergyman  withdrawn,  Mr. 
Dombey  looks  round,  demanding  in  a  low  voice,  whether 
the  person  who  has  been  requested  to  attend  to  receive 
instructions  for  the  tablet,  is  there  ? 

Some  one  comes  forward,  and  says  "Yes." 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  where  he  would  have  it  placed  ; 
and  shows  him,  with  his  hand  upon  the  wall,  the  shape 
and  size  ;  and  how  jt  is  to  follow  the  memorial  to  the 
mother.  Then,  with  his  pencil,  he  writes  out  the  in- 
scription, and  gives  it  to  him  ;  adding,  "  I  wish  to  have 
it  done  at  once." 

"  It  shall  be  done  immediately,  sir." 

"  There  is  really  nothing  to  inscribe  but  name  and 
age,  you  see." 

The  man  bows,  glancing  at  the  paper,  but  appears  to 
hesitate.  Mr.  Dombey,  not  observing  his  hesitation, 
turns  away,  and  leads  towards  the  porch. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;"  a  touch  falls  gently  on  his 
mourning  cloak  ;  "  but  as  you  wish  it  done  immediately, 
and  it  may  be  put  in  hand  when  I  get  back — " 

"  Well?" 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  read  it  over  again  ?  I 
think  there's  a  mistake." 
"Where?" 

The  statuayy  gives  him  back  the  paper,  and  points  out,  ^ 


with  his  pocket  rule,  the  words,  "  beloved  and  only 
child." 

"  It  should  be  *  son,'  I  think,  sir?" 

"You  are  right.    Of  course.    Make  the  correction." 

The  father,  with  a  hastier  step,  pursues  his  way  to  the 
coach.  When  the  other  three,  who  follow  closely,  take 
their  seats,  his  face  is  hidden  for  the  first  time — shaded 
by  his  cloak.  Nor  do  they  see  it  any  more  that  day.  He 
alights  first,  and  passes  immediately  into  his  own  room. 
The  other  mourners  (who  are  only  Mr.  Chick,  and  two 
of  the  medical  attendants)  proceed  up-stairs  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, to  be  received  by  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox. 
And  what  the  face  is,  in  the  shut-up  chamber  under- 
neath :  or  what  the  thoughts  are  :  what  the  heart  is, 
what  the  contest  or  the  suffering  :  no  one  knows. 

The  chief  thing  that  they  know,  below-stairs,  in  the 
kitchen,  is  that  "it  seems  like  Sunday."  They  can 
hardly  persuade  themselves  but  that  there  is  something 
unbecoming,  if  not  wicked,  in  the  conduct  of  the  people 
out  of  doors,  who  pursue  their  ordinary  occupations,  and 
wear  their  every -day  attire.  It  is  quite  a  novelty  to  have 
the  blinds  up,  and  the  shutters  open  :  and  they  make 
themselves  dismally  comfortable  over  bottles  of  wine, 
which  are  freely  broached  as  on  a  festival.  They  are 
much  inclined  to  moralise.  Mr.  Towlinson  proposes  with 
a  sigh,  "Amendment  to  us  all  !"  for  which,  as  cook 
says  with  another  sigh,  "There's  room  enough,  God 
knows."  In  the  evening,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  take 
to  needlework  again.  In  the  evening  also,  Mr.  Towlin- 
son goes  out  to  take  the  air,  accompanied  by  the  house- 
maid, who  has  not  yet  tried  her  mourning  bonnet.  They 
are  very  tender  to  each  other  at  dusky  street-corners,  and 
Towlinson  has  visions  of  leading  an  altered  and  blame- 
less existence  as  a  serious  green -grocer  in  Oxford  Market. 

There  is  sounder  sleep  and  deeper  rest  in  Mr.  Dombey's 
house  to-night,  than  there  has  been  for  many  nights. 
The  morning  sun  awakens  the  old  household,  settled 
down  once  more  in  their  old  ways.  The  rosy  children 
opposite,  run  past  with  hoops.  There  is  a  splendid 
wedding  in  the  church.  The  juggler's  wife  is  active 
with  the  money-box  in  another  quarter  of  the  town.  The 
mason  sings  and  whistles  as  he  chips  out  P-A-u-L  in  the 
marble  slab  before  him. 

And  can  it  be  that  in  a  world  so  full  and  busy,  the  loss 
of  one  weak  creature  makes  a  void  in  any  heart,  so  wide 
and  deep  that  nothing  but  the  width  and  depth  of  vast 
eternity  can  fill  it  up  !  Florence,  in  her  innocent  afllic- 
tion,  might  have  answered,  "Oh  my  brother,  oh  my 
dearly  loved  and  loving  brother  !  Only  friend  and  com- 
panion of  my  slighted  childhood  !  Could  any  less  idea 
shed  the  light  already  dawning  on  your  early  grave,  or 
give  birth  to  the  softened  sorrow  that  is  springing  into 
life  beneath  this  rain  of  tears  !  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Cliick,  who  held  it  as  a 
duty  incumbent  on  her  to  improve  the  occasion,  "  when 
you  are  as  old  as  I  am — " 

"  Which  will  be  the  prime  of  life,"  observed  Miss  Tox. 

"  You  will  then,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  gently  squeez- 
ing Miss  Tox's  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  her  friendly 
remark,  "  you  will  then  know  that  all  grief  is  unavail- 
ing, and  that  it  is  our  duty  to  submit." 

"  I  will  try,  dear  aunt.  I  do  try,"  answered  Florence, 
sobbing. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "because,  my 
love,  as  our  dear  Miss  Tox — of  whose  sound  sense  and 
excellent  judgment,  there  cannot  possibly  be  two  opin- 
ions— " 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  I  shall  really  be  proud,  soon,"  said 
Miss  Tox. 

— "  will  tell  you,  and  confirm  by  her  experience,"  pur- 
sued Mrs.  Chick,  "  we  are  called  upon  on  all  occasions  to 
make  an  effort.  It  is  required  of  us.  If  any — my  dear," 
turning  to  Miss  Tox,  "  I  want  a  word.    Mis— Mis— " 

"  Demeanour  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "How  can  you? 
Goodness  ine,  it's  on  the  end  of  my  tongue.  Mis—" 

"  Placed  affection  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox,  timidly. 

"Good  gracious,  Lucretia  ! "  returned  Mrs.  Chick. 
"  Flow  very  monstrous  !  Misanthrope  is  the  word  I  want. 
The  idea  !  Misplaced  affection  !  I  say,  if  any  misan- 
thrope were  to  put,  in  my  presence,  the  question,  'Why 
were  we  born  ? '  I  should  reply,  '  to  make  an  effort.' " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


509 


"Very  good  indeed,"  said  Miss  Tox,  much  impressed 
by  the  originality  of  the  sentiment.    "  Very  good." 

"  Unhappily,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  "  we  have  a  warn- 
ing under  our  ow^n  eyes.  We  have  but  too  much  reason 
to  suppose,  my  dear  child,  that  if  an  effort  liad  been 
made  in  time,  in  this  family,  a  train  of  the  most  trying 
and  distressing  circumstances  might  have  been  avoided. 
Nothing  shall  ever  persuade  me,"  observed  the  good 
matron,  with  a  resolute  air,  "  but  that  if  that  effort  had 
been  made  by  poor  dear  Fanny,  the  poor  dear  darling 
child  would  at  least  have  had  a  stronger  constitution." 

Mrs.  Chick  abandoned  herself  to  her  feelings  for  half 
a  moment  ;  but,  as  a  practical  illustration  of  lier  doc- 
trine, brought  herself  up  short,  in  the  middle  of  a  sob, 
and  went  on  again. 

Therefore,  Florence,  pray  let  us  see  that  you  have 
some  strength  of  mind,  and'  do  not  selfishly  aggravate 
the  distress  in  which  your  poor  papa  is  plunged." 

''Dearautit  !"  said JFlorence,  kneeling  quickly  down 
before  her,  that  she  might  the  better  and  more  earnestly 
look  into  her  face.  "  Tell  me  more  about  papa.  Pray 
teli  me  about  him  !    Is  he  quite  heart-broken  ?  " 

Miss  Tox  was  of  a  tender  nature,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  this  appeal  that  moved  her  very  much.  Whether 
she  saw  in  it  a  succession,  on  the  part  of  the  neglected 
child,  to  the  affectionate  concern  so  often  expressed  by 
her  dead  brother — or  a  love  that  sought  to  twine  itself 
about  the  heart  that  had  loved  him,  and  that  could  not 
bear  to  be  shut  out  from  sympathy  with  such  a  sorrow, 
in  such  sad  community  of  love  and  grief — or  whether 
she  only  recognised  the  earnest  and  devoted  spirit  which, 
although  discarded  and  repulsed,  was  wrung  with  ten- 
derness long  unre turned,  and  in  the  waste  and  solitude 
of  this  bereavement  cried  to  him  to  seek  a  comfort  in  it, 
and  to  give  some,  by  some  small  response — whatever 
may  have  been  her  understanding  of  it,  it  moved,  Miss 
Tox.  For  t[ie  moment  she  forgot  the  majesty  of  Mrs. 
Chick,  and,  patting  Florence  hastily  on  the  cheek,  turned 
aside  and  suffered  the  tears  to  gush  from  her  eyes,  with- 
out waiting  for  a  lead  from  that  wise  matron. 

Mrs.  Chick  herself  lost,  for  a  moment,  the  presence  of 
mind  on  which  she  so  much  prided  herself  ;  and  re- 
mained mute,  looking  on  the  beautiful  young -face  that 
had  so  long,  so  steadily,  and  patiently,  been  turned  to- 
wards the  little  bed.  But  recovering  her  voice — which 
was  synonymous  with  her  presence  of  mind,  indeed  they 
were  one  and  the  same  thing — she  replied  with  dignity  : 

"  Florence,  ray  dear  child,  your  poor  papa  is  peculiar 
at  times  ;  and  to  question  me  about  him,  is  to  question 
me  upon  a  subject  which  I  really  do  not  pretend  to  un- 
derstand. I  believe  I  have  as  much  influence  with  your 
papa  as  anybody  has.  Still,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  he  has 
said  very  little  to  me  ;  and  that  I  have  only  seen  him 
once  or  twice  for  a  minute  at  a  time,  and  indeed  have 
hardly  seen  him  then,  for  his  room  has  been  dark.  I 
have  said  to  your  papa  '  Paul  ! ' — that  is  the  exact  ex- 
pression I  used— 'Paul  !  why  do  you  not  take  something 
stimulating?'  Your  papa's  reply  has  always  been, 
*  Louisa,  have  the  goodness  to  leave  me.  I  want  noth- 
ing. I  am  better  by  myself.'  If  I  was  to  be  put  upon 
my  oath  to-morrow,  Lucretia,  before  a  magistrate,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  "  I  have  no  doubt  I  could  venture  to  swear 
to  those  identical  words." 

Miss  Tox  expressed  her  admiration  by  saying,  "  My 
Louisa  is  ever  methodical  !  " 

"In  short,  Florence,"  resumed  her  aunt,  "literally 
nothing  has  passed  between  your  poor  papa  and  myself, 
until  to-day  ;  when  I  mentioned  to  your  papa  that  Sir 
Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles  had  written  exceedingly  kind 
notes — our  sweet  boy  !  Lady  Skettles  loved  him  like  a 
— Where's  my  pocket-handkerchief  ! " 

Miss  Tox  produced  one. 

"  Exceedingly  kind  notes,  proposing  that  you  should 
visit  them  for  a  change  of  scene.    Mentioning  to  your 

f)apa  that  I  thought  Miss  Tox  and  myself  might  now  go 
lome  (in  which  he  quite  agreed),  I  inquired  if  he  had 
any  objection  to  your  accepting  this  invitation.  He  said, 
'  No,  Louisa,  not  the  least  I '  " 
Florence  raised  her  tearful  eyes. 

**  At  the  same  time,  if  you  would  prefer  staying  here, 
Florence,  to  paying  this  visit  at  present,  or  to  going 
home  with  me-^" 


"I  should  much  prefer  it,  aunt,"  was  the  faint  re- 
joinder. 

"  Why  then,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "you  can.  It's 
a  strange  choice,  I  must  say.  But  yon  always  were 
strange.  Anyl)ody  else  at  your  time  of  life,  and  after 
what  has  passed — my  dear  Miss  Tox,  I  have  lost  my 
pocket-handkerchief  again — would  be  glad  to  leave  here, 
one  would  suppose." 

"  I  should  not  like  to  feel,"  said  Florence,  "  as  if  the 
house  was  avoided.  I  should  not  like  to  think  that  the 
— his — the  rooms  up-stairs  were  quite  empty  and  dreary, 
aunt.  I  would  ratlier  stay  here,  for  the  present.  Oh 
my  brother  !  oh  my  brother  ! " 

It  was  a  natural  emotion  not  to  be  suppressed  ;  and  it 
would  make  way  even  between  the  fingers  of  the  hands 
with  which  she  covered  up  her  face.  The  overcharged 
and  heavy-laden  breast  must  sometimes  have  that  vent, 
or  the  poor  wounded  solitary  heart  within  it  would  have 
fluttered  like  a  bird  with  broken  wings,  and  sunk  down 
in  the  dust. 

"Well,  child!"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  pause, 
"/wouldn't  on  any  account  say  anything  unkind  to  you, 
and  that  I'm  sure  you  know.  You  will  remain  here, 
then,  and  do  exactly  as  you  like.  No  one  will  interfere 
with  you,  Florence,  or  wish  to  interfere  with  you,  I'm 
sure." 

Florence  shook  her  head  in  sad  assent. 

"  I  had  no  sooner  begun  to  advise  your  poor  papa  that 
he  really  ought  to  seek  some  distraction  and  restoration 
in  a  temporary  change,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  than  he  told 
me  he  had  already  formed  the  intention  of  going  into 
the  country  for  a  short  time.  I'm  sure  I  hope  he'll  go 
very  soon.  He  can't  go  too  soon.  But  I  suppose  there 
are  some  arrangements  connected  with  his  private  papers 
and  so  forth,  consequent  on  the  affliction  that  has  tried 
us  all  so  much — I  can't  think  what's  become  of  mine  : 
Lucretia,  lend  me  yours,  my  dear — that  may  occupy  him 
for  one  or  two  evenings  in  his  own  room.  Your  papa's 
a  Dombey,  child,  if  ever  there  was  one,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  drying  both  her  eyes  at  once  with  great  care  on 
opposite  corners  of  Miss  Tox's  handkerchief.  "He'll 
make  an  effort.    There's  no  fear  of  him." 

"  Is  there  nothing,  aunt,"  asked  Florence,  trembling, 
"  I  might  do  to — " 

"  Lord,  my  dear  child,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  hastily, 
"  what  are  you  talking  about?  If  your  papa  said  to  me 
— I  have  given  you  his  exact  words,  '  Louisa,  I  want 
nothing;  I  am  better  by  myself '—what  do  you  think 
he'd  say  to  you?  You  mustn't  show  yourself  to  him, 
child.    Don't  dream  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Aunt,"  said  Florence,  "  I  will  go  and  lie  down  in  my 
bed." 

Mrs.  Chick  approved  of  this  resolution,  and  dismissed 
her  with  a  kiss.  But  Miss  Tox,  on  a  faint  pretence  of 
looking  for  the  mislaid  handkerchief,  went  upstairs  after 
her ;  and  tried  in  a  few  stolen  minutes  to  comfort  her,  in 
spite  of  great  discouragement  from  Susan  Nipper.  For 
Miss  Nipper,  in  her  burning  zeal,  disparaged  Miss  Tox 
as  a  crocodile  ;  yet  her  sympathy  seemed  genuine,  and 
had  at  least  the  vantage-ground  of  disinterestedness — 
there  was  little  favour  to  be  won  by  it. 

And  was  there  no  one  nearer  and  dearer  than  Susan, 
to  uphold  the  striving  heart  in  its  anguish  ?  Was  there 
no  other  neck  to  clasp  ;  no  other  face  to  turn  to  ?  no  one 
else  to  say  a  soothing  word  to  such  deep  sorrow  ?  Was 
Florence  so  alone  in  the  bleak  world  that  nothing  else 
remained  to  her?  Nothing.  Stricken  motherless  and 
brotherless  at  once — for  in  the  loss  of  little  Paul,  that 
first  and  greatest  loss  fell  heavily  upon  her — this  was 
the  only  help  she  had.  Oh,  who  can  tell  how  much  she 
needed  help  at  first. 

At  first,  when  the  house  subsided  into  its  accustomed 
course,  and  they  had  all  gone  away,  except  the  servants, 
and  her  father  shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  Florence  could 
do  nothing  but  weep,  and  wander  up  and  dowm,  and 
sometimes,  in  a  sudden  pang  of  desolate  remembrance, 
fly  to  her  own  chamber,  wring  her  hands,  lay  her  face 
down  on  her  bed.  and  know  no  consolation  :  nothing  but 
the  bitterne.ss  and  cruelty  of  grief.  This  commonly  en- 
sued upon  the  recognition  of  some  spot  or  object  very 
tenderly  associated  with  him  ;  and  it  made  the  miserable 
house,  at  first,  a  place  of  agony. 


510 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


But  it  is  not  in  t"he  nature  of  pure  love  to  burn  so 
fiercely  and  unkindly  long.  The  flame  that  in  its  grosser 
composition  has  the  taint  of  earth,  may  prey  upon  the 
breast  that  gives  it  shelter  ;  but  the  sacred  fire  from 
heaven  is  as  gentle  in  the  heart  as  when  it  rested  on  the 
heads  of  the  assembled  twelve,  and  showed  each  man 
his  brother,  brightened  and  unhurt.  The  image  con- 
jured up,  there  soon  returned  the  placid  face,  the  sof- 
tened voice,  the  loving  looks,  the  quiet  trustfulness  and 
peace  ;  and  Florence,  though  she  wept  still,  wept  more 
tranquilly,  and  courted  the  remembrance. 

It  was  "not  very  long  before  the  golden  water,  dancing 
on  the  wall,  in  the  old  place  at  the  old  serene  time,  had 
her  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  it  as  it  ebbed  away.  It  was 
not  very  long  before  that  room  again  knew  her,  often  ; 
sitting  there  alone,  as  patient  and  as  mild  as  when  she 
had  watched  beside  the  little  bed.  When  any  sharp 
sense  of  its  being  empty  smote  upon  her,  she  could  kneel 
beside  it,  and  pray  God — it  was  the  pouring  out  of  her 
full  heart — to  let  one  angel  love  her  and  remember 
her. 

It  was  not  very  long,  before,  in  the  midst  of  the  dis- 
mal house  so  wide  and  dreary,  her  low  voice  in  the  twi- 
light, slowly,  and  stopping  sometimes,  touched  the  old 
air  to  which  he  had  so  often  listened,  with  his  drooping 
head  upon  her  arm.  And  after  that,  and  when  it  was 
quite  dark,  a  little  strain  of  music  trembled  in  thieroom  : 
so  softly  played  and  sung,  that  it  was  more  like  the 
mournful  recollection  of  what  she  had  done  at  his  re- 
quest on  that  last  night,  than  the  reality  repeated.  But 
it  was  repeated,  often — very  often,  in  the  shadowy  soli- 
tude :  and  broken  murmurs  of  the  strain  still  trembled 
on  the  keys,  when  the  sweet  voice  was  hushed  in  tears. 

Thus  she  gained  heart  to  look  upon  the  work  with 
which  her  fingers  had  been  busy  by  his  side  on  the  sea- 
shore ;  and  thus  it  was  not  very  long  before  she  took  to 
it  again — with  something  of  a  human  love  for  it,  as  if  it 
had  been  sentient  and  had  known  him  ;  and,  sitting"  in  a 
window,  near  her  mother's  picture,  in  the  unused  room 
so  long  deserted,  wore  away  the  thoughtful  hours. 

Why  did  the  dark  eyes  turn  so  often  from  this  work 
to  where  the  rosy  children  lived  ?  They  were  not  imme- 
diately suggestive  of  her  loss  ;  for  they  were  all  girls  : 
four  little  sisters.  But  they  were  motherless  like  her — 
and  had  a  father. 

It  was  easy  to  know  when  he  had  gone  out  and  was 
expected  home,  for  the  elder  child  was  always  dressed 
and  waiting  for  him  at  the  drawing-room  window,  or  in 
the  balcony ;  and  when  he  appeared,  her  expectant  face 
lighted  up  with  joy,  while  the  others  at  the  high  win- 
dow, and  always  on  the  watch  too,  clapped  their  hands, 
and  drummed  them  on  the  sill,  and  called  to  him.  The 
elder  child  would  come  down  to  the  hall,  and  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  lead  him  up  the  stairs  ;  and  Florence 
would  see  her  afterwards  sitting  by  his  side,  or  on  his 
knee,  or  hanging  coaxingly  about  his  neck  and  talking 
to  him  :  and  though  they  were  always  gay  together,  he 
would  often  watch  her  face,  as  if  he  thought  her  like  her 
mother  that  was  dead.  Florence  would  sometimes  look 
no  more  at  this,  and  bursting  into  tears  would  hide  be- 
hind the  curtain  as  if  she  were  frightened,  or  would 
hurry  from  the  window.  Yet  she  could  not  help  return- 
ing ;  and -her  work  would  soon  fall  unheeded  from  her 
hands  again. 

It  was  the  house  that  had  been  empty  years  ago.  It 
had  remained  so  for  a  long  time.  At  last,  and  while 
she  had  been  away  from  home,  this  family  had  taken 
it  ;  and  it  was  repaired  and  newly  painted  ;  and  there 
were  birds  and  flowers  about  it  ;  and  it  looked  very  dif- 
ferent from  its  old  self.  But  she  never  thought  of  the 
house.    The  children  and  their  father  were  all  in  all. 

When  he  had  dined,  she  could  see  them,  through  the 
open  windows,  go  down  with  their  governess  or  nurse, 
and  cluster  round  the  table  ;  and  in  the  still  summer 
weather,  the  sound  of  their  childish  voices  and  clear 
laughter  would  come  ringing  across  the  street,  into  the 
drooping  air  of  the  room  in  which  she  sat.  Then  they 
would  climb  and  clamber  up-stairs  with  him,  and  romp 
about  him  on  the  sofa,  or  group  themselves  at  his  knee, 
a  very  nosegay  of  little  faces,  while  he  seemed  to  tell 
them  some  story,  Or  they  would  come  running  out  into 
the  balcony ;  and  then  Florence  would  hide  herself 


quickly,  lest  it  should  check  them  in  their  joy,  to  see 
her  in  her  black  dress,  sitting  there  alone. 

The  elder  child  remained  with  her  father  when  the 
rest  had  gone  away,  and  made  his  tea  for  him — happy 
little  housekeeper  she  was  then  !— and  sat  conversing 
with  him,  sometimes  at  the  window,  sometimes  in  the 
room,  until  the  candles  came.  He  made  her  his  com- 
panion, though  she  was  some  years  younger  than  Flor- 
i  ence  ;  and  she  could  be  as  staid  and  pleasantly  demure 
'  with  her  little  book  or  work-box,  as  a  woman.  When 
they  had  candles,  Florence  from  her  own  dark  room  was 
not  afraid  to  look  again.  But  when  the  time  came  for 
the  child  to  say,  "Good  night,  papa,"  and  go  to  bed, 
Florence  would  sob  and  tremble  as  she  raised  her  face 
to  him,  and  could  look  no  more. 

Though  still  she  would  turn,  again  and  again,  before 
going  to  bed  herself,  from  the  simple  air  that  had  lulled 
him  to  rest  so  often,  long  ago,  and  from  the  other  low 
soft  broken  strain  of  music  bacjj  to  that  house.  But 
that  she  ever  thought  of  it,  or  watched  it,  was  a  secret 
which  she  kept  within  her  own  young  breast. 

And  did  that  breast  of  Florence — Florence,  so  ingen- 
uous and  true — so  worthy  of  the  love  that  he  had  borne 
her,  and  had  whispered  in  his  last  faint  words — whose 
guileless  heart  was  mirrored  in  the  beauty  of  her  face, 
and  breathed  in  every  accent  of  her  gentle  voice — did 
that  young  breast  hold  any  other  secret  ?  Yes,  One 
more. 

When  no  one  in  the  house  was  stirring,  and  the  lights 
were  all  extinguished,  she  would  softly  leave  her  own 
room,  and  with  noiseless  feet  descend  the  staircase,  and 
approach  her  father's  door.  Against  it,  scarcely  breath- 
ing, she  would  rest  her  face  and  head,  and  press  her 
lips,  in  the  yearning  of  her  love.  She  crouched  upon  the 
cold  stone  floor  outside  it,  every  night,  to  listen  even  for 
his  breath  ;  and  in  her  one  absorbing  wish  to  be  allowed 
to  show  him  some  affection,  to  be  a  consolation  to  him, 
to  win  him  over  to  the  endurance  of  some  tenderness 
from  her,  his  solitary  child,  she  would  liave  knelt  down 
at  his  feet,  if  she  had  dared,  in  humble  supplication. 

No  one  knew  it.  No  one  thought  of  it.  The  door  was 
ever  closed,  and  he  shut  up  within.  He  went  out  once 
or  twice,  and  it  was  said  in  the  house  that  he  was 
very  soon  going  on  his  country  journey  ;  but  he  lived  in 
those  rooms,  and  lived  alone,  and  never  saw  her,  or  in- 
quired for  her.  Perhaps  he  did  not  even  know  that  she 
was  in  the  house. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  the  funeral,  Florence  was 
sitting  at  her  work,  when  Susan  appeared,  with  a  face 
half  laughing  and  half  crying,  to  announce  a  visitor. 

"  A  visitor  !  To  me,  Susan  !  "  said  Florence,  looking 
up  in  astonishment. 

"Well,  it  is  a  wonder,  ain't  it  now  Miss  Floy,"  said 
Susan  ;  "  but  I  wish  you  had  a  many  visitors,  I  do,  in- 
deed, for  you'd  be  all  the  better  for  it,  and  it's  my  opin- 
ion that  the  sooner  you  and  me  goes  even  to  them  old 
Skettleses,  miss,  the  better  for  both,  I  may  not  wish  to 
live  in  crowds.  Miss  Floy,  but  still  I'm  not  an  oyster." 

To  do  Miss  Nipper  justice,  she  spoke  more  for  her 
young  mistress  than  herself  ;  and  her  face  showed  it. 

"  But  the  visitor,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

Susan,  with  an  hysterical  explosion  that  was  as  much  a 
laugh  as  a  sob,  and  as  much  a  sob  as  a  laugh,  answered, 

"Mr.  Toots  !" 

The  smile  that  appeared  on  Florence's  face  passed 
from  it  in  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
But  at  any  rate  it  was  a  smile,  and  that  gave  great  satis- 
faction to  Miss  Nipper. 

"  My  own  feelings  exactly.  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan, 
putting  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  shaking  her  head. 
"  Immediately  I  see  that  Innocent  in  the  hall.  Miss  Floy, 
I  burst  out  laughing  first,  and  then  I  choked." 

Susan  Nipper  involuntarily  proceeded  to  do  the  like 
again  on  the  spot.  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Toots,  who  had 
come  up-stairs  after  her,  all  unconscious  of  the  effect  he 
produced,  announced  himself  with  his  knuckles  on  the 
door,  and  walked  in  very  briskly. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Dombey  ?"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I'm 
very  well  I  thank  you  ;  how  are  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots — than  whom  there  were  few  better  fellows 
in  the  world,  though  there  may  have  been  one  or  two 
brighter  spirits — had  laboriously  invented  this  long  burst 


DOMBEY  AND  80 K 


511 


of  discourse  with  the  view  of  relieving  the  feelings  both 
of  Florence  and  himself.  But  finding  he  had  run  through 
his  property,  as  it  were,  in  an  injudicious  manner,  by 
squandering  the  whole  before  taking  a  chuir,  or  before 
Florence  had  uttered  a  word,  or  before  he  had  well  got 
in  at  the  door,  he  deemed  it  advi&able  to  begin  again. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I'm 
yery  well,  I  thank  you  ;  how  are  you  ?  " 

Florence  gave  him  her  hand  and  said  she  was  very 
well. 

"I'm  very  well  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  a 
chair.  "  Very  well  indeed,  I  am.  I  don't  remember," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  after  reflecting  a  little,  "  that  I  was  ever 
better,  thank  you." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  said  Florence,  taking 
up  her  work.    "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Toots  responded  wdth  a  chuckle.  Thinking  that 
might  be  too  lively,  he  corrected  it  with  a  sigh.  Think- 
ing that  might  be  too  melancholy,  he  corrected  it  with  a 
chuckle.  Not  thoroughly  pleasing  himself  mth  either 
mode  of  reply,  he  breathed  hard. 

"You  were  very  kind  to  my  dear  brother,"  said  Flor- 
ence, obeying  her  own  natural  impulse  to  relieve  him  by 
saying  so.    "  He  often  talked  to  me  about  you." 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  hastily. 
"Warm,  ain't  it?" 

"It  is  beautiful  weather,"  replied  Florence. 

"  It  agrees  with  me  !"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  don't  think 
I  ever  was  so  well  as  I  find  myself  at  present,  I'm 
obliged  to  you." 

After  stating  this  curious  and  unexpected  fact,  Mr. 
Toots  fell  into  a  deep  well  of  silence. 

"  You  have  left  Doctor  Blimber's,  I  think?"  said  Flor- 
ence, trying  to  help  him  out. 

"I  should  hope  so,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  And  tum- 
bled in  again. 

He  remained  at  the  bottom,  apparently  drowned,  for 
at  least  ten  minutes.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period, 
he  suddenly  floated,  and  said, 

"  Well  !    Good  morning.  Miss  Dombey." 

"  Are  you  going  ?"  asked  Florence,  rising. 

"  I  don't  know,  though.  No,  not  just  at  present," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  sitting  down  again,  most  unexpectedly. 
"  The  fact  is — I  say.  Miss  Dombey  !  " 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me,"  said  Florence,  with 
a  quiet  smile,  "  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  talk 
about  my  brother." 

"Would  you,  though,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots,  with  sym- 
pathy in  every  fibre  of  his  otherwise  expressionless  face. 
"  Poor  Dombey  !  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  that  Burgess 
&  Co. — fashionable  tailors  (but  very  dear),  that  we  used 
to  talk  about— would  make  this  suit  of  clothes  for  such 
a  purpose."  Mr.  Toots  was  dressed  in  mourning.  "Poor 
Dombey!  I  say  1  Miss  Dombey!"  blubbered  Mr. 
Toots. 

"  Yes,"  said  Florence. 

"  There's  a  friend  he  took  to  very  much  at  last.  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  have  him,  perhaps,  as  a  sort  of  keep- 
sake.   You  remember  his  remembering  Diogenes  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !  oh  yes  !"  cried  Florence. 

"  Poor  Dombey  !    So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots,  seeing  Florence  in  tears,  had  great  difficul- 
ty in  getting  beyond  this  point,  and  had  nearly  tumbled 
into  the  well  again.  But  a  chuckle  saved  him  on  the 
brink. 

"I  say,"  he  proceeded,  "  Miss  Dombey  !  I  could  have 
had  him  stolen  for  ten  shillings,  if  they  hadn't  given  him 
up  :  and  I  would  :  but  they  were  glad  to  get  rid  of  him, 
I  think.  If  you'd  like  to  have  him,  he's  at  the  door.  I 
brought  him  on  purpose  for  you.  He  ain't  a  lady's  dog, 
you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  but  you  won't  mind  that. 
Will  you  ?" 

In  fact,  Diogenes  was  at  that  moment,  as  they  pres- 
ently ascertained,  from  looking  down  into  the  street, 
staring  through  the  window  of  a  hackney  cabriolet,  into 
which,  for  conveyance  to  that  spot,  he  had  been  en- 
snared, on  a  false  pretence  of  rats  among  the  straw. 
Sooth  to  say,  he  was  as  unlike  a  lady's  dog  as  dog  might 
be  ;  and  in  his  gruff  anxiety  to  get  out  presented  an  ap- 
pearance sufficiently  unpromising,  as  he  gave  short  yelps 
out  of  one  side  of  his  mouth,  and  overbalancing  himself 
by  the  intensity  of  every  one  of  those  efforts,  tumbled 


down  into  the  straw,  and  then  sprung  panting  up  again, 
putting  out  his  tongue,  as  if  he  had  come  express  to  a 
dispensary  to  be  examined  for  his  health. 

But  though  Diogenes  was  as  ridiculous  a  dog  as  one 
would  meet  with  on  a  summer's  day  ;  a  blundering,  ill- 
favoured,  clumsy,  bullet-headed  dog,  continually  acting 
on  a  wrong  idea  that  there  was  an  enemy  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, whom  it  was  meritorious  to  bark  at ;  and 
though  he  was  far  from  good-tempered,  and  certainly 
was  not  clever,  and  had  hair  all  over  his  eyes,  and  a  comic 
nose,  and  an  inconsistent  tail,  and  a  gruff  voice ;  he  was 
dearer  to  Florence,  in  virtue  of  that  parting  remem- 
brance of  him,  and  that  request  that  he  might  be  taken 
care  of,  than  the  most  valuable  and  beautiful  of  his  kind. 
So  dear,  indeed,  was  this  same  ugly  Diogenes,  and  so 
welcome  to  her,  that  she  took  tlie  jewelled  hand  of  Mr. 
Toots,  and  kissed  it  in  her  gratitude.  And  when  Diog- 
enes, released,  came  tearing  up  the  stairs  and  bouncing 
into  the  room  (such  a  business  as  there  was  first  to  get 
him  out  of  the  cabriolet  !),  dived  under  all  the  furniture, 
and  wound  a  long  iron  chain,  that  dangled  from  his 
neck,  round  legs  of  chairs  and  ta])les,  and  then  tugged 
at  it  until  his  eyes  became  unnaturally  visible,  in  conse- 
quence of  their  nearly  starting  out  of  his  head  ;  and 
when  he  growled  at  Mr.  Toots,  who  affected  familiarity  ; 
and  went  pell-mell  at  Towlinson.  morally  convinced  that 
he  was  the  enemy  whom  he  had  barked  at  round  the 
corner  all  his  life  and  had  never  s^en  yet ;  Florence  was 
as  pleased  with  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  miracle  of  dis- 
cretion, 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  overjoyed  by  the  success  of  his 
present,  and  was  so  delighted  to  see  Florence  bending 
down  over  Diogenes,  smoothing  his  coarse  back  with  her 
little  delicate  hand — Diogenes  graciously  allowing  it 
from  the  first  moment  of  their  acquaintance — that  he  felt 
it  difficult  to  take  leave,  and  would,  no  doubt,  have  been 
a  much  longer  time  in  making  up  his  mind  to  do  so,  if 
he  had  not  been  assisted  by  Diogenes  himself,  who  sud- 
denly took  it  into  his  head  to  bay  Mr.  Toots,  and  to 
make  short  runs  at  him  with  his  mouth  open.  Not  ex- 
actly seeing  his  way  to  the  end  of  these  demonstrations, 
and  sensible  that  they  placed  the  pantaloons  constructed 
by  the  art  of  Burgess  &  Co.  in  jeopardy,  Mr,  Toots  with, 
chuckles,  lapsed  out  at  the  door  :  by  which,  after  looking 
in  again  two  or  three  times,  without  any  object  at  all, 
and  being  on  each  occasion  greeted  with  a  fresh  run 
from  Diogenes,  he  finally  took  himself  off  and  got  away. 

"  Come,  then,  Di  !  Dear  Di  !  Make  friends  with  your 
new  mistress.  Let  us  love  each  other,  Di  !  "  said  Flor- 
ence, fondling  his  shaggy  head.  And  Di,  the  rough 
and  gruff,  as  if  his  hairy  hide  were  pervious  to  the  tear 
that  dropped  upon  it,  and  his  dog's  heart  melted  as  it 
fell,  put  his  nose  up  to  her  face,  and  swore  fidelity. 

Diogenes  the  man  did  not  speak  plainer  to  Alexander 
the  Great  than  Diogenes  the  dog  spoke  to  Florence.  He 
subscribed  to  the  offer  of  his  little  mistress  cheerfully, 
and  devoted  himself  to  her  service.  A  banquet  was  im- 
mediately provided  for  him  in  a  corner  ;  and  when  he 
had  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill,  he  went  to  the  window 
where  Florence  was  sitting,  looking  on,  rose  up  on  his 
hind  legs,  with  his  awkward  fore  paws  on  her  shoulders, 
licked  her  face  and  hands,  nestled  his  great  head  against 
her  heart,  and  wagged  his  tail  till  he  was  tired.  Finally, 
Diogenes  coiled  bimself  up  at  her  feet  and  went  to 
sleep. 

Although  Miss  Nipper  was  nervous  in  regard  of  dogs, 
and  felt  it  necessary  to  come  into  the  room  with  her 
skirts  carefully  collected  about  her,  as  if  she  were  cross- 
ing a  brook  on  stepping-stones  ;  also  to  utter  little 
screams  and  stand  up  on  chairs  when  Diogenes  stretched 
himself-;  she  was  in  her  own  manner  affected  by  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  could  not  see  Florence  so 
alive  to  the  attachment  and  society  of  this  rude  friend  of 
little  Paul's,  without  some  mental  comments  thereupon 
that  brought  the  water  to  her  eyes.  Mr.  Dombey ,_as  a  part 
of  her  reflections,  may  have  been,  in  the  association  of 
ideas,  connected  with  the  dog ;  but,  at  any  rate,  after 
observing  Diogenes  and  his  mistress  all  the  evening,  and 
after  exerting  herself  with  much  good  will  to  provide 
Diogenes  a  bed  in  an  ante-chamber  outside  his  mistress's 
door,  she  said  hurriedly  to  Florence,  before  leaving  her 
for  the  night : 


512 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Tour  pa's  a  going  off,  Miss  Floy,  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"  To-morrow  morning,  Susan  ?  " 

"Yes,  miss  ;  that's  the  orders.  Early." 

•'Do  you  know,"  asked  Florence,  witiiout  looking  at 
her,  "where  papa  is  going,  Susan?" 

"  Not  exactly,  miss.  He's  going  to  meet  that  precious 
major  first,  and  I  mnst  say  if  I  was  acquainted  with  any 
major  myself  (which  Heavens  forbid),  it  shouldn't  be  a 
blue  one  ! " 

"Hush,  Susan  !"  urged  Florence  gently. 

' '  Well,  Miss  Floy,"  returned  Miss  Nipper,  who  was 
full  of  burning  indignation,  and  minded  her  stops  even 
less  than  usual.  "I  can't  help  it,  blue  he  is,  and  while 
I  was  a  Christian,  although  humble,  I  would  have  nat- 
ural-coloured friends,  or  none." 

It  appeared  from  what  she  added  and  had  gleaned 
down-stairs,  that  Mrs.  Chick  had  proposed  the  major 
for  Mr.  Dombey's  companion,  and  that  Mr.  Dombey, 
after  some  hesitation,  had  invited  him. 

"Talk  of  Mm  being  a  change,  indeed!"  observed 
Miss  Nipper  to  herself  witli  boundless  contempt.  "If 
he's  a  change  give  me  a  constancy." 

"Goodnight,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

"  Good  night,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy." 

Her  tone  of  commiseration  smote  the  chord  so  often 
roughly  touched,  but  never  listened  to  while  she  or  any 
one  looked  nn.  FloreMce  left  alone,  laid  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  and  pressing  the  other  over  her  swelling 
heart,  held  free  communication  with  her  sorrows. 

It  was  a  wet  night  ;  and  the  melancholy  rain  fell  pat- 
tering and  dropping  with  a  wearied  sound.  A  sluggish 
wind  was  blowing,  and  went  moaning  round  the  house, 
as  if  it  were  in  pain  or  grief.  A  shrill  noise  quivered 
through  the  treQS.  While  she  sat  weeping,  it  grew 
late,  and  dreary  midnight  tolled  out  from  the  steeples. 

Florence  was  little  more  than  a  child  in  years — not 
yet  fourteen — and  the  loneliness  and  gloom  of  such  an 
hour  in  the  great  house  where  Death  had  lately  made 
its  own  tremendous  devastation,  might  have  set  an  older 
fancy  brooding  on  vague  terrors.  But  her  innocent  im- 
agination was  too  full  of  one  theme  to  admit  them. 
Nothing  wandered  in  her  thoughts  but  love — a  wander- 
ing love,  indeed,  and  cast  away — but  turning  always  to 
her  father. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  dropping  of  the  rain,  the 
moaning  of  the  wind,  the  shuddering  of  the  trees,  the 
striking  of  the  solemn  clocks,  that  shook  this  one 
thought,  or  diminished  its  interest.  Her  recollections 
of  the  dear  dead  boy — and  they  were  never  absent — 
were  itself  ;  the  same  thing.  And  oh,  to  be  shut  out  : 
to  be  so  lost :  never  to  have  looked  into  her  father's  face 
or  touched  him,  since  that  hour  ! 

She  could  not  go  to  bed,  poor  child,  and  never  had 
gone  yet,  since  then,  without  making  her  nightly  pil- 
grimage to  his  door.,  It  would  have  been  a  strange  sad 
sight  to  see  her  now,  stealing  lightly  down  the  stairs 
through  the  thick  gloom,  and  stopping  at  it  with  a  beat- 
ing heart,  and  blinded  eyes,  and  hair  that  fell  down 
loosely  and  unthought  of  :  and  touching  it  outside  with 
her  wet  cheek.  But  the  night  covered  it,  and  no  one 
knew. 

The  moment  that  she  touched  the  door  on  this  night, 
Florence  found  that  it  was  open.  For  the  first  time  it 
stood  open,  though  by  but  a  hair's-breadth  :  and  there 
was  a  light  within.  The  first  impulse  of  the  timid 
child — and  she  yielded  to  it — was  to  retire  swiftly.  Her 
next,  to  go  back,  and  to  enter  ;  and  this  second  impulse 
held  her  in  irresolution  on  the  staircase. 

In  its  standing  open,  even  by  so  much  as  that  chink, 
there  seemed  to  be  hope.  There  was  encouragement 
in  seeing  a  ray  of  light  from  within,  stealing  through 
the  dark  stern  doorway,  and  falling  in  a  thread  upon 
the  marble  floor.  She  turned  back,  hardly  knowing 
what  she  did,  but  urged  on  by  the  love  within  her,  and 
the  trial  they  had  undergone  together,  but  not  shared  : 
and  with  her  hands  a  little  raised  and  trembling  glided 
in. 

Her  father  sat  at  his  old  table  in  the  middle  room. 
He  had  been  arranging  some  papers,  and  destroying 
others,  and  the  latter  lay  in  fragile  ruins  before  him. 
The  rain  dripped  heavily  upon  the  glass  panes  in  the 


outer  room,  where  he  had  so  often  watched  poor  Paul, 
a  baby  ;  and  the  low  complainings  of  the  wind  were 
heard  without. 

But  not  by  him.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
table,  so  immersed  in  thought,  that  a  far  heavier  tread 
than  the  light  foot  of  his  child  could  make,  might  have 
failed  to  rouse  him.  His  face  was  turned  towards  her. 
By  the  waning  lamp,  and  at  that  haggard  hour,  it  looked 
worn  and  dejected  ;  and  in  the  utter  loneliness  surround- 
ing him,  there  was  an  appeal  to  Florence  that  struck 
home. 

"Papa  !  papa  !    Speak  to  me,  dear  papa  ! " 

He  "Started  at  her  voice,  and  leaped  up  from  his  seat. 
She  was  close  before  him  with  extended  arms,  but  he 
fell  back. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  he  said,  sternly.  "  Why  do 
you  come  here  ?    What  has  frightened  you  ?" 

If  anything  had  frightened  her,  it  was  the  face  he 
turned  upon  her.  The  glowing  love  within  the  breast 
of  his  young  daughter  froze  before  it,  and  she  stood  and 
looked  at  him  as  if  stricken  into  stone. 

There  was  n6t  one  touch  of  tenderness  or  pity  in  it. 
There  was  not  one  gleam  of  interest,  parental  recogni- 
tion, or  relenting  in  it.  There  was  a  change  in  it,  but 
not  of  that  kind.  The  old  indifference  and  cold  con- 
straint had  given  place  to  something :  what,  she  never 
thought  and  did  not  dare  to  think,  and  yet  she  felt  it  in 
its  force,  and  knew  it  well  without  a  name  ;  that  as  it 
looked  upon  her,  seemed  to  cast  a  shadow  on  her  head. 

Did  he  see  before  him  the  successful  rival  of  his  son, 
in  health  and  life  ?  Did  he  look  upon  his  own  successful 
rival  in  that  son's  affection?  Did  a  mad  jealousy  and 
withered  pride,  poison  sweet  remembrances  that  should 
have  endeared  and  made  her  precious  to  him  ?  Could  it 
be  possible  that  it  was  gall  to  him  to  look  upon  her  in 
her  beauty  and  her  promise  :  thinking  of  his  infant  boy  ! 

Plorence  had  no  such  thoughts.  But  love  is  quick  to 
know  when  it  is  spurned  and  hopeless  :  and  hope  died 
out  of  hers,  as  she  stood  looking  in  her  father's  face. 

"  I  ask  you,  Florence,  are  you  frightened  ?  Is  there 
anything  the  matter,  that  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  papa — " 

"  Against  my  wishes."    Why  ?  " 

She  saw  he  knew  why  :  it  was  written  broadly  on  his 
face  :  and  dropped  her  head  upon  her  hands  with  one 
prolonged  low  cry. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  It 
has  faded  from  the  air,  before  he  breaks  the  silence.  It 
may  pass  as  quickly  from  his  brain,  as  he  believes,  but 
it  is  there.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to 
come  ! 

He  took  her  by  the  arm.  His  hand  was  cold,  and 
loose,  and  scarcely  closed  upon  her. 

"You  are  tired,  I  dare  say,"  he  said,  taking  np  the 
light,  and  leading  her  towards  the  door,  "  and  want  rest. 
We  all  want  rest.  Go,  Florence.  You  have  been  dream- 
ing." 

The  dream  she  had  had,  was  over  then,  God  help  her  ! 
and  she  felt  that  it  could  never  more  come  back. 

"  I  will  remain  here  to  light  you  up  the  stairs.  The 
whole  house  is  yours,  above  there,"  said  her  father,  slow- 
ly.   "  You  are  its  mistress  now.    Good  night  !  " 

Still  covering  her  face,  she  sobbed,  and  answered 
"  Good  night,  dear  papa,"  and  silently  ascended.  Once 
she  looked  back  as  if  she  would  have  returned  to  him, 
but  for  fear.  It  was  a  momentary  thought,  too  hopeless 
to  encourage  ;  and  her  father  stood  there  with  the  light 
— ^hard,  unresponsive,  motionless — until  the  fluttering 
dress  of  his  fair  child  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come. 
The  rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof  :  the  wind  that  mourns 
outside  the  door  :  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  mel- 
ancholy sound.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room, 
years  to  come  ! 

The  last  time  he  had  watched  her,  from  the  same 
place,  winding  up  those  stairs,  she  had  had  her  brother 
in  her  arms.  It  did  not  move  his  heart  towards  her  now, 
it  steeled  it  :  but  he  went  into  his  room,  and  locked  his 
door,  and  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  cried  for  his  lost 

Diogenes  was  broad  awake  upon  his  post,  and  waiting 
for  his  little  mistress. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


513 


"  Oh  Di  !    Oh.  dear  Di  !    Love  me  for  his  sake  ! " 

Diogenes  already  loved  her  for  her  own,  and  didn't 
care  how  much  he  showed  it.  So  he  made  himself  vast- 
ly ridiculous  by  performing  a  variety  of  uncouth  bounces 
in  the  ante-chamber,  and  concluded,  when  poor  Florence 
was  at  last  asleep,  and  dreaming  of  the  rosy  children  op- 
posite, by  scratching  open  her  bedroom  door  :  rolling  up 
his  bed  into  a  pillow  :  lying  down  on  the  boards  at  the 
full  length  of  his  tether,  with  his  head  towards  her  : 
and  looking  lazily  at  her,  iipside  down,  out  of  the  tops 
of  his  eyes,  until  from  winking  and  winking  he  fell 
asleep  himself,  and  dreamed,  with  gruff  barks,  of  his 
enemy. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Walter  goes  away. 

The  Wooden  Midshipman  at  the  Instrument-maker's 
door,  like  the  hard-hearted  little  midshipman  he  was,  re- 
mained supremely  indifferent  to  Walter's  going  away, 
even  w^hen  the  very  last  day  of  his  sojourn  in  the  back- 
parlour  was  on  the' decline.  With  his  quadrant  at  his 
round  black  knob  of  an  eye,  and  his  figure  in  its  old  at- 
titude of  indomitable  alacrity,  the  midshipman  displayed 
his  elfin  small-clothes  to  the  best  advantage,  and,  ab- 
sorbed in  scientific  pursuits,  had  no  sympathy  with 
worldly  concerns.  He  was  so  far  the  creature  of  cir- 
cumstances, that  a  dry  day  covered  him  with  dust,  and 
a  misty  day  peppered  him  with  little  bits  of  soot,  and  a 
wet  day  brightened  up  his  tarnished  uniform  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  a  very  hot  day  blistered  him  ;  but  otherwise 
he  was  a  callous,  obdurate,  conceited  midshipman,  in- 
tent on  his  own  discoveries,  and  caring  as  little  for  what 
went  on  about  him,  terrestrially,  as  Archimedes  at  the 
taking  of  Syracuse. 

Such  a  midshipman  he  seemed  to  be,  at  least,  in  the 
then  position  of  domestic  affairs.  Walter  eyed  him 
kindly  many  a  time  in  passing  in  and  out ;  and  poor 
old  Sol,  when  Walter  was  not  there,  would  come  and 
lean  against  the  door-post,  resting  his  weary  wig  as  near 
the  shoe-buckles  of  the  guardian  genius  of  his  trade  and 
shop  as  he  could.  But  no  fierce  idol  with  a  mouth  from 
ear  to  ear,  and  a  murderous  visage  made  of  parrot's 
feathers,  was  ever  more  indifferent  to  the  appeals  of  its 
savage  votaries,  than  was  the  midshipman  to  these 
marks  of  attachment. 

Walter's  heart  felt  heavy  as  he  looked  round  his  old 
bedroom,  up  among  the  parapets  and  chimney-pots,  and 
thought  that  one  more  night  already  darkening  would 
close  his  acquaintance  with  it,  perhaps  for  ever.  Dis- 
mantled of  his  little  stock  of  books  and  pictures,  it 
looked  coldly  and  reproachfally  on  him  for  his  desertion, 
and  had  already  a  foreshadow  upon  it  of  its  coming 
strangeness.  "  A  few  hours  more,"  thought  Walter, 
"  and  no  dream  I  ever  had  here  when  I  was  a  schoolboy 
will  be  so  little  mine  as  this  old  room.  The  dream  may 
come  back  in  my  sleep,  and  I  may  return  waking  to 
this  place,  it  may  be  :  but  the  dream  at  least  will  serve 
no  other  master,  and  the  room  may  have  a  score,  and 
every  one  of  them  may  change,  neglect,  misuse  it." 

But  his  uncle  was  not  to  be  left  alone  in  the  little  back- 
parlour,  where  he  was  then  sitting  by  himself  ;  for  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  considerate  in  his  roughness,  stayed  away 
against  his  will,  purposely  that  they  should  have  some 
talk  together  unobserved  :  so  Walter,  newly  returned 
home  from  his  last  day's  bustle,  descended  briskly  to 
bear  him  company. 

"  Uncle,"  he  said  gaily,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  old 
man's  shoulder,  "  what  shall  I  send  you  home  from  Bar- 
bados ?  " 

"  Hope,  my  dear  Wally.  Hope  that  we  shall  meet 
again,  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  Send  me  as  much  of 
that  as  you  can." 

"So  I  will,  uncle  ;  I  have  enough  and  to  spare,  and 
I'll  not  be  chary  of  it !  And  as  to  lively  turtles,  and  limes 
for  Captain  Cuttle's  punch,  and  preserves  for  you  on 
Sundays,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  why  I'll  send  you 
shiploads,  uncle  :  when  I'm  rich  enough." 

Old  Sol  wiped  his  spectacles,  and  faintly  smiled. 

"That  right,  uncle  1 "  cried  Walter,  merrily,  and 
Vol.  II.— 33 


clapping  him  half  a  dozen  times  more  upon  the  shoulder. 
"You  cheer  up  me  1  I'll  cheer  up  you  !  We'll  be  as  gay 
as  larks  to-morrow  morning,  uncle,  and  we'll  fly  as  high  ! 
A  02  to  my  anticipations,  they  are  singing  out  of  sight 
now." 

"  Wally,  my  dear  boy,"  returned  the  old  man,  "I'll 
do  my  best,  I'll  do  my  best. 

"  And  your  best,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  with  hispleasant 
laugh,  "  is  the  best  that  I  know.  You'll  not  forget  what 
you're  to  send  me,  uncle  ?  " 

"No,  Wally,  no,"  replied  the  old  man  ;  "  everything 
I  hear  about  Miss  Dombey,  now  that  she  is  left  alone, 
poor  lamb,  I'll  write.  I  fear  it  won't  be  much  though, 
Wally." 

"  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  "  I  have  just  been  up  there." 

"Ay,  ay,  ay?"  murmured  the  old  man,  raising  his 
eyebrows,  and  his  spectacles  with  them. 

"  Not  to  see  her."  said  Walter,  "  though  I  could  have 
seen  her,  I  dare  say,  if  I  had  asked,  Mr.  Dombey  being 
i  out  of  town  ;  but  to  say  a  parting  word  to  Susan.  I 
thought  I  might  venture  to  do  that,  you  know,  under  the 
circumstances,  and  remembering  when  I  saw  Miss  Dom- 
bey last." 

"Yes,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  uncle,  rousing  him- 
self from  a  temporary  abstraction. 

"  So  I  saw  her,"  pursued  Walter.  "  Susan,  I  mean  : 
and  I  told  her  I  was  off  and  away  to-morrow.  And  I 
said,  uncle,  that  you  had  always  had  an  interest  in  Miss 
Dombey  since  that  night  when  she  was  here,  and  always 
wished  her  well  and  happy,  and  ahvays  would  be  proud 
and  glad  to  serve  her  in  the  least ;  I  thought  I  might 
say  that,  you  know,  under  the  circumstances.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

"  Yee,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  uncle,  in  the  tone  as 
before. 

"  And  I  added,"  pursued  Walter,  "  that  if  she— Susan 
I  mean — could  ever  let  you  know,  either  through  herself 
or  Mrs.  Richards,  or  anybody  else  who  might  be  coming 
this  way,  that  Miss  Dombey  icas  well  and  happy,  you 
would  take  it  very  kindly,  and  would  write  so  much  to 
me,  and  I  should  take  it  very  kindly  too.  There  !  Upon 
my  word,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  "  I  scarcely  slept  all  last 
night  through  thinking  of  doing  this;  and  could  not  make 
up  my  mind  when  I  was  out,  whe'ther  to  do  it  or  not ;  and 
yet  I  am  sure  it  is  the  true  feeling  of  my  heart,  and  I 
should  have  been  quite  miserable  afterwards  if  I  had 
not  relieved  it." 

His  honest  voice  and  manner  corroborated  what  he 
said,  and  quite  established  its  ingenuousness. 

"So,  if  you  ever  see  her,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  "I 
mean  Miss  Dombey  now^ — and  perhaps  you  may,  who 
knows  ! — tell  her  how  much  I  felt  for  her  ;  how  much  I 
used  to  think  of  her  when  I  was  here  ;  how  I  spoke  of 
her,  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes,  uncle,  on  this  last  night 
before  I  went  away.  Tell  her  that  I  said  I  never  could 
forget  her  gentle  manner,  or  her  beautiful  face,  or  her 
sweet  kind  disposition  that  was  better  than  all.  And  as 
I  didn't  take  them  from  a  woman's  feet,  or  a  young  lady's  r 
only  a  little  innocent  child's,"  said  Walter  :  "tell  her  if 
you  don't  mind,  uncle,  that  I  kej^t  those  shoes — she'll 
remember  how  often  they  fell  off,  that  night — and  took 
them  away  with  me  as  a  remembrance  ! " 

They  were  at  that  very  moment  going  out  at  the  door 
in  one  of  Walter's  trunks.    A  porter  carrying  off  his 
baggage  on  a  truck  for  shipment  at  the  docks  on  board 
I  the  Son  and  Heir,  had  got  possession  of  them  :  and 
j  wheeled  them  away  under  the  very  eye  of  the  insensible 
I  Midshipman  before  their  owner  had  well  finished  speak- 
ing. 

But  that  ancient  mariner  might  have  been  excused 
I  his  insensibility  to  the  treasure  as  it  rolled  away.  For, 
'  under  his  eye  at  the  same  moment,  accurately  within 

his  range  of  observation,  coming  full  into  the  sphere  of 
j  his  startled  and  intensely  wide-awake  look-out,  w^ere 
,  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  ;  Florence  looking  up  into 

his  face  half  timidly,  and  receiving  the  whole  shock  of 

his  wooden  ogling  I 

More  than  this,  ihey  passed  into  the  shop,  and  passed 
!  in  at  the  parlour  door,  before  they  were  observed  by 

anybody  but  the  Midshipman.    And  Walter,  having  his 

back  to  the  door,  would  have  known  nothing  of  their 


514 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


apparition  even  then,  but  for  seeing  his  uncle  spring  out 
of  his  own  chair,  and  nearly  tumble  over  another. 

"Why  uncle!"  exclaimed  Walter.  "What's  the 
matter?  " 

Old  Solomon  replied,  "  Miss  Dombey  !  " 

"Is  it  possible  !"  cried  Walter,  looking  round  and 
starting  up  in  his  turn.    "  Here  !  " 

Why  it  was  so  possible  and  so  actual,  that,  while  the 
words'were  on  his  lips,  Florence  hurried  past  him  ;  took 
Uncle  Sol's  snuff-coloured  lappels,  one  in  each  hand  : 
kissed  him  on  the  cheek  ;  and  turning,  gave  her  hand 
to  Walter  with  a  simple  truth  and  earnestness  that  was 
her  own,  and  no  one  else's  in  the  world  ! 

"Going  away,  Walter  !  "  said  Florence. 

"Yes,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  replied,  but  not  so  hope- 
fully as  he  endeavoured  :  "  I  have  a  voyage  before  me." 

"  And  your  uncle,"  said  Florence,  looking  back  at 
Solomon.  "  He  is  sorry  you  are  going,  I  am  sure.  Ah  ! 
I  see  he  is  !  Dear  Walter,  I  am  very  sorry  too." 

"  Goodness  knows,"  exclaimed  Miss  Nipper,  "there's 
a  many  we  could  spare  instead,  if  numbers  is  a  object, 
Mrs.  Pipchin  as  a  overseer  would  come  cheap  at  her 
weight  in  gold,  and  if  a  knowledge  of  black  slavery 
should  be  required,  them  Blimbers  is  the  very  people  for 
the  sitiwation." 

With  that  Miss  Nipper  untied  her  bonnet  strings,  and 
after  looking  vacantly  for  some  moments  into  a  little 
black  tea-pot  that  was  set  forth  with  the  usual  homely 
service,  on  the  table,  shook  her  head  and  a  tin  canister, 
and  began  unasked  to  make  the  tea. 

In  the  meantime  Florence  had  turned  again  to  the 
Instrument-maker,  who  was  as  full  of  admiration  as 
surprise.  "So  grown  !  "  said  old  Sol.  "So  improved  ! 
And  yet  not  altered  !    Just  the  same  !  *' 

"Indeed  !"  said  Florence. 

"  Ye — yes,"  returned  old  Sol,  rubbing  his  hands 
slowly,  and  considering  the  matter  half  aloud,  as  some- 
thing pensive  in  the  bright  eyes  looking  at  him  arrested 
his  attention.  "  Yes,  that  expression  was  in  the  younger 
face  too  !" 

"You  remember  me,"  said  Florence  with  a  smile, 
"  and  what  a  little  creature  I  was  then  ?  " 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  returned  the  Instrument- 
maker,  "  how  could  I  forget  you,  often  as  I  have  thought 
of  you  and  heard  of  you  since  !  At  the  very  moment, 
indeed,  when  you  came  in,  Wally  was  talking  about  you 
to  me,  and  leaving  messages  for  you,  and — " 

"Was  he?"  said  Florence.  "  Thank  you,  Walter  !  Oh 
thank  you  Walter  !  I  was  afraid  you  might  be  going 
away  and  hardly  thinking  of  me  ;  "  and  again  she  gave 
him  her  little  hand  so  freely  and  so  faithfully  that 
Walter  held  It  for  some  momoots  in  his  own,  and  could 
not  bear  to  let  it  go. 

Yet  Walter  did  not  hold 't  as  he  might  have  held  it 
once,  nor  did  its  touch  awaken  those  old  day-dreams  of 
his  boyhood  that  had  floated  past  him  sometimes  even 
lately,  and  confused  him  with  their  indistinct  and  broken 
shapes.  The  purity  and  innocence  of  her  endearing 
manner,  and  its  perfect  trustfulness,  and  the  undisguised 
regard  for  him  that  lay  so  deeply  seated  in  her  constant 
eyes,  and  glowed  upon  her  fair  face  through  the  smile  that 
shaded — for  alas  !  it  was  a  smile  too  sad  to  brighten — it, 
were  not  of  their  romantic  race.  They  brought  back  to 
his  thoughts  the  early  death-bed  he  had  seen  her  tend- 
ing, and  the  love  the  child  had  borne  her  ;  and  on  the 
wings  of  such  remembrances  she  seemed  to  rise  up,  far 
above  his  idle  fancies,  into  clearer  and  serener  air. 

"  I —  I  am  afraid  I  must  call  you  Walter's  uncle,  sir, 
said  Florence  to  the  old  man,  "  if  you'll  let  me." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  cried  old  Sol.  "Let  you! 
-  Good  gracious  ! " 

"  We  always  knew  you  by  that  name,  and  talked  of 
■you,"  said  Florence,  glancing  round  and  sighing  gently. 
"'The  nice  old  parlour!  Just  the  same  I  How  well  I 
"recollect  it !  " 

Old  Sol  looked  first  at  her,  then  at  his  nephew,  and 
'xhen  rubbed  his  hands,  and  rubbed  his  spectacles,  and 
said  below  his  breath,  "  Ah  !  time,  time,  time  !" 

There  was  a  short  silence  ;  during  which  Susan  Nipper 
skilfully  impounded  two  extra  cups  and  saucers  from  the 
cupboard,  and  awaited  the  drawing  of  the  tea  with  a 
thoughtful  air. 


"  I  want  to  tell  Walter's  uncle,"  said  Florence,  laying 
her  hand  timidly  upon  the  old  man's  as  it  rested  on  the 
table,  to  bespeak  his  attention,  "  something  that  I  am 
anxious  about.  He  is  going  to  be  left  alone,  and  if  he 
will  allow  me — not  to  take  Walter's  place,  for  that  I 
couldn't  do,  but  to  be  his  true  friend  and  help  him  if 
I  ever  can  while  Walter  is  away,  I  shall  be  very  much 
obliged  to  him  indeed.  Will  you?  May  I,  Walter's 
uncle  ?  " 

The  Instrument-maker,  without  speaking,  put  her 
hand  to  his  lips,  and  Susan  Nipper,  leaning  back  with 
her  arms  crossed,  in  the  chair  of  presidency  into  which 
she  had  voted  herself,  bit  one  end  of  her  bonnet-strings, 
and  heaved  a  gentle  sigh  as  she  looked  up  at  the  sky- 
light. 

"  You  will  let  me  come  to  see  you,"  said  Florence, 
"  when  I  can  ;  and  you  will  tell  me  everything  about 
yourself  and  Walter  ;  and  you  will  have  no  secrets  from 
Susan  when  she  comes  and  I  do  not,  but  will  confide  in 
us,  and  trust  us,  and  rely  upon  us.  And  you'll  try  to 
let  us  be  a  comfort  to  you?   Will  you,  Walter's  uncle  ?" 

The  sweet  face  looking  into  his,  the  gently  pleading 
eyes,  the  soft  voice,  and  the  light  touch  on  his  arm 
made  the  more  winning  by  a  child's  respect  and  honour 
for  his  age,  that  gave  to  all  an  air  of  graceful  doubt  and 
modest  hesitation — these,  and  her  natural  earnestness, 
so  overcame  the  poor  old  Instrument-maker,  that  he  only 
answered  : 

"  Wally  1  say  a  word  for  me,  my  dear.  I'm  verv  grate- 
ful." 

"  No,  Walter,"  returned  Florence  with  her  quiet  smile. 
"  Say  nothing  for  him,  if  you  please.  I  understand  him 
very  well,  and  we  must  learn  to  talk  together  without 
you,  dear  Walter," 

The  regretful  tone  in  which  she  said  these  latter 
words  touched  Walter  more  than  all  the  rest. 

"Miss  Florence,"  he  replied,  with  an  effort  to  recover 
the  cheerful  manner  he  had  preserved  while  talking 
with  his  uncle,  "  I  know  no  more  than  my  uncle,  what 
to  say  in  acknowledgment  of  such  kindness,  I  am  sure. 
But  what  could  I  say,  after  all,  if  I  had  the  power  of 
talking  for  an  hour,  except  that  it  is  like  you  ?  " 

Susan  Nipper  began  upon  a  new  part  of  her  bonnet- 
string,  and  nodded  at  the  skylight,  in  approval  of  the 
sentiment  expressed. 

"Oh  !  but  Walter,"  said  Florence,  "there  is  some- 
thing that  I  wish  to  say  to  you  before  you  go  away,  and 
you  must  call  me  Florence  if  you  please,  and  not  speak 
like  a  stranger." 

"Like  a  stranger!"  returned  Walter.  "No.  I 
couldn't  speak  so.  I  am  sure,  at  least,  I  couldn't  feel 
like  one." 

"Ay,  but  that  is  not  enough,  and  is  not  what  I  mean. 
For  Walter,"  added  Florence,  bursting  into  tears,  "ho 
liked  you  very  much,  and  said  before  he  died  that  he 
was  fond  of  you,  and  said  'Remember  Walter!'  and 
if  you'll  be  a  brother  to  me  Walter,  now  that  he  is  gone 
and  1  have  none  on  earth,  I'll  be  your  sister  all  my  life, 
and  think  of  you  like  one  wherever  we  may  be  !  This 
is  what  I  wish  to  say,  dear  Walter,  but  I  cannot  say  it 
as  I  would,  because  my  heart  is  full." 

And  in  its  fulness  and  its  sweet  simplicity,  she  held  out 
both  her  hands  to  him.  Walter  taking  them,  stooped 
down  and  touched  the  tearful  face  that  neither  shrunk 
nor  turned  away,  nor  reddened  as  he  did  so,  but  looked 
up  at  him  with  confidence  and  truth.  In  that  one  mo- 
ment every  shadow  of  doubt  or  agitation  passed  away 
from  Walter's  soul.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  responded 
to  her  innocent  appeal,  beside  the  dead  child's  bed  :  and, 
in  the  solemn  presence  he  had  seen  there,  pledged  him- 
self to  cherish  and  protect  her  very  image,  in  his  banish- 
ment, with  brotherly  regard  ;  to  garner  up  her  simple 
faith,  inviolate ;  and  hold  himself  degraded  if  he 
breathed  upon  it  any  thought  that  was  not  in  her  own 
breast  when  she  gave  it  to  him. 

Susan  Nipper,  wiio  had  bitten  both  her  bonnet-strings 
at  once,  and  imparted  a  great  deal  of  private  emotion  to 
the  skylight,  during  this  transaction,  now  changed  tlie 
subject  by  inquiring  who  took  milk  and  who  took  sugar: 
and  being  enlightened  on  these  points,  poured  out  the 
tea.  They  all  four  gathered  socially  about  the  little 
table,  and  took  tea  under  that  young  lady's  active  super- , 


"  TOOK  UNCLE  SOL'S  SNUFF-COLORED  LAPPELS,  ONE  IN  EACH  HAND  ;  KISSED  HIM 

ON  THE  CHEEK,"  ETC. 


LlbKARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVEXSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


DOMBEY 

intendence-;  and  tlie  presence  of  Florence  in  the  back 
parlour  brightened  the  Tartar  frigate  on  the  wall. 

Half  an  hour  ago,  Walter,  for  his  life,  would  have 
hardly  called  her  by  her  name.  But  he  could  do  so  now 
when  she  entreated  him.  He  could  think  of  her  being 
there,  without  a  lurking  misgiving  that  it  would  have 
been  better  if  she  had  not  come.  He  could  calmly  think 
how  beautiful  she  was,  how  full  of  promise,  what  a 
home  some  happy  man  would  find  in  such  a  heart  one 
day.  He  could  reflect  upon  his  own  place  in  that  heart, 
with  pride  ;  and  with  a  brave  determination,  if  not  to 
deserve  it — he  still  thought  that  far  above  him — never 
to  deserve  it  less. 

Some  fairy  influence  must  surely  have  hovered  round 
the  hands  of  Susan  Nipper  when  she  made  the  tea,  en- 
gendering the  tranquil  air  that  reigned  in  the  back  par- 
lour during  its  discussion.  Some  counter-influence 
must  surely  have  hovered  round  the  hands  of  Uncle  Sol's 
chronometer,  and  moved  them  faster  than  the  Tartar 
frigate  ever  went  before  the  wind.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
the  visitors  had  a  coach  in  waiting  at  a  quiet  corner  not 
far  off  ;  and  the  chronometer,  on  being  incidentally  re- 
ferred to,  gave  such  a  positive  opinion  that  it  had  been 
waiting  a  long  time,  that  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  the 
fact,  especially  when  stated  on  such  unimpeachable  au- 
thority. If  Uncle  Sol  had  been  going  to  be  hanged  by 
his  own  time,  he  never  would  have  allowed  that  the 
chronometer  was  too  fast,  by  the  least  fraction  of  a 
second. 

Florence  at  parting  recapitulated  to  the  old  man  all 
that  she  had  said  before,  and  bound  him  to  their  com- 
pact. Uncle  Sol  attended  her  lovingly  to  the  legs  of  the 
wooden  Midshipman,  and  there  resigned  her  to  Walter, 
who  was  ready  to  escort  her  and  Susan  Nipper  to  the 
coach, 

"  Walter, "  said  Florence  by  the  way,  "I  have  been 
afraid  to  ask  before  your  uncle.  Do  you  think  you  will 
be  absent  very  long?  " 

"Indeed,"  said  Walter,  "I  don't  know.  I  fear  so. 
Mr.  Dombey  signified  as  much,  I  thought,  when  he  ap- 
pointed me." 

"Is  it  a  favour,  Walter?"  inquired  Florence,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  and  looking  anxiously  in  his  face. 
"  The  appointment?"  returned  Walter, 
"Yes." 

Walter  would  have  given  anything  to  have  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  but  his  face  answered  before  his  lips 
could,  and  Florence  was  too  attentive  to  it  not  to  under- 
stand its  reply. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  scarcely  been  a  favourite  with 
papa,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"There  is  no  reason,"  replied  Walter  smiling,  "why 
I  should  be." 

"No  reason,  Walter  !" 

"  There  was  no  reason,"  said  Walter,  understanding 
what  she  meant.  "  There  are  many  people  employed  in 
the  house.  Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  a  young  man 
like  me,  there's  a  wide  space  of  separation.  If  I  do 
my  duty,  I  do  what  I  ought,  and  do  no  more  than  all  the 
rest." 

Had  Florence  any  misgiving  of  which  she  was  hardly 
conscious  :  any  misgiving  that  had  sprung  into  an  indis- 
tinct and  undefined  existence  since  that  recent  night 
when  she  had  gone  down  to  her  father's  room  :  that 
Walter's  accidental  interest  in  her,  and  early  knowledge 
of  her,  might  have  involved  him  in  that  powerful  dis- 
pleasure and  dislike  ?  Had  Walter  any  such  idea,  or  any 
sudden  thought  that  it  was  in  her  mind  at  that  moment  ? 
Neither  of  them  hinted  at  it.  Neither  of  them  spoke 
at  all,  for  some  short  time.  Susan,  walking  on  the  other 
side  of  Walter,  eyed  them  both  sharply  ;  and  certainly 
Miss  Nipper's  thoughts  travelled  in  that  direction,  and 
very  confidently  too. 

"  You  may  come  back  very  soon,"  said  Florence, 
"  perhaps,  Walter." 

"  I  w/?/ come  back,"  said  Walter,  "an  old  man  and 
find  you  an  old  lady.    But  I  hope  for  better  things." 

"Papa,"  said  Florence,  after  a  moment,  "  will — will 
recover  from  his  grief,  and— speak  more  freely  to  me 
one  day,  perhaps  ;  and  if  he  should,  I  will  tell  him  how 
much  I  wish  to  see  you  back  again,  and  ask  him  to  re- 
call you  for  my  sake." 


AND  SON,  516 

There  was  a  touching  modulation  in  these  words  about 
her  father  that  Walter  understood  too  well. 

The  coach  being  close  at  hand,  he  would  have  left  her 
without  speaking,  for  now  he  felt  what  parting  was  ; 
but  Florence  held  his  hand  when  she  was  seated,  and 
then  he  found  there  was  a  little  packet  in  her  own. 

"Walter,"  she  said,  looking  full  upon  him  with  her 
affectionate  eyes,  "  like  you  T  hope  for  better  things.  I 
will  pray  for  them,  and  believe  that  they  will  arrive.  1 
made  this  little  gift  for  Paul.  Pray  take  it  with  my 
love,  and  do  not  look  at  it  until  you  are  gone  away. 
And  now,  God  bless  you,  Walter !  never  forget  me. 
You  are  my  brother,  dear  ! " 

He  vv'as  glad  that  Susan  Nipper  came  between  them, 
or  he  might  have  left  her  with  a  sorrowful  remembrance 
of  him.  He  was  glad  too  that  she  did  not  look  out  of  the 
coach  again,  but  waved  the  little  hand  to  him  instead, 
as  long  as  he  could  see  it. 

In  spite  of  her  request  he  could  not  help  opening  the 
packet  that  night  when  he  went  to  bed.  It  was  a  little 
purse  :  and  there  was  money  in  it. 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  morning,  from  his  absence  in 
strange  countries,  and  up  rose  Walter  with  it  to  receive 
the  cajitain,  who  was  already  at  the  door  :  having  turned 
out  earlier  than  was  necessary,  in  order  to  get  under 
weigh  while  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  yet  slumbering.  The 
captain  pretended  to  be  in  tip-top  spirits,  and  brought 
a  very  smoky  tongue  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  the  broad 
blue  coat  for  breakfast. 

"And  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  when  they  took  their 
seats  at  table,  "if  your  uncle's  the  man  I  think  him,  he'll 
bring  out  the  last  bottle  of  the  Madeira  on  the  present 
occasion." 

"  No,  no,  Ned,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  No  !  That 
shall  be  opened  when  Walter  comes  home  again." 

"  Well  said  !  "  cried  the  captain.    "  Hear  him  ! " 

"  There  it  lies,"  said  Sol  Gills,  "down  in  the  little  cel- 
lar, covered  with  dirt  and  cobwebs.  There  may  be  dirt 
and  cobwebs  over  you  and  me  perhaps,  Ned,  before  it 
sees  the  light." 

"Hear  him  !"  cried  the  captain.  "Good  morality  ! 
Wal'r  my  lad.  Train  up  a  fig-tree  in  the  way  it  should 
go,  and  when  you  are  old  sit  under  the  shade  on  it.  Over- 
haul the — Well,"  said  the  captain  on  second  thoughts, 
"I  ain't  quite  certain  where  that's  to  be  found;  but 
when  found,  make  a  note  of.  Sol  Gills,  heave  a-head 
again  ! " 

"  But  there  or  somwhere  it  shall  lie,  Ned,  until  Wally. 
comes  back  to  claim  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "  That's  all 
I  meant  to  say." 

"And  well  said  too,"  returned  the  captain  ;  "and  if 
we  three  don't  crack  that  bottle  in  company,  I'll  give  you 
two  leave  to  drink  my  allowance  ! " 

Notwithstanding  the  captain's  excessive  joviality,  he 
made  but  a  poor  hand  at  the  smoky  tongue,  though  he 
tried  very  hard,  when  anybody  looked  at  him,  to  appear 
as  if  he  were  eating  with  a  vast  appetite.  He  was  terri- 
bly afraid,  likewise,  of  being  left  alone  with  either  uncle 
or  nephew  ;  appearing  to  consider  that  his  only  chance  of 
safety  as  to  keeping  up  appearances,  was  in  there  being 
always  three  together.  This  terror  on  the  part  of  the 
captain,  reduced  him  to  such  ingenious  evasions  as  run- 
ning to  the  door,  when  Solomon  went  to  put  his  coat  on, 
under  pretence  of  having  seen  an  extraordinary  hackney- 
coach  pass  :  and  darting  out  into  the  road  when  Walter 
went  up-stairs  to  take  leave  of  the  lodgers,  on  a  feint  of 
smelling  fire  in  a  neighbouring  chimney.  These  artifices 
Captain  Cuttle  deemed  inscrutable  by  any  uninspired  ob- 
server, 

Walter  was  coming  down  from  his  parting  expedition 
up-stairs,  and  v»as  crossing  the  shop  to  go  back  to  the 
little  parlour,  when  he  saw  a  faded  face  he  knew,  look- 
ing in  at  the  door,  and  darted  towards  it. 

"  Mr.  Carker  ! "  cried  Walter,  pressing  the  hand  of  John 
Carker  the  Junior.  "  Pray  come  in  !  This  is  kind  of 
you,  to  be  here  so  early  to  say  good  bye  to  me.  You 
knew  how  glad  it  would  make  me  to  shake  hands  with 
you,  once,  before  going  away.  I  cannot  say  how  glad  I 
am  to  have  this  opportunity.    Pray  come  in." 

"It  is  not  likely  that  we  may  ever  meet  again,  Wal- 
ter "  returned  the  other,  gently  resisting  his  invitation, 
"  and  I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity  too.    I  may  venture 


516 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


to  speak  to  you,  and  to  take  you  by  tlie  hand,  on  the  eve 
of  separation.  I  shall  not  have  to  resist  your  frank  ap- 
proaches, Walter,  any  more." 

There  was  a  melancholy  in  his  smile  as  he  said  it,  that 
showed  he  had  found  some  company  and  friendship  for 
his  thoughts  even  in  that. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Carker  !  "  returned  Walter.  "  Why  did  you 
resist  them  ?  You  could  have  done  me  nothing  but  good, 
I  am  very  sure." 

He  shook  his  head.  "If  there  were  any  good,"  he 
said,  "  I  could  do  on  this  earth,  I  would  do  it,  Walter, 
for  you.  The  sight  of  you  from  day  to  day,  has  been  at 
once  happiness  and  remorse  to  me.  But  the  pleasure  has 
outweighed  the  pain.  I  know  that,  now,  by  knowing 
what  I  lose." 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Carker,  and  make  acquaintance  with 
my  good  old  imcle,"  urged  Walter,  "  I  have  often  talked 
to* him  about  you,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  tell  you  all  he 
hears  from  me.  I  have  not,"  said  Walter,  noticing  his 
hesitation,  and  speaking  with  embarrassment  himself  : 
"  I  have  not  told  him  anything  about  our  last  conversa- 
tion, Mr.  Carker  ;  not  even  him,  believe  me." 

The  gray  Junior  pressed  his  hand,  and  tears  rose  in  his 
eyes. 

"If  ever  I  make  acquaintance  with  him,  Walter,"  he 
returned,  "it  will  be  that  I  may  hear  tidings  of  you. 
Rely  on  my  not  wronging  your  forbearance  and  consider- 
ation. It  would  be  to  wrong  it,  not  to  tell  him  all  the 
truth,  before  I  sought  a  word  of  confidence  from  him. 
But  I  have  no  friend  or  acquaintance  except  you  :  and 
even  for  your  sake,  am  little  likely  to  make  any." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Walter,  "  you  had  suffered  me  to  be  your 
friend  indeed.  I  always  wished  it,  Mr.  Carker,  as  you 
know  !  but  never  half  so  much  as  now,  when  we  are  go- 
ing to  part." 

"  It  is  enough,"  replied  the  other,  "  that  you  have  been 
the  friend  of  my  own  breast,  and  that  when  I  have  avoid- 
ed you  most,  my  heart  inclined  the  most  towards  you, 
and*  was  fullest  of  you.    Walter,  good  bye  !  " 

"  Good  bye,  Mr.  Carker.  Heaven  be  with  you,  sir  !  " 
cried  Walter,  with  emotion. 

"  If,"  said  the  other,  retaining  his  hand  while  he 
spoke  ;  "If  when  you  come  back,  you  miss  me  from  my 
old  corner,  and  should  hear  from  anyone  where  I  am 
lying,  come  and  look  upon  my  grave.  Think  that  I 
might  have  been  as  honest  and  as  happy  as  you  !  And 
let  me  think,  when  I  know  my  time  is  coming  on,  that 
some  one  like  my  former  self  may  stand  there,  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  remember  me  with  pity  and  forgiveness  ! 
Walter,  good  bye  !  " 

His  figure  crept  like  a  shadow  down  the  bright,  sun- 
lighted  street,  so  cheerful  yet  so  solemn  in  the  early 
summer  morning  ;  and  slowly  passed  away. 

The  relentless  chronometer  at  last  announced  that  Wal- 
ter must  turn  his  back  upon  the  Wooden  Midshipman  ; 
and  away  they  went,  himself,  his  uncle,  and  the  cap- 
tain, in  a  hackney-coach  to  a  wharf,  where  they  were  to 
take  steamboat  for  some  Reach  down  the  river,  the  name 
of  which,  as  the  captain  gave  it  out,  was  a  hopeless 
mystery  to  the  ears  of  landsmen.  Arrived  at  this  Reach 
(whither  the  ship  had  repaired  by  last  night's  tide),  they 
were  boarded  by  various  excited  watermen,  and  among 
others  by  a  dirty  Cyclops  of  the  captain's  acquaintance, 
who,  with  his  one  eye,  had  made  the  captain  out  some 
mile  and  a  half  off,  and  had  been  exchanging  unintellig- 
ible roars  with  him  ever  since.  Becoming  the  lawful 
prize  of  this  personage,  who  was  frightfully  hoarse  and 
constitutionally  in  want  of  shaving,  they  were  all  three 
put  aboard  the  Son  and  Heir.  And  the  Son  and  Heir 
was  in  a  pretty  state  of  confusion,  with  sails  lying  all 
be-draggled  on  the  wet  decks,  loose  ropes  tripping  people 
up,  men  in  red  shirts  running  barefoot  to  and  fro,  casks 
blockading  every  foot  of  space,  and,  in  the  thickest  of 
the  fray,  a  black  cook  in  a  black  caboose  up  to  his  eyes 
in  vegetables  and  blinded  with  smoke. 

The  captain  immediately  drew  Walter  into  a  corner, 
and  with  a  great  effort,  that  made  his  face  very  red, 
pulled  up  the  silver  watch  which  was  so  big,  and  so 
tight  in  his  pocket,  tliat  it  came  out  like  a  bung. 

"  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  handing  it  over,  and  shak- 
ing him  heartily  by  the  hand,  "  a  ])arting  gift,  my  lad. 
Put  it  back  half  an  hour  every  morning,  and  about  an- 


other quarter  towards  the  afternoon,  and  it's  a  watch 
that'll  do  you  credit." 

"Captain  Cuttle!  I  couldn't  think  of  it!"  cried 
Walter,  detaining  him,  for  he  was  running  away.  "  Pray 
take  it  back.    I  have  one  already." 

"  Then  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  suddenly  diving  in- 
to one  of  his  pockets  and  bringing  up  the  two  tea-spoons 
and  a  sugar-tongs,  with  which  he  had  armed  himself  to 
meet  such  an  objection,  "take  this  here  trifle  of  plate, 
instead." 

"  No,  no,  I  couldn't  indeed  !  "  cried  Walter,  "a  thous- 
and thanks  I  Don't  throw  them  away.  Captain  Cuttle  !  " 
for  the  captain  was  about  to  jerk  them  overboard. 
"  They'll  be  of  much  more  use  to  you  than  me.  Give 
me  your  stick,  I  have  often  thought  that  I  should  like 
to  have  it.  There  !  Good  bye.  Captain  Cuttle  I  Take  care 
of  my  uncle  !  Uncle  Sol,  God  bless  you  1 " 

They  were  over  the  side  in  the  confusion,  before  Wal- 
ter caught  another  glimpse  of  either  ;  and  when  he  ran 
up  to  the  stern,  and  looked  after  them,  he  saw  his  uncle 
hanging  down  his  head  in  the  boat,  and  Captain  Cattle 
rapping  him  on  the  back  with  the  great  silver  watch  (it 
must  have  been  very  painful),  and  gesticulating  hope- 
fully with  the  tea-spoons  and  sugar-tongs.  Catching 
sight  of  Walter,  Captain  Cuttle  dropped  the  property 
into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  with  perfect  unconcern,  being 
evidently  oblivious  of  its  existence,  and  pulling  off  the 
glazed  hat  hailed  him  lustily.  The  glazed  hat  made 
quite  a  show  in  the  sun  with  its  glistening,  and  the  cap- 
tain continued  to  wave  it  until  he  could  be  seen  no  longer. 
Then  the  confusion  on  board,  which  had  been  rapidly 
increasing,  reached  its  height  ;  two  or  three  other  boats 
went  away  with  a  cheer  ;  the  sails  shone  bright  and  full 
above,  as  Walter  watched  them  spread  their  surface  to 
the  favourable  breeze  ;  the  water  flew  in  sparkles  from 
the  prow  ;  and  off  upon  her  voyage  went  the  Son  and 
Heir,  as  hopefully  and  trippingly  as  many  another  son 
and  heir,  gone  down,  had  started  on  his  way  before 
her. 

Day  and  day,  Old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  kept  her 
reckoning  in  the  little  back  parlour  and  worked  out  her 
course  with  the  chart  spread  before  them  on  the  roimd 
table.  At  night,  when  Old  Sol  climbed  up-stairs,  so 
lonely,  to  the  attic  where  it  sometimes  blew  great  guns, 
he  looked  up  at  the  stars  and  listened  to  the  wind,  and 
kept  a  longer  watch  than  would  have  fallen  to  his  lot  on 
board  the  ship.  The  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira, 
which  had  had  its  cruising  days,  and  known  its  dangers 
of  the  deep,  lay  silently  beneath  its  dust  and  cobwebs,  in 
the  meanwhile,  undisturbed. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Mr.  Danibey  goes  vpon  a  Joitrney. 


"Mr.  DoivrBEY,  sir,"  said  Major  Bagstock,  "Joey  B.  is 
!  not  in  general  a  man  of  sentiment,  for  Joseph  is  tough, 
j  But  Joe  has  his  feelings,  sir,  and  when  they  are  awak- 
I  ened — Damme  Mr.  Dombey,"  cried  the  major  w  ith  sud- 
j  den  ferocity,  "this  is  weakness,  and  I  won't  submit  to 
it  ! " 

Major  Bagstock  delivered  himself  of  these  expressions 
I  on  receiving  Mr.  Dombey  as  his  guest  at  the  head  of  his 
own  staircase  in  Princess's-place.  Mr.  Dombey  had  come 
I  to  breakfast  with  the  major,  previous  to  their  setting 
forth  on  their  trip  ;  and  the  ill-starred  native  had  already 
undergone  a  world  of  misery  arising  out  of  the  muffins, 
while,  in  connexion  with  the  general  question  of  boiled 
eggs,  life  was  a  burden  to  him. 

"  It  is  not  for  an  old  soldier  of  the  Bagstock  breed." 
observed  the  major,  relapsing  into  a  mild  state,  "  to 
deliver  himself  up,  a  prey  to  his  own  emotions  ;  but — 
damme  sir,"  cried  the  major,  in  another  spasm  of  feroc- 
ity, "  I  condole  with  you  !  " 

The  major's  purple  visage  deepened  in  its  hue,  and  the 
major's  lobster  eyes  stood  out  in  bolder  relief,  as  he 
shook  Mr.  Dombey  by  the  hand,  imparting  to  that  peace- 
ful action  as  defiant  a  character  as  if  it  had  been  the  pre- 
lude to  his  immediately  boxing  Mr.  Dombey  for  a  thous- 
and pounds  a  side  and  the  championship  of  England. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


517 


With  a  rotatory  motion  of  his  head,  and  a  wheeze  very 
like  the  cough' of  a  horse,  the  major  then  conducted  his 
visitor  to  the  sitting-room,  and  there  welcomed  him 
(having  now  composed  his  feelings)  with  the  freedom 
and  frankness  of  a  travelling  companion. 

Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
I'm  proud  to  see  you.  There  are  not  many  men  in 
Europe  to  whom  J.  Bagstock  would  say  that — for  Josh  is 
blunt,  sir  :  it's  his  nature — but  Joey  B.  is  proud  to  see 
you,  Dombey." 

"  Major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  very  oblig- 
ing." 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "Devil  a  bit  !  That's  not 
my  character.  If  that  had  been  Joe's  character,  Joe 
might  have  been,  by  this  time,  Lieutenant-General  Sir 
Joseph  Bagstock,  K.C.B.,  and  might  have  received  you 
in  very  different  quarters.  You  don't  know  old  Joe  yet, 
I  find.  But  this  occasion,  being  special,  is  a  source  of 
pride  to  me.  By  the  Lord,  sir,"  said  the  major  reso- 
lutely, "  it's  an  honour  to  me  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  estimation  of  himself  and  his 
money,  felt  that  this  was  very  true,  and  therefore  did 
not  dispute  the  point.  But  the  instinctive  recognition  of 
such  a  truth  by  the  major,  and  his  plain  avowal  of  it, 
were  very  agreeable.  It  was  a  confirmation  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, if  he  had  required  any,  of  his  not  being  mistaken 
in  the  major.  It  was  an  assurance  to  him  that  his  power 
extended  beyond  his  own  immediate  sphere  ;  and  that 
the  major  as  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  had  a  no  less 
becoming  sense  of  it,  than  the  beadle  of  the  Royal  Ex- 
change. 

And  if  it  were  ever  consolatory  to  know  this,  or  the 
like  of  this,  it  was  consolatory  then,  when  the  impotence 
of  his  will,  the  instability  of  his  hopes,  the  feebleness  of 
wealth,  had  been  so  diref  ully  impressed  upon  him.  What 
could  it  do,  his  boy  had  asked  him.  Sometimes,  think- 
ing of  the  baby  question,  he  could  hardly  forbear  inquir- 
ing, himself,  what  could  it  do  indeed  :  what  had  it  done  ? 

But  these  were  lonely  thoughts,  bred  late  at  night  in  j 
the  sullen  despondency  and  gloom  of  his  retirement,  and  i 
pride  easily  found  its  re-assurance  in  many  testimonies  j 
to  the  truth,  as  unimpeachable  and  precious  as  the  ma-  j 
jor's.    Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  friendliness,  inclined  to  the  [ 
major.    It  cannot  be  said  that  he  warmed  towards  him,  j 
but  he  thawed  a  little.    The  major  had  had  some  part —  i 
and  not  too  much — in  the  days  by  the  sea-side.    He  was 
a  man  of  the  world,  and  knew  some  great  people.  He 
talked  much,  and  told  stories  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  was 
disposed  to  regard  him  as  a  choice  spirit  who  shone  in 
society,  and  who  had  not  that  poisonous  ingredient  of 
poverty  with  which  choice  spirits  in  general  are  too  much 
adulterated.    His  station  was  undeniable.  Altogether 
the  major  was  a  creditable  companion,  well  accustomed 
to  a  life  of  leisure,  and  to  such  places  as  that  they  were 
about  to  visit,  and  having  an  air  of  gentlemanly  ease 
about  him,  that  mixed  well  enough  with  his  own  city 
character,  and  did  not  compete  with  it  at  all.    If  Mr. 
Dombey  had  any  lingering  idea  that  the  major,  as  a  man 
accustomed,  in  the  way  of  his  calling,  to  make  light  of 
the  ruthless  hand  that  had  lately  crushed  his  hopes, 
might  unconsciously  impart  some  useful  philosophy  to 
him,  and  scare  away  his  weak  regrets,  he  hid  it  from 
himself,  and  left  it  lying  at  the  bottom  of  his  pride,  un- 
examined. 

"Where  is  my  scoundrel  !"  said  the  major,  looking 
wrathfully  round  the  room. 

The  native,  who  had  no  particular  name,  but  answered 
to  any  vituperative  epithet,  presented  himself  instantly 
at  the  door  and  ventured  to  come  no  nearer. 

"  You  villain  ! "  said  the  choleric  major,  "  where's  the  | 
breakfast?"  j 

The  dark  servant  disappeared  in  search  of  it,  and  was  i 
quickly  heard  reascending  the  stairs  in  such  a  tremulous  j 
state,  that  the  plates  and  dishes  on  the  tray  he  carried,  | 
trembling  sympathetically  as  he  came,  rattled  again  all  I 
the  way  up.  \ 

"Dombey,"  said  the  major,  glancing  at  the  native  as  j 
he  arranged  the  table,  and  encouraging  him  with  an  I 
awful  shake  of  his  fist  when  he  upset  a  spoon,  "here  is 
a  devilled  grill,  a  savoury  pie,  a  dish  of  kidneys,  and  so 
forth.    Pray  sit  down.    Old  Joe  can  give  ycu  nothing  | 
but  camp  fare,  you  see." 


"Very  excellent  fare,  major,"  replied  his  guest  ;  and 
not  in  mere  politeness  either  ;  for  the  major  always  took 
the  best  possible  care  of  himself,  and  indeed  ate  rather 
more  of  rich  meats  than  was  good  for  him,  insomuch  that 
his  Imperial  complexion  was  mainly  referred  by  the 
faculty  to  that  circumstance. 

"  You  have  been  looking  over  the  way,  sir,"  observed 
the  major.    "  Have  you  seen  our  friend? " 

"You  mean  Miss  Tox,"  retorted  Mr.  Dombey.    "  No." 

"  Charming  woman,  sir,"  said  the  major,  with  a  fat 
laugh  rising  in  his  short  throat,  and  nearly  suffocating 
him. 

"  Miss  Tox  is  a  very  good  sort  of  person,  I  believe," 
replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  haughty  coldness  of  the  rejjly  seemed  to  afford 
Major  Bagstock  infinite  delight.  He  swelled  and  swelled, 
exceedingly  :  and  even  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  for 
a  moment,  to  rub  his  hands. 

"  Old  Joe,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  was  a  bit  of  a  favour- 
ite in  that  quarter  once.  But  Joe  has  had  his  day.  J. 
Bagstock  is  extinguished — outrivalled — floored,  sir.  I 
tell  you  what,  Dombey."  The  major  paused  in  his  eat- 
ing, and  looked  mysteriously  indignant.  "That's  a  de- 
vilish ambitious  woman,  sir." 

Mr.  Dombey  said  "Indeed  !"  with  a  frigid  indiffer- 
ence :  mingled  perhaps  with  some  contemptuous  incred- 
ulity as  to  Miss  Tox  having  the  presumption  to  harbour 
such  a  superior  quality. 

"  That  woman,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "is,  in  her  way, 
a  Lucifer.  Joey  B.  has  had  his  day  sir,  but  he  keeps 
his  eyes.  He  sees,  does  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness  the 
late  Duke  of  York  observed  of  Joey,  at  a  levee,  that  he 
saw. ' ' 

The  major  accompanied  this  with  such  a  look,  and 
between  eating,  drinking,  hot  tea,  devilled  grill,  muffins 
and  meaning,  was  altogether  so  swollen  and  inflamed 
about  the  head,  that  even  Mr.  Dombey  showed  some 
anxiety  for  him. 

"  That  ridiculous  old  spectacle,  sir,"  pursued  the  major 
"aspires.  She  aspires  sky-high,  sir.  Matrimonially, 
Dombey." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  her,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Dombey,"  returned  the  major  in  a 
warning  voice. 

"  Why  should  I  not,  major?"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  major  gave  no  answer  but  the  horse's  cough,  and 
went  on  eating  vigororously. 

"  She  has  taken  an  interest  in  your  household,"  said 
the  major,  stopping  short  again,  "  and  been  a  frequent 
visitor  at  your  house  for  some  time  now." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey  with  great  stateliness, 
"  Miss  Tox  was  originally  received  there,  at  the  time  of 
Mrs.  Dombey's  death,  as  a  friend  of  my  sister's  ;  and 
being  a  well-behaved  person,  and  showing  a  liking  for 
the  poor  infant,  she  was  permitted — I  may  say  encour- 
aged— to  repeat  her  visits,  with  my  sister,  and  gradually 
to  occupy  a  kind  of  footing  of  familiarity  in  the  family. 
I  have,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  was 
making  a  great  and  valuable  concession,  "  I  have  a 
respect  for  Miss  Tox,  She  has  been  so  obliging  as  to 
render  many  little  services  in  my  house  :  trifling  and  in- 
significant services  perhaps,  major,  but  not  to  be  dis- 
paraged on  that  account  :  and  I  hope  I  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  enabled  to  acknowledge  them  by 
such  attention  and  notice  as  it  has  been  in  my  power  to 
bestow.  I  hold  myself  indebted  to  Miss  Tox,  major," 
added  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand,  "for 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance. 

"Dombey,"  said  the  major  warmly  ;  "  no  !  No,  sir  ! 
Jeseph  Bagstock  can  never  permit  that  assertion  to  pass 
uncontradicted.  Your  knowledge  of  old  Joe,  sir,  such 
as  he  is,  and  old  Joe's  knowle'dge  of  you,  sir,  had  its 
origin  in  a  noble  fellow,  sir — in  a  great  creature,  sir. 
Dombey  ! "  said  the  major,  with  a  struggle  which  it  was 
not  very  difficult  to  parade,  his  whole  life  being  a  strug- 
gle against  all  kinds  of  apoplectic  symptoms,  "  we  knew 
each  other  through  your  boy." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  touched,  as  it  is  not  improbable 
the  major  designed  he  should  be,  by  this  allusion.  He 
looked  down  and  sighed  :  and  the  major,  rousing  him- 
self fiercely,  again  ?aid,  in  reference  to  the  state  of  mind 
into  which  he  felt  himself  in  danger  of  falling,  that 


518 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


this  was  weakness,  and  nothing  should  induce  him  to 
submit  to  it. 

•*  Our  friend  had  a  remote  connexion  with  that  event," 
said  the  major,  "and  all  the  credit  that  belongs  to  her, 
J.  B.  is  willing  to  give  her,  sir.  Notwithstanding  which, 
ma'am,  he  added,  raising  his  eyes  from  his  plate,  and 
casting  them  across  Princess's-place,  to  where  Miss  Tox 
was  at  that  moment  visible  at  her  window  watering  her 
flowers,  "  you're  a  scheming  jade,  ma'am,  and  your  ambi- 
tion is  a  piece  of  monstrous  impudence.  If  it  only  made 
yourself  ridiculous,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  rolling  his 
head  at  the  unconscious  Miss  Tox,  while  his  starting 
eves  appeared  to  make  a  leap  towards  her,  "you  might 
do  that  to  your  heart's  content,  ma'am,  without  any  ob- 
jection, I  assure  you,  on  the  part  of  Bagstock."  Here 
the  major  laughed  frightfully  up  in  the  tips  of  his  ears 
and  in  the  veins  of  his  head.  "But  when,  ma'am," 
said  the  major,  "you  compromise  other  people,  and  gen- 
erous unsuspicious  people  too,  as  a  repayment  for  their 
condescension,  you  stir  the  blood  of  old  Joe  in  his  body.  " 

"Major,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  reddening,  "I  hope  you 
do  not  hint  at  anything  so  absurd  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Tox  as — " 

"Dombey,"  returned  the  major,  "I  hint  at  nothing. 
But  Joey  B.  has  lived  in  the  world,  sir  :  lived  in  the 
world  with  his  eyes  open,  sir,  and  his  ears  cocked  :  and 
Joe  tells  you,  Dombey,  that  there's  a de-vilish  artful  and 
ambitious  woman  over  the  way." 

Mr.  Dombey  involuntarily  glanced  over  the  way  ;  and 
an  angry  glance  he  sent  in  that  direction,  too. 

"  That's  all  on  such  a  subject  that  shall  pass  the  lips 
of  Joseph  Bagstock,"  said  the  major  firmly.  "  Joe  is 
not  a  tale-bearer,  but  there  are  times  when  he  must 
speak,  when  he  icill  speak  ! — confound  your  arts,  ma'am," 
cried  the  major,  again  apostrophising  his  fair  neighbour, 
with  great  ire,  " — when  the  provocation  is  too  strong 
to  admit  of  his  remaining  silent." 

The  emotion  of  this  outbreak  threw  the  major  into  a 
paroxysm  of  horse's  coughs,  which  held  him  for  a  long 
time.    On  recovering  he  added  : 

"And  now,  Dombey,  as  you  have  invited  Joe — old 
Joe,  who  has  no  other  merit,  sir,  but  that  he  is  tough 
and  hearty — to  be  your  guest  and  guide  at  Leamington, 
command  him  in  any  way  you  please,  and  he  is  wholly 
yours.  I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  the  major,  wagging  his 
double  chin  with  a  jocose  air,  "what  it  is  you  people 
see  in  Joe  to  make  you  hold  him  in  such  great  request, 
all  of  you  ;  but  this  1  know,  sir,  that  if  he  wasn't 
pretty  tough,  and  obstinate  in  his  refusals,  you'd  kill 
him  among  you  with  your  invitations,  and  so  forth,  in 
double  quick  time." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  few  words,  expressed  his  sense  of 
the  preference  he  received  over  those  other  distinguished 
members  of  society  who  were  clamoring  for  the  posses- 
sion of  Major  Bagstock.  But  the  major  cut  him  short 
by  giving  him  to  understand  that  he  followed  his  own 
inclinations,  and  that  they  had  risen  up  in  a  body  and 
said  with  one  accord,  "J.  B.,  Dombey  is  the  man  for 
you  to  choose  as  a  friend." 

The  major  being  by  this  time  in  a  state  of  repletion, 
with  essence  of  savoury  pie  oozing  out  at  the  corners  of 
his  eyes,  and  devilled  grill  and  kidneys  tightening  his 
cravat :  and  the  time  moreover  approaching  for  the  de- 
parture of  the  railway  train  to  Birmingham,  by  which 
they  were  to  leave  town  ;  the  native  got  him  into  his 
great-coat  with  immense  difficulty,  and  buttoned  him  up 
until  his  face  looked  staring  and  gasping,  over  the  top 
of  that  garment,  as  if  he  were  in  a  barrel.  The  native 
then  lianded  him  separately,  and  with  a  decent  interval 
between  each  supply,  his  wash-leather  gloves,  his  thick 
stick,  and  his  hat  ;  which  latter  article  the  major  wore 
with  a  rakish  air,  on  one  side  of  his  head,  by  way  of 
toning  down  his  remarkable  visage.  The  native  had 
previously  packed,  in  all  possible  and  impossible  parts 
of  Mr.  Dombey's  chariot,  which  was  in  waiting,  an  un- 
usual quantity  of  carpet-i)ags  and  small  portmanteaus, 
no  less  apoplectic  in  appearance  than  the  major  himself  : 
and  having  filled  his  own  pockets,  with  Seltzer  water. 
East  India  sherry,  sandwiches,  shawls,  telescopes,  maps, 
and  newspapers,  any  or  all  of  which  light  baggage  the 
major  might  require  at  any  instant  of  the  journey,  he 
announced  that  everything  was  ready.    To  complete 


the  equipment  of  this  unfortunate  foreigner  (currently 
believed  to  be  a  prince  in  his  own  country),  when  he 
took  his  seat  in  the  rumble  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Towlin- 
son,  a  pile  of  the  major's  cloaks  and  great-coats  was 
hurled  upon  him  by  the  landlord,  who  aimed  at  him 
from  the  pavement  with  those  great  missiles  like  a  Titan, 
and  so  covered  him  up,  that  he  proceeded  in  a  living 
tomb  to  the  railroad  station. 

But  before  the  carriage  moved  away,  and  while  the  na- 
tive was  in  the  act  of  sepulture.  Miss  Tox  appearing  at  her 
window,  waved  a  lily-white  handkerchief.  Mr.  Dombey 
received  this  parting  salutation  very  coldly— very  coldly, 
even  for  him — and  honouring  her  with  the  slightest  pos- 
sible inclination  of  his  head,  leaned  back  in  the  carriage 
with  a  very  discontented  look.  His  marked  behaviour 
seemed  to  affoid  the  major  (who  was  all  politeness  in  his 
recognition  of  Miss  Tox)  unbounded  satisfaction  ;  and  he 
sat  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  leering,  and  choking, 
like  an  over-fed  Mephistopheles. 

During  the  bustle  of  preparation  at  the  railway,  Mr. 
Dombey  and  the  major  walked  up  and  down  the  plat- 
fonn  side  by  side  ;  the  former  taciturn  and  gloomy,  and 
the  latter  entertaining  him,  or  entertaining  himself, 
with  a  variety  of  anecdotes  and  reminiscences,  in  most 
of  which  Joe  Bagstock  was  the  principal  performer. 
Neither  of  the  two  observed  that  in  the  course  of  these 
walks,  they  attracted  the  attention  of  a  working  man 
who  was  standing  near  the  engine,  and  who  touched  his 
hat  every  time  they  passed  ;  for  Mr.  Dombey  habitually 
looked  over  the  vulgar  herd,  not  at  them  ;  and  the  ma- 
jor was  looking,  at  the  time,  into  the  core  of  one  of  his 
stories.  At  length,  however,  this  man  stepped  before 
them  as  they  turned  round,  and  pulling  his  hat  off,  and 
keeping  it  off,  ducked  his  head  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "but  I  hope 
you're  a  doin'  pretty  well,  sir." 

He  was  dressed  in  a  canvas  suit  abundantly  besmeared 
with  coal-dust  and  oil,  and  had  cinders  in  his  whiskers, 
and  a  smell  of  half -slaked  ashes  all  over  him.  He  was 
not  a  bad-looking  fellow,  nor  even  what  could  be  fairly 
called  a  dirty -looking  fellow,  in  spite  of  this ;  and,  in 
short,  he  was  Mr.  Toodle,  professionally  clothed. 

"  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  stokin'  of  you  down,  sir," 
said  Mr.  Toodle.  "Beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  hope  you 
find  yourself  a  coming  round  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  looked  at  him,  in  return  for  his  tone  of 
interest,  as  if  a  man  like  that  would  make  his  very  eye- 
sight dirty. 

"  'Scuse  the  liberty,  sir,"  said  Toodle,  seeing  he  was 
not  clearly  remembered,  "but  my  wife  Polly,  as  was 
called  Richards  in  your  family — " 

A  change  in  Mr.  Dombey's  face,  which  seemed  to  ex- 
press recollection  of  him  and  so  it  did,  but  it  expressed 
in  a  much  stronger  degree  an  angry  sense  of  humiliation, 
stopped  Mr.  Toodle  short. 

"  Your  wife  wants  money,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  speaking  (but 
that  he  alwaj-s  did)  haughtily. 

"No  thank'ee,  sir,"  returned  Toodle,  "I  can't  say 
she  does,  /don't." 

Mr.  Dombey  was  stopped  short  now  in  his  turn  :  and 
awkwardly  :  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket; 

"  No  sir,"  said  Toodle,  turning  his  oilskin  cap  round 
and  round  ;  "  we're  a  doin'  pretty  well  sir  ;  "  we  haven't 
no  cause  to  complain  in  the  worldly  way,  sir.  We've 
had  four  more  since  then,  sir,  but  we  rubs  on." 

Mr.  Dombey  would  have  rubbed  on  to  his  own  car- 
riage, though  in  so  doing  he  had  rubbed  the  stoker  under- 
neath the  wheels  ;  but  his  attention  was  arrested  by 
something  in  connection  with  the  cap  still  going  slowly 
round  and  round  in  the  man's  hand. 

"We  lost  one  babby,"  observed  Toodle,  "there's  no 
denyin'." 

"  Lately,"  added  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  the  cap. 

"  No,  sir,  up'ard  of  three  years  ago,  but  all  the  rest  is 
hearty.  And  in  the  matter  o'  readin'  sir,"  said  Toodle, 
ducking  again,  as  if  to  remind  Mr.  Dombey  of  what  had 
passed  between  them  on  that  subject  long  ago,  "them 
i)oys  o'  mine,  they  learned  me,  among  'em,  arter  all. 
They've  made  a  wery  tolerable  scholar  of  me,  sir,  them 
boys." 

"  Come,  major  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 


DOMBEY 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  resumed  Toodle,  taking-  a 
step  before  them  and  deferentially  stopping  them  again, 
still  cap  in  hand  :  "  I  wouldn't  have  troubled  you  with 
such  a  pint  except  as  a  way  of  gettin'  in  the  name  of 
my  son  Biler — christened  Robin — him  as  you  was  so 
good  as  to  make  a  Charitable  Grinder  on." 

"  Well,  man,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  severest  man- 
ner.   "  What  about  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  returned  Toodle,  shaking  his  head  with 
a  face  of  great  anxiety  and  distress.  "  I'm  forced  to 
say,  sir,  that  he's  gone  wrong." 

"He  lias  gone  wrong,  has  he?"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  a  hard  kind  of  satisfaction, 

"  He  has  fell  into  bad  company,  you  see,  gentlemen," 
pursued  the  father,  looking  wistfully  at  both,  and  evi- 
dently taking  the  major  into  the  conversation  witb  the 
hope  of  having  his  sympathy.  "He  has  got  into  bad 
ways.  God  send  he  may  come  to  again,  genelmen,  but 
he's  on  the  wrong  track  now  !  You  could  hardly  be  o£E 
hearing  of  it  somehow,  sir,"  said  Toodle,  again  address- 
ing Mr.  Dombey  individually  ;  "  and  it's  better  I  should 
out  and  say  my  boy's  gone  rather  wrong.  Polly's  dread- 
ful down  about  it,  genelmen,"  said  Toodle,  with  the 
same  dejected  look,  and  another  appeal  to  the  major. 

"A  son  of  this  man's  whom  I  caused  to  be  educated, 
major,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  giving  him  his  arm.  "  The 
usual  return  ! " 

"  Take  advice  from  plain  old  Joe,  and  never  educate 
that  sort  of  people,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  "  Damme 
sir,  it  never  does  !    It  always  fails  ! " 

The  simple  father  was  beginning  to  submit  that  he 
hoped  his  son,  the  quondam  Grinder,  huffed  and  cuffed, 
and  flogged  and  badged,  and  taught,  as  parrots  are,  by 
a  brute  jobbed  into  his  place  of  schoolmaster  with  as 
much  fitness  for  it  as  a  hound,  might  not  have  been  edu- 
cated on  quite  a  right  plan  in  some  undiscovered  respect, 
when  Mr.  Dombey  angrily  repeating  "  The  usual  re- 
turn ! "  led  the  major  away.  And  the  major  being 
heavy  to  hoist  into  Mr.  Dombey's  carriage,  elevated  in 
mid-air,  and  having  to  stop  and  swear  thatheivould  flay 
the  native  alive,  and  break  every  bone  in  his  skin,  and 
visit  other  physical  torments  upon  him,  every  time  he 
couldn't  get  his  foot  on  the  step,  and  fell  back  on  that 
dark  exile,  had  barely  time  before  they  started  to  repeat 
hoarsely  that  it  would  never  do  :  that  it  always  failed  : 
and  that  if  he  were  to  educate  'his  own  vagabond,'  he 
would  certainly  be  hanged. 

Mr.  Dombey  assented  bitterly  ;  but  there  was  some- 
thing more  in  his  bitterness,  and  in  his  moody  way  of 
falling  back  in  the  carriage,  and  looking  with  knitted 
brows  at  the  changing  objects  without,  than  the  failure 
of  that  noble  educational  system  administered  by  the 
Grinders'  Company.  He  had  seen  upon  the  man's  rough 
cap  a  piece  of  new  crape,  and  he  had  assured  himself, 
from  his  manner  and  his  answers,  that  he  wore  it  for  his 
son. 

So  !  from  high  to  low,  at  home  or  abroad,  from  Flor- 
ence in  his  great  house  to  the  coarse  churl  who  was 
feeding  the  fire  then  smoking  before  them,  every  one  set 
up  some  claim  or  other  to  a  share  in  his  dead  boy,  and 
was  a  bidder  against  him  !  Could  he  ever  forget  how 
that  woman  had  wept  over  his  pillow,  and  called  him 
her  own  child !  or  how  he,  waking  from  his  sleep,  had 
asked  for  her,  and  had  raised  himself  in  his  bed  and 
brightened  when  she  came  in  ! 

To  think  of  this  presumptuous  raker  among  coals  and 
ashes  going  on  before  there,  with  his  sign  of  mourning  ! 
To  think  that  he  dared  to  enter,  even  by  a  common  show 
like  that,  into  the  trial  and  disappointment  of  a  proud 
gentleman's  secret  heart  1  To  think  that  this  lost  child, 
who  was  to  have  divided  with  him  his  riches,  and  his 
projects,  and  his  power,  and  allied  with  whom  lie  was  to 
have  shut  out  all  the  world  as  with  a  double  door  of 
gold,  should  have  let  in  such  a  herd  to  insult  him  with 
their  knowledge  of  his  defeated  hopes,  and  their  boasts 
of  claiming  community  of  feeling  with  himself,  so  far 
removed  :  if  not  of  having  crept  into  the  place  wherein 
he  would  have  lorded  it  alone  ! 

He  found  no  pleasure  or  relief  in  the  journey.  Tor- 
tured by  these  thoughts  he  carried  monotony  with  him, 
through  the  rushing  landscape,  and  hurried  headlong, 
not  through  a  rich  and  varied  country,  but  a  wilderness 


AND  SON.  519 

of  blighted  plans  and  gnawing  jealousies.  The  very 
speed  at  which  the  train  was  whirled  along  mocked  the 
swift  course  of  the  young  life  that  had  been  borne  away 
so  steadily  and  so  inexorably  to  its  foredoomed  end. 
The  power  that  forced  itself  upon  its  iron  way — its  own 
— defiant  of  all  paths  and  roads,  piercing  through  the 
heart  of  every  obstacle,  and  dragging  living  creatures  of 
all  classes,  ages,  and  degrees  behind  it,  was  a  type  of 
the  triumphant  monster.  Death  ! 

Away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar  and  a  rattle,  from  the 
town,  burrowing  among  the  dwellings  of  men  and  mak- 
ing the  streets  hum,  flashing  out  into  the  meadows  for  a 
moment,  mining  in  through  the  damp  earth,  booming  on 
in  darkness  and  heavy  air,  bursting  out  again  into  the 
sunny  day  so  bright  and  wide  ;  away,  with  a  shriek,  and 
a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  through  the  fields,  through  the 
woods,  through  the  corn,  through  the  hay,  through  the 
chalk,  through  the  mould,  through  the  clay,  through  the 
rock,  among  objects  close  at  hand  and  almost  in  the 
grasp,  ever  flying  from  the  traveller,  and  a  deceitful  dis- 
tance ever  moving  slowly  within  him  :  like  as  in  the 
track  of  the  remorseless  monster.  Death  ! 

Through  the  hollow,  on  the  height,  by  the  heath,  by 
the  orchard,  by  the  park,  by  the  garden,  over  the  canal, 
across  the  river,  where  the  sheep  are  feeding,  where  the 
mill  is  going,  where  the  barge  is  floating,  where  the 
dead  are  lying,  where  the  factory  is  smoking,  where  the 
stream  is  running,  where  the  village  clusters,  where  the 
great  cathedral  rises,  where  the  bleak  moor  lies,  and  ihe 
wild  breeze  smooths  or  ruffles  it  at  its  inconstant  will  ; 
away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  and  no 
trace  to  leave  behind  but  dust  and  vapor  :  like  as  in  the 
track  of  the  remorseless  monster,  Death  ! 

Breasting  the  wind  and  light,  the  shower  and  sun- 
shine, away,  and  still  away,  it  rolls  and  roars,  fierce  and 
rapid,  smooth  and  certain,  and  great  works  and  massive 
bridges  crossing  up  above,  fall  like  a  beam  of  shadow  an 
inch  broad,  upon  the  eye,  and  then  are  lost.  Away,  and 
still  away,  onward  and  onward  ever  :  glimpses  of  cot- 
tage-homes, of  houses,  mansions,  rich  estates,  of  hus- 
bandry, and  handicraft,  of  people,  of  old  roads  and  paths 
that  look  deserted,  small,  and  insignificant  as  they  are 
left  behind  ;  and  so  they  do,  and  what  else  is  there  but 
such  glimpses,  in  the  track  of  the  indomitable  monster. 
Death  ! 

Away,  with  a  shriek ,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  plunging 
down  into  the  eailh  again,  and  working  on  in  such  a 
storm  of  energy  and  perseverance,  that  amidst  the  dark- 
ness and  whirlwind  the  motion  seems  reversed,  and  to 
tend  furiously  backward,  until  a  ray  of  light  upon  the 
wet  wall  shows  its  surface  flying  past  like  a  fierce  stream. 
Away  once  more  into  the  day,  and  through  the  day,  with 
'a  shrill  yell  of  exultation,  roaring,  rattling,  tearing  on, 
spurning  everything  with  its  dark  breath,  sometimes 
pausing  for  a  minute  where  a  crowd  of  faces  are,  that  in 
a  minute  more  are  not :  sometimes  lapping  water  greed- 
ily, and  before  the  spout  at  which  it  drinks  has  ceased 
to  drip  upon  the  ground,  shrieking,  roaring,  rattling 
through  the  purple  distance  ! 

Louder  and  louder  yet,  it  shrieks  and  cries  as  it  comes 
tearing  on  resistless  to  the  goal  :  and  now  its  Avay, 
still  like  the  way  of  Death,  is  strewn  with  ashes  thickly. 
Everything  around  is  blackened.  There  are  dark  pools 
of  water,  muddy  lanes,  and  miserable  habitations  far 
below.  There  are  jagged  walls  and  falling  houses  close 
at  hand,  and  through  the  battered  roofs  and  broken  win- 
dows, wretched  rooms  are  seen,  where  want  and  fever 
hide  themselves  in  many  wretched  shapes,  while  smoke 
and  crowded  gables,  and  distorted  chimneys,  and  deform- 
ity of  brick  and  mortar  penning  up  deformity  of  mind 
and  body  choke  the  murky  distance.  As  Mr.  Dombey 
looks  out  of  his  carriage  window,  it  is  never  in  his 
thoughts  that  the  monster  who  has  brought  him  there 
has  let  the  light  of  day  in  on  these  things  :  not  made  or 
caused  them.  It  was  the  journey's  fitting  end,  and 
might  have  been  the  end  of  everything  ;  it  was  so  ruin- 
ous and  dreary. 

So,  pursuing  the  one  course  of  thought,  he  had  the  one 
relentless  monster  still  before  him.  All  things  looked 
black,  and  cold,  and  deadly  upon  him,  and  he  on  them. 
He  found  a  likeness  to  his  misfortune  everywhere. 
\  There  was  a  remorseless  triumph  going  on  about  him, 


520 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


and  it  galled  and  stung  liim  in  his  pride  and  jealousy, 
whatever  form  it  took  :  though  most  of  all  when  it 
divided  with  him  the  love  and  memory  of  his  lost  boy. 

There  was  a  face— he  had  looked  upon  it,  on  the  previ- 
ous night,  and  it  on  him  with  eyes  that  read  his  soul, 
though  they  were  dim  with  tears,  and  hidden  soon  be- 
hind two  quivering  hands— that  often  had  attended  him 
in  fancy — on  this  ride.  He  had  seen  it,  with  the  expres- 
of  last  night,  timidly  pleading  to  him.  It  was  not  re- 
proachful, but  there  was  something  of  doubt,  almost  of 
hopeful  incredulity  in  it,  which,  as  he  once  more  saw 
that  fade  away  into  a  desolate  certainty  of  his  dislike, 
was  like  reproach.  It  was  a  trouble  to  him  to  think  of 
this  face  of  Florence. 

Because  he  felt  any  new  compunction  towards  it  ?  No. 
Because  the  feelhig  it  awakened  in  him— of  which  he 
had  had  some  old  foreshadowing  in  older  times — was 
full-formed  now,  and  spoke  out  plainly,  moving  him  too 
much,  and  threatening  to  grow  too  strong  for  his  com- 
X)osure.  Because  the  face  was  abroad,  in  the  expression 
of  defeat  and  persecution  that  seemed  to  encircle  him 
like  the  air.  Because  it  barbed  the  arrow  of  that  cruel 
and  remorseless  enemy  on  which  his  thoughts  so  ran, 
and  put  into  its  grasp  a  double-handed  sword.  Because 
he  knew  full  well,  in  his  own  breast,  as  he  stood  there, 
tinging  the  scene  of  transition  before  him  with  the  mor- 
bid colours  of  his  own  mind,  and  making  it  a  ruin  and  a 
picture  of  decay,  instead  of  hopeful  change,  and  promise 
of  better  things,  that  life  had  quite  as  much  to  do  with 
his  complainings  as  death.  One  child  was  gone,  and  one 
child  left.  Why  was  the  object  of  his  hope  removed 
instead  of  her  ? 

The  sweet,  calm,  gentle  presence  in  his  fancy,  moved 
him  to  no  reflection  but  that.  She  had  been  unwelcome 
to  him  from  the  first ;  she  was  an  aggravation  of  his  bit- 
terness now.  If  his  son  had  been  his  only  child,  and  the 
same  blow  had  fallen  on  him,  it  would  have  been  heavy 
to  bear  ;  but  infinitely  lighter  than  now,  when  it  might 
have  fallen  on  her  (whom  he  could  have  lost,  or  he  be- 
lieved it,  without  a  pang),  and  had  not.  Her  loving  and 
innocent  face  rising  before  him,  had  no  softening  or 
winning  influence.  He  rejected  the  angel,  and  took  up 
with  the  tormenting  spirit  crouching  in  his  bosom.  Her 
patience,  goodness,  youth,  devotion,  love,  were  as  so 
many  atoms  in  the  ashes  upon  which  he  set  his  heel.  He 
saw  her  image  in  the  blight  and  blackness  all  around 
him,  not  irradiating  but  deepening  the  gloom.  More 
than  once  upon  this  journey,  and  now  again  as  he  stood 
pondering  at  this  journey's  end,  tracing  figures  in  the 
dust  with  his  stick,  the  thought  came  into  his  mind, 
what  was  there  he  could  interpose  between  himself  and 
it? 

The  major,  who  had  been  blowing  and  panting  all  the 
way  down,  like  another  engine,  and  whose  eye  had  often 
wandered  from  his  newspaper  to  leer  at  the  prospect,  as 
if  there  were  a  great  procession  of  discomfited  Miss  Toxes 
pouring  out  in  the  smoke  of  the  train,  and  flying  away 
over  the  fields  to  hide  themselves  in  any  place  of  refuge, 
aroused  his  friend  by  informing  him  that  the  post-horses 
were  harnessed  and  the  carriage  ready, 

"Dombey,"  said  the  major,  rapping  him  on  the  arm 
with  his  cane,  "don't  be  thoughtful.  It's  a  bad  habit. 
Old  Joe,  sir,  wouldn't  be  as  tough  as  you  see  him,  if  he 
had  ever  encouraged  it.  You  are  too  great  a  man,  Dom- 
bey,  to  be  thoughtful.  In  your  position,  sir,  you're  far 
above  that  kind  of  thing. " 

The  major,  even  in  his  friendly  remonstrances,  thus 
consulting  the  dignity  and  honour  of  Mr.  Dombey,  and 
showing  a  lively  sense  of  their  importance,  Mr.  Dombey 
felt  more  than  ever  disposed  to  defer  to  a  gentleman 
possessing  so  much  good  sense  and  such  a  well  regulated 
mind  ;  accordingly  he  made  an  effort  to  listen  to  the 
major's  stories,  as  they  trotted  along  the  turnpike-road  : 
and  the  major,  finding  both  the  pace  and  the  road  a  great 
deal  better  adapted  to  his  conversational  powers  than  the 
mode  of  travelling  they  had  just  relinquished,  came  out 
for  his  entertainment. 

In  this  flow  of  spirits  and  conversation,  only  inter- 
rupted by  his  usual  plethoric  symptoms,  and  by  inter- 
vals of  lunch,  and  from  time  to  time  by  some  violent  as- 
sault upon  the  native,  who  wore  a  pair  of  car-rings  in 
his  dark-brown  ears,  and  on  whom  his  European  clothes 


sat  with  an  outlandish  impossibility  of  adjustment — be- 
ing, of  their  own  accord,  and  without  any  reference  to 
the  tailor's  art,  long  where  they  ought  to  be  short,  short 
Avhere  they  ought  to  be  long,  tight  where  thsy  ought  to 
be  loose,  and  loose  where  they  ought  to  be  tight — and  to 
which  he  imparted  a  new  grace,  whenever  the  major  at- 
tacked him,  by  shrinking  into  them  like  a  shrivelled  nut 
or  a  cold  monkey — in  this  flow  of  spirits  and  conversa- 
tion, the  major  continued  all  day  :  so  that  when  evening 
came  on,  and  found  them  trotting  through  the  green  and 
leafy  road  near  Leamington,  the  major's  voice,  what 
with  talking  and  eating  and  chuckling  and  choking,  ap- 
peared to  be  in  the  box  under  the  rumble,  or  in  some 
neighbouring  haystack.  Nor  did  the  major  improve  it 
at  the  Royal  Hotel,  where  rooms  and  dinner  had  been 
ordered,  and  where  he  so  oppressed  his  organs  of  speech 
by  eating  and  drinking,  that  when  he  retired  to  bed  he 
had  no  voice  at  all,  except  to  cough  with,  and  could 
only  make  himself  intelligible  to  the  dark  servant  by 
gasping  at  him. 

He  not  only  rose  next  morning,  however,  like  a  giant 
refreshed,  but  conducted  himself,  at  breakfast,  like  a 
giant  refreshing.  At  this  meal  they  arranged  their 
daily  habits.  The  major  was  to  take  the  responsibility 
of  ordering  everything  to  eat  and  drink  ;  and  they  were 
to  have  a  late  breakfast  together  every  morning,  and  a 
late  dinner  together  every  day.  Mr.  Dombey  would  pre- 
fer remaining  in  his  own  room,  or  walking  in  the  country 
by  himself,  on  that  first  day  of  their  sojourn  at  Leaming- 
ton ;  but  next  morning  he  would  be  happy  to  accompany 
the  major  to  the  Pump-room,  and  about  the  town.  So 
they  parted  until  dinner-time.  Mr.  Dombey  retired  to 
nurse  his  wholesome  thoughts  in  his  own  way.  The 
major,  attended  by  the  native  carrying  a  camp-stool,  a 
great-coat,  and  an  umbrella,  swaggered  up  and  down 
through  all  the  public  places  ;  looking  into  subscription 
books  to  find  out  who  was  there,  looking  up  old  ladies 
by  whom  he  was  much  admired,  reporting  J.  B.  tougher 
than  ever,  and  puffing  his  rich  friend  Dombey  wherever 
he  went.  There  never  was  a  man  who  stood  by  a  friend 
more  staunchly  than  the  major,  when  in  puffing  him  he 
puffed  himself. 

It  was  surprising  how  much  new  conversation  the  ma- 
jor had  to  let  off  at  dinner-time,  and  what  occasion  he 
gave  Mr.  Dombey  to  admire  his  social  qualities.  At 
breakfast  next  morning,  he  knew  the  contents  of  the 
latest  newspapers  received  ;  and  mentioned  several  sub- 
jects in  connexion  with  them,  on  which  his  opinion  had 
recently  been  sought  by  persons  of  such  power  and 
might,  that  they  were  only  to  be  obscurely  hinted  at. 
Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been  so  long  shut  up  within  him- 
self, and  who  had  rarely,  at  any  time,  overstepped  the 
enchanted  circle  within  which  the  operations  of  Dombey 
and  Son  were  conducted,  began  to  think  this  an  im- 
provement on  his  solitary  life  ;  and  in  place  of  excusing 
himself  for  another  day,  as  he  had  thought  of  doing 
when  alone,  walked  out  with  the  major  arm-in-arm. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


New  Faces. 


The  major,  more  blue-faced  and  staring — more  over- 
ripe, as  it  were,  than  ever — and  giving  vent,  every  now 
and  then,  to  one  of  the  horse's  coughs,  not  so  much  of 
necessity  as  in  a  spontaneous  explosion  of  importance, 
walked  arm-in-arm  with  Mr.  Dombey  up  the  sunny  side 
of  the  way,  with  his  cheeks  swelling  over  his  tight 
stock,  his  legs  majestically  wide  apart,  and  his  great 
head  wagging  from  side  to  side,  as  if  he  were  remon- 
strating within  himself  for  being  such  a  captivating  ob- 
ject. They  had  not  walked  many  yards  before  the  ma- 
jor encountered  somebody  he  knew,  nor  many  yards 
farther  before  the  major  encountered  somebody  else  he 
knew,  but  he  merely  shook  his  fingers  at  them  as  he 
passed,  and  led  Mr.  Dombey  on  :  pointing  out  the  locali- 
ties as  they  went,  and  enlivening  the  walk  with  any  cur- 
rent scandal  suggested  by  them. 

In  this  manner  the  major  and  Mr.  Dombey  were  walk- 
ing arm-in-arm,  much  to  their  own  satisfaction,  when 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


*521 


they  beheld  advancing  towards  them  a  wheeled  chair,  in  I  ing  whatever,  except  the  attitude,  to  prevent  her  from 
which  a  lady  was  seated,  indolently  steering  her  carriage  ,  walking. 

by  a  kind  of  rudder  in  front,  while  it  was  propelled  by  i  "  Mr.  Dombey  is  devoted  to  nature,  I  trust said 
some  unseen  power  m  the  rear.  Although  the  lady  i  Mrs.  Skewton,  settling  her  diamond  brooch  And  bv 
was  not  young  she  was  very  blooming  in  the  face-quite  j  the  way,  she  chiefly  lived  upon  the  reputation  of  som'e 
w^7^^°  herdress  and  attitude  were  perfectly  juvenile,  diamonds,  and  her  family  connexions. 
Walkmg  by  the  side  of  the  chair,  and  carrying  her  gos-  I  "My  friend  Dombey,  ma'am,"  returned  the  maior 
samer  parasol  with  a  proud  and  weary  air,  as  if  so  great  i  "may  be  devoted  to  her  in  secret,  but  a  man  who  is 
an  effort  must  be  soon  abandoned,  and  the  parasol  i  paramount  in  the  greatest  city  in  the  universe—" 


dropped,  sauntered  a  much  younger  lady,  very  hand 
some,  very  haughty,  very  wilful,  who  tossed  her  head 
and  drooped  her  eyelids,  as  though,  if  there  were  any- 
thing in  all  the  world  worth  looking  into  save  a  mirror, 
it  certainly  was  not  the  earth  or  sky. 

"  Why,  what  the  devil  have  we  here,  sir  ! "  cried  the 
major,  stopping  as  this  little  cavalcade  drew  near. 

"My  dearest  Edith  !  "  drawled  the  lady  in  the  chair, 
**  Major  Bagstock  ! " 

The  major  no  sooner  heard  the  voice  than  he  relin- 
quished Mr.  Dombey's  arm,  darted  forward, 
hand  of  the  lady  in  the  chair  and  pressed  it  to 


No  one  can  be  a  stranger,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  to 
Mr.  Dombey's  immense  influence." 

As  Mr.  Dombey  acknowledge  the  compliment  with  a 
bend  of  his  head,  the  younger  lady  glancing  at  him  met 
his  eyes. 

"You  reside  here,  madam?"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  ad- 
dressing her. 

"  No,  we  have  been  to  a  great  many  i)laces.    To  Harro- 
gate, and  Scarborough,  and  into  Devonshire.    We  have 
been  visiting,  and  resting  here  and  there.    Mama  likes 
took  the  !  change. " 

his  lips,  j     "  Edith  of  course  does  not,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  with 


With  no  less  gallantry  the  major  folded  both  his  gloves  |  a  ghastly  archness 

upon  his  heart,  and  bowed  low  to  the  other  lady.    And      "  I  have  not  found  that  there  is  any  change  in  such 
now,  the  chair  having  stopped  the  motive  power  became  I  places,"  was  the  answer,  delivered  with  supreme  indif- 
visible  in  the  shape  of  a  flushed  page  pushing  behind,  i  ference 
who  seemed  to  have  in  part  outgrown  and  in  part  out-  ^ 
pushed  his  strength,  for  when  he  stood  upright  he  was 
tall,  and  wan,  and  thin,  and  his  plight  appeared  the  more 
forlorn  from  his  having  injured  the  shape  of  his  hat,  by 
butting  at  the  carriage  with  his  head  to  urge  it  forward, 
as  is  sometimes  done  by  elephants  in  Oriental  coun- 
tries. 

"Joe  Bagstock,"  said  the  major  to  both  ladies,  "is  a 
proud  and  happy  man  for  the  rest  of  his  life." 

"  You  false  creature,"  said  the  old  ladv  in  the  chair, 
insipidly.  "Where  do  you  come  from?  I  can't  bear 
you," 

"  Then  suffer  old  Joe  to  present  a  friend,  ma'am,"  said 
the  major,  promptly,  "  as  a  reason  for  being  tolerated 
Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Skewton."  The  lady  in  the  chair 
was  gracious.  "  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Granger."  The  lady 
with  the  parasol  was  faintly  conscious  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
taking  off  his  hat,  and  bowing  low.  "I  am  delighted, 
sir,"  said  the  major,  "  to  have' this  opportunity. " 

The  major  seemed  in  earnest,  for  he  looked  at  all  the 
three  and  leered  in  his  ugliest  manner. 

''Mrs.  Skewton,  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "makes 
havoc  in  the  heart  of  old  Josh."  ( 

Mr.  Dombey  signified  that  he  didn't  wonder  at  it. 

"  You  perfidious  goblin,"  said  the  lady  in  the  chair, 
"  have  done  !    Hqw  long  have  you  been  here,  bad  man  ? 

"One  day,"  replied  the  major. 
And  can  you  be  a  day,  or  even  a  minute,"  returned 
the  lady,  slightly  settling  her  false  .curls  and  false  eve 


"They  libel  me.  There  is  only  one  change,  Mr. 
Dombey,"  observed  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a  mincing  sigh, 
"  for  which  I  really  care,  and  that  I  fear  I  shall  never 
be  permitted  to  enjoy.  People  cannot  spare  one.  But 
seclusion  and  contemplation  are  my  what's-his-name — " 
"If  you  mean  paradise,  mama,  you  had  better  say  so, 
to  render  yourself  intelligible,"  said  the  younger  lady. 

''My  dearest  Edith,"  returned  Mrs.  Skewton,  "you 
know  that  I  am  wholly  dependant  upon  vou  for  those 
odious  names.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Dombey,  Nature  in- 
tended me  for  an  Arcadian.  I  am  thrown  away  in  so- 
ciety. Cows  are  my  passion.  What  I  have  ever  sighed 
for,  has  been  to  retreat  to  a  Swiss  farm,  and  live  entirely 
surrounded  by  cows — and  china. " 

This  curious  association  of  objects,  suggesting  a  re- 
membrance of  the  celebrated  bull  who  got  by  mistake 
into  a  crockery  shop,  was  received  with  perfect  gravity 
by  Mr.  Dombey,  who  intimated  his  opinion  that  nature 
was,  no  doubt,  a  very  respectable  institution. 

"  What  I  want,"  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  pinching  her 
shrivelled  throat,  "  is  heart."  It  was  frightfully  true 
in  one  sense,  if  not  in  that  in  which  she  used  the  phrase. 
"  What  I  want  is  frankness,  confidence,  less  convention- 
ality, and  freer  play  of  soul.  We  are  so  dreadfully  arti- 
ficial." 

We  were  indeed. 

"In  short,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  *'I  want  nature 
everywhere.    It  would  be  so  extremely  charming  " 


by  he^felse  completion,  "in  tEe  garden  oJwhatVH.  1  Atlis  hint,  Te 'w7„ ragr^rhid ^beTn^T?;^?! X 

"  P^Ar,  T   ,  Partyoverthetopof  the  chair,  vanished  behind  it,  as  if 

Eden,  I  suppose,  mama,"  interrupted  the  younger  the  ground  had  swallowed  him  up. 

"^^mTJII^^'.,^  „        ,1,      .V  .  .  .  "  ^*°P  ^  moment,  Withers  !"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  as 

ornTtLlTW"r%:.t?nt 'iTd  TrL^l^:  -  ^-<=^-^-»^  ^        -""flower  nose^&' 


Where  are  you  staying,  abomina- 
taying  at  the  Royal  Hotel,  with  his 


Img  a  handkerchief  that  was  faint  and  sickly  with  es-  tion  ^  ' 

sences,  "  of  her  artless  breath,  you  creature  ! "  ^    The  maior  was 

J  he  discrepancy  between  Mrs.  Skewton's  fresh  en-  :  friend  Dombev 

STl^^.''Lr/dv.ir?^  ^"i^Ti!^.  i     "        ^"^^  ^^^^^       see  us  anv  evening  when  vou  are 

was  alont  ..JoT^^^      T  l'^'  age,  which  i  good,"  lisped  Mrs.  Skewton.    "If  Mr.  Dombev  will  hon- 

been  vnnJ>.f?T  ?  ^'t ''''  .        ^^'^««'„^^bich  would  have  I  our  us,  we  shall  be  happy.    Withers,  go  on  ! 
wheelP^.L  .  /T-  ^^^^^ .Her  attitude  in  the  |     The  major  again  pressed  to  his  blue  lips  the  tips  of  the 
ThP hn?l  hp.^  .  '  "^""f  one  in  which  fingers  tliat  were  disposed  on  the  ledge  of  the  wheeled 

bv  a  thpn  ^.I"^^^^^^^  careful  carelessness  ;   after  the  Cleopatra 

nublishp?!  «w  Tti  artist,  who  had  appended  to  his  model  :  and  Mr.  Dombey  bowed.  The  elder  ladv  hon- 
of  a  rW^frof  A  T^l""^  Cleopatra  :  in  consequence  oured  them  both  with  a  very  gracious  smile  and  'a  girl- 
ot  a  discovery  made  by  the  critics  of  the  time,  that  it  ish  wave  of  her  hand  ;  the  younger  lady  with  the  ?ery 

slightest  inclination  of  her  head  that  common  courtesey 
allowed. 

The  last  glimpse  of  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  mother, 
with  that  patched  colour  on  it  which  the  sun  made  in- 
finitely more  haggard  and  dismal  then  any  want  of  col- 
our could  have  been,  and  of  the  proud  beauty  of  the 


bore  an  exact  resemblance  to  that  princess  as  she  re- 
clined on  board  her  galley.  Mrs.  Skewton  was  a  beauty 
tnen,  and  bucks  threw  wine-glasses  over  their  heads  by 
dozen  in  her  honour.  The  beauty  and  the  barouche 
nart  both  passed  away,  but  she  still  preserved  the  atti- 
tude, and  for  this  reason  expressly,  maintained  the 


wIippIpH   1  .^u  \   li-   —i-—j>   ....v..av.v^  uiiu  uui  uuuju  luivti  ueeu,  auu  ui  lue  proua  oeauty  ot  tne 

wneeiea  chair  and  the  butting  page  :  there  being  noth- ;  daughter  with  her  graceful  figure  and  erect  department. 


522 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


engendered  such  an  involuntary  disposition  on  the  part 
of  both  the  major  and  Mr.  Dombey  to  look  after  them, 
that  they  both  turned  at  the  same  moment.  The  page, 
nearly  as  much  aslant  as  his  own  shadow,  was  toiling 
after  the  chah-,  uphill,  like  a  slow  hattering-ram  :  the 
top  of  Cleopatra's  bonnet  was  fluttering  in  exactly  the 
same  corner  to  the  inch  as  before  ;  and  the  Beauty, 
loitering  by  herself  a  little  in  advance,  expressed  in  all 
her  elegant  form,  from  head  to  foot,  the  same  supreme 
disregard  of  everything  and  everybody. 

"I'tell  you  what,  sir,"  said  the  major,  as  they  re- 
sumed their  walk  again.  "  If  Joe  Bagstock  were  a 
younger  man,  there's  not  a  woman  in  the  world  he'd 
prefer  for  Mrs.  Bagstock  to  that  woman.  By  George, 
sir  !"  said  the  major,  "  she's  superb  !" 

"  Do  you  mean  the  daughter  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Is  Joey  B.  a  turnip,  Dombey,"  said  the  major, 
"  that  he  should  mean  the  mother  ! " 

"  You  were  complimentary  to  the  mother,"  returned 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"An  ancient  flame,  sir,"  chuckled  Major  Bagstock. 
"  Devilish  ancient.    I  humour  her." 

She  impresses  me  as  being  perfectly  genteel,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Genteel,  sir,"  said  the  major,  stopping  short,  and 
staring  in  his  companion's  face.  "  The  Honourable  Mrs. 
Skewton,  sir,  is  sister  to  the  late  Lord  Feenix,  and 
aunt  to  the  present  lord.  The  family  are  not  wealthy— 
they're  poor,  indeed — and  she  lives  upon  a  small  joint- 
ure ;  but  if  yoa  come  to  blood,  sir  ! "  The  major  gave 
a  flourish  with  his  stick  and  walked  on  again,  in  despair  \ 
of  being  able  to  say  what  you  came  to,  if  you  come  to 
that. 

.  You  addressed  the  daughter,  I  observed,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  after  a  short  pause,  "  as  Mrs,  Granger." 

"  Edith  Skewton,  sir,"  returned  the  major,  stopping 
short  again,  and  punching  a  mark  in  the  ground  with 
his  cane,  to  represent  her,  "  married  (at  eighteen)  Gran- 
ger of  Ours  ; "  whom  the  major  indicated  by  another 
punch.  "Granger,  sir,"  said  the  major,  tapping  at  the 
last  ideal  portrait,  and  rolling  his  head  emphatically, 
"  w^as  Colonel  of  Ours  ;  a  de-vilish  handsome  fellow,  sir, 
of  forty-one.  He  died,  sir,  in  the  second  year  of  his 
marriage."  The  major  ran  the  representative  of  the  de- 
ceased Granger  through  and  through  the  body  with  his 
walking-stick, and  went  on  again,  carrying  his  stick  over 
his  shoulder.  j 

"  How  long  is  this  ago  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  making 
another  halt. 

'■Edith  Granger,  sir,"  replied  the  major,  shutting  one 
eye,  putting  his  head  on  one  side,  passing  his  cane  into 
his  left  hand,  and  smoothing  his  shirt-frill  with  his 
right,  "is,  at  this  present  time,  not  quite  thirty.  And, 
damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  shouldering  his  stick 
once  more,  and  walking  on  again,  * '  she's  a  peerless  wo- 
man ! " 

"Was  there  any  family?"  asked  Mr,  Dombey  pres- 
ently. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  major.    "  There  was  a  boy." 

Mr,  Dombey's  eyes  sought  the  ground,  and  a  shade  i 
came  over  his  face. 

"  Who  was  drowned,  sir,"  pursued  the  major  ;  "  when 
a  child  of  four  or  five  years  old." 

"  Indeed?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  raising  his  head. 

"By  the  upsetting  of  a  boat  in  which  his  nurse  had  no 
business  to  have  put  him,"  said  the  major  "  That's  Ids 
history.  Edith  Granger  is  Edith  Granger  still  ;  but  if 
tougli  old  Joey  B.,  sir,  were  a  little  younger  and  a  little 
richer,  the  name  of  that  immortal  paragon  should  be 
Bagstock." 

The  major  heaved  his  shoulders,  and  his  cheeks,  and 
laughed  more  like  an  over-fed  Mephistoplieles  than  ever, 
as  he  said  the  words. 

"Provided  the  lady  made  no  objection,  I  suppose?" 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  coldly. 

"By  Gad,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "the  Bagstock  breed 
are  not  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  obstacle.  Though  it's 
true  enough  that  Edith  might  have  married  twen-ty 
times,  but  for  being  proud,  sir,  proud." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed,  by  his  face,  to  think  no  worse  of 
her  for  that. 

"  It's  a  great  quality  after  all,"  said  the  major.    "  By 


the  Lord,  it's  a  high  quality  !  Dombey  !  You  are  proud 
yourself,  and  your  friend,  old  Joe,  respects  you  for  it, 
sir." 

With  this  tribute  to  the  character  of  his  ally,  which 
seemed  to  be  wrung  from  him  by  the  force  of  circumstan- 
ces and  the  irresistible  tendency  of  their  conversation,  the 
major  closed  the  subject,  and  glided  into  a  general  ex- 
position of  the  extent  to  which  he  had  been  beloved  and 
doted  on  by  splendid  women  and  brilliant  creatures. 

On  the  next  day  but  one,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major 
encountered  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her 
daughter  in  the  pump-room  :  on  the  day  after,  they  met 
them  again  very  near  the  place  where  they  had  met* them 
first.  After  meeting  them  thus,  three  or  four  times  in 
all,  it  became  a  point  of  mere  civility  to  old  acquaint- 
ances, that  the  major  should  go  there  one  evening. 
Mr.  Dombey  had  not  originally  intended  to  pay  visits, 
but  on  the  major  announcing  his  intention,  he  said  he 
would  have  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  him.  So  the 
major  told  the  Native  to  go  round  before  dinner,  and 
say,  with  his  and  Mr.  Dombey's  compliments,  that  they 
would  have  the  honour  of  visiting  the  ladies  that  same 
evening,  if  the  ladies  were  alone.  In  answer  to  which 
message,  the  Native  brought  back  a  veiy  small  note 
with  a  very  large  quantity  of  scent  about  it,  indited  by 
the  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton  to  Major  Bagstock,  and 
briefly  saying,  ' '  You  are  a  shocking  bear  and  I  have  a 
great  mind  not  to  forgive  you,  but  if  you  are  very  good 
indeed,"  which  was  underlined,  "  you  may  come.  Com- 
pliments (in  which  Edith  unites)  to  Mr.  Dombey." 
i  The  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Granger,  resided  while  at  Leamington,  in  lodgings  that 
were  fashionable  enough  and  dear  enough,  but  rather 
limited  in  point  of  space  and  conveniences  ;  so  that  the 
Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton,  being  in  bed,  had  her  feet  in 
the  window  and  her  head  in  the  fire- place,  while  the 
Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton's  maid  was  quartered  in  a  closet 
within  the  drawing-room,  so  extremely  small,  that,  to 
avoid  developing  the  whole  of  its  accommodations,  she 
was  obliged  to  writhe  in  and  out  of  the  door  like  a  beau- 
tiful serpent.  Withers,  the  wan  page,  slept  out  of  the 
house  immediately  under  the  tiles  at  a  neighbouring 
milk-shop  ;  and  the  wheeled  chair,  which  was  the  stone 
of  that  young  Sisyphus,  passed  the  night  in  a  shed  be- 
longing to  the  same  dairy,  where  new-laid  eggs  were 
produced  by  the  poultry  connected  with  the  establish- 
i  ment,  who  roosted  on  a  broken  donkey-cart — persuaded, 
to  all  appearance,  that  it  grew  there,  and  was  a  species 
of  tree. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  found  Mrs.  Skewton  ar- 
ranged, as  Cleopatra,  among  the  cushions  of  a  sofa  ;  very 
airily  dressed,  and  certainly  not  resembling  Shakespeare's 
Cleopatra,  whom  age  could  not  wither.  On  their  way 
up- stairs  they  had  heard  the  sound  of  a  harp,  but  it  had 
ceased  on  their  being  announced,  and  Edith  now  stood 
beside  it  handsomer  and  haughtier  than  ever.  It  was  a 
remarkable  characteristic  of  this  lady's  beauty  that  it 
appeared  to  vaunt  and  assert  itself  without  her  aid,  and 
against  her  will.  She  knew  that  she  was  beautiful  :  it 
i  v/as  impossible  that  it  could  be  otherwise:  but  she  seemed 
with  her  own  pride  to  defy  her  very  self. 

Whether  she  held  cheap,  attractions  that  could  only 
call  forth  admiration  that  was  worthless  to  her,  or  wheth- 
er she  designed  to  render  them  more  precious  to  ad- 
mirers by  this  usage  of  them,  those  to  whom  they  imre 
precious  seldom  paused  to  consider. 

"  I  hope,  Mrs.  Granger,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing 
a  step  towards  her,  "  we  are  not  the  cause  of  your  ceas- 
ing to  play  ?  " 
''You^  oh  no  !" 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  on,  then,  my  dearest  Edith  ? ' 
said  Cleopatra. 

"  I  left  off  as  I  began — of  my  own  fancy." 
The  exquisite  indifference  of  her  manner  in  saying 
this  :  an  indifference  quite  removed  from  dullness  or  in- 
sensibility, for  it  was  pointed  with  proud  purpose  :  was 
well  set  off  by  the  carelessness  with  which  she  drew  her 
hand  across  the  strings,  and  came  from  that  part  of  the 
room. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  her  languishing 
mother,  playing  with  a  hand-screen,  "  that  occasionally 
my  dearest  Edith  and  myself  actually  almost  differ — " 


D 0MB BY  AND  SON. 


"Not  quite,  sometimes,  mama?  "  said  Edith. 

"  Oh  never  quite,  my  darling  !  Fie,  fie,  it  would  break 
my  heart,"  returned  her  mother,  making  a  faint  attempt 
to  pat  her  with  the  screen,  which  Editli  made  no  move- 
ment to  meet,  " — about  these  cold  conventionalities  of 
manner  that  are  observed  in  little  things?  Why  are  we 
not  more  natural  !  Dear  me  !  With  all  those  yearnings, 
and  gushings,  and  impulsive  throbbings  that  we  have 
implanted  in  our  souls,  and  which  are  so  very  charming, 
why  are  we  not  more  natural  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  said  it  was  very  true,  very  true. 

"  We  could  be  more  natural  I  suppose  if  we  tried  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Skewton. 

Mr.  Dombey  thought  it  possible. 

"  Devil  a  bit,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.  ' '  We  couldn't 
afford  it.  Unless  the  world  was  peopled  with  J.  B.'s — 
tough  and  blunt  old  Joes,  ma'am,  plain  red  herrings 
with  hard  roes,  sir — we  couldn't  afford  it.  It  wouldn't 
do." 

"You  naughty  infidel,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  '*be 
mute," 

"Cleopatra  commands,"  returned  the  major,  kissing 
his  hand,  "and  Antony  Bagstock  obeys." 

"The  man  has  no  sensitiveness,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
cruelly  holding  up  the  hand-screen  so  as  to  shut  the 
major'out.  "No  sympathy.  And  what  do  we  live  for 
tut  sympathy  !  What  else  is  so  extremely  charming  ! 
Without  that  gleam  of  sunshine  on  our  cold  cold  earth," 
said  Mrs.  Skewton,  arranging  her  lace  tucker,  and  com- 
placently observing  the  effect  of  her  bare  lean  arm,  look- 
ing upward  from  the  wrist,  "how  could  we  possibly 
bear  it?  In  short,  obdurate  man  !"  glancing  at  the 
major,  round  the  screen,  "  I  would  have  my  world  all 
heart ;  and  Faith  is  so  excessively  charming,  that  I  won't 
allow  you  to  disturb  it,  do  you  hear?  " 

The  major  replied  that  it  was  hard  in  Cleopatra  to  re- 
quire the  world  to  be  all  heart,  and  yet  to  appropriate 
to  herself  the  hearts  of  all  the  world  ;  which  obliged 
Cleopatra  to  remind  him  that  flattery  was  insupportable 
to  her,  and  that  if  he  had  the  boldness  to  address  her  in 
that  strain  any  more,  she  would  positively  send  him 
home. 

Withers  the  Wan,  at  this  period,  handing  round  the 
tea,  Mr.  Dombey  again  addressed  himself  to  Edith. 

"There  is  not  much  company  here,  it  would  seem?" 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  own  portentous  gentlemanly 
way. 

"  I  believe  not.    We  see  none." 

"  Why  really,"  observed  Mrs.  Skewton  from  her  couch, 
"  there  are  no  people  here  just  now  with  whom  we  care 
to  associate." 

"  They  have  not  enough  heart,"  said  Edith,  with  a 
smile.  The  very  twilight  of  a  smile  :  so  singularly  were 
its  light  and  darkness  blended. 

"My  dearest  Edith  rallies  me,  you  see  !"  said  her 
mother,  shaking  her  head  :  which  shook  a  little  of  itself 
sometimes,  as  if  the  palsy  twinkled  now  and  then  in  op- 
position to  the  diamonds.    "  Wicked  one  !  " 

"You  have  been  here  before,  if  I  am  not  mistaken?" 
said  Mr.  Dombey.    Still  to  Edith. 

"  Oh,  several  times.  I  think  we  have  been  every- 
where." 

"  A  beautiful  country  !  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is.    Everybody  says  so." 

"  Your  cousin  Feenix  raves  about  it,  Edith,"  inter- 
posed her  mother  from  b.er  couch. 

The  daughter  slightly  turned  her  graceful  head,  and 
raising  her  eyebrows  by  a  hair's- breadth  as  if  her  cousin 
Feenix  were  of  all  the  mortal  world  the  least  to  be  re- 
garded, turned  her  eyes  again  towards  Mr.  Dombey. 
^  ".I  hope,  for  the  credit  of  my  good  taste,  that  I  am 
tired  of  the  neighbourhood,"  she  said. 

"You  have  almost  reason  to  be,  madam,"  he  replied, 
glancing  at  a  variety  of  landscape  drawings,  of  which  he 
had  already  recognized  several  as  representing  neighbour- 
ing points  of  view,  and  which  were  strewn  abundantly 
about  the  room,  "if  these  beautiful  productions  are 
from  your  hand." 

She  gave  him  no  reply,  but  sat  in  a  disdainful  beauty, 
quite  amazing. 

"  Have  they  that  interest  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Are 
they  yours  ?  " 


"Yes." 

"And  you  play,  I  already  know." 

"Yes." 

"  And  sing." 

"Yes." 

She  answered  all  these  questions  with  a  strange  re- 
luctance  ;  and  with  that  remarkable  air  of  opposition  to 
herself,  already  noticed  as  belonging  to  her  beauty.  Yet 
she  was  not  embarrassed,  but  wholly  self-possessed. 
Neither  did  she  seem  to  wish  to  avoid  the  conversation, 
for  she  addressed  her  face,  and — so  far  as  she  could— her 
manner  also,  to  him  ;  and  continued  to  do  so,  when  he 
was  silent. 

"You  have  many  resources  against  weariness  at  least," 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Whatever  their  efficiency  may  be,"  she  returned, 
"  you  know  them  all  now.    I  have  no  more." 

"  May  I  hope  to  prove  them  all  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  solemn  gallantry,  laying  down  a  drawing  he  had 
held,  and  motioning  towards  the  harp. 

"  Oh  certainly  !    If  you  desire  it  !  " 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  crossing  by  her  mother's 
couch,  and  directing  a  stately  look  towards  her,  which 
was -instantaneous  in  its  duration,  but  inclusive  (if  any 
one  had  seen  it)  of  a  multitude  of  expressions,  among 
which  that  of  the  twilight  smile  itself,  overshadowed  all 
the  rest,  went  out  of  the  room. 

The  major,  who  was  quite  forgiven  by  this  time,  had 
wheeled  a  little  table  up  to  Cleopatra,  and  was  sitting 
down  to  play  picquet  with  her.  Mr.  Dombey,  not  know- 
ing the  game,  sat  down  to  watch  them  for  his  edification 
until  Edith  should  return. 

"  We  are  going  to  have  some  music,  Mr.  Dombey,  I 
hope  ?  "  said  Cleopatra. 

"  Mrs.  Granger  has  been  kind  enough  to  promise  so," 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Ah  !    That's  very  nice.    Do  you  propose,  major?" 

"  No  ma'am,"  said  the  major.    "  Couldn't  do  it." 

"  You're  a  barbarous  being,"  replied  the  lady,  "  and  my 
hand's  destroyed.  You  are  fond  of  music,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey?" 

"  Eminently  so,"  was  Mr.  Dombey's  answer. 

"Yes.  It's  very  nice,"  said  Cleopatra,  looking  at  her 
cards.  "  So  much  heart  in  it — undeveloped  recollections 
of  a  previous  state  of  existence— and  all  that — which 
is  so  truly  charming.  Do  you  know,"  simpered  Cleopatra, 
reversing  the  knave  of  clubs,  who  had  come  into  her 
game  with  his  heels  uppermost,  "  that  if  anything  could 
tempt  me  to  put  a  period  to  my  life,  it  w^ould  be  curiosity 
to  find  out  what  it's  all  about,  and  what  it  means  ;  there 
are  so  many  provoking  mysteries,  really,  that  are  hidden 
from  us.    Major,  you  to  play  !  " 

The  major  played  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  looking  on  for 
his  instruction,  would  soon  have  been  in  a  state  of  dire 
confusion,  but  that  he  gave  no  attention  to  the  game 
whatever,  and  sat  wondering  instead  when  Edith  would 
come  back. 

She  came  at  last,  and  sat  down  to  her  harp,  and  Mr. 
Dombey  rose  and  stood  beside  her,  listening.  He  had 
little  taste  for  music,  and  no  knowledge  of  the  strain  she 
played,  but  he  saw  her  bending  over  it,  and  perhaps  he 
heard  among  the  sounding  strings  some  distant  music  of 
his  own,  that  tamed  the  monster  of  the  iron  road,  and 
made  it  less  inexorable. 

Cleopatra  had  a  sharp  eye,  verily,  at  picquet.  It  glis- 
tened like  a  bird's  and  did  not  fix  itself  upon  the  game, 
but  pierced  the  room  from  end  to  end,  and  gleamed  on 
harp,  performer,  listener,  everything-. 

When  the  haughty  beauty  had  concluded,  she  arose, 
and  receiving  Mr.  Dombey's  thanks  and  compliments  in 
exactly  the  same  manner  as  before,  went  with  scarcely 
any  pause,  to  the  piano,  and  began  there. 

Edith  Granger,  any  song  but  that  !  Edith  Granger, 
you  are  very  handsome,  and  your  touch  upon  the  keys 
is  brilliant,  and  your  voice  is  deep  and  rich  ;  but  not 
the  air  that  his  neglected  daughter  sang  to  his  dead 
son  ! 

Alas,  he  knows  it  not  ;  and  if  he  did,  what  air  of  hers 
would  stir  him,  rigid  man  !  Sleep,  lonely  Florence, 
sleep  !  Peace  in  thy  dreams,  although  the  light  has 
turned  dark,  and  the  clouds  are  gathering,  and  threaten 
to  discharge  themselves  in  hail  ! 


524 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  Tfifle  of  Management  by  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager. 

Mr,  Carker  the  manager  sat  at  his  desk,  smooth  and 
soft  as  usual,  reading  those  letters  which  were  reserved 
for  him  to  open,  backing  them  occasionally  with  such 
memoranda  and  references  as  their  business  purpose  re- 
quired, and  parcelling  them  out  into  little  heaps  for  dis- 
tribution through  the  several  departments  of  the  house. 
The  post  had  come  in  heavy  that  morning,  and  Mr.  Car- 
ker the  manager  had  a  good  deal  to  do. 

The  general  action  of  a  man  so  engaged — pausing  to 
look  over  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  dealing  them 
round  in  various  portions,  taking  -up  another  bundle  and 
examining  its  contents  with  knitted  brows  and  pursed- 
out  lips — dealing  and  sorting,  and  pondering  by  turns — 
would  easily  suggest  some  whimsical  resemblance  to  a 
player  at  cards.  The  face  of  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
was  in  good  keeping  with  such  a  fancy.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  man  who  studied  his  play,  warily  :  who  made  him- 
self master  of  all  the  strong  and  weak  points  of  the 
game  :  who  registered  the  cards  in  his  mind  as  they  fell 
about  him,  knew  exactly  what  was  on  them,  what  they 
missed,  and  what  they  made  :  who  was  crafty  to  find 
out  what  the  other  players  held,  and  who  never  betrayed 
his  own  hand. 

The  letters  were  in  various  languages,  but  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager  read  them  all.  If  there  had  been  anything 
in  the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  that  he  could  not  read, 
there  would  have  been  a  card  wanting  in  the  pack.  He 
read  almost  at  a  glance,  and  made  combinations  of  one 
letter  with  another  and  one  business  with  another  as  he 
went  on,  adding  new  matter  to  the  heaps— much  as  a 
man  would  know  the  cards  at  sight,  and  work  out  their 
combinations  in  his  mind  after  they  were  turned.  Some- 
thing too  deep  for  a  partner,  and  much  too  deep  for  an 
adversary,  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  sat  in  the  rays  of  the 
sun  that  came  down  slanting  on  him  through  the  sky- 
light, playing  his  game  alone. 

And  although  it  is  not  among  the  instincts  wild  or  do- 
mestic of  the  cat  tribe  to  play  at  cards,  feline  from  sole 
to  crown  was  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  as  he  basked  in 
the  strip  of  summer  light  and  warmth  that  shone  upon 
his  table  and  the  ground  as  if  they  were  a  crooked  dial- 
plate,  and  himself  the  only  figure  on  it.  Wil  h  hair  and 
whiskers  deficient  in  colour  at  all  times,  but  feebler  than 
common  in  the  rich  sunshine,  and  more  like  the  coat  of 
a  sandy  tortoise-shell  cat  ;  with  long  nails,  nicely  pared, 
and  sharpened  ;  with  a  natural  antipathy  to  any  speck 
of  dirt,  which  made  him  pause  sometimes  and  watch  the 
falling  motes  of  dust,  and  rub  them  off  his  smooth  white 
hand  or  glossy  linen  :  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  sly  of 
manner,  sharp  of  tooth,  soft  of  foot,  watchful  of  eye, 
oily  of  tongue,  cruel  of  heart,  nice  of  habit,  sat  with  a 
dainty  steadfastness  and  patience  at  his  work,  as  if  he 
were  waiting  at  a  mouse's  hole. 

At  length  the  letters  were  disposed  of,  excepting  one 
which  he  reserved  for  a  particular  audience.  Having 
locked  the  more  confidential  correspondence  in  a  drawer, 
Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rang  his  bell. 

"  Why  do  you  answer  it  ?  "  was  his  reception  of  his 
brother. 

"The  messenger  is  out,  and  I  am  the  next,"  was  the 
submissive  reply. 

"  You  are  the  next  ?"  muttered  the  manager.  "  Yes  ! 
Creditable  to  me  !— There  !" 

Pointing  to  the  heaps  of  opened  letters,  he  turned  dis- 
dainfully away  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  broke  the  seal  of 
that  one  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  James,"  said  the  brother, 
gathering  them  up,  "  but — " 

"Oh  I  You  have  something  to  sav.  I  knew  that. 
Well  ?  " 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  did  not  raise  his  eyes  or  turn 
them  on  his  brother,  but  kept  them  on  his  letter,  though 
without  opening  it. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  repeated  sharply. 

"  I  am  uneasy  about  Harriet." 

"  Harriet  who  ?  what  Harriet?  I  know  nobody  by  that 
name." 

She  is  not  well, and  has  changed  very  much  of  late." 


"  She  changed  very  much,  a  great  many  years  ago,'* 
replied  the  manager  ;  "  and  that  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  I  think  if  you  would  hear  me—" 

"  Why  should  I  hear  you.  Brother  John?"  returned 
the  manager,  laying  a  sarcastic  emphasis  on  those  two 
words,  and  throwing  up  his  head,  but  not  lifting  his 
eyes.  ' *  I  tell  you,  Harriet  Carker  made  her  choice  many 
years  ago  between  her  two  brothers.  She  may  repent 
it,  but  she  must  abide  by  it." 

"  Don't  mistake  me,  I  do  not  say  she  does  repent  it. 
It  would  be  black  ingratitude  in  me  to  hint  at  such  a 
thing,"  returned  the  other.  "  Though  believe  me, 
James,  I  am  as  sorry  for  her  sacrifice  as  you." 

"As  I  ?  "  exclaimed  the  manager.    "  As  I  ? " 

"  As  sorry  for  her  choice — for  what  you  call  her  choice 
— as  you  are  angry  at  it,"  said  the  Junior. 

"Angry?"  repeated  the  other,  with  a  wide  show  of 
his  teeth. 

j     "  Displeased,    Whatever  word  you  like  best.  You 
!  know  my  meaning.     There  is  no  offence  in  my  inten- 
tion." 

"  There  is  offence  in  everything  you  do,"  replied  his 
brother,  glancing  at  him  with  a  sudden  scowl,  which  in 
a  moment  gave  place  to  a  wider  smile  than  the  last. 
"Carry  those  papers  away,  if  you  please,    I  am  busy." 

His  politeness  was  so  much  more  cutting  than  his 
wrath,  that  the  Junior  went  to  the  door.  But  stopping 
at  it,  and  looking  round,  he  said  : 

"When  Harriet  tried  in  vain  to  plead  for  me  with 
you,  on  your  first  just  indignation,  and  my  first  disgrace  ; 

I  and  when  she  left  you  James  to  follow  my  broken  for- 
tunes, and  devote  herself,  in  her  mistaken  affection,  to 
a  ruined  brother,  because  without  her  he  had  no  one, 
and  was  lost  ;  she  was  young  and  pretty,  I  think  if  you 
could  see  her  now — if  you  would  go  and  see  her — she 

i  would  move  your  admiration  and  compassion." 

i     The  manager  inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his  teeth, 

1  as  who  should  say,  in  answer  to  some  careless  small- 
talk,  "  Dear  me  !  Is  that  the  case?"  but  said  never  a 
word. 

"  We  thought  in  those  days  :  you  and  I  both  :  that 
she  would  marry  young,  and  lead  a  happy  and  light- 
hearted  life,"  pursued  the  other.    "Oh  if  you  knew 
[  how  cheerfully  she  cast  those  hopes  away  ;  how  cheer- 
j  fully  she  has  gone  forward  on  the  path  she  took,  and 
never  once  looked  back  ;  you  never  could  say  again  that 
j  her  name  was  strange  in  your  ears.    Never  ! " 
;     Again  the  manager  inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his 
j  teeth,  and  seemed  to  say,  "Remarkable  indeed  !  You 
I  quite  surprise  me  !  "    And  again  he  uttered  never  a 
i  word. 

"  May  I  go  on  ?  "  said  John  Carker  mildly. 
"  On  your  way?"  replied  his  smiling  brother,  "If 
you  wili  have  the  goodness." 

i     John  Carker  with  a  sigh,  was  passing  slowly  out  at 
the  door,  when  his  brother's  voice  detained  him  for  a 
j  moment  on  the  threshold, 

\     "  If  she  has  gone  and  goes  her  own  way  cheerfully," 
i  he  said,  throwing  the  still  unfolded  letter  on  his  desk, 
I  and  putting  his  hands  firmly  in  his  pockets,  "  3'ou  may 
j  tell  her  that  I  go  as  cheerfully  on  mine.    If  she  has 
'  never  once  looked  back,  you  may  tell  her  that  I  have, 
sometimes,  to  recall  her  taking  part  with  you,  and  that 
my  resolution  is  no  easier  to  wear  away,"  he  smiled 
very  sweetly  here  ;  "  than  marble." 

"I  tell  her  nothing  of  you.  We  never  speak  about 
you.  Once  a  year,  on  your  birthday,  Harriet  says  always, 
'  Let  us  remember  James  by  name,  and  wish  him  happy,' 
but  we  say  no  more," 

"  Tell  it  then,  if  you  please,"  returned  the  other,  "to 
yourself.    You  can't  repeat  it  too  often,  as  a  lesson  to 
you  to  avoid  the  subject  in  speaking  to  me.    I  know  no 
i  Harriet  Carker.    There  is  no  such  person,    Tou  may 
I  have  a  sister  ;  make  much  of  her.    I  have  none." 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  took  up  the  letter  again,  and 
waved  it  with  a  smile  of  mock  courtesy  towards  the 
door.  Unfolding  it  as  his  brother  withdrew,  and  looking 
darkly  after  him  as  he  left  the  room,  he  once  more 
turned  round  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  applied  himself  to 
a  diligent  perusal  of  its  contents. 

It  was  in  the  writing  of  his  great  chief,  Mr,  Dombey, 
and  dated  from  Leamington.    Though  he  was  a  quick 


DO  MB  BY 

reader  of  all  other  letters,  Mr.  Carker  read  this  slowly  ; 
weighing  the  words  as  he  went,  and  bringing  every  tooth 
in  his  head  to  bear  upon  them.  When  he  had  road  it 
through  once,  he  turned  it  over  again,  and  picked  out 
these  passages.  '  I  find  myself  benefited  by  the  change, 
and  am  not  yet  inclined  to  name  any  time  for  my  return.' 
'  I  wish,  Carker,  you  would  arrange  to  come  down  once 
and  see  me  here,  and  let  me  know  how  things  are  going 
on,  in  person.'  '  I  omitted  to  speak  to  you  alDout  young 
Gay.  If  not  gone  per  Son  and  Heir,  or  if  Son  and  Heir 
still  lying  in  the  Docks,  appoint  some  other  young  man 
and  keep  him  in  the  city  for  the  present.  I  am  not  de- 
cided.' "Now  that's  unfortunate;"  said  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager,  expanding  his  mouth,  as  if  it  were  made 
of  india-rubber  ;  "  for  he's  far  away  !" 

Still  that  passage  which  was  in  a  postscript,  attracted 
his  attention  and  his  teeth,  once  more. 

*'  I  think,"  he  said,  **  my  good  friend  Captain  Cuttle 
mentioned  something  about  being  towed  along  in  the 
wake  of  that  day.    What  a  pity  he's  so  far  away  ! " 

He  refolded  the  letter,  and  was  sitting  trifling  with  it 
standing  it  long-wise  and  broad-wise  on  his  table,  and 
turning  it  over  and  over  on  all  sides — doing  pretty  much 
the  same  thing  perhaps,  by  its  contents — when  Mr.  Perch 
the  messenger  knocked  softly  at  the  door,  and  coming 
in  on  tiptoe,  bending  his  body  at  every  step  as  if  it  were 
the  delight  of  his  life  to  bow,  laid  some  papers  on  the 
table. 

"Would  you  please  to  be  engaged,  sir?"  asked  Mr. 
Perch,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  deferentially  putting  his 
head  on  one  side,  like  a  man  who  felt  he  had  no  business 
to  hold  it  up  in  such  a  presence,  and  would  keep  it  as 
much  out  of  the  way  as  possible. 

"Who  wants  me?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  a  soft  voice,  "really 
nobody,  sir,  to  speak  of  at  present.  Mr.  Gills  the  Ship's 
Instrument-maker,  sir,  has  looked  in,  about  a  little  mat- 
ter of  payment,  he  says  ;  but  I  mentioned  to  him,  sir, 
that  you  was  engaged  several  deep  ;  several  deep." 

Mr.  Perch  coughed  once  behind  his  hand,  and  waited 
for  further  orders. 

"  Anybody  else  ?" 

"Well  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "  I  wouldn't  of  my  own 
self  take  the  liberty  of  mentioning,  sir,  that  there  was 
anybody  else  ;  but  that  same  young  lad  that  was  here 
yesterday,  sir,  and  last  week,  has  been  hanging  about 
the  place  ;  and  it  looks,  sir,"  added  Mr.  Perch,  stopping 
to  shut  the  door,  "dreadful  unbusiness-like  to  see  him 
whistling  to  the  sparrows  down  the  court,  and  making 
of  'em  answer  him." 

"  You  said  he  wanted  something  to  do,  didn't  you. 
Perch?"  asked  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
and  looking  at  that  oflBicer. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  behind  his 
hand  again,  "his  expression  certainly  were  that  he  was 
in  wants  of  a  sitiwation,  and  that  he  considered,  some- 
thing might  be  done  for  him  about  the  Docks,  being 
used  to  fishing  with  a  rod  and  line  :  but, — "  Mr.  Perch 
shook  his  head  very  dubiously  indeed. 

"What  does  he  say  when  he  comes?"  asked  Mr. 
Carker. 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  another 
cough  behind  his  hand,  which  was  always  his  resource 
as  an  expression  of  humility  when  nothing  else  occurred 
to  him,  "his  observation  generally  air  that  he  would 
humbly  wish  to  see  one  of  the  gentlemen,  and  that  he 
wants  to  earn  a  living.  But  you  see,  sir,"  added  Perch, 
dropping  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  turning,  in  the  in- 
violable nature  of  his  confidence,  to  give  the  door  a 
thrust  with  his  hand  and  knee,  as  if  that  would  shut  it 
any  more  when  it  was  shut  already,  "  it's  hardly  to  be 
bore,  sir,  that  a  common  lad  like  that  should  come  a 
prowling  here,  and  saying  that  his  mother  nursed  our 
House's  young  gentleman,  and  that  he  hopes  our  House 
will  give  him  a  chance  on  that  account.  I  am  sure,  sir," 
observed  Mr.  Perch,  "  that  although  Mrs.  Perch  was  at 
that  time  nursing  as  thriving  a  little  girl,  as  we've  ever 
took  the  liberty  of  adding  to  our  family,  I  wouldn't  have 
made  so  free  as  drop  a  hint  of  her  being  capable  of  im- 
parting nourishment,  not  if  it  was  ever  so  !  " 

Mr.  Carker  grinned  at  him  like  a  shark,  but  in  an  ab- 
sent thoughtful  manner. 


AND  80 K  525 

"Whether,"  submitted  Mr.  Perch,  after  a  short 
silence,  and  another  cough,  "it  mightn't  be  best  for  me 
to  tell  him,  that  if  he  Avas  seen  here  any  more  he 
would  be  given  into  custody  ;  and  to  keep  to  it  !  With 
respect  to  bodily  fear,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "I  am  so  timid, 
myself,  by  nature,  sir,  and  my  nerves  is  so  unstrung  by 
Mrs.  Perch's  state,  that  I  could  take  my  affidavit  easy." 

"  Let  me  see  this  fellow,  Perch,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 
"  Bring  him  in  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch, 
hesitating  at  the  door,  "he's  rough,  sir,  in  appearance." 

"Never  mind.  If  he's  there,  bring  him  in.  I'll  see 
Mr.  Gills  directly.    Ask  him  to  wait !  " 

Mr.  Perch  bowed  ;  and  shutting  the  door  as  precisely 
and  carefully  as  if  he  were  not  coming  back  for  a  week, 
went  on  his  quest  among  the  sparrows  in  the  court. 
While  he  was  gone  Mr.  Carker  assumed  his  favourite 
attitude  before  the  fire-place,  and  stood  looking  at  the 
door ;  presenting  with  his  under  lijj  tucked  into  the 
smile  that  showed  his  whole  row  of  upper  teeth,  a  sin- 
gularly crouching  appearance. 

The  messenger  was  not  long  in  returning,  followed  by 
a  pair  of  heavy  boots  that  came  bumping  along  the  pas- 
sage like  boxes.  With  the  unceremonioiis  words  "Come 
along  with  you  ! " — a  very  unusual  foim  of  introduction 
from  his  lips — Mr.  Perch  then  ushered  into  the  presence 
a  strong-built  lad  of  fifteen,  with  a  round  red  face,  a 
round  sleek  head,  round  black  eyes,  round  limbs,  and 
round  body,  who,  to  carry  out  the  general  rotundity  of 
his  appearance,  had  a  round  hat  in  his  hand,  without  a 
particle  of  brim  to  it. 

Obedient  to  a  nod  from  Mr.  Carker,  Perch  had  no 
sooner  confronted  the  visitor  with  that  gentleman  than 
he  withdrew.  The  moment  they  were  face  to  face 
alone,  Mr.  Carker,  without  a  word  of  preparation,  took 
him  by  the  throat,  and  shook  him  until  his  head  seemed 
loose  upon  his  shoulders. 

The  boy,  who  in  the  midst  of  his  astonishment  could 
not  help  staring  wildly  at  the  gentleman  with  so  many 
white  teeth  who  was  choking  him,  and  at  the  office 
walls,  as  though  determined,  if  he  tcere  choked,  that  his 
last  look  should  be  at  the  mysteries  for  his  intrusion  into 
which  he  was  paying  such  a  severe  penalty,  at  last  con- 
trived to  utter — 

"  Come  sir  !    You  let  me  alone,  will  you  !  " 

"Let  you  alone!"  said  Mr.  Carker.  "What!  I 
have  got  you,  have  I  ?  "  There  was  no  doubt  of  that, 
and  tightly  too.  "You  dog,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  through 
his  set  jaws,  "  I'll  strangle  you  !  " 

Biler  whimpered,  would  he  though  ?  oh  no  he  wouldn't 
— and  what  was  he  doing  of — and  why  didn't  he  stran- 
gle somebody  of  his  own  size  and  not  Mm:  but  Biler 
was  quelled  by  the  extraordinary  nature  of  his  reception 
and,  as  his  head  became  stationary,  and  he  looked  the 
gentleman  in  the  face,  or  rather  in  the  teeth,  and  saw 
him  snarling  at  him,  he  so  far  forgot  his  manhood  as  to 
cry. 

"  I  haven't  done  nothing  \o  you,  sir,"  said  Biler,  other- 
wise Rob,  otherwise  Grinder,  and  always  Toodle. 

"You  young  scoundrel  !"  replied  Mr.  Carker,  slowly 
releasing  him,  and  moving  back  a  step  into  his  favourite 
position.    "  What  do  you  mean  by  daring  to  come  here  ?" 

"  I  didn't  mean  no  harm,  sir,"  whimpered  Rob,  putting 
one  hand  to  his  throat,  and  the  knuckles  of  the  other  to 
his  eyes.  "  I'll  never  come  again,  sir.  I  only  wanted 
work." 

"Work,  young  Cain  that  you  are!"  repeated  Mr. 
Carker  eyeing  him  narrowly.  "Ain't  you  the  idlest 
vagabond  in  London  ?  " 

The  impeachment,  while  it  much  affected  Mr.  Toodle 
junior,  attached  to  his  character  so  justly,  that  he  could 
not  say  a  word  in  denial.  He  stood'lookiug  at  the  gen- 
tleman, therefore,  with  a  frightened,  self-convicted,  and 
remorseful  air.  As  to  his  looking  at  him,  it  may  be 
observed  that  he  was  fascinated  by  Mr.  Carker  and  never 
took  his  round  eyes  off  him  for  an  instant. 

"Ain't  you  a  thief  ?"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hands 
behind  him  in  his  pockets. 

"No,  sir,"  pleaded  Rob. 

"  You  are  ! "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"I  ain't  indeed,  sir,"  whimpered  Rob.  "  I  never  did 
such  a  thing  as  thieve,  sir,  if  you'll  believe  me.   I  know 


526 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


I've  been  going  wrong,  sir,  ever  since  I  took  to  bird- 
catching  and  walking-matching.  I'm  sure  a  cove  might 
think,"  said  Mr.  Toodle  junior,  with  a  burst  of  penitence, 
"that  singing  birds  was  innocent  company,  but  nobody 
knows  what  harm  is  in  them  little  creeturs  and  what 
they  brings  you  down  to." 

They  seemed  to  have  brought  him  down  to  a  velvet- 
een jacket  and  trousers  very  much  the  worse  for  wear, 
a  particularly  small  red  waistcoat  like  a  gorget,  an  in- 
terval of  blue  check,  and  the  hat  before  mentioned. 

"  I  ain't  been  home  twenty  times  since  them  birds  got 
their  will  of  me,"  said  Rob,  "and  that's  ten  months. 
How  can  I  go  home  when  everybody's  miserable  to  see 
me  !  I  wonder,"  said  Biler,  blubbering  outright,  and 
smearing  his  eyes  with  his  coat-cuff,  "that  I  haven't 
been  and  drownded  myself  over  and  over  again." 

All  of  which,  including  his  expression  of  surprise  at 
not  having  achieved  this  last  scarce  performance,  the 
boy  said,  just  as  if  the  teeth  of  Mr.  Carker  drew  it  out 
of  him,  and  he  had  no  power  of  concealing  anything 
with  that  battery  of  attraction  in  full  play. 

"  You're  a  nice  young  gentleman  ! "  said  Mr.  Carker, 
shaking  his  head  at  him.  "  There's  hemp- seed  sown 
for  yo^i,  ray  fine  fellow  !  " 

"  I'm  sure,  sir,"  returned  the  wretched  Biler,  blubber- 
ing again,  and  again  having  recourse  to  his  coat-cuff  : 
"  I  shouldn't  care,  sometimes,  if  it  was  growed  too.  My 
misfortunes,  all  began  in  wagging,  sir  ;  but  what  could 
I  do  exceptin'  wag  ?  " 

"Excepting  what?"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Wag,  sir.    Wagging  from  school." 

' '  Do  you  mean  pretending  to  go  there,  and  not  going  ?* 
said  Mr.  Carker. 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  wagging,  sir,"  returned  the  quondam 
Grinder,  much  affected.  "I  was  chivied  through  the 
streets,  sir,  when  I  went  there,  and  pounded  when  I  got 
there.  So  I  wagged,  and  hid  myself,  and  that  began 
it." 

"  And  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking 
him  by  the  throat  again,  holding  him  out  at  arms-length, 
and  surveying  him  in  silence  for  some  moments,  "that 
you  want  a  place,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  thankful  to  be  tried,  sir,"  returned 
Toodle  junior,  faintly. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  pushed  him  backwards  into  a 
corner — the  boy  submitting  quietly,  hardly  venturing  to 
breathe,  and  never  once  removing  his  eyes  from  his  face 
— and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Gills  to  come  here." 

Mr.  Perch  was  too  deferential  to  express  surprise  or 
recognition  of  the  figure  in  the  corner  :  and  Uncle  Sol 
appeared  immediately. 

"  Mr.  Gills  !"  said  Carker,  with  a  smile,  "sit  down. 
How  do  you  do  ?  You  continue  to  enjoy  your  health,  I 
hope  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  taking  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  handing  over  some  notes  as  he  spoke. 
"  Nothing  ails  me  in  body  but  old  age.  Twenty-five, 
sir." 

"You  are  as  punctual  and  exact,  Mr.  Gills,"  replied 
the  smiling  manager,  taking  a  j^aper  from  one  of  his 
many  drawers,  and  making  an  endorsement  on  it,  while 
Uncle  Sol  looked  over  him,  "  as  one  of  your  own  chro- 
nometers.   Quite  right." 

"  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,  I  find  by  the 
list,  sir,"  said  Uncle  Sol,  with  a  slight  addition  to  the 
usual  tremour  in  his  voice. 

"The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,"  returned 
Carker.  "  There  seems  to  have  been  tempestuous  wea- 
ther, Mr.  Gills,  and  she  has  probably  been  driven  out  of 
her  course." 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  Heaven  ! "  said  old  Sol. 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  Heaven  ! "  assented  Mr.  Carker 
in  that  voiceless  manner  of  his  :  which  made  the  observ- 
ant young  Toodle  tremble  again.  "  Mr.  Gills,"  he  added 
aloud,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  "you  must 
miss  your  nephew  very  much  ?  " 

Uncle  Sol,  standing  by  him,  shook  his  head  and 
heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"Mr.  Gills,"  said  Carker,  with  his  soft  hand  playing 
round  his  moutli,  and  looking  up  into  the  Instrument- 
maker's  face,  "  it  would  be  company  to  you  to  have  a 


young  fellow  in  your  shop  just  now,  and  it  would  be 
obliging  me  if  you  would  give  one  house-room  for  the 
present.  No,  to  be  sure,"  he  added  quickly,  in  antici- 
pation of  what  the  old  man  was  going  to  say,  ' '  there's 
not  much  business  doing  there,  I  know  :  but  you  can 
make  him  clean  the  place  out,  polish  up  the  instruments  : 
drudge,  Mr.  Gills.    That's  the  lad  ! " 

Sol  Gills  pulled  down  his  spectacles  from  his  forehead 
to  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Toodle  junior  standing  upright 
in  the  corner  :  his  head  presenting  the  appearance  (which 
it  always  did)  of  having  been  newly  drawn  out  of  a  bucket 
of  cold  water  ;  his  small  waistcoat  rising  and  falling 
quickly  in  the  play  of  his  emotions ;  and  his  eyes  in- 
tently fixed  on  Mr.  Carker,  without  the  least  reference 
to  his  proposed  master. 

"Will  you  give  him  house-room,  Mr,  Gills?"  said 
the  manager. 

Old  Sol,  without  being  quite  enthusiastic  on  the  sub- 
ject, replied  that  he  was  glad  of  any  opportunity,  how- 
ever slight,  to  oblige  Mr.  Carker,  whose  wish  on  such  a 
point  was  a  command  :  and  that  the  Wooden  Midship- 
man would  consider  himself  happy  to  receive  in  his  berth 
any  visitor  of  Mr.  Carker's  selecting. 

Mr.  Carker  bared  himself  to  the  tops  and  bottoms  of 
his  gums  :  making  the  watchful  Toodle  Junior  tremble 
more  and  more  :  and  acknowledged  the  Instrument-mak- 
er's politeness  in  his  most  affable  manner. 

"  I'll  dispose  of  him  so,  then,  Mr,  Gills,"  he  answered, 
rising,  and  shaking  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  "until  I 
make  up  my  mind  what  to  do  with  him,  and  what  he 
deserves.  As  I  consider  myself  responsible  for  him,  Mr. 
Gills,"  here  he  smiled  a  wide  smile  at  Rob,  who  shook 
before  it :  "I  shall  be  glad  if  you'll  look  sharply  after 
him,  and  report  his  behaviour  to  me.  I'll  ask  a  question 
or  two  of  his  parents  as  I  ride  home  this  afternoon — re- 
spectable people — to  confirm  some  particulars  in  his  own' 
account  of  himself  ;  and  that  done,  Mr,  Gills,  I'll  send 
him  round  to  you  to-morrow  morning.    Good  bye  ! 

His  smile  at  parting  was  so  full  of  teeth,  that  it  con- 
fused old  Sol,  and  made  him  vaguely  uncomfortable. 
He  went  home,  thinking  of  raging  seas,  foundering  ships, 
drowning  men,  an  ancient  bottle  of  Madeira  never 
brought  to  light,  and  other  dismal  matter. 

"Now,  boy  !"  said  Mr.  Carker,  putting  his  hand  on 
young  Toodle's  shoulder,  and  bringing  him  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  room.    "  You  have  heard  me  ?  " 

Rob  said  "  Yes,  sir." 

"  Perhaps  you  understand,"  pursued  his  patron,  "  that 
if  you  ever  deceive  or  play  tricks  with  me,  you  had  bet- 
ter have  drowned  yourself,  indeed,  once  for  all,  before 
you  came  here  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  in  any  branch  of  mental  acquisition 
that  Rob  seemed  to  understand  better  than  that. 

"  If  you  have  lied  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  in  any- 
thing, never  come  in  my  way  again.  If  not,  you  may 
let  me  find  you  waiting  for  me  somewhere  near  your 
mother's  house  this  afternoon.  I  shall  leave  this  at  five 
o'clock,  and  ride  there  on  horseback.  Now,  give  me  the 
address." 

Rob  repeated  it  slowly,  as  Mr.  Carker  wrote  it  down. 
Rob  even  spelt  it  over  a  second  time,  letter  by  letter,  as 
if  he  thought  that  the  omission  of  a  dot  or  scratch  would 
lead  to  his  destruction.  Mr.  Carker  then  handed  him 
out  of  the  room :  and  Rob,  keeping  his  round  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  patron  to  the  last,  vanished  for  the  time  being. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  did  a  great  deal  of  business  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  and  bestowed  his  teeth  upon  a 
great  many  people.  In  the  office,  in  the  court,  in  the 
street,  and'  on  'Change,  they  glistened  and  bristled  to  a 
terrible  extent.  Five  o'clock  arriving,  and  with  it  Mr, 
Carker's  bay  horse,  they  got  on  horseback,  and  went 
gleaming  up  Clieapside. 

As  no  one  can  easily  ride  fast,  even  if  inclined  to  do  so, 
through  the  press  and  throng  of  the  city  at  that  hour, 
and  as  Mr.  Carker  was  not  inclined,  he  went  leisurely 
along,  picking  his  way  among  the  carts  and  carriages, 
avoiding  whenever  he  could  the  wetter  and  more  dirty 
places  in  the  over- watered  road,  and  taking  infinite  pains 
to  keep  himself  and  his  steed  clean.  Glancing  at  the 
passers-by  while  he  was  thus  ambling  on  his  way,  he 
sudchmly  encountered  the  round  eyes  of  tho  sleek-headed 
Rob  intently  fixed  upon  his  face  as  if  they  had  never 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


527 


been  taken  off,  while  the  boy  himself,  with  a  pocket- 
handkerchief  twisted  up  like  a  speckled  eel,  and  girded 
round  his  waist,  made  a  very  conspicuous  demonstration 
of  being  prepared  to  attend  upon  him,  at  whatever  pace 
he  might  think  proper  to  go. 

This  attention  however  flattering,  being  one  of  an  un- 
usual kind,  and  attracting  some  notice  from  the  other 
passengers,  Mr.  Carker  took  advantage  of  a  clearer 
thoroughfare  and  a  cleaner  road,  and  broke  into  a  trot. 
Rob  immediately  did  the  same.  Mr.  Carker  presently 
tried  a  canter ;  Rob  was  still  in  attendance.  Then  a 
short  gallop  ;  it  was  all  one  to  the  boy.  Whenever  Mr. 
Carker  turned  his  eyes  to  that  side  of  the  road,  he  still 
saw  Toodle  junior  holding  his  course,  apparently  with- 
out distress,  and  working  himself  along  by  the  elbows 
after  the  most  approved  manner  of  professional  gentle- 
men who  get  over  the  ground  for  wagers. 

Ridiculous  as  this  attendance  was,  it  was  a  sign  of  an 
influence  established  over  the  boy,  and  therefore,  Mr. 
Carker,  affecting  not  to  notice  it,  rode  away  into  the 
neighbourhood  of  Mr.  Toodle's  house.  On  his  slacken- 
ing his  pace  here,  Rob  appeared  before  him  to  point  out 
the  turnings  ;  and  when  he  called  to  a  man  at  a  neigh- 
bouring gateway  to  hold  his  horse,  pending  his  visit  to 
the  buildings  that  had  succeeded  Staggs's  Gardens, 
Rob  dutifully  held  the  stirrup,  while  the  manager  dis- 
mounted. 

"Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  him  by  the 
shoulder,  "  come  along  !  " 

The  prodigal  son  was  evidently  nervous  of  visiting  the 
parental  abode  :  but  Mr.  Carker  pushing  him  on  before, 
he  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  open  the  right  door,  and 
suffer  himself  to  be  walked  into  the  midst  of  his  broth- 
ers and  sisters,  mustered  in  overwhelming  force  round 
the  family  tea-table.  At  sight  of  the  prodigal  in  the 
grasp  of  a  stranger,  these  tender  relations  united  in  a 
general  howl,  which  smote  upon  the  prodigal's  breast  so 
sharply  when  he  saw  his  mother  stand  up  among  them 
pale  and  trembling  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  that  he 
lent  his  own  voice  to  the  chorus. 

Nothing  doubting  now,  that  the  stranger,  if  not  Mr. 
Ketch  in  person,  was  one  of  that  company,  the  whole  of 
the  young  family  wailed  the  louder,  while  its  more  in- 
fantine members,  unable  to  control  the  transports  of 
emotion  appertaining  to  their  time  of  life,  threw  them- 
selves on  their  backs  like  young  birds  when  terrified  by 
a  hawk,  and  kicked  violently.  At  length  poor  Polly 
making  herself  audible,  said,  with  quivering  lips,  "  0 
Rob,  my  poor  boy,  what  have  you  done  at  last ! " 

"Nothing,  mother,"  cried  Rob,  in  a  piteous  voice, 
"  ask  the  gentleman  !  " 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  want  to  do 
him  good." 

At  this  announcement,  Polly,  who  had  not  cried  yet, 
began  to  do  so.  The  elder  Toodles,  who  appeared  to 
have  been  meditating  a  rescue,  unclenched  their  fists. 
The  younger  Toodles  clustered  round  their  mother's 
gown,  and  peeped  from  under  their  own  chubby  arms 
at  their  desperado  brother  and  his  unknown  friend. 
Everybody  blessed  the  gentleman  with  the  beautiful 
teeth,  who  wanted  to  do  good, 

"  This  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Carker  to  Polly,  giving  him 
a  gentle  shake,  "  is  your  son,  eh  ma'am?" 

"  Yes  sir,"  sobbed  Polly,  with  a  curtsey  ;  "yes  sir." 

"  A  bad  son,  I  am  afraid  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker, 

**  Never  a  bad  son  to  me,  sir,"  returned  Polly. 

"  To  whom  then  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Carker. 

"He  has  been  a  little  wild,  sir,"  replied  Polly,  check- 
ing the  baby,  who  was  making  convulsive  efforts  with 
his  arms  and  legs  to  launch  himself  on  Biler,  through 
the  ambient  air,  "  and  has  gone  with  wrong  compan- 
ions ;  but  I  hope  he  has  seen  the  misery  of  that  sir,  and 
will  do  well  again." 

Mr.  Carker  looked  at  Polly,  and  the  clean  room  and 
the  clean  children,  and  the  simple  Toodle  face,  com- 
bined of  father  and  mother,  that  was  reflected  and  re- 
peated everywhere  about  him  :  and  seemed  to  have 
achieved  the  real  purpose  of  his  visit. 

"  Your  husband,  I  take  it,  is  not  at  home  ?"  he  said. 

"No  sir,"  replied  Polly.  "He's  down  the  line  at 
present." 

The  prodigal  Rob  seemed  very  much  relieved  to  hear 


it  :  though  still  in  the  absorption  of  all  his  faculties  in 
his  patron,  he  hardly  took  his  eyes  from  Mr.  Carker's 
face  unless  for  a  moment  at  a  time  to  steal  a  sorrowful 
j  glance  at  his  mother. 

I  "Then,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "I'll  tell  you  how  I  have 
I  stumbled  on  this  boy  of  yours,  and  who  I  am,  and  what 
I  I  am  going  to  do  for  him." 

!  This  Mr.  Carker  did,  in  his  own  way  :  .-^-aying  that  he 
i  at  first  intended  to  have  accumulated  nameless  terrors 
j  on  his  presumptuous  head,  for  coming  to  the  where- 
about of  Dombey  and  Son.  That  he  had  relented,  in 
consideration  of  his  youth,  his  professed  contrition,  and 
his  friends.  That  he  was  afraid  he  took  a  rash  step 
in  doing  anything  for  the  boy,  and  one  that  might  ex- 
pose hira  to  the  censure  of  the  prudent  ;  but  that  he  did 
it  of  himself  and  for  himself,  and  risked  the  consequences 
single-handed  ;  and  that  his  mother's  past  connexion  with 
Mr.  Dombey's  family  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  that 
Mr.  Dombey  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  that  he,  Mr. 
Carker,  was  the  be-all,  and  the  end-all  of  this  business. 
Taking  great  credit  to  himself  for  his  goodness,  and  re- 
ceiving no  less  from  all  the  family  then  present,  Mr. 
Carker  signified,  indirectly  but  still  pretty  plainly,  that 
Rob's  implicit  fidelity,  attachment,  and  "devotion,  were 
for  evermore  his  due,  and  the  least  homage  he  could  re- 
ceive. And  with  this  great  truth  Rob  himself  was  so 
impressed,  that,  standing  gazing  on  his  patron  with 
tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  he  nodded  his  shiny  head 
until  it  seemed  almost  as  loose  as  it  had  done  under  the 
same  patron's  hands  that  morning. 

Polly,  who  had  passed  Heaven  knows  how  many  sleep- 
less nights  on  account  of  this  her  dissipated  first-born,  and 
had  not  seen  him  for  weeks  and  weeks,  could  have  almost 
kneeled  to  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  as  to  a  good  spirit 
— in  spite  of  his  teeth.  But  Mr.  Carker  rising  to  depart, 
she  only  thanked  him  with  her  mother's  prayers  and 
blessings  ;  thanks  so  rich  when  paid  out  of  the  heart's 
mint,  especially  for  any  service  Mr.  Carker  had  rendered, 
that  he  might  have  given  back  a  large  amount  of  change, 
and  yet  been  overpaid. 

As  that  gentleman  made  his  way  among  the  crowding 
children  to  the  door,  Rob  retreated  on  his  mother,  and 
took  lier  and  the  baby  in  the  same  repentant  hug. 

"I'll  try  hard,  dear  mother,  now.  Upon  my  soul  I 
will  !  "  said  Rob. 

"Oh  do,  my  dear  boy  !  I  am  sure  you  will,  for  our 
sakes  and  your  own  !  "  cried  Polly,  kissing  him.  "  But 
you're  coming  back  to  speak  to  me,  when  you  have  seen 
the  gentleman  away?" 

"I  don't  know,  mother."  Rob  hesitated,  and  looked 
down.  "Father — when's  he  coming  home  ?  " 

"  Not  till  two  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

"I'll  come  back,  mother  dear!"  cried  Rob.  And 
passing  through  the  shrill  cry  of  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters in  reception  of  this  promise,  he  followed  Mr.  Car- 
ker out. 

"What!"  said  Mr.  Carker,  who  had  heard  this. 
"You  have  a  bad  father,  have  you?" 

"No,  sir!"  returned  Rob,  amazed.  "There  ain't  a 
better  nor  a  kinder  father  going-,  than  mine  is. " 

"  Why  don't  you  want  to  see  him  then  ?  "  inquired  his 
patron. 

"  There's  such  a  difference  between  a  father  and  a 
mother,  sir,"  said  Rob,  after  faltering  for  a  moment. 
"  He  could  hardly  believe  yet  that  I  was  going  to  do  bet- 
ter— though  I  know  he'd  try  to — but  a  mother — she  al- 
ways believes  what's  good,  sir  ;  at  least  I  know  my 
mother  does,  God  bless  her  !  " 

Mr.  Carker's  mouth  expanded,  but  lie  said  no  more 
until  he  was  mounted  on  his  horse,  and  had  dismissed  the 
man  who  held  it,  when,  looking  down  from  the  saddle 
steadily  into  the  attentive  and  watchful  face  of  the  boy, 
he  said  : 

"You'll  come  to  me  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  shall 
be  shown  where  that  old  gentleman  lives  ;  that  old  gen- 
tleman who  was  with  me  this  morning  ;  where  you  are 
going,  as  you  heard  me  say. " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Rob. 

"I  have  a  great  interest  in  that  old  gentleman,  and  in 
serving  him,  you  serve  me,  boy,  do  you  understand? 
Well,"  he  added,  interrupting  him,  for  he  saw  his  round 
face  brighten  when  he  was  told  that :  "  I  see  you  do.  I 


528 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


want  to  know  all  about  that  old  gentleman,  and  how  he 
goes  on  from  day  to  day — for  I  am  anxious  to  be  of  ser- 
vice to  him — and  especially  who  comes  there  to  see  him. 
Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Rob  nodded  his  stedfast  face,  and  said,  "  Yes,  sir," 
again. 

' '  I  should  like  to  know  that  he  has  friends  who  are 
attentive  to  him,  and  that  they  don't  desert  him— for 
he  lives  very  much  alone  now,  poor  fellow  ;  but  that 
they  are  fond  of  him,  and  of  his  nephew  who  has  gone 
abroad.  There  is  a  very  young  lady  who  may  perhaps 
come  to  see  him.  I  want  particularly  to  know  all  about 
Tier." 

"  I'll  take  care,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

''And  take  care,"  returned  his  patron,  bending  for- 
ward to  advance  his  grinning  face  closer  to  the  boy's, 
and  pat  him  on  the  shoulder  with  the  handle  of  his 
whip  :  "  take  care  you  talk  about  affairs  of  mine  to  no- 
body but  me." 

"To  nobody  in  the  world,  sir,"  replied  Rob,  shaking 
his  head. 

"Neither  there,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  pointing  to  the 
place  they  had  just  left,  "nor  anywhere  else.  I'll  try 
how  true  and  grateful  you  can  be.  I'll  prove  you  !  " 
Making  this,  by  his  display  of  teeth  and  by  the  action 
of  the  head,  as  much  a  threat  as  a  promise,  he  turned 
from  Rob's  eyes,  which  were  nailed  upon  him  as  if  he 
had  won  the  boy  by  a  charm,  body  and  soul,  and  rode 
away.  But  again  becoming  conscious,  after  trotting  a 
short  distance,  that  his  devoted  henchman,  girt  as  be- 
fore, was  yielding  him  the  same  attendance,  to  the  great 
amusement  of  sundry  spectators,  he  reined  up,  and  or- 
dered him  off.  To  insure  his  obedience,  he  turned  in  the 
saddle  and  watched  him,  as  he  retired.  It  was  curious 
to  see  that  even  then  Rob  could  not  keep  his  eyes  wholly 
averted  from  his  patron's  face,  but,  constantly  turning 
and  turning  again  to  look  after  him,  involved  himself 
in  a  tempest  of  buffetings  and  jostlings  from  the  other 
passengers  in  the  street :  of  which,  in  the  pursuit  of  the 
one  paramount  idea,  he  was  perfectly  heedless. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rode  on  at  a  foot  pace,  with 
the  easy  air  of  one  who  had  performed  all  the  business  of 
the  day  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  and  got  it  comfortably 
off  his  mind.  Complacent  and  affable  as  a  man  could 
be,  Mr.  Carker  picked  his  way  along  the  streets  and 
hummed  a  soft  tune  as  he  went.  He  seemed  to  purr  : 
he  was  so  glad. 

And  in  some  sort,  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  fancy,  basked 
upon  a  hearth  too.  Coiled  up  snugly  at  certain  feet,  he 
was  ready  for  a  spring,  or  for  a  tear,  or  for  a  scratch,  or 
for  a  velvet  touch,  as  the  humour  took  took  him  and  oc- 
casion served.  Was  there  any  bird  in  a  cage,  that  came 
in  for  a  share  of  his  regards? 

"A  very  young  lady  !"  thought  Mr.  Carker  the  m.an- 
ager,  through  his  song.  "Ah!  when  I  saw  her  last, 
she  was  a  little  child.  With  dark  eyes  and  hair,  I  re- 
collect, and  a  good  face  ;  a  very  good  face  !  I  dare  say 
she's  pretty." 

More  affable  and  pleasant  yet,  and  humming  his  song 
until  his  many  teeth  vibrated  to  it,  Mr.  Carker  picked 
his  way  along,  and  turned  at  last  into  the  shady  street 
where  Mr.  Dombey's  house  stood.  He  had  been  so  busy, 
winding  webs  round  good  faces,  and  obscuring  them 
with  meshes,  that  he  hardly  thought  of  being  at  this 
point  of  his  ride,  until,  glancing  down  the  cold  perspec- 
tive of  tall  houses,  he  reined  in  his  horse  quickly  within 
a  few  yards  of  the  door.  But  to  explain  why  Mr.  Carker 
reined  in  his  horse  quickly,  and  what  he  looked  at  in  no 
small  surprise,  a  few  digressive  words  are  necessary. 

Mr.  Toots,  emancipated  from  the  Blimber  thraldom 
and  coming  into  the  possession  of  a  certain  portion  of 
his  worldly  wealth,  "which,"  as  he  had  been  wont, 
during  his  last  half-years  probation,  to  communicate  to 
Mr.  Feeder  every  evening  as  a  new  discovery,  "  the  ex- 
ecutors couldn't  keep  him  out  of,"  had  applied  himself, 
with  great  diligence,  to  the  science  of  Life.  Fired  with 
a  noble  emulation  to  pursue  a  brilliant  and  distinguished 
career,  Mr.  Toots  had  furnished  a  choice  set  of  apart- 
ments ;  had  established  among  them  a  sporting  bower, 
embellished  with  the  portraits  of  winning  horses,  in 
which  he  took  no  particle  of  interest ;  and  a  divan, 
which  made  him  poorly.    In  this  delicious  abode,  Mr. 


Toots  devoted  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  those  gentle 
arts  which  refine  and  humanise  existence,  his  chief  in- 
structor in  which  was  an  interesting  character  called 
the  Game  Chicken,  who  was  always  to  be  heard  of  at 
the  bar  of  the  Black  Badger,  wore  a  shaggy  white  great- 
coat in  the  warmest  weather,  and  knocked  Mr.  Toots 
about  the  head  three  times  a  week,  for  the  small  con- 
sideration of  ten  and  six  per  visit. 

The  Game  Chicken,  who  was  quite  the  Apollo  of  Mr. 
Toots's  Pantheon,  had  introduced  to  him  a  marker  who 
taught  billiards,  a  Life  Guard  who  taught  fencing,  a 
job-master  who  taught  riding,  a  Cornish  gentleman  who 

i  was  up  to  anything  in  the  athletic  line,  and  two  or  three 

j  other  friends  connected  no  less  intimately  with  the  fine 
arts.    Under  whose  auspices  Mr.  Toots  could  hardly 

1  fail  to  improve  apace,  and  under  whose  tuition  he  went 

i  to  work. 

I  But,  however  it  came  about,  it  came  to  pass,  even 
while  these  gentlemen  had  the  gloss  of  novelty  upon 
them,  that  Mr.  Toots  felt,  he  didn't  know  how,  unset- 
tled and  uneasy.  There  were  husks  in  his  corn,  that 
even  Game  Chickens  couldn't  peck  up  ;  gloomy  giants 
in  his  leisure,  that  even  Game  Chickens  couldn't  knock 
down.  Nothing  seemed  to  do  Mr.  Toots  so  much  good  as 
incessantly  leaving  cards  at  Mr.  Dombey's  door.  No 
tax-gatherer  in  the  British  dominions — that  wide-spread 
territory  on  which  the  sun  never  sets,  and  where  the 
tax-gatherer  never  goes  to  bed — was  more  regular  and 
persevering  in  his  calls  than  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots  never  went  up-stairs  ;  and  always  performed 
the  same  ceremonies,  richly  dressed  for  the  purpose,  at 
the  hB,ll-door. 

"  Oh  !  Good  morning  ! "  would  be  Mr.  Toots's  first 
remark  to  the  servant.  "  For  Mr.  Dombey,"  would  be 
Mr.  Toots's  next  remark,  as  he  handed  in  a  card.  "For 
Miss  Dombey,"  would  be  his  next,  as  he  handed  in  an- 
other. 

Mr.  Toots  would  then  turn  round  as  if  to  go  away ; 
but  the  man  knew  him  by  this  time,  and  knew  he 
wouldn't. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  as  if 
a  thought  had  suddenly  descended  on  him.  "Is  the 
young  woman  at  home  ?  " 

The  man  would  rather  think  she  was,  but  wouldn't 
quite  know.  Then  he  would  ring  a  bell  that  rang  up- 
stairs, and  would  look  up  the  staircase,  and  would  say, 
yes  she  was  at  home,  and  was  coming  down.  Then  Miss 
Nipper  would  appear,  and  the  man  would  retire. 

"Oh  !  How  de  do?"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  with  a 
chuckle  and  a  blush. 

Susan  would  thank  him,  and  say  she  was  very  well. 

"  How's  Diogenes  going  on  ?  "  would  be  Mr.  Toots's  sec- 
ond interrogation. 

Very  well  indeed.  Miss  Florence  was  fonder  and  fond- 
er of  him  every  day.  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  hail  this 
with  a  burst  of  chuckles,  like  the  opening  of  a  bottle  of 
some  effervescent  beverage, 

"Miss  Florence  is  quite  well,  sir,"  Susan  would  add. 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank'ee,"  was  the  inva- 
riable  reply  of  Mr.  Toots  ;  and  when  he  had  said  so,  he 
always  went  away  very  fast. 

Now  it  is  certain  that  Mr.  Toots  had  a  filmy  something 
in  his  mind,  which  led  him  to  conclude  that  if  he  could 
aspire  successfully  in  the  fulness  of  time,  to  the  hand  of 
Florence,  he  would  be  fortunate  and  blest.  It  is  certain 
that  Mr.  Toots,  by  some  remote  and  roundabout  road,  had 
got  to  that  point,  and  that  there  he  made  a  stand.  His 
heart  was  wounded  ;  he  was  touched  ;  he  was  in  love. 
He  had  made  a  desperate  attempt,  one  night,  and  sat  up 
all  night  for  the  purpose,  to  write  an  acrostic  on  Florence, 
which  affected  him  to  tears  in  the  conception.  But  he 
never  proceeded  in  the  execution  further  than  the  words 
I  "  For  when  I  gaze" — the  flow  of  imagination  in  which 
he  had  previously  written  down  the  initial  letters  of  the 
other  seven  lines,  deserting  him  at  that  point. 

Beyond  devising  that  very  artful  and  politic  measure 
I  of  leaving  a  card  for  Mr.  Dombey  daily,  the  brain  of  Mr. 
:  Toots  had  not  worked  much  in  reference  to  the  subject 
that  held  his  feelings  prisoner.  But  deep  consideration 
at  length  assured  Mr.  Toots  that  an  important  step  to  gain, 
I  was  the  conciliation  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper,  preparatory  to 
1  giving  her  some  inkling  of  his  state  of  mind. 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


529 


A  little  liglit  and  playful  gallantry  towards  this  lady 
seemed  tlie  means  to  employ  in  that  early  chapter  of  the 
history,  for  winning  her  to  his  interests.  Not  being  able 
quite  to  make  up  his  mind  about  it,  he  consulted  the 
Chicken — without  taking  that  gentleman  into  his  confi- 
dence ;  merely  informing  him  that  a  friend  in  Yorkshire 
had  written  to  him  (Mr.  Toots)  for  his  opinion  on  such  a 
question.  The  Chicken  replying  that  his  opinion  always 
was,  "  Go  in  and  win,"  and  further,  "  When  your  man's 
before  you  and  your  work  cut  out,  go  in  and  do  it,"  Mr, 
Toots  considered  this  a  figurative  way  of  supporting  his 
own  view  of  the  case,  and  heroically  resolved  to  kiss  Miss 
Nipper  next  day. 

Upon  the  next  day,  therefore,  Mr.  Toots,  putting  into 
requisition  some  of  the  greatest  marvels  that  Burgess  and 
Co.  had  ever  turned  out,  went  off  to  Mr.  Dombey's  upon 
this  design.  But  his  heart  failed  him  so  much  as  he  ap- 
proached the  scene  of  action,  that,  although  he  arrived 
on  the  ground  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  it  was  six 
before  he  knocked  at  the  door. 

Everything  happened  as  usual,  down  to  the  point  when 
Susan  said  her  young  mistress  was  well,  and  Mr.  Toots 
said  it  was  of  no  consequence.  To  her  amazement,  Mr. 
Toots  instead  of  going  ofE  like  a  rocket,  after  that  obser- 
vation, lingered  and  chuckled. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  walk  up-stairs,  sir  ?  "  said  Su- 
san. 

"Well,  I  think  I  will  come  in  !"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

But  instead  of  walking  up-stairs,  the  bold  Toots  made 
an  awkward  plunge  at  Susan  when  the  door  was  shut, 
and  embracing  that  fair  creature,  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

"  Go  along  with  you  ?  "  cried  Susan,"  or  I'll  tear  your 
eyes  out," 

"  Just  another  !"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Go  along  with  you  !"  exclaimed  Susan,  giving  him  a 
push,  "  Innocents  like  you,  too  !  Who'll  begin  next ! 
Go  along,  sir  ! " 

Susan  was  not  in  any  serious  strait,  for  she  could  hard- 
ly speak  for  laughing  ;  but  Diogenes,  on  the  stair-case, 
hearing  a  rustling  against  the  wall,  and  a  shuffling  of 
feet,  and  seeing  through  the  banisters  that  there  was 
some  contention  going  on,  and  foreign  invasion  in  the 
house,  formed  a  different  opinion,  dashed  down  to  the 
rescue,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  e^'e  had  Mr.  Toots  by 
the  leg. 

Susan  screamed,  laughed,  opened  the  street  door,  and 
ran  down-stairs  ;  the  bold  Toots  tumbled  staggering  out 
into  the  street,  with  Diogenes  holding  on  to  one  leg  of 
his  pantaloons,  as  if  Burgess  and  Co,  were  his  cooks,  and 
had  provided  that  dainty  morsel  for  his  holiday'  enter- 
tainment ;  Diogenes  .shaken  off,  rolled  over  and  over  in 
the  dust,  got  up  again,  whirled  round  the  giddy  Toots 
and  snapped  at  him  :  and  all  this  turmoil,  Mr.  Carker, 
reining  up  his  horse  and  sitting  a  little  at  a  distance, 
saw,  to  his  amazement,  issue  from  the  stately  house  of 
Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Carker  remained  watching  the  discomfited  Toots, 
when  Diogenes  was  called  in,  and  the  door  shut :  and 
while  that  gentleman,  taking  refuge  in  a  doorway  near 
at  hand,  bound  up  the  torn  leg  of  his  pantaloons  with  a 
costly  silk  handkerchief  that  had  formed  part  of  his  ex- 
pensive outfit  for  the  adventure. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  riding  up, 
with  his  most  propitiatory  smile.  '"  I  hope  vou  are  not 
hurt?"  ^   A  ^  i  . 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  raising  his 
flushed  face,  "it's  of  no  consequence."  Mr,  Toots 
would  have  signified,  if  he  could,  that  he  liked  it  very 
much. 

"  If  the  dog's  teeth  have  entered  the  leg,  sir — "  began 
Carker,  with  a  display  of  his  own. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "it's  all  quite 
right.    It's  very  comfortable,  thank  you." 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey,"  ob- 
served Carker. 

II  Have  you  though?  "  rejoined  the  blushing  Toots. 

"  And  you  will  allow  me,  perhaps,  to  apologise,  in  his 
absence,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  off  his  hat,  "  for  such  ! 
a  misadventure,  and  to  wonder  how  it  can  possibly  have  i 
happened. " 

Mr.  Toots  is  so  much  gratified  by  this  politeness,  and 
the  lucky  chance  of  making  friends  with  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Vol.  II.— 34 


Dombey,  that  fie  pulls  out  his  card-case,  which  he  never 
loses  an  opportunity  of  using,  and  hands  his  name  and 
address  to  Mr.  Carker  :  who  responds  to  that  courtesy 
by  giving  him  his  own,  and  with  that  they  part. 

As  Mr.  Carker  picks  his  way  so  softly  past  the  house, 
glancing  up  at  the  windows,  and  trying  to  make  out  the 
pensive  face  behind  the  curtain  looking  at  the  children 
opposite,  the  rough  head  of  Diogenes  came  clambering 
up  close  by  it,  and  the  dog,  regardless  of  all  soothing, 
barks  and  growls,  and  makes  at  him  from  that  height, 
as  if  he  would  spring  down  and  tear  him  limb  from 
limb. 

Well  spoken,  Di,  so  near  your  mistress  !  Another, 
and  another  with  your  head  up,  your  eyes  flashing,  and 
your  vexed  mouth  worrying  itself,  for  want  of  him  ! 
Another,  as  he  picks  his  way  along  1  You  have  a  good 
scent,  Di, — cats,  boy,  cats  I 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Florence  Solitary,  and  the  Midshipmayi  Mysterious. 

Florence  lived  alone  in  the  great  dreary  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone  ;  and  the 
blank  Avails  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  vacant  stare, 
as  if  they  had  a  Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth 
and  beauty  into  stone. 

No  magic  dwelling  place  in  magic  story,  shut  up  in 
the  heart  of  a  thick  wood,  was  ever  more  solitary  and 
deserted  to  the  fancy,  than  was  her  father's  mansion  in 
its  grim  reality,  as  it  stood  lowering  on  the  street  : 
always  by  night,  when  lights  were  shining  from  neigh- 
bouring windows,  a  blot  upon  its  scanty  brightness  ; 
always  by  day,  a  frown  upon  its  never-smiling  face. 

There  were  not  two  dragon  sentries  keeping  ward  be- 
fore the  gate  of  this  abode,  as  in  magic  legend  are  usu- 
ally found  on  duty  over  the  wronged  innocents  im- 
prisoned :  but  besides  a  glowering  visage,  with  its  thin 
lips  parted  wickedly,  that  surveyed  all  comers  from 
;  above  the  archway  of  the  door,  there  was  a  monstrous 
fantasy  of  rusty  iron  curling  and  twisting  like  a  petri- 
faction of  an  arbour  over  the  threshold,  budding  in 
spikes  and  corkscrew  points,  and  bearing,  one  on  either 
side,  two  ominous  extinguishers,  that  seemed  to  say, 
"  Who  enter  here,  leave  light  behind  ! "  There  were  no 
j  talismanic  characters  engraven  on  the  portal,  but  the 
house  was  now  so  neglected  in  appearance  that  boys 
chalked  the  railings  and  the  pavement — particularly 
round  the  corner  where  the  side  wall  was — and  drew 
ghosts  on  the  stable-door  ;  and  being  sometimes  driven 
off  by  Mr,  Towlinson,  made  portraits  of  him  in  return, 
with  his  ears  growing  out  horizontally  from  under  his 
hat.  Noise  ceased  to  be,  within  the  shadow  of  the  roof. 
The  brass  band  that  came  into  the  street  once  a  week,  in 
the  morning,  never  brayed  a  note  in  at  those  windows ; 
but  all  such  company,  down  to  a  poor  little  piping  organ 
of  weak  intellect,  with  an  imbecile  party  of  automaton 
dancers  waltzing  in  and  out  at  folding-doors,  fell  off  from 
it  with  one  accord,  and  shunned  it  as  a  hopeless  place. 

The  spell  upon  it  was  more  wasting  than  the  speU 
that  used  to  set  enchanted  houses  sleeping  once  upon  a 
time,  but  left  their  waking  freshness  unimpaired. 

The  passive  desolation  of  di.suse  was  everywhere 
silently  manifest  about  it.  Within  doors,  curtains, 
drooping  heavily,  lost  their  old  folds  and  shapes,  and 
hung  like  cumbrous  palls.  Hecatombs  of  furniture  still 
piled  and  covered  up,  shrunk  like  imprisoned  and  for- 
gotten men,  and  changed  insensibly.  Mirrors  were 
dim  as  with  the  breath  of  years.  Patterns  of  carpets 
faded  and  became  perplexed  and  faint,  like  the  memory 
of  those  years'  trifling  incidents.  Boards,  starting  at  un- 
wonted footsteps,  creaked  and  shook.  Keys  rusted  in 
the  locks  of  doors.  Damp  started  on  the  walls,  and  as 
the  stains  came  out,  the  pictures  seemed  to  go  in  and 
secrete  themselves.  Mildew  and  mould  began  to  lurk 
in  closets.  Fungus  trees  grew  in  corners  of  the  cellars. " 
Dust  accumulated,  nobody  knew  whence  nor  how  ; 
spiders,  moths,  and  grubs  were  heard  of  every  day.  An 
exploratory  black-beetle  now  and  then  was  found  im- 
movable upon  the  stairs,  or  in  an  upper  room,  as  won- 


530 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


dering  how  lie  got  tliere.  Rats  began  to  squeak  and 
scuffle  in  the  night-time,  through  dark  galleries  they 
mined  behind  the  panelling. 

The   dreary  magnificence  of  the  state  rooms,  seen 
imperfectly  by  the  doubtful  light  admitted  through 
closed  shutters,  would  have  answered  well  enough  for 
an  enchanted  abode.    Such  as  the  tarnished  paws  of 
gilded  lions,  stealthily  put  out  from  beneath  their  wrap- 
pers ;  the  marble  lineaments  of  busts  on  pedestals,  fear-  | 
fully  revealing  themselves  through  veils  ;  the  clocks 
that  never  told  the  time,  or,  if  wound  up  by  any  chance,  ! 
told  it  wrong,  and  struck  unearthly  numbers,  which  are  | 
not  upon  the  dial  ;  the  accidental  tinklings  among  the  i 
pendent  lustres,  more  startling  than  alarm  bells  ;  the  ' 
softened  sounds  and  laggard  air  that  made  their  way  ' 
among  these  objects,  and  a  phantom  crowd  of  others, 
shrouded  and  hooded,  and  made  spectral  of  shape.  But, 
besides,  tliere  was  the  great  staircase,  where  the  lord  of 
the  place  so  rarely  set  his  foot,  and  by  which  his  little 
child  had  gone  up  to  Heaven.    There  were  other  stair- 
cases and  passages  where  no  one  went  for  weeks  togeth- 
er ;  there  were  two  closed  rooms  associated  with  dead 
members  of  the  family,  and  with  whispered  recollections 
of  them ;  and  to  all  the  house  but  Florence,  there  was  a 
gentle  figure  moving  through  the  solitude  and  gloom, 
that  gave  to  every  lifeless  thing  a  touch  of  present  hu- 
man interest  and  wonder. 

For  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the 
cold  walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  vacant  stare,  as 
if  they  had  a  Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth  and 
beauty  into  stone. 

The  grass  began  to  grow  upon  the  roof,  and  in  the 
crevices  of  the  basement  paving.  A  scaly  crumbling 
vegetation  sprouted  round  the  windoAV-sills.  Fragments 
of  mortar  lost  their  hold  upon  the  insides  of  the  unused 
chimneys,  and  came  dropping  down.  The  two  trees  with 
the  smoky  trunks  were  blighted  high  up,  and  the  with- 
ered branches  domineered  above  the  leaves.  Through 
the  whole  building,  white  had  turned  yellow,  yellow 
nearly  black  ;  and  since  the  time  when  the  poor  lady 
died,  it  had  slowly  become  a  dark  gap  in  the  long  mo- 
notonous street.  I 

But  Florence  bloomed  there,  like   the  king's  fair  : 
daughter  in  the  story.    Her  books,  her  music,  and  ht3r  [ 
daily  teachers,  were  her  only  real  companions,  Susan  | 
Nipper  and  Diogenes  excepted  ;  of  whom  the  former,  in  I 
her  attendance  on  the  studies  of  her  young  mistress,  be-  j 
gan  to  grow  quite  learned  herself,  while  the  latter,  soft- 
ened possibly  by  the  same  influences,  v^ould  lay  his  head  I 
upon  the  window-ledge,  and  placidly  open  and  shut  his 
eyes  upon  the  street,  all  through  a  summer  morning  ;  ! 
sometimes  pricking  up  his  head  to  look  with  great  sig-  | 
nificance  after  some  noisy  dog  in  a  cart,  who  was  barking 
his  way  along,  and  sometimes,  with  an  exasperated  and 
unaccountable  recollection  of  his  supposed  enemy  in  the 
neighbourhood,  rushing  to  the  door,  whence  after  a  deaf-  | 
ening  disturbance,  he  would  come  jogging  back  with  a 
ridiculous  complacency  that  belonged  to  him,  and  lay  his 
jaw  upon  the  window-ledge  again,  with  the  air  of  a  dog 
who  had  done  a  public  service. 

So  Florence  lived  in  her  wilderness  of  a  home,  within 
the  circle  of  her  innocent  pursuits  and  thoughts,  and  1 
nothing  harmed  her.  She  could  go  down  to  her  father's  j 
rooms  now,  and  think  of  him,  and  suffer  her  loving  heart 
humbly  to  approach  him,  without  fear  of  repulse.  She 
could  look  upon  the  objects  that  had  surrounded  him  in 
his  sorrow,  and  could  nestle  near  his  chair,  and  not  dread 
the  glance  that  she  so  well  remembered.  She  could  ren- 
der him  such  little  tokens  of  her  duty  and  service,  as 
putting  everything  in  order  for  him  with  her  own  hands, 
binding  little  nosegays  for  his  table,  changing  them  *as 
one  by  one  they  withered  and  he  did  not  come  back,  pre- 
paring something  for  him  every  day,  and  leaving  some 
timid  mark  of  her  presence  near  his  usual  seat.  To-day, 
it  was  a  little  painted  stand  for  his  watch  ;  to-morrow 
she  would  be  afraid  to  leave  it,  and  would  substitute 
Borae  other  trifle  of  her  making  not  so  likely  to  attract 
his  eye.  Waking  in  the  night,  perhaps,  she  would 
tremble  at  the  thought  of  his  coming  home  and  angrily 
rejecting  it,  and  would  hurry  down  with  slippered  feet 
and  quickly  beating  heart,  and  bring  it  away.    At  an- 


other time,  she  would  only  lay  her  face  upon  his  desk, 
and  leave  a  kiss  there,  and  a  tear. 

Still  no  one  knew  of  this.  Unless  the  household  found 
it  out  when  she  was  not  there — and  they  all  held  Mr. 
Dombey's  rooms  in  awe — it  was  as  deep  a  secret  in  her 
breast  as  what  had  gone  before  it.  Florence  stole  into 
those  rooms  at  twilight,  early  in  the  morning,  and  at 
times  when  meals  were  served  down-stairs.  And  al- 
though they  were  in  every  nook  the  better  and  the 
brighter  for  her  care,  she  entered  and  passed  out  as 
quietly  as  any  sunbeam,  excepting  that  she  left  her  light 
behind. 

Shadowy  company  attended  Florence  up  and  down  the 
echoing  house,  and  sat  with  her  in  tbe  dismantled  rooms. 
As  if  her  life  were  an  enchanted  vision,  there  arose  out 
of  her  solitude  ministering  thoughts,  that  made  it  fanci- 
ful and  unreal.  She  imagined  so  often  what  her  life 
would  have  been  if  her  father  could  have  loved  her  and 
she  had  been  a  favourite  child,  that  sometimes,  for  the 
moment,  she  almost  believed  it  was  so,  and,  borne  on  by 
the  current  of  that  pensive  fiction,  seemed  to  remember 
how  they  had  watched  her  brother  in  his  grave  together  ; 
how  they  had  freely  shared  his  heart  between  them  ;  how 
they  were  united  in  the  dear  remembrance  of  him  ;  how 
they  often  spoke  about  him  yet ;  and  her  kind  father, 
looking  at  her  gently,  told  her  of  their  common  hope 
and  trust  in  God.  At  other  times  she  pictured  to 
herself  her  mother  yet  alive.  And  oh  the  happiness  of 
falling  on  her  neck,  and  clinging  to  her  with  the  love  and 
confidence  of  all  her  soul  1  And  oh  the  desolation  of 
the  solitary  house  again,  with  evening  coming  on,  and 
no  one  there  ! 

But  there  was  one  thought,  scarcely  shaped  out  to  "her- 
self, yet  fervent  and  strong  within  her,  that  upheld  Flor- 
ence when  she  strove,  and  filled  her  true  young  heart, 
so  sorely  tried,  with  constancy  of  purpose.  Into  her 
mind,  as  into  all  others  contending  with  the  great  afflic- 
tion of  our  mortal  nature,  there  had  stolen  solemn  wan- 
derings and  hopes,  arising  in  the  dim  world  beyond  the 
present  life,  and  murmuring,  like  faint  music,  of  rec- 
ognition in  the  far-off  land  between  her  brother  and  her 
mother  :  of  some  present  consciousness  in  both  of  her : 
some  love  and  commiseration  for  her  :  and  some  knowl- 
edge of  her  as  she  went  her  way  upon  the  earth.  It  was 
a  soothing  consolation  to  Florence  to  give  shelter  to  these 
thoughts,  until  one  day — it  was  soon  after  she  had  last 
seen  her  father  in  his  own  room,  late  at  night — the  fancy 
came  upon  her,  that,  in  weepins:  for  his  alienated  heart, 
she  might  stir  the  spirits  of  the  dead  against  him.  Wild, 
weak,  childish,  as  it  may  have  been  to  think  so,  and  to 
tremble  at  the  half-formed  thought,  it  was  the  impulse 
of  her  loving  nature  ;  and  from  that  hour  Florence  strove 
against  the  cruel  wound  in  her  breast,  and  tried  to  think 
of  him  whose  hand  had  made  it  only  with  hope. 

Her  father  did  not  know — she  held  to  it  from  that  time 
— how  much  she  loved  him.  She  was  very  young,  and 
had  no  mother,  and  had  never  learned,  by  some  fault  or 
misfortune,  how  to  express  to  him  that  she  loved  him. 
She  would  be  patient,  and  would  try  to  gain  that  art  in 
time,  and  win  him  to  a  better  knowledge  of  his  only 
child. 

This  became  the  purpose  of  her  life.  The  morning 
sun  shone  down  upon  the  faded  house,  and  found  the 
resolution  bright  and  fresh  within  the  bosom  of  its  soli- 
tary mistress.  Through  all  the  duties  of  the  day,  it  ani- 
mated her  ;  for  Florence  hoped  that  the  more  she  knew, 
and  the  more  accomplished  she  became,  the  more  glad 
he  would  be  when  he  came  to  know  and  like  her. 
Sometimes  she  wondered,  with  a  swelling  heart  and 
rising  tear,  whether  she  was  proficient  enough  in  any- 
thing to  surprise  him  when  they  should  become  com- 
panions. Sometimes  she  tried  to  think  if  there  were 
any  kind  of  knowledge  that  would  bespeak  his  inter- 
est more  readily  than  another.  Always  :  at  her  books, 
her  music,  and  her  work  :  in  her  morning  walks,  and 
in  her  nightly  prayers  :  she  had  her  engrossing  aim  in 
view.  Strange  study  for  a  child,  to  learn  the  road  to 
a  hard  parent's  heart  1 

There  were  many  careless  loungers  through  the 
streets,  as  the  summer  evening  deepened  into  night, 
who  glanced  across  the  road  at  the  sombre  house,  and 
saw  the  youthful  figure  at  the  window,  such  a  con- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


531 


trast  to  it,  looking  upward  at  the  S5tars  as  xhey  began 
to  shine,  who  would  have  slept  the  worse  if  they  had 
known  on  what  design  she  mused  so  stedfastly.  The 
reputation  of  the  mansion  as  a  haunted  house,  would 
not  have  been  the  gayer  with  some  humble  dwellers 
elsewhere,  who  were  struck  by  its  external  gloom  in 
passing  and  repassing  in  their  daily  avocations,  and  so 
named  it,  if  they  could  have  read  its  story  in  the  darkened 
face.  But  Florence  held  her  sacred  purpose,  unsus- 
pecte(Land  unaided  :  and  stiidied  only  how  to  bring  her 
fathei*to  the  understanding  that  she  loved  him,  and 
made  no  appeal  against  him,  in  any  wandering  thought. 

Thus  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the  mo- 
notonous walls  loolced  down  upon  her  with  a  stare,  as  if 
they  had  a  Gorgon-like  intent  to  stare  her  youth  and 
beauty  into  stone. 

Susan  Nipper  stood  opposite  to  her  young  mistress  one 
morning,  as  she  folded  and  sealed  a  note  §he  had  been 
writing  ;  and  showed  in  her  looks  an  approving  knowl- 
edge of  its  contents. 

"  Better  late  than  never,  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan, 
"and  I  do  say,  that  even  a  visit  to  them  old  Sketileses 
will  be  a  Godsend." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles,  Su- 
san," returned  Florence,  with  a  mild  correctioii  of  that 
young  lady's  familiar  mention  of  the  family  in  question, 
"to  repeat  their  invitation  so  kindly." 

Miss  Nipper,  who  was  perhaps  the  most  thorough-going 
partisan  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  who  carried  her 
partisanship  into  all  matters  great  or  small,  and  perpetu- 
ally waged  war  with  it  against  society,  screwe,d  up  her  lips 
and  shook  her  head,  as  a  protest  against  any  recognition 
of  disinterestedness  in  the  Skettleses,  and  a  plea  in  bar 
that  they  would  have  valuable  consideration  for  their 
kindness  in  the  company  of  Florence. 

"  They  know  what  they're  about,  if  ever  people  did," 
murmured  Miss  Nipper,  drawing  in  her  breath,  "oh  ! 
trust  them  Skettleses  for  that  ! " 

"  I  am  not  very  a,nxious  to  go  to  Fulham,  Susan,  I  con- 
fess," said  Florence  thoughtfully  ;  "  but  it  will  be  right 
to  go.    I  think  it  will  be  better. 

"Much  better,"  interposed  Susan,  ^vith  another  em- 
phatic shake  of  her  head. 

"  And  so,"  said  Florence,  "though  I  would  prefer  to 
have  gone  when  there  was  no  one  there,  instead  of  in 
this  vacation  time,  when  it  seems  there  are  some  young 
people  staying  in  the  house,  I  have  thankfully  said  yes." 

"  For  which  1  say.  Miss  Floy,  Oh  be  joyful  ! "  returned 
Susan.    "Ah!h— h!" 

This  last  ejaculation,  with  which  Miss  Nipper  frequent- 
ly wound  up  a  sentence,  at  about  that  epoch  of  time,  was 
supposed  below  the  level  of  the  hall  to  have  a  general 
reference  to  Mr,  Dombey,  and  to  be  expressive  of  a  yearn- 
ing in  Miss  Nipper  to  favour  that  gentleman  with  a  piece 
of  her  mind.  But  she  never  explained  it  ;  and  it  had  in 
consequence,  the  charm  of  mystery,  in  addition  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  sharpest  expression. 

"How  long  it  is  before  we  have  any  news  of  Walter, 
Susan  ! "  observed  Florence,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Long  indeed.  Miss  Floy  !  "  replied  her  maid.  ' '  And 
Perch  said,  when  he  came  just  now  to  see  for  letters — 
but  what  signifies  what  he  says  !"  exclaimed  Susan,  red- 
dening and  breaking  off.    "  Much  ha  knows  about  it  !  " 

Florence  raised  her  eyes  quickly,  and  a  flush  overspread 
her  face. 

"  If  I  hadn't,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  evidently  struggling 
with  some  latent  anxiety  and  alarm,  and  looking  full  at 
her  young  mistress,  while  endeavouring  to  work  herself 
into  a  state  of  resentment  with  the  unoffending  Mr. 
Perch's  image,  "if  I  hadn't  more  manliness  than  that  in- 
sipidest  of  his  sex,  I'd  never  take  pride  in  my  hair  again, 
but  turn  it  up  behind  my  ears,  and  wear  coarse  caps, 
without  a  bit  of  border,  until  death  released  me  from  my 
insignificance,  I  may  not  be  a  Amazon,  Miss  Floy,  and 
wouldn't  so  demean  myself  by  such  disfigurement,  but 
anyways,  I'm  not  a  giver  up,  I  hope." 

"Give  up!  What?"  cried  Florence,  with  a  face  of 
terror. 

"  Why,  nothing.  Miss,"  said  Susan.  **Good  gracious, 
nothing  I  It's  only  that  wet  curl-paper  of  a  man  Perch, 
that  any  one  might  almost  make  away  with,  with  a  touch, 


and  really  it  would  be  a  blessed  event  for  all  parties  if 
some  one  would  take  pity  on  him,  and  would  have  the 
goodness  !  " 

' '  Does  he  give  up  the  ship,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Florence, 
very  pale. 

No,  miss,"  returned  Susan,  "I  should  liketoseehira 
make  so  bold  as  to  do  it  to  my  face  !  No,  miss,  but  he 
goes  on  about  some  bothering  ginger  that  Mr.  Walter 
was  to  send  to  Mrs.  Perch,  and  shakes  his  dismal  head, 
and  says  he  hopes  it  may  be  coming  :  any  how,  he  says, 
it  can't  come  now  in  time  for  the  intended  occasion,  but 
may  do  for  next,  which  really,"  said  Miss  Nipper,  with 
aggravated  scorn,  "  puts  me  out  of  patience  with  the 
man,  for  though  I  can  bear  a  great  deal,  I  am  not  a  camel, 
neither  am  I,"  added  Susan,  after  a  moment's  considera- 
tion, "if  I  know  myself,  a  dromedary  neither." 

"  What  else  does  he  say,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Florence, 
earnestly.    "  Won't  you  tell  me?" 

"As  if  I  wouldn't  tell  you  anything.  Miss  Floy,  and 
everything  !"  said  Susan.  "Why  miss,  he  says  that 
there  begins  to  be  a  general  talk  about  the  ship,  and  that 
they  have  never  had  a  ship  on  that  voyage  half  so  long 
unheard  of,  and  that  the  captain's  wife  was  at  the  office 
yesterday,  and  seemed  a  little  put  out  about  it,  but  any 
one  could  say  that,  we  knew  nearly  that  before." 

"  I  must  visit  Walter's  uncle,"  said  Florence,  hurriedly, 
"  before  I  leave  home.  I  will  go  and  see  him  this  morn- 
ing.   Let  us  walk  there,  directly,  Susan." 

Miss  Nipper  having  nothing  to  urge  against  the  propo- 
sal, but  being  perfectly  acquiescent,  they  were  soon 
equipped,  and  in  the  streets,  and  on  their  way  towards 
the  little  Midshipman. 

The  state  of  mind  in  which  poor  Walter  had  gone  to 
Captain  Cuttle's  on  the  day  when  Brogley  the  broker 
came  into  possession,  and  when  there  seemed  to  him  to 
be  an  execution  in  the  very  steeples,  was  pretty  much  the 
same  as  that  in  v/hich  Florence  now  took  her  way  to  Un- 
cle Sol's  ;  with  this  difference,  that  Florence  suffered 
the  added  pain  of  thinking  that  she  had  been,  perhaps, 
the  innocent  occasion  of  involving  Walter  in  peril,  and 
all  to  whom  he  was  dear,  herself  included,  in  an  agony 
of  suspense.  For  the  rest,  uncertainty  and  danger  seemed 
written  upon  everything.  The  weathercocks  on  spires 
and  housetops  were  mysterious  with  hints  of  stormy  wind, 
and  pointed,  like  so  many  ghostly  fingers,  out  to  danger- 
ous seas,  where  fragments  of  great  wrecks  were  drifting, 
perhaps,  and  helpless  men  were  rocked  upon  them  into 
a  sleep  as  deep  as  the  unfathomable  waters.  When 
Florence  came  into  the  city,  and  passed  gentlemen  who 
were  talking  together,  she  dreaded  to  hear  them  speak- 
ing of  the  ship,  and  saying  it  was  lost.  Pictures  and 
prints  of  vessels  fighting  with  the  rolling  waves  filled  her 
with  alarm.  The  smoke  and  clouds,  though  moving  gen- 
tly, moved  too  fast  for  her  apprehensions,  and  made  her 
fear  there  was  a  tempest  blowing  at  that  moment  on  the 
ocean. 

Susan  Nipper  may  or  may  not  have  been  affected  sim- 
ilarly, but  having  her  attention  much  engaged  in  strug- 
gles with  boys,  whenever  there  was  any  press  of  people 
— for,  between  that  grade  of  human  kind  and  herself, 
there  was  some  natural  animosity  that  invariably  broke 
out,  whenever  they  came  together — it  would  seem  that 
she  had  not  much  leisure  on  the  road  for  intellectual 
oj)erations. 

Arriving  in  good  time  abreast  of  the  Wooden  Midship- 
man on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  and  waiting  for  an 
op[)ortunity  to  cross  the  street,  they  were  a  little  sur- 
prised at  first  to  see,  at  the  Instrument-maker's  door,  a 
round-headed  lad,  with  his  chubby  face  addressed  to- 
wards the  sky,  who,  as  they  looked  at  him,  suddenly 
thrust  into  his  capacious  mouth  two  fingers  of  each  hand, 
and  with  the  assistance  of  that  machinery  whistled, 
with  astonishing  shrillness,  to  some  pigeons  at  a  consid- 
erable elevation  in  the  air. 

"Mrs.  Richards's  eldest,  miss!"  said  Susan,  "and 
the  worrit  of  Mrs.  Richards's  life  !  " 

As  Polly  had  been  to  tell  Florence  of  the  resuscitated 
prospects  of  her  son  and  heir,  Florence  was  prepared 
for  the  meeting  :  so,  a  favourable  moment  presenting 
itself,  they  both  hastened  across,  without  any  further 
contemplation  of  Mrs.  Richards's  bane.  That  sporting 
character,  unconscious  of  their  approach,  again  whistled 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Vith  his  utmost  miglit,  and  then  yelled  in  a  rapture 
of  excitement,  "  Strays  !  Whoo-oop  !  Strays  !"  wliicli 
identification  had  such  an  effect  upon  the  conscience- 
stricken  pigeons,  that  instead  of  going  direct  to  some 
town  in  the  north  of  England,  as  appeared  to  have  been 
their  original  intention,  they  began  to  wheel  and  falter  ; 
whereupon  Mrs.  Richards's  first  born  pierced  them  with 
another  whistle,  and  again  yelled,  in  a  voice  that  rose 
above  the  turmoil  of  the  street,  "  Strays  I  Whoo-oop  ! 
Stravs  !  " 

From  this  transport,  he  was  abruptly  recalled  to  ter- 
restrial objects,  by  a  poke  from  Miss  Nipper,  which  sent 
him  into  the  shop. 

"  Is  this  the  way  yoa  show  your  penitence,  when  Mrs. 
Richards  has  been  fretting  for  you  months  and  months  }" 
said  Susan,  following  the  poke.    "  Where's  Mr.  Gills  ?" 

Rob,  who  smoothed  his  first  rebellious  glance  at  Miss 
Nipper  when  he  saw  Florence  following,  put  his  knuckles 
to  his  hair,  in  honour  of  the  latter,  and  said  to  the  fonner, 
that  Mr.  Gills  was  out. 

"  Fetch  him  home,"  said  Miss  Nipper,  with  authority, 
"  and  say  that  my  young  lady's  here." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he's  gone,"  said  Rob. 

"Is  that  your  penitence?"  cried  Susan,  with  stinging 
sharpness." 

"  Why  how  can  I  go  and  fetch  him  when  I  don't  know 
where  to  go?  "  whimpered  the  baited  Rob.  "  How  can 
you  be  so  unreasonable  ?  " 

"Did  Mr.  Gills  say  when  he  should  be  home?"  asked 
Florence. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  replied  Rob,  with  another  application  of 
his  knuckles  to  his  hair.  "  He  said  he  should  be  home 
early  in  the  afternoon  ;  in  about  a  couple  of  hours  from 
now,  miss." 

"Is  he  very  anxious  about  his  nephew?"  inquired 
Susan. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  returned  Rob,  preferring  to  address  him- 
self to  Florence  and  slighting  Nipper  ;  "  I  should  say  he 
was,  very  much  so.  He  ain't  in-doors,  miss,  not  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  together.  He  can't  settle  in  one  place  five 
minutes.  He  goes  about,  like  a — just  like  a  stray,"  said 
Rob,  stooping  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  pigeons  through 
the  window,  and  checking  himself,  with  his  fingers  half- 
way to  his  mouth,  on  the  verge  of  another  whistle. 

"Do  you  know  a  friend  of  Mr.  Gills,  called  Captain 
Cuttle  ?  "  inquired  Florence,  after  a  moment's  reflection. 

"  Him  with  a  hook,  miss  ?"  rejoined  Rob,  with  an  il- 
lustrative twist  of  his  left  hand.  "  Yes,  miss.  He  was 
here  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"  Has  he  not  been  here  since  ?"  asked  Susan. 

"  No,  miss,"  returned  Rob,  still  addressing  •  his  reply 
to  Florence. 

"Perhaps  Walter's  uncle  has  gone  there,  Susan,"  ob- 
served Florence,  turning  to  her. 

"  To  Captain  Cuttle's,  miss?  "  interposed  Rob  ;  "  no, 
he's  not  gone  there,  miss.  Because  he  left  particular 
word  that  if  Captain  Cuttle  called,  I  should  tell  him  how 
surprised  he  was,  not  to  have  seen  him  yesterday,  and 
should  make  him  stop  'till  he  came  back." 

"  Do  you  know  where  Captain  Cuttle  lives?"  asked 
Florence. 

Rob  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  turning  to  a  greasy 
parchment  book  on  the  shop  desk,  read  the  address 
aloud. 

Florence  again  turned  to  her  maid  and  took  counsel 
with  lier  in  a  low  voice,  while  Rob  the  round-eyed, 
mindful  of  his  patron's  secret  chaige,  looked  on  and 
listened.  Florence  proposed  that  they  should  go  to  Cap- 
tain Cuttle's  house  ;  hear  from  his  own  lips,  what  he 
thought  of  the  absence  of  any  tidings  of  the  Son  and 
Heir  ;  and  bring  him,  if  they  could,  to  comfort  Uncle 
Sol.  Susan  at  first  objected  sliglitly,  on  the  score  of 
distance  ;  but  a  hackney-coach  being  mentioned  by  her 
mistress,  withdrew  that  opposition,  and  gave  in  her  as- 
sent. There  were  some  minutes  of  discussion  between 
them  before  they  came  to  this  conclusion,  during  which 
the  staring  Rob  paid  close  attention  to  both  speakeis, 
and  inclined  his  ear  to  each  by  turns,  as  if  he  were  ap- 
pointed arbitrator  of  the  arguments. 

In  fine,  Rob  was  despatched  for  a  coach,  the  visitors 
keeping  shop  meanwhile  ;  and  when  he  brouglit  it,  they 
got  into  it,  leaving  word  for  Uncle  Sol  that  they  would 


be  sure  to  call  again,  on  their  way  back.  Rob  having 
stared  after  the  coach  until  it  was  as  invisible  as  the 
pigeons  had  now  become,  sat  down  behind  the  desk  with 
a  most  assiduous  demeanour  ;  and  in  order  that  he  might 
forget  nothing  of  what  had  transpired,  made  notes  of  it 
on  various  small  scraps  of  paper,  with  a  vast  expenditure 
of  ink.  There  was  no  danger  of  these  documents  be- 
traying anything,  if  accidentally  lost  ;  for  long  before  a 
word  was  dry,  it  became  as  profound  a  mystery  to  Rob, 
as  if  he  had  had  no  part  whatever  in  its  production. 

While  he  was  yet  busy  with  these  labours,  tlil  hack- 
ney-coach, after  encountering  unheard  of  difficulties 
from  swivel-bridges,  soft  roads,  impassable  canals,  cara- 
vans of  casks,  settlements  of  scarlet-beans  and  little 
wash-houses,  and  many  such  obstacles  abounding  in  that 
country," stopped  at  the  corner  of  Brig  Place.  Alighting 
here,  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  walked  down  the  street, 
and  sought  out  the  abode  of  Captain  Cuttle. 

It  happened  by  evil  chance  to  be  one  of  Mrs.  MacStin- 
ger's  great  cleaning  days.  On  these  occasions,  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger  was  knocked  up  by  the  policeman  at  a  quarter 
before  three  in  the  morning,  and  rarely  succumbed  before 
twelve  o'clock  next  night.  The  chief  object  of  this  in- 
stitution appeared  to  be,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  should 
move  all  the  furniture  into  tl^e  back  garden  at  early 
dawn,  walk  about  the  house  in  pattens  all  day,  and 
move  the  furniture  back  again  after  dark.  These  cere- 
monies greatly  fluttered  those  doves  the  young  Mac- 
Stingers,  who  were  not  only  unable  at  such  times  to  find 
any  resting-place  for  the  soles  of  their  feet,  but  gener- 
ally came  in  for  a  good  deal  of  pecking  from  the  mater- 
nal bird  during  the  progress  of  the  solemnities. 

At  the  nioment  when  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  pre- 
sented themselves  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's  door,  that 
worthy  but  redoubtable  female  was  in  the  act  of  convey- 
ing Alexander  MacStinger,  aged  two  years  and  three 
months,  along  the  passage  for  forcible  deposition  in  a 
sitting  posture  on  the  street  pavement  ;  Alexander  being 
black  in  the  face  with  holding  his  breath  after  punish- 
ment, and  a  cool  paving-stone  being  usually  found  to  act 
as  a  powerful  restorative  in  such  cases. 

The  feelings  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  as  a  woman  and  a 
mother,  were  outraged  by  the  look  of  pity  for  Alexander 
which  she  observed  on  Florence's  face.  Therefore,  Mrs. 
MacStinger  asserting  those  finest  emotions  of  our  nature, 
in  preference  to  weakly  gratifying  her  curiosity,  shook 
and  buffetted  Alexander  both  before  and  during  the  ap- 
plication of  the  paving-stone,  and  took  no  further  notice 
of  the  strangers. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  Florence,  when  the 
child  had  found  his  breath  again,  and  was  using  it. 
"Is  this  Captain  Cuttle's  house?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

"  Not  Number  Nine?  "  asked  Florence,  hesitating. 
"  Who  said  it  wasn't  Number  Nine?"  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger. 

Susan  Nipper  instantly  struck  in,  and  begged  to  in- 
quire what  Mrs.  MacStinger  meant  by  that,  and  if  she 
knew  whom  she  was  talking  to. 

Mrs.  MacStinger  in  retort,,  looked  at  her  all  over. 
"  What  do  you  want  with  Captain  Cuttle,  I  should  wish 
to  know  ?  "  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

"  Should  you  ?  Then  I'm  sorry  that  you  won't  be  sat- 
isfied," returned  Miss  Nipper. 

"Hush,  Susan!  If  you  please!"  said  Florence. 
"  Perhaps  you  can  have  the  goodness  to  tell  us  where 
Captain  Cuttle  lives  ma'am,  as  he  don't  live  here." 

"  Who  says  he  don't  live  here?"  retorted  the  implac- 
able MacStinger.  "I  said  it  wasn't  Cap'en  Cuttle's 
house — and  it  ain't  his  house — and  forbid  it,  that  it  ever 
should  be  his  house — for  Cap'en  Cuttle  don't  know  how 
to  keep  a  house — and  don't  deserve  to  have  a  house — it's 
my  house — and  when  I  let  the  upper  floor  to  Cap'en 
j  Cuttle,  oh  I  do  a  thankless  thing,  and  cast  pearls  before 
swine  ! " 

I  Mrs.  MacStinger  pitched  her  voice  for  the  upper  win- 
!  dows  in  offering  these  remarks,  and  cracked  off  each 

clause  sharply  by  itself  as  if  from  a  rifle  possessing  an 
!  infinity  of  barrels.    After  the  last  shot,  the  captain's. 

voice  was  heard  to  say,  in  feeble  remonstrance  from  his 
i  own  room,  "  Steady  below  1 " 

I     "Since  you  want  Cap'en  Cuttle,   there  he  is  !"  said 


D.OMBEY 

Mrs.  MacSting-er,  with  an  angry  motion  of  her  hand. 
On  Florence  making  bold  to  enter,  without  any  more 
parley,  and  on  Susan  following,  Mrs.  MacStinger  re- 
commenced her  pedestriap  exercise  in  pattens,  and 
Alexander  MacStinger  (still  on  the  paving-stone),  wlio 
had  stopped  in  his  crying  to  attend  to  the  conversation, 
began  to  wail  again,  entertaining  himself  during  that 
dismal  performance,  which  was  quite  mechanical,  with 
a  general  survey  of  the  prospect,  terminating  in  the 
hackney-coach. 

The  captain  in  his  own  apartment  was  sitting  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  drawn  up  under  his 
chair,  on  a  very  small  desolate  island,  lying  about  mid- 
way in  an  ocean  of  soap  and  water.  The  Captain's 
windows  had  been  cleaned,  the  walls  had  been  cleaned, 
the  stove  had  been  cleaned,  and  everything,  the  stove 
excepted,  was  wet,  and  shining  with  soft  soap  and  sand: 
the  smell  of  which  dry-saltery  impregnated  the  air.  In 
the  midst  of  the  dreary  scene,  the  captain  cast  away  upon 
his  island  looked  round  on  the  waste  of  waters,  with 
a  rueful  countenance,  and  seemed  waiting  for  some 
friendly  bark  to  come  that  way  and  take  him  off. 

But  when  the  captain,  directing  his  forlorn  visage  to- 
wards the  door,  saw  Florence  appear  with  her  maid,  no 
words  can  describe  his  astonishment.  Mrs.  MacStinger's 
eloquence  having  rendered  all  other  sounds  but  imper- 
fectly distinguishable,  he  had  lookod  for  no  rarer  visitor 
than  the  potboy  or  the  milkman  ;  wherefore  when  Flor- 
ence appeared,  and  coming  to  the  confines  of  the  island, 
put  her  hand  in  his,  the  captain  stood  up,  aghast,  as  if 
he  supposed  her,  for  the  moment,  to  be  some  young 
member  of  the  Flying  Dutchman's  family. 

Instantly  recovering  his  self-possession,  however,  the 
captain's  first  care  was  to  place  her  on  dry  land,  which 
he  happily  accomplished,  with  one  motion  of  his  arm. 
Issuing  forth,  then,  upon  the  main,  Captain  Cuttle  took 
Miss  Nipper  round  the  waist,  and  bore  her  to  the  island 
also.  Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  great  respect  and  ad- 
miration, raised  the  hand  of  Florence  to  his  lips,  and 
standing  off  a  little  (for  the  island  was  not  large  enough 
for  three),  beamed  on  her  from  the  soap  and  water  like 
a  new  description  of  Triton, 

"  You  are  amazed  to  see  us,  I  am  sure,"  said  Florence, 
with  a  smile. 

The  inexpressibly  gratified  captain  kissed  his  hook  in 
reply,  and  growled,  as  if  a  choice  and  delicate  compliment 
were  included  in  the  words,  "  Stand  by  !    Stand  by  !" 

"  But  I  couldn't  rest,"  said  Florence,  *'  without  coming 
to  ask  you  what  you  think  about  dear  Walter — who  is 
my  brother,  now — and  whether  there  is  anything  to  fear, 
and  whether  you  will  not  go  and  console  his  poor  uncle 
every  day,  until  we  have  some  intelligence  of  him  ?  " 

At  these  words  Captain  Cuttle,  as  by  an  involuntary 
gesture,  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on  which  the  hard 
glazed  hat  was  not,  and  looked  discomfited. 

"Have  you  any  fears  for  Walter's  safety  ?"  inquired 
Florence,  from  whose  face  the  captain  (so  enraptured  he 
was  with  it)  could  not  take  his  eyes  ;  while  she,  in  her 
turn,  looked  earnestly  at  him,  to  be  assured  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  reply. 

"  No,  Heart's-delight,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  I  am  not 
afeard.  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as'll  go  through  a  deal  o'  hard 
weather.  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as'll  bring  as  much  success  to 
that  'ere  brig  as  a  lad  is  capable  on.  Wal'r,"  said  the 
captain,  his  eyes  glistening  with  the  praise  of  his  young 
friend,  and  his  hook  raised  to  announce  a  beautiful 
quotation,  "  is  what  you  may  call  a  out'ard  and  visible 
sign  of  a  in'ard  and  spirited  grasp,  and  when  found  make 
a  note  of." 

Florence,  ^ho  did  not  quite  understand  this,  though 
the  captain  thought  it  full  of  meaning  and  highly  satis- 
factory, mildly  looked  to  him  for  something  more. 

*'  I  am  not  afeard,  my  Heart's  delight,"  resumed 
the  captain  "  There's  been  most  uncommon  bad  weather 
in  them  latitudes,  there's  no  denyin,  and  they  have 
drove  and  drove  and  been  beat  off,  may  be  the  t'other 
side  the  world.  But  the  ship's  a  good  ship,  and  the 
lad's  a  good  lad  ;  and  it  ain't  easy,  thank  the  Lord," 
the  captain  made  a  little  bow,  "  to  break  up  hearts  of 
oak,  whether  they're  in  brigs  or  buzzums.  Here  we 
have  'em  both  ways,  which  is  bringing  it  up  with  a  round 
turn,  and  so  I  ain't  a  bit  afeard  as  yet," 


AND  SON.  533 

"  As  yet?"  repeated  Florence. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  returned  the  captain,  kissing  his  iron 
hand;  "and  afore  I  begin  to  be,  my  Hearts-delight, 
Wal'r  will  have  wrote  home  from  the  island,  or  from 
some  port  or  another,  and  made  all  taut  and  ship-shape. 
And  with  regard  to  old  Sol  Gills,"  here  the  captain  became 
solemn,  "  who  I'll  stand  by,  and  not  desert  until  dfiath 
doe  us  part,  and  when  the  stormy  winds  do  blow,  do 
blow,  do  blow — overhaul  the  Catechism,"  f>aid  the  cap- 
tain parenthetically,  "  and  there  you'll  find  them  ex- 
pressions— if  it  would  console  Sol  Gills  to  have  the 
opinion  of  a  seafaring  man  as  has  got  a  mind  equal  to  any 
undertaking  that  he  puts  it  alongside  of,  and  as  was  all 
but  smashed  in  his  'prenticeship,  and  of  which  the  name 
is  Bunsby,  that  'ere  man  shall  give  him  such  an  opinion 
in  his  own  parlour  as'll  stun  him.  Ah  !  "  said  Captain 
Cuttle,  vauntingly,  "as  much  as  if  he'd  gone  and 
knocked  his  head  again  a  door  !  " 

"Let  us  take  this  gentleman  to  see  him,  and  let  us 
hear  what  he  says,"  cried  Florence.  "  Will  you  go  with 
us  now  ?    We  have  a  coach  here." 

Again  the  captain  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on 
which  the  hard  glazed  hat  was  not,  and  looked  discom- 
fited. But  at  this  instant  a  most  remarkable  })henom- 
enon  occurred.  The  door  opening,  without  any  note  of 
preparation,  and  apparently  of  itself,  the  hard  glazed 
hat  in  question  skimmed  into  the  room  like  a  bird,  and 
alighted  heavily  at  the  captain's  feet.  The  door  then 
shut  as  violently  as  it  had  opened,  and  nothing  ensued 
in  explanation  of  the  prodigy. 

Captain  Cuttle  picked  up  his  hat  and  having  turned  it 
over  with  a  look  of  interest  and  welcome,  began  to  pol- 
ish it  on  his  sleeve.  While  doing  so  the  captain  eyed 
his  visitors  intently,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"You  see  I  should  have  bore  down  on  Sol  Gills  yes- 
terday, and  this  morning,  but  she — she  took *t  away  and 
kept  it.    That's  the  long  and  short  of  the  subject." 

"Who  did,  for  goodness  sake?"  asked  Susan  Nipper. 

"The  lady  of  the  house,  my  dear,"  returned  the  cap- 
tain, in  a  gruff  whisper,  and  making  signals  of  secrecy. 
"  We  had  some  words  about  the  swabbing  of  these  here 
planks,  and  she — in  short,"  said  the  captain,  eyeing  the 
door,  and  relieving  himself  with  a  long  breath,  "she 
stopped  my  liberty." 

"Oh  !  I  wish  she  had  me  to  deal  with  !  "  said  Susan, 
reddening  with  the  energy  of  the  wish.  "I'd  stop 
her  ! " 

"  Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear?"  rejoined  the 
captain,  shaking  his  head  doubtfully,  but  regarding  the 
desperate  courage  of  the  fair  aspirant  with  obvious  ad- 
miration. "I  don't  know.  It's  difficult  navigation. 
She's  very  hard  to  carry  on  with,  my  dear.  You  never 
can  tell  how  she'll  head,  you  see.  She's  full  one  minute, 
and  round  upon  you  next.  And  when  she  is  a  tartar," 
said  the  captain,  with  the  perspiration  breaking  out 
upon  his  forehead — .  There  was  nothing  but  a  whistle 
emphatic  enough  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence,  so 
the  captain  whistled  tremulously.  After  which  he  again 
shook  his  head,  and  recurring  to  his  admiration  of  Miss 
Nipper's  devoted  bravery,  timidly  repeated,  "Would 
you,  do  you  think,  my  dear?" 

Susan  only  replied  with  a  bridling  smile,  but  that 
was  so  very  full  of  defiance,  that  there  is  no  knowing 
how  long  Captain  Cuttle  might  have  stood  entranced  in 
its  contemplation,  if  Florence  in  her  anxiety  had  not 
again  proposed  their  immediately  resorting  to  the  oracu- 
lar Bunsby.  Thus  reminded  of  his  duty.  Captain  Cut- 
tle put  on  the  glazed  hat  firmly,  took  up  another  knobby 
stick  with  which  he  had  supplied  the  place  of  that  one 
given  to  Walter,  and  offering  his  arm  to  Florence,  pre- 
pared to  cut  his  way  through  the  enemy. 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  had  al- 
ready changed  her  course,  and  that  she  headed,  as  the 
captain  had  remarked  she  often  did,  in  quite  a  new  di- 
rection. For  when  they  got  down-stairs,  they  foimd  that 
exemplary  woman  beating  the  mats  on  the  door-steps, 
with  Alexander,  still  upon  the  paving-stone,  dimly  loom- 
ing through  a  fog  of  dust  ;  and  so  absorbed  was  Mrs. 
MacStinger  in  her  household  occupation,  that  when  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  and  his  visitors  passed,  she  beat  the  harder, 
and  neither  by  word  or  gesture  showed  any  conscious- 
ness of  their  vicinity.    The  captain  was  so  well  pleased 


534 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


with  this  easy  escape — although  the  effect  of  the  door- 
mats on  him  was  like  a  copious  administration  of  snuff, 
and  made  him  sneeze  until  the 'tears  ran  down  his  face 
—that  he  could  hardly  believe  his  good  fortune  ;  but 
more  than  once,  between  the  door  and  the  hackney- 
coach,  looked  over  his  shoulder  with  an  obvious  appre- 
hension of  Mrs.  MacStinger's  giving  chase  yet. 

However,  they  got  to  the  corner  of  Brig  Place  without 
anv  molestation  from  that  terrible  fire-ship  ;  and  the 
captain  mounting  the  coach  box— for  his  gallantry  would 
not  allow  him  to  ride  inside  with  the  ladies,  though  be- 
sought to  do  so— piloted  the  driver  on  his  course  for 
Captain  Bunsby's  vessel,  which  \yas  called  the  Cautious 
Clara,  and  was  lying  hard  by  Ratcliffe. 

Arrived  at  the  wharf  off  which  this  great  comman- 
der's ship  was  jammed  in  among  the  some  five  hundred 
companions,  whose  tangled  rigging  looked  like  mons- 
trous cobwebs  half  swept  down.  Captain  Cuttle  appeared 
at  the  coach  window,  and  invited  Florence  and  Miss 
Nipper  to  accompany  him  on  board ;  observing  that 
Bunsby  was  to  the  last  degree  soft-hearted  in  respect  o^ 
ladies,  and  that  nothing  would  so  much  tend  to  bring 
his  expansive  intellect  into  a  state  of  harmony  as  their 
presentation  to  the  Cautious  Clara. 

Florence  readily  consented  ;  and  the  captain,  taking 
her  little  hand  in  his  prodigious  palm,  led  her,  with  a 
mixed  expression  of  patronage,  paternity,  pride,  and 
ceremony,  that  was  pleasant  to  see,  over  several  very 
dirty  decks,  until,  coming  to  the  Clara,  they  found  that 
cautious  craft  (which  lay  outside  the  tier)  with  her  gang- 
way removed,  and  half  a  dozen  feet  of  river  interposed 
between  herself  and  her  nearest  neighbour.  It  appeared, 
from  Captain  Cuttle's  explanation,  that  the  great  Bunsby, 
like  himself,  was  cruelly  treated  by  his  landlady,  and 
that  when  her  usage  of  him  for  the  time  being  was  so 
hard  that  hjp  could  bear  it  no  longer,  he  set  this  gulf  be- 
tween them  as  a  last  resource. 

"  Clara  a-hoy  !  "  cried  the  captain,  putting  a  hand  to 
each  side  of  his  mouth. 

"A-hoy  !"  cried  a  boy,  like  the  captain's  echo,  tum- 
bling up  from  below. 

"  Bunsby  aboard  ?  "  cried  the  captain,  hailing  the  boy 
in  a  stentorian  voice,  as  if  he  were  half-a-mile  off  in- 
stead of  two  yards. 

"  Aye,  aye  ! "  cried  the  boy,  in  the  same  tone. 

The  boy  then  shoved  out  a  plank  to  Captain  Cuttle, 
who  adjusted  it  carefully,  and  led  Florence  across  :  re- 
turning presently,  for  Miss  Nipper.  So  they  stood  upon 
the  deck  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  in  whose  standing  rig- 
ging, divers  fluttering  articles  of  dress  were  curing,  in 
company  with  a  few  tongues  and  some  mackerel. 

Immediately  there  appeared,  coming  slowly  up  above 
the  bulk-head  of  the  cabin,  another  bulk-head — human 
and  very  large — with  one  stationary  eye  in  the  mahogany 
face,  and  one  revolving  one,  on  the  principle  of  some 
lighthouses.  This  head  was  decorated  with  shaggy  hair, 
like  oakum,  which  had  no  governing  inclination  towards 
the  north,  east,  west,  or  south,  but  inclined  to  all  four 
quarters  of  the  compass,  and  to  every  point  upon  it. 
The  head  was  followed  by  a  perfect  desert  of  chin,  and 
by  a  shirt-collar  and  a  neckerchief,  and  by  a  dreadnought 
pilot-coat,  and  by  a  pair  of  dreadnought  pilot-trousers, 
whereof  the  waistband  was  so  very  broad  and  high, 
that  it  become  a  succedaneum  for  \  waistcoat :  being 
ornamented  near  the  wearer's  breast-bone  with  some 
massive  wooden  buttons,  like  backgammon  men.  As 
the  lower  portions  of  tliese  pantaloons  became  revealed, 
Bunsby  stood  confessed  ;  his  hands  in  their  pockets, 
which  were  of  vast  size  ;  and  his  gaze  directed,  not  to 
Captain  Cuttle  or  the  ladies,  but  the  mast-head. 

The  profound  appearance  of  this  philosopher,  who 
was  bulky  and  strong,  and  on  whose  extremely  red  face 
an  expression  of  taciturnity  sat  enthroned,  not  inconsis- 
tent with  his  character,  in  which  that  quality  was 
proudly  conspicuous,  almost  daunted  Captain  Cuttle, 
though  on  familiar  terms  with  him.  Whispering  to 
Florence  that  Bunsby  had  never  in  his  life  expressed 
surprise,  and  was  considered  not  to  know  what  it  meant, 
the  captain  watched  him  as  he  eyed  his  mast-head,  and 
afterwards  swept  the  horizon  ;  and  when  the  revolving 
eye  oeemed  to  be  coming  round  in  his  direction,  said  : 

"Bunsby,  my  lad,  how  fares  it?" 


A  deep,  gruff,  husky  utterance,  which  seemed  to  have 
no  connection  with  Bunsby,  and  certainly  had  not  the 
least  effect  upon  his  face,  replied  "  Aye,  aye,  shipmet, 
how  goes  it  !  " 

At  the  same  time,  Bunsby's  right  hand  and  arm, 
emerging  from  a  pocket,  shook  the  captain's,  and  went 
back  again. 

"Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  striking  home  at  once, 
"here  you  are  ;  a  man  of  mind,  and  a  man  as  can  give 
an  opinion.  Here's  a  young  lady  as  wants  to  take  that 
opinion,  in  regard  of  my  friend  Wal'r  ;  likewise  my 
t'other  friend,  Sol  Gills,  which  is  a  character  for  you  to 
come  within  hail  of,  being  a  man  of  science,  which  is 
the  mother  of  inwention,  and  knows  no  law.  Bunsby, 
will  you  wear,  to  oblige  me,  and  come  along  with  us  ?" 

The  great  commander,  who  seemed  by  the  expression 
of  his  visage  to  be  always  on  the  look-out  for  something 
in  the  extremest  distance,  and  to  have  no  ocular  know- 
ledge of  anything  within  ten  miles,  made  no  reply  what- 
ever. 

"  Here  is  a  man,"  said  the  captain,  addressing  himself 
to  his  fair  auditors,  and  indicating  tlue  commander  with 
his  outstretched  hook,  "that  has  fell  down  more  than 
any  man  alive  ;  that  has  had  more  accidents  happen  to 
his  own  self  than  the  Seaman's  Hospital  to  all  hands  ; 
that  took  as  many  spars  and  bars  and  bolts  about  the 
outside  of  his  head  when  he  was  young,  as  you'd  want 
a  order  for  on  Chatham-yard  to  built  a  pleasure-yacht 
with  ;  and  yet  that  got  his  opinions  in  that  way,  it's 
my  belief,  for  there  an't  nothing  like  'em  afloat  or 
ashore." 

The  stolid  commander  appeared,  by  a  very  slight  vib- 
ration in  his  elbows,  to  express  some  satisfaction  in  this 
encomium  ;  but  if  his  face  had  been  as  distant  as  his 
gaze  was,  it  could  hardly  have  enlightened  the  beholders 
less  in  reference  to  anything  that  was  passing  in  his 
thoughts. 

"  Shipmet,"  said  Bunsby,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  stooping 
down  to  look  out  under  some  interposing  spar,  "  what'll 
the  ladies  drink  ?  " 

Captain  Cuttle,  whose  delicacy  was  shocked  by  such 
an  inquiry  in  connection  with  Florence,  drew  the  sage 
aside,  and  seeming  to  explain  in  his  ear,  accompanied 
him  below  ;  where,  that  he  might  not  take  offence,  the 
captain  drank  a  dram  himself,  which  Florence  and  Susan, 
glancing  down  the  open  skylight,  saw  the  sage,  with 
difficulty  finding  room  for  himself  between  his  berth  and 
a  very  little  brass  fire-place,  serve  out  for  self  and 
friend.  They  soon  reappeared  on  deck,  and  Captain  Cut- 
tle, triumphing  in  the  success  of  his  enterprise,  conducted 
Florence  back  to  the  coach,  while  Bunsby  followed,  es- 
corting Miss  Nipper,  whom  he  hugged  upon  the  way 
(much  to  thfit  young  lady's  indignation)  with  his  pilot- 
coated  arm,  like  a  blue  bear. 

The  captain  put  his  oracle  inside,  and  gloried  so  much 
in  having  secured  him,  and  having  got  that  mind  into  a 
hackney-coach,  that  he  could  not  refain  from  often  peep- 
ing in  at  Florence  through  the  little  window  behind  the 
driver,  and  testifying  his  delight  in  smiles,  and  also  in 
taps  upon  his  forehead,  to  hint  to  her  that  the  brain  of 
Bunsby  was  hard  at  it.  In  the  meantime,  Bunsby,  still 
hugging  Miss  Nipper  (for  his  friend,  the  captain,  had 
not  exaggerated  the  softness  of  his  heart),  uniformly 
preserved  his  gravity  of  deportment,  and  showed  no  other 
consciousness  of  her  or  anything. 

Uncle  Sol,  who  had  come  home,  received  them  at  the 
door,  and  ushered  them  immediately  into  the  little  back- 
parloui'  :  strangely  altered  by  the  absence  of  Walter. 
On  the  table,  and  about  the  room,  were  the  charts  and 
maps  on  which  the  heavy-hearted  Instrument-maker  had 
again  and  again  tracked  the  missing  vessel  across  the 
sea,  and  on  which,  with  a  pair  of  compasses  that  he  still 
had  in  his  hand,  he  had  been  measuring,  a  minute 
before,  how  far  she  must  have  driven,  to  hav^  driven 
here  or  there  :  and  trying  to  demonstrate  that  a  long 
time  must  elapse  before  hope  was  exhausted. 

"  Whether  she  can  have  run,"  said  Uncle  Sol,  looking 
wistfully  over  the  chart  ;  "  but  no,  that's  almost  impos- 
sible. Or  whether  she  can  have  been  forced  by  stress 
of  weather, — but  that's  not  reasonably  likely.  Or 
whether  there  is  any  hope  she  so  far  changed  her  course 
as— but  even  I  can  hardly  hope  that  ! "    With  such 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


535 


broken  suggestions,  poor  old  Uncle  Sol  roamed  over  the 
great  sheet  before  him,  and  could  not  find  a  speck  of  hope- 
ful probability  in  it  large  enough  to  set  one  small  point 
of  the  compasses  upon. 

Florence  saw  immediately — it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  help  seeing — that  there  was  a  singular  indescrib- 
able change  in  the  old  man,  and  that  while  his  manner 
was  far  more  restless  and  unsettled  than  usual,  there  was 
yet  a  curious,  contradictory  decision  in  it,  that  perplexed 
her  very  much.  She  fancied  once  that  he  spoke  wildly, 
and  at  random  ;  for  on  her  saying  she  regretted  not  to 
have  seen  him  when  she  had  been  there  before  that 
morning,  he  at  first  replied  that  he  had  been  to  see  her, 
and  directly  afterwards  seemed  to  wish  to  recall  that 
answer. 

"You  have  been  to  see  me?"  said  Florence.  "To- 
day?" 

"Yes,  my  dear  young  lady,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  look- 
ing at  her  and  away  from  her  in  a  confused  manner. 
"  I  wished  to  see  you  with  my  own  eyes,  and  to  hear 
you  with  my  own  ears,  once  more  before — "  There  he 
stopped. 

' '  Before  when  ?  Before  what  ?  "  said  Florence,  putting 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Did  I  say  '  before  ?  replied  Old  Sol.  "  If  I  did,  I 
must  have  meant  before  we  should  have  news  of  my 
dear  boy." 

"You  are  not  well,"  said  Florence,  tenderly.  "  You 
have  been  so  very  anxious.  I  am  sure  you  are  not 
well." 

"  I  am  as  well,"  returned  the  old  man,  shutting  up  his 
right  hand,  and  holding  it  out  to  show  her  :  "  as  well 
and  firm  as  any  man  at  my  time  of  life  can  hope  to  be. 
See  !  It's  steady.  Is  its  master  not  as  capable  of  resolu- 
tion and  fortitude  as  many  a  younger  man  ?  I  think  so. 
We  shall  see." 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  more  than  in  his  words, 
though  they  remained  with  her  too,  which  impressed 
Florence  so  much,  that  she  would  have  confided  her  ui\- 
easiness  to  Captain  Cuttle  at  that  moment,  if  the  captain 
had  not  seized  that  moment  for  expounding  the  state  of 
circumstances  on  which  the  opinion  of  the  sagacious 
Bunsby  was  requested,  and  entreating  that  profound 
authority  to  deliver  the  same. 

Bunsby,  whose  eye  continued  to  be  addressed  to  some- 
where about  the  half-way  house  between  London  and 
Gravesend,  two  or  three  times  put  out  his  rough  right 
arm,  as  seeking  to  wind  it  for  inspiration,  round  the  fair 
form  of  Miss  Nipper  ;  but  that  young  female  having 
withdrawn  herself,  in  displeasure,  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table,  the  soft  heart  of  the  commander  of  the  Cautious 
Clara  met  with  no  response  to  its  impulses.  After  sun- 
dry failures  in  this  wise,  the  commander,  addressing  him- 
self to* nobody,  thus  spake  ;  or  rather  the  voice  within 
him  said  of  its  own  accord,  and  quite  independent  of 
himself,  as  if  he  were  possessed  by  a  gruff  spirit : 

"  My  name's  Jack  Bunsby  !  " 

*'He  was  christened  John,"  cried  the  delighted  Cap- 
tian  Cuttle.    "  Hear  him  ! " 

"  And  what  I  says,"  pursued  the  voice,  after  some  de- 
liberation, "  I  stands  to." 

The  captain,  with  Florence  on  his  arm,  nodded  at  the 
auditory,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Now  he's  coming  out. 
This  is  what  I  meant  when  I  brought  him." 

"  Whereby,"  proceeded  the  voice,  "  why  not  ?  If  so, 
what  odds  ?  Can  any  man  say  otherwise  ?  No.  Awast 
then  ! " 

When  it  had  pursued  its  train  of  argument  to  this 
point,  the  voice  stopped  and  rested.  It  then  proceeded 
very  slowly,  thus  : 

"Do  I  believe  that  this  here  Son  and  Heir's  gone 
down,  my  lads  ?  Mayhap.  Do  I  say  so  ?  Which  ?  If  i 
a  skipper  stands  out  by  Sen'  George's  Channel,  making  ! 
for  the  Downs,  what's  right  ahead  of  him  ?  The  Good- 
wins. He  isn't  forced  to  run  upon  the  Goodwins,  but  he  i 
may.  The  bearings  of  this  observation  lays  in  the  appli-  j 
cation  on  it.  That  an't  no  part  of  my  duty.  Awast  j 
then,  keep  a  bright  look-out  for'ard,  and  good  luck  to  j 
you  1"  I 

The  voice  here  went  out  of  the  back  parlour  and  into  j 
the  street,  taking  the  commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara 
with  it,  and  accompanying  him  on  board  again  with  all  I 


'  convenient  expedition,  where  he  immediately  turned  in, 
and  refreshed  his  mind  with  a  nap. 

The  students  of  the  sage's  precepts,  left  to  their  own 
application  of  his  wisdom — upon  a  principle  which  was 
the  main  leg  of  the  Bunsby  tripod,  as  it  is  perchance  of 
some  other  oracular  stools — looked  at  one  another  in  a 
little  uncertainty;  while  Rob  the  Grinder, who  had  taken 
the  innocent  freedom  of  peering  in, and  listening, through 
the  skylight  in  the  roof,  came  softly  down  from  the 
leads,  in  a  state  of  very  dense  confusion.    Captain  Cut- 
tle, however,  whose  admiration  of  Bunsby  was,  if  possi- 
ble, enchanced  by  the  splendid  manner  in  which  he  had 
justified  his  reputation  and  come  through  this  solemn 
reference, proceeded  to  explain  that  Bunsby  meant  noth- 
ing but  confidence  ;   that  Bunsby  had  no  misgivings  ; 
and  that  such  an  opinion  as  that  man  had  given,  coming 
I  from  such  a  mind  as  his, was  Hope's  own  anchor,  and  with 
I  good  roads  to  cast  it  in.    Florence  endeavored  to  believe 
I  that  the  captain  was  right  ;  but  the  Nipper,  with  her 
j  arms  tight  folded,  shook  her  head  in  resolute  denial, 
I  and  had  no  more  trust  in  Bunsby  than  in  Mr.  Perch 
himself. 

The  philosopher  seemed  to  have  left  Uncle  Sol  pretty 
much  where  he  had  found  him,  for  he  still  went  roam- 
ing about  the  watery  world,  compasses  in  hand,  and  dis- 
covering no  rest  for  them.  It  was  in  pursuance 
of  a  whisper  in  his  ear  from  Florence,  while  the  old 
man  was  absorbed  in  this  pursuit,  that  Captain  Cuttle 
laid  his  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  What  cheer,  Sol  Gills?"  cried  the  captain,  heartily. 

"But  so-so,  Ned,"  returned  the  Instrument-maker. 
"I  have  been  remembering,  all  this  afternoon,  that  on 
the  very  day  when  my  boy  entered  Dombey's  house,  and 
came  home  late  to  dinner,  sitting  just  there  where  you 
stand,  we  talked  of  storm  and  shipwreck,  and  I  could 
I  hardly  turn  him  from  the  subject." 

i  But  meeting  the  eyes  of  Florence,  which  were  fixed 
with  earnest  scrutiny  upon  his  face,  the  old  man  stopped 
and  smiled. 

"Stand  by,  old  f  riend  !"  cried  the  captain.  "Look 
alive  !    I   tell   you   what,   Sol  Gills  !  arter  I've  con- 

i  voyed  Heart's-delight  safe  home,"  here  the  captain  kissed 
his  hook  to  Florence,  "  I'll  come  back  and  take  you  in 

j  tow  for  this  rest  of  this  blessed  day.  You'll  come  and  eat 

j  your  dinner  along  with  me,  Sol,  somewheres  or  other. 

!  "  Not  to-day,  Ned!  "said  the  old  man  quickly,  and 
appearing  to  be  unaccountably  startled  by  the  proposi- 
tion.   "Not  to-day.    I  couldn't  do  it  !  " 

"  Why  not  ?"  returned  the  captain,  gazing  at  him  in 
astonishment. 

i  "  I — I  have  so  much  to  do.  I — mean  to  think  of,  and 
j  arrange.    I  couldn't  do  it,  Ned,  indeed.    I  must  go  out 

again,  and  be  alone,  and"  turn  my  mind  to  many  things 

to-day." 

The  captain  looked  at  the  Instrument-maker,  and 
looked  at  Florence,and  again  at  then  Instrument-maker. 
"To-morrow,  then,"  he  suggested  at  last. 

"  Yes,  yes.  To-morrow,"  said  the  old  man.  "Think 
of  me  to-morrow.    Say  to-morrow." 

"I  shall  come  here  early,  mind,  Sol  Gills,"  stipulated 
the  old  captain. 

"Yes,  yes.  The  first  thing  to-morrow  morning,"  said 
old  Sol  :  '"  and  now  good-bye,  Ned  Cuttle,  and  God  bless 
you  1 " 

Squeezing  both  the  captain's  hands,  with  uncommon 
fervour,  as  he  said  it,  the  old  man  turned  to  Florence, 
folded  hers  in  his  own,  and  put  them  to  his  lips  ;  then 
hurried  her  out  to  the  coach  with  a  very  singular  pre- 
cipitation. Altogether,  he  made  such  an  effect  on  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  that  the  captain  lingered  behind,  and  in- 
structed Rob  to  be  particularly  gentle  and  attentive  to 
his  master  until  the  morning  :  which  injunction  he 
strengthened  with  one  shilling  down,  and  the  promise  of 
another  sixpence  before  noon  the  next  day.  This  kind 
office  performed.  Captain  Cuttle,  who  considered  himself 
the  natural  and  lawful  body-guard  of  Florence,  mounted 
the  box  with  a  mighty  sense  of  his  trust, and  escorted  her 
home.  At  parting,  lie  assured  her  that  he  would  stand 
by  old  Sol  Gills,  close  and  true  ;  and  once  again  inquired 
of  Susan  Nipper,  unable  to  forget  her  gallant  words  in 
reference  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  Would  you,  do  you 
think,  my  dear,  though  I  "  , 


536 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Wlien  the  desolate  house  had  closed  upon  the  two,  the 
captain's  thoughts  reverted  to  the  old  Instrument-maker, 
and  he  felt  uncomfortable.  Therefore,  instead  of  going 
home,  he  walked  up  and  down  the  street  several  times, 
and,  eking  out  his  leisure  until  evening,  dined  late  at  a 
certain  angular  little  tavern  in  the  city,  with  a  public 
parlour  like  a  wedge,  to  which  glazed  hats  much  resort- 
ed. The  captain's  principal  intention  was  to  pass  Sol 
Gills's  after  dark,  and  look  in  through  the  window  : 
which  he  did.  The  parlour  door  stood  open,  and  he 
could  see  his  old  friend  writing  busily  and  steadily  at 
the  table  within,  while  the  little  Midshipman,  already 
sheltered  from  the  night  dews,  watched  him  from  the 
counter  ;  under  which  Rob  the  Grinder  made  his  own 
bed,  preparatory  to  shutting  the  shop.  Re-assured  by 
the  tranquillity  that  reigned  within  the  precincts  of  the 
wooden  mariner,  the  captain  headed  for  Brig-place,  re- 
solving to  weigh  anchor  betimes  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  Study  of  a  Loving  Heart. 

Sm  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles,  very  good  people,  re- 
sided in  a  pretty  villa  at  Fulham,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames  ;  which  was  one  of  the  most  desirable  residences 
in  the  world  when  a  rowing-match  happened  to  be  going 
past,  but  had  its  little  inconveniences  at  other  times, 
among  which  may  be  enumerated  the  occasional  appear- 
ance of  the  river  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  contem- 
poraneous disappearance  of  the  lawn  and  shrubbery. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  expressed  his  personal  consequence 
chiefly  through  an  antique  gold  snuff-box,  and  a  ponder- 
ous silk  pocket-handkerchief,  which  he  had  an  imposing 
manner  of  drawing  out  of  his  pocket  like  a  banner,  and 
using  with  both  hands  at  once.  Sir  Barnet's  object  in 
life  was  constantly  to  extend  the  racge  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. Like  a  heavy  body  dropped  into  water — not  to 
disparage  so  worthy  a  gentleman  by  the  comparison — it 
was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  Sir  Barnet  must  spread 
an  ever-widening  circle  about  him,  until  there  was  no 
room  left.  Or,  like  a  sound  in  air,  the  vibration  of 
which,  according  to  the  speculation  of  an  ingenious 
modern  philosopher,  may  go  on  travelling  for  ever 
through  the  interminable  fields  of  space,  nothing  but 
coming  to  the  end  of  his  moral  tether  could  stop  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  in  his  voyage  of  discovery  through  the 
social  system. 

Sir  Barnet  was  proud  of  making  people  acquainted 
■with  people.  He  liked  the  thing  for  its  own  sake,  and 
it  advanced  his  favourite  object  too.  For  example,  if 
Sir  Barnet  had  the  good  fortune  to  get  bold  of  a  raw  re- 
cruit, or  a  country  gentleman,  and  ensnared  him  to  his 
hospitable  villa,  Sir  Barnet  would  say  to  him,  on  the 
morning  after  his  arrival,  "Now,  my  dear  sir,  is  there 
anybody  you  would  like  to  know?  Who  is  there  you 
wish  to  meet?  Do  you  take  any  interest  in  writing  peo- 
ple, or  in  painting  or  sculpturing  people,  or  in  anything 
of  that  sort?"  Possibly  the  patient  answered  yes,  and 
mentioned  somebody,  of  whom  Sir  Barnet  had  no  more 
personal  knowledge  than  of  Ptolemy  the  Great.  Sir 
Barnet  replied,  that  nothing  on  earth  was  easier,  as  he 
knew  him  very  well  :  immediately  called  on  the  afore- 
said somebody,  left  his  card,  wrote  a  short  note, — "My 
dear  Sir — penalty  of  your  eminent  position— friend  at 
my  house  naturally  desires — Lady  Skettles  and  myself 
participate — trust  that  genius  being  superior  to  ceremo- 
nies,' you  will  do  us  the  distinguished  favour  of  giving 
us  the  pleasure,  &c.  &c. — and  so  kill  a  brace  of  birds  with 
one  stone,  dead  as  door-nails. 

With  the  snuff-box  and  banner  in  full  force.  Sir  Bar- 
net  Skettles  propounded  his  usual  inquiry  to  Florence  on 
the  first  morning  of  her  visit.  When  Florence  thanked 
liim,  and  said  there  was  no  one  in  particular  whom  she 
desired  to  see,  it  was  natural  she  should  think  with  a 
pang  of  poor  lost  Walter.  When  Sir  Barnet  Skettles, 
urging  his  kind  offer,  said,  "My  dear  Miss  Dombey,  are 
you  sure  you  can  remember  no  one  on  whom  your  good 
papa— to  whom  I  beg  you  to  present  the  best  compli- 
ments of  myself  and  Lady  Skettles  when  you  write— 


might  wish  you  to  know?"  it  was  natural,  perhaps,  that 
her  poor  head  should  droop  a  little,  and  that  her  voice 
should  tremble  as  it  softly  answered  in  the  negative. 

Skettles  junior,  much  stiffened  as  to  his  cravat,  and 
sobered  down  as  to  his  spirits,  wa»  at  home  for  the  holi- 
days, and  appeared  to  feel  himself  aggrieved  by  the 
solicitude  of  his  excellent  mother  that  he  should  be  at- 
tentive to  Florence.  Another  and  a  deeper  injury  under 
which  the  soul  of  young  Barnet  chafed,  was  the  com- 
pany of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  had  been  invited  on 
a  visit  to  the  parental  roof  tree,  and  of  whom  the  young 
gentleman  often  said  he  would  have  preferred  their 
passing  the  vacation  at  Jericho. 

"  Is  there  anybody  you  can  suggest,  now.  Doctor 
Blimber?"  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  turning  to  that 
gentleman. 

"You  are  very  kind.  Sir  Barnet,"  returned  Doctor 
Blimber.  "  Really  I  am  not  aware  that  there  is,  in  par- 
ticular. I  like  to  know  my  fellow  men  in  general.  Sir 
Barnet.  What  does  Terence  say  ?  Any  one  who  is  the 
parent  of  a  son  is  interesting  to  one." 

"Has  Mrs.  Blimber  any  wish  to  see  any  remarkable 
person  ?  "  asked  Sir  Barnet  courteously. 

Mrs.  Blimber  replied,  with  a  sweet  smile  and  a  shake 
of  her  sky-blue  cap,  that  if  Sir  Barnet  could  have  made 
her  known  to  Cicero,  she  would  have  troubled  him  :  but 
such  an  introduction  not  being  feasible,  and  she  already 
enjoying  the  friendship  of  himself  and  his  amiable 
lady,  and  possessing  with  the  Doctor  her  husband  their 
joint  confidence  in  regard  to  their  dear  son— here  young 
Barnet  was  observed  to  curl  his  nose — she  asked  no 
more. 

Sir  Barnet  was  fain,  under  these  circumstances,  to 
content  himself  for  the  time  with  the  company  assem- 
bled. Florence  was  glad  of  that  ;  for  she  had  a  study 
to  pursue  among  them,  and  it  lay  too  near  her  heart,  and 
was  too  precious  and  momentous,  to  yield  to  any  other 
interest. 

.  There  were  some  children  staying  in  the  house.  Chil- 
dren who  were  as  frank  and  happy  with  fathers  and 
with  mothers,  as  those  rosy  faces  opposite  home.  Chil- 
dren who  had  no  restraint  upon  their  love,  and  freely 
,  showed  it.  Florence  sought  to  learn  their  secret ;  sought 
j  to  find  out  what  it  was  she  had  missed  ;  what  simple  art 
they  knew,  and  she  knew  not  ;  how  sbe  could  be  taught 
by  them  to  show  her  father  that  she  loved  him,  and  to 
win  his  love  again. 

Many  a  day  did  Florence  thoughtfully  observe  these 
children.    On  many  a  bright  morning  did  she  leave  her 
i  bed  when  the  glorious  sun  rose,'  and  walking  up  and 
1  down  upon  the  river's  bank,  before  any  one  in  the  house 
I  was  stirring,  look  up  at  the  windows  of  their  rooms,  and 
i  think  of  them,  asleep,  so  gently  tended  and  affection- 
I  ately  thought  of.    Florence  would  feel  more*  lonely 
then,  than  in  the  great  house  all  alone  ;  and  would 
think  sometimes  that  she  was  better  there  than  here, 
and  that  there  was  greater  peace  in  hiding  herself  than 
in  mingling  with  others  of  her  age,  and  finding  how  un- 
like them  all  she  was.  But  attentive  to  her  study,  though 
it  touched  her  to  the  quick  at  every  little  leaf  she  turned 
in  the  hard  book,  Florence  remained  among  them,  and 
tried,  with  patient  hope,  to  gain  the  knowledge  that  she 
j  wearied  for. 

i  Ah  !  how  to  gain  it  !  how  to  know  the  charm  in  its 
beginning  !  There  were  daughters  here,  who  rose  up 
in  the  morning,  and  lay  down  to  rest  at  night,  pos- 

j  sessed  of  father's  hearts  already.    They  had  no  repulse 

i  to  overcome,  no  coldness  to  dread,  no  frown  to  smooth 
away.  As  the  morning  advanced,  and  the  windows 
opened  one  by  one,  and  the  dew  began  to  dry  upon  the 
flowers  and  grass,  and  youthful  feet  began  to  move  upon 
the  lawn,  Florence,  glancing  round  at  the  bright  faces, 
thought  what  was  there  she  could  learn  from  these 
children  ?  It  was  too  late  to  learn  from  them  ;  each 
could  approach  her  father  fearlessly,  and  put  up  her 
lips  to  meet  the  ready  kiss,  and  wind  her  arm  about  the 
neck  that  bent  down  to  caress  her.  She  could  not  begin 
by  being  so  bold.  Oh  !  could  it  be  that  there  was  less 
and  less  hope  as  she  studied  more  and  more  ! 

j  She  remembered  well,  that  even  the  old  woman  who 
had  robbed  her  when  a  child — whose  image  and  whose 

j  house  and  all  she  had  said  and  done,  were  stamped  upon 


DOMBEY  AND  80K 


537 


her  recollection,  with  the  enduring  sharpness  of  a  fear-  ' 
ful  impression  made  at  that  early  period  of  life— had 
spoken  fondly  of  her  daugher,  and  how  terribly  even  [ 
she  had  cried  out  in  the  pain  of  hopeless  separation 
from  her  child.  But  her  own  mother,  she  would  think 
again,  when  she  recalled  this,  had  loved  her  well.  Then, 
sometimes,  when  her  thoughts  reverted  swiftly  to  the 
void  between  herself  and  her  father,  Florence  would 
tremble,  and  the  tears  would  start  upon  her  face,  as  she 
pictured  to  herself  her  mother  living  on,  and  coming 
also  to  dislike  her,  because  of  her  wanting  the  unknown 
grace  that  should  conciliate  that  father  naturally,  and 
had  never  done  so  from  her  cradle.  She  knew  that  this 
imagination  did  wrong  to  her  mother's  memory,  and  had 
no  truth  in  it,  or  base  to  rest  upon  ;  and  yet  she  tried  so 
hard  to  justify  him,  and  to  find  the  whole  blame  in  her- 
self, that  she  could  not  resist  its  passing,  like  a  wild 
cloud,  through  the  distance  of  her  mind. 

There  came  among  the  other  visitors,  soon  after  Florence, 
one  beautiful  girl,  three  or  four  years  younger  than  she, 
who  was  an  orphan  child,  and  who  was  accompanied  by 
her  aunt,  a  gray-haired  lady,  who  spoke  much  to  Flor- 
ence, and  who  greatly  liked  (but  that  they  all  did)  to 
hear  her  sing  of  an  evening,  and  would  always  sit  near 
her  at  that  time,  with  motherly  interest.  They  had  only 
been  two  days  in  the  house,  when  Florence,  being  in  an 
arbour  in  the  garden  one  warm  morning,  musingly  ob- 
servant of  a  youthful  group  upon  the  turf,  through  some 
intervening  boughs,  and  wreathing  flowers  for  the  head 
of  one  little  creature  among  them  who  was  the  pet  and 
plaything  of  the  rest,  heard  this  same  lady  and  her  niece, 
in  pacing  up  and  down  a  sheltered  nook  close  by,  speak 
of  herself. 

"  Is  Florence  an  orphan  like  me,  aunt?"  said  the  child. 
"  No,  my  love.    She  has  no  mother,  but  her  father  is 
living." 

"  Is  she  in  mourning  fqr  her  poor  mama  now?"  in- 
quired the  child,  quickly. 
"  No  ;  for  her  only  brother." 
"  Has  she  no  other  brother?" 
"  None." 
"  No  sister?" 
''None." 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry  ! "  said  the  little  girl. 

As  they  stopped  soon  afterwards  to  watch  some  boats, 
and  had  been  silent  in  the  meantime,  Florence,  who  had 
risen  when  she  heard  her  name,  and  had  gathered  up 
her  flowers  to  go  and  meet  them,  that  they  might  know 
of  her  being  within  hearing,  resumed  her  seat  and  work, 
expecting  to  hear  no  more,  but  the  conversation  re- 
commenced next  moment. 

"Florence  is  a  favourite  with  every  one  here,  and 
deserves  to  be,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  child,  earnestly, 
**  Where  is  her  papa  ?" 

The  aunt  replied,  after  a  moment's  pause,  that  she 
did  not  know.  Her  tone  of  voice  arrested  Florence,  who 
had  started  from  her  seat  again  ;  and  held  her  fastened 
to  the  spot,  with  her  work  hastily  caught  up  to  her 
bosom,  and  her  two  hands  saving  it  from  being  scattered 
on  the  ground. 

"He  is  in  England,  I  hope,  aunt?"  said  the  child. 

"  I  believe  so.    Yes  ;  I  know  he  is,  indeed." 

"  Has  he  ever  been  here  ?  " 

"I  believe  not.  No." 

"  Is  he  coming  here  to  see  her?" 

"  I  believe  not." 

"Is  he  lame,  or  blind,  or  ill,  aunt  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

The  flowers  that  Florence  held  to  her  breast  began  to 
fall'  when  she  heard  those  words,  so  wonderingly  spoken. 
She  held  them  closer  ;  and  her  face  hung  down  upon  them. 

"  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  after  another  moment  of  silence, 
"I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth  about  Florence  as  I 
have  heard  it,  and  believe  it  to  be.  Tell  no  one  else,  my 
dear,  because  it  may  be  little  known  here,  and  your 
doin^  so  would  give  her  pain." 

"  I  never  will !  "  exclaimed  the  child. 
I  know  you  never  will,"  returned  the  lady.  "  I  can 
trust  you  as  myself.  I  fear  then,  Kate,  that  Florence's 
father  cares  little  for  her,  very  seldom  sees  her,  never 
was  kind  to  her  in  her  life,  and  now  quite  shuns  her  and 
avoids  her.  She  would  love  him  dearly  if  he  would  suf- 
fer her,  but  he  will  not — though  for  no  fault  of  her's  ; 


and  she  is  greatly  to  be  loved  and  pitied  by  all  gentle 
hearts." 

More  of  the  flowers  that  Florence  held,  fell  scattering 
on  the  ground  ;  those  that  remained  were  wet,  but  not 
with  dew  ;  and  her  face  dropped  upon  her  laden  hands. 

"Poor  Florence  I  Dear,  good  Florence  !"  cried  the 
child. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  have  told  you  this,  Kate  ?"  said 
the  lady. 

"That  I  may  be  very  kind  to  her,  and  take  great  care 
to  try  to  please  her.    Is  that  the  reason,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Partly,"  said  the  lady,  "  but  not  all.    Though  we  see 
her  so  cheerful ;  with  a  pleasant  smile  for  every  one  ; 
ready  to  oblige  us  all,  and  bearing  her  part  in  every 
amusement  here  :  she  can  hardly  be  quite  happy,  do  you 
I  think  she  can,  Kate  ?  " 
{     "  I  am  afraid  not,"  said  the  little  girl. 
}     "And  you  can  understand,"  pursued  the  lady,  "why 
j  her  observation  of  children  who  have  parents  who  are 
!  fond  of  them,  and  proud  of  them — like  many  here,  just 
now — should  make  her  sorrowful  in  secret?" 

"  Yes,  dear  aunt,"  said  the  child,  "  I  understand  that 
I  very  well.    Poor  Florence  !  " 

More  flowers  strayed  upon  the  ground,  and  those  she 
yet  held  to  her  breast  trembled  as  if  a  wintry  wind  were 
:  rustling  them. 

"  My  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  serious, 
but  very  calm  and  sweet,  and  had  so  impressed  Florence 
from  the  first  moment  of  her  hearing  it,  "of  all  the 
youthful  people  here,  you  are  her  natural  and  harmless 
friend  ;  yoa  have  not  the  innocent  means,  that  happier 
children  have" — 

I  "  There  are  none  happier,  aunt  !  "  exclaimed  the  child, 
who  seemed  to  cling  about  her. 

\  — "  As  other  children  have,  dear  Kate,  of  reminding 
her  of  her  misfortune.  Therefore  I  would  have  you, 
when  you  try  to  be  her  little  friend,  try  all  the  more 
for  that,  and  feel  that  the  bereavement  you  sustained — 
thank  Heaven  !  before  you  knew  its  weight — gives  you 
claim  and  hold  upon  poor  Florence." 

"But  I  am  not  without  a  parent's  love,  aunt,  and  I 
never  have  been,"  said  the  child,  "  with  yoa." 

"However  that  may  be,  my  dear,"  returned  the  lady, 
"your  misfortune  is  a  lighter  one  than  Florence's  ;  for 
not  an  orphan  in  the  wide  world  can  be  so  deserted  as 
the  child  who  is  an  outcast  from  a  parent's  love. " 
'  The  flowers  were  scattered  on  the  ground  like  dust ; 
the  empty  hands  were  spread  upon  the  face  ;  and  or- 
phaned Florence,  shrinking  down  upon  the  ground, 
wept  long  and  bitterly. 

i    But  true  of  heart  and  resolute  in  her  good  purpose, 
Florence  held  to  it  as  her  dying  mother  held  by  her 
I  upon  the  day  that  gave  Paul  life.    He  did  not  know 
I  how  much  she  loved  him.    However  long  the  time  in 
coming,  and  however  slow  the  interval,  she  must  try  to 
bring  that  knowledge  to  her  father's  heart  one  day  or 
j  other.    Meantime  she  must  be  careful  in  no  thoughtless 
I  word,  or  look,  or  burst  of  feeling  awakened  by  any 
chance  circumstance,  to  complain  against  him,  or  to  give 
occasion  for  these  whispers  to  his  prejudice. 

Even  in  the  response  she  made  the  orphan  child,  to 
whom  she  was  attracted  strongly,  and  whom  she  had 
such  occasion  to  remember,  Florence  was  mindful  of 
him.  If  she  singled  her  out  too  plainly  (Florence 
thought)  from  among  the  rest,  she  would  confirm — in 
one  mind  certainly  :  perhaps  in  more — the  belief  that  he 
was  cruel  and  unnatural.  Her  own  delight  was  no  set- 
off to  this.  What  she  had  overheard  was  a  reason,  not 
for  soothing  herself,  but  for  saving  him  ;  and  Florence 
I  did  it,  in  pursuance  of  the  study  of  her  heart, 
i  She  did  so  always.  If  a  book  were  read  aloud,  and 
there  were  anything  in  the  story  that  pointed  at  an  un- 
kind father,  she  was  in  pain  for'their  application  of  it  to 
him  ;  not  for  herself.  So  with  any  trifle  of  an  interlude 
that  was  acted,  or  picture  that  was  shown,  or  game  that 
I  was  played,  among  them.  The  occasions  for  such  ten- 
derness towards  him  were  so  many,  that  her  mind  mis- 
:  gave  her  often,  it  would  indeed  be  better  to  go  back  to 
the  old  house,  and  live  again  within  the  shadow  of  its 
dull  walls,  undisturbed.  How  few  who  saw  sweet 
Florence,  in  her  spring  of  womanhood,  the  modest  little 
queen  of  those  small  revels,  imagined  what  a  load  of 


638 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


sacred  care  lay  heavy  in  "her  breast !  How  f e  w  of  those 
who  stiffened  in  her  fatlier's  freezing  atmosphere,  vsus- 
pected  what  a  heap  of  fiery  coals  was  piled  upon  his 
head  ! 

Florence  pursued  her  study  patiently,  and,  failing-  to 
acquire  the  secret  of  the  nameless  grace  she  sought, 
among  the  youthful  company  who  were  assembled  in 
the  house,  often  walked  out  alone,  in  the  early  morning, 
among  the  children  of  the  poor.  But  still  she  found 
them  all  too  far  advanced  to  learn  from.  They  had  won 
their  household  i)laces  long  ago,  and  did  not  stand  with- 
out, as  she  did,  with  a  bar  across  the  door. 

There  was  one  man  whom  she  several  times  observed 
at  work  very  early,  and  often  with  a  girl  of  about  her 
own*  age  seated  near  him.  He  was  a  very  poor -man, 
who  seemed  to  have  no  regular  employment,  but  now 
went  roaming  about  the  banks  of  the  river  when  the 
tide  was  low,  looking  out  for  bits  and  scraps  in  the  mud  ; 
and  now  worked  at  the  unpromising  little  patch  of  gar- 
den-ground before  his  cottage  ;  and  now  tinkered  up  a 
miserable  old  boat  that  belonged  to  him  ;  or  did  some 
job  of  that  kind  for  a  neighbour,  as  chance  occurred. 
Whatever  the  man's  labour,  the  girl  was  never  em- 
ployed ;  but  sat,  when  she  was  with  him,  in  a  listless, 
moping  state,  and  idle. 

Florence  had  often  wished  to  speak  to  this  man  ;  yet 
she  had  never  taken  courage  to  do  so,  as  he  made  no 
movement  towards  her.  But  one  morning  when  she 
happened  to  come  upon  him  suddenly,  from  a  by-path 
among  some  pollard  willows  which  terminated  in  the 
little  shelving  piece  of  stony  ground  that  lay  between 
his  dwelling  and  the  water,  where  he  was  bending  over 
a  fire  he  had  made  to  caulk  the  old  boat  which  was  lying 
bottom  upwards,  close  by,  he  raised  his  head  at  the 
sound  of  her  footstep,  and  gave  her  Good  morning. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Florence,  approaching  nearer, 
*'you  are  at  work  early." 

"I'd  be  glad  to  be  often  at  work,  earlier,  miss,  if  I 
had  work  to  do." 

"Is  it  so  hard  to  get?"  asked  Florence. 

"/find  it  so,"  replied  the  man. 

Florence  glanced  to  where  the  girl  was  sitting,  drawn 
together,  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  chin  on 
her  hands,  and  said  : 

"Is  that  your  daughter?" 

He  raised  his  head  quickly,  and  looking  towards  the 
girl  with  a  brightened  face,  nodded  to  her,  and  said 
"Yes."  Florence  looked  towards  her  too,  and  gave  her 
a  kind  salutation  ;  the  girl  muttered  something  in  re- 
turn, ungraciously  and  sullenly. 

"  Is  she  in  want  of  employment  also  ?"  said  Florence. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "  No,  miss,"  he  said.  "  I 
work  for  both." 

"  Are  there  only  you  two,  then?"  inquired  Florence. 

"  Only  us  two,"  said  the  man.  "  Her  mother  has  been 
dead  these  ten  year.  Martha  ! "  (he  lifted  up  his  head 
again  and  whistled  to  her)  "  Won't  you  say  a  word  to  the 
pretty  young  lady  ?  " 

The  girl  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  her  cowering 
shoulders,  and  turned  her  head  another  way.  Ugly, 
misshapen,  peevish,  ill-conditioned,  ragged,  dirty — but 
beloved  !  Oh,  yes  !  Florence  had  seen  her  father's  look 
towards  her,  and  she  knew  whose  look  it  had  no  likeness 
to. 

"  I'm  afraid  she's  worse  this  morning,  my  poor  girl  !  " 
said  the  man,  suspending  his  work,  and  contemplating 
his  ill-favoured  child,  with  a  compassion  that  was  the 
more  tender  for  being  rough. 

"  She  is  ill,  then  ?"  said  Florence. 

The  man  drew  a  deep  sigh.  "  I  don't  believe  my 
Martha's  had  five  short  days  good  health,"  he  answered, 
looking  at  her  still,  "  in  as  many  long  years." 

"  Ay  !  and  more  than  that,  John,"  waid  a  neighbour, 
who  had  come  down  to  help  him  with  the  boat. 

"More  than  that,  you  say,  do  you?"  cried  the  other, 
pushing  back  his  battered  hat,  and  drawing  his  hand 
across  his  forehead,  "  Very  lilc^.  It  seems  a  long,  long 
time." 

"And  the  more  the  time,"  pursued  the  neighbour, 
"  the  more  you've  favoured  and  humoured  her,  John, 
'till  she's  got  to  be  a  burden  to  herself,  and  everybody 
f>lse." 


"Not  to  me,"  said  her  father,  falling  to  his  work 
again.    "Not  to  me." 

Florence  could  feel— who  better? — how  truly  he  spoke. 
She  drew  a  little  closer  to  him,  and  would  have  been 
glad  to  touch  his  rugged  hand,  and  thank  him  for  his 
goodness  to  the  miserable  object  that  he  looked  upon 
with  eyes  so  different  from  any  other  man's. 

"Who  would  favour  my  poor  girl — to  call  it  favour- 
I  ing— if  /  didn't  ?  "  said  the  father. 

j  "Ay,  ay,"  cried  the  neighbour.  "In  reason,  John. 
But  you  !  You  rob  yourself  to  give  to  her.  You  bind 
I  yourself  hand  and  foot  on  her  account.  You  make  your 
'  life  miserable  along  of  her.  And  what  does  she  care  I 
j  You  don't  believe  she  knows  it?" 

!  The  father  lifted  up  his  head  again,  and  whistled  t» 
i  her.  Martha  made  the  same  impatient  gesture  with  her 
i  crouching  shoulders,  in  reply  ;  and  he  was  glad  and 
;  happy. 

' '  Only  for  that,  miss,"  said  the  neighbour  with  a  smile, 
in  which  there  was  more  of  secret  sympathy  than  he  ex- 
pressed :  "only  to  get  that,  he  never  lets  her  out  of  his 
!  sight  ! " 

I  "Because  the  day'll  come,  and  has  been  coming  a  long 
j  while,"  observed  the  other,  bending  low  over  his  work, 
I  "  when  to  get  half  as  much  from  that  unfort'nate  child 
of  mine — to  get  the  trembling  of  a  finger,  or  the  waving 
I  of  a  hair — would  be  to  raise  the  dead." 

Florence  softly  put  some  money  near  his  hand  on  the 
j  old  boat,  and  left  him. 

;  And  now  Florence  began  to  think,  if  she  were  to  fall 
ill,  if  she  were  to  fade  like  her  dear  brother,  would  he 
then  know  that  she  had  loved  him  ;  would  she  then  grow 
dear  to  him  ;  would  he  come  to  her  bedside,  when  she 
was  weak  and  dim  of  sight,  and  take  her  into  his  em- 
brace, and  cancel  all  the  past  ?  Would  he  so  forgive  her, 
in  that  changed  condition,  for  not  having  been  able  to 
lay  open  her  childish  heart  to  him,  as  to  make  it  easy  to 
relate  with  what  emotions  she  had  gone  out  of  his  room 
that  night  ;  what  she  had  meant  to  say  if  she  had  had 
the  courage  ;  and  how  she  had  endeavoured,  afterwards, 
to  learn  the  way  she  never  knew  in  infancy? 

Yes,  she  thought  if  she  were  dying,  he  would  relent. 
She  thought,  that  if  she  lay,  serene  and  not  unwilling  to 
j  depart,  upon  the  bed  that  was  curtained  round  with 
I  recollections  of  their  darling  boy,  he  would  be  touched 
home,  and  would  say,  "Dear  Florence,  live  for  me,  and 
we  will  love  each  other  as  we  might  have  done,  and  be 
as  happy  as  we  might  have  been  these  many  years  ! " 
■  She  thought  that  if  she  heard  such  words  from  him,  and 
j  had  her  arms  clasped  round  him,  she  could  answer  with 
}  a  smile,  "It  is  too  late  for  anything  but  this  ;  I  never 
I  could  be  happier,  dear  father  ! "  and  so  leave  him,  with 
1  a  blessing  on  her  lips. 

I     The  golden  water  she  remembered  on  the  wall,  ap- 
peared to  Florence,  in  the  light  of  such  reflections,  only 
as  a  current  flowing  on  to  rest,  and  to  a  region  where  the 
dear  ones,  gone  before,  were  waiting,  hand  in  hand  ; 
I  and  often  when  she  looked  upon  the  darker  river  rip- 
I  pling  at  her  feet,  she  thought  with  awful  wonder,  but 
I  not  terror,  of  that  river  which  her  brother  had  so  often 
said  was  bearing  him  away. 

j     The  father  and  his  sick  daughter  were  yet  fresh  in 
j  Florence's  mind,  and,  indeed,  that  incident  was  not  a 
j  week  old,  when  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady  going  out  waik- 
i  ing  in  the  lanes  one  afternoon,  proposed  to  her  to  bear 
1  them  company.   Florence  readily  consenting.  Lady  Sket- 
tles  ordered  out  young  Barnet  as  a  matter  of  course.  For 
I  nothing  delighted  Lady  Skettles  so  much,  as  beholding 
j  her  eldest  son  with  Florence  on  his  arm. 
1    Barnet,  to  say  the  truth,  appeared  to  entertain  an  op- 
posite  sentiment  on  the  subject,  and  on  such  occasions 
I  frequently  expressed  himself  audibly,  though  indefinite- 
ly, in  reference  to  "a  parcel  of  girls."    As  it  was  not 
easy  to  ruffle  her  sweet  temper,  however,  Florence  gen- 
erally reconciled  the  young  gentleman  to  his  fate  after  a 
few  minutes,  and  they  strolled  on  amicably  :  Lady  Sket- 
tles and  Sir  Barnet  following,  in  a  state  of  perfect  com- 
placency and  high  gratification. 

This  was  the  order  of  procedure  on  the  afternoon  in 
question  :  and  Florence  had  almost  succeeded  in  over- 
ruling the  present  objections  of  Skettles  junior  to  his 
destiny,  when  a  gentleman  on  horseback  came  riding 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


539 


by,  looked  at  them  earnestly  as  ho  paused,  drew  in  his 
rein,  wheeled  round,  and  came  riding  back  again,  hat 
in  hand. 

The  gentleman  had  looked  particularly  at  Florence  ; 
and  when  the  little  party  stopped,  on  his  riding  back,  he 
bowed  to  her  before  saluting  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady. 
Florence  had  no  remembrance  of  having  ever  seen  him, 
but  she  started  involuntarily  when  he  came  near  her, 
and  drew  back. 

"My  horse  is  perfectly  quiet,  I  assure  you,"  said  the 
gentleman. 

It  was  not  that,  but  something  in  the  gentleman  him- 
self— Florence  could  not  have  said  what — that  made  her 
recoil  as  if  she  had  been  stung. 

*'  I  have  the  honour  to  address  Miss  Dombey,  I  be- 
lieve?" said  the  gentleman,  with  a  most  persuasive 
smile.  Ou  Florence  inclining  her  head,  he  added,  "  My 
name  is  Carker.  I  can  hardly  hope  to  be  remembered 
by  Miss  Dombey,  except  by  name.  Carker." 

Florence,  sensible  of  a  strange  inclination  to  shiver, 
though  the  day  was  hot,  presented  him  to  her  host  and 
hostess  ;  by  whom  he  was  very  graciously  received. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "a  thousand  times  I 
But  I  am  going  down  to-morrow  morning  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, at  Leamington,  and  if  Miss  Dombey  can  intrust  me 
with  any  commission,  need  I  say  how  very  happy  I  shall 
be?" 

Sir  Barnet  immediately  divining  that  Florence  would 
desire  to  write  a  letter  to  her  father,  proposed  to  return, 
and  besought  Mr.  Carker  to  come  home  and  dine  in  his 
riding  gear.  Mr.  Carker  had  the  misfortune  to  be  en- 
gaged for  dinner,  but  if  Miss  Dombey  wished  to  write, 
nothing  would  delight  him  more  than  to  accompany 
them  back,  and  to  be  her  faithful  slave  in  waiting  as 
long  as  she  pleased.  As  he  said  this  with  his  widest 
smile,  and  bent  down  close  to  her  to  pat  his  horse's 
neck,  Florence,  meeting  his  eyes,  saw,  rather  than 
heard  him  say,  "There  is  no  news  of  the  ship  ! " 

Confused,  frightened,  shrinking  from  him,  and  not 
even  sure  that  he  had  said  those  words,  for  he  seemed 
to  have  shown  them  to  her  in  some  extraordinary  man- 
ner through  his  smile,  instead  of  uttering  them,  Flor- 
ence faintly  said  that  she  was  obliged  to  him,  but  she 
would  not  write  ;  she  had  nothing  to  say. 

"Nothing  to  send.  Miss  Dombey?"  said  the  man  of 
teeth, 

"Nothing,"  said  Florence,  "but  my — ^but  my  dear 
love — if  you  please." 

Disturbed  as  Florence  was,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face  with  an  imploring  and  expressive  look,  that  plainly 
besought  him,  if  he  knew — which  he  as  plainly  did — 
that  any  message  between  her  and  her  father  was  an  un- 
common charge,  but  that  one  most  of  all,  to  spare  her. 
Mr.  Carker  smiled  and  bowed  low,  and  being  charged 
by  Sir  Barnet  with  the  best  compliments  of  himself  and 
Lady  Skettles,  took  his  leave,  and  rode  away  ;  leaving  a 
favourable  impression  on  that  worthy  couple.  Florence 
was  seized  with  such  a  shudder  as  he  went,  that  Sir  Bar- 
net,  adopting  the  popular  superstition,  supposed  some- 
body was  passing  over  her  grave.  Mr.  Carker,  turning 
a  comer,  on  the  instant,  looked  back,  and  bowed,  and 
disappeared  as  if  he  rode  off  to  the  churchyard,  straight, 
to  do  it. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Strange  News  of  Uncle  Sol. 

Captain  Cuttle,  though  no  sluggard,  did  not  turn 
so  early  on  the  morning  after  he  had  seen  Sol  Gills, 
through  the  shop-window,  writing  in  the  parloii.r,  with 
the  Midshipman  upon  the  counter,  and  Rob  the  Grinder 
making  up  his  bed  below  it,  but  that  the  clocks  struck 
six  as  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and  took  a  survey 
of  his  little  chamber.  The  captain's  eyes  must  have 
done  severe  duty,  if  he  usually  opened  them  as  wide  on 
awaking  as  he  did  that  morning  ;  and  were  but  roughly 
rewarded  for  their  vigilance,  if  he  generally  rubbed  them 
half  as  hard.  But  the  occasion  was  no  common  one,  for 
Hob  the  Grinder  had  certainly  never  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  Captain  Cuttle's  bed- room  before,  and  in  it  he 


stood  then,  panting  at  the  captain,  with  a  flushed  and 
touzled  air  of  bed  about  hira,  that  greatly  heightened 
both  his  colour  and  expression. 

"Halloa  1"  roared  the  captain.  "What's  the  mat- 
ter ?  " 

Before  Rob  could  stammer  a  word  in  answer.  Captain 
Cuttle  turned  out,  all  in  a  heap,  and  covered  the  boy's 
mouth  with  his  hand. 

"  Steady  my  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "  don't  ye  speak  a 
word  to  me  as  yet  I " 

The  captain  looked  at  his  visitor  in  great  consterna- 
tion, gently  shouldered  him  into  the  next  room,  after 
laying  this  injunction  upon  him  ;  and  disappearing  for 
a  few  moments,  forthwith  returned  in  the  blue  suit. 
Holding  up  his  hand  in  token  of  the  injunction  not  yet 
being  taken  off.  Captain  Cuttle  walked  up  to  the  cup- 
board, and  poured  himself  out  a  dram  ;  a  counterpart  of 
which  he  handed  to  the  messenger.  The  captain  then 
stood  himself  up  in  a  corner,  against  the  wall,  as  if  to 
forestall  the  possibility  of  being  knocked  backward  by 
the  communication  that  was  to  be  made  to  him  ;  and 
having  swallowed  his  liquor,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
messenger,  and  his  face  as  pale  as  his  face  could  be,  re- 
quested him  to  "  heave-a-head," 

"Do  you  mean,  tell  you,  captain?"  asked  Rob,  who 
had  been  greatly  impressed  by  these  precautions. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Rob,  "  I  ain't  got  much  to  tell.  But 
look  heie  ! " 

Rob  produced  a  bundle  of  keys.  The  captain  sur- 
veyed them,  remained  in  his  corner,  and  surveyed  the 
messenger. 

"  And  look  here  I  "  pursued  Rob. 

The  boy  produced  a  sealed  packet,  which  Captain  Cut- 
tle stared  at  as  he  had  stared  at  the  keys. 

"When  I  woke  this  morning,  captain,"  said  Rob, 
"  which  was  about  a  quarter  after  five,  I  found  these  on 
my  pillow.  The  shop-door  was  unbolted  and  unlocked, 
and  Mr.  Gills  gone, 

"  Gone  ! "  roared  the  captain. 

"  Flowed,  sir,"  returned  Rob. 

The  captain's  voice  was  so  tremendous,  and  he  came 
out  of  his  comer  with  such  way  on  him,  that  Rob  re- 
treated before  him  into  another  corner  :  holding  out  the 
keys  and  packet,  to  prevent  himself  from  being  run 
down. 

"'For  Captain  Cuttle,'  sir,"  cried  Rob,  "is  on  the 
keys,  and  on  the  packet  too.  Upon  my  word  and  hon- 
our. Captain  Cuttle,  I  don't  know  anything  more  about 
it.  I  wish  I  may  die  if  I  do  !  Here's  a  sitiwation  for  a 
lad  that's  just  got  a  sitiwation,"  cried  the  unfortunate 
Grinder,  screwing  his  cuff  into  his  face  :  "his  master 
bolted  with  his  place,  and  him  blamed  for  it  !  " 

These  lamentations  had  reference  to  Captain  Cuttle's 
gaze,  or  rather  glare,  which  was  full  of  vague  sus- 
picions, threatenings,  and  denunciations.  Taking  the 
proffered  packet  from  his  hand,  the  captain  opened  it  and 
read  as  follows  : — 

"My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  Enclosed  is  my  will  !"  The 
captain  turned  it  over,  with  a  doubtful  look — "and  tes- 
tament,— Where's  the  testament?  "  said  the  captain,  in- 
stantly impeaching  the  ill-fated  Grinder.  "  What  have 
you  done  with  that,  my  lad  ?  " 

"/never  see  it,"  whimpered  Rob.  "Don'*  keep  on 
suspecting  an  innocent  lad,  captain.  /  never  touched 
the  testament." 

Captain  Cuttle  shook  his  head,  implying  that  some- 
body must  be  made  answerable  for  it  ;  and  gravely  pro- 
ceeded : — 

"  Which  don't  break  open  for  a  year,  or  until  you  have 
decisive  intelligence  of  my  dear  Walter,  who  is  dear  to 
you,  Ned,  too,  I  am  sure."  The  captain  paused  and 
shook  his  head  in  some  emotion  ;  then,  as  a  re-establish- 
ment of  his  dignity  in  this  trying  position,  looked  with 
exceeding  sternness  at  the  Grinder.  "  If  you  should 
never  hear  of  me,  or  see  me  more,  Ned,  remember  an 
old  friend  as  he  will  remember  you  to  the  last— kindly  ; 
and  at  least  until  the  period  I  have  mentioned  has  ex- 
pired, keep  a  home  in  the  old  place  for  Walter.  There 
are  no  debts,  the  loan  from  Dombey's  house  is  paid  off, 
and  all  my  keys  I  send  with  this.  Keep  this  quiet,  and 
make  no  inquiry  for  me  ;  it  is  useless.    So  no  more,  dear 


540 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


Ned,  from  your  true  friend,  Solomon  Gills."  The  cap- 
tain took  a  long  breath,  and  then  read  these  words  writ- 
ten below:  "'The  boy  Rob,  well  recommended,  as  I 
told  you,  from  Dombey's  house.  If  all  else  should  come 
to  the  hammer,  take  care,  Ned,  of  the  little  Midship- 
man.' *' 

To  convey  to  posterity  any  idea  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  captain,  after  turning  this  letter  over  and  over,  and 
reading  it  a  score  of  times,  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and 
held  a  court-martial  on  the  subject  in  his  own  mind, 
would  require  the  united  genius  of  all  the  great  men, 
who,  discarding  their  own  untoward  days,  have  deter- 
mined to  go  down  to  posterity,  and  have  never  got 
there.  At  first  the  captain  was  too  much  confounded 
and  distressed  to  think  of  anything  but  the  letter  itself  ; 
and  even  when  his  thoughts  began  to  glance  upon  the 
various  attendant  facts,  they  might,  perhaps,  as  well 
have  occupied  themselves  with  their  former  theme,  for 
any  light  they  reflected  on  them.  In  this  state  of  mind, 
Captain  Cuttle  having  the  Grinder  before  the  court,  and 
no  one  else,  found  it  a  great  relief  to  decide,  generally, 
that  he  was  an  object  of  suspicion  :  which  the  captain 
so  clearly  expressed  in  his  visage,  that  Rob  remon- 
strated. 

"Oh,  don't,  captain  !  '*  cried  the  Grinder.  "I  wonder 
how  you  can !  what  have  I  done  to  be  looked  at,  like 
that?" 

"My  lad,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "don't  you  sing  out 
afore  you're  hurt.  And  don't  you  commit  yourself, 
whatever  you  do." 

"I  haven't  been  and  committed  nothing,  captain,"  an- 
swered Rob. 

"Keep  her  free,  then,"  said  the  captain,  impressively, 
"and  ride  easy." 

With  a  deep  sense  of  the  responsibility  imposed  upon 
him,  and  the  necessity  of  thoroughly  fathoming  this 
mysterious  affair,  as  became  a  man  in  his  relations  with 
the  parties.  Captain  Cuttle  resolved  to  go  down  and  ex- 
amine the  premises,  and  to  keep  the  Grinder  with  him. 
Considering  that  youth  as  under  arrest  at  present,  the 
captain  was  in  some  doubt  whether  it  might  not  be  ex- 
pedient to  handcuff  him,  or  tie  his  ancles  together,  or 
attach  a  weight  to  his  legs,  but  not  being  clear  as  to  the 
legality  of  such  formalities,  the  captain  decided  merely 
to  hold  him  by  the  shoulder  all  the  way  and  knock  him 
down  if  he  made  any  objection. 

However,  he  made  none,  and  consequently  got  to  the 
Instrument-maker's  house  without  being  placed  under 
any  more  stringent  restraint.  As  the  shutters  were  not 
yet  taken  down,  the  captain's  first  care  was  to  have  the 
shop  opened  ;  and  when  the  daylight  was  freely  admit- 
ted, he  proceeded,  with  its  aid,  to  further  investigation. 

The  captain's  first  care  was  to  establish  himself  in  a 
chair  in  the  shop,  as  president  of  the  solemn  tribunal 
that  was  sitting  within  him  ;  and  to  require  Rob  to  lie 
down  in  his  bed  under  the  counter,  show  exactly  where 
lie  discovered  the  keys  and  packet  when  he  awoke,  how 
he  found  the  door  when  he  went  to  try  it,  how  he  started 
off  to  Brig-place— cautiously  preventing  the  latter  imita- 
tion from  being  carried  farther  than  the  threshold— and 
so  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  When  all  this  had  been 
done  several  times,  the  captain  shook  his  head  and 
seemed  to  think  the  matter  had  a  bad  look. 

Next,  the  captain,  with  some  indistinct  idea  of  finding 
a  body,  instituted  a  strict  search  over  the  whole  house  ; 

groping  in  the  cellars  with  a  lighted  candle,  thrusting 
is  hook  behind  doors,  bringing  his  head  into  violent 
contact  with  beams,  and  covering  himself  with  cobwebs. 
Mounting  up  to  the  old  man's  bed-room,  they  found' that 
he  had  not  been  in  bed,  on  the  previous  night,  but  had 
merely  laid  down  on  the  coverlet,  as  was  evident  from 
the  impression  yet  remaining  there. 

"And  /  think,  captain,"  said  Rob,  looking  round  the 
room,  "  that  when  Mr.  Gills  was  going  in  and  out  so  often, 
these  last  few  days,  he  was  taking  little  things  away, 
piecemeal,  not  to  attract  attention." 

"Ay  ! "  said  the  captain,  mysteriously.  "  Why  so,  my 
lad?" 

"Why,"  returned  Rob,  looking  about,  "I  don't  see 
his  shaving  tackle.  Nor  his  brushes,  captain.  Nor  no 
shirty.    Nor  yet  his  shoes." 

As  each  of  these  articles  was  mentioned,  Captain  Cut- 


tle took  particular  notice  of  the  corresponding  depart- 
ment of  the  Grinder,  lest  he  should  appear  to  have  been 
in  recent  use,  or  should  prove  to  be  in  present  posses- 
sion thereof.  But  Rob  had  no  occasion  to  shave,  certain- 
ly was  not  brushed,  and  wore  the  clothes  he  had  worn  for 
a  long  time  past,  beyond  all  possibility  of  mistake. 

"And  what  should  you  say,"  said  the  captain — "not 
committing  yourself— about  his  time  of  sheering  off? 
Hey?" 

"  Why,  I  think,  captain,"  returned  Rob,  "  that  he 
must  have  gone  pretty  soon  after  I  began  to  snore." 

"  What  o'clock  was  that?"  said  the  captain,  prepared 
to  be  very  particular  about  the  exact  time. 

"  How  can  I  tell,  captain  !  "  answered  Rob.  "  I  only 
know  that  I'm  a  heavy  sleeper  at  first,  and  a  light  one 
towards  morning  ;  and  if  Mr.  Gills  had  come  through 
the  shop  near  daybreak,  though  ever  so  much  on  tip-toe, 
I'm  pretty  sure  I  should  have  heard  him  shut  the  door  at 
all  events." 

On  mature  consideration  of  this  evidence,  Captain  Cut- 
tle began  to  think  that  the  Instrument-maker  must  have 
vanished  of  his  own  accord  ;  to  which  logical  conclusion 
he  was  assisted  by  the  letter  addressed  to  himself,  which, 
as  being  unquestionably  in  the  old  man's  handwriting, 
would  seem,  with  no  great  forcing,  to  bear  the  construc- 
tion, that  he  arranged  of  his  own  will,  to  go,  and  so 
went.  The  captain  had  next  to  consider  where  and 
why  ?  and  as  there  was  no  way  whatsoever  that  he  saw 
to  the  solution  of  the  first  diffiulty,  he  confined  his  medi- 
tations to  the  second. 

Remembering  the  old  man's  curious  manner,  and  the 
farewell  he  had  taken  of  him  :  unaccountably  fervent  at 
the  time,  but  quite  intelligible  now  :  a  terrible  appre- 
hension strengthened  on  the  captain,  that,  overpowered 
by  his  anxieties  and  regrets  for  Walter,  he  had  been 
driven  to  commit  suicide.  Unequal  to  the  wear  and 
tear  of  daily  life,  as  he  had  often  professed  himself  to 
be,  and  shaken  as  he  no  doubt  was  by  the  uncertainty 
and  deferred  hope  he  had  undergone,  it  seemed  no  vio- 
lently strained  misgiving,  but  only  too  probable. 

Free  from  debt,  and  with  no  fear  for  his  personal 
liberty,  or  the  seizure  of  his  goods,  what  else  but  such  a 
state  of  madness  could  have  hurried  him  away  alone 
and  secretly  ?  As  to  his  carrying  some  apparel  with  him,  if 
he  had  really  done  so — and  they  were  not  even  sure  of 
that — he  might  have  done  so,  the  captain  argued,  to  pre- 
vent inquiry,  to  distract  attention  from  his  probable  fate, 
or  to  ease  the  very  mind  that  was  now  revolving  all 
these  possibilities.  Such,  reduced  into  plain  language, 
and  condensed  within  a  small  compass,  was  the  final 
result  and  substance  of  Captain  Cuttle's  deliberations  ; 
which  took  a  long  time  to  arrive  at  this  pass,  and  were 
like  some  more  public  deliberations,  very  discursive  and 
disorderly. 

Dejected  and  despondent  in  the  extreme.  Captain 
Cuttle  felt  it  just  to  release  Rob  from  the  arrest  in 
which  he  had  placed  him,  and  to  enlarge  him,  subject  to 
a  kind  of  honourable  inspection  which  he  still  resolved 
to  exercise  ;  and  having  hired  a  man,  from  Brogley  the 
broker,  to  sit  in  the  shop  during  their  absence,  the 
captain,  taking  Rob  with  him,  issued  forth  upon  a  dis- 
mal quest  after  the  mortal  remains  of  Solomon  Gills. 

Not  a  station-house  or  bone-house,  or  work-house  in 
the  metropolis  escaped  a  visitation  from  the  hard  glazed 
hat.  Along  the  wharves,  among  the  shipping,  on  the 
bank  side,  up  the  river,  down  the  river,  here,  there, 
everywhere,  it  went  gleaming  where  men  were  thickest 
like  the  hero's  helmet  in  an  epic  battle.  For  a  whole 
week  the  captain  read  of  all  the  found  and  missing 
people  in  all  the  newspapers  and  handbills,  and  went 
forth  on  expeditions  at  all  hours  of  the  day  to  identify 
Solomon  Gills,  in  poor  little  shop-boj's  who  had.  fallen 
overboard  and  in  tall  foreigners  with  dark  beards,  who 
had  taken  poison — "  to  make  sure,"  Captain  Cuttle  said 
"  that  it  warn't  him."  It  is  a  sure  thing  that  it  never 
was,  and  that  the  good  captain  had  no  other  satisfaction. 

Captain  . Cuttle  at  last  abandoned  these  attempts  as 
hopeless,  and  set  himself  to  consider  what  was  to  be 
done  next.  After  several  new  perusals  of  his  poor 
friend's  letter,  he  considered  that  the  maintenance  of 
"  a  home  in  the  old  place  for  Walter"  was  the  primary 
duty  imposed  upon  him.     Therefore,  the  captain's 


DOMBEY  AND  8 ON. 


541 


decision  was,  that  he  would  keep  house  on  the  premises 
of  Solomon  Gills  himself,  and  would  go  into  the  instru- 
ment business,  and  see  what  came  of  it. 

But  as  this  step  involved  the  relinquishment  of  his 
apartments  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's,  and  he  knew  that 
resolute  woman  would  never  hear  of  his  deserting  them, 
the  captain  took  the  desperate  determination  of  running 
away. 

Now,  look  ye  here,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain  to  Rob, 
when  he  had  matured  this  notable  scheme, ' '  to-morrow, 
I  shan't  be  found  in  this  here  roadstead  till  night — not 
till  arter  midnight  p'raps.  But  you  keep  watch  till  you 
hear  me  knock,  and  the  moment  you  do,  turn-to,  and  open 
the  door." 

"  Very  good,  captain,"  said  Rob. 

"  You'll  continue  to  be  rated  on  these  here  books," 
pursued  the  captain  condescendingly,  "and  I  don't  say 
but  what  you  may  get  promotion,  if  you  and  me  should 
pull  together  with  a  will.  But,  the  moment  you  hear  me 
knock  to-morrow  night,  whatever  time  it  is,  turn-to  and 
show  yourself  smart  with  the  door." 

"  I'll  be  sure  to  do  it,  captain,"  replied  Rob. 

"Because  you  understand,*'  resumed  the  captain, 
coming  back  again  to  enforce  this  charge  upon  his  mind, 
"there  may  be,  for  anything  I  can  say,  a  chase  ;  and  I 
might  be  took  while  I  was  waiting,  if  you  didn't  show 
yourself  smart  at  the  door." 

Rob  again  assured  the  captain  that  he  would  be  prompt 
and  wakeful ;  and  the  captain  having  made  this  prudent 
arrangement,  went  home  to  Mrs.  MacStinger's  for  the 
last  time. 

The  sense  the  captain  had  of  its  being  the  last  time, 
and  of  the  awful  purpose  hidden  beneath  his  blue  waist- 
coat, inspired  him  with  such  a  mortal  dread  of  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger  that  the  sound  of  that  lady's  foot  down-stairs 
at  any  time  of  the  day,  was  sufficient  to  throw  him  into 
a  fit  of  trembling.  It  fell  out,  too,  that  Mrs.  MacStin- 
ger  was  in  a  channing  temper — mild  and  as  placid  as  a 
house-lamb  ;  and  Captain  Cattle's  conscience  suffered 
terrible  twinges,  when  she  came  up  to  inquire  if  she  could 
cook  him  nothing  for  his  dinner. 

"  A  nice  small  kidney-pudding  now,  Cap'en  Cuttle," 
said  his  landlady  :  "  or  a  sheep's  heart.  Don't  mind  my 
trouble." 

"No  thank'ee,  ma'am,"  returned  the  captain. 

"  Have  a  roast  fowl,"  said  Mrs.  MacStlnger,  "  with 
a  bit  of  weal  scuffing  and  some  egg  sauce.  Come, 
Cap'en  Cuttle  !    Give  yourself  a  little  treat  !  " 

"No  thank'ee,  ma'am,"  returned  the  captain  very 
humbly. 

"I'm  sure  you're  out  of  sorts,  and  want  to  be  stimulat- 
ed," said  Mrs.  MacStinger.  "  Why  not  have,  for  once 
in  a  way,  a  bottle  of  sherry  wine  ?" 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  rejoined  the  captain,  "  if  you'd  be  so 
good  as  take  a  glass  or  two,  I  think  I  would  try  that. 
Would  you  do  me  the  favour,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain, 
torn  to  pieces  by  his  conscience,  "to  accept  a  quarter's 
rent  a-head  ?  "  i 

"And  why  so,  Cap'en  Cuttle?"  retorted  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger — sharply  as  the  captain  thought.  I 

The  captain  was  frightened  to  death.  "  If  you  would, 
ma'am,"  he  said  with  submission,  "  it  would  oblige  me. 
I  can't  keep  my  money  very  well.  It  pays  itself  out.  I 
should  take  it  kind  if  you'd  comply." 

"  Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  the  unconscious  Mac- 
Stinger,  rubbing  her  hands,  "  you  can  do  as  you  please. 
It  s  not  for  me,  with  my  family,  to  refuse,  no  more  than 
it  is  to  ask." 

"And  would  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain,  taking 
down  the  tin  canister,  in  which  he  kept  his  cash,  from  I 
the  top-shelf  of  the  cupboard,  "be  so  good  as  offer  eight-  i 
een-pence  a  piece  to  the  little  family  all  round  ?    If  you  ! 
could  make  it  convenient,  ma'am,  to  pass  the  word  pres- 
ently for  thera  children  to  come  for'ard,  in  a  body,  I 
should  be  glad  to  see  'em." 

These  innocent  MacStingers  were  so  many  daggers  to  | 
the  captain's  breast,  when  they  appeared  in  a  swarm, 
and  tore  at  him  with  the  confiding  trustfulness  he  so 
little  deserved.    The  eye  of  Alexander  MacStinger,  who  i 
had  beein  his  favourite,  was  insupportal)le  to  the  captain  ;  [ 
the  voice  of  Juliana  MacStinger,  who  was  the  picture  of 
her  mother,  made  a  coward  of  him.  I 


Captain  Cuttle  kept  up  appearances,  nevertheless,  tol- 
erably well,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  was  very  hardly  used 
and  roughly  handled  by  the  young  MacStingers  :  who  in 
their  childish  frolics,  did  a  little  damage  also  to  the 
glazed  hat,  by  sitting  in  it,  two  at  a  time,  as  in  a  nest, 
and  drumming  on  the  inside  of  the  crown  with  their 
shoes.  At  length  the  captain  sorrowfully  dismissed 
them  :  taking  leave  of  these  cherubs  with  the  ])oignant 
remorse  and  grief  of  a  man  who  was  going  to  execution. 

In  the  silence  of  night,  the  captain  packed  up  his 
heavier  property  in  a  chest,  which  he  locked,  intending 
to  leave  it  there,  in  all  probability  for  ever,  but  on  the 
forlorn  chance  of  one  day  finding  a  man  sufficiently  bold 
and  desperate  to  come  and  ask  for  it.  Of  his  lighter 
necessaries,  the  captain  made  a  bundle  ;  and  disposed 
his  plate  about  his  person,  ready  for  flight.  At  the  hour 
of  midnight,  when  Brig-place  was  buried  in  slumber, 
and  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  lulled  in  sweet  oblivion,  with 
her  infants  around  her,  the  guilty  captain  stealing  down 
on  tip-toe,  in  the  dark,  opened  the  door,  closed  it  softly 
after  him,  and  took  to  his  heels. 

Pursued  by  the  image  of  Mrs.  MacStinger  springing 
out  of  bed,  and,  regardless  of  costume,  following  and 
bringing  him  back  ;  pursued  also  by  a  consciousness  of 
his  enormous  crime  :  Captain  Cuttle  held  on  at  a  great 
pace,  and  allowed  no  grass  to  grow  under  his  feet,  be- 
tween Brig-place  and  the  Instrument-maker's  door.  It 
opened  when  he  knocked — for  Rob  was  on  the  watch — 
and  when  it  was  bolted  and  locked  behind  him.  Captain 
Cuttle  felt  comparatively  safe. 

"Whew!"  cried  the  captain,  looking  round  him. 
"  It's  a  breather  !  " 

"Nothing  the  matter,  is  there,  captain ?"  cried  the 
gaping  Rob. 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  after  changing  colour, 
and  listening  to  a  passing  footstep  in  the  street.  "  But 
mind  ye,  my.  lad  ;  if  any  lady,  except  either  of  them  two 
as  you  see  t'other  day,  ever  comes  and  asks  for  Cap'en 
Cuttle,  be  sure  to  report  no  person  of  that  name  known, 
nor  never  heard  of  here  ;  observe  them  orders,  will 
you  ? " 

"  I'll  take  care,  captain,"  returned  Rob. 

"  You  might  say — if  you  liked,"  hesitated  the  captain, 
"  that  you'd  read  in  the  paper  that  a  cap'en  of  that  name 
was  gone  to  Australia,  emigrating  along  with  a  whole 
ship's  complement  of  people  as  had  all  swore  never  to 
come  back  no  more." 

Rob  nodded  his  understanding  of  these  instructions  ; 
and  Captain  Cuttle  promising  to  make  a  man  of  him  if 
he  obeyed  orders,  dismissed  him,  yawning,  to  his  bed 
under  the  counter,  and  went  aloft  to  the  chamber  of  Sol- 
omon Gills. 

What  the  captain  suffered  next  day,  whenever  a  bon- 
net passed,  or  how  often  he  darted  out  of  the  shop  to 
elude  imaginary  MacStingers,  and  sought  safety  in  the 
attic,  cannot  be  told.  But  to  avoid  the  fatigues  attend- 
ant on  this  means  of  self-preservation,  the  captain  cur- 
tained the  glass  door  of  communication  between  the  shop 
and  parlour,  on  the  inside,  fitted  a  key  to  it  from  the 
bunch  that  had  been  sent  to  him  ;  and  cut  a  small  hole 
of  espial  in  the  wall.  The  advantage  of  this  fortification 
is  obvious.  On  a  bonnet  appearing,  the  captain  instantly 
slipped  into  his  garrison,  locked  himself  up,  and  took  a 
secret  observation  of  the  enemy.  Finding  it  a  false 
alarm,  the  captain  instantly  slipped  out  again.  And  the 
bonnets  in  the  street  were  so  very  numerous,  and  alarms 
were  so  inseparable  from  their  appearance,  that  the  cap- 
tain was  almost  incessantly  slipping  in  and  out  all  day 
long. 

Captain  Cuttle  found  time,  however,  in  the  midst  of 
this  fatiguing  service  to  inspect  the  stock  ;  in  connexion 
with  which  he  had  the  general  idea  (very  laborious  to 
Rob)  that  too  much  friction  could  not  be  bestowed  upon 
it,  and  that  it  could  not  be  made  too  bright.  He  also 
ticketed  a  few  attractive  looking  articles  at  a  venture,  at 
prices  ranging  from  ten  shillings  to  fifty  pounds,  and 
exposed  them  in  the  window  to  the  great  astonishment 
of  the  public. 

After  effecting  these  improvements.  Captain  Cuttle, 
surrounded  by  the  instruments,  began  to  feel  scientific  : 
and  looked  up  at  the  stars  at  night,  through  the  skylight, 
when  he  was  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  little  back  parlour 


54^ 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


before  going-  to  bed,  as  if  he  had  established  a  kind  of 
property  in  them.  As  a  tradesman  in  the  city,  too,  he 
began  to  have  an  interest  in  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  the 
Sheriffs,  and  in  public  companies  ;  and  felt  bound  to 
read  the  quotations  of  the  Funds  every  day,  though  he 
was  unable  to  make  out,  on  any  principles  of  navigation, 
what  the  figures  meant,  and  could  have  very  well  dis- 
pensed with  the  fractions.  Florence,  the  captain  waited 
on,  with  his  strange  news  of  uncle  Sol,  immediately 
after  taking  possession  of  the  Midshipman  ;  but  she 
was  away  from  home.  So  the  captain  sat  himself  down 
in  his  altered  station  of  life,  with  no  company  but  Rob 
the  Grinder  ;  and  losing  count  of  time,  as  men  do  when 
great  changes  come  upon  them,  thought  musingly  of 
Walter,  and  of  Solomon  Grills,  and  even  of  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger  herself,  as  among  the  things  that  had  been. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

8ka(J,otvs  of  the  Past  and  Future. 

r 

Tom  most  obedient,  sir,"  said  the  major.  "  Damme, 
sir,  a  friend  of  my  friend  Dombey's  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  I'm  glad  to  see  you  ! " 

"  I  am  infinitely  obliged,  Carker,"  explained  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  "  to  Major  Bagstock  for  his  company  and  conversa- 
tion. Major  Bagstock  has  rendered  me  great  service, 
Carker. " 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  hat  in  hand,  just  arrived  at 
Leamington,  and  just  introduced  to  the  major,  showed 
the  major  his  whole  double  range  of  teeth,  and  trusted 
he  might  take  the  libei'ty  of  thanking  him  with  all  his 
heart  for  having  effected  so  great  an  improvement  in 
Mr.  Dombey's  looks  and  spirits. 

"By  Gad,  sir,"  said  the  major,  in  reply,  "there  are 
no  thanks  due  to  me,  for  it's  a  give  and  take  affair,  A 
great  creature  like  our  friend  Dombey,  sir,"  said  the 
major,  lowering  his  voice,  but  not  lowering  it  so  much 
as  to  render  it  inaudible  to  that  gentleman,  "  cannot 
help  improving  and  exalting  his  friends.  He  strengthens 
and  invigorates  a  man,  sir,  does  Dombey,  in  his  moral 
nature. " 

Mr.  Carker  snapped  at  the  expression.  In  his  moral 
nature.  Exactly.  The  very  words  he  had  been  on  the 
point  of  suggesting, 

"  But  when  my  friend  Dombey,  sir,"  added  the  major, 
"  talks  to  you  of  Major  Bagstock,  I  must  crave  leave  to 
set  him  and  you  right.  He  means  plain  Joe,  sir — Joey 
B. — Josh.  Bagstock — Joseph— rough  and  tough  old  J., 
sir.    At  your  service." 

Mr.  Carker's  excessi  vely  friendly  inclinations  towards 
the  major,  and  Mr,  Carker's  admiration  of  his  roughness, 
toughness,  and  plainness,  gleamed  out  of  every  tooth  in 
Mr.  Carker's  head. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  you  and  Dombey 
have  the  devil's  own  amount  of  business  to  talk  over." 

"  By  no  means,  major,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major  defiantly,  "I  know  better  ; 
a  man  of  your  mark — the  Colossus  of  commerce — is  not  to 
be  interrupted.  Your  moments  are  precious.  We  shall 
meet  at  dinner-time.  In  the  interval  old  Joseph  will  be 
scarce.    The  dinner  hour  is  at  sharp  seven,  Mr,  Carker." 

With  that,  the  major,  greatly  swollen  as  to  his  face, 
withdrew  ;  but  immediately  putting  in  his  head  at  the 
door  again,  said : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Dombey,  have  vou  any  message 
to  'em  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  in  some  embarrassment,  and  not  without  a 
glance  at  the  courteous  keeper  of  his  business  confidence, 
intrusted  the  major  with  his  compliments. 

"  By  the  Lord,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "you  must  make 
it  something  warmer  than  that,  or  old  Joe  will  be  far 
from  welcome." 

"  Regards  then,  if  you  will,  major,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Darnme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  shaking  his  shoulders 
and  his  great  cheeks  jocularly  :  **  make  it  something 
warmer  than  that." 

•*  What  you  please,  then,  major/*  observed  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 


"Our  friend  is  sly  sir,  sly  sir,  de-vilish  sly,"  said  the 
major,  staring  round  the  door  at  Carker.  "So  is  Bag- 
stock,"  But  stopping  in  the  midst  of  a  chuckle,  ^nd 
drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  the  major  solemnly 
exclaimed,  as  he  struck  himself  on  the  chest,  "  Dombey  ! 
I  envy  your  feelings.    God  bless  you  !  "  and  withdrew. 

"You  must  have  found  the  gentleman  a  great  re- 
source," said  Carker,  following  him  with  his  teeth. 

"  Very  great  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombe}^ 

"He  has  friends  here,  no  doubt,"  said  Carker.  "I 
perceive,  from  what  he  has  said,  that  you  go  into  society 
here.  Do  you  know,"  smiling  horribly,  "I  am  so  very 
glad  that  you  go  into  society  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey  acknowledged  this  display  of  interest  on 
the  part  of  his  second  in  command,  by  twirling  his  watch- 
chain,  and  slightly  moving  his  head, 

"  You  were  formed  for  society,"  said  Carker,  "  Of  all 
the  men  I  know,  you  are  the  best  adapted  by  nature  and 
by  position,  for  society.  Do  you  know.  I  have  been  fre- 
quently amazed  that  you  should  have  held  it  at  arm's 
length  so  long  !  " 

' '  I  have  had  my  reasons,  Carker.  I  have  been  alone, 
and  indifferent  to  it.  But  you  have  great  social  qualifi- 
cations yourself,  and  are  the  more  likely  to  have  been  sur- 
prised." 

"  Oh  !  If  "  returned  the  other,  with  ready  self-dispar- 
agement. "  It's  quite  another  matter  in  the  case  of  a  man 
like  me.    I  don't  come  into  comparison  with  you." 

Mr.  Dombey  put  his  hand  to  his  neckcloth,  settled  his 
chin  in  it,  coughed,  and  stood  looking  at  his  faithful  friend 
and  servant  for  a  few  moments  in  silence, 

"  I  shall  have  the  pleasure,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
at  length  :  making  as  if  he  swallowed  something  a  little 
too  large  for  his  throat  :  "  to  present  you  to  my — to  the 
major's  friends.    Highly  agreeable  people." 

"  Ladies  among  them,  I  presume  ! "  insinuated  the 
smooth  Manager. 

"  Tliey  are  all — that  is  to  say,  they  are  both — ladies," 
replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Only  two  ?  "  smiled  Carker, 

"  There  are  only  two.  I  have  confined  my  visits  to 
their  residence,  and  have  made  no  other  acquaintance 
here, " 

"  Sisters,  perhaps?"  quoth  Carker. 

"  Mother  and  daughter,"  replied  Mr,  Dombey. 

As  Mr.  Dombey  dropped  his  eyes,  and  adjusted  his 
neckcloth  again,  the  smiling  face  of  Mr.  Carker  the  Man- 
ager became  in  a  moment,  and  without  any  stage  of  tran- 
sition, transformed  into  a  most  intent  and  frowning  face, 
scanning  his  closely,  and  with  an  ugly  sneer.  As  Mr, 
Dombey  raised  his  eyes,  it  changed  back,  no  less  quickly, 
to  its  old  expression,  and  showed  him  every  gum  of 
which  it  stood  possessed, 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Carker,  "I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  know  them.  Speaking  of  daughters,  I  have 
seen  Miss  Dombey." 

There  was  a  sudden  rush  of  blood  to  Mr.  Dombey's  face. 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  waiting  on  her,"  said  Mr,  Carker, 
"  to  inquire  if  she  could  charge  me  with  any  little  com- 
mission, I  am  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  the  bearer  of 
j  any  but  her — but  her  dear  love." 

I  Wolf's  face  that  it  was  then,  with  even  the  hot  tongue 
revealing  itself  through  the  stretched  mouth,  as  the  eyes 
I  encountered  Mr,  Dombey's  ! 

"  What  business  intelligence  is  there  ?  "  inquired  the 
latter  gentleman,  after  a  silence,  during  which  Mr,  Car- 
ker had  produced  some  memoranda  and  other  papers, 

"There  is  very  little,"  returned  Mr.  Carker.  "Upon 
the  whole  we  have  not  had  our  usual  good  fortune  of 
late,  but  that  is  of  little  moment  to  you.  At  Lloyd's 
they  give  up  the  Son  and  Heir  for  lost.  Well,  she  was 
insured  from  her  keel  to  her  masthead." 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  taking  a  chair  near  him, 
"  I  cannot  say  that  young  man,  Gay,  ever  impressed  me 
favourably — " 

"  Nor  me,"  interposed  the  Manager. 

"  But  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  without  heeding  the 
interruption,  "  he  had  never  gone  on  board  that  ship.  I 
wish  he  had  never  been  sent  out." 

"  It, is  a  pity  you  didn't  say  so,  in  good  time,  is  it  not  ?  " 
retorted  Carker,  coolly,  "  However,  I  think  it's  all  for 
the  best.    I  really  think  it's  all  for  the  best.    Did  I  men- 


DOMBEY  AND  80K 


543 


tion  that  there  was  something  like  a  little  confidence  be- 
tween Miss  Dombey  and  myself." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  returned  Mr.  Carker,  after  an  im- 
pressive pause,  "  that  wherever  Gay  is,  he  is  much  bet- 
ter where  he  is,  than  at  home  here.  If  I  were,  or  could 
be,  in  your  place,  1  should  be  satisfied  of  that.  1  am 
quite  satisfied  of  it  myself.  Miss  Dombey  is  confiding 
and  young — perhaps  hardly  proud  enough,  for  your 
daughter — if  she  have  a  fault.  Not  that  that  is  much 
though,  I  am  sure.  Will  vou  check  these  balances  with 
me  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  instead  of  bend- 
ing over  the  papers  that  were  laid  before  him,  and  looked 
the  Manager  steadily  in  the  face.  The  Manager,  with 
his  eyelids  slightly  raised,  affected  to  be  glancing  at  his 
figures,  and  to  await  the  leisure  of  his  principal.  He 
showed  that  he  affected  this,  as  if  from  great  delicacy, 
and  with  a  design  to  spare  Mr.  Dombey 's  feelings  ;  and 
the  latter,  as  he  looked  at  him,  was  cognizant  of  his  in- 
tended consideration,  and  felt  that  but  for  it,  this  confi- 
dential Carker  would  have  said  a  great  deal  more,  which 
he,  Mr.  Dombey,  was  too  proud  to  ask  for.  It  was  his 
way  in  business,  often.  Little  by  little,  Mr.  Dombey's 
gaze  relaxed,  and  his  attention  became  diverted  to  the 
papers  before  him  ;  but  while  busy  with  the  occupation 
they  afforded  him,  he  frequently  stopped,  and  looked  at 
Mr.  Carker  again.  Whenever  he  did  so,  Mr.  Carker  was 
demonstrative,  as  before,  in  his  delicacy,  and  impressed 
it  on  his  great  chief  more  and  more. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged  ;  and  under  the  skil- 
ful culture  of  the  Manager,  angry  thoughts  in  reference 
to  poor  Florence  brooded  and  bred  in  Mr.  Dombey's 
breast,  usurping  the  place  of  the  cold  dislike  that  gener- 
ally reigned  there  ;  Major  Bagstock,  much  admired  by 
the  old  ladies  of  Leamington,  and  followed  by  the  native, 
carrying  the  usual  amount  of  light  baggage,  straddled 
along  the  shady  side  of  the  way,  to  make  a  morning  call 
on  Mrs.  Skewton.  It  being  mid- day  when  the  major 
reached  the  bower  of  Cleopatra,  he  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  find  his  princess  on  her  usual  sofa,  languishing 
over  a  cup  of  coffee,  with  the  room  so  darkened  and 
shaded  for  her  more  luxurious  repose,  that  Withers, 
who  was  in  attendance  on  her,  loomed  like  a  phantom 
page. 

"  What  insupportable  creature  is  this,  coming  in  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Skewton.  "  I  cannot  bear  it.  Go  away,  who- 
ever you  are  ! " 

"You  have  not  the  heart  to  banish  J.  B.,  ma'am  !" 
said  the  major,  halting  midway,  to  remonstrate,  with  his 
cane  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh  it's  you,  is  it  ?  On  second  thoughts  you  may  en- 
ter," observed  Cleopatra. 

The  major  entered  accordingly,  and  advancing  to  the 
sofa  pressed  her  charming  hand  to  his  lips. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Cleopatra,  listlessly  waving  her  fan, 
"  a  long  way  off.  Don't  come  too  near  me,  for  I  am 
frightfully  faint  and  sensitive  this  morning,  and  you 
smell  of  the  sun.    You  are  absolutely  tropical." 

"By  George,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "the  time  has 
been  when  Joseph  Bagstock  had  been  grilled  and  blis- 
tered by  the  sun  ;  the  time  was,  when  he  was  forced, 
ma'am,  into  such  full  blow,  by  high  hothouse  heat  in  the 
West  Indies,  that  he  was  known  as  the  flower.  A  man 
never  heard  of  Bagstock,  ma'am,  in  those  days  ;  he  heard 
of  the  flower— the  flower  of  Our's.  The  flower  may  have 
faded,  more  or  less,  ma'am,"  observed  the  major,  drop- 
ping into  a  much  nearer  chair  than  had  bee^n  indicated 
by  his  cruel  divinity,  "  but  it  is  a  tough  plant  yet,  and 
constant  as  the  evergreen." 

Here  the  major,  under  cover  of  the  dark  room,  shut 
up  one  eye,  rolled  his  head  like  a  harlequin,  and,  in  his 
great  self-satisfaction,  perhaps  went  nearer  to  the  con- 
fines of  apoplexy  than  he  had  ever  gone  before. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Granger?"  inquired  Cleopatra  of  her 
page. 

Withers  believed  she  was  in  her  own  room. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton.  "Go  away,  and 
shut  the  door.    I  am  engaged." 

As  Withers  disappeared,  Mrs.  Skewton  turned  her 
head  languidly  towards  the  major,  without  otherwise  ! 
moving,  and  asked  him  how  his  friend  was.  | 


"Dombey,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major,  with  a  face- 
tious gurgling  in  his  throat,  "  is  as  well  as  a  man  in  his 
condition  can  be.  His  condition  is  a  desperate  one, 
ma'am.  He  is  touched,  is  Dombey.  Touched  ?  "  cried 
the  major.    "  He  is  bayonetted  through  the  body." 

Cleopatra  cast  a  sharp  look  at  the  major,  that  con- 
trasted forcibly  with  the  affected  drawl  in  which  she 
presently  said  : — 

"Major  Bagstock,  although  I  know  but  little  of  the 
world,— nor  can  I  really  regret  my  inexperience,  for  I 
fear  it  is  a  false  place  :  full  of  withering  conventionali- 
ties :  where  nature  is  but  little  regarded,  and  where  the 
music  of  the  heart,  and  the  gushing  of  the  soul,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  which  is  so  truly  poetical,  is  seldom 
heard, — I  cannot  misunderstand  your  meaning.  There 
is  an  allusion  to  Edith — to  my  extremely  dear  child,"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  tracing  the  outline  of  her  eyebrows  with 
her  forefinger,  "  in  your  words,  to  which  the  tenderest 
of  chords  vibrates  excessively  !" 

"  Bluntness,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major,  "has  ever 
been  the  characteristic  of  the  Bagstock  breed.  You  are 
right.    Joe  admits  it." 

"  And  that  allusion,"  pursued  Cleopatra,  "  would  in- 
volve one  of  the  most — if  not  positively  ^Ac  most — touch- 
ing, and  thrilling,  and  sacred  emotions  of  which  our 
sadly-fallen  nature  is  susceptible,  I  conceive." 

The  major  laid  his  hand  upon  his  lips,  and  wafted  a 
kiss  to  Cleopatra,  as  if  to  identify  the  emotion  in  ques- 
tion, 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  weak.  I  feel  that  I  am  wanting  in 
that  energy  which  should  sustain  a  mama  :  not  to  say  a 
parent  :  on  such  a  subject,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  trimming 
her  lips  with  the  laced  edge  of  her  pocket-handkerchief  ; 
"  but  I  can  hardly  ai5proach  a  topic  so  excessively  mo- 
mentous to  my  dearest  Edith  without  a  feeling  of  faint- 
ness.  Nevertheless,  bad  man,  as  you  have  boldly  re- 
marked upon  it,  and  as  it  has  occasioned  me  great  an- 
guish ; "  Mrs.  Skewton  touched  her  left  side  with  her 
fan  :  "I  will  not  shrink  from  my  duty." 

The  major,  under  cover  of  the  dimness,  swelled,  and 
swelled,  and  rolled  his  purple  face  about,  and  winked 
his  lobster  eye,  until  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  wheezing,  w^hich 
obliged  him  to  rise  and  take  a  turn  or  two  about  the 
room,  before  his  fair  friend  could  proceed. 

"Mr.  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  when  she  at 
length  resumed,  "  was  obliging  enough,  now  many 
weeks  ago,  to  do  us  the  honour  of  visiting  us  here  ;  in 
company,  my  dear  major,  with  yourself.  I  acknowledge 
— let  me  be  open — that  it  is  my  failing  to  be  the  creature 
of  impulse,  and  to  wear  my  heart,  as  it  were,  outside.  I 
know  my  failing  full  well.  My  enemy  can  not  know  it 
better.  But  I  am  not  penitent ;  I  would  rather  not  be 
frozen  by  the  heartless  world,  and  am  content  to  bear 
this  imputation  justly." 

Mrs.  Skewton  arranged  her  tucker,  pinched  her  wiry 
throat  to  give  it  a  soft  surface,  and  went  on,  with  great 
complacenc}^ 

"  It  gave  me  (my  dearest  Edith  too,  I  am  sure)  infinite 
pleasure  to  receive  Mr.  Dombey.  As  a  friend  of  yours, 
my  dear  major,  we  were  naturally  disposed  to  be  prepos- 
sessed in  his  favour  ;  and  I  fancied  that  I  observed  an 
amount  of  heart  in  Mr.  Dombey,  that  was  excessively  re- 
freshing." 

"  There  is  devilish  little  heart  in  Dombey  now,  ma'am," 
said  the  major. 

"Wretched  man  !"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  at 
him  languidly,  "pray  be  silent." 

"J.  B.  is  dumb,  ma'am,"  said  the  major. 

"Mr.  Dombey,"  pursued  Cleopatra,  smoothing  the 
rosy  hue  upon  her  cheeks,  "  accordingly  repeated  his 
visit ;  and  possibly  finding  some  attraction  in  the  sim- 
plicity and  primitiveness  of  our  tastes— for  there  is  al- 
ways a  charm  in  nature— it  is  so  very  sweet— became 
one  of  our  little  circle  every  evening.  Little  did  I  think 
of  the  awful  responsibility  "into  which  I  plunged  when  I 
encouraged  Mr.  Dombey — to—" 

"To  beat  up  these  quarters,  ma'am,"  suggested  Ma- 
jor Bagstock. 

"Coarse  person!"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "you  antici- 
pate my  meaning,  though  in  odious  language." 

Here  Mrs.  Skewton  rested  her  elbow  on  the  little  table 
at  her  side,  and  suifering  her  wrist  to  droop  in  %vhat  she 


544 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


considered  a  graceful  and  becoming  manner,  dangled 
her  fan  to  and  fro,  and  lazily  admired  her  hand  while 
speaking. 

"The  agony  I  have  endured,"  she  said  mincingly, 
"  as  the  truth  has  by  degrees  dawned  upon  me,  has  been 
too  exceedingly  terrific  to  dilate  upon.  My  whole  ex- 
istence is  bound  up  in  my  sweetest  Edith  ;  and  to  see 
her  change  from  day  to  day— my  beautiful  pet,  who  has 
positively  garnered  up  her  heart  since  the  death  of  that 
most  delightful  creature,  Granger— is  the  most  affecting 
thing  in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Skewton's  world  was  not  a  very  trying  one,  if 
one  might  judge  of  it  by  the  influence  of  its  most  affect- 
ing circumstance  upon  her  ;  but  this  by  the  way. 

"Edith,"  simpered  Mrs.  Skewton,  "who  is  the  per- 
fect pearl  of  my  life,  is  said  to  resemble  me.  I  believe 
we  are  alike." 

"  There  is  one  man  in  the  world  who  never  will  ad- 
mit that  any  one  resembles  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  ma- 
jor ;  "  and  that  man's  name  is  old  Joe  Bagstock," 

Cleopatra  made  as  if  she  would  brain  the  flatterer  with 
her  fan,  but  relenting,  smiled  upon  him  and  proceeded  : 

"  If  my  charming  girl  inherits  any  advantages  from 
me,  wicked  one  !  "  :  the  major  was  the  wicked  one  : 
"she  inherits  also  my  foolish  nature.  She  has  great 
force  of  character — mine  has  been  said  to  be  immense, 
though  I  don't  believe  it — but  once  moved,  she  is  sus- 
ceptible and  sensitive  to  the  last  extent.  What  are  my 
feelings  when  I  see  her  pining  !   They  destroy  me." 

The  major  advancing  his  double  chin,  and  pursing  up 
his  blue  lips  into  a  soothing  expression,  affected  the  pro- 
foundest  sympathy. 

"  The  confidence,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  that  has  sub- 
sisted between  us — the  free  development  of  soul,  and 
openness  of  sentiment — is  touching  to  think  of.  We 
have  been  more  like  sisters  than  mama  and  child." 

"J.  B.'s  own  sentiment,"  observed  the  major,  "ex- 
pressed by  J.  B.  fifty  thousand  times  !  " 

"  Do  not  interrupt,  rude  man  ! "  said  Cleopatra. 
"What  are  my  feelings,  then,  when  I  find  that  there  is 
one  subject  avoided  by  us  !  That  there  is  a  what's  his 
name  — a  gulf — opened  between  us.  That  my  own  art- 
less Edith  is  changed  to  me  !  They  are  of  the  most 
poignant  description,  of  course." 

The  major  left  his  chair,  and  took  one  nearer  to  the 
little  table. 

"  From  day  to  day  I  see  this,  my  dear  major,"  pro- 
ceeded Mrs.  Skewton.  "From  day  to  day  I  feel  this. 
From  hour  to  hour  I  reproach  myself  for  that  excess  of 
faith  and  trustfulness  which  has  led  to  such  distressing 
consequences  ;  and  almost  from  minute  to  minute,  I 
hope  that  Mr.  Dombey  may  explain  himself,  and  relieve 
the  torture  I  undergo,  which  is  extremely  wearing.  But 
nothing  happens,  my  dear  major  ;  I  am  the  slave  of  re- 
morse— take  care  of  the  coffee-cup  :  you  are  so  very 
awkward — my  darling  Edith  is  an  altered  being  ;  and  I 
really  don't  see  what  is  to  be  done,  or  what  good  crea- 
ture I  can  advise  with." 

Major  Bagstock,  encouraged  perhaps  by  the  softened 
and  confidential  tone  into  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  after  sev- 
eral times  lapsing  into  it  for  a  moment,  seemed  now  to 
have  subsided  for  good  :  stretched  out  his  hand  across 
the  little  table,  and  said  with  a  leer, 

"Advise  with  Joe,  ma'am." 

"Then,  you  aggravating  monster,"  said  Cleopatra, 
giving  one  hand  to  the  major,  and  tapping  his  knuckles 
with  her  fan,  which  she  held  in  the  other  :  "  why  don't 
you  talk  to  me  1  you  know  what  I  mean.  Why  don't 
You  tell  me  something  to  the  purpose  ?  " 

The  major  laughed,  and  kissed  the  hand  she  had  be- 
stowed upon  him,  and  laughed  again,  immensely. 

"  Is  there  as  much  Heart  in  Mr.  Dombey  as  I  gave  him 
credit  for  ?"  languished  Cleopatra  tenderly.  "  Do  you 
think  he  is  in  earnest,  my  dear  major  ?  Would  you  rec- 
ommend his  being  spoken  to,  or  his  being  left  alone? 
Now,  tell  me,  like  a  dear  man,  what  you  would  ad- 
vise." 

"Shall  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  ma'am?" 
chuckled  the  major  hoarsely. 

"Mysterious  creature?"  returned  Cleopatra,  bringing 
her  fan  to  bear  upon  the  major's  nose.  "  How  can  we 
marry  him  ?" 


"Shall  tve  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  ma'am,  I 
say  ?  "  chuckled  the  major  again. 

Mrs.  Skewton  returned  no  answer  in  words,  but  smiled 
upon  the  major  with  so  much  archness  and  vivacity,  that 
that  gallant  officer  considering  himself  challenged,  would 
have  imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  exceedingly  red  lips,  but 
for  her  interposing  the  fan  with  a  very  winning  and  ju- 
venile dexterity.  It  might  have  been  in  modesty  ;  it 
might  have  been  in  apprehension  of  some  danger  to  their 
bloom. 

"  Dombey,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "  is  a  great  catch." 

"  Oh,  mercenary  wretch!"  cried  Cleopatra,  with  a 
little  shriek,  "  I  am  shocked." 

"  And  Dombey,  ma'am,"  pursued  the  major,  thrusting 
forward  his  head,  and  distending  his  eyes,  "is  in  earnest. 
Joseph  says  it  ;  Bagstock  knows  it ;  J,  B.  keeps  him  to  the 
mark.  Leave  Dombey  to  himself,  ma'am.  Dombey  is 
safe,  ma'am.  Do  as  you  have  done  ;  do  no  more  ;  and 
trust  to  J.  B.  for  the  end." 

"  You  really  think  so,  my  dear  major  ?  "  returned  Cleo- 
patra, who  had  eyed  him  very  cautiously,  and  very 
search ingly,  in  spite  of  her  listless  bearing. 

"  Sure  of  it,  ma'am,"  rejoined  the  major.  "  Cleopatra 
the  pe(;rless,  and  her  Antony  Bagstock,  will  often  speak 
of  this,  triumphantly,  when  sharing  the  elegance  and 
wealth  of  Edith  Dombey's  establishment.  Dombey's 
right  hand-man,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  stopping  ab- 
ruptly in  a  chuckle,  and  becoming  serious,  "  has  arrived." 

"  This  morning  ?"  said  Cleopatra. 

"  This  morning,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major.  "And 
Dombey's  anxiety  for  his  arrival,  ma'am,  is  to  be  referred 
— take  J.  B's  word  for  this  ;  for  Joe  is  de-vilish  sly" — 
the  major  tapped  his  nose,  and  screwed  up  one  of  his 
eyes  tight :  which  did  not  enhance  his  native  beauty — 
"  to  his  desire  that  what  is  in  the  wind  should  become 
known  to  him,  without  Dombey's  telling  and  consulting 
him.  For  Dombey  is  as  proud,  ma'am,"  said  the  major, 
"  as  Lucifer." 

"A  charming  quality,"  lisped  Mrs.  Skewton;  "re- 
minding one  of  dearest  Edith." 

"  Weil,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.  "  I  have  thrown  out 
hints  already,  and  the  right-hand  man  understands  'em ; 
and  I'll  throw  out  more  before  the  day  is  done.  Dombey 
projected  this  morning  a  ride  to  Warwick  Castle,  and  to 
Kenilworth,  to-morrow,  to  be  preceded  by  a  breakfast 
with  us.  I  undertook  the  delivery  of  this  invitation. 
Will  you  honour  us  so  far,  ma'am  ?"  said  the  major, 
swelling  with  shortness  of  breath  and  slyness,  as  he  pro- 
duced a  note,  addressed  to  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton, 
by  favour  of  Major  Bagstock,  wherein  hers  ever  faith- 
fully, Paul  Dombey,  besought  her  and  her  amiable  and 
accomplished  daughter  to  consent  to  the  proposed  ex- 
cursion ;  and  in  a  postscript  unto  which,  the  same  ever 
faithfully  Paul  Dombey  entreated  to  be  recalled  to  the 
remembrance  of  Mrs.  Granger. 

"  Hush  !"  said  Cleopatra,  suddenly,  "Edith  !  " 

The  loving  mother  can  scarcely  be  described  as  re- 
suming her  insipid  and  affected  air  when  she  made  this 
exclamation  ;  for  she  had  never  cast  it  off ;  nor  was  it 
likely  that  she  ever  would  or  could,  in  any  other  place 
than  in  the  grave.  But  hurriedly  dismissing  whatever 
shadow  of  earnestness,  or  faint  confession  of  a  purpose, 
laudable  or  wicked,  that  her  face,  or  voice,  or  manner, 
had,  for  the  moment,  betrayed,  she  lounged  upon  the 
couch,  her  most  insipid  and  most  languid  self  again,  as 
Edith  entered  the  room. 

Edith,  so  beautiful  and  stately,  but  so  cold  and  so  re- 
pelling. Who,  slightly  acknowledging  the  presence  of 
Major  Bagstock,  and  directing  a  keen  glance  at  her 
mother,  drew  back  the  curtain  from  a  window,  and  sat 
down  there,  looking  out. 

"My  dearest  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "where  on 
earth  have  you  been  ?  I  have  wanted  you,  my  love,  most 
sadly." 

"You  said  you  were  engaged,  and  I  stayed  away,"  she 
answered,  without  turning  her  head. 

"It  was  cruel  to  Old  Joe,  ma'am,"  said  the  major  in 
his  gallantry. 

"It  was  Very  cruel,  I  know,"  she  said,  still  looking 
out — and  said  with  such  calm  disdain  that  the  major  was 
!  discomfitted,  and  could  think  of  nothing  in  reply. 
1     "Major  Bagstock,  my  darling  Edith,"  drawled  her 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


645 


motlier,  "who  is  generally  the  most  useless  and  dis- 
agreeable creature  in  the  world  :  as  yon  know — " 

"It  is  surely  not  worth  while,  mama,"  said  Edith, 
looking  round,  "to  observe  these  forms  of  speech.  We 
are  quite  alone.    We  know  each  other." 

The  quiet  scorn  that  sat  upon  her  handsome  face — a 
scorn  that  evidently  lighted  on  herself,  no  less  than  them 
— was  so  intense  and  deep,  that  her  mother's  simper,  for 
the  instant,  though  of  a  hardy  constitution,  drooped 
before  it. 

"My  darling  girl,"  she  began  again. 

"  Not  woman  yet  ?"  said  Edith,  with  a  smile. 

"  How  very  odd  you  are  to-day,  my  dear  1  Pray  let 
me  say,  my  love,  that  Major  Bagstock  has  brought  the 
kindest  of  notes  from  Mr.  Dombey,  proposing  that  we 
should  breakfast  with  hira  to-morrow,  and  ride  to  War- 
wick and  Kenil worth.    Will  you  go,  Edith?  " 

"Will  I  go!"  she  repeated,  turning  very  red,  and 
breathing  quickly  as  she  looked  round  at  her  mother. 

"I  knew  you  would,  my  own,"  observed  the  latter 
carelessly.  "  It  is,  as  you  say,  quite  a  form  to  ask.  Here 
is  Mr.  Dombey's  letter,  Edith." 

"Thank  you.  I  have  no  desire  to  read  it,"  was  her 
answer. 

"Then  perhaps  I  had  better  answer  it  myself,"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  "  though  I  had  thought  of  asking  you  to 
be  my  secretary,  darling."  As  Edith  made  no  movement 
and  no  answer,  Mrs.  Skewton  begged  the  major  to  wheel 
her  little  table  nearer,  and  to  set  open  the  desk  it  con- 
tained, and  to  take  out  pen  and  paper  for  her  ;  all  which 
congenial  offices  of  gallantry  the  major  discharged,  with 
much  submission  and  devotion. 

"  Your  regards,  Edith,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
pausing,  pen  in  hand,  at  the  postscript. 

"What  you  will,  mama,"  she  answered,  without  turn- 
ing her  head,  and  with  supreme  indifference. 

Mrs.  Skewton  wrote  what  she  would,  without  seeking 
for  any  more  explicit  directions,  and  handed  her  letter  to 
the  major,  who  receiving  it  as  a  precious  charge,  made  a 
show  of  laying  it  near  his  heart,  but  was  fain  to  put  in 
the  pocket  of  his  pantaloons  on  account  of  the  insecurity 
of  his  waistcoat.    The  major  then  took  a  very  polished 
and  chivalrous  farewell  of  both  ladies,  which  the  elder  | 
one  acknowledged  in  her  usual  manner,  while  the  | 
younger,  sitting  with  her  face  addressed  to  the  window,  I 
bent  her  head  so  slightly  that  it  would  have  been  a  ; 
greater  compliment  to  the  major  to  have  made  no  sign  at 
all,  and  to  have  left  him  to  infer  that  he  had  not  been 
heard  or  thought  of. 

"  As  to  alteration  in  her,  sir,"  mused  the  major,  on  his 
way  back  ;  on  which  expedition — the  afternoon  being 
sunny  and  hot — he  ordered  the  native  and  the  light  bag- 
gage to  the  front,  and  walked  in  the  shadow  of  that  ex- 
patriated prince  :  "as  to  alteration,  sir,  and  pining,  and 
so  forth,  that  won't  go  down  with  Joseph  Bagstock. 
None  of  that,  sir.  It  won't  do  here.  But  as  to  there 
being  something  of  a  division  between  'em — or  a  gulf  as 
the  mother  calls  it— damme,  sir,  that  seems  true  enough. 
And  it's  odd  enough  !  Well,  sir  I"  panted  the  major, 
"  Edith  Granger  and  Dombey  are  well  matched  ;  let  'em 
fight  it  out !    Bagstock  backs  the  winner  !  " 

The  major,  by  saying  these  latter  words  aloud,  in  the  | 
vigour  of  his  thoughts  caused  the  unhappy  native  to 
stop,  and  turn  round,  in  the  belief  that  he  was  person-  j 
ally  addressed.    Exasperated  to  the  last  degree  by  this 
act  of  insubordination,  the  major  (though  he  was  swelling 
with  enjo}Tnent  of  his  own  humour,  at  the  moment  of 
its  occurrence)  instantly  thrust  his  cane  among  the  na-  \ 
,  tive's  ribs,  and  continued  to  stir  him  up  at  short  inter- 
vals, all  the  way  to  the  hotel. 

I    Nor  was  the  major  less  exasperated  as  he  dressed  for 
:  dinner,  during  which  operation  the  dark  servant  under- 
•  went  the  pelting  of  a  shower  of  miscellaneous  objects, 
I  varying  in  size  from  a  boot  to  a  hair-brush,  and  includ- 
ing evep^thing  that  came  within  his  master's  reach.  For 
the  major  plumed  himself  on  having  the  native  in  a  per- 
fect state  of  drill,  and  visited  the  least  departure  from 
strict  discipline  with  this  kind  of  fatigue  duty.    Add  to 
this,  that  he  maintained  the  native  about  his  person  as  a 
counter-irritant  against  the  gout  and  all  other  vexations, 
mental  as  well  as  bodily  ;  and  the  native  would  appear 
to  have  earned  his  pay— which  was  not  large. 
'Vol.  II.— 35 


At  length  the  major  having  disposed  of  all  the  missiles 
that  were  convenient  to  his  hand,  and  having  called  the 
native  so  many  new  names  as  must  have  given  him  great 
occasion  to  marvel  at  the  resources  of  the  English  lan- 
guage, submitted  to  have  his  cravat  put  on  ;  and  being 
dressed,  and  finding  himself  in  a  brisk  flow  of  spirits 
after  this  exercise,  went  down-stairs  to  enliven  "  Dom- 
bey "  and  his  right-hand  man. 

Dombey  was  not  yet  in  the  room,  but  the  right-hand 
man  was  there,  and  his  dental  treasures  were,  as  usual, 
ready  for  the  major. 

"  Well,  sir  !  "  said  the  major.  "  How  have  you  passed 
the  time  since  I  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  you? 
Have  you  walked  at  all  ?  " 

"A  saunter  of  barely  half  an  hour's  duration,"  re- 
turned Carker.    "We  have  been  so  much  occupied." 

"  Business,  eh  ?"  said  the  major. 

'*  A  variety  of  little  matters  necessary  to  be  gone 
through,"  replied  Carker.  "But  do  you  know — this  is 
quite  unusual  with  me,  educated  in  a  distrustful  school, 
and  who  am  not  generally  disposed  to  be  communica- 
tive," he  said,  breaking  oiT,  and  speaking  in  a  charming 
tone  of  frankness — "  but  I  feel  quite  confidential  with 
you,  Major  Bagstock." 

"  You  do  me  honour,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  "  You 
may  be." 

"Do  you  know  then,"  pursued  Carker,  "that  I  have 
not  found  my  friend — our  friend,  I  ought  rather  to  call 
him — ' ' 

"  Meaning  Dombey,  sir  ?  "  cried  the  major.  "  You  see 
me,  Mr.  Carker,  standing  here  !  J.  B.  ?  " 

He  was  puffy  enough  to  see,  and  blue  enough  ;  and  Mr. 
Carker  intimated  that  he  had  that  pleasure. 

"  Then  you  see  a  man,  sir,  who  would  go  through  fire 
and  water  to  serve  Dombey,"  returned  Major  Bagstock. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled,  and  said  he  was  sure  of  it.  "  Do 
you  know,  major,"  he  proceeded  :  "to  resume  where  I 
left  off :  that  1  have  not  found  our  friend  so  attentive  to 
business  to-day,  as  usual  ?" 

"No?  "  observed  the  delighted  major. 

"  I  have  found  him  a  little  abstracted,  and  with  his  at- 
tention disposed  to  wander,"  said  Carker. 

"  By  Jove,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  "there's  a  lady  in  the 
case." 

"  Indeed,  I  begin  to  believe  there  really  is,"  returned 
Carker.  "  I  thought  you  might  be  jesting  when  you 
seemed  to  hint  at  it  ;  for  I  know  you  military  men — " 

The  major  gave  the  horse's  cough,  and  shook  his  head 
and  shoulders,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Well  !  we  are  gay 
dogs,  there's  no  denying."  He  then  seized  Mr.  Carker 
by  the  button-hole,  and  with  starting  eyes  whispered  in 
his  ear  that  she  was  a  woman  of  extraordinary  charms, 
sir.  That  she  was  a  young  widow,  sir.  That  she  was  of 
a  fine  family,  sir.  That  Dombey  was  over  head  and  ears 
in  love  with  her,  sir,  and  that  it  would  be  a  good  match 
on  both  sides  ;  for  she  had  beauty,  blood,  and  talent,  and 
Dombey  had  fortune  ;  and  what  more  could  any  couple 
have  ?  Hearing  Mr.  Dombey's  footsteps  without,  the 
major  cut  himself  short  by  saying,  that  Mr.  Carker  would 
see  her  to-morrow  morning,  and  would  judge  for  himself  ; 
and  between  his  mental  excitement,  and  the  exertion  of 
saying  all  this  in  wheezy  whispers,  the  major  sat  gurg- 
ling in  the  throat  and  watering  at  the  eyes,  until  dinner 
was  ready. 

The  major,  like  some  other  noble  animals,  exhibited 
himself  to  great  advantage  at  feeding  time.  On  this  oc- 
casion, he  shone  resplendent  at  one  end  of  the  table,  sup- 
ported by  the  milder  lustre  of  Mr.  Dombey  at  the  other  ; 
while  Carker  on  one  side  lent  his  ray  to  either  light,  or 
suffered  it  1o  merge  into  both,  as  occasion  arose. 

During  the  first  course  or  two,  the  mdjor  was  usually 
grave  ;  for  the  native,  in  obedience  to  general  orders, 
secretly  issued,  collected  every  sauce  and  cruet  round 
him,  and  gave  him  a  great  deal  to  do,  in  taking  out  the 
stoppers,  and  mixing  up  the  contents  in  his  plate.  Be- 
sides which,  the  native  had  private  zests  and  flavours  on 
a  side-table,  with  which  the  major  daily  scorched  him- 
self ;  to  say  nothing  of  strange  machines  out  of  which 
he  spirted  unknown  liquids  into  the  major's  drink.  But 
on  this  occasion,  Major  Bagstock,  even  amidst  these 
many  occupations,  found  time  to  be  social ;  and  his  so- 
ciality consisted  in  excessive  slyness  for  the  behoof  of 


54G 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


Mr.  Carker,  and  tlie  betrayal  of  Mr.  Dombey's  state  of 
mind. 

"Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "you  don't  eat;  what's 
the  matter?" 

"Thank  you,"  returned  that  gentleman,  "I  am  doing 
very  well ;  I  have  no  great  appetite  to-day." 

"  Why,  Dombev,  what's  become  of  it  ?  "  asked  the  ma- 
jor. "  Where's  it  gone  ?  You  haven't  left  it  with  our 
friends,  I'll  swear,  for  I  can  answer  for  their  having  none 
to-day  at  luncheon.  I  can  answer  for  one  of  'em,  at 
least ;  I  won't  say  which." 

Then  the  major  winked  at  Carker,  and  became  so 
frightfully  sly,  that  his  dark  attendant  was  obliged  to 
pat  him  on  the  back,  without  orders,  or  he  would  prob- 
ably have  disappeared  under  the  table. 

In  a  later  stage  of  the  dinner  :  that  is  to  say,  when  the 
native  stood  at  the  major's  elbow  ready  to  serve  the 
first  bottle  of  champagne  :  the  major  became  still  slyer. 

"  Fill  this  to  the  brim,  you  scoundrel,"  said  the  major, 
holding  up  his  glass.  "Fill  Mr.  Carker's  to  the  brim 
too.  And  Mr.  Dombey's  too.  By  Gad,  gentlemen," 
said  the  major,  winking  at  his  new  friend,  while  Mr. 
Dombey  looked  into  his  plate  with  a  conscious  air, 
"  we'll  consecrate  this  glass  of  wine  to  a  divinity  whom 
Joe  is  proud  to  know,  and  at  a  distance  humbly  and 
reverently  to  admire.  Edith,"  said  the  major,  "is  her 
name  ;  angelic  Edith  ! " 

"  To  angelic  Edith  ! "  cried  the  smiling  Carker. 

"Edith,  by  all  means,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  entrance  of  the  waiters  with  new  dishes  caused 
the  major  to  be  slyer  yet,  but  in  a  more  serious  vein. 
"  For  though,  among  ourselves,  Joe  Bagstock  mingles 
jest  and  earnest  on  this  subject,  sir,"  said  the  major, 
laying  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  speaking  half  apart  to 
Carker,  "  he  holds  that  name  too  sacred  to  be  made  the 
property  of  these  fellows,  or  any  fellows.  Not  a  word, 
sir,  while  they  are  here  ! " 

This  was  respectful  and  becoming  on  the  major's  part, 
and  Mr.  Dombey  plainly  felt  it  so.  Although  embar- 
rassed in  his  own  frigid  way,  by  the  major's  allusions, 
Mr.  Dombey  had  no  objection  to  such  rallying,  it  was 
clear,  but  rather  courted  it.  Perhaps  the  major  had 
been  pretty  near  the  truth,  when  he  had  divined  that 
morning  that  the  great  man  who  was  too  haughty 
formally  to  consult  with,  or  confide  in  his  prime  minister, 
on  such  a  matter,  yet  wished  him  to  be  fully  possessed  of 
it.  Let  this  be  how  it  may,  he  often  glanced  at  Mr. 
Carker  while  the  major  plied  his  light  artillery,  and 
seemed  watchful  of  its  effect  upon  him. 

But  the  major,  having  secured  an  attentive  listener, 
and  a  smiler,  who  had  not  his  match  in  all  the  world — 
"  in  short,  a  de-vilish  intelligent  and  agreeable  fellow," 
as  he  often  afterwards  declared — was  not  going  to  let 
him  off  with  a  little  slyness  personal  to  Mr.  Dombey. 
Therefore,  on  the  removal  of  the  cloth,  the  major  de- 
veloped himself  as  a  choice  spirit  in  the  broader  and 
more  comprehensive  range  of  narrating  regimental 
stories,  and  cracking  regimental  jokes,  which  he  did 
with  such  prodigal  exuberance,  that  Carker  was  (or 
feigned  to  be)  quite  exhausted  with  laughter  and  ad- 
miration ;  while  Mr.  Dombey  looked  on  over  his  starched 
cravat,  like  the  major's  proprieter,  or  like  a  stately  show- 
man who  was  glad  to  see  his  bear  dancing  well. 

When  the  major  was  too  hoarse  with  meat  and  drink, 
and  the  display  of  his  social  powers  to  render  himself  in- 
telligible any  longer,  they  adjourned  to  coffee.  After 
which,  the  major  inquired  of  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 
with  little  apparent  hope  of  an  answer  in  the  affirmative, 
if  he  played  picquet. 

"  Yes,  I  play  picquet  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Backgammon,  perhaps?  "  observed  the  major  hesi- 
tating. 

"Yes,  I  play  backgammon  a  little  too,"  replied  the 
man  of  teeth. 

"  Carker  plays  at  all  games,  I  believe,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  laying  himself  on  a  sofa  like  a  man  of  wood 
without  a  hinge  or  a  joint  in  him  ;  "  and  plays  them 
well."  -^^ 

In  sooth,  he  played  the  two  in  question,  to  such  per- 
fection, that  the  major  was  astonished,  and  asked  him, 
at  random,  if  he  played  chess. 

"Yes,  I  play  chess  a  little,"  answered  Carker.  "I 


have  sometimes  played,  and  won  a  game— it's  a  mere 
trick — without  seeing  the  board." 

"By  Gad,  sir!"  said  the  major,  staring,  "you're  a 
contrast  to  Dombey,  who  plays  nothing. " 

"  Oh  !  He  !  "  returned  the'  manager.  "  He  has  never 
had  occasion  to  acquire  such  little  arts.  To  men  like 
me,  they  are  sometimes  useful.  As  at  present  Major 
Bagstock,  when  they  enable  me  to  take  a  hand  with 
you." 

It  might  be  only  the  false  mouth,  so  smooth  and  wide  ; 
and  yet  there  seemed  to  lurk  beneath  the  humility  and 
subserviency  of  this  short  speech,  a  something  like  a 
snarl  ;  and  for  a  moment,  one  might  have  thought  that 
the  white  teeth  were  prone  to  bite  the  hand  they  fawned 
upon.  But  the  major  thought  nothing  about  it ;  and 
Mr.  Dombey  lay  meditating  with  his  eyes  half  shut  during 
the  whole  of  the  play,  which  lasted  until  bed-time. 

By  that  time,  Mr.  Carker,  though  the  winner,  had 
mounted  high  into  the  major's  good  opinion,  insomuch, 
that  when  he  left  the  major  at  his  own  room  before  going 
to  bed,  the  major,  as  a  special  attention,  sent  the  native — 
who  always  rested  on  a  mattress,  spread  upon  the  ground 
at  his  master's  door — along  the  gallery,  to  light  him  to 
his  room  in  state. 

There  was  a  faint  blur  on  the  surface  of  the  mirror  in 
Mr.  Carker's  chamber,  and  its  reflection  was,  perhaps,  a 
false  one.  But  it  showed,  that  night,  the  image  of  a 
man,  who  saw,  in  his  fancy,  a  crowd  of  people  slumber- 
ing on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  like  the  poor  native  at  his 
master's  door  :  who  picked  his  way  among  them  :  looking 
down  maliciously  enough  :  but  trod  upon  no  upturned 
face — as  yet. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Deeper  Shadoivs. 

Mr.  Caeker  the  manager  rose  with  the  lark,  and  went 
out,  walking  in  the  summer  day.  His  meditations — and 
he  meditated  with  contracted  brows  while  he  strolled 
along— hardly  seemed  to  soar  as  high  as  the  lark,  or  to 
mount  in  that  direction  ;  rather  they  kept  close  to  their 
nest  upon  the  earth,  and  looked  about,  among  the  dust 
and  worms.  But  there  was  not  a  bird  in  the  air,  singing 
unseen,  farther  beyond  the  reach  of  human  eye  than  Mr. 
Carker's  thoughts.  He  had  had  his  face  so  perfectly 
under  control,  that  few  could  say  more,  in  distinct  terms, 
of  its  expression,  than  that  it  smiled  or  that  it  pondered. 
It  pondered  now,  intently.  As  the  lark  rose  higher,  he 
sank  deeper  in  thought.  As  the  lark  poured  out  her 
melody  clearer  and  stronger,  he  fell  into  a  graver  and 
profounder  silence.  At  length,  when  the  lark  came 
headlong  down,  with  an  accumulating  stream  of  song, 
and  dropped  among  the  green  wheat  near  him,  rippling 
in  the  breath  of  the  morning  like  a  river,  he  sprang  up 
from  his  reverie,  and  looked  round  with  a  sudden  smile, 
as  courteous  and  as  soft  as  if  he  had  had  numerous  ob- 
servers to  propitiate  :  nor  did  he  relapse,  after  being 
thus  awakened  ;  but  clearing  his  face,  like  one  who  be- 
thought himself  that  it  might  otherwise  wrinkle  and  tell 
tales,  went  smiling  on,  as  if  for  practice. 

Perhaps  with  an  eye  to  first  impressions,  Mr.  Carker 
was  very  carefully  and  trimly  dressed,  that  morning. 
Though  always  somewhat  formal  in  his  dress,  in  imita- 
tion of  the  great  man  whom  he  served,  he  stopped  short 
of  the  extent  of  Mr.  Dombey's  stiffness  :  at  once,  per- 
haps, because  he  knew  it  to  be  ludicrous,  and  because 
in  doing  so  he  found  another  means  of  expressing  his 
sense  of  the  difference  and  distance  between  them. 
Some  people  quoted  him  indeed,  in  this  respect,  as  a 
pointed  commentary,  and  not  a  flattering  one,  on  his  icy 
patron — but  the  world  is  prone  to  misconstruction,  and 
Mr.  Carker  was  not  accountable  for  its  bad  propensity. 

Clean  and  florid  :  with  his  light  complexion,  fading  as 
it  were,  in  the  sun,  and  his  dainty  step  enhancing  the 
softness  of  the  turf  :  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  strolled 
about  the  meadows,  and  green  lanes,  and  glided  among 
avenues  of  trees,  until  it  was  time  to  return  to  break- 
fast. Taking  a  nearer  way  back,  Mr.  Carker  pursued 
it,  airing  his  teeth,  and  said  aloud  as  he  did  so,  "  Now 
to  see  the  second  Mrs.  Dombey  !  " 


LIBRARY 
Of  THE 
UNIVEHSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


DOMBEY  AND  80 K 


547 


He  had  strolled  beyond  the  town,  and  re-entered  it  by 
a  pleasant  walk,  where  there  was  a  deep  shade  of  leafy 
trees,  and  where  there  were  a  few  benches  here  and 
there  for  those  who  chose  to  rest.  It  not  bein^r  a  place 
of  general  resort  at  any  hour,  and  wearing  at  that  time 
of  the  still  morning  the  air  of  being  quite  deserted  and 
retired,  Mr.  Carker  had  it,  or  thought  he  had  it,  all  to 
himself.  So,  with  the  whim  of  an  idle  man,  to  whom 
there  yet  remained  twenty  minutes  for  reaching  a  des- 
tination easily  accessible  in  ten,  Mr.  Carker  threaded  the 
great  boles  of  the  trees,  and  went  passing  in  and  out, 
before  this  one  and  behind  that,  weaving  a  chain  of 
footsteps  on  the  dewy  ground. 

But  he  found  he  was  mistaken  in  supposing  there  was 
no  one  in  the  grove,  for  as  he  softly  rounded  the  trunk 
of  one  large  tree,  on  which  the  obdurate  bark  was 
knotted  and  overlapped  like  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros  or 
some  kindred  monster  of  the  ancient  days  before  the 
flood,  he  saw  an  unexpected  figure  sitting  on  a  bench 
near  at  hand,  about  which,  in  another  moment,  he 
would  have  wound  the  chain  he  was  making. 

It  was  that  of  a  lady,  elegantly  dressed  and  very  hand- 
some, whose  dark  proud  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  and  in  whom  some  passion  or  struggle  was  rag- 
ing. For  as  she  sat  looking  down,  she  held  a  corner  of 
her  under  lip  within  her  mouth,*  her  bosom  heaved,  her 
nostrils  quivered,  her  head  trembled,  indignant  tears 
were  on  her  cheek,  and  her  foot  was  set  upon  the  moss 
as  though  she  would  have  crushed  it  info  nothing.  And 
yet  almost  the  self-same  glance  that  showed  him  this, 
showed  him  the  self-same  lady  rising  with  a  scornful  air 
of  weariness  and  lassitude,  and  turning  away  with  noth- 
ing expressed  in  face  or  figure  but  careless  beauty  and 
imperious  disdain. 

A.  withered  and  very  ugly  old  woman,  dressed  not  so 
much  like  a  gipsey  as  like  any  of  that  medley  race  of 
vagabonds  who  tramp  about  the  country,  begging,  and 
stealing,  and  tinkering,  and  weaving  rushes,  by  turns, 
or  all  together,  had  been  observing  the  lady,  too  ;  for, 
as  she  rose,  this  second  figure,  strangely  confronting  the 
first,  scrambled  up  from  the  ground — out  of  it,  it  almost 
appeared — and  stood  in  the  way. 

"  Let  me  tell  your  fortune,  my  pretty  lady,"  said  the 
old  woman  munching  with  her  jaws,  as  if  the  Death's 
head  beneath  her  yellow  skin  were  impatient  to  get  out, 

"I  can  tell  it  for  myself,"  was  the  reply. 

"Ay,  ay,  pretty  lady  ;  but  not  right.  You  didn't  tell 
it  right  when  you  were  sitting  there.  I  see  you  !  Give 
me  a  piece  of  silver,  pretty  lady,  and  I'll  tell  your  for- 
tune true.    There's  riches,  pretty  lady,  in  your  face." 

"  I  know,"  returned  the  lady,  passing  her  with  a  dark 
smile,  and  a  proud  step.    "I  knew  it  before." 

"  What  !  You  won't  give  me  nothing?"  cried  the  old 
woman.  "  You  won't  give  me  nothing  to  tell  your  for- 
tune, pretty  lady  ?  How  much  will  you  give  me  not  to 
tell  it,  then?  Give  me  something,  or  I'll  call  it  after 
you  !"  croaked  the  old  woman,  passionately. 

Mr.  Carker,  whom  the  lady  was  about  to  pass  close, 
slinking  against  his  tree  as  she  crossed  to  gain  the  path, 
advanced  so  as  to  meet  her,  and  pulling  oif  his  hat  as 
she  went  by,  bade  the  old  woman  hold  her  peace.  The 
lady  acknowledged  his  interference  with  an  inclination 
of  the  head,  and  went  her  way. 

"You  give  me  something  then,  or  I'll  call  it  after 
her  ! "  screamed  the  old  woman,  throwing  up  her  arras, 
and  pressing  forward  against  his  outstretched  hand. 
"Or  come,"  she  added,  dropping  her  voice  suddenly, 
looking  at  him  earnestly,  and  seeming  in  a  moment  to 
forget  the  object  of  her  wrath,  "give  me  something,  or 
I'll  call  it  after  you  !  " 

"  After  me,  old  lady  ?  "  returned  the  manager,  putting 
his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  steadfast  in  her  scrutiny,  and 
holding  out  her  shrivelled  hand.    "  /  know  !  " 

"What  do  you  know?"  demanded  Carker,  throwing 
her  a  shilling.  "  Do  you  know  who  the  handsome  lady 
is?" 

Munching  like  that  sailor's  wife  of  yore,  wlio  had 
chestnuts  in  lior  lap,  and  scowling  like  the  witch  who 
asked  for  some  in  vain,  the  old  woman  picked  the  shil- 
ling up,  and  going  backwards,  like  a  crab,  or  like  a  heap 
of  crabs  :  for  her  alternately  expanding  and  contracting 


hands  might  liave  represented  two  of  that  species,  and 
her  creeping  face,  some  half-a-dozen  tnore  :  crouched  on 
the  veinous  root  of  an  old  tree,  pulled  out  a  short  black 
pipe  from  within  the  crown  of  her  bonnet,  lighted  it 
with  a  match,  and  smoked  in  silence,  looking  fixedly  at 
her  questioner. 

Mr.  Carker  laughed,  and  turned  upon  his  heel. 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  old  woman.  "  One  child  dead,  and 
one  child  living  :  one  wife  dead,  and  one  wife  coming. 
Go  and  meet  her  !  " 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  manager  looked  round  again, 
and  stopped.  The  old  woman,  who  had  not  removed 
her  pipe  and  was  munching  and  mumbling  while  she 
smoked,  as  if  in  conversation  with  an  invisible  familiar, 
pointed  with  her  finger  in  the  direction  he  was  going, 
and  laughed. 

"  What  was  that  you  said,  Beldamite?"  he  demanded. 

The  woman  mumbled," and  chattered,  and  smoked,  and 
still  pointed  before  him  ;  but  remained  silent.  Mutter- 
ing a  farewell  that  was  not  comi)limentary,  Mr.  Carker 
pursued  his  way  ;  but  as  he  turned  out  of  that  place, 
and  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree, 
he  could  yet  see  the  finger  pointing  before  him,  and 
thought  he  heard  the  woman  screaming,  "  Go  and  meet 
her ! " 

Preparations  for  a  choice  repast  were  completed,  he 
found,  at  the  hotel  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  and  the  major, 
and  the  breakfast,  were  awaiting  the  ladies.  Individual 
constitution  has  much  to  do  with  the  development  of 
such  facts,  no  doubt  ;  but  in  this  case,  appetite  carried 
it  hollow  over  the  tender  passion  ;  Mr.  Dombey  being- 
very  cool  and  collected,  and  the  major  fretting  and  fum- 
ing in  a  state  of  violent  heat  and  irritation.  At  length 
the  door  was  thrown  open  by  the  native,  and,  after  a 
pause,  occupied  by  her  languishing  along  the  gallery,  a 
very  blooming,  but  not  very  youthful  lady  appeared. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  lady,  "I  am  afraid 
we  are  late,  but  Edith  has  been  out  already  looking  for 
a  favourable  point  of  view  for  a  sketch,  and  kept  me 
j  waiting  for  her.  Falsest  of  majors,"  giving  him  her 
little  finger,  "how  do  you  do?" 

"Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "let  me  gratify 
my  friend  Carker  :  "  Mr.  Dombey  unconsciously  empha- 
sized the  word  friend,  as  saying  "  no  really  ;  I  do  allow 
him  to  take  credit  for  that  distinction  ;"  "by  present- 
ing him  to  you.  You  have  heard  me  mention  Mr.  Car- 
ker." 

"I  am  charmed,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  gra- 
ciously. 

Mr.  Carker  was  charmed,  of  course.  Would  he  have 
been  more  charmed  on  Mr.  Dombey 's  behalf,  if  Mrs. 
Skewton  had  been  (as  he  at  first  supposed  her)  the  Edith 
whom  they  had  toasted  over  night  ?  " 

"Why,  where,  for  Heaven's  sake,  is  Edith?"  ex- 
^claimed  Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  round.  "Still  at  the 
door,  giving  Withers  orders  about  the  mounting  of  those 
drawings  !  My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,  will  you  have  the 
kindness — " 

Mr.  Dombey  was  already  gone  to  seek  her.  Next 
moment  he  returned,  bearing  on  his  arm  the  same  ele- 
gantly dressed  and  very  handpome  lady  whom  Mr.  Car- 
ker had  encountered  underneath  the  trees. 

"Carker—"  began  Mr.  Dombey.  But  their  recogni- 
tion of  each  other  was  so  manifest,  that  Mr.  Dombey 
stopped  surprised. 

"I  am  obliged  to  the  gentleman,"  said  Edith,  with  a 
stately  bend,  "  for  sparing  me  some  annoyance  from  an 
importunate  beggar  just  now." 

"I  am  obliged  to  my  good  fortune."  said  Mr.  Carker, 
bowing  low,  "for  the  opportunity  of  rendering  so  slight 
a  service  to  one  whose  servant  I  am  proud  to  be." 

As  her  eye  rested  on  him  for  an  instant,  and  then 
lighted  on  the  ground,  he  saw  in  its  bright  and  searching 
glance  a  suspicion  that  he  had  not  come  up  at  the  mo- 
ment of  his  interference,  but  had  secretly  observed  her 
j  sooner.  As  he  saw  that,  she  saw  in  Ids  eye  that  her  dis- 
j  trust  was  not  without  foundation. 

j  "Really,"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  taken  this 
\  opportunity  of  inspecting  Mr.  Carker  through  her  glass, 
j  and  satisfying  herself  (as  she  lisjied  audibly  to  the  ma- 
!  jor)  that  he  was  all  heart  ;  "really  now,  this  is  one  of 
!  the  most  enchanting  coincidences  that  I  ever  heard  of. 


548 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


The  idea  !  My  dearest  Edith,  there  is  such  an  obvious 
destiny  in  it,  that  really  one  might  almost  be  induced 
to  cross  one's  arms  upon  one's  frock,  and  say,  like  those 
wicked  Turks,  there  is  no  What's-his-name  but  Thing- 
ummy, and  What-you-may-call-it  is  his  prophet  I" 

Edith  deigned  no  revision  of  this  extraordinary  quota- 
tion from  the  Koran,  but  Mr.  Dombey  felt  it  necessary 
to  offer  a  few  polite  remarks, 

"  It  gives  me  great  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
cumbrous  gallantry,  "that  a  gentleman  so  nearly  con- 
nected with  myself  as  Carker  is,  should  have  had  the 
honour  and  happiness  of  rendering  the  least  assistance 
to  Mrs.  Granger."  Mr.  Dombey  bowed  to  her.  "But  it 
gives  me  some  pain,  and  it  occasions  me  to  be  really  en- 
vious of  Carker  ;  "  he  unconsciously  laid  stress  on  these 
words,  as  sensible  that  they  must  appear  to  involve  a 
very  surprising  proposition  ;  "envious  of  Carker,  that  I 
had  not  that  honour  and  that' happiness  myself."  Mr. 
Dombey  bowed  again.  Edith,  saving  for  a  curl  of  her 
lip,  was  motionless. 

"By  the  Lord,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  bui-sting  into 
speech  at  sight  of  the  waiter,  who  was  come  to  announce 
breakfast,  "  it's  an  extraordinary  thing  to  me  that  no 
one  can  have  the  honour  and  happiness  of  shooting  all 
such  beggars  through  the  head  without  being  brought 
to  book  for  it.  But  here's  an  arm  for  Mrs.  Granger,  if 
she'll  do  J.  B.  the  honour  to  accept  it ;  and  the  greatest 
service  Joe  can  render  you,  ma'am,  just  now,  is,  to  lead 
you  in  to  table  ! " 

With  this,  the  major  gave  his  arm  to  Edith  ;  Mr.  Dom- 
bey led  the  way  with  Mrs.  Skewton ;  Mr.  Carker  went 
last,  smiling  on  the  party. 

"I  am  quite  rejoiced,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  the  lady- 
mother,  at  breakfast,  after  another  approving  survey  of 
him  through  her  glass,  "that  you  have  timed  your  visit 
so  happily,  as  to  go  with  us  to-day.  It  is  the  most  en- 
chanting expedition  !" 

"  Any  expedition  would  be  enchanting  in  puch  society," 
returned  Carker ;  "  but  I  believe  it  is,  in  itself,  full  of 
interest." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a  faded  little  scream 
of  rapture,  "  the  castle  is  charming  ! — associations  of  the 
middle  ages — and  all  that — which  is  so  truly  exquisite. 
Don't  you  dote  upon  the  middle  ages,  Mr.  Carker?  " 

"Very  much,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Such  charming  times  !"  cried  Cleopatra.  "So  full 
of  faith  !  So  vigorous  and  forcible  !  So  picturesque  ! 
So  perfectly  removed  from  commonplace  !  Oh  dear  I  If 
they  would  only  leave  us  a  little  more  of  the  poetry  of 
existence  in  these  terrible  days  !" 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  looking  sharp  after  Mr.  Dombey  all 
the  time  she  said  this,  who  was  looking  at  Edith  :  who 
was  listening,  but  who  never  lifted  up  her  eyes. 

"We  are  dreadfully  real,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Mrs. 
Skewton  ;  "are  we  not ? " 

Few  people  had  less  reason  to  complain  of  their  realit^^ 
than  Cleopatra,  who  had  as  much  that  was  false  about 
her  as  could  well  go  to  the  composition  of  anybody  with  a 
real  individual  existence.  But  Mr.  Carker  commiserated 
our  reality  nevertheless,  and  agreed  that  we  were  very 
hardly  used  in  that  regard. 

"  Pictures  at  tlie  castle,  quite  divine  1"  said  Cleopatra. 
*'I  hope  you  dote  upon  pictures?" 

"  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
solemn  encouragement  of  his  manager,  "that  Carker 
has  a  very  good  taste  for  pictures  ;  quite  a  natural  power 
of  appreciating  them.  He  is  a  very  creditable  artist 
himself.  He  will  be  delighted,  I  am  sure,  with  Mrs. 
Granger's  taste  and  skill." 

Damme,  sir!"  cried  Major  Bagstock,  "my  opinion 
is,  that  you're  the  admirable  Carker,  and  can  do  any- 
thing." 

"Oh  !"  smiled  Carker,  with  humility,  "you  are  much 
too  sanguine.  Major  Bagstock.  I  can  do  very  little.  But 
Mr.  Dombey  is  so  generous  in  his  estimation  of  any  tri- 
vial accomplishment  a  man  like  myself  may  find  it  almost 
necessary  to  acquire,  and  to  which,  in  his  very  different 
sphere,  lie  is  far  superior,  that—"  Mr.  Carker  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  deprecating  further  praise,  and  said  no 
more. 

All  this  time,  Edith  never  raised  her  eyes,  unless  to 
glance  tovvards  her  motl^er  when  that  lady's  fervent 


spirit  shone  forth  in  words.  But  as  Carker  ceased,  she 
looked  at  Mr.  Dombey  for  a  moment.  For  a  moment 
only  ;  but  with  a  transient  gleam  of  scornful  wonder  on 
her  face,  not  lost  on  one  observer,  who  was  smiling 
round  the  board. 

Mr.  Dombey  caught  the  dark  eyelash  in  its  descent, 
and  took  the  opportunity  of  arresting  it. 

"  You  have  been  to  Warwick  often,  unfortunately  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 
.  "  Several  times." 

"  The  visit  will  be  tedious  to  you,  I  am  afraid." 

' '  Oh  no  ;  not  at  all. " 

"  Ah  I  You  are  like  your  cousin  Feenix,  my  dearest 
Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton.  "He  has  been  to  War- 
wick Castle  fifty  times,  if  he  has  been  there  once  ;  yet 
if  he  came  to  Leamington  to-morrow — I  wish  he  would, 
dear  angel  1 — he  would  make  his  fifty-second  visit  next 
day." 

"We  are  all  enthusiastic,  are  we  not,  mama?"  said 
Edith,  with  a  cold  smile. 

"  Too  much  so  for  our  peace,  perhaps,  my  dear,"  re- 
turned her  mother  ;  "  but  we  won't  complain.  Our  own 
emotions  are  our  recompense.  If,  as  your  cousin  Fee- 
nix says,  the  sword  wears  out  the  what's-its-name — " 

"The  scabbard,  perhaps,"  said  Edith. 

"Exactly — a  little  too  fast,  it  is  because  it  is  bright 
and  glowing,  you  know,  my  dearest  love." 

Mrs.  Skewton  heaved  a  gentle  sigh,  supposed  to  cast 
a  shadow  on  th^  surface  of  that  dagger  of  lath,  whereof 
her  susceptible  bosom  was  the  sheath  ;  and  leaning  her 
head  on  one  side,  in  the  Cleopatra  manner,  looked  with 
pensive  affection  on  her  darling  child. 

Edith  had  turned  her  face  towards  Mr.  Dombey  when 
he  first  addressed  her,  and  had  remained  in  that  atti- 
tude, while  speaking  to  her  mother,  and  while  her 
mother  spoke  to  her,  as  though  offering  him  her  atten- 
tion, if  he  had  anything  more  to  say.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  manner  of  this  simple  courtesy  :  almost  de- 
1  fiant,  and  giving  it  the  character  of  being  rendered  on 
I  compulsion,  or  as  a  matter  of  traffic  to  which  she  was 
!  a  reluctant  party  :  again  not  lost  upon  that  same  obser- 
ver who  was  smiling  round  the  board.  It  set  him  think- 
ing of  her  as  he  had  first  seen  her,  when  she  had  be- 
lieved herself  to  be  alone  among  the  trees. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  nothing  else  to  say,  proposed — the 
breakfast  being  now  finished,  and  the  major  gorged 
like  any  boa  constrictor — that  they  should  start.  A 
barouche  being  in  waiting,  according  to  the  orders  of 
that  gentleman,  the  two  ladies,  the  major  and  himself, 
took  their  seats  in  it  ;  the  native  and  the  wan  page 
mounted  the  box,  Mr.  Towlinson  being  left  behind  ;  and 
Mr.  Carker,  on  horseback,  brought  up  the  rear. 

Mr.  Carker  cantered  behind  the  carriage,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  watched  it,  during 
all  the  ride,  as  if  he  were  a  cat,  indeed,  and  its  four  oc- 
cupants, mice.  Whether  he  looked  to  one  side  of  the 
road,  or  to  the  other — over  distant  landscape,  with  its 
smooth  undulations,  windmills,  corn,  grass,  bean  fields, 
wild-flowers,  farm-yards,  hay -ricks,  and  the  spire  among 
the  wood — or  upward  in  the  sunny  air,  where  butterflies 
were  sporting  round  his  head,  and  birds  were  pouring 
out  their  songs — or  downward,  where  the  shadows  of  the 
branches  interlaced,  and  made  a  trembling  carpet  on  the 
road — or  onward,  where  the  overhanging  trees  formed 
aisles  and  arches,  dim  with  the  softened  light  that 
steeped  through  leaves — one  corner  of  his  eye  was  ever 
on  the  formal  head  of  Mr.  Dombey,  addressed  towards 
him,  and  the  feather  in  the  bonnet,  drooping  so  neglect- 
fully and  scornfully  between  them  :  much  as  he  had 
seen  the  haughty  eyelids  droop  ;  not  least  so,  when  the 
face  met  that  now  fronting  it.  Once,  and  once  only,  did 
his  weary  glance  release  these  objects  ;  and  that  was, 
when  a  leap  over  a  low  hedge,  and  a  gallop  across  a 
field,  enabled  him  to  anticipate  the  carriage  coming  by 
the  road,  and  to  be  standing  ready,  at  the  journey's  end, 
to  hand  the  ladies  out.  Then,  and  but  then,  he  met  her 
glance  for  an  instant  in  her  first  surprise  ;  but  when  he 
touched  her,  in  alighting,  with  his  soft  white  hand,  it 
overlooked  him  altogether  as  before. 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  bent  on  taking  charge  of  Mr.  Car- 
ker herself,  and  showing  him  the  beauties  of  the  Castle. 
She  was  determined  to  have  his  arm,  and  the  major's 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


549 


too.  It  would  do  that  incorrigible  creature  :  who  was 
the  most  barbarous  infidel  in  point  of  poetry  :  good  to  be 
in  such  company.  This  chance  arrangement  left  Mr. 
Dombey  at  liberty  to  escort  Edith  :  which  he  did  :  stalk- 
ing before  them  through  the  apartments  with  a  gentle- 
manly solemnity. 

"  Those  darling  bygone  times,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Cleo- 
patra, "with  their  delicious  fortresses,  and  their  dear 
old  dungeons,  and  their  delightful  places  of  torture, 
and  their  romantic  vengeances,  and  their  picturesque  as- 
saults and  sieges,  and  everything  that  makes  life  truly 
charming  !    How  dreadfully  we  have  degenerated  !  " 

Yes  we  have  fallen  off  deplorably,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
ker. 

The  peculiarity  of  their  conversation  was,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton,iu  spite  of  her  ecstasies,  and  Mr.  Carker,  in 
spite  of  his  urbanity,  were  both  intent  on  watching  Mr. 
Dombey  and  Edith.  With  all  their  conversational  endow- 
ments, they  spoke  somewhat  distractedly,  and  at  random 
in  consequence. 

"  We  have  no  faith  left,  positively,"  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  advancing  her  shrivelled  ear  ;  for  Mr.  Dombey 
was  saying  something  to  Edith.  "  We  have  no  faith  in 
the  dear  old  barons,  who  were  the  most  delightful 
creatures — or  in  the  dear  old  priests,  who  were  the  most 
warlike  of  men — or  even  in  the  days  of  that  inestimable 
Queen  Bess,  upon  the  wall  there,  which  were  so  ex- 
tremely golden  !  Dear  creature  !  She  was  all  heart  ! 
And  that  charming  father  of  hers  I  I  hope  you  dote  on 
Harry  the  Eighth  ! " 

"  I  admire  him  very  much,"  said  Carker. 

"So  bluff !"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  "wasn't  he?  So 
burly.  So  truly  English.  Such  a  picture,  too,  he 
makes,  with  his  dear  little  peepy  eyes,  and  his  benevolent 
chin  ! " 

"  Ah,  ma'am  !  "  said  Carker,  stopping  short ;  "  but  if 
you  speak  of  pictures,  there's  a  composition  !  What 
gallery  in  the  world  can  produce  the  counterpart  of 
that  ! " 

As  the  smiling  gentleman  thus  spake,  he  pointed 
through  a  doorway  to  where  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith  were 
standing  alone  in  the  centre  of  another  room. 

They  were  not  interchanging  a  word  or  a  look.  Stand- 
ing together,  arm  in  arm,  they  had  the  appearance  of  be- 
ing more  divided  than  if  seas  liad  rolled  between  them. 
There  was  a  difference  even  in  the  pride  of  the  two,  that 
removed  them  farther  from  each  other,  than  if  one  had 
been  the  proudest  and  the  other  the  humblest  specimen 
of  humanity,  in  all  creation.  He,  self-important,  un- 
bending, formal,  austere.  She,  lovely  and  graceful  in  an 
uncommon  degree,  but  totally  regardless  of  herself  and 
him  and  everything  around,  and  spurning  her  own  at- 
tractions with  her  haughty  brow  and  lip,  as  if  they  were 
a  badge  or  livery  she  hated.  So  unmatched  were  they, 
and  opposed,  so  forced  and  linked  together  by  a  chain 
which  adverse  hazard  and  mischance  had  forged  :  that 
fancy  might  have  imagined  the  pictures  on  the  walls 
around  them  startled  by  the  unnatural  conjunction,  and 
observant  of  it  in  their  several  expressions.  Grim 
knights  and  warriors  looked  scowling  on  them.  A 
churchman,  with  his  hand  upraised,  denounced  the 
mockery  of  such  a  couple  coming  to  God's  altar.  Quiet 
waters  in  landscapes,  with  the  sun  reflected  in  their 
depths,  asked,  if  better  means  of  escape  were  not  at 
hand,  was  there  no  drowning  left  ?  Ruins  cried,  "  Look 
here,  and  see  what  We  are,  wedded  to  uncongenial 
Time  ! "  Animals,  opposed  by  nature,  worried  one  an- 
other, as  a  moral  to  them.  Loves  and  Cupids  took  to 
flight  afraid,  and  Martyrdom  had  no  such  torment  in  its 
painted  history  of  suffering.  j 

Nevertheless,  Mrs,  Skewton  was  so  charmed  by  the 
sight  to  which  Mr.  Carker  invoked  her  attention,  that  j 
she  could  not  refrain  from  saying,  half  aloud,  how  sweet,  | 
how  very  full  of  soul  it  was  !    Edith,  overhearing,  looked  ' 
round,  and  flushed  indignant  scarlet  to  her  hair.  i 

"  My  dearest  Edith  knows  I  was  admiring  her  !  "  said 
Cleopatra,  tapping  her,  almost  timidly,  on  the  back  with  | 
her  parasol,    "  Sweet  pet  !  " 

Again  Mr,  Carker  saw  the  strife  he  had  witnessed  so 
unexpectedly  among  the  trees.    Again  he  saw  the  i 
haughty  languor  and  indifference  come  over  it,  and  hide  i 
it  like  a  cloud.  J 


She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  to  him  ;  but  with  a  slight 
peremptory  motion  of  them,  seemed  to  bid  her  mother 
come  near.  Mrs.  Skewton  thought  it  expedient  to  un- 
derstand the  hint,  and  advancing  quickly,  with  her  two 
cavaliers,  kept  near  her  daughter  from  that  time. 

Mr.  Carker  now,  having  nothing  to  distract  his  atten- 
tion, began  to  discourse  upon  the  pictures,  and  to  select 
the  best,  and  point  them  out  to  Mr.  Dombey  :  speaking 
with  his  usual  familiar  recognition  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
greatness,  and  rendering  homage  by  adjusting  his  eye- 
glass for  him,  or  finding  out  the  right  place  in  his  cata- 
logue, or  holding  his  stick,  or  the  like.  These  services 
did  not  so  much  originate  with  Mr.  Carker,  in  truth,  as 
with  Mr.  Dombey  himself,  who  was  apt  to  assert  his 
chieftainship  by  saying,  with  subdued  authority,  and 
in  an  easy  way — for  him — "Here,  Carker,  have  the 
goodness  to  assist  me,  will  you  ! "  which  the  smiling 
gentleman  always  did  with  pleasure. 

They  made  the  tour  of  the  pictures,  the  walls,  crow's 
nest,  and  so  forth  ;  and  as  they  were  still  one  little 
party,  and  the  major  was  rather  in  the  shade,  being 
sleepy  during  the  process  of  digestion,  Mr.  Carker 
became  communicative  and  agreeable.  At  first,  he  ad- 
dressed himself  for  the  most  part  to  Mrs.  Skewton, 
but  as  that  sensitive  lady  was  in  such  ecstasies  with  the 
works  of  art,  after  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  she 
could  do  nothing  but  yawn  (they  were  such  perfect  in- 
spirations, she  observed  as  a  reason  for  that  mark  of 
rapture),  he  transferred  his  attentions  to  Mr.  Dombey. 
Mr.  Dombey  said  little  beyond  an  Occasional  "  Very 
true,  Carker,"  or  "  Indeed,  Carker?"  but  he  tacitly  en- 
couraged Carker  to  proceed,  and  inwardly  approved  of 
his  behaviour  very  much  :  deeming  it  as  well  that 
somebody  should  talk,  and  thinking  that  his  remarks, 
which  were,  as  one  might  say,  a  branch  of  the  parent 
establishment,  might  amuse  Mrs.  Granger.  Mr.  Carker, 
who  possessed  an  excellent  discretion,  never  took  the 
liberty  of  addressing  that  lady,  direct ;  but  she  seemed 
to  listen,  though  she  never  looked  at  him  ;  and  once  or 
tAvice,  when  he  was  emphatic  in  his  peculiar  humility, 
the  twilight  smile  stole  over  her  face,  not  as  a  light,  but 
as  a  deep  black  shadow. 

Warwick  Castle  being  at  length  pretty  well  exhausted, 
and  the  major  very  much  so  :  to  say  nothing  of  Mrs. 
Skewton,  whose  peculiar  demonstrations  of  delight  had 
become  very  frequent  indeed  :  the  carriage  was  again 
put  in  requisition,  and  they  rode  to  several  admired 
points  of  view  in  the  neighbourhood.  Mr.  Dombey  cere- 
moniously observed  of  one  of  these,  that  a  sketch,  however 
slight,  from  the  fair  hand  of  Mrs.  Granger,  would  be  a 
remembrance  to  him  of  that  agreeable  day  ;  though  he 
wanted  no  artificial  remembrance,  he  was  sure  (here  Mr. 
Dombey  made  another  of  his  bows),  which  he  must 
always  highly  value.  Withers  the  lean  having  Edith's 
sketch-book  under  his  arm,  was  immediately  called  upon 
by  Mrs.  Skewton  to  produce  the  same  :  and  the  carriage 
stopped,  that  Edith  might  make  the  drawing,  which  Mr. 
Dombey  was  to  put  away  among  his  treasures. 

"  But  I  am  afraid  I  trouble  you  too  much,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"By  no  means.  Where  would  you  wish  it  taken 
from  ?  "  she  answered,  turning  to  him  with  the  same 
enforced  attention  as  before. 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  another  bow,  which  cracked  the 
starch  in  his  cravat,  would  beg  to  leave  that  to  the 
artist. 

"  I  would  rather  you  chose  for  yourself,"  said  Edith. 

"Suppose  then,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  we  say  from 
here.  It  appears  a  good  spot  for  the  purpose,  or — Carker, 
what  do  you  think  ?  " 

There  happened  to  be  in  the  foreground,  at  some  little 
distance,  a  grove  of  trees,  not  unlike  that  in  which  Mr. 
Carker  had  made  his  chain  of  footsteps  in  the  morning, 
and  with  a  seat  under  one  tree,  generally  resembling,  in 
the  general  character  of  its  situation,  the  point  where 
his  chain  had  broken. 

"  Might  I  venture  to  suggest  to  Mrs.  Granger  ?  "  said 
Carker,  "  that  that  is  an  interesting — almost  a  curious — 
point  of  view  ?  " 

She  followed  the  direction  of  his  riding-whip  with  her 
eyes,  and  raised  them  quickly  to  his  face.  It  was  the 
second  glance  they  had  exchanged  since  their  introduc- 


550 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


tion  ;  and  would  have  been  e^iactly  like  tlie  first,  but 
that  its  expression  was  plainer. 

"  Would  you  like  that?  "  said  Edith  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

*'  I  shall  be  charmed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  Edith. 

Therefore  the  carriage  was  driven  to  the  spot  where 
Mr.  Dombey  was  to  be  charmed  ;  and  Editl«,  without 
moving  from  her  seat,  and  opening  her  sketch-book  with 
her  usual  proud  indifference,  began  to  sketch. 

"My  pencils  are  all  pointless,"  she  said,  stopping  and 
turning  them  over. 

"  Prav  allow  me,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  Or  Carker  will 
do  it  be'tter,  as  he  understands  these  things.  Carker, 
have  the  goodness  to  see  to  these  pencils  for  Mrs. 
Granger," 

Mr.  Carker  rode  up  close  to  the  carriage  door  on  Mrs. 
Granger's  side,  and  letting  the  rein  fall  on  his  horse's 
neck,*'took  the  pencils  from  her  hand  with  a  smile  and 
a  bow,  and  sat  in  the  saddle  leisurely  mending  them. 
Having  done  so  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  them, 
and  to  hand  them  to  her  as  they  were  required  ;  and  thus 
Mr.  Carker,  with  many  commendations  of  Mrs,  Granger's 
extraordinary  skill — especially  in  trees — remained  close 
at  her  side,  looking  over  the  drawing  as  she  made  it. 
Mr.  Dombey  in  the  meantime  stood  bolt  upright  in  the 
carriage  like  a  highly  respectable  ghost,  looking  on  too; 
while  Cleopatra  and  the  major  dallied  as  two  ancient 
doves  might  do. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  that,  or  shall  I  finish  it  a  little 
more  ?  "  said  Edith,  showing  the  sketch  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  that  it  might  not  be  touched  ;  it 
was  perfection. 

It  is  most  extraordinary,"  said  Carker,  bringing  every 
one  of  his  red  gums  to  bear  upon  his  praise.  "  I  was  not 
prepared  for  anything  so  beautiful,  and  so  unusual  al- 
together." 

This  might  have  applied  to  the  sketcher  no  less  than 
to  the  sketch  ;  but  Mr.  Carker's  manner  was  openness 
itself — not  as  to  his  mouth  alone,  but  as  to  his  whole 
spirit.  So  it  continued  to  be  while  the  drawing  was 
laid  aside  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  while  the  sketching 
materials  were  put  up  ;  then  he  handed  in  the  pencils 
(which  were  received  with  a  distant  acknowledgment  of 
his  help,  but  without  a  look),  and  tightening  his  rein  fell 
back  and  followed  the  carriage  again. 

Thinking,  perhaps,  as  he  rode,"  that  even  this  trivial 
sketch  had  been  made  and  delivered  to  its  owner,  as  if 
it  had  been  bargained  for  and  bought.  Thinking,  per- 
haps, that  although  she  had  assented  with  such  perfect 
readiness  to  his  request,  her  haughty  face,  bent  over  the 
drawing  or  glancing  at  the  distant  objects  represented 
in  it,  had  been  the  face  of  a  proud  woman,  engaged  in  a 
sordid  and  miserable  transaction.  Thinking,  perhaps, 
of  such  things  :  but  smiling  certainly  and  while  he  seemed 
to  look  about  him  freely,  in  enjoyment  of  the  air  and 
exercise,  keeping  always  that  sharp  corner  of  his  eye 
upon  the  carriage. 

A  stroll  among  the  haunted  ruins  of  Kenilworth,  and 
more  rides  to  more  points  of  view  :  most  of  which,  Mrs. 
Skewton  reminded  Mr.  Dombey,  Edith  had  already 
sketched,  as  he  had  seen  in  looking  over  her  drawings : 
brought  the  day's  expedition  to  a  close.  Mrs.  Skewton 
and  Edith  were  driven  to  their  own  lodgings  ;  Mr.  Car- 
ker was  graciously  invited  by  Cleopatra  to  return  thither 
with  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major,  in  the  evening,  to  hear 
some  of  Edith's  music  ;  and  the  three  gentlemen  repaired 
to  their  hotel  to  dinner. 

The  dinner  was  the  counterpart  of  yesterday's,  except 
that  the  major  was  twenty-four  hours  more  triumphant 
and  less  mysterious.  Edith  was  toasted  again.  Mr. 
Dombey  was  again  agreeably  embarras.sed.  And  Mr. 
Carker  was  full  of  interest  and  praise. 

There  were  no  other  visitors  at  Mrs.  Ske  wton's.  Edith's 
drawings  were  strewn  about  the  room,  a  little  more 
abundantly  than  usual  perhaps  ;  and  Withers,  the  wan 
page,  handed  round  a  little  stronger  tea.  The  harp  was 
there  ;  the  piano  was  there  ;  and  Edith  sang  and  played. 
l^\\t  even  the  music  was  paid  by  Edith  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
order,  as  it  were,  in  the  same  uncompromising  way.  As 
thus. 

"  Edith,  my  dearest  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  half  an 
hour  after  tea,  "  Mr.  Dombey  is  dying  to  hear  you,  I 
know." 


"  Mr.  Dombey  has  life  enough  left  to  say  so  for  him- 
self, mama,  1  have  no  doubt." 

"  I  shall  be  immensely  obliged,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

*'  What  do  you  wish  ?  " 

"  Piano?  "  hesitated  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Whatever  you  please.    You  have  only  to  choose." 

Accordingly,  she  began  with  the  piano.  It  was  the 
same  with  the  harp  ;  the  same  with  her  singing  ;  the 
same  with  the  selection  of  the  pieces  that  she  sang  and 
played.  Such  frigid  and  constrained,  yet  prompt  and 
pointed  acquiescence  with  the  wishes  he  imposed  upon 
her,  and  on  no  one  else,  was  sutficiently  remarkable  to 
penetrate  through  all  the  mysteries  of  picquet,  and  im- 
press itself  on  Mr.  Carker's  keen  attention.  Nor  did  he 
lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  evidently 
proud  of  his  power  and  liked  to  show  it. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Carker  played  so  well — some  games 
with  the  major,  and  some  with  Cleopatra,  whose  vigi- 
lance of  eye  in  respect  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith  no  lynx 
could  have  surpassed — that  he  even  heightened  his  posi- 
tion in  the  lady-mother's  good  graces  ;  and  when  on  tak- 
ing leave  he  regretted  that  he  would  be  obliged  to  return 
to  London  next  morning,  Cleopatra  trusted  :  community 
of  feeling  not  being  met  with  every  day:  that  it  was  far 
from  being  the  last  time  they  would  meet. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  an  expressive  look 
at  the  couple  in  the  distance,  as  he  drew  towards  the 
door,  following  the  major.    "  I  think  so." 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  taken  a  stately  leave  of  Edith, 
bent,  or  made  some  approach  to  bend,  over  Cleopatra's 
couch,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  I  have  requested  Mrs.  Granger's  permission  to  call 
on  her  to-morrow  morning — for  a  purpose — and  she  has 
appointed  twelve  o'clock.  May  I  hope  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  finding  you  at  home,  madam,  afterwards  ?  " 

Cleopatra  was  so  much  fluttered  and  moved,  by  hear- 
ing this,  of  course  incomprehensible  speech,  that  she 
could  only  shut  her  eyes,  and  shake  her  head,  and  give 
Mr.  Dombey  her  hand  ;  which  Mr.  Dombey,  not  exactly 
knowing  what  to  do  with,  dropped. 

"  Dombey,  come  along  ! "  cried  the  major  looking  in  at 
the  door.  "  Damme,  sir,  old  Joe  has  a  great  mind  to 
propose  an  alteration  in  the  name  of  the  Royal  Hotel, 
and  that  it  should  be  called  the  Three  Jolly  Bachelors, 
in  honour  of  ourselves  and  Carker."  With  this  the 
major  slapped  Mr.  Dombey  on  the  back,  and  winking 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  ladies,  with  a  frightful  ten- 
dency of  blood  to  the  head,  carried  him  otf. 

Mrs.  Skewton  reposed  on  her  sofa,  and  Edith  sat  apart, 
by  her  harp,  in  silence.  The  mother,  trifling  with  her 
fan,  looked  stealthily  at  the  daughter  more  than  once, 
but  the  daughter,  brooding  gloomily  with  downcast  eyes, 
was  not  to  be  disturbed. 

Thus  they  remained  for  a  long  hour,  without  a  word, 
until  Mrs.  Skewton's  maid  appeared,  according  to  cus- 
tom, to  prepare  her  gradually  for  night.  At  night  she 
should  have  been  a  skeleton,  with  dart  and  hour-glass, 
rather  than  a  woman,  this  attendant ;  for  her  touch  was 
as  the  touch  of  Death.  The  painted  object  shrivelled 
underneath  her  hand  ;  the  form  collapsed,  the  hair  drop- 
ped off,  the  arched  dark  eyebrows  changed  to  scanty 
tufts  of  grey  ;  the  pale  lips  shrunk,  the  skin  became 
cadaverous  and  loose  ;  an  old,  worn,  yellow  nodding  wo- 
man, with  red  eyes,  alone  remained  in  Cleopatra's  place, 
huddled  up,  like  a  slovenly  bundle,  in  a  greasy  flannel 
gown. 

The  very  voice  was  changed,  as  it  addressed  Edith, 
when  they  were  alone  again. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  me,"  it  said,  sharply,  "  that  he 
is  coming  here  to-morrovs^  by  appointment?" 

"Because  you  know  it,"  returned  Edith,  "mother." 

The  mocking  emphasis  she  laid  on  that  one  word  I 

"You  know  he  has  bought  me,"  she  resumed.  "  Or 
that  he  will,  to-morrow.  He  has  considered  of  his  bar- 
gain ;  he  has  shown  it  to  his  friends  ;  he  is  even  rather 
proud  of  it  ;  he  thinks  that  it  will  suit  him,  and  may  be 
had  sufficiently  cheap ;  and  he  will  buy  to-morrow. 
God,  that  I  have  lived  for  this,  and  that  I  feel  it  ! " 

Compress  into  one  handsome  face  the  conscious  self- 
abasement,  and  the  burning  indignation  of  a  hundred 
women,  strong  in  passion  and  in  pride  ;  and  there  it  hid 
itself  with  two  white  shuddering  arms. 


DOMBEY 

**Wliat  do  you  mean?"  returned  tlie  angry  mother. 
*' Haven't  you  from  a  child — " 

"A  child  !"  said  Edith,  looking  at  her,  "  when  was  I 
a  child.  What  childhood  did  you  ever  leave  to  me  !  I 
was  a  woman  —  artful,  designing,  mercenary,  laying 
snares  for  men — before  I  knew  myself,  or  you,  or  even 
understood  the  base  and  wretched  aim  of  every  new  dis- 
play I  learnt.  You  gave  birth  to  a  woman.  Look  upon 
her.    She  is  in  her  pride  to-night.*' 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  struck  her  hand  upon  her  beau- 
tiful bosom,  as  though  she  would  have  beaten  down 
hersel  f. 

"Look  at  me,"  she  said,  "who  have  never  known 
what  it  is  to  have  an  honest  heart,  and  love.  Look  at 
me,  taught  to  scheme  and  plot  when  children  play,  and 
married  in  my  youth— an  old  age  of  design — to  one  for 
whom  I  had  no  feeling  but  indifference.  Look  at  me, 
whom  he  left  a  widow,  dying  before  his  inheritance  de- 
scended to  him — a  judgment  on  you  !  well  deserved  ! — 
and  tell  me  what  has  been  my  life  for  ten  years  since." 

"We  have  been  making  every  effort  to  endeavour  to 
secure  to  you  a  good  establishment,"  rejoined  her  mother. 
"  That  has  been  your  life.    And  now  you  have  got  it." 

"  There  is  no  slave  in  a  market,  there  is  no  horse  in  a 
fair,  so  shown  and  offered  and  examined  and  paraded, 
mother,  as  I  have  been,  for  ten  shameful  years,"  cried 
Edith,  with  a  burning  brow,  and  the  same  bitter  empha- 
sis on  the  one  word.  "  Is  it  not  so?  Have  I  been  made 
the  bye- word  of  all  kinds  of  men  ?  Have  fools,  have 
profligates,  have  boys,  have  dotards,  dangled  after  me, 
and  one  by  one  rejected  me,  and  fallen  off,  because  you 
were  too  plain  with  all  your  cunning — yes,  and  too  true, 
with  all  those  false  pretences — until  we  have  almost 
come  to  be  notorious?  The  licence  of  look  and  touch," 
she  said,  with  flashing  eyes,  "have  I  submitted  to  it, 
in  half  the  places  of  resort  upon  the  map  of  England  ? 
Have  I  been  hawked  and  vended  here  and  there,  until 
the  last  grain  of  self-respect  is  dead  within  me ,  and  I 
loathe  myself  ?  Has  this  been  my  late  childhoofi  ?  I  had 
none  before.  Do  not  tell  me  that  I  had,  to-night,  of  all 
nights  in  my  life  ! " 

"You  might  have  been  well  married,"  said  her  mother, 
"  twenty  times  at  least,  Edith,  if  you  had  given  encour- 
agement enough." 

"  No  !  Who  takes  me,  refuse  that  I  am,  and  as  I 
well  deserve  to  be,"  she  answered,  raising  her  head,  and 
trembling  in  her  energy  of  shame  and  stormy  pride, 
"shall  take  me,  as  this  man  does,  with  no  art  of  mine 
put  forth  to  lure  him.  He  sees  me  at  the  auction,  and 
he  thinks  it  well  to  buy  me.  Let  him  !  When  he  came 
to  view  me — perhaps  to  bid — he  required  to  see  the  roll 
of  my  accomplishments.  I  gave  it  to  him.  When  he 
would  have  me  show  one  of  them,  to  justify  his  pur- 
chase to  his  men,  I  require  of  him  to  say  which  he  de- 
mands, and  I  exhibit  it.  I  will  do  no  more.  He  makes 
the  purchase  of  his  own  will,  and  with  his  own  sense  of 
its  worth,  and  the  power  of  his  money  ;  and  I  hope  it 
may  never  disappoint  him.  /  have  not  vaunted  and 
pressed  the  bargain ;  neither  have  you,  so  far  as  I  have 
been  able  to  prevent  you." 

"You  talk  strangely  to-night,  Edith,  to  your  own 
mother." 

It  seems  so  to  me  ;  stranger  to  me  than  you,"  said 
Edith.  "  But  my  education  was  completed  long  ago. 
I  am  too  old  now,  and  have  fallen  too  low,  by  degrees, 
to  take  a  new  course,  and  to  stop  yours,  and  to  help  my- 
self. The  germ  of  all  that  purifies  a  woman's  breast,  and 
makes  it  true  and  good,  has  never  stirred  in  mine,  and  I 
have  nothing  else  to  sustain  me  when  I  despise  myself." 
There  had  been  a  touching  sadness  in  her  voice,  but  it 
was  gone,  when  she  went  on  to  say,  "So,  as  we  are 
genteel  and  poor,  I  am  content  that  we  should  be  made 
rich  by  these  means  ;  all  I  say  is,  I  have  kept  the  only 
purpose  I  have  had  the  strength  to  form — I  had  almost 
said  the  power,  with  you  at  my  side,  mother — and  have 
not  tempted  this  man  on." 

"This  man  I  You  speak,"  said  her  mother,  "as  if 
you  hated  him." 

"  And  you  thought  I  loved  him,  did  you  not  ?  "  she  an- 
swered, stopping  on  her  way  across  the  room,  and  look- 
ing round,  "  Shall  I  tell  you,"  she  continued,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  her  mother,  "  who  already  knows  us 


AND  SON.  551 

thoroughly,  and  reads  us  right,  and  before  whom  I  have 
even  less  of  se]f-resi)ect  or  confidence  than  before  my  own 
inward  self  :  being  so  much  degraded  by  his  knowledge 
of  me?" 

"  This  is, an  attack,  I  suppose,"  returned  her  mother, 
coldly,  "on  poor,  unfortunate  what's-his-name — Mr.  Car- 
ker  !  Your  want  of  self-respect  and  confidence,  my  dear, 
in  reference  to  that  person  (who  is  very  agreeable,  it 
strikes  me),  is  not  likely  to  have  much  effect  on  your  es- 
tablishment. Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  hard?  Are 
you  ill?" 

Edith  suddenly  let  fall  her  face,  as  if  it  had  been 
stung,  and  while  she  pressed  her  hands  upon  it,  a  terri- 
ble f remble  crept  over  her  whole  frame.  It  was  quickly 
gone  ;  and  with  her  usual  step  she  passed  out  of  the 
room. 

The  maid,  who  should  have  been  a  skeleton,  then  re- 
appeared, and  giving  one  arm  to  her  mistress,  who  ap- 
peared to  have  taken  off  her  manner  with  her  charms, 
and  to  have  ])ut  on  paralysis  with  her  flannel  gown,  col- 
lected the  ashes  of  Cleopatra,  and  carried  them  away, 
ready  for  to-morrow's  revivification. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Alterations. 

So  the  day  has  come  at  length,  Susan,"  said  Florence 
to  the  excellent  Nipper,  "  when  we  are  going  back  to 
our  quiet  home  !" 

Susan  drew  in  her  breath  with  an  amount  of  expression 
not  easily  described,  and  further  relieving  her  feelings 
with  a  smart  cough,  answered,  "Very  quiet  indeed. 
Miss  Floy,  no  doubt.    Excessive  so." 

"  When  I  was  a  child,"  said  Florence,  thoughtfully, 
and  after  musing  for  some  moments,  "did  you  ever  see 
that  gentleman  who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  ride  down 
here  to  speak  to  me,  now  three  times — three  times  I 
think,  Susan  ?  " 

"  Three  times,  miss,"  returned  the  Nipper.  "  Once 
when  you  was  walking  out  with  them  Sket — " 

Florence  gently  looked  at  her,  and  Miss  Nipper  check- 
ed herself. 

"  With  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady,  I  mean  to  say,  miss, 
and  the  young  gentleman.  And  two  evenings  since 
then." 

".When  I  was  a  child,  and  when  company  used  to 
come  to  visit  papa,  did  you  ever  see  that  gentleman  at 
home,  Susan  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"  Well,  miss,"  returned  the  maid,  after  considering, 
"  I  really  couldn't  say  I  ever  did.  When  your  poor  dear 
ma  died,  Miss  Floy,  I  was  very  new  in  the  family,  you 
see,  and  my  element :  "  the  Nipper  bridled,  as  opining 
that  her  merits  had  been  always  designedly  extinguished 
by  Mr.  Dombey  :  "  was  the  floor  below  the  attics." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Florence,  still  thoughtfully  :  "  you 
are  not  likely  to  have  known  who  came  to  the  house. 
I  quite  forgot." 

"Not,  miss,  but  what  we  talked  about  the  family  and 
visitors,"  said  Susan,  "  and  but  what  I  heard  much  said, 
although  the  nurse  before  Mrs.  Richards  did  make  un- 
pleasant remarks  when  I  was  in  company,  and  hint  at 
little  Pitchers,  but  that  could'  only  be  attributed,  poor 
thing," observed  Susan  with  composed  forbearance,  "to 
habits  of  intoxication,  for  which  she  was  required  to 
leave,  and  did." 

Florence,  who  was  seated  at  her  chamber  window,  with 
her  face  resting  on  her  hand,  sat  looking  out,  and  hardly 
seemed  to  her  what  Susan  said,  she  was  so  lost  in 
thought, 

"  At  all  events,  miss,"  said  Susan.  "  I  remember  very 
well  that  this  same  gentleman,  Mr.  Carker,  was  almost, 
if  not  quite,  as  great  a  gentleman  with  your  papa  then, 
as  he  is  now.  It  used  to  be  said  in  the  house  then,  miss, 
that  he  was  at  the  head  of  all  your  pa's  affairs  in  the  city, 
and  managed  the  whole,  and  that  your  pa  minded  htm 
more  than  anybody,  which  begging  your  pardon.  Miss 
Floy,  he  might  easy  do,  for  he  never  minded  anybody 
else.    I  knew  that,  Pitcher  as  I  might  have  been." 

Susan  Nipper,  with  an  injured  remembrance  of  the 


552 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


nurse  before  Mrs.  Richards,  emphasised  "Pitcher"! 
strongly. 

"  And  that  Mr.  Carker  has  not  falle?i  off,  miss,"  she  ! 
pursued,  "  but  has  stood  his  ground,  and  kept  his  credit  i 
with  vour  pa,  I  know  from  what  is  always  said  among 
our  people  bv  that  Perch,  whenever  he  comes  to  the 
house,  and  though  he's  the  weakest  weed  in  the  world. 
Miss  Flov,  and  no  one  can  have  a  moment's  peace  with 
the  man,  he  knows  what  goes  on  in  the  city  tolerably 
well,  and  savs  that  your  pa  does  nothing  without  Mr. 
Carker,  and  leaves  all  to  Mr.  Carker,  and  acts  according 
to  Mr.  Carker,  and  has  Mr.  Carker  always  at  his  elbow, 
and  I  do  believe  that  he  believes  (that  washiest  of 
Perches)  that  after  your  pa,  the  Emperor  of  India  is  the 
child  unborn  to  Mr."  Carker." 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  lost  on  Rorence,  who,  with 
an  awakened  interest  in  Susan's  speech,  no  longer  gazed 
abstractedly  on  the  prospect  without,  but  looked  at  her, 
and  listened  with  attention. 

"Yes,  Susan,"  she  said,  when  that  young  lady  had 
concluded.  "He  is  in  papa's  confidence,  and  is  his 
friend,  I  am  sure." 

Florence's  mind  ran  high  on  this  theme,  and  had  done 
for  some  days.  Mr,  Carker,  in  the  two  visits  with  which 
he  had  followed  up  his  first  one,  had  assumed  a  confi- 
dence between  himself  and  her — a  right  on  his  part  to 
be  mysterious  and  stealthy,  in  telling  her  that  the  ship 
was  still  unheard  of — a  kind  of  mildly  restrained  power, 
and  authority  over  her — that  made  her  wonder,  and 
caused  her  great  uneasiness.  She  had  no  means  of  re- 
pelling it,  or  from  freeing  herself  from  the  web  he  was 
gradually  Avinding  about  her ;  for  that  would  have  re- 
quired some  art  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  opposed 
to  such  address  as  his  ;  and  Florence  had  none.  True, 
he  had  said  no  more  to  her  than  that  there  was  no  news 
of  the  ship,  and  that  he  feared  the  worst  ;  but  how  he  | 
came  to  know  that  she  was  interested  in  the  ship,  and 
why  he  had  the  right  to  signify  his  knowledge  to  her,  so  I 
insidiously  and  darkly,  troubled  Florence  very  much.  { 

This  conduct  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Carker,  and  her  habit  j 
of  often  considering  it  with  wonder  and  uneasiness,  be-  I 
gan  to  invest  him  with  an  uncomfortable  fascination  in  | 
Florence's  thoughts.  A  more  distinct  remembrance  of  j 
his  features,  voice,  and  manner :  which  she  sometimes  i 
courted,  as  a  means  of  reducing  him  to  the  level  of  a 
real  personage,  capable  of  exerting  no  greater  charm  over 
her  than  another  :  did  not  remove  the  vague  impression,  j 
And  yet  he  never  frowned,  or  looked  upon  her  with  an  i 
air  of  dislike  or  animosity,  but  was  always  smiling  and  | 
serene.  ' 

Again,  Florence,  in  pursuit  of  her  strong  purpose  with 
reference  to  her  father,  and  her  steady  resolution  to  be- 
lieve that  she  was  herself  unwittingly  to  blame  for  their 
so  cold  and  distant  relations,  would  recall  to  mind  that 
this  gentleman  was  his  confidential  friend,  and  would 
think,  with  an  anxious  heart,  could  her  struggling  ten- 
dency to  dislike  and  fear  him  be  a  part  of  that  misfor- 
tune in  her,  which  had  turned  her  father's  love  adrift, 
and  left  her  so  alone  ?  She  dreaded  that  it  might  be  ; 
sometimes  believed  it  was  :  then  she  resolved  that  she 
would  try  to  conquer  this  wrong  feeling  ;  persuaded  her- 
self that  she  was  honoured  and  encourged  by  the  notice 
of  her  father's  friend  I  and  hoped  that  patient  observa- 
tion of  him  and  trust  in  him  would  lead  her  bleeding  feet 
along  that  stony  road  which  ended  in  her  father's  heart. 

Thus,  with  no  one  to  advise  her — for  she  could  advise 
with  no  one  without  seeming  to  complain  against  him — 
gentle  Florence  tossed  on  an  uneasy  sea  of  doubt  and 
hope  ;  and  Mr.  Carker,  like  a  scaly  monster  of  the  deep, 
swam  down  below,  and  kei)t  his  shining  eye  upon  her. 

Florence  had  a  new  reason  in  all  this  for  wishing  to 
be  at  home  again.  Her  lonely  life  was  Ix-ttor  suited  to 
her  course  of  timid  hope  and  doubt :  and  she  feared 
sometiznes,  that  in  her  absence  she  might  miss  some 
hopeful  chance  of  testifying  her  affection  for  her  father. 
Heaven  knows,  she  might  Ijave  set  lier  mind  at  rest, 
pfX)r  child  !  on  this  last  point ;  but  her  slighted  love  was 
fluttering  within  her,  and,  even  in  her  shiep,  it  flow 
away  in  dreams,  and  nestled,  like  a  wandering  bird  come 
home,  upon  her  father's  neck. 

Of  Walter  she  thought  often.  Ah  I  how  often,  when 
the  night  was  gloomy,  and  the  wind  was  blowing;  round 


the  house  !  But  hope  was  strong  in  her  breast.  It  is 
so  ditficult  for  the  young  and  ardent,  even  with  such  ex- 
perience as  hers,  to  imagine  youth  and  ardour  quenched 
like  a  weak  flame,  and  the  bright  day  of  life  merging 
into  night,  at  noon,  that  hope  was  strong  yet.  Her 
tears  fell  frequently  for  Waltei-'s  sufferings,  but  rarely 
for  his  supposed  death,  and  never  long. 

She  had  written  to  the  old  Instrume'nt-maker,  but  had 
receiv^ed  no  answer  to  her  note  :  which  indeed  required 
none.  Thus  matters  stood  with  Florence  on  the  morn- 
ing when  she  was  going  home,  gladly,  to  her  old  se- 
cluded life. 

Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  accompanied  (much  against 
his  will)  by  their  valued  charge,  Master  Barnet,  were 
already  gone  back  to  Brighton,  where  that  young  gentle- 
man and  his  fellow  pilgrims  to  Parnassus  were  then,  no 
doubt,  in  the  continual  resumption  of  their  studies. 
The  holiday  time  was  past  and  over ;  most  of  the  ju- 
venile guests  at  the  villa  had  taken  their  departure  ; 
and  Florence's  long  visit  was  come  to  an  end. 

There  was  one  guest,  however,  albeit  not  resident 
within  the  house,  who  had  been  very  constant  in  his  at- 
tention to  the  family,  and  who  still  remained  devoted  to 
them.  This  was  Mr.  Toots,  who  after  renewing,  some 
weeks  ago,  the  acquaintance  he  had  had  the  happiness  of 
forming  with  Skettles  Junior,  on  the  night  when  he 
burst  the  Blimberian  bonds  and  soared  into  freedom 
with  hi»  ring  on,  called  regularly  every  other  day,  and 
left  a  perfect  pack  of  cards  at  the  hall-door ;  so  many 
indeed,  that  the  ceremony  was  quite  a  deal  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Toots,  and  a  hand  at  whist  cn  the  part  of  the 
servant . 

Mr.  Toots,  likewise,  with  the  bold  and  happy  idea  of 
preventing  the  family  from  forgetting  him  (but  there  is 
reason  to  suppose  that  this  expedient  originated  in  the 
teeming  brain  of  the  Chicken),  had  established  a  six- 
oared  cutter,  manned  by  aquatic  friends  of  the  Chicken's 
and  steered  by  that  illustrious  character  in  person,  who 
wore  a  bright  red  fireman's  coat  for  the  purpose,  and 
concealed  the  perpetual  black  eye  with  which  he  was 
afflicted,  beneath  a  green  shade.  Previous  to  the  insti- 
tution of  this  equipage,  Mr.  Toots  sounded  the  Chicken 
on  a  hypothetical  case,  as,  supposing  the  Chicken  to  be 
enamoured  of  a  j'oung  lady  named  Mary,  and  to  have 
conceived  the  intention  of  starting  a  boat  of  his  own, 
what  would  he  call  that  boat?  The  Chicken  replied, 
with  divers  strong  asseverations,  that  he  would  either 
christen  it  Poll  or  the  Chicken's  Delight.  Improving  on 
this  idea,  Mr.  Toots,  after  deep  study  and  the  exercise  of 
much  invention,  resolved  to  call  this  boat  The  Toots's 
Joy,  as  a  delicate  compliment  to  Florence,  of  which  no 
man  knowing  the  parties,  could  possibly  miss  the  appre- 
ciation. 

Stretched  on  a  crimson  cushion  in  his  gallant  bark, 
with  his  shoes  in  the  air,  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  exercise  of 
his  project,  had  come  up  the  river,  day  after  day,  and  week 
after  week,  and  had  flitted  to  and  fro,  near  Sir  Barnet's 
garden,  and  had  caused  his  crew  to  cut  across  and  across 
the  river  at  sharp  angles,  for  his  better  exhibition  to  any 
lookers-out  from  Sir  Barnet's  windows,  and  had  had 
such  evolutions  performed  by  the  Toots's  Delight  as  had 
filled  all  the  neighbouring  part  of  the  water-side  with 
astonishment.  But  whenever  he  saw  any  one  in  Sir 
Barnet's  garden  on  the  brink  of  the  river,  Mr.  Toots 
always  feigned  to  be  passing  there,  by  a  combination  of 
coincidences  of  the  most  singular  and  unlikely  descrip- 
tion. 

"  How  are  you.  Toots  1"  Sir  Barnet  would  say,  wav- 
ing his  hand  from  the  lawn,  while  the  artful  Chicken 
steered  close  in  shore. 

"  llow  de  do,  Sir  Barnet  I  "  Mr.  Toots  would  answer. 
"  What  a  surprising  thing  that  I  should  see  you  here?'* 

Mr.  Toots,  in  his  sagacity,  always  said  thi.>^,  as  if,  in- 
stead of  that  being  Sir  Barnet's  house,  it  were  some  de- 
serted edifice  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  or  Ganges. 

"I  never  was  so  surprised  I  "  Mr.  Toots  would  ex- 
claim.— "  Is  Miss  Domboy  there  ?  " 

Whereupon  Florence  would  aj^poar,  ])erhaps. 

"  Oh,  Diogenes  is  quite  well,  Miss  D(mibey,"  Mr.  Toots 
would  cry.    "  I  called  to  ask  this  morning." 

"  Thank  you  very  much  1 "  the  pleasant  voice  of  Flor- 
ence would  reply. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


553 


**  Won't  you  come  ashore,  Toots?"  Sir  Barnet  would 
say  then.  "Come  !  you're  in  no  hurry.  Come  and  see 
us." 

"Oh  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank  you!"  Mr.  Toots 
would  blushingly  rejoin.  "  I  thought  Miss  Dombey 
would  like  to  know,  that's  all.  Good  bye  !  "  And  poor 
Mr.  Toots  who  was  dying  to  accept  the  invitation,  but 
hadn't  the  courage  to  do  it,  signed  to  the  Chicken,  with 
an  aching  heart,  and  away  went  the  Delight,  cleaving 
the  water  like  an  arrow. 

The  Delight  was  lying  in  a  state  of  extraordinary 
splendour  at  the  garden  steps,  on  the  morning  of  Flor- 
ence's departure.  When  she  went  down-stairs  to  take 
leave,  after  her  talk  with  Susan,  she  found  Mr.  Toots 
awaiting  her  in  the  drawing-room. 

"Oh,  howdedo,  Miss  Dombey  ?"  said  the  stricken 
Toots,  always  dreadfully  disconcerted  when  the  desire  of 
his  heart  was  gained,  and  he  was  speaking-  to  her  ; 
"  thank  you,  I'm  very  well  indeed,  I  hope  you're  the 
same,  so  was  Diogenes  yesterday." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Florence. 

"  Thank  you,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  retorted  Mr. 
Toots.  "I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind,  in  this 
fine  weather,  coming  home  by  water,  Miss  Dombey. 
There's  plenty  of  room  in  the  boat  for  your  maid." 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Florence,  hesi- 
tating.   "  I  really  am — but  I  would  rather  not." 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots. 
"  Good  morning  !  " 

"  Won't  you  wait  and  see  Lady  Skettles?  "  asked  Flor- 
ence, kindly. 

"Oh  no,  thank  you,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "it's  of  no 
consequence  at  all." 

So  shy  was  Mr.  Toots  on  such  occasions,  and  so  flur-  ] 
ried  \   But  Lady  Skettles  entering  at  that  moment,  Mr.  | 
Toots  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  passion  for  asking  her  : 
how  she  did,  and  hoping  she  was  very  well  ;  nor  could 
Mr.  Toots  by  any  possibility  leave  oif  shaking  hands 
with  her,  until  Sir  Barnet  appeared  :  to  whom  he  im- 
mediately clung  with  the  tenacity  of  desperation. 

"  We  are  losing,  to-day.  Toots,"  said  Sir  Barnet, 
turning  towards  Florence,  "the  light  of  our  house,  I  as- 
sure you." 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  conseq — T  mean  yes,  to  be  sure," 
faltered  the  embarrassed  Toots.    "  Good  morning  !  " 

Notwithstanding  the  emphatic  nature  of  this  farewell, 
Mr.  Toots,  instead  of  going  away,  stood  leering  about 
him,  vacantly.    Florence,  to  relieve  him,  bade  adieu,  \ 
with  many  thanks,  to  Lady  Skettles,  and  gave  her  arm 
to  Sir  Barnet. 

"May  I  beg  of  you  my  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  her 
host,  as  he  conducted  her  to  the  carriage,  "  to  present 
my  best  compliments  to  your  dear  papa  ?  " 

It  was  distressing  to  Florence  to  receive  the  commission, 
for  she  felt  as  if  she  were  imposing  on  Sir  Barnet,  by 
allowing  him  to  believe  that  a  kindness  rendered  to  her, 
was  rendered  to  her  father.  As  she  could  not  explain, 
however,  she  bowed  her  head  and  thanked  him  ;  and 
again  she  thought  that  the  dull  home,  free  from  such 
embarrassments,  and  such  reminders  of  her  sorrow,  was 
her  natural  and  best  retreat. 

Such  of  her  late  friends  and  companions  as  were  yet 
remaining  at  the  villa,  came  running  from  within,  and 
from  the  garden,  to  say  good  bye.  They  were  all  at- 
tached to  her,  and  very  earnest  in  taking  leave  of  her. 
Even  the  household  were  sorry  for  her  going,  and  the 
servants  came  nodding  and  curtseying  round  the  carriage 
door.  As  Florence  looked  round  on  the  kind  faces,  and 
saw  among  them  those  of  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady,  and 
of  Mr.  Toots,  who  was  chuckling  and  staring  at  her  from 
a  distance,  she  was  reminded  of  the  night  when  Paul 
and  she  had  come  from  Doctor  Blimber's  :  and  when 
the  carriage  drove  away,  her  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

Sorrowful  tears,  but  tears  of  consolation,  too;  for  all  the 
softer  memories  connected  with  the  dull  old  house  to  which 
she  was  returning  made  it  dear  to  her,  as  they  rose  up. 
How  long  it  seemed  since  she  had  wandered  through  the 
silent  rooms  :  since  she  had  last  crept,  softly  and  afraid, 
into  those  her  father  occupied  :  since  she  had  felt  the 
solemn  but  yet  soothing  influence  of  the  beloved  dead 
in  every  action  of  her  daily  life  !  This  new  farewell  re- 
minded her,  besides,  of  her  parting  with  poor  Walter  : 


of  his  looks  and  words  that  night  :  and  of  the  gracious 
bhuiding  she  had  noticed  in  him,  of  tenderness  for  those 
he  left  behind,  with  courage  and  high  spirit.  His  little 
history  was  associated  with  tlie  old  house  too,  and  gave 
it  a  new  claim  and  hold  upon  her  heart. 

Even  Susan  Nipper  softened  towards  the  home  of  so 
many  years,  as  they  were  on  their  way  towards  it. 
Gloomy  as  it  was,  and  rigid  justice  as  she  rendered  to 
its  gloom,  she  forgave  it  a  great  deal.  "  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  it  again,  I  don't  deny,  miss,"  said  the  Nip7)er. 
"  There  ain't  much  in  it  to  boast  of,  but  I  wouldn't  have 
it  burnt  or  pulled  down,  neither  ! " 

"You'll  be  glad  to  go  through  the  old  rooms,  won't 
you,  Susan  ?  "  said  Florence,  smiling. 

"  Well,  miss,"  returned  the  Nipper,  softening  more 
and  more  towards  the  house,  as  they  apy^roached  it 
nearer,  "I  won't  deny  but  what  I  shall,  though  I  shall 
hate  'em  again,  to-morrow,  very  likely." 

Florence  felt  that,  for  her,  there  was  greater  peace 
within  it  than  elsewhere.  It  was  better  and  easier  to 
keep  her  secret  shut  up  there,  among  the  tall  dark  walls, 
than  to  carry  it  abroad  into  the  light,  and  try  to  hide  it 
from  a  crowd  of  happy  eyes.  It  was  better  to  pursue 
the  study  of  her  loving  heart,  alone,  and  find  no  new 
discouragements  in  loving  hearts  about  her.  It  was 
easier  to  hope,  and  pray,  and  love  on  all  uncared 
for,  yet  vnih.  constancy  and  patience,  in  the  tranquil 
sanctuary  of  such  remembrances  :  although  it  mouldered, 
rusted,  and  decayed  about  her  :  than  in  a  new  scene,  let 
its  gaiety  be  what  it  would.  She  welcomed  back  her  old 
enchanted  dream  of  life,  and  longed  for  the  old  dark 
door  to  close  upon  her,  once  again. 

Full  of  such  thoughts,  they  turned  into  the  long  and 
sombre  street.  Florence  was  not  on  that  side  of  the 
carriage  which  was  nearest  to  her  home,  and  as  the  dis- 
tance lessened  between  them  and  it,  she  looked  out  of 
her  window  for  the  children  over  the  way. 

She  was  thus  engaged,  when  an  exclamation  from 
Susan  caused  her  to  turn  quickly  round. 

"  Why  gracious  me  I"  cried  Susan,  breathless,"  where's 
our  house  ! " 

"  Our  house  !"  said  Florence. 

Susan,  drawing  in  her  head  from  the  window,  thrust 
it  out  again,  drew  it  in  again  as  the  carriage  stopped, 
and  stared  at  her  mistress  in  amazement. 

There  was  a  labyrinth  of  scaffolding  raised  all  round 
the  house,  from  the  basement  to  the  roof.  Loads  of 
bricks  and  stones,  and  heaps  of  mortar,  and  piles  of 
wood,  blocked  up  half  the  width  and  length  of  the 
broad  street  at  the  side.  Ladders  were  raised  against  the 
walls:  labourers  were  climbing  up  and  down  ;  men  were 
at  work  upon  the  steps  of  the  scaffolding  ;  painters  and 
decorators  were  busy  inside  ;  great  rolls  of  ornamental 
paper  were  being  delivered  from  a  cart  at  the  door  :  an 
upholsterer's  waggon  also  stopped  the  way  ;  no  furniture 
was  to  be  seen  through  the  gaping  and  broken  windows 
in  any  of  the  rooms  ;  nothing  but  workmen,  and  the  im- 
plements of  their  several  trades,  swai-ming  from  the 
kitchens  to  the  garrets.  Inside  and  outside  alike  ;  brick- 
layers, painters,  carpenters,  masons  :  hammer,  hod, 
brush,  pickaxe,  saw,  and  trowel :  all  at  work  together,  in 
full  chorus  ! 

Florence  descended  from  the  coach,  half  doubting  if 
it  were,  or  could  be  the  right  house,  until  she  recognised 
Towlinson,  with  a  sunburnt  face,  standing  at  the  door 
to  receive  her. 
."  There  is  nothing  the  matter  ?"  inquired  Florence. 
"Oh  no,  miss." 

"  There  are  great  alterations  going  on." 
"Yes,  miss,  great  alterations,"  said  Towlinson. 
Florence  passed  him  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream,  and 
hurried  up-stairs.    The  garish  light  was  in  the  long- 
darkened  drawing-room,  and  there  were  steps  and  plat- 
forms, and  men  in  paper  caps,  in  the  high  places.  Her 
mother's  picture  was  gone  with  the  rest  of  the  move- 
ables, and  on  the  mark  where  it  had  been,  was  scrawled 
in  chalk,  "this  room  in  panel.    Green  and  gold."  The 
staircase  was  a  labyrinth  of  posts  and  planks  like  the 
outside  of  the  house,  and  a  whole  Olympus  of  plumbers 
I  nnd  glaziers  were  reclining  in  various  attitudes,  on  the 
\  skylight.    Her  own  roomVas  not  yet  touched  within, 
i  but  there  were  beams  and  boards  raised  against  it  with- 


554 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


out,  baulking  the  daylight.  She  went  up  swiftly  to 
that  other  bed-room,  where  the  little  bed  was  ;  and  a 
dark  giant  of  a  man  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his 
head  tied  up  in  a  pocket-handkerchief,  was  staring  in  at 
the  window. 

It  was  here  that  Susan  Nipper,  who  had  been  in  quest 
of  Florence,  found  her,  and  said,  would  she  go  down- 
stairs to  her  papa,  who  wished  to  speak  to  her. 

"  At  home  !  and  wishing  to  speak  to  me  !"  cried  Flor- 
ence, trembling. 

Susan,  who  was  infinitely  more  distraught  than  Flor- 
ence herself,  repeated  her  errand  ;  and  Florence,  pale 
and  agitated,  hurried  down  again,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation.  She  thouglit  upon  the  way  down,  would  she 
dare  to  kiss  him?  The  longing  of  her  heart  resolved 
her,  and  she  thought  she  would. 

Her  father  miglit  have  heard  that  heart  beat,  when  it 
came  into  his  presence.  One  instant,  and  it  would  have 
beat  against  his  breast — 

But  he  was  not  alone.  There  were  two  ladies  there  ; 
and  Florence  stopped.  Striving  so  hard  with  her  emo- 
tion, that  if  her.  brute  friend  Di  had  not  burst  in  and 
overwhelmed  her  with  his  caresses  as  a  welcome  home 
— at  which  one  of  the  ladies  gave  a  little  scream,  and 
that  diverted  her  attention  from  herself— she  would 
have  swooned  upon  the  floor. 

"Florence,"  said  her  father,  putting  out  his  hand  :  so 
stiffly  that  it  held  her  off :     how  do  you  do  ?  " 

Florence  took  the  hand  between  her  own,  and  putting 
it  timidly  to  her  lips,  yielded  to  its  withdrawal.  It 
touched  the  door  in  shutting  it,  with  quite  as  much  en- 
dearment as  it  had  touched  her. 

"  What  dog  is  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  displeased. 
It  is  a  dog,  papa — from  Brighton." 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  a  cloud  passed  over 
his  face,  for  he  understood  her. 

"He  is  very  good-tempered,"  said  Florence,  address- 
ing herself  with  her  natural  grace  and  sweetness  to  the 
two  lady  strangers.  "  He  is  only  glad  to  see  me.  Pray 
forgive  him." 

She  saw  in  the  glance  they  interchanged,  that  the 
lady  who  had  screamed,  and  who  was  seated,  was  old  ; 
and  that  the  other  lady,  who  stood  near  her  papa,  was 
very  beautiful,  and  of  an  elegant  figure. 

"  Mrs.  Skesvton,"  said  her  father,  turning  to  the  first, 
and  holding  out  his  hand,  "this  is  my  daughter  Flor- 
ence." 

"Charming,  I  am  sure,"  observed  the  lady,  putting 
up  her  glass.  "  So  natural  !  My  darling  Florence,  you 
must  kiss  me,  if  you  please." 

Florence  having  done  so,  turned  towards  the  other 
lady,  by  whom  her  father  stood  waiting. 

"  Edith,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  this  is  my  daughter 
Florence.    Florence,  this  lady  will  soon  be  your  mama." 

Florence  started,  and  looked  up  at  the  beautiful  face 
in  a  conflict  of  emotions,  among  which  the  tears  that 
name  awakened,  struggled  for  a  moment  with  surprise, 
interest,  admiration,  and  an  indefinable  sort  of  fear. 
Then  she  cried  out,  "Oh,  papa,  may  you  be  happy! 
may  you  be  very,  very  happy  all  your  life  ! "  and  then 
fell  weeping  on  the  lady's  bosom. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  The  beautiful  lady,  who 
at  first  had  seemed  to  hesitate  whether  or  no  she  should 
advance  to  Florence,  held  her  to  her  breast,  and  pressed 
the  hand  with  which  she  clasped  ,her,  close  about  her 
waist,  as  if  to  reassure  her  and  comfort  her.  Not  one 
word  passed  the  lady's  lips.  She  bent  her  head  down 
over  Florence,  and  she  kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  but  she 
said  no  word. 

"  Shall  we  go  on  through  the  rooms,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "and  see  how  our  workmen  are  doing?  Pray 
allow  me,  my  dear  madam." 

He  said  this  in  offering  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Skewton,  who 
had  been  looking  at  Florence  through  her  glass,  as 
though  picturing  to  herself  what  she  might  be  made,  by 
the  infusion — from  her  own  copious  storehouse,  no  doubt 
— of  a  little  more  Heart  and  Nature.  Florence  was 
still  sobbing  on  the  lady's  breast,  and  holding  to  her, 
when  Mr.  Dombey  was  heard  to  say  from  the  conserva- 
tory : 

"  Let  us  ask  Edith.    Dear  me,  where  is  she  ?  " 
"Edith,  my  dear  1 "  cried  Mrs.  Skewtou,  "  where  are 


you  ?  Looking  for  Mr.  Dombey  somewhere,  I  know. 
We  are  here,  my  love." 

The  beautiful  lady  released  her  hold  of  Florence,  and 
pressing  her  lips  once  more  upon  her  face,  withdrew 
hurriedly,  and  joined  them.  Florence  remained  standing 
in  the  same  place  :  happy,  sorry,  joyful,  and  in  tears, 
she  knew  not  how  or  how  long,  but  all  at  once  :  when 
her  new  mama  came  back,  and  took  her  in  her  arms 
again. 

"  Florence,"  said  the  lady  hurriedly,  and  looking  into 
her  face  with  great  earnestness.  "You  will  not  begin 
by  hating  me  ?  " 

"By  hating  you,  mama!"  cried  Florence,  winding 
her  arm  round  her  neck,  and  returning  the  look. 

"Hush  I  Begin  by  thinking  well  of  me,"  said  the 
beautiful  lady.  "  Begin  by  believing  that  I  will  try  to 
make  you  happy,  and  that  I  am  prepared  to  love  you, 
Florence.'  Good  bye.  We  shall  meet  again,  soon.  Good 
bye  !    Don't  stay  here,  now." 

Again  she  pressed  her  to  her  breast^ — she  had  spoken 
in  a  rapid  manner,  but  firmly — and  Florence  saw  her 
rejoin  them  in  the  other  room. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  hope  that  she  would  learn 
from  her  new  and  beautiful  mama,  how  to  gain  her 
father's  love  ;  and  in  her  sleep  that  night,  in  her  lost  old 
home,  her  own  mama  smiled  radiantly  upon  the  hope, 
and  blessed  it.    Dreaming  Florence  ! 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

TJie  Opening  of  the  Eyes  of  Ilrs.  Chick. 

Miss  Tox,  all  unconscious  of  any  such  rare  appear- 
ances in  connexion  with  Mr.  Dorabey's  house,  as  scaffold- 
ings and  ladders,  and  men  with  their  heads,  tied  up  in 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  glaring  in  at  the  windows  like 
flying  genii  or  strange  birds, — having  breakfasted  one 
morning  at  about  this  eventful  period  of  time,  on  her 
customary  viands  ;  to  wit,  one  French  roll  rasped,  one 
egg  new  laid  (or  warranted  to  be),  and  one  little  pot  of 
tea,  wherein  was  infused  one  little  silver  scoop-full  of 
that  herb  on  behalf  of  Miss  Tox,  and  one  little  silver 
scoop-full  on  behalf  of  the  tea-pot — a  flight  of  fancy  in 
which  good  housekeepers  delight  ;  went  up-stairs  to  set 
forth  the  bird  waltz  on  the  harpsichord,  to  water  and 
arrange  the  plants,  to  dust  the  nick-nacks,  and  accord- 
ing to  her  daily  custom,  to  make  her  little  drawing-room 
the  garland  of  Princess's-place. 

Miss  Tox  endued  herself  with  the  pair  of  ancient 
gloves,  like  dead  leaves,  in  which  she  was  accustomed 
to  perform  these  avocations — hidden  from  human  sight 
at  other  times  in  a  table  drawer — and  went  methodically 
to  work  ;  beginning  with  the  bird  waltz  ;  passing,  by  a 
natural  association  of  ideas,  to  her  bird — a  very  high- 
shouldered  canary,  stricken  in  years,  and  much  rumpled, 
but  a  piercing  singer,  as  Princess's-place  well  knew  ; 
taking,  next  in  order,  the  little  china  ornaments,  paper 
fly-cages,  and  so  forth  ;  and  coming  round,  in  good  time, 
to  the  plants,  which  generally  required  to  be  snipped 
here  and  there  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  for  some  botanical 
reason  that  was  very  powerful  with  Miss  Tox. 

Miss  Tox  was  slow  in  coming  to  the  plants,  this  morn- 
ing. The  weather  was  warm,  the  wind  southerly  ;  and 
there  was  a  sigh  of  the  summer  time  in  Princess's-place, 
that  turned  Miss  Tox's  thoughts  upon  the  country.  The 
pot-boy  attached  to  the  Princess's  Arms  had  come  out 
with  a  can  and  trickled  water,  in  a  flowing  pattern,  all 
over  Princess's-place,  and  it  gave  the  weedy  ground  a 
fresh  scent  —  quite  a  growing  scent.  Miss  Tox  said. 
There  was  a  tiny  blink  of  sun  peeping  in  from  the  great 
street  round  the  corner,  and  the  smoky  sparrows  hopped 
over  it  and  back  again,  brightening  as  they  passed  :  or 
bathed  in  it  like  a  stream,  and  became  glorified  sparrows, 
unconnected  with  chimneys.  Legends  in  praise  of  Gin- 
ger Beer,  with  pictorial  representations  of  thirsty  cus- 
tomers submerged  in  the  effervescence,  or  stunned  by 
the  flying  corks,  Avere  conspicuous  in  the  window  of  the 
Princess's  Arms.  They  were  making  late  hay,  some- 
where out  of  town  ;  and  though  the  fragrance  had  a  long 
way  to  come,  and  many  counter  fragrances  to  contend^ 


DOMBEY 

with  among  the  dwellings  of  the  poor  (may  God  reward 
the  worthy  gentlemen  who  stickle  for  the  plague  as  part 
and  parcel  of  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors,  and  who  do 
their  little  best  to  keep  those  dwellings  miserable  !),  yet 
it  was  wafted  faintly  into  Princess's  place,  whispering 
of  nature  and  her  wholesome  air,  as  such  things  will, 
even  unto  prisoners  and  captives,  and  those  who  are 
desolate  and  oppressed. 

Miss  Tox  sat  down  upon  the  window-seat,  and  thought 
of  her  good  papa  deceased — Mr.  Tox,  of  the  Customs  De- 
partment of  the  public  service  ;  and  of  her  childhood, 
passed  at  a  seaport,  among  a  considerable  quantity  of  cold 
tar,  and  some  rusticity.  She  fell  into  a  softened  remem- 
brance of  meadows  in  old  time,  gleaming  with  butter- 
cups, like  so  many  inverted  firmaments  of  golden  stars  ; 
and  how  she  had"  made  chains  of  dandelion  stalks  for 
youthful  vowers  of  eternal  constancy,  dressed  chiefly  in 
nankeen  ;  and  how  soon  those  fetters  had  withered  and 
broken. 

Sitting  on  the  window-seat,  and  looking  out  upon  the 
sparrows  and  the  blink  of  sun,  Miss  Tox  thought  likewise 
of  her  good  mama  deceased — sister  to  the  owner  of  the 
powdered  head  and  pigtail — of  her  virtues,  and  her  rheu- 
matism. And  when  a  man  with  bulgy  legs,  and  a  rough 
voice,  and  a  heavy  basket  on  his  head  that  crushed  his 
hat  into  a  mere  biack  muffin,  came  crying  flowers  down 
Princess's-place,  making  his  timid  little  roots  of  daisies 
shudder  in  the  vibration  of  every  yell  he  gave,  as  though 
he  had  been  an  ogre  hawking  little  children,  summer  rec- 
ollections were  so  strong  upon  Miss  Tox,  that  she  shook 
her  head,  and  murmured  she  would  be  comparatively  old 
before  she  knew  it— which  seemed  likely. 

In  her  pensive  mood.  Miss  Tox's  thoughts  went  wan- 
dering on  Mr.  Dombey's  track  ;  probably  because  the  ma- 
jor had  returned  home  to  his  lodgings  opposite,  and  had 
just  bowed  to  her  from  his  window.  What  other  reason 
could  Miss  Tox  have  for  connecting  Mr.  Dombey  with 
her  summer  days  and  dandelion  fetters  ?  Was  he  more 
cheerful  ?  thought  Mis^s  Tox.  Was  he  reconciled  to  the 
decrees  of  fate  ?  Would  he  ever  marry  again  ;  and  if 
yes,  whom  ?    What  sort  of  person  now  ! 

A  flush — it  was  warm  weather — overspread  Miss  Tox's 
face,  as,  while  entertaining  these  meditations,  she  turned 
her  head,  and  was  surprised  by  the  reflection  of  her 
thoughtful  image  in  the  chimney-glass.  Another  flush 
succeeded  when  she  saw  a  little  carriage  drive  into  Prin- 
cess's-place, and  make  straight  for  her  own  door.  Miss 
Tox  arose,  took  up  her  scissors  hastily,  and  so  coming, 
at  last,  to  the  plants,  was  very  busy  with  them  when 
Mrs.  Chick  entered  the  room. 

"How  is  my  sweetest  friend?"  exclaimed  Miss  Tox, 
with  open  arms. 

A  little  stateliness  was  mingled  with  Miss  Tox's  sweet- 
est friend's  demeanour,  but  she  kissed  Miss  Tox,  and  said, 
**  Lucretia,  thank  you,  I  am  pretty  well.  I  hope  you  are 
the  same.    Hem  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  was  labouring  under  a  peculiar  little  mon- 
osyllabic cough  ;  a  sort  of  primer,  or  easy  introduction  to 
the  art  of  coughing. 

"  You  call  very  early,  and  how  kind  that  is,  my  dear  1" 
pursued  Miss  Tox.    "  Now  have  you  breakfasted  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  I  have.  1 
took  an  early  breakfast " — the  good  lady  seemed  curious 
on  the  subject  of  Princess's-place,  and  looked  all  round 
it  as  she  spoke,  "  with  my  brother,  who  has  come  home." 

"  He  is  better,  I  trust,  my  love,"  faltered  Miss  Tox. 

"  He  is  greatly  better,  thank  you.    Hem  !  " 

"My  dear  Louisa  must  be  careful  of  that  cough,"  re- 
marked Miss  Tox. 

"It's  nothing,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  "It's  merely 
change  of  weather.    We  must  expect  change." 

"  Of  weather  ?"  asked  Miss  Tox,  in  her  simplicity. 

"Of  everything,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  "Of  course 
we  must.  It's  a  world  of  change.  Any  one  would  sur- 
prise me  very  much,  Lucretia,  and  would  greatly  alter 
my  opinion  of  their  understanding,  if  they  attempted 
to  contradict  or  evade  what  is  so  perfectly  evident. 
CTiange  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  severe  philosophy. 
"  Why,  my  gracious  me,  what  is  there  that  does  not 
change  !  even  the  silkworm,  who  I  am  sure  might  be 
supposed  not  to  trouble  itself  about  such  subjects, 
changes  into  all  sorts  of  unexpected  things  continually." 


AND  SON.  555 

"  My  Louisa,"  said  the  mild  Miss  Tox,  "is ever  happy 
in  her  illustrations." 

"You  are  so  kind,  Lucretia,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  a 
little  softened,  "as  to  say  so,  and  to  think  so,  I  believe. 
I  hope  neither  of  us  may  ever  have  any  cause  to  lessen 
our  opinion  of  the  other,  Lucretia." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  returned  Miss  Tox. 

Mrs.  Chick  coughed  as  before,  and  drew  lines  on  the  car- 
pet with  the  ivory  end  of  her  parasol.  Miss  Tox,  who 
had  experience  of  her  fair  friend,  and  knew  that  under 
the  pressure  of  any  slight  fatigue  or  vexation  she  was 
prone  to  a  discursive  kind  of  irritability,  availed  herself 
of  the  pause  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "but 
have  I  caught  sight  of  the  manly  form  of  Mr.  Chick  in 
the  carriage  ?  " 

"  He  is  there,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "but  jjray  leave  him 
there.  He  has  his  newspaper,  and  would  be  quite  con- 
tented for  the  next  two  hours.  Go  on  with  your  flowers, 
Lucretia,  and  allow  me  to  sit  here  and  rest." 

"My  Louisa  knows,"  observed  Miss  Tox,  "that  be- 
tween friends  like  ourselves,  any  approach  to  ceremony 
would  be  out  of  the  question.  Therefore — "  Therefore 
Miss  Tox  finished  the  sentence,  not  in  words  but  actions  ; 
and  putting  on  her  gloves  again,  which  she  had  taken 
off,  and  arming  herself  once  more  with  her  scissors,  be- 
gan to  snip  and  clip  among  the  leaves  with  microscopic 
industry. 

"  Florence  has  returned  home  also,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  sitting  silent  for  some  time,  with  her  head  on  one 
side,  and  her  parasol  sketching  on  the  floor  ;  "  and  really 
Florence  is  a  great  deal  too  old  now,  to  continue  to  lead 
that  solitary  life  to  which  she  has  been  accustomed.  Of 
course  she  is.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it.  I  should 
have  very  little  respect,  indeed,  for  anybody  who  could 
advocate  a  different  opinion.  Whatever  my  wishes 
might  be,  I  could  not  respect  them.  We  cannot  com- 
mand our  feelings  to  such  an  extent  as  that." 

Miss  Tox  assented,  without  being  particular  as  to  the 
intelligibility  of  the  proposition. 

"  If  she's  a  strange  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  and  if  my 
brother  Paul  cannot  feel  perfectly  comfortable  in  her  so- 
ciety, after,  all  the  sad  things  that  have  happened,  and  all 
the  terrible  disappointments  that  have  been  undergone, 
then,  what  is  the  reply  ?  That  he  must  make  an  effort. 
That  he  is  bound  to  make  an  effort.  We  have  always 
been  a  family  remarkable  for  effort.  Paul  is  at  the 
head  of  the  family  ;  almost  the  only  representative  of  it 
left — for  what  am  I — Jam  of  no  consequence — " 

"  My  dearest  love,"  remonstrated  Miss  Tox. 

Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes,  which  were,  for  the  mo- 
ment, overflowing  ;  and  proceeded  : 

"  And  consequently  he  is  more  than  ever  bound  to 
make  an  effort.  And  though  his  having  done  so,  comes 
upon  me  with  a  sort  of  shock — for  mine  is  a  very  weak 
and  foolish  nature  ;  which  is  anything  but  a  blessing  I 
am  sure  ;  I  often  wish  my  heart  was  a  marble  slab,  or 
a  paving  stone — " 

"My  sweet  Louisa,"  remonstrated  Miss  Tox  again. 

"  Still,  it  is  a  triumph  to  me  to  know  that  he  is  so 
true  to  himself,  and  to  his  name  of  Dombey  ;  although 
of  course,  I  always  knew  he  would  be.  I  only  hope," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  pause,  "  that  she  maybe  worthy 
of  the  name  too." 

Miss  Tox  filled  a  little  green  watering-pot  from  a  jug, 
and  happening  to  look  up  when  she  had  done  so,  was  so 
surprised  by  the  amount  of  expression  Mrs.  Chick  had 
conveyed  into  her  face,  and  was  bestowing  upon  her, 
that  she  put  the  little  watering-pot  on  the  table  for  the 
present,  and  sat  down  near  it. 

"My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "will  it  be  the 
least  satisfaction  to  you,  if  I  venture  to  observe  in  refer- 
ence to  that  remark,  that  I,  as  a  humble  individual, 
think  5^our  sweet  niece  in  every  way  most  promising  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Lucretia?"  returned  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  increased  stateliness  of  manner.  "  To  what 
remark  of  mine,  my  dear,  do  you  refer?  " 

"Her  being  worthy  of  her  name,  my  love,"  replied 
Miss  Tox. 

"  If,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  solemn  patience,  "  I  have 
not  expressed  myself  with  clearness,  Lucretia,  the  fault 
of  course  is  mine.    There  is,  perhaps,  no  reason  why  I 


556 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


should  express  myself  at  all,  except  the  intimacy  that 
has  subsisted  between  us,  and  which  I  very  much  hope, 
Lucretia— confidently  hope— nothing  will  occur  to  dis- 
turb. Because,  why  should  I  do  anything  else  ?  There 
is  no  reason  ;  it  would  be  absurd.  But  I  wish  to  express 
myself  clearly,  Lucretia  ;  and  therefore  to  go  back  to 
that  remark,  I  must  beg  to  say  that  it  was  not  intended 
to  relate  to  Florence  in  any  way." 

"  Indeed  !"  returned  Miss  Tox. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  shortly  and  decisively. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  rejoined  her  meek  friend  ; 
"  but  I  cannot  have  understood  it.    I  fear  I  am  dull'." 

Mrs.  Chick  looked  round  the  room  and  over  the  way  ; 
at  the  plants,  at  the  birds,  at  the  watering-pot,  at  almost 
everything  within  view,  except  Miss  Tox  ;  and  finally 
dropping  her  glance  upon  Miss  Tox,  for  a  moment,  on  its 
way  to  the  ground,  said,  looking  meanwhile  with  ele- 
vated eyebrows  at  the  carpet  : 

"  When  I  speak,  Lucretia,  of  her  being  worthy  of  the 
name,  I  speak  of  my  brother  Paul's  second  wife.  I  be- 
lieve I  have  already  said,  in  efEect,  if  not  in  the  very 
words  I  now  use,  that  it  is  his  intention  to  marry  a 
second  wife." 

Miss  Tox  left  her  seat  in  a  hurry,  and  returned  to  her 
plants  ;  clipping  among  the  stems  and  leaves  with  as 
little  favour  as  a  barber  working  at  so  many  pauper 
heads  of  hair. 

"  Whether  she  will  be  fully  sensible  of  the  distinction 
conferred  upon  her,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  lofty  tone, 
"  is  quite  another  question.  I  hope  she  may  be.  We 
are  bound  to  think  well  of  one  another  in  this  world, 
and  I  hope  she  may  be.  I  have  not  been  advised  with, 
myself.  If  I  had  been  advised  with,  I  have  no  doubt 
my  advice  would  have  been  cavalierly  received,  and 
therefore  it  is  infinitely  better  as  it  is.  I  much  prefer 
it,  as  it  is." 

Miss  Tox,  with  head  bent  down,  still  clipped  among 
the  plants.  Mrs.  Chick,  with  energetic  shakings  of  her 
own  head  from  time  to  time,  continued  to  hold  forth,  as 
if  in  defiance  of  somebody. 

**If  my  brother  Paul  had  consulted  with  me,  which  he 
sometimes  does — or  rather,  sometimes  used  to  do  ;  for 
he  will  naturally  do  that  no  more  now,  and  this  is  a  cir- 
cumstance which  I  regard  as  a  relief  from  responsibil- 
ity," said  Mrs.  Chick,  hysterically,  '"  for  I  thank  Heaven 
I  am  not  jealous — "  here  Mrs.  Chick  again  shed  tears  : 
"if  my  brother  Paul  had  come  to  me,  and  had  said, 
*  Louisa,  what  kind  of  qualities  would  you  advise  me  to 
look  out  for,  in  a  wife?'  I  should  certainly  have  an- 
swered, '  Paul,  you  must  have  family,  you  must  have 
beauty,  you  must  have  dignity,  you  must  have  con- 
nexion.' Those  are  the  words  I  should  have  used. 
You  might  have  led  me  to  the  block  immediately 
afterwards,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  that  consequence 
were  highly  probable,  "but  I  should  have  used  them. 
I  should  have  said,  '  Paul !  you  to  marry  a  second  time 
without  family  !  You  to  marry  without  beauty  !  You 
to  marry  without  dignity  !  You  to  marry  without  con- 
nexion !  There  is  nobody  in  the  world,  not  mad,  who 
could  dream  of  daring  to  entertain  such  a  preposterous 
idea  ! " 

Miss  Tox  stopped  clipping  ;  and  with  her  head  among 
the  plants,  listened  attentively.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox 
thought  there  was  hope  in  this  exordium,  and  in  the 
warmth  of  Mrs.  Chick. 

"I  should  have  adopted  this  course  of  argument," 
pursued  the  discreet  lady,  "  because  I  trust  I  am  not  a 
fool.  I  make  no  claim  to  be  considered  a  person  of 
superior  intellect — though  I  believe  some  people  have 
been  extraordinary  enough  to  consider  me  so  ;  one  so  lit- 
tle humoured  as  I  am,  would  very  soon  be  disabused  of 
any  such  notion  ;  but  I  trust  I  am  not  a  down-right  fool. 
And  to  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  ineffable  disdain, 
"that  my  brother  Paul  Dombey  could  ever  contemplate 
the  possibility  of  uniting  himself  to  anybody — I  don't 
care  who" — slie  was  more  sharp  and  emphatic  in  that 
short  clause  than  in  any  other  part  of  her  discourse — 
"  not  possessing  these  requisites,  would  be  to  insult  what 
understanding  I  have  got,  as  much  as  if  I  was  to  be  told 
that  I  was  born  and  bred  an  elephant.  Which  I  may 
be  told  next,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  resignation.  "It 
wouldn't  surprise  me  at  all.    I  expect  it." 


In  the  moment's  silence  that  ensued,  Miss  Tox's  scis- 
sors gave  a  feeble  clip  or  two  ;  but  Miss  Tox's  face  was 
still  invisible,  and  Miss  Tox's  morning  gown  was  agitat- 
ed. Mrs.  Chick  looked  sidewise  at  her,  through  the  in- 
tervening plants,  and  went  on  to  say,  in  a  tone  of  bland 
conviction,  and  as  one  dwelling  on  a  point  of  fact  that 
hardly  required  to  be  stated  : 

"  Therefore,  of  course  my  brother  Paul  has  done  what 
was  to  be  expected  of  him,  and  what  anybody  might 
have  foreseen  he  would  do,  if  he  entered  the  marriage 
state  again.  I  confess  it  takes  me  rather  by  surprise, 
however  gratifying  ;  because  when  Paul  went  out  of 
town  I  had  no  idea  at  all  that  he  would  form  any  at- 
tachment out  of  town,  and  he  certainly  had  no  attach- 
ment when  he  left  here.  However,  it  seems  to  be  ex- 
tremely desirable  in  every  point  of  view.  I  have  no 
doubt  the  mother  is  a  most  genteel  and  elegant  creature, 
and  I  have  no  right  whatever  to  dispute  the  policy  of 
her  living  with  them  :  which  is  Paul's  affair,  not  mine — 
and  as  to  Paul's  choice,  herself,  I  have  only  seen  her 
picture  yet,  but  that  is  beautiful  indeed.  Her  name  is 
beautiful  too,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  shaking  her  head  with 
energy,  and  arranging  herself  in  her  chair  ;  "  Edith  is 
at  once  uncommon,  as  it  strikes  me,  and  distinguished. 
Consequently,  Lucretia,  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  be 
happy  to  hear  that  the  marriage  is  to  take  place  immedi- 
ately — of  course,  you  will  : "  great  emphasis  again  : 
"  and  that  you  are  delighted  with  this  change  in  the 
condition  of  my  brother,  who  has  shown  you  a  great 
deal  of  pleasant  attention  at  various  times." 

Miss  Tox  made  no  verbal  answer,  but  took  up  the  lit- 
tle watering-pot  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  looked 
vacantly  round  as  if  considering  what  article  of  furniture 
would  be  improved  by  the  contents.  The  room  door 
opening  at  this  crisis  of  Miss  Tox's  feelings,  she  started, 
laughed  aloud,  and  fell  into  the  arms  of  the  person  en- 
tering ;  happily  insensible  alike  of  Mrs.  Chick's  indig- 
nant countenance,  and  of  the  major  at  his  window  over 
the  way,  who  had  his  double-barrelled  eye-glass  in  full 
action,  and  whose  face  and  figure  were  dilated  with 
Mephistophelean  joy. 

Not  so  the  expatriated  native,  amazed  supporter  of 
Miss  Tox's  swooning  form,  who,  coming  straight  up-stairs, 
with  a  polite  inquiry  touching  Miss  Tox's  health  (in  ex- 
act pursuance  of  the  major's  malicious  instructions),  had 
accidentally  arrived  in  the  very  nick  of  time  to  catch  the 
delicate  burden  in  his  arms,  and  to  receive  the  contents 
of  the  little  watering-pot  in  his  shoe  ;  both  of  which 
circumstances,  coupled  with  his  consciousness  of  being 
closely  watched  by  the  wrathful  major,  who  had  threat- 
ened the  usual  penalty  in  regard  of  every  bone  in  his 
skin  in  case  of  any  failure,  combined  to  render  him  a 
moving  spectacle  of  mental  and  bodily  distress. 

For  some  moments,  this  afliicted  foreigner  remained 
clasping  Miss  Tox  to  his  heart,  with  an  energy  of  action 
in  remarkable  opposition  to  his  disconcerted  face,  while 
that  poor  lady  trickled  slowly  down  upon  him  the  very 
last  sprinklings  of  the  little  watering-pot,  as  if  he  were 
a  delicate  exotic  (which  indeed  he  was),  and  might  be 
almost  expected  to  blow  while  the  gentle  rain  descended. 
Mrs.  Chick,  at  length  recovering  sufficient  presence  of 
mind  to  interpose,  commanded  liim  to  drop  Miss  Tox  upon 
the  sofa  and  withdraw  ;  and  the  exile  promptly  obeying, 
she  applied  herself  to  promote  Miss  Tox's  recovery. 

But  none  of  that  gentle  concern,  which  usually  char- 
acterises the  daughters  of  Eve  in  their  tending  of  each 
other  ;  none  of  that  freemasonry  in  fainting,  by  which 
they  are  generally  bound  together  in  a  mysterious  bond 
of  sisterhood  ;  was  visible  in  Mrs.  Chick's  demeanour. 
Rather  like  the  executioner  who  restores  the  victim  to 
sensation  previous  to  proceeding  with  the  torture  (or  was 
wont  to  do  so,  in  the  good  old  times  for  which  all  true 
men  wear  perpetual  mourning),  did  Mrs.  Chick  adminis- 
ter the  smelling-bottle,  the  slapping  on  the  hands,  the 
dashing  of  cold  water  on  the  face,  and  the  other  p^-oved 
remedies.  And  when,  at  length,  Miss  Tox  opened  her 
eyes,  and  gradually  became  restored  to  animation  and 
consciousness,  Mrs.  Chick  drew  off  as  from  a  criminal, 
and  reversing  the  precedent  of  the  murdered  king  of 
Denmark,  regarded  her  more  in  anger  than  in  sorrow. 

"  Lucretia  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  I  will  not  attempt- 
to  disguise  what  I  feel.    My  eyes  are  opened  all  at  once. 


DOMBEY 

I  wouldn't  have  believed  this,  if  a  saint  had  told  it  to 
me." 

I  am  foolish  to  give  way  to  faintness,"  Miss  Tox 
faltered.    "  I  shall  be  better  presently. " 

"  You  will  be  better  presently,  Lucretia  I  repeated 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  exceeding  scorn.  '*  Do  you  suppose  I 
am  blind  ?  Do  you  imagine  I  am  in  my  second  child- 
hood ?    No,  Lucretia  I    I  am  obliged  to  you  !  " 

Miss  Tox  directed  an  imploring,  helpless  kind  of  look 
towards  her  friend,  and  put  her  handkerchief  before 
her  face. 

"If  any  one  had  told  me  this  yesterday,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick  with  majesty,  "  or  even  half  -an-hour  ago,  I 
should  have  been  tempted,  I  almost  believe,  to  strike 
them  to  the  earth.  Lucretia  Tox,  my  eyes  are  opened 
to  you  all  at  once.  The  scales  :  "  here  Mrs,  Chick  cast 
down  an  imaginary  pair,  such  as  are  commonly  used  in 
grocer's  shops:  "  have  fallen  from  my  sight.  The  blind- 
ness of  my  confidence  is  past,  Lucretia.  It  has  been 
abused  and  played  upon,  and  evasion  is  quite  out  of  the 
question  now,  I  assure  you." 

"Oh  !  what  do  you  allude  to  so  cruelly,  my  love?" 
asked  Miss  Tox,  through  her  tears. 

"  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  ask  your  own  heart. 
I  must  entreat  you  not  to  address  me  by  any  such  familiar 
term  as  you  have  just  used,  if  you  please.  I  have  some 
self-respect  left,  though  you  may  think  otherwise." 

"  Oh,  Louisa  ! "  cried  Miss  Tox.  "  How  can  you  speak 
to  me  like  that  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  speak  to  you  like  that  ?  "  retorted  Mrs. 
Chick,  who,  in  default  of  having  any  particular  argu- 
ment to  sustain  herself  upon,  relied  principally  on  such 
repetitions  for  her  most  withering  effects.  "  Like  that  ! 
You  may  well  say  like  that,  indeed  ! "  • 

Miss  Tox  sobbed  pitifully. 

■"  The  idea  ! "  said  Mrs.  Chick,"  of  your  having  basked 
at  my  brother's  fireside,  like  a  serpent,  and  wound  your- 
self, through  me,  almost  into  his  confidence,  Lucretia, 
that  you  might,  in  secret,  entertain  designs  upon  him, 
and  dare  to  ai^ire  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
his  uniting  himself  to  you  !  Why,  it  is  an  idea,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick  with  sarcastic  dignity,  "  the  absurdity  of 
of  which  almost  relieves  its  treachery." 

"  Pray,  Louisa,"  urged  Miss  Tox,  "  do  not  say  such 
dreadful  things." 

"  Dreadful  things  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Dread- 
ful things  !  Is  it  not  a  fact,  Lucretia,  that  you  have  just 
now  been  unable  to  command  your  feelings  even  before 
me,  whose  eyes  you  had  so  completely  closed  ?  " 

"  I  have  made  no  complaint,"  sobbed  Miss  Tox.  "  I 
have  said  nothing.  If  I  have  been  a  little  overpowered 
by  your  news,  Louisa,  and  have  ever  had  any  lingering 
thought  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  inclined  to  be  particular 
towards  me,  surely  you  will  not  condemn  me." 

"  She  is  going  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  addressing 
herself  to  the  whole  of  the  furniture,  in  a  comprehen- 
sive glance  of  resignation  and  appeal,  "  She  is  going  to 
say — I  know  it — that  I  have  encouraged  her  !  " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  exchange  reproaches,  dear  Louisa," 
sobbed  Miss  Tox.  "  Nor  do  I  wish  to  complain.  But, 
in  my  own  defence — " 

"  Yes,"  cried  Mrs,  Chick,  looking  round  the  room 
with  a  prophetic  smile,  "  that's  what  she's  going  to  say. 
I  knew  it.  You  had  better  say  it.  Say  it  openly  !  Be 
open,  Lucretia  Tox,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  desperate 
sternness,  "whatever  you  are." 

"  In  my  own  defence,"  faltered  Miss  Tox,  "  and  only 
in  my  own  defence  against  your  unkind  words,  ray  dear 
Louisa,  I  would  merely  ask  you  if  you  haven't  often 
favoured  such  a  fancy,  and  even  said  it  might  happen, 
for  anything  we  could  tell  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  point,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  rising,  not  as  if 
she  were  going  to  stop  at  the  floor,  but  as  if  she  were 
about  to  soar  up,  high,  into  her  native  skies,  "  beyond 
which  endurance  becomes  ridiculous,  if  not  culpable.  I 
can  bear  much  ;  but  not  too  much.  What  spell  was  on 
me  when  I  came  into  this  house  this  day,  I  don't  know  ; 
but  I  had  a  presentiment — a  dark  presentiment,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  shiver,  "that  something  was  going 
to  happen.  Well  may  I  have  had  that  foreboding,  Lu- 
cretia, when  my  confidence  of  many  years  is  destroyed  in 
an  instant,  when  my  eyes  are  opened  all  at  once,  and 


AND  SOK  557 

when  I  find  you  revealed  in  your  true  colours.  Lucre- 
tia, I  have  been  mistaken  in  you.  It  is  better  for  us 
both  that  this  subject  should  end  here.  I  wish  you  well, 
and  I  shall  ever  wish  you  well.  But,  as  an  individual 
who  desires  to  be  true  to  herself  in  her  own  poor  posi- 
tion, whatever  that  position  may  be,  or  may  not  be — and 
as  the  sister  of  my  brother — and  as  the  sister-in-law  of 
my  brother's  wife — and  as  a  connexion  by  marriage  of 
my  brother's  wife's  mother — may  I  be  pennitted  to  add, 
as  a  Dombey? — 1  can  wish  you  nothing  else  but  good 
morning." 

These  words,  delivered  with  cutting  suavity,  tempered 
and  chastened  by  a  lofty  air  of  moral  rectitude,  carried 
the  speaker  to  the  door.  There  she  inclined  her  head  in 
a  ghostly  and  statue-like  manner,  and  so  withdrew  to 
her  carriage,  to  seek  comfort  and  consolation  in  the  arms 
of  Mr.  Chick  her  lord. 

Figuratively  speaking,  that  is  to  say  ;  for  the  arms  of 
Mr.  Chick  were  full  of  his  newspaper.  Neither  did  that 
gentleman  address  his  eyes  towards  his  wife  otherwise 
than  by  stealth.  Neither  did  he  offer  any  consolation 
whatever.  In  short,  he  sat  reading,  and  humming  fag 
ends  of  tunes,  and  sometimes  glancing  furtively  at  her 
without  delivering  himself  of  a  word,  good,  bad,  or  in- 
different. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Chick  sat  dwelling  and  bridling, 
and  tossing  her  head,  as  if  she  were  still  repeating  that 
solemn  formula  of  farewell  to  Lucretia  Tox.  At  length, 
she  said  aloud,  "  Oh  the  extent  to  which  her  eyes 
had  been  opened  that  day  !" 

"To  which  your  eyes  have  been  opened,  my  dear  !" 
repeated  Mr.  Chick. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  !"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  If  you 
can  bear  to  see  me  in  this  state,  and  not  ask  me  what 
the  matter  is,  you  had  better  hold  your  tongue  for  ever." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Chick. 

"To  think,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  state  of  soliloquy, 
"  that  she  should  ever  have  conceived  the  base  idea  of 
connecting  herself  with  our  family  by  a  marriage  with 
Paul  !  To  think  that  when  she  was  playing  at  horses 
with  that  dear  child  who  is  now  in  his  grave — I  never 
liked  it  at  the  time — she  should  have  been  hiding  such  a 
double-faced  design  !  I  Avonder  she  was  never  afraid 
that  something  would  happen  to  her.  She  is  fortunate 
if  nothing  does." 

"  I  really  thought,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Chick  slowly, 
after  rubbing  the  biidge  of  his  nose  for  some  time  with 
his  newspaper,  "  that  you  had  gone  on  the  same  tack 
yourself,  all  along,  until  this  morning  ;  and  had  thought 
it  would  be  a  convenient  thing  enough,  if  it  could  have 
been  brought  about." 

Mrs.  Chick  instantly  burst  into  tears,  and  told  Mr. 
Chick  that  if  he  wished  to  trample  upon  her  with  his 
boots,  he  had  better  do  it. 

"  But  with  Lucretia  Tox  I  have  done,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  abandoning  herself  to  her  feelings  for  some  min- 
utes, to  Mr.  Chick's  great  terror.  ' '  I  can  bear  to  resign 
Paul's  confidence  in  favour  of  one  who,  I  hope  and  trust, 
may  be  deserving  of  it,  and  with  whom  he  has  a  perfect 
right  to  replace  poor  Fanny  if  he  chooses  ;  1  can  bear  to 
be  informed,  in  Paul's  cool  manner,  of  such  a  change  in 
his  plans,  and  never  to  be  consulted  until  all  is  settled 
and  determined  ;  but  deceit  I  can  not  bear,  and  with  Lu- 
cretia Tox  I  have  done.  It  is  better  as  it  is,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  piously;  "much  better.  It  would  have  been  a 
long  time  before  I  could  have  accommodated  myself 
comfortably  Avith  her,  after  this  ;  and  I  really  don't 
know,  as  Paul  is  going  to  be  very  grand,  and  these  are 
people  of  condition,  that  she  would  have  been  quite 
presentable,  and  might  not  have  compromised  myself. 
There's  a  providence  in  everything  ;  everything  works 
for  the  best  ;  I  have  been  tried  to-day,  but,  upon  the 
whole  I  don't  regret  it." 

In  which  Christian  spirit,  Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes, 
and  smoothed  her  lap,  and  sat  as  became  a  person  calm 
under  a  great  wrong.  Mr.  Chick,  feeling  his  unworthi- 
ness  no  doubt,  took  an  early  opportunity  of  being  set 
down  at  a  street  corner  and  walking  away,  whistling, 
with  his  shoulders  very  much  raised,  and  his  hands  in 
his  pockets. 

While  poor  excommunicated  Miss  Tox,  who,  if  she 
were  a  fawner  and  toad-eater,  was  at  least  an  honest  and 


558 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


a  constant  one,  and  had  ever  borne  a  faithful  friendship 
towards  her  impeacher,  and  had  been  truly  absorbed  and 
swallowed  up  in  devotion  to  the  magnificence  of  Mr. 
Dombey — while  poor  excommunicated  Miss  Tox  watered 
her  plants  with  her  tears,  and  felt  that  it  was  winter  in 
Princess's-place. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

The  Interval  before  tJie  Marriage. 

Although  the  enchanted  house  was  no  more,  and  the 
working  world  had  broken  into  it,  and  was  hammering 
and  crashing  and  tramping  up  and  down  stairs  all  day 
long,  keeping  Diogenes  in  an  incessant  paroxysm  of  bark- 
ing'^from  sunrise  to  sunset — evidently  convinced  that  his 
enemy  had  got  the  better  of  him  at  last,  and  was  then 
sacking  the  premises  in  triumphant  defiance — there  was, 
at  first,  no  other  great  change  in  the  method  of  Flor- 
ence's life.  At  night,  when  the  workpeople  went  away, 
the  house  was  dreary  and  deserted  again  ;  and  Florence 
listening  to  their  voices  echoing  through  the  hall  and 
staircase  as  they  departed,  pictured  to  herself  the  cheer- 
ful homes  to  which  they  were  returning,  and  the  children 
who  were  waiting  fdr  them,  and  was  glad  to  think  that 
they  were  merry  and  well  pleased  to  go. 

She  welcomed  back  the  evening  silence  as  an  old  friend, 
but  it  came  now  with  an  altered  face,  and  looked  more 
kindly  on  her.  Fresh  hope  was  in  it.  The  beautiful 
lady  who  had  soothed  and  caressed  her,  in  the  very  room 
in  which  her  heart  had  been  so  wrung,  was  a  spirit  of 
promise  to  her.  Soft  shadows  of  the  bright  life  dawn- 
ing, when  her  father's  affection  should  be  gradually  won, 
and  all,  or  much  should  be  restored,  of  what  she  had  lost 
on  the  dark  day  when  a  mother's  love  had  faded  with  a 
mother's  last  breath  on  her  cheek,  moved  about  her  in 
the  twilight  and  were  welcome  company.  Peeping  at  the 
rosy  children  her  neighbours,  it  was  a  new  and  precious 
sensation  to  think  that  they  might  soon  speak  together 
and  know  each  other  :  when  she  would  not  fear  as  of  old, 
to  show  herself  before  them,  lest  they  should  be  grieved 
to  see  her  in  her  black  dress  sitting  there  alone  ! 

In  her  thoughts  of  her  new  mother,  and  in  the  love 
and  trust  overflowing  her  pure  heart  towards  her,  Flor- 
ence loved  her  own  dead  mother  more  and  more.  She 
had  no  fear  of  setting  up  a  rival  in  her  breast.  The  new 
flower  sprang  from  the  deep-planted  and  long-cherished 
root,  she  knew.  Every  gentle  word  that  had  fallen  from 
the  lips  of  the  beautiful  lady,  sounded  to  Florence  like 
an  echo  of  the  voice  long  hushed  and  silent.  How  could 
she  love  that  memory  less  for  living  tenderness,  when  it 
was  her  memory  of  all  parental  tenderness  and  love  ! 

Florence  was,  one  day,  sitting  reading  in  her  room,  and 
thinking  of  the  lady  and  her  promised  visit  soon — for  her 
book  turned  on  a  kindred  subject — when,  raising  her 
eyes,  she  saw  her  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  Mama  !  "  cried  Florence,  joyfully  meeting  her. 
"  Come  again  !  " 

"  Not  mama  yet,"  returned  the  lady,  vnth.  a  serious 
smile,  as  she  encircled  Florence's  neck  with  her  arm. 

"But  very  soon  to  be,"  cried  Florence. 

"Very  soon  now,  Florence  :  very  soon.  " 

Edith  bent  her  head  a  little  so  as  to  press  the  blooming 
cheek  of  Florence  against  her  own,  and  for  some  few  mo- 
ments  remained  thus  silent.  There  was  something  so 
very  tender  in  her  manner,  that  Florence  was  even  more 
sensible  of  it  than  on  the  first  occasion  of  their  meeting. 

She  led  Florence  to  a  chair  beside  her,  and  sat  down  : 
Florence  looking  in  her  face,  quite  wondering  at  its  beau- 
ty, and  willingly  leaving  her  hand  in  hers. 

"Have  you  been  alone,  Florence,  since  I  was  here 
last  'I " 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  smiled  Florence,  hastily. 

She  hesitated  and  cast  down  her  eyes  ;  for  her  new 
mama  was  very  earnest  in  her  look,  and  the  look  was  in- 
tently and  thoughtfully  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"  I — I — am  used  to  be  alone,"  said  Florence.  "  I  don't 
mind  it  at  all.  Di  and  I  pass  whole  days  together,  some- 
times." Florence  might  have  said  whole  weekw,  and 
months. 

"Is  Di  your  maid,  love  ?  " 


"  My  dog,  mama,"  said  Florence,  laughing.  "Susan 
is  my  maid." 

"And  these  are  your  rooms,"  said  Edith,  looking  round. 
"  I  was  not  shown  these  rooms  the  other  day.  We  must 
have  them  improved,  Florence.  They  shall  be  made  the 
prettiest  in  the  house." 

"  If  I  might  change  them,  mama,"  returned  Florence  ; 
"  there  is  one  up-stairs  I  should  like  much  better." 

"Is  this  not  high  enough,  dear  girl?"  asked  Edith, 
smiling. 

"  The  other  was  my  brother's  room,"  said  Florence, 
"  and  I  am  very  fond  of  it.  I  would  have  spoken  to  papa 
about  it  when  I  came  home,  and  found  the  workmen 
here,  and  everything  changing  ;  but — " 

Florence  dropped  her  eyes,  lest  the  same  look  should 
make  her  falter  again. 

" — but  I  was  afraid  it  might  distress  him  ;  and  as  you 
said  you  would  be  here  again  soon,  mama,  and  are  the 
mistress  of  everything,  I  determined  to  take  courage  and 
ask  you." 

Edith  sat  looking  at  her,  with  her  brilliant  eyes  in- 
tent upon  her  face,  until  Florence  raising  her  own,  she, 
in  her  turn,  withdrew  her  gaze,  and  turned  it  on  the 
ground.  It  was  then  that  Florence  thought  how  differ- 
ent this  lady's  beauty  was,  from  what  she  had  supposed. 
She  had  thought  it  of  a  proud  and  lofty  kind  ;  yet  her 
manner  was  so  subdued  and  gentle,  that  if  she  had  been 
of  Florence's  own  age  and  character,  it  scarcely  could 
have  invited  confidence  more. 

Except  when  a  constrained  and  singular  reserve  crept 
over  her  ;  and  then  she  seemed  (but  Florence  hardly  un- 
derstood this,  though  she  could  not  choose  but  notice  it, 
and  think  about  it)  as  if  she  were  humbled  before  Flor- 
ence, and  ill  at  ease.  When  she  had  said  that  she  was 
not  her  mama  yet,  and  when  Florence  had  called  her 
the  mistress  of  everything  there,  this  change  in  her  was 
quick  and  startling  ;  and  now,  w^iile  the  eyes  of  Florence 
rested  on  her  face,  she  sat  as  though  she  would  have 
shrunk  and  hidden  from  her,  rather  than  as  one  about 
to  love  and  cherish  her,  in  right  of  ^ch  a  near  con- 
nexion. 

She  gave  Florence  her  ready  promise  about  her  new 
room,  and  said  she  would  give  directions  about  it  herself. 
She  then  asked  some  questions  concerning  poor  Paul  ; 
and  when  they  had  sat  in  conversation  for  some  time 
told  Florence  she  had  come  to  take  her  to  her  own  home. 

"  We  have  come  to  London  now,  my  mother  and  I," 
said  Edith,  "and  you  shall  stay  with  us  until  I  am  mar- 
ried. I  wish  that  we  should  know  and  trust  each  other, 
Florence." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  said  Florence,  "  dear 
mama.    How  much  I  thank  you  ! " 

"  Let  me  say  now,  for  it  may  be  the  best  opportunity," 
continued  Edith,  looking  round  to  see  that  they  were 
quite  alone,  and  speaking  in  a  lower  voice,  "  that  when 
I  am  married,  and  have  gone  away  for  .some  weeks,  I 
shall  be  easier  at  heart  if  you  will  come  home  here.  No 
matter  who  invites  you  to  stay  elsewhere,  come  home 
here.  It  is  better  to  be  alone  than — what  I  would  say 
is,"  she  added,  checking  herself ,  "  that  I  know  well  you 
are  best  at  home,  dear  Florence." 

"I  will  come  home  on  the  very  day,  mama." 

"  Do  so.  I  rely  on  that  promise.  Now,  prepare  to 
come  with  me,  dear  girl.  You  will  find  me  down-stairs 
when  you  are  ready." 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  did  Edith  wander  alone 
through  the  mansion  of  which  she  was  so  soon  to  be  the 
lady  :  and  little  heed  took  she  of  all  the  elegance  and 
splendour  it  began  to  display.  The  same  indomit- 
able haughtiness  of  soul,  the  same  proud  scorn  expressed 
in  eye  and  \\\),  the  same  fierce  beauty,  only  tamed  by  a 
sense  of  its  own  little  worth,  and  of  the  little  worth  of 
everything  around  it,  went  through  the  grand  saloons 
and  iialls,  that  had  got  loose  among  the  shady  trees,  and 
raged  and  rent  themselves.  The  mimic  roses  on  the 
walls  and  floors  were  set  round  with  sharp  thorns,  that 
tore  her  breast;  in  every  scrap  of  gold  so  dazzling  to 
the  eye,  she  saw  some  hateful  atom  of  her  purchase- 
money  ;  the  broad  high  mirrors  showed  her,  at  full 
length,  a  woman  with  a  noble  quality  yet  dwelling  in 
her  nature,  who  was  too  false  to  her  better  self,  and  too 
debased  and  lost,  to  save  herself.    She  believed  that  all 


DOMBEY 

this  was  Ro  plain,  more  or  less,  to  all  eyes,  that  she  had 
no  resource  or  power  of  self-assertion  but  in  pride  :  and 
with  this  pride,  which  tortured  her  own  heart  night 
and  day,  she  fought  her  fate  out,  braved  it,  and  defied 
ir. 

Was  this  the  woman  whom  Florence — an  innocent 
girl  strong  only  in  her  earnestness  and  simple  truth — 
could  so  impress  and  quell ,  that  by  her  side  she  was  an- 
other creature,  with  her  tempest  of  passion  hushed,  and 
her  very  pride  itself  subdued?  Was  this  the  woman 
who  now  sat  beside  her  in  a  carriage,  with  her  arms  en- 
twined, and  who,  while  she  courted  and  entreated  her 
to  love  and  trust  her,  drew  her  fair  head  to  nestle  on  her 
breast,  and  would  have  laid  down  life  to  shield  it  from 
wrong  or  harm  ?  . 

Oh,  Edith  !  it  were  well  to  die,  indeed,  at  such  a  time  ! 
Better  and  happier  far,  perhaps,  to  die  so,  Edith,  than 
to  live  on  to  the  end  ! 

The  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  was  thinking  of 
anything  rather  than  of  such  sentiments — for,  like  many 
genteel  persons  who  have  existed  at  various  times,  she 
set  her  face  against  death  altogether,  and  objected  to 
the  mention  of  any  such  low  and  levelling  upstart — had 
borrowed  a  house  in  Brook-street,  Grosvenor  square, 
from  a  stately  relative  (one  of  the  Feenix  brood),  who 
was  out  of  town,  and  who  did  not  object  to  lending  it, 
in  the  handsomest  manner,  for  nuptial  purposes,  as  the 
loan  implied  his  final  release  and  acquittance  from  all 
further  loans  and  gifts  to  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daugh- 
ter. It  being  necessary  for  the  credit  of  the  family  to 
make  a  handsome  appearance  at  such  a  time,  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton  with  the  assistance  of  an  accommodating  tradesman 
resident  in  the  parish  of  Mary-le-bone,  who  lent  out  all 
sorts  of  articles  to  the  nobility  and  gentry,  from  a  ser- 
vice of  plate  to  an  army  of  footmen,  clapped  into  this 
house  a* silver-headed  butler  (who  was  charged  extra  on 
that  account,  as  having  the  appearance  of  an  ancient 
family  retainer),  two  very  tall  young  men  in  livery,  and 
a  select  staff  of  kitchen  servants  ;  so  that  a  legend 
arose,  down-stairs,  that  Withers  the  page,  released  at 
once  from  his  numerous  household  duties,  and  from  the 
propulsion  of  the  wheeled  chair  (inconsistent  with  the 
metropolis),  had  been  several  times  observed  to  rub  his 
eyes  and  pinch  his  limbs,  as  if  he  misdoubted  his  hav- 
ing overslept  himself  at  the  Lemington  milkman's,  and 
being  still  in  a  celestial  dream.  A  variety  of  requisites 
in  plate  and  china  being  also  conveyed  to  the  same  es- 
tablishment from  the  same  convenient  source,  with  sev- 
eral miscellaneous  articles,  including  a  neat  chariot  and 
a  pair  of  bays,  Mrs.  Skewton  cushioned  herself  on  the 
principal  sofa,  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude,  and  held  her 
court  in  fair  state. 

"  And  how,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  on  the  entrance  of 
her  daughter  and  her  charge,  "  is  my  charming  Flor- 
ence ? "  You  must  come  and  kiss  me,  Florence,  if  you 
please,  my  love." 

Florence  was  timidly  stooping  to  pick  out  a  place  in 
the  white  part  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  face,  when  that  lady 
presented  her  ear,  and  relieved  her  of  her  difficulty, 

"  Edith,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  positively,  I 
— stand  a  little  more  in  the  light,  my  sweetest  Florence, 
for  a  moment." 

Florence  blushingly  complied. 

"  You  don't  remember,  dearest  Edith,"  said  her  moth- 
er, "  what  you  were  when  you  were  about  the  same  age 
as  our  exceedingly  precious  Florence,  or  a  few  years 
younger  ? " 

"  I  have  long  forgotten,  mother." 

"  For  positively,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  I  do 
think  that  I  see  a  decided  resemblance  to  what  you  were 
then,  in  our  extremely  fascinating  young  friend.  And 
it  shows,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  in  a  lower  voice,  which 
conveyed  her  opinion  that  Florence  was  in  a  very  unfin- 
ished state,  "  what  cultivation  will  do." 

"  It  does,  indeed,"  was  Edith's  stern  reply. 

Her  mother  eyed  her  sharply  for  a  moment,  and  feel- 
ing herself  on  unsafe  ground,  said,  as  a  diversion  : 

"My  charming  Florence,  you  must  come  and  kiss  me 
once  more,  if  you  please,  my  love." 

Florence  complied,  of  course,  and  again  imprinted  her 
lips  on  Mrs.  Skewton's  ear. 

"  And  you  have  heard,  no  doubt,  my  darling  pet,"  said 


AND  SON.  559 

Mrs.  Skewton,  detaining  her  hand,  "that  your  papa, 
whom  we  all  perfectly  adore  and  dote  upon,  is  to  be 
married  to  my  dearest  Edith  this  day  week." 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  very  soon,"  returned  Florence, 
"  but  not  exactly  when." 

"  My  darling  Edith,"  urged  her  mother,  gaily,  "is  it 
possible  you  have  not  told  Florence?  " 

"  Why  should  I  tell  Florence  ?  "  she  returned,  so  sud- 
denly and  harshly,  that  Florence  could  scarcely  believe 
it  was  the  same  voice. 

Mrs.  Skewton  then  told  Florence,  as  another  and  safer 
diversion,  that  her  father  was  coming  to  dinner,  and  that 
he  would  no  doubt  be  charmingly  surx)rised  to  see  her  ; 
as  he  had  spoken  last  night  of  dressing  in  the  city,  and 
had  known  nothing  of  Edith's  design,  the  execution  of 
which,  according  to  Mrs.  Skewton's  expectation,  would 
throw  him  into  a  perfect  ecstacy.  Florence  was  troubled 
to  hear  this  ;  and  her  distress  became  so  keen,  as  the 
dinner  hour  approached,  that  if  she  had  known  how  to 
frame  an  entreaty  to  be  suffered  to  return  home,  with- 
out involving  her  father  in  her  explanation,  she  would 
have  hurried  back  on  foot,  bareheaded,  breathless,  and 
alone,  rather  than  incur  the  risk  of  meeting  his  displeas- 
ure. 

As  the  time  drew  nearer,  she  could  hardly  breathe. 
She  dared  not  approach  a  window,  lest  he  should  see  her 
from  the  street.  She  dared  not  go  up-stairs  to  hide  her 
emotion,  lest,  in  passing  out  at  the  door,  she  should  meet 
him  unexpectedly ;  besides  which  dread  she  felt  as 
though  she  never  could  come  back  again  if  she  were 
summoned  to  his  presence.  In  this  conflict  of  her  fears, 
she  was  sitting  by  Cleopatra's  couch,  endeavouring  to  un- 
derstand and  to  reply  to  the  bald  discourse  of  that  lady, 
when  she  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stair. 

"I  hear  him  now  !"  cried  Florence,  starting.  "He 
is  coming  !" 

Cleopatra,  who  in  her  juvenility  was  always  playfully 
disposed,  and  who  in  her  self-engrossment  did  not  trou- 
ble herself  about  the  nature  of  this  agitation,  pushed 
Florence  behind  her  couch,  and  dropped  a  shawl  over 
her,  preparatory  to  giving  Mr.  Dombey  a  rapture  of  sur- 
prise. It  was  so  quickly  done  that  in  a  moment  Flor- 
ence heard  his  awful  step  in  the  room. 

He  saluted  his  intended  mother-in-law,  and  his  in- 
tended bride.  The  strange  sound  of  his  voice  thrilled 
through  the  whole  frame  of  his  child. . 

"My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "come  here  and 
tell  me  how  your  pretty  Florence  is." 

"  Florence  is  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing 
towards  the  couch. 

* '  At  home  ?  " 

"  At  home,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  with  be- 
witching vivacity  ;  "  Now  are  you  sure  you  are  not  de- 
ceiving me  ?  I  don't  know  »what  my  dearest  Edith  will 
say  to  me  when  I  make  such  a  declaration,  but  upon  my 
honour  I  am  afraid  you  are  the  falsest  of  men,  my  dear 
Dombey." 

Though  he  had  been  ;  and  had  been  detected  on  the 
spot,  in  the  most  enormous  falsehood  that  was  ever  said 
or  done  ;  he  could  hardly  have  been  more  disconcerted 
than  he  was,  when  Mrs.  Skewton  plucked  the  shawl 
away,  and  Florence,  pale  and  trembling,  rose  before  him, 
like  a  ghost.  He  had  not  yet  recovered  his  presence  of 
mind,  when  Florence  had  run  up  to  him,  clasped  her 
hands  round  his  neck,  kissed  his  face,  and  hurried  out  of 
the  room.  He  looked  round  as  if  to  refer  the  matter  to 
somebody  else,  but  Edith  had  gone  after  Florence,  in- 
stantly. 

"Now  confess,  my  dear  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
giving  him  her  hand,  "  that  you  never  were  more  sur- 
prised and  pleased  in  your  life." 

"  I  never  was  more  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Nor  pleased,  my  dearest  Dombey?"  returned  Mrs. 
Skewton,  holding  up  her  fan. 

"  I — yes,  I  am  exceedingly  glad  to  meet  Florence  here,'* 
said  Mr.  Dombey.  He  appeared  to  consider  gravely  about 
it  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  more  decidedly,  "Yes,  I 
really  am  very  glad  indeed  to  meet  Florence  here." 

"You  wonder  how  she  comes  here?"  said  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  "  don't  you  ?  " 

* '  Edith,  perhaps—"  suggested  Mr.  Dombey. 


560 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


"Ah.]  wicked  guesser  ! "  replied  Cleopatra,  shaking 
her  head. 

"  Ah  !  cunniDg,  cunning  man  !  One  shouldn't  tell  these 
things  ;  your  sex,  my  dear  Dombey,  are  so  vain,  and  so 
apt  to  abuse  our  weaknesses  ;  but,  you  know  my  open 
soul — very  well  ;  immediately." 

This  was  addressed  to  one  of  the  very  tall  young  men 
who  announced  dinner. 

"  But  Edith,  my  dear  Dombey,"  she  continued  in  a 
whisper,  "  when  she  cannot  have  you  near  her — and  as  I 
tell  her,  she  cannot  expect  that  always— will  at  least  have 
near  her  something  or  somebody  belonging  to  you.  Well, 
how  extremely  natural  that  is  !  And  in  this  spirit,  noth- 
ing would  keep  her  from  riding  off  to-day  to  fetch  our 
darling  Florence.  Well,  how  excessively  charming 
that  is  ! " 

As  she  waited  for  an  answer,  Mr.  Dombey  answered, 
*'  Eminently  so." 

"Bless  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  for  that  proof  of 
heart!"  cried  Cleopatra,  squeezing  his  hand.  "But  I 
am  growing  too  serious  !  Take  me  down-stairs,  like  an 
angel,  and  let  us  see  what  these  people  intend  to  give  us 
for  dinner.    Bless  you,  dear  Dombey!" 

Cleopatra  skipping  off  her  couch  with  tolerable  brisk- 
ness, after  the  last  benediction,  Mr.  Dombey  took  her 
arm  in  his  and  led  her  ceremoniously  down-stairs  ;  one 
of  the  very  tall  young  men  on  hire,  whose  organ  of 
veneration  was  imperfectly  developed,  thrusting  his 
tongue  into  his  cheek,  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
other  very  tall  young  man  on  hire,  as  the  couple  turned 
into  the  dining-room. 

Florence  and  Edith  were  already  there,  and  sitting  side 
by  side.  Florence  would  have  risen  when  her  father 
entered,  to  resign  her  chair  to  him  ;  but  Edith  openly 
put  her  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  an 
opposite  place  at  the  round  table. 

The  conversation  was  almost  entirely  sustained  by 
Mrs.  Skewton.  Florence  hardly  dared  to  raise  her  eyes, 
lest  they  should  reveal  the  traces  of  tears  ;  far  less  dared 
to  speak  ;  and  Edith  never  uttered  a  word,  unless  in 
answer  to  a  question.  Verily,  Cleopatra  worked  hard,  for 
the  establishment  that  was  so  nearly  clutched  ;  and  verily 
it  should  have  been  a  rich  one  to  reward  her  ! 

"  And  so  your  preparations  are  nearly  finished  at  last, 
my  dear  Dombey?  "  said  Cleopatra,  when  the  dessert  was 
put  on  the  table,  and  the  silver-headed  butler  had  with- 
drawn.   "  Even  the  lawyer's  preparations  !  " 

"Yes,  madame,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey;  "the  deed  of 
settlement,  the  professional  gentlemen  inform  me,  is  now 
ready,  and  as  I  was  mentioning  to  you,  Edith  has  only  to 
do  us  the  favour  to  suggest  her  own  time  for  its  execu- 
tion." 

Edith  sat  like  a  handsome  statue  ;  as  cold,  as  silent, 
and  as  still. 

"  My  dearest  love,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  do  you  hear  what 
Mr.  Dombey  says  ?  Ah,  my  dear  Dombey  ! "  aside  to  that 
gentleman,  "  How  her  absence,  as  the  time  approaches, 
reminds  me  of  the  days  when  that  most  agreeable  of  crea- 
tures, her  papa,  was  in  your  situation  ! " 

"I  have  nothing  to  suggest.  It  shall  be  when  you 
please,"  said  Edith,  scarcely  looking  over  the  table  at 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please." 

"  Or  would  next  day,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "suit  your 
engagements  better  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  engagements.  I  am  always  at  your  dis- 
posal.   Let  it  be  when  you  like." 

"No  engagements,  my  dear  Edith  1 "  remonstrated  her 
mother,  "  when  you  are  in  a  most  terrible  state  of  flurry 
all  day  long,  and  have  a  thousand  and  one  appointments 
with  all  sorts  of  tradespeople  !  " 

"  They  are  of  your  making,"  returned  Edith,  turning 
on  her,  with  a  slight  contraction  of  her  brow.  "You 
and  Mr.  Dombey  can  arrange  between  you." 

"Very  true  indeed,  my  love,  and  most  considerate  of 
you  ! "  said  Cleopatra.  "  My  darling  Florence,  you 
must  really  come  and  kiss  me  once  more,  if  you  please, 
my  dear  ! " 

Singular  coincidence,  that  these  gushes  of  interest  in  < 
Florence  hurried  Cleopatra  away  from  almost  every  dia-  ; 
logue  in  which  Edith  had  a  share,  however  trifling  !  i 


•  Florence  had  certainly  never  undergone  so  much  em- 
bracing, and  perhaps  had  never  been,  unconsciously,  so 
useful  in  her  life. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  far  from  quarreling,  in  his  own  breast, 
with  the  manner  of  his  beautiful  betrothed.  He  had 
that  good  reason  for  sympathy  with  haughtiness  and 
coldness,  which  is  found  in  a  fellow-feeling.  It  flattered 
him  to  think  how  these  deferred  to  him,  in  Edith's  case, 
and  seemed  to  have  no  will  apart  from  his.  It  flattered 
him  to  picture  to  himself,  this  proud  and  stately  woman 
doing  the  honours  of  his  house,  and  chilling  his  guests 
after  his  own  manner.  The  dignity  of  Dombey  and  Son 
would  be  heightened  and  maintained,  indeed,  in  such 
hands. 

So  thought  Mr.  Dombey,  when  he  was  left  alone  at  the 
dining- table,  and  mused  upon  his  past  and  future  for- 
tunes :  finding  no  uncongeniality  in  an  air  of  scant  and 
gloomy  state  that  pervaded  the  room  in  colour  a  dark 
brown,  with  black  hatchments  of  pictures  blotching  the 
walls,  and  twenty-four  black  chairs,  with  almost  as  many 
nails  in  them  as  so  many  coffins,  waiting  like  mutes, 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  Turkey  carpet  ;  and  two  ex- 
hausted negroes  holding  up  two  withered  branches  of  can- 
delabra on  the  sideboard,  and  a  musty  smell  prevailing 
as  if  the  ashes  of  ten  thousand  dinners  were  entombed 
in  the  sarcophagus  below  it.  The  owner  of  the  house 
lived  much  abroad  ;  the  air  of  England  seldom  agreed 
long  with  a  member  of  the  Feenix  family  ;  and  the 
room  had  gradually  put  itself  into  deeper  and  still 
deeper  mourning  for  him,  until  it  was  become  so  funereal 
as  to  want  nothing  but  a  body  in  it  to  be  quite  com 
plete. 

No  bad  representation  of  the  body,  for  the  nonce,  in 
his  unbending  form,  if  not  in  his  attitude,  Mr.  Dombey 
looked  down  into  the  cold  depths  of  the  dead  sea  of  ma- 
hogany on  which  the  fruit  dishes  and  decanters  lay  at 
anchor  ;  as  if  the  subjects  of  his  thoughts  were  rising 
towards  the  surface,  one  by  one,  and  plunging  down 
again.  Edith  was  there  in  all  her  majesty  of  brow  and 
figure  ;  and  close  to  her  came  Florence,  with  her  timid 
head  turned  to  him,  as  it  had  been,  for  an  instant,  when 
she  left  the  room  ;  and  Edith's  eyes  upon  her,  and  Edith's 
hand  put  out  protectingly.  A  little  figure  in  a  low  arm- 
chair came  springing  next  into  the  light,  and  looked 
upon  him,  wonderingly  with  its  bright  eyes,  and  its  old- 
young  face,  gleaming  as  in  the  flickering  of  an  evening 
fire.  Again  came  Florence  close  upon  it,  and  absorbed 
his  whole  attention.  Whether  as  a  foredoomed  difficulty 
and  disappointment  to  him  :  whether  as  a  rival  who  had 
crossed  him  in  his  way,  and  might  again  ;  whether  as 
his  child,  of  whom,  in  his  successful  wooing,  he  could 
stoop  to  think,  as  claiming,  at  such  a  time,  to  be  no  more 
estranged  ;  or  whether  as  a  hint  to  him  that  the  mere 
appearance  of  caring  for  his  own  blood  should  be  main- 
tained in  his  new  relations  ;  he  best  knew.  Indiffer- 
ently well,  perhaps,  at  best  ;  for  marriage  company  and 
marriage  altars,  and  ambitious  scenes — still  blotted  here 
and  there  with  Florence — always  Florence — turned  up 
so  fast,  and  so  confusedly,  that  he  rose,  and  went  up- 
stairs, to  escape  them. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night  before  candles  were  brought  ; 
for  at  present  they  made  Mrs.  Skewton's  head  ache,  she 
complained  ;  and  in  the  meantime  Florence  and  Mrs. 
Skewton  talked  together  (Cleopatra  being  very  anxious 
to  keep  her  close  to  herself),  or  Florence  touched  the 
])iano  softly  for  Mrs.  Skewton's  delight ;  to  make  no  men- 
tion of  a  few  occasions  in  the  coiirse  of  the  evening, 
when  that  affectionate  lady  was  impelled  to  solicit  an- 
other kiss,  and  which  always  happened  after  Edith  had 
said  anything.  They  were  not  many,  however,  for 
Edith  sat  apart  by  an  open  window  during  the  whole  time 
(in  spite  of  her  mother's  fears  that  she  would  take  cold), 
and  remained  there  until  Mr.  Dombey  took  leave.  He 
was  serenely  gracious  to  Florence,  when  he  did  so  ;  and 
Florence  went  to  bed  in  a  room  within  Edith's,  so  happy 
and  hopeful,  that  she  thought  of  her  late  self  as  if  it 
were  some  other  i)Oor  deserted  girl  who  was  to  be  pitied 
for  her  sorrow  ;  and  in  her  pity,  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

The  week  fled  fast.  There  were  drives  to  milliners, 
dress-makers,  jewellers,  lawyers,  florists,  pastry-cooks ; 
and  Florence  was  always  of  the  party.  Plorence  was  to 
go  to  the  wedding.   Florence  was  to  cast  off  her  mourn- 


DO  MB  BY  AND  SOK 


561 


ing,  and  to  wear  a  brilliant  dress  on  the  occasion.  The 
milliner's  intentions  on  the  subject  of  this  dress — the 
milliner  was  a  Frenchwoman,  and  greatly  resembled 
Mrs.  Skewton — were  so  chaste  and  elegant,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton  bespoke  one  like  it  for  herself.  The  milliner 
said  it  would  become  her  to  admiration,  and  that  all  the 
world  would  take  her  for  the  young  lady's  sister. 

The  week  fled  faster.  Edith  looked  at  nothing  and 
cared  for  nothing.  Her  rich  dresses  came  home,  and 
were  tried  on,  and  were  loudly  commended  by  Mrs. 
Skewton  and  the  milliners,  and  were  put  away  without 
a  word  from  her.  Mrs.  Skewton  made  their  plans  for 
every  day,  and  executed  them.  Sometimes  Edith  sat  in 
the  carriage  when  they  went  to  make  purchases  ;  some- 
times, when  it  was  absolutely  necessary,  she  went  into 
the  shops.  But  Mrs.  Skewton  conducted  the  whole  busi- 
ness, whatever  it  happened  to  be  ;  and  Edith  looked  on 
as  uninterested  and  with  as  much  apparent  indifference 
as  if  she  had  no  concern  in  it.  Florence  might  perhaps 
have  thought  she  was  haughty  and  listless,  but  that  she 
was  never  so  to  her.  So  Florence  quenched  her  wonder  in 
her  gratitude  whenever  it  broke  out,  and  soon  subdued  it. 

The  week  fled  faster.  It  had  nearly  v/inged  its  flight 
away.  The  last  night  of  the  week,  the  night  before  the 
marriage,  was  come.  In  the  dark  room — for  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton's  head  was  no  better  yet,  though  she  expected  to  re- 
cover permanently  to-morrow — were  that  lady,  Edith, 
and  Mr.  Dombey.  Edith  was  at  her  open  window  look- 
ing out  into  the  street ;  Mr.  Dombey  and  Cleopatra  were 
talking  softly  on  the  sofa.  It  was  growing  late  ;  and 
Florence  being  fatigued,  had  gone  to  bed. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  you  will  leave 
me  Florence  to-morrow,  when  you  deprive  me  of  my 
sweetest  Edith." 

Mr.  Dombey  said  he  would,  with  pleasure. 

"  To  have  her  about  me,  here,  while  you  are  both  at 
Paris,  and  to  think  that,  at  her  age,  I  am  assisting  in  the 
formation  of  her  mind,  my  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra, 
"  will  be  a  perfect  balm  to  me  in  the  extremely  shattered 
state  to  which  I  shall  be  reduced." 

Edith  turned  her  head  suddenly.  Her  listless  manner 
was  exchanged,  in  a  moment,  to  one  of  burning  interest, 
and,  unseen  in  the  darkness,  she  attended  closely  to  their 
conversation. 

Mr.  Dombey  would  be  delighted  to  leave  Florence  in 
such  admirable  guardianship. 

"My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  "a  thousand 
thanks  for  your  good  opinion.  I  feared  you  were  going, 
with  malice  aforethought,  as  the  dreadful  lawyers  say — 
those  horrid  proses  ! — to  condemn  me  to  utter  solitude." 

*'  Why  do  me  so  great  an  injustice,  my  dear  madam?" 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

*' Because  my  charming  Florence  tells  me  so  positively 
she  must  go  home  to-morrow,"  returned  Cleopatra, 
"that  I  began  to  be  afraid,  my  dearest  Dombey,  you 
were  quite  a  Bashaw." 

I  assure  you,  madam  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  have 
laid  no  commands  on  Florence  ;  and  if  I  had,  there  are 
no  commands  like  your  wish." 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  replied  Cleopatra,  "  what  a  cour- 
tier you  are  !  Though  I'll  not  say  so,  either  ;  for  cour- 
tiers have  no  heart,  and  yours  pervades  your  charming 
life  and  character.  And  are  you  really  going  so  early, 
my  dear  Dombey  !  " 

Oh,  indeed  !  it  was  late,  and  Mr.  Dombey  feared  he 
must. 

"Is  this  a  fact,  or  is  it  all  a  dream  !  "  lisped  Cleopatra. 
"Can  I  believe,  my  dearest  Dombey,  that  you  are  com- 
ing back  to  morrow  morning  to  deprive  me  of  my  sweet 
companion  ;  my  own  Edith  1 " 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  accustomed  to  take  things  liter- 
ally, reminded  Mrs.  Skewton  that  they  were  to  meet 
first  at  the  church. 

''The  pang,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "of  consigning  a 
child,  even  to  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  is  one  of  the  most 
excruciating  imaginable  ;  and  combined  with  a  naturally 
delicate  constitution,  and  the  extreme  stupidity  of  the 
pastry-cook  who  has  undertaken  the  breakfast,  is  almost 
too  much  for  my  poor  strength.  But  I  shall  rally,  my 
dear  Dombey,  in  the  morning  ;  do  not  fear  for  me,  or  be 
uneasy  on  my  account.  Heaven  bless  you  !  My  dearest 
Edith  !  "  s"be  cried  archly.  "  Somebody  is  going,  pet." 
Vol.  II.— 36 


Edith,  who  had  turned  her  head  again  towards  the 
window,  and  whose  interest  in  their  conversation  had 
ceased,  rose  up  in  her  place,  but  made  no  advance  to- 
wards him,  and  said  nothing.  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  lofty 
gallantry  adapted  to  his  dignity  and  the  occasion,  be- 
took his  creaking  boots  towards  her,  put  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  and  said,  "To-morrow  morning  I  shall  have  the 
happiness  of  claiming  this  hand  as  Mrs.  Dombey's,"  and 
bowed  himself  solemnly  out. 

Mrs.  Skewton  rang  for  candles  as  soon  as  the  house- 
door  had  closed  upon  him.  With  the,  candles  appeared 
her  maid,  with  the  juvenile  dress  that  was  to  delude  the 
world  to-morrow.  The  dress  had  savage  retribution  in 
it,  as  such  dresses  ever  have,  and  made  lier  infinitely 
older  and  more  hideous  than  her  greasy  flannel  gown. 
But  Mrs.  Skewton  tried  it  on  with  mincing  satisfaction  ; 
smirked  at  her  cadaverous  self  in  the  glass,  as  she 
thought  of  its  killing  effect  upon  the  major  ;  and  suffer- 
ing her  maid  to  take  it  off  again,  and  to  prepare  her  for 
repose,  tumbled  into  ruins  like  a  house  of  painted  cards. 

All  this  time,  Edith  remained  at  the  dark  window 
looking  out  into  the  street.  When  she  and  her  mother 
were  at  last  left  alone,  she  moved  from  it  for  the  first 
time  that  evening,  and  came  opposite  to  her.  The  yawn- 
ing, shaking,  peevish  figure  of  the  mother,  with  her 
eyes  raised  to  confront  the  proud  erect  form  of  her 
daughter,  whose  glance  of  fire  was  bent  downward  upon 
her,  had  a  conscious  air  upon  it,  that  no  levity  of  temper 
could  conceal. 

"I  am  tired  to  death,"  said  she.  "You  can't  be 
trusted  for  a  moment.  You  are  worse  than  a  child. 
Child  !  No  child  would  be  half  so  obstinate  and  undu- 
tiful." 

"  Listen  to  me,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  passing 
these  words  by  with  a  scorn  that  would  not  descend  to 
trifle  with  them.  "  You  must  remain  alone  here  until  I 
return." 

"  Must  remain  alone  here,  Edith,  until  you  return  ?  " 
repeated  her  mother. 

"  Or  in  that  name  upon  which  I  shall  call  to-morrow 
to  witness  what  I  do,  so  falsely,  and  so  shamefully,  I 
swear  I  will  refuse  the  hand  of  this  man  in  the  church. 
If  I  do  not,  may  I  fall  dead  upon  the  pavement  ! " 

The  mother  answered  with  a  look  of  quick  alarm,  in 
no  degree  diminished  by  the  look  she  met. 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Edith,  steadily,  "that  we  are 
what  we  are.  I  will  have  no  youth  and  truth  dragged 
down  to  my  level.  I  will  have  no  guileless  nature  un- 
dermined, corrupted,  and  perverted,  to  amuse  the  leisure 
of  a  world  of  mothers.  You  know  my  meaning.  Flor- 
ence must  go  home." 

"You  are  an  idiot,  Edith,"  cried  her  angry  mother. 
"  Do  you  expect  there  can  ever  be  peace  for  you  in  that 
house,  till  she  is  married,  and  away  ?  " 

"  Ask  me,  or  ask  yourself,  if  I  ever  expect  peace  in 
that  house,"  said  her  daughter,  "and  you  know  the  an- 
swer." 

"  And  am  I  to  be  told  to-night,  after  all  my  pains  and 
labour,  and  when  you  are  going,  through  me,  to  be  ren- 
dered independent,"  her  mother  almost  shrieked  in  her 
passion,  while  her  palsied  head  shook  like  a  leaf,  "  that 
there  is  corruption  and  contagion  in  me,  and  that  I  am 
not  fit  company  for  a  girl  !  What  are  you,  pray  ?  What 
are  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  put  the  question  to  myself,"  said  Edith,  ashy 
pale,  and  pointing  to  the  window,  "more  than  once 
when  I  have  been  sitting  there,  and  something  in  the 
faded  likeness  of  my  sex  has  wandered  past  outside  ;  and 
God  knows  I  have  met  with  my  reply.  Oh  mother, 
mother,  if  you  had  but  left  me  to  my  natural  heart  when 
I  too  was  a  girl — a  younger  girl  than  Florence — how  dif- 
ferent I  might  have  been  !  " 

Sensible  that  any  show  of  anger  was  useless  here,  her 
mother  restrained  herself,  and  fell  a  whimpering,  and 
bewailed  that  she  had  lived  too  long,  and  that  her  only 
child  had  cast  her  off,  and  that  duty  towards  parents 
was  forgotten  in  these  evil  days,  and  that  she  had  heard 
unnatural  taunts,  and  cared  for  life  no  longer. 

"  If  one  is  to  go  on  living  through  continual  scenes 
like  this,"  she  whined,  "  I  am  sure  it  would  be  much 
better  for  me  to  think  of  some  means  of  putting  an 
end  to  my  existence.    Oh  !    The  idea  of  your  being 


oG2 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


my  daughter,  Edith,  and  addressing  me  in  such  a 
strain  ! " 

"Between  us,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  mournfully, 
"the  time  for  mutual  reproaches  is  past." 

"  Then  why  do  you  revive  it  ?  "  whimpered  her  mother. 
"  You  know  that  you  are  lacerating  me  in  the  cruellest 
manner.  You  know  how  sensitive  I  am  to  unkindness. 
At  such  a  moment,  too,  when  I  have  so  much  to  think  of, 
and  am  naturally  anxious  to  appear  to  the  best  advan- 
tage !  I  wonder  at  you,  Edith.  To  make  your  mother 
a  fright  upon  your  wedding-day  !" 

Edith  bent  the  same  fixed  look  upon  her,  as  she  sobbed 
and  rubbed  her  eyes  ;  and  said  in  the  same  low  steady 
voice,  which  had  neither  risen  nor  fallen  since  she  first 
addressed  her,  "I  have  said  that  Florence  must  go 
home." 

"  Let  her  go  !  "  cried  the  afflicted  and  affrighted  parent, 
hastily.  "  I  am  sure  I  am  willing  she  should  go.  What 
is  the  girl  to  me?" 

"  She  is  so  much  to  me,  that  rather  than  communi- 
cate, or  suffer  to  be  communicated  to  her,  one  grain  of 
the  evil  that  is  in  my  breast,  mother,  I  would  renounce 
you,  as  I  would  (if  you  gave  me  cause)  renounce  bim  in 
the  chuTch  to-morrow,"  replied  Edith.  "Leave  her 
alone.  She  shall  not,  while  I  can  interpose,  be  tampered 
with  and  tainted  by  the  lessons  I  have  learned.  This  is 
no  hard  condition  on  this  bitter  night." 

"  If  you  had  proposed  it  in  a  filial  manner,  Edith," 
whined  her  mother,  "  perhaps  not ;  very  likely  not.  But 
such  extremely  cutting  wwds — " 

"They  are  past  and  at  an  end  between  us  now,"  said 
Edith.  "  Take  your  own  way,  mother  ;  share  as  you 
please  in  what  you  have  gained  ;  spend,  enjoy,  make 
much  of  it ;  and  be  as  happy  as  you  will.  The  object  of 
our  lives  is  won.  Henceforth  let  us  wear  it  silently. 
My  lips  are  closed  upon  tlie  past  from  this  hour.  I  for- 
give you  your  part  in  to-morrow's  wickedness.  May  God 
forgive  my  own  !  " 

Without  a  tremour  in  her  voice  or  frame,  and  passing 
onward  with  a  foot  that  set  itself  upon  the  neck  of  every 
soft  emotion,  she  bade  her  mother  good  night,  and  re- 
paired to  her  own  room. 

But  not  to  rest  :  for  there  was  no  rest  in  the  tumult 
of  her  agitation  when  alone.  To  and  fro,  and  to  and  fro, 
and  to  and  fro  again,  five  hundred  times,  among  the 
splendid  preparations  for  her  adornment  on  the  morrow  ; 
with  her  dark  hair  shaken  down,  her  dark  eyes  flashing 
with  a  raging  light,  her  broad  white  bosom  red  with  the 
cruel  grasp  of  the  relentless  hand  with  which  she  spurned 
it  from  her,  pacing  up  and  down  with  an  averted  head, 
as  if  she  \vould  avoid  the  sight  of  her  own  fair  person, 
and  divorce  herself  from  its  companionship.  Thus,  in 
the  dead  of  the  night  before  her  bridal,  Edith  Granger 
wrestled  with  her  unquiet  spirit,  tearless,  friendless, 
silent,  proud,  and  uncomplaining. 

At  length  it  happened  that  she  touched  the  open  door 
which  led  into  the  room  where  Florence  lay. 

She  started,  stopped,  and  looked  in. 

A  light  was  burning  there,  and  showed  her  Florence 
in  her  bloom  of  innocence  and  beauty,  fast  asleep.  Edith 
held  her  breath,  and  felt  herself  drawn  on  towards  her. 

Drawn  nearer,  nearer,  nearer  yet ;  at  last,  drawn  so 
near,  that  stooping  down,  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the 
gentle  hand  that  lay  outside  the  Ijed,  and  put  it  softly  to 
her  neck.  Its  touch  was  like  the  j)rophet's  rod  of  old 
upon  the  rock.  Her  tears  sprung  forth  beneath  it,  as 
she  sunk  upon  her  knees,  and  laid  her  aching  head  and 
streaming  hair  upon  the  pillow  by  its  side. 

Thus  Edith  Granger  passed  the  night  before  her  bri- 
dal.   Thus  the  sun  found  her  on  her  bridal  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXXL 

The  Wedding. 

Dawn,  with  its  passionless  blank  face,  steals  shivering 
to  the  church  beneath  which  lies  the  dust  of  little  Paul 
and  his  mother,  and  looks  in  at  the  windows.  It  is  cold 
and  dark.  Night  crouches  yet,  upon  the  pavement,  and 
broods,  sombre  and  heavy,  in  nooks  and  corners  of  the 


building.  The  steeple-clock,  perched  up  above  the 
houses,  emerging  from  beneath  another  of  the  countless 
ripples  in  the  tide  of  time  that  regularly  roll  and  break 
on  the  eternal  shore,  is  grayly  visible,  like  a  stone  bea- 
con, recording  how  the  sea  flows  on  ;  but  within  doors, 
dawn,  at  first,  can  only  peep  at  night,  and  see  that  it  is 
there. 

Hovering  feebly  round  the  church,  and  looking  in, 
dawn  moans  and  weeps  for  its  short  reign,  and  its  tears 
trickle  on  the  window-glass,  and  the  trees  against  the 
church-wall  bow  their  heads,  and  wring  their  many 
hands  in  sympathy.  Night,  growing  pale  before  it, 
gradually  fades  out  of  the  church,  but  lingers  in  the 
vaults  below,  and  sits  upon  the  coffins.  And  now  comes 
bright  day,  burnishing  the  steeple-clock,  and  reddening 
the  spire,  and  drying  up  the  tears  of  dawn,  and  stifling 
its  complaining  ;  and  the  scared  dawn,  following  the 
night,  and  chasing  it  from  its  last  refuge,  shrinks  into  the 
vaults  itself  and  hides,  with  a  frightened  face,  among 
the  dead,  until  night  returns,  refreshed,  to  drive  it  out. 

And  now,  the  mice,  who  have  been  busier  with  the 
prayer-books  than  their  proper  owners,  and  with  the 
hassocks,  more  worn  by  their  little  teeth  than  by  human 
knees,  hide  their  bright  eyes  in  their  holes,  and  gather 
close  together  in  affright  at  the  resounding  clashing  of 
the  church-door.  For  the  beadle,  that  man  of  power, 
comes  early  this  morning  with  the  sexton  ;  and  Mrs. 
Miff,  the  wheezy  little  pew-opener — a  mighty  dry  old 
lady,  sparely  dressed,  with  not  an  inch  of  fulness  any- 
where about  her — is  also  here,  and  has  been  waiting  at 
the  church -gate  half-an-hour,  as  her  place  is,  for  the 
beadle. 

A  vinegary  face  has  Mrs.  Miff,  and  a  mortified  bonnet, 
and  eke  a  thirsty  soul  for  sixpences  and  shillings.  Beck- 
oning to  stray  people  to  come  into  pews,  has  given  Mrs. , 
Miff  an  air  of  mystery  ;  and  there  is  reservation  in  the 
eye  of  Mrs.  Miff,  as  always  knowing  of  a  softer  seat,  but 
having  her  suspicions  of  the  fee.  There  is  no  such  fact 
as  Mr.  Miff,  nor  has  there  been  these  twenty  years,  and 
Mrs.  Miff  would  rather  not  allude  to  him.  He  held  some 
bad  opinions,  it  would  seem,  about  free-seats ;  and 
though  Mrs.  Miff  hopes  he  may  be  gone  upward,  she 
couldn't  positively  undertake  to  say  so. 

Busy  is  Mrs.  Miff  this  morning  at  the  church-door, 
beating  and  dusfing  the  altar-cloth,  the  carpet,  and  the 
cushions  ;  and  much  has  Mrs.  Miff  to  say,  about  the 
wedding  they  are  going  to  have.  Mrs.  Miff  is  told,  that 
the  new  furniture  and  alterations  in  the  house  cost  full 
five  thousand  pound  if  they  cost  a  penny  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff 
has  heard,  upon  the  best  authority,  that  the  lady  hasn't 
got  a  sixpence  w^herewithal  to  bless  herself.  Mrs.  Miff 
remembers,  likewise,  as  if  it  had  happened  yesterday, 
the  first  wife's  funeral  ;  and  then  the  christening,  and 
then  the  other  funeral  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff  says,  by-the-bye 
she'll  soap-and- water  that  'ere  tablet  presently,  against 
the  company  arrive.  Mr.  Sownds,  the  beadle,  who  is 
sitting  in  the  sun  upon  the  church-steps  all  this  time 
(and  seldom  does  anything  else,  except,  in  cold  weather, 
sitting  by  the  fire)  approves  of  Mrs.  Miff's  discourse,  and 
asks  if  Mrs.  Miff  has  heard  it  said,  that  the  lady  is  un- 
common handsome  ?  The  information  Mrs.  Miff  has  re- 
ceived being  of  this  nature,  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  who, 
though  orthodox  and  corpulent,  is  still  an  admirer  of 
female  beauty,  observes,  with  unction,  yes,  he  hears  she 
is  a  spanker — an  expression  that  seems  somewhat  forci- 
ble to  Mrs.  Miff,  or  would  from  any  lips  but  those  of 
Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle. 

In  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  at  this  same  time,  there  is 
great  stir  and  bustle,  more  especially  among  the  women  : 
not  one  of  whom  has  had  a  wink  of  sleep  since  four 
o'clock,  and  all  of  whom  were  full  dressed  before  six. 
Mr.  Towlinson  is  an  object  of  greater  consideration  than 
usual  to  the  housemaid,  and  the  cook  says  at  breakfast- 
time  that  one  wedding  makes  many,  which  the  house- 
maid can't  believe,  and  don't  think  true  at  all.  Mr. 
Towlinson  reserves  his  sentiments  on  this  question  ; 
being  rendered  something  gloomy  by  the  engagement  of 
a  foreigner  with  whiskers  (Mr.  Towlinson  is  whiskerless 
himself),  who  has  been  hired  to  accompany  the  happy 
pair  to  Paris,  and  who  is  busy  packing  the  new  chariot. 
In  respect  of  this  personage,  Mr.  Towlinson  admits,  pres- 
ently, that  he  never  knew  of  any  good  that  "ever  come 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


563 


of  foreigners  ;  and  being  charged  by  the  ladies  with 
prejudice,  says,  look  at  Bonaparte,  who  was  at  the  head 
of  'em,  and  see  what  he  was  always  up  to  !  Which  the 
housemaid  says  is  very  true. 

The  pastry-cook  is  hard  at  work  in  the  funereal  room 
in  Brook-street,  and  the  very  tall  young  men  are  busy 
looking  on.  One  of  the  very  tall  young  men  already 
smells  of  sherry,  and  his  eyes  have  a  tendency  to  become 
fixed  in  his  head,  and  t6  stare  at  objects  without  seeing 
them.  The  very  tall  young  man  is  conscious  of  this  fail- 
ing in  himself  ;  and  he  informs  his  comrade  that  it's  his 
"  exciseman."  The  very  tall  young  man  would  say  ex- 
citement, but  his  speech  is  hazy. 

The  men  who  play  the  bells  have  got  scent  of  the 
marriage  ;  and  the  marrow-bones  and  cleavers  too  ;  and 
a  brass  band  too.  The  first  are  practising  in  a  back  set- 
tlement near  Battlebridge  ;  the  second  put  themselves  in 
communication,  through  their  chief,  with  Mr.  Towlinson, 
to  whom  they  offer  terms  to  be  bought  off  ;  and  the  third, 
in  the  person  of  an  artful  trombone,  lurks  and  dodges 
round  the  corner,  waiting  for  some  traitor  tradesman  to 
reveal  the  place  and  hour  of  breakfast,  for  a  bribe.  Ex- 
pectation and  excitement  extend  further  yet,  and  take  a 
wider  range.  From  Ball's  Pond  Mr.  Perch  brings  Mrs. 
Perch  to  spend  the  day  with  Mr.  Dombey's  servants,  and 
accompany  them,  surreptitiously,  to  see  the  wedding. 
In  Mr.  Toots's  lodgings,  Mr.  Toots  attires  himself  as  if  he 
were  at  least  the  bridegroom  :  determined  to  behold  the 
spectacle  in  splendour  from  a  secret  corner  of  the  gal- 
lery, and  thither  to  convey  the  Chicken.  For  it  is  Mr. 
Toots's  desperafe  intent  to  point  out  Florence  to  the 
Chicken,  then  and  there,  and  openly  to  say,  "Now, 
Chicken,  I  will  not  deceive  you  any  longer  ;  the  friend  I 
have  sometimes  mentioned  to  you  is  myself  ;  Miss  Dom- 
bey  is  the  object  of  my  passion  ;  what  are  your  opinions. 
Chicken,  in  this  state  of  things,  and  what,  on  the  spot, 
do  you  advise  ?  "  The  so-raueh-to-be  astonished  Chicken, 
in  the  meanwhile,  dips  his  beak  into  a  tankard  of  strong 
beer,  in  Mr.  Toots's  kitchen,  and  pecks  up  two  pounds 
of  beefsteaks.  In  Princess's-place,  Miss  Tox  is  up  and 
doing  ;  for  she  too,  though  in  sore  distress,  is  resolved  to 
put  a  shilling  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Miff,  and  see  the  cer- 
emony, which  has  a  cruel  fascination  for  her,  from  some 
lonely  corner.  The  quarters  of  the  Wooden  Midshipman 
are  all  alive  ;  for  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  ankle-jacks  and 
with  a  huge  shirt-collar,  is  seated  at  his  breakfast,  lis- 
tening to  Rob  the  Grinder  as  he  reads  the  marriage- 
service  to  him  beforehand,  under  orders,  to  the  end  that 
the  captain  may  perfectly  understand  the  solemnity  he 
is  about  to  witness :  for  which  purpose,  the  captain 
gravely  lays  injunctions  on  his  chaplain,  from  time  to 
time,  to  "put  about,"  or  to  "  overhaul  that  'ere  article 
again,"  or  to  stick  to  his  own  duty,  and  leave  the  Amens 
to  him,  the  captain  ;  one  of  which  he  repeats  whenever 
a  pause  is  made  by  Rob  the  Grinder,  with  sonorous  sat- 
isfaction. 

Besides  all  this,  and  much  more,  twenty  nursery-maids 
in  Mr.  Dombey's  street  alone,  have  promised  twenty 
families  of  little  women,  whose  instinctive  interest  in 
nuptials  dates  from  their  cradles,  that  they  shall  go  and 
see  the  marriage.  Truly,  Mr.  Sounds  the  beadle  has 
good  reason  to  feel  himself  in  office,  as  he  suns  his  portly 
figure  on  the  church-steps,  waiting  for  the  marriage 
hour.  Truly,  Mrs.  Miff  has  cause  to  pounce  on  an  un- 
lucky dwarf  child,  with  a  giant  baby,  who  peeps  in  at 
the  porch,  and  drive  her  forth  with  indignation  !  " 

Cousin  Feenix  has  come  over  from  abroad,  expressly 
to  attend  the  marriage.  Cousin  Feenix  was  a  man 
about  town,  forty  years  ago  ;  but  he  is  still  so  juvenile 
in  figure  and  in  manner,  and  so  well  got  up,  that  strangers 
are  amazed  when  they  discover  latent  wrinkles  in  his 
lordship's  face,  and  crows'  feet  in  his  eyes  ;  and  when 
they  first  observed  him,  not  exactly  certain  as  he  walks 
across  a  room,  of  going  quite  straight  to  where  he 
wants  to  go.  But  Cousin  Feenix,  getting  up  at  half-past 
seven  o'clock  or  so,  is  quite  another  thing  from  Cousin 
Feenix  got  up  :  and  very  dim,  indeed,  he  looks,  while 
being  shaved  at  Long's  Hotel,  in  Bond-street. 

Mr.  Dombey  leaves  his  dressing-room,  amidst  a  general 
whisking  away  of  the  women  on  the  staircase,  who  dis- 
perse in  all  directions,  with  a  great  rustling  of  skirts, 
except  Mrs.  Perch,  who  being  (but  that  she  always  is)  in 


an  interesting  situation,  is  not  nimble,  and  is  obliged  to 
face  him,  and  is  ready  to  sink  with  confusion  as  she 
curtesey  ; — ma\'  Heaven  avert  all  evil  consequences  from 
the  house  of  'Perch  !  Mr.  Dombey  walks  up  to  the 
drawing-room  to  bide  his  time.  Gorgeous  are  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's new  blue  coat,  fawn-coloured  pantaloons,  and  lilac 
waistcoat  ;  and  a  whisper  goes  about  the  house,  that  Mr. 
Dombey's  hair  is  curled. 

A  double-knock  announces  the  arrival  of  the  major, 
who  is  gorgeous  too,  and  wears  a  whole  geranium  in  his 
button-hole,  and  has  his  hair  curled  tight  and  crisp,  as 
well  as  the  native  knows. 

"  Dombey  1 "  says  the  major,  putting  out  both  hands, 
"  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "  how  are  You  ?" 

"By  Jove,  sir,"  says  the  major,  "Joey  B.  is  in  such 
case  this  morning,  sir," — and  here  he  hits  himself  hard 
upon  the  breast — "in  such  case  this  morning,  sir,  that, 
damme,  Dombey,  he  has  half  a  mind  to  make  a  double 
marriage  of  it,  sir,  and  take  the  mother." 

Mr.  Dombey  smiles ;  but  faintly,  even  for  him  ;  for 
Mr.  Dombey  feels  that  he  is  going  to  be  related  to  the 
mother,  and  that,  under  those  circumstances,  she  is  not  to 
be  joked  about. 

"  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  seeing  this,  "I  give  you 
joy.  I  congratulate  you,  Dombey.  By  the  Lord,  sir," 
says  the  major,  "you  are  more  to  be  envied,  this  day, 
than  any  man  in  England  !  " 

Here  again,  Mr.  Dombey's  assent  is  qualified  ;  because 
he  is  going  to  confer  a  great  distinction  on  a  lady  ;  and, 
no  doubt,  she  is  to  be  envied  most. 

"As  to  Edith  Granger,  sir,"  pursues  the  major,  "there 
is  not  a  woman  in  all  Europe  but  might — and  would, 
sir,  you  will  allow  Bagstock  to  add — and  would — give 
her  ears,  and  her  ear-rings  too,  to  be  in  Edith  Granger's 
place." 

"You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  major,"  says  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Dombey,"  returns  the  major,  "  you  know^  it.  Let  us 
have  no  false  delicacy.  You  know  it.  Do  you  know  it, 
or  do  you  not,  Dombey  ? "  says  the  major,  almost  in  a 
passion. 

"  Oh,  really,  major — " 

"  Damme,  sir,"  retorts  the  major,  "  do  you  know  that 
fact,  or  do  you  not  ?  Dombey  !  Is  old  Joe  your  friend  ? 
Are  we  on  that  footing  of  unreserved  intimacy,  Dombey, 
that  may  justify  a  man— a  blunt  old  Joseph  B.,  sir — in 
speaking  out  ;  or  am  I  to  take  open  order,  Dombey,  and 
to  keep  my  distance,  and  to  stand  on  forms  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Major  Bagstock,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a 
gratified  air,  " you  are  quite  warm." 

"  By  Gad,  sir,"  says  the  major,  "  I  am  warm.  Joseph 
B.  does  not  deny  it,  Dombey.  He  is  warm.  This  is  an 
occasion,  sir,  that  calls  forth  all  the  honest  sympathies 
remaining  in  an  old,  infernal,  battered,  used  up,  in- 
valided, J.  B.  carcase.  And  I  tell  you  what,  Dombey — 
at  such  a  time  a  man  must  blurt  out  what  he  feels,  or 
put  a  muzzle  on  :  and  Joseph  Bagstock  tells  you  to  your 
face,  Dombey,  as  he  tells  his  club  behind  your  back, 
that  he  never  will  be  muzzled  when  Paul  Dombey  is  in 
question.  Now,  damme,  sir,"  concludes  the  major,  with 
great  firmness,  "  what  do  you  make  of  that  ?  " 

"  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  assure  you  that  I  am 
really  obliged  to  you.  I  had  no  idea  of  checking  your 
too  partial  friendship." 

"  Not  too  partial,  sir,"  exclaims  the  choleric  major. 
"  Dombey,  I  deny  it  ! " 

"  Your  friendship  I  will  say  then,"  pursues  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "on  any  account.  Nor  can  I  forget,  major,  on 
such  an  occasion  as  the  present,  how  much  I  am  in- 
debted to  it." 

"  Don'i bey,"  says  the  major,  with  appropriate  action, 
j  "  that  is  the  hand  of  Joseph  Bagstock  ;  of  plain  old  Joey 
I  B.,  sir,  if  you  like  that  better  !    That  is  the  hand,  of 
I  which  His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of  York  did  me 
the  honour  to  observe,  sir,  to  His  Royal  Highness  the 
late  Duke  of  Kent,  that  it  was  the  hand  of  Josh.  ;  a 
rough  and  tough,  and  possibly  an  up-to- snuff,  old  vag- 
abond.    Dombey,  may  the  present  moment  be  the  least 
unhappy  of  our  lives,    God  bless  you  ! "  .  • 

Now,  enters  Mr,  Carker,  gorgeous  likewise,  and  smil- 
ing like  a  wedding-guest  indeed.    He  can  scarcely  let 


564 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


Mr.  Dombey's  hand  go,  he  is  so  congratulatory  ;  and  he 
shakes  the  major's  hand  so  heartily  at  tbe  same  time, 
that  his  voice  shakes  too,  in  accord  with  his  arms,  as  it 
comes  sliding  from  between  his  teeth. 

"  The  very  day  is  auspicious,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  "  The 
brightest  and  most  genial  weather  !  I  hope  I  am  not  a 
moment  late  ?  " 

"  Punctual  to  your  time,  sir,"  says  the  major. 

"  I  am  rejoiced,  I  am  sure,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  "  I  was 
afraid  I  might  be  a  few  seconds  after  the  appointed 
time,  for  1  was  delayed  by  a  procession  of  waggons  ;  and 
I  took  the  liberty  of  riding  round  to  Brook-street  " — this 
to  Mr.  Dombey — "  to  leave  a  few  poor  rarities  of  flowers 
for  Mrs.  Dombey.  A  man  in  my  position,  and  so  dis- 
tinguished as  to  be  invited  here,  is  proud  to  offer  some 
homage  in  acknowledgment  of  his  vassalage  :  and  as  I 
have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Dombey  is  overwhelmed  with  what 
is  costly  and  magnificent  ;  "  with  a  strange  glance  at  his 
patron  ;  "I  hope  the  very  poverty  of  my  offering,  may 
find  favour  for  it." 

"Mrs.  Dombey,  that  is  to  be,"  returns  Mr.  Dombey, 
condescendingly,  "  will  be  very  sensible  of  your  atten- 
tion, Carker,  I  am  sure." 

"  And  if  she  is  to  be  Mrs.  Dombey  this  morning,  sir," 
says  the  major,  putting  down  his  coffee-cup,  and  looking 
at  his  watch,  "  it's  high  time  we  were  off  !  " 

Forth,  in  a  barouche,  ride  Mr.  Dombey,  Major  Bagstock, 
and  Mr.  Carker,  to  the  church.  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle 
has  long  risen  from  the  steps,  and  is  in  waiting  with  his 
cocked  hat  in  his  hand.  Mrs.  Miff  curtseys  and  propos- 
es chairs  in  the  vestry,  Mr.  Dombey  prefers  remaining 
in  the  church.  As  he  looks  up  at  the  organ,  Miss  Tos 
in  the  gallery  shrinks  behind  the  fat  leg  of  a  cherubim 
on  a  monument,  with  cheeks  like  a  young  Wind.  Captain 
Cuttle,  on  the  contrary,  stands  up  and  waves  his  hook, 
in  token  of  welcome  and  encouragement.  Mr.  Toots  in- 
forms the  Chicken,  behind  his  hand,  that  the  middle 
gentleman,  he  in  the  fawn-coloured  pantaloons,  is  the 
father  of  his  love.  The  Chicken  hoarsely  whispers  Mr. 
Toots  that  he's  as  stiff  a  cove  as  ever  he  see,  but  that  it 
is  within  the  resources  of  Science  to  double  hira  up, 
with  one  blow  in  the  waistcoat. 

Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff  are  eyeing  Mr.  Dombey 
from  a  little  distance,  when  the  noise  of  approaching 
wheels  is  heard,  and  Mr.  Sownds  goes  out,  Mrs.  Miff, 
meeting  Mr.  Dombey's  eye  as  it  is  withdrawn  from  the 
presumptuous  maniac  up-stairs,  who  salutes  him  with 
so  much  urbanity,  drops  a  curtsey,  and  informs  hira  that 
she  believes  his  "  good  lady"  is  come.  Then  there  is  a 
crowding  and  a  whispering  at  the  door,  and  the  good 
lady  enters,  with  a  haughty  step. 

There  is  no  sign  upon  her  face  of  last  night's  suffer- 
ing ;  there  is  no  trace  in  her  manner,  of  the  woman  on 
the  bended  knees,  reposing  her  wild  head  upon  the  pillow 
of  the  sleeping  girl.  That  girl,  all  gentle  and  lovely,  is 
at  her  side — a  striking  contrast  to  her  own  disdainful 
and  defiant  figure,  standing  there,  composed,  erect,  in- 
scrutable of  will,  resplendent  and  majestic  in  the  zenith 
of  its  charms,  yet  beating  down,  and  treading  on,  the 
admiration  that  it  challenges. 

There  is  a  pause  while  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  glides 
into  the  vestry  for  the  clergyman  and  clerk.  At  this 
juncture  Mrs.  Skewton  speaks  to  Mr.  Dombey  ;  more  dis- 
tinctly and  emphatically  than  her  custom  is,  and  moving, 
at  the  same  time,  close  to  Edith. 

•*  My  dear  Dombey,"  says  the  good  mama,  "I  fear  I 
must  relinquish  darling  Florence  after  all,  and  suffer 
her  to  go  home,  as  she  herself  proposed.  After  my  loss 
of  to-day,  my  dear  Dombey,  I  feel  I  shall  not  have  spir- 
its, even  for  her  society." 

"Had  she  not  better  stay  with  you?"  returns  the 
bridegroom. 

"  1  think  not,  my  dear  Dombey.  No,  I  think  not.  I 
shall  be  better  alone.  Besides,  my  dearest  Edith  will 
be  her  natural  and  constant  guardian  when  you  return, 
and  I  had  better  not  encroach  upon  her  trust,  perhaps. 
She  might  be  jealous.    Eh,  dear  Edith  ?  " 

The  affectionate  mama  presses  her  daughter's  arm,  as 
she  says  tliis  :  perhaps  entreating  her  attention  earnestly. 

"  To  be  serious,  my  dear  Dombey,"  she  resumes,  "I 
will  relinquish  our  dear  child,  and  not  inflict  my  gloom 
ujwn  her.    We  have  settled  that,  just  now.    She  fully 


understands,  dear  Dombey.  Edith,  my  dear, — she  fully 
understands." 

Again,  the  good  mother  presses  her  daughter's  arm. 
Mr.  Dombey  offers  no  additional  remonstrance  ;  for  the 
clergyman  and  clerk  appear  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff,  and  Mr. 
Sownds  the  beadle,  group  the  party  in  their  proper  places 
at  the  altar  rails. 

"  Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man  ?  " 

Cousin  Feenix  does  that.  He'  has  come  from  Baden- 
Baden  on  purpose.  "Confound  it,"  Cousin  Feenix  says 
— good-natured  creature,  Cousin  Feenix — "  when  we  do 
get  a  rich  city  fellow  into  the  family,  let  us  show  him 
some  attention  ;  let  us  do  something  for  him." 

"/give  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man,"  saith 
Cousin  Feenix  therefore.  Cousin  Feenix,  meaning  to  go 
in  a  straight  line,  but  turning  off  sideways  by  reason  of 
his  wilful  legs,  gives  the  wrong  woman  to  be  married  to 
this  man,  at  first — to  wit,  a  bridesmaid  of  som.e  condition, 
distantly  connected  with  the  family,  and  ten  years  Mrs. 
Skewton's  junior — but  Mrs.  Miff,  interposing  her  morti- 
fied bonnet,  dexterously  turns  him  back,  and  runs  him, 
as  on  castors,  full  at  the  "good  lady  ;"  whom  Cousin 
Feenix  giveth  to  be  married  to  this  man  accordingly. 

And  will  they  in  the  sight  of  Heaven—  ? 

Aye,  that  they  will  :  Mr.  Dombey  says  he  will.  And 
what  says  Edith  ?    She  will. 

So,  from  that  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for 
richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love  and 
to  cherish,  till  death  do  them  part,  they  plight  their 
troth  to  one  another,  and  are  married. 

In  a  firm,  free  hand,  the  bride  subscribes  her  name  in 
the  register,  when  they  adjourn  to  the  vestry.  "There 
an't  a  many  ladies  comes  here,"  Mrs.  Miff  says  with  a 
curtsey — to  look  at  Mrs.  Miff,  at  such  a  season,  is  to 
make  her  mortified  bonnet  go  down  with  a  dip—"  writes 
their  names  like  this  good  lady  !  "  Mr.  Sownds  the  bea- 
dle thinks  it  is  a  truly  spanking  signature,  and  worthy 
of  the  writer — this,  however,  between  himself  and  con- 
science. 

Florence  signs  too,  but  unapplauded,  for  her  hand 
shakes.  All  the  party  sign  ;  Cousin  Feenix  last  ;  who 
puts  his  noble  name  into  a  wrong  place,  and  enrols  him- 
self as  having  been  born,  that  morning. 

The  major  now  salutes  the  bride  right  gallantly,  and 
carries  out  that  branch  of  military  tactics  in  reference  to 
all  the  ladies  :  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Skewton's  being 
extremely  hard  to  kiss,  and  squeaking  shrilly  in  the 
sacred  edifice.  The  example  is  followed  by  Cousin  Fee- 
nix, and  even  by  Mr.  Dombey.  Lastly,  Mr.  Carker, 
with  his  white  teeth  glistening,  approaches  Edith,  more 
as  if  he  meant  to  bite  her  than  to  taste  the  sweets  that 
linger  on  her  lips. 

There  is  a  glow  upon  her  proud  cheek,  and  a  flashing 
in  her  eyes,  that  may  be  meant  to  stay  him  ;  but  it  does 
not,  for  he  salutes  her  as  the  rest  have  done,  and  wishes 
her  all  happiness. 

"  If  wishes,"  says  he  in  a  low  voice,  are  not  superflu- 
ous, applied  to  such  a  union." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  she  answers,  with  a  curled  lip, 
and  a  heaving  bosom. 

But,  does  Edith  feel  still,  as  on  the  night  when  she 
knew  that  Mr.  Dombey  would  return  to  offer  his  alli- 
ance, that  Carker  knows  her  thoroughly,  and  reads  her 
right,  and  that  she  is  more  degraded  by  his  knowledge 
of  her,  than  by  aught  else  ?  Is  it  for  this  reason  that 
her  haughtiness  shrinks  beneath  his  smile,  like  snow 
within  the  hand  that  grasps  it  firmly,  and  that  her  im- 
perious glance  droops  in  meeting  liis,  and  seeks  the 
ground  ? 

"I  am  proud  to  see,"  says  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  servile 
stooping  of  his  neck,  which  the  revelations  making  by 
his  eyes  and  teeth  proclaim  to  be  a  lie,  "  I  am  proud  to 
see  that  my  humble  offering  is  graced  by  Mrs.  Dombey's 
hand,  and  permitted  to  hold  so  favoured  a  place  in  so 
joyful  an  occasion." 

Though  she  bends  her  head,  in  answer,  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  momentary  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  she 
would  crush  the  flowers  it  holds,  and  fling  them,  with 
contempt,  upon  the  ground.  But,  she  puts  the  hand 
through  the  arm  of  her  new  husband,  who  has  been 
standing  near,  conversing  with  the  major,  and  is  proud 
again,  and  motionless,  and  silent. 


DO  MB  BY  AND  SON, 


565 


The  carriag"es  are  once  more  at  the  church-door.  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  his  bride  upon  his  arm,  conducts  her 
through  the  twenty  families  of  little  women  who  are  on 
the  steps,  and  every  one  of  whom  remembers  the  fashion 
and  the  colour  of  her  every  article  of  dress  from  that 
moment,  and  reproduces  it  on  her  doll,  who  is  for  ever 
being  married.  Cleopatra  and  Cousin  Feenix  entered 
the  same  carriage.  The  major  hands  into  a  second  car- 
riage, Florence,  and  the  bridesmaid  who  so  narrowly  es- 
caped being  given  away  by  mistake,  and  then  enters  it 
himself,  and  is  followed  by  Mr.  Carker.  Horses  prance 
and  caper  ;  coachmen  and  footmen  shine  in  fluttering 
favours,  flowers,  and  new-made  liveries.  Away  they 
dash  and  rattle  through  the  streets  ;  and  as  they  pass 
along,  a  thousand  heads  are  turned  to  look  at  them,  and 
a  thousand  sober  moralists  revenge  themselves  for  not 
being  married  too,  that  morning,  by  reflecting  that  these 
people  little  think  such  happiness  can't  last. 

Miss  Tox  emerges  from  behind  the  cherubim's  leg, 
when  all  is  quiet,  and  comes  slowly  down,  from  the  gal- 
lery. Miss  Tox's  eyes  are  red,  and  her  pocket-handker- 
chief is  damp.  She  is  wounded,  but  not  exasperated, 
and  she  hopes  they  may  be  happy.  She  quite  admits  to 
herself  the  beauty  of  the  bride,  and  her  own  compara- 
tively feeble  and  faded  attractions  ;  but  the  stately  image 
of  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  lilac  waistcoat,  and  his  fawn- 
coloured  pantaloons,  is  present  to  her  mind,  and  Miss 
Tox  weeps  afresh,  behind  her  veil,  on  her  way  home  to 
Princess's-place.  Captain  Cuttle,  having  joined  in  all  the 
amens  and  responses,  with  a  devout  growl,  feels  much 
improved  by  his  religious  exercises  ;  and  in  a  peaceful 
frame  of  mind,  pervades  the  body  of  the  church,  glazed 
hat  in  hand,  and  reads  the  tablet  to  the  memory  of  little 
Paul.  The  gallant  Mr.  Toots,  attended  by  the  faithful 
Chicken,  leaves  the  building  in  torments  of  love.  The 
Chicken  is  as  yet  unable  to  elaborate  a  scheme  for  win- 
ning Florence,  but  his  first  idea  has  gained  possession  of 
him,  and  he  thinks  the  doubling  up  of  Mr.  Dombey 
would  be  a  move  in  the  right  direction.  ]V^.  Dombey's 
servants  come  out  of  their  hiding-places,  and  prepare  to 
rush  to  Brook-street,  when  they  are  delayed  by  symp- 
toms of  indisposition  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Perch,  who 
entreats  a  glass  of  water,  and  becomes  alarming ;  Mrs. 
Perch  gets  better  soon,  however,  and  is  borne  away ; 
and  Mrs.  Miff,  and  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  sit  upon  the 
steps  to  count  what  they  have  gained  by  the  afEair,  and 
talk  it  over,  while  the  sexton  tolls  a  funeral. 

Now  the  carriages  arrive  at  the  bride's  residence,  and 
the  players  on  the  bells  begin  to  jingle,  and  the  band 
strikes  up,  and  Mr.  Punch,  that  model  of  connubial 
bliss,  salutes  his  wife.  Now,  the  people  run  and  push, 
and  press  round  in  a  gaping  throng,  while  Mr.  Dombey, 
leading  Mrs.  Dombey  by  the  hand,  advances  solemnly 
into  the  Feenix  halls.  Now,  the  rest  of  the  wedding 
party  alight,  and  enter  after  them.  And  why  does  Mr. 
Carker,  passing  through  the  people  to  the  hall-door, 
think  of  the  old  woman  who  called  to  him  in  the  grove 
that  morning  ?  Or  why  does  Florence,  as  she  passes, 
think,  with  a  tremble,  of  her  childhood,  when  she  was 
lost,  and  of  the  visage  of  good  Mrs.  Brown  ? 

Now,  there  are  more  congratulations  on  this  happiest 
of  days,  and  more  company,  though  not  much  ;  and  now 
they  leave  the  drawing-room,  and  range  themselves  at 
table  in  the  dark-brown  dining-room,  which  no  confec- 
tioner can  brighten  up,  let  him  garnish  the  exhausted 
negroes  with  as  many  flowers  and  loveknots  as  he  will. 

The  pastry-cook  has  done  his  duty  like  a  man,  though, 
and  a  rich  breakfast  is  set  forth.     Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chick 
have  joined  the  party,  among  others.    Mrs.  Chick  ad- 
mires that  Edith  should  be,  by  nature,  such  a  perfect 
Dombey ;  and  is  affable  and  confidential  to  Mrs.  Skew- 
1  ton,  whose  mind  is  relieved  of  a  great  load,  and  who 
1  takes  her  share  of  the  champagne.    The  very  tall  young 
I  man  who  suffered  from  excitement  early,  is  better  ;  but 
a  vague  sentiment  of  repentance  has  seized  upon  him, 
and  he  hates  the  other  very  tall  young  man,  and  wrests 
dishes  from  him  by  violence,  and  takes  a  grim  delight 
in  disobliging  the  company.    The  company  are  cool  and 
calm,  and  do  not  outrage  the  black  hatchments  of  pic- 
tures looking  down  upon  them,  by  any  excess  of  mirth, 
r  Cousin  Feenix  and  the  major  are  the  gayest  there ;  but 
Mr.  Carker  has  a  smile  for  the  whole  table.     He  has  an 


'  especial  smile  for  the  bride,  who  very,  very,  seldom 
meets  it. 

Cousin  Feenix  rises,  when  the  company  have  break- 
fasted, and  the  servants  have  left  the  room  ;  and  won- 
derfully young  he  looks,  with  his  white  wristbands  al- 
most covering  his  hands  (otherwise  rather  bony),  and 
the  bloom  of  the  champagne  in  his  cheeks. 

"  Upon  my  honour,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  although 
it's  an  unusual  sort  of  thing  in  a  private  gentleman's 
house,  I  must  beg  leave  to  call  upon  you  to  drink  what 
is  usually  called  a — in  fact  a  toast." 

The  major  very  hoarsely  indicates  his  approval.  Mr. 
Carker,  bending  his  head  forward  over  the  table  in  the 
direction  of  Cousin  Feenix,  smiles  and  nods  a  great 
many  times. 

"A — in  fact  it's  not  a — "  Cousin  Feenix  beginning 
again  thus,  comes  to  a  dead  stop. 

"  Hear,  hear  ! "  says  the  major,  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

Mr.  Carker  softly  claps  his  hands,  and  bending  for- 
ward over  the  table  again,  smiles  and  nods  a  great  many 
more  times  than  before,  as  if  he  were  particularly  struck 
by  this  last  observation,  and  desired  personally  to  ex- 
press his  sense  of  the  good  it  has  done  him. 

It  is,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "an  occasion  in  fact, 
when  the  general  usages  of  life  may  be  a  little  departed 
from,  without  impropriety ;  and  although  I  never  was 
an  orator  in  my  life,  and  when  I  was  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  had  the  honour  of  seconding  the  address, 
was — in  fact,  was  laid  up  for  a  fortnight  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  failure — " 

The  major  and  Mr.  Carker  are  so  much  delighted  by 
this  fragment  of  personal  history,  that  Cousin  Feenix 
laughs,  and  addressing  them  individually,  goes  o»  to 
say  : 

"  And  in  point  of  fact,  when  I  was  devilish  ill — still, 
you  know,  I  feel  that  a  duty  devolves  upon  me.  And 
when  a  duty  devolves  upon  an  Englishman,  he  is  bound 
to  get  out  of  it,  in  my  opinion,  in  the  best  way  he  can. 
Well  !  our  family  has  had  the  gratification,  to-day,  of 
connecting  itself,  in  the  person  of  my  lovely  and  accom- 
plished relative,  whom  I  now  see — in  point  of  fact,  pres- 
ent—" 

Here  there  is  general  applause. 

'*  Present,"  repeats  Cousin  Feenix,  feeling  that  it  is  a 
neat  point  which  will  bear  repetition, — "  v.'ith  one  who — 
that  is  to  say,  with  a  man,  at  whom  the  finger  of 
scorn  can  never — in  fact,  with  my  honourable  friend 
Dombey,  if  he  will  allow  me  to  call  him  so." 

Cousin  Feenix  bows  to  Mr.  Dombey  ;  Mr.  Dombey  sol- 
emnly returns  the  bow  ;  everybody  is  more  or  less  grati- 
fied and  affected  by  this  extraordinary,  and  perhaps  un- 
precedented, appeal  to  the  feelings. 

"  I  have  not,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  '*  enjoyed  those  op- 
portunities which  I  could  have  desired,  of  cultivating 
the  acquaintance  of  my  friend  Dombey,  and  studying 
those  qualities  which  do  equal  honour  to  his  head,  and, 
in  point  of  fact,  to  his  heart  ;  for  it  has  been  my  misfor- 
tune to  be,  as  we  used  to  say  in  my  time  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  when  it  was  not  the  custom  to  allude  to  the 
Lords,  and  when  the  order  of  parliamentary  proceedings 
was  perhaps  better  observed  than  it  is  now—  to  be  in — in 
point  of  fact,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  cherishing  his  joke, 
with  great  slyness,  and  finally  bringing  it  out  with  a  jerk, 
"  '  in  another  place  ! '  " 

The  major  falls  into  convulsions,  and  is  recovered  with 
difiiculty. 

'*  But  I  know  sufficient  of  my  friend  Dombey,"  resumes 
Cousin  Feenix  in  a  graver  tone,  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
become  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man,  "  to  know  that  he  is,in 
point  of  fact,  what  maybe  emphatically  called  a— a  mer- 
chant— a  British  merchant — and  a — and  a  man.  And  al- 
though I  have  been  resident  abroad  for  some  years  (it 
would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  receive  my  friend  Dom- 
bey, and  everybody  here,  at  Baden-Baden,  and  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  making  'em  known  to  the  Grand  Duke), 
still  I  know  enough,  I  flatter  myself,  of  my  lovely  and 
accomplished  relative,  to  know  that  she  possesses  every 
requisite  to  make  a  man  happy,  and  that  her  marriage 
with  my  friend  Dombey  is  one  of  inclination  and  affec- 
tion on  both  sides." 

Many  smiles  and  nods  from  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Therefore,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  I  congratulate  the 


566 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


family  of  whicli  I  am  a  member,  on  the  acquisition  of 
my  friend  Dombey.  I  congratulate  my  friend  Dombey 
on  his  union  with  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative, 
who  possesses  every  requisite  to  make  a  man  happy  ;  and 
I  take  the  liberty  of  calling  on  you  all,  in  point  of  fact, 
to  congratulate  both  my  friend  Dombey  and  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative,  on  the  present  occasion." 

The  speech  of  Cousin  Feenix  is  received  with  great  ap- 
plause, and  Mr.  Dombey  returns  thanks  on  behalf  of 
himself  and  Mrs.  Dombey.  J.  B.  shortly  afterwards  pro- 
poses Mrs.  Skewton.  The  breakfast  languishes  when 
that  is  done,  the  violated  hatchments  are  avenged,  and 
Edith  rises  to  assume  her  travelling  dress. 

All  the  servants,  in  the  meantime,  have  been  break- 
fasting below.  Champagne  has  grown  too  common 
amono-  them  to  be  mentioned,  and  roast  fowls,  raised 
pies,  and  lobster  salad,  have  become  mere  drugs.  The 
verv  tall  young  man  has  recovered  his  spirits,  and 
again  alludes  to  the  exciseman.  His  comrade's  eye  be- 
gins to  emulate  his  own,  and  he,  too,  stares  at  objects 
without  taking  cognizance  thereof.  There  is  a  general 
redness  in  the  faces  of  the  ladies  ;  in  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Perch  particularly,  who  is  joyous  and  beaming,  and 
lifted  so  far  above  the  cares  of  life,  that  if  she  were 
asked  just  now  to  direct  a  wayfarer  to  Ball's  Pond, 
where  her  own  cares  lodge,  she  would  have  some  dif- 
ficulty in  recalling  the  way.  Mr.  Towlinson  has  pro- 
posed the  happy  pair ;  to  which  the  silver-headed  but- 
ler responded  neatly,  and  with  emotion ;  for  he  half 
begins  to  think  he  is  an  old  retainer  of  the  family, 
and  that  he  is  bound  to  be  affected  by  these  changes. 
The  whole  party,  and  especially  the  ladies,  are  very 
frolicsome.  Mr.  Dorobey's  cook,  who  generally  takes 
the  lead  in  society,  'has  said,  it  is  impossible  to  settle 
down  after  this,  and  why  not  go,  in  a  party,  to  the  play  ? 
Everybody  (Mrs.  Perch  included)  has  agreed  to  this  ; 
even  the  native  who  is  tigerish  in  his  drink,  and  who 
alarms  the  ladies  (Mrs.  Perch  particularly)  by  the  rolling 
of  his  ey^.  One  of  the  very  tall  young  men  has  even 
proposed  a  ball  after  the  play,  and  it  presents  itself  to 
no  one  (Mrs.  Perch  incladed)  in  the  light  of  an  impossi- 
bility. Words  have  arisen  between  the  housemaid  and 
Mr.  Towlinson  ;  she,  on  the  authority  of  an  old  saw, 
asserting  marriages  to  be  made  in  heaven  :  he,  affecting 
to  trace  the  manufacture  elsewhere  ;  he,  supposing  that 
she  says  so,  because  she  thinks  of  being  married  her  own 
self ;  she,  saying,  Lord  forbid,  at  any  rate,  that  she 
should  ever  marry  Mm.  To  calm  these  flying  taunts, 
the  silver-headed  butler  rises  to  propose  the  health  of 
Mr.  Towlinson,  whom  to  know  is  to  esteem,  and  to  es- 
teem is  to  wish  well  settled  in  life  with  the  object  of 
his  choice,  wherever  (here  the  silver-headed  butler  eyes 
the  housemaid)  she  may  be.  Mr.  Towlinson  returns 
thanks  in  a  speech  replete  with  feeling,  of  which  the 
peroration  turns  on  foreigners,  regarding  whom  he  says 
they  may  find  favour,  sometimes  with  weak  and  incon- 
sistent intellects  that  can  be  led  away  by  hair,  but  all  he 
hopes,  is,  he  may  never  hear  of  no  foreigner  never  bon- 
ing nothing  out  of  no  travelling  chariot.  The  eye  of 
Mr.  Towlinson  is  so  severe  and  so  expressive  here,  that 
the  housemaid  is  turning  hysterical,  when  she  and  all 
the  rest  roused  by  the  intelligence  that  the  Bride  is  go- 
ing away,  hurry  up-stairs  to  witness  her  departure. 

The  chariot  is  at  the  door  ;  the  Bride  is  descending  to 
the  hall,  where  Mr.  Dombey  waits  for  her.  Florence  is 
ready  on  the  staircase  to  depart  too  ;  and  Miss  Nipper, 
wl)o  has  held  a  middle  state  between  the  parlour  and 
the  kitchen,  is  prepared  to  accompany  her.  As  Edith 
appears,  Florence  hastens  towards  her,  to  bid  her  fare- 
well. 

Is  Edith  cold,  that  she  should  tremble  !  Is  there  any- 
thing unnatural  or  unwholesome  in  the  touch  of  Flor- 
ence, that  the  beautiful  form  recedes  and  contracts,  as  if 
it  could  not  bear  it !  Is  there  so  much  hurry  in  this 
going  away,  that  Edith,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  sweeps 
on  and  is  gone  1 

Mrs.  Skewton,  overpowered  by  her  feelings  as  a 
mother,  sinks  on  her  sofa  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude, 
when  the  clatter  of  the  chariot  wheels  is  lost,  and  sheds 
several  tears.  The  major,  coming  with  the  rest  of  the 
company  from  table,  endeavours  to  comfort  her  ;  but  she 
will  not  be  comforted  on  any  terms,  and  so  the  major 


takes  his  leave.  Cousin  Feenix  takes  his  leave,  and  Mr. 
Carker  takes  his  leave.  The  guests  all  go  away.  Cleo- 
patra, left  alone,  feels  a  little  giddy  from  her  strong 
emotion,  and  falls  asleep. 

Giddiness  prevails  below  stairs  too.  The  very  tall 
young  man  whose  excitement  came  on  so  soon,  appears 
to  have  his  head  glued  to  the  table  in  the  pantry,  and 
cannot  be  detached  from  it.  A  violent  revulsion  has 
taken  place  in  the  spirits  of  Mrs.  Perch,  who  is  low  on 
account  of  Mr.  Perch  ;  and  tells  cook  that  she  fears  he 
is  not  so  much  attached  to  his  home,  as  he  used  to  be, 
when  they  were  only  nine  in  family.  Mr.  Towlinson 
has  a  singing  in  his  ears  and  a  large  wheel  going  round 
and  round  inside  his  head.  The  housemaid  wishes  it 
wasn't  wicked  to  wish  that  one  was  dead. 

There  is  a  general  delusion  likewise,  in  these  lower 
regions,  on  the  subject  of  time  ;  everybody  conceiving 
that  it  ought  to  be,  at  the  earliest,  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
whereas  it  is  not  yet  three  in  the  afternoon.  A  shadowy 
idea  of  wickedness  committed,  haunts  every  individual 
in  the  party  ;  and  each  one  secretly  thinks  the  other  a 
companion  in  guilt,  whom  it  would  be  agreeable  to 
avoid.  No  man  or  woman  has  the  hardihood  to  hint  at 
the  projected  visit  to  the  play.  Any  one  reviving  the 
notion  of  the  ball,  would  be  scouted  as  a  malignant 
idiot. 

Mrs.  Skewton  sleeps  up-stairs,  two  hours  afterwards, 
and  naps  are  not  yet  over,  in  the  kitchen.  The  hatchments 
in  the  dining-room  look  down  on  crumbs,  dirty  plates, 
spillings  of  wine,  half-thawed  ice,  stale  discoloured  heel- 
taps, scraps  of  lobster,  drumsticks  of  fowls,  and  pensive 
jellies,  gradually  resolving  themselves  into  a  lukewarm 
gummy  soup.  The  marriage  is,  by  this  time,  almost  as 
denuded  of  its  show  and  garnish  as  the  breakfast.  Mr. 
Dombey's  servants  moralise  so  much  about  it,  and  are  so 
repentant  over  their  early  tea,  at  home,  that  by  eight 
o'clock  or  so.  they  settle  down  into  confirm.ed  serious- 
ness ;  and  Mr.  Perch,  arriving  at  that  time  from  the  city, 
fresh  and  jc^ular,  with  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  comic 
song,  ready  to  spend  the  evening,  and  prepared  for  any 
amount  of  dissipation,  is  amazed  to  find  himself  coldly 
received,  and  Mrs.  Perch  but  poorly,  and  to  have  the 
pleasing  duty  of  escorting  that  lady  home  by  the  next 
omnibus. 

Night  closes  in.  Florence  having  rambled  through 
the  handsome  house,  from  room  to  room,  seeks  her  own 
chamber,  where  the  care  of  Edith  has  surrounded  her 
with  luxuries  and  comforts  ;  and  divesting  herself  of 
her  handsome  dress,  puts  on  her  old  simple  mourning 
for  dear  Paul,  and  sits  down  to  read,  with  Diogenes 
winking  and  blinking  on  the  ground  beside  her.  But 
Florence  cannot  read  to-night.  The  house  seems  strange 
and  new,  and  there  are  loud  echoes  in  it.  There  is  a 
shadow  on  her  heart  :  she  knows  not  why  or  what :  but 
it  is  heavy.  Florence  shuts  her  book,  and  gruff  Dioge- 
nes, who  takes  that  for  a  signal,  puts  his  paws  upon 
her  lap,  and  rubs  his  ears  against  her  caressing  hands. 
But  Florence  cannot  see  him  plainly,  in  a  little  time,  for 
there  is  a  mist  between  her  eyes  and  him,  and  her  dead 
brother  and  dead  mother  shine  in  it  like  angels.  Wal- 
ter, too,  poor  wandering  ship-wrecked  boy,  oh,  where  is 
he  ! 

The  major  don't  know  ;  that's  for  certain  ;  and  don't 
care.  The  major,  having  choked  and  slumbered,  all 
the  afternoon,  has  taken  a  late  dinner  at  his  club,  and 
now  sits  over  his  pint  of  wine,  driving  a  modest  young 
man,  with  a  fresh-coloured  face,  at  the  next  table  (who 
would  give  a  handsome  sum  to  be  able  to  rise  and  go 
away,  but  cannot  do  it)  to  the  verge  of  madness,  by 
anecdotes  of  Bagstock,  sir,  at  Dombey's  wedding,  and 
old  Joe's  devilish  gentlemanly  friend.  Lord  Feenix. 
While  Cousin  Feenix,  who  ought  to  be  at  Long's,  and 
in  bed,  finds  himself,  instead,  at  a  gaming-table,  where 
his  wilful  legs  have  taken  him,  perhaps,  in  his  own 
despite. 

Night,  like  a  giant,  fills  the  church,  from  pavement  to 
roof,  and  holds  dominion  through  the  silent  hours.  Pale 
dawn  again  comes  peeping  through  the  windows  ;  and, 
giving  place  to  day,  sees  night  withdraw  into  the  vaults, 
and  follows  it,  and  drives  it  out,  and  hides  among  the 
dead.  The  timid  mice  again  cower  close  together,  when 
the  great  door  clashes,  and  Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


567 


treading  the  circle  of  tlieir  daily  lives,  unbroken  as  a 
marriage  ring,  come  in.  Again  the  cocked  hat  and  the 
mortified  bonnet  stand  in  the  back  ground  at  the  mar- 
riage hour  :  and  again  this  man  taketh  this  woman,  and 
this  woman  taketh  this  man,  on  the  solemn  terms  : 

"  To  have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for 
better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in 
health,  to  love  and  to  cherish,  until  death  do  them  part." 

The  very  words  that  Mr.  Carker  rides  into  town  re- 
peating, with  his  mouth  stretched  to  the  utmost,  as  he 
picks  his  dainty  way. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Tlie  Wooden  Midshipman  goes  to  Pieces. 

Honest  Captain  Cuttle,  as  the  weeks  flew  over  him  in 
his  fortified  retreat,  by  no  means  abated  any  of  his  pru- 
dent provisions  against  surprise,  because  of  the  nonap- 
pearance of  the  enemy.  The  captain  argued  that  his 
present  security  was  too  profound  and  wonderful  to  en- 
dure much  longer  ;  he  knew  that  when  the  wind  stood 
in  a  fair  quarter,  the  weathercock  was  seldom  nailed 
there  ;  and  he  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the  deter- 
mined and  dauntless  character  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to 
doubt  that  that  heroic  woman  had  devoted  herself  to  the 
task  of  his  discovery  and  capture.  Trembling  beneath 
the  weight  of  these  reasons,  Captain  Cuttle  lived  a  very 
close  and  retired  life  ;  seldom  stirring  abroad  until  after 
dark  ;  venturing  even  then  only  into  the  obscurest 
streets  ;  never  going  forth  at  all  on  Sundays ;  and 
both  within  and  without  the  walls  of  his  retreat,  avoid- 
ing bonnets,  as  if  they  were  worn  by  raging  lions. 

The  captain  never  dreamed  that  in  the  event  of  his 
being  pounced  upon  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  his  walks,  it 
would  be  possible  to  offer  resistance.  He  felt  that  it 
could  not  be  done.  He  saw  himself,  in  his  mind's  eye, 
pat  meekly  in  a  hackney  coach,  and  carried  off  to  his  old 
lodofings.  He  foresaw  that,  once  immured  there,  he  was 
a  lost  man  :  his  hat  gone  ;  Mrs.  MacStinger  watchful  of 
him  day  and  night  ;  reproaches  heaped  upon  his  head, 
before  the  infant  family  ;  himself  the  guilty  object  of 
suspicion  and  distrust :  an  ogre  in  the  children's  eyes, 
and  in  their  mother's  a  detected  traitor. 

A  violent  perspiration,  and  alowness  of  spirits  always 
came  over  the  captain  as  this  gloomy  picture  presented 
itself  to  his  imagination.  It  generally  did  so  previous  to 
his  stealing  out  of  doors  at  night  for  air  and  exercise. 
Sensible  of  the  risk  he  ran,  the  captain  took  leave  of 
Rob,  at  those  times  with  the  solemnity  which  became  a 
man  who  might  never  return  ;  exhorting  him  in  the 
event  of  his  (the  captain's)  being  lost  sight  of,  for  a  time, 
to  tread  in  the  paths  of  virtue,  and  keep  the  brazen  in- 
struments well  polished. 

But  not  to  throw  away  a  chance,  and  to  secure  to  him- 
self a  means,  in  case  of  the  worst,  of  holding  communi- 
cation with  the  external  world  ;  Captain  Cuttle  soon 
conceived  the  happy  idea  of  teaching  Rob  the  Grinder 
some  secret  signal,  by  which  that  adherent  might  make 
his  presence  and  fidelity  known  to  his  commander,  in 
the  hour  of  adversity.  After  much  cogitation,  the  cap- 
tain decided  in  favour  of  instructing  him  to  whistle  the 
marine  melody,  "  Oh  cheerily,  cheerily  ! "  and  Rob  the 
Grinder  attaining  a  point  as  near  perfection  in  that  ac- 
complishment as  a  landsman  could  hope  to  reach,  the 
captain  impressed  these  mysterious  instructions  on  his 
mind  : 

"  Now,  my  lad,  stand  by  !    If  ever  I'm  took — " 
y  Took,  captain  ! "  interposed  Rob,  with  his  round  eyes 
wide  open, 

"Ahl"  said  Captain  Cuttle  darkly,  ''if  ever  I  goes 
away,  meaning  to  come  back  to  supper,  and  don't  come 
within  hail  again  twenty- four  hours  artermy  loss,  go  you 
to  Brig-place  and  whistle  that  'ere  tune  near  my  old 
moorings — not  as  if  you  was  a  meaning  of  it,  you  under- 
stand, but  as  if  you'd  drifted  there,  promiscuous.  If  I 
answer  in  that  tune,  you  sheer  off,  my  lad,  and  come 
back  four-and-twenty  hours  arter wards  ;  if  I  answer  in 
another  tune,  do  you  stand  off  and  on,  and  wait  till  I 
throw  out  further  signals.  Do  you  understand  them  or- 
ders, now  ?  " 


"What  am  I  to  stand  off  and  on  of,  Captain?"  in- 
quired Rob.    "The  horse-road  ?  " 

"  Here's  a  smart  lad  for  you  !"  cried  the  captain,  eye- 
ing him  sternly,  "  as  don't  know  his  own  native  alpha- 
bet 1  Go  away  a  bit  and  come  back  again  alternate — <l*ye 
understand  that?" 

"Yes,  captain,"  said  Rob. 

"  Very  good,  my  lad,  then,"  said  the  captain,  relent- 
ing. "Doit!" 

That  he  might  do  it  the  better.  Captain  Cuttle  some- 
times condescended,  of  an  evening,  after  the  shop  was 
shut,  to  rehearse  the  scene  :  retiring  into  the  parlOurfor 
the  purpose,  as  into  the  lodgings  of  a  supposititious  Mac- 
Stinger, and  carefully  observing  the  behaviour  of  his 
ally,  from  the  hole  of  espial  he  had  cut  in  the  wall.  Rob 
the  Grinder  discharged  himself  of  his  duty  with  so  much 
exactness  and  judgment,  when  thus  put  to  the  proof, 
that  the  captain  presented  him,  at  divers  times,  with 
seven  sixpences,  in  token  of  satisfaction  ;  and  gradually 
felt  stealing  over  his  spirit  the  resignation  of  a  man  who 
had  made  provision  for  the  worst,  and  taken  every  rea- 
sonable precaution  against  an  unrelenting  fate: 

Nevertheless,  the  captain  did  not  tempt  ill-fortune,  by 
being  a  whit  more  venturesome  than  before.  Though 
he  considered  it  a  point  of  good  breeding  in  himself,  as  a 
general  friend  of  the  family,  to  attend  Mr.  Dombey's  wed- 
ding (of  which  he  had  heard  from  Mr.  Perch),  and  to  show 
that  gentleman  a  pleasant  and  approving  countenance 
from  the  gallery,  he  had  repaired  to  the  church  in  a  hack- 
ney cabriolet  with  both  windows  up  ;  and  might  have 
scrupled  even  to  make  that  venture,  in  his  dread  of  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  but  that  the  lady's  attendance  on  the  ministry 
of  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  rendered  it  peculiarly  un- 
likely that  she  would  be  found  in  communion  with  the 
Establishment. 

The  captain  got  safe  home  again,  and  fell  into  the  or- 
dinary routine  of  his  new  life,  without  encountering  any 
more  direct  alarm  from  the  enemy,  than  was  suggested 
to  him  by  the  daily  bonnets  in  the  street.  But,  other  sub- 
jects began  to  lie  heavier  on  the  captain's  mind.  Wal- 
ter's ship  was  still  unheard  of.  No  news  caine  of  old  Sol 
Gills.  Florence  did  not  even  know  of  the  old  man's  dis- 
appearance, and  Captain  Cuttle  had  not  the  heart  to  tell 
her.  Indeed  the  captain,  as  his  own  hopes  of  the  gen- 
erous, handsome,  gallant-hearted  youth,  whom  he  had 
loved,  according  to  his  rough  manner,  from  a  child,  be- 
gan to  fade,  and  fade  more  and  more  from  day  to  day, 
shrunk  with  instinctive  pain  from  the  thought  of  ex- 
changing a  word  with  Florence.  If  he  had  had  good 
news  to  carry  to  her,  the  honest  captain  would  have 
braved  the  newly  decorated  house  and  splendid  furni- 
ture— though  these,  connected  with  the  lady  he  had  seen 
at  church,  were  awful  to  him — and  made  his  way  into 
her  presence.  With  a  dark  horizon  gathering  around 
their  common  hopes,  how^ever,  which  darkened  every 
hour,  the  captain  almost  felt  as  if  he  were  a  new  misfor- 
tune and  affliction  to  her  ;  and  was  scarcely  less  afraid 
of  a  visit  from  Florence,  than  from  Mrs.  MacStinger 
herself. 

It  was  a  chill  dark  autumn  evening,  and  Captain  Cut- 
tle had  ordered  a  fire  to  be  kindled  in  the  little  back 
parlour,  now  more  than  ever  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship. 
The  rain  fell  fast,  and  the  wind  blew  hard  ;  and  straying 
out  on  the  house-  top  by  that  stormy  bed-room  of  his  old 
friend,  to  take  an  observation  of  the  weather,  the  cap- 
tain's heart  died  within  him,  when  he  saw  how  wild  and 
desolate  it  was.  Not  that  he  associated  the  weather  of 
that  time  with  poor  Walter's  destiny,  or  doubted  that  if 
Providence  had  doomed  him  to  be  lost  and  shipwrecked, 
it  was  over,  long  ago  ;  but  that  beneath  an  outward  in- 
fluence quite  distinct  from  the  subject-matter  of  his 
thoughts,  the  captain's  spirits  sank,  and  his  hopes  turned 
pale,  as  those  of  wiser  men  have  often  done  before  him, 
and  will  often  do  again. 

Captain  Cuttle,  addressing  his  face  to  the  sharp  wind 
and  slanting  rain,  looked  up  at  the  heavy  scud  that  was 
flying  fast  over  the  wilderness  of  house-tops,  and  looked 
for  something  cheery  there,  in  vain.  The  prospect  near 
at  hand  was  no  better.  In  sundry  tea-chests,  and  other 
rough  boxes  at  his  feet,  the  pigeons  of  Rob  the  Grinder 
were  cooing  like  so  many  dismal  breezes  getting  up.  A 
crazy  weathercock  of  a  midshipman  with  a  telescope  at 


568 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


his  eye,  once  visible  from  the  street,  but  long  bricked 
out,  creaked  and  complained  upon  his  rusty  pivot  as  the 
shrill  blast  spun  him  round  and  round,  and  sported  with 
him  cruelly.  Upon  the  captain's  coarse  blue  vest  the 
cold  rain-drops  darted  like  steel  beads  ;  and  he  could 
hardly  maintain  himself  aslant  against  the  stiff  nor'wes- 
ter  that  came  pressing  against  him,  importunate  to  top- 
ple him  over  the  parapet,  and  throw  him  on  the  pave- 
ment below.  If  there  were  any  Hope  alive  that  evening, 
the  captain  thought,  as  he  held  his  hat  on,  it  certainly 
kept  house,  and  wasn't  out  of  doors  ;  so  the  captain, 
shaking  his  head  in  a  despondent  manner,  went  in  to 
look  for  it. 

Captain  Cuttle  descended  slowly  to  the  little  back  par- 
lour, and,  seated  in  his  accustomed  chair,  looked  for  it 
in  the  fire ;  but  it  was  not  there,  though  the  fire  was 
bright.  He  took  out  his  tobacco-box  and  pipe,  and  com- 
posing himself  to  smoke,  looked  for  it  in  the  red  glow 
from  the  bowl,  and  in  the  wreaths  of  vapour  that  curled 
upward  from  his  lips  ;  but  there  was  not  so  much  as  an 
atom  of  the  rust  of  Hope's  anchor  in  either.  He  tried  a 
glass  of  grog  ;  but  melancholy  truth  was  at  the  bottom 
of  that  well,  and  he  couldn't  finish  it.  He  made  a  turn 
or  two  in  the  shop,  and  looked  for  Hope  among  the  in- 
struments ;  but  they  obstinately  worked  out  reckonings 
for  the  missing  ship,  in  spite  of  any  opposition  he  could 
offer,  that  ended  at  the  bottom  of  the  lone  sea. 

The  wind  still  rushing,  and  the  rain  stiil  pattering, 
against  the  closed  shutters,  the  captain  brought  to  before 
the  wooden  Midshipman  upon  the  counter,  and  thought, 
as  he  dried  the  little  officer's  uniform  with  his  sleeve, 
how  many  years  the  Midshipman  had  seen,  during  which 
few  changes — hardly  any — had  transpired  among  his 
ship's  company  ;  how  the  changes  had  come  all  together 
one  day,  as  it  might  be  ;  and  of  what  a  sweeping  kind 
they  were.  Here  was  the  little  society  of  the  back  par- 
lour broken  up,  and  scattered  far  and  wide.  Here  was 
no  audience  for  lovely  Peg,  even  if  there  had  been  any- 
body to  sing  it,  which  there  was  not ;  for  the  captain 
was  as  morally  certain  that  nobody  but  he  could  execute 
that  ballad,  as  he  was  that  he  had  not  the  spirit,  under 
existing  circumstances,  to  attempt  it.  There  was  no 
bright  face  of  "  Wal'r"  in  the  house  ; — here  the  captain 
transferred  his  sleeve  for  a  moment  from  the  midship- 
man's uniform  to  his  own  cheek  ; — the  familiar  wig  and 
buttons  of  Sol  Gills  were  a  vision  of  the  past ;  Richard 
Whittington  was  knocked  on  the  head  ;  and  every  plan 
and  project,  in  connexion  with  the  Midshipman,  lay 
drifting,  without  mast  or  rudder,  on  the  waste  of  waters. 

As  the  captain,  with  a  dejected  face,  stood  revolving 
these  thoughts,  and  polishing  the  Midshipman,  partly 
in  the  tenderness  of  old  acquaintance,  and  partly  in  the 
absence  of  his  mind,  a  knocking  at  the  shop-door  com- 
municated a  frightful  start  to  the  frame  of  Rob  the  Grin- 
der seated  on  the  counter,  whose  large  eyes  had  been  in- 
tently fixed  on  the  captain's  face,  and  who  had  been 
debating  within  himself,  for  the  five  hundreth  time, 
whether  the  captain  could  have  done  a  murder,  that  he 
had  such  an  evil  conscience,  and  was  always  running 
away. 

"  What's  that  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  softly. 
"Somebody's  knuckles,  captain,"  answered  Rob  the 
Grinder. 

The  captain,  with  an  abashed  and  guilty  air,  imme- 
diately sneaked  on  tiptoe  to  the  little  parlour  and  locked 
himself  in.  Rob,  opening  the  door,  would  have  parleyed 
with  the  visitor  on  the  threshold  if  the  visitor  had  come 
in  female  guise  ;  but  the  figure  being  of  the  male  sex, 
and  Rob's  orders  only  applying  to  women,  Rob  held  the 
door  open  and  allowed  it  to  enter  :  which  it  did  very 
quickly,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  driving  rain. 

"  A  job  for  Burgess  and  Co.  at  any  rate,"  said  the  vis- 
itor looking  over  his  shoulder  compassionately  at  his  own 
legs,  which  were  very  wet  and  covered  with  splashes. 
*'  Oh,  how-fJe-do,  Mr.  Gills  ?" 

The  salutation  was  addressed  to  the  captain,  now 
emerging  from  the  back  parlour  with  a  most  transparent 
and  utterly  futile  affectation  of  coming  out  by  accident. 

"Thankee,"  the  gentleman  went  on  to  say  in  the 
same  breath  ;  "  I'm  very  well  indeed,  myself,  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you.    My  name  is  Toots, — Mister  Toots." 

The  captain  remembered  to  have  seen  this  young  gen- 1 


tleman  at  the  wedding,  and  made  him  a  bow.  Mr.  Toots 
replied  with  a  chuckle  ;  and  being  embarrassed,  as  he 
generally  was,  breathed  hard,  shook  hands  with  the  cap- 
tain for  a  long  time,  and  then  falling  on  Rob  the  Grin- 
der, in  the  absence  of  any  other  resource,  shook  hands 
with  him  in  a  most  affectionate  and  cordial  manner. 

"I  say  !  I  should  like  to  speak  a  word  to  you,  Mr. 
Gills,  if  you  please,"  said  Toots  at  length,  with  surpris- 
ing presence  of  mind.  "  I  say  !  Miss  D.  0.  M.  you 
know  ! " 

The  captain,  with  responsive  gravity  and  mystery,  im- 
mediately waved  his  hook  towards  the  little  parlour, 
whither  Mr.  Toots  followed  him. 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon  though,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
looking  up  at  the  captain's  face,  as  he  sat  down  in  a 
chair  by  the  fire,  which  the  captain  placed  for  him; 
"you  don't  happen  to  know  the  Chicken  at  all  ;  do  you 
Mr.  Gills?" 

"The  Chicken  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"The  Game  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  captain  shaking  his  head,  Mr.  Toots  explained 
that  the  man  alluded  to  was  the  celebrated  public  char- 
acter who  had  covered  himself  and  his  country  with 
glory  in  his  contest  with  the  Nobby  Shropshire  One  ;  but 
this  piece  of  information  did  not  appear  to  enlighten  the 
captain  very  much. 

"Because  he's  outside:  that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
"  But  it's  of  no  consequence  ;  he  won't  get  very  wet, 
perhaps." 

"  I  can  pass  the  word  for  him  in  a  moment,"  said  the 
captain. 

"  Well,  if  you  would  have  the  goodness  to  let  him  sit 
in  the  shop  with  your  young  man,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots, 
"  I  should  be  glad  ;  because  you  know  he  is  easily  of- 
fended, and  the  damp's  rather  bad  for  his  stamina.  /'II 
call  him  in,  Mr,  Gills." 

' '  With  that,  Mr.  Toots,  repairing  to  the  shop-door, 
sent  a  peculiar  whistle  into  the  night,  which  produced  a 
stoical  gentleman  in  a  shaggy  white  great-coat  and  a 
flat-brimmed  hat,  with  very  short  hair,  a  broken  nose, 
and  a  considerable  tract  of  bare  and  sterile  country  behind 
each  ear. 

"Sit  down,  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  compliant  Chicken  spat  out  some  small  pieces  of 
straw  on  which  he  was  regaling  himself,  and  took  in  a 
fresh  supply  from  a  reserve  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

"  There  an't  no  drain  of  nothing  short  handy,  is 
there  ?  "  said  the  Chicken,  generally.  "  This  here  sluic- 
ing night  is  hard  lines  to  a  man  as  lives  on  his  con- 
dition." 

Captain  Cuttle  proffered  a  glass  of  rum,  which  the 
Chicken,  throwing  back  his  head,  emptied  into  himself, 
as  into  a  cask,  after  proposing  the  brief  sentiment, 
"  Towards  us  !  "  Mr.  Toots  and  the  captain  returning 
then  to  the  parlour,  and  taking  their  seats  before  the 
fire,  Mr.  Toots  began  : 

"Mr.  Gills—" 

"  Awast !  "  said  the  captain.    "  My  name's  Cuttle. " 

Mr.  Toots  looked  greatly  disconcerted,  while  the  cap- 
tain proceeded  gravely  : 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle  is  my  name,  and  England  is  my  nation, 
this  here  is  my  dwelling-place,  and  blessed  be  creation 
— Job,"  said  the  captain,  as  an  index  to  his  authority. 

"Oh!  I  couldn't  see  Mr.  Gills,  could  I  ?"  said  Mr. 
Toots;  "because — " 

"If you  could  see  Sol  Gills,  young  gen'l'm'n,  said 
the  captain,  impressively,  and  laying  his  heavy  hand  on 
Mr.  Toots's  knee,  "old  Sol,  mind  you — with  your  own 
eyes — as  you  sit  there — you'd  be  welcomer  to  me,  than  a 
wind  astarn,  to  a  ship  becalmed.  But  you  can't  see  Sol 
Gills.  And  why  can't  you  see  Sol  Gills  ?  "  said  the  cap- 
tain, apprised  by  the  face  of  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was  rnak- 
ing  a  profound  impression  on  that  gentleman's  mind. 
"Because  he's  inwisible." 

Mr.  Toots  in  his  agitation  was  going  to  reply  that  it 
was  of  no  consequence  at  all.  But  he  corrected  hin;iself, 
and  said,  "  Lor  bless  me  1 " 

"  That  there  man,"  said  the  captain,  "  has  left  me  in 
charge  here  by  a  piece  of  writing,  but  though  he  was 
a'most  as  good  as  my  sworn  brother,  I  know  no  more 
where  he's  gone,  or  why  he's  gone — if  so  be  to  seek  his 
nevy,  or  if  so  be  along  of  being  not  quite  settled  in  his 


DOMBEY 

mind — than  you  do.  One  morning  at  daybreak,  he  went 
over  the  side,"  said  the  captain,  "without  a  splash, 
without  a  ripple.  I  have  looked  for  that  man  high  and 
low,  and  never  set  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  nothing  else,  upon 
him,  from  that  hour. " 

"  But,  good  gracious,  Miss  Dombey  don't  know — "  Mr. 
Toots  began. 

"  Why,  I  ask  you,  as  a  feeling  heart,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, dropping  his  voice,  why  sliould she  know  ?  Why 
should  she  be  made  to  know,  until  such  time  as  there 
warn't  any  help  for  it?  She  took  to  old  Sol  Gills,  did 
that  sweet  creetur,  with  a  kindness,  with  a  affability, 
with  a — what's  the  good  of  saying  so  ?  you  know  her. " 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  con- 
scious blush  that  suffused  his  whole  countenance. 

"  And  you  come  here  from  her?"  said  the  captain. 

*'  I  should  think  so,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Then  all  I  need,  observe  is,"  said  the  captain,  "  that 
you  know  a  angel,  and  are  chartered  hy  a  angel." 

Mr.  Toots  instantly  seized  the  captain's  hand,  and  re- 
quested the  favour  of  his  friendship. 

*'  Upon  my  word  and  honour,"  said  Mr. Toots,  earnestly, 
"  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you'd  improve 
my  acquaintance.  I  should  like  to  know  you,  captain, 
very  much.  I  really  am  in  want  of  a  friend,  I  am.  Lit- 
tle Dombey  was  my  friend  at  old  Blimber's,  and  would 
have  been  now,  if  he'd  have  lived.  The  Chicken,"  said 
Mr.  Toots,  in  a  forlorn  whisper,  "is  very  well — admira- 
ble in  his  way — the  sharpest  man  perhaps  in  the  world  ; 
there's  not  a  move  he  isn't  up  to  ;  everybody  says  so — but 
I  don't  know — he's  not  everything.  So  she  is  an  angel, 
captain.  If  there  is  an  angel  anywhere,  it's  Miss  Dom- 
bey. That's  what  I've  always  said.  Really  though,  you 
know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  be  very  much  obliged 
if  you  cultivate  my  acquaintance." 

Captain  Cuttle  received  this  proposal  in  a  polite  man- 
ner, but  still  without  committing  himself  to  its  accept- 
ance ;  merely  observing,  "  Ay,  ay,  my  lad.  We  shall 
see,  we  shall  see  ;  "  and  reminding  Mr.  Toots  of  his  im- 
mediate mission,  by  inquiring  to  what  he  was  indebted 
for  the  honour  of  that  visit. 

"  Why  the  fact  is,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "that  it's  the 
young  woman  I  come  from.  Not  Miss  Dombey— -Susan, 
you  know." 

The  captain  nodded  his  head  once,  with  a  grave  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  indicative  of  his  regarding  that 
young  woman  with  serious  respect. 

"  And  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happens,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
"  You  know,  I  go  and  call'  sometimes,  on  Miss  Dombey. 
I  don't  go  there  on  purpose,  you  know,  but  I  happen  to 
be  in  the  neighbourhood  very  often  ;  and  when  I  find 
myself  there,  why — why  I  call." 

"Nat'rally,"  observed  the  captain. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "I  called  this  afternoon. 
Upon  my  word  and  honour,  I  don't  think  it's  possible  to 
form  an  idea  of  the  angel  Miss  Dombey  was  this  after- 
noon." 

The  captain  answered  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  imply- 
ing that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  some  people,  but  was 
quite  so,  to  him. 

"As  I  was  coming  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  the  young 
woman,  in  the  most  unexpected  manner,  took  me  into 
the  pantry." 

The  captain  seemed,  for  the  moment,  to  object  to  this 
proceeding  ;  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  looked  at  Mr. 
Toots  with  a  distrustful,  if  not  threatening  visage. 

"  Where  she  brought  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  this 
newspaper.  She  told  me  that  she  had  kept  it  from  Miss 
Dombey  all  day,  on  account  of  something  that  was  in  it, 
about  somebody  that  she  and  Dombey  used  to  know  ; 
and  then  she  read  the  passage  to  me.  Very  well.  Then 
she  said — wait  a  minute ;  what  was  it,  she  said 
though  !  " 

Mr.  Toots,  endeavouring  to  concentrate  his  mental 
powers  on  this  question,  unintentionally  fixed  the  cap- 
tain's eye,  and  was  so  much  discomposed  by  its  stem  ex- 
pression, that  his  difficulty  in  resuming  the  thread  of 
his  subject  was  enhanced  to  a  painful  extent. 

"  Oh  I  "  said  Mr.  Toots  after  long  consideration.  "  Oh, 
ah  !  Yes  !  She  said  that  she  hoped  there  was  a  bare 
possibility  that  it  mightn't  be  true  ;  and  that  as  she 
couldn't  very  well  come  out  herself,  without  surprising 


AND  SOK  569 

Miss  Dombey,  would  I  go  down  to  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  the 
Instrument-maker's  in  this  street,  who  was  the  party's 
uncle,  and  ask  whether  he  believed  it  was  true,  or  had 
heard  anything  else  in  the  city.  She  said,  if  he  couldn't 
speak  to  me,  no  doubt  Captain  Cuttle  could.  By  the 
bye  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  as  the  discovery  flashed  upon  him, 
"  you,  you  know  !" 

The  captain  glanced  at  the  newspaper  in  Mr.  Toots's 
hand,  and  breathed  short  and  hurriedly. 

"Well,"  pursued  Mr.  Toots,  "the  reason  why  I'm 
rather  late  is,  because  I  went  up  as  far  as  Finchley  first, 
to  get  some  uncommonly  fine  cliickweed  that  grows 
there,  for  Miss  Dombey 's  bird.  But  I  came  on  here,  di- 
rectly afterwards.    You've  seen  the  paper,  I  suppose?" 

The  captain,  who  had  become  cautious  of  reading  the 
news,  lest  he  should  find  himself  advertised  at  full 
length  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  shook  his  head. 

"Shall  I  read  the  passage  to  you?"  inquired  Mr. 
Toots. 

The  captain  making  a  sign  in  the  affirmative,  Mr.  Toots 
read  as  follows,  from  the  Shipping  Intelligence  : 

"  '  Southampton.  The  barque  Defiance,  Henry  James, 
Commander,  arrived  in  this  port  to-day,  with  a  cargo  of 
sugar,  coffee  and  rum,  reports  that  being  becalmed  on  the 
sixth  day  of  her  passage  home  from  Jamaica,  in ' — in 
such  and  such  a  latitude,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
after  making  a  feeble  dash  at  the  figures,  and  tumbling 
over  them. 

"Ay  !"  cried  the  captain,  striking  his  clenched  hand 
on  the  table.    "  Heave  a-head,  my  lad  !" 

" — latitude,"  repeated  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  startled 
glance  at  the  captain,  "and  longitude  so-and-so, — 'the 
lookout  observed,  half  an  hour  before  h^unset,  some 
fragments  of  a  wreck,  drifting  at  about  the  distance  of  a 
mile.  The  weather  being  clear,  and  the  barque  making 
noway,  a  boat  was  hoisted  out,  with  orders  to  inspect  the 
same,  when  they  were  found  to  consist  of  sundry  large 
spars,  and  a  part  of  the  main  rigging  of  an  English  brig, 
of  about  five  hundred  tons  burden,  together  with  a  por- 
tion of  the  stern  on  which  the  words  and  letters  "Son 
and  H — "  were  yet  plainly  legible.  No  vestige  of  any 
dead  body  was  to  be  seen  upon  the  floating  fragments. 
Log  of  the  Defiance  states,  that  a  breeze  springing  up  in 
the  night,  the  wreck  was  seen  no  more.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  all  surmises  as  to  the  fate  of  the  missing 
vessel,  the  Son  and  Heir,  port  of  London,  bound  for  Bar- 
badoes,  are  now  set  at  rest  for  ever  ;  that  she  broke  up 
in  the  last  hurricane  ;  and  that  every  soul  on  board  per- 
ished.'" 

Captain  Cuttle,  like  all  mankind,  little  knew  how 
much  hope  had  survived  within  him  under  discourage- 
ment, until  he  felt  its  death-shock.  During  the  reading 
of  the  paragraph,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  afterwards, 
he  sat  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  modest  Mr.  Toots,  like 
a  man  entranced  ;  then,  suddenly  rising,  and  putting  on 
his  glazed  hat,  which,  in  his  visitor's  honour,  he  had 
laid  upon  the  table,  the  captain  turned  his  back,  and 
bent  his  head  down  on  the  little  chimney-piece. 

"  Oh,  upon  my  word  and  honour,"  cried  Mr.  Toots, 
whose  tender  heart  was  moved  by  the  captain's  unex- 
pected distress,  "this  is  a  most  wretched  sort  of  affair 
this  world  is  !  Somebody's  always  dying,  or  going  and 
doing  something  uncomfortable  in  it.  I'm  sure  I  never  • 
sliould  have  looked  forward  so  much,  to  coming  into  my 
property,  if  I  had  known  this.  I  never  saw  such  a 
world.    It's  a  great  deal  worse  than  Blimber's." 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  altering  his  position,  signed 
to  Mr.  Toots  not  to  mind  him;  and  presently  turned 
round,  with  his  glazed  hat  thrust  back  upon  his  ears, 
and  his  hand  composing  and  smoothing  his  brown  face. 

"  Wal'r,  my  dear  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "  farewell  ! 
Wal'r  my  child,  my  boy,  and  man,  I  loved  you  !  He 
warn't  my  flesh  and  blood,"  said  the  captain,  looking  at 
the  fire — "I  an't  got  none— but  something  of  what  a 
father  feels  when  he  loses  a  son,  I  feel  in  losing  Wal'r. 
For  why?  "  said  the  captain.  "  Because  it  an't  one  loss, 
but  a  round  dozen.  Where's  that  there  young  school- 
boy with  the  rosy  face  and  curly  hair,  that  used  to  be  as 
merry  in  this  here  parlour,  come  round  every  week,  as  a 
piece  of  music?  Gone  down  with  Wal'r.  Where's  that 
there  fresh  lad,  that  nothing  couldn't  tire  nor  put  out, 
and  that  sparkled  up  and  blushed  so,  when  we  joked 


570 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


him  about  Heart's  Delight,  tliat  lie  was  beautiful  to  look 
at  t  Gone  down  with  Wal'r.  Where's  that  there  man's 
spirit,  all  afire,  that  wouldn't  see  the  old  man  hove  down 
for  a  minute,  and  cared  nothing  for  itself  ?  Gone  down 
with  Wal'r.  It  au't  one  Wal'r.  Tliere  was  a  dozen 
Wal'rs  that  I  knowed,  and  loved,  all  holding  Tound  his 
neck  when  he  went  down,  and  they're  a-holding  round 
mine  now  ! " 

Mr.  Toots  sat  silent  :  folding  and  refolding  the  news- 
paper as  small  as  possible  upon  his  knee. 

"  And  Sol  Gills,"  said  the  captain,  gazing  at  the  fire, 
"  poor  nevyless  old  Sol,  where  are  you  got  to  !  you  was 
left  in  charge  of  me  ;  his  last  words  was,  '  Take  care  of 
my  uncle  ; '  W^hat  came  over  you,  Sol,  when  you  went 
and  gave  the  go-bye  to  Ned  Cuttle  ;  and  what  am  I  to 
put  in  my  accounts  that  he's  a  looking  down  upon, 
respecting  you  !  Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gills  !"  said  the  captain, 
shaking  his  head  slowly,  "  catch  sight  of  that  there 
newspaper,  away  from  home,  with  no  one  as  knovv'd 
Wal'r  by,  to  say  a  word  ;  and  broadside-to  you  broach, 
and  down  you  pitch,  head- foremost  ! "  . 

Drawing  a  heavy  sigh,  the  captain  turned  to  Mr. 
Toots,  and  roused  himself  to  a  sustained  consciousness 
of  that  gentleman's  presence. 

"My  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "you  must  tell  the 
young  woman  honestly  that  this  here  fatal  news  is  too 
correct.  They  don't  romance,  you  see,  on  such  pints. 
It's  entered  on  the  ship's  log,  and  that's  the  truest  book 
as  a  man  can  write.  To-morrow  morning,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "I'll  step  out  and  make  inquiries;  but  they'll 
lead  to  no  good.  They  can't  do  it.  If  you'll  give  me  a 
look-in  in  the  forenoon,  you  shall  know  what  I  have 
heerd  ;  but  tell  the  young  woman  from  Cap'en  Cuttle, 
that  it's  over.  Over  ! "  And  the  captain,  hooking  off 
his  glazed  hat,  pulled  his  handkerchief  out  of  the  crown, 
wiped  his  grizzled  head  despairingly,  and  tossed  the 
handkerchief  in  again,  with  the  indifference  of  deep  de- 
jection. 

"Oh!  I  assure  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "really  I  am 
dreadfully  sorry.  Upon  my  word  I  am,  though  I  wasn't 
acquainted  with  the  party.  Do  you  think  Miss  Dombey 
will  be  very  much  affected.  Captain  Gills — I  mean  Mr. 
Cuttle  ?  " 

"  Why,  Lord  love  you,"  returned  the  captain,  with 
something  of  compassion  for  Mr.  Toots's  innocence. 
"  When  she  warn't  no  higher  than  that,  they  were  as 
fond  of  one  another  as  two  young  doves." 

"  W^ere  they  though  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  consider- 
ably lengthened  face. 

"  They  were  made  for  one  another,"  said  the  captain, 
mournfully  ;  "  but  what  signifies  that  now?" 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honour,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  blurt- 
ing out  his  words  through  a  singular  combination  of 
awkward  chuckles  and  emotion,  "  I'm  even  more  sorry 
than  I  was  before.  You  know  Captain  Gills,  I — I  posi- 
tively adore  Miss  Dombey  ; — I — I  am  perfectly  sore  with 
loving  her  ;  "  the  burst  with  which  this  confession  forced 
itself  out  of  the  unhappy  Mr.  Toots,  bespoke  the  vehe- 
mence of  his  feelings  ;  "  but  what  would  be  the  good  of 
my  regarding  her  in  this  manner,  if  I  wasn't  truly  sorry 
for  her  feeling  pain,  whatever  was  the  cause  of  it.  Mine 
an't  a  selfish  affection,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in 
the  confidence  engendered  by  his  having  been  a  witness 
of  the  captain's  tenderness.  "It's  the  sort  of  thing  with 
me,  Captain  Gills,  that  if  I  could  be  run  over — or— or 
trampled  upon — or— or  thrown  off  a  very  high  place— or 
anything  of  that  sort — for  Miss  Dombey's  sake,  it 
would  be  the  most  delightful  thing  that  could  happen  to 
me." 

All  this,  Mr.  Toots  said  a  suppressed  voice,  to  prevent 
its  reaching  the  jealous  ears  of  the  Chicken,  who  ob- 
jected to  the  softer  emotions  ;  which  effort  of  restraint, 
coupled  with  the  intensity  of  his  feelings,  made  him  red 
to  tiie  tips  of  his  ears,  and  caused  him  to  present  such 
an  affecting  spectacle  of  disinterested  love  to  the  eyes 
of  Captain  Cuttle,  that  the  good  captain  patted  him  con- 
solingly on  the  back,  and  bade  him  cheer  up. 

"  Thank'ee,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  kind 
of  you,  in  the  midst  of  your  own  troubles,  to  say  so. 
I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you.  As  I  said  before,  1  really 
want  a  friend,  and  should  be  glad  to  have  your  acquaint- 
ance.   Although  1  am  very  well  off/'  said  Mr.  Toots, 


with  energy,  * '  you  can't  think  what  a  miserable  beast  I 
am.  The  hollow  crowd,  you  know,  when  they  see  me 
with  the  Chicken,  and  characters  of  distinction  like  that, 
suppose  me  to  be  happy  ;  but  I'm  wretched.  I  suffer  for 
Miss  Dombey,  Captain  Gills.  I  can't  get  through  my 
meals  ;  I  have  no  pleasure  in  my  tailor ;  I  often  cry 
when  I'm  alone.  I  assure  vou  it'll  be  a  satisfaction  to 
me  to  come  back  to-morrow,  or  to  come  back  fifty 
times." 

Mr.  Toots,  with  these  words,  shook  the  captain's 
hand  ;  and  disguising  such  traces  of  his  agitation  as 
could  be  disguised  on  so  short  a  notice,  before  the 
Chicken's  penetrating  glance,  rejoined  that  eminent  gen- 
tleman in  the  shop.  The  Chicken,  who  was  apt  to  be 
jealous  of  his  ascendancy,  eyed  Captain  Cuttle,  with 
anything  but  favour  as  he  took  leave  of  Mr,  Toots  ;  but 
followed  his  patron  without  being  otherwise  demonstra- 
tive of  his  ill-will  :  leaving  the  captjiin  oppressed  with 
sorrow  ;  and  Rob  the  Grinder  elevated  with  joy,  on  ac- 
count of  having  had  the  honour  of  staring  for  nearly 
half  an  hour,  at  the  conqueror  of  the  Nobby  Shropshire 
One. 

Long  after  Rob  was  fast  asleep  in  his  bed  under  the 
counter,  the  captain  sat  looking  at  the  fire  ;  and  long 
after  there  was  no  fire  to  look  at,  the  captain  sat  gazing 
on  the  rusty  bars,  with  unavailing  thoughts  of  Walter 
and  old  Sol  crowding  through  his  mind.  Retirement  to  the 
stormy  chamber  at  the  top  of  the  house  brought  no  rest 
with  it  ;  and  the  captain  rose  up  in  the  morning,  sorrow- 
ful and  un refreshed. 

As  soon  as  the  city  offices  were  open,  the  captain  is- 
sued forth  to  the  counting-house  of  Dombey  and  Son. 
But  there  was  no  opening  of  the  Midshipman's  windows 
that  morning.  Rob  the  Grinder,  by  the  captain's  or- 
ders, left  the  shutters  closed,  and  the  house  was  as  a 
house  of  death. 

It  chanced  that  Mr.  Carker  was  entering  the  oflBce,  as 
Captain  Cuttle  arrived  at  the  door.  Receiving  the  man- 
ager's benison  gravely  and  silently.  Captain  Cuttle 
made  bold  to  accompany  him  into  his  own  room. 

"  Well,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  up 
his  usual  position  before  the  fire-place,  and  keeping  on 
his  hat,  "  this  is  a  bad  business." 

"  You  have  received  the  news  as  was  in  print  yester- 
day, ^sir?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "we  have  received  it!  It 
was  accurately  stated.  The  under- writers  suffer  a  con- 
siderable loss.  We  are  very  sorry.  No  help  !  Such  is 
life  I  " 

Mr.  Carker  pared  his  nails  delicately  with  a  penknife, 
and  smiled  at  the  captain,  who  was  standing  by  the  door 
looking  at  him. 

"I  excessively  regret  poor  Gay,"  said  Carker,  "and 
the  crew.  I  understand  there  were  some  of  our  very  best 
men  among  'em.  It  always  happens  so.  Many  men 
with  families  too.  A  comfort  to  reflect  that  poor  Gay 
had  no  family.  Captain  Cuttle  !  " 

The  captain  stood  rubbing  his  chin,  and  looking  at  the 
manager.  The  manager  glanced  at  the  unopened  let- 
ters lying  on  his  desk,  and  took  up  the  ncAvspaper. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Captain  Cuttle  ?  " 
he  asked,  looking  off  it,  with  a  smiling  and  expressive 
glance  at  the  door. 

"  I  wish  you  could  set  my  mind  at  rest,  sir,  on  some- 
thing it's  uneasy  about,"  returned  the  captain. 

"Ay  !  "  exclaimed  the  manager,  "  what's  that  ?  Come, 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  must  trouble  you  to  be  quick,  if  you 
please.    I  am  much  engaged." 

"  Look'ee  here,  sir,"  said  the  captain,  advancing  a 
step.  "  Afore  my  friend  Wal'r  went  on  this  here  disas- 
trous voyage — " 

"  Come,  come.  Captain  Cuttle,"  interposed  the  smiling 
manager,  "  dont  talk  about  disastrous  voyages  in  that 
way.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  disastrous  voyages 
here,  my  good  fellow.  You  must  have  begun  very  early 
on  your  day's  allowance,  captain,  if  you  don't  remember 
that  there  are  hazards  in  all  voyages  whether  by  sea  or 
land.  You  are  not  made  uneasy  by  the  supposition  that 
young  what's-his-name  was  lost  in  bad  weather  that 
was  got  up  against  him  in  these  offices — are  you  ?  Fie, 
captain  !  Sleep,  and  soda-water,  and  the  best  cures  for 
such  uneasiness  at  that." 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


"GO,"  SAID  THE  GOOD-HUMOURED  MANAGER,  GATHERING  UP  HIS  SKIRTS,  AND  STANDING  ASTRIDE 


ON  THE  HEARTH-RUG,  "  LIKE  A  SENSIBLE  FELLOW,  AND  LET  US  HAVE  NO  TURNING  OUT,  OR 
ANY  SUCH  VIOLENT  MEASURES." 


DO  MB  FY  AND  SON. 


571 


''My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  slowly — "you  are 
a'niost  a  lad  to  me  and  so  I  don't  ask  your  pardon  for 
that  slip  of  a  word, — if  you  find  any  pleasure  in  this 
here  sport,  you  an't  the  gentleman  I  took  you  for,  and.  if 
you  an't  the  gentleman  I  took  you  for  may  be  my  mind 
has  call  to  be  uneasy.  Now  that  is  what  it  is,  Mr.  Car- 
ter.— Afore  that  poor  lad  went  away,  according  to 
orders,  he  told  ms  that  he  warn't  a  going  away  for  his 
own  good  or  for  promotion,  he  know'd.  It  was  my  be- 
lief that  he  was  wrong,  and  I  told  him  so,  and  I  come 
here,  your  head  governor  being  absent,  to  ask  a  question 
or  two  of  you  in  a  civil  way,  for  my  own  satisfaction. 
Them  questions  you  answered — free.  Now  it'll  ease  my 
mind  to  know,  when  all  is  over,  as  it  is,  and  when  what 
can't  be  cured  mu-^t  be  endoored — for  which,  as  a  scholar, 
you'll  overhaul  the  book  it's  in,  and  therefore  make  a 
note — to  know  once  more,  in  a  word,  that  I  warn't  mis- 
taken ;  that  I  w^arn't  back'ard  in  my  duty  when  I  didn't 
tell  the  old  man  what  Wal'r  told  me  ;  and  that  the  wind 
was  truly  in  his  sail,  when  he  highsted  of  it  for  Bar- 
badoes  Harbour.  Mr.  Carker,"  said  the  captain,  in  the 
goodness  of  his  nature,  "  when  I  was  here  last,  we  was 
very  pleasant  together.  If  I  ain't  been  altogether  so 
pleasant  myself  this  morning,  on  account  of  this  poor 
lad,  and  if  I  have  chafed  again  any  obserwation  of  yours 
that  I  might  have  fended  off,  my  name  is  Ed'ard  Cuttle, 
and  I  ask  your  pardon. " 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  the  manager,  with  all  pos- 
sible politeness,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favour." 

"And  what  is  it,  sir  ?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  To  have  the  goodness  to  walk  off,  if  you  please,"  re- 
joined the  manager,  stretching  forth  his  arm,  "  and  to 
carry  your  jargon  somewhere  else." 

Every  knob  in  the  captain's  face  turned  white  with  as- 
tonishment and  indignation  ;  even  the  red  rim  on  his 
forehead  faded,  like  a  rainbow  among  the  gathering 
clouds. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  the  manager, 
shaking  his  forefinger  at  him,  and  showing  him  all  his 
teeth,  but  still  amiably  smiling,  "I  was n^ijich  too  lenient 
with  you  when  you  came  here  before.  You  belong  to 
an  artful  and  audacious  set  of  people.  In  my  desire  to 
save  young  what's-his-name  from  being  kicked  out  of 
this  place,  neck  and  crop,  my  good  captain,  I  tolerated 
you  ;  but  for  once,  and  only  once.   Now,  go,  my  friend  !  " 

The  captain  was  absolutely  rooted  to  the  ground,  and 
speechless. 

'*  Go,"  said  the  good-humoured  manager,  gathering  up 
his  skirts,  and  standing  astride  upon  the  hearth-rug, 
"  like  a  sensible  fellow,  and  let  us  have  no  turning  out, 
or  any  such  violent  measures.  If  Mr-.  Dombey  were  here, 
captain,  you  might  be  obliged  to  leave  in  a  more  igno- 
minious manner,  possibly.    I  merely  say,  Go  !" 

The  captain,  laying  his  ponderous  hand  upon  his  chest, 
to  assist  himself  in  fetching  a  deep  breath,  looked  at  Mr. 
Carker  from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  round  the  little 
room,  as  if  he  did  not  clearly  understand  where  he  was, 
or  in  what  company. 

"  You  are  deep,  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Carker,  with 
the  easy  and  vivacious  frankness  of  a  man  of  the  world 
who  knew  the  world  too  well  to  be  ruffled  by  any  discov- 
ery of  misdoing,  when  it  did  not  immediately  concern 
himself  ;  "  but  you  are  not  quite  out  of  soundings,  either 
— neither  you  nor  your  absent  friend,  captain.  What 
have  you  done  with  your  absent  friend,  hey?" 

Again  the  captain  laid  his  hand  upon  his  chest.  After 
drawing  another  deep  breath,  he  conjured  himself  to 
"  stand  by  ?  "    But  in  a  whisper. 

"  You  hatch  nice  little  plots,  and  hold  nice  little  coun- 
cils, and  make  nice  little  appointments,  and  receive  nice 
little  visitors;,  too,  hey  ?  "  said  Carker,  bending  his  brows 
upon  him,  without  showing  his  teeth  any  the  iess  :  "  but 
it's  a  bold  measure  to  come  here  afterwards.  Not  like 
your  discretion  !  You  conspirators,  and  hiders,  and  run- 
ners-away,  should  know  better  than  that.  Will  you 
oblige  me  by  going  ?  " 

"  My  lad,"  gasped  the  captain,  in  a  choked  and  trem- 
bling voice,  and  with  a  curious  action  going  on  in  the 
ponderous  fist  ;  "  there's  a  many  words  I  could  wish  to 
say  to'  you,  but  I  don't  rightly  know  where  they're  stowed 
just  at  present.  My  young  friend,  Wal'r,  was  drownded 
only  last  night,  according  to  my  reckoning,  and  it  puts 


mc  out,  you  see.  But  you  and  me  will  come  alongside 
o'  one  another  again,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain,  holding 
up  his  hook,  "if  we  live." 

"  It  will  be  anything  but  shrewd  in  you,  my  good  fel- 
low, if  we  do,"  returned  the  manager,  with,  the  same 
frankness  ;  "  for  you  may  rely,  I  give  you  fair  warning, 
upon  my  detecting  and  exposing  you.  I  don't  pretend 
to  be  a  more  moral  man  than  my  neighbours,  my  good 
captain  ;  but  the  confidence  of  this  House,  or  of  any  mem- 
ber of  this  House,  is  not  to  be  abused  and  undermined 
while  I  have  eyes  and  ears.  Good  day  ! "  said  Mr.  Car- 
ker, nodding  his  head. 

Captain  Cuttle,  looking  at  him  steadily  ('Mr.  Carker 
looked  full  as  steadily  at  the  captain),  went  out  of  the 
office  and  left  him  standing  astride  before  the  lire,  as 
j  calm  and  pleasant  as  if  there  were  no  more  spots  upon 
[  his  soul  than  on  his  pure  white  linen,  and  his  smooth 
sleek  skin. 

The  captain  glanced,  in  passing  through  the  outer 
counting-house,  at  the  desk  where  "he  knew  poor  Walter 
had  been  used  to  sit,  now  occupied  by  another  young  boy, 
with  a  face  almost  as  fresh  and  hopeful  as  his  on  the  day 
when  they  tapped  the  famous  last  bottle  but  one  of  the 
old  Madeira,  in  the  little  back  parlour.  The  association 
of  ideas,  thus  awakened,  did  the  captain  a  great  deal  of 
good  ;  it  softened  him  in  the  very  height  of  his  anger, 
and  brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes. 

Arrived  at  the  wooden  Midshipman's  again,  and  sitting 
down  in  a  corner  of  the  dark  shop,  the  captain's  indig- 
nation, strong  as  it  was,  could  make  no  head  against  his 
grief.  Passion  seemed  not  only  to  do  wrong  and  vio- 
lence to  the  memory  of  the  dead,  but  to  be  infected  by 
death,  and  to  droop  and  decline  beside  it.  All  the  lining 
knaves  and  liars  in  the  world,  w^ere  nothing  to  the  hon- 
esty and  truth  of  one  dead  friend. 

The  only  thing  the  honest  captain  made  out  clearly, 
in  this  state  of  mind,  besides  the  loss  of  Walter  was, 
that  with  him  almost  the  whole  world  of  Captain  Cuttle 
had  been  drowned.  If  he  reproached  himself  some- 
j  times,  and  keenly  too,  for  having  ever  connived  at  Wal- 
ter's innocent  deceit,  he  thought  at  least  as  often  of  the 
Mr.  Carker  whom  no  sea  could  ever  render  up  ;  and  the 
Mr.  Dombey,  who  he  now  began  to  perceive  was  as  far 
beyond  human  recal  ;  and  the  "Heart's  Delight,"  with 
I  whom  he  must  never  foregather  again  ;  and  the  Lovely 
Peg,  that  teak-built  and  trim  ballad,  that  had  gone 
ashore  upon  a  rock,  and  split  into  mere  planks  and 
beams  of  rhyme.  The  captain  sat  in  the  dark  shop, 
thinking  of  these  things,  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  his 
own  injury;  and  looking  with  as  sad  an  eye  upon  the 
ground,  as  if  in  contemplation  of  their  actual  fragments 
as  they  floated  past  him. 

But  the  captain  was  not  unmindful,  for  all  that,  of 
such  decent  and  respectful  observances  in  memory  of 
poor  Walter,  as  he  felt  within  his  power.  Eousing  him- 
self, and  rousing  Bob  the  Grinder  (who  in  the  unnatural 
twilight  was  fast  asleep),  the  captain  sallied  forth  with 
his  attendant  at  his  heels,  and  the  door-key  in  his  pocket, 
and  repairing  to  one  of  those  convenient  slopselling  es- 
tablishments of  which  there  is  abundant  choice  at  the 
eastern  end  of  London,  purchased  on  the  spot  two  suits 
of  mourning — one  for  Rob  the  Grinder,  which  ^vas  im- 
mensely too  small,  and  one  for  himself,  which  was  im- 
mensely too  large.  He  also  provided  Rob  with  a  species 
of  hat,  greatly  to  be  admired  for  its  symmetry  and  use- 
fulness, as  well  as  for  a  happy  blending  of  the  mariner 
with  the  coal-heaver  ;  which  is  usually  termed  a  sou'- 
wester ;  and  which  was  something  of  a  novelty  in  con- 
nexion with  the  instrument  business.  In  their  several 
garments,  which  the  vendor  declared  to  be  such  a  mira- 
cle in  point  of  fit  as  nothing  but  a  rare  combination  of 
fortuitous  circumstances  ever  brought  about,  and  the 
fashion  of  which  was  unparalleled  wthin  the  memory 
of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  and  captain  and  Grinder  im- 
mediately arrayed  themselves  :  presenting  a  spectacle 
fraught  with  wonder  to  all  who  beheld  it. 

In  this  altered  form,  the  captain  received  Mr.  Toots. 
"I'm  took  aback,  my  lad,  at  present,"  said  the  captain, 
"and  will  only  confirm  that  there  ill  news.  Tell  the 
young  woman  to  break  it  gentle  to  the  young  lady,  and 
for  neither  of  'em  never  to  think  of  me  no  more — 
'special,  mind  you,  that  is — though  I  will  think  of  them., 


572 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


wlien  niglit  comes  on  a  hurricane  and  seas  is  mountains 
rowling  for  which,  overhaul  your  Doctor  Watts,  brother, 
and  when  found  make  a  note  on. " 

The  captain  reserved,  until  some  fitter  time,  the  con- 
sideration of  Mr.  Toots's  offer  of  friendship,  and  thus 
dismissed  him.  Captain  Cuttle's  spirits  were  so  low,  in 
truth,  that  he  half  determined,  that  day,  to  take  no  fur- 
ther precautions  against  surprise  from  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
but  to  abandon  himself  recklessly  to  chance,  and  be  in- 
different to  what  might  happen.  As  evening  came  on, 
he  fell  into  a  better  frame  of  mind,  however  ;  and  spoke 
much  of  Walter  to  Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  attention 
and  fidelity  he  likewise  incidentally  commended.  Rob 
did  not  blush  to  hear  the  captain  earnest  in  his  praises, 
but  sat  staring  at  him,  and  affecting  to  snivel  with  sym- 
pathy, and  making  a  feint  of  being  virtuous,  and  treas- 
uring up  every  word  he  said  (like  a  young  spy  as  he  was) 
with  very  promising  deceit. 

When  Rob  had  turned  in,  and  was  fast  asleep,  the 
captain  trimmed  the  candle,  put  on  his  spectacles — he  had 
felt  it  appropriate  to  take  to  spectacles  on  entering  into 
the  Instrument  Trade,  though  his  eyes  were  like  a 
hawk's — and  opened  the  prayer-book  at  the  Burial  Ser- 
vice. And  reading  softly  to  himself,  in  the  little  back 
parlour,  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  wipe  his  eyes, 
the  captain,  in  a  true  and  simple  spirit,  committed 
Walter's  body  to  the  deep. 


CHAPTER  XXZIII. 

Contrasts. 

Turn  we  our  eyes  upon  two  homes  ;  not  lying  side  by 
side,  but  wide  apart,  though  both  within  easy  range  and 
reach  of  the  great  city  of  London. 

The  first  is  situated  in  the  green  and  wooded  country 
near  Norwood.  It  is  not  a  mansion  ;  it  is  of  no  preten- 
sions as  to  size  ;  but  it  is  beautifully  arranged,  and  taste- 
fully kept.  The  lawn,  the  soft,  smooth  slope,  the  flower- 
garden,  the  clumps  of  trees  where  graceful  forms  of  ash 
and  willow  are  not  wanting,  the  conservatory,  the  rustic 
verandah  with  sweet-smelling  creeping  plants  entwined 
about  the  pillars,  the  simple  exterior  of  the  house,  the 
well-ordered  offices,  though  all  upon  the  diminutive 
scale  proper  to  a  mere  cottage,  bespeak  an  amount  of 
elegant  comfort  within,  that  might  serve  for  a  palace. 
This  indication  is  not  without  warrant  ;  for,  within  it  is 
a  house  of  refinement  and  luxury.  Rich  colours,  excel- 
lently blended,  meet  the  eye  at  every  turn  ;  in  the  furni- 
ture its  proportions  admirably  devised  to  suit  the  shapes 
and  sizes  of  the  small  rooms  ;  on  the  walls;  upon  the  floors; 
tinging  and  subduing  the  light  that  comes  in  through 
the  odd  glass  doors  and  windows  here  and  there.  There 
are  a  few  choice  prints  and  pictures,  too  ;  in  quaint 
nooks  and  recesses  there  is  no  want  of  books  ;  and  there 
are  games  of  skill  and  chance  set  forth  on  tables— fan- 
tastic chess-men,  dice,  back-gammon,  cards,  and  bil- 
liards. 

And  yet,  amidst  this  opulence  of  comfort,  there  is 
something  in  the  general  air  that  is  not  well.  Is  it  that 
the  carpets  and  the  cushions  are  too  soft  and  noiseless, 
so  that  those  who  move  or  repose  among  them  seem  to 
act  by  stealth  !  Is  it  that  the  prints  and  pictures  do  not 
commemorate  great  thoughts  or  deeds,  or  render  nature 
in  the  poetry  of  landscape,  hall,  or  hut,  but  are  of  one 
voluptuous  cast — mere  shows  of  form  and  colour— and 
no  more?  Is  it  that  the  books  have  all  their  gold  out- 
side, and  that  the  titles  of  the  greater  part  qualify  them 
to  be  companions  of  the  prints  and  pictures  ?  Is  it  that 
the  completeness  and  the  beauty  of  the  place  is  here 
and  there  belied  by  an  affectation  of  humility,  in  some 
unimportant  and  inexpensive  regard,  which  is  as  false 
as  the  face  of  the  too  truly  painted  portrait  hanging 
yonder,  or  its  original  at  breakfast  in  his  easy  chair 
below  it?  Or  is  it  that,  with  the  daily  breath  of  that 
original  and  master  of  all  here,  there  issues  forth  sorae 
subtle  y)ortion  of  himself,  which  gives  a  vague  expres- 
sion of  himself  to  everything  about  him? 

It  is  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  who  sits  in  the  easy 
chair.    A  gaudy  parrot  in  a  burnished  cage  upon  the 


table  tears  at  the  wires  with  her  beak,  and  goes  walk- 
ing upside  down,  in  its  dome-top,  shaking  her  house  and 
screeching  ;  but  Mr.  Carker  is  indifferent  to  the  bird, 
and  looks  with  a  musing  smile  at  a  picture  on  the  oppo- 
site wall. 

"  A  most  extraordinary  accidental  likeness,  certainly," 
says  he. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  Juno  ;  perhaps  a  Potiphar's  wife  ;  per- 
haps some  scornful  nymph— according  as  the  Picture 
dealers  found  the  market,  when  they  christened  it.  It 
is  the  figure  of  a  woman,  supremely  handsome,  who, 
turning  away,  but  with  her  face  addressed  to  the  spec- 
tator, flashes  her  proud  glance  upon  him. 

It  is  like  Edith. 

With  a  passing  gesture  of  his  hand  at  the  picture — 
what !  a  menace?  No  ;  yet  something  like  it.  A  wave 
as  if  triumph?  No;  yet  more  like  that.  An  insolent 
salute  wafted  from  his  lips?  No  ;  yet  like  that  too — he 
resumes  his  breakfast,  and  calls  to  the  chafing  and  im- 
prisoned bird,  who,  coming  down  into  a  pendant  gilded 
hoop  within  the  cage,  like  a  great  wedding-ring,  swings 
in  it,  for  his  delight. 

The  second  home  is  on  the  other  side  of  London,  near 
to  where  the  busy  great  north  road  of  bygone  days  is 
silent  and  almost  deserted,  except  by  wayfarers  who  toil 
along  on  foot.  It  is  a  poor,  small  house,  barely  and 
sparely  furnished,  but  very  clean  ;  and  there  is  even  an 
attempt  to  decorate  it,  shown  in  the  homely  flowers 
trained  about  the  porch  and  in  the  narrow  garden.  The 
neighbourhood  in  which  it  stands  has  as  little  of  the 
country  to  recommend  it,  as  it  has  of  the  town.  It  is 
neither  of  the  town  nor  country.  The  former,  like  the 
giant  in  his  travelling  boots,  has  made  a  stride  and 
passed  it,  and  has  set  his  brick-and-mortar  heel  a  long 
way  in  advance  ;  but  the  intermediate  space  between 
the  giant's  feet,  as  yet,  is  only  blighted  country,  and  not 
town  ;  and  here,  among  a  few  tall  chimneys  belching 
smoke  all  day  and  night,  and  among  the  brick-fields  and 
the  lanes  where  turf  is  cut,  and  where  the  fences  tumble 
down,  and  wb^e  the  dusty  nettles  grow,  and  where  a 
scrap  or  two  of  hedge  may  yet  be  seen,  and  where  the 
bird-catcher  still  comes  occasionally,  though  he  swears 
every  time  to  come  no  more — this  second  home  is  to  be 
found. 

She  who  inhabits  it,  is  she  who  left  the  first  in  her 
devotion  to  an  outcast  brother.  She  withdrew  from 
that  home  its  redeeming  spirit,  and  from  its  master's 
breast  his  solitary  angel  :  but  though  his  liking  for  her 
is  gone,  after  this  ungrateful  slight  as  he  considers  it  ; 
and  though  he  abandons  her  altogether  in  return,  an  old 
idea  of  her  is  not  quite  forgotten  even  by  him.  Let  her 
flower-garden,  in  which  he  never  sets  his  foot,  but 
which  is  yet  maintained,  among  all  his  costly  alterations, 
as  if  she  had  quitted  it  iDut  yesterday,  bear  witness  ! 

Harriet  Carker  has  changed  since  then,  and  on  her 
beauty  there  has  fallen  a  heavier  shade  than  Time  of 
his  unassisted  self  can  cast,  all-potent  as  he  is — the 
shadow  of  anxiety  and  sorrow,  and  the  daily  struggle 
of  a  poor  existence.  But  it  is  beauty  still  ;  and  still  a 
gentle,  quiet,  and  retiring  beauty  that  must  be  sought 
out,  for  it  cannot  vaunt  itself ;  if  it  could,  it  would  be 
what  it  is,  no  more. 

Yes.  This  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  neatly  dressed 
in  homely  stuffs,  and  indicating  nothing  but  the  dull, 
household  virtues,  that  have  so  little  in  common  with 
the  received  idea  of  heroism  and  greatness,  unless,  in- 
deed, any  ray  of  them  should  shine  through  the  lives  of 
the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  when  it  becomes  a  constel- 
lation and  is  tracked  in  Heaven  straightway— this  slight, 
small,  patient  figure,  leaning  on  the  man  still  young  but 
worn  and  gray,  is  she  his  sister,  who,  of  all  the  world, 
went  over  to  him  in  his  shame  and  put  her  hand  in  his, 
and  with  a  sweet  composure  and  determination,  led  him 
hopefully  upon  his  barren  way. 

"  It  is  early,  John,"  she  said.  "  Why  do  you  go  so 
early  ?  " 

"  Not  many  minutes  earlier  than  usual,  Harriet.  If  I 
have  the  time  to  spare,  I  should  like,  I  think — it's  a 
fancy — to  walk  once  by  the  house  where  I  took  leave  of 
him." 

"  I  wish  I  had  ever  seen  or  known  him,  John." 

"  It  is  better  as  it  is,  my  dear,  remembering  his  fate." 


DOMBEY 

"  But  I  could  riot  regret  it  more,  though  I  had  known  1 
hira.    Is  not  your  sorrow  mine?    And  if  I  had,  perliaps 
you  would  feel  that  I  was  a  better  companion  to  you  in 
speaking  about  him,  than  I  may  seem  now." 

"My  dearest  sister!  Is  there  anything  within  the 
range  of  rejoicing  or  regret,  in  which  1  am  not  sure  of 
your  companionship  ?  " 

"  I  hope  you  think  not,  John,  for  surely  there  is  no- 
thing ! " 

"  How  could  you  be  better  to  me,  or  nearer  to  me  then, 
than  you  are  in  this,  or  anything  ? "  said  her  brother. 
"  I  feel  that  you  did  know  hira,  Harriet,  and  that  you 
shared  my  feelings  towards  him." 

She  drew  the  hand  which  had  been  resting  on  his 
shoulder,  round  his  neck,  and  answered,  with  some  hesi- 
tation : 

"  No,  not  quite." 

"True,  true,"  he  said;  "you  think  I  might  have 
done  him  no  harm  if  I  had  allowed  myself  to  know  him 
better  ?  " 

"Think  !    I  know  it." 

"Designedly,  Heaven  knows  I  would  not,"  he  replied, 
shaking  his  head  mournfully  :  "  but  his  reputation  vi^as 
too  precious  to  be  perilled  by  such  association.  Whe- 
ther you  share  that  knowledge,  or  do  not,  my  dear — " 

"I  do  not,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  It  is  still  the  truth,  Harriet,  and  my  mind  is  lighter 
when  I  think  of  him  for  that  which  made  it  so  much 
heavier  then."  He  checked  himself  in  his  tone  of  mel- 
ancholy, and  smiled  upon  her  as  he  said  "  Good  bye." 

"  Good  bye,  dear  John  !  In  the  evening,  at  the  old 
time  and  place,  I  shall  meet  you  as  usual  on  your  way 
home.    Good  bye." 

The  cordial  face  she  lifted  up  to  his  to  kiss  him,  was 
his  home,  his  life,  his  universe,  and  yet  it  was  a  portion 
of  his  punishment  and  grief ;  for  in  the  cloud  he  saw 
upon  it — though  serene  and  calm  as  any  radiant  cloud 
at  sunset — and  in  the  constancy  and  devotion  of  her  life, 
and  in  the  sacrifice  she  had  made  of  ease,  enjoyment, 
and.  hope,  he  saw  the  bitter  fruits  of  his  old  crime,  for 
ever  ripe  and  fresh. 

She  stood  at  the  door  looking  after  him,  with  her 
hands  loosely  clasped  in  each  other,  as  he  made  his  way 
over  the  frowzy  and  uneven  patch  of  ground  which  lay 
before  their  house,  which  had  once  (and  not  long  ago) 
been  a  pleasant  meadow,  and  was  now  a  very  waste, 
with  a  disorderly  crop  of  beginnings  of  mean  houses, 
rising  out  of  the  rubbish,  as  if  they  had  been  unskilful- 
ly sown  there.  Whenever  he  looked  back — as  once  or 
twice  he  did — her  cordial  face  shone  like  a  light  upon 
his  heart ;  but  when  he  plodded  on  his  way,  and  saw  her 
not,  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  stood  watching 
him. 

Her  pensive  form  was  not  long  idle  at  the  door. 
There  was  daily  duty  to  discharge,  and  daily  work  to  do 
— for  such  common-place  spirits  that  are  not  heroic, 
often  work  hard  with  their  hands — and  Harriet  was  soon 
busy  with  her  household  tasks.  These  discharged,  and 
the  poor  house  made  quite  neat  and  orderly,  she  counted 
her  little  stock  of  money  with  an  anxious  face,  and  went 
out  thoughtfully  to  buy  some  necessaries  for  their  table, 
planning  and  contriving,  as  she  went,  how  to  save.  So 
sordid  are  the  lives  of  such  low  natures,  who  are  not 
only  not  heroic  to  their  valets  and  waiting-women,  but 
have  neither  valets  nor  waiting- women  to  be  heroic  to 
withal  ! 

While  she  was  absent,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the 
house,  there  approached  it  by  a  different  way  from  that 
the  brother  had  taken,  a  gentleman,  a  very  little  past 
his  prime  of  life  perhaps,  but  of  a  healthy  florid  hue,  an 
upright  presence,  and  a  bright  clear  aspect,  that  was 
gracious  and  good-humoured.  His  eyebrows  were  still 
black,  and  so  was  much  of  his  hair  ;  the  sprinkling  of 
gray  observable  among  the  latter,  graced  the  former 
very  much,  and  showed  his  broad  frank  brow  and  hon- 
est eyes  to  great  advantage. 

After  knocking  once  at  the  door,  and  obtaining  no  re- 
sponse, this  gentleman  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  little 
porch  to  wait.  A  certain  skilful  action  of  his  fingers  as 
he  hummed  some  bars,  and  beat  time  on  the  seat  beside 
hira  seemed  to  denote  the  musician  ;  and  the  extraor- 
dinary satisfaction  he  derived  from  humming  something 


A^W  SOK  573 

1  very  slow  and  long,  which  had  no  recognizable  tune, 
seemed  to  denote  that  he  was  a  scientific  one. 

The  gentleman  was  still  twirling  a  theme,  which 
seemed  to  go  round  and  round  and  round,  and  in  and  in 
and  in,  and  to  involve  itself  like  a  corkscrew  twirled 
upon  a  table,  without  getting  any  nearer  to  anything, 
when  Harriet  appeared  returning.  He  rose  up  as  she 
advanced,  and  stood  with  his  head  uncovered. 
"  You  are  come  again,  sir  ! "  she  said  faltering. 
"  I  take  that  liberty,"  he  answered.  "May  I  ask  for 
five  minutes  of  your  leisure  ?  " 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  opened  the  door,  and 
gave  him  admission  to  the  little  parlour.  The  gentle- 
man sat  down  there,  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  over 
against  her,  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  perfectly  corre- 
sponded to  his  appearance,  and  with  a  simplicity  that  was 
very  engaging  : 

' '  Miss  Harriet,  you  cannot  be  proud.  You  signified  to 
me,  when  I  called  t'other  morning,  that  you  were.  Par- 
don  me,  if  I  say  that  I  looked  into  your  face  while  you 
spoke,  and  that  it  contradicted  you.  I  look  into  it 
again,"  he  added,  laying  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm,  for 
an  instant,  "  and  it  contradicts  you  more  and  more." 

She  was  somewhat  confused  and  agitated,  and  could 
make  no  ready  answer. 

"It  is  the  mirror  of  truth,"  said  her  visitor,  "and 
gentleness.    Excuse  my  trusting  to  it,  and  returning." 

His  manner  of  saying  these  words,  divested  them  en- 
tirely of  the  character  of  compliments.  It  was  so  plain, 
grave,  unaffected,  and  sincere,  that  she  bent  her  head, 
as  if  at  once  to  thank  him  and  acknowledge  his  sincerity, 
"The  disparity  between  our  ages,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, "and  the  plainness  of  my  purpose,  empower  me, 
I  am  glad  to  think,  to  speak  my  mind.  That  is  my 
mind  ;  and  so  you  see  me  for  the  second  time." 

"There  is  a  kind  of  pride,  sir,"  she  returned,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  "  or  what  may  be  supposed  to  be  pride, 
which  is  mere  duty.    T  hope  I  cherish  no  other." 
"  For  yourself,"  he  said. 
"  For  myself." 

"  But — pardon  me — "  suggested  the  gentleman.  "  For 
your  brother  John  ?" 

"Proud  of  his  love,  I  am,"  said  Harriet,  looking  full 
upon  her  visitor,  and  changing  her  manner  on  the  in- 
stant— not  tliat  it  was  less  composed  and  quiet,  but  that 
there  Avas  a  deep  impassioned  earnestness  in  it  that  made 
the  very  tremble  in  her  voice  a  part  of  her  firmness, 
"and  proud  of  him.  Sir,  you  who  so  strangely  know 
the  story  of  his  life,  and  repealed  it  to  me  when  you 
were  here  last — " 

"Merely  to  make  my  way  into  your  confidence,"  in- 
terposed the  gentleman.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  sup- 
pose— " 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  you  revived  it,  in  my  hearing, 
with  a  kind  and  good  purpose.    I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

"  I  thank  you,"  returned  her  visitor,  pressing  her  hand 
hastily.  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  You  do  me  jus- 
tice, I  assure  you.  You  were  going  to  say,  that  I,  who 
knew  the  story  of  John  Carker's  life — " 

"May  think  it  pride  in  me,"  she  continued,  "  when  I 
say  that  I  am  proud  of  him  !  I  a7n.  You  know  the  time 
was  when  I  was  not — when  I  could  not  be — but  that  is 
past.  The  humility  of  many  years,  the  uncomplaining 
expiation,  the  true  repentance,  the  terrible  regret,  the 
pain  I  know  he  has  even  in  my  affection,  which  he 
thinks  has  cost  me  dear,  though  Heaven  knows  I  am 
happy,  but  for  his  sorrow  !— oh  sir,  after  what  I  have 
seen,  let  me  conjure  you,  if  you  are  in  any  place  of  power, 
and  are  ever  wronged,  never,  for  any  wrong,  inflict  a 
punishment  that  cannot  be  recalled  ;  while  there  is  a 
God  above  us  to  work  changes  in  the  hearts  He  made." 

"Your  brother  is  an  altered  man,"  returned  the  gen- 
tleman, compassionately.  "I  assure  you,  I  don't  doubt 
it." 

"He  was  an  altered  man  when  he  did  wrong,"  said 
Harriet.  "He  is  an  altered  man  again,  and  is  his  true 
self  now  believe  me,  sir," 

"But  we  go  on,"  said  her  visitor,  rubbing  his  fore- 
head, in  an  absent  manner,  with  his  hand,  and  then  drum- 
ming thoughtfully  on  the  table,  "  we  go  on  in  our  clock, 
work  routine,  from  day  to  day,  and  can't  make  out,  or 
follow,  these  changes.    They — they're  a  metaphysical 


574 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


sort  of  tiling.  We— we  haven't  leisure  for  it.  We — 
we  haven't  coura^>-e.  They're  not  taught  at  schools  or 
colleges,  and  we  don't  know  how  to  set  about  it.  In 
short,  we  are  so  d  d  business-like,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, walking  to  the  window,  and  back,  and  sitting  down 
again,  in  a  state  of  extreme  dissatisfaction  and  vexa- 
tion. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  the  gentleman,  rubbing  his  forehead 
again,  and  drumming  on  the  table  as  before  ;  "  I  have 
good  reason  to  believe  that  a  jog-trot  life,  the  same  from 
day  to  day,  would  reconcile  one  to  anything.  One  don't 
see  anything,  one  don't  hear  anything,  one  don't  know 
anything  ;  that's  the  fact.  We  go  on  taking  everything 
for  granted,  and  so  we  go  on,  until  whatever  we  do, 
good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  we  do  from  habit.  Habit  is  all 
I  shall  have  to  report,  when  I  am  called  upon  to  plead  to 
my  conscience  on  my  death-bed.  '  Habit,'  says  I  ;  '  I 
was  deaf,  dumb,  blind,  and  paralytic,  to  a  million  things, 
from  habit.'  'Very  business-like  indeed,  Mr.  What's- 
your-name, '  says  Conscience,  '  but  it  won't  do  here  ! '  " 

The  gentleman  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window 
again  and  back  :  seriously  uneasy,  though  giving  his  un- 
easiness this  peculiar  expression. 

"Miss  Harriet,"  he  said,  resuming  his  chair,  "I 
wish  you  would  let  me  serve  you.  Look  at  me  ;  I  ought 
to  look  honest,  for  I  know  I  am  so,  at  present.    Do  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  smile. 

"  I  believe  every  word  you  have  said,"  he  returned. 
*'I  am  full  of  self  reproach  that  I  might  have  known 
this  and  seen  this,  and  known  you  and  seen  you,  any 
time  these  dozen  years,  and  that  I  never  have.  I  hardly 
know  how  I  ever  got  here — creature  that  I  am,  not  only 
of  my  own  habit,  but  of  other  people's  !  But  having 
done  so,  let  me  do  something.  I  ask  it  in  all  honour 
and  respect.  You  inspire  me  with  both,  in  the  highest 
degree.    Let  me  do  something." 

"  We  are  contented,  sir." 

''No,  no,  not  quite,"  returned  the  gentleman.  "I 
think  not  quite.  There  are  some  little  comforts  that 
might  smooth  your  life,  and  his.  And  his!"  he  re- 
peated, fancying  that  had  made  some  impression  on  her. 
"  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  thinking  that  there  was 
nothing  wanting  to  be  done  for  him  ;  that  it  was  all  set- 
tled and  over  :  in  short,  of  not  thinking  at  all  about  it. 
I  am  different  now.  Let  me  do  something  for  him.  You 
too,"  said  the  visitor,  with  careful  delicacy,  "  have  need 
to  watch  your  health  closely,  for  his  sake,  and  I  fear  it 
fails." 

*' Whoever  you  maybe,  sir,"  answered  Harriet,  rais- 
ing her  eyes  to  his  face,  "  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you. 
I  feel  certain  that  in  all  you  say,  you  have  no  object  in 
the  world  but  kindness  to  us.  But  years  have  passed 
since  we  began  this  life  ;  and  to  take  from  my  brother 
any  part  of  what  has  so  endeared  him  to  me,  and  so 
proved  his  better  resolution— any  fragment  of  the  merit 
^  of  his  unassisted,  obscure,  and  forgotten  reparation — 
would  be  to  diminish  the  comfort  it  will  be  to  him  and 
me,  when  that  time  comes  to  each  of  us,  of  which  you 
spoke  just  now.  I  thank  you  better  with  these  tears 
than  any  words.    Believe  it,  pray." 

The  gentleman  was  moved,  and  put  the  hand  she 
held  out  to  his  lips,  much  as  a  tender  father  might  kiss 
the  banc?,  of  a  dutiful  child.    Bat  more  reverently. 

"If  the  day  should  ever  come,"  said  Harriet,  "  when 
he  is  restored,  in  part,  to  the  position  he  lost — " 

"Restored!"  cried  the  gentleman,  quickly.  "How 
can  that  be  hoped  for  ?  In  whose  hands  does  the  power 
of  any  restoration  lie  '?  It  is  no  mistake  of  mine,  surely, 
to  suppose  that  his  having  gained  the  priceless  blessing 
of  his  life,  is  one  cause  of  the  animosity  shown  to  him 
by  his  brother." 

"You  touch  upon  a  subject  that  is  never  breathed  be- 
tween us  ;  not  even  between  tis,"  said  Harriet. 

"I  beg  your  forgiveness,"  said  the  visitor.  "  I  should 
have  known  it.  I  entreat  you  to  forget  that  I  have  done 
so,  inadvertently.  And  now,  as  I  dare  urge  no  more— 
as  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  a  right  to  do  so — though 
Heaven  knows,  even  that  doubt  may  be  habit,"  said  the 
gentleman,  rubbing  his  head,  as  despondently  as  before, 
"let  me  ;  though  a  stranger,  yet  no  stranger  ;  ask  two 
favours." 

"  What  are  they  ?  "  she>  inquired. 


"  The  first,  that  if  you  should  see  cause  to  change 
your  resolution,  you  will  suffer  me  to  be  as  your  right 
hand.  My  name  shall  then  be  at  your  service  ;  it  is  use- 
less now,  and  always  insignificant." 

"Our  choice  of  friends,"  she  answered,  smiling  faintly, 
"  is  not  so  great,  that  I  need  any  time  for  consideration. 
I  can  promise  that." 

"  The  second,  that  you  will  allow  me  sometimes,  say 
every  Monday  morning,  at  nine  o'clock— habit  again — I 
must  be  business-like,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a 
whimsical  inclination  to*  quarrel  with  himself  on  that 
head,  "in  walking  past,  to  see  you  at  the  door  or  win- 
dow, I  don't  ask  to  come  in,  as  your  brother  will  be 
gone  out  at  that  hour.  I  don't  ask  to  speak  to  you.  I 
merely  ask  to  see,  for  the  satisfaction  of  my  own  mind, 
that  you  are  well,  and  without  intrusion  to  remind  you, 
by  the  sight  of  me,  that  you  have  a  friend— an  elderly 
friend,  gray -haired  already,  and  fast  growing  grayer — 
whom  you  may  ever  command." 

The  cordial  face  looked  up  in  his  ;  confided  in  it ;  and 
promised. 

"  I  understand,  as  before,"  said  the  gentleman,  rising, 
"  that  you  purpose  not  to  mention  my  visit  to  John  Car- 
ker,  lest  he  should  be  at  all  distressed  ])y  my  acquaint- 
ance with  his  history,  1  am  glad  of  it,  for  it  is  out  of 
the  ordinary  course  of  things,  and— habit  again  ! "  said 
the  gentleman,  checking  himself  impatiently,  "  as  if 
there  were  no  better  course  than  the  ordinary  course  !" 

With  that  he  turned  to  go,  and  walking,  bare-headed, 
to  the  outside  of  the  little  porch,  took  leave  of  her  with 
such  a  happy  mixture  of  unconstrained  respect  and  un- 
affected interest,  as  no  breeding  could  have  taught,  no 
truth  mistrusted,  and  nothing  but  a  pure  and  single 
heart  expressed. 

Many  half-forgotten  emotions  were  awakened  in  the 
sister's  mind  by  this  visit.  It  was  so  very  long  since  any 
other  visitor  had  crossed  their  threshold  ;  it  was  so  very 
long  since  any  voice  of  sympathy  had  made  sad  music  in 
her  ears  ;  that  the  stranger's  figure  remained  present  to 
her,  hours  afterwards,  when  she  sat  at  the  window,  f)ly- 
ing  her  needle  ;  and  his  words  seemed  newly  spoken, 
again  and  again.  He  had  touched  the  spring  that  opened 
her  whole  life  ;  and  if  she  lost  him  for  a  short  space,  it 
was  only  among  the  many  shapes  of  the  one  great  recol- 
lection of  which  that  life  was  made. 

Musing  and  working  by  turns  :  now  constraining  her- 
self to  be  steady  at  her  needle  for  a  long  time  together, 
and  now  letting  her  work  fall,  unregarded,  on  her  lap, 
and  straying  wheresoever  her  busier  thoughts  led,  Har- 
riet Carker  found  the  hours  glide  by  her,  and  the  day 
steal  on.  The  morning,  which  had  been  bright  and  clear, 
gradually  became  overcast  ;  a  sharp  wind  set  in  ;  the 
rain  fell  heavily  ;  and  a  dark  mist  drooping  over  the  dis- 
tant town,  hid  it  from  the  view. 

She  often  looked  with  compassion,  at  such  a  time, 
upon  the  stragglers  who  came  wandering  into  London, 
by  the  great  highway  hard-by,  and  who,  footsore  and 
weary,  and  gazing  fearfully  at  the  huge  town  before 
them,  as  if  foreboding  that  their  misery  there  would  be 
but  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea,  or  as  a  grain  of  sea-sand 
on  the  shore,  went  shrinking  on,  cowering  before  the 
angry  weather,  and  looking  as  if  the  very  elements  re- 
jected them.  Day  after  day.  such  travellers  crept  past, 
but  always,  as  she  thought,  in  one  direction  —  always 
towards  the  town.  Swallowed  up  in  one  phase  or  other 
of  its  immensity,  towards  which  they  seemed  impelled 
by  a  desperate  fascination,  they  never  returned.  Food 
for  the  hospitals,  the  church -yards,  the  prisons,  the  river, 
fever,  madness,  vice,  and  death, — they  passed  on  to  the 
monster,  roaring  in  the  distance,  and  were  lost. 

The  chill  wind  was  howling,  and  the  rain  was  falling, 
and  the  day  was  darkening  moodily,  when  Harriet,  rais- 
ing her  eyes  from  the  work  on  which  she  had  long  since 
been  engaged  with  unremitting  constancy,  saw  one  of 
these  travellers  approaching. 

A  woman.  A  solitary  woman  of  some  thirty  years  of 
age  ;  tall  ;  well-formed  ;  handsome  ;  miserably  dressed  ; 
the  soil  of  many  country  roads  in  varied  weather — dust, 
chalk,  clay,  gravel — clotted  on  her  gray  cloak  by  the 
streaming  wet  ;  no  bonnet  on  her  head,  nothing  *o  defend 
her  rich  black  hair  from  the  rain,  but  a  torn  handker- 
chief ;  with  the  fluttering  ends  of  which,  and  with  her 


DOMBEY  AND  80K 


575 


hair,  the  wind  blinded  her  so  that  she  often  stopped  to 
push  them  back,  and  look  upon  the  way  she  was  going-. 

She  was  in  the  act  of  doing  so,  when  Harriet  observed 
her.  As  her  hands,  parting  on  Iier  sun-burnt  foreliead, 
swept  across  her  face,  and  threw  aside  the  hindrances 
that  encroached  upon  it,  there  was  a  reckless  and  regard- 
less beauty  in  it  ;  a  dauntless  and  depraved  indifference 
to  more  than  weather  :  a  carelessness  of  what  was  cast 
upon  her  bare  head  from  heaven  or  earth  :  that,  coupled 
with  her  misery  and  loneliness,  touched  the  heart  of  lier 
fellow-woman.  She  thought  of  all  that  was  perverted 
and  debased  within  her,  no  less  than  without  :  of  modest 
graces  of  the  mind,  hardened  and  steeled,  like  these  at- 
tractions of  the  person  ;  of  the  many  gifts  of  the  Creator 
flung  to  the  winds  like  the  wild  hair  ;  of  all  the  beautiful 
ruin  upon  which  the  storm  was  beating  and  the  night 
was  coming. 

Thinking  of  this,  she  did  not  turn  away  with  a  deli- 
cate indignation — too  many  of  her  own  compassionate 
and  tender  sex  too  often  do — but  pitied  her. 

Her  fallen  sister  came  on,  looking  fa^  before  her,  try- 
ing with  her  eager  eyes  to  pierce  the  mist  in  whicli  the 
city  was  enshrouded,  and  glancing,  now  and  then,  from 
side  to  side,  with  the  bewildered  and  uncertain  aspect  of 
a  stranger.  Though  her  tread  was  bold  and  courageous, 
she  was  fatigued,  and  after  a  moment  of  irresolution,  sat 
down  upon  a  heap  of  stones  ;  seeking  no  shelter  from 
the  rain,  but  letting  it  rain  on  her  as  it  would. 

She  was  now  opposite  the  house  ;  raising  her  head 
after  resting  it  for  a  moment  on  both  hands,  her  eyes 
met  those  oi  Harriet. 

In  a  moment,  Harriet  was  at  the  door  ;  and  the  other 
rising  from  her  seat  at  her  beck,  came  slowly,  and  with 
no  conciliatory  look,  towards  her. 

"  Why  do  you  rest  in  the  rain  ?"  said  Harriet,  gently. 

"  Because  I  have  no  other  resting-place,"  was  the  reply. 

"  But  there  are  many  places  of  shelter  near  here. 
This,"  referring  to  the  little  porch,  "is  better  than 
where  you  were.    You  are  very  welcome  to  rest  here." 

The  wanderer  looked  at  her  in  doubt  and  surprise,  but 
without  any  expression  cf  thankfulness  ;  and  sitling 
down,  and  taking  off  one  of  her  worn  shoes  to  beat  out 
the  fragments  of  stone  and  dust  that  were  inside,  showed 
that  her  foot  was  cut  and  bleeding. 

Harriet  uttering  an  expression  of  pity,  the  traveller 
looked  up  with  a  contemptuous  and  incredulous  smile. 

"  Why  what's  a  torn  foot  to  such  as  me?"  she  said. 
"And  what's  a  torn  foot  in  such  as  me,  to  such  as  you  ?  " 

"Come  in  and  wash  it,"  answered  Harriet,  mildly, 
"  and  let  me  give  you  something  to  bind  it  up," 

The  woman  caught  her  arm,  and  drawing  it  before  her 
own  eyes,  hid  them  against  it,  and  wept.  Not  like  a 
woman,  but  like  a  stern  man  surprised  into  that  weak- 
ness ;  with  a  violent  heaving  of  her  breast,  and  struggle 
for  recovery,  that  showed  how  unusual  the  emotion  was 
with  her. 

She  submitted  to  be  led  into  the  house,  and,  evidently 
more  in  gratitude  than  in  any  care  for  herself,  washed 
and  bound  the  injured  place.  Harriet  then  put  before  her 
fragments  of  her  own  frugal  dinner,  and  when  she  had 
eaten  of  them,  though  sparingly,  besought  her,  before 
resuming  her  road  (which  she  showed  her  anxiety  to  do), 
to  dry  her  clothes  before  the  fire.  Again,  more  in  grati- 
tude than  with  any  evidence  of  concern  ia  her  own  behalf, 
she  sat  down  in  front  of  it,  and  unbinding  the  handker- 
chief about  her  head,  and  letting  her  thick  wet  hair  fall 
down  below  her  waist,  sat  drying  it  with  the  palms  of 
her  hands,  and  looking  at  the  blaze. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  thinking,"  she  said,  lifting  her 
head  suddenly,  "that  I  used  to  be  handsome,  once.  I 
believe  I  was — I  know  I  was.    Look  here  !  " 

She  held  up  her  hair  roughly  with  both  hands  ;  seizing 
it  as  if  she  would  have  torn  it  out  ;  then,  threw  it  down 
again,  and  flung  it  back  as  though  it  were  a  heap  of  ser- 
pents. 

"  Are  you  a  stranger  in  this  place  ?  "  asked  Harriet. 

"A  stranger!"  she  returned,  stopping  between  each 
short  reply,  and  looking  at  the  fire,  "Yes.  Ten  or  a 
dozen  years  a  stranger.  I  have  had  no  almanack  where 
I  have  been.  Ten  or  a  dozen  years.  I  don't  know  this 
part.    It's  much  altered  since  I  went  away." 

"  Have  you  been  far  ?" 


"  Very  far.  Months  upon  months  over  the  sea  and  far 
away  even  then.  I  have  been. where  convicts  go,"  she 
added,  looking  full  upon  her  entertainer.  "I  have  been, 
one  myself." 

"  Heaven  help  you  and  forgive  you  !  "  was  the  gentle 
answer. 

"  Ah  I  Heaven  help  me  and  forgive  me  !  "  she  returned, 
nodding  her  head  at  the  fire.  "  If  man  would  help  some 
of  us  a  little  more,  God  would  forgive  us  all  the  sooner 
perhaps." 

But  she  was  softened  by  tlie  earnest  manner,  and  the 
cordial  face  so  full  of  mildness  and  so  free  from  judg- 
ment of  her,  and  said,  less  hardily  : 

"  We  may  be  about  the  same  age,  you  and  I.  If  I  am 
older,  it  is  not  above  a  year  or  two.  Oh,  think  of  that  !  " 

She  opened  her  arms,  as  though  the  exhibition  of  her 
outward  form  would  show  the  moral  v; retch  she  was  ;  and 
letting  them  drop  at  her  sides,  hung  down  her  head. 

"  There  is  nothing  we  may  not  hope  to  repair;  it  is 
never  too  late  to  amend,"  said  Harriet.  "You  are 
penitent — " 

"  No,"  she  answered  "  I  am  not  !  I  can't  be.  I  am  no 
such  thing.  Why  should  /  be  penitent,  and  all  the  world 
go  free.  They  talk  to  me  of  my  penitence.  Who's 
penitent  for  the  wrongs  that  have  been  done  to  me  !  " 

She  rose  up,  bound  her  handkerchief  about  her  head, 
and  turned  to  move  away. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"Yonder,"  she  answered,  pointing  with  her  hand. 
"  To  London." 

"  Have  you  any  home  to  go  to  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  have  a  mother.  She's  as  much  a  mother, 
as  her  dwelling  is  a  home,"  she  answered  with  a  bitter 
laugh. 

' '  Take  this,"  cried  Harriet,  putting  money  in  her  hand. 
"  Try  to  do  well.  It  is  very  little,  but  for  one  day  it 
may  keep  you  from  harm." 

"  Are  you  married?"  said  the  other,  faintly,  as  she 
took  it. 

"  No.    I  live  here  with  my  brother.    We  have  not 
much  to  spare,  or  I  would  give  you  more." 
* '  Will  you  let  me  kiss  you  ?  " 

Seeing  no  scorn  or  repugnance  in  her  face,  the  object 
of  her  charity  bent  over  her  as  she  asked  the  question, 
and  i^ressed  her  lips  against  her  cheek.  Once  more  she 
caught  her  arm,  and  covered  her  eyes  with  it  ;  and  then 
was  gone. 

Gone  into  the  deepening  night,  and  howling  wind, 
and  pelting  rain  ;  urging  her  way  on  towards  the  mist- 
enshrouded  city  where  the  blurred  lights  gleamed  ;  and 
with  her  black  hair,  and  disordered  head-gear,  fluttering 
ronnd  her  reckless  face. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Another  Mother  and  Daughter. 

In  an  ugly  and  dark  room,  an  old  woman,  ugly  and 
dark  too,  sat  listening  to  the  wind  and  rain,  and  crouch- 
ing over  a  meagre  fire.  More  constant  to  the  last-named 
occupation  than  the  first,  she  never  changed  her  attitude, 
unless,  when  any  stray  drops  of  rain  fell  hissing  on  the 
smouldering  embers,  to  raise  her  head  with  an  awakened 
attention  to  the  whistling  and  pattering  outside,  and 
gradually  to  let  it  fall  again  lower  and  lower  and  lo^ye^ 
as  she  sunk  into  a  brooding  state  of  thought,  in  which 
the  noises  of  the  night  were  as  indistinctly  regarded  as 
is  the  monotonous  rolling  of  a  sea  by  one  who  sits  in 
contemplation  on  its  shore. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  save  that  which  the 
fire  afforded.  Glaring  sullenly  from  time  to  time  like 
the  eye  of  a  fierce  beast  half  asleep,  it  revealed  no  ob- 
jects that  needed  to  be  jealous  of  a  better  display.  A 
heap  of  rags,  a  heap  of'  bones,  a  wn-etched  bed,  two  or 
three  mutilated  chairs  or  stools,  the  black  walls  and 
blacker  ceiling,  were  all  its  winking  brightness  shone 
upon.  As  the  old  woman,  with  a  gigantic  and  distorted 
image  of  herself,  thrown  half  upon  the  wall  behind  her, 
half  upon  the  roof  above,  sat  bending  over  the  few  loose 
bricks  within  which  it  was  pent,  on  the  damp  hearth  of 


576 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


the  chimney — for  there  was  no  stove — she  looked  as  if 
she  were  watching  at  some  witch's  altar  for  a  favourable 
token  ;  and  but  that  the  movement  of  her  chattering 
jaws  and  trembling  chin  was  too  frequent  and  too  fast 
for  the  slow  flickering  of  the  fire,  it  would  have  seemed 
an  illusion  wrought  by  the  light,  as  it  came  and  went, 
upon  a  face  as  motionless  as  the  form  to  which  it  be- 
longed. 

If  Florence  could  have  stood  within  the  room  and 
looked  upon  the  original  of  the  shadow  thrown  upon  the 
wall  and  roof,  as  it  cowered  thus  over  the  fire,  a  glance 
might  have  sufficed  to  recall  the  figure  of  Good  Mrs. 
Brown  ;  notwithstanding  that  her  childish  recollection 
of  that  terrible  old  woman  was  as  grotesque  and  exag- 
gerated a  presentiment  of  the  truth,  perhaps,  as  the 
shadow  on  the  wall.  But  Florence  was  not  there  to  look 
on ;  and  Good  Mrs.  Brown  remained  unrecognized,  and 
sat  staring  at  her  fire,  unobserved. 

Attracted  by  a  louder  sputtering  than  usual,  as  the 
rain  came  hissing  down  the  chimney  in  a  little  stream, 
the  old  woman  raised  her  head,  impatiently,  to  listen 
afresh.  And  this  time  she  did  not  drop  it  again  ;  for 
there  was  a  hand  upon  the  door,  and  a  footstep  in  the 
room. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  she  said,  looking  over  her  shoulder. 
**  One  who  brings  you  news,"  was  the  answer,  in  a 
woman's  voice. 

* '  Ne ws  ?    Where  from  ?  " 
*'  From  abroad." 

"From  beyond  seas?  "  cried  the  old  woman,  starting 
up. 

"  Ay,  from  beyond  seas." 

The*  old  woman  raked  the  fire  together,  hurriedly,  and 
going  close  to  her  visitor  who  had  entered,  and  shut  the 
door,  and  who  now  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  put 
her  hand  upon  the  drenched  cloak,  and  turned  the  unre- 
sisting figure,  so  as  to  have  it  in  the  full  light  of  the 
fire.  She  did  not  find  what  she  had  expected,  whatever 
that  might  be  ;  for  she  let  the  cloak  go  again,  and  ut- 
tered a  querulous  cry  of  disappointment  and  misery. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  her  visitor. 

"  Oho  !  Oho  !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  turning  her  face 
upward,  with  a  terrible  howl. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  asked  the  visitor  again. 

"It's  not  my  gal  !"  cried  the  old  woman,  tossing  up 
her  arms,  and  clasping  her  hands  above  her  head. 
"  Where's  my  Alice?  Where's  my  handsome  daughter? 
They've  been  the  death  of  her  !  " 

"  They've  not  been  the  death  of  her  yet,  if  your  name's 
Marwood,"  said  her  visitor. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  gal,  then  ?"  cried  the  old  woman. 
"  Has  she  wrote  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  said  you  couldn't  read,"  returned  the  other. 

"  No  more  I  can  !"  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  wring- 
ing her  hands.  , 

"Have  you  no  light  here?"  said  the  other,  looking 
round  the  room. 

The  old  woman,  mumbling  and  shaking  her  head,  and 
muttering  to  herself  about  her  handsome  daughter, 
brought  a  candle  from  a  cupboard  in  the  corner,  and 
thrusting  it  into  the  fire  with  a  trembling  hand,  lighted 
it  with  some  difficulty  and  set  it  on  the  table.  Its  dirty 
wick  burnt  dimly  at  first,  being  choked  in  its  own 
grease  ;  and  when  the  bleared  eyes  and  failing  sight  of 
the  old  woman  could  distinguish  anything  by  its  light, 
lier  visitor  was  sitting  with  her  arms  folded,  her  eyes 
turned  downwards,  and  a  handkerchief  she  had  worn 
upon  her  head  lying  on  the  table  by  her  side. 

"She  sent  to  me  by  word  of  mouth  then,  my  gal, 
Alice?"  mumbled  the  old  woman,  after  waiting  for  some 
moments.    ' '  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Look,"  returned  the  visitor. 

The  old  woman  repeated  the  word  in  a  scared  uncertain 
way  ;  and,  shading  her  eyes,  looked  at  the  speaker,  round 
the  room,  and  at  the  speaker  once  again. 

"Alice  said  look  again  mother;"  and  the  speaker 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  her. 

Again  the  old  woman  looked  round  the  room,  and  at  her 
visitor,  and  round  the  room  once  more.  Hastily  seizing 
the  candle,  and  rising  from  her  seat,  she  held  it  to  the 
visitor's  face,  uttered  a  loud  cry  set  down  the  light,  and 
fell  upon  her  neck  1 


"It's  my  gal  !  It's  my  Alice  !  It's  my  handsome 
daughter  living  and  come  back  !  "  screamed  the  old  wom- 
an, rocking  herself  to  and  fro  upon  the  breast  that  coldly 
suffered  her  embrace.  "It's  my  gal  !  It's  my  Alice! 
It's  my  handsome  daughter,  living  and  come  back  !"  she 
screamed  again,  dropping  on  the  floor  before  her,  clasping 
her  knees,  laying  her  head  against  them,  and  still  rock- 
ing herself  to  and  fro  with  every  frantic  demonstration 
of  which  her  vitality  was  capable. 

"  Yes,  mother,"  returned  Alice,  stooping  forward  for  a 
moment,  and  kissing  her,  but  endeavouring,  even  in  the 
act,  to  disengage  herself  from  her  embrace.  "  I  am  here, 
at  last.  Let  go,  mother  ;  let  go.  Get  up,  and  sit  in  your 
chair.    What  good  does  this  do  ?  " 

"She's  come  back  harder  than  she  went  !"  cried  the 
mother,  looking  up  in  her  face,  and  still  holding  to  hsr 
knees.  "  She  don't  care  for  me  !  after  all  these  years, 
and  all  the  wretched  life  I've  led  I " 

"  Why,  mother  ! "  said  Alice,  shaking  her  ragged  skirts 
to  detach  the  old  woman  from  them:  "there  are  two 
sides  to  that.  There  have  been  years  for  me  as  well  as 
you,  and  there  has  been  wretchedness  for  me  as  well  as 
you.    Get  up,  get  up  !  ' 

Her  mother  rose,  and  cried,  and  wrung  her  hands,  and 
stood  at  a  little  distance  gazing  on  her.  Then  she  took 
the  candle  again,  and  going  round  her,  surveyed  her  from 
head  to  foot,  making  a  low  moaning  all  the  time.  Then 
she  put  the  candle  down,  resumed  her  chair,  and  beating 
her  hands  together,  to  a  kind  of  weary  tune,  and  rolling 
herself  from  side  to  side,  continued  moaning  and  wailing 
to  herself. 

Alice  got  up,  took  olf  her  wet  cloak,  and  laid  it  aside. 
That  done  she  sat  down  as  before,  and  with  her  arms 
folded  ,and  her  eyes  gazing  at  the  fire,  remained  silently 
listening  with  a  contemptuous  face  to  her  old  mother's 
inarticulate  complainings. 

"Did  you  expect  to  see  me  return  as  youthful  as  I 
went  away,  mother?"  she  said  at  length,  turning  her 
eyes  upon  the  old  woman.  "Did  you  think  a  foreign 
life,  like  mine,  was  good  for  good  looks?  One  would 
believe  so,  to  hear  you  !" 

"  It  an't  that  !"  cried  the  mother,    "  She  knows  it  I" 

"  What  is  it  then  ?  "  returned  the  daughter.  "  It  had 
best  be  something  that  don't  last,  mother,  or  my  way  out 
is  easier  than  my  way  in." 

"Hear  that !  "  exclaimed  the  mother.  "  After  all  these 
years  she  threatens  to  desert  me  in  the  moment  of  her 
coming  back  again  ! " 

"  I  tell  you,  mother,  for  the  second  time,  there  have 
been  years  for  me  as  well  as  you,"  said  Alice.  "  Come 
back  harder  ?  Of  course  I  have  come  back  harder. 
What  else  did  you  expect  ?" 

"  Harder  to  me  !  To  her  own  dear  mother  ! "  cried  the 
old  woman. 

"I  don't  know  who  began  to  harden  me,  if  my  own 
dear  mother  didn't,"  she  returned,  sitting  with  her  folded 
arms,  and  knitted  brows,  and  compressed  lips  as  if  she 
were  bent  on  excluding,  by  force,  every  softer  feeling 
from  her  breast,  "Listen,  mother,  to  a  word  or  two. 
If  we  understand  each  other  now,  we  shall  not  fall  out 
any  more,  perhaps.  I  went  away  a  girl,  and  have  come 
back  a  woman.  I  went  away  undutiful  enough,  and  have 
come  back  no  better,  you  may  swear.  But  have  you  been 
very  dutiful  to  me  ?" 

"I  I  "  cried  the  old  woman.  "  To  my  own  gal  !  A 
mother  dutiful  to  her  own  child  !  " 

"  It  sounds  unnatural,  don't  it  ?  "  returned  the  daugh- 
ter, looking  coldly  on  her  with  her  stern,  regardless, 
hardy,  beautiful  face  ;  "but  I  have  thought  of  it  some- 
times, in  the  course  of  my  lone  years,  till  I  have  got  used 
to  it.  I  have  heard  some  talk  about  duty  first  and  last  ; 
but  it  has  always  been  of  my  duty  to  other  people.  I 
have  wondered  now  and  then — to  pass  away  the  time — 
whether  no  one  ever  owed  any  duty  to  me." 

Her  mother  sat  mowing,  and  mumbling,  and  shaking 
her  head,  but  whether  angrily,  or  rt^morsefully,  or  in  de- 
nial, or  only  in  her  physical  infinnity,  did  not  appear. 

"There  was  a  child  called  Alice  Marwood,"  said  the 
daughter,  with  a  laugh,  and  looking  down  at  herself  in 
terrible  derision  of  herself,  "  born  among  poverty  and 
neglect,  and  nursed  in  it.  Nobody  taught  her,  nobody 
stepped  forward  to  help  her,  nobody  cared  for  her." 


DOMBEY 

"  Nobody  !"  echoed  the  mother,  pointing  to  herself  and 
striking  her  breast. 

"  The  only  cave  she  knew,"  returned  the  daughter, 
"  was  to  be  beaten,  and  stinted,  and  abused  sometimes  ; 
and  she  might  have  done  better  without  that.  She  liv- 
ed in  homes  like  this,  and  in  the  streets,  with  a  crowd 
of  little,  wretches  like  herself  ;  and  yet  she  brought  good 
looks  out  of  this  childhood.  So  much  the  worse  for  her. 
She  had  better  have  been  hunted  and  worried  to  death 
for  ugliness." 

"  Go  on  !  go  on  ! "  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"I  am  going  on,"  returned  the  mother.  "  There  was 
a  girl  called  Alice  Mar  wood.  She  was  handsome.  She 
was  taught  too  late,  and  taught  all  wrong.  She  was 
too  well  cared  for,  too  well  trained,  too  well  helped  on 
too  much  looked  after.  You  were  very  fond  of  her — you 
were  better  off  then.  What  came  to  that  girl  comes  to 
thousands  every  year.  It  was  only  ruin,  and  she  was 
born  to  it." 

"After  all  these  years!"  whined  the  old  woman. 
My  gal  begins  with  this." 

"  She'll  soon  have  ended,"  said  the  daughter.  "There 
was  a  criminal  called  Alice  Mar  wood — a  girl  still,  but 
deserted  and  an  outcast.  And  she  was  tried  and  she  was 
sentenced.  And  lord,  how  the  gentlemen  in  the  court 
talked  about  it !  and  how  grave  the  judge  was,  on  her 
duty,  and  on  her  having  perverted  the  gifts  of  nature  — 
as  if  he  didn't  know  better  than  anybody  there,  that 
they  had  been  made  curses  to  her  ! — and  how  he  preach- 
ed about  the  strong  arm  of  the  Law — so  very  strong  to 
save  her,  when  she  was  an  innocent  and  helpless  little 
wretch  !  and  how  solemn  and  religious  it  all  was  !  I 
have  thought  of  that,  many  times  since,  to  be  sure." 

She  folded  her  arms  tightly  on  her  breast,  and  laughed 
in  a  tone  that  made  the  howl  of  the  old  woman  musical, 
"  So  Alice  Marwood  was  transported,  mother,"  she 
pursued,  "and  was  sent  to  learn  her  duty,  where  there 
was  twenty  times  less  duty,  and  more  wickedness,  and 
wrong,  and  infamy,  than  here.  .And  Alice  Marwood  is 
come  back  a  woman.  Such  a  woman  as  she  ought  to  be 
after  all  this.  In  good  time,  there  will  be  more  solemn- 
ity, and  more  fine  talk,  and  more  strong  arm,  most  likely, 
and  there  will  be  an  end  of  her  ;  but  the  gentle- 
men needn't  be  afraid  of  being  thrown  out  of  work. 
There's  crowds  of  little  wretches,  boy  and  girl,  growing 
up  in  any  of  the  streets  they  live  in,  that'll  keep  them  to 
it  till  they've  made  their  fortunes." 

The  old  woman  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
resting  her  face  upon  her  two  hands,  made  a  show  of 
being  in  great  distress — or  really  was,  perhaps. 

"  There  !  I  have  done,  mother,"  said  the  daughter, 
with  a  motion  of  her  head,  as  if  in  dismissal  of  the  sub- 
ject. "I  have  said  enough.  Don't  let  you  and  I  talk 
of  being  dutiful,  whatever  we  do.  Your  childhood  was 
like  mine,  I  suppose.  So  much  the  worse  for  both  of  us. 
I  don't  want  to  blame  you,  or  to  defend  myself  ;  why 
should  I?  That's  all  over,  long  ago.  But  I  am  a 
woman — not  a  girl,  now — and  you  and  I  needn't  make  a 
show  of  our  history,  like  the  gentlemen  in  the  court. 
We  know  all  about  it,  well  enough." 

Lost  and  degraded  as  she  was,  there  was  a  beauty  in 
her,  both  of  face  and  form,  which,  even  in  its  worst  ex- 
pression, could  not  but  be  recognised  as  such  by  any  one 
regarding  her  with  the  least  attention.  As  she  subsided 
into  silence,  and  her  face  which  had  been  harshly  agita- 
ted, quieted  down  ;  while  her  dark  eyes,  fixed  upon  the 
fire,  exchanged  the  reckless  light  that  had  animated 
them  for  one  that  was  softened  by  something  like  sorrow; 
there  shone  through  all  her  way-worn  misery  and  fatigue 
a  ray  of  the  departed  radiance  of  the  fallen  angel. 

Her  mother,  after  watching  her  for  some  time  without 
speaking,  ventured  to  steal  her  withered  hand  a  little 
nearer  to  her  across  the  table  ;  and  finding  that  she  per- 
:  mitted  this,  to  touch  her  face  and  smooth  her  hair. 
With  the  feeling,  as  it  seemed,  that  the  old  woman  was 
at  least  sincere  in  this  show  of  interest,  Alice  made  no 
;  movement  to  check  her,  so,  advancing  by  degrees,  she 
;  bound  up  her  daughter's  hair  afresh,  took  off  her  wet 
I  shoes,  if  they  deserved  the  name,  spread  something  dry 
i  upon  her  shoulders,  and  hovered  humbly  about  her, 
j  muttering  to  herself,  as  she  recognised  her  old  features 
j  and  expression  more  and  more. 
(  Vol.  II.— 37 


AND  SON.  577 

"  You  are  very  poor,  mother,  I  see,"  said  Alice,  look- 
ing round,  when  she  had  sat  thus  for  some  time. 

"  Bitter  poor,  my  deary,"  replied  the  old  woman. 

She  admired  her  daughter,  and  was  afraid  of  her. 
Perhaps  her  admiration,  such  as  it  was,  had  originated 
long  ago,  when  she  first  found  anything  that  was  beauti- 
ful appearing  in  the  midst  of  the  squalid  fight  of  her-^ 
existence.  Perhaps  her  fear  was  referable,  in  some 
sort,  to  the  retrospect  she  had  so  lately  heard.  Be  this 
as  it  might,  she  stood,  submissively  and  deferentially, 
before  her  child,  and  inclined  her  head,  as  if  in  a  pitiful 
entreaty  to  be  spared  any  further  reproach. 

"  How  have  you  lived  ?  " 

"  By  begging,  my  deary." 

"And  pilfering,  mother?" 

"Sometimes,  Ally — in  a  very  small  way.  I  am  old 
and  timid.  I  have  taken  trilles  from  children  now  and 
then,  my  deary,  but  not  often.  I  have  tramped  about 
the  country,  pet,  and  I  know  what  I  know.  I  have 
watched. " 

"  Watched  ?"  returned  the  daughter,  looking  at  her. 

"  I  have  hung  about  a  family,  my  deary,"  said  the 
mother,  even  more  humbly  and  submissively  than  be- 
fore. 

"What  family?" 

"  Hush,  darling.  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  I  did  it  for 
the  love  of  you.  In  memory  of  my  poor  gal  beyond 
seas."  She  put  out  her  hand  deprecatingly,  and  draw- 
ing it  back  again,  laid  it  on  her  lips. 

"  Years  ago,  my  deary,"  she  pursued,  glancing  timid- 
ly at  the  attentive  and  stern  face  opposed  to  her.  "I 
came  across  his  little  child,  by  chance." 

"Whose  child?" 

"Not  his,  Alice  deary;  don't  look  at  me  like  that  ; 
not  his.  How  could  it  be  his  ?  You  know  he  has 
none." 

"  Whose  then  ?  "  returned  the  daughter.    "  You  said 
his." 

"Hush,  Ally  ;  you  frighten  me,  deary.  Mr.  Dombey's 
—only  Mr.  Dombey's.  Since  then,  darling,  I  have  seen 
them  often.    I  have  seen  Mm." 

In  uttering  this  last  word,  the  old  woman  shrunk  and 
recoiled,  as  if  with  a  sudden  fear  that  her  daughter 
would  strike  her.  But  though  the  daughter's  face  was 
fixed  upon  her,  and  expressed  the  most  vehement  pas- 
sion, she  remained  still  :  except  that  she  clenched  her 
arms  tighter  and  tighter  within  each  other,  on  her  bosom, 
as  if  to  restrain  them  by  that  means  from  doing  an  in- 
jury to  herself,  or  some  one  else,  in  the  blind  fury  of 
the  wrath  that  suddenly  possessed  her. 

"  Little  he  thought  who  I  was  ! "  said  the  old  woman, 
shaking  her  clenched  hand. 

"  And  little  he  cared  !  "  muttered  her  daughter,  be- 
tween her  teeth. 

"But  there  we  were,"  said  thef  old  woman,  "face  to 
face.  I  spoke  to  him,  and  he  spoke  to  me.  I  sat  and 
watched  him  as  he  went  away  down  a  long  grove  of 
trees  ;  and  at  every  step  he  took,  I  cursed  him  soul  and 
body." 

"  He  will  thrive  in  spite  of  that,"  returned  the  daughter 
disdainfully. 

"  Ay,  he  is  thriving,"  said  her  mother. 

She  held  her  peace  ;  for  the  face  and  form  before  her 
were  unshaped  by  rage.  It  seemed  as  if  the  bosom 
would  burst  with  the  emotions  that  strove  within  it.. 
The  effort  that  con.strained  and  held  it  pent  up,  was  no 
less  formidable  than  the  rage  itself  :  no  less  bespeaking 
the  violent  and  dangerous  character  of  the  woman  who 
made  it.  But  it  succeeded,  and  she  asked,  after  a 
silence  : 

"Is  he  married  ?" 

"  No,  deary,"  said  the  mother. 

"Going  to  be?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  deary.  But  his  master  and' 
friend  is  married.  Oh,  we  may' give  him  joy  !  We  may 
give  'em  all  joy  !"  cried  the  old  woman,  hugging  herself 
with  her  lean  arms  in  her  exultation.  "Nothing  but 
joy  to  us  will  come  of  that  marriage.    Mind  me  !  " 

The  daughter  looked  at  her  for  an  explanation. 

"  But  you  are  wet  and  tired  :  hungry  and  thirsty,"  said" 
the  old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard  :  "  and  there's 
little  here,  and  little — "  diving  down  into  her  pocket. 


578 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


an(3ajmgling  a  few  halfpence  on  the  table —  "  little  here. 
Have  you  any  money,  Alice,  deary  ?  " 
.  The  covetous,  sharp,  eager  face  with  which  she 
asked  tlie  question  and  looked  on,  as  her  daughter  took 
out  of  her  bosom  the  little  gift  she  had  so  lately  re- 
ceived, told  almost  as  much  of  the  history  of  this  parent 
and  child  as  the  child  herself  had  told  in  words. 
"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  the  mother. 

"  I  have  no  more.  I  should  not  have  this,  but  for 
charity. " 

"But  for  charity,  eh,  deary?"  said  the  old  woman, 
bending  greedily  over  the  table  to  look  at  the  money, 
which  she  appeared  distrustful  of  her  daughter's  still 
retaining  in  her  hand,  and  gazing  on.  "  Humph  I  six  and 
six  is  twelve  and  six  eighteen — so — we  must  make  the 
most  of  it.    I'll  go  buy  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

With  greater  alacrity  than  might  have  been  expected 
in  one  of  her  appearance — for  age  and  misery  seemed  to 
have  made  her  as  decrepit  as  ugly — she  began  to  occupy 
her  trembling  hands  in  tying  an  old  bonnet  on  her  head, 
and  folding  a  torn  shawl  about  herself  :  still  eyeing  the 
money  in  her  daughter's  hand,  with  the  same  sharp  de- 
sire. 

"  What  joy  is  to  come  to  us  of  this  marriage, 
mother  ?  "  asked  the  daughter.  "  You  have  not  told  me 
that." 

"  The  joy,"  she  replied,  attiring  herself,  with  fum- 
bling fingers,  "  of  no  love  at  all,  and  much  pride  and 
hate,  my  deary.  The  joy  of  confusion  and  strife  among 
'em,  proud  as  they  are,  and  of  danger — danger,  Alice?" 

"  What  danger?" 

"/have  seen  what  I  have  seen.  /  know  what  I 
know!"  chuckled  the  mother.  "Let  some  look  to  it. 
Let  some  be  upon  their  guard.  My  gal  may  keep  good 
company  yet  ! " 

Then,  seeing  that  in  the  wondering  earnestness  with 
which  her  daughter  regarded  her,  her  hand  involuntarily 
closed  upon  the  money,  the  old  woman  made  more  speed 
to  secure  it,  and  hurriedly  added,  "  but  I'll  go  buy  some- 
thing, I'll  go  buy  something." 

As  she  stood  with  her  hand  stretched  out  before  her 
daughter,  her  daughter,  glancing  again  at  the  money, 
put  it  to  her  lips  before  parting  with  it. 

"What,  Ally!  Do  you  kiss  it?"  chuckled  the  old 
woman.  "  That's  like  me— I  often  do.  Oh,  it's  so  good 
to  us  !"  squeezing  her  own  tarnished  halfpence  up  to 
her  bag  of  a  throat,  "  so  good  to  us  in  everything  but 
not  coming  in  heaps  !  " 

"I  kiss  it,  mother,"  said  the  daughter,  "  or  I  did  then 
— I  don't  know  that  I  ever  did  before — for  the  giver's 
sake." 

"The  giver,  eh,  deary?"  retorted  the  old  woman, 
whose  dimmed  eyes  glistened  as  she  took  it.  "  Ay  ! 
I'll  kiss  it  for  the  giver's  sake,  too,  when  the  giver  can 
make  it  go  farther.  But  I'll  go  spend  it,  deary.  I'll  be 
back  directly." 

"  You  seem  to  say  you  know  a  great  deal,  mother," 
said  the  daughter,  following  her  to  the  door  with  her 
eyes.    ^' You  have  grown  very  wise  since  we  parted." 

"  Know  !  "  croaked  the  old  woman,  coming  back  a  step 
or  two,  "I  know  more  than  you  think.  I  know  more 
than  he  thinks,  deary,  as  I'll  tell  you  by-and-by.  I  know 
all  about  him." 

The  daughter  smiled  incredulously. 

"I  know  of  his  brother,  Alice,"  said  the  old  woman, 
stretching  out  her  neck  with  a  leer  of  malice  absolutely 
frightful,  "  who  might  have  been  where  you  have  been 
— for  stealing  money — and  who  lives  with  his  sister, 
over  yonder,  by  the  north  road  out  of  London." 

"  Where?" 

"  By  the  north  road  out  of  London,  deary.  You  shall 
see  the  house,  if  you  like.  It  ain't  much  to  boast  of, 
genteel  as  his  own  is.  No,  no,  no,"  cried  the  old  woman 
shaking  her  head  and  laughing  ;  for  her  daughter  had 
started  up,  "  not  now  ;  it's  too  far  off  ;  'it's  by  the  mile- 
stone, where  the  stones  are  heaped  ;  to-morrow,  deary, 
if  it's  fine,  and  you  are  in  the  humour.  But  I'll  go 
spend — " 

"  Stop  !"  and  the  daughter  flung  herself  upon  her, 
with  her  former  passion  raging  like  a  fire.  "  The  sister 
is  a  fair-faced  devil,  with  brown  hair?" 

The  old  woman,  amazed  and  terrified,  nodded  lier  head. 


"  I  see  the  shadow  of  him  in  her  face  !  It  is  a  red 
house  standing  by  itself.  Before  the  door,  there  is  a 
small  green  porch." 

Again  the  old  woman  nodded. 

"In  which  I  sat  to-day  !  Give  me  back  the  money." 
"  Alice  !    Deary  !  " 

"  Give  me  back  the  money,  or  you'll  be  hurt.'' 

She  forced  it  from  the  old  woman's  hand  as  she  spoke, 
and  utterly  indifferent  to  her  complainings  and  entrea- 
ties, threw  on  the  garments  she  had  taken  off,  and  hur- 
ried out,  with  headlong  speed. 

The  mother  followed,  limping  after  her  as  she  could, 
and  expostulating  with  no  more  effect  upon  her  than 
upon  the  wind  and  rain  and  darkness  that  encompassed 
them.  Obdurate  and  fierce  in  her  own  purpose,  and  in- 
different to  all  besides,  the  daughter  defied  the  weather 
and  the  distance,  as  if  she  had  known  no  travel  or  fa- 
tigue, and  made  for  the  house  where  she  had  been  re- 
lieved. After  some  quarter  of  an  hour's  walking,  the 
old  woman,  spent  and  out  of  breath,  ventured  to  hold 
by  her  skirts  ;  but  she  ventured  no  more,  and  they  trav- 
elled on  in  silence  through  the  wet  and  gloom.  If  the 
mother  now  and  then  uttered  a  word  of  complaint,  she 
stifled  it  lest  her  daughter  should  break  away  from  her 
and  leave  her  behind  ;  and  the  daughter  was  dumb. 

It  was  within  an  hour  or  so  of  midnight,  when  they 
left  the  regular  streets  behind  them,  and  entered  on  the 
deeper  gloom  of  that  neutral  ground  where  the  house 
was  situated.  The  town  lay  in  the  distance,  lurid  and 
lowering  ;  the  bleak  wind  howled  over  the  open  space  ; 
all  around  was  black,  wild,  desolate. 

"  This  is  a  fit  place  for  me  !  "  said  the  daughter,  stop- 
ping to  look  back.  "I  thought  so,  when  I  was  here 
before,  to-day." 

"Alice,  my  deary,"  cried  the  mother,  pulling  her 
gently  by  the  skirt.    "  Alice  !  " 

"  What  now,  mother?" 

"Don't  give  the  money  back,  my  darling;  please 
don't.  We  can't  afford  it.  We  want  supper  deary. 
Money  is  money,  whoever  gives  it.  Say  what  you  will, 
but  keep  the  money." 

"  See  there  I  "  w^as  all  the  daughter's  answer.  "  That 
is  the  house  I  mean.    Is  that  it  ?  " 

The  old  woman  nodded  in  the  affirmative  ;  and  a  few 
more  paces  brought  them  to  the  threshold.  There  was 
the  light  of  fire  and  candle  in  the  room  where  Alice  had 
sat  to  dry  her  clothes  ;  and  on  her  knocking  at  the  door, 
John  Carker  appeared  from  that  room. 

He  was  surprised  to  see  such  visitors  at  such  an  hour, 
and  asked  Alice  what  she  wanted. 

"  I  want  your  sister,"  she  said.  "The  woman  who 
gave  me  money  to-day." 

At  the  sound  of  her  raised  voice,  Harriet  came  out. 

"  Oh  !"  said  Alice.  "You  are  here.  Do  you  remem- 
ber me  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  wondering. 

The  face  that  had  humbled  itself  before  her,  looked 
on  her  now  with  such  invincible  hatred  and  defiance  ; 
and  the  hand  that  had  gently  touched  her  arm,  was 
clenched  with  such  a  show  of  evil  purpose,  as  if  it  would 
gladly  strangle  her ;  that  she  drew  her  brother  close  to 
her  for  protection. 

"  That  I  could  speak  with  you  and  not  know  you  ! 
That  I  could  come  near  you,  and  not  feel  what  blood  was 
running  in  your  veins,  by  the  tingling  of  my  own  !"  said 
Alice  with  a  menacing  gesture. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    What  have  I  done  ?" 

"  Done  !  "  returned  the  other,  "  You  have  sat  me  by 
your  fire  ;  you  have  given  me  food  and  money  ;  you 
have  bestowed  your  compassion  on  me  !  You  !  whose 
name  I  spit  upon  !  " 

The  old  woman,  with  a  malevolence  that  made  her 
ugliness  quite  awful,  shook  her  withered  hand  at  the 
brother  and  sister  in  confirmation  of  her  daughter,  but 
plucked  her  by  the  skirts  again,  imploring  her  to  keep 
the  money. 

"  If  I  dropped  a  tear  upon  your  hand,  may  it  wither  it 
up  !  If  I  spoke  a  gentle  word  in  your  hearing,  may  it 
deafen  you  !  If  I  touched  you  with  my  lips,  may  the 
touch  be  poison  to  you  !  A  curse  upon  this  roof  that 
gave  me  shelter  !  Sorrow  and  shame  upon  your  head  ! 
Kuin  upon  all  belonging  to  you  I  " 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


579 


As  she  said  the  words,  she  threw  the  money  down  up- 
on the  ground,  and  spurned  it  with  her  foot. 

"  I  tread  it  in  the  dust  :  I  wouldn't  take  it  if  it  paved 
my  way  to  Heaven  !  I  wish  the  bleeding  foot  that 
brought  me  here  to-day,  had  rotted  off,  before  it  led  me 
to  your  house  !  " 

Harriet,  pale  and  trembling,  restrained  her  brother, 
and  suffered  her  to  go  on  unmolested. 

"It  was  well  that  I  should  be  pitied  and  forgiven  by  you, 
or  any  one  of  your  name,  in  thd  first  hour  of  my  return  ! 
It  was  well  that  you  should  act  the  kind  good  lady  to 
me  !  I'll  thank  you  when  I  die  ;  I'll  pray  for  you,  and 
all  your  race,  you  may  be  sure  !  " 

With  a  fierce  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  she  sprinkled 
hatred  on  the  ground,  and  with  it  devoted  those  who 
were  standing  there  to  destruction,  she  looked  up  at  the 
black  sky,  and  strode  out  into  the  wild  night. 

The  mother,  who  had  plucked  at  her  skirts  again  and 
again  in  vain,  and  had  eyed  the  money  lying  on  the  thres- 
hold with  an  absorbing  greed  that  seemed  to  concentrate 
her  faculties  upon  it,  would  have  prowled  about  until 
the  house  was  dark,  and  then  groped  in  the  mire  on  the 
chance  of  repossessing  herself  of  it.  But  the  daughter 
drew  her  away,  and  they  set  forth,  straight,  on  their  re- 
turn to  their  dwelling  :  The  old  woman  whimpering  and 
bemoaning  their  loss  upon  the  road,  and  fretfully  bewail- 
ing, as  openly  as  she  dared,  the  undntif  nl  conduct  of  her 
handsome  girl  in  depriving  her  of  a  supper,  on  the  very 
first  night  of  their  re-union. 

Supperless  to  bed  she  went,  saving  for  a  few  coarse 
fragments  ;  and  those  she  sat  mumbling  and  munching 
over  a  scrap  of  fire,  long  after  her  undutiful  daughter  lay 
asleep. 

Were  this  miserable  mother,  and  this  miserable  daugh- 
ter, only  the  reduction  to  their  lowest  grade,  of  certain 
social  vices  sometimes  prevailing  higher  up  ?  In  this 
round  world  of  many  circles  within  circles,  do  we  make 
a  weary  journey  from  the  high  grade  to  the  low,  to  find 
at  last  that  they  lie  close  together,  that  the  two  extremes 
touch,  and  that  our  journey's  end  is  but  our  starting-place? 
Allowing  for  great  difference  of  stuff  and  texture,  was 
the  pattern  of  this  woof  repeated  among  gentle  blood 
at  all  ? 

Say,  Edith  Dombey  !  And  Cleopatra,  best  of  mothers, 
let  us  have  your  testimony  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

TJie  Happy  Pair. 

The  dark  blot  on  the  street  is  gone.  Mr.  Dombey's 
mansion,  if  it  be  a  gap  among  tlie  other  houses  any 
longer,  is  only  so  because  it  is  not  to  be  vied  with  in  its 
brightness,  and  haughtily  casts  them  off.  The  saying 
is,  that  home  is  home,  be  it  never  so  homely.  If  it  hold 
good  in  the  opposite  contingency,  and  home  is  home  be 
it  never  so  stately,  what  an  altar  to  the  Household  Gods 
is  raised  up  here  ! 

Lights  are  sparkling  in  the  windows  this  evening,  and 
the  ruddy  glow  of  fires  is  warm  and  bright  upon  the 
hangings  and  soft  carpets,  and  the  dinner  waits  to  be 
served,  and  the  dinner-table  is  handsomely  set  forth, 
though  only  for  four  persons,  and  the  sideboard  is  cum- 
brous with  plate.  It  is  the  first  time  that  the  house  has 
been  arranged  for  occupation  since  its  late  changes,  and 
the  happy  pair  are  looked  for  every  minute. 

Only  second  to  the  wedding  morning,  in  the  interest 
and  expectation  it  engenders  among  the  household,  is 
this  evening  of  the  coming  home.  Mrs.  Perch  is  in  the 
kitchen  taking  tea  ;  and  has  made  the  tour  of  the  estab- 
lishment, and  priced  the  silks  and  damasks  by  the  yard, 
and  exhausted  every  interjection  in  the  dictionary  and 
out  of  it  expressive  of  admiration  and  wonder.  The 
upholsterer's  foreman,  who  has  left  his  hat,  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief  in  it,  both  smelling  strongly  of 
varnish,  under  a  chair  in  the  hall,  lurks  about  the  house, 
gazing  upward  at  the  cornices,  and  downward  at  the  car- 
pets, and  occasionally,  in  a  silent  transport  of  enjoy- 
ment, taking  a  rule  out  of  his  pocket,  and  skirmishingly 


measuring  expensive  objects,  with  unutteral)le  feelings. 
Cook  is  in  high  spirits,  and  says  give  her  a  place  where 
there's  plenty  of  company  (as  she'll  l)et  you  sixpence 
there  will  be  now),  for  she  is  of  a  lively  disposition,  and 
she  always  was  from  a  child,  and  she  don't  mind  who 
knows  it  ;  which  sentiment  elicits  from  the  breast  of 
Mrs.  Perch  a  responsive  murmur  of  support  and  appro- 
bation. All  the  housemaid  hopes  is,  liappiness  for  'em 
— but  marriage  is  a  lottery,  and  the  more  she  thinks 
about  it,  the  more  she  feels  the  independence  and  the 
safety  of  a  single  life.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  saturnine  and 
grim,  and  says  that's  his  opinion  too,  and  give  him  war 
besides,  and  down  with  the  French — for  this  young  man 
has  a  general  impression  that  every  foreigner  is  a  French- 
man, and  miist  be  by  the  laws  of  nature. 

At  each  new  sound  of  wheels,  they  all  stop,  whatever 
they  are  saying,  and  listen  ;  and  more  than  once  there 
is  a  general  starting  up  and  a  cry  of  "  Here  they  are  !" 
But  here  they  are  not  yet ;  and  cook  begins  to  mourn 
over  the  dinner,  which  has  been  jjut  back  twice,  and  the 
upholsterer's  foreman  still  goes  lurking  about  the  rooms, 
undisturbed  in  his  blissful  reverie  ! 

Florence  is  ready  to  receive  her  father  and  her  new 
mama.  Whether  the  emotions  that  are  throbbing  in  her 
breast  originate  in  pleasure  or  in  pain,  she  hardly  knows, 
but  the  fluttering  heart  sends  added  colour  to  her  cheeks, 
and  brightness  to  her  eyes  ;  and  they  say  down-stairs, 
drawing  their  heads  together — for  they  always  speak 
softly  when  they  speak  of  her — how  beautiful  Miss 
Florence  looks  to-night,  and  what  a  sweet  young  lady 
she  has  grown,  poor  dear  !  A  yjause  succeeds  ;  and  then 
cook,  feeling  as  president,  that  her  sentiments  are 
waited  for,  wonders  whether — and  there  stops.  The 
housemaid  w^onders  too,  and  so  does  Mrs.  Perch,  who 
has  the  happy  social  faculty  of  always  wondering  when 
other  people  wonder,  without  tjeing  at  all  particular 
what  she  wonders  at.  Mr.  Towlinson,  who  now  descries 
an  opportunity  of  bringing  down  the  spirits  of  the 
ladies  to  his  own  level,  says  wait  and  see  :  he  wishes 
some  people  were  well  out  of  this.  Cook  leads  a  sigh 
then,  and  a  murmur  of  "Ah,  it's  a  strange  world, — it  is 
indeed!"  and  when  it  has  gone  round  the  table,  adds 
persuasively,  "  but  Miss  Florence  can't  well  be  the 
worse  for  any  change,  Tom."  Mr.  Towlinson's  rejoinder, 
pregnant  with  frightful  meaning,  is,  "Oh,  can't  she 
though  ! "  and  sensible  that  a  mere  man  can  scarcely  be 
more  prophetic,  or  improve  upon  that,  he  holds  his 
peace. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  prepared  to  greet  her  darling  daughter 
and  dear  son-in-law  with  open  arms,  is  appropriately  at- 
tired for  that  purpose  in  a  very  youthful  costume,  with 
short  sleeves.  At  present,  however,  her  ripe  charms  are 
blooming  in  the  shade  of  her  own  apartments,  whence 
she  has  not  emerged  since  she  took  possession  of  them  a 
few  hours  ago,  and  where  she  is  fast  growing  fretful,  on 
account  of  the  postponement  of  dinner.  The  maid  who 
ought  to  be  a  skeleton,  but  is  in  truth  a  buxom  damsel, 
is,  on  the  other  hand,  in  a  most  amiable  state  ;  consider- 
ing her  quarterly  stipend  much  safer  than  heretofore, 
and  foreseeing  a  great  improvement  in  her  board  and 
lodging. 

Where  are  the  happy  pair,  for  whom  this  brave  home 
is  waiting?  Do  steam,  tide,  wind,  and  horses,  all  abate 
their  speed  to  linger  on  such  happiness  ?  Does  the 
swarm  of  loves  and  graces  hovering  about  them  retard 
their  progress  by  its  numbers?  Are  there  so  many 
flowers  in  their  happy  path,  that  they  can  scarcely  move 
along,  without  entanglement  in  thornless  roses  and 
sweetest  briar  ? 

They  are  here  at  last !  The  noise  of  wheels  is 
heard,  grows  louder,  and  a  carriage  drives  up  to  the 
door  !  A  thundering  knock  from  the  obnoxious  foreigner 
anticipates  the  rush  of  Mr.  Towlinson  and  party  to  open 
it ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  bride  alight,  and  walk  in 
arm  in  arm. 

"My  sweetest  Edith  !"  cries  an  agitated  voice  upon 
the  stairs.  "My  dearest  Dombey!"  and  the  short 
sleeves  wreath  themselves  about  the  happy  couple  in 
turn,  and  embrace  them. 

Florence  had  come  down  to  the  hall  too,  but  did  not 
advance  :  reserving  her  timid  welcome  until  those  nearer 
and  dearer  transports  should  subside.    But  the  eyes  of 


580 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Edith  sought  her  out  upon  the  threshold  ;  and  dismiss- 
ing her  sensitive  parent  with  a  slight  kiss  on  the  cheek, 
she  hurried  on  to  Florence  and  embraced  her. 

How  do  you  do,  Florence?"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  put- 
ting out  bis  hand. 

As  Florence,  trembling,  raised  it  to  her  lips,  she  met 
his  glance.  The  look  was  cold  and  distant  enough,  but 
it  stirred  her  heart  to  think  that  she  observed  in  it  some- 
thing more  of  interest  than  he  had  ever  shown  before. 
It  even  expressed  a  kind  of  faint  surprise,  and  not  a 
disagreeable  surprise,  at  sight  of  her.  She  dared  not 
raise  her  eyes  to  his  any  more  ;  but  she  felt  that  he 
looked  at  her  once  again,  and  not  less  favourably.  Oh  I 
what  a  thrill  of  joy  shot  through  her,  awakened  by  even 
this  intangible  and  baseless  confirmation  of  her  hope  that 
she  would  learn  to  win  him,  through  her  new  and  beau- 
tiful mama. 

"  You  will  not  be  long  dressing,  Mrs.  Dombey,  I  pre- 
sume ? "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"I  shall  be  ready  immediately." 

"  Let  them  send  up  dinner  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

With  that  Mr.  Dombey  stalked  away  to  his  own  dress- 
ing-room, and  Mrs.  Dombey  went  up-stairs  to  hers. 
Mrs.  Skewton  and  Florence  repaired  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  that  excellent  mother  considered  it  incum- 
bent on  her  to  shed  a  few  irrepressible  tears,  supposed 
to  be  forced  from  her  by  her  daughter's  felicity  ;  and 
which  she  was  still  drying,  very  gingerly,  with  a  laced 
corner  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  when  her  son-in-law 
appeared. 

**And  how,  my  dearest  Dombey,  did  you  find  that 
delightfullest  of  cities,  Paris?"  she  asked,  subduing  her 
emotion. 

"It  was  cold,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 
"Gay  as  ever?"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  of  course." 
"  Not  particularly.     I  thought  it  dull,"   said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Fie,  ray  dearest  Dombey  !  "  archly  ;  "  dull  1 " 
"  It  made  that  impression  upon  me,  madam,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  grave  politeness.    "I  believe  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey found  it  dull  too.    She  mentioned  once  or  twice  that 
she  thought  it  so." 

"  Why,  you  naughty  girl  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  ral- 
lying her  dear  child,  who  now  entered,  "what  dread- 
fully heretical  things  have  vou  been  saying  about 
Paris  ?  " 

Edith  raised  her  eyebrows  with  an  air  of  weariness  ; 
and  passing  the  folding-doors,  which  were  thrown  open 
to  display  the  suite  of  rooms  in  their  new  and  handsome 
garniture,  and  barely  glancing  at  them  as  she  passed,  sat 
down  by  Florence. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "how  charm- 
ingly these  people  have  carried  out  every  idea  that  we 
hinted.  They  have  made  a  perfect  palace  of  the  house, 
positively." 

"It  is  handsome,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round. 
' '  I  directed  that  no  expense  should  be  spared  ;  and  all 
that  money  could  do,  has  been  done,  I  believe." 

"And  what  can  it  not  do,  dear  Dombey?"  observed 
Cleopatra. 

"  It  is  powerful,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

He  looked  in  a  solemn  way  towards  his  wife,  but  not 
a  word  said  she. 

"  I  hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  addressing  her  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  with  especial  distinctness;  "that  these 
alterations  meet  with  your  approval?" 

"  They  are  as  handsome  as  they  can  be,"  she  returned, 
with  haughty  carelessness.  "  They  should  bo  so,  of 
course.    And  I  suppose  they  are." 

An  expression  of  scorn  was  habitual  to  the  proud  face, 
and  seemed  inseparable  from  it  ;  but  tlie  contempt  with 
which  it  received  any  appeal  to  admiration,  respect,  or 
consideration  on  the  ground  of  his  riches,  no  matter  how 
slight  or  ordinary  in  itself,  was  a  new  and  different  ex- 
pression, unequalled  in  intensity  by  any  other  of  which 
it  was  capable.  Whether  Mr.  Dombey,  wrapped  in  liis 
own  greatne.ss,  was  at  all  aware  of  this,  or  no,  there  had 
not  been  wanting  opportunities  already  for  his  com])lote 
enlightenment;  and  at  that  moment  it  might  have 
been  effected  by  the  one  glance  of  the  dark  eye  that 
lighted  on  liim,  after  it  had  rapidly  and  scornfully  sur- 
veyed the  theme  of  his  self-glorification.    Ho  might 


have  read  in  that  one  glance  that  nothing  that  his  wealth 
could  do,  though  it  were  increased  ten  thousand  fold, 
could  win  him  for  its  own  sake, one  look  of  softened  recog- 
nition from  the  defiant  woman  linked  to  him,  but  arrayed 
with  her  whole  soul  against  him.  He  might  have  read  in 
that  one  glance  that  even  for  its  sordid  and  mercenary 
influence  upon  herself,  she  spurned  it,  while  she  claimed 
its  utmost  power  as  her  right,  her  bargain— as  the  base 
and  worthless  recompense  for  which  she  had  become  his 
wife.  He  might  have  read  in  it  that,  ever  baring  her 
own  head  for  the  lightning  of  her  own  contempt  and 
pride  to  strike,  the  most  innocent  allusion  to  the  power 
of  his  riches  degraded  her  anew,  sunk  her  deeper  in  her 
own  respect,  and  made  the  blight  and  waste  within  her 
more  complete. 

But  dinner  was  announced,  and  Mr.  Dombey  led  down 
Cleopatra  ;  Edith  and  his  daughter  following.  Sweeping 
past  the  gold  and  silver  demonstration  on  the  sideboard 
as  if  it  were  heaped-up  dirt,  and  deigning  to  bestow  no 
look  upon  the  elegances  around  her,  she  took  her  place 
at  his  board  for  the  first  time,  and  sat,  like  a  statue,  at 
the  feast. 

Mr.  Dombey,  being  a  good  deal  in  the  statue  way  him- 
self, was  well  enough  pleased  to  see  his  handsome  wife 
immovable  and  proud  and  cold.  Her  deportment  being 
always  elegant  and  graceful,  this  as  a  general  behaviour 
was  agreeable  and  congenial  to  him.  Presiding,  there- 
fore with  his  accustomed  dignity,  and  not  at  all  reflecting 
on  his  wife  by  any  warmth  or  hilarity  of  his  own,  he  per- 
formed his  share  of  the  honours  of  the  table  with  a  cool 
satisfaction  ;  and  the  installation  dinner,  though  not  re- 
garded down-stairs  as  a  great  success,  or  very  promising 
beginning,  passed  off,  above,  in  a  sufficiently  polite, 
genteel,  and  frosty  manner. 

Soon  after  tea,  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  affected  to  be  quite 
overcome  and  worn  out  by  her  emotions  of  happiness, 
arising  in  the  contemplations  of  her  dear  child  united  to 
the  man  of  her  heart,  but  who,  there  is  reason  to  suppose, 
found  this  family  party  somewhat  dull,  as  she  yawned 
for  one  hour  continually  behind  her  fan,  retired  to  bed. 
Edith,  also,  silently  withdrew  and  came  back  no  more. 
Thus,  it  happened  that  Florence,  who  had  been  up-stairs 
to  have  some  conversation  with  Diogenes,  returning  to 
the  drawing-room  with  her  little  worlc-basket,  found  no 
one  there  but  her  father,  who  was  walking  to  and  fro,  in 
dreary  magnificence. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Shall  I  go  away,  papa?"  said 
Florence  faintly,  hesitating  at  the  door. 

"No,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round  over  his 
shoulder  ;  "  you  can  come  and  go  here,  Florence,  as  you 
please.    This  is  not  my  private  room." 

Florence  entered,  and  sat  down  at  a  distant  little  table 
with  her  work  :  finding  herself  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life — for  the  very  first  time  within  her  memory  from  her 
infancy  to  that  hour — alone  with  her  father,  as  his  com- 
panion. She,  his  natural  companion,  his  only  child, 
who  in  her  lonely  life  and  grief  had  known  the  suffering 
of  a  breaking  heart  ;  who,  in  her  rejected  love,  had  never 
breathed  his  name  to  God  at  night,  but  with  a  tearful 
blessing,  heavier  on  him  than  a  curse  ;  who  had  prayed 
to  die  young,  so  she  might  only  die  in  his  arms  ;  who 
had,  all  through,  repaid  the  agony  of  slight  and  coldness, 
and  dislike,  with  patient  unexacting  love,  excusing  him, 
and  pleading  for  him,  like  his  better  angel  !" 

She  trembled,  and  her  eyes  were  dim.  His  figure 
seemed  to  grow  in  height  and  bulk  before  her  as  he 
paced  tiie  room  ;  now  it  was  all  blurred  and  indistinct ; 
now  clear  again,  and  plain  ;  and  now  she  seemed  to 
think  that  this  had  happened,  just  the  same,  a  multitude 
of  years  ago.  She  yearned  toward  him,  and  yet  shrunk 
from  his  approach.  Unnatural  emotion  in  a  child,  inno- 
cent of  wrong  !  Unnatural  the  hand  that  had  directed 
the  sharp  plough,  which  furrowed  up  her  gentle  nature 
for  the  sowing  of  its  seeds  ! 

Bent  upon  not  distressing  or  offending  him  by  her  dis- 
tress, Florence  controlled  herself,  and  sat  quietly  at  her 
work.  After  a  few  more  turns  across  and  across  the 
room,  he  left  off  pacing  it  ;  and  withdrawing  into  a 
shadowy  corner  at  some  distance  where  there  was  an 
easy  chair,  covered  his  head  with  a  handkerchief,  and 
composed  himself  to  sleep. 

It  was  enough  for  Florence  to  sit  there,  watching  him; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


581 


turning  her  eyes  towards  his  chair  from  time  to  time  ; 
watching  hirn  with  her  thoughts,  when  her  face  was  in- 
tent upon  her  work  ;  and  sorrowfully  glad  to  think  that 
he  could  sleep,  while  she  was  there,  and  that  he  was  not 
made  restless  by  her  strange  and  long-forbidden  pres- 
ence. 

What  would  have  been  her  thoughts  if  she  bad  known 
that  he  was  steadily  regarding  her  ;  that  the  veil  upon 
bis  face,  by  accident  or  by  design,  was  so  adjusted  that 
his  sight  was  free,  and  that  it  never  wandered  from  her 
face  an  instant.  That  when  she  looked  toward  him,  in 
the  obscure  dark  corner,  her  speaking  eyes,  more  earnest 
and  pathetic  in  their  voiceless  speech  than  all  the  orators 
of  all  the  world,  und  impeaching  him  more  nearly  in  their 
mute  address,  met  his,  and  did  not  know  it.  That  when 
she  bent  her  head  again  over  her  work,  he  drew  his 
breath  more  easily,  but  with  the  same  attention  looked 
upon  her  still — upon  her  white  brow  and  her  falling  hair, 
and  busy  hands  ;  and  once  attracted,  seemed  to  have  no 
power  to  turn  his  eyes  away  ! 

And  what  were  his  thoughts  meanwhile  ?  With  what 
emotions  did  he  prolong  the  attentive  gaze  covertly  di- 
rected on  his  unknown  daughter  ?  Was  there  reproach 
to  him  in  the  quiet  figure  and  the  mild  eyes?  Had  he 
begun  to  feel  her  disregarded  claims,  and  did  they  touch 
him  home  at  last,  and  waken  him  to  some  sense  of  his 
cruel  injustice  ? 

There  are  yielding  moments  in  the  lives  of  the  stern- 
est and  harshest  men,  though  such  men  often  keep  their 
secret  well.  The  sight  of  her  in  her  beauty,  almost 
changed  into  a  woman  without  his  knowledge,  may 
have  struck  out  some  such  moments  even  in  his  life  of 
pride.  Some  passing  thought  that  he  had  had  a  happy 
home  within  his  reach — had  had  a  household  spirit 
bending  at  his  feet — had  overlooked  it  in  his  stitf- 
necked  sullen  arrogance,  and  wandered  away  and  lost 
himself — may  have  engendered  them.  Some  simple 
eloquence  distinctly  heard,  though  only  uttered  in  her 
eyes,  unconscious  that  he  read  them,  as  "  By  the  death- 
beds I  have  tended,  by  the  childhood  I  have  suffered, 
by  our  meeting  in  this  dreary  house  at  midnight,  by  the 
cry  wrung  from  me  in  the  anguish  of  my  heart,  O 
father,  turn  to  me  and  seek  a  refuge  in  my  love  before 
it  is  too  late  !"  may  have  arrested  them.  Meaner  and 
lower  thoughts,  as  that  his  dead  boy  was  now  superseded 
by  new  ties,  and  he  could  forgive  the  having  been  sup- 
planted in  his  affection,  may  have  occasioned  them. 
The  mere  association  of  her  as  an  ornament,  with  all 
the  ornament  and  pomp  about  him,  may  have  been  suffi- 
cient. But  as  he  looked,  he  softened  to  her,  more  and 
more.  As  he  looked,  she  became  blended  with  the 
child  he  had  loved,  and  he  could  hardly  separate  the 
two.  As  he  looked,  he  saw  her  for  an  instant  by  a 
clearer  and  a  brighter  light,  not  bending  over  the  child's 
pillow  as  his  rival — monstrous  thought  —  but  as  the 
spirit  of  his  home,  and  in  the  action  tending  himself  no 
less,  as  he  sat  once  more  with  his  bowed-down  head 
upon  his  hand  at  the  foot  of  the  little  bed.  He  felt  in- 
clined to  speak  to  her,  and  call  her  to  him.  The  words 
**  Florence,  come  here  !"  were  rising  to  his  lips — slowly 
and  with  difficulty,  they  were  so  very  strange — when 
they  were  checked"  and  stifled  by  a  footstep  on  the  stair. 

It  was  his  wife's.  She  had  exchanged  her  dinner  dress 
for  a  loose  robe,  and  had  unbound  her  hair,  which  fell 
freely  about  her  neck.  But  this  was  not  the  change  in 
her  that  startled  him. 

'*  Florence,  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  looking  for 
you  everywhere." 

As  she  sat  down  by  the  side  of  Florence,  she  stooped 
and  kissed  her  hand.  He  hardly  knew  his  wife.  She 
was  so  changed.  It  was  not  merely  that  her  smile  was 
new  to  him — though  that  he  had  never  seen  ;  but  her 
manner,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  the  light  of  her  eyes,  the 
interest  and  confidence,  and  winning  wish  to  please,  ex- 
pressed in  all— this  was  not  Edith. " 

"  Softly,  dear  mama.    Papa  is  asleep." 

It  was  Edith  now.  She  looked  towards  the  corner 
where  he  was,  and  he  knew  that  face  and  manner  very 
well. 

"I  scarcely  thought  you  could  be  here,  Florence." 
Again,  how  altered  and  how  softened,  in  an  instant  ! 
"  I  left  here  early,"  pursued  Edith,  "  purposely  to  sit  \ 


up-stairs  and  talk  with  you.  But,  going  to  your  room, 
I  found  my  bird  was  flown,  and  I  have  been  waiting 
there  ever  since,  expecting  its  return." 

If  it  had  been  a  f3ird,  indeed,  she  could  not  have  taken 
it  more  tenderly  and  gently  to  her  breast,  than  she  did 
Florence. 

"Come,  dear  ! " 

"Papa  will  not  expect  to  find  me,  I  suppose,  when 
he  wakes,"  hesitated  Florence. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will,  Florence?"  said  Edith,  look- 
ing full  upon  her. 

Florence  drooped  her  head,  and  rose,  and  put  up  her 
work-basket.  Edith  drew  her  hand  through  her  arm, 
and  they  went  out  of  the  room  like  sisters.  Her  very 
step  was  different  and  new  to  him,  Mr.  Dombey  thought, 
as  his  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door. 

He  sat  in  his  shadowy  corner  so  long,  that  the  church 
clock  struck  the  hour  three  times  before  he  moved  that 
night.  All  that  while,  his  face  was  still  intent  upon 
the  spot  where  Florence  had  been  seated.  The  room 
grew  darker,  as  the  candle  waned  and  went  out ;  but  a 
darkness  gathered  on  his  face,  exceeding  any  that  the 
I  night  could  cast,  and  rested  there. 

i  Florence  and  Editli,  seated  before  the  fire  in  the  re- 
I  mote  room  where  little  Paul  had  died,  talked  together 
j  for  a  long  time.  Diogenes,  who  was  of  the  party,  had 
at  first  objected  to  the  admission  of  Edith,  and,  even  in 
deference  to  his  mistress's  wish,  had  only  permitted  it 
under  growling  protest.  But,  emerging  by  little  and 
little  from  the  ante-room,  whither  he  had  retired  in 
dudgeon,  he  soon  appeared  to  comprehend,  that  with 
the  most  amiable  intentions  he  had  made  one  of  those 
mistakes  which  will  occasionally  arise  in  the  best-regu- 
lated dogs'  minds  ;  as  a  friendly  apology  for  which  he 
stuck  himself  up  on  end  between  the  two,  in  a  very  hot 
place  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  sat  panting  at  it,  with  his 
tongue  out,  and  a  most  imbecile  expression  of  counten- 
ance, listening  to  the  conversation. 

It  turned,  at  first,  on  Florence's  books  and  favourite 
pursuits,  and  on  the  manner  in  which  she  had  beguiled 
the  interval  since  the  marriage.  The  last  theme  opened 
up  to  her  a  subject  which  lay  very  near  her  heart,  and 
she  said,  with  the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes  : 

* '  Oh,  mama  !  I  have  had  a  great  sorrow  since  that 
day." 

"  You  a  great  sorrow,  Florence  !  " 

"Yes,    Poor  Walter  is  drowned." 

Florence  spread  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  wept 
with  all  her  heart.  Many  as  were  the  secret  tears  which 
Walter's  fate  had  cost  her,  they  flowed  yet,  when  she 
thought  or  spoke  of  him. 

"  But  tell  me.  dear,"  said  Edith,  soothing  her.  "Who 
was  Walter?    What  was  he  to  you?  " 

"  He  was  my  brother,  mama.  After  dear  Paul  died, 
we  said  we  would  be  brother  and  sister.  I  had  known 
him  a  long  time — from  a  little  child.  He  knew  Paul, 
who  liked  him  very  much  ;  Paul  said  almost  at  the  last 
'  Take  care  of  Walter,  dear  papa  !  I  was  fond  of  him  \  ' 
Walter  had  been  brought  in  to  see  him,  and  was  there 
then — in  this  room." 

"  And  did  he  take  care  of  Walter  ?  "  inquired  Edith, 
sternly. 

"Papa?  He  appointed  him  to  go  abroad.  He  was 
drowned  in  shipwreck  on  his  voyage,"  said  Florence 
sobbing. 

"  Does  he  know  that  he  is  dead  ?  "  asked  Edith. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  mama.  I  have  no  means  of  knowing. 
Dear  mama  ! "  cried  Florence,  clinging  to  her  as  for 
help,  and  hiding  her  face  upon  her  bosom,  "  I  know  that 
you  have  seen — " 

"  Stay  !  Stop,  Florence,"  Edith  turned  so  pale,  and 
spoke  so  earnestly,  that  Florence  did  not  need  her  res- 
training hand  upon  her  lips.  "  Tell  me  all  about  Wal- 
ter first ;  let  me  understand  this  history  all  through." 

Florence  related  it,  and  everything  belonging  to  it, 
even  down  to  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Toots,  of  whom  she 
could  hardly  speak  in  her  distress  without  a  tearful 
smile,  although  she  was  deeply  grateful  to  him.  When 
she  had  concluded  her  account,  to  the  whole  of  which 
Edith,  holding  her  hand,  listened  with  close  attention, 
and  when  a  silence  had  succeeded,  Edith  said  : 

"  What  is  it  that  you  know  I  have  seen,  Florence?'* 


583 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  That  I  am  not/'  said  Florence,  with  the  same  mute 
appeal  and  the  same  quicli  concealment  of  her  face  as 
before,  "  that  I  am  not  a  favourite  child,  mama.  I  never 
have  been,  I  have  never  known  how  to  be.  I  have 
missed  the  way,  and  had  no  one  to  show  it  to  me.  Oh, 
let  me  learn  from  you  how  to  become  dearer  to  papa. 
Teach  me  !  you,  who  can  so  well  !  "  and  clinging  closer 
to  her,  with  some  broken  fervent  words  of  gratitude  and 
endearment,  Florence,  relieved  of  her  sad  secret,  wept 
long,  but  not  as  painfully  as  of  yore,  within  the  encircle- 
ing  arms  of  her  new  mother. 

Pale,  even  to  her  lips,  and  with  a  face  that  strove  for 
composure  until  its  proud  beauty  was  fixed  as  death, 
Edith  looked  down  upon  the  weeping  girl,  and  once  kiss- 
ed her.  Then  gradually  disengaging  herself,  and  put- 
ting Florence  away,  she  said,  stately  and  quiet,  as  a 
marble  image,  and  in  a  voice  that  deepened  as  she  spoke 
but  had  no  other  token  of  emotion  in  it  : 

"Florence,  you  do  not  know  me  !  Heaven  forbid  that 
you  should  learn  from  me  !" 

"Not  learn  from  you?"  repeated  Florence  in  cur- 
prise. 

"  That  I  should  teach  you  how  to  love,  or  be  loved. 
Heaven  forbid  !  "  said  Edith.  "  If  you  could  teach  me, 
that  were  better  ;  but  it  is  too  late.  You  are  dear  to  me 
Florence.  I  did  not  think  that  anything  could  ever  be 
so  dear  to  me,  as  you  are  in  this  little  time." 

She  saw  that  Florence  would  have  spoken  here,  so 
checked  her  with  her  hand,  and  went  on. 

"  I  will  be  your  true  friend  always.  I  will  cherish 
you  as  much,  if  not  as  well  as  any  one  in  this  world  could. 
You  may  trust  in  me — I  know  it  and  I  say  it,  dear — 
with  the  whole  confidence  even  of  your  pure  heart. 
There  are  hosts  of  women  whom  he  might  have  married, 
better  and  truer  in  all  other  respects  than  I  am,  Florence; 
but  there  is  not  one  who  could  come  here,  his  wife, 
whose  heart  could  beat  with  greater  truth  to  you  than 
mine  does." 

"  1  know  it,  dear  mama!"  cried  Florence.  "From 
that  first  most  happy  day  I  have  known  it." 

"Most  happy  day!"  Edith  seemed  to  repeat  the 
words  involuntarily,  and  went  on.  "  Though  the  merit 
is  not  mine,  for  I  thought  little  of  you  until  I  saw  you, 
let  the  undeserved  reward  be  mine  in  your  trust  and 
love.  And  in  this — in  this,  Florence  ;  on  the  first  night 
of  my  taking  up  my  abode  here  ;  I  am  led  on  as  it  is 
best  I  should  be,  to  say  it  for  the  first  and  last  time." 

Florence,  without  knowing  why,  felt  almost  afraid  to 
hear  her  proceed,  but  kept  her  eyes  ri vetted  on  the 
beautiful  face  so  fixed  upon  her  own. 

"  Never  seek  to  find  in  me,"  said  Edith,  laying  her 
hand  upon  her  breast,  "  what  is  not  here.  Never  if  you 
can  help  it,  Florence,  fall  off  from  me  because  it  is  not 
here.  Little  by  little  you  will  know  me  better,  and  the 
time  will  come  when  you  will  know  me,  as  I  know  my- 
self. Then,  be  as  lenient  to  me  as  you  can,  and  do  not 
turn  to  bitterness  the  only  sweet  remembrance  I  shall 
have." 

The  tears  that  were  visible  in  her  eyes  as  she  kept 
them  fixed  on  Florence,  showed  that  the  composed  face 
was  but  as  a  handsome  mask  ;  but  she  preserved  it,  and 
continued  : 

"  I  have  seen  what  you  say,  and  know  how  true  it  is. 
But  believe  me— you  will  soon,  if  you  cannot  now — 
there  is  no  one  on  this  eartli  less  qualified  to  set  it  right 
or  help  you,  Florence,  than  1.  Never  ask  me  why,  or 
speak  to  me  about  it  or  of  my  husband,  more.  There 
should  be,  so  far,  a  division,  and  a  silence  between  us 
two,  like  the  grave  itself." 

She  sat  for  some  time  silent  ;  Florence  scarcely  ven- 
turing to  breathe  meanwhile,  as  dim  and  imperfect 
shadows  of  the  truth,  and  all  its  daily  consequences, 
chased  each  otiier  through  lier  terrified,  yet  incredulous 
imagination.  Almost  as  soon  as  she  had  ceased  to  speak, 
Edith's  face  began  to  subside  from  its  set  composure  to 
that  quieter  and  more  relenting  aspect,  whicli  it  usually 
wore  when  she  and  Florence  were  alone  together.  She 
shaded  it,  after  this  change,  with  lier  hands  ;  and  when 
she  arose,  and  with  an  affectionate  embrace  bade  Flor- 
ence good  night,  went  quickly,  and  without  looking 
round. 

But,  when  Florence  was  in  bed,  and  the  room  was 


dark  except  for  the  glow  of  the  fire,  Edith  returned,  and 
saying  that  she  could  not  sleep,  and  that  her  dressing- 
room  was  lonely,  drew  a  chair  upon  the  hearth,  and 
watched  the  embers  as  they  died  away.  Florence 
watched  them  too  from  her  bed,  until  they,  and  the  no- 
ble figure  before  them,  crowned  with  its  flowing  hair, 
and  in  its  thoughtful  eyes  reflecting  back  their  light,  be- 
came confused  and  indistinct,  and  finally  were  lost  in 
slumber. 

In  her  sleep,  however,  Florence  could  not  lose  an  un- 
defined impression  of  what  had  so  recently  passed.  It 
formed  the  subject  of  her  dreams,  and  haunted  her ; 
now  in  one  shape,  now  in  another  ;  but  always  oppres- 
sively ;  and  with  a  sense  of  fear.  She  dreamed  of  seek- 
ing her  father  in  wildernesses,  of  following  his  track 
up  fearful  heights,  and  down  into  deep  mines  and  cav- 
erns ;  of  being  charged  with  something  that  would  le- 
lease  him  from  extraordinary  suffering— she  knew  not 
what,  or  why — yet  never  being  able  to  attain  the  goal 
and  set  him  free.  Then  she  saw  him  dead,  upon  that 
very  bed,  and  in  that  very  room,  and  knew  that  he  had 
never  loved  her  to  the  last,  and  fell  upon  his  cold  breast, 
passionately  weeping.  Then  a  prospect  opened,  and  a 
river  flowed,  and  a  plaintive  voice  she  knew,  cried,  "  It 
is  running  on,  Floy  !  It  has  never  stopped  !  You  are 
moving  with  it  ! "  And  she  saw  him  at  a  distance 
stretching  out  his  arms  towards  her,  while  a  figure  such 
as  Walter's  used  to  be,  stood. near  him,  awfully  serene 
and  still.  In  every  vision,  Edith  came  and  went,  some- 
times to  her  joy,  sometimes  to  her  sorrow,  until  they 
were  alone  upon  the  brink  of  a  dark  grave,  and  Edith 
pointing  down,  she  looked  and  saw — what  ! — another 
Edith  lying  at  the  bottom. 

In  the  terror  of  this  dream,  she  cried  out,  and  awoke 
she  thought.  A  soft  voice  seemed  to  whisper  in  her  ear, 
"Florence,  dear  Florence,  it  is  nothing  but  a  dream  !" 
and  stretching  out  her  arms,  she  returned  the  caress  of 
her  new  mama,  who  then  went  out  at  the  door  in  the 
light  of  the  gray  morning.  In  a  moment,  Florence  sat 
up  wondering  whether  this  had  really  taken  place  or 
not  ;  but  she  was  only  certain  that  it  was  gray  morning 
indeed,  and  that  the  blackened  ashes  of  the  fire  were  on 
the  hearth,  and  that  she  was  alone. 

So  passed  the  night  on  which  the  happy  pair  came 
home. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ffoi/sewarming. 

Many  succeeding  days  passed  in  like  manner  ;  except 
that  there  were  numerous  visits  received  and  paid,  and 
that  Mrs.  Skewton  held  little  levees  in  her  own  apart- 
ments at  which  Major  Bagstock  was  a  frequent  attend- 
ant, and  that  Florence  encountered  no  second  look  from 
her  father,  although  she  saw  him  every  day.  Nor  had 
she  much  communication  in  words,  with  her  new  mama, 
who  was  imperious  and  proud  to  all  the  house  but  her — 
Florence  could  not  but  observe  that — and  who,  although 
she  always  sent  for  her  or  went  to  her  when  she  came 
home  from  visiting,  and  would  always  go  into  her  room 
at  night,  before  retiring  to  rest,  however  late  the  hour, 
and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  being  with  her,  was 
often  her  silent  and  thoughtful  companion  for  a  long 
time  together. 

Florence,  who  had  hoped  for  so  much  from  this  mar- 
riage, could  not  help  sometimes  comparing  the  bright 
house  with  the  faded  dreary  place  out  of  which  it  had 
risen,  and  wondering  when,  in  any  shape,  it  would  begin 
to  be  a  home  ;  for  that  it  was  no  home  then,  for  any 
one,  though  everything  went  on  luxuriously  and  regu- 
larly, she  had  always  a  secret  misgiving.  Many  an  hour 
of  sorrowful  reflection  by  day  and  night,  and  many  a 
tear  of  blighted  hope,  Florence  bestowed  upon  the  as- 
surance her  new  mama  had  given  her  so  strongly,  that 
there  was  no  one  on  the  earth  more  powerless  than  herself 
to  teach  her  how  to  win  her  father's  heart.  And  soon 
Florence  began  to  think — resolved  to  think  would  be  the 
truer  phrase — that  as  no  one  knew  so  well,  how  hopeless 
of  being  subdued  or  changed  her  father's  coldness  to  her 
was,  so  she  had  given  her  this  warning,  and  forbidden 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


583 


the  subject  in  very  compassion.  Unselfish  here,  as  in 
her  every  act  and  fancy,  Florence  preferred  to  bear  the 
pain  of  this  new  wound,  rather  than  encourage  any  faint 
foreshadowings  of  the  truth  as  it  concerned  her  father  ; 
tender  of  him,  even  in  her  wandering  thoughts.  As  for 
his  home  she  hoped  it  would  become  a  better  one,  when 
its  state  of  novelty  and  transition  should  be  over  ;  and 
for  herself,  thought  little,  and  lamented  less. 

If  none  of  the  new  family  were  particularly  at  home 
in  private,  it  was  resolved  that  Mrs.  Dombey  at  least 
should  be  at  home  in  public,  without  delay.  A  series  of 
entertainments  in  celebration  of  the  late  nuptials,  and 
in  cultivation  of  society,  were  arranged  chiefly  by  Mr. 
Dombey  and  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  and  it  was  settled  that  the 
festive  proceedings  should  commence  by  Mrs.  Dombey's 
being  at  home  upon  a  certain  evening,  and  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dombey's  requesting  the  honour  of  the  company  of 
a  great  many  incongruous  people  to  dinner  on  the  same 
day. 

Accordingly  Mr.  Dombey  produced  a  list  of  sundry 
eastern  magnates  who  were  to  be  bidden  to  this  feast  on 
his  behalf,  to  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  acting  for  her  dearest 
child,  who  was  haughtily  careless  on  the  subject,  sub- 
joined a  western  list,  comprising  Cousin  Feenix,  not  yet 
returned  to  Baden  Baden,  greatly  to  the  detriment  of 
his  personal  estate  ;  and  a  variety  of  moths  of  various 
degrees  and  ages,  who  had,  at  various  times,  fluttered 
round  the  light  of  her  fair  daughter,  or  herself,  without 
any  lasting  injury  to  their  wings.  Florence  was  enrolled 
as  a  member  of  the  dinner-party,  by  Edith's  command — 
elicited  by  a  moment's  doubt  and  hesitation  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  and  Florence,  with  a  wondering  heart, 
and  with  a  quick  instinctive  sense  of  everything  that 
grated  on  her  father  in  the  least,  took  her  silent  share 
in  the  proceedings  of  the  day. 

The  proceedings  commenced  by  Mr.  Dombey,  in  a 
cravat  of  extraordinary  height  and  stiffness,  walking 
restlessly  about  the  drawing-room  until  the  hour  ap- 
pointed for  dinner  ;  punctual  to  which,  an  East  India 
Director,  of  immense  wealth,  in  a  waistcoat  apparently 
constructed  in  serviceable  deal  by  some  plain  carpenter, 
but  really  engendered  in  the  tailor's  art,  and  composed 
of  the  material  called  nankeen,  arrived,  and  was  received 
by  Mr.  Dombey  alone.  The  next  stage  of  the  proceed- 
ings was  Mr.  Dombey  sending  his  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Dombey,  with  a  correct  statement  of  the  time  ;  and  the 
next,  the  East  India  Director's  falling  prostrate,  in  a 
conversational  point  of  view,  and  as  Mr.  Dombey  was 
not  the  man  to  pick  him  up,  staring  at  the  fire  until 
rescue  appeared  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  whom 
the  Director,  as  a  pleasant  start  in  life  for  the  evening, 
mistook  for  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  greeted  with  enthusiasm. 

The  next  arrival  was  a  Bank  Director,  reputed  to  be 
able  to  buy  up  anything — human  Nature  generally,  if 
he  should  take  it  in  his  head  to  influence  the  money 
market  in  that  direction — but  who  was  a  wonderfully 
modest-spoken  man,  almost  boastfully  so,  and  mentioned 
his  "little  place"  at  Kingston-upon-Thames,  and  its 
just  being  barely  equal  to  giving  Dombey  a  bed  and  a 
chop,  if  he  would  come  and  visit  it.  Ladies,  he  said,  it 
was  not  for  a  man  who  lived  in  his  quiet  way  to  take 
upon  himself  to  invite — but  if  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her 
daughter,  Mrs.  Dombey,  should  ever  find  themselves  in 
that  direction,  and  would  do  him  the  honour  to  look  at  a  1 
little  bit  of  a  shrubbery  they  would  find  there,  and  a  poor 
little  flower-bed  or  so,  and  a  humble  apology  for  a  pinery, 
and  two  or  three  little  attempts  of  that  sort  without 
any  pretension,  they  would  distinguish  him  very  much. 
Carrying  out  his  character,  this  gentleman  was  very 
plainly  dressed,  in  a  wisp  of  cambric  for  a  neckcloth, 
big  shoes,  a  coat  that  was  too  loose  for  him,  and  a  pair 
of  trousers  that  were  too  spare  ;  and  mention  being  made 
of  the  Opera  by  Mrs.  Skewton,  he  said  he  very  seldom 
went  there,  for  he  couldn't  afford  it.  It  seemed  greatly 
to  delight  and  exhilarate  him  to  say  so  ;  and  he  beamed 
on  his  audience  afterwards,  with  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, and  excessive  satisfaction  twinkling  in  his  eyes. 

Now  Mrs,  Dombey  appeared,  beautiful  and  proud,  and 
as  disdainful  and  defiant  of  them  all  as  if  the  bridal  i 
wreath  upon  her  head  had  been  a  garland  of  steel  spikes  I 
put  on  to  force  concession  from  her  which  she  would  die  1 
sooner  than  yield.    With  her  was  Florence.    When  | 


they  entered  together,  the  shadow  of  the  night  of  the 
return  again  darlcened  Mr.  Dombey's  face.  But  unob- 
served :  for  Florence  did  not  venture  to  raise  lier  eyes 
to  his,  and  Edith's  indifference  was  too  supreme  to  take 
the  least  heed  of  him. 

The  arrivals  quickly  became  numerous.  More  direc- 
tors, chairmen  of  public  companies,  elderly  ladies  carry- 
ing burdens  on  their  heads  for  full  dress,  Cousin  Feenix, 
Maj#r  Bagstock,  friends  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  the  same 
bright  bloom  on  their  complexion,  and  very  precious 
necklaces  on  very  withered  necks.  Among  these,  a 
young  lady  of  sixty-five,  remarkably  coolly  dressed  as  to 
her  back  and  shoulders,  who  spoke  with  an  engaging 
lisp,  and  whose  eyelids  wouldn't  keep  up  well,  without 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  on  her  part,  and  whose  manners 
had  that  indefinable  charm  which  so  frequently  attaches 
to  the  giddiness  of  youth.  As  the  greater  part  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  list  were  disposed  to  be  taciturn,  and  the 
greater  part  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  list  were  disposed  to  be 
talkative,  and  there  was  no  sympathy  between  them, 
Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  by  magnetic  agreement,  entered  into 
a  bond  of  union  against  Mr.  Dombey's  list,  who,  wander- 
ing about  the  rooms  in  a  desolate  manner,  or  seeking 
refuge  in  corners,  entangled  themselves  with  company 
coming  in,  and  became  barricaded  behind  sofas,  and  had 
doors  opened  smartly  from  without  against  their  heads, 
and  underwent  every  sort  of  discomfiture. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  Mr.  Dombey  took  down 
an  old  lady  like  a  crimson  velvet  pincushion  stuffed  with 
bank  notes,  who  might  have  been  the  identical  old  lady 
of  Threadneedle-street,  she  was  so  rich,  and  looked  so 
unaccommodating  ;  Cousin  Feenix  took  down  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey ;  Major  Bagstock  took  down  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  the 
young  thing  with  the  shoulders  was  bestowed,  as  an  ex- 
tinguisher, upon  the  East  India  Director  ;  and  the  re- 
maining ladies  were  left  on  view  in  the  drawing-room  by 
the  remaining  gentlemen,  until  a  forlorn  hope  volun^ 
teered  to  conduct  them  down -stairs,  and  those  brave 
spirits  with  their  captives  blocked  up  the  dining-room 
door,  shutting  out  seven  mild  men  in  the  stony-hearted 
hall.  When  all  the  rest  were  got  in  and  were  seated, 
one  of  these  mild  men  still  appeared,  in  smiling  confu- 
sion, totally  destitute,  and  unprovided  for,  and,  escorted 
by  the  butler,  made  the  complete  circuit  of  the  table 
twice  before  his  chair  could  be  found,  which  it  finally 
was,  on  Mrs.  Dombey's  left  hand  ;  after  which  the  mild 
man  never  held  up  his  head  again. 

Now,  the  spacious  dining-room,  with  the  company 
seated  round  the  glittering  table,  busy  with  their  glit- 
tering spoons,  and  knives  and  forks,  and  plates,  might 
have  been  taken  for  a  grown  up  exposition  of  Tom  Tid- 
dler's ground,  where  children  pick  up  gold  and  silver. 
Mr.  Dombey,  as  Tiddler,  looked  his  character  to  admira- 
tion ;  and  the  long  plateau  of  precious  metal  frosted, 
separating  him  from  Mrs.  Dombey,  whereon  frosted  Cu- 
pids offered  scentless  flowers  to  each  of  them,  was  alle- 
gorical to  see. 

Cousin  Feenix  was  in  great  force,  and  looked  astonish- 
ingly young.  But  he  was  sometimes  thoughtless  in  his 
good  humour — his  memory  occasionally  wandering  like 
his  legs — and  on  this  occasion  he  caused  the  company  to 
shudder.  It  happened  thus.  The  young  lady  with  the 
back,  who  regarded  Cousin  Feenix  with  sentiments  of 
tenderness,  had  entrapped  the  East  India  Director  into 
leading  her  to  the  chair  next 'him  ;  in  return  for  which 
good  office,  she  immediately  abandoned  the  Director, 
who,  being  shaded  on  the  other  side  by  a  gloomy  black 
velvet  hat  surmounting  a  bony  and  speechless  female 
with  a  fan,  yielded  to  a  depression  of  spirits  and  with- 
drew into  himself.  Cousin  Feenix  and  the  young  lady 
were  very  lively  and  humorous,  and  the  young  lady 
laughed  so  much  at  something  Cousin  Feenix  related  to 
her,  that  Major  Bagstock  begged  leave  to  inquire  on  be- 
half of  Mrs.  Skewton  (they  were  sitting  opposite,  a  little 
1  )wer  down),  whether  that  might  not  be  considered  pub- 
lic property. 

"Why,  upon  my  life,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  there's 
nothing  in  it  ;  it  really  is  not  worth  repeating :  in  point 
of  fact,  it's  merely  an  anecdote  of  Jack  Adams.  T  dare 
say  my  friend  Dombey  ;"  for  the  general  attention  was 
concentrated  on  Cousin  Feenix;  "  may  remember  Jack 
Adams,  Jack  Adams,  not  Joe ;   that  was  his  brother. 


584: 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Jack — little  Jack — man  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  and  a 
slight  impediment  in  his  speech — man  who  sat  for  some- 
body's borough.  We  used  to  call  him  in  my  parliament- 
ary time  W.  P.  Adams,  in  consequence  of  his  being 
Warming  Pan  for  a  young  fellow  who  was  in  his  minor- 
ity. Perhaps  my  friend  Dombey  may  have  known  the 
man  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  as  likely  to  have  known  Guy 
Fawkes,  replied  in  the  negative.  But  one  of  the  seven 
mild  men  unexpectedly  leaped  into  distinction,  by  saying 
he  had  known  him,  and  adding— "  always  wore  Hessian 
boots  ! " 

"Exactly,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  bending  forward  to 
see  the  mild  man,  and  smile  encouragement  at  him  down 
the  table,  "  That  was  Jack.    Joe  wore—" 

"  Tops  !  "  cried  the  mild  man,  rising  in  public  estima- 
tion every  instant. 

"  0/ course,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "you  were  intimate 
with  'em?" 

"I  knew  them  both,"  said  the  mild  man.  With 
whom  Mr.  Dombey  immediately  took  wine. 

"Devilish  good  fellow,  Jack  ?"  said  Cousin  Feenix, 
again  bending  forward,  and  smiling. 

"Excellent,"  returned  the  mild  man,  becoming  bold 
on  his  success.    "  One  of  the  best  fellows  I  ever  knew." 

"  No  doubt  yon  have  heard  the  story  ?  "  said  Cousin 
Feenix. 

"I  shall  know,"  replied  the  bold  mild  man,  "  when  I 
have  heard  your  Ludship  tell  it,"  With  that,  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  smiled  at  the  ceiling,  as  knowing 
it  by  heart,  and  being  already  tickled. 

"  In  point  of  fact,  it's  nothing  of  a  story  in  itself,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix,  addressing  the  table  with  a  smile,  and  a 
gay  shake  of  his  head,  "and  not  worth  a  word  of  pre- 
face. Bat  it's  illustrative  of  the  neatness  of  Jack's  hu- 
mour. The  fact  is,  that  Jack  was  invited  down  to  a 
marriage — which  I  think  took  place  in  Barkshire  ?  " 

"Shropshire,"  said  the  bold  mild  man,  finding  him- 
self appealed  to. 

"Was  it?  well !  In  point  of  fact  it  might  have  been 
in  any  shire,"  said  Cousin  Feenix.  "  So,  my  friend  be- 
ing invited  down  to  this  marriage  in  Anyshire,"  with  a 
pleasant  sense  of  the  readiness  of  this  joke,  "goes. 
Just  as  some  of  us  having  had  the  honour  of  being  in- 
vited to  the  marriage  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  with  my  friend  Dombey,  didn't  require  to  be 
asked  twice,  and  were  devilish  glad  to  be  present  on  so 
interesting  an  occasion. — Goes — Jack  goes.  Now,  this 
marriage  was,  in  point  of  fact,  the  marriage  of  an  un- 
commonly fine  girl  with  a  man  for  whom  she  didn't  care 
a  button,  but  whom  she  accepted  on  account  of  his  prop- 
erty, which  was  immense.  When  Jack  returned  to 
town,  after  the  nuptials,  a  man  he  knew,  meeting  him 
in  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  says,  *  Well, 
Jack,  how  are  the  ill-matched  couple  ? '  '  Ill-matched,' 
said  Jack.  *  Not  at  all.  It's  a  perfectly  fair  and  equal 
transaction.  8h6  is  regularly  bought,  and  you  may  take 
your  oath  he  is  as  regularly  sold  ! '  " 

In  his  full  enjoyment  of  this  culminating  point  of  his 
story  the  shudder,  which  had  gone  all  round  the  table 
like  an  electric  spark,  struck  Cousin  Feenix,  and  he 
stopped.  Not  a  smile  occasioned  by  the  only  general 
topic  of  conversation  broached  that  day,  appeared  on  any 
face.  A  profound  silence  ensued  ;  and  the  wretched 
mild  man,  who  had  been  as  innocent  of  any  real  fore- 
knowledge of  the  story  as  the  child  unborn,  had  the  ex- 
quisite misery  of  reading  in  every  eye  that  he  was  re- 
garded as  the  prime  mover  of  the  mischief. 

Mr.  Dombey's  face  was  not  a  changeful  one,  and  be- 
ing cast  in  its  mould  of  state  that  day,  showed  little 
other  apprehension  of  the  story,  if  any,  than  that  which 
he  expressed  when  he  said  solemnly,  amidst  the  silence, 
that  it  was  "Very  good,"  There  was  a  rapid  glance 
from  Edith  towards  Florence,  but  otherwise  she  re- 
mained, externally,  impassive  and  unconscious. 

Through  the  various  stages  of  rich  meats  and  wines, 
continual  gold  and  silver,  dainties  of  earth,  air,  fire,  and 
water,  heaped-np  fruits,  and  that  unnecessary  article  in 
Mr,  Dombey's  banquets — ice — the  dinner  slowly  made  its 
way  ;  the  later  stages  being  achieved  to  the  sonorous 
music  of  incessant  double  knocks,  announcing  the  arri- 
val of  visitors,  whose  portion  of  the  feast  was  limited  to 


the  smell  thereof.  When  Mrs.  Dombey  rose,  it  was  a 
sight  to  see  her  lord,  with  stiff  throat,  and  erect  head, 
hold  the  door  open  for  the  withdrawal  of  the  ladies  ; 
and  to  see  how  she  swept  past  him  with  his  daughter  on 
her  arm. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  a  grave  sight,  behind  the  decanters, 
in  a  state  of  dignity  ;  and  the  East  India  Director  was  a 
forlorn  sight  near  the  unoccupied  end  of  the  table,  in  a 
state  of  solitude  ;  and  the  major  was  a  military  sight, 
relating  stories  of  the  Duke  of  York  to  six  of  the  seven 
mild  men  (the  ambitious  one  was  utterly  quenched)  ; 
and  the  Bank  Director  was  a  lowly  sight,  making  a  plan 
of  his  little  attempt  at  a  pinery,  with  dessert-knives,  for 
a  group  of  admirers  ;  and  Cousin  Feenix  was  a  thought- 
ful sight,  as  he  smoothed  his  long  wristbands  and 
stealthily  adjusted  his  wig.  But  all  these  sights  were  of 
short  duration,  being  speedily  broken  up  by  coffee,  and 
the  desertion  of  the  room. 

There  was  a  throng  in  the  state-rooms  up-stairs,  in- 
creasing every  minute  ;  but  still  Mr.  Dombey's  list  of 
visitors  appeared  to  have  some  native  impossibility  of 
amalgamation  with  Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  and  no  one 
could  have  doubted  which  was  which.  The  single  ex- 
ception to  this  rule  perhaps  was  Mr,  Carker,  who  now 
smiled  among  the  company,  and  who,  as  he  stood  in  the 
circle  that  was  gathered  about  Mrs.  Dombey — watchful 
of  her,  of  them,  his  chief,  Cleopatra,  and  the  major, 
Florence,  and  everything  around — ap^jeared  at  ease  with 
both  divisions  of  guests,  and  not  marked  as  exclusively 
belonging  to  either, 

Florence  had  a  dread  of  him,  which  made  his  presence 
in  the  room  a  nightmare  to  her.  She  could  not  avoid  the 
recollection  of  it,  for  her  eyes  were  drawn  towards  him 
every  now  and  then,  by  an  attraction  of  dislike  and  dis- 
trust that  she  could  not  resist.  Yet  her  thoughts  were 
busy  with  other  things  ;  for  as  she  sat  apart — not  unad- 
mired  or  unsought,  but  in  the  gentleness  of  her  quiet  spirit 
— she  felt  how  little  part  her  father  had  in  what  was 
going  on,  and  saw,  with  pain,  how  ill  at  ease  he  seemed 
to  be,  and  how  little  regarded  he  was  as  he  lingered 
about  near  the  door,  for  those  visitors  whom  he  wished 
to  distinguish  with  particular  attention,  and  took  them 
up  to  introduce  them  to  his  wife,  who  received  them  with 
proud  coldness,  but  showed  no  interest  or  wish  to  please, 
and  never,  after  the  bare  ceremony  of  reception,  in  con- 
sultation of  his  wishes,  or  in  welcome  of  his  friends, 
opened  her  lips.  It  was  not  the  less  perplexing  or  pain- 
ful to  Florence,  that  she  who  acted  thus,  treated  her  so 
kindly,  and  with  such  loving  consideration,  that  it  almost 
seemed  an  ungrateful  return  on  her  part  even  to  know  of 
what  was  passing  before  her  eyes. 

Happy  Florence  would  have  been,  might  she  have  ven- 
tured to  bear  her  father  company,  by  so  much  as  a  look  ; 
and  happy  Florence  was,  in  little  suspecting  the  main 
cause  of  his  uneasiness.  But  afraid  of  seeming  to  know 
that  he  was  placed  at  any  disadvantage,  lest  he  should  be 
resentful  of  that  knowledge  ;  and  divided  between  her 
impulse  towards  him,  and  her  grateful  affection  for 
Edith ;  she  scarcely  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  towards 
either.  Anxious  and  unhappy  for  them  both,  the  thought 
stole  on  her  through  the  crowd,  that  it  might  have  been 
better  for  them  if  this  noise  of  tongues  and  tread  of  feet 
had  never  come  there, — if  the  old  dulness  and  decay  had 
never  been  replaced  by  novelty  and  splendour, — if  the 
neglected  child  had  found  no  friend  in  Edith,  but  had 
lived  her  solitary  life,  unpitied  and  forgotten. 

Mrs,  Chick  had  some  such  thoughts  too,  but  they  were 
not  so  quietly  developed  in  her  mind.  This  good  matron 
had  been  outraged  in  the  first  instance  by  not  receiving 
an  invitation  to  dinner.  That  blow  partially  recovered, 
she  had  gone  to  a  vast  expense  to  make  such  a  figure  be- 
fore Mrs.  Dombey  at  home,  as  should  daz/le  the  senses 
of  that  lady,  and" heap  mortification,  mountains  high,  on 
the  head  of  Mrs,  Skewton. 

"  But  I  am  made,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  to  Mr.  Chick,  "of 
no  more  account  than  Florence  !  Who  takes  the  small- 
est notice  of  me  ?    No  one  I " 

"  Noone,  mydear,"  assentedMr  Chick,  who  was  seated 
by  the  sidle  of  Mrs.  Chick  against  the  wall,  and  could 
console  himself,  even  there,  by  softly  whistling. 

"  Does  it  at  all  appear  as  if  I  was  wanted  here?"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Chick,  with  flashing  eyes. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


585 


"  No,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  it  does,"  said  Mr. 
Chick. 

"  Paul's  mad  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
Mr.  Chick  whistled. 

"  Unless  you  are  a  monster,  which  I  sometimes  think 
you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  candour,  "  don't  sit  there 
humming  tunes.  How  any  one  with  the  most  distant 
feelings  of  a  man,  can  see  that  mother-in-law  of  Paul's, 
dressed  as  she  is,  going  on  like  that,  with  Major  Bag- 
stock,  for  whom,  among  other  precious  things,  we  are  in- 
debted to  your  Lucretia  Tox — " 

"My  Lucretia  Tox,  my  dear!"  said  Mr.  Chick  as- 
tounded. 

"  Yes,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with  great  severity,  "  your 
Lucretia  Tox — I  say  how  anybody  can  see  that  mother- 
in-law  of  Paul's,  and  that  haughty  wife  of  Paul's,  and 
those  indecent  old  frights  with  their  backs  and  shoulders, 
and  in  short  this  at  home  generally,  and  can  hum — ,"  on 
which  word  Mrs.  Chick  laid  a  scornful  emphasis  that 
made  Mr.  Chick  start,  "is,  I  thank  Heaven,  a  mystery 
to  me  ! " 

Mr.  Chick  screwed  his  mouth  into  a  form  irreconcile- 
able  with  humming  or  whistling,  and  looked  very  con- 
templativ^e. 

"  But  I  hope  I  know  what  is  due  to  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  swelling  with  indignation,  "  though  Paul  has  for- 
gotten what  is  due  to  me.  I  am  not  going  to  sit  here,  a 
member  of  this  family,  to  be  taken  no  notice  of.  I  am 
not  the  dirt  under  Mrs.  Dombey's  feet,  yet— not  quite 
yet,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  she  expected  to  become  so, 
about  the  day  after  to-morrow.  "  And  I  shall  go.  I  will 
not  say  (whatever  I  may  think)  that  this  affair  has  been 
got  up  solely  to  degrade  and  insult  me.  I  shall  merely 
go.    I  shall  not  be  missed  ! " 

Mrs.  Chick  rose  erect  with  these  words,  and  took  the 
arm  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  escorted  her  from  the  room,  after 
half  an  hour's  shady  sojourn  there.  And  it  is  due  to  her 
penetration  to  observe  that  she  certainly  was  not  missed 
at  all. 

But  she  was  not  the  only  indignant  guest  ;  for  Mr,  Dom- 
bey's list  (still  constantly  in  difficulties)  were,  as  a  body, 
indignant  with  Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  for  looking  at  them 
through  eye-glasses,  and  audibly  wondering  who  all  those 
people  were  •  while  Mrs,  Dombey's  list  complained  of 
weariness,  and  the  young  thing  with  the  shoulders,  de- 
prived of  the  attentions  of  that  gay  youth  Cousin  Feenix 
(who  went  away  from  the  dinner-table),  confidentially 
alleged  to  tliirty  or  forty  friends  that  she  was  bored  to 
death.  All  the  old  ladies  with  the  burdens  on  their  heads, 
had  greater  or  less  cause  of  complaint  against  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey  ;  and  the  directors  and  chairman  coincided  in  think- 
ing that  if  Dombey  must  marry,  he  had  better  have  mar- 
ried somebody  nearer  his  own  age,  not  quite  so  handsome, 
and  a  little  better  off.  The  general  opinion  among  this 
class  of  gentlemen  was,  that  it  was  a  weak  thing  in  Dora- 
bey,  and  he'd  live  to  repent  it.  Hardly  anybody  there, 
except  the  mild  men,  stayed,  or  went  away,  without  con- 
sidering himself  or  herself  neglected  and  aggrieved  by 
Mr.  Dombey  or  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  and  the  speechless  female 
in  the  black  velvet  hat  was  found  to  have  been  stricken 
mute,  because  the  lady  in  the  crimson  velvet  had  been 
handed  down  before  her.  The  nature  even  of  the  mild 
men  got  corrupted,  either  from  their  curdling  it  with  too 
much  lemonade,  or  from  the  general  inoculation  that  pre- 
vailed ;  and  they  made  sarcastic  jokes  to  one  another, 
and  whispered  disparagement  on  stairs  and  in  bye-places. 
The  general  dissatisfaction  and  discomfort  so  diffused  it- 
self, that  the  assembled  footmen  in  the  hall  were  as  well 
acquainted  with  it  as  the  company  above.  Nay,  the  very 
linkmen  outside  got  hold  of  it,  and  compared  the  party 
to  a  funeral  out  of  mourning,  with  none  of  the  company 
remembered  in  the  will. 

At  last,  the  guests  were  all  gone,  and  the  linkmen  too  ; 
and  the  street,  crowded  so  long  with  carriages,  was  clear  ; 
and  the  dying  lights  showed  no  one  in  the  rooms,  but  Mr. 
Dombey  and  Mr,  Carker,  who  were  talking  together 
apart,  and  Mrs.  Dombey  and  her  mother  :  the  former 
seated  on  an  ottoman  ;  the  latter  reclining  in  a  Cleopatra 
attitude,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  her  maid.  Mr,  Dombey 
havmg  finished  his  communication  to  Carker,  the  latteV 
advanced  obsequiously  to  take  leave. 

"I  trust/'  he  said,  "that  the  fatigues  of  this  delight- 


ful evening  will  not  inconvenience  Mrs.  Dombey  to-mor- 
row." 

"Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing,  "has 
sufficiently  spared  herself  fatigue,  to  relieve  you  from 
any  anxiety  of  that  kind.  I  regret  to  say,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
that  I  could  have  wished  you  had  fatigued  yourself  a 
little  more  on  this  occasion." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  supercilious  glance,  that  it 
seemed  not  worth  her  while  to  protract,  and  turned  away 
her  eyes  without  speaking. 

"I  am  sorry,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "that  you 
should  not  have  thought  it  your  duty — " 

She  looked  at  him  again. 

"  Your  duty,  madam,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  to  have 
received  my  friends  with  a  little  more  deference.  Some 
of  those  whom  you  have  been  pleased  to  slight  to-night 
in  a  very  marked  manner,  Mrs.  Dombey,  confer  a  dis- 
tinction upon  you,  I  must  tell  you,  in  any  visit  they  pay 
you." 

"  Do  you  you  know  that  there  is  some  one  here  ?"  she 
returned,  now  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"  No  !  Carker  !  I  iDeg  that  you  do  not.  I  insist  that 
you  do  not,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  that  noiseless 
gentleman  in  his  withdrawal.  "Mr.  Carker,  madam,  as 
you  know,  possesses  my  confidence.  He  is  as  well 
acquainted  as  myself  with  the  subject  on  which  I  speak. 
I  beg  to  tell  you  for  your  information,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
that  I  consider  these  wealthy  and  important  persons  con- 
fer a  distinction  upon  me  : "  and  Mr,  Dombey  drew  him- 
self up,  as  having  now  rendered  them  of  the  highest 
possible  importance, 

"I  ask  you,"  she  repeated,  bending  her  disdainful 
and  steady  gaze  upon  him,  "do  you  know  that  there  is 
some  one  here,  sir?" 

"  I  must  entreat,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  stepping  forward, 
"I  must  beg,  I  must  demand,  to  be  released.  Slight 
and  unimportant  as  this  difference  is — " 

Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  been  intent  unon  her  daugh- 
ter's face,  took  him  up  here. 

"My  sweetest  Edith,"  she  said,  "and  my  dearest 
Dombey ;  our  excellent  friend  Mr.  Carker,  for  so  I  am 
sure  I  ought  to  mention  him — " 

"Mr.  Carker  murmured,  "  Too  much  honour." 

"  — has  used  the  very  words  that  were  in  my  mind, 
and  that  I  have  been  dying,  these  ages,  for  an  opportun- 
ity of  introducing.  Slight  and  unimportant  !  My  sweet- 
est Edith,  and  my  dearest  Dombey,  do  we  not  know  that 
any  difference  between  you  two — No,  Flowers  ;  not  now." 

Flowers  was  the  maid,  who,  finding  gentlemen  pres- 
ent retreated  with  precipitation. 

"  That  any  difference  between  you  two,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Skewton,  "  with  the  heart  you  possess  in  common,  and 
the  excessively  charming  bond  of  feeling  that  there  is 
between  you,  must  be  slight  and  unimportant  ?  What 
words  could  better  define  the  fact  ?   None.  Therefore 
I  am  glad  to  take  this  slight  occasion — this  trifling  oc- 
casion, that  is  so  replete  with  Nature,  and  your  indivi- 
dual characters,  and  all  that — so  truly  calculated  to 
bring  the  tears  into  a  parent's  eyes — to  say  that  I  attach 
no  importance  to  them  in  the  least,  except  as  developing 
these  minor  elements  of  Soul  ;  and  that,  unlike  most 
mamas-in-law  (that  odious  phrase,  dear  Dombey  !)  as  they 
have  been  represented  to  me  to  exist  in  this  I  fear  too  ar- 
tificial world,  I  never  shall  attempt  to  interpose  between 
you,  at  such  a  time,  and  never  can  much  regret,  after 
I  all,  such  little  flashes  of  the  torch  of  What's-his-name 
{  — not  Cupid,  but  the  other  delightful  creature." 
;     There  was  a  sharpness  in  the  good  mother's  glance  at 
I  both  her  children  as  she  spoke,  that  may  have  been  ex- 
!  pressive  of  a  direct  and  well-considered  purpose  hidden 
between  these  rambling  words.    That  purpose,  provi- 
dently to  detach  herself  in  the  beginning  from  all  the 
clankings  of  their  chain  that  were  to  come,  and  to  shelter 
herself  with  the  fiction  of  her  innocent  belief  in  their 
mutual  affection,  and  their  adaptation  to  each  other. 

"  I  have  pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, in  his  most  stately  manner,  "that  in  her  conduct 
thus  early  in  our  married  life,  to  which  I  object,  and 
which,  I  request,  may  be  corrected,  Carker,"  with  a  nod 
of  dismissal,  "good  night  to  you  !  " 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  to  the  imperious  form  of  the  bride, 
whose  sparkling  eye  was  fixed  upon  her  husband  ;  and 


586 


CHARLES  Die  KEN 8'  WORKS. 


stopping  at  Cleopatra's  coiicli  on  his  way  out,  raised  to 
his  lips  the  hand  she  graciously  extended  to  him,  in 
lowly  and  admiring  homage. 

If  his  handsome  wife  had  reproached  him,  or  even 
changed  countenance,  or  broken  the  silence  in  which  she 
remained,  by  one  word,  now  that  they  were  alone  (for 
Cleopatra  made  off  with  all  speed),  Mr.  Dombey  would 
have  been  equal  to  some  assertion  of  his  case  against  her. 
But  the  intense,  unutterable,  withering  scorn,  with 
which,  after  looking  upon  him,  she  dropped  her  eyes  as 
if  he  were  too  worthless  and  indifferent  to  her  to  be 
challeng-ed  with  a  syllable — the  ineffable  disdain  and 
haughtfness  in  which  she  sat  before  him — the  cold  in- 
llexible  resolve  with  which  her  every  feature  seemed  to 
bear  him  down,  and  put  him  by — he  had  no  resource 
against  ;  and  he  left  her,  with  her  whole  overbearing 
beauty  concentrated  on  despising  him. 

Was  he  coward  enough  to  watch  her,  an  hour  after- 
wards, on  the  old  well  staircase,  where  he  had  once  seen 
Florence  in  the  moonlight,  toiling  up  with  Paul  ?  Or  was 
he  in  the  dark  by  accident,  when,  looking  up,  he  saw 
her  coming,  with  a  light,  from  the  room  where  Florence 
lay,  and  marked  again  the  face  so  changed,  which  he 
could  not  subdue  ? 

But,  it  could  never  alter  as  his  own  did.  It  never,  in 
its  utmost  pride  and  passion,  knew  the  shadow  that  had 
fallen  on  his,  in  the  dark  corner,  on  the  night  of  the  re- 
turn and  often  since  ;  and  which  deepened  on  it  now  as 
he  looked  up. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

More  Warnings  than  One. 

Florence,  Edith,  and  Mrs.  Skewton  were  together 
next  day,  and  the  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  door  to 
take  them  out.  For  Cleopatra  had  her  galley  again  now, 
and  Withers,  no  longer  the  wan,  stood  upright  in  a 
pigeon-breasted  jacket  and  military  trousers,  behind  her 
wheelless  chair  at  dinner  time,  and  butted  no  more.  The 
hair  of  Withers  was  radiant  with  pomatum,  in  these  days 
of  down,  and  he  wore  kid  gloves  and  smelt  of  tlie  water 
of  Cologne. 

They  were  assembled  in  Cleopatra's  room.  The  Ser- 
pent of  old  Nile  (not  to  mention  her  disrespectfully)  was 
reposing  on  her  sofa,  sipping  her  morning  chocolate  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  Flowers  the  maid  was 
fastening  on  her  youthful  cuffs  and  frills,  and  perform- 
ing a  kind  of  private  coronation  ceremony  on  her,  with  a 
peach-coloured  velvet  bonnet ;  the  artificial  roses  in 
which  nodded  to  uncommon  advantage,  as  the  palsy  tri- 
fled with  them,  like  a  breeze. 

"  I  think  I  am  a  little  nervous  this  morning.  Flowers," 
said  Mrs.  Skewton.    "  My  hand  quite  shakes." 

"  You  were  the  life  of  the  party  last  night,  ma'am,  you 
know,"  returned  Flowers,  "  and  you  suffer  for  it  to-day, 
you  see." 

Edith,  who  had  beckoned  Florence  to  the  window,  and 
was  looking  out,  with  her  back  turned  on  the  toilet  of 
her  esteemed  mother,  suddenly  withdrew  from  it,  as  if 
it  had  lightened. 

"My  darling  child,"  cried  Cleopatra  languidly  "you 
are  not  nervous  ?  Don't  tell  me,  my  dear  Edith,  that  you, 
so  enviably  self-possessed,  are  beginning  to  be  a  martyr 
too,  like  your  unfortunately  constituted  mother  !  With- 
ers, some  one  at  the  door." 

"  Card,  ma'am,"  said  Withers,  taking  it  towards  Mrs. 
Dombey. 

"  I  am  going  out,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  it. 

"My  dear  love,"  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  "how  very 
odd  to  send  that  message  without  seeing  the  name  ! 
Bring  it  here.  Withers.  Dear  mo,  my  love  ;  Mr.  Carker, 
too  !  that  very  sensible  person  1 " 

"  I  am  going  out,"  repeated  Edith,  in  so  imperious  a 
tone,  that  Withers,  going  to  the  door,  imperiously  in- 
formed the  s(^rvant  who  was  waiting,  "Mrs.  Dombey  is 
going  out.    Get  along  with  you,"  and  shut  it  on  him. 

But  the  servant  came  back  after  a  short  absenc(^  and 
whispered  to  Withers  again,  who  onco  inore,  and  not 
very  willingly,  presented  himself  before  Mrs.  Domb(?y. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  Mr.  Carker  sends  his  respect- 


ful compliments,  and  begs  you  would  spare  him  one  min- 
ute, if  you  could — for  business,  ma'am,  if  you  please." 

"  Really,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton  in  her  mildest 
manner  ;  for  her  daughter's  face  was  threatening  ;  "if 
you  will  allow  me  to  offer  a  word,  I  should  recom- 
mend— " 

"  Show  him  this  way,"  said  Edith.  As  Withers  dis- 
appeared to  execute  the  command,  she  added,  frowning 
on  her  mother,  "As  he  comes  at  your  'recommendation, 
let  him  come  to  your  room." 

"May  I— shall  I  go  away  ?"  asked  Florence,  hurriedly, 
j  Edith  nodded  yes,  but  on  her  way  to  the  door,  Flor- 
!  ence  met  the  visitor  coming  in.  With  the  same  disa- 
greeable mixture  of  familiarity  and  forbearance  with 
which  he  had  first  addressed  her,  he  addressed  her  now 
in  his  softest  manner — hoped  she  was  quite  well — needed 
not  to  ask,  with  such  looks  to  anticipate  the  answer — had 
scarcely  had  the  honour  to  know  her,  last  night,  she  was 
so  greatly  changed — and  held  the  door  open  for  her  to 
pass  out ;  with  a  secret  sense  of  power  in  her  shrinking 
from  him,  that  all  the  deference  and  politeness  of  his 
manner  could  not  quite  conceal. 

He  then  bowed  himself  for  a  moment  over  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton's  condescending  hand,  and  lastly  bowed  to  Edith. 
Coldly  returning  his  salute  without  looking  at  him,  and 
neither  seating  herself  nor  inviting  him  to  be  seated,  she 
waited  for  him  to  speak. 

Entrenched  in  her  pride  and  power,  and  with  all  the 
obduracy  of  her  spirit  summoned  about  her,  still  her  old 
conviction  that  she  and  her  mother  had  been  known  by 
this  man  in  their  worst  colours,  from  their  first  acquaint- 
ance ;  that  every  degradation  she  had  suffered  in  her 
own  eyes  was  as  plain  to  him  as  to  herself  ;  that  he  read 
her  life  as  though  it  were  a  vile  book,  and  fluttered  the 
leaves  before  her  in  slight  looks  and  tones  of  voice  which 
no  one  else  could  detect  ;  weakened  and  undermined  her. 
Proudly  as  she  opposed  herself  to  him,  with  her  com- 
manding face  exacting  his  humility,  her  disdainful  lip 
repulsing  him,  her  bosom  angry  at  his  intrusion,  and  the 
dark  lashes  of  her  eye  sullenly  veiling  their  light,  that 
no  ray  of  it  might  shine  upon  him — and  submissively  as 
he  stood  before  her,  with  an  entreating  injured  manner, 
but  with  complete  submission  to  her  will — she  knew  in 
her  own  soul,  that  the  cases  were  reversed,  and  that  the 
triumph  and  superiority  were  his,  and  that  he  knew  it  full 
well. 

"  I  have  presumed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "to  solicit  an 
interview,  and  I  have  ventured  to  describe  it  as  being  one 
of  business,  because — " 

"  Perhaps  you  are  charged  by  Mr.  Dombey  fsvith  some 
message  of  reproof,"  said  Edith.  "  You  possess  Mr. 
Dombey's  confidence  in  such  an  unusual  degree,  sir, 
that  you  would  scarcely  surprise  me  if  that  were  your 
business." 

"I  have  no  message  to  the  lady  who  sheds  a  lustre 
upon  his  name,"  said  Mr.  Carker.  "But  I  entreat  that 
lady,  on  my  own  behalf,  to  be  just  to  a  very  humble 
claimant  for  justice  at  her  hands — a  mere  dependent  of 
Mr.  Dombey's — which  is  a  position  of  humility;  and  to  re- 
flect upon  my  perfect  helplessness  last  night,  and  the 
impossibility  of  my  avoiding  the  share  that  was  forced 
upon  me  in  a  very  painful  occasion." 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  hinted  Cleopatra  in  a  low  voice, 
as  she  held  her  eye-glass  aside,  ' '  really  very  charming  of 
Mr.  What's-his-name.    And  full  of  heart !  " 

"  For  I  do,"  said  Mr-.  Carker,  appealing  to  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton  with  a  look  of  grateful  deference, — "  I  do  venture  to 
call  it  a  painful  occasion,  though  merely  because  it  was 
so  to  me,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be  present.  So 
slight  a  difference,  as  between  the  principals — between 
those  who  love  each  other  with  disinterested  devotion, 
and  would  make  any  sacrifice  of  self,  in  such  a  cause — 
is  nothing.  As  Mrs'.  Skewton  herself  expressed,  with  so 
much  truth  and  feeling,  last  night,  it  is  notliing. " 

Edith  could  not  look  at  him,  but  she  said  after  a  few 
moments, 

"  And  your  business,  sir — " 

"  P]dith,  my  pet,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  all  this  time 
Mr.  Carker  is  standing !  My  dear  Mr.  Carker,  take  a 
seat,  I  beg." 

He  offered  no  reply  to  the  mother,  but  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  proud  daughter,  as  though  he  would  only  be 


D 0MB FY  Am  SOIi. 


587 


bidden  by  her,  and  was  resolved  to  be  bidden  by  her, 
Edith,  in  spite  of  herself,  sat  down,  and  slijyhtly  motioned 
with  her  hand  to  him  to  be  seated  too.  No  action  could 
be  colder,  haughtier,  more  insolent  in  its  air  of  suprem- 
acy and  disrespect,  but  she  had  struggled  against  even 
that  concession  ineffectually,  and  it  was  wrested  from 
her.    That  was  enough  !    Mr,  Carker  sat  down, 

"  May  I  be  allowed,  madam,"  said  Carker,  turning  his 
white  teeth  on  Mrs.  Skewton  like  a  light — "a  lady  of 
your  excellent  sense  and  quick  feeling  will  give  me 
credit,  for  good  reason,  I  am  sure — to  address  what  I 
have  to  say,  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  to  leave  her  to  impart 
it  to  you  who  are  her  best  and  dearest  friend — next  to 
Mr.  Dombey?" 

Mrs.  Skewton  would  have  retired,  but  Edith  stopped 
her,  Edith  would  have  stopped  him  too,  and  indignantly 
ordered  him  to  speak  openly  or  not  at  all,  but  that  ho 
said  in  a  low  voice  — "Miss  Florence — the  young  lady 
who  has  just  left  the  room — " 

Edith  suffered  him  to  proceed.  She  looked  at  him 
now.  As  he  bent  forward,  to  be  nearer,  with  the  utmost 
show  of  delicacy  and  respect,  and  with  his  teeth  persua- 
sively arrayed,  in  a  self -depreciating  smile,  she  felt  as  if 
she  could  have  struck  him  dead. 

"  Miss  Florence's  position,"  he  began,  "has  been  an 
unfortunate  one.  I  have  a  difficulty  in  alluding  to  it  to 
you,  whose  attachment  to  her  father  is  naturally  watch- 
ful and  jealous  of  every  word  that  applies  to  him."  Al- 
ways distinct  and  soft  in  speech,  no  language  could  de- 
scribe the  extent  of  his  distinctness  and  softness,  when 
he  said  these  words,  or  came  to  any  others  of  a  similar 
import.  "  But,  as  one  who  is  devoted  to  Mr.  Dombey 
in  his  different  way,  and  whose  life  is  passed  in  admira- 
tion of  Mr.  Dombey's  character,  may  I  say,  without  of- 
fence to  your  tenderness  as  a  wife,  that  Miss  Florence 
has  unhappily  been  neglected — by  her  father.  May  I 
say  by  her  father?" 

Edith  replied,  "I  know  it." 

"You  know  it!"  said  Mr,  Carker,  with  a  great  ap- 
pearance of  relief.  "It  removes  a  mountain  from  my 
breast.  May  I  hope  you  know  how  the  neglect  origin- 
ated ;  in  what  an  amiable  phase  of  Mr.  Dombey's  pride 
— character  I  mean  ?  " 

"You  may  pass  that  by,  sir,"  she  returned,  "and 
come  the  sooner  to  the  end  of  what  you  have  to  say." 

"Indeed,  I  am  sensible,  madam,"  replied  Carker, — 
"  trust  me,  I  am  deeply  sensible,  that  Mr.  Dombey  can 
require  no  justification  in  anything,  to  you.  But,  kindly 
judge  of  my  breast  by  your  own,  and  you  will  forgive 
my  interest  in  him,  if,  in  its  excess,  it  goes  at  all 
astray." 

What  a  stab  to  her  proud  heart,  to  sit  there,  face  to 
face  with  him,  and  have  him  tendering  her  false  oath  at 
the  altar  again  and  again  for  her  acceptance,  and  press- 
ing it  upon  her  like  the  dregs  of  a  sickening  cup  she 
could  not  ov/n  her  loathing  of,  or  turn  away  from  !  How 
shame,  remorse,  and  passion  raged  within  her,  when, 
upright  in  her  beauty  before  him,  she  knew  that  in  her 
spirit  she  was  down  at  his  feet  ! 

"Miss  Florence,"  said  Carker,  "left  to  the  care — if 
one  may  call  it  care — of  servants  and  mercenary  people, 
in  every  way  her  inferiors,  necessarily  wanted  some 
guide  and  compass  in  her  younger  days,  and,  naturally, 
for  want  of  them,  has  been  indiscreet,  and  has  in  some 
degree  forgotten  her  station.  There  was  some  folly 
about  one  Walter,  a  common  lad,  who  is  fortunately 
dead  now  :  and  some  very  undesirable  association,  I  re- 
gret to  say,  with  certain  coasting  sailors,  of  anything 
but  good  repute,  and  a  runaway  old  bankrupt." 

"I  have  heard  the  circumstances,  sir,"  said  Edith, 
flashing  her  disdainful  glance  upon  him,  "  and  I  know 
that  you  pervert  them.    You  may  not  know  it,  I  hope 

ftO." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "I  believe  that  no- 
body knows  them  so  well  as  I.  Your  generous  and 
ardent  nature,  madam — the  same  nature  which  is  so 
nobly  imperative  in  vindication  of  your  beloved  and 
honoured  husband,  and  which  has  blessed  him  as  even 
his  merits  deserve — I  must  respect,  defer  to,  bow  before.  I 
But,  as  regards  the  circumstances,  which  is  indeed  the  i 
business  1  presume  to  solicit  your  attention  to,  I  can 
have  no  doubt,  since,  in  the  execution  of  my  trust  as  j 


Mr.  Dombey's  confidential — I  presume  to  say — friend,  I 
have  fully  ascertained  them.  In  my  execution  of  that 
trust  ;  in  my  deep  concern,  which  you  can  so  well  under- 
stand, for  everything  relating  to  him,  intensified,  if  you 
will,  (for  I  fear  I  labour  under  your  displeasure,)  by  the 
lower  motive  of  desire  to  prove  my  diligence,  and  make 
myself  the  more  acceptable  ;  I  have  long  pursued  these 
circumstances  by  myself  and  trustworthy  instruments, 
and  have  innumerable  and  most  minute  proofs." 

She  raised  her  eyes  no  higher  than  his  mouth,  but  she 
saw  the  means  of  mischief  vaunted  in  every  tooth  it 
contained. 

"Pardon  me,  madam,"  he  continued,  "if,  in  my  per- 
plexity, /presume  to  take  counsel  with  you,  and  to  con- 
sult your  pleasure.  I  think  I  have  observed  that  you 
are  greatly  interested  in  Miss  Florence?" 

What  was  there  in  her  he  had  not  observed,  and  did 
not  know  ?  Humbled  and  yet  maddened  by  the  thought, 
in  every  new  presentment  of  it,  however  faint,  she 
pressed  her  teeth  upon  her  quivering  lip  to  force  com- 
posure on  it,  and  distantly  inclined  her  head  in  reply. 

"  This  interest,  madam — so  touching  an  evidence  of 
everything  associated  with  Mr.  Dombey  being  dear  to 
you — induces  me  to  pause  before  I  make  him  acquainted 
with  these  circumstances,  which,  as  yet,  he  does  not 
know.  It  so  far  shakes  me,  if  I  may  make  the  confes- 
sion, in  my  allegiance,  that  on  the  intimation  of  the  lea.st 
desire  to  that  effect  from  you,  I  would  su[)press  them." 

Edith  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  starting  back, 
bent  her  dark  glance  upon  him.  He  met  it  with  his 
blandest  and  most  deferential  smile,  and  went  on. 

"  You  say  that  as  I  described  them,  they  are  perverted. 
I  fear  not — I  fear  not  :  but  let  us  assume  that  they  are. 
The  uneasiness  I  have  for  some  time  felt  on  the  subject 
arises  in  this  :  that  the  mere  circumstance  of  such  asso- 
ciation often  repeated,  on  the  part  of  Miss  Florence,  how- 
ever innocently  and  confidingly,  vrould  be  conclusive 
with  Mr.  Dombey,  already  predisposed  against  her,  and 
would  lead  him  to  take  some  step  (I  know  he  has  occasion- 
ally contemplated  it)  of  separation  and  alienation  of  her 
from  his  home.  Madam,  bear  with  me,  and  remember 
my  intercourse  with  Mr.  Dombey,  and  my  knowledge  of 
him,  and  my  reverence  for  him,  almost  from  childhood, 
when  I  say  that  if  he  has  a  fault,  it  is  a  lofty  stubborn- 
ness, rooted  in  that  noble  pride  and  sense  of  power  which 
belong  to  him,  and  which  we  must  all  defer  to  ;  which 
is  not  assailable  like  the  obstinacy  of  other  characters  ; 
and  which  grows  upon  itself  from  day  to  day,  and  year 
to  year." 

She  bent  her  glance  upon  him  still  ;  but,  look  as  sted- 
fast  as  she  would,  her  haughty  nostrils  dilated,  and  her 
breath  came  somewhat  deeper,  and  her  lip  would  slightly 
curl  as  he  described  that  in  his  patron  to  which  they 
must  all  bow  down.  He  saw  it ;  and  though  his  expres- 
sion did  not  change,  she  knew  he  saw  it. 

"Even  so  slight  an  incident  as  last  night's,"  he  said, 
"  if  I  might  refer  to  it  once  more,  would  serve  to  illus- 
strate  my  meaning,  better  than  a  greater  one.  Dombey 
and  Son  know  neither  time,  nor  place,  nor  season,  but 
bear  them  all  down.  But  I  rejoice  in  its  occurrence,  for 
it  has  opened  the  way  for  me  to  approach  Mrs,  Dombey 
with  this  subject  to-day,  even  if  it  has  entailed  upon  me 
the  penalty  of  her  temporary  displeasure.  Madam,  iu 
the  midst  of  my  uneasiness  and  apprehension  on  this 
subject,  I  was  summoned  by  Mr.  Dombey  to  Leamington. 
There  I  saw  you.  There  I  could  not  help  knowing  what 
relation  you  would  shortly  occupy  towards  him — to  his 
enduring  happiness  and  yours.  There  I  resolved  to 
await  the  time  of  your  establishment  at  home  here,  and 
to  do  as  I  have  now  done.  T  have  at  heart,  no  fear  that 
I  shall  be  wanting  in  my  duty  to  Mr.  Dombey,  if  I  bury 
what  I  know  in  your  breast  ;  for  where  there  is  but  one 
heart  and  mind  between  two  persons — as  in  such  a  mar- 
riage— one  almost  represents  the  other.  I  can  acquit 
my  conscience  therefore,  almost  equally,  by  confidence, 
on  such  a  theme,  in  you  or  him.  For  the  reasons  I  have 
mentioned,  I  Avould  select  you.  May  I  aspire  to  the 
distinction  of  believing  that  my  confidence  is  accepted, 
and  that  I  am  relieved  from  my  responsibility?  " 

He  long  remembered  the  look  she  gave  him. — who  could 
see  it,  and  forget  it  ?— and  the  struggle  that  ensued 
within  her.    At  last,  she  said  : 


588 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  I  accept  it,  sir.  You  will  please  to  consider  this 
matter  at  an  end,  and  that  it  goes  no  further." 

He  bowed  low,  and  rose.  She  rose  too,  and  he  took 
leave  with  all  humility.  Bat.  Withers,  meeting  him  on 
the  stairs,  stood  amazed  at  the  beauty  of  his  teeth,  and 
at  his  brilliant  smile  ;  and  as  he  rode  away  upon  his 
white-legged  horse,  the  people  took  him  for  a  dentist, 
such  was  the  dazzling  show  he  made.  The  people  took 
her,  when  she  rode  oat  in  her  carriage  presently,  for  a 
great  lady,  as  happy  as  she  was  rich  and  fine.  But,  they 
had  not  seen  her,  fust  before,  in  her  own  room  with  no 
oneb}^;  and  they  had  not  heard  her  utterance  of  the  three 
words,'''  Oh  Florence,  Florence  !  " 

Mrs.  Skewton,  reposing  on  her  sofa,  and  sipping  her 
chocolate,  had  heard  nothing  but  the  low  word  business, 
for  which  she  had  a  mortal  aversion,  insomuch  that  she 
had  long  banished  it  from  her  vocabulary,  and  had  gone 
nigh,  in  a  charming  manner  and  with  an  immense 
amount  of  heart  (to  say  nothing  of  soul),  to  ruin  divers 
milliners  and  others  in  consequence.  Therefore,  Mrs. 
Skewton  asked  no  questions,  and  showed  no  curiosity. 
Indeed,  the  peach- velvet  bonnet  gave  her  sufficient  occu- 
pation out  of  doors ;  for  being  perched  on  the  back  of 
her  head,  and  the  day  being  rather  windj^  it  was  frantic 
to  escape  from  Mrs.  Skewton's  company,  and  would  be 
coaxed  into  no  sort  of  compromise.  When  the  carriage 
was  closed,  and  the  wind  shut  out,  the  palsy  played 
among  the  artificial  roses  again,  like  an  alms-house  full 
of  superannuated  zephyrs  ;  and  altogether  Mrs.  Skewton 
had  enough  to  do,  and  got  on  but  indifferently. 

She  got  on  no  better  towards  night ;  for  when  Mrs. 
Dombey  in  her  dressing-room,  had  been  dressed  and 
waiting  for  her  half  an  hour,  and  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the 
drawing-room,  had  paraded  himself  into  a  state  of  sol- 
emn fretfulness  (they  were  all  three  going  out  to  din- 
ner). Flowers  the  maid  appeared  with  a  pale  face  to  Mrs. 
Dombey,  saying : 

If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  can't 
do  nothing  with  missis  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Edith. 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  replied  the  frightened  maid,  "  I 
hardly  know.    She's  making  faces  ! " 

Edith  hurried  with  her  to  her  mother's  room.  Cleopa- 
tra was  arrayed  in  full  dress,  with  the  diamonds,  short- 
sleeves,  rouge,  curls,  teeth,  and  other  juvenility  all  com- 
plete ;  but  Paralysis  was  not  to  be  deceived,  had  known 
her  for  the  object  of  its  errand,  and  had  struck  her  at 
her  glass,  where  she  lay  like  a  horrible  doll  that  had 
tumbled  down. 

They  took  her  to  pieces  in  very  shame,  and  put  the 
little  of  her  that  was  real  on  a  bed.  Doctors  were  sent 
for,  and  soon  came.  Powerful  remedies  were  resorted 
to  ;  opinions  given  that  she  would  rally  from  this  shock, 
but  would  not  survive  another  ;  and  there  she  lay  speech- 
less, and  staring  at  the  ceiling,  for  days  :  sometimes 
making  inarticulate  sounds  in  answer  to  such  questions 
as  did  she  know  who  were  present,  and  the  like  :  some- 
times giving  no  reply  either  by  sign  or  gesture,  or  in  her 
unwinking  eyes. 

At  length  she  began  to  recover  consciousness,  and  in 
some  degree  the  power  of  motion,  though  not  yet  of 
speech.  One  day  the  use  of  her  right  hand  returned  ; 
and  showing  it  to  her  maid  who  was  in  attendance  on 
her,  and  appearing  very  uneasy  in  her  mind,  she  made 
signs  for  a  pencil  and  some  paper.  This  the  maid  immedi- 
ately provided,  thinking  she  was  going  to  make  a  will, 
or  write  some  last  request  ;  and  Mrs.  Dombey  being  from 
home,  the  maid  awaited  the  result  with  solemn  feelings. 

After  much  painful  scrawling  and  erasing,  and  putting 
in  of  wrong  cliaracters,  which  seemed  to  tumble  out  of 
the  pencil  of  their  own  accord,  the  old  woman  produced 
this  document  : 

"  Rose-coloured  curtains." 

The  maid  being  perfectly  transfixed,  and  with  tolerable 
reason,  Cleopatra  amended  the  manuscrii)t  by  adding  two 
words  more,  when  it  stood  thus  : 

"  Rose-coloured  curtains  for  doctors." 

The  maid  now  i)crce!ved  remotely  that  she  wished 
these  articles  to  be  provided  for  the  ])etter  presentation 
of  her  com]>lexion  to  the  faculty  ;  and  as  those  in  the 
house  who  knew  her  l)est,  had  no  doubt  of  the  correct- 
ness of  this  opinion,  which  she  was  soon  able  to  establish 


for  herself,  the  rose-colouTed  curtains  were  added  to  her 
bed,  and  she  mended  with  increased  rapidity  from  that 
hour.  She  was  soon  able  to  sit  up,  in  curls  and  a  laced 
cap  and  night-gown,  and  to  have  a  little  artificial  bloom 
dropped  into  the  hollow  caverns  of  her  cheeks. 

It  was  a  tremendous  sight  to  see  this  old  woman  in 
her  finery  leering  and  mincing  at  Death,  and  playing  off 
her  youthful  tricks  upon  him  as  if  he  had  been  the 
major  ;  but  an  alteration  in  her  mind  that  ensued  on 
the  paralytic  stroke  was  fraught  with  as  much  matter 
for  refiection,  and  was  quite  as  ghastly. 

Whether  the  weakening  of  her  intellect  made  her 
more  cunning  and  false  than  before,  or  whether  it  con- 
fused her  between  what  she  had  assumed  to  be  and  what 
she  really  had  been,  or  whether  it  had  awakened  any 
glimmering  of  remorse,  which  could  neither  struggle 
into  light  nor  get  back  into  total  darkness,  or  whether, 
in  the  jumble  of  her  faculties,  a  combination  of  these 
effects  had  been  shaken  up,  which  is  perhaps  the  more 
likely  supposition,  the  result  was  this  : — That  she  became 
hugely  exact  in  respect  of  Edith's  affection  and  gratitude 
and  attention  to  her  ;  highly  laudatory  of  herself  as  a 
most  inestimable  parent ;  and  very  jealous  of  having 
any  rival  in  Edith's  regard.  Further,  in  place  of  re- 
membering that  compact  made  between  them  for  an 
avoidance  of  the  subject,  she  constantly  alluded  to  her 
daughter's  marriage  as  a  proof  of  her  being  an  incom- 
parable mother  ;  and  all  this,  with  the  weakness  and 
peevishness  of  such  a  state,  always  serving  for  a  sarcas- 
tic commentary  on  her  levity  and  youthf ulness. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Dombey?"  she  would  say  to  her 
maid. 

"  Gone  out,  ma'am." 
Gone  out  !    Does  she  go  out  to  shun  her  mama. 
Flowers?" 

"  La  bless  you,  no  ma'am.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  only 
gone  out  for  a  ride  with  Miss  Florence." 

"Miss  Florence.  Who's  Miss  Florence?  Don't  tell 
me  about  Miss  Florence.  What's  Miss  Florence  to  her, 
compared  to  me  ?  " 

The  opposite  display  of  the  diamonds,  or  the  peach- 
velvet  bonnet  (she  sat  in  the  bonnet  to  receive  visitors, 
weeks  before  she  could  stir  out  of  doors),  or  the  dressing 
of  her  up  in  some  gaud  or  other,  usually  stopped  the 
tears  that  began  to  flow  hereabouts  ;  and  she  would  re- 
main in  a  complacent  state  until  Edith  came  to  see  her  ; 
when,  at  a  glance  of  the  proud  face,  she  would  relapse 
again . 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,  Edith  !"  she  would  cry,  shaking 
her  head. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  mother?" 

"  Matter  !  I  really  don't  know  what  is  the  matter. 
The  world  is  coming  to  such  an  artificial  and  ungrateful 
state,  that  I  begin  to  think  there's  no  Heart — or  anything 
of  that  sort — left  in  it,  positively.  Withers  is  more  a 
child  to  me  than  you  are.  He  attends  to  me  m  uch  more 
than  my  own  daughter.  I  almost  wish  I  didn't  look  so 
young— and  all  that  kind  of  thing — and  then  perhaps  I 
should  be  more  considered." 

"  What  would  you  have,  mother?" 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal,  Edith,"  impatiently. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  want  that  you  have  not?  It 
is  your  own  fault  if  there  be." 

"My  own  fault!"  beginning  to  whimper.  "The 
parent  I  have  been  to  you,  Edith  ;  making  you  a  com- 
panion from  your  cradle  !  And  when  you  neglect  me, 
and  have  no  more  natural  affection  for  me  than  if  I  was 
a  stranger — not  a  twentieth  part  of  the  affection  that 
you  have  for  Florence— but  I  am  only  your  mother  and 
should  corrupt  her  in  a  day  !— you  reproach  me  with  its 
being  my  own  fault." 

"Mother,  mother,  I  reproach  you  with  nothing.  Why 
will  you  alwavs  dwell  on  this  ?" 

"  Isn't  it  natural  that  I  should  dwell  on  this,  when  I 
am  all  affection  and  sensitiveness,  and  am  wounded  in 
the  cruellest  way,  whenever  you  look  at  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  wound  you,  mother.  Have  you  no 
remembrance  of  what  has  been  said  between  us  ?  Let 
the  Past  rest. " 

"Yes,  rest  !  And  let  gratitude  to  me,  rest  ;  and  let 
affection  for  me,  rest  ;  and  let  me  rest  in  my  out-of-the- 
way  room,  with  no  society  and  no  attention,  while  you 


DOMBEY  AND  80 K 


589 


find  new  relations  to  make  miicli  of,  who  have  no  earthly 
claim -upon  you  !    Good  gracious,  Edith,  do  you  know 
what  an  elegant  establishment  you  are  at  the  head  ot'  ?  " 
"Yes.  Hush!" 

"  And  that  gentlemanly  creature,  Dombey?  Do  you 
know  that  you  are  married  to  hira,  Edith,  and  that  you 
have  a  settlement,  and  a  position,  and  a  carriage,  and 
I  don't  know  what  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  know  it,  mother  ;  well." 

"As  you  would  have  had  with  that  delightful  good 
soul — what  did  they  call  him  ? — Granger — if  he  hadn't 
died.    And  who  have  you  to  thank  for  all  this,  Edith?" 

"You,  mother;  you." 

"  Then  put  your  arms  round  my  neck,  and  kiss  me  ; 
and  show  me,  Edith,  that  you  know  there  never  was  a 
better  mama  than  I  have  been  to  you.  And  don't  let  me 
become  a  perfect  fright  with  teazingand  wearing  myself 
at  your  ingratitude,  or  when  I'm  out  again  in  society  no 
soul  will  know  me,  not  even  that  hateful  animal,  the 
major. " 

But,  sometimes,  when  Edith  went  nearer  to  her,  and 
bending  down  her  stately  head,  put  her  cold  cheek  to 
hers,  the  mother  would  draw  back  as  if  she  were  afraid 
of  her,  and  would  fall  into  a  fit  of  trembling,  and  cry 
out  that  there  was  a  wandering  in  her  wits.  And  some- 
times she  would  entreat  her,  with  humility,  to  sit  down 
on  the  chair  beside  her  bed,  and  would  look  at  her  (as 
she  sat  there  brooding)  with  a  face  that  even  the  rose- 

i  coloured  curtains  could  not  make  otherwise  than  seared 

I  and  wild. 

The  rose-coloured  curtains  blushed,  in  course  of  time, 
on  Cleopatra's  bodily  recovery,  and  on  her  dress — more 
juvenile  than  ever,  to  repair  the  ravages  of  illness — and 
on  the  rouge,  and  on  the  teeth,  and  on  the  curls,  and  on 
the  diamonds,  and  the  short  sleeves,  and  the  whole 
wardrobe  of  the  doll  that  had  tumbled  down  before  the 
mirror.  They  blushed  too,  now  and  then,  upon  an  in- 
I  distinctness  in  her  speech ,  which  she  turned  off  with  a 
girlish  giggle,  and  on  an  occasional  failing  in  her  mem- 
ory, that  had  no  rule  in  it  but  came  and  went  fantasti- 
I  cally,  as  if  in  mockery  of  her  fantastic  self. 

But,  they  never  blushed  upon  a  change  in  the  new 
t  manner  of  her  thought  and  speech  towards  her  daugh- 
I  ter.  And  though  that  daughter  often  came  within  their 
j  influence,  they  never  blushed  upon  her  loveliness  irradi- 
i  ated  by  a  smile,  or  softened  by  the  light  of  filial  love,  in 
j  its  stern  beauty. 


CHAPTER  XXXVni. 

Miss  Tox  improves  aa  old  Acquaintance. 

The  forlorn  Miss  Tox,  abandoned  by  her  friend 
Louisa  Chick,  and  bereft  of  Mr.  Dombey 's  countenance 
— for  no  delicate  pair  of  wedding  cards,  united  by  a  sil- 
ver thread,  graced  the  chimney-glass  in  Princess's-place, 
or  the  harpsichord,  or  any  of  those  little  posts  of  display 
which  Lucretia  reserved  for  holiday  occupation — became 
depressed  in  her  spirits,  and  suffered  much  from  melan- 
choly. For  a  time  the  Bird  Waltz  was  unheard  in  Prin- 
cess's-place, the  plants  were  neglected,  and  dust  col- 
lected on  the  miniature  of  Miss  Tox's  ancestor  with  the 
powdered  head  and  pigtail. 

^  Miss  Tox,  however,  was  not  of  an  age  or  of  a  disposi- 
tion long  to  abandon  herself  to  unavailing  regrets.  Only 
two  notes  of  the  harpsichord  were  dumb  from  disuse 
when  the  Bird  Waltz  again  warbled  and  trilled  in  the 
crooked  drawing-room  ;  only  one  slip  of  geranium  fell  a 
victim  to  imperfect  nursing,  before  she  was  gardening 
at  her  green  baskets  again,  regularly  every  morning  ; 
the  powder-headed  ancestor  had  not  been  under  a  cloud 
for  more  than  six  weeks,  when  Miss  Tox  breathed  on  his 
benignant  visage,  and  polished  him  up  with  a  piece  of 
wash-leather. 

Still,  Miss  Tox  was  lonely,  and  at  a  loss.  Her  attach- 
ments, however  ludicrously  shown,  were  real  and  strong  ; 
and  she  was,  as  she  expressed  it,  "deeply  hurt  by  the 
unmerited  contumely  she  had  met  with  from  Louisa." 
But  there  was  no  such  thing  as  anger  in  Miss  Tox's  com- ' 
position.  If  she  had  ambled  on  through  life,  in  her  soft-  I 
spoken  way,  without  any  opinions,  she  had,  at  least,  got  | 


so  far  without  any  harsh  passions.  The  mere  sight  of 
Louisa  Chick  in  the  street  one  day,  at  a  considerable  dis- 
tance, so  overpowered  her  milky  nature,  tliat  she  was 
fain  to  seek  immediate  refuge  in  a  pastrycook's,  and 
there,  in  a  musty  little  back  room  usually  devoted  to  the 
consumption  of  soups,  and  pervaded  by  an  oxtail  atmos- 
phere, relievo  her  feelings  by  weeping  plentifully. 

Against  Mr.  Dombey  Miss  Tox  hardly  felt  that  she 
had  any  reason  of  complaint.  Iler  sense  of  that  gentle- 
man's magnificence  was  such,  that  once  removed  from 
him,  she  felt  as  if  her  distance  always  had  been  immeas- 
urable, and  as  if  he  had  greatly  condescended  in  tolerat- 
ing her  at  all.  No  wife  could  be  too  handsome  or  too 
stately  for  him,  according  to  Miss  Tox's  sincere  opinion. 
It  was  perfectly  natural  that  in  looking  for  one,  he 
should  look  high.  Miss  Tox  with  tears  laid  down  this 
proposition,  and  fully  admitted  it  twenty  times  a  day. 
She  never  recalled  the  lofty  manner  in  which  Mr.  Dom- 
bey had  made  her  subservient  to  his  convenience  and 
caprices,  and  had  graciously  permitted  her  to  be  one  of 
the  nurses  of  his  little  son.  She  only  thought,  in  her 
own  words,  "  that  she  had  passed  a  great  many  happy 
hours  in  that  house,  which  she  must  ever  remember 
with  gratification,  and  that  she  could  never  cease  to  re- 
gard Mr.  Dombey  as  one  of  the  most  impressive  and  dig- 
nified of  men." 

Cut  off,  however,  from  the  implacable  Louisa,  and 
being  shy  of  the  major  (whom  she  viewed  with  some 
distrust  now),  Miss  Tox  found  it  very  irksome  to  know 
nothing  of  what  was  going  on  in  Mr.  Dombey's  estab- 
lishment. And  as  she  really  had  got  into  the  habit  of 
considering  Dombey  and  Son  as  the  pivot  on  which  the 
world  in  general  turned,  she  resolved,  rather  than  be 
ignorant  of  intelligence  which  so  strongly  interested  her, 
to  cultivate  her  old  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Richards,  who 
she  knew,  since  her  last  memorable  appearance  before 
Mr.  Dombey,  was  in  the  habit  of  sometimes  holding 
communicaiion  with  his  servants.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox  in 
seeking  out  the  Toodie  family,  had  the  tender  motive 
hidden  in  her  breast  of  having  somebody  to  whom  she 
could  talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  no  matter  how  humble 
that  somebody  might  be. 

At  all  events,  towards  the  Toodie  habitation  Miss  Tox 
directed  her  steps  one  evening,  what  time  Mr.  Toodie, 
cindery  and  swart,  was  refreshing  himself  with  tea,  in 
the  bosom  of  his  family.  Mr.  Toodie  had  only  three 
stages  of  existence.  He  was  either  taking  refreshment 
in  the  bosom  just  mentioned,  or  he  was  tearing  through 
the  country  at  from  twenty-five  to  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
or  he  was  sleeping  after  his  fatigues.  He  was  always  in 
a  whirlwind  or  a  calm,  and  a  peaceable  contented  easy- 
going man  Mr.  Toodie  was  in  either  state.  He  seemed 
to  have  made  over  all  his  own  inheritance  of  fuming  and 
fretting  to  the  engines  with  which  he  was  connected, 
which  panted,  and  gasped,  and  chafed,  and  wore  them- 
selves out  xn  a  most  unsparing  manner,  while  Mr.  Toodie 
led  a  mild  and  equable  life, 

"  Polly,  my  gal,"  said  Mr.  Toodie,  with  a  young  Toodie 
on  each  knee,  and  two  more  making  tea  for  him,  and 
plenty  more  scattered  about — Mr.  Toodie  was  never  out 
of  children,  but  always  kept  a  good  supply  on  hand — 
"  You  an't  seen  our  Biler  lately,  have  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Polly,  "  but  he's  almost  certain  to  look 
in  to-night.  It's  his  right  evening,  and  he's  very  regu- 
lar. " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Toodie,  relishing  his  meal  in- 
finitely, "as  our  Biler  is  a  doin'  now  about  as  well  as  a 
boy  can  do,  eh,  Polly '? " 

"Oh  !  he's  a  doing  beautiful  !  "  responded  Polly. 
"He  an't  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like— has  he,  Polly?" 
inquired  Mr.  Toodie. 

"  No  ! "  said  Mrs.  Toodie,  plumidy. 
"I'm  glad  he  an't  got  to  be  at  all  secret  like,  Polly," 
observed  Mr.  Toodie  in  his  slow  and  measured  way,  and 
shovelling  in  his  bread  and  butter  with  a  clasp-knife,  as 
if  he  were  stoking  himself,  "  because  that  don't  look 
well  ;  do  it,  Polly?" 

"  Why,  of  course  it  don't  father.    How  can  you  ask  ! " 
"  You  see,  my  boys  and  gals,"  said  Mr.  Toodie,  look- 
'  ing  round  upon  his  family,  "  wotever  you're  up  to  in  a 
j  honest  way,  it's  my  opinion  as  you  can't  do  better  than 
I  be  open.    If  you  find  yourselves  in  cuttings  or  in  tun- 


590 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


nels,  don't  you  play  no  secret  games.  Keep  your  whis- 
tles going,  and  let's  know  where  you  are." 

The  rising  Toodles  set  up  a  shrill  murmur,  expressive 
of  their  resolution  to  profit  by  the  paternal  advice. 

"  But  what  makes  you  say  this  along  of  Rob,  father  ?" 
asked  his  wife,  anxiously. 

"  Polly,  old  'ooman,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  "  I  don't  know 
as  I  said  it  partickler  along  o'  Rob,  I'm  sure.  I  starts 
light  with  Rob  only  ;  I  comes  to  a  branch  ;  I  takes  on 
what  I  finds  there  ;  and  a  whole  train  of  ideas  gets 
coupled  on  to  him,  afore  I  knows  where  I  am,  or  where 
they  comes  from.  What  a  Junction  a  man's  thoughts 
is,"' said  Mr.  Toodle,  '-'to-be-sure  !" 

This  profound  reflection  Mr.  Toodle  washed  down 
with  a  pint  mug  of  tea,  and  proceeded  to  solidify  with  a 
great  weight  of  bread  and  butter  ;  charging  his  young 
daughters  meanwhile,  to  keep  j)lenty  of  hot  water  in  the 
pot,  as  he  was  uncommon  dry,  and  should  take  the  in- 
definite quantity  of  a  sight  of  mugs,"  before  his  thirst 
was  appeased. 

In  satisfying  himself,  however,  Mr.  Toodle  was  not  re- 
gardless of  the  younger  branches  about  him,  who,  al- 
though they  had  made  their  own  evening  repast,  were 
on  the  look-out  for  irregular  morsels,  as  possessing  a 
relish.  These  he  distributed  now  and  then  to  the  ex- 
pectant circle,  by  holding  out  great  wedges  of  bread  and 
butter,  to  be  bitten  at  by  the  family  in  lawful  succes- 
sion, and  by  serving  out  small  doses  of  tea  in  like  man- 
ner with  a  spoon  ;  which  snacks  had  such  a  relish  in  the 
mouths  of  these  young  Toodles,  that,  after  partaking  of 
the  same,  they  performed  private  dances  of  ecstasy 
among  themselves,  and  stood  on  one  leg  apiece,  and 
hopped,  and  indulged  in  other  saltatory  tokens  of  glad- 
ness. These  vents  for  their  excitement  found,  they 
gradually  closed  about  Mr.  Toodle  again,  and  eyed  him 
hard  as  he  got  through  more  bread  and  butter  and  tea  : 
affecting,  however,  to  have  no  further  expectations  of 
their  own  in  reference  to  those  viands,  but  to  be  convers- 
ing on  foreign  subjects,  and  whispering  confidentially. 

Mr.  Toodle,  in  the  midst  of  this  family  group,  and  set- 
ting an  av/ful  example  to  his  children  in  the  way  of  ap- 
petite, was  conveying  the  two  young  Toodles  on  his 
knees  to  Birmingham  by  special  engine,  and  was  con- 
templating the  rest  over  a  barrier  of  bread  and  butter, 
when  Rob  the  Grinder,  in  his  sou'wester  liat  and  mourn- 
ing slops,  presented  himself,  and  was  received  with  a 
general  rush  of  brothers  and  sisters. 

"Well,  mother!"  said  Rob,  dutifully  kissing  her  ; 
"  how  are  you,  mother?  " 

"  There's  my  boy  !  "  cried  Polly,  giving  him  a  hug, 
and  a  pat  on  the  back.  "Secret!  Bless  you,  father, 
not  he  ! " 

This  was  intended  for  Mr.  Toodle's  private  edification, 
but  Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  withers  were  not  un wrung, 
caught  the  words  as  they  were  spoken. 

"  What  !  father's  been  a  saying  something  more  again 
me,  has  he  ?  "  cried  the  injured  innocent.  "Oh,  what  a 
hard  thing  it  is  that  when  a  cove  has  once  gone  a  little 
wrong,  a  cove's  own  father  should  be  always  a  throwing 
it  in  his  face  behind  his  back  !  It's  enough,"  cried  Rob, 
resorting  to  his  coat-cuif  in  anguish  of  spirit,  "to  make 
a  cove  go  and  do  something  out  of  spite  !  " 

"My  poor  boy!"  cried  Polly,  "father  didn't  mean 
anything." 

"  If  father  didn't  mean  anything,"  blubbejed  the  in- 
jured Grinder,  "  why  did  he  go  'and  say  anything, 
mother  ?  Nobody  thinks  half  so  bad  of  me  as  my  ovvn 
father  does.  What  a  unnatural  thing  !  I  wish  some- 
body'd  take  and  chop  my  head  off.  Father  wouldn't 
mind  doing  it,  I  believe,  and  I'd  much  ratherhe  did  that 
than  t'other." 

At  these  desperate  words  all  the  young  Toodles 
shrieked ;  a  ])aDhetic  effect,  wliich  tlie  Grinder  im- 
proved by  ironically  adjuring  them  not  to  cry  for  him, 
for  they  ought  to  hate  him,  they  ought,  if  they  was  good 
boys  and  girls  ;  and  tliis  so  touched  the  youngest  Toodle 
but  one,  who  was  easily  moved,  that  it  touched  him  not 
only  in  his  spirit  but  in  his  wind  too  ;  making  him  so 
purple  that  Mr.  Toodle  in  consternation  carried  liim  out 
to  the  water-butt,  and  would  have  put  him  under  the  tap, 
but  for  his  being  recovered  by  the  sight  of  that  instru- 
ment. 


Matters  having  reached  this  point,  Mr.  Toodle  ex- 
plained, and  the  virtuous  feelings  of  his  son  being  there- 
by calmed,  they  shook  hands,  and  harmony  reigned 
again. 

"Will  you  do  as  I  do,  Biler,  my  boy  ?"  inquired  his 
father,  returning  to  his  tea  with  new  strength. 

"No,  thank'ee,  father.  Master  and  I  had  tea  to- 
gether." 

"  And  how  is  master,  Rob  ?  "  said  Polly. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  mother  ;  not  much  to  boast  on. 
There  ain't  no  bis'ness  done,  you  see.  He  don't  know 
anything  about  it,  the  cap'en  don't.  There  was  a  man 
come  into  the  shop  this  very  day,  and  says  '  I  want  a  so- 
and-so,'  he  says — some  hard  name  or  another.  '  A 
which?'  says  the  cap'en.  'A  so-and-so,'  says  the  man. 
'  Brother,'  says  the  cap'en,  'will  you  take  a  observation 
round  the  shop?'  Well,'  says  the  man,  *  I've  done  it.' 
'  Do  you  see  wot  you  want  ?  '  says  the  cap'en.  '  No,  I 
don't,'  says  the  man.  '  Do  you  know  it  wen  you  do  see 
it?'  says  the  cap'en.  'No,  I  don't,'  says  the  man. 
*  Why,  then  I  tell  you  wot,  my  lad,'  says  the  cap'en, 
'  you'd  better  go  back  and  ask  wot  it's  like,  outside,  for 
no  more  don't  I  ! '  " 

"  That  an't  the  way  to  make  money,  though,  is  it?" 
said  Polly. 

' '  Money,  mother  !  He'll  never  make  money.  He  has 
such  ways  as  I  never  see.  He  an't  a  bad  master  though, 
I'll  say  that  for  him.  But  that  an't  much  to  me,  for  I 
don't  think  I  shall  stop  at  him  long." 

"Not  stop  in  your  place,  Rob  !"  cried  his  mother: 
while  Mr.  Toodle  opened  his  eyes. 

"Not  in  that  place,  p'raps,"  returned  the  Grinder,  with 
a  wink.  "I  shouldn't  wonder — friends  at  court  you 
know — but  never  you  mind,  mother,  just  now  ;  I'm  all 
right,  that's  all." 

The  indisputable  proof  afforded  in  these  hints,  and  in 
the  Grinder's  mysterious  manner,  of  his  not  being  sub- 
ject to  that  failing  which  Mr.  Toodle  had,  by  implication  . 
attributed  to  him,  might  have  led  to  a  renewal  of  his 
wrongs,  and  of  the  sensation  in  the  family,  but  for  the  , 
opportune  arrival  of  another  visitor,  who  to  Polly's  great  , 
j  surprise,  appeared  at  the  door,  smiling  patronage  and  , 
1  friendship  on  all  there. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Richards?"  said  Miss  Tox. 
'  I  have  come  to  see  you.    May  I  come  in  ? " 

The  cheery  face  of  Mrs.  Richards  shone  with  a  hospi- 
table reply,  and  Miss  Tox,  accepting  the  proffered  chair  i 
and  gracefully  recognizing  Mr.  Toodle  on  her  way  to  it, 
untied  her  bonnet  strings,  and  said  that  in  the  first  place 
she  must  beg  the  dear  children,  one  and  all,  to  come  and 
kiss  her.  ^ 

The  ill-starred  youngest  Toodle  but  one,  who  would  < 
appear  from  the  frequency  of  liis  domestic  troubles,  to  \ 
have  been  born  under  an  unlucky  planet,  was  prevented  | 
from  performing  his  part  in  this  general  salutation  by  hav-  \ 
ing  fixed  the  sou'wester  hat  (with  which  he  had  been  pre- 
viously trifling)  deep  on  his  head,  hind  side  before,  and 
being  unable  to  get  it  off  again  ;  which  accident  present- 
ing to  his  terrified  imagination  a  dismal  picture  of  his 
passing  the  rest  of  his  days  in  darkness,  and  in  hopeless 
seclusion  from  his  friends  and  family,  caused  him  to 
struggle  with  great  violence,  and  to  utter  suffocating 
cries.    Being  released,  his  face  was  discovered  to  be  very 
hot,  and  red,  and  damp  ;  and  Miss  Tox  took  him  on  her 
lap,  much  exhausted. 

"  You  have  almost  forgotten  me,  sir,  I  dare  say  ?  "  said 
Miss  Tox  to  Mr.  Toodle. 

"  No,  ma'am,  no,"  said  Toodle.    "But  we've  all  on 
us  got  a  little  older  since  then." 

"  And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  sir?"  inquired  Miss 
Tox  blandly. 

"  Hearty,  ma'am,  thankee,"  replied  Toodl«.  "How 
do  you  find  youn^cM,  ma'am.  Do  the  rheumaticks  keep 
off  pretty  well,  ma'am?  We  must  all  expect  to  grow 
into  'em,  as  we  gets  on." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I  have  not  felt  any 
inconvenience  from  that  disorder  yet." 

"  You're  wery  fortunate,  ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Toodle. 
"  Many  people  at  your  time  of  life,  ma'am,  is  martyrs  to 
it.  There  was  my  mother—"  But  catching  his  wife's 
eye  here,  Mr.  Toodle  judiciously  buried  the  rest  in  an- 
other mug  of  tea. 


DOMBEY 

"  You  never  mean  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Miss 
Tox,  looking  at  Rob,  "  that  that  is  your  -" 

'*  Eldest,'  ma'am,"  said  Polly.  Yes,  indeed,  it  is. 
That's  the  little  fellow,  ma'am,  that  was  the  innocent 
cause  of  so  much." 

"Tiiis  here,  ma'am,"  said  Toodle,  "is  him  with  the 
short  legs — and  they  was,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a 
touch  of  poetry  in  his  tone,  "  unusual  short  for  leathers 
— as  Mr,  Dombey  made  a  Grinder  on." 

The  recollection  almost  overpowered  Miss  Tox.  The 
subject  of  it  had  a  peculiar  interest  for  her  directly. 
She  asked  him  to  shake  hands,  and  congratulated  his 
mother  on  his  frank,  ingenuous  face.  Rob  over- 
hearing her,  called  up  a  look,  to  justify  the  eulogium, 
but  it  was  hardly  the  right  look. 

''And  now,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox, — "  and  you 
too,  sir,"  addressing  Toodle — "I'll  tell  you,  plainly  and 
truly,  what  I  have  come  here  for.  You  may  be  aware, 
Mrs.  Richards — and,  possibly  you  may  be  aware  too,  sir — 
that  a  little  distance  has  interposed  itself  between  me 
and  some  of  ray  friends,  and  that  where  I  used  to  visit 
a  good  deal,  I  do  not  visit  now." 

Polly,  who,  with  a  woman's  tact,  understood  this  at 
once,  expressed  as  much  in  a  little  look.  Mr.  Toodle  who 
had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  Miss  Tox  was  talking 
about  expressed  that  also,  in  a  stare. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  how  our  little  coolness 
has  arisen  is  of  no  moment,  and  does  not  require  to  be 
discussed.  It  is  sufficient  for  me  to  say,  that  I  have  the 
greatest  possible  respect  for,  and  interest  in,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey ; "  Miss  Tox's  voice  faltered  ;  '  *  and  everything  that 
relates  to  him." 

Mr.  Toodle,  enlightened,  shook  his  head,  and  said  he 
had  heerd  it  said,  and,  for  his  own  part,  he  did  think,  as 
Mr.  Dombey  was  a  difficult  subject. 

"  Pray  don't  say  so,  sir,  if  you  please,"  returned  Miss 
Tox.  "  Let  me  entreat  you  not  to  say  so,  sir,  either  now, 
or  at  any  future  time.  Such  observations  cannot  but  be 
very  painful  to  me  ;  and  to  a  gentleman,  whose  mind  is 
constituted  as  I  am  quite  sure  yours  is,  can  afford  no  per- 
manent satisfaction." 

Mr.  Toodle,  who  had  not  entertained  the  least  doubt 
of  offering  a  remark  that  would  be  received  with  acqui- 
escence, was  greatly  confounded. 

"  All  that  I  wish  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,"  resumed  Miss 
Tox, — "and  I  address  myself  to  you  too,  sir, — is  this. 
That  any  intelligence  of  the  proceedings  of  the  family, 
of  the  welfare  of  the  family,  of  the  health  of  the  family, 
that  reaches  you,  will  be  always  most  acceptable  to  me. 
That  I  shall  be  always  very  glad  to  chat  with  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards about  the  family,  and  about  old  times.  And  as 
Mrs.  Richards  and  I  never  had  the  least  difference  (though 
I  could  wish  now  that  we  had  been  better  acquainted,but 
I  have  no  one  but  myself  to  blame  for  that),  I  hope  she  will 
not  object  to  our  being  very  good  friends  now,  and  to  ray 
coming  backwards  and  forwards  here,  when  I  like,  with- 
out being  a  stranger.  Now,  I  really  hope  Mrs.  Richards," 
said  Miss  Tox, earnestly,  "that  you  will  take  this, as  I  raean 
it,  like  a  good-humoured  creature  as  you  always  were." 

Polly  was  gratified,  and  showed  it.  Mr.  Toodle  didn't 
know  whether  he  was  gratified  or  not,  and  preserved  a 
stolid  calmness. 

"  You  see,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox—"  and  I  hope 
you  see  too,  sir — there  are  many  little  ways  in  which  I 
can  be  slightly  useful  to  you,  if  you  will  make  no  stran- 
ger of  me  ;  and  in  which,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  be  so. 
For  instance,  I  can  teach  your  children  something.  I 
shall  bring  a  few  little  books  if  you'll  allow  me,  and 
some  work,  and  of  an  evening  now  and  then,  they'll  learn 
—dear  me,  they'll  learn  a  great  deal,  I  trust,  and  be  a 
credit  to  their  teacher." 

Mr.  Toodle,  who  had  a  great  respect  for  learning, 
jerked  his  head  approvingly  at  his  wife,  and  moistened 
his  hands  with  dawning  satisfaction. 

"Then,  not  being  a  stranger,  I  shall  be  in  nobody's 
way,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "and  everything  will  go  on  just  as 
if  I  were  not  here.  Mrs.  Richards  will  do  her  mending, 
or  her  ironing,  or  her  nursing,  whatever  it  is,  without 
minding  me  :  and  you'll  smoke  your  pipe,  too,  if  you're  so 
disposed,  sir,  won't  you?" 

"Thank'ee  mum,'"'  said  Mr.  Toodle.  "Yes  :  I'll  take 
my  bit  of  backer." 


AND  80 K  591 

"Very  good  of  you  to  say  so,  sir,"  rejoined  Miss  Tox, 
"and  I  really  do  assure  you  now,  unfeignedly,  that  it 
will  bo  a  great  comfort  to  me,  and  that  whatever  good  I 
may  be  fortunate  enough  to  do  the  children,  you  will 
more  than  pay  back  to  me,  if  you'll  enter  into  this  little 
bargain  comfortably,  and  easily,  and  good-naturedly, 
without  another  word  about  it." 

The  bargain  was  ratified  on  the  spot  ;  and  Miss  Tox 
found  herself  so  much  at  home  already,  that  without 
delay  she  instituted  a  preliminary  examination  of  the 
children  all  round — which  Mr.  Toodle  much  admired — 
and  booked  their  ages,  names,  and  acquirements,  on  a 
piece  of  paper.  This  ceremony,  and  a  little  attendant 
gossip,  prolonged  the  time  until  after  their  usual  hour 
of  going  to  bed,  and  detained  Miss  Tox  at  the  Toodle 
fireside  until  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  walk  home  alone. 
The  gallant  Grinder,  however,  being  still  there,  politely 
offered  to  attend  her  to  her  ov/n  door  ;  and  as  it  was 
something  to  Miss  Tox,  to  be  seen  home  by  a  youth  whom 
Mr.  Dombey  had  first  inducted  into  those  manly  garments 
which  are  rarely  mentioned  by  name,  she  very  readily 
accepted  the  proposal. 

After  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Toodle  and  Polly,  and 
kissing  all  the  children.  Miss  Tox  left  the  house,  there- 
fore, with  unlimited  popularity,  and  carrying  away  with 
her  so  light  a  heart  that  it  might  have  given  Mrs.  Chick 
offence  if  that  good  lady  could  have  weighed  it. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  in  his  modesty,  would  have  walked 
behind,  but  Miss  Tox  desired  him  to  keep  beside  her,  for 
conversational  purposes  ;  and,  as  she  afterwards  ex- 
pressed it  to  his  mother,  "  drew  him  out,"  upon  the  road. 

He  drew  out  so  bright,  and  clear,  and  shining,  that 
Miss  Tox  was  charmed  with  him.  The  more  Miss  Tox 
drew  him  out,  the  finer  he  came — like  wire.  There 
never  was  a  better  or  more  promising  youth — a  more 
affectionate,  steady,  prudent,  sober,  honest,  meek,  candid 
young  man — than  Rob  drew  out  that  night. 

"  I  am  quite  glad,"  said  Miss  Tox,  arrived  at  her  own 
door,  "  to  know  you.  I  hope  you'll  consider  me  your 
friend,  and  that  you'll  come  and  see  me  as  often  as  you 
like.    Do  you  keep  a  money-box  ?  " 

"  Yes  ma'am,"  returned  Rob  ;  "  I'm  saving  up  against 
I've  got  enough  to  put  in  the  Bank,  ma'am." 

"  Very  laudable  indeed,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I'm  glad 
to  hear  it.    Put  this  half  crown  into  it,  if  you  please." 

"  Oh  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Rob,  "  but  really  I 
couldn't  think  of  depriving  you." 

"  I  commend  your  independent  spirit,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"  but  it's  no  deprivation,  I  assure  you.  I  shall  be  of- 
fended if  you  don't  take  it,  as  a  mark  of  my  good  vdW. 
Good  night,  Robin." 

"  Good  night,  ma'am,"  said  Rob,  "  and  thank  you  !  " 

Who  ran  sniggering  off  to  get  change,  and  tossed  it 
away  with  a  ])ieman.  But  they  never  taught  honour  at 
the  Grinders'  School,  where  the  system  that  prevailed 
was  particularly  strong  in  the  engendering  o%  hypocrisy. 
Insomuch,  that  many  of  the  friends  and  masters  of  past 
Grinders  said,  if  this  were  wd)at  came  of  education  for 
the  common  people  let  us  have  none.  Some  more  ra- 
tionally said,  let  us  have  a  better  one.  But,  the  govern- 
ing powers  of  the  Grinders'  Company  were  always  ready 
for  them,  by  picking  out  a  few  boys  w^ho  had  turned  out 
well,  in  spite  of  the  system,  and  rotmdly  asserting  that 
they  could  have  only  turned  out  well  because  of  it. 
Which  settled  the  business  of  those  objectors  out  of 
hand,  and  established  the  glory  of  the  Grinders'  Institu- 
tion. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Further  Adventures  of  Ccqjtain  Edward  Cuttle,  Mariner. 

Time,  sure  of  foot  and  strong  of  will,  had  so  pressed 
onward,  that  the  year  enjoined  by  the  old  Instrument- 
maker,  as  the  term  during  which  his  friend  should  re- 
frain from  opening  the  sealed  packet  accompanying 
the  letter  he  had  left  for  him,  was  now  nearly  expired, 
and  Captain  Cuttle  began  to  look  at  it  of  an  evening, 
with  feelings  of  mystery  and  uneasiness. 

The  captain,  in  his  honour,  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  opening  the  parcel  one  hour  before  the  expiration  of 


592 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WOEKS. 


tlie  term,  as  he  would  liave  thouglit  of  opening  himself, 
to  study  his  own  anatomy.  He  merely  brought  it  out, 
at  a  certain  stage  of  his  first  evening  pipe,  laid  it  on  the 
table,  and  sat  gazing  at  the  outside  of  it,  through  the 
smoke,  in  silent  gravity,  for  two  or  three  hours  at  a  spell. 
Sometimes,  when  he  *had  contemplated  it  thus  for  a 
pretty  long  while,  the  captain  would  hitch  his  chair,  by 
degrees,  farther  and  farther  off,  as  if  to  get  beyond  the 
range  of  its  fascination  ;  but  if  this  were  his  design,  he 
never  succeeded  :  for  even  when  he  was  brought  up  by 
the  parlour  wall,  the  packet  still  attracted  him  ;  or  if 
his  eyes,  in  thoughtful  wandering  roved  to  the  ceiling 
or  the  fire,  its  image  immediately  folio vv^ed,  and  posted 
itself  conspicuously  among  the  coals,  or  took  up  an  ad- 
vantageous position  on  the  whitewash. 

In  respect  of  Heart's  Delight,  the  captain's  parental 
regard  and  admiration  knew  no  change.  But,  since  his 
last  interview  with  Mr.  Carker,  Captain  Cuttle  had  come 
to  entertain  doubts  whether  his  former  intervention  in 
behalf  of  that  young  lady  and  his  dear  boy  Wal'r,  had 
proved  altogether  so  favourable  as  he  could  have  wished, 
and  as  he  at  the  time  believed.  The  captain  was 
troubled  with  a  serious  misgiving  that  he  had  done  more 
harm  than  good,  in  short ;  and  in  his  remorse  and  mod- 
esty he  made  the  best  atonement  he  could  think  of,  by 
putting  himself  out  of  the  way  of  doing  any  harm  to 
any  one,  and,  as  it  were,  throwing  himself  overboard  for 
a  dangerous  person. 

Self-buried,  therefore,  among  the  instruments,  the 
captain  never  went  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  or  reported 
himself  in  any  way  to  Florence  or  Miss  Nipper.  He 
even  severed  himself  from  Mr.  Perch,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  next  visit;  by  dryly  informing  that  gentleman, 
that  he  thanked  him  for  his  company,  but  had  cut  him- 
self adrift  from  all  such  acquaintance,  as  he  didn't  know 
what  magazine  he  mightn't  blow  up,  without  meaning 
of  it.  In  this  self-imposed  retirement,  the  captain 
passed  whole  days  and  weeks  without  interchanging  a 
word  with  any  one  but  Rob  the  Grinder,  whom  he  es- 
teemed as  a  pattern  of  disinterested  attachment  and 
fidelity.  In  this  retirement,  the  captain,  gazing  at  the 
packet  of  an  evening,  would  sit  smoking,  and  thinking 
of  Florence  and  poor  Walter,  until  they  both  seemed  to 
his  homely  fancy  to  be  dead,  and  to  have  passed  away 
into  eternal  youth,  the  beautiful  and  innocent  children 
of  his  first  remembrance. 

The  captain,  did  not,  however,  in  his  musings,  ne- 
glect his  own  improvement,  or  the  mental  culture  of 
Rob  the  Grinder.  That  young  man  was  generally  re- 
quired to  read  out  of  some  book  to  the  captain,  for  one 
hour  every  evening  ;  and  as  the  captain  implicitly  be- 
lieved that  all  books  were  true,  he  accumulated,  by  this 
meang,  many  remarkable  facts.  On  Sunday  nights,  the 
captain  always  read  for  himself,  before  going  to  bed,  a 
certain  Divine  Sermon  once  delivered  on  a  Mount  ;  and 
although  ht  was  accustomed  to  quote  the  text,  without 
book,  after  his  own  manner,  he  appeared  to  read  it  with 
as  reverent  an  understanding  of  its  heavenly  spirit,  as 
if  he  had  got  it  all  by  heart  in  Greek,  and  had  been  able 
to  write  any  number  of  fierce  theological  disquisitions 
on  its  every  phrase. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  reverence  for  the  inspired 
writings,  under  the  admirable  system  of  the  Grinder's 
School,  had  been  developed  by  a  perpetual  bruising  of 
his  intellectual  shins  against  all  the  proper  names  of  all 
the  tribes  of  Judah,  and  by  the  monotonous  repetition  of 
hard  verses,  especially  by  way  of  punishment,  and  by 
the  parading  of  him  at  six  years  old  in  leather  breeches 
three  times  a  Sunday,  very  high  up,  in  a  very  hot  church 
with  a  great  organ  buzzing  against  his  drowsy  head, 
like  an  exceedingly  busy  boe — Rob  the  Grinder  made  a 
mighty  show  of  being  edified  when  the  cai)tain  ceased 
to  read,  and  generally  yawned  and  nodded  while  the 
reading  was  in  xjrogress.  The  latter  fact  being  never  so 
much  as  suspected  by  the  good  captain. 

Captain  Cattle,  also,  as  a  man  of  business,  took  to 
keeping  books.  In  these  he  entered  observations  on  the 
weather,  and  on  the  currents  of  the  waggons  and  other 
vehicles  :  which  he  observed  in  that  (juarter,  to  set 
westward  in  the  morning  and  during  the  greater  part  of 
the  day,  and  eastward  towards  the  evening.  Two  or 
three  stragglers  appearing  in  one  week,  who  spoke 


him  " — so  the  captain  entered  it — on  the  subject  of  spec- 
tacles, and  who,  without  positively  purchasing,  said 
they  would  look  in  again,  the  captain  decided  that  the 
business  was  improving,  and  made  an  entry  in  the  day- 
book to  that  effect ;  the  wind  then  blowing  (which  he 
first  recorded)  pretty  fresh,  west  and  by  north  ;  having 
changed  in  the  night. 

One  of  the  captain's  chief  diflaculties  was  Mr.  Toots, 
who  called  frequently,  and  who,  without  saying  much, 
seemed  to  have  an  idea  that  the  little  back  parlour  was 
an  eligible  room  to  chuckle  in,  as  he  would  sit  and  avail 
himself  of  its  accommodations  in  that  regard  by  the  half- 
hour  together,  without  at  all  advancing  in  intimacy  with 
the  captain.  The  captain,  rendered  cautious  by  his  late 
experience,  was  unable  quite  tosatisfy  his  mind  whether 
Mr.  Toots  was  the  mild  subject  he  appeared  to  be,  or 
was  a  profoundly  artful  and  dissimulating  hypocrite. 
His  frequent  reference  to  Miss  Dombey  was  suspicious, 
but  the  captain  had  a  secret  kindness  for  Mr.  Toots's  ap- 
parent  reliance  on  him,  and  forebore  to  decide  against  him 
for  the  present  ;  merely  eyeing  him,  with  a  sagacity  not  to 
be  described,  whenever  he  approached  the  subject  that 
was  nearest  to  his  heart. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  blurted  out  Mr.  Toots,  one  day  all  at 
once,  as  his  manner  was,  "  do  you  think  j'ou  could  think 
favourably  of  that  proposition  of  mine,  and  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance  ?  " 

"Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lad,"  replied  the 
captain,  who  had  at  length  concluded  on  a  course  of 
action  ;  "  I've  been  turning  that  there,  over." 

"  Captain  Gills,  it's  very  kind  of  you,"  retorted  Mr. 
Toots.  "  I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  Upon  my  word  and 
honour.  Captain  Gills,  it  would  be  a  charity  to  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.    It  really  would." 

"  You  see,  brother,"  argued  the  captain  slowly,  "  I 
don't  know  you."  * 

"  But  you  never  can  know  me.  Captain  Gills,"  replied 
Mr.  Toots,  steadfast  to  his  point,  "  if  you  don't  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

The  captain  seemed  struck  by  the  originality  and 
power  of  this  remark,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Toots  as  if  he 
thought  there  was  a  great  deal  more  in  him  than  he  had 
expected. 

"  Well  said,  ray  lad,"  observed  the  captain,  nodding 
his  head  thoughtfully  ;  "and  true.  Now  look'ee  here  : 
You've  made  some  observations  to  me,  which  gives  me 
to  understand  as  you  admire  a  certain  sweet  creetur. 
Hey?" 

Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  gesticulating  vio- 
lently with  the  hand  in  which  he  held  his  hat,  "  Admi- 
ration is  not  the  word.  Upon  my  honour,  you  have  no 
conception  what  my  feelings  are.  If  I  could  be  dyed 
black,  and  made  Miss  Dombey's  slave,  I  should  consi 
der  it  a  compliment.  If,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  my  proper- 
ty, I  could  get  transmigrated  into  Miss  Dombey's  dog — 
I — I — really  think  I  should  never  leave  off  wagging  my 
tail.    I  should  be  so  perfectly  happy.  Captain  Gills  ! " 

Mr.  Toots  said  it  with  watery  eyes,  and  pressed  his 
hat  against  his  bosom  with  deep  emotion, 

"  My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  moved  to  compassion, 
"  If  you're  in  arnest — " 

"Captain  Gills,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  "I'm  in  such  a 
state  of  mind,  and  am  so  dreadfully  in  earnest,  that  if  I 
could  swear  to  it,  upon  a  hot  piece  of  iron,  or  a  live  coal, 
or  melted  lead,  or  burning  sealing-wax,  or  anything  of 
that  sort,  I  should  be  glad  to  hurt  myself,  as  a  relief  to 
my  feelings."  And  Mr.  Toots  looked  hurriedly  about 
the  room,  as  if  for  some  sufficiently  painful  means  of  ac- 
complishing his  dread  purpose. 

The  captain  pushed  his  glazed  hat  back  upon  his  head, 
stroked  his  face  down  with  his  heavy  hand— making  his 
nose  more  mottled  in  the  process — and  planting  himself 
before  Mr.  Toots,  and  hooking  him  by  the  lappel  of  his 
coat,  addressed  him  in  these  words,  while  Mr.  Toots 
looked  up  into  his  face  with  much  attention  and  some 
wonder. 

"  If  you're  in  arnest,  you  see,  my  lad,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  you're  a  object  of  clemency,  and  clemency  is  the 
brightest  jewel  in  the  crown  of  a  Briton's  head,  for  which 
you'll  overhaul  the  constitution,  as  laid  down  in  Rule 
Britannia,  and  when  found,  tJiat  is  the  charter  as  them 
gardeu  angels  was  a  singing  of,  so  many  times  over. 


J) 0MB BY  AND  80 K 


593 


Stand  bv  !  This  here  proposal  o*  your'n  takes  me  a  lit- 
tle aback.  And  why  ?  Because  I  holds  my  own  only, 
you  understand,  in  these  here  waters,  and  haven't  g-ot 
no  consort,  and  may  be  don't  wish  for  none.  Steady  ! 
You  hailed  mefir^■t,  along  of  a  certain  young  lady,  as  you 
was  chartered  by.  Now  if  you  and  me  is  to  keep  one 
another's  company  at  all,  that  there  young  creatur's 
name  must  never  be  named  nor  referred  to.  I  don't 
know  what  harm  mayn't  have  been  done  by  naming  it 
too  free  afore  now,  and  thereby  I  bring  up  short.  D'ye 
make  me  out  pretty  clear,  brother?" 

"  Well,  you'll  excuse  me.  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr. 
Toots,  "  if  I  don't  quite  follow  you  sometimes.  But 
upon  my  word  I — it's  a  hard  thing,  Captain  Gills,  not  to 
be  able  to  mention  Miss  Dorabey.  I  really  have  got  such 
a  dreadful  load  here  !  " — Mr.  Toots  pathetically  touched 
his  shirt-front  with  both  hands — "  that  I  feel  night  and 
day  exactly  as  if  somebody  was  sitting  upon  me." 

"Them,"  said  the  captain,  "  is  the  terms  I  offer.  If 
they're  hard  upon  you,  brother,  as  mayhap  they  are, 
give  'em  a  wide  berth,  sheer  off,  and  part  company 
cheerily  !  " 

"  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  hardly  know 
how  it  is,  but  after  what  you  told  me  when  I  came  here 
for  the  first  time,  I — I  feel  that  I'd  rather  think  about 
Miss  Dombey  in  your  society  than  talk  about  her  in  al- 
most anybody  else's.  Therefore,  Captain  Gills,  if  you'll 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  I  shall  be 
very  happy  to  accept  it  on  your  own  conditions.  I  wish 
to  be  honourable,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  hold- 
ing back  his  extended  hand  for  a  moment,  "  and  there- 
fore I  am  obliged  to  say  that  I  can  not  help  thinking 
about  Miss  Dombey.  It's  impossible  for  me  to  make  a 
promise  not  to  think  of  her." 

"My  lad,"  said  the  captain,  w^hose  opinion  of  Mr. 
Toots  was  much  improved  by  this  candid  avowal,  "a 
man's  thoughts  is  like  the  winds,  and  nobody  can't  an- 
swer for  'em  for  certain,  any  length  of  time  together. 
Is  it  a  treaty  as  to  words  ?  " 

"As  to  words.  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots, 
"  I  think  I  can  bind  myself." 

Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  hand  upon  it,  then 
and  there  ;  and  the  captain,  with  a  pleasant  and  gracious 
show  of  condescension,  bestowed  his  acquaintance  upon 
him  formally.  Mr.  Toots  seemed  much  relieved  and 
gladdened  by  the  acquisition,  and  chuckled  rapturously 
during  the  remainder  of  his  visit.  The  captain,  for  his 
part,  was  not  ill  pleased  to  occupy  that  position  of  pat- 
ronage, and  was  exceedingly  well  satisfied  by  his  own 
prudence  and  foresight. 

But  rich  as  Captain  Cuttle  was  in  the  latter  quality, 
he  received  a  surprise  that  same  evening  from  a  no  less 
ingenuous  and  simple  youth,  than  Rob  the  Grinder.  That 
artless  lad,  drinking  tea  at  the  same  table,  and  bending 
meekly  over  his  cup  and  saucer,  having  taken  sidelong 
observations  of  his  master  for  some  time,  who  was  read- 
ing the  newspaper  with  great  difficulty,  but  much  dig- 
nity through  his  glasses,  broke  silence  by  saying — 

"Oh  !  1  beg  your  pardon,  captain,  but  you  mayn't 
be  in  want  of  any  pigeons,  may  you,  ,sir  ?" 

"  No,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain, 

"  Because  I  was  wishing  to  dispose  of  mine,  captain," 
said  Rob. 

"Ay,  ay?"  cried  the  captain,  lifting  up  his  bushy 
eyebrows  a  little. 

"  Yes,  I'm  going,  captain,  if  you  please,"  said  Rob. 

"  Going  ?  Where  are  you  going?"  asked  the  captain, 
looking  round  at  him  over  the  glasses. 

"  What?  didn't  you  know  that  I  was  going  to  leave 
you,  captain  ?  "  asked  Rob,  with  a  sneaking  smile. 

The  captain  put  down  the  paper,  took  off  his  specta- 
cles, and  brought  his  eyes  to  bear  on  the  deserter. 

"  Oh  yes  captain,  I  am  going  to  give  you  warning.  I 
thought  you'd  have  known  that  beforehand,  perhaps," 
said  Rob,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  getting  up.  "  If  you 
could  be  so  good  as  provide  yourself  soon,  captain,  it 
would  be  a  great  convenience  to  me.  You  couldn't  pro- 
vide yourself  by  to-morrow  morning,  I  am  afraid,  cap- 
tain ;  could  you,  do  you  think  ?" 

"And  you're  a  going  to  desert  your  colours  are  you, 
my  lad?"  said  the  captain,  after  a  long  examination  of 
his  face. 

Vol,  II.— 38 


"  Oh,  it's  very  hard  upon  a  cove,  captain,"  cried  the 
i  tender  Rob,  injured  and  indignant  in  a  moment,  "  that 
he  can't  give  lawful  warning,  without  being  frowned  at 
in  that  way,  and  called  a  deserter.  You  haven't  any 
right  to  call  a  poor  cove  names,  captain.  It  an't  because 
I'm  a  servant  and  you're  a  muster,  that  you're  to  go  and 
libel  me.  What  wrong  have  I  done?  Come,  captain, 
let  me  know  what  my  crime  is,  will  you  ?" 

The  stricken  Grinder  wept,  and  put  his  coat-cuff  in  his 
eye. 

"Come,  captain,"  cried  the  injured  youth,  "give  my 
crime  a  name  !  What  have  I  been  and  done  ?  Have  I 
stolen  any  of  the  property  ?  Have  I  set  the  house  a-fire  ? 
If  I  have,  why  don't  you  give  me  in  charge,  and  try  it  ? 
But  to  take  away  the  character  of  a  lad  that'.s  been  a  good 
servant  to  you,  because  he  can't  afford  to  stand  in  his  own 
light  for  your  good,  what  a  injury  it  is,  and  what  a  bad 
return  for  faithful  service  1  This  is  the  way  young  coves 
is  spiled  and  drove  wrong.  I  wonder  at  you,  caj^tain,  I 
do." 

All  of  which,  the  Grinder  howled  forth  in  a  lachrymose 
whine,  and  backing  carefully  towards  the  door. 

"And  so  you've  got  another  berth,  have  you,  my  lad?" 
said  the  captain,  eyeing  him  intently. 

"  Yes,  captain,  since  you  put  it  in  that  shape,  I  liane 
got  another  berth,"  cried  Rob,  backing  more  and  more  ; 
j  "  a  better  berth  than  I've  got  here,  and  one  where  I  don't 
so  much  as  want  your  good  word,  captain,  which  is  for- 
t'nate  for  me,  after  all  the  dirt  you've  throw'd  at  me, 
because  I'm  poor,  and  can't  afford  to  stand  in  my  own 
light  for  your  good.  Yes,  I  have  got  another  berth  ;  and 
if  it  wasn't  for  leaving  you  unprovided,  captain,  I'd  go 
to  it  now,  sooner  than  I'd  take  them  names  from  you, 
because  I'm  poor,  and  can't  afford  to  stand  in  my  owa 
light  for  your  good.  Why  do  you  reproach  me  for  being 
poor,  and  not  standing  in  my  own  light  for  your  good, 
captain  ?    How  can  you  so  demean  yourself  ?  " 

"  Look  ye  here,  my  boy,"  replied  the  peaceful  captain. 
"Don't  you  pay  out  no  more  of  them  words." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  pay  in  no  more  of  your  words, 
captain,"  retorted  the  roused  innocent,  getting  louder  in 
his  whine,  and  backing  into  the  shop,  "  I'd  sooner  you 
took  my  blood  than  my  character." 

"Because,"  pursued  the  captain  calmly,  "you  have 
heerd,  may  be,  of  such  a  thing  as  a  rope's  end." 

"Oh,  have  I  though,  captain?"  cried  the  taunting 
Grinder.  "  No  I  haven't.  I  never  heerd  of  any  such  a 
article  ! " 

"Well,"  said  the  captain,  "it's  my  belief  as  you'll 
know  more  about  it  pretty  soon,  if  you  don't  keep  a 
bright  look  out.  I  can  read  your  signals,  my  lad.  You 
may  go." 

' '  Oh  !  I  may  go  at  once,  may  I,  captain  ?  "  cried  Rob, 
exulting  in  his  success.  "But  mind  !  /  never  asked  t-o 
go  at  once,  captain.  You  are  not  to  take  away  my  char- 
acter again,  because  you  send  me  off  of  your  own  accord. 
And  you're  not  to  stop  any  of  my  wages,  captain  !  " 

His  employer  settled  the  last  point  by  producing  the 
tin  canister  and  telling  the  Grinder's  money  out  in  full 
upon  the  table.  Rob,  snivelling  and  sobbing,  and  griev- 
ously wounded  in  his  feelings,  took  up  the  pieces  one  by 
one,  with  a  sob  and  a  snivel  for  each,  and  tied  them  up 
separately  in  knots  in  his  pocket-handkerchief  ;  then 
he  ascended  to  the  roof  of  the  house  and  filled  his  hat 
and  pockets  with  pigeons  ;  then,  came  down  to  his  bed 
under  the  counter  and  made  up  his  bundle,  snivelling 
and  sobbing  louder,  as  if  he  were  cut  to  the  heart  by  old 
associations  ;  then  he  whined,  "Good  night,  captain,  I 
leave  you  without  malice  !  "  and  then,  going  out  upon 
the  door-step,  pulled  the  little  midshipman's  nose  as  a 
parting  indignity,  and  went  away  down  the  street  grin- 
ning triumph. 

The  captain,  left  to  himself,  resumed  his  perusal  of 
the  news  as  if  nothing  unusual  or  unexpected  had  taken 
place,  and  went  reading:  on  with  the  greatest  assiduity. 
But  never  a  word  did  Captain  Cuttle  understand,  though 
he  read  a  vast  number,  for  Rob  the  Grinder  was  scamper- 
ing up  one  column  and  down  another  all  through  the 
newspaper. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  worthy  captain  had  ever 
felt  himself  quite  abandoned  until  now  ;  but  now,  old 
i  Sol  Gills,  Walter,  and  Heart's  Delight  were  lost  to  him 


594 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


indeed,  and  now  Mr.  Carker  deceived  and  jeered  liim 
cruelly.  They  were  all  represented  in  the  false  Rob,  to 
whom  he  had  held  forth  many  a  time  on  the  recollections 
that  were  warm  within  him  ;  he  had  believed  in  the 
false  Rob,  and  had  been  glad  to  believe  in  him  ;  he  had 
made  a  companion  of  him  as  the  last  of  the  old  ship's 
company  ;  he  had  taken  the  command  of  the  little  mid- 
shipman with  him  at  his  right  hand  ;  he  had  meant  to 
do  his  duty  by  him,  and  had  felt  almost  as  kindly  to- 
wards the  boy  as  if  they  had  been  shipwrecked  and  cast 
upon  a  desert  place  together.  And  now  that  the  false 
Rob  had  brought  distrust,  treachery,  meanness  into  the 
very'^arlour,  which  was  a  kind  of  sacred  place,  Captain 
Cuttle  felt  as  if  the  parlour  miglit  have  gone  down  next, 
and  not  surprised  him  much  by  its  sinking,  or  given  him 
any  very  great  concern. 

Therefore  Captain  Cuttle  read  the  newspaper  with 
profound  attention  and  no  comprehension,  and  therefore 
Captain  Cuttle  said  nothing  whatever  about  Rob  to  him- 
self, or  admitted  to  himself  that  he  was  thinking  about 
him,  or  would  recognize  in  the  most  distant  manner  that 
Rob  had  anything  to  do  with  his  feeling  as  lonely  as 
Robinson  Crusoe. 

In  the  same  composed,  business-like  way,  the  captain 
stepped  over  to  Leadenhall  Market  in  the  dusk,  and  ef- 
fected an  arrangement  with  a  private  watchman  on  duty 
there,  to  come  and  put  up  and  take  down  the  shutters  of 
the  Wooden  Midshipman  every  night  and  morning.  He 
then  called  in  at  the  eating-house  to  diminish  by  one 
half  the  daily  rations  theretofore  supplied  to  the  mid- 
shipman, and  at  the  public-house  to  stop  the  traitor's 
beer.  "  My  young  man,"  said  the  captain,  in  explana- 
tion to  the  young  lady  at  the  bar,  "  my  young  man  hav- 
ing bettered  himself,  miss."  Lastly,  the  captain  re- 
solved to  take  possession  of  the  bed  under  the  counter, 
and  to  turn- in  there  o'  nights  instead  of  up-stairs,  as 
sole  guardian  of  the  jjroperty. 

From  this  bed  Captain  Cuttle  daily  rose  henceforth, 
and  clapped  on  his  glazed  hat  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  the  solitary  air  of  Crusoe  finishing  his  toilet 
with  his  goat-skin  cap  ;  and  although  his  fears  of  a  visi- 
tation from  the  savage  tribe,  MacStinger,  were  some- 
what cooled,  as  similar  apprehensions  on  the  part  of  that 
lone  mariner  used  to  be  by  the  lapse  of  a  long  interval 
without  any  symptoms  of  the  cannibals,  he  still  observed 
a  regular  routine  of  defensive  operations,  and  never  en- 
countered a  bonnet  without  a  previous  survey  from  his 
castle  of  retreat.  In  the  meantime  (during  which  he  re- 
ceived no  call  from  Mr.  Toots,  who  wrote  to  say  he  was 
out  of  town)  his  own  voice  began  to  have  a  strange 
sound  in  his  ears  :  and  he  acquired  such  habits  of  pro- 
found meditation  from  much  polishing  and  stowing  away 
of  the  stock,  and  from  much  sitting  behind  the  counter 
reading,  or  looking  out  of  window,  that  the  red  rim 
made  on  his  forehead  by  the  hard  glazed  hat,  sometimes 
ached  again  with  excess  of  reflection. 

The  year  being  now  expired.  Captain  Cuttle  deemed  it 
expedient  to  open  the  packet ;  but  as  he  had  always  de- 
signed doing  this  in  the  presence  of  Rob  the  Grinder, 
who  had  brought  it  to  him,  and  as  he  had  an  idea  that 
it  would  be  regular  and  ship-shape  to  open  it  in  the 
presence  of  somebody,  he  was  sadly  put  to  it  for  want 
of  a  witness.  In  this  difficulty,  he  hailed  one  day  with 
unusual  delight  the  announcement  in  the  Shipping  In- 
telligence of  the  arrival  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  Captain 
John  Bunsby,  from  a  coasting  voyage  ;  and  to  that  phil- 
osopher immediately  despatched  a  letter  by  post,  en  join- 
ing inviolable  secrecy  as  to  his  place  of  residence,  and 
requesting  to  be  favoured  with  an  early  visit,  in  the 
evening  season. 

Bunsby,  who  was'  one  of  those  sages  who  act  upon 
conviction,  took  some  days  to  get  the  conviction  tho- 
roughly into  his  mind,  that  he  had  received  a  letter  to 
this  effect.  But,  when  ho  had  grappled  with  the 
fact  and  mastered  it,  he  promptly  sent  his  l)oy  with  the 
message,  '*  lie's  a  coming  to-night."  Who,  being  in- 
structed to  deliver  those  words  and  disappear,  fulfilled 
his  mission  like  a  tarry  spirit  charged  with  a  mysterious 
warning. 

The  captain,  well  pleased  to  receive  it,  made  prepara- 
tion of  pipes  and  rum  and  water,  and  awaited  his  visitor 
in  the  back  j^arlour.    At  the  hour  of  eight,  a  deep  low- 


ing, as  of  a  nautical  bull,  outside  the  shop-door,  succeed- 
ed by  the  knocking  of  a  stick  on  the  panel,  announced 
to  the  listening  ear  of  Captain  Cuttle,  that  Bunsby  was 
alongside  ;  whom  he  instantly  admitted,  shaggy  and 
loose,  and  with  his  stolid  mahogany  visage,  as  usual, 
appearing  to  have  no  consciousness  of  anything  before 
it,  but  to  be  attentively  observing  something  that  was 
taking  place  in  quite  another  part  of  the  world. 

"Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  grasjnng  him  by  the 
hand,  "  what  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer  ?  " 

"  Shipmet,"  replied  the  voice  within  Bunsby,  unac- 
companied by  any  sign  on  the  part  of  the  commander 
himself,  "Hearty,  hearty." 

"Bunsby  !  "  said  the  captain,  rendering  irrepressible 
homage  to  his  genius,  "  here  you  are  !  a  man  as  can 
give  an  opinion  as  is  brighter  than  di'monds— and  give 
me  the  lad  with  the  tarry  trousers  as  shines  to  me  like 
di'monds  bright,  for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  Stanfell's 
Budget,  and  when  found  make  a  note.  Here  you  are,  a 
man  as  gave  an  opinion  in  this  here  very  place,  that  has 
come  true,  every  letter  on  it,"  which  the  captain  sincere- 
ly believed. 

"Ay,  ay?"  growled  Bunsby. 

"Every  letter,"  said  the  captain. 

"For  why?"  growled  Bunsby,  looking  at  his  friend 
for  the  first  time.  "Which  way?  If  so,  why  not? 
Therefore."  With  these  oracular  words — they  seemed 
almost  to  make  the  captain  giddy  ;  they  launched  him 
upon  such  a  sea  of  speculation  and  conjecture — the  sage 
submitted  to  be  helped  off  with  his  pilot-coat,  and  ac- 
companied his  friend  into  the  back  parlour,  where  his 
hand  presently  alighted  on  the  rum-bottle,  from  which 
he  brewed  a  stiff  glass  of  grog  ;  and  presently  after- 
wards on  a  pipe,  which  he  filled,  lighted,  and  began  to 
smoke. 

Captain  Cuttle,  imitating  his  visitor  in  the  matter  of 
these  particulars,  though  the  rapt  and  imperturbable 
manner  of  the  great  commander  was  far  above  his 
powers,  sat  in  the  opposite  corner  of  the  fireside,  observ- 
ing him  respectfully,  and  as  if  he  waited  for  some  en- 
couragement or  expression  of  curiosity  on  Bunsby's  part 
which  should  lead  him  to  his  own  affairs.  But  as  the 
mahogany  philosopher  gave  no  evidence  of  being  senti- 
ent of  anything  but  warmth  and  tobacco,  except  once, 
when  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips  to  make  room  for  his 
glass,  he  incidentally  remarked  with  exceeding  gruff- 
ness,  that  his  name  was  Jack  Bunsby — a  declaration'that 
presented  but  small  opening  for  conversation — the  cap- 
tain bespeaking  his  attention  in  a  short  complimentary 
exordium,  narrated  the  whole  history  of  Uncle  Sol's  de- 
parture, with  the  change  it  had  produced  in  his  own  life 
and  fortunes  ;  and  concluded  by  placing  the  packet  on 
the  table. 

After  a  long  pause  Mr.  Bunsby  nodded  his  head. 
"  Open  ?  "  said  the  captain. 
Bunsby  nodded  again. 

The  captain  accordingly  broke  the  seal,  and  disclosed 
to  view  two  folded  papers,  of  which  he  severally  read  the 
indorsements,  thus  :  "Last  Will  and  Testament  of  Sol- 
omon Gills."    "  Letter  for  Ned  Cuttle." 

Bunsby,  with  his  eye  on  the  coast  of  Greenland, 
seemed  to  listen  for  the  contents.  The  captain  there- 
fore hemmed  to  clear  his  throat,  and  read  the  letter 
aloud. 

"  '  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  When  I  left  home  for  the 
West  Indies'  " — 

Here  the  captain  stopped,  and  looked  hard  at  Bunsby, 
who  looked  fixedly  at  the  coast  of  Greenland. 

— "  '  in  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear  boy, 
I  knew  that  if  you  were  acquainted  with  my  design,  you 
would  thwart  it,  or  accompany  me  ;  and  therefore  I  kept 
it  secret.  If  you  ever  read  this  letter,  Ned,  I  am  likely 
to  be  dead.  You  will  easily  forgive  an  old  friend's  folly 
then,  and  will  feel  for  the  restlessness  and  uncertainty 
in  which  he  wandered  away  on  such  a  wild  voyage.  So 
no  more  of  that.  I  have  little  hope  that  my  poor  boy 
will  ever  read  these  words,  or  gladden  your  eyes  with 
the  sight  of  his  frank  face  any  more.'  No,  no;  no 
more,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  sorrowfully  meditating ; 
"  no  more.    There  he  lays,  all  his  days — " 

Mr.  Bunsby,  who  had  a  musical  ear,  suddenly  bel- 
lowed, "  In  tiie  Bays  of  Biscay,  O  !"  which  so  affected 


DOME  FY  AND  SOK 


595 


the  good  captain,  as  an  appropriate  tribute  to  departed 
worth,  that  he  shook  him  by  the  hand  in  acknowledg- 
ment, and  was  fain  to  wipe  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  well  !  "  said  the  captain  with  a  sigh,  as  the 
lament  of  Bunsby  ceased  to  ring  and  vibrate  in  the  sky- 
light. "  Affliction  sore,  long  lime  he  bore,  and  let  us 
overhaul  the  woUum,  and  there  fmd  it." 

"  Physicians,"  observed  Bunsby,  "  was  in  vain." 

"Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  captain,  "what's  the 
good  o'  them  in  two  or  three  hundred  fathom  o'  water  ! " 
Then,  returning  to  the  letter,  he  read  on  : — "  '  But  if  he 
should  be  by,  when  it  is  opened;'"  the  captain  invol- 
untarily looked  round,  and  shook  his  head  ;  "  '  or  should 
know  of  it  at  any  other  time  ; '  "  the  captain  shook  his 
head  again  \  "  '  my  blessing  on  him  !  In  case  the  accom- 
panying paper  is  not  legally  written,  it  matters  very 
little,  for  there  is  no  one  interested  but  you  and  he,  and 
my  plain  wish  is,  that  if  he  is  living  he  should  have 
what  little  there  may  be,  and  if  (as  I  fear)  otherwise, 
that  you  should  have  it,  Ned.  You  will  respect  my 
wish,  I  know.  God  bless  you  for  it,  and  for  all  your 
friendliness  besides,  to  Solomon  Gills.'  Bunsby!" 
said  the  captain,  appealing  to  him  solemnly,  "  what  do 
you  make  of  this?  There  you  sit,  a  man  as  has  had  his 
head  broke  from  infancy  up'ards,  and  has  got  a  new 
opinion  into  it  at  every  seam  as  has  been  opened.  Now 
what  do  you  make  o'  this?" 

"  If  so  be,"  returned  Bunsby,  with  unusual  prompti- 
tude, "as  he's  dead,  my  opinion  is  he  won't  come  back 
no  more.  If  so  be  as  he's  alive,  my  opinion  is  he  will. 
Do  I  say  he  will  ?  No.  Why  not  ?  Because  the  bear- 
ings of  this  obserwation  lays  in  the  application  on  it." 

"  Bunsby  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  seem  to 
have  estimated  the  value  of  his  distinguished  friend's 
opinions  in  proportion  to  the  immensity  of  the  difficulty 
he  experienced  in  making  anything  out  of  them  ; 
"  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  quite  confounded  by  admira- 
tion, "you  carry  a  weight  of  mind  easy,  as  would  swamp 
one  of  my  tonnage  soon.  But  in  regard  o'  this  here  will, 
I  don't  mean  to  take  no  steps  towards  the  property — 
Lord  forbid  ! — except  to  keep  it  for  a  more  rightful 
owner ;  and  I  hope  yet  as  the  rightful  owner,  Sol  Gills, 
is  living  and'll  come  back,  strange  as  it  is  that  he  ain't 
forwarded  no  despatches.  Now,  what  is  your  opinion, 
Bunsby,  as  to  stowing  of  these  here  papers  away  again, 
and  marking  outside  as  they  was  opened,  such  a  day,  in 
presence  of  John  Bunsby  and  Ed'ard  Cuttle  ?  " 

Bunsby,  descrying  no  objection,  on  the  coast  of  Green- 
land or  elsewhere,  to  this  proposal,  it  was  carried  into 
execution  ;  and  that  great  man,  bringing  his  eye  into  the 
present  for  a  moment,  affixed  his  sign-manual  to  the 
cover,  totally  abstaining,  with  characteristic  modesty, 
from  the  use  of  capital  letters.  Captain  Cuttle,  having 
attached  his  own  left-handed  signature,  and  locked  up 
the  packet  in  the  iron  safe,  entreated  his  guest  to  mix 
another  glass  and  smoke  another  pipe  ;  and  doing  the 
like  himself,  fell  a  musing  over  the  fire  on  the  possible 
fortunes  of  the  poor  old  Instrument-maker. 

And  now  a  surprise  occurred,  so  overwhelming  and  ter- 
rific that  Captain  Cuttle,  unsupported  by  the  presence  of 
Bunsby,  must  have  sunk  beneath  it,  and  been  a  lost  man 
from  that  fatal  hour. 

How  the  captain,  even  in  the  satisfaction  of  admitting 
such  a  guest,  could  have  only  shut  the  door  and  not 
locked  it,  of  which  negligence  he  was  undoubtedly 
guilty,  is  one  of  those  questions  that  must  for  ever  re- 
main mere  points  of  speculation,  or  vague  charges 
against  destiny.  But,  by  that  unlocked  door,  at  this 
quiet  moment*  did  the  fell  MacStinger  dash  into  the 
parlour,  bringing  Alexander  MacStinger  in  her  parental 
arms,  and  confusion  and  vengeance  (not  to  mention 
Juliana  MacStinger,  and  the  sweet  child's  brother, 
Charles  MacStinger,  popularly  known  about  the  scenes 
of  liis  youthful  sports,  as  Chowley)  in  her  train.  She 
came  so  swiftly  and  so  silently,  like  a  rushing  air  from 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  East  India  Docks,  that  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  found  himself  in  the  very  act  of  sitting 
looking  at  her,  before  the  calm  face  with  which  he 
had  been  meditating,  changed  to  one  of  horror  and 
dismay. 

But,  the  moment  Captain  Cuttle  understood  the  full 
extent  of  his  misfortune,  self-preservation  dictated  an 


attempt  at  flight.  Darting  at  the  little  door  which 
opened  from  the  parlour  on  the  steep  little  range  of 
cellar-ste])S,  the  captain  made  a  rush,  head  foremost, 
at  the  latter,  like  a  man  indifferent  to  bruises  and  con- 
tusions, who  only  sought  to  hide  himself  in  the  bow- 
els of  tlie  earth.  In  this  gallant  effort  he  would  prob- 
ably have  succeeded,  but  for  the  affectionate  dispositions 
of  Juliana  and  Chowley,  who  pinning  him  by  tiie  legs 
— one  of  those  dear  children  holding  on  to  each — 
claimed  him  as  their  friend,  with  lamentable  cries. 
In  the  meantime,  Mrs.  MacStinger,  who  never  entered 
ujoon  any  action  of  importance  without  previously  in- 
verting Alexander  MacStinger,  to  bring  him  within 
the  range  of  a  brisk  battery  of  slaps,  and  then  sitting 
him  down  to  cool  as  the  reader  first  beheld  him,  per- 
formed that  solemn  rite,  as  if  on  this  occasion  it  were 
a  sacrifice  to  the  Furies  ;  and  having  deposited  the 
victim  on  the  floor,  made  at  the  captain  with  a  strength 
of  purpose  that  appeared  to  threaten  scratches  to  the  in- 
terposing Bunsby. 

The  cries  of  the  two  elder  MacStingers,  and  the  wail- 
ing of  young  Alexander,  who  may  be  said  to  have  passed 
a  piebald  childhood,  forasmuch  as  he  was  black  in  the 
face  during  one  half  of  that  fairy  period  of  existence, 
combined  to  make  this  visitation  the  more  awful.  But 
when  silence  reigned  again,  and  the  captain,  in  a  vio- 
lent perspiration,  stood  meekly  looking  at  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger, its  terrors  were  at  their  height. 

"Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  Cap'en  Cuttle  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger, making  her  chin  rigid,  and  shaking  it  in  unison 
with  what,  but  for  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  might  be  de- 
scribed as  her  fist.  "Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  Cap'en  Cuttle, 
do  you  dare  to  look  at  me  in  the  face,  and  not  be  struck 
down  in  the  berth  ! " 

The  Captain,  who  looked  anything  but  daring,  feebly 
muttered  "  Stand  by  ! " 

"  Oh  I  was  a  weak  and  trusting  fool  when  I  took  you 
under  my  roof,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  1  was  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger. "  To  think  of  the  iDcnefits  I've  showered  on 
that  man,  and  the  way  in  which  I  brought  my  children 
up  to  love  and  /ionour  him  as  if  he  was  a  father  to  'em, 
when  there  an't  a  'ousekeeper,  no  nor  a  lodger  in  our 
street,  don't  know  that  I  lost  money  by  that  man,  and 
I  by  his  guzzlings  and  his  muzzlings  " — Mrs.  MacStinger 
used  the  last  word  for  the  joint  sake  of  alliteration  and 
aggravation,  rather  than  for  the  expression  of  any  idea 
— "and  when  they  cried  out  one  and  ail,  shame  upon 
him  for  putting  upon  an  industrious  woman,  up  early 
and  late  for  the  good  of  her  young  family,  and  keeping 
her  poor  place  so  clean  that  a  individual  might  have  ate 
his  dinner,  yes,  and  his  tea  too,  if  he  was  so  disposed, 
off  any  one  of  the  floors  or  stairs,  in  spite  of  all  his 
i  guzzlings  and  his  muzzlings,  such  was  the  care  and  pains 
bestowed  upon  him  !  " 

Mrs.  MacStinger  stopped  to  fetch  her  breath  ;  and  her 
face  flushed  with  triumph  in  this  second  happy  introduc- 
tion of  Captain  Cuttle's  muzzlings. 

"And  he  runs  awa-a-a-ay  !"  cried  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
with  a  lengthening  out  of  the  last  syllable  that  made  the 
unfortunate  captain  regard  himself  as  the  meanest  cf 
men  ;  "  and  keeps  away  a  twelvemonth  !  From  a  wo- 
man !  Sich  is  his  conscience  !  He  hasn't  the  courage  to 
meet  her  hi-i-i-igh,"  long  syllable  again  ;  "  but  steals 
away  like  a  felion.  Why,  if  that  baby  of  mine,"  said 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  sudden  rapidity,  "  was  to  offer 
to  go  and  steal  away,  I'd  do  my  duty  as  a  mother  by  him, 
1  till  he  was  covered  with  wales  !  " 

j     The  young  Alexander,  interpreting  this  into  a  positive 
promise,  to  be  shortly  redeemed,  tumbled  over  with  fear 
I  and  grief,  and  lay  upon  the  floor,  exhibiting  the  soles  of 
his  shoes  and  making  such  a  deafening  outcry,  that  Mrs. 
j  MacStinger  found  it  necessary  to  take  him  up  in  her 
j  arms,  where  she  quieted  him,  ever  and  anon,  as  he  bioke 
;  out  again,  by  a  shake  that  seemed  enough  to  loosen  his 
teeth. 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  a  man  is  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  with  a  sharp  stress  on  the  first  syllable  of 
the  captain's  name,  "  to  take  on  for — and  to  lose  sleep  for, 
and  to  faint  iilong  of — and  to  think  dead  forsooth — and 
to  go  up  and  down  the  blessed  town  like  a  mad  woman, 
asking  questions  after  !  Oh,  a  pretty  sort  of  a  man  !  Ha 
ha  ha  ha  !   He's  worth  all  that  trouble  and  distress  of 


596 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


mind,  and  much  more.  Thafs  nothing,  bless  you  !  Ha 
ha  ha  ha  !  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  with 
severe  re-action  in  her  voice  and  manner,  "  I  wish  to 
know  if  you're  a-coming  home." 

The  frightened  captain  looked  into  his  hat,  as  if  he  saw 
nothing  for  it  but  to  put  it  on,  and  give  himself  up. 

"Cap'en  Cuttle,"  repeated  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  the 
same  determined  manner,  "  I  wish  to  know  if  you're 
a-coming  home,  sir." 

The  captain  seemed  quite  ready  to  go,  but  faintly  sug- 
gested something  to  the  effect  of  "  not  making  so  much 
noise  about  it." 

"Ay,  ay,  ay,"  said  Bunsby,  in  a  soothing  tone.  "  Awast, 
my  lass,  awast  !  " 

"  And  who  may  YOIJ  be,  if  you  please  !  "  retorted  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  with  chaste  loftiness.  *'  Did  you  ever  lodge 
at  Number  Nine,  Bri^y-place,  sir  ?  My  memory  may  be 
bad,  but  not  with  me,  I  think.  There  was  a  Mrs.  Jollson 
lived  at  Number  Nine  before  me,  and  perhaps  you're  mis- 
taking me  for  her.  That  is  my  only  ways  of  accounting 
for  your  familiarity,  sir." 

"Come,  come,  my  lass,  awast,  awast!"  said  Buns- 
by. 

Captain  Cuttle  could  hardly  believe  it,  even  of  this  great 
man,  though  he  saw  it  done  with  his  waking  eyes  :  but 
Bunsby,  advancing  boldly,  put  his  shaggy  blue  arm  round 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  so  softened  her  by  his  magic  way 
of  doing  it,  and  by  these  few  words — he  said  no  more — 
that  she  melted  into  tears  after  looking  upon  him  for  a 
few  moments,  and  observed  that  a  child  might  conquer 
her  now,  she  was  so  low  in  her  courage. 

Speechless  and  utterly  amazed,  the  captain  saw  him 
gradually  persuade  this  inexorable  woman  into  the  shop, 
return  for  rum  and  water  and  a  candle,  take  them  to  her, 
and  pacify  her  without  appearing  to  utter  one  word. 
Presently  he  looked  in  with  his  pilot-coat  on,  and  said, 
"Cuttle,  I'm  agoing  to  act  as  convoy  home  ;  "  and  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  more  to  his  confusion  than  if  he  had  been  put 
in  irons  himself,  for  safe  transport  to  Brig-place,  saw  the 
family  pacifically  filing  off,  with  Mrs.  MacStinger  at  their 
head.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  take  down  his  canister, 
and  stealthily  convey  some  money  into  the  hands  of  Ju- 
liana MacStinger,  his  former  favourite,  and  Chowley, 
who  had  the  claim  upon  him  that  he  was  naturally  of  a 
maritime  build,  before  the  Midshipman  was  abandoned 
by  them  all ;  and  Bunsby,  whispering  that  he'd  carry  on 
smart,  and  hail  Ned  Cuttle  again  before  he  went  aboard, 
shut  the  door  upon  himself,  as  the  last  member  of  the 
party. 

Some  uneasy  ideas  that  he  must  be  walking  in  his  sleep, 
or  that  he  had  been  troubled  with  phantoms,  and  not  a 
family  of  fiesh  and  blood,  beset  the  captain  at  first,  when 
he  went  back  to  the  little  parlour,  and  found  himself 
alone.  Illimitable  faith  in,  and  immeasurable  admiration 
of,  the  commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  succeeded,  and 
threw  the  captain  into  a  wondering  trance. 

Still,  as  time  wore  on,  and  Bunsby  failed  to  reappear, 
the  captain  began  to  entertain  uncomfortable  doubts  of 
another  kind.  Whether  Bunsby  had  been  artfully  de- 
coyed to  Brig-place,  and  was  there  detained  in  safe  cus- 
tody as  hostage  for  his  friend  ;  in  which  case  it  would 
become  the  captain,  as  a  man  of  honour,  to  release  him, 
by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  liberty.  Whether  he  had 
been  attacked  and  defeated  by  Mrs".  MacStinger,  and  was 
ashamed  to  show  himself  after  his  discomfiture.  Whether 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  thinkinc:  better  of  it,  in  the  uncertainty 
of  her  temper,  had  turned  back  to  board  the  Midshipman 
again,  and  Bunsby,  pretending  to  conduct  her  by  a  short 
cut,  was  endeavouring  to  lose  the  family  amid  the  wild 
and  savage  places  of  the  city.  Above  all,  what  it  would 
behoove  him.  Captain  Cuttle,  to  do,  in  case  of  his  hear- 
ing no  more,  either  of  the  MacStingers  or  of  Bunsby, 
which,  in  these  wonderful  and  unforeseen  conjunctions 
of  events,  might  possibly  happen. 

He  debated  all  this  until  he  was  tired  ;  and  still  no 
Bunsby.  He  made  up  his  bod  under  the  counter,  all 
ready  for  turning  in  ;  still  no  Bun«by.  At  length,  when 
the  captain  had  given  him  up,  for  that  niglit,  at  least,  and 
Iiad  begun  to  undress,  the  sound  of  approaching  wheels 
was  heard,  and,  stopping  at  the  door,  was  succeeded  by 
Bunsby 's  hail. 

The  captain  trembled  to  think  that  Mrs.  MacStinger 


was  not  to  be  got  rid  of,  and  had  been  brought  back  in  a  ^ 
coach. 

But  no.  Bunsby  was  accompanied  by  nothing  but  a 
large  box,  which  he  hauled  into  the  shop  with  his  own 
hands,  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  hauled  in,  sat  upon.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  knew  it  for  the  chest  he  had  left  at  Mrs. 
MacStinger's  house,  and  looking,  candle  in  hand,  at 
Bunsby  more  attentively,  believed  that  he  was  three 
sheets  in  the  wind,  or,  iia  plain  words,  drunk.  It  was 
difficult,  however,  to  be  sure  of  this  ;  the  commander 
having  no  trace  of  expression  in  his  face  when  sober. 

"  Cuttle,"  said  the  commander,  getting  off  the  chest, 
and  opening  the  lid,  "  are  these  here  your  traps?" 

Captain  Cuttle  looked  in  and  identified  liis  property. 

"Done  pretty  taut  and  trim,  hey  shipmet?"  said 
Bunsby. 

The  grateful  and  bewildered  captain  grasped  him  by 
the  hand,  and  was  launching  into  a  reply  expressive  of 
his  astonished  feelings,  when  Bunsby  disengaged  him- 
self by  a  jerk  of  his  wrist,  and  seemed  to  make  an  ef- 
fort to  wink  with  his  revolving  eye,  the  only  effect  of 
which  attempt,  in  his  condition,  was  nearly  to  over- 
balance him.  lie  then  abruptly  opened  the  door,  and 
shot  away  to  rejoin  the  Cautious  Clara  with  all  speed — 
supposed  to  be  his  invariable  custom,  whenever  he  con- 
sidered he  had  made  a  point. 

As  it  was  not  his  humour  to  be  often  sought,  Captain 
Cuttle  decided  not  to  go  or  send  to  him  next  day,  or  un- 
til he  should  make  his  gracious  pleasure  known  in  such 
wise,  or  failing  that,  until  some  little  time  should  have 
elapsed.     The  captain,  therefore,  renewed  his  solitary 
life  next  morning,  and  thought  profoundly,  many  morn- 
ings, noons,  and  nights,  of  old  Sol  Gills  and  Bunsby's 
sentiments  concerning  him,  and  the  hopes  there  were  of 
his  return.    Much  of  such  thinking  strengthened  Cap-  ; 
tain  Cuttle's  hopes  ;  and  he  humoured  them  and  himself 
by  watching  for  the  Instrument-maker  at  the  door  as  he  ^ 
ventured  to  do  now,  in  his  strange  liberty — and  setting  ! 
his  chair  in  its  place,  and  arranging  the  little  parlour  as 
it  used  to  be,  in  case  he  should  come  home  unexpectedly.  \ 
He  likewise,  in  his  thoughtfulness,  took  down  a  certain  < 
little  miniature  of  W^alter  as  a  schoolboy,  from  its  ac- 
customed  nail,  lest  it  should  shock  the  old  man  on  his  : 
return.    The  captain  had  his  presentiments,  too  some-  ; 
times,  that  he  would  come  on  such  a  day  ;  and  one  par-  ; 
ticular  Sunday,  even  ordered  a  double  allowance  of  din-  ' 
ner,  he  was  so  sanguine.    But  come,  old  Solomon  did  ' 
not.    And  still  the  neighbours  noticed  how  the  seafaring  [ 
man  in  the  glazed  hat,  stood  at  the  shop  door  of  an  j 
evening,  looking  up  and  down  the  street.  | 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Domestic  lielations. 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that  a  man  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  mood,  opposed  to  such  a  spirit  as  he  had 
raised  against  himself,  should  be  softened  in  the  imperi- 
ous asperity  of  his  temper  ;  or  that  the  cold  hard  ar- 
mour of  pride  in  which  he  lived  encased,  should  be  made 
more  flexible  by  constant  collision  with  haughty  scorn 
and  defiance.  It  is  the  curse  of  such  a  nature — it  is  a 
main  part  of  the  heavy  retribution  on  itself  it  bears 
within  itself — that  while  deference  and  concession  swell 
its  evil  qualities,  and  are  the  food  it  grows  upon,  resist- 
ance, and  a  questioning  of  its  exacting  claims,  foster  it 
too,  no  less.  The  evil  that  is  in  it  finds  equally  its  means 
of  growth  and  propagation,  in  opposites.  It  draws  sup- 
port and  life  from  sweets  and  bitters  ;  bowed  down  be- 
fore, or  unacknowledged,  it  still  enslaves  the  breast  in 
which  it  has  its  throne  ;  and,  worshipped  or  rejected,  is 
as  hard  a  master  as  the  Devil  in  dark  fables. 

Towards  his  first  wife,  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  cold  and 
lofty  arrogance,  had  borne  himself  like  the  removed 
being  he  almost  conceived  himself  to  be.  He  had  been 
"Mr.  Dombey"  with  her  when  she  first  saw  him,  and  he 
was  "Mr.  Dombey"  when  she  died.  He  had  asserted 
his  greatness  during  their  whole  married  life,  and  she 
had  meekly  recognised  it.  He  had  kept  his  distant  seat 
of  state  on  the  top  of  his  throne,  and  she  her  humble 


DOMBEY  AND  80K 


597 


station  on  its  lower  step  ;  and  much  good  it  had  done 
him,  so  to  live  in  solitary  bondage  to  his  one  idea.  He 
had  imagined  that  the  proud  character  of  his  second 
wife  would  have  been  added  to  his  own — would  have 
merged  into  it,  and  exalted  his  greatness.  He  had  pic- 
tured himself  haughtier  than  ever,  with  Edith's  haugh- 
tiness subservient  to  his.  He  had  never  entertained  the 
possibility  of  its  arraying  itself  against  him.  And  now, 
when  he  found  it  rising  in  his  path  at  every  step  and 
turn  of  his  daily  life,  fixing  its  cold,  defiant,  and  con- 
temptuous face  upon  him,  this  pride  of  his,  instead  of 
withering,  or  hanging  down  its  head  beneath  the  shock, 
put  forth  new  shooli^  became  more  concentrated  and 
intense,  more  gloomy,  sullen,  irksome,  and  unyielding, 
than  it  had  ever  been  before. 

Who  wears  such  armour,  too,  bears  with  him  ever  an- 
other heavy  retribution.  It  is  of  proof  against  concilia- 
tion, love,  and  confidence  ;  against  all  gentle  sympathy 
from  without,  all  trust,  all  tenderness,  all  soft  emotion  ; 
but  to  deep  stabs  in  the  self-love,  it  is  as  vulnerable  as 
the  bare  breast  to  steel  ;  and  such  tormenting  festers 
rankle  there,  as  follow  on  no  other  wounds,  no,  though 
dealt  with  the  mailed  hand  of  pride  itself,  on  weaker 
pride,  disarmed  and  thrown  down. 

Such  wounds  were  his.  He  felt  them  sharply,  in  the 
solitude  of  his  old  rooms  ;  whither  he  now  began  often 
to  retire  again,  and  pass  long  solitary  hours.  It  seemed 
his  fate  to  be  ever  proud  and  powerful  ;  ever  humbled 
and  powerless  where  he  would  be  most  strong.  Who 
seemed  fated  to  work  out  that  doom  ? 

Who  ?  Who  was  it  who  could  win  his  wife  as  she 
had  won  his  boy  !  Who  was  it  who  had  shown  him  that 
new  victory,  as  he  sat  in  the  dark  corner  !  W^ho  was  it 
whose  least  word  did  what  his  utmost  means  could  not  ! 
Who  was  it  who,  unaided  by  his  love,  regard,  or  notice, 
thrived  and  grew  beautiful  when  those  so  aided  died  ! 
Who  could  it  be,  but  the  same  child  at  whom  he  had 
often  glanced  uneasily  in  her  motherless  infancy,  with  a 
kind  of  dread,  lest  he  might  come  to  hate  her  ;  and  of 
whom  his  foreboding  was  fulfilled,  for  he  did  hate  her 
in  his  heart. 

Yes,  and  he  would  have  it  hatred,  and  he  made  it  ha- 
tred, though  some  sparkles  of  the  light  in  which  she  had 
appeared  before  him  on  the  memorable  night  of  his  re- 
turn home  with  his  bride,  occasionally  hung  about  her 
still.  He  knew  now  that  she  was  beautiful ;  he  did  not 
dispute  that  she  was  graceful  and  winning,  and  that  in 
the  bright  dawn  of  her  womanhood  she  had  come  upon 
him,  a  surprise.  But  he  turned  even  this  against  her. 
In  his  sullen  and  unwholesome  brooding,  the  unhappy 
man,  with  a  dull  perception  of  his  alienation  from  ail 
hearts,  and  a  vague  yearning  for  what  he  had  all  his  life 
repelled,  made  &  distorted  picture  of  his  rights  and 
wrongs,  and  justified  himself  with  it  against  her.  The 
worthier  she  promised  to  be  of  him,  the  greater  claim  he 
was  disposed  to  ante-date  upon  her  duty  and  submission. 
When  had  she  ever  shown  him  duty  and  submission  ? 
Did  she  grace  his  life — or  Edith's  ?  Had  her  attractions 
been  manifested  first  to  him — or  Edith?  Why,  he  and 
she  had  never  been,  from  her  birth,  like  father  and 
child  !  They  had  always  been  estranged.  She  had 
crossed  him  every  way  and  everywhere.  She  was 
leagued  against  him  now.  Her  very  beauty  softened 
natures  that  were  obdurate  to  him,  and  insulted  him 
with  an  unnatural  triumph. 

It  may  have  been  that  in  all  this  there  were  mutterings 
of  an  awakened  feeling  in  his  breast,  however  selfishly 
aroused  by  his  position  of  disadvantage,  in  comparison 
with  what  she  might  have  made  his  life.  But  he  si- 
lenced the  distant  thunder  with  the  rolling  of  his  sea  of 
pride.  He  would  bear  nothing  but  his  pride.  And  in 
his  pride,  a  heap  of  inconsistency,  and  misery,  and  self- 
inflicted  torment,  he  hated  her. 

To  the  moody,  stubborn,  sullen  demon,  that  possessed 
him,  his  wife  opposed  her  different  pride  in  its  full  force. 
They  never  could  have  led  a  happy  life  together ;  but 
nothing  could  have  made  it  more  unhappy,  than  the 
wilful  and  determined  warfare  of  such  elements.  His 
pride  was  set  upon  maintaining  his  magnificent  suprem- 
acy, and  forcing  recognition  of  it  from  her.  She  would 
have  been  racked  to  death,  and  turned  but  her  haughty 
glance  of  calm  inflexible  disdain  upon  him,  to  the  last. 


Such  recognition  from  Edith  !  ITo  little  know  through 
what  a  storm  and  struggle  she  had  been  driven  onward 
to  the  crowning  honour  of  his  hand.  He  little  know 
how  much  she  thought  she  had  conceded,  when  she  suf- 
fered him  to  call  her  wife. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  resolved  to  show  her  that  he  was  su- 
preme. There  must  be  no  will  but  his.  Proud  he  de- 
sired that  she  should  be,  but  slie  must  be  proud  for,  not 
against  him.  As  he  sat  alone,  hardening,  he  would  often 
hear  her  go  out  and  come  home,  treading  the  round  of 
London  life  with  no  more  heed  of  his  liking  or  disliking, 
pleasure  or  displeasure,  than  if  he  had  been  her  groom. 
Her  cold  supreme  indifference — his  own  unquestioned 
attribute  usurped— stung  him  more  than  any  other  kind 
of  treatment  could  have  done  ;  and  he  determined  to 
bend  her  to  his  magnificent  and  stately  will. 

He  had  been  long  communing  with  these  thoughts, 
when  one  night  he  sought  her  in  her  own  apartment, 
after  he  had  heard  her  return  home  late.  She  was  alone, 
in  her  brilliant  dress,  and  had  but  that  moment  corao 
I  from  her  mother's  room.  Her  face  was  melancholy  and 
pensive,  when  he  came  upon  her  ;  but  it  marked  him  at 
the  door  ;  for,  glancing  at  the  mirror  before  it,  he  saw 
immediately,  as  in  a  picture-frame,  the  knitted  brow, 
and  darkened  beauty  that  he  knew  so  v/ell, 

"Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  said,  entering,  "I  must  beg  leave 
to  have  a  few  words  with  you." 

"  To-morrow,"  she  replied. 

"  There  is  no  time  like  the  present,  madam,"  he  re- 
turned. ''You  mistake  your  position.  I  am  used  to 
choose  my  own  times  ;  not  to  have  them  chosen  for  me. 
I  think  you  scarcely  understand  who  and  what  I  am, 
Mrs.  Dombey." 

"  I  think,"  she  answered,  "that  I  understand  you  very 
well." 

She  looked  upon  him  as  she  said  so,  and  folding  her 
white  arms,  sparkling  with  gold  and  gems,  upon  her 
swelling  breast,  turned  away  her  eyes. 

If  she  had  been  less  handsome,  and  less  stately  in  her 
cold  composure,  she  might  not  liave  had  the  power  of 
impressing  him  with  the  sense  of  disadvantage  that  pene- 
trated tlu'ough  his  utmost  pride.  But  she  had  the  power, 
and  he  felt  it  keenly.  He  glanced  round  the  room  :  saw 
how  the  splendid  means  of  personal  adornment,  and  the 
luxuries  of  dress,  were  scattered  here  and  there,  and 
disregarded  ;  not  in  mere  caprice  and  carelessness  (or 
so  he  thought),  but  in  a  stedfast,  haughty  disregard  of 
costly  things  :  and  felt  it  more  and  more.  Chaplets  of 
flowers,  plumes  of  feathers,  jewels,  laces,  silks  and 
satins  ;  look  where  he  would,  he  saw  riches,  despised, 
poured  out,  and  made  of  no  account.  The  very  dia- 
monds— a  marriage  gift — that  rose  and  fell  impatiently 
upon  her  bosom,  seemed  to  pant  to  break  the  chain  that 
clasped  them  round  her  neck,  and  roll  down  on  the  floor 
where  she  might  tread  upon  them. 

He  felt  his  disadvantage,  and  he  showed  it.  Solemn 
and  strange  among  this  wealth  of  colour  and  voluptuous 
glitter,  strange  and  constrained  towards  its  haughty 
mistress,  whose  repellent  beauty  it  repeated,  and  pre- 
sented all  around  him,  as  in  so  many  fragments  of  a 
mirror,  he  was  conscious  of  embarrassment  and  awk- 
wardness. Nothing  that  ministered  to  her  disdainful 
self-possession  could  fail  to  gall  him.  Galled  and  irri- 
tated with  himself,  he  sat  down,  and  went  on  in  no  im- 
proved humour  : 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  it  is  very  necessary  that  there  should 
be  some  understanding  arrived  at  between  us.  Your 
conduct  does  not  please  me,  madam." 

She  merely  glanced  at  him  again,  and  again  averted 
her  eyes  ;  but  she  might  have  spoken  for  an  hour,  and 
expressed  less. 

"  I  repeat,  Mrs.  Dombey,  does  not  please  me.  I  have 
already  taken  occasion  to  request  that  it  may  be  correct- 
ed.   I  now  insist  upon  it." 

"You  chose  a  fitting  occasion  for  your  first  remon- 
stance,  sir,  and  you  adopt  a  fitting  manner  and  a  fitting 
word  for  your  second.     You  insist !    To  me  !  " 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  most  offensive 
air  of  state,  "  I  have  made  you  my  wife.  You  bear  my 
name.  You  are  associated  with  my  position  and  my  re- 
putation. I  will  not  say  that  the  world  in  general  may 
be  disposed  to  think  you  honoured  by  that  association  ; 


598 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


but  I  will  say  tliat  I  am  accustomed  to  'insist,'  to  my 
connexions  and  dependants," 

"Which  may  you  be  pleased  to  consider  me?"  she 
asked. 

"Possibly  I  may  think  that  my  wife  should  partake— 
or  does  partake,  and  cannot  help  herself— of  both  char- 
acters, Mrs.  Dombey." 

She  bent  her  eyes*  upon  him  steadily,  and  set  her  trem- 
bling lips.  He  saw  her  bosom  throb,  and  saw  her  face 
flur,h  and  turn  white.  All  this  he  could  know,  and  did  : 
but  he  could  not  know  that  one  word  was  whispering  in 
tlie  deep  recesses  of  her  heart,  to  keep  her  quiet ;  and 
that  the  word  was  Florence. 

Blind  idiot,  rushing  to  a  precipice  I  He  thought  she 
stood  in  awe  of  him  ! 

"You  are  too  expensive,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"You  are  extravagant.  You  waste  a  great  deal  of 
money — or  Avhat  would  be  a  great  deal  in  the  pockets  of 
most  gentlemen— in  cultivating  a  kind  of  society  that  is 
useless  to  me,  and,  indeed,  that  upon  the  whole  is  dis- 
agreeable to  me.  I  have  to  insist  upon  a  total  change  in 
all  these  respects.  I  know  that  in  the  novelty  of  pos- 
sessing a  tithe  of  such  means  as  fortune  has  placed  at 
your  disposal,  ladies  are  apt  to  run  into  a  sudden  ex- 
treme. There  has  been  more  than  enough  of  that  ex- 
treme. I  beg  that  Mrs.  Granger's  very  different  experi- 
ences may  now  come  to  the  instruction  of  Mrs.  Dombey." 

Still  the  fixed  look,  the  trembling  lips,  the  throbbing 
breast,  the  face  now  crimson  and  now  white  ;  and  still 
the  deep  whisper  Florence,  Florence,  speaking  to  her  in 
the  beating  of  her  heart. 

His  insolence  of  self-importance  dilated  as  he  saw  this 
alteration  in  her.  Swollen  no  less  by  her  past  scorn  of 
him,  and  his  so  recent  feeling  of  disadvantage,  that  by 
her  present  submission  (as  he  took  it  to  be),  it  became 
too  mighty  for  his  breast,  and  burst  all  bounds.  Why, 
who  could  long  resist  his  lofty  will  and  pleasure  !  He 
had  resolved  to  conquer  her,  and  look  here  ! 

"  You  vrill  further  please,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  a  tone  of  sovereign  command,  "  to  understand  distinct- 
ly, that  I  am  to  be  deferred  to  and  obeyed.  That  I  must 
have  a  positive  show  and  confession  of  deference  before 
the  world,  madam.  I  am  used  to  this.  1  require  it  as 
my  right.  In  short  I  will  have  it.  I  consider  it  no  un- 
reasonable return  for  the  worldly  advancement  that  has 
befallen  you ;  and  I  believe  nobody  will  be  surprised, 
either  at  its  being  required  from  you,  or  at  your  making 
it. — To  me — to  me  !  "  he  added,  with  emphasis. 

No  word  from  her.  No  change  in  her.  Her  eyes 
upon  him. 

"  I  have  learnt  from  your  mother,  Mrs.  Dornbey," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  magisterial  importance,  "  what 
no  doubt  you  know,  namely,  that  Brighton  is  recommend- 
ed for  her  health.    Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good — " 

She  changed  suddenly.  Her  face  and  bosom  glowed 
as  if  the  red  light  of  an  angry  sunset  had  been  flung 
upon  them.  Not  unobservant  of  the  change,  and  putting 
his  own  interpretation  upon  it,  Mr.  Dombey  resumed  : 

"  Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good  as  to  go  down  and 
secure  a  house  there,  for  a  time.  On  the  return  of  the 
establishment  to  London,  I  shall  take  such  steps  for  its 
better  management  as  I  consider  necessary.  One  of  these, 
will  be  the  engagement  at  Brighton  (if  it  is  to  be  effected), 
of  a  very  respectable  reduced  person  there,  a  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  formerly  employed  in  a  situation  of  trust  in  my 
family,  to  act  as  housekeeper.  An  establishment  like 
this,  presided  over  but  nominally,  Mrs.  Dombey,  requires 
a  competent  head." 

She  had  changed  her  attitude  before  he  arrived  at 
these  words,  and  now  sat — still  looking  at  him  fixedly — 
turning  a  bracelet  around  and  round  u])on  her  arm  ;  not 
winding  it  about  with  a  light  womanly  touch,  but  press- 
ing and  dragging  it  over  the  smooth  skin,  until  the  white 
limb  showed  a  bar  of  red. 

"  I  observed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey — "  and  this  concludes 
what  I  deem  it  necessary  to  say  to  you  at  present,  Mrs. 
Dombey — I  observed  a  moment  ago,  madam,  that  my 
allusion  to  Mr.  Carker  was  received  in  a  peculiar  man- 
ner. On  the  occasion  of  my  happening  to  point  out  to 
you,  before  that  confidential  agent,  the  objection  I  had 
to  your  mode  of  receiving  my  visitors,  you  were  pleased 
to  object  to  his  presence.    You  will  have  to  get  the  bet- 


ter of  that  objection,  madam,  and  to  accustom  yourself 
to  it  very  probably  on  many  similar  occasions';  unless 
you  adopt  the  remedy  which  is  in  your  own  hands,  of 
giving  me  no  cause  of  complaint.  Mr.  Carker,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  who  after  the  emotion  be  had  just  seen, 
set  great  store  by  this  means  of  reducing  his  proud  wife, 
and  who  was  perhaps  sufficiently  willing  to  exhibit  his 
power  to  that  gentleman  in  a  new  and  triumphant 
aspect,  "Mr.  Carker  being  in  my  confidence,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, may  very  well  be  in  yours  to  such  an  extent.  I 
hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  continued,  after  a  few  moments 
during  which,  in  his  increasing  haughtiness,  he  had  im- 
proved on  his  idea,  "  I  may  not  findjit  necessary  ever  to 
intrust  Mr.  Carker  with  any  message  of  objection  or  re- 
monstrance to  you  ;  but  as  it  would  be  derogatory  to  my 
position  and  reputation  to  be  frequently  holding  trivial 
disputes  with  a  lady  upon  whom  I  have  conferred  the 
highest  distinction  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  bestow,  I 
shall  not  scruple  to  avail  myself  of  his  services  if  I  see 
occasion." 

"And  now,"  he  thought,  rising  in  his  moral  magnifi- 
cence, and  rising  a  stiffer  and  more  impenetrable  man 
than  ever,  "  she  knows  me  and  my  resolution." 

The  hand  that  had  so  pressed  the  bracelet  was  laid 
heavily  upon  her  breast,  but  she  looked  at  him  still,  with 
an  unaltered  face,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Wait  !    For  God's  sake  !    I  must  speak  to  you." 

Why  did  she  not,  and  what  was  the  inward  struggle 
that  rendered  her  incapable  of  doing  so,  for  minutes, 
while,  in  the  strong  constraint  she  put  upon  her  face, 
it  was  as  fixed  as  any  statue's — looking  upon  him  with 
neither  yielding  nor  unyielding,  liking  nor  hatred,  pride 
nor  humility  :  nothing  but  a  searching  gaze. 

"  Did  I  ever  tempt  you  to  seek  my  hand?  Did  I  ever 
use  any  art  to  win  you  ?  Was  I  ever  more  conciliating 
to  you  when  you  pursued  me,  than  I  have  been  since  our 
marriage  ?    Was  I  ever  other  to  you  than  I  am  ?  " 

"  It  is  wholly  unnecessary,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "to  enter  upon  such  discussions." 

"  Did  you  think  I  loved  you?  Did  you  know  I  did 
not  ?  Did  you  ever  care,  man  !  for  my  heart,  or  propose 
to  yourself  to  win  the  worthless  thing  ?  Was  there  any 
poor  pretence  of  any  in  our  bargain  ?  Upon  your  side, 
or  on  mine  ?  " 

"These  questions,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "are  all  wide 
of  the  purpose,  madam." 

She  moved  between  him  and  the  door  to  prevent  his 
going  away,  and  drawing  her  majestic  figure  to  its 
height,  looked  steadily  upon  him  still. 

"  You  answer  each  of  them.  You  answer  me  before 
I  speak,  I  see.  How  can  you  help  it  ;  you  who  know  the 
miserable  truth  as  well  as  I?  Now,  tell  me.  If  I  loved 
you  to  devotion,  could  I  do  more  than  render  up  my 
whole  will  and  being  to  you,  as  you  have  just  demanded  ? 
If  my  heart  were  pure  and  all  untried,  and  you  its  idol, 
could  you  ask  more  ;  could  you  have  more  !  " 

"  Possibly  not,  madam,"  he  returned  coolly. 

"  You  know  how  different  I  am.  You  see  me  looking 
on  you  now,  and  you  can  read  the  warmth  of  passion  for 
you  that  is  breathing  in  my  face."  Not  a  curl  of  the 
proud  lip,  not  a  flash  of  the  dark  eye,  nothing  but  the 
same  intent  and  searching  look,  accompanied  these 
words.  "You  know  my  general  history.  You  have 
spoken  of  my  mother.  Do  you  think  you  can  degrade, 
or  bend  or  break,  me  to  submission  and  obedience  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  smiled,  as  he  might  have  smiled  at  an  in- 
quiry whether  he  thought  he  could  raise  ten  thousand 
pounds. 

"If  there  is  anything  unusual  here,"  she  said,  with  a 
slight  motion  of  her  hand  before  her  brow,  which  did 
not  for  a  moment  flinch  from  its  immovable  and  other- 
wise expressionless  gaze,  "  as  I  know  there  are  unusual 
feelings  here."  raising  the  hand  she  pressed  upon  her 
bosom,  and  heavily  returning  it,  "consider  that  there  is 
no  common  meaning  in  the  appeal  I  am  going  to  make 
you.  Yes,  for  I  am  going  ;  "  she  said  it  as  in  prompt  re- 
I)ly  to  something  in  his  face  ;  "  to  appeal  to  you." 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  slightly  condescending  bend  of 
his  chin  that  rustled  and  cracked  his  stiff  cravat,  sat 
down  on  a  sofa  that  was  near  him,  to  hear  the  appeal. 

"  If  you  can  believe  that  I  am  of  such  a  nature  now," — 
he  fancied  he  saw  tears  glistening  in  her  eyes,  and  be 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


•599 


tlioug-ht.,complacently,t"hat  be  had  forced  them  from  her, 
though  none  fell  on  her  check,  and  she  regarded  him  as 
steadily  as  ever, — "  as  would  make  what  I  now 
say  almost  incredible  to  myself,  said  to  any  man  who 
had  become  my  husband,  but,  above  all,  said  to  you, 
you  may,  perhaps,  attach  the  greater  weigh  to  it.  In 
the  dark  end  to  which  we  are  tending,  and  may  come, 
we  shall  not  involve  ourselves  alone  (that  might  not  be 
much),  but  others." 

Others  !  He  knew  at  whom  that  word  pointed  and 
frowned  heavily. 

"  I  speak  to  you  for  the  sake  of  others.  Also  your 
own  sake  ;  and  for  mine.  Since  our  marriage,  you  have 
been  arrogant  to  me  ;  and  I  have  repaid  you  in  kind. 
You  have  shown  to  me  and  every  one  around  us,  every 
day  and  hour,  that  you  think  I  am  graced  and  distin- 
guished by  your  alliance.  I  do  not  think  so,  and  have 
shown  that  too.  It  seems  you  do  not  understand,  or  (so 
far  as  your  power  can  go)  intend  that  each  of  us  shall 
take  a  separate  course;  and  you  expect  from  me  instead, 
a  homage  you  will  never  have." 

Although  her  face  was  still  the  same,  there  was  em- 
phatic confirmation  of  this  "  Never,"  in  the  very  breath 
she  drew. 

"I  feel  no  tenderness  towards  you  ;  that  you  know. 
You  would  care  nothing  for  it,  if  I  did  or  could.  I  know 
as  well  that  you  feel  none  towards  me.  But  we  are 
linked  together  ;  and  in  the  knot  that  ties  us,  as  I  have 
said,  others  are  bound  up.  We  must  both  die  ;  we  are 
both  connected  with  the  dead  already,  each  by  a  little 
child.    Let  us  forbear." 

Mr.  Dombey  took  a  long  respiration,  as  if  he  would 
have  said,  Oh  ;  was  this  all  I 

"  There  is  no  wealth,"  she  went  on,  turning  paler  as 
she  watched  him,  while  her  eyes  grew  yet  more  lustrous 
in  their  earnestness,  ' '  that  could  buy  these  words  of 
me,  and  the  meaning  that  belongs  to  them.  Once  cast 
away  as  idle  breath,  no  wealth  nor  power  can  bring  them 
back.  I  mean  them  ;  I  have  weighed  them  ;  and  I  will 
be  true  to  what  I  undertake.  If  you  will  promise  to  for- 
bear on  your  part,  I  will  promise  to  forbear  on  mine. 
We  are  a  most  unhappy  pair,  in  whom,  from  different 
causes,  every  sentiment  that  blesses  marriage  or  justifies 
it,  is  rooted  out ;  but  in  the  course  of  time,  some  friend- 
ship, or  some  fitness  for  each  other,  may  arise  between 
us.  I  will  try  to  hope  so,  if  you  will  make  the  endea- 
vour too  ;  and  I  will  look  forward  to  a  better  and  a  hap- 
pier use  of  age  than  I  have  made  of  youth  or  prime." 

Throughout  she  had  spoken  in  a  low  plain  voice,  that 
neither  rose  nor  fell ;  ceasing,  she  dropped  the  hand  with 
which  she  had  enforced  herself  to  be  so  passionless  and 
distinct,  but  not  the  eyes  with  which  she  had  so  steadily 
observed  him. 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  utmost  dignity, 
*'  I  cannot  entertain  any  proposal  of  this  extraordinary 
nature." 

She  looked  at  him  yet,  without  the  least  change. 

"  I  cannot,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  as  he  spoke, 
"  consent  to  temporise  or  treat  with  you,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
upon  a  subject  as  to  which  you  are  in  possession  of  my 
opinions  and  expectations.  I  have  stated  my  ultimatum, 
madam,  and  have  only  to  request  your  very  serious  at- 
tention to  it," 

To  see  the  face  change  to  its  old  expression,  deepened 
in  intensity  !  To  see  the  eyes  droop  as  from  some  mean 
and  odious  object  !  To  see  the  lighting  of  the  haughty 
brow  !  To  see  scorn,  anger,  indignation,  and  abhorrence 
starting  into  light,  and  the  pale  blank  earnestness  vanish 
like  a  mist !  He  could  not  choose  but  look,  although  he 
looked  to  his  dismay. 

"  Go,  sir  1 "  she  said,  pointing  with  an  imperious  hand 
towards  the  door.  "  Our  first  and  last  confidence  is  at 
an  end.  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger  to  each  other 
than  we  are  henceforth." 

"I  shall  take  my  rightful  course,  madam,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  "  undeterred,  you  may  be  sure,  by  any  general 
declamation." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and,  without  reply, 
sat  down  before  her  glass. 

"I  place  my  reliance  on  your  improved  sense  of  duty, 
and  more  correct  feeling,  and  better  reflexion,  madam," 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 


She  answered  not  ono  word.  He  f3aw  no  moro  expression 
of  any  heed  of  him,  in  the  mirror,  than  if  he  had  been 
an  unseen  si)ider  on  the  wall,  or  beetle  on  tlie  floor,  or 
rather  than  if  he  had  been  the  one  or  other,  seen  and 
I  crushed  when  she  last  turned  from  him,  and  forgotten 
!  among  the  ignominious  and  dead  vermin  of  the  ground. 

He  looked  back,  as  he  went  out  at  the  door,  upon  the 
well-lighted  and  luxurious  room,  the  beautiful  and  glit- 
tering objects  everywhere  displayed,  the  shape  of  Edith 
in  its  rich  dress  seated  before  her  glass,  and  the  face  of 
Edith  as  the  glass  presented  it  to  him  ;  and  he  betook 
himself  to  his  old  chamber  of  cogitation,  carrying  away 
with  him  a  vivid  picture  in  his  mind  of  all  these  things, 
and  a  rambling  and  unaccountable  speculation  (such  as 
sometimes  comes  into  a  man's  head)  how  they  would  all 
look  when  he  saw  them  next. 

For  the  rest,  Mr.  Dombey  was  very  taciturn,  and  very 
dignified,  and  very  confident  of  carrying  out  his  pur- 
pose ;  and  remained  so. 

He  did  not  design  accompanying  the  family  to  Brigh- 
ton ;  but  he  graciously  informed  Cleopatra  at  breakfast, 
on  the  morning  of  departure,  which  arrived  a  day  or  two 
afterwards, that  he  might  be  expected  down,  soon.  There 
was  no  time  to  be  lost  in  getting  Cleopatra  to  any  place 
recommended  as  being  salutary  ;  for,  indeed,  she  seemed 
upon  the  wane,  and  turning  of  the  earth,  earthly. 

Without  having  undergone  any  decided  second  attack 
of  her  malady,  the  old  woman  seemed  to  have  crawled 
backward  in  her  recovery  from  the  first.  She  was  more 
lean  and  shrunken,  more  uncertain  in  her  imbecility,  and 
made  stranger  confusions  in  her  mind  and  memory. 
Among  other  symptoms  of  this  last  affliction,  she  fell  into 
the  haljit  of  confounding  the  names  of  her  two  sons-in- 
law,  the  living  and  the  deceased  ;  and  in  general  called 
Mr.  Dombey,  either  "  Grangeby,"  or  "  Domber,"  or  in- 
differently, both. 

But  she  was  youthful,  very  youthful,  still  ;  and  in  her 
youthfulness  she  appeared  at  breakfast,  before  going 
away,  in  a  new  bonnet,  made  express,  and  a  travelling 
robe  that  was  embroidered  and  braided  like  an  old  baby's. 
It  was  not  easy  to  put  her  into  a  fly-away  bonnet  now, 
or  to  keep  the  bonnet  in  its  place  on  the  back  of  her  poor 
nodding  head,  when  it  was  got  on.  In  this  instance,  it 
had  not  only  the  extraneous  effect  of  being  always  on 
one  side,  but  of  being  perpetually  tapped  on  the  crown 
by  Flowers  the  maid,  who  attended  in  the  background 
during  breakfast  to  perform  that  duty. 

**Now  my  dearest  Grangeby,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
"  you  must  positively  prom,"  she  cut  some  of  her  words 
short,  and  cut  out  others  altogether,  "  come  down  very 
soon." 

"  I  said  just  now,  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey, 
loudly,  and  laboriously,  "  that  I  am  coming  in  a  day  or 
two." 

"  Bless  you,  Domber  !  " 

Here  the  major,  who  was  come  to  take  leave  of  the 
ladies,  and  who  was  staring  through  his  apoplectic  eyes 
at  Mrs.  Skewton's  face,  with  the  disinterested  composure 
of  an  immortal  being,  said  : 

"  Begad,  ma'am,  you  don't  ask  old  Joe  to  come  !  " 

"  Sterious  wretch,  who's  he?"  lisped  Cleopatra.  But 
a  tap  on  the  bonnet  from  Flowers  seeming  to  jog  her 
memory,  she  added,  "  Oh  !  You  mean  yourself,  you 
naughty  creature  ! " 

"Devilish  queer,  sir,"  whispered  the  major  to  Mr. 
Dombey.  "Bad  case.  Never  did  wrap  up  enough;" 
the  major  being  buttoned  to  the  chin.  "Why  who 
should  J.  B.  mean  by  Joe,  but  old  Joe  Bagstock — Joseph 
— Your  slave — Joe,  ma'am  ?  Here  !  Here's  the  man  ! 
Here  are  the  Bagstock  bellows,  ma'am  !"  cried  the  major, 
striking  himself  a  sounding  blow  on  the  chest. 

"My  dearest  Edith— Grangeby — it's  mqgt  trordinry 
thing,"  said  Cleopatra,  pettishly,  *"  that  Major — " 

"  Bagstock  !  J.  B.  !  "  cried  the  major,  seeing  that  she 
faltered  for  his  name. 

"  Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  Edith,  my 
love,  you  know  1  never  could  remember  names — what 
was  it  ?  oh,  a  most  trordinry  thing  that  so  many  people 
want  come  down  see  me.  I'm  not  going  for  long.  I'm 
coming  back.    Surely  they  can  wait,  till  I  come  back  !" 

Cleopatra  looked  all  round  the  table  as  she  said  it,  and 
appeared  very  uneasy. 


600 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  I  won't  have  visitors— really  don't  want  visitors," 
she  said  ;  "little  repose — and  all  that  sort  of  thing— is 
what  I  quire.  No  odious  brutes  must  proach  me  till 
I've  shaken  off  this  numbness  ;  "  and  in  a  grisly  resump- 
tion of  her  coquettish  ways,  she  made  a  dab  at  the  major 
with  her  fan,  but  overset  Mr.  Dombey's  breakfast  cup 
instead,  which  Avas  in  quite  a  different  direction. 

Then  she  called  for  Withers,  and  charged  him  to  see 
particularly  that  word  was  left  about  some  trivial  alter- 
ations in  her  room,  which  must  be  all  made  before  she 
came  back,  and  which  must  be  set  about  immediately, 
as  there  was  no  saying  how  soon  she  might  come  back  : 
for  she  had  a  great  many  engagements,  and  all  sorts  of 
people  to  call  upon.  Withers  received  these  directions 
with  becoming  deference,  and  gave  his  guarantee  for 
their  execution  ;  but  when  he  withdrew  a  pace  or  two 
behind  her,  it  appeared  as  if  he  couldn't  help  looking 
strangely  at  the  major  who  couldn't  help  looking  strange- 
ly at  Mr.  Dombey,  who  couldn't  help  looking  strangely 
at  Cleopatra,  who  couldn't  help  nodding  her  bonnet  over 
one  eye,  and  rattling  her  knife  and  fork  upon  her  plate 
in  using  them  as  if  she  were  playing  castanets. 

Edith  alone  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  any  face  at  the 
table,  and  never  seemed  dismayed  by  anything  her 
mother  said  or  did.  She  listened  to  her  disjointed  talk, 
or  at  least,  turned  her  head  towards  her  when  ad- 
dressed ;  replied  in  a  few  low  words  Avhen  necessary  ; 
and  som.etimes  stopped  her  when  she  was  rambling,  or 
brought  her  thoughts  back  with  a  monosyllable,  to  the 
point  from  which  they  had  strayed.  The  mother,  how- 
ever unsteady  in  other  things,  was  constant  in  this — that 
she  was  always  observant  of  her.  She  would  look  at  the 
beautiful  face,  in  its  marble  stillness  and  severity,  now 
with  a  kind  of  fearful  admiration  ;  now  in  a  giggling 
foolish  effort  to  move  it  to  a  smile  ;  now  with  capricious 
tears  and  jealous  shakings  of  her  head,  as  imagining  her- 
self neglected  by  it ;  always  with  an  attraction  towards  it, 
that  never  fluctuated  like  her  other  ideas,  but  had  con- 
stant possession  of  her.  From  Edith  she  would  some- 
times look  at  Florence,  and  back  again  at  Edith  in  a 
manner  that  was  wild  enough  ;  and  sometimes  she  would 
try  to  look  elsewhere,  as  if  to  escape  from  her  daughter's 
face  ;  but  back  to  it  she  seemed  forced  to  come,  although 
it  never  sought  hers  unless  sought,  or  troubled  her  with 
one  single  glance. 

The  breakfast  concluded,  Mrs.  Skewton,  affecting  to 
lean  girlishly  upon  the  major's  arm,  but  heavily  sup- 
ported on  the  other  side  by  Flowers  the  maid,  and 
propped  up  behind  by  Withers  the  page,  was  conducted 
to  the  carriage,  which  was  to  take  her,  Florence,  and 
Edith  to  Brighton. 

"  And  is  Joseph  absolutely  banished  ?  "  said  the  major, 
thrusting  in  his  purple  face  over  the  steps.  "  Damme, 
ma'am,  is  Cleopatra  so  hard-hearted  as  to  forbid  her 
faithful  Antony  Bagstock  to  approach  the  presence  ?  " 

"  Go  along  !  "  said  Cleopatra,  "  I  can't  bear  you.  You 
shall  see  me  when  I  come  back,  if  you  are  very  good." 

"Tell  Joseph,  he  may  live  in  hope,  ma'am,'"  said  the 
major  ;  "or  he'll  die  in  despair." 

Cleopatra  shuddered  and  leaned  back.  "  Edith,  my 
dear,"  she  said.    "  Tell  him — " 

"  What?" 

**  Such  dreadful  words,"  said  Cleopatra.  *'  He  uses 
such  dreadful  words  !  " 

Edith  signed  to  him  to  retire,  gave  the  word  to  go  on, 
and  left  the  objectionable  major  to  Mr.  Dombey.  To 
whom  he  returned,  whistling, 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  said  the  major,  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  and  his  legs  very  wide  asunder,  "  a 
fair  friend  of  ours  has  removed  to  Queer-street." 

"  What  do  you  mean  major?"  inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  mean  to  say,  Dombey,"  returned  the  major,  "that 
you'll  soon  be  an  orphan-in-law." 

Mr.  Dombey  appeared  to  relish  this  waggish  descrip- 
tion of  himself  so  very  little  that  the  major  wound  up 
with  the  horse's  cough,  as  an  expression  of  gravity. 

"Damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "there  is  no  use  in 
disguising  a  fact.  Joe  is  blunt,  sir.  That's  his  nature. 
If  you  take  old  Josh  at  all,  you  take  him  as  you  lind 
him  ;  and  a  de-vilish  rusty,  old  rasper,  of  a  close-toothed, 
J.  B.  file,  you  do  find  him,  Dombey,"  said  the  major, 
"  your  wife's  mother  is  on  the  move,  sir." 


"  I  fear,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  with  much  philosophy, 
"that Mrs.  Skewton  is  shaken." 

"  Shaken,  Dombey  !  "  said  the  major.    "  Smashed  !  " 

"Change,  however,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "and  at- 
tention may  do  much  yet." 

"  Don't  believe  it,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  "  Damme, 
sir,  she  never  wrapped  up  enough.  If  a  man  don't  wrap 
up,"  said  the  major,  taking  in  another  button  of  his  buff 
waistcoat,  "  he  has  nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  But  some 
people  will  die.  They  will  do  it.  Damme,  they  will. 
They're  obstinate,  I  tell  you  what,  Dombey,  it  may  not 
be  ornamental  ;  it  may  not  be  refined  ;  it  may  be  rough 
;  and  tough  ;  but  a  little  of  the  genuine  old  English  Bag- 
!  stock  stamina,  sir,  would  do  all  the  good  in  the  world  to 
i  the  human  breed," 

After  imparting  this  precious  piece  of  information,  the 
major,  who  was  certainly  true-blue,  whatever  other  en- 
dowments he  may  have  possessed  or  wanted,  coming 
within  the  "genuine  old  English"  classification,  which 
has  never  been  exactly  ascertained,  took  his  lobster-eyes 
and  his  apoplexy  to  the  club  and  choked  there  all  day. 

Cleopatra,  at  one  time  fretful,  at  another  self-compla- 
cent, sometimes  awake,  sometimes  asleep,  at  all  times 
juvenile,  reached  Brighton  the  same  night,  fell  to  pieces 
as  usual,  and  was  put  away  in  bed  ;  where  a  gloomy 
fancy  might  have  pictured  a  more  potent  skeleton  than 
the  maid  who  should  have  been  one,  watching  at  the 
rose-coloured  curtains,  which  were  carried  down  to  shed 
their  bloom  upon  her. 

It  was  settled  in  high  council  of  medical  authority 
that  she  should  take  a  carriage  airing  every  day,  and 
that  it  was  important  she  should  get  out  every  day  and 
walk  if  she  could.  Edith  was  ready  to  attend  her — 
always  ready  to  attend  her,  with  the  same  mechanical 
attention  and  immovable  beauty — and  they  drove  out 
alone  ;  for  Edith  had  an  uneasiness  in  the  presence  of 
Florence,  now  that  her  mother  was  worse,  and  told 
Florence,  with  a  kiss,  that  she  would  rather  they  two  went 
alone. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  on  one  particular  day,  was  in  the  irreso- 
lute, exacting,  jealous  temper  that  had  developed  itself 
on  her  recovery  from  her  first  attack.  After  sitting  silent 
in  the  carriage  watching  Edith  for  some  time,  she  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  it  passionately.  The  hand  was 
neither  given  nor  withdrawn,  but  simply  yielded  to  her 
raising  of  it,  and  being  released,  dropped  down  again, 
almost  as  if  it  were  insensible.  At  this  she  began  to 
whimper  and  moan,  and  say  what  a  mother  she  had  been, 
and  how  she  v/as  forgotten  !  This  she  continued  to  do 
at  capricious  intervals,  even  when  they  had  alighted  ; 
when  she  herself  was  halting  along  with  the  joint  sup- 
port of  Withers  and  a  stick,  and  Edith  was  walking  by 
her  side,  and  the  carriage  slowly  following  at  a  little  dis- 
tance. 

It  was  a  bleak,  lowering,  windy  day,  and  they  were 
out  upon  the  Downs  with  nothing  but  a  bare  sweep  of 
land  between  them  and  the  sky.  The  mother,  with  a 
querulous  satisfaction  in  the  monotony  of  her  complaint, 
was  still  repeating  it  in  a  low  voice  from  time  to  time, 
and  the  proud  form  of  her  daughter  moved  beside  her 
slowly,  when  there  came  advancing  over  a  dark  ridge 
before  them,  two  other  figures,  which  in  the  distance, 
were  so  like  an  exaggerated  imitation  of  their  own,  that 
Edith  stopped. 

Almost  as  she  stopped,  the  two  figures  stopped  ;  and 
that  one  which  to  Edith's  thinking  was  like  a  distorted 
shadow  of  her  mother,  spoke  to  the  other,  earnestly,  and 
with  a  pointing  hand  towards  them.  That  one  seemed 
inclined  to  turn  back,  but  the  other,  in  which  Edith 
recognised  enough  that  was  like  herself  to  strike  her 
with  an  unusual  feeling,  not  quite  free  from  fear,  came 
on  ;  and  then  they  came  on  together. 

The  greater  part  of  this  observation,  she  made  while 
walking  towards  them,  for  her  stoppage  had  been 
momentary.  Nearer  observation  showed  her  that  they 
were  poorly  dressed,  as  wanderers  about  the  country  ; 
that  the  younger  woman  carried  knitted  work  or  some 
such  goods  for  sale  ;  and  that  the  old  one  toiled  on 
empty-handed. 

And  yet,  however  far  removed  she  was  in  dress,  in 
dignity,  in  beauty,  Edith  could  not  but  compare  the 
younger  woman  with  herself,  still.    It  may  have  been 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


601 


that  she  saw  upon  her  face  some  traces  which  she  knew 
were  lingering  in  her  own  soul,  if  not  yet  written  on 
that  index  ;  but,  as  the  woman  came  on,  returning  her 
gaze,  fixing  her  shining  eyes  upon  her,  undoubtedly 
presenting  something  of  her  own  air  and  stature,  and 
appearing  to  reciprocate  her  own  thoughts,  slio  felt  a 
chill  creep  over  her,  as  if  the  day  were  darkening,  and 
the  wind  were  colder. 

They  had  now  come  up.  The  old  woman  holding  out 
her  hand  importunately,  stopped  to  beg  of  Mrs.  Skewton. 
The  younger  one  stopped  too,  and  she  and  Edith  looked 
in  one  another's  eyes. 

"  What  is  that  you  have  to  sell  ?"  said  Edith. 

"  Only  this,"  returned  the  woman,  holding  out  her 
wares,  without  looking  at  them.  "  1  sold  myself  long 
ago." 

"  My  lady,  don't  believe  her,"  croaked  the  old  woman 
to  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  "  don't  believe  what  she  says.  She 
loves  to  talk  like  that.  She's  my  handsome  and  unduti- 
ful  daughter.  She  gives  me  nothing  but  reproaches,  my 
lady,  for  all  I  have  done  for  her.  Look  at  her  now,  my 
lady,  how  she  turns  upon  her  poor  old  mother  with  her 
looks." 

As  Mrs.  Skewton  drew  her  purse  out  with  a  trembling 
hand  and  eagerly  fumbled  for  some  money,  which  the 
other  old  woman  greedily  watched  for — their  heads  all 
but  touching  in  their  hurry  and  decrepitude — Edith 
interposed  : 

"  I  have  seen  you,"  addressing  the  old  woman,  "  be- 
fore." 

"Yes,  my  lady,"  with  a  curtsey.  "Down  in  War- 
wickshire. The  morning  among  tlie  trees.  When  you 
wouldn't  give  me  nothing.  But  the  gentleman,  he  give 
me  something  !  O,  bless  him,  bless  him  ! "  mumbled  the 
old  woman,  holding  up  her  skinny  hand,  and  grinning 
frightfully  at  her  daughter. 

"It's of  no  use  attempting  to  stay  me,  Edith  !"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  angrily  anticipating  an  objection  from 
her.  "You  know  nothing  about  it.  I  won't  be  dissuaded. 
I  am  sure  this  is  an  excellent  woman,  and  a  good 
mother." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  yes,"  chattered  the  old  woman,  holding 
out  her  avaricious  hand.  "  Thankee,  my  lady.  Lord 
bless  you,  my  lady.  Sixpence  more,  my  pretty  lady,  as 
a  good  mother  yourself. " 

"And  treate'd  undutifully  enough,  too,  my  good  old 
creature,  sometimes,  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
whimpering.  "There!  Shake  hands  with  me.  You're 
a  very  good  old  creature— full  of  what's-his-name— and 
all  that.    You're  all  affection  and  et  cetera,  an't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  my  lady  !  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  you  are  ;  and  so's  that  gentlemanly 
creature  Grangeby.  I  must  really  shake  hands  with  you 
again.  And  now  you  can  go,  you  know  ;  and  I  hope," 
addressing  the  daughter,  "  that  you'll  show  more  grati- 
tude, and  natural  what's-its-name,  and  all  the  rest  of  it 
— but  I  never  did  remember  names — for  there  never  was 
a  better  mother  than  the  good  old  creature's  been  to  you. 
Come,  Edith  !" 

As  the  ruin  of  Cleopatra  tottered  off  whimpering,  and 
wiping  its  eyes  with  a  gingerly  remembrance  of  rouge  in 
their  neighbourhood,  the  old  woman  hobbled  another 
way,  mumbling  and  counting  her  money.  Not  one  word 
more,  nor  one  other  gesture,  had  been  exchanged  be-  i 
tween  Edith  and  the  younger  woman,  but  neither  had 
removed  her  eyes  from  the  other  for  a  moment.  They  ^ 
had  remained  confronted  until  now,  when  Edith,  as  awak- 
ening from  a  dream,  passed  slowly  on, 

"  You're  a  handsome  woman,"  muttered  her  shadow, 
looking  after  her  ;  "  but  good  looks  won't  save  us.  And 
you're  a  proud  woman  ;  but  pride  won't  save  us.  We 
had  need  to  know  each  other  when  we  meet  again  1 " 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

New  Voices  in  the  Waves. 


All  is  going  on  as  it  was  wont.  The  waves  are  hoarse 
with  repetition  of  their  mystery  :  the  dust  lies  piled  upon 
the  shore  ;  the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover  ;  the  winds  and 


clouds  go  forth  upon  their  trackless  flight ;  the  white 
arms  beckon,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible  country 
j  far  away. 

With  a  tender  melancholy  pleasure,  Florence  finds  her- 
I  self  again  on  the  old  ground  so  sadly  trodden,  yet  so 
'  hai)pi]y,  and  thinks  of  him  in  the  quiet  place,  where  he 
and  she  have  many  and  many  a  time  conversed  together, 
with  the  water  welling  up  about  his  couch.  And  now, 
as  she  sits  pensive  there,  she  hears  in  the  wild  low  mur- 
mur of  the  sea,  his  little  story  told  again,  his  very  words 
repeated  ;  and  finds  that  all  her  life  and  hopes,  and  griefs, 
since — in  the  solitary  house,  ^.nd  in  the  pageant  it  has 
changed  to — have  a  portion  in  the  burden  of  the  marvel- 
lous song. 

And  gentle  Mr.  Toots,  who  wanders  at  a  distance,  look- 
ing wistfully  towards  the  figure  that  he  dotes  upon,  and 
has  followed  there,  but  cannot  in  his  delicacy  disturb  at 
such  a  time,  likewise  hears  the  requiem  of  little  Dombey 
I  on  the  waters,  rising  and  falling  in  the  lulls  of  their  eter- 
j  nal  madrigal  in  praise  of  Florence.    Yes  !  and  he  faintly 
j  understands,  poor  Mr.  Toots,  that  they  are  saying  some- 
^  thing  of  a  time  when  he  was  sensible  of  being  brighter 
I  and  not  addle-brained  ;  and  the  tears  rising  in  his  eyes 
;  when  he  fears  that  ho  is  dull  and  stupid  now,  and  good 
for  little  but  to  be  laughed  at,  diminish  his  satisfaction 
in  their  soothing  reminder  that  he  is  relieved  from  pres- 
;  ent  responsibility  to  the  Chicken,  by  the  absence  of  that 
I  game  head  of  poultry  in  the  country,  training  (at  Toots's 
j  cost)  for  his  great  mill  with  the  Larkey  Boy. 
I     But  Mr.  Toots  takes  courage,  when  they  whisper  a  kind 
j  thought  to  him  ;  and  by  slow  degrees  and  with  many  in- 
j  decisive  stoppages  on  the  way,  approaches  Florence. 
Stammering  and  blushing,  Mr.  Toots  affects  amazement 
when  he  comes  near  her,  and  says  (having  followed  close 
on  the  carriage  in  which  she  travelled,  every  inch  of  the 
way  from  London,  loving  even  to  be  choked'  by  the  dust 
of  its  wheels)  that  he  never  was  so  surprised  in  all  his 
life. 

"And  you've  brought  Diogenes,  too,  Miss  Dombey  !" 
saj-s  Mr.  Toots,  thrilled  through  and  through  by  the  touch 
of  the  small  hand  so  pleasantly  and  frankly  given  him. 

No  doubt  Diogenes  is  there,  and  no  doubt  Mr,  Toots  has 
reason  to  observe  him,  for  he  comes  straightway  at  Mr, 
Toots's  legs,  and  tumbles  over  himself  in  the  desperation 
with  which  he  makes  at  him,  like  a  very  dog  of  Montar- 
gis.    But  he  is  checked  by  his  sweet  mistress. 

"  Down,  Di,  down.  Don't  you  rememberwho  first  made 
us  friends,  Di  ?    For  shame  !  " 

Oh  !  Well  may  Di  lay  his  loving  cheek  against  her 
hand,  and  run  off.  and  run  back,  and  run  round  her,  bark- 
ing, and  run  headlong  at  anybody  coming  by,  to  show  his 
devotion.  Mr.  Toots  would  run  headlong'  at  anybody, 
too.  A  military  gentleman  goes  past,  and  Mr.'  Toots 
would  like  nothing  better  than  to  run  at  him,  full  tilt. 

"Diogenes  is  quite  in  his  native  air,  isn't  he.  Miss 
Dombey  ?  "  says  Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  assents,  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "beg  your  pardon, 
but  if  you  would  like  to  walk  to  Blimber's,  I — I  am  going 
there." 

Florence  puts  her  arm  in  that  of  Mr.  Toots  without  a 
word,  and  they  walk  away  together,  with  Diogenes 
going  on  before.  Mr.  Toots's  legs  shake  under  him  ; 
and  though  he  is  splendidly  dressed,  he  feels  misfits, 
and  sees  wrinkles,  in  the  masterpieces  of  Burgess  and 
Co.,  and  wishes  he  had  put  on  that  brightest  pair  of 
boots. 

Doctor  Blimber's  house,  outside,  has  as  scholastic  and 
studious  an  air  as  ever  ;  and  up  there  is  the  window 
where  she  used  to  look  for  the  pale  face,  and  where 
the  pale  face  brightened  when  it  saw  her,  and  the  wasted 
little  hand  waved  kisses  as  she  passed.  The  door  is 
opened  by  the  same  weak-eyed  young  man,  whose  im- 
becility of  grin  at  sight  of  Mr."  Toots  is  feebleness  of 
character  personified.  They  are  shown  into  the  doctor's 
study,  where  blind  Homer  and  Minerva  gave  them  au- 
dience as  of  yore,  to  the  sober  ticking  of  the  great  clock 
in  the  hall  ;  and  where  the  globes  stand  still  in  their 
accustomed  places,  as  if  the  world  were  stationary  too, 
and  nothing  in  it  ever  perished  in  obedience  to  the  uni- 
versal law,  that,  while  it  keeps  it  on  the  roll,  calls 
everything  to  earth. 


602 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


And  here  is  Doctor  Blimber,  "with,  his  learned  legs  ;  and 
here  is  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  her  sky-blue  cap  ;  and  here 
is  Cornelia,  with  her  sandy  little  row  of  curls,  and  her 
bright  spectacles,  still  working  like  a  sexton  in  the 
graves  of  languages.  Here  is  the  table  upon  which  he 
sat  forlorn  and  strange,  the  "  new  boy"  of  the  school ; 
and  hither  comes  the  distant  cooing  of  the  old  boys,  at 
their  old  lives  in  the  old  room  on  the  old  principle  I 

"Toots  !  "  says  Doctor  Blimber,  "I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you.  Toots." 

Mr.  Toots  chuckles  in  reply. 

"  Also  to  see  you.  Toots,  .in  such  good  company,"  says 
Doctor  Blimber. 

Mr.  Toots,  with  a  scarlet  visage,  explains  that  he  has 
met  Miss  Dorabey  by  accident,  and  that  Miss  Dombey 
wishing,  like  himself,  to  see  the  old  place,  they  have 
come  together. 

"  You  will  like,"  says  Doctor  Blimber,  "  to  step  among 
our  young  friends.  Miss  Dombey,  no  doubt.  All  fellow 
students  of  yours,  Toots,  once.  I  think  we  have  no  new 
disciples  in  our  little  portico,  my  dear,"  says  Doctor 
Blimber  to  Cornelia,  "since  Mr.  Toots  left  us." 

"  Except -Bitherstone,"  returns  Cornelia. 

"  Av,  truly,"  says  the  doctor.  "  Bitherstone  is  new 
to  Mr.'  Toots." 

New  to  Florence,  too,  almost  ;  for,  in  the  school-room, 
Bitherstone — no  longer  Master  Bitherstone  of  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's — shows  in  collars  and  a  neckcloth,  and  wears  a 
watch.  But  Bitherstone,  born  beneath  some  Bengal 
star  of  ill-omen,  is  extremely  inky  ;  and  his  lexicon  has 
got  so  dropsical  from  constant  reference,  that  it  won't 
shut,  and  yawns  as  if  it  really  could  not  bear  to  be  so 
bothered.  So  does  Bitherstone  its  master,  forced  at  Doc- 
tor Blimber's  highest  pressure  ;  but  in  the  yawn  of  Bith- 
erstone there  is  malice  and  snarl,  and  he  has  been  heard 
to  say  that  he  wishes  he  could  catch  **  old  Blimber  "  in 
India.  He'd  precious  soon  find  himself  carried  up  the 
country  by  a  few  of  his  (Bitherstone's)  coolies,  and 
handed  over  to  the  Thugs  ;  he  can  tell  him  that. 

Briggs  is  still  grinding  in  the  mill  of  knowledge  ;  and 
Toser,  too  ;  and  Johnson,  too  ;  and  all  the  rest  ;  the  older 
pupils  being  principally  engaged  in  forgetting,  with 
prodigious  labour,  everything  they  knew  when  they  were 
younger.  All  are  as  polite  and  pale  as  ever  ;  and  among 
them,  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  with  his  bony  hand  and  bristly 
head,  is  still  hard  at  it  :  with  his  Herodotus  stop  on  just 
at  present,  and  his  other  barrels  on  a  shelf  behind  him. 

A  mighty  sensation  is  created,  even  among  these  grave 
young  gentlemen,  by  a  visit  from  the  emancipated 
Toots  ;  who  is  regarded  with  a  kind  of  awe,  as  one  who 
has  passed  the  Rubicon,  and  is  pledged  never  to  come 
back,  and  concerning  the  cut  of  whose  clothes,  and  fash- 
ion of  whose  jewelry,  whispers  go  about,  behind  hands  ; 
the  bilious  Bitherstone,  who  is  not  of  Mr.  Toots's  lime, 
affecting  to  despise  the  latter  to  the  smaller  boys,  and 
saying  he  knows  better,  and  that  he  should  like  to  see 
him  coming  that  sort  of  thing  in  Bengal,  where  his 
mother  has  got  an  emerald  belonging  to  him,  that  was 
taken  out  of  the  foot-stool  of  a  rajah.    Come  now  ! 

Bewildering  emotions  are  awakened  also  by  the  sight 
of  Florence,  with  whom  every  young  gentleman  imme- 
diately falls  in  love,  again  ;  except,  as  aforesaid,  the 
bilious  Bitherstone,  who  declines  to  do  so,  out  of  contra- 
diction. Black  jealousies  of  Mr.  Toots  arise,  and  Briggs 
is  of  opinion  that  he  an't  so  very  old  after  all.  But  this 
disparaging  insinuation  is  speedily  made  nought  by  Mr. 
Toots  saying  aloud  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  "  How  are  you. 
Feeder  ?"  and  asking  him  to  come  and  dine  with  him 
to-day  at  the  Bedford  ;  in  right  of  which  feats  he  might 
set  up  as  Old  Parr,  if  he  chose,  unquestioned. 

There  is  much  shaking  of  hands,  and  much  bowing, 
and  a  great  desire  on  the  part  of  each  young  gentleman 
to  take  Toots  down  in  Miss  Dombey 's  good  graces  ;  and 
then,  Mr.  Toots  having  bestowed  a  chuckle  on  his  old 
desk,  Florence  and  he  withd  raw  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and 
Cornelia  ;  and  Doctor  Blimber  is  heard  to  observe  behind 
them  as  he  comes  out  last,  and  shuts  the  door,  "  Gentle- 
men, we  will  now  resume  our  studies."  For  tliat  and 
little  else  is  what  the  doctor  hears  the  sea  say,  or  has 
heard  it  saying  all  his  life. 

Florence  then  steals  away  and  goes  up-stairs  to  tlie  old 
bedroom  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia  :  Mr.  Toots, 


who  feels  that  neither  he  nor  anybody  else  is  wanted 
there,  stands  talking  to  the  doctor  at  the  study-door,  or 
rather  hearing  the  doctor  talk  to  him,  and  wondering  how 
he  ever  thought  the  study  a  great  sanctuary,  and  the 
doctor,  with  his  round  turned  legs,  like  a  clerical  piano- 
forte, an  awful  man.  Florence  soon  comes  down  and 
takes  leave  ;  Mr.  Toots  takes  leave  ;  and  Diogenes,  who 
has  been  worrying  the  weak-eyed  young  man  pitilessly 
all  the  time,  shoots  out  at  the  door,  and  barks  a  glad 
defiance  down  the  cliff  ;  while  'Melia,  and  another  of  the 
doctor's  female  domestics,  look  out  of  an  upper  window, 
laughing  "at  that  there  Toots,"  and  saying  of  Miss 
Dombey,  "  But  really  though,  now — ain't  she  like  her 
brother,  only  prettier?" 

Mr.  Toots,  who  saw  when  Florence  came  down  that 
I  there  were  tears  upon  her  face,  is  desperately  anxious 
j  and  uneasy,  and  at  first  fears  that  he  did  wrong  in  pro- 
I  posing  the  visit.  But  he  is  soon  relieved  by  her  saying 
[  she  is  very  glad  to  have  been  there  again,  and  by  her 
I  talking  quite  cheerfully  about  it  all,  as  they  walked  on 
by  the  sea.  What  with  the  voices  there,  and  her  sweet 
voice  when  they  come  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  and  Mr. 
Toots  must  leave  her,  he  is  so  enslaved  that  he  has  not  a 
scrap  of  free-will  left  ;  when  she  gives  him  her  hand  at 
parting,  he  cannot  let  it  go. 

"  Miss  Dombey,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Mr.  Toots, 
in  a  sad  fluster,  "  but  if  you  would  allow  me  to — to — " 

The  smiling  and  unconscious  look  of  Florence  brings 
him  to  a  dead  stop. 

"If  you  would  allow  me  to — if  you  would  not  consider 
it  a  liberty.  Miss  Dombey,  if  I  was  to — without  any  en- 
couragement at  all,  if  I  was  to  hope,  you  know,"  says 
Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  looks  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  who  feels  that  he  is 
in  for  it  now,  "  I  really  am  in  that  state  of  adoration  of 
you  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  I  am  the 
most  deplorable  wretch.  If  it  wasn't  at  the  corner  of 
the  square  at  present,  I  should  go  down  on  my  knees, 
and  beg  and  entreat  of  you,  without  any  encouragement 
at  all,  just  to  let  me  hope  that  I  may — may  think  it  pos- 
sible that  you — " 

"Oh  if  you  please,  don't!"  cries  Florence,  for  the 
moment  quite  alarmed  and  distressed.  "Oh,  pray  don't, 
Mr.  Toots.  Stop,  if  you  please.  Don't  say  any  more. 
As  a  kindness  and  a  favour  to  me,  don't," 

Mr.  Toots  is  dreadfully  abashed,  and  his  mouth  opens. 

"You  have  been  so  good  to  me,"  says  Florence,  "  I  am 
so  grateful  to  you,  I  have  such  reason  to  like  you  for 
being  a  kind  friend  to  me,  and  I  do  like  you  so  much  ; " 
and  here  the  ingenuous  face  smiles  upon  him  with  the 
pleasantest  look  of  honesty  in  the  world  ;  "  that  I  am 
sure  you  are  only  going  to  say  good  bye  I " 

"Certainly,  Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "I — I — 
that's  exactly  what  I  mean.    It's  of  no  consequence. " 

"  Good  bye  !"  cries  Florence. 

"  Good  bye.  Miss  Dombey  !"  stammers  Mr.  Toots.  "I 
hope  you  won't  think  anything  about  it.  It's — it's  of  no 
consequence,  thank  you.  It's  not  of  the  least  conse- 
quence in  the  world." 

Poor  Mr.  Toots  gees  home  to  his  hotel  in  a  state  of 
desperation,  locks  himself  into  his  bedroom,  flings  him- 
self upon  his  bed,  and  lies  there  for  a  long  time  ;  as  if  it 
were  of  the  greatest  consequence,  nevertheless.  But 
Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  is  coming  to  dinner,  which  happens 
well  for  Mr.  Toots,  or  there  is  no  knowing  when  he 
might  get  up  again.  Mr.  Toots  is  obliged  to  get  up  to 
receive  him,  and  to  give  him  hospitable  entertainment. 

And  the  generous  influence  of  that  social  virtue,  hos- 
pitality (to  make  no  mention  of  wine  and  good  cheer), 
opens  Mr.  Toots's  heart,  and  warms  him  to  conversation. 
He  does  not  tell  Mr,  Feeder,  B.A.,  what  passed  at  the 
corner  of  the  square ;  but  when  Mr,  Feeder  asks  him 
"When  it  is  to  come  off?"  Mr.  Toots  replies,  "that 
there  are  certain  subjects" — which  brings  Mr.  Feeder 
down  a  peg  or  two  immediately.  Mr.  Toots  adds,  that 
he  don't  know  what  right  Blimber  had  to  notice  his  being 
in  Miss  Dombey's  company,  and  that  if  he  thought  he 
meant  impudence  by  it,  he  have  him  out,  doctor  or  no 
doctor ;  but  he  supposes  it's  only  his  ignorance.  Mr. 
Feeder  says  he  has  no  doubt  of  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  however,  as  an  intimate  friend,  is  not  ex- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


G03 


eluded  from  the  subject.  Mr.  Toots  merely  requires 
that  it  should  be  mentioned  mysteriously,  and  with  feel- 
ing. After  a  few  glasses  of  wine,  he  gives  Miss  Dom- 
bey's  health,  observing,  "Feeder,  you  have  no  idea  of 
the  sentiments  with  which  I  propose  that  toast."  Mr. 
Feeder  replies,  "  Oh  yes  I  have,  my  dear  Toots  ;  and 
greatly  Ihey  redound  to  your  honour,  old  boy."  Mr. 
Feeder  is  then  agitated  by  friendship,  and  shakes  hands  ; 
and  says,  if  ever  Toots  wants  a  brother,  he  knows  where 
to  find  him,  either  by  post  or  parcel.  Mr.  Feeder  like- 
wise says,  that  if  he  may  advise,  he  would  recommend 
Mr.  Toots  to  learn  the  guitar,  or,  at  least,  the  flute  ;  for 
women  like  music  when  you  are  paying  your  addresses 
to  'em,  and  he  has  found  the  advantage  of  it  himself. 

This  brings  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  to  the  confession  that 
he  has  his  eye  upon  Cornelia  Blimber.  He  informs  Mr. 
Toots  that  lie  don't  object  to  spectacles,  and  that  if  the 
doctor  were  to  do  the  handsome  thing  and  give  up  the 
business,  why,  there  they  are — provided  for.  He  says 
it's  his  opinion  that  when  a  man  has  made  a  handsome 
sum  by  his  business,  he  is  bound  to  give  it  up  ;  and  that 
Cornelia  would  be  an  assistance  in  it  which  any  man 
might  be  proud  of.  Mr.  Toots  replies  by  launching 
wildly  out  into  Miss  Dombey's  praises,  and  by  insinua- 
tions "that  sometimes  he  thinks  he  should  like  to  blow 
his  brains  out.  Mr.  Feeder  strongl}'-  urges  that  it  would 
be  a  rash  attempt,  and  sho.ws  him,  as  a  reconcilement  to 
existence,  Cornelia's  portrait,  spectacles  and  all. 

Thus  these  quiet  spirits  pass  the  evening ;  and  when 
it  has  yielded  place  to  night,  Mr.  Toots  walks  home 
with  Mr.  Feeder,  and  parts  with  him  at  Doctor  Blim- 
ber's  door.  But  Mr.  Feeder  only  goes  up  the  steps,  and 
when  Mr.  Toots  is  gone,  comes  down  again,  to  stroll 
upon  the  beach  alone,  and  think  about  his  prospects. 
Mr.  Feeder  plainly  hears  the  waves  informing  him,  as 
he  loiters  along,  that  Doctor  Blimber  will  give  up  the 
business  ;  and  he  feels  a  soft  romantic  pleasure  in  look- 
ing at  the  outside  of  the  house,  and  thinking  that  the 
doctor  will  first  paint  it,  and  put  it  into  thorough  repair. 

Mr.  Toots  is  likewise  roaming  up  and  down,  outside 
the  casket  that  contains  his  jewel ;  and  in  a  deplorable 
condition  of  mind,  and  not  unsuspected  by  the  police, 
gazes  at  a  window  where  he  sees  a  light,  and  which  he 
has  no  doubt  is  Florence's.  But  it  is  not,  for  that  is 
Mrs.  Skewton's  room  ;  and  while  Florence,  sleeping  in 
another  chamber,  dreams  lovingly,  in  the  midst  of  the 
old  scenes,  and  their  old  associations  live  again,  the 
figure  which  in  gritn  reality  is  substituted  for  the  patient 
boy's  on  the  same  theatre,  once  more  to  connect  it — but 
how  differently  ! — with  decay  and  death,  is  stretched 
there,  wakeful  and  complaining.  Ugly  and  haggard  it 
lies  upon  its  bed  of  unrest ;  and  by  it,  in  the  terror  of 
her  unimpassioned  loveliness — for  it  has  terror  in  the 
sufferer's  failing  eyes — sits  Edith.  What  do  the  waves 
say,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  to  them  ! 

"Edith,  what  is  that  stone  arm  raised  to  strike  me. 
Don't  you  see  it  ?  " 

"There  is  nothing,  mother,  but  your  fancy." 

"But  my  fancy!  Everything  is  my  fancy.  Look! 
Is  it  possible  that  you  don't  see  it  ! " 

"  Indeed,  mother,  there  is  nothing.  Should  I  sit  un- 
moved if  there  were  any  such  thing  there  ?  " 

"  Unmoved?  "  looking  wildly  at  her — "  it's  gone  now 
— and  why  are  you  so  unmoved  ?  That  is  not  my  fancy, 
Edith.    It  turns  me  cold  to  see  you  sitting  at  my  side." 

"I  am  sorry,  mother." 

"Sorry  !  You  seem  always  sorry.  But  it  is  not  for 
me  !  " 

With  that,  she  cries  ;  and  tossing  her  restless  head 
from  side  to  side  upon  her  pillow,  runs  on  about  neg- 
lect, and  the  mother  she  has  been,  and  the  mother  the 
good  old  creature  was,  whom  they  met,  and  the  cold  re- 
turn the  daughters  of  such  mothers  make.  In  the  midst 
of  her  incoherence,  she  stops,  looks  at  her  daughter, 
cries  out  that  her  wits  are  going,  and  hides  her  face 
upon  the  bed. 

Edith,  in  compassion,  bends  over  her  and  speaks  to 
her.  The  sick  old  woman  clutches  her  round  the  neck, 
and  savs,  with  a  look  of  horror. 

"  Edith  !  we  are  going  home  soon  ;  going  back.  You 
mean  that  I  shall  go  home  again  ?  " 

"  Yes  mother,  yes." 


"  And  what  he  said — what's  his  name,  I  never  could 

remember  names — major — that  dreadful  word,  when  we 
came  away — it's  not  true?  Edith!"  with  a  shriek  and 
a  stare,  "  it's  not  that  that  is  the  matter  with  nie." 

Night  after  night,  the  light  burns  in  the  window,  and 
the  figure  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  Edith  sits  beside  it, 
and  the  restless  waves  are  calling  to  them  both  the 
whole  night  long.  Night  after  night,  the  waves  are 
hoarse  witli  repetition  of  their  mystery  ;  the  dust  lies 
piled  upon  the  shore  ;  the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover  ;  the 
winds  and  clouds  are  on  their  trackless  flight ;  the 
white  arms  beckon,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible 
country  far  away. 

And  still  the  sick  old  woman  looks  into  the  corner, 
where  the  stone  arm — part  of  a  figure  of  some  tomb,  she 
says— is  raised  to  strike  her.  At  last  it  falls  ;  and  then 
a  dumb  old  woman  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  she  is  crooked, 
and  shrunk  up,  and  half  of  her  is  dead. 

Such  is  the  figure,  painted  and  patched  for  the  sun  to 
mock,  that  is  drawn  slowly  through  the  crowd  from  day 
to  day  ;  looking,  as  it  goes,  for  the  good  old  creature 
who  was  such  a  mother,  and  making  mouths  as  it  peers 
among  the  crowd  in  vain.  Such  is  the  figure  that  is  often 
wheeled  down  to  the  margin  of  the  sea,  and  stationed 
there  ;  but  on  which  no  wind  can  blow  freshness,  and 
for  which  the  murmer  of  the  ocean  has  no  soothing 
word.  She  lies  and  listens  to  it  by  the  hour  ;  but  its 
speech  is  dark  and  gloomy  to  her,  and  a  dread  is  on  her 
face,  and  when  her  eyes  wander  over  the  expanse,  they 
see  but  a  broad  stretch  of  desolation  between  earth  and 
heaven. 

Florence  she  seldom  sees,  and  when  she  does,  is  angry 
with  and  mows  at  Edith  is  beside  her  always,  and  keeps 
Florence  away  ;  and  Florence,  in  her  bed  at  night, 
trembles  at  the  thought  of  death  in  such  a  shape,  and 
often  wakes  and  listens,  thinking  it  has  come.  No  one 
attends  on  her  but  Edith.  It  is  better  that  few  eyes 
should  see  her  ;  and  her  daughter  watches  alone  by  the 
bedside. 

A  shadow  even  on  that  shadowed  face,  a  sharpening 
even  of  the  sharpened  features,  and  a  thickening  of  the 
veil  before  the  eyes  into  a  pall  that  shuts  out  the  dim 
world,  is  come.  Her  wandering  hands  upon  the  coverlet 
join  feebly  palm  to  palm,  and  move  towards  her  daugh- 
ter ;  and  a  voice  not  like  hers,  not  like  any  voice  that 
speaks  our  mortal  language — says  "  For  I  nursed  you  !  " 

Edith,  without  a  tear,  kneels  down  to  bring  her  voice 
closer  to  the  sinking  head,  and  answers  : 

"  Mother,  can  you  hear  me  ?  " 

Staring  wide,  she  tries  to  nod  in  answer. 

"  Can  you  recollect  the  night  before  I  married  ?" 

The  head  is  motionless,  but  it  expresses  somehow  that 
she  does. 

"  I  told  you  then  that  I  forgave  your  part  in  it,  and 
prayed  God  to  forgive  my  own.  I  told  you  that  the  past 
was  at  an  end  between  us.  I  say  so  now,  again.  Kiss 
me,  mother." 

Edith  touches  the  white  lips,  and  for  a  moment  all  is 
still.  A  moment  afterwards,  her  mother,  with  her  girl- 
ish laugh,  and  the  skeleton  of  the  Cleopatra  manner, 
rises  in  her  bed. 

Draw  the  rose-coloured  curtains.  There  is  something 
else  upon  its  flight  besides  the  wind  and  clouds.  Draw 
the  rose-coloured  curtains  close  I 

Intelligence  of  the  event  is  sent  to  Mr.  Dombey  in 
town,  who  waits  upon  Cousin  Feenix  (not  yet  able  to 
make  up  his  mind  for  Baden-Baden),  who  has  just  re- 
ceived it  too.  A  good-natured  creature  like  Cousin  Fee- 
nix is  the  very  man  for  a  marriage  or  a  funeral,  and  his 
position  in  the  family  renders  it  right  that  he  should  be 
consulted. 

"  Dombey,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  upon  my  soul,  I 
am  very  much  shocked  to  see  you  on  such  a  melancholy 
occasion.  My  poor  aunt  !  She  was  a  devilish  lively 
woman." 

Mr.  Dombey  replies,  "  Very  much  so." 

"  And  made  up,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "really  young, 
you  know,  considering.  I  am  sure,  on  the  day  of  your 
marriage,  I  thought  she  was  good  for  another  twenty 
years.  In  point  of  fact,  I  said  so  to  a  man  at  Brooks's — 
little  Billy  Joper — you  know  him,  no  doubt — man  with  a 
glass  in  his  eye  ? " 


604 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Mr.  Dombey  bows  a  negative.  "In  reference  to  the 
obsequies,"  he  hints,  "whether  there  is  any  sugges- 
tions— " 

"  Well  upon  my  life,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  stroking 
his  chin,  which  he  has  just  enough  of  hand  below  his 
wristbands  to  do  ;  "I  really  don't  know.  There's  a  Mau- 
soleum down  at  my  place,  in  the  park,  but  I'm  afraid  it's 
in  bad  repair,  and,  in  point  of  fact,  in  a  devil  of  a  state. 
But  for  being  a  little  out  at  elbows,  I  should  have  had  it 
put  to  rights  ;  but  I  believe  the  people  come  and  make 
pic-nic  parties  there  inside  the  iron  railings." 

Mr.  Dombey  is  clear  that  this  won't  do. 

"  There's  an  uncommon  good  church  in  the  village," 
says  Cousin  Feenix,  thoughtfully  ;  pure  specimen  of 
the  Anglo-Norman  style,  and  admirably  well  sketched 
too  by  Lady  Jane  Finchbury — woman  with  tight  stays — 
but  they've  spoilt  it  with  whitewash,  I  understand,  and 
it's  a  long  journey." 

"  Perhaps  Brighton  itself,"  Mr.  Dombey  suggests. 

"  Upon  my  honour,  Dombey,  I  don't  thing  we  could 
do  better,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "  It's  on  the  spot,  you 
see,  and  a  very  cheerful  place." 

"  And  when,"  hints  Mr.  Dombey,  "  would  it  be  con- 
venient ?  " 

"I  shall  make  a  point,"  says  Cousin  Feenix  "of 
pledging  myself  for  any  day  you  think  best.  I  shall 
have  great  pleasure  (melancholy  pleasure,  of  course)  in 

following  my  poor  aunt  to  the  confines  of  the  in  point 

of  fact,  to  the  grave,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  failing  in  the 
other  turn  of  speech. 

"Would  Monday  do  for  leaving  town?"  says  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Monday  would  suit  me  to  perfection, ".replies  Cousin 
Feenix.  Therefore  Mr.  Dombey  arranges  to  take  Cousin 
Feenix  down  on  that  day,  and  presently  takes  his  leave, 
attended  to  the  stairs  by  Cousin  Feenix,  who  says,  at 
parting,  "  I'm  really  excessively  sorry,  Dombey,  that 
you  should  have  so  much  trouble  about  it  ; "  to  which 
Mr.  Dombey  answers,  "  Not  at  all." 

At  the  appointed  time.  Cousin  Feenix  and  Mr.  Dom- 
bey meet,  and  go  down  to  Brighton,  and  representing, 
in  their  two  selves,  all  the  other  mourners  for  the  de- 
ceased lady's  loss,  attend  her  remains  to  their  place  of 
rest.  Cousin  Feenix,  sitting  in  the  mourning-coach,  rec- 
ognises innumerable  acquaintances  on  the  road,  but 
takes  no  other  notice  of  them,  in  decorum,  than  check- 
ing them  off  aloud,  as  they  go  by,  for  Mr.  Dombey 's  in- 
formation, as  "  Tom  Johnson.  Man  with  cork  leg,  from 
White's.  What  are  you  here,  Tommy  Foley  on  a 
blood  mare.  The  Smalder  girls  " — and  so  forth.  At  the 
ceremony  Cousin  Feenix  is  depressed,  observing,  that 
these  are  the  occasions  to  make  a  man  think,  in  point  of 
fact,  that  he  is  getting  shaky  ;  and  his  eyes  are  really 
moistened,  when  it  is  over.  But  he  scon  recovers  ;  and 
so  do  the  rest  of  Mrs.  Skewfcon's  relatives  and  friends, 
of  whom  the  major  continually  tells  the  club  that  she 
never  did  wrap  up  enough  ;  while  the  young  lady  with 
the  back,  who  has  so  much  trouble  with  her  eyelids, 
says,  with  a  little  scream,  that  she  must  have  been 
enormously  old,  and  that  she  died  of  all  kinds  of  horrors, 
and  you  musn't  mention  it. 

So  Edith's  mother  lies  unmentioned  of  her  dear  friends, 
who  are  dear  to  the  waves  that  are  hoarse  with  repeti- 
tion of  their  mystery,  and  blind  to  the  dust  that  is  piled 
upon  the  shore,  and  to  the  white  arms  that  are  beckon- 
ing, in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible  country  far  away. 
But  all  goes  on,  as  it  was  wont,  upon  the  margin  of  tile 
unknown  sea;  and  Edith  standing  there  alone,  and  lis- 
tening to  its  waves,  has  dank  weed  cast  up  at  her  feet, 
to  strew  her  path  in  life  withal. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Confidential  and  Accidental. 

Attired  no  more  in  Captain  Cuttle's  sable  slops  and 
sou'wester  hat,  but  dressed  in  a  substantial  suit  of  brown 
livery,  which,  while  it  affected  to  be  a  very  sober  and 
demure  livery  indeed,  was  really  as  self-satisfied  and 
confident  a  one  as  tailor  need  desire  to  make,  llob  the 


Grinder,  thus  transformed  as  to  his  outer  man,  and  all 
regardless  within  of  the  captain  and  the  Midshipman,  ex- 
cept when  he  devoted  a  few  minutes  of  his  leisure  time 
to  crowing  over  those  inseparable  worthies,  and  recall- 
ing, with  much  applauding  music  from  that  brazen  in- 
strument, his  conscience,  the  triumphant  manner  in 
which  he  had  disembarrassed  himself  of  their  company, 
now  served  his  patron,  Mr.  Carker.  Inmate  of  Mr. 
Carker's  house,  and  serving  about  his  person,  Rob  kept 
his  round  eyes  on  the  white  teeth  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling, and  felt  that  he  had  need  to  open  them  wider  than 
ever. 

He  could  not  have  quaked  more,  through  his  whole 
being,  before  the  teeth,  though  he  had  come  into  the 
service  of  some  powerful  enchanter,  and  they  had  been 
his  strongest  spells.  The  boy  had  a  sense  of  power  and 
authority  in  this  patron  of  his  that  engrossed  his  whole 
attention  and  exacted  his  most  implicit  submission  and 
obedience.  He  hardly  considered  himself  safe  in  think- 
ing about  him  when  he  was  absent,  lest  he  should  feel 
himself  immediately  taken  by  the  throat  again,  as  on  the 
morning  when  he  first  became  bound  to  him,  and  should 
see  every  one  of  the  teeth  finding  him  out,  and  taxing 
him  with  every  fancy  of  his  mind.  Face  to  face  with 
him,  Rob  had  no  more  doubt  that  Mr.  Carker  read  his 
secret  thoughts,  or  that  he  could  read  them  by  the  least 
exertion  of  his  will  if  he  were  so  inclined,  than  he  had 
that  Mr,  Carker  saw  him  when  he  looked  at  him.  The 
ascendancy  was  so  complete,  and  held  him  in  &uch  en- 
thralment,  that,  hardly  daring  to  think  at  all,  but  with 
his  mind  filled  with  a  constantly  dilating  impression  of 
his  patron's  irresistible  command  over  him,  and  power  of 
doing  anything  with  him,  he  would  stand  watching  his 
pleasure,  and  trying  to  anticipate  his  oi'ders,  in  a  state 
of  mental  suspension,  as  to  all  other  things. 

Rob  had  not  informed  himself  perhaps — in  his  then 
state  of  mind  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  no  common 
temerity  to  inquire — whether  he  yielded  so  completely 
to  this  influence  in  any  part,  because  he  had  floating  sus- 
picions of  his  patron's  being  a  master  of  certain  treach- 
erous arts  in  which  he  had  himself  been  a  poor  scholar 
at  the  Grinders'  School.  But  certainly  Rob  admired  him 
as  well  as  feared  him.  Mr.  Carker,  perhaps,  was  better 
acquainted  with  the  sources  of  his  power,  which  lost 
nothing  by  his  management  of  it. 

On  the  very  night  when  he  left  the  captain's  service, 
Rob,  after  disposing  of  his  pigeons,  and  even  making  a 
bad  bargain  in  his  hurry,  had  gone  straight  down  to  Mr. 
Carker's  house,  and  hotly  presented  himself  before  his 
new  master  with  a  glowing  face  that  seemed  to  expect 
commendation. 

"What,  scapegrace!"  said  Mr.  Carker,  glancing  at 
his  bundle.  "Have  you  left  your  situation  and  come  to 
me?" 

"Oh  if  you  please,  sir,"  faltered  Rob,  "you  said,  you 
know  when  I  come  here  last — " 

"/said,"  returned  Mr.  Carker,  "what  did  I  say?" 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  you  didn't  say  nothing  at  all,  sir,'* 
returned  Rob,  warned  by  the  manner  of  this  inquiry, 
and  very  much  disconcerted. 

His  patron  looked  at  him  with  a  wide  display  of  gums, 
and  shaking  his  forefinger,  observed  : 

"You'll  come  to  an  evil  end,  my  vagabond  friend,  I 
fbresee.    There's  ruin  in  store  for  you." 

"Oh  if  you  please,  don't,  sir  !"  cried  Rob,  with  his 
legs  trembling  under  him.  "  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  only  want 
to  work  for  you,  sir,  and  to  wait  upon  you,  sir,  and  to  do 
faithful  Avhatever  I'm  bid,  sir." 

"  You  had  better  do  faithfully  whatever  you  are  bid," 
returned  his  patron,  "if  you  have  anything  to  do  with 
me." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,  sir,"  pleaded  the  submissive  Rob  ; 
"  I'm  sure  of  that,  sir.  If  you'll  only  be  so  good  as  try 
me,  sir  I  And  if  you  ever  find  me  out,  sir,  doing  any- 
thing against  your  wishes,  I  give  yon  leave  to  kill  me." 

"You  dog!"  said  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  and  smiling  at  him  serenely.  "  That's  nothing  to 
what  I'd  do  to  you,  if  you  tried  to  deceive  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  abject  Grinder,  "  I'm  sure  you 
would  be  down  upon  me  dreadful,  sir.  I  wouldn't  at- 
tempt for  to  go  and  do  it,  sir,  not  if  I  was  bribed  with 
golden  guineas." 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


605 


Thoroughly  checked  in  his  expectation  of  commenda- 
tion, tlie  crest-fallen  Grinder  stood  looking-  at  his  patron, 
and  vainly  endeavouring  not  to  look  at  him,  with  the 
uneasiness  which  a  cur  will  often  manifest  in  a  similar 
situation. 

"  So  you  have  left  your  old  service,  and  come  here  to 
ask  me  to  take  you  into  mine,  eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"Yes,  if  you  please,  sir,"  returned  Rob,  who,  in  doing 
so,  had  acted  on  his  patron's  own  instructions,  but  dared 
not  justify  himself  by  the  least  insinuation  to  that  effect. 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker.    "  You  know  me,  boy  ?  " 

"Please,  sir,  yes,  sir,"  returned  Rob,  fumbling  with 
his  hat,  and  still  fixed  by  Mr.  Carker's  eye,  and  fruitless- 
ly endeavouring  to  unfix  himself, 

Mr.  Carker  nodded.    "  Take  care  then  !  " 

Rob  expressed  in  a  number  of  short  bows  his  lively 
understanding  of  this  caution,  and  was  bowing  himself 
back  to  the  door,  greatly  relieved  by  the  prospect  of 
getting  on  the  outside  of  it,  when  his  patron  stopped 
him. 

"Halloa!"  he  cried,  calling  him  roughly  back. 
"  You  have  been — shut  that  door." 

Rob  obeyed  as  if  his  life  had  depended  on  his  alacrity. 

"  You  have  been  used  to  eavesdropping.  Do  you  know 
what  that  means  ?" 

"Listening,  sir?"  Rob  hazarded,  after  some  embar- 
rassed reflection. 

His  patron  nodded.    "And  watching,  and  so  forth." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  here,  sir,"  answered 
Rob ;  "  upon  my  word  and  honour,  I  wouldn't,  sir,  I 
wish  I  may  die  if  I  would,  sir,  for  anything  that  could 
be  promised  to  me.  I  should  consider  it  as  much  as  all 
the  world  was  worth,  to  offer  to  do  such  a  thing,  unless 
I  was  ordered,  sir." 

"  You  had  better  not.  You  have  been  used,  too,  to 
babbling  and  tattling,"  said  his  patron,  with  perfect 
coolness.  "  Beware  of  that  here,  or  you're  a  lost  ras- 
cal," and  he  smiled  again,  and  again  cautioned  him  with 
his  forefinger. 

The  Grinder's  breath  came  short  and  thick  with  con- 
sternation. He  tried  to  protest  the  purity  of  his  inten- 
tions, but  could  only  stare  at  the  smiling  gentleman  in  a 
stupor  of  submission,  with  which  the  smiling  gentleman 
seemed  well  enough  satisfied,  for  he  ordered  him  down- 
stairs, after  observing  him  for  some  moments  in  silence, 
and  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  retained  in  his 
employment. 

This  was  the  manner  of  Rob  the  Grinder's  engagement 
by  Mr.  Carker,  and  his  awe-stricken  devotion  to  that 
gentleman  had  strengthened  and  increased,  if  possible, 
with  every  minute  of  his  service. 

It  was  a  service  of  some  months'  duration,  when  early 
one  morning,  Rob  opened  the  garden  gate  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  who  was  come  to  breakfast  with  his  master,  by 
appointment.  At  the  same  moment  his  master  himself 
came,  hurrying  forth  to  receive  the  distinguished  guest, 
and  give  him  welcome  with  all  his  teeth. 

"  I  never  thought,"  said  Carker,  when  he  had  assisted 
him  to  alight  from  his  horse,  "  to  see  you  here,  I'm 
sure.  This  is  an  extraordinary  day  in  my  calendar.  No 
occasion  is  very  special  to  a  man  like  you,  who  may  do 
anything  ;  but  to  a  man  like  me,  the  case  is  widely  dif- 
ferent." 

"  You  have  a  tasteful  place  here,  Carker,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  condescending  to  stop  upon  the  lawn,  to  look 
about  him. 

"  You  can  afford  to  say  so,"  returned  Carker.  "  Thank 
you." 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  lofty  patronage. 
*'  any  one  might  say  so.  As  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  a  very 
commodious  and  well-arranged  place — quite  elegant." 

"  As  far  as  it  goes,  truly,"  returned  Carker,  with  an  i 
air  of  disparagement.    "  It  wants  that  qualification. 
Well  !  wc  have  said  enough  about  U  ;  and  though  you 
can  afford  to  praise  it,  I  thank  you  none  the  less.  Will 
you  walk  in?" 

Mr.  Dombey,  entering  the  house,  noticed,  as  he  had 
reason  to  do,  the  complete  arrangement  of  the  rooms, 
and  the  numerous  contrivances  for  comfort  and  effect 
that  abounded  there.  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  ostentation  of 
humility,  received  this  notice  with  a  deferential  smile, 
and  said  he  understood  its  delicate  meaning,  and  appre- 


ciated it,  but  in  truth  the  cottage  was  good  enough  for 
one  in  his  position — better,  perhaps,  than  such  a  man 
should  occupy,  poor  as  it  was. 

"But  perhaps  to  you,  who  are  so  far  removed,  it  really 
does  look  better  than  it  is,"  he  said,  with  his  false  mouth 
distended  to  its  fullest  stretch.  "  Just  as  monarchs  im- 
agine attractions  in  the  lives  of  beggars." 

He  directed  a  sharp  glance  and  a  sharp  smile  at  Mr. 
Dombey  as  he  spoke,  and  a  sharper  glance,  and  a  sharper 
smile  yet,  when  Mr.  Dombey,  drawing  himself  up  before 
the  fire,  in  the  attitude  so  often  copied  by  his  second  in 
command,  looked  round  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls. 
Cursorily  as  his  cold  eye;  wandered  over  them,  Carker's 
keen  glance  accompanied  his,  and  kept  pace  with  his, 
marking  exactly  where  it  went,  and  what  it  saw.  As  it 
rested  on  one  picture  in  particular,  Carker  hardly  seemed 
to  breathe,  his  sidelong  scrutiny  w^as  so  catlike  and  vigi- 
lant, but  the  eye  of  his  great  chief  passed  from  that,  as 
from  the  others,  and  appeared  no  more  impressed  by  it 
than  by  the  rest. 

Carker  looked  at  it— it  was  the  picture  that  resembled 
Edith — as  if  it  were  a  living  thing  ;  and  with  a  wicked, 
silent  laugh  upon  his  face,  that  seemed  in  j)art  addressed 
to  it,  though  it  was  all  derisive  of  the  great  man  stand- 
ing so  unconscious  beside  him.  Breakfast  was  soon  set 
upon  the  table  :  and,  inviting  Mr.  Dombey  to  a  chair 
which  had  its  back  tow^ards  this  picture,  he  took  his  own 
seat  opposite  to  it  as  usual. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  even  graver  than  it  was  his  custom  to 
be,  and  quite  silent.  The  parrot,  swinging  in  the  gilded 
hoop  within  her  gaudy  cage,  attempted  in  vain  to  attract 
notice,  for  Carker  was  too  observant  of  his  visitor  to  heed 
her  ;  and  the  visitor,  abstracted  in  meditation,  looked 
fixedly,  not  to  say  sullenly,  over  his  stiff  neckcloth,  with- 
out raising  his  eyes  from  the  tablecloth.  As  to  Rob,  who 
was  in  attendance,  all  his  faculties  and  energies  were  so 
locked  up  in  observation  of  his  master,  that  he  scarcely 
ventured  to  give  shelter  to  the  thought  that  the  visitor 
was  the  great  gentleman  before  whom  he  had  been  carried 
as  a  certificate  of  the  family  health,  in  his  childhood, 
and  to  whom  he  had  been  indebted  for  his  leather  smalls. 

"  Allow  me,"  said  Carker,  suddenly,  "  to  ask  how 
Mrs.  Dombey  is  ?  " 

He  leaned  forward  obsequiously,  as  he  made  the  in- 
quiry, with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand  ;  and  at  the 
same  time  his  eyes  went  up  to  the  picture,  as  if  he  said 
to  it,  "  Now,  see,  how  I  will  lead  him  on  ! " 

Mr.  Dombey  reddened  as  he  answered  : 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  is  quite  well.  You  remind  me,  Carker, 
of  some  conversation  that  I  wish  to  have  with  you." 

"  Robin,  you  can  leave  us,"  said  his  master,  at  whose 
mild  tones  Robin  started  and  disappeared,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  patron  to  the  last.  "  You  don't  remember 
that  boy,  of  course  ? "  he  added,  when  the  immeshed 
Grinder  was  gone. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  magnificent  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  Not  likely  that  a  man  like  you  would.  Hardly  pos- 
sible," murmured  Carker.  "But  he  is  one  of  that  fam- 
ily from  whom  you  took  a  nurse.  Perhaps  you  may  re- 
member having  generously  charged  yourself  with  his 
education  ?" 

"Is  it  that  boy?"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  frown. 
"He  does  little  credit  to  his  education,  I  believe." 

"Why,  he  is  a  young  rip,  I  am  afraid,"  returned  Car- 
ker, with  a  shrug.  "  He  bears  that  character.  But  the 
truth  is,  I  took  him  into  my  service  because,  being  able 
to  get  no  other  employment,  he  conceived  (had  been 
taught  at  home,  I  dare  say)  that  he  had  some  sort  of 
claim  upon  you,  and  was  constantly  trying  to  dog  your 
heels  with  his  petition.  And  although  my  defined  and 
recognized  connexion  with  your  affairs  is  merely  of  a 
business  character,  still  I  have  that  spontaneous  interest 
in  everything  belonging  to  you,  that — " 

He  stopped  again,  as  if  to  discover  whether  he  had 
led  Mr.  Dombey  far  enough  yet.  And  again,  with  his 
chin  resting  on'his  hand,  he  leered  at  the  picture. 

"Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "I  am  sensible  that  you 
do  not  limit  your — " 

"Service,''  suggested  his  smiling  entertainer. 

"No;  I  prefer  to  say  your  regard,"  observed  Mr. 
Dombey,  very  sensible,  as  he  said  so,  that  he  was  paying 


606 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


him  a  "handsome  and  flattering  compliment,  "  to  our  mere 
business  relations.  Your  consideration  for  my  feelings, 
hopes,  and  disappointments,  in  the  little  instance  you 
have  just  now  mentioned,  is  an  example  in  point.  I  am 
obliged  to  you,  Carker." 

Mr.  Carker  bent  his  head  slowly,  and  very  softly 
rubbed  his  hands,  as  if  he  were  afraid  by  any  action  to 
disturb  the  current  of  Mr.  Dombey's  confidence. 

"  Your  allusiou  to  it  is  opportune,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
after  a  little  hesitation,  "  for  it  prepares  the  way  to 
what  I  was  beginning  to  say  to  you,  and  reminds  me 
that  that  involves  no  absolutely  new  relations  between 
us,  although  it  may  involve  more  personal  confidence  on 
my  part  than  I  have  hitherto — " 

"  Distinguished  me  with,"  suggested  Carker,  bending 
his  head  again :  "  I  will  not  say  to  you  how  honoured  I 
am  ;  for  a  man  like  you  well  knows  how  much  honour 
he  has  in  his  power  to  bestow  at  pleasure." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  passing 
this  compliment  with  august  self-denial,  "are  not  quite 
agreed  upon  some  points.  We  do  not  appear  to  under- 
stand each  other  yet.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  something  to 
learn." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  is  distinguished  by  many  rare  attrac- 
tions ;  and  has  been  accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  receive 
much  adulation,"  said  the  smooth,  sleek  watcher  of  his 
slightest  look  and  tone.  "  But  where  there  is  affection, 
duty,  and  respect,  any  little  mistakes  engendered  by 
sucii  causes  are  soon  set  right." 

Mr.  Dombey's  thoughts  instinctively  flew  back  to  the 
face  that  had  looked  at  him  in  his  wife's  dressing-room, 
when  an  imperious  hand  was  stretched  towards  the  door  ; 
and  remembering  the  affection,  duty,  and  respect,  ex- 
pressed in  it,  he  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  own  face  quite 
as  plainly  as  the  watchful  eyes  upon  him  saw  it  there. 

"Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "  had 
some  discussion,  before  Mrs.  Skewton's  death,  upon  the 
causes  of  my  dissatisfaction  ;  of  which  you  'will  have 
formed  a  general  understanding  from  having  been  a  wit- 
ness of  what  passed  between  Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself 
on  the  evening  when  you  were  at  our— at  ray  house." 

When  I  so  much  regretted  being  present,"  said  the 
smiling  Carker.  "  Proud  as  a  man  in  my  position  nec- 
essarily must  bs  of  your  familiar  notice — though  I  give 
you  no  credit  for  it ;  you  may  do  anything  you  please 
without  losing  caste — and  honoured  as  I  was  by  an  early 
presentation  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  before  she  was  made  emi- 
nent by  bearing  your  name,  I  almost  regretted  that  night, 
I  assure  you,  that  I  had  been  the  object  of  such  especial 
good  fortune." 

That  any  man  could,  under  any  possible  circumstances, 
regret  the  being  distinguished  by  his  condescension  and 
patronage,  was  a  moral  phenomenon  which  Mr.  Dombey 
could  not  comprehend.  He  therefore  responded,  with  a 
considerable  accession  of  dignity.  "  Indeed  !  And  why, 
Carker?" 

"  I  fear,"  returned  the  confidential  agent,  "  that  Mrs. 
Dombey,  never  very  much  disposed  to  regard  me  with 
favourable  interest — one  in  my  position  could  not  expect 
that,  from  a  lady  naturally  proud,  and  whose  pride  be- 
comes her  so  well— may  not  easily  forgive  my  innocent 
part  in  that  conversation.  Your  displeasure  is  no  light 
matter,  you  must  remember  ;  and  to  be  visited  with  it 
before  a  third  party — " 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  arrogantly  ;  "I  presume 
that  /  am  the  first  consideration  ?" 

"Oh  !  Can  tliere  be  a  doubt  about  it?"  replied  the 
other,  with  the  impatience  of  a  man  admitting  a  notori- 
ous and  incontrovertible  fact. 

"  Mr.s.  Dombey  becomes  a  secondary  consideration, 
when  we  are  both  in  question,  I  imagine,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey.    "  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"  Is  it  so?"  returned  Carker.  "  Do  you  know  better 
than  any  one,  that  you  have  no  need  to  ask  ?" 

"  Then  I  hope,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "that  your 
regret  in  the  acquisition  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  displeasure, 
may  be  almost  counterbalanced  by  your  satisfaction  in 
retaining  my  confidence  and  good  opinion." 

"I  liave  the  misfortune,  I  find,"  returned  Carker,  "to 
have  incurred  that  displeasure.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  ex- 
pressed it  to  you?" 

"Mrs.  Dombey  has  expressed  various  opinions,"  said 


Mr.  Dombey,  with  majestic  coldness  and  indifference, 
"in  which  I  do  not  participate,  and  which  I  am  not  in- 
clined to  discuss,  or  to  recall.  I  made  Mrs.  Dombey  ac- 
quainted, some  time  since,  as  I  have  already  told  you, 
with  certain  points  of  domestic  deference  and  submission 
on  which  I  felt  it  necessary  to  insist.  I  failed  to  con- 
vince Mrs.  Dombey  of  the  expediency  of  her  immediate- 
ly altering  her  conduct  in  those  respects,  with  a  view  to 
her  own  peace  and  welfare,  and  my  dignity  ;  and  I  in- 
formed Mrs.  Dombey  that  if  1  should  find  it  necessary  to 
object  or  remonstrate  again,  I  should  express  my  opinion 
to  her  through  yourself,  my  confidential  agent." 

Blended  with  the  look  that  Carker  bent  upon  him, 
was  a  devilish  look  at  the  picture  over  his  head,  that 
struck  upon  it  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"  Now  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say  to  you  that  I  uill  carry  my  point.  I  am  not  to  be 
trifled  with.  Mrs.  Dombey  must  understand  that  my 
will  is  law,  and  that  I  cannot  allow  of  one  exception  to 
the  whole  rule  of  my  life.  You  will  have  the  goodness 
to  undertake  this  charge,  which,  coming  from  me,  is 
not  unacceptable  to  you,  I  hope,  whatever  regret  you 
may  politely  profess — for  which  I  am  obliged  to  you  on 
behalf  of  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  and  you  will  have  the  goodness, 
I  am  persuaded,  to  discharge  it  as  exactly  as  any  other 
commission." 

"  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  that  you  have  only 
to  command  me." 

"I  know,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  majestic  indication 
of  assent,  "that  I  have  only  to  command  you.  It  is 
necessary  that  I  should  proceed  in  this.  Mrs.  Dombey 
is  a  lady  undoubtedly  highly  qualified,  in  many  respects, 
to—" 

"  To  do  credit  even  to  your  choice,"  suggested  Carker, 
with  a  fawning  show  of  teeth. 

"  Yes  ;  if  you  please  to  adopt  that  form  of  words," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  tone  of  state  ;  "  and  at  present 
I  do  not  conceive  that  Mrs.  Dombey  does  that  credit  to 
it,  to  which  it  is  entitled.  There  is  a  principle  of  oppo- 
sition in  Mrs.  Dombey  that  must  be  eradicated  ;  that 
must  be  overcome  :  Mrs.  Dombey  does  not  appear  to  un- 
derstand," said  Mr.  Dombey,  forcibly,  "that  the  idea 
of  opposition  to  Me  is  monstrous  and  absurd." 

"  We,  in  the  City,  know  you  better,"  replied  Carker, 
with  a  smile  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  You  know  me  better,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "I  hope 
so.  Though,  indeed,  I  am  bound  to  do  Mrs.  Dombey 
the  justice  of  saying,  however  inconsistent  it  may  seem 
with  her  subsequent  conduct  (which  remains  unchanged), 
that  on  my  expressing  my  disapprobation  and  determina- 
tion to  her,  with  some  severity,  on  the  occasion  to  which 
I  have  referred,  my  admonition  appeared  to  produce  a 
very  powerful  effect."  Mr.  Domljey  delivered  himself 
of  those  words  with  most  portentous  stateliness.  "I 
wish  you  to  have  the  goodness,  then,  to  inform  Mrs. 
Dombey,  Carker,  from  me,  that  I  must  recall  our  former 
conversation  to  her  remembrance,  in  some  surprise  that 
it  has  not  yet  had  its  effect.  That  I  must  insist  upon 
her  regulating  her  conduct  by  the  injunctions  laid  upon 
her  in  that  conversation.  That  I  am  not  satisfied  with 
her  conduct.  That  I  am  greatly  dissatisfied  with  it. 
And  that  I  shall  be  under  the  very  disagreeable  neces- 
sity of  making  you  the  bearer  of  yet  more  unwelcome 
and  explicit  communications,  if  she  has  not  the  good 
sense  and  the  proper  feeling  to  adapt  herself  to  my 
wishes  as  the  first  Mrs.  Dombey  did,  and  I  believe  I 
may  add,  as  any  other  lady  in  her  place  would." 

The  first  Mrs,  Dombey  lived  very  happily,"  said 
Carker. 

"  The  first  Mrs.  Dombey  had  great  good  sense,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  gentlemanly  toleration  of  the  dead, 
"and  very  correct  feeling." 

"Is  Miss  Dombey  like  her  mother,  do  you  think?" 
said  Carker. 

Swiftly  and  darTdy,  Mr.  Dombey's  face  changed.  His 
confidential  agent  eyed  it  keenly. 

"I  have  approached  a  painful  subject,"  he  said,  in  a 
soft  regretful  tone  of  voice,  irreconcileable  with  his 
eager  eye.  "Pray  forgive  me.  I  forget  these  chains 
of  association  in  the  interest  I  have.    Pray  forgive  me." 

But  for  all  he  said,  his  eager  eye  scanned  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's downcast  face  none  the  less  closely ;  and  then  it 


DOMBEY 

shot  a  strange  triumphant  look  at  the  picture,  as  ap- 
pealing to  it  to  bear  witness  how  he  led  him  on  again, 
and  what  was  coming. 

•'Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  here  and  there 
upon  the  table,  and  speaking  in  a  somewhat  altered  and 
more  hurried  voice,  and  with  a  paler  lip,  "  there  is  no 
occasion  for  apology.  You  mistake.  The  as.sociation  is 
with  the  matter  in  hand,  and  not  with  any  recollection, 
as  you  suppose.  I  do  not  approve  of  Mrs.  Dombey 's  be- 
haviour towards  my  daughter." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "I  don't  quite  under- 
stand." 

"Understand  then,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "that 
you  may  make  that — that  you  will  make  that,  if  you 
please — matter  of  direct  objection  from  me  to  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey. You  will  please  to  tell  her  that  her  show  of  de- 
votion for  my  daughter  is  disagreeable  to  me.  It  is  likely 
to  be  noticed.  It  is  likely  to  induce  people  to  contrast 
Mrs.  Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  my  daughter,  with 
Mr.s.  Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  myself.  You  will 
have  the  goodness  to  let  Mrs.  Dombey  know,  plainly, 
that  I  object  to  it  ;  and  that  I  expect  her  to  defer,  im- 
mediately, to  my  objection.  Mrs.  Dombey  may  be  in 
earnest,  or  she  may  be  pursuing  a  whim,  or  she  may  be 
opposing  me  ;  but  I  object  to  it  in  any  case,  and  in  every 
case.  If  Mrs.  Dombey  is  in  earnest,  so  much  the  less 
reluctant  should  she  be  to  desist  ;  for  she  will  not  serve 
ray  daughter  by  any  such  display.  If  my  wife  has  any 
superfluous  gentleness,  and  duty  over  and  above  her 
proper  submission  to  me,  she  may  bestow  them  where 
she  pleases,  perhaps  ;  but  I  will  have  submission  first  ! — 
Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  checking  the  unusual  emotion 
with  which  he  had  spoken,  and  falling  into  a  tone  more 
like  that  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  assert  his  great- 
ness, "  you  will  have  the  goodness  not  to  omit  or  slur 
this  point,  but  to  consider  it  a  very  important  part  of 
your  instructions." 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  his  head,  and  rising  from  the  table, 
and  standing  thoughtfully  before  the  fire,  with  his  hand 
to  his  smooth  chin,  looked  down  at  Mr.  Dombey  with  the 
evil  slyness  of  some  monkish  carving,  half  human  and 
half  brute  ;  or  lilce  a  leering  face  on  an  old  water-spout. 
Mr.  Dombey,  recovering  his  composure  by  degrees,  or 
cooling  his  emotion  in  his  sense  of  having  taken  a  high 
position,  sat  gradually  stiffening  again,and  looking  at  the 
parrot  as  she  swung  to  and  fro,  in  her  great  wedding  ring. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Carker,  after  a  silence, 
suddenly  resuming  his  chair,  and  drawing  it  opposite 
Mr.  Dombey's,  "but  let  me  understand.  Mrs.  Dombey 
is  aware  of  the  probability  of  your  making  me  the  organ 
of  your  displeasure?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey.    "  I  have  said  so." 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Carker,  quickly  ;  "but  why?" 

"  Why  ! "  Mr.  Dombey  repeated,  not  without  hesita- 
tion.   "  Because  I  told  her." 

"  Ay,"  replied  Carker.  "But  why  did  you  tell  her? 
You  see,"  he  continued  with  a  smile,  and  softly  laying 
his  velvet  hand,  as  a  cat  might  have  laid  its  sheathed  claws, 
on  Mr.  Dombey's  arm  ;  "if  I  perfectly  understand  what 
is  in  your  mind,  I  am  so  much  more  likely  to  be  useful, 
and  to  have  the  happiness  of  being  effectually  employed. 
I  think  I  do  understand.  I  have  not  the  honour  of  Mrs. 
Dombey's  good  opinion.  In  my  position,  I  have  no 
reason  to  expect  it ;  but  I  take  the  fact  to  be,  that  I  have 
not  got  it?" 

"  Possibly  not."  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Consequently,"  pursued  Carker,  "your  making 
these  communications  to  Mrs.  Dombey  through  me,  is 
sure  to  be  particularly  unpalatable  to  that  lady?" 

"It  appears  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  haughty 
reserve,  and  yet  with  some  embarrassment,  "that  Mrs. 
Dombey's  views  upon  the  subject  form  no  part  of  it  as 
it  presents  itself  to  you  and  me,  Carker.  But  it  may 
be  .so." 

"And — ^pardon  me — do  I  misconceive  you,"  said  Car- 
ker, '  when  I  think  you  descry  in  this,  a  likely  means  of 
humbling  Mrs.  Dombey's  pride — I  use  the  word  as  ex- 
pressive of  a  quality  which,  kept  within  due  bounds, 
adorns  and  graces  a  lady  so  distinguished  for  her  beauty 
and  accomplishments — and,  not  to  say  of  punishing  her, 
but  of  reducing  her  to  the  submission  you  so  naturally 
and  justly  require  ?" 


AND  SOm  607 

"  I  am  not  accustomed,  Carker,  as  you  know,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  "to  give  such  close  reasons  for  any  course 
of  conduct  I  think  proper  to  adopt,  but  I  will  gainsay 
nothing  of  this.  If  you  have  any  objection  to  found 
upon  it,  tliat  is  indeed  another  thing,  and  the  mere  state- 
ment that  you  have  one  will  be  suliicient.  But  I  have 
not  supposed,  I  confess,  that  any  confidence  I  could  in- 
trust to  you,  would  be  likely  to  degrade  you—" 

"Oh!  /  degraded!"  exclaimed  Carker.  "In  your 
service  ! " 

" — or  to  place  you,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "in  a 
false  position." 

"  /  in  a  false  position  !"  exclaimed  Carker.  *'  I  shall 
be  proud — delighted — to  execute  your  trust.  I  could, 
have  wished,  I  own,  to  have  given  the  lady  at  whose 
feet  I  would  lay  my  humble  duty  and  devotion — for  is 
she  not  your  wife  ! — no  new  cause  of  dislike  ;  but  a  wish 
from  you  is,  of  course,  paramount  to  every  other  con- 
sideration on  earth.  Besides,  when  Mrs.  Dombey  is  con- 
verted from  these  little  errors  of  judgment,  incidental, 
I  would  presume  to  say,  to  the  novelty  of  her  situation, 
I  shall  hope  that  she  will  perceive  in  the  slight  part  I 
take,  only  a  grain — my  removed  and  different  sphere 
gives  room  for  little  more — of  the  respect  for  you,  and 
sacrifice  of  all  considerations  to  you,  of  which  it  will  be 
her  pleasure  and  privilege  to  garner  up  a  great  store 
every  day. " 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  at  the  moment,  again  to  see  her 
with  her  hand  stretched  out  towards  the  door,  and  again 
to  hear  through  the  mild  speech  of  his  confidential  agent 
an  echo  of  the  words,  "  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger 
to  each  other  than  we  are  henceforth  ! "  But  he  shook 
off  the  fancy,  and  did  not  shake  in  his  resolution,  and 
said,  "  Certainly,  no  doubt." 

"  There  is  nothing  more,"  quoth  Carker,  drawing  his 
chair  back  to  its  old  place — for  they  had  taken  little 
breakfast  as  yet — and  pausing  for  an  answer  before  he 
sat  down. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "but  this.  You  -will 
be  good  enough  to  observ^e,  Carker,  that  no  message  to 
Mrs.  Dombey  with  which  you  are  or  may  be  charged, 
admits  of  reply.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  bring  me 
no  reply.  Mrs.  Dombey  is  informed  that  it  does  not  be;- 
come  me  to  temporise  or  treat  upon  any  matter  that  is  at 
issue  between  us,  and  that  what  I  say  is  final." 

Mr.  Carker  signified  his  understanding  of  these  creden- 
tials, and  they  fell  to  breakfast  with  what  appetite  they 
might.  The  Grinder  also,  in  due  time,  re-appeared, 
keeping  his  eyes  wyion  his  master  without  a  moment's 
respite,  and  passing  the  time  in  a  reverie  of  worshipful 
terror.  Breakfast  concluded,  Mr.  Dombey's  horse  was 
ordered  out  again,  and  Mr.  Carker  mounting  his  own, 
they  rode  off  for  the  City  together, 

Mr.  Carker  was  in  capital  spirits,  and  talked  much. 
Mr.  Dombey  received  his  conversation  with  the  sovereign 
air  of  a  man  who  had  a  right  to  be  talked  to,  and  occa- 
sionally condescended  to  throw  in  a  few  words  to  carry 
on  the  conversation.  So  they  rode  on  characteristically 
enough.  But  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  dignity,  rode  with  very 
long  stirrups,  and  a  very  loose  rein,  and  very  rarely 
deigned  to  look  down  to  see  where  his  horse  went.  In 
consequence  of  which  it  happened  that  Mr.  Dombey's 
horse,  while  going  a  round  trot  stumbled  on  some  loose 
stones,  threw  him,  rolled  over  him,  and  lashing  out 
with  his  iron  shod  feet,  in  his  struggles  to  get  up,  kicked 
him. 

Mr.  Carker,  quick  of  eye,  steady  of  hand,  and  a  good 
horseman,  was  afoot,  and  had  the  struggling  animal 
upon  his  legs  and  by  the  bridle,  in  a  moment.  Other- 
wise that  morning's  confidence  would  have  been  Mr. 
Dombey's  last.  Yet  even  with  the  flush  and  hurry  of 
this  action  red  upon  him,  he  bent  over  his  prostrate  chief 
with  every  tooth  disclosed,  and  muttered  as  he  stooped 
down,  "  I  have  given  good  cause  of  offence  to  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, noi/),  if  she  knew  it  !  " 

"  Mr.  Dombey  being  insensible,  and  bleeding  from  the 
head  and  face,  was  carried  by  certain  menders  of  the 
road,  under  Carker's  direction,  to  the  nearest  public- 
house,  which  was  not  for  off,  and  where  he  was  soon 
attended  by  divers  surgeons,  who  arrived  in  quick  suc- 
cession from  all  parts,  and  who  seemed  to  come  by  some 
mysterious  instinct,  as  vultures  are  said  to  gather  about 


608 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


a  camel  w"ho  dies  in  tlie  desert.  After  being  at  some 
pains  to  restore  him  to  consciousness,  these  gentlemen 
examined  into  the  nature  of  his  injuries.  One  surgeon 
who  lived  hard  by  was  strong  for  a  compound  fracture 
of  the  leg,  which  was  the  landlord's  opinion  also  ;  but 
two  surgeons  who  lived  at  a  distance,  and  were  only  in 
that  neighbourhood  by  accident,  combated  this  opinion 
so  disinterestedly,  that  it  was  decided  at  last  that  the 
patient, though  severely  cut  and  bruised,  had  broken  no 
bones  but  a  lesser  rib  or  so,  and  might  be  carefully  taken 
home  before  night.  His  injuries  being  dressed  and 
bandaged,  which  was  a  long  operation,  and  he  at  length 
left  to  repose,  Mr.  Carker  mounted  his  horse  again,  and 
rode  away  to  carry  the  intelligence  home. 

Crafty  and  cruel  as  his  face  was  at  the  best  of  times, 
though  it  was  a  sufficiently  fair  face  as  to  form  and  regu- 
larity of  feature,  it  was  at  its  worst  when  he  set  forth 
on  this  errand  ;  animated  by  the  craft  and  cruelty  of 
thoughts  within  him,  suggestions  of  remote  possibility 
rather  than  of  design  or  plot,  that  made  him  ride  as  if 
he  hunted  men  and  women.  Drawing  rein  at  length, 
and  slackening  in  his  speed,  as  he  came  into  the  more 
public  roads,  he  checked  his  white  legged  horse  into 
picking  his  way  along  as  usual,  and  hid  himself  beneath 
his  sleek,  hushed,  crouching  manner,  and  his  ivory  smile 
as  he  best  could. 

He  rode  direct  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  alighted  at  the 
door  and  begged  to  see  Mrs.  Dombey  on  an  affair  of  im- 
portance. The  servant  who  showed  him  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's own  room  soon  returned  to  say  that  it  was  not  Mrs. 
Dombey's  hour  for  receiving  visitors,  and  that  he  begged 
pardon  for  not  having  mentioned  it  before. 

Mr.  Carker,  who  was  quite  prtipared  for  a  cold  recep- 
tion, wrote  upon  a  card  that  he  must  take  the  liberty  of 
pressing  for  an  interview,  and  that  he  would  not  be  so 
bold  as  to  do  so,  for  th",  second  timo  (this  he  underlined), 
if  he  were  not  equally  sure  of  the  occasion  being  suffici- 
ent for  his  justification.  After  a  trifiing  delay,  Mrs. 
Dombey's  maid  appeared  and  conducted  him  to  a  morn- 
ing room  up-stairs,  where  Edith  and  Florence  were  to- 
gether. 

He  had  never  thought  Edith  half  so  beautiful  before. 
Much  as  he  admired  the  graces  of  her  face  and  form,  and 
freshly  as  they  dwelt  within  his  sensual  remembrance, 
he  had  never  thought  her  half  so  beautiful. 

Her  glance  fell  haughtily  upon  him  in  the  doorway  ; 
but  he  looked  at  Florence — though  only  in  the  act  of 
bending  his  head,  as  he  came  in — with  some  irrepressi- 
ble expression  of  the  new  power  he  held  ;  and  it  was  his 
triumph  to  see  the  glance  droop  and  falter,  and  to  see 
that  Edith  half  rose  up  to  receive  him. 

He  was  very  sorry,  he  was  deeply  grieved  ;  he  could'nt 
say  with  what  unwillingness  he  came  to  prepare  her  for 
the  intelligence  of  a  very  slight  accident.  He  entreated 
Mrs.  Dombey  to  compose  herself.  Upon  his  sacred  word 
of  honour,  there  was  no  cause  of  alarm.  But  Mr.  Dom- 
bey— 

Florence  uttered  a  sudden  cry.  He  did  not  look  at  her, 
but  at  Edith.  Edith  composed  and  re-assured  her.  She 
uttered  no  cry  of  distress.    No,  no. 

Mr.  Dombey  had  met  with  an  accident  in  riding.  His 
horse  had  slipped,  and  he  had  been  thrown. 

Florence  wildly  exclaimed  that  he  was  badly  hurt ; 
that  he  was  killed  ! 

No.  Upon  his  honour,  Mr.  Dombey,  though  stunned  at 
first,  was  soon  recovered,  and  though  certainly  hurt  was 
in  no  kind  of  danger.  If  this  were  not  the  truth,  he, 
the  distressed  intruder,  never  could  have  had  the  cour- 
age to  present  himself  before  Mrs.  Dombey.  It  was  the 
truth  indeed,  he  solemnly  assured  her. 

All  this  he  said  as  if  he  were  answering  Edith,  and 
not  Florence,  and  with  his  eyes  and  liis  smile  fastened 
on  Edith. 

He  then  went  on  to  tell  her  where  Mr.  Dombey  was 
lying,  and  to  request  that  a  carriage  might  be  placed  at 
his  disposal  to  bring  him  home. 

"Mama,"  faltered  Florence  in  tears,  "if  I  might 
venture  to  go  1  " 

Mr.  Carker,  having  his  eyes  on  Edith  when  he  heard 
these  words,  gave  lier  a  secret  look  and  slightly  shook 
his  head.  He  saw  how  she  battled  with  herself  before 
she  answered  him  with  her  handsome  eyes,  but  he 


wrested  the  answer  from  her — he  showed  her  that  he 
would  have  it,  or  that  he  would  speak  and  cut  Florence 
to  the  heart — and  she  gave  it  to  him.  As  he  had  looked 
at  the  picture  in  the  morning,  so  he  looked  at  her  after- 
wards, when  she  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"  I  am  directed  to  request,"  he  said,  "  that  the  new 
house-keeper— Mrs.  Pipchin,  I  think,  is  the  name—" 

Nothing  escaped  him.  He  saw,  in  an  instant,  that  she 
was  another  slight  of  Mr.  Dombey's  on  his  wife. 

" — may  be  informed  that  Mr.  Dombey  wishes  to  have 
his  bed  prepared  in  his  own  apartments  down-stairs,  as 
he  prefers  those  rooms  to  any  other.  I  shall  return  to 
Mr.  Dombey  almost  immediately.  That  every  possible 
attention  has  been  paid  to  his  comfort,  and  that  he  is  the 
object  of  every  possible  solicitude,  I  need  not  assure 
you,  madam.  Let  me  again  say,  there  is  no  cause  for 
the  least  alarm.  Even  you  may  be  quite  at  ease,  be- 
lieve me." 

He  bowed  himself  out,  with  his  extremest  show  of 
deference  and  conciliation  ;  and  having  returned  to  Mr. 
Dombey's  room,  and  there  arranged  for  a  carriage  being 
sent  after  him  to  the  City,  mounted  his  horse  again, 
and  rode  slowly  thither.  He  was  very  thoughtful  as  he 
went  along,  and  very  thoughtful  there,  and  very  thought- 
ful in  the  carriage  on  his  way  back  to  the  place  where 
Mr.  Dombey  had  been  left.  It  was  only  when  sitting 
by  that  gentleman's  couch  that  he  was  quite  himself 
again,  and  conscious  of  his  teeth. 

About  the  time  of  twilight,  Mr.  Dombey,  grievously 
afflicted  with  aches  and  pains,  was  helped  into  his  car- 
riage, and  propped  with  cloaks  and  pillows  on  one  side 
of  it,  while  his  confidential  agent  bore  him  company 
upon  the  other.  As  he  was  not  to  be  shaken,  they 
moved  at  little  more  than  a  foot  pace  ;  and  hence  it  was 
quite  dark  when  he  was  brought  home.  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
bitter  and  grim,  and  not  oblivious  of  the  Peruvian  mines, 
as  the  establishment  in  general  had  good  reason  to  know, 
received  him  at  the  door,  and  freshened  the  domestics 
with  several  little  sprinklings  of  wordy  vinegar,  while 
they  assisted  in  conveying  him  to  his  room.  Mr,  Car- 
ker remained  in  attendance  until  he  was  safe  in  bed,  and 
then,  as  he  declined  to  receive  any  female  visitor,  but 
the  excellent  Ogress  who  presided  over  his  household, 
waited  on  Mrs.  Dombey  once  more,  with  his  report  on 
her  lord's  condition. 

He  again  found  Edith  alone  with  Florence,  and  he 
again  addressed  the  whole  of  his  soothing  speech  to 
Edith,  as  if  she  were  a  \}Tey  to  the  liveliest  and  most  af- 
fectionate anxieties.  So  earnest  he  was  in  his  respectful 
sympathy,  that,  on  taking  leave,  he  ventured — with  one 
more  glance  towards  Florence  at  the  mom.ent— to  take 
her  hand,  and  bending  over  it,  to  touch  it  with  his  lips. 

Edith  did  not  withdraw  the  hand,  nor  did  she  strike 
his  fair  face  with  it,  despite  the  flush  upon  her  cheek, 
the  bright  light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  dilation  of  her 
whole  form.  But  when  she  was  alone  in  her  own  room, 
she  struck  it  on  the  marble  chimney-shelf,  so  that,  at 
one  blow,  it  was  bruised,  and  bled  ;  and  held  it  from 
her,  near  the  shining  fire,  as  if  she  could  have  thrust  it 
in  and  burned  it. 

Far  into  the  night  she  sat  alone,  by  the  sinking  blaze, 
in  dark  and  threatening  beauty,  watching  the  murky 
shadows  looming  on  the  wall,  as  if  her  thoughts  were 
tangible,  and  cast  them  there.  Whatever  shapes  of  out- 
rage and  affront,  and  black  foreshadowings  of  things 
that  might  happen,  flickered,  indistinct  and  giant-like, 
before  her,  one  resented  figure  marshalled  them  against 
her.    And  that  figure  was  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

The  Watches  of  the  Night. 

Florence,  long  since  awakened  from  her  dream, 
mournfully  observed  the  estrangement  between  her 
father  and  Edith,  and  saw  it  widen  more  and  more,  and 
knew  that  there  was  great  bitterness  between  them 
every  day.  Each  day's  added  knowledge  deepened  the 
shade  upon  her  love  and  hope,  roused  up  the  old  sorrow 
that  had  slumbered  for  a  little  time,  and  made  it  even 
i  heavier  to  bear  than  it  had  been  before. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


009 


It  bad  been  bard— bow  hard  may  none  but  Florence 
ever  know  I— to  bave  tbe  natural  affection  of  a  true  and 
earnest  nature  turned  to  agony  ;  and  sliglit,  or  stern  re- 
pulse, substituted  for  tbe  tenderest  protection  and  tbe 
dearest  care.  It  bad  been  bard  to  feel  in  berdeep  lioart 
wbat  sbe  bad  felt,  and  never  know  tbe  bappiness  of  one 
toucb  of  response.  But  it  was  much  more  bard  to  be 
compelled  to  doubt  eitber  ber  fatber  or  Editb,  so  affec- 
tionate and  dear  to  ber,  and  to  tbink  of  ber  love  for 
each  of  tbem,  by  turns,  with  fear,  distrust,  and  won- 
der. 

Yet  Florence  now  began  to  do  so  ;  and  tbe  doing  of  it 
was  a  task  imposed  upon  ber  by  tbe  very  purity  of  her 
soul,  as  one  she  could  not  fly  from.  Sbe  saw  ber  fatber 
cold  and  obdurate  to  Editb,  as  to  her  ;  bard,  iuHexible, 
unyielding.  Could  it  be,  sbe  asked  herself  with  starting 
tears,  that  her  own  dear  mother  bad  been  made  un- 
happy by  such  treatment,  and  bad  pined  away  and  died  ? 
Then  she  would  tbink  bow  proud  and  stately  Edith  was 
to  every  one  but  her,  with  wbat  disdain  sbe  treated  him, 
bow  distantly  sbe  kept  apart  from  him,  and  what  sbe  bad 
said  on  tbe  night  when  she  came  home  ;  and  quickly  it 
would  come  on  Florence,  almost  as  a  crime,  that  she  loved 
one  who  was  set  in  opposition  to  ber  father,  and  that  ber 
father  knowing  of  it,  must  think  of  her  in,. his  solitary 
room  as  tbe  unnatural  child  who  added  this  wrong  to  tbe 
old  fault,  so  much  wept  for,  of  never  having  won  bis 
fatherly  affection  from  ber  birth.  Tbe  next  kind  word 
from  Editb,  tbe  next  kind  glance,  would  shake  these 
thoughts  again,  and  make  tbem  seem  like  black  ingrati- 
tude ;  for  who  but  she  had  cheered  the  drooping  heart 
of  Florence,  so  lonely  and  so  hurt,  and  been  its  best  of 
comforters  !  Thus,  with  ber  gentle  nature  yearning  to 
them  both,  feeling  the  misery  of  both,  and  whispering 
doubts  of  her  own  duty  to  both,  Florence  in  her  wider 
and  expanded  love,  and  by  the  side  of  Edith,  endured 
more,  than  when  she  had  hoarded  up  her  undivided  se- 
cret in  the  mournful  house,  and  her  beautiful  mama  had 
never  dawned  upon  it. 

One  exquisite  unbappiness  that  would  have  far  out- 
weighed this,  Florence  was.  spared.  Sbe  never  had  the 
least  saspicion  that  Edith  by  ber  tenderness  for  ber 
widened  tbe  separation  from  her  father,  or  gave  him 
new  cause  of  dislike.  If  Florence  had  conceived  tbe 
possibility  of  such  an  effect  being  wrought  by  such  a  cause 
what  grief  sbe  would  have  felt,  wbat  sacrifice  she  would 
have  tried  to  make,  poor  loving  girl,  how  fast  and  sure 
ber  quiet  passage  might  have  been  beneath  it  to  tbe 
presence  of  that  higher  Father  who  does  not  reject  His 
children's  love,  or  spurn  their  tried  and  broken  hearts^ 
Heaven  knows  !  But  it  was  otherwise,  and  that  was 
well. 

No  word  was  ever  spoken  between  Florence  and 
Edith  now,  on  these  subjects.  Edith  bad  said  there 
ought  to  be  between  them,  in  that  wise,  a  division  and 
a  silence  like  the  grave  itself  :  and  Florence  felt  that  sbe 
was  right. 

In  this  state  of  affairs  ber  father  was  brought  home 
suffering  and  disabled  :  and  gloomily  retired  to  his  own 
rooms,  where  be  was  tended  by  servants,  not  approached 
by  Edith,  and  had  no  friend  or  companion  but  Mr.  Car- 
ker,  who  withdrew  near  midnight. 

"And  nice  company  he  is.  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan 
Ripper.  "  Ob,  he's  a  precious  piece  of  goods  !  If  ever 
he  wants  a  character  don't  let  him  come  to  me  whatever 
he  does,  that's  all  I  tell  him  " 

''Dear  Susan,"  urged  Florence,  "don't !  " 

^x.  '2^  ^^'^  ^^^^  '  ^^^'^ '  Miss  Flov, "  returned 

the  JSipper,  much  exasperated  ;  "bat  raly  begging  your 
pardon  we're  coming  to  such  passes  that  it  turns  all 
tne  blood  in  a  person's  body  into  pins  and  needles,  with 
their  pints  all  ways.  Don't  mistake  me,  Miss  R'loy  I 
don  t  mean  nothing  again  your  ma-in-law  who  has  al- 
ways treated  me  as  a  lady  should  though  she  is  rather 
high  1  must  say,  not  that  I  have  any  right  to  object  to 
that  particular,  but  when  we  come  to  Mrs.  Pipchinses 
and  having  tbem  put  over  us  and  keeping  guard  at  your 
pa  s  door  like  crocodiles  (only  make  us  thankful  that 
they  lay  no  eggs )  we  are  a  growing  too  outrageous  ' " 
"  Papa  thinks  well  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Susan."  returned 
Jlorence, "  and  has  a  right  to  choose  his  housekeeper  vou 
know,    t*""" '1 — '*  I  >j  ^  >j 


"  Well,  Miss  Floy,"  returned  tbe  Nipper,  "  when  you 
say  don't,  I  never  do  I  hope,  but  Mrs.  Pipchin  acts  like 
early  gooseberries  upon  me  miss,  and  nothing  less." 

Susan  was  unusually  emphatic  and  destitute  of  punc- 
tuation in  her  discourse  on  this  night,  which  was  the 
night  of  Mr.  Dombey's  being  brought  bome,  because, 
having  been  sent  down-stairs  by  Florence  to  inquire 
after  him,  sbe  had  been  obliged  to  deliver  ber  message 
to  her  mortal  enemy  Mrs.  Pipchin  ;  who,  witbout  carry- 
irtg  it  in  to  Mr.  Dombey  bad  taken  upon  herself  to  re- 
turn what  Miss  Nipper  called  o  huffish  answer,  on  ber 
own  responsibility.  This,  Susan  Nipper  construed  into 
presumption  on  the  part  of  that  exemplary  sufferer  by 
tbe  Peruvian  mines,  and  a  deed  of  disparagement  upon 
ber  young  lady,  that  was  not  to  be  forgiven  ;  and  so  far 
her  emphatic  state  was  special.  But  .she  had  been  in  a 
condition  of  greatly  increased  suspicion  and  distrust, 
ever  since  tbe  marriage  ;  for,  like  most  persons  of  her 
quality  of  mind,  who  form  a  strong  and  sincere  attach- 
ment to  one  in  tbe  different  station  which  Florence  oc- 
cupied, Susan  was  very  jealous,  and  ber  jealousy  natu- 
rally attached  to  Editb,  who  divided  ber  old  empire,  and 
came  between  them.  Proud  and  glad  as  Susan  Nipper 
truly  was,  that  her  young  mistress  should  be  advanced 
towards  her  proper  place  in  tbe  scene  of  ber  old  neglect, 
and  that  sbe  should  bave  ber  father's  handsome  wife  for 
ber  companion  and  protectress,  she  could  not  relinquish 
any  part  of  her  own  dominion  to  the  handsome  wife, 
witbout  a  grudge  and  a  vague  feeling  of  ill-will,  for 
which  sbe  did  not  fail  to  find  a  disinterested  justification 
in  her  sharp  perception  of  the  pride  and  passion  of  the 
lady's  character.  From  tbe  back-ground  to  which  she 
bad  necessarily  retired  somewhat,  since  tbe  marriage 
Miss  Nipper  looked  on,  therefore,  at  domestic  affairs  in 
general,  with  a  resolute  conviction  that  no  good  would 
come  of  Mrs.  Dombey  :  always  being  verv  careful  to 
publish  on  all  possible  occasions,  that  sbe  bad  nothing 
to  say  against  her. 

"  Susan,"  said  Florence,  who  was  sitting  thoughtfully 
at  her  table,  "  it  is  very  late.  I  shall  want  nothing  more 
to-night." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Floy  ! "  returned  the  Nipper,  "  I  am  sure  I 
often  wish  for  tbem  old  times  when  I  sat  up  with  you 
hours  later  than  this  and  fell  asleep  through  being  tired 
out  when  you  was  as  broad  awake  as  spectacles,  but 
you've  ma's-in-law  to  come  and  sit  with  you  now  Miss 
Floy  and  I'm  thankful  for  it  I'm  sure.  I've  not  a  word 
to  say  against  'em." 

"I  shall  not  forget  who  was  my  old  companion  when 
I  bad  none,  Susan,"  returned  Florence,  gently,  "never  !  " 
And  looking  up,  sbe  put  her  arm  round  the  neck  of  her 
humble  friend,  drew  ber  face  down  to  hers,  and  biddino- 
ber  good  night,  kissed  it  ;  which  so  mollified  Miss  Nip! 
per,  that  sbe  fell  a  sobbing. 

"Now  my  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan,  "let  me  go 
down-stairs  again  and  see  how  your  pa  is,  I  know  you're 
wretched  about  him,  do  let  me  go  down-stairs  again  and 
knock  at  bis  door  my  own  self." 

"No,"  said  Florence,  "go  to  bed.    We  shall  hear 
more  in  tbe  morning.    I  will  inquire  myself  in  tbe  morn- 
ing.    Mama  has  been  down,  I  dare  say  ;  "  Florence 
blushed,  for  sbe  bad  no  such  hope  ;  "or  is  there  now 
perhaps.    Good  night !  " 

Susan  was  too  much  softened  to  express  her  private 
opinion  on  the  probability  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  being  in  at- 
tendance on  ber  husband  ;  and  silently  vntbdrew.  Flo- 


Pray  don't  ! 
Vol.  II.— 39 


i-ence,  left  alone,  soon  hid  her  head  upon  ber  bands  as 
sbe  had  often  done  in  other  days,  and  did  not  restrain 
the  tears  from  coursing  down  her  face.  The  misery  of 
this  domestic  discord  and  unbappiness ;  the  withered 
hope  she  cherished  now,  if  hope  it  could  be  called,  of 
ever  being  taken  to  ber  father's  heart  ;  ber  doubts  and 
fears  between  tbe  two  ;  tbe  yearning  of  ber  innocent 
breast  to  both  ;  tbe  heavy  disappointment  and  regret  of 
such  an  end  as  this,  to  wbat  bad  been  a  vision  of  bright 
hope  and  promise  to  ber  ;  all  crowded  on  ber  mind  and 
made  her  tears  flow  fast.  Her  mother  and  ber  brother 
dead,  her  fatber  unmoved  tow-ards  her,  Edith  opposed 
to  him  and  casting  him  away,  but  loving  her,  and  loved 
by  her,  it  seemed  as  if  her  affection  could  never  prosper, 
I  rest  where  it  would.  That  weak  thought  was  soon 
"  bushed,  but  the  thoughts  in  which  it  had  arisen  were 


610 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


too  true  and  strong  to  be  dismissed  with  it ;  and  tliey 
made  the  night  desolate. 

Among  such  reflections  there  rose  up,  as  there  had 
risen  up  all  day,  the  image  of  her  father,  wounded  and 
in  pain,  alone  in  his  own  room,  untended  by  those  who 
should  be  nearest  to  him,  and  passing  the  tardy  hours  in 
lonely  suffering.  A  frightened  thought  which  made  her 
start  and  clasp'^her  hands— though  it  was  not  a  new  one 
in  her  mind — that  he  might  die,  and  never  see  her  or 
pronounce  her  name,  thrilled  her  whole  frame.  In  h*r 
agitation  she  thought,  and  trembled  while  she  thought 
of  once  more  stealing  down-stairs,  and  venturing  to  his 
door. 

She  listened  at  her  own.  The  house  was  quiet,  and 
all  the  lights  were  out.  It  was  a  long,  long  time,  she 
thought,  since  she  used  to  make  her  nightly  pilgrim- 
ages to  this  door  !  It  was  a  long,  long  time,  she  tried  to 
think,  since  she  had  entered  his  room  at  midnight,  and 
he  had  led  her  back  to  the  stair-foot  ! 

With  the  same  child's  heart  within  her,  as  of  old  : 
even  with  the  child's  sweet  timid  eyes  and  clustering 
hair  :  Florence  as  strange  to  her  father  in  her  early 
maiden  bloom,  as  in  her  nursery  time,  crept  down  the 
staircase,  listening  as  she  went,  and  drew  near  to  his 
room.  No  one  was  stirring  in  the  house.  The  door  was 
partly  open  to  admit  air  ;  and  all  was  so  still  within, 
that  she  could  hear  the  burning  of  the  fire,  and  count 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  that  stood  upon  the  chimney- 
piece. 

She  looked  in.  In  that  room  the  housekeeper  wrapped 
in  a  blanket  was  fast  asleep  in  an  easy-chair  before  the 
fire.  The  doors  between  it  and  the  next  were  partly 
closed,  and  a  screen  was  drawn  before  them  ;  but  there 
was  a  light  there,  and  it  shone  upon  the  cornice  of  his 
bed.  All  was  so  very  still  that  she  could  hear  from  his 
breathing  that  he  was  asleep.  This  gave  her  courage  to 
pass  round  the  screen,  and  look  into  his  chamber. 

It  was  as  great  a  start  to  come  upon  his  sleeping  face 
as  if  she  had  not  expected  to  see  it.  Florence  stood  ar- 
rested on  the  spot,  and  if  he  had  awakened  then,  must 
have  remained  there. 

There  was  a  cut  upon  his  forehead,  and  they  had  been 
wetting  his  hair,  which  lay  bedabbled  and  entangled  on 
the  pillow.  One  of  his  arms,  resting  outside  the  bed, 
was  bandaged  up,  and  he  was  very  white.  But  it  was 
not  this,  that  after  the  first  quick  glance,  and  first  assur- 
ance of  his  sleeping  quietly,  held  Florence  rooted  to  the 
ground.  It  was  something  very  different  from  this,  and 
more  than  this,  that  made  him  look  so  solemn  in  iier 
eyes. 

She  had  never  seen  his  face  in  all  her  life,  but  there 
had  been  upon  it — or  she  fancied  so — some  disturbing 
consciousness  of  her.  She  had  never  seen  his  face  in 
all  her  life,  but  hope  had  sunk  within  her,  and  her  timid 
glance  had  drooped  before  its  stern,  unloving,  and  repell- 
ing harshness.  As  she  looked  upon  it  now,  she  saw  it, 
for  the  first  time,  free  from  the  cloud  that  had  darkened 
her  childhood.  Calm,  tranquil  night,  was  reigning  in 
its  stead.  He  might  have  gone  to  sleep,  for  anything 
she  saw  there,  blessing  her. 

Awake,  unkind  father  !  Awake  now,  sullen  man  ! 
The  time  is  flitting  by  ;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an 
angry  tread.    Awake ! 

There  was  no  change  upon  his  face  ;  and  as  she 
watched  it,  awfully,  its  motionless  repose  recalled  the 
faces  that  were  gone.  So  they  looked,  so  would  he  ;  so 
she,  his  weeping  child,  who  should  say  when  !  so  all  the 
world  of  love  and  hatred  and  indifference  around  them  ! 
When  that  time  should  come,  it  would  not  be  the  heavier 
to  him,  for  this  that  she  was  going  to  do  ;  and  it  might 
fall  something  lighter  upon  her. 

She  stole  close  to  the  bed,  and  drawing  in  her  breath, 
bent  down,  and  softly  kissed  him  on  the  face,  and  laid 
her  own  for  one  brief  moment  by  its  side,  and  put  the 
arm,  with  which  she  dared  not  touch  him,  round  about 
him  on  the  i)illow. 

Awake,  doomed  man,  while  she  is  near  !  The  time  is 
flitting  by  ;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an  angry  tread  ;  its 
foot  is  in  the  house.    Awake  ! 

In  her  mind,  she  prayed  to  God  to  bless  her  father, 
and  to  soften  him  towards  her,  if  it  might  be  so  ;  and  if 
not,  to  forgive  him  if  he  was  wrong,  and  pardon  her  the 


prayer,  which  almost  seemed  impiety.  And  doing  so, 
and  looking  back  at  him  with  blinded  eyes,  and  steal- 
ing timidly  away,  passed  out  of  his  room,  and  crossed 
the  other  and  was  gone. 

He  may  sleep  on  now.  He  may  sleep  on  while  he 
may.  But  let  him  look  for  that  slight  figure  when  he 
wakes,  and  find  it  near  him  when  the  hour  is  come  ! 

Sad  and  grieving  was  the  heart  of  Florence  as  she 
crept  up-stairs.  The  quiet  house  had  grown  more  dis- 
mal since  she  came  down.  The  sleep  she  had  been  look- 
ing on,  in  the  dead  of  night,  had  the  solemnity  to  her 
of  death  and  life  in  one.  The  secrecy  and  silence  of  her 
own  proceeding  made  the  night  secret,  silent,  and  op- 
pressive. She  felt  unwilling,  almost  unable  to  go  on  to 
her  own  chamber  ;  and  turning  into  the  drawing-rooms, 
where  the  clouded  moon  was  shining  through  the  blinds, 
looked  out  into  the  empty  streets. 

The  wind  was  blowing  drearily.  The  lamps  looked 
pale,  and  sbook  as  if  they  were  cold.  There  was  a  dis- 
tant glimmer  of  something  that  was  not  quite  darkness, 
rather  than  of  light,  in  the  sky  ;  and  foreboding  night 
was  shivering  and  restless,  as  the  dying  are  who  make 
a  troubled  end.  Florence  remembered  how,  as  a 
watcher,  by  a  sick  bed,  she  had  noted  this  bleak  time, 
and  felt  its  influence,  as  if  in  some  hidden  natural  an- 
tipathy to  it  ;  and  now  it  was  very,  very  gloomy. 

Her  mama  had  not  come  to  her  room  that  night, 
which  was  one  cause  of  her  having  sat  late  out  of  her 
bed.  In  her  general  uneasiness,  no  less  than  in  her  ar- 
dent longing  to  have  somebody  to  speak  to,  and  to  break 
this  spell  of  gloom  and  silence,  Florence  directed  her 
steps  towards  the  chamber  where  she  slept. 

The  door  was  not  fastened  within,  and  yielded 
smoothly  to  her  hesitating  hand.  She  was  surprised  to 
find  a  bright  light  burning  ;  still  more  surprised,  on  look- 
ing in,  to  see  that  her  mama,  but  partially  undressed, 
was  sitting  near  the  ashes  of  the  fire,  which  had  crum- 
bled and  dropped  away.  Her  eyes  were  intently  bent 
upon  the  air  ;  and  in  their  light,  and  in  her  face,  and  in 
her  form,  and  in  her  grasp  with  which  she  held  the  el- 
bows of  her  chair  as  if  aboutrto  start  up,  Florence  saw 
such  fierce  emotion  that  it  terrified  her. 

"  Mama  !  "  she  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter  !  " 

Edith  started  :  looking  at  her  with  such  a  strange  dread 
in  her  face,  that  Florence  was  more  frightened  than 
before. 

"Mama  !  "  said  Florence,  hurriedly  advancing.  *' Dear 
mama  1  what  is  the  matter  !" 

"  I  have  not  been  well,"  said  Edith,  shaking,  and  still 
looking  at  her  in  the  same  strange  way.  "  1  have  had 
bad  dreams,  my  love." 

"  And  not  yet  been  to  bed,  mama  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  returned.    "  Half -waking  dreams." 

Her  features  gradually  softened  ;  and  suffering  Flor- 
ence to  come  close  to  her,  within  her  embrace,  she  said 
in  a  tender  manner,  "  But  what  does  my  bird  do  here  ! 
What  does  my  bird  do  here  !  " 

"  I  have  been  uneasy,  mama,  in  not  seeing  you  to- 
night, and  in  not  knowing  how  papa  was  ;  and  I — " 

Florence  stopped  there,  and  said  no  more. 

"Is  it  late?"  asked  Edith,  fondly  putting  back  the 
curls  that  mingled  with  her  own  dark  hair,  and  strayed 
upon  her  face. 

"  Very  late.    Near  day." 

"  Near  day  !  "  she  repeated  with  surprise. 

"Dear  mama,  what  have  you  done  to  your  hand?" 
said  Florence. 

Edith  drew  it  suddenly  away,  and,  for  a  moment, 
looked  at  her  with  the  same  strange  dread  (there  was  a 
sort  of  wild  avoidance  in  it)  as  before  ;  but  she  presently 
said  "  Nothing,  nothing.  A  blow."  And  then  she  said, 
"  My  Florence  !  "  And  then  her  bosom  heaved,  and  she 
was  weeping  passionately. 

"Mama!"  said  Florence.  "Oh  mama,  what  can  I 
do,  what  should  I  do,  to  make  us  happier?  Is  there 
I  anything  ?  " 

j     "  Nothing,"  she  replied. 

'  "  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  Can  it  never  be  ?  If  I  speak 
now  of  what  is  in  my  thoughts,  in  spite  of  what  we  have 
agreed,"  said  Florence,  "you  will  not  blame  me,  will 

|you?" 

"It  is  useless,"  she  replied,  "useless.    I  have  told 


BOMBEY 

you,  dear,  that  I  have  had  bad  dreams.  Nothing  can 
change  them,  or  prevent  their  coming  back." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Florence,  gazing  on  her 
agitated  face,  which  seemed  to  darken  as  she  looked. 

"  I  have  dreamed,"  said  Edith  in  a  low  voice,  "of  a 
pride  that  is  all  powerless  for  good,  all  powerful  for 
evil  ;  of  a  pride  that  has  been  galled  and  goaded,  through 
many  shameful  years,  and  has  never  recoiled  except  upon 
itself  ;  a  pride  that  has  debased  its  owner  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  deep  humiliation,  and  never  helped  its 
owner  boldly  to  resent  it  or  avoid  it,  or  to  say,  *  This 
shall  not  be  ! '  a  pride  that,  rightly  guided,  might  have 
led  perhaps  to  better  things,  but  which,  misdirected,  and 
perverted,  like  all  else  belonging  to  the  same  possessor, 
has  been  self -con  tempt,  mere  hardihood  and  ruin." 

She  neither  looked  nor  spoke  to  Florence  now,  but 
went  on  as  if  she  were  alone. 

"  I  have  dreamed,"  she  said,  "  of  such  indifference  and 
callousness,  arising  from  this  self-contempt ;  this  wretch- 
ed, inefficient,  miserable  pride  ;  that  it  has  gone  on  with 
listless  steps  even  to  the  altar,  yielding  to  the  old,  fam- 
iliar, beckoning  finger, — oh  mother,  oh  mother  ! — while 
it  spurned  it ;  and  willing  to  be  hateful  to  itself  for  once 
and  for  all,  rather  than  to  be  stung  daily  in  some  new 
form.    Mean,  poor  thing  !  " 

And  now  with  gathering  and  darkening  'emotion,  she 
looked  as  she  had  looked  when  Florence  entered. 

"  And  I  have  dreamed,"  she  said,  "  that  in  a  first  late 
effort  to  achieve  a  purpose,  it  has  been  trodden  on,  and 
trodden  down,  by  a  base  foot,  but  turns  and  looks  upon 
him.  I  have  dreamed  that  it  is  wounded,  hunted,  set 
upon  by  dogs,  but  that  it  stands  at  bay,  and  will  not 
yield  ;  no,  that  it  cannot  if  it  would  ;  but  that  it  is  urged 
on  to  hate  him,  rise  against  him,  and  defy  him  ! " 

Her  clenched  hand  tightened  on  the  trembling  arm 
she  had  in  hers,  and  as  she  looked  down  on  the  alarmed 
and  wondering  face,  her  own  subsided.  "Oh  Florence  ! " 
she  said,  "I  think  I  have  been  nearly  mad  to-night!" 
and  humbled  her  proud  head  upon  her  neck,  and  wept 
again. 

"  Don't  leave  me  !  be  near  me  !  I  have  no  hope  but  in 
you  ! "    These  words  she  said  a  score  of  times. 

Soon  she  grew  calmer,  and  was  full  of  pity  for  the 
tears  of  Florence,  and  for  her  waking  at  such  untimely 
hours.  And  the  day  now  dawning,  Edith  folded  her  in 
her  arms,  and  laid  her  down  upon  her  bed,  and,  not  ly- 
ing down  herself,  sat  by  her,  and  bade  her  try  to  sleep. 

"  For  you  are  weary,  dearest,  and  unhappy,  and  should 
rest." 

"  I  am  indeed  unhappy,  dear  mama,  to-night,"  said 
Florence.    "  But  you  are  weary  and  unhappy,  too." 

"Not  when  you  lie  asleep  so  near  me,  sweet," 

"Oiey  kissed  each  other,  and  Florence,  worn  out,  grad- 
ually fell  into  a  gentle  slumber  ;  but  as  her  eyes  closed 
on  the  face  beside  her,  it  was  so  sad  to  think  upon  the 
face  down-stairs,  that  her  hand  drew  closer  to  Edith  for 
some  comfort  ;  yet,  even  in  the  act,  it  faltered,  lest  it 
should  be  deserting  him.  So,  in  her  sleep,  she  tried  to 
reconcile  the  two  together,  and  to  show  them  that  she 
loved  them  both,  but  could  not  do  it,  and  her  waking 
grief  was  part  of  her  dreams. 

Edith,  sitting  by,  looked  down  at  the  dark  eyelashes 
lying  wet  on  the  flushed  cheeks,  and  looked  with  gentle- 
ness and  pity,  for  she  knew  the  truth.  But  no  sleep 
hung  upon  her  own  eyes.  As  the  day  came  on  she  still 
sat  watching  and  waking,  with  the  placid  hand  in  hers, 
and  sometimes  whispered,  as  she  looked  at  the  hushed 
face,  "Be  near  me,  Florence,  I  have  no  hope  but  in 
you  1" 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A  Separatum. 

With  the  day,  though  not  so  early  as  the  sun,  uprose 
Miss  Susan  Nipper.  There  was  a  heaviness  in  this 
young  maiden's  exceedingly  sharp  black  eyes,  that 
abated  somewhat  of  their  sparkling,  and  suggested — 
which  was  not  their  usual  character — the  possibility  of 
their  being  sometimes  shut.  There  was  likewise  a 
swollen  look  about  them,  as  if  they  had  been  crying 


AND  80K  Gil 

over  night.  But  the  Nipper,  so  far  from  being  cast 
down,  was  singularly  brisk  and  bold,  and  all  her  energies 
ap]ieared  to  be  braced  up  for  some  great  feat.  This  was 
noticeable  even  in  her  dress,  which  was  much  more  tight 
and  trim  than  usual  ;  and  in  occasional  twitches  of  her 
head,  as  she  went  about  the  house,  which  were  mightily 
expressive  of  determination. 

In  a  word,  she  had  formed  a  determination,  and  an 
aspiring  one  :  it  being  nothing  less  than  this — to  pene- 
trate to  Mr.  Dombey's  presence,  and  have  speech  of  that 
gentleman  alone.  "1  have  often  .said  I  would,"  she  re- 
marked, in  a  threatening  manner,  to  herself,  that  morn- 
ing, with  many  twitches  of  her  head,  "  and  now  I  irAll !  " 

Spurring  herself  on  to  the  accomplishment  of  this 
desperate  design,  with  a  sharpness  that  was  peculiar  to 
herself,  Susan  Nipper  haunted  the  hall  and  staircase 
during  the  whole  forenoon,  without  finding  a  favourable 
opportunity  for  the  assault.  Not  at  all  baffled  by  this 
discomfiture,  which  indeed  had  a  stimulating  effect,  and 
put  her  on  her  mettle,  she  diminished  nothing  of  her 
vigilance  ;  and  at  last  discovered,  towards  evening,  that 
her  sworn  foe  Mrs.  Pipchin,  under  pretense  of  having 
sat  up  all  night,  was  dozing  in  her  own  room,  and  that 
Mr.  Dombey  was  lying  on  his  sofa,  unattended. 

With  a  twitch — not  of  her  head  merely,  tkis  time,  but 
of  her  whole  self — the  Nipper  went  on  tiptoe  to  Mr. 
Dombey's  door,  and  knocked.  "Come  in  !"  said  Mr. 
Dombey.  Susan  encouraged  herself  with  a  final  twitch, 
and  went  in. 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  eyeing  the  fire,  gave  an  amazed 
look  at  his  visitor,  and  raised  himself  a  little  on  his 
arm.    The  Nipper  dropped  a  curtsey. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  said 
Susan, 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  lips  as  if  he  were  repeating 
the  words,  but  he  seemed  so  lost  in  astonishment  at  the 
presumption  of  the  young  woman  as  to  be  incapable  of 
giving  them  utterance. 

"  I  have  been  in  your  service,  sir,"  said  Susan  Nipper, 
with  her  usual  rapidity,  "now  twelve  year  a  waiting 
on  Miss  Floy  my  own  young  lady  who  couldn't  speak 
plain  when  I  first  come  here  and  I  was  old  in  this  house 
when  Mrs.  Richards  was  new,  I  may  not  be  Meethosalem, 
but  I  am  not  a  child  in  arms." 

Mr.  Dombey,  raised  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  at  her, 
offered  no  comment  on  this  preparatory  statement  of 
facts, 

"  There  never  was  a  dearer  or  a  blesseder  young  lady 
than  is  my  young  lady,  sir,"  said  Susan,  "and  I  ought 
to  know  a  great  deal  better  than  some  for  I  have  seen 
her  in  her  grief  and  I  have  seen  her  in  her  joy  (there's 
not  been  much  of  it)  and  I  have  seen  her  with  her  brother 
and  I  have  seen  her  in  her  loneliness  and  some  have 
never  seen  her,  and  I  say  to  some  and  all — I  do  ! "  and 
here  the  black-eyed  shook  her  head,  and  slightly  stamped 
her  foot ;  "  that  she  is  the  blessedest  and  dearest  angel 
is  Miss  Floy  that  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life,  the  more 
that  I  was  torn  to  pieces  sir  the  more  I'd  say  it  though  I 
may  not  be  a  Fox's  Martyr, " 

Mr,  Dombey  turned  yet  paler  than  his  fall  had  made 
him,  with  indignation  and  astonishment  ;  and  kept  his 
eyes  upon  the  speaker  as  if  he  accused  them,  and  his 
ears  too,  of  playing  him  false. 

"  No  one  could  be  anything  but  true  and  faithful  to 
Miss  Floy,  sir,"  pursued  Susan,  "and  I  take  no  merit 
for  my  service  of  twelve  year,  for  I  love  her — yes,  I  say 
to  some  and  all  I  do  ! " — and  here  the  black-eyed  shook 
her  head  again,  and  slightly  stamped  her  foot  again,  and 
checked  a  sob  ;  "but  true  and  faithful  service  gives  me 
right  to  speak  I  hope,  and  speak  I  must  and  will  now, 
right  or  wrong." 

"What  do  you  mean,  woman  !"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
glaring  at  her.    "  How  do  you  dare  ?  " 

"  What  I  mean,  sir,  is  to  speak  respectful  and  without 
offence,  but  out,  and  how  I  dare  I  know  not  but  I  do  ! " 
said  Susan.  "  Oh  !  you  don't  know  my  young  lady  sir 
you  don't  indeed,  you'd  never  know  so  little  of  her,  if 
you  did," 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  fury,  put  his  hand  out  for  the  bell- 
rope  ;  but  there  was  no  bell-rope  on  that  side  of  the  fire, 
and  he  could  not  rise  and  cross  to  the  other  without  as- 


612 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


sistance.  The  quick  eye  of  the  Nipper  detected  his 
helplessness  immediately,  and  now,  as  she  afterwards 
observed,  she  felt  that  she  had  got  him. 

"Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  is  the  most  devoted 
and  most  patient  and  most  dutiful  and  beautiful  of 
daughters,  there  an't  no  gentlemen,  no  sir,  though  as 
great  and  rich  as  all  the  greatest  and  richest  of  England 
put  together,  but  might  be  proud  of  her  and  would  and 
ought.  If  he  knew  her  value  right,  he'd  rather  lose  his 
greatness  and  his  fortune  piece  by  piece  and  beg  his  way 
in  rags  from  door  to  door,  I  say  to  some  and  all,  he 
would  !"  cried  Susan  Nipper,  bursting  into  tears,  "  than 
bring  the  sorrow  on  her  tender  heart  that  I  have  seen  it 
sulfer  in  this  house  ! " 

"  Woman,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  "leave  the  room." 

"Begging  your  pardon,  not  even  if  I  am  to  leave  the 
situation,  sir,"  replied  the  stedfast  Nipper,  "in  which  I 
have  been  so  many  years  and  seen  so  much — although  I 
hope  you'd  never  have  the  heart  to  send  me  from  Miss 
Floy  for  such  a  cause — will  I  go  now  till  I  have  said  the 
rest,  I  may  not  be  a  Indian  widow  sir  and  I  am  not  and  I 
would  not  so  become  but  if  I  once  made  up  my  mind  to 
burn  myself  alive,  I'd  do  it  !  And  I've  made  my  mind 
up  to  go  on." 

Which  was  rendered  no  less  clear  by  the  expression  of 
Susan  Nipper's  countenance,  than  by  her  words. 

"  There  an't  a  person  in  your  service,  sir,"  pursued 
the  black-eyed,  "that  has  always  stood  more  in  awe  of 
you  than  me  and  you  may  think  how  true  it  is  when  I 
make  so  bold  as  say  that  I  have  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  times  thought  of  speaking  to  you  and  never  been  able 
to  make  my  mind  up  to  it  till  last  night,  but  last  night 
decided  of  me." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage  made  another 
grasp  at  the  bell-rope  that  was  not  there,  and,  in  its  ab- 
sence, pulled  his  hair  rather  than  nothing. 

"  I  have  seen,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  Miss  Floy  strive 
and  strive  when  nothing  but  a  child  so  sweet  and  patient 
that  the  best  of  women  might  have  copied  from  her,  I've 
seen  ber  sitting  nights  together  half  the  night  through 
to  help  her  delicate  brother  with  his  learning,  I've  seen 
her  helping  him  and  watching  him  at  other  times — some 
well  know  when — I've  seen  her,  with  no  encouragement 
and  no  help,  grow  up  to  be  a  lady,  thank  God  !  that  is 
the  grace  and  pride  of  every  company  she  goes  in,  and 
I've  always  seen  her  cruelly  neglected  and  keenly  feeling 
of  it — I  say  to  some  and  all,  I  have  ! — and  never  said  one 
word,  but  ordering  one's  self  lowly  and  reverently  to- 
wards one's  betters,  is  not  to  be  a  worshipper  of  graven 
images,  and  I  will  and  must  speak  !  " 

"Is  there  anybody  there?"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  calling 
out.  "  Where  are  the  men  ?  where  are  the  women?  Is 
there  no  one  there  ?" 

"  I  left  my  dear  young  lady  out  of  bed  late  last  night," 
said  Susan,  nothing  checked,  "and  I  know  why,  for  you 
was  ill  sir  and  she  didn't  know  how  ill  and  that  was 
enough  to  make  her  wretched  as  I  saw  it  did. — I  may  not 
be  a  peacock  ;  but  I  have  my  eyes — and  I  sat  up  a  little 
in  my  own  room,  thinking  she  might  be  lonesome  and 
might  want  me,  and  I  saw  her  steal  down-stairs  and 
come  to  this  door  as  if  it  was  a  guilty  thing  to  look  at 
her  own  pa,  and  then  steal  back  again  and  go  into  them 
lonely  drawing-rooms,  a-crying  so,  that  I  could  hardly 
bear  to  hear  it.  I  can  not  bear  to  hear  it,"  said  Susan 
Nipper,  wiping  her  black  eyes,  and  fixing  them  undaunt- 
edly on  Mr.  Dombey 's  infuriated  face.  "It's  not  the 
first  time  I  have  heard  it,  not  by  many  and  many  a  time 
you  don't  know  your  own  daughter,  sir,  you  don't  know 
what  you're  doing,  sir,  I  say  to  some  and  all,"  cried 
Susan  Nipper,  in  a  final  burst,  "that  it's  a  sinful 
shame  ! " 

"  Why,  hoity,  toity  !"  cried  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
as  the  black  bombazeen  garments  of  that  fair  Peruvian 
Miner  swept  into  the  room.    "  What's  this,  indeed  !  " 

Susan  favoured  Mrs.  Pipchin  with  a  look  she  had  in- 
vented expressly  for  her  when  they  first  became  ac- 
quainted, and  resigned  the  reply  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  What's  this  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey  almost  foaming. 
"What's  this,  madam?  You  who  are  at  the  head  of 
this  household,  and  bound  to  keep  it  in  order,  have  rea- 
son to  inquire.    Do  you  know  this  woman?" 

"  I  know  very  little  good  of  her,  sir,"  croaked  Mrs. 


Pipchin.  "How  dare  you  come  here,  you  hussy?  Go 
along  v^dth  you  !  " 

But  the  inflexible  Nipper,  merely  honouring  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin with  another  look,  remained. 

"  Do  you  call  it  managing  this  establishment,  madam." 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  to  leave  a  person  like  this  at  liberty 
to  come  and  talk  to  me!  A  gentleman— in  his  own 
house — in  his  own  room — assailed  with  the  impertinences 
of  women  servants  1 " 

"  Well  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  vengeance 
in  her  hard  gray  eye,  "  I  exceedingly  deplore  it  :  nothing 
can  be  more  irregular ;  nothing  can  be  more  out  of 
all  bounds  and  reason  ;  but  I  regret  to  say,  sir,  that  this 
young  woman  is  quite  beyond  control.  She  has  been 
spoiled  by  Miss  Dombey,  and  is  amenable  to  nobody. 
You  know  you're  not,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  sharply,  and 
shaking  her  head  at  Susan  Nipper.  "  For  shame,  you 
hussy  !    Go  along  with  you  !  " 

"  if  you  find  people  in  my  service  who  are  not  to  be 
controlled,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning 
back  towards  the  fire,  "you  know  what  to  do  with  them, 
I  presume.  You  know  what  you  are  here  for  ?  Take 
her  away. 

"Sir,  I  know  what  to  do,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
"  and  of  course  shall  do  it.  Susan  Nipper,"  snapping 
her  up  particularly  short,  "  a  month's  warning  from  this 
hour." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  cried  Susan,  loftily. 

"Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "and  don't  smile  at 
me,  you  minx,  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why  !  Go  along 
with  you  this  minute  ! " 

"I  intend  to  go  this  minute,  you  may  rely  upon  it," 
said  the  voluble  Nipper.  ' '  1  have  been  in  this  house 
waiting  on  my  young  lady  a  dozen  year  and  I  won't  stop 
in  it  one  hour  under  notice  from  a  person  owning  to  the 
name  of  Pipchin,  trust  me,  Mrs.  P." 

"  A  good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish  !  "  said  that  wrath- 
ful old  lady.  "Get  along  with  you,  or  I'll  have  you 
carried  out  ! " 

"  My  comfort  is,"  said  Susan,  looking  back  at  Mr. 
Dombey,  "  that  I  have  told  a  piece  of  truth  this  day 
which  ought  to  have  been  told  long  before  and  can't  be 
told  too  often  or  too  plain  and  that  no  amount  of  Pip- 
chinses — I  hope  the  number  of  'em  mayn't  be  great " 
(here  Mrs.  Pipchin  uttered  a  very  sharp  "  Go  along  with 
you  !"  and  Miss  Nipper  repeated  the  look)  "can  unsay 
what  1  have  said,  though  they  gave  a  whole  year  full  of 
warnings  beginning  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon  and 
never  leaving  off  till  twelve  at  night  and  died  of  the  ex- 
haustion which  would  be  a  Jubilee  !" 

With  these  words.  Miss  Nipper  preceded  her  foe  out 
of  the  room  ;  and  walking  up-stairs  to  her  own  apart- 
ment in  great  state,  to  the  choking  exasperation  of  *the 
ireful  Pipchin,  sat  down  among  her  boxes  and  began  to 
cry. 

From  this  soft  mood  she  was  soon  aroused,  with  a  very 
wholesome  and  refreshing  effect,  by  the  voice  of  Mrs- 
Pipchin  outside  the  door. 

"Does  that  bold-faced  slut,"  said  the  fell  Pipchin, 
' '  intend  to  take  her  warning,  or  does  she  not  ?  " 

Miss  Nipper  replied  from  within  that  the  person  de- 
scribed did  not  inhabit  that  part  of  the  house,  but  that 
her  name  was  Pipchin,  and  she  was  to  be  found  in  the 
housekeeper's  room. 

"  You  saucy  baggage  ! "  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rattling 
at  the  handle  of  the  door.  "  Go  along  with  you  this 
minute.  Pack  up  your  things  directly  !  How  dare  you 
talk  in  this  way  to  a  gentlewoman  who  has  seen  better 
days?" 

To  which  Miss  Nipper  rejoined  from  her  castle,  that 
she  pitied  the  better  days  that  had  seen  Mrs.  Pipchin  ; 
and  that  for  her  part  she  considered  the  worst  days  in 
the  year  to  be  about  that  lady's  mark,  except  that  they 
were  much  too  good  for  her. 

"  But  you  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  make  a  noise  at 
my  door,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "nor  to  contaminate  the 
keyhole  with  your  eye,  I'm  packing  up  and  going  you 
may  take  your  affidavit." 

The  Dowager  expressed  her  lively  satisfaction  at  this 
intelligence,  and  with  some  general  opinions  upon  young 
hiissies  as  a  race,  and  especially  upon  their  demerits 
after  being  spoiled  by  Miss  Dombey,  withdrew  to  pre- 


DOMBEY  AND  80K 


613 


pare  the  Nipper's  wages.  Susan  then  bestirred  herself 
to  get  her  trunks  in  order,  that  she  might  make  an  im- 
mediate and  dignified  departure  ;  sobbing  heartily  all 
the  time,  as  she  thought  of  Florence. 

The  object  of  her  regret  was  not  long  in  coming  to 
her,  for  the  news  soon  spread  over  the  house  that  Susan 
Nipper  had  had  a  disturbance  with  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and 
that  they  had  both  appealed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  that 
there  had  been  an  unprecedented  piece  of  work  in  Mr. 
Dombey's  room,  and  that  Susan  was  going.  The  latter 
part  of  this  confused  rumour,  Florence  found  to  be  so 
correct,  that  Susan  had  locked  the  last  trunk  and  was 
sitting  upon  it  with  her  bonnet  on,  when  she  came  into 
her  room. 

"Susan!"  cried  Florence.  "Going  to  leave  me! 
Tou  !  "  * 

"Oh  for  goodness  gracious  sake.  Miss  Floy,"  said 
Susan  sobbing,  "  don't  speak  a  word  to  me  or  I  shall 
demean  myself  before  them  Pi-i-pchinses,  and  I  wouldn' t 
have  'em  see  me  cry  Miss  Floy  for  worlds  ! " 

"Susan!"  said  Florence.  "  My  .dear  girl,  my  old 
friend  !  What  shall  I  do  without  you  ?  Can  you  bear 
to  go  away  so  ?  " 

"  Xo-n-o-o,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy,  I  can't  indeed," 
sobbed  Susan.  "But  it  can't  be  helped,  I've  done  my 
duty,  miss,  I  have  indeed.  It'b  no  fault  of  mine.  I  am 
quite  resi-igned.  I  couldn't  stay  my  month  or  I  could 
never  leave  you  then  my  darling  and  I  must  at  last  as  well 
as  at  first,  don't  speak  to  me  Miss  Floy,  for  though  I'm 
pretty  firm  I'm  not  a  marble  door-post,  my  own  dear." 

"  What  is  it !  Why  is  it  ?  "  said  Florence.  "  Won't 
you  tell  me  ?  "    For  Susan  was  shaking  her  head. 

"No-n-no,  my  darling,"  returned  Susan.  "Don't  ask 
me,  for  I  mustn't,  and  whatever  you  do  don't  put  in  a 
word  for  me  to  stop,  for  it  couldn't  be  and  you'd  only 
wrong  yourself,  and  as  God  bless  you  my  own  precious 
and  forgif e  me  any  harm  I  have  done,  or  any  temper  I 
have  shown  in  all  these  many  years  I " 

With  which  entreaty,  very  "heartily  delivered,  Susan 
hugged  her  mistress  in  her  arms. 

"My  darling  there's  a  many  that  may  come  to  serve 
you  and  be  glad  to  serve  you  and  who'll  serve  you  well 
and  true,"  said  Susan,  "but  there  can't  be  one  who'll 
serve  you  so  affectionate  as  me  or  love  you  half  as 
dearlv,  that's  mv  comfort.  Go-ood-bve,  sweet  Miss 
Floy!" 

"  Where  will  you  go,  Susan?  "  asked  her  weeping  mis- 
tress. 

"  I've  got  a  brother  down  in  the  country  miss — a  far- 
mer in  Essex,"  said  the  heart-broken  Nipper,  "that 
keeps  ever  so  many  co-o-ows  and  pigs  and  I  shall  go 
down  there  by  the  coach  and  sto-op  with  him,  and  don't 
mind  me,  for  I've  got  money  in  the  Savings'  Bank  my 
dear  and  needn't  take  another  service  just  yet,  which  I 
couldn't,  couldn't,  couldn't  do,  my  heart's  own  mistress! " 
Susan  finished  with  a  burst  of  sorrow,  which  was  oppor- 
tunely broken  by  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  talking  down- 
stairs ;  on  hearing  which,  she  dried  her  red  and  swollen 
eyes,  and  made  a  melancholy  feint  of  calling  jauntily  to 
Mr.  Towlinson  to  fetch  a  cab  and  carry  down  her  bores. 

Florence,  pale  and  hurried  and  distressed,  but  withheld 
from  useless  interference  even  here,  by  her  dread  of 
causing  any  new  division  between  her  father  and  his 
wife  (whose  stem,  indignant  face  had  been  a  warning  to 
her  a  few  moments  since),  and  by  her  apprehension  of 
being  in  some  way  unconsciously  connected  already  with 
the  dismissal  of  her  old  servant  and  friend,  followed, 
weeping,  down-stairs  to  Edith's  dressing-room,  whither 
Susan  betook  herself  to  make  her  parting  curtsey. 

"  Now,  here's  the  cab,  and  here's  the  boxes,  and  get 
along  with  you,  do  ! "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  presenting  her- 
self at  the  same  moment.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am, 
but  Mr.  Dombey's  orders  are  imperative." 

Edith,  sitting  under  the  hands  of  her  maid — she  was 
going  out  to  dinner — preserved  her  haughty  face,  and 
took  not  the  least  notice. 

"There's  your  money,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who,  in 
pursuancf^  of  her  system,  and  in  recollection  of  the  Mines, 
Avas  accustomed  to  rout  the  servants  about,  as  she  had 
routed  her  young  Brighton  boarders  ;  to  the  everlasting 
acidulation  of  Master  Bitherstone,  "  and  the  sooner  this 
house  sees  your  back  the  better." 


Susan  had  no  spirits  even  for  the  look  that  belonged 
to  Mrs.  Pipchin  by  right ;  so  she  dropped  her  curtsey  to 
Mrs.  Dombey  (who  inclined  her  head  without  one  word, 
and  whose  eye  avoided  every  one  but  Florence),  and  gave 
one  last  parting  hug  to  her  young  mistress,  and  received 
her  parting  embrace  in  return.  Poor  Susan's  face  at  this 
crisis,  in  the  intensity  of  her  feelings  and  the  determined 
suffocation  of  her  sobs,  lest  one  should  become  audible 
and  be  a  triumph  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  presented  a  series  of 
the  most  extraordinary  physiognomical  phenomena  ever 
witnessed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  said  Towlinson, 
outside  the  door  with  the  boxes,  addressing  Florence, 
"  but  Mr.  Toots  is  in  the  dining-room,  and  sends  his  com- 
pliments, and  begs  to  know  now  Diogenes  and  master 
is." 

Quick  as  thought,  Florence  glided  out  and  hastened 
down-stairs,  where  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  most  splendid  vest- 
ments, was  breathing  very  hard  with  doubt  and  agitation 
on  the  subject  of  her  coming. 

"Oh,  how  de  do.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
"  God  bless  my  soul  !  " 

This  last  ejaculation  was  occasioned  by  Mr.Toots's  deep 
concern  at  the  distress  he  saw  in  Florence's  face  :  which 
caused  him  to  stop  short  in  a  fit  of  chuckles,  and  become 
an  image  of  despair. 

"Dear  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Florence,  "  you  are  so  friendly 
to  me,  and  so  honest,  that  I  am  sure  I  may  ask  a  favour 
of  you." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  if  you'll  only 
name  one,  you'll — you'll  give  me  an  appetite.  To  which," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  with  some  sentiment,  "  I  have  long  been 
a  stranger." 

"  Susan,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  the  oldest  friend 
I  have,"  said  Florence,  "  is  about  to  leave  here  suddenly, 
and  quite  alone,  poor  girl.  She  is  going  home,  a  little 
way  into  the  country.  Might  I  ask  you  to  take  care  of 
her  until  she  is  in  the  coach  ?  " 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  you  really  do 
me  an  honour  and  a  kindness.  This  proof  of  your  con- 
fidence, after  the  manner  in  which  I  was  Beast  enough 
to  conduct  myself  at  Brighton — " 

"  Yes,"  said  Florence,  hurriedly — "  no — don't  think  of 
that.  Then  would  you  have  the  kindness  to — to  go  ?  and 
to  be  ready  to  meet  her  when  she  comes  out  ?  Thank 
you  a  thousand  times  !  You  ease  my  mind  so  much. 
She  doesn't  seem  so  desolate.  You  cannot  think  how 
grateful  I  feel  to  you,  or  what  a  good  friend  I  am  sure 
you  are  ! "  And  iFlorence  in  her  earnestness  thanked 
him  again  and  again  ;  and  Mr.  Toots  in  Ms  earnestness, 
hurried  away — but  backwards,  that  he  might  lose  no 
glimpse  of  her. 

Florence  had  not  the  courage  to  go  out,  when  she  saw 
poor  Susan  in  the  hall,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  driving  her 
forth,  and  Diogenes  jumping  about  her,  and  terrifying 
Mrs.  Pipchin  to  the  last  degree  by  making  snaps  at  her 
bombazeen  skirts,  and  howling  with  anguish  at  the  sound 
of  her  voice— for  the  good  duenna  was  the  dearest  and 
most  cherished  aversion  of  his  breast.  But  she  saw  Su- 
san shake  hands  with  the  servants  all  round,  and  turn 
once  to  look  at  her  old  home  ;  and  she  saw  Diogenes 
bound  out  after  the  cab,  and  want  to  follow  it,  and  testi- 
fy an  impossibility  of  conviction  that  he  had  no  longer 
any  property  in  the  fare  ;  and  the  door  was  shut,  and  the 
hurry  over,  and  her  tears  flowed  fast  for  the  loss  of  an  old 
friend,  whom  no  one  could  replace.    No  one.    No  one. 

Mr.  Toots,  like  the  leal  and  trusty  soul  he  was,  stopped 
the  cabriolet  in  a  twinkling,  and  told  Susan  Nipper  of 
his  commission,  at  which  she  cried  more  then  before. 

"  Upon  my  soul  and  body  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  his 
seat  beside  her,  * '  I  feel  for  you.  Upon  my  word  and 
honour  I  think  you  can  hardly  know  your  own  feelings 
better  than  I  imagine  them.  I  can  conceive  nothing 
more  dreadful  than  to  have  to  leave  Miss  Dombey." 

Susan  abandoned  herself  to  her  grief  now,  and  it  really 
'  was  touching  to  see  her. 

i  "  I  say,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  now,  don't  !  at  least  I  mean 
I  now  do,  you  know  ! " 

"Do  what,  Mr.  Toots  ?  "  cried  Susan, 
j     "  Why,  come  home  to  my  place,  and  have  some  dinner 
before  you  start,"  said  Mr!  Toots.    "  My  cook's  a  most 
i  respectable  woman — one  of  the  most  motherly  people  I 


614 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


ever  saw — and  she'll  be  delighted  to  make  you  comfort- 
able. Her  son,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  as  an  additional  recom- 
mendation, "  was  educated  in  the  Blue-coat  School,  and 
blown  up  in  a  powder  mill." 

Susan  accepting  this  kind  offer,  Mr.  Toots  conducted 
her  to  his  dwelling,  where  they  were  received  by  the 
matron  in  question  who  fully  justified  his  character  of 
her,  and  by  the  Chicken  who  at  first  supposed,  on  seeing 
a  lady  in  the  vehicle,  that  Mr.  Dombey  had  been  doubled 
up,  agreeably  to  his  old  recommendation,  and  Miss  Dom- 
bey abducted.  This  gentleman  awakened  in  Miss  Nipper 
some  considerable  astonishment  ;  for,  having  been  de- 
feated by  the  Larkey  Boy,  his  visage  was  in  a  state  of 
such  great  dilapidation,  as  to  be  hardly  presentable  in  so- 
ciety with  comfort  to  the  beholders.  The  Chicken  him- 
self attributed  this  punishment  to  his  having  had  the 
misfortune  to  get  into  Chancery  early  in  the  proceedings, 
when  he  was  severely  fibbed  by  the  Larkey  one,  and  heav- 
ily grassed.  But  it  appeared  from  the  published  records 
of  tliat  great  contest  that  the  Larkey  boy  had  had  it  all 
his  own  way  from  the  beginning,  and  that  the  Chicken 
had  been  tapped,  and  bunged,  and  had  received  pepper, 
and  had  been  made  groggy,  and  had  come  up  piping,  and 
had  endured  a  complication  of  similar  strange  inconve- 
niences, until  he  had  been  gone  into  and  finished. 

After  a  good  repast,  and  much  hospitality,  Susan  set 
out  for  the  coach-oflace  in  another  cabriolet,  with  Mr. 
Toots  inside,  as  before,  and  the  Chicken  on  the  box,  who, 
whatever  distinction  he  conferred  on  the  little  party  by 
the  moral  weight  and  heroism  of  his  character,  was 
scarcely  ornamental  to  it,  physically  speaking,  on  account 
of  his  plasters  ;  which  were  numerous.  But  the  Chicken 
had  registered  a  vow,  in  secret,  that  he  would  never  leave 
Mr.  Toots  (who  was  secretly  pining  to  get  rid  of  him), 
for  any  less  consideration  than  the  good- will  and  fixtures 
of  a  public-house  ;  and  being  ambitious  to  go  into  that 
line,  and  drink  himself  to  death  as  soon  as  possible,  he 
felt  it  his  cue  to  make  his  company  unacceptable. 

The  night-coach  by  which  Susan  was  to  go,  was  on  the 
point  of  departure.  Mr.  Toots  having  put  her  inside, 
lingered  by  the  window,  irresolutely,  until  the  ih'iv^'"  was 
about  to  mount ;  when  standing  on  a  step,  and  putting  in 
a  face  that  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  was  anxious  and 
confused,  he  said  abruptly  : 

"  I  say,  Susan  !  Miss  Dombey,  you  know — " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  you  think  she  could — you  know— eh  V 

"1  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Susan,  "  but  I 
don't  hear  you." 

"  Do  you  think  she  could  be  brought,  you  know — not 
exactly  at  once,  but  in  time — in  a  long  time — to — to  love 
me,  you  know  !    There  !  "  said  poor  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Oh  dear  no!"  returned  Susan,  shaking  her  head. 

I  should  say  never.    Ne — ver  !  " 

"  Thank'ee  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  It's  of  no  conse- 
quence. Good  night.  It's  of  no  consequence, 
thank'ee  !" 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

The  Trusty  Agent. 

Edith  went  out  alone  that  day,  and  returned  home 
early.  It  was  but  a  few  minutes  after  ten  o'clock,  when 
her  carriage  rolled  along  the  street  in  which  she  lived. 

There  was  the  same  enforced  composure  on  her  face,that 
there  had  been  when  she  was  dressing  ;  and  the  wreath 
upon  her  head  encircled  the  same  cold  and  steady  brow. 
But  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  seen  its  leaves 
and  flowers  reft  into  fragments  by  her  passionate  hand, 
or  rendered  shapeless  by  the  fitful  searches  of  a  throb- 
bing and  bewildered  brain  for  any  resting  place,  than 
adorning  such  tranquillity.  So  obdurate,  so  unapproach- 
able, so  unrelentingjOne  would  have  thought  that  nothing 
could  soften  such  a  woman's  nature,  and  that  everything 
in  life  had  hardened  it. 

Arrived  at  her  own  door,  she  w^as  alighting,  when 
some  one  coming  quietly  from  tiie  hall,  and  standing 
bareheaded,  offered  her  his  arm.  The  servant  being 
thrust  aside,  she  had  no  choice  but  to  touch  it  ;  and  she 
then  knew  whose  arm  it  was. 


"  How  is  your  patient,  sir?"  she  said,  with  a  curled 
lip. 

"  He  is  better,"  returned  Carker.  "  He  is  doing  very 
well.    I  have  left  him  for  the  night." 

She  bent  her  head,  and  was  passing  up  the  staircase, 
when  he  followed  and  said,  speaking  at  the  bottom  : 

"Madam  !  May  I  beg  the  favour  of  a  minute's  au- 
dience ?  " 

j  She  stopped  and  turned  her  eyes  back.  "  It  is  an  un- 
j  seasonable  time,  sir,  and  I  am  fatigued.  Is  your  busi- 
I  ness  urgent  ?  " 

I  "It  is  very  urgent,"  returned  Carker.  "As  I  am  so 
I  fortunate  as  to  have  met  you,  let  me  press  my  petition." 
j  She  looked  down  for  a  moment  at  his  glistening 
j  mouth  ;  and  he  looked  up  at  her,  standing  above  him  in 
1  her  stately  dress,  and  thought,  again,  how  beautiful  she 
I  was. 

I  "  Where  is  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  she  asked  the  servant, 
j  aloud. 

j     "In  the  morning  room,  ma'am." 

I  "  Show  the  way  there  !"  Turning  her  eyes  again  on 
the  attentive  gentleman  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and 
informing  him  with  a  slight  motion  of  her  head,  that  he 
was  at  liberty  to  follow,  she  passed  on. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  madam  !  Mrs.  Dombey  ! "  cried 
the  soft  and  nimble  Carker,  at  her  side  in  a  moment. 
"  May  I  be  permitted  to  entreat  that  Miss  Dombey  is  not 
present  ?  " 

She  confronted  him,  with  a  quick  look,  but  with  the 
same  self-possession  and  steadiness. 

"I  would  spare  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Carker,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  the  knowledge  of  what  I  have  to  say.  At  least, 
madam,  I  would  leave  it  to  you  to  decide  whether 
she  shall  know  of  it  or  not.  I  owe  that  to  you.  It  is 
my  bounden  duty  to  you.  After  our  former  interview, 
it  would  be  monstrous  in  me  if  I  did  otherwise." 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  eyes  from  his  face^and  turn- 
ing to  the  servant,  said,  "some  other  room."  He  led 
the  way  to  a  drawing-room,  which  be  speedily  lighted 
up  and  then  left  them.  While  he  remained  not  a  word 
waG  spoken.  E(^  ith  enthroned  herself  upon  a  couch  by  the 
fire  ;  and  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his 
eyes  bent  upon  the  carpet,  stood  before  her,  at  some  lit- 
tle distance. 

"Before  I  hear  you  sir,"  said  Edith,  when  the  door  was 
closed,  "  I  wish  you  to  hear  me." 

"To  be  addressed  by  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  returned, 
"even  in  accents  of  unmerited  reproach,  is  an  honour  I 
so  greatly  esteem,  that  although  I  were  not  her  servant 
in  all  things, I  should  defer  to  such  a  wish, most  readily." 

"  If  you  are  charged  by  the  man  whom  you  have  just 
now  left,  sir  ;  "  Mr.  Carker  raised  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were 
going  to  counterfeit  suiprise,  but  she  met  them,  and  stop- 
ped him,  if  such  were  his  intention  ;  "  with  any  mes- 
sage to  me,  do  not  attempt  to  deliver  it,  for  I  will  not 
receive  it.  I  need  scarcely  ask  you  if  you  are  come  on 
such  an  errand.    I  have  expected  you  some  time." 

"It  is  my  misfortune,"  he  replied,  "to  be  here, 
wholly  against  my  will,  for  such  a  purpose.  Allow  me 
to  say  that  I  am  here  for  two  pui poses.    That  is  one." 

"That  one,  sir,"  she  returned,  "is  ended.  Or,  if 
you  return  to  it—" 

"Can  Mrs.  Dombey  believe,"  said  Carker,  coming 
nearer,  "  that  1  would  return  to  it  in  the  face  of  her 
prohibition  ?  Is  it  possible  that  Mrs,  Dombey,  having 
no  regard  to  my  unfortunate  position,  is  so  determined 
to  consider  me  inseparable  from  my  instructor  as  to  do 
me  great  and  wilful  injustice?" 

"Sir,"  returned  Edith,  bending  her  dark  gaze  full 
upon  him,  and  speaking  with  a  rising  passion  that  in- 
flated her  proud  nostril  and  her  swelling  neck,  and 
stirred  the  delicate  white  down  upon  a  robe  she  wore, 
thrown  loosely  over  shoulders  that  could  bear  its  snowy 
neighbourhood.  "Why  do  yoi^  present  yourself  to  me, 
as  you  have  done,  and  speak  to  me  of  love  and  duty  to 
my  husband,  and  pretend  to  think  that  I  am  happily- 
married,  and  that  I  honour  him  ?  How  dare  you  venture 
so  to  affront  me,  when  you  know — /do  not  know  better, 
sir  :  I  have  seen  it  in  your  every  glance,  and  heard  it  in 
your  every  word — that  in  place  of  affection  between  usi 
there  is  aversion  and  contempt,  and  that  I  despise  himj 
hardly  less  than  I  despise  myself  for  being  his  !    In  jus- 


DOMBEY 

tice  !  If  I  had  done  justice  to  the  torment  you  have 
made  me  feel,  and  to  my  sense  of  the  insult  you  have 
put  upon  me,  I  should  have  slain  you  !  " 

She  had  asked  him  why  he  did  this  ?  Had  she  not 
been  blinded  by  her  pride  and  wrath,  and  self-humilia- 
tion, — which  she  was,  fiercely  as  she  bent  her  gaze  upon 
him, — she  would  have  seen  the  ansvyer  in  his  face.  To 
bring  her  to  this  declaration. 

She  saw  it  not,  and  cared  not  whether  it  was  there  or 
no.  She  saw  only  the  indignities  and  struggles  she  had 
undergone,  and  had  to  undergo,  and  was  writhing  under 
them.  As  she  sat  looking  fixedly  at  them,  rather  than 
at  him,  she  plucked  the  feathers  from  a  pinion  of  some 
rare  and  beautiful  bird,  which  hung  from  her  wrist  by  a 
golden  thread,  to  serve  her  as  a  fan,  and  rained  them  on 
the  ground. 

He  did  not  shrink  beneath  her  gaze,  but  stood,  until 
such  outward  signs  of  her  anger  as  had  escaped  her  con- 
trol subsided,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  his  suffi- 
cient reply  in  reserve  and  would  presently  deliver  it. 
And  he  then  spoke,  looking  straight  into  her  kindling 
eyes. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "  I  know,  and  knew  before  to- 
day, that  I  have  found  no  favour  with  you  ;  and  I  knew 
why.  Yes.  I  knew  why.  You  have  spoken  so  openly 
to  me  ;  I  am  so  relieved  by  the  possession  of  your  confi- 
dence— " 

"  Confidence  !  "  she  repeated,  with  disdain. 
He  passed  it  over, 

" — that  I  will  make  no  pretence  of  concealment.  I 
did  see  from  the  first,  that  there  was  no  affection  on 
your  part,  for  Mr.  Dombey — how  could  it  possibly  exist 
between  such  different  subjects  !  And  I  have  seen, 
since,  that  stronger  feelings  than  indifference  have  been 
engendered  in  your  breast — how  could  that  possibly  be 
otherwise,  either,  circumstanced  as  you  have  been.  But 
was  it  for  me  to  presume  to  avow  this  knowledge  to  you 
in  so  many  words  ?  " 

"Was  it  for  you,  sir,"  she  replied,  "to  feign  that 
other  belief,  and  audaciously  to  thrust  it  on  me  day  by 
day?" 

"Madam,  it  was,"  he  eagerly  retorted.  "If  I  had 
done  less,  if  1  had  done  anything  but  that,  I  should  not 
be  speaking  to  you  thus  ;  and  I  foresaw — who  could  bet- 
ter foresee — for  who  has  had  greater  experience  of  Mr. 
Dombey  than  myself  ? — that  unless  your  character 
should  prove  to  be  as  yielding  and  obedient  as  that  of 
his  first  submissive  Lady,  which  I  did  not  believe — " 

A  haughty  smile  gave  him  reason  to  observe  that  he 
might  repeat  this, 

"  I  say,  which  I  did  not  believe, — the  time  was  likely 
to  come,  when  such  an  understanding  as  we  have  now 
arrived  at,  would  be  serviceable." 

' '  Serviceable  to  whom,  sir  ?  "  she  demanded  scorn- 
fully. 

"  To  you.  I  will  not  add  to  myself,  as  warning  me  to 
refrain  even  from  that  limited  commendation  of  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  which  I  can  honestly  indulge,  in  order  that 
I  may  not  have  the  misfortune  of  saying  anything  dis- 
tasteful to  one  whose  aversion  and  contempt,"  with 
great  expression,  "  are  so  keen." 

"  It  is  honest  in  you,  sir,"  said  Edith,  "  to  confess  to 
your  '  limited  commendation,'  and  to  speak  in  that  tone 
of  disparagement,  even  of  him  :  being  his  chief  coun- 
sellor and  flatterer  ! " 

"Counsellor, — yes,"  said  Carker.  "Flatterer — no. 
A  little  reservation  I  fear  I  must  confess  to.  But  our  in- 
terest and  convenience  commonly  oblige  many  of  us  to 
make  professions  that  we  cannot  feel.  We  have  part- 
nerships of  interest  and  convenience,  friendships  of  in- 
terest and  convenience,  dealings  of  interest  and  con- 
venience, marriages  of  interest  and  convenience,  every 
day." 

She  bit  her  blood-red  lip  ;  but  without  wavering  in 
the  dark,  stern  watch  she  kept  upon  him. 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  sitting  down  in  a  chair 
that  was  near  her, with  an  air  of  the  most  profound  and 
most  considerate  respect,  "  why  should  I  hesitate  now, 
beingaltogetherdevoted  to  your  service,  to  speak  plainly  ! 
It  was  natural  that  a  lady  endowed  as  you  are,  should 
think  it  feasible  to  change  her  husband's  character  in 
some  respects,  and  mould  him  tp  a  better  form." 


AND  SON.  615 

"  It  was  not  natural  to  me,  sir,"  she  rejoined.  "  I  had 
never  any  expectation  or  intention  of  that  kind." 

The  proud  undaunted  face  showed  him  it  was  resolute 
to  wear  no  mask  he  offered,  but  was  set  upon  a  reckless 
disclosure  of  itself,  indifferent  to  any  aspect  in  which  it 
might  present  itself  to  such  as  he. 

"At  least  it  was  natural,"  he  resumed,  "that  you 
should  deem  it  quite  possible  to  live  with  Mr,  Dombey  as 
his  wife,  at  once  without  submitting  to  him,  and  without 
coming  into  such  violent  collision  with  him.  But  madam, 
you  did  not  know  Mr.  Dombey  (as  you  have  since  ascer- 
tained), when  you  thought  that.  You  did  not  know  how 
exacting  and  how  proud  he  is,  or  how  he  is,  if  I  may  say 
so,  the  slave  of  his  own  greatness,  and  goes  yoked  to  his 
own  triumphal  car  like  a  beast  of  burden,  with  no  idea 
on  earth  but  that  it  is  behind  him  and  is  to  be  drawn  on, 
over  everything  and  through  everything," 

His  teeth  gleamed  through  his  malicious  relish  of  this 
conceit,  as  he  went  on  talking  : 

"Mr.  Dombey  is  really  capable  of  no  more  true  con- 
sideration for  you,  madam,  than  for  me.  The  comparison 
is  an  extreme  one  ;  I  intend  it  to  be  so  ;  but  quite  just. 
Mr,  Dombey,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  asked  me — I 
had  it  from  his  own  lips  yesterday  morning — to  be  his  go- 
between  to  you,  because  he  knows  I  am  not  agreeable  to 
you,  and  because  he  intends  that  I  shall  be  a  punishment 
for  your  contumacy  ;  and  besides  that,  because  he  really 
does  consider,  that  I,  his  paid  servant,  am  an  ambassador 
whom  it  is  derogatory  to  the  dignity — not  of  the  lady  to 
whom  I  have  the  happiness  of  speaking  ;  she  has  no  ex- 
istence in  his  mind — but  of  his  wife,  a  part  of  himself, 
to  receive.  You  may  imagine  how  regardless  of  me, 
how  obtuse  to  the  possibility  of  my  having  any  indi- 
vidual sentiment  or  opinion  he  is,  when  he  tells  me, 
openly,  that  I  am  so  employed.  You  know  how  perfectly 
indifferent  to  your  feelings  he  is,  when  he  threatens  you 
with  such  a  messenger.  As  you,  of  course,  have  not 
forgotten  that  he  did." 

She  watched  him  still  attentively.  But  he  watched 
her  too  ;  and  he  saw  that  this  indication  of  a  knowledge 
on  his  part,  of  something  that  had  passed  between  her- 
self and  her  husband,  rankled  and  smarted  in  her 
haughty  breast,  like  a  poisoned  arrow, 

"  I  do  not  recall  all  this  to  widen  the  breach  between 
yourself  and  Mr.  Dombey,  madam — Heaven  forbid  ! 
what  would  it  profit  me — but  as  an  example  of  the  hope- 
lessness of  impressing  Mr.  Dombey  with  a  sense  that 
anybody  is  to  be  considered  when  he  is  in  question.  We 
who  are  about  him,  have,  in  our  various  positions,  done 
our  part,  I  dare  say,  to  confirm  him  in  his  way  of  think- 
ing ;  but  if  we  had  not  done  so,  others  would— or  they 
would  not  have  been  about  him  ;  and  it  has  always  been, 
from  the  beginning,  the  very  staple  of  his  life,  Mr. 
Dombey  has  had  to  deal,  in  short,  with  none  but  sub- 
missive and  dependent  persons,  who  have  bowed  the 
knee,  and  bent  the  neck,  before  him.  He  has  never 
known  what  it  is  to  have  angry  pride  and  strong  resent- 
ment opposed  to  him." 

"But  he  will  know  it  now!"  she  seemed  to  say; 
though  her  lips  did  not  part,  nor  her  eyes  falter.  He 
saw  the  soft  down  tremble  once  again,  and  he  saw  her 
lay  the  plumage  of  the  beautiful  bird  against  her  bosom 
for  a  moment  ;  and  he  unfolded  one  more  ring  of  the 
coil  into  which  he  had  gathered  himself. 

"Mr.  Dombey,  though  a  most  honourable  gentleman," 
he  said,  "is  so  prone  to  pervert  even  facts  to  his  own 
view,  when  he  is  at  all  opposed,  in  consequence  of  the 
warp  in  his  mind,  that  he — can  I  give  a  better  instance 
than  this  !  — he  sincerely  believes  (you  will  excuse  the 
folly  of  what  I  am  about  to  say  ;  it  not  being  mine)  that 
his  severe  expression  of  opinion  to  his  present  wife,  on  a 
certain  special  occasion  she  may  remember,  before  the 
lamented  death  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  produced  a  withering 
effect,  and  for  the  moment  quite  subdued  her  ! " 

Edith  laughed.  How  harshly  and  unmusically  need 
not  be  described.  It  is  enough  that  he  was  glad  to  hear 
her. 

"Madam,"  he  resumed,  "I  have  done  with  this. 
Your  own  opinions  are  so  stroug,  and,  I  am  persuaded, 
so  unalterable,"  he  repeated  those  words  slowly  and 
with  great  emphasis,  "that  I  am  almost  afraid  to  incur 
your  displeasure  anew,  when  I  say  that  in  spite  of  these 


616 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


defects  and  my  full  knowledge  of  them,  I  have  become 
habituated  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  esteem  him.  But,  when 
I  say  so,  it  is  not,  believe  me,  for  the  mere  sake  of 
vaunting  a  feeling  that  is  so  utterly  at  variance  with 
your  own,  and  for  which  you  can  have  no  sympathy"— 
oh  how  distinct  and  plain,  and  emphasized  this  was  ! 
"but  to  give  you  an  assurance  of  the  zeal  with  which, 
in  this  unhappy  matter,  I  am  yours,  and  the  indignation 
with  which  I  regard  the  part  I  am  required  to  fill  !  " 

She  sat  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  take  her  eyes  from  his 
face. 

And  now  to  unwind  the  last  ring  of  the  coil ! 

"It  is  growing  late,"  said  Carker,  after  a  pause,  "and 
you  are,  as  you  said,  fatigued.  But  the  second  object  of 
this  interview,  I  must  not  forget.  I  must  recommend 
you,  I  must  entreat  you  in  the  most  earnest  manner,  for 
sufficient  reasons  that  I  have,  to  be  cautious  in  your  de- 
monstrations of  regard  for  Miss  Dombey." 

"  Cautious  !    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"To  be  careful  how  you  exhibit  too  much  affection 
for  that  young  lady." 

"  Too  much  affection,  sir  !  "  said  Edith,  knitting  her 
broad  brow  and  rising.  "  Who  judges  my  affection,  or 
measures  it  out.    You  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  I  who  do  so."  He  was,  or  feigned  to  be, 
perplexed. 

"  Who  then?" 

"  Can  you  not  guess  who  then  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  guess,"  she  answered. 

"Madam,"  he  said  after  a  little  hesitation  ;  meantime 
they  had  been,  and  still  were,  regarding  each  other  as 
before  ;  "I  am  in  a  difficulty  here.  You  have  told  me 
you  will  receive  no  message,  and  you  have  forbidden  me 
to  return  to  that  subject :  but  the  two  subjects  are  so 
closely  entwined,  I  find,  that  unless  you  will  accept  this 
vague  caution  from  one  who  has  now  the  honour  to  pos- 
sess your  confidence,  though  the  way  to  it  has  been 
through  your  displeasure,  I  must  violate  the  injunction 
you  have  laid  upon  me." 

"  You  know  that  you  are  free  to  do  so,  sir,"  said  Edith. 
"Do  it." 

So  pale,  so  trembling,  so  impassioned  !  He  had  not 
miscalculated  the  effect,  then  ! 

"  His  instructions  were,"  he  said,  in  alow  voice,  "  that 
I  should  inform  you  that  your  demeanour  towards  Miss 
Dombey  is  not  agreeable  to  him.  That  it  suggests  com- 
parisons to  him  which  are  not  favourable  to  himself. 
That  he  desires  it  may  be  wholly  changed  ;  and  that  if 
you  are  in  earnest,  he  is  confident  it  will  be  ;  for  your 
continued  show  of  affection  will  not  benefit  its  object." 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  he  answered  in  his  voiceless  man- 
ner of  assent  :  adding  aloud,  "  but  not  directed  against 
you. " 

Proud,  erect,  and  dignified,  as  she  stood  confronting 
him  ;  and  looking  him  as  she  did,  with  her  full  bright 
flashing  eye  ;  and  smiling  as  she  was,  with  scorn  and 
bitterness  ;  she  sunk  as  if  the  ground  had  dropped  be- 
neath her,  and  in  an  instant  would  have  fallen  on  the 
floor,  but  that  he  caught  her  in  his  arms.  As  instanta- 
neously she  threw  him  off,  the  moment  that  he  touched 
her,  and,  drawing  back,  confronted  him  again,  immova- 
ble, with  her  hand  stretched  out. 

"  Please  to  leave  me.    Say  no  more  to-night." 

"  I  feel  the  urgency  of  this,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "because 
it  is  impossible  to  say  what  unforeseen  consequences 
might  arise,  or  how  soon,  from  your  being  unacquainted 
with  his  state  of  mind.  I  understand  Miss  Dombey  is 
concerned,  now,  at  the  dismissal  of  her  old  servant, 
which  is  likely  to  have  been  a  minor  consequence  in  it- 
self. You  don't  blame  me  for  requesting  that  Miss  Dom- 
bey might  not  be  present.    May  I  hope  so  ?  " 

"  I  do  not.    Please  leave  me,  sir." 

"I  knew  that  your  regard  for  that  young  lady,  which 
is  very  sincere  and  strong,  I  am  well  persuaded,  would 
render  it  a  great  un happiness  co  you,  ever  to  bo  a  prey 
to  the  reflection  that  you  had  injured  her  jwsition  and 
ruined  her  future  hopes,"  said  Carker,  hurriedly,  but 
eagerly. 

"  No  more  to-night.    Leave  me,  if  you  please. " 
"  I  shall  be  here  constantly  in  my  attendance  upon  liim, 
and  in  the  transaction  of  business  matters.    You  will  al- 


low me  to  see  you  again,  and  to  consult  what  should  be 
done,  and  learn  your  wishes  ?" 

She  motioned  him  towards  the  door. 

"I  cannot  even  decide  whether  to  tell  him  I  have  spoken 
to  you  yet ;  or  to  lead  him  to  suppose  that  I  have  deferred 
doing  so,  for  want  of  opportunity,  or  for  any  other 
reason.  It  will  be  necessary  that  you  should  enable  me 
to  consult  with  you  very  soon." 

"  At  any  time  but  now,"  she  answered. 

"  You  will  understand,  when  I  wish  to  see  you,  that 
Miss  Dombey  is  not  to  be  present;  and  that  I  seek  an  inter- 
view as  one  who  has  the  happiness  to  possess  your  confi- 
dence, and  who  comes  to  render  you  every  assistance  in 
his  power,  and,  perhaps,  on  many  occasions,  toward  off 
evil  from  her?  " 

Looking  at  him  still  with  the  same  apparent  dread  of 
releasing  him  for  a  moment  from  the  influence  of  her 
steady  gaze,  whatever  that  might  be,  she  answered, 
"  Yes  ! "  and  once  more  bade  him  go. 

He  bowed,  as  if  in  compliance  ;  but  turning  back, 
when  he  had  nearly  reached  the  door,  said  : 

"I  am  forgiven,  and  have  explained  my  fault.  May 
I — for  Miss  Dombey's  sake,  and  for  my  own — take  your 
hand  before  I  go  ?  " 

She  gave  him  the  gloved  hand  she  had  maimed  last 
night.  He  took  it  in  one  of  his  and  kissed  it,  and  with- 
drew. And  when  he  had  closed  the  door,  he  waved  the 
hand  with  which  he  had  taken  hers,  and  thrust  it  in  his 
breast. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

Eecognizant  and  Reflective. 

Among  sundry  minor  alterations  in  Mr.  Carker's  life 
and  habits  that  began  to  take  place  at  this  time,  none 
was  more  remarkable  than  the  extraordinary  diligence 
with  which  he  applied  himself  to  business,  and  the 
closeness  with  which  he  investigated  every  detail  that 
the  affairs  of  the  House  laid  open  to  him.  Always  ac- 
tive and  penetrating  in  such  matters,  his  lynx-eyed  vig- 
ilance now  increased  twenty-fold.  Not  only  did  his 
weary  watch  keep  pace  with  every  present  point  that 
every  day  presented  to  him  in  some  new  form,  but  in 
the  midst  of  these  engrossing  occupations  he  found  leis- 
ure— that  is,  he  made  it — to  review  the  past  transactions 
of  the  Firm,  and  his  share  in  them,  during  a  long  series 
of  years.  Frequently  when  the  clerks  were  all  gone,  the 
offices  dark  and  empty,  and  all  similar  places  of  business 
shut  up,  Mr.  Carker,  with  the  whole  anatomy  of  the  iron 
room  laid  bare  before  him,  would  explore  the  mysteries 
of  books  and  papers,  with  the  patient  progress  of  a  man 
who  was  dissecting  the  minutest  nerves  and  fibres  of  his 
subject.  Perch,  tlie  messenger,  who  usually  remained 
on  these  occasions,  to  entertain  himself  with  the  perusal 
of  the  Price  Current  by  the  light  of  one  candle,  or  to 
doze  over  the  fire  in  the  outer  office,  at  the  imminent 
risk  every  moment  of  diving  head  foremost  into  the  coal 
box,  could  not  withhold  the  tribute  of  his  admiration 
from  this  zealous  conduct,  although  it  much  contracted 
his  domestic  enjoyments  ;  and  again,  and  again,  expati- 
ated to  Mrs.  Perch  (now  nursing  twins)  on  the  industry 
and  acuteness  of  their  managing  gentleman  in  the  City. 

The  same  increased  and  sharp  attention  that  Mr. 
Carker  bestowed  on  the  business  of  the  House,  he  applied 
to  his  own  personal  affairs.  Though  not  a  partner  in 
the  concern — a  distinction  hitherto  reserved  solely  to 
inheritors  of  the  great  name  of  Dombey — he  was  in  the 
receipt  of  some  per  centage  on  its  dealings  ;  and,  par- 
ticipating in  all  its  facilities  for  the  employment  of 
money  to  advantage,  was  considered,  by  the  minnows 
among  the  tritons  of  the  East,  a  rich  man.  It  began  to 
be  said,  among  these  shrewd  observers,  that  Jem  Carker, 
of  Dombey's,  was  looking  about  him  to  see  what  he  was 
worth  ;  and  that  he  was  calling  in  his  money  at  a  good 
time,  like  the  long-headed  fellow  he  was  ;  and  bets  were 
oven  offered  on  the  Stock-Exchange  that  Jem  was  going 
to  marry  a  rich  widow. 

Yet  these  cares  did  not  in  the  least  interfere  with  Mr. 
Carker's  watching  of  his  chief,  or  with  his  cleanness, 
neatness,  sleekness,  or  any  cat-like  quality  he  possessed. 


DOMBEY  AND  80K 


617 


It  was  not  so  ranch  that  there  was  a  change  in  him,  in 
reference  to  any  of  his  habits,  as  that  the  whole  man 
was  intensified.  Everything  that  had  been  observable 
in  him  before,  was  observable  now,  but  with  a  greater 
amount  of  concentration.  He  did  each  single  thing,  as 
if  he  did  nothing  else — a  pretty  certain  indication  in  a 
man  of  that  range  of  ability  and  purpose,  that  he  is  doing 
something  which  sharpens  and  keeps  alive  his  keenest 
powers. 

The  only  decided  alteration  in  him,  was,  that  as  he 
rode  to  and  fro  along  the  streets,  he  would  fall  into  deep 
fits  of  musing,  like  that  in  which  he  had  come  away 
from  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  on  the  morning  of  that  gen- 
tleman's disaster.  At  such  times,  he  would  keep  clear 
of  the  obstacles  in  his  way,  mechanically  ;  and  would 
appear  to  see  and  hear  nothing  until  arrival  at  his  des- 
tination,-or  some  sudden  chance  or  effort  roused  him. 

Walking  his  white-legged  horse,  thus,  to  the  count- 
ing-house of  Dombey  and  Sou  one  day,  he  was  as  uncon- 
scious of  the  observation  of  two  pairs  of  women's  eyes, 
as  of  the  fascinated  orbs  of  Rob  the  Grinder,  who,  in 
waiting  a  street's  length  from  the  appointed  place,  as  a 
demonstration  of  punctuality,  vainly  touched  and  re- 
touched his  hat  to  attract  attention,  and  trotted  along  on 
foot,  by  his  master's  side,  prepared  to  hold  his  stirrup 
when  he  should  alight. 

"  See  where  he  goes  !"  cried  one  of  these  two  women, 
an  old  creature,  who  stretched  out  her  shrivelled  aiTu 
to  point  him  out  to  her  companion,  a  young  woman,  who 
stood  close  beside  her,  withdrawn  like  herself  into  a 
gateway. 

Mrs.  Brown's  daughter  looked  out,  at  this  bidding  on 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Brown  ;  and  there  were  wrath  and  ven- 
geance in  her  face. 

"  I  never  thought  to  look  at  him  again,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice  ;  "  but  it's  well  I  should,  perhaps.  I  see.  I 
see  ! " 

"  Not  changed  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  look  of 
eager  malice. 

^' He  changed!"  returned  the  other.  "What  for? 
What  has  he  suffered  ?  There  is  change  enough  for 
twenty  in  me.    Isn't  that  enough  V  " 

"See  where  he  goes!"  muttered  the  old  woman, 
watching  her  daughter  with  her  red  eyes  ;  "  so  easy  and 
so  trim,  a'  horse-back,  while  we  are  in  the  mud — " 

"  And  of  it,"  said  her  daughter  impatiently.  "We 
are  mud  underneath  his  horse's  feet.  What  should  we 
be?" 

In  the  intentness  with  which  she  looked  after  him 
again,  she  made  a  hasty  gesture  with  her  hand  when  the 
old  woman  began  to  reply,  as  if  her  view  could  be  ob- 
structed by  mere  sound.  Her  mother  watching  her,  and 
not  him,  remained  silent ;  until  her  kindling  giance  sub- 
sided, and  she  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  in  the  relief  of 
his  being  gone. 

"  Deary  !  "  said  the  old  woman  then.  "  Alice  ! 
Handsome  gal  !  Ally  ! "  She  gently  shook  her  sleeve 
to  arouse  her  attention.  "  Will  you  let  him  go  like  that, 
when  you  can  wring  money  from  him.  Why,  it's  a 
wickedness,  my  daughter." 

"  Haven't  I  told  you,  that  I  will  not  have  money  from 
him  ?  "  she  returned.  "  And  don't  you  yet  believe  me  ? 
Did  I  take  his  sister's  money  ?  Would  I  touch  a  penny,  ^ 
if  I  knew  it,  that  had  gone  through  his  white  hands — 
unless,  it  was,  indeed,  that  I  could  poison  it,  and  send  it 
back  to  him  ?    Peace,  mother,  and  come  away." 

"  And  him  so  rich  ? "  murmured  the  old  woman. 
"  And  us  so  poor  !" 

"  Poor  in  not  being  able  to  pay  him  any  of  the  harm 
we  owe  him,"  returned  her  daughter.  "Let  him  give 
me  that  sort  of  riches,  and  I'll  take  them  from  him  and 
nse  them.  Come  away.  It's  no  good  looking  at  his 
horse.    Come  away,  mother  I " 

But  the  old  woman,  for  whom  the  spectacle  of  Rob 
the  Grinder  returning  down  the  street,  leading  the  rider- 
less horse,  appeared  to  have  some  extraneous  interest 
that  it  did  not  possess  in  itself,  surveyed  that  young  man 
with  the  utmost  earnestness  ;  and- seeming  to  have  what- 
ever doubts  she  entertained,  resolved  as  he  drew  nearer, 
glanced  at  her  daughter  with  brightened  eyes  and  with 
her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  emerging  from  the  gateway  at 
the  moment  of  his  passing,  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 


"  Why,  Where's  my  sprightly  Rob  been,  all  this  time  1 " 
she  said,  as  he  turned  round. 

The  sprightly  Rob,  whose  sprightliness  was  very  much 
diminished  by'  the  salutation,  looked  exceedingly  dis- 
mayed, and  said,  with  the  water  rising  in  his  eyes  : 

"Oh  why  can't  you  leave  a  poor  cove  alone,  Misses 
Brown,  when  he's  getting  an  honest  livelihood  and  con- 
ducting himself  rcspectaljle  ?  What  do  you  come  and  de- 
prive a  cove  of  his  character  for,  by  talking  to  him  in 
the  streets,  when  he's  taking  his  master's  horse  to  a  hon- 
est stable — a  horse  you'd  go  and  sell  for  cats'  and  dogs' 
meat  if  you  had  your  way  !  Why,  I  thought."  said  the 
Grinder,  producing  his  concluding  remark  as  if  it  were 
the  climax  of  all  his  injuries,  "  that  you  was  dead  long 
ago  !  " 

"  This  is  the  way,"  cried  the  old  woman,  appealing  to 
her  daughter,  "  that  he  talks  to  me,  who  kncAv  him 
weeks  and  months  together,  my  deary,  and  have  stood 
his  friend  many  and  many  a  time  among  the  pigeon-fan- 
cying tramps  and  bird-catchers." 

"  Let  the  birds  be,  will  you  Misses  Brown  ?  "  retorted 
Rob,  in  a  tone  of  the  acutest  anguish.  "  I  think  a  cove 
had  better  have  to  do  with  lions  than  them  little  cree- 
turs,  for  they're  always  flying  hack  in  your  face  when 
you  least  expect  it.  Well,  how  d'ye  do  and  what  do  you 
want  !"  These  polite  inquiries  the  Grinder  uttered,  as 
it  were  under  protest,  and  with  great  eiasperation  and 
vindictiveness. 

"  Hark  how  he  speaks  to  an  old  friend,  my  deary  ! " 
said  Mrs.  Brown,  again  appealing  to  her  daughter. 
"  But  there's  some  of  his  old  friends  not  so  patient  as 
me.  If  I  was  to  tell  some  that  he  knows,  and  has  sported 
and  cheated  with,  where  to  find  him — " 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  Brown  ?"  inter- 
rupted the  miserable  Grinder,  glancing  quickly  round, 
as  though  he  expected  to  see  his  master's  teeth  shining 
at  his  elbow.  "  What  do  you  take  a  pleasure  in  ruin- 
ing a  cove  for  ?  At  your  time  of  life  too  !  when  you 
ought  to  be  thinking  of  a  variety  of  things  !  " 

"What  a  gallant  horse  !"  said  the  old  woman,  pat- 
ting the  animal's  neck. 

"  Let  him  alone,  will  you  Misses  Brown  ?  "  cried  Rob, 
pushing  away  her  hand.  "  You're  enough  to  drive  a 
penitent  cove  mad  !  " 

"  Why,  what  hurt  do  I  do  him,  child?  "  retunied  the 
old  woman. 

"  Hurt  ?  "  said  Rob.  "  He's  got  a  master  that  would 
find  it  out  if  he  was  touched  with  a  straw,"  And  he  blew 
upon  the  place  where  the  old  woman's  hand  had  rested 
for  a  moment,  and  smoothed  it  gently  with  his  finger,  as 
if  he  seriously  believed  what  he  said. 

The  old  woman  looking  back  to  mumble  and  mouth  at 
her  daughter,  who  followed,  kept  close  to  Rob's  heels  as 
he  walked  on  with  the  bridle  in  his  hand  ;  and  pursued 
the  conversation. 

"  A  good  place,  Rob,  eh  ?  "  said  she.  "  You're  in  luck, 
my  child." 

"  Oh  don't  talk  about  luck.  Misses  Brown,"  returned 
the  wretched  Grinder,  facing  round  and  stopping.  "If 
you'd  never  come,  or  if  you'd  go  away,  then  indeed  a 
cove  might  be  considered  tolerable  hicky.  Can't  you  go 
along,  Misses  Brown,  and  not  foller  me?"  blubbered 
Rob,  with  sudden  defiance.  "  If  the  young  woman's  a 
friend  of  yours,  why  don't  she  take  you  away,  instead  of 
letting  you  make  yourself  so  disgraceful  !" 

"  What  I"  croaked  the  old  woman,  putting  her  face 
close  to  his,  with  a  malevolent  grin  upon  it  that  puck- 
ered up  the  loose  skin  down  in  her  very  throat.  "  Do 
you  deny  your  old  chum  !  Have  you  lurked  to  my  house 
fifty  times,  and  slept  sound  in  a  corner  when  you  had  no 
other  bed  but  the  paving-stones,  and  do  you  talk  to  me 
like  this  !  Have  I  bought  and  sold  with  you,  and  helped 
you  in  my  way  of  business,  schoolboy,  sneak,  and  what 
not,  and  do  you  tell  me  to  go  along?  Could  I  raise  a 
crowd  of  old  company  about  you  to-morrow  morning, 
that  would  follow  you  to  ruin  like  copies  of  your  own 
shadow,  and  do  you  turn  on  me  with  your  bold  looks  ! 
I'll  go  !    Come  Alice." 

"  Stop,  Misses  Brown  1"  cried  the  distracted  Grinder, 
"  What  are  you  doing  of?  Don't  put  yourself  in  a  pas- 
sion !  Don't  let  her  go,  if  you  please.  I  haven't  meant 
any  offence.    I  said  '  how  d'ye  do/  at  first,  didn't  I  ?  But 


618 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


you  wouldn't  answer.  Row  you  do  ?  Besides,"  said 
Rob,  piteously,  "  look  here  !  How  can  a  cove  stand  talk- 
ing in  tlie  street  with  his  master's  prad  a  wanting  to  be 
took  to  be  rubbed  down,  aud  his  master  up  to  every  indi- 
vidgle  thing  that  happens  ?" 

The  old  woman  made  a  show  of  being  partially  ap- 
peased, but  shook  her  head,  and  mouthed  and  muttered 
still. 

"  Come  along  to  the  stables,  and  have  a  glass  of  some- 
thing that's  good  for  you.  Misses  Bro^vn,  can't  you  ?  " 
said  Rob,  instead  of  going  on,  like  that,  which  is  no  good 
to  you,  nor  anybody  else  ?  Come  along  with  her,  will 
you  be  so  kind  ?  "  said  Rob.  "  I'm  sure  I'm  delighted  to 
see  her,  if  it  Avasn't  for  the  horse  !  " 

With  this  apology.  Bob  turned  away,  a  rueful  picture 
of  despair,  aud  walked  his  charge  down  a  bye-street. 
The  old  woman,  mouthing  at  her  daughter,  followed 
close  upon  him.    The  daughter  followed. 

Turning  into  a  silent  little  square  or  court  yard  that 
had  a  great  church  tower  rising  above  it,  and  a  packer's 
warehouse,  and  a  bottle-maker's  warehouse,  for  its  places 
of  business,  Rob  the  Grinder  delivered  the  white-legged 
horse  to  the  hostler  of  a  quaint  stable  at  the  corner  ;  and 
inviting  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  to  seat  themselves 
upon  a  stone  bench  at  the  gate  of  that  establishment, 
soon  reappeared  from  a  neighbouring  public  house  with 
a  pewter  measure  and  a  glass. 

"  Here's  master — Mr.  Carker,  child  !  "  said  the  old  wo- 
man, slowly,  as  her  sentiment  before  drinking.  "  Lord 
bless  him  ! " 

"Why,  I  didn't  tell  you  who  he  was,"  observed  Rob, 
with  staring  eyes. 

"We  know  him  by  sight,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  whose 
working  mouth  and  nodding  head,  stopped  for  the  mo- 
ment, in  the  fixedness  of  her  attention.  "  We  saw  him 
pass  this  morning,  afore  he  got  off  his  horse  ;  when  you 
were  ready  to  take  it." 

"Ay,  ay?"  returned  Rob,  appearing  to  wish  that  his 
readiness  had  carried  him  to  any  other  place. — "  What's 
the  matter  with  her  ?    Won't  she  drink  !  " 

This  inquiry  had  reference  to  Alice,  who,  folded  in  her 
cloak,  sat  a  little  apart  profoundly  inattentive  to  his 
offer  of  the  replenished  glass. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  "  Don't  mind  her," 
she  said  ;  "  She's  a  strange  creetur,  if  you  know'd  her, 
Rob.    But  Mr.  Carker—" 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Rob,  glancing  cautiously  up  at  the 
packer's,  and  at  the  bottle  maker's,  as  if,  from  any  one 
of  the  tiers  of  the  warehouses,  Mr.  Carker  might  be  look- 
ing down.  "Softly." 

"  Why,  he  ain't  here  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  muttered  Rob,  whose  glance  even 
wandered  to  the  church  tower,  as  if  he  might  be  there, 
with  a  supernatural  power  of  hearing. 

"  Good  master  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Brown. 

Rob  nodded  his  head  ;  and  added  in  a  low  voice, 
"  precious  sharp.  " 

"  Lives  out  of  town,  don't  he,  lovey  ?  "  said  the  old  wo- 
man. 

"  When  he's  at  home,"  returned  Rob  ;  "  but  we  don't 
live  at  home  just  now." 

"  Where  then  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  Lodgings  ;  up  near  Mr.  Dombey's,"  returned  Rob. 

The  younger  woman  fixed  her  eyes  so  searchingly  up- 
on him,  and  so  suddenly,  that  Rob  was  quite  confounded, 
and  offered  the  glass  again,  but  with  no  more  effect  upon 
her  than  before. 

"Mr,  Dombey — you  and  I  used  to  talk  about  him, 
sometimes,  you  know,"  said  Rob  to  Mrs.  Brown.  "  You 
used  to  get  me  to  talk  about  him." 

The  old  woman  nodded. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Dombey,  he's  had  a  fall  from  his  horse," 
said  Rob,  unwillingly;  "and  my  master  has  to  be  up 
there,  more  than  usual,  either  witii  him,  or  Mrs.  Dombey, 
or  some  of  'em  ;  and  so  we've  come  to  town," 

"  Are  they  good  friends,  lovey  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  Who?"  retorted  Rob. 

"  He  and  she?" 

"What,  Mr.  and  JVI/s.  Dombey,"  said  Rob.  "How 
should  /  know  ! " 

"  Not  them — Ma.ster  and  Mrs.  Dombey,  chick,"  replied 
the  old  woman,  coaxingly. 


"I  don't  know,"  said  Rob,  looking  round  him  again. 
"I  suppose  so.  How  curious  you  are,  Misses  Brown  ! 
Least  said  soonest  mended," 

"  Why  there's  no  harm  in  it !  "  exclaimed  the  old  wom- 
an, with  a  laugh  and  a  clap  of  her  hands.  "  Sprightly 
Rob  has  grown  tame  since  he  has  been  well  off  !  There's 
no  harm  in  it." 

"  No,  there's  no  harm  in  it  I  know,"  returned  Rob, 
with  the  same  distrustful  glance  at  the  packer's  and  the 
bottle-maker's,  and  the  church  ;  "  but  blabbing,  if  it's 
only  about  the  number  of  buttons  on  my  master's  coat 
won't  do.  I  tell  you  it  won't  do  with  him,  A  cove  had 
better  drown  himself.  He  says  so.  I  shouldn't  have  so 
much  as  told  you  what  his  name  was,  if  you  hadn't  known 
it.    Talk  about  somebody  else." 

As  Rob  took  another  cautious  survey  of  the  yard,  the 
old  woman  made  a  secret  motion  to  her  daughter.  It 
was  momentary,  but  the  daughter,  with  a  slight  look  of 
intelligence,  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  boy's  face,  and 
sat  folded  in  her  cloak  as  before. 

"  Rob,  lovey  ?"  said  the  old  woman,  beckoning  him  to 
the  other  end  of  the  bench.  "  You  were  always  a  pet 
and  favourite  of  mine.  Now,  weren't  you  ?  Don't  you 
know  you  were  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Misses  Brown,"  replied  the  Grinder,  with  a  very 
bad  grace. 

"  And  you  could  leave  me  ! "  said  the  old  woman,  fling- 
ing her  arms  about  his  neck,  "  You  could  go  away,  and 
grow  almost  out  of  our  knowledge,  and  never  come  to  tell 
your  poor  old  friend  how  fortunate  you  were,  proud  lad  ! 
Oho,  oho  ! " 

"  Oh  here's  a  dreadful  go  for  a  cove  that's  got  a  master 
wide  awake  in  the  neighbourhood  !"  exclaimed  the 
wretched  Grinder.   "  To  be  howled  over  like  this  here  ! " 

"Won't  you  come  and  see  me,  Robby  ?  "  cried  Mrs, 
Brown.    "  Oho,  won't  you  ever  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  tell  you  !   Yes,  I  will ! "  returned  the  Grinder. 

"That's my  own  Rob  !  That's  my  lovey  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Brown,  drying  the  tears  upon  her  shrivelled  face,  and 
giving  him  a  tender  squeeze.    "  At  the  old  place  Rob?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Grinder. 

"  Soon,  Robby,  dear?  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown  ;  "  and  of- 
ten ?  " 

"Yes.  Yes,  Yes,"  replied  Rob.  "  I  will  indeed,  up- 
on my  soul  and  body." 

"And  then,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  her  arms  uplifted 
towards  the  sky,  and  her  head  thrown  back  and  shaking, 
"  if  he's  true  to  his  word,  I'll  never  come  a-near  him, 
though  I  know  where  he  is,  and  never  breathe  a  syllable 
about  him  !    Never  ! " 

This  ejaculation  seemed  a  drop  of  comfort  to  the  mis- 
erable Grinder,  who  shook  Mrs.  Brown  by  the  hand  upon 
it,  and  implored  her  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  to  leave  a 
cove,  and  not  destroy  his  prospects.  Mrs.  Brown,  with 
another  fond  embrace  assented  ;  but  in  the  act  of  follow- 
ing her  daughter,  turned  back,  with  her  finger  stealthily 
raised,  and  asked  in  a  hoarse  ^vhisper  for  some  money. 

"A  shilling,  dear  !"  she- said,  with  her  eager,  avari- 
cious face,  "or  sixpence!  For  old  acquaintance  sake, 
I'm  so  poor.  And  my  handsome  gal " — looking  over  her 
shoulder — "she's  my  gal,  Rob — half  starves  me." 

But  as  the  reluctant  Grinder  pat  it  in  her  hand,  her 
daughter,  coming  quietly  back,  caught  the  hand  in  hers, 
and  twisted  out  the  coin. 

"  What,"  she  said,  "mother  !  always  money  I  money 
from  the  first,  and  to  the  last.  Do  you  mind  so  little 
what  I  said  but  now  ?    Here.    Take  it  ! " 

The  old  woman  uttered  a  moan  as  the  money  was  re- 
stored, but  without  in  any  other  way  opposing  its  restor- 
ation, hobbled  at  her  daughter's  side  out  of  the  yard,  and 
along  the  bye  street  upon  which  it  oi)ened.  The  aston- 
ished and  dismayed  Rob  staring  after  them,  Saw  that 
they  stopped,  and  fell  to  earnest  conversation  very  soon  ; 
and  more  than  once  observed  a  darkly  threatening  action 
of  the  younger  woman's  hand  (obviously  having  refer- 
ence to  some  one  of  whom  they  spoke),  and  a  crooning 
feeble  imitation  of  it  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Brown,  that 
made  him  earnestly  hope  he  might  not  be  the  subject  of 
their  discourse. 

With  the  present  consolation  that  they  were  gone, 
and  with  the  prospective  comfort  that  Mrs.  Brown  could 
not  live  forever,  and  was  not  likely  to  live  long  to  trou- 


DOMBEY 

ble  liim,  the  Grinder,  not  otherwise  regretting  his  mis- 
deeds than  as  they  were  attended  with  such  disagreeable 
incidental  consequences,  composed  his  ruffled  features  to 
a  more  serene  expression  by  thinking  of  the  admirable 
manner  in  which  he  had  disposed  of  Captain  Cuttle  (a 
reflection  that  seldom  failed  to  put  him  in  a  flow  of 
spirits),  and  went  to  the  Dombey  counting-house  to  re- 
ceive his  master's  orders. 

There  his  master,  so  subtile  and  vigilant  of  eye,  that 
Rob  quaked  before  hira,  more  than  half  expecting  to  be 
taxed  with  Mrs.  Brown,  gave  him  the  usual  morning's 
box  of  papers  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  a  note  for  Mrs. 
Dombey  :  merely  nodding  his  head  as  an  enjoinder  to  be 
careful,  and  to  use  dispatch — a  mysterious  admonition, 
fraught  in  the  Grinder's  imagination  with  dismal  warn- 
ings and  threats  ;  and  more  powerful  with  him  than  any 
words. 

Alone  again,  in  his  own  room,  Mr.  Carker  applied 
himself  to  work,  and  worked  all  day.  He  saw  many 
visitors  ;  over-looked  a  number  of  documents  :  went  in 
and  out,  to  and  from  sundry  places  of  mercantile  resort ; 
and  indulged  in  no  more  abstraction  until  the  day's 
business  was  done.  But,  when  the  usual  clearance  of 
papers  from  his  table  was  made  at  last,  he  fell  into  his 
thoughtful  mood  once  more. 

He  was  standing  in  his  accustomed  place  and  attitude, 
with  his  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the  ground,  when  his 
brother  entered  to  bring  back  some  letters  that  had  been 
taken  out  in  the  course  of  the  day.  He  put  them  quietly 
on  the  table,  and  was  going  immediately,  when  Mr. 
Carker  the  manager,  whose  eyes  had  rested  on  him,  on 
his  entrance,  as  if  they  had  all  this  time  had  him  for 
the  subject  of  their  contemplation,  instead  of  the  oflfice- 
floor,  said  : 

"  Well,  John  Carker,  and  what  brings  you  here  ?  " 
His  brother  pointed  to  the  letters,  and  was  again  with- 
drawing. 

"I  wonder,"  said  the  manager,  "that  you  can  come 
and  go,  without  inquiring  how  our  master  is." 

* '  We  had  word  this  morning,  in  the  counting-house, 
that  Mr.  Dombey  was  doing  well,"  replied  his  brother. 

You  are  such  a  meek  fellow,"  said  the  manager 
with  a  smile  " — but  you  have  grown  so,  in  the  course 
of  yea^s — that  if  any  harm  came  to  him,  you'd  be  miser- 
able, I  dare  swear  now." 

"  I  should  be  truly  sorry,  James,"  returned  the  other. 

"He  would  be  sorry  !"  said  the  manager,  pointing  at 
him,  as  if  there  were  some  other  person  present  to  whom 
he  was  appealing.  "He  would  be  truly  sorry!  This 
brother  of  mine  !  This  junior  of  the  place,  this  slighted 
piece  of  lumber,  pushed  aside  with  his  face  to  the  wall, 
like  a  rotten  picture,  and  left  so,  for  Heaven  knows 
how  many  years  ;  he's  all  gratitude  and  respect,  and  de- 
votion too,  he  would  have  me  believe  ! " 

"I  would  have  you  believe  nothing,  James,"  returned 
the  other.  "  Be  as  just  to  me  as  you  would  to  any 
other  man  below  you.  You  ask  a  question,  and  I  an- 
swer it."  , 

"And  have  you  nothing,  spaniel,"  said  the  manager, 
with  unusual  irascibility,  "to  complain  of  in  him?  No 
proud  treatment  to  resent,  no  insolence,  no  foolery  of 
state,  no  exaction  of  any  sort  !  What  the  devil  I  are 
you  man  or  mouse  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  strange  if  any  two  persons  could  be  to- 
gether for  so  many  years,  especially  as  superior  and  in- 
ferior, without  each  having  something  to  complain  of  in 
the  other — as  he  thought,  at  all  events,"  replied  John 
Carker.    "But  apart  from  my  history  here — " 

"  His  history  here  I  "  exclaimed  the  manager.  "  ^Vhy, 
there  it  is.  The  very  fact  that  makes  him  an  extreme 
case,  put  him  out  of  the  whole  chapter  !    Well  ?" 

"  Apart  from  that,  which,  as  you  hint,  gives  me  a 
reason  to  be  thankful  that  I  alone  (happily  for  all  the 
rest)  possess,  surely  there  is  no  one  in  the  house  who 
would  not  say  and  feel  at  least  as  much.  You  do  not 
think  that  anybody  here  would  be  indifferent  to  a  mis- 
chance or  misfortune  happening  to  the  head  of  the 
House,  or  anything  than  truly  sorry  for  it  ?  " 

"  You  have  good  reason  to  be  bound  to  him  too!" 
said  the  manager,  contemptuously.  "  Why,  don't  you 
believe  that  you  are  kept  here,  as  a  cheap  example, 
and  a  famous  instance  of  the  clemency  of  Dombey 


AND  SOK  619 

and  Son,  redounding  to  the  credit  of  the  illustrious 
House  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  brother,  mildly,  "  I  have  long  be- 
lieved that  I  am  kept  here  for  more  kind  and  disinter- 
ested reasons." 

"But  you  were  going,"  said  the  manager,  with  the 
snarl  of  a  tiger-cat,  "  to  recite  some  Christian  precept,  I 
observed." 

"Nay,  James,"  returned  the  other,  "  though  the  tie  of 
brotherhood  between  us  has  been  long  broken  and  thrown 
away — " 

"  Who  broke  it,  good  sir?"  said  the  manager. 

"I,  by  my  misconduct.    I  do  not  charge  it  upon  you." 

The  manager  replied,  with  that  mute  action  of  his 
bristling  mouth,  "Oh,  you  don't  charge  it  upon  me!" 
and  bade  him  go  on. 

"I  say,  though  there  is  not  that  tie  between  us,  do  not 
I  entreat,  assail  me  with  unnecessary  taunts,  or  misin- 
terpret what  I  say,  or  would  say.  I  was  only  going  to 
suggest  to  you  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  it  is  only  you,  who  have  been  selected  here,  above 
all  others,  for  advancement,  confidence,  and  distinction 
(selected  in  the  beginning,  I  know,  for  your  great  ability 
and  trustfulness),  and  who  communicate  more  freely 
with  Mr.  Dombey  than  any  one,  and  stand,  it  may  be 
said,  on  equal  terms  with  him,  and  have  been  favoured 
and  enriched  by  him — that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  sup- 
pose that  it  is  only  you  who  are  tender  of  his  welfare 
and  reputation.  There  is  no  one  in  the  house,  from 
yourself  down  to  the  lowest,  I  sincerely  believe,  who 
does  not  participate  in  that  feeling." 

"You  lie,"  said  the  Manager,  red  with  sudden  anger. 
"  You're  a  hypocrite,  John  Carker,  and  you  lie  !" 

"  James  ! "  cried  the  other,  flushing  in  his  turn. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  these  insulting  words?  Why 
do  you  so  basely  use  them  to  me,  unprovoked  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  the  manager,  "  that  your  hypocrisy 
and  meekness — that  all  the  hypocrisy  and  meekness  of 
this  place — is  not  worth  that  to  me,"  snapping  his  thumb 
and  finger,  "  and  that  I  see  through  it  as  if  it  were 
air  !  There  is  not  a  man  emploj^ed  here,  p^anr'^ng  be- 
tween mj^self  and  the  lowest  in  place  (of  whi'm  you  are 
very  considerate,  and  with  reason,  for  he  is  not  far  oil), 
who  wouldn't  be  glad  at  heart  to  see  his  master  humbled: 
who  does  not  hate  him,  secretly :  who  does  not  wish  him 
evil  rather  than  good  :  and  who  would  not  turn  upon 
him,  if  he  had  the  power  and  boldness.  The  nearer  to 
his  favour,  the  nearer  to  his  insolence  ;  the  closer  to 
him,  the  farther  from  him.    That's  the  creed  here  !  " 

"  1  don't  know,"  said  his  brother,  w^hose  roused  feel- 
ings had  soon  yielded  to  surprise,  "  who  may  have 
abused  your  ear  with  such  representations  :  or  why  you 
have  chosen  to  try  me,  rather  than  another.  But  that 
you  have  been  trying  me,  and  tampering  with  me,  I  am 
now  sure.  You  have  a  different  manner  and  a  different 
aspect  from  any  that  I  ever  saw  in  you.  I  will  only  say 
to  you,  once  more,  you  are  deceived." 

"  I  know  I  am,"  said  the  manager.  "  I  have  told  you 
so."  ^ 

"Not  by  me,"  returned  his  brother.  "By  your  in- 
formant, if  you  have  one.  If  not,  by  your  own  thoughts 
and  suspicions." 

"  I  have  no  suspicions,"  said  the  manager.  "  Mine  are 
certainties.  You  pusillanimous,  abject,  cringing  dogs  ! 
All  making  the  same  show,  all  canting  the  same  story, 
all  whining  the  same  professions,  all  harbouring  the 
transparent  secret." 

His  brother  withdrew,  without  saying  more,  and  shut 
the  door  as  he  concluded.  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
drew  a  chair  close  before  the  fire,  and  fell  to  beating  the 
coals  softly  with  the  poker. 

"  The  faint-hearted,  fawning  knaves,"  he  muttered, 
with  his  two  shining  rows  of  teeth  laid  bare.  "  There's 
not  one  among  them,  who  wouldn't  feign  to  be  so  shock- 
ed and  outraged —  !  Bah  !  There's  not  one  among 
them,  but  if  he  had  at  once  the  power,  and  the  wit  and 
daring  to  use  it,  would  scatter  Dombey's  pride  and  lay 
it  low,  as  ruthlessly  as  I  rake  out  these  ashes." 

As  he  broke  them  up,  and  strewed  them  in  the  grate, 
he  looked  on  with  a  thoughtful  smile,  at  what  he  was 
doing.  "  Without  the  same  queen  beckoner  too  !  "  he 
added  presently  ;  "  and  there  is  a  pride  there,  never  to 


6?0 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


be  forgotten — witness  our  own  acquaintance  ! "  Witli 
that  he  fell  into  a  deeper  reverie,  and  sat  pondering  over 
the  blackening  grate,  until  he  rose  up  like  a  man  who 
had  been  absorbed  in  a  book,  and  looking  around  him 
took  his  hat  and  gloves,  went  to  where  his  horse  was 
waiting,  mounted,  and  rode  away  through  the  lighted 
streets  ;  for  it  was  evening. 

He  rode  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house  ;  and  falling 
into  a  walk  as  he  approached  it,  looked  up  at  the  win- 
dows. The  window  where  he  had  once  seen  Florence 
sitting  with  her  dog  attracted  his  attention  first,  though 
there  was  no  light  in  it  ;  but  he  smiled  as  he  carried 
his  eves  up  the  tall  front  of  the  house,  and  seemed  to 
leave  that  object  superciliously  behind. 

"  Time  was,"  he  said,  when  it  was  well  to  watch 
even  your  rising  little  star,  and  know  in  what  quarter 
there  were  clouds,  to  shadow  you  if  needful.  But  a 
planet  has  arisen,  and  you  are  lost  in  its  light." 

He  turned  the  white-legged  horse,  round  the  street 
corner,  and  sought  one  shining  window  from  among 
those  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Associated  with  it  was 
a  certain  stately  presence,  a  gloved  hand,  the  remem- 
brance how  the  feathers  of  a  beautiful  bird's  wing  had 
been  showered  down  upon  the  floor,  and  how  the  light 
white  down  upon  a  robe  had  stirred  and  rustled,  as  in 
the  rising  of  a  distant  storm.  These  were  the  things  he 
carried  with  him  as  he  turned  away  again,  and  rode 
through  the  darkening  and  deserted  parks  at  a  quick 
rate. 

In  fatal  truth,  these  were  associated  with  a  woman,  a 
proud  woman,  who  hated  him,  but  who  by  slow  and  sure 
degrees  had  been  led  on  by  his  craft,  and  her  pride  and 
resentment,  to  endure  his  company,  and  little  by  little  to 
receive  him  as  one  who  had  the  privilege  to  talk  to  her 
of  her  own  defiant  disregard  of  her  own  husband,  and 
her  abandonment  of  high  consideration  for  herself. 
They  were  associated  with  a  woman  who  hated  him 
deeply,  and  who  knew  him,  and  who  mistrusted  him  be- 
cause she  knew  him,  and  because  he  knew  her  ;  but  who 
fed  her  fierce  resentment  by  suffering  him  to  draw  nearer 
and  yet  nearer  to  her  every  day,  in  spite  of  the  hate  she 
cherished  for  him.  In  spite  of  it  !  For  that  very  rea- 
son ;  since  its  depths,  too  far  down  for  her  threatening 
eye  to  pierce,  though  she  could  see  into  them  dimly,  lay 
the  dark  retaliation,  whose  faintest  shadow  seen  once 
and  shuddered  at,  and  never  seen  again,  would  have 
been  sufficient  stain  upon  her  soul. 

Did  the  phantom  of  such  a  woman  flit  about  him  on 
his  ride  ;  true  to  the  reality,  and  obvious  to  him  ? 

Yes.  He  saw  her  in  his  mind,  exactly  as  she  was. 
She  bore  him  company  with  her  pride,  resentment, 
hatred,  all  as  plain  to  him  as  her  beauty  ;  with  nothing 
plainer  to  him  than  her  hatred  of  him.  He  saw  her 
sometimes  haughty  and  repellant  at  his  side,  and  some- 
times down  among  his  horse's  feet,  fallen  and  in  the 
dust.  But  he  always  saw  her  as  she  was,  v/ithout  dis- 
guise, and  watched  her  on  the  dangerous  way  that  she 
was  going. 

And  when  his  ride  was  over,  and  he  was  newly 
dressed,  and  came  into  the  light  of  her  bright  room  with 
his  bent  head,  soft  voice,  and  soothing  smile,  he  saw  her 
yet  as  plainly.  He  even  suspected  the  mystery  of  the 
gloved  hand,  and  held  it  all  the  longer  in 'his  own  for 
that  suspicion.  Upon  the  dangerous  way  that  she  was 
going,  he  was  still ;  and  not  a  footprint"  did  she  mark 
upon  it,  but  he  set  his  own  there,  straight. 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 


T/ie  Thunderbolt. 


The  barrier  between  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  wife,  was 
not  weakened  by  time.  Ill-assorted  couple,  unhappy  in 
themselves  and  in  each  other,  bound  together  by  no  tie 
but  the  manacle  that  joined  their  fettered  hands,  and 
straining  that  so  harshly,  in  their  shrinking  asunder, 
that  it  wore  and  chafed  to  the  bone.  Time,  consoler  of 
affliction  and  softener  of  anger,  could  do  nothing  to  help 
them.  Their  pride,  however  different  in  kind  and  ob- 
ject, was  equal  in  degree  ;  and,  in  their  flinty  opposition, 


1  struck  out  fire  between  them  which  might  smoulder  or 
j  might  blaze,  as  circumstances  were,  but  burned  up  ev- 
I  erytliing  within  their  mutual  reach,  and  made  their  mar- 
;  riage  way  a  road  of  ashes. 

j  Let  us  be  just  to  him  :  In  the  monstrous  delusion  of 
j  his  life,  swelling  with  every  grain  of  sand  that  shifted 
in  its  glass,  he  urged  her  on,  he  little  thought  to  what, 
I  or  considered  how  ;  but  still  his  feeling,  towards  her, 
I  such  as  it  was,  remained  as  at  first.  She  had  the  grand 
!  demerit  of  unaccountably  putting  herself  in  opposition 
j  to  the  recognition  of  his  vast  importance,  and  to  the 
I  acknowledgment  of  her  complete  submission  to  it,  and 
I  so  far  it  was  necessary  to  correct  and  reduce  her ;  but 
!  otherwise  he  still  considered  her,  in  his  cold  way,  a  lady 
i  capable  of  doing  honour,  if  she  would,  to  his  choice  and 
j  name,  and  of  reflecting  credit  on  his  proprietorship. 

Now,  she  with  all  her  might  of  passionate  and  proud 
resentment,  bent  her  dark  glance  from  day  to  day,  and 
hour  to  hour — from  that  night  in  her  own  chamber,'  when 
she  had  sat  gazing  at  the  shadows  on  the  wall,  to  the 
deeper  night  fast  coming — upon  one  figure  directing  a 
crowd  of  humiliations  and  exasperations  against  her  ; 
and  that  figure,  still  her  husband's. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey's  master- vice  that  ruled  him  so  inex- 
orably, an  unnatural  characteristic?    It  might  be  worth 
while,  sometimes,  to  inquire  what  Nature  is,  and  how 
men  work  to  change  her,  and  whether,  in  the  enforced 
distortions  so  produced,  it  is  not  natural  to  be  unnatural. 
Coop  any  son  or  daughter  of  our  mighty  mother  within 
narrow  range,  and  bind  the  prisoner  to  one  idea,  and 
foster  it  by  servile  worship  of  it  on  the  part  of  the  few 
i  timid  or  designing  people  standing  round,  and  what  is 
1  Nature  to  the  willing  captive  who  has  never  risen  up  upon 
\  the  wings  of  a  free  mind — drooping  and  useless  soon — to 
I  see  her  in  her  comprehensive  truth  ! 

I  Alas  !  are  there  are  so  few  things  in  the  world,  about 
i  us,  most  unnatural,  and  yet  most  natural  in  being  so  ! 
Hear  the  magistrate  or  judge  admonish  the  unnatural 
outcasts  of  society  ;  unnatural  in  brutal  habits,  unnatural 
in  want  of  decency,  unnatural  in  losing  and  confounding 
all  distinctions  between  good  and  evil  ;  unnatural  in 
ignorance,  in  vice,  in  recklessness,  in  contumacy,  in  mind, 
in  looks,  in  everything.  But  follow  the  good  clergyman 
or  doctor,  who,  with  his  life  imperilled  at  every  breath 
i  he  draws,  goes  down  into  their  dens,  lying  within  the 
j  echoes  of  our  carriage  wheels  and  daily  tread  upon  the 
I  pavement  stones.  Look  round  upon  the  world  of  odious 
sights — millions  of  immortal  creatures  have  no  other 
world  on  earth — at  the  lightest  mention  of  vvhich  human- 
ity revolts,  and  dainty  delicacy  living  in  the  next  street, 
stops  her  ears,  and  lisps,  "  I  don't  believe  it  !"  Breathe 
the  polluted  air,  foul  with  every  impurity  that  is  poison- 
ous to  health  and  life  ;  and  have  every  sense,  conferred 
upon  our  race  for  its  delight  and  happiness,  offended, 
sickened,  and  disgusted,  and  made  a  channel  by  which 
misery  and  death  alone  can  enter.  Vainly  attempt  to 
think  of  any  simple  plant,  or  flower,  or  wholesome  weed, 
that,  set  in  this  foetid  bed,  could  have  its  natural  growth, 
or  put  its  little  leaves  forth  to  the  sun  as  God  designed 
it.  And  then,  calling  up  some  ghastly  child,  with  stunted 
form,  and  wicked  face,  hold  forth  on  its  unnatural  sin- 
fulness, and  lament  its  being,  so  early,  far  away  from 
Heaven — but  thiiik  a  little  of  its  having  been  conceived, 
and  born  and  bred  in  Hell  ! 

Those  who  study  the  physical  sciences,  and  bring  them 
to  bear  upon  the  health  of  man,  tell  us  that  if  the  nox- 
ious particles  that  rise  from  vitiated  air,  were  palpable 
to  the  sight,  we  should  see  them  lowering  in  a  dense 
black  cloud  above  such  haunts,  and  rolling  slowly  on  to 
corrupt  the  better  portions  of  the  town.  But  if  the 
moral  pestilence  that  rises  with  them,  and,  in  the  eternal 
laws  of  outraged  Nature,  is  inseparable  from  them,  could 
be  made  discernible  too,  how  terrible  the  revelation  I 
Then  should  we  see  depravity,  impiety,  drunkenness, 
theft,  murder,  and  a  long  train  of  nameless  sins  against 
the  natural  affections  and  repulsions  of  mankind,  over- 
hanging the  devoted  spots,  and  creeping  on,  to  blight 
the  innocent  and  spread  contagion  among  the  pure.  Then 
should  we  see  how  the  same  poisoned  fountains  that  flow 
into  our  hospitals  and  lazar-houses,  inundate  the  jails, 
and  make  the  convict-ships  swim  deep,  and  roll  across 
the  seas,  and  over-run  vast  continents  with  crime.  Then 


DOMBEY 

should  we  stand  appalled  to  know,  that  wliere  we  gen- 
erate disease  to  strike  our  children  down  and  entail  itself 
on  unborn  generations,  there  also  we  breed,  by  the  same 
certain  process,  infancy  that  knows  no  innocence,  youth 
without  modesty  or  shame,  maturity  that  is  mature  in 
nothing  but  in  suffering  and  in  guilfc,  blasted  old  age 
that  is  a  scandal  on  the  form  we  bear.  Unnatural 
humanity  !  When  we  shall  gather  grapes  from  thorns, 
and  figs  from  thistles  ;  when  fields  of  grain  shall  spring 
up  from  the  ofEal  in  the  by  ways  of  our  wicked^cities,  and 
roses  bloom  in  the  fat  church-yards  that  they  cherish  ; 
then  we  may  look  for  natural  humanity,  and  find  it  grow- 
ing from  such  seed. 

Oh  for  a  good  spirit  who  would  take  the  house-tops  off, 
with  a  more  potent  and  benignant  hand  than  the  lame 
demon  in  the  tale,  and  show  a  Christian  people  what 
dark  shapes  issue  from  amidst  their  homes,  to  swell  the 
retinue  of  the  Destroying  Angel  as  he  moves  forth  among 
them  !  For  only  one  night's  view  of  the  pale  phantoms 
rising  from  the  scenes  of  our  too-long  neglect ;  and,  from 
the  thick  and  sullen  air  where  Vice  and  Fever  propagate 
together,  raining  the  tremendous  social  retributions 
which  are  ever  pouring  down,  and  ever  coming  thicker  ! 
Bright  and  blest  the  morning  that  should  rise  on  such  a 
night :  for  men,  delayed  no  more  by  stumbling-blocks  of 
their  own  making,  which  are  but  specks  of  dust  upon  the 
path  between  them  and  eternity,  would  then  apply  them- 
selves, like  ci'eatures  of  one  common  origin,  owning  one 
duty  to  the  Father  of  one  family,  and  tending  to  one 
common  end,  to  make  the  world  a  better  place  ! 

Not  the  less  bright  and  blest  would  that  day  be  for 
rousing  some  who  never  have  looked  out  upon  the  world 
of  human  life  around  them,  to  a  knowledge  of  their  own 
relation  to  it,  and  for  making  them  acquainted  with  a 
perversion  of  nature  in  their  own  contracted  sympathies 
and  estimates  ;  as  great,  and  yet  as  natural  in  its  develop- 
ment when  once  begun,  as  the  lowest  degradation  known. 

But  no  such  day  had  ever  dawned  on  Mr.  Dombey,  or 
his  wife  ;  and  the  course  of  each  was  taken. 

Through  six  months  that  ensued  upon  his  accident, 
they  held  the  same  relations  one  towards  the  other,  A 
marble  rock  could  not  have  stood  more  obdurately  in  his 
way  than  she  ;  and  no  chilled  spring,  lying  uncheered  by 
any  ray  of  light  in  the  depths  of  a  deep  cave,  could  be 
more  sullen  or  more  cold  than  he. 

The  hope  that  had  fluttered  within  her  when  the  pro- 
mise of  her  new  home  dawned,  was  quite  gone  from  the 
heart  of  Florence  now.  That  home  was  nearly  two  years 
old  ;  and  even  the  patient  trust  that  was  in  her,  could  not 
survive  the  daily  blight  of  such  experience.  If  she  had 
any  lingering  fancy  in  the  nature  of  hope  left,  that  Edith 
and  her  father  might  be  happier  together  in  some  dis- 
tant time,  she  had  none,  now,  that  her  father  would  ever 
love  her.  The  little  interval  in  which  she  had  imagined 
that  she  saw  some  small  relenting  in  him,  was  forgotten 
in  the  long  remembrance  of  his  coldness  since  and  be 
fore,  or  only  remembered  as  a  sorrowful  delusion. 

Florence  loved  him  still,  but  by  degrees,  had  come  to 
love  him  rather  as  some  dear  one  who  had  been,  or  who 
might  have  been,  than  as  the  hard  reality  before  her 
eyes.  Something  of  the  softened  sadness  with  which 
she  loved  the  memory  of  little  Paul,  or  her  mother, 
seemed  to  enter  now  into  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  to 
make  them,  as  it  were,  a  dear  remembrance.  Whether 
it  was  that  he  was  dead  to  her,  and  that  partly  for  this 
reason,  partly  for  his  share  in  thuse  old  objects  of  her 
affection,  and  partly  for  the  long  association  of  him  with 
hopes  that  were  withered  and  tendernesses  he  had  fro- 
zen, she  could  not  have  told  ;  but  the  father  whom  she 
loved  began  to  be  a  vague  and  dreamy  idea  to  her ; 
hardly  more  substantially  connected  with  her  real  life, 
than  the  image  she  would  sometimes  conjure  up  of  her 
dear  brother  yet  alive,  and  growing  to  be  a  man,  who 
would  protect  and  cherish  her. 

The  change,  if  it  may  be  called  one,  had  stolen  on  her 
like  the  change  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  and  had 
come  with  it.  Floience  was  almost  seventeen,  when,  in 
her  lonely  musings,  she  was  conscious  of  these  thoughts. 

She  was  often  alone  now,  for  the  old  association  be- 
tween her  and  her  mama  was  greatly  changed.  At  the 
time  of  her  father's  accident,  and  when  he  was  lying  in 
his  room  down -stairs,  Florence  had  first  observed  that 


AND  SON.  621 

Edith  avoided  her.  Wounded  and  shocked,  and  yet  un- 
able to  reconcile  this  with  her  affection  when  they  did 
meet,  she  sought  her  in  her  own  room  at  night,  once 
more. 

"Mama,"  said  Florence,  stealing  softly  to  her  side, 
"  have  I  have  offended  you?" 
Edith  answered  "  No." 

"  I  must  have  done  something,"  said  Florence.  "Tell 
me  what  it  is.  You  have  changed  your  manner  to  me, 
dear  mama.  I  cannot  say  how  instantly  I  feel  the  least 
change  :  for  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart." 

"As  1  do  you,"  said  Edith.  "Ah,  Florence,  believe 
me  never  more  than  now  ! " 

"Why  do  you  go  away  from  me  so  often,  and  keep 
away?"  asked  Florence.  And  why  do  you  sometimes 
look  so  strangely  on  me,  dear  mama?  You  do  so,  do  you 
not?" 

Edith  signified  assent  with  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Why,"  returned  Florence  imploringly.  "  Tell  me 
why,  that  I  may  know  how  to  please  you  better ;  and 
tell  me  this  shall  not  be  so  any  more." 

"My  Florence,"  answered  Edith,  taking  the  hand  that 
embraced  her  neck,  and  looking  into  the  eyes  that  looked 
into  hers  so  lovingly,  as  Florence  knelt  upon  the  ground 
before  her  ;  "  why  it  is,  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  is  neither 
for  me  to  say  nor  you  to  hear  ;  but  that  it  is,  and  that  it 
must  be,  I  know.    Should  I  do  it  if  I  did  not?" 

"Are  we  to  be  estranged,  mama?"  asked  Florence, 
gazing  at  her  like  one  frightened. 

Edith's  silent  lips  formed  "Yes." 

Florence  looked  at  her  with  increasing  fear  and  won- 
der, until  she  could  see  her  no  more  through  the  blind- 
ing tears  that  ran  down  her  face. 

"  Florence  !  my  life  ! "  said  Edith,  hurriedly,  listen  to 
me.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  this  grief.  Be  calmer.  You 
see  that  I  am  composed,  and  is  it  nothing  to  me  ?  " 

She  resumed  her  steady  voice  and  manner  as  she  said 
the  latter  words,  and  added  presently  : 

"  Not  wholly  estranged.  Partially  :  and  only  that,  in 
appearance,  Florence,  for  in  my  own  breast  I  am  still 
the  same  to  you.  and  ever  will  be.  But  what  I  do  is  not 
done  for  myself." 

"  Is  it  for  me,  mama?"  asked  Edith. 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Edith,  after  a  pause,  "to  know 
what  it  is  ;  why,  matters  little.  Dear  Florence,  it  is 
better — it  is  necessary — it  must  be — that  our  association 
should  be  less  frequent.  The  confidence  there  has  been 
between  us  must  be  broken  off." 

"  When?"  cried  Florence.    "Oh,  mama,  when  ?  " 

"  Now,"  said  Edith. 

"  For  all  time  to  come?"  asked  Florence. 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  answered  Edith.  "  I  do  not  know 
that.  Nor  will  I  say  that  companionship  between  us, 
is,  at  the  best,  an  ill-sorted  and  unholy  union,  of  which 
I  might  have  known  no  good  could  come.  My  way  here 
has  been  through  paths  that  you  will  never  tread,  and  my 
way  henceforth  may  lie — God  knows — I  do  not  see  it — " 

Her  voice  died  away  into  silence  ;  and  she  sat,  looking 
at  Florence,  and  almost  shrinking  from  her,  with  the 
same  strange  dread  and  wild  avoidance  that  Florence 
had  noticed  once  before.  The  same  dark  pride  and  rage 
succeeded,  sweeping  over  her  form  and  features  like  an 
angry  chord  across  the  strings  of  a  wild  harp.  But  no 
softness  or  humility  ensued  on  that.  She  did  not  lay 
her  head  down  now,  and  weep,  and  say  that  she  had  no 
hope  but  in  Florence.  She  held  it  up  as  if  she  were  a 
beautiful  Medusa,  looki«ng  on  him,  face  to  face,  to  strike 
him  dead.  Yes,  and  she  would  have  done  it  if  she  had 
had  the  charm. 

"  Mama,"  said  Florence  anxiously,  "there  is  a  change 
in  you,  in  more  than  what  you  say  to  me,  which  alarms 
me.    Let  me  stay  with  you  a  little." 

"  No,"  said  Edith,  "  no  dearest.  I  am  best  left  alone 
now,  and  I  do  best  to  keep  apart  from  you.  of  all  else. 
Ask  me  no  questions,  but  believe  that  what  I  am  when  I 
seem  fickle  or  capricious  to  you,  I  am  not  of  my  own 
will,  or  for  myself.  Believe,' though  we  are  stranger  to 
each  other  than  we  have  been,  that  I  am  unchanged  to 
you  within.  Forgive  me  for  having  ever  darkened  your 
dark  home— I  am  a  shadow  on  it,  I  know  well— and  let 
us  never  speak  of  this  again." 

"  Mama,"  sobbed  Florence,  "  we  are  not  to  part  ?  " 


622 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  We  do  this  that  wp  may  not  part,"  said  Edith.  "  Ask 
no  more.  Go,  Florence  !  My  love  and  my  remorse  go 
with  you  !  " 

She*^ embraced  her,  aud  dismissed  her  ;  and  as  Florence 
passed  out  of  her  room,  Edith  looked  on  the  retiring 
figure,  as  if  her  good  angel  went  out  in  that  form,  and 
left  her  to  the  haughty  and  indignant  passions  that  now 
claimed  her  for  their  own,  and  set  their  seal  upon  her 
brow. 

From  that  hour,  Florence  and  she  were,  as  they  had 
been,  no  more.  For  days  together,  they  would  seldom 
meet',  except  at  table,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  present. 
Then  Edith,  imperious,  inflexible,  and  silent,  never 
looked  at  her.  Whenever  Mr.  Carker  was  of  the  party, 
as  he  often  was,  daring  the  progress  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
recovery,  and  afterwards,  Edith  held  herself  more  re- 
moved from  her,  and  was  more  distant  towards  her, 
than  at  other  times.  Yet  she  and  Florence  never  en- 
countered, when  there  was  no  one  by,  but  she  would 
embrace  her  as  affectionately  as  of  old,  though  not  with 
the  same  relenting  of  her  proud  aspect  ;  and  often,  when 
she  had  been  out  late,  she  would  steal  up  to  Florence's 
room,  as  she  had  been  used  to  do,  in  the  dark,  and 
whisper  "  Good  night,"  on  her  pillow.  When  uncon- 
scious, in  her  slumber,  of  such  visits,  Florence  would 
sometimes  awake,  as  from  a  dream  of  those  words, 
softly  spoken,  and  would  seem  to  feel  the  touch  of  lips 
upon  her  face.  But  less  and  less  often  as  the  months 
went  on. 

And  now  the  void  in  Florence's  own  heart  began  again, 
indeed,  to  make  a  solitude  around  her.  As  the  image 
of  the  father  whom  she  loved  had  insensibly  become  a 
mere  abstraction,  so  Edith,  following  the  fate  of  all  the 
rest  about  whom  her  affections  had  entwined  themselves, 
was  fleeting,  fading,  growing  paler  in  the  distance, 
every  day.  Little  by  little,  she  receded  from  Florence, 
like  the  retiring  ghost  of  what  she  had  been  ;  little  by 
little,  the  chasm  between  them  widened  and  seemed 
deeper  ;  little  by  little,  all  the  power  of  earnestness  and 
tenderness  she  had  shown,  was  frozen  up  in  the  bold, 
angry  hardihood  with  which  she  stood,  upon  the  brink 
of  a  deep  precipice  unseen  by  Florence,  daring  to  look 
down. 

There  was  but  one  consideration  to  set  against  the 
heavy  loss  of  Edith,  and  though  it  was  slight  comfort  to 
the  burdened  heart,  she  tried  to  think  it  some  relief. 
No  longer  divided  between  her  affection  and  duty  to  the 
two,  Florence  could  love  both  and  do  no  injustice  to 
either.  As  shadows  of  her  fond  imagination,  she  could 
give  them  equal  place  in  her  own  bosom,  and  wrong 
them  with  no  doubts. 

So  she  tried  to  do.  At  times,  and  often  too,  wonder- 
ing speculations  on  the  cause  of  this  change  in  Edith, 
would  obtrude  themselves  upon  her  mind  and  frighten 
her  ;  but  in  the  calm  of  its  abandonment  once  more  to 
silent  grief  and  loneliness,  it  was  not  a  curious  mind. 
Florence  had  only  to  remember  that  her  star  of  promise 
was  clouded  in  the  general  gloom  that  hung  upon  the 
house,  and  to  weep  and  be  resigned. 

Thus  living,  in  a  dream  wherein  the  overflowing  love 
of  her  young  heart  expended  itself  on  airy  forms,  and  in 
a  real  world  where  she  had  experienced  little  but  the 
rolling  back  of  that  strong  tide  upon  itself,  Florence  grew 
to  be  seventeen.  Timid  and  retiring  as  her  solitary  life 
had  made  her,  it  had  not  embittered  her  sweet  temper, 
or  her  earnest  nature,  A  child  in  innocent  simplicity  ;  a 
woman  in  her  modest  self-reliance,  and  her  deep  inten- 
sity of  feeling  ;  both  child  and  woman  seemed  at  once 
expressed  in  her  fair  face  and  fragile  delicacy  of  shape, 
and  gracefully  to  mingle  there  ; — as  if  the  spring  should 
be  unwilling  to  depart  when  summer  came,  and  sought 
to  blend  the  earlier  beauties  of  the  flowers  with  their 
bloom.  But  in  her  thrilling  voice,  in  her  calm  eyes, 
sometimes  in  a  strange  ethereal  light  that  seemed  to 
rest  upon  her  head,  and  always  in  a  certain  pensive 
air  upon  her  beauty,  there  was  an  expression,  such  as 
had  been  seen  in  the  dead  boy  ;  and  the  council  in  the 
Servants'  Hall  whispered  so  among  themselves,  and  shook 
their  heads,  and  ate  and  drank  the  more,  in  a  closer  bond 
of  good-fellowship. 

This  observant  body  had  plenty  to  say  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dombey,  and  of  Mr.  Carker,  who  appeared  to  be  a 


mediator  between  them,  and  who  came  and  went  as  if 
he  were  trying  to  make  peace,  but  never  could.  They 
all  deplored  the  uncomfortable  state  of  affairs,  and  ail 
agreed  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  (whose  unpopularity  was  not 
to  be  surpassed)  had  some  hand  in  it ;  but,"  upon  the 
whole,  it  was  agreeable  to  have  so  good  a  subject  for  a 
rallying  point,  and  they  made  a  great  deal  of  it,  and  en- 
joyed themselves  very  much. 

The  general  visitors  who  came  to  the  house,  and  those 
among  wKom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey  visited,  thought  it 
a  pretty  equal  match,  as  to  haughtiness,  at  all  events, 
and  thought  nothing  more  about  it.  The  young  lady 
with  the  back  did  not  appear  for  some  time  after 
Mrs.  Skewton's  death ;  observing  to  some  particular 
friends,  with  her  usual  engaging  little  scream,  that  she 
couldn't  separate  the  family  from  a  notion  of  tombstones, 
and  horrors  of  that  sort  ;  but  when  she  did  come,  she 
saw  nothing  wrong,  except  Mr.  Dombey  wearing  a  bunch 
of  gold  seals  to  his  watch,  which  shocked  her  very  much, 
as  an  exploded  superstition.  This  youthful  fascinator 
considered  a  daughter-in-law  objectionable  in  principle  ; 
otherwise,  she  had  nothing  to  say  against  Florence,  but 
that  she  sadly  wanted  "style" — which  might  mean 
back,  perhaps.  Many,  who  only  came  to  the  house  on 
state  occasions,  hardly  knew  who  Florence  was,  and 
said,  going  home,  "Indeed  !  was  that  Miss  Dombey,  in 
the  corner?  Very  pretty,  but  a  little  delicate  and 
thoughtful  in  appearance  !  " 

None  the  less  so,  certainly,  for  her  life  of  the  last  six 
months,  Florence  took  her  seat  at  the  dinner-table,  on 
the  day  before  the  second  anniversary  of  her  father'^ 
marriage  to  Edith  (Mrs.  Skewton  had  been  lying  stricken 
with  paralysis  when  the  first  came  round)*  with  an  un- 
easiness, amounting  to  dread.  She  had  no  other  war- 
rant for  it,  than  the  occasion,  the  expression  of  her 
father  s  face,  in  the  hasty  glance  she  caught  of  it,  and 
the  presence  of  Mr.  Carker,  v/hich,  always  unpleasant 
to  her,  was  more  so  on  this  day,  than  she  had  ever  felt 
it  before. 

Edith  was  richly  dressed,  for  she  and  Mr.  Dombey 
were  engaged  in  the  evening  to  some  large  assembly, 
and  the  dinner-hour  that  day  was  late.  She  did  not 
appear  until  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  when  Mr. 
Carker  rose  aud  led  her  to  her  chair.  Beautiful  and 
lustrous  as  she  was,  there  was  that  in  her  face  and  air 
which  seemed  to  separate  her  hopelessly  from  Florence, 
and  from  every  one,  for  ever  more.  And  yet,  for  an  in- 
stant, Florence  saw  a  beam  of  kindness  in  her  eyes,  when 
they  were  turned  on  her,  that  made  the  distance  to  which 
she  had  withdrawn  herself,  a  greater  cause  of  sorrow 
and  regret  than  ever. 

There  was  very  little  said  at  dinner.  Florence  heard 
her  father  speak  to  Mr.  Carker  sometimes  on  business 
matters,  and  heard  him  softly  reply,  but  she  paid  little 
attention  to  what  they  said,  and  only  wished  the  dinner 
at  an  end.  When  the  dessert  was  placed  upon  the 
table,  and  they  were  left  alone,  with  no  servant  in  at- 
tendance, Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been  several  times  clear- 
ing his  throat  in  a  manner  that  argued  no  good,  said  : 

"  Mrs,  Dombey,  you  know,  I  suppose,  that  I  have  in- 
structed the  housekeeper  that  there  will  be  some  com- 
pany to  dinner  here  to-morrow. " 

"I  do  not  dine  at  home,"  she  answered. 

"Not  a  large  party,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an 
indifferent  assumption  of  not  having  heard  her  ;  "  merely 
some  twelve  or  fourteen.  My  sister.  Major  Bagstock, 
and  somex)thers  whom  you  know  but  slightly," 

"  I  do  not  dine  at  home,"  she  repeated. 

"However  doubtful  reason  1  may  have,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey," said  Mr.  Dombey,  still  going  majestically  on,  aS 
if  she  had  not  spoken,  "  to  hold  the  occasion  in  very 
pleasant  remembrance  just  now,  there  are  appearances 
in  these  things  which  must  be  maintained  before  the 
world.  If  you  have  no  respect  for  yourself,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey-" 

"I  have  none,"  she  said. 

"  Madam,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  striking  his  hand  upon 
the  table,  "  hear  me,  if  you  please.  I  say,  if  you  have 
no  respect  for  yourself—" 

"  And  /  say  I  have  none,"  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her  ;  but  the  face  she  showed  him  in  re- 
turn would  not  have  changed,  if  death  itself  had  looked. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


623 


"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  more  quietly  to 
that  gentleman,  "as  you  have  been  my  medium  of  com- 
munication with  Mrs.  Dombey  on  former  occasions,  and 
as  I  choose  to  preserve  the  decencies  of  life,  so  far  as  I 
am  individually  concerned,  I  will  trouble  you  to  have 
the  goodness  to  inform  Mrs,  Dombey  that  if  she  has  no 
respect  for  herself,  I  have  some  respect  for  myself,  and 
therefore  insist  on  my  arrangements  for  to-morrow." 

"Tell  your  sovereign  master,  sir,"  said  Edith,  "  that 
I  will  take  leave  to  speak  to  him  on  this  subject  by-and- 
by,  and  that  I  will  speak  to  him  alone." 

"Mr.  Carker,  madam,"  said  her  husband,  "being  in 
possession  of  the  reason  which  obliges  me  to  refuse  you 
that  privilege,  shall  be  absolved  from  the  delivery  of 
any  such  message."  He  saw  her  eyes  move,  while  he 
spoke,  and  followed  them  with  his  own. 

"  Your  daughter  is  present,  sir,"  said  Edith. 

"My  daughter  will  remain  present,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

Florence,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again,  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  trembling. 

"My  daughter,  madam" — ^began  Mr.  Dombey. 

But  Edith  stopped  him,  in  a  voice  which,  although  not 
raised  in  the  least,  was  so  clear,  emphatic,  and  distinct, 
that  it  might  have  been  heard  in  a  whirlwind. 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  speak  to  you  alone,"  she  said.  "If 
you  are  not  mad,  hee4  what  I  say," 

"I  have  authority  to  speak  to  you,  madam,"  returned 
her  husband,  "  when  and  where  I  please  ;  and  it  is  my 
pleaiiure  to  speak  here  and  now," 

She  rose  up  as  if  to  leave  the  room  ;  but  sat  down 
again,  and  looking  at  him  with  all  outward  composure, 
said,  in  the  same  voice  : 

"You  shall  !" 

"I  must  tell  you  first,  that  there  is  a  threatening  ap- 
pearance in  your  manner,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  which  does  not  become  you." 

She  laughed.  The  shaken  diamonds  in  her  hair  started 
and  trembled.  There  are  fables  of  precious  stones  that 
would  turn  pale,  their  wearer  being  in  danger.  Had 
these  been  such,  their  imprisoned  rays  of  light  would 
have  taken  flight  that  moment,  and  they  would  have 
been  as  dull  as  lead. 

Carker  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down. 

"As  to  nay  daughter,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  re- 
suming the  thread  of  his  discourse,  "it  is  by  no  means 
inconsistent  with  her  duty  to  me,  that  she  should  know 
what  conduct  to  avoid.  At  present  you  are  a  very  strong 
example  to  her  of  this  kind,  and  I  hope  she  may  profit 
by  it." 

"I  would  not  stop  you  now,"  returned  his  wife,  im- 
movable in  eye,  and  voice,  and  attitude  ;  "I  would  not 
rise  and  go  away,  and  save  you  the  utterance  of  one 
word,  if  the  room  were  burning." 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  head,  as  if  in  a  sarcastic  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  attention,  and  resumed.  But  not 
with  so  much  self-possession  as  before  ;  for  Edith's 
quick  uneasiness  in  reference  to  Florence,  and  Edith's 
indifference  to  him  and  his  censure,  chafed  and  galled 
him  like  a  stiffening  wound. 

"Mrs,  Dombey,"  said  he,  "it  may  not  be  inconsistent 
with  my  daughter's  improvement  to  know  how  very 
much  to  be  lamented,  and  how  necessary  to  be  corrected, 
a  stubborn  disposition  is,  especially  when  it  is  indulged 
in — unthankfully  indulged  in,  I  will  add — after  the 
gratification  of  ambition  and  interest.  Both  of  which, 
I  believe,  had  some  share  in  inducing  you  to  occupy 
your  present  station  at  this  board." 

"  No  !  I  would  not  rise,  and  go  away,  and  save  you 
the  utterance  of  one  word,"  she  repeated,  exactly  as  be- 
fore, "if  the  i^om  were  burning." 

"It  may  be  natural  enough,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  pur- 
sued, "that  you  should  be  uneasy  in  the  presence  of 
any  auditors  of  these  disagreeable  truths  ;  though  why 
— "  he  could  not  hide  his  real  feelings  here,  or  keep  his 
eyes  from  glancing  gloomily  at  Florence — "  why  any  one 
can  give  them  greater  force  and  point  than  myself,  whom 
they  so  nearly  concern,  I  do  not  pretend  to  understand. 
It  may  be  natural  enough  that  you  should  object  to  hear, 
in  anybody's  presence,  that  there  is  a  rebellious  principle 
within  you  which  you  cannot  curb  too  soon  ;  which  you 
must  curb,  Mrs.  Dombey ;  and  which,  I  regret  to  say,  I 


remember  to  have  seen  manifested — with  some  doubt 
and  displeasure,  on  more  than  one  occasion  before  ouv 
marriage— towards  your  deceased  mother.  But  you 
have  the  remedy  in  your  own  hands.  I  by  no  means 
forgot,  when  I  began,  that  my  daughter  was  present, 
Mrs.  Dombey.  I  beg  you  will  not  forget  to-morrow, 
that  there  are  several  persons  present ;  and  that,  with 
some  regard  to  appearances,  you  will  receive  your  com- 
pany in  a  becoming  manner. " 

"  So  it  is  not  enough,"  said  Edith,  "  that  you  know 
what  has  passed  between  yourself  and  me  ;  it  is  not 
enough  that  you  can  look  here,"  pointing  at  Carker,  who 
still  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  "  and  be  reminded 
of  the  afEronts  you  have  j)ut  upon  me  ;  it  is  not  enough 
that  you  can  look  here,"  pointing  to  Florence  with  a 
hand  that  slightly  trembled  for  the  first  and  only  time, 
"and  think  of  what  you  have  done,  and  of  the  ingeni- 
ous agony,  daily,  hourly,  constant,  you  have  made  me 
feel  in  doing  it  ;  it  is  not  enough  that  this  day,  of  all 
others  in  the  year,  is  memorable  to  me  for  a  struggle 
(well- deserved,  but  not  conceivable  by  such  as  you)  in 
which  I  wish  I  had  died  !  You  add  to  all  this,  do  you, 
the  last  crowning  meanness  of  making  her  a  witness  of 
the  depth  to  which  I  have  fallen  ;  when  you  know  that 
you  have  made  me  sacrifice  to  her  peace,  the  only  gentle 
feeling  and  interest  of  my  life  ;  when  you  know  that  for 
her  sake,  I  would  now  if  I  could — but  I  can  not,  my  soul 
recoils  from  you  too  much — submit  myself  wholly  to 
your  will,  and  be  the  meekest  vassal  that  you  have  1" 

This  was  not  the  way  to  minister  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
greatness.  The  old  feeling  was  roused  by  what  she  said 
into  a  stronger  and  fiercer  existence  than  it  had  ever  had. 
Again,  his  neglected  child,  at  this  rough  passage  of  his 
life,  put  forth  by  even  this  rebellious  woman,  as  power- 
ful where  he  was  powerless,  and  everything  where  he 
was  nothing  ! 

He  turned  on  Florence,  as  if  it  were  she  who  had 
spoken,  and  bade  her  leave  the  room.  Florence  with 
her  covered  face  obeyed,  trembling  and  weeping  as  she 
went. 

"I  understand,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an 
angry  flush  of  triumph,  "  the  spirit  of  opposition  that 
turned  your  afl'ections  in  that  channel,  but  they  have 
been  met,  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  they  have  been  met,  and  turned 
back  ! " 

"  The  worse  for  you  ! "  she  answered,  with  her  voice 
and  manner  still  unchanged.  "Ay  ! "  for  he  turned 
sharply  when  she  said  so,  "  what  is  the  worse  for  me, 
is  twenty  million  times  the  worse  for  you.  Heed  that, 
if  you  heed  nothing  else." 

The  arch  of  diamonds  spanning  her  dark  hair,  flashed 
and  glittered  like  a  starry  bridge.  There  was  no  warn- 
ing in  them,  or  they  would  have  turned  as  dull  and  dim 
as  tarnished  honour.  Carker  still  sat  and  listened,  with 
his  eyes  cast  down. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  as  much 
as  he  could  of  his  arrogant  composure,  "you  will  not 
conciliate  me,  or  turn  me  from  any  purpose,  by  this 
course  of  condact." 

"It  is  the  only  truth  although  it  is  a  faint  expression 
of  what  is  W'ithin  me,"  she  replied.    "  But  if  I  thought 
it  would  conciliate  you,  I  would  repress  it,  if  it  were  re-  ^ 
pressible  by  any  human  effort.    I  will  do  nothing  that 
you  ask." 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  ask,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  ob- 
served ;  "  I  direct." 

"  I  will  hold  no  place  in  your  house  to-morrow,  or  on 
any  recurrence  of  to-morrow.  I  will  be  exhibited  to  no 
one,  as  the  refractory  slave  you  purchased,  such  a  time. 
If  I  kept  my  marriage-day,  I  would  keep  it  as  a  day  of 
shame.  Self-respect  1  appearances  before  the  world  ! 
what  are  these  to  Ve  ?  You  have  done  all  you  can  to 
make  them  nothing  to  me,  and  they  are  nothing." 

"Carker,"  said  "Mr.  Dombey,  speaking  with  knitted 
brows,  and  after  a  moment's  consideration,  "  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey is  so  forgetful  of  herself  and  me  in  all  this,  and 
places  me  in  a  position  so  unsuited  to  my  character,  that 
I  must  bring  this  state  of  matters  to  a  close." 

"Release  me,  then,"  said  Edith,  immovable  in  voice, 
in  look,  and  bearing,  as  she  had  been  throughout,  "  from 
the  chain  by  which  I  am  bound.    Let  me  go." 

"  Madam?  "  exclaimed  Mr,  Dombey, 


624 


CHARLES  DIOKENS'  W0RK8. 


"  Loose  me.    Set  me  free  !" 

" Madam  ? "  he  repeated,  "Mrs.  Dombey  ?  " 

"  Tell  bim,"  said  Editb,  addressing  her  proud  face  to 
Carker,  "that  I  wish  for  a  separation  between  us.  That 
there  had  better  be  one.  That  I  recommend  it  to  him. 
Tell  him  it  may  take  place  on  his  own  terms— his  wealth 
is  nothing  to  me — but  that  it  cannot  be  too  soon." 

"Good  Heaven,  Mrs.  Dombey!"  said  her  husband, 
with  supreme  amazement,  "  do  you  imagine  it  possible 
that  I  could  ever  listen  to  such  a  proposition?  Do  you 
know  who  I  am,  madam  ?  Do  you  know  what  I  repre- 
sent ?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Dombey  and  Son  ?  People 
to  say  that  Mr.  Dombey — Mr.  Dombey  ! — was  separated 
from  his  wife  !  Common  people  to  talk  of  Mr.  Dombey 
and  his  domestic  affairs  !  Do  you  seriously  think,  Mrs. 
Dombey,  that  I  would  permit  my  name  to  be  handed 
about  in  such  connexion  ?  Pooh,  pooh,  madam  !  Fie 
for  shame  !  You're  absurd."  Mr.  Dombey  absolutely 
laughed. 

But  not  as  she  did.  She  had  better  have  been  dead 
than  laugh  as  she  did,  in  reply,  with  her  intent  look 
fixed  upon  him.  He  had  better  have  been  dead,  than 
sitting  there,  in  his  magnificence,  to  hear  her. 

"No,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  resumed,  "no,  madam. 
There  is  no  possibility  of  separation  between  you  and 
me,  and  therefore  I  the  more  advise  you  to  be  awakened 
to  a  sense  of  duty.  And,  Carker,  as  I  was  about  to  say 
to  you — " 

Mr.  Carker,  who  had  sat  and  listened  all  this  time, 
now  raised  his  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a  bright  un- 
natural light. 

" — As  I  was  about  to  say  to  you,"  resum-ed  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "  I  must  beg  you,  now  that  matters  have  come  to 
this,  to  inform  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  it  is  not  the  rule  of 
my  life  to  allow  myself  to  be  thwarted  by  anybody— any- 
body, Carker — or  to  suffer  anybody  to  be  paraded  as  a 
stronger  motive  for  obedience  in  tho§e  who  owe  obedi- 
ence to  me  than  I  am  myself.  The  mention  that  has 
been  made  of  my  daughter,  and  the  use  that  is  made  of 
my  daughter,  in  opposition  to  me,  are  unnatural. 
Whether  my  daughter  is  in  actual  concert  with  Mrs. 
Dombey,  I  do  not  know,  and  do  not  care  ;  but  after  what 
Mrs.  Dombey  has  said  to-day,  and  my  daughter  has 
heard  to-day,  I  beg  you  to  make  known  to  Mrs.  Dombey, 
that  if  she  continues  to  make  this  house  the  scene  of 
contention  it  has  become,  I  shall  consider  my  daughter 
responsible  in  some  degree,  on  that  lady's  own  avowal, 
and  shall  visit  her  with  my  severe  displeasure.  Mrs. 
Dombey  has  asked  '  whether  it  is  not  enough,'  that  she 
had  done  this  and  that.  You  will  please  to  answer  no, 
it  is  not  enough." 

"A  moment!"  cried  Carker,  interposing,  "permit 
me  !  painful  as  my  position  is,  at  the  best,  and  unusually 
painful  in  seeming  to  entertain  a  different  opinion  from 
you,"  addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  must  ask,  had  you 
not  better  re-consider  the  question  of  a  separation.  I 
know  how  incompatible  it  appears  with  your  high  public 
position,  and  I  know  how  determined  you  are,  when  you 
give  Mrs.  Dombey  to  understand  " — the  light  in  his  eyes 
fell  upon  her  as  he  separated  his  words  each  from  each, 
with  the  distinctness  of  so  many  bells — "that  nothing 
but  death  can  ever  part  you.  Nothing  else.  But  when 
you  consider  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  by  living  in  this  house, 
and  making  it,  as  you  have  said,  a  scene  of  contention, 
not  only  has  her  part  in  that  contention,  but  compromises 
Miss  Dombey  every  day  (for  I  know  how  determined  you 
are),  will  you  not  relieve  her  from  a  continual  irritation 
of  spirit,  and  a  continual  sense  of  being  unjust  to  another, 
almost  intolerable  ?  Does  this  not  seem  like — I  do  not 
say  it  is — sacrificing  Mrs.  Dombey  to  the  preservation 
of  your  pre-eminent  and  unassailable  position?" 

Again  the  light  in  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  as  she  stood 
looking  at  her  husband  :  now  with  an  extraordinary  and 
awful  smile  upon  her  face. 

"  Carker,"  returned  Mr,  Dombey,  with  a  supercilious 
frown,  and  in  a  tone  that  was  intended  to  be  final,  "  you 
mistake  your  position  in  offering  advice  to  me  on  such  a 
jjoint,  and  you  mistake  me  (I  am  surprised  to  find)  in  th6 
character  of  your  advice.    I  have  no  more  to  say." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Carker,  with  an  unusual  and  in- 
definable taunt  in  his  air,  "yow  mistook  my  position, 
when  you  honoured  me  with  the  negotiations  in  which  1 


have  been  engaged  here  " — with  a  motion  of  his  hand 
towards  Mrs.  Dombey. 

"Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all,"  returned  the  other 
haughtily.    "You  were  employed — " 

"  Being  an  inferior  person,  for  the  humiliation  of  Mrs. 
Dombey.  I  forgot.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  expressly  under- 
stood ! "  said  Carker.    "  I  beg  your  pardon  !  " 

As  he  bent  his  head  to  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an  air  of 
deference  that  accorded  ill  with  his  words,  though  they 
were  humbly  spoken,  he  moved  it  round  towards  her, 
and  kept  his  watching  eyes  that  way. 

She  had  better  have  turned  hideous  and  dropped  dead, 
than  have  stood  up  with  such  a  smile  upon  her  face,  in 
such  a  fallen  spirit's  majesty  of  scorn  and  beauty.  She 
lifted  her  hand  to  the  tiara  of  bright  jewels  radiant  on 
her  head,  and,  plucking  it  off  with  a  force  that  dragged 
and  strained  her  rich  black  hair  with  heedless  cruelty, 
and  brought  it  tumbling  wildly  on  her  shoulders,  cast  the 
gems  upon  the  ground.  From  each  arm,  she  unclasped  a 
diamond  bracelet,  flung  it  down,  and  trod  upon  the  glit- 
tering heap.  Without  a  word,  without  a  shadow  on  the 
fire  of  her  bright  eye,  without  abatement  of  her  awful 
smile,  she  looked  on  Mr.  Dombey  to  the  last,  in  moving 
to  the  door  ;  and  left  him. 

Florence  had  heard  enough  before  quitting  the  room, 
to  know  that  Edith  loved  her  yet  ;  that  she  had  suffered 
for  her  sake  ;  and  that  she  had  kept  her  sacrifices  quiet, 
lest  they  should  trouble  her  peace.  She  did  not  want  to 
speak  to  her  of  this — she  could  not,  remembering  to 
whom  she  was  opposed — but  she  wished,  in  one  silent 
and  affectionate  embrace,  to  assure  her  that  she  felt  it 
all,  and  thanked  her. 

Her  father  went  out  alone,  that  evening,  and  Florence 
issuing  from  her  own  chamber  soon  afterwards,  went 
about  the  house  in  search  of  Edith,  but  unavailingly. 
She  was  in  her  own  robms,  where  Florence  had  long 
ceased  to  go,  and  did  not  dare  to  venture  now,  lest  she 
should  unconsciously  engender  new  trouble.  Still  Flor- 
ence, hoping  to  meet  her  before  going  to  bed,  changed 
from  room  to  room,  and  wandered  through  the  house  so 
splendid  and  so  dreary,  without  remaining  anywhere. 

She  was  crossing  a  gallery  of  communication  that 
opened  at  some  little  distance  on  the  staircase,  and  was 
only  lighted  on  great  occasions,  when  she  saw,  through 
the  opening,  which  was  an  arch,  the  figure  of  a  man 
coming  down  some  few  stairs  opposite.  Instinctively 
apprehensive  of  her  father,  whom  she  supposed  it  was, 
she  stopped,  in  the  dark,  gazing  through  the  arch  into 
the  light.  But  it  was  Mr.  Carker  coming  down  alone, 
and  looking  over  the  railing  into  the  hall.  No  bell  was 
rung  to  announce  his  departure,  and  no  servant  was  in 
attendance.  He  went  down  quietly,  opened  the  door 
for  himself,  glided  out,  and  shut  it  softly  after  him. 

Her  invincible  repugnance  to  this  man,  and  perhaps 
the  stealthy  act  of  Avatching  any  one,  which,  even  under 
such  innocent  circumstances,  is  in  a  manner  guilty  and 
oppressive,  made  Florence  shake  from  head  to  foot. 
Her  blood  seemed  to  run  cold.  As  soon  as  she  could — 
for  at  first  she  felt  an  insurmountable  dread  of  moving 
— she  went  quickly  to  her  own  room  and  locked  her 
door  ;  but  even  then,  shut  in  Avith  her  dog  beside  her, 
felt  a  chill  sensation  of  horror,  as  if  there  were  danger 
brooding  somewhere  near  her. 

It  invaded  her  dreams  and  disturbed  the  whole  night. 
Rising  in  the  morning,  unrefreshed,  and  with  a  heavy 
recollection  of  the  domestic  unhappiness  of  the  preced- 
ing day,  she  sought  Edith  again,  in  all  the  rooms,  and 
did  sc,  from  time  to  time,  all  the  morning.  But  she  re- 
mained in  her  own  chamber,  and  Florence  saw  nothing 
of  her.  Learning,  however,  that  the  projected  dinner 
at  home  was  put  off,  Florence  thought  ilflikely  that  she 
would  go  out  in  the  evening  to  fulfil  the  engagement 
she  had  spoken  of  :  and  resolved  to  try  and  meet  her, 
then,  upon  the  staircase. 

When  the  evening  had  set  in,  she  heard,  from  the 
room  in  which  set  on  purpose,  a  footstep  on  the  stairs 
that  she  thought  to  be  Edith's.  Hurrying  out,  and  up 
towards  ber  room,  Florence  met  her  immediately,  com- 
ing down  alone. 

What  was  Florence's  affright  and  wonder  when,  at 
sight  of  her,  with  her  tearful  face,  and  outstretched 
arms,  Edith  recoiled  and  shrieked  ! 


DOMBEY 

"Don't  come  near  me  !  '*  she  cried,  "Keep  away  ! 
Let  me  go  by  !  " 

"  Mama  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Don't  call  me  by  that  name  !  Don't  speak  to  me  1 
Don't  look  at  me  ! — Florence  !  "  shrinking  back,  as  Flor- 
ence moved  a  step  towards  her,  "  don't  touch  me  I  " 

As  Florence  stood  transfixed  before  the  haggard  face 
and  staring  eyes,  she  noted,  as  in  a  dream  that  Edith 
spread  her  hands  over  them,  and,  shuddering  through 
all  her  form,  and  crouching  down  against  the  wall, 
crawled  by  her  like  some  lower  animal,  sprang  up,  and 
fled  away. 

Florence  dropped  upon  the  stairs  in  a  swoon  ;  and  was 
found  there  by  Mrs.  Pipchin,  she  supposed.  She  knew 
nothing  more,  until  she  found  herself  lying  on  her  own 
bed,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  some  servants  standing 
round  her. 

**  Where  is  mama?  "  was  her  first  question. 
**Gone  out  to  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 
**  And  papa?  " 

"Mr.  Dombey's  in  his  own  room,  Miss  Dombey,"  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  "and  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  is  to  take 
off  your  things  and  go  to  bed  this  minute."  This  was 
the  sagacious  woman's  remedy  for  all  complaints,  par- 
ticularly lowness  of  spirits,  and  inability  to  sleep  ;  for 
which  offences  many  young  victims  in  the  days  of  the 
Brighton  Castle  had  been  committed  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning. 

Without  promising  obedience,  but  on  the  plea  of  de- 
siring to  be  very  quiet,  Florence  disengaged  herself,  as 
soon  as  she  could,  from  the  ministration  of  Mrs,  Pipchin 
and  her  attendants.  Left  alone,  she  thought  of  what 
had  happened  on  the  staircase,  at  first  in  doubt  of  its 
reality  ;  then  with  tears  ;  then  with  an  indescribable  and 
terrible  alarm,  like  that  she  had  felt  the  night  before. 

She  determined  not  to  go  to  bed  until  Edith  returned, 
and  if  she  could  not  speak  to  her,  at  least  to  be  sure 
that  she  was  safe  at  home.  What  indistinct  and  shadowy 
dread  moved  Florence  to  this  resolution,  she  did  not 
know,  and  did  not  dare  to  think.  She  only  knew  that 
until  Edith  came  back,  there  was  no  repose  for  her 
aching  head  or  throbbing  heart. 

The  evening  deepened  into  night ;  midnight  came  ;  no 
Edith. 

Florence  could  not  read,  or  rest  a  moment.  She 
paced  her  own  room,  opened  the  door  and  paced  the 
staircase-gallery  outside,  looked  out  of  window  on  the 
night,  listened  to  the  wind  blowing  and  the  rain  fall- 
ing, sat  down  and  watched  the  faces  in  the  fire,  got  up 
and  watched  the  moon  flying  like  a  storm-driven  ship 
through  the  sea  of  clouds. 

All  the  house  was  gone  to  bed,  except  two  servants 
who  were  waiting  the  return  of  their  mistress,  down- 
stairs. 

One  o'clock.  The  carriages  that  rumbled  in  the  dis- 
tance, turned  away,  or  stopped  short,  or  went  past  ;  the 
silence  gradually  deepened,  and  was  more  and  more 
rarely  broken,  save  by  a  rush  of  wind  or  sweep  of  rain. 
Two  o'clock.    No  Edith, 

Florence,  more  agitated,  paced  her  room  ;  and  paced 
the  gallery  outside  ;  and  looked  out  at  the  night,  blurred 
and  wavy  with  the  rain-drops  on  the  glass,  and  the  tears 
in  her  own  eyes  ;  and  looking  up  at  the  hurry  in  the  sky, 
so  different  from  the  repose  below,  and  yet  so  tranquil 
and  solitary.  Three  o'clock.  There  was  a  terror  in 
every  ash  that  dropped  out  of  the  fire.    No  Edith  yet. 

More  and  more  agitated,  Florence  paced  her  room,  and 
paced  the  gallery,  and  looked  out  at  the  moon  with  a 
new  fancy  of  her  likeness  to  a  pale  fugitive  hurrying 
away  and  hiding  her  guilty  face.  Four  struck  !  Five  ! 
No  Edith  yet. 

But  now  there  was  some  cautious  stir  in  the  house  ; 
and  Florence  found  that  Mrs,  Pipchin  had  been  awak- 
ened by  one  of  those  who  sat  up,  had  risen  and  had  gone 
down  to  her  father's  door.  Stealing  lower  down  the 
stairs  and  observing  what  passed,  she  saw  her  father 
come  out  in  his  morning-gown,  and  start  when  he  was 
told  his  wife  had  not  come  home.  He  dispatched  a  mes- 
senger to  the  stables  to  inquire  whether  the  coachman 
was  there  ;  and  while  the  man  was  gone,  dressed  himself 
very  hurriedly. 

The  man  came  back,  in  great  haste,  bringing  the 
Vol.  II,— 40 


AND  SOK  625 

coachman  with  him,  who  said  he  had  been  at  home  and 
in  bed  since  ten  o'clock.  He  had  driven  his  mistress  to 
her  old  house  in  Brook-street,  where  she  had  been  met 
by  Mr.  Carker — 

li'lorence  stood  upon  the  very  spot  where  she  had  seen 
him  coming  down.  Again  she  shivered  with  the  name- 
less terror  of  that  sight,  and  had  hardly  steadiness 
enough  to  hear  and  understand  what  followed. 
— Who  had  told  him,  the  man  went  on  to  say,  that  his 
mistress  would  not  want  the  carriage  to  go  home  in  ;  and 
had  dismissed  him.  She  saw  her  father  turn  white  in 
the  face,  and  heard  him  ask  in  a  quick,  trembling  voice, 
for  Mrs.  Dombey's  maid.  The  whole  house  was  roused  ; 
for  she  was  there  in  a  moment,  very  pale  too,  and  speak- 
ing incoherently. 

She  said  she  had  dressed  her  mistress  early— full  two 
hours  before  she  went  out— and  had  been  told,  as  she 
often  was,  that  she  would  not  be  wanted  at  night.  She 
had  just  come  from  her  mistress's  rooms,  but — 

"But  what  !  what  was  it  ? "  Florence  heard  her  father 
demand  like  a  madman. 

"  But  the  inner  dressing-room  was  locked,  and  the  key 
gone." 

Her  father  seized  a  candle  that  was  flaming  on  the 
ground — some  one  had  put  it  down  there,  and  forgotten 
it— and  came  running  up-stairs  with  such  fury,  that 
Florence,  in  her  fear,  had  hardly  time  to  fly  before  him. 
She  heard  him  striking  in  the  door,  as  she  ran  on,  vvith 
her  hands  wildly  spread,  and  her  hair  streaming,  and 
her  face  like  a  distracted  person's,  back  to  her  own  room. 

When  the  door  yielded,  and  he  rushed  in,  what  did 
he  see  there?  No  one  knew.  But  thrown  down  in  a 
costly  mass  upon  the  ground,  was  every  ornament  she 
had  had,  since  she  had  been  his  wife  ;  every  dress  she 
had  worn  ;  and  everything  she  had  possessed.  This  was 
the  room  in  which  he  had  seen,  in  yonder  mirror,  the 
proud  face  discard  him.  This  was  the  room  in  which  he 
had  wondered,  idly,  how  these  things  would  look  when 
he  should  see  them  next  ! 

Heaping  them  back  into  the  drawers,  and  locking  them 
up  in  a  rage  of  haste,  he  saw  some  papers  on  the  table. 
The  deed  of  settlement  he  had  executed  on  their  mar- 
riage, and  a  letter.  He  read  that  she  was  gone.  He 
read  that  he  was  dishonoured.  He  read  that  she  had 
fled,  upon  her  shameful  wedding-day,  with  the  man 
whom  he  had  chosen  for  her  humiliation )  and  he  tore 
out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house,  with  a  frantic  idea 
of  finding  her  yet,  at  the  place  to  which  she  had  been 
taken,  and  beating  all  trace  of  beauty  out  of  the  tri- 
umphant face  with  his  bare  hand. 

Florence,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  put  on  a  shawl 
and  bonnet,  in  a  dreatn  of  running  through  the  streets 
until  she  found  Edith,  and  then  clasping  her  in  her 
arms,  to  save  and  bring  her  back.  But  when  she  hurried 
out  upon  the  staircase,  and  saw  the  frightened  servants 
going  up  and  down  with  lights,  and  whispering  together, 
and  falling  away  from  her  father  as  he  passed  down,  she 
awoke  to  a  sense  of  her  own  powerlessness  ;  and  hiding 
in  one  of  the  great  rooms  that  had  been  made  gorgeous 
for  this,  felt  as  if  her  heart  would  burst  with  grief. 

Compassion  for  her  father  was  the  first  distinct  emo- 
tion that  made  head  against  the  flood  of  sorrow  which 
overwhelmed  her.  Her  constant  nature  turned  to  him  in 
his  distress,  as  fervently  and  faithfully,  as  if,  in  his 
prosperity,  he  had  been  the  embodiment  of  that  idea 
which  had  gradually  become  so  faint  and  dim.  Al- 
though she  did  not  know,  otherwise  than  through  the 
suggestions  of  a  shapeless  fear,  the  full  extent  of  his 
calamity,  he  stood  before  her  wronged  and  deserted  ; 
and  again  her  yearning  love  impelled  her  to  his  side.  ^ 

He  was  not  long  away  :  for  Florence  was  yet  weeping 
in  the  great  room  and  nourishing  these  thoughts,  when 
she  heard  him  come  back.  He  ordered  the  servants  to 
set  about  their  ordinary  occupations,  and  went  into  his 
own  apartment,  where  he  trod  so  heavily  that  she  could 
hear  him  walking  up  and  down  from  end  to  end. 

Yielding,  at  once,  to  the  impulse  of  her  affection,  timid 
at  all  other  times,  but  bold  in  its  truth  to  him  in  his  ad- 
versity, and  undaunted  by  past  repulse,  Florence,  dressed 
as  she  was,  hurried  down-stairs.  As  she  set  her  light 
foot  in  the  hall,  he  came  out  of  his  room.  She  hastened 
towards  him  unchecked,  with  her  arms  stretched  out. 


G26 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


and  crying  "Oh  dear,  dear  papa  !  "  as  if  she  would  have 
clasped  him  round  the  neck. 

And  so  she  would  have  done.  But  in  his  frenzy,  he 
lifted  up  his  cruel  arm,  and  struck  her,  crosswise,  with 
that  heaviness  that  she  tottered  on  the  marble  floor; 
and  as  he  dealt  the  blow  he  told  her  what  Edith  was, 
and  bade  her  follow  her,  since  they  had  always  been  in 
league. 

She  did  not  sink  down  at  his  feet  ;  she  did  not  shut 
out  the  sight  of  him  with  her  trembling  hands  ;  she  did 
not  weep  ;  she  did  not  utter  one  word  of  reproach.  But 
she  looked  at  him,  and  a  cry  of  desolation  issued  from 
her  heart.  For  as  she  looked,  she  saw  him  murdering 
that  fond  idea  to  which  she  had  held  in  spite  of  him. 
She  saw  his  cruelty,  neglect,  and  hatred  dominant  above 
it,  and  stamping  it  down.  She  saw  she  had  no  father 
upon  earth,  and  ran  out,  orphaned,  from  his  house. 

Ran  out  of  his  house.  A  moment,  and  her  hand  was 
on  the  lock,  the  cry  was  on  her  lips,  his  face  was  there, 
made  paler  by  the  yellow  candles  hastily  put  down  and 
guttering  away,  and  by  the  daylight  coming  in  above  the 
door.  Another  moment,  and  the  close  darkness  of  the 
shut-up  house  (forgotten  to  be  opened,  though  it  was 
long  since  day)  yielded  to  the  unexpected  glare  and  free- 
dom of  the  morning  ;  and  Florence,  with  her  head  bent 
down  to  hide  her  agony  of  tears,  was  in  the  streets. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

The  Flight  of  Florence. 

In  the  wildness  of  her  sorrow,  shame,  and  terror,  the 
forlorn  girl  hurried  through  the  sunshine  of  a  bright 
morning,  as  if  it  were  the  darkness  of  a  winter  night. 
Wringing  her  hands  and  weeping  bitterly,  insensible  to 
everything  but  the  deep  wound  in  her  breast,  stunned  by 
the  loss  of  all  she  loved,  left  like  the  sole  survivor  on  a 
lonely  shore  from  the  wreck  of  a  great  vessel,  she  fled 
without  a  thought,  without  a  hope,  without  a  purpose, 
but  to  fly  somewhere — anywhere. 

The  cheerful  vista  of  the  long  street,  burnished  by  the 
morning  light,  the  sight  of  the  blue  sky  and  airy 
clouds,  the  vigorous  freshness  of  the  day,  so  flushed  and 
so  rosy  in  its  Conquest  of  the  night,  awakened  no  respon- 
sive feelings  in  her  so  hurt  bosom.  Somewhere,  any- 
where, to  hide  her  head  !  somewhere  anywhere,  for 
refuge,  never  more  to  look  upon  the  place  from  which 
she  fled  ! 

But  there  were  people  going  to  and  fro  ;  there  were 
opening  shops,  and  servants  at  the  doors  of  houses  ; 
there  was  the  rising  clash  and  roar  of  the  day's  struggle. 
Florence  saw  surprise  and  curiosity  in  the  faces  flitting 
past  her  ;  saw  long  shadows  coming  back  upon  the  pave- 
ment :  and  heard  voices  that  were  strange  to  her  asking 
lier  where  she  went,  and  what  the  matter  was  ;  and 
though  these  frightened  her  the  more  at  first,  and  made 
her  hurry  on  the  faster,  they  did  her  the  good  service  of 
recalling  her  in  some  degree,  to  herself,  and  reminding 
her  of  the  necessity  of  greater  composure. 

Where  to  go  ?  Still  somewhere,  anywhere  !  still  going 
on  ;  but  where  1  She  thought  of  the  other  only  time 
she  had  been  lost  in  the  wide  wilderness  of  London — 
though  not  lost  as  now — and  went  that  way.  To  the  home 
of  Walter's  uncle. 

Checking  her  sobs,  and  drying  her  swollen  eyes,  and 
endeavouring  to  calm  the  agitation  of  her  manner,  so  as 
to  avoid  attracting  notice,  Florence,  resolving  to  keep  to 
the  more  quiet  streets  as  long  as  she  could,  was  going  on 
more  quietly  herself,  when  a  familiar  little  shadowdarted 
past  upon  the  sunny  pavement,  stopped  short,  wheeled 
about,  came  close  to  her,  made  off  again,  bounded  round 
and  round  her,  and  Diogenes,  panting  for  breath,  and 
yet  making  the  street  ring  with  his  glad  bark,  was  at  her 
feet. 

"  Oh,  Di  !  oh,  dear,  true,  faithful  Di,  how  did  you 
come  here  !  IIow  could  I  ever  leave  you,  Di,  who  would 
never  leave  me  1 " 

Florence  bent  down  on  the  pavement,  and  laid  his 
rough,  old,  loving,  foolish  head  against  her  breast,  and 
they  got  up  together,  and  went  on  together  ;  Di  more  off 


the  ground  than  on  it,  endeavouring  to  kiss  his  mistress 
flying,  tumbling  over  and  getting  up  again  without  the 
least  concern,  dashing  at  big  dogs  in  a  jocose  defiance  of 
his  species,  terrifying  with  touches  of  his  nose  young 
housemaids  who  were  cleaning  doorsteps,  and  continu-  i 
ally  stopping,  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  extravagances, 
to  look  back  at  Florence,  and  bark  until  all  the  dogs  j 
within  hearing  answered,  and  all  the  dogs  who  could 
come  out,  came  out  to  stare  at  him. 

With  this  last  adherent,  Florence  hurried  away  in  the 
advancing  morning,and  the  strengthening  sunshine, to  the 
city.  The  roar  soon  grew  more  loud,  the  passengers 
more  numerous,  the  shops  more  busy,  until  she  was 
carried  onward  in  a  stream  of  life  setting  that  way,  and 
flowing  indifferently,  past  marts  and  mansions,  prisons, 
churches,  market-places,  wealth,  poverty,  good  and  evil, 
like  the  broad  river,  side  by  side  with  it,  awakened  from 
its  dreams  of  rushes,  willows,  and  green  moss,  and  roll- 
ing on,  turbid  and  troubled,  among  the  works  and  cares  of 
men,  to  the  deep  sea. 

At  length  the  quarters  of  the  little  Midshipman  arose 
in  view.  Nearer  yet,  and  the  little  Midshipman  himself 
was  seen  upon  his  post,  intent  as  ever,  on  his  observa-  ♦ 
tions.  Nearer  yet,  and  the  door  stood  open,  inviting  her 
to  enter.  Florence,  who  had  again  quickened  her  pace, 
as  she  approached  the  end  of  her  journey,  ran  across  the 
road  (closely  followed  by  Diogenes,  whom  the  bustle 
had  somewhat  confused),  ran  in,  and  sank  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  well-remembered  little  parlour. 

The  captain,  in  his  glazed  hat,  was  standing  over  the 
fire,  making  his  morning's  cocoa,  with  that  elegant  tri- 
fle, his  watch,  upon  the  chimney-piece,  for  easy  refer- 
ence during  the  progress  of  the  cookery.  Hearing  a 
footstep  and  the  rustle  of  a  dress,  the  captain  turned 
with  a  palpitating  remembrance  of  the  dreadful  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  at  the  instant  when  Florence  made  a  motion 
with  her  hand  towards  him,  reeled,  and  fell  upon  the 
floor.  ; 

The  captain,  pale  as  Florence,  pale  in  the  very  knobs 
upon  his  face,  raised  her  like  a  baby,  and  laid  her  on  the 
same  old  sofa  upon  which  she  had  slumbered  long  ago.  , 

"  It's  Heart's  Delight !"  said  the  captain,  looking  in-  , 
tently  in  her  face.  "  It's  the  sweet  creetur  grow'd  a,  j 
woman  ! "  ; 

Captain  Cuttle  was  so  respectful  of  her,  and  had  such  ' 
a  reverence  for  her,  in  this  new  character,  that  he  would 
not  have  held  her  in  his  arms,  while  she  was  uncon-  j 
scious,  for  a  thousand  pounds.  j 

"  My  Heart's  Delight  !  "  said  the  captain,  withdrawing  • 
to  a  little  distance,  with  the  greatest  alarm  and  sym-  I 
pathy  depicted  on  his  countenance.    "If  you  can  hail 
Ned  Cuttle  with  a  finger,  do  it !  " 

But  Florence  did  not  stir. 

"  My  Heart's  Delight!"  said  the  trembling  captain. 
"For  the  sake  of  Wal'r  drownded  in  the  briny  deep, 
turn  to,  and  histe  up  something  or  another,  if  able  1'^ 

Finding  her  insensible  to  this  impressive  adjuration 
also.  Captain  Cuttle  snatched  from  his  breakfast-table, 
a  basin  of  cold  water,  and  sprinkled  some  upon  her  face. 
Yielding  to  the  urgency  of  the  case,  the  captain  then, 
using  his  immense  hand  with  extraordinary  gentleness, 
relieved  her  of  her  bonnet,  moistened  her  lips  and  fore- 
head, put  back  her  hair,  covered  her  feet  with  his  own 
coat  which  he  pulled  off  for  the  i:)urpose,  patted  her 
hand — so  small  in  his,  that  he  was  struck  with  wonder 
when  he  touched  it — and  seeing  that  her  eyelids  quiv- 
ered, and  that  her  lips  began  to  move,  continued  these 
restorative  applications  with  a  better  heart. 

"Cheerily,"  said  the  captain.  "Cheerily!  Stand 
by,  my  pretty  one,  stand  by  !  There  !  You're  better 
now.  Steady's  the  word,  and  steady  it  is.  Keep  her 
so  !  Drink  a  little  drop  o'  this  here,"  said  the  captain. 
"There  you  are!  What  cheer  now,  my  pretty,  what 
cheer  now  ?" 

At  this  stage  of  her  recovery.  Captain  Cuttle,  with  an 
imperfect  association  of  a  Watch  with  a  Physician's 
treatment  of  a  patient,  took  his  own  down  from  the 
mantel-Shelf,  and  holding  it  out  on  his  hook,  and  taking 
Florence's  hand  in  his,  looked  steadily  from  one  to  the 
other,  as  expecting  the  dial  to  do  something. 

"  What  cheer,  my  pretty  ?  "  said  the  captain.  "  What 
clieer  now  ?   You've  done  her  some  good  my  lad,  I  be- 


DOMBEY 

lieve,"  said  tlie  captain  under  his  breath,  and  throwing 
an  approving  glance  upon  his  watch.  "  Put  you  back 
half-an-hour  every  morning,  and  about  another  quarter 
towards  the  afternoon,  and  you're  a  watch  as  can  be 
ekalled  by  few  and  excelled  by  none.  What  cheer,  my 
lady  lass  ! " 

"Captain  Cuttle!  Is  it  you  I "  exclaimed  Florence, 
raising  herself  a  little. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  hastily 
deciding  in  his  own  mind  upon  the  superior  elegance  of 
that  form  of  address,  as  the  most  courtly  he  could  think 
of. 

Is  Walter's  uncle  here?"  asked  Florence. 

"Here,  pretty!"  returned  the  captain.  "He  an't 
been  here  this  many  a  long  day.  He  an't  been  heerd 
on,  since  he  sheered  off  arter  poor  Wal'r.  But,"  said 
the  captain,  as  a  quotation,  "Though  lost  to  sight, 
to  memory  dear,  and  England,  Home,  and  Beauty  I  " 

"  Do  you  live  here  ?"  asked  Florence. 

"Yes,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain. 

"Oh  Captain  Cuttle!"  cried  Florence,  putting  her 
hands  together,  and  speaking  wildly.  "  Save  me  !  keep 
me  here  !  Let  no  one  know  \vhere  I  am  !  I'll  tell  you 
what  has  happened  by-and-by,  when  I  can.  I  have  no 
one  in  the  world  to  go  to.    Do  not  send  me  away  ! " 

"  Send  you  away,  my  lady  lass  !  "  exclaimed  the  cap- 
tain. "  Tou,  my  Heart's  Delight  !  Stay  a  bit  !  We'll 
put  up  this  here  dead-light,  and  take  a  double  turn  on 
the  key  ! " 

With  these  words,  the  captain,  using  his  one  hand 
and  his  hook  with  the  greatest  dexterity  got  out  the 
shutter  of  the  door,  put  it  up,  made  it  all  fast,  and 
locked  the  door  itself. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  side  of  Florence,  she  took 
his  hand,  and  kissed  it.  The  helplessness  of  the  action, 
the  appeal  it  made  to  him,  the  confidence  it  expressed, 
the  unspeakable  sorrow  in  her  face,  the  pain  of  mind 
she  had  too  plainly  suffered,  and  was  suffering  then,  his 
knowledge  of  her  past  history,  her  present  lonely,  worn, 
and  unprotected  appearance,  all  so  rushed  upon  the 
good  captain  together,  that  he  fairly  overflowed  with 
compassion  and  gentleness. 

"My  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  polishing  the 
bridge  of  his  nose  with  his  arm  until  it  shone  like  bur- 
nished copper,  "  don't  you  say  a  word  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle, 
until  such  times  as  you  finds  yourself  a  riding  smooth 
and  easy ;  which  won't  be  to-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow. 
And  as  to  giving  of  you  up,  or  reporting  where  you  are, 
yes  verily,  and  by  God's  help,  so  I  won't.  Church  cate- 
chism, make  a  note  on  !  " 

This  the  captain  said,  reference  and  all,  in  one  breath, 
and  with  much  solemnity,  taking  off  his  hat  at  "yes 
verily,"  and  putting  it  on  again,  when  he  had  quite  con- 
cluded. 

Florence  could  do  but  one  thing  more  to  thank  him, 
and  to  show  him  how  she  trusted  in  him  ;  and  she  did 
it.  Clinging  to  this  rough  creature  as  the  last  asylum 
of  her  bleeding  heart,  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  honest 
shoulder,  and  clasped  him  round  his  neck,  and  would 
have  kneeled  down  to  bless  him,  but  that  he  divined 
her  purpose,  and  held  her  up  like  a  true  man. 

"Steady!"  said  the  captain.  "Steady!  You're  too 
weak  to  stand,  you  see,  my  pretty,  and  must  lie  down 
here  again.  There,  there  ! "  To  see  the  captain  lift  her 
on  the  sofa,  and  cover  her  with  his  coat,  would  have 
been  worth  a  hundred  state  sights.  "And  now,"  said 
the  captain,  "you  must  take  some  breakfast,  lady  lass, 
and  the  dog  shall  have  some  too.  And  arter  that  you 
shall  go  aloft  to  old  Sol  Gills's  room,  and  fall  asleep 
there,  like  a  angel." 

Captain  Cuttle  patted  Diogenes  when  he  made  allu- 
sion to  him,  and  Diogenes  met  that  overture  graciously, 
half-way.  During  the  administration  of  the  restoratives 
he  had  clearly  been  in  two  minds  whether  to  fly  at  the 
captain  or  to  offer  him  his  friendship  ;  and  he  had  ex- 
pressed that  conflict  of  feeling  by  alternate  waggings 
of  his  tail,  and  displays  of  his  teeth,  with  now  and  then 
a  growl  or  so.  But  by  this  time  his  doubts  were  all  re- 
moved. It  was  plain  that  he  considered  the  captain  one 
of  the  most  amiable  of  men,  and  a  man  whom  it  was  an 
honour  to  a  dog  to  know. 
I     In  evidence  of  these  convictions,  Diogenes  attended 


AND  SON.  627 

on  the  captain  while  he  made  some  tea  and  toast,  and 
showed  a  lively  interest  in  his  housekeeping.  But  it 
was  in  vain  for  the  kind  captain  to  make  such  prepara- 
tions for  Florence,  who  sorely  tried  to  do  some  honour 
to  them,  but  could  touch  nothing,  and  could  only  weep 
and  weep  again. 

"Well,  well!"  said  the  compassionate  captain, 
"arter  turning  in,  my  Heart's  Delight,  you'll  get  more 
way  upon  you.  Now,  I'll  serve  out  your  allowance,  my 
lad."  To  Diogenes.  "And  you  shall  keep  guard  on 
your  mistress  aloft." 

Diogenes,  however,  although  he  had  been  eyeing  his 
intended  breakfast  with  a  watering  mouth  and  glisten- 
ing eyes,  instead  of  falling  to,  ravenously,  when  it  was 
put  before  him,  pricked  up  his  ears,  darted  to  the  shop- 
door,  and  barked  there  furiously  :  burrowing  with  his 
head  at  the  bottom,  as  if  he  were  bent  on  mining  his 
way  out. 

"Can  there  be  anybody  there  ! "  asked  Florence^  in 
alarm. 

"  No,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain.  "  Who'd 
stay  there,  without  making  any  noise  I  Keep  up  a  good 
heart,  pretty.    It's  only  people  going  by." 

But  for  all  that,  Diogenes  barked  and  barked,  and 
burrowed  and  burrowed  with  pertinacious  fury  ;  and 
whenever  he  stopped  to  listen,  appeared  to  receive  some 
new  conviction  into  his  mind,  for  he  set  to,  barking  and 
burrowing  again,  a  dozen  times.  Even  when  he  was 
persuaded  to  return  to  his  breakfast,  he  came  jogging 
back  to  it,  with  a  very  doubtful  air  ;  and  was  off  again, 
in  another  paroxysm,  before  touching  a  morsel. 

"If  there  should  be  some  one  listening  and  watching," 
whispered  Florence.  "Some  one  who  saw  me  come — 
who  followed  me,  perhaps." 

"  It  ain't  the  young  woman,  lady  lass,  is  it  ?  "  said  the 
captain,  taken  with  a  bright  idea. 

"Susan?"  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head.  "Ah 
no  !   Susan  has  been  gone  from  me  a  long  time." 

" Not  deserted,  I  hope?"  said  the  captain.  "Don't 
say  that  that  there  young  woman's  run,  my  pretty  !" 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !"  cried  Florence.  "  She  is  one  of  the 
truest  hearts  in  the  world  !  " 

The  captain  was  greatly  relieved  by  this  reply,  and 
expressed  his  satisfaction  by  taking  off  his  hard  glazed 
hat,  and  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  handker- 
chief rolled  up  like  a  ball  observing  several  times,  with 
infinite  complacency,  and  with  a  beaming  countenance, 
that  he  know'd  it. 

"  So  you're  quiet  now,  are  you,  brother  ?  "  said  the  cap- 
tain to  Diogenes.  "  There  warn't  nobody  there,  my  lady 
lass,  bless  you  !  " 

Diogenes  was  not  so  sure  of  that.  The  door  still  had 
an  attraction  for  him  at  intervals  ;  and  he  went  snuffing 
about  it,  and  growling  to  himself,  unable  to  forget  the 
subject.  This  incident,  coupled  with  the  captain's  obser- 
vation of  Florence's  fatigue  and  faintness,  decided  him 
to  prepare  Sol  Gills's  chamber  as  a  place  of  retirement  for 
her  immediately.  He  therefore  hastily  betook  himself 
to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  made  the  best  arrangement 
of  it  that  his  imagination  and  his  means  suggested. 

It  was  very  clean  already  ;  and  the  captain,  being  an 
orderly  man,  and  accustomed  to  make  things  ship-shape, 
converted  the  bed  into  a  couch,  by  covering  it  all  over 
with  a  clean  white  drapery.  By  a  similar  contrivance,  the 
captain  converted  the  little  dressing-table  into  a  species 
of  altar,  on  which  he  set  forth  two  silver  teaspoons,  a 
flower-pot,  a  telescope,  his  celebrated  watch,  a  pocket- 
comb,  and  a  song-book,  as  a  small  collection  of  rarities,  that 
made  a  choice  appearance.  Having  darkened  the  window, 
and  straightened  the  pieces  of  carpet  on  the  floor,  the 
captain  surveyed  these  preparations  with  great  delight, 
and  descended  to  the  little  parlour  again,  to  bring  Flor- 
ence to  her  bower. 

Nothing  would  induce  the  captain  to  believe  that  it 
was  possible  for  Florence  to  walk  up-stairs.  If  he  could 
have  got  the  idea  into  his  head,  he  would  have  considered 
it  an  outrageous  breach  of  hospitality  to  allow  her  to  do 
so.  Florence  was  too  weak  to  dispute  the  point,  and  the 
captain  carried  her  up  out  of  hand,  laid  her  down,  and 
covered  her  with  a  great  watch  coat. 

"My  lady  lass  !"  said  the  captain,  "you're  as  safe 
here  as  if  you  was  at  the  top  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  with 


628 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


the  ladder  cast  off.  Sleep  is  what  you  want,  afore  all 
other  things,  and  may  you  be  able  to  show  yourself 
smart  with  that  there  balsam  for  the  still  small  voice  of 
a  wownded  mind  !  When  there's  any  thing  you  want, 
my  Heart's  Delight,  as  this  here  humble  house  or  town 
can  offer,  pass  the  word  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  as'll  stand  off 
and  on  outside  that  door,  and  that  there  man  will  wibrate 
with  joy. "  The  captain  concluded  by  kissingthe  hand  that 
Florence  stretched  out  to  him,,  with  the  chivalry  of  any 
old  knight-errant, and  walking  on  tip-toe  out  of  the  room. 

Descending  to  the  little  parlour.  Captain  Cuttle,  after 
holding  a  hasty  council  with  himself,  decided  to  open 
the  shop-door  for  a  few  minutes,  and  satisfy  himself 
that  now,  at  all  events,  there  was  no  one  loitering  about 
it.  Accordingly  he  set  it  open,  and  stood  upon  the  thresh- 
old, keeping  a  bright  look-out,  and  sweeping  the  whole 
street  with  his  spectacles. 

"  How  de  do.  Captain  Gills?"  said  a  voice  beside  him. 
The  captain,  looking  down,  found  that  he  had  been 
boarded  by  Mr.  Toots  while  sweeping  the  horizon." 

"  How  are  you,  my  lad?"  replied  the  captain. 
Well,  I'm  pretty  well,  thank'ee,  Captain  Gills,"  said 
Mr.  Toots.    "  You  know  I'm  never  quite  what  I  could 
wish  to  be,  now.    I  don't  expect  that  I  ever  shall  be  any 
more." 

Mr.  Toots  never  approached  any  nearer  than  this  to  the 
great  theme  of  his  life,  when  in  conversation  with  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  on  account  of  the  agreement  between  them. 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "if  I  could  have 
the  pleasure  of  a  word  with  you,  it's — it's  rather  particu- 
lar." 

"Why,  you  see  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  leading 
the  way  into  the  parlour,  "  I  an't  what  you  may  call  ex- 
actly free  this  morning  ;  and  therefore  if  you  can  clap  on 
a  bit,  I  should  take  it  kindly." 

"Certainly  Captain  Gill,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  who  sel- 
dom had  any  notion  of  the  captain's  meaning.  "  To  clap 
on,  is  exactly  what  I  could  wish  to  do.  Naturally." 

"  If  so  be,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain.    "  Do  it !  " 

The  captain  was  so  impressed  by  the  possession  of  his 
tremendous  secret — by  the  fact  of  Miss  Dombey  being  at 
that  moment  under  his  roof,  while  the  innocent  and  un- 
conscious Toots  sat  opposite  to  him — that  a  perspiration 
broke  out  on  his  forehead,  and  he  found  it  impossible, 
while  slowly  drying  the  same,  glazed  hat  in  hand,  to 
keep  his  eyes  off  Mr.  Toots's  face.  Mr.  Toots,  who  him- 
self appeared  to  have  some  secret  reason  for  being  in  a 
nervous  state,  was  so  unspeakably  disconcerted  by  the 
captain's  stare,  that  after  looking  at  him  vacantly  for 
some  time  in  silence,  and  shifting" uneasily  on  his  chair, 
he  said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Captain  Gills,  but  you  don't  hap- 
pen to  see  anything  particular  in  me,  do  you?  " 

"  No,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain.    "  No." 

"  Because  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  chuckle, 
"  I  KNOW  I'm  wasting  away.  You  needn't  at  all  mind 
alluding  to  that.  I— I  should  like  it.  Burgess  &  Co. 
have  altered  my  measure,  I'm  in  that  state  of  thinness. 
It's  a  gratification  to  me.  I — I  am  glad  of  it.  I — I'd  a 
great  deal  rather  go  into  a  decline,  if  I  could.  I'm  a 
mere  brute  you  know,  grazing  upon  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  Captain  Gills." 

The  more  Mr.  Toots  went  on  in  this  way,  the  more  the 
captain  was  weighed  down  by  his  secret,'  and  stared  at 
him.  What  with  this  cause  of  uneasiness,  and  his  desire 
to  get  rid  of  Mr.  Toots,  the  captain  was  in  such  a  scared 
and  strange  condition,  indeed,*that  if  he  had  been  in  con- 
versation with  a  ghost,  he  could  hardly  have  evinced 
greater  discomposure. 

"  But  I  was  going  to  say.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this  morning — to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  was  coming  to  breakfast  with  you.  As 
to  sleep,  you  know  I  never  sleep  now.  I  might  be  a 
Watchman,  except  that  I  don't  get  any  pay,  and  he's  got 
nothing  on  his  mind." 

"  Carry  on,  my  lad  !  "  said  the  captain,  in  an  admoni- 
tory voice. 

"  Certainly,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  Per- 
fectly true  I  Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this  morn- 
ing (an  hour  or  so  ago),  and  finding  the  door  shut — " 

"  What  !  were  you  waiting  there,  brother?"  demand- 
ed the  captain. 


"  Not  at  all,  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  "  I 
didn't  stop  a  moment.  I  thought  you  were  out.  But 
the  person  said — by  the  bye,  you  don't  keep  a  dog  do 
you.  Captain  Gills  ?  " 

The  captain  shook  his  head. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "that's  exactly  what  I 
said.  I  knew  you  didn't.  There  is  a  dog.  Captain  Gills, 
connected  with — but  excuse  me.  That's  forbidden 
ground." 

The  captain  stared  at  Mr.  Toots  until  he  seemed  to 
swell  to  twice  his  natural  size  ;  and  again  the  perspira- 
tion broke  out  on  the  captain's  forehead,  when  he  thought 
of  Diogenes  taking  it  into  his  head  to  come  down  and 
make  a  third  in  the  parlour. 

"  The  person  said,"  continued  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  he  had 
heard  a  dog  barking  in  the  shop  :  which  I  knew  couldn't 
be,  and  I  told  him  so.  But  he  was  as  positive  as  if  he 
had  seen  the  dog." 

"  What  person,  my  lad?"  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Why,  you  see  there  it  is.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots  with  a  perceptible  increase  in  the  nervousness  of 
his  manner.  "  It's  not  for  me  to  say  what  may  have 
taken  place,  or  what  may  not  have  taken  place.  Indeed, 
I  don't  know.  I  get  mixed  up  with  all  sorts  of  things 
that  I  don't  quite  understand,  and  I  think  there's  some- 
thing rather  weak  in  my  in  my  head,  in  short."  j 

The  captain  nodded  his  own  as  a  mark  of  assent.  I 

"  But  the  person  said,  as  we  were  walking  away,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Toots,  "  that  you  knew  what,  under  existing 
circumstances,  migitt  occur — he  said  '  might,'  very  strong- 
ly— and  that  if  you  were  requested  to  prepare  yourself, 
you  would,  no  doubt,  come  prepared." 

"  Person,  my  lad  !"  the  captain  repeated. 

"  I  don't  know  what  person,  I'm  sure.  Captain  Gills." 
replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  haven't  the  least  idea.    But  com-  ; 
ing  to  the  door,  I  found  liinj  waiting  there  ;  and  he  said  \ 
was  I  coming  back  again,  and  I  said  yes  ;  and  he  said  did  J 
I  know  you,  and  I  said,  yes,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  your  ! 
acquaintance — you  had  given  me  the  pleasure  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, after  some  persuasion  ;  and  he  said,  if  that  j 
was  the  case,  would  I  say  to  you  what  I  Tiave  said,  about  j 
existing  circumstances  and  coming  prepared,  and  as  soon  | 
as  ever  I  saw  you,  would  I  ask  you  to  step  round  the  cor-  ! 
ner,  if  it  was  only  for  one  minute,  on  most  important  | 
business,  to  Mr.  Brogley's  the  broker's.    Now,  I  tell  you  | 
what,  Captain  Gills — whatever  it  is,  I  am  convinced  it's 
very  important  ;  and  if  you  like  to  step  round  now,  I'll 
wait  here  'till  you  come  back. " 

The  captain,  divided  between  his  fear  of  compromising  ; 
Florence  in  some  way  by  not  going,  and  his  horror  of  leav- 
ing Mr.  Toots  in  possession  of  the  house  with  a  chance  of 
finding  out  the  secret,  was  a  spectacle  of  mental  disturb- 
ance that  even  Mr.  Toots  could  not  be  blind  to.  But 
that  young  gentleman,  considering  his  nautical  friend  as 
merely  in  a  state  of  preparation  for  the  interview  he  was 
going  to  have,  was  quite  satisfied,  and  did  not  review  his 
own  discreet  conduct  without  chuckles. 

At  length  the  captain  decided,  as  the  lesser  of  two 
evils,  to  run  round  to  Brogley's  the  broker's  :  previously 
locking  the  door  that  communicated  with  the  upper  part 
of  the  house,  and  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket.  "If  so 
be,"  said  the  captain  to  Mr.  Toots,  with  not  a  little  shame 
and  hesitation,  "  as  you'll  excuse  my  doing  of  it, brother." 

" Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "whatever  you 
do,  is  satisfactory  to  me." 

The  captain  thanked  him  heartily,  and  promising  to 
come  back  in  less  than  five  minutes,  went  out  in  quest 
of  the  person  who  had  intrusted  Mr.  Toots  with  this  mys- 
terious message.  Poor  Mr.  Toots,  left  to  himself,  lay 
down  upon  the  sofa,  little  thinking  who  had  reclined 
there  last,  and,  gazing  up  at  the  sky-light  and  resigning 
himself  to  visions  of  Miss  Dombey,  lost  all  heed  of  time 
and  place. 

It  was  as  well  that  he  did  so;  for  although  the  captain 
was  not  gone  long,  he  was  gone  much  longer  than  he 
had  proposed.  When  he  came  back,  he  was  very  pale 
indeed,  and  greatly  agitated,  and  even  looked  as  if  he 
had  been  shedding  tears.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
faculty  of  speech,  until  he  had  been  to  the  cupboard  and 
taken  a  dram  of  rum  from  the  case-bottle,  when  he 
f<?tched  a  deep  breath,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  with  his 
hand  before  his  face. 


DOMBEY 

''Captain  Gills,"  said  Toots,  kindly,  "I  hope  and 
trust  there's  nothing  wrong  ?  " 

"  Thank'ee  my  lad,  not  a  bit,"  said  the  captain. 
**  Quite  contrairy." 

"  You  have  the  appearance  of  being  overcome,  Cap- 
tain Gills,"  observed  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Why  my  lad,  I  am  took  aback,"  the  captain  admit- 
ted, "lam." 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do.  Captain  Gills?"  inquir- 
ed Mr.  Toots.    "  If  there  is  make  use  of  me." 

The  captain  removed  his  hand  from  his  face,  looked 
at  him  with  a  remarkable  expression  of  pity  and  ten- 
derness, and  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  shook  it 
hard. 

"  No  thank'ee,"  said  the  captain.  "  Nothing.  Only 
I'll  take  it  as  a  favour  if  you'll  part  company  for  the  pre- 
sent. I  believe,  brother,"  wringing  his  hand  again, 
"  that,  after  Wal'r,  and  on  a  different  model,  you're  as 
good  a  lad  as  ever  stepped," 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honour  Captain  Gills,"  returned 
Mr.  Toots,  giving  the  captain's  hand  a  preliminary  slap 
before  shaking  it  again,  "  it's  delightful  to  me  to  pos- 
sess your  good  opinion.  Thank'ee." 

"  And  bear  a  hand  and  cheer  up,"  said  the  captain, 
patting  him  on  the  back.  "  What  !  There's  more  than 
one  sweet  creetur  in  the  world  !  " 

"  Not  to  me.  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  grave- 
ly. "  Not  to  me,  I  assure  you.  The  state  of  my  feel- 
ings towards  Miss  Dombey  is  of  that  unspeakable  de- 
scription, that  my  heart  is  a  desert  island,  and  she  lives 
in  it  alone.  I'm  getting  more  used  up  every  day,  and 
I'm  proud  to  be  so.  If  you  could  see  my  legs  when  I 
take  my  boots  off,  you'd  form  some  idea  of  what  unre- 
quited affection  is.  I  have  been  prescribed  bark,  but  I 
don't  take  it,  for  I  don't  wish  to  have  any  tone  what- 
ever given  to  my  constitution.  I'd  rather  not.  This 
however,  is  forbidden  ground.  Captain  Gills,  good 
bye  ! " 

Captain  Cuttle  cordially  reciprocating  the  warmth  of 
Mr.  Toots's  farewell,  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and 
shaking  his  head  with  the  same  remarkable  expression  of 
pity  and  tenderness  as  he  had  regarded  him  with  before, 
went  up  to  see  if  Florence  wanted  him. 

There  was  an  entire  change  in  the  captain's  face  as  he 
went  upstairs.  He  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief, 
and  he  polished  the  bridge  of  his  nose  with  his  sleeve  as 
he  had  done  already  that  morning,  but  his  face  was  ab- 
solutely changed.  Now,  he  might  have  been  thought 
supremely  happy  ;  now,  he  might  have  been  thought 
sad  ;  but  the  kind  of  gravity  that  sat  upon  his  features 
was  quite  new  to  them,  and  was  as  great  an  improvement 
to  them  as  if  they  had  undergone  some  sublimating  pro- 
cess. 

He  knocked  softly,  with  his  hook,  at  Florence's  door, 
twice  or  thrice  ;  but,  receiving  no  answer,  ventured  first  i 
to  peep  in,  arid  then  to  enter:  emboldened  to  take  the 
latter  step,  perhaps,  by  the  familiar  recognition  of 
Diogenes,  who,  siretclied  upon  the  ground  by  the  side  of 
her  couch,  wagged  his  tail,  and  winked  his  eyes  at 
the  captain,  without  being  at  the  trouble  of  getting 
up. 

She  was  sleeping  heavily,  and  moaning  in  her  sleep  ; 
and  Captain  Cuttle,  with  a  perfect  awe  of  her  youth  and 
beauty,  and  her  sorrow,  raised  her  head,  and  adjusted 
the  coat  that  covered  her,  where  it  had  fallen  off,  and 
darkened  the  window  a  little  more  that  she  might 
sleep  on,  and  crept  out  again,  and  took  his  post  of  watch 
upon  the  stairs.  All  this,  with  a  touch  and  tread  as 
light  as  Florence's  own. 

Long  may  it  remain  in  this  mixed  world  a  point  not 
easy  of  decision,  which  is  the  more  beautiful  evidence 
of  the  Almighty's  goodness — the  delicate  fingers  that  are 
formed  for  sensitiveness  and  sympathy  of  touch,  and 
made  to  minister  to  pain  and  grief,  or  the  rough  hard 
Captain  Cuttle  hand,  that  the  heart  teaches,  guides,  and 
softens  in  a  moment  ! 

Florence  slept  upon  her  couch,  forgetful  of  her 
homelessness  and  orphanage,  and  Captain  Cuttle  watched 
upon  the  stairs.  A  louder  sob  or  moan  than  usual 
brought  him  sometimes  to  her  door  ;  but  by  degrees  she 
slept  more  peacefully,  and  the  captain's  watch  was  un- 
disturbed. 


AND  SOK  629 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 

The  Midshipman  makes  a  iJiscovery. 

It  was  long  before  Florence  awoke.  The  day  was  in 
its  prime,  the  day  was  in  its  wane,  and  still,  uneasy  in 
mind  and  body,  she  slept  on  ;  unconscious  of  her  strange 
bed,  of  the  noise  and  turmoil  in  the  street,  and  of  the 
light  that  shone  outside  the  shaded  window.  Perfect 
unconsciousness  of  what  had  happened  in  the  home 
that  existed  no  more,  even  the  deep  slumber  of  exhaust- 
ion could  not  produce.  Some  undefined  and  mournful 
recollection  of  it,  dozing  uneasily  but  never  sleeping, 
pervaded  all  her  rest.  A  dull  sorrow,  like  a  half-lulled 
sense  of  pain,  was  always  present  to  her  ;  and  her  pale 
cheek  was  oftener  wet  with  tears  than  the  lionest  cap- 
tain, softly  putting  in  his  head  from  time  to  time  at  the 
half -closed  door,  could  have  desired  to  see  it. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west,  and,  glancing 
out  of  a  red  mist,  y^ierced  with  its  rays  opposite  loop- 
holes and  pieces  of  fret-work  in  the  si)ires  of  the  city 
churches,  as  if  with  golden  arrows  that  struck  through 
and  through  them — and  far  away  athwart  the  river  and 
its  flat  banks,  it  was  gleaming  like  a  path  of  fire — and 
out  at  sea  it  was  irradiating  sails  of  ships — and,  looked 
towards,  from  quiet  churchyards,  upon  hill-tops  in  the 
country,  it  was  steeping  distant  prospects  in  a  flush  and 
glow  that  seemed  to  mingle  earth  and  sky  together  in 
one  glorious  suffusion — when  Florence,  opening  her 
heavy  eyes,  lay  at  first,  looking  without  interest  or  re- 
cognition at  the  unfamiliar  walls  around  her,  and  listen- 
ing in  the  same  regardless  manner  to  the  noises  in  the 
street.  But  presently  she  started  up  upon  her  couch, 
gazed  round  with  a  surprised  and  vacant  look,  and  re- 
collected all. 

"  My  pretty,"  said  the  captain,  knocking  at  the  door, 
"  what  cheer  !  " 

"  Dear  friend,"  cried  Florence,  hurrying  to  him,  "  is 
it  you  ?  " 

The  captain  felt  so  much  pride  in  the  name,  and  was 
so  pleased  by  the  gleam  of  pleasure  in  her  face  when  she 
saw  him,  that  he  kissed  his  hook,  by  way  of  reply,  in 
speechless  gratification. 

"  What  cheer,  bright  di'mond  !  "  said  the  captain. 
"  I  have  surely  slept  very  long,"  returned  Florence. 
"  When  did  I  come  here  ?   Yesterday  ?  " 

"  This  here  blessed  day,  my  lady  lass,"  replied  the 
captain. 

' '  Has  there  been  no  night  ?  Is  it  still  day  ?  "  asked 
Florence. 

"  Getting  on  for  evening  now,  my  pretty,"  said  the 
captain,  drawing  back  the  curtain  of  the  window. 
''See  1" 

Florence,  with  her  hand  upon  the  captain's  aim,  so 
i  sorrowful  and  timid,  and  the  captain  with  his  rough  face 
and  burly  figure,  so  quietly  protective  of  her,  stood  in 
the  rosy  light  of  the  bright  evening  sky,  without  saying 
a  word.  However  strange  the  form  of  speech  into  which 
he  might  have  fashioned  the  feeling,  if  he  had  had  to 
give  it  utterance,  the  captain  felt,  as  sensibly  as  the 
most  eloquent  of  men  could  have  done,  that  there  was 
something  in  the  tranquil  time  and  in  its  softened 
beauty  that  would  make  the  wounded  heart  of  Florence 
overflow  ;  and  that  it  was  better  that  such  tears  should 
have  their  way.'  So  not  a  word  spake  Captain  Cuttle. 
But  when  he  felt  his  arm  clasped  closer,  and  when  he 
felt  the  lonely  head  come  nearer  to  it,  and  lay  itself 
against  his  homely  coarse  blue  sleeve,  he  pressed  it 
gently  with  his  rugged  hand,  and  understood  it,  and  was 
understood. 

"  Better  now,  my  pretty  ! "  said  the  captain.  "  Cheer- 
ily, cheerily  ;  I'll  go  down  below,  and  get  some  dinner 
ready.  Will  you  come  down  of  your  own  self,  arter- 
wards,  pretty,  or  shall  Ed'ard  Cuttle  come  and  fetch 
you  ?" 

As  Florence  assured  him  that  she  was  quite  able  to 
walk  down-stairs,  the  captain,  though  evidently  doubt- 
ful of  his  own  hospitality  in  permitting  it,  left  her  to  do 
so,  and  immediately  set  about  roasting  a  fowl  at  the  fire 
in  the  little  parlour.  To  achieve  his  cookery  with  the 
greater  skill,  he  pulled  off  his  coat,  tucked  up  his  wrist- 
bands and  put  on  his  glazed  hat,  without  which  assist- 


630 


CHABLES  DICKENS'  W0RK8. 


ant  he  never  applied  himself  to  any  nice  or  diflBcult 
undertaking. 

After  cooling  her  aching  head  and  burning  face  in  the 
fresh  water  which  the  captain's  care  had  provided  for 
her  while  she  slept,  Florence  went  to  the  little  mirror  to 
bind  up  her  disordered  hair.  Then  she  knew — in  a 
moment,  for  she  shunned  it  instantly — that  on  lier  breast 
there  was  the  darkening  mark  of  an  angry  hand. 

Her  tears  burst  forth  afresh  at  the  sight  ;  she  was 
ashamed  and  afraid  of  it  ;  but  it  moved  her  to  no  anger 
against  him.  Homeless  and  fatherless,  she  forgave  him 
everything  ;  hardly  thought  that  she  had  need  to  forgive 
him,  or  that  she  did  ;  but  slie  lied  from  the  idea  of  him 
as  siie  had  fled  from  the  reality,  and  he  was  utterly  gone 
and  lost.    There  was  no  such  Being  in  the  world. 

What  to  do,  or  where  to  live,  Florence — poor,  inex- 
perienced girl ! — could  not  yet  consider.  She  had  indis- 
tinct dreams  of  finding,  a  long  way  off,  some  little  sis- 
ters to  instruct,  who  would  be  gentle  with  her,  and  to 
whom,  under  some  feigned  name,  she  might  attach  her- 
self, and  who  would  grow  up  in  their  happy  home,  and 
marry,  and  be  good  to  the  old  governess,  and  perhaps 
intrust  her,  in  time,  with  the  education  of  their  own 
daughters.  And  she  thought  how  strange  and  sorrow- 
ful it  would  be,  thus  to  become  a  grey-haired  woman, 
carrying  her  secret  to  the  grave,  when  Florence  Dombey 
was  forgotten.  But  it  was  all  dim  and  clouded  to  her 
now.  She  only  knew  that  she  had  no  father  upon 
earth,  and  she  said  so,  many  times,  with  her  suppliant 
head  hidden  from  all,  but  her  Father  who  was  in 
Heaven. 

Her  little  stock  of  money  amounted  to  but  a  few 
guineas.  With  a  part  of  this,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
buy  some  clothes,  for  she  had  none  but  those  she  wore. 
She  was  too  desolate  to  think  how  soon  her  money  would 
be  gone — too  much  a  child  in  worldly  matters  to  be 
greatly  troubled  on  that  score  yet,  even  if  her  other 
trouble  had  been  less.  She  tried  to  calm  her  thoughts 
and  stay  her  tears  ;  to  quiet  the  hurry  in  her  throbbing 
head,  and  bring  herself  to  believe  that  what  had  hap- 
pened were  but  the  events  of  a  few  hours  ago,  instead 
of  weeks  or  months,  as  they  appeared  ;  and  went  down 
to  her  kind  protector. 

The  captain  had  spread  the  cloth  with  great  care,  and 
was  making  some  egg-sauce  in  a  little  saucepan  :  bast- 
ing the  fowl  from  time  to  time  during  the  process  with 
a  strong  interest,  as  it  turned  and  browned  on  a  string- 
before  the  fire.  Having  propped  Florence  up  with 
cushions  on  a  sofa,  which  was  already  wheeled  into  a 
warm  corner  for  her  greater  comfort,  the  captain  pur- 
sued his  cooking  with  extraordinary  skill,  making  hot 
gravy  in  a  second  little  saucepan,  boiling  a  handful  of 
potatoes  in  a  third,  never  forgetting  the  egg-sauce  in 
the  first,  and  making  an  impartial  round  of  basting  and 
stirring  with  the  most  useful  of  spoons  every  minute. 
Besides  these  cares,  the  captain  had  to  keep  his  eye  on 
a  diminutive  frying-pan,  in  which  some  sausages  were 
hissing  and  bubbling  in  a  most  musical  manner  ;  and 
there  was  never  such  a  radiant  cook  as  the  captain 
looked  in  the  height  and  heat  of  these  functions  :  it 
being  impossible  to  say  whether  his  face  or  his  glazed 
hat  shone  the  brighter. 

The  dinner  being  at  length  quite  ready.  Captain  Cut- 
tle dished  and  served  it  up  with  no  less  dexterity  than 
he  had  cooked  it.  He  then  dressed  for  dinner,  by  tak- 
ing off  his  glazed  hat  and  putting  on  his  coat.  That 
done,  he  wheeled  the  table  close  against  Florence  on  the 
sofa,  said  grace,  unscrewed  his  hook,  screwed  his  fork 
into  its  place,  and  did  the  honours  of  the  table. 

"My  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  "cheer  up,  and  try 
to  eat  a  deal.  Stand  by,  my  deary  !  Liver  wing  it  is. 
Sarse  it  is.  Sassage  it  is.  And  potato  ! "  all  which  the 
ca])tain  ranged  symmetrically  on  a  ])late,  and,  pouring 
hot  gravy  on  the  whole  with  the  useful  spoon,  set  be- 
fore his  cherished  guest. 

"  The  whole  row  'o  dead  lights  is  up,  for'ard,  lady 
lass,"  observed  the  captain,  encouragingly,  "  and  every- 
think  is  made  snug.  Try  and  pick  a  bit,  my  pretty.  If 
Wal'r  was  here — " 

"Ah!  If  I  had  him  for  my  brother  now!"  cried 
Florence. 

"Don't !  don't  take  on,  my  x^retty  I"  said  the  captain, 


"  a  wast  to  obleege  me  1  He  was  your  nat'ral  born  friend 
like,  warn't  he  Pet  ?  " 

Florence  had  no  words  to  answer  with.  She  only  said, 
"  Oh  dear,  dear  Paul  !  oh  Walter  !  " 

"The  Mxry  planks  she  walked  on,"  murmured  the 
captain,  looking  at  her  drooping  face,  "  was  as  high  es- 
teemed by  Wal'r,  as  the  water  brooks  is  by  the  hart 
which  never  rejices  !  I  see  him  now,  the  wery  day  as  he 
was  rated  on  them  Dombey  books,  a  speaking  of  her 
with  his  face  a  glistening  with  doo — leastways  with  his 
modest  sentiments — like  a  new  blowed  rose,  at  dinner. 
Well,  well  !  If  our  poor  Wal'r  was  here,  my  lady  lass 
— or  if  he  could  be — for  he's  drowned,  an't  he  ! " 

Florence  shook  her  head. 

"Yes,  yes  ;  drownded,"  said  the  captain,  soothingly  ; 
"  as  I  was  saying,  if  he  could  be  here  he'd  beg  and  pray 
of  you,  my  precious,  to  pick  a  leetle  bit,  with  a  look-out 
for  your  own  sweet  health.  Whereby,  hold  your  own, 
my  lady  lass,  as  if  it  was  for  Wal'r's  sake,  and  lay  your 
pretty  head  to  the  wind. " 

Florence  essayed  to  eat  a  morsel,  for  the  captain's 
pleasure.  The  captain,  meanwhile,  who  seemed  to  have 
quite  forgotten  his  own  dinner,  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork,  and  drew  his  chair  to  the  sofa. 

"  Wal'r  was  a  trim  lad,  warn't  he,  precious?  "  said  the 
captain,  after  sitting  for  some  time  silently  rubbing  his 
chin,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  "  and  a  brave  lad, 
and  a  good  lad  ?  " 

Florence  tearfully  assented, 

"And  he's  drownded.  Beauty,  an't  he  ?  "  said  the  cap- 
tain, in  a  soothing  voice. 

Florence  could  not  but  assent  again. 

"  He  was  older  than  you,  my  lady  lass"  pursued  the 
captain,  "  but  you  was  like  two  children  together,  at 
first ;  warn't  you  ?  " 

Florence  answered  "Yes." 

"  And  Wal'r's  drownded,"  said  the  captain.  "An't 
he  ?  " 

The  repetition  of  this  inquiry  was  a  curious  source  of 
consolation,  but  it  seemed  to  be  one  to  Captain  Cuttle, 
for  he  came  back  to  it  again  and  again.  Florence,  fain 
to  push  from  her  her  untasted  dinner,  and  to  lie  back  on 
her  sofa,  gave  him  her  hand,  feeling  that  she  had  disap- 
pointed him,  though  truly  wishing  to  have  pleased  him 
after  all  his  trouble,  but  he  held  it  in  his  own  (which 
shook  as  he  held  it),  and,  appearing  to  have  quite  for- 
gotten all  about  the  dinner  and  her  want  of  appetite, 
went  on  growling  at  intervals,  in  a  ruminating  tone  of 
sympathy,  "  Poor  Wal'r.  Ay,  ay  !  Drownded.  An't 
he  ?  "  And  always  waited  for  her  answer,  in  which  the 
great  point  of  these  singular  reflections  appeared  to 
consist. 

The  fowl  and  sausages  were  cold,  and  the  gravy  and 
the  egg-sauce  stagnant,  before  the  captain  remembered 
that  they  were  on  the  board,  and  fell  to  with  the  assist- 
ance of  Diogenes,  whose  united  efforts  quickly  de- 
spatched the  banquet.  The  captain's  delight  and  wonder 
at  the  quiet  housewifery  of  Florence  in  assisting  to  clear 
the  table,  arrange  the  parlour,  and  sweep  up  the  hearth 
— only  to  be  equalled  by  the  fervency  of  his  protest  when 
she  began  to  assist  him — were  gradually  raised  to  that 
degree,  that  at  last  he  could  not  choose  but  do  nothing 
himself,  and  stand  looking  at  her  as  if  she  were  some 
Fairy,  daintily  performing  these  offices  for  him  ;  the.  red 
rim  on  his  forehead  glowing  again,  in  his  unspeakable 
admiration. 

But  when  Florence,  taking  down  his  pipe  from  the 
mantel-shelf  gave  it  into  his  hand,  and  entreated  him  to 
smoke  it,  the  good  captain  was  so  bewildered  by  her  at- 
tention, that  he  held  it  as  if  he  had  never  held  a  pipe  in 
all  his  life.  Likewise,  when  Florence,  looking  into  the 
little  cupboard,  took  out  the  case-bottle  and  mixed  a 
perfect  glass  of  grog  for  him,  unasked,  and  set  it  at  his 
elbow,  his  ruddy  nose  turned  pale,  he  felt  himself  so 
graced  and  honoured.  When  he  had  filled  his  pipe  in  an 
absolute  reverie  of  satisfaction,  Florence  lighted  it  for 
him — the  captain  having  no  power  to  object,  or  to  prevent 
her — and  resuming  her  place  on  the  old  sofa,  looked  at 
him  with  a  smile,  so  loving  and  so  grateful,  a  smile  that 
showed  him  so  plainly  how  her  forlorn  heart  turned  to 
him,  as  her  face  did,  through  grief,  that  the  smoke  of  the 
pipe  got  into  the  captain's  throat  and  made  him  cough. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVEKbll^  OF  ILLINOIS 


DOMBEY 

and  got  into  the  captain's  eyes,  and  made  them  blink 
and  water. 

The  manner  in  which  the  captain  tried  to  make  believe 
that  the  cause  of  these  effects  lay  hidden  in  the  pipe  it- 
self, and  the  way  in  which  he  looked  into  the  bowl  for 
it,  and  not  finding  it  there,  pretended  to  blow  it  out  of 
the  stem,  was  wonderfully  pleasant.  The  pipe  soon  get- 
ting into  better  condition,  he  fell  into  that  state  of  re- 
pose becoming  a  good  smoker  ;  but  sat  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Florence,  and  with  a  beaming  placidity  not  to 
be  described,  and  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  dis- 
charge a  little  cloud  from  his  lips,  slowly  puffed  it  forth, 
as  if  it  were  a  scroll  coming  out  of  his  mouth,  bearing  the 
legend  ' '  Poor  Wal'r,  ay,  ay.  Drowned  an't  he  ?  "  after 
which  he  would  resume  his  smoking  with  infinite  gen- 
tleness. 

Unlike  as  they  were  externally  —  and  there  could 
scarcely  be  a  more  decided  contrast  than  between  Flor- 
ence in  her  delicate  j'outh  and  beauty,  and  Captain  Cut- 
tle with  his  knobby  face,  his  great  broad  weather-beaten 
person,  and  his  gruff  voice — in  simple  innocence  of  the 
world's  ways  and  the  world's  perplexities  and  dangers, 
they  were  nearly  on  a  level.  No  child  could  have  sur- 
passed Captain  Cuttle  in  inexperience  of  everything  but 
wind  and  weather  ;  in  simplicity,  credulity,  and  generous 
trustfulness.  Faith,  hope,  and  charity,  shared  his  whole 
nature  among  them.  An  odd  sort  of  romance,  perfectly 
unimaginative,  yet  perfectly  unreal,  and  subject  to  no 
considerations  of  worldly  prudence  or  practicability,  was 
the  only  partner  they  had  in  his  character.  As  the  cap- 
tain sat,  and  smoked,  and  looked  at  Florence,  God  knows 
what  impossible  pictures,  in  which  she  was  the  principal 
figure,  presented  themselves  to  his  mind.  Equally  vague 
and  uncertain,  though  not  so  sanguine,  were  her  own 
thoughts  of  the  life  before  her,  and  even  as  her  tears 
made  prismatic  colours  in  the  light  she  gazed  at,  so 
through  her  new  and  heavy  grief,  she  already  saw  a  rain- 
bow faintly  shining  in  the  far-off  sky.  A  wandering 
princess  and  a  good  monster  in  a  story-book  might  have 
sat  by  the  fireside,  and  talked  as  Captain  Cuttle  and  poor 
Florence  thought — and  not  have  looked  very  much  un- 
like them. 

The  captain  was  not  troubled  with  the  faintest  idea  of 
any  difficulty  in  retaining  Florence,  or  of  any  responsi- 
bility thereby  incurred.  Having  put  up  the  shutters  and 
locked  the  door,  he  was  quite  satisfied  on  this  head.  If 
she  had  been  a  Ward  in  Chancery,  it  would  have  made 
no  difference  at  all  to  Captain  Cuttle.  He  was  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  be  troubled  by  any  such  considera- 
tions. 

So  the  captain  smoked  his  pipe  very  comfortably,  and 
Florence  and  he  meditated  after  their  own  manner. 
When  the  pipe  was  out,  they  had  some  tea  ;  and  then 
Florence  entreated  him  to  take  her  to  some  neighbouring 
shop,  where  she  could  buy  the  few  necessaries  she  im- 
mediately wanted.  It  being  quite  dark,  the  captain  con- 
sented :  peeping  carefully  out  first,  as  he  had  been  wont 
to  do  in  his  time  of  hiding  from  Mrs.  MacStinger  :  and 
arming  himself  with  his  large  stick,  in  case  of  an  appeal 
to  arms  being  rendered  necessary  by  any  unforseen  cir- 
cumstance. 

The  pride  Captain  Cuttle  had,  in  giving  his  arm  to 
Florence,  and  escorting  her  some  two  or  three  hundred 
yards,  keeping  a  bright  look-out  all  the  time,  and  at- 
tracting the  attention  of  every  one  who  passed  them,  by 
his  great  vigilance  and  numerous  precautions,  was  ex- 
treme. Arrived  at  the  shop,  the  captain  felt  it  a  point 
of  delicacy  to  retire  during  the  making  of  the  purchases, 
as  they  were  to  consist  of  wearing  apparel  ;  but  he  pre- 
viously deposited  his  tin  canister  on  the  counter,  and 
informing  the  young  lady  of  the  establishment  that  it 
contained  fourteen  pound  two,  requested  her,  in  case 
that  amount  of  property  should  not  be  sufficient  to  defray 
the  expenses  of  his  niece's  little  outfit — at  the  word 
"niece,"  he  bestowed  a  most  significant  look  on  Flor- 
ence, accompanied  with  pantomime,  expressive  of  sa- 
gacity and  mystery— to  have  the  goodness  to  "sing  out," 
and  he  would  make  up  the  difference  from  his  pocket. 
Casually  consulting  his  big  watch,  as  a  deep  means  of 
dazzling  the  establishment,  and  impressing  it  with  a 
sense  of  property,  the  captain  then  kissed  his  hook  to  his 
niece,  and  retired  outside  the  window,  where  it  was  a 


AND  SOK  631 

choice  sight  to  see  his  great  face  looking  in  from  time  to 
time,  among  the  silks  and  ribbons,  with  an  obvious  mis- 
giving that  Florence  had  been  spirited  away  by  a  back 
door. 

"  Dear  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Florence,  when  she  came 
out  with  a  parcel,  the  size  of  which  greatly  disappoint- 
ed the  captain,  who  had  expected  to  see  a  porter  follow- 
ing with  a  bale  of  goods,  "  I  don't  want  this  money,  in- 
deed. I  have  not  spent  any  of  it.  I  have  money  of  my 
own." 

"My  lady  lass,"  returned  the  baffled  captain,  looking 
straight  down  the  street  before  them,  "take  care  on  it 
for  mc,  will  you  be  so  good,  till  such  time  as  I  ask  ye 
for  it?" 

"  May  I  put  it  back  in  its  usual  place,"  said  Florence, 
"  and  keep  it  there?" 

The  captain  was  not  at  all  gratified  by  this  proposal, 
but  he  answered,  "Ay,  ay,  put  it  anywheres,  my  lady 
lass,  so  long  as  you  know  where  to  find  it  again.  It 
an't  o'  no  use  to  me,"  said  the  captain.  "I  wonder  I 
haven't  chucked  it  away  afore  now." 

The  captain  was  quite  disheartened  for  the  moment,  but 
he  revived  at  the  first  touch  of  Florence's  aim,  and  they 
returned  with  the  same  precautions  as  they  had  come  ; 
the  captain  opening  the  door  of  the  little  midshipman's 
berth,  and  diving  in,  with  a  suddenness  which  his  great 
practice  only  could  have  taught  him.  During  Florence's 
slumber  in  the  morning,  he  had  engaged  the  daughter  of 
an  elderly  lady,  who  usually  sat  under  a  blue  umbrella 
in  Leadenhall-market,  selling  poultry,  to  come  and  put 
her  room  in  order,  and  render  her  any  little  services 
she  required  ;  and  this  damsel  now  appearing,  Florence 
found  everything  about  her  as  convenient  and  orderly, 
if  not  as  handsome,  as  in  the  terrible  dream  she  had  once 
called  Home. 

When  they  were  alone  again,  the  cap^^in  insisted  on 
her  eating  a  slice  of  dry  toast,  and  drinking  a  glass  of 
spiced  negus  (which  he  made  to  perfection)  ;  and,  encour- 
aging her  with  every  kind  word  and  inconsequential  quo- 
tation he  could  possibly  think  of,  led  her  up-stairs  to  her 
bedroom.  But  he  too  had  something  on  his  mind,  and 
was  not  easy  in  his  manner. 

"Good  night,  dear  heart,"  said  Captain  Cuttle  to  her 
at  her  chamber-door. 

Florence  raised  her  lips  to  his  face,  and  kissed  him. 

At  any  other  time  the  captain  would  have  been  over- 
balanced by  such  a  token  of  her  affection  and  gratitude  ; 
but  now,  although  he  was  very  sensible  of  it,  he  looked 
in  her  face  with  even  more  uneasiness  than  he  had  testi- 
fied before,  and  seemed  unwilling  to  leave  her. 

"  Poor  Wal'r  ! "  said  the  captain. 

"  Poor,  poor  Walter  !  "  sighed  Florence. 

"  Drownded,  an't  he  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

Florence  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

"Good  night,  my  lady  lass!"  said  Captain  Cuttle, 
putting  out  his  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear,  kind  friend  ! " 

But  the  captain  lingered  still. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  dear  Captain  Cuttle  ?  "  said 
Florence,  easily  alarmed  in  her  then  state  of  mind. 
'  *  Have  you  anything  to  tell  me  !  " 

"  To  tell  you,  lady  lass  ! "  replied  the  captain,  meet- 
ing her  eyes  in  confusion.  "  No,  no  ;  what  should  I 
have  to  tell  you,  pretty  !  You  don't  expect  as  I've  got 
anything  good  to  tell  you,  sure  ?  " 

"No  !  "  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head. 

The  captain  looked  at  her  wistfully,  and  repeated 
"No," — still  lingering  and  still  showing  embarrass- 
ment. 

"  Poor  Wal'r  !  "  said  the  captain.  "  My  Wal'r,  as  I  used 
to  call  you  !  Old  Sol  Gills's  nevy  !  Welcomed  to  all  as 
knowed  you,  as  the  flowers  in  May  !  Where  are  you 
got  to,  brave  boy  !    Drownded,  an't  he  ?  " 

Concluding  his  apostrophe  with  this  abrupt  appeal  to 
Florence,  the  captain  bade  her  good  night,  and  descended 
the  stairs,  while  Florence  remained  at  the  top,  holding 
the  candle  out  to  light  him  down.  He  was  lost  in  the 
obscurity,  and,  judging,  from  the  sound  of  his  receding 
footsteps,  was  in  the  act  of  turning  into  the  little  par- 
lour, when  his  head  and  shoulders  unexpectedly  emerged 
again,  as  from  the  deep,  apparently  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  repeat,  "  Dro  winded,  an't  he,  pretty?"  For 


632 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


when  he  had  said  that  in  a  tone  of  tender  condolence,  he 
disappeared. 

Florence  was  very  sorry  that  she  should  unwittingly, 
though  naturally,  have  awakened  those  associations  in 
the  mind  of  her  protector,  by  taking  refuge  there  ;  and 
sitting  down  before  the  little  table  where  the  captain  had 
arranged  the  telescope  and  song-book,  and  those  other 
rarities,  thought  of  Walter,  and  of  all  that  was  con- 
nected with  him  in  the  past,  until  she  could  have  almost 
wished  to  lie  down  on  her  bed  and  fade  away.  But  in 
her  lonely  yearning  to  the  dead  whom  she  had  loved,  no 
thought  of  home— no  possibility  of  going  back— no  pre- 
sentation of  it  as  yet  existing,  or  as  sheltering  her  father 
—once  entered  her  thoughts.  She  had  seen  the  murder 
done.  In  the  last  lingering  natural  aspect  in  which  she 
had  cherished  him  through  so  much,  he  had  been  torn 
out  of  her  heart,  defaced,  and  slain.  The  thought  of  it 
was  so  appalling  to  her,  that  she  covered  her  eyes,  and 
shrunk  trembling  from  the  least  remembrance  of  the 
deed,  or  of  the  cruel  hand  that  did  it.  If  her  fond  heart 
could  have  held  his  image  after  that,  it  must  have 
broken  ;  but  it  could  not  ;  and  the  void  was  filled  with  a 
wild  dread,  that  fled  from  all  confronting  with  its  shat- 
tered fragments — with  such  a  dread  as  could  have 
risen  out  of  nothing  but  the  depths  of  such  a  love,  so 
wronged. 

She  dared  not  look  into  the  glass  ;  for  the  sight  of 
the  darkening  mark  upon  her  bosom  made  her  afraid  of 
herself,  as  if  she  bore  about  her  something  wicked.  She 
covered  it  up,  with  a  hasty,  faltering  hand,  and  in  the 
dark  ;  and  laid  her  weary  head  down,  weeping. 

The  captain  did  not  go  to  bed  for  a  long  time.  He 
walked  to  and  fro  in  the  shop,  and  in  the  little  parlour, 
for  a  full  hour,  and,  appearing  to  have  composed  him- 
self by  that  exercise,  sat  down  with  a  grave  and 
thoughtful  face,  and  read  out  of  a  Prayer-book  the 
forms  of  prayer  appointed  to  be  used  at  sea.  These 
were  not  easily  disposed  of  ;  the  good  captain  being  a 
mighty  slow,  gruff  reader,  and  frequently  stopping  at  a 
hard  word  to  give  himself  such  encouragement  as  "  Now, 
my  lad  !  With  a  will  1 "  or,  "  Steady,  Ed'ard  Cuttle, 
steady  ! "  which  had  a  great  effect  in  helping  him  out  of 
any  difficulty.  Moreover,  his  spectacles  greatly  inter- 
fered with  his  powers  of  vision.  But  notwithstanding 
these  drawbacks,  the  captain,  being  heartily  in  earnest, 
read  the  service  to  the  very  last  line,  and  with  genuine 
feeling  too  ;  and  approving  of  it  very  much  when  he  had 
done,  turned  in  under  the  counter  (but  not  before  he 
had  been  up-stairs,  and  listened  at  Florence's  door),  with 
a  serene  breast,  and  a  most  benevolence  visage. 

The  captain  turned  out  several  times  in  the  course  of 
the  night,  to  assure  himself  that  his  charge  was  resting 
quietly  ;  and  once,  at  daybreak,  found  that  she  was 
awake  :  for  she  called  to  know  if  it  were  he,  on  hearing 
footsteps  near  her  door. 

"Yes,  my  lady  lass,"  replied  the  captain,  in  a  growl- 
ing whisper.    "  Are  you  all  right,  di'mond?" 

Florence  thanked  him,  and  said  "  Yes.'* 

The  captain  could  not  lose  so  favourable  an  oppor- 
tunity of  applying  his  mouth  to  the  keyhole,  and  calling 
through  it,  like  a  hoarse  breeze,  "Poor  Wal'r  !  Drown- 
ded,  an't  he  ?  "  After  which  he  withdrew,  and  turning 
in  again,  slept  till  seven  o'clock. 

Nor  was  he  free  from  his  uneasy  and  embarrassed 
manner  all  that  day  ;  though  Florence,  being  busy  with 
her  needle  in  the  little  parlour,  was  more  calm  and  tran- 
quil than  she  had  been  on  the  day  preceding.  Almost 
always  when  she  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work,  she  ob- 
served the  captain  looking  at  her,  and  thoughtfully 
stroking  his  chin  ;  and  he  so  often  hitched  his  arm-chair 
close  to  her,  as  if  he  were  going  to  say  something  very 
confidential,  and  hitched  it  away  again,  as  not  being 
able  to  make  up  his  mind  how  to  begin,  that  in  the 
course  of  the  day  he  cruized  completely  round  the  par- 
lour in  that  frail  bark,  and  more  that  once  went  ashore 
against  the  wainscot  or  the  closet  door,  in  a  very  dis- 
tressed condition. 

It  was  not  until  the  twilight  that  Captain  Cuttle,  fairly 
dropping  anchor,  at  last,  by  the  side  of  Florence,  began 
to  talk  at  all  connectedly.  But  when  the  light  of  the 
fire  was  shining  on  the  walls  and  coiling  of  the  little 
room,  and  on  the  tea-board  and  the  cups  and  saucers 


that  were  ranged  upon  the  table,  and  on  her  calm  face 
turned  towards  the  flame,  and  reflecting  it  in  the  tears 
that  filled  her  eyes,  the  captain  broke  a  long  silence 
thus  : 

* '  You  never  was  at  sea,  my  own  ?  " 
"  No,"  replied  Florence. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  captain  reverentially  ;  "  it's  a  almighty 
element.  There's  wonders  in  the  deep,  my  pretty. 
Think  on  it  when  the  winds  is  roaring  and  the  waves  is 
rowling.  Think  on  it  when  tlie  stormy  nights  is  so 
pitch  dark,"  said  the  captain,  solemnly  holding  up  his 
hook,  "  as  you  can't  see  your  hand  afore  you,  excepting 
when  the  wiwid  lightning  reweals  the  same  ;  and  when 
you  drive,  drive,  drive  through  the  storm  and  dark,  as 
if  you  was  a  driving,  head  on,  to  the  world  without 
end,  evermore,  amen,  and  when  found  making  a  note 
of.  Them's  the  times,  my  beauty,  when  a  man  may  say 
to  his  messmate  (previously  a  overhauling  of  the  wol- 
lume),  '  A  stiff  norwester's  blowing.  Bill  ;  hark,  don't 
you  hear  it  roar  now  !  Lord  help  'em,  how  I  pitys  all 
unhappy  folks  ashore  now  ! ' "  Which  quotation,  as 
particularly  applicable  to  the  terrors  of  the  ocean,  the 
captain  delivered  in  a  most  impressive  manner,  conclud- 
ing with  a  sonorous  "  Stand  by  ! " 

"Were  you  ever  in  a  dreadful  storm  ?  "  asked  Flor- 
ence. 

"  Why  ay,  my  lady  lass,  I've  seen  my  share  of  bad 
weather,"  said  the  captain,  tremulously  wiping  his  head, 
"and  I've  had  my  share  of  knocking  about; — but  it 
an't  of  myself  as  I  was  meaning  to  speak.  Our  dear 
boy,"  drawing  closer  to  her,  "  Wal'r  darling,  as  was 
dro  wnded. " 

The  captain  spoke  in  such  a  trembling  voice,  and 
looked  at  Florence  with  a  face  so  pale  and  agitated,  that 
she  clung  to  his  hand  in  affright. 

"Your  face  is  changed,"  cried  Florence.  "You  are 
altered  in  a  moment.  What  is  it  ?  Dear  Captain  Cut- 
tle, it  turns  me  cold  to  see  you  I " 

"  What  !  Lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain,  support- 
ing her  with  his  hand.  "Don't  be  took  aback.  No, 
no  ?  All's  well,  all's  well,  my  dear.  As  I  was  a  saying — 
Wal'r — he's — he's  drownded.    An't  he  ?  " 

Florence  looked  at  him  intently  ;  her  colour  came  and 
went,  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  breast. 

"  There's  perils  and  dangers  on  the  deep,  my  beauty," 
said  the  captain;  "and  over  many  a  brave  ship,  and 
many  and  many  a  bould  heart,  the  secret  waters  has 
closed  up,  and  never  told  no  tales.  But  there's  escapes 
upon  the  deep,  too,  and  sometimes  one  man  out  of  a 
score, — ah  !  may  be  out  of  a  hundred,  pretty, — }ias  been 
saved  by  the  mercy  of  God,  and  come  home  after  being 
given  over  for  dead,  and  told  of  all  hands  lost.  I — I 
know  a  story.  Heart's  Delight,"  stammered  the  captain, 
"  o'  this  natur,  as  was  told  to  me  once  ;  and  being  on 
this  here  tack,  and  you  and  me  sitting  alone  by  the 
fire,  maybe  you'd  lOce  to  hear  me  tell  it.  Would  you, 
deary  ?  " 

Florence,  trembling  with  agitation  which  she  could 
not  control  or  understand,  involuntarily  followed  his 
glance,  which  went  behind  her  into  the  shop,  where  a 
lamp  was  burning.  The  instant  that  she  turned  her 
head,  the  captain  sprung  out  of  his  chair,  and  interposed 
his  hand. 

"  There's  nothing  there,  my  beauty,"  said  the  captain. 
"Don't  look  there  !" 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

The  captain  m  urmured  something  about  its  being  dull 
that  way,  and  about  the  fire  being  cheerful.  He  drew 
the  door  ajar,  which  had  been  standing  open  until  now, 
and  resumed  his  seat.  Florence  followed  him  with  her 
eyes,  and  looked  intently  in  his  face. 

"  The  story  was  about  a  ship,  my  lady  lass,"  began 
the  captain,  "  as  sailed  out  of  the  port  of  London,  with 
a  fair  wind  and  in  fair  weather,  bound  for— don't  be 
took  aback,  my  lady  lass,  she  was  only  out'ard  bound, 
pretty,  only  out'ard  bound  1 " 

The  expression  on  Florence's  face  alarmed  the  cap- 
tain, who  was  himself  very  hot  and  flurried,  and  showed 
scarcely  loss  agitation  than  she  did. 

' '  Shall  I  go  on.  Beauty  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"Yes,  yes,  pray  !"  cried  Florence. 

The  captain  made  a  gulp  as  if  to  get  down  something 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


633 


that  was  sticking  in  his  throat,  and  nervously  pro- 
ceeded : 

"That  there  unfort'nate  ship  met  with  such  foul 
weather,  out  at  sea,  as  don't  blow  once  in  twenty  year, 
my  darling.  There  was  hurricanes  ashore  as  tore  up 
forests  and  blowed  down  towns,  and  there  was  gales  at 
sea  in  them  latitudes,  as  not  the  stoutest  wessel  ever 
launched  could  live  in.  Day  arter  day  that  there  un- 
fort'nate ship  behaved  noble,  I'm  told,  and  did  her  duty 
brave,  my  pretty,  but  at  one  blow  a'most  her  bulwarks 
was  stove  in,  her  masts  and  rudder  carried  away,  her 
best  men  swept  overboard,  and  she  left  to  the  mercy  of 
the  storm  as  had  no  mercy  but  blowed  harder  and  harder 
yet,  while  the  waves  dashed  over  her,  and  beat  her  in, 
and  every  time  they  come  a  thundering  at  her,  broke 
her  like  a  shell.  Every  black  spot  in  every  mountain 
of  water  that  rolled  away  was  a  bit  o'  the  ship's  life  or 
a  living  man,  and  so  she  went  to  pieces,  Beauty,  and  no 
grass  will  never  grow  upon  the  graves  of  them  as 
manned  that  ship." 

They  were  not  at  all  lost ! "  cried  Florence.  "  Some 
were  saved  ! — Was  one?" 

"  Aboard  o'  that  there  unfort'nate  wessel,'^  said  the 
captain,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  clenching  his  hand 
with  prodigious  energy  and  exultation,  "  was  a  lad, 
a  gallant  lad — as  I've  heerd  tell — that  had  loved,  vihen 
he  was  a  boy,  to  read  and  talk  about  brave  actions 
in  shipwrecks — I've  heerd  him  !  I've  heerd  him  ! — and 
he  remembered  of  'em  in  his  hour  of  need  ;  for  when  the 
stoutest  hearts  and  oldest  hands  was  hove  down,  he  was 
firm  and  cheery.  It  war'nt  the  want  of  objects  to  like 
and  love  ashore  that  gave  him  courage,  it  was  his  nat'ral 
mind.  I've  seen  it  in  his  face,  when  he  was  no  more 
than  a  child — ay,  many  a  time  ! — and  when  I  thought  it 
nothing  but  his  good  looks,  bless  hira  ! " 

"And  was  he  saved!"  cried  Florence.  "Was  he 
saved  ! " 

"That  brave  lad,"  said  the  captain — "look  at  me 
pretty  !    Don't  look  round — " 

Florence  had  hardly  power  to  repeat,  "  Why  not?  " 

"Because  there's  nothing  there,  my  deary,"  said  the 
captain.  "  Don't  be  took  aback,  pretty  creetur  !  Don't, 
for  the  sake  of  Wal'r,  as  was  dear  to  all  on  us  !  That 
there  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "  arter  working  with  the 
best,  and  standing  by  the  faint-hearted,  and  never  mak- 
ing no  complaint  nor  sign  of  fear,  and  keeping  up  a  spirit 
in  all  hands  that  made  'em  honour  him  as  if  he'd  been  a 
admiral, — that  lad,  along  with  the  second  mate  and  one 
seaman,  was  left,  of  all  the  beatin'  hearts  that  went 
aboard  that  ship,  the  only  living  creeturs — lashed  to  a 
fragment  of  the  wreck,  and  drifting  on  the  stormy 
sea." 

"  Were  they  saved  !  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Days  and  nights  they  drifted  on  them  endless  waters," 
said  the  captain,  "until  at  last — No!  Don't  look  that 
way,  pretty  ! — a  sail  bore  down  upon  'em,  and  they  was, 
by  the  Lord's  mercy,  took  aboard  :  two  living,  and  one 
dead." 

"  Which  of  them  was  dead  !  "  cried  Florence. 
"  Not  the  lad  T speak  on,"  said  the  captain. 
'    "  Thank  God  !  oh  thank  God  !  " 

"Amen!"  returned  the  captain  hurriedly.  "Don't 
be  took  aback  !    A  minute  more,  my  lady  lass  !  with  a 
good  heart ! — aboard  that  ship,  they  went  a  long  voyage, 
right  away  across  the  chart  (for  there  warn't  no  touching 
i  nowhere)  and  on  that  voyage  the  seaman  as  was  picked 
I  up  with  him  died.    But  he  was  spared,  and — " 
I     The  captain,  without  knowing  what  he  did,  had  cut  a 
!  slice  of  bread  from  the  loaf,  and  put  it  on  his  hook 
(which  was  his  usual  toasting-fork),  on  which  he  now 
held  it  to  the  fire  ;  looking  behind  Florence  with  great 
emotion  in  his  face,  and  suffering  the  bread  to  blaze  and 
bum  like  fuel. 

"  Was  spared,"  repeated  Florence,  "  and — ?" 
"  And  come  home  in  that  ship,"  said  the  captain,  still 
looking  in  the  same  direction,  "  and— 'don't  be  fright- 
ened, pretty — and  landed  ;  and  one  morning  come  cau- 
tiously to  his  own  door  to  take  a  obserwation,  know- 
ing that  his  friends  would  think  him  drownded,  when  he 
sheered  off  at  the  unexpected — " 

"At  the  unexpected  barking  of  a  dog?"  cried  Flor- 
ence, quickly. 


[     "Yes,"  roared  the  captain.    "Steady,  darling  !  cour- 

I  age  !  Don't  look  round  yet.    See  there  !  upon  the  wall  ! " 

'  There  was  the  shadow  of  a  man  upon  the  wall  close 
to  her.  She  started  up,  looked  round,  and  with  a  pierc- 
ing cry,  saw  Walter  Gay  behind  her  ! 

She  had  no  thought  of  him  but  as  a  brother,  a  brother 

[rescued  from  the  grave;  a  shipwrecked  brother  saved 
and  at  her  side  ;  and  rushed  into  his  arms.    In  all  the 

I  world,  he  seemed  to  be  her  hope,  her  comfort,  refuge, 
natural  protector.  "  Take  care  of  Walter,  I  was  fond  of 
Walter  ! "  The  dear  remembrance  of  the  plaintive  voice 
that  said  so,  rushed  upon  her  soul,  like  music  in  the 
night.  "Oh  welcome  home,  dear  Walter!  Welcome 
to  this  stricken  breast  !  "  She  felt  the  words,  although 
she  could  not  utter  them,  and  held  him  in  her  jjure  em- 
brace. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  attempted  to  wipe 
his  head  with  the  blackened  toast  upon  his  hook  ;  and 
finding  it  an  uncongenial  substance  for  the  purpose,  put 
it  into  the  crown  of  his  glazed  hat,  put  the  glazed  hat 
on  with  some  difficulty,  essayed  to  sing  a  verse  of  Lovely 
Peg,  broke  down  at  the  first  word,  and  retired  into 
the  shop,  whence  he  presently  came  back,  express,  with 
a  face  all  flushed  and  besmeared,  and  the  starch  com- 
pletely taken  out  of  his  shirt-collar  to  say  these  words  : 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,  here  is  a  little  bit  of  property  as  I 
should  wish  to  make  over,  jintly  !" 

The  captain  hastily  produced  the  big  watch,  the  tea- 
spoons, the  sugar-tongs,  and  the  canister,  and  laying 
them  on  the  table,  swept  them  with  his  great  hand  into 
Walter's  hat ;  but  in  handing  that  singular  strong  box 
to  Walter,  he  was  so  overcome  again,  that  he  was  fain 
to  make  another  retreat  into  the  shop,  and  absent  him- 
self for  a  longer  space  of  time  than  on  his  first  retire- 
ment. 

But  Walter  sought  him  out,  and  brought  him  back  ; 
and  then  the  captain's  great  apprehension  was,  that 
Florence  would  suffer  from  this  new  shock.  He  felt  it 
so  earnestly,  that  he  turned  quite  rational,  and  positive- 
ly interdicted  any  further  allusions  to  Walter's  adven- 
tures for  some  days  to  come.  Captain  Cuttle  then  be- 
came sufficiently  composed  to  relieve  himself  of  the  toast 
iu  his  hat,  and  to  take  his  place  at  the  tea-board  ;  but 
finding  Walter's  grasp  upon  his  shoulder,  on  one  side, 
and  Florence  whispering  her  tearful  congratulations  on 
the  other,  the  captain  suddenly  bolted  again,  and  was 
missing  for  a  good  ten  minutes. 

But  never  in  all  his  life  had  the  captain's  face  so 
shone  and  glistened,  as  when,  at  last,  he  sat  stationary 
at  the  tea-l3oard,  looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and 
from  Walter  to  Florence.  Nor  was  this  effect  produced 
or  at  all  heightened  by  the  immense  quantity  of  polish- 
ing he  had  administered  to  his  face  with  his  coat-sleeve 
during  the  last  half -hour.  It  was  solely  the  effect  of  his 
j  internal  emotions.  There  was  a  glory  and  delight  with- 
in the  captain  that  spread  itself  over  his  whole  visage, 
and  made  a  perfect  illumination  there. 

The  pride  with  which  the  captain  looked  upon  the 
bronzed  cheek  and  the  courageous  eyes  of  his  recovered 
boy  ;  with  which  he  saw  the  generous  fervour  of  his 
youth,  and  all  its  frank  and  hopeful  qualities,  shining 
once  more,  in  the  fresh,  wholesome  manner,  and  the  ar- 
dent face  :  would  have  kindled  something  of  this  light 
in  his  countenance.  The  admiration  and  sympathy  with 
which  he  turned  his  eyes  on  Florence,  whose  beauty, 
grace,  and  innocence  could  have  won  no  truer  or  more 
zealous  champion  than  himself,  would  have  had  an 
equal  influence  upon  him.  Bnt  the  fulness  of  the  glow 
he  shed  around  him  could  only  have  been  engendered  in 
his  contemplation  of  the  two  together,  and  in  all  the 
fancies  springing  out  of  that  association,  that  came 
sparkling  and  beaming  into  his  head,  and  danced  about 
it. 

How  they  talked  of  poor  old  Uncle  Sol,  and  dwelt  on 
every  little  circumstance  relating  to  his  disappearance  ; 
how  their  joy  was  moderated  by  the  old  man's  absence 
and  by  the  misfortunes  of  Florence  ;  how  they  released 
Diogenes,  whom  the  captain  had  decoyed  up-stairs  some 
time  before,  lest  he  should  bark  again  :  the  captain, 
though  lie  was  in  one  continual  flutter,  and  made  many 
more  short  plunges  into  the  shop,  fully  comprehended. 
But  he  no  more  dreamed  that  Walter  looked  on  Florence 


634 


CHABLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


as  it  were,  from  a  new  and  far-off  place  ;  that  while  his 
eyes  often  sought  the  lovely  face,  they  seldom  met  its 
open  glance  of  sisterly  affection,  but  withdrew  them- 
selves when  hers  were  raised  towards  him  ;  than  he  be- 
lieved that  it  was  Walter's  ghost  who  sat  beside  him. 
He  saw  them  there  together,  in  their  youth  and  beauty, 
and  he  knew  the  story  of  their  younger  days,  and  he  had 
no  inch  of  room  beneath  his  great  blue  waistcoat  for  any- 
'  thing  save  admiration  of  such  a  pair,  and  gratitude  for 
their  being  re-united. 

They  sat  thus,  until  it  grew  late.  The  captain  would 
have  been  content  to  sit  so  for  a  week.  But  Walter  rose, 
to  take  leave  for  the  night. 

"  Going  Walter  !  "  said  Florence.    "  Where  ?  " 

"  He  slings  his  hammock  for  the  present,  lady  lass," 
said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  round  at  Brogley's.  Within  hail, 
Heart's  Delight." 

"I  am  the  cause  of  your  going  away,  Walter,"  said 
Florence.       There  is  a  houseless  sister  in  your  place." 

"Dear  Miss  Dombey,"  replied  Walter,  hesitating — 
*'if  it  is  not  too  bold,  to  call  you  so  ! — " 

" — Walter,"  she  exclaimed,  surprised. 

"  If  anything  could  make  me  happier  in  being  allowed 
to  see  and  speak  to  you,  would  it  not  be  the  discovery 
that  I  had  any  means  on  earth  of  doing  you  a  moment's 
service  ?  Where  would  I  not  go,  what  would  I  not  do, 
for  your  sake  ?  " 

She  smiled,  and  called  him  brother. 

"You  are  so  changed,"  said  Walter — 

"  I  changed  !"  she  interrupted. 
— To  me,"  said  Walter,  softly,  as  if  he  were  think- 
ing aloud,  "  changed  to  me.    I  left  you  such  a  child, 
and  find  you — oh  !  something  so  different — " 

"  But  your  sister,  Walter.  You  have  not  forgotten 
what  we  promised  to  each  other,  when  we  parted  ?  " 

*'  Forgotten  ! "    But  he  said  no  more. 

"And  if  you  had — if  suffering  and  danger  had  driven 
it  from  your  thoughts — which  it  has  not — you  would  re- 
member it  now,  Walter,  when  you  find  me  poor  and 
abandoned,  with  no  home  but  this,  and  no  friends  but 
the  two  who  hear  me  speak  ! " 

"  I  would  !    Heaven  knows  I  would  !"  said  Walter. 

"  oil,  Walter,"  exclaimed  Florence,  through  her  sobs 
and  tears.  "Dear  Brother!  Show  me  some  way 
through  the  world — some  humble  path  that  I  may  take 
alone,  and  labour  in  and  sometimes  think  of  you  as  one 
who  will  protect  and  care  for  me  as  for  a  sister  !  Oh, 
help  me  Walter,  for  I  need  help  so  much  ! " 

"  Miss  Dombey  !  Florence  !  I  would  die  to  help 
you.  But  your  friends  are  proud  and  rich.  Your 
father — " 

"No,  no  !  Walter  !"  she  shrieked,  and  put  her  hands 
up  to  her  head,  in  an  attitude  of  terror  that  transfixed 
him  where  he  stood.    "  Don't  say  that  word  !  " 

He  never  from  that  hour  forgot  the  voice  and  look 
with  which  she  stopped  him  at  the  name.  He  felt  that 
if  he  were  to  live  a  hundred  years,  he  never  could  for- 
get it. 

Somewhere — anywhere — but  never  home  !  All  past, 
all  gone,  all  lost,  and  broken  up  !  The  whole  history  of 
her  untold  slight  and  suffering  was  in  the  cry  and  look ; 
and  he  felt  he  never  could  forget  it,  and  he  never  did. 

She  laid  her  gentle  face  upon  the  captain's  shoulder, 
and  related  how  and  why  she  had  fled.  If  every  sorrow- 
ing tear  she  shed  in  doing  so,  had  been  a  curse  upon  the 
head  of  him  she  never  named  or  blamed,  it  would  have 
been  better  for  him,  Walter  thought,  with  awe,  than 
to  be  renounced  out  of  such  a  strength  and  might  of 
love. 

"  There,  precious  ! "  said  the  captain,  when  she  ceased; 
and  deep  attention  the  captain  had  paid  to  her  while 
she  spoke  ;  listening,  with  his  glazed  hat  all  awry,  and 
his  mouth  wide  open.  "  Awast,  awast,  my  eyes  !  Wal'r, 
dear  lad,  sheer  off  for  to-night,  and  leave  the  pretty  one 
to  me  ! " 

Walter  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  put  it  to  his 
lips,  and  kissed  it.  He  knew  now  that  she  was,  indeed, 
a  homeless  wandering  fugitive  ;  but,  richer  to  him  so, 
than  in  all  the  wealth  and  pride  of  her  right  station,  she 
seemed  farther  off  than  even  on  the  height  that  had  made 
him  giddy  in  his  boyish  dreams. 

Captain  Cuttle,  perplexed  by  no  such  meditations, 


guarded  Florence  to  her  room,  and  watched  at  intervals 
upon  the  charmed  ground  outside  her  door— for  such  it 
truly  was  to  him — until  he  felt  sufficiently  easy  in  his 
mind  about  her,  to  turn  in  under  the  counter.  On 
abandoning  his  watch  for  that  purpose,  he  could  not 
help  calling  once,  rapturously,  throught  the  keyhole, 
"  Drownded.  An't  he,  pretty  ?  "—or,  when  he  got  down- 
stairs, making  another  trial  at  that  verse  of  Lovely  Peg. 
But  it  stuck  in  his  throat  somehow,  and  he  could  make 
nothing  of  it  ;  so  he  went  to  bed,  and  dreamed  that  old 
Sol  Gills  was  married  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  kept 
prisoner  by  that  lady  in  a  secret  chamber  on  a  short 
allowance  of  victuals. 


CHAPTER  L. 

Mr.  Toots's  Complaint. 

There  was  an  empty  room  above  stairs  at  the  Wooden 
Midshipman's,  which,  in  days  of  yore,  had  been  Walter's 
bedroom.  Walter,  rousing  up  the  captain  betimes  in 
the  morning,  proposed  that  they  should  carry  thither 
such  furniture  out  of  the  little  parlour  as  would  grace  it 
best,  so  that  Florence  might  take  possession  of  it  when 
she  rose.  As  nothing  could  be  more  agreeable  to  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  than  making  himself  very  red  and  short  of 
breath  in  such  a  cause,  he  turned  to  (as  he  himself  said) 
with  a  will  ;  and  in  a  couple  of  hours,  this  garret  was 
transformed  into  a  species  of  land -cabin,  adorned  with 
all  the  choicest  moveables  out  of  the  parlour,  inclusive 
even  of  the  Tartar  frigate,  which  the  captain  hung  up 
over  the  chimney-piece  with  such  extreme  delight,  that 
he  could  do  nothing  for  half  an  hour  afterwards  but  walk 
backward  from  it,  lost  in  admiration. 

The  captain  could  be  induced  by  no  persuasion  of 
Walter's  to  wind  up  the  big  watch,  or  to  take  back  the 
canister,  or  to  touch  the  sugar-tongs  and  tea-spoons.  ; 
"  No,  no,  my  lad  ; "  was  the  captain's  invariable  reply  to 
any  solicitation  of  the  kind,  "  I've  made  that  there  little  , 
property  over,  jintly."    These  words  he  repeated  with  ^ 
great  unction  and  gravity,  evidently  believing  that  they 
had  the  virtue  of  an  act  of  parliament,  and  that  unless 
he  committed  himself  by  some  new  admission  of  owner- 
ship, no  flaw  could  be  found  in  such  a  form  of  convey- 
ance. 

It  was  an  advantage  of  the  new  arrangement,  that  be- 
sides the  greater  seclusion  it  afforded  Florence,  it  admitted  , 
of  the  Midshipman  being  restored  to  his  usual  post  of  - 
observation,  and  also  of  the  shop  shutters  being  taken  1 
down.    The  latter  ceremony,  however  little  importance  j 
the  unconscious  captain  attached  to  it,  was  not  wholly  ^ 
superfluous  ;  for,  on  the  previous  day,  so  much  excite-  « 
ment  had  been  occasioned  in  the  neighbourhood,  by  J 
the  shutters  remaining  unopened,  that  the  Instrument- 
maker's  house  had  been  honoured  with  an  unusal  share 
of  public  observation,  and  had  been  intently  stared  at 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  by  groups  of  hungry 
gazers,  at  any  time  between  sunrise  and  sunset.  The 
idlers  and  vagabonds  had  been  particularly  interested  in 
the  captain's  fate  ;  constantly  groveling  in  the  mud  to 
apply  their  eyes  to  the  cellar-grating,  under  the  shop- 
window,  and  delighting  their  imagination  with  the  fancy 
that  they  could  see  a  piece  of  his  coat  as  he  hung  in  a 
corner  ;  though  this  settlement  of  him  was  stoutly  dis- 
puted by  an  opposite  faction  who  were  of  opinion  that  he 
lay  murdered  with  a  hammer,  on  the  stairs.    It  was  not 
without  exciting  some  discontent,  therefore,  that  the 
subject  of  these  rumours  was  seen  early  in  tlie  morning- 
standing  at  his  shop-door  as  hale  and  hearty  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened  :  and  the  beadle  of  that  quarter,  a 
man  of  an  ambitious  character,  who  had  e^xpected  to 
have  the  distinction  of  being  present  at  the  breaking  open 
of  the  door,  and  of  giving  evidence  in  full  uniform  before 
the  coroner,  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  an  opposite  neig-h- 
bour,  that  the  chap  in  the  glazed  hat  had  better  not  try 
it  on  there — without  more  particularly  mentioning  what — 
and  further,  that  he  the  beadle,  would  keep  his  eye  upon 
him. 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  musing,  when  they 
stood  resting  from  their  labours,  at  the  shop-door,  look- 
ing down  the  old  familiar  street ;  it  being  still  early  in 


DOMBEY 

the  morning  ;  "notliing  at  all  of  Uncle  Sol,  in  all  that 
time  ! " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  my  lad,"  replied  tlie  captain,  shaking 
his  head. 

''Gone  in  search  of  me,  dear,  kind  old  man,"  said 
Walter  ;  "  yet  never  write  to  you  !  But  why  not?  He 
says,  in  effect,  in  this  packet  that  you  gave  me,"  taking 
the  paper  from  his  pocket,  which  had  been  opened  in 
the  presence  of  the  enlightened  Bunsby,  "tliatif  you 
never  hear  from  him  before  opening  it,  you  may  believe 
him  dead.  Heaven  forbid  !  But  you  would  have  heard 
o/him  even  if  he  were  dead  !  Some  one  would  have 
written,  surely,  by  his  desire,  if  he  could  not  ;  and  have 
said,  *  on  such  a  day  there  died  in  my  house,'  *  or  under 
my  care,'  or  so  forth,  'Mr.  Solomon  Gills  of  London,  who 
left  this  last  remembrance  and  this  last  request  to  you.'  " 

The  captain,  who  had  never  climbed  to  such  a  clear 
height  of  probability  before,  was  greatly  impressed  by 
the  wide  prospect  it  opened,  and  answered,  with  a 
thoughtful  shake  of  his  head,  "  Well  said,  my  lad  ; 
wery  well  said." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  this,  or,  at  least,"  said  Wal- 
ter, colouring,  "  I  have  been  thinkiDg  of  one  thing  and 
another,  all  through  a  sleepless  night,  and  I  cannot  be- 
lieve, Captain  Cuttle,  but  that  my  Uncle  Sol  (Lord  bless 
him  !)  is  alive,  and  will  return.  I  don't  so  much  wonder 
at  his  going  away,  because  leaving  out  of  consideration 
that  spice  of  the  marvellous  which  was  always  in  his 
character,  and  his  great  affection  for  me,  before  which 
every  other  consideration  of  his  life  became  nothing,  as 
no  one  ought  to  know  so  well  as  I  who  had  the  best  of 
fathers  in  him," — Walter's  voice  was  indistinct  and 
husky  here,  and  he  looked  away,  along  the  street, — 
"  leaving  that  out  of  consideration,  I  say,  I  have  often 
read  and  heard  of  people  who,  having  some  near  and 
dear  relati  ve,  who  was  supposed  to  be  shipwrecked  at 
sea,  have  gone  down  to  live  on  that  part  of  the  sea-shore 
where  any  tidings  of  the  missing  ship  might  be  expected 
to  arrive,  though  only  an  hour  or  two  sooner  than  else- 
where, or  have  even  gone  upon  her  track  to  the  place 
whither  she  was  bound,  as  if  their  going  would  create 
intelligence.  I  think  I  should  do  such  a  thing  myself, 
as  soon  as  another,  or  sooner  than  many,  perhaps.  But 
why  my  uncle  shouldn't  write  to  you,  when  he  so  clearly 
intended  to  do  so,  or  how  he  should  die  abroad,  and  you 
not  know  it  through  some  other  hand,  I  cannot  make 
out." 

Captain  Cuttle  observed  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  that 
Jack  Bunsby  himself  hadn't  made  it  out,  and  tliat  he 
was  a  man  as  could  give  a  pretty  taut  opinion  too. 

"If  my  uncle  had  been  a  heedless  young  man,  likely 
to  be  entrapped  by  jovial  company  to  some  drinking- 
place,  where  he  was  to  be  got  rid  of  for  the  sake  of  what 
money  he  might  have  about  him,"  said  Walter  ;  "or  if 
he  had  been  a  reckless  sailor,  going  ashore  with  two  or 
three  months'  pay  in  his  pocket,  I  conld  understand  his 
disappearing,  and  leaving  no  trace  behind.  But,  being 
what  he  was — and  is,  I  hope — I  can't  believe  it." 

**  Wal'r  my  lad,"  inquired  the  captain,  wistfully  eye- 
ing him  as  he  pondered  and  pondered,  "what  do  you 
make  of  it,  then?" 

"Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  "I  don't  know 
wTiat  to  make  of  it.  I  suppose  he  never  has  written  ! 
There  is  no  doubt  about  that  ?  " 

"If  so  be  as  Sol  Gills  wrote,  my  lad,"  replied  the 
captain,  argumentatively,  "where's  his  dispatch?" 

"  Say  that  he  entrusted  it  to  some  private  hand,"  sug- 
gested Walter,  "and  that  it  has  been  forgotten  or  care- 
lessly thrown  aside,  or  lost.  Even  that  is  more  probable 
to  me,  than  the  other  event.  In  short,  I  not  only  cannot 
bear  to  contemplate  that  other  event,  Captain  Cuttle, 
but  I  can't,  and  won't." 

"Hope,  you  see,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  sagely, 
"  Hope.  It's  that  as  animates  you.  Hope  is  a  buoy,  for 
which  you  overhaul  your  Little  Warbler,  sentimental 
diwision,  but  Lord,  my  lad,  like  any  other  buoy,  it  only 
floats  ;  it  can't  be  steered  nowhere.  Along  with  the 
figure-head  of  Hope,"  said  the  captain,  "there's  a  an- 
chor ;  but  what's  the  good  of  my  having  a  anchor,  if  I 
can't  find  no  bottom  to  let  it  go  in." 

Captain  Cuttle  said  this  rather  in  his  character  of  a 
sagacious  citizen  and  householder,  bound  to  impart  a 


AND  SON.  G35 

morsel  from  his  stores  of  wisdom  to  an  inexperienced 
youth,  than  in  his  own  proper  person.  Indeed,  his  face 
was  quite  luminous  as  he  spoke,  with  new  hope,  caught 
from  Walter  ;  and  he  appropriately  concluded  by  slap- 
ping him  on  the  back  ;  and  saying,  with  enthusiasm, 
"  Ilooroar,  my  lad  1    Indiwidually,  I'm  o'  your  opinion." 

Walter,  with  his  cheerful  laugh,  returned  the  saluta- 
tion, and  said  : 

"Only  one  word  more  about  my  uncle  at  present. 
Captain  Cuttle.  I  suppose  it  is  impossible  that  be  can 
have  written  in  the  ordinary  course — by  mail  packet,  or 
ship  letter,  you  understand — " 

"Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain  approvingly. 

"  — And  that  you  have  missed  the  lettei-,  any  how  ?  " 

"Why,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  turning  his  eyes 
upon  him  with  a  faint  approach  to  a  severe  expression, 
"  an't  I  been  on  the  look  out  for  any  tidings  of  that 
man  o'  science,  old  Sol  Gills,  your  uncle,  day  and  night, 
ever  since  I  lost  him  ?  An't  my  heart  been  heavy  and 
watchful  always,  along  of  him  and  you  ?  Sleeping  and 
waking,  an't  I  been  upon  my  post,  and  wouldn't  I 
have  scorned  to  quit  it  while  this  here  Midshipman  held 
together  ! " 

"Yes,  Captain  Cuttle,"  replied  Walter,  grasping  his 
hand,  "I  know  you  would,  and  I  know  how  faithful  and 
earnest  all  you  say  and  feel  is.  I  am  sure  of  it.  You 
don't  doubt  that  I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  I  am  that  my  foot 
is  again  upon  this  door-step,  or  that  I  again  have  hold  of 
this  true  hand.    Do  you  ?  " 

"No,  no,  Wal'r,"  returned  the  captain,  with  his 
beaming  face. 

"I'll  hazard  no  more  conjectures,"  said  Walter,  fer- 
vently shaking  the  hard  hand  of  the  captain,  who  shook 
his  with  no  less  good  will.  "All  I  will  add  is,  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  touch  my  uncle's  possessions.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  !  Everything  that  he  left  here,  shall  remain 
in  the  care  of  the  truest  of  stewards  and  kindest  of  men 
— and  if  his  name  is  not  Cuttle  he  has  no  name  !  Now, 
best  of  friends,  about — Miss  Dombey. " 

There  was  a  change  in  Walter's  manner,  as  he  came 
to  these  two  words  ;  and  when  he  uttered  them,  all  his 
confidence  and  cheerfulness  appeared  to  have  deserted 
him. 

"  I  thought,  before  Miss  Dombey  stopped  me  when  I 
spoke  of  her  father  last  night,"  said  Walter,  " — you  re- 
member how  ?. " 

The  captain  well  remembered,  and  shook  his  head, 
"  I  thought,"  said  Walter,  "  before  that,  that  we  had 
but  one  hard  duty  to  perform,  and  that  it  was,  to  prevail 
upon  her  to  communicate  with  her  friends,  and  to  re- 
turn home." 

The  captain  muttered  a  feeble  "  AAvast ! "  or  a 
"  Stand  by  ! "  or  something  or  other,  equally  pertinent 
to  the  occasion  ;  but  it  was  rendered  so  extremely  feeble 
by  the  total  discomfiture  with  which  he  received  this 
announcement,  that  what  it  was,  is  mere  matter  of  con- 
jecture. 

"  But,"  said  Walter,  "  that  is  over.  I  think  so  no 
longer.  I  would  sooner  be  put  back  again  upon  that 
piece  of  wreck,  on  which  I  have  so  often  floated,  since 
my  preservation,  in  my  dreams,  and  there  left  to  drift, 
and  drive,  and  die  !  " 

"  Hooroar,  my  lad!"  exclaimed  the  captain,  in  a 
burst  of  uncontrollable  satisfaction.  "  Hooroar  !  Hoo- 
roar !    Hooroar  ! " 

"  To  think  that  she,  so  young,  so  good,  and  beauti- 
ful," said  Walter,  "  so  delicately  brought  up,  and  born 
to  such  a  different  fortune,  should  strive  with  the  rough 
world  !  But  we  have  seen  the  gulf  that  cuts  off  all  be- 
hind her,  though  no  one  but  herself  can  know  how  deep 
it  is  ;  and  there  is  no  return." 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  quite  understanding  this, 
greatly  approved  of  it,  and  observed,  in  a  tone  of  strong 
corroboration,  that  the  wind  was  right  abaft. 

"  She  ought  not  to  be  alone  here  ;  ought  she.  Captain 
Cuttle  ?  "  said  Walter,  anxiously. 

"  Well  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  after  a  little 
sagacious  consideration.  "I  don't  know.  You  being 
here  to  keep  her  company,  you  see,  and  you  two  being 
jintly— " 

"bear  Captain  Cuttle  !"  remonstrated  Walter.  "I 
being  here  I    Miss  Dombey,  in  her  guileless  innocent 


636 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


heart,  regards  me  as  her  adopted  brother  ;  but  what 
would  the  guile  and  guilt  of  my  heart  be,  if  I  pretended 
to  believe  that  I  had  any  right  to  approach  her,  famil- 
iarly, in  that  character— if  I  pretended  to  forget  that  I 
am  bound,  in  honour,  not  to  do  it  ! " 

"  Wal'r  my  lad,"  hinted  the  captain,  with  some  re- 
vival of  his  discomfiture,  "  an't  there  no  other  charac- 
ter as — " 

"Oh  !"  returned  Walter,  "  would  you  have  me  die 
in  her  esteem— in  such  esteem  as  hers— and  put  a  veil 
between  myself  and  her  angel's  face  for  ever,  by  taking 
advantage  of  her  being  here  for  refuge,  so  trusting,  and 
so  unprotected,  to  endeavour  to  exalt  myself  into  her 
lover  !  What  do  I  say?  There  is  no  one  in  the  world 
who  would  be  more  opposed  to  me  if  I  could  do  so,  than 
you." 

"  Wal'r  my  lad,"  said  the  captain,  drooping  more  and 
more,  "  prowiding  as  there  is  any  just  cause  of  impedi- 
ment why  two  persons  should  not  be  jined  together  in 
the  house  of  bondage,  for  which  you'll  overhaul  the 
place  and  make  a  note,  I  hope  I  should  declare  it  as  pro- 
mised and  wowed  in  the  banns.  So  there  an't  NO  other 
character  ;  an't  there,  my  lad  !  " 

Walter  briskly  waved  his  hand  in  the  negative. 

"  Well,  my  lad,"  growled  the  Captain  slowly,  *'  I  won't 
deny  but  what  I  find  myself  wery  much  down  by  the 
head,  along  o'  this  here,  or  but  what  I've  gone  clean 
about.  But  as  to  Ladylass,  Wal'r,  mind  you,  wot's  re- 
spect and  duty  to  her  is  respect  and  duty  in  my  articles, 
howsumever  disappinting  ;  and  therefore  I  follows  in  your 
wake,  my  lad,  and  feel  as  you  are,  no  doubt,  acting  up 
to  yourself.  And  there  an't  no  other  character,  an't 
there  !  "  said  the  captain,  musing  over  the  ruins  of  his 
fallen  castle  with  a  very  despondent  face. 

"  Now,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  starting  a  fresh 
point  with  a  gayer  air,  to  cheer  the  captain  up — but 
nothing  could  do  that  ;  he  was  too  much  concerned — "  I 
think  we  should  exert  ourselves  to  find  some  one  who 
would  be  a  proper  attendant  for  Miss  Dombey  while  she 
remains  here,  and  who  may  be  trusted.  None  of  her  re- 
lations may.  It's  clear  Miss  Dombey  feels  that  they  are 
all  subservient  to  her  father.  What  has  become  of 
Susan?" 

"  The  young  woman?  "  returned  the  captain.  "  It's  my 
belief  as  she  was  sent  away  again  the  will  of  Heart's 
Delight.  I  made  a  signal  for  her  when  Lady-lass  first 
come,  and  she  rated  of  her  wery  high,  and  said  she  had 
been  gone  a  long  time." 

"  Then,"  said  Walter,  *'  do  you  ask  Miss  Dombey,  where 
she's  gone,  and  we'll  try  to  find  her.  The  morning's  get- 
ting on,  and  Miss  Dombey  will  soon  be  rising.  You  are 
her  best  friend.  Wait  for  her  up-stairs,  and  leave  me  to 
take  care  of  all  down  here." 

The  captain,  very  crest-fallen  indeed,  echoed  the  sigh  i 
with  which  Walter  said  this,  and  complied.  Florence  i 
was  delighted  with  her  new  room,  anxious  to  see  Wal- 
ter, and  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  greeting  her  old 
friend  Susan.  But  Florence  could  not  say  where  Susan 
was  gone,  except  that  it  was  in  Essex,  and  no  one  could 
say,  she  remembered,  unless  it  were  Mr.  Toots. 

With  this  information  the  melancholy  captain  returned 
to  Walter,  and  gave  him  to  understand  that  Mr.  Toots 
was  the  young  gentleman  whom  he  had  encountered  on 
the  door-step,  and  that  he  was  a  friend  of  his,  and  that 
he  was  a  young  gentleman  of  property,  and  that  he  hope- 
lessly adored  Miss.  Dombey.  The  captain  also  related 
how 'the  intelligence  of  Walter's  supposed  fate  had  first 
made  him  acquainted  with  Mr.  Toots,  and  how  there 
was  solemn  treaty  and  compact  between  them  that 
Mr.  Toots  should  be  mute  upon  the  subject  of  his 
love. 

The  question  then  was,  whether  Florence  could  trust 
Mr.  Toots  ;  and  Florence  saying,  with  a  smile,  "  Oh,  yes, 
with  her  whole  heart ! "  it  became  important  to  find  out 
where  Mr.  Toots  lived.  This  Florence  didn't  know,  and 
the  captain  had  forgotten  ;  and  the  captain  was  telling 
Walter  in  the  little  parlour  that  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  be 
there  soon,  when  in  came  Mr.  Toots  himself. 

Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  rushing  into  the  par- 
lour without  any  ceremony,  "I'm  in  a  state  of  mind  bor- 
dering on  distraction  ! " 

Mr.  Toots  had  discharged  those  words,  as  from  a  mortar, 


before  he  observed  Walter,  whom  he  recognized  with 
what  may  be  described  as  a  chuckle  of  misery. 

"  You'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  holding  his 
forehead,  "but  I'm  at  present  in  that  state  that  my 
brain  is  going,  if  not  gone,  and  anything  approaching  to 
politeness  in  an  indiv^idual  so  situated  would  be  a  hollow 
mockery.  Captain  Gills,  I  beg  to  request  the  favour  of 
a  private  interview." 

"Why,  brother,"  returned  the  captain,  taking  him  by 
the  hand,  "  you  are  the  man  as  we  was  on  the  look-out 
for." 

"  Oh,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  what  a  look- 
out that  must  be  of  which  /  am  the  object  !  I  haven't 
dared  to  shave,  I'm  in  that  rash  state.  I  haven't  had 
my  clothes  brushed.  My  hair  is  matted  together.  I  told 
the  Chicken  that  if  he  offered  to  clean  my  boots,  I'd 
stretch  him  a  Corpse  before  me  ! " 

All  these  indications  of  a  disordered  mind  were  veri- 
fied in  Mr.  Toots's  appearance,  which  was  wild  and 
savage. 

"  See  here,  brother,"  said  the  captain.  "  This  here's 
old  Sol  Gills's  nevy  Wal'r.  Him  as  was  supposed  to  have 
perished  at  sea." 

Mr.  Toots  took  his  hand  from  his  forehead,  and  stared 
at  Walter. 

"  Good  gracious  me  !  "  stammered  Mr,  Toots.  '  *  What 
a  complication  of  misery  !  How-de-do  ?  I — I — I'm  afraid 
you  must  have  got  very  wet.  Captain  Gills,  will  you 
allow  me  a  word  in  the  shop  ?  " 

He  took  the  captain  by  the  coat,  and  going  out  with 
him  whispered  : 

"  That  then,  Captain  Gills,  is  the  party  you  spoke  of, 
when  you  said  that  he  and  Miss  Dombey  were  nmde  for 
one  another  ?  " 

"  Why,  ay,  my  lad,"  replied  the  disconsolate  captain  ; 
"  I  was  of  that  mind  once." 

"And  at  this  time  1"  exclaimed  Mr.  Toots,  with  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  again.  "  Of  all  others  ! — a  hated 
rival  !  At  least,  he  an't  a  hated  rival,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
stopping  short,  on  second  thoughts,  and  taking  away  his 
hand  ;  "  what  should  I  hate  him  for  ?  No.  If  my  affec- 
tion has  been  truly  disinterested,  Captain  Gills,  let  me 
prove  it  now  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots  shot  back  abruptly  into  the  parlour,  and  said, 
wringing  Walter  by  the  hand  : 

"  How-de-do  ?  I  hope  you  didn't  take  any  cold.  I — I 
shall  be  very  glad  if  you'll  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance,  I  wish  you  many  happy  returns  of  the  day. 
Upon  my  word  and  honour,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  warming  as 
he  became  better  acquainted  with  Walter's  face  and  fig- 
ure, "  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  !  " 

"  Thank  you  heartily,"  said  Walter.  "  I  couldn't  de- 
sire a  more  genui-ne  and  genial  welcome." 
i  "  Couldn't  you,  though  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots  still  shaking 
i  his  hand.  "  It's  very  kind  of  you.  I'm  much  obliged  to 
you.  How-de-do  ?  I  hope  you  left  everybody  quite  well 
over  the— that  is,  upon  the — I  mean  wherever  you  came 
from  last,  you  know." 

All  these  good  wishes,  and  better  intentions,  Walter 
responded  to  manfully. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  wish  to  be 
strictly  honourable  ;  but  I  trust  I  may  be  allowed  now, 
to  allude  to  a  certain  subject  that — " 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain.  "  Freely, 
freely!" 

"  Then,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  and  Lieuten- 
ant Walters,  are  you  aware  that  the  most  dreadful  cir- 
cumstances have  been  happening  at  Mr.  Dom bey's  house, 
and  that  Miss  Dombey  herself  has  left  her  father,  who^ 
in  my  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  great  excitement, 
"  is  a  Brute,  that  it  would  be  a  flattery  to  call  a — a  mar- 
ble monument,  or  a  bird  of  prey, — and  that  she  is  not  to 
be  found,  and  has  gone  no  one  knows  where  ?" 

"  May  I  ask  how  you  heard  this  ?"  inquired  Walter. 
"Lieutenant  Walters,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  who  had  ar- 
rived at  that  appellation  by  a  process  peculiar  to  himself ; 
probably  by  jumbling  up  his  Christian  name  with  the 
seafaring  profession,  and  supposing  some  relationship  be- 
tween him  and  the  captain,  which  would  extend,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  their  titles  ;  "  Lieutenant  Walters,  I 
can  have  no  objection  to  make  a  straightforward  reply. 
The  fact  is,  that  feeling  extremely  interested  in  every- 


D 0MB FY  AND  SON. 


637 


thing  that  relates  to  Miss  Dombey — not  for  any  selfish 
reason,  Lieutenant  Walters,  for  I  am  well  aware  that  the 
most  agreeable  thing  I  could  do  for  all  parties  would  be 
to  put  an  end  to  my  existence,  which  can  only  be  regard- 
ed as  an  inconvenience — I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  be- 
stowing a  trifle  now  and  then  upon  a  footman  ;  a  most 
respectable  young  man,  of  the  name  of  Towlinson,  who 
Las  lived  in  the  family  some  time  ;  and  Towlinson  in- 
formed me,  yesterday  evening,  that  this  was  the  state  of 
things.  Since  which,  Captain  Gills — and  Lieutenant  Wal-  i 
ters — I  have  been  perfectly  frantic,  and  have  been  lying 
down  on  the  sofa  all  night,  the  Ruin  you  behold," 

"  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Walter,  "  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to 
relieve  your  mind.    Pray  calm  yourself.    Miss  Dombey  j 
is  safe  and  well." 

"  Sir  !"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  starting  from  his  chair  and 
shaking  hands  with  him  anew,  "  the  relief  is  so  exces-  j 
sive,  and  unspeakable,  that  if  you  were  to  tell  me  now 
that  Miss  Dombey  was  married  even,  I  could  smile.  Yes,  j 
Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots  appealing  to  him,  "  upon 
my  soul  and  body,  I  really  think,  whatever  I  might  do  to 
myself  immediately  afterwards,  that  I  could  smile,  I  am 
so  relieved." 

"  It  will  be  a  greater  relief  and  delight  still,  to  such  a 
generous  mind  as  yours,"  said  Walter,  not  at  all  slow  in 
returning  his  greeting,  "to  find  that  you  can  render  ser- 
vice to  Miss  Dombey.  Captain  Cuttle,  will  you  have  the 
kindness  to  take  Mr.  Toots  up-stairs  ?  " 

The  captain  beckoned  to  Mr.  Toots,  who  followed  him 
■with  a  bewildered  countenance,  and,  ascending  to  the  top 
of  the  house,  was  introduced,  without  a  word  of  prepar- 
ation from  his  conductor,  into  Florence's  new  retreat. 

Poor  Mr.  Toots's  amazement  and  pleasure  at  sight  of 
her  were  such,  that  they  could  find  a  vent  in  nothing  but 
extravagance.  He  ran  up  to  her,  seized  her  hand,  kissed 
it,  dropped  it,  seized  it  again,  fell  upon  one  knee,  shed 
tears,  chuckled,  and  was  quite  regardless  of  his  danger 
of  being  pinned  by  Diogenes,  who,  inspired  by  the  belief 
that  there  was  something  hostile  to  his  mistress  in  these 
demonstrations,  worked  round  and  round  him,  as  if  only 
undecided  at  what  particular  point  to  go  in  for  the  as- 
sault, but  quite  resolved  to  do  him  a  fearful  mischief. 

"Oh  Di,  you  bad,  forgetful  dog  !  Dear  Mr.  Toots,  I 
am  so  rejoiced  to  see  you  ! " 

"  Thankee,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "I  am  pretty  well,  I'm 
much  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Dombey.  I  hope  all  the  family 
are  the  same." 

Mr.  Toots  said  this  without  the  least  notion  of  what  he 
was  talking  about,  and  sat  down  on  a  chair,  staring  at 
Florence  with  the  liveliest  contention  of  delight  and  de- 
spair going  on  his  face  that  any  face  could  exhibit. 

"  Captain  Gills  and  Lieutenant  Walters  have  men- 
tioned, Miss  Dombey,"  gasped  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  can  do 
you  some  service.  If  I  could  by  any  means  wash  out 
the  remembrance  of  that  day  at  Brighton,  when  I  con- 
ducted myself — much  more  like  a  Parricide  than  a  per- 
son of  independent  property,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  se- 
vere self-accusation,  "I  should  sink  into  the  silent  tomb 
with  a  gleam  of  joy." 

"Pray,  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Florence,  "do  not  wish  me 
to  forget  anything  in  our  acquaintance.  I  never  can, 
believe  me.  You  have  been  far  too  kind  and  good  to 
me,  always." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  your  considera- 
tion for  my  feelings  is  a  part  of  your  angelic  character. 
Thank  you  a  thousand  limes.  It's  of  no  "consequence  at 
all." 

"  What  we  thought  of  asking  you,"  said  Florence,  "  is, 
whether  you  remember  where  Susan,  whom  you  were  so 
kind  as  to  accompany  to  the  coach-office  when  she  left 
me,  is  to  be  found." 

"Why  I  do  not  certainly.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  after  a  little  consideration,  "  remember  the  exact 
name  of  the  place  that  was  on  the  coacfi  ;  and  I  do 
recollect  that  she  said  she  was  not  going  to  stop  there, 
but  was  going  farther  on.  But  Miss  Dombey,  if  your 
object  is  to  find  her,  and  to  have  her  here,  myself  and 
the  Chicken  will  produce  her  with  every  despatch  that 
devotion  on  my  part,  and  great  intelligence  on  the 
Chicken's  can  insure." 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  manifestly  delighted  and  revived  by 
the  prospect  of  being  useful,  and  the  disinterested  sin- 


cerity of  his  devotion  was  so  unquestionable,  that  it 
would  have  been  cruel  to  refuse  him.  Florence,  with  an 
instinctive  delicacy,  forbore  to  urge  the  least  obstacle, 
though  she  did  not  forbear  to  overpower  him  witlx 
thanks  ;  and  Mr.  Toots  proudly  took  the  commission  on 
himself  for  immediate  execution. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  touching  her  proffered 
hand,  Avith  a  pang  of  hopeless  love  visibly  shooting 
through  him,  and  flashing  out  in  his  face.  "  Good  bye  ! 
Allow  me  to  take  the  liberty  of  saying,  that  your  mis- 
fortunes make  me  perfectly  wretched,  and  that  you  may 
trust  me,  next  to  Captain  Gills  himself.  I  am  quite 
aware,  Miss  Dombey,  of  my  own  deficienccs — they're 
not  of  the  least  consequence,  thank  you — but  I  am  en- 
tirely to  be  relied  upon,  I  do  assure  you.  Miss  Dombey." 

With  that  Mr.  Toots  came  out  of  the  room  again,  ac- 
companied by  the  captain,  who,  standing  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, holding  his  hat  under  his  arm  and  arranging  his 
scattered  locks  with  his  hook,  had  been  a  not  uninter- 
ested witness  of  what  passed.  And  when  the  door  closed 
behind  them,  the  light  of  Mr.  Toots's  life  was  darkly 
clouded  again. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  that  gentleman,  stopping  near 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  turning  round,  "  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  am  not  in  a  frame  of  mind  at  the  present 
moment,  in  which  I  could  see  Lieutenant  Walters  with 
that  entirely  friendly  feeling  towards  him  that  I  should 
wish  to  harbour  in  my  breast.  We  cannot  always  com- 
mand our  feelings.  Captain  Gills,  and  I  should  take  it 
as  a  particular  favour  if  you'd  let  me  out  at  the  private 
door." 

"  Brother,"  returned  the  captain,  "  you  shall  shape 
your  own  course.  Wotever  course  you  take,  is  plain 
and  seamanlike,  I'm  wery  sure." 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "you're  extremely 
kind.  Your  good  opinion  is  a  consolation  to  me.  There 
is  one  thing,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  standing  in  the  passage, 
behind  the  half-opened  door,  "  that  I'll  hope  you'll  bear 
in  mind.  Captain  Gills,  and  that  I  should  wish  Lieuten- 
ant Walters  to  be  made  acquainted  with.  I  have  quite 
come  into  my  property  now,  you  know,  and — and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  it.  If  I  could  be  at  all  useful  in  a 
pecuniary  point  of  view,  I  should  glide  into  the  silent 
tomb  with  ease  and  smoothness. 

Mr.  Toots  said  no  more,  but  slipped  out  quietly  and 
shut  the  door  upon  himself,  to  cut  the  captain  off  from 
any  reply. 

Florence  thought  of  this  good  creature,  long  after  he 
had  left  her,  with  mingled  emotions  of  pain  and  pleas- 
ure. He  was  so  honest  and  warm-hearted,  that  to  see 
him  again  and  be  assured  of  his  truth  to  her  in  her  dis- 
tress, was  a  joy  and  comfort  beyond  all  price  ;  but  for 
that  very  reason,  it  was  so  affecting  to  think  that  she 
caused  him  a  moment's  unliappiness,  or  ruffled,  by  a 
breath,  the  harmless  current  of  his  life,  that  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  her  bosom  overflowed  with  pity. 
Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  different  way,  though  much  of 
Mr.  Toots  too  ;  and  so  did  Walter  ;  and  when  the  evening 
came,  and  they  were  all  sitting  together  in  Florence's 
new  room,  Walter  praised  him  in  a  most  imj)assioned 
manner,  and  told  Florence  what  he  had  said  upon  leav- 
ing the  house,  with  every  graceful  setting  off  in  the  way 
of  comment  and  appreciation  that  his  own  honesty  and 
sympathy  could  surround  it  with. 

Mr.  Toots  did  not  return  upon  the  next  day,  or  the 
next,  or  for  several  days  ;  and  in  the  meanwhile  Flor- 
ence, without  any  new  alarm,  lived  like  a  quiet  bird  in 
a  cage,  at  the  top  of  the  old  Instrument-maker's  house. 
But  Florence  drooped  and  hung  her  head  more  and  more 
plainly,  as  the  days  went  on  ;  and  the  expression  that 
had  been  seen  in  the  face  of  the  dead  child,  was  often 
turned  to  the  sky  from  her  high  window,  as  if  it  sought 
his  angel  out,  on  the  bright  shore  of  which  he  had 
spoken  :  lying  on  his  little  bed. 

Florence  had  been  weak  and  delicate  of  late,  and  the 
agitation  she  had  undergone  was  not  without  its  influ- 
ences on  her  health.  But  it  was  no  bodily  illness  that 
affected  her  now.  She  was  distressed  in  mind  ;  and  the 
cause  of  her  distress  was  Walter. 

Interested  in  her,  anxious  for  her,  proud  and  glad  to 
serve  her,  and  shoAving  all  this  with  the  enthusiasm  and 
ardour  of  his  character,  Florence  saw  that  he  avoided 


638 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


lier.  All  tlie  long  day  through,  he  seldom  approaclied 
her  room.  If  she  asked  for  him,  he  came,  again  for  the 
moment  as  earnest  and  as  bright  as  she  remembered  him 
when  she  was  a  lost  child  in  the  staring  streets  ;  but  he 
soon  became  constrained — her  quick  affection  was  too 
watchful  not  to  know  it — and  uneasy,  and  soon  left  her. 
Unsought,  he  never  came,  all  day,  between  the  morning 
and  the  night.  When  the  evening  closed  in,  he  was  al- 
ways there,  and  that  was  her  happiest  time,  for  then  she 
half  believed  that  the  old  Walter  of  her  childhoodwas  not 
changed.  But,  even  then,  some  trivial  word,  look,  or  cir- 
cumstance would  show  her  that  there  was  an  indefinable 
division  between  them  which  could  not  be  passed. 

And  she  could  not  but  see  that  these  revealings  of  a 
great  alteration  in  Walter  manifested  themselves  in  de- 
spite of  his  utmost  efforts  to  hide  them.  In  his  consid- 
eration for  her,  she  thought,  and  in  the  earnestness  of 
his  desire  to  spare  her  any  wound  from  his  kind  hand,  he 
resorted  to  innumerable  little  artifices  and  disguises.  So 
much  the  more  did  Florence  feel  the  greatness  of  the 
alteration  in  him  ;  so  much  the  oftener  did  she  weep  at 
this  estrangement  of  her  brother. 

The  good  captain — her  untiring,  tender,  ever  zealous 
friend — saw  it  too,  Florence  thought,  and  it  pained  him. 
He  was  less  cheerful  and  hopeful  than  he  had  been  at 
first,  and  would  steal  looks  at  her  and  Walter,  by  turns, 
when  they  were  all  three  together  of  an  evening,  with 
quite  a  sad  face. 

Florence  resolved,  at  last,  to  speak  to  Walter.  She 
believed  she  knew  now  what  the  cause  of  his  estrange- 
ment was,  and  she  thought  it  would  be  a  relief  to  her 
full  heart,  and  would  set  him  more  at  ease,  if  she  told 
him  she  had  found  it  out,  and  quite  submitted  to  it,  and 
did  not  reproach  him. 

It  was  on  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon,  that  Florence 
took  this  resolution.  The  faithful  captain,  in  an  amazing 
shirt-collar,  was  sitting  by  her,  reading  with  his  specta- 
cles on,  and  she  asked  him  where  Walter  was. 

"  I  think  he's  down  below,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the 
captain. 

"  I  should  like  to  speak  to  him,"  said  Florence,  rising 
hurriedly,  as  if  to  go  down-stairs. 

I'll  rouse  him  up  here,  Beauty, "  said  the  captain, 
in  a  trice." 

Thereupon  the  captain,  with  much  alacrity,  shouldered 
his  book — for  he  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to  read  none  but 
very  large  books  on  a  Sunday,  as  having  a  more  staid 
appearance  :  and  had  bargained,  years  ago,  for  a  prodigi- 
ous volume  at  a  book-stall,  five  lines  of  which  utterly  con- 
founded him  at  any  time,  inasmuch  that  he  had  not  yet 
ascertained  of  what  subject  it  treated — and  withdrew. 
Walter  soon  appeared. 

'*  Captain  Cuttle  tells  me.  Miss  Dombey," — he  eagerly 
began  on  coming  in — but  stopped  when  he  saw  her  face. 

**  You  are  not  so  well  to-day.  You  look  distressed. 
You  have  been  weeping." 

He  spoke  so  kindly,  and  with  such  a  fervent  tremour 
in  his  voice,  that  the  tears  gushed  into  her  eyes  at  the 
sound  of  his  words. 

"Walter,"  said  Florence,  gently,  "I  am  not  quite 
well,  and  I've  been  weeping.    I  want  to  speak  to  you. 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  looking  at  her  beautiful 
and  innocent  face  ;  and  his  own  turned  pale,  and  his  lips 
trembled. 

"  You  said,  upon  the  night  when  I  knew  that  you  were 
saved — and  oh  !  dear  Walter,  what  I  felt  that  night,  and 
what  I  hoped  !  " — 

He  put  his  trembling  hand  upon  the  table  between 
them,  and  sat  looking  at  her. 

" — that  I  was  changed.  I  was  surprised  to  hear  you 
say  so,  but  I  understand,  now,  that  I  am.  Don't  be  an- 
gry with  me,  Walter.  I  was  too  much  overjoyed  to  think 
of  it,  then." 

She  seemed  a  child  to  him  again.  It  was  the  ingenu- 
ous, confiding,  loving  child,  he  saw  and  heard.  Not  the 
dear  woman,  at  whose  feet  he  would  have  laid  the  riches 
of  the  earth. 

"  You  rememember  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  Walter, 
before  you  went  away  ?" 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  breast,  and  took  out  a  little 
purse. 

"  I  have  always  worn  It  round  my  neck  1    If  I  had 


gone  down  in  the  deep,  it  would  have  been  with  me  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea." 

"And  you  will  wear  it  still,  Walter,  for  my  old 
sake?" 

"  Until  I  die  !  " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  as  fearlessly  and  simply,  as 
if  not  a  day  had  intervened  since  she  gave  him  the  little 
token  of  remembrance. 

**  I  am  glad  o"f  that.  I  shall  be  always  glad  to  think 
so,  Walter.  Do  you  recollect  that  a  thought  of  this 
change  seemed  to  come  into  our  minds  at  the  same  time 
that  evening,  when  we  were  talking  together  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  he  answered,  in  a  wondering  tone. 

"  Yes,  Walter.  I  had  been  the  means  of  injuring  your 
hopes  and  prospects  even  then.  I  feared  to  think  so, 
then,  but  I  know  it  now.  If  you  were  able,  then,  in 
your  generosity,  to  hide  from  me  that  you  knew  it  too, 
you  cannot  do  it  now,  although  you  try  as  generously  as 
before.  You  do.  I  thank  you  for  it,  Walter,  deeply, 
truly  ;  but  you  cannot  succeed.  You  have  suffered  too 
much  in  your  own  hardships,  and  in  those  of  your  dear- 
est relation,  quite  to  overlook  the  innocent  cause  of  all 
the  peril  and  affliction  that  has  befallen  you.  You  can- 
not quite  forget  me  in  that  character,  and  we  can  be 
brother  and  sister  no  longer.  But,  dear  Walter,  do  not 
think  that  I  complain  of  you  in  this.  I  might  have 
known  it — ought  to  have  known  it — but  forgot  it  in  my 
joy.  All  I  hope  is  that  you  may  think  of  me  less  irk- 
somely when  this  feeling  is  no  more  a  secret  one  ;  and 
all  I  ask  is,  Walter,  in  the  name  of  the  poor  child  who 
was  your  sister  once,  that  you  will  not  struggle  with 
yourself,  and  pain  yourself,  for  my  sake,  now  that  I 
know  all." 

Walter  had  looked  upon  her  while  she  said  this,  with, 
a  face  so  full  of  wonder  and  amazement,  that  it  had  room 
for  nothing  else.  Now  he  caught  up  the  hand  that 
touched  his  so  entreatingly,  and  held  it  between  his  own. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  said,  "  is  it  possible  that  while 
I  have  been  suffering  so  much,  in  striving  with  my  sense 
of  what  is  due  to  you,  and  must  be  rendered  to  you,  I 
have  made  you  suffer  what  your  words  disclose  to  me. 
Never,  never,  before  Heaven,  have  I  thought  of  you  but 
as  the  single  bright,  pure,  blessed  recollection  of  my 
boyhood  and  my  youth.  Never  have  I  from  the  first, 
and  never  shall' I  to  the  last,  regard  your  part  in  my  life, 
but  as  something  sacred,  never  to  be  lightly  thought  of, 
never  to  be  esteemed  enougli,  never,  until  death,  to  be 
forgotten.  Again  to  see  you  look,  and  hear  you  speak, 
as  you  did  on  that  night  when  we  parted,  is  happiness  to  ] 
me  that  there  are  no  words  to  utter  ;  and  to  be  loved  and  | 
trusted  as  your  brother,  is  the  next  grand  gift  I  could  re- 
ceive and  prize  ! " 

"  Walter,"  said  Florence,  looking  at  him  earnestly, 
but  with  a  changing  face,  "what  is  that  which  is  due  to 
me,  and  must  be  rendered  to  me,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all 
this?" 

"Respect,"  said  Walter,  in  a  low  tone.  "Rever- 
ence." 

The  colour  dawned  in  her  face,  and  she  timidly  and 
thoughtfully  withdrew  her  hand  ;  still  looking  at  him 
with  unabated  earnestness. 

"  I  have  not  a  brother's  right,"  said  Walter.  I  have 
not  a  brother's  claim.    I  left  a  child.    I  find  a  woman." 

The  colour  overspread  her  face.  She  made  a  gesture 
as  if  of  entreaty  that  he  would  say  no  more,  and  her  face 
dropped  upon  her  hands. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  time  ;  she  weeping, 

"  I  owe  it  to  a  heart  so  trusting,  pure,  and  good,"  said 
Walter,  "  even  to  tear  myself  from  it,  though  I  rend  my 
own.    How  dare  I  say  it  is  my  sister's  !" 

She  was  weeping  still.  ^ 

"If  you  had  been  happy  ;  surrounded  as  you  should 
be  by  loving  and  admiring  friends,  and  by  all  that  makes 
the  station  you  were  born  to  enviable,"  said  Walter ; 
"  and  if  you  had  called  me  brother,  then,  in  your  affec- 
tion remembrance  of  the  past,  I  could  have  answered  to 
the  name  from  my  distant  place,  with  no  inward  assur- 
ance that  I  wronged  your  spotless  truth  by  doing  so. 
But  here — and  now  I " — 

"  Oh  thank  you,  thank  you,  Walter  !    Forgive  my 
having  wronged  you  so  much.    I  had  no  one  to  advise  jj 
me.    I  am  quite  alone."  ■ 


DOMBEY 

Florence  !"  said  Walter,  passionately,  "I  am  hur- 
ried on  to  say,  what  I  thoufrht,  but  a  few  moments  ago, 
nothinf^  could  have  forced  from  ray  lips.  If  I  had  been 
prosperous  ;  if  I  had  any  means  or  hope  of  being  one  day 
able  to  restore  you  to  a  station  near  your  own  ;  I  would 
have  told  you  that  there  was  one  name  you  might  be- 
stow upon  'me — a  right  above  all  others,  to  protect  and 
cherish  you — that  I  was  worthy  of  in  nothing  but  the 
love  and  honour  that  I  bore  you,  and  in  my  whole  heart 
being  yours.  I  would  have  told  you  that  it  was  the  only 
claim  that  you  could  give  me  to  defend  and  guard  you, 
which  I  dare  accept  and  dare  assert ;  but  that  if  I  had 
that  right,  1  would  regard  it  as  a  trust  so  precious  and  so 
priceless,  that  the  undivided  truth  and  fervour  of  my 
life  would  poorly  acknowledge  its  worth." 

The  head  was  still  bent  down,  the  tears  still  falling, 
and  the  bosom  swelling  with  its  sobs. 

"  Dear  Florence  !  dearest  Florence  !  whom  I  called  so 
in  my  thoughts  before  I  could  consider  how  presumptu- 
ous and  wild  it  was.  One  last  time  let  me  call  you  by 
your  own  dear  name,  and  touch  this  gentle  hand  in 
token  of  your  sisterly  forgetfulness  of  what  I  have  said." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  spoke  to  him  with  such  a 
solemn  sweetness  in  her  eyes  ;  with  such  a  calm,  bright, 
placid  smile  shining  on  him  through  her  tears  ;  with 
such  a  low,,  soft  tremble  in  her  frame  and  voice  ;  that  the 
innermost  chords  of  his  heart  were  touched,  and  his 
sight  was  dim  as  he  listened. 

"  No  Walter,  I  cannot  forget  it.  I  would  not  forget 
it,  for  the  world.    Are  you — are  you  very  poor  ?  " 

"I  am  but  a  wanderer,"  said  Walter,  "making  voy- 
ages to  live  across  the  sea.    That  is  my  calling  now," 

"  Are  you  soon  going  away  again,  Walter  ?  " 

"  Very  soon." 

She  sat  looking  at  him  for  a  moment  ;  then  timidly 
put  her  trembling  hand  in  his. 

**  If  you  will  take  me  for  your  wife,  Walter,  I  will 
love  you  dearly.  If  you  will  let  me  go  with  you,  Wal- 
ter, I  will  ffo  to  the  world's  end  without  fear.  I  can 
give  up  nothing  for  you — I  have  nothing  to  resign,  and 
no  one  to  forsake  ;  but  all  my  love  and  life  shall  be  de- 
voted to  you,  and  with  my  last  breath  I  will  breathe 
your  name  to  God  if  I  have  sense  and  memory  left." 

He  caught  her  to  his  heart,  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
his  own,  and  now,  no  more  repulsed,  no  more  forlorn, 
she  wept  indeed,  upon  the  breast  of  her  dear  lover. 

Blessed  Sunday  bells,  ringing  so  tranquilly  in  their 
entranced  and  happy  ears  !  Blessed  Sunday  peace  and 
quiet,  harmonising  with  the  calmness  in  their  souls,  and 
making  holy  air  around  them  !  Blessed  twilight  steal- 
ing on,  and  shading  her  so  soothingly  and  gravely,  as 
she  falls  asleep,  like  a  hushed  child,  upon  the  bosom 
she  has  clung  to  ! 

O  load  of  love  and  trustfulness  that  lies  so  lightly 
there  !  Ay,  look  down  on  the  closed  eyes,  Walter,  Avith 
a  proudly  tender  gaze  ;  for  in  all  the  wide  wide  world 
they  seek  but  thee  now — only  thee  I 

The  captain  remained  in  the  little  parlour  until  it  was 
quite  dark.  He  took  the  chair  on  which  Walter  had 
Ijeen  sitting,  and  looked  up  at  the  skylight,  until  the 
day,  by  little  and  little,  faded  away,  and  the  stars 
peeped  down.  He  lighted  a  candle,  lighted  a  pipe, 
smoked  it  out,  and  wondered  what  on  earth  was  going 
on  up-stairs,  and  why  they  didn't  call  him  to  tea. 

Florence  came  to  his  side  while  he  was  in  the  height 
of  his  wonderment. 

"Ay!  lady  lass!"  cried  the  captain.  "Why,  you 
and  Wal'r  have  had  a  long  spell  o'  talk,  my  beauty." 

Florence  put  her  little  hand  round  one  of  the  great 
buttons  of  his  coat,  and  said,  looking  down  into  his  face  : 

"  Dear  captain,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  if  you 
please." 

The  captain  raised  his  head  pretty  smartly,  to  hear 
what  it  was.  Catching  by  this  means  a  more  distinct 
view  of  Florence,  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  himself 
with  it  as  far  as  they  could  go. 

"  What  !  Heart's  Delight !"  cried  the  captain,  sud- 
denly elated.    "  Is  it  that  ?  " 

"  Yes  I "  said  Florence,  eagerly. 

"Wal'r!  Husband!  That?"  roared  the  captain, 
tossing  up  his  glazed  hat  into  the  skylight, 


AND  80 K  639 

"  Yes  !  "  cried  Florence,  laughing  and  crying  together. 

The  captain  immediately  hugged  her ;  and  then, 
picking  up  the  glazed  hat  and  putting  it  on,  drew  her 
arm  through  his,  and  conducted  her  up-stairs  again  ; 
where  he  felt  that  the  great  joke  of  his  life  was  now  to 
be  made. 

"  What,  Wal'r  my  lad  !  "  said  the  captain,  looking  in 
at  the  door,  with  his  face  like  an  amiable  warming  pan. 
"  So  there  an't  NO  other  character,  ain't  there  ?" 

He  had  like  to  have  suffocated  himself  with  this  pleas- 
antry, which  he  repeated  at  least  forty  times  during  tea  ; 
polishing  his  radiant  face  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat, 
and  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  pocket-handker- 
chief, in  the  intervals.  But  he  was  not  without  a  graver 
source  of  enjoyment  to  fall  back  upon,  when  so  disposed, 
for  he  was  repeatedly  heard  to  say  in  an  under  tone,  as 
he  looked  with  ineffable  delight 'at  Walter  and  Flor- 
ence : 

"Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a  better 
course  in  your  life,  than  when  you  made  that  there  lit- 
tle property  over,  jintly  !  "  - 


CHAPTER  LI. 
Mr.  Dombey  and  the  World. 

What  is  the  proud  man  doing,  while  the  days  go  by  ? 
Does  he  ever  think  of  his  daughter,  or  wonder  where 
she  is  gone  ?  Does  he  suppose  she  has  come  home  ?  and 
is  leading  her  old  life  in  the  weary  house  ?  No  one  can 
answer  for  him.  He  has  never  uttered  her  name,  since. 
His  household  dread  him  too  much  to  approach  a  subject 
on  which  he  is  resolutely  dumb  ;  and  the  only  person 
who  dare  question  him,  he  silences  immediately. 

"  My  dear  Paul !"  murmurs  his  sister,  sidling  into  the 
room,  on  the  day  of  Florence's  departure,  "your  wife  ! 
that  upstart  woman  !  Is  it  possible  that  what  I  hear 
confusedly,  is  true,  and  that  this  is  her  return  for  your 
unparalleled  devotion  to  her  ;  extending,  I  am  sure,  even 
to  the  sacrifice  of  your  own  relations,  to  her  caprices  and 
haughtiness  ?    My  poor  brother  !  " 

With  this  speech,  feelingly  reminiscent  of  her  not  hav- 
ing been  asked  to  dinner  on  the  day  of  the  first  party, 
Mrs.  Chick  makes  great  use  of  her  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  falls  on  Mr.  Dombey's  neck.  But  Mr.  Dombey 
frigidly  lifts  her  off,  and  hands  her  to  a  chair. 

"I  thank  you,  Louisa,"  he  says,  "  for  this  mark  of 
your  affection  ;  but  desire  that  our  conversation  may  re- 
fer to  any  other  subject.  When  I  bewail  my  fate, 
Louisa,  or  express  myself  as  being  in  want  of  consolation, 
you  can  offer  it,  if  you  will  have  the  goodness." 

"My  dear  Paul,"  rejoins  his  sister,  with  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  face,  and  shaking  her  head,  "  I  know 
your  great  spirit,  and  will  say  no  more  upon  a  theme  so 
painful  and  revolting  ;  "  on  the  heads  of  which  two  ad- 
jectives, Mrs,  Chick  visits  scathing  indignation  ;  "  but 
pray  let  me  ask  you — though  I  dread  to  hear  something 
that  will  shock  and  distress  me — that  unfortunate  child 
Florence — " 

"  Louisa  !  "  says  her  brother,  sternly,  "  silence.  Not 
another  word  of  this  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  can  only  shake  her  head,  and  use  her 
handkerchief,  and  moan  over  degenerate  Dombeys,  who 
are  no  Dombeys.  But  whether  Florence  has  been  in- 
culpated in  the  flight  of  Edith,  or  has  followed  her,  or 
has  done  too  much,  or  too  little,  or  anything,  or  nothing, 
she  has  not  the  least  idea. 

He  goes  on,  without  deviation,  keeping  his  thoughts 
and  feelings  close  within  his  own  breast,  and  imparting 
them  to  no  one.  He  makes  no  search  for  his  daughter. 
He  may  think  that  she  is  with  his  sister,  or  that  she  is 
under  "his  own  roof.  He  may  think  of  her  constantly,  or 
he  may  never  think  about  her.  It  is  all  one  for  any  sign 
he  makes. 

But  this  is  sure  ;  he  does  not  think  that  he  has  lost 
her.  He  has  no  suspicion  of  the  truth.  He  has  lived 
too  long  shut  up  in  his  towering  supremacy,  seeing  her, 
a  patient  gentle  creature,  in  the  path  below  it,  to  have 
any  fear  of  that.  Shaken  as  he  is  by  his  disgrace,  he  is 
not  yet  humbled  to  the  level  earth.    The  root  is  broad 


640 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


and  deep,  and  in  the  course  of  years  its  fibres  have 
spread  out  and  gathered  nourishment  from  everything 
around  it.    The  tree  is  struck,  but  not  down. 

Though  he  hide  the  world  within  him  from  the 
world  without— which  he  believes  has  but  one  purpose 
for  the  time,  and  that  to  watch  him  eagerly  wherever 
he  goes— he  cannot  hide  those  rebel  traces  of  it,  which 
escape  in  hollow  eyes  and  cheeks,  a  haggard  forehead, 
and  a  moodv,  brooding  air.  Impenetrable  as  before,  he 
is  still  an  altered  man  ;  and,  proud  as  ever,  he  is  hum- 
bled, or  those  marks  would  not  be  there. 

The  world.  What  the  world  thinks  of  him,  how  it 
looks  at  him,  what  it  sees  in  him,  and  what  it  says — this 
is  the  haunting  demon  of  his  mind.  It  is  everywhere 
where  he  is  ;  and  worse  than  that,  it  is  everywhere  where 
he  is  not.  It  comes  out  with  him  among  his  servants 
and  yet  he  leaves  it  whispering  behind  ;  he  sees  it  point- 
ing after  him  in  the  street  ;  it  is  waiting  for  him  in  his 
counting-house  ;  it  leers  over  the  shoulders  of  rich  men 
among  the  merchants  ;  it  going  beckoning  and  babbling 
among  the  crowd  ;  it  always  anticipates  him,  in  every 
place  ;  and  is  always  busiest,  he  knows,  when  he  has 
gone  away.  When  he  is  shut  up  in  his  room  at  night, 
it  is  in  his  house,  outside  it,  audible  in  footsteps  on  the 
pavement,  visible  in  print  upon  the  table,  steaming  to 
and  fro  on  railroads  and  in  ships  :  restless  and  busy 
everywhere,  with  nothing  else  but  him. 

It  is  not  a  phantom  of  his  imagination.  It  is  as  active 
In  other  people's  minds  as  in  his.  Witness  Cousin  Fee- 
nix,  who  comes  from  Baden-Baden,  purposely  to  talk 
to  him.  Witness  Major  Bagstock,  who  accompanies 
Cousin  Feenix  on  that  friendly  mission. 

Mr,  Dombey  receives  them  with  his  usual  dignity,  and 
stands  erect,  in  his  old.attitude,  before  the  fire.  He  feels 
that  the  world  is  looking  at  him  out  of  their  eyes.  That 
it  is  in  the  stare  of  the  pictures.  That  Mr.  Pitt,  upon 
the  book-case,  represents  it.  That  there  are  eyes  in  its 
own  map,  hanging  on  the  wall. 

'*  An  unusually  cold  spring,"  says  Mr.  Dombey — to 
deceive  the  world. 

"  Damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  in  the  warmth  of  friend- 
ship, "  Joseph  Bagstock  is  a  bad  hand  at  the  counterfeit. 
If  you  want  to  hold  your  friends  off,  Dombey,  and  to 
give  them  the  cold  shoulder,  J.  B.  is  not  the  man  for 
your  purpose.  Joe  is  rough  and  tough,  sir  ;  blunt,  sir, 
blunt,  is  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of 
York  did  me  the  honour  to  say,  deservedly  or  undeserv- 
edly— never  mind  that — '  If  there  is  a  man  in  the  service 
on  whom  I  can  depend  for  coming  to  the  point,  that  man 
is  Joe — Joe  Bagstock." 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  his  acquiescence. 
"  Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  "  I  am  a  man  of  the 
world.    Our  friend  Feenix — if  I  may  presume  to — " 
"  Honoured,  I  am  sure,"  said  Cousin  Feenix. 
*' — is,"  proceeds  the  major,  with  a  wag  of  his  head, 
**  also  a  man  of  the  world.    Dombey,  you  are  a  man  of 
the  world.    Now,  when  three  men  of  the  world  meet  to- 
gether, and  are  friends — as  I  believe — "  again  appealing 
to  Cousin  Feenix. 

"  I  am  sure,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  most  friendly." 
*'  — and  are  friends,"  resumes  the  major,  "  Old  Joe's 
opinion  is  (J.  may  be  wrong),  that  the  opinion  of  the 
world  on  any  particular  subject,  is  very  easily  got  at." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "  In  point  of 
fact,  it's  quite  a  self-evident  sort  of  thing.  I  am  ex- 
tremely anxious,  major,  that  my  friend  Dombey  should 
hear  me  express  my  very  great  astonishment  and  regret, 
that  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  who  was  pos- 
sessed of  every  qualification  to  make  a  man  happy,  should 
have  so  far  forgotten  what  was  due  to — in  point  of  fact, 
to  the  world— as  to  commit  herself  in  such  a  very  ex- 
traordinary manner.  I  have  been  in  a  devilish  state  of 
depression  ever  since  ;  and  said  indeed  to  long  Saxby 
last  night — man  of  six  foot  ten,  with  whom  my  friend 
Dombey  is  probably  acquainted — that  it  had  upset  me  in 
a  confounded  way,  and  made  me  bilious.  It  induces  a 
man  to  reflect,  this  kind  of  fatal  catastrophe,"  says 
Cousin  Feenix,  "that  events  do  occur  in  quite  a  Provi- 
dential manner  ;  for  if  my  aunt  had  been  living  at  the 
time,  I  think  the  effect  upon  a  devilish  lively  woman  like 
herself,  would  have  been  prostration,  and  that  she  would 
have  fallen,  in  point  of  fact,  a  victim." 


"Now,  Dombey  ! — "  says  the  major,  resuming  his  dis- 
course with  great  energy. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  interposes  Cousin  Feenix.  "Al- 
low me  another  word.  My  friend  Dombey  will  permit 
that  if  any  circumstances 'could  have  added  to  the  most 
infernal  state  of  pain  in  which  I  find  myself  on  this  oc- 
caasion,  it  would  be  the  natural  amazement  of  the  world 
at  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  (as  I  must  still 
beg  leave  to  call  her)  being  supposed  to  have  so  com- 
mitted herself  with  a  person— man  with  white  teeth,  in 
point  of  fact— of  very  inferior  station  to  her  husband. 
But  while  I  must,  rather  peremptorily,  request  my  friend 
Dombey  not  to  criminate  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  until  her  criminality  is  perfectly  established,  I 
beg  to  assure  my  friend  Dombey  that  the  family  I  repre- 
sent, and  which  is  now  almost  extinct  (devilish  sad  re- 
flection for  a  man),  will  interpose  no  obstacle  his  way, 
and  will  be  happy  to  assent  to  any  honourable  course  of 
proceeding,  with  a  view  to  the  future,  that  he  may  point 
out.  I  trust  my  friend  Dombey  will  give  me  credit  for 
the  intentions  by  which  I  am  animated  in  this  very  mel- 
ancholy affair,  and — a — in  point  of  fact,  I  am  not  aware 
that  I  need  trouble  my  friend  Dombey  with  any  further 
observations." 

Mr.  Dombey  bows,  without  raising  his  eyes,  and  is  si- 
lent. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  "our  friend  Feenix 
having,  with  an  amount  of  eloquence  that  old  Joe  B.  has 
never  heard  surpassed — no,  by  the  Lord,  sir  !  never  !  " — 
says  the  major,  very  blue,  indeed,  and  grasynng  his  cane 
in  the  middle — "stated  the  case  as  regards  the  lady,  I 
shall  presume  upon  our  friendship,  Dombey,  to  offer  a 
word  on  another  aspect  of  it.  Sir,"  says  the  major,  with 
the  horse's  cough,  '*  the  world  in  these  things  has  opin- 
ions, which  must  be  satisfied." 

"  I  know  it,"  rejoins  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Of  course  you  know  it,  Dombey,"  says  the  major. 
"  Damme,  sir,  I  know  you  know  it.  A  man  of  your  cal- 
ibre is  not  likely  to  be  ignorant  of  it." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replies  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Dombey  ! "  says  the  major,  "  you  will  guess  the  rest. 
I  speak  out — prematurely, perhaps — because  the  Bagstock 
breed  have  always  spoken  out.  Little,  sir,  have  they 
ever  got  by  doing  it  ;  but  it's  in  the  Bagstock  blood.  A 
shot  is  to  be  taken  at  this  man.  You  have  J.  B.  at  your 
elbow.  He  claims  the  name  of  friend.  God  bless  you  !" 

"  Major,  "  returns  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  am  obliged.  I 
shall  put  myself  in  your  hands  when  the  time  comes. 
The  time  not  being  come,  I  have  forborne  to  speak  to 
you." 

"Where  is  the  fellow,  Dombey?"  inquires  the  ma- 
jor, after  gasping  and  looking  at  him,  for  a  minute. 
"  I  don't  know." 

"  Any  intelligence  of  him  ?  "  asks  the  major. 
"Yes." 

"  Dombey,  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,"  says  the  major. 
"  I  congratulate  you." 

"You  will  excuse — even  you,  major,"  replies  Mr. 
Dombey,  "my  entering  into  any  further  detail  at  pres- 
ent. The  intelligence  is  of  a  singular  kind,  and  singu- 
larly obtained.  It  may  turn  out  to  be  valueless  ;  it  may 
turn  out  to  be  true  ;  I  cannot  say  at  present.  My  ex- 
planation must  stop  here." 

Although  this  is  but  a  dry  reply  to  the  major's  purple 
enthusiasm,  the  major  receives  it  graciously,  and  is  de- 
lighted to  think  that  the  world  has  such  a  fair  prospect 
of  soon  receiving  its  due.  Cousin  Feenix  is  then  pre- 
sented with  his  meed  of  acknowledgment  by  the  hus- 
band of  his  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  and  Cousin 
Feenix  and  Major  Bagstock  retire,  leaving  that  husband 
to  the  world  again,  and  to  ponder  at  leisure  on  their 
representation  of  its  state  of  mind  concerning  his  affairs, 
and  on  its  just  and  reasonable  expectations. 

But  who  sits  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  shedding 
tears  and  talking  to  Mrs,  Pipchin  in  a  low  tone,  with  up- 
lifted hands  ?  It  is  a  lady  with  her  face  concealed  in  a 
very  close,  black  bonnet,  which  appears  not  to  belong  to 
her.  It  is  Miss  Tox,  who  has  borrowed  this  disguise 
from  her  servant,  and  comes  from  Princess's-place,  thus 
secretly,  to  revive  her  old  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  in  order  to  get  certain  information  of  the  state  of 
Mr.  Dombey. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


641 


*'  How  does  lie  bear  it,  my  dear  creature  ?  "  asks  Miss  i 
Tox.  ! 

"  Well."  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  snappish  way,  ( 
"  he's  pretty  much  as  usual.  1 

"Externally,"  suggests  Miss  Tox.  "But  what  he  < 
feels  within  ! " 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  hard  gray  eyes  look  doubtful  as  she 
answers,  in  three  distinct  jerks,  "  Ah  !    Perhaps.     1  ( 
suppose  so." 

"  To  tell  you  my  mind,  Lucretia,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin  ;  ( 
she  still  calls  Miss  Tox  Lucretia,  on  account  of  having  i 
made  her  first  experiments  in  the  child-quelling-line  of 
business  on  that  lady,  when  an  unfortunate  and  weazen 
little  girl  of  tender  years  ;  to  tell  you  my  mind,  Lu-  ' 
cretia,  I  think  it's  a  good  riddance.    I  don't  want  any  of 
your  brazen  faces  here,  myself  !  " 

"  Brazen  indeed  !  Well  may  you  say  brazen,  Mrs. 
Pipchin  !  "  returned  Miss  Tox.  "  To  leave  him  !  Such 
a  noble  figure  of  a  man  !  "  And  here  Miss  Tox  is  over- 
come. 

"  I  don't  know  about  noble,  I'm  sure,"  observed  Mrs. 
Pipchin  irascibly  rubbing  her  nose.  "  But  I  know  this 
— that  when  people  meet  with  trials,  they  must  bear 
'em.  Hoity,  toity  !  I  have  had  enough  to  bear  myself, 
in  my  time  !  What  a  fuss  there  is  !  She's  gone,  and 
well  got  rid  of.  Nobody  wants  her  back,  I  should 
think  !  " 

This  hint  of  the  Peruvian  Mines,  causes  Miss  Tox  to 
rise  to  go  away ;  when  Mrs.  Pipchin  rings  the  bell  for 
Towlinson  to  show  her  out.  Mr.  Towlinson,  not  having 
seen  Miss  Tox  for  ages,  grins,  and  hopes  she's  well ;  ob- 
serving that  he  didn't  know  her  at  first,  in  that  bonnet. 

"  Pretty  well,  Towlinson,  I  thank  you,"  says  Miss  Tox. 
*'  I  beg  you'll  have  the  goodness,  when  you  happen  to 
see  me  here,  not  to  mention  it.  My  visits  are  merely  to 
Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  Very  good,  miss,"  says  Towlinson. 

"  Shocking  circumstances  occur,  Towlinson,"  says  Miss 
Tox. 

**  Very  much  so  indeed,  miss,"  rejoins  Towlinson. 

*'  I  hope,  Towlinson,"  says  Miss  Tox,  who,  in  her  in- 
struction of  the  Toodle  family  has  acquired  an  admoni- 
torial  tone,  and  a  habit  of  improving  passing  occasions, 
"that  what  has  happened  here,  will  be  a  warning  to  you, 
Towlinson." 

"Thank  you,  miss,  Pm  sure,"  says  Towlinson. 

He  appears  to  be  falling  into  a  consideration  of  the 
manner  in  which  this  warning  ought  to  operate  in  his 
particular  case,  when  the  vinegary  Mrs.  Pipchin,  sud- 
denly stirring  him  up  with  a  "  What  are  you  doing  I 
Why  don't  you  show  the  lady  to  the  door  !  "  he  ushers 
Miss  Tox  forth.  As  she  passes  Mr.  Dombey's  room,  she 
shrinks  into  the  inmost  depths  of  the  black  bonnet,  and 
walks  on  tiptoe  ;  and  there  is  not  another  atom  in  the 
world  which  haunts  him  so,  that  feels  such  sorrow  and 
solicitude  about  him,  as  Miss  Tox  takes  out  under  the 
black  bonnet  into  the  street,  and  tries  to  carry  home 
shadowed  from  newly-lighted  lamps. 

But  Miss  Tox  is  not  a  part  of  Mr.  Dombey's  world. 
She  comes  back  every  evening  at  dusk  ;  adding  clogs  and 
an  umbrella  to  the  bonnet  on  wet  nights  ;  and  bears  the 
grins  of  Towlinson,  and  the  huffs  and  rebuffs  of  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, and  all  to  ask  how  he  does,  and  how  he  bears  his 
misfortune  ;  but  she  has  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's world.  Exacting  and  harassing  as  ever,  it  goes  on 
without  her  ;  and  she,  a  by  no  means  bright  or  particu- 
lar star,  moves  in  her  little  orbit  in  the  corner  of  an- 
other system,  and  knows  it  quite  well,  and  comes,  and 
cries,  and  goes  away,  and  is  satisfied.  Verily  Miss  Tox 
is  easier  of  satisfaction  than  the  world  that  troubles  Mr. 
Dombey  so  much  ! 

At  the  counting-house,  the  clerks  discuss  the  great  dis- 
aster in  all  its  lights  and  shades,  but  chiefly  wonder  who 
will  get  Mr.  Carker's  place.  They  are  generally  of  opin- 
ion that  it  will  be  shorn  of  some  of  its  emoluments,  and 
made  uncomfortable  by  newly  devised  checks  and  re- 
strictions ;  and  those  who  are  beyond  all  hope  of  it, 
are  quite  sure  they  would  rather  not  have  it,  and  don't 
at  all  envy  the  person  for  whom  it  may  prove  to  be  re- 
served. Nothing  like  the  prevailing  sensation  has  ex- 
isrted  in  the  counting-house  since  Mr.  Dombey's  little  son 
j  died  ;  but  all  such  excitements  there  take  a  social,  not  to 
Vol.  H.— 41 


say  jovial  turn,  and  lead  to  the  cultivation  of  good  fellow- 
ship. A  reconciliation  is  establi.shed  on  this  propitious 
occasion  between  the  acknowledged  wit  of  the  counting- 
house  and  an  aspiring  rival,  with  whom  he  has  been  at 
deadly  fued  for  montlis  ;  and  a  little  dinner  being  pro- 
posed, in  commemoration  of  their  happily  restored  amity, 
takes  place  at  a  neighbouring  tavern  ;  the  wit  in  the 
chair  ;  the  rival  acting  as  Vice-President.  The  orations 
following  the  removal  of  the  cloth  are  opened  by  the 
chair,  who  says,  gentlemen,  he  can't  disguise  from  him- 
self that  this  is  not  a  time  for  private  dissensions. 
Recent  ocurrences  to  which  he  need  not  more  particu- 
larly allude,  but  which  have  not  been  altogether  with- 
out notice  in  some  Sunday  papers,  and  in  a  daily  paper 
which  he  need  not  name  (here  every  other  member  of 
the  company  names  it  in  an  audible  murmur),  have 
caused  him  to  reflect ;  and  he  feels  that  for  him  and 
Robinson  to  have  any  personal  differences  at  such  a  mo- 
ment, would  be  for  ever  to  deny  that  good  feeling  in  the 
general  cause,  for  which  he  has  reason  to  think  and  hope 
that  the  gentlemen  in  Dombey's  house  have  always  been 
distinguished.  Robinson  replies  to  this  like  a  man  and  a 
brother  ;  and  one  gentleman  who  has  been  in  the  office 
three  years  under  continual  notice  to  quit  on  account  of 
lapses  in  his  arithmetic,  appears  in  a  perfectly  new  light, 
suddenly  bursting  out  with  a  thrilling  speech,  in  which 
he  says.  May  their  respected  chief  never  again  know  the 
desolation  which  has  fallen  on  his  hearth  !  and  says  a 
great  variety  of  things,  beginning  with  "May  he  never 
again,"  which  are  received  with  thunders  of  applause. 
In  short,  a  most  delightful  evening  is  passed,  only  inter- 
rupted by  a  difference  between  two  juniors,  who,  quar- 
relling about  the  probable  amount  of  Mr.  Carker's  late 
receipts  per  annum,  defy  each  other  with  decanters,  and 
are  taken  out  greatly  excited.  Sodawater  is  in  general 
request  at  the  ofl&ce  next  day,  and:  most  of  the  party  deem 
the  bill  an  imposition. 

As  to  Perch,  the  messenger,  he  is  in  a  fair  way  of  being 
ruined  for  life.  He  finds  himself  again,  constantly  in 
bars  of  public  houses,  being  treated  and  lying  dread- 
fully. It  appears  that  he  met  everybody  concerned  in 
the  late  transaction,  everywhere  and  said  to  them, 
"  Sir,"  or  "  Madam,"  as  the  case  was,  "  why  do  you  look 
so  pale  ?  "  at  which  each  shuddered  from  head  to  foot, 
and  said,  "  Oh,  Perch  !  "  and  ran  away.  Either  the  con-  ) 
sciousness  of  these  enormities,  or  the  reaction  consequent 
on  liquor,  reduces  Mr,  Perch  to  an  extreme  state  of  low 
spirits  at  that  hour  of  the  evening  when  he  usually  seeks 
consolation  in  the  society  of  Mrs.  Perch  at  Balls  Pond ; 
and  Mrs.  Perch  frets  a  good  deal,  for  she  fears  his  confi- 
dence in  woman  is  shaken  now,  and  that  he  half  expects 
on  coming  home  at  night  to  find  her  gone  off  with  some 
Viscount. 

Mr.  Dombey's  servants  are  becoming,  at  the  same  time, 
quite  dissipated,  and  unfit  for  other  service.  They  have 
hot  suppers  every  night,  and  "  talk  it  over,"  with  smok- 
ing drinks  upon  the  board.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  always 
maudlin  after  half -past  ten,  and  frequently  begs  to  know 
whether  he  didn't  say  that  no  good  would  ever  come  of 
living  in  a  corner  house?  Tbey  whisper  about  Miss 
Florence,  and  wonder  where  she  is  ;  but  agree  that  if 
Mr.  Dombey  don't  know,  Mrs.  Dombey  does.  This 
brings  them  to  the  latter,  of  whom  cook  says,  she  had  a 
stately  way  though,  hadn't  she  ?  But  she  was  too  high  ! 
They  all  agree  that  she  was  too  high,  and  Mr.  Towlin- 
son's  old  flame  the  housemaid  (who  is  very  virtuous,  en- 
treats that  you  will  never  talk  to  her  any  more  about 
people  who  hold  their  heads  up,  as  if  the  ground  wasn't 
good  enough  for  'em. 

Everything  that  is  said  and  done  about  it,  except  by 
Mr.  Dombey,  is  done  in  chorus.  Mr.  Dombey  and  the 
world  are  alone  together. 


CHAPTER  LIT. 

Secret  JnMligence. 

Good  Mrs,  Brown  and  her  daughter  Alice,  kept  silent 
company  together,  in  their  own  dwelling.  It  was  early 
in  the  evening,  and  late  in  the  spring.    But  a  few  days 


642 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


had  elapsed  since  Mr.  Dombey  had  told  Major  Bagstock 
of  his  singular  intelligence,  singularly  obtained,  which 
might  turn  out  to  be  valueless,  and  might  turn  out  to 
be  true  ;  and  the  world  was  not  satisfied  yet. 

The  mother  and  daughter  sat  for  a  long  time  without 
interchanging  a  word  :  almost  without  motion.  The  old 
woman's  face  was  shrewdly  anxious  and  expectant  ; 
that  of  her  daughter  was  expectant  too,  but  in  a  less 
sharp  degree,  and  sometimes  it  darkened,  as  if  with 
gathering  disappointment  and  incredulity.  The  old 
woman,  without  heeding  these  changes  in  its  expres- 
sion, though  her  eyes  were  often  turned  towards  it,  sat 
mumbling  and  munching,  and  listening  confidently. 

Their  abode,  though  poor  and  miserable,  was  not  so 
utterly  wretched  as  in  the  days  when  only  Good  Mrs. 
Bro%vn  inhabited  it.  Some  few  attempts  at  cleanliness 
and  order  were  manifest,  though  made  in  a  reckless, 
gypsy  way,  that  might  have  connected  them,  at  a 
glance,  with  the  younger  woman.  The  shades  of  even- 
ing thickened  and  deepened  as  the  two  kept  silence, 
until  the  blackened  walls  were  nearly  lost  in  the  pre- 
vailing gloom. 

Then  Alice  broke  the  silence  which  had  lasted  so  long, 
and  said  : 

You  may  give  him  up,  mother.  He'll  not  come 
here." 

"  Death  give  him  up  !  "  returned  the  old  woman,  im- 
patiently.   "  He  will  come  here." 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Alice. 

"  We  shall  see  him,"  returned  her  mother. 

"  And  doomsday,"  said  the  daughter. 

"You  think  I'm  in  my  second  childhood,  I  know  ! 
croaked  tbe  old  woman.  "  That's  the  respect  and  duty 
that  I  get  from  my  own  gal,  but  I'm  wiser  than  you 
take  me  for.  He'll  come.  T'other  day  when  I  touched 
his  coat  in  the  street,^he  looked  round  as  if  I  was  a 
toad.  But  Lord,  to  see  him  when  I  said  their  names, 
and  asked  him  if  he'd  like  to  find  out  where  they  Avas  ! " 

"Was  it  so  angry?"  asked  her  daughter,  roused  to 
interest  in  a  moment. 

"  Angry  ?  ask  if  it  was  bloody.  That's  more  like  the 
word.  Angry  ?  Ha,  ha  !  To,  call  that  only  angry  !  " 
said  the  old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard,  and 
lighting  a  candle,  which  displayed  the  workings  of  her 
mouth  to  ugly  advantage,  as  she  brought  it  to  the  table. 
"  I  might  as  well  call  your  face  only  angry,  when  you 
think  or  talk  about  'em." 

It  was  something  different  from  that,  truly,  as  she  sat 
as  still  as  a  crouched  tigress,  with  her  kindling  eyes. 

"Hark!"  said  the  old  woman,  triumphantly.  "I 
hear  a  step  coming.  It's  not  the  tread  of  any  one  that 
lives  about  here,  or  comes  this  way  often.  We  don't 
walk  like  that.  We  should  grow  proud  on  such  neigh- 
bours !    Do  you  hear  him  ?  " 

"  1  believe  you  are  right,  mother,"  replied  Alice,  in  a 
low  voice.    "Peace  !  open  the  door." 

As  she  drew  herself  within  her  shawl,  and  gathered  it 
about  her,  the  old  vi^oman  complied  ;  and  peering  out, 
and  beckoning,  gave  admission  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who 
stopped  when  he  had  set  his  foot  within  the  door,  and 
looked  distrustfully  around. 

"  It's  a  poor  place  for  a  great  gentleman  like  your 
worship,"  said  tiie  old  woman,  curtseying  and  chatter- 
ing.   "  I  told  you  so,  but  there  is  no  harm  in  it." 

"Who  is  that?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  her 
companion. 

"That's  my  handsome  daughter,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"  Your  worship  won't  mind  her.  She  knows  all  about 
it." 

A  shadow  fell  upon  his  face  not  less  expressive  than 
if  he  had  groaned  aloud,  "  Who  does  not  know  all  about 
it  !  "  l)ut  he  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  she  without  any 
acknowledgment  of  his  presence  looked  at  him.  The 
shadow  on  his  face  was  darker  when  he  turned  his 
glance  away  from  her  ;  and  even  then  it  wandered  back 
again,  furtively,  as  if  he  were  haunted  by  her  bold  eyes, 
and  some  remembrance  they  insi)ired. 

"Woman,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  the  old  witch  who 
was  chuclvling  and  leering  close  at  his  elbow,  and  who, 
when  he  turned  to  address  her,  pointed  stealthily  at  her 
daughter,  and  rubbed  her  hands,  and  pointe(l  again, 
"  Woman  I    1  believe  that  I  am  weak  and  forgetful  of 


my  station  in  coming  here,  but  you  know  why  I  come, 
and  what  you  offered  when  you  stopped  me  in  the  street 
the  other  day.  What  is  it  that  you  have  to  tell  me  con- 
cerning what  I  want  to  know  ;  and  how  does  it  happen 
that  I  can  find  voluntary  intelligence  in  a  hovel  like 
this,"  with  a  disdainful  glance  about  him,  "  when  I 
have  exerted  my  power  and  means  to  obtain  it  in  vain  ? 
[  do  not  think,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause,  during 
which  he  had  observed  her,  sternly,  "that  you  are  so 
audacious  as  to  mean  to  trifle  with  *me,  or  endeavour  to 
impose  upon  me.  But  if  you  have  that  purpose,  you 
had  better  stop  on  the  threshold  of  your  scheme.  My 
humour  is  not  a  trifling  one,  and  my  acknowledgment 
will  be  severe." 

"Oh  a  proud,  hard  gentleman!"  chuckled  the  old 
woman,  shaking  her  head,  and  rubbing  her  shrivelled 
hands,  "oh  hard,  hard,  hard  !  But  your  worship  shall 
see  with  your  own  eyes  and  hear  with  your  own  ears  ; 
not  with  ours — and  if  your  worship's  put  upon  their 
track,  you  won't  mind  paying  something  for  it,  will  you, 
honourable  deary?" 

"  Money,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  apparently  relieved, 
and  re-assured  by  this  inquiry,  "  will  bring  about  un- 
likely things,  I  know.  It  may  turn  even  means  as  un- 
expected and  unpromising  as  these,  to  account.  Yes. 
For  any  reliable  information  I  receive,  I  will  pay.  But 
I  must  have  the  information  first,  and  judge  for  myself 
of  its  value," 

"  Do  you  know  nothing  more  powerful  than  money?" 
asked  the  younger  woman,  without  rising,  or  altering  her 
attitude. 

"Not  here,  I  should  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  You  should  know  of  something  that  is  more  power- 
ful elsewhere,  as  I  judge,"  she  returned.  "Do  you 
know  nothing  of  a  woman's  anger ?  " 

"You  have  a  saucy  tongue,  jade,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Not  usually,"  she  answered,  without  any  show  of 
emotion:  "  I  speak  to  you  now,  that  yon  may  under- 
stand us  better,  and  rely  more  on  us.  A  woman's  anger 
is  pretty  much  the  same  here,  as  in  your  fine  house.  I 
am  angry.  I  have  been  so,  many  years.  I  have  as  good 
cause  for  my  anger  as  you  have  for  yours,  and  its  object 
is  the  same  man." 

He  started,  in  spite  of  himself,  and  looked  at  her  with 
astonishment. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  laugh.  "  Wide  as  the 
distance  may  seem  bet  ween  us,  it  is  so.  How  it  is  so, 
is  no  matter  ;  that  is  my  story,  and  I  keep  my  story  to 
myself.  I  would  bring  you  and  him  together,  because  I 
have  a  rage  against  him.  My  mother  there,  is  avaricious 
and  poor  ;  and  she  would  sell  any  tidings  she  could  glean, 
or  anything,  or  anybody,  for  money.  It  is  fair  enough 
perhaps,  that  you.  should  pay  her  some,  if  she  can  help 
you  to  what  you  want  to  know.  But  that  is  not  my  mo- 
tive. I  have  told  you  what  mine  is,  and  it  would  be  as 
strong  and  all  sufficient  with  me  if  you  haggled  and  bar- 
gained with  her  for  a  sixpence.  I  have  done.  My  saucy 
tongue  says  no  more,  if  you  wait  here  till  sunrise  to-mor- 
row." 

The  old  woman,  who  had  shown  great  uneasiness  dur- 
ing this  speech  which  had  a  tendency  to  depreciate  her 
expected  gains,  pulled  Mr.  Dombey  softly  by  the  sleeve, 
and  whispered  to  him  not  to  mind  her.  He  glanced  at 
them  both  by  turns,  with  a  haggard  look,  and  said,  in  a 
deeper  voice  than  was  usual  to  him  ; 

"  Go  on — what  do  you  know  ?  " 

"Oh,  not  so  fast,  your  worship  !  we  must  wait  for  some 
one,"  answered  the  old  woman.  "It's  to  be  got  from 
some  one  else — wormed  out — screwed  and  twisted  from 
him." 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Patience,"  she  croaked,  laying  her  hand,  like  a  claw, 
upon  his  arm.  "  Patience.  I'll  get  at  it.  I  know  I  can  ! 
If  he  was  to  hold  it  back  from  me,"  said  Good  Mrs. 
Brown,  crooking  her  ten  fingers,  "  I'd  tear  it  out  of 
him  ! " 

Mr.  Dombey  followed  her  with  his  eyes  as  she  hobbled 
to  the  door,  and  looked  out  again  :  and  then  his  glance 
sought  her  daughter  ;  but  she  remained  impassive,  si- 
lent, and  regardless  of  him. 

"  Do  you  tell  me,  woman,"  he  said,  when  the  bent  fig- 
ure of  Mrs.  Brown  came  back,  shaking  its  head  and  chat- 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


643 


terin^  to  itself,  '*  that  there  is  another  person  expected 
here?" 

"  Yes  I "  said  the  old  woman,  looking  up  into  his  face, 
and  nodding. 

"  From  whom  you  are  to  extract  the  intelligence  that 
is  to  be  useful  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  woman  nodding  again. 
"  A  stranger  ?  " 

*'Chut!"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  shrill  laugh. 
"  What  signifies!  Well,  well  ;  no.  No  stranger  to  your 
worship.  But  he  won't  see  you.  He'd  be  afraid  of  you, 
and  wouldn't  talk.  You'll  stand  behind  that  door,  and 
judge  him  for  yourself.  We  don't  ask  to  be  believed  on 
trust.  What  !  Your  worship  doubts  the  room  behind 
the  door  ?  Oh  the  suspicion  of  you  rich  gentlefolks  ! 
Look  at  it,  then." 

Her  sharp  eye  had  detected  an  involuntary  expression 
of  this  feeling  on  his  part,  which  was  not  unreasonable 
under  the  circumstances.  In  satisfaction  of  it  she  now 
took  the  candle  to  the  door  she  spoke  of.  Mr.  Dombey 
looked  in ;  assured  himself  that  it  was  an  empty,  crazy 
room  ;  and  signed  to  her  to  put  the  light  back  in  its  place. 

"  How  long,"  he  asked,  "  before  this  ])erson  comes?" 

"  Not  long  "  she  answered.  "  Would  your  worship  sit 
down  for  a  few  odd  minutes?" 

He  made  no  answer  ;  but  began  pacing  the  room  with 
an  irresolute  air,  as  if  he  were  undecided  whether  to 
remain  or  depart,  and  as  if  he  had  some  quarrel  with 
himself  for  being  there  at  all.  But  soon  his  tread  grew 
slower  and  heavier,  and  his  face  more  sternly  thought- 
ful ;  as  the  object  with  which  he  had  come,  fixed  itself 
in  his  mind,  and  dilated  there  again. 

While  he  thus  walked  up  and  down  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground,  Mrs.  Brown,  in  the  chair  from  which  she 
had  risen  to  receive  him,  sat  listening  anew.  The  mo- 
notony of  his  step,  or  the  uncertainty  of  age,  made  her 
so  slow  of  hearing,  that  a  foot-fall  without  had  sounded 
in  her  daughter's  ears  for  some  moments,  and  she  had 
looked  up  hastily  to  warn  her  mother  of  its  approach, 
before  the  old  woman  was  roused  by  it.  But  then  she 
started  from  her  seat,  and  whispering  ''Here  he  is!" 
hurried  her  visitor  to  his  place  of  observation,  and  put  a 
bottle  and  glass  upon  the  table,  with  such  alacrity  as  to 
fling  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  Rob  the  Grinder  on  his 
appearance  at  the  door, 

"  And  here's  my  bonny  boy,"  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  "at 
last  !  — oho,  oho  1    You're  like  my  own  son,  Robby  !  " 

"  Oh  !  Misses  Brown  !  "  remonstrated  the  Grinder. 
**  Don't.  Can't  you  be  fond  of  a  cove  without  squeedg- 
ing  and  throttling  of  him  I  Take  care  of  the  birdcage  in 
my  hand,  will  you  ?  " 

"Thinks  of  a  birdcage,  afore  me!"  cried  the  old 
woman,  apostrophising  the  ceiling.  "  Me  that  feels 
more  than  a  mother  for  him  j  " 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you.  Misses 
Brown,"  said  the  unfortunate  youth,  greatly  aggravated  ; 
*'  Vjut  you're  so  jealous  of  a  cove.  I'm  very  fond  of  you 
myself,  and  all  that,  of  course  ;  but  I  don't  smother  you, 
do  I,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

He  looked  and  spoke  as  if  he  would  have  been  far 
from  objecting  to  do  so,  however,  on  a  favourable  oc- 
casion. 

"And  to  talk  about  birdcages,  too  !"  whimpered  the 
Grinder.  "  As  if  that  was  a  crime  !  Why,  look'ee  here  ! 
Do  you  know  who  this  belongs  to?  " 

"  To  Master,  dear?  "  said  the  old  woman  with  a  grin. 

"  Ah  !"  replied  the  Grinder,  lifting  a  large  cage  tied 
up  in  a  wrapper,  on  the  table,  and  untying  it  with  his 
teeth  and  hands.    "  It's  our  parrot,  this  is." 

"  Mr.  Carker's  parrot,  Rob.^'' 

"  Wiil  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  BroAvn?"  re- 
turned the  Grinder.  "  What  do  you  go  naming  names 
for?  I'm  blest,"  said  Rob,  pulling  his  hair  with  both 
hands  in  the  exasperation  of  his  feelings,  "if  she  au't 
enough  to  make  a  cove  run  wild  !  " 

"  What  !  do  you  snub  me,  thankless  boy  \  "  cried  the 
old  woman,  with  ready  vehemence. 

"  Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,  no  ! "  returned  the 
Grinder,  vvitii  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  Was  there  ever  such 
a  1 — Don't  I  dote  upon  you.  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

"Do  you,  sweet  Rob?  Do  you  truly,  chickabiddy  ?  " 
With  that,  Mrs.  Brown  held  him  in  her  fond  embrace 


once  more ;  and  did  not  release  him  until  he  had  made 
several  violent  and  ineffectual  struggles  with  his  legs, 
and  his  hair  was  standing  on  end  all  over  his  head. 

"  Oh  !  "  returned  the  Grinder,  "  what  a  thing  it  is  to 
be  perfectly  pitched  into  with  affection  like  this  here. 
1  wish  she  was — .    How  have  you  been  Misses  Brown?" 

"  Ah  !  Not  here  since  this  night  week  !  "  said  the  old 
woman,  contemplating  him  with  a  look  of  reproach. 

"  Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder, 
"I  said  to-night's  a  week,  that  I'd  come  to-night,  didn't 
I  ?  And  here  I  am.  IIow  you  do  go  on  !  I  wish  you'd 
be  a  little  rational  Misses  Brown.  I'm  hoarse  with  say- 
ing things  in  my  defence,  and  my  very  face  is  shiny  with 
being  hugged."  He  rubbed  it  hard  with  his  sleeve,  as 
if  to  remove  the  tender  polish  in  question. 

"  Drink  a  little  drop  to  comfort  you,  my  Robin,"  said 
the  old  woman,  filling  the  glass  from  the  bottle  and 
giving  it  to  liim. 

"  Thank'ee,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the.  Grinder. 
"  Here's  your  health.  And  long  may  you — et  cetrer." 
Which  to  judge  from,  the  expression  of  his  face,  did  not 
include  any  very  choice  blessings.  "  And  here's  her 
health,"  said  the  Grinder,  glancing  at  Alice,  who  sat 
with  her  eyes  fixed,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  on  the  wall 
behind  him,  but  in  reality  on  Mr.  Dombey's  face  at  the 
door,  "  and  wishing  her  the  same  and  many  of  'em  !  " 

He  drained  the  glass  to  these  two  sentiments,  and  set 
it  down. 

"Well,  I  say,  Misses  Brown!"  he  proceeded.  "To 
go  on  a  little  rational  now.  You're  a  judge  of  birds,  and 
up  to  their  ways,  as  I  know  to  my  cost." 

"  Cost  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Satisfaction,  I  mean,"  returned  the  Grinder.  "How 
you  do  take  up  a  cove,  Misses  Brown  !  You've  put  it 
all  out  of  my  head  again. " 

"  Judge  of  birds,  Robby,"  suggested  the  old  woman. 

"Ah!"  said  the  Grinder,  "Well,  I've  got  to  take 
care  of  this  parrot — certain  things  being  sold,  and  a  cer- 
tain establishment  broke  up — and  as  I  don't  want  no 
notice  took  at  present,  I  wish  you'd  attend  to  her  for  a 
week  or  so,  and  give  her  board  and  lodging,  will  you? 
If  I  must  come  baclcAvards  and  forwards,"  mused  the 
Grinder  with  a  dejected  face,  "  I  may  as  well  have  some- 
thing to  come  for." 

"  Something  to  come  for  ?  "  screamed  the  old  woman. 

"  Besides  you,  I  mean.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
craven  Rob.  "Not  that  I  want  any  inducement  but 
yourself.  Misses  Brown,  I'm  sure.  Don't  begin  again, 
for  goodness  sake." 

"  He  don't  care  for  me  I  He  don't  care  for  me  as  I 
care  for  him  1  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  lifting  up  her  skinny 
hands.    "  But  I'll  take  care  of  his  bird." 

"  Take  good  care  of  it  too,  you  know,  Misses  Brown," 
said  Rob,  shaking  his  head.  "  If  you  was  so  much  as 
to  stroke  its  feathers  once  the  wrong  way,  I  believe  it 
would  be  found  out." 

"Ah,  so  sharp  as  that,  Rob?"  said  Mrs.  Brown 
quickly. 

"Sharp,  Misses  Brown?"  repeated  Rob.  "But  this 
is  not  to  be  talked  about." 

Checking  himself  abruptly,  and  not  without  a  fearful 
glance  across  the  room,  Rob  filled  the  glass  again,  and 
I  having  slowly  emptied  it,  shook  his  head,  and  began  to 
[  draw  his  finger  across  and  across  the  wires  of  the  parrot's 
cage,  by  way  of  a  diversion  from  the  dangerous  theme 
that  had  just  then  been  reached. 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  slyly,  and  hitching  her  chair 
nearer  his,  and  looking  in  at  the  parrot,  who  came  down 
from  the  gilded  dome  at  her  call,  said  : 

"  Out  of  place  now,  Robby  ?  " 

"  Never mind.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder 
shortly. 

"  Board  wages,  perhaps,  Rob?"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Pretty  Polly  ! "  said  the  Grinder. 

The  old  woman  darted  a  glance  at  him  that  might 
have  warned  him  to  consider  his  ears  in  danger,  but  it 
i  was  his  turn  to  look  in  at  the  parrot  now,  and  however 
,  expressive  his  imagination  may  have  made  her  angry 
:  scowl,  it  was  unseen  by  his  bodily  eyes. 
I  "  I  wonder  Master  didn't  take  you  with  him,  Rob," 
j  said  the  old  woman,  in  a  wheedling  voice,  but  with  in- 
1  creased  malignity  of  aspect. 


'644 


CHARLES  DIGKEN8'  WORKS. 


Rob  was  so  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  parrot, 
and  in  trolling  his  forefinger  on  the  wires,  that  he  made 
no  answer. 

The  old  woman  had  her  clutch  within  a  hair's-breadth 
of  his  shock  of  hair  as  it  stooped  over  the  table  ;  but  she 
restrained  her  fingers,  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  choked 
with  its  effort  to  be  coaxing  : 

"  Robby,  my  child." 

"  Well,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder. 
*•  I  say,  I  wonder  Master  didn't  take  you  with  him, 
dear." 

"Never  you  mind,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
Grinder. 

Mrs.  Brown  instantly  directed  the  clutch  of  her  right 
hand  at  his  hair,  and  the  clutch  of  her  left  hand  at  his 
throat,  and  held  on  to  the  object  of  her  fond  affection  with 
such  extraordinary  fury,  that  his  face  began  to  blacken 
in  a  moment. 

"Misses  Brown  !"  exclaimed  the  Grinder,  "let  go, 
will  you  !  What  are  you  doing  of  !  Help,  young  woman ! 
Misses  Brow — Brow —  ! " 

The  young  woman,  however,  equally  unmoved  by  his 
direct  appeal  to  her,  and  by  his  inarticulate  utterance, 
remained  quite  neutral,  until,  after  struggling  with  his 
assailant  into  a  corner,  Rob  disengaged  himself,  and 
stood  there  panting  and  fenced  in  by  his  own  elbows,  while 
the  old  woman,  panting  too,  and  stamping  with  rage 
and  eagerness,  appeared  to  be  collecting  her  energies  for 
another  swoop  upon  him.  At  this  crisis  Alice  inter- 
posed her  voice,  but  not  in  the  Grinder's  favour,  by  say- 
ing. 

"  Well  done,  mother.    Tear  him  to  pieces  ! " 

"  What,  young  woman  !"  blubbered  Rob  ;  "are  you 
against  me  too  ?  What  have  I  been  and  done  ?  What 
am  I  to  be  tore  to  pieces  for,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 
Why  do  you  take  and  choke  a  cove  who  has  never  done 
you  any  harm,  neither  of  you  ?  Call  yourselves  females, 
too  ! "  said  the  frightened  and  afflicted  Grinder,  with  his 
coat-cuff  at  his  eye.  "  I'm  surprised  at  you  !  Where's 
your  feminine-tenderness  ?  " 

"  You  thankless  dog  !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Brown.  "  You 
impudent,  insulting  dog  !  " 

"  What  have  I  been  and  done  to  go  and  give  you 
offence,  Misses  Brown  ? "  retorted  the  tearful  Rob. 
"  You  was  very  much  attached  to  me  a  minute  ago." 

"  To  cut  me  off  with  his  short  answers  and  his  sulky 
words,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  Me  !  Because  I  happen 
to  be  curious  to  have  a  little  bit  of  gossip  about  Master 
and  the  lady,  to  dare  to  play  as  fast  and  loose  with  me  1 
But  I'll  talk  to  you  no  more,  my  lad.    Now  go  ! " 

"I  am  sure,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  abject 
Grinder,  "I  never  insiniwated  that  I  wished  to  go. 
Don't  talk  like  that.  Misses  Brown,  if  you  please." 

"  I  won't  talk  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  an  action 
of  her  crooked  fingers  that  made  him  shrink  into  half  his 
natural  compass  in  the  corner.  "  Not  another  word  with 
him  shall  pass  my  lips.  He's  an  ungrateful  hound.  I 
cast  him  off.  Now  let  him  gol  And  I'll  slip  those  after 
him  that  shall  talk  too  much  ;  that  won't  be  shook  away  ; 
that'll  hang  to  him  like  leeches,  and  slink  arter  him  like 
foxes.  What !  He  knows  'em.  He  knows  his  old 
games  and  his  old  ways.  If  he's  forgotten  'em,  they'll 
soon  remind  him.  Now  let  him  go,  and  see  how  he'll 
do  Master's  business,  and  keep  Master's  secrets,  with 
such  company  always  following  him  up  and  down.  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !  He'll  find  'em  a  different  sort  from  you  and  me, 
Ally  ;  close  as  he  is  with  you  and  me.  Now  let  him  go. 
now  let  him  go  !  " 

The  old  woman,  to  the  unspeakable  dismay  of  the 
Grinder,  walked  her  twisted  figure  round  and  round  in  a 
ring  of  some  four  feet  in  diameter,  constantly  repeating 
these  words,  and  shaking  her  fist  above  her  head,  and 
working  her  mouth  about. 

"Misses  Brown,"  pleaded  Rob,  coming  a  little  out  of 
his  corner,  "I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  injure  a  cove,  on 
second  thoughts,  and  in  cold  blood,  would  you  ?  " 

"Don't  talk  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  still  wrathfully 
pursuing  her  circle.  "Now  let  him  go,  now  let  him  go  !  " 

"Misses  Brown,"  urged  the  tormented  Grinder,  "  I 
didn't  mean  to — Oh,  what  a  thing  it  is  for  a  cove  to  get 
into  such  a  line  as  this  I — I  was  only  careful  of  talking. 
Misses  Brown,  because  J, always  am,  on  account  of  his 


being  up  to  everything  ;  but  I  might  have  known  it 
wouldn't  have  gone  any  further.  I'm  sure  I'm  quite 
agreeable,"  with  a  wretched  face,  "for  any  little  bit  of 
gossip.  Misses  Brown.  Don't  go  on  like  this,  if  you 
please.  Oh,  couldn't  you  have  the  goodness  to  put  in  a 
word  for  a  miserable  cove  here  !  "  said  the  Grinder,  ap- 
pealing in  desperation  to  the  daughter. 

"Come,  mother,  you  hear  what  he  says,"  she  inter- 
posed, in  her  stern  voice,  and  with  an  impatient  action 
of  her  head  ;  "  try  him  once  more,  and  if  you  fall  out 
with  him  again,  ruin  him,  if  you  like,  and  have  done 
with  him." 

Mrs.  Brown,  moved  as  it  seemed  by  this  very  tender 
exhortation,  presently  began  to  howl ;  and  softening  by 
degrees,  took  the  apologetic  Grinder  to  her  arms,  who 
embraced  her  with  a  face  of  unutterable  wc€,  and  like  a 
victim  as  he  was,  resumed  his  former  seat,  close  by  the 
side  of  his  venerable  friend  ;  whom  he  suffered,  not 
without  much  constrained  sweetness  of  countenance, 
combating  very  expressive  physiognomical  revelations  of 
an  opposite  character,  to  draw  his  arm  through  hers,  and 
keep  it  there. 

"And  how's  Master,  deary  dear?"  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
when,  sitting  in  this  amicable  posture,  they  had  pledged 
each  other. 

"  Hush  !  if  you'd  be  so  good,  Misses  Brown,  as  to 
speak  a  little  lower,"  Rob  implored.  "  Why,  he's  pretty 
well,  thank'ee,  I  suppose." 

"Ifou're  not  out  of  place,  Robby?"  said  Mrs.  Brown 
in  a  wheedling  tone. 

"Why,  I'm  not  exactly  out  of  place  nor  in,"  faltered 
Rob.    "I — I'm  still  in  pay.  Misses  Brown." 

"  And  nothing  to  do,  Rob?" 

"Nothing  particular  to  do  just  now,  Misses  Brown, 
but  to — keep  my  eyes  open,"  said  the  Grinder,  rolling 
them  in  a  forlorn  way. 

"  Master  abroad,  Rob  ?  " 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake.  Misses  Brown,  couldn't  you 
gossip  with  a  cove  about  anything  else  ! "  cried  the 
Grinder,  in  a  burst  of  despair. 

The  impetuous  Mrs.  Brown  rising  directly,  the  tor- 
tured Grinder  detained  her,  stammering  "  Ye-yes,  Misses 
Brown,  I  believe  he's  abroad.  What's  she  staring  at?" 
he  added,  in  allusion  to  the  daughter,  whose  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  face  that  now  again  looked  out  behind 
him. 

"  Don't  mind  her,  lad,"  said  the  old  woman,  holding 
him  closer  to  prevent  his  turning  round.  "  It's  her  way 
— her  way.  Tell  me,  Rob.  Did  you  ever  see  the  lady, 
deary  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Misses  Brown,  what  lady  ?"  cried  the  Grinder  in 
a  tone  of  piteous  supplication. 

"  What  lady  ?  "  she  retorted.  **  The  lady  ;  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  see  her  once,"  replied  Rob. 

"  The  night  she  went  away,  Robby,  eh  ?"  said  the  old 
woman  in  his  ear,  and  taking  note  of  every  change  in  hi,s 
face,  "Aha  !    I  know  it  was  that  night." 

"  Well,  if  you  know  it  was  that  night,  you  know. 
Misses  Brown,"  replied  Rob,  "it's  no  use  putting  pinch- 
ers into  a  cove  to  make  him  say  so." 

"  Where  did  they  go  tliat  night,  Rob  ?  Straight 
away?  How  did  they  go?  Where  did  you  see  her? 
Did  she  laugh?  Did  she  cry?  Tell  me  all  about  it," 
cried  the  old  hag,  holding  him  closer  yet,  patting  the 
hand  that  was  drawn  through  his  arm  against  her  other 
hand,  and  searching  every  line  in  his  face  with  her 
bleared  eyes.  "  Come  !  Begin  !  I  want  to  be  told  all 
about  it.  What,  Rob,  boy  !  You  and  me  can  keep  a  se- 
cret together,  eh?  We'^e  done  so  before  now.  Where 
did  they  go  first,  Rob  ?  " 

The  wretched  Grinder  made  a  gasp  and  a  pause. 

"  Are  you  dumb?  "  said  the  old  woman,  angrily. 

"  Lord,  Misses  Brown,  no  !  You  expect  a  cove  to  be  a 
flash  of  lightning.  I  wish  I  tms  the  electric  fluency,'* 
muttered  the  bewildered  Grinder.  "  I'd  have  shock  at 
somebody,  that  would  settle  their  business." 

"  What  do  you  say?"  asked  the  old  woman  with  a 
grin. 

"I'm  wishing  my  love  to  you.  Misses  Brown,"  returned 
the  false  Rob,  seeking  consolation  in  the  glass.  "  Where 
did  they  go  to  first,  was  it  !  Him  and  her  do  you  mean  ?  '* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON,  645 


"  All  ! "  said  the  old  woman,  eagerly     "  Them  two." 

"  Why  they  didn't  go  nowhere — not  together,  I  mean," 
answered  Rob. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him,  as  though  she  had  a 
strong  impulse  upon  her  to  make  another  clutch  at  his 
head  and  throat,  but  was  restrained  by  a  certain  dogged 
mystery  in  his  face. 

"  That  was  the  art  of  it,"  said  the  reluctant  Grinder  ; 

that's  the  way  nobody  saw  'em  go,  or  has  been  able  to 
say  how  they  did  go.  They  went  different  ways,  I  tell 
you.  Misses  Brown." 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay  !  To  meet  at  an  appointed  place, 
chuckled  the  old  woman,  after  a  moment's  silent  and 
keen  scrutiny  of  his  face. 

"  Why,  if  they  weren't  a  going  to  meet  somewhere,  I 
suppose  they  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home, 
mightn't  they.  Misses  Brown  ?  "  returned  the  unwilling 
Grinder. 

"  Well,  Rob?  Well?"  said  the  old  woman,  drawing 
his  arm  yet  tighter  through  her  own,  as  if,  in  her  eager- 
ness, she  were  afraid  of  his  slipping  away. 

"  What,  haven't  we  talked  enough  yet,  Misses  Brown 
returned  the  Grinder,  who,  between  his  sense  of  injury, 
his  sense  of  liquor,  and  his  sense  of  being  on  the  rack, 
had  become  so  lachrymose,  that  at  almost  every  answer 
he  scooped  his  coat- cuff  into  one  or  other  of  his  eyes, 
and  uttered  an  unavailing  whime  of  remonstrance.  "  Did 
she  laugh  that  night,  was  it  ?  Didn't  you  ask  if  she 
laughed.  Misses  Brown?" 

"  Or  cried  ?  "  added  the  old  woman,  nodding  assent. 

"  Neither,"  said  the  Grinder.  "  She  kept  as  steady 
when  she  and  me — oh,  I  see  you  icill  have  out  of  me. 
Misses  Brown  !  But  take  your  solemn  oath  now,  that 
you'll  never  tell  anybod3\" 

This  Mrs.  Brown  very  readily  did  :  being  naturally 
Jesuitical  ;  and  having  no  other  intention  in  the  matter 
than  that  her  concealed  visitor  should  hear  for  himself. 

"  She  kept  as  steady,  then,  when  she  and  me  went 
down  to  Southampton,"  said  the  Grinder,  "  as  a  image. 
In  the  morning  she  was  just  the  same,  Misses  Brown. 
And  when  she  went  away  in  the  packet  before  daylight 
by  herself — me  pretending  to  be  her  servant,  and  seeing 
her  safe  aboard — she  was  just  the  same.  Now,  are  you 
contented,  Mrs.  Brown?" 

"  No,  Rob,  Not  yet,"  answered  Mrs.  Brown,  deci- 
sively. 

"  Oh  here's  a  woman  for  you  !"  cried  the  unfortunate 
Rob,  in  an  outburst  of  feeble  lamentation  over  his  own 
helplessness. 

"  What  did  you  wish  to  know  next.  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

"What  became  of  Master?  Where  did  he  go?" 
She  inquired,  still  holding  him  tight,  and  looking  close 
into  his  face,  with  her  sharp  eyes. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know.  Misses  Brown,"  an- 
swered Rob.  "Upon  my  soul  I  don't  know  what  he  did, 
nor  where  he  went,  nor  anything  about  him.  I  only 
know  what  he  said  to  me  as  a  caution  to  hold  my  tongue, 
when  we  parted  ;  and  I  tell  you  this,  Mrs.  Brown,  as  a 
friend,  that  sooner  than  ever  repeat  a  word  of  what 
we're  saying  now,  you  had  better  take  and  shoot  your- 
self or  shut  yourself  up  in  this  house,  and  set  it  a-fire, 
for  there's  nothing  he  wouldn't  do,  to  be  revenged  upon 
you.  You  don't  know  him  half  as  well  as  I  do.  Misses 
Brown.  You're  never  safe  from  him,  I  tell  you." 
I  *'  Haven't  I  taken  an  oath,"  retorted  the  old  woman, 
"  and  won't  I  keep  it?  " 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  will.  Misses  Brown,"  re- 
turned Rob,  somewhat  doubtfully,  and  not  without  a 
latent  threatening  in  his  manner.  "  For  your  own  sake, 
quite  as  much  as  mine." 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  gave  her  this  friendly  caution, 
and  emphasised  it  with  a  nodding  of  his  head;  but  find- 
;  ing  it  uncomfortable  to  encounter  the  yellow  face  with 
\  its  grotesque  action,  and  the  ferret  eyes  with  their  keen 
old  wintry  gaze  so  close  to  his  own, he  looked  down  uneas- 
ily and  sat  shuffling  in  his  chair,  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
bring  himself  to  a  sullen  declaration  that  he  would  an- 
swer no  more  questions.    The  old  woman,  still  lioldiug 
him  as  before,  took  this  opportunity  of  raising  the  fore- 
finger of  her  right  hand,  in  the  air,  as  a  stealthy  signal  to 
the  concealed  observer  to  give  particular  attention  to 
1  what  was  about  to  follow. 


"  Rob,"  she  said,  in  her  most  coaxing  tone. 

"Good  gracious,  Misses  Brown,  what's  the  matter 
now  ?  "  returned  the  exasperated  Grinder. 

"  Rob  !  where  did  the  lady  and  Master  appoint  to 
meet  ?  " 

Rob  shuffled  more  and  more,  and  looked  up  and  looked 
down,  and  bit  his  thumb,  and  dried  it  on  his  waistcoat, 
and  finally  said,  eyeing  his  tormentor  askant,  "How 
should  /  know.  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

The  old  woman  held  up  her  finger  again,  as  before, 
and  replying,  "Come  lad!  It's  no  use  leading  me  to 
that,  and  there  leaving  me.  I  want  to  know  " — waited 
for  his  answer. 

Rob,  after  a  discomfited  pause,  suddenly  broke  out 
with,  "  How  can  I  pronounce  the  names  of  foreign  places, 
Mrs.  Brown  ?    What  an  unreasonable  woman  you  are  !  " 

"But  you  have  heard  it  said,  Robby,"  she  retorted, 
firmly,  "  and  you  know  what  it  sounded  like.    Come  1  " 

"  I  never  heard  it  said,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
Grinder. 

"  Then,"  retorted  the  old  woman  quickly,  "  you  have 
seen  it  written,  and  you  can  spell  it." 

Rob,  with  a  petulant  expression  between  laughing  and 
crying — for  he  was  penetrated  with  some  admiration  of 
Mrs.  Brown's  cunning,  even  through  this  persecution — 
after  some  reluctant  fumbling  in  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
produced  from  it  a  little  piece  of  chalk.  The  old 
woman's  eyes  sparkled  when  she  saw  it  between  his 
thumb  and  finger,  and  hastily  clearing  a  space  on  the 
deal  table,  that  he  might  write  the  word  there,  she  once 
more  made  her  signal  with  a  shaking  hand. 

"Now  I  tell  you  beforehand,  what  it  is.  Misses 
Brown,"  said  Rob,  "it's  no  use  asking  me  anything  else. 
I  won't  answer  anything  else  ;  I  can't.  How  long  it  was 
to  be  before  they  met,  or  whose  plan  it  was  that  they 
was  to  go  away  alone,  I  don't  know  no  more  than  you 
do.  I  don't  know  any  more  about  it.  If  I  was  to  tell 
you  how  I  found  out  this  word,  you'd  believe  that. 
Shall  I  tell  you,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Rob." 

"  Well  then  Misses  Brown,  The  way — now  you  won't 
ask  any  more,  you  know  ?  "  said  Rob,  turning  his  eyes, 
which  were  now  fast  getting  drowsy  and  stupid  upon 
her. 

"  Not  another  word,"  said  Mrs,  Brown, 

"Well  then,  the  way  was  this.  When  a  certain  per- 
son left  the  lady  with  me,  he  put  a  piece  of  paper  with  a 
direction  written  on  it  in  the  lady's  hand,  saying  it  was  in 
case  she  should  forget.  She  wasn't  afraid  of  forgetting, 
for  she  tore  it  up  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  and  when 
I  put  up  the  carriage  steps,  I  shook  out  one  of  the  pieces 
— she  sprinkled  the  rest  out  of  the  window,  I  suppose, 
for  there  was  none  there  afterwards,  though  I  looked  for 
'em.  There  was  only  one  word  on  it,  and  that  was  this, 
if  you  must  and  will  know.  But  remember  !  You're 
upon  your  oath.  Misses  Brown  ! " 

Mrs.  Brown  knew  that,  she  said.  Rob,  having  noth- 
ing more  to  say,  began  to  chalk,  slowly  and  laboriously, 
on  the  table." 

"  '  D,'  "  the  old  woman  read  aloud,  when  he  had 
formed  the  letter. 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  Brown?"  he  ex- 
claimed, covering  it  with  his  hand,  and  turning  im- 
patiently upon  her,  "  I  won't  have  it  read  out.  Be  quiet, 
will  you  ! " 

"Then  write  large,  Rob,"  she  returned,  repeating  her 
secret  signal  ;  "  for  my  eyes  are  not  good,  even  at 
print," 

Muttering  to  himself,  and  turning  to  his  work  with  an 
ill  will,  Rob  went  on  with  the  word.  As  he  bent  his  head 
down,  the  person  for  whose  information  he  so  uncon- 
sciously laboured,  moved  from  the  door  behind  him  to 
within  a  short  stride  of  his  shoulder,  and  looked  eagerly 
towards  the  creeping  track  of  his  hand  upon  the  table. 
At  the  same  time,  Alice,  from  her  opposite  chair,  watched 
it  narrowly  as  it  shaped  the  letters,  and  repeated  each 
one  on  her  lips  as  he  made  it,  without  articulating  it 
aloud.  At  the  end  of  every  letter  her  eyes  and  Mr,  Dom- 
bey's  met,  as  if  each  of  them  sought  to  be  confirmed  by 
the  other  ;  and  thus  they  both  spelt  D.  I.  J.  0.  N. 

"  There  !"  said  the  Grinder,  moistening  the  palm  of 
his  hand  hastily,  to  obliterate  the  word  ;  and  not  con- 


646 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


tent  with  smearing  it  out,  nibbing  and  planing  all  trace 
of  it  away  witli  his  coat-sleeve,  until  the  very  colour  of 
the  chalk  was  gone  from  the  table.  "  Now,  I  hope 
you're  contented,  Misses  Brown  I" 

The  old  woman,  in  token  of  her  being  so,  released  his 
arm  and  patted  his  back  ;  and  the  Grinder,  overcome 
with  mortification,  cross-examination,  and  liquor,  folded 
his  arms  on  the  table,  laid  his  head  upon  them,  and  fell 
asleep. 

Not  until  he  had  been  heavily  asleep  some  time,  and 
was  snoring  roundly,  did  the  old  woman  turn  towards  the 
door  where  Mr.  Dombey  stood  concealed,  and  beckoned 
him  to  come  through  the  room,  and  pass  out.  Even 
then,  she  hovered  over  Rob,  ready  to  blind  him  with 
her  hands,  or  strike  his  head  down,  if  he  should  raise  it 
while  t\\e  secret  step  was  crossing  to  the  door.  But 
though  her  glance  took  sharp  cognisance  of  the  sleeper, 
it  was  sharp  too  for  the  waking  man  ;  and  when  he 
touched  her  hand  with  his,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  caution, 
made  a  chinking,  golden  sound,  it  was  as  bright  and 
greedy  as  a  raven's. 

The  daughter's  dark  gaze  followed  him  to  the  door, 
and  noted  well  how  pale  he  was,  and  how  his  hurried 
tread  indicated  that  the  least  delay  was  an  insupportable 
restraint  upon  him,  and  how  he  was  burning  to  be  active 
and  away.  Ashe  closed  the  door  behind  him,  she  looked 
round  at  her  mother.  The  old  woman  trotted  to  her ; 
opened  her  hand  to  show  what  was  within  ;  and  tightly 
closing  it  again  in  her  jealousy  and  avarice,  whispered  : 

"  What  will  he  do.  Ally?" 

"  Mischief,"  said  the  daughter. 

"  Murder?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  He's  a  madman,  in  his  wounded  pride,  and  may  do 
that,  for  anything  we  can  say,  or  he  either." 

Her  glance  was  brighter  than  her  mother's,  and  the 
fire  that  shone  in  it  was  fiercer  ;  but  her  face  was  color- 
less, even  to  her  lips. 

They  said  no  more,  but  sat  apart  ;  the  mother  com- 
muning with  her  money;  the  daughter  with  her  thoughts; 
the  glance  of  each,  shining  in  the  gloom  of  the  feebly 
lighted  room.  Rob  slept  and  snored.  The  disregarded 
parrot  only  was  in  action.  It  twisted  and  pulled  at  the 
wires  of  its  cage,  with  its  crooked  beak,  and  crawled 
up  to  the  dome,  and  along  its  roof  like  a  fly,  and  down 
again  head  foremost,  and  shook,  and  bit,  and  rattled  at 
every  slender  bar,  as  if  it  knew  its  Master's  danger,  and 
was  w^ild  to  fonce  a  passage  out,  and  fly  away  to  warn 
him  of  it. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

More  Intelligence. 

Thetie  Avere  two  of  the  traitor's  own  blood — his  re- 
nounced brother  and  sister — on  whom  the  weight  of  his 
guilt  rested  almost  more  heavily,  at  this  time,  than  on 
the  man  whom  he  had  so  deeply  injured.  Prying  and  tor- 
menting as  the  world  was,  it  did  Mr.  Dombey  the  service 
of  nerving  him  to  pursuit  and  rev^enge.  It  roused  his  pas- 
sion, stung  his  pride,  twisted  the  one  idea  of  his  life  into 
a  new  shape,  and  made  some  gratification  of  his  wrath, 
the  object  into  which  his  whole  intellectual  existence 
resolved  itself.  All  the  stubbornness  and  implacability 
of  his  nature,  all  its  hard  impenetrable  quality,  all  its 
gloom  and  moroseness,  all  its  exaggerated  sense  of  per- 
sonal importance,  all  its  jealous  disposition  to  resent  the 
least  flaw  in  the  ample  recognition  of  his  importance,  by 
others,  set  this  way  like  many  streams  united  into  one, 
and  bore  liim  on  upon  their  tide.  The  most  impetuously 
passionate  and  violently  impulsive  of  mankind  would 
have  been  a  milder  enemy  to  encounter  than  the  sullen 
Mr,  Dombey  wrought  to  this.  A  wild  beast  would  have 
been  easier  turned  or  soothed  than  the  grave  gentleman 
without  a  wrinkle  in  his  starched  cravat. 

But  the  very  intensity  of  his  ])urpose  became  almost  a 
substitute  for  action  in  it.  While  ho  was  yet  uninformed 
of  the  traitor's  retreat,  it  served  to  divert  liis  mind  from 
his  own  calamity,  and  to  entertain  it  with  another  pros- 
pect. The  broth(;r  and  sister  of  his  false  favourite  had 
no  such  relief  ;  everything  in  their  history,  jjast  and 
present,  gave  his  delinquency  a  more  afflicting  meaning 
to  them. 


The  sister  may  have  sometimes  sadly  thought  that  if  i 
she  had  remained  with  him,  the  companion  and  friend 
she  had  been  once,  he  might  have  escaped  the  crime  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  If  she  ever  thought  so,  it  was  still 
without  regret  for  what  she  had  done,  without  the  least 
doubt  of  her  duty,  without  any  pricing  or  enhancing  of 
her  self-devotion.  But  when  this  possibility  presented  it- 
self to  the  erring  and  repentant  brother,  as  it  sometimes 
did,  it  smote  upon  his  heart  with  such  a  keen,  reproach- 
ful touch  as  he  could  hardly  bear.  No  idea  of  retort 
upon  his  cruel  brother  came  into  his  mind.  New  accusa- 
tion of  himself,  fresh  inward  lamenting  over  his  own  un- 
worthiness,  and  the  ruin  in  which  it  was  at  once  his  con- 
solation and  his  self-reproach  he  did  not  stand  alone,  were 
the  sole  kind  of  reflections  to  which  the  discovery  gave 
rise  in  him. 

It  was  on  the  very  same  day  whose  evening  set  upon 
the  last  chapter,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey 's  world  was 
busiest  with  the  elopement  of  his  wife,  that  the  window 
of  the  room  in  which  the  brother  and  sister  sat  at  their 
early  breakfast,  was  darkened  by  the  unexpected  shadow 
of  a  man  coming  to  the  little  porch  :  which  man  was 
Perch  the  messenger. 

"I've  stepped  over  from  Balls  Pond  at  a  early  hour," 
said  Mr.  Perch,  confidentially  looking  in  at  the  room 
door,  and  stopping  on  themat  to  wipe  his  f-hces  all  round, 
which  had  no  mud  upon  them,  "  ae-reeable  to  my  in- 
structions last  night.  They  was,  to  be  sure  and  bring  a 
note  to  you,  Mr.  Carker,  Ijefore  you  went  cut  in  the 
morning.  I  should  have  been  here  a  good  hour  and  a  half 
ago,"  said  Mr.Perch,  meekly,  "but  for  the  state  of  health 
of  Mrs.  P. ,  who  I  thought  I  should  have  lost  in  the  night, 
I  do  assure  you,  five  distinct  times." 

"  Is  your  wife  ill  ?"  asked  Harriet. 

"Why  you  see,"  said  Mr.Perch,  first  turning  round  to 
shut  the  door  carefully,  "  she  takes  what  has  happened 
in  our  House  so  much  to  heart,  miss.  Her  nerves  is  so 
very  delicate  you  see,  and  soon  unstrung.  Not  but  what 
the  strongest  nerves  had  good  need  to  be  thook,  I'm 
sure.    You  feel  it  very  much  yourself,  no  doubts." 

Harriet  repressed  a  sigh,  and  glanced  at  her  brother.  '• 

"  I'm  sure  I  feel  it  myself,  in  my  humble  way,"  Mr.  ' 
Perch  went  on  to  say,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  "  in  a 
manner  I  couldn't  have  believed  if  I  hadn't  been  called  I 
upon  to  undergo.    It  has  almost  the  effect  of  drink  upon 
me.    I  literally  feels  every  morning  as  if  I  had  been 
taking  more  than  was  good  for  me  over-night." 

Mr.  Perch's  appearance  corroborated  this  recital  of  his  I 
symptoms.  There  was  an  air  of  feverish  lassitude  about  i 
it,  that  seemed  referable  to  drams  ;  and  which  in  fact,  \ 
might  no  doubt  have  been  traced  to  those  numerous  dis-  ' 
coveries  of  himself  in  the  bars  of  public-houses,  being  | 
treated  and  questioned,  which  he  was  in  the  daily  habit  j 
of  making, 

"  Therefore  I  can  judge,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  shaking  his 
head  again,  and  speaking  in  a  silvery  murmur,  "  of  the 
feelings  of  such  as  is  at  all  peculiarly  sitiwated  in  this 
most  painful  rewelation." 

Here  Mr.  Perch  waited  to  be  confided  in  ;  and  receiving 
no  confidence,  coughed  behind  his  hand.  This  leading 
to  nothing,  he  coughed  behind  his  hat ;  and  that  leading 
to  nothing,  he  put  his  hat  on  the  ground  and  sought  in 
his  breast  pocket  for  the  letter. 

"If  I  rightly  recollect,  there  was  no  answer,"  said 
Mr.  Perch,  with  an  afjable  smile  ;  "  but  perhaps  you'll 
be  so  good  as  cast  your  eye  over  it,  sir." 

John  Carker  broke  the  seal,  which  was  Mr.  Dombey's, 
and  possessing  himself  of  the  contents,  which  were  very 
brief,  replied,  "  No.    No  answer  is  expected." 

"Then  I  shall  wish  you  good  morning,  miss,"  said 
Perch,  taking  a  step  toward  the  door,  "  and  hoping,  I'm 
sure,  that  you'll  not  permit  yourself  to  be  more  reduced 
in  mind  than  you  can  help,  by  the  late  painful  rewela- 
tion. The  Papers,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  taking  two  steps 
back  again,  and  comprehensively  addressing  both  the 
brother  and  sister  in  a  whisper  of  increased  mystery,  "is 
more  eager  for  news  of  it  than  you'd  suppose  possible. 
One  of  the  Sunday  ones,  in  a  blue  cloak  and  a  white  hat, 
that  had  previously  offered  for  to  bribe  me — need  I  say 
with  what  success? — was  dodging  about  our  court  last 
night  as  late  as  twenty  minutes  after  eight  o'clock.  I 
see  him  myself,  with  his  eye  at  the  counting-house  key- 


DO  MEET  AND  80  K 


647 


hole,  which  being  patent  is  impervious.  Another  one," 
said  Mr.  Perch,  "with  niilintary  frogs,  is  in  the  parlour 
of  the  King's  Arms  all  the  blessed  day.  I  ha[)pene(l, 
last  week,  to  let  a  little  obserwation  fall  there,  and  next 
morning,  which  was  Sunday,  I  see  it  worked  up  in  print, 
in  a  most  surprising  manner." 

Mr.  Perch  resorted  to  his  breast  pocket,  as  if  to  pro- 
duce the  i^aragraph,  bat  receiving  no  encouragement, 
pulled  out  his  beaver  gloves,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  took 
his  leave  ;  and  before  it  was  high  noon,  Mr.  Perch  had 
related  to  several  select  audiences  at  the  King's  Arms 
and  elsewhere,  how  Miss  Carker,  bursting  into  tears, 
had  caught  him  by  both  hands,  and  said,  "  Oli !  dear  dear 
Perch,  the  sight  of  y(m  is  all  the  comfort  I  have  left  ! " 
and  how  Mr.  John  Carker  had  said,  in  an  awful  voice, 
"  Perch,  I  disown  him.  Never  let  me  hear  him  men- 
tioned as  a  brother  more  !  " 

"  Dear  John,"  said  Harriet,  when  they  were  left  alone, 
and  had  remained  silent  for  some  few  moments.  "  There 
are  bad  tidings  in  that  letter." 

"  Yes.  But  nothing  unexpected,"  he  replied.  "  I  saw 
the  writer  vesterday." 

"The  writer?" 

"  Mr.  Dombsy.  He  passed  twice  through  the  counting- 
house  w^hile  I  was  there.  I  had  been  able  to  avoid  him 
before,  but  of  course  could  not  hope  to  do  that  long.  I 
know  how  natural  it  was  that  he  should  regard  my 
presence  as  something  offensive  ;  I  felt  it  must  be  so, 
myself." 

"  He  did  not  say  so  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he  said  nothing  :  but  I  saw  that  his  glance 
rested  on  me  for  a  moment,  and  I  was  prepared  for  what 
would  happen — for  what  luts  happened,  I  am  dis- 
missed ! " 

She  looked  as  little  shocked  and  as  hopeful  as  she 
could,  but  it  was  distressing  news,  for  many  rea- 
sons. 

"  '  I  need  not  tell  you,'"  said  John  Carker,  reading  the 
letter,  "  *  why  your  name  would  henceforth  have  an  un- 
natural sound,  in  how^ever  remote  a  connexion  with 
mine,  or  why  the  daily  sight  of  any  one  who  bears  it, 
would  be  unendurable  to  me.  I  have  to  notify  the  ces- 
sation of  all  engagements  between  us,  from  this  date, 
and  to  request  that  no  renewal  of  any  communication 
with  me,  or  my  establishment,  be  ever  attempted  by  you. 
— Enclosed  is  an  equivalent  in  money  to  a  generously 
long  notice,  and  this  is  my  discharge.'  Heaven  knows, 
Harriet,  it  is  a  lenient  and  considerate  one,  when  we  re- 
member all  !  " 

"  If  it  be  lenient  and  considerate  to  punish  you  at  all, 
John  for  the  misdeed  of  another,"  she  replied  gently, 
"  yes." 

"  We  have  been  an  ill-omened  race  to  him,"  said  John 
Carker.  "  He  has  reason  to  shrink  from  the  sound  of  our 
name,  and  to  think  that  there  is  something  cursed  and 
wicked  in  our  blood.  I  should  almost  think  it  too, 
Harriet,  but  for  you." 

"Brother,  don't  speak  like  this.  If  you  have  any 
special  reason,  as  you  say  you  have,  and  think  you  have 
— though  I  say.  No  ! — to  love  me,  spare  me  the  hearing 
of  such  wild  mad  words  !  " 

He  covered  his  face  with  both  his  hands  ;  but  soon 
permitted  her,  cominsf  near  him,  to  take  one  in  her  own. 

"  After  .so  many  years,  this  parting  is  a  melancholy 
thing,  I  know,"  said  his  sister,  "  and  the  cause  of  it  is 
dreadful  to  us  both.  We  have  to  live  too,  and  must 
look  about  us  for  the  means.  Well,  well  !  We  can  do 
so,  undismayed.  It  is  our  pride,  not  our  trouble,  to 
strive,  John,  and  to  strive  together." 

A  smile  played  on  her  lips,  as  she  kissed  his  cheek, 
and  entreated  him  to  be  of  good  cheer. 

"  Oh,  dearept  sister  !  Tied,  of  your  own  noble  will,  to 
a  ruined  man  !  whose  reputation  is  blighted  ;  who  has 
no  friend  himself ,  and  has  driven  every  friend  of  yours 
away  ! " 

"  John  ! "  she  laid  her  hand  hastily  upon  his  lips, 
"for  my  sake  !  In  remembrance  of  our  long  companion- 
ship!" He  was  silent.  "  Now  let  me  tell  you,  dear," 
quietly  sitting  by  his  side,  "  I  have,  as  you  have,  expected 
this  ;  and  when  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  and  fearing 
that  it  would  happen,  and  preparing  myself  for  it,  as 
well  as  I  could,  I  have  resolved  to  tell  you,  if  it  should 


be  so,  that  I  have  kept  a  secret  from  you,  and  that  we 
have  a  friend." 

"What's  our  friend's  name,  Harriet?"  he  answered 
with  a  sorrowful  smile. 

"  Indeed  I  don't  know,  but  he  once  made  a  very  earn- 
est protestation  to  me  of  his  friendship  and  his  wish  to 
serve  us  ;  and  to  this  day  I  believe  him." 

"Harriet!"  exclaimed  her  wondering  brother, 
"  where  does  this  friend  live?  " 

"  Neither  do  I  know  that,"  she  returned.  "But  he 
knows  us  both,  and  our  history — all  our  little  history, 
John.  That  is  the  rea'^on  why,  at  his  own  suggestion, 
I  have  kept  the  secret  of  his  coming  here,  from  you,  lest 
his  acquaintance  with  it  should  distress  you." 

"  Here  I   Has  he  been  here,  Harriet?" 

"Here,  in  this  room.  Once." 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  ?  " 

"Not  young.  ' Gray-headed,' as  he  said,  'and  fast 
growing  grayer.'  But  generous,  and  frank,  and  good,  I 
am  sure," 

"  And  only  seen  once,  Harriet  ?" 

"  In  this  room  only  once,"  said  his  sister,  with  the 
slightest  and  most  transient  glow  upon  her  cheek  ;  "  but 
when  here,  he  entreated  me  to  suffer  him  to  see  me  once 
a  week  as  he  passed  by  in  token  of  our  being  well,  and 
continuing  to  need  nothing  at  his  hands.  For  I  told  him, 
when  he  proffered  us  any  service  he  could  render — which 
was  the  object  of  his  visit — that  we  needed  nothing." 

"  And  once  a  week — " 

"Once  every  week  since  then,  and  always  on  the  same 
day,  and  at  the  same  hour,  he  has  gone  past ;  always  on 
foot ;  always  going  in  the  same  direction — towards  Lon- 
don ;  and  never  pausing  longer  than  to  bow  to  me,  and 
wave  his  hand  cheerfully,  as  a  kind  guardian  might. 
He  made  that  promise  when  he  proposed  these  curious 
interviews,  and  has  kept  it  so  faithfully  and  pleasantly, 
that  if  I  ever  felt  any  trifling  uneasiness  about  them  in 
the  beginning  (which  I  don't  think  I  did,  John  ;  his 
manner  was  so  plain  and  true)  it  very  soon  vanished,  and 
left  me  quite  glad  when  the  day  was  coming.  Last 
Monday — the  fir.st  since  this  terrible  event— he  did  not 
go  by  ;  and  I  have  wondered  M'hether  his  absence  can 
have  been  in  any  way  connected  with  what  has  hap- 
pened." 

"  How  ?"  inquired  her  brother. 

"I  don't  know  how.  I  have  only  speculated  on  the 
coincidence  ;  I  have  not  tried  to  account  for  it,  I  feel 
sure  he  will  return.  When  he  does,  dear  John,  let  me 
tell  him  that  I  have  at  last  spoken  to  you,  and  let  me 
bring  you  together.  He  will  certainly  help  us  to  a  new 
livelihood.  His  entreaty  w^as  that  he  might  do  something 
to  smooth  my  life  and  yours  ;  and  I  gave  him  my  promise 
that  if  we  ever  wanted  a  friend,  I  would  remember  him. 
Then,  his  name  was  to  be  no  secret." 

"  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  who  had  listened  with 
close  attention,  "  describe  this  gentleman  to  me.  I  sure- 
ly ought  to  know  one  who  knows  me  so  well." 

His  sister  painted,  as  vividly  as  she  could,  the  features, 
stature,  and  dress  of  her  visitor  ;  but  John  Carker,  either 
from  having  no  knowledge  of  the  original,  or  from  some 
fault  in  her  description,  or  from  some  abstraction  of  his 
thoughts  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  pondering,  could  not 
recognise  the  portrait  she  presented  to  him. 

However,  it  was  agreed  between  them  that  he  should 
see  the  original  when  he  next  appeared.  This  conclud- 
,  ed,  the  sister  applied  herself,  wdtli  a  less  anxious  breast, 
;  to  her  domestic  occupations  ;  and  the  gray -haired  man, 
j  late  Junior  of  Dombey's,  devoted  the  first  day  of  his  un- 
wonted liberty  to  working  in  the  garden, 
j  It  was  quite  late  at  night,  and  the  brother  was  reading 
!  aloud  while  the  sister  plied  her  needle,  when  they  were 
'  interrupted  by  a  knocking  at  the  door.  In  the  atmos- 
phere of  vague  anxiety  and  dread  that  lowered  about 
i  them  in  connexion  with  their  fugitive  brother,  this  sound, 
i  unusual  there,  became  almost" alarming.  The  brother 
I  going  to  the  door,  the  sister  sat  and  listened  timidly. 
Some  one  spoke  to  him,  and  he  replied,  and  seemed  sur- 
prised ;  and  after  a  few  words,  the  two  approached  to- 
1  getlier. 

i  "  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  lighting  in  their  late  vis- 
I  iter,  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  "  Mr,  Morfin — the  gen- 
i  tleman  so  long  in  Dombey's  house  with  James." 


648 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


His  sister  started  back,  as  if  a  ghost  had  entered.  In 
the  doorway  stood  the  unknown  friend,  with  the  dark 
hair  sprinkled  with  gray,  the  ruddy  face,  the  broad  clear 
brow,  and  hazel  eyes  whose  secret  *she  had  kept  so  long  ! 

"  John  ! "  she  said,  half  breathless.  "  It  is  the  gentle- 
man 1  told  you  of,  to-day  ! " 

"  The  gentleman.  Miss  Harriet,"  said  the  visitor,  com- 
ing in— for  he  had  stopped  a  moment  in  the  doorway, 
"is  greatly  relieved  to  hear  you  say  that :  he  has  been 
devising  vvays  and  means,  all  the  way  here,  of  explaining 
himself  and  has  been  satisfied  with  none.  Mr.  John,  I 
am  not  quite  a  stranger  here.  You  were  stricken  with 
astonishment  when  you  saw  me  at  your  door  just  now. 
1  observe  you  are  more  astonished  at  present.  Well  ! 
That's  reasonable  enough  under  existing  circumstances. 
If  we  were  not  such  creatures  of  habit  as  we  are,  we 
shouldn't  have  reason  to  be  astonished  half  so  often." 

By  this  time,  he  had  greeted  Harriet  with  that  agree- 
able mingling  of  cordiality  and  respect  which  she  recol- 
lectedeso  well,  and  had  sat  dov^^n  near  her,  pulled  off 
his  gloves,  and  thrown  them  into  his  hat  upon  the 
table. 

' '  There's  nothing  astonishing,"  he  said,  "  in  my  having 
conceived  a  desire  to  see  your  sister,  Mr.  John,  or  in  my 
having  gratified  it  in  my  own  way.  As  to  the  regularity 
of  my  visits  since  (which  she  may  have  mentioned  to  you), 
there  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  that.  They  soon  grew 
into  a  habit ;  and  we  are  creatures  of  habit — creatures  of 
habit  ! " 

Putting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  he  looked  at  the  brother  and  sister  as  if  it  were 
interesting  co  him  to  see  them  together  ;  and  went  on  to 
say,  with  a  kind  of  irritable  thoughtful ness  :  "It's  this 
same  habit  that  confirms  some  of  us,  who  are  capable  of 
better  things,  in  Lucifer's  own  pride  and  stubbornness — 
that  confirms  and  deepens  others  of  us  in  villainy — more 
of  us  in  indifference — that  hardens  us  from  day  to  day, 
according  to  the  temper  of  our  clay,  like  images,  and  leaves 
us  as  susceptible  as  images  to  new  impressions  and  con- 
victions. You  shall  judge  of  its  influence  on  me,  John. 
For  more  years  than  I  need  name,  I  had  my  small,  an  ex- 
actly defined  share,  in  the  management  of  Dombey's 
house,  and  saw  your  brother  (who  has  proved  himself  a 
scoundrel !  Your  sister  will  forgive  my  being  obliged  to 
mention  it)  extending  and  extending  his  influence,  until 
the  business  and  its  owner  were  his  football  ;  and  saw 
you  toiling  at  your  obscure  desk  every  day  ;  and  was 
quite  content  to  be  as  little  troubled  as  I  might  be,  out 
of  my  own  strip  of  duty,  and  to  let  everything  about  me 
goon,  day  by  day,  unquestioned,  like  a  great  machine — 
that  was  its  habit  and  mine— and  to  take  it  all  for  granted, 
and  consider  it  all  right.  My  Wednesday  nights  came 
regularly  round,  our  quartette  parties  came  regularly  off, 
my  violoncello  was  in  good  tune,  and  there  was  nothing 
wrong  in  my  world — or,  if  anything,  not  much — or  little 
or  much,  it  was  no  affair  of  mine," 

"  I  can  answer  for  your  being  more  respected  and  be- 
loved during  all  that  time  than  anybody  in  the  house, 
sir,"  said  John  Carker. 

"Pooh  !  Good-natured  and  easy  enough,  I  dare  say," 
returned  the  other,  "  a  habit  I  had.  It  suited  the  man- 
ager :  it  suited  the  man  he  managed  :  it  suited  me  best 
of  all.  I  did  what  was  allotted  tome  to  do,  made  no 
court  to  either  of  them,  and  was  glad  to  occupy  a  station 
in  which  none  was  required.  So  I  should  have  gone  on 
till  now,  but  that  my  room  had  a  thin  wall.  You  can  tell 
your  sister  that  it  was  divided  from  the  manager's  room 
by  a  wainscot  partition." 

"  They  were  adjoining  rooms  ;  had  been  one,  perhaps, 
originally  ;  and  were  separated,  as  Mr.  Morfin  says,"  said 
her  brother,  looking  back  to  him  for  the  resumption  of 
his  explanation. 

"  I  have  whistled,  hummed  tunes,  gone  accurately 
through  the  whole  of  Beethoven's  Sonata  in  B,  to  let  him 
know  that  I  was  within  hearing,"  said  Mr.  Morfin,  "  but 
he  never  heeded  me.  It  happened  seldom  enough  that  I 
was  within  hearing  of  anything  of  a  private  nature,  cer- 
tainly. But  when  I  was,  and  couldn't  otherwise  avoid 
knowing  something  of  it,  I  walked  out.  I  walked  out 
once,  John,  during  a  conversation  between  two  brothers, 
to  which,  in  the  beginning,  young  Walter  Gay  was  a 
party.    But  I  overheard  some  of  it  before  I  left  the  room. 


You  remember  it  sufficiently,  perhaps,  to  tell  your  sister 
what  its  nature  was  ?" 

*'  It  referred,  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  to  the  past,  and  to  our  relative  positions  in  the 
house." 

"  Its  matter  was  not  new  to  me,  but  was  presented  in  a 
new  aspect.  It  shook  me  in  ray  habit— the  habit  of  nine- 
tenths  of  the  world— of  believing  that  all  was  right 
about  me,  because  I  was  used  to  it,"  said  their  visitor ; 
"and  induced  me  to  recall  the  history  of  the  two  brothers, 
and  to  ponder  on  it.  I  think  it  was  almost  the  first  time 
in  my  life  when  I  fell  into  this  train  of  reflection — how 
will  many  things  that  are  familiar,  and  quite  matters  of 
course  to  us  now,  look,  when  we  come  to  see  them  from 
that  new  and  distant  point  of  view  which  we  must  all 
take  up,  one  day  or  other?  I  was  something  less  good- 
natured,  as  the  phrase  goes,  after  that  morning,  less 
easy  and  complacent  altogether." 

He  sat  for  a  minute  or  so,  drumming  with  one  hand 
on  the  table  ;  and  resumed  in  a  hurry,  as  if  he  were  anx- 
ious to  get  rid  of  his  confession. 

"Before  I  knew  what  to  do,  or  whether  I  could  do 
anything,  there  was  a  second  conversation  between  the 
same  two  brothers,  in  which  their  sister  was  mentioned. 
I  had  no  scruples  of  conscience  in  suffering  all  the  waifs 
and  strays  of  that  conversation  to  float  to  me  as  freely 
as  they  would.  I  considered  them  mine  by  right.  After 
that  I  came  here  to  see  the  sister  for  myself.  The  first 
time  I  stopped  at  the  garden  gate,  I  made  a  pretext  of  in- 
quiring into  the  character  of  a  poor  neighbour  ;  but  I 
wandered  out  of  that  tract,  and  I  think  Miss  Harriet  mis- 
trusted me.  The  second  time  I  asked  leave  to  come  in  : 
came  in  ;  and  said  what  I  wished  to  say.  Your  sister 
showed  me  reasons  which  I  dared  not  dispute,  for  re- 
ceiving no  assistance  from  me  then  ;  but  I  established  a 
means  of  communication  between  us,  which  remained 
unbroken  until  within  these  few  days,  when  I  was  pre- 
vented, by  important  matters  that  have  lately  devolved 
upon  me,  from  maintaining  them." 

"How  little  I  have  suspected  this,"  said  John  Carker, 
"when  I  have  seen  you  every  day,  sir  !  If  Harriet 
could  have  guessed  your  name — " 

"Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  John,"  interposed  the 
visitor,  "I  kept  it  to  myself  for  two  reasons.  I  don't 
know  that  the  first  might  have  been  binding  alone  ;  but 
one  has  no  business  to  take  credit  for  good  intentions, 
and  I  made  up  my  mind,  at  all  events,  not  to  disclose 
myself  until  I  should  be  able  to  do  you  some  real  service 
or  other.  My  second  reason  was,  that  I  always  hoped 
there  might  be  some  lingering  possibility  of  your 
brother's  relenting  tow  ards  you  both  ;  and  in  that  case 
I  felt  that  there  was  the  chance  of  a  man  of  his  suspi- 
cious, watchful  character  discovering  that  you  had  been 
secretly  befriended  by  me,  there  was  the  chance  of  a 
new  and  fatal  cause  of  division.  I  resolved,  to  be  sure, 
at  the  risk  of  turning  his  displeasure  against  myself — 
which  would  have  been  no  matter — to  watch  my  oppor- 
tunity of  serving  you  with  the  head  of  the  house  ;  but 
the  distractions  of  death,  courtship,  marriage,  and  do- 
mestic unhappiness,  have  left  us  no  head  but  your 
brother,  for  this  long,  long  time.  And  it  would  have 
been  better  for  us,"  said  the  visitor,  droppiog  his  voice, 
"  to  have  been  a  lifeless  trunk." 

He  seemed  conscious  that  these  latter  words  had  es- 
caped him  against  his  will,  and  stretching  out  a  hand  to 
the  brother  and  a  hand  to  the  sister,  continued  : 

"  All  I  could  desire  to  say,  and  more,  I  have  now  said. 
All  I  mean  goes  beyond  words,  as  I  hope  you  understand 
and  believe.  The  time  has  come,  John — though  most 
unfortunately  and  unhappily  C(mie — when  I  may  help 
you  without  interfering  with  that  redeeming  struggle, 
which  has  lasted  through  so  many  years  ;  since  you  were 
discharged  from  it  to-day  by  no  act  of  your  own.  It  is 
late  ;  I  need  say  no  more  to-night.  You  will  guard  the 
treasure  you  have  here,  without  advice  or  reminder 
from  me." 

With  these  words  he  rose  to  go. 

"  But  go  you  first,  John,"  he  said  good-humouredly, 
"  with  a  light,  without  saying  what  you  want  to  say, 
whatever  that  may  be  ; "  John  Carker's  heart  was  full, 
and  he  would  have  relieved  it  in  speech,  if  he  could  ; 
"  and  let  me  have  a  word  with  your  sister.    We  have 


DOMBEY 

talked  alone  before,  and  in  this  room  too  ;  though  it 
looks  more  natural  with  you  here." 

Following  him  out  with  his  eyes,  he  turned  kindjy  to 
Harriet,  and  said  in  a  lower  voice,  and  with  an  altered 
and  graver  manner  : 

"  You  wish  to  ask  me  something  of  the  man  whose 
sister  it  is  your  misfortune  to  be." 

"I  dread  to  ask,"  said  Harriet. 

"  You  have  looked  so  earnestly  at  me  more  than  once," 
rejoined  the  visitor,  "that  I  think  I  can  divine  your 
question.    Has  he  taken  money  ?    Is  it  that?" 

"Yes." 

'*  He  has  not." 

"  I  thank  Heaven  !  "  said  Harriet.  "  For  the  sake  of 
John." 

"  That  he  has  abused  his  trust  in  many  ways,"  said 
Mr.  Morfin  ;  "that  he  has  oftener  dealt  and  speculated 
to  advantage  for  himself  than  for  the  house  he  repre- 
sented ;  that  he  has  led  the  house  on,  to  prodigious  ven- 
tures, often  resulting  in  enormous  losses  ;  that  he  has 
always  pampered  the  vanity  and  ambition  of  his  em- 
ployer, when  it  was  his  duty  to  have  held  them  in  check, 
and  shown,  as  it  was  in  his  power  to  do,  to  what  they 
tended  here  or  there  ;  will  not,  perhaps,  surprise  you 
now.  Undertakings  have  been  entered  on,  to  swell  the 
reputation  of  the  house  for  vast  resources,  and  to  ex- 
hibit it  in  magnificent  contrast  to  other  merchants'  houses, 
of  which  it  requires  a  steady  head  to  contemplate  the 
possibly — a  few  disastrous  changes  of  affairs  might  ren- 
der them  the  probably — ruinous  consequences.  In  the 
midst  of  the  many  transactions  of  the  house,  in  most 
parts  of  the  w^orld  :  a  great  labyrinth  of  which  only  he 
has  held  the  clue  :  he  has  had  the  opportunity,  and  he 
seems  to  have  used  it,  of  keeping  the  various  results 
afloat,  when  ascertained,  and  substituting  estimates  and 
generalities  for  facts.  But  latterly — you  follovv  me.  Miss 
Harriet?" 

"  Perfectly,  perfectly,"  she  answered,  with  her  fright- 
ened face  fixed  on  his.  "  Pray  tell  me  all  the  worst  at 
once." 

"  Latterly,  he  appears  to  have  devoted  the  greatest 
pains  to  making  these  results  so  plain  and  clear,  that 
reference  to  the  private  books  enables  one  to  grasp 
them,  numerous  and  varying  as  they  are,  with  extraor- 
dinary ease.  As  if  he  had  resolved  to  show  his  employer 
at  one  broad  view  what  has  been  brought  upon  him  by 
ministration  to  his  ruling  passion  !  that  it  has  been  his 
constant  practice  to  minister  to  that  passion  basely,  and 
to  flatter  it  corruptly,  is  indubitable.  In  that,  his  crim- 
inality, as  it  is  connected  with  the  affairs  of  the  house, 
chiefly  consists." 

"  One  other  word  before  you  leave  me,  dear  sir,"  said 
Harriet.    "  There  is  no  danger  in  all  this  ?  " 

"  How  danger?"  he  returned,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"  To  the  credit  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  help  answering  you  plainly,  and  trusting 
you  completely,"  said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a*  moment's  sur- 
vey of  her  face. 

' '  You  may.    Indeed  you  may  ! " 

"I  am  sure  I  may.  Danger  to  the  house's  credit? 
No  ;  none.  There  may  be  difficulty,  greater  or  less  diffi- 
culty, but  no  danger,  unless — unless,  indeed — the  head 
of  the  house,  unable  to  bring  his  mind  to  the  reduction 
of  its  enterprises,  and  positively  refusing  to  believe  that 
it  is,  or  can  be,  in  any  position  but  the  position  in  which 
he  has  always  represented  it  to  himself,  should  urge  it 
beyond  its  strength.    Then  it  would  totter." 

"  But  there  is  no  apprehension  of  that  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"  There  shall  be  no  half-confidence,"  he  replied,  shak- 
ing her  hand,  "  between  us.  Mr.  Dombey  is  unap- 
proachable by  any  one,  and  his  state  of  mind  is  haughty, 
rash,  unreasonable,  and  ungovernable,  now.  Buc  he  is 
disturbed  and  agitated  now  beyond  all  common  bounds, 
and  it  may  pass.  You  now  know  all,  both  worst  and 
best.    No  more  to-night,  and  good  night !  " 

With  that  he  kissed  her  hand,  and,  passing  out  to  the 
door  where  her  brother  stood  awaiting  his  coming,  put 
him  cheerfully  aside  when  he  essayed  to  speak  ;  told 
him  that,  as  they  would  see  each  other  soon  and  often, 
he  might  speak  at  another  time,  if  he  would,  but  there 
was  no  leisure  for  it  then  ;  and  went  away  at  a  round 
pace,in  order  that  no  word  of  gratitude  might  follow  him. 


AND  SOK  649 

The  brother  and  sister  sat  conversing  by  the  fireside, 
until  it  was  almost  day  ;  made  sleepless  by  this  glimpse 
of  the  new  world  that  opened  before  them,  and  feeling 
like  two  people  shipwrecked  long  ago,  upon  a  solitary 
coast,  to  whom  a  ship  had  come  at  last,  when  they  were 
old  in  resignation,  and  had  lost  all  thought  of  any  other 
home.  But  another  and  different  kind  of  disquietude 
kept  them  waking  too.  The  darkness  out  of  which  this 
light  had  broken  on  them  gathered  aiound  ;  and  the 
shadow  of  their  guilty  brother  was  in  the  house  where 
his  foot  had  never  trod. 

Nor  was  it  to  be  driven  out,  nor  did  it  fade  before  the 
sun.  Next  morning  it  was  there  ;  at  noon  ;  at  night. 
Darkest  and  most  distinct  at  night,  as  is  now  to  be  told. 

John  Carker  had  gone  out,  in  pursuance  of  a  letter  of 
appointment  from  their  friend,  and  Harriet  was  left  in 
the  house  alone.  She  had  been  alone  s(  me  hours.  A 
dull,  grave  evening,  and  a  deepening  twilight,  were  not 
favourable  to  the  removal  of  the  oppression  on  her  spir- 
its. The  idea  of  this  brother,  long  unseen  and  unknown, 
flitted  about  her  in  frightful  shapes.  He  was  dead,  dy- 
ing, calling  to  her,  staring  at  her,  frowning  on  her.  The 
pictures  in  her  mind  were  so  obtrusive  and  exact  that, 
as  the  twilight  deepened,  she  dreaded  to  raise  her  head 
and  look  at  the  dark  corners  of  the  room,  lest  his  wraith, 
the  offspring  of  her  excited  imagination,  should  be  wait- 
ing there,  to  startle  her.  Once  she  had  such  a  fancy  of 
his  being  in  the  next  room,  hiding — though  she  knew 
quite  well  what  a  distempered  fancy  it  was,  and  had  no 
belief  in  it — that  she  forced  herself  to  go  there,  for  her 
own  conviction.  But  in  vain.  The  room  resumed  its 
shadowy  terrors  the  moment  she  left  it  ;  and  she  had  no 
more  power  to  divest  herself  of  these  vague  impressions 
of  dread,  than  if  they  had  been  stone  giants,  rooted  in 
the  solid  earth. 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  she  was  sitting  near  the  win- 
dow, with  her  head  upon  her  hand,  looking  down,  when, 
sensible  of  a  sudden  increase  in  the  gloom  of  the  apart- 
ment, she  raised  her  eyes  and  uttered  an  involuntary 
cry.  Close  to  the  glass,  a  pale  scared  face  gazed  in  ;  va- 
cantly, for  an  instant,  as  searching  for  an  object  ;  then  the 
eyes  rested  on  herself,  and  lighted  up. 

"  Let  me  in  I  Let  me  in  !  I  want  to  speak  to  you  !  " 
and  the  hand  rattled  on  the  glass. 

She  recognized  immediately  the  woman  with  the  long 
dark  hair,  to  whom  she  had  given  warmth,  food,  and 
shelter,  one  wet  night.  Naturally  afraid  of  her,  remem- 
bering her  violent  behaviour,  Harriet,  retreating  a  little 
from  the  window,  stood  undecided  and  alarmed. 

"  Let  me  in  !  Let  me  speak  to  you  !  I  am  thankful- 
— quiet — humble — anything  you  like.  But  let  me  speak 
to  you." 

The  vehement  manner  of  the  entreaty,  the  earnest  ex- 
pression of  the  face,  the  trembling  of  the  two  hands  that 
were  raised  imploringly,  a  certain  dread  and  terror  in 
the  voice  akin  to  her  own  condition  at  the  moment,  pre- 
vailed with  Harriet.  She  hastened  to  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

"  May  I  come  in  or  shall  I  speak  here  ?  "  said  the  wo- 
man, catching  at  her  hand. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want?  What  is  it  that  you 
have  to  say  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  but  let  me  say  it  out,  or  I  shall neversay 
it.  I  am  tempted  now  to  go  away.  There  seem  to  be 
hands  dragging  roe  from  the  door.  Let  me  come  in,  if 
you  can  trust  me  for  this  once  ! " 

Her  energy  again  prevailed,  and  they  passed  into  the 
firelight  of  the  little  kitchen,  Avhere  she  had  before  sat, 
and  ate,  and  dried  her  clothes, 

"Sit  there,"  said  Alice,  kneeling  down  beside  her, 
"and  look  at  me.    You  remember  me  ?" 

"I  do." 

"You  remember  what  I  told  you  I  had  been,  and 
where  I  came  from,  ragged  and  lame,  with  the  fierce 
wind  and  weather  beating  on  my  head  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  know  how  I  came  back  that  night,  and  threw 
your  money  in  the  dirt,  and  cursed  you  and  your  race. 
Now,  see  me  here,  on  my  knees.  Am  I  less  earnest 
now,  than  I  was  then  ?  " 

"  If  what  you  ask,"  said  Harriet,  gently,  "  is  forgive- 
ness— " 


650 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  But  it's  not  !  "  leturtied  the  other,  with  a  proud, 
fierce  look.  "What  I  ask  is  to  be  believed.  Now 
you  shall  judge  if  1  am  worthy  of  belief,  both  as  I  was, 
and  as  I  am." 

Still  upon  her  knees,  and  with  her  eyes  upon  the  fire, 
and  the  fire  shining  on  her  ruined  beauty  and  her  wild 
black  hair,  one  long  tress  of  which  she  pulled  over  her 
shoulder,  and  wound  about  her  hand,  and  thoughtfully 
bit  and  tore  while  speaking,  she  went  on  : 

"  When  I  was  young  and  pretty,  and  this,"  plucking 
contemptuouslv  at  the  hair  she  held,  "was  only  handled 
delicately,  and  couldn't  be  admired  enough,  my  mother, 
who  had' not  been  very  mindful  of  me  as  a  child,  found 
out  my  merits,  and  was  fond  of  me,  and  proud  of  me. 
She  was  covetous  and  poor,-  and  thought  to  make  a  sort 
of  property  of  me.  No  great  lady  ever  thought  that  of 
a  daughter  yet,  I'm  sure,  or  acted  as  she  did — it's  never 
done,  we  all  know — and  that  shows  that  the  only  in- 
stances of  mothers  bringing  up  their  daughters  wrong, 
and  evil  coming  of  it,  are  among  such  miserable  folks  as 
us." 

Looking  at  the  fire,  as  if  she  were  forgetful,  for  the 
moment,  of  having  any  auditor,  she  continued  in  a 
dreamy  way,  as  she  wound  the  long  tress  of  hair  tight 
round  and  round  her  head. 

"  What  came  of  that,  I  needn't  say.  Wretched 
marriages  don't  come  of  such  things,  in  our  degree  ; 
only  wretchedness  and  ruin.  Wretchedness  and  ruin 
came  on  me — came  on  me." 

Raising  her  eyes  swiftly  from  their  moody  gaze  upon 
the  fire,  to  Harriet's  face,  she  said — 

"  I  am  wasting  time,  and  there  is  none  to  spare  ;  yet 
if  I  hadn't  thought  of  all,  I  shouldn't  be  here  now. 
Wretchedness  and  ruin  came  on  me,  I  say.  I  was  made 
a  short-lived  toy,  and  flung  aside  more  cruelly  and  care- 
lessly than  even  such  things  are.  By  whose  hand  do 
you  think  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"Why  do  you  tremble?"  rejoined  Alice,  with  an 
eager  look.  "  His  usage  made  a  devil  of  me.  I  sunk 
in  wretchedness  and  ruin,  lower  and  lower  yet.  I  was 
concerned  in  a  robbery — in  every  part  of  it  but  the  gains 
— and  was  found  out,  and  sent  to  be  tried  without  a 
friend,  without  a  penny.  Though  I  was  but  a  girl,  I 
would  have  gone  to  Death  sooner  than  ask  him  for  a 
word,  if  a  word  of  his  could  have  saved  me.  I  would  ! 
To  any  death  that  could  have  been  invented.  But  my 
mother,  covetous  always,  sent  to  him  in  my  name,  told 
the  true  story  of  my  case,  and  humbly  prayed  and  peti- 
tioned for  a  small  last  gift — for  not  so  many  pounds  asT 
have  fingers  on  this  hand.  Who  was  it  do  you  think, 
who  snapped  his  fingers  at  me  in  my  misery,  lying,  as  he 
believed,  at  his  feet,  and  left  me  without  even  this  poor 
sign  of  remembrance  ;  well  satisfied  that  I  should  be 
sent  abroad,  beyond  the  reach  of  further  trouble  to  him, 
and  should  die,  and  rot  there  ?  Who  was  this,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  "  repeated  Harriet. 

"  Why  do  you  tremble  ?  "  said  Alice,  laying  her  hand 
upon  her  arm,  and  looking  in  her  face,  "  but  that  the 
answer  is  on  your  lips  !    It  was  your  brother  James," 

Harriet  trembled  more  and  more,  but  did  not  avert  her 
eyes  from  the  eager  look  that  rested  on  them. 

"When  I  knew  you  were  his  sister — which  was  on 
that  night — I  came  back,  weary  and  lame,  to  spurn  your 
gift.  I  felt  that  night  as  if  I  could  have  travelled,  weary 
and  lame,  over  the  whole  world,  to  stab  him,  if  I  could 
have  found  him  in  a  lonely  place  with  no  one  near.  Do 
you  believe  that  I  was  earnest  in  all  that  ?  " 

"  I  do  !    Good  Heaven,  why  are  you  come  again  ?  " 

"  Since  then,"  said  Alice,  with  the  same  grasp  of  her 
arm,  and  the  same  look  in  her  face,  "  I  have  seen  him  ! 
I  have  followed  him  with  my  eyes,  in  the  broad  day. 
If  any  spark  of  my  resentment  slumbered  in  my  bosom, 
it  sprung  into  a  blaze  when  my  eyes  rested  on  him. 
You  know  he  has  wronged  a  j)roud  man,  and  made  him 
his  deadly  enemy.  What  if  I  had  given  information  of 
him  to  that  man?  " 

"  Information  !  "  repeated  Harriet. 

"What  if  I  had  found  out  one  who  knew  your 
brother's  secret  :  who  knew  the  manner  of  his  flight  ; 
who  knew  where  he  and  the  companion  of  his  flight  were 


gone  ?  What  if  I  had  made  him  utter  all  his  knowledge 
word  by  word,  before  this  enemy,  concealed  to  hear  it? 
What  if  I  had  sat  by  at  the  time,  looking  into  this 
enemy's  face,  and  seeing  it  change  till  it  was  scarcely 
human  ?  What  if  I  had  seen  him  rush  away,  mad,  in 
pursuit  ?  What  if  I  knew,  now,  that  he  was  on  his  road, 
more  fiend  than  man,  and  must,  in  so  many  hours,  come 
up  with  him  ?  " 

"  Remove  your  hand  !"  said  Harriet,  recoiling.  "  Go 
away  !    Your  touch  is  dreadful  to  me  ! " 

"  I  have  done  this,"  pursued  the  other,  with  her  eager 
look,  regardless  of  the  interruption.  "  Do  I  speak  and 
look  as  if  I  really  had?  Do  you  believe  what  I  am 
saying  ?  " 

"  I  fear  I  must.    Let  my  arm  go  ! " 

"  Not  yet.  A  moment  more.  You  can  think  what  my 
revengeful  purpose  must  have  been,  to  last  so  long,  and 
urge  me  to  do  this  ?  " 

"  Dreadful  !"  said  Harriet, 

"  Then  when  you  see  me  now,"  said  Alice,  hoarsely, 
"  here  again,  kneeling  quietly  on  the  ground,  with  my 
I  touch  upon  your  arm,  with  my  eyes  upon  your  face,  you 
may  believe  that  there  is  no  common  earnestness  in  what 
I  say,  and  that  no  common  struggle  has  been  battling  in 
my  breast.  I  am  ashamed  to  speak  the  words,  but  I 
relent.  I  despise  myself  ;  I  have  fought  with  myself 
all  day,  and  all  last  night  ;  but  I  relent  towards' him 
without  reason,  and  wish  to  repair  what  I  have  done,  if 
it  is  possible.  I  wouldn't  have  them  come  together 
while  his  pursuer  is  so  blind,  and  headlong.  If  you  had 
seen  him  as  he  went  out  last  night,  you  would  know  the 
danger  better." 

"How  shall  it  be  prevented  !  What  can  I  do  !"  cried 
Harriet, 

"  All  night  long,"  pursued  the  other,  hurriedly,  "  I 
had  dreams  of  him — and  yet  I  didn't  sleep — in  his  blood. 
All  day,  I  have  had  him  near  me." 

"  What  can  I  do?"  said  Harriet,  shuddering  at  these 
words. 

"  If  there  is  any  one  who'll  write,  or  send,  or  go  to 
him,  let  them  lose  no  time.  He  is  at  Dijon.  Do  you 
know  the  name,  and  where  it  is  ?  " 

"Yes  !" 

"  Warn  him  that  the  man  he  has  made  his  enemy  is 
in  a  frenzy,  and  that  he  doesn't  know  him  if  he  makes 
light  of  his  approach.  Tell  him  that  he  is  on  the 
road — I  know  he  is  ! — and  hurrying  on.  Urge  him  to 
get  away  while  there  is  time — if  there  is  time — and  not 
to  meet  him  yet.  A  month  or  so  will  make  years  of 
difference.  Let  them  not  encounter  through  me.  Any- 
where but  there  !  Any  time  but  now  !  Let  his  foe 
follow  him,  and  find  him  for  himself,  but  not  through 
me  !    There  is  enough  upon  my  head  without." 

The  fire  ceased  to  be  refiected  in  her  jet  black  hair, 
uplifted  face,  and  eager  eyes  ;  her  hand  was  gone  from 
Harriet's  arm  ;  and  the  place  where  she  had  been,  was 
empty. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

The  Fugitives. 

The  time,  an  hour  short  of  midnight  ;  the  place,  a 
French  Apartment  comprising  some  half-dozen  rooms  ; 
— a  dull  cold  hall  or  corridor,  a  dining-room,  a  drawing- 
room,  a  bed-chamber,  and  an  inner  drawing-room,  or 
boudoir,  smaller  and  more  retired  than  the  rest.  All 
these  shut  in  by  one  large  pair  of  doors  on  the  main  stair- 
case, but  each  room  provided  with  two  or  three  pairs  of 
doors  of  its  own,  establishing  several  means  of  commu- 
nication with  the  remaining  portion  of  the  apartment,  or 
with  certain  small  passages  within  the  wall,  leading,  as 
is  not  unusual  in  such  houses,  to  some  back  stairs  with 
an  obscure  outlet  below.  The  whole  situated  on  the 
first  floor  of  so  large  an  hotel,  that  it  did  not  absorb 
one  entire  row  of  windows  upon  one  side  of  the  square 
court  yard  in  the  centre,  upon  which  the  Avhole  four  sides 
of  the  mansion  looked. 

An  air  of  splendour,  sufficiently  faded  to  be  melan- 
choly, and  sufficiently  dazzling  to  clog  and  embarrass  the 
details  of  life  with  a  show  of  state,  reigned  in  these  rooms.. 


DOMBEY 

The  walls  and  ceiling-s  were  g-ilded  and  painted  ;  the 
floors  were  waxed  and  polished  ;  crimson  drapery  hun^ 
in  festoons  from  window,  door,  and  mirror  ;  and  cande- 
labra, gnarled,  and  intertwisted  like  the  branches  of 
trees,  or  horns  of  animals,  stuck  out  from  the  panels  of 
the  wall.  But  in  the  day-time,  when  the  lattice-blinds 
(now  closely  shut)  were  opened,  and  the  light  let  in, 
traces  were  discernible  among  this  finery,  of  wear  and 
tear  and  dust,  of  sun  and  damp  and  smoke,  and  length- 
ened intervals  of  want  of  use  and  habitation,  when  such 
shows  and  toys  of  life  seem  sensitive  like  life,  and  waste 
as  men  shut  up  in  prison  do.  Even  night,  and  clusters 
of  burning  candles,  could  not  wholly  efface  them,  though 
the  general  glitter  threw  them  in  th.e  shade. 

The  glitter  of  bright  tapers,  and  their  reflection  in 
looking-glas.ses,  scraps  of  gilding,  and  gay  colours,  were 
confined,  on  this  night,  to  one  room — that  smaller  room 
within  the  rest,  just  now  enumerated.  Seen  from  the 
hall,  where  a  lamp  was  feebly  burning,  through  the 
dark  perspective  of  open  doors,  it  looked  as  shining  and 
precious  as  a  gem.  In  the  heart  of  its  radiance  sat  a 
beautiful  woman — Edith. 

She  was  alone.  The  same  defiant,  scornful  woman 
still.  The  cheek  a  little  worn,  the  eye  a  little  larger  in 
appearance,  and  more  lustrous,  but  the  haughty  bear- 
ing just  the  same.  No  shame  upon  her  brow  ;  no  late 
repentance  bending  her  disdainful  neck.  Imperious  and 
stately  yet.  and  yet  regardless  of  herself  and  of  all  else, 
she  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  cast  down,  waiting  for  some 
one. 

No  book,  no  work,  no  occupation  of  any  kind  but  her 
own  thoughts,  beguiled  the  tardy  time.  Some  purpose, 
strong  enough  to  fill  up  any  pause,  possessed  her.  With 
her  lips  pressed  together,  and  quivering  if  for  a  moment 
she  released  them  from  her  control  ;  with  her  nostrils  in- 
flated ;  her  hands  clasped  in  one  another  ;  and  her  pur- 
pose swelling  in  her  breast ;  she  sat,  and  waited. 

At  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  outer  door,  and  a  footstep 
in  the  hall,  she  started  up,  and  cried  "Who's  that?" 
The  answer  was  in  French,  and  two  men  came  in  with 
jingling  trays,  to  make  preparation  for  supper. 

"  Who  bade  them  do  so  ?  "  she  asked. 

Monsieur  had  commanded  it,  when  it  was  his  pleasure 
to  take  the  apartment.  Monsieur  had  said,  when  he 
stayed  there  for  an  hour,  en  route,  and  left  the  letter  for 
Madame — Madame  had  received  it  surely?" 

"Yes." 

"  A  thousand  pardons  !  The  sudden  apprehension 
that  it  might  have  been  forgotten  had  struck  him  ;  "  a 
bald  man,  with  a  large  beard  from  a  neighbouring  res- 
taurant:  "  with  despair  !  Monsieur  had  said  that  supper 
was  to  be  ready  at  that  hour  :  also  that  he  had  fore- 
warned Madame  of  the  commands  he  had  given,  in  his 
letter.  Monsieur  had  done  the  Golden  Head  the  honour 
to  request  that  the  supper  should  be  choice  and  delicate. 
Monsieur  would  find  that  his  confidence  in  the  Golden 
Head  was  not  misplaced." 

Edith  said  no  more,  but  looked  on  thoughtfully  while 
they  prepared  the  table  for  two  persons,  and  set  the  wine 
upon  it.  She  arose  before  they  had  finished,  and  taking 
a  lamp,  passed  into  the  bed-chamber,  and  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  she  hurriedly  but  narrowly  ex- 
amined all  the  doors  ;  particularly  one  in  the  former 
room  that  opened  on  the  passage  in  the  wall.  From 
this  she  took  the  key,  and  put  it  on  the  outer  side.  She 
then  came  back. 

The  men — the  second  of  whom  was  a  dark,  bilious 
subject,  in  a  jacket,  close  shaved,  and  with  a  black  head 
of  hair  close  cropped — had  completed  their  preparation 
of  the  table,  and  were  standing  looking  at  it.  He  who 
had  spoken  before,  inquired  whether  Madame  thought  it 
would  be  long  before  Monsieur  arrived  ? 

*'  She  couldn't  say.    It  was  all  one." 

"  Pardon  !  There  was  the  supper  !  It  should  be  eaten 
on  the  instant.  Monsieur  (who  spoke  French  like  an 
Angel — or  a  Frenchmen — it  was  all  the  same)  had  spoken 
with  great  emphasis  of  his  punctuality.  But  the  English 
nation  had  so  grand  a  genius  for  punctuality.  Ah  !  what 
noise  !  Great  Heaven, here  was  Monsieur.  Behold  him  ! " 

In  effect.  Monsieur,  admitted  by  the  other  of  the  two, 
carae,  with  his  gleaming  teeth,  through  the  dark  rooms, 
like  a  mouth  ;  and  arriving  in  that  sanctuary  of  light  and 


AND  SON.  C51 

colour,  a  figure  at  full  length,  embraced  Madame,  and 
addressed  her  in  the  French  tongue  as  his  charming 
wife. 

"  My  God  !  Madame  is  going  to  fnint  Madame  is 
overcome  with  joy  \"  The  bald  man  with  the  beard  ob- 
served it,  and  cried  out. 

Madame  had  only  shrunk  and  shivered.  Before  the 
words  were  spoken,  she  was.  standing  with  her  hand  upon 
the  velvet  back  of  a  great  chair  ;  her  figure  drawn  up  to 
its  full  height,  and  lier  face  immoveable. 

"  Francois  has  flown  over  to  the  Golden  Head  for  sup- 
per. He  flies  on  these  occasions  like  an  an<rel  or  a  bird. 
The  baggage  of  monsieur  is  in  his  room.  All  is  arranged. 
The  supper  will  be  here  this  moment."  These  facts  the 
bald  man  notified  with  bows  and  smiles,  and  presently 
the  supper  came. 

The  hot  dishes  were  on  a  chafing-dish  ;  the  cold  al- 
ready set  forth,  with  the  change  of  service  on  a  side- 
board. Monsieur  was  satisfied  with  this  arrangement. 
The  supper  table  being  small,  it  ])leased  him  very  well. 
Let  them  set  the  chafing-dish  upon  the  floor,  and  go.  He 
would  remove  the  dishes  with  his  own  hands. 

"  Pardon  !"  said  the  bald  man,  politely.  "  It  was  im- 
possible ! " 

Monsieur  was  of  another  opinion.    He  required  no  f  ur- 

thur  attendance  that  night. 

"  But  Madame  " — the  bald  man  hinted. 

"Madame,"  replied  Monsieur,  "had  her  own  maid. 
It  was  enough." 

"  A  million  pardons  !    No  !  madame  had  no  maid  !  " 

"  I  came  here  alone,"  said  Edith.  "  It  was  my  choice 
to  do  so.  I  am  well  used  to  travelling  ;  I  want  no  attend- 
ance.   They  need  send  nobody  to  me." 

Monsieur  accordingly,  persevering  in  his  first  proposed 
impossibility,  proceeded  to  follow  the  two  attendants  to 
the  outer  door,  and  secure  it  after  them  for  the  night. 
The  bald  man  turning  round  to  bow,  as  he  went  out,  ob- 
served that  madame  still  stood  with  her  hand  upon  the 
velvet  back  of  the  great  chair,  and  that  her  face  was 
quite  regardless  of  him,  though  she  was  looking  straight 
before  her. 

As  the  sound  of  Carker's  fastening  the  door  resounded 
through  the  intermediate  rooms,  and  seemed  to  come 
hushed  and  stifled  into  that  last  distant  one,  the  sound 
of  the  Cathedral  clock  striking  twelve  mingled  with  it, 
in  Edith's  ears.  She  heard  him  pause,  as  if  he  heard 
it  too  and  listened  ;  and  then  come  back  towards  her, 
laying  a  long  train  of  footsteps  through  the  silence,  and 
shutting  all  the  doors  behind  him  as  he  came  along.  Her 
hand,  for  a  moment,  left  the  velvet  chair  to  bring  a  knife 
within  her  reach  upon  the  table  ;  then  she  stood  as  she 
had  stood  before, 

"  How  strange  to  come  here  by  yourself,  my  love,"  he 
said  as  he  entered, 

"  What  ! "  she  returned. 

Her  tone  was  so  harsh  ;  the  quick  turn  of  her  head  so 
fierce  ;  her  attitude  so  repellent ;  and  her  frown  so  black  ; 
that  he  stood,  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  looking  at  her, 
as  if  she  had  struck  him  motionless. 

"I  say,"  he  at  length  repeated,  putting  down  the  lamp, 
and  smiling  his  most  courtly  smile,  "  how  strange  to  come 
here  alone  !  It  was  unnecessary  caution  surely,  and 
might  have  defeated  itself.  You  were  to  have  engaged 
an  attendant  at  Havre  or  Rouen,  and  have  had  abundance 
of  time  for  the  purpose,  though  you  had  been  the  most 
capricious  and  difficult  (as  you  are  the  most  beautiful, 
my  love)  of  women." 

Her  eyes  gleamed  strangely  on  him,  but  she  stood  with 
her  hand  resting  on  the  chair,  and  said  not  a  word. 

"  1  have  never,"  resumed  Carker,  "  3een  you  look  so 
handsome,  as  you  do  to-night.  Even  the  picture  I  have 
carried  in  my  rnind  during  this  cruel  probation,  and  which 
I  have  contemplated  night  and  day,  is  exceeded  by  the 
reality," 

Not  a  word.  Not  a  look.  Her  eyes  completely  hidden 
by  their  drooping  lashes,  but  her  head  held  up. 

"Hard,  unrelenting  terms  they  were  !"  said  Carker, 
with  a  smile,  "  but  they  are  all  fulfilled  and  past,  and 
make  the  present  more  delicious  and  more  safe.  Sicily 
shall  be  the  place  of  our  retreat.  In  the  idlest  and  easi- 
est part  of  the  world,  my  soul,  we'll  both  seek  compen- 
sation for  old  slavery." 


652 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


He  was  coming  gaily  towards  her,  when,  in  an  instant, 
she  caught  the  knife  up  from  the  table,  and  started  one 
pace  back. 

"  Stand  still  !  "  she  said,  "  or  I  shall  murder  you  !  " 

The  sudden  change  in  her,  the  towering  fury  and  in- 
tense abhorrence  sparkling  in  her  eyes  and  lighting  up 
her  brow,  made  him  stop  as  if  a  fire  had  stopped  him. 

"Stand  still  !"  she  said,  "come  no  nearer  me,  upon 
your  life  ! " 

They  both  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Rage  and  as- 
tonishment were  in  his  face,  but  he  controlled  them,  and 
said  lightly, 

"  Come, "come  !  Tush,  we  are  alone  and  out  of  every- 
body's sight  and  hearing.  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me 
with  these  tricks  of  virtue  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me"  she  answered  fiercely, 
*  *  from  any  purpose  that  I  have,  and  any  course  I  am  re- 
solved upon,  hy  reminding  me  of  the  solitude  of  this 
place,  and  there  being  no  help  near  ?  Me  who  am  here 
alone,  designedly  ?  If  I  feared  you,  should  I  not  have 
avoided  you?  If  I  feared  you,  should  I  be  here,  in 
the  dead  of  night,  telling  you  to  your  face  what  I  am 
going  to  tell  ?  " 

"And  what  is  that,"  he  said,  "you  handsome  shrew? 
Handsomer  so,  than  any  other  woman  in  her  best  hu- 
mour? " 

"I  tell  you  nothing,"  she  returned,  "until  you  go 
back  to  that  chair — except  this,  once  again — Don't  come 
near  me  !  Not  a  step  nearer.  I  tell  you,  if  you  do,  as 
Heaven  sees  us,  I  shall  murder  you  !" 

"Do  you  mistake  me  for  your  husband?"  he  retorted, 
with  a  grin. 

Disdaining  to  reply,  she  stretched  her  arm  out,  point- 
ing to  the  chair.  He  bit  his  lip,  frowned,  laughed,  and 
sat  down  in  it,  with  a  baffled,  irresolute,  impatient  air, 
he  was  unable  to  conceal ;  and  biting  his  nail  nervously, 
and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  bitter  discomfiture, 
even  while  he  feigned  to  be  amused  by  her  caprice. 

She  put  the  knife  down  upon  the  table,  and  touching 
her  bosom  with  her  hand,  said  : 

"  I  have  something,  lying  here  that  is  no  love  trinket ; 
and  sooner  than  endure  your  touch  once  more,  I  would  j 
use  it  on  you — and  you  know  it,  while  I  speak — with 
less  reluctance  than  I  would  on  any  other  creeping  thing 
that  lives. " 

He  affected  to  laugh  jestingly,  and  entreated  her  to 
act  her  play  out  quickly,  for  the  supper  was  growing 
cold.  Bat  the  secret  look  with  which  he  regarded  her, 
was  more  sullen  and  lowering,  and  he  struck  his  foot 
once  upon  the  floor  with  a  muttered  oath. 

"  How  many  times,"  said  Edith,  bending  her  darkest 
glance  upon  him,  "has  your  bold  knavery  assailed  me 
with  outrage  and  insult?  How  many  times  in  your 
smooth  manner,  and  mocking  words  and  looks,  have  I 
been  twitted  with  my  courtship  and  my  marriage  ?  How 
many  times  have  you  laid  bare  my  wound  of  love  for 
that  sweet,  injured  girl,  and  lacerated  it?  How  often 
have  you  fanned  the  fire  on  which,  for  two  years,  I  have 
writhed ;  and  tempted  me  to  take  a  desperate  revenge, 
when  it  has  most  tortured  me  ?  " 

"I  have  no  doubt,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  "that  you 
have  kept  a  good  account,  and  that  it's  pretty  accurate. 
Come,  Edith.  To  your  husband,  poor  wretch,  this  was 
well  enough — " 

"Why,  if,"  she  said,  surve.Ting  him  with  a  haughty 
contempt  and  disgust,  that  he  shrunk  under,  let  him 
brave  it  as  he  would,  "if  all  my  other  reasons  for  de- 
spising him  could  have  been  blown  away  like  feathers, 
his  having  you  for  his  counsellor  and  favourite,  would 
have  almost  been  enough  to  hold  their  place." 

"  Is  that  a  reason  why  you  have  run  away  with  me  ?  " 
he  asked  her,  tauntingly. 

"Yes,  and  why  we  are  face  to  face  for  the  last  time. 
Wretch.  We  meet  to-night,  and  part  to-night.  For 
not  one  moment  after  I  have  ceased  to  speak,  will  I  stay 
here  ! " 

He  turned  upon  her  with  his  ugliest  look,  and  griped 
the  table  with  his  hand  ;  but  neither  rose,  nor  otherwise 
answered  or  threatened  her. 

"  I  am  a  woman,"  she  said,  confronting  him  stodfastly, 
"who  from  her  very  childhood  has  been  shamed  and 
Steeled.    I  have  been  offered  and  rejected,  put  up  and 


appraised,  until  my  very  soul  has  sickened.  I  have  not 
had  an  accomplishment  or  grace  that  might  have  been  a 
resource  to  me,  but  it  has  been  paraded,  and  vended  to 
enhance  my  value,  as  if  the  common  crier  had  called  it 
through  the  streets.  My  poor,  proud  friends,  have 
looked  on  and  approved  ;  and  every  tie  between  us  has 
been  deadened  in  my  breast.  There  is  not  one  of  them 
for  whom  I  care,  as  I  could  care  for  a  pet-dog.  I  stand 
alone  in  the  world,  remembering  well  what  a  hollow 
world  it  has  been  to  me,  and  what  a  hollow  part  of  it  I 
have  been  myself.  You  know  this,  and  you  know  that 
my  fame  with  it  is  worthless  to  me." 
"Yes  ;  I  imagined  that,"  he  said. 
"And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined,  "  and  so  pursued 
me.  Grown  too  indifferent  for  any  opposition  but  indif- 
ference, to  the  daily  working  of  the  hands  that  had 
moulded  me  to  this  ;  and  knowing  that  my  marriage 
would  at  least  prevent  their  hawking  of  me  up  and  down  ; 
I  suffered  myself  to  be  sold  as  infamously  as  any  wo- 
man with  a  halter  round  her  neck  is  sold  in  any  market- 
place.   You  know  that." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  showing  all  his  teeth.  "  I  know  that." 
"  And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined  once  more,  "  and 
so  pursued  me.  From  my  marriage  day,  I  found  myself  ex- 
posed to  such  new  shame — to  such  solicitation  and  pursuit 
(expressed  as  clearl}- as  if  it  had  been  written  in  the  coarsest 
words,  and  thrust  into  my  hand  at  every  turn)  from  one 
mean  villain,  that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  never  known  humili- 
ation till  that  time.  This  shame  my  husband  fixed  upon 
me  ;  hemmed  me  round  with,  himself  ;  steeped  me  in, 
with  his  own  hands,  and  of  his  own  act,  repeated  hun- 
dreds of  times.  And  thus — forced  by  the  two  from 
every  point  of  rest  I  had — forced  by  the  two  to  yield  up 
the  last  retreat  of  love  and  gentleness  within  me,  or  to 
be  a  new  misfortune  on  its  innocent  object — driven  from 
each  to  each,  and  beset  by  one  when  I  escaped  the  other 
— my  anger  rose  almost  to  distraction  against  both.  I  do 
not  know  against  which  it  rose  higher — the  master  or  the 
man  I " 

He  watched  her  closely,  as  she  stood  before  him  in  the 
very  triumph  of  her  indignant  beauty.  She  was  resolute, 
I  he  saw,  undauntable  ;  with  no  more  fear  of  him  than  of 
a  worm. 

"  What  should  I  say  of  honour  or  of  chastity  to  you  !  " 
she  went  on.  "What  meaning  would  it  have  to  you  ; 
what  meaning  would  it  have  from  me  !  But  if  I  tell  you 
that  the  lightest  touch  of  your  hand  makes  my  blood  cold 
with  antipathy  ;  that  from  the  hour  when  I  first  saw  and 
hated  you,  to  now,  when  my  instinctive  repugnance  is  en- 
hanced by  every  minute's  knowledge  of  you  I  have  since 
had,  you  have  been  a  loathsome  creature  to  me  which 
has  not  its  like  on  earth  ;  how  then  ?  " 

He  answered,  with  a  faint  laugh,  "  Ay!  how  then,  my 
queen  ?  " 

"  On  that  night,  when  emboldened  by  the  scene  you 
had  assisted  at,  you  dared  come  to  my  room  and  speak  to 
me,"  she  said,  "  what  passed?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  laughed  again. 
"  What  passed?"  she  said. 

"Your  memory  is  so  distinct,"  he  returned,  "  that  I 
have  no  doubt  you  can  recall  it." 

"I  can,"  she  said.  "Hear  it!  Proposing  then,  this 
flight — not  this  flight,  but  the  flight  you  thought  it — you 
told  me  that  in  the  having  given  you  that  meeting,  and 
leaving  you  to  be  discovered  there,  if  you  so  thought  fit; 
and  in  the  having  suffered  you  to  be  alone  with  me  many 
times  before, — and  having  made  the  opportunities,  you 
said,— and  in  the  having  openly  avowed  to  you  that  I  had 
no  feeling  for  my  husband  but  aversion,  and  no  care  for 
myself— I  was  lost  :  I  had  given  you  the  power  to  tra- 
duce my  name  ;  and  I  lived,  in  virtuous  reputation,  at 
the  pleasure  of  your  breath." 

"  All  stratagems  in  love — "  he  interrupted,  smiling. 
"The  old  adage — " 

"On  that  night,"  said  Edith,  "  and  then  the  struggle 
that  I  long  had  had  with  something  that  was  not  respect 
for  my  good  fame — that  was  I  know  not  what — perhaps 
the  clinging  to  that  last  retreat — was  ended.  On  that 
night,  and  then,  I  turned  from  everything  but  passion 
and  resentment.  I  struck  a  blow  that  laid  your  lofty 
master  in  the  dust,  and  set  you  there,  before  me,  look> 
ing  at  me  now,  and  knowing  what  I  mean." 


DOMBEY 

He  sprung;  up  from  his  cliair  with  a  great  oath. 
She  put  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  and  not  a  finger 
trembled,  not  a  hair  upon  her  head  was  stirred.  He 
stood  still  :  she  too  :  the  table  and  chair  between 
them. 

"  When  I  forget  that  this  man  put  his  lips  to  mine 
that  night,  and  held  me  in  his  arms  as  he  has  done 
again  to-night,"  said  Edith,  pointing  at  him  ;  "  when 
I  forget  the  taint  of  his  kiss  upon  my  cheek — the 
cheek  that  Florence  would  have  laid  her  guiltless  face 
against — when  I  forget  my  meeting  with  her,  while 
that  taint  was  hot  upon  me,  and  in  what  a  flood  the 
knowledge  rushed  upon  me  when  I  saw  her,  that  in 
releasing  her  from  the  persecution  I  had  caused  her 
by  my  love,  I  brought  a  shame  and  degradation  on  her 
name  through  mine,  and  in  all  time  to  come  should  be 
the  solitary  figure  representing  in  her  mind  her  first 
avoidance  of  a  guilty  creature — then,  Husband,  from 
whom  I  stand  divorced  henceforth,  I  will  forget  these 
last  two  years,  and  undo  what  I  have  done,  and  un- 
deceive you  ! " 

Her  flashing  eyes,  uplifted  for  a  moment,  lighted 
again  on  Carker,  and  she  held  some  letters  out  in  her 
left  hand. 

**  See  these  !  "  she  said,  contemptuously.  "You  have 
addressed  these  to  me  in  the  false  name  you  go  by  ; 
one  here,  some  elsewhere  on  my  road.  The  seals  are 
unbroken.    Take  them  back  !  " 

She  crunched  them  in  her  hand,  and  tossed  them  to 
his  feet.  And  as  she  looked  upon  him  now,  a  smile 
was  on  her  face. 

"  We  meet  and  part  to-night,"  she  said.  You  have 
fallen  on  Sicilian  days  and  sensual  rfest,  too  soon.  You 
might  have  cajoled,  and  fawned,  and  played  your  trai- 
tor's part,  a  little  longer,  and  grown  richer.  You  purchase 
your  voluptuous  retirement  dear  !  " 

"Edith  !"  he  retorted  menacing  her  with  his  hand. 
"  Sit  down  !  Have  done  with  this  i  What  devil  pos- 
sesses you  ?" 

"Their  name  is  Legion,"  she  replied,  uprearing  her 
proud  form  as  if  she  would  have  crushed  him  ;  "you  and 
your  master  have  raised  them  in  a  fruitful  house,  and 
they  shall  tear  you  both.  False  to  him,  false  to  his  inno- 
cent child,  false  everyway  and  everywhere,  go  forth  and 
boast  of  me,  and  gnash  your  teeth  for  once  to  know  that 
you  are  lying  !" 

He  stood  before  her,  muttering  and  menacing,  and 
scowling  round  as  if  for  something  that  would  help  him 
to  conquer  her  ;  but  with  the  same  indomitable  spirit  she 
opposed  him,  without  faltering. 

"In  every  vaunt  you  make,"  she  said,  "  I  have  my  tri- 
umph. I  single  out  in  you  the  meanest  man  I  know,  the 
parasite  and  tool  of  the  proud  tyrant,  that  his  wound  may 
go  the  deeper  and  may  rankle  more.  Boast,  and  revenge 
me  on  him  !  You  know  how  you  came  here  to-night  ; 
you  know  how  you  stand  cowering  there  ;  you  see  your- 
self in  colours  quite  as  despicable,  if  not  as  odious,  as 
those  in  which  I  see  you.  Boast  then,  and  revenge  me 
on  yourself." 

The  foam  was  on  his  lips  ;  the  wet  stood  on  his  fore- 
head. K  she  should  have  faltered  once,  for  only  one  half 
moment,  he  would  have  pinioned  her ;  but  she  was  as 
firm  as  a  rock,  and  her  searching  eyes  never  left  him. 

"  We  don't  part  so,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  I  am 
drivelling,  to  let  you  go  in  your  mad  temper?" 

"Do  you  think,"  she  answered,  "that  I  am  to  be 
stayed?" 

"I'll  try,  my  dear,"  he  said  with  a  ferocious  gesture 
of  his  head. 

"  God's  mercy  on  you,  if  you  try  by  coming  near  me  !  " 
she  replied. 

"And  what,"  he  said,  "if  there  are  none  of  these  same 
boasts  and  vaunts  on  my  part?  what  if  I  were  to  turn 
too?  Come  !  "  and  his  teeth  fairly  shone  again.  "We 
must  make  a  treaty  of  this,  or  /  may  take  some  unex- 
pected course.    Sit  down,  sit  down  !  " 

"Too  late!"  she  cried,  with  eyes  that  seemed  to 
sparkle  fire.  "  I  have  thrown  my  fame  and  good  name 
to  the  winds  !  I  have  resolved  to  bear  the  shame  that 
will  attach  to  me — resolved  to  know  that  it  attaches 
falsely — that  you  know  it  too — and  that  he  does  not,  nev- 
er can,  and  never  shall.    I'll  die  and  make  no  sign.  For 


AND  SDK  653 

this  I  am  here  alone  with  you,  at  the  dead  of  night.  For 
this,  I  have  met  you  here,  in  a  false  name,  as  your  wife. 
For  this,  I  have  been  seen  here  by  those  men,  and  left 
here.    Nothing  can  save  you  now." 

He  would  have  sold  his  soul  to  root  her,  in  her  beauty, 
to  the  floor,  and  make  her  arms  drop  at  her  sides,  and 
have  her  at  his  mercy.  But  he  could  not  look  at  her, 
and  not  be  afraid  of  her.  He  saw  a  strength  within  her 
that  was  resistless.  He  saw  that  she  was  desperate,  and 
that  her  unquenchable  hatred  of  him  would  stop  at  noth- 
ing. His  eyes  followed  the  hand  that  was  put  with  such 
rugged  uncongenial  purpose  into  her  white  bosom,  and 
he  thought  that  if  it  struck  at  him,  and  failed,  it  would 
strike  there,  just  as  soon." 

He  did  not  venture,  therefore,  to  advance  towards  her  ; 
but  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered  was  behind  him, 
and  he  stepped  back  to  lock  it. 

"Lastly,  take  my  warning  !  look  to  yourself  !"  she 
said,  and  smiled  again.  "  You  have  been  betrayed,  as 
all  betrayers  are.  It  has  been  made  known  that  you  are 
in  this  place,  or  were  to  be,  or  have  been.  If  I  live,  I 
saw  my  husband  in  a  carriage  in  the  street  to-night  I" 

"  Strumpet,  it's  false,"  cried  Carker. 

At  the  moment,  the  bell  rang  loudly  in  the  hall.  He 
turned  white,  as  she  held  her  hand  up  like  an  enchant- 
ress, at  whose  invocation  the  sound  had  come. 

"Hark  !  do  you  hear  it?" 

He  set  his  back  against  the  door  ;  for  he  saw  a  change 
in  her,  and  fancied  she  was  coming  on  to  pass  him.  But, 
in  a  moment,  she  was  gone  through  the  opposite  doors 
communicating  with  the  bed-chamber,  and  they  shut 
upon  her. 

Once  turned,  once  changed  in  her  inflexible  unyielding 
look,  he  felt  that  he  could  cope  with  her.  He  thought  a 
sudden  terror,  occasioned  by  this  night  alarm,  had  sub- 
dued her  ;  not  the  less  readily,  for  her  overwrought  con- 
dition. Throwing  open  the  doors,  he  followed,  almost 
instantly. 

But  the  room  was  dark  ;  and  as  she  made  no  answer  to 
his  call,  he  was  fain  to  go  back  for  the  lamp.  He  held 
it  up,  and  looked  round  everywhere,  expecting  to  see  her 
crouching  in  some  corner  ;  but  the  room  was  empty.  So, 
into  the  drawing-room  and  dining-room  he  went,  in  suc- 
cession, with  the  uncertain  steps  of  a  man  in  a  strange 
place  ;  looking  fearfully  about,  and  prying  behind  screens 
and  couches  ;  but  she  was  not  there.  No,  nor  in  the  hall, 
which  was  so  bare  that  he  could  see  that,  at  a  glance. 

All  this  time,  the  ringing  at  the  bell  was  constantly 
renewed,  and  those  without  were  beating  at  the  door. 
He  put  his  lamp  down  at  a  distance,  and  going  near  it, 
listened.  There  were  several  voices  talking  together  ; 
at  least  two  of  them  in  English  ;  and  though  the  door 
was  thick,  and  there  was  great  confusion,  he  knew  one 
of  these  too  well  to  doubt  whose  voice  it  was. 

He  took  up  his  lamp  again,  and  came  back  quickly 
through  all  the  rooms,  stopping  as  he  quitted  each,  and 
looking  round  for  her,  with  the  light  raised  above  his 
head.  He  was  standing  thus  in  the  bed-chamber,  when 
the  door  leading  to  the  little  passage  in  the  w^all  caught 
his  eye.  He  went  to  it,  and  found  it  fastened  on  the 
other  side  ;  but  she  had  dropped  a  veil  in  going  through 
and  shut  it  in  the  door. 

All  this  time  the  people  on  the  stairs  were  ringing  at 
the  bell,  and  knocking  with  their  hands  and  feet. 

He  was  not  a  coward  ;  but  these  sounds  ;  what  had 
gone  before  ;  the  strangeness  of  the  place,  which  had 
confused  him,  even  in  his  return  from  the  hall  ;  the 
frustration  of  his  schemes  (for  strange  to  say,  he  would 
have  been  much  bolder,  if  they  had  succeeded) ;  the  un- 
seasonable time  ;  the  recollection  of  having  no  one  near 
to  whom  he  could  appeal  for  any  friendly  oflice  ;  above 
all,  the  sudden  sense,  which  made  even  his  heart  beat 
like  lead,  that  the  man  whose  confidence  he  had  out- 
raged, and  whom  he  had  so  treacherously  deceived,  was 
there  to  recognise  and  challenge  him  with  his  mask 
plucked  off  his  face  ;  struck  a  panic  through  him.  He 
tried  the  door  in  which  the  veil  was  shut,  but  couldn't 
force  it.  He  opened  one  of  the  windows,  and  looked  down 
through  the  lattice  of  the  blind,  into  the  court-yard  ;  but 
it  was  a  high  leap,  and  the  stones  were  pitiless. 

The  ringing  and  knocking  still  continuing — his  panic 
too — he  went  back  to  the  door  in  the  bed-chamber,  and 


654 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


witli  some  new  eiforts,  each  more  stubborn  than  the 
last,  wrenched  it  open.  Seeing  the  little'  staircase  not 
far  off,  and  feeling  the  night-air  coming  up,  he  stole 
back  for  his  hat  and  coat,  made  the  door  as  secure 
after  him  as  he  could,  crept  down  lamp  in  hand,  extin- 
guished it  on  seeing  the  street,  and  having  put  it  in  a 
corner,  went  out  where  the  stars  were  shining. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

Bob  the  Grinder  loses  his  Place. 

The  porter  at  the  iron  gate  which  shut  the  court-yard 
from  the  street,  had  left  the  little  wicket  of  his  house 
open,  and  was  gone  away  ;  no  doubt  to  mingle  in  the 
distant  noise  at  the  door  on  the  great  staircase.  Lifting 
the  latch  softly,  Carker  crept  out,  and  shutting  the 
jangling  gate  after  him  with  as  little  noise  as  possible, 
hurried  off. 

In  the  fever  of  his  mortification  and  unavailing  rage, 
the  panic  that  had  seized  upon  him  mastered  him  com- 
pletely. It  rose  to  such  a  height  that  he  would  have 
blindly  encountered  almost  any  risk,  rather  than  meet 
the  man  of  whom,  two  hours  ago,  he  had  been  utterly 
regardless.  His  fierce  arrival  which  lie  had  never  ex- 
pected ;  the  sound  of  his  voice  ;  their  having  been  so 
near  a  meeting  face  to  face  ;  he  would  have  braved  out 
this,  after  the  first  momentary  shock  of  alarm,  and  would 
have  put  as  bold  a  front  upon  his  guilt  as  any  villain. 
But  the  springing  of  his  mine  upon  himself,  sefemed  to 
have  rent  and  shivered  all  his  hardihood  and  self- 
reliance.  Spurned  like  any  reptile  ;  entrapped  and 
mocked  ;  turned  upon,  and  trodden  down  by  the  proud 
woman  whose  mind  he  had  slowly  poisoned,  as  he 
thought,  until  she  had  sunk  into  the  mere  creature  of 
his  pleasure  ;  undeceived  in  his  deceit,  and  with  his 
fox's  hide  stripped  off,  he  sneaked  away,  abashed,  de- 
graderl,  and  afraid. 

Some  other  terror  came  upon  him  quite  removed  from 
this  of  being  pursued,  suddenly  like  an  electric  shock, 
as  he  was  creeping  through  the  streets.  Some  visionary 
terror,  unintelligible  and  inexplicable,  associated  with 
a  trembling  of  the  ground — a  rush  and  sweep  of 
something  through  the  air,  like  Death  upon  the  wing. 
He  shrunk,  as  if  to  let  the  thing  go  by.  It  was  not  gone, 
it  never  had  been,  there,  yet  what  a  startling  horror  it 
had  left  behind. 

He  raised  his  wicked  face,  so  full  of  trouble,  to  the 
night  sky  where  the  stars,  so  full  of  peace,  were  shining 
on  him  as  they  had  been  when  he  first  stole  out  into  the 
air  ;  and  stopped  to  think  what  he  should  do.  The 
dread  of  being  hunted  in  a  strange  remote  place,  where 
the  laws  might  not  protect  him — the  novelty  of  the 
feeling  that  it  was  strange  and  remote,  originating  in  his 
being  left  alone  so  suddenly  amid  the  ruins  of  his  plans 
— his  greater  dread  of  seeking  refuge  now,  in  Italy  or  in 
Sicily,  where  men  might  be  hired  to  assassinate  him,  he 
thought,  at  any  dark  street  corner — the  waywardness  of 
guilt  and  fear — perhaps  some  sympathy  of  action  with 
the  turning  back  of  all  his  schemes — impelled  him  to 
turn  back  too,  and  go  to  England. 

*'  I  am  safer  there,  in  any  case.  If  I  should  not  de- 
cide," he  thought,  "to  give  this  fool  a  meeting,  I  am 
less  likely  to  be  traced  there,  than  abroad  here,  now. 
And  if  I  should  (this  cursed  fit  being  over,)  at  least  I 
shall  not  be  alone,  without  a  soul  to  speak  to,  or  advise 
with,  or  stand  by  me.  I  shall  not  be  run  in  upon  and  wor 
ried  like  a  rat." 

He  muttered  Edith's  name,  and  clenched  his  hand. 
As  he  crept  along,  in  the  shadow  of  the  massive  build- 
ings, he  set  his  teeth,  and  muttered  dreadful  impreca- 
tions on  her  head,  and  looked  from  side  to  side,  as  if  in 
search  of  her.  Thus,  he  stole  on  to  the  gate  of  an  inn- 
yard.  Tbe  people  were  a-bed  ;  but  his  ringing  at  the 
bell  soon  f)ro(luced  a  man  with  a  lantern,  in  company 
with  whom  he  was  presently  in  a  dim  coach-house,  bar- 
gaining for  the  hire  of  an  old  phaeton,  to  Paris. 

Tlie  bargain  was  a  short  one  ;  and  the  horses  were  soon 
sent  for.  Leaving  word  that  the  carriage  was  to  follow 
him  when  they  came,  he  stole  away,  again  beyond  the 


town,  past  the  old  ramparts  out  on  the  open  road,  which 
seemed  to  glide  away  along  the  dark  plain,  like  a  stream  ! 

Whither  did  it  flow  ?  What  was  the  end  of  it  ?  As  he 
paused,  with  some  such  suggestion  within  him,  looking 
over  the  gloomy  flat  where  the  slender  trees  marked  out 
the  way,  again  that  flight  of  Death  came  rushing  up, 
again  went  on,  impetuous  and  resistless,  again  was  noth- 
ing but  a  horror  in  his  mind,  dark  as  the  scene  and  un- 
defined as  its  remotest  verge. 

There  was  no  wind  ;  there  was  no  passing  shadow  on 
the  deep  shade  of  the  night  ;  there  was  no  noise.  The 
city  lay  behind  him,  lighted  here  and  there,  and  starry 
worlds  were  hidden  by  the  masonry  of  spire  and  roof 
that  hardly  made  out  any  shapes  against  the  sky.  Dark 
and  lonely  distance  lay  around  him  everywhere,  and 
the  clocks  were  faintly  striking  two. 

He  went  forward  for  what  appeared  a  long  time,  and 
a  long  way  ;  often  stopping  to  listen.  At  last  the  ring- 
ing of  horses'  bells  greeted  his  anxious  ears.  Now  softer, 
and  now  louder,  now  inaudible,  now  ringing  very  slowly 
over  bad  ground,  now  brisk  and  merry,  it  came  on  ;  un- 
til with  a  loud  shouting  and  lashing,  a  shadowy  postil- 
ion muflled  to  the  eyes,  checked  his  four  struggling 
horses  at  his  side. 

"  Who  goes  there  !    Monsieur  1 " 

"Yes." 

"Monsieur  has  walked  a  long  way  in  the  dark  mid- 
night." 

"  No  matter.  Every  one  to  his  taste.  Were  there 
any  other  horses  ordered  at  the  post-house  ?" 

"A  thousand  devils  ! — and  pardon  1  other  horses?  at 
this  hour?  No." 

"Listen,  my  friend.  I  am  much  hurried.  Let  us 
see  how  fast  we  can  travel  1  The  faster  the  more  money 
there  will  be  to  drink.    Off  we  go  then  !    Quick  !  " 

"Halloa!  Whoop!  Halloa!  Hi!"  Away,  at  a 
gallop,  over  the  black  landscape,  scattering  the  dust  and 
dirt  like  spray  ! 

The  clatter  and  commotion  echoed  to  the  hurry  and 
discordance  of  the  fugitive's  ideas.  Nothing  clear  with- 
out and  nothing  clear  within.  Objects  flitting  past, 
merging  into  one  another,  dimly  discried,  confusedly 
lost  sight  of,  gone  !  Beyond  the  changing  scraps  of 
fence  and  cottage  immediately  upon  the  road,  a  lowering 
waste.  Beyond  the  shifting  images  tliat  rose  up  in  his 
mind  and  vanished  as  they  showed  themselves,  a 
black  expanse  of  dread  and  rage  and  baflled  villany.  Oc- 
casionally, a  sigh  of  mountain  air  came  from  the  distant 
Jura,  fading  along  the  plain.  Sometimes  that  rush  which 
was  so  furious  and  horrible,  again  came  sweeping  through 
his  fancy,  passed  away,  and  left  a  chill  upon  his  blood. 

The  lamps,  gleaming  on  the  medley  of  horses'  heads, 
jumbled  with  the  shadowy  driver,  and  the  fluttering  of 
his  cloak,  made  a  thousand  indistinct  shapes,  answering 
to  his  thoughts.  Shadows  of  familiar  people,  stooping 
at  their  desks  and  books,  in  their  remembered  attitudes  ; 
strange  apparitions  of  the  man  whom  he  was  flying  from, 
or  of  Edith  ;  repetitions  in  the  ringing  bells  and  rolling 
wheels,  of  words  that  had  been  spoken;  confusion  of  time 
and  place,  making  last  night  a  month  ago,  a  month  ago 
last  night — home  now  distant  beyond  hope,  now  instantly 
accessible  ;  commotion,  discord,  hurry,  daikness,  and 
confusion  in  his  mind,  and  all  around  him. — Halloa  I 
Hi  !  away  at  a  gallop  over  the  black  landscape  ;  dust 
and  dirt  flying  like  spray,  the  smoking  horses  snorting 
and  plunging  as  if  each  of  them  were  ridden  by  a  demon, 
away  in  a  frantic  triumph  on  the  dark  read — whither  ! 

Again  the  nameless  shock  comes  speeding  up,  and  as 
it  passes,  the  bells  ring  in  his  ears  "whither?"  The 
wheels  roar  in  his  ears  "  whither?"  All  the  noise  and 
rattle  shapes  itself  into  that  cry.  The  lights  and  sha- 
dows dance  upon  the  horses'  heads  like  imps.  No  stop- 
ping now  :  no  slackening  !  On,  on  !  Away  with  him  upon 
the  dark  road  wildly  ! 

He  could  not  think  to  any  purpose.  He  could  not 
separate  one  subject  of  reflection  from  another,  suflBcient- 
ly  to  dwell  upon  it,  by  itself,  for  a  minute  at  a  time. 
The  crash  of  his  project. for  the  gaining  of  a  voluptuous 
compensation  for  past  restraint ;  the  overthrow  of  his 
treachery  to  one  who  had  been  true  and  generous  to  him, 
but  whose  least  proud  word  and  look  he  had  treasured 
up,  at  interest,  for  years — for  false  and  subtle  men  will 


DOMBEY 

always  secretly  despise  and  dislike  the  object  upon 
which  they  fawn,  and  always  resent  the  payment  and 
receipt  of  homage  that  tliey  know  to  be  worthlcHS  ;  these 
were  tlie  tliemes  uppermost  in  liis  mind.  A  lurking 
rage  against  the  woman  who  had  so  cntraj)])ed  him  and 
avenged  herself  was  always  there  ;  crude  and  misshapen 
schemes  of  retaliation  upon  her,  floated  in  his  brani  ;  but 
nothing  was  distinct.  A  hurry  and  contradiction  per- 
vaded all  his  thouglits.  Even  while  he  was  so  busy 
with  this  fevered,  ineffectual  thinking,  his  one  constant 
idea  was,  that  he  would  postpone  reflection  until  some 
indefinite  time. 

Then,  the  old  days  before  the  second  marriage  rose  up 
in  his  remembrance.  He  thought  how  jealous  he  had 
been  of  the  boy,  how  jealous  he  had  been  of  the  girl, 
how  artfully  he  had  kept  intruders  at  a  distance,  and 
drawn  a  circle  round  his  dupe  that  none  but  himself 
should  cross  ,  and  then  he  thought,  had  he  done  all  this 
to  be  flying  now,  like  a  scared  thief,  froi^i  only  the  poor 
dupe  ? 

He  could  have  laid  hands  upon  himself  for  his  coward- 
ice, but  it  was  the  very  shadow  of  his  defeat,  and  could 
not  be  separated  from  it.  To  have  his  confidence  in  his 
own  knavery  so  shattered  at  a  blow — to  be  within  his 
own  knowledge  such  a  miserable  tool — was  like  being 
paralysed.  With  an  impotent  ferocity  he  raged  at  Edith, 
and  hated  Mr.  Dombey  and  hated  himself,  bat  still  he 
fled,  and  could  do  nothing  else. 

Agam  and  again  he  listened  for  the  sound  of  wheels 
behind.  Again  and  again  his  fancy  heard  it,  coming  on 
louder  and  louder.  At  last  he  was  so  persuaded  of  this, 
that  he  cried  out,  "  Stop  !  "  preferring  even  the  loss  of 
ground  to  such  uncertainty. 

The  word  soon  brought  carriage,  horses,  driver,  all  in 
aheap  together,  across  the  road. 

"The  devil!"  cried  the  driver,  looking  over  his 
shoulder.    "  What's  the  matter  ? " 

"Harkl    What's  that?" 

"  What?" 

"  That  noise." 

"  Ah  Heaven,  be  quiet,  cursed  brigand  !  "  to  a  horse 
who  shook  his  bells.    ' '  What  noise  ?  " 

"  Behind.  Is  it  not  another  carriage  at  a  gallop  ? 
There  !  what's  that?" 

"  Miscreant  with  a  pig's  head,  stand  still  !  "  to  an 
other  horse,  who  bit  another,  who  frightened  the  other 
two,  who  plunged  and  backed.       There  is  nothing 
coming." 

"  Nothing." 

"  No,  nothing  but  the  day  yonder." 
"  You  are  right,  I  think.    I  hear  nothing  now,  indeed. 
Goon  !" 

The  entangled  equipage,  half  hidden  in  the  reeking 
cloud  from  the  horses,  goes  on  slowly  at  first,  for  the 
driver,  checked  unnecessarily  in  his  jjrogress,  sulkily 
takes  out  a  pocket  knife,  and  puts  a  new  lash  to  his 
whip.  Then  "  Hallo,  whoop  !  Hallo,  hi  1  *'  Away  once 
more,  savagely. 

And  now  the  stars  faded,  and  the  day  glimmered,  and 
standing  in  the  carriage,  looking  back,  he  could  discern 
the  track  by  which  he  had  come,  and  see  that  there  was 
no  traveller  within  view,  on  all  the  heavy  expanse.  And 
soon  it  was  broad  day;  and  the  sun  began  to  shine  on 
corn-fields  and  vineyards  ;  and  solitary  labourers,  risen 
from  little  temporary  huts  by  heaps  of  stones  upon  the 
road,  were,  here  and  there,  at  work  repairing  the  high- 
way, or  eating  l)read.  By-and-by  there  were  peasants 
going  to  their  daily  labour,  or  to  market,  or  lounging  at 
the  doors  of  prior  cottages,  gazing  idly  at  him  as  he 
passed.  And  then  there  was  a  post-yard,  ankle-deep  in 
mud,  with  steaming  dung  hills  and  vast  outhouses 
half  ruined  ;  and  looking  on  this  dainty  prospect,  an 
immense,  old,  shapeless,  glaring,  stone  chateau,  with  half 
its  windows  blinded,  and  green  damp  crawling  lazily 
over  it,  from  the  balustraded  terrace  to  the  taper  tips  of 
the  extinguishers  upon  the  turrets. 

Gathered  up  moodily  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  and 
ovi\f  intent  on  going  fast — except  when  he  stood  up,  for 
a  mile  together,  and  looked  back  ;  which  he  would  do 
whenever  there  was  a  piece  of  open  country — he  went 
on,  still  postponing  thought  indefinitely,  and  still  always 
tormented  with  thinking  to  no  purpose. 


AND  SON.  655; 

Shame,  disappointment,  and  discomfiture  gnawed  at 
his  heart ,  a  constant  apprehension  of  being  overtaken, 
or  mot — for  he  was  groundlessly  afraid  even  of  travellers, 
who  came  towards  him  by  the  way  he  was  going — op- 
pressed liim  heavily.  The  same  intolerable  awe  and 
dread  that  had  come  upon  him,  in  the  night,  returned 
un weakened  in  the  day.  The  monotonous  ringing  of 
the  bells  and  tramping  of  the  horses  ;  the  monotony  of 
his  anxiety,  and  useless  rage  •,  the  monotonous  wheel  of 
fear,  regret,  and  passion,  he  kept  turning  round  and 
round  ;  made  the  journey  like  a  vision,  in  which  nothing 
was  quite  real  but  his  own  torment. 

It  was  a  vision  of  long  roads  ,  that  stretched  away 
to  an  horizon,  always  receding  and  never  gained  ;  of  ill- 
paved  towns,  up  hill  and  down,  where  faces  came  to 
dark  doors  and  ill-glazed  windows,  and  where  rows  of 
mud-bespattered  cows  and  oxen  were  tied  \\\)  for  sale  in 
the  long  narrow  streets,  butting  and  lowing,  and  receiv- 
ing blows  on  their  blunt  heads  from  bludgeons  that 
might  have  beaten  them  in;  of  bridges,  crosses,  churches, 
postyards,  new  horses  being  put  in  against  their  wills, 
and  the  horses  of  the  last  stage  reeking,  panting,  and 
laying  their  drooping  heads  together  dolefully  at  stable 
doors;  of  little  cemeteries  with  black  crosses  settled  side- 
ways in  the  graves,  and  withered  wreaths  upon  them 
dropping  away  ;  again  of  long,  long  roads,  dragging 
themselves  out,  up  hill  and  down,  to  the  treacherous 
horizon. 

Of  morning,  noon,  and  sunset  ;  night,  and  the  rising 
of  an  early  moon.  Of  long  roads  temporarily  left  be- 
hind, and  a  rough  pavement  readied  ;  of  battering  and 
clattering  over  it,  and  looking  up,  among  house-roofs,  at 
a  great  church-tower  ;  of  getting  out  and  eating  hastily, 
and  drinking  draughts  of  wine  that  had  no  cheering  influ- 
ence ;  of  coming  forth  afoot,  among  a  host  of  beggars — 
blind  men  with  quivering  eyelids,  led  by  old  women 
holding  candles  to  their  faces  ;  idiot  girls  ;  the  lame,  the 
epileptic,  and  the  palsied — of  passing  through  the  clam- 
our, and  looking  from  his  seat  at  the  upturned  counte- 
nances and  outstretched  hands,  with  a  hurried  dread  of 
recognising  some  pursuer  pressing  forward — of  gallop- 
ing away  again,  upon  the  long,  long  road,  gathered  up, 
dull  and  stunned,  in  his  corner,  or  rising  to  see  where 
the  moon  shone  faintly  on  a  patch  of  the  same  endless 
road  miles  away,  or  looking  back  to  see  who  followed. 

Of  never  sleeping,  but  sometimes  dozing  with  unclosed 
eyes,  and  springing  up  with  a  start,  and  a  reply  aloud 
to  an  imaginary  voice.  Of  cursing  himself  for  being 
there,  for  having  fled,  for  having  let  her  go,  for  not  hav- 
ing confronted  "and  defied  him.  Of  having  a  deadly 
quarrel  with  the  whole  world,  but  chiefly  with  himself. 
Of  blighting  everything  with  his  black  mood  as  he  was 
carried  on  and  awa3^ 

It  was  a  fevered  vision  of  things  past  and  present  all 
confounded  together,  of  his  life  and  journey  blended 
into  one.  Of  being  madly  hurried  somewhere,  whither 
he  must  go.  Of  old  scenes  starting  up  among  the  novel- 
ties through  which  he  travelled.  Of  musing  and  brood- 
ing over  what  was  past  and  distant,  and  seeming  to 
take  no  notice  of  the  actual  objects  he  encountered, 
but  with  a  wearisome  exhausting  consciousness  of  being 
bewildered  by  them,  and  having  their  images  all  crowd- 
ed in  his  hot  brain  after  they  were  gone. 

A  vision  of  change  upon  change,  and  still  the  same 
monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no 
rest.  Of  town  and  country,  postyards,  horses,  drivers, 
hill  and  valley,  light  and  darkness,  road  and  pavement, 
height  and  hollow,  wet  weather  and  dry,  and  still  the 
same  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet, 
and  no  rest.  A  vision  of  tending  on  at  last,  towards  the 
distant  capital,  by  busier  roads,  and  sweeping  round,  by 
old  cathedrals,  and  dashing  through  small  towns  and 
villages,  less  thinly  scattered  on  the  road  than  formerly, 
and  sitting  shrouded  in  his  corner,  with  his  cloak  up  to 
his  face  as  people  passing  by  looked  at  liim. 

or  rolling  on  and  on,  always  postponing  thought,  and 
always  racked  with  thinking  ;  of  being  unable  to  reckon 
up  the  hours  he  had  been  upon  the  road,  or  to  comprehend 
the  points  of  time  and  place  in  his  journey.  Of  being 
parched  and  giddy,  and  half  mad.  Of  pressing  on,  in 
spite  of  all,  as  if  he  could  not  stop,  and  coming  into 
Paris,  where  the  turbid  river  held  its  swift  course  un- 


656 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


disturbed,  between  two  brawling  streams  of  life  and 
motion. 

A  troubled  vision,  then,  of  bridges,  quays,  inter- 
minable  streets;  of  wine-shops,  water-carriers,  great 
crowds  of  people,  soldiers,  coaches,  military  drums,  ar- 
cades. Of  the  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels  and  horses' 
feet  being  at  length  lost  in  the  universal  din  and  uproar. 
Of  the  gradual  subsidence  of  that  noise  as  he  passed  out 
in  another  carriage  by  a  different  barrier  from  that 
which  he  had  entered.  Of  the  restoration,  as  he  travelled 
on  towards  the  sea-coast,  of  the  monotony  of  bells  and 
wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest. 

Of  sunset  once  again,  and  nightfall.  Of  long  roads 
again,  and  dead  of  night,  and  feeble  lights  in  windows 
by  the  roadside;  and  still  the  old  monotony  of  bells  and 
wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  Of  dawn,  and 
daybreak, and  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Of  toiling  slowly  up 
a  hill,  and  faelinof  on  its  top  the  fresh  sea-breeze  ;  and 
seeing  the  marning  light  upon  the  edges  of  the  distant 
waves.  Of  coming  down  into  a  harbour  when  the  tide 
was  at  its  full,  and  seeing  fishing-boats  float  in,  and  glad 
women  and  children  waiting  for  them.  Of  nets  and 
seamen's  clothes  spread  out  to  dry  upon  the  shore  ;  of 
bu.sy  sailors,  and  their  voices  high  among  ships'  masts 
and  rigging  ;  of  the  buoyancy  and  brightness  of  the 
water,  and  the  universal  sparkling. 

Of  receding  from  the  coast,  and  looking  back  upon  it 
from  the  dec-c  when  it  was  a  haze  upon  the  water,  with 
here  and  there  a  little  opening  of  bright  land  where  the 
Sun  struck.  Of  the  swell,  and  flash,  and  murmur  of  the 
calm  sea.  Of  another  gray  line  on  the  ocean,  on  the  ves- 
sel's track,  fait  growing  clearer  and  higher.  Of  cliffs 
and  buildings  and  a  windmill,  and  a  church,  becoming 
more  and  more  visible  upon  it.  Of  steaming  on  at  last 
into  smooth  water,  and  mooring  to  a  pier  whence  groups 
of  people  looked  down,  greeting  friends  on  board.  Of 
disembarking,  passing  among  them  quickly,  shunning 
every  one  ;  and  of  being  at  last  again  in  England. 

He  had  thought,  in  his  dream,  of  going  down  into  a 
remote  country  place  he  knew,  and  lying  quiet  there, 
while  he  secretly  informed  himself  of  what  transpired, 
and  determined  how  to  act.  Still  in  the  same  stunned 
condition,  he  remembered  a  certain  station  on  the  rail- 
way, where  he  would  have  to  branch  off  to  his  place  of 
destination,  and  where  there  was  a  quiet  inn.  Here  he 
indistinctly  resolved  to  tarry  and  rest. 

With  this  purpose  he  slunk  into  a  railway  carriage  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  and  lying  there  wrapped  in  his 
cloak  as  if  ho  were  asleep,  w^as  soon  borne  faraway  from 
the  sea,  and  deep  into  the  inland  green.  Arrived  at  his 
destination  he  looked  out,  and  surveyed  it  carefully.  He 
was  not  mistaken  in  his  impression  of  the  place.  It  was 
a  retired  spot,  on  the  borders  of  a  little  wood.  Only  one 
house,  newly-built,  or  altered  for  the  purpose,  stood 
there,  surrounded  by  its  neat  garden  ;  the  small  town 
that  was  neare  st,  was  some  miles  away.  Here  he  alighted 
then  ;  and  going  straight  into  the  tavern,  unobserved  by 
any  one,  secured  two  rooms  up-stairs  communicating 
with  each  other  and  sufficiently  retired. 

His  object  was  to  rest,  and  recover  the  command  of 
himself,  and  the  balance  of  his  mind.  Imbecile  discom- 
fiture and  rage — so  that,  as  he  walked  about  his  room, 
he  ground  his  teeth — had  complete  possession  of  him. 
His  thoughts,  not  to  be  stopped  or  directed,  still  wan- 
dered where  they  would,  and  dragged  him  after  them. 
He  was  stupefied  and  he  was  wearied  to  death. 

But,  as  if  there  were  a  curse  upon  him  that  he  should 
never  rest  again,  his  drowsy  senses  would  not  lose  their 
consciousness.  He  had  no  more  influence  with  them,  in 
this  regard,  than  if  they  had  been  another  man's.  It 
was  not  that  they  forced  him  to  take  note  of  present 
sounds  and  objects,  but  that  they  would  not  be  diverted 
from  the  whole  hurried  vision  of  his  journey.  It  was 
constantly  b(3fore  him  all  at  once.  She  stood  there,  with 
her  dark,  disdainful  eyes  again  upon  him  ;  and  he  was 
riding  on  nevertheless,  through  town  and  country,  light 
and  darkness,  wet  weather  and  dry,  over  road  and  pave- 
ment, hill  and  valley,  height  and  hollow,  jaded  and 
scared  by  the  monotony  of  bells,  and  wheels,  and  horses' 
feet,  and  no  nist. 

"What  day  is  this?"  he  asked  of  the  waiter,  who 
was  making  preparation  for  his  dinner. 


"  Day,  sir  ?  " 
"  Is  it  Wednesday?" 
"  Wednesday?   No  sir.    Thursday,  sir." 
"  I  forgot.    How  goes  the  time?    My  watch  is  un- 
wound." 

"Wants  a  few  minutes  of  five  o'clock,  sir.  Been 
travelling  a  long  time,  sir,  perhaps  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  By  rail,  sir?" 
"  Yes." 

"Very  confusing,  sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of 
travelling  by  rail  myself,  sir,  but  gentlemen  frequently 
say  so." 

"  Do  many  gentlemen  come  here  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  sir,  in  general.  Nobody  here  at  pres- 
ent. Rather  slack  just  now,  sir.  Everything  is  slack, 
sir. " 

He  made  no  answer  ;  but  had  risen  into  a  sitting  pos- 
ture on  the  sofa  where  he  had  been  lying,  and  leaned 
forward  with  an  arm  on  each  knee,  staring  at  the  ground. 
He  could  not  master  his  own  attention  for  a  minute  to- 
gether. It  rushed  away  where  it  would,  but  it  never, 
for  an  instant,  lost  itself  in  sleep. 

He  drank  a  quantity  of  wine  after  dinner,  in  vain.  No 
such  artificial  means  would  bring  sleep  to  his  eyes.  His 
thoughts,  more  incoherent,  dragged  him  more  unmerci- 
fully after  them — as  if  a  wretch,  condemned  to  such  ex- 
piation, were  drawn  at  the  heels  of  wild  horses.  No 
oblivion,  and  no  rest. 

How  long  he  sat  drinking  and  brooding,  and  being 
dragged  in  imagination  hither  and  thither,  no  one  could 
have  told  less  correctly  than  he.  But  he  knew  that  he 
had  been  sitting  a  long  time  by  candle-light,  when  he 
started  up  and  listened,  in  a  sudden  terror. 

For  now,  indeed,  it  was  no  fancy.  The  ground  shook, 
the  house  rattled,  the  fierce  impetuous  rush  was  in  the 
air  !  He  felt  it  come  up,  and  go  darting  by  ;  and  even 
when  he  had  hurried  to  the  window,  and  saw  what  it 
was,  he  stood,  shrinking  from  it,  as  if  it  were  not  safe  to 
look. 

A  curse  upon  the  fiery  devil,  thundering  along  so 
smoothly,  tracked  through  the  distant  valley  by  a  glare 
of  light  and  lurid  smoke,  and  gone  I  He  fell  as  if  he  had 
been  plucked  out  of  its  path,  and  saved  from  being  torn 
asunder.  It  made  him  shrink  and  shudder  even  now, 
when  its  faintest  hum  was  hushed,  and  when  the  lines 
of  iron  road  he  could  trace  in  the  moonlight,  running  to 
a  point,  were  as  empty  and  as  silent  as  a  desert. 

Unable  to  rest,  and  irresistibly  attracted — or  he  thought 
so — to  this  road,  he  went  out,  and  lounged  on  the  brink 
of  it,  marking  the  way  the  train  had  gone,  by  the  yet 
smoking  cinders  that  were  lying  in  its  track.  After  a 
lounge  of  some  half  hour  in  the  direction  by  which  it 
had  disappeared,  he  turned  and  walked  the  other  way — 
still  keeping  to  the  brink  of  the  road — past  the  inn  gar- 
den, and  a  long  way  down  ;  looking  curiously  at  the 
bridges,  signals,  lamps,  and  wondering  when  another 
Devil  would  come  by. 

A  trembling  of  the  ground,  a  quick  vibration  in  his 
ears  ;  a  distant  shriek  ;  a  dull  light  advancing,  quickly 
changed  to  two  red  eyes,  and  a  fierce  fire,  dropping  glow- 
ing coals  ;  an  irresistible  bearing  on  of  a  great  roaring 
and  dilating  mass  ;  a  high  wind,  and  a  rattle — another 
come  and  gone,  and  he  holding  to  a  gate,  as  if  to  save 
himself  ! 

He  waited  for  another,  and  for  another.  He  walked 
back  to  his  former  point,  and  back  again  to  that,  and  still, 
through  the  wearisome  vision  of  his  journey,  looked  for 
these  approaching  monsters.  He  loitered  about  the  sta- 
tion, waiting  until  one  should  stay  to  call  there  ;  and 
when  one  did,  and  was  detached  for  water,  he  stood  par- 
allel with  it,  watching  its  heavy  wheels  and  brazen  front, 
and  thinking  what  a  cruel  power  and  might  it  had.  Ugh  ! 
To  see  the  great  wheels  slowly  turning,  and  to  think  of 

1  being  run  down  and  crushed  ! 

Disordered  with  wine  and  want  of  rest— that  want 
which  nothing,  although  he  was  so  weary,  would  appease 
— these  ideas  and  objects  assumed  a  diseased  importance 

I  in  his  thoughts.    When  he  went  back  to  his  room,  which 

'  was  not  until  near  midnight,  they  still  haunted  him,  and 

I  he  sat  listening  for  the  coming  of  another. 

1    So  in  his  bed,  whither  he  repaired  with  no  hope  of 


DOMBEY 

sleep.  He  still  lay  listening  ;  and  wlien  he  folt  the  trem- 
bling- and  vibration,  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  to 
watch  (as  he  could  from  its  position)  the  dull  light  chang- 
ing to  the  two  red  eyes,  and  the  fierce  fire  dropping  glow- 
ing coals,  and  the  rush  of  the  giant  as  it  tied  past,  and 
the  track  of  glare  and  smoke  along  the  valley.  Then  he 
would  glance  in  the  direction  by  which  he  intended  to 
depart  at  sunrise,  as  there  was  no  rest  for  him  there  ; 
and  would  lie  down  again,  to  be  troubled  by  the  vision  of 
his  journey,  and  the  old  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels 
and  horses'  feet,  until  another  came.  This  lasted  all 
night.  So  far  from  resuming  the  mastery  of  himself,  he 
seemed,  if  possible,  to  lose  it  more  and  mere,  as  the  night 
crept  on.  When  the  dawn  appeared,  he  was  still  tor- 
mented with  thinking,  still  postponing  thought  until  he 
should  be  in  a  better  state  ;  the  past,  present,  and  future 
all  floated  confusedly  before  him,  and  he  had  lost  all 
power  of  looking  steadilj^  at  any  one  of  them. 

At  what  time,"  he  asked  the  man  who  had  waited  on 
him  over-night,  now  entering  with  the  candle,  "  do  I  leave 
here,  did  you  say  ?  " 

''About  a  quarter  after  four,  sir.  Express  comes 
through  at  four,  sir. — Don't  stop." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  throbbing  head,  and 
looked  at  his  watch.    Nearly  half-past  three. 

"  Nobody  going  with  you,  sir,  probably,"  observed  the 
man.  "  Two  gentlemen  here,  sir,  bat  they're  waiting  for 
the  train  to  London." 

"  I  thought  you  said  there  was  nobody  here,"  said  Car- 
ker,  turning  upon  him  with  the  ghost  of  his  old  smile, 
when  he  was  angry  or  suspicious. 

' '  Not  then,  sir.  Two  gentlemen  came  in  the  night  by 
the  short  train  that  stops  here,  sir.    Warm  water,  sir  ?  " 

"  No  ;  and  take  away  the  candle.  There's  day  enough 
for  me." 

Having  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed,  half-dressed,  he 
was  at  the  window  as  the  man  left  the  room.  The  cold 
light  of  morning  had  succeeded  to  night,  and  there  was, 
already,  in  the  sky,  the  red  suffusion  of  the  coming  sun. 
He  bathed  his  head  and  face  with  water — there  was  no 
cooling  influence  in  it  for  him — hurriedly  put  on  his 
clothes,  paid  what  he  owed,  and  went  out. 

The  air  struck  chill  and  comfortless  as  it  breathed 
upon  him.  There  was  a  heavy  dew  ;  and,  hot  as  he  was,  it 
made  him  shiver.  After  a  glance  at  the  place  where  he 
had  walked  last  night,  and  at  the  signal -lights  burning 
feebly  in  the  morning,  and  bereft  of  their  significance, 
he  turned  to  where  the  sun  was  rising,  and  beheld  it,  in 
its  glory,  as  it  broke  upon  the  scene. 

So  awful,  so  transcendent  in  its  beauty,  so  divinely  sol- 
emn. As  he  cast  his  faded  eyes  upon  it,  where  it  rose, 
tranquil  and  serene,  unmoved  by  all  the  wrong  and  wick- 
edness on  which  its  beams  had  shone  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world,  who  shall  say  that  some  weak  sense  of  vir- 
tue upon  Earth,  and  its  reward  in  Heaven,  did  not  mani- 
fest itself,  even  to  him  ?  If  ever  he  remembered  sister 
or  brother  with  a  touch  of  tenderness  and  remorse,  who 
shall  say  it  was  not  then  ? 

He  needed  some  such  touch  then.  Death  was  on  him. 
He  was  marked  off  from  the  living  world,  and  going 
down  into  his  grave. 

He  paid  the  money  for  his  journey  to  the  country- 
place  he  had  thought  of  ;  and  was  walking  to  and  fro, 
alone,  looking  along  the  lines  of  iron,  across  the  valley  in 
one  direction,  and  towards  a  dark  bridge  near  at  hand  in 
the  other  ;  when,  turning  in  his  walk,  where  it  was 
bounded  by  one  end  of  the  wooden  stage  on  which  he 
paced  up  and  down,  he  saw  the  man  from  whom  he  had 
fied,  emerging  from  the  door  by  which  he  himself  had 
entered  there.    And  their  eyes  met. 

In  the  quick  unsteadiness  of  the  surprise,  he  staggered, 
and  slipped  on  the  road  below  him.  But  recovenng  his 
feet  immediately,  he  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  upon 
that  road,  to  interpose  some  wider  space  between  them, 
and  looked  at  his  pursuer,  breathing  short  and  quick. 

He  heard  a  shout — another — saw  the  face  change  from 
its  vindictive  passion  to  a  faint  sickness  and  terror — 
felt  the  earth  tremble — knew  in  a  moment  that  the  rush 
was  come — uttered  a  shriek — looked  round — saw  the  red 
eyes,  bleared  and  dim,  in  the  daylight,  close  upon  him — 
was  beaten  down,  caught  up,  and  whirled  away  upon  a 
jagged  mill,  that  spun  him  round  and  round,  and  struck 
Vol.  n.— 43 


AND  SON,  657 

him  limb  from  limb,  and  licked  his  stream  of  life  up 
with  its  fiery  heat,  and  cast  his  mutilated  fragments  in 
the  air. 

When  the  traveller  who  had  been  recognised,  recover- 
ed from  a  swoon,  he  saw  them  bringing  from  a  distance 
something  covered,  that  lay  heavy  and  still,  upon  a 
board,  between  four  men,  and  saw  that  others  drove 
some  dogs  away  that  sniffed  upon  the  road,  and  soaked 
his  blood  up,  with  a  train  of  ashes. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

Several  People  delighted,  and  tlie  Oame  Chicken  disgusted. 

The  Midshipman  was  all  alive.  Mr.  Toots  and  Susan 
had  arrived  at  last.  Susan  had  run  up-stairs  likeayoung 
woman  bereft  of  her  senses,  and  Mr.  Toots  and  the 
Chicken  had  gone  into  the  parlour. 

"  Oh  my  own  pretty  darling  sweet  Miss  Floy  !  "  cried 
the  Nipper,  running  into  Florence's  room,  "  to  think  that 
it  should  come  to  this  and  I  should  find  you  here  my  own 
dear  dove  with  nobody  to  wait  upon  you  and  no  home 
to  call  your  own  but  never,  never  will  I  go  away  again 
Miss  Floy  for  though  I  may  not  gather  moss  I'm  not  a 
rolling  stone  nor  is  my  heart  a  stone  or  else  it  wouldn't 
bust  as  it  is  busting  now  oh  dear  oh  dear  ! " 

Pouring  out  these  words  without  the  faintest  indica- 
tion of  a  stop,  of  any  sort,  Miss  Nipper,  on  her  knees 
beside  her  mistress,  hugged  her  close. 

"Oh  love  !"  cried  Susan,  "I  know  all  that's  past,  I 
know  it  all  my  tender  pet  and  I'm  a  choking  give  me 
air  ! " 

"  Susan,  dear  good  Susan  !"  said  Florence. 

"  Oh  bless  her  !  I  that  was  her  little  maid  when  she 
was  a  little  child  !  and  is  she  really,  really  truly  going 
to  be  married  !"  exclaimed  Susan,  in  a  burst  of  pain  and 
pleasure,  pride  and  grief,  and  Heaven  knows  how  many 
other  conflicting  feelings. 

"  Who  told  you  so?"  said  Florence. 

"  Oh  gracious  me  !  that  innocentest  creetur  Toots," 
returned  Susan  hysterically.  "I  knew  he  must  be 
right  my  dear,  because  he  took  on  so.  He's  the  devot- 
edest  and  innocentest  infant  !  And  is  my  darling," 
pursued  Susan,  Avith  another  close  embrace  and  burst  of 
tears,  "  really,  really  going  to  be  married  !  " 

The  mixture  of  compassion,  pleasure,  tenderness,  pro- 
tection, and  regret  with  which  the  Nipper  constantly 
recurred  to  this  subject,  and  at  every  such  recurrence, 
raised  her  head  to  look  in  the  young  face  and  kiss  it, 
and  then  laid  her  head  again  upon  her  mistress's  shoul- 
der, caressing  her  and  sobbing,  was  as  womanly  and  good 
a  thing,  in  its  way,  as  ever  was  seen  in  the  world. 

"  There,  there  !  "  said  the  soothing  voice  of  Florence 
presently.    "  Now  you're  quite  yourself,  dear  Susan  ! " 

Miss  Nipper,  sitting  down  upon  the  floor,  at  her  mis- 
tress's feet,  laughing  and  sobbing,  holding  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  and  patting  Di- 
ogenes with  the  other,  as  he  licked  her  face,  confessed 
to  being  more  composed,  and  laughed  and  cried  a  little 
more  in  proof  of  it. 

"  I — I — I  never  did  see  such  a  creetur  as  that  Toots," 
said  Susan,  "  in  all  my  born  days,  never  !" 

"  So  kind,"  suggested  Florence. 

''And  so  comic!"  Susan  sobbed.  "The  way  he's 
been  going  on  inside  with  me,  with  that  disrespectable 
Chicken  on  the  box  ! " 

"  About  what,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Florence,  timidly. 

"  Oh  about  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  Captain  Gills, 
and  you,  my  dear  Miss  Floy,  and  the  silent  tomb,"  said. 
Susan. 

"  The  silent  tomb  !  "  repeated  Florence. 

"He  says,"  here  Susan  burst  into  a  violent  hysterical 
laugh,  "  that  he'll  go  down  into  it  now,  immediately  and 
quite  comfortable,  but  bless  your  heart  my  dear  Miss 
Floy,  he  won't,  he's  a  great  deal  too  happy  in  seeing  other 
people  happy  for  that,  he  may  not  be  a  Solomon,"  pur- 
sued the  Nipper,  with  her  usual  volubility,  "  nor  do  I 
say  he  is,  but  this  I  do  say,  a  less  selfish  human  creetur 
human  nature  never  knew  !  " 

Miss  Nipper  being  still  hysterical,  laughed  immoder- 


658 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


ately  after  mating-  this  energetic  declaration,  and  then 
informed  Florence  that  he  was  waiting  below  to  see  Iier; 
which  would  be  a  rich  repayment  for  the  trouble  he  had 
had  in  his  late  expedition. 

Florence  entreated  Susan  to  beg  of  Mr.  Toots  as  a  fa- 
vour that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  thanking  him 
for  his  kindness  ;  and  Susan,  in  a  few  moments,  pro- 
duced that  young  gentleman,  still  very  much  dishev- 
elled in  appearance,  and  stammering  exceedingly. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  To  be  again  per- 
mitted to — to— gaze— at  least,  not  to  gaze,  but — I  don't 
exactly  know  what  I  was  going  to  say,  but  it's  of  no  con- 
sequence. " 

"I  have  to  thank  you  so  often,"  returned  Florence, 
giving  him  both  her  hands,  with  all  her  innocent  grati- 
tude beaming  in  her  face,  "  that  I  have  no  words  left, 
and  doa't  know  how  to  do  it." 

"Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots  in  an  awful  voice, 
"  if  it  was  possible  that  you  could,  consistently  with  your 
angelic  nature,  carse  me,  you  would — if  I  may  be  al- 
lowed to  say  so — floor  me  infinitely  less,  than  by  these 
undeserved  expressions  of  kindness.  Their  effect  upon 
me — is — but,"  said  Mr.  Toots  abruptly,  "this  is  a  digres- 
sion, and's  of  no  consequence  at  all." 

As  there  seemed  to  be  no  means  of  replying  to  this, 
but  by  thanking  him  again,  Florence  thanked  him  again. 

"  I  could  wish,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "to  take  this  oppor- 
tunity, Miss  Dombey,  if  I  might,  of  entering  into  a  word 
of  explanation.  I  should  have  had  the  pleasure  of — of 
returning  with  Susan  at  an  earlier  period  ;  but,  in  the 
first  place,  we  didn't  know  the  name  of  the  relation  to 
whose  house  she  had  gone,  and,  in  the  second,  as  she 
had  left  that  relation's  and  gone  to  another  at  a  distance, 
I  think  that  scarcely  anything  short  of  the  sagacity 
of  the  Chicken,  would  have  found  her  out  in  the  time." 

Florence  was  sure  of  it. 

"This,  however,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  is  not  the  point. 
The  company  of  Susan  has  been,  I  assure  you,  Miss 
Dombey,  a  consolation  and  satisfaction  to  me,  in  my 
state  of  mind,  more  easily  conceived,  than  described. 
The  journey  has  been  its  own  reward.  That,  how- 
ever, still,  is  not  the  point.  Miss  Dombey,  I  have  before 
observed  that  I  know  I  am  not  what  is  considered  a  quick 
person.  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  that.  I  don't  think 
anybody  could  be  better  acquainted  with  his  own — if 
it  was  not  too  strong  an  expression,  I  should  say  with 
the  thickness  of  his  own — head  than  myself.  But, 
Miss  Dombey,  I  do,  notwithstanding,  perceive  the  state 
of — of  things — with  Lieutenant  Walters.  Whatever 
agony  that  state  of  things  may  have  caused  me  (which 
is  of  no  consequence  at  all),  I  am  bound  to  say,  that 
Lieutenant  Walters  is  a  person  who  appears  to  be 
worthy  of  the  blessing  that  has  fallen  on  his — on  his 
brow.  May  he  wear  it  long,  and  appreciate  it,  as  a 
very  different,  and  very  unworthy  individual,  that  it  is  of 
no  consequence  to  name  would  have  done  !  That,  how- 
ever, still,  is  not  the  point.  Miss  Dombey,  Captain 
Gills  is  a  friend  of  mine  ;  and  during  the  interval  that 
is  now  elapsing,  I  believe  it  would  afford  Captain  Gills 
pleasure  to  see  me  occasionally  coming  backwards  and 
forwards  here.  It  would  afford  me  pleasure  so  to  come. 
But  I  cannot  forget  that  I  once  committed  myself,  fa- 
tally, at  the  corner  of  the  Square  at  Brighton  ;  and  if 
my  presence  will  be,  in  the  least  degree,  unpleasant 
to  you,  I  only  ask  you  to  name  it  to  me  now,  and 
assure  you  that  I  shall  perfectly  understand  you.  I 
shall  not  consider  it  at  all  unkind,  and  shall  only  be 
too  delighted  and  happy  to  be  honoured  with  your 
confidence  ! " 

"  Mr.  Toots,"  returned  Florence,  "if  you,  who  are  so 
old  and  true  a  friend  of  mine,  were  to  stay  away  from 
this  house  now,  you  would  make  me  very  unhappy.  It 
can  never,  never,  give  me  any  feeling  but  pleasure  to 
see  you." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  out  his 
pocket-handkerchief,  "if  I  shed  a  tear,  it  is  a  tear  of 
joy.  It  is  of  no  consequence,  and  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  I  may  be  allowed  to  remark,  after  what 
you  have  so  kindly  said,  that  it  is  not  my  intention  to 
neglect  my  person  any  longer." 

Florence  received  this  intimation  with  the  prettiest 
expression  of  perplexity  possible. 


"  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  shall  consider  it 
my  duty  as  a  fellow-creature  generally,  until  I  am 
claimed  by  the  silent  tomb,  to  make  the  best  of  myself, 
and  to — to  have  my  boots  as  brightly  polished,  as — as 
circumstances  will  admit  of.  This  is  the  last  time.  Miss 
Dombey,  of  my  intruding  any  observation  of  a  private 
and  personal  nature.  I  thank  you  very  much  indeed. 
If  I  am  not,  in  a  general  way,  as  sensible  as  my  friends 
could  wish  me  to  be,  or  as  I  could  wish  myself,  I  really 
am,  upon  my  word  and  honour,  particularly  sensible  of 
what  is  considerate  and  kind.  I  feel,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
in  an  impassioned  tone,  "  as  if  I  could  express  my  feel- 
ings, at  the  pi^sent  moment,  in  a  most  remarkable  man- 
ner, if — if — I  could  only  get  a  start." 

Appearing  not  to  get  it,  after  waiting  a  minute  or  two 
to  see  if  it  would  come,  Mr.  Toots  took  a  hasty  leave, 
and  went  below  to  seek  the  captain,  whom  he  found  in 
the  shop. 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "what  is  now  to 
take  place  between  us,  takes  place  under  the  sacred  seal 
of  confidence.  It  is  the  sequel.  Captain  Gills,  of  what 
has  taken  place  between  myself  and  Miss  Dombey,  up- 
stairs." 

"Alow  and  aloft,  eh,  my  lad?"  murmured  the  cap- 
tain. 

"Exactly  so.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  whose 
fervour  of  acquiescence  was  greatly  heightened  by  his 
entire  ignorance  of  the  captain's  meaning.  "  Miss  Dom- 
bey, I  believe,  Captain  Gills,  is  to  be  shortly  united  to 
Lieutenant  Walters  ?  " 

"Why,  ay,  my  lad.  We're  all  shipmets  here, — Wal'r 
and  sweetheart  will  be  jined  together  in  the  house  of 
bondage,  as  soon  as  the  askings  is  over,"  whispered 
Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  ear. 

"  The  askings.  Captain  Gills  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Toots. 

"  In  the  church,  down  yonder,"  said  the  captain, 
pointing  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"Oh  !    Yes  !  "  returned  Mr.  Toots. 

"  And  then,"  said  the  captain,  in  his  hoarse  whisper, 
and  tapping  Mr.  Toots  on  the  chest  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  and  falling  from  him  with  a  look  of  infinite  ad- 
miration, "  what  follers  ?  That  there  pretty  creetur,  as 
delicately  brought  up  as  a  foreign  bird,  goes  away  upon 
the  roaring  main  with  Wal'r  on  a  woyage  to  China." 

"  Lord,  Captain  Gills  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"Ay  !  "  nodded  the  captain.  "  The  ship  as  took  him 
up,  when  he  was  wrecked  in  the  hurricane  that  had 
drove  her  clean  out  of  her  course,  was  a  China  trader, 
and  Wal'r  made  the  woyage,  and  got  into  favour,  aboard 
and  ashore — being  as  smart  and  good  a  lad  as  ever 
stepped — and  so,  the  supercargo  dying  at  Canton,  he  got 
made  (having  acted  as  clerk  afore),  and  now  he's  super- 
cargo aboard  another  ship,  same  owners.  And  so,  you 
see,"  repeated  the  captain,  thoughtfully,  "the  pretty 
creetur  goes  away  upon  the  roaring  main  with  Wal'r,  on 
a  woyage  to  China." 

Mr.  Toots  and  Captain  Cuttle  heaVed  a  sigh  in  concert. 

"What  then?"  said  the  captain.  "She  loves  him 
true.  He  loves  her,  true.  Them  as  should  have  loved 
and  fended  of  her,  treated  of  her  like  the  beasts  as  per- 
ish. When  she,  cast  out  of  home,  come  here  to  me,  and 
dropped  upon  them  planks,  her  wownded  heart  was 
broke.  I  know  it.  I,  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  see  it.  There's 
nowt  but  true,  kind,  steady  love,  as  can  ever  piece  it  up 
again.  If  so  be  I  didn't  know  that,  and  didn't  know  as 
Wal'r  was  her  true  love,  brother,  and  she  is,  I'd  have 
these  here  blue  arms  and  legs  chopped  off,  afore  I'd  let 
her  go.  But  I  do  know  it,  and  what  then  ?  Why,  then, 
I  say,  Heaven  go  with  'em  both,  and  so  it  will  !  Amen  !" 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "let  me  have  the 
pleasure  of  shaking  hands.  You've  a  way  of  saying 
things,  that  gives  me  an  agreeable  warmth,  all  up  my 
back.,  /say  Amen.  You  are  aware.  Captain  Gills,  that 
I,  too,  have  adored  Miss  Dombey." 

"  Cheer  up  !  "  said  the  captain,  laying  his  hand  on 
Mr.  Toots's  shoulder.    "  Stand  by,  boy  !  " 

"  It  is  my  intention,  Captain  Gills,"  returned  the  spir- 
ited Mr.  Toots,  "to  cheer  up.  Also  to  stand  by,  as 
much  as  possible.  When  the  silent  tomb  shall  yawn. 
Captain  Gills,  I  shall  be  ready  for  burial  ;  not  before. 
But  not  being  certain,  just  at  present,  of  my  power  over 
myself,  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  and  what  I  shall  take 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


659 


it  as  a  particular  favour  if  you  will  mention  to  Lieuten- 
ant Walters,  is  as  follows." 

"  Is  as  follers,"  echoed  the  captain.    "  Steady  ! " 

"  Miss  Donibey  being  so  inexpressibly  kind,"  continued 
Mr.  Toots  with  watery  eyes,  "as  to  say  that  my  pres- 
ence is  the  reverse  of  disagreeable  to  her,  and  you  and 
everybody  here  being  no  less  forbearing  and  tolerant  to- 
wards one  who — who  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with 
momentary  dejection,  "  would  appear  to  have  been  born 
by  mistake,  I  shall  come  backwards  and  forwards  of  an 
evening,  during  the  short  time  we  can  all  be  together. 
But  what  I  ask  is  this.  If,  at  any  moment,  I  find  that  I 
cannot  endure  the  contemplation  of  Lieutenant  Walters's 
bliss,  and  should  rush  out,  I  hope,  Captain  Gills,  that 
you  and  he  will  both  consider  it  as  my  misfortune  and 
not  my  fault,  or  the  want  of  inward  conflict.  That 
you'll  feel  convinced  I  bear  no  malice  to  any  living 
creature — least  of  all  to  Lieutenant  Walters  himself — 
and  that  you'll  casually  remark  that  I  have  gone  out  for 
a  walk,  or  probably  to  see  what  o'clock  it  is  by  the  Roy- 
al Exchange.  Captain  Gills,  if  you  could  enter  into  this 
arrangement,  and  could  answer  for  Lieutenant  Walters, 
it  would  be  a  relief  to  my  feelings  that  I  should  think 
cheap  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  considerable  portion  of  my 
property," 

"  My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  "  say  no  more.  There 
ain't  a  colour  you  can  run  up,  as  won't  be  made  out,  and 
answered  to,  by  Wal'r  and  self." 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  my  mind  is  greatly 
relieved.  I  wish  to  preserve  the  good  opinion  of  all 
here.  I — I — mean  well,  upon  my  honour,  however  badly 
I  may  show  it.  You  know,"  said  Mr,  Toots,  "  it's  ex- 
actly as  if  Burgess  and  Co.  wished  to  oblige  a  customer 
with  a  most  extraordinary  pair  of  trousers,  and  could  not 
cut  out  what  they  had  in  their  minds." 

With  this  apposite  illustration,  of  which  he  seemed  a 
little  proud,  Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  blessing 
and  departied. 

The  honest  captain,  with  his  Heart's  Delight  in  the 
house,  and  Susan  tending  her,  was  a  beaming  and  a 
happy  man.  As  the  days  flew  by,  he  grew  more  beam- 
ing and  more  happy,  every  day.  AfteV  some  conferences 
with  Susan  (for  whose  wisdom  the  captain  had  a  pro- 
found respect,  and  whose  valiant  precipitation  of  herself 
on  Mrs,  MacStinger  he  could  never  forget),  he  proposed  | 
to  Florence  that  the  daughter  of  the  elderly  lady  who  j 
usually  sat  under  the  blue  umbrella  in  Leadenhall  Mar-  ' 
ket,  should,  for  prudential  reasons  and  considerations  of 
privacy,  be  superseded  in  the  temporary  discharge  of 
the  household  duties,  by  some  one  who  was  not  unknown 
to  them,  and  in  whom  they  could  safely  confide.  Susan, 
being  present,  then  named,  in  furtherance  of  a  sugges- 
tion she  had  previously  offered  to  the  captain,  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards. Florence  brightened  at  the  name.  And  Susan, 
setting  off  that  very  afternoon  to  the  Toodle  domicile,  to 
sound  Mrs,  Richards,  returned  in  triumph  the  same 
evening,  accompanied  by  the  identical  rosy-cheeked, 
apple- faced  Polly,  whose  demonstrations,  when  brought 
into  Florence's  presence,  were  hardly  less  affectionate 
than  those  of  Susan  Nipper  herself. 

This  piece  of  generalship  accomplished  ;  from  which 
the  captain  derived  uncommon  satisfaction,  as  he  did, 
indeed,  from  everything  else  that  was  done,  whatever 
it  happened  to  be  ;  Florence  had  next  to  prepare  Susan 
for  their  approaching  separation.  This  was  a  much 
more  difficult  task,  as  Miss  Nipper  was  of  a  resolute  dis- 
position, and  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  that  she  had 
come  back  never  to  be  parted  from  her  old  mistress  any 
more. 

"As  to  wages  dear  Miss  Floy,"  she  said,  "you 
wouldn't  hint  and  wrong  me  so  as  to  think  of  naming 
them,  for  I've  put  money  by  and  wouldn't  sell  my  love 
and  duty  at  a  time  like  this  even  if  the  Savings'  Banks 
and  me  were  total  strangers  or  the  Banks  were  broke  to 
pieces,  but  you've  never  been  without  me  darling  from 
the  time  your  poor  dear  ma  was  took  away,  and  though 
I'm  nothing  to  be  boasted  of,  you're  used  to  me  and  oh  my 
own  dear  mistress  through  so  many  years  don't  think  of 
oing  anywhere  without  me,  for  it  mustn't  and  it  can't 
e  I" 

"  Dear  Susan,  I  am  going  on  a  long,  long  voyage." 
"  Well  Miss  Floy,  and  what  of  that?  the  more  you'll 


want  me.  Length  of  voyages  ain't  an  object  in  my 
eyes,  thank  God  ! "  said  the  impetuous  Susan  Nipper, 

"  But  Susan,  I  am  going  with  Walter,  and  I  would  go 
with  Walter  anywhere — everywhere  !  Walter  is  poor, 
and  I  am  very  poor,  and  I  must  learn,  now,  both  to  help 
!  myself,  and  help  him." 

"Dear  Miss  Floy  ?"  cried  Susan,  bursting  out  afresh, 
and  shaking  her  head  violently,  "  it's  notliing  new  to 
you  to  help  yourself  and  others  too  and  be  the  patientest 
and  truest  of  noble  hearts,  but  let  me  talk  to  Mr.  Walter 
Gay  and  settle  it  with  him,  for  suffer  you  to  go  away 
across  the  v*^orld  alone  I  cannot,  and  I  won't." 

"Alone,  Susan?"  returned  Florence.  "Alone?  and 
Walter  taking  me  with  him  I"  Ah,  what  a  bright, 
ama/iCd,  enraptured  smile  was  on  her  face  I — He  should 
have  seen  it,  "I  am  sure  you  will  not  speak  to  Walter 
if  I  ask  you  not,"  she  added  tenderly  :  "  and  pray  don't, 
dear. " 

Susan  sobbed  "  Why  not.  Miss  Floy  V" 

"Because,"  said  Florence,  "I  am  going  to  be  his 
wife,  to  give  him  up  my  whole  heart,  and  to  live  with 
him  and  die  with  him.  He  might  think,  if  you  said  to 
him  what  you  have  said  to  me,  that  I  am  afraid  of  what 
is  before  me,  or  that  you  have  some  cause  to  be  afraid 
for  me.    Why,  Susan,  dear,  I  love  him  !  " 

Miss  Nipper  was  so  much  affected  by  the  quiet  fervour 
of  these  words,  and  the  simple,  heartfelt,  all-pervading 
earnestness  expressed  in  them,  and  making  the  speaker's 
face  more  beautiful  and  pure  than  ever,  that  she  could 
only  cling  to  her  again,  crying  Was  her  little  mistress 
really,  really  going  to  be  married,  and  pitying,  caressing, 
and  protecting  her,  as  she  had  done  before. 

But  the  Nipper,  though  susceptible  of  womanly  w^eak- 
nesses,  was  almost  as  capable  of  putting  constraint 
upon  herself  as  of  attacking  the  redoubtable  MacSting- 
er. From  that  time,  she  never  returned  to  the  subject, 
but  was  always  cheerful,  active,  bustling,  and  hopeful. 
She  did,  indeed,  inform  Mr.  Toots  privately,  that  she 
was  only  "keeping  up  "  for  the  time,  and  that  when  it 
was  all  over,  and  Miss  Dombey  was  gone,  she  might  be 
expected  to  become  a  spectacle  distressful  ;  and  Mr. 
Toots  did  also  express  that  it  was  his  case  too,  and  that 
they  would  mingle  their  tears  together  ;  but  she  never 
otherwise  indulged  her  private  feelings  in  the  presence 
of  Florence  or  within  the  precincts  of  the  Midshipman. 

Limited  and  plain  as  Florence's  wardrobe  was — what 
a  contrast  to  that  prepared  for  the  last  marriage  in 
which  she  had  taken  part ! — there  was  a  good  deal  to  do 
in  getting  it  ready,  and  Susan  Nipper  worked  away  at 
her  side,  all  day,  with  the  concentrated  zeal  of  fifty 
sempstresses.  The  wonderful  contributions  Captain 
Cuttle  would  have  made  to  this  branch  of  the  outfit  if 
he  had  been  permitted — as  pink  parasols,  tinted  silk 
stockings,  blue  shoes,  and  other  articles  no  less  neces- 
sary on  shipboard — would  occupy  some  space  in  the  re- 
cital. He  was  induced,  however,  by  various  fraudulent 
representations  to  limit  his  contributions  to  a  work-box 
and  dressing-case,  of  each  of  which  he  purchased  the 
very  largest  specimen  that  could  be  got  for  money.  For 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight  afterwards,  he  generally  sat, 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  gazing  at  these 
boxes  ;  divided  between  extreme  admiration  of  them,  and 
dejected  misgivings  that  they  were  not  gorgeous  enough, 
and  frequently  diving  out  into  the  street  to  purchase 
some  wild  article  that  he  deemed  necessary  to  their  com- 
pleteness. But  his  master  stroke  was,  the  bearing  of 
them  both  off,  suddenly,  one  morning,  and  getting  the 
two  words  Floeence  Gat  engraved  upon  a  brass  heart 
inlaid  over  the  lid  of  each.  After  this,  he  smoked  four 
pipes  successively  in  the  little  parlour  by  himself,  and 
was  discovered  chuckling,  at  the  expiration  of  as  many 
hours. 

Walter  was  busy  and  away  all  day,  but  came  there 
every  morning  early  to  see  Florence,  and  always  passed 
the  evening  with  her,  Florence  never  left  her  high 
rooms  but  to  steal  down-stairs  to  wait  for  him  when  it 
was  his  time  to  come,  or,  sheltered  by  his  proud,  encir- 
cling arm,  to  bear  him  company  to  the  door  again,  and 
sometimes  peep  into  the  street.  In  the  twilight  they 
were  always  together.  Oh  blessed  time  !  Oh  wander- 
ing heart  at  rest !  Oh  deep,  exhaustless,  mighty  well  of 
love,  in  which  so  much  was  sunk  I 


660 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


The  cruel  mark  was  on  lier  bosom  yet.  It  rose  against 
lier  father  with  the  breath  she  drew,  it  lay  between  her 
and  her  lover  when  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  But 
she  forgot  it.  In  the  beating  of  that  heart  for  her,  and 
in  the  beating  of  her  own  for  him,  all  harsher  music  was 
unheard,  all  stern  unloving  hearts  forgotten.  Fragile 
and  delicate  she  was,  but  with  a  might  of  love  within 
her  that  could,  and  did,  create  a  world  to  fly  to,  and  to 
rest  in,  out  of  his  own  image. 

How  often  did  the  great  house  and  the  old  days,  come 
before  her  in  the  twilight  time,  when  she  was  sheltered 
by  the  arm  so  proud,  so  fond,  and,  creeping  closer  to 
him,  shrunk  within  it  at  the  recollection  !  How  often, 
from  remembering  the  night  when  she  went  down  to 
that  room  and  met  the  never  to  be  forgotten  look,  did 
she  raise  her  eyes  to  those  that  watched  her  with  such 
loving  earnestness,  and  weep  with  happiness  in  such  a 
refuge  !  The  more  she  clung  to  it,  the  more  the  dear 
dead  child  was  in  her  thoughts  :  but  as  if  the  last  time 
she  had  seen  her  father,  had  been  when  he  was  sleeping 
and  she  kissed  his  face,  she  always  left  him  so,  and 
never,  in  her  fancy,  passed  that  hour. 

"Walter,  dear,"  said  Florence,  one  evening,  when  it 
was  almost  dark.  "Do  you  know  what  I  have  been 
thinking  to-day?" 

"  Thinking  how  the  time  is  flLying  on,  and  how  soon  | 
we  shall  be  upon  the  sea,  sweet  Florence? " 

"I  don't  mean  that,  Walter,  though  I  think  of  that 
too.    I  have  been  thinking  what  a  charge  I  am  to  you." 

"  A  precious,  sacred  charge,  dear  heart  !  Why  / 
think  that  sometimes." 

"  You  are  laughing,  Walter.  I  know  that's  much 
more  in  your  thoughts  than  mine.    But  I  mean  a  cost." 

"A  cost,  my  own?" 

"  In  money,  dear.  All  these  preparations  that  Susan 
and  I  are  so  busy  with — I  have  been  able  to  purchase 
very  little  for  myself.  You  were  poor  before.  But  how 
much  poorer  I  shall  make  you,  Walter  ! " 

"  And  how  much  richer,  Florence  ?" 

Florence  laughed,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Besides,"  said  Walter,  "  long  ago — before  I  went  to 
sea — I  had  a  little  purse  presented  to  me,  dearest,  which 
had  money  in  it." 

"  Ah  !  "  returned  Florence  laughing  sorrowfully,  "very 
little  !  Very  little,  Walter  !  But  you  must  not  think," 
and  here  she  laid  her  light  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
looked  into  his  face,  "  that  I  regret  to  be  this  burden  on 
you.  No,  dear  love,  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  am  happy  in  it. 
I  wouldn't  have  it  otherwise  for  all  the  world  ! " 

"Nor  I,  indeed,  dear  Florence." 

"Ay  !  Bat  Walter,  you  can  never  feel  it  as  I  do.  I 
am  so  proud  of  you  !  It  makes  my  heart  swell  with 
such  delight  to  know  that  those  who  speak  of  you  must 
say  you  married  a  poor  disowned  girl,  Avho  had  taken 
shelter  here  ;  who  had  no  other  home,  no  other  friends  ; 
who  had  nothing — nothing  !*  Oh  Walter,  if  I  could 
have  brought  you  millions,  I  never  could  have  been  so 
happy  for  your  sake,  as  I  am  !  " 

"And  you,  dear  Florence  ?  are  you  nothing  ?  "  he  re- 
turned. 

"  No,  nothing,  Walter.   Nothing  but  your  wife. "   The  I 
light  hand  stole  about  his  neck,  and  the  voice  came 
nearer — nearer.    "  I  am  nothing  any  more,  that  is  not 
you.    I  have  no  earthly  hope  any  more,  that  is  not  yon. 
I  have  nothing  dear  to  me  any  more,  that  is  not  you." 

Oh  !  well  might  Mr.  Toots  leave  the  little  company 
that  evening,  and  twice  go  out  to  correct  his  watch  by 
the  Royal  Exchange,  and  once  to  keep  an  appointment 
with  a  banker  which  he  suddenly  remembered,  and  once 
to  take  a  little  turn  to  Aldgate  Pump  and  back  ! 

But  before  he  went  upon  these  expeditions,  or  indeed 
before  he  came,  and  before  lights  were  brought,  Walter 
said  : 

"  Florence  love,  the  lading  of  our  ship  is  nearly  fin- 
ished, and  probably  on  the  very  day  of  our  marriage  she 
will  drop  down  the  river.  Shall  we  go  away  that 
morning,  and  stay  in  Kent  until  we  go  on  board  at 
Gravesend  within  a  week  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  Walter.  I  shall  be  happy  anywhere. 
But—.'" 

"  Yes,  my  life?" 

"  You  know,"  said  Florence,  "  that  we  shall  have  no 


marriage  party,  and  that  nobody  will  distinguish  us  by 
our  dress  from  other  people.  As  we  leave  the  same  day, 
will  you — will  you  take  me  somewhere  that  morning 
Walter — early — before  we  go  to  church  ?" 

Walter  seemed  to  understand  her,  as  so  true  a  lover 
so  truly  loved  should,  and  confirmed  his  ready  promise 
with  a  kiss — with  more  than  one  perhaps,  or  two  or  three, 
or  five  or  six  ;  and  in  the  grave,  calm,  peaceful  evening, 
Florence  was  very  happy. 

Then  into  the  quiet  room  came  Susan  Nipper  and  the 
candles  ;  shortly  afterwards,  the  tea,  the  captain,  and 
the  excursive  Mr.  Toots,  who,  as  above  mentioned,  was 
frequently  on  the  move  afterwards,  and  passed  but  a 
restless  es^ening.  This,  however,  was  not  his  habit  :  for 
he  generally  got  on  very  well,  by  dint  of  playing  at 
cribbage  with  the  captain  under  the  advice  and  guidance 
of  Miss  Nipper,  and  distracting  his  mind  with  the  calcu- 
lations incidental  to  the  game  ;  which  he  found  to  be  a 
very  effectual  means  of  utterly  confounding  himself. 

The  captain's  visage  on  these  occasions  presented  one 
of  the  finest  examples  of  combination  and  succession  of 
expression  ever  observed.  His  instinctive  delicacy  and 
his  chivalrous  feeling  towards  Florence,  taught  him  that 
it  was  not  a  time  for  any  boisterous  jollity,  or  violent 
display  of  satisfaction.  Certain  floating  reminiscences 
I  of  Lovely  Peg,  on  the  other  hand,  were  constantly  strug- 
gling for  a  vent,  and  urging  the  captain  to  commit  him- 
self by  some  irreparable  demonstration.  Anon,  his  ad- 
miration of  Florence  and  Walter — well-matched  truly, 
and  full  of  grace  and  interest  in  their  youth,  and  love, 
and  good  looks,  as  they  sat  apart — would  take  such  com- 
plete possession  of  him,  that  he  would  lay  down  his  cards, 
and  beam  upon  them,  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with 
his  pocket-handkerchief  ;  until  warned,  perhaps,  by  the 
sudden  rushing  forth  of  Mr.  Toots,  that  he  had  uncon- 
sciously been  very  instrumental  indeed,  in  making  that 
gentleman  miserable.  This  reflection  would  make  the 
captain  profoundly  melancholy,  until  the  return  of  Mr. 
Toots  ;  when  he  would  fall  to  his  cards  again,  with 
many  side  winks  and  nods,  and  polite  waves  of  his  hook 
at  Miss  Nipper,  importing  that  he  wasn't  going  to  do  so 
any  more.  The  state  that  ensued  on  this,  was,  perhaps, 
his  best  ;  for  then,  endeavouring  to  discharge  all  expres- 
sion from  his  face,  he  would  sit  staring  round  the  room, 
with  all  these  expressions  conveyed  into  it  at  once,  and 
each  wrestling  with  the  other.  Delighted  admiration  of 
Florence  and  Walter  always  overthrew  the  rest,  and 
remained  victorious  and  undisguised,  unless  Mr.  Toots 
made  another  rush  into  the  air,  and  then  the  captain 
would  sit,  like  a  remorseful  culprit,  until  he  came  back 
again,  occasionally  calling  upon  himself, in  a  low  reproach- 
ful voice,  to  "  Stand  by  ! "  or  growling  some  remon- 
strance to  "  Ed'ard  Cuttle  my  lad,"  on  the  want  of  cau- 
tion observable  in  his  behaviour. 

One  of  Mr.  Toots's  hardest  trials,  however,  was  of  his 
own  seeking.  On  the  approach  of  the  Sunday  which  was 
to  witness  the  last  of  those  askings  in  church  of  which  the 
captain  had  spoken,  Mr.  Toots  thus  stated  his  feelings 
to  Susan  Nipper. 

"  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  am  drawn  towards  the 
I  building.  The  words  which  cut  me  off  from  Miss  Dombey 
for  ever,  will  strike  upon  my  ears  like  a  knell  you  know, 
but  upon  my  word  and  honour,  I  feel  that  I  must  hear 
them.  Therefore,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "will  you  accom- 
pany me  to-morrow,  to  the  sacred  edifice?  " 

Miss  Nipper  expressed  her  readiness  to  do  so,  if  that 
would  be  any  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Toots,  but  besought 
him  to  abandon  his  idea  of  going. 

"  Susan,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  with  much  solemnity, 
"before  my  whiskers  began  to  be  observed  by  any- 
body but  myself,  I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  While  yet 
a  victim  to  the  thraldom  of  Blimber,  I  adored  Miss 
Dombey.  When  I  could  no  longer  be  kept  out  of  my 
property,  in  a  legal  point  of  view,  and — and  accordingly 
came  into  it — I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  The  banns  which 
consign  her  to  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  me  to— to  Gloom 
you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  after  hesitating  for  a  strong 
expression,  "  may  be  dreadful,  will  be  dreadful  ;  but  I 
feel  that  I  should  wish  to  hear  them  spoken.  I  feel 
that  I  should  wish  to  know,  that  the  ground  was  certain- 
ly cut  from  under  me,  and  that  I  hadn't  a  hope  to  cher- 
ish, or  a — or  a  leg,  in  short,  to — to  go  upon." 


DOMBEY 

Susan  Nipper  could  only  commiserate  Mr.  Toots's  un- 
fortunate condition,  and  agree,  under  these  circumstances, 
to  accompany  him  ;  wliich  she  did  next  morning. 

The  church  Walter  had  chosen  for  the  purpose,  was  a 
mouldy  old  church  in  a  yard,  hemmed  in  by  a  labyrinth 
of  back  streets  and  courts,  with  a  little  burying-ground 
round  it,  and  itself  buried  in  a  kind  of  vault  formed 
by  the  neighbouring  houses,  and  paved  with  echoing 
stones.  It  was  a  great  dim,  shabby  pile,  with  high  old 
oaken  pews,  among  which  about  a  score  of  people  lost 
themselves  every  Sunday  ;  while  the  clergyman's  voice 
drowsily  resounded  through  the  emptiness,  and  the 
organ  rumbled  and  rolled  as  if  the  church  had  got  the 
colic,  for  want  of  a  congregation  to  keep  the  wind  and 
damp  out.  But  so  far  was  this  City  church  from  lan- 
guishing for  the  company  of  other  churches,  that  spires 
were  clustered  round  it,  as  the  masts  of  shipping  clus- 
ter on  the  river.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  count  them 
from  its  steeple-top,  they  were  so  many.  In  almost  every 
yard  and  blind-place  near,  there  was  a  church.  The 
confusion  of  bells  when  Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  betook 
themselves  towards  it  on  the  Sunday  morning,  was  deaf- 
ening. There  were  twenty  churches  close  together, 
clamouring  for  people  to  come  in. 

The  two  stray  sheep  in  question  were  penned  by  a 
beadle  in  a  commodious  pew,  and,  being  early,  sat  for 
some  time  counting  the  congregation,  listening  to  the 
disappointed  bell  high  up  in  the  tower,  or  looking  at  a 
shabby  little  old  man  in  the  porch  behind  the  screen,  who 
was  ringing  the  same,  like  the  bull  in  Cock  Robin, 
with  his  foot  in  the  stirrup.  Mr.  Toots,  after  a  length- 
ened survey  of  the  large  books  on  the  reading-desk, 
whispered  Miss  Nipper  that  he  wondered  where  the 
banns  were  kept,  but  that  young  lady  merely  shook  her 
head  and  frowned  ;  repelling  for  the  time  all  approaches 
of  a  temporal  nature. 

Mr.  Toots,  however,  appearing  unable  to  keep  his 
thoughts  from  the  banns,  was  evidently  looking  out  for 
them  during  the  whole  preliminary  portion  of  the  ser- 
vice. As  the  time  for  reading  them  approached,  the 
poor  young  gentleman  manifested  great  anxiety  and 
trepidation,  which  was  not  diminished  by  the  unexpect- 
ed apparition  of  the  captain  in  the  front  row  of  the 
gallery.  When  the  clerk  handed  up  a  list  to  the  clergy- 
man, Mr.  Toots  being  then  seated,  held  on  by  the  seat 
of  the  pew ;  but  when  the  names  of  Walter  Gay  and 
Florence  Dombey  were  read  aloud  as  being  in  the  third 
and  last  stage  of  that  association,  he  was  so  entirely  con- 
quered by  his  feelings  as  to  rush  from  the  church  with- 
out his  hat,  followed  by  the  beadle  and  pew-opener  and 
two  gentlemen  of  the  medical  profession,  who  happened 
to  be  present ;  of  whom  the  first-named  presently  re- 
turned for  that  article,  informing  Miss  Nipper  in  a 
whisper  that  she  was  not  to  make  herself  uneasy  about 
the  gentleman,  as  the  gentleman  said  his  indisposition 
was  of  no  consequence. 

Miss  Nipper  feeling  that  the  eyes  of  that  integral  por- 
tion of  Europe  which  lost  itself  weekly  among  the  high- 
backed  pews  were  upon  her,  would  have  been  sufficiently 
embarrassed  by  this  incident,  though  it  had  terminated 
here  ;  the  more  so,  as  the  captain  in  the  front  row  of 
the  gallery,  was  in  a  state  of  unmitigated  consciousness 
which  could  hardly  fail  to  express  to  the  congregation 
that  he  had  some  mysterious  connexion  with  it.   But  the 
extreme  restlessness  of  Mr.  Toots  painfully  increased 
and  protracted  the  delicacy  of. her  situation.  That  young 
gentleman,  incapable,  in  his  state  of  mind,  of  remaining 
alone  in  the  church-yard,  a  prey  to  solitary  meditation, 
and  also  desirous,  no  doubt,  of  testifying  his  respect  for 
the  offices  he  had  in  some  measure  interrupted,  suddenly 
returned— not  coming  back  to  the  pew,  but  stationing 
himself  on  a  free-seat  in  the  aisle,  between  two  elderly 
'    females  who  were  in  the  habit  of  receiving  their  portion 
1   of  a  weekly  dole  of  bread  then  set  forth  on  a  shelf  in 
I   the  porch.     In  this  conjunction  Mr.  Toots  remained, 
i   greatly  disturbing  the  congregation,  who  felt  it  impossi- 
I   ble  to  avoid  looking  at  him,  until  his  feelings  overcame 
I   him  again,  when  he  departed  silently  and  suddenly. 
I   Not  venturing  to  trust  himself  in  the  church  any  more, 
I   and  yet  wishing  to  have  some  social  participation  in 
j   what  was  going  on  there,  Mr.  Toots  was,  after  this,  seen 
[  from  time  to  time,  looking  in,  with  a  lorn  aspect,  at  one 


AND  SOJSr.  661 

or  other  of  the  windows  ;  and  as  there  were  several 
windows  accessible  to  him  from  without,  and  as  his  rest- 
lessness was  very  great,  it  not  only  became  difficult  to 
conceive  at  which  window  he  would  appear  next,  but 
likewise  became  necessary,  as  it  were,  for  the  whole 
congregation  to  speculate  upon  the  chances  of  the  differ- 
ent windows,  during  the  comparative  leisure  afforded 
them  by  the  sermon.  Mr.  Toots's  movements  in  the 
church-yard  were  so  eccentric,  that  he  seemed  generally 
to  defeat  all  calculation,  and  to  appear,  like  the  conjuror's 
figure,  where  he  was  least  expected  :  and  the  effect  of 
these  mysterious  presentations  was  much  increased  by 
its  being  difficult  to  him  to  see  in,  and  easy  to  everybody 
else  to  see  out  :  which  occasioned  his  remaining,  every 
time,  longer  than  might  have  been  expected,  with  his 
face  close  to  the  glass,  until  he  all  at  once  became  aware 
that  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  vanished. 

These  proceedings  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  the 
strong  individual  consciousness  of  them  that  was  exhib- 
ited by  the  captain,  rendered  Miss  Nipper's  position  so 
responsible  a  one,  that  she  was  mightily  relieved  by  the 
conclusion  of  the  service,  and  was  hardly  so  affable  to 
Mr.  Toots  as  usual,  when  he  informed  her  and  the  cap- 
tain, on  the  way  back,  that  now  he  was  sure  he  had  no 
hope,  you  know,  he  felt  more  comfortable — at  least  not 
exactly  more  comfortable,  but  more  comfortably  and 
completely  miserable. 

Swiftly  now,  indeed,  the  time  flew  by,  until  it  was 
the  evening  before  the  day  appointed  for  the  marriage. 
They  were  all  assembled  in  the  upper  room  at  the  Mid- 
shipman's, and  had  no  fear  of  interruption  ;  for  there 
were  no  lodgers  in  the  house  now,  and  the  Midshipman 
had  it  all  to  himself.  They  were  grave  and  quiet  in  the 
prospect  of  to-morrow, but  moderately  cheerful  too.  Flor- 
ence, with  Walter  close  beside  her, was  finishing  a  little 
piece  of  work  intended  as  a  parting  gift  to  the  captain. 
The  captain  was  playing  cribbage  with  Mr.  Toots,  Mr. 
Toots  was  taking  counsel  as  to  his  hand  of  Susan  Nip- 
per. Miss  Nipper  was  giving  it,  with  all  due  secrecy  and 
circumspection.  Diogenes  was  listening,  and  occasion- 
ally breaking  out  into  a  gruff,  half -smothered  fragment 
of  a  bark,  of  which  he  afterwards  seemed  half-ashamed, 
as  if  he  doubted  having  anj'  reason  for  it. 

"Steady,  steady!"  said  the  captain  to  Diogenes, 
"  what's  amiss  with  you?  You  don't  seem  easy  in  your 
mind  to-night,  my  boy  ! " 

Diogenes  wagged  his  tail,  but  pricked  up  his  ears  im- 
mediately afterwards,  and  gave  utterance  to  another 
fragment  of  a  bark  ;  for  which  he  apologised  to  the  cap- 
tain, by  again  wagging  his  tail. 

"It's  my  opinion,  Di,"  said  the  captain,  looking 
thoughtfully  at  his  cards,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  his 
hook,  "  as  you  have  your  doubts  of  Mrs.  Richards  ;  but 
if  you're  the  animal  I  take  you  to  be,  you'll  think  better 
o'  that  ;  for  her  looks  is  her  commission.  Now,  bro- 
ther :"  to  Mr.  Toots:  "if  so  be  as  you're  ready,  heave 
ahead." 

The  captain  spoke  with  all  composure  and  attention  to 
the  game,  but  suddenly  his  cards  dropped  out  of  his 
hand,  his  mouth  and  eyes  opened  wide,  his  legs  drew 
themselves  up  and  struck  out  in  front  of  his  chair,  and 
he  sat  staring  at  the  door  with  blank  amazement.  Look- 
ing round  upon  the  company,  and  seeing  that  none  of 
them  observed  him  or  the  cause  of  his  astonishment,  the 
captain  recovered  himself  with  a  great  gasp,  struck  the 
table  a  tremendous  blow,  cried  in  a  stentorian  voice, 
"Sol  Gills  ahoy!"  and  tumbled  into  the  arms  of  a 
weather-beaten  pea-coat  that  had  come  with  Polly  into 
the  room. 

In  another  moment,  Walter  was  in  the  arms  of  the 
weather-beaten  pea-coat.  In  another  moment,  Florence 
was  in  the  arms  of  the  weather-beaten  pea-coat.  In  an- 
other moment,  Captain  Cuttle  had  embraced  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards  and  Miss  Nipper,  and  was  violently  shaking  hands 
with  Mr.  Toots,  exclaiming  as  he  waved  his  hook  above 
his  head,  "  Hooroar,  my  lad,  hooroar  !  "  To  which  Mr. 
Toots,  wholly  at  a  loss  to  account  for  these  proceedings, 
replied  with  great  politeness,  "Certainly,  Captain  Gills, 
whatever  you  think  proper  ! " 

The  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  and  a  no  less  weather- 
beaten  cap  and  comforter  belonging  to  it,  turned  from 
the  captain  and  from  Florence  back  to  Walter,  and 


662 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


sounds  came  from  the  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  cap,  and 
comforter,  as  of  an  old  man  sobbing  nnderneatli  them  ; 
-while  the  shaggy  sleeves  clasped  Walter  tight.  During 
this  pause,  there  was  an  universal  silence,  and  the  cap- 
tain polished  his  nose  with  great  diligence,  but  when  the 
pea-coat,  cap,  and  comforter  lifted  themselves  up  again, 
Florence  gently  moved  towards  them  ;  and  she  and 
Walter  taking  them  off,  disclosed  the  old  Instrument- 
maker,  a  little  thinner  and  more  careworn  than  of  old, 
in  his  old  Welsh  wig  and  his  old  coffee- coloured  coat  and 
basket  buttons,  with  his  old  infallible  chronometer  tick- 
ing away  in  his  pocket. 

"  Chock  full  o'  science,"  said  the  radiant  captain,  "as 
ever  he  was  !  Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gills,  what  have  you  been 
up  to  for  this  many  a  long  day,  my  ould  boy  !  " 

"  I'm  half  blind  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  almost 
.deaf  and  dumb  with  joy." 

"Hiswery  woice,"  said  the  captain,  looking  round 
with  an  exultation  to  which  even  his  face  could  hardly 
render  justice — "  his  wery  woice  as  chock  full  o'  science 
as  ever  it  was  !  Sol  Gills,  lay  to,  my  lad,  upon  yovir 
own  wines  and  fig-trees,  like  a  taut  ould  patriarck  as 
you  are, and  overhaul  them  there  adwentures  o'  yourn,in 
your  own  formilior  woice.  'Tis  the  woice,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, impressively,  and  announcing  a  quotation  with  his 
hook,  "of  the  sluggard,  Iheerd  him  com  plain,  you  have 
woke  me  too  soon,  I  must  slumber  again.  Scatter  his 
ene-mies,  and  make  'em  fall !  " 

The  captain  sat  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  happi- 
ly expressed  the  feeling  of  everybody  present,  and  im- 
mediately rose  again  to  present  Mr.  Toots,  who  was  much 
disconcerted  by  the  arrival  of  anybody,  appearing  to  pre- 
fer a  claim  to  the  name  of  Gills. 

"  Although,"  stammered  Mr.  Toots,  "I  had  not  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  sir,  before  you  were — you 
were — " 

"Lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,'*  suggested  the  cap- 
tain, in  a  low  voice. 

"Exactly  so.  Captain  Gills!"  assented  Mr.  Toots. 
"  Although  I  had  not  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance, 
Mr. — Mr.  Sols,"  said  Toots,  hitting  on  that  name  in  the 
inspiration  of  a  bright  idea,  "  before  that  happened,  I 
have  the  greatest  pleasure,  I  assure  you,  in — you  know, 
in  knowing  you.  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  you're 
as  well  as  can  be  expected ." 

With  these  courteous  words,  Mr.  Toots  sat  down 
blushing  and  chuckling. 

The  old  Instrument-maker,  seated  in  a  corner  between 
Walter  and  Florence,  and  nodding  at  Polly,  who  was 
looking  on,  all  smiles  and  delight,  answered  the  captain 
thus  : 

"  Ned  Cuttle,  my  dear  bov,  although  I  have  heard 
something  of  the  changes  of  events  here,  from  my  pleas- 
ant friend  there — what  a  pleasant  face  she  has  to  be  sure, 
to  welcome  a  wanderer  home  !  "  said  the  old  man  break- 
ing off,  and  rubbing  his  hands  in  his  old  dreamy  way. 

"  Hear  him  !  "  cried  the  captain  gravely.  "  'Tis  wo- 
man as  seduces  all  mankind.  For  which,'"'  aside  to  Mr. 
Toots,  "  you'll  overhaul  your  Adam  and  Eve,  brother." 

"  I  shall  make  a  point  of  doing  so.  Captain  Gills," 
said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Although  I  have  heard  something  of  the  changes  of 
events  from  her,"  resumed  the  Instrument-maker,  tak- 
ing his  old  spectacles  from  his  pocket,  and  putting  them 
on  his  forehead  in  his  old  manner,  "they  are  so  great 
and  unexpected,  and  I  am  so  overpowered  by  the  sight 
of  my  dear  boy,  and  by  the—"  glancing  at  the  downcast 
eyes  of  Florence,  and  not  attempting  to  finish  the  sen- 
tence— * '  that  I — I  can't  say  much  to-night.  But  my  dear 
Ned  Cuttle,  why  didn't  you  write?  " 

The  astonishment  depicted  in  the  captain's  features 
positively  frightened  Mr.  Toots,  whoso  eyes  were  quite 
fixed  by  it,  so  that  he  could  not  withdraw  them  from 
his  face, 

"  Write  ! "  echoed  the  captain.    "  Write,  Sol  Gills  !  " 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  "  either  to  Barbados,  or 
Jamaica,  or  Demerara.    That  was  what  I  asked." 

"  What  you  asked,  Sol  Gills  !  "  repeated  the  captain. 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Don't  you  know,  Ned? 
Sure  you  have  not  forgotten  ?  Every  time  I  wrote  to 
you." 

The  captain  took  ofE  his  glazed  hat,  hung  it  on  his 


hook, and  smoothing  his  hair  from  behind  with  his  hand, 
sat  gazing  at  the  group  around  him  :  a  perfect  image  of 
wondering  resignation. 

"  You  don't  appear  to  understand  me,  Ned  ! "  observed 
old  Sol. 

"  Sol  Gills,"  returned  the  captain,  after  staring  at  him 
and  the  rest  for  a  long  time,  without  speaking,  "  I'm 
gone  about  and  adrift.  Pay  out  a  word  or  two  respect- 
ing them  adwentures,  will  you  !  Can't  I  bring  up,  no- 
hows  ?  nohows?"  said  the  captain,  ruminating,  and 
staring  all  round. 

"  You  know,  Ned,"  said  Sol  Gills,  "why  I  left  here. 
Did  you  open  my  packet,  Ned  ?  " 

"Why,  ay,  ay,"  said  the  captain.  "To  be  sure,  I 
opened  the  packet." 

* '  And  read  it  ?  "  said  the  old  man. 

"  And  read  it,"  answered  the  captain,  eyeing  him  at- 
tentively, and  proceeding  to  quote  it  from  memory. 
"  '  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle,  when  I  left  home  for  the  West 
Indies  in  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear — ' 
There  he  sits  !  There's  Wal'r  ?"  said  the  captain,  as 
if  he  were  relieved  by  getting  hold  of  anything  that 
was  real  and  indisputable. 

"  Well,  Ned.  Now  attend  a  moment !  "  said  the  old 
man.  "  When  I  wrote  first — that  was  from  Barbados — 
I  said  that  though  you  would  receive  that  letter,  long 
before  the  year  was  out,  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would 
open  the  packet,  as  it  explained  the  reason  of  my  going 
away.  Very  good,  Ned.  When  I  wrote  the  second, 
third,  and  perhaps  the  fourth  times — that  was  from 
Jamaica — I  said  I  was  in  just  the  same  state,  couldn't 
rest,  and  couldn't  come  away  from  that  part  of  the 
world,  without  knowing  that  my  boy  was  lost  or  saved. 
When  I  wrote  next — that,  I  think,  was  from  Demerara, 
wasn't  it  ?  " 

"That  he  thinks  was  from  Demerara,  warn't  it  !" 
said  the  captain,  looking  hopelessly  round. 

" — I  said,"  proceeded  old  Sol,  "that  still  there  was 
no  certain  information  got  yet.  That  I  found  many 
captains  and  others,  in  that  part  of  the  world,  who  had 
known  me  for  years,  and  who  assisted  me  with  a  pas- 
sage here  and  there,  and  for  whom  I  was  able,  now  and 
then,  to  do  a  little  in  return,  in  my  own  craft.  That 
everyone  was  sorry  for  me,  and  seemed  to  take  a  sort  of 
interest  in  my  wanderings  ;  and  that  I  began  to  think 
it  would  be  my  fate  to  cruise  about  in  search  of  tidings 
of  my  boy  until  I  died." 

"  Began  to  think  as  how  he  was  a  scientific  flying 
Dutchman  I "  said  the  captain,  as  before,  and  with  great 
seriousness. 

"  But  when  the  news  come  one  day,  Ned, — that  was 
to  Barbados,  after  I  got  back  there,— that  a  China  trader 
home'ard  bound  had  been  spoke,  that  had  my  boy  aboard 
then,  Ned,  I  took  passage  in  the  next  ship  and  came 
home  ;  and  arrived  at  home  to-night  to  find  it  true,  thank 
God  !"  said  the  old  man,  devoutly. 

The  captain  after  bowing  his  head  with  great  rever- 
ence, stared  all  around  the  circle,  beginning  with  Mr. 
Toots,  and  ending  with  the  Instrument-maker:  then 
gravely  said  : 

"  Sol  Gills  !  The  observation  as  I'm  a-going  to  make 
is  calc'lated  to  blow  every  stitch  of  sail  as  you  can  carry, 
clean  out  of  the  bolt-ropes,  and  bring  you  on  your  beam- 
ends  with  a  lurch.  Not  one  of  them  letters  was  ever 
delivered  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle.  Not  one  o'  them  letters," 
repeated  the  captain,  to  make  his  declaration  more  sol- 
emn and  impressive,  "  was  ever  delivered  to  Ed'ard 
Cuttle,  mariner,  of  England,  as  lives  at  home  at  ease, 
and  doth  improve  each  shining  hour  ! " 

"  And  posted  by  my  own  hand  !  And  directed  by  my 
own  hand, Number  nine, Brig-place  !  "  exclaimed  old  Sol. 

The  colour  all  went  out  of  the  captain's  face,  and  all 
came  back  again  in  a  glow. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sol  Gills,  my  friend,  by  Num- 
ber nine,  Brig-place  !  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Mean?  Your  lodgings,  Ned,"  returned  the  old  man. 
"  Mrs.  What's-her-name  !  I  shall  forget  my  own  name 
next,  but  I  am  behind  the  present  time— I  always  was, 
you  recollect — and  very  much  confused.    Mrs.  — " 

"  Sol  Gills  !"  said  the  captain,  as  if  he  were  putting 
the  most  improbable  case  in  the  world,  "it  ain't  the 
name  of  MacStinger  as  you're  a  trying  to  remember  ?  " 


DOMBEY 

"Of  course  it  is  V*  exclaimed  tlie  Instrument-maker. 
"  To  be  sure  Ned.    Mrs.  MacStinger  ! " 

Captain  Cuttle  whose  eyes  were  now  as  wide  open  as 
they  could  be,  and  the  knobs  upon  whose  face  were  per- 
fectly luminous,  gave  a  long  shrill  whistle  of  a  most 
melancholy  sound,  and  stood  gazing  at  everybody  in  a 
state  of  speechlessness. 

*'  Overhaul  that  there  again,  Sol  Gills,  will  you  be  so 
kind?"  he  said  at  last. 

"  All  these  letters,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  beating  time 
Tvith  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  upon  the  palm  of 
his  left,  with  a  steadiness  and  distinctness  that  might 
have  done  honour,  even  to  the  infallible  chronometer  in 
his  pocket,  "I  posted  with  my  own  hand,  and  directed 
with  my  own  hand,  to  Captain  Cuttle,  at  Mrs.  MacSting- 
er's.  Number  nine.  Brig- place." 

The  captain  took  his  glazed  hat  off  his  hook,  looked 
into  it,  put  it  on,  and  sat  down. 

*'  Why,  friends  all,"  said  the  captain,  staring  round  in 
the  last  state  of  discomfiture,  "I  cut  and  run  from 
there  !  " 

"  And  no  one  knew  where  you  were  gone.  Captain 
Cuttle  ?  "  cried  Walter  hastily. 

"  Bless  your  heart,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  shaking 
his  head,  '*  she'd  never  have  allowed  o'  my  coming  to 
take  charge  o'  this  here  property.  Nothing  could  be 
done  but  cut  and  run.  Lord  love  you,  Wal'r  !  "  said 
the  captain,  "you've  only  seen  her  in  a  calm  !  But  see 
her  when  her  angry  passions  rise — and  make  a  note 
on  ! " 

"  I'd  give  it  her  !"  remarked  the  Nipper,  softly. 
Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear?"  returned  the 
captain,  with  feeble  admiration.  "  Well,  my  dear,  it 
does  you  credit.  But  there  ain't  no  wild  animal  I 
wouldn't  sooner  face  myself.  I  only  got  my  chest  away 
by  means  of  a  friend  as  nobody's  a  match  for.  It  was 
no  good  sending  any  letter  there.  She  wouldn't  take  in 
any  letter,  bless  you,"  said  the  captain,  "under  them 
circumstances  !  Why,  you  could  hardly  make  it  worth 
a  man's  while  to  be  the  postman  !  " 

"  Then  it's  pretty  clear.  Captain  Cuttle,  that  all  of  us, 
and  you  and  Uncle  Sol  especially,"  said  Walter,  "  may 
thank  Mrs.  MacStinger  for  no  small  anxiety." 

The  general  obligation  in  this  wise  to  the  determined 
relict  of  the  late  Mr.  MacStinger,  was  so  apparent,  that 
the  captain  did  not  contest  the  point  ;  but  being  in  some 
measure  ashamed  of  his  position,  though  nobody  dwelt 
upon  the  subject,  and  Walter  especially  avoided  it,  re- 
membering the  last  conversation  he  and  the  captain  had 
held  together  respecting  it,  he  remained  under  a  cloud 
for  nearly  five  minutes — an  extraordinary  period  for  him 
— when  that  sun,  his  face,  broke  out  once  more,  shining 
on  all  beholders  with  extraordinary  brilliancy  ;  and  fell 
into  a  fit  of  shaking  hands  with  everybody  over  and  over 
again. 

At  an  early  hour,  but  not  before  Uncle  Sol  and  Walter 
had  questioned  each  other  at  some  length  about  their 
voyages  and  dangers,  they  all,  except  Walter,  vacated 
Florence's  room,  and  went  down  to  the  parlour.  Here 
they  were  soon  afterwards  joined  by  Walter,  who  told 
them  Florence  was  a  little  sorrowful  and  heavy-hearted, 
and  had  gone  to  bed.  Though  they  could  not  have  dis- 
turbed her  with  their  voices  down  there,  they  all  spoke 
in  a  whisper  after  this  :  and  each,  in  his  different  way, 
felt  very  lovingly  and  gently  towards  Walter's  fair  young 
bride  ;  and  a  long  explanation  there  was  of  everything 
relating  to  her,  for  the  satisfaction  of  Uncle  Sol  ;  and 
very  sensible  Mr.  Toots  was  of  the  delicacy  with  which 
Walter  made  his  name  and  services  important,  and  his 
presence  necessary  to  their  little  council. 

*'  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Walter,  on  parting  with  him  at  the 
house  door,  "we  shall  see  each  other  to-morrow  morn- 
ing?" 

"  Lieutenant  Walters,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  grasping 
his  hand  fervently,  "  I  shall  certainly  be  present." 

"  This  is  the  last  night  we  shall  meet  for  a  long  time 
— the  last  night  we  may  ever  meet,"  said  Walter.  "Such 
a  noble  heart  as  yours,  must  feel,  I  think,  when  another 
heart  is  bound  to  it.  I  hope  you  know  that  I  am  very 
grateful  to  you  ?  " 

"Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  quite  touched,  "I 
flhoUld  be  glad  to  feel  that  you  had  reason  to  be  so." 


AND  SON.  663 

"  Florence,"  said  Walter,  "on  this  last  night  of  her 
bearing  her  own  name,  has  made  me  jjromiHc — it  was 
only  just  now,  when  you  left  us  together — that  I  would 
tell  you,  with  her  dear  love — ' 

Mr.  Toots  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door-post,  and  his 
eyes  upon  his  hand. 

" — with  her  dear  love, "  said  Walter,  "that  she  can 
never  have  a  friend  whom  she  will  value  above  you.  That 
the  reconviction  of  your  true  consideration  for  her  always, 
can  never  be  forgotten  by  her.  That  she  remembers  you 
in  her  prayers  to-night,  and  hopes  that  you  will  think  of 
her  when  she  is  far  away.  Shall  I  say  anything  for 
you?" 

"Say,  Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  indistinctly,  "  that 
I  shall  think  of  her  every  day,  but  never  without  feel- 
ing happy  to  know  that  she  is  married  to  the  man  she 
loves,  and  who  loves  her.  Say,  if  you  please,  that  I  am 
sure  her  husband  deserves  her — even  her  !  " — and  that  I 
am  glad  of  her  choice," 

Mr.  Toots  got  more  distinct  as  he  came  to  these  last 
words,  and  raising  his  eyes  from  the  door-post,  said  them 
stoutly.  He  then  shook  Walter's  hand  again  with  a  fer- 
vour that  Walter  was  not  slow  to  return,  and  started 
homeward. 

Mr.  Toots  was  accompanied  by  the  Chicken,  whom 
he  had  of  late  brought  with  him  every  evening,  and  left 
in  the  shop  with  an  idea  that  unforeseen  circumstances 
might  arise  from  without,  in  which  the  prowess  of  that 
distinguished  character  would  be  of  service  to  the  Mid- 
shipman. The  Chicken  did  not  ajjpear  to  be  in  a  par- 
ticularly good  humour  on  this  occasion.  Either  the  gas- 
lamps  were  treacherous,  or  he  cocked  his  eye  in  a  hide- 
ous manner,  and  likewise  distorted  his  nose,  when  Mr. 
Toots,  crossing  the  road,  looked  back  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  room  where  Florence  slept.  On  the  road  home, 
he  was  more  demonstrative  of  aggressive  intentions 
against  the  other  foot  passengers,  than  comported  with 
a  professor  of  the  peaceful  art  of  self-defence.  Arrived 
at  home,  instead  of  leaving  Mr.  Toots  in  his  apartments 
when  he  had  escorted  him  thither,  he  remained  before 
him  weighing  his  white  hat  in  both  hands  by  the  brim, 
and  twitching  his  head  and  nose  (both  of  which  had  been 
many  times  broken,  and  but  indifferently  repaired),  with 
an  air  of  decided  disrespect. 

His  patron  being  much  engaged  with  his  own  thoughts, 
did  not  observe  this  for  some  time,  nor  indeed  until  the 
Chicken,  determined  not  to  be  overlooked,  had  made 
divers  clicking  sounds  with  his  tongue  and  teeth,  to  at- 
tract attention. 

"  Now  master,"  said  the  Chicken,  doggedly,  when  he, 
at  length,  caught  Mr.  Toots's  eye,  "I  want  to  know 
whether  this  here  gammon  is  to  finish  it,  or  whether 
you're  a  going  in  to  win  ?" 

"  Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  explain  yourself." 

"  Why  then,  here's  all  about  it,  master,"  said  the 
Chicken.  "  I  ain't  a  cove  to  chuck  a  word  away.  Here's 
wot  it  is.    Are  any  on  'em  to  be  doubled  up  !  " 

When  the  Chicken  put  this  question  he  dropped  his 
hat,  made  a  dodge  and  a  feint  with  his  left  hand,  hit  a 
supposed  enemy  a  violent  blow  with  his  right,  shook  his 
head  smartly,  and  recovered  himself. 

"  Come  master,"  said  the  Chicken.  "  Is  it  to  be  gam- 
mon or  pluck  !    Which  ?" 

"  Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  your  expressions  are 
coarse  and  your  meaning  is  obscure." 

"Why,  then,  I  tell  you  what,,  master,"  said  the 
Chicken.    "  This  is  where  it  is.    It's  mean." 

"  What  is  mean,  Chicken  ?"  asked  Mr.  Toots. 

"  It  is,"  said  the  Chicken,  with  a  frightful  corrugation 
of  his  broken  nose.  "  There  !  Now,  master  !  Wot ! 
Wen  you  could  go  and  blow  on  this  here  match  to  the 
still' un  ; "  by  which  depreciatory  appellation  it  has  been 
since  supposed  that  the  Game  One  intended  to  signify 
Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  and  when  you  could  knock  the  winner 
and  all  the 'kit  of  'em  dead  out  of  wind  and  time,  are 
you  going  to  give  in?  To  give  in?  "  said  the  Chicken, 
with  contemptuous  emphasis.    "  Wy,  it's  mean  1  " 

"Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  severely,  "you're  a  per- 
fect vulture  !    Your  sentiments  are  atrocious." 

"  My  sentiments  is  game  and  fancy,  master,"  returned 
the  Chicken.  "  That's  wol^  my  sentiments  is.  I  can't 
abear  a  meanness.    I'm  afore  the  public,  I'm  to  be  heerd 


664 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


on  at  tlie  bar  of  the  Little  Helephant,  and  no  Gov'ner  o' 
mine  mustn't  go  and  do  wliat's  mean.  Wy,  it's  mean," 
said  the  Chicken,  with  increased  expression.  "  That's 
where  it  is.    It's  mean." 

"  Chicken  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  you  disgust  me." 

"Master,"  returned  the  Chicken,  putting  on  his  hat, 
"there's  a  pair  on  us,  then.  Come!  Here's  a  offer! 
You've  spoke  to  me  more  than  once't  or  twice't  about 
the  public  line.  Never  mind  !  Give  me  a  fi'typunnote 
to-morrow,  and  let  me  go." 

"Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "after  the.  odious 
sentiments  you  have  expressed,  I  shall  be  glad  to  part 
on  such  terms." 

"Done  then,"  said  the  Chicken.  "It's  a  bargain. 
This  here  conduct  of  yourn,  won't  suit  my  book,  master. 
Wy  it's  mean,"  said  the  Chicken  ;  who  seemed  equally 
unable  to  get  beyond  that  point,  and  to  stop  short  of  it. 
"  That's  were  it  is  ;  it's  mean  !  " 

So  Mr.  Toots  and  the  Chicken  agreed  to  part  on  this 
incompatibility  of  moral  perception  ;  and  Mr.  Toots  ly- 
ing down  to  sleep,  dreamed  happily  of  Florence,  who 
had  thought  of  him  as  her  friend  upon  the  last  night  of 
her  maiden  life,  and  sent  him  her  dear  love. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

Another  Wedding, 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  and  Mrs.  Miff  the  pew-opener, 
are  early  at  their  posts  in  the  fine  church  where  Mr. 
Dombey  was  married.  A  yeilow-faced  old  gentleman 
from  India,  is  going  to  take  unto  himself  a  young  wife 
this  morning,  and  six  carriages  full  of  company  are  ex- 
pected, and  Mrs.  Miff  has  been  informed  that  the  yel- 
low-faced old  gentleman  could  pave  the  road  to  the 
church  with  diamonds  and  hardly  miss  them. 

The  nuptial  benediction  is  to  be  a  superior  one,  pro- 
ceeding from  a  very  reverend,  a  dean,  and  the  lady  is  to 
be  given  away,  as  an  extraordinary  present,  by  some- 
body who  conies  express  from  the  Horse  Guards, 

Mrs.  Miff  is  more  intolerant  of  common  people  this 
morning,  than  she  generally  is  ;  and  she  has  always 
strong  opinions  on  that  subject,  for  it  is  associated  with 
free  sittings.  Mrs.  Miff  is  not  a  student  of  political 
economy  (she  thinks  the  science  is  connected  with  dis- 
senters ;  "Baptists  or  Wesleyans,  or  some  o'  them,"  she 
says),  but  she  can  never  understand  what  business  your 
common  foJk  have  to  be  married.  "  Drat  'em,"  says 
Mrs.  Miff,  "  you  read  the  same  things  over  'em  and  in- 
stead of  sovereigns  get  sixpences  !  " 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  is  more  liberal  than  Mrs.  Miff 
— but  then  he  is  not  a  pew-opener.  "  It  must  be  done, 
ma'am,"  he  says.  "  We  must  marry  'em.  We  must 
have  our  national  schools  to  walk  at  the  head  of,  and  we 
must  have  our  standing  armies.  We  must  marry  'em, 
ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Sownds,  "and  keep  the  country  go- 
ing." 

Mr.  Sownds  is  sitting  on  the  steps  and  Mrs.  Miff  is 
'dusting  in  the  church,  when  a  young  couple,  plainly 
dressed,  come  in.  The  mortified  bonnet  of  Mrs.  Miff  is 
sharply  turned  towards  them,  for  she  espies  in  this  early 
visit  indications  of  a  runaway  match.  But  they  don't 
want  to  be  married — "Only,"  says  the  gentleman,  "to 
walk  round  the  church."  And  as  he  slips  a  genteel 
■  compliment  into  the  palm  of  Mrs.  Miff,  her  vinegary 
face  relaxes,  and  her  mortified  bonnet  and  her  spare  dry 
figure  dip  and  crackle. 

Mrs.  Miff  resumes  her  dusting  and  plumps  up  her  cush- 
ions—for the  yellow-faced  old  gentleman  is  reported  to 
have  tender  knees— but  keeps  her  glazed  pew-opening 
eye  on  the  young  couple  who  are  walking  round  the 
church.  "  Ahem,"  coughs  Mrs.  Miff,-  whose  cough  is 
drier  than  the  hay  in  any  hassock  in  her  charge,  "  you'll 
come  to  us  one  of  these  mornings,  my  dears,  unless  I'm 
much  mistaken  ! " 

They  are  looking  at  a  tablet  on  the  wall,  erected  to  the 
memory  of  some  one  dead.  They  are  a  long  way  off 
from  Mrs.  Miff,  but  Mrs.  Miff  can  see  with  half  an  eye 
how  she  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  how  his  head  is  bent 
down  over  her.  "Well,  well,"  says  Mrs.  Miff,  "you 
might  do  worse.    For  you're  a  tidy  pair  !  " 


There  is  nothing  personal  in  Mrs.  Miff's  remark.  She 
merely  speaks  of  stock  in  trade.  She  is  hardly  more 
curious  in  couples  than  in  coffins.  She  is  such  a  spare, 
straight,  dry  old  lady— such  a  pew  of  a  woman— that  you 
should  find  as  many  individual  sympathies  in  a  chip. 
Mr.  Sownds,  now,  who  is  fleshy,  and  has  scarlet  in  his 
coat,  is  of  a  different  temperament.  He  says,  as  they 
stand  upon  the  steps  watching  the  young  couple  away, 
that  she  has  a  pretty  figure,  hasn't  she,  and  as  well  as  he 
could  see  (for  she  held  her  head  down  coming  out),  an 
uncommon  pretty  face.  "  Altogether,  Mrs.  Miff,"  says 
Mr.  Sownds  with  a  relish,  "  she  is  what  you  may  call  a 
rosebud." 

Mrs.  Miff  assents  with  a  spare  nod  of  her  mortified  bon- 
net ;  but  approves  of  this  so  little,  that  she  inwardly  re- 
solves she  wouldn't  be  the  wife  of  Mr.  Sownds  for  any 
money  he  could  give  her,  beadle  as  he  is. 

And  what  are  the  young  couple  saying  as  they  leave 
the  church,  and  go  out  at  the  gate  ? 

"  Dear  Walter,  thank  you  !  I  can  go  away  now,  hap- 
P7-" 

"  And  when  we  come  back,  Florence,  we  will  come  and 
see  his  grave  again." 

Florence  lifts  her  eyes,  so  bright  with  tears,  to  his  kind 
face  ;  and  clasps  her  disengaged  hand  on  that  other  mod- 
est little  hand  which  clasps  his  arm. 

"  It  is  very  early,  Walter,  and  the  streets  are  almost 
empty  yet.    Let  us  walk." 

"  But  you  will  be  so  tired,  my  love." 

"  Oh  no  !  I  was  very  tired  the  first  time  that  we  ever 
walked  together,  but  I  shall  not  be  so  to-day." 

And  thus — not  much  changed — she,  as  innocent  and 
earnest-hearted— he,  as  frank,  as  hopeful,  and  more  proud 
of  her — Florence  and  Walter,  on  their  bridal  morning, 
walk  through  the  streets  together. 

Not  even  in  that  childish  walk  of  long  ago,  were  they 
so  far  removed  from  all  the  world  about  them  as  to-day. 
The  childish  feet  of  long  ago,  did  not  tread  such  enchant- 
ed ground  as  theirs  do  now.  The  confidence  and  love  of 
children  may  be  given  many  times,  and  will  spring  up  in 
many  places  ;  but  the  woman's  heart  of  Florence  with  its 
undivided  treasure,  can  be  yielded  only  once,  and  under 
slight  or  change,  can  only  droop  and  die. 

They  take  the  streets  that  are  the  quietest,  and  do  not 
go  near  that  in  which  her  old  home  stands.  It  is  a  fair, 
warm  summer  morning,  and  the  sun  shines  on  them,  as 
they  walk  towards  the  darkening  mist  that  overspreads 
the  city.  Riches  are  uncovering  in  shops  ;  jewels,  gold, 
and  silver  flash  in  the  goldsmith's  sunny  windows  ;  and 
great  houses  cast  a  stately  shade  upon  them  as  they  pass. 
But  through  the  light,  and  through  the  shade,  they  go  on 
lovingly  together,  lost  to  everything  around  ;  thinking  of 
no  other  riches,  and  no  prouder  home,  than  they  have 
now  in  one  another. 

Gradually  they  come  into  the  darker,  narrower  streets, 
where  the  sun,  now  yellow,  and  now  red,  is  seen  through 
the  mist,  only  at  street  corners,  and  in  small  open  spaces 
where  there  is  a  tree,  or  one  of  the  innumerable  churches, 
or  a  paved  way  and  a  flight  of  steps,  or  a  curious  little 
patch  of  garden,  or  a  burying-ground,  where  the  few 
tombs  and  tomb-stones  are  almost  black.  Lovingly  and 
trustfully,  through  all  the  narrow  yards  and  alleys  and 
the  shady  streets,  Florence  goes,  clinging  to  his  arm,  to 
be  his  wife. 

Her  heart  beats  quicker  now,  for  Walter  tells  her  that 
their  church  is  very  near.  They  pass  a  few  great  stacks 
of  warehouses,  with  waggons  at  the  doors,  and  busy  car- 
men stopping  up  the  way — but  Florence  does  not  see  or 
hear  them — and  then  the  air  is  quiet,  and  the  day  is  dark- 
ened, and  she  is  trembling  in  a  church  which  has  a  strange 
smell  like  a  cellar. 

The  shabby  little  old  man,  ringer  of  the  disappointed 
bell,  is  standing  in  the  porch,  and  has  put  his  hat  in  the 
font — for  he  is  quite  at  home  there,  being  sexton.  He 
ushers  them  into  an  old,  brown,  panelled,  dusty  vestry, 
like  a  corner  cupboard  with  the  shelves  taken  out ;  where 
the  wormy  registers  diffuse  a  smell  like  faded  snuff, 
which  has  set  the  tearful  Nipper  sneezing. 

Youthful,  and  how  beautiful,  the  young  bride  looks, 
in  this  old  dusty  place,  with  no  kindred  object  near  her 
but  her  husband.  There  is  a  dusty  old  clerk,  who  keeps 
a  sort  of  evaporated  news  shop  underneath  an  archway 


DOMBEY 

opposite,  belilnd  a  perfect  fortification  of  posts.  There 
is  a  dusty  old  pew-opener  who  only  keeps  herself,  and 
finds  that  quite  enough  to  do.  There  is  a  dusty  old  bea- 
dle (these  are  Mr.  Toots's  beadle  and  pew-opener  of  last 
Sunday),  who  has  something  to  do  with  a  Worshipful 
Company  who  have  got  a  Hall  in  the  next  yard,  with  a 
stained-glass  window  in  it  that  no  mortal  ever  saw.  There 
are  dusty  wooden  ledges  and  cornices  poked  in  and  out 
over  the  altar,  and  over  the  screen  and  round  the  gallery, 
and  over  the  inscription  about  what  the  Master  and  War- 
dens of  the  Worshipful  Company  did  in  one  thousand  six 
hundred  and  ninety- four.  There  are  dusty  old  sounding- 
boards  over  the  pulpit  and  reading-desk,  looking  like 
lids  to  be  let  down  on  the  officiating  ministers,  in  case  of 
their  giving  offence.  There  is  every  possible  provision 
for  the  accommodation  of  dust,  except  in  the  church- 
yard, where  the  facilities  in  that  respect  are  very  lim- 
ited. 

The  captain,  Uncle  Sol,  and  Mr.  Toots,  are  come  ;  the 
clergyman  is  putting  on  his  surplice  in  the  vestry,  while 
the  clerk  walks  round  him,  blowing  the  dust  off  it ;  and 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  stand  before  the  altar.  There 
is  no  bridesmaid,  unless  Susan  Nipper  is  one  ;  and  no 
better  father  than  Captain  Cuttle.  A  man  with  a  wooden 
leg,  chewing  a  faint  apple  and  carrying  a  blue  bag  in 
his  hand,  looks  in  to  see  what  is  going  on  ;  but  finding 
it  nothing  entertaining,  stumps  off  again,  and  pegs  his 
way  among  the  echoes  out  of  doors. 

No  gracious  ray  of  light  is  seen  to  fall  on  Florence, 
kneeling  at  the  altar  with  her  timid  head  bowed  down. 
The  morning  luminary  is  built  out,  and  don't  shine 
there.  There  is  a  meagre  tree  outside,  where  the  spar- 
rows are  chirping  a  little  ;  and  there  is  a  blackbird  in  an 
eyelet-hole  of  sun  in  a  dyer's  garret,  over  against  the 
window,  who  whistles  loudly  whilst  the  service  is  per- 
forming ;  and  there  is  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg 
stumping  away.  The  amens  of  the  dusty  clerk  appear, 
like  Macbeth's,  to  stick  in  his  throat  a  little  ;  but  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  helps  him  out,  and  does  it  with  so  much  good- 
will that  he  interpolates  three  entirely  new  responses  of 
that  word,  never  introduced  into  the  service  before. 

They  are  married,  and  have  signed  their  names  in  one 
of  the  old  sneezy  registers,  and  the  clergyman's  sur- 
plice is  restored  to  the  dust,  and  the  clergyman  is  gone 
home.  In  a  dark  corner  of  the  dark  church,  Florence 
has  turned  to  Susan  Nipper,  and  is  weeping  in  her  arms. 
Mr.  Toots's  eyes  are  red.  The  captain  lubricates  his 
nose.  Uncle  Sol  has  pulled  down  his  spectacles  from 
his  forehead,  and  walked  out  to  the  door. 

"God  bless  you,  Susan  ;  dearest  Susan  !  If  you  ever 
can  bear  witness  to  the  love  I  have  for  Walter,  and  the 
reason  that  I  have  to  love  him,  do  it  for  his  sake.  Good 
bye!  Goodbye!" 

They  have  thought  it  better  not  to  go  back  to  the  Mid- 
shipman, but  to  part  so  ;  a  coach  is  waiting  for  them, 
near  at  hand. 

Miss  Nipper  cannot  speak  ;  she  only  sobs  and  chokes, 
and  hugs  her  mistress.  Mr.  Toots  advances,  urges  her  to 
cheer  up,  and  takes  charge  of  her.  Florence  gives  him 
her  hand — gives  him,  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  her 
lips— kisses  Uncle  Sol,  and  Captain  Cuttle,  and  is  borne 
away  by  her  young  husband. 

But  Susan  cannot  bear  that  Florence  should  go  away 
with  a  mournful  recollection  of  her.  She  had  meant  to 
be  so  different,  that  she  reproaches  herself  bitterly.  In- 
tent on  making  one  last  effort  to  redeem  her  character, 
slie  breaks  from  Mr.  Toots  and  runs  away  to  find  the 
coach,  and  show  a  parting  smile.  The  captain,  divining 
her  object,  sets  off  after  her  ;  for  he  feels  it  his  duty 
also,  to  dismiss  them  with  a  cheer,  if  possible.  Uncle 
Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  are  left  behind  together,  outside  the 
I  church,  to  wait  for  them. 

[  The  coach  is  gone,  but  the  street  is  steep,  and  narrow, 
I  and  blocked  up,  and  Susan  can  see  it  at  a  stand-still  in 
the  distance,  she  is  sure.  Captain  Cuttle  follows  her  as 
she  flies  down  the  hill,  and  waves  his  glazed  hat  as  a 
general  signal,  which  may  attract  the  right  coach  and 
may  not. 

Susan  outstrips  the  captain,  and  comes  up  with  it. 
She  looks  in  at  the  window,  sees  Walter,  with  the  gentle 
face  beside  him,  and  claps  her  hands  and  screams  : 
;     "Miss  Floy,  my  darling  I  look  at  me  !   We  are  all  so 


AND  80K  '  665 

happy  now,  dear  !  One  more  good  bye,  my  precious, 
one  more  ! " 

How  Susan  does  it,  she  don't  know,  but  she  reaches  to 
the  window,  kisses  her,  and  has  her  arms  about  her  neck, 
in  a  moment. 

"  We  are  all  so— so  happy  now,  my  dear  Miss  Floy  !  " 
says  Susan,  with  a  suspicious  catching  in  her  breath. 
"You,  you  won't  be  angry  with  me,  now.  Now  will 
you  ? " 

"  Angry,  Susan  I " 

"No,  no  ;  I  am  sure  you  won't.  I  say  you  won't,  my 
pet,  .my  dearest  !"  exclaimed  Susan;  "and  here's  the 
captain,  too — your  friend  the  captain,  you  know — to  say 
good  bye  once  more  I " 

"  Hooroar,  my  Heart's  Delight  !"  vociferates  the  cap- 
tain, with  a  countenance  of  strong  emotion,  "  Hooroar, 
Wal'r  my  lad  !    Hooroar  !    Hooroar  !  " 

What  with  the  young  husband  at  one  window,  and  the 
young  wife  at  the  other  ;  the  captain  hanging  on  at  this 
door,  and  Susan  Nipper  holding  fast  by  that ;  the  coach 
obliged  to  go  on  v.'hether  it  will  or  no,  and  all  the  other 
carts  and  coaches  turbulent  because  it  hesitates  ;  there 
never  was  so  much  confusion  on  four  wheels.  But  Su- 
san Nipper  gallantly  maintains  her  point.  She  keeps  a 
smiling  face  upon  her  mistress,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
until  the  last.  Even  when  she  is  left  behind,  the  cap- 
tain continues  to  appear  and  disappear  at  the  door  cry- 
ing "  Hooroar,  my  lad  !  Hooroar,  my  Heart's  Delight  I " 
with  his  shirt-collar  in  a  violent  state  of  agitation,  until 
it  is  hopeless  to  attempt  to  keep  up  with  the  coach  any 
longer.  Finally,  when  the  coach  is  gone,  Susan  Nipper 
being  rejoined  by  the  captain, falls  into  a  slate  of  insensi- 
bility, and  is  taken  into  a  baker's  shop  to  recover. 

Uncle  Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  wait  patiently  in  the  church- 
yard, sitting  on  the  coping-stone  of  the  railings, until  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  and  Susan  come  back.  Neither  being  at  all 
desirous  to  speak,  or  to  be  spoken  to,  they  are  excellent 
company,  and  quite  satisfied.  When  they  all  arrive 
again  at  the  little  Midshipman,  and  sit  down  to  break- 
fast, nobody  can  touch  a  morsel.  Captain  Cuttle  makes 
a  feint  of  being  voracious  about  toast,  but  gives  it  up 
as  a  swindle.  Mr.  Toots  says,  after  breakfa.st,  he  will 
come  back  in  the  evening  ;  and  goes  wandering  about 
the  town  all  day,  with  a  vague  sensation  upon  him  as  if 
he  hadn't  been  to  bed  for  a  fortnight. 

There  is  a  strange  charm  in  the  house,  and  in  the 
room,  in  which  they  have  been  used  to  be  together,  and 
out  of  which  so  much  is  gone.  It  aggravates,  and  yet 
it  soothes,  the  sorrow  of  the  separation.  Mr.  Toots  tells 
Susan  Nipper  when  he  comes  at  night,that  he  hasn't  been 
so  wretched  all  day  long,  and  yet  he  likes  it.  He  confides 
in  Susan  Nipper,  being  alone  with  her,  and  tells  her 
what  his  feelings  were  when  she  gave  him  that  candid 
opinion  as  to  the  probability  of  Miss  Dombey's  ever  lov- 
ing him.  In  the  vein  of  confidence  engendered  by  these 
common  recollections,  and  their  tears,  Mr.  Toots  pro- 
poses that  they  shall  go  out  together,  and  buy  something 
for  supper.  Miss  Nipper  assenting,  they  buy  a  good  many 
little  things  ;  and,  with  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Richards,  set 
the  supper  out  quite  showily  before  the  captain  and  old 
Sol  came  home. 

The  captain  and  old  Sol  have  been  aboard  the  ship, 
and  have  established  Di  there,  and  have  seen  the  chests 
put  aboard.  They  have  much  to  tell  about  the  popularity 
of  Walter,  and  the  comforts  he  will  have  about  him,  and 
the  quiet  way  in  which  it  seems  he  has  been  T^'orking 
early  and  late,  to  make  his  cabin  what  the  captain  calls 
"a  picter,"  to  surprise  his  little  wife.  "A  admiral's 
cabin,  mind  you,"  says  the  captain,  "ain't  more  trim," 

But  one  of  the  captain's  chief  delights  is,  that  he  knows 
the  big  watch,  and  the  sugar-tongs,  and  tea-spoons, 
are  on  board  ;  and  again  and  again  he  murmurs  to  him- 
self, "  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a  better 
course  in  your  life,  than  when  you  made  that  there  little 
property  over  jintly.  You  see  how  the  land  bore, Ed'ard," 
says  the  captain,  and  it  does  you  credit,  my  lad." 

The  old  Instrument-maker  is  more  distraught  and 
misty  than  he  used  to  be,  and  takes  the  marriage  and  the 
parting  very  much  to  heart.  But  he  is  greatly  comforted 
by  having  his  old  ally,  Ned  Cuttle,  at  his  side  ;  and  he 
sits  down  to  supper  with  a  grateful  and  contented  face. 

"  My  boy  has  been  preserved  and  thrives,"  says  old 


666 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Sol  Gills,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  What  right  have  I  to 
be  otherwise  than  thankful  and  happy  !  " 

The  captain,  who  has  not  yet  taken  his  seat  at  the 
table,  but  who  has  been  fidgeting  about  for  some  time,- 
and  now  stands  hesitating  in  his  place,  looks  doubtfully 
at  Mr.  Gills  and  says  : 

"Sol!  There's  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira 
down  below.  Would  you  wish  to  have  it  up  to-night, 
my  boy,  and  drink  to  Wal'r  and  his  wife  ?  " 

The  Instrument-maker,  looking  wistfully  at  the  cap- 
tain, puts  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coffee- 
coloured  coat,  brings  forth  his  pocket-book,  and  takes  a 
letter  out. 

*'  To  Mr.  Dombey,"  says  the  old  man.  "  From  Wal- 
ter.   To  be  sent  in  three  weeks'  time.    I'll  read  it." 

"  '  Sir.  I  am  married  to  your  daughter.  She  is  gone 
"with  me  upon  a  distant  voyage.  To  be  devoted  to  her  is 
to  have  no  claim  on  her  or  you,  but  God  knows  that  I 
am. 

"  <  Why,  loving  her  beyond  all  earthly  things,  I  have 
yet,  without  remorse,  united  her  to  the  uncertainties  and 
dangers  of  my  life,  I  will  not  say  to  you.  You  know 
why,  and  you  are  her  father. 

"  '  Do  not  reproach  her.  She  has  never  reproached 
you. 

"  '  I  do  not  think  or  hope  that  you  will  ever  forgive 
me.  There  is  nothing  I  expect  less.  But  if  an  hour 
should  come  when  it  will  comfort  you  to  believe  that 
Florence  has  some  one  ever  near  her,  the  great  charge  of 
whose  life  is  to  cancel  her  remembrance  of  past  sorrow, 
I  solemnly  assure  you,  you  may,  in  that  hour,  rest  in 
that  belief." 

Solomon  puts  back  the  letter  carefully  in  his  pocket- 
book,  and  puts  back  his  pocket-boo]?;  in  his  coat. 

"  We  won't  drink  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira 
yet,  Ned,"  says  the  old  man  thoughtfully.    "  Not  yet." 

"  Not  yet,"  assents  the  captain.    "  No.    Not  yet." 

Susan  and  Mr,  Toots  are  of  the  same  opinion.  After  a 
silence  they  all  sit  down  to  supper,  and  drink  to  the  young 
husband  and  wife  in  something  else  ;  and  the  last  bottle 
of  the  old  Madeira  still  remains  among  its  dust  and  cob- 
webs, undisturbed. 

A  few  days  have  elapsed,  and  a  stately  ship  is  out  at 
sea,  spreading  its  white  wings  to  the  favouring  wind. 

Upon  the  deck,  image  to  the  roughest  man  on  board  of 
something  that  is  graceful,  beautiful,  and  harmless — 
something  that  it  is  good  and  pleasant  to  have  there,  and 
that  should  make  the  voyage  prosperous — is  Florence. 
It  is  night,  and  she  and  Walter  sit  alone,  watching  the 
solemn  path  of  light  upon  the  sea  between  them  and  the 
moon. 

At  length  she  cannot  see  it  plainly,  for  the  tears  that 
fill  her  eyes  ;  and  then  she  lays  her  head  down  on  his 
breast,  and  puts  her  arms  around  his  neck,  saying,  "  Oh 
Walter,  dearest  love,  I  am  so  happy  I " 

Her  husband  holds  her  to  his  heart,  and  they  are  very 
quiet,  and  the  stately  ship  goes  on  serenely. 

"  As  I  hear  the  sea,"  says  Florence,  "  and  sit  watching 
it,  it  brings  so  many  days  into  my  mind.  It  makes  me 
think  so  much — " 

Of  Paul,  my  love.    I  know  it  does." 

Of  Paul  and  Walter.  And  the  voices  in  the  waves  are 
always  whispering  to  Florence,  in  their  ceaseless  mur- 
muring, of  love — of  love,  eternal  and  illimitable,  not 
bounded  by  the  confines  of  this  world,  or  by  the  end  of 
time,  but  ranging  still,  beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sky, 
to  the  invisible  country  far  away  ! 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 
After  a  Lapse. 

The  sea  had  ebbed  and  flowed,  through  a  whole  year. 
Tlirough  a;  whole  year,  the  winds  and  clouds  had  come 
and  gone  ;  the  ceaseless  work  of  Time  had  been  per. 
formed,  in  storm  and  sunshine.  Through  a  whole  year 
the  tides  of  human  chance  and  change  had  set  in  their 
allotted  courses.  Through  a  whole  year,  the  famous 
house  of  Dombey  and  Son  had  fought  a  fight  for  life, 


against  cross  accidents,  doubtful  rumours,  unsucc^sful 
ventures,  unpropitious  times,  and  most  of  all,  against  the 
infatuation  of  its  head,  who  would  not  contract  its  en- 
terprises by  a  hair's  breadth,  and  would  not  listen  to  a 
word  of  warning  that  the  ship  he  strained  so  hard  against 
the  storm,  was  weak,  and  could  not  bear  it. 

The  year  was  out  and  the  great  House  was  down. 

One  summer  afternoon  ;  a  year,  wanting  some  odd  days, 
after  the  marriage  in  the  City  church  ;  there  was  a  buzz 
and  whisper  upon  'Change  of  a  great  failure.  A  certain 
cold  proud  man,  well  known  there,  was  not  there,  nor 
was  he  represented  there.  Next  day  it  was  noised  abroad 
that  Dombey  and  Son  had  stopped,  and  next  night  there 
was  a  list  of  banl^rupts  published,  headed  by  that  name. 

The  world  was  very  busy  now,  in  sooth,  and  had  a  deal 
to  say.  It  was  an  innocently  credulous  and  a  much  ill 
used  world.  It  was  a  world  in  which  there  was  no  other 
sort  of  bankruptcy  whatever.  There  were  no  conspicu- 
ous people  in  it,  trading  far  and  wide  on  rotten  banks  of 
religion,  patriotism,  virtue,  honour.  There  was  no  amount 
worth  mentioning  of  mere  paper  in  circulation,  on  which 
anybody  lived  pretty  handsomely,  promising  to  pay  great 
sums  of  goodness  with  no  effects.  There  were  no  short- 
comings anywhere,  in  anything  but  money.  The  world 
was  very  angry  indeed  ;  and  the  people  especially,  who, 
in  a  worse  world,  might  have  been  supposed  to  be  bank- 
rupt traders  themselves  in  shows  and  pretences,  were  ob- 
served to  be  mightily  indignant. 

Here  was  a  new  inducement  to  dissipation,  presented 
to  that  sport  of  circumstances,  Mr.  Perch  the  messenger  ! 
It  was  apparently  the  fate  of  Mr.  Perch  to  be  always 
waking  up,  and  finding  himself  famous.  He  had  but  yes- 
terday, as  one  might  say,  subsided  into  private  life  from 
the  celebrity  of  the  elopement  and  the  events  that  fol- 
lowed it  ;  and  now  he  was  made  a  more  important  man 
than  ever,  by  the  bankruptcy.  Gliding  from  his  bracket 
in  the  outer  office  where  he  now  sat,  watching  the  strange 
faces  of  accountants  and  others,  who  quickly  superseded 
nearly  all  the  old  clerks,  Mr.  Perch  had  but  to  show  him- 
self in  the  court  outside,  or,  at  farthest,  in  the  bar  of 
the  King's  Arms,  to  be  asked  a  multitude  of  questions, 
almost  certain  to  include  that  interesting  question,  what 
would  he  take  to  drink  ?  Then  would  Mr.  Perch  des- 
cant upon  the  hours  of  acute  uneasiness  he  and  Mrs. 
Perch  had  suffered  out  at  Balls  Pond,  when  they  first  sus- 
pected "  things  was  going  wrong."  Then  would  Mr. 
Perch  relate  to  gaping  listeners,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  the 
corpse  of  the  deceased  House  were  lying  unburied  in  the 
next  room,  how  Mrs.  Perch  had  first  come  to  surmise  that 
things  was  going  wrong  by  hearing  him  (Perch)  moaning 
in  his  sleep,  "  twelve  and  ninepence  in  the  pound,  twelve 
and  ninepence  in  the  pound  !"  Which  act  of  somnam- 
bulism he  supposed  to  have  originated  in  the  impression 
made  upon  him  by  the  change  in  Mr.  Dombey's  face. 
Then  would  he  inform  them  how  he  had  once  said, 
"Might  I  make  so  bold  as  ask,  sir,  are  you  unhappy  in 
your  mind?"  and  how  Mr.  Dombey  had  replied,  "My 
faithful  Perch — but  no, it  cannot  be  !  "  and  with  that  had 
struck  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and  said,  "Leave me. 
Perch  !"  Then,  in  short,  would  Mr.  Perch,  a  victim  to 
his  position,  tell  all  manner  of  lies  ;  affecting  himself  to 
tears  by  those  that  were  of  a  moving  nature,  and  really 
believing  that  the  inventions  of  yesterday  had,  on  repe- 
tition, a  sort  of  truth  about  them  to-day. 

Mr.  Perch  always  closed  these  conferences  by  meekly 
remarking,  That,  of  course,  whatever  his  suspicions 
might  have  been,  (as  if  he  had  ever  had  any  !)  it  wasn't 
for  Mm  to  betray  his  trust — was  it  ?  Which  sentiment 
(there  never  being  any  creditors  present)  was  received  as 
doing  great  honour  to  his  feelings.  Thus,  he  generally 
brought  away  a  soothed  conscience  and  left  an  agreeable 
impression  behind  him,  when  he  returned  to  his  brack- 
et :  again  to  sit  watching  the  strange  faces  of  the  ac- 
countants and  others,  making  so  free  with  the  great 
mysteries,  the  Books  ;  or  now  and  then  to  go  on  tiptoe 
into  Mr.  Dombey's  empty  room,  and  stir  the  fire  ;  or  to 
take  an  airing  at  the  door,  and  have  a  little  more  doleful 
chat  with  any  straggler  whom  he  knew  ;  or  to  propitiate, 
with  various  small  attentions,  the  head  accountant : 
from  whom  Mr.  Perch  had  expectations  of  a  messenger- 
ship  in  a  Fire  Office,  when  the  affairs  of  the  House 
should  be  wound  up. 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


667 


To  Major  Bagstock,  the  bankruptcy  was  quite  a  calam- 
ity. The  major  was  not  a  sympathetic  character — his 
attention  being  wholly  concentrated  on  J.  B. — nor  was 
he  a  man  subject  to  lively  emotions,  except  in  the  phy- 
sical regards  of  gasping  and  choking.  But  he  had  so  pa- 
raded his  friend  Dombey  at  the  club  ;  had  so  flourished 
him  at  the  heads  of  the  members  in  general,  and  so  put 
them  down  by  continual  assertion  of  his  riches  ;  that  the 
club,  being  but  human,  was  delighted  to  retort  upon 
the  major,  by  asking  him,  with  a  show  of  great  concern, 
whether  this  tremendous  smash  had  been  at  all  expected, 
and  how  his  friend  Dombey  bore  it.  To  such  questions, 
the  major,  waxing  very  purple,  would  reply  that  it  was 
a  bad  world,  sir,  altogether  ;  that  Joey  knew  a  thing  or 
two,  but  had  been  done,  sir,  done  like  an  infant ;  that  if 
you  had  foretold  this,  sir,  to  J.  Bagstock,  when  he  went 
abroad  with  Dombey  and  was  chasing  that  vagabond  up 
and  down  France,  J.  Bagstock  would  have  pooh-pooh'd 
you — wo  aid  have  pooh-pooh'd  you,  sir,  by  the  Lord  ! 
That  Joe  had  been  deceived,  sir,  taken  in,  hoodwinked, 
blindfolded,  but  was  broad  awake  again  and  staring ;  in- 
somuch, sir,  that  if  Joe's  father  were  to  rise  up  from  the 
grave  to-morrow,  he  wouldn't  trust  the  old  blade  with  a 
penny  piece,  but  would  tell  him  that  his  son  Josh  was 
too  old  a  soldier  to  be  done  again,  sir.  That  he  was  a 
suspicious,  crabbed,  cranky,  used-up,  J,  B.  infidel,  sir  ; 
and  that  if  it  were  consistent  with  the  dignity  of  a  rough 
and  tough  old  major,  of  the  old  school,  who  had  had  the 
honour  of  being  personally  known  to,  and  commended 
by,  their  late  Royal  Highnesses  the  Dukes  of  Kent  and 
York,  to  retire  to  a  tub  and  live  in  it,  by  Gad  !  sir,  he'd 
have  a  tub  in  Pall  Mall  to-morrow,  to  show  his  contempt 
for  mankind  1 

Of  all  this,  and  many  variations  of  the  same  tune,  the 
major  would  deliver  himself  with  so  many  apoplectic 
symptoms,  such  rollings  of  his  head,  and  such  violent 
growls  of  ill  usage  and  resentment,  that  the  younger 
members  of  the  club  surmised  he  had  invested  money  in 
his  friend  Dombey's  House,  and  lost  it  ;  though  the  older 
soldiers  and  deeper  dogs,  who  knew  Joe  better,  wouldn't 
hear  of  such  a  thing.  The  unfortunate  native,  express- 
ing no  opinion,  suffered  dreadfully  ;  not  merely  in  his 
moral  feelings,  which  were  regularly  fusilladed  by  the 
major  every  hour  in  the  day,  and  riddled  through  and 
through,  but  in  his  sensitiveness  to  bodily  knocks  and 
bumps,  which  was  kept  continually  on  the  stretch.  For 
six  entire  weeks  after  the  bankruptcy,  this  miserable 
foreigner  lived  in  a  rainy  season  of  boot-jacks  and 
brushes. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  three  ideas  upon  the  subject  of  the 
terrible  reverse.  The  first  was  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand it.  The  second,  that  her  brother  had  not  made  an 
effort.  The  third,  that  if  she  had  been  invited  to  din- 
ner on  the  day  of  that  first  party,  it  never  would  have 
happened  ;  and  that  she  had  said  so,  at  the  time. 

Nobody's  opinion  stayed  the  misfortune,  lightened  it, 
or  made  it  heavier.  It  was  understood  that  the  affairs 
of  the  House  were  to  be  wound  up  as  they  best  could 
be  ;  that  Mr.  Dombey  freely  resigned  everything  he  had, 
and  asked  no  favour  from  any  one.  That  any  resump- 
tion of  the  business  was  out  of  the  question,  as  he  would 
listen  to  no  friendly  negotiation  having  that  compro- 
mise in  view  ;  that  he  had  relinquished  every  post  of 
trust  or  distinction  he  had  held,  as  a  man  respected 
among  merchants  ;  that  he  was  dying,  according  to  some  ; 
that  he  was  going  melancholy  mad,  according  to  others  ; 
that  he  was  a  broken  man,  according  to  all. 

The  clerks  dispersed  after  holding  a  little  dinner  of 
condolence  among  themselves,  which  was  enlivened  by 
comic  singing,  and  went  off  admirably.  Some  took 
laces  abroad,  and  some  engaged  in  other  houses  at 
ome  ;  some  looked  up  relations  in  the  country,  for 
whom  they  suddenly  remembered  they  had  a  particular 
affection,  and  some  advertised  for  employment  in  the 
Bewspapers  :  Mr.  Perch  alone  remained  of  all  the  late 
establishment,  sitting  on  his  bracket  looking  at  the  ac- 
countants, or  starting  off  it,  to  propitiate  the  head  ac- 
countant, who  was  to  get  him  into  the  Fire  Office.  The 
counting-house  soon  got  to  be  dirty  and  neglected.  The 
principal  slipper  and  dogs'  collar  seller,  at  the  corner  of 
the  court,  would  have  doubted  the  propriety  of  throwing 
Up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  his  hat,  any  more,  if  Mr. 


I  Dombey  had  appeared  there  now  ;  and  the  ticket  porter, 
!  with  his  hands  under  his  white  apron,  moralised  good 
j  sound  morality  about  ambition,  which  (he  observed)  was 
1  not,  in  his  opinion,  made  to  rhyme  to  i)erdition,  for 
I  nothing. 

I  Mr.  Morfin  the  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  with  the  hair  and 
I  whiskers  sprinkled  with  gray,  was  perhaps  the  only  per- 
son within  the  atmosphere  of  the  House — its  head,  of 
course,  excepted — who  was  heartily  and  deeply  affected 
by  the  disaster  that  had  befallen  it.  He  had  treated  Mr. 
Dombey  with  due  respect  and  deference  through  many 
years,  but  he  had  never  disguised  his  natural  character, 
or  meanly  truckled  to  him,  or  pampered  his  master  pas- 
sion for  the  advancement  of  his  own  purposes.  He  had, 
therefore,  no  self-disrespect  to  avenge  ;  no  long-tight- 
ened springs  to  release  with  a  quick  recoil.  He  worked 
early  and  late  to  unravel  whatever  was  complicated  or 
difficult  in  the  records  of  the  transactions  of  the  House  ; 
was  always  in  attendance  to  explain  whatever  required 
explanation  ;  sat  in  his  old  room  sometimes  very  late  at 
night,  studying  points  by  his  mastery  of  which  he  could 
spare  Mr.  Dombey  the  pain  of  being  personally  referred 
to  ;  and  then  would  go  home  to  Islington,  and  cq^lm  his 
mind  by  producing  the  most  dismal  and  forlorn  sounds 
out  of  his  violoncello  before  going  to  bed. 

He  was  solacing  himself  with  this  melodious  grumbler 
one  evening,  and,  having  been  much  dispirited  by  the 
proceedings  of  the  day,  was  scraping  consolation  out  of 
its  deepest  notes,  when  his  landlady  (who  was  fortunate- 
ly deaf,  and  had  no  other  consciousness  of  these  perform- 
ances than  a  sensation  of  something  rumbling  in  her 
bones)  announced  a  lady. 
"  In  mourning,"  she  said. 

The  violoncello  stopped  immediately  ;  and  the  per- 
former, laying  it  on  a  sofa  with  great  tenderness  and  care, 
made  a  sign  that  the  lady  was  to  come  in.  He  followed 
directly,  and  met  Harriet  Carker  on  the  stair. 

"Alone  !"  he  said,  "and  John  here  this  morning! 
Is  there  anything  the  matter,  my  dear?  But  no,"  he 
added,  "your  face  tells  quite  another  story." 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  a  selfish  revelation  that  you  see 
there,  then,"  she  answered. 

"  It  is  a  very  pleasant  one,"  said  he  ;  "  and  if  selfish, 
a  novelty  too,  worth  seeing  in  you.  But  I  don't  believe 
that." 

He  had  placed  a  chair  for  her  by  this  time,  and  sat 
down  opposite  ;  the  violoncello  lying  snugly  on  the  sofa 
between  them. 

"  You  will  not  be  surprised  at  my  coming  alone,  or  at 
John's  not  having  told  you  I  was  coming,"  said  Harriet  : 
"  and  you  icill  believe  that,  when  I  tell  you  why  I  have 
come.    May  1  do  so  now  ?  " 

"  You  can  do  nothing  better." 

"You  were  not  busy  ?" 

He  pointed  to  the  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa,  and 
said,  "  I  have  been,  all  day.  Here's  my  witness.  I  have 
been  confiding  all  my  cares  to  it.  I  wish  I  had  none  but 
my  own  to  tell. " 

' '  Is  the  House  at  an  end  ?  "  said  Harriet,  earnestly 

"Completely  at  an  end." 

"  Will  it  never  be  resumed  !  '* 

"  Never." 

The  bright  expression  of  her  face  was  not  overshad- 
owed as  her  lips  silently  repeated  the  word.  He  seemed 
to  observe  this  with  some  little  involuntary  surprise  : 
and  said  again  : 

"  Never.  You  remember  what  I  told  you.  It  has 
been,  all  along,  impossible  to  convince  him  :  impossible 
to  reason  with  him  ;  sometimes  impossible  even  to  ap- 
proach him.  The  worst  has  happened  ;  and  the  House 
has  fallen,  never  to  be  built  up  any  more." 

"  And  Mr.  Dombey,  is  he  personally  ruined  ?" 

"  Ruined." 

"  Will  he  have  no  private  fortune  left  ?  Nothing  ?  '* 
A  certain  eagerness  in  her  voice,  and  something  that 
was  almost  joyful  in  her  look,  seemed  to  surprise  him 
more  and  more  ;  to  disappoint  him  too,  and  jar  discord- 
antly against  his  own  emotions.  He  drummed  with  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  on  the  table,  looking  Avistfully  ather 
and  shaking  his  head,  said,  after  a  pause  : 

"  The  extent  of  Mr,  Dombey's  resources  is  not  accu- 
rately within  my  knowledge  ;  but  though  they  are  doubt- 


668 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


less  very  large,  his  obligations  are  enormous.  He  is  a 
gentleman  of  high  honour  and  integrity.  Any  man  in 
his  position  could,  and  many  a  man  in  his  position  would, 
have  saved  himself,  by  making  terms  which  would  have 
very  slightly,  almost  insensibly,  increased  the  losses  of 
those  who  had  had  dealings  with  him,  and  left  him  a  rem- 
nant to  live  upon.  But  he  is  resolved  on  payment  to  the 
last  farthing  of  his  means.  His  own  words  are,  that 
they  will  clear,  or  nearly  clear,  the  House,  and  that  no 
one  can  lose  much.  Ah,  Miss  Harriet,  it  would  do  us 
no  harm  to  remember  oftener  than  we  do,  that  vices  are 
sometimes  only  virtues  carried  to  excess  !  His  pride 
shows  well  in  this." 

She  heard  him  with  little  or  no  change  in  her  expres- 
sion, and  with  a  divided  attention  that  showed  her  to  be 
busy  with  something  in  her  own  mind.  When  he  was 
silent,  she  asked  him  hurriedly  : 

"  Have  you  seen  him  lately?" 
No  one  sees  him.  When  this  crjsis  of  his  affairs 
renders  it  necessary  for  him  to  come  out  of  his  house,  he 
comes  out  for  the  occasion,  and  again  goes  home,  and 
shuts  himself  up,  and  sees  no  one.  He  has  written  me  a 
letter,  acknowledging  our  past  connexion  in  higher  terms 
than  it' deserved,  and  parting  from  me.  I  am  delicate  of 
obtruding  myself  upon  him  now,  never  having  had  much 
intercourse  with  him  in  better  times  ;  but  I  have  tried 
to  do  so.  I  have  written,  gone  there,  entreated.  Quite 
in  vain." 

He  watched  her,  as  in  the  hope  that  she  would  testify 
some  greater  concern  than  she  had  yet  shown  ;  and 
spoke  gravely  and  feelingly,  as  if  to  impress  her  the 
more  ;  but  there  was  no  change  in  her. 

"  Well,  well.  Miss  Harriet,"  he  said,  with  a  disappoint- 
ed air,  *'  this  is  not  to  the  purpose.  You  have  not  come 
here  to  hear  this.  Some  other  and  pleasanter  theme  is 
in  your  mind.  Let  it  be  in  mine,  too,  and  we  shall  talk 
upon  more  equal  terms.    Come  !  " 

"No,  it  is  the  same  theme,"  returned  Harriet,  with 
frank  and  quick  surprise.  "Is  it  not  likely  that  it 
should  be  ?  Is  it  not  natural  that  John  and  I  should 
have  been  thinking  and  speaking  very  much  of  late  of 
these  great  changes?  Mr.  Dombey,  whom  he  served  so 
many  years — you  know  upon  what  terms — reduced,  as 
you  describe  ;  and  we  quite  rich  !  " 

Good,  true  face,  as  that  face  of  hers  was,  and  pleasant 
as  it  had  been  to  him,  Mr.  Morfin,  the  hazel-eyed  bach- 
elor, since  the  first  time  he  had  ever  looked  upon  it,  it 
pleased  him  less  at  that  moment,  lighted  with  a  ray  of 
exultation,  than  it  had  ever  pleased  him  before. 

"  I  need  not  remind  you,"  said  Harriet,  casting  down 
her  eyes  upon  her  black  dress,  "  through  what  means 
our  circumstances  changed.  You  have  not  forgotten 
that  our  brother  James,  upon  that  dreadful  day,  left  no 
will,  no  relations  but  ourselves." 

The  face  was  pleasanter  to  him  now,  though  it  was 
pale  and  melancholy,  than  it  had  been  a  moment  since. 
He  seemed  to  breathe  more  cheerily. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "our  history,  the  history 
of  both  my  brothers,  in  connexion  with  the  unfortunate, 
unhappy  gentleman,  of  whom  you  have  spoken  so  truly. 
You  know  how  few  our  wants  are — John's  and  mine — and 
what  little  use  we  have  for  money,  after  the  life  we  have 
led  together  for  so  many  years  ;  and  now  that  he  is  earn- 
ing an  income  that  is  ample  for  us,  through  your  kind- 
ness. You  are  not  unprepared  to  hear  what  favour  I 
have  come  to  ask  of  you  ?  " 

"I  hardly  know.  I  was,  a  minute  ago.  Now  I  think, 
I  am  not." 

"  Of  my  dead  brother  I  say  nothing.  If  the  dead  know 
what  we  do — but  you  understand  me.  Of  my  living 
brother  I  could  say  much  :  but  what  need  I  say  more, 
than  that  this  act  of  duty,  in  which  I  have  come  to  ask 
your  indispensable  assistance,  is  his  own,  and  that  he 
cannot  rest  until  it  is  performed  !  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  again  ;  and  the  light  of  exultation 
in  her  face  began  to  appear  beautiful,  in  the  observant 
eyes  that  watched  her. 

"  Dear  sir,"  she  went  on  to  say,  "  it  must  be  done  very 
quietly  and  secretly.  Your  experience  and  knowledge 
will  point  out  a  way  of  doing  it.  Mr.  Dombey  may,  per- 
haps, be  led  to  believe  that  it  is  something  saved,  unex- 
pectedly, from  the  wreck  of  bis  fortunes  ;  or  that  it  is  a 


voluntary  tribute  to  his  honourable  and  upright  charac- 
ter, from  some  of  those  with  whom  he  has  had  great 
dealings  ;  or  that  it  is  some  old  lost  debt  repaid.  There 
must  be  many  ways  of  doing  it  I  know  you  will  choose 
the  best.  The  favour  I  have  come  to  ask  is,  that  you 
will  do  it  for  us  in  your  own  kind,  generous,  considerate 
manner.  That  you  will  never  speak  of  it  to  John,  whose 
chief  happiness  in  this  act  of  restitution  is  to  do  it  se- 
cretly, unknown  and  unapproved  of  ;  that  only  a  very 
small  part  of  the  inheritance  may  be  reserved  to  us, 
until  Mr.  Dombey  shall  have  possessed  the  interest  of 
the  rest  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  ;  that  you  will  keep 
our  secret  faithfully — but  that  I  am  sure  you  will  ;  and 
that,  from  this  time,  it  may  seldom  be  whispered,  even 
between  you  and  me,  but  may  live  in  ray  thoughts  only 
as  a  new  reason  for  thankfulness  to  Heaven,  and  joy  and 
pride  in  my  brother." 

Such  a  look  of  exultation  there  may  be  on  Angels* 
faces,  when  the  one  repentant  sinner  enters  Heaven, 
among  ninety-nine  just  men.  It  was  not  dimmed  or  tar- 
nished by  the  joyful  tears  that  filled  her  eyes,  but  was 
the  brighter  for  them. 

"  My  dear  Harriet,"  said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a  silence, 
"  I  was  not  prepared  for  this.  Do  I  understand  you  that 
you  wish  to  make  your  own  part  in  the  inheritance  avail- 
able for  your  good  purpose,  as  well  as  John's?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  returned.  "When  we  have  shared 
everything  together  for  so  long  a  time,  and  have  had  no 
care,  hope,  or  purpose  apart,  could  I  bear  to  be  excluded 
from  my  share  in  this  ?  May  I  not  urge  a  claim  to  be 
my  brother's  partner  and  companion  to  the  last?" 

"Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  dispute  it!"  he  re- 
plied. 

"  We  may  rely  on  your  friendly  help  ?  "  she  said.  "  I 
knew  we  might  !" 

"  I  should  be  a  worse  man  than — than  I  hope  I  am,  or 
would  willingly  believe  myself,  if  I  could  not  give  you 
that  assurance  from  my  heart  and  soul.  You  may,  im- 
plicitly. Upon  my  honour,  I  will  keep  your  secret.  And 
if  it  should  be  found  that  Mr.  Dombey  is  so  reduced  as 
I  fear  he  will  be,  acting  on  a  determination  that  there 
seem  to  be  no  means  of  influencing,  I  will  assist  you  to 
accomplish  the  design,  on  which  you  and  John  are 
jointly  resolved." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  thanked  him  with  a  cor- 
dial, happy  face. 

"  Harriet,"  he  said,  detaining  it  in  his.  "  To  speak  to 
you  of  the  worth  of  any  sacrifice  that  you  can  make  now 
— above  all,  of  any  sacrifice  of  mere  money — would  be 
idle  and  presumptuous.  To  put  before  you  any  appeal  to 
reconsider  your  purpose  or  to  set  narrow  limits  to  it, 
would  be,  I  feel,  not  less  so.  I  have  no  right  to  mar  the 
great  end  of  a  great  history,  by  any  obtrusion  of  my 
own  weak  self.  I  have  every  right  to  bend  my  head  be- 
fore what  you  confide  to  me,  satisfied  that  it  comes  from 
a  higher  and  better  source  of  inspiration  than  my  poor 
worldly  knowledge.  I  will  say  only  this,  I  am  your  faith- 
ful steward  ;  and  I  would  rather  be  so,  and  your  chosen 
friend,  than  I  would  be  anybody  in  the  world,  except 
yourself. " 

She  thanked  him  again,  cordially,  and  wished  him 
good  night. 

"  Are  you  going  home?  "  he  said.    "  Let  me  go  with 
you." 

"  Not  to-night.    I  am  not  going  home  now  ;  1  have  a 
visit  to  make  alone.    Will  you  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he,  "  I'll  come  to-morrow.  In  the 
mean  time,  I'll  think  of  this,  and  how  we  can  best  pro- 
ceed. And  perhaps  you'll  think  of  it,  dear  Harriet,  and 
— and — think  of  me  a  little  in  connexion  with  it." 

He  handed  her  down  to  a  coach  she  liad  in  waiting  at 
the  door  ;  and  if  his  landlady  had  not  been  deaf,  she 
would  have  heard  him  muttering  as  he  went  back  up-  \ 
stairs,  when  the  coach  had  driven  off,  that  we  were 
creatures  of  habit,  and  it  was  a  sorrowful  habit  to  be  an 
old  bachelor. 

The  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa  between  the  two 
chairs,  he  took  it  up,  without  putting  away  the  vacant 
chair,  and  sat  droning  on  it,  and  slowly  shaking  bis  head 
at  the  vacant  chair,  for  a  long,  long  time.  The  expres- 
sion he  communicated  to  the  instrument  at  first,  though 
monstrously  pathetic  and  bland,  was  nothing  to  the  ex- 


DOMBEY 

pression  lie  communicated  to  his  own  face,  and  bestowed 
upon  the  empty  chair  :  which  was  so  sincere,  that  he 
was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  Captain  Cuttle's  remedy 
more  than  once,  and  to  rub  his  face  with  his  sleeve.  By 
degrees,  however,  the  violoncello,  in  unison  with  his 
own  frame  of  mind,  glided  melodiously  into  the  Har- 
monious Blacksmith,  which  he  played  over  and  over 
again,  until  his  ruddy  and  serene  face  gleamed  like  true 
metal  on  the  anvil  of  a  veritable  blacksmith.  In  fine,  the 
violoncello  and  the  empty  chair  were  the  companions  of 
his  bachelorhood  until  nearly  midnight ;  and  when  he 
took  his  supper,  the  violoncello  set  up  on  end  in  the  sofa 
corner,  big  with  the  latent  harmony  of  a  whole  foundry 
full  of  harmonious  blacksmiths,  seemed  to  ogle  the  empty 
chair  out  of  its  crooked  eyes,  with  unutterable  intelli- 
gence. 

When  Harriet  left  the  house,  the  driver  of  her  hired 
coach,  taking  a  course  that  was  evidently  no  new  one  to 
him,  went  in  and  out  by  bye-ways,  through  that  part  of 
the  suburbs,  until  he  arrived  at  some  open  ground, 
where  there  were  a  few  quiet  little  old  houses  standing 
among  gardens.  At  the  garden-gate  of  one  of  these  he 
stopped,  and  Harriet  alighted. 

Her  gentle  ringing  at  the  bell  was  responded  to  by  a 
dolorous  looking  woman,  of  light  complexion,  with  raised 
eyebrows,  and  head  drooping  on  one  side,  who  curtseyed 
at  sight  of  her,  and  conducted  her  across  the  garden  to 
the  house. 

"  How  is  your  patient,  nurse,  to-night?  "  said  Harriet. 

"  In  a  poor  way,  miss,  I  am  afraid.  Oh  how  she  do 
remind  me,  sometimes,  of  my  uncle's  Betsey  Jane  I  "  re- 
turned the  woman  of  the  light  complexion,  in  a  sort  of 
doleful  rapture. 

"  In  what  respect  ?"  said  Harriet. 

*' Miss,  in  all  respects,"  replied  the  other,  "except 
that  she's  grown  up,  and  Betsey  Jane,  when  at  death's 
i  door,  was  but  a  child." 

I     **  But  you  have  told  me  she  recovered,"  observed 
Harriet  mildly  ;  '"  so  there  is  the  more  reason  for  hope, 
I  Mrs.  Wickam," 

I     "  Ah,  miss,  hope  is  an  excellent  thing  for  such  as  has 
i  the  spirits  to  bear  it !  "  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  shaking  her 
head.    "  My  own  spirits  is  not  equal  to  it,  but  I  don't 
owe  it  any  grudge.    I  envys  them  that  is  so  blest  ! " 
,     "You  should  try  to  be  more  cheerful,"  remarked 
Harriet. 

"  Thank  you  miss,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam 
grimly.  "  If  I  was  so  inclined,  the  loneliness  of  this 
situation — you'll  excuse  my  speaking  so  free — would  put 
it  out  of  my  power,  in  four  and  twenty  hours  ;  but  I  an't 
at  all.  I'd  rather  not.  The  little  spirits  that  I  ever  had, 
I  was  bereaved  of  at  Brighton  some  few  years  ago,  and  I 
think  I  feel  myself  the  better  for  it." 

In  truth,  this  was  the  very  Mrs.  Wickam  who  had 
superseded  Mrs.  Richards  as  the  nurse  of  little  Paul,  and 
who  considered  herself  to  have  gained  the  loss  in  ques- 
tion, under  the  roof  of  the  amiable  Pipchin.  The  excel- 
lent and  thoughtful  old  system,  hallowed  by  long  pre- 
scription, which  has  usually  picked  out  from  the  rest  of 
mankind  the  most  dreary  and  uncomfortable  people  that 
could  possibly  be  laid  hold  of,  to  act  as  instructors  of 
youth,  finger-posts  to  the  virtues,  matrons,  monitors, 
attendants  on  sick  beds,  and  the  like,  had  established 
Mrs.  Wickam  in  very  good  business  as  a  nurse,  and  had 
led  to  her  serious  qualities  being  particularly  commended 
by  an  admiring  and  numerous  connexion. 

Mrs.  Wickam,  with  her  eyebrows  elevated,  and  her 
head  on  one  side,  lighted  the  way  up-stairs  to  a  clean, 
neat  chamber,  opening  on  another  chamber  dimly  lighted, 
where  there  was  a  bed.  In  the  first  room,  an  old  woman 
sat  mechanically  staring  out  of  the  open  window,  on  the 
darkness.  In  the  second,  stretched  upon  the  bed,  lay  the 
shadow  of  a  figure  that  had  spurned  the  wind  and  rain, 
one  wintry  night  ;  hardly  to  be  recognised  now,  but  by 
the  long  black  hair,  that  showed  so  very  black  against 
the  colourless  face,  and  all  the  white  things  about  it. 

Oh,  the  strong  eyes  and  the  weak  frame  !  The  eyes 
that  turned  so  eagerly  and  brightly  to  the  door  when 
Harriet  came  in  ;  the  feeble  head  that  could  not  raise 
itself,  and  moved  so  slowly  round  upon  its  pillow  ! 

"Alice  1"  said  the  visitor's  mild  voice,  "am  1  late  to- 
night?" 


AND  SON.  669 

"  You  always  seem  late,  but  are  always  early." 
Harriet  had  sat  down  by  the  bedside  now,  and  put  her 
hand  upon  the  thin  hand  lying  there. 
"  You  are  better  ?" 

Mrs.  Wickam,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  like  a 
disconsolate  spectre,  most  decidedly  and  forcibly  shook 
her  head  to  negative  this  position. 

"It  matters  very  little!"  said  Alice,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  Better  or  worse  to-day,  is  but  a  day's  difference 
— perhaps  not  so  much." 

Mrs.  Wickam,  as  a  serious  character,  expressed  her 
approval  with  a  groan  ;  and  having  made  some  cold 
dabs  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed-clothes,  as  feeling  for  the 
patient's  feet  and  expecting  to  find  them  stony,  went 
clinking  among  the  medicine  bottles  on  the  table,  as  who 
should  say,  "  while  weave  here,  let  us  repeat  the  mixture 
as  before." 

"  No,"  said  Alice,  whispering  to  her  visitor,  "evil 
courses,  and  remorse,  travel,  want,  and  weather,  storm 
within,  and  storm  without,  have  worn  my  life  away. 
It  will  not  last  much  longer." 

She  drew  the  hand  up  as  she  spoke,  and  laid  her  face 
against  it. 

"  I  lie  here,  sometimes,  thinking  I  should  like  to  live 
until  I  had  had  a  little  time  to  show  you  how  grateful 
I  could  be  .!  It  is  a  weakness,  and  soon  passes.  Better 
for  you  as  it  is.    Better  for  me  ! " 

How  different  her  hold  upon  thp  hand,  to  what  it  had 
been  when  she  took  it  by  the  fireside  on  the  bleak  win- 
ter evening  !  Scorn,  rage,  defiance,  recklessness,  look 
here  !    This  is  the  end. 

Mrs.  Wickam  having  clinked  sufficiently  among  the 
bottles,  now  produced  the  mixture.  Mrs.  Wickam  looked 
hard  at  the  patient  in  the  act  of  drinking,  screwed  her 
mouth  up  tight,  her  eyebrows  also,  and  shook  her  head, 
expressing  that  tortures  shouldn't  make  her  say  it  was  a 
hopeless  case.  Mrs.  Wickam  then  sprinkled  a  little 
cooling-stuff  about  the  room,  with  the  air  of  a  female 
grave-digger,  who  was  strewing  ashes  on  ashes,  dust 
on  dust — for  she  was  a  serious  character — and  with- 
drew to  partake  of  certain  funeral  baked  meats  down- 
stairs. 

"  How  long  is  it,"  asked  Alice,  "  since  I  went  to  you 
and  told  you  what  I  had  done,  and  when  you  were  ad- 
vised it  was  too  late  for  any  one  to  follow  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  year  and  more,"  said  Harriet. 

"A  year  and  more,"  said  Alice,  thoughtfully  intent 
upon  her  face.  "  Months  upon  months  since  you  brought 
me  here  ! " 

Harriet  answered  "  Yes." 

"  Brought  me  here  by  force  of  gentleness  and  kindness. 
Me  ! "  said  Alice,  shrinking  with  her  face  behind  the 
hand,  "  and  made  me  human  by  woman's  looks  and 
words,  and  angel's  deeds  !  " 

Harriet  bending  over  her,  composed  and  soothed  her. 
By-aud-by  Alice  lying  as  before,  with  the  hand  against 
her  face,  asked  to  have  her  inother  called. 

Harriet  called  to  her  more  than  once  ;  but  the  old  wo- 
man was  so  absorbed  looking  out  at  the  open  window  on 
the  darkness,  that  she  did  not  hear.  It  was  not  until 
Harriet  went  to  her  and  touched  her,  that  she  rose  up, 
and  came. 

"  Mother,"  said  Alice,  taking  the  hand  again,  and  fix- 
ing her  lustrous  eyes  lovingly  upon  her  visitor,  while  she 
merely  addressed  amotion  of  her  finger  to  the  old  woman, 
"  tell  her  what  you  know." 

"  To-night,  my  deary  ?" 

"  Ay,  mother,"  answered  Alice,  faintly  and  solemnly, 
"to-night  !" 

The  old  woman,  whose  wits  appeared  disordered  by 
alarm,  remorse,  or  grief,  came  creeping  tip  along  the  side 
of  the  bed,  opposite  to  that  on  which  Harriet  sat  ;  and 
kneeling  down,  so  as  to  bring  her  withered  face  upon 
a  level  with  the  coverlet,  and  stretching  out  her  hand, 
so  as  to  touch  her  daughter's  arm,  began  : 

"  My  handsome  gal — " 

Heaven  what  a  cry  was  that,  with  which  she  stop- 
ped there,  gazing  at  the  poor  form  lying  on  the  bed  ! 

"Changed,  long  ago,  mother  !  Withered  long  ago," 
said  Alice,  without  looking  at  her.  "  Don't  grieve  for 
that  now." 

— "My  daughter,"  faltered  the  old  woman,  "my  gal 


670 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


who'll  soon  get  better,  and  shame  'em  all  with  her 
good  looks. " 

Alice  smiled  mournfully  at  Harriet,  and  fondled  her 
hand  a  little  closer,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Who'll  soon  get  better,  I  say,"  repeated  the  old 
woman,  menacing  the  vacant  air  with  her  shrivelled 
fist,  "  and  who'll  shame  'em  all  with  her  good  looks 
— she  will.  I  say  she  will  !  she  shall—"  as  if  she 
were  in  passionate  contention  with  some  unseen  oppo- 
nent at  the  bedside,  who  contradicted  her—"  my  daugh- 
ter has  been  turned  away  from,  and  cast  out,  but  she 
could  boast  relationship  to  proud  folks  too,  if  she 
chose.  Ah  !  To  proud  folks !  There's  relationship 
without  your  clergy  and  your  wedding-rings — they 
may  make  it,  but  they  can't  break  it — and  my  daugh- 
ter's well  related.  Show  me  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  I'll 
show  you  my  Alice's  first  cousin." 

Harriet  glanced  from  the  old  woman  to  the  lustrous 
eyes  intent  upon  her  face,  and  derived  corroboration 
from  them. 

"What!"  cried  the  old  woman,  her  nodding  head 
bridling  with  a  ghastly  vanity  ;  "  though  I  am  old  and 
ugly  now, — much  older  by  life  and  habit  than  years 
though, — I  was  once  as  young  as  any.  Ah  !  as  pretty 
too,  as  many  !  I  was  a  fresh  country  wench  in  my  time, 
darling,"  stretching  out  her  arm  to  Harriet,  across  the 
bed,  "  and  looked  it,  too.  Down  in  my  country,  Mrs. 
Dombey's  father  and  his  brother  were  the  gayest  gentle- 
men and  the  best-liked  that  came  a  visiting  from  Lon- 
don — they  have  long  been  dead,  though  !  Lord,  Lord, 
this  long  while  !  The  brother,  who  is  my  Ally's  father, 
longest  of  the  two." 

She  raised  her  head  a  little,  and  peered  at  her  daugh- 
ter's face  ;  as  from  the  remembrance  of  her  own  youth, 
she  had  flown  to  the  remembrance  of  her  child's.  Then 
suddenly,  she  laid  her  face  down  on  the  bed,  and  shut 
her  head  up  in  her  hands  and  arms. 

"  They  were  as  like,"  said  the  old  woman,  without 
looking  up,  "  as  you  could  see  two  brothers,  so  near  an 
age — there  wasn't  much  more  than  a  year  between  them, 
as  I  recollect — and  if  you  could  have  seen  my  gal,  as  I 
have  seen  her  once,  side  by  side  with  the  other's  daugh- 
ter, you'd  have  seen,  for  all  the  difference  of  dress  and 
life,  that  they  were  like  each  other.  Oh  !  is  the  likeness 
gone  and  is  it  my  gal — only  my  gal  that's  to  change 
so  ! " 

"We  shall  all  change,  mother,  in  our  turn,"  said  Alice. 

"  Turn  ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  "  but  why  not  hers  as 
soon  as  my  gal's  !  The  mother  must  have  changed — she 
looked  as  old  as  me,  and  full  as  wrinkled  through  her 
paint — but  sJie  was  handsome.  What  have  /  done,  I, 
what  have  /done  worse  than  her,  that  only  my  gal  is  to 
lie  there  fading  !  " 

With  another  of  those  wild  cries,  she  went  running 
out  into  the  room  from  which  she  had  come  ;  but  im- 
mediately, in  her  uncertain  mood,  returned,  and  creep- 
ing up  to  Harriet,  said  : 

"  That's  what  Alice  bade  me  tell  you,  deary.  That's 
all.  I  found  it  out  when  I  began  to  ask  who  she  was, 
and  all  about  her,  away  in  Warwickshire  there,  one 
summer  time.  Such  relations  was  no  good  to  me,  then. 
They  wouldn't  have  owned  me,  and  had  nothing  to  give 
me.  I  should  have  asked  'em,  may  be,  for  a  little 
money,  afterwards,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  Alice  ;  she'd 
a'most  have  killed  me,  if  I  had,  I  think.  She  was  as 
proud  as  t'other  in  her  way,"  said  the  old  woman, touch- 
ing the  face  of  her  daughter  fearfully,  and  withdrawing 
her  hand,  "  for  all  she's  so  quiet  now  ;  but  she'll  shame 
'em  with  her  good  looks  yet.  Ha,  ha  !  She'll  shame  'em, 
will  my  handsome  daughter  !  " 

Her  laugh,  as  she  retreated,  was  worse  than  her  cry  ; 
worse  than  the  burst  of  imbecile  lamentation  in  which  it 
ended  ;  worse  than  the  doting  air  with  which  she  sat 
down  in  her  old  seat,  and  stared  out  at  the  darkness. 

The  eyes  of  Alice  had  all  this  time  been  fixed  on  Har- 
riet, whose  hand  she  had  never  released.  She  said 
now  : 

"  I  have  felt,  lying  here,  that  I  should  like  you  to 
know  this.  It  might  explain,  I  have  thought,  something 
that  used  to  help  to  harden  me.  I  have  heard  so  much, 
in  my  wrong-doing,  of  my  neglected  duty,  that  I  took 
up  with  the  belief  that  duty  had  not  been  done  to  me, 


and  that  as  the  seed  was  sown,  the  harvest  grew.  I 
somehow  made  it  out  that  when  ladies  had  bad  homes 
and  mothers,  they  went  wrong  in  their  way,  too  ;  but 
that  their  way  was  not  so  foul  a  one  as  mine,  and  thfey 
had  need  to  bless  God  for  it.  That  is  all  past.  It  is 
like  a  dream,  now,  which  I  cannot  quite  remember  or 
understand.  It  has  been  more  and  more  like  a  dream, 
every  day,  since  you  began  to  sit  here,  and  to  read  to  me. 
I  only  tell  it  you,  as  I  can  recollect  it.  Will  you  read  to 
me  a  little  more  ?  " 

Harriet  was  withdrawing  her  hand  to  open  the  book 
when  Alice  detained  it  for  a  moment. 

"  You  will  not  forget  my  mother?  I  forgive  her,  if  I 
have  any  cause.  I  know  that  she  forgives  me,  and  is 
sorry  in  her  heart.    You  will  not  forget  her  ?  " 

"Never,  Alice  ! " 

"  A  moment  yet.    Lay  my  head  so,  dear,  that  as  you 
read,  I  may  see  the  words  in  your  kind  face." 

Harriet  complied  and  read — read  the  eternal  book  for 
all  the  weary  and  the  heavy-laden  ;  for  all  the  wretched, 
fallen,  and  neglected  of  this  earth — read  the,  blessed 
history,  in  which  the  blind,  lame,  palsied  beggar,  the 
criminal,  the  woii;ian  stained  with  shame,  the  shunned 
of  all  our  dainty  clay,  has  each  a  portion,  that  no  human 
pride,  indifference,  or  sophistry  through  all  the  ages  that 
this  world  shall  last,  can  take  away,  or  by  the  thousandth 
atom  of  a  grain  reduce — read  the  ministry  of  Him,  who, 
through  the  round  of  human  life,  and  all  its  hopes  and 
griefs,  from  birth  to  death,  from  infancy  to  age,  had 
sweet  compassion  for,  and  interest  in,  its  every  scene 
and  stage,  its  every  suffering  and  sorrow. 

"  I  shall  come,"  said  Harriet,  when  she  shut  the 
book,  "  very  early  in  the  morning." 

The  lustrous  eyes,  yet  fixed  upon  her  face,  closed  for 
a  moment,  then  opened  ;  and  Alice  kissed  and  blessed  ; 
her. 

The  same  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door ;  and  in  their  • 
light,  and  on  the  tranquil  face,  there  was  a  smile  when  I 
it  was  closed. 

They  never  turned  away.    She  laid  her  hand  upon 
her  breast,  murmuring  the  sacred  name  that  had  been  ' 
read  to  her  ;  and  life  passed  from  her  face,  like  light  re-  •■ 
moved. 

Nothing  lay  there,  any  longer,  but  the  ruin  of  the  ; 
mortal  house  on  which  the  rain  had  beaten,  and  the 
black  hair  that  had  fluttered  in  the  wintry  wind. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 


Hetribiition. 


Changes  have  come  again  upon  the  great  house  in  ' 
the  long  dull  street,  once  the  scene  of  Florence's  child-  ' 
hood  and  loneliness.    It  is  a  great  house  still,  proof 
against  wind  and  weather,  without  breaches  in  the  roof, 
or  shattered  windows,  or  dilapidated  walls ;  but  it  is  a 
ruin  none  the  less,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

Mr.  Towlinson  and  company  are,  at  first,  incredulous 
in  respect  of  the  shapeless  rumours  that  they  hear.  Cook 
says  our  people's  credit  ain't  so  easy  shook  as  that  comes 
to,  thank  God  ;  and  Mr.  Towlinson  expects  to  hear  it 
reported  next,  that  the  Bank  of  England's  a  going  to 
break,  or  the  jewels  in  the  Tower  to  be  sold  up.  But, 
next  come  the  Gazette,  and  Mr.  Perch  :  and  Mr.  Perch 
brings  Mrs.  Perch  to  talk  it  over  in  the  kitchen,  and  to 
spend  a  pleasant  evening.  ^  ] 

As  soon  as  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  Mr.  Towlinson's  •  i 
main  anxiety  is  that  the  failure  should  be  a  good  round 
one — not  less  than  a  hundred  thousand  pound.  Mr. 
Perch  don't  think  himself  that  a  hundred  thousand  , 
pound  will  nearly  cover  it.    The  women,  led  by  Mrs.  4 
Perch  and  cook,  often  repeat  "a  hun-dred  thou-sand 
pound!"  with  awful  satisfaction— as  if  handling  the 
words  were  like  handling  the  money  ;  and  the  house- 
maid, who  has  her  eye  on  Mr.  Towlinson,  wishes  she 
had  only  a  hundredth  part  of  the  sum  to  bestow  on  the 
man  of  her  choice.    Mr.  Towlinson,  still  mindful  of  his 
i  old  wrongs,  opines  that  a  foreigner  would  hardly  know 
j  what  to  do  with  so  much  money,  unless  he  spent  it  on 
his  whiskers  ;  which  bitter  sarcasm  causes  the  house- 
I  maid  to  withdraw  in  tears. 


DOMBEY 

But  not  to  remain  long  absent ;  for  cook,  who  has  the 
reputation  of  being  extremely  good-hearted,  says  what- 
ever they  do,  let  'em  stand  by  one  another  now,  Towlin- 
son,  for  there's  no  telling  how  soon  they  may  be  divided. 
They  have  been  in  that  house  (says  cook)  tlirough  a 
funeral,  a  wedding,  and  a  run-away;  and  let  it  not 
be  said  that  they  couldn't  agree  among  themselves  at 
such  a  time  as  the  present.  Mrs.  Perch  is  immensely 
affected  by  this  moving  address,  and  openly  remarks  that 
cook  is  an  angel.  Mr.  Towlinson  replies  to  cook,  far  be  it 
from  him  to  stand  in  the  way  of  that  good  feeling  which 
he  could  wish  to  see  ;  and  adjourning  in  quest  of  the 
house-maid,  and  presently  returning  with  that  young 
lady  on  his  arm,  informs  the  kitchen  that  foreigners  is 
only  his  fun,  and  that  him  and  Anne  have  now  resolved 
to  take  one  another  for  better  for  worse,  and  to  settle  in 
Oxford  Market  in  the  general  green  grocery  and  herb 
and  leech  line,  where  your  kind  favours  is  particular  re- 
quested. Tliis  announcement  is  received  with  acclama- 
tion ;  and  Mrs.  Perch,  projecting  her  soul  into  futurity, 
says,  "girls,"  in  cook's  ear,  in  a  solemn  whisper. 

Misfortune  in  the  family  without  feasting,  in  these 
lower  regions,  couldn't  be.  Therefore  cook  tosses  up  a 
hot  dish  or  two  for  supper,  and  Mr.  Towlinson  com- 
pounds a  lobster  salad  to  be  devoted  to  the  same  hospi- 
table purpose.  Even  Mrs.  Pipchin,  agitated  by  the 
occasion,  rings  her  bell,  and  sends  down  word  that  she 
requests  to  have  that  little  bit  of  sweet  bread  that  was 
left,  warmed  up  for  her  supper,  and  sent  to  her  on  a  tray 
with  about  a  quarter  of  a  tumbler-full  of  mulled  sherry  ; 
.for  she  feels  poorly. 

There  is  a  little  talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  but  very 
little.  It  is  chiefly  speculation  as  to  how  long  he  has 
known  that  this  was  going  to  happen.  Cook  says 
shrewdly,  Oh  a  long  time,  bless  you  !  Take  your  oath 
of  that."  And  reference  being  made  to  Mr.  Perch  he 
confirms  her  view  of  the  case.  Somebody  wonders  what 
he'll  do,  and  whether  he'll  go  out  in  any  situation.  Mr. 
Towlinson  thinks  not,  and  hints  at  a  refuge  in  one  of 
them  gen- teel  almshouses  of  the  better  kind.  "Ah! 
where  he'll  have  his  little  garden  you  know,"  says  cook 
plaintively,  "  and  bring  up  sweet-peas  in  the  spring." 
"  Exactly  so,"  says  Mr.  Towlinson,  "  and  be  one  of  the 
Brethren  of  something  or  another."  "  We  are  all  Breth- 
ren," says  Mrs.  Perch,  in  a  pause  of  her  drink.  "Ex- 
cept the  sisters,"  says  Mr.  Perch.  "How are  the  mighty 
fallen  !"  remarks  cook.  "Pride  shall  have  a  fall,  and 
it  always  was  and  will  be  so  ! "  observes  the  house- 
maid. 

It  is  wonderful  how  good  they  feel,  in  making  these 
reflections  ;  and  what  a  Christian  unanimity  they  are 
sensible  of,  in  bearing  the  common  shock  with  resignation. 
There  is  only  one  interruption  to  this  excellent  state  of 
mind,  which  is  occasioned  by  a  young  kitchen-maid  of 
inferior  rank — in  black  stockings — who,  having  sat  with 
her  mouth  open  for  a  long  time,  unexpectedly  discharges 
from  it  words  to  this  effect,  "  Suppose  the  wages  shouldn't 
be  paid  !  "  The  company  sit  for  a  moment  speechless  ; 
but  cook  recovering  first,  turns  upon  the  young  woman, 
and  requests  to  know  how  she  dares  insult  the  family, 
whose  bread  she  eats,  by  such  a  dishonest  supposition,  and 
whether  she  thinks  that  anybody,  with  a  scrap  of  honour 
left,  could  deprive  poor  servants  of  their  pittance  ?  "  Be- 
cause if  that  is  your  religious  feelings,  Mary  Daws,"  says 
cook,  warmly,  "  I  don't  know  whf^rc  you  mean  to  go  to." 

Mr.  Towlinson  don't  know  either  ;  nor  anybody  ;  and 
the  young  kitchen-maid,  appearing  not  to  know  exactly, 
herself,  and  scouted  by  the  general  voice,  is  covered 
with  confusion,  as  with  a  garment. 

After  a  few  days  strange  people  begin  to  call  at  the 
house,  and  to  make  appointments  with  one  another  in  the 
dining-room,  as  if  they  lived  there.  Especially,  there  is 
a  gentleman,  of  a  Mosaic  Arabian  cast  of  countenance, 
with  a  very  massive  watch-guard,  who  whistles  in  the 
drawing-room,  and,  while  he  is  waiting  for  the  other 
gentleman,  who  always  has  pen  and  ink  in  his  pocket, 
asks  Mr.  Towlinson  (by  the  easy  name  of  "Old  Cock,") 
if  he  happens  to  know  what  the  figure  of  them  crimson 
and  gold  hangings  might  have  been,  when  new  bought. 
The  callers  and  appointments  in  the  dining-room  become 
more  numerous  every  day,  and  every  gentleman  seems 
to  have  pen  and  ink  in  his  pocket,  and  to  have  some 


AND  SON.  671 

occasion  to  use  it.  At  last  it  is  said  that  there  is  going 
to  be  a  Sale  ;  and  then  more  peoj^le  arrive,  with  pen  and 
ink  in  their  pockets,  commanding  a  detachment  of  men 
with  carpet  caps,  who  immediately  begin  to  pull  up  the 
carpets,  and  knock  the  furniture  about,  and  to  print  off 
thousands  of  impressions  of  their  shoes  upon  the  hall  and 
staircase. 

The  council  down-stairs  are  in  full  conclave  all  this 
time,  and,  having  nothing  to  do,  perform  perfect  feats  of 
eating.  At  length  they  are  one  day  summoned  in  a  body 
to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  room,  and  thus  addressed  by  the  fair 
Peruvian  : 

"Your  master's  in  difficulties,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
tartly.    "  You  know  that,  I  suppose  ?" 

Mr.  Towlinson,  as  spokesman,  admits  a  general  knowl- 
edge of  the  fact. 

"  And  you're  all  on  the  look-out  for  yourselves,  I  war- 
rant you,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  her  head  at  them. 

A  shrill  voice  from  the  rear  exclaims,  "  No  more  than 
yourself  ! " 

"That's  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Impudence,  is  it?"  says 
the  ireful  Pipchin,  looking  with  a  fiery  eye  over  the  in- 
termediate heads. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  it  is,"  replies  cook,  advancing. 
"  And  what  then,  pray  ?" 

"Why,  then  you  may  go  as  soon  as  you  like,"  says 
Mrs.  Pipchin.  "The  sooner  the  better,  and  I  hope  I 
shall  never  see  your  face  again." 

With  this  the  doughty  Pipchin  produces  a  canvas 
bag  ;  and  tells  her  wages  out  to  that  day,  and  a  month 
beyond  it,  and  clutches  the  money  tight,  until  a  receipt 
for  the  same  is  duly  signed,  to  the  last  up-stroke  ;  when 
she  grudgingly  lets  it  go.  This  form  of  proceeding  Mrs. 
Pipchin  repeats  with  every  member  of  the  household, 
until  all  are  paid. 

"  Now  those  that  choose,  can  go  about  their  business," 
says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  and  those  that  choose  can  stay  here 
on  board  wages  for  a  week  or  so,  and  make  themselves 
useful.  Except,"  says  the  inflammable  Pipchin,  "that 
slut  of  a  cook,  who'll  go  immediately." 

"That,"  says  cook,  "she  certainly  will  !  I  wish  you 
good-day,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  sincerely  wish  I  could  com- 
pliment you  on  the  sweetness  of  your  appearance  !  " 

"Get  along  with  you,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  stamping 
her  foot. 

Cook  sails  off  with  an  air  of  beneficent  dignity,  highly 
exasperating  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  is  shortly  joined  be- 
low stairs  by  the  rest  of  the  confederation. 

Mr.  Towlinson  then  says,  that,  in  the  first  place,  he 
would  beg  to  propose  a  little  snack  of  something  to  eat  ; 
and  over  that  snack  would  desire  to  offer  a  suggestion 
which  he  thinks  will  meet  the  position  in  which  they 
find  themselves.  The  refreshment  being  produced,  and 
very  heartily  partaken  of,  Mr.  Towlinson's  suggestion  is, 
in  effect,  that  cook  is  going,  and  that  if  we  are  not  true 
to  ourselves,  nobody  will  be  true  to  us.  That  they  have 
lived  in  that  house  a  long  time,  and  exerted  themselves 
very  much  to  be  sociable  together.  (At  this,  cook  says, 
with  emotion,  "  Hear,  hear  !  "  and  Mrs.  Perch,  who  is 
there  again,  and  full  to  the  throat,  sheds  tears.)  And 
that  he  thinks,  at  the  present  time,  the  feeling  ought  to 
be  "Go  one,  go  all  !  "  The  housemaid  is  much  affected 
by  this  generous  sentiment,  and  warmly  seconds  it. 
Cook  says  she  feels  it's  right,  and  only  hopes  it's  not 
done  as  a  compliment  to  her,  but  from  a  sense  of  duty. 
Mr.  Towlinson  replies,  from  a  sense  of  duty  ;  and  that 
now  he  is  driven  to  express  his  opinions,  he  will  openly 
say,  that  he  does  not  think  it  over-respectable  to  remain 
in 'a  house  where  Sales  and  such  like  are  carrying  for- 
wards. The  housemaid  is  sure  of  it ;  and  relates,  in 
confirmation,  that  a  strange  man,  in  a  carpet  cap,  offered, 
this  very  morning,  to  kiss  her  on  the  stairs.  Hereupon, 
Mr.  Towlinson  is  starting  from  his  chair,  to  seek  and 
"  smash  "  the  offender  ;  when  he  is  laid  hold  on  by  the 
ladies,  who  beseech  him  to  calm  himself,  and  to  reflect 
that  it  is  easier  and  wiser  to  leave  the  scene  of  such  in- 
decencies at  once.  Mrs.  Perch,  presenting  the  case  in  a 
new  light,  even  shows  that  delicacy  towards  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  imperatively  demands 
precipitate  retreat.  "  For  what,"  says  the  good  woman, 
"must  his  feelings  be,  if  he  was  to  come  upon  any  of 
the  poor  servants  that  he  once  deceived  into  thinking 


672 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


liim  immensely  ricli  !  "  Cook  is  so  struck  by  this  moral 
consideration,  that  Mrs.  Perch  improves  it  with  several 
pious  axioms,  original  and  selected.  It  becomes  a  clear 
case  that  they  must  all  go.  Boxes  are  packed,  cabs 
fetched,  and  at  dusk  that  evening  there  is  not  one  mem- 
ber of  the  partv  left. 

The  house  stands,  large  and  weather-proof,  in  the  long 
dull  street ;  but  it  is  a  ruin,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

The  men  in  the  carpet  caps  go  on  tumbling  the  furni- 
ture about ;  and  the  gentlemen  with  the  pens  and  ink 
make  out  inventories  of  it,  and  sit  upon  pieces  of  furni- 
ture never  made  to  be  sat  upon,  and  eat  bread  and  cheese 
from  the  public-house  on  other  pieces  of  furniture  never 
made  to  be  eaten  on,  and  seem  to  have  a  delight  in  ap- 
propriating precious  articles  to  strange  uses.  Chaotic 
combinations  of  furniture  also  take  place.  Mattresses 
and  bedding  appear  in  the  dining-room  ;  the  glass  and 
china  get  into  the  conservatory  ;  the  great  dinner  service 
is  set  out  in  heaps  on  the  long  divan  in  the  large  drawing- 
room  ;  and  the  stair- wires,  made  into  fasces,  decorate  the 
marble  chimney-pieces.  Finally,  a  rug,  with  a  printed 
bill  upon  it,  is  hung  out  from  the  balcony  ;  and  a  similar 
appendage  graces  either  side  of  the  hall  door. 

Then,  all  day  long,  there  is  a  retinue  of  mouldy  gigs 
and  chaise-carts  in  the  streets  ;  and  herds  of  shabby  vam- 
pires, Jew  and  Christian,  over- run  the  house,  sounding 
the  plate-glass  mirrors  with  their  knuckles,  striking  dis- 
cordant octaves  on  the  grand  piano,  drawing  wet  forefin- 
gers over  the  pictures,  breathing  on  the  blades  of  the 
best  dinner-knives,  punching  the  squabs  of  chairs  and 
sofas  with  their  dirty  fists,  touzling  the  feather-beds, 
opening  and  shutting  all  the  drawers,  balancing  the  silver 
spoons  and  forks,  looking  into  the  very  threads  of  the 
drapery  and  linen,  and  -disparaging  everything.  There 
is  not  a  secret  place  in  the  whole  house.  Fluffy  and 
snuffy  strangers  stare  into  the  kitchen  range  as  curiously 
as  into  the  attic  clothes-press.  Stout  men  with  napless 
hats  on,  look  out  of  the  bed-room  windows,  and  cut  jokes 
with  friends  in  the  street.  Quiet,  calculating  spirits 
withdraw  into  the  dressing-rooms  with  catalogues,  and 
make  marginal  notes  thereon,  with  stumps  of  pencils. 
Two  brokers  invade  the  very  fire-escape,  and  take  a  pan- 
oramic survey  of  the  neighbourhood  from  the  top  of  the 
house.  The  swarm  and  buzz,  and  going  up  and  down, 
endure  for  days.  The  Capital  Modern  Household  Furni- 
ture, ifcc,  is  on  view. 

Then  there  is  a  palisade  of  tables  made  in  the  best 
drawing-room  ;  and  on  the  capital,  french-polished,  ex- 
tending, telescopic  range  of  Spanish  mahogany  dining- 
tables  with  turned  legs,  the  pulpit  of  the  Auctioneer  is 
erected  ;  and  the  herds  of  shabby  vampires,  Jew  and 
Christian,  the  strangers  fluffy  and  snuffy,  and  the  stout 
men  with  the  napless  hats,  congregate  aljout  it  and  sit 
upon  everything  within  reach,  mantel-pieces  included, 
and  begin  to  bid.  Hot,  humming,  and  dusty,  are  the 
rooms  all  day  ;  and — high  above  the  heat,  hum,  and  dust 
— the  head  and  shoulders,  voice  and  hammer,  of  the  Auc- 
tioneer, are  ever  at  work.  The  men  in  the  carpet  caps 
get  flustered  and  vicious,  with  tumbling  the  Lots  about, 
and  still  the  lots  are  going,  going,  gone  ;  still  coming  on. 
Sometimes  there  is  joking  and  a  general  roar.  This  lasts 
all  day  and  three  days  following.  The  Capital  Modern 
Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is  on  sale. 

Then  the  mouldy  gigs  and  chaise-carts  re-appear  ;  and 
with  them  come  spring- vans  and  waggons,  and  an  army 
of  porters  with  knots.  All  day  long,  the  men  with 
carpet  caps  are  screwing  at  screw- drivers  and  bed- 
winches,  or  staggering  by  the  dozen  together  on  the  stair- 
case under  lieavy  burdens,  or  upheaving  perfect  rocks  of 
Spanish  mahogany,  best  rosewood,  or  plate-glass,  into 
the  gigs  and  chaise- carts,  vans  and  waggons.  All  sorts 
of  vehicles  of  burden  are  in  attendance,  from  a  tilted 
waggon  to  a  wheel -barrow.  Poor  Paul's  little  bedstead 
is  earned  off  in  a  donkey-tandem.  For  nearly  a  whole 
week  the  Capital  Modern  Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is  in 
course  of  removal. 

At  last  it  is  all  gone.  Nothing  is  left  about  the  house 
but  scattered  leaves  of  catalogues,  littered  scraps  of  straw 
and  bay,  and  a  battery  of  pewter  pots  behind  the  hall 
door.  The  men  with  the  carpet  caps  gather  up  their 
Bcrew-drivers  and  bed-winches  into  bags,  shoulder  them, 
and  walk  off.    One  of  the  pen  and  ink  gentlemen  goes 


over  the  house  as  a  last  attention  ;  sticking  up  bills  in 
the  windows  respecting  the  lease  of  this  desirable  family 
mansion,  and  shutting  the  shutters.  At  length  he  follows 
the  men  with  the  carpet  caps.  None  of  the  invaders 
remain.    The  house  is  a  ruin,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  apartments,  together  with  those  locked 
rooms  on  the  ground  floor  where  the  window-blinds  are 
drawn  down  close,  have  been  spared  the  general  devas- 
tation. Mrs.  Pipchiu  has  remained  austere  and  stony 
during  the  proceedings,  in  her  own  room  ;  or  has  occa- 
sionally looked  in  at  the  sale  to  see  what  the  goods  are 
fetching,  and  to  bid  for  one  particular  easy  chair.  Mrs. 
Pipchin  has  been  the  highest  bidder  for  the  easy  chair, 
and  sits  upon  her  property  when  Mrs.  Chick  comes  to  see 
her. 

"How  is  my  brother,  Mrs.  Pipchin ? " says  Mrs. Cliick. 

"  I  don't  know  anymore  than  the  deuce,"  says  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  "  He  never  does  me  the  honour  to  speak  to  me. 
He  has  his  meat  and  drink  put  in  the  next  room  to  his 
own  ;  and  what  he  takes,  he  comes  out  and  takes  when 
there's  nobody  there.  It's  no  use  asking  me.  I  know  no 
more  about  him  than  the  man  in  the  south  who  burnt 
his  mouth  by  eating  cold  plum  porridge." 

This  the  acrimonious  Pipchin  says  with  a  flounce. 

"But  good  gracious  me  !"  cried  Mrs.  Chick  blandly, 
"  How  long  is  this  to  last  !  If  my  brother  will  not  make 
an  effort,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  what  is  to  become  of  him  ?  I  am 
sure  I  should  have  thought  he  had  seen  enough  of  the 
consequences  of  not  making  an  effort,  by  this  time,  to  be 
warned  against  that  fatal  error. " 

"  Hoity  toity  !  "  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rubbing  her  nose. 
"  There's  a  great  fuss,  I  think,  about  it.  It  ain't  so 
wonderful  a  case.  People  have  had  misfortunes  before 
now,  and  been  obliged  to  part  with  their  furniture.  I'm 
sure  /  have  ! " 

"My  brother,"  pursues  Mrs.  Cliick  profoundly,  "is 
so  peculiar — so  strange  a  man.  He  is  the  most  peculiar 
man  1  ever  saw.  Would  any  one  believe  that  when  he  re- 
ceived news  of  the  marriage  and  emigration  of  that  un- 
natural child — it's  a  comfort  to  me,  now,  to  remember 
that  I  always  said  there  was  something  extraordinary 
about  that  child  ;  but  nobody  minds  me — would  anybody 
believe,  I  say,  that  he  should  then  turn  round  upon  me 
and  say  he  had  supposed,  from  my  manner,  that  she  had 
come  to  my  house  ?  Why,  my  gracious  !  And  would 
anybody  believe  that  when  I  merely  say  to  him  '  Paul, 
I  may  be  very  foolish,  and  I  have  no  doubt  I  am,  but  I 
cannot  understand  how  your  affairs  can  have  got  into  this 
state,'  he  should  actually  fly  at  me,  and  request  that  I 
will  come  to  see  him  no  more  until  he  asks  me  !  Why, 
my  goodness  ! " 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  It's  a  pity  he  hadn't  a 
little  more  to  do  with  mines.  They'd  have  tried  his  tem- 
per for  him." 

"  And  what,"  resumes  Mrs.  Chick,  quite  regardless  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  observations,  "is  it  to  end  in?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know.  What  does  my  brother  mean  to 
do  ?  He  must  do  something.  It's  of  no  use  remaining 
shut  up  in  his  own  rooms.  Business  won't  come  to  him. 
No.  He  must  go  to  it.  Then  why  don't  he  go  !  He 
knows  where  to  go,  I  suppose,  having  been  a  man  of 
business  all  his  life.  Very  good.  Then  why  not  go 
there?" 

Mrs.  Chick,  after  forging  this  powerful  chain  of  rea- 
soning, remains  silent  for  a  minute  to  admire  it. 

"  Besides,"  says  the  discreet  lady,  with  an  argumenta- 
tive air,  "who  ever  heard  of  such  obstinacy  as  his  staying 
shut  up  here  through  all  these  dreadful  disagreeables? 
It's  not  as  if  there  was  no  place  for  him  to  go  to.  Of 
course,  he  could  have  come  to  our  house.  He  knows 
he  is  at  home  there,  I  suppose  ?  Mr.  Chick  has  perfectly 
bored  about  it,  and  I  said  with  my  own  lips,  *  Why, 
surely,  Paul,  you  don't  imagine  that  because  your  affairs 
have  got  into  this  state,  you  are  the  loss  at  home  to  such 
near  relatives  as  ourselves?  You  don't  imagine  that  we 
are  like  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  '  But  no  ;  here  he  stays 
all  through,  and  here  he  is.  Why,  good  gracious  me, 
suppose  the  house  was  to  be  let  !  what  would  he  do 
then  ?  He  couldn't  remain  here,  then.  If  he  attempted 
to  do  so,  there  would  be  an  ejectment,  an  action  for  Doe, 
and  all  sorts  of  things  ;  and  then  he  must  go.  Then 
why  not  go  at  first  instead  of  at  last  ?   And  that  brings 


DOMBEY 

me  back  to  what  I  said  just  now,  and  I  naturally  ask 
what  is  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  what's  to  be  the  end  of  it,  as  far  as  /  am 
concerned,"  replies  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "and  that's  enough 
for  me.    I'm  going  to  take  myself  off  in  a  jiffy." 

"  In  a  which,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  In  a  jiffy,"  retorts  Mrs.  Pipchin  sharply. 

"Ah,  well  !  really  I  can't  blame  you,  Mrs.  Pipchin," 
says  Mrs.  Chick  with  frankness. 

"It  would  be  pretty  much  the  same  to  me,  if  you 
could,"  replies  the  sardonic  Pipchin.  "At  any  rate  I'm 
going.  I  can't  stop  here.  I  should  bo  dead  in  a  week. 
I  had  to  cook  my  own  pork  chop  yesterday,  and  I'm  not 
used  to  it.  My  constitution  will  be  giving  way  next. 
Besides  I  had  a  very  fair  connexion  at  Brighton  when  I 
came  here — little  Pankey's  folks  alone  were  worth  a 
good  eighty  pounds  a-year  to  me — and  I  can't  afford  to 
throw  it  away.  I've  written  to  my  niece,  and  she  ex- 
pects me  by  this  time." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  my  brother?"  inquires  Mrs. 
Chick. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it's  very  easy  to  say  speak  to  him,"  retorts 
Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  How  is  it  done  !  I  called  out  to  him 
yesterday,  that  I  was  no  use  here,  and  that  he  had  better 
let  me  send  for  Mrs.  Richards.  He  grunted  something 
or  other  that  meant  yes,  and  I  sent.  Grunt  indeed  !  If 
he  had  been  Mr.  Pipchin,  he'd  have  had  some  reason  to 
grunt.    Yah  !    I've  no  patience  with  it  !  " 

Here  this  exemplary  female,  who  had  pumped  up  so 
much  fortitude  and  virtue  from  the  depths  of  the  Peru- 
vian mines,  rises  from  her  cushioned  property  to  see 
Mrs.  Chick  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Chick,  deploring  to  the 
last  the  peculiar  character  of  her  brother,  noiselessly  re- 
tires, much  occupied  with  her  own  sagacity  and  clear- 
ness of  head. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  Mr.  Toodle,  being  off  duty, 
arrives  with  Polly  and  a  box,  and  leaves  them,  with  a 
sounding  kiss,  in  the  hall  of  the  empty  house,  the  retired 
character  of  which  affects  Mr.  Toodle 's  spirits  strong- 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Polly  my  dear,"  says  Mr.  Toodle, 
"  Being  now,  an  ingein-driver  and  well  to  do  in  the 
world,  I  shouldn't  allow  of  your  coming  here,  to  be  made 
dull  like,  if  it  warn't  for  favours  past.  But  favours 
past,  Polly,  is  never  to  be  forgot.  To  them  which  is  in 
adversity,  besides,  your  face  is  a  cord'l.  So  let's  have 
another  kiss  on  it,  my  dear.  You  wish  no  better  than 
to  do  a  right  act,  I  know ;  and  my  views  is,  that  it's 
right  and  dutiful  to  do  this.    Good  night,  Polly  !  " 

Mrs.  Pipchin  by  this  time  looms  dark  in  her  black 
bombazeen  skirts,  black  bonnet,  and  shawl  ;  and  has  her 
personal  property  packed  up  ;  and  has  her  chair  (late  a 
favourite  chair  of  Mr.  Dombey's,  and  the  dead  bargain  of 
the  sale)  ready  near  the  street  door  ;  and  is  only  waiting 
for  a  fly  van,  going  to-night  to  Brighton  on  private  service,  i 
which  is  to  call  for  her,  by  private  contract,  and  convey 
her  home. 

Presently  it  comes.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  wardrobe  being 
handed  in  and  stowed  away,  Mrs.  Pipchin's  chair  is  next 
handed  in,  and  placed  in  a  convenient  corner  among  cer- 
tain trusses  of  hay  ;  it  being  the  intention  of  the  amiable 
woman  to  occupy  the  chair  during  her  journey.  Mrs. 
Pipchin  herself  is  next  handed  in,  and  grimly  takes  her 
seat.  There  is  a  snaky  gleam  in  her  hard  gray  eye,  as 
of  anticipated  rounds  of  buttered  toast,  relays  of  hot 
chops,  worryings  and  quellings  of  young  children,  sharp 
snappings  at  poor  Berry,  and  all  the  other  delights  of 
her  Ogtess's  castle.  Mrs.  Pipchin  almost  laughs  as  the 
fly  van  drives  off,  and  she  composes  her  black  bombazeen 
skirts,  and  settles  herself  among  the  cushions  of  her 
easy  chair. 

The  house  is  such  a  ruin  that  the  rats  have  fled,  and 
there  is  not  one  left. 

But  Polly,  though  alone  in  the  deserted  mansion — for 
there  is  no  companionship  in  the  shut-up  rooms  in  which 
its  late  master  hides  his  head — is  not  alone  long.  It  is 
night  ;  and  she  is  sitting  at  work  in  the  housekeeper's 
room,  trying  to  forget  what  a  lonely  house  it  is,  and 
what  a  history  belongs  to  it ;  when  there  is  a  knock  at 
the  hall  door,  as  loud  ^;ounding  as  any  knock  can  be, 
strikiug  into  such  an  empty  i^lace.  Opening-  it,  she  re- 
turns across  the  echoing  hall,  accompanied  by  a  female 
Vol.  II.— 43 


AND  80K  673 

figure  in  a  close  black  bonnet.  It  is  Miss  Tox,  and  Miss 
Tox's  eyes  are  red. 

"Oh  Polly,"  says  Miss  Tox,  "  when  I  looked  in  to 
have  a  little  lesson  with  the  children  just  now,  I  got  the 
message  that  you  left  for  me  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  could  re- 
cover my  spirits  at  all,  I  came  on  after  you.  Is  there  no 
one  here  but  you  ?  " 

"  Ah  1  not  a  soul,"  says  Polly. 
"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  "  whispers  Miss  Tox. 
"  Bless  you,"  returns  Polly,  "  no  ;  he  has  not  been 
seen  this  many  a  day.    They  tell  me  he  never  leaves  his 
room." 

"  Is  he  said  to  be  ill  ?  "  inquires  Miss  Tox. 
"No  ma'am,  not  that  I  know  of,"  returns  Polly, 
"  except  in  his  mind.    He  must  be  very  bad  there,  poor 
gentleman  ! " 

Miss  Tox's  sympathy  is  such  that  she  can  scarcely 
speak.  She  is  no  chicken,  but  she  has  not  grown  tough 
with  age  and  celibacy.  Her  heart  is  very  tender,  her 
compassion  very  genuine,  her  homage  very  real.  Be- 
neath the  locket  with  the  fishy-eye  in  it.  Miss  Tox  bears 
better  qualities  than  many  a  less  whimsical  outside  ;  such 
qualities  as  will  outlive,  by  many  courses  of  the  sun,  the 
best  outsides  and  brightest  husks  that  fall  in  the  harvest 
of  the  Great  Reaper. 

It  is  long  before  Miss  Tox  goes  away,  and  before  Polly, 
with  a  candle  flaring  on  the  blank  stairs,  looks  after  her, 
for  company,  down  the  street,  and  feels  unwilling  to  go 
back  into  the  dreary  house,  and  jar  its  emptiness  with 
the  heavy  fastenings  of  the  door,  and  glide  away  to  bed. 
But  all  this  Polly  does  ;  and  in  the  morning  sets  in  one 
of  those  darkened  rooms  such  matters  as  she  has  been 
advised  to  prepare,  and  then  retires  and  enters  them  no 
more  until  next  morning  at  the  same  hour.  There  are 
bells  there,  but  they  never  ring ;  and  though  she  can 
sometimes  hear  a  foot-fall  going  to  and  fro,  it  never 
comes  out. 

Miss  Tox  returns  early  in  the  day.  It  then  begins  to 
be  Miss  Tox's  occupation  to  prepare  little  dainties — or 
what  are  such  to  her — to  be  carried  into  these  rooms 
next  morning.  She  derives  so  much  satisfaction  from 
the  pursuit,  that  she  enters  on  it  regularly  from  that, 
time  ;  and  brings  daily  in  her  little  basket,  various  choice- 
condiments  selected  from  the  scanty  stores  of  the  de- 
ceased owner  of  the  powdered  head  and  pigtail.  She 
likewise  brings,  in  sheets  of  curl  paper,  morsels  of  cold 
meats,  tongues  of  sheep,  halves  of  fowls,  for  her  own 
dinner  ;  and  sharing  these  collations  with  Polly,  passes 
the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  the  ruined  house  that 
the  rats  have  fled  from  :  hiding,  in  a  fright  at  every 
sound,  stealing  in  and  out  like  a  criminal  ;  only  desiring 
to  be  true  to  the  fallen  object  of  her  admiration,  un- 
known to  him,  unknown  to  all  the  world  but  one  poor 
simple  woman. 

I  The  major  knows  it  ;  but  no  one  is  the  wiser  for  that, 
though  the  major  is  much  the  merrier.  The  major,  in  a 
fit  of  curiosity,  has  charged  the  native  to  watch  the 
house  sometimes,  and  find  out  what  becomes  of  Dombey. 
The  native  has  reported  Miss  Tox's  fidelity,  and  the 
major  has  nearly  choked  himself  dead  with  laughter. 
He  is  permanently  bluer  from  that  hour,  and  constantly 
wheezes  to  himself,  his  lobster  eyes  starting  out  of  his 
head,  "  Damme,  sir,  the  woman's  a  born  idiot." 

And  the  ruined  man.  How  does  he  pass  the  hours, 
alone  ? 

"  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  !  " 
He  did  remember  it.  It  was  heavy  on  his  mind  now  ; 
heavier  than  all  the  rest. 

"  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come. 
The  rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourns 
outside  the  door,  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  mel- 
ancholy sound.  Let  hinr  remember  it  in  that  room,  years 
to  come  !  " 

He  did  remember  it.  In  the  miserable  night  he  thought 
of  it  ;  in  the  dreary  day,  the  wretched  dawn,  the  ghost- 
ly, memory -haunted  twilight.  He  did  remember  it.  In 
agony,  in  sorrow,  in  remorse,  in  despair  I  "Papa  !  papa  ! 
Speak  to  me,  dear  papa  !  "  He  heard  the  words  again, 
and  saw  the  face.  He  saw  it  fall  upon  the  trembling 
hands,  and  heard  the  one  prolonged  low  cry  go  upward. 

He  was  fallen,  never  to  be  raised  up  any  more.  For 
the  night  of  his  worldly  ruin  there  was  no  to-morrow's 


674 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


sun  ;  for  tlie  stain  of  his  domestic  sliame  there  was  no 
purification  ;  nothing,  thanlt  Heaven,  could  briii^  his 
dead  child  back  to  life.  But  that  which  he  might  have 
made  so  different  in  all  the  past— which  might  have 
made  the  past  itself  so  different,  though  this  be  hardly 
thouirht  of  now — that  which  was  his  own  work,  that 
which  he  could  so  easily  have  wrought  into  a  blessing, 
and  had  set  himself  so  steadily  for  years  to  form  into  a 
curse  :  that  was  the  sharp  grief  of  his  soul. 

Oh  !  He  did  remember  it  !  The  rain  that  fell  upon 
the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourned  outside  the  door  that 
night,  had  had  foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy  sound. 
He  knew,  now,  what  he  had  done.  He  knew,  now,  that 
he  had  called  down  that  upon  his  head,  which  bowed  it 
lower  than  the  heaviest  stroke  of  fortune.  He  knew, 
now,  what  it  was  to  be  rejected  and  deserted  ;  now,  when 
every  loving  blossom  he  had  withered  in  his  innocent 
daughter's  heart  was  snowing  dov/n  in  ashes  on  him. 

He  thought  of  her,  as  she  had  been  that  night  when 
he  and  his  bride  came  home.  He  thought  of  her  as  she 
had  been,  in  all  the  home-events  of  the  abandoned  house. 
He  thought,  now,  that  of  all  around  him,  she  alone  had 
never  changed.  His  boy  had  faded  into  dust,  his  proud 
wife  had  sank  into  a  polluted  creature,  his  flatterer  and 
friend  had  been  transformed  into  the  worst  of  villains, 
his  riches  had  melted  away,  the  very  walls  that  shelter- 
ed him  looked  on  him  as  a  stranger  ;  she  alone  had  turned 
the  same  mild  gentle  look  upon  him  always.  Yes,  to  the 
latest  and  the  last.  She  had  never  changed  to  him — nor 
had  he  ever  changed  to  her — and  she  was  lost. 

As,  one  by  one,  they  fell  away  before  his  mind — his 
baby -hope,  his  wife,  his  friend,  his  fortune — oh  how  the 
mist,  through  which  he  had  seen  her,  cleared,  and  showed 
him  her  true  self  !  Oh,  how  much  better  than  this  that 
he  had  loved  her  as  he  had  his  boy,  and  lost  her  as  he 
had  his  boy,  and  laid  them  in  their  early  grave  together  ! 

In  his  pride — for  he  was  proud  yet — he  let  the  world 
go  from  him  freely.  As  it  fell  away,  he  shook  it  off. 
Whether  he  imagined  its  face  as  expressing  pity  for  him, 
or  indifference  to  him,  he  shunned  it  alike.  It  was  in 
the  same  degree  to  be  avoided,  in  either  aspect.  He  had 
no  idea  of  any  one  companion  in  his  misery,  but  the  one 
he  had  driven  away.  What  he  would  have  said  to  her, 
or  what  consolation  submitted  to  receive  from  her,  he 
never  pictured  to  himself.  But  he  always  knew  she 
would  have  been  true  to  him,  if  he  had  suffered  her.  He 
always  knew  she  would  lia^ve  loved  him  better  now,  than 
at  any  other  time  :  he  was  as  certain  that  it  was  in  her 
nature,  as  he  was  that  there  was  a  sky  above  him  ;  and 
he  sat  thinking  so,  in  his  loneliness,  from  hour  to  hour. 
Day  after  day  uttered  this  speech  ;  night  after  night 
showed  him  this  knowledge. 

It  began,  beyond  all  doubt  (however  slowly  it  advanced 
for  some  time),  in  the  receipt  of  her  young  husband's  let- 
ter, and  the  certainty  that  she  was  gone.  And  yet — so 
proud  he  was  in  his  ruin,  or  so  reminiscent  of  her  only  | 
as  something  that  might  have  been  his,  but  was  lost  be- 
yond redemption — that  if  he  could  have  heard  her  voice 
in  an  adjoining  room,  he  would  not  have  gone  to  her.  If 
he  could  have  seen  her  in  tho  street,  and  she  had  done  no 
more  than  look  at  him  as  she  had  been  used  to  look,  he 
would  have  passed  on  with  his  old  cold  unforgiving  face, 
and  not  addressed  her,  or  relaxed  it,  though  his  heart 
should  have  broken  soon  afterwards.  However  turbu- 
lent his  thoughts,  or  harsh  his  anger  had  been,  at  first, 
concerning  her  marriage,  or  her  husband,  that  was  all 
past  now.  He  chiefly  thought  of  what  might  have  been, 
and  what  was  not.  What  was,  was  all  summed  up  in 
this  :  that  she  was  lost,  and  he  bowed  down  with  sorrow 
and  remorse. 

And  now  ho  felt  that  he  had  had  two  children  born  to 
him  in  that  house,  and  that  between  him  and  the  bare 
em[)ty  wall  there  was  a  tie,  mournful,  but  hard  to  rend 
asunder,  connected  with  a  double  childhood,  and  a  double 
loss.  He  had  thought  to  leave  the  house — knowing  he 
must  to,  not  knowing  whither — upon  the  evening  of  the 
day  on  which  this  feeling  first  struck  root  in  his  breast  ; 
but  he  resolved  to  stay  another  night,  and  in  the  night 
to  ramble  through  the  rooms  once  more. 

He  came  out  of  his  solitude  when  it  was  the  dead  of 
night,  and  with  a  candle  in  his  hand  went  softly  uj)  the 
stairs.    Of  all  the  footmarks  there,  making  them  as 


j  common  as  the  common  street,  there  was  not  one,  he 
j  thought,  but  had  seemed  at  the  time  to  set  itself  upon 
:  his  brain  while  he  had  kept  close,  listening.    He  looked 
I  at  their  number,  and  their  hurry,  and  contention— foot 
treading  foot  out,  and  upward  track  and  downward  jost- 
ling one  another— and  thought,  with  absolute  dread  and 
wonder,  how  much  he  must  have  suffered  during  that 
ti  ial,  and  what  a  changed  man  he  had  cause  to  be.  He 
thought,  besides,  oh  was  there,  somewhere  in  the  world, 
a  light  footstep  that  might  have  worn  out  in  a  moment 
half  those  marks  I — and  bent  his  head,  and  wept  as  he 
went  up. 

He  almost  saw  it,  going  on  before.  He  stopped,  look- 
ing up  towards  the  skylight  ;  and  a  figure,  childish  it- 
self, but  carrying  a  child,  and  singing  as  it  went,  seemed 
to  be  there  again.  Anon,  it  was  the  same  figure,  alone, 
stopping  for  an  instant,  with  suspended  breath  ;  the 
bright  hair  clustering  loosely  round  its  tearful  face  ;  and 
looking  back  at  him. 

He  wandered  through  the  rooms  :  lately  so  luxurious  ; 
now  so  bare  and  dismal  and  so  changed,  apparently, 
even  in  their  shape  and  size.  The  press  of  footsteps  was 
as  thick  here  ;  and  the  same  consideration  of  the  suffer- 
ing he  had  had,  perplexed  and  terrified  him.  He  began 
to  fear  that  all  this  intricacy  in  his  brain  would  drive 
him  mad  ;  and  that  his  thoughts  already  lost  coherence 
as  the  foot-prints  did,  and  were  pieced  on  to  one  another, 
with  the  same  trackless  involutions,  and  varieties  of  in- 
distinct shapes. 

He  did  not  so  much  as  know  in  which  of  these  rooms 
she  had  lived,  when  she  was  alone.  He  was  glad  to 
leave  them,  and  go  wandering  higher  up.  Abundance 
of  associations  were  here,  connected  with  his  false  wife, 
his  false  friend  and  servant,  his  false  grounds  of  pride  ; 
but  he  put  them  all  by  now.  and  only  recalled  miserably, 
weakly,  fondly,  his  two  children. 

Everywhere,  the  footsteps  !  They  had  had  no  respect 
for  the  old  room  high  up,  where  the  little  bed  had  been  ; 
he  could  hardly  find  a  clear  space  there,  to  throw  him- 
self down,  on  the  floor,  against  the  wall,  poor  broken 
man,  and  let  his  tears  flow  as  they  would.  He  had  shed 
so  many  tears  here,  long  ago,  that  he  was  less  ashamed 
of  his  weakness  in  this  place  than  in  any  other — per- 
haps, with  that  consciousness,  had  made  excuses  to  him- 
self for  coming  here.  Here,  with  stooping  shoulders 
and  his  chin  dropped  on  his  breast,  he  had  come.  Here, 
thrown  upon  the  bare  boards,  in  the  dead  of  night,  he 
wept,  alone — a  proud  man,  even  then  ;  who,  if  a  kind 
hand  could  have  been  stretched  out,  or  a  kind  face  could 
have  looked  in,  would  have  risen  up,  and  turned  away, 
and  gone  down  to  his  cell. 

When  the  day  broke  he  was  shut  up  in  his  rooms  v 
again.  He  had  meant  to  go  away  to-day,  but  clung  to  i 
this  tie  in  the  house  as  the  last  and  only  thing  left  to 
him.  He  would  go  to-morrow.  To-morrow  came.  He 
I  would  go  to-morrow.  Every  night,  within  the  knowl- 
edge of  no  human  creature,  he  came  forth,  and  wandered 
through  the  despoiled  house  like  a  ghost.  Many  a 
morning  when  the  day  broke,  his  altered  face,  drooping 
behind  the  closed  blind  in  his  window,  imperfectly 
transparent  to  the  light  as  yet,  pondered  on  the  loss  of 
his  two  children.  It  was  one  child  no  more.  He  re- 
united them  in  his  thoughts,  and  they  were  never  asun- 
der. Oh,  that  he  could  have  united  them  in  his  past 
love,  and  in  death,  and  that  one  had  not  been  so  much 
worse  than  dead  ! 

Strong  mental  agitation  and  disturbance  was  no  nov- 
elty to  him,  even  before  his  late  sufferings.  It  never  is 
to  obstinate  and  sullen  natures  ;  for  they  struggle  hard 
to  be  such.  Ground,  long  undermined,"  will  often  fall 
down  in  a  moment;  what  was  undermined  here  in  so 
many  ways,  weakened,  and  crumbled,  little  by  little, 
more  and  more,  as  the  hand  moved  on  the  dial. 

At  last  he  began  to  think  he  need  not  go  at  all.  Ht' 
might  yet  give  up  what  his  creditors  had  spared  him 
(that  they  had  not  spared  him  more,  was  his  own  act), 
and  only  sever  the  tie  between  him  and  the  ruined 
house,  by  severing  that  other  link — 

It  was  then  that  his  footfall  was  audible  in  the  late 
housekeeper's  room,  as  he  walke<l  to  and  fro  ;  but  not 
audible  in  its  true  meaning,  or  it  would  have  had  an  ap- 
palling sound. 


D 0MB FT  AND  SON. 


675 


The  world  was  very  busy  and  restless  about  him.  He 
became  aware  of  that  again.  It  was  whispering  and 
babbling.  It  was  never  quiet.  This,  and  the  intricacy 
and  complication  of  the  footsteps,  harassed  him  to  death. 
Objects  began  to  take  a  bleared  and  russet  colour  in  his 
eyes.  Dombey  and  Son  was  no  more — his  children  no 
more.    This  must  be  thought  of,  well,  to-morrow. 

He  thought  of  it  to-morrow  ;  and  sitting  thinking  in 
his  chair,  saw,  in  the  glass,  from  time  to  time,  this  pic- 
ture : 

A  spectral,  haggard,  wasted  likeness  of  himself, 
brooded  and  brooded  over  the  empty  fireplace.  Now  it 
lifted  up  its  head,  examining  the  lines  and  hollows  in 
its  face  ;  now  hung  it  down  again,  and  brooded  afresh. 
Now  it  rose  and  walked  about  ;  now  passed  into  the 
next  room,  and  came  back  with  something  from  the 
dressing-table  in  its  breast.  Now,  it  was  looking  at  the 
bottom  of  the  door,  and  thinking. 

—Push  !  what? 

It  was  thinking  that  if  blood  were  to  trickle  that  way, 
and  to  leak  out  into  the  hall,  it  must  be  a  long  time  go- 
ing so  far.  It  would  move  so  stealthily  and  slowly, creep- 
ing on, with  here  a  lazy  little  pool,  and  there  a  start,  and 
then  another  little  pool,  that  a  desperately  wounded  man 
could  only  be  discovered  through  its  means,  either  dead 
or  dying.  When  it  had  thought  of  this  a  long  while,  it 
got  up  again,  and  walked  to  and  fro  with  its  hand  in  its 
breast.  He  glanced  at  it  occasionally,  very  curious  to 
watch  its  motions,  and  he  marked  how  wicked  and  mur- 
derous that  hand  looked. 

Now  it  was  thinking  again  !    "What  was  it  thinking? 

Whether  they  Avould  tread  in  the  blood  when  it  crept 
so  far,  and  carry  it  about  the  house  among  those  many 
prints  of  feet,  or  .even  out  into  the  street. 

It  sat  down,  Avith  its  eyes  upon  the  empty  fireplace,  and 
as  it  lost  itself  in  thought  there  shone  into  the  room  a 
gleam  of  light  ;  a  ray  of  sun.  It  was  quite  unmindful, 
and  sat  thinking.  Suddenly  it  rose,  with  a  terrible  face, 
and  that  guilty  hand  grasping  what  was  in  its  breast. 
Then  it  was  arrested  by  a  cry — a  wild,  loud,  piercing, 
loving,  rapturous  cry — and  he  only  saw  his  own  reflec- 
tion in  the  glass,  and  at  his  knees,  his  daughter  ! 

Yes.  His  daughter  !  Look  at  her  !  Look  here  ! 
Down  upon  the  ground,  clinging  to  him,  calling  to  him, 
folding  her  hands,  praying  to  him. 

"  Papa  !  Dearest  papa  !  Pardon  me,  forgive  me  !  I 
have  come  back  to  ask  forgiveness  on  my  knees.  I  never 
can  be  happy  more,  without  it  !  " 

Unchanged  still.  Of  all  the  world,  unchanged. 
Raising  the  same  face  to  his,  as  on  that  miserable  night. 
Asking  his  forgiveness  ! 

"  Dear  papa,  oh  don't  look  strangely  on  me  !  I 
never  meant  to  leave  you.  I  never  thought  of  it,  before 
or  afterwards.  I  was  frightened  when  I  went  away,  and 
could  not  think.  Papa,  dear,  I  am  changed.  I  am  pen- 
itent. I  know  my  fault.  I  know  my  duty  better  now. 
Papa,  don't  cast  me  off,  or  I  shall  die  !  " 

He  tottered  to  his  chair.  He  felt  her  draw  his  arms 
about  her  neck  :  he  felt  her  put  her  own  round  his  ;  he 
felt  her  kisses  on  his  face  ;  he  felt  her  wet  cheek  laid 
against  his  own  ;  he  felt — oh,  how  deeply  ! — all  that  he 
had  done 

Upon  the  breast  that  he  had  bruised,  against  the 
heart  that  he  had  almost  broken,  she  laid  his  face,  now 
covered  with  his  hands,  and  said,  sobbing  : 

**  Papa,  love*,  I  am  a  mother.  I  have  a  child  who  will 
soon  call  Walter  by  the  name  by  which  I  call  you.  When 
it  was  born,  and  when  I  knew  how  much  I  loved  it,  I 
knew  what  I  had  done  in  leaving  you.  Forgive  me, 
dear  papa  !  oh  say  God  bless  me,  and  my  little  child  !  " 

He  would  have  said  it,if  he  could.  He  would  have  rais- 
ed his  hands  and  besought  her  for  pardon,  but  she  caught 
them  in  iier  own,  and  put  them  down,  hurriedly. 

"  My  little  child  was  born  at  sea,  papa.  I  prayed  to 
God  (and  so  did  Walter  for  me)  to  spare  me,  that  I 
might  come,  home.  The  moment  I  could  land,  I  came 
back  to  you.  Never  let  us  be  parted  any  more,  papa. 
Never  let  us  be  parted  any  more  !  " 

His  head,  now  gray,  was  encircled  by  her  arm  ;  and 
he  groaned  to  think  that  never,  never,  had  it  rested  so 
before. 

"  You  will  come  home  with  me,  papa,  and  see  my 


baby.    A  boy,  papa.    His  name  5s  Paul.    I  think— I 
hope — he's  like — " 
Her  tears  stopped  her. 

"  Dear  papa,  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  for  the  sake 
of  the  name  we  have  given  him,  for  my  sake,  pardon 
Walter.  He  is  so  kind  and  tender  to  me.  I  am  so  happy 
with  him.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  we  were  married. 
It  was  mine.    I  loved  him  so  much." 

She  clung  closer  to  him,  more  endearing  and  more 
earnest. 

"He  is  the  darling  of  my  heart,  papa.  I  would  die  for 
him.  He  will  love  and  honour  you  as  I  will.  We  will 
teach  our  little  child  to  love  and  honour  you  :  and  we  will 
tell  him,  when  he  can  understand,  that  you  had  a  son  of 
that  name  once,  and  that  he  died,  and  you  were  very 
sorry  ;  but  that  he  is  gone  to  heaven,  where  we  all 
hope  to  see  him  when  our  time  for  resting  comes. 
Kiss  me,  papa,  as  a  promise  that  you  will  be  reconciled 
to  Walter — to  my  dearest  husband — to  the  father  of  the 
little  child  who  taught  me  to  come  back,  papa.  Who 
taught  me  to  come  back  !  " 

As  she  clung  closer  to  him,  in  another  burst  of  tears, 
he  kissed  her  on  her  lips,  and  lifting  up  his  eyes,  said, 
"  Oh  my  God,  forgive  me,  for  I  need  it  very  much  ! " 

With  that  he  dropped  his  head  again,  lamenting  over 
and  caressing  her,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  in  all  the 
house  for  a  long  long  time  ;  they  remaining  clasped  in 
one  another's  arms,  in  the  glorious  sunshine  that  had 
crept  in  with  Florence. 

He  dressed  himself  for  going  out,  with  a  docile  sub- 
mission to  her  entreaty  ;  and  walking  with  a  feeble 
gait,  and  looking  back,  with  a  tremble,  at  the  room  in 
which  he  had  been  so  long  shut  up,  and  where  he  had  seen 
the  picture  in  the  glass,passed  out  with  her  into  the  hall. 
Florence,  hardly  glancing  round  her,  lest  she  should  re- 
mind him  freshly  of  their  last  parting — for  their  feet  were 
on  the  very  stones  where  he  had  struck  her  in  his  mad- 
ness— and  keeping  close  to  him,  with  her  eyes  upon  his 
face,  and  his  arm  about  her,  led  him  out  to  a  coach  that 
was  waiting  at  the  door,  and  carried  him  away. 

Then,  Miss  Tox  and  Polly  came  out  of  their  conceal- 
ment, and  exulted  tearfully.  And  then  they  packed 
his  clothes,  and  books,  and  so  forth,  with  great 
care  ;  and  consigned  them  in  due  course  to  certain  per- 
sons sent  by  Florence  in  the  evening,  to  fetch  them. 
And  then  they  took  a  last  cup  of  tea  in  the  lonely  house. 

"And  so  Dombey  and  Son,  as  I  observed  upon  a  cer- 
tain sad  occasion,"  said  Miss  Tox,  winding  up  a  host  of 
recollections,  "is  indeed  a  daughter,  Polly,  after  all." 

"  And  a  good  one  !  "  exclaimed  Polly. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  "  and  it's  a  credit  to 
you,  Polly,  that  you  were  always  her  friend  when  she 
was  a  little  child.  You  were  her  friend  long  before 
I  was,  Polly,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  "  and  you're  a  good  crea- 
ture.   Robin  ! " 

Miss  Tox  addressed  herself  to  a  bullet-headed  young 
man,  who  appeared  to  be  in  but  indifferent  circumstances, 
and  in  depressed  spirits,  and  who  was  sitting  in  a  re- 
mote corner.  Rising,  he  disclosed  to  view  the  form  and 
features  of  the  Grinder. 

"  Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "I  have  jiist  observed  to 
your  mother,  as  you  have  may  have  heard,  that  she  is  a 
good  creature." 

"  And  so  she  is,  miss,"  quoth  the  Grinder,  with  some 
feeling. 

"Very  well,  Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  I  am  glad  to  hear 
you  say  so.  Now,  Robin,  as  I  am  going  to  give  you  a 
trial,  at  your  urgent  request,  as  my  domestic,  with 
a  view  to  your  restoration  to  respectability,  I  will  take 
this  impressive  occasion  of  remarking  that  I  hope  you 
will  never  forget  that  you  have,  and  have  always  had,  a 
good  mother,  and  that  you  will  endeavour  so  to  conduct 
yourself  as  to  be  a  comfort  to  her." 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  will,  miss,"  returned  the  Grinder. 
"  I  have  come  through  a  good  deal,  and  my  intentions 
is  now  as  straight  for'ard,  miss,  as  a  cove's — " 

"  I  must  get  you  to  break  yourself  of  that  word, 
Robin,  if  you  please,"  interposed  Miss  Tox,  politely. 

"  If  you  please,  miss,  as  a  chap's — " 

"  Thankee,Robin,  no,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  "  I  should 
prefer  individual." 

"  As  a  indiwiddle's,"  said  the  Grinder. 


676 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Much  better,"  remarked  Miss  Tox,  complacently; 
"  infinitely  more  expressive  !  " 

"  — can  be,"  pursued  Rob.  "  If  I  hadn't  been  and  got 
made  a  Grinder  on,  miss  and  mother,  which  was  a  most 
unfortunate  circumstance  for  a  young  co— indiwiddle." 
Very  good  indeed,"  observed  Miss  Tox  approvingly. 

" — and  if  I  hadn't  been  led  away  by  birds,  and  then 
fallen  into  a  bad  service,"  said  the  Grinder,  **  I  hope  I 
might  have  done  better.    But  it's  never  to  late  for  a—" 

"  Indi — "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  widdle,"  said  the  Grinder,  "  to  mend  ;  and  I  hope  to 
mend,  miss,  with  your  kind  trial  ;  and  wishing,  mother, 
my  love  to  father,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  and  say- 
ing of  it." 

•'I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  observed  Miss  Tox. 
"  Will  you  take  a  little  bread  and  butter,  and  a  cup  of 
tea,  before  we  go,  Robin  ?  " 

"  Thankee,  miss,"  returned  the  Grinder  ;  who  immedi- 
ately began  to  use  his  own  personal  grinders  in  a  most 
remarkable  manner,  as  if  he  had  been  on  very  short  al- 
lowance for  a  considerable  period. 

Miss  Tox  being,  in  good  time,  bonneted  and  shawled, 
and  Polly  too,  Rob  hugged  his  mother,  and  followed  his 
new  mistress  away  ;  so  much  to  the  hopeful  admiration  of 
Polly,  that  something  in  her  eyes  made  luminous  rings 
round  the  gas-lamps  as  she  looked  after  him.  Polly 
then  put  out  her  light,  locked  the  house-door,  delivered 
the  key  at  an  agent's  hard  by,  and  went  home  as  fast  as 
she  could  go  ;  rejoicing  in  the  shrill  delight  that  her  un- 
expected arrival  would  occasion  there.  The  great  house, 
dumb  as  to  all  that  had  been  suffered  in  it,  and  the 
changes  it  had  witnessed,  stood  frowning  like  a  dark 
mute  on  the  street ;  baulking  any  nearer  inquiries  with 
the  staring  announcement  that  the  lease  of  this  desirable 
Family  Mansion  was  to  be  disposed  of. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

Chiefly  Matrimonial. 

The  grand  half-yearly  festival  holden  by  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Blimber,  on  which  occasion  they  requested  the 
pleasure  of  the  company  of  every  young  gentleman  pur- 
suing his  studies  in  that  genteel  establishment,  at  an  ear- 
ly party,  when  the  hour  was  half-past  seven  o'clock,  and 
when  the  object  was  quadrilles,  had  duly  taken  place, 
about  this  time  ;  and  the  young  gentlemen,  with  no  un- 
becoming demonstrations  of  levity,  had  betaken  them- 
selves, in  a  state  of  scholastic  repletion,  to  their  own 
homes.  Mr.  SketHes  had  repaired  abroad,  permanently 
to  grace  the  establishment  of  his  father  Sir  Barnet  Sket- 
tles,  whose  popular  manners  had  obtained  him  a  diplo- 
matic appointment,  the  honours  of  which  were  discharged 
by  himself  and  Lady  Skettles,  to  the  satisfaction  even  of 
their  own  countrymen  and  countrywomen  :  which  was 
considered  almost  miraculous,  Mr.  Tozer,  now  a  young 
man  of  lofty  stature,  in  Wellington  boots,  was  so  ex- 
tremely full  of  antiquity  as  to  be  nearly  on  a  par  with  a 
genuine  ancient  Roman  in  his  knowledge  of  English  :  a 
triumph  that  affected  his  good  parents  with  the  tender- 
est  emotions,  and  caused  Hie  father  and  mother  of  Mr. 
Briggs  (whose  learning,  like  ill-arranged  luggage,  was  so 
tightly  packed  .that  he  couldn't  get  at  anything  he  want- 
ed) to  hide  their  diminished  heads.  The  fruit  laboriously 
gathered  from  the  tree  of  knowledge  by  this  latter  young 
gentleman,  in  fact,  had  been  subjected  to  so  much  pres- 
sure, that  it  had  become  a  kind  of  intellectual  Norfolk 
Biffin,  and  had  nothing  of  its  original  form  or  flavour  re- 
maining. Master  Bitherstone  now,  on  whom  the  forcing 
sy.stem  had  the  happier  and  not  uncommon  effect  of  leav- 
ing no  impression  whatever,  when  the  forcing  apparatus 
ceased  to  work,  was  in  a  much  more  comfortable  plight  ; 
and  being  then  on  shipboard,  bound  for  Bengal,  found 
himself  forgetting,  with  such  admirable  rapidity,  that  it 
was  doubtful  whether  his  declensions  of  noun-substan- 
tives would  hold  out  to  the  end  of  the  voyage. 

When  Doctor  Blimber,  in  pursuance  of  the  usual  course, 
would  have  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  on  the  morning 
of  the  i)arty,  "Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies 
on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next  month,"  he  departed  from  the 


usual  course,  and  said,  ''Gentlemen,  when  our  friend  Cin- 
cinnatus  retired  to  his  farm,  he  did  not  present  to  the 
senate  any  Roman  whom  he  sought  to  nominate  as  his 
successor.  But  there  is  a  Roman  here,"  said  Doctor 
Blimber,  laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Feeder, 
B.A.,  "  adolescens  imprimis  gravis  et  doctns,  gentlemen, 
whom  I,  a  retiring  Cincinnatus,  wish  to  present  to  my 
little  senate,  as  their  future  Dictator.  Gentlemen,  we 
will  resume  our  studies  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next  month, 
under  the  auspices  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A."  At  this  (which 
Dr.  Blimber  had  previously  called  upon  all  the  parents, 
and  urbanely  explained),  the  young  gentlemen  cheered  ; 
and  Mr.  Tozer,  on  behalf  of  the  rest,  instantly  presented 
the  doctor  with  a  silver  inkstand,  in  a  speech  containing 
very  little  of  the  mother-tongue,  but  fifteen  quotations 
from  the  Latin,  and  seven  from  the  Greek,  which  moved 
the  younger  of  the  young  gentlemen  to  discontent  and 
envy  ;  they  remarking,  "  Oh,  ah  !  It  was  all  very  well 
for  old  Tozer,  but  they  didn't  subscribe  money  for  old 
Tozer  to  show  off  with,  they  supposed  ;  did  they?  What 
business  was  it  of  old  Tozer's  more  than  anybody  else's? 
It  wasn't  ?ds  inkstand.  Why  couldn't  he  leave  the  boys' 
property  alone  ?  "  and  murmuring  other  expressions  of 
their  dissatisfaction,  which  seemed  to  find  a  greater  re- 
lief in  calling  him  old  Tozer,  than  in  any  other  available 
vent. 

Not  a  word  had  been  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  nor 
a  hint  dropped,  of  anything  like  a  contemplated  marriage 
between  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  and  the  fair  Cornelia  Blimber. 
Doctor  Blimber,  especially,  seemed  to  take  pains  to  look 
as  if  nothing  would  surprise  him  more  ;  but  it  was  per- 
fectly well  known  to  all  the  young  gentlemen  neverthe- 
less, and  when  they  departed  for  the  society  of  their  re- 
lations and  friends,  they  took  leave  of  Mr.  Feeder  with 
awe. 

Mr.  Feeder's  most  romantic  visions  were  fulfilled.  The 
doctor  had  determined  to  paint  the  house  outside,  and 
put  it  in  thorough  repair  ;  and  to  give  up  the  business, 
and  to  give  up  Cornelia.  The  painting  and  repairing  be- 
gan upon  the  very  day  of  the  young  gentlemen's  depar- 
ture, and  now  behold  !  the  wedding  morning  was  come, 
and  Cornelia,  in  a  new  pair  of  spectacles,  was  waiting  to 
be  led  to  the  hymeneal  altar. 

The  doctor  with  his  learned  legs,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  in 
a  lilac  bonnet,  and  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  with  his  long 
knuckles  and  his  bristly  head  of  hair,  and  Mr.  Feeder's 
brother,  the  Reverend  Alfred  Feeder,  M.A.,  who  was  to 
perform  the  ceremony,  were  all  assembled  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  Cornelia  with  her  orange-flowers  and 
bridesmaids  had  just  come  down,  and  looked,  as  of  old,  a 
little  squeezed  in  appearance,  but  very  charming,  when 
the  door  opened,  and  the  weak-eyed  young  man,  in  a  loud 
voice,  made  the  following  proclamation  : 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  !  " 

Upon  which  there  entered  Mr.  Toots,  grown  extremely 
stout,  and  on  his  arm  a  lady  very  handsomely  and  be- 
comingly dressed,  with  very  bright  black  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Blimber,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  allow  me  to  present 
my  wife." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  delighted  to  receive  her.  Mrs. 
Blimber  was  a  little  condescending,  but  extremely  kind. 

"And  as  you've  known  me  for  a  long  time,  you 
know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  let  me  assure  you  that  she  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  women  that  ever  lived." 

"  My  dear,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Toots. 

"Upon  my  word  and  honour  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
' '  I — I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Blimber,  she's  a  most  extraordi- 
nary woman  " 

Mrs.  Toots  laughed  merrily,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  led  her 
to  Cornelia.  Mr.  Toots  having  paid  his  respects  in  that 
direction,  and  having  saluted  his  old  preceptor,  who 
said,  in  allusion  to  his  conjugal  state,  "  Well  Toots, 
well  Toots  !  So  you  are  one  of  us,  are  you,  Toots?" — 
retired  with  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  into  a  window. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  being  in  great  spirits,  made  a  spar 
at  Mr.  Toots,  and  tapped  him  skilfully  with  the  back  of 
his  hand  on  the  breast-bone. 

"Well,  old  Buck  !"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Well  I    Here  we  are  !    Taken  in  and  done  for.   Eh?  " 

"  Feeder,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  give  you  joy.  If 
you're  as — as — as  perfectly  blissful  in  a  matrimonial  life, 
as  I  am  myself,  you'll  have  nothing  to  desire.' 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK 


677 


"  I  don't  forget  my  old  friends,  you  see,"  said  Mr. 
Feeder.    "  I  ask  'em  to  my  wedding,  Toots." 

"Feeder,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  gravely,  "the  fact  is, 
that  there  were  several  circumstances  which  prevented 
me  from  communicating  with  you  until  after  my  mar- 
riage had  been  solemnised.  In  the  first  place,  I  had 
made  a  perfect  brute  of  myself  to  you  on  the  subject  of 
Miss  Dombey  ;  and  I  felt  that  if  you  were  asked  to  any 
wedding  of  mine,  you  would  naturally  expect  that  it 
was  with  Miss  Dombey,  which  involved  explanations, 
that  upon  my  word  and  honour,  at  that  crisis,  would 
have  knocked  me  completely  over.  In  the  second  place, 
our  wedding  was  strictly  private  ;  there  being  nobody 
present  but  one  friend  of  myself  and  Mrs.  Toots's,  who 
is  a  captain  in — I  don't  exactly  know  in  what,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  "but  it's  of  no  consequence.  I  hope,  Feeder, 
that  in  writing  a  statement  of  what  had  occurred  before 
Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  went  abroad  upon  our  foreign 
tour,  I  fully  discharged  the  offices  of  friendship." 

"  Toots,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  hands, 
"  I  was  joking." 

"And  now,  Feeder,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  be  glad 
to  know  what  you  think  of  my  union," 

"Capital  !"  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

"You  think  it's  capital,  do  you.  Feeder?"  said  Mr. 
Toots  solemnly.  "Then  how  capital  must  it  be  to  Me. 
For  you  can  never  know  what  an  extraordinary  woman 
that  is." 

Mr.  Feeder  was  willing  to  take  it  for  granted.  But 
Mr.  Toots  shook  his  head,  and  wouldn't  hear  of  that  be- 
ing possible. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  what  /  wanted  in  a  wife, 
was — in  short,  was  sense.  Money,  Feeder,  I  had. 
Sense  I — I  had  not,  particularly." 

Mr,  Feeder  murmured,  "Oh  yes,  you  had,  Toots!" 
But  Mr.  Toots  said  : 

"  No,  Feeder,  I  had  not.  Why  should  I  disguise  it  ? 
I  had  not.  I  knew  that  sense  was  There,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  stretching  out  his  hand  towards  his  wife,  "in 
perfect  heaps.  I  had  no  relation  to  object  or  be  of- 
fended, on  the  score  of  station  ;  for  I  had  no  relation.  I 
have  never  had  anybody  belonging  to  me  but  my  guar- 
dian, and  him,  Feeder,  I  have  always  considered  as  a 
Pirate  and  a  Corsair,  Therefore,  you  know,  it  was  not 
likely,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  should  take  Jiis 
opinion." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  Accordingly,"  resumed  Mr.  Toots,  "'  I  acted  on  my 
own.  Bright  was  the  day  on  which  I  did  so  !  Feeder  ! 
Nobody  but  myself  can  tell  what  the  capacity  of  that 
woman's  mind  is.  If  ever  the  Rights  of  Woman,  and 
all  thai  kind  of  thing,  are  properly  attended  to,  it  will 
be  through  her  powerful  intellect. — Susan,  my  dear  !  " 
said  Mr.  Toots,  looking  abruptly  out  of  the  window-cur- 
I  tains,  "  pray  do  not  exert  yourself  !  " 
I     "  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Toots,  "  I  was  only  talking." 

"But  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  pray  do  not  exert 
yourself.  You  really  must  be  careful.  Do  not,  my 
dear  Susan,  exert  yourself.  She's  so  easily  excited," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  apart  to  Mrs.  Blimber,  "and  then  she 
forgets  the  medical  man  altogether." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  impressing  on  Mrs.  Toots  the  ne- 
cessity of  caution,  when  Mr,  Feeder,  B.A.,  offered  her 
.  his  arm,  and  led  her  down  to  the  carriages  that  were  in 
waiting  to  go  to  church.  Doctor  Blimber  escorted  Mrs. 
Toots.  Mr.  Toots  escorted  the  fair  bride,  around  whose 
lambent  spectacles  two  gauzy  little  bridesmaids  fluttered 
like  moths.  Mr.  Feeder's  brother,  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder, 
M.  A,,  had  already  gone  on,  in  advance,  to  assume  his  of- 
ficial functions. 

The  ceremony  was  performed  in  an  admirable  manner. 
Cornelia  with  her  crisp  little  curls,  "  went  in,"  as  the 
Chicken  might  have  said,  with  great  composure  ;  and 
Doctor  Blimber  gave  her  away,  like  a  man  who  had 
quite  made  up  his  mind  to  it.  The  gauzy  little  brides- 
maids appeared  to  suffer  most.  Mrs.  Blimber  was  af- 
fected, but  gently  so  ;  and  told  the  Reverend  Mr.  Alfred 
Feeder,  M.A,,  on  the  way  home,  that  if  she  could  only 
have  seen  Cicero  in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum,  she 
would  not  have  had  a  wish,  now,  ungratified. 

There  was  a  breakfast  afterwards,  limited  to  the  same 
small  party  ;  at  which  the  spirits  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A., 


were  tremendous,  and  so  communicated  themselves  to 
Mrs.  Toots,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  several  times  heard  to 
observe,  across  the  table,  "  My  dear  Susan,  don't  exert 
yourself  !  "  The  best  of  it  was,  that  Mr.  Toots  felt  it 
incumbent  on  him  to  make  a  speech  ;  and  in  spite  of  a 
whole  code  of  telegraphic  dissuasions  from  Mrs,  Toots, 
appeared  on  his  legs  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 

"  I  really,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "in  this  house,  where 
whatever  was  done  to  me  in  the  way  of — of  any  mental 
confusion  sometimes — which  is  of  no  consequence  and  I 
impute  to  nobody — I  was  always  treated  like  one  of  Doc- 
tor Blimber's  family,  and  had  a  desk  to  myself  for  a  con- 
siderable period— can — not — allow — my  friend  Feeder  to 

A. 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  "married." 

"  It  may  not  be  inappropriate  to  the  occasion,  or  al- 
together uninteresting,"  said  Mr.  Toots  with  a  delighted 
face,  "  to  observe  that  my  wife  is  a  most  extraordinary 
woman,  and  would  do  this  much  better  than  myself — 
allow  my  friend  Feeder  to  be  married — especially  to — " 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  "  to  Miss  Blimber.'' 

"To  Mrs.  Feeder,  my  love  !"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a 
subdued  tone  of  private  discussion  ;  "  '  whom  God  hath 
joined,*  you  know,  'let  no  man' — don't  you  know  ?  I 
cannot  allow  my  friend.  Feeder,  to  be  married — espe- 
cially to  Mrs.  Feeder — without  proposing  their — their — 
Toasts  ;  and  may,"  said  Mr,  Toots,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
his  wife,  as  if  for  inspiration  in  a  high  flight,  "  may  the 
torch  of  Hymen  be  the  beacon  of  joy,  ana  may  the  flow- 
ers we  have  this  day  strewed  in  their  path,  be  the — the 
banishers  of — of  gloom  !  " 

Doctor  Blimber,  who  had  a  taste  for  metaphor,  was 
pleased  with  this,  and  said,  "Very  good,  Toots  !  Very 
well  said,  indeed.  Toots  ! "  and  nodded  his  head  and 
patted  his  hands.  Mr.  Feeder  made  in  reply,  a  comic 
speech  chequered  with  sentiment.  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder, 
M.A.,  was  afterwards  very  happy  on  Doctor  and  Mr.s. 
Blimbnr  ;  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  scarcely  less  so,  on  the 
gauzy  little  bridesmaids.  Doctor  Blimber  then  in  a 
sonorous  voice,  delivered  a  few  thoughts  in  the  pastoral 
style,  relative  to  the  rushes  among  which  it  was  the  in- 
tention of  himself  and  Mrs.  Blimber  to  dwell,  and  the 
bee  that  would  hum  around  their  cot.  Shortly  after 
which,  as  the  doctor's  eyes  were  twinkling  in  a  remark- 
able manner,  and  his  son-in-law  had  already  observed 
that  time  was  made  for  slaves,  and  had  inquired  whether 
Mrs.  Toots  sang,  the  discreet  Mrs.  Blimber  dissolved  the 
sitting,  and  sent  Cornelia  away,  very  cool  and  comfort- 
able, in  a  post-chaise,  with  the  man  of  her  heart. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  withdrew  to  the  Bedford  (Mrs. 
Toots  had  been  there  before  in  old  times,  under  her 
maiden  name  of  Nipper),  and  there  found  a  letter,  .which 
it  took  Mr.  Toots  such  an  enormous  time  to  read,  that 
Mrs.  Toots  was  frightened. 

"  My  dear  Susan,"  said  Mr,  Toots,  "fright  is  worse 
than  exertion.    Pray  be  calm  !  " 

"  Who  is  it  from  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Toots. 

"  Why,  my  love,"  said  Mr,  Toots,  "it's  from  Captain 
Gills.  Do  not  excite  yourself.  Walter  and  Miss  Dom- 
bey are  expected  home  !  " 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs,  Toots,  raising  herself  quickly 
from  the  sofa,  very  pale,  "  don't  try  to  deceive  me,  for 
it's  no  use,  they're  come  home — I  see  it  plainly  in  your 
face!" 

"She's  a  most  extraordinary  woman!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Toots  in  rapturous  admiration,  "  You're  perfectly 
right,  my  love,  they  have  come  home.  Miss  Dombey 
has  seen  her  father,  and  they  are  reconciled  ! " 

"  Reconciled  !"  cried  Mrs.  Toots,  clapping  her  hands. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Toots  ;  "  pray  do  not  exert  your- 
self. Do  remember  the  medical  man  !  Captain  Gills 
says — at  least  he  don't  say,  but  I  imagine,  from  what  I 
can  make  out,  he  means— that  Miss  Dombey  has  brought 
her  unfortunate  father  away  from  his  old  house,  to  one 
where  she  and  Walter  are  living  ;  that  he  is  lying  very 
ill  there— supposed  to  be  dying  ;  and  that  she  attends 
upon  him  night  and  day." 

Mrs.  Toots  began  to  cry  quite  bitterly. 

"  My  dearest  Susan,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  do,  do,  if 
you  possibly  can,  remember  the  medical  man  !  If  you 
can't,  it's  of  no  consequence — but  do  endeavour  to  ! " 

His  wife,  with  her  old  manner  suddenly  restored,  so 


678 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


pathetically  entreated  liim  to  take  lier  to  her  precious 
pet,  her  little  mistress,  her  own  darling,  and  the  like, 
that  Mr.  Toots,  whose  sympathy  and  admiration  were  of 
the  strongest  kind,  consented  from  his  very  heart  of 
hearts  ;  and  tbey  agreed  to  depart  immediately,  and 
present  themselves  in  answer  to  the  captain's  letter. 

Now  some  hidden  sympathies  of  things,  or  some  coin- 
cidences, had  that  day  brought  the  captain  himself  (to- 
ward whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  were  soon  journeying), 
into  the  flowery  train  of  wedlock  ;  not  as  a  principal, 
but  as  an  accessory.  It  happened  accidentally,  and 
thus  : 

The  captain,  having  seen  Florence  and  her  baby  for 
a  moment,  to  his  unbounded  content,  and  having  had  a 
long  talk  with  Walter,  turned  out  for  a  walk  ;  feeling 
it  necessary  to  have  some  solitary  meditation  on  the 
changes  of  human  affairs,  and  to  shake  his  glazed  hat 
profoundly  over  the  fall  of  Mr.  Dombey,  for  whom  the 
generosity  and  simplicity  of  his  nature  were  awakened 
in  a  lively  manner.  The  captain  would  have  been  very 
low,  indeed,  on  the  unhappy  gentleman's  account,  but 
for  the  recollection  of  the  baby ;  which  afforded  him 
such  intent  satisfaction  whenever  it  arose,  that  he 
laughed  aloud  as  he  went  along  the  street,  and,  indeed, 
more  than  once,  in  a  sudden  impulse  of  joy,  threw  up 
his  glazed  hat  and  caught  it  again  ;  much  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  spectators.  The  rapid  alternations  of  light 
and  shade  to  which  these  two  conflicting  subjects  of  re- 
flection exposed  the  captain,  were  so  very  trying  to  his 
spirits,  that  he  felt  a  long  walk  necessary  to  his  com- 
posure ;  and  as  there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  influence  of 
harmonious  associations,  he  chose,  for  the  scene  of  this 
walk,  his  old  neighbourhood, down  among  the  mast,  oar, 
and  block-makers,  ship-biscuit  bakers,  coal- whippers, 
pitch-kettles,  sailors,  canals,  docks,  swing-bridges,  and 
other  soothing  objects. 

These  peaceful  scenes,  and  particularly  the  region  of 
Limehoiise-Hole  and  thereabouts,  were  so  influential  in 
calming  the  captain,  that  he  walked  on  with  restored 
tranquillity,  and  was,  in  fact,  regaling  himself,  under  his 
breath,  with  the  ballad  of  Lovely  Peg,  when,  on  turning 
a  corner,  he  was  suddenly  transfixed  and  rendered 
speechless  by  a  triumphant  procession  that  he  beheld 
advancing  tow^ards  him. 

This  awful  demonstration  was  headed  by  that  deter- 
mined woman  Mrs.  MacStinger,  who,  preserving  a  coun- 
tenance of  inexorable  resolution,  and  wearing  conspicu- 
ously attached  to  her  obdurate  bosom  a  stupendous 
watch  and  appendages,  which  the  captain  recognised  at 
a  glance  as  the  property  of  Bunsby,  conducted  under  her 
arm  no  other  than  that  sagacious  mariner  ;  he,  with  the 
distraught  and  melancholy  visage  of  a  captive  borne  into 
a  foreign  land,  meekly  resigning  himself  to  her  will. 
Behind  them  appeared  the  young  MacStingers,  in  a 
body,  exulting.  IBehind  them  two  ladies  of  a  terrible 
and  stedfast  aspect,  leading  between  them,  a  short  gen- 
tleman in  a  tall  hat,  who  likewise  exulted.  In  the 
wake,  appeared  Bunsby 's  boy,  bearing  umbrellas.  The 
whole  were  in  a  good  marching  order  ;  and  a  dreadful 
smartness  that  pervaded  the  party  would  have  sufficient- 
ly announced,  if  the  intrepid  countenances  of  the  ladies 
had  been  wanting,  that  it  was  a  procession  of  sacrifice, 
and  that  the  victim  was  Bunsby. 

The  first  impulse  of  the  captain  was  to  run  away. 
This  also  appeared  to  be  the  first  impulse  of  Bunsby, 
hopeless  as  its  execution  must  have  proved.  But  a  cry 
of  recognition  proceeding  from  the  party,  and  Alexander 
MacStinger  running  up  to  the  captain  with  open  arms, 
the  captain  struck. 

"  Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle  I "  said  Mrs.  MacStinger.  "  This 
is  indeed  a  meeting  1  I  bear  no  malice  now.  Cap'en 
Cuttle — you  needn't  fear  that  I'm  going  to  cast  any  re- 
flections. I  hope  to  go  to  the  altar  in  anotlier  spirit." 
Here  Mrs.  MacStinger  paused,  and  drawing  herself  up, 
and  inflating  her  bosom  with  a  long  breath,  said,  in  al- 
lusion to  the  victim,  "My  usband,  Cap'en  Cuttle  !  " 

The  abject  Bunsby  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left,  nor  at  his  bride,  nor  at  his  friend,  but  straight 
before  him  at  nothing.  The  captain  putting  out  his 
hand,  Bunsby  put  out  his  ;  but,  in  answer  to  the  cap- 
tain's greeting,  spak(^  no  word. 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  if  yoa  would 


wish  to  heal  up  past  animosities,  and  to  see  the  last  of 
your  friend,  my  usband,  as  a  single  person,  we  should 
be  appy  of  your  company  to  chapel.  Here  is  a  lady 
here,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  turning  round  to  the  more 
intrepid  of  the  two,  "  my  bridesmaid,  that  will  be  glad 
of  your  protection,  Cap'en  Cuttle." 

The  short  gentleman  in  the  tall  hat,  who  it  appeared 
was  the  husband  of  the  other  lady,  and  who  evidently 
exulted  at  the  reduction  of  a  fellow-creature  to  his  own 
condition,  gave  place  at  this,  and  resigned  the  lady  to 
Captain  Cuttle.  The  lady  immediately  seized  him,  and, 
observing  that  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  gave  the  word, 
in  a  strong  voice,  to  advance. 

The  captain's  concern  for  his  friend,  not  unmingled,  at 
first,  with  some  concern  for  himself — for  a  shadowy  ter- 
ror that  he  might  be  married  by  violence,  possessed  him, 
until  his  knowledge  of  the  service  came  to  his  relief, 
and  remembering  the  legal  obligation  of  saying,  "I 
will,"  he  felt  himself  personally  safe  so  long  as  he  re- 
solved, if  asked  any  question,  distinctly  to  reply,  "  I 
won't," — threw  him  into  a  profuse  perspiration  ;  and 
rendered  him,  for  a  time,  insensible  to  the  movements 
of  the  procession,  of  which  he  now  formed  a  feature, 
and  to  the  conversation  of  his  fair  companion.  But  as 
he  became  less  agitated,  he  learnt  from  this  lady  that 
she  was  the  widow  of  a  Mr.  Bokum,  who  had  held  an 
employment  in  the  Custom  House  ;  that  she  was  the 
dearest  friend  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  whom  she  considered 
a  pattern  for  her  sex  ;  that  she  had  often  heard  of  the 
captain,  and  now  lioped  he  had  repented  of  his  past  life  ; 
that  she  trusted  Mr.  Bunsby  knew  what  a  blessing  he 
had  gained,  but  that  she  feared  men  seldom  did  know 
what  such  blessings  were,  until  they  had  lost  them  ; 
with  more  to  the  same  purpose. 

All  this  time,  the  captain  could  not  but  observe  that 
Mrs.  Bokum  kept  her  eyes  steadily  on  the  bridegroom, 
and  that  whenever  they  came  near  a  court  or  other  nar- 
row turning  which  appeared  favourable  for  flight,  she 
was  on  the  alert  to  cut  him  off  if  he  attempted  to  escape. 
The  other  lady,  too,  as  well  as  her  husband,  the  short 
gentleman  with  the  tall  hat,  were  plainly  on  guard,  ac- 
cording to  a  preconcerted  plan  ;  and  the  wretched  man 
was  so  secured  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  that  any  effort  at  self- 
preservation  by  flight  was  rendered  futile.  This,  indeed, 
was  apparent  to  the  mere  populace,  who  expressed  their 
perception  of  the  fact  by  jeers  and  cries  ;  to  all  of  which, 
the  dread  MacStinger  was  inflexibly  indifferent,  while  ' 
Bunsby  himself  appeared  in  a  state  of  unconscious-  i 
ness.  I 

The  Captain  made  many  attempts  to  accost  the  phi-  ' 
losopher,  if  only  in  a  monosyllable  or  a  signal :  but  ' 
always  failed,  in  consequence  of  the  vigilance  of  the  , 
guard,  and  the  difficulty,  at  all  times  peculiar  to  Bunsby's 
constitution,  of  having  his  attention  aroused  by  any  out- 
ward and  visible  sign  whatever.    Thus  they  approached 
the  chapel,  a  neat,  whitewashed  edifice,  recently  en- 
gaged by  the  Reverend  Melchisedecli  Howler,  who  had 
consented,  on  very  urgent  solicitation,  to  give  the  world 
another  two  years  of  existence,  but  had  informed  his 
followers  that,  then,  it  must  positively  go. 

While  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  was  offering  up 
some  extemporary  orisons,  the  captain  found  an  opportu- 
nity of  growling  in  the  bridegroom's  ear  : 

"  What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer?" 

To  which  Bunsby  replied,  with  a  forgetfulness  of  the 
Reverend  Melchisedech,  which  nothing  but  his  desperate 
circumstances  could  have  excused  : 

"D— d  bad." 

"  Jack  Bunsby,"  whispered  the  captain,  "do  you  do 
this  here,  o'  your  own  free  will  ?  " 
Mr.  Bunsby  answered  "No." 

"  Why  do  you  do  it,  then,  my  lad  ?  "  inquired  the  cap- 
tain, not  unnaturally. 

Bunsby,  still  looking,  and  always  looking  with  an  im- 
movable countenance,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  world,  j 
made  no  reply. 

"  Why  not  sheer  off  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  iSh?"  whispered  Bunsby,  with  a  momentary  gleam 
of  hope. 

"  Sheer  off,"  said  the  captain. 

"Where's  the  good?"  retorted  the   forlorn  sage. 
"  She'd  capter  me  again." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


■  "Try?"  replied  the  captain.  "Cheer  up!  Come! 
Now's  your  time.    Sheer  oif ,  Jack  Bunsbj  ?  " 

Jack  Buusby,  however,  instead  of  profitiug  by  the 
advice,  said  in  a  doleful  whisper  : 

"  It  all  began  in  that  there  chest  o'  your'n.  Why  did 
I  ever  conwoy  her  into  port  that  night  ?" 

"  My  lad,"  faltered  the  captain,  "  1  thought  as  you  had 
come  over  her  ;  not  as  she  had  come  over  you.  A  man 
as  has  got  such  opinions  as  you  have  1  " 

Mr.  Bunsby  merely  uttered  a  suppressed  groan. 

"  Come  ! "  said  the  captain,  nudging  him  with  his 
elbow,  "now'syour  time  !  Sheer  off!  I'll  cover  your 
retreat.  The  time's  a  flying.  Bunsby  1  It's  for  liberty. 
Will  you  once?"  ^ 

Bunsby  was  immovable. 
Bunsby  !  "  whispered  the  captain,  "  will  you  twice?" 

Bunsby  wouldn't  twice. 

"  Bunsby  !  "  urged  the  captain,  "  it's  for  liberty  ;  will 
you  three  times  ?    Now  or  never  I  " 

Bunsby  didn't  then,  and  didn't  ever  ;  for  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stin^er  immediately  afterwards  married  him. 

One  of  the  most  frightful  circumstances  of  the  cere- 
mony to  the  captain,  was  the  deadly  interest  exhibited 
therein  by  Juliana  MacStinger ;  and  the  fatal  concentra- 
tion of  her  faculties,  with  which  that  promising  child, 
already  the  image  of  her  parent,  observed  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings. The  captain  saw  in  this  a  succession  of  man- 
traps stretching  out  infinitely  ;  a  series  of  ages  of 
oppression  and  coercion,  through  which  the  seafaring 
line  was  doomed.  It  was  a  more  memorable  sight  than 
the  unflinching  steadiness  of  Mrs.  Bokum  and  the  other 
lady,  the  exultation  of  the  short  gentleman  in  the  tall 
hat,  or  even  the  fell  inflexibility  of  Mrs.  MacStinger. 
The  Master  MacStingers  understood  little  of  what  was 
going  on,  and  cared  less,  being  chiefly  engaged,  during 
the  ceremony,  in  treading  on  one  another's  half  boots  ; 
but  the  contrast  afforded  by  those  wretched  infants 
only  set  off  and  adorned  the  precocious  woman  in 
Juliana.  Another  year  or  two,  the  captain  thought 
and  to  lodge  where  that  child  was,  would  be  destruc- 
tion. 

The  ceremony  was  concluded  by  a  general  spring  of 
the  young  family  on  Mr.  Bunsby,  whom  they  hailed  by 
the  endearing  name  of  father,  and  from  whom  they  so- 
licited halfpence.  These  gushes  of  afl'ection  over,  the 
procession  was  about  to  issue  forth  again,  when  it  was 
delayed  for  some  little  time  by  an  unexpected  transport 
on  the  part  of  Alexander  MacStinger.  That  dear  child, 
it  seemed,  connecting  a  chapel  with  tombstones,  when  it 
wasi  entered  for  any  purpose  apart  from  the  ordinary  re- 
ligious exercises,  could  not  be  persuaded  but  that  his 
mother  was  now  to  be  decently  interred,  and  lost  to  him 
for  ever.  In  the  anguish  of  this  conviction,  he  screamed 
with  astonishing  force,  and  turned  black  in  the  face. 
However  touching  these  marks  of  a  tender  disposition 
were  to  his  mother,  it  was  not  in  the  character  of  that 
remarkable  woman  to  permit  her  recognition  of  them  to 
degenerate  into  weakness.  Therefore,  after  vainly  en- 
deavouring to  convince  his  reason  by  shakes,  pokes, 
bawlings-out,  and  similar  applications  to  his  head,  she 
led  him  into  the  air,  and  tried  another  method  ;  which 
was  manifested  to  the  marriage  party  by  a  quick  succes- 
sion of  sharp  sounds,  resembling  applause,  and  subse- 
quently, by  their  seeing  Alexander  in  contact  with  the 
coolest  paving-stone  in  the  court,  greatly  flushed,  and 
loudly  lamenting. 

The  procession  being  then  in  a  condition  to  form  itself 
once  more  and  repair  to  Brig  Place,  where  a  marriac^e 
feast  was  in  readiness,  returned  as  it  had  come  ;  not  with- 
out the  receipt,  by  Bunsby,  of  many  humourous  congra- 
tulations  from  the  populace  on  his  recently-acquired 
happiness.  The  captain  accompanied  it  as  far  as  the 
house-door,  but,  being  made  uneasy  by  the  gentler  man- 
ner of  Mrs.  Bokum,  who,  now  that  she  was  relieved  from 
her  engrossing  duty— for  the  watchfulness  and  alacrity  of 
the  ladies  sensibly  diminished  when  the  bridegroom  was 
safely  married— had  greater  leisure  to  show  an  interest 
in  his  behalf,  there  left  it  and  the  captive  ;  faintly  plead- 
iTig  an  appointment,  and  promising  to  return  presently. 
The  captain  had  another  cause  for  uneasiness,  in  remorse- 
fully reflecting  that  he  had  been  the  first  njeans  of  Buns- 
by's  entrapment,  though  certainly  without  intending  it 


and  through  his  unbounded  faith  in  the  resources  of  that 
phihisopher. 

To  go  back  to  old  Sol  Gills  at  the  Wooden  Midship- 
man's, and  not  first  go  round  to  ask  how  Mr.  Dombey 
was— albeit  the  house  where  he  lay  was  out  of  L<mdon 
and  away  on  the  borders  of  a  fresh  heath— was  quite  out 
of  the  captain's  course.  So  he  got  a  lift  when  he  was 
tired,  and  made  out  the  journey  gaily. 

The  blinds  were  pulled  down,  and  the  house  so  quiet 
that  the  captain  was  almost  afraid  to  knock  ;  but  listen- 
ing at  the  door,  he  heard  low  voices,  within,  very  near  it 
and,  knocking  softly,  was  admitted  by  Mr'  Toots  Mr' 
Toots  and  his  wife  had,  in  fact,  just  arrived  there  -  hav- 
ing been  at  the  Midshipman's  to  seek  him,  and  having 
there  obtained  the  address. 

They  were  not  so  recently  arrived,  but  that  Mrs  Toots 
had  caught  the  baby  from  somebody,  taken  it  in  hor  arms 
and  sat  down  on  the  stairs,  hugging  and  fondling  it' 
Florence  was  stooping  down  beside  her  ;  and  no  one  could 
have  said  which  Mrs.  Toots  was  hugging  and  fondling 
most,  the  mother  or  the  child,  or  which  was  the  tenderer 
Florence  of  Mrs.  Toots,  or  Mrs.  Toots  of  her,  or  both  of 
the  baby  ;  it  was  such  a  little  group  of  love  and  agitation. 

"And  is  your  Pa  very  ill,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Flov*? '' 
asked  Susan. 

"He  is  very,  very  ill,"  said  Florence.    "But  Susan 
dear,  you  must  not  speak  to  me  as  you  used  to  speak 
And  what's  this?"  said  Florence,  touching  her  clothes 
in  amazement.    "Your  old  dress,  dear?    Your  old  can* 
curls,  and  all?" 

Susan  burst  into  tears,  and  showered  kisses  on  the  lit- 
tle hand  that  had  touched  her  so  wondering!  v. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  stepping  for- 
ward, "  I'll  explain.  She's  the  most  extraordinary  wo- 
man. There  are  not  many  to  equal  her  !  She  has  al- 
ways said— she  said  before  we  were  married,  and  has  said 
to  this  day,  that  whenever  you  came  home,  she'd  come 
to  you  in  no  dress  but  the  dress  she  used  to  serve  you  in, 
for  fear  she  might  seem  strange  to  you,  and  you  might 
like  her  less.  I  admire  the  dress  myself,"  said  Mr  Toots 
"  of  all  things.  I  adore  her  in  it  !  My  dear  Miss  Dom- 
bey, she'll  be  your  maid  again,  your  nurse,  all  that  she 
ever  was,  and  more.  There's  no  change  in  her.  But 
Susan,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  who  had  spoken  with 
great  feeling  and  high  admiration,  "all  I  ask  is,  that 
you'll  remember  the  medical  man,  and  not  exert  yourself 
too  much  I " 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

Eelenting. 


Florence  had  need  of  help.  Her  father's  need  of 
it  was  sore,  and  made  the  aid  of  her  old  friend  invalua- 
ble. Death  stood  at  his  fpillow.  A  shade,  already  of 
what  he  had  been,  shattered  in  his  mind,  and  periloiisly 
sick  in  body,  he  laid  his  weary  head  down  on  the  bed  his 
daughter  s  hands  prepared  for  him,  and  had  never  raised 
it  since. 

She  was  always  with  him.  He  knew  her.  generally  • 
though,  m  the  wandering  of  his  brain,  he  often  confused 
the  circumstances  under  which  he  spoke  to  her.  Thus 
he  would  address  her,  sometimes,  as  if  his  bov  were 
newly  dead;  and  would  tell  her  that  although  he  had 
said  nothing  of  her  ministering  at  the  little  bedside,  yet 
he  had  seen  it— he  had  seen  it ;  and  then  would  hide  his 
face  and  sob,  and  put  out  his  worn  hand.  Sometimes 
he  would  ask  her  for  herself.  "Where  is  Florence?'* 
"  I  am  here,  papa,  I  am  here."  "  I  don't  know  her  !  " 
he  would  cry.  "  We  have  been  parted  so  long,  that  I 
don't  know  her  !  "  and  then  a  staring  dread  w'ould  be 
upon  him,  until  she  could  soothe  his  perturbation ;  and  re- 
cal  the  tears  she  tried  so  hard  at  other  times  to  drv. 

,     He  rambled  through  the  scenes  of  his  old  pursuits  

through  many  where  Florence  lost  him  as  she  listened— 
sometimes  for  hours.  He  would  repeat  that  childish 
question,  "  What  is  money  ?"  and  ponder  on  it,  and  think 
about  it,  and  reason  with  himself,  more  or  less  connected- 
{  ly,  for  a  good  answer;  as  if  it  had  never  been  proposed 
I  to  him  until  that  moment.  He  would  go  on  with  a  mus- 
ing repetition  of  the  title  of  his  old  firm  twenty  thousand 


680 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


times,  and,  at  every  one  of  tliem,  would  turn  his  head 
upon  his  pillow.  He  would  count  his  children — one — 
two — stop,  and  go  back,  and  begin  again  in  the  same 
way. 

But  this  was  when  his  mind  was  in  its  most  distracted 
state.  In  all  the  other  phases  of  its  illness,  and  in  those 
to  which  it  was  most  constant,  it  always  turned  on  Flor- 
ence. What  he  would  oftenest  do  was  this  :  he  would 
recal  that  night  he  had  so  recently  remembered,  the  night 
on  which,  she  came  down  to  his  room,  and  would  imagine 
that  his  heart  smote  him,  and  that  he  went  out  after 
her,  and  up  the  stairs  to  seek  her.  Then,  confound- 
ing' that  time  with  the  later  days  of  the  many  foot- 
steps, he  would  be  amazed  at  their  number,  and  begin 
to  count  them  as  he  followed  her.  Here,  of  a  sudden, 
was  a  bloody  footstep  going  on  among  the  others  :  and 
after  it  there  began  to  be,  at  intervals,  doors  standing 
open,  through  which  certain  terrible  pictures  were  seen, 
in  mirrors,  of  haggard  men,  concealing  something  in 
their  breasts.  Still,  among  the  many  footsteps  and  the 
bloody  footsteps  here  and  there,  was  the  step  of  Flor- 
ence. Still  she  was  going  on  before.  Still  the  restless 
mind  went,  following  and  counting,  ever  farther,  ever 
higher,  as  to  the  summit  of  a  mighty  tower  that  it  took 
years  to  climb. 

One  day  he  inquired  if  that  were  not  Susan  who  had 
spoken  a  long  while  ago. 

Florence  said,  "  Yes,  dear  papa  ;  "  and  asked  him  would 
he  like  to  see  her? 

He  said,  "  Very  much."  And  Susan,  with  no  little  trep- 
idation, showed  herself  at  his  bedside. 

It  seemed  a  great  relief  to  him.  He  begged  her  not  to 
go  ;  to  understand  that  he  forgave  lier  what  she  had 
said  ;  and  that  she  was  to  stay.  Florence  and  he  were 
very  different  now,  he  said,  and  very  happy.  Let  her 
look  at  this  !  He  meant  his  drawing  the  gentle  head 
down  to  his  pillow,  and  laying  it  beside  him. 

He  remained  like  this  for  davs  and  weeks^  At  length, 
lying  the  faint  feeble  semblance  of  a  man,  upon  his  bed, 
and  speaking  in  a  voice  so  low  that  they  could  only  hear 
him  by  listening  very  near  to  his  lips,  he  became  quiet. 
It  was  dimly  pleasant  to  him  now,  to  lie  there,  with 
the  window  open,  looking  out  at  the  summer  sky  and 
the  trees  :  and,  in  the  evening,  at  the  sunset.  To  watch 
the  shadows  of  the  clouds  and  leaves,  and  seem  to  feel 
a  sympathy  with  shadows.  It  was  natural  that  he 
should.    To  him,  life  and  the  world  were  nothing  else. 

He  began  to  show  now  that  he  thought  of  Florence's 
fatigue  ;  and  of  ten  taxed  his  weakness  to  whisper  to  her, 
"  Go  and  walk,  my  dearest,  in  the  sweet  air.  Go  to  your 
good  husband  ! "  One  time  when  Walter  was  in  his 
room,  he  beckoned  him  to  come  near,  and  to  stoop  down  : 
and  pressing  his  hand,  whispered  an  assurance  to  him 
that  he  knew  he  could  trust  him  with  his  child  when  he 
was  dead. 

It  chanced  one  evening,  towards  sunset,  when  Flor- 
ence and  Walter  were  sitting  in  his  room  together,  as  he 
liked  to  see  them,  that  Florence,  having  her  baby  in  her 
arms,  began  in  a  low  voice  to  sing  to  the  little  fellow, 
and  sang  the  old  tune  she  had  so  often  sung  to  the  dead 
child.  He  could  not  bear  it  at  the  time  ;  he  held  up  his 
trembling  hand,  imploring  her  to  stop  ;  but  next  day  he 
asked  her  to  repeat  it,  and  to  do  so  often  of  an  even- 
ing :  which  she  did.  He  listening,  with  his  face  turned 
away. 

Florence  was  sitting  on  a  certain  time  by  his  window, 
with  her  work-basket  between  her  and  her  old  attendant, 
who  was  still  her  faithful  companion.  He  had  fallen 
into  a  doze.  It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  with  two  hours 
of  light  to  come  yet ;  and  the  tranquillity  and  quiet  made 
Florence  very  thoughtful.  She  was  lost  to  everything 
for  the  moment,  but  the  occasion  when  the  so  altered 
figure  on  the  bed  had  first  presented  her  to  her  beautiful 
mama  ;  when  a  touch  from  Walter  leaning  on  the  back 
of  her  chair,  made  her  start. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Walter,  "there  is  some  one  down- 
stairs who  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

She  fancied  Walter  looked  grave,  and  asked  him  if 
anything  had  happened. 

"  No,  no,  my  love  1 "  said  Walter.   "  I  have  seen  the 
gentleman  myself,  and  spoken  with  him.    Nothing  has  I 
happened.    Will  you  come  ?  "  ' 


Florence  put  her  arm  through  his  ;  and  confiding  her 
father  to  the  black-eyed  Mrs.  Toots,  who  sat  as  brisk  and 
smart  at  her  work  as  black-eyed  woman  could,  accom- 
panied her  husband  down-stairs.  In  the  ]:)]easant  little 
parlour  opening  on  the  garden,  sat  a  gentleman,  who 
rose  to  advance  towards  her  when  she  came  in,  but 
turned  off,  by  reason  of  some  peculiarity  in  his  legs,  and 
was  only  stopped  by  the  table. 

Florence  then  remembered  Cousin  Feenix,  whom  she 
had  not  at  first  recognised  in  the  shade  of  the  leaves. 
Cousin  Feenix  took  her  hand,  and  congratulated  her 
upon  her  marriage. 

"  I  could  have  wished,  I  am  sure,"  said  Cousin  Feenix, 
sitting  down  as  Florence  sat,  "  to  have  had  an  earlier 
opportunity  of  offering  my  congratulations ;  but,  in 
point  of  fact,  so  many  painful  occurrences  have  happen- 
ed, treading,  as  a  man  may  say,  on  one  another's  heels, 
that  I  have  been  in  a  devil  of  a  state  myself,  and  per- 
fectly unfit  for  every  description  of  society.  The  only 
description  of  society  I  have  kept,  has  been  my  own  ; 
and  it  certainly  is  anything  but  flattering  to  a  m^n's 
good  opinion  of  his  own  resources,  to  know  that,  in  point 
of  fact,  he  has  the  capacity  of  boring  himself  to  a  per- 
fectly unlimited  extent." 

Florence  divined  from  some  indefinable  constraint  and 
anxiety  in  this  gentleman's  manner — which  was  always 
a  gentleman's,  in  spite  of  the  harmless  little  eccentrici- 
ties that  attached  to  it — and  from  Walter's  manner  no 
less,  that  something  more  immediately  tending  to  some 
object  was  to  follow  this. 

*'  I  have  been  mentioning  to  my  friend  Mr.  Gay,  if  I 
may  be  allowed  to  have  the  honour  of  calling  him  so," 
said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  that  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  that  my 
friend  Dombey  is  very  decidedly  mending.  I  trust  my 
friend  Dombey  will  not  allow  his  mind  to  be  too  much 
preyed  upon,  by  any  mere  loss  of  fortune.  I  cannot  say 
that  I  have  ever  experienced  any  very  great  loss  of  for- 
tune myself :  never  having  had,  in  point  of  fact,  any 
great  amount  of  fortune  to  lose.  But  as  much  as  I 
could  lose,  I  have  lost  ;  and  I  don't  find  that  I  particu- 
larly care  about  it.  I  know  my  friend  Dombey  to  be  a 
devilish  honourable  man  ;  and  it's  calculated  to  console 
my  friend  Dombey  very  much,  to  know,  that  this  is  the 
universal  sentiment.  Even  Tommy  Screwzer, — man  of 
an  extremely  bilious  habit,  with  whom  my  friend  Gay 
is  probably  acquainted — cannot  say  a  syllable^in  disputa- 
tion of  the  fact." 

Florence  felt  more  than  ever,  that  there  was  something 
to  come  :  and  looked  earnestly  for  it.  So  earnestly, 
that  Cousin  Feenix  answered,  as  if  she  had  spoken. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "that  my  friend 
Gay  and  myself  have  been  discussing  the  propriety  of 
entreating  a  favour  at  your  hands  ;  and  that  I  have  the 
consent  of  my  friend  Gay — who  has  met  me  in  an  ex- 
ceedingly kind  and  open  manner,  for  which  I  am  very 
much  indebted  to  him — to  solicit  it.  I  am  sensible  that 
so  amiable  a  lady  as  the  lovely  and  accomplished  daugh- 
ter of  my  friend  Dombey  will  not  require  much  urging  ; 
but  I  am  happy  to  know,  that  I  am  supported  by  my 
friend  Gay's  influence  and  approval.  As  in  my  parlia- 
mentary time,  when  a  man  had  a  motion  to  make  of  any 
sort — which  happened  seldom  in  those  days,  for  we 
were  kept  very  tight  in  hand,  the  leaders  on  both  sides 
being  regular  martinets,  which  was  a  devilish  good  thing 
for  the  rank  and  file,  like  myself,  and  prevented  our 
exposing  ourselves  continually,  as  a  great  many  of  us 
had  a  feverish  anxiety  to  do — as,  in  my  parliamentary 
time,  I  was  about  to  say,  when  a  man  had  leave  to  let  off 
any  little  private  pop-gun,  it  was  always  considered  a 
great  point  for  him  to  say  that  he  had  the  happiness  of 
believing  that  his  sentiments  were  not  without  an  echo 
in  the  breast  of  Mr.  Pitt ;  the  pilot,  in  point  of  fact,  who 
had  weathered  the  storm.  Upon  wliich  a  devilish  large 
number  of  fellows  immediately  cheered,  and  put  him  in 
spirits.  Though  the  fact  is,  that  these  fellows,  being 
under  orders  to  cheer  most  excessively  whenever  Mr. 
Pitt's  name  was  mentioned,  became  so  proficient  that  it 
always  woke  'em.  And  they  were  so  entirely  innocent 
of  what  was  going  on,  otherwise,  that  it  used  to  be  com- 
monly said  by  Conversation  Brown — four-bottle  man  at 
the  Treasury  board,  with  whom  the  father  of  my  friend 
Gay  was  prol^ably  acquainted,  for  it  was  before  njy 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


G81 


friend  Gay's  time — that  if  a  man  liad  risen  in  his  place 
and  said  that  he  regretted  to  inform  the  house  tliat  there 
was  an  honourable  member  in  the  last  stage  of  convul- 
sions in  the  Lobby,  and  that  the  honourable  member's 
name  was  Pitt,  the  approbation  would  have  been  vocif- 
erous." 

This  postponement  of  the  point  put  Florence  in  a  flut- 
ter ;  and  she  looked  from  Cousin  Feenix  to  Walter,  in 
increasing  agitation. 

"My  love,"  said  Walter,  "  there  is  nothing  the  mat- 
ter." 

'*  There  is  nothing  the  matter,  upon  my  honour,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix  ;  "  and  I  am  deeply  distressed  at  being 
the  means  of  causing  you  a  moment's  uneasiness.  I  beg 
to  assure  you  that  there  is  nothing  the  matter.  The  fa- 
vour that  I  have  to  ask  is,  simply — but  it  really  does 
seem  so  exceeding  singular,  that  I  should  be  in  the  last 
degree  obliged  to  my  friend  Gay  if  he  would  have  the 
goodness  to  break  the — in  point  of  fact,  the  ice,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix. 

W^alter  thus  appealed  to,  and  appealed  to  no  less  in 
the  look  that  Florence  turned  towards  him,  said  : 

"  My  dearest,  it  is  no  more  than  this.  That  you  will 
ride  to  London  with  this  gentleman,  whom  you  know," 

"  And  my  friend  Gay,  also— 1  beg  your  pardon  !"  in- 
terrupted Cousin  Feenix. 

"  — And  with  me — and  make  a  visit  somewhere." 

"To  whom?"  asked  Florence,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"  If  I  might  entreat,"  said  Cousin  B'eenix,  "that  you 
would  not  press  for  an  answer  to  that  question,  I  would 
venture  to  take  the  liberty  of  making  the  request." 

"J)oyou  know,  Walter?"  said  Florence. 

"Yes." 

"  And  think  it  right  ?" 

"Yes.  Only  because  I  am  sure  that  you  would,  too. 
Though  there  may  be  reasons  I  very- well  understand, 
which  make  it  better  that  nothing  more  should  be  said 
beforehand." 

"  If  papa  is  still  asleep,  or  can  spare  me  if  he  is  awake, 
I  will  go  immediately,"  said  Florence.  And  rising  quiet- 
ly, and  glancing  at  them  with  a  look  that  was  a  little 
alarmed,  but  perfectly  confiding,  left  the  room. 

When  she  came  back,  ready  to  bear  them  company, 
they  were  talking  together,  gravely,  at  the  window  ; 
and  Florence  could  not  but  wonder  what  the  topic  was, 

I  that  had  made  them  so  well  acquainted  in  so  short  a 
time.  She  did  not  wonder  at  the  look  of  pride  and  love 
with  which  her  husband  broke  olf  as  she  entered  ;  for 
she  never  saw  him,  but  that  rested  on  her. 

"  I  will  leave,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "a  card  for  my 
friend  Dombey,  sincerely  trusting  that  he  will  pick  up 
health  and  strength  with  every  returning  hour.  And  I 
hope  my  friend  Dombey  will  do  me  the  favour  to  con- 
sider me  a  man  who  has  a  devilish  warm  admiration  of 
his  character,  as,  in  point  of  fact,  a  British  merchant  and 

j  a  devilish  upright  gentleman.  My  place  in  the  country 
is  in  a  most  confounded  state  of  dilapidation,  but  if  my 

I  friend  Dombey  should  require  a  change  of  air,  and  would 
take  up  his  quarters  there,  he  would  find  it  a  remarkably 
healthy  spot — as  it  need  be,  for  it's  amazingly  dull.  If 
my  friend  Dombey  suffers  from  bodily  weakness,  and 
would  allow  me  to  recommend  what  has  frequently  done 

1  myself  good,  as  a  man  who  has  been  extremely  queer  at 
times,  and  who  lived  pretty  freely  in  the  days  when  men 
lived  very  freely,  I  should  say,  let  it  be  in  point  of  fact 
the  yolk  of  an  egg,  beat  up  with  sugar  and  nutmeg,  in  a 
glass  of  sherry,  and  taken  in  the  morning  with  a  slice  of 
dry  toast.  Jackson,  who  kept  the  boxing- rooms  in  Bond- 
street — man  of  very  superior  qualifications,  with  whose 
reputation  my  friend  Gay  is  no  doubt  acquainted — used 
to  mention  that  in  training  for  the  ring  they  substituted 
rum  for  slierry.  I  should  recommend  sherry  in  this 
case,  on  account  of  my  friend  Dombey  being  in  an  inva- 
lided condition  ;  which  might  occasion  rum  to  fly — in 
point  of  fact  to  his  head — and  throw  him  into  a  devil  of 
a  state," 

Of  all  this.  Cousin  Feenix  delivered  himself  with  an 
obviously  nervous  and  discomposed  air.  Then,  giving 
his  arm  to  Florence,  and  putting  the  strongest  possible 
constraint  upon  his  wilful  legs,  which  seemed  deter- 
mined to  go  out  into  the  garden,  he  led  her  to  the  door,  ! 


and  handed  her  into  a  carriage  that  was  ready  for  her 
reception. 

Walter  entered  after  him,  and  they  drove  away. 
Their  ride  was  six  or  eight  miles  long,  When  they 
drove  through  certain  dull  and  stately  streets,  lying 
westward  in  London,  it  was  growing  dusk.  Florence 
had,  by  this  time,  put  her  hand  in  Walter's  ;  and  was 
looking  very  earnestly,  and  with  increasing  agitation, 
into  every  new  street  into  which  they  turned.  When 
the  carriage  stopped,  at  last,  before  that  house  in  Brook- 
street,  where  her  father's  unhappy  marriage  had  been 
celebrated,  Florence  said,  "Walter,  what  is  this?  Who 
is  here?"  Walter  cheering  her,  and  not  replying,  she 
glanced  up  at  the  house-front  and  saw  that  all  the  win- 
dows were  shut,  as  if  it  were  uninhabited.  Cousin  Fee- 
nix had  by  this  time  alighted,  and  was  offering  his 
hand. 

Are  you  not  coming,  Walter  ?  " 
"  No,  I  will  remain  here.    Don't  tremble  !  there  is 
nothing  to  fear,  dearest  Florence." 

"  I  know  that,  Walter,  with  you  so  near.  I  am  sure 
of  that,  but—" 

The  door  was  softly  opened,  without  any  knock,  and 
Cousin  Feenix  led  her  out  of  the  summer  evening  air  in- 
to the  close  dull  house.  More  sombre  and  brown  than 
ever,  it  seemed  to  have  been  shut  up  from  the  wedding- 
day,  and  to  have  hoarded  darkness  and  sadness  ever 
since. 

Florence  ascended  the  dusky  staircase,  trembling  ;  and 
stopped  Avith  her  conductor  at  the  drawing-room  door. 
He  opened  it,  without  speaking,  and  signed  an  entreaty 
to  her  to  advance  into  the  inner  room,  while  he  remained 
there.    Florence,  after  hesitating  an  instant,  complied. 

Sitting  by  the  window  at  a  table,  where  she  seemed  to 
have  been  writing  or  drawing,  was  a  lady,  whose  head, 
turned  away  towards  the  dying  light,  was  resting  on  her 
hand.  Florence  advancing,  doubtfully,  all  at  once  stood 
still,  as  if  she  had  lost  the  power  of  motion^  The  lady 
turned  her  head. 

"  Great  Heaven  !  "  she  said,  "  what  is  this  ?  " 
"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Florence,  shrinking  back  as  she  rose 
up,  and  putting  out  her  hands  to  keep  her  off.    ' '  Mama  ! " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Passion  and  pride 
had  worn  it,  but  it  was  the  face  of  Edith,  and  beautiful 
and  stately  yet.  It  was  the  face  of  Florence,  and 
through  all  the  terrified  avoidance  it  expressed,  there 
was  pity  in  it,  sorrow,  a  grateful  tender  memory.  On 
each  face, wonder  and  fear  were  painted  vividly;  each,  so 
still  and  silent,  looking  at  the  other  over  the  black  gulf 
of  the  irrevocable  past. 

Florence  was  the  first  to  change.  Bursting  into  tears, 
she  said,  from  her  full  heart,  "Oh  mama,  mama  !  why 
do  we  meet  like  this  ?  Why  were  you  ever  kind  to  me 
when  there  was  no  one  else,  that  we  should  meet  like 
this  ?  " 

Edith  stood  before  her,  dumb  and  motionless.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"  I  dare  not  think  of  that,"  said  Florence,  "  lam  come 
from  papa's  sick  bed.  We  are  never  asunder  now  ;  we 
never  shall  be,  any  more.  If  you  would  have  me  ask  his 
pardon,  I  will  do  it,  mama.  I  am  almost  sure  he  will 
grant  it  now,  if  I  ask  him.  May  Heaven  grant  it  to  you, 
too,  and  comfort  you  ! " 
She  answered  not  a  word. 

"  Walter — I  am  married  to  him,  and  we  have  a 
son  " — said  Florence,  timidly,  "is  at  the  door,  and  has 
brought  me  here,  I  will  tell  him  that  you  are  repent- 
ant ;  that  you  are  changed,"  said  Florence,  looking 
mournfully  upon  her  ;  "  and  he  will  speak  to  papa  with 
me,  I  know.  Is  there  anything  but  this  that  I  can  do  f 
Edith,  breaking  her  silence,  without  moving  eye  or 
limb,  answered  slowly  : 

"  The  stain  upon  your  name,  upon  your  husband's,  on 
your  child's.    Will  that  ever  be  forgiven,  Florence  ?  " 

"  Will  it  ever  be,  mama  ?  It  is  !  Freely,  freely, both 
by  Walter  and  by  me.  If  that  is  any  consolation  to  you, 
there  is  nothing  that  you  may  believe  more  certainly. 
You  do  not— you  do  not,"  faltered  Florence,  "speak  of 
papa  ;  but  I  am  sure  you  wish  that  I  should  ask  him  for 
his  forgiveness.    I  am  sure  you  do." 

She  answered  not  a  word. 
!     "  I  will !  "  said  Florence.    "  I  will  bring  it  to  you,  if 


GS2 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


you  will  let  me  ;  and  then,  perhaps,  we  may  take  leave  of 
each  other,  more  like  what  we-used  to  be  to  one  another.  I 
have  not,"  said  Florence  very  gently,  and  drawing  nearer 
to  her,  "  I  have  not  shrunk  back  from  you,  mama,  be- 
cause 1  feared  you,  or  because  I  dread  to  be  disgraced  by 
you.  I  only  wish  to  do  my  duty  to  papa.  I  am  very  dear 
to  him,  and  he  is  very  dear  to  me.  But  I  never  can  for- 
get thab  you  were  very  good  to  me.  Oh,  pray  to 
Heaven,"  cried  Florence,  falling  on  her  bosom,  "  pray  to 
Heaven,  mama,  to  forgive  you  all  this  sin  and  shame, 
and  to  forgive  me  if  I  cannot  help  doing  this  (if  it  is 
wrong)  when  I  remember  what  you  used  to  be  !  " 

Edith,  as  if  she  fell  beneath  her  touch,  sunk  down  on 
her  knees,  and  caught  her  round  the  neck. 

"  Florence  !  "  she  cried.  "  My  better  angel  !  Before 
I  am  mad  again,  before  my  stubbornness  comes  back  and 
strikes  me  dumb,  believe  me,  upon  my  soul  I  am  inno- 
cent. " 

"  Mama  ! " 

"  Guilty  of  much  !  Guilty  of  that  which  sets  a  waste 
between  us  evermore.  Guilty  of  what  must  separate 
me,  through  the  whole  remainder  of  my  life, from  purity 
and  innocence — from  you,  of  all  the  earth.  Guilty  of  a 
blind  and  passionate  resentment,  of  which  I  do  not,  can- 
not, will  not,  even  now,  repent  ;  but  not  guilty  with 
that  dead  man.    Before  God  ! " 

Upon  her  knees  upon  the  ground,  she  held  up  both 
her  hands  and  swore  it. 

"Florence!"  she  said,  "purest  and  best  of  natures, 
— whom  I  love — who  might  have  changed  me  long  ago, 
and  did  for  a  time  work  some  change  even  in  the  woman 
that  I  am, — believe  me,  I  am  innocent  of  that  ;  and  once 
more,  on  my  desolate  heart,  let  me  lay  this  dear  head, 
for  the  last  time  ! " 

She  was  moved  and  weeping.  Had  she  been  oftener 
thus  in  older  days,  she  had  been  happier  now. 

"There  is  nothing  else  in  all  the  world,"  she  said, 
**  that  woijJd  have  wrung  denial  from  me.  No  love,  no 
hatred,  no  iiope,  no  threat.  I  said  that  I  would  die,  and 
make  no  sign,  1  could  have  done  so,  and  I  would,  if  we 
had  never  met,  Florence." 

"  I  trust,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  ambling  in  at  the  door, 
and  speaking  half  in  the  room,  and  half  out  of  it,  "  that 
my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  will  excuse  my 
having,  by  a  little  stratagem,  effected  this  meeting.  I 
cannot  say  that  I  was,  at  first,  wholly  incredulous  as  to 
the  possibility  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
having,  very  unfortunately,  committed  herself  Avith  the 
deceased  ])erson  with  white  teeth  ;  because,  in  point  of 
fact,  one  does  see,  in  this  world — which  is  remarkable 
for  devilish  strange  arrangements,  and  for  being  decid- 
edly the  most  unintelligible  thing  within  a  man's  expe- 
rience— very  odd  conjunctions  of  that  sort.  But,  as  I 
mentioned  to  my  friend  Dombey,  I  could  not  admit  the 
criminality  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  until 
it  was  perfectly  established.  And  feeling,  when  the  de- 
ceased person  was,  in  point  of  fact,  destroyed  in  a  dev- 
ilish horrible  manner,  that  her  position  was  a  very  painful 
one — and  feeling  besides  that  our  family  had  been  a 
little  to  blame  in  not  paying  more  attention  to  her,  and 
that  we  are  a  careless  family — and  also  that  my  aunt, 
though  a  devilish  lively  woman,  had  perhaps  not  been 
the  very  best  of  mothers — I  took  the  liberty  of  seeking 
her  in  France,  and  offering  her  such  protection  as  a  man 
very  much  out  at  elbows  could  offer.  Upon  which  oc- 
casion, my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  did  me  the 
honour  to  express  that  she  believed  I  was,  in  my  way, 
a  devilish  good  sort  of  fellow  ;  and  tliat  therefore  she 
put  herself  under  my  protection.  Which  in  point  of 
fact  I  understood  to  be  a  kind  thing  on  the  part  of  my 
lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  as  I  am  getting  ex- 
tremely shaky,  and  have  derived  great  comfort  from  her 
solicitude." 

Edith,  who  had  taken  Florence  to  a  sofa,  made  a  ges- 
ture with  her  hand,  as  if  she  would  have  begged  him  to 
say  no  more. 

"My  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,"  resumed  Cousin 
Feenix,  still  ambling  about  at  the  door,  "will  excuse 
me  if,  for  hor  satisfaction,  and  my  own,  and  that  of  my 
friend  Domlxiy,  whose  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter 
we  so  much  admire,  I  complete  the  thread  of  my  obser- 
vations.   She  will  remember  that,  from  the  first,  she  and 


I  have  never  alluded  to  the  subject  of  her  elopement. 
My  impression,  certainly,  has  always  been,  that  there 
was  a  mystery  in  the  affair  which  she  could  explain  if 
so  inclined.  But  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
being  a  devilish  resolute  woman,  I  knew  that  she  Avas 
not,  in  point  of  fact,  to  be  trifled  with,  and  therefore  did 
not  involve  myself  in  any  discussions.  But,  observing 
lately,  that  her  accessible  point  did  appear  to  be  a  very 
strong  description  of  tenderness  for  the  daughter  of  my 
friend  Dombey,  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  I  could  bring 
about  a  meeting,  unexpected  on  both  sides,  it  might  lead 
to  beneficial  results.  Therefore,  we  being  in  London,  in 
the  present  private  way  before  going  to  the  South  of 
Italy,  there  to  establish  ourselves,  in  point  of  fact,  until 
we  go  to  our  long  homes,  which  is  a  devilish  disagree- 
able reflection  for  a  man,  I  applied  myself  to  the  discov- 
ery of  the  residence  of  my  friend  Gay — handsome  man 
of  an  uncommonly  frank  disposition,  who  is  probably 
known  to  my  lovel}^  and  accomplished  relative — and  had 
the  happiness  of  bringing  his  amiable  wife  to  the  present 
place.  And  now,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  with  a  real  and 
genuine  earnestness  shining  through  the  levity  of  his 
manner  and  his  slipshod  speech,  "  I  do  conjure  my  rela- 
j  five,  not  to  stop  half  way,  but  to  set  right,  as  far  as  she 
j  can,  whatever  she  has  done  wrong — not  for  the  honour 
of  her  family,  not  for  her  own  fame,  not  for  any  of  those 
considerations  which  unfortunate  circumstances  have 
induced  her  to  regard,  as  hollow,  and  in  point  of  fact,  as 
approaching  to  humbug — but  because  it  is  wrong,  and 
not  right." 

Cousin  Feenix's  legs  consented  to  take  him  away  after 
this  ;  and  leaving  them  alone  together,  he  shut  the 
door. 

Edith  remained  silent  for  some  minutes,  with  Florence 
sitting  close  beside  her.  Then  she  took  from  her  bosom 
a  sealed  paper. 

"I  debated  with  myself  a  long  time,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice,  "  whether  "to  write  this  at  all,  in  case  of  dying 
suddenly  or  by  accident,  and  feeling  the  want  of  it 
upon  me.  I  have  deliberated  ever  since,  when  and  how 
to  destroy  it.  Take  it,  Florence.  The  truth  is  written 
in  it." 

"  Is  it  for  papa?"  asked  Florence. 

"It  is  for  whom  you  will,"  she  answered.  "  It  is 
given  to  you,  and  is  obtained  by  you.  He  never  could 
have  had  it  otherwise." 

Again  they  sat  silent  in  the  deepening  darkness. 

"  Mama,"  said  Florence,  "he  has  lost  his  fortune,  he 
has  been  at  the  point  of  death  ;  he  may  not  recover,  even 
now.  Is  there  any  word  that  I  shall  say  to  him  from 
you  ?" 

"  Did  you  tell  me,"  asked  Edith,  "that  you  were  very 
dear  to  him  ?  " 

"Yes  !  "  said  Florence  in  a  thrilling  voice. 

"  Tell  him  I  am  sorry  that  we  ever  met." 

' '  No  more  ?  "  said  Florence  after  a  pause. 

"  Tell  him,  if  he  asks,  that  I  do  not  repent  of  what  I 
have  done — not  yet— for  if  it  were  to  do  again  to-morrow, 
I  should  do  it.    But  if  he  is  a  changed  man — " 

She  stopped.  There  was  something  in  the  silent 
touch  of  Florence's  hand  that  stopped  her. 

"  — But  that  being  a  changed  man,  he  knows,  now,  it 
would  never  be.    Tell  him  I  wish  it  never  had  been." 

"  May  I  say,"  said  Florence,  "  that  you  grieved  to  hear 
of  the  afflictions  he  has  suffered  1 " 

"  Not,"  she  replied,  "  if  they  have  taught  him  that  his 
daughter  is  very  dear  to  him.  He  will  not  grieve  for 
them  himself,  one  day,  if  they  have  brought  that  lesson, 
Florence. " 

"  You  wish  well  to  him,  and  would  have  him  happy. 
I  am  sure  you  Avould  !"  said  Florence.  "  Oh  !  let  me  be 
able,  if  I  have  the  occasion  at  some  future  time,  to  say 
so?" 

Edith  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  gazing  steadfastly  before 
her,  and  did  not  reply  until  Florence  had  repeated  her 
entreaty  ;  Avhen  she  drew  her  hand  Avithin  her  arm,  and 
said,  with  the  same  thoughtful  gaze  upon  the  night  out- 
side : 

"Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present,  he  can  find  any 
reason  to  compassionate  my  past,  I  sent  word  that  I  asked 
him  to  do  so.  Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present,  he 
can  find  a  reason  to  think  less  bitterly  of  me,  I  asked 


DOMBEY 

liini  to  do  so.  Tell  him  that,  dead  as  we  are  to  one  an- 
other, never  more  to  meet  on  this  side  of  eternity,  he 
knows  there  is  one  feeling  in  common  between  us  now, 
that  there  never  was  before." 

Her  sternness  seemed  to  yield,  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  dark  eyes. 

"I  trust  myself  to  that,"  she  said,  "for  his  better 
thoughts  of  me.,  and  mine  of  him.  When  he  loves  his 
Florence  mo-it  he  will  hate  me  least.  When  he  is  most 
proud  and  happy  in  her  and  her  children,  he  will  be 
most  repentant  of  his  own  part  in  the  dark  vision  of  our 
married  life.  At  that  time,  I  will  be  repentant  too — let 
him  know  it  then — and  think  that  when  I  thought  so 
much  of  all  the  causes  that  had  made  me  what  I  was,  I 
needed  to  have  allowed  more  for  the  causes  that  had 
made  him  what  he  was.  I  will  try,  then,  to  forgive  him 
his  share  of  blame.    Let  him  try  to  forgive  me  mine  !  " 

"  Oh  mama  !  "  said  Florence.  "How  it  lightens  my 
heart,  even  in  such  a  meeting  and  parting,  to  hear  this  I " 

"Strange  words  in  my  own  ears,"  said  Edith,  "and 
foreign  to  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  !  But  even  if  1  had 
been  the  wretched  creature  I  have  given  him  occasion  to 
believe  nie,  I  think  I  could  have  said  them  still,  hearing 
that  you  and  he  were  very  dear  to  one  anothei*.  Let  him, 
when  you  are  dearest,  ever  feel  that  he  is  most  forbear- 
ing in  his  thoughts  of  me — that  I  am  most  forbearing 
in  my  thoughts  of  him  !  Those  are  the  last  words  I  send 
him  !    Now,  good  bye,  my  life  !  " 

She  clasped  her  in  her  arms,  and  seemed  to  pour  out 
all  her  woman's  soul  of  love  and  tenderness  at  once. 

"  This  kiss  for  your  child  !  These  kisses  for  a  bless- 
ing on  your  head  !  My  own  dear  Florence,  my  sweet 
girl,  farewell !  " 

"To  meet  again  1 "  cried  Florence. 

"  Never  again  !  Never  again  !  When  you  leave  me  in 
this  dark  room,  think  that  you  have  left  me  in  the  grave. 
Remember  only  that  I  was  once,  and  that  I  loved  you  !  " 

And  Florence  left  her,  seeing  her  face  no  more,  but 
accompanied  by  her  embraces  and  caresses  to  the  last. 

Cousin  Feenix  met  her  at  the  door,  and  took  her  down 
to  Walter  in  the  dingy  dining-room,  upon  whose  shoul- 
i     der  she  laid  her  head  weeping. 

j  "I  am  devilish  sorry,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  lifting  his 
i  wristbands  to  his  eyes  in  the  simplest  manner  possible, 
I  and  without  the  least  concealment,  "  that  the  lovely  and 
accomplished  daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey  and  ami- 
able wife  of  my  friend  Gay,  should  have  had  her  sensi- 
tive nature  so  very  much  distressed  and  cut  up  by  the 
interview  which  is  just  concluded.  But  I  hope  and  trust 
I  have  acted  for  the  best,  and  that  my  honourable  friend 
Dombey  will  find  his  mind  relieved  by  the  disclosures 
which  have  taken  place.  I  exceedingly  lament  that  my 
friend  Dombey  should  have  got  himself,  in  point  of  fact, 
into  the  devil's  own  state  of  conglomeration  by  an  alliance 
with  our  family  ;  but  am  strongly  of  opinion  that  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  infernal  scoundrel  Barker — man  with 
white  teeth — everything  would  have  gone  on  pretty 
smoothly.  In  regard  to  my  relative  who  does  me  the 
honour  to  have  formed  an  uncommonly  good  opinion  of 
myself,  I  can  assure  the  amiable  wife  of  my  friend  Gay, 
that  she  may  rely  on  ray  being,  in  point  of  fact,  a  father 
to  her.  And  in  regard  to  the  changes  of  human  life,  and 
the  extraordinary'-  manner  in  which  we  are  perpetually 
conducting  ourselves,  all  I  can  say  is,  with  my  friend 
Shakespeare — man  who  wasn't  for  an  age  but  for  all  time, 
and  with  whom  my  friend  Gay  is  no  doubt  acquainted — 
that  it's  like  the  shadow  of  a  dream." 


CHAPTER  LXH. 

Final. 

A  BOTTLE  that  has  been  long  excluded  from  the  light 
of  day,  and  is  hoary  with  dust  and  cobw^ebs,  has  been 
brought  into  the  sunshine  ;  and  the  golden  wine  within 
it  sheds  a  lustre  on  the  table. 

It  is  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Dombey. 
"This  is  a  very  rare  and  most  delicious  wine." 

The  captain,  who  is  of  the  party,beams  with  joy.  There 
is  a  very  halo  of  delight  round  his  glowing  forehead. 


AND  SON.  083 

"We  always  promised  ourselves,  sir,"  observed  Mr. 
Gills,  "  Ned  and  myself,  I  mean — " 

Mr.  Dombey  nods  at  the  captain,  who  shines  more  and 
more  with  speechless  gratification. 

— "that  we  would  drink  this,  one  day  or  other,  to 
Walter  safe  at  home  :  though  such  a  home  we  never 
thought  of.  If  you  don't  object  to  our  old  whim,  sir,  let 
us  devote  this  first  glass  to  Walter  and  his  wife," 

"To  Walter  and  his  wife!"  says  Mr.  Dombey. 
"Florence,  my  child" — and  turns  to  kiss  her. 

"  To  Walter  and  his  wife  !  "  says  Mr.  Toots, 

"To  Wal'r  and  his  wife!"  exclaims  the  captain. 
"Hooroar  !"  and  the  captain  exhibiting  a  strong  desire 
to  clink  his  glass  against  some  other  glass,  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  a  ready  hand,  holds  out  his.  The  others  follow  ; 
and  there  is  a  blithe  and  merry  ringing,  as  of  a  little 
peal  of  marriage  bells. 

Other  buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did 
in  its  time  ;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Mr.  Dombey  is  a  white-haired  gentleman,  v/hose  face 
bears  heavy  marks  of  care  and  suffering  ;  but  they  are 
traces  of  a  storm  that  has  passed  on  for  ever,  and  left  a 
clear  evening  in  its  track. 

Ambitious  projects  trouble  him  no  more.  His  only 
pride  is  in  his  daughter  and  her  husband.  He  has  a 
silent,  thoughtful,  quiet  manner,  and  is  always  with  his 
daughter.  Miss  Tox  is  not  un frequently  of  the  family 
party,  and  is  quite  devoted  to  it,  and  a  great  favourite. 
Her  admiration  of  her  once  stately  patron  is,  and  has 
been  ever  since  the  morning  of  her  shock  in  Princess's- 
place,  platonic,  but  not  weakened  in  the  least. 

Nothing  has  drifted  to  him  from  the  wreck  of  his  for- 
tunes, but  a  certain  annual  sum  that  comes  he  knows 
not  how,  with  an  earnest  entreaty  that  he  will  not  seek 
to  discover,  and  with  the  assurance  that  it  is  a  debt,  and 
an  act  of  reparation.  He  has  consulted  with  his  old 
clerk  about  this,  who  is  clear  it  may  be  honourably  ac- 
cepted, and  has  no  doubt  it  arises  out  of  some  forgotten 
transaction  in  the  times  of  the  old  House, 

That  hazel -eyed  bachelor,  a  bachelor  no  more,  is  mar- 
ried now,  and  to  the  sister  of  the  gray-haired  junior. 
He  visits  his  old  chief  sometimes,  but  seldom.  There 
is  a  reason  in  the  gray -haired  junior's  history,  and  yet  a 
stronger  reason  in  his  name,  why  he  should  keep  retired 
from  his  old  employer  ;  and  as  he  lives  with  his  sister 
and  her  husband,  they  participate  in  that  retirement. 
Walter  sees  them  sometimes — Florence  too — and  the 
pleasant  house  resounds  with  profound  duets  arranged 
for  the  pianoforte  and  violoncello,  and  with  the  labours 
of  Harmonious  Blacksmiths. 

And  how  goes  the  Wooden  Midshipman  in  these 
changed  days  ?  Why,  here  he  still  is,  right  leg  foremost, 
hard  at  work  upon  the  hackney-coaches,  and  more  on  the 
alert  than  ever,  being  newly  painted  from  his  cocked  hat 
to  his  buckled  shoes  :  and  up  above  him,  in  golden  char- 
acters, these  names  shine  refulgent.  Gills  and  Cuttle. 

Not  another  stroke  of  business  does  the  Midshipman 
achieve  beyond  his  usual  easy  trade.  But  they  do  say, 
in  a  circuit  of  some  half-mile  round  the  blue  umbrella 
in  Leadenhall  Market,  that  some  of  Mr.  Gills's  old  in- 
vestments are  coming  out  wonderfully  well ;  and  that 
instead  of  being  behind  the  time  in  those  respects,  as  he 
supposed,  he  was,  in  truth,  a  little  before  it,  and  had  to 
wait  the  fulness  of  the  time  and  the  design.  The  whis- 
per is  that  Mr.  Gills's  money  has  begun  to  turn  itself, 
and  that  it  is  turning  itself  over  and  over  pretty  briskly. 
Certain  it  is  that,  standing  at  his  shop  door,  in  his  cof- 
fee-coloured suit,  with  his  chronometer  in  his  pocket, 
and  his  spectacles  on  his  forehead,  he  don't  appear  to 
break  his  heart  at  customers  not  coming,  but  looks  very 
jovial  and  contented,  though  full  as  ndsty  as  of  yore. 

As  to  his  .partner.  Captain  Cuttle,  there  is  a  fiction  of 
a  business  in  the  captain's  mind  which  is  better  than  any 
reality.  The  captain  is  as  satisfied  of  the  Midshipman's 
importance  to  the  commerce  and  navigation  of  the 
country,  as  he  could  possibly  be,  if  no  ship  left  the  port 
of  London  without  the  Midshipman's  assistance.  His 
delight  in  his  own  name  over  the  door,  is  inexhaustible. 
He  crosses  the  street,  twenty  times  a  day,  to  look  at  it 
from  the  other  side  of  the  way  ;  and  invariably  says,  on 
these  occasions,  "  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  if  your  mother 


684 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


could  ha'  "know'd  as  you  would  ever  be  a  man  o'  science, 
the  good  old  creetur  would  ha'  been  took  aback  indeed  ! " 

But  here  is  Mr.  Toots  descending  on  the  Midshipman 
with  violent  rapidity,  and  Mr.  Toots's  face  is  very  red  as 
he  bursts  into  the  little  parlour. 

"Captain  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "and  Mr.  Sols,  I 
am  happy  to  inform  you  that  Mrs.  Toots  has  had  an  in- 
crease to  her  family." 

"  And  it  does  her  credit,"  cried  the  captain. 

"  I  give  you  joy,  Mr.  Toots  !  "  says  old  Sol. 

"Thankee,"  chuckles  Mr.  Toots,  "I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  I  knew  that  you'd  be  glad  to  hear,  and 
so  I  came  down  myself.  We're  positively  getting  on,  you 
know.  There's  Florence,  and  Susan,  and  now  here's  an- 
other little  stranger." 

"  A  female  stranger?"  inquires  the  captain. 

"Yes,  Ca^jtaiu  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "and  I'm  glad 
of  it.  The  oftener  we  can  repeat  that  most  extraordi- 
nary woman,  my  opinion  is,  the  better." 

"  Stand  by !  "  says  the  captain,  turning  to  the  old  case- 
bottle  with  no  throat — for  it  is  evening,  and  the  Midship- 
man's usual  moderate  provisions  of  pipes  and  glasses  is 
on  the  board.  "Here's  to  her,  and  may  she  have  ever 
so  many  more  !  " 

"  Thankee,  Captain  Gills,"  says  the  delighted  Mr. 
Toots.  "  I  echo  the  sentiment.  If  you'll  allow  me,  as 
my  so  doing  cannot  be  unpleasant  to  anybody,  under  the 
circumstances,  I  think  I'll  take  a  pipe." 

Mr.  Toots  begins  to  smoke,  accordingly,  and  in  the 
openness  of  liis  heart  is  very  loquacious. 

"  Of  all  the  remarkable  instances  that  that  delightful 
woman  has  given  of  her  excellent  sense.  Captain  Gills 
and  Mr.  Sols,"  says  Toots,  "  I  think  none  is  more  re- 
markable than  the  perfection  with  which  she  has  under- 
stood my  devotion  to  Miss  Dombey. " 

Both  ills  auditors  assent. 

"Because,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "7  have  never 
changed  my  sentiments  towards  Miss  Dombey.  They 
are  the  same  as  ever.  She  is  the  same  bright  vision  lo 
me,  at  present,  that  she  was  before  I  made  Walter's  ac- 
quaintance. When  Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  first  began 
to  talk  of — in  short,  of  the  tender  passion,  you  know, 
Captain  Gills." 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  says  the  captain,  "  as  makes  us  all 
slue  round— for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  book — " 

"  I  shall  certainly  do  so.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  great  earnestness  ;  "  when  we  first  began  to 
mention  such  subjects,  I  explained  that  I  was  what  you 
may  call  a  blighted  flower,  you  know." 

The  captain  approves  of  this  figure  greatly  ;  and  mur- 
murs that  no  flower  as  blows,  is  like  the  rose. 

" But  Lord  bless  me,"  pursues  Mr.  Toots,  "she  was  as 
entirely  conscious  of  the  state  of  my  feelings  as  I  was 
myself.  There  is  nothing  I  could  teWher.  She  was  the 
only  person  who  could  have  stood  between  me  and  the 
silent  tomb,  and  she  did  it,  in  a  manner  to  command  my 
everlasting  admiration.  She  knows  that  there's  nobody 
in  the  world  I  look  up  to,  as  I  do  to  Miss  Dombey.  She 
knows  that  there's  nothing  on  earth  I  wouldn't  do  for  Miss 
Dombey.  She  knows  that  1  consider  her  the  most  beau- 
tiful, the  most  amiable,  the  most  angelic  of  her  sex. 
What  is  her  observation  upon  that  ?  The  perfection  of 
sense.    *  My  dear  you're  right,    /think  so  too.'  " 

"  And  so  do  I,"  says  the  captain. 

"  So  do  I,"  says  Sol  Gills, 

"  Then,"  resumes  Mr.  Toots,  after  some  contemplative 
pulling  at  his  pipe,  during  which  his  visage  has  ex- 
pressed the  most  contented  reflection,  "  what  an  ob- 
servant woman  my  wife  is  !  What  sagacity  she  pos- 
sesses !  What  remarks  she  makes !  It  was  only  last 
night,  when  we  were  sitting  in  the  enjoyment  of  connubial 
bliss — which,  upon  my  word  and  honour,  is  a  feeble 
term  to  express  my  feelings  in  the  society  of  my  wife — 
that  she  said  how  remarkable  it  was  to  consider  the 
present  position  of  our  friend  Walters.  '  Here,*  ob- 
served my  wife,  '  he  is  released  from  sea-going,  after 
that  first  long  voyage  with  his  young  bride ' — as  you 
know  he  was,  Mr.  Sols." 

"Quite  true,"  says  the  old  Instrument-maker,  rub- 
bing his  hands. 

"  'Hero  he  is,*  says  my  wife,  '  released  from  that, 
immediately  ;  appointed  by  the  same  establishment  to 


a  post  of  great  trust  and  confidence  at  home  ;  showing 
himself  again  worthy;  mounting  up  the  ladder  with 
the  greatest  expedition  ;  beloved  by  everybody  ;  as- 
sisted by  his  uncle  at  the  very  best  possible  time  of 
his  fortunes '—which  I  think  is  the  case,  Mr.  Sols? 
My  wife  is  always  correct." 

"Why  yes,  yes— -some  of  our  lost  ships,  freighted  with 
gold,  have  come  home,  truly,"  returns  old  Sol  laughing. 
"  Small  craft,  Mr.  Toots,  but  serviceable  to  my  boy  !  " 

"Exactly  so!"  says  Mr.  Toots.  "You'll  never  find 
my  wife  wrong.  '  Here  he  is,'  says  that  most  remarkable 
woman,  '  so  situated, — and  what  follows  ?  what  follows?' 
observed  Mrs.  Toots.  Now  pray  remark,  Captain  Gills, 
and  Mr.  Sols,  the  depth  of  my  wife's  penetration.  *  Why 
that,  under  the  very  eye  of  Mr.  Dombey,  there  is  a  foun- 
dation going  on,  upon  which  a — an  Edifice  ; '  that  was 
Mrs.  Toots's  word,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  exultingly,  "  *  is 
gradually  rising  perhaps  to  equal,  perhaps  excel,  that  of 
which  he  was  once  the  head,  and  the  small  beginnings 
of  which  (a  common  fault,  but  a  bad  one,  Mrs.  Toots 
said)  escaped  his  memory.  Thus,'  said  my  wife,  *  from 
his  daughter,  after  all,  another  Dombey  and  Son  will 
ascend ' — no  '  rise  ; '  that  was  Mrs.  Toots's  word — 
'  triumphant  ! '  " 

Mr.  Toots,  with  the  assistance  of  his  pipe — which  he 
is  extreme  !y  glad  to  devote  to  oratorical  purposes,  as  its 
proper  use  affects  him  with  a  very  uncomfortable  sensa- 
tion— does  such  grand  justice  to  this  prophetic  sentence 
of  his  wife's,  that  the  captain,  throwing  away  his  glazed 
hat  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  excitement,  cries  : 

"  Sol  Gills,  you  man  of  science,  and  myould  pardner, 
what  did  I  tell  Wal'r  to  overhaul  on  that  there  night 
when  he  first  took  to  business  ?  Was  it  this  here  quo- 
tation, '  Turn  again  Whittington  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
and  when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it.' 
Was  it  them  words,  Sol  Gills?  " 

"  It  certainly  was,  Ned,"  replied  the  old  Instrument- 
maker.    "  I  remember  well." 

"  Then  I  tell  you  what,"  says  the  captain,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  and  composing  his  chest  for  a  prodig- 
ious roar.  "  I'll  give  you  Lovely  Peg  right  through  ;  and 
stand  by,  both  on  you,  for  the  chorus  !  " 

Buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did,  in 
its  time  ;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Autumn  days  are  shining,  and  on  the  sea-beach  there 
are  often  a  young  lady,  and  a  white-haired  gentleman. 
With  them  or  near  them,  are  two  children  ;  boy  and 
girl.    And  an  old  dog  is  generally  in  their  company. 

The  white-haired  gentleman  walks  with  the  little  boy, 
talks  with  him,  helps  him  in  his  play,  attends  upon  him 
watches  him,  as  if  he  were  the  object  of  his  life.  If  he 
is  thoughtful,  the  white-haired  gentleman  is  thoughtful 
too  ;  and  sometimes  when  the  child  is  sitting  by  his 
side,  and  looks  up  in  his  face,  asking  him  questions,  he 
takes  the  tiny  hand  in  his,  and  holding  it,  forgets  to  an- 
swer.   Then  the  child  says  : 

"  What,  grandpapa,  am  I  so  like  my  poor  little  uncle 
again  ?  " 

"Yes,  Paul,  But  he  was  wealc,  and  you  are  very 
strong." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  am  very  strong." 

"  And  he  lay  on  a  little  bed  beside  the  sea,  and  you 
can  run  about. " 

And  so  they  range  away  again,  busily,  for  the  white- 
haired  gentleman  likes  best  to  see  the  child  free  and 
stirring  :  and  as  they  go  about  together,  the  story  of  the 
bond  between  them  goes  about,  and  follows  them. 

But  no  one,  except  Florence,  knows  the  measure  of 
the  white-haired  gentleman's  affection  for  the  girl.  That 
story  never  goes  about.  The  child  herself  almost  won- 
ders at  a  certain  secrecy  he  keeps  in  it.  He  hoards  her 
in  his  heart.  He  cannot  bear  to  see  a  cloud  upon  her 
face.  He  cannot  bear  to  see  her  sit  apart.  He  fancies 
that  she  feels  a  slight,  when  there  is  none.  He  steals 
away  to  look  at  her,  in  her  sleep.  It  pleases  him  to 
have  her  come,  and  wake  him  in  the  morning.  He  is 
fondest  of  her  and  most  loving  to  her,  when  there  is  no 
creature  by.    The  child  says  then,  sometimes  : 

"Dear  grandpapa,  why  do  you  cry  when  you  kiss  me?  ** 

He  only  answers  "  Little  Florence  !  Little  Florence  I" 
and  smootlis  away  the  curls  that  shade  her  earnest  eyes. 


The  Old  Curiosity  Shop. 


PEEFACE. 

In  April,  1840,  I  issued  the  first  number  of  a  new 
■vreekly  publication,  price  three  pence,  called  Master 
Humphrey's  Clock,  It  was  intended  to  consist,  for 
the  most  part,  of  detached  papers,  but  was  to  include 
one  continuous  story,  to  be  resumed  from  time  to  time 
with  such  definite  intervals  between  each  period  of  re- 
sumption as  might  best  accord  with  the  exigencies  and 
capabilities  of  the  proposed  Miscellany. 

The  first  chapter  of  this  tale  appeared  in  the  fourth 
number  of  Master  Humphrey's  Clock,  when  I  had 
already  been  made  uneasy  by  the  desultory  character 
of  that  work,  and  when,  I  believe,  my  readers  had 
thoroughly  participated  in  the  feeling.  The  commence- 
ment of  a  story  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  me,  and  I 
had  reason  to  believe  that  my  readers  participated  in  this 
feeling  too.  Hence,  being  pledged  to  some  interrup- 
tions and  some  pursuit  of  the  original  design,  I  cheer- 
fully set  about  disentangling  myself  from  those  impedi- 
ments as  fast  as  I  could  ;  and— that  done — from  that 
time  until  its  completion,  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop 
was  written  and  published  from  week  to  week,  in  weekly 
parts. 

When  the  story  was  finished,  in  order  that  it  might  be 
freed  from  the  incumbrance  of  associations  and  inter- 
ruptions with  which  it  had  no  kind  of  concern,  I  caused 
the  few  sheets  of  Master  Humphrey's  Clock,  which 
had  been  printed  in  connexion  with  it,  to  be  cancelled  ; 
and,  like  the  unfinished  tale  of  the  windy  night  and  the 
notary  in  The  Sentimental  Journey,  they  became  the 
property  of  the  trunkmaker  and  the  butterman.  I  was 
especiaily  unwilling,  I  confess,  to  enrich  those  respecta- 
ble trades  with  the  opening  paper  of  the  abandoned  de- 
sign, in  which  Master  Humphrey  described  himself 
and  his  manner  of  life.  Though  I  now  affect  to  make 
the  confession  philosophically,  as  referring  to  a  bye-gone 
emotion,  I  am  conscious  that  my  pen  winces  a  little, 
even  wliile  I  write  these  words.  But  it  was  done,  and 
wisely  done,  and  Master  Humphrey's  Clock,  as  origi- 
nally constructed,  became  one  of  the  lost  books  of  the 
earth — which,  we  all  know,  are  far  more  precious  than 
any  that  can  be  read  for  love  or  money .  , 

In  reference  to  the  tale  itself,  I  desire  to  say  very  lit- 
tle here.  The  many  friends  it  won  me,  and  the  many 
hearts  it  turned  to  me  when  they  were  full  of  private 
sorrow,  invest  it  with  an  interest  in  my  mind  which  is 
not  a  public  one,  and  the  rightful  place  of  which  ap- 
pears to  be  "  a  more  removed  ground." 

I  will  merely  observe,  therefore,  that,  in  writing  the 
book,  I  had  it  always  in  my  fancy  to  surround  the  lonely 
figure  of  the  child  with  grotesque  and  wild  but  not  im- 
possible companions,  and  to  gather  about  her  innocent 
face  and  pure  intentions,  associates  as  strange  and  un- 
congenial as  the  grim  objects  that  are  about  her  bed 
when  her  history  is  first  foreshadowed. 

Master  Humphrey  (before  his  devotion  to  the  trunk 
and  butter  business)  was  originally  supposed  to  be  the 
narrator  of  the  story.  As  it  was  constructed  from  the 
beginning,  however,  with  a  view  to  separate  publication 
wlien  completed,  his  demise  did  not  involve  the  necessity 
of  any  alteration. 

I  have  a  mournful  pride  in  one  recollection  associated 
with  "  little  Nell."  While  she  was  yet  upon  her  wan- 
derings, not  then  concluded,  there  appeared  in  a  literary 
journal,  an  essay  of  which  she  was  the  principal  theme, 
so  earnestly,  so  eloquently,  and  tenderly  appreciative  of 
lier  and  of  all  her  shadowy  kith  and  kin,  that  it  would 
have  heen  insensibility  in  me,  if  I  could  have  read  it 
without  an  unusual  glow  of  pleasure  and  encourage- 


ment. Long  afterwards,  and  when  I  had  come  to  know 
him  well,  and  to  see  him  stout  of  heart,  going  slowly 
down  into  his  grave,  I  knew  the  writer  of  that  essay 
to  be  Thomas  Hood. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Although  I  am  an  old  man,  night  is  generally  my 
time  for  walking.  In  the  summer  I  often  leave  home 
early  in  the  morning,  and  roam  about  fields  and  lanes 
all  day,  or  even  escape  for  days  or  weeks  together  ;  but, 
saving  in  the  country,  I  seldom  go  out  until  after  dark, 
though.  Heaven  be  thanked,  I  love  its  light  and  feel  the 
cheerfulness  it  sheds  upon  the  earth,  as  much  as  any 
creature  living. 

I  have  fallen  insensibly  into  this  habit,  both  because 
j  it  favours  my  infirmity,  and  because  it  affords  me 
j  greater  opportunity  of  speculating  on  the  characters  and 
occupations  of  those  who  fill  the  streets.    The  glare  and 
hurry  of  broad  noon  are  not  adapted  to  idle  pursuits  like 
1  mine  ;  a  glimpse  of  passing:  faces  caught  by  the  light  of 
I  a  street  lamp,  or  a  shop  window,  is  often  better  for  my 
j  purpose  than  their  full  revelation  in  the  daylight  ;  and, 
I  if  I  must  add  the  truth,  night  is  kinder  in  this  respect 
than  day,  which  too  often  destroys  an  air-built  castle  at 
I  the  moment  of  its  completion,  without  the  least  cere- 
I  mony  or  I'emorse. 

I  That  constant  pacing  to  and  fro,  that  never-ending 
;  restlessness,  that  incessant  tread  of  feet  wearing  the 
1  rough  stones  smooth  and  glossy — is  it  not  a  wonder  how 
i  the  dwellers  in  narrow  ways  can  bear  to  hear  it  !  Think 
!  of  a  sick  man,  in  such  a  place  as  Saint  Martin's  Court, 
;  listening  to  the  footsteps,  and  in  the  midst  of  pain  and 
weariness,  obliged,  despite  himself  (as  though  it  were  a 
task  he  must  perform)  to  detect  the  child's  step  from  the 
man's,  the  slipshod  beggar  from  the  booted  exquisite, 
I  the  lounging  from  the  busy,  the  dull  heel  of  the  saun- 
;  tering  outcast  from  the  quick  tread  of  an  expectant 
;  pleasure-seeker  —  think  of  the  hum  and  noise  being 
i  always  present  to  his  senses,  and  of  the  stream  of  life 
i  that  will  not  stop,  pouring  on,  on,  on,  through  all  his 
I  restless  dreams,  as  if  he  were  condemned  to  lie,  dead 
I  but  conscious,  in  a  noisy  churchyard,  and  had  no  hope 
i  of  rest  for  centuries  to  come  ! 

I  Then  the  crowds  for  ever  passing  and  repassing  on  the 
bridges  (on  those  which  are  free  of  toll  at  least)  where 
many  stop  on  fine  evenings,  looking  listlessly  down 
upon  the  water,  with  some  vague  idea  that  by-aud-by  it 
runs  between  green  banks  which  grow  wider  and  wider 
until  at  last  it  joins  the  broad  vast  sea — where  some 
halt  to  rest  from  heavy  loads,  and  think,  as  they  look 
over  the  parapet,  that  to  smoke  and  lounge  away  one's 
life,  and  lie  sleeping  in  the  sun  upon  a  hot  tarpaulin,  in 
a  dull,  slow,  sluggish  barge  must  be  happiness  unal- 
loyed— and  where  some,  and  a  very  different  class, 
pause  with  heavier  loads  than  they,  remembering  to 
have  heard  or  read  in  some  old  time  that  drowning  was 
not  a  hard  death,  but  of  all  means  of  suicide  the  easiest 
and  best, 

Covent  Garden  Market  at  sunrise,  too,  in  the  springer 
summer,  when  the  fragrance  of  sweet  flowers  is  in  the 
air,  overpowering  even  the  unwholesome  steams  of  last 
night's  debauchery,  and  driving  the  dusky  thrush,  whose 
cage  has  hung  outside  a  garret  window  all  night  long, 
half  mad  with  joy  !  Poor  bird  !  the  only  neighbouring 
thing  at  all  akin  to  the  other  little  captives,  some  of  whom, 
shrinking  from  the  hot  hands  of  drunken  purchasers,  lie 
drooping  on  the  path  already,  while  others,  soddenedby 
close  contact,  await  the  time  when  they  shall  be  watered 

685 


686 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


and  freshened  up  to  please  more  sober  company,  and 
make  old  clerks  who  pass  them  on  their  road  to  business 
wonder  what  has  filled  their  breasts  with  visions  of  the 
country. 

But  my  present  purpose  is  not  to  expatiate  upon  my 
walks.  The  story  I  am  about  to  relate,  arose  out  of  one 
of  these  rambles  ;  and  thus  1  have  been  led  to  speak  of 
them  by  way  of  preface. 

One  night  I  had  roamed  into  the  city,  and  was  walk- 
ing slowly  on  in  my  usual  way,  musing  upon  a  great 
many  things,  when  I  was  arrested  by  an  inquiry  the  pur- 
port of  winch  did  not  reach  me,  but  which  seemed  to  be 
addressed  to  myself,  and  was  preferred  in  a  soft  sweet 
voice  that  struck  me  very  pleasantly.  I  turned  hastily 
round,  and  found  at  my  elbow  a  pretty  little  girl,  who 
begged  to  be  directed  to  a  certain  street  at  a  considerable 
distance,  and  indeed  in  quite  another  quarter  of  the 
town. 

''It  is  a  very  long  way  from  here,"  said  I,  "  my  child." 

"  T  know  that,  sir,"  she  replied,  timidly.   "  I  am  afraid 
it  is  a  very  long  way  ;  for  I  came  from  there  to-night." 
Alone?"  said  I,  in  some  surprise. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  don't  mind  that,  but  I  am  a  little  frightened 
now,  for  I  have  lost  my  road.  " 

"  And  what  made  you  ask  it  of  me  ?  Suppose  I  should 
tell  you  wrong." 

"I  am  sure  you  will  not  do  that,"  said  the  little  crea- 
ture, "  you  are  such  a  very  old  gentleman,  and  walk  so 
slow  yourself." 

I  cannot  describe  how  much  I  was  impressed  by  this 
appeal,  and  the  energy  with  which  it  was  made,  which 
brought  a  tear  into  the  child's  clear  eye,  and  made  her 
slight  figure  tremble  as  she  looked  up  into  my  face. 

"Come,"  said  I,  "I'll  take  you  there." 

She  put  her  hand  in  mine,  as  confidingly  as  if  she  had 
known  me  from  her  cradle,  and  we  trudged  away  togeth- 
er :  the  little  creature  accommodating  her  pace  to  mine, 
and  rather  seeming  to  lead  and  take  care  of  me  than  I  to 
be  protecting  her.  I  observed  that  every  now  and  then 
she  stole  a  curious  look  at  my  face  as  if  to  make  quite 
sure  that  I  was  not  deceiving  her,  and  that  these  glances 
(very  sharp  and  keen  they  were  too)  seemed  to  increase 
her  confidence  at  every  repetition. 

For  my  part,  my  curiosity  and  interest  were,  at  least, 
equal  to  the  child's  ;  for  child  she  certainly  was,  al- 
though I  thought  it  probable  from  what  I  could  make 
out,  that  her  very  small  and  delicate  frame  imparted  a 
peculiar  youthfulness  to  her  appearance.  Though  more 
scantily  attired  than  she  might  have  been,  she  was  dressed 
with  perfect  neatness,  and  betrayed  no  marks  of  poverty 
or  neglect. 

"  Who  has  sent  you  so  far  by  yourself  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Somebody  who  is  very  kind  to  me,  sir." 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  That,  I  must  not  tell,"  said  the  child. 

There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  this  reply  which 
caused  me  to  look  at  the  little  creature  with  an  involun- 
tary expression  of  surprise  ;  for  I  wondered  what  kind  of 
errand  it  might  be,  that  occasioned  her  to  be  prepared  for 
questioning.  Her  quick  eye  seemed  to  read  my  thoughts. 
As  it  met  mine,  she  added  that  there  was  no  harm  in 
what  she  had  been  doing,  but  it  was  a  great  secret — a 
secret  which  she  did  not  even  know,  herself. 

This  was  said  with  no  appearance  of  cunning  or  deceit, 
but  with  an  unsuspicious  frankness  that  bore  the  impress 
of  truth.  She  walked  on,  as  before  :  growing  more  fa- 
miliar with  me  as  we  proceeded,  and  talking  cheerfully  by 
the  way,  but  she  said  no  more  about  her  home,  beyond 
remarking  that  we  were  going  quite  a  new  road  and  ask- 
ing if  it  were  a  short  one. 

While  we  were  thus  engaged,  I  revolved  in  my  mind  a 
hundred  different  explanations  of  the  riddle,  and  rejected 
them  every  one.  I  really  felt  ashamed  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  ingenuousness  or  grateful  feeling  of  the  child, 
for  the  purpose  of  gratifying  my  curiosity.  I  love  these 
little  peo])le  ;  and  it  is  not  a  slight  thing  when  they,  who 
are  so  fresh  from  God,  love  us.  As  I  had  felt  pleased, 
at  first,  by  her  confidence,  I  detennined  to  deserve  it,  and 
to  do  credit  to  the  nature  which  had  prompted  her  to  re- 
l)0se  it  in  me. 

There  was  no  reason,  however,  why  I  should  refrain 
from  seeing  the  person  who  had  inconsiderately  sent  her 


to  so  great  a  distance  by  night  and  alone  ;  and,  as  it  was 
not  improbable  that  if  she  found  herself  near  home  she 
might  take  farewell  of  me  and  deprive  me  of  the  oppor- 
tunity, I  avoided  the  most  frequented  ways  and  took  the 
most  intricate.  Thus  it  was  not  until  we  arrived  in  the 
street  itself  that  she  knew  where  we  were.  Clapping 
her  hands  with  pleasure,  and  running  on  before  me  for 
a  short  distance,  my  little  acquaintance  stopped  at  a  door, 
and  remaining  on  the  step  till  I  came  up,  knocked  at  it 
when  I  joined  her. 

A  part  of  this  door  was  of  glass,  unprotected  by  any 
shutter  ;  which  I  did  not  observe,  at  first,  for  all  was  very 
dark  and  silent  within,  and  I  was  anxious  (as  indeed  the 
child  was  also)  for  an  answer  to  our  summons.  When 
she  had  knocked  twice  or  thrice,  there  was  a  noise  as  if 
some  person  were  moving  inside,  and  at  length  a  faint 
light  appeared  through  the  glass  which,  as  it  approached 
very  slowly — the  bearer  having  to  make  his  way  through 
a  great  many  scattered  articles — enabled  me  to  see,  both 
what  kind  of  person  it  was  who  advanced,  and  what  kind 
of  place  it  was  through  which  he  came. 

He  was  a  little  old  man  with  long  grey  hair,  whose 
face  and  figure,  as  he  held  the  light  above  his  head  and 
looked  before  him  as  he  approached,  I  could  plainly  see. 
Though  much  altered  by  age,  I  fancied  I  could  recognise 
in  his  spare  and  slender  form  something  of  that  delicate 
mould  which  I  had  noticed  in  the  child.  Their  bright 
blue  eyes  were  certainly  alike,  but  his  face  was  so  deeply 
furrowed,  and  so  very  full  of  care,  that  here  all  resem- 
blance ceased. 

The  place  through  which  he  made  his  way  at  leisure 
was  one  of  those  receptacles  for  old  and  curious  things 
which  seem  to  crouch  in  odd  corners  of  this  town,  and 
to  hide  their  musty  treasures  from  the  public  eye  in 
jealousy  and  distrust.  There  were  suits  of  mail,  stand- 
ing like  ghosts  in  armour,  here  and  there  ;  fantastic 
carvings  brought  from  monkish  cloisters  ;  rusty  weapons 
of  various  kinds  ;  distorted  figures  in  china,  and  wood, 
and  iron  ;  and  ivory  ;  tapestry  and  strange  furniture 
that  might  have  been  designed  in  dreams.  The  haggard 
aspect  of  the  little  old  man  was  wonderfully  suited  to 
the  place  ;  he  might  have  groped  among  old  churches, 
and  tombs,  and  deserted  houses,  and  gathered  all  the 
spoils  with  his  own  hands.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  whole  collection  but  was  in  keeping  with  himself ; 
nothing  that  looked  older  or  more  worn  than  he. 

As  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  he  surveyed  me  with 
some  astonishment,  which  was  not  diminished  when  he 
looked  from  me  to  my  companion.  The  door  being 
opened,  the  child  addressed  him  as  her  grandfather,  and 
told  him  the  little  story  of  our  companionship. 

"  Why  bless  thee,  child,"  said  the  old  man  patting  her 
on  the  head,  "how  couldst  thou  miss  thy  way — what  if 
I  had  lost  thee,  Nell  !  " 

"  I  -^ould  have  found  my  way  back  to  you,  grand- 
father," said  the  child  boldly  ;  "  never  fear." 

The  old  man  kissed  her  ;  then  turned  tome  and  begged 
me  to  walk  in.  I  did  so.  The  door  was  closed  and 
locked.  Preceding  me  with  the  light,  he  led  me  through 
the  place  I  had  already  seen  from  without,  into  a  small 
sitting  room  behind,  in  which  w^as  another  door  opening 
into  a  kind  of  closet,  where  I  saw  a  little  bed  that  a 
fairy  might  have  slept  in  :  it  looked  so  very  small  and 
was  so  prettily  arranged.  The  child  took  a  candle  and 
tripped  into  this  little  room,  leaving  the  old  man  and  me 
together. 

"  You  must  be  tired,  sir,"  said  he  as  he  placed  a  chair 
near  the  fire,  "  how  can  I  thank  you  ?  " 

"  By  taking  more  care  of  your  grandchild  another 
time,  my  good  friend,"  I  replied. 

"More  care! "said  the  old  man  in  a  shrill  voice, 
"  more  care  of  Nelly  1  why  who  ever  loved  a  child  as  I 
love  Nell  ?  " 

He  said  this  with  such  evident  surprise,  that  I  was 
perplexed  what  answer  to  make  ;  the  more  so,  because 
coupled  with  something  feeble  and  wandering  in  his 
manner,  there  were,  in  his  face,  marks  of  deep  and  anx- 
ious thought,  which  convinced  me  that  he  could  not  be, 
as  I  had  been  at  first  inclined  to  suppose,  in  a  state  of 
dotage  or  imbecility. 

"  I  don't  think  you  consider — "  I  began. 

"  I  don't  consider  !  "  cried  the  old  ma,n  interrupting 


I 


THE  OLD  CURI08ITY  SHOP. 


G87 


me,  "  I  don't  consider  her  1  ah  how  little  you  know  of 
the  truth.    Little  Nelly,  little  Nelly  I" 

It  would  be  impossible  for  any  man, — I  care  not  what 
his  form  of  speech  might  be, — to  express  more  affection 
than  the  dealer  in  curiosities  did,  in  these  four  words. 
I  waited  for  him  to  speak  again,  but  he  rested  his  cliin 
upon  his  hand,  and  shaking  his  head  twice  or  thrice  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  the  fire. 

Wliile  we  were  sitting  thus,  in  silence,  the  door  of 
the  closet  opened,  and  the  cliild  returned  :  her  light 
brown  hair  hanging  loose  about  her  neck,  and  her  face 
flushed  with  the  haste  she  had  made  to  rejoin  us.  She 
busied  herself  immediately  in  preparing  supper.  While 
she  was  thus  engaged  I  remarked  that  the  old  man  took  I 
an  opportunity  of  observing  me  more  closely  than  he 
had  done  yet.  I  was  surprised  to  see,  that,  all  this  time, 
everything  was  done  by  the  child,  and  that  there  ap- 
peared to  be  no  other  persons  but  ourselves  in  the  house. 
1  took  advantage  of  a  moment  when  she  was  absent  to 
venture  a  hint  on  this  point,  to  which  the  old  man  re- 
plied that  there  were  few  grown  persons  as  trustworthy 
or  as  careful  as  she. 

"  It  always  grieves  me,"  I  observed,  roused  by  what  I 
took  to  be  his  selfishness  ;  "  it  always  grieves  me  to 
contemplate  the  initiation  of  children  into  the  ways  of 
life  when  they  are  scarcely  more  than  infants.  It  checks 
their  confidence  and  simplicity — two  of  the  best  qualities 
that  Heaven  gives  them — and  demands  that  they  share 
our  sorrows  before  they  are  capable  of  entering  into  our 
enjoyments." 

"  it  will  never  check  hers,"  said  the  old  man  looking 
steadily  at  me,  "  the  springs  are  too  deep.  Besides  the 
children  of  the  poor  know  but  few  pleasures.  Even  the 
cheap  delights  of  childhood  must  be  bought  and  paid 
for." 

".But — forgive  me  for  saying  this — you  are  surely  not 
so  very  poor  " — said  1. 

"She  is  not  my  child,  sir,"  returned  the  old  man. 
"Her mother  was,  and  she  was  poor.  I  save  nothing  — 
not  a  penny — though  I  live  as  you  see,  but " — he  laid 
his  hand  upon  my  arm  and  leant  forward  to  whisper — 
"  she  shall  be  rich  one  of  these  days,  and  a  fine  lady. 
Don't  you  think  ill  of  me,  because  I  use  her  help.  She 
gives  it  cheerfully  as  you  see,  and  it  would  break 
her  heart  if  she  knew  that  I  suffered  anybody  else  to  do 
for  me  what  her  little  hands  could  undertake.  I  don't 
consider  !  "  he  cried  with  sudden  querulousness,  "  why, 
God  knows  that  this  one  child  is  the  thought  and  object 
of  my  life,  and  yet  he  never  prospers  me — no,  never  !  " 

At  this  juncture,  the  subject  of  our  conversation  again 
returned,  and  the  old  man  motioning  to  me  to  approach 
the  table,  broke  off,  and  said  no  more. 

We  had  scarcely  begun  our  repast  when  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door  by  which  I  had  entered  ;  and  Nell  : 
bursting  into  a  hearty  laugh,  which  I  was  rejoiced  to  hear, 
for  it  was  child-like  and  full  of  hilarity  :  said  it  was  no 
doubt  dear  old  Kit  come  back  at  last. 

"  Foolish  Nell  !  "  said  the  old  man,  fondling  with  her 
hair.    "  She  always  laughs  at  poor  Kit." 

The  child  laughed  again  more  heartily  than  before, 
and  I  could  not  help  smiling  from  pure  sympathy.  The 
little  old  man  took  up  a  candle  and  went  to  open  the 
door.    When  he  came  back.  Kit  was  at  his  heels. 

Kit  was  a  shock-headed  shambling  awkward  lad  with 
an  uncommonly  wide  mouth,  very  red  cheeks,  a  turned- 
up  nose,  and  certainly  the  most  comical  expression  of 
face  I  ever  saw.  He  stopped  short  at  the  door  on  seeing 
a  stranger,  twirled  in  his  hand  a  perfectly  round  old  hat 
without  any  vestige  of  a  brim,  and,  resting  himself  now 
on  one  leg,  and  now  on  the  other,  and  changing  them 
constantly,  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking  into  the  par- 
lour with  the  most  extraordinary  leer  I  ever  beheld.  I 
entertained  a  grateful  feeling  towards  the  boy  from  that 
minute,  for  I  felt  that  he  was  the  comedy  of  the  child's 
life. 

"  A  long  way,  wasn't  it.  Kit?  "  said  the  little  old  man. 

"  Why  then,  it  was  a  goodish  stretch,  master,"  re- 
turned Kit. 

"  Did  you  find  the  house  easily  ?  " 

"  Why  then,  not  over  and  above  easy,  master,"  said 
Kit. 

"  Of  course  you  have  come  back  hungry  ?  " 


"  Why  then,  I  do  consider  myself  rather  so,  master," 
was  the  answer. 

The  lad  had  a  remarkable  manner  of  standing  sideways 
as  he  spoke,  and  thrusting  his  head  forward  over  his 
shoulder,  as  if  he  could  not  get  at  his  voice  without  that 
accom])anying  action.  I  think  he  would  have  amused  one 
anywhere,  but  the  child'^s  exquisite  enjoyment  of  his  odd- 
ity, and  the  relief  it  was  to  find  that  there  was  some- 
thing she  associated  with  merriment,  in  a  place  that 
appeared  so  unsuited  to  her,  were  quite  irresistible.  It 
was  a  great  point,  too,  that  Kit  himself  was  fiattered  by 
the  sensation  he  created,  and  after  several  efforts  to  pre- 
serve his  gravity,  burst  into  a  loud  roar,  and  so  stood 
with  his  mouth  wide  open  and  his  eyes  nearly  shut, 
laughing  violently. 

The  old  man  had  again  relapsed  into  his  former  ab- 
straction and  took  no  notice  of  what  passed  ;  but  I  re- 
marked that  when  her  laugh  was  over,  the  cliild's  bright 
ej^es  were  dimmed  with  tears,  called  forth  by  the  fulness 
of  heart  with  which  she  welcomed  her  uncouth  favourite 
after  the  little  anxiety  of  the  night.  As  for  Kit  himself 
(whose  laugh  had  been  all  the  time  one  of  that  sort 
which  very  little  would  change  into  a  cry)  he  carried  a 
large  slice  of  bread  and  meat,  and  a  mug  of  beer,  into  a 
corner,  and  applied  himself  to  disposing  of  them  with 
great  voracity. 

"Ah  !"  said  the  old  man  turning  to  me  with  a  sigh 
as  if  I  had  spoken  to  him  but  that  moment,  "  you  don't 
know  what  you  say,  when  you  tell  me  that  I  don't  con- 
sider her." 

"  You  must  not  attach  too  great  weight  to  a  remark 
founded  on  first  appearances,  my  friend,"  said  I. 

"  No,"  returned  the  old  man  thoughtfully,  "  no.  Come 
hither,  Nell." 

The  little  girl  hastened  from  her  seat,  and  put  her  arm 
about  his  neck. 

"Do  I  love  thee,  Nell?"  said  he.  "  Sav— do  I  love 
thee,  Nell,  or  no  ?  " 

The  child  only  answered  by  her  caresses,  and  laid  her 
I  head  upon  his  breast. 

I  "  Why  dost  thou  sob,"  said  the  grandfather,  pressing 
I  her  closer  to  him  and  glancing  towards  me.  "Is  it  be- 
!  cause  thou  know'st  I  love  thee,  and  dost  not  like  that  I 
I  should  seem  to  doubt  it  by  my  question  ?  Well,  well — 
then  let  us  say  I  love  thee  dearly." 

"  Indeed,  indeed  you  do,"  replied  the  child  with  great 
earnestness,  "Kit  knows  you  do," 

Kit,  who  in  despatching  his  bread  and  meat  had  been 
swallowing  two-thirds  of  his  knife  at  every  mouthful 
with  the  coolness  of  a  juggler,  stopped  short  in  his  oper- 
ations on  being  thus  appealed  to,  and  bawled  "  Nobody 
isn't  such  a  fool  as  to  say  he  doesn't,"  after  which  he 
incapacitated  himself  for  further  conversation  by  taking 
a  most  prodigious  sandwich  at  one  bite. 

"  She  is  poor  now,"  said  the  old  man  patting  the  child's 
cheek,  "  but,  I  say  again,  the  time  is  coming  when  she 
shall  be  rich.  It  has  been  a  long  time  coming,  but  it 
must  come  at  last  ;  a  very  long  time,  but  it  surely  must 
come.  It  has  come  to  other  men  who  do  nothing  but 
waste  and  riot.    When  will  it  come  to  me  !  " 

"lam  very  happy  as  I  am,  grandfather,"  said  the 
child. 

"  Tush,  tush  !"  returned  the  old  man,  "  thou  dost  not 
know — how  sliould'st  thou  !  "  Then  he  muttered  again 
between  his  teeth,  "  The  time  must  come,  I  am  very 
sure  it  must.  It  will  be  all  the  better  for  coming  late  ;" 
and  then  he  sighed  and  fell  into  his  former  musing  state, 
and  still  holding  the  child  between  his  knees  appeared 
to  be  insensible  to  everything  around  him.  By  this  time 
it  wanted  but  a  few  minutes  of  midnight  and  I  rose  to 
go  :  which  recalled  him  to  himself. 

"  One  moment,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Now  Kit— near  mid- 
night, boy,  and  you  still  here  !  Get  home,  get  home, 
and  be  true  to  your  time  in  the  morning,  for  there's 
work  to  do.  Good  night  !  There,  bid  him  good  night, 
Nell  and  let  him  be  gone  ! " 

"Good  night.  Kit,"  said  the  child,  her  eyes  lighting 
up  with  merriment  and  kindness. 

"  Good  night.  Miss  Nell,"  returned  the  boy. 
"  And  thank  this  gentleman,"  interposed  the  old  man, 
"  but  for  whose  care  I  might  have  lost  my  little  girl  to- 
night." 


C88 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"No,  no,  master,"  said  Kit,  "that  won't  do,  that 
won't. ' ' 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  the  old  man. 

"  i'd  have  found  her,  master,"  said  Kit,  "I'd  have 
found  her.  I'd  bet  that  I'd  find  her  if  she  was  above 
ground.  I  would,  as  quick  as  anybody,  master  !  Ha  ha 
ha  ! " 

Once  more  opening  his  mouth  and  shutting  his  eyes, 
and  laughing  like  a  stentor,  Kit  gradually  backed  to  the 
door,  and  roared  himself  out. 

Free  of  the  room,  the  boy  was  not  slow  in  taking 
his  departure  :  when  he  had  gone,  and  the  child  was  oc- 
cupied in  clearing  the  table,  the  old  man  said  : 

"  I  haven't  seemed  to  thank  you,  sir,  enough  for  what 
you  have  done  to-night,  but  I  do  thank  you,  humbly  and 
heartily  ;  and  so  does  she  ;  and  her  thanks  are  better 
worth  than  mine.  I  should  be  sorry  that  you  went 
away  and  thought  I  was  unmindful  of  your  goodness,  or 
careless  of  her — I  am  not  indeed." 

I  was  sure  of  that,  I  said,  from  what  I  had  seen. 
"  But,"  I  added,  "  may  I  ask  you  a  question  ?  " 

"  Ay  sir,"  replied  the  old  man,  "  what  is  it?  " 

"This  delicate  child,"  said  I,  "  with  so  much  beauty 
and  intelligence — has  she  nobody  to  care  for  her  but  you? 
Has  she  no  other  companion  or  adviser  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  returned,  looking  anxiously  in  my  face,"  no, 
and  she  wants  no  other." 

"  But  are  you  not  fearful,"  said  I,  "  that  you  may 
misunderstand  a  charge  so  tender?  I  am  sure  yon  mean 
well,  but  are  you  quite  certain  that  you  know  how  to 
execute  such  a  trust  as  this  ?  I  am  an  old  man,  like  you, 
and  I  am  actuated  by  an  old  man's  concern  in  all  that  is 
young  and  promising.  Do  you  not  think  that  what  I  have 
seen  of  you  and  this  little  creature  to-night,  must  have 
an  interest  not  wholly  free  from  pain  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  rejoined  the  old  man  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"  I  have  no  right  to  feel  hurt  at  what  you  say.  It  is 
true  that  in  many  respects  I  am  the  child,  and  she  the 
grown  person — that  you  have  seen  already.  But,  wak- 
ing or  sleeping,  by  night  or  day,  in  sickness  or  health, 
she  is  the  one  object  of  my  care  ;  and  if  you  knew 
of  how  much  care,  you  would  look  on  me  with  different 
eyes,  you  would  indeed.  Ah  I  it's  a  weary  life  for  an 
old  man — a  weary,  weary  life — but  there  is  a  great  end 
to  gain,  and  that  I  keep  before  me." 

Seeing  that  he  was  in  a  state  of  excitement  and  im- 
patience, I  turned  to  put  on  an  outer  coat  which  I  had 
thrown  off,  on  entering  the  room  :  purposing  to  say  no 
more.  I  was  surprised  to  see  tlie  child  standing  patient- 
ly by,  with  a  cloak  upon  her  arm,  and  in  her  hand  a  hat 
and  stick. 

"  Those  are  not  mine,  my  dear,"  said  I. 

"  No,"  returned  the  child  quietly,  "they  are  grand- 
father's." 

"  But  he  is  not  going  out  to-night." 

"  Oh  yes  he  is,"  said  the  child,  with  a  smile. 

"And  what  becomes  of  you,  my  pretty  one  ?  " 

"Me  !    I  stay  here  of  course.    I  always  do." 

I  looked  in  astonishment  towards  the  old  man  ;  but  he 
was,  or  feigned  to  be,  busied  in  the  arrangement  of  his 
dress.  From  him,  I  looked  back  to  the  slight  gentle 
figure  of  the  child.  Alone  !  In  that  gloomy  place  all 
the  long  dreary  night ! 

She  evinced  no  consciousness  of  my  surprise,  but 
cheerfully  helped  the  old  man  with  his  cloak,  and,  when 
he  was  ready,  took  a  candle  to  light  us  out.  Finding 
that  we  did  not  follow  as  she  expected,  she  looked  back 
with  a  smile  and  waited  for  us.  The  old  man  showed  by 
his  face  that  he  plainly  understood  the  cause  of  my  hesi- 
tation, but  he  merely  signed  to  me  with  an  inclination  of 
the  head  to  pass  out  of  the  room  before  him,  and  re- 
mained silent.    I  had  no  resource  but  to  comply. 

When  we  reached  the  door,  the  child  setting  down  the 
candle,  turned  to  say  good  night  and  raised  her  face  to 
kiss  me.  Then,  she  ran  to  the  old  man,  who  folded  her 
in  his  arms  and  bade  God  Ijless  her. 

"  Sleep  soundly,  Nell,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "and 
angels  guard  thy  bed  !  Do  not  forget  thy  prayers,  my 
sweet." 

"No,  indeed,"  answered  the  child  fervently,  "they 
make  me  feel  so  ha])py  !  " 

"That's  well;  I  know  thoy  do;   they  should,"  said 


the  old  man.  "Bless  thee  a  hundred  times  1  Early  in 
the  morning  I  shall  be  home." 

"You'll  not  ring  twice,"  returned  the  child.  "The 
bell  wakes  me,  even  in  the  middle  of  a  dream." 

With  this,  they  separated.  The  child  opened  the 
door  (now  guarded  by  a  shutter  which  I  had  heard  the 
boy  put  up  before  he  left  the  house)  and  with  another 
farewell,  whose  clear  and  tender  note  1  have  recalled  a 
thousand  times,  held  it  until  we  had  passed  out.  The 
old  man  paused  a  moment  while  it  was  gently  closed  and 
fastened  on  the  inside,  and,  satisfied  that  this  was  done, 
walked  on  at  a  slow  pace.  At  the  street- corner  he 
stopped.  Regarding  me  with  a  troubled  countenance, 
he  said  that  our  ways  were  widely  different,  and  that  he 
must  take  his  leave.  I  would  have  spoken,  but  summon- 
ing up  more  alacrity  than  might  have  been  expected 
in  one  of  his  appearance,  he  hurried  away.  I  could  see, 
that,  twice  or  thrice,  he  looked  back  as  if  to  ascertain  if 
I  were  still  watching  him,  or  perhaps  to  assure  himself 
that  I  was  not  following,  at  a  distance.  The  obscurity  of 
the  night  favoured  his  disappearance,  and  his  figure  was 
soon  beyond  my  sight. 

I  remained  standing  on  the  spot  where  he  had  left  me  : 
unwilling  to  depart,  and  yet  unknowing  why  I  should 
loiter  there.    I  looked  wistfully  into  the  street  we  had 
lately  quitted,  and,  after  a  time,  directed  my  steps  that 
{  way.  I  passed  and  repassed  the  house,  and  stopped,  and 
j  listened  at  the  door  ;  all  was  dark  and  silent  as  the 
j  grave. 

[  Yet  I  lingered  about,  and  could  not  tear  myself  away  : 
I  thinking  of  all  possible  harm  that  might  happen  to  the 
i  child — of  fires,  and  robberies,  and  even  murder — and 
feeling  as  if  some  evil  must  ensue  if  I  turned  my  back 
upon  the  place.  The  closing  of  a  door  or  window  in  the 
street,  brought  me  before  the  curiosity-dealer's  once 
more.  I  crossed  the  road,  and  locked  up  at  the  house, 
to  assure  myself  that  the  noise  had  not  come  from  there. 
No,  it  was  black,  cold,  and  lifeless  as  before.  . 

There  were  few  passengers  astir  ;  the  street  was  sad 
and  dismal,  and  pretty  well  my  own.    A  few  stragglers 
j  from  the  theatres  hurried  by,  and,  now  and  then,  I 
i  turned  aside  to  avoid  some  noisy  drunkard  as  he  reeled 
I  homewards  ;  but  these  interruptions  were  not  frequent 
i  and  soon  ceased.    The  clocks  struck  one.    Still  I  paced 
i  up  and  down,  promising  myself  that  every  time  should 
be  the  last,  and  breaking  faith  with  myself  on  some  new 
plea,  as  often  as  I  did  so. 

The  more  I  thought  of  what  the  old  man  had  said,  and 
of  his  looks  and  bearing,  the  less  I  could  account  for 
what  I  had  seen  and  heard.  I  had  a  strong  misgiving 
that  his  nightly  absence  was  for  no  good  purpose.  I  had 
only  come  to  know  the  fact  through  the  innocence  of  the 
child ;  and,  though  the  old  man  was  by  at  the  time 
and  saw  ray  undisguised  surprise,  he  had  preserved  a 
strange  mystery  on  the  subject  and  offered  no  word  of 
explanation.  These  reflections  naturally  recalled  again, 
more  strongly  than  before,  his  haggard  face,  his  wander- 
ing manner,  his  restless  anxious  looks.  His  affection  for 
the  child  might  not  be  inconsistent  with  villany  of  the 
worst  kind  ;  even  that  very  affection  was,  in  itself,  an 
extraordinary  contradiction,  or  how  could  he  leave  her  / 
thus  ?  Disposed  as  I  was  to  think  badly  of  him,  I  neverf 
doubted  that  his  love  for  her  was  real.  I  could  not  ad- 
mit the  thought,  remembering  what  had  passed  between 
us,  and  the  tone  of  voice  in  which  he  had  called  her  by 
her  name. 

"Stay  here  of  course,"  the  child  had  said  in  answer 
to  my  question,  "  I  always  do  !  "  What  could  take  him 
from  home  by  night,  and  every  night !  I  called  up  all 
the  strange  tales  I  had  ever  heard,  of  dark  and  secret 
deeds  committed  in  great  towns  and  escaping  . detection 
for  a  long  series  of  years.  Wild  as  many  of  these  stories 
were,  I  could  not  find  one  adapted  to  this  mystery,  which 
only  became  the  more  impenetrable,  in  proportion  as  I 
sought  to  solve  it. 

Occupied  with  such  thoughts  as  these,  and  a  crowd  of 
others  all  tending  to  the  same  point,  I  continued  to'pace 
the  street  for  two  long  hours  ;  at  length,  the  rain  began 
to  descend  heavily  ;  and  then,  overpowered  by  fatigue 
though  no  less  interested  than  I  had  been  at  first,  I  en- 
gaged the  nearest  coach  and  so  got  home.  A  cheerful 
fire  was  blazing  on  the  hearth,  the  lamp  burnt  brightly, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


G89 


my  clock  received  me  with  its  old  familiar  welcome  ; 
everything  was  quiet,  warm,  and  cheering,  and  in  happy 
contrast  to  the  gloom  and  darkness  I  had  quitted. 

I  sat  down  in  my  easy-chair,  and  falling  back  upon  its 
ample  cushions,  pictured  to  myself  the  child  in  her  bed: 
alone,  unwatched,  uncared  for,  (save  by  angels,)  yet 
sleeping  peacefully.  So  very  young,  so  sjjiritual,  so 
slight  and  fairy-like  a  creature  passing  the  long  dull 
nights  in  such  an  uncongenial  place — I  could  not  dismiss 
it  from  my  thoughts. 

We  are  so  much  in  the  habit  of  allowing  impressions 
to  be  made  upon  us  by  external  objects,  which  should 
be  produced  by  reflection  alone,  but  which  without  such 
visible  aids,  often  escape  us,  that  I  am  not  sure  I  shoidd 
have  been  so  thoroughly  possessed  by  this  one  subject, 
but  for  the  heaps  of  fantastic  things  I  had  seen  huddled 
together  in  the  curiosity -dealer's  warehouse.  These, 
crowding  on  my  mind,  in  connection  with  the  child,  and 
gathering  round  her  as  it  were,  brought  her  condition 
palpably  before  me.  I  had  her  imago,  without  any 
effort  of  imagination,  surrounded  and  beset  by  every- 
thing that  was  foreign  to  its  nature,  and  farthest 
removed  from  the  sympathies  of  her  sex  and  age.  If 
these  helps  to  my  fancy  had  all  been  wanting,  and  I  had 
been  forced  to  imagine  her  in  a  common  chamber,  with 
nothing  unusual  or  uncough  in  its  appearance,  it  is  very 
probable  that  I  should  have  been  less  impressed  with 
her  strange  and  solitary  state.  As  it  was,  she  seemed 
to  exist  in  a  kind  of  allegory  ;  and,  having  these  shapes 
about  her,  claimed  my  interest  so  strongly,  that  (as  I 
have  already  remarked)  I  could  not  dismiss  her  from  my 
recollection,  do  what  I  would. 

"  It  would  be  a  curious  speculation,"  said  I,  after  some 
restless  turns  across  and  across  the  room,  "  to  imagine  her 
in  her  future  life,  holding  her  solitary  way  among  a  crowd 
of  wild  grotesque  companions  :  the  only  pure,  fresh, 
vouthful  object  in  the  throng.  It  would  be  curious  to 
find—" 

I  checked  myself  here,  for  the  theme  was  carrying  me 
along  with  it  at  a  great  pace,  and  I  already  saw  before 
me  a  region  on  which  I  was  little  disposed  to  enter.  I 
agreed  with  myself  that  this  was  idle  musing,  and  re- 
solved to  go  to  bed,  and  court  forget  fulness. 

But,  all  that  night,  waking  or  in  my  sleep,  the  same 
thoughts  recurred,  and  the  same  images  retained  posses- 
sion of  my  brain.  I  had,  ever  before  me,  the  old  dark 
murky  rooms — the  gaunt  suits  of  mail  with  their  ghostly 
silent  air — the  faces  all  awry,  grinning  from  wood  and 
stone — the  dust,  and  rust,  and  worm  that  lives  in  wood 
— and  alone  in  the  midst  of  all  this  lumber  and  decay 
and  ugly  age,  the  beautiful  child  in  her  gentle  slumber, 
smiling  through  her  light  and  sunny  dreams. 


CHAPTER  II. 

After  combating,  for  nearly  a  week,  the  feeling  which 
impelled  me  to  revisit  the  place  I  had  quitted  under  the 
circumstances  already  detailed,  I  yielded  to  it  at  length  ; 
and  determining  that  this  time  I  would  present  myself 
by  the  light  of  day,  bent  my  steps  thither  early  in  the  af- 
ternoon. 

I  walked  past  the  house,  and  took  several  turns  in  the 
street,  with  that  kind  of  hesitation  which  is  natural  to  a 
man  who  is  conscious  that  the  visit  be  is  about  to  pay  is 
unexpected,  and  may  not  be  very  acceptable.  However, 
as  the  door  of  the  shop  was  shut,  and  it  did  not  appear 
likely  that  I  should  be  recognised,  by  those  within,  if  I 
continued  merely  to  pass  up  and  down  before  it,  I  soon 
conquered  this  irresolution,  and  found  myself  in  the  Cu- 
riosity Dealer's  warehouse. 

The  old  man  and  another  person  were  together  in  the 
back  part,  and  there  seemed  to  have  been  high  words  be- 
tween them,  for  their  voices  which  were  raised  to  a  very 
loud  pitch  suddenly  stopped  on  my  entering,  and  the  old 
man  advancing  hastily  towards  me,  said  in  a  tremulous 
tone  that  ho  was  very  glad  I  had  come. 

"You  interrupted  us  at  a  critical  moment,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  man  whom  I  had  found  in  company  with 
him;  "this  fellow  will  murder  me  one  of  these  days. 
He  would  have  done  so,  long  ago,  if  he  had  dared." 
Vol.  II.— 44 


"  Bah  !  You  would  swear  away  my  life  if  you  could," 
returned  the  other,  after  bestowing  a  stare  and  a  frown 
on  me  ;  "  we  all  know  that  !  " 

"  I  almost  think  I  could,"  cried  the  old  man,  turning 
feebly  upon  him.  "  If  oaths,  or  prayers,  or  words,  could 
rid  me  of  you,  they  should.  I  would  be  quit  of  you,  and 
would  be  relieved  if  you  were  dead." 

"  I  know  it,"  returned  the  other.  "  I  said  so,  didn't  I? 
But  neither  oaths,  nor  prayers,  nor  words,  uAU  kill  me, 
and  therefore  I  live,  and  mean  to  live." 

"And  his  mother  died  !"  cried  the  old  man,  passion- 
ately clasping  his  hands  and  looking  upward  ;  "  and  this 
is  Heaven's  justice  !  " 

The  other  stood  lounging  with  his  foot  upon  a  chair, 
and  regarded  him  with  a  contemptuous  sneer.  He  was 
a  young  man  of  one-and-twenty  or  thereabouts  ;  well 
made,  and  certainly  handsome,  though  the  expression  of 
his  face  was  far  from  prepossessing,  having  in  common 
with  his  manner  and  even  his  dress,  a  dissipated,  insolent 
air  which  repelled  one. 

"  Justice  or  no  justice,"  said  the  young  fellow,  "  here 
I  am  and  here  I  shall  stop  till  such  time  as  I  think  fit 
to  go,  unless  you  send  for  assistance  to  put  me  out — 
which  you  won't  do,  I  know.  I  tell  you  again  that  I 
want  to  see  my  sister." 

"  Your  sister  ! "  said  the  old  man  bitterly, 

"Ah!  You  can't  change  the  relationship,"  returned 
the  other.  ' '  If  you  could,  you'd  have  done  it  long  ago. 
I  want  to  see  my  sister,  that  you  keep  cooped  up  here, 
poisoning  her  mind  with  your  sly  secrets  and  pretending 
an  affection  for  her  that  you  may  work  her  to  death,  and 
add  a  few  scraped  shillings  every  week  to  the  money  you 
can  hardly  count,    I  want  to  see  her  ;  and  I  will." 

"  Here's  a  moralist  to  talk  of  poisoned  minds  !  Here's 
a  generous  spirit  to  scorn  scraped-up  shillings  !"  cried 
the  old  man,  turning  from  him  to  me.  "A  profligate, 
sir,  who  has  forfeited  every  claim  not  only  upon  those 
who  have  the  misfortune  to  be  of  his  blood,  but  upon 
society  which  knows  nothing  of  him  but  his  misdeeds. 
A  liar  too,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice  as  he  drew  closer 
to  me,  "who  knows  how  dear  she  is  to  me,  and  seeks 
to  wound  me  even  there,  because  there  is  a  stranger 
by." 

"  Strangers  are  nothing  to  me,  grandfather,"  said  the 
young  fellow  catching  at  the  words,  "  nor  I  to  them,  I 
hope.  The  best  they  can  do,  is  to  keep  an  eye  to  their 
business  and  leave  me  to  mine.  There's  a  friend  of 
mine  waiting  outside,  and  as  it  seems  that  I  may  have 
to  wait  some  time,  I'll  call  him  in,  with  your  leave." 

Saying  this,  he  stepped  to  the  door,  and  looking  down 
the  street  beckoned  several  times  to  some  unseen  person, 
who,  to  judge  from  the  air  of  impatience  with  which 
these  signals  were  accompanied,  required  a  great  quan- 
tity of  persuasion  to  induce  him  to  advance.  At  length 
there  sauntered  up,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way — with 
a  bad  pretence  of  passing  by  accident — a  figure  con- 
spicuous for  its  dirty  smartness,  which  after  a  great 
many  frowns  and  jerks  of  the  head,  in  resistance  of  the 
invitation,  ultimately  crossed  the  road  and  was  brought 
into  the  shop. 

"  There.  It's  Dick  Swiveller,"  said  the  yomig  fellow, 
pushing  him  in.    "  Sit  down,  Swiveller." 

* '  But  is  the  old  min  agreeable  1 "  said  Mr.  Swiveller 
in  an  under  tone. 

"  Sit  down,"  repeated  his  companion. 

Mr.  Swiveller  complied,  and  looking  about  him  with  a 
propitiatory  smile  observed  that  last  week  was  a  fine 
week  for  the  ducks,  and  this  week  was  a  fine  week  for 
the  dust ;  he  also  observed  that  while  standing  by  the 
post  at  the  street  corner,  he  had  observed  a  pig  with  a 
straw  in  his  mouth  issuing  out  of  the  tobacco-shop,  from 
which  appearance  he  augured  that  another  fine  week  for 
the  ducks  was  approaching,  and  that  rain  would  cer- 
tainly ensue.  He  furtherniore  took  occasion  to  apolo- 
gize for  any  negligence  that  might  be  perceptible  in  his 
dress,  on  the  ground  that  last  night  he  had  had  "the 
sun  very  strong  in  his  eyes  ;  "  by  Avhich  expression  he 
was  understood  to  convey  to  his  hearers  in  the  most  deli- 
cate manner  possible  the  information  that  he  had  been 
extremely  drunk. 

"But  what,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller  with  a  sigh,  "what 
is  the  odds  so  long  as  the  fire  of  soul  is  kindled  at  the 


690 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


taper  of  conwivialitj,  and  the  wing  of  friendship  never 
moults  a  feather  !  What  is  the  odds  so  long  as  the  spirit 
is  expanded  by  means  of  rosy  wine,  and  the  present 
moment  is  the  least  happiest  of  our  existence  !" 

"  You  needn't  act  the  chairman  here,"  said  his  friend, 
half  aside. 

"Fred  !"  cried  Mr,  Swiveller,  tapping  his  nose,  "a 
word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient  for  them — we  may  be  good 
and  happy  without  riches,  Fred.  Say  not  another  sylla- 
ble. I  know  my  cue  ;  smart  is  the  word.  Only  one  lit- 
tle whisper  Fred — is  the  old  min  friendly  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind,"  replied  his  friend. 

"Right  again,  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "cau- 
tion is  the  word,  and  caution  is  the  act."  With  that,  he 
winked  as  if  in  preservation  of  some  deep  secret,  and 
folding  his  arras  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  looked 
up  at  the  ceiling  with  profound  gravity. 

It  was  perhaps  not  very  unreasonable  to  suspect  from 
what  had  already  passed,  that  Mr.  Swiveller  was  not 
quite  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  powerful  sun- 
light to  which  he  had  made  allusion  ;  but  if  no  such 
suspicion  had  been  awakened  by  his  speech,  his  wiry 
hair,  dull  eyes,  and  sallow  face,  would  still  have  been 
strong  witnesses  against  him.  His  attire  was  not  as  he 
had  himself  hinted,  remarkable  for  the  nicest  arrange- 
ment, but  was  in  a  state  of  disorder  which  strongly  in- 
duced the  idea  that  he  had  gone  to  bed  in  it.  It  con- 
sisted of  a  brown  body-coat  with  a  great  many  brass 
buttons  up  the  front  and  only  one  behind,  a  bright  check 
neckerchief,  a  plaid  waistcoat,  soiled  white  trousers, 
and  a  very  limp  hat,  worn  with  the  wrong  side  fore- 
most, to  hide  a  hole  in  the  brim.  The  breast  of  his  coat 
was  ornamented  with  an  outside  pocket  from  which 
there  peeped  forth  the  cleanest  end  of  a  very  large  and 
very  ill-favoured  handkerchief  ;  his  dirty  wristbands  were 
pulled  down  as  far  as  possible  and  ostentatiously  folded 
back  over  his  cuffs  ;  he  displayed  no  gloves,  and  carried 
a  yellow  cane  having  at  the  top  a  bone  hand  with  the 
semblance  of  a  ring  on  its  little  finger  and  a  blackball  in 
its  grasp.  With  all  these  personal  advantages  (to  which 
may  be  added  a  strong  savour  of  tobacco-smoke,  and  a 
prevailing  greasiness  of  appearance)  Mr.  Swiveller  leant 
back  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  and 
occasionally  pitching  his  voice  to  the  needful  key, 
obliged  the  company  with  a  few  bars  of  an  intensely  dis- 
mal air,  and  then,  in  the  middle  of  a  note,  relapsed  into 
his  former  silence. 

The  old  man  sat  himself  down  in  a  chair,  and,  with 
folded  hands,  looked  sometimes  at  his  grandson  and 
sometimes  at  his  strange  companion,  as  if  he  were  utter- 
ly powerless  and  had  no  resource  but  to  leave  them  to 
do  as  they  pleased.  The  young  man  reclined  against  a 
table  at  no  great  distance  from  his  friend,  in  apparent 
indifference  to  everything  that  had  passed  ;  and  I — who 
felt  the  difficulty  of  any  interference,  notwithstanding 
that  the  old  man  had  appealed  to  me,  both  by  words  and 
looks — made  the  best  feint  I  could  of  being  occupied  in 
examining  some  of  the  goods  that  were  disposed  for  sale, 
and  paying  very  little  attention  to  the  persons  before  me. 

The  silence  was  not  of  long  duration,  for  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler, after  favouring  us  with  several  melodious  assurances 
that  his  heart  was  in  the  highlands,  and  that  he  wanted 
but  his  Arab  steed  as  a  preliminary  to  the  achievement 
of  great  feats  of  valour  and  loyalty,  removed  his  eyes 
from  the  ceiling  and  subsided  into  prose  again, 

"Fred,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller  stopping  short  as  if  the 
idea  had  suddenly  occurred  to  him,  and  speaking  in  the 
same  audible  whisper  as  before,  "is  the  old  min  friend- 
ly ?  " 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  returned  his  friend  peevishly. 
"  No,  but  is  he  ?  "  said  Dick, 

"  Yes,  of  course.  What  do  I  care  whether  he  is  or 
not." 

Emboldened  as  it  seemed  by  this  reply  to  enter  into  a 
more  general  conversation,  Mr.  Swiveller  plainly  laid 
himself  out  to  captivate  our  attention. 

He  began  by  remarking  that  soda  water,  though  a 
good  thing  in  the  abstract,  was  apt  to  lie  cold  upon  the 
stomach  unless  qualified  with  ginger,  or  a  small  infusion 
of  brandy,  which  latter  article  ho  held  to  be  preferable 
in  all  cases,  saving  for  the  one  consideration  of  expense. 
Nobody  venturing  to  dispute  these  positions,  he  proceed- 


ed to  observe  that  the  human  hair  was  a  great  retainer 
of  tobacco-smoke,  and  that  the  young  gentlemen  of 
Westminster  and  Eton,  after  eating  vast  quantities  of 
apples  to  conceal  any  scent  of  cigars  from  their  anxious 
friends,  were  usually  detected  in  consequence  of  their 
heads  possessing  this  remarkable  property  ;  whence  he 
concluded  that  if  the  Royal  Society  would  turn  their  at- 
tention to  the  circumstance,  and  endeavour  to  find  in  the 
resources  of  science  a  means  of  preventing  such  unto- 
ward revelations,  they  might  indeed  be  looked  upon  as 
benefactors  to  mankind.  These  opinions  being  equally 
incontrovertible  with  those  he  had  already  pronounced, 
he  went  on  to  inform  us  that  Jamaica  rum,  though  un- 
questionably an  agreeable  spirit  of  great  richness  and 
flavour,  had  the  drawback  of  remaining  constantly  pres- 
ent to  the  taste  next  day  ;  and  nobody  being  venturous 
enough  to  argue  this  point  either,  he  increased  in  confi- 
dence and  became  yet  more  companionable  and  commu- 
nicative. 

"  It's  a  devil  of  a  thing,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr,  Swivel- 
ler, "  when  relations  fall  out  and  disagree.  If  the  wing 
of  friendship  should  never  moult  a  feather,  the  wing  of 
relationship  should  never  be  clipped,  but  be  always  ex- 
panded and  serene.  Why  should  a  grandson  and  grand- 
father peg  away  at  each  other  with  mutual  wiolence 
when  all  might  be  bliss  and  concord?  Why  not  jine 
hands  and  forgit  it  ?  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  said  his  friend. 

**  Sir,"  replied  Mr.  Swiveller,  "  don't  you  interrupt 
the  chair.  Gentlemen,  how  does  the  case  stand,  upon 
the  present  occasion  ?  Here  is  a  jolly  old  grandfather — 
I  say  it  with  the  utmost  respect — and  here  is  a  wild 
young  grandson.  The  jolly  old  grandfather  says  to  the 
wild  young  grandson,  '  I  have  brought  you  up  and  edu- 
cated you,  Fred  ;  I  have  put  you  in  the  way  of  getting 
on  in  life  ;  you  have  bolted  a  little  out  of  the  course,  as 
young  fellows  often  do  ;  and  you  shall  never  have  an- 
other chance,  nor  the  ghost  of  half  a  one.'  The  wild 
young  grandson  makes  answer  to  this  and  says,  '  You're 
as  rich  as  rich  can  be  ;  you  have  been  at  no  uncommon 
expense  on  my  account,  you're  saving  up  piles  of  money 
for  my  little  sister  that  lives  with  you  in  a  secret, 
stealthy,  hugger-muggering  kind  of  way  and  with  no 
manner  of  enjoyment — why  can't  you  stand  a  trifle  for 
your  grown-up  relation?'  The  jolly  old  grandfather 
unto  this,  retorts,  not  only  that  he  declines  to  fork  out 
with  that  cheerful  readiness  which  is  always  so  agree- 
able and  pleasant  in  a  gentleman  of  his  time  of  life,  but 
that  he  will  blow  up,  and  call  names,  and  make  reflec- 
tions whenever  they  meet.  Then  the  plain  question  is, 
an't  it  a  pity  lhat  this  state  of  things  should  continue, 
and  how  much  better  would  it  be  for  the  old  gentleman 
to  hand  over  a  reasonable  amount  of  tin,  and  make  it  all 
right  and  comfortable  ?  " 

Having  delivered  this  oration  with  a  great  many  waves 
and  flourishes  of  the  hand,  Mr.  Swiveller  abruptly 
thrust  the  head  of  his  cane  into  his  mouth  as  if  to  pre- 
vent himself  from  impairing  the  effect  of  his  speech  by 
adding  one  other  word. 

"  Why  do  you  hunt  and  persecute  me,  God  help  me?" 
said  the  old  man  turning  to  his  grandson.  "Why do 
you  bring  your  profligate  companions  here  ?  How  often 
am  1  to  tell  you  that  my  life  is  one  of  care  and  self -de- 
nial,  and  that  I  am  poor  ?  " 

"  How  often  am  I  to  tell  you,"  returned  the  other 
looking  coldly  at  him,  "that  I  know  better?" 

"You  have  chosen  your  own  path,"  said  the  old 
man.  "Follow  it.  Leave  Nell  and  I  to  toil  and 
work." 

"Nell  will  be  a  woman  soon,"  returned  the  other, 
"  and  bred  in  your  faith,  she'll  forget  her  brother  un- 
less he  shows  himself  sometimes," 

"Take  care,"  said  the  old  man  with  sparkling  eyes, 
"  that  she  does  not  forget  you  when  you  would  have 
her  -memory  keenest.  Take  care  that  the  day  don't 
come  when  you  walk  barefoot  in  the  streets,  and  she 
rides  by  in  a  gay  carriage  of  her  own." 

"You  mean  when  she  has  your  money?"  retorted 
the  other.    "  How  like  a  poor  man  he  talks  I" 

"  And  yet,"  said  the  old  man,  dropping  his  voice 
and  speaking  like  one  who  thinks  aloud,  "how  poor 
we  are,  and  what  a  life  it  is  I    The  cause  is  a  young 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


C91 


child's,  guiltless  of  all  harm  or  wrong,  but  nothing  goes 
well  with  it  !     Hope  and  patience,  hope  and  patience  !  " 

These  words  were  uttered  in  too  low  a  tone  to  reach 
the  ears  of  the  young  men.  Mr.  Swiveller  appeared  to 
think  that  they  implied  some  mental  struggle  consequent 
upon  the  powerful  effect  of  his  address,  for  he  poked 
his  friend  with  his  cane  and  whispered  his  conviction  that 
he  had  administered  "  a  clincher,"  and  that  he  expected 
a  commission  on  the  profits.  Discovering  his  mistake 
after  a  while,  he  appeared  to  grow  rather  sleepy  and 
discontented,  and  had  more  than  once  suggested  the  pro- 
priety of  an  immediate  departure,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  the  child  herself  appeared. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

The  child  was  closely  followed  by  an  elderly  man  of 
remarkably  hard  features  and  forbidding  aspect,  and  so 
low  in  stature  as  to  bo  quite  a  dwarf,  though  his  head  and 
face  were  large  enough  for  the  body  of  a  gianC^  His 
black  eyes  were  restless,  sly,  and  cunning  ;  his  mouth 
and  chin,  bristly  with  the  stubble  of  a  coarse  hard  beard, 
and  his  complexion  was  one  of  that  kind  which  never 
looks  clean  or  wholesome.  But  what  added  most  to  the 
grotesque  expression  of  his  face,  was  a  ghastly  smile, 
which,  appearing  to  be  the  mere  result  of  habit  and  to 
have  no  connection  with  any  mirthful  or  complacent  feel- 
ing, constantly  revealed  the  few  discoloured  fangs  that 
were  yet  scattered  in  his  mouth,  and  gave  him  the  as- 
pect of  a  panting  dog.  His  dress  consisted  of  a  large 
high-crowned  hat,  a  worn  dark  suit,  a  pair  of  capacious 
shoes,  and  a  dirty  white  neckerchief  sufficiently  limp 
and  crumpled  to  disclose  the  greater  portion  of  his  wiry 
throat.  Such  hair  as  he  had,  was  of  a  grizzled  black, 
cut  short  and  straight  upon  his  temples,  and  hanging  in  a 
frowsy  fringe  about  his  ears.  His  hands,  which  were  of 
a  rough  coarse  grain,  were  very  dirty  ;  his  finger-nails 
were  crooked,  long,  and  yellow. 

There  was  ample  time  to  note  these  particulars,  for 
besides  that  they  were  sufficiently  obvious  without  very 
close  observation,  some  moments  elapsed  before  any  one 
broke  silence.  The  child  advanced  timidly  towards  her 
brother  and  put  her  hand  in  his,  the  dwarf  (if  we  may 
call  him  so)  glanced  keenly  at  all  present,  anrl  the  curi- 
osity-dealer, Vviio  plainly  had  not  expected  his  uncouth 
visitor,  seemed  disconcerted  and  embarrassed. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  dwarf,  who  with  his  hand  stretched 
out,  above  his  eyes  had  been  surveying  the  young  man 
attentively,  "that  should  be  your  grandson,  neigh- 
bour ! " 

"  Say  rather  that  he  should  not  be,"  replied  the  old 
man.    "But  he  is." 

"And  that  ?  "  said  the  dwarf,  pointing  to  Dick  Swivel- 
ler. 

"  Some  friend  of  his,  as  welcome  here  as  he,"  said  the 
old  man. 

"  And  that  ?  "  inquired  the  dwarf  wheeling  round  and 
pointing  straight  at  me. 

"  A  gentleman  who  was  so  good  as  to  bring  Nell  home 
the  other  night  when  she  lost  her  way,  coming  from  your 
house." 

The  little  man  turned  to  the  child  as  if  to  chide  her  or 
express  his  wonder,  but  as  she  was  talking  to  the  young 
man,  held  his  peace,  and  bent  his  head  to  listen. 

"  Well,  Nelly,"  said  the  young  fellow  aloud.  "Do 
they  teach  you  to  hate  me,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  no.    For  shame.    Oh,  no  !  "  cried  the  child. 

"  To  love  me,  perhaps  ?  "  pursued  her  brother  with  a 
sneer. 

"  To  do  neither,"  she  returned.  "  They  never  speak 
to  me  about  you.    Indeed  they  never  do." 

"I  dare  be  bound  for  that,"  he  said,  darting  a  bitter 
look  at  the  grandfather.  "  I  dare  be  bound  for  that,  Nell. 
Oh  !    I  believe  you  there  !  " 

"  But  I  love  you  dearly,  Fred,"  said  the  child. 

"No  doubt  1" 

"I  do  indeed,  and  always  will,"  the  child  repeated 
with  great  emotion,  "but  oh  I  if  you  would  leave  off 
vexing  him  and  making  him  unhappy,  then  I  could  love 
you  more," 


"  I  see  I  "  said  the  young  man,  as  he  stooped  carelessly 
over  the  child,  and  having  kissed  her,  pushed  her  from 
him  :  "  There — get  you  away  now  you  have  said  your 
lesson.  You  needn't  whimper.  We  part  good  friends 
enough,  if  th.at's  the  matter." 

He  remained  silent,  following  her  with  his  eyes,  until 
she  had  gained  her  little  room  and  closed  the  door  ;  and 
then  turning  to  the  dwarf,  said  abruptly, 

"Harkee,  Mr. — " 

"  Meaning  me  ?  "  returned  the  dwarf.  "  Quilp  is  my 
name.  You  might  remember.  It's  not  a  long  one — 
Daniel  Quilp." 

"  Harkee,  Mr.  Quilp,  then,"  pursued  the  other.  "  You 
have  some  influence  with  my  grandfather  there." 

"Some,"  said  Mr.  Quilp  emx)hatically. 

"And  are  in  a  few  of  his  mysteries  and  secrets." 

"A  few,"  replied  Quilp,  with  equal  dryness. 

"Then  let  me  tell  him  once  for  all,  through  you,  that 
I  will  come  into  and  go  out  of  this  place  as  often  as  I 
like,  so  long  as  he  keeps  Nell  here  ;  and  that  if  he 
wants  to  be  quit  of  me,  he  must  first  be  quit  of  her. 
What  have  I  done  to  be  made  a  bug-bear  of,  and  to  be 
shunned  and  dreaded  as  if  I  brought  the  plague  ?  He'll 
tell  you  that  I  have  no  natural  affection  ;  and  that  I  care 
no  more  for  Nell,  for  her  own  sake,  than  I  do  for  him. 
Let  him  say  so.  I  care  for  the  whim,  then,  of  coming 
to  and  fro  and  reminding  her  of  my  existence.  I  will 
see  her  when  I  please.  That's  my  point.  1  came  here 
to-day  to  maintain  it,  and  I'll  come  here  again  fifty  times 
with  the  same  object  and  always  with  the  same  success. 
I  said  I  would  stop  till  I  had  gained  it.  I  have  done  so, 
and  now  my  visit's  ended.    Come,  Dick." 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  Mr.  Swiveller,  as  his  companion  turned 
towards  the  door.    "  Sir  !  " 

"Sir,  I  am  your  humble  servant,"  said  Mr.  Quilp,  to 
whom  the  monosyllable  was  addressed. 

"Before  I  leave  the  gay  and  festive  scene,  and  halls 
of  dazzling  light,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "I  will,  with 
your  permission,  attempt  a  slight  remark.  I  came  here, 
sir,  this  day,  under  the  impression  that  the  old  min  was 
friendly." 

"  Proceed,  sir,"  said  Daniel  Quilp  ;  for  the  orator  had 
made  a  sudden  stop. 

"  Inspired  by  this  idea  and  the  sentiments  it  awakened, 
sir,  and  feeling  as  a  mutual  friend  that  badgering,  bait- 
ing, and  bullying,  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  calculated 
to  expand  the  souls  and  promote  the  social  harmony  of 
the  contending  parties,  I  took  upon  myself  to  suggest  a 
course  which  is  the  course  to  be  adopted  on  the  present 
occasion.  Will'you  allow  me  to  whisper  half  a  syllable, 
sir  ?  " 

Without  waiting  for  the  permission  he  sought,  Mr. 
Swiveller  stepped  up  to  the  drwarf,  and  leaning  on  his 
shoulder  and  stooping  down  to  get  at  his  ear,  said  in  a 
voice  which  was  perfectly  audible  to  all  present, 

"  The  watch- word  to  the  old  min  is — fork." 

"Is  what?"  demanded  Quilp, 

"  Is  fork,  sir,  fork,"  replied  Mr,  Swiveller  slapping 
his  pocket.    "  You  are  awake,  sir?  " 

The  dwarf  nodded.  Mr.  Swiveller  drew  back  and 
nodded  likewise,  then  drew  a  little  further  back  and 
nodded  again,  and  so  on.  By  these  means  he  in  time 
reached  the  door,  where  he  gave  a  great  cough  to  at  tract 
the  dwarf's  attention  and  gain  an  opportunity  of  express- 
ing in  dumb  show,  the  closest  confidence  and  most  in- 
violable secrecy.  Having  performed  the  serious  panto- 
mime that  was  necessary  for  the  due  conveyance  of 
these  ideas,  he  cast  himself  upon  his  friend's  track,  and 
vanished. 

"Humph  !"  said  the  dwarf  with  a  sour  look  and  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders,  "so  much  for  dear  relations. 
Thank  God  I  acknowledge  none  !  Nor  need  you  either," 
he  added,  turning  to  the  old  man,  "if  you  were  not  as 
weak  as  a  reed,  and  nearly  as  senseless." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do?"  he  retorted  in  a 
kind  of  helpless  desperation.  "  It  is  easy  to  talk  and 
sneer.    Wliat  would  you  have  me  do  ?  " 

"  What  would  J  do  if  I  was  in  your  case?"  said  the 
dwarf. 

"  Something  violent,  no  doubt." 

"You're  right  there,"  returned  the  little  man  highly 
gratified  by  the  compliment,  for  such  he  evidently  con- 


692 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


sidered  it  ;  and  grinning  like  a  devil  as  he  rubbed  his 
dirty  hands  together.  "Ask  Mrs.  Qiiilp,  pretty  Mrs. 
Quilp,  obedient,  timid,  loving  Mrs.  Quilp.  But  that  re- 
minds me— I  have  left  her  all  alone,  and  she  will  be 
anxious  and  know  not  a  moment's  peace  till  I  return, 
I  know  she's  always  in  that  condition  when  I'm  away, 
though  she  doesn't  dare  to  say  so,  unless  I  lead  her  on 
and  tell  her  she  may  speak  freely,  and  I  won't  be  angry 
with  her.    Oh!  well-trained  Mrs.  Quilp  ! " 

The  creature  appeared  quite  horrible,  with  his  mon- 
strous head  and  little  body,  as  he  rubbed  his  hands 
slowly  round,  and  round,  and  round  again — with  some- 
thing fantastic  even  in  his  manner  of  performing  this 
slight  action— and,  dropping  his  shaggy  brows  and  cock- 
ing his  chin  in  the  air,  glanced  upward  with  a  stealthy 
look  of  exultation  that  an  imp  might  have  copied  and 
appropriated  to  himself. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  into  his  breast  and 
sidling  up  to  the  old  man  as  he  spoke  ;  "  I  brought  it 
myself  for  fear  of  accidents,  as,  being  in  gold,  it  was 
something  large  and  heavy  for  Nell  to  carry  in  her  bag. 
^he  need  be  accustomed  to  such  loads  betimes  though, 
neighbour,  for  she  will  carry  weight  when  you  are 
dead." 

"Heaven  send  she  may  !  I  hope  so,"  said  the  old  man 
with  something  like  a  groan. 

"Hope  so  !  "  echoed  the  dwarf,  approaching  close  to 
his  ear  ;  "  neighbour,  I  would  I  knew  in  what  good  in- 
vestment all  these  supplies  are  sunk.  But  you  are  a 
deep  man,  and  keep  your  secret  close." 

"My  secret!"  said  the  other  with  a  haggard  look. 
"Yes,  you're  right — I — I — keep  it  close — very  close." 

He  said  no  more,  but,  taking  the  money,  turned  away 
with  a  slow  uncertain  step,  and  pressed  liis  hand  upon 
his  head  like  a  weary  and  dejected  man.  The  dwarf 
watched  him  sharply,  while  he  passed  into  the  little  sit- 
ting-room, and  locked  it  in  an  iron  safe  above  the  chim- 
ney-piece ;  and  after  musing  for  a  short  space,  prepared 
to  take  his  leave,  observing  that  unless  he  made  good 
haste,  Mrs.  Quilp  would  certainly  be  in  fits  on  his  return. 

"And  so,  neighbour,"  he  added,  "I'll  turn  my  face 
homewards,  leaving  my  love  for  Nelly  and  hoping  she 
may  never  lose  her  way  again,  though  her  doing  so,  has 
procured  me  an  honour  I  didn't  expect."  With  that, 
he  bowed  and  leered  at  me,  and  with  a  keen  glance 
around  vv^Iiich  seemed  to  comprehend  every  object  with- 
in his  range  of  vision,  however  small  or  trivial,  went  his 
way. 

I  had  several  times  essayed  to  go  myself,  but  the  old 
man  had  always  opposed  it  and  entreated  me  to  remain. 
As  he  renewed  his  entreaties  on  our  being  left  alone,  and 
adverted  with  many  thanks  to  the  former  occasion  of 
our  being  together,  I  willingly  yielded  to  his  persuasions, 
and  sat  down,  pretending  to  examine  some  curious  min- 
iatures and  a  few  old  medals  which  he  placed  before 
me.  It  needed  no  great  pressing  to  induce  me  to  stay, 
for  if  my  curiosity  had  been  excited  on  the  occasion  of 
my  first  visit,  it  certainly  was  not  diminished  now. 

Nell  joined  us  before  long,  and  bringing  some  needle- 
work to  the  table,  sat  by  the  old  man's  side.  It  was 
pleasant  to  observe  the  fresh  flowers  in  the  room,  the 
pet  bird  with  a  green  bough  shading  his  little  cage,  the 
breath  of  freshness  and  youth  which  seemed  to  rustle 
through  the  old  dull  house  and  hover  round  the  child. 
It  was  curious,  but  not  so  pleasant,  to  turn  from  the 
beauty  and  grace  of  the  girl,  to  the  stooping  figure,  care- 
worn face,  and  jaded  aspect  of  the  old  man.  As  he  grew 
weaker  and  more  feeble,  what  would  become  of  this 
lonely  little  creature  ;  poor  protector  as  he  was,  say  that 
he  died — what  would  her  fate  be,  then  ? 

The  old  man  almost  answered  my  thoughts,  as  he  laid 
his  hand  on  liers,  and  spoke  aloud. 

"  I'll  be  of  better  cheer,  Nell,"  he  said  ;  "  there  must 
be  good  fortune  in  store  for  thee — I  do  not  ask  it  for  my- 
self, but  thee.  Such  miseries  must  fall  on  thy  innocent 
head  without  it,  that  I  cannot  believe  but  that,  being 
tempted,  it  will  come  at  last  I  " 

She  looked  cheerfully  into  his  face,  but  made  no  an- 
swer. 

"  When  I  think,"  said  he,  "  of  the  many  years — many 
in  thy  short  life — that  thou  hast  lived  alone  with  me  ; 
of  thy  monotonous  existence,  knowing  no  companions  of 


thy  own  age  nor  any  childish  pleasures  ;  of  the  solitude 
in  which  thou  hast  grown  to  be  what  thou  art,  and  in 
which  thou  hast  lived  apart  from  nearly  all  thy  kind 
but  one  old  man  ;  I  sometimes  fear  I  have  dealt  hardly 
by  thee,  Nell." 

"  Grandfather  1 "  cried  the  child  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

"Not  in  intention — no  no,"  said  he.  "I  have  ever 
looked  forward  to  the  time  that  should  enable  thee  to 
mix  among  the  gayest  and  prettiest,  and  take  thy  station 
with  the  best.  But  I  still  look  forward,  Nell,  I  still  look 
forward,  and  if  I  should  be  forced  to  leave  thee,  mean- 
while, how  have  I  fitted  thee  for  struggles  with  the 
world  ?  The  poor  bird  yonder,  is  as  well  qualified  to 
encounter  it,  and  be  turned  adrift  upon  its  mercies — 
Hark  I  I  hear  Kit  outside.    Go  to  him,  Nell,  go  to  him." 

She  rose,  and  hurrying  away,  stopped,  turned  back, 
and  put  her  arms  about  the  old  man's  neck,  then  left 
him  and  hurried  away  again' — but  faster  this  time  to  hide 
her  falling  tears. 

"  A  word  in  your  ear,  sir,"  said  the  old  man  in  a  hur- 
ried whispe-r.  "  I  have  been  rendered  uneasy  by  what 
you  s^d  the  other  night,  and  can  only  plead  that  I  have 
done  *1  for  the  best — that  it  is  too  late  to  retract,  if  I 
could,  (though  I  cannot) — and  that  I  hope  to  triumph 
yet.  All  is  for  her  sake.  I  have  borne  great  poverty 
myself,  and  would  spare  her  the  sufferings  that  poverty 
carries  with  it.  I  would  spare  her  the  miseries  that 
brought  her  mother,  my  own  dear  child,  to  an  early 
grave.  I  would  leave  her — not  with  resources  which 
could  be  easily  spent  or  squandered  away,  but  with  what 
would  place  her  beyond  the  reach  of  want  forever.  You 
mark  me,  sir?  She  shall  have  no  pittance,  but  a  fortune 
— Hush  !  I  can  say  no  more,  than  that,  now  or  at  any 
other  time,  and  she  is  here  again  !  " 

The  eagerness  with  which  all  this  was  poured  into  my 
ear,  the  trembling  of  the  hand  with  which  he  clasped 
my  arm,  the  strained  and  starting  eyes  he  fixed  upon  me, 
the  wild  vehemence  and  agitation  of  his  manner,  filled 
me  with  amazement.  All  that  I  had  heard  and  seen,  and 
a  great  part  of  what  he  had  said  himself,  led  me  to  sup- 
pose that  he  was  a  wealthy  man.  I  could  form  no  com- 
prehension of  his  character,  unless  he  were  one  of  those 
miserable  wretches  who,  hiving  made  gain  the  sole  end 
and  object  of  their  lives,  and  having  succeeded  in  amass- 
ing great  riches,  are  constantly  tortured  by  the  dread  of 
poverty,  and  beset  by  fears  of  loss  and  ruin.  Many  things 
he  had  said,  which  I  had  been  at  a  loss  to  understand, 
were  quite  reconcileable  with  the  idea  thus  presented  to 
me,  and  at  length  I  concluded  that  beyond  all  doubt  he 
was  one  of  those  unhappy  race. 

The  opinion  was  not  the  result  of  hasty  consideration, 
for  which  indeed  there  was  no  opportunity  at  that  time, 
as  the  child  came  back  directly,  and  soon  occupied  her- 
self in  preparations  for  giving  Kit  a  writing  lesson,  of 
which  it  seemed  he  had  a  cou}:)le  every  week,  and  one  reg- 
ularly on  that  evening,  to  the  great  mirth  and  enjoyment 
both  of  himself  and  his  instructress.  To  relate  how  it 
was  a  long  time  before  his  modesty  could  be  so  far  pre- 
vailed upon  as  to  admit  of  his  sitting  down  in  the  par- 
lour, in  the  presence  of  an  unknown  gentleman — how, 
when  he  did  sit  down,  he  tucked  up  his  sleeves  and 
squared  his  elbows  and  put  his  face  close  to  the  copy- 
book and  squinted  horribly  at  the  lines — how,  from  the 
very  first  moment  of  having  the  pen  in  his  hand,  he  be- 
gan to  wallow  in  blots,  and  to  daub  himself  with  ink  up 
to  the  very  roots  of  his  hair — how,  if  he  did  by  accident 
form  a  letter  properly,  he  immediately  smeared  it  out 
again  with  his  arm  in  his  preparations  to  make  another — 
how,  at  every  fresh  mistake,  there  was  a  fresh  burst  of 
merriment  from  the  child  and  a  louder  and  not  less  hearty 
laugh  from  poor  Kit  himself — and  how  there  was  all  the 
way  through,  notwithstanding,  a  gentle  wish  on  her  part 
to  teach,  and  an  anxious  desire  on  his  to  learn — to  relate 
all  these  particulars  would  no  doubt  occupy  more  spare 
and  time  than  they  deserve.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  say 
that  the  lesson  was  given — that  evening  passed  and  night 
came  on — that  the  old  man  again  grew  restless  and  im 
patient — that  he  quitted  the  house  secretly  at  the  same 
liour  as  before — and  that  the  child  was  once  more  left 
alone  within  its  gloomy  walls. 

And  now,  that  I  have  carried  this  history  so  far  in  my 
own  character  and  introduced  these  personages  to  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


693 


reader,  I  shall  for  the  cotiTenience  of  the  narrative  de- 
tach myself  from  its  further  course,  and  leave  those  who 
have  prominent  and  necessary  parts  in  it  to  speak  and 
act  for  themselves. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Quilp  resided  on  Tovrer  Hill ;  and  in  her 
bower  on  Tower  Hill  Mrs.  Quilp  was  left  to  pine  the  ab- 
sence of  her  lord,  when  he  quitted  her  on  the  business 
which  he  has  been  already  seen  to  transact. 

Mr.  Quilp  could  scarcely  be  said  to  be  of  any  particular 
trade  or  calling,  though  his  pursuits  were  diversified  and 
his  occupations  numerous.  He  collected  the  rents  of 
whole  colonies  of  filthy  streets  and  alleys  by  the  water- 
side, advanced  money  to  the  seamen  and  petty  officers  of 
merchant  vessels,  had  a  share  in  the  ventures  of  divers 
mates  of  East  Indiamen,  smoked  his  smuggled  cigars  un- 
der the  very  nose  of  the  Custom  House,  and  made  ap- 
pointments on  Change  with  men  in  glazed  hats  and  round 
jackets  pretty  well  every  day.  On  the  Surrey  side  of  the 
river  was  a  small  rat-infested  dreary  yard  called  "  Quilp's 
Wharf,"  in  which  were  a  little  wooden  counting-house 
burrowing  all  awry  in  the  dust  as  if  it  had  fallen  from 
the  clouds  and  ploughed  into  the  ground  ;  a  few  frag- 
ments of  rusty  anchors  ;  several  large  iron  rings  ;  some 
piles  of  rotten  wood  ;  and  two  or  three  heaps  of  old  sheet 
copper,  crumpled,  cracked,  and  battered.  On  Quilp's 
Wharf,  Daniel  Quilp  was  a  ship-breaker,  yet,  to  judge 
from  these  appearances  he  must  either  have  been  a  ship- 
breaker  on  a  very  small  scale,  or  have  broken  his  ships 
up  very  small  indeed.  Neither  did  the  place  present 
any  extraordinary  aspect  of  life  or  activity,  as  its  only 
human  occupant  was  an  amphibious  boy  in  a  canvass 
suit,  whose  sole  change  of  occupation  was  from  sitting 
on  the  head  of  a  pile  and  throwing  stones  into  the  mud 
when  the  tide  was  out,  to  standing  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  gazing  listlessly  on  the  motion  and  on  the  bustle 
of  the  river  at  high-water. 

The  dwarf's  lodging  on  Tower  Hill  comprised,  besides 
the  needful  accommodation  for  himself  and  Mrs.  Quilp, 
a  small  sleeping-closet  for  that  lady's  mother,  who  re- 
sided with  the  couple  and  waged  perpetual  war  with 
Daniel  ;  of  whom,  notwithstanding,  she  stood  in  no  slight 
dread.  Indeed,  the  ugly  creature  contrived  by  some 
means  or  other — whether  by  his  ugliness  or  his  ferocity 
or  his  natural  cunning  is  no  great  matter — to  impress 
with  a  wholesome  fear  of  his  anger,  most  of  those  with 
whom  he  was  brought  into  daily  contact  and  communi- 
cation. Over  nobody  had  he  such  complete  ascendancy 
as  Mrs.  Quilp  herself — a  pretty  little,  mild-spoken,  blue- 
eyed  woman,  who  having  allied  herself  in  wedlock  to  the 
dwarf  in  one  of  those  strange  infatuations  of  which  ex- 
amples are  by  no  means  scarce,  performed  a  sound  prac- 
tical penance  for  her  folly,  every  day  of  her  life. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mrs.  Quilp  was  pining  in  her 
bower.  In  her  bower  she  was,  but  not  alone,  for  besides 
the  old  lady  her  mother  of  whom  mention  has  recently 
been  made,  there  were  present  some  half  dozen  ladies  of 
the  neighbourhood  who  had  happened  by  a  strange  acci- 
dent (and  also  by  a  little  understanding  among  them- 
selves) to  drop  in  one  after  another,  just  about  tea-time. 
This  being  a  season  favourable  to  conversation,  and  the 
room  being  a  cool,  shady,  lazy  kind  of  a  place,  with  some 
plants  at  the  open  window  shutting  out  the  dust,  and  in- 
terposing pleasantly  enough  between  the  tea-table  with- 
in and  the  old  Tower  without,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the 
ladies  felt  an  inclination  to  talk  and  linger,  especially 
when  there  are  taken  into  account  the  additional  induce- 
ments of  fresh  butter,  new  bread,  shrimps,  and  water- 
cresses. 

Now,  the  ladies  being  together  under  these  circum- 
stances, it  was  extremely  natural  that  the  discourse 
should  turn  upon  the  propensity  of  mankind  to  tyrannise 
over  the  weaker  sex,  and  the  duty  that  devolved  upon 
the  weaker  sex  to  resist  that  tyranny  and  assert  their 
rights  and  dignity.  It  was  natural  for  four  reasons  ; 
firstly  because  Mrs.  Quilp  being  a  young  woman  and  no- 
toriously under  the  dominion  of  her  husband  ought  to  be 
excited  to  rebel,  secondly  because  Mrs.  Quilp's  parent 
was  known  to  be  laudably  shrewish  in  her  disposition 


and  inclined  to  resist  male  authority,  thirdly  because 
each  visitor  wished  to  show  for  herself  how  superior 
she  was  in  this  respect  to  the  generality  of  her  sex,  and 
fourthly  because  the  company  being  accustomed  to  scan- 
dalise each  other  in  pairs  were  deprived  of  their  usual 
subject  of  conversation  now  that  they  were  all  assembled 
in  close  friendship,  and  had  consequently  no  better  em- 
ployment than  to  attack  the  common  enemy. 

Moved  by  these  considerations,  a  stout  lady  opened  the 
proceedings,  by  inquiring  with  an  air  of  great  concern 
and  sympathy,  how  Mr.  Quilp  was ;  whereunto  Mr. 
Quilp's  wife's  mother  replied  sharply,  "  Oh  !  he  was  well 
enough — nothing  much  was  ever  the  matter  with  him — 
and  ill  weeds  were  sure  to  thrive."  All  the  ladies  then 
sighed  in  concert,  shook  their  heads  gravely,  and  looked 
at  Mrs.  Quilp  as  at  a  martyr. 

"Ah  !"  said  the  spokeswoman,  "T  wish  you'd  give 
her  a  little  of  your  advice,  Mrs.  Jiniwin  " — Mrs.  Quilp 
had  been  a  Miss  .liniwin  it  should  be  observed— "  no- 
body knows  better  than  you,  ma'am,  what  us  women  owe 
to  ourselves." 

"  Owe  indeed,  ma'am,"  replied  Mrs.  .Jiniwin.  "  When 
my  poor  husband,  her  dear  father,  was  alive,  if  he  had 
ever  ventur'd  a  cross  word  to  me,  I'd  have — "  the  good 
old  lady  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  she  twisted  off 
the  head  of  a  shrimp  with  a  vindictiveness  which  seemed 
to  imply  that  the  action  was  in  some  degree  a  substitute 
for  words.  In  this  light  it  was  clearly  understood  by 
the  other  party,  who  immediately  replied  with  great  ap- 
probation. You  quite  enter  into  my  feelings,  ma'am, 
and  it's  jist  what  I'd  do  myself." 

"  But  you  have  no  call  to  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 
"Luckily  for  you,  you  have  no  more  occasion  to  doit 
than  I  had." 

"  No  woman  need  have,  if  she  was  true  to  herself,'* 
rejoined  the  stout  lady. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Betsy?"  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin,  in  a 
warning  voice.  "  How  often  have  I  said  the  very  same 
words  to  you,  and  almost  gone  down  on  my  knees  when 
I  spoke  'em  !  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Quilp,  who  had  looked  in  a  state  of  help- 
lessness from  one  face  of  condolence  to  another,  coloured, 
smiled,  and  shook  her  head  doubtfully.  This  was  the 
signal  for  a  general  clamour,  which  beginning  in  a  low 
murmur  gradually  swelled  into  a  great  noise,  in  which 
everybody  spoke  at  once,  and  all  said  that  she  being  a 
young  woman  had  no  right  to  set  up  her  opinions  against 
the  experiences  of  those  who  knew  so  much  better  ; 
that  it  was  very  wrong  of  her  not  to  take  the  advice  of 
people  who  had  nothing  at  heart  but  her  good  ;  that  it 
was  next  door  to  being  downright  ungrateful  to  conduct 
herself  in  that  manner  ;  that  if  she  had  no  respect  for 
herself  she  ought  to  have  some  for  other  women,  all  of 
whom  she  compromised  by  her  meekness  ;  and  that  if 
she  had  no  respect  for  other  women,  the  time  would 
come  when  other  women  would  have  no  respect  for  her  ; 
and  she  would  be  very  sorry  for  that,  they  could  tell  her. 
Having  dealt  out  these  admonitions,  the  ladies  fell  to 
a  more  powerful  assault  than  they  had  yet  made  upon 
the  mixed  tea,  new  bread,  fresh  butter,  shrimps,  and 
water-cresses,  and  said  that  their  vexation  was  so  great 
to  see  her  going  on  like  that,  that  they  could  hardly 
bring  themselves  to  eat  a  single  morsel. 

"  It's  all  very  fine  to  talk,"  said  Mrs.  Quilp  with  much 
simplicity,  "  but  I  know  that  if  I  was  to  die  to-morrow, 
Quilp  could  marry  anybody  he  pleased — now  that  he 
could,  I  know  !  " 

There  was  quite  a  scream  of  indignation  at  this  idea. 
Marry  whom  he  pleased  !  They  would  like  to  see  him 
dare  to  think  of  marrying  any  of  them  ;  they  would 
like  to  see  the  faintest  approach  to  such  a  thing.  One 
lady  (a  widow)  was  quite  certain  she  should  stab  him  if 
he  hinted  at  it. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Quilp,  nodding  her  head,  "  as 
I  said  just  now,  it's  very  easy  to  talk,  but  I  say  again 
that  I  "know— that  I'm  sure— Quilp  has  such  a  way  with 
him  when  he  likes,  that  the  best  looking  woman  here 
couldn't  refuse  him  if  I  was  dead,  and  she  was  free,  and 
he  chose  to  make  love  to  her.    Come  !  " 

Everybody  bridled  up  at  this  remark,  as  much  as  to 
say  "  I  know  you  mean  me.  Let  him  try — that's  all." 
And  yet  for  some  hidden  reason  they  were  all  angry  with 


694 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


tlie  widow,  and  each  lady  whispered  in  her  neighbour's 
ear  that  it  was  very  plain  the  said  widow  thought  her- 
self the  person  referred  to,  and  what  a  puss  she  was  ! 

"  Mother  knows,"  said  Mrs.  Quilp,  "that  what  I  say 
is  quite  correct,  for  she  often  said  so^  before  we  were 
married.    Didn't  you  say  so,  mother?" 

This  inquiry  involved  the  respected  lady  in  rather  a 
delicate  position,  for  she  certamly  had  been  an  active 
party  in  making  her  daughter  Mrs.  Quilp,  and  besides, 
it  was  not  supporting  the  family  credit  to  encourage  the 
idea  that  she  had  married  a  man  whom  nobody  else 
would  have.  On  the  other  hand,  to  exaggerate  the 
captivating  qualities  of  her  son-in-law  would  be  to 
weaken  the  cause  of  revolt,  in  which  all  her  energies 
were  deeply  engaged.  Beset  by  these  opposing  consid- 
erations, Mrs.  Jiniwin  admitted  the  powers  of  insinua- 
tion, but  denied  the  right  to  govern,  and  with  a  timely 
compliment  to  the  stout  lady  brought  back  the  discus- 
sion to  the  point  from  which  it  had  strayed. 

"Oh  !  It's  a  sensible  and  proper  thing  indeed,  what 
Mrs.  George  has  said  !"  exclaimed  the  old  lady.  "If 
women  are  only  true  to  themselves  I — but  Betsy  isn't, 
and  more's  the  shame  and  pity. " 

"  Before  I'd  let  a  man  order  me  about  as  Quilp  orders 
her,"  said  Mrs.  George  ;  "  before  I'd  consent  to  stand  in  i 
awe  of  a  man  as  she  does  of  him,  I'd — I'd  kill  myself, 
and  write  a  letter  first  to  say  he  did  it  ! " 

This  remark  being  loudly  commended  and  approved 
of,  another  lady  (from  the  Minories)  put  in  her  word  : 

"Mr.  Quilp  may  be  a  very  nice  man,"  said  this  lady, 
"  and  I  suppose  there  is  no  doubt  he  is,  because  Mrs. 
Quilp  says  he  is,  and  Mrs.  Jiniwin  says  he  is,  and  they 
ought  to  know,  or  nobody  does.  But  still  he  is  not  quite 
a — what  one  calls  a  handsome  man,  nor  quite  a  young 
man  neither,  which  might  be  a  little  excuse  for  him  if 
anything  could  be  ;  whereas  his  wife  is  young,  and  is 
good-looking,  and  is  a  woman — which  is  the  great  thing 
after  all." 

This  last  clause  being  delivered  with  extraordinary 
pathos  elicited  a  corresponding  murmur  from  the  hearers, 
stimulated  by  which  the  lady  went  on  to  remark  that  if 
such  a  husband  was  cross  and  unreasonable  with  such  a 
wife,  then — 

"If  he  is  ! "  interposed  the  mother,  putting  down  her 
teacup  and  brushing  the  crumbs  out  of  her  lap,  prepara- 
tory to  making  a  solemn  declaration.  "If  he  is!  He 
is  the  greatest  tyrant  that  ever  lived,  she  daren't  call 
her  soul  her  own,  he  makes  her  tremble  with  a  word  and 
even  with  a  look,  he  frightens  her  to  death,  and  she 
hasn't  the  spirit  to  give  him  a  word  back,  no,  not  a  sin- 
gle word." 

Notwithstanding  that  the  fact  had  been  notorious  be- 
forehand to  all  the  tea  drinkers,  and  had  been  discussed 
and  expatiated  on  at  every  tea-drinking  in  the  neighbour- 
hood for  the  last  twelve  months,  this  ofRcial  communica- 
tion was  no  sooner  made  than  they  all  began  to  talk  at 
once  and  to  vie  with  each  other  in  vehemence  and  volu- 
bility. Mrs.  George  remarked  that  people  would  talk, 
that  people  had  often  said  this  to  her  before,  that  Mrs. 
Simmons  then  and  there  present  had  told  her  so  twenty 
times,  that  she  had  always  said,  "No,  Henrietta  Sim- 
mons, unless  I  see  it  with  my  own  eyes,  and  hear  it  with 
my  own  ears,  I  never  will  believe  it. "  Mrs.  Simmons 
corroborated  this  testimony  and  added  strong  evidence 
of  her  own.  The  lady  from  the  Minories  recounted  a 
successful  course  of  treatment  under  which  she  had 
placed  her  own  husband,  who,  from  manifesting  one 
month  after  marriage  unequivocal  symptoms  of  the  tiger, 
had  by  this  means  become  subdued  into  a  perfect  lamb. 
Another  lady  recounted  her  own  personal  struggle  and 
final  triumph,  in  the  course  whereof  she  had  found  it 
necessary  to  call  in  her  mother  and  two  aunts,  and  to 
weep  incessantly  night  and  day  for  six  weeks.  A  third, 
who  in  the  general  confusion  could  secure  no  other  lis- 
tener, fastened  herself  upon  a  young  woman  still  un- 
married who  happened  to  be  amongst  tlieni,  and  con- 
jured her  as  she  valued  her  own  peace  of  mind  and 
happiness  to  profit  by  this  solemn  occasion,  to  take  ex- 
ample from  the  weakness  of  Mrs.  Quilp,  and  from  that 
time  forth  to  direct  her  whole  thoughts  to  taming  and 
subduing  the  rebellious  spirit  of  man.  The  noise  was 
at  its  height,  and  half  the  company  had  elevated  their 


voices  into  a  perfect  shriek  in  order  to  drown  the  voices 
of  the  other  half,  when  Mrs.  Jiniwin  was  seen  to  change 
colour  and  shake  her  fore-finger  stealthily,  as  if  exhort- 
ing them  to  silence.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  Daniel 
Quilp  himself,  the  cause  and  occasion  of  all  this  clamour, 
was  observed  to  be  in  the  room,  looking  on  and  listening 
with  profound  attention. 

"Go  on,  ladies,  go  on,"  said  Daniel.  "Mrs.  Quilp, 
pray  ask  the  ladies  to  stop  to  supper,  and  have  a  couple 
of  lobsters  and  something  light  and  palatable." 

"  I — I — didn't  ask  them  to  tea,  Quilp,"  stammered  his 
wife.    "  It's  quite  an  accident." 

"  So  much  the  better,  Mrs.  Quilp  ;  these  accidental 
parties  are  always  the  pleasantest,"  said  the  dwarf,  rub- 
bing his  hands  so  hard  that  he  seemed  to  be  engaged  in 
manufacturing,  of  the  dirt  with  which  they  were  en- 
crusted, little  charges  for  popguns.  "  What !  Not  go- 
ing, ladies  !    You  are  not  going,  surely  ! " 

His  fair  enemies  tossed  their  heads  slightly  as  they 
sought  their  respective  bonnets  and  shawls,  but  left  all 
verbal  contention  to  Mrs.  Jiniwin,  who  finding  herself  in 
the  position  of  champion,  made  a  faint  struggle  to  sus- 
tain the  character. 

"And  why  not  stop  to  supper,  Quilp,"  said  the  old 
^ady,  "if  my  daughter  had  a  mind?" 

"  To  be  sure,"  rejoined  Daniel.    "  Why  not  ?" 

"  There's  nothing  dishonest  or  wrong  in  a  supper,  I 
hope?"  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

"Surely  not,"  returned  the  dwarf.  "Why  should 
there  be?  Nor  anything  unwholesome  either,  unless 
there's  lobster-salad  or  prawns,  which  I'm  told  are  not 
good  for  digestion." 

"  And  you  wouldn't  like  your  wife  to  be  attacked  with 
that,  or  anything  else  that  would  make  her  uneasy, 
would  you?"  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

"  Not  for  a  score  of  worlds,"  replied  the  dwarf  with  a 
grin.  "  Not  even  to  have  a  score  of  mothers-in-law  at 
the  same  time — and  what  a  blessing  that  would  be  ! " 

"My  daughter's  your  wife,  Mr.  Quilp,  certainly,"  said 
the  old  lady  with  a  giggle,  meant  for  satirical  and  to 
imply  that  he  needed  to  be  reminded  of  the  fact ;  "  your 
wedded  wife." 

"  So  she  is  certainly.    So  she  is,"  observed  the  dwarf. 

"  And  she  has  a  right  to  do  as  she  likes,  I  hope,  Quilp," 
said  the  old  lady  trembling,  partly  with  anger  and  partly 
with  a  secret  fear  of  her  impish  son-in-law. 

"Hope  she  has  ! "  he  replied,  "  Oh  !  Don't  you  know 
she  has?    Don't  you  know  she  has,  Mrs.  Jiniwin?" 

"  I  know  she  ought  to  have,  Quilp,  and  would  have  if 
she  was  of  my  way  of  thinking." 

"  Why  an't  you  of  your  mother's  way  of  thinking,  my 
dear?"  said  the  dwarf,  turning  round  and  addressing 
his  wife,  "  why  don't  you  always  imitate  your  mother, 
my  dear?  She's  the  ornament  of  her  sex — your  father 
said  so  every  day  of  his  life,  I  am  sure  he  did." 

"Her  father  was  a  blessed  creetur,  Quilp,  and  worth 
twenty  thousand  of  some  people,"  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin  ; 
"  twenty  hundred  million  thousand." 

"I  should  like  to  have  known  him,"  remarked  the 
dwarf.  "I  dare  say  he  was  a  blessed  creature  then; 
but  I'm  sure  he  is  now.  It  was  a  happy  release.  I  be- 
lieve he  had  suffered  a  long  time  ?  " 

The  old  lady  gave  a  gasp,  but  nothing  came  of  it  ; 
Quilp  resumed,  with  the  same  malice  in  his  eye  and  the 
same  sarcastic  politeness  on  his  tongue. 

"You  look  ill,  Mrs.  Jiniwin;  I  know  you  have  been 
exciting  yourself  too  much — talking  perhaps,  for  it  is 
your  weakness.    Go  to  bed.    Do  go  to  bed." 

"I  shall  go  when  I  please,  Quilp,  and  not  before." 

"  But  please  to  go  now.  Do  please  to  go  now,"  said 
the  dwarf. 

The  old  woman  looked  angrily  at  him,  but  retreated 
as  he  advanced,  and  falling  back  before  him  suffered 
him  to  shut  the  door  upon  her  and  bolt  her  out  among* 
the  guests,  who  were  by  this  time  crowding  down-stairs. 
Being  left  alone  with  his  wife,  who  sat  trembling  in  a 
corner  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  the  little 
man  planted  himself  before  her,  at  some  distance,  and 
folding  his  arms  looked  steadily  at  her  for  a  long  time 
without  speaking. 

"  Oh  you  nice  creature  ! "  were  the  words  with  which 
ho  broke  silence  ;  smacking  his  lips  as  if  this  were  no 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


C95 


figure  of  speech,  and  she  were  actually  a  sweetmeat. 
"  Oh  you  precious  darling  !  oh  you  de-licious  charmer  !  " 

Mrs.  Quilp  sobbed  ;  and  knowing  the  nature  of  her 
pleasant  lord,  appeared  quite  as  much  alarmed  by  these 
compliments,  as  she  would  have  been  by  tlie  most  ex- 
treme demonstrations  of  violence. 

"She's  such,"  said  the  dwarf,  with  a  ghastly  grin, — 
"such  a  jewel,  such  a  diamond,  such  a  pearl,  such  a 
ruby,  such  a  golden  casket  set  with  gems  of  all  sorts  ! 
She's  such  a  treasure  !    I'm  so  fond  of  her  !  " 

The  poor  little  woman  shivered  from  head  to  foot  ;  and 
raising  her  eyes  to  his  face  with  an  imploring  look, 
suffered  them  to  droop  again,  and  sobbed  once  more. 

"  The  best  of  her  is,"  said  the  dwarf,  advancing  with 
a  sort  of  skip,  which,  what  with  the  crookedness  of  his 
legs,  the  ugliness  of  his  face,  and  the  mockery  of  his 
manner,  was  perfectly  goblin-like  ; — "  the  best  of  her  is 
that  she's  so  meek,  and  she's  so  mild,  and  she  never  has 
a  will  of  her  own,  and  she  has  such  an  insinuating 
mother  !" 

Uttering  these  latter  words  with  a  gloating  malicious- 
ness, within  a  hundred  degrees  of  which  no  one  but 
himself  could  possibly  approach,  Mr.  Quilp  planted  his 
two  hands  on  his  knees,  and  straddling  his  legs  out 
very  wide  apart,  stooped  slowly  down,  and  down,  and 
down,  until,  by  screwing  his  head  very  much  on  one 
side,  he  came  between  his  wife's  eyes  and  the  floor. 

"Mrs.  Quilp  !  " 

"Yes,  Quilp." 

"Am  I  nice  to  look  at  ?  Should  I  be  the  handsomest 
creature  in  the  world  if  I  had  but  whiskers?  Am  I 
quite  a  lady's  man  as  it  is  ? — am  I,  Mrs.  Quilp  ?  " 

Mrs.  Quilp  dutifully  replied,  "  Yes,  Quilp  ; "  and  fas- 
cinated by  his  gaze,  remained  looking  timidly  at  him, 
while  he  treated  her  with  a  succession  of  such  horrible 
grimaces,  as  none  but  himself  and  nightmares  had  the 
power  of  assuming.  During  the  whole  of  this  perform- 
ance, which  was  somewhat  of  the  longest,  he  preserved 
a  dead  silence,  except  w^hen,  by  an  unexpected  skip  or 
leap,  he  made  his  wife  start  backward  with  an  irrepress- 
ible shriek.    Then  he  chuckled. 

"  Mrs.  Quilp,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Yes,  Quilp,"  she  meekly  replied. 

Instead  of  pursuing  the  theme  he  had  in  his  mind, 
Quilp  rose,  folded  his  arms  again,  and  looked  at  her 
more  sternly  than  before,  while  she  averted  her  eyes 
and  kept  them  on  the  ground. 

"Mrs.  Quilp." 

"  Yes,  Quilp." 

"  If  ever  you  listen  to  these  beldames  again,  I'll  bite 
you." 

With  this  laconic  threat,  which  he  accompanied  with 
a  snarl  that  gave  him  the  appearance  of  being  particu- 
larly in  earnest,  Mr.  Quilp  bade  her  clear  the  teaboard 
away,  and  bring  the  rum.  The  spirit  being  set  before 
him  in  a  huge  case- bottle,  which  had  originally  come 
out  of  some  ship's  locker,  he  ordered  cold  water  and  a 
box  of  cigars  ;  and  these  being  supplied,  he  settled 
himself  in  an  arm-chair  with  his  large  head  and  face 
squeezed  up  against  the  back,  and  his  little  legs  planted 
on  the  table. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Quilp,"  he  said  ;  "  I  feel  in  a  smoking 
humour,  and  shall  probably  blaze  away  all  night.  But 
sit  where  you  are,  if  you  please,  in  case  I  want  you." 

His  wife  returned  no  other  reply  than  the  customary 
"Yes,  Quilp,"  and  the  small  lord  of  the  creation  took 
his  first  cigar  and  mixed  his  first  glass  of  grog.  The 
sun  went  down  and  the  stars  peeped  out,  the  Tower 
turned  from  its  own  proper  colours  to  grey  and  from 
grey  to  black,  the  room  became  perfectly  dark  and  the 
end  of  the  cigar  a  deep  fiery  red,  but  still  Mr.  Quilp  went 
on  smoking  and  drinking  in  the  same  position,  and  star- 
ing listlessly  out  of  window  with  the  dog-like  smile 
always  on  his  face,  save  when  Mrs.  Quilp  made  some  in- 
voluntary movement  of  restlessness  or  fatigue ;  and 
then  it  expanded  into  a  grin  of  delight. 


CHAPTER.  V. 

Whether  Mr.  Quilp  took  any  sleep  by  snatches  of  a 
lew  winks  at  a  time,  or  whether  he  sat  with  his  eyes 


wide  open  all  night  long,  certain  it  is  that  he  kept  his 
cigar  alight,  and  kindled  every  fresh  one  from  the  ashes 
of  that  which  was  nearly  consumed,  without  requiring 
the  assistance  of  a  candle.  Nor  did  the  striking  of  the 
clocks,  hour  after  hour,  appear  to  inspire  him  with  any 
sense  of  drowsiness  or  any  natural  desire  to  goto  rest; 
but  rather  to  increase  his  wakefulness,  which  he  showed, 
at  every  such  indication  of  the  progress  of  the  night, 
by  a  suppressed  cackling  in  his  throat,  and  a  motion  of 
his  shoulders,  like  one  who  laughs  heartily,  but  at  the 
same  time  slily  and  by  stealth. 

At  length  the  day  broke,  and  poor  Mrs.  Quilp,  shiver- 
ing with  the  cold  of  early  morning  and  harassed  by 
fatigue  and  want  of  sleep  was  discovered  sitting  patiently 
on  her  chair,  raising  her  eyes  at  intervals  in  mute  appeal 
to  the  compassion  and  clemency  of  her  lord,  and  gently 
reminding  him  by  an  occasional  cough  that  she  was  still 
unpardoned  and  that  her  penance  had  been  of  long  du- 
ration. But  her  dwarfish  spouse  still  smoked  his  cigar 
and  drank  his  rum  without  heeding  her  ;  and  it  was  not 
until  the  sun  had  some  time  risen,  and  the  activity  and 
noise  of  city  day  were  rife  in  the  street,  that  he 
deigned  to  recognise  her  pre.sence  by  any  word  or  sign. 
He  might  not  have  done  so  even  then,  but  for  certain 
impatient  tappings  at  the  door  which  seemed  to  denote 
that  some  pretty  hard  knuckles  were  actively  engaged 
upon  the  other  side. 

"  Why  dear  me  !  "  he  said  looking  round  with  a  ma- 
licious grin,  "it's  day  1  open  the  door,  sweet  Mrs. 
Quilp  !  " 

His  obedient  wife  withdrew  the  bolt,  and  her  lady 
mother  entered. 

Now,  Mrs.  Jiniwin  bounced  into  the  room  with  great 
impetuosity  ;  for,  supposing  her  son-in-law  to  be  still 
a-bed,  she  had  come  to  relieve  her  feelings  by  pronounc- 
ing a  strong  opinion  upon  his  general  conduct  and  char- 
acter. Seeing  that  he  was  up  and  dressed,  and  that  the 
room  appeared  to  have  been  occupied  ever  since  she 
quitted  it  on  the  previous  evening,  she  stopped  short,  in 
some  embarrassment. 

Nothing  escaped  the  hawk's  eye  of  the  ugly  little 
man,  who,  perfectly  understanding  what  passed  in  the 
old  lady's  mind,  turned  uglier  still  in  the  fulness  of  his 
satisfaction,  and  bade  her  good  morning,  with  a  leer  of 
triumph. 

"Why,  Betsy,"  said  the  old  woman,  "you  haven't 
been  a — you  don't  mean  to  say  you've  been  a — " 

"  Sitting  up  all  night?"  said  Quilp  supplying  the  con- 
clusion of  the  sentence.    "Yes  she  has  !" 

"  All  night  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

"Aye,  all  night.  Is  the  dear  old  lady  deaf  ?"  said 
Quilp,  with  a  smile  of  which  a  frown  was  part,  "  W~ho 
says  man  and  wife  are  bad  company  ?  Ha  ha  !  The 
time  has  flown." 

"  You're  a  brute  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

"Come  come,"  said  Quilp,  wilfully  misunderstanding 
her,  of  course,  "you  mustn't  call  her  names.  She's 
married  now,  you  know.  And  though  she  did  beguile 
the  time  and  keep  me  from  my  bed,  you  must  not  be  so 
tenderly  careful  of  me  as  to  be  out  of  humour  with  her. 
Bless  you  for  a  dear  old  lady.    Here's  your  health  !  " 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  returned  the  old  woman, 
testifying  by  a  certain  restlessness  in  her  hands  a  vehe- 
ment desire  to  shake  her  matronly  fist  at  her  son-in-law. 
"  Oh  !  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  !  " 

Grateful  soul  !  "  cried  the  dwarf.    "Mrs.  Quilp." 

"Yes,  Quilp,"  said  the  timid  sufferer. 

"Help  your  mother  to  get  breakfast,  Mrs.  Quilp.  I 
am  going  to  the  wharf  this  morning — the  earlier,  the 
better,  so  be  quick." 

Mrs.  Jiniwin  made  a  faint  demonstration  of  rebellion 
by  sitting  down  in  a  chair  near  the  door  and  folding  her 
arms  as  if  in  a  resolute  determination  to  do  nothing. 
But  a  few  whispered  words  from  her  daughter,  and  a 
kind  inquiry  from  her  son-in-law  whether  she  felt  faint, 
with  a  hint  that  there  was  abundance  of  cold  water  in 
the  next  apartment,  routed  these  symptoms  effectually, 
and  she  applied  herself  to  the  prescribed  preparations 
with  sullen  diligence. 

While  they  were  in  progress,  Mr.  Quilp  withdrew  to 
the  adjoining  room,  and,  turning  back  his  coat-collar, 
proceeded  to  smear  his  countenance  with  a  damp  towel 


696 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


of  very  unwbolesome  appearance,  which  made  his  com- 
plexion rather  more  cloudy  than  it  had  been  before. 
But,  while  he  was  thus  engaged,  his  caution  and  inquis- 
itiveness  did  not  forsake  him.  With  a  face  as  sharp 
.and  cunning  as  ever,  he  often  stopped,  even  in  this  short 
process,  and  stood  listening  for  any  conversation  in  the 
next  room,  of  which  he  might  be  the  theme. 

"Ah  !"  he  said  after  a  short  effort  of  attention,  "  it 
was  not  the  towel  over  my  ears,  I  thought  it  wasn't.  I'm 
a  little  hunchy  villain  and  a  monster,  am  I,  Mrs.  Jini- 
win  ?    Oh  !  " 

The  pleasure  of  this  discovery  called  up  the  old  dog- 
like smile  in  full  force.  When  he  had  quite  done  with 
it,  he  shook  himself  in  a  very  doglike  manner,  and  re- 
joined the  ladies. 

Mr.  Quilp  now  walked  up  to  the  front  of  a  looking- 
glass,  and  was  standing  there,  putting  on  his  necker- 
chief, when  Mrs.  Jiniwin  happening  to  be  behind  him, 
could  not  resist  the  inclination  she  felt  to  shake  her  fist 
at  her  tyrant  son-in-law.  It  was  the  gesture  of  an  in- 
stant, but  as  she  did  so  and  accompanied  tlie  action  with 
a  menacing  look,  she  met  his  eye  in  the  glass,  catching 
her  in  the  very  act.  The  same  glance  at  the  mirror  con- 
veyed to  her  the  reflection  of  a  horribly  grotesque  and 
distorted  face  with  the  tongue  lolling  out ;  and  the  next 
instant  the  dwarf,  turning  about,  with  a  perfectly  bland 
and  placid  look,  inquired  in  a  tone  of  great  affection, 

"  How  are  you  now,  my  dear  old  darling  ?  " 

Slight  and  ridiculous  as  the  incident  was,  it  made  him 
appear  such  a  little  fiend,  and  withal  such  a  keen  and 
knowing  one,  that  the  old  woman  felt  too  much  afraid 
of  him  to  utter  a  single  word,  and  suffered  herself  to  be 
led  with  extraordinary  politeness  to  the  breakfast  table. 
Here,  he  by  no  means  diminished  the  impression  he  had 
just  produced,  for  he  ate  hard  eggs,  shell  and  all,  de- 
voured gigantic  prawns  with  the  heads  and  tails  on, 
chewed  tobacco  and  water-cresses  at  the  same  time  and 
with  extraordinary  greediness,  drank  boiling  tea  without 
winking,  bit  his  fork  and  spoon  till  they  bent  again,  and 
in  short  performed  so  many  horrifying  and  uncommon 
acts  that  the  women  were  nearly  frightened  out  of  their 
wits,  and  began  to  doubt  if  he  were  really  a  human 
creature.  At  last,  having  gone  through  these  proceed- 
ings and  many  others  which  were  equally  a  part  of  his 
system,  Mr.  Quilp  left  them,  reduced  to  a  very  obedient 
and  humbled  state,  and  betook  himself  to  the  river-side, 
where  he  took  boat  for  the  wharf  on  which  he  had  be- 
stowed his  name. 

It  was  flood  tide  when  Daniel  Quilp  sat  himself  down 
in  the  wherry  to  cross  to  the  opposite  shore.  A  fleet  of 
barges  were  coming  lazily  on,  some  sideways,  some  head 
first,  some  stem  first ;  all  in  a  wrong-headed,  dogged, 
obstinate  way,  bumping  up  against  the  larger  craft,  run- 
ning under  the  bows  of  steamboats,  getting  into  every  kind 
of  nook  and  corner  where  they  had  no  business,  and 
being  crunched  on  all  sides  like  so  many  walnut-shells  ; 
while  each,  with  its  pair  of  long  sweeps  struggling  and 
splashing  in  the  water,  looked  like  some  lumbering  fish 
in  pain.  In  some  of  the  vessels  at  anchor  all  hands 
were  busily  engaged  in  coiling  ropes,  spreading  out  sails 
to  dry,  taking  in  or  discharging  their  cargoes  ;  in  others, 
no  life  was  visible  but  two  or  three  tarry  boys,  and  per- 
haps a  barking  dog  running  to  and  fro  upon  the  deck  or 
scrambling  up  to  look  over  the  side  and  bark  the  louder 
for  the  view.  Coming  slowly  on  through  the  forest  of 
masts,  was  a  great  steam-ship,  beating  the  water  in  short 
impatient  strokes  with  her  heavy  paddles,  as  though  she 
wanted  room  to  breathe,  and  advancing  in  her  huge  bulk 
like  a  sea  monster  among  the  minnows  of  the  Thames. 
On  either  hand,  were  long  black  tiers  of  colliers  ;  be- 
tween them  vessels  slowly  working  out  of  harbour  with 
•sails  glistening  in  the  sun,  and  creaking  noise  on  board, 
re-echoed  from  a  hundred  quarters.  The  water  and  all 
upon  it  was  in  active  motion,  dancing  and  buoyant  and 
bubbling  up  ;  while  the  old  grey  Tower  and  piles  of 
building  on  the  .^^hore,  with  many  a  church-spire  shoot- 
ing up  between,  looked  coldly  on,  and  seemed  to  disdain 
their  chafing,  restless  neighbour. 

Daniel  Quilp,  who  was  not  much  affected  by  a  bright 
morning  save  in  so  far  as  it  spared  him  the  trouble  of 
carrying  an  umbrella,  caused  himself  to  be  put  ashore 
hard  by  tlie  wharf,  and  proceeded  thither,  through  a 


narrow  lane  which,  partaking  of  the  amphibious  charac- 
ter  of  its  frequenters,  had  as  much  water  as  mud  in  itg 
composition,  and  a  very  liberal  supply  of  both.  Arrived 
at  his  destination,  the  first  object  that  presented  itself 
to  his  view  was  a  pair  of  very  imperfectly  shod  feet  ele- 
vated in  the  air  with  the  soles  upwards,  which  remark- 
able appearance  was  referable  to  the  boy,  who  being  of 
an  eccentric  spirit  and  having  a  natural  taste  for  tum- 
bling was  now  standing  on  his  head  and  contemplating 
the  aspect  of  the  river  under  these  uncommon  circum- 
stances. He  was  speedily  brought  on  his  heels  by  the 
sound  of  his  master's  voice,  and  as  soon  as  his  head  was 
in  its  right  position,  Mr.  Quilp,  to  speak  expressively  in 
the  absence  of  a  better  verb,  "punched  it "  for  him. 

"  Come,  you  let  me  alone,"  said  the  boy,  parrying 
Quilp's  hand  with  both  his  elbows  alternately.  "You'll 
get  something  you  won't  like  if  you  don't,  and  so  I  tell 
you." 

"You  dog,"  snarled  Quilp,  "I'll  beat  you  with  an  : 
iron  rod,  I'll  scratch  you  with  a  rusty  nail,  I'll  pinch  your 
eyes,  if  you  talk  to  me — I  will  1" 

With  these  threats  he  clenched  his  hand  again,  and 
dexterously  diving  in  between  the  elbows  and  catching 
the  boy's  head  as  it  dodged  from  side  to  side,  gave  it 
three  or  four  good  hard  knocks.  Having  now  carried 
his  point  and  insisted  on  it,  he  left  off. 

"You  won't  do  it  again,"  said  the  boy,  nodding  his 
head  and  drawing  back,  with  the  elbows  ready  in  case 
of  the  worst  ;  "  now  !  " 

"Stand  still,  you  dog,"  said  Quilp.    "I  won't  do  it  . 
again,  because  I've  done  it  as  often  as  I  want.  Here. 
Take  the  key." 

"  Why  don't  you  hit  one  of  your  size?"  said  the  boy, 
approaching  very  slowly. 

"  Where  is  there  one  of  my  size,  you  dog?"  returned 
Quilp.    "  Take  the  key,  or  I'll  brain  you  with  it" — in-  ^ 
deed  he  gave  him  a  smart  tap  with  the  handle  as  he 
spoke.    "  Now,  open  the  counting-house." 

The  boy  sulkily  complied,  muttering  at  first,  but  de- 
sisting when  he  looked  round  and  saw  that  Quilp  was  \ 
following  him  with  a  steady  look.  And  here  it  may  be  , 
remarked,  that  between  this  boy  and  the  dwarf  there  j 
existed  a  strange  kind  of  mutual  lildng.  How  born  or  ■ 
bred,  or  how  nourished  upon  blows  and  threats  on  one  ■ 
side,  and  retorts  and  defiances  on  the  other,  is  not  to  the  a 
purpose.  Quilp  would  certainly  suffer  nobody  to  con-  " 
tradict  him  but  the  boy,  and  the  boy  would  assuredly  \ 
not  have  submitted  to  be  so  knocked  about  by  anybody  ' 
but  Quilp,  when  he  had  the  power  to  run  away  at  any  | 
time  he  chose. 

"  Now,"  said  Quilp,  passing  into  the  wooden  counting-  < 
house,  "  you  mind  the  wharf.  Stand  upon  your  head  ' 
again,  and  I'll  cut  one  of  your  feet  off."  1 

The  boy  made  no  answer,  but  directly  Quilp  had  shut 
himself  in,  stood  on  his  head  before  the  door,  then 
walked  on  his  hands  to  the  back  and  stood  on  his  head 
there,  and  then  to  the  opposite  side  and  repeated  the  per- 
formance. There  were,  indeed,  four  sides  to  the  count- 
ing-house, but  he  avoided  that  one  where  the  window 
was,  deeming  it  probable  that  Quilp  would  be  looking 
out  of  it.  This  was  prudent,  for  in  point  of  fact  the 
dwarf,  knowing  his  disposition,  was  lying  in  wait  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  sash  armed  with  a  large  piece  of 
wood,  which, being  rough  and  jagged  and  studded  in  many 
parts  with  broken  nails,  might  possibly  have  hurt  him. 

It  was  a  dirty  little  box,  this  counting-house,  with 
nothing  in  it  but  an  old  rickety  desk  and  two  stools,  a 
hat-peg,  an  ancient  almanack,  an  inkstand  with  no  ink 
and  the  stump  of  one  pen,  and  an  eight-day  clock  which 
hadn't  gone  for  eighteen  years  at  least  and  of  which  the 
minute-hand  had  been  twisted  off  for  a  tooth-pick.  Dan- 
iel Quilp  pulled  his  hat  over  his  brows,  climbed  on  to 
the  desk  (which  had  a  fiat  top),  and  stretching  his  short 
length  upon  it  went  to  sleep  with  the  ease  of  an  old 
practitioner  ;  intending,  no  doubt,  to  compensate  him- 
self for  the  deprivation  of  last  night's  rest,  by  alongand 
sound  nap. 

Sound  it  might  have  been,  but  long  it  was  not,  for  he 
had  not  been  asleep  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when  the  boy 
opened  the  door  and  thrust  in  his  head,  which  was  like  a 
bundle  of  badly-picked  oakum.  Quilp  was  a  light  sleep- 
er and  started  up  directly. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


097 


''Here's  somebody  for  you,"  said  the  boy. 

"Who?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Ask  !  "  said  Quilp,  seizing- the  trifle  of  wood  before 
mentioned  and  throwing  it  at  him  with  such  dexterity 
that  it  was  well  the  boy  disappeared  before  it  reached 
the  spot  on  which  he  had  stood.     "  Ask,  you  dog." 

Not  caring  to  venture  within  range  of  such  missiles 
again,  the  boy  discreetly  sent,  in  his  stead,  the  first  cause 
of  the  interruption,  who  now  presented  herself  at  the 
door. 

*'  ^Vhat,  Nelly  !  "  cried  Quilp. 

"Yes," — said  the  child,  hesitating  whether  to  enter  or 
retreat,  for  the  dwarf  just  roused,  with  his  dishevelled 
hair  hanging  all  about  him,  and  a  yellow  handkerchief 
over  his  head,  was  something  fearful  to  behold  ;  "  it's 
only  me,  sir." 

"  Come  in,"  said  Quilp,  without  getting  off  the  desk. 
"  Come  in.  Stay.  Just  look  out  into  the  yard,  and  see 
whether  there's  a  boy  standing  on  his  head." 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Nell.    "  He's  on  his  feet." 

"  You're  sure  he  is  ?  "  said  Quilp.  "  Well.  Now,  come 
in  and  shut  the  door.    What's  your  message,  Nelly  ?  " 

The  child  handed  him  a  letter  ;  Mr.  Quilp,  without 
changing  his  position  otherwise  than  to  turn  over  a  little 
more  on  his  side  and  rest  his  chin  on  his  hand,  proceeded 
to  make  himself  acquainted  with  its  contents. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Little  Nell  stood  timidly  by,  with  her  eyes  raised 
to  the  countenance  of  Mr.  Quilp  as  he  read  the  letter, 
plainly  showing  by  her  looks  that  while  she  entertained 
some  fear  and  distrust  of  the  little  man,  she  was  much  in- 
clined to  laugh  at  his  uncouth  appearance  and  grotesque 
attitude.  And  yet,  there  was  visible  on  the  part  of 
the  child  a  painful  anxiety  for  his  reply,  and  a  conscious- 
ness of  his  power  to  render  it  disagreeable  or  distressing, 
which  was  strongly  at  variance  with  this  impulse  and 
restrained  it  more  effectually  than  she  could  possibly 
have  done  by  any  efforts  of  her  own. 

That  Mr. Quilp  was  himself  perplexed,  and  that  in  no 
small  degree,  by  the  contents  of  the  letter,  was  sufficient- 
ly obvious.  Before  he  had  got  through  the  first  two  or 
three  lines  he  began  to  open  his  eyes  very  wide  and  to 
frown  most  horribly,  the  next  two  or  three  caused  him  to 
scratch  his  head  in  an  uncommonly  vicious  manner,  and 
when  he  came  to  the  conclusion  he  gave  a  long  dismal 
whistle  indicative  of  surprise  and  dismay.  After  folding 
and  laying  it  down  beside  him,  he  bit  the  nails  of  all  his 
ten  fingers  with  extreme  voracity ;  and  taking  it  up 
sharply,  read  it  again.  The  second  perusal  was  to  all 
appearance  as  unsatisfactory  as  the  first,  and  plunged 
him  into  a  profound  reverie  from  which  he  awakened  to 
another  assault  upon  his  nails  and  a  long  stare  at  the 
child,  who  with  her  eyes  turned  towards  the  ground 
awaited  his  further  pleasure. 

"  Halloa,  here  !"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  voice,  and  with 
a  suddenness  which  made  the  child  start  as  though  a 
gun  had  been  fired  off  at  her  ear.    "  Nelly  ! " 

"Yes,  sir  \" 

"  Do  you  know  what's  inside  this  letter,  Nell?  " 
"  No,  sir  \" 

"  Are  you  sure,  quite  sure,  quite  certain,  upon  your 
Boul  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  sir." 

" Do  you  wish  you  may  die  if  you  do  know,  hey?" 
said  the  dwarf. 

"  Indeed  I  don't  know,"  returned  the  child. 

"Well  !"  muttered  Quilp  as  he  marked  her  earnest 
look.  "  I  believe  you.  Humph!  Gone  already?  Gone 
in.  four-and-twenty  hours  !  What  the  devil  has  he  done 
with  it  !    That's  the  mystery  1  " 

This  reflection  set  him  scratching  his  head,  and  biting 
his  nails,  once  more.  While  he  was  thus  employed  his 
features  gradually  relaxed  into  what  was  with  him  a 
cheerful  smile,  but  which  in  any  other  man  would  have 
been  a  ghastly  grin  of  pain  ;  and  when  the  child  looked 
up  again  she  found  that  he  was  regarding  her  with  ex- 
traordinary favour  and  complacency. 


"  You  look  very  pretty  to-day,  Nelly,  charmingly 
pretty.    Are  you  tired,  Nelly  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  get  back,  for  he  will  be 
anxious  while  I  am  away." 

"  There's  no  hurry,  little  Nell,  no  hurry  at  all,"  said 
Quilp.  "  How  should  you  like  to  be  my  number  two, 
Nelly?" 

"To  be  what,  sir?" 

"  My  number  two,  Nelly  ;  my  second  ;  my  Mrs.  Quilp," 
said  the  dwarf. 

The  child  looked  frightened,  but  seemed  not  to  under- 
stand him,  which  Mr.  Quilp  observing,  hastened  to  ex- 
plain his  meaning  more  distinctly. 

"To  be  Mrs.  Quilp  the  second,  when  Mrs.  Quilp  the 
first  is  dead,  sweet  Nell,"  said  Quilj),  wrinkling  up  his 
eyes  and  luring  her  towards  him  with  his  bent  forefinger, 
"to  be  my  wife,  my  little  cherry-cheeked,  red-lipped 
wife.  Say  that  Mrs.  Quilp  lives  five  years,  or  only  four, 
you'll  be  just  the  proper  age  for  me.  Ha  ha  !  Be  a 
good  girl,  Nelly,  a  very  good  girl,  and  see  if  one  of  these 
days  you  don't  come  to  be  Mrs.  Quilp  of  Tower  Hill," 

So  far  from  being  sustained  and  stimulated  by  this  de- 
lightful prospect  the  child  shrunk  from  him,  and  trem- 
bled. Mr.  Quilp,  either  because  frightening  anybody 
afforded  him  a  constitutional  delight,  or  because  it  was 
pleasant  to  contemplate  the  death  of  Mrs.  Quilp  number 
one,  and  the  elevation  of  Mrs.  Quilp  number  two  to  her 
post  and  title,  or  because  he  was  determined  for  purposes 
of  his  own  to  be  agreeable  and  good-humoured  at  that 
particular  time,  only  laughed  and  feigned  to  take  no 
heed  of  her  alarm. 

"  You  shall  come  with  me  to  Tower  Hill,  and  see  Mrs. 
Quilp  that  is,  directly,"  said  the  dwarf.  "She's  very 
fond  of  you,  Nell,  though  not  so  fond  as  I  am.  You 
shall  come  home  with  me. " 

"  I  must  go  back  indeed,"  said  the  child.  "He  told 
me  to  return  directly  I  had  the  answer." 

"But  you  haven't  it,  Nelly,"  retorted  the  dwarf, 
"  and  won't  have  it,  and  can't  have  it,  until  I  have 
been  home,  so  you  see  that  to  do  your  errand,  you  must 
go  with  me.  Reach  me  yonder  hat,  my  dear,  and  we'll 
go  directly."  With  that,  Mr.  Quilp  suffered  himself  to 
roll  gradually  off  the  desk  until  his  short  legs  touched 
the  ground,  when  he  got  upon  them  and  led  the  way 
from  the  counting-room  to  the  wharf  outside,  where  the 
first  objects  that  presented  themselves  "were  the  boy  who 
had  stood  on  his  head  and  another  young  gentleman  of 
about  his  own  stature,  rolling  in  the  mud  together, 
locked  in  a  tight  embrace,  and  cuffing  each  other  with 
mutual  heartiness. 

"It's  Kit!"  cried  Nelly  clasping  her  hands,  "poor 
Kit  who  came  with  me  !  oh  pray  stop  them,  Mr.  Quilp  !  " 

"  I'll  stop  'em,"  cried  Quilp,  diving  into  the  little 
counting-house  and  returning  with  a  thick  stick,  "I'll 
stop  'em.  Now,  my  boys,  fight  away.  I'll  fight  you 
both,ril  take  both  of  you, both  together,  both  together  !  " 

With  which  defiances  the  dwarf  flourished  his  cudgel, 
and  dancing  round  the  combatants  and  treading  upon 
them  and  skipping  over  them,  in  a  kind  of  frenzy,  laid 
about  him,  now  on  one  and  now  on  the  other,  in  a  most 
desperate  manner,  always  aiming  at  their  heads  and  deal- 
ing such  blows  as  none  but  the  veriest  little  savage 
vrould  have  inflicted.  This  being  warmer  work  than 
they  had  calculated  upon,  speedily  cooled  the  courage  of 
the  belligerents,  who  scrambled  to  their  feet  and  called 
for  quarter. 

"  I'll  beat  you  to  a  pulp,  you.  dogs,"  said  Quilp,  vainly 
endeavouring  to  get  near  either  of  them  for  a  parting 
blow.  "I'll  bruise  you  till  you're  copper-coloured,  I'll 
break  your  faces  till  you  haven't  a  profile  between  you, 
I  will." 

"  Come,  you  drop  that  stick  or  it'll  be  worse  for  you," 
said  his  boy,  dodging  round  him  and  watching  an  oppor- 
tuneity  to  rush  in  ;  "  you  drop  that  stick." 

"Come  a  little  nearer,  and  I'll  drop  it  on  your  skull, 
you  dog,"  said  Quilp  with  gleaming  eyes  ;  "  a  little  nearer 
— nearer  yet." 

But  the  boy  declined  the  invitation  until  his  master 
was  apparently  a  little  off  his  guard,  when  he  darted  in 
and  seizing  the  weapon  tried  to  wrest  it  from  his  grasp. 
Quilp,  who  was  as  strong  as  a  lion,  easily  kept  his  hold 
until  the  boy  was  tugging  at  it  with  his  utmost  power,  ^ 


698 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


when  he  suddenly  let  it  go  and  sent  him  reeling  back- 
wards, so  that  he  fell  violently  upon  his  head.  The  suc- 
cess of  this  manceuvre  tickled  Mr.  Quilp  heyond  descrip- 
tion, and  he  laughed  and  stamped  upon  the  ground  as  at 
a  most  irresistibte  jest. 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  boy,  nodding  his  head  and 
rubbing  it  at  the  same  time  ;  "  you  see  if  ever  I  offer  to 
strike  anybody  again  because  they  say  you're  a  uglier 
dwarf  than  can  be  seen  anywheres  for  a  penny,  that's 
all." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  I'm  not,  you  dog?"  returned 
Quilp. 

"  No  !"  retorted  the  boy. 

"  Then  what  do  you  fight  on  my  wharf  for,  you  vil- 
lain V  said  Quilp. 

"  Because  he  said  so,"  replied  the  boy,  pointing  to  Kit, 
not  because  you  ain't." 

"  Then  why  did  he  say,"  bawled  Kit,  "  that  Miss  Nelly 
was  ugly,  and  that  she  and  my  master  was  obliged  to  do 
whatever  his  master  liked  ?    Why  did  he  say  that  ?  " 

"  He  said  what  he  did  because  he's  a  fool,  and  you  said 
what  you  did  because  yoa're  very  wise  and  clever — al- 
most too  clever  to  live,  unless  you're  very  careful  of  your- 
self, Kit,"  said  Quilp  with  great  suavity  in  his  manner, 
but  still  more  of  quiet  malice  about  his  eyes  and  mouth. 
*'  Here's  sixpence  for  you,  Kit.  Always  speak  the  truth. 
At  all  times.  Kit,  speak  the  truth.  Lock  the  counting- 
house,  you  dog,  and  bring  me  the  key." 

The  other  boy,  to  whom  this  order  was  addressed,  did 
as  he  was  told,  and  was  rewarded  for  his  partizanship  in 
behalf  of  his  master,  by  a  dexterous  rap  on  the  nose  with 
the  key,  which  brought  the  water  in  his  eyes.  Then, 
Mr.  Quilp  departed,  with  the  child  and  Kit  in  a  boat,  and 
the  boy  revenged  himself  by  dancing  on  his  head  at  in- 
tervals on  the  extreme  verge  of  the  wharf,  during  the 
whole  time  they  crossed  the  liver. 

There  was  only  Mrs.  Quilp  at  home,  and  she,  little  ex- 
pecting the  return  of  her  lord,  was  just  composing  her- 
self for  a  refreshing  slumber  when  the  sound  of  his  foot- 
steps roused  her.  She  had  barely  time  to  seem  to  be 
occupied  in  some  needlework,  when  he  entered,  accompa- 
nied by  the  child  ;  having  left  Kit  down-stairs. 

"Here's  Nelly  Trent,  dear  Mrs.  Quilp,"  said  her  hus- 
band. A  glass  of  wine,  my  dear,  and  a  biscuit,  for  she 
has  had  a  long  walk.  She'll  sit  with  you,  my  soul,  while 
I  write  a  letter." 

Mrs.  Quilp  looked  tremblingly  in  her  spouse's  face  to 
know  what  this  unusual  courtesy  might  portend, -and 
obedient  to  the  summons  she  saw  in  his  gesture,  followed 
him  into  the  next  room. 

"  Mind  what  I  say  to  you,"  whispered  Quilp.  "  See  if 
you  can  get  out  of  her  anything  about  her  grandfather, 
or  what  they  do,  or  how  they  live,  or  what  he  tells  her. 
I've  my  reasons  for  knowing,  if  I  can.  You  women  talk 
more  freely  to  one  another  than  you  do  to  us,  and  you 
have  a  soft,  mild  way  with  you  that'll  win  upon  her.  Do 
you  hear?" 

"  Yes,  Quilp." 

"  Go,  then.    What's  the  matter  now  ?  " 

"Dear  Quilp,"  faltered  his  wife,  "  I  love  the  child — 
if  you  could  do  without  making  me  deceive  her — " 

The  dwarf  muttering  q,  terrible  oath  looked  round  as 
if  for  some  weapon  with  which  to  inflict  condign  punish- 
ment upon  his  disobedient  wife.  The  submissive  little 
woman  hurriedly  entreated  him  not  to  be  angry,  and 
promised  to  do  as  he  bade  her. 

"Do  you  hear  me,"  whispered  Quilp,  nipping  and 
pinching  her  arm  ;  "  worm  yourself  into  her  secrets  ;  I 
know  you  can.  I'm  listening,  recollect.  If  you're  not 
sharp  enough  I'll  creak  the  door,  and  wo  betide  you  if  1 
have  to  creak  it  much.    Go  ! " 

Mrs.  Quilp  departed  according  to  order.  Her  amiable 
husband,  esconcing  himself  behind  the  partly  opened 
door,  and  applying  his  ear  close  to  it,  began  to  listen  with 
a  face  of  great  craftiness  and  attention. 

Poor  Mrs.  (]uilp  was  thinking,  however,  in  what  man- 
ner to  begin,  or  what  kind  of  inquiries  she  could  make  ; 
it  was  not  until  the  door,  creaking  in  a  very  urgent  man- 
ner, warned  her  to  proceed  without  further  considera- 
tion, that  the  sound  ot  her  voice  was  heard. 

"How  very  (jften  you  have  come  backwards  and  for- 
wards lately  to  Mr.  Quilp,  my  dear," 


"  I  have  said  so  to  grandfather,  a  hundred  times,"  re- 
turned Nell  innocently. 

"  And  what  has  he  said  to  that  ?" 

"  Only  sighed,  and  dropped  his  head,  and  seemed  so  sad 
and  wretched  that  if  you  could  have  seen  him  I  am  sure 
you  must  have  cried  ;  you  could  not  have  helped  it  more 
than  I,  I  know.    How  that  door  creaks  ! " 

"It  often  does,"  returned  Mrs,  Quilp  with  an  uneasy 
glance  towards  it.  "But  your  grandfather — he  used  not 
to  be  so  wretched  ?  " 

"Oh  no  !"  said  the  child  eagerly,  "so  different !  we 
were  once  so  happy  and  he  so  cheerful  and  contented  ! 
You  cannot  think  what  a  sad  change  has  fallen  on  us, 
since." 

"I  am  very,  very  sorry,  to  hear  you  speak  like  this, 
my  dear  !  "  said  Mrs.  Quilp.    And  she  spoke  the  truth. 

"Thank  you,"  returned  the  child,  kissing  her  cheek, 
"you  are  always  kind  to  me,  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  talk 
to  you.  I  can  speak  to  no  one  else  about  him,  but  poor 
Kit.  I  am  very  happy,  still  I  ought  to  feel  happier  per- 
hajjs  than  I  do,  but  you  cannot  think  how  it  grieves  me 
sometimes  to  see  him  alter  so. " 

"  He'll  alter  again,  Nelly,"  said  Mrs.  Quilp,  "  and  be 
what  he  was  before." 

"  Oh,  if  God  would  only  let  that  come  about  ! "  said 
the  child  with  streaming  eyes;  "  but  it  is  a  long  time 
now,  since  he  first  began  to — I  thought  I  saw  that  door 
moving  ! " 

"It's  the  wind,"  said  Mrs.  Quilp  faintly.  "Began 
to—  ?  " 

"  To  be  so  thoughtful  and  dejected,  and  to  forget  our 
old  way  of  spending  the  time  in  the  long  evenings," 
said  the  child,  "  I  used  to  read  to  him  by  the  fireside, 
and  he  sat  listening,  and  when  I  stopped  and  we  began 
to  talk,  he  told  me  about  my  mother,  and  how  she  once 
looked  and  spoke  just  like  me  when  she  was  a  little 
child.  Then  he  used  to  take  me  on  his  knee,  and  try  to 
make  me  understand  that  she  was  not  lying  in  her  grave, 
but  had  flown  to  a  beautiful  country  beyond  the  sky, 
where  nothing  died  or  ever  grew  old — we  were  very 
happy  once  ! " 

"Nelly,  Nelly!" — said  the  poor  woman,  "I  can't 
bear  to  see  one  as  young  as  you  so  sorrowful.  Pray 
don't  cry." 

"I  do  so  very  seldom,"  said  Nell,  "  but  I  have  kept 
this  to  myself  a  long  time,  and  I  am  not  quite  well,  I 
think,  for  the  tears  come  into  my  eyes  and  I  cannot  keep 
them  back,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  my  grief,  for  I 
know  you  will  not  tell  it  to  any  one  again." 

Mrs.  Quilp  turned  away  her  head  and  made  no  an- 
swer. 

"Then,"  said  the  child,  "we  often  walked  in  the 
fields  and  among  the  green  trees,  and  when  we  came  home 
at  night,  we  liked  it  better  for  being  tired,  and  said  what 
a  happy  place  it  was.  And  if  it  was  dark  and  rather 
dull,  we  used  to  say,  what  did  it  matter  to  us,  for  it 
only  made  us  remember  our  last  walk  with  greater  plea- 
sure, and  look  forward  to  our  next.  But,  now,  we 
never  have  these  walks,  and  though  it  is  the  same 
house,  it  is  darker  and  much  more  gloomy  than  it  used 
to  be.    Indeed  !  " 

She  paused  here,  but  though  the  door  creaked  more 
than  once,  Mrs,  Quilp  said  nothing. 

"  Mind  you  don't  suppose,"  said  the  child  earnestly, 
"  that  grandfather  is  less  kind  to  me  than  he  was,  I 
think  he  loves  me  better  every  day,  and  is  kinder  and 
more  affectionate  than  he  was  the  day  before.  You  do 
not  know  how  fond  he  is  of  me  ! " 

"  I'm  sure  he  loves  you  dearly,"  said  Mrs,  Quilp. 

"  Indeed,  indeed  he  does  !  "  cried  Nell,  "  as  dearly  as 
I  love  him.  But  I  have  not  told  you  the  greatest  change 
of  all,  and  this  you  must  never  breathe  again  to  any 
one.  He  has  no  sleep  or  rest,  but  that  which  he  takes 
by  day  in  his  easy  chair ;  for,  every  night  and  nearly  all 
night  long,  he  is- away  from  home;" 

"Nelly!" 

"Hush  !"  said  the  child,  laying  her  finger  on  her  lip 
and  looking  round,  "When  he  comes  home  in  the 
morning,  which  is  generally  just  before  day,  I  let  him 
in.  Last  night  he  was  very  late,  and  it  was  quite  light. 
I  saw  that  his  face  was  deadly  pale,  that  his  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  and  that  his  legs  trembled  as  he  walked. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


When  I  had  gone  to  bed  again,  I  heard  him  groan.  I 
got  up  and  ran  back  to  him,  and  heard  him  say,  before 
he  knew  that  I  was  there,  that  he  could  not  bear  his 
life  much  longer,  and  if  it  was  not  for  the  child,  would 
wish  to  die.    What  shall  I  do.    Oh  !  what  shall  I  do  ! " 

The  fountains  of  her  heart  were  opened ;  the  child, 
overpowered  by  the  weight  of  her  sorrows  and  anxie- 
ties, by  the  first  confidence  she  had  ever  shown,  and  the 
sympathy  with  which  her  little  tale  had  been  received, 
hid  her  face  in  the  arms  of  her  helpless  friend,  and 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

In  a  few  moments  Mr.  Quilp  returned,  and  expressed 
the  utmost  surprise  to  find  her  in  this  condition,  which 
he  did  very  naturally  and  with  admirable  effect  ;  for 
that  kind  of  acting  had  been  rendered  familiar  to  him 
by  long  practice,  and  he  was  quite  at  home  in  it. 

"She's  tired  you  see,  Mrs.  Quilp,"  said  the  dwarf, 
squinting  in  a  hideous  manner  to  imply  that  his  wife 
was  to  follow  his  lead.  "  It's  a  long  way  from  her  home 
to  the  wharf,  and  then  she  was  alarmed  to  see  a  couple  of 
young  scoundrels  fighting,  and  was  timorous  on  the  water 
besides.  All  this  together,  has  been  too  much  for  her. 
Poor  Nell  ! " 

Mr.  Quilp  unintentionally  adopted  the  very  best  means 
he  could  have  devised  for  the  recovery  of  his  young 
visitor,  by  patting  her  on  the  head.  Such  an  application 
from  any  other  hand  might  not  have  produced  a  re- 
markable effect,  but  the  child  shrunk  so  quickly  from 
his  touch  and  felt  such  an  instinctive  desire  to  get  out 
of  his  reach,  that  she  rose  directly  and  declared  herself 
ready  to  return. 

"  But  you'd  better  wait,  and  dine  with  Mrs.  Quilp  and 
me,"  said  the  dwarf. 

"  I  have  been  away  too  long,  sir,  already,"  returned 
Xell,  drying  her  eyes. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Quilp,  "if  you  will  go,  you  will, 
Nelly.  Here's  the  note.  It's  only  to  say  that  I  shall 
see  him  to-morrow,  or  maybe  next  day,  and  that  I 
couldn't  do  that  little  business  for  him  this  morning. 
Good  bye,  Nelly.  Here,  you  sir  ;  take  care  of  her,  d'ye 
hear?" 

Kit,  who  appeared  at  the  summons,  deigned  to  make 
no  reply  to  so  needless  an  injunction,  and  after  staring 
at  Quilp  in  a  threatening  manner  as  if  he  doubted 
whether  he  might  not  have  been  the  cause  of  Nelly  shed- 
ding tears,  and  felt  more  than  half-disposed  to  revenge 
the  fact  upon  him  on  the  mere  suspicion,  turned  about 
and  followed  his  young  mistress,  who  had  by  this  time 
taken  her  leave  of  Mrs.  Quilp  and  departed. 

"You're  a  keen  questioner,  an't  you,  Mrs.  Quilp?" 
said  the  dwarf  turning  upon  her  as  soon  as  they  were 
left  alone. 

"What  more  could  I  do  ?  "  returned  his  wife  mildly. 

"  What  more  could  you  do  ! "  sneered  Quilp,  "  couldn't 
you  have  done  something  less  ?  couldn't  you  have  done 
what  you  had  to  do,  without  appearing  in  your  favourite 
part  of  the  crocodile,  you  minx." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  the  child,  Quilp,"  said  his  wife. 
"  Surely  I've  done  enough.  I've  led  her  on  to  tell  her 
secret  when  she  supposed  we  were  alone  ;  and  you  were 
by,  God  forgive  me." 

"  You  led  her  on  !  You  did  a  great  deal  truly  !  "  said 
Quilp.  "  What  did  I  tell  you  about  making  me  creak 
the  door?  It's  lucky  for  you  that  from  what  she  let  fall, 
I've  got  the  clue  I  want,  for  if  1  hadn't,  I'd  have  visited 
the  failure  upon  you." 

Mrs.  Quilp  being  fully  persuaded  of  this,  made  no  re- 
ply.   Her  husband  added  with  some  exultation, 

*' But  you  may  thank  your  fortunate  stars — the  same 
Stars  that  made  you  Mrs.  Quilp — you  may  thank  them 
that  I'm  upon  the  old  gentleman's  track  and  have  got  a 
new  light.  So  let  me  hear  no  more  about  this  matter, 
now,  or  at  any  other  time,  and  don't  get  anything  too 
nice  for  dinner,  for  I  shan't  be  home  to  it." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Quilp  put  his  hat  on  and  took  himself 
off,  and  Mrs.  Quilp,  who  was  afflicted  beyond  measure 
by  the  recollection  of  the  part  she  had  just  acted,  shut 
herself  up  in  her  chamber,  and  smothering  her  head  in 
the  bed-clothes  bemoaned  her  fault  more  bitterly  than 
many  less  tender-hearted  persons  would  have  mourned 
a  much  greater  offense  ;  for,  in  the  majority  of  cases. 
Conscience  is  an  elastic  and  very  flexible  article,  which 


will  bear  a  deal  of  stretching  and  adapt  itself  to  a  great 
variety  of  circumstances.  Some  people  by  prudent  man- 
agement and  leaving  it  off  piece  by  piece,  like  a  flannel 
waistcoat  in  warm  weather,  even  contrive,  in  time,  to 
dispense  with  it  altogether  ;  but  there  be  others  who  can 
assume  the  garment  and  throw  it  off  at  pleasure  ;  and. 
this,  being  the  greatest  and  most  convenient  improve- 
ment, is  the  one  most  in  vogue. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"Fred,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "remember  the  once 
popular  melody  of  '  Begone  dull  care  ; '  fan  the  sinking 
flame  of  hilarity  with  the  wing  of  friendship  ;  and  pass 
the  rosy  wine  !  " 

Mr,  Richard  Swiveller's  apartments  were  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Drury  Lane,  and  iti  addition  to  this  conve- 
niency  of  situation  had  the  advantage  of  being  over  a 
tobacconist's  shop,  so  that  he  was  enabled  to  procure  a 
refreshing  sneeze  at  any  time  by  merely  stepping  out  on 
the  staircase,  and  was  saved  the  trouble  and  expense 
of  maintaining  a  snuff-box.  It  was  in  these  apartments 
that  Mr.  Swiveller  made  use  of  the  expressions  above 
recorded,  for  the  consolation  and  encouragement  of  his 
desponding  friend  ;  and  it  may  not  be  uninteresting  or 
improper  to  remark,  that  even  these  brief  observations 
partook  in  a  double  sense  of  the  figurative  and  poetical 
character  of  Mr,  Swiveller's  mind,  as  the  rosy  wine  was 
in  fact  represented  by  one  glass  of  cold  gin-and-water 
which  was  replenished,  as  occasion  required,  from  a  bot- 
tle and  jug  upon  the  table,  and  was  passed  from  one  to 
another,  in  a  scarcity  of  tumblers  which,  as  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler's was  a  bachelor's  establishment,  may  be  acknowl- 
edged without  a  blush.  By  a  light  pleasant  fiction  his  sin- 
gle chamber  was  always  mentioned  in  the  plural  number. 
In  its  disengaged  times,  the  tobacconist  had  announced 
it  in  his  window  as  "apartments"  for  a  single  gentle- 
man, and  Mr.  Swiveller,  following  up  the  hint,  never 
failed  to  speak  of  it  as  his  rooms,  his  lodgings,  or  his 
chambers  :  conveying  to  his  hearers  a  notion  of  indefinite 
space,  and  leaving  their  imaginations  to  wander  through 
long  suites  of  lofty  halls,  at  pleasure. 

In  this  flight  of  fancy,  Mr.  Swiveller  was  assisted  by  a 
deceptive  piece  of  furniture,  in  reality  a  bedstead,  but, 
in  semblance  a  bookcase,  which  occupied  a  prominent 
situation  in  his  chamber,  and  seemed  to  defy  suspicion 
and  challenge  inquiry.  There  is  no  doubt  that,  by  day 
Mr.  Swiveller  firmly  believed  this  secret  convenience  to 
be  a  bookcase  and  nothing  more  ;  that  he  closed  his  eyes 
to  the  bed,  resolutely  denied  the  existence  of  the  blank- 
ets, and  spurned  the  bolster  from  his  thoughts.  No 
word  of  its  real  use,  no  hint  of  its  nightly  service,  no  al- 
lusion to  its  peculiar  properties,  had  ever  passed  between 
him  and  his  most  intimate  friends.  Implicit  faith  in  the 
deception  was  the  first  article  of  his  creed.  To  be  the 
friend  of  Swiveller  you  must  reject  all  circumstantial 
evidence,  all  reason,  observation,  and  experience,  and 
repose  a  blind  belief  in  the  bookcase.  It  was  his  pet 
weakness,  and  he  cherished  it. 

"Fred  !"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  finding  that  his  former 
adjuration  had  been  productive  of  no  effect.  "  Pass  the 
rosy  !" 

Young  Trent,  with  an  impatient  gesture,  pushed  the 
glass  towards  him,  and  fell  again  into  a  moody  attitude 
from  which  he  had  been  unwillingly  roused. 

"  I'll  give  you,  Fred,"  said  his  friend,  stirring  the  mix- 
ture, "  a  little  sentiment  appropriate  to  the  occasion. 
Here's  May  the — " 

" Pshaw  ! "  interposed  the  other.  "You  worry  me  to 
death  with  your  chattering.  You  can  be  merry  under 
any  circumstances." 

*'  Why,  Mr.  Trent,"  returned  Dick,  "  there  is  a  prov- 
erb which  talks  about  being  merry  and  wise.  There  are 
some  people  who  can  be  merry  and  can't  be  wise,  and 
some  who  can  be  wise  (or  think  they  can)  and  can't  be 
merry.  I'm  one  of  the  first  sort.  If  the  proverb's  a 
good  'un,  I  suppose  it's  better  to  keep  to  half  of  it  than 
none ;  at  all  events  I'd  rather  be  merry  and  not  wise, 
than  like  you — neither  one  nor  t'other," 

"  Bah  I  "  muttered  his  friend,  peevishly. 


700 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller.  "In  the 
polite  circles  I  believe  this  sort  of  thing  isn't  usually 
said  to  a  gentleman  in  his  own  apartments,  but  never 
mind  that.  Make  yourself  at  home. "  Adding  to  this  re- 
tort an  observation  to  the  effect  that  his  friend  appeared 
lo  be  rather  "cranky"  in  point  of  temper,  Richard 
Swiveller  finished  the  rosy  and  applied  himself  to  the 
composition  of  another  glassfull,  in  which  after  tasting 
it  with  great  relish,  he  proposed  a  toast  to  an  imaginary 
company. 

"  Gentlemen,  I'll  give  you  if  you  please  Success  to  the 
ancient  family  of  the  Swivellers,  and  good  luck  to  Mr. 
Richard  in  particular — Mr.  Richard,  gentlemen,"  said 
Dick  with  great  emphasis,  "  who  spends  all  his  money 
on  his  friends,  and  is  Bahl'd  for  his  pains.  Hear, 
hear  ! " 

"Dick  !"  said  the  other,  returning  to  his  seat  after 
having  paced  the  room  twice  or  thrice,  "will  you  talk 
seriously  for  two  minut^,  if  I  show  you  a  way  to  make 
your  fortune  with  very  little  trouble  ?  " 

"You've  shown  me  so  many,"  returned  Dick  ;  "and 
nothing  has  come  of  any  of  'em  but  empty  pockets — " 

"  You'll  tell  a  different  story  of  this  one,  before  a  very 
long  time  is  over,"  said  his  companion  drawing  his  chair 
to  the  table.    "  You  saw  my  sister  Nell?  " 

"  What  about  her?"  returned  Dick. 

"  She  has  a  pretty  face,  has  she  not  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly,"  replied  Dick,  "  I  must  say  for  her, 
that  there's  not  any  very  strong  family  likeness  between 
her  and  you." 

"Has  she  a  pretty  face?  "  repeated  his  friend  im- 
patiently. 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  "she  has  a  pretty  face,  a  very 
pretty  face.    What  of  that  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  returned  his  friend.  " It's  very  plain 
that  the  old  man  and  I,  will  remain  at  daggers  drawn  to 
the  end  of  our  lives,  and  that  I  have  nothing  to  expect 
from  him.    You  see  that,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  A  bat  might  see  that,  with  the  sun  shining,"  said 
Dick. 

"It's  equally  plain  that  the  money  which  the  old  flint 
— rot  him — first  taught  me  to  expect  that  I  should  share 
with  her  at  his  death,  will  all  be  her's,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  I  should  say  it  was,"  replied  Dick  ;  "  unless  the  way 
in  which  I  put  the  case  to  him,  made  an  impression.  It 
may  have  done  so.  It  was  powerful,  Fred.  *  Here  is  a 
jolly  old  grandfather ' — that  was  strong  I  thought — very 
friendly  and  natural.    Did  it  strike  you  in  that  way  ?" 

"  It  didn't  strike  Jiim,"  returned  the  other,  "so  we 
needn't  discuss  it.  Now  look  here.  Nell  is  nearly  four- 
teen." 

"  Fine  girl  of  her  age,  but  small,"  observed  Richard 
Swiveller  parenthetically. 

"  If  I  am  to  go  on,  be  quiet  for  one  minute,"  returned 
Trent  fretting  at  the  very  slight  interest  the  other  ap- 
peared to  take  in  the  conversation.  "Now  I'm  coming 
to  the  point." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Dick. 

"  The  girl  has  strong  affections,  and  brought  up  as  she 
has  been,  may,  at  her  age,  be  easily  influenced  and  per- 
suaded. If  I  take  her  in  hand,  I  will  be  bound  by  a 
very  little  coaxing  and  threatening  to  bend  her  to  my 
will.  Not  to  beat  about  the  bush  (for  the  advantages  of 
the  scheme  would  take  a  week  to  tell)  what's  to  prevent 
your  marrying  her?"  . 

Richard  Swiveller,  who  had  been  looking  over  the  rim 
of  the  tumbler  while  his  companion  addressed  the  fore- 
going remarks  to  him  with  great  energy  and  earnestness 
of  manner,  no  sooner  heard  these  words  than  he  evinced 
the  utmost  consternation,  and  with  difiiculty  ejaculated 
the  monosyllable, 

"What  1" 

"  I  say,  what's  to  prevent,"  repeated  the  other,  with  a 
steadiness  of  manner,  of  the  effect  of  which  upon  his 
companion  he  was  well  assured  by  long  experience, 
"  what's  to  prevent  your  marrying  her?" 

"  And  she  '  nearly  fourteen'  ! "  cried  Dick. 

"  I  don't  mean  marrying  her  now" — returned  the  bro- 
ther, angrily  ;  "say  in  two  years'  time,  in  three,  in  four. 
Does  the  old  man  look  like  a  long-liver?" 

"He  don't  look  like  it,"  said  Dick,  shaking  his  head, 
"  but  these  old  people—there's  no  trusting  'cm,  Fred. 


There's  an  aunt  of  mine  down  in  Dorsetshire  that  was 
going  to  die  when  I  was  eight  years  old,  and  hasn't  kept 
her  word  yet.  They're  so  aggravating,  so  unprincipled, 
so  spiteful— unless  there's  apoplexy  in  the  family,  Fred, 
you  can't  calculate  upon  'em,  and  even  then  they  de- 
ceive you  just  as  often  as  not." 

"Look  at  the  worst  side  of  the  question,  then,"  said 
Trent,  as  steadily  as  before,  and  keeping  his  eyes  upon 
his  friend.    "  Suppose  he  lives." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Dick.    "  There's  the  rub." 

"  I  say,"  resumed  his  friend,  "  suppose  he  lives,  and  I 
persuaded,  or,  if  the  word  sounds  more  feasible,  forced, 
Nell  to  a  secret  marriage  with  you.  What  do  you  think 
would  come  of  that  ?" 

"  A  family  and  an  annual  income  of  nothing,  to  keep 
'em  on,"  said  Richard  Swiveller  after  some  reflection. 

"  I  tell  you,"  returned  the  other  with  an  increased 
earnestness,  which,  whether  it  were  real  or  assumed, 
had  the  same  effect  on  his  companion,  "  that  he  lives  for 
her,  that  his  whole  energies  and  thoughts  are  bound  up 
in  her,  that  he  would  no  more  disinherit  her  for  an  act 
of  disobedience  than  he  would  take  me  into  his  favour 
again  for  any  act  of  obedience  or  virtue  that  I  could 
possibly  be  guilty  of.  He  could  not  do  it.  You  or  any 
other  man  with  eyes  in  his  head,  may  see  that,  if  he 
chooses." 

"It  seems  improbable  certainly,"  said  Dick,  musing. 

"  It  seems  improbable  because  it  is  improbable,"  his 
friend  returned.  "If  you  would  furnish  him  with  an 
additional  inducement  to  forgive  you,  let  there  be  an 
irreconcilable  breach,  a  most  deadly  quarrel,  between 
you  and  me — let  there  be  a  pretence  of  such  a  thing,  I 
mean,  of  course — and  he'll  do  so  fast  enough.  As  to  Nell, 
constant  dropping  will  wear  away  a  stone  ;  you  know 
you  may  trust  to  me  as  far  as  she  is  concerned-.  So, 
whether  he  lives  or  dies,  what  does  it  come  to  ?  That 
you  become  the  sole  inheritor  of  the  wealth  of  this  rich 
old  hunks  ;  that  you  and  I  spend  it  together  ;  and  that 
you  get,  into  the  bargain,  a  beautiful  young  wife." 

"  I  suppose  there's  no  doubt  about  his  being  rich  " — 
said  Dick. 

"  Doubt !  Did  you  hear  what  he  let  fall  the  other  day 
when  we  were  there  ?  Doubt !  What  will  you  doubt 
next,  Dick?" 

It  would  be  tedious  to  pursue  the  conversation  through 
all  its  artful  windings,  or  to  develop  the  gradual  ap- 
proaches by  Avhich  the  heart  of  Richard  Swiveller  was 
gained.  It  is  sufficient  to  know  that  vanity,  interest, 
poverty,  and  every  spendthrift  consideration  urged  him 
to  look  upon  the  proposal  with  favor,  and  that  where  all 
other  inducements  were  wanting,  the  habitual  careless- 
ness of  his  disposition  stepped  in  and  still  weighed  down 
the  scale  on  the  same  side.  To  these  impulses  must  be 
added  the  complete  ascendancy  which  his  friend  had 
long  been  accustomed  to  exercise  over  him — an  ascend- 
ancy exerted  in  the  beginning  sorely  at  the  expense  of 
Dick's  purse  and  prospects,  but  still  maintained  without 
the  slightest  relaxation,  notwithstanding  that  Dick  suf- 
fered for  all  his  friend's  vices,  and  was,  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten,  looked  upon  as  his  designing  tempter  when  he 
was  indeed  nothing  but  his  thoughtless,  light-headed 
tool. 

The  motives  on  the  other  side  were  something  deeper 
than  any  which  Richard  Swiveller  entertained  or  under- 
stood, but  these  being  left  to  their  own  development,  re- 
quire no  present  elucidation.  The  negotiation  was  con- 
cluded very  pleasantly,  and  Mr.  Swiveller  was  in  the  act 
of  stating  in  flowery  terms  that  he  had  no  insurmountable 
objection  to  marrying  anybody  plentifully  endowed  with 
money  or  moveables,  who  could  be  induced  to  take  him, 
when  he  was  interrupted  in  his  observations  by  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  the  consequent  necessity  of  crying 
"  Come  in." 

The  door  was  opened,  but  nothing  came  in  except  a 
soapy  arm  and  a  strong  gush  of  tobacco.  The  gush  of 
tobacco  came  from  the  shop  down-stairs,  and  the  soapy 
arm  proceeded  from  the  body  of  a  servant  girl,  who  being 
then  and  there  engaged  in  cleaning  the  stairs  had  just 
drawn  it  out  of  a  warm  pail  to  take  in  a  letter,  which  let- 
ter she  now  held  in  her  hand  ;  proclaiming  aloud,  w^ith 
that  quick  perception  of  sirnames  peculiar  to  her  class, 
that  "it  was  for  Mister  Snivelling. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


701 


Dick  looked  rather  pale  and  foolisli  when  he  glanced 
at  the  direction,  and  still  more  so  when  he  came  to  look 
at  the  inside  ;  observing  that  this  was  one  of  the  incon- 
veniences of  being  a  lady's  man,  and  that  it  was  very 
easy  to  talk  as  they  had  been  talking,  but  he  had  quite 
forgotten  her. 

"  Her.    Who  ?  "  demanded  Trent. 

"  Sophy  Wackles,"  said  Dick. 

"Who's  she?" 

"  She's  all  my  fancy  painted  her,  sir,  that's  what  she 
is,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  taking  a  long  pull  at  "  the  rosy" 
and  looking  gravely  at  his  friend.  "  She  is  lovely,  she's 
divine.    You  know  her. " 

"  I  remember, "  said  his  companion  carelessly.  "  What 
of  her  ? " 

"Why,  sir,"  returned  Dick,  "between  Miss  Sophia 
Wackles  and  the  humble  individual  who  has  now  the 
honour  to  address  you,  warm  and  tender  sentiments  have 
been  engendered — sentiments  of  the  most  honourable 
and  inspiring  kind.  The  Goddess  Diana,  sir,  that  calls 
aloud  for  the  chace,  is  not  more  particular  in  her  beha- 
viour than  Sophia  Wackles  ;  1  can  tell  you  that." 

"  Am  I  to  believe  there's  anything  real  in  what  you 
say ? "  demanded  his  friend  ;  "you  don't  mean  to  say  that 
any  love-making  has  been  going  on  ?" 

"Love-making,  yes.  Promising,  no,"  said  Dick. 
"There  can  be  no  action  for  breach,  that's  one  comfort. 
I've  never  committed  myself  in  writing,  Fred." 

"  And  what's  in  the  letter  pray  ?" 

"A  reminder,  Fred,  for  to-night — a  small  party  of 
twenty — making  two  hundred  light  fantastic  toes  in  all, 
supposing  every  lady  and  gentleman  to  have  the  proper 
complement.  I  must  go,  if  it's  only  to  begin  breaking 
ofiE  the  affair — I'll  do  it,  don't  you  be  afraid.  I  should 
like  to  know  whether  she  left  this,  herself.  If  she  did, 
unconscious  of  any  bar  to  her  hai)piness,  it's  affecting, 
Fred." 

To  solve  this  question,  Mr.  Swiveller  summoned  the 
hand-maid  and  ascertained  that  Miss  Sophy  Wackles  had 
indeed  left  the  letter  with  her  own  hands  ;  that  she  had 
come  accompanied,  for  decorum's  sake  no  doubt,  by  a 
younger  Miss  Wackles  ;  and  that  on  learning  that  Mr. 
Swiveller  was  at  home  and  being  requested  to  walk  up- 
stairs, she  was  extremely  .shocked  and  professed  that  she 
would  rather  die.  Mr.  Swiveller  heard  this  account  with 
a  degree  of  admiration  not  altogether  consistent  with  the 
project  in  which  he  had  just  concurred,  but  his  friend 
attached  very  little  importance  to  his  behaviour  in  this 
respect,  probably  because  he  knew  that  he  had  influence 
sufficient  to  control  Richard  Swiveller's  proceedings  in 
this  or  any  other  matter,  whenever  he  deemed  it  neces- 
sary, for  the  advancement  of  his  own  purposes,  to  exert 
it. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Business  disposed  of,  Mr.  Swiveller  was  inwardly  re- 
minded of  its  being  nigh  dinner-time,  and  to  the  intent 
that  his  health  might  not  be  endangered  by  longer  ab- 
stinence, despatched  a  message  to  the  nearest  eating- 
house  requiring  an  immediate  supply  of  boiled  beef  and 
greens  for  two.  With  this  demand,  however,  the  eating- 
house  (having  experience  of  its  customer)  declined  to 
comply,  churlishly  sending  back  for  answer  that  if  Mr. 
Swiveller  stood  in  need  of  beef  perhaps  he  would  be 
so  obliging  as  to  come  there  and  eat  it,  bringing  with 
him  as  grace  before  meat,  the  amount  of  a  certain  small 
account  which  had  been  long  outstanding.  Not  at  all 
intimidated  by  this  rebuff,  but  rather  sharpened  in 
wits  and  appetite,  Mr.  Swiveller  forwarded  the  same 
message  to  another  and  more  distant  eating-house,  add- 
ing to  it  by  way  of  rider  that  the  gentleman  was  in- 
duced to  send  so  far,  not  only  by  the  great  fame  and  pop- 
ularity its  beef  had  acquired,  but  in  consequence  of  the 
extreme  toughness  of  the  beef  retailed  at  the  obdurate 
cook's  shop,  which  rendered  it  quite  unfit  not  merely  for 
gentlemanly  food  but  for  any  human  consumption.  The 
good  effect  of  this  politic  course  was  demonstrated  by  the 
speedy  arrival  of  a  small  pewter  pyramid,  curiously  con- 
structed of  platters  and  covers,  whereof  the  boiled- beef - 
plates  formed  the  base,  and  a  foaming  quart-pot  the  apex  ; 


the  structure  being  resolved  into  its  component  parts  af- 
forded all  things  requisite  and  necessary  for  a  hearty 
meal,  to  which  Mr.  Swiveller  and  his  friend  applied  them- 
selves with  great  keenness  and  enjoyment. 

"  May  the  present  moment,"  said  Dick,  sticking  his 
fork  into  a  large  carbuncular  potato,  "  be  the  worst  of 
our  lives  !  I  like  this  \)\iiVi  of  sending  'em  with  the  peel 
on  ;  there's  a  charm  in  drawing  a  potato  from  its  native 
element  (if  I  may  so  express  it)  to  which  the  rich  and 
powerful  are  strangers.  Ah  !  '  Man  wants  but  little  here 
below,  nor  wants  that  little  long  ! '  How  true  that  is  ! — 
after  dinner." 

"I  hope  the  eating-house  keeper  will  want  but  little 
and  that  /^e  ma}'-  not  want  that  little  long,"  returned  his 
companion  ;  "  but  I  suspect  you've  no  means  of  paying 
for  this  ! " 

"  I  shall  be  passing  presently,  and  I'll  call,"  said  Dick, 
winking  his  eye  significantly.  "  The  waiter's  quite 
helpless.  The  goods  are  gone,  Fred,  and  there's  an  end 
of  it." 

In  point  of  fact,  it  would  seem  that  the  waiter  felt 
this  wholesome  truth,  for  when  he  returned  for  the 
empty  plates  and  dishes  and  was  informed  by  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller with  dignified  carelessness  that  he  would  call  and 
settle  when  he  should  be  passing  presently,  he  displayed 
some  perturbation  of  spirit,  and  muttered  a  few  remarks 
about  "  payment  on  delivery,"  and  "  no  trust,"  and  other 
unpleasant  subjects,  but  was  fain  to  content  himself  with 
inquiring  at  what  hour  it  was  likely  the  gentleman  would 
call,  in  order  that  being  personally  responsible  for  the 
beef,  greens,  and  sundries,  he  might  take  care  to  be  in 
the  way  at  the  time.  Mr.  Swiveller,  after  mentally  cal- 
culating his  engagements  to  a  nicety,  replied  that  he 
should  look  in  at  from  two  minutes  before  six  to  seven 
minutes  past  ;  and  the  man  disappearing  with  this  fee- 
ble consolation,  Richard  Swiveller  took  a  greasy  mem- 
orandum book  from  his  pocket  and  made  an  entry 
therein. 

"Is  that  a  reminder,  in  case  you  should  forget  to 
call  ?  "  said  Trent  with  a  sneer. 

"  Not  exactly,  Fred,"  replied  the  imperturbable  Rich- 
ard, continuing  to  write  with  a  business-like  air,  "I 
enter  in  this  little  book  the  names  of  the  streets  that  I 
can't  go  down  while  the  shops  are  open.  This  dinner 
to-day  closes  Long  Acre.  I  bought  a  pair  of  boots  in 
Great  Queen  Street  last  week,  and  made  that  no  thor^ 
oughfare  too.  There's  only  one  avenue  to  the  Strand 
left  open  now,  and  I  shall  have  to  stop  up  that  to-night 
with  a  pair  of  gloves.  The  roads  are  closing  so  fast  in 
every  direction,  that  in  about  a  month's  time,  unless 
my  aunt  sends  me  a  remittance,  I  shall  have  to  go 
three  or  four  miles  out  of  town  to  get  over  the  way." 

"There's  no  fear  of  her  failing,  in  the  end?"  said 
Trent. 

"Why,  I  hope  not,"  returned  Mr.  Swiveller,  "but 
the  average  number  of  letters  it  takes  to  soften  her  is 
six,  and  this  time  we  have  got  as  far  as  eight  ^vithout 
any  effect  at  all.  I'll  write  another  to-morrow  morning. 
I  mean  to  blot  it  a  good  deal  and  shake  some  water  over 
it  out  of  the  pepper-castor,  to  make  it  look  penitent. 
'  I'm  in  such  a  state  of  mind  that  I  hardly  know  what  I 
write  ' — blot — *  if  you  could  see  me  at  this  minute  shed- 
ding tears  for  my  past  misconduct ' — pepper-castor — 
'my  hand  trembles  when  I  think' — blot  again — if  that 
don't  produce  the  effect,  it's  all  over." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Swiveller  had  finished  his  entry, 
and  he  now  replaced  his  pencil  in  its  little  sheath  and 
closed  the  book,  in  a  perfectly  grave  and  serious  frame 
of  mind.  His  friend  discovered  that  it  was  time  for 
him  to  fulfil  some  other  engagement,  and  Richard  Swiv- 
eller was  accordingly  left  alone,  in  company  with  the 
rosy  wine  and  his  own  meditations  touching  Miss  Sophy 
Wackles. 

"It's  rather  sudden,"  said  Dick,  shaking  his  head 
with  a  look  of  infinite  wisdom,  and  running  on  (as  he 
was  accustomed  to  do)  with  scraps  of  verse  as  if  they 
were  only  prose  in  a  hurry  ;  "  when  the  heart  of  a  man 
is  depressed  with  fears,  the  mist  is  dispelled  when  Miss 
Wackles  appears  :  she's  a  very  nice  girl.  She's  like  the 
red  rose  that's  newly  sprung  in  June — there's  no  deny- 
ing that — she's  also  like  a  melody  that's  sweetly  played 
in  tune.    It's  really  very  sudden.    Not  that  there's  any 


m 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


need,  on  account  of  Fred's  little  sister,  to  turn  cool  di- 
rectly, but  it's  better  not  to  go  too  far.  If  I  begin  to  cool 
at  all  I  must  begin  at  once,  I  see  that.  There's  the 
chance  of  an  action  for  breach,  that's  one  reason. 
There's  the  chance  of  Sophy's  getting  another  husband, 
that's  another.  There's  the  chance  of— no,  there's  no 
chance  of  that,  but  it's  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe 
side."  ' 

This  undeveloped  consideration  was  the  possibility, 
which  Richard  Swiveller  sought  to  conceal  even  from 
himself,  of  his  not  being  proof  against  the  charms  of 
Miss  Wacldes,  and  in  some  unguarded  moment,  by  link- 
ing his  fortunes  to  hers  for  ever,  of  putting  it  out  of  his 
own  power  to  further  the  notable  scheme  to  which  he 
had  so  readily  become  a  party.  For  all  these  reasons, 
he  decided  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  Miss  Wackles  without 
delay,  and  casting  about  for  a  pretext  determined  in 
favour  of  groundless  jealousy.  Having  made  up  his 
mind  on  this  important  point,  he  circulated  the  glass 
(from  his  i-ight  hand  to  his  left,  and  back  again)  pretty 
freely,  to  enable  him  to  act  his  part  with  the  greater 
discretion,  and  then,  after  making  some  slight  improve- 
ments in  his  toilet,  bent  his  steps  towards  the  spot  hal- 
lowed by  the  fair  object  of  his  meditations. 

This  spot  was  at  Chelsea,  for  there  Miss  Sophia  Wack- 
les resided  with  her  widowed  mother  and  two  sisters,  in 
conjunction  with  whom  she  maintained  a  very  small 
day-school  for  young  ladies  of  proportionate  dimensions  ; 
a  circumstance  which  was  made  known  to  the  neighbour- 
hood by  an  oval  board  over  the  front  first-floor  window, 
whereon  appeared,  in  circumambient  flourishes,  the 
words  "Ladies'  Seminary;"  and  which  was  further 
published  and  proclaimed  at  intervals  between  the  hours 
of  half -past  nine  and  ten  in  the  morning,  by  a  straggling 
and  solitary  young  lady  of  tender  years  standing  on  the 
scraper  on  the  tips  of  her  toes  and  making  futile  at- 
tempts to  reach  the  knocker  with  a  spelling-book.  The 
several  duties  of  instruction  in  this  establishment  were 
thus  discharged.  English  grammer,  composition,  geog- 
raphy, and  the  use  of  the  dumb-bells,  by  Miss  Melissa 
Wacldes  ;  writing,  arithmetic,  dancing,  music,  and  gen- 
eral fascination,  by  Sophy  Wackles  ;  the  art  of  needle- 
work, marking,  and  samplery,  by  Miss  Jane  Wackles  ; 
corporal  punishment,  fasting,  and  other  tortures  and  ter- 
rors, by  Mrs.  Wackles.  Miss  Melissa  Wackles  was  the 
eldest  daughter.  Miss  Sophy  the  next,  and  Miss  Jane  the 
youngest.  Miss  Melissa  might  have  seen  five-and-thirty 
summers  or  thereabouts,  and  verged  on  the  autumnal  ; 
Miss  Sophy  was  a  fresh,  good-humoured,  buxom  girl  of 
twenty  ;  and  Miss  Jane  numbered  scarcely  sixteen  years. 
Mrs.  Wackles  was  an  excellent,  but  rather  venomous 
old  lady  of  threescore. 

To  this  Ladies'  Seminary  then,  Richard  Swiveller  hied, 
with  designs  obnoxious  to  the  peace  of  the  fair  Sophia, 
who,  arrayed  in  virgin  white,  embellislied  by  no  orna- 
ment but  one  blushing  rose,  received  him  on  liis  arrival, 
in  the  midst  of  very  elegant  not  to  say  brilliant  prepara- 
tions ;  such  as  the  embellishment  of  the  room  with  the 
little  flower-pots  which  always  stood  on  the  window-sill 
outside,  save  in  windy  weather  when  they  blew  into  the 
area  ;  the  choice  attire  of  the  day- scholars  who  were  al- 
lowed to  grace  the  festival  ;  the  unwonted  curls  of  Miss 
Jane  Wackles  who  had  kept  her  head  during  the  whole 
of  the  preceding  day  screwed  up  tight  in  a  yellow  play- 
bill ;  and  the  solemn  gentility  and  stately  bearing  of 
the  old  lady  and  her  eldest  daughter,  which  stru(5k  Mr. 
Swiveller  as  being  uncommon,  but  made  no  further  im- 
pression upon  him. 

The  truth  is — and,  as  there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes, 
even  a  taste  so  strange  as  this  may  be  recorded  without 
being  looked  upon  as  a  wilful  and  malicious  invention — 
the  truth  is,  that  neither  Mrs.  Wackles  nor  her  eldest 
daughter  had  at  any  time  greatly  favoured  the  preten- 
sions of  Mr.  Swiveller  :  they  being  accustomed  to  make 
slight  mention  of  him  as  "  a  gay  young  man,"  and  to 
sigli  and  shake  their  heads  ominously  whenever  his  name 
Was  mentioned.  Mr.  Swiveller's  conduct  in  respect  to 
Miss  Sophy  having  been  of  that  vague  and  dilatory  kind 
which  is  usually  looked  upon  as  betokening  no  fixed 
matrimonial  intentions,  the  young  lady  herself  began 
in  course  of  time  to  deem  it  highly  desirable,  that  it 
should  be  brought  to  an  issue  one  way  or  other.  Hence, 


she  had  at  last  consented  to  play  off,  against  Richard 
Swiveller,  a  stricken  market-gardener  known  to  be  ready 
with  his  offer  on  the  smallest  encouragement,  and  hence 
— as  this  occasion  had  been  specially  assigned  for  the 
purpose — that  great  anxiety  on  her  part  for  Richard 
Swiveller's  presence  which  had  occasioned  her  to  leave 
the  note  he  has  been  seen  to  receive.  "If  he  has  any 
expectations  at  all  or  any  means  of  keeping  a  wife 
well,"  said  Mrs.  Wackles  to  her  eldest  daughter,  "he'll 
state  'em  to  us  now  or  never." — "If  he  really  cares 
about  me,"  thought  Miss  Sophy,  "he  must  tell  me  so, 
to-night." 

But  all  these  sayings  and  doings  and  thinkings  being 
unknown  to  Mr.  Swiveller,  affected  him  not  in  the  least  ; 
he  was  debating  in  his  mind  how  he  could  best  turn 
jealous,  and  wishing  that  Sophy  were,  for  that  occasion, 
only,  far  less  pretty  than  she  was,  or  that  she  were  her 
own  sister,  which  would  have  served  his  turn  as  well, 
when  the  company  came,  and  among  them  the  market- 
gardener,  whose  name  was  Cheggs.  But  Mr.  Cheggs 
came  not  alone  or  unsupported,  for  he  prudently  brought 
along  ^vith  him  his  sister.  Miss  Cheggs,  who  making 
straight  to  Miss  Sophy  and  taking  her  by  both  hands, 
and  kissing  her  on  both  cheeks,  hoped  in  an  audible 
whisper  that  they  had  not  come  too  early. 

"  Too  early,  no  !"  replied  Miss  Sophy. 

"Oh  my  dear,"  rejoined  Miss  Cheggs  in  the  same 
whisper  as  before,  "  I've  been  so  tormented,  so  worried, 
that  it's  a  mercy  we  were  not  here  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  Alick  has  been  in  such  a  state  of  impatience  to 
come  !  You'd  hardly  believe  that  he  was  dressed  before 
dinner-time  and  has  been  looking  at  the  clock  and  teas- 
ing me  ever  since.  It's  all  your  fault,  you  naughty 
thing." 

Hereupon  Miss  So|)hy  blushed,  and  Mr.  Cheggs  (who 
was  bashful  before  ladies)  blushed  too,  and  Miss  Sophy's 
mother  and  sisters,  to  prevent  Mr.  Cheggs  from  blush- 
ing more,  lavished  civilities  and  attentions  upon  him, 
and  left  Richard  Swiveller  to  take  care  of  himself. 
Here  was  the  very  thing  he  wanted  ;  here  was  good 
cause,  reason,  and  foundation,  for  pretending  to  be  angry  ; 
but  having  this  cause,  reason,  and  foundation,  which  he 
had  come  expressly  to  seek,  not  expecting  to  find,  Rich- 
ard Swiveller  was  angry  in  sound  earnest,  and  wondered 
what  the  devil  Cheggs  meant  by  his  impudence. 

However,  Mr.  Swiveller  had  Miss  Sophy's  hand  for 
the  first  quadrille  (country-dances  being  low,  were  utter- 
ly proscribed),  and  so  gained  an  advantage  over  his  rival, 
who  sat  despondingly  in  a  corner  and  contemplated  the 
glorious  figure  of  the  young  lady  as  she  moved  through 
the  mazy  dance.  Nor  was  this  the  only  start  Mr. 
Swiveller  had  of  the  market-gardener  ;  for,  determining 
to  show  the  family  v/hat  quality  of  man  they  trifled  with, 
and  influenced  perhaps  by  his  late  libations,  he  per- 
formed such  feats  of  agility  and  such  spins  and  whirls 
as  filled  the  company  with  astonishment,  and  in  particu- 
lar caused  a  very  long  gentleman  who  was  dancing  with 
a  very  short  scholar,  to  stand  quite  transfixed  by  wonder 
and  admiration.  Even  Mrs.  Wackles  forgot  for  the  mo- 
ment to  snub  three  small  young  ladies  who  were  in- 
clined to  be  happy,  and  could  not  repress  a  rising  thought 
that  to  have  such  a  dancer  as  that  in  the  family  would 
be  a  pride  indeed. 

At  this  momentous  crisis.  Miss  Cheggs  proved  herself 
a  vigorous  and  useful  ally  ;  for,  not  confining  herself 
to  expressing  by  scornful  smiles  a  contempt  for  Mr. 
Swiveller's  accomplishments,  she  took  every  opjjortunity 
of  whispering  into  Miss  Sophy's  ear  expressions  of  con- 
dolence and  sympathy  on  her  being  worried  by  such  a 
ridiculous  creature,  declaring  that  she  was  frightened 
to  death  lest  Alick  should  fall  upon  him,  and  beat  him, 
in  the  fullness  of  his  wrath,  and  entreating  Miss  Sophy 
to  observe  how  the  eyes  of  the  said  Alick  gleamed  with 
love  and  fury  ;  passions,  it  may  be  observed,  which  be- 
ing too  much  for  his  eyes,  rushed  into  his  nose  also,  and 
suffused  it  with  a  crimson  glow. 

"  You  must  dance  with  Miss  Cheggs,"  said  Miss  Sophy 
to  Dick  Swiveller,  after  she  had  herself  danced  twice 
with  INIr.  Cheggs,  and  made  great  show  of  encouraging 
his  advances.  "  She's  such  a  nice  girl — and  her  brother's 
quite  delightful." 

"  Quite  delightful  is  he?"  muttered  Dick.  "Quite 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


703 


delighted  too,  I  should  say,  from  the  manner  in  which 
he's  looking  this  way." 

Here  Miss  Jane  (previously  instructed  for  the  purpose) 
interposed  her  many  curls  and  whispered  her  sister  to 
observe  how  jealous  Mr.  Cheggs  was. 

Jealous!  Like  his  impudence  1"  said  Richard 
Swiveller. 

"  His  impudence,  Mr.  Swiveller  ! "  said  Miss  Jane, 
tossing  her  head.  '*  Take  care  he  don't  hear  you,  sir,  or 
you  may  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  Oh  pray,  Jane — "  said  Miss  Sophy. 

"  Nonsense  ! "  replied  her  sister,  "  why  shouldn't  Mr. 
Cheggs  be  jealous  if  he  likes  ?  I  like  that,  certainly. 
Mr.  Cheggs  has  as  good  a  right  to  be  jealous  as  anybody 
else  has,  and  perhaps  he  may  have  a  better  right  soon, 
if  he  hasn't  already.  You  know  best  about  that, Sophy  !  " 

Though  this  was  a  concerted  plot  between  Miss  Sophy 
and  her  sister,  originating  in  humane  intentions,  and 
having  for  its  object  the  inducing  Mr.  Swiveller  to  de- 
clare himself  in '  time,  it  failed  in  its  effect  ;  for  Miss 
Jane  being  one  of  those  young  ladies  who  are  prema- 
turely shrill  and  shrewish,  gave  such  undue  importance 
to  her  part,  that  Mr.  Swiveller  retired  in  dudgeon,  re- 
signing his  mistress  to  Mr.  Cheggs,  and  conveying  a  de- 
,  fiance  into  his  looks  which  that  gentleman  indignantly 
returned. 

Did  you  speak  to  me,  sir  ?  "  said  Mr.  Cheggs,  follow- 
ing him  into  a  corner. — "Have  the  kindness  to  smile, 
sir,  in  order  that  we  may  not  be  suspected. — Did  you 
speak  to  me,  sir  ?  " 

Mr.  Swiveller  looked  with  a  supercilious  smile  at  Mr. 
Cheggs's  toes,  then  raised  his  eyes  from  them  to  his  an- 
cle, from  that  to  his  shin,  from  that  to  his  knee,  and  so 
on  very  gradually,  keeping  up  his  right  leg,  until  he 
reached  his  waistcoat,  when  he  raised  his  eyes  from  but- 
ton to  button  until  he  reached  his  chin,  and  travelling 
straight  up  the  middle  of  his  nose  came  at  last  to  his 
eyes,  when  he  said  abruptly, 

"  No,  sir,  I  didn't." 

"Hem  !"  said  Mr.  Cheggs,  glancing  over  his  shoulder, 
"  have  the  goodness  to  smile  again,  sir.  Perhaps  you 
wished  to  speak  to  me,  sir." 

"  No,  sir,  I  didn't  do  that,  either." 

"Perhaps  you  may  have  nothing  to  say  to  me  now, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Cheggs  fiercely. 

At  these  words,  Richard  Swiveller  withdrew  his  eyes 
from  Mr.  Cheggs's  face,  and  traveling  down  the  middle 
of  his  nose,  and  down  his  waistcoat,  and  down  his  right 
leg,  reached  his  toes  again  and  carefully  surveyed  them; 
this  done,  he  crossed  over,  and  coming  up  the  other  leg, 
and  thence  approaching  by  the  waistcoat  as  before,  said 
when  he  had  got  to  his  eyes,  "  No,  sir,  I  haven't." 

"  Oh  indeed, sir  ! "  said  Mr.  Cheggs.  "  I'm  glad  to  hear 
it.  You  know  where  I'm  to  be  found,  I  suppose,  sir,  in 
case  you  should  have  anything  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"I  can  easily  inquire,  sir,  when  I  want  to  know." 

"  There's  nothing  more  we  need  say,  I  believe,  sir  ?" 

"  Nothing  more,  sir." — With  that  they  closed  the  tre- 
mendous dialogue  by  frowning  mutually.  Mr.  Cheggs 
hastened  to  tender  his  hand  to  Miss  Sophy,  and  Mr. 
Swiveller  sat  himself  down  in  a  corner  in  a  very  moody 
state. 

Hard  by  this  corner,  Mrs.  Wackles  and  Miss  Wackles 
were  seated,  looking  on  at  the  dance  ;  and  unto  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Wackles,  Miss  Cheggs  occasionally  darted  when 
her  partner  was  occupied  with  his  share  of  the  figure, 
and  made  some  remark  or  other  which  was  gall  and 
wormwood  to  Richard  Swiveller's  soul.  Looking  into 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  and  Miss  Wackles  for  encouragement, 
and  sitting  very  upright  and  uncomfortable  on  a  couple 
of  hard  stools,  were  two  of  the  day -scholars  ;  and  when 
Miss  Wackles  smiled,  and  Mrs.  Wackles  smiled,  the  two 
little  girls  on  the  stools  sought  to  curry  favour  by  smil- 
ing likewise,  in  gracious  acknowledgment  of  which  at- 
tention the  old  lady  frowned  them  down  instantly,  and 
said  that  if  they  dared  to  be  guilty  of  such  an  imperti- 
nence again,  they  should  be  sent  under  convoy  to  their 
respective  homes.  This  threat  caused  one  of  the  young 
ladies,  she  being  of  a  weak  and  trembling  temperament, 
,  to  shed  tears,  and  for  this  offence  they  were  both  filed 
[  off  immediately,  with  a  dreadful  promptitude  that  struck 
I    terror  into  the  souls  of  all  the  pupils. 


"  I've  got  such  news  for  you,"  said  Miss  Cheggs,  ap- 
proaching once  more,  "  Alick  has  been  saying  such 
things  to  Sophy.  Upon  my  word,  you  know,  it's  quite 
serious  and  in  earnest,  that's  clear." 

"  What's  he  been  saying,  my  dear?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Wackles. 

"All  manner  of  things,"  replied  Miss  Cheggs,  "you 
can't  think  how  out  he  has  been  speaking  ! " 

Richard  Swiveller  considered  it  advisable  to  hear  no 
more,  but  taking  advantage  of  a  pause  in  the  dancing, 
and  the  approach  of  Mr.  Cheggs  to  pay  his  court  to  the 
old  lady,  swaggered  with  an  extremely  careful  assump- 
tion of  extreme  carelessness  towards  the  door,  passing 
on  the  way  Miss  Jane  Wackles,  who  in  all  the  glory  of 
her  curls  was  holding  a  flirtation  (as  good  practice  when 
no  better  was  to  be  had)  with  a  feeble  old  gentleman, 
who  lodged  in  the  X)arlour,  Near  the  door  sat  Miss  So- 
phy, still  fluttered  and  confused  by  the  attentions  of  Mr. 
Cheggs,  and  by  her  side  Richard  Swiveller  lingered  for 
a  moment  to  exchange  a  few  parting  words. 

"My  boat  is  on  the  shore  and  my  bark  is  on  the  sea, 
but  before  I  pass  this  door  I  will  say  farewell  to  thee," 
murmured  Dick,  looking  gloomily  upon  her. 

"Are  you  going  !"  said  Miss  Sophy,  whose  heart  sunk 
within  her  at  the  result  of  her  stratagem,  but  who  af- 
fected a  light  indifference  notwithstanding. 

"Ami  going  !"  echoed  Dick  bitterly.  "Yes  I  am. 
What  then?" 

"  Nothing,  except  that  it's  very  early,"  said  Miss  So- 
phy ;  "  but  you  are  your  own  master  of  course." 

"  I  would  that  I  had  been  my  own  mistress  too,"  said 
Dick,  "before  I  had  ever  entertained  a  thought  of  you. 
Miss  Wackles,  I  believed  you  true,  and  I  was  blest  in  so 
believing,  but  now  I  mourn  that  e'er  I  knew,  a  girl  so 
fair  yet  so  deceiving." 

Miss  Sophy  bit  her  lip  and  affected  to  look  with  great 
interest  after  Mr.  Cheggs,  who  was  quaffing  lemonade 
in  the  distance. 

"I  came  here,"  said  Dick,  rather  oblivious  of  the 
purpose  with  which  he  had  really  come,  "with  my  bo- 
som expanded,  my  heart  dilated,  and  my  sentiments  of 
a  corresponding  description.  I  go  away  with  feelings 
that  may  be  conceived,  but  cannot  be  described  :  feeling 
within  myself  the  desolating  truth  that  my  best  affec- 
tions have  experienced,  this  night,  a  stifler  !" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler," said  Miss  Sophy  with  downcast  eyes.  "  I'm  very 
sorry  if — " 

"  Sorry,  ma'am  !  "  said  Dick,  "  sorry  in  the  possession 
of  a  Cheggs  !  But  I  wish  you  a  very  good  night :  con- 
cluding with  this  slight  remark,  that  there  is  a  young 
lady  growing  up  at  this  present  moment  for  me,  who 
has  not  only  great  personal  attractions  but  great  wealth, 
and  who  has  requested  her  next  of  kin  to  propose  for 
my  hand,  which,  having  a  regard  for  some  members  of 
her  family,  I  have  consented  to  promise.  It's  a  gratify 
ing  circumstance  which  you'll  be  glad  to  hear,  that  a 
young  and  lovely  girl  is  growing  into  a  woman  expressly 
on  my  account,  and  is  now  saving  up  for  me.  I  thought 
I'd  mention  it.  I  have  now  merely  to  apologise  for  tres- 
passing so  long  upon  your  attention.    Good  night  ! " 

"  There's  one  good  thing  springs  out  of  all  this,"  said 
Richard  Swiveller  to  himself  when  he  had  reached  home 
and  w^as  hanging  over  the  candle  with  the  extinguisher 
in  his  hand,  "which  is,  that  I  now  go  heart  and  soul, 
neck  and  heels,  with  Fred  in  all  his  scheme  about  little 
Nelly,  and  right  glad  he'll  be  to  find  me  so  strong  upon 
it.  He  shall  know  all  about  that  to-morrow,  and  in  the 
mean  time,  as  it's  rather  late,  I'll  try  and  get  a  wink  or 
two  of  the  balmy," 

"  The  balmy  "  came  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  courted. 
In  a  very  few  minutes  Mr.  Swiveller  was  fast  asleep, 
dreaming  that  he  had  married  Nelly  Trent  and  came 
into  the  property,  and  that  his  first  act  of  power  was  to 
lay  waste  the  market-garden  of  Mr.  Cheggs  and  turn  it 
into  a  brick-field. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  child,  in  her  confidence  with  Mrs.  Quilp,  had  but 
feebly  described  the  sadness  and  sorrow  of  her  thoughts, 


704 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


or  the  heaviness  of  tlie  cloud  which  overhung  her  home, 
and  cast  dark  shadows  on  its  hearth.  Besides  that  it 
was  very  difficult  to  impart  to  any  person  not  intimately 
acquainted  with  the  life  she  led,  an  adequate  sense  of 
its  gloom  and  loneliness,  a  constant  fear  of  in  some  way 
committing  or  injuring  the  old  man  to  whom  she  was  so 
tenderly  attached,  had  restrained  her,  even  in  the  midst 
of  her  heart's  overflowing,  and  made  her  timid  of  allu- 
sion to  the  main  cause  of  her  anxiety  and  distress. 

For,  it  was  not  the  monotonous  days  unchequered  by 
variety  and  uncheered  by  pleasant  compaionship,  it 
was  not  the  dark  dreary  evenings  or  the  long  solitary 
nights,  it  was  not  the  absence  of  every  slight  and  easy 
pleasure  for  which  young  hearts  beat  high,  or  the  know- 
ing nothing  of  childhood  but  its  Aveakness  and  its  easily 
•wounded  spirit,  that  had  rung  such  tears  from  Nell.  To 
seethe  old  man  struck  down  beneath  the  pressure  of  some 
hidden  grief,  to  mark  bis  wavering  and  unsettled  state,  to 
be  agitated  at  times  with  a  dreadful  fear  that  his  mind 
was  wandering,  and  to  trace  in  his  words  and  looks  the 
dawning  of  despondent  madness  ;  to  watch  and  wait  and 
li.sten  for  confirmation  of  these  things  day  after  day, 
and  to  feel  and  know  that,  come  what  might,  they  were 
alone  in  the  world  with  no  one  to  help  or  advise  or  care 
about  them — these  were  causes  of  depression  and  anx- 
iety that  might  have  sat  heavily  on  an  older  breast  with 
many  influences  at  work  to  cheer  and  gladden  it,  but 
how  heavily  on  the  mind  of  a  young  child  to  whom  they 
were  ever  xu*esent,  and  who  was  constantly  surrounded 
by  all  that  could  keep  such  thoughts  in  restless  action  1 

And  yet,  to  the  old  man's  vision,  Nell  was  still  the 
same.  When  he  could,  for  a  moment,  disengage  his 
mind  from  the  phantom  that  haunted  and  brooded  on  it 
always,  there  was  his  young  companion  with  the  same 
smile  for  him,  the  same  earnest  words,  the  same  merry 
laugh,  the  same  love  and  care  that,  sinking  deep  into  his 
soul,  seemed  to  have  been  present  to  him  through  his 
whole  life.  And  so  he  went  on,  content  to  read  the  book 
of  her  heart  from  the  page  first  presented  to  him,  little 
dreaming  of  the  story  that  lay  hidden  in  its  other  leaves, 
and  murmuring  within  himself  that  at  least  the  child 
was  happy. 

She  had  been  once.  She  had  gone  singing  through  the 
dim  rooms,  and  moving  with  gay  and  lightsome  step 
among  their  dusty  treasures,  making  them  older  by  her 
young  life,  and  sterner  and  more  grim  by  her  gay  and 
cheerful  presence.  But,  now,  the  chambers  were  cold 
and  gloomy,  and  when  she  left  her  own  little  room  to 
while  away  the  tedious  hours,  and  sat  in  one  of  them, 
she  was  still  and  motionless  as  their  inanimate  occupants, 
and  had  no  heart  to  startle  the  echoes — hoarse  from 
their  long  silence — with  her  voice. 

In  one  of  these  rooms,  was  a  window  looking  into  the 
street,  where  the  child  sat,  many  and  many  a  long  even- 
ing, and  often  far  into  the  night,  alone  and  thoughtful. 
None  are  so  anxious  as  those  who  watch  and  wait ;  at 
these  times,  mournful  fancies  came  flocking  on  her 
mind,  in  crowds. 

She  would  take  her  station  here,  at  dusk,  and  watch 
the  people  as  they  passed  up  and  down  the  street,  or 
appeared  at  the  windows  of  the  opposite  houses  ;  won- 
dering whether  those  rooms  were  as  lonesome  as  that  in 
which  she  sat,  and  whether  those  people  felt  it  company 
to  see  her  sitting  there,  as  she  did  only  to  see  them  look 
out  and  draw  in  their  heads  again.  There  was  a  crooked 
stack  of  chimneys  on  one  of  the  roofs,  in  which,  by 
often  looking  at  them,  she  had  fancied  ugly  faces  that 
were  frowning  over  at  her  and  trying  to  peer  into  the 
room  ;  and  she  felt  glad  when  it  grew  too  dark  to  make 
them  out,  though  she  was  sorry  too,  when  the  man  came 
to  light  the  lamps  in  the  street — for  it  made  it  late,  and 
very  dull  inside.  Then,  she  would  draw  in  her  head  to 
look  round  the  room  and  see  that  everything  was  in  its 
place  and  hadn't  moved  ;  and  looking  out  into  the  street 
again,  would  perhaps  see  a  man  passing  with  a  coffin  on 
his  back,  and  two  or  three  others  silently  following 
him  to  a  house  where  somebody  lay  dead  ;  whicli 
made  her  shudder  and  think  of  such  things  until  they 
suggested  afresh  the  old  man's  altered  face  and  manner, 
and  a  new  train  of  fears  and  speculations.  If  he  were  to 
die — if  sudden  illness  had  happened  to  him,  and  he  were 
never  to  come  home  again,  alive — if,  one  night,  he  ! 


should  come  home,  and  kiss  and  bless  her  as  usual,  and 

after  she  had  gone  to  bed  and  had  fallen  asleep  and  was 
perhaps  dreaming  pleasantly,  and  smiling  in  her  sleep, 
he  should  kill  himself  and  his  blood  come  creeping, 
creeping,  on  the  ground  to  her  own  bed-room  door — 
These  thoughts  were  too  terrible  to  dwell  ujjon,  and  again 
she  would  have  recourse  to  the  street,  now  trodden  by 
fewer  feet,  and  darker  and  more  silent  than  before.  The 
shops  were  closing  fast,  and  lights  began  to  shine  from 
the  upper  windows,  as  the  neighbours  went  to  bed.  By 
degrees,  these  dwindled  away  and  disappeared,  or  were 
replaced,  here  and  there,  by  a  feeble  rush-candle  which 
was  to  burn  all  night.  Still,  there  was  one  late  shop  at 
no  great  distance  which  sent  forth  a  ruddy  glare  upon 
the  pavement  even  yet,  and  looked  bright  and  compan- 
ionable. But,  in  a  little  time,  this  closed,  the  light  was 
extinguished,  and  all  was  gloomy  and  quiet,  except 
when  some  stray  footsteps  sounded  on  the  pavement,  or 
a  neighbour,  out  later  than  his  wont,  knocked  lustily  at 
his  house-door  to  rouse  the  sleeping  inmates. 

When  the  night  had  worn  away  thus  far  (and  seldom 
now  until  it  had)  the  child  would  close  the  window,  and 
steal  softly  down-stairs,  thinking  as  she  went  that  if  one 
of  those  hideous  faces  below,  which  often  mingled  with 
her  dreams,  were  to  meet  her  by  the  way,  rendering 
itself  visible  by  some  strange  light  of  its  own,  how  ter- 
rified she  would  be.  But  these  fears  vanished  before  a 
well-trimmed  lamp  and  the  familiar  aspect  of  her  own 
room.  After  praying  fervently,  and  with  many  bursting 
tears,  for  the  old  man,  and  the  restoration  of  his  peace 
of  mind  and  the  happiness  they  once  enjoyed,  she  would 
lay  her  head  upon  the  pillow  and  sob  herself  to  sleep  : 
often  starting  up  again,  before  the  daylight  came,  to 
listen  for  the  bell,  and  respond  to  the  imaginary  sum- 
mons which  had  roused  her  from  her  slumber. 

One  night,  the  third  after  Nelly's  interview  with  Mrs.  ] 
Quilp,  the  old  man,  who  had  been  weak  and  ill  all  day, 
said  he  should  not  leave  home.     The  child's  eyes 
sparkled  at  the  intelligence,  but  her  joy  subsided  when  ' 
they  reverted  to  his  worn  and  sickly  face.  ' 

"Two  days,"  he  said,  "two  whole,  clear  days  have  • 
passed,  and  there  is  no  reply.    What  did  he  tell  thee, 
Nell  ? "  i 
"Exactly  what  I  told  you,  dear  grandfather,  indeed."  - 
"True,"  said  the  old  man,  faintly.    "Yes.    But  tell 
me  again,  Nell.    My  head  fails  me.    What  was  it  that 
he  told  thee  ?    Nothing  more  than  that  he  would  see  me  ( 
to-morrow  or  next  day?    That  was  in  the  note."  | 
"  Nothing  more,"  said  the  child.    "  Shall  I  go  to  him  i 
again  to-morrow,  dear  grandfather  ?    Very  early  ?    I  \, 
will  be  there  and  back,  before  breakfast."  > 
The  old  man  shook  his  head,  and  sighing  mournfully,  j, 
drew  her  towards  him. 

"  'T would  be  of  no  use,  my  dear,  no  earthly  use.  But 
if  he  deserts  me,  Nell,  at  this  moment — if  he  deserts  me 
now,  when  I  should,  with  his  assistance,  be  recompensed 
for  all  the  time  and  money  I  have  lost,  and  all  the  agony 
of  mind  I  have  undergone,  which  makes  me  what  you 
see,  I  am  ruined,  and — worse,  far  worse  than  that — have 
ruined  thee,  for  whom  I  ventured  all.  If  we  are  beg- 
gars—  ! " 

"What  if  we  are?"  said  the  child  boldly.  "Let  us 
be  beggars  and  be  happy." 

"Beggars — and  happy!"  said  the  old  man.  "Poor 
child  ! " 

"Dear  grandfather,"  cried  the  girl  with  an  energy 
which  shone  in  her  flushed  face,  trembling  voice,  and 
impassioned  gesture,  "  I  am  not  a  child  in  that  I  think, 
but  even  if  I  am,  oh  hear  me  pray  that  we  may  beg,  or 
work  in  open  roads  or  fields,  to  earn  a  scanty  living, 
rather  than  live  as  we  do  now." 
"  Nelly  !  "  said  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,  yes,  rather  than  live  as  we  do  now,"  the  child 
repeated,  more  earnestly  than  before.  "If  you  are  sor- 
rowful let  me  know  why  and  be  sorrowful  too  ;  if  you 
waste  away  and  are  paler  and  weaker  every  day,  let  me 
be  your  nurse  and  try  to  comfort  you.  If  you  are  poor, 
let  us  be  poor  together  ;  but  let  me  be  with  you,  do  let 
me  be  with  you  ;  do  not  let  me  see  such  a  change  and 
not  know  why,  or  I  shall  break  my  heart  and  die.  Dear 
grandfather,  let  us  leave  this  sad  place  to-morrow,  and 
!  beg  our  way  from  door  to  door." 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


706 


The  old  man  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  hid 
it  in  the  pillow  of  the  couch  on  which  he  lay. 

"  Let  us  be  beggars,"  said  tlie  child  passing  an  arm 
round  his  neck,  "  I  have  no  fear  but  we  shall  have 
enough,  I  am  sure  we  shall.  Let  us  walk  through 
country  places,  and  sleep  in  fields  and  under  trees,  and 
never  think  of  money  again,  or  anything  that  can  make 
you  sad,  but  rest  at  nights,  and  have  the  sun  and  wijid 
upon  our  faces  in  the  day,  and  thank  God  together  ! 
Let  us  never  set  foot  in  dark  rooms  or  melancholy 
houses,  any  more,  but  wander  up  and  down  wherever 
we  like  to  go  ;  and  when  you  are  tired,  you  shall  stop  to 
rest  in  the  pleasantest  place  that  we  can  find,  and  I  will 
go  and  beg  for  both." 

The  child's  voice  was  lost  in  sobs  as  she  dropped  upon 
the  old  man's  neck  ;  nor  did  she  weep  alone. 

These  were  not  words  for  other  ears,  nor  was  it  a 
scene  for  other  eyes.  And  yet  other  ears  and  eyes  were 
there  and  greedily  taking  in  all  that  passed,  and  more- 
over they  were  the  ears  and  eyes  of  no  less  a  person 
than  Mr.  Daniel  Quilp,  who,  having  entered  unseen  when 
the  child  first  jdaced  herself  at  the  old  man's  side,  re- 
frained— actuated,  no  doubt,  by  motives  of  the  purest 
delicacy — from  interrupting  the  conversation,  and  stood 
looking  on  with  his  accustomed  grin.  Standing,  how- 
ever, being  a  tiresome  attitude  to  a  gentleman  already 
fatigued  with  walking,  and  the  dwarf  being  one  of  that 
kind  of  persons  who  usually  make  themselves  at  home, 
he  soon  cast  his  eyes  upon  a  chair,  into  which  he  skipped 
with  uncommon  agility,  and  perching  himself  on  the 
back  with  his  feet  upon  the  seat,  was  thus  enabled  to  look 
on  and  listen  with  greater  comfort  to  himself,  besides 
gratifying  at  the  same  time  that  taste  for  doing  some- 
thing fantastic  and  monkey-like,  which  on  all  occasions 
had  strong  possession  of  him.  Here,  then,  he  sat,  one 
leg  cocked  carelessly  over  the  other,  his  chin  resting  on 
the  palm  of  his  hand,  his  head  turned  a  little  on  one 
side,  and  his  ugly  features  twisted  into  a  complacent 
grimace.  And  in  this  position  the  old  man,  happening 
in  course  of  time  to  look  that  way,  at  length  chanced  to 
see  him  :  to  his  unbounded  astonishment. 

The  child  uttered  a  suppressed  shriek  on  beholding 
this  agreeable  figure  ;  in  their  first  surprise  both  she  and 
the  old  man,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  and  half  doubt- 
ing its  reality,  looked  shrinkingly  at  it.  Not  at  all  dis- 
concerted by  this  reception,  Daniel  Quilp  preserved  the 
same  attitude,  merely  nodding  twice  or  thrice  with  great 
condescension.  At  length,  the  old  man  pronounced  his 
name,  and  inquired  how  he  came  there. 

"  Through  the  door,"  said  Quilp  j)ointing  over  his 
shoulder  with  his  thumb.  "  I'm  not  quite  small  enough 
to  get  through  key  holes.  I  wish  I  was.  I  want  to  have 
some  talk  with  you,  particularly,  and  in  private — with 
nobody  present,  neighbour.    Good-bye,  little  Nelly." 

Nell  looked  at  the  old  man,  who  nodded  to  her  to  re- 
tire, and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"Ah  !"  said  the  dwarf,  smacking  his  lips,  "what  a 
nice  kiss  that  was — just  upon  the  rosy  part.  What  a 
capital  kiss  ! " 

Nell  was  none  the  slower  in  going  away,  for  this  re- 
mark. Quilp  looked  after  her  with  an  admiring  leer, 
and  when  she  had  closed  the  door,  fell  to  complimenting 
the  old  man  upon  her  charms. 

"Such  a  fresh,  blooming,  modest  little  bud,  neigh- 
bour," said  Quilp,  nursing  his  .short  leg,  and  making  his 
eyes  twinkle  very  much:  "  such  a  chubby,  rosy,  cosy,  lit- 
tle Nell  ! " 

The  old  man  answered  by  a  forced  smile,  and  was 
plainly  struggling  with  a  feeling  of  the  keenest  and  most 
exquisite  impatience.    It  was  not  lost  upon  Quilp,  who 
delighted  in  torturing  him,  or  indeed  anybody  else,  when 
'  he  could. 

"She's  so,"  said  Quilp,  speaking  very  slowly,  and 
feigning  to  be  quite  absorbed  in  the  subject,  "so  small, 
so  compact,  so  beautifully  modelled,  so  fair,  with  sach 
blue  veins,  and  such  a  transparent  skin,  and  such  little 
feet,  and  such  winning  ways — but  bless  me,  you're  ner- 
vous !  Why  neighbour,  what's  the  matter  ?  I  swear  to 
you,"  continued  the  dwarf  dismounting  from  the  chair 
and  sitting  down  in  it,  with  a  careful  slowness  of  gesture 
I  very  different  from  the  rapidity  with  which  he  had  sprung 
up  unheard,  "  I  swear  to  you  that  I  had  no  idea  old 
1  Vol.  II.— 45  ' 


blood  ran  so  fast  or  kept  so  warm.  I  thought  it  was 
sluggish  in  its  course,  and  cool,  quite  cool.  I  am  pretty 
sure  it  ought  to  be.  Yours  must  be  out  of  order,  neigh- 
bour. " 

"  I  believe  it  is,"  groaned  the  old  man,  clasping  his 
head  with  both  hands.  "There's  burning  fever  here, 
and  something  now  and  then  to  which  I  fear  to  give  a 
name." 

The  dwarf  said  never  a  word,  but  watched  his  com- 
panion as  he  paced  restlessly  up  and  down  the  room,  and 
presently  returned  to  his  seat.  Here  he  remained,  with 
his  head  bowed  upon  his  breast  for  some  time,  and  then 
suddenly  raising  it,  said, 

"  Once,  and  once  for  all,  have  you  brought  me  any 
money  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  returned  Quilp. 

"  Then,"  said  the  old  man,  clenching  his  hands 
desperately,  and  looking  upward,  "  the  child  and  I  are 
lost  : " 

"  Neighbour,"  said  Quilp  glancing  sternly  at  him,  and 
beating  his  hand  twice  or  thrice  upon  the  table  to  attract 
his  wandering  attention,  "  let  me  be  plain  with  you,  and 
play  a  fairer  game  than  when  you  held  all  the  cards,  and 
I  saw  but  the  backs  and  nothing  more.  You  have  no  se- 
cret from  me  now." 

The  old  man  looked  up  trembling. 

"  You  are  surprised,"  said  Quilp.  "  Well,  perhaps 
that's  natural.  You  have  no  secret  from  me  now,  I  say; 
no,  not  one.  For  now,  I  know,  that  all  those  sums  of 
money,  that  all  those  loans,  advances,  and  supplies  that 
you  have  had  from  me,  have  found  their  way  to — shall  I 
say  the  word?  " 

"  Aye  !  "  replied  the  old  man,  "  say  it  if  you  will," 

"  To  the  gaming-table,"  rejoined  Quilp,  "your  nightly 
haunt.  This  was  the  precious  scheme  to  make  your  for- 
tune, was  it ;  this  was  the  secret  certain  source  of  wealth 
in  which  I  was  to  have  sunk  my  money  (if  I  had  been  the 
fool  you  took  me  for) ;  this  was  your  inexhaustible  mine 
of  gold,  your  El  Dorado,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  cried  the  old  man,  turning  upon  him  with 
gleaming  eyes,  "  it  was.    It  is.    It  will  be,  till  I  die." 

"  That  I  should  have  been  blinded,"  said  Quilp,  look- 
ing contemptuously  at  him,  "  by  a  mere  shallow  gam- 
bler." 

"I  am  no  gambler,"  cried  the  old  man,  fiercely.  "  I 
call  Heaven  to  witness  that  I  never  played  for  gain  of 
mine,  or  love  of  play  ;  that  at  every  piece  I  staked,  I 
wliispered  to  myself  that  orphan's  name,  and  called  on 
Heaven  to  bless  the  venture — which  it  never  did.  Whom 
did  it  prosper?  Who  were  those  with  whom  I  played? 
Men  who  lived  by  plunder,  profligacy,  and  riot ;  squan- 
dering their  gold  in  doing  ill,  and  propagating  vice  and 
evil.  My  winnings  would  have  been  from  them,  my 
winnings  would  have  been  bestowed  to  the  last  farthing 
on  a  young  sinless  child,  whose  life  they  would  have 
sweetened  and  made  happy.  What  would  they  have 
contracted  ?  The  means  of  corruption,  wretchedness, 
and  misery.  Who  would  not  have  hoped  in  such  a 
cause — tell  me  that  !  Who  would  not  have  hoped  as  I 
did?" 

"  When  did  you  first  begin  this  mad  career?"  asked 
Quilp,  his  taunting  inclination  subdued,  for  a  moment, 
by  the  oM  man's  grief  and  wildness. 

*  "  When  did  I  first  begin  ?"  he  rejoined,  passing  his 
hand  across  his  brow.  "  When  uas  it,  that  I  first  began  ? 
When  should  it  be,  but  when  I  began  to  think  how  little 
I  had  saved,  how  long  a  time  it  took  to  save  at  all,  how 
short  a  time  I  might  have  at  my  age  to  live,  and  how  she 
would  be  left  to  the  rough  mercies  of  the  world,  with 
barely  enough  to  keep  her  from  the  sorrows  that  wait 
on  poverty  ;  then  it  was,  that  I  began  to  think  about 
it." 

"After  you  first  came  to  me  to  get  your  precious 
grandson  packed  off  to  sea?  "  said  Quilp. 

' '  Shortly  after  that, ' '  re  plied  the  old  man.  "I  thought 
of  it  a  long  time,  and  had  it  in  my  sleep  for  months. 
Then  I  began.  I  found  no  pleasure  hi  it,  I  expected 
none.  What  has  it  ever  brought  to  me  but  anxious  days 
and  sleepless  nights  ;  but  loss  of  health  and  peace  of 
mind,  and  gain  of  feebleness  and  sorrow  !  " 

"You  lost  what  money  you  had  laid  by,  first,  and  then 
came  to  me.    While  I  thought  you  were  making  your 


706 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Never  won  back 


fortune  (as  vou  said  you  were)  yon  were  making  yourself 
a  beo-gar,  eh  ?  Dear  me  !  And  so  it  comes  to  pass  that 
I  hofd  everv  security  you  could  scrape  together,  and  a 
bill  of  sale  upon  the— upon  the  stock  and  property,  '  said 
Quilp,  standing  up  and  looking  about  him,  as  if  to  assure 
himself  that  none  of  it  had  been  taken  away.  "  But  did 
you  never  win?  " 

"  Never  ! "  groaned  the  old  man 
mv  loss  ! " 

I  thought,"  sneered  the  dwarf,  "  that  if  a  man 
played  long  enough  he  was  sure  to  win  at  last,  or,  at  the 
worst,  not  to  come  off  a  loser." 

"  And  so  he  is,"  cried  the  old  man,  suddenly  rousing 
himself  from  his  state  of  despondency,  and  lashed  into 
the  most  violent  excitement,  "so  he  is  ;  I  have  felt  that 
from  the  first,  I  have  always  known  it,  I've  seen  it,  I 
never  felt  it  half  so  strongly  as  I  feel  it  now.  Quilp,  I 
have  dreamed,  three  nights,  of  winning  the  same  large 
sum,  I  never  could  dream  that  dream  before,  though  I 
have  often  tried.  Do  not  desert  me,  now  I  have  this 
chance.  I  have  no  resource  but  you,  give  me  some  help, 
let  me  trv  this  one  last  hope." 

The  dwarf  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"See,  Quilp,  good  tender-hearted  Quilp,"  said  the  old 
man,  drawing  some  scraps  of  paper  from  his  pocket  with 
a  trembling  hand,  and  clasping  the  dwarf's  arm,  "only 
see  here.  Look  at  these  figures,  the  result  of  long  cal- 
culation, and  painful  and  hard  experience.  I  must  win. 
I  only  want  a  little  help  once  more,  a  few  pounds,  but 
two  score  pounds,  dear  Quilp. " 

"  The  last  advance  was  seventy,"  said  the  dwarf,  "and 
it  went  in  one  night." 

"  I  know  it  did,"  answered  the  old  man,  "  but  that 
was  the  very  worst  fortune  of  all,  and  the  time  had  not 
come  then.  Quilp,  consider,  consider,"  the  old  man 
cried,  trembling  so  much  the  while,  that  the  papers  in 
his  hand  fluttered  as  if  they  were  shaken  by  the  wind, 
"  that  orphan  child  !  If  I  were  alone,  I  could  die  with 
gladness— perhaps  even  anticipate  that  doom  which  is 
dealt  out  so  unequally  :  coming,  as  it  does,  on  the  proud 
and  happy  in  their  strength,  and  shunning  the  needy  and 
afflicted,  and  all  who  court  it  in  their  despair— but  what 
I  have  done  has  been  for  her.  Help  me  for  her  sake  I 
implore  you— not  for  mine,  for  hers  !  " 

"  I'm  sorry  I've  got  an  appointment  in  the  city,"  said 
Quilp,  looking  at  his  watch  with  perfect  self-possession, 
"  or  I  should  have  been  very  glad  to  have  spent  half 
an  hour  with  you  while  you  composed  yourself— very 
glad." 

"Nay,  Quilp,  good  Quilp,"  gasped  the  old  man,  catch- 
ing at  his  skirts-"  you  and  I  have  talked  together,  more 
than  once,  of  her  poor  mother's  story.  The  fear  of  her 
coming  to  poverty  has  perhaps  been  bred  in  me  by  that. 
Do  not  be  hard  upon  me,  but  take  that  into  account. 
You  are  a  great  gainer  by  me.  Oh  spare  me  the  money 
for  this  one  last  hope  ! " 

"  I  couldn't  do  it  really,"  said  Quilp  with  unusual  po- 
liteness, "  though  I  tell  you  what — and  this  is  a  circum- 
stance worth  bearing  in  mind  as  showing  how  the  sharp- 
est among  us  may  be  taken  in  sometimes — I  was  so  de- 
ceived by  the  penurious  way  in  which  you  lived,  alone 
with  Nelly  —  "  • 

"All  done  to  save  money  for  tempting  fortune,  and  to 
make  her  triumph  greater,"  cried  the  old  man. 

"  Yes  yes,  I  understand  that  now,"  said  Quilp":  "  but  I 
was  going  to  say,  I  was  so  de«eived  by  that,  your  miserly 
way,  the  reputation  you  had  among  those  who  knew  you 
of  being  rich,  and  your  repeated  assurances  that  you 
would  make  of  my  advances  treble  and  quadruple  the 
interest  you  paid  me,  that  I'd  have  advanced  you,  even 
now,  wliat  you  want,  on  your  simple  note  of  liand,  if  I 
hadn't  unexpectedly  become  acquainted  with  your  secret 
way  of  life." 

"  Who  is  it,"  retorted  the  old  man  desperately,  "that, 
notwithstanding  all  iny  caution,  told  you.  Come.  Let 
me  know  the  name — the  person." 

The  crafty  dwarf,  bethinking  himself  that  his  giving 
up  the  child  would  lead  to  the  disclosure  of  the  artifice 
he  had  emi)l<)ved,  which,  as  nothing  was  to  bo  gained  by 
it,  it  was  well' to  conceal,  stopped  short  in  his  answer  and 
said,  "  Now,  who  do  you  think  V  " 


"  It  was  Kit,  it  must  have  been  the  boy  ;  he  played 
the  spy,  and  you  tampered  with  him  ?"  said  the  old  man. 

"  How  came  you  to  think  of  him  ?  "  said  the  dwarf  in 
a  tone  of  great  commiseration.  "  Yes  it  was  Kit.  Poor 
Kit  I " 

So  saying,  he  nodded  in  a  friendly  manner,  and  took 
his  leave  ;  stopping  when  he  had  passed  the  outer  door 
a  little  distance,  and  grinning  with  extraordinary  delight. 

"Poor  Kit  !  "  muttered  Quilp.  "  I  think  it  was  Kit 
who  said  I  was  an  uglier  dwarf  than  could  be  seen  any- 
where for  a  penny,  wasn't  it.    Ha  ha  ha  !    Poor  Kit  !  " 

And  with  that  he  went  his  way,  still  chuckling  as  he 
went. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Daniel  Qun^P  neither  entered  nor  left  the  old  man's 
house,  unobserved.  In  the  shadow  of  an  archway  near- 
ly opposite,  leading  to  one  of  the  many  passages  which 
diverged  from  the  main  street,  there  lingered  one,  who, 
having  tak^n  up  his  position  when  the  twilight  first  came 
on,  still  maintained  it  with  undiminished  patience,  and 
leaning  against  the  wall  with  the  manner  of  a  person  who 
had  a  long  time  to  wait,  and  being  well  used  to  it  was 
quite  resigned,  scarcely  changed  his  attitude  for  the  hour 
together. 

This  patient  lounger  attracted  little  attention  from  any 
of  those  who  passed,  and  bestowed  as  little  upon  them. 
His  eyes  were  constantly  directed  towards  one  object ; 
the  window  at  which  the  child  was  accustomed  to  sit. 
If  he  withdrew  them  for  a  moment,  it  was  only  to  glance 
at  a  clock  in  some  neighbouring  shop,  and  then  to  strain 
his  sight  once  more  in  the  old  quarter  with  increased 
earnestness  and  attention. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  this  personage  evinced  no 
weariness  in  his  place  of  concealment ;  nor  did  he,  long 
as  his  waiting  was.  But  as  the  time  went  on,  he  mani- 
fested some  anxiety  and  surprise,  glancing  at  the  clock 
more  frequently  and  at  the  window  less  hopefully  than 
before.  At  length,  the  clock  was  hidden  from  his  sight 
by  some  envious  shutters,  then  the  church  steeples  pro- 
claimed  eleven  at  night,  then  the  quarter  past,  and  then 
the  conviction  seemed  to  obtrude  itself  on  his  mind  that 
it  was  of  no  use  tarrying  there  any  longer. 

That  the  conviction  was  an  unwelcome  one,  and  that 
he  was  by  no  means  willing  to  yield  to  it,  was  apparent 
from  his  reluctance  to  quit  the  spot ;  from  the  tardy  steps 
with  which  he  often  left  it,  still  looking  over  his  shoul- 
der at  the  same  window  ;  and  from  the  precipitation  with 
which  he  as  often  returned,  when  a  fancied  noise  or  the 
changing  and  imperfect  light  induced  him  to  suppose  it 
had  been  softly  raised.  At  length,  he  gave  the  matter 
up,  as  hopeless  for  that  night,  and  suddenly  breaking  into 
a  run  as  though  to  force  himself  away,  scampered  off  at 
his  utmost  speed,  nor  once  ventured  to  look  behind  him, 
lest  he  should  be  tempted  back  again. 

Without  relaxing  his  pace,  or  stopping  to  take  breath, 
this  mysterious  individual  dashed  on  through  a  great 
many  alleys  and  narrow  ways  until  he  at  length  arrived 
in  the  square  paved  court,  when  he  subsided  into  a  walk, 
and  making  for  a  small  house  from  the  window  of  which 
a  light  was  shining,  lifted  the  latch  of  the  door  and  i 
passed  in. 

"Bless  us!"  cried  a  woman  turning  sharply  round, 
"  who's  that  ?    Oh  !    It's  you.  Kit !  " 

"  Yes  mother,  it's  me." 

"  Why,  how  tired  you  look,  my  dear  !  " 

"  Old  master  an't  gone  out  to-night,"  said  Kit ;  "  and 
so  she  hasn't  been  at  the  window  at  all."  With  which 
words,  he  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  looked  very  mourn- 
ful and  discontented. 

The  room  in  which  Kit  sat  himself  down,  in  this  con- 
dition, was  an  extremely  poor  and  homely  place,  but 
with  that  air  of  comfort  about  it,  nevertheless,  which— 
or  the  spot  must  be  a  wretched  one  indeed— cleanliness 
and  order  can  always  impart  in  some  degree.  Late  as 
tlio  Dutch  clock  showed  it  to  be,  the  poor  woman  was 
still  hard  at  work  at  the  ironing-table  ;  a  young  chikl 
lay  sleeping  in  a  cradle  near  the  fire  ;  and  another,  a 
sturdy  boy  of  two  or  three  years  old,  very  wide  awake, 
with  a  very  tight  night-cap  on  his  head,  and  a  night- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


707 


gown  very  mucTi  too  small  for  him  on  his  hody,  was  sit-  I 
ting  bolt  upright  in  a  clothes-basket,  staring  over  the 
rim  with  his  great  round  eyes  and  looking  as  if  he  had  I 
thoroughly  made  up  his  mind  never  to  go  to  sleep  any  ' 
more  ;  which,  as  he  had  already  declined  to  take  his 
natural  rest,  and  had  been  brought  out  of  bed  in  conse- 
quence, opened  a  cheerful  prospect  for  his  relations  and 
friends.    It  was  rather  a  queer-looking  family  :  Kit,  his 
mother,  and  the  children,  being  all  strongly  alike. 

Kit  was  disposed  to  be  out  of  temper,  as  the  best  of 
us  are  too  often — but  he  looked  at  the  youngest  child 
who  was  sleeping  soundly,  and  from  him  to  his  other 
brother  in  the  clothes-basket,  and  from  him  to  their 
mother,  who  had  been  at  work  without  complaint  since 
morning,  and  thought  it  would  be  a  better  and  kinder 
thing  To  be  good-humoured.  So  he  rocked  the  cradle 
with  his  foot  ;  made  a  face  at  the  rebel  in  the  clothes- 
basket,  which  put  him  in  high  good-humour  directly  ; 
and  stoutly  determined  to  be  talkative  and  make  himself 
agreeable. 

"Ah  mother  !  "  said  Kit,  taking  out  his  clasp  knife 
and  falling  upon  a  great  piece  of  bread  and  meat  which 
she  had  had  ready  for  him,  hours  before,  "  what  a  one 
you  are  !    There  an't  many  such  as  you,  1  know." 

"  I  hope  there  are  many  a  great  deal  better.  Kit,"  said 
Mrs.  Nubbles  ;  "and  there  are,  or  ought  to  be,  accord- 
in'  to  what  the  parson  at  chapel  says." 

"Much  he  knows  about  it,"  returned  Kit  contemptu- 
ously. "  Wait  till  he's  a  widder  and  works  like  you  do, 
and  gets  as  little,  and  does  as  much,  and  keeps  his  spir- 
its up  the  same,  and  then  I'll  ask  him  what's  o'clock  and 
trust  him  for  being  right  to  half  a  second." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Nubbles,  evading  the  point,  "your 
beer's  down  there  by  the  fender.  Kit. " 

"I  see,"  replied  her  son,  taking  up  the  porter  pot, 
"  my  love  to  you,  mother.  And  the  parson's  health  too 
if  you  like.    I  don't  bear  him  any  malice,  not  I  !" 

"  Did  you  tell  me,  just  now,  that  your  master  hadn't 
gone  out  to-night?"  inquired  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

"  Yes,"  said  Kit,  "  worse  luck." 

"You  should  say  better  luck,  I  think,"  returned  his 
mother,  "  because  Miss  Nelly  won't  have  been  left 
alone" 

"  Ah  !"  said  Kit,  "I  forgot  that.  I  said  worse  luck, 
because  I've  been  watching  ever  since  eight  o'clock,  and 
seen  nothing  of  her." 

"I  wonder  what  she'd  say,"  cried  his  mother,  stcrpping 
in  her  work,  and  looking  round,  "if  she  knew  thatevery 
night  when  she — poor  thing — is  sitting  alone  at  that 
window,  you  are  watching  in  the  open  street  for  fear 
any  harm  should  come  to  her,  and  that  you  never  leave 
the  place  or  come  home  to  your  bed  though  you're  ever 
so  tired,  till  such  time  as  you  think  she's  safe  in  hers." 

"  Never  mind  what  she'd  say,"  replied  Kit,  with  some- 
thing like  a  blush  on  his  uncouth  face  ;  "  she'll  never 
know  nothing,  and  consequently,  she'll  never  say  no- 
thing." 

Mrs.  Nubbles  ironed  away  in  silence  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  coming  to  the  fireplace  for  another  iron,  glanced 
stealthily  at  Kit  while  she  rubbed  it  on  a  board  and 
dusted  it  with  a  duster,  but  said  nothing  until  she  had 
returned  to  her  table  again  :  when,  holding  the  iron  at 
an  alarming  short  distance  from  her  cheek,  to  test  its 
temperature,  and  looking  round  with  a  smile,  she  ob- 
served : 

"I  know  what  some  people  would  say.  Kit — " 
"Nonsense,"  interposed  Kit  with  a  perfect  apprehen- 
i  sion  of  what  was  to  follow. 

!  .    "  No,  but  they  would  indeed.    Some  people  would 
say  that  you'd  fallen  in  love  with  her,  I  know  they 
,  would. " 

'  To  this.  Kit  only  replied  by  bashfully  bidding  his 
J  mother  "get  out,"  and  forming  sundry  strange  figures 
with  his  legs  and  arms,  accompanied  by  sympathetic 
1,  contortioi;s  of  his  face.  Not  deriving  from  these  means 
■  the  relief  which  he  sought,  he  bit  off  an  immense  mouth- 

I  ful  from  the  bread  and  meat,  and  took  a  quick  drink  of 
the  portfT  ;  by  which  artificial  aids  he  choked  himself 
and  effected  a  diversion  of  the  subject. 

"Speaking  seriously  though.  Kit,"  said  his  mother 
ltr*king  up  the  theme  afresh  after  a  time,  "  for  of  course 

I I  was  only  in  joke  just  now,  it's  very  good  and  thought- , 


[  ful,  and  like  you,  to  do  this,  and  never  let  any  one  know 
I  it,  though  some  day  I  hope  she  may  come  to  know  it, 
I  for  I'm  sure  she  would  be  very  grateful  to  you  and  feel 
'  it  very  much.  It's  a  cruel  thing  to  keep  the  dear  child 
shut  up  there.  I  don't  wonder  that  the  old  gentleman 
wants  to  keep  it  from  you." 

"  He  don't  think  it's  cruel,  bless  yon,"  said  Kit,  "  and 
don't  mean  to  be  so,  or  he  wouldn't  do  it — I  do  consider, 
mother,  that  he  wouldn't  do  it  for  all  the  gold  and  sil- 
ver in  the  world.  No,  no,  that  he  wouldn't.  I  know 
him  better  than  that." 

"  Then  what  does  he  do  it  for,  and  why  does  he  keep 
it  so  close  from  you?"  said  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

"That  I  don't  know,"  returned  her  son.  "If  he 
hadn't  tried  to  keep  it  so  close  though  I  should  have 
never  found  it  out,  for  it  was  his  getting  me  away  at 
night  and  sending  me  off  so  much  earlier  than  he  used 
to,  that  first  made  me  curious  to  know  what  was  going 
on.  Hark  !  what's  that?" 
"It's  only  somebody  outside." 

"It's  somebody  crossing  over  here,"  said  Kit,  standing 
up  to  listen,  "  and  coming  very  fast,  too.  He  can't  have 
gone  out  after  I  left  and  the  house  caught  fire,  mother  ! " 

The  boy  stood,  for  a  moment,  really  bereft,  by  the  ap- 
prehension he  had  conjured  up,  of  the  power  to  move. 
The  footsteps  drew  nearer,  the  door  was  opened  with  a 
hasty  hand,  and  the  child  herself,  pale  and  breathless, 
and  hastily  wrapped  in  a  few  disordered  garments,  hur- 
ried into  the  room. 

"  Miss  Nelly  !  What  is  the  matter  !  "  cried  mother 
and  son  together. 

"I  must  not  stay  a  moment,"  she  returned,  "grand- 
father has  been  taken  very  ill.  I  found  him  in  a  fit  upon 
the  floor — " 

'*  I'll  run  for  a  doctor" — said  Kit,  seizing  his  brimless 
hat.    "  I'll  be  there  directly,  I'll—" 

"No,  no,"  cried  Nell,  "  there  is  one  there,  you're  not 
wanted,  you — you — must  never  come  near  us  any 
more  ! " 

"  What  !"  roared  Kit. 

"  Never  again,"  said  the  child.  "  Don't  ask  me  why, 
for  I  don't  know.  Pray  don't  ask  me  why,  pray  don't 
be  sorry,  pray  don't  be  vexed  with  me  !  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it  indeed  ! " 

Kit  looked  at  her  with  his  eyes  stretched  wide  ;  and 
opened  and  shut  his  mouth  a  great  many  times  ;  but 
couldn't  get  out  one  word. 

"He  complains  and  raves  of  you,"  said  the  child,  "  I 
don't  know  what  you  have  done,  but  I  hope  it's  nothing 
very  bad." 

"  /  done  ?"  roared  Kit. 

"  He  cries  that  you're  the  cause  of  all  his  misery,"  re- 
turned the  child  with  tearful  eyes  ;  "  he  screamed  and 
called  for  you  ;  they  say  you  must  not  come  near  him  or 
he  will  die.  You  must  not  return  to  us  any  more.  I 
came  to  tell  you.  I  thought  it  would  be  better  that  I 
should  come  than  somebody  quite  strange.  Oh,  Kit, 
what  have  you  done?  you,  in  whom  I  trusted  so  much, 
and  who  were  almost  the  only  friend  I  had  ! " 

The  unfortunate  Kit  looked  at  his  young  mistress 
harder  and  harder,  and  with  e^^es  growing  wider  and 
wider,  but  was  perfectly  motionless  and  silent. 

"I  have  brought  his  money  for  the  week,"  said  the 
child,  looking  to  the  woman  and  laying  it  on  the  table — 
"  and — and — a  little  more,  for  he  was  always  good  and 
kind  to  me.  I  hope  he  Avill  be  sorry  and  do  well  some- 
where else  and  not  take  this  to  heart  too  much.  It 
grieves  me  very  much  to  part  with  hi<m  like  this,  but 
there  is  no  help.    It  must  be  done.    Good  night  !  " 

With  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  and  her 
slight  figure  trembling  with  the  agitation  of  the  scene 
she  had  left,  the  shock  she  had  received,  the  errand  she 
had  just  discharged,  and  a  thousand  painful  and  affec- 
tionate feelings,  the  child  hastened  to  the  door,  and  dis- 
appeared as  rapidly  as  she  had  come. 

The  poor  woman,  who  had  no  cause  to  doubt  her  son, 
but  every  reason  for  relying  on  his  honesty  and  truth, 
was  staggered,  notwithstanding,  by  his  not  having  ad- 
vanced one  word  in  his  defence.  X^isions  of  gallantry, 
knavery,  robbery  ;  and  of  the  nightly  absences  from 
home  for  which  he  had  accounted  so  strangely,  having 
been  occasioned  by  some  unlawful  pursuit ;  flocked  into 


708 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


her  brain  and  rendered  her  afraid  to  question  him.  She 
rocked  herself  upon  a  chair,  wringing  her  hands  and 
weeping  bitterly,  but  Kit  made  no  attempt  to  comfort 
her,  and  remained  quite  bewildered.  The  baby  in  the 
cradle  woke  up  and  cried  ;  the  boy  in  the  clothes  basket 
fell  over  on  his  back  with  the  basket  upon  him,  and  was 
seen  no  more ;  the  mother  wept  louder  yet  and  rocked 
faster  ;  but  Kit,  insensible  to  all  the  din  and  tumult,  re- 
mained in  a  state  of  utter  stupefaction. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Quiet  and  solitude  were  destined  to  hold  uninter- 
rupted rule  no  longer,  beneath  the  roof  that  sheltered 
the  child.  Next  morning,  the  old  man  was  in  a  raging 
fever  accompanied  with  delirium ;  and  sinking  under 
the  influence  of  this  disorder,  he  lay  for  many  weeks  in 
imminent  peril  of  his  life.  There  was  watching  enough, 
now,  but  it  was  the  watching  of  strangers  who  made  a 
greedy  trade  of  it,  and  who,  in  the  intervals  of  their  at- 
tendance upon  the  sick  man,  huddled  together  with  a 
ghastly  good-fellowship,  and  ate  and  drunk  and  made 
merry  ;  for  disease  and  death  were  their  ordinary  house- 
hold gods. 

Yet,  in  all  the  hurry  and  crowding  of  such  a  time,  the 
child  was  more  alone  than  she  had  ever  been  before  ; 
alone  in  spirit,  alone  in  her  devotion  to  him  who  was 
wasting  away  upon  his  burning  bed  ;  alone  in  her  un- 
feigned sorrow,  and  her  unpurchased  sympathy.  Day 
after  day,  and  night  after  night,  found  her  stiil  by  the 
pillow  of  the  unconscious  sufiEerer,  still  anticipating  his 
every  want,  still  listening  to  those  repetitions  of  her 
name  and  those  anxieties  and  cares  for  her,  which  were 
ever  uppermost  among  his  feverish  wanderings. 

The  house  was  no  longer  theirs.  Even  the  sick  cham- 
ber seemed  to  be  retained,  on  the  uncertain  tenure  of 
Mr.  Quilp's  favour.  The  old  man's  illness  had  not  lasted 
many  days  when  he  took  formal  possession  of  the  prem- 
ises, and  all  upon  them,  in  virtue  of  certain  legal  powers 
to  that  effect,  which  few  understood  and  none  presumed 
to  call  in  question.  This  important  step  secured,  with 
the  assistance  of  a  man  of  law  whom  he  brought  with 
him  for  the  purpose,  the  dwarf  proceeded  to  establish 
himself  and  his  coadjutor  in  the  house,  as  an  assertion 
of  his  claim  against  all  comers  ;  and  then  set  about 
making  his  quarters  comfortable,  after  his  own  fashion. 

To  this  end,  Mr.  Quilp  encamped  in  the  back  parlour, 
having  first  put  an  effectual  stop  to  any  further  business 
by  shutting  up  the  shop.  Having  looked  out,  from 
among  the  old  furniture,  the  handsomest  and  most  com- 
modious chair  he  could  possibly  find  (which  he  reserved 
for  his  own  use),  and  an  especially  hideous  and  uncom- 
fortable one  (which  he  considerately  appropriated  to  the 
accommodation  of  his  friend),  he  caused  them  to  be  car- 
ried into  this  room,  and  took  up  his  position  in  great 
state.  The  apartment  was  very  far  removed  from  the 
old  man's  chamber,  but  Mr.  Quilp  deemed  it  prudent,  as 
a  precaution  against  infection  from  feve^j,  and  a  means 
of  wholesome  fumigation,  not  only  to  smoke  himself, 
without  cessation,  but  to  insist  upon  it  that  his  legal 
friend  did  the  like.  Moreover,  he  sent  an  express  to  the 
wharf  for  the  tumbling  boy,  who,  arriving  with  all 
despatch,  was  enjoined,  to  sit  himself  down  in  another 
chair  just  inside  the  door,  continually  to  smoke  a  great 
pipe  which  the  dwarf  had  provided  for  the  purpose,  and 
to  take  it  from  his  lips  under  any  pretence  whatever, 
were  it  only  for  one  minute  at  a  time,  if  he  dared.  These 
arrangements  completed,  Mr.  Quilp  looked  round  him 
with  chuckling  satisfaction,  and  remarked  that  he  called 
that  comfort. 

The  legal  gentleman,  whose  melodious  name  was  Brass, 
might  have  called  it  comfort  also  but  for  two  drawbacks  ; 
one  was,  that  he  could  by  no  exertion  sit  easy  in  his 
chair,  the  seat  of  which  was  very  hard,  angular,  slip- 
pery, and  sloping  ;  the  other,  that  tobacco-smoke  always 
caused  him  great  internal  discomposure  and  annoyance. 
But  a.she  was  quite  a  creature  of  Mr.  Quili)'s,  and  had  a 
thousand  reasons  for  conciliating  his  good  opinion,  he 
tried  to  smile,  and  nodded  his  acquiescence  with  the  best 
grace  he  could  assume. 


This  Brass  was  an  attorney  of  no  very  good  repute, 
from  Be  vis  Marks  in  the  city  of  London  ;  he  was  a  tall, 
meagre  man,  with  a  nose  like  a  wen,  a  protruding  fore- 
head, retreating  eyes,  and  hair  of  a  deep  red.  He  wore 
a  long  black  surtout  reaching  nearly  to  his  ancles,  short 
black  trousers,  high  shoes,  and  cotton  stockings  of  a 
bluish  grey.  He  had  a  cringing  manner,  but  a  very 
harsh  voice  ;  and  his  blandest  smiles  were  so  extremely 
forbidding,  that  to  have  had  his  company  under  the  least 
repulsive  circumstances,  one  would  have  wished  him  to 
be  out  of  temper  that  he  might  only  scowl. 

Quilp  looked  at  his  legal  adviser,  and  seeing  that  he  was 
winking  very  much  in  the  anguish  of  his  pipe,  that  he 
sometimes  shuddered  when  he  happened  to  inhale  its  full 
flavour,  and  that  he  constantly  fanned  the  smoke  from 
him,  vi^as  quite  overjoyed  and  rubbed  his  hands  with 
glee. 

"  Smoke  away,  you  dog,"  said  Quilp,  turning  to  the 
boy  ;  "fill  your  pipe  again  and  smoke  it  fast,  down  to 
the  last  whiff,  or  I'll  put  the  sealing-waxed  end  of  it  in 
the  fire  and  rab  it  red  hot  upon  your  tongue." 

Luckily  the  boy  was  case-hardened,  and  would  have 
smoked  a  small  lime-kiln  if  anybody  had  treated  him 
wi  til  it.  Wherefore,  he  only  muttered  a  brief  defiance  of 
his  master,  and  did  as  he  was  ordered. 

"Is  it  good.  Brass,  is  it  nice,  is  it  fragrant,  do  you 
feel  like  the  Grand  Turk  ?"  said  Quilp. 

Mr.  Brass  thought  that  if  he  did,  the  Grand  Turk's 
feelings  were  by  no  means  to  be  envied,  but  he  said  it 
was  famous,  and  he  had  no  doubt  he  felt  very  like  that 
Potentate.  .» 

"  This  is  the  way  to  keep  off  fever,"  said  Quilp,  this 
is  the  way  to  keep  off  every  calamity  of  life  !  We'll 
never  leave  off  all  the  time  we  stop  here — smoke  away, 
you  dog,  or  you  shall  swallow  the  pipe  !  " 

"  Shall  we  stop  here  long,  Mr.  Quilp  ?"  inquired  his 
legal  friend,  when  the  dwarf  had  given  his  boy  this  gen- 
tle admonition. 

"  We  must  stop,  I  suppose,  until  the  old  gentleman 
up-stairs  is  dead,"  returned  Quilp. 

"  He  he  he  ! "  laughed  Brass,  "  oh  !  very  good  !" 

"  Smoke  away  !  "  cried  Quilp.  "  Never  stop  !  you  can 
talk  as  you  smoke.    Don't  lose  time." 

"  He  he  he  ! "  cried  Brass  faintly,  as  he  again  applied 
himself  to  the  odious  pipe.  "  But  if  he  should  get  bet- 
ter, Mr.  Quilp  ?  " 

"  Then  we  shall  stop  till  he  does,  and  no  longer,"  re- 
turned the  dwarf. 

"How  kind  it  is  of  you,  sir,  to  wait  'till  then  ! "  said 
Brass.  "  Some  people,  sir,  would  have  sold  or  removed 
the  goods — oh  !  dear,  the  very  instant  the  law  allowed 
'em.  Some  people,  sir,  would  have  been  all  flintiness  and 
granite.    Some  people,  sir,  would  have — " 

"  Some  people  would  have  spared  themselves  the  jab- 
bering of  such  a  parrot  as  you,"  interposed  the  dwarf. 

"  He  he  he  !  "  cried  Brass.    "  You  have  such  spirits  !  '* 

The  smoking  sentinel  at  the  door  interposed  in  this 
place,  and  without  taking  his  pipe  from  his  li^s,  growled, 

"  Here's  the  gal  a  comin'  down." 

"  The  what,  you  dog  ?  "  said  Quilp. 

"  The  gal,"  returned  the  boy.    "  Are  you  deaf  ?  " 

"Oh  ! "  said  Quilp,  drawing  in  his  breath  with  great 
relisli  as  if  he  were  taking  soup,  "  you  and  I  will  have 
such  a  settling  presently  ;  there's  such  a  scratching  and 
bruising  in  store  for  you,  my  dear  young  friend  !  Aha  ! 
Nelly  !    How  is  he  now,  my  duck  of  diamonds  ?  " 

"  He's  very  bad,"  replied  the  weeping  child. 

"  What  a  pretty  little  Nell  !"  cried  Quilp. 

"  Oh  beautiful,  sir,  beautiful  indeed,"  said  Brass. 
"  Quite  charming  I  " 

"Has  she  come  to  sit  upon  Quilp's  knee,"  said  the 
dwarf,  in  what  he  meant  to  be  a  soothing  tone,  "oris 
she  going  to  bed  in  her  own  little  room  inside  here — 
which  is  poor  Nelly  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  What  a  remarkable  pleasant  way  he  has  with  chil- 
dren !  "  muttered  Brass,  as  if  in  confidence  between  him- 
self and  the  ceiling  ;  "  upon  my  word  it's  quite  a  treat 
to  hear  him." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  stay  at  all,"  faltered  Nell.  "  I  want 
a  few^  things  out  of  that  room,  and  then  I — I — won't 
come  down  here  any  more." 

' '  And  a  very  nice  little  room  it  is  1 "  said  the  dwarf. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


709 


looking  into  it  as  tbe  child  entered.  "  Quite  a  bower  ! 
You're  sure  you're  not  going  to  use  it  ;  you're  sure  you're 
not  coming  back,  Nelly  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  child,  hurrying  away,  with  a  few 
articles  of  dress  she  had  come  to  remove  ;  "  never  again  ! 
Never  again." 

"  She's  very  sensitive,"  said  Quilp,  looking  after  her. 
"  Very  sensitive  ;  that's  a  pity.  The  bedstead  is  much 
about  my  size.    I  think  I  shall  make  it  my  little  room." 

Mr.  Brass  encouraging  this  idea,  as  he  would  have  en- 
couraged any  other  emanating  from  the  same  source,  the 
dwarf  walked  in  to  try  the  effect.  This  he  did,  by  throw- 
ing himself  on  his  back  upon  the  bed  with  his  pipe  in 
his  mouth,  and  then  kicking  up  his  legs  and  smoking 
violently.  Mr.  Brass  applauding  this  picture  very  much, 
and  the  bed  being  soft  and  comfortable,  Mr.  Quilp  deter- 
mined to  use  it,  both  as  a  sleeping  place  by  night  and  as  a 
kind  of  Divan  by  day  ;  and  in  order  that  it  might  be  con- 
verted to  the  latter  purpose  at  once,  remained  where  he 
was,  and  smoked  his  pipe  out.  The  legal  gentleman  be- 
ing by  this  time  rather  giddy  and  perplexed  in  his  ideas 
(for  this  was  one  of  the  operations  of  the  tobacco  on  his 
nervous  system),  took  the  opportunity  of  slinking  away 
into  the  open  air,  where,  in  course  of  time,  he  recovered 
sufficiently  to  return  with  a  countenance  of  tolerable 
composure.  He  was  soon  led  on  by  the  malicious  dwarf 
to  smoke  himself  into  a  relape,  and  in  that  state  stum- 
bled into  a  settee,  where  he  slept  till  morning. 

Such  were  Mr.  Quilp's  first  proceedings  on  entering 
upon  his  new  property.  He  was,  for  some  days,  re- 
strained by  business  from  performing  any  particular 
pranks,  as  his  time  was  pretty  well  occupied  between 
taking,  with  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Brass,  a  minute  in- 
ventory of  all  the  goods  in  the  place,  and  going  abroad 
upon  his  other  concerns,  which  happily  engaged  him  for 
several  hours  at  a  time.  His  avarice  and  caution  being 
now  thoroughly  awakened, however,  he  was  never  absent 
from  the  house  one  night  ;  and  his  eagerness  for  some 
termination,  good  or  bad,  to  the  old  man's  disorder,  in- 
creasing rapidly,  as  the  time  passed  by,  soon  began  to  vent 
itself  in  open  murmurs  and  exclamations  of  impatience. 

Nell  shrunk  timidly  from  all  the  dwarf's  advances 
towards  conversation,  and  fled  from  the  very  sound  of 
his  voice  ;  nor  were  the  lawyer's  smiles  less  terrible  to 
her  than  Quilp's  grimaces.  She  lived  in  such  continual 
dread  and  apprehension  of  meeting  one  or  other  of  them 
on  the  stairs  or  in  the  passages  if  she  stirred  from  her 
grandfather's  chamber,  that  she  seldom  left  it,  for  a 
moment, until  late  at  night,  when  the  silence  encouraged 
her  to  venture  forth  and  breathe  the  purer  air  of  some 
empty  room. 

One  night,  she  had  stolen  to  her  usual  window,  and 
was  sitting  there  very  sorrowfully — for  the  old  man  had 
been  worse  that  day — when  she  thought  she  heard  her 
name  pronounced  by  a  voice  in  the  street.  Looking  down, 
she  recognised  Kit,  whose  endeavours  to  attract  her 
attention  had  roused  her  from  her  sad  reflections. 

"  Miss  Nell  !  "  said  the  boy  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  child,  doubtful  whether  she  ought 
I  to  hold  any  communication  with  the  supposed  culprit, 
but  inclining  to  her  old  favourite  still  ;  "  what  do  you 
want  ?  " 

"  I  have  wanted  to  say  a  word  to  you  for  a  long  time," 
;  the  boy  replied,  "  but  the  people  below  have  driven  me 
away  and  wouldn't  let  me  see  you.  You  don't  believe — 
I  hope  you  don't  really  believe — that  I  deserve  to  be 
cast  off  as  I  have  been  ;  do  you,  miss  !" 

"  I  must  believe  it,"  returned  the  child.  "Or  why 
would  grandfather  have  been  so  angry  with  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Kit.  "  I'm  sure  I've  never  de- 
served it  from  him,  no,  nor  from  you.  I  can  say  that, 
with  a  true  and  honest  heart,  any  way.  And  then  to  be 
driven  from  the  door,  when  I  only  came  to  ask  how  old 
master  was — 1 " 

"  They  never  told  me  that,"  said  the  child.  "  I  didn't 
know  it  indeed.  I  wouldn't  have  had  them  do  it  for  the 
j  world." 

"Thank'ee,  miss,"  returned  Kit,  "it's  comfortable  to 
"hear  you  say  that.  I  said  I  never  would  believe  that  it 
was  your  doing." 

"  That  was  right  !"  said  the  child  eagerly. 

**  Miss  Nell,"  cried  the  boy,  coming  under  the  win- 


dow, and  speaking  in  a  lower  tone,  "  there  are  new  mas- 
ters down-stairs.    It's  a  change  for  you." 
"  It  is  indeed,"  replied  the  child. 

"  And  so  it  will  be  for  him  when  he  gets  better,"  said 
the  boy,  pointing  towards  the  sick  room. 

" — If  he  ever  does,"  added  the  child,  unable  to  re- 
strain her  tears. 

"Oh,  he'll  do  that,  he'll  do  that,"  said  Kit,  "  I'm  sure 
he  will.  You  mustn't  be  cast  down.  Miss  Nell.  Now, 
don't  be,  pray  ! " 

These  words  of  encouragement  and  consolation  were 
few  and  roughly  said,  but  they  affected  the  child  and 
made  her,  for  the  moment,  weep  the  more. 

"  He'll  be  sure  to  get  better  now,"  said  the  boy  anx- 
iously, "if  you  don't  ^ive  way  to  low  spirits  and  turn  ill 
yourself,  which  would  make  him  worse  and  throw  him 
back,  just  as  he  was  recovering.  When  he  does,  say  a 
good  word — say  a  kind  word  for  me.  Miss  Nell  !  " 

"  They  tell  me  I  must  not  even  mention  your  name  to 
him  for  a  long,  long  time,"  rejoined  the  child,  "  I  dare 
not  ;  and  even  if  I  might  what  good  would  a  kind  word 
do  you.  Kit?  We  shall  be  very  poor.  We  shall  scarcely 
have  bread  to  eat. " 

"  It's  not  that  I  may  be  taken  back,"  said  the  boy,"  that 
I  ask  the  favour  of  you.  It  isn't  for  the  sake  of  food 
and  wages  that  I've  been  waiting  about,  so  long,  in  the 
hopes  to  see  you.  Don't  think  that  I'd  come  in  a  time  of 
trouble  to  talk  of  such  things  as  them." 

The  child  looked  gratefully  and  kindly  at  him,  but 
waited  that  he  might  speak  again. 

"No,  it's  not  that,"  said  Kit  hesitating,  "it's  some- 
thing very  different  from  that.  I  haven't  got  much 
sense  I  know,  but  if  he  could  be  brought  to  believe  that 
I'd  been  a  faithful  servant  to  him,  doing  the  best  I 
could,  and  never  meaning  harm,  perhaps  he  mightn't" — 

Here  Kit  faltered  so  long  that  the  child  entreated  him 
to  speak  out,  and  quickly,  for  it  was  very  late,  and  time 
to  shut  the  window. 

"  Perhaps  he  mightn't  think  it  overventuresome  of  me 
to  say — well  then,  to  say  this," — cried  Kit  with  sudden 
boldness.  "  This  home  is  gone  from  you  and  him. 
Mother  and  I  have  got  a  poor  one,  but  that's  better  than 
this  with  all  these  people  here  ;  and  why  not  come  there, 
till  he's  had  time  to  look  about,  and  find  a  better  ! " 

The  child  did  not  speak.  Kit,  in  the  relief  of  having 
made  his  proposition,  found  his  tongue  loosened,  and 
spoke  out  in  its  favour  with  his  utmost  eloquence. 

"  You  think,"  said  the  boy,  "  that  it's  very  small  and 
inconvenient.  So  it  is,  but  it's  very  clean.  Perhaps  you 
think  it  would  be  noisy,  but  there's  not  a  quieter  court 
than  ours  in  all  the  town.  Don't  be  afraid  of  the  chil- 
dren ;  the  baby  hardly  ever  cries,  and  the  other  one  is 
very  good — besides,  i'd  mind  'em.  They  wouldn't  vex 
i  you  much,  I'm  sure.  Do  try.  Miss  Nell,  do  try.  The 
little  front  room  up-stairs  is  very  pleasant.  You  can  see 
a  piece  of  the  church-clock,  through  the  chimneys,  and 
almost  tell  the  time  ;  mother  says  it  would  be  just  the 
thing  for  you,  and  so  it  would,  and  you'd  have  her  to 
wait  upon  you  both,  and  me  to  run  of  errands.  We  don't 
mean  money,  bless  you  ;  you're  not  to  think  of  that ! 
Will  you  try  him.  Miss  Nell  ?  Only  say  you'll  try  him. 
Do  try  to  make  old  master  come,  and  ask  him  first  what 
I  have  done — wll  you  only  promise  that,  Miss  Nell?  " 

Before  the  child  could  reply  to  this  honest  solicitation, 
the  street  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Brass  thrusting  out  his 
night-capped  head  called  in  a  surly  voice,  "Who's 
there!"  Kit  immediately  glided  away,  and  Nell,  clos- 
ing the  window  softly,  drew  back  into  the  room. 

Before  Mr.  Brass  had  repeated  his  inquiry  many  times, 
Mr.Quilp,also  embellished  witji  anight-cap,emergedfrom 
the  same  door  and  looked  carefully  up  and  down  the 
street,  and  up  at  all  the  windows  of  the  house,  from  the 
opposite  side.  Finding  that  there  was  nobody  in  sight, 
he  presently  returned  into  the  house  with  his  legal 
friend, protesting  (as  the  child  heard  from  the  stair-case, 
that  there  was  a  league  and  plot  against  him  ;  that  he 
was  in  danger  of  being  robbed  and  plundered  by  a  band  of 
conspirators  who  prowled  about  the  house  at  all  seasons; 
and  that  he  would  delay  no  longer,  but  talce  immediate 
steps  for  disposing  of  the  property  and  returning  to  his 
own  peaceful  roof.  Having  growled  forth  these,  and  a 
great  many  other  threats  of  the  same  nature,  he  coiled 


710 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


liimself  once  more  in  tlie  cliild's  little  bed,  and  Nell 
crept  softly  up  the  stairs. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  her  short  and  unfinished 
dialogue  with  Kit  should  leave  a  strong  impression  on 
her  tnind,  and  influence  her  dreams  that  night  and  her 
recollections  for  a  long,  long  time.  Surrounded  by  un- 
feeling creditors,  and  mercenary  attendants  upon  the 
sick,  and  meeting  in  the  height  of  her  anxiety  and  sor- 
row with  little  regard  or  sympathy  even  from  the  women 
about  her,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  affectionate  heart 
of  the  child  should  have  been  touched  to  the  quick  by 
one  kind  and  generous  spirit,  however  uncouth  the  tem- 
ple in  wliich  it  dwelt.  Thank  Heaven  that  the  temples 
of  such  spirits  are  not  made  with  hands,  and  that  they 
may  be  even  more  worthily  hung  with  poor  patch- work 
than  with  purple  and  fine  linen  1 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

At  length,  the  crisis  of  the  old  man's  disorder  was 
past  and  he  began  to  mend.  By  very  slow  and  feeble  de- 
grees his  consciousness  came  Ijack  ;  but  the  mind  was 
weakened  and  its  functions  were  impaired.  He  was  pa- 
tient and  quiet;  often  sat  brooding,  but  not  despondently, 
for  a  long  space  ;  was  easily  amused,  even  by  a  sunbeam 
on  the  wall  or  ceiling  ;  made  no  complaint  that  the  days 
were  long.or  the  nights  tedious  ;  and  appeared  indeed  to 
have  lost  all  count  of  time,  and  every  sense  of  care  or 
weariness.  He  would  sit,  for  hours  together,  with 
Nell's  small  hand  in  his,  playing  with  the  fingers 
and  stopping  sometimes  to  smooth  her  hair  or  kiss  her 
brow  ;  and,  when  he  saw  that  tears  were  glistening  in 
her  eyes,  would  look,  amazed,  about  him  for  the  cause, 
and  forget  his  wonder  even  while  he  looked. 

The  child  and  he  rode  out  :  the  old  man  propped  up 
with  pillows,  and  the  child  beside  him.  They  were 
hand  in  hand  as  usual.  The  noise  and  motion  in  the 
streets  fatigued  his  brain  at  first,  but  he  was  not  sur- 
prised, or  curious,  or  pleased,  or  irritated.  He  was 
asked  if  he  remembered  this  or  that,  '  0  yes,'  he  said, 
'quite  well — why  not  ? '  Sometimes  he  turned  his  head, 
and  looked,  with  earnest  gaze  and  outstretched  neck, 
after  some  stranger  in  the  crowd,  until  he  disappeared 
from  sight  ;  but,  to  the  question  why  he  did  this,  he  an- 
swered not  a  word. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  easy  chair  one  day,and  Nell  upon 
a  stool  beside  him,  when  a  man  outside  the  door  asked  if 
he  might  enter.  *  Yes,'  he  said  without  emotion,  '  it 
was  Quilp,  he  knew.  Quilp  was  master  there.  Of 
cours;e  he  might  come  in.'    And  so  he  did. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well  again  at  last,  neighbour," 
said  the  dwarf  sitting  down  opposite  to  him.  *'  You're 
quite  strong  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man  feebly,  "  yes." 

*'  I  don't  want  to  hurry  you,  you  know,  neighbour," 
said  the  dwarf  raising  his  voice,  for  the  old  man's  senses 
were  duller  than  they  had  been  ;  "  but,  as  soon  as  you 
can  arrange  your  future  proceedings,  the  better." 

"  Surely,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  The  better  for  all 
parties." 

"You  see,"  pursued  Quilp  after  a  short  pause,  "  the 
goods  being  once  removed,  this  house  would  be  uncom- 
fortable ;  uninhabitable  in  fact." 

"You  say  true,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  Poor  Nell 
too,  what  would  she  do  ?  " 

"  Exactly,"  bawled  the  dwarf  nodding  his  head ; 
"that's  very  well  observed.  Then  will  you  consider 
about  it,  neighbour?" 

"  I  will,  certainly,"  replied  the  old  man.  "  We  shall 
not  stop  here." 

"So  I  supposed,"  said  the  dwarf.  "I  have  sold  the 
things.  They  have  not  yielded  quite  as  much  as  they 
might  have  done,  but  pretty  well — pretty  well.  To-day's 
Tuesday.  When  shall  they  be  moved  ?  There's  no 
hurry — shall  we  say  this  afternoon?  " 

"  Say  Friday  morning,"  returned  the  old  man. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  dwarf.  "  So  be  it, — with  the 
understanding  that  I  can't  go  beyond  that  day,  neigh- 
bour, on  any  account," 

* '  Good, "  returned  the  old  man.  *  *  I  shall  remember  it. " 


Mr.  Quilp  seemed  rather  puzzled  by  the  strange,  even, 
spiritless  way  in  which  all  this  was  said  ;  but  as  the  old 
man  nodded  his  head  and  repeated  "  on  Friday  morning. 
I  shall  remember  it,"  he  had  no  excuse  for  dwelling  on 
the  subject  any  further,  and  so  took  a  friendly  leave 
with  many  expressions  of  good-will  and  many  compli- 
ments to  his  friend  on  looking  so  remarkably  well  ;  and 
went  below  stairs  to  report  progress  to  Mr.  Brass. 

All  that  day,  and  all  the  next,  the  old  man  remained 
in  this  state.  He  wandered  up  and  down  the  house  and 
into  and  out  of  the  various  rooms,  as  if  with  some  vague 
intent  of  bidding  them  adieu,  but  he  referred  neither  by 
direct  allusions  nor  in  any  other  manner  to  the  interview 
of  the  morning  or  the  necessity  of  finding  some  other 
shelter.  An  indistinct  idea  he  had,  that  the  child  was 
desolate  and  in  want  of  help  ;  for  he  often  drew  her  to 
his  bosom  and  bade  her  be  of  good  cheer,  saying  that 
they  would  not  desert  each  other  ;  but  he  seemed  unable 
to  contemplate  their  real  position  more  distinctly,  and 
was  still  the  listless,  passionless  creature,  that  suffering 
of  mind  and  body  had  left  him. 

We  call  this  a  state  of  childishness,  but  it  is  the  same 
poor  hollow  mockery  of  it,  that  death  is  of  sleep. 
Where,  in  the  dull  eyes  of  doating  men,  are  the  laugh- 
ing light  and  life  of  childhood,  the  gaiety  that  has  known 
no  check,  the  frankness  that  has  felt  no  chill,  the  hope 
that  has  never  withered,  the  joys  that  fade  in  blossom- 
ing ?  Where,  in  the  sharp  lineaments  of  rigid  and  un- 
sightly death,  is  the  calm  beauty  of  slumber,  telling  of 
rest  for  the  waking  hours  that  are  past,  and  gentle  hopes 
and  loves  for  those  which  are  to  come?  Lay  death  and 
sleep  down,  side  by  side,  and  say  who  shall  find  the  two 
akin.  Send  forth  the  child  and  childish  man  together, 
and  blush  for  the  pride  that  libels  our  own  old  happy 
state,  and  gives  its  title  to  an  ugly  and  distorted  image. 

Thursday  arrived,  and  there  was  no  alteration  in  the 
old  man.  But,  a  change  came  upon  him  that  evening, 
as  he  and  the  child  sat  silently  together. 

In  a  small  dull  yard  below  his  window,  there  was  a 
tree — green  and  flourishing  enough,  for  such  a  place — 
and  as  the  air  stirred  among  its  leaves,  it  threw  a  rip- 
pling shadow  on  the  white  wall.  The  old  man  sat 
watching  the  shadows  as  they  trembled  in  this  patch  of 
light,  until  the  sun  went  down  ;  and  when  it  was  night, 
and  the  moon  was  slowly  rising,  he  still  sat  in  the  same 
spot. 

To  one  who  had  been  tossing  on  a  restless  bed  so  long, 
even  these  few  green  leaves  and  this  tranquil  light,  al- 
though it  languished  among  chimneys  and  house-tops, 
were  pleasant  things.  They  suggested  quiet  j)laces  afar 
off,  and  rest,  and  peace. 

The  child  thouglit,more  than  once,  that  he  was  moved  : 
and  had  forborne  to  speal?:.  But,  now,  he  shed  tears — 
tears  that  it  lightened  her  aching  heart  to  see — and 
making  as  though  he  would  fall  upon  his  knees,  be- 
souglit  her  to  forgive  him . 

"  Forgive  you — what  ?"  said  Nell,  interposing  to  pre- 
vent his  purpose.  "  Oh  grandfather,  what  should  /  for- 
give ?  " 

"All  that  is  past,  all  that  has  come  upon  thee,  Nell, 
all  that  was  done  in  that  uneasy  dream, "  returned  the 
old  man. 

"  Do  not  talk  so,"  said  the  child.  "Pray  do  not.  Let 
us  speak  of  something  else." 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  vi^ill,"  he  rejoined.  "  And  it  shall  be 
of  what  we  talked  of  long  ago — many  months — months 
is  it,  or  weeks,  or  days?  which  is  it,  Nell?" 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  the  child. 

"It  has  come  back  upon  me  to-day,  it  has  all  come 
back  since  we  have  been  sitting  here.  I  bless  thee  for 
it,  Nell ! " 

"  For  what,  dear  grandfather  ?  " 

* '  For  what  you  said  when  we  were  first  made  beggars, 
Nell.  Let  us  speak  softly.  Hush!  for  if  they  knew 
our  purpose  down-stairs,  they  would  cry  that  I  was  mad 
and  take  thee  from  me.  We  will  not  stop  here,  another 
day.    We  will  go  far  away  from  here." 

"Yes,  let  us  go,"  said  the  child  earnestly.  "  Let  us 
begone  from  this  place,  and  never  turn  back  or  think  of 
it  again.  Let  us  wander  barefoot  through  the  world, 
rather  than  linger  here." 

"  We  will" — answered  the  old  man,  "  we  will  travel 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


711 


afoot  tliroiif^li  the  fields  and  woods,  and  by  tlie  side  of 
rivers,  and  trust  ourselves  to  God  in  the  places  where  he 
dwells.  It  is  far  better  to  lie  down  at  ni^ht  beneath  an 
open  sky  like  that  yonder — see  how  bright  it  is  ! — than 
to  rest  in  close  rooms  which  are  always  full  of  care  and 
weary  dreams.  Thou  and  I  tog-ether,  Nell,  may  be 
cheerful  and  happy  yet,  and  learn  to  forget  this  time,  as 
if  it  had  never  been." 

"We  will  be  happy,"  cried  the  child.  "  We  never 
can  be  here. " 

"  No,  we  never  can  again — never  again — that's  truly 
said,"  rejoined  the  old  man.  "Let  us  steal  away  to- 
morrow morning — early  and  softly,  that  we  niuy  not  be 
seen  or  heard — and  leave  no  trace  or  track  for  tlicni  to 
follow  by.  Poor  Nell  !  Thy  cheek  is  pale,  and  thy  eyes 
are  heavy  with  watching  and  weeping— with  watching 
and  weeping  for  me — I  know — for  me  ;  but  thou  wilt  be 
well  again,  and  merry  too,  when  we  are  far  away.  To- 
morrow morning,  dear,  we'll  turn  our  faces  from  this 
scene  of  sorrow,  and  be  as  free  and  happy  as  the  birds." 

And  then,  the  old  man  clasped  his  hands  above  her 
head,  and  said,  in  a  few  broken  words,  that  from  that 
time  forth  they  would  wander  up  and  down  together,  a!id 
never  part  more  until  Death  took  one  or  other  of  the 
twain. 

The  child's  heart  beat  high  with  hope  and  confidence. 
She  had  no  thought  of  hunger,  or  cold,  or  thirst,  or  suf- 
fering. She  saw  in  this,  but  a  return  of  the  simple 
pleasures  they  had  once  enjoyed,  a  relief  from  the  gloomy 
solitude  in  which  she  had  lived,  an  escape  from  the 
heartless  people  of  whom  she  had  been  surrounded  in 
her  late  time  of  trial,  the  restoration  of  the  old  man's 
health  and  peace,  and  a  life  of  tranquil  happiness.  Sun, 
and  stream,  and  meadow,  and  summer  days,  shone 
brightly  in  her  view,  and  there  was  no  dark  tint  in  all 
the  sparkling  picture. 

The  old  man  had  slept,  for  some  hours,  soundly  in  his 
bed,  and  she  was  yet  busily  engaged  in  preparing  for  their 
flight.  There  were  a  few  articles  of  clothing  for  herself 
to  carry,  and  a  few  for  him  ;  old  garments,  such  as  be- 
came their  fallen  fortunes,  laid  out  to  wear  ;  and  a  staif 
to  support  his  feeble  stej)S,  put  ready  for  his  use.  But 
this  was  not  all  her  task  ;  for  now  she  must  visit  the  old 
rooms  for  the  last  time. 

And  how  different  the  parting  with  them,  was,  from 
any  she  had  expected,  and  most  of  all  from  that  which 
she  had  oftenest  pictured  to  herself.  How  could  she  ever 
have  thought  of  bidding  them  farewell  in  triumph,  when 
the  recollection  of  the  many  hours  she  had  passed  among 
them  rose  to  her  swelling  heart,  and  made  her  feel  the 
Avish  a  cruelty  :  lonely  and  sad  though  many  of  those  hours 
had  been  !  She  sat  down  at  the  window  where  she  had 
spent  so  many  evenings — darker  far,  than  this — and  eve- 
ry thought  of  hope  or  cheerfulness  that  had  occurred  to 
her  in  that  place  came  vividly  upon  her  mind,  and  blot- 
ted out  all  its  dull  and  mournful  associations  in  an  in- 
stant. 

Her  own  little  room,  too,  where  she  had  so  often  knelt 
down  and  prayed  at  night — prayed  for  the  time  which 
she  hoped  was  dawning  now — the  little  room  where  she 
had  slept  so  peacefully,  and  dreamed  such  pleasant 
dreams — it  was  hard  not  to  be  able  to  glance  round  it 
once  more,  and  to  be  forced  to  leave  it  without  one  kind 
look  or  grateful  tear.  There  were  some  trifles  there — 
poor  useless  things — that  she  would  have  liked  to  take 
away  :  but  that  was  impossible. 

This  brought  to  her  mind  her  bird,  her  poor  bird,  who 
hung  there  yet.  She  wept  bitterly  for  the  loss  of  this 
little  creature — until  the  idea  occurred  to  her — she  did 
not  know  how,  or  why,  it  came  into  her  head — that  it 
might,  by  some  means,  fall  into  the  hands  of  Kit  who 
would  keep  it  for  her  sake,  and  think,  perhaps,  that  she 
had  left  it  behind  in  the  hope  that  he  might  have  it,  and 
as  an  assurance  that  she  was  grateful  to  him.  She  was 
calmed  and  comforted  by  the  thought,  and  went  to  rest 
with  a  lighter  l)cart. 

From  many  dreams  of  rambling  through  light  and 
sunny  places,  but  with  some  vague  object  unattained 
which  ran  indistinctly  through  them  all,  she  awoke  to 
find  that  it  was  yet  night,  and  that  the  stars  were  shin- 
ing brightly  in  the  sky.  At  length,  the  day  began  to  I 
glimmer,  and  the  stars  to  grow  pale  and  dim.    As  soon  ! 


as  she  was  sure  of  this,  she  arose,  and  dressed  herself  for 
the  journey. 

The  old  man  was  yet  asleep,  and  as  she  was  unwilling 
to  disturb  him,  she  left  him  to  slumber  on,  until  the  sun 
rose.  lie  was  anxious  tliat  they  should  leave  the  house 
without  a  minute's  loss  of  time  and  was  soon  ready. 

The  child  then  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  they  trod 
lightly  and  cautiously  down  the  stairs,  trembling  when- 
ever a  board  creaked,  and  often  stopping  to  listen.  The 
old  man  had  forgotten  a  kind  of  wallet  which  contained 
the  light  burden  he  had  to  carry  ;  and  the  going  back  a 
few  steps  to  fetch  it,  seemed  an  interminable  delay. 

At  last  they  reached  tlie  passage  on  the  ground  floor, 
where  the  snorting  of  Mr.  Quilj)  and  his  legal  friend 
sounded  more  terrible  in  their  ears  than  the  roars  of  lions. 
The  bolts  of  the  door  were  rusty,  and  difficult  to  unfast- 
en without  noise.  When  they  were  all  drawn  back,  it 
was  found  to  be  locked,  and,  worst  of  all  the  key  was 
gone.  Then  the  child  remembered,  for  the  first  time, 
one  of  the  nurses  having  told  her  that  Quilp  always 
locked  both  the  house-doors  at  night,  and  kept  the  keys 
on  the  table  in  his  bed -room. 

It  was  not  without  great  fear  and  trepidation,  that 
little  Nell  slipped  off  her  shoes  and  gliding  through  the 
store-room  of  old  curiosities,  where  Mr.  Brass — the  ugli- 
est piece  of  goods  in  all  the  stock — lay  sleeping  on  a 
mattress,  passed  into  her  own  little  chamber. 

Here  she  stood,  for  a  few  moments,  quite  transfixed 
Mith  terror  at  the  sight  of  Mr.  Quilp,  who  was  hanging 
so  far  out  of  bed  that  he  almost  seemed  to  be  standing 
on  his  head,  and  who,  either  from  the  uneasiness  of  this 
posture,  or  in  one  of  his  agreeable  habits,  was  gasping 
and  growling  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  and  the  whites 
(or  rather  the  dirty  yellows)  of  his  eyes  distinctly  visible. 
It  was  no  time,  however,  to  ask  whether  anything  ailed 
him  ;  so,  possessing  herself  of  the  key  after  one  hasty 
glance  about  the  room,  and  repassing  the  prostrate  Mr. 
Brass,  she  rejoined  the  old  man  in  safety.  They  got  the 
door  open  without  noise,  and  passing  into  the  street,  stood 
still. 

"  Which  way  ?  "  said  the  child. 

The  old  man  looked,  irresolutely  and  helplessly,  first 
at  her,  then  to  the  right  and  left,  then  at  her  again,  and 
shook  his  head.  It  was  p^ain  that  she  was  henceforth 
his  guide  and  leader.  The  child  felt  it,  but  had  no 
doubts  or  misgiving,  and  putting  her  hand  in  his,  led 
him  gently  away. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  day  in  June  ;  the  deep  blue 
sky  unsullJW  by  a  cloud,  and  teeming  with  brilliant 
light.  The  streets  were,  as  yet,  nearly  free  from  pas- 
sengers, the  houses  and  shops  were  closed,  and  the 
healthy  air  of  morning  fell  like  breath  from  angels,  on 
the  sleeping  town. 

The  old  man  and  the  child  passed  on  through  the  glad 
silence,  elate  with  hope  and  pleasure.  They  were  alone 
together,  once  again  ;  every  object  was  bright  and  fresh  ; 
nothing  reminded  them,  otherwise  than  by  contrast,  of 
the  monotony  and  constraint  they  had  left  behind  ; 
church  towers  and  steeples,  frowning  and  dark  at  other 
times,  now  shone  and  dazzled  in  the  sun  ;  each  hum- 
ble nook  and  corner  rejoiced  in  light  ;  and  the  sky,  dim- 
med only  by  excessive  distance,  shed  its  placid  smile  on 
everything  beneath. 

Forth  from  the  city,  while  it  yet  slumbered,  went  the 
two  poor  adventurers,  wandering  they  knew  not  whither. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Daniel  Quilp  of  Tower  Hill, and  Sampson  Brass  of  Be  vis 
Marks  in  the  city  of  London,  Gentleman,  one  of  her 
Majesty's  attornies  of  the  Courts  of  King's  Bench  and 
Common  Pleas  at  Westminster  and  a  solicitor  of  the 
High  Court  of  Chancery,  slumbered  on,  unconscious  and 
unsuspicious  of  any  mischance,  until  a  knocking  at  the 
street  door,  often  repeated  and  gradually  mounting  up 
from  a  modest  single  rap  to  a  perfect  battery^  of  knocks, 
fired  in  long  discharges  with  a  very  short  interval  be- 
tween, caused  the  said  Daniel  Quilp  to  struggle  into  a 
horizontal  position,  and  to  stare  at  the  ceiling  with  a 
drowsy  indifference,  betokening  that  he  heard  the  noise 


712 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


and  ratlier  wondered  at  tlie  same,  but  couldn't  be  at  tlie 
trouble  of  bestowing  any  further  thought  upon  the 
subject. 

As  the  knocking,  however,  instead  of  accommodating 
itself  to  his  lazy  state,  increased  in  vigour  and  became 
more  importunate,  as  if  in  earnest  remonstrance  against 
his  falling  asleep  again,  now  that  he  had  once  opened 
his  eyes,  Daniel  Quilp  began  by  degrees  to  comprehend 
the  possibility  of  there  being  somebody  at  the  door  ; 
and  thus  he  gradually  came  to  recollect  that  it  was 
Friday  morning,  and  he  had  ordered  Mrs.  Quilp  to  be  in 
waiting  upon  him  at  an  early  hour. 

Mr.  Brass,  after  writhing  about,  in  a  great  many 
strange  attitudes,  and  often  twisting  his  face  and  eyes 
into  an  expression  like  that  which  is  usually  produced 
by  eating  gooseberries  very  early  in  the  season,  was  by 
this  time  awake  also.  Seeing  that  Mr.  Quilp  invested 
himself  in  his  every-day  garments,  he  hastened  to  do  the 
like,  putting  on  his  shoes  before  his  stockings,  and  thrust- 
ing his  legs  into  his  coat  sleeves,  and  making  such  other 
small  mistakes  in  his  toilet  as  are  not  uncommon  to  those 
who  dress  in  a  hurry,  and  labour  under  the  agitation  of 
having  been  suddenly  roused. 

While  the  attorney  was  thus  engaged,  the  dwarf  was 
groping  under  the  table,  muttering  desperate  impreca- 
tions on  himself,  and  mankind  in  general,  and  all  inani- 
mate objects  to  boot,  which  suggested  to  Mr.  Brass  the 
question  "  what's  the  matter?" 

"  The  key,"  said' the  dwarf,  looking  viciously  at  him, 
"  the  door-key, — that's  the  matter.  D'ye  know  anything 
of  it?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  anything  of  it,  sir?"  returned 
Mr.  Brass. 

"How  should  you?"  repeated  Quilp  with  a  sneer. 
"You're  a  nice  lawyer,  an't  you  ?    Ugh,  you  idiot  !  " 

Not  caring  to  represent  to  the  dwarf  in  his  present 
humour,  that  the  loss  of  a  key  by  another  person  could 
scarcely  be  said  to  affect  his  (Brass's)  legal  knowledge 
in  any  material  degree,  Mr.  Brass  humbly  suggested 
that  it  must  have  been  forgotten  over  night,  and  was, 
doubtless,  at  that  moment  in  its  native  key-hole.  Not- 
withstanding that  Mr.  Quilp  had  a  strong  conviction  to 
the  contrary,  founded  on  his  recollection  of  having  care- 
fully taken  it  out,  he  was  fain  to  admit  that  this  was 
possible,  and  therefore  went  grumbling  to  the  door 
where,  sure  enough,  he  found  it. 

Now,  just  as  Mr.  Quilp  laid  his  hand  upon  the  lock, 
and  saw  with  great  astonishment  that  the  fastenings 
were  undone,  the  knocking  came  again  withglnost  irritat- 
ing violence,  and  the  daylight  which  had  been  shining 
through  the  key-hole  was  intercepted  on  the  outside  by 
a  human  eye.  The  dwarf  was  very  much  exasperated, 
and  wanting  somebody  to  wreak  his  ill-humour  upon, 
determined  to  dart  out  suddenly,  and  favour  Mrs.  Quilp 
with  a  gentle  acknowledgment  of  her  attention  in  making 
that  hideous  uproar. 

With  this  view,  he  drew  back  the  lock  very  silently 
and  softly,  and  opening  the  door  all  at  once,  pounced 
out  upon  the  person  on  the  other  side,  who  had  at  that 
moment  raised  the  knocker  for  another  application,  and 
at  whom  the  dwarf  ran  head  first,  throwing  out  his 
hands  and  feet  together,  and  biting  the  air  in  the  fullness 
of  his  malice. 

So  far,  however,  from  rushing  upon  somebody  who 
offered  no  resistance  and  implored  his  mercy,  Mr.  Quilp 
was  no  sooner  in  the  arms  of  the  individual  whom  he 
had  taken  for  his  wife  than  he  found  himself  compli- 
mented with  two  staggering  blows  on  the  head,  and  two 
more,  of  the  same  quality,  in  the  chest  ;  and  closing 
with  his  assailant,  such  a  shower  of  buffets  rained  down 
npon  his  person  as  sufficed  to  convince  him  that  he  was 
in  skilful  and  experienced  hands.  Nothing  daunted  by 
this  reception,  he  clung  tight  to  his  opponent,  and  bit, 
and  hammered  away  with  such  good-will  and  heartiness 
that  it  was  at  least  a  couple  of  minutes  before  he  was  dis- 
lodged. Then,  and  not  until  then,  Daniel  Quilp  found 
himself,  all  flushed  and  dishevelled,  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  with  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  performing  a  kind  of 
dance  round  him  rmd  requiring  to  know  "  whether  he 
wanted  any  more." 

"  There's  plenty  more  of  it  at  the  same  shop,"  said 
Mr.  Swiveller,  by  turns  advancing  and  retreating  in  a 


threatening  attitude,  "  a  large  and  extensive  assortment 
always  on  hand — country  orders  executed  with  prompti- 
tude and  dispatch — will  you  have  a  little  more,  sir — 
don't  say  no,  if  you'd  rather  not." 

"  I  thought  it  was  somebody  else,"  said  Quilp  rubbing 
his  shoulders,  "  why  didn't  you  say  who  you  were  ?  " 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  who  you  were  ?  "'returned  Dick, 
"  instead  of  flying  out  of  the  house  like  a  Bedlamite  ?" 

"  It  was  you  that— that  knocked,"  said  the  dwarf  get- 
ting up  with  a  short  groan,  "  was  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  the  man,"  replied  Dick.  "  That  lady  had 
begun  when  I  came,  but  she  knocked  too  soft,  so  I  re- 
lieved her."  As  he  said  this,  he  pointed  towards  Mrs. 
Quilp,  who  stood  trembling  at  a  little  distance. 

"Humph!"  muttered  the  dwarf,  darting  an  angry 
look  at  his  wife,  "  I  thought  it  was  your  fault  !  And  you, 
sir — don't  you  know  there  has  been  somebody  ill  here, 
that  you  knock  as  if  you'd  beat  the  door  down?" 

"  Damme  1  "  answered  Dick,  "  that's  why  I  did  it.  I 
thousrht  there  was  somebody  dead  here." 

"  You  came  for  some  purpose,  I  suppose,"  said  Quilp. 
"  What  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  know  how  the  old  gentleman  is,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Swiveller,  "  and  how  to  hear  from  Nell  herself,  with 
whom  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  talk.  I'm  a  friend  of 
the  family,  sir, — at  least  I'm  a  friend  of  one  of  the  family 
and  that's  the  same  thing." 

"You'd  better  walk  in  then,"  said  the  dwarf.  "Go 
on,  sir,  go  on.    Now  Mrs.  Quilp — after  you,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Quilp  hesitated,  but  Mr.  Quilp  insisted.  And  it 
was  not  a  contest  of  politeness,  or  by  any  means  a  matter 
of  form,  for  she  knew  very  well  that  her  husband  wished 
to  enter  the  house  in  this  order,  that  he  might  have  a 
favourable  opportunity  of  inflicting  a  few  pinches  on  her 
arms,  which  were  seldom  free  from  impressions  of  his 
fingers  in  black  and  blue  colours.  Mr.  Swiveller,  who 
was  not  in  the  secret,  was  a  little  surprised  to  hear  a 
suppressed  scream,  and,  looking  round,  to  see  Mrs,  Quilp 
following  him  with  a  sudden  jerk  ;  but  he  did  not  re- 
mark on  these  appearances,  and  soon  forgot  them. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Quilp,"  said  the  dwarf  when  they  had 
entered  the  shop,  "go  you  up-stairs,  if  you  please,  to 
Nelly's  room,  and  tell  her  that  she's  wanted." 

"  You  seem  to  make  yourself  at  home  here,"  said  Dick, 
who  was  unacquainted  with  Mr.  Quilp's  authority. 

"  I  am  at  home,  young  gentleman,"  returned  the 
dwarf. 

Dick  was  pondering  what  these  words  might  mean, 
and  still  more  what  the  presence  of  Mr.  Brass  might 
mean,  when  Mrs.  Quilp  came  hurrying  down-stairs,  de- 
claring that  the  rooms  above,  were  empty. 

"  Empty,  you  fool  !"  said  the  dwarf. 

"  I  give  you  my  word,  Quilp,"  answered  his  trembling 
wife,  "  that  I  have  been  into  every  room  and  there's  not 
a  soul  in  any  of  them. " 

"  And  that,"  said  Mr.  Brass,  clapping  his  hands  once, 
with  an  emphasis,  "explains  the  mystery  of  the  key  !  " 

Quilp  looked  frowningly  at  him,  and  frowningly  at  his 
wife,  and  frowningly  at  Richard  Swiveller  ;  but,  receiv- 
ing no  enlightenment  from  any  of  them,  hurried  up- 
stairs, whence  he  soon  hurried  down  again,  confirming 
the  report  which  had  been  already  made. 

"It's  a  strange  way  of  going,"  he  said,  glancing  at 
Swiveller:  "  very  strange  not  to  communicate  with  me 
who  am  such  a  close  and  intimate  friend  of  his  !  Ah  ! 
he'll  write  to  me  no  doubt,  or  he'll  bid  Nelly  write — yes, 
yes,  that's  what  he'll  do.  Nelly's  very  fond  of  me. 
'Pretty  Nell  !  " 

Mr.  Swiveller  looked,  as  he  was,  all  open-mouthed  as- 
tonishment. Still  glancing  furtively  at  him,  Quilp  turned 
to  Mr.  Brass  and  observed,  with  assumed  carelessness, 
that  this  need  not  interfere  with  the  removal  of  the 
goods. 

"For  indeed,"  he  added,  "we  knew  that  they'd  go 
away  to-day,  but  not  that  they'd  go  so  early,  or  so  quiet- 
ly. But  they  have  their  reasons,  they  have  their  rea- 
sons." 

"  Where  in  the  devil's  name  are  they  gone  ?"  said  the 
wondering  Dick. 

Quilp  shook  his  head  and  pursed  up  his  lips,  in  a  man- 
ner which  implied  that  he  knew  very  well,  but  was  not 
at  liberty  to  say. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


713 


"  And  what,"  said  Dick,  looking  at  the  confusion 
about  him,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  moving  the  goods?" 

"  That  I  have  bought  'em,  sir,"  rejoined Quilp.  "  Eh  ? 
What  then  ?  " 

"  Has  the  sly  old  fox  made  his  fortune  then,  and  gone 
to  live  in  a  tranquil  cot  in  a  pleasant  spot  with  a  distant 
view  of  the  changing  sea?"  said  Dick,  in  great  bewil- 
derment. 

"  Keeping  his  place  of  retirement  very  close,  that  he 
may  not  be  visited  too  often  by  affectionate  grandsons 
and  their  devoted  friends,  eh?"  added  the  dwarf,  rub- 
bing his  hands  hard  ;  "  /  say  nothing,  but  is  that  your 
meaning?  " 

Richard  Svviveller  was  utterly  aghast  at  this  unex- 
pected alteration  of  circumstances,  which  threatened  the 
complete  overthrow  of  the  project  in  which  he  bore  so 
conspicuous  a  part,  and  seemed  to  nip  his  prospects  in 
the  bud.  Having  only  received  from  Frederick  Trent, 
late  on  the  previous  night,  information  of  the  old  man's 
illness,  he  had  come  upon  a  visit  of  condolence  and  in- 
quiry to  Xell,  prepared  with  the  first  instalment  of  that 
long  train  of  fascinations  which  was  to  fire  her  heart  at 
last.  And  here,  when  he  had  been  thinking  of  all  kinds 
of  graceful  and  insinuating  approaches,  and  meditating 
on  the  fearful  retaliation  which  was  slowly  working 
against  Sophy  Wackles — here  were  Nell,  the  old  man, 
and  all  the  money  gone,  melted  away,  decamped  he 
knew  not  whither,  as  if  with  a  fore-knowledge  of  the 
scheme  and  a  resolution  to  defeat  it  in  the  very  outset, 
before  a  step  was  taken. 

In  his  secret  heart,  Daniel  Quilp  was  both  surprised 
and  troubled  by  the  flight  which  had  been  made.  It  had 
not  escaped  his  keen  eye  that  some  indispensable  articles 
of  clothing  were  gone  with  the  fugitives,  and  knowing 
the  old  man's  weak  state  of  mind,  he  marvelled  what 
that  course  of  proceeding  might  be  in  which  he  so  read- 
ily procured  the  concurrence  of  the  child.  It  must  not 
be  supposed  (or  it  would  be  a  gross  injustice  to  Mr. 
Quilp)  that  he  was  tortured  by  any  disinterested  anxiety 
on  behalf  of  either.  His  uneasiness  arose  from  a  mis- 
giving that  the  old  man  had  some  secret  store  of  money 
which  he  had  not  suspected  ;  and  the  bare  idea  of  its 
escaping  his  clutches,  overwhelmed  him  with  mortifica- 
tion and  self-reproach. 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  it  was  some  consolation  to  him 
to  find  that  Richard  Swiveller  was,  for  different  reasons, 
evidently  irritated  and  disappointed  by  the  same  cause. 
It  was  plain,  thought  the  dwarf,  that  he  had  come  there, 
on  behalf  of  his  friend,  to  cajole  or  frighten  the  old  man 
out  of  some  small  fraction  of  that  wealth  of  which  they 
supposed  him  to  have  an  abundance.  Therefore,  it  was 
a  relief  to  vex  his  heart  with  a  picture  of  the  riches  the 
old  man  hoarded,  and  to  expatiate  on  his  cunning  in  re- 
moving himself  even  beyond  the  reach  of  importunity. 

"  Well,"  said  Dick,  with  a  blank  look,  "  I  suppose  it's 
of  no  use  my  staying  here." 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  rejoined  the  dwarf. 

"  You'll  mention  that  I  called,  perhaps?  "  said  Dick. 

Mr.  Quilp  nodded,  and  said  he  certainly  would,  the 
very  first  time  he  saw  them. 

"And  say,"  added  Mr.  Swiveller,  "say,  sir,  that  I 
was  wafted  here  upon  the  pinions  of  concord  ;  that  I 
came  to  remove,  with  the  rake  of  friendship,  the  seeds 
of  mutual  wiolence  and  heart-burning,  and  to  sow  in 
their  place,  the  germs  of  social  harmony.  Will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  charge  yourself  with  that  commis- 
sion, sir?  " 

"  Certainly  1  "  rejoined  Quilp. 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  add  to  it,  sir,"  said  Dick, 
producing  a  very  small  limp  card,  "  that  that  is  my  ad- 
dress, and  that  I  am  to  be  found  at  home  every  morning. 
Two  distinct  knocks,  sir,  will  produce  the  slavey  at  any 
time.  My  particular  friends,  sir,  are  accustomed  to 
sneeze  when  the  door  is  opened,  to  give  her  to  understand 
that  they  are  my  friends  and  have  no  interested  motives 
in  asking  if  I'm  at  home.  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  will  you 
allow  me  to  look  at  that  card  again  ? 

"Oh  !  by  all  means,"  rejoined  Quilp. 

"  By  a  slight  and  not  unnatural  mistake,  sir,"  said 
Dick,  substituting  another  in  its  stead,  "  I  had  handed 
you  the  pass-ticket  of  a  select  convivial  circle  called  the 
Glorious  Apollers,  of  which  I  have  the  honor  to  be 


Perpetual  Grand.  That  is  the  proper  document,  sir. 
Good  morning." 

Quilp  bade  him  good  day  ;  the  perpetual  Grand  Master 
of  the  Glorious  Apollers,  elevating  his  hat  in  honour  of 
Mrs.  Quilp,  dropped  it  carelessly  on  the  side  of  his  head 
again,  and  disappeared  with  a  flourish. 

By  this  time,  certain  vans  had  arrived  for  the  convey- 
ance of  the  goods,  and  divers  strong  men  in  caps  were 
balancing  chests  of  drawers  and  other  trifles  of  that  nature 
upon  their  heads,  and  performing  muscular  feats  which 
heightened  their  complexions  considerably.  Not  to  b? 
behind-hand  in  the  bustle,  Mr.  Quilp  went  to  work  with 
surprising  vigour  ;  hustling  and  driving  the  people  about, 
like  an  evil  spirit  ;  setting  Mrs.  Quilp  upon  all  kinds  of 
arduous  and  impracticable  tasks  ;  carrying  great  weights 
up  and  down,  with  no  apparent  effort ;  kicking  the  boy 
from  the  wharf,  whenever  he  could  get  near  him  ;  and 
inflicting,  with  his  loads,  a  great  many  sly  humps  and 
blows  on  the  shoulders  of  Mr,  Brass,  as  he  stood  upon 
the  door-steps  to  answer  all  the  inquiries  of  curious 
neighbors,  which  was  his  department.  His  presence  and 
example  diffused  such  alacrity  among  the  persons  em- 
ployed, that,  in  a  few  hours,  the  house  was  emptied  of 
everything  but  pieces  of  matting,  empty  porter-pots, 
and  scattered  fragments  of  straw. 

Seated,  like  an  African  chief,  on  one  of  these  pieces  of 
matting,  the  dwarf  was  regaling  himself  in  the  parlour, 
with  bread  and  cheese  and  beer,  when  he  observed  with- 
out appearing  to  do  so,  that  a  boy  was  prying  in  at  the 
outer-door.  Assured  that  it  was  Kit,  though  he  saw 
little  more  than  his  nose,  Mr.  Quilp  hailed  him  by  his 
name  ;  whereupon.  Kit  came  in  and  demanded  what  he 
wanted. 

"Come  here,  you  sir,"  said  the  dwarf.  "Well,  so 
your  old  master  and  young  mistress  have  gone?  " 

"  Where?"  rejoined  Kit,  looking  round, 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  where?"  an- 
swered Quilp,  sharply.    "  Where  have  they  gone,  eh?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Kit. 

"Come,"  retorted  Quilp,  "let's  have  no  more  of  this  ! 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  know  they  went  away 
by  stealth,  as  soon  as  it  was  light  this  morning?" 

"No,"  said  the  boy,  in  evident  surprise. 

"You  don't  know  that?"  cried  Quilp,  "Don't  I  know 
that  you  were  hanging  about  the  house  the  other  night, 
like  a  thief,  eh?    Weren't  you  told  then  ?" 

"No,"  replied  the  boy. 

"  You  were  not?  said  Quilp.  "  What  were  you  told 
then  ;  what  were  you  talking  about?" 

Kit,  who  knew  no  particular  reason  why  he  should 
keep  the  matter  secret  now,  related  the  jpurpose  for 
which  he  had  come  on  that  occasion,  and  the  proposal 
he  had  made. 

"Oh!"  said  the  dwarf,  after  a  little  consideration. 

"  Then  I  think  they'll  come  to  you  yet." 

"  Do  you  think  they  will  ?  "  cried  Kit,  eagerly. 

"Aye,  I  think  they  will,"  returned  the  dwarf.  "  Now, 
when  they  do,  let  me  know  ;  d'ye  hear  ?  Let  me  know, 
and  I'll  give  you  something.  I  want  to  do  'em  a  kind- 
ness, and  I  can't  do  'em  a  kindness  unless  I  know  where 
they  are.    You  hear  what  I  say  ?  " 

Kit  might  have  returned  some  answer  which  would 
not  have  been  agreeable  to  his  irascible  questioner,  if 
the  boy  from  the  wharf,  who  had  been  skulking  about 
the  room  in  search  of  anything  that  might  have  been  left 
about  by  accident,  had  not  happened  to  cry,  "  Here's  a 
bird  !    What's  to  be  done  with  this?" 

"  Wring  its  neck,"  rejoined  Quilp. 

"Oh,  no,  don't  do  that,"  said  Kit,  stepping  forward. 
"  Give  it  to  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say,"  cried  the  other  boy.  "Come  ! 
You  let  the  cage  alone,  and  let  me  wring  its  neck  will 
you  ?  He  said  I  was  to  do  it.  You  let  the  cage  alone, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  Give  it  here,  give  it  to  me,  you  dogs,"  roared  Quilp. 

"  Fight  for  it,  you  dogs,  or  I'll  wring  its  neck  myself  !  " 

Without  further  persuasion,  the  two  boys  fell  upon 
each  other,  tooth  and  nail,  while  Quilp,  holding  up  the 
cage  in  one  hand,  and  chopping  the  ground  with  his 
knife  in  an  ecstacy,  urged  them  on  by  his  taunts  and 
cries  to  fight  more  fiercely.  They  were  a  pretty  equal 
match,  and  rolled  about  together,  exchanging  blows 


714 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


which  were  \>j  no  means  child's  play,  until  at  length  Kit, 
planting  a  well  directed  hit  in  his  adversary's  chest, 
disengaged  himself,  sprung  nimbly  up,  and  snatching  the 
cage  from  Quilp's  hands  made  otf  with  his  prize. 

He  did  not  stop  once,  until  he  reached  home,  where  his 
bleeding  face  occasioned  great  consternation,  and  caused 
the  elder  child  to  howl  dreadfully. 

"  Goodness  gracious,  Kit,  what  is  the  matter,  what 
have  you  been  doing  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

"Never  you  mind,  mother,"  answered  her  son,  wip- 
ing his  face  on  the  jacktowel  behind  the  door.  I'm 
not  hurt,  don't  you  be  afraid  for  me.  I've  been  a  fight- 
in'  for  a  bird  and  won  him,  that's  all.  Hold  your  noise,  I 
little  Jacob,  I  never  see  such  a  naughty  boy  in  all  my 
days  ! " 

"  You  have  been  a  fighting  for  a  bird  !  "  exclaimed  his 
mother. 

"  Ah  !  Fiohtin'  for  a  bird  !  "  replied  Kit,  ''and  here 
he  is.  Miss  Nelly's  bird,  mother,  that  they  was  agoin'  to 
wring  the  neck  of  !  I  stopped  that,  though — ha  ha  ha  ! 
They  wouldn't  wring  his  neck  and  me  by,  no  no.  It 
wouldn't  do,  mother,  it  wouldn't  do  at  all.    Ha  ha  ha  !  "  j 

Kit  laughing  so  heartily,  with  his  swoln  and  bruised 
face  looking  out  of  the  towel,  made  little  Jacob  laugh, 
and  then  his  mother  laughed,  and  then  the  baby  crowed 
and  kicked  with  great  glee,  and  then  they  all  laughed  in 
concert  :  partly  because  of  Kit's  triumph,  and  partly  be- 
cause they  were  very  fond  of  each  other.  When  this  fit 
was  over.  Kit  exhibited  the  bird  to  both  children,  as  a 
great  and  precious  rarity — it  was  only  a  poor  linnet — and 
looking  about  the  wall  for  an  old  nail,  made  a  scaffold- 
ing of  a  chair  and  table  and  twisted  it  out  with  great  ex- 
ultation. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  think  I'll  hang  him 
in  the  winder,  because  it's  more  light  and  cheerful,  and 
he  can  see  the  sky  there,  if  he  looks  up  very  much. 
He's  such  a  one  to  sing,  I  can  tell  you  !  " 

So,  the  scaffolding  was  made  again  and  Kit,  climbing 
up  with  the  poker  for  a  hammer,  knocked  in  the  nail 
and  hung  up  the  cage,  to  the  immeasurable  delight  of  the 
whole  family.  When  it  had  been  adjusted  and  straight- 
ened a  great  many  times,  and  he  had  walked  backwards 
into  the  fire-place  in  his  admiration  of  it,  the  arrange- 
ment was  pronounced  to  be  perfect. 

"  And  now  mother,"  said  the  boy,  "  before  I  rest  any 
more,  I'll  go  out  and  see  if  I  can  find  a  horse  to  hold,  and 
then  I  can  buy  some  birdseed,  and  a  bit  of  something 
nice  for  you,  into  the  bargain." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

As  it  was  very  easy  for  Kit  to  persuade  himself  that 
the  old  house  was  in  his  way,  his  way  being  anywhere, 
he  tried  to  look  upon  his  ])assing  it  at  once  more  as  a 
matter  of  imperative  and  disagreeable  necessity,  quite 
apart  from  any  desire  of  his  own,  to  which  he  could  not 
choose  but  yield,  It  is  not  uncommon  for  people  who 
are  much  better  fed  and  taught  than  Christopher  Nub- 
bles had  ever  been, to  make  duties  of  their  inclinations  in 
matters  of  more  doubtful  propriety,  and  to  take  great 
credit  for  the  self-denial  with  which  they  gratify  them- 
selves. 

There  was  no  need  of  any  caution  this  time,  and  no 
fear  of  being  detained  by  having  to  jday  out  a  return 
match  with  j3aniel  Quilp's  boy.  The  place  was  entirely  de- 
serted, and  looked  as  dusty  and  dingy  as  it  had  been  so  for 
months.  A  rusty  ])adlock  was  fastened  on  the  door,  ends 
of  discoloured  blinds  and  curtains  flapped  drearily  against 
the  half-opened  upper  windows,  and  the  crooked  holes  cut 
in  the  closed  shutters  below,  were  black  with  the  dark- 
ness of  the  inside.  Some  of  the  glass  in  'the  window 
he  had  so  of  toned  watched,  had  been  broken  in  she 
rough  hurry  of  the  morning,  and  that  room  looked 
more  deserted  and  dull  than  any.  A  group  of  idle  ur- 
chins had  taken  possession  of  the  door-steps  ;  some  were 
plying  the  knocker  and  listening  with  delightful  dread 
to  the  hollow  sounds  it  spread  through  the  dismantled 
house  ;  others  were  clustered  about  the  key-hole,  watch- 
ing half  in  j(;Ht  and  half  in  earnest  for  "  the  ghost," 
which  an  hour's  gloom,  added  to  the  myatery  that  hung 


!  about  the  late  inhabitants,  had  already  raised.  Standing 
all  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  business  and  bustle  of  the 
street,  the  house  looked  a  picture  of  cold  desolation  ;  and 
Kit,  who  remembered  the  cheerful  fire  that  used  to  bum 
there  on  a  winter's  night  and  the  no  less  cheerful  laugh 
that  made  the  small  room  ring,  turned  quite  mournfully 
away. 

It  must  be  especially  observed  in  justice  to  poor  Kit 
that  he  was  by  no  means  of  a  sentimental  turn,  and  per- 
haps had  never  heard  that  adjective  in  all  his  life.  He 
was  only  a  soft-hearted  grateful  fellow,  and  had  nothing 
genteel  or  polite  rbout  him  ;  consequently,  instead  of 
I  going  home  again,  in  his  grief,  to  kick  the  children  and 
abuse  his  mother  (for,  when  your  finely  strung  people 
are  out  of  sorts,  they  must  have  everybody  else  unhappy 
likewise),  he  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  vulgar  expedient 
of  making  them  more  comfortable  if  he  could. 

Bless  us,  what  a  number  of  gentlemen  on  horseback 
there  were  riding  up  and  down,  and  how  few  of  them 
wanted  their  horses  held  !  A  good  city  speculator  or  a 
parliamentary  commissioner  could  have  told  to  a  fraction, 
j  from  the  crowds  that  were  cantering  about,  what  sum  of 
money  was  realized  in  London,  in  the  course  of  a  year, 
by  holding  horses  alone.  And  undoubtedly  it  would 
have  been  a  very  large  one,  if  only  a  twentieth  part  of 
the  gentlemen  without  grooms  had  had  occasion  to 
alight  ;  but  they  had  not ;  and  it  is  often  an  ill-natured 
circumstance  like  this  which  spoils  the  most  ingenious 
estimate  in  the  world. 

Kit  walked  about,  now  with  quick  steps  and  now  with 
slow  ;  now  lingering  as  some  rider  slackened  his  horse's 
pace  and  looked  about  him  ;  and  now  darting  at  full 
speed  up  a  bye  street  as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  some 
distant  horseman  going  lazily  up  the  shady  side  of  the 
road,  and  ]>romising  to  stop,  at  every  door.  But  on  they 
all  went,  one  after  another,  and  there  was  not  a  penny 
stirring.  "I  wonder,"  thought  the  boy,  "if  one  of 
these  gentlemen  knew  there  was  nothing  in  the  cupboard 
at  home,  whether  he'd  stop  on  purpose,  and  make  be- 
lieve that  he  wanted  to  call  somewhere,  that  I  might 
earn  a  trifle?" 

He  was  quite  tired  out  with  pacing  the  streets,  to  say 
nothing  of  repeated  disappointments,  and  was  sitting 
down  upon  a  step  to  rest,  when  there  approached  to- 
wards him,  a  little  clattering,  jingling  four-wheeled 
chaise,  drawn  by  a  little  obstinate-looking  rough-coated 
pony,  and  driven  by  a  little  fat  placid-faced  old  gentle- 
man. Beside  the  little  old  gentleman  sat  a  little  old 
lady,  plump  and  placid  like  himself,  and  the  pony  was 
coming  along  at  his  own  pace,  and  doing  exactly  as  he 
pleased  with  the  whole  concern.  If  the  old  gentleman 
remonstrated  by  shaking  the  reins,  the  pony  replied  by 
shaking  his  head.  It  was  plain  that  the  utmost  the 
pony  would  consent  to  do,  was  to  go  in  his  own  way  up 
any  street  that  the  old  gentleman  jjarticularly  wished  to 
traverse,  but  that  it  was  an  understanding  between  them 
that  he  must  do  this  after  his  own  fashion  or  not  at  all. 

As  they  passed  where  he  sat,  Kit  looked  so  wistfully 
at  the  little  turnout,  that  the  old  gentleman  looked  at 
him.  Kit  rising  and  putting  his  hand  to  his  hat,  the  old 
gentleman  intimated  to  the  pony  that  he  wished  to  stop, 
to  which  proposal  the  pony  (who  seldom  objected  to  that 
part  of  his  duty)  graciously  acceded, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Kit.  "I'm  sorry  you 
stopped,  sir.  I  only  meant  did  you  want  your  horse 
minded." 

"I'm  going  to  get  down  in  the  next  street,"  returned 
the  old  gentleman.  "If  you  like  to  come  on  after  us, 
you  may  have  the  job," 

Kit  thanked  him,  and  joyfully  obeyed.  The  pony  ran 
off  at  a  sharp  angle  to  inspect  a  lamp-j)ost  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  way,  and  then  went  off  at  a  tangent 
to  another  lamp-post  on  the  other  side.  Having  satisfied 
himself  that  tliey  were  of  the  same  pattern  and  materi- 
als, he  came  to  a  stop,  apparently  absorbed  in  meditation. 

"  Will  you  go  on,  sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  gravely, 
"  or  are  we  to  wait  here  for  you  'till  it's  too  late  for  our 
ap])()intment  ?" 

Tiie  pony  remained  immovable. 

"  Oh  you  naughty  Whisker,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  Fie 
upon  you  !  I  am  ashamed  of  such  conduct." 

The  pony  appeared  to  be  touched  by  this  appeal  to  his 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


715 


feelings,  for  he  trotted  on  directly,  though  in  a  sulky 
manner,  and  stopped  no  more  until  ho  came  to  a  door 
whereon  was  a  brass  plate  with  the  words  "  Wither- 
den — Notary."  Here  the  old  gentleman  got  out  and 
helped  out  the  old  lady,  and  then  took  from  under  the 
seat  a  nosegay  resembling  in  shape  and  dimensions  a 
full-sized  warming-pan  with  the  handle  cut  short  off. 
This,  the  old  lady  carried  into  the  house  with  a  staid 
and  stately  air,  and  the  old  gentleman  (who  had  a  club- 
foot) followed  close  upon  her. 

They  went,  as  it  was  easy  to  tell  from  the  sound  of 
their  voices,  into  the  front  parlour,  which  seemed  to  be  a 
kind  of  office.  The  day  being  very  warm  and  the  street 
a  quiet  one,  the  windows  were  wide  open  ;  and  it  was 
easy  to  hear  through  the  Venetian  blinds  all  that  passed 
inside. 

At  first,  there  was  a  great  shaking  of  hands  and  shuf- 
fling of  feet,  succeeded  by  the  presentation  of  the  nose- 
gay ;  for  a  voice,  supposed  by  the  listener  to  be  that  of 
Mr.  Witherden  the  Notary,  was  heard  to  exclaim  a  great 
many  time-,  "  oh,  delicious  I  "  "oh,  fragrant  indeed  !  " 
and  a  nose,  also  supposed  to  be  the  property  of  that 
gentleman,  was  heard  to  inhale  the  scent  with  a  snuffle 
of  exceeding  pleasure. 

"  I  brought  it  in  honour  of  the  occasion,  sir,"  said  the 
old  lady. 

"  Ah  !  an  occasion  indeed,  ma'am  ;  an  occasion  which 
does  honour  to  me,  ma'am,  honour  to  me,"  rejoined  Mr. 
Witherden,  the  Notary.  "  I  have  had  many  a  gentle- 
man articled  to  me,  ma'am,  many  a  one.  Some  of  them 
are  now  rolling  in  riches,  unmindful  of  their  old  com- 
panion and  friend,  ma'am  ;  others  are  in  the  habit  of 
calling  upon  me  to  this  day  and  saying,  '  Mr,  Witherden, 
some  of  the  pieasantest  hours  I  ever  spent  in  my  life 
were  spent  in  this  office — were  spent,  sir,  upon  this  very 
stool;'  but  there  was  never  one  among  the  number, 
ma'am,  attached  as  I  have  been  to  many  of  them,  of 
whom  I  augured  such  bright  things  as  I  do  of  your  only 
son." 

"  Oh  dear  ! "  said  the  old  lady.  "How  happy  you  do 
make  us  when  you  tell  us  that,  to  be  sure  I  " 

"I  tell  you  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Witherden,  "what  I 
think  as  an  honest  man,  which,  as  the  poet  observes,  is 
the  noblest  work  of  God.  I  agree  with  the  poet  in  every 
particular,  ma'am.  The  mountainous  Alps  on  the  one 
band,  or  a  humming-bird  on  the  other,  is  nothing,  in 
point  of  workmanship,  to  an  honest  man — or  woman — or 
woman." 

"  Anything  that  Mr.  Witherden  can  say  of  me,"  ob 
served  a  small  quiet  voice,  "I  can  say,  with  interest,  of 
him,  I  am  sure." 

' '  It's  a  happy  circumstance,  a  truly  happy  circum- 
stance," said  the  Notary,  "  to  happen  too  upon  his  eight- 
and-twentieth  birth-day,  and  I  hope  I  know  how  to  ap- 
preciate it.  I  trust,  Mr.  Garland,  my  dear  sir,  that  we 
may  mutually  congratulate  each  other  upon  this  auspi- 
cious occasion." 

To  this,  the  old  gentleman  replied  that  he  felt  assured 
they  might.  There  appeared  to  be  another  shaking  of 
hands  in  consequence,  and  when  it  was  over,  the  old 
gentleman  said  that,  though  he  said  it  who  should  not, 
he  believed  no  son  had  ever  been  a  greater  comfort  to 
his  parents  than  Abel  Garland  had  been  to  his. 

"Marrying  as  his  mother  and  T  did,  late  in  life,  sir, 
after  waiting  for  a  great  many  years,  until  we  were  well 
enough  oif — coming  together  when  we  were  no  longer 
young,  and  then  being  blessed  with  one  child  who  has 
always  been  dutiful  and  affectionate — why,  it's  a  source 
of  great  happiness  to  us  both,  sir." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  returned  the 
Notary  in  a  sympathising  voice.  "It's  the  contempla- 
tion of  this  sort  of  thing,  that  makes  me  deplore  my  fate 
in  being  a  bachelor.  There  was  a  young  lady  once,  sir, 
the  daugiiter  of  an  outfitting  warehouse  of  the  first  re- 
spectability— but  that's  a  weakness.  Chuckster,  bring 
in  Mr.  Abel's  articles." 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Witherden,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  that 
Abel  has  not  been  brought  up  like  the  run  of  young  men. 
He  has  always  had  a  pleasure  in  our  society,  and  always 
been  with  us.  Abel  has  never  been  absent  from  us  for 
a  day  ;  has  he,  my  dear?" 

"  Never,  my  dear,"  returned  the  old  gentleman,  "  ex- 


cept when  he  went  to  Margate  one  Saturday,  with  Mr. 
Tomkinley  that  had  been  a  teacher  at  that  school  he 
went  to,  and  came  back  upon  the  Monday  ;  but  he  was 
very  ill  after  that,  you  remember,  my  dear  ;  it  was  quite 
a  dissipation." 

"  He  was  not  used  to  it,  you  know,"  said  the  old  lady  ; 
*'  and  he  couldn't  bear  it,  that's  the  truth.  Besides  he 
had  no  comfort  in  being  there  without  us,  and  had  no- 
body to  talk  to  or  enjoy  himself  with." 

"  That  was  it,  you  know,"  interposed  the  same  small 
quiet  voice  that  had  spoken  once  before.  "  1  was  quite 
abroad,  mother,  quite  desolate,  and  to  think  that  the  sea 
was  between  us — oh,  1  never  shall  forget  what  I  felt 
when  I  first  thought  that  the  sea  was  between  us  !" 

"  Very  natural  under  the  circumstances,"  observed  the 
Notary.  "Mr.  Abel's  feelings  did  credit  to  his  nature, 
and  credit  to  your  nature,  ma'am,  and  his  father's  na- 
ture, and  human  nature.  I  trace  the  same  current  now, 
flowing  through  all  his  quiet  and  unobtrusive  proceed- 
ings.— I  am  about  to  sign  my  name,  you  observe,  at  the 
foot  of  the  articles  which  Mr.  Chuckster  will  witness  ; 
and  placing  my  finger  upon  this  blue  wafer  with  the 
vandyked  corners,  I  am  constrained  to  remark  in  a  dis- 
tinct tone  of  voice — don't  be  alarmed  ma'am,  it  is  merely 
a  form  of  law — that  I  deliver  this  as  my  act  and  deed. 
Mr.  Abel  will  place  his  name  against  the  other  wafer, 
repeating  the  same  cabalistic  words,  and  the  business  is 
over.  Ha  ha  ha  !  You  see  how  easily  these  things  are 
done  !  " 

There  was  a  short  silence,  apparently,  while  Mr.  Abel 
went  through  the  prescribed  form,  and  then  the  shaking 
of  hands  and  shuffling  of  feet  were  renewed,  and  shortly 
afterwards  there  was  a  clinking  of  wine-glasses  and  a 
great  talkativeness  on  the  part  of  everybody.  In  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  Mr.  Chuckster  (with  a  pen  behind 
his  ear  and  his  face  inflamed  with  wine)  appeared  at  the 
door,  and  condescending  to  address  Kit  by  the  jocose 
appellation  of  "  Young  Snob,"  informed  him  that  the 
visitors  were  coming  out. 

Out  they  came  forthwith  ;  Mr.  Witherden,  who  was 
short,  chubby,  fresh-coloured,  brisk,  andpom.pous,  lead- 
ing the  old  lady  with  extreme  politeness,  and  the  father 
and  son  following  them,  arm  in  arm.  Mr.  Abel,  who 
had  a  quaint  old-fashioned  air  about  him,  looked  nearly 
of  the  same  age  as  his  father,  and  bore  a  wonderful  re- 
semblance to  him  in  face  and  figure,  though  wanting 
something  of  his  full,  round  cheerfulness,  and  substitut- 
in  its  place  a  timid  reserve.  In  all  other  respects,  in  the 
neatness  of  the  dress,  and  even  in  the  club-foot,  he  and 
the  old  gentleman  were  precisely  alike. 

Having  seen  the  old  lady  safely  in  her  seat,  and  assist- 
ed in  the  arrangement  of  her  cloak  and  a  small  basket 
which  formed  an  indispensable  portion  of  her  equipage, 
Mr.  Abel  got  into  a  little  box  behind  which  had  evidently 
been  made  for  his  express  accommodation,  and  smiled  at 
everybody  present  by  turns,  beginning  with  his  mother 
and  ending  with  the  pony.  There  was  then  a  great  to  do 
to  make  the  pony  hold  up  his  head  that  the  bearing-rein 
might  be  fastened  ;  at  last  even  this  was  eifected  ;  and 
the  old  gentleman,  taking  his  seat  and  the  reins,  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket  to  find  a  sixpence  for  Kit. 

He  had  no  sixpences,  neither  had  the  old  lady,  nor  Mr. 
Abel,  nor  the  notary^  nor  Mr.  Chuckster.  The  old  gen- 
tleman thought  a  shilling  too  much, but  there  was  no  shop 
in  the  street  to  get  change  at,  so  he  gave  it  to  the  boy. 

"  There,"  he  said  jokingly,  "I'm  coming  here  again 
next  Monday  at  the  same  time,  and  mind  you're  here, 
my  lad,  to  work  it  out." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Kit.  "  I'll  be  sure  to  be  here." 

He  was  qiiite  serious,  but  they  all  laughed  heartily  at 
his  saying  so,  especially  Mr.  Chuckster,  who  loared  out- 
right and  appeared  to  relish  the  joke  amazingly.  As 
the  pony,  with  a  presentiment  that  he  was  going  home, 
or  a  determination  that  he  would  not  go  anywhere  else 
(which  was  the  same  thing\  trotted  away  pretty  nimbly. 
Kit  had  no  time  to  justify  himself,  and  went  his  way 
also.  Having  expended  his  treasure  in  such  purchases 
as  he  knew  would  be  most  acceptable  at  home,  not  for- 
getting some  seed  for  the  wonderful  bird,  he  hastened 
back  as  fast  as  he  could,  so  elated  with  his  success  and 
great  good-fortune,  that  he  more  than  half  expected  Nell 
and  the  old  man  would  have  arrived  before  him. 


ne  CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Often,  while  tliey  were  yet  pacing  the  silent  streets 
of  the  town  on  the  morning  of  their  departure,  the  child 
trembled  with  a  mingled  sensation  of  hope  and  fear  as 
in  some  far-off  figure  imperfectly  seen  in  the  clear  dis- 
tance, her  fancy  traced  a  likeness  to  honest  Kit.  But 
although  she  would  gladly  have  given  him  her  hand  and 
thanked  him  for  what  he  had  said  at  their  last  meeting, 
it  was  always  a  relief  to  find,  when  they  came  nearer  to 
each  other,  that  the  person  who  approached  was  not  he, 
but  a  stranger  ;  for  even  if  she  had  not  dreaded  the  ef- 
fect which  the  sight  of  him  might  have  wrought  upon  her 
fellow-traveller,  she  felt  that  to  bid  farewell  to  anybody 
now,  and  most  of  all  to  him  who  had  been  so  faitliful  and 
so  true,  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  It  was  enough 
to  leave  dumb  tilings  behind,  and  objects  that  were  in- 
sensible both  to  her  love  and  sorrow.  To  have  parted 
from  her  only  other  friend  upon  the  threshold  of  that  wild 
journey,  would  have  wrung  her  heart  indeed. 

Why  is  it  that  we  can  better  bear  to  part  in  spirit 
than  in  body,  and  w\\\\e  we  have  the  fortitude  to  act 
farewell  have  not  the  nerve  to  say  it  ?  On  the  eve  of 
long  voyages  or  an  absence  of  many  years,  friends  who  are 
tenderly  attached  will  separate  with  the  usual  look,  the 
usual  pressure  of  the  hand,  planning  one  final  interview 
for  the  morrow,  while  each  well  knows  that  it  is  but  a  poor 
feint  to  save  the  pain  of  uttering  that  one  word,  and  that 
the  meeting  will  never  be.  Should  possibilities  be  worse 
to  bear  than  certainties  ?  We  do  not  shun  our  dying 
friends  ;  the  not  having  distinctly  taken  leave  of  one 
among  them,  whom  we  left  in  all  kindness  and  affection 
will  often  embitter  the  whole  remainder  of  a  life. 

The  town  was  glad  with  morning  light  ;  places  that 
had  shone  ugly  and  distrustful  all  night  long,  now  wore 
a  smile  ;  and  sparkling  sunbeams  dancing  on  chamber 
windows,  and  twinkling  through  blind  and  curtain 
before  sleeper's  eyes,  shed  light  even  into  dreams,  and 
chased  away  the  shadows  of  the  night.  Birds  in  hot 
rooms,  covered  up  close  and  dark,  felt  it  was  morning, 
and  chafed  and  grew  restless  in  their  little  cells  ;  bright- 
eyed  mice  crept  back  to  their  tiny  homes  and  nestled 
timidly  together  ;  the  sleek  house-cat,  forgetful  of  her 
prey,  sat  winking  at  the  rays  of  the  sun  starting  through 
key-hole  and  cranny  in  the  door,  and  longed  for  her 
stealthy  run  and  warm  sleek  bask  outside.  The  nobler 
beasts  confined  in  dens,  stood  motionless  behind  their 
bars,  and  gazed  on  fluttering  boughs,  and  sunshine  peep- 
ing through  some  little  window,  with  eyes  in  which  old 
forests  gleamed — then  trod  impatiently  the  track  their 
prisoned  feet  had  worn — and  stopped  and  gazed  again. 
Men  in  their  dungeons  stretched  their  cramped  cold 
limbs, and  cursed  the  stone  that  no  bright  sky  could  warm. 
The  flowers  that  sleep  by  night,  opened  their  gentle  eyes 
and  turned  them  to  the  day.  The  light,  creation's 
mind,  was  everywhere,  and  all  things  owned  its  power. 

The  two  pilgrims,  often  pressing  each  other's  hands, 
or  exchanging  a  smile  or  cheerful  look,  pursued  their 
way  in  silence.  Bright  and  happy  as  it  was,  there  was 
something  solemn  in  the  long  deserted  streets,  from 
which,  like  bodies  without  souls,  all  habitual  character 
and  expression  had  departed,  leaving  but  one  dead  uni- 
form repose,  that  made  them  all  alike.  All  was  so  still 
at  that  early  hour,  that  the  few  ])ale  people  whom  they 
met  seemed  as  much  unsuited  to  the  scene,  as  the  sickly 
lamp  which  had  been  here  and  there  left  burning,  was 
powerless  and  faint  in  the  full  glory  of  the  sun. 

Before  they  had  penetrated  very  far  into  the  labyrinth 
of  men's  abodes  which  yet  lay  between  them  and  the 
outskirts,  this  aspect  began  to  melt  away,  and  noise  and 
bustle  to  usurp  its  place.  Some  straggling  carts  and 
coaches  rumbling  by,  first  broke  the  charm,  then  others 
came,  then  others  yet  more  active,  then  a  crowd.  The 
wonder  was,  at  first,  to  see  a  tradesman's  room  window 
open,  but  it  was  a  rare  thing  to  see  one  closed  ;  then, 
smoke  rose  slowly  from  the  chimneys,  and  sashes  were 
thrown  up  to  let  in  air,  and  doors  were  opened,  and  ser- 
vant girls,  looking  lazily  in  all  directions  but  their 
brooms,  scattered  brown  clouds  of  dust  into  the  eyes  of 
shrinking  passengers,  or  listened  disconsolately  to  milk- 
men who  spoke  of  country  fairs,  and  told  of  waggons  in 
the  mews,  with  awnings  and  all  things  complete,  and 


gallant  swains  to  boot,  which  another  hour  would  see 
upon  their  journey. 

This  quarter  passed,  they  came  upon  the  haunts  of 
commerce  and  great  traffic,  where  many  people  were  re- 
sorting, and  business  was  already  rife.  The  old  man 
looked  about  him  with  a  startled  and  bewildered  gaze, 
for  those  were  places  that  he  hoped  to  shun.  He  pressed 
his  finger  on  his  lip,  and  drew  the  child  along  by  narrow 
courts  and  winding  ways,  nor  did  he  seem  at  ease  until 
they  had  left  it  far  behind,  often  casting  a  backward 
look  towards  it,  murmuring  that  ruin  and  self-murder 
were  crouching  in  every  street,  and  would  follow  if 
they  scented  them  ;  and  that  they  could  not  fly  too  fast. 

Again,  this  quarter  passed,  they  came  upon  a  strag- 
gling  neighbourhood,  where  the  mean  houses  parcelled 
off  in  rooms,  and  windows  patched  with  rags  and  paper, 
told  of  the  populous  poverty  that  sheltered  there.  The 
shops  sold  goods  that  only  poverty  could  buy,  and  sellers 
and  buyers  were  pinched  and  griped  alike.  Here  were 
poor  streets  where  faded  gentility  essayed  with  scanty 
space  and  shipwrecked  means  to  make  its  last  feeble 
stand,  but  tax-gatherer  and  creditor  came  there  as  else- 
v/here,  and  the  poverty  that  yet  faintly  struggled  was 
hardly  less  squalid  and  manifest  than  that  which  had 
long  ago  submitted  and  given  up  the  game. 

This  was  a  wide,  wide  track — for  the  humble  followers 
of  the  camp  of  wealth  pitch  their  tents  round  about  it 
for  many  a  mile — but  its  character  was  still  the  same. 
Damp  rotten  houses,  many  to  let,  many  ,  yet  building, 
many  half-built  and  mouldering  away — lodgings,  where 
it  would  be  hard  to  tell  which  needed  pity  most,  those 
who  let,  or  those  who  came  to  take — children,  scantily 
fed  and  clothed,  spread  over  every  street,  and  sprawling 
in  the  dust — scolding  mothers,  stamping  their  sli];)shod 
feet  with  noisy  threats  upon  the  pavement — shabby 
fathers,  hurrying  with  dispirited  looks  to  the  occupation 
which  brought  them  "daily  bread"  and  little  more — 
mangling- women,  washer- M'omen,  cobblers,  tailors, 
chandlers,  driving  their  trades  in  mrlours  and  kitchens, 
and  back  rooms  and  garrets,  and  sometimes  all  of  them 
under  the  same  roof — brick-fields  skirting  gardens  paled 
with  staves  of  old  casks,  or  timber  pillaged  from  houses 
burnt  down,  and  blackened  and  blistered  by  the  flames 
— mounds  of  dock-weed,  nettles,  coarse  grass  and  oyster 
shells,  heaped  in  rank  confusion — small  dissenting  chap- 
els to  teach,  with  no  lack  of  illustration,  the  miseries  of 
Earth,  and  plenty  of  new  churches,  erected  with  a  little 
superfluous  wealth,  to  show  the  way  to  Heaven. 

At  length  these  streets,  becoming  more  straggling  yet, 
dwindled  and  dwindled  away,  until  there  were  only 
small  garden  patches  bordering  the  road,  with  many  a 
summer-house  innocent  of  paint,  and  built  of  old  timber 
or  some  fragments  of  a  boat,  green  as  the  tough  cabbage- 
stalks  that  grew  about  it,  and  grottoed  at  the  seams  with 
toad-stools  and  tight-sticking  snails.  To  these  succeeded 
pert  cottages,  two  and  two,  with  plots  of  ground  in  front, 
laid  out  in  angular  beds  with  stiff  box  borders  and  nar- 
row paths  between,  where  footstep  never  straj'ed  to  make 
the  gravel  rough.  Then  came  the  public-house,  freshly 
painted  in  green  and  white,  with  tea-gardens  and  a 
bowling-green,  spurning  its  old  neighbour  with  the 
horse  trough  where  the  waggons  stopped  ;  then  fields ; 
and  then  some  houses,  one  by  one,  of  goodly  size,  with 
lawns,  some  even  with  a  lodge  where  dwelt  a  porter  and 
his  wife.  Then  came  a  turnpike  ;  then  fields  again  with 
trees  and  haystacks;  then,  ahill;  and  on  the  top  of  that  the 
traveller  might  stop,  and — looking  back  at  old  St.  Paul's 
looming  through  the  smoke,  its  cross  peeping  above  the 
cloud  (if  the  day  were  clear)  and  glittering  in  the  sun ; 
and  casting  his  eyes  upon  the  Babel  out  of  which  it  grew 
until  he  traced  it  down  to  the  furthest  outposts  of  the 
invading  army  of  bricks  and  mortar  whose  station  lay 
for  the  present  nearly  at  his  feet — might  feel  at  last  that 
he  was  clear  of  London. 

Near  such  a  spot  as  this,  and  in  a  pleasant  field,  the  old 
man  and  his  little  guide  (if  guide  she  were,  who  knew 
not  whither  they  were  bound)  sat  down  to  rest.  She  had 
had  the  precaution  to  furnish  her  basket  with  some 
slices  of  bread  and  meat,  and  here  they  made  their 
frugal  l)reakfast. 

The  freshness  of  the  day,  the  singing  of  the  birds, 
the  beauty  of  the  waving  grass,  the  deep  green  leaves. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


717 


the  wild  flowers,  the  thousand  exquisite  scents  and 
sounds  that  floated  in  the  air, — deep  joys  to  most  of  us, 
but  most  of  all  to  those  whose  life  is  in  a  crowd,  or  who 
live  solitarily  in  great  cities  as  in  the  bucket  of  a  human 
well, — sunk  into  their  breasts  and  made  them  very  glad. 
The  child  had  repeated  her  artless  prayers  once  that 
morning,  more  earnestly  perhaps  than  she  had  ever  done 
in  all  her  life,  but  as  she  felt  all  this,  they  rose  to  her 
lips  again.  The  old  man  took  off  his  hat — he  had  no 
memory  for  the  words — but  he  said  amen,  and  that  they 
were  very  good. 

There  had  been  an  old  copy  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress, 
with  strange  plates,  upon  a  shelf  at  home,  over  which 
she  had  often  pored  whole  evenings,  wondering  whether 
it  was  true  in  every  word,  and  where  those  distant  coun- 
tries with  the  curious  names  might  be.  As  she  looked 
back  upon  the  place  they  had  left,  one  part  of  it  came 
strongly  on  her  mind. 

" Dear  grandfather,"  she  said,  "only  that  this  place 
is  prettier  and  a  great  deal  better  than  the  real  one,  if 
that  in  the  book  is  like  it,  I  feel  as  if  we  were  both 
Christian,  and  laid  down  on  this  grass  all  the  cares  and 
troubles  we  brought  with  us;  never  to  take  them  up 
again." 

"  No — never  to  return — never  to  return" — replied  the 
old  man,  waving  his  hand  toward  the  city.  "  Thou  and 
I  are  free  of  it  now,  Nell.  They  shall  never  lure  us 
back."  t 

"Are  you  tired?"  said  the  child,  "are  you  sure  you 
don't  feel  ill  from  this  long  wallc  ?  " 

"  I  shall  never  feel  ill  again,  now  that  we  are  once 
away,"  was  his  reply.  "  Let  us  be  stirring,  Nell.  We 
must  be  further  away — a  long,  long  way  further.  We 
are  too  near  to  stop,  and  be  at  rest.    Come  ! " 

There  was  a  pool  of  clear  water  in  the  field,  in  which 
the  child  laved  her  hands  and  face,  and  cooled  her  feet 
before  setting  forth  to  walk  again.  She  would  have  the 
old  man  refresh  himself  in  this  way  too,  and  making 
him  sit  down  upon  the  grass,  cast  the  water  on  him 
with  her  hands,  and  dried  it  with  her  simple  dress. 

"I  can  do  nothing  for  myself,  my  darling,"  said  the 
grandfather.'  "  I  don't  know  how  it  is  I  could  once,  but 
the  time's  gone.  Don't  leave  me,  Nell ;  say  that  thou'lt 
not  leave  me.  I  loved  thee  all  the  while,  indeed  I  did. 
If  I  ipse  thee  too,  my  dear,  I  must  die  !" 

He  laid  his  head  upon  her  shoulder  and  moaned  pite- 
ously.  The  time  had  been,  and  a  very  few  days  before, 
when  the  child  could  not  have  restrained  her  tears  and 
must  have  wept  with  him.  But  now  she  soothed  him 
with  gentle  and  tender  words,  smiled  at  his  thinking 
they  could  ever  part,  and  rallied  him  cheerfully  upon  the 
jest.  He  was  soon  calmed  and  fell  asleep,  singing  to 
himself  in  a  low  voice,  like  a  little  child. 

He  awoke  refreshed,  and  they  continued  their  journey. 
The  road  was  pleasant,  lying  between  beautiful  pastures 
and  fields  of  corn,  above  which,  poised  high  in  the  clear 
blue  sky,  the  lark  trilled  out  her  happy  song.  The  air 
came  laden  with  the  fragrance  it  caught  upon  its  way, 
and  the  bees,  upborne  upon  its  scented  breath,  hummed 
forth  their  drowsy  satisfaction  as  they  floated  by. 

They  were  now  in  the  open  country  ;  the  houses  were 
very  few  and  scattered  at  long  intervals,  often  miles 
apart.  Occasionally  they  came  upon  a  cluster  of  poor 
cottages,  some  with  a  chair  or  low  board  put  across  the 
open  door  to  keep  the  scrambling  children  from  the  road, 
others  shut  up  close  while  all  the  family  were  working 
in  the  fields.  These  were  often  the  commencement  of 
a  little  village  :  and  after  an  interval  came  a  wheel- 
wright's shed  or  perhaps  a  blacksmith's  forge  ;  then  a 
thriving  farm  with  sleepy  cows  lying  about  the  yard, 
and  horses  peering  over  the  low  wall  and  scampering 
away  when  harnessed  horses  passed  upon  the  road,  as 
though  in  triumph  at  their  freedom.  There  were  dull 
pigs  too,  turning  up  the  ground  in  search  of  dainty  food, 
and  grunting  their  monotonous  grumblings  as  they 
prowled  about,  or  crossed  each  other  in  their  quest ; 
plump  pigeons  skimming  round  the  roof  or  strutting  on 
the  eaves  ;  and  ducks  and  geese,  far  more  graceful  in 
their  own  conceit,  waddling  awkwardly  about  the  edges 
of  the  pond  or  sailing  glibly  on  its  surface.  The  farm- 
yard passed,  then  came  the  little  inn  ;  the  humbler  beer- 
shop  ;  and  the  village  tradesman's ;  then  the  lawyer's 


and  the  parson's  at  whose  dread  names  the  beer-shop 
trembled  ;  the  church  then  peeper]  out  modf^stly  from 
a  clump  of  trees  ;  then  there  were  a  few  more  cottages  ; 
then  a  cago,  and  pound,  and  not  unfrequently,  on  a 
bank  by  the  way -side,  a  deep  old  dusty  well .  Then  came 
the  trim  bodged  fields  on  cither  hand,  and  the  open  road 
again. 

They  walked  all  day,  and  slept  that  night  at  a  small 
cottage  where  beds  were  let  to  travellers.  Next  morning 
they  were  afoot  again,  and  though  jaded  at  first,  and 
very  tired,  recovered  before  long  and  proceeded  briskly 
forward. 

They  often  stopped  to  rest,  but  only  for  a  short  space 
at  a  time,  and  still  kept  on,  having  had  but  slight  re- 
freshment since  the  morning.  It  was  nearly  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  when  drawing  near  another  cluster  of 
labourers'  huts,  the  child  looked  wistfully  in  each, 
doubtful  at  which  to  ask  permission  to  rest  awhile,  and 
buy  a  draught  of  milk. 

It  was  not  easy  to  determine,  for  she  was  timid  and 
fearful  of  being  repulsed.  Here  was  a  crying  child  ^nd 
there  a  noisy  wife.  In  this,  the  people  seemed  too  j^oor  ; 
in  that,  too  many.  At  length  she  stopped  at  one  where 
the  family  were  sitting  round  a  table — chiefly  because 
there  was  an  old  man  sitting  in  a  cushioned  chair  beside 
the  hearth,  and  she  thought  he  was  a  grandfather  and 
would  feel  for  hers. 

There  were  besides,  the  cottager  and  his  wife,  and 
three  young  sturdy  children,  brown  as  berries.  The  re- 
quest was  no  sooner  preferred,  than  granted.  The  eldest 
boy  ran  out  to  fetch  some  milk,  the  second  dragged  two 
stools  towards  the  door,  and  the  youngest  crept  to  his 
mother's  gown,  and  looked  at  the  strangers  from  beneath 
his  sunburnt  hand. 

"  God  save  you  master,"  said  the  old  cottager  in  a 
thin  piping  voice  ;  "are  you  travelling  far?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  a  long  way" — replied  the  child;  for  her 
grandfather  appealed  to  her. 

"  From  London  ?  "  inquired  the  old  man. 

The  child  said  yes. 

Ah  !  he  had  been  in  London  many  a  time — used  to  go 
there  often  once,  with  waggons.  It  was  nigh  two-and 
thirty  years  since  he  had  been  there  last,  and  he  did  hear 
say  there  were  great  changes.  Like  enough  1  He  had 
changed  himself,  since  then.  Two-and-thirly  year  was 
a  long  time  and  eighty-four  a  great  age,  though  there 
was  some  he  had  known  that  had  lived  to  very  hard 
upon  a  hundred — and  not  so  hearty  as  he  neither — no, 
nothing  like  it. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  master,  in  the  elbow  chair,"  said  the 
old  man,  knocking  his  stick  upon  the  brick  floor,  and 
trying  to  do  so  sharply.  "Take  a  pinch  out  o'  that  box; 
I  don't  take  much  myself,  for  it  comes  dear,  but  I  find 
it  wakes  me  up  sometimes,  and  ye 're  but  a  boy  to  me. 
I  should  have  a  son  pretty  nigh  as  old  as  you  if  he'd 
lived,  but  they  listed  him  for  a  so'ger — he  come  back 
home  though,  for  all  he  had  but  one  poor  leg.  He  al- 
ways said  he'd  be  buried  near  the  sun-dial  he  used  to 
climb  upon  when  he  was  a  baby,  did  my  poor  boy,  and 
his  words  come  true — you  can  see  the  place  with  your 
own  eyes  ;  we've  kept  the  turf  up,  ever  since." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  looking  at  his  daughter  with 
watery  eyes,  said  she  needn't  be  afraid  that  he  was  going 
to  talk  about  that  any  more.  He  didn't  wish  to  trouble 
nobody,  and  if  he  had  troubled  anybody  by  what  he  said 
he  asked  pardon,  that  was  all. 

The  milk  arrived,  and  the  child  producing  her  little 
basket  and  selecting  its  best  fragments  for  her  grand- 
father, they  made  a  hearty  meal.  The  furniture  of  the 
room  was  very  homely  of  course — a  few  rough  chairs  and 
a  table,  a  corner  cupboard  with  their  little  stock  of  crock- 
ery and  delf,  a  gaudy  tea-tray,  representing  a  lady  in 
bright-red,  walking  out  with  a  very  blue  parasol,  a  few 
common,  coloured  scripture  subjects  in  frames  upon  the 
wall  and  chimney,  an  old  dwarf  clothes-press  and  an 
eight-day  clock,  with  a  few  bright  saucepans  and  a  ket- 
tle, comprised  the  whole.  But  everything  was  clean  and 
neat,  and  as  the  child  glanced  round,  she  felt  a  tranquil 
air  of  comfort  and  content  to  which  she  had  long  been 
unaccustomed. 

'  *  How  far  is  it  to  any  town  or  village  ?  "  she  asked  of 
the  husband. 


718 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  A  matter  of  good  five  mile,  my  dear,"  was  tbe  reply; 
"  but  you're  not  going  on  to-night  ?  " 

Yes,  yes,  Nell,"  said  the  old  man  hastily,  urging  her 
too  by  signs.  "  Further  on,  further  on,  darling,  further 
away  if  we  walk  'till  midnight." 

"There's  a  good  barn  hard  by,  master,"  said  the  man 
"or  there's  traveller's  lodging,  I  know,  at  the  Plow  an' 
Harrer.  Excuse  me,  but  you  do  seem  a  little  tired,  and 
unless  you're  very  anxious  to  get  on — " 

"Yes,  yes,  we  "are,"  returned  the  old  man  fretfully. 
"  Further  away,  dear  Nell,  pray  further  away." 

"  We  must  go  on,  indeed,"  said  the  child,  yielding  to 
his  restless  wish.  "  We  thank  you  very  much,  but  we 
cannot  stop  so  soon.    I'm  quite  ready,  grandfather." 

But  the  woman  had  observed,  from  the  young  wander- 
er's gait,  that  one  of  her  little  feet  was  blistered  and 
sore,  and  being  a  woman  and  a  mother  too,  she  would 
not  suffer  her  to  go  until  she  had  washed  the  place  and 
applied  some  simple  remedy,  which  she  did  so  carefully 
and  with  such  a  gentle  hand — rough-grained  and  hard 
though  it  was,  with  work — that  the  child's  heart  was  too 
full  to  admit  of  her  saying  more  than  a  fervent,  "  God 
bless  you  ! "  nor  could  she  look  back  nor  trust  herself  to 
speak,  until  they  had  left  the  cottage  some  distance  be- 
hind. When  she  turned  her  head,  she  saw  that  the 
whole  family,  even  the  old  grandfather,  were  standing 
in  the  road  watching  them  as  they  went,  and  so,  with 
many  waves  of  the  hand,  and  cheering  nods,  and  on  one 
side  at  least  not  without  tears,  they  parted  company. 

They  trudged  fovvard,  more  slowly  and  painfully  than 
they  had  done  yet,  for  another  mile  or  thereabouts,  when 
they  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  behind  them,  and  look- 
ing round  observed  an  empty  cart  approaching  pretty 
briskly.  The  driver  on  coming  up  to  them  stopped  his 
horse  and  looked  earnestly  at  Nell. 

"Didn't  you  stop  to  rest  at  a  cottage  yonder  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  child. 

"  All  !  They  asked  me  to  look  out  for  you,"  said  the 
man.  "I'm  going  your  way.  Give  me  your  hand — 
jump  up,  master." 

This  was  a  great  relief,  for  they  were  very  much 
fatigued  and  could  scarcely  crawl  along.  To  them  the 
jolting  cart  was  a  luxurious  carriage,  and  the  ride  the 
most  delicious  in  the  world.  Nell  had  scarcely  settled 
herself  on  a  little  heap  of  straw  in  one  corner,  when  she 
fell  asleep,  for  the  first  time  that  day. 

She  was  awakened  by  the  stopping  of  the  cart,  which 
was  about  to  turn  up  a  bye-lane.  The  driver  kindly  got 
down  to  help  her  out,  and  pointing  to  some  trees  at  a 
very  short  distance  before  them,  said  that  the  town  lay 
there,  and  that  they  had  better  take  the  path  which  they 
would  see  leading  through  the  churchyard.  Accordingly, 
towards  this  spot  they  directed  their  weary  steps. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  they  reached  the  wicket 
gate  at  which  the  path  began,  and,  as  the  rain  falls  upon 
the  just  and  unjust  alike,  it  shed  its  warm  tint  even 
upon  the  resting-places  of  the  dead,  and  bade  them  be  of 
good  hope  for  its  rising  on  the  morrow.  The  church 
was  old  and  gray,  with  ivy  clinging  to  the  walls,  and 
round  the  porch.  Shunning  the  tombs,  it  crept  about 
the  mounds,  beneath  which  slept  poor  humble  men  : 
twining  for  them  the  first  wreaths  they  had  ever  won, 
wreaths  le-s  liable  to  wither  and  far  more  lasting  in 
their  kind,  than  some  which  were  graven  deep  in  stone 
and  marble,  and  told  in  pompous  terras  of  virtues  meek- 
ly hidden  for  many  a  year,  and  only  revealed  at  last  to 
executors  and  mourning  legatees. 

The  clergyman's  horse,  stumbling  with  a  dull  blunt 
sound  among  the  graves,  was  cropping  the  grass  ;  at 
once  deriving  orthodox  consolation  from  the  dead  par- 
ishioners, and  enforcing  last  Sunday's  text  that  this  was 
what  all  fiesh  came  to  ;  a  lean  ass  who  had  sought  to  ex- 
pound it  also,  without  being  qualified  and  ordained,  was 
pricking  his  ears  in  an  empty  pound  hard  by,  and  look- 
ing with  hungry  (jyes  upon  his  priestly  neighbor. 

The  old  man  and  the  child  (]uitted  the  gravel  path, 
and  strayed  among  the  tombs  ;  for  there  the  ground  was 


soft,  and  easy  to  their  tired  feet.  As  they  passed  be- 
hind the  church,  they  heard  voices  near  at  hand,  and 
presently  came  on  those  who  had  spoken. 

They  were  two  men  who  were  seated  in  easy  attitudes 
upon  the  grass,  and  so  busily  engaged  as  to  be  at  first 
unconscious  of  intruders.  It  was  not  difficult  to  divine 
that  they  were  of  a  class  of  itinerant  showmen — ex- 
hibitors of  the  freaks  of  Punch — for,  perched  cross-leg- 
ged upon  a  tombstone  behind  them  was  a  figure  of  that 
hero  himself,  his  nose  and  chin  as  hooked  and  his  face 
as  beaming  as  usual.  Perhaps  his  imperturbable  charac- 
ter was  never  more  strikingly  developed,  for  he  preserved 
his  usual  equable  smile  notwithstanding  that  his  body 
was  dangling  in  a  most  uncomfortable  position,  all  loose 
and  limp  and  shapeless,  while  his  long  peaked  cap,  un- 
equally balanced  against  his  exceedingly  slight  legs, 
threatened  every  instant  to  bring  him  toppling  doAvn. 

In  part  scattered  upon  the  ground  at  the  feet  of  the 
two  men,  and  in  part  jumbled  together  in  a  long  flat  box, 
were  the  other  persons  of  the  Drama.  The  hero's  wife  and 
one  child,  the  hobby-horse,  the  doctor,  the  foreign  gen- 
tleman who  not  being  familiar  with  the  language  is  un- 
able in  the  representation  to  express  his  ideas  otherwise 
than  by  the  utterance  of  the  word  "  Shallabalah"  three 
distinct  times,  the  radical  neighbour  who  will  by  no 
means  admi  t  that  %  tin  bell  is  an  organ,  the  executioner, 
and  the  devil,  were  all  here.  Their  owners  had  evi- 
dently come  to  that  spot  to  make  some  needful  repairs 
in  the  stage  arrangements,  for  one  of  them  was  engaged 
in  binding  together  a  small  gallows  with  thread,  while 
the  other  was  intent  upon  fixing  a  new  black  wig,  with 
the  aid  of  a  small  hammer  and  some  tacks,  upon  the 
head  of  the  radical  neighbor,  who  had  been  beaten  bald. 

They  raised  their  eyes  when  the  old  man  and  his 
young  companion  were  close  upon  them,  and  pausing  in 
their  work,  returned  their  looks  of  curiosity.  One  of 
them,  the  actual  exhibiter  no  doubt,  was  a  little  merry 
faced  man  with  a  twinkling  eye  and  a  red  nose,  who 
seemed  to  have  unconsciously  imbibed  som.ething  of  his 
hero's  character.  "The  other — that  was  he  who  took  the 
money — had  rather  a  careful  and  cautious  look,  which 
was  perhaps  inseparable  from  his  occupation  also. 

The  merry  man  was  the  first  to  greet  the  strangers 
with  a  nod  ;  and  following  the  old  man's  eyes,  he  ob- 
served that  perhaps  that  was  the  first  time  he  hac^  ever 
seen  a  Punch  off  the  stage.  (Punch,  it  may  be  remarked, 
seemed  to  be  pointing  with  the  tip  of  his  cap  to  a  most 
flourishing  epitaph,  and  to  be  chuckling  over  it  with  all 
his  heart.)  « 

"  Why  do  you  come  here  to  do  this?"  said  the  old 
man,  sitting  down  beside  them,  and  looking  at  the  fig- 
ures with  extreme  delight. 

"  Why  you  see,"  rejoined  the  little  man,  "  we're  put- 
ting up  for  to-night  at  the  public-house  yonder,  and  it 
wouldn't  do  to  let  'em  see  the  present  company  under- 
going repair." 

"No  !"  cried  the  old  man,  making  signs  to  Nell  to 
listen,  "  why  not,  eh  ?  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  it  would  destroy  all  the  delusion,  and  take 
away  all  the  interest,  wouldn't  it  ?"  replied  the  little 
man.  "  Would  you  care  a  ha'penny  for  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor if  you  know'd  him  in  private  and  without  his  wig? 
— certainly  not." 

"Good  1 "  said  the  old  man,  venturing  to  touch  one  of 
the  puppets,  and  drawing  away  his  hand  with  a  shrill 
laugh.  "Are  you  going  to  show  'em  to-night?  are 
you  ?" 

"  That  is  the  intention,  governor,"  replied  the  other, 
"and  unless  I'm  much  mistaken,  Tommy  Codlin  is  a 
calculating  at  this  minute  what  we've  lost  through  your 
coming  upon  us.    Cheer  up  Tommy,  it  can't  be  much." 

The  little  man  accompanied  these  latter  words  with  a 
wink,  expressive  of  the  estimate  he  had  formed  of  the 
travellers'  finances. 

To  this  Mr.  Codlin,  who  had  a  surly,  grumblingman- 
ner,  re])]ied,  as  he  twitched  Punch  off  the  tombstone  and 
flung  him  into  the  box, 

"  1  don't  care  if  we  haven't  lost  a  farden,  but  you're 
too  free.  If  you  stood  in  front  of  the  curtain  and  see 
the  public's  faces  as  I  do,  you'd  know  human  natur'  bet- 
ter." 

"Ah  I  it's  been  the  spoiling  of  you,  Tommy,  your 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

mmm  of  hunois 


i 


I 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


719 


taking  to  that  trancli,"  rejoined  his  companion.  "  When 
you  played  the  ghost  in  the  reg'lar  drama  in  the  fairs, 
you  believed  in  everything  except  ghosts.  But  now 
you're  a  universal  mistruster.  1  never  see  a  man  so 
changed." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Codlin,  with  the  air  of  a  dis- 
contented philosopher.  "  I  know  better  now,  and  p'raps 
I'm  sorry  for  it." 

Turning  over  the  figures  in  the  box  like  one  who  knew 
and  despised  them,  Mr.  Codlin  drew  one  forth  and  held 
it  up  for  the  inspection  of  his  friend  : 

"  Look  here  ;  here's  all  this  Judy's  clothes  falling  to 
pieces  again.  You  haven't  got  a  needle  and  thread  I 
suppose  ?" 

The  little  man  shook  his  head,  and  scratched  it  rue- 
fully as  he  contemplated  this  severe  indisposition  of  a 
principal  performer.  Seeing  that  they  were  at  a  loss, 
the  child  said  timidly  : 

"  I  have  a  needle,  sir,  in  my  basket,  and  thread  too. 
Will  you  let  me  try  to  mend  it  for  you  ?  I  think  I  can 
do  it  neater  than  you  could." 

Even  Mr.  Codlin  had  nothing  to  urge  against  a  propo- 
sal so  seasonable.  Nelly,  kneeling  down  beside  the  box, 
was  soon  busily  engaged  in  her  task,  and  accomplishing 
it  to  a  miracle. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged,  the  merry  little  man 
looked  at  her  with  an  interest  which  did  not  appear  to 
be  diminished  when  he  glanced  at  her  helpless  compan- 
ion. When  she  had  finished  her  work  he  thanked  her, 
and  inquired  whither  they  were  travelling. 

N — no  further  to-night,  I  think,"  said  the  child, 
looking  towards  her  grandfather, 

"If  you're  wanting  a  place  to  stop  at,"  the  man  re- 
marked, "  I  should  advise  you  to  take  up  at  the  same 
house  with  us.  That's  it — the  long,  low,  white  house 
there.    It's  very  cheap." 

The  old  man,  notwithstanding  his  fatigue,  would  have 
remained  in  the  churchyard  all  night  if  his  new  ac- 
quaintance had  stayed  there  too.  As  he  yielded  to  this 
suggestion  a  ready  and  rapturous  assent,  they  all  arose 
and  walked  away  together  ;  he  keeping  close  to  the  box 
of  puppets  in  which  he  was  quite  absorbed,  the  merry 
little  man  carrying  it  slung  over  his  arm  by  a  strap  at- 
tached to  it  for  the  purpose,  Nelly  having  hold  of  her 
grandfather's  hand,  and  Mr.  Codlin  sauntering  slowly 
behind,  casting  up  at  the  church  tower  and  neighbouring 
trees  such  looks  as  he  was  accustomed  in  town -practice 
to  direct  to  drawing-room  and  nursery  windows,  Avhen 
seeking  for  a  profitable  spot  on  which  to  plant  the  show. 

The  public-house  was  kept  by  a  fat  old  landlord  and 
landlady  who  made  no  objection  to  receiving  tlieir  new 
guests,  but  praised  Nelly's  beauty  and  were  at  once  pre- 
possessed in  her  behalf.  There  was  no  other  company 
in  the  kitchen  but  the  two  showmen,  and  the  child  felt 
very  thankful  that  they  had  fallen  upon  such  good  quar- 
ters. The  landlady  was  very  much  astonished  to  learn 
that  they  had  come  all  the  way  from  London,  and  ap- 
peared to  have  no  little  curiosity  touching  their  farther 
destination.  The  child  parried  her  inquiries  as  well  as 
she  could,  and  with  no  great  trouble,  for  finding  that 
they  appeared  to  give  her  pain,  the  old  lady  desisted. 

"These  two  gentlemen  have  ordered  supper  in  an 
hour's  time,"  she  said,  taking  her  into  the  bar;  "and 
your  best  plan  will  be  to  sup  with  them.  Meanwhile 
you  shall  have  a  little  taste  of  soiiiething  that'll  do  you 
good,  for  I'm  sure  you  must  want  it  after  all  you've  gone 
through  to-day.  Now  don't  look  after  the  old  gentle- 
man, because  when  you've  drank  tbat,  he  shall  have  some 
too." 

As  nothing  could  induce  the  child  to  leave  him  alone, 
however,  or  to  touch  anything  in  which  he  was  not  the 
first  and  greatest  sharer,  the  old  lady  was  obliged  to  help 
him  first.  When  they  had  been  thus  refreshed,  the 
whole -house  hurried  away  into  an  empty  stable  where 
the  show  stood,  and  where,  by  the  light  of  a  few  flaring 
candles  stuck  round  a  lioop  which  hung  by  a  line  from 
the  ceiling,  it  was  to  be  forthwith  exhibited. 

And  now  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  the  misanthrope,  after 
blowing  away  at  the  Pan's  pipes  until  he  was  intensely 
wretched,  tf)ok  his  station  on  one  side  of  the.  checked 
drapery  which  concealed  the  mover  of  the  figures,  and 
putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  prepared  to  reply  to 


all  questions  and  remarks  of  Punch,  and  to  make  a  dis- 
mal feint  of  being  his  most  intimate  private  friend,  of 
believing  in  him  to  the  fullest  and  most  unlimited  extent, 
of  knowing  that  he  enjoyed  day  and  night  a  merry  and 
glorious  existence  in  that  temple,  and  tliat  he  was  at  all 
times  and  under  every  circumstance  the  same  intelligent 
and  joyful  person  that  the  spectators  then  belield  him. 
All  this  Mr.  Codlin  did  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had 
made  up  liis  mind  for  the  worst  and  was  quite  resigned  ; 
his  eye  slowly  wandering  about  during  the  briskest  re- 
partee to  observe  the  effect  upon  the  audience,  and  par- 
ticularly the  impression  made  upon  the  landlord  and 
landlady,  which  might  be  productive  of  very  important 
results  in  connexion  with  the  supper. 

Upon  this  head,  however,  he  had  no  cause  for  any  anxi- 
ety, for  the  whole  performance  was  applauded  to  the  echo, 
and  voluntary  contributions  were  showered  in  with  a 
liberality  which  testified  yet  more  strongly  to  the  gen- 
eral delight.  Among  the  laughter  none  was  heard  more 
loud  and  frequent  than  the  old  man's.  Nell's  was  un- 
heard, for  she,  poor  child,  with  her  head  drooping  on 
her  shoulder,  had  fallen  asleep,  and  slept  too  soundly 
to  be  roused  by  any  of  his  efforts  to  awaken  her  to  a 
participation  in  his  glee. 

The  supper  was  very  good,  but  she  was  too  tired  to 
eat,  and  yet  would  not  leave  the  old  man  until  she  had 
kissed  him  in  his  bed.  He,  happily  insensible  to  every 
care  and  anxiety,  sat  listening  with  a  vacant  smile  and 
admiring  face  to  all  that  his  new  friends  said  ;  and  it 
was  not  until  they  retired  yawning  to  their  room,  that 
he  followed  the  child  up-stairs. 

I  It  was  but  a  loft  partitioned  into  two  compartments, 
I  where  they  were  to  rest,  but  they  were  well  pleased 
i  with  their  lodging  and  had  hoped  for  none  so  good.  The 
i  old  man  was  uneasy  when  he  had  lain  down,  and  begged 
i  that  Nell  would  come  and  sit  at  his  bedside  as  she  had 
done  for  so  many  nights.  She  hastened  to  him,  and  sat 
there  till  he  slept. 

There  was  a  little  window,  hardly  more  than  a  chink 
in  the  wall,  in  her  room,  and  when  she  left  him,  she 
opened  it,  quite  wondering  at  the  silence.  The  sight  of 
the  old  church  and  the  graves  about  it  in  the  moonlight, 
and  the  dark  trees  whispering  among  themselves,  made 
her  more  thoughtful  than  before.  She  closed  the  win- 
dow again,  and  sitting  down  upon  the  bed,  thought  of 
the  life  that  was  before  them. 

She  had  a  little  money,  but  it  was  very  little,  and 
when  that  was  gone,  they  must  begin  to  beg.  There 
was  one  piece  of  gold  among  it,  and  an  emergency  might 
come  when  its  worth  to  them  would  be  increased  a  hun- 
dred fold.  It  would  be  best  to  hide  this  coin,  and  never 
produce  it  unless  their  case  was  absolutely  desperate, 
and  no  other  resource  was  left  them. 

Her  resolution  taken,  she  sewed  the  piece  of  gold  into 
her  dress,  and  going  to  bed  with  a  lighter  heart  sunk 
into  a  deep  slumber. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

Akother  bright  day  shining  in  through  the  small 
casement,  and  claiming  fellowship  with  the  kindred  eyes 
of  the  child,  awoke  her.  At  sight  of  the  strange  room 
and  its  unaccustomed  objects  she  started  up  in  alarm, 
wondering  how^  she  had  been  removed  from  the  familiar 
chamber  in  which  she  seemed  to  have  fallen  asleep  last 
night,  and  whither  she  had  been  conveyed.  But,  an- 
other glance  around  called  to  her  mind  all  that  had 
lately  passed,  and  she  sprung  from  her  bed,  hoping  and 
trustful. 

It  was  yet  early,  and  the  old  man  being  still  asleep, 
she  walked  out  into  the  churchyard,  brushing  the  dew 
from  the  long  grass  Vith  her* feet,  and  often  turning 
aside  into  places  where  it  grew  longer  than  in  others, 
that  she  might  not  tread  upon  the  graves.  She  felt  a 
curious  kind  of  pleasure  in  lingering  among  these 
houses  of  the  dead,  and  read  the  inscriptions  on  the 
tombs  of  the  good  people  (a  great  number  of  good  people 
were  buried  there),  passing  on  from  one  to  another  with 
increasing  interest. 

It  was  a  very  quiet  place,  as  such  a  place  should  be, 
save  for  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  who  had  built  their 


720 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


nests  among  fhe  branches  of  some  tall  old  trees,  and 
were  calling  to  one  another,  high  up  in  air.  First,  one 
sleek  bird,  hovering  near  his  ragged  house  as  it  swung 
and  dangled  in  the  wind,  uttered  his  hoarse  cry,  quite 
by  chance  as  it  would  seem,  and  in  a  sober  tone  as 
though  he  were  but  talking  to  himself.  Another  an- 
swered, and  he  called  again,  but  louder  than  before  ; 
then  another  spoke  and  then  another  ;  and  each  time  the 
first,  aggravated  by  contradiction,  insisted  on  his  case 
more  strongly.  Other  voices,  silent  till  now,  struck  in 
from  boughs  lower  down  and  higher  up  and  midway,  and 
to  the  right  and  left,  and  from  the  tree-tops  ;  and  others, 
arriving^'hastily  from  the  gray  church  turrets  and  old 
belfry  window,  joined  the  clamour  which  rose  and  fell, 
and  swelled  and  dropped  again,  and  still  went  on  ;  and  all 
this  noisy  contention  amidst  a  skimming  to  and  fro,  and 
lighting  on  fredi  branches,  and  frequent  change  of  place, 
which  satirised  the  old  restlessness  of  those  who  lay  so 
still  beneath  the  moss  and  turf  below,  and  the  strife  in 
which  they  had  worn  away  their  lives. 

Frequently  raising  her  eyes  to  the  trees  whence  these 
sounds  came  down,  and  feeling  as  though  they  made  the 
place  more  quiet  than  perfect  silence  would  have  done, 
the  child  loitered'  from  grave  to  grave,  now  stopping  to 
replace  with  careful  hands  the  bramble  which  had  start- 
ed from  some  green  mound  it  helped  to  keep  in  shape,  and 
now  peeping  tlirough  one  of  the  low  latticed  windows  into 
the  church,  with  its  worm-eaten  books  upon  the  desks, 
and  baize  of  whitened-green  mouldering  from  the  pew- 
sides  and  leaving  the  naked  wood  to  view.  There  were 
the  seats  where  the  poor  old  people  sat,  worn,  spare,  and 
yellow  like  themselves  ;  the  rugged  font  where  children 
had  their  names,  the  homely  altar  where  they  knelt  in 
after  life,  the  plain  black  tressels  that  bore  their  weight 
on  their  last  visit  to  the  cool  old  shady  church.  Every 
thing  told  of  long  use  and  quiet  slow  decay  ;  the  very 
bell-rope  in  the  porch  was  frayed  into  a  fringe,  and  hoary 
with  old  age. 

She  was  looking  at  a  humble  stone  which  told  of  a 
young  man  who  had  died  at  twenty-three  years  old,  fifty- 
five  years  ago,  when  she  heard  a  faltering  step  approach- 
ing, and  looking  round  saw  a  feeble  woman  bent  v/ith 
the  weight  of  years,  who  tottered  to  the  foot  of  that 
same  grave  and  asked  her  to  read  the  writing  on  the 
stone.  The  old  woman  thanked  her  when  she  had  done, 
saying  that  she  had  had  the  words  by  heart  for  many  a 
long,  long  year,  but  could  not  see  them  now. 

"  Were  you  his  mother?  "  said  the  child. 

*'  I  was  his  wife,  my  dear." 

She  the  wife  of  a  young  man  of  three-and-twenty  ! 
Ah,  true  !    It  was  fifty-five  years  ago. 

"  You  wonder  to  hear  me  say  that,"  remarked  the  old 
woman,  shaking  her  head.  "  You're  not  the  first.  Older 
folk  than  you  have  wondered  at  the  same  thing  before 
now.  Yes,  I  was  his  wife.  Death  doesn't  change  us 
more  than  life,  my  dear." 

"  Do  you  come  here  often  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

**I  sit  here  very  often  in  the  summer  time,"  she  an- 
swered, "  I  used  to  come  here  once  to  cry  and  mourn, 
but  that  was  a  weary  while  ago,  bless  God  !" 

"I  pluck  the  daisies  as  they  grow,  and  take  them 
home,"  said  the  old  woman  after  a  short  silence.  "  I 
like  no  flowers  so  well  as  these,  and  haven't  for  five-and 
fifty  years.    It's  a  long  time,  and  I'm  getting  very  old  !" 

Then  growing  garrulous  upon  a  theme  which  was  new 
to  one  listener  though  it  was  but  a  child,  she  told  her 
how  she  had  wept  and  moaned  and  prayed  to  die  her- 
self, when  thishappened  ;  and  how  when  she  first  came  to 
that  place,  a  young  creature  strong  in  love  and  grief, 
she  had  hoped  that  her  heart  was  breaking  as  it  seemed 
to  be.  But  that  time  passed  by,  and  although  she  con- 
tinued to  be  sad  when  she  came  there,  still  she  could  not 
bear  to  come,  and  so  went  on  till  it  was  pain  no  longer, 
but  a  solemn  pleasure  and  a  duty  she  had  learned  to  like. 
And  now  that  five-and-fifty  years  were  gone,  she  spoke 
of  the  dead  man  as  if  he  had  been  her  son  and  grandson 
with  a  kind  of  ])ity  for  liis  youth,  growing  out  of  her  own 
old  age,  and  exalting  of  his  strength  and  manly  beauty 
as  compared  with  her  own  weakness  and  decay  ;  and  yet 
she  sjjokc;  about  him  as  her  husband  too,  and  thinking  of 
herself  in  connexion  with  him,  as  she  used  to  be  and  not 
^  she  was  now,  talked  of  their  meeting  in  another  world 


as  if  he  were  dead  but  yesterday,  and  she,  separated 
from  her  former  self,  were  thinking  of  the  happiness  of 
that  comely  girl  who  seemed  to  have  died  with  him. 

The  child  left  her  gathering  the  flowers  that  grew 
upon  the  grave,  and  thoughtfully  retraced  her  steps. 

The  old  man  was  by  this  time  up  and  dressed.  Mr. 
Codlin,  still  doomed  to  contemplate  the  harsh  realities  of 
existence,  was  packing  among  the  linen  the  candle-ends 
which  had  been  saved  from  the  previous  night's  perform- 
ance ;  while  his  companion  received  the  compliments  of 
all  the  loungers  in  the  stable-yard,  who,  unable  to  separ- 
ate him  from  the  master-mind  of  Punch,  set  him  down 
as  next  in  inaportance  to  that  merry  outlaw,  and  loved 
him  scarcely  less.  When  he  had  sufficiently  acknowl- 
edged his  popularity  he  came  in  to  breakfast,  at  which 
meal  they  all  sat  down  together. 

"  And  where  are  you  going  to-day?"  said  the  little 
man,  addressing  himself  to  Nell. 

"  Indeed  I  hardly  know, — we  have  not  determined 
yet,"  replied  the  child. 

"  We're  going  on  to  the  races,"  said  the  little  man. 
"  If  that's  your  way  and  you  like  to  have  us  for  company 
let  us  travel  together.  If  you  prefer  going  alone,  only 
say  the  word  and  you'll  find  that  we  shan't  trouble 
you." 

"  We'll  go  with  you,"  said  the  old  man.  **  Nell, — 
with  them,  with  them." 

The  child  considered  for  a  moment,  and  reflecting  that 
she  must  shortly  beg,  and  could  scarcely  hope  to  do  so 
at  a  better  place  than  where  crowds  of  rich  ladies  and 
gentlemen  were  assembled  together  for  the  purposes  of 
enjoyment  and  festivity,  determined  to  accompany  these 
men  so  far.  She  therefore  thanked  the  little  man  for 
his  offer,  and  said,  glancing  timidly  towards  his  friend, 
that  if  there  was  no  objection  to  their  accompanying 
them  as  far  as  the  race  town — 

"  Objection  !  "  said  the  little  man.  "  Now  be  gracious 
for  once.  Tommy,  and  say  that  you'd  rather  they  went 
with  us.    I  know  you  would.    Be  gracious.  Tommy," 

"Trotters,"  said  Mr.  Codlin,  who  talked  very  slowly 
and  eat  very  greedily,  as  it  is  not  uncommon  with  phil- 
osophers and  misanthropes  ;  "  you're  too  free." 

*'  Why,  what  harm  can  it  do?  "  urged  the  other. 

"  No  harm  at  all  in  this  particular  case,  perhaps,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Codlin  ;  "  but  the  principle's  a  dangerous  one, 
and  you're  too  free  I  tell  you." 

"  Well,  are  they  to  go  with  us  or  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  are,"  said  Mr.  Codlin  ;  "  but  you  might 
have  made  a  favour  of  it,  mightn't  you  ?  " 

The  real  name  of  the  little  man  was  Harris,  but  it  had 
gradually  merged  into  the  less  euphonious  one  of  Trot- 
ters, which,  with  the  prefatory  adjective.  Short,  had  been 
conferred  upon  him  by  reason  of  the  small  size  of  his 
legs.  Short  Trotters,  however,  being  a  compound  name, 
inconvenient  of  use  in  friendly  dialogue,the  gentleman  on 
whom  it  had  been  bestowed  was  known  among  his  in- 
timates either  as  "  Short,"  or  "  Trotters,"  and  was  sel- 
dom accosted  at  full  length  as  Short  Trotters,  except  in 
formal  conversations  and  on  occasions  of  ceremony. 

Short,  then,  or  Trotters,  as  the  reader  pleases,  returned 
unto  the  remonstrance  of  his  friend  Mr,  Thomas  Codlin, 
a  jocose  answer  calculated  to  turn  aside  his  discon- 
tent ;  and  applying  himself  M'ith  great  relish  to  the  cold 
boiled  beef,  the  tea,  and  bread  and  butter,  strongly  im- 
pressed upon  his  companions  that  they  should  do  the 
like,  Mr.  Codlin  indeed  required  no  such  persuasion,  as 
he  had  already  eat  as  much  as  he  could  possibly  carry 
and  was  now  moistening  his  clay  with  strong  ale,  where- 
of he  took  deep  draughts  with  a  silent  relish  and  in- 
vited nobody  to  partake,— thus  again  strongly  Indicating 
his  misanthropical  turn  of  mind. 

Breakfast  being  at  length  over,  Mr.  Codlin  called  the 
bill,  and  charging  the  ale  to  the  company  generally  (a 
practice  also  savouring  of  misanthropy)  divided  the  sum 
total  into  two  fair  and  equal  parts,  assigning  one  moiety  to 
himself  and  friend,  and  the  other  to  Nelly  and  her  grand- 
father. These  being  duly  discharged  and  all  things 
ready  for  their  departure,  they  took  farewell  of  the  land- 
lord and  landlady  and  resumed  their  journey. 

And  here  Mr.  Codlin's  false  position  in  society  and  the 
effect  it  wrought  upon  his  wounded  spirit,  were 
strongly  illustrated  ;  for  whereas  he  had  been  last  night 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


721 


accosted  by  Mr.  Punch  as  "  master  "  and  had  by  infer- 
ence left  the  audience  to  understand  that  he  maintained 
that  individual  for  his  own  luxurious  entertainment  and 
delight,  here  he  was,  now,  painfully  walking  beneath 
the  burden  of  that  same  Punch's  temple,  and  bearing  it 
bodily  upon  his  shoulders  on  a  sultry  day  and  along 
a  dusty  road.  In  place  of  enlivening  his  ])atron  with  a 
constant  fire  of  wit  or  the  cheerful  rattle  of  his  quarter- 
staff  on  the  heads  of  his  relations  and  acquaintance, here 
was  that  beaming  Punch  utterly  devoid  of  spine,  all  slack 
and  drooping  in  a  dark  box,  with  his  legs  doubled  up 
round  his  neck,  and  not  one  of  his  social  qualities  re- 
maining. 

Mr.  Codlin  trudged  heavily  on,  exchanging  a  word  or 
two  at  intervals  with  Short,  and  stopping  to  rest  and 
growl  occasionally.  Short  led  the  way  ;  with  the  flat 
box,  the  private  luggage  (which  was  not  extensive)  tied 
up  in  a  bundle,  and  a  brazen-trumpet  slung  from  his 
shoulder-blade.  Nell  and  her  grandfather  walked  next 
him  on  either  hand,  and  Thomas  Codlin  brought  up  the 
rear. 

When  they  came  to  any  town  or  village,  or  even  to  a 
detached  house  of  good  appearance,  Short  blew  a  blast 
upon  the  brazen-trumpet  and  carolled  a  fragment  of  a 
song  in  that  hilarious  tone  common  to  Punches  and  their 
consorts.  If  people  hurried  to  the  windows,  Mr.  Codlin 
pitched  the  temple,  and  hastily  unfolding  the  drapery  and 
concealing  Short  therewith,  flourished  hysterically  on 
the  pipes  and  performed  an  air.  Then  the  entertainment 
began  as  soon  as  might  be  ;  Mr,  Codlin  having  the  respon- 
sibility of  deciding  on  its  length  and  protracting  or  ex- 
pediting the  time  of  the  hero's  final  triumph  over  the 
enemy  of  mankind,  according  as  he  judged  that  the  af- 
ter-crop of  halfpence  would  be  plentiful  or  scant.  When 
it  had  been  gathered  in  to  the  last  farthing,  he  resumed 
his  load  and  on  they  went  again. 

Sometimes  they  played  out  the  toll  across  the  bridge 
or  ferry,  and  once  exhibited  by  particular  desire  at  a  turn- 
pike, where  the  collector,  being  drunk  in  his  solitude, 
paid  down  a  shilling  to  have  it  to  himself.  There  was 
one  small  place  of  rich  promise  in  which  their  hopes 
were  blighted,  for  a  favourite  character  in  the  play  hav- 
ing gold-lace  upon  his  coat  and  being  a  meddling  wooden- 
headed  fellow^  was  held  to  be  a  libel  on  the  beadle,  for 
which  reason  the  authorities  enforced  a  quick  retreat  ; 
but  they  were  generally  well  received,  and  seldom  left  a 
town  without  a  troop  of  ragged  children  shouting  at 
their  heels. 

They  made  a  long  day's  journey,  despite  these  inter- 
ruptions, and  were  yet  xjqyon  the  road  when  the 
moon  was  shining  in  the  sky.  Short  beguiled  the  time 
with  songs  and  jests,  and  made  the  best  of  everything 
that  happened.  Mr.  Codlin  on  the  other  hand  cursed 
his  fate,  and  all  the  hollow  things  of  earth  (but  Punch 
especially),  and  limped  along  with  the  theatre  on  his 
back,  a  prey  to  the  bitterest  chagrin. 

They  had  stopped  to  rest  beneath  a  finger-post  where 
four  roads  met,  and  Mr.  Codlin  in  his  deep  misan- 
thropy had  let  down  the  drapery  and  seated  himself  in 
the  bottom  of  the  show,  invisible  to  mortal  eyes,  and 
disdainful  of  the  company  of  his  fellow-creatures,  when 
two  monstrous  shadows  were  seen  stalking  towards  them 
from  a  turning  in  the  road  by  which  they  had  come. 
The  child  was  at  first  quite  terrified  by  the  sight  of  these 
gaunt  giants — for  such  they  looked  as  they  advanced 
with  lofty  strides  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  trees — but 
Short,  telling  her  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  blew  a  blast 
upon  the  trumpet,  which  was  answered  by  a  cheerful 
shout. 

"It's  Grinder's  lot,  ain't  it?"  cried  Mr.  Short  in  a 
loud  key. 

"  Yes,"  replied  a  couple  of  shrill  voices. 

"  Come  on  tlien,"  said  Short.  "  Let's  have  a  look  at 
you.    I  thought  it  was  you." 

Thu.s  invited,  "Grinder's  lot"  approached  with  re- 
doubled speed  and  soon  came  up  with  the  little  party. 

Mr.  Grinder's  company,  familiarly  termed  a  lot,  con- 
sisted of  a  young  gentleman  and  a  young  lady  on  stilts, 
and  Mr.  Grinder  himself,  who  used  his  natural  legs  for 
pedestrian  purposes  and  carried  at  his  back  a  drum. 
The  public  costume  of  the  young  people  was  of  the  high- 
land kind,  but  the  night  being  damp  and  cold,  the  young 
Vol.  II.— 46 


gentleman  wore  over  his  kilt  a  man's  pea  jacket  reach- 
ing to  his  ankles,  and  a  glazed  hat  ;  the  young  lady  t(X) 
was  muffled  in  an  old  cloth  pelisse  and  a  handkerchief 
tied  about  her  head.  Their  Scotch  bonnets  ornamented 
with  plumes  of  jet  black  feathers,  Mr.  Grinder  carried 
on  his  instrument. 

"Bound  for  the  races,  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Grinder  com- 
ing up  out  of  breath.  "So  are  we.  How  are  you, 
Short  ?  "  With  that  they  shook  hands  in  a  very  friendly 
manner.  The  young  people  being  too  high  up  for  the  or- 
dinary salutations,  saluted  Short  after  their  own  fashion. 
The  young  gentleman  twisted  up  his  right  stilt  and  pat- 
ted him  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  young  lady  rattled  her 
tambourine. 

"  Practice  ?  "  said  Short,  pointing  to  the  stilts. 

"  No,"  returned  Grinder.  "  It  comes  either  to  walkin' 
in  *em  or  carryin'  of  'em,  and  they  like  walkin'  in  'em 
best.  It's  wery  pleasant  for  the  prospects.  Which  road 
are  you  takin'  ?    We  go  the  nighest." 

"Why,  the  fact  is,"  said  Short,  "that  we  are  going 
the  longest  way,  because  then  we  could  stop  for  the 
night,  a  mile  and  a  half  on.  But  three  or  four  mile 
gained  to-night  is  so  many  saved  to-morrow,  and  if  you 
keep  on,  I  think  our  best  way  is  to  do  the  same." 

"  Where's  your  partner?"  inquired  Grinder. 

"Here  he  is,"  cried  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  presenting 
his  head  and  face  in  the  proscenium  of  the  stage,  and 
exhibiting  an  expression  of  countenance  not  often  seen 
there  ;  "  and  he'll  see  Ms  partner  boiled  alive  before  he'll 
go  on  to-night.    That's  what  he  says." 

"Well,  don't  say  such  things  as  them,  in  a  spear 
which  isdewoted  to  something  pleasanter,"  urged  Short. 
"  Respect  associations.  Tommy,  even  if  you  do  cut  up 
rough." 

"  Rough  or  smooth,"  said  Mr.  Codlin, beating  his  hand 
on  the  little  footboard,  where  Punch,  when  suddenly 
struck  with  the  symmetry  of  his  legs  and  their  capacity 
for  silk  stockings,  is  accustomed  to  exhibit  them  to  popu- 
lar admiration,  "  rough  or  smooth,  I  won't  go  further 
than  a  mile  and  a  half  to-night.  I  put  up  at  the  Jolly  Sand- 
boys and  nowhere  else.  If  you  like  to  come  there,  come 
there.  If  you  like  to  go  on  by  yourself,  go  on  by  your- 
self, and  do  without  me  if  you  can." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Codlin  disappeared  from  the  scene,  and 
immediately  presenting  himself  outside  the  theatre,  took 
it  on  his  shoulders  at  a  jerk,  and  made  off  with  most  re- 
markable agility. 

Any  further  controversy  being  now  out  of  the  question. 
Short  was  fain  to  part  with  Mr.  Grinder  and  his  pupils 
and  to  follow  his  morose  companion.  After  lingering  at 
the  finger-post  for  a  few  minutes  to  see  the  stilts  frisk- 
ing away  in  the  moonlight  and  the  bearer  of  the  drum 
toiling  slowly  after  them,  he  blew  a  few  notes  upon 
the  trumpet  as  a  parting  salute,  and  hastened  with 
all  speed  to  follow  Mr.  Codlin.  With  this  view  he 
gave  his  unoccupied  hand  to  Nell,  and  bidding  her  be  of 
good  cheer  as  they  would  soon  be  at  the  end  of  their 
journey  for  that  night,  and  stimulating  the  old  man 
with  a  similar  assurance,  led  them  at  a  pretty  swift  pace 
towards  their  destination,  which  he  was  the  less  unwil- 
ling to  make  for,  as  the  moon  was  now  overcast  and  the 
clouds  were  threatening  rain. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  Jolly  Sandboys  was  a  small  road-side  inn  of  pretty 
ancient  date,  with  a  sign,  representing  three  Sandboys 
increasing  their  jollity  with  as  many  jugs  of  ale  and  bags 
of  gold,  creaking  and  swinging  on  its  post  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  road.  As  the  travellers  had  observed  that 
day  many  indications  of  their  drawing  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  race  town,  such  as  gipsey  camps,  carts  laden  with 
gambling  booths  and  their  appurtenances,  itinerant  show- 
men of  various  kinds,  and  beggars  and  trampers  of  every 
degree,  all  wending  their  way  in  the  same  direction,  Mr.. 
C!odlin  was  fearful  of  finding  the  accomTUodations  fore- 
stalled ;  this  fear  increasing  as  he  diminished  the  dis- 
tance between  himself  and  the  hostelry,  he  quickened 
his  pace,  and  notwithstanding  the  burden  he  had  to 
carry,  maintained  a  round  trot  until  he  reached  the 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


threshold.  Here  he  had  the  gratification  of  finding  that 
his  fears  were  without  foundation,  for  the  landlord  was 
leaning  against  the  door-post  looking  lazily  at  the  rain, 
which  had  by  this  time  begun  to  descend  heavily,  and  no 
tinkling  of  cracked  bell,  nor  boisterous  shout,  nor  noisy 
chorus,  gave  note  of  company  within, 

"  All  alone?"  said  Mr,  Codlin,  putting  down  his  bar- 
den  and  wiping  his  forehead. 

"  Alone  as  yet,"  rejoined  the  landlord,  glancing  at  the 
sky,  "  but  we  shall  have  more  company  to-night  I  expect. 
Here  one  of  you  boys,  carry  that  show  into  the  barn. 
Make  haste  in  out  of  the  wet,  Tom  ;  when  it  came  on  to 
rain,  I  told  'em  to  make  the  lire  up,  and  there's  a  glori- 
ous blaze  in  the  kitchen  I  can  tell  you." 

Mr.  Codlin  followed  with  a  willing  mind,  and  soon 
found  that  the  landlord  had  not  commended  his  prepar- 
ations without  good  reason.  A  mighty  fire  was  blazing 
on  the  hearth  and  roaring  up  the  wide  chimney  with  a 
cheerful  sound, which  a  large  iron  cauldron, bubbling  and 
simmering  in  the  heat,  lent  its  pleasant  aid  to  swell. 
There  was  a  deep  ruddy  blush  upon  the  room,  and  when 
the  landlord  stirred  the  fire,  sending  the  flames  skipping 
and  leaping  up — when  he  took  off  tlte  lid  of  the  iron  pot 
and  there  rushed  out  a  savoury  smell,  while  the  bubbling 
sound  grew  deeper  and  more  rich,  and  an  unctuous  steam 
came  floating  out,  hanging  in  a  delicious  mist  above 
their  heads — when  he  did  this,  Mr.  Codlin's  heart  was 
touched.    He  sat  down  in  the  chimney-corner  and  smiled. 

Mr.  Codlin  sat  smiling  in  the  chimney-corner,  eyeing 
the  landlord  as  with  a  roguish  look  he  held  the  cover  in 
his  hand,  and,  feigning  tliathis  doing  so  was  needful  to 
the  welfare  of  the  cookery,  suffered  the  delightful  steam 
to  tickle  the  nostrils  of  his  guest.  The  glow  of  the  fire 
was  upon  the  landlord's  bald  head,  and  upon  his  twink- 
ling eye,  and  upon  his  watering  mouth,  and  upon  his 
pimpled  face,  and  upon  his  round  fat  figure.  Mr.  Cod- 
lin drew  his  sleeve  across  his  lips,  and  said  in  a  mur- 
muring voice,  "  What  is  it  !  " 

"  It's  a  stew  of  tripe,"  said  the  landlord  smacking  his 
lips,  "and  cow-heel,"  smacking  them  again,  "and  ba- 
con," smacking  them  once  more,  '*  and  steak,"  smacking 
them  for  the  fourth  time,  "and  peas,  cauliflowers,  new 
potatoes,  and  sparrow  grass,  all  working  up  together  in 
one  delicious  gravy."  Having  come  to  the  climax,  he 
smacked  his  lips  a  great  many  times,  and  taking  a  long 
hearty  sniff  of  the  fragrance  thaL  was  hovering  about, 
put  on  the  cover  again  with  the  air  of  one  whose  toils  on 
earth  were  over. 

"  At  what  time  will  it  be  ready?"  asked  Mr.  Codlin 
faintly. 

"It'll  be  done  to  a  turn,"  said  the  landlord  looking  up 
at  the  clock — and  the  very  clock  had  a  colour  in  its  fat 
white  face,  and  looked  a  clock  for  Jolly  Sandboys  to 
con.sult — "  it'll  be  done  to  a  turn  at  twenty-two  minutes 
before  eleven." 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Codlin,  "  fetch  me  a  pint  of  warm 
ale,  and  don't  let  nobody  bring  into  the  room  even  so 
much  as  a  biscuit  till  the  time  arrives." 

Nodding  his  approval  of  this  decisive  and  manly  course 
of  procedure,  the  landlord  retired  to  draw  the  beer,  and 
presently  returning  with  it  applied  himself  to  warm  the 
same  in  a  small  tin  vessel  shaped  funnel-wise,  for  the 
convenience  of  sticking  it  far  down  in  the  fire  and  get- 
ting at  the  bright  places.  This  was  soon  done,  and  he 
handed  it  over  to  Mr.  Codlin  with  that  creamy  froth 
upon  the  surface  which  is  one  of  the  happy  circum- 
stances attendant  on  mulled  malt. 

Greatly  softened  by  this  soothing  beverage,  Mr.  Cod- 
lin now  bethought  him  of  his  companions,  and  acquaint- 
ed mine  host  of  the  Sandboys  that  their  arrival  might  be 
shortly  looked  for.  The  rain  was  rattling  against  the 
windows  and  pouring  down  in  torrents,  and  such  was 
Mr.  Codlin's  extreme  amiability  of  mind,  that  he  more 
than  once  expressed  his  earnest  hope  that  they  would 
not  be  so  foolish  as  to  get  wet. 

At  length  they  arrived,  drenched  with  the  rain  and 
presenting  a  most  miserable  appearance,  notwithstanding 
that  Short  had  sheltered  the  child  as  well  as  he  could 
under  the  skirts  of  his  own  coat,  and  they  were  nearly 
breathless  from  the  haste  they  had  made.  But  their 
steps  were  no  sooner  heard  upon  the  road  than  the  land- 
lord, who  had  been  at  the  outer  door  anxiously  watching 


for  their  coming,  rushed  into  the  kitchen  and  took  the 
cover  off.  The  effect  was  electrical.  They  all  came  in 
with  smiling  faces  though  the  wet  was  dripping  from 
their  clothes  upon  the  floor,  and  Short's  first  remark  was, 
"■  What  a  delicious  smell  !  " 

It  is  not  very  diflficult  to  forget  rain  and  mud  by  the 
side  of  a  cheerful  fire,  and  in  a  bright  room.  They  were 
furnished  with  slippers  and  such  dry  garments  as  the 
house  or  their  own  bundles  afforded,  and  ensconcing 
themselves  as  Mr.  Codlin  had  already  done,  in  the  warm 
chimney-corner,  soon  forgot  their  late  troubles  or  only 
remembered  them  as  enhancing  the  delights  of  the 
present  tijne.  Overpowered  by  the  warmth  and  comfort 
and  the  fatigue  they  had  undergone,  Nelly  and  the  old 
man  had  not  long  taken  their  seats  here  when  they  fell 
asleep. 

"  Who  are  they  ?"  whispered  the  landlord. 
Short  shook  his  head,  and  wished  he  knew  himself. 
"Don't  you  know?"  asked  the  host,  turning  to  Mr. 
Codlin. 

"Not I,"  he  replied.    "  They're  no  good,  I  suppose." 

"  They're  no  harm,"  said  Short.  "  Depend  upon  that. 
I  tell  you  what — it's  plain  that  the  old  man  an't  in  his 
right  mind — " 

"  If  you  haven't  got  anything  newer  than  that  to  say," 
growled  Mr.  Codlin,  glancing  at  the  clock,  "  you'd  better 
let  us  fix  our  minds  upon  the  supper,  and  not  disturb  us." 

"Hear  me  out,  won't  you?"  retorted  his  friend.  "It's 
very  plain  to  me,  besides,  that  they're  not  used  to  this 
way  of  life.  Don't  tell  me  that  that  handsome  child  has 
been  in  the  habit  of  prowling  about  as  she's  done  these 
last  two  or  three  days.    I  know  better." 

"  Well,  who  docs  tell  you  she  has  ?  "  growled  Mr.  Cod- 
lin, again  glancing  at  the  clock  and  from  it  to  the  caul- 
dron, "  can't  you  think  of  anything  more  suitable  to 
present  circumstances  than  saying  things  and  then  con- 
tradicting 'em  ?" 

"  I  wish  somebody  would  give  you  your  supper,"  re- 
turned Short,  "  for  there'll  be  no  peace  till  you've  got  it. 
Have  you  seen  how  anxious  the  old  man  is  to  get  on — 
alwa^'s  wanting  to  be  f urder  away — f urder  away.  Have 
you  seen  that  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  what  then  ?"  muttered  Thomas  Codlin. 

"  This,  then,"  said  Short.  "  He  has  given  his  friends 
the  slip.  Mind  what  I  say, — he  has  given  his  friends  the 
slip,  and  persuaded  this  delicate  young  creetur  all  along 
of  her  fondness  for  him  to  be  his  guide  and  travelling 
companion — where  to,  he  knows  no  more  than  the  man 
in  the  moon.    Now  I'm  not  a-going  to  stand  that." 

"  You're  not  a-going  to  stand  that  !"  cried  Mr,  Cod- 
lin, glancing  at  the  clock  again  and  pulling  his  hair  with 
both  hands  in  a  kind  of  frenzy,  but  whether  occasioned 
by  his  companion's  observation  or  the  tardy  pace  of 
Time,  it  was  difficult  to  determine.  "Here's  a  world  to 
live  in  !  " 

"  I,"  repeated  Short  emphatically  and  slowly,  "  am 
not  a-going  to  stand  it.  I  am  not  a-going  to  see  this 
fair  young  child  a  falling  into  bad  hands,  and  getting 
among  people  that  she's  no  more  fit  for,  than  they  are  to 
get  among  angels  as  their  ordinary  chums.  Therefore 
when  they  dewelope  an  intention  of  parting  company 
from  us,  I  shall  take  measures  for  detaining  of  'em,  and 
restoring  'em  to  their  friends,  who  I  dare  say  have  had 
their  disconsolation  pasted  up  on  every  wall  in  London 
by  this  time." 

"Short  !"  said  Mr.  Codlin,  who  with  his  head  upon 
his  hands  and  his  elbows  on  his  knees  had  been  shaking 
himself  impatiently  from  side  to  side  up  to  this  point 
and  occasionally  stamping  on  the  ground,  but  who  now 
looked  up  with  eager  eyes  ;  "it's  possible  that  there 
may  be  uncommon  good  sense  in  what  you've  said.  If 
there  is,  and  there  should  be  a  reward,  Short,  remember 
that  we're  partners  in  everything  !  " 

His  companion  had  only  time  to  nod  a  brief  assent  to 
this  position,  for  the  child  awoke  at  the  instant.  They 
had  drawn  close  together  during  the  previous  whisper- 
ing, and  now  hastily  separated  and  were  rather  awk- 
wardly endeavouring  to  exchange  some  casual  remarks 
in  their  usual  tone,  when  strange  footsteps  were  heard 
without,  and  fresh  company  entered. 

These  were  no  otlu^r  than  four  very  dismal  dogs,  who 
came  pattering  in  one  after  the  other,  headed  by  an  old 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


723 


bandy  dog  of  particularly  mournful  aspect,  who,  stop- 
ping when  the  last  of  his  followers  had  got  as  far  as  the 
door,  erected  himself  upon  his  hind  legs  and  looked 
round  at  his  companions,  who  immediately  stood  upon 
their  hiud  legs,  in  a  grave  and  melancholy  row.  Nor 
was  this  the  only  remarkable  circumstance  about  those 
dogs,  for  each  of  them  wore  a  kind  of  little  coat  of  some 
gaudy  colour  trimmed  with  tarnished  spangles,  and  one 
of  them  had  a  cap  upon  his  head,  tied  very  carefully 
under  his  chin,  which  had  fallen  down  upon  his  nose 
and  completely  obscured  one  eye  ;  add  to  this  that  the 
gaudy  coats  were  all  wet  through  and  discoloured  with 
rain,  and  that  the  wearers  were  splashed  and  dirty,  and 
some  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  unusual  appearance  of 
these  new  visitors  to  the  Jolly  Sandboys. 

Neither  Short  nor  the  landlord  nor  Thomas  Codlin, 
however,  were  the  least  surprised,  merely  remarking 
that  these  were  Jerry's  dogs  and  that  Jerry  could  not  be 
far  behind.  So  there  the  dogs  stood,  patiently  winking 
and  gaping  and  looking  extremely  hard  at  the  boiling 
pot,  until  Jerry  himself  appeared,  when  they  all  dropped 
down  at  once  and  walked  about  the  room  in  "their  natural 
manner.  This  posture,  it  must  be  confessed,  did  not 
much  improve  their  appearance,  as  their  own  personal 
tails  and  their  coat  tails— both  capital  things  in  their 
way — did  not  agree  together. 

Jerry,  the  manager  of  these  dancing  dogs,  was  a  tall 
black- whiskered  man  in  a  velveteen  coat,  who  seemed 
well  known  to  the  landlord  and  his  guests  and  accosted 
them  with  great  cordiality.  Disencumbering  himself  of 
a  barrel  organ  which  he  placed  upon  a  chair,  and  retain- 
ing in  his  hand  a  small  whip  wherewith  to  awe  his  com- 
pany of  comedians,  he  came  up  to  the  fire  to  dry  him- 
self, and  and  entered  into  conversation. 

'•Your  people  don't  usually  travel  in  character,  do 
they?"  said  Short,  pointing  to  the  dresses  of  the  dogs. 
"  It  must  come  expensive  if  they  do  ?  " 

"•No,"  replied  Jerry,  "no,  it's  not  the  custom  with 
us.  But  we've  been  playing  a  little  on  the  road  to-day, 
and  we  come  out  with  a  new  wardrobe  at  the  races,  so  I 
didn't  think  it  worth  while  to  stop  to  undress.  Down, 
Pedro  ! " 

This  was  addressed  to  the  dog  with  the  cap  on,  who 
being  a  new  member  of  the  company  and  not  quite  cer- 
tain of  his  duty,  kept  his  unobscured  eye  anxiously  on 
his  master,  and  was  perpetually  starting  upon  his  hind 
legs  when  there  was  no  occasion,  and  falling  down 
again. 

"  I've  got  a  animal  here,"  said  Jerry,  putting  his  hand 
into  the  capacious  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  diving  into 
one  corner  as  if  he  were  feeling  for  a  small  orange  or  an 
apple  or  some  such  article,  "  a  animal  here,  wot  I  think 
you  know  something  of.  Short  !  " 

"  Ah  ! "  cried  Short,  "  let's  have  a  look  at  him." 

"Here  he  is,"  said  Jerry,  producing  a  little  terrier 
from  liis  pocket.  "  He  was  once  a  Toby  of  yours,  warn't 
he  ?  " 

In  some  versions  of  the  great  drama  of  Punch  there  is 
a  small  dog — a  modern  innovation — supposed  to  be  the 
private  property  of  that  gentleman,  whose  name  is  al- 
ways Toby.    This  Toby  has  been  stolen  in  youth  from 
another  gentleman,  and  fraudulently  sold  to  the  confid- 
ing hero,  who  having  no  guile  himself  has  no  suspicion 
that  it  lurks  in  others  ;  but  Toby,  entertaining  a  grateful 
recollection  of  his  old  master,  and  scorning  to  attach 
j  •  himself  to  any  new  patrons,  not  only  refuses  to  smoke  a 
j    pipe  at  the  bidding  of  Punch,  but  to  mark  his  old  fideli- 
!i    ty  more  strongly,  seizes  him  by  the  nose  and  wrings  the 
same  with  violence,  at  which  instance  of  canine  attach- 
ment the  spectators  are  deeply  affected.    This  was  the 
S    character  which  the  little  terrier  in  question  had  once 
)   sustained  ;  if  there  had  been  any  doubt  upon  the  sub- 
j   ject  he  would  speedily  have  resolved  it  by  his  conduct ; 
I   for  not  only  did  he,  on  seeing  Short,  give  the  strongest 
s   tokens  of  recognition,  but  catching  sight  of  the  flat-box 
he  barked  so  furiously  at  the  pasteboard  nose  which  he 
knew  was  inside,  that  his  master  was  obliged  to  gather 
him  up  and  put  him  into  his  pocket  again,  to  the  great 
relief  of  the  whole  company. 

Tlic  landlord  now  busied  himself  in  laying  the  cloth 
in  which  process  Mr.  Codlin  obligingly  assisted  by  set- 
tmg  forth  his  own  knife  and  fork  in  the  most  convenient 


place  and  estaT)lishing  himself  behind  them.  When 
everything  was  ready,  the  landlord  took  off  the  cover 
for  the  last  time,  and  then  indeed  there  burst  forth  such 
a  goodly  promise  of  supper,  that  if  he  had  offered  to  put 
it  on  again  or  had  hinted  at  postponement,  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  sacrificed  on  his  own  hearth. 

However,  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  but  instead 
thereof  assisted  a  stout  serving  girl  in  turning  the  con- 
tents of  the  cauldron  into  a  large  tureen  ;  a  proceeding 
which  the  dogs,  proof  against  various  hot  splashes  which 
fell  upon  their  noses,  watched  with  terrible  eagerness. 
At  length  the  dish  was  lifted  on  the  table,  and  mugs  of 
ale  having  been  previously  set  round,  little  Nell  ventured 
to  say  grace,  and  supper  began. 

At  this  juncture  the  poor  dogs  were  standing  on  their 
hind  legs  quite  surprisingly  ;  the  child,  having  pity  on 
them,  was  about  to  cast  some  morsels  of  food  to  them 
before  she  tasted  it  herself,  hungry  though  she  was, 
when  their  master  interposed. 

"  No  my  dear,  no,  not  an  atom  from  anybody's  hand 
but  mine  if  you  please.  That  dog,"  said  Jerry,  pointing 
out  the  old  leader  of  the  troop,  and  speaking  in  a  terrible 
voice,  "  lost  a  half -penny  to-day.  He  goes  without  his 
supper." 

The  unfortunate  creature  dropped  upon  his  fore-legs 
directly,  wagged  his  tail,  and  looked  imploringly  at  his 
master. 

"  You  must  be  more  careful,  sir,"  said  Jerry,  walking 
coolly  to  the  chair  where  he  had  placed  the  organ,  and 
setting  the  stop.  "  Come  here.  Now  sir,  you  play  away 
at  that,  while  we  have  supper,  and  leave  off  if  you  dare  !  " 

The  dog_  immediately  began  to  grind  mo&"t  mournful 
niusic.  His  master  having  shown  him  the  whip  resumed 
his  seat  and  called  up  the  others,  who,  at  his  directions, 
formed  in  a  row,  standing  upright  as  a  file  of  soldiers. 

"  Now  gentlemen,"  said  Jerry,  looking  at  them  atten- 
tively. "  The  dog  whose  name's  called,  eats.  The  dogs 
whose  names  an't  called,  keep  quiet.    Carlo  ! " 

The  lucky  individual  whose  name  was  called,  snapped 
up  the  morsel  thrown  towards  him,  but  none  of  the  others 
moved  a  muscle.  In  this  manner  they  were  fed  at  the 
discretion  of  their  master.  Meanwhile  the  dog  in  dis- 
grace ground  hard  at  the  organ,  sometimes  in  quick  time, 
sometimes  in  slow,  but  never  leaving  off  for  an  instant. 
When  the  knives  and  forks  rattled  very  much,  or  any 
of  his  fellows  got  an  unusually  large  piece  of  fat,  he  ac- 
companied the  music  with  a  short  howl,  but  he  imme- 
diately checked  it  on  his  master  looking  round,  and 
applied  himself  with  increased  diligence  to  the  Old 
Hundredth. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

SUPPEE  was  not  yet  over,  when  there  arrived  at  the 
Jolly  Sandboys  two  more  travellers  bound  for  the  same 
haven  as  the  rest,  who  had  been  walking  in  the  rain  for 
some  hours,  and  came  in  shining  and  heavy  with  water. 
One  of  these  was  the  proprietor  of  a  giant,  and  a  little 
lady  without  legs  or  arms,  who  had  jogged  forward  in  a 
van  ;  the  other,  a  silect  gentleman  who  earned  his  living 
by  showing  tricks  upon  the  cards,  and  who  had  rather 
deranged  the  expression  of  his  countenance  by  putting 
small  leaden  lozenges  into  his  eyes  and  bringing  them 
out  at  his  mouth,  which  was  one  of  his  nrofessional  ac- 
complishments. The  name  of  the  first  of  these  new- 
comers was  Vuflan  ;  the  other,  probably  as  a  pleasant 
satire  upon  his  ugliness,  was  called  Sweet  William.  To 
render  them  as  comfortable  as  he  could,  the  landlord 
bestirred  himself  nimbly,  and  in  a  very  short  time  both 
gentlemen  were  perfectly  at  their  ease.* 

"How's  the  Giant?"  said  Short,  when  they  all  sat 
smoking  round  the  fire. 

"Rather  weak  upon  his  legs,"  returned  Mr.  Vuffin. 
"  I  begin  to  be  afraid  he's  going  at  the  knees." 
"  That's  a  bad  look-out,"  said  Short. 
"Aye  !  Bad  indeed,"  replied  Mr,  Vuffin,  contemplat- 
ing the  fire  with  a  sigh.  "  Once  get  a  giant  shaky  on  his 
legs,  and  the  public  care  no  more  about  him  than  they  do 
for  a  dead  cabbage  stalk." 

"What  becomes  of  the  old  giants  ?"  said  Short,  turn- 
ing to  him  again  after  a  little  reflection. 


724 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


''They're  usually  kept  in  carawans  ta  wait  upon  the 
dwarfs,"  said  Mr.  Vutfin. 

"  The  maintaining  of  'em  must  come  expensive,  when 
they  can't  be  shown,  eh  ?  "  remarked  Short,  eyeing  him 
doubtfullv. 

"  It's  better  that,  than  Jetting  'em  go  upon  the  parish 
or  about  the  streets,"  said  Mr.  Vuffin.  ''Once  make  a 
giant  common  and  giants  will  never  draw  again.  Look 
at  wooden  legs.  If  there  was  only  one  man  with  a 
wooden  leg  what  a  property  lie'A  be  ! " 

"  So  he  would  ! "  observed  the  landlord  and  Short  both 
together.    ' '  That's  very  true. " 

"  Instead  of  which,"  pursued  Mr.  Vuffin,  "if  you  was 
to  advertise  Shakspeare  played  entirely  by  wooden  legs, 
it's  my  belief  you  wouldn't  draw  a  sixpence." 

"  I  "don't  suppose  you  would,"  said  Short.  And  the 
landlord  said  so  too. 

"This  shows,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Vuffin,  waving  his 
pipe  with  an  argumentative  air,  *'  this  shows  the  policy 
of  keeping  the  used-up  giants  still  in  the  carawans, 
where  they  get  food  and  lodging  for  nothing,  all  their 
lives,  and  in  general  very  glad  they  are  to  stop  there. 
There  was  one  giant — a  black  'un — as  left  his  carawan 
some  year  ago  and  took  to  carrying  coach-bills  about 
London,  making  himself  as  cheap  as  crossing-sweepers. 
He  died.  I  make  no  insinuation  against  anybody  in  par- 
ticular," said  Mr.  Vuffin  looking  solemnly  round,  "  but 
he  was  ruining  the  trade  ;— and  he  died." 

The  landlord  drew  his  breath  hard,  and  looked  at  the 
owner  of  the  dogs,  who  nodded  and  said  gruffly  that  he 
remembered. 

"  I  know  you  do,  Jerry,"  said  Mr.  Vuffin  with  profound 
meaning.  "  I  know  you  remember  it,  Jerry,  and  the 
universal  opinion  was,  that  it  served  him  right.  Why,  I 
remember  the  time  when  old  Maunders  as  had  three-and- 
twenty  wans — I  remember  the  time  when  old  Maunders 
had  in  his  cottage  in  Spa  Fields  in  the  winter  time  when 
the  season  was  over,  eight  male  and  female  dwarfs  set- 
ting down  to  dinner  every  day,  who  was  waited  on  by 
eight  old  giants  in  green  coat,  red  smalls,  blue  cotton 
stockings,  and  high-lows  ;  and  there  was  one  dwarf  as 
had  grown  elderly  and  wicious  who  whenever  his  giant 
wasn't  quick  enough  to  please  him,  used  to  stick  pins  in 
his  legs,  not  being  able  to  reach  up  any  higher.  I  know 
that's  a  fact,  for  Maunders  told  it  me  himself." 

"What  about  the  dwarfs,  when  they  get  old?"  in- 
quired the  landlord. 

"  The  older  a  dwarf  is,  the  better  worth  he  is,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Vuffin  ;  "  a  grey-headed  dwarf,  well  Avrink- 
led,  is  beyond  all  suspicion.  But  a  giant  weak  in  the 
legs  and  not  standing  upright  ! — keep  him  in  the  cara- 
wan, but  never  show  him,  never  show  him,  for  any  per- 
suasion that  can  be  offered." 

While  Mr.  Vuffin  and  his  two  friends  smoked  their 
pipes  and  beguiled  the  time  with  such  conversation  as 
this,  the  silent  gentleman  sat  in  a  warm  corner,  swallow- 
ing, or  seeming  to  swallov/,  sixpennyworth  of  halfpence 
for  practice,  balancing  a  feather  upon  liis  nose,  and  re- 
hearsing other  feats  of  dexterity  of  that  kind,  without 
paying  any  regard  whatever  to  the  company,  who  in 
their  turn  left  him  utterly  unnoticed.  At  length  the 
weary  child  prevailed  upon  her  grandfather  to  retire, 
and  they  withdrew,  leaving  the  company  yet  seated 
round  the  fire,  and  the  dogs  fast  asleep  at  a  humble  dis- 
tance. 

After  bidding  the  old  man  good  night,  Nell  retired  to 
her  poor  garret,  but  had  scarcely  closed  the  door,  when 
it  was  gently  tapped  at.  She  o]iened  it  directly,  and  was 
a  little  startled  by  the  sight  of  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  whom 
she  had  left,  to  all  appearance,  fa.st  asleep  down-stairs. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  said  the  child. 

"  Nothing's  the  matter,  my  dear,"  returned  her  visitor, 
"  I'm  your  friend.  Perhaps  you  haven't  thought  so,  but 
it's  me  that's  your  friend — not  him." 

"  Not  who  ?  "  the  child  inquired. 

"  Short,  my  dear.  I  tell  you  what,"  said  Codlin,  "  for 
all  his  having  a  kind  of  way  with  him  that  you'd  be  very 
apt  to  like,  I'm  the  real  open-hearted  man.  I  mayn't 
look  it,  but  I  am  indeed." 

The  child  began  to  be  alarmed,  considering  that  the 
ale  had  taken  effect  upon  Mr.  Codlin,  and  that  this  com- 
mendation of  himself  was  the  consequence,  I 


"  Short's  very  well  and  seems  kind,"  resumed  the  mis- 
anthrope, "  but  he  overdoes  it.    Now  I  don't." 

Certainly  if  there  were  any  fault  in  Mr.  Codlin's  usual 
deportment,  it  was  that  he  rather  underdid  his  kindne.ss 
to  those  about  him,  than  overdid  it.  But  the  child  was 
puzzled  and  could  not  tell  what  to  say. 

"  Take  my  advice,"  said  Codlin  ;  "don't  ask  me  why, 
but  take  it.  As  long  as  you  travel  with  us,  keep  as  near 
me  as  you  can.  Don't  offer  to  leave  us — not  on  any  ac- 
count— but  always  stick  to  me  and  say  that  I'm  your 
friend.  Will  you  bear  that  in  mind,  my  dear,  and  al- 
ways say  that  it  was  me  that  was  your  friend?" 

"Say  so  where, — and  when?*'  inquired  the  child 
innocently. 

"O,  nowhere  in  particular,"  replied  Codlin,  a  little 
put  out  as  it  seemed  by  the  question  ;  "I'm  only  anxious 
that  yon  should  think  me  so,  and  do  me  justice.  You 
can't  think  what  an  interest  I  have  in  you.  Why  didn't 
yon  tell  me  your  little  history — that  about  you  and  the 
poor  old  gentleman  ?  I'm  the  best  adviser  that  ever 
was,  and  so  interested  in  you — so  much  more  interested 
than  Short.  I  think  they're  breaking  up  down-stairs  ; 
you  needn't  tell  Short,  you  know,  that  we've  had  this 
little  talk  together.  God  bless  you.  Recollect  the 
friend.  Codlin's  the  friend,  not  Short.  Short's  very 
well  as  far  as  he  goes,  but  the  real  friend  is  Codlin — not 
Short." 

Eking  out  these  professions  with  a  number  of  benevo- 
lent and  protecting  looks  and  great  fervour  of  manner, 
Thomas  Codlin  stole  away  on  tiptoe,  leaving  the  child  in 
a  state  of  extreme  surprise.  She  was  still  ruminating 
upon  his  curious  behaviour,  when  the  floor  of  the  crazy 
stairs  and  landing  cracked  beneath  the  tread  of  the  other 
travellers,  who  were  passing  to  their  beds.  When  they 
had  all  passed,  and  the  sound  of  their  footsteps  had  died 
away,  one  of  them  returned,  and  after  a  little  hesitation 
and  rustling  in  the  passage,  as  if  he  were  doubtful  what 
door  to  knock  at,  knocked  at  hers, 

"  Yes?"  said  the  child  from  within. 

"It's  me — Short" — a  voice  called  through  the  key- 
hole. "  I  only  wanted  to  say  that  we  must  be  off  early 
to-morrow  morning  my  dear,  because  unless  we  get  the 
start  of  the  dogs  and  the  conjuror,  the  villages  won't  be 
worth  a  penny.  You'll  be  sure  to  be  stirring  early  and 
go  with  us?    I'll  call  you." 

The  child  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  returning 
his  "  good  night"  heard  him  creep  away.  She  felt  some 
uneasiness  at  the  anxiety  of  these  men,  increased  by  the 
recollection  of  their  whispering  together  down-stairs  and 
their  slight  confusion  when  she  awoke,  nor  was  she  quite 
free  from  a  misgiving  that  they  were  not  the  fittest  com- 
panions she  could  have  stumbled  on.  Her  uneasiness, 
however,  was  nothing,  weighed  against  her  fatigue  ;  and 
she  soon  forgot  it  in  sleep. 

Very  early  next  morning.  Short  fulfilled  his  promise, 
and  knocking  softly  at  her  door  entreated  that  she  would 
get  up  directly,  as  the  proprietor  of  the  dogs  was  still 
snoring,  and  if  they  lost  no  time  they  might  get  a  good 
deal  in  advance  both  of  him  and  the  conjuror,  who  was 
talking  in  his  sleep,  and  from  what  he  could  be  heard  to 
say,  appeared  to  be  balancing  a  donkey  in  his  dreams. 
She  started  from  her  bed  without  delay,  and  roused  the 
old  man  with  so  much  expedition  that  they  were  both 
ready  as  soon  as  Short  himself,  to  that  gentleman's  un- 
speakable gratification  and  relief. 

After  a  very  unceremonious  and  scrambling  breakfast 
of  which  the  staple  commodities  were  bacon  and  bread, 
and  beer,  they  took  leave  of  the  landlord  and  issued  from 
the  door  of  the  Jolly  Sandboys.  The  morning  was  fine 
and  warm,  the  ground  cool  to  the  feet  after  the  late  rain, 
the  hedges  gayer  and  more  green,  the  air  clear,  and 
everything  fresh  and  healthful.  Surrounded  by  these 
influences,  they  walked  on  pleasantly  enough. 

They  had  not  gone  very  far,  when  the  child  was  again 
struck  by  the  altered  behaviour  of  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin, 
who  instead  of  plodding  on  sulkily  by  himself  as  he  had 
theretofore  done,  kept  close  to  her,  and  when  he  had  an 
opportunity  of  looking  at  her  imseen  by  his  companion, 
warned  her  by  certain  wry  faces  and  jerks  of  the  head 
not  to  put  any  trust  in  Short,  but  to  reserve  all  con- 
fidences for  Codlin.  Neither  did  he  confine  himself  to 
looks  and  gestures,  for  when  she  and  her  grandfather 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


725 


were  walking-  on  beside  the  aforesaid  Short,  and  that 
little  man  was  talking  with  his  accustomed  cheerfulness 
on  a  variety  of  indifferent  subjects,  Thomas  Codlin  tes- 
tified his  jealousy  and  distrust  by  following  close  at  her 
heels,  and  occasionally  admonishing  her  ancles  with 
the  legs  of  the  theatre  in  a  very  abrupt  and  painful 
manner. 

All  these  proceedings  naturally  made  the  child  more 
watchful  and  suspicious,  and  she  soon  observed  that 
whenever  they  halted  to  perform  outside  a  village  ale- 
house or  other  place,  Mr.  Codlin  while  he  went  through 
his  share  of  the  entertainments  kept  his  eye  steadily  up- 
on her  and  the  old  man,  or  with  a  show  of  great  friend- 
ship and  consideration  invited  the  latter  to  lean  upon 
his  arm,  and  so  held  him  tight  until  the  representation 
was  over  and  they  again  went  forward.  Even  Short 
seemed  to  change  in  this  respect,  and  to  mingle  with  his 
good-nature  somethiog  of  a  desire  to  keep  them  in  safe 
custody.  This  increased  the  child's  misgivings,  and 
made  her  yet  more  anxious  and  uneasy. 

Meanwhile  they  were  drawing  near  the  town  where 
the  races  were  to  begin  next  day  ;  for,  from  passing  nu- 
merous groups  of  gipsies  and  trampers  on  the  road, 
wending  their  way  towards  it,  and  straggling  out  from 
every  by-way  and  cross-country  lane,  they  gradually  fell 
into  a  stream  of  people,  some  walking  by  the  side  of  cov- 
ered carts,  others  with  horses,  others  with  donkeys, 
others  toiling  on  with  heavy  loads  upon  their  backs,  but 
all  tending  to  the  same  point.  The  public-houses  by  the 
way-side,  from  being  empty  and  noiseless  as  those  in  the 
remoter  parts  had  been,  now  sent  out  boisterous  shouts 
and  clouds  of  smoke  ;  and,  from  the  misty  windows, 
clusters  of  broad  red  faces  looked  down  upon  the  road. 
On  every  piece  of  waste  or  common  ground,  some  small 
gambler  drove  his  noisy  trade,  and  bellowed  to  the  idle 
passers-by  to  stop  and  try  their  chance  ;  the  crowd  grew 
thicker  and  more  noisy  ;  gilt  gingerbread  in  blanket- 
stalls  exposed  its  glories  to  the  dust ;  and  often  a  four- 
horse  carriage,  dashing  by,  obscured  all  objects  in  the 
gritty  cloud  it  raised,  and  left  them,  stunned  and  blinded, 
far  behind. 

It  was  dark  before  they  reached  the  town  itself,  and 
long  indeed  the  few  last  miles  had  been.  Here  all  was 
tumult  and  confusion ;  the  streets  were  filled  with 
throngs  of  people — many  strangers  were  there,  it  seemed, 
by  the  looks  they  cast  about — the  church-bells  rang  out 
their  noisy  peals,  and  flags  streamed  from  windows  and 
housetops.  In  the  large  inn- yards  waiters  flitted  to  and 
fro  and  ran  against  each  other,  horses  clattered  on  the 
uneven  stones,  carriage  steps  fell  rattling  down,  and 
sickening  smells  from  many  dinners  came  in  a  heavy 
lukewarm  breath  upon  the  sense.  In  the  smaller  public- 
houses,  fiddles  with  all  their  might  and  main  were 
squeaking  out  the  tune  to  staggering  feet ;  drunken  men, 
oblivious  of  the  burden  of  their  song,  joined  in  a  sense- 
less howl,  which  drowned  the  tinkling  of  the  feeble  bell 
and  made  them  savage  for  their  drink  ;  vagabond  groups 
assembled  round  the  doors  to  see  the  stroller  woman 
dance,  and  add  their  uproar  to  the  shrill  flageolet  and 
deafening  drum. 

Through  this  delirious  scene,  the  child,  frightened 
and  repelled  by  all  she  saw,  led  on  her  bewildered 
charge,  clinging  close  to  her  conductor,  and  trembling 
lest  in  the  press  she  should  be  separated  from  him  and 
left  to  find  her  way  alone.  Quickening  their  steps  to 
get  clear  of  all  the  roar  and  riot,  they  at  length  passed 
through  the  town,  and  made  for  the  race-course,  which 
was  upon  an  open  heath,  situated  on  an  eminence,  a  full 
mile  distant  from  its  furthest  bounds. 

Although  there  were  many  ])eople  here,  none  of  the 
best  favoured  or  best  clad,  busily  erecting  tents  and 
driving  stakes  into  the  ground,  and  hurrying  to  and  fro 
with  dusty  feet  and  many  a  grumbled  oath — although 
there  were  tired  children  cradled  on  heaps  of  straw  be- 
tween the  wheels  of  carts,  crying  themselves  to  sleep — 
and  poor  lean  horses  and  donkeys  just  turned  loose, 
grazing  among  the  men  and  women,  and  pots  and  ket- 
tles, and  half-lighted  fires,  and  ends  of  candles  flaring 
and  wasting  in  the  air — for  all  this,  the  child  felt  it  an 
escape  from  the  town,  and  drew  her  breath  more  freely. 
After  a  scantv  supper,  the  purchase  of  which  reduced 
her  little  stock:  so  low,  that  she  had  only  a  few  halfpence 


with  which  to  buy  a  breakfast  on  the  morrow,  she  and 
the  old  man  lay  down  to  rest  in  a  corner  of  a  tent,  and 
slept,  despite  the  busy  preparations  that  were  going  on 
around  them  all  night  long. 

And  now  they  had  come  to  the  time  when  they  must 
beg  their  bread.  Soon  after  sunrise  in  the  morning  she 
stole  out  from  the  tent,  and  rambling  into  some  fields  at 
a  short  distance,  plucked  a  few  wild  roses  and  such 
humble  flowers,  purposing  to  make  them  into  little  nose- 
gays and  offer  them  to  the  ladies  in  the  carriages  when 
the  company  arrived.  Her  thoughts  were  not  idle  while 
she  was  thus  employed  ;  when  she  returned  and  was 
seated  beside  the  old  man  in  one  corner  of  the  tent, 
tying  her  flowers  together,  while  the  two  men  lay  dozing 
in  another  corner,  she  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve,  and 
slightly  glancing  towards  them,  said  in  a  low  voice — 

"  Grandfather,  don't  look  at  those  I  talk  of,  and  don't 
seem  as  if  I  spoke  of  anything  but  what  I  am  about. 
What  was  that,  you  told  me  before  we  left  the  old 
house  ?  That  if  they  knew  what  we  were  going  to  do, 
they  would  say  that  you  were  mad,  and  part  us?" 

The  old  man  turned  to  her  with  an  aspect  of  wild  ter- 
ror ;  but  she  checked  him  by  a  look,  and  bidding  him 
hold  some  flowers,  while  she  tied  them  up,  and  so  bring- 
ing her  lips  closer  to  his  ear,  said — 

I  know  that  was  what  you  told  me.  You  needn't 
speak,  dear.  I  recollect  it  very  well.  It  was  not  likely 
that  I  should  forget  it.  Grandfather,  these  men  sus- 
pect that  we  have  secretly  left  our  friends,  and  mean  to 
carry  us  before  some  gentleman  and  have  us  taken  care 
of  and  sent  back.  If  you  let  your  hand  tremble  so,  we 
can  never  get  away  from  them,  but  if  you're  only  quiet 
now,  we  shall  do  so  easily." 

"  How  ?  "  muttered  the  old  man.  "  Dear  Nelly,  how  ? 
They  will  shut  me  up  in  a  stone  room,  dark  and  cold, 
and  chain  me  up  to  the  wall,  Nell — flog  me  with  whips, 
and  never  let  me  see  thee  more  ! " 

"You're  trembling  again,"  said  the  child.  "Keep 
close  to  me  all  day.  Never  mind  them,  don't  look  at 
them  but  me.  I  shall  find  a  time  when  we  can  steal 
away.  When  I  do,  mind  you  come  wdth  me,  and  do  not 
stop  or  speak  a  word.    Hush  !    That's  all." 

"Halloa!  what  are  yen  up  to,  my  dear?"  said  Mr. 
Codlin,  raising  his  head,  and  yawning.  Then  observing 
that  his  companion  was  fast  asleep,  he  added  in  an 
earnest  whisper,  "  Codlin's  the  friend,  remember — not 
Short." 

"Making  some  nosegays,"  the  child  replied;  "lam 
going  to  try  and  sell  some,  these  three  days  of  the  races. 
Will  you  have  one — as  a  present  I  mean  ?  " 

Mr.  Codlin  would  have  risen  to  receive  it,  but  the 
child  hurried  towards  him  and  placed  it  in  his  hand. 
He  stuck  it  in  his  button-hole  with  an  air  of  ineffable 
complacency  for  a  misanthrope,  and  leering  exultiugly 
at  the  unconscious  Short,  muttered,  as  he  laid  himself 
down  again,  "Tom  Codlin's  the  friend  by  G —  !" 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  the  tents  assumed  a  gayer 
and  more  brilliant  appearance,  and  long  lines  of  carriages 
came  rollhig  softly  on  the  turf.  Men  who  had  lounged 
about  all  night  in  smock-frocks  and  leather  leggings, 
came  out  in  silken  vests  and  hats  and  plumes,  as  jug- 
glers or  mountebanks ;  or  in  gorgeous  liveries  as  soft- 
spoken  servants  at  gambling  booths  ;  or  in  sturdy  yeoman 
dress  as  decoys  at  unlawful  games.  Black-eyed  gipsey 
girls,  hooded  in  showy  handkerchiefs,  sallied  forth  to  tell 
fortunes,  and  pale  slender  women  with  consumptive 
faces  lingered  upon  the  footsteps  of  ventriloquists  and 
conjurors,  and  counted  the  sixpences  with  anxious  eyes 
long  before  they  were  gained.  As  many  of  the  children 
as  could  be  kept  within  bounds,  were  stowed  away,  with 
all  the  other  signs  of  dirt  and  poverty,  among  the  don- 
keys, carts,  and  horses  ;  and  as  many  as  could  not  be 
thus  disposed  of  ran  in  and  out  in  all  intricate  spots, 
crept  between  people's  legs  and  carriage  wheels,  and 
came  forth  unharmed  from  under  horses'  hoofs.  The 
dancing-dogs,  the  stilts,  the  little  lady  and  the  tall  man, 
and  all  the  other  attractions, with  organs  out  of  number  and 
bands  innumerable,  emerged  from  the  holes  and  corners 
in  which  they  had  passed  the  night,  and  flourished 
boldly  in  the  sun. 

Along  the  uncleared  course,  Short  led  his  party,  sound- 
ing the  brazen  trumpet  and  revelling  in  the  voice  of 


736 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Piincli  ;  and  at  his  lieels  went  Thomas  Codlin,  bearing 
the  show  as  usual,  and  keeping  his  eye  on  Nelly  and  her 
grandfather,  as  they  rather  lingered  in  the  rear.  The 
child  bore  upon  her  arm  the  little  basket  with  her 
flowers,  and  sometimes  stopped,  with  timid  and  modest 
looks,  to  offer  them  at  some  gay  carriage;  but  alas! 
there  were  many  bolder  beggars  there,  gipsies  who  prom- 
ised husbands,  and  other  adepts  in  their  trade,  and  al- 
though some  ladies  smiled  gently  as  they  shook  their 
heads,  and  others  cried  to  the  gentlemen  beside  them 
"  See,  what  a  pretty  face  !"  they  let  the  pretty  face  pass 
on,  and  never  thought  that  it  looked  tired  or  hungry. 

There  was  but  one  lady  who  seemed  to  understand  the 
child,  and  she  was  one  who  sat  alone  in  a  handsome 
carriage,  while  two  young  men  in  dashing  clothes,  who 
had  just  dismounted  from  it,  talked  and  laughed  loudly 
at  a  little  distance,  appearing  to  forget  her,  quite. 
There  were  many  ladies  all  around,  but  they  turned 
their  backs,  or  looked  another  way,  or  at  the  two  young 
men  (not  unfavourably  at  them),  and  left  her  to  herself. 
She  motioned  away  a  gipsey- woman  urgent  to  tell  her 
fortune,  saying  that  it  was  told  already  and  had  been 
for  some  years,  but  called  the  child  towards  her,  and 
taking  her  flowers  put  money  into  her  trembling  hand, 
and  bade  her  go  home  and  keep  at  home  for  God's  sake. 

Many  a  time  they  went  up  and  down  those  long  long 
lines,  seeing  everything  but  the  horses  and  the  race  ; 
when  the  bell  rung  to  clear  the  course,  going  back  to  rest 
among  the  carts  and  donkeys,  and  not  coming  out  again 
until  the  heat  was  over.  Many  a  time,  too,  was  Punch 
displayed  in  the  full  zenith  of  his  humour,  but  all  this 
while  the  eye  of  Thomas  Codlin  was  upon  them,  and  to 
escape  without  notice  was  impracticable. 

At  length,  late  in  the  day,  Mr.  Codlin  pitched  the 
show  in  a  convenient  spot,  and  the  spectators  were  soon 
in  the  very  triumph  of  the  scene.  The  child,  sitting 
down  with  the  old  man  close  behind  it,  had  been  think- 
ing how  strange  it  was  that  horses  who  were  such  fine 
honest  creatures  should  seem  to  make  vagabonds  of  all 
the  men  they  drew  about  them,  when  a  loud  laugh  at 
some  extemporaneous  witticism  of  Mr.  Short's,  having 
allusion  to  the  circumstances  of  the  day,  roused  her  from 
her  meditation  and  caused  her  to  look  around. 

If  they  were  ever  to  get  away  unseen,  that  was  the 
very  moment.  Short  was  plying  the  quarter-stave  vigor- 
ously and  knocking  the  characters  in  the  fury  of  the 
combat  against  the  sides  of  the  show,  the  people  were 
looking  on  with  laughing  faces,  and  Mr.  Codlin  had  re- 
laxed into  a  grim  smile  as  his  roving  eye  detected  hands 
going  into  waistcoat  pockets  and  groping  secretly  for 
sixpences.  If  they  were  ever  to  get  away  unseen,  that 
was  the  very  moment.    They  seized  it  and  fled. 

They  made  a  path  through  booths  and  carriages  and 
throngs  of  people  and  never  once  stopped  to  look  behind. 
The  bell  was  ringing  and  the  course  was  cleared  by  the 
time  they  reached  the  ropes,  but  they  dashed  across  it 
insensible  to  the  shouts  and  screeching  that  assailed 
them  for  breaking  in  upon  its  sanctity,  and  creeping 
under  the  brow  of  the  hill  at  a  quick  pace,  matie  for  the 
open  fields. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Day  after  day  as  he  bent  his  steps  homeward,  return- 
ing from  some  new  effort  to  procure  employment.  Kit 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  window  of  the  little  room  he  had 
so  much  commended  to  the  child,  and  hoped  to  see  some 
indication  of  her  presence.  His  own  earnest  wish, 
coupled  with  the  assurance  he  had  received  from  Quilp, 
filled  him  with  the  belief  that  she  would  yet  arrive  to 
claim  the  humble  shelter  he  had  offered,  and  from  the 
death  of  each  day's  hope,  another  hope  sprung  up  to  live 
to-morrow. 

"  I  think  they  must  certainly  come  to-morrow,  eh, 
mother?"  said  Kit,  laying  aside  his  hat  with  aweary 
air  and  sighing  as  he  spoke.  "  They  have  been  gone  a 
week.  They  surely  couldn't  stop  away  more  than  a 
week,  could  they  now  ?" 

The  mother  shook  her  head,  and  reminded  him  how 
often  he  had  been  diKap])ointed  already. 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,"  said  Kit,  "  you  speak  true 


and  sensible  enough,  as  you  always  do,  mother.  Still  I 
do  consider  that  a  week  is  quite  long  enough  for  'em  to 
be  rambling  about ;  don't  you  say  so?" 

"Quite  long  enough.  Kit,  longer  than  enough,  but 
they  may  not  come  back  for  all  that." 

Kit  was  for  a  moment  disposed  to  be  vexed  by  this 
contradiction,  and  not  the  less  so  from  having  anticipated 
it  in  his  own  mind  and  knowing  how  just  it  was.  But 
the  impulse  was  only  momentary,  and  the  vexed  look 
became  a  kind  one  before  it  had  crossed  the  room. 

"Then  what  do  you  think,  mother,  has  become  of 
'em  ?    You  don't  think  they've  gone  to  sea,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Not  gone  for  sailors,  certainly,"  returned  the  mother 
with  a  smile.  "But  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  they 
have  gone  to  some  foreign  country." 

"  I  say,"  cried  Kit  with  a  rueful  face,  "  don't  talk  like 
that,  mother." 

"  I  am  afraid  they  have,  and  that's  the  truth,  she  said. 
"  It's  the  talk  of  all  the  neighbours,  and  there  are  some 
even  that  know  of  their  having  been  seen  on  board  ship, 
and  can  tell  you  the  name  of  the  place  they've  gone  to, 
which  is  more  than  I  can,  my  dear,  for  it's  a  very  hard 
one." 

"I  don't  believe  it,  said  Kit.  "  Not  a  word  of  it.  A 
set  of  idle  chatterboxes,  how  should  they  know  ! " 

"  They  may  be  wrong  of  course,"  returned  the  mother. 
"  I  can't  tell  about  that,  though  I  don't  think  it's  at  all 
unlikely  that  they're  in  the  right,  for  the  talk  is  that  the 
old  gentleman  had  put  by  a  little  money  that  nobody 
knew  of,  not  even  that  ugly  little  man  you  talk  to  me 
about — what's  his  name — Quilp  ;  and  that  he  and  Miss 
Nell  have  gone  to  live  abroad  where  it  can't  be  taken 
from  them,  and  they  will  never  be  disturbed.  That 
don't  seem  very  far  out  of  the  way  now,  do  it?  " 

Kit  scratched  his  head  mournfully,  in  reluctant  ad- 
mission that  it  did  not,  and  clambering  up  to  the  old 
nail  took  down  the  cage  and  set  himself  to  clean  it  and 
to  feed  the  bird.  His  thoughts  reverting  from  this  occu- 
pation to  the  little  old  gentleman  who  had  given  him  the 
shilling,  he  suddenly  recollected  that  that  was  the  very 
day — nay,  nearly  the  very  hour — at  which  the  little  old 
gentleman  had  said  he  should  be  at  the  Notary's  house 
again.  He  no  sooner  remembered  this,  than  he  hungup 
the  cage  with  great  precipitation,  and  hastily  explaining 
the  nature  of  his  errand,  went  off  at  full  speed  to  the 
appointed  place. 

It  was  some  two  minutes  after  the  time  when  he 
reached  the  spot,  which  was  a  considerable  distance 
from  his  home,  but  by  great  good  luck  the  little  old  gen- 
tleman had  not  yet  arrived  ;  at  least  there  was  no  pony- 
chaise  to  be  seen,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  he  had 
come  and  gone  again  in  short  a  space.  Greatly  relieved 
to  find  that  he  was  not  too  late.  Kit  leant  against  a  lamp- 
post to  take  breath,  and  waited  the  advent  of  the  pony 
and  his  charge. 

Sure  enough,  before  long  the  pony  came  trotting  round 
the  corner  of  the  street,  looking  as  obstinate  as  pony 
might,  and  picking  his  steps  as  if  he  were  spying  about 
for  the  cleanest  places,  and  wou.ld  by  no  means  dirty  his 
feet  or  hurry  himself  inconveniently.  Behind  the  pony 
sat  the  little  old  gentleman,  and  by  the  old  gentleman's 
side  sat  the  little  old  lady,  carrying  just  such  a  nosegay 
as  she  had  brought  before. 

The  old  gentleman,  the  old  lady,  the  pony,  and  the 
chaise,  came  up  the  street  in  perfect  unanimity,  until 
they  arrived  within  some  half  a  dozen  doors  of  the  No- 
tary's house,  when  the  pony,  deceived  by  a  brass  plate 
beneath  a  tailor's  knocker,  came  to  a  halt,  and  main- 
tained by  a  sturdy  silence  that  that  was  the  house  they 
wanted. 

"  Now,  sir,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  go  on  ;  this 
is  not  the  place,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

The  pony  looked  with  great  attention  into  a  fire-plug 
which  was  near  him,  and  appeared  to  be  quite  absorbed 
in  contemplating  it. 

"  Oh  dear,  such  a  naughty  Whisker  !"  cried  the  old 
lady,  "  After  being  so  good  too,  and  coming  along  so 
well  !  I  am  quite  ashamed  of  him.  I  don't  know  what 
we  are  to  do  with  him,  I  really  don't." 

The  pony  having  thoroughly  satisfied  himself  as  to 
the  nature  and  properties  of  the  fire-plug,  looked  into 
the  air  after  his  old  enemies  the  flics,  and  as  there  hap- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


727 


pened  to  be  one  of  them  tickling  liis  oar  at  that  moment 
he  shook  his  head  and  whisJced  his  tail,  after  which  ho 
appeared  full  of  thought  but  quite  comfortable  and 
collected.  The  old  gentleman  having  exhausted  his 
powers  of  persuasion,  alighted  to  lead  him  ;  whereupon 
the  pony,  perhaps  because  he  held  this  to  be  a  sufficient 
concession,  perhaps  because  he  happened  to  catch  sight 
of  the  other  brass-plate,  or  perhaps  because  he  was  in  a 
spiteful  humour,  darted  off  with  the  old  lady  and  stoi)ped 
at  the  right  house,  leaving  the  old  gentleman  to  come 
panting  on  behind. 

It  was  then  that  Kit  presented  himself  at  the  pony's 
head,  and  touched  his  hat  with  a  smile. 

"Why,  bless  me,"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  "  the  lad 
is  here  !    My  dear,  do  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  said  I'd  be  here,  sir,"  said  Kit,  patting  Whisker's 
neck.  "  I  hope  you've  had  a  pleasant  ride,  sir.  He's  a 
very  nice  little  pony." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  This  is  an  un- 
common lad  ;  a  good  lad,  I'm  sure." 

"  I'm  sure  he  is,"  rejoined  the  old  lady.  "  A  very 
good  lad,  and  I  am  sure  he  is  a  good  son. 

Kit  acknowledged  these  expressions  of  confidence  by 
touching  his  hat  again  and  blushing  very  much.  The 
old  gentleman  then  handed  the  old  lady  out,  and  after 
looking  at  him  with  an  approving  smile,  they  went  into 
the  house — talking  about  him  as  they  went.  Kit  could 
not  help  feeling.  Presently  Mr.  Witherden,  smelling 
very  hard  at  the  nosegay,  came  to  the  window  and  looked 
at  him,  and  after  that  Mr.  Abel  came  and  looked  at  him, 
and  after  that  the  old  gentleman  and  ladj  came  and 
looked  at  him  again,  and  after  that  they  all  came  and 
looked  at  him  together,  which  Kit,  feeling  very  much 
embarrassed  by,  made  a  pretence  of  not  observing. 
Therefore  he  patted  the  pony  more  and  more  ;  and  this 
liberty  the  pony  most  handsomely  permitted. 

The  faces  had  not  disappeared  from  the  window  many 
moments  when  Mr.  Chuckster  in  his  official  coat  and 
with  his  hat  hanging  on  his  head  just  as  it  happened  to 
fall  from  its  peg,  appeared  upon  the  pavement,  and  tell- 
ing him  he  was  wanted  inside,  bade  him  go  in  and  he 
would  mind  the  chaise  the  while.  In  giving  him  this 
direction  Mr.  Chuckster  remarked  that  lie  wished  that 
he  might  be  blessed  if  he  could  make  out  whether  he 
(Kit)  was  "  precious  raw  "  or  "precious  deep,"  but  in- 
timated by  a  distrustful  shake  of  the  head  that  he  inclin- 
ed to  the  latter  opinion. 

Kit  entered  the  office  in  a  great  tremour,  for  he  was 
not  used  to  going  among  strange  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
and  the  tin  boxes  and  bundles  of  dusty  papers  had  in 
his  eyes  an  awful  and  venerable  air.  tMr.  Witherden 
too  was  a  bustling  gentleman  who  talked  loud  and  fast, 
and  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  he  was  very  shabby. 

"  Well  boy," said  Mr.  Witherden,  "you  came  to  work 
out  that  shilling  ; — not  to  get  another,  hey  ?  " 

"  No  indeed,  sir,"  replied  Kit,  taking  courage  to  look 
up.    "  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Father  alive  ?  "  said  the  Notary. 

"  Dead  sir." 

"Mother?" 

"  Yes  sir." 

"  Married  again — eh  ?  " 

Kit  made  answer,  not  without  some  indignation,  that 
she  was  a  widow  with  three  children,  and  that  as  to  her 
marrying  again,  if  the  gentleman  knew  her  he  wouldn't 
think  of  such  a  thing.  At  this  reply  Mr.  Witherden 
buried  his  nose  in  the  flowers  again,  and  whispered 
behind  the  nosegay  to  the  old  gentleman  that  he  believed 
the  lad  was  as  honest  a  lad  as  need  be. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Garland  when  they  had  made  some 
further  inquiries  of  him,  "  I  am  not  going  to  give  you 
anything — " 

"  Thank  you  sir,"  Kit  replied  ;  and  quite  seriously  too, 
for  this  announcement  seemed  to  free  him  from  the 
suspicion  which  the  Notary  had  hinted. 

" — But,"  resumed  the  old  gentleman,  "perhaps  I  may 
want  to  know  something  more  about  you,  so  tell  me 
where  you  live,  and  I'll  put  it  down  in  my  pocket- 
book." 

Kit  told  him,  and  the  old  gentleman  wrote  down  the 
address  with  his  pencil.  He  had  scarcely  done  so,  when 
there  was  a  great  uproar  in  the  street,  and  the  old  lady 


hurrying  to  the  window  cried  that  Whisker  had  run 
away,  upon  which  Kit  darted  out  to  the  rescue,  and  the 
others  followed. 

It  seemed  that  Mr.  Chuckster  had  been  standing  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  looking  carelessly  at  the  pony, 
and  occasionally  insulting  him  with  such  admonitions  as 
"  Stand  still," — "  Be  quiet," — "  Woa-a-a,"  and  the  like, 
which  by  a  pony  of  spirit  cannot  be  borne.  Consequent- 
ly, the  pony  being  deterred  by  no  considerations  of  duty 
or  obedience,  and  not  having  before  him  the  slightest 
fear  of  the  human  eye,  had  at  length  started  off,  and 
was  at  that  moment  rattling  down  the  street, — Mr. 
Chuckster,  with  his  hat  off  and  a  x>en  behind  his  ear, 
hanging  on  in  the  rear  of  the  chaise,  and  making  futile 
attempts  to  draw  it  the  other  way,  to  the  unspeakable 
admiration  of  all  beholders.  Even  in  running  away, 
however.  Whisker  was  perverse,  for  he  had  not  gone 
very  far  when  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  before  assist- 
ance could  be  rendered,  commenced  backing  at  nearly  as 
quick  a  pace  as  he  had  gone  forward.  By  these  means 
Mr.  Chuckster  was  pushed  and  hustled  to  the  office  again, 
in  a  most  inglorious  manner,  and  arrived  in  a  state  of 
great  exhaustion  and  discomfiture. 

The  old  lady  then  stepped  into  her  seat,  and  Mr.  Abel 
(whom  they  had  come  to  fetch)  into  his.  The  old  gen- 
tleman, after  reasoning  with  the  pony  on  the  extreme 
impropriety  of  his  conduct,  and  making  the  best  amends 
in  his  power  to  Mr.  Chuckster,  took  his  place  also,  and 
they  drove  away,  waving  a  farewell  to  the  Notary  and 
his  clerk,  and  more  than  once  turning  to  nod  kindly  to 
Kit  as  he  watched  them  from  the  road. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Kit  turned  away  and  very  soon  forgot  the  pony,  and 
the  chaise,  and  the  little  old  lady,  and  the  little  old 
gentleman,  and  the  little  young  gentleman  to  boot,  in 
thinking  what  could  have  become  of  his  late  master  and 
his  lovely  grandchild,  who  were  the  fountain-head  of  all 
his  meditations.  Still  casting  about  for  some  plausible 
means  of  accounting  for  their  non-appearance,  and  of 
persuading  himself  that  they  must  soon  return,  he  bent 
his  steps  towards  home,  intending  to  finish  the  task 
which  the  sudden  recollection  of  his  contract  had  inter- 
rupted, and  then  to  sally  forth  once  more  to  seek  his 
fortune  for  the  day. 

When  he  came  to  the  corner  of  the  court  in  which  he 
lived,  lo  and  behold  there  was  the  pony  again  !  Yes, 
there  he  was,  looking  more  obstinate  than  ever ;  and, 
alone  in  the  chaise,  keeping  a  steady  watch  upon  his 
every  wink,  sat  Mr.  Abel,  who,  lifting  up  his  eyes  by 
chance  and  seeing  Kit  pass  by,  nodded  to  him  as  though 
he  would  have  nodded  his  head  off. 

Kit  wondered  to  see  the  pony  again,  so  near  his  own 
home  too,  but  it  never  occurred  to  him  for  what  pui-pose 
the  pony  might  have  come  there,  or  where  the  old  lady 
and  the  old  gentleman  had  gone,  until  he  lifted  the  latch 
of  the  door,  and  walking  in,  found  them  seated  in  the 
room  in  conversation  with  his  mother,  at  which  unex- 
pected sight  he  pulled  off  his  hat  and  made  his  best  bow 
in  some  confusion. 

"We  are  here  before  you,  you  see,  Christopher,"  said 
Mr.  Garland  smiling. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Kit  ;  and  as  he  said  it,  he  looked  to- 
wards his  mother  for  an  explanation  of  the  visit. 

"  The  gentleman's  been  kind  enough,  my  dear,"  said 
she,  in  reply  to  this  mute  interrogation,  "to  ask  me 
whether  you  were  in  a  good  place,  or  in  any  place  at  all, 
and  when  I  told  him  no,  you  were  not  in  any,  he  was  so 
good  as  to  say  that — " 

"  That  we  wanted  a  good  lad  in  our  house,"  said  the 
old  gentleman  and  the  old  lady  both  together,  "  and  that 
perhaps  we  might  think  of  it, 'if  we  found  everything  as 
we  would  wish  it  to  be. " 

As  this  thinking  of  it,  plainly  meant  the  thinking  of 
engaging  Kit,  he  immediately  partook  of  his  mother's 
anxiety  and  fell  into  a  great  flutter  ;  for  the  little  old 
couple  were  very  methodical  and  cautious,  and  asked  so 
many  questions  that  he  began  to  be  afraid  there  was  no 
chance  of  his  success. 


728 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"You  see,  my  good  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Garland  to 
Kit's  mother,  "  that  it's  necessary  to  be  very  careful  and 
particular  in  such  a  matter  as  this,  for  we're  only  three 
in  family,  and  are  very  quiet  regular  folks,  and  it  would 
be  a  sad  thing  if  we  made  any  kind  of  mistake,  and 
found  things  different  from  what  we  hoped  and  ex- 
pected." 

To  this.  Kit's  mother  replied,  that  certainly  it  was 
quite  true,  and  quite  right,  and  quite  proper,  and  Heav- 
en forbid  that  she  should  shrink,  or  have  cause  to  shrink, 
from  any  inquiry  into  her  character  or  that  of  her  son, 
who  was  a  very  good  son  though  she  was  his  mother,  in 
which  respect,  she  was  bold  to  say,  he  took  after  his  fa- 
ther, who  was  not  only  a  good  son  to  his  mother,  but  the 
best  of  husbands  and  the  best  of  fathers  besides,  which 
Kit  could  and  would  corroborate  she  knew,  and  so  would 
little  Jacob  and  the  baby  likewise  if  they  were  old 
enough,  which  unfortunately  they  were  not,  though  as 
they  didn't  know  what  a  loss  they  had  had,  perhaps  it 
was  a  great  deal  better  that  they  should  be  as  young  as 
they  were  ;  and  so  Kit's  mother  wound  up  a  long  story 
by  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  apron,  and  patting  little 
Jacob's  head,  who  was  rocking  the  cradle  and  staring 
with  all  his  might  at  the  strange  lady  and  gentleman. 

When  Kit's  mother  had  done  speaking  the  old  lady  struck 
in  again,  and  said  that  she  was  quite  sure  she  was  a  very 
honest  and  very  respectable  person  or  she  never  would 
have  expressed  herself  in  that  manner,  and  that  certainly 
the  appearance  of  the  children  and  the  cleanliness  of  the 
house  deserved  great  praise  and  did  her  the  utmost  credit, 
whereat  Kit's  mother  dropped  a  curtsey  and  became  con- 
soled. Then  the  good  woman  entered  into  a  long  and 
minute  account  of  Kit's  life  and  history  from  the  earliest 
period  down  to  that  time,  not  omitting  to  make  mention 
of  his  miraculous  fall  out  of  a  back-parlour  window 
when  an  infant  of  tender  years,  or  his  uncommon  suffer- 
ings in  a  state  of  measles  which  were  illustrated  by  cor- 
rect imitations  of  the  plaintive  manner  in  wiiich  he  called 
for  toast  and  water,  day  and  night,  and  said  "  don't  cry, 
mother,  I  shall  soon  be  better  ; "  for  proof  of  which 
statements  reference  was  made  to  Mrs.  Green,  lodger,  at 
the  cheesemonger's  round  the  corner,  and  divers  other 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  various  parts  of  England  and 
Wales  (and  one  Mr.  Brown  who  was  supposed  to  be  then 
a  corporal  in  the  East  Indies,  and  who  could  of  course  be 
found  with  very  little  trouble  ),  within  whose  personal 
knowledge  the  circumstances  had  occurred.  This  narra- 
tion ended,  Mr.  Garland  put  some  questions  to  Kit  re- 
specting his  qualifications,  and  general  acquirements, 
while  Mrs.  Garland  noticed  the  children,  and  hearing 
from  Kit's  mother  certain  remarkable  circumstances 
which  had  attended  the  birth  of  each,  related  certain 
other  remarkable  circumstances  which  had  attended  the 
birth  of  her  own  son,  Mr.  Abel,  from  which  it  appeared 
that  both  Kit's  mother  and  herself  had  been,  above  and 
beyond  all  other  women  of  what  condition  or  age  soever, 
peculiarly  hemmed  in  with  perils  and  dangers.  Lastly, 
inquiry  was  made  into  the  nature  and  extent  of  Kit's 
wardrobe,  and  a  small  advance  being  made  to  improve 
the  same,  he  was  formally  hired  at  an  annual  income  of 
Six  Pounds,  over  and  above  his  board  and  lodging,  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland,  of  Abel  Cottage,  Finchley. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  party  was  most 
pleased  with  this  arrangement,  the  conclusion  of  which 
was  hailed  with  nothing  but  pleasant  looks  and  cheerful 
smiles  on  both  sides.  It  was  settled  that  Kit  should  re- 
pair to  his  new  abode  on  the  next  day  but  one,  in  the 
morning  ;  and  finally,  the  little  old  couple,  after  be- 
stowing a  bright  half-crown  on  little  Jacob  and  another 
on  the  baby,  took  their  leaves  ;  being  escorted  as  far  as 
as  the  street  by  their  new  attendant,  who  held  the  ob- 
durate pony  by  the  bridle  while  they  took  their  seats, 
and  saw  them  drive  away  with  a  lightened  heart. 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  Kit,  hurrying  back  into  the 
house,  "  I  think  my  fortune's  about  made  now." 

"I  should  think  it  was  indeed.  Kit,'*  rejoined  his 
mother.    "  Six  pound  a  year  !    Only  think  1 " 

**  Ah  1 "  said  Kit,  trying  to  maintain  the  gravity  which 
the  consideration  of  such  a  sum  demanded,  but  grinning 
with  delight  in  spite  of  himself.    "  There's  a  property  1 " 

Kit  drew  a  long  breath  when  he  had  said  this,  and 
putting  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets  as  if  there  were 


one  year's  wages  at  least  in  each,  looked  at  his  mother, 
as  though  he  saw  through  her,  and  down  an  immense 
perspective  of  sovereigns  beyond. 

"  Please  God  we'll  make  such  a  lady  of  you  for  Sun- 
days, mother  !  such  a  scholar  of  Jacob,  such  a  child  of 
the  baby,  such  a  room  of  the  one  up-stairs  !  Six  pound 
a  year  ! " 

"Hem!"  croaked  a  strange  voice.  "What's  that 
about  six  pounds  a  year?  What  about  six  pounds  a 
year  ! "  And  as  the  voice  made  this  inquiry,  Daniel 
Quilp  walked  in  with  Richard  Swiveller  at  his  heels. 

"  Who  said  he  was  to  have  six  pound  a  year?"  said 
Quilp,  looking  sharply  around.  "  Did  the  old  man  say 
it,  or  did  little  Nell  say  it  ?  And  what's  he  to  have  it 
for,  and  where  are  they,  eh  !  " 

The  good  woman  was  so  much  alarmed  by  the  sudden 
apparition  of  this  unknown  piece  of  ugliness,  that  she 
hastily  caught  the  baby  from  its  cradle  and  retreated  in- 
to the  furthest  corner  of  the  room  ;  while  little  Jacob, 
sitting  upon  his  stool  with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  look- 
ed full  at  him  in  a  species  of  fascination,  roaring  lustily 
all  the  time.  Richard  Swiveller  took  an  easy  observa- 
tion of  the  family  over  Mr.  Quilp's  head,  and  Quilp 
himself  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  smiled  in  an  ex- 
quisite enjoyment  of  the  commotion  he  occasioned. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  mistress,"  said  Quilp  after  a 
pause.  "  Your  son  knows  me  ;  I  don't  eat  babies  ;  I 
don't  like  'em.  It  will  be  as  well  to  stop  that  young 
screamer  though,  in  case  I  should  be  tempted  to  do  him 
a  mischief.    Halloa,  sir  !    Will  you  bo  quiet?" 

Little  Jacob  stemmed  the  course  of  two  tears  which  he 
was  squeezing  out  of  his  eyes,  and  instantly  subsided 
into  a  silent  horror. 

"  Mind  you  don't  break  out  again,  you  villain,"  said 
Quilp,  looking  sternly  at  him,  "or  I'll  make  faces  at  you 
and  throw  you  into  fits,  I  will.  Now,  you  sir,  why 
haven't  you  been  to  me  as  you  promised?" 

"  What  should  I  come  for  ?  "  retorted  Kit.  "  I  hadn't 
any  business  with  you,  no  more  than  you  had  with  me." 

"Here,  mistress,"  said  Quilp,  turning  quickly  away, 
and  appealing  from  Kit  to  his  mother.  "  When  did  his 
old  master  come  or  send  here  last  ?  Is  he  here  now?  If 
not,  Where's  he  gone  ?  " 

"  He  has  not  been  here  at  all,"  she  replied.  "I  wish 
we  knew  where  they  have  gone,  for  it  would  make  my 
son  a  good  deal  easier  in  his  mind,  and  me  too.  If  you're 
the  gentleman  named  Mr.  Quilp,  I  should  have  thought 
vou'd  have  known,  and  so  I  told  him  onlv  this  very 
day." 

"Humph!"  muttered  Quilp,  evidently  disappointed 
to  believe  that  *this  was  true.  "  That's  what  you  tell 
this  gentleman  too,  is  it  ?  " 

"  If  the  gentleman  comes  to  ask  the  same  question,  I 
can't  tell  him  anything  else,  sir  ;  and  I  only  wish  I  could, 
for  our  own  sakes,"  was  the  reply. 

Quilp  glanced  at  Richard  Swiveller,  and  observed  that 
having  met  him  on  the  threshold,  he  assumed  that  he 
had  come  in  search  of  some  intelligence  of  the  fugitives. 
He  supposed  he  was  right. 

•'Yes,"  said  Dick,  "that  was  the  object  of  thepresent 
expedition.  I  fancied  it  possible — but  let  us  go  ring 
fancy's  knell.    I'll  begin  it." 

"You  seem  disappointed,"  observed  Quilp. 

"A  baffler,  sir,  a  baffler,  that's  all,"  returned  Dick. 
"  I  have  entered  upon  a  speculation  which  has  proved  a 
baffler  ;  and  a  Being  of  brightness  and  beauty  will  be 
offered  up  a  sacrifice  at  Cheggs's  altar.    That's  all  sir." 

The  dwarf  eyed  Richard  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  but 
Richard,  who  had  been  taking  a  rather  strong  lunch  with 
a  friend,  observed  him  not,  and  continued  to  deplore  his 
fate  with  mournful  and  despondent  looks.  Quilp  plain- 
ly discerned  that  there  was  some  secret  reason  for  this 
visit  and  his  uncommon  disappointment,  and,  in  the  hope 
there  might  be  means  of  mischief  lurking  beneath  it,  re- 
solved to  worm  it  out.  He  had  no  sooner  adopted  this  reso- 
lution, than  he  conveyed  as  much  honesty  into  his  face 
as  it  was  capable  of  expressing,  and  sympathised  with. 
Mr.  Swiveller  exceedingly. 

"  I'm  disappointed  myself,"  said  Quilp,  "  out  of  mere 
friendly  feeling  for  them  ;  but  you  have  real  reasons, 
private  reasons  I  have  no  doubt,  for  your  disappoint- 
ment, and  therefore  it  comes  heavier  than  mine." 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


"  Why,  of  course  it  does/*  Dick  observed,  testily. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I'm  very  sorry,  very  sorry.  I'm  rath- 
er cast  down  myself.  As  we  are  companions  in  adver- 
sity, shall  we  be  companions  In  the  surest  way  of 
forgetting  it  ?  If  you  had  no  particular  business,  now, 
to  lead  you  in  another  direction,"  urged  Quilp,  plucking 
hira  by  the  sleeve  and  looking  slyly  into  his  face  out  of 
the  corners  of  his  eyes,  "  there  is  a  house  by  the  water- 
side where  they  have  some  of  the  noblest  Schiedam — 
reputed  to  be  smuggled,  but  that's  between  ourselves — 
that  can  be  got  in  all  the  world.  The  landlord  knows 
me.  There's  a  little  summer-house  overlooking  the 
riv^er,  where  we  might  take  a  glass  of  this  delicious  liquor 
with  a  whifp  of  the  best  tobacco — it's  in  this  case,  and 
of  the  rarest  quality,  to  my  certain  knowledge — and  be 
perfectly  snug  and  happy,  could  we  possibly  contrive  it  ; 
or  is  there  any  very  particular  engagement  that  peremp- 
torily takes  you  another  way,  Mr.  Swiveller,  eh?" 

As  the  dwarf  spoke,  Dick's  face  relaxed  into  a  com- 
pliant smile,  and  his  eyebrows  slowly  unbent.  By  the 
time  he  had  finished,  Dick  was  looking  down  at  Quilp  in 
the  same  sly  manner  as  Quilp  was  looking  up  at  him, 
and  there  remained  nothing  more  to  be  done  but  to  set 
out  for  the  house  in  question.  This  they  did,  straight- 
way. The  moment  their  backs  were  turned,  little  Jacob 
thawed,  and  resumed  his  crying  from  the  point  where 
Quilp  had  frozen  him. 

The  summer-house  of  which  Mr.  Quilp  had  spoken, 
was  a  rugged  wooden  hox,  rotten  and  bare  to  see,  which 
overhung  the  river's  mud,  and  threatened  to  slide  down 
into  it.  The  tavern  to  which  it  belonged  was  a  crazy  build- 
ing, sapped  and  undermined  by  the  rats,  and  only  upheld 
by  great  bars  of  wood  which  were  reared  against  its  walls, 
and  had  propped  it  up  so  long  that  even  they  were  de- 
caying and  yielding  with  their  load,  and  of  a  windy  night 
might  be  heard  to  creak  and  crack  as  if  the  whole  fabric 
were  about  to  come  toppling  down.  The  house  stood — 
if  anything  so  old  and  feeble  could  be  said  to  stand — on 
a  piece  of  waste  ground,  blighted  with  the  unwhole- 
some smoke  of  factory  chimneys,  and  echoing  the  clank 
of  iron  wheels  and  rush  of  troubled  water.  Its  internal 
accommodations  amply  fulfilled  the  promise  of  the  out- 
side. The  rooms  were  low  and  and  damp,  the  clammy 
walls  were  pierced  with  chinks  and  holes,  the  rotten 
floors  had  sunk  from  their  level,  the  very  beams  started 
from  their  places  and  warned  the  timid  stranger  from 
their  neighbourhood. 

To  this  inviting  spot,  entreating  him  to  observe  its 
beauties  as  they  passed  along,  Mr,  Quilp  led  Richard 
Swiveller,  and  on  the  table  of  the  summer  house,  scored 
deep  with  many  a  gallows  and  initial  letter,  there  soon 
appeared  a  wooden  keg,  full  of  the  vaunted  liquor. 
Drawing  it  ofl  into  the  glasses  with  the  skill  of  a  prac- 
ticed hand,  and  mixing  it  with  about  a  third  part  of 
water,  Mr.  Quilp  assigned  to  Richard  Swiveller  his 
portion,  and  lighting  his  pipe  from  an  end  of  a  candle  in 
a  very  old  and  battered  lantern,  drew  himself  together 
upon  a  seat  and  puffed  away. 

"Is  it  good?"  said  Quilp,  as  Richard  Swiveller 
smacked  his  lips,  "  is  it  strong  and  fiery?  Does  it  make 
you  wink,  and  choak,  and  your  eyes  water,  and  your 
breath  come  short — does  it  ?  " 

"Does  it?"  cried  Dick,  throwing  away  part  of  the 
contents  of  his  glass,  and  filling  it  up  with  water,  "  why, 
man,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  drink  such  fire 
as  this?" 

"  No  !  "  rejoined  Quilp.  "  Not  drink  it !  Look  here. 
And  here.    And  here,  again.    Not  drink  it !  " 

As  he  spoke,  Daniel  Quilp  drew  off  and  drank  three 
small  glass-fulls  of  the  raw  spirit,  and  then  with  a  hor- 
rible grimace  took  a  great  many  pulls  at  his  pipe,  and 
swallowing  the  smoke,  discharged  it  in  a  heavy  cloud 
from  his  nose.  This  feat  accomplished  he  drew  himself 
together  in  his  former  position,  and  laughed  excessively. 

"Give  us  a  toast  1"  cried  Quilp,  rattling  on  the  table 
in  a  dexterous  manner  with  his  fist  and  elbow  alternate- 
ly, in  a  kind  of  tune,  "  a  woman,  a  beauty.    Let's  have 
a  beauty  for  our  toast  and  empty  our  glasses  to  the  last 
'  drop.    Her  name,  come  ! " 

"If  you  want  a  name,"  said  Dick,  "here's  Sophy 
1  Wackles." 

c     "  Sophy  Wackles,"  screamed  the  dwarf,  "  Miss  Sophy 


Wackles  that  is — Mrs.  Richard  Swiveller  that  shall  be— 
ha  ha  ha  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Dick,  "  you  might  have  said  that  a  few 
weeks  ago,  but  it  won't  do  now,  my  buck.  Immolating 
herself  upon  the  shrine  of  Cheggs — " 

"  Poison  Cheggs,  cut  Cheggs's  ears  off,"  rejoined 
Quilp.  "  I  won't  hear  of  Cheggs.  Her  name  is  Swivel- 
ler or  nothing.  I'll  drink  her  health  again,  and  her  fa- 
ther's and  her  mother's  ;  and  to  all  her  sisters  and  bro- 
thers—the glorious  family  of  the  Wackleses — all  the 
Wackle.ses  in  one  glass — down  with  it  to  the  dregs  !" 

"Well,"  said  Richard  Swiveller,  stopping  short  in 
the  act  of  raising  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  looking  at  the 
dwarf  in  a  species  of  stupor  as  he  flourished  his  arms  and 
legs  about ;  "  you're  a  jolly  fellow,  but  of  all  the  jolly 
fellows  I  ever  saw  or  heard  of,  you  have  the  queerest 
and  most  extraordinary  way  with  you,  upon  my  life  you 
have." 

This  candid  declaration  tended  rather  to  increase  than 
restrain  Mr.  Quilp's  eccentricities,  and  Richard  Swivel- 
ler, astonished  to  see  him  in  such  a  roy storing  vein,  and 
drinking  not  a  little  himself,  for  company, — began  im- 
perceptibly to  become  more  companionable  and  confid- 
ing, so  that  being  judiciously  led  on  by  Mr.  Quilp,  he 
grew  at  last  very  confiding  indeed.  Having  once  got 
him  into  this  mood,  and  knowing  now  the  key  note  to 
strike  whenever  he  was  at  a  loss,  Daniel  Quilp's  task 
was  compaiatively  an  easy  one,  and  he  was  soon  in  pos- 
session of  the  whole  details  of  the  scheme  contrived  be- 
tween the  easy  Dick  and  his  more  designing  friend. 

"Stop  !"  said  Quilp.  "That's  the  thing,  that's  the 
thing.  It  can  be  brought  about,  it  shall  be  brought 
about.  There's  my  hand  upon  it ;  I'm  your  friend  from 
this  minute." 

"  What  I  do  you  think  there's  still  a  chance?"  in- 
quired Dick,  in  surprise  at  this  encouragement. 

"  A  chance  I"  echoed  the  dwarf,  "  a  certainty  !  Sophy 
Wackles  may  become  a  Cheggs  or  anything  else  she 
likes,  but  not  a  Swiveller.  Oh  you  lucky  dog  !  He's 
richer  than  any  Jew  alive  ;  you're  a  made  man.  I  see 
in  you  now  nothing  but  Nelly's  husband,  rolling  in  gold 
and  silver.  I'll  help  you.  It  shall  be  done.  Mind  my 
words,  it  shall  be  done." 

"  But  how?"  said  Dick. 

"  There's  plenty  of  time,"  rejoined  the  dwarf,  "and 
it  shall  be  done.  We'll  sit  down  and  talk  it  over  again 
all  the  way  through.  Fill  your  glass  while  I  am  gone. 
I  shall  be  back  directly — directly." 

With  these  hasty  words,  Daniel  Quilp  withdrew  into 
a  dismantled  skittle-ground  behind  the  public-house, 
and,  throwing  himself  upon  the  ground  actually  screamed 
and  rolled  about  in  uncontrollable  delight. 

"  Here's  sport  !  "  he  cried,  "  sport  ready  to  my  hand, 
all  invented  and  arranged,  and  only  to  be  enjoyed.  It 
was  this  shallow-pated  fellow  who  made  my  bones  ache 
t'other  day,  was  it  ?  It  was  his  friend  and  fellow-plot- 
ter, Mr.  Trent,  that  once  made  eyes  at  Mrs.  Quilp,  and 
leered  and  looked,  was  it  ?  After  labouring  for  two  or 
three  years  in  their  precious  scheme,  to  find  that  they've 
got  a  beggar  at  last,  and  one  of  them  tied  for  life.  Ha 
ha  ha  !  He  shall  marry  Nell.  He  shall  have  her,  and 
I'll  be  the  first  man,  when  the  knot's  tied  hard  and  fast, 
to  tell  'em  what  they've  gained  and  what  I've  helped 
'em  to.  Here  will  be  a  clearing  of  old  scores,  here  will 
be  a  time  to  remind  'em  what  a  capital  friend  I  was 
and  how  I  helped  'em  to  the  heiress.    Ha  ha  ha  !  " 

In  the  height  of  his  ecstacy,  Mr.  Quilp  had  like  to 
have  met  with  a  disagreeable  check,  for  rolling  very 
near  a  broken  dog-kennel,  there  leapt  forth  a  large  fierce 
dog,  who,  but  that  his  chain  was  of  the  shortest,  would 
have  given  him  a  disagreeable  salute.  As  it  was,  the 
dwarf  remained  upon  his  back  in  perfect  safety,  taunting 
the  dog  with  hideous  faces,  and  triumphing  over  him 
in  his  inability  to  advance  another  inch,  though  there 
were  not  a  couple  of  feet  between  them. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  and  bite  me,  why  don't  you 
come  and  tear  me  to  pieces,  you  coward?"  said  Quilp, 
hissing,  and  worrying  the  animal  until  he  was  nearly 
mad.  "You're  afraid,  you  bully,  you're  afraid,  you 
know  you  are." 

The  dog  tore  and  strained  and  tore  at  his  chain  with 
starting  eyes  and  furious  bark,  but  there  the  dwarf  lay. 


730 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


snapping  his  fingers  with  gestures  of  defiance  and  con- 
tempt. When  he  had  sufficiently  recovered  from  his 
delight,  he  rose,  and  with  his  arms  a-kimbo,  achieved  a 
kind  of  demon-dance  round  the  kennel,  just  Avithout  the 
limits  of  the  chain,  driving  the  dog  quite  wild.  Having 
by  this  means  composed  his  spirits  and  put  himself  in  a 
pleasant  train,  he  returned  to  his  unsuspicious  compan- 
ion, whom  he  found  looking  at  the  tide  with  exceeding 
gravity,  and  thinking  of  that  same  gold  and  silver 
which  Mr.  Quilp  had  mentioned. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  remainder  of  that  day  and  the  whole  of  the 
next,  were  a  busy  time  for  the  Nubbles  family,  to  whom 
everything  connected  with  Kit's  outfit  and  departure 
was  matter  of  as  great  moment  as  if  he  had  been  about 
to  penetrate  into  the  interior  of  Africa,  or  to  take  a  cruise 
round  the  world.  It  would  be  difficult  to  suppose  that 
there  ever  was  a  box  which  was  opened  and  shut  so  many 
times  within  four-and-twenty  hours,  as  that  which  con- 
tained his  wardrobe  and  necessaries  ;  and  certainly  there 
never  was  one  which  to  two  small  eyes  presented  such  a 
mine  of  clothing,  as  this  mighty  chest  with  its  three 
shirts  and  proportionate  allowance  of  stockings  and 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  disclosed  to  the  astonished  vision 
of  little  Jacob.  At  last  it  was  conveyed  to  the  carrier's 
at  whose  house,  at  Finchley,  Kit  was  to  find  it  next  day  ; 
and  the  box  being  gone,  there  remained  but  two  ques- 
tions for  consideration  :  firstly,  whether  the  carrier  would 
lose,  or  dishonestly  feign  to  lose,  the  box  upon  the  road: 
and  secondly,  whether  Kit's  mother  perfectly  understood 
how  to  take  care  of  herself  in  the  absence  of  her  son. 

I  don't  think  there's  hardly  a  chance  of  his  really 
losing  it,  but  carriers  are  under  great  temptation  to 
pretend  they  lose  things,  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Nubbles 
apprehensively,  in  reference  to  the  first  point. 

'*  No  doubt  about  it,"  returned  Kit,  with  a  serious 
look  ;  "  upon  my  word  mother,  I  don't  think  it  was  right 
to  trust  it  to  itself.  Somebody  ought  to  have  gone  with 
it,  I'm  afraid." 

"  We  can't  help  it  now,"  said  his  mother  ;  "  but  it 
was  foolish  and  wrong.  People  oughtn't  to  be  tempt- 
ed." 

Kit  inwardly  resolved  that  he  would  never  tempt  a 
carrier  any  more,  save  with  an  empty  box  ;  and  having 
formed  this  christian  determination,  he  turned  his 
thoughts  to  the  second  question. 

"  You  know  you  must  keep  up  your  spirits  mother,  and 
not  be  lonesome  because  I'm  not  at  home.  I  shall  very 
often  be  able  to  look  in  when  I  come  into  town  I  dare 
say,  and  I  shall  send  you  a  letter  sometimes,  and  when 
the  quarter  comes  round,  I  can  get  a  holiday  of  course  ; 
and  then  see  if  we  don't  take  little  Jacob  to  the  play,  and 
let  him  know  what  oysters  means. " 

I  hope  plays  mayn't  be  sinful.  Kit,  but  I'm  a'most 
afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

"I  know  who  has  been  putting  that  in  your  head," 
rejoined  her  son  disconsolately;  "that's  Little  Bethel 
again.  Now  1  say,  mother,  pray  don't  take  to  going 
there  regularly,  for  if  I  was  to  see  your  good-humoured 
face  that  has  always  made  home  cheerful,  turned  into 
a  grievous  one,  and  the  baby  trained  to  look  grievous 
too,  and  to  call  itself  a  young  sinner  (bless  its  heart)  and 
a  child  of  the  devil  (which  is  calling  its  dead  father 
names) ;  if  I  was  to  see  this,  and  see  little  Jacob  looking 
grievous  likewise,  I  should  so  take  it  to  heart  that  I'm 
sure  I  should  go  and  list  for  a  soldier,  and  run  my  head 
on  purpose  against  the  first  cannon-ball  I  saw  coming 
my  way." 

Oh  Kit,  don't  talk  like  that." 

"  I  would  indeed,  mother,  and  unless  you  want  to 
make  me  feel  very  wretched  and  uncomfortable,  you'll 
keep  that  bow  on  your  bonnet,  which  you'd  more  than 
half  a  mind  to  pull  off  last  week.  Can  you  sup])ose 
there's  any  harm  in  looking  as  cheerful  and  being  as 
cheerful  as  our  poor  circumstances  will  permit  ?  Do  I 
see  anything  in  the  way  I'm  made,  which  calls  upon  me 
to.be  a  snivelling,  solemn,  whispering  chap,  sneaking 
about  as  if  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  expressing  myself  in  a 


most  unpleasant  snuffle  ?  On  the  contrairy,  don't  I  see 
every  reason  why  I  shouldn't  ?  Just  hear  this  !  Ha  ha 
ha  !  An't  that  as  nat'ral  as  walking,  and  as  good  for  the 
health?  Ha  ha  ha  !  An't  that  as  nat'ral  as  a  sheep's 
bleating,  or  a  pig's  grunting,  or  a  horse's  neighing,  or  a 
bird's  singing?    Ha  ha  ha  !    Isn't  it,  mother?  " 

There  was  something  contagious  in  Kit's  laugh,  for  his 
mother,  who  had  looked  grave  before,  first  subsided  into 
a  smile,  and  then  fell  to  joining  in  it  heartily,  which 
occasioned  Kit  to  say  that  he  knew  it  was  natural,  and 
to  laugh  the  more.  Kit  and  his  mother,  laughing  to- 
gether in  a  pretty  loud  key,  woke  the  baby,  who,  find- 
ing that  there  was  something  very  jovial  and  agreeable 
in  progress,  was  no  sooner  in  its  mother's  arms  than  it 
began  to  kick  and  laugh,  most  vigorously.  This  new 
illustration  of  his  argument  so  tickled  Kit,  that  he  fell 
backward  in  his  chair  in  a  state  of  exhaustion,  pointing 
at  the  baby  and  shaking  his  sides  till  he  rocked  again. 
After  recovering  twice  or  thrice,  and  as  often  relapsing, 
he  wiped  his  eyes  and  said  grace. ;  and  a  very  cheerful 
meal  their  scanty  supper  was. 

With  more  kisses,  and  hugs,  and  tears,  than  many 
young  gentlemen  who  start  upon  their  travels,  and  leave 
Avell-stocked  homes  behind  them,  would  deem  within 
the  bounds  of  probability  (if  matters  so  low  could  be 
herein  set  down).  Kit  left  the  house  at  an  early  hour 
next  morning,  and  set  out  to  walk  to  Finchley  ;  feeling, 
a  sufficient  pride  in  his  appearance  to  have  v/arranted 
his  excommunication  from  Little  Bethel  from  that  time 
forth,  if  he  had  ever  been  one  of  that  mournful  congre- 
gation. 

Lest  anybod}''  should  feel  a  curiosity  to  know  how  Kit 
was  clad,  it  may  be  briefly  remarked  that  he  wore  no 
livery,  but  was  dressed  in  a  coat  of  pepper-and-salt  with 
waistcoat  of  canary  colour,  and  nether  garments  of  iron 
grey  ;  besides  these  glories,  he  shone  in  the  lustre  of  a 
new  pair  of  boots  and  an  extremely  stiff  and  shiny  hat, 
which  on  being  struck  anywhere  Avith  the  knuckles- 
sounded  like  a  drum.  And  in  this  attire,  rather 
wondering  that  he  attracted  so  little  attention,  and  at- 
tributing the  circumstance  to  the  insensibility  of  those 
who  got  up  early,  he  made  his  way  towards  Abel  Cot- 
tage. 

Without  encountering  any  more  remarkable  adventure 
on  the  road,  than  meeting  a  lad  in  a  brimless  hat,  the 
exact  counterpart  of  his  old  one,  on  whom  he  bestowed 
half  the  sixpence  he  possessed.  Kit  arrived  in  course  of 
time  at  the  carrier's  house,  where,  to  the  lasting  honour 
of  human  nature,  he  found  the  box  in  safety.  Eeceiv- 
ing  from  the  wife  of  this  immaculate  man,  a  direction  to 
Mr.  Garland's,  he  took  the  box  upon  his  shoulder  and 
repaired  thither  directly. 

To  be  sure,  it  was  a  beautiful  little  cottage  with  a 
thatched  roof  and  little  spires  at  the  gable-ends,  and 
pieces  of  stained  glass  in  some  of  the  windows,  almost 
as  large  as  pocket-books.  On  one  side  of  the  house  was 
a  little  stable,  just  the  size- for  the  pony,  with  a  little 
room  over  it,  just  the  size  for  Kit.  White  curtains 
were  fluttering,  and  birds  in  cages  that  looked  as  bright 
as  if  they  were  made  of  gold,  w^ere  singing,  at  the  win- 
dows ;  plants  were  arranged  on  either  side  of  the  path, 
and  clustered  about  the  door ;  and  the  garden  was 
bright  with  flowers  in  full  bloom;  which  shed  a  sweet 
odour  all  round,  and  had  a  charming  and  elegant  ap- 
pearance. Everything,  within  the  house  and  without, 
seemed  to  be  the  perfection  of  neatness  and  order.  In 
the  garden  there  was  not  a  weed  to  be  seen,  and  to 
judge  from  some  dapper  gardening-tools,  a  basket,  and 
a  pair  of  gloves  which  were  lying  in  one  of  the  walks, 
old  Mr.  Garland  had  been  at  work  in  it  that  very  morn- 
ing. 

Kit  looked  about  him,  and  admired,  and  looked  again, 
and  this  a  great  many  times  before  he  could  make  up 
his  mind  to  turn  his  head  another  way  and  ring  the  bell. 
There  was  abundance  of  time  to  look  about  him  again 
though,  when  he  had  rung  it,  for  nobody  came,  so  after 
ringing  twice  or  thrice  he  sat  down  upon  his  box,  and 
waited. 

He  rung  the  bell  a  great  many  times,  and  yet  nobody 
came.  But  at  last,  as  he  was  sitting  upon  the  box 
thinking  about  giants'  castles,  and  princesses  tied  up^  to 
pegs  by  the  hair  of  their  heads,  and  dragons  bursting 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


"AND  THEN  THEY  WENT  ON  ARM-IN-ARM,  VERY  LOVINGLY  TOGETHER." 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


731 


out  from  behind  gates,  «md  other  incidents  of  the  like 
nature,  common  in  story-books  to  youths  of  low  degree 
on  their  first  visit  to  strange  liouse.s,  the  door  was 
gently  opened,  and  a  little  servant  girl,  very  tidy,  mod- 
est, and  demure,  but  very  pretty  too,  appeared. 

"  I  suppose  you're  Christopher,  sir,"  said  the  servant- 

Kit  got  off  the  box,  and  said  yes,  he  was. 

"  I'm  afraid  you've  rung  a  good  many  times,  perhaps, 
she  rejoined,  "but  we  couldn't  hear  you,  because  we've 
been  catching  the  pony." 

Kit  rather  wondered  what  this  meant  but  as  he  couldn't 
stop  there,  asking  questions,  he  shouldered  the  box 
again  and  followed  the  girl  into  the  hall,  wherethrough 
a  back-door  he  descried  Mr.  Garland  leading  Whisker  in 
triumph  up  the  garden,  after  that  self-willed  pony  had 
(as  he  afterwards  learned)  dodged  the  family  round  a 
small  paddock  in  the  rear,  for  one  hour  and  three  quar- 
tet's. 

_  The  old  gentleman  received  him  very  kindly  and  so 
did  the  old  lady,  whose  previous  good  opinion  of  him 
was  greatly  enhanced  by  his  wiping  his  boots  on  the  mat 
until  the  soles  of  his  feet  burnt  again  He  was  then 
taken  into  the  parlour  to  be  inspected  iu  his  new  clothes; 
and  when  he  had  been  surveyed  several  times,  and  had 
afforded  by  his  appearance  unlimited  satisfaction,  he  was 
taken  into  the  stable  (where  the  pony  received  him  with 
uncommon  complaisance);  and  thence  into  the  little  cham- 
ber he  had  already  observed,  which  was  very  clean  and 
comfortable  ;  and  thence  into  the  garden,  in  which  the  old 
gentleman  told  him  he  would  be  taught  to  employ  him- 
self, and  where  he  told  him,  besides,  what  great  things 
he  meant  to  do  to  make  him  comfortable,  and  happy,  if 
he  found  he  deserved  it.  All  these  kindnesses  Kit  ac- 
knowledged with  various  expressions  of  gratitude,  and 
so  many  touches  of  the  new  hat,  that  the  brim  suffered 
considerably.  When  the  old  gentleman  had  said  all  he 
had  to  say  in  that  way  of  promise  and  advice,  and  Kit 
had  said  all  he  had  to  say  in  the  way  of  assurance  and 
thankfulness,  he  was  handed  over  again  to  the  old  lady, 
who,  summoning  the  little  servant-girl  (whose  name  was 
Barbara),  instructed  her  to  take  him  down-stairs  and 
give  him  something  to  eat  and  drink,  after  his  walk. 

Down-stairs,  therefore.  Kit  went ;  and  at  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs  there  was  such  a  kitchen  as  was  never  be- 
fore seen  or  heard  of  out  of  a  toy-shop  window,  with 
everything  in  it  as  bright  and  glowing,  and  as  precisely 
ordered  too,  as  Barbara  herself.  And  in  this  kitchen. 
Kit  sat  himself  down  at  a  table  as  white  as  a  table-cloth 
to  eat  cold  meat,  and  drink  small  ale,  and  use  his  knife 
and  fork  the  more  awkwardly,  because  there  was  an  un- 
known Barbara  looking  on  and  observing  him. 

It  did  not  appear,  however,  that  there  was  anything 
remarkably  tremendous  about  this  strange  Barbara,  who 
having  lived  a  very  quiet  life,  blushed  very  much,  and 
was  quite  as  embarrassed  and  uncertain  what  she  ought 
to  say  or  do,  as  Kit  could  possibly  be.  When  he  had  sat 
for  some  little  time,  attentive  to  the  ticking  of  the  sober 
clock,  he  venturned  to  glance  curiously  at  the  dresser, 
and  there,  among  the  plates  and  dishes,  were  Barbara's 
little  work-box  with  a  sliding  lid  to  shut  in  the  balls  of 
cotton,  and  Barbara's  prayer-book,  and  Barbara's  hymn- 
book,  and  Barbara's  Bible.  Barbara's  little  looking-glass 
hung  in  a  good  light  near  the  window,  and  Barbara's  bon- 
net was  on  a  nail  behind  the  door.  From  all  these  mute 
signs  and  tokens  of  her  presence,  he  naturally  glanced  at 
Barbara  herself,  who  sat  as  a  mute  as  they,  shelling  peas 
into  a  dish  ;  and  just  when  Kit  was  looking  at  her  eye- 
lashes and  wondering— quite  in  the  simplicity  of  his 
heart— what  colour  her  eyes  might  be,  it  perveresly 
happened  that  Barbara  raised  her  head  a  little  to  look  at 
him,  when  both  pair  of  eyes  were  hastily  withdrawn,  and 
Kit  leant  over  his  plate  and  Barbara  over  her  pea-shells, 
each  in  extreme  confusion  at  having  been  detected  by 
the  other. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  wending  homewards  from 
the  Wilderness  (for  such  was  the  appropriate  name  of 
Quilp's  choice  retreat),  after  a  sinuous  and  corkscrew 


fashion,  with  many  chocks  and  stumbles  ;  after  stop- 
ping suddenly  and  staring  about  him,  then  as  sudd(;iily 
running  forward  a  few  paces,  and  as  suddenly  halting 
again  and  shaking  his  head  ;  doing  everything  with 
a  jerk,  and  nothing  by  premeditation  ; — Mr.  Richard 
Swiveller  wendinghis  way  homewards  after  this  fashion, 
which  is  considered  by  evil  minded  men  to  be  symbolical 
of  intoxication  and  is  not  held  by  such  persons  to  denote 
that  state  of  deep  wisdom  and  reflection  in  which 
the  actor  knows  himself  to  be,  began  to  think  that  pos- 
sibly he  had  misplaced  his  confidence  and  that  the  dwarf 
might  not  be  precisely  the  sort  of  a  person  to  whom  to 
entrust  a  secret  of  such  delicacy  and  importance.  And 
being  led  and  tempted  on  by  this  remorseful  thought  in- 
to a  condition  which  the  evil-minded  class  before  refer- 
red to  would  term  the  maudlin  state  or  stage  of  drunk- 
enness, it  occurred  to  Mr.  Swiveller  to  cast  his  hat  upon 
the  ground,  and  moan,  crying  aloud  that  he  was  an  un- 
happy orphan,  and  that  if  he  had  not  been  an  unhappy 
orphan  things  had  never  come  to  this. 

"  Left  an  infant  by  my  parents,  at  an  early  age,"  said 
Mr.  Swiveller,  bewailing  his  hard  lot,  "cast  upon  the 
world  in  my  tenderest  period,  and  thrown  upon  the  mer- 
cies of  a  deluding  dwarf,  who  can  wonder  at  my  weak- 
ness !  Here's  a  miserable  orphan  for  you.  Here,"  said 
Mr.  Swiveller,  raising  his  voice  to  a  high  pitch,  and 
looking  sleepily  round,  "  is  a  miserable  orphan  !  " 

"  Then,"  said  somebody  hard  by,  "  let  me  be  a  father 
to  you." 

Mr.  Swiveller  swayed  himself  to  and  fro  to  preserve 
his  balance,  and,  looking  into  a  kind  of  a  haze  which 
seemed  to  surround  him,  at  last  perceived  two  eyes  dim- 
ly twinkling  through  the  mist,  which  he  observed  after 
a  short  time  were  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  nose  and 
mouth.  Casting  his  eyes  down  towards  that  quarter  in 
which,  with  reference  to  a  man's  face,  his  legs  are  usu- 
ally to  be  found,  he  observed  that  the  face  had  a  body 
attached  ;  and  when  he  looked  more  intently  he  was 
satisfied  that  the  person  was  Mr.  Quilp,  who  indeed  had 
been  in  his  company  all  the  time,  but  whom  he  had  some 
vague  idea  of  having  left  a  mile  or  two  behind. 

"You  have  deceived  an  orphan  sir,"  said  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller solemnly. 

"  I !    I'm  a  second  father  to  you,"  replied  Quilp. 
"You  my   father  sir!"   retorted  Dick.  ''Being 
all  right  myself  sir,  I  request  to  be  left  alone— instantly 
sir. " 

"  What  a  funny  fellow  you  are  ! "  cried  Quilp. 
"Go  sir,"  returned  Dick,  leaning  against  a  post  and 
waving  his  hand.  "  Go  deceiver  go,  some  day  sir,  p'r'aps, 
you'll  waken,  from  pleasure's  dream  to  kno\v,  the  grief 
of  orphans  forsaken.    Will  you  go  sir  ?  " 

The  dwarf  taking  no  heed  of  this  adjuration,  Mr. 
Swiveller  advanced  with  the  view  of  inflicting  upon  him 
condign  chastisement.  But  forgetting  his  purpose  or 
changing  his  mind  before  he  came  close  to  him,  he  seized 
his  hand  and  vowed  eternal  friendship,  declaring  with 
an  agreeable  frankness  that  from  that  time  forth  they 
were  brothers  in  everything  but  personal  appearance. 
Then  he  told  his  secret  all  over  again,  with  the  addition 
of  being  pathetic  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Wackles,  who, 
he  gave  Mr.  Quilp  to  understand,  was  the  occasion  of 
any  slight  incoherency  he  might  observe  in  his  speech 
at  that  moment,  which  was  attributable  solely  to  the 
strength  of  his  affection  and  not  to  rosy  wine* or  other 
fermented  liquor.  And  then  they  went  on  arm  in  arm, 
very  lovingly  together. 

"I'm  as  sharp,"  said  Quilp  to  him,  at  parting,  "as 
sharp  as  a  ferret,  and  as  cunning  as  a  weasel.  You  bring 
Trent  to  me  ;  assure  him  that  I'm  his  friend  though  I 
fear  he  a  little  distrusts  me  (I  don't  know  why,  I  have 
not  deserved  it)  ;  and  you've  both  of  you  made  "your  for- 
tunes— in  perspective." 

"That's  the  worst  of  it, "  returned  Dick.  "  These  for- 
tunes in  perspective  look  such  a  long  way  off." 

"  But  they  look  smaller  than  they  really  are,  on  that 
account,"  said  Quilp  pressing  his  arm.  "You'll  have  no 
conception  of  the  value  of  your  prize  until  you  draw 
close  to  it.    Mark  that." 

"  D'ye  think  not  ?"  said  Dick. 

"Aye,  I  do  ;  and  I  am  certain  of  what  I  say,  that's 
better,"  returned  the  dwarf.    **  You  bring  Trent  to  me. 


732 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Tell  him  I  am  his  friend  and  yours— why  shouldn't  I 
be  •? " 

"  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  certainly,"  re- 
plied Dick,  and  perhaps  there  are  a  great  many  why 
you  should— at  least  there  would  be  nothing  strange  in 
your  wanting  to  be  my  friend  if  you  were  a  choice  spi- 
rit, but  then  you  know  you're  not  a  choice  spirit." 
I  not  a  choice  spirit  !  "  cried  Quilp. 

"Devil  a  bit  sir,"  returned  Dick.  "A  man  of  your 
appearance  couldn't  be.  If  you're  any  spirit  at  all,  sir, 
you're  an  evil  spirit.  Choice  spirits,"  added  Dick,  smit- 
ino-  himself  on  the  breast,  "  are  quite  a  different  looking 
sort  of  people,  you  may  take  your  oath  of  that,  sir." 

Quilp  glanced  at  his  free  spoken  friend  with  a  mingled 
expression  of  cunning  and  dislike,  and  wringing  his 
hand  almost  at  the  same  moment,  declared  that  he  was 
an  uncommon  character  and  had  his  warmest  esteem. 
With  that  they  parted  ;  Mr.  Swiveller  to  make  the 
best  of  his  way  home  and  sleep  himself  sober ;  and 
Quilp  to  cogitate  on  the  discovery  he  had  made,  and 
exult  in  the  prospect  of  the  rich  field  of  enjoyment 
and  reprisal  it  opened  to  him. 

It  was  not  wijthout  great  reluctance  and  misgiving 
that  Mr.  Swiveller,  next  morning,  his  head  racked  by 
the  fumes  of  the  renowned  Schiedam,  repaired  to  the 
lodging  of  his  friend  Trent  (which  was  in  the  roof  of 
an  old  house  in  an  old  ghostly  inn),  and  recounted  by 
very  slow  degrees  what  had  yesterday  taken  place 
between  him  and  Quilp.  Nor  was  it  without  great 
surprise  and  much  speculation  on  Quilp's  probable 
motives,  nor  without  many  bitter  comments  on  Dick 
Swiveller's  folly,  that  his  friend  received  the  tale. 

"  I  d^>n't  defend  myself,  Fred,  said  the  penitent 
Richard,  "  but  the  fellow  had  such  a  queer  way  with 
him  and  is  such  an  artful  dog,  that  first  of  all  he  set 
me  upon  thinking  whether  there  was  any  harm  in  tell- 
ing him,  and  while  I  was  thinking,  screwed  it  out  of 
me.  If  you  had  seen  him  drink  and  smoke,  as  I  did, 
you  couldn't  have  kept  anything  from  him.  He's  a 
Salamander,  you  know,  that's  what  lie  is. 

Without  inquiring  whether  Salamanders  were  of 
necessity  good  confidential  agents,  or  whether  a  fire-proof 
man  was  as  a  matter  of  course  trustworthy,  Frederick 
Trent  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and,  burying  his  head 
in  his  hands,  endeavoured  to  fathom  the  motives  which 
had  led  Quilp  to  insinuate  himself  into  Richard  Swivel- 
ler's confidence  ; — for  that  the  disclosure  was  of  his  seek- 
ing, and  had  not  been  spontaneously  revealed  by  Dick, 
was  sufficiently  plain  from  Quilp's  seeking  his  company 
and  enticing  him  away. 

The  dwarf  had  twice  encountered  him  when  he  was 
endeavouring  to  obtain  intelligence  of  the  fugitives. 
This,  x>erhaps,  as  he  had  not  shown  any  previous  anxiety 
about  them,  was  enough  to  awaken  suspicion  in  the 
breast  of  a  creature  so  jealous  and  distrustful  by  nature, 
setting  aside  any  additional  impulse  to  curiosity  that  he 
might  have  derived  from  Dick's  incautious  manner. 
But  knowing  the  scheme  they  had  planned,  why  should 
he  offer  to  assist  it  ?  This  was  a  question  more  difficult  of 
solution  ;  but  as  knaves  generally  overreach  themselves 
by  imputing  their  own  designs  to  others,  the  idea  imme- 
diately presented  itself  that  some  circumstances  of  irrita- 
tion between  Quilp  and  the  old  man,  arising  out  of  their 
secret  transactions,  and  not  unconnected  perhaps  with 
his  sudden  disappearance,  now  rendered  the  former  de- 
sirous of  revenging  himself  upon  him  by  seeking  to  en- 
trap the  sole  object  of  his  love  and  anxiety  into  a  con- 
nexion of  which  he  knew  he  had  a  dread  and  hatred. 
As  Frederick  Trent  himself,  utterly  regardless  of  his 
sister,  had  this  object  at  heart,  only  second  to  the  hope 
of  gain,  it  seemed  to  him  the  more  likely  to  be  Quilp's 
main  principle  of  action.  Once  investing  the  dwarf  with 
a  design  of  his  own  in  abetting  them,  which  the  attain- 
ment of  their  purpose  would  serve,  it  was  easy  to  believe 
him  sincere  and  hearty  in  the  cause  ;  and  as  there  could 
be  no  doubt  of  his  proving  a  powerful  and  useful  auxi- 
liary, Trent  determined  to  accept  his  invitation  and  go  to 
his  house  that  night,  and  if  what  he  said  and  did  con- 
firmed him  in  the  impression  he  had  formed,  to  let  him 
share  the  labour  of  their  plan,  but  not  the  profit. 

Having  revolved  these  things  in  his  mind  and  arrived 
at  this  conclusion,  he  communicated  to  Mr.  Swiveller  as 


much  of  his  meditations  as  he  thought  proper  (Dick 
would  have  been  perfectly  satisfied  with  less),  and  giv- 
ing him  the  day  to  recover  himself  from  his  late  sala- 
mandering,  accompanied  him  at  evening  to  Mr.  Quilp's 
house. 

Mightily  glad  Mr.  Quilp  was  to  see  them,  or  mightily 
glad  he  seemed  to  be  ;  and  fearfully  polite  Mr.  Quilp 
was  to  Mrs.  Quilp  and  Mrs.  Jiniwin  ;  and  very  sharp  was 
the  look  he  cast  on  his  wife  to  observe  how  she  was  affect- 
ed by  the  recognition  of  young  Trent.  Mrs.  Quilp  was  as 
innocent  as  her  own  mother  of  any  emotion,  painful  or 
pleasant,  which  the  sight  of  him  awakened,  but  as  her 
husband's  glance  made  her  timid  and  confused,  and  un- 
certain what  to  do  or  what  was  required  of  her,  Mr. 
Quilp  did  not  fail  to  assign  her  embarrassment  to  the 
cause  he  had  in  his  mind,  and  while  he  chuckled  at  his 
penetration  was  secretly  exasperated  by  his  jealousy. 

Nothing  of  this  appeared,  however.  On  the  contrary, 
Mr.  QuiljD  was  all  blandness  and  suavity,  and  presided 
over  the  case-bottle  of  rum  with  extraordinary  open- 
heartedness. 

"  Why,  let  me  see,"  said  Quilp.  "  It  must  be  a  mat- 
ter of  nearly  two  years  since  we  were  first  acquainted." 

"  Nearer  three,  I  think,"  said  Trent. 

"  Nearer  three  !  "  cried  Quilp.  "  How  fast  time  flies. 
Does  it  seem  as  long  as  that  to  you,  Mrs.  Quilp  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  it  seems  full  three  years,  Quilp,"  was 
the  unfortunate  reply.  "Oh  indeed  ma'am,"  thought 
Quilp,  ' '  you  have  been  pining,  have  you  ?  Very  good 
ma'am." 

"  It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday  that  you  went  out  to 
Demerara  in  the  Mary  Anne,"  said  Quilp  ;  "but  yester- 
day, I  declare.  Well,  I  like  a  little  wildness.  I  was 
wild  myself  once." 

Mr.  Quilp  accompanied  this  admission  with  such  an 
awful  wink,  indicative  of  old  rovings  and  backslidings, 
that  Mrs.  Jiniwin  was  indignant,  and  could  not  forbear 
from  remarking  under  her  breath  that  he  might  at  least 
put  off  his  confessions  until  his  wife  was  absent  :  for 
which  act  of  boldness  and  insubordination  Mr.  Quilp 
first  stared  her  out  of  countenance  and  then  drank  her 
health  ceremoniously. 

"I  thought  you'd  come  back  directly,  Fred.  I  always 
thought  that,"  said  Quilp  setting  down  his  glass.  "  And 
when  the  Mary  Anne  returned  with  you  on  board,  instead 
of  a  letter  to  say  what  a  contrite  heart  you  had,  and  how 
happy  you  were  in  the  situation  that  had  been  provided 
for  you,  I  was  amused — exceedingly  amused.  Ha  ha 
ha  !" 

The  young  man  smiled,  but  not  as  though  the  theme 
was  the  most  agreeable  one  that  could  be  selected  for 
his  entertainment ;  and  for  that  reason  Quilp  pursued  it. 

"I  always  will  say,"  he  resumed,  "  that  when  a  rich 
relation  having  two  young  people — sisters  or  brothers,  or 
brother  and  sister — dependent  on  him,  attaches  himself 
exclusively  to  one,  and  casts  off  the  other,  he  does 
wrong." 

The  young  man  made  a  movement  of  impatience,  but 
Quilp  went  on  as  calmly  as  if  he  were  discussing  some 
abstract  question  in  which  nobody  present  had  the 
slightest  personal  interest. 

"  It's  very  true,"  said  Quilp,  "that  your  grandfather 
urged  repeated  forgiveness,  ingratitude,  riot,  and  ex- 
travagance, and  all  that ;  but  as  I  told  him  '  these  are 
common  faults.'  '  But  he's  a  scoundrel,'  .'<aid  he.  '  Grant- 
ing that,'  said  I  (for  the  sake  of  argument  of  course),*  a 
great  many  young  noblemen  and  gentlemen  are  scoun- 
drels too  1 '    But  he  wouldn't  be  convinced." 

"I  wonder  at  that,  Mr.  Quilp,"  said  the  young  man 
sarcastically. 

"  Well,  so  did  I  at  the  time,"  returned  Quilp,  "  but  he 
was  always  obstinate.  He  was  in  a  manner  a  friend  of 
mine,  but  he  was  always  obstinate  and  wrong-headed. 
Little  Nell  is  a  nice  girl,  a  charming  girl,  but  you're  her 
brother,  Frederick.  You're  her  brother  after  all  ;  as  you 
told  him  the  last  time  you  met,  he  can't  alter  that." 

"  He  would  if  he  could,  confound  him  for  that  and  all 
other  kindnesses,"  said  the  young  man  impatiently. 
"But  nothing  can  come  of  this  subject  now,  and  let  us 
have  done  with  it  in  the  Devil's  name." 

"  Agreed,"  returned  Quilp,  "  agreed  on  my  part,  readi- 
ly.   Why  have  I  alluded  to  it  ?   Just  to  show  you,  Fred- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


733 


erick,  that  I  have  always  stood  your  friend.  You  little 
knew  who  was  your  friend  and  who  your  foe  ;  now  did 
you?  Yoa  thought  I  was  against  you,  and  so  there  has 
been  a  coolness  between  as  ;  but  it  was  all  on  your  side, 
entirely  on  your  side.    Let's  shake  hands  again,  Fred." 

With  his  head  sunk  down  between  his  shoulders,  and 
a  hideous  grin  overspreading  his  face,  the  dwarf  stood 
up  and  stretched  his  short  arm  across  the  table.  After 
a  moment's  hesitation,  the  young  man  stretched  out  his 
to  meet  it  ;  Quilp  clutched  his  fingers  in  a  grip  that  for 
the  moment  stopped  the  current  of  the  blood  within 
them,  and  pressing  his  other  hand  upon  his  lip  and 
frowning  towards  the  unsuspicious  Richard,  released 
them  and  sat  down. 

This  action  was  not  lost  upon  Trent,  who,  knowing 
that  Richard  Swiveller  was  a  mere  tool  in  his  hands  and 
knew  no  more  of  his  designs  than  he  thought  proper  to 
communicate,  saw  that  the  dwarf  perfectly  understood 
their  relative  position  and  fully  entered  into  the  charac- 
ter of  his  friend.  It  is  something  to  be  appreciated, 
even  in  knavery.  This  silent  homage  to  his  superior 
abilities,  no  less  than  a  sense  of  the  power  with  which 
the  dwarf's  quick  perception  had  already  invested  him, 
inclined  the  young  man  toward  that  ugly  worthy,  and 
determined  him  to  profit  by  hi^;  aid. 

It  being  now  Mr.  Quilp's  cue  to  change  the  subject 
with  all  convenient  expedition,  lest  Richard  Swiveller  in 
his  heedlessness  should  reveal  anything  which  it  was 
inexpedient  for  the  women  to  know,  he  proposed  a  game 
at  four-handed  cribbage  ;  and  partners  being  cut  for, 
Mrs.  Quilp  fell  to  Frederick  Trent,  and  Dick  himself  to 
Quilp.  Mrs.  Jiniwin  being  very  fond  of  cards  was  care- 
fully excluded  by  her  son-in-law  from  any  participation 
in  the  game,  and  had  assigned  to  her  the  duty  of  occa- 
sionally replenishing  the  glasses  from  the  case-bottle  ; 
Mr.  Quilp  from  that  moment  keeping  one  eye  constantly 
upon  her,  lest  she  should  by  any  means  procure  a  taste 
of  the  same,  and  thereby  tantalising  the  wretched  old 
lady  (who  was  as  much  attached  to  the  case-bottle  as 
the  cards)  in  a  double  degree  and  most  ingenious  manner. 

But  it  was  not  to  Mrs.  Jiniwin  alone  that  Mr.  Quilp's 
attention  was  restricted,  as  several  other  matters  required 
his  constant  vigilance.  Among  his  various  eccentric 
habits  he  had  a  humorous  one  of  always  cheating  at 
cards,  Avhich  rendered  necessary  on  his  part,  not  only  a 
close  observance  of  the  game,  and  a  sleight-of-hand  in 
counting  and  scoring,  but  also  involved  the  constant  cor- 
rection, by  looks,  and  frowns,  and  kicks  under  the  table 
of  Richard  Swiveller,  who  being  bewildered  by  the  ra- 
pidity with  which  his  cards  were  told,  and  the  rate  at 
which  the  pegs  travelled  down  the  board,  could  not  be 
prevented  from  sometimes  expressing  his  surprise  and 
incredulity.  Mrs.  Quilp  too  was  the  partner  of  young 
Trent,  and  for  every  look  that  passed  between  them,  and 
every  word  they  spoke,  and  every  card  they  played,  the 
dwarf  had  eyes  and  ears  ;  not  occupied  alone  with  what 
was  passing  above  the  table,  but  with  signals  that  might 
be  exchanging  beneath  it,  which  he  laid  all  kinds  of 
traps  to  detect ;  besides  often  treading  on  his  wife's 
toes,  to  see  whether  she  cried  out  or  remained  silent 
under  the  infliction,  in  which  latter  case  it  would  have 
been  quite  clear  that  Trent  had  been  treading  on  her 
toes  before.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  distractions, 
the  one  eye  was  upon  the  old  lady  nlvvays,  and  if  she  so 
much  as  stealthily  advanced  a  tea-spoon  towards  a  neigh- 
bouring glass  (which  she  often  did),  for  the  purpose  of 
abstracting  but  one  sup  of  its  sweet  contents,  Quilp's 
hand  would  overset  it  in  the  very  moment  of  her  tri- 
umph, and  Quilp's  mocking  voice  implore  her  to  regard 
her  precious  health.  And  in  any  one  of  these  his  many 
cares,  from  first  to  last,  Quilp  never  flagged  nor  faltered. 

At  length,  when  they  had  played  a  great  many  rub- 
bers and  drawn  pretty  freely  upon  the  case-bottle,  Mr. 
Quilp  warned. his  lady  to  retire  to  rest,  and  that  submis- 
sive wife  complying,  and  being  followed  by  her  indig- 
nant mother,  Mr.  Swiveller  fell  asleep.  *The  dwarf 
beckoning  his  remaining  companion  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  held  a  short  conference  with  him  in  whis- 
pers. 

"  It's  as  well  not  to  say  more  than  one  can  help  before 
our  worthy  friend,"  said  Quilp,  making  a  grimace  to- 
ward the  slumbering  Dick.    "  Is  it  a  bargain  between 


us  Fred?  Shall  he  marry  little  rosy  Nell  bye  and 
bye?" 

"You  have  some  end  of  your  own  to  answer  of 
course,"  returned  the  other. 

*'  Of  course  I  have,  dear  Fred,"  said  Quilp,  grinning 
to  think  how  little  he  suspected  what  the  real  end  was. 
"  It's  retaliation  perhaps  ;  perhaps  whim.  I  liave  in- 
fluence, Fred,  to  help  or  oppose.  Which  way  shall  I 
use  it  ?    There  are  a  pair  of  scales,  and  it  goes  into  one." 

"  Throw  it  into  mine  then,"  said  Trent. 

"  It's  done  Fred,"  rejoined  Quilp,  stretching  out  his 
clenched  hand  and  opening  it  as  if  he  had  let  some 
weight  fall  out.  "It's  in  the  scale  from  this  time,  and 
turns  it  Fred.    Mind  that." 

"  Where  have  they  gone?"  asked  Trent. 

Quilp  shook  his  head,  and  said  that  point  remained  to 
be  discovered,  which  it  might  be,  easily.  When  it  was, 
they  would  begin  their  preliminary  advances.  lie  would 
visit  the  old  man,  or  even  Richard  Swiveller  might  visit 
him,  and  by  affecting  a  deep  concern  in  his  behalf  and 
imploring  him  to  settle  in  some  worthy  home,  lead  to 
the  child's  remembering  him  with  gratitude  and  favour. 
Once  impressed  to  this  extent,  it  would  be  easy,  he  said, 
to  win  her  in  a  year  or  two,  for  she  supposed  the  old 
man  to  be  poor,  as  it  was  a  part  of  his  jealous  policy  (in 
common  with  many  other  misers)  to  feign  to  be  so,  to 
those  about  him. 

"  He  has  feigned  it  often  enough  to  me,  of  late,"  said 
Trent. 

"Oh  !  and  to  me  too  !"  replied  the  dwarf,  "Which 
is  more  extraordinary,  as  I  know  how  rich  he  really  is." 

"  I  suppose  you  should,"  said  Trent. 

"I  think  I  s'hould  indeed,"  rejoined  the  dwarf  ;  and 
in  that,  at  least,  he  spoke  the  truth. 

After  a  few  more  whispered  words,  they  returned  to 
the  table,  and  the  young  man  rousing  Richard  Swiveller 
informed  him  that  he  was  waiting  to  depart.  This  was 
welcome  news  to  Dick,  who  started  up  directly.  After 
a  few  words  of  confidence  in  the  result  of  their  project 
had  been  exchanged,  they  bade  the  grinning  Quilp  good 
night. 

Quilp  crept  to  the  window  as  they  passed  in  the  street 
below,  and  listened.  Trent  was  pronouncing  an  enco- 
mium upon  his  wife,  and  they  were  both  wondering  by 
wliat  enchantment  she  had  been  brought  to  marry  such 
a  mis-shapen  wretch  as  he.  The  dwarf  after  watching 
their  retreating  shadows  with  a  wider  grin  than  his  face 
had  yet  displayed,  stole  softly  in  the  dark  to  bed. 

In  this  hatching  of  their  scheme,  neither  Trent  nor 
Quilp  had  had  one  thought  about  the  happiness  or  mis- 
ery of  poor  innocent  Nell.  It  would  have  been  strange 
if  the  careless  profligate,  who  was  the  butt  of  both,  had 
been  harassed  by  any  such  consideration  ;  for  his  high 
opinion  of  his  own  merits  and  deserts  rendered  the  pro- 
ject rather  a  laudable  one  than  otherwise  ;  and  if  he 
had  been  visited  by  so  unwonted  a  guest  as  reflection, 
he  would — being  a  brute  only  in  the  gratification  of  his 
appetites  — have  soothed  his  conscience  with  the  plea 
that  he  did  not  mean  to  beat  or  kill  his  wife,  and  would 
therefore,  after  all  said  and  done,  be  a  very  tolerable, 
average  husband. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  quite  exhausted  and  could 
no  longer  maintain  the  pace  at  which  they  had  fled  from 
the  race-ground,  that  the  old  man  and  the  child  ven- 
tured to  stop,  and  sit  down  to  rest  upon  the  borders  of  a 
little  wood.  Here,  though  the  course  was  hidden  from 
their  view,  they  could  yet  faintly  distinguish  the  noise 
of  distant  shouts,  the  hum  of  voices,  and  the  beating  of 
drums.  Climbing  the  eminence  which  lay  between  thera 
and  the  spot  they  had  left,  the  child  could  even  discern 
the  fluttering  flags  and  white  tops  of  booths  ;  but  no 
person  was  approaching  towards  them,  and  their  resting- 
place  was  solitary  and  still. 

Some  time  elapsed  before  she  could  reassure  her  trem- 
bling companion,  or  restore  him  to  a  state  of  moderate 
tranquility.  His  disordered  imagination  represented  to 
him  a  crowd  of  persons  stealing  towards  them  beneath 
the  cover  of  the  bushes,  lurking  in  every  ditch,  and 


734 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


peeping  from  the  bouglis  of  every  rustling  tree.  He 
was  haunted  by  apprehensions  of  being  led  captive  to 
some  gloomy  place  where  he  would  be  chained  and 
scourged,  and  worse  than  all,  where  Nell  could  never 
come  to  see  him,  save  through  iron  bars  and  gratings  in 
the  wall.  His  terrors  affected  the  child.  Separation 
from  her  grandfather  was  the  greatest  evil  she  could 
dread  ;  and  feeling  for  the  time  as  though,  go  where 
they  would,  they  were  to  be  hunted  down,  and  could 
never  be  safe  but  in  hiding,  her  heart  failed  her,  and  her 
ceurage  drooped. 

In  one  so  young,  and  so  unused  to  the  scenes  in  which 
she  had  lately  moved,  this  sinking  of  the  spirit  was  not 
surprising.  But,  Nature  often  enshrines  gallant  and 
noble  hearts  in  weak  bosoms — oftenest,  God  bless  her, 
in  female  breasts — and  when  the  child,  casting  her  tear- 
ful eyes  upon  the  old  man,  remembered  how  weak  he 
was,  and  how  destitute  and  helpless  he  would  be  if  she 
failed  him,  her  heart  swelled  within  her,  and  animated 
her  with  new  strength  and  fortitude. 

"We  are  quite  safe  now,  and  have  nothing  to  fear  in- 
deed, dear  grandfather,"  she  said. 

"Nothing  to  fear  !  "  returned  the  old  man.  "Nothing 
to  fear  if  they  took  me  from  thee  !  Nothing  to  fear  if 
they  jDarted  us  !  Nobody  is  true  to  me.  No,  not  one. 
Not  even  Nell ! " 

"  Oh  !  do  not  say  that,"  replied  the  child,  "for  if  ever 
anybody  was  true  at  heart,  and  earnest,  I  am,  I  am  sure 
you  know  I  am. " 

"  Then  how,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  fearfully 
round,  "  how  can  you  bear  to  think  that  we  are  safe, 
when  they  are  searching  for  me  everywhere,  and  may 
come  here,  and  steal  upon  us,  even  while  we're  talk- 
ing?" 

"  Because  I'm  sure  we  have  not  been  followed,"  said 
the  child.  "Judge  for  yourself  dear  grandfather  ;  look 
round,  and  see  how  quiet  and  still  it  is.  We  are  alone 
together,  and  may  ramble  where  we  like.  Not  safe  ! 
Could  I  feel  easy — did  I  feel  at  ease — when  any  danger 
threatened  you?  " 

"True,  true,"  he  answered,  pressing  her  hand,  but 
still  looking  anxiously  about.    "  What  noise  was  that  ?  " 

"A  bird,"  said  the  child,  "flying  into  the  wood,  and 
leading  the  way  for  us  to  follow.  You  remember  that 
we  said  we  would  walk  in  woods  and  fields,  and  by  the 
side  of  rivers,  and  how  happy  we  would  be — you  remem- 
ber that  ?  But  here,  while  the  sun  shines  above  our 
heads,  and  everything  is  bright  and  happy,  we  are  sitting 
sadly  down,  and  losing  time.  See  what  a  pleasant  path  ; 
and  there's  the  bird — the  same  bird — now  he  flies  to  an- 
other tree,  and  stays  to  sing.    Come  ! " 

When  they  rose  up  from  the  ground,  and  took  the 
shady  track  which  led  them  through  the  wood,  she 
bounded  on  before,  printing  her  tiny  footsteps  in  the 
moss,  which  rose  elastic  from  so  light  a  pressure  and  gave 
it  back  as  mirrors  throw  off  breath ;  and  thus  she  lured  the 
old  man  on,  with  many  a  backward  look  and  merry  beck, 
now  pointing  stealthily  to  some  lone  bird  as  it  perched 
and  twittered  on  a  branch  that  strayed  across  their  path, 
now  stopping  to  listen  to  the  songs  that  broke  the  happy 
silence,  or  watch  the  sun  as  it  trembled  through  the 
leaves,  and  stealing  in  among  the  ivied  trunks  of  stout 
old  trees,  opened  long  paths  of  light.  As  they  passed 
onward,  parting  the  boughs  that  clustered  in  their  way, 
the  serenity  which  the  child  had  first  assumed,  stole 
into  her  breast  in  earnest ;  the  man  cast  no  longer  fear- 
ful looks  behind,  but  felt  at  ease,  and  cheerful,  for  the 
further  they  passed  into  the  deep  green  shade,  the  more 
they  felt  that  the  tranquil  mind  of  God  was  there,  and 
shed  its  peace  on  them. 

At  length  the  path  becoming  clearer  and  loss  intricate, 
brought  them  to  the  end  of  the  wood,  and  into  a  public 
road.  Taking  their  way  along  it  for  a  short  distance, 
they  came  to  a  lane,  so  shaded  by  the  trees  on  either 
hand  that  they  met  together  overhead,  and  arched  the 
narow  way.  A  broken  finger-post  announced  that  this 
led  to  a  village  three  miles  off  ;  and  thither  they  resolved 
to  bend  their  steps. 

The  miles  appeared  so  long  that  they  sometimes 
thought  they  must  have  missed  their  road.  But  at  last, 
to  their  great  joy,  it  led  downward  in  a  steep  descent, 
with  overhanging  banks  over  which  the  footpaths  led  ; 


and  the  clustered  houses  of  the  village  peeped  from  the 
woody  hollow  below. 

It  was  a  very  small  place.  The  men  and  boys  were 
playing  at  cricket  on  the  green  ;  and  as  the  other  folks 
were  looking  on,  they  wandered  up  and  down,  uncertain 
where  to  seek  a  humble  lodging.  There  was  but  one  old 
man  in  the  little  garden  before  his  cottage,  and  him  they 
were  timid  of  approaching,  for  he  was  the  schoolmaster, 
and  had  "  School"  written  up  over  his  window  in  black 
letters  on  a  white  board.  He  was  a  pale,  simple-looking 
man,  of  a  spare  and  meagre  habit,  and  sat  among  his 
flowers  and  beehives,  smoking  his  pipe,  in  the  little 
porch  before  his  door. 

"  Speak  to  him,  dear,"  the  old  man  whispered. 

"lam  almost  afraid  to  disturb  him,"  said  the  child 
timidly.  "  He  does  not  seem  to  see  us.  Perhaps  if  we 
wait  a  little,  he  may  look  this  way." 

They  waited,  but  the  schoolmaster  cast  no  look  towards 
them,  and  still  sat,  thoughtful  and  silent,  in  the  little 
porch.  He  had  a  kind  face.  In  his  plain  old  suit  of 
black,  he  looked  pale  and  meagre.  They  fancied,  too,  a 
lonely  air  about  him  and  his  house,  but  perhaps  that  was 
because  the  other  people  formed  a  merry  company  upon 
the  green,  and  he  seemed  the  only  solitary  man  in  all  the 
place. 

They  were  very  tired,  and  th'e  child  would  have  been 
bold  enough  to  address  even  a  schoolmaster,  but  for 
something  in  his  manner  which  seemed  to  denote  that  he 
was  uneasy  or  distressed.  As  they  stood  hesitating  at  a 
little  distance,  they  saw  that  he  sat  for  a  few  minutes  at 
a  time  like  one  in  a  brown  study,  then  laid  aside  his  pipe 
and  took  a  few  turns  in  his  garden,  then  approached  the 
gate  and  looked  towards  the  green,  then  took  up  his 
pipe  again  with  a  sigh,  and  sat  down  thoughtfully  as 
before. 

As  nobody  else  appeared  and  it  would  soon  be  dark, 
Nell  at  length  took  courage,  and  when  he  had  resumed 
hi^  pipe  and  seat,  ventured  to  draw  near,  leading  her 
grandfather  by  the  hand.  The  slight  noise  they  made  in 
raising  the  wlcket-gate,  caught  his  attention.  He  looked 
at  them  kindly  but  seemed  disappointed  too,  and  slight- 
ly shook  his  head. 

Nell  dropped  a  curtsey,  and  told  him  they  were  poor 
travellers  who  sought  a  shelter  for  the  night  which  they 
would  gladly  pay  for,  so  far  as  their  means  allowed. 
The  schoolmaster  looked  earnestly  at  her  as  she  spoke, 
laid  aside  his  pipe,  and  rose  up  directly. 

"  If  you  could  direct  us  anywhere,  sir,"  said  the  child, 
"  we  should  take  it  very  kindly." 

"  You  have  been  walking  a  long  way,"  said  the  school- 
master. 

"  A  long  way,  sir,"  the  child  replied. 

"  You're  a  young  traveller,  my  child,"  he  said,  laying 
his  hand  gently  on  her  head.  "  Your  grandchild, friend  ?  '* 

"  Aye,  sir,"  cried  the  old  man,  "  and  the  stay  and 
comfort  of  my  life.'* 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

Without  further  preface  he  conducted  them  into  his 
little  school-room,  which  was  parlour  and  kitchen  like- 
wise, and  told  them  they  were  welcome  to  remain  under 
his  roof  till  morning.  Before  they  had  done  thanking 
him,  he  spread  a  coarse  white  cloth  upon  the  table,  with 
knives  and  platters  ;  and  bringing  out  some  bread  and 
cold  meat  and  a  jug  of  beer,  besought  them  to  eat  and 
drink. 

The  child  looked  round  the  room  as  she  took  her  seat. 
There  were  a  couple  of  forms,  notched  and  cut  and  inked 
all  over  ;  a  small  deal  desk  perched  on  four  legs,  at 
which  no  doubt  the  master  sat ;  a  few  dog's-eared  books 
upon  a  high  shelf  ;  and  beside  them  a  motley  collection 
of  peg-tops,  balls,  kites,  fishing-lines,  marbles,  half  eat- 
en apples,  and  other  confiscated  property  of  idle  urchins. 
Displayed  on  hooks  upon  the  wall  in  all  their  terrors, 
were  the  cane  and  ruler  ;  and  near  them  on  a  small 
shelf  of  its  own,  the  dance's  cap,  made  of  old  newspapers 
and  decorated  with  glaring  wafers  of  the  largest  size. 
But,  the  great  ornaments  of  the  walls  were  certain  moral 
sentences  fairly  copied  in  good  round  text,  and  well 
worked  sums  iii  simple  addition  and  multiplication,  evi- 
dently achieved  by  the  same  hand,  which  were  plenti- 
fully pasted  all  round  the  room  ;  for  the  double  purpose, 
as  it  seemed,  of  bearing  testimony  to  the  excellence  of 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


735 


the  school,  and  kindling  a  worthy  emulation  in  the 
bosoms  of  the  scholars. 

**  Yes,"  said  the  old  schoolmaster,  observing  that  her 
attention  was  caught  by  these  latter  specimens.  "  That's 
beautiful  writing,  my  dear." 

"  Very,  sir,"  replied  the  child  modestly,  "  is  it  yours  ?" 

"  Mine  !  "  he  returned,  taking  out  his  spectacles  and 
putting  them  on,  to  have  a  better  view  of  the  triumphs 
so  dear  to  his  heart.  "  /  couldn't  write  like  that  now-a- 
days.  No.  They're  all  done  by  one  hand  ;  a  little  hand 
it  is,  not  so  old  as  yours,  but  a  very  clever  one." 

As  the  schoolmaster  said  this,  he  saw  that  a  small 
blot  of  ink  had  been  thrown  on  one  of  the  copies,  so  he 
took  a  penknife  from  his  pocket,  and  going  up  to  the 
wall,  carefully  scraped  it  out.  When  he  had  finished 
he  walked  slowly  backward  from  the  writing  admiring 
it  as  one  might  contemplate  a  beautiful  picture,  but  with 
something  of  sadness  in  his  voice  and  manner  which 
touched  the  child,  though  she  was  unacquainted  with  its 
cause. 

"A  little  hand  indeed,"  said  the  poor  schoolmaster. 
"  Far  beyond  all  his  companions,  in  his  learning  and  in 
his  sports  too,  how  did  he  ever  come  to  be  so  fond  of  me  ! 
That  I  should  love  him  is  no  wonder,  but  that  he  should 
love  me — "  and  there  the  schoolmaster  stopped,  and 
took  off  his  spectacles  to  wipe  them,  as  though  they  had 
grown  dim. 

"I  hope  there  is  nothing  the  matter,  sir,"  said  Nell 
anxiously. 

* '  Not  much  my  dear, "  returned  the  schoolmaster.  * '  I 
hoped  to  have  seen  him  on  the  green  to-night.  He  was 
always  foremost  among  them.  But  he'll  be  there  to 
morrow. " 

"Has  he  been  ill?"  asked  the  child,  with  a  child's 
quick  sympathy, 

"  Not  very.  They  said  he  was  wandering  in  his  head 
yesterday,  dear  boy,  and  so  they  said  the  day  before. 
But  that's  a  part  of  that  kind  of  disorder  ;  it's  not  a  bad 
sign — not  at  all  a  bad  sign." 

The  child  was  silent.  He  walked  to  the  door,  and 
looked  wistfully  out.  The  shadows  of  night  were  gath- 
ering and  all  was  still. 

"  If  he  could  lean  upon  anybody's  arm,  he  would  come 
to  me,  I  know,"  he  said,  returning  into  the  room.  He 
always  came  into  the  garden  to  say  good  night.  But 
perhaps  his  illness  has  only  just  taken  a  favourable  turn, 
and  it's  too  late  for  him  to  come  out,  for  it's  very  damp 
and  there's  a  heavy  dew.  It's  much  better  he  shouldn't 
come  to-night." 

The  schoolmaster  lighted  a  candle,  fastened  the  win- 
dow shutter,  and  closed  the  door.  But  after  he  had 
done  this,  and  sat  silent  a  little  time,  he  took  down  his 
hat,  and  said  he  would  go  and  satisfy  himself,  if  Nell 
would  sit  up  till  he  returned.  The  child  readily  com- 
plied, and  he  went  out. 

She  sat  there  half-an-hour  or  more,  feeling  the  place 
very  strange  and  lonely,  for  she  had  prevailed  upon  the 
old  man  to  go  to  bed,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  heard 
but  the  ticking  of  an  old  clock,  and  the  whistling  of  the 
wind  among  the  trees.  When  he  returned  he  took  his 
seat  in  the  chimney-corner,  but  remained  silent  for  a 
long  time.  At  length  he  turned  to  her,  and  speaking 
I  very  gently,  hoped  she  would  say  a  prayer  that  night 
\  for  a  sick  child. 

"  My  favourite  scholar  !  "  said  the  poor  schoolmaster, 
smoking  a  pipe  he  had  forgotten  to  light,  and  looking 
mournfully  round  upon  the  walls.  "  It  is  a  little  hand 
to  have  done  all  that,  and  waste  away  with  sickness.  It 
is  a  very,  very  little  hand  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

After  a  sound  night's  rest  in  a  chamber  in  the  thatched 
roof,  in  which  it  seemed  the  sexton  had  been  for  some 
years  been  a  lodger,  but  which  he  had  lately  deserted 
for  a  wife  and  a  cottage  of  his  own,  the  child  rose  early 
in  the  morning,  and  descended  to  the  room  where  she 
had  supped  last  night.  As  the  schoolmaster  had  already 
left  hi.s  bed  and  gone  out,  she  bestirred  herself  to  make 
it  neat  and  comfortable,  and  had  just  finished  its  arrange- 
ment when  the  kind  host  returned. 


He  thanked  her  many  times,  and  said  that  the  old 
dame  who  usually  did  such  offices  for  him  had  gone  to 
nurse  the  little  scholar  whom  he  had  told  her  of.  The 
child  asked  how  he  was,  and  hoped  he  was  better. 

"No,"  rejoined  the  schoolmaster  shaking  his  head 
sorrowfully,  "  no  better.    They  even  say  he  is  worse." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  that,  sir,"  said  the  child. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  appeared  to  be  gratified  by  her 
earnest  manner,  but  yet  rendered  more  uneasy  by  it,  for 
he  added  hastily  that  anxious  people  often  magnified  an 
evil  and  thouglit  it  greater  than  it  was  ;  "  for  my  part," 
he  said,  in  his  quiet,  patient  way,  "  1  hope  it's  not  so. 
I  don't  think  he  can  be  worse." 

The  child  asked  his  leave  to  prepare  breakfast,  and 
her  grandfather  coming  down-stairs  they  all  three  par- 
took of  it  together.  While  the  meal  was  in  progress, 
their  host  remarked  that  the  old  man  seemed  much  fati- 
gued, and  evidently  stood  in  need  of  rest. 

"  If  the  journey  you  have  before  you  is  a  long  one," 
he  said,  "and  don't  press  you  for  one  day,  you're  very 
welcome  to  pass  another  night  here.  I  should  really  be 
glad  if  you  would,  friend." 

He  saw  that  the  old  man  looked  at  Nell,  uncertain 
whether  to  accept  or  decline  his  offer  ;  and  added, 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  your  young  companion  with  me 
for  one  day.  If  you  can  do  a  charity  to  a  lone  man,  and  rest 
yourself  at  the  same  time,  do  so.  If  you  must  proceed 
upon  your  journey,  I  wish  you  well  through  it,  and  will 
walk  a  little  way  with  you  before  school  begins." 

"  What  are  we  to  do,  Nell,  said  the  old  man,  irreso- 
lutely, "  say  what  we're  to  do,  dear," 

It  required  no  great  persuasion  to  induce  the  child 
to  answer  that  they  had  better  accept  the  invitation  and 
remain.  She  was  happy  to  show  her  gratitude  to  the 
kind  schoolmaster  by  busying  herself  in  the  per- 
formance of  such  household  duties  as  his  little  cottage 
stood  in  need  of.  When  these  were  done,  she  took  some 
needle- work  from  her  basket,  and  sat  herself  down  up- 
on a  stool  beside  the  lattice,  where  the  honeysuckle  and 
woodbine  entwined  their  tender  stems,  and  stealing  in- 
to the  room  filled  it  with  their  delicious  breath.  Her 
grandfather  was  basking  in  the  sun  outside,  breathing  the 
perfume  of  the  flowers  and  idly  watching  the  clouds  as 
they  floated  on  before  the  light  summer  wind. 

As  the  schoolmaster,  after  arranging  the  two  forms  in 
due  orde:^,  took  his  seat  behind  his  desk  and  made  other 
preparations  for  school,  the  child  was  apprehensive  that 
she  might  be  in  the  way,  and  offered  to  withdraw  to 
her  little  bedroom.  But  this  he  would  not  allow,  and  as 
he  seemed  pleased  to  have  her  there,  she  remained, 
busying  herself  with  her  work. 

"Have  you  many  scholars,  sir?"  she  asked. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  shook  his  head,  and  said  that 
they  barely  filled  the  two  forms, 

"Are  the  others  clever,  sir?"  asked  the  child,  glan- 
cing at  the  trophies  on  the  wall. 

"Good  boys,"  returned  the  schoolmaster,  "good  boys 
enough  my  dear,  but  they'll  never  do  like  that." 

A  small  white-headed  boy  with  a  sunburnt  face  ap- 
peared at  the  door  while  he  was  speaking,  and  stopping 
there  to  make  a  rustic  bow,  came  in  and  took  his  seat 
upon  one  of  the  forms.  The  white-headed  boy  then  put 
an  open  book,  astonishingly  dog's-eared,  upon  his  knees, 
and  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  began  count- 
ing the  marbles  with  which  they  were  filled  :  displaying 
in  the  expression  of  his  face  a  remarkable  capacity  of 
totally  abstracting  his  mind  from  the  spelling  on  which 
his  eyes  were  fixed.  Soon  afterwards  another  white- 
headed  little  boy  came  straggling  in,  and  after  him  a 
red-headed  lad,  *and  after  him  two  more  with  white- 
heads, and  then  one  with  a  flaxen  poll,  and  so  on  until 
the  forms  were  occupied  by  a  dozen  boys  or  thereabouts, 
with  heads  of  every  colour  but  gray,  and  ranging  in 
their  ages  from  four  years  old  to  fourteen  years  or  more  ; 
for  the  legs  of  the  youngest  were  a  long  way  from  the 
floor  when  he  sat  upon  the  form,  and  the  eldest  was  a 
heavy  good-tempered  foolish  fellow,  about  half  a  head 
taller  than  the  schoolmaster. 

At  the  top  of  the  first  form— the  post  of  honour  in  the 
school — was  the  vacant  place  of  the  little  sick  scholar, 
and  at  the  head  of  the  row  of  pegs  on  which  those  who 
came  in  hats  or  caps  were  wont  to  hang  them  up,  one 


736 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


was  left  empty.  No  boy  attempted  to  violate  tbe  sanc- 
tity of  seat  or  peg,  but  many  a  one  looked  from  tbe  empty 
spaces  to  tbe  schoolmaster,  and  wbispered  bis  idle  neigb- 
bour  bebind  bis  band. 

Tben  began  tbe  bam  of  conning  over  lessons  and  get- 
ting tbem  by  beart,  tbe  wbispered  jest  and  steal tby 
game,  and  all  tbe  noise  and  drawl  of  scbool ;  and  in  tbe 
midst  of  tbe  din  sat  tbe  poor  scboolm  aster,  tbe  very 
image  of  meekness  and  simplicity,  vainly  attempting  to 
fix  bis  mind  upon  tbe  duties  of  tbe  day,  and  to  forget 
bis  little  friend.  But  tbe  tedium  of  bis  office  reminded 
bim  more  strongly  of  tbe  willing  scbolar,  and  bis 
tbougbts  were  rambling  from  bis  pupils — it  was  plain. 

None  knew  tbis  better  tban  tbe  idlest  boys,  wbo, 
growing  bolder  witb  impunity,  waxed  louder  and  more 
daring ;  playing  odd-or-even  under  tbe  master's  eye, 
eating  apples  openly  and  witbout  rebuke,  pincbing  eacb 
other  in  sport  or  malice  witbout  tbe  least  reserve,  and 
cutting  tbeir  autographs  in  the  very  legs  of  his  desk. 
The  puzzled  dunce,  wbo  stood  beside  it  to  say  bis  lesson 
out  of  book,  looked  no  longer  at  the  ceiling  for  forgotten 
words,  but  drew  closer  to  tbe  master's  elbow  and  boldly 
cast  bis  eye  upon  the  page  ;  the  wag  of  the  little  troop 
squinted  and  made  grimaces  (at  the  smallest  boy  of 
course),  holding  no  book  before  bis  face,  and  bis  ap- 
proving audience  knew  no  constraint  in  tbeir  delight. 
If  the  master  did  chance  to  rouse  himself  and  seem  alive 
to  what  was  going  on,  the  noise  subsided  for  a  moment 
and  no  eyes  met  his  but  wore  a  studious  and  deeply 
bumble  look  ;  but  tbe  instant  he  relapsed  again,  it  broke 
out  afresh,  and  ten  times  louder  than  before. 

Oh  !  bow  some  of  those  idle  fellows  longed  to  be  out- 
side, and  how  they  looked  at  tbe  open  door  and  window, 
as  if  they  half  meditated  rushing  violently  out,  plunging 
into  the  woods,  and  being  wild  boys  and  savages  from 
that  time  forth.  What  rebellious  thoughts  of  the  cool 
river,  and  some  shady  bathing- place  beneath  willow 
trees  with  branches  dipping  in  the  water,  kept  tempting 
and  urging  that  sturdy  boy,  who  with  his  shirt-collar 
unbuttoned  and  flung  back  as  far  as-nt  could  go,  sat  fan- 
ning his  flushed  face  with  a  spelling-book,  wishing  him- 
self a  whale,  or  a  tittlebat,  or  a  fly,  or  anything  but  a 
boy  at  scbool  on  that  hot,  broiling  day  !  Heat  1  ask  that 
other  boy,  whose  seat  being  nearest  to  the  door,  gave  him 
opportunities  of  gliding  out  into  tbe  garden  and  driving 
his  companions  to  madness  by  dipping  his  face^  into  the 
bucket  of  the  well  and  then  rolling  on  the  grass — ask 
him  if  there  were  ever  such  a  day  as  that,  when  even 
the  bees  were  diving  deep  down  into  the  cups  of  flowers 
and  stopping  there,  as  if  they  bad  made  up  their  minds 
to  retire  from  business  and  be  manufacturers  of  honey 
no  more.  The  day  was  made  for  laziness,  and  lying  on 
one's  back  in  green  places,  and  staring  at  the  sky  till  its 
brightness  forced  one  to  shut  one's  eyes  and  go  to  sleep  ; 
and  was  tbis  a  time  to  be  poring  over  musty  books  in  a 
dark  room,  slighted  by  the  very  sun  itself  ?    Monstrous  ! 

Nell  sat  by  the  window  occupied  witb  her  work,  but  at- 
tentive still  to  all  that  passed,  though  sometimes  rather 
timid  of  the  boisterous  boys.  The  lessons  over,  writing 
time  began  ;  and  there  being  but  one  desk  and  that  the 
master's,  each  boy  sat  at  it  in  turn  and  laboured  at  his 
crooked  copy,  while  the  master  walked  about.  Tbis 
was  a  quieter  time  ;  for  be  would  come  and  look  over 
the  writer's  shoulder,  and  tell  bim  mildly  to  observe  how 
such  a  letter  was  turned  in  such  a  copy  on  the  wall, 
praise  such  an  up-stroke  there,  and  bid  bim  take  it  for 
his  model.  Tben  he  would  stop  and  tell  them  what  the 
sick  child  had  said  last  night,  and  how  be  bad  longed  to 
be  among  them  once  again  ;  and  such  was  the  poor 
school-master's  gentle  and  affectionate  manner,  that  the 
boys  seemed  quite  remorseful  that  they  bad  worried  him 
so  much,  and  were  absolutely  quiet ;  eating  no  apples, 
cutting  no  names,  inflicting  no  pinches,  and  making  no 
grimaces,  for  full  two  minutes  afterwards. 

"I  think,  boys,"  said  the  schoolmaster  when  the 
clock  struck  twelve,  "  that  I  shall  give  an  extra  half- 
holiday  this  afternoon." 

At  this  intelligence,  the  boys,  led  on  and  beaded  by 
the  tall  boy,  raised  a  great  shout,  in  the  midst  of  which 
the  master  was  seen  to  speak,  but  could  not  be  heard. 
As  he  held  up  bis  hand,  however,  in  token  of  his  wish 
that  they  should  be  silent,  they  were  considerate  enough 


to  leave  off,  as  soon  as  the  longest-winded  among  them 
were  quite  out  of  breath. 

"You  must  promise  me  first,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
"  that  you'll  not  be  noisy,  or  at  least,  if  you  are,  that 
you'll  go  away  and  be  so — away  out  of  the  village  I 
mean.  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  disturb  your  old  play- 
mate and  companion." 

There  was  a  general  murmur  (and  perhaps  a  very 
silent  one,  for  they  were  but  boys)  in  tbe  negative  ;  and 
the  tall  boy,  perhaps  as  sincerely  as  any  of  them,  called 
those  about  bim  to  witness  that  be  had  only  shouted  in 
a  whisper. 

"  Then  pray  don't  forget,  there's  my  dear  scholars," 
said  the  schoolmaster,  "  what  I  have  asked  you,  and  do 
it  as  a  favour  to  me.  Be  as  happy  as  you  can,  and  don't 
be  unmindful  that  you  are  blessed  with  health.  Good 
bye  all  !" 

"  Thank'ee  sir,"  and  "good  bye  sir,"  were  said  a 
great  many  times  in  a  variety  of  voices,  and  the  boys 
went  out  very  slowly  and  softly.  But  there  was  the 
sun  shining  and  there  were  the  birds  singing,  as  the  sun 
only  shines  and  the  birds  only  sing  on  holidays  and 
half-holidays ;  there  were  the  trees  waving  to  all  free 
boys  to  climb  and  nestle  among  their  leafy  branches  ; 
the  hay,  entreating  them  to  come  and  scatter  it  to  the 
pure  air  ;  the  green  corn,  gently  beckoning  towards 
wood  and  stream  ;  the  smooth  ground,  rendered  smooth- 
er still  by  blending  lights  and  shadows,  inviting  to 
runs  and  leaps,  and  long  walks  God  knows  whither.  It 
was  more  than  boy  could  bear,  and  with  a  joyous  whoop 
the  whole  cluster  took  to  their  heels  and  spread  them- 
selves about,  shouting  and  laughing  as  they  went. 

"  It's  natural,  thank  Heaven  !  "  said  the  poor  school- 
master looking  after  them.  "  I'm  very  glad  they  didn't 
mind  me  ! " 

It  is  difficult,  however,  to  please  everybody,  as  most 
of  us  would  have  discovered,  even  without  the  fable 
which  bears  that  moral  ;  and  in  the  course  of  tbe  after- 
noon several  mothers  and  aunts  of  pupils  looked  in  to 
express  their  entire  disapproval  of  the  schoolmaster's 
proceeding.  A  few  confined  themselves  to  hints,  such 
as  politely  inquiring  what  red-letter  day  or  saints' 
day  tbe  almanack  said  it  was;  a  few  (these  were  the 
profound  village  politicians)  argued  that  it  was  a  slight 
to  the  throne  and  affront  to  church  and  state,  and  sa- 
voured of  revolutionary  principles,  to  grant  a  half-holi- 
day upon  any  lighter  occasion  than  the  birth-day  of  tbe 
Monarch  ;  but  the  majority  expressed  their  displeasure 
on  private  grounds  and  in  plain  terms,  arguing  that  to 
put  the  pupils  on  this  short  allowance  of  learning  was 
nothing  but  an  act  of  downright  robbery  and  fraud  :  and 
one  old  lady,  finding  that  she  could  not  influence  or  irri- 
tate the  peaceable  schoolmaster  by  talking  to  him, 
bounced  out  of  his  bouse  and  talked  at  him  for  balf-an- 
hour  outside  his  own  window,  to  another  old  lady,  saying 
that  of  course  he  would  deduct  this  half-holday  from 
his  weekly  charge,  or  of  course  he  would  naturally  ex- 
pect to  have  an  opposition  started  against  him  ;  there 
was  no  want  of  idle  chaps  in  that  neighbourhood  (here 
tbe  old  lady  raised  her  voice),  and  some  chaps  who  were 
too  idle  even  to  be  school-masters,  might  soon  find  that 
there  were  other  chaps  put  over  their  heads,  and  so  she 
would  have  them  take  care,  and  look  pretty  sharp  about 
them.  But  all  these  taunts  and  vexations  failed  to 
elicit  one  word  from  the  schoolmaster,  who  sat  with  the 
child  by  his  side, — a  little  more  dejected  perhaps,  but 
quite  silent  and  uncomplaining. 

Toward  night  an  old  woman  came  tottering  up  the 
garden  as  speedily  as  she  could,  and  meeting  the  school- 
master at  the  door,  said  be  was  to  go  to  Dame  West's 
directly,  and  had  best  run  on  before  her.  He  aind  the 
child  were  on  tbe  point  of  going  out  together  for  a  walk, 
and  without  relinquishing  her  band, the  schoolmaster  hur- 
ried away,  leaving  the  messenger  to  follow  as  she  might. 

They  stoj^ped  at  a  cottage-door,  and  the  schoolmaster 
knocked  softly  at  it  with  his  hand.  It  was  opened  with- 
out loss  of  time.  They  entered  a  room  wheie  a  little 
group  of  women  were  gathered  about  one,  older  than 
tbe  rest,  who  was  crying  very  bitterly,  and  sat  wringing 
her  bands  and  rocking  herself  to  and  fro. 

"  Oh  dame  I  "  said  tbe  schoolmaster,  drawing  near  her 
chair,  "  is  it  so  bad  as  this?  " 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


737 


"He's  going  fast,"  cried  the  old  woman,  "my  grand- 
son's dying.  It's  all  along  of  you.  You  shouldn't  see 
him  now,  but  for  his  being  so  earnest  on  it.  This  is 
what  his  learning  has  brought  him  too.  Oh  dear,  dear, 
dear,  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"Do  not  say  that  I  am  in  any  fault,"  urged  the  gentle 
schoolmaster.  "  I  am  not  hurt,  dame.  No,  no.  You 
are  in  great  distress  of  mind,  and  don't  mean  what  you 
say.    I  am  sure  you  don't." 

"  I  do,"  returned  the  old  woman.  "  I  mean  it  all.  If 
he  hadn't  been  poring  over  his  books  out  of  fear  of  you, 
he  would  have  been  well  and  merry  now,  I  know  he 
would." 

The  schoolmaster  looked  round  upon  the  other  women 
as  if  to  entreat  some  one  among  them  to  say  a  kind  word 
for  him,  but  they  shook  their  heads,  and  murmured  to 
each  other  that  they  never  thought  there  was  much  good 
in  learning,  and  that  this  convinced  them.  Without 
saying  a  word  in  reply,  or  giving  them  a  look  of  reproach, 
he  followed  the  old  woman  who  had  summoned  him  (and 
who  had  now  rejoined  them)  into  another  room,  where 
his  infant  friend,  half  dressed  lay  stretched  upon  a  bed. 

He  was  a  very  young  boy  ;  quite  a  little  child.  His 
hair  still  hung  in  curls  about  his  face,  and  his  eyes  were 
very  bright ;  but  their  light  was  of  Heaven,  not  earth. 
The  schoolmaster  took  a  s.eat  beside  him,  and  stooping 
over  the  pillow,  whispered  his  name.  The  boy  sprung 
up,  stroked  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  threw  his  wasted 
arms  around  his  neck,  crying  out  that  he  was  his  dear 
kind  friend. 

"I  hope  I  always  was.  I  meant  to  be,  God  knows," 
said  the  poor  schoolmaster. 

"  Who  is  that?"  said  the  boy,  seeing  Nell.  "lam 
afraid  to  kiss  her,  lest  I  should  make  her  ill.  Ask  her 
to  shake  hands  with  me." 

The  sobbing  child  came  closer  up,  and  took  the  little 
languid  hand  in  hers.  Releasing  his  again  after  a  time, 
the  sick  boy  laid  him  gently  down. 

"You  remember  the  garden,  Harry,"  whispered  the 
schoolmaster,  anxious  to  rouse  him,  for  a  dulness  seemed 
gathering  upon  the  child,  "and  how  pleasant  it  used  to 
be  in  the  evening  time?  You  must  make  haste  to  visit 
it  again,  for  I  think  the  very  flowers  have  missed  you, 
and  are  less  gay  than  they  used  to  be.  You  will  come 
soon,  my  dear,  very  soon  now, — won't  you  ?  " 

The  boy  smiled  faintly— so  very,  very  faintly — and  put 
his  hand  upon  his  friend's  grey  head.  He  moved  his 
lips  too,  but  no  voice  came  from  them  ;  no,  not  a  sound. 

In  the  silence  that  ensued,  the  hum  of  distant  voices 
borne  upon  the  evening  air  came  floating  through  the 
open  window.  "  What's  that?"  said  the  sick  child, 
opening  his  eyes. 

"  The  boys  at  play  upon  the  green." 

He  took  a  handkerchief  from  his  jjillow,  and  tried  to 
wave  it  above  his  head.  But  the  feeble  arm  dropped 
powerless  down. 

"  Shall  I  do  it  ?  "  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Please  wave  it  at  the  window,"  was  the  faint  reply. 
"  Tie  it  to  the  lattice.  Some  of  them  may  see  it  there. 
Perhaps  they'll  think  of  me,  and  look  this  way." 

He  raised  his  head,  and  glanced  from  the  fluttering 
signal  to  his  idle  bat,  that  lay  with  slate  and  book  and 
other  boyish  property  upon  a  table  in  the  room.  And 
then  he  laid  him  softly  down  once  more,  and  asked  if  the 
little  girl  were  there,  for  he  could  not  see  her. 

She  stepped  forward,  and  pressed  the  passive  hand 
that  lay  upon  the  coverlet.  The  two  old  friends  and 
companions — for  such  they  were,  though  they  were  man 
and  child — held  each  other  in  a  long  embrace,  and  then 
the  little  scholar  turned  his  face  towards  the  wall,  and 
fell  asleep. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  sat  in  the  same  place,  holding 
the  small  cold  hand  in  his,  and  chafing  it.  It  was  but 
the  hand  of  a  dead  child.  He  felt  that  ;  and  yet  he 
chafed  it  still,  and  could  not  lay  it  down. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Almost  broken-hearted,  NelJ  withdrew  with  the 
schoolmaster  from  the  bedside  and  returned  to  his  cot- 
VoL.  II.— 47 


tage.  In  the  midst  of  her  grief  and  tears  she  was  yet 
careful  to  conceal  their  real  cause  from  the  old  man,  for 
the  dead  boy  had  been  a  grandchild,  and  left  but  one 
aged  relative  to  mourn  his  premature  decay. 

She  stole  away  to  bed  as  quickly  as  she  could,  and 
when  she  was  alone,  gave  free  vent  to  the  sorrow  with 
which  her  breast  was  overcharged.  But  the  sad  scene 
she  had  witnessed,  was  not  without  its  lesson  of  content 
and  gratitude  ;  of  content  with  the  lot  which  left  her 
health  and  freedom  ;  and  gratitude  that  she  was  spared 
to  the  one  relative  and  friend  she  loved,  and  to  live  and 
move  in  a  beautiful  world,  when  so  many  young  crea- 
tures— as  young  and  full  of  hope  as  she — were  stricken 
down  and  gathered  to  their  graves.  How  many  of  the 
mounds  in  that  old  churchyard  where  she  had  lately 
strayed,  grew  green  above  the  graves  of  children  !  And 
though  she  thought  as  a  child  herself,  and  did  not  per- 
haps sufficiently  consider  to  what  a  bright  and  happy 
existence  those  who  die  young  are  borne,  and  how  in 
death  they  lose  the  pain  of  seeing  others  die  around 
them^  bearing  to  the  tomb  some  strong  affection  of  their 
hearts  (which  makes  the  old  die  many  times  in  one  long 
life),  still  she  thought  wisely  enough,  to  draw  a  plain 
and  easy  moral  from  what  she  had  seen  that  night,  and 
to  store  it  deep  in  her  mind. 

Her  dreams  were  of  the  little  scholar  ;  not  coffined  and 
covered  up,  but  mingling  with  angels,  and  smiling  hap- 
pily. The  sun  darting  his  cheerful  rays  into  the  room, 
awoke  her ;  and  now  there  remained  but  to  take  leave 
of  the  poor  schoolmaster  and  wander  forth  once  more. 

By  the  time  they  were  ready  to  depart,  school  had 
begun.  In  the  darkened  room,  ihe  din  of  yesterday 
was  going  on  again  ;  a  little  sobered  and  softened  down, 
perhaps,  but  only  a  very  little,  if  at  all.  The  school- 
master rose  from  his  desk  and  walked  with  them  to  the 
gate. 

It  was  with  a  trembling  and  reluctant  hand,  that  the 
child  held  out  to  him  the  money  which  the  lady  had 
given  her  at  the  races  for  her  flowers  :  faltering  in  her 
thanks  as  she  thought  how  small  the  sum  was,  and 
blushing  as  she  offered  it.  But  he  bade  her  put  it  up, 
and  stooping  to  kiss  her  cheek,  turned  back  into  his 
house. 

They  had  not  gone  half-a-dozen  paces  when  he  was  at 
the  door  again  ;  the  old  man  retraced  his  steps  to  shake 
hands,  and  the  child  did  the  same. 

"  Good  fortune  and  happiness  go  with  you  !  "  said  the 
poor  schoolmaster.  "I  am  quite  a  solitary  man  now.  If 
you  ever  pass  this  way  again,  you'll  not  forget  the  little 
village-school." 

"We  shall  never  forget  it,  sir,"  rejoined  Nell;  nor 
ever  forget  to  be  grateful  to  you  for  your  kindness  to 
us." 

"  I  have  heard  such  words  from  the  lips  of  children 
very  often,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  shaking  his  head,  and 
smiling  thoughtfully,  "but  they  were  soon  forgotten. 
I  had  attached  one  young  friend  to  me,  the  better 
friend  for  being  young — but  that's  over — God  bless 
you  ! " 

They  bade  him  farewell  very  many  times,  and  turned 
away,  walking  slowly  and  often  looking  back,  until  they 
had  left  the  village  far  behind,  and  even  lost  sight  of  the 
smoke  among  the  trees.  They  trudged  onward  now,  at 
a  quicker  pace,  resolving  to  keep  the  main  road,  and  go 
wherever  it  might  lead  them. 

But  main  roads  stretch  a  long,  long  way.  With  the 
exception  of  two  or  three  inconsiderable  clusters  of  cot- 
tages which  they  passed,  without  stopping,  and  only  one 
lonely  road-side  public-house  where  they  had  some  bread 
and  cheese,  this  highway  had  led  them  to  nothing — late 
in  the  afternoon — and  still  lengthened  out,  far  in  the 
distance,  the  same  dull,  tedious,  winding  course,  that 
they  had  been  pursuing  all  day.  As  they  had  no  re- 
source, however,  but  to  go  forward,  they  still  kept  on, 
though  at  a  much  slower  pace,  being  very  weary  and 
fatigued. 

The  afternoon  had  worn  away  into  a  beautiful  evening, 
when  they  arrived  at  a  point  where  the  road  made  a 
sharp  turn  and  struck  across  a  common.  On  the  border 
of  this  common,  and  close  to  the  hedge  which  divided  it 
from  the  cultivated  fields,  a  caravan  was  drawn  up  to 
rest ;  upon  which,  by  reason  of  its  situation,  they  came 


738 


CHARLES  DICKENS^  WORKS, 


so  suddenly  that  tliey  coald  not  liave  avoided  it  if  they 
would. 

It  was  not  a  shabby,  dingy,  dusty  cart,  but  a  smart 
little  house  upon  wheels,  with  white  dimity  curtains 
festooning  the  windows,  and  window-shutters  of  green 
picked  out  with  panels  of  a  staring  red,  in  which  hap- 
pily-contrasted colours  the  whole  concern  shone 
brilliant.  Neither  was  it  a  poor  caravan  drawn  by 
a  single  donkey  or  emaciated  horse,  for  a  pair  of 
horses  in  pretty  good  condition  were  released  from  the 
shafts  and  grazing  on  the  frouzy  grass.  Neither  was  it 
a  gipsy  caravan,"for  at  the  open  door  (graced  with  a 
bright*  brass  knocker)  sat  a  christian  lady,  stout  and 
comfortable  to  look  upon,  who  wore  a  large  bonnet 
trembling  with  bows.  And  that  it  was  not  an  unprovided 
or  destitute  caravan  was  clear  from  this  lady's  occupa- 
tion, which  was  the  very  pleasant  and  refreshing  one  of 
taking  tea.  The  tea-things,  including  a  bottle  of  rather 
suspicious  character  and  a  cold  knuckle  of  ham,  were  set 
forth  upon  a  drum,  covered  with  a  white  napkin  ;  and 
there,  as  if  at  the  most  convenient  round-table  in  all  the 
world,  sat  this  roving  lady,  taking  her  tea  and  enjoying 
the  prospect. 

It  happened  that  at  that  moment  the  lady  of  the  cara- 
van had  her  cup  (which,  that  everything  about  her  might 
be  of  a  stout  and  comfortable  kind,  was  a  breakfast  cup) 
to  her  lips,  and  that  having  her  eyes  lifted  to  the  sky  in 
her  enjoyment  of  the  full  flavour  of  the  tea  not  unmin- 
gled  possibly  with  just  the  slightest  dash  or  gleam  of 
something  out  of  tlie  suspicious  bottle — but  this  is  mere 
speculation  and  not  distinct  matter  of  history — it  hap- 
pened that  being  thus  agreeably  engaged,  she  did  not 
see  the  travellers  when  they  first  came  up.  It  was  not 
until  she  was  in  the  act  of  setting  down  the  cup,  and 
drawing  a  long  breath  after  the  exertion  of  causing  its 
contents  to  disappear,  that  the  lady  of  the  caravan  be- 
held an  old  man  and  a  young  child  walking  slowly  by, 
and  glancing  at  her  proceedings  with  eyes  of  modest  but 
hungry  admiration. 

"Hey?"  cried  the  lady  of  the  caravan,  scooping  the 
crumbs  out  of  her  Ian  and  swallowing  the  same  before 
wiping  her  lips.  "  Yes,  to  be  sure. — Who  won  the  Hel- 
ter-Skelter  Plate,  child  !  " 

"  Won  what,  ma'am?"  asked  Nell. 

"The  Helter-Skelter  Plate  at  the  races,  child — the 
plate  that  was  run  for  on  the  second  day." 

"On  the  second  day,  ma'am?" 

"Second  day!  yes,  second  day,"  repeated  the  lady 
with  an  air  of  impatience.  "  Can't  you  say  who  won  the 
Helter-Skelter  Plate  when  you're  asked  the  question 
civilly?" 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am." 

"Don't  know!"  repeated  the  lady  of  the  caravan; 
"  why,  you  were  there.    I  saw  you  with  my  own  eyes." 

Nell  was  not  a  little  alarmed  to  hear  this,  supposing 
that  the  lady  might  be  intimately  acquainted  with,  the 
firm  of  Short  and  Codlin  ;  but  what  followed  tended  to 
reassure  her. 

"  And  very  sorry  I  was,"  said  the  lady  of  the  caravan, 
"  to  see  you  in  company  with  a  Punch  ;  a  low,  practical, 
wulgar  wretch,  that  people  should  scorn  to  look  at." 

"  I  was  not  there  by  choice,"  returned  the  child  ;  "we 
didn't  know  our  way,  and  the  two  men  vvere  very  kind 
to  us,  and  let  us  travel  with  them.  Do  you — do  you 
know  them,  ma'am?" 

"  Know  'em,  child  ! "  cried  the  lady  of  the  caravan  in 
a  sort  of  shriek.  ''VLwow  them  !  But  you're  young  and 
inexperienced,  and  that's  your  excuse  for  asking  sich  a 
question.  Do  I  look  as  if  I  know'd  'em,  does  the  caravan 
,  look  as  if  it  know'd  'era  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am,  no,"  said  the  child,  fearing  she  had  com- 
mitted some  grievous  fault.    "  I  beg  your  pardon." 

It  was  granted  immediately,  though  the  lady  still  ap- 
peared much  ruffled  and  discomposed  by  the  degrading 
suY>position.  The  child  then  explained  that  they  had 
left  the  races  on  the  first  day,  and  wer(;  travelling  to  the 
next  town  on  that  road,  where  tliey  purposed  to  spend 
the  night.  As  the  countenance  of  the  stout  lady  began 
to  clear  up,  she  ventured  to  inquire  how  far  it  was. 
The  reply — which  the  stout  lady  did  not  come  to,  until 
she  had  thoroughly  explained  that  she  went  to  the  races 
on  the  first  day  in  a  gig,  and  as  an  expedition  of  pleas- 


ure, and  that  her  presence  there  had  no  connection  with 
any  matters  of  business  or  profit — was,  that  the  town  was 
eight  miles  off. 

This  discouraging  information  a  little  dashed  the  child, 
who  could  scarcely  repress  a  tear  as  she  glanced  along 
the  darkening  road.  Her  grandfather  made  no  com- 
plaint, but  he  sighed  heavily  as  he  leaned  upon  his  staff, 
and  vainly  tried  to  pierce  the  dusty  distance. 

The  lady  of  the  caravan  was  in  the  act  of  gathering 
her  tea  equipage  together  preparatory  to  cleaning  the 
table,  but  noting  the  child's  anxious  manner  she  hesi- 
tated and  stopped.  The  child  curtseyed,  thanked  her 
for  her  information,  and  giving  her  hand  to  the  old  man 
had  already  got  some  fifty  yards  or  so,  away,  when  the 
lady  of  the  caravan  called  to  her  to  return. 

"Come  nearer,  nearer  still" — said  she,  beckoning  to 
her  to  ascend  the  steps.    "  Are  you  hungry,  child  ?" 

"Not  very,  but  we  are  tired,  and  it's — it  is  a  long 
way  " — 

"  Well,  hungry  or  not  you  had  better  have  some  tea," 
rejoined  her  new  acquaintance.  "  I  suppose  you  are 
agreeable  to  that,  old  gentleman?" 

The  grandfather  humbly  pulled  of  his  hat  and  thanked 
her.  The  lady  of  the  caravan  then  bade  him  come  up 
the  steps  likewise,  but  the  drum  proving  an  inconvenient 
table  for  two,  they  descended  again  and  sat  upon  the 
grass,  where  she  handed  down  to  them  the  tea-tray,  the 
bread  and  butter,  the  knuckle  of  him,  and  in  short  every- 
thing of  which  she  had  partaken  herself,  except  the  bo*t- 
lle,  which  she  had  already  embraced  an  opportunity  of 
slipping  into  her  pocket. 

"  Set  'em  out  near  the  hind  wheels,  child,  that's  the 
best  place" — said  their  friend,  superintending  the  ar- 
rangements from  above.  "Now  hand  up  the  teapot  far 
a  little  more  hot  water,  and  a  pinch  of  fresh  tea,  and 
then  both  of  you  eat  and  drink  as  much  as  you  can,  and 
don't  spare  anything  ;  that's  all  I  ask  of  you." 

They  might  perhaps  have  carried  out  the  lady's  wish, 
if  it  had  been  less  freely  expressed,  or  even  if  it  had  not 
been  expressed  at  all.  But  as  this  direction  relieved 
them  from  any  shadow  of  delicacy  or  uneasiness,  they 
made  a  hearty  meal  and  enjoyed  it  to  the  utmost. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged,  the  lady  of  the  cara- 
van alighted  on  the  earth,  and  with  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her,  and  her  large  bonnet  trembling  excessively, 
walked  up  and  d%wn  in  a  measured  tread  and  very  stately 
manner,  surveying  the  caravan  from  time  to  time  with 
an  air  of  calm  delight,  and  deriving  particular  gratifica- 
tion from  the  red  panels  and  the  brass  knocker.  When 
she  had  taken  this  gentle  exercise  for  some  time,  she  sat 
down  upon  the  steps  and  called  "  George  ;  "  whereupon 
a  man  in  a  carter's  frock,  who  had  been  so  shrouded  in 
a  hedge  up  to  this  time  as  to  see  everything  that  passed 
without  being  seen  himself,  parted  the  twigs  that  con- 
cealed him,  and  appeared  in  a  sitting  attitude,  support- 
ing on  his  legs  a  baking-dish  and  a  half- gallon  stone  bot- 
tle, and  bearing  in  his  right  hand  a  knife,  and  in  his  left 
a  fork. 

"  Yes,  Missus,"  said  George. 

"  How  did  you  find  the  cold  pie,  George  ?" 

"  It  warn't  amiss,  Mum." 

"  And  the  beer,"  said  the  lady  of  the  caravan,  with 
an  appearance  of  being  more  interested  in  this  question 
than  the  last  ;  "  is  it  passable,  George?  " 

"  It's  more  flatterer  than  it  might  be,"  George  returned, 
"  but  it  an't  so  bad  for  all  that." 

To  set  the  mind  of  his  mistress  at  rest,  he  took  a  sip 
(amounting  in  quantity  to  a  pint  or  thereabouts)  from  the 
stone  bottle,  and  then  smacked  his  lips,  winked  his  eye, 
and  nodded  his  head.  No  doubt  with  the  same  amiable 
desire  he  immediately  resumed  his  knife  and  fork,  as  a 
practical  assurance  that  the  beer  had  wrought  no  bad  ef- 
fect upon  his  appetite. 

The  lady  of  the  caravan  looked  on  approvingly  for 
some  time,* and  then  said, 

"  Have  you  nearly  finished  ?  " 

"  Wery  nigh.  Mum."  And  indeed,  after  scraping  the 
dish  all  round  with  his  knife,  and  carrying  the  choice 
brown  morsels  to  his  mouth,  and  after  taking  such  a 
scientific  pull  at  the  stone  bottle  that,  by  degrees  almost 
imperceptible  to  the  sight,  his  head  went  further  and 
further  back  until  he  lay  nearly  at  his  lull  length  upon 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


739 


the  ground,  this  gentlemen  declared  himself  quite  dis- 
engaged, and  came  forth  from  his  retreat. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  hurried  you,  George,"  said  his  mis- 
tress, who  appeared  to  have  a  great  sympathy  with  his 
late  pursuit. 

"If  you  have,"  returned  the  follower,  wisely  reserv- 
ing himself  for  any  favourable  contingency  that  might 
occur,  "  we  must  make  up  for  it  next  time,  that's  ail." 
We  are  not  a  heavy  load,  George?  " 

"  That's  always  what  the  ladies  say,"  replied  the  man, 
looking  a  long  way  round,  as  if  he  were  appealing  to 
Nature  in  general  against  such  monstrous  propositions. 
"If  you  see  a  woman  a  driving,  you'll  always  perceive 
that  she  never  will  keep  her  whip  still  ;  the  horse  can't 
go  fast  enough  for  her.  If  cattle  have  got  their  proper 
load,  you  never  can  persuade  a  woman  that  they'll  not 
bear  something  more.  What  is  the  cause  of  this 
here  ! " 

* '  Would  these  two  travellers  make  much  difference  to 
the  horses,  if  we  took  them  with  us  ? "  asked  his  mis- 
tress, offering  no  reply  to  the  philosophical  inquiry,  and 
pointing  to  Nell  and  the  old  man,  who  were  painfully 
preparing  to  resume  their  journey  on  foot. 

"  They'd  make  a  difference  in  course,"  said  George 
doggedly. 

"  Would  they  make  much  difference  ?  "  repeated  the 
mistress.    "  They  can't  be  very  heavy," 

"The  weight  o'  the  pair.  Mum,"  said  George,  eyeing 
them  with  the  look  of  a  man  who  was  calculating  with- 
in half  an  ounce  or  so,  "  would  be  a  trifle  under  that  of 
Oliver  Cromwell." 

Nell  was  very  much  surprised  that  the  man  should  be 
so  accurately  acquainted  with  the  weight  of  one  whom 
she  had  read  of  in  books  as  having  lived  considerably 
before  their  time,,  but  speedily  forgot  the  subject  in  the 
joy  of  hearing  that  they  were  to  go  forward  in  the  cara- 
van, for  which  she  thanked  its  lady  with  unaffected 
earnestness.  She  helped  with  great  readiness  and  ala- 
crity to  put  away  the  tea-things  and  other  matters  that 
were  lying  about,  and,  the  horses  being  by  that  time 
harnessed,  mounted  into  the  vehicle,  followed  by  her 
delighted  grandfather.  Their  patroness  then  shut  the 
door  and  sat  herself  down  by  her  drum  at  an  open  win- 
dow ;  and,  the  steps  being  struck  by  George  and  stowed 
under  the  carriage,  away  they  went,  with  a  great  noise 
of  flappiiig  and  creaking  and  straining  ;  and  the  bright 
brass  knocker,  which  nobody  ever  knocked  at,  knocking 
one  perpetual  double  knock  of  its  own  accord  as  they 
jolted  heavily  along. 


CHAPTER  XXm 

When  they  had  travelled  slowly  forward  for  some 
short  distance,  Nell  ventured  to  steal  a  look  round  the 
caravan  and  observe  it  more  closely.  One  half  of  it — 
that  moiety  in  which  the  comfortable  proprietress  was 
then  seated — was  carpeted,  and  so  partitioned  -off  at  the 
further  end  as  to  accomodate  a  sleeping-place,  construct- 
ed after  the  fashion  of  a  berth  on  board  ship,  which  was 
shaded,  like  the  little  windows,  with  fair  white  curtains, 
and  looked  comfortable  enough,  though  by  what  kind  of 
gymnastic  exercise  the  lady  of  the  caravan  ever  contrived 
to  get  into  it,  was  an  unfathomable  mystery.  The  other 
half  served  for  a  kitchen,  and  was  fitted  tip  with  a  stove 
whose  small  chimney  passed  through  the  roof.  It  held 
also  a  closet  orlarHer,  several  chests,  a  great  pitcher  of 
water,  and  a  few  cooking  utensils  and  articles  of  crock- 
ery. These  latter  necessaries  hung  upon  the  walls, 
which,  in  that  portion  of  the  establishment  devoted  to 
the  lady  of  the  caravan,  were  ornamented  with  such  gay- 
er and  lighter  decorations  as  a  triangle  and  a  couple  of 
well-thumbed  tambourines. 

The  lady  of  the  caravan  sat  at  one  window  in  all  the 
pride  and  poetry  of  the  musical  instruments,  and  little 
Nell  and  her  grandfather  sat  at  the  other  in  all  the  hu- 
mility of  the  kettle  and  saucepans,  while  the  machine 
jogged  on  and  shifted  the  darkening  prospect  very 
slowly.  At  first  the  two  travellers  spoke  little,  and  only 
in  whispers,  but  as  they  grew  more  familiar  with  the 
place  they  ventured  to  converse  with  greater  freedom, 
and  talked  about  the  country  through  which  they  were 


passing,  and  the  different  objects  that  presented  them 
selves,  until  the  old  man  fell  asleep  ;  which  the  lady 
of  the  caravan  observing,  invited  Nell  to  come  and  sit 
beside  her. 

"Well,  child,"  she  said,  "how  do  you  like  this  way 
of  travelling?" 

Nell  replied  that  she  thought  it  very  pleasant  indeed, 
to  which  the  lady  assented  in  the  case  of  people  who  had 
their  spirits.  For  herself,  she  said,  she  was  troubled 
with  a  lowness  in  that  respect  which  required  a  constant 
stimulant ;  though  Avhether  the  aforesaid  stimulant  was 
derived  from  the  suspicious  bottle  of  which  mention 
has  been  already  made,  or  from  other  sources,  she  did 
not  say. 

"  That's  the  happiness  of  you  young  people,"  she  con- 
tinued. "  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  low  in  your 
feelings.  You  always  have  your  appetites  too,  and  what 
a  comfort  that  is." 

Nell  thought  that  she  could  sometimes  dispense  with 
her  own  appetite  very  conveniently  ;  and  thought,  more- 
over, that  there  was  nothing  either  in  the  lady's  person- 
al appearance  or  in  her  manner  of  taking  tea,  to  lead  to 
the  conclusion  that  her  natural  relish  for  meat  and  drink 
had  at  all  failed  her.  She  silently  assented,  however, 
as  in  duty  bound,  to  what  the  lady  had  said,  and  waited 
until  she  should  speak  again. 

Instead  of  speaking,  however,  she  sat  looking  at  the 
child  for  a  long  time  in  silence,  and  then  getting  up, 
brought  out  from  a  comer  a  large  roll  of  canvas  about  a 
yard  in  width,  which  she  laid  upon  the  floor  and  spread 
open  with  her  foot  until  it  nearly  reached  from  one  end 
of  the  caravan  to  the  other. 

"  There,  child,"  she  said,  "read  that." 

Nell  walked  down  it,  and  read  aloud,  in  enormous 
black  letters,  the  inscription,  "  Jaeley's  Wax- Work." 

"  Read  it  again,"  said  the  lady,  complacently. 

"  Jarley's  Wax- Work,"  repealed  Nell. 

"That's  me,"  said  the  lady.    "  I  am  Mrs.  Jarley." 

Giving  the  child  an  encouraging  look,  intended  to  re- 
assure her  and  let  her  know,  that,  although  she  stood  in 
the  presence  of  the  original  Jarley,  she  must  not  allow 
herself  to  be  utterly  overwhelmed  and  borne  down,  the 
lady  of  the  caravan  unfolded  another  scroll,  whereon 
was  the  inscription,  "One  hundred  figures  the  full  size 
of  life,"  and  then  another  scroll,  on  which  was  written, 
"  The  only  stupendous  collection  of  real  wax- work  in  the 
world,"  and  then  several  smaller  scrolls  with  such  in- 
scriptions as  "Now  exhibiting  within" — "The  genuine 
and  only  Jarley" — "Jarley's  unrivalled  collection" — 
"Jarley  is  the  delight  of  the  Nobility  and  Gentry" — 
"  The  Royal  Family  are  the  patrons  of  Jarley. "  When 
she  had  exhibited  these  leviathans  of  public  announce- 
ment to  the  astonished  child,  she  brought  forth  speci- 
mens of  the  lesser  fry  in  the  shape  of  hand-bills,  some 
of  which  were  couched  in  the  form  of  parodies  on  pop- 
ular melodies,  as  "  Believe  me  if  all  Jarley's  wax-work 
so  rare  " — "  I  saw  thy  show  in  youthful  prime  " — "  Over 
the  water  to  Jarley  ;"  while,  to  consult  all  tastes,  others 
were  composed  with  a  view  to  the  lighter  and  more  face- 
tious spirits,  as  a  parody  on  the  favourite  air  of  "If  I 
had  a  donkey,  "  beginning 

If  I  know'd  a  donkey  wot  wouldn't  go 
To  pee  Mrs.  Jarley's  wax-work  show 
Do  yoii  think  I'd  acknowledge  him  ? 
Oh  no  no  ! 

Then  run  to  Jarley's— 

— besides  several  compositions  in  prose,  purporting  to  he 
dialogues  between  the  Emperor  of  China  and  an  oyster, 
or  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  a  dissenter  on  the 
subject  of  church-rates,  but  all  having  the  same  moral, 
namely,  that  the  reader  must  make  haste  to  Jarley's,  and 
that  children  and  servants  were  admitted  at  half-price. 
When  she  had  brought  all  these  testimonials  of  her  im- 
portant position  in  society  to  bear  upon  her  young  com- 
panion, Mrs.  Jarley  rolled  them  up,  and  having  put 
them  carefully  away,  sat  down  again,  and  looked  at  the 
child  in  triumph. 

"Never  go  into  the  company  of  a  filthy  Punch  any 
more,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  "  after  this." 

"  I  never  saw  any  wax-work,  ma'am,"  said  Nell.  "  Is 
it  funnier  than  Punch  ?  " 


740 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Funnier  !**  said  Mrs.  Jarley  in  a  shrill  voice.  •*  It  is 
not  funny  at  all." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Nell,  with  all  possible  humility. 

"It  isn't  funny  at  all,"  repeated  Mrs.  Jarley.  "It's 
calm  and— what's  that  word  again— critical  ?— no— clas- 
sical, that's  it— it's  calm  and  classical.  No  low  beatings 
and  knockings  about,  no  jokings  and  squeakings  like  your 
precious  Punches,  but  always  the  same,  with  a  constantly 
unchanging  air  of  coldness  and  gentility;  and  so  like 
life,  that  if  wax-work  only  spoke  and  walked  about, 
you'd  hardly  know  the  difference.  I  won't  go  so  far  as 
to  say,  that,"  as  it  is,  I've  seen  wax-work  quite  like  life, 
but  i've  certainly  seen  some  life  that  was  exactly  like 
wax-work." 

"Is  it  here,  ma'am?"  asked  Nell,  whose  curiosity 
was  awakened  by  this  description. 
"  Is  what  here,  child  ?" 
"  The  wax- work,  ma'am." 

"Why,  bless  you,  child,  what  are  you  thinking  of — 
how  could  such  a  collection  be  here,  where  you  see 
everything  except  the  inside  of  one  little  cupboard  and 
a  few  boxes?  It's  gone  on  in  the  other  wans  to  the 
assembly-rooms,  and  there  it'll  be  exhibited  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  You  are  going  to  the  same  town,  and  you'll 
see  it  I  dare  say.  Id's  natural  to  expect  that  you'll  see  it, 
and  I've  no  doubt  you  will.  I  suppose  you  couldn't  stop 
away  if  you  was  to  try  ever  so  much." 

"  I  shall  not  be  in  the  town,  I  think,  ma'am."  said  the 
child. 

"  Not  there  !"  cried  Mrs.  Jarley.  "  Then  where  will 
you  be  ?  " 

"  I — I — don't  quite  know.    I  am  not  certain," 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  travelling  about 
the  country  without  knowing  where  you're  going  to  ?  " 
said  the  lady  of  the  caravan.  "  What  curious  people 
you  are  !  What  line  are  you  in  ?  Tou  looked  to  me  at 
the  races,  child,  as  if  you  were  quite  out  of  your  element, 
and  had  got  there  by  accident." 

"We  were  there  quite  by  accident,"  returned  Nell, 
confused  by  this  abrupt  questioning.  "  We  are  poor 
people,  ma'am,  and  are  only  wandering  about.  We  have 
nothing  to  do  ; — I  wish  we  had." 

"You  amaze  me  more  and  more,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley, 
after  remaining  for  some  time  as  mute  as  one  of  her  own 
figures.  "Why,  what  do  you  call  yourselves?  Not 
beggars  ?  "  • 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  I  don't  know  what  else  we  are," 
returned  the  child. 

"Lord  bless  me,"  said  the  lady  of  the  caravan.  "I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing.    Who'd  have  thought  it  ! " 

She  remained  so  long  silent  after  this  exclamation, 
that  Nell  feared  she  felt  her  having  been  induced  to 
bestow  her  protection  and  conversation  upon  one  so  poor, 
to  be  an  outrage  upon  her  dignity  that  nothing  could 
repair.  This  persuasion  was  rather  confirmed  than 
otherwise  by  the  tone  in  which  she  at  length  broke 
silence  and  said, 

"  And  yet  you  can  read.  And  write  too,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am  said  the  child,  fearful  of  giving  new 
offence  by  the  confession. 

"  Well,  and  wliat  a  thing  that  is,"  returned  Mrs. 
Jarley.    "  J  can't  ! " 

Nell  said  "indeed"  in  a  tone  which  might  imply, 
either  that  she  was  reasonably  surprised  to  find  the 
genuine  and  only  Jarley,  who  was  the  delight  of  the 
Nobility  and  Gentry  and  the  peculiar  pet  of  the  Royal 
Family,  destitute  of  these  familiar  arts  ;  or  that  she 
presumed  so  great  a  lady  could  scarcely  stand  in  need  of 
such  ordinary  accomplishments.  In  whatever  way  Mrs. 
Jarley  received  the  respf)nse,  it  did  not  provoke  her  to 
further  questioning,  or  tempt  her  into  any  more  remarks 
at  the  time,  for  she  relapsed  into  a  thoughtful  silence, 
and  remained  in  that  state  so  long  that  Nell  withdrew  to 
the  other  window  and  rejoined  her  grandfather,  who  was 
now  awake. 

At  length  the  lady  of  the  caravan  shook  ofE  her  fit  of 
meditation,  and,  sunimonmg  the  driver  to  come  under 
the  window  at  which  she  was  seated,  held  a  long  con- 
versation with  liirn  in  a  low  tone  of  voice,  as  if  she  were 
asking  his  advice  on  an  important  point,  and  discussing 
the  pros  and  cons  of  some  very  weighty  matter.  This 


conference  at  length  concluded,  she  drew  in  her  head 
again,  and  beckoned  Nell  to  approach. 

"  And  the  old  gentleman  too,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley  ;  "  for 
I  want  to  have  a  word  with  him.  Do  you  want  a  good 
situation  for  your  grand-daughter,  master  ?  If  you  do, 
I  can  put  her  in  the  way  of  getting  one.  What  do  you 
say  ?  " 

"I  can't  leave  her,"  answered  the  old  man.  "We 
can't  separate.  What  would  become  of  me  without 
her  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  were  old  enough  to  take 
care  of  yourself,  if  you  ever  will  be,"  retorted  Mrs.  Jar- 
ley sharply. 

"  But  he  never  will  be,"  said  the  child  in  an  earnest 
whisper.  I  fear  he  never  will  be  again.  Pray  do  not 
speak  harshly  to  him.  We  are  very  thankful  to  you," 
she  added  aloud  ;  "  but  neither  of  us  could  part  from 
the  other  if  all  the  wealth  of  the  world  were  halved  be- 
tween us." 

Mrs.  Jarley  was  a  little  disconcerted  by  this  reception 
of  her  proposal,  and  looked  at  the  old  man,  who  tender- 
ly took  Nell's  hand  and  detained  it  in  his  own,  as  if  she 
could  have  very  well  dispensed  with  his  company  or 
even  his  earthly  existence.  After  an  awkward  pause, 
she  thrust  her  head  out  of  the  window  again,  and  had 
another  conference  with  the  driver  upon  some  point  on. 
which  they  did  not  seem  to  agree  quite  so  readily  as  on 
their  former  topic  of  discussion  ;  but  they  concluded  at 
last,  and  she  addressed  the  grandfather  again. 

"  If  you're  really  disposed  to  employ  yourself,"  said 
Mrs.  Jarley,  "  there  would  be  plenty  for  you  to  do  in 
the  way  of  helping  to  dust  the  figures,  and  take  the 
checks,  and  so  forth.  What  I  want  your  grand-daugh- 
ter for,  is  to  point  'em  out  to  the  company  ;  they  would 
be  soon  learnt,  and  she  has  a  way  with  her  that  people 
wouldn't  think  unpleasant,  though  she  does  come  after 
me  ;  for  I've  been  always  accustomed  to  go  round  with 
visitors  myself,  which  I  should  keep  on  doing  now,  only 
that  my  spirits  make  a  little  ease  absolutely  necessary. 
It's  not  a  common  offer,  bear  in  mind,"  said  the  lady, 
rising  into  the  tone  and  manner  in  which  she  was  ac- 
customed to  address  her  audiences  ;  "  It's  Jarley's  wax- 
work, remember.  The  duty's  very  light  and  genteel, 
the  company  particular  select,  the  exhibition  takes 
place  in  assembly-rooms,  town-halls,  large  rooms  at  inns 
or  auction  galleries.  There  is  none  of  your  open-air 
wagrancy  at  Jarley's,  recollect  ;  there  is  no  tarpaulin 
and  sawdust  at  Jarley's,  remember.  Every  expectation 
held  out  in  the  handbills  is  realised  to  the  utmost,  and 
the  whole  forms  an  effect  of  imposing  brilliancy  hitherto 
unrivalled  in  this  kingdom.  Remember  that  the  price 
of  admission  is  only  sixpence,  and  that  this  is  an  oppor- 
tunity which  may  never  occur  again  !  " 

Descending  from  the  sublime  when  she  had  reached 
this  point,  to  the  details  of  common  life,  Mrs.  Jarley  re- 
marked that  with  reference  to  salary  she  could  pledge 
herself  to  no  specific  sum  until  she  had  sufficiently 
tested  Nell's  abilities,  and  narrovely  watched  her  in  the 
performance  of  her  duties.  But  board  and  lodging,  both 
for  her  and  her  grandfather,  she  bound  herself  to  pro- 
vide, and  she  furthermore  passed  her  word  that  the 
board  should  always  be  good  in  quality,  and  in  quantity 
plentiful. 

Nell  and  her  grandfather  consulted  together,  and 
while  they  were  so  engaged,  Mrs.  Jarley  with  her  hands 
behind  her  walked  up  and  down  the  caravan,  as  she  had 
walked  after  tea  on  the  dull  earth,  with  uncommon  dig- 
nity and  self-esteem.  Nor  will  this  appear  so  slight  a 
circumstance  as  to  be  unworthy  of  mention,  when  it  is 
remembered  that  the  caravan  was  in  uneasy  motion  all 
the  time,  and  that  none  but  a  person  of  great  natural 
stateliness  and  acquired  grace  could  have  forborne  to 
stagger. 

"  Now,  child,"  cried  Mrs.  Jarley,  coming  to  a  halt  as 
Nell  turned  towards  her. 

"We  are  very  much  obliged  to  you,  ma'am,"  said 
Nell,  "  and  thankfully  accept  your  offer." 

"  And  you'll  never  be  sorry  for  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Jar- 
ley. "  I'm  pretty  sure  of  that.  So  as  that's  all  settled, 
let  us  have  a  bit  of  supper." 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  caravan  blundered  on  as  if  it  i 
too  had  been  drinking  strong  beer  and  was  drowsy,  and 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


741 


came  at  last  upon  the  paved  streets  of  a  town  which 
were  clear  of  passengers,  and  quiet,  for  it  was  by  this 
time  near  midnight  and  the  townspeople  were  all  abed. 
As  it  was  too  late  an  hour  to  rei)air  to  the  exhibition 
room,  they  turned  aside  into  a  piece  of  waste  ground 
that  lay  just  within  the  old  town-gate,  and  drew  up 
there  for  the  night,  near  to  another  caravan,  which, 
notwithstanding  that  it  bore  on  the  lawful  panel  the 
great  name  of  Jarley,  and  was  employed  besides  in  con- 
veying from  place  to  place  the  wax-work  which  was  its 
country's  pride,  was  designated  by  a  grovelling  stamp- 
office  as  a  "  Common  Stage  Waggon  "  and  numbered  too 
— seven  thousand  odd  hundred — as  though  its  precious 
freight  were  mere  flour  or  coals  1 

This  ill-used  machine  being  empty  (for  it  had  de- 
posited its  burden  at  the  place  of  exhibition,  and  lingered 
here  until  its  services  were  again  required)  was  assigned 
to  the  old  man  as  his  sleeping-place  for  the  night  ;  and 
within  its  wooden  walls,  Nell  made  him  up  the  best  bed 
she  could,  from  the  materials  at  hand.  For  herself,  she 
was  to  sleep  in  Mrs.  Jarley's  own  travelling-carriage,  as 
a  signal  mark  of  that  lady's  favour  and  confidence. 

She  had  taken  leave  of  her  grandfatlier  and  was  re- 
turning to  the  other  waggon,  when  she  was  tempted  by 
the  pleasant  coolness  of  the  night  to  linger  for  a  little  while 
in  the  air.  The  moon  was  shining  down  upon  the  old  gate- 
way of  the  town,  leaving  the  low  archway  very  black 
and  dark  ;  and  with  a  mingled  sensation  of  curiosity  and 
fear,  she  slowly  approached  the  gate,  and  stood  still  to 
look  up  at  it,  wondering  to  see  how  dark,  and  grim,  and 
old,  and  cold,  it  looked. 

There  was  an  empty  niche  from  which  some  old 
statue  had  fallen  or  been  carried  away  hundreds  of 
years  ago,  and  she  was  thinking  what  strange  people  it 
inu^t  have  looked  down  upon  when  it  stood  there,  and 
how  many  hard  struggles  might  have  taken  place,  and 
how  many  murders  might  have  been  done,  upon  that 
silent  spot,  when  there  suddenly  emerged  from  the 
black  shade  of  the  arch,  a  man.  The  instant  he  appeared, 
she  recognised  him — Who  could  have  failed  to  recog- 
nise, in  that  instant,  the  ugly  mis-shapen  Quilp  ! 

The  street  beyond  was  so  narrow,  and  the  shadow  of 
the  houses  on  one  side  of  the  way  so  deep,  that  he 
seemed  to  have  risen  out  of  the  earth.  But  there  he  was. 
The  child  withdrew  into  a  dark  corner,  and  saw  him  pass 
close  to  her.  He  had  a  stick  in  his  hand,  and,  when  he 
had  got  clear  of  the  shadow  of  the  gateway,  he  leant 
upon  it,  looked  back — directly,  as  it  seemed,  towards 
where  she  stood — and  beckoned. 

To  her  ?  oh  no,  thank  God,  not  to  her ;  for  as  she 
stood,  in  an  extremity  of  fear,  hesitating  whether  to 
scream  for  help,  or  come  from  her  hiding-place  and  fly, 
before  he  should  draw  nearer,  there  issued  slowly  forth 
from  the  arch  another  figure — that  of  a  boy — who  car- 
ried on  his  back  a  trunk. 

"Faster,  sirrah!"  said  Quilp,  looking  up  at  the  old 
gateway,  and  showing  in  the  moonlight  like  some  mon- 
strous image  that  had  come  down  from  its  niche  and  was 
casting  a  backward  glance  at  its  old  house,  "  faster  !  " 

"It's  a  dreadful  heavy  load,  sir,"  the  boy  pleaded. 
*'  I've  come  on  very  fast,  considering." 

"  You  have  come  fast,  considering  !"  retorted  Quilp  ; 
"  you  creep,  you  dog,  you  crawl,  you  measure  distance 
like  a  worm.  There  are  the  chimes  now,  half-past 
twelve." 

He  stopped  to  listen,  and  then  turning  upon  the  boy 
with  a  suddenness  and  ferocity  that  made  him  start, 
asked  at  what  hour  that  London  coach  passed  the  corner 
of  the  road.    The  boy  replied,  at  one. 

"Come  on  then,"  said  Quilp,  "or  I  shall  be  too  late. 
Faster — do  you  hear  me  ?  Faster." 

The  boy  made  all  the  speed  he  could,  and  Quilp  led 
onward,  constantly  turning  back  to  threaten  him,  and 
urge  him  to  greater  haste.  Nell  did  not  dare  to  move 
until  they  were  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  and  then  hur- 
ried to  where  she  had  left  her  grandfather,  feeling  as  if 
the  very  passing  of  the  dwarf  so  near  him  must  have 
filled  him  with  alarm  and  terror.  But  he  "was  sleeping 
soundly  and  she  softly  withdrew. 

As  she  was  making  her  way  to  her  own  bed,  she  de- 
tei-mined  to  say  nothing  of  this  adventure,  as  upon  what- 
ever errand  the  dwarf  had  come  (and  she  feared  it  must 


have  been  in  search  of  them)  it  was  clear  by  his  inquiry 
about  the  London  coach  that  he  was  on  his  way  home- 
ward, and  as  he  had  passed  through  that  place,  it  was 
but  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they  were  safer  from  his 
inquiries  there,  than  they  could  be  elsewhere.  These 
reflections  did  not  remove  her  own  alarm,  for  she  had 
been  too  much  terrified  to  be  easily  composed,  and  felt 
as  if  she  were  hemmed  in  by  a  legion  of  Quilps,  and  the 
very  air  itself  were  filled  with  them. 

The  delight  of  the  Nobility  and  Gentry  and  the  patro- 
nised of  Royalty  had,  by  some  process  of  self-abridg- 
ment known  only  to  herself,  got  into  her  travelling  bed, 
where  she  was  snoring  peacefully,  while  the  large  bon- 
net, carefully  disposed  u^wn  the  drum,  was  revealing 
its  glories  by  the  light  of  a  dim  lamp  that  swung  from 
the  roof.  Tho  child's  bed  was  already  made  upon  the 
floor,  and  it  was  a  great  comfort  to  her  to  hear  the  steps 
removed  as  soon  as  she  had  entered,  and  to  know  that  all 
easy  communication  between  persons  outside  and  the 
brass  knocker  was  by  this  means  effectually  prevented. 
Certain  guttural  sounds,  too,  which  from  time  to  time 
ascended  through  the  floor  of  the  caravan,  and  a  rustling 
of  straw  in  the  same  direction,  apprised  her  that  the 
driver  was  couched  upon  the  ground  beneath,  and  gave 
her  an  additional  feeling  of  security. 

Notwithstanding  these  protections,  she  could  get  none 
but  broken  sleep  by  fits  and  starts  all  night,  for  fear 
of  Quilp,  who  throughout  her  uneasy  dreams  was  some- 
how connected  with  the  wax-work,  or  was  wax-work 
himself,  or  was  Mrs.  Jarley  and  wax-work  too,  or  was 
himself,  Mrs.  Jarley,  wax-work,  and  a  barrel  organ  all 
in  one,  and  yet  not  exactly  any  of  them  either.  At 
length,  towards  break  of  day,  that  deep  sleep  came  upon 
her  which  succeeds  to  weariness  and  over-watching,  and 
which  has  no  consciousness  but  one  of  overpowering  and 
irresistible  enjoyment. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Sleep  hung  upon  the  eyelids  of  the  child  so  long ,  that, 
when  she  awoke,  Mrs.  Jarley  was  already  decorated  with 
her  large  bonnet,  and  actively  engaged  in  preparing 
breakfast.  She  received  Nell's  apology  for  being  so  late 
with  perfect  goojd-humour,  and  said  that  she  should  not 
have  roused  her  if  she  had  slept  on  until  noon. 

"  Because  it  does  you  good,"  said  the  lady  of  the  cara- 
van, "  when  you're  tired,  to  sleep  as  long  as  ever  you  can, 
and  get  the  fatigue  quite  off,  and  that's  another  bless- 
ing of  your  time  of  life — you  can  sleep  so  very  sound." 

"Have  you  had  a  bad  night,  ma'am  ?  "  asked  Nell. 

"  I  seldom  have  anything  else,  child,"  replied  Mrs. 
Jarley,  with  the  air  of  a  martyr.  "  I  sometimes  wonder 
how  I  bear  it." 

Remembering  the  snores  which  had  proceeded  from 
that  cleft  in  the  caravan  in  which  the  proprietress  of  the 
wax-work  passed  the  night,  Nell  rather  thought  she 
must  have  been  dreaming  of  lying  awake.  However, 
she  expressed  herself  very  sorry  to  hear  such  a  dismal 
account  of  her  state  of  health,  and  shortly  afterwards 
sat  down  with  her  grandfather  and  Mrs.  Jarley  to  break- 
fast. The  meal  finished,  Nell  assisted  to  wash  the  cups 
and  saucers,and  put  them  in  their  proper  places,and  these 
household  duties  performed,  Mrs.  Jarley  arrayed  her- 
self in  an  exceedingly  bright  shawl  for  the  purpose  of 
making  a  progress  through  the  streets  of  the  town. 

"The  wan  will  come  on  to  bring  the  boxes,"  said  Mrs. 
Jarley,  "and  you  had  better  come  in  it,  child.  I  am 
obliged  to  walk,  very  much  against  my  will  ;  but  the 
people  expect  it  cf  me,  and  public  characters  can't  be 
their  own  masters  and  mistresses  in  such  matters  as 
these.    How  do  I  look,  child  ?  " 

Nell  returned  a  satisfactory  reply,  and  Mrs.  Jarley, 
after  sticking  a  great  many  pins  into  various  parts  of  her 
figure,  and  making  several  abortive  attempts  to  obtain  a 
full  view  of  her  own  back,  was  at  last  satisfied  with  her 
appearance,  and  went  forth  majestically. 

The  caravan  followed  at  no  great  distance.  As  it  went 
jolting  through  the  streets,  Nell  peeped  from  the  win- 
dow, curious  to  see  in  what  kind  of  place  they  were, 
and  yet  fearful  of  encountering  at  every  turn  the  dreaded 
face  of  Quilp.    It  was  a  pretty  large  town,  with  an  open 


742  CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


square  which  they  were  crawling  slowly  across  and  in 
the  middle  of  which  was  the  Town-Hall  with  a  clock- 
tower  and  a  weathercock.  There  were  houses  of  stone, 
liouses  of  red  brick,  houses  of  yellow  brick,  houses  of 
lath  and  plaster ;  and  houses  of  wood,  many  of  them 
verv  old,  with  withered  faces  carved  upon  the  beams,  and 
staring  down  into  the  street.  These  had  very  little 
winking  windows,  and  low  arched  doors,  and,  in  some  of 
the  narrower  ways,  quite  overhung  the  pavement.  The 
streets  were  very  clean,  very  sunny,  very  empty,  and  very 
dull.  A  few  idle  men  lounged  about  the  two  inns,  and 
the  empty  market-place,  and  the  tradesmen's  doors,  and 
some  old  people  were  dozing  in  chairs  outside  an  alms- 
house wall  ;  but  scarcely  any  passengers  who  seemed 
bent  on  going  anywhere,  or  to  have  any  object  in  view, 
Avent  by  ;  and  if  perchance  some  straggler  did,  his  foot- 
steps echoed  on  the  hot  bright  pavement  for  minutes 
afterwards.  Nothing  seemed  to  be  going  on  but  the 
clocks,  and  they  had  such  drowsy  faces,  such  heavy 
lazy  hands,  and  such  cracked  voices,  that  they  surely 
must  have  been  too  slow.  The  very  dogs  were  all  asleep, 
and  the  flies,  drunk  with  moist  sugar  in  the  grocer's 
shop,  forgot  their  wings  and  briskness,  and  baked  to 
death  in  dusty  corners  of  the  window. 

Rumbling  along  with  most  unwonted  noise  the  cara- 
van stopped  at  last  at  the  place  of  exhibition,  where 
Nell  dismounted  amidst  an  admiring  group  of  children, 
who  evidently  supposed  her  to  be  an  important  item  of 
the  curiosities,  and  were  fully  impressed  with  the  belief 
that  her  grandfather  was  a  cunning  device  in  wax.  The 
chests  were  taken  out  with  all  convenient  despatch,  and 
taken  in  to  be  unlocked  by  Mrs.  Jarley,  who,  attended  by 
George  and  another  man  in  velveteen  shorts  and  a  drab 
hat  ornamented  with  turnpike  tickets,  were  waiting  to 
dispose  their  contents  (consisting  of  red  festoons  and 
other  ornamental  devices  in  upholstery  work)  to  the 
best  advantage  in  the  decoration  of  the  room. 

They  all  got  to  work  without  loss  of  time,  and  very 
busy  they  were.  As  the  stupendous  collection  were  yet 
concealed  by  cloths,  lest  the  envious  dust  should  injure 
their  complexions,  Nell  bestirred  herself  to  assist  in  the 
embellishment  of  the  room,  in  which  her  grandfather 
also  was  of  great  service.  The  two  men  being  well  used 
to  it,  did  a  great  deal  in  a  short  time  ;  and  Mrs.  Jarley 
served  out  the  tin  tacks  from  a  linen  pocket  like  a  toll- 
collector's  which  she  wore  for  the  purpose,  and  encour- 
aged her  assistants  to  renewed  exertion. 

While  they  were  thus  employed,  a  tallish  gentleman 
with  a  hook  nose  and  black  hair,  dressed  in  a  military 
surtoiit  very  short  and  tight  in  the  sleeves,  and  which 
had  once  been  f rogged  and  braided  all  over,  but  was  now 
sadly  shorn  of  its  garniture  and  quite  threadbare — dressed 
too  in  ancient  grey  pantaloons  fitting  tight  to  the  leg, 
and  a  pair  of  pumps  in  the  winter  of  their  existence- 
looked  in  at  the  door,  and  smiled  affably.  Mrs.  Jarley's 
back  being  then  towards  him,  the  military  gentleman 
shook  his  fore-finger  as  a  sign  that  her  myrmidons  were 
not  to  apprise  her  of  his  presence,  and  stealing  up  close 
behind  her,  tapped  her  on  the  neck,  and  cried  playfuliy 
"  Boh  ! " 

"  What,  Mr.  Slum  ! "  cried  the  lady  of  the  wax- work. 
"  Lor  !  who'd  have  thought  of  seeing  you' here  !  " 

"'Pon  my  soul  and  honour,"  said  Mr.  Slum,  "  that's  a 
good  remark.  'Pon  my  soul  and  honour  that's  a  wise  re- 
mark. Who  would  have  thought  it !  George,  my  faith- 
ful feller,  how  are  you?" 

George  received  this  advance  with  a  surly  indifference, 
observing  that  he  was  well  enough  for  the  matter  of  that, 
and  hammering  lustily  all  the  time. 

"  I  came  here,"  said  the  military  gentleman,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Jarley, — '"pon  my  soul  and  honour  I  hardly  know 
what  I  came  here  for.  It  would  puzzle  me  to  toll  you,  it 
would  by  Gad.  I  wanted  a  little  inspiration,  a  little  fresh- 
ening  up,  a  little  change  of  ideas,  and — 'Pon  my  soul  and 
honour,"  said  the  military  gentleman,  checking  himself 
and  looking  round  the  room,  "what  a  devilish  classical 
thing  this  is  !    By  Gad,  it's  quite  Minervian  ! " 

"  It'll  look  well  enough  when  it  comes  to  be  finished," 
observed  Mrs.  Jarley, 

"Well  enough  ! "  said  Mr.  Slum.  "  Will  you  believe 
me  when  I  say  it's  the  delight  of  my  life  to  have  dabbled 
in  poetry,  when  1  think  I've  exercised  my  pen  upon  this 


charming  theme?  By  the  way — any  orders?  Is  there 
any  little  thing  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"It  comes  so  very  expensive,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Jarley, 
"  and  I  really  don't  think  it  does  much  good." 

"  Hush  !  No,  no  !"  returned  Mr.  Slum,  elevating  his 
I  hand.  "  No  fibs.  I'll  not  hear  it.  Don't  say  it  don't  do 
good.    Don't  say  it.    I  know  better  !  " 

"  I  don't  think  it  does,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley. 

"  Ha,  ha  ! "  cried  Mr.  Slum,"  you're  giving  way,  you're 
coming  down.  Ask  the  perfumers,  ask  the  blacking- 
makers,  ask  the  hatters,  ask  the  old  lottery-office  keep- 
ers— ask  any  man  among  'em  what  my  poetry  has  done 
for  him,  and  mark  my  words,  he  blesses  tlie  name  of 
Slum.  If  he's  an  honest  man,  he  raises  his  eyes  to  heav- 
en, and  blesses  the  name  of  Slum — mark  that  !  You  are 
acquainted  with  Westminster  Abbey,  Mrs.  Jarley  ?  " 

"Yes,  surely." 

"  Then  upon  my  soul  and  honour,  ma'am,  you'll  find 
in  a  certain  angle  of  that  dreary  pile,  called  Poet's  Cor- 
ner, a  few  smaller  names  than  Slum,"  retorted  that  gen- 
tleman, tapping  himself  expressively  on  the  forehead  to 
imply  that  there  was  some  slight  quantity  of  brains  be- 
hind it.  "  I've  got  a  little  trifle  here,  now,"  said  Mr. 
Slum,  taking  off  his  hat  which  was  full  of  scraps  of  pa- 
per, "a  little  trifle  here,  thrown  off  in  the  heat  of  the 
moment,  which  I  should  say  was  exactly  the  thing  you 
wanted  to  set  this  place  on  fire  with.  It's  an  acrostic — 
the  name  at  this  moment  is  Warren,  but  the  idea's  a  con- 
vertible one,  and  a  positive  inspiration  for  Jarley.  Have 
the  acrostic. " 

"  I  suppose  it's  very  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley. 

"Five  shillings,"  returned  Mr.  Slum,  using  his  pencil 
as  a  tooth-pick.    "Cheaper  than  any  prose." 

"  I  couldn't  give  more  than  three,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley. 

" — And  six,"  retorted  Slum.  "Come,  Three-and- 
six." 

Mrs.  Jarley  was  not  proof  against  the  poet's  insinuating 
manner,  and  Mr.  Slum  entered  the  order  in  a  small  note- 
book as  a  three-and-sixpenny  one.  Mr.  Slum  then  with- 
drew to  alter  the  acrostic,  after  taking  a  most  affectionate 
leave  of  his  patroness,  and  promising  to  return,  as  soon 
as  he  possibly  could,  with  a  fair  copy  for  the  printer. 

As  his  presence  had  not  interfered  with  or  interrupted 
the  preparations,  they  were  now  far  advanced,  and  were 
completed  shortly  after  his  departure.  When  the  fes- 
toons were  all  put  up  as  tastily  as  they  might  be,  the  stu- 
pendous collection  was  uncovered,  and  there  were  dis- 
played, on  a  raised  platform  some  two  feet  from  the  floor, 
running  round  the  room  and  parted  from  the  rude  public 
by  a  crimson  rope  breast  high,  divers  sprightly  effigies 
of  celebrated  characters,  singly  and  in  groups,  clad  in 
glittering  dresses  of  various  climes  and  times,  and  stand- 
ing more  or  less  unsteadily  upon  their  legs,  with  their 
eyes  very  wide  open,  and  their  nostrils  very  much  in- 
flated, and  the  muscles  of  their  legs  and  arms  very 
strongly  developed,  and  all  their  countenances  express- 
ing great  surprise.  All  the  gentlemen  were  very  pigeon- 
breasted  and  very  blue  about  the  beards  ;  and  all  the 
ladies  were  miraculous  figures  ;  and  all  the  ladies  and  all 
the  gentlemen  were  looking  intensely  nowhere,  and  star- 
ing with  extraordinary  earnestness  at  nothing. 

When  Nell  had  exhausted  her  first  raptures  at  this 
glorious  sight,  Mrs.  Jarley  ordered  the  room  to  be  cleared 
of  all  but  herself  and  the  child,  and,  sitting  herself  down 
in  an  arm-chair  in  the  centre,  formally  invested  Nell 
with  a  willow  wand,  long  used  by  herself  for  pointing 
out  the  characters,  and  was  at  great  pains  to  instruct  her 
in  her  duty. 

"  That,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley  in  her  exhibition  tone,  as 
Nell  touched  a  figure  at  the  beginning  of  the  platform, 
"  is  an  unfortunate  Maid  of  Honor,  in  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  who  died  from  pricking  her  finger  in  conse- 
quence of  working  upon  a  Sunday.  Observe  the  blood 
which  is  trickling  from  her  finger  ;  also  the  gold-eyed 
needle  of  the  period,  with  which  she  is  at  work," 

All  this,  Nell  repeated  twice  or  thrice  ;  pointing  to  the 
finger  and  the  needle  at  the  right  times  :  and  then  passed 
on  to  the  next. 

"  That,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  "  is 
Jasper  Packlemerton  of  atrocious  memory,  who  courted 
and  married  fourteen  wives,  and  destroyed  them  all,  by 
tickling  the  soles  of  their  feet  when  they  were  sleeping 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNlVEHSirv  Oft  ILLINOIS 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


743 


in  tlie  consciousness  of  innocence  and  virtue.  On  beinpc 
brought  to  the  scaffold  and  asked  if  he  was  sorry  for 
what  he  had  done,  he  replied  yes,  he  was  sorry  for  hav- 
ing let  'em  off  so  easy,  and  hoped  all  Christian  husbands 
would  pardon  hirathe  offence.  Let  this  1)0  a  warning  to 
all  young  ladies  to  be  particular  in  the  character  of  the 
gentlemen  of  their  choice.  Observe  that  his  fingures  are 
curled  as  if  in  the  act  of  tickling,  and  that  his  face  is 
represented  with  a  wink,  as  he  appeared  when  commit- 
ting his  barbarous  murders." 

When  Nell  knew  all  about  Mr.  Packlemerton,  and 
could  say  it  without  faltering,  Mrs.  Jarley  passed  on  to 
the  fat  man,  and  then  to  the  thin  man,  the  tall  man,  the 
short  man,  the  old  lady  who  died  of  dancing  at  a  hun- 
dred and  thirty -two,  the  wild  boy  of  the  woods,  the 
woman  who  poisoned  fourteen  families  with  pickled 
walnuts,  and  other  historical  characters  and  interesting 
but  misguided  individuals.  And  so  well  did  Nell  profit 
by  her  instructions,  and  so  apt  was  she  to  remember 
them,  that  by  the  time  they  had  been  shut  up  together 
for  a  couple  of  hours,  she  was  in  full  possession  of  the 
history  of  the  whole  establishment,  and  perfectly  com- 
petent to  the  enlightenment  of  visitors. 

Mrs.  Jarley  was  not  slow  to  express  her  admiration  at 
this  happy  result,  and  carried  her  young  friend  and 
pupil  to  inspect  the  remaining  arrangements  within 
doors,  by  virtue  of  which  the  passage  had  been  already 
converted  into  a  grove  of  green  baize  hung  with  the 
inscription  she  had  already  seen  (Mr.  Slum's  produc- 
tion), and  a  highly  ornamented  table  placed  at  the  upper 
end  for  Mrs.  Jarley  herself,  at  which  she  was  to  preside 
and  take  the  money,  in  company  with  his  Majesty  King 
George  the  Third,  Mr.  Grimaldi  as  clown,  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots,  an  anonymous  gentleman  of  the  Quaker  per- 
suasion, and  Mr.  Pitt  holding  in  his  hand  a  correct 
model  of  the  bill  for  the  imposition  of  the  wdndow  duty. 
The  preparations  without  doors  had  not  been  neglected 
either  ;  a  nun  of  great  personal  attractions  was  telling 
her  beads  on  the  little  portico  over  the  door ;  and  a 
brigand  with  the  blackest  possible  head  of  hair,  and  the 
clearest  possible  complexion,  was  at  that  moment  going 
Vound  the  town  in  a  cart,  consulting  the  miniature  of  a 
lady. 

It  now  only  remained  that  Mr.  Slum's  composition 
should  be  judiciously  distributed  ;  that  the  pathetic  ef- 
fusions should  find  their  way  to  all  private  houses  and 
tradespeople  :  and  that  the  parody  commencing  "  If  I 
know'd  a  donkey,"  should  be  confined  to  the  taverns,  and 
circulated  only  among  the  lawyers'  clerks  and  choice 
spirits  of  the  place.  When  this  had  been  done,  and 
Mrs.  Jarley  had  waited  upon  the  boarding-schools  in 
person,  with  a  handbill  composed  expressly  for  them,  in 
which  it  was  distinctly  proved  that  wax-work  refined  the 
mind,  cultivated  the  taste,  and  enlarged  the  sphere  of 
the  human  understanding,  that  indefatigable  lady  sat 
down  to  dinner,  and  drank  out  of  the  suspicious  bottle  to 
a  flourishing  campaign. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Unquestionably  Mrs.  Jarley  had  an  inventive  genius. 
In  the  midst  of  the  various  devices  for  attracting  visitors 
to  the  exhibition,  little  Nell  was  not  forgotten.  The 
light  cart  in  which  the  Brigand  usually  made  his  per- 
ambulations being  gaily  dressed  with  flags  and  streamers, 
and  the  Brigand  placed  therein,  contemplating  the  min- 
iature of  his  beloved  as  usual,  Nell  was  accommodated 
with  a  seat  beside  him,  decorated  with  artificial  flowers, 
and  in  this  state  and  ceremony  rode  slowly  through  the 
town  every  morning,  dispersing  handbills  from  a  basket, 
to  the  sound  of  drum  and  trumpet.  The  beauty  of  the 
child,  coupled  with  her  gentle  and  timid  bearing,  pro- 
duced quite  a  sensation  in  the  little  country  place.  The 
Brigand,  heretofore  a  source  of  exclusive  interest  in  the 
streets,  became  a  mere  secondary  consideration,  and  to 
be  imnortant  only  as  a  part  of  the  show  of  which  she  Avas 
the  chief  attraction.  Grown-up  folks  began  to  be  inter- 
ested in  the  bright-eyed  girl,  and  some  score  of  little 
boys  fell  desperately  in  love,  and  constantly  left  inclos- 
ures  of  nuts  and  apples,  directed  in  small-text,  at  the 
wax-work  door. 


This  desirable  impression  was  not  lost  on  Mrs.  Jarley, 
who,  lest  Nell  should  become  too  cheap,  soon  sent  the 
Brigand  out  alone  again,  and  kept  her  in  the  exhibition 
room,  where  she  described  the  figures  every  half-hour 
to  the  great  satisfaction  of  admiring  audiences.  And 
these  audiences  were  of  a  very  superior  description,  in- 
cluding a  great  many  young  ladies'  boarding-schools, 
whose  favour  Mrs.  Jarley  had  been  at  great  pains  to  con- 
ciliate, by  altering  the  face  and  costume  of  Mr.  Grimaldi 
as  clown  to  represent  Mr.  Lindley  Murray  as  he  appeared 
when  engaged  in  the  composition  of  his  English  Gram- 
mar, and  turning  a  murderess  of  great  renown  into  Mrs. 
Hannah  More — both  of  which  likenesses  were  admitted 
by  Miss  Monflathers,  who  was  at  the  head  of  the  Board- 
ing and  Day  Establishment  in  the  town,  and  who  con- 
descended to  take  a  Private  View  with  eight  chosen 
young  ladies,  to  be  quite  startling  from  their  extreme 
correctness.  Mr.  Pitt  in  a  nightcap  and  bedgown,  and 
without  his  boots,  represented  the  poet  Cowper  with  per- 
fect exactness  ;  and  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  in  a  dark  wig, 
white  shirt-collar,  and  male  attire,  was  such  a  complete 
image  of  Lord  Byron  that  the  young  ladies  quite  scream- 
ed when  they  saw  it.  Miss  Monflathers,  however,  re- 
buked this  enthusiasm,  and  took  occasion  to  reprove 
Mrs.  Jarley  for  not  keeping  her  collection  more  select : 
observing  that  His  Lordship  had  held  certain  opinions 
quite  incompatible  with  wax-work  honours,  and  adding 
something  about  a  Dean  and  Chapter,  which  Mrs.  Jarley 
did  not  understand. 

Although  her  duties  were  sufficiently  laborious,  Nell 
found  in  the  lady  of  the  caravan  a  very  kind  and  con- 
siderate person,  who  had  not  only  a  peculiar  relish  for 
being  comfortable  herself,  but  for  making  everybody 
about  her  comfortable  also  ;  which  latter  taste,  it  may 
be  remarked,  is,  even  in  persons  who  live  in  much  finer 
places  than  caravans,  a  far  more  rare  and  uncommon  one 
than  the  first,  and  is  not  by  any  means  its  necessary  con- 
sequence. As  her  popularity  procured  her  various  little 
fees  from  the  visitors  on  which  her  patroness  never  de- 
manded any  toll,  and  as  her  grandfather  too  was  well- 
treated  and  useful,  she  had  no  cause  of  anxiety  in  con- 
nexion with  the  Avax-work,  beyond  that  which  sprung 
from  her  recollection  of  Quilp,  and  her  fears  that  he 
might  return  and  one  day  suddenly  encounter  them. 

Quilp  indeed  was  a  perpetual  nightmare  to  the  child, 
who  was  constantly  haunted  by  a  vision  of  his  ugly  face 
and  stunted  figure.  She  slept,  for  their  better  security, 
in  the  room  where  the  wax-work  figures  were,  and  she 
never  retired  to  this  place  at  night,  but  she  tortured  her- 
self— she  could  not  help  it — with  imagining  a  resem- 
blance, in  some  one  or  other  of  their  death-like  faces,  to 
the  dwarf,  and  this  fancy  would  sometimes  so  gain  upon 
her  that  she  would  almost  believe  he  had  removed  the 
figure  and  stood  within  the  clothes.  Then  there  were 
so  many  of  them  with  their  great  glassy  eyes — and,  as 
they  stood  one  behind  the  other  all  about  her  bed,  they 
looked  so  like  living  creatures,  and  yet  so  unlike  in  their 
grim  stillness  and  silence,  that  she  had  a  kind  of  terror 
of  them  for  their  own  sakes,  and  would  often  lie  watch- 
ing their  dusky  figures  until  she  was  obliged  to  rise  and 
light  a  candle,  or  go  and  sit  at  the  open  windoAv  and  feel  a 
companionship  in  the  bright  stars.  At  these  times,  she 
would  recall  the  old  house  and  the  wdndow  at  Avhich  she 
used  to  sit  alone  ;  and  then  she  Avould  think  of  poor  Kit 
all  his  kindness,  until  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and 
and  she  would  weep  and  smile  together. 

Often  and  anxiously  at  this  silent  hour,  her  thoughts 
reverted  to  her  grandfather,  and  she  would  wonder  how 
much  he  remembered  of  their  fonner  life,  and  w^hetherhe 
was  ever  really  mindful  of  the  change  in  their  condition 
and  of  their  late  helplessness  and  destitution.  Wlien 
they  were  wandering  about,  she  seldom  thought  of  this, 
but  now  she  could  not  help  considering  Avhat  would  be- 
come of  them  if  he  fell  sick,  or  her  own  strength  were 
to  fail  her.  He  was  very  patient  and  willing,  happy  to 
execute  any  little  task,  and  glad  to  be  of  use  ;  but  he  was 
in  the  same  listless  state,  with  no  prospect  of  improve- 
ment—a mere  child— a  poor,  thoughtless,  vacant  crea- 
ture— a  harmless  fond  old  man,  susceptible  of  tender  love 
and  regard  for  her,  and  of  pleasant  and  painful  impres- 
sions, but  alive  to  nothing  more.  It  made  her  very  sad 
to  know  that  this  was  so-^so  sad  to  see  it  that  sometimes 


744 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  W0RK8, 


when  he  sat  idly  by,  smiling  and  nodding  to  her  when 
she  looked  round,  or' when  he  caressed  some  little  child 
and  carried  it  to  and  fro,  as  he  was  fond  of  doing  by  the 
hoar  together,  perplexed  by  its  simple  questions,  yet 
patient  under  his  own  infirmity,  and  seeming  almost  con- 
scious of  it  too,  and  humbled  even  before  the  mind  of 
an  infant— so  sad  it  made  her  to  see  him  thus,  that  she 
would  burst  into  tears,  and,  withdrawing  into  some  se- 
cret place,  fall  down  upon  her  knees,  and  pray  that  he 
might  be  restored. 

But,  the  bitterness  of  her  grief  was  not  in  beholding 
him  in  this  condition,  when  he  was  at  least  content  and 
tranquil,  nor  in  her  solitary  meditations  on  his  altered 
state,  tl'iough  these  were  trials  for  a  young  heart. 
Cause  for  deeper  and  heavier  sorrow  was  yet  to  come. 

One  evening,  a  holiday  night  with  them,  Nell  and  her 
grandfather  went  out  to  walk.  They  had  been  rather 
closely  confined  for  some  days,  and  the  weather  being 
warm",  they  scrolled  a  long  distance.  Clear  of  the  town, 
they  took  a  foot- path  which  struck  through  some  pleas- 
ant fields,  judging  that  it  would  terminate  in  the  road 
they  quitted  and  enable  them  to  return  that  way.  It 
made,  however,  a  much  wider  circuit  than  they  had  sup- 
posed, and  thus  they  were  tempted  onward  until  sunset, 
when  they  reached  the  track  of  which  they  were  in 
search,  and  stopped  to  rest. 

It  had  been  gradually  getting  overcast,  and  now  the 
sky  was  dark  and  lowering,  save  where  the  glory  of  the 
departing  sun  piled  up  masses  of  gold  and  burning  fire, 
decaying  embers  of  which  gleamed  here  and  there 
through  the  black  veil,  and  shone  redly  down  upon  the 
earth.  The  wind  began  to  moan  in  hollow  murmurs,  as 
the  sun  went  down  carrying  glad  day  elsewhere  ;  and  a 
train  of  dull  clouds  coming  up  against  it,  menaced  thun- 
der and  lightning.  Large  drops  of  rain  soon  began  to 
fall,  and,  as  the  storm  clouds  came  sailing  onward, 
others  supplied  the  void  they  left  behind  and  spread 
over  all  the  sky.  Then  was  heard  the  low  rumbling  of 
distant  thunder,  then  the  lightning  quivered,  and  then 
the  darkness  of  an  hour  seemed  to  have  gathered  in  an 
instant. 

Fearful  of  taking  shelter  beneath  a  tree  or  hedge,  the 
old  man  and  the  child  hurried  along  the  high  road,  hop- 
ing to  find  some  house  in  which  they  could  seek  a  refuge 
from  the  storm,  which  had  now  burst  forth  in  earnest, 
and  every  moment  increased  in  violence.  Drenched 
with  the  pelting  rain,  confused  by  the  deafening  thun- 
der, and  bewildered  by  the  glare  of  the  forked  light- 
ning, they  would  have  passed  a  solitary  house  without 
being  aware  of  its  vicinity,  had  not  a  man,  who  was 
standing  at  the  door,  called  lustily  to  them  to  enter. 

"  Your  ears  ought  to  be  better  than  other  folks'  at  any 
rate,  if  you  make  so  little  of  the  chance  of  being  struck 
blind,"  he  said,  retreating  from  the  door  and  shading 
his  eyes  with  his  hands  as  the  jagged  lightning  came 
again.  "  What  were  you  going  past  for,  eh  ?  "  he  added 
as  he  closed  the  door  and  led  the  way  along  a  passage 
to  a  room  behind. 

"  We  didn't  see  the  house,  sir,  till  we  heard  you  call- 
ing," Nell  replied. 

"  No  wonder,"  said  the  man,  "  with  this  lightning  in 
one's  eyes,  by-the-by.  You  had  better  stand  by  the  fire 
here,  and  dry  yourselves  a  bit.  You  can  call  fo/whatyou 
like  if  you  want  anything.  If  you  don't  want  anything, 
you're  not  obliged  to  give  an  order.  Don't  be  afraid  of 
that.  This  is  a  public-house,  that's  all.  The  Valiant 
Soldier  is  pretty  well  known  hereabouts." 

"  Is  this  house  called  the  Valiant  Soldier,  sir  ?  "  asked 
Nell. 

"  I  thought  everybody  knew  that,"  replied  the  land- 
lord. "  Where  have  you  come  from,  if  you  don't  know 
the  Valiant  Soldier  as  well  as  the  church  catechism  ? 
This  is  the  Valiant  Soldier  by  James  Groves, — Jem 
Groves — honest  Jem  Groves,  as  is  a  man  of  unblemished 
moral  character,  and  lias  a  good  dry  skittle-ground.  If 
any  man  has  got  anything  to  say  again  Jem  Groves,  let 
him  say  it  to  Jem  Groves,  and  Jem  Groves  can  accommo- 
date him  with  a  customer  on  any  terms  from  four  pound 
a  side  to  forty. "  - 

With  these  words,  the  speaker  tapped  himself  on  the 
waistcoat,  to  intimate  that  lie  was  the  Jem  Groves  so 
highly  eulogised  ;  sparred  scientifically  at  a  counterfeit 


Jem  Groves,  who  was  sparring  at  society  in  general  from 
a  black  frame  over  the  chimney-piece  ;  anfl,  applying  a 
half-emptied  glass  of  spirits  and  water  to  his  lips,  drank 
Jem  Groves's  health. 

The  night  being  warm,  there  was  a  large  screen 
drawn  across  the  room,  for  a  barrier  against  the  heat  of 
the  fire.  It  seemed  as  if  somebody  on  the  other  side  of 
this  screen  had  been  insinuating  doubts  of  Mr.  Groves's 
prowess,  and  had  thereby  given  rise  to  these  egotistical 
expressions,  for  Mr.  Groves  wound  up  his  defiance  by 
giving  a  loud  knock  upon  it  with  his  knuckles,  and 
pausing  for  a  reply  from  the  other  side. 

"  There  an't  many  men,"  said  Mr.  Groves,  no  answer 
being  returned,  "  who  would  ventur'  to  cross  Jem 
Groves  under  his  own  roof.  There's  only  one  man,  I 
know,  that  has  nerve  enough  for  that,  and  that  man's 
not  a  hundred  mile  from  here  neither.  But  he's  worth 
a  dozen  men,  and  I  let  him  say  of  me  whatever  he  likes 
in  consequence, — he  knows  that." 

In  return  for  this  complimentary  address,  a  very  gruff 
hoarse  voice  bade  Mr.  Groves  '*  hold  his  nise  and  light  a 
candle."  And  the  same  voice  remarked  that  the  same 
gentleman  "  needn't  waste  his  breath  in  brag,  for  most 
people  knew  pretty  well  what  sort  of  stuff  he  was  made 
of." 

"Nell,  they're — they're  playing  cards,"  whispered 
the  old  man,  suddenly  interested.  Don't  you  hear 
them  ?  " 

Look  sharp  with  that  candle,"  said  the  voice  ;  **  it's 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  see  the  pips  on  the  cards  as  it  is  ; 
and  get  this  shutter  closed  as  quick  as  you  can,  will 
you  ?  Your  beer  will  be  the  worse  for  to-night's  thun- 
der I  expect. — Game  !  Seven-and-sixpence  to  me,  old 
Isaac.    Hand  over." 

"Do  you  hear,  Nell,  do  you  hear  them?"  whispered 
the  old  man  again,  with  increased  earnestness,  as  the 
money  chinked  upon  the  tabic. 

"I  haven't  seen  such  a  storm  as  this,"  said  a  sharp 
cracked  voice  of  most  disagreeable  quality,  when  a  tre- 
mendous peal  of  thunder  had  died  away,  "  since  the 
night  when  old  Luke  Withers  won  thirteen  times  run- 
ning, on  the  red.  We  all  said  he  had  the  Devil's  luck 
and  his  own,  and  as  it  was  the  kind  of  night  for  the  Devil 
to  be  out  and  busy,  I  suppose  he  was  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  if  any  body  could  have  seen  him." 

"Ah  1 "  returned  the  gruff  voice,  " for  all  old  Luke's 
winning  through  thick  and  thin  of  late  years,  I  remem- 
ber  the  time  when  he  was  the  unluckiest  and  unfortu- 
natest  of  men.  He  never  took  a  dice-box  in  his  hand,  or 
hold  a  card  but  he  was  plucked,  pigeoned,  and  cleaned 
out  completely." 

"Do  you  hear  what  he  says?"  whispered  the  old  man. 
"  Do  you  hear  that,  Nell?  " 

The  child  saw  with  astonishment  and  alarm  that  his 
whole  appearance  had  undergone  a  complete  change. 
His  face  was  flushed  and  eager,  his  eyes  were  strained, 
his  teeth  set,  his  breath  came  short  and  thick,  and  the 
hand  he  laid  upon  her  arm  trembled  so  violently  that 
she  shook  beneath  his  grasp. 

"Bear  witness,"  he  muttered,  looking  upward,  "that 
I  always  said  it,  that  I  knew  it,  dreamed  of  it,  felt  it 
was  the  truth,  and  that  it  must  be  so  !  W^hat  money 
have  we,  Nell  ?  Come  !  I  saw  you  with  money  yester- 
day.   What  money  have  we  ?  Giveittome." 

"  No,  no,  let  me  keep  it,  grandfather,"  said  the 
frightened  child.  "  Let  us  go  away  from  here.  Do  not 
mind  the  rain.    Pray  let  us  go." 

"Give  it  to  me,  I  say,"  returned  the  old  man  fiercely. 
* '  Hufih,  hush,  don't  cry,  Nell.  If  I  spoke  sharply,  dear, 
I  didn't  mean  it.  It's  for  thy  good.  I  have  wronged  thee, 
Nell,  but  I  will  right  thee  yet,  I  will  indeed.  Where  is 
the  money  ?  " 

"  Do  not  take  it,"  said  the  child.  "  Pray  do  not  take 
it,  dear.  For  both  our  sakes  let  me  keep  it,  or  let  me 
throw  it  away — better  let  me  throw  it  away,  than  you 
take  it  now.    Let  us  go  ;  do  let  us  go." 

"Give  me  the  money,"  returned  the  old  man,  "I 
must  have  it.  There — there — that's  my  dear  Nell.  I'll 
right  thee  one  day,  child,  I'll  right  tlieo,  never  fear  ! " 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a  little  purse.  He  seized  it 
with  the  same  rapid  impatience  which  had  characterised 
his  speech,  and  hastily  made  his  way  to  the  other  side  of 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  8I10P,  745 


the  screen.  It  was  impossible  to  restrain  him,  and  the 
trembling  child  followed  close  behind. 

The  landlord  had  placed  a  light  upon  the  table,  and 
was  engaged  in  drawing  the  curtain  of  the  window.  The 
speakers  whom  they  had  heard  were  two  men,  who  had 
a  pack  of  cards  and  some  silver  money  between  them, 
while  upon  the  screen  itself  the  games  they  had  played 
were  scored  in  chalk.  The  man  with  the  rough  voice 
was  a  burly  fellow  of  middle  age,  with  large  black 
whiskers,  broad  cheeks,  a  coarse  wide  mouth,  and  bull 
neck,  which  was  pretty  freely  displayed  as  his  shirt  col- 
lar was  only  confined  by  a  loose  red  neckerchief.  He 
wore  his  hat,  which  was  of  a  brownish-white,  and  had 
beside  him  a  thick  knotted  stick.  The  other  man, 
whom  his  companion  had  called  Isaac,  was  of  a  more 
slender  figure — stooping,  and  high  in  the  shoulders — 
with  a  very  ill-favoured  face,  and  a  most  sinister  and 
villanous  squint. 

"  Now  old  gentleman,"  said  Isaac,  looking  round. 
"  Do  you  know  either  of  us  ?  This  side  of  the  screen  is 
private,  sir." 

"No  offence,  I  hope,"  returned  the  old  man. 

"But  by  G — ,  sir,  there  is  offence,"  said  the  other, 
interrupting  him,  "when  you  intrude  yourself  upon  a 
couple  of  gentlemen  who  are  particularly  engaged." 

"  I  had  no  intention  to  offend,"  said  the  old  man, 
looking  anxiously  at  the  cards.    "I  thought  that — " 

"But  you  had  no  right  to  think,  sir,"  retorted  the 
other.  "  Wliat  the  devil  has  a  man  at  your  time  of  life 
to  do  with  thinking  ?  " 

"  Now  bully  boy,"  said  the  stout  man  raising  his  eyes 
from  his  cards  for  the  first  time,  "can't  you  let  him 
speak  ?  " 

The  landlord  who  had  apparently  resolved  to  remain 
neutral  until  he  knew  which  side  of  the  question  the 
stout  man  would  espouse,  chimed  in  at  this  place  with 
"  Ah,  to  be  sure,  can't  you  let  him  speak,  Isaac  List?" 

"  Can't  I  let  him  speak,"  sneered  Isaac  in  reply,  mim- 
icking as  nearly  as  he  could  in  his  shrill  voice,  the 
tones  of  the  landlord.  "  Yes,  I  can  let  him  speak.  Jem- 
my Groves." 

"  Well  then,  do  it,  will  you  ?  "  said  the  landlord. 

Mr.  List's  squint  assumed  a  portentous  character, 
which  seemed  to  threaten  a  prolongation  of  this  contro- 
versy, when  his  companion  who  had  been  looking 
sharply  at  the  old  man,  put  a  timely  stop  to  it. 

"  Who  knows,"  said  he,  with  a  cunning  look,  "but 
the  gentleman  may  have  civilly  meant  to  ask  if  he  might 
have  the  honour  to  take  a  hand  with  us  ! " 

"  I  did  mean  it,"  cried  the  old  man.  "  That  is  what 
I  mean.    That  is  what  I  want  now  !" 

"  I  thought  so,"  returned  the  same  man.  "  Then  who 
knows  but  the  gentleman,  anticipating  our  objection  to 
play  for  love,  civilly  desired  to  play  for  money?" 

The  old  man  replied  by  shaking  the  little  purse  in  his 
eager  hand,  and  then  throwing  it  down  upon  the  table, 
and  gathering  up  the  cards  as  a  miser  would  clutch  at 
gold. 

"Oh  !  That 'indeed — "  said  Isaac  ;  "if  that's  what 
the  gentleman  meant,  I  beg  the  gentleman's  pardon.  Is 
this  the  gentleman's  little  purse  ?  A  very  pretty  little 
purse.  Rather  a  light  purse,"  added  Isaac,  throwing.it 
into  the  air  and  catching  it  dexterously,  "  but  enough  to 
amuse  a  gentleman  for  half  an  hour  or  so." 

"  We'll  make  a  four-handed  game  of  it,  and  take  in 
Groves,"  said  the  stout  man.    "  Come,  Jemmy." 

The  landlord  who  conducted  himself  like  one  who  was 
well  used  to  such  little  parties,  approached  the  table  and 
took  his  seat.  The  child,  in  a  perfect  agony,  drew  her 
grandfather  aside,  and  implored  him,  even  then,  to 
come  away. 

"  Come  ;  and  we  may  be  so  happy,"  said  the  child. 

"  We  will  be  happy,"  replied  the  old  man,  hastily, 
"  Let  me  go,  Nell.  The  means  of  happiness  are  on  the 
cards  and  in  the  dice.  We  must  rise  from  little  win- 
nings to  great.  There's  little  to  be  won  here  ;  but  great 
will  come  in  time.  I  shall  but  win  back  my  own,  and 
it's  all  for  thee,  my  darling." 

"  God  help  us  !  "  cried  the  child.  "  Oh  1  what  hard 
fortune  brought  us  liere  ! " 

"  Hush  1 "  rejoined  the  old  man,  laying  his  hand  upon 
her  mouth,     Fortune  will  not  bear  chiding.    We  must 


not  reproach  her,  or  she  shuns  us  ;  I  have  found  that 
out." 

"Now,  mister,"  said  the  stout  man.  "  If  you're  not 
coming  yourself,  give  us  the  cards,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  coming,"  cried  the  old  man.  "  Sit  thee  down, 
Nell,  sit  thee  down  and  look  on.  Be  of  good  heart,  it's 
all  for  thee — all — every  penny.  I  don't  tell  them,  no, 
no,  or  else  they  wouldn't  play,  dreading  the  chance  that 
such  a  cause  must  give  me.  Look  at  them.  See  what 
they  are  and  what  thou  art.  Who  doubts  that  we  must 
win  1  " 

"The  gentleman  has  thought  better  of  it,  and  isn't 
coming/'  said  Isaac,  making  as  though  he  would  rise 
from  the  table.  "  I'm  sorry  the  gentleman's  daunted — 
nothing  venture,nothinghave — but  the  gentleman  knows 
best." 

"  Why  I  am  ready.  You  have  all  been  slow  but  me," 
said  the  old  man.  "  I  wonder  who's  more  anxious  to  be- 
gin than  I." 

As  ho  spoke  he  drew  a  chair  to  the  table  ;  and  the  other 
three  closing  round  it  at  the  same  time,  the  game  com- 
menced. 

The  child  sat  by,  and  watched  its  progress  with  a 
troubled  mind.  Regardless  of  the  run  of  luck,  and 
mindful  only  of  the  desperate  passion  which  had  its  hold 
upon  her  grandfather,  losses  and  gains  were  to  her  alike. 

Exulting  in  some  brief  triumph,  or  cast  down  by  a  de- 
feat, there  he  sat  so  wild  and  restless  so  feverishly  and 
intensely  anxious,  so  terribly  eager,  so  ravenous  for  the 
paltry  stakes,  that  she  could  have  almost  better  borne  to 
see  him  dead.  And  yet  she  was  the  innocent  cause  of  all 
this  torture,  and  he,  gambling  with  such  a  savage  thirst 
for  gain  as  the  most  insatiable  gambler  never  felt,  had 
not  one  selfish  thought  ! 

On  the  contrary,  the  other  three — knaves  and  game- 
sters by  their  trade — while  intent  upon  their  gam.e,  were 
yet  as  cool  and  quiet  as  if  every  virtue  had  been  centred 
in  their  breasts.  Sometimes  one  would  look  up  to  smile 
to  another,  or  to  snuff  the  feeble  caudle,  or  to  glance  at 
the  lightning  as  it  shot  through  the  open  window  and 
fluttering  curtain,  or  to  listen  to  some  louder  peal  of 
thunder  than  the  rest,  with  a  kind  of  momentary  impa- 
tience, as  if  it  put  him  out  ;  but  there  they  sat,  with  a 
calm  indifference  to  everything  but  their  cards,  perfect 
philosophers  in  appearance,  and  with  no  greater  show  of 
passion  or  excitement  than  if  they  had  been  made  of 
stone. 

The  storm  had  raged  for  full  three  hours  ;  the  light- 
ning had  grown  fainter  and  less  frequent  ;  the  thunder, 
from  seeming  to  roll  and  break  above  their  heads,  had 
gradually  died  away  into  a  deep  hoarse  distance  ;  and  still 
the  game  went  on,  and  still  the  anxious  child  was  quite 
forgotten. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

At  length  the  play  came  to  an  end,  and  Mr,  Isaac  List 
rose  the  only  winner.  Mat  and  the  landlord  bore  their 
losses  with  professional  fortitude.  Isaac  pocketed  his 
gains  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  quite  made  up  his 
mind  to  win,  all  along,  and  was  neither  surprised  nor 
pleased. 

Nell's  little  purse  was  exhausted  ;  but  although  it  lay 
empty  by  his  side,  and  the  other  players  had  now  risen 
from  the  table,  the  old  man  sat  poring  over  the  cards, 
dealing  them  as  they  had  been  dealt  before,  and  turning 
up  the  different  hands  to  see  what  each  man  would  have 
held  if  they  had  still  been  playing.  He  was  quite  ab- 
sorbed in  this  occupation,  when  the  child  drew  near  and 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  telling  him  it  was  near 
midnight. 

"See  the  curse  of  poverty,  Nell,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
the  packs  he  had  spread  out  upon  the  table.  "  If  I 
could  have  gone  on  a  little  longer,  only  a  little  longer, 
the  luck  would  have  turned  on  my  side.  Yes,  it's  as 
plain  as  the  marks  upon  the  cards.  See  here — and  there 
— and  here  again." 

"  Put  them  away,"  urged  the  child.  "  Try  to  forget 
them." 

"  Try  to  forget  them  !"  he  rejoined,  raising  his  hag- 
gard face  to  hers,  and  regarding  her  with  an  incredulous 


746 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


stare.  ''To  forget  them  I  How  are  we  ever  to  grow 
rich  if  I  forget  them  ?" 

The  child  could  onlv  shake  her  head. 

"  No,  no,  Nell,"  said  the  old  man,  patting  her  cheek  ; 
"they  must  not  be  forgotten.  We  must  make  amends 
for  this  as  soon  as  we  can.  Patience— patience,  and 
we'll  right  thee  yet,  I  promise  thee.  Lose  to-day,  win 
■  to-morrow.  And  nothing  can  be  won  without  anxiety 
and  care— nothing.    Come,  I  am  ready." 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  time  is?  "  said  Mr.  Groves, 
who  was  smoking  with  his  friends.  "Past  twelve 
o'clock — " 

"  — And  a  rainy  night,"  added  the  stout  man. 

*'  The  Valiant  Soldier,  by  James  Groves.  Good  beds. 
Cheap  entertainment  for  man  and  beast,"  said  Mr. 
Groves,  quoting  his  signboard.  "  Half -past  twelve 
o'clock." 

"  It's  very  late,"  said  the  uneasy  child.  "  I  wish  we 
had  gone  before.  What  will  they  think  of  us  !  It  will 
be  two  o'clock  by  the  time  we  get  back.  What  would 
it  cost,  sir,  if  we  stopped  here?" 

"  Two  good  beds,  one-and-sixpence  ;  supper  and  beer 
one  shilling ;  total,  two  shillings  and  sixpence,"  replied 
the  Valiant  Soldier. 

Now,  Nell  had  still  the  piece  of  gold  sewn  in  her 
dress  ;  and  when  she  came  to  consider  the  lateness  of  the 
hour,  and  the  somnolent  habits  of  Mrs.  Jarley,  and  to 
imagine  the  state  of  consternation  in  which  they  would 
certainly  throw  that  good  lady  by  knocking  her  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night — and  when  she  reflected,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  if  they  remained  where  they  were,  and 
rose  early  in  the  morning,  they  might  get  back  before 
she  awoke,  and  could  plead  the  violence  of  the  storm  by 
which  they  had  been  overtaken,  as  a  good  apology  for 
their  absence — she  decided,  after  a  great  deal  of  hesita- 
tion, to  remain.  She  therefore  took  her  grandfather 
aside,  and  telling  him  that  she  had  still  enough  left  to 
defray  the  cost  of  their  lodging,  proposed  that  they 
should  stay  there  for  the  night. 

"  If  I  had  had  but  that  money  before  — If  I  had  only 
known  of  it  a  few  minutes  ago  ! "  muttered  the  old 
man. 

"  We  will  decide  to  stop  here  if  you  please,"  said 
Nell,  turning  hastily  to  the  landlord. 

"  I  think  that's  prudent,"  returned  Mr.  Groves.  "  You 
shall  have  your  suppers  directly." 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Groves  had  smoked  his  pipe 
out,  knocked  out  the  ashes,  and  placed  it  carefully  in  a 
corner  of  the  fire-place,  with  the  bowl  downwards,  he 
brought  in  the  bread  and  cheese,  and  beer,  with  many 
high  encomiums  upon  their  excellence,  and  bade  his 
guests  fall  to,  and  make  themselves  at  home.  Nell  and 
her  grandfather  ate  sparingly,  for  both  were  occupied 
with  their  own  reflections  ;  the  other  gentlemen,  for 
whose  constitutions  beer  was  too  weak  and  tame  a  liquid, 
consoled  themselves  with  spirits  and  tobacco. 

As  they  would  leave  the  house  very  early  in  the 
morning,  the  child  was  anxious  to  pay  for  their  enter- 
tainment before  they  retired  to  bed.  But  as  she  felt  the 
necessity  of  concealing  her  little  hoard  from  her  grand- 
father, and  had  to  change  the  piece  of  gold,  she  took  it 
secretly  from  its  place  of  concealment,  and  embraced  an 
opportunity  of  following  the  landlord  when  he  went  out 
of  the  room,  and  tendered  it  to  him  in  the  little  bar. 

"  Will  you  give  me  the  change  here,  if  you  please?  " 
said  the  child. 

Mr.  James  Groves  was  evidently  surprised,  and  looked 
at  the  money,  and  rung  it,  and  looked  at  the  child,  and 
at  the  money  again,  as  thouo^h  he  had  a  mind  to  inquire 
how  she  came  by  it.  The  coin  being  genuine,  however, 
and  changed  at  his  house,  he  probably  felt,  like  a  wise 
landlord,  that  it  was  no  business  of  his.  At  any  rate,  he 
counted  out  the  change,  and  gave  it  her.  The  child  was 
returning  to  the  room  where  they  had  passed  the  even- 
ing, when  she  fancied  she  saw  a  figure  just  gliding  in 
at  the  door.  There  was  nothing  but  a  long  dark  j)as- 
sage  between  this  door  and  the  place  where  she  had 
changed  the  money,  and,  being  very  certain  that  no  per- 
son liad  passed  in  or  out  while  she  stood  there,  the 
thought  struck  her  that  she  had  been  watched. 

But  by  whom?  When  she  re-entered  the  room,  she 
found  its  inmates  exactly  as  she  had  left  them.  The 


stout  fellow  lay  upon  two  chairs,  resting  his  head  on  his 
hand,  and  the  squinting  man  reposed  in  a  similar  attitude 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  Between  them  sat  her 
grandfather,  looking  intently  at  the  winner  with  a  kind 
of  hungry  admiration,  and  hanging  upon  his  words  as  if 
he  were  some  superior  being.  She  was  puzzled  for  a 
moment,  and  looked  round  to  see  if  anyone  else  were 
there.  No.  Then  she  asked  her  grandfather  in  a  whisper 
whether  anybody  had  left  the  room  while  she  was  ab- 
sent.   **  No,"  he  said,  "nobody." 

It  must  have  been  her  fancy  then  ;  and  yet  it  was 
strange,  that,  without  anything  in  her  previous  thoughts 
to  lead  to  it,  she  should  have  imagined  this  figure  so 
very  distinctly.  She  was  still  wondering  and  thinking 
of  it,  when  a  girl  came  to  light  her  to  bed. 

The  old  man  took  leave  of  the  company  at  the  same 
time,  and  they  went  up-stairs  together.  It  was  a  great 
rambling  house,  with  dull  corridors  and  wide  staircases 
which  the  flaring  candles  seemed  to  make  more  gloomy. 
She  left  her  grandfather  in  his  chamber,  and  followed 
her  guide  to  another,  which  was  at  the  end  of  a  passage, 
and  approached  by  some  half-dozen  crazy  steps.  This 
was  prepared  for  her.  The  girl  lingered  a  little  while 
to  talk,  and  tell  her  grievances.  She  had  not  a  good 
place,  she  said  ;  the  wages  were  low,  and  the  work  was 
hard.  She  was  going  lo  leave  it  in  a  fortnight  ;  the 
child  couldn't  recommend  her  to  another,  she  supposed? 
Indeed  she  was  afraid  another  would  be  difficult  to  get 
after  living  there,  for  the  house  had  a  very  indifferent 
character ;  there  was  far  too  much  card-playing,  and 
such  like.  She  was  very  much  mistaken  if  some  of  the 
people  who  came  there  oftenest  were  quite  as  honest  as 
they  might  be,  but  she  wouldn't  have  it  known  that  she 
had  said  so,  for  the  world.  Then  there  were  some  ram- 
bling allusions  to  a  rejected  sweetheart,  who  had  threat- 
ened to  go  a  soldiering — a  final  promise  of  knocking  at 
the  door  early  in  the  morning — and  "  Good  night." 

The  child  did  not  feel  comfortable  when  she  was  left 
alone.  She  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  figure  steal- 
ing through  the  passage  down -stairs  ;  and  what  the  girl 
had  said  did  not  tend  to  reassure  her.  The  men  were 
very  ill-looking.  They  might  get  their  living  by  robbing 
and  murdering  travellers.    Who  could  tell? 

Reasoning  herself  out  of  these  fears,  or  losing  sight  of 
them  for  a  little  while,  there  came  the  anxiety  to  which 
the  adventures  of  the  night  gave  rise.  Here  was  the 
old  passion  awakened  again  in  her  grandfather's  breast, 
and  to  what  further  distraction  it  might  tempt  him 
Heaven  only  knew.  What  fears  their  absence  might 
have  occasioned  already  !  Persons  might  be  seeking  for 
them  even  then.  Would  they  be  forgiven  in  the  morn- 
ing, or  turned  adrift  again  !  Oh  !  why  had  they  stopped 
in  that  strange  place?  It  would  have  been  better,  under 
any  circumstances,  to  have  gone  on  ! 

At  last,  sleep  gradually  stole  upon  her — a  broken,  fit- 
ful sleep,  troubled  by  dreams  of  falling  from  high  tow- 
ers, and  waking  with  a  start  and  in  great  terror.  A 
deeper  slumber  followed  this — and  then — What !  That 
figure  in  the  room  ! 

A  figure  was  there.  Yes,  she  had  drawn  up  the  blind 
to  admit  the  light  when  it  should  dawn,  and  there,  be- 
tween the  foot  of  the  bed  and  the  dark  casement,  it 
crouched  and  slunk  along,  groping  its  way  with  noise- 
less hands,  and  stealing  round  the  bed.  She  had  no 
voice  to  cry  for  help,  no  power  to  move,  but  lay  still, 
watching  it. 

On  it  came — on,  silently  and  stealthily,  to  the  bed's 
head.  The  breath  so  near  her  pillow,  that  she  shrunk 
back  into  it,  lest  those  wandering  hands  should  light 
upon  her  face.  Back  again  it  stole  to  the  window — then 
turned  its  head  towards  her. 

The  dark  form  was  a  mere  blot  upon  the  lighter  dark- 
ness of  the  room,  but  she  saw  the  turning  of  the  head, 
and  felt  and  knew  how  the  eyes  looked  and  the  ears 
listened.  There  it  remained,  motionless  as  she.  At 
length,  still  keeping  the  face  towards  her,  it  busied  its 
hands  in  something,  and  she  heard  the  chink  of  money. 

Then,  on  it  came  again,  silent  and  stealthy  as  before, 
and  replacing  the  garments  it  had  taken  from  the  bed- 
side, dro])ped  upon  its  hands  and  knees,  and  crawled 
away.  How  slowly  it  seemed  to  move,  now  that  she 
could  hear  but  not  see  it,  creeping  along  the  floor  !  It 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


747 


readied  the  door  at  last,  and  stood  upon  its  feet.  The 
steps  creaked  beneath  its  noiseless  tread,  and  it  was 
gone. 

The  first  impulse  of  the  child  was  to  fly  from  the  ter- 
ror of  being-  by  herself  in  that  room — to  have  somebody 
by — not  to  be  alone — and  then  her  ])Ovver  of  speech 
would  be  restored.  With  no  consciousness  of  having 
moved,  she  gained  the  door. 

There  was  the  dreadful  shadow,  pausing  at  the  bottom 
of  the  steps. 

She  could  not  pass  it ;  she  might  have  done  so,  per- 
haps, in  the  darkness,  without  being  seized,  but  her 
blood  curdled  at  the  thought.  The  figure  stood  quite 
still,  and  so  did  she  ;  not  boldly,  but  of  necessity  ;  for 
going  back  into  the  room  was  hardly  less  terrible  than 
going  on. 

The  rain  beat  fast  and  furiously  without,  and  ran  down 
in  plashing  streams  from  the  thatched  roof.  Some  sum- 
mer insect,  with  no  escape  into  the  air,  flew  blindly  to 
and  fro,  beating  its  body  against  the  walls  and  ceiling, 
and  filling  the  silent  place  with  murmurs.  The  figure 
moved  again.  The  child  involuntarily  did  the  same. 
Once  in  her  grandfather's  room,  she  would  be  safe. 

It  crept  along  the  passage  until  it  came  to  the  very 
door  she  longed  so  ardently  to  reach.  The  child,  in  the 
agony  of  being  so  near,  had  almost  darted  forward  with 
the  design  of  bursting  into  the  room  and  closing  it  be- 
hind her,  when  the  figure  stopped  again. 

The  idea  flashed  suddenly  upon  her — what  if  it  en- 
tered there,  and  had  a  design  upon  the  old  man's  life  ! 
She  turned  faint  and  sick.  It  did.  It  went  in.  There 
was  a  light  inside.  The  figure  was  now  within  the  cham- 
ber, and  she,  still  dumb — quite  dumb,  and  almost  sense- 
less— stood  looking  on. 

The  door  was  partly  open.  Not  knowing  what  she 
meant  to  do,  but  meaning  to  preserve  him  or  be  killed 
herself,  she  staggered  forward  and  looked  in. 

What  sight  was  that  which  met  her  view  ! 

The  bed  had  not  been  lain  on,  but  was  smooth  and  empr 
ty.  And  at  a  table  sat  the  old  man  himself ;  the  only 
living  creature  there  ;  his  white  face  pinched  and  sharp- 
ened by  the  greediness  which  made  his  eyes  unnaturally 
bright — counting  the  money  of  which  his  hands  had 
robbed  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

With  steps  more  faltering  and  unsteady  than  those 
with  which  she  had  approached  the  room,  the  child  with- 
drew from  the  door,  and  groped  her  way  back  to  her  own 
chamber.  The  terror  she  had  lately  felt  was  nothing 
compared  with  that  which  now  oppressed  her.  No 
strange  robber,  no  treacherous  host  conniving  at  the 
plunder  of  his  guests,  or  stealing  to  their  beds  to  kill 
them  in  their  sleep,  no  nightly  prowler,  however  terrible 
and  cruel,  could  have  awakened  in  her  bosom  half  the 
dread  which  the  recognition  of  her  silent  visitor  in- 
spired. The  gray -headed  old  man  gliding  like  a  ghost 
into  her  room  and  acting  the  thief  while  he  supposed 
her  fast  asleep,  then  bearing  ofE  his  prize  and  hanging 
over  it  ^vith  the  ghastly  exultation  she  had  witnessed, 
was  worse — immeasurably  worse,  and  far  more  dreadful, 
for  the  moment,  to  reflect  upon — than  anything  her  wild- 
est fancy  could  have  suggested.  If  he  should  return — 
there  was  no  lock  or  bolt  upon  the  door,  and  if,  distrust- 
ful of  having  left  some  money  yet  behind,  he  should  come 
back  to  seek  for  more — a  vague  awe  and  horror  surround- 
ed the  idea  of  his  slinking  in  again  with  stealthy  tread,  and 
turning  his  face  toward  the  empty  bed,  while  she  shrank 
down  close  at  his  feet  to  avoid  his  touch,  which  was  al- 
most insupportable.  She  sat  and  listened.  Hark  !  A 
footstep  on  the  stairs,  and  now  the  door  was  slowly  open- 
ing. It  was  but  imagination,  yet  imagination  had  all  the 
terrors  of  reality  ;  nay,  it  was  worse,  for  the  reality  would 
have  come  and  gone,  and  there  an  end,  but  in  imagina- 
tion it  was  always  coming,  and  never  went  away. 

The  feeling  which  beset  the  child  was  one  of  dim  un- 
eertain  horror.  She  had  no  fear  of  the  dear  old  grand- 
father, in  whose  love  for  her  this  disease  of  the  brain 
had  been  engendered  ;  but  the  man  she  had  seen  that 
night,  wrapt  in  the  game  of  chance,  lurking  in  her  room, 


and  counting  the  money  by  the  glimmering  li^ht,  seemed 
like  another  creature  in  his  shape,  a  monstrous  distortion 
of  his  image,  a  something  to  recoil  from,  and  be  the  more 
afiaid  of,  because  it  bore  a  likeness  to  him,  and  kept 
close  about  lier  as  he  did.  She  could  scarcely  connect 
her  own  affectionate  companion,  save  by  his  loss,  with 
this  old  man,  so  like  yet  so  unlike  him.  She  had  wept 
to  see  him  dull  and  quiet.  How  much  greater  cause  she 
had  for  weeping  now  ! 

The  child  sat  watching  and  thinking  of  these  things, 
until  the  phantom  in  her  mind  so  increased  in  gloom  and 
terror,  that  she  felt  it  would  be  a  relief  to  hear  the  old 
man's  voice,  or,  if  ho  were  asleep,  even  to  see  him,  and 
banish  some  of  the  fears  that  clustered  round  his  image. 
She  stole  down  the  stairs  and  passage  again.  The  door 
was  still  ajar  as  she  had  left  it,  and  the  candle  burning 
as  before. 

She  had  her  own  candle  in  her  hand,  prepared  to  say, 
if  he  were  waking,  that  she  was  uneasy  and  could  not 
rest,  and  had  come  to  see  if  his  were  still  alight.  Look- 
ing into  the  room,  she  saw  him  lying  calmly  on  his  bed, 
and  so  took  courage  to  enter. 

Fast  asleep — no  passion  in  the  face,  no  avarice,  no  anx- 
iety, no  wild  desire  ;  all  gentle,  tranquil,  and  at  peace. 
This  was  not  the  gambler,  or  the  shadow  in  her  room  ; 
this  was  not  even  the  worn  and  jaded  man  whose  face 
had  so  often  met  her  own  in  the  gray  morning  light  ;  this 
was  her  dear  old  friend,  her  harmless  fellow  traveller, 
her  good,  kind  grandfather. 

She  had  no  fear  as  she  looked  upon  his  slumbering 
features,  but  she  had  a  deep  and  weighty  sorrow,  and  it 
found  its  relief  in  tears. 

"God  bless  him  !"  said  the  child,  stooping  softly  to 
kiss  his  placid  cheek.  "I  see  too  well  now,  that  they 
would  indeed  part  us  if  they  found  us  out,  and  shut 
him  up  from  the  light  of  the  sun  and  sky.  He  has  only 
me  to  help  him.    God  bless  us  both  ! " 

Lighting  her  candle,  she  retreated  as  silently  as  she 
had  come,  and  gaining  her  own  room  once  more,  sat  up 
during  the  remainder  of  that  long,  long,  miserable 
night. 

At  last  the  day  turned  her  waning  candle  pale,  and 
she  fell  asleep.  She  was  quickly  roused  by  the  girl 
who  had  shown  her  up  to  bed  ;  and,  as  soon  as  she  was 
dressed,  prepared  to  go  down  to  her  grandfather.  But 
first  she  searched  her  pocket  and  found  that  her  money 
was  all  gone — not  a  sixpence  remained. 

The  old  man  was  ready,  and  in  a  few  seconds  they 
were  on  their  road.  The  child  thought  he  rather  avoided 
her  eye,  and  appeared  to  expect  that  she  would  tell  him 
of  her  loss.  She  felt  she  must  do  that,  or  he  might 
suspect  the  truth. 

"Grandfather,"  she  said  in  a  tremulous  voice,  after 
they  had  walked  about  a  mile  in  silence,  "  do  you  think 
they  are  honest  people  at  the  house  yonder  ?  "  * 

"Why?"  returned  the  old  man  tremblmg.  "Do  I 
think  them  honest — yes,  they  played  honestly." 

"I'll  tell  you  why  I  ask,"  rejoined  Nell.  "I  lost 
some  money  last  night — out  of  my  bedroom  I  am  sure. 
Unless  it  was  taken  by  somebody  in  jest — only  in  jest, 
dear  grandfather,  which  would  make  me  laugh  heartily 
if  I  could  but  know  it — " 

"Who  would  take  money  in  jest?"  returned  the  old 
man,  in  a  hurried  manner.  "Those  who  take  money, 
take  it  to  keep.    Don't  talk  of  jest." 

"  Then  it  was  stolen  out  of  my  room,  dear,"  said  the 
child,  whose  last  hope  was  destroyed  by  the  manner  of 
this  reply. 

"  But  is  there  no  more,  Nell?"  said  the  old  man  ;  "no 
more  anywhere  ?  Was  it  all  taken — every  farthing  of  it 
— was  there  nothing  left?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  the  child. 

"We  must  get  more,"  said  the  old  man,  "we  must 
earn  it,  Nell,  hoard  it  up,  scrape  it  together,  come  by  it 
somehow.  Never  mind  this  loss.  Tell  nobody  of  it, 
and  perhaps  we  may  regain  it.  Don't  ask  how  ;— we 
may  regain  it,  and  a  great  deal  more  ; — but  tell  nobody, 
or  trouble  may  come  of  it.  And  so  they  took  it  out  of 
thy  room,  when  thou  wert  asleep  !  "  he  added  in  a  com- 
passionate tone,  very  different  from  the  secret,  cunning 
way  in  which  he  had  spoken  until  now.  "  Poor  Nell, 
poor  little  Nell  1 " 


748 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


The  child  hung  down  her  head  and  wept.  The  sym- 
pathising tone  in  which  he  spoke,  was  quite  sincere ; 
she  was  sure  of  that.  It  was  not  the  lightest  part  of 
her  sorrow  to  know  that  this  was  done  for  her. 

"  Not  a  word  about  it  to  any  one  but  me,"  said  the 
old  man,  "no,  not  even  to  me,"  he  added  hastily,  "for 
it  can  do  no  good.  All  the  losses  that  ever  were  are  not 
worth  tears  from  thy  eyes,  darling.  Why  should  they 
be,  when  we  will  win  them  back?" 

"Let  them  go,"  said  the  child  looking  up.  "Let 
them  go,  once  and  for  ever,  and  I  will  never  shed  an- 
other tear  if  every  penny  had  been  a  thousand  pounds." 

"Well,  well,"  returned  the  old  man,  checking  him- 
self as  some  impetuous  answer  rose  to  his  lips,  "  she 
knows  no  better.    I  should  be  thankful  for  it." 

"But  listen  to  me,"  said  the  child  earnestly,  "will 
you  listen  to  me  ?" 

"Aye,  aye,  I'll  listen,"  returned  the  old  man,  still 
without  looking  at  her  ;  "  a  pretty  voice.  It  has  always 
a  sweet  sound  to  me.  It  always  had  when  it  was  her 
mother's,  poor  child." 

"  Let  me  persuade  you,  then— oh,  do  let  me  persuade 
you,"  said  the  child,  "to  think  no  more  of  gains  or 
losses,  and  to  try  no  fortune  but  the  fortune  we  pursue 
together." 

"  We  pursue  this  aim  together,"  retorted  her  grand- 
father, still  looking  away  and  seeming  to  confer  with 
himself.    "  Whose  image  sanctifies  the  game?  " 

"Have  we  been  worse  off,"  resumed  the  child,  "since 
you  forgot  these  cares,  and  we  have  been  travelling  on 
together?  Have  we  not  been  much  better  and  happier 
without  a  home  to  shelter  us,  than  ever  we  were  in  that 
happy  house,  when  they  were  on  your  mind?  " 

"She  speaks  the  truth,"  murmured  the  old  man  in 
the  same  tone  as  before.  "  It  must  not  turn  me,  but  it 
is  the  truth — no  doubt  it  is." 

"  Only  remember  what  we  have  been  since  that  bright 
morning  when  we  turned  our  backs  upon  it  for  the  last 
time,"  said  Nell,  "  only  remember  what  we  have  been 
since  we  have  been  free  of  all  those  miseries — what 
peaceful  days  and  quiet  nights  we  have  had  —  what 
pleasant  times  we  have  known  —  what  happiness  we 
have  enjoyed.  If  we  have  been  tired  or  hungry,  we 
have  been  soon  refreshed,  and  slept  the  sounder  for  it. 
Think  what  beautiful  things  we  have  seen,  and  how 
contented  we  have  felt.  And  why  was  this  blessed 
change  ? " 

He  stopped  her  with  a  motion  of  his  hand,  and  bade 
her  talk  to  him  no  more  just  then,  for  he  was  busy. 
After  a  time  he  kissed  her  cheek,  still  motioning  her  to 
silence,  and  walked  on,  looking  far  before  him,  and 
sometimes  stopping  and  gazing  with  a  puckered  brow 
upon  the  ground,  as  if  he  were  painfully  trying  to  col- 
lect his  disordered  thoughts.  Once  she  saw  tears  in  his 
eyes.  When  he  had  gone  on  thus  for  some  time,  he 
took  her  hand  in  his  as  he  was  accustomed  to  do,  with 
nothing  of  the  violence  or  animation  of  his  late  manner  ; 
and  so,  by  degrees  so  fine  that  the  child  could  not  trace 
them,  settled  down  into  his  usual  quiet  way,  and  suf- 
fered her  to  lead  him  where  she  would. 

When  they  presented  themselves  in  the  midst  of  the 
stupendous  collection,  they  found,  as  Nell  had  antici- 
pated, that  Mrs.  Jarley  was  not  yet  out  of  bed,  and  that, 
although  she  had  suffered  some  uneasiness  on  their  ac- 
count overnight,  and  had  indeed  sat  up  for  them  until 
past  eleven  o'clock,  siie  had  retired  in  the  persuasion, 
that,  being  overtaken  by  storm  at  some  distance  from 
home,  they  had  sought  the  nearest  shelter,  and  would 
not  return  before  morning.  Nell  immediately  applied 
herself  with  great  assiduity  to  the  decoration  and  prep- 
aration of  the  room,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  com- 
pleting her  task,  and  dressing  herself  neatl}"^,  before  the 
beloved  of  the  Royal  Family  came  down  to  break- 
fast. 

"  We  haven't  had,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley  when  the  meal 
was  over,  "  more  than  eight  of  Miss  Monflathers's  young 
ladies  all  the  time  we've  been  here,  and  there's  twenty- 
six  of  'em,  as  I  was  told  by  the  cook  when  I  asked  her 
a  question  or  two  and  X)iit  her  on  the  free-list.  We 
must  try  'em  witli  a  parcel  of  new  bills,  and  you  shall 
take  it,  my  dear,  and  see  what  effect  that  has  upon 
'em." 


The  proposed  expedition  being  one  of  paramount  im- 
portance, Mrs.  Jarley  adjusted  Nell's  bonnet  with  her 
own  hands,  and  declaring  that  she  certainly  did  look  very 
pretty,  and  reflected  credit  on  the  establishment,  dis- 
missed her  with  many  commendations,  and  certain  need- 
ful directions  as  to  the  turnings  on  the  right  which  she 
was  to  take,  and  the  turnings  on  the  left  which  she  was 
to  avoid.  Thus  instructed,  Nell  had  no  difficulty  in 
finding  out  Miss  Monflathers's  Boarding  and  Day  Estab- 
lishment, which  was  a  large  house,  with  a  high  wall, 
and  a  large  garden-gate  with  a  large  brass  plate,  and  a 
small  grating  through  which  Miss  Monflathers's  parlour- 
maid inspected  all  visitors  before  admitting  them  ;  for 
nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  man — no,  not  even  a  milkman 
— was  suffered,  without  special  licence  to  pass  that 
gate.  Even  the  tax-gatherer,  who  was  stout,  and  wore 
spectacles  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  had  the  taxes 
handed  through  the  grating.  More  obdurate  than  gate 
of  adamant  or  brass,  this  gate  of  Miss  Monflathers's 
frowned  on  all  mankind.  The  very  butcher  respected 
it  as  a  gate  of  mystery,  and  left  off  whistling  when  he 
rang  the  bell. 

As  Nell  approached  the  awful  door,  it  turned  slowly 
Upon  its  hinges  with  a  creaking  noise,  and,  forth  from 
the  solemn  grove  beyond,  came  a  long  file  of  young  la- 
dies, two  and  two,  all  with  open  books  in  their  hands, 
and  some  with  parasols  likewise.  And  last  of  the  goodly 
procession  came  Miss  Monflathers,  bearing  herself  a  par- 
asol of  lilac  silk,  and  supported  by  two  smiling  teachers, 
each  mortally  envious  of  the  other,  and  devoted  unto 
Miss  Monflathers. 

Confused  by  the  looks  and  whispers  of  the  girls,  Nell 
stood  with  downcast  eyes  and  suffered  the  procession  to 
pass  on,  until  Miss  Monflathers,  bringing  up  the  rear, 
approached  her,  when  she  curtseyed  and  presented  her 
little  packet  ;  on  receipt  whereof  Miss  Monflathers  com- 
manded that  the  line  should  halt. 

"You're  the  wax-work  child,  are  you  not?"  said  Miss 
Monflathers. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Nell,  colouring  deeply,  for  the 
young  ladies  had  collected  about  her,  and  she  was  the 
centre  on  which  all  eyes  were  flxed.  , 

"  And  don't  you  think  you  must  be  a  very  wicked  little 
child,"  said  Miss  Monflathers,  who  was  of  rather  uncer- 
tain temper,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  impressing  moral 
truths  upon  the  tender  minds  of  the  young  ladies,  "  to 
be  a  wax-work  child  at  all  ?  " 

Poor  Nell  had  never  viewed  her  position  in  this  light, 
and  not  knowing  what  to  say,  remained  silent,  blushing 
more  deeply  than  before. 

"Don't  you  know,"  said  Miss  Monflathers,  "that  it's 
very  naughty  and  un feminine,  and  a  perversion  of  the 
properties  wisely  and  benignantly  transmitted  to  us, 
with  expansive  powers  to  be  roused  from  their  dormant 
state  through  the  medium  of  cultivation  ?" 

The  two  teachers  murmured  their  respectful  approval 
of  this  home-thrust,  and  looked  at  Nell  as  though  they 
would  have  said  that  there  indeed  Miss  Monflathers  had 
hit  her  very  hard.  Then  they  smiled  and  glanced  at 
Miss  Monflathers,  and  then,  their  eyes  meeting,  they 
exchanged  looks  which  plainly  said  that  each  considered 
herself  smiler  in  ordinary  to  Miss  Monflathers,  and  re- 
garded the  other  as  having  no  right  to  smile  and  that 
her  so  doing  was  an  act  of  presumption  and  imperti- 
nence. 

"  Don't  you  feel  how  naughty  it  is  of  you,"  resumed 
Miss  Monflathers,  "to  be  a  wax-work  child,  when  you 
might  have  the  proud  consciousness  of  assisting,  to  the 
extent  of  your  infant  powers,  the  manufactures  of  your 
country  ;  of  improving  your  mind  by  the  constant  con- 
templation of  the  steam-engine  ;  and  of  earning  a  com- 
fortable and  independent  subsistence  of  from  two-and- 
ninepence  to  three  shillings  i)er  week?  Don't  you  know 
that  the  harder  you  are  at  work,  the  happier  you  are  ?" 

"'How  doth  the  little  —  '"murmured  one  of  the 
teachers,  in  quotation  from  Dr.  Watts. 

"  Eh  ?"  said  Miss  Monflathers,  turning  smartly  round. 
"Who  said  that?" 

Of  course  the  teacher  who  had  not  said  it,  indicated  the 
rival  who  had,  whom  Miss  Monflathers  frowningly  re- 
quested to  hold  her  peace  ;  by  that  means  throwing  the 
informing  teacher  into  raptures  of  joy. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


749 


"  The  little  busy  bee,"  said  Miss  Monflatliers,  drawing 
herself  up,     is  applicable  onlj  to  genteel  children. 

'  In  books,  or  work,  or  healthful  pluy ' 

is  quite  right  as  far  as  they  are  concerned  ;  and  the  work 
means  painting  on  velvet,  fancy  needle  work,  or  embroid- 
ery. In  such  cases  as  these,"  pointing  to  Nell,  with  her 
parasol,  "  and  in  the  case  of  all  poor  people's  children, 
we  should  read  it  thus  : 

'  In  work,  work,  work.   In  work  alway 
Let  my  first  years  be  past. 
That  i  may  give  for  ev'ry  day 
Some  good  account  at  last.' " 

A  deep  hum  of  applause  rose  not  only  from  the  two 
teachers,  but  from  all  the  pupils,  who  were  equally 
astonished  to  hear  Miss  Montiathers  improvising  after 
this  brilliant  style  ;  for  although  she  had  been  long 
known  as  a  politician,  she  had  never  appeared  before  as 
an  original  poet.  Just  then  somebody  happened  to  dis- 
cover that  Nell  was  crying,  and  all  eyes  were  again 
turned  towards  her. 

There  were  indeed  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  drawing  out 
her  handkerchief  to  brush  them  away,  she  happened  to 
let  it  fall.  Before  she  could  stoop  to  pick  it  up,  one 
young  lady  of  about  fifteen  or  sixteen,  who  had  been 
standing  a  little  apart  from  the  others,  as  though  she 
had  no  recognised  place  among  them,  sprang  forward  and 
put  it  in  her  hand.  She  was  gliding  timidly  away  again, 
when  she  was  arrested  by  the  governess. 

"  It  was  Miss  Edwards  who  did  that,  I  know''  said 
Miss  Monflatliers  predictively.  ' '  Now  I  am  sure  that 
was  Miss  Edwards." 

It  was  Miss  Edwards,  and  everybody  said  it  was  Miss 
Edwards,  and  Miss  Edwards  herself  admitted  that  it  was. 

"Is  it  not,"  said  Miss  Monflathers,  putting  down  her 
parasol  to  take  a  severer  view  of  the  offender,  ' '  a  most 
remarkable  thing.  Miss  Edwards,  that  you  have  an 
attachment  to  the  lower  classes  which  always  draws  you 
to  their  sides  ;  or,  rather,  is  it  not  a  most  extraordinary 
thing  that  all  I  say  and  do  will  not  wean  you  from  pro- 
pensities w^hich  your  original  station  in  life  have  unhap- 
pily rendered  habitual  to  you,  you  extremely  vulgar- 
minded  girl  ?  " 

"  I  really  intended  no  harm,  ma'am,"  said  a  sweet 
voice.    "  It  was  a  momentary  impulse,  indeed." 

' '  An  impulse  ! "  repeated  Miss  Monflathers  scornfully. 
"I  wonder  that  you  presume  to  speak  of  impulses  to 
me" — both  the  teachers  assented — "  I  am  astonished" — 
both  the  teach  3rs  were  astonished — "  I  suppose  it  is  an 
impulse  which  induces  you  to  take  the  part  of  every 
grovelling  and  debased  person  that  comes  in  your  way" 
— both  tlie  teachers  supposed  so  too. 

"  Bat  I  would  have  you  know.  Miss  Edwards,"  resumed 
the  governess  in  a  tone  of  increased  severity,  "  that  you 
cannot  be  permitted — if  it  be  only  for  the  sake  of  pre- 
serving a  proper  example  and  decorum  in  this  establish, 
ment — that  you  cannot  be  permitted,  and  that  you  shall 
not  be  permitted,  to  fly  in  the  face  of  your  superiors  in 
this  exceedingly  gross  manner.  If  you  have  no  reason 
to  feel  a  becoming  pride  before  wax- work  children,  there 
are  young  ladies  here  who  have,  and  you  must  either 
defer  to  those  young  ladies  or  leave  the  establishment, 
Miss  Edwards." 

This  young  lady,  being  motherless  and  poor,  was 
apprenticed  at  the  school — taught  for  nothing — teaching 
others  what  she  learnt,  for  nothing — boarded  for  nothing 
— lodged  for  nothing— and  set  down  and  rated  as  some- 
thing immeasurably  less  than  nothing,  by  all  the  dwell- 
ers in  the  house.  The  servant-maids  felt  her  inferiority, 
for  they  were  better  treated  ;  free  to  come  and  go,  and 
regarded  in  their  stations  with  much  more  respect.  The 
teachers  were  infinitely  superior,  for  they  had  paid  to  go 
to  school  in  their  time,  and  were  paid  now.  The  pupils 
cared  little  for  a  companion  who  had  no  grand  stories  to 
tell  about  home  ;  no  friends  to  come  with  post-horses, 
and  be  received  in  all  humility,  with  cake  and  wine,  by 
the  governess  ;  no  deferential  servant  to  attend  and  bear 
her  home  for  the  holidays  ;  nothing  genteel  to  talk  about, 
and  nothing  to  display.  But  why  was  Miss  Monflathers 
always  vexed  and  irritated  with  the  poor  apprentice — 
how  did  that  come  to  pass  ? 


Why,  the  gayest  feather  in  Miss  Monflathers's  cap,  and 
the  brightest  glory  of  Miss  Monflathers's  school,  was  a 
baronet's  daughter — the  real  live  daugliter  of  a  real  live 
baronet — who,  by  some  extraordinary  reversal  of  the 
Laws  of  Nature,  was  not  only  plain  in  features  but  dull 
in  intellect,  while  the  poor  apprentice  had  both  a  ready 
wit,  and  a  handsome  face  and  figure.  It  seems  incred- 
ible. Here  was  Miss  Edwards,  who  only  j^aid  a  small 
premium  which  had  been  spent  long  ago,  every  day  out- 
shining and  excelling  the  baronet's  daughter,  who 
learned  all  the  extras  (or  was  taught  them  all)  and  whose 
half  yearly  bill  came  to  double  that  of  any  other  young 
lady's  in  the  school,  making  no  account  of  the  honour 
and  reputation  of  her  pupilage.  Therefore,  and  because 
she  was  a  dependant.  Miss  Monflathers  had  a  greatdisHke 
to  Miss  Edwards,  and  was  spiteful  to  her  and  aggravated 
by  her,  and,  when  she  had  compassion  on  little  Nell, 
verbally  fell  upon  and  maltreated  her  as  we  have  al- 
ready seen. 

"YouAvill  not  take  the  air  to-day.  Miss  Edwards," 
said' Miss  Monflathers.  "  Have  the  goodness  to  retire  to 
your  own  room,  and  not  to  leave  it  without  permission." 

The  poor  girl  was  moving  hastily  away,  when  she  was 
suddenly,  in  nautical  phrase,  "  brought  to  "  by  a  sub- 
dued shriek  from  Miss  Monflathers. 

"  She  has  passed  me  without  any  salute  !  "  cried  the 
governess,  raising  her  eyes  to  the  sky.  "She  has  actu- 
ally passed  me  without  the  slightest  acknowledgment  of 
my  presence  ! " 

The  young  lady  turned  and  curtsied.  Nell  could  see 
that  she  raised  her  dark  eyes  to  the  face  of  her  superior, 
and  that  their  expression,  and  that  of  her  whole  attitude 
for  the  instant,  was  one  of  mute  but  most  touching  ap' 
peal  against  this  ungenerous  usage.  Miss  Monflathers 
only  tossed  her  head  in  reply,  and  the  great  gate  closed 
upon  a  bursting  heart, 

"  As  for  you,  you  wicked  child,"  said  Miss  Monflath- 
ers, turning  to  Nell,  "  tell  your  mistress  that  if  she  pre- 
sumes to  take  the  liberty  of  sending  to  me  any  more,  I 
will  write  to  the  legislative  authorities  and  have  her  put 
in  the  stocks,  or  compelled  to  do  penance  in  a  white 
sheet ;  and  you  may  depend  iipon  it  that  you  shall  cer- 
tainly experience  the  treadmill  if  you  dare  to  come  here 
again.    Now  ladies,  on." 

The  procession  filed  off,  two  and  two,  with  the  books 
and  parasols,  and  Miss  Monflathers,  calling  the  baronet's 
daughter  to  walk  with  her  and  smooth  her  ruflled  feel- 
ings, discarded  the  two  teachers — who  by  this  time  had 
exchanged  their  smiles  for  looks  of  sympathy,  and  left 
them  to  bring  up  the  rear,  and  hate  each  other  a  little 
more  for  being  obliged  to  walk  together. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Mrs.  Jarley's  wrath  on  first  learning  that  she  had 
been  threatened  with  the  indignity  of  Stocks  and  Pen- 
ance, passed  all  description.  The  genuine  and  only  Jar- 
ley  exposed  to  public  scorn,  jeered  by  children,  and 
flouted  by  beadles  !  The  delight  of  the  Nobility  and 
Gentry  shorn  of  a  bonnet  which  a  Lady  Mayoress  might 
have  sighed  to  wear,  and  arrayed  in  a  white  sheet  as  a 
spectacle  of  mortification  and  humility  !  And  Miss  Mon- 
flathers, the  audacious  creature  who  presumed,  even  in 
the  dimmest  and  remotest  distance  of  her  imagination, to 
conjure  up  the  degrading  picture,  "  I  am  a'most  in- 
clined," said  Mrs.  Jarley,  bursting  with  the  fullness  of 
her  anger  and  the  weakness  of  her  means  of  revenge, 
"  to  turn  atheist  when  I  think  of  it  ! " 

But  instead  of  adopting  this  course  of  retaliation ,  Mrs. 
Jarley,  on  second  thoughts,  brought  out  the  suspicious 
bottle,  and  ordering  glasses  to  be  set  forth  upon  her  fa- 
vourite drum,  and  sinking  into  a  chair  behind  it,  called 
her  satellites  about  her,  and  to  them  several  times  re- 
counted,  word  for  word,  the  affronts  she  had  received. 
This  done,  she  begged  them  in  a  kind  of  deep  despair  to 
drink  ;  then  laughed,  then  cried,  then  took  a  little  sip 
herself,  then  laughed  and  cried  again,  and  took  a  little 
more  ;  and  so,  by  degrees,  the  worthy  lady  went  on,  in- 
creasing in  smiles  and  decreasing  in  tears,  until  at  last 
she  could  not  laugh  enough  at  Miss  Monflathers,  who. 


750 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


from  being  an  object  of  dire  vexation,  became  one  of 
sheer  ridicule  and  absurdity. 

"For  wiiicli  of  us  is  best  off,  I  wonder,"  quoth  Mrs. 
Jarley,  "she  or  rae  !  It's  only  talking,  when  all  is  said 
and  done,  and  if  she  talks  of  me  in  the  stocks,  why  lean 
talk  of  her  in  the  stocks,  which  is  a  good  deal  funnier  if 
we  come  to  that.    Lord,  what  does  it  matter,  after  all  !" 

Having  arrived  at  this  comfortable  frame  of  mind  (to 
which  she  had  been  greatly  assisted  by  certain  short 
interjection al  remarks  of  the  philosophic  George),  Mrs. 
Jarley  consoled  Nell  with  many  kind  words,  and  re- 
quested as  a  personal  favour  that  whenever  she  thought 
of  Miss  Monflathers,  she  would  do  nothing  else  but 
laugh  at  her,  all  the  days  of  her  life. 

So  ended  Mrs.  Jarley's  wrath,  which  subsided  long  be- 
fore the  going  down  of  the  sun.  Nell's  anxieties,  how- 
ever, were  of  a  deeper  kind,  and  the  checks  they  imposed 
upon  her  cheerfulness  were  not  so  easily  removed. 

That  evening,  as  she  had  dreaded,  her  grandfather 
stole  away,  and  did  not  come  back  until  the  night  was 
far  spent.  Worn  out  as  she  was,  and  fatigued  in  fnind 
and  body,  she  sat  up  alone,  counting  the  minutes,  until 
he  returned — penniless,  broken-spirited,  and  wretched, 
but  still  hotly  bent  upon  his  infatuation. 

"Get  me  money,"  he  said  wildly,  as  they  parted  for 
the  night.  "  I  must  have  money,  Nell.  It  shall  be  paid 
thee  back  with  gallant  interest  one  day,  but  all  the  money 
that  comes  into  thy  hands,  must  be  mine — not  for  myself, 
but  to  use  for  thee.    Remember,  Nell,  to  use  for  thee  !" 

What  could  the  child  do,  with  the  knowledge  she  had, 
but  give  him  every  penny  that  came  into  her  hands,  lest 
he  should  be  tempted  on  to  rob  their  benefactress?  If 
she  told  the  truth  (so  thought  the  child)  he  would  be 
treated  as  a  madman  ;  if  she  did  not  supply  him  with 
money,  he  would  supply  himself ;  supplying  him,  she 
fed  tiie  fire  that  burnt  him  up,  and  put  him  perhaps 
beyond  recovery.  Distracted  by  these  thoughts,  borne 
down  by  the  weight  of  the  sorrow  which  she  dared  not 
tell,  tortured  by  a  crowd  of  apprehensions  whenever  the 
old  man  was  absent,  and  dreading  alike  his  stay  and  his 
return,  the  colour  forsook  her  cheek,  her  eye  grew  dim, 
and  her  heart  was  oppressed  and  heavy.  All  her  old 
sorrows  had  come  back  upon  her,  augmented  by  new 
fears  and  doubts  ;  by  day  they  were  ever  present  to  her 
mind  ;  by  night  th°y  hovered  round  her  pillow,  and 
haunted  her  in  dreams. 

It  was  natural  that,  in  the  midst  of  her  affliction,  she 
should  often  revert  lo  that  sweet  young  lady  of  whom 
she  had  only  caught  a  hasty  glance,  but  whose  sympathy, 
expressed  in  one  slight  brief  action,  dwelt  in  her  mem- 
ory like  the  kindnesses  of  years.  She  would  often 
think,  if  she  had  such  a  friend  as  that  to  whom  to  tell 
her  griefs, how  much  lighter  her  heart  would  be — that  if 
she  were  but  free  to  hear  that  voice,  she  would  be  hap- 
pier. Then  she  would  wish  that  she  were  something 
better,  that  she  were  not  quite  so  poor  and  humble,  that 
she  dared  address  her  without  fearing  a  repulse  ;  and 
then  feel  that  there  was  an  immeasurable  distance  be- 
tween them,  and  have  no  hope  that  the  young  lady 
thought  of  her  any  more. 

It  was  now  holiday-time  at  the  schools,  and  the  young 
ladies  had  gone  home,  and  Miss  Monflathers  was  reported 
to  be  flourishing  in  London,  and  damaging  the  hearts  of 
middle-aged  gentlemen,  but  nobody  said  anything  about 
Miss  Edwards,  whether  she  had  gone  home  or  whether 
she  had  any  home  to  go  to,  whether  she  was  still  at  the 
school,  or  anything  about  her.  But  one  evening,  as  Nell 
was  returning  from  a  lonely  walk,  she  happened  to  pass 
the  inn  where  the  stage  coaches  stopped,  just  as  one 
drove  up,  and  there  was  the  beautiful  girl  she  so  well  re- 
membered, pressing  forward  to  embrace  a  young  child 
whom  they  were  helping  down  from  the  roof. 

Well,  this  was  her  sister,  her  little  sister,  much 
younger  than  Nell,  whom  she  had  not  seen  (so  the  story 
went  afterwards)  for  five  years,  and  to  bring  whom  to 
that  place  on  a  short  visit,  she  had  been  saving  her  poor 
means  all  that  time.  Nell  felt  as  if  her  heart  would 
break  when  she  saw  them  meet.  They  w(;nt  a  little 
apart  from  the  knot  of  people  who  had  congregated  about 
tlie  coach,  and  fell  upon  each  other's  neck,  and  sobbed, 
and  wept  with  joy.  Their  plain  and  simple  dress,  the 
distance  which  the  child  had  come  alone,  their  agitation 


and  delight,  and  the  tears  they  shed,  would  have  told 
their  history  by  themselves. 

They  became  a  little  more  composed  in  a  short  time, 
and  went  away,  not  so  much  hand  in  hand  as  clinging 
to  each  other.  "  Are  you  sure  you're  happy,  sister  ?  "  said 
the  child  as  they  passed  where  Nell  was  standing. 
"Quite  happy  now,"  she  answered.  "But  always?" 
said  the  child.  "Ah,  sister,  why  do  you  turn  away  your 
face?" 

Nell  could  not  help  following  at  a  little  distance. 
They  went  to  the  house  of  an  old  nurse,  where  the  elder 
sister  had  engaged  a  bed-room  for  the  child.  "I  shall 
come  to  you  early  every  morning,"  she  said,  "and  we 
can  be  together  all  the  day.  " — "  Why  not  at  night-time 
too  ?  Dear  sister,  would  they  be  angry  with  you  for  that  f  " 

Why  were  the  eyes  of  little  Nell  wet,  that  night,  with 
tears  like  those  of  the  two  sisters?  Why  did  she  bear  a 
giateful  heart  because  they  had  met,  and  feel  it  pain  to 
think  that  they  would  shortly  part?  Let  us  not  believe 
that  any  selfish  reference — unconscious  though  it  might 
have  been — to  her  own  trials  awoke  this  sympathy,  but 
thank  God  that  the  innocent  joys  of  others  can  strongly 
m.ove  us,  and  that  we,  even  in  our  fallen  nature,  have 
one  source  of  pure  emotion  which  must  be  prized  in 
Heaven  ! 

By  morning's  cheerfnl  glow,  but  oftener  still  by  even- 
ing's gentle  light,  the  child,  with  a  respect  for  the  short 
and  happy  intercourse  of  these  two  sisters  which  forbade 
her  to  approach  and  say  a  thankful  word,  although  she 
yearned  to  do  so,  followed  them  at  a  distance  in  their 
walks  and  rambles,  stopping  when  they  stopped,  sitting 
on  the  grass  when  they  sat  down,  rising  when  they  went 
on,  and  feeling  it  a  companionship  and  delight  to  be  so 
near  them.  Their  evening  walk  was  by  a  river's  side. 
Here,  every  night,  the  child  was  too,  unseen  by  them, 
unthought  of,  unregarded  ;  but  feeling  as  if  they  were 
her  friends,  as  if  they  had  confidences  and  trusts  together, 
as  if  her  load  were  lightened  and  less  hard  to  bear  ;  as 
if  they  mingled  their  sorrows,  and  found  mutual  consola- 
tion. It  was  a  weak  fancy  perhaps,  the  childish  fancy 
of  a  young  and  lonely  creature  ;  but,  night  after  night, 
and  .still  the  sisters  loitered  in  the  same  place,  and  still 
the  child  followed  with  a  mild  and  softened  heart. 

She  was  much  startled,  on  returning  home  one  night, 
to  find  that  Mrs.  Jarley  had  commanded  an  announce- 
ment to  be  prepared,  to  the  effect  that  the  stupendous 
collection  would  only  remain  in  its  present  quarters  one 
day  longer  ;  in  fulfilment  of  which  threat  (for  all  an- 
nouncements connected  with  public  amusements  are  well 
known  to  be  irrevocable  and  most  exact),  the  stupendous 
collection  shut  up  next  day. 

"  Are  we  going  from  this  place  directly,  ma'am?"  said 
Nell. 

"Look  here,  child,"  returned  Mrs.  Jarley.  "That'll 
inform  you."  And  so  saying,  Mrs.  Jarley  produced  an- 
other announcement,  wherein  it  was  stated,  that,  in  con- 
sequence of  numerous  inquiries  at  the  wax- work  door, 
and  in  consequence  of  crowds  having  been  disappointed 
in  obtaining  admission,  the  Exhibition  would  be  contin- 
ued for  one  week  longer,  and  would  re-open  next  day. 

"  For  now  that  the  schools  are  gone,  and  the  regular 
sight-seers  exhausted,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  "  we  come  to 
the  General  Public,  and  they  want  stimulating." 

Upon  the  following  day  at  noon,  Mrs.  Jarley  estab- 
lished herself  behind  the  highly-ornamented  table,  at- 
tended by  the  distinguished  effigies  before  mentioned, 
and  ordered  the  doors  to  be  thrown  open  for  the  read- 
mission  of  a  discerning  and  enlightened  public.  But  the 
first  day's  operations  were  by  no  means  of  a  successful 
character,  inasmuch  as  the  general  public,  though  they 
manifested  a  lively  interest  in  Mrs.  Jarley  personally,  and 
such  of  her  waxen  satellites  as  were  to  be  seen  for  noth- 
ing, were  not  affected  by  any  impulses  moving  them  to 
the  payment  of  sixpence  a  head.  Thus,  notwithstand- 
ing that  a  great  many  people  continued  to  stare  at  the 
entry  and  the  figures  therein  displayed  :  and  remained 
there  with  great  perseverance,  by  the  hour  at  a  time,  to 
hear  the  barrel-organ  played  and  to  read  the  bills  ;  and 
notwithstanding  that  they  were  kind  enough  to  recom- 
mend their  friends  to  patronize  the  exhibition  in  the  like 
manner,  until  the  doorway  was  regularly  blockaded  by 
half  the  population  of  the  town,  who,  wlien  they  went 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP 


751 


off  duty,  were  relieved  by  tlie  other  half  ;  it  was  not 
foand  that  tlie  treasury  was  any  the  richer,  or  that  the 
prospects  of  the  Establishment  were  at  all  encourag- 
ing. 

In  this  depressed  state  of  the  classical  market,  Mrs. 
Jarley  made  extraordinary  efforts  to  stimulate  the  popu- 
lar taste,  and  whet  the  popular  curiosity.  Certain  ma- 
chinery in  the  body  of  the  nun  on  the  leads  over  the 
door  was  cleaned  up  and  put  in  motion,  so  that  the  figure 
shook  its  head  paralytically  all  day  long,  to  the  great 
admiration  of  a  drunken,  but  very  Protestant,  barber 
over  the  way,  who  looked  upon  the  said  paralytic  motion 
as  typical  of  the  degrading  effect  wrought  upon  the 
human  mind  by  the  ceremonies  of  the  Romish  Church, 
and  discoursed  upon  that  theme  with  great  eloquence 
and  morality.  The  two  carters  constantly  passed  in  and 
out  of  the  exhibition-room,  under  various  disguises, 
protesting  aloud  that  the  sight  was  better  worth  the 
money  than  anything  they  had  beheld  in  all  their  lives, 
and  urging  the  bystanders,  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  not 
to  neglect  such  a  brilliant  gratification.  Mrs.  Jarley  sat 
in  the  pay-place,  chinking  silver  moneys  from  noon  till 
night,  and  solemnly  calling  upon  the  crowd  to  take  no- 
tice that  the  price  of  admission  was  only  sixpence,  and 
that  the  departure  of  the  whole  collection,  on  a  short 
tour  among  the  Crowned  Heads  of  Europe,  was  positive- 
ly fixed  for  that  day  week. 

"So  be  in  time,  be  in  time,  be  in  time,"  said  Mrs.  Jar- 
ley, at  the  close  of  every  such  address.  "Remember 
that  this  is  Jarley 's  stupendous  collection  of  upwards  of 
one  Hundred  Figures,  and  that  it  is  the  only  collection 
in  the  world  ;  all  others  being  impostures  and  decep- 
tions.   Be  in  time,  be  in  time,  be  in  time  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXXni. 

As  the  course  of  this  tale  requires  that  we  should  be- 
come acquainted,  somewhere  hereabouts,  with  a  few 
particulars  connected  with  the  domestic  economy  of  Mr. 
Sampson  Brass,  and  as  a  more  convenient  place  than  the 
present  is  not  likely  to  occur  for  that  purpose,  the  his- 
torian takes  the  friendly  reader  by  the  hand,  and  spring- 
ing with  him  into  the  air,  and  cleaving  the  same  at  a 
greater  rate  than  ever  Don  Cleophas  Leandro  Perez 
Zambullo  and  his  familiar  travelled  through  that  pleas- 
ant region  in  company,  alights  with  him  upon  the  pave- 
ment of  Be  vis  Marks. 

The  intrepid  aeronauts  alight  before  a  small  dark 
house,  once  the  residence  of  Mr.  Sampson  Brass. 

In  the  parlour  window  of  tliis  little  habitation,  which 
is  so  close  upon  the  footway  that  the  passenger  who 
takes  the  wall  brushes  the  dim  glass  with  his  coat-sleeve 
— much  to  its  improvement,  for  it  is  very  dirty — in  this 
l^arlour  window  in  the  days  of  its  occupation  by  Samp- 
son Brass,  there  hung,  all  awry  and  slack,  and  discol- 
oured by  the  sun,  a  curtain  of  faded  green,  so  thread- 
bare from  long  service  as  by  no  means  to  intercept  the 
view  of  the  little  dark  room,  but  rather  to  afford  a  fa- 
vourable medium  through  which  to  observe  it  accurate 
ly.  There  was  not  much  to  look  at.  A  rickety  table, 
with  spare  bundles  of  papers,  yellow  and  ragged  from 
long  carriage  in  the  pocket,  ostentatiously  displayed 
upon  its  top  ;  a  couple  of  stools  set  face  to  face  on  oppo- 
site sides  of  this  crazy  piece  of  furniture  ;  a  treacherous 
old  chair  by  the  fire-place,  whose  withered  arms  had 
hugged  full  many  a  client  and  helped  to  squeeze  him 
dry  ;  a  second-hand  wig  box,  used  as  a  depository  for 
blank  writs  and  declarations  and  other  small  forms  of 
law,  once  the  sole  contents  of  the  head  which  belonged 
to  the  wig  which  belonged  to  the  box,  as  they  were 
now  of  the  box  itself  ;  two  or  three  common  books  of 
ractice  ;  a  jar  of  ink,  a  pounce  box,  a  stunted  hearth 
room,  a  carpet  trodden  to  shreds  but  still  clinging 
with  the  tigiitness  of  desperation  to  its  tacks — these, 
with  the  yellow  wainscoat  of  the  walls,  the  smoke-dis- 
coloured ceiling,  the  dust  and  cobwebs,  were  among 
the  most  prominent  decorations  of  the  office  of  Mr. 
Sampson  Brass. 

But  this  was  mere  still-life,  of  no  greater  importance 
than  the  plate,  "  Brass,  Solicitor,"  upon  the  door,  and 


the  bill,  "First  floor  to  let  to  a  single  gentleman." 
which  was  tied  to  the  knocker.  The  office  commonly 
held  two  examples  of  animated  nature,  n)ore  to  the  pur- 
pose of  this  history,  and  in  whom  it  has  a  stronger  in- 
terest and  more  particular  concern. 

Of  these,  one  was  Mr.  Brass  himself,  who  has  already 
appeared  in  these  pages.  The  other  was  his  clerk,  assist- 
ant, housekeeper,  secretary,  confidential  plotter,  adviser, 
intriguer,  and  bill  of  cost  increaser,  Miss  Brass — a  kind 
of  amazon  at  common  law,  of  whom  it  may  be  desira- 
ble to  offer  a  brief  description. 

Miss  Sally  Brass,  then,  was  a  lady  of  thirty-five  or 
thereabouts,  of  a  gaunt  and  bony  figure,  and  a  resolute 
bearing,  which  if  it  repressed  the  softer  emotions  of 
love,  and  kept  admirers  at  a  distance,  certainly  inspired 
a  feeling  akin  to  awe  in  the  breasts  of  those  male  stran- 
gers who  had  the  happiness  to  approach  her.  In  face 
she  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  her  brother  Sampson 
— so  exact,  indeed,  was  the  likeness  between  them,  that 
had  it  consorted  with  Miss  Brass's  maiden  modesty  and 
gentle  womanhood  to  have  assumed  her  brother's  clothes 
in  a  frolic  and  sat  down  beside  him,  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  the  oldest  friend  of  the  family  to  determine 
which  was  Sampson  and  which  Sally,  especially  as  the 
lady  carried  upon  her  upper  lip  certain  reddish  demon- 
strations, which,  if  the  imagination  had  been  assisted  by 
her  attire,  might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  beard.  These 
were,  however,  in  all  probability,  nothing  more  than 
eye-lashes  in  a  wrong  place,  as  the  eyes  of  Miss  Brass 
were  quite  free  from  any  such  natural  impertinancies. 
In  complexion  Miss  Brass  was  sallow,  rather  a  dirty  sal- 
low, so  to  speak — but  this  hue  was  agreeably  relieved 
by  the  healthy  glow  which  mantled  in  the  extreme  tip 
of  her  laughing  nose.  Her  voice  was  exceedingly  im- 
pressive— deep  and  rich  in  quality,  and,  once  heard,  not 
easily  forgotten.  Her  usual  dress  was  a  green  gown,  in 
colour  not  unlike  the  curtain  of  the  office  window,  made 
tight  to  the  figure,  and  terminating  at  the  throat,  where 
it  was  fastened  behind  by  a  peculiarly  large  and  mas- 
sive button.  Feeling,  no  doubt,  that  simplicity  and 
plainness  are  the  soul  of  elegance.  Miss  Brass  wore  no 
collar  or  kerchief  except  upon  her  head,  which  was  in- 
variably ornamented  with  a  brown  gauze  scarf,  like  the 
wing  of  the  fabled  vampire,  and  which,  twisted  into  any 
form  that  happened  to  suggest  itself,  formed  an  easy 
and  graceful  hend-dress. 

Such  was  Miss  Brass  in  person.  In  mind,  she  was  of 
a  strong  and  vigorous  turn,  having  from  her  earliest 
youth  devoted  herself  with  uncommon  ardour  to  the 
study  of  the  law  ;  not  wasting  her  speculations  upon  its 
eagle  flights,  which  are  rare,  but  tracing  it  attentively 
through  all  the  slippery  and  eel-like  crawlings  in  which, 
it  commonly  pursues  its  way.  Nor  had  she,  like  many 
persons  of  great  intellect,  confined  herself  to  theory,  or 
stopped  short  where  practical  usefulness  begins  ;  inas- 
much as  she  could  ingress,  fair  copy,  fill  up  by  printed 
forms  with  perfect  accuracy,  and  in  short  transact  any 
ordinary  duty  of  the  office  down  to  pouncing  a  skin  of 
parchment  or  mending  a  pen.  It  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand how,  possessed  of  these  combined  attractions,  she 
should  remain  Miss  Brass  :  but  whether  she  had  steeled 
her  heart  against  mankind,  or  whether  those  who  might 
have  wooed  and  won  her  were  deterred  by  fears  that, 
being  learned  in  the  law,  she  might  have  too  near  her 
fingers'  ends  those  particular  statutes  which  regulate 
what  are  familiarly  termed  actions  for  breach,  certain  it 
is  that  she  was  still  in  a  state  of  celibacy,  and  still  in 
daily  occupation  of  her  old  stool  opposite  to  that  of  her 
brother  Sampson.  And  equally  certain  it  is,  by  the 
way,  that  between  these  two  stools  a  great  many  people 
had  come  to  the  ground. 

One  morning  Mr.  Sampson  Brass  sat  upon  his  stool 
copying  some  legal  process,  and  viciously  digging  his 
pen  deep  into  the  paper,  as  if  he  were  writing  u|X)n  the 
very  heart  of  the  party  against  whom  it  was  directed  ; 
and  Miss  Sally  Brass  sat  upon  her  stool  making  a  new 
pen  preparatory  to  drawing  out  a  little  bill,  which  was 
her  favourite  occupation  ;  and  so  they  sat  in  silence  for 
a  long  time,  until  Miss  Brass  broke  silence. 

"Have  you  nearly  done,  Sammy?"  said  Miss  Brass; 
for  in  her  mild  and  feminine  lips,  Sampson  became  Sam- 
my, and  all  things  were  softened  down. 


752 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


" No, "  returned  lier  brother.  "It  would  liave  been 
all  done  though  if  you  had  helped  at  the  right  time." 

"Oh  yes,  indeed,"  cried  Miss  Sally  ;  "you  want  my 
help,  don't  yoxxt— you,  too,  that  are  going  to  keep  a 
clerk  ! " 

Am  I  going  to  keep  a  clerk  for  my  own  pleasure,  or 
because  of  my  own  wish,  you  provoking  rascal  ! "  said 
Mr.  Brass,  putting  his  pen  in  his  mouth,  and  grinning 
spitefully  at  his  sister.  "What  do  you  taunt  me  about 
going  to  keep  a  clerk  for  ?  " 

It  may  be  observed  in  this  place,  lest  the  fact  of  Mr. 
Brass  calling  a  lady,  a  rascal,  should  occasion  any  won- 
derment or  surprise,  that  he  was  so  habituated  to  having 
her  near  him  in  a  man's  capacity,  that  he  had  gradually 
accustomed  himself  to  talk  to  her  as  though  she  were 
really  a  man.  And  this  feeling  was  so  perfectly  recipro- 
cal, that  not  only  did  Mr.  Brass  often  call  Miss  Brass  a 
rascal,  or  even  put  an  adjective  before  the  rascal,  but 
Miss  Brass  looked  upon  it  as  quite  a  matter  of  course, 
and  was  as  little  moved  as  any  other  lady  would  be  by 
being  called  an  angel. 

"  What  do  you  taunt  me,  after  three  hours'  talk  last 
night,  with  going  to  keep  a  clerk  for  ?  "  repeated  Mr. 
Brass,  grinning  again  with  the  pen  in  his  mouth,  like 
some  nobleman's  or  gentleman's  crest.  "  Is  it  my  fault  ?  " 

"All  I  know  is,"  said  Miss  Sally,  smiling  drily,  for 
she  delighted  in  nothing  so  much  as  irritating  her 
brother,  "  that  if  every  one  of  your  clients  is  to  force  us 
to  keep  a  clerk,  whether  we  want  to  or  not,  you  had 
better  leave  off  business,  strike  yourself  off  the  roll,  and 
get  taken  in  execution  as  soon  as  you  can." 

' '  Have  we  got  any  other  client  like  him  ?  "  said  Brass. 
"Have  we  got  another  client  like  him,  now — will  you 
answer  me  that  ?  " 

"  Do  jou  mean  in  the  face  ! "  said  his  sister. 

"Do  I  mean  in  the  face!"  sneered  Sampson  Brass, 
reaching  over  to  take  up  the  bill-book,  and  fluttering  its 
leaves  rapidly.  "Look  here — Daniel  Quilp,  Esquire — 
Daniel  Quilp,  Esquire — Daniel  Quilp,  Esquire— all 
through.  Whether  should  I  take  a  clerk  that  he  recom- 
mends, and  says,  '  this  is  the  man  for  you,'  or  lose  all 
this— eh  ?  " 

Miss  Sally  deigned  to  make  no  reply,  but  smiled  again, 
and  went  on  with  her  work. 

"But  I  know  what  it  is,"  resumed  Brass  after  a  short 
silence.  "  You're  afraid  you  won't  have  as  long  a  finger 
in  the  business  as  you've  been  used  to  have.  Do  you 
think  I  don't  see  through  that  ?  " 

"  The  business  wouldn't  go  on  very  long,  I  expect, 
without  me,"  returned  liis  sister  composedly.  "Don't 
you  be  a  fool  and  provoke  me,  Sammy,  but  mind  what 
you're  doing,  and  do  it." 

Sampson  Brass,  who  was  at  heart  in  great  fear  of  his 
sister,  sulkily  bent  over  his  writing  again,  and  listened 
as  she  said  : 

"  If  I  determined  that  the  clerk  ought  not  to  come,  of 
course  he  wouldn't  be  allowed  to  come.  You  know  that 
well  enough,  so  don't  talk  nonsense." 

Mr.  Brass  received  this  observation  with  increased 
meekness,  merely  remarking,  under  his  breath,  that  he 
didn't  like  that  kind  of  joking,  and  that  Miss  Sally 
would  be  "a  much  better  fellow"  if  she  forebore  to 
aggravate  him.  To  this  compliment  Miss  Sally  replied, 
that  she  had  a  relish  for  the  amusement,  and  had  no 
intention  to  forego  its  gratification.  Mr.  Brass  not  car- 
ing, as  it  seemed,  to  pursue  the  subject  any  further,  they 
both  plied  their  pens  at  a  great  pace,  and  there  the  dis- 
cussion ended. 

While  they  were  thus  employed,  the  window  was 
suddenly  darkened,  as  by  some  person  standing  close 
against  it.  As  Mr.  Brass  and  Miss  Sally  looked  up  to 
ascertain  the  cause,  the  top  sash  was  nimbly  lowered 
from  without,  and  Quilp  thrust  in  his  head. 

"Hallo  !"  he  said,  standing  on  tiptoe  on  the  window- 
sill,  and  looking  down  into  the  room.  "Is  there  any- 
body at  home?  Is  there  any  of  the  Devil's  ware  here? 
Is  Brass  at  a  premium,  eh?" 

"  Ha,  ha.  ha  !  "  laughed  the  lawyer  in  an  affected  ecs- 
tacy.  "Oh,  very  good,  sir!  Oh,  very  good  indeed! 
Quite  eccentric  !    Dear  me,  what  humour  he  has  !  " 

"  Is  that  my  Sally?"  croaked  the  dwarf,  ogling  the 
fair  Miss  Brass.    "  is  it  Justice  with  the  bandage  off  her 


eyes,  and  without  the  sword  and  scales?  Is  it  the 
Strong  Arm  of  the  Law?    Is  it  the  Virgin  of  Bevis?" 

"What  an  amazing  flow  of  spirits!"  cried  Brass. 
"  Upon  my  word,  it's  quite  extraordinary  ! " 

"  Open  the  door,"  said  Quilp.  "I've  got  him  here. 
Such  a  clerk  for  you,  Brass,  such  a  prize,  such  an  ace  of 
trumps.  Be  quick  and  open  the  door,  or,  if  there's  an- 
other lawyer  near  and  he  should  happen  to  look  out  of 
window,  he'll  snap  him  up  before  your  eyes,  he  will." 

It  is  probable  that  the  loss  of  the  phoenix  of  clerks, 
even  to  a  rival  practitioner,  would  not  have  broken  Mr. 
Brass's  heart ;  but,  pretending  great  alacrity,  he  rose 
from  his  seat,  and  going  to  the  door,  returned,  introduc- 
ing his  client,  who  led  by  the  hand  no  less  a  person  than 
Mr.  Richard  Swiveller. 

"  There  she  is,"  said  Quilp,  stopping  short  at  the  door 
and  wrinkling  up  his  eyebrows  as  he  looked  toward 
Miss  Sally  ;  "  there  is  the  woman  I  ought  to  have  mar- 
ried— there  is  the  beautiful  Sarah — there  is  the  female 
who  has  all  the  charms  of  her  sex  and  none  of  their 
weaknesses.    Oh  Sally,  Sally  !  " 

To  this  amorous  address  Miss  Brass  briefly  responded 
"  Bother  !" 

"  Hard-hearted  as  the  metal  from  which  she  takes  her 
name,"  said  Quilp,  "  Why  don't  she  change  it — melt 
down  the  brass,  and  take  another  name?" 

"  Hold  your  nonsense,  Mr.  Quilp,  do,"  returned  Miss 
Sally,  with  a  grim  smile.  "I  wonder  you're  not 
ashamed  of  yourself  before  a  strange  young  man  ?" 

"The  strange  young  man,"  said  Quilp,  handing  Dick 
Swiveller  forward,  "is  too  susceptible  himself,  not  to 
understand  me  well.  This  is  Mr.  Swiveller,  my  inti- 
mate friend — a  gentleman  of  good  family  and  great  ex- 
pectations, but  who,  having  rather  involved  himself  by 
youthful  indiscretion,  is  content  for  a  time  to  fill  the 
humble  station  of  a  clerk — humble,  but  here  most  envi- 
able.   What  a  delicious  atmosphere  !  " 

If  Mr.  Quilp  spoke  figuratively,  and  meant  to  imply 
that  the  air  breathed  by  Miss  Sally  Brass  was  sweetened 
and  rarefied  by  that  dainty  creature,  he  had  doubtless 
good  reason  for  what  he  said.  But  if  he  spoke  of  the 
delights  of  the  atmosphere  of  Mr.  Brass's  office  in  a  lit- 
eral sense,  he  had  certainly  a  peculiar  taste,  as  it  was  of 
a  close  and  earthy  kind,  and  besides  being  frequently 
impregnated  vsdth  strong  whiffs  of  the  second-hand 
wearing  apparel  exposed  for  sale  in  Duke's  Place  and 
Hounsditcli,  had  a  decided  flavour  of  rats  and  mice,  and 
a  taint  of  mouldiness.  Perhaps  some  doubts  of  its  pure 
delight  presented  themselves  to  Mr.  Swiveller,  as  he 
gave  vent  to  one  or  two  short  abrupt  sniffs,  and  looked 
incredulously  at  the  grinning  dwarf. 

"Mr.  Swiveller,"  said  Quilp,  "  being  pretty  well  ac- 
customed to  the  agricultural  pursuits  of  sowing  wild 
oats.  Miss  Sally,  prudently  considers  that  half  a  loaf  is 
better  than  no  bread.  To  be  out  of  harm's  way  he  pru- 
dently thinks  is  something  too,  and  therefore  he  accepts 
your  brother's  offer.    Brass,  Mr.  Swiveller  is  yours." 

"  I  am  very  glad,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brass,  "  very  glad  in- 
deed. Mr.  Swiveller,  sir,  is  fortunate  to  have  your 
friendship.  You  may  be  very  proud,  sir,  to  have  the 
friendship  of  Mr.  Quilp." 

Dick  murmured  something  about  never  wanting  a 
friend  or  a  bottle  to  give  him,  and  also  gasped  forth  his 
favourite  allusion  to  the  wing  of  friendship  and  its  never 
moulting  a  feather  ;  but  his  faculties  appeared  to  be  ab- 
sorbed in  the  contemplation  of  Miss  Sally  Brass,  at  whom 
he  stared  with  blank  and  rueful  looks,  which  delighted 
the  watchful  dwarf  beyond  measure.  As  to  the  divine 
Miss  Sally  herself,  she  rubbed  her  hands  as  men  of  busi- 
ness do,  and  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the  oflSce 
with  her  pen  behind  her  ear. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  dwarf,  turning  briskly  to  his 
legal  friend,  "  that  Mr.  Swiveller  enters  upon  his  duties 
at  once?    It's  Monday  morning." 

"At  once,  if  you  please,  sir,  by  all  means,"  returned 
Brass. 

"Miss  Sally  will  teach  him  law,  the  delightful  study 
of  the  law,"  said  Quilp  ;  "she'll  be  his  guide, his  friend, 
his  companion,  his  Blackstone,  his  Coke  upon  Littleton, 
his  Young  Lawyer's  Best  Companion,  ' 

"  He  is  exceedingly  eloquent,"  said  Brass,  like  a  man 
abstracted,  and  looking  at  the  roofs  of  the  opposite 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


753 


houses,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  :  "lie  has  an  ex- 
traordinary flow  of  language.    Beautiful,  really." 

"  With  Miss  Sally,"  Quilp  went  on,  "  and  the  beauti- 
ful fictions  of  the  law,  his  days  will  pass  like  minutes. 
Those  charming  creations  of  the  poet,  John  Doe  and 
Richard  Roe,  when  they  first  dawn  upon  him,  will  open 
a  new  world  for  the  enlargement  of  his  mind  and  the 
improvement  of  his  heart," 

"Oh,  beautiful,  beautiful!  Beau-ti-ful  indeed  1 " 
cried  Brass.    "It's  a  treat  to  hear  him  !  " 

"Where  will  Mr.  Swiveller  sit?"  said  Quilp,  looking 
round. 

"Why,  we'll  buy  another  stool,  sir,"  returned  Brass. 
"  We  hadn't  any  thoughts  of  having  a  gentleman  with 
us,  sir,  until  you  were  kind  enough  to  sugge.st  it,  and 
our  accommodation's  not  extensive.  We'll  look  about 
for  a  second-hand  stool,  sir.  In  the  meantime,  if  Mr. 
Swiveller  will  take  my  seat,  and  try  his  hand  at  a  fair 
copy  of  this  ejectment,  as  I  shall  be  out  pretty  well  all 
the  morning — " 

"Walk  with  me,"  said  Quilp.  "I  have  a  word  or 
two  to  say  to  you  on  points  of  business.  Can  you  spare 
the  time  ? " 

"Can  I  spare  the  time  to  walk  with  you,  sir  ?  You're 
joking,  sir,  you're  joking  with  me,"  replied  the  lawyer, 
putting  on  his  hat.  "  I'm  ready,  sir,  quite  ready.  My 
time  must  be  fully  occupied  indeed,  sir,  not  to  leave  me 
time  to  walk  with  you.  It's  not  everybody,  sir,  who 
has  an  opportunity  of  improving  himself  by  the  conver- 
sation of  Mr.  Quilp." 

The  dwarf  glanced  sarcastically  at  his  brazen  friend, 
and  with  a  short  dry  cough,  turned  upon  his  heel  to  bid 
adieu  to  Miss  Sally.  After  a  very  gallant  parting  on  his 
side,  and  a  very  cool  and  gentlemanly  sort  of  one  on  hers, 
he  nodded  to  Dick  Swiveller,  and  withdrew  with  the 
attorney. 

Dick  stood  at  the  desk  in  a  state  of  utter  stupefaction, 
staring  with  all  his  might  at  the  beauteous  Sally,  as  if 
she  had  been  some  curious  animal  whose  like  had  never 
lived.  When  the  dwarf  got  into  the  street,  he  mounted 
again  upon  the  window-sill,  and  looked  into  the  office  for 
a  moment  with  a  grinning  face,  as  a  man  might  peep  into 
a  cage.  Dick  glanced  upward  at  him,  but  without  any 
token  of  recognition  ;  and  long  after  he  had  disappeared, 
still  stood  gazing  upon  Miss  Sally  Brass,  seeing  or  think- 
ing of  nothing  else,  and  rooted  to  the  spot. 

Miss  Brass  being  by  this  time  deep  in  the  bill  of  costs, 
took  no  notice  whatever  of  Dick,  but  went  scratching 
on,  with  a  noisy  pen,  scoring  down  the  figures  with  evi- 
dent delight,  and  working  like  a  steam-engine.  There 
stood  Dick,  gazing  now  at  the  green  gown,  now  at  the 
brown  head-dress,  now  at  the  face,  and  now  at  the  rapid 
pen,  in  a  state  of  stupid  perplexity,  wondering  how  he 
got  into  the  company  of  that  strange  monster,  and 
whether  it  was  a  dream  and  he  would  ever  wake.  At 
last  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  began  slowly  pulling 
off  his  coat. 

Mr.  Swiveller  pulled  off  his  coat,  and  folded  it  up 
with  great  elaboration,  staring  at  Miss  Sally  all  the 
time  ;  then  put  on  a  blue  jacket  with  a  double  row  of 
gilt  buttons,  which  he  had  originally  ordered  for  aquatic 
expeditions,  but  had  brought  with  him  that  morning 
for  office  purposes  ;  and  still  keeping  his  eye  upon  her, 
suffered  himself  to  drop  down  silently  upon  Mr.  Brass's 
stool.  Then  he  underwent  a  relapse,  and  becoming 
powerless  again,  rested  his  chin  upon  his  hand,  and 
opened  his  eyes  so  wide,  that  it  appeared  quite  out  of 
the  question  that  he  could  ever  close  them  any  more. 

When  he  had  looked  so  long  that  he  could  see  nothing, 
Dick  took  his  eyes  off  the  fair  object  of  his  amazement, 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  draft  he  was  to  copy, 
dipped  his  pen  into  the  inkstand,  and  at  last,  and  by 
slow  approaches,  began  to  write.  But  he  had  not  written 
half-a-dozen  words  when,  reaching  over  to  the  inkstand 
to  take  a  fresh  dip,  he  happened  to  raise  his  eyes.  There 
was  the  intolerable  brown  head-dress — there  was  the 
green  gown — there,  in  short,  was  Miss  Sally  Brass,  ar- 
rayed in  all  her  charms,  and  more  tremendous  than 
ever. 

This  happened  so  often,  that  Mr.  Swiveller  by  degrees 
began  to  feel  strange  influences  creeping  over  him — 
horrible  desires  to  annihilate  this  Sally  Brass — mysteri- 
VOL.  II.— 48 


ous  promptings  to  knock  her  head-dress  off  and  try  how 
she  looked  without  it.  There  was  a  very  large  ruler  on 
the  table — a  large,  black,  shining  ruler.  Mr.  Swiveller 
took  it  up  and  began  to  rub  his  nose  with  it. 

From  rubbing  his  nose  with  the  ruler,  to  poising  it  in 
his  hand  and  giving  it  an  occasional  flourish  after  the 
tomahawk  manner,  the  transition  was  easy  and  natural. 
In  some  of  these  flourishes  it  went  close  to  Miss  Sally's 
head  ;  the  ragged  edges  of  the  head-dress  fluttered  with 
the  wind  it  raised  ;  advance  it  but  an  inch,  and  that 
great  brown  knot  was  on  the  ground  :  yet  still  the  un- 
conscious maiden  worked  away,  and  never  raised  her 
eyes. 

Well,  this  was  a  great  relief.  It  was  a  good  thing  to 
write  doggedly  and  obstinately  until  he  was  desperate, 
and  then  snatch  up  the  ruler  and  whirl  it  about  the 
brown  head-dress  with  the  consciousne.ss  that  he  could 
have  it  off  if  he  liked.  It  was  a  good  thing  to  draw  it 
back,  and  rub  his  nose  very  hard  with  it,  if  he  thought 
Miss  Sally  was  going  to  look  up,  and  to  recompense 
himself  with  more  hardy  flourishes  when  he  found  she 
was  still  absorbed.  By  these  means  Mr,  Swiveller 
calmed  the  agitation  of  his  feelings,  until  his  applications 
to  the  ruler  became  less  fierce  and  frequent,  and  he 
could  even  write  as  many  as  half-a-dozen  consecutive 
lines  without  having  recourse  to  it, — which  was  a  great 
victory. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

In  course  of  time,  that  is  to  say,  after  a  couple  of 
hours  or  so,  of  diligent  application.  Miss  Brass  arrived  at 
the  conclusion  of  her  task,  and  recorded  the  fact  by 
wiping  her  pen  upon  the  green  gown,  and  taking  a  pinch 
of  snuff  from  a  little  round  tin  box  which  she  carried  in 
her  pocket.  Having  disposed  of  this  temperate  refresh- 
ment, she  arose  from  her  stool,  tied  her  papers  into  a 
formal  packet  with  red  tape,  and  taking  them  under  her 
arm,  marched  out  of  the  office. 

Mr.  Swiveller  had  scarcely  sprung  off  his  seat  and 
commenced  the  performance  of  a  maniac  hornpipe,  when 
he  was  interrupted  in  the  fullness  of  his  joy  at  being 
again  alone,  by  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  the  reap- 
pearance of  Miss  Sally's  head. 

"  I  am  going  out,"  said  Miss  Brass. 

"Very  good  ma'am,"  returned  Dick.  "And  don't 
hurry  yourself  on  my  account  to  come  back,  ma'am,"  he 
added  inwardly. 

"  If  anybody  comes  on  office  business,  take  their  mes- 
sages, and  say  that  the  gentleman  who  attends  to  that 
matter  isn't  in  at  present,  will  you  ?  "  said  Miss  Brass. 

"  I  will,  ma'am,"  replied  Dick. 

"  I  shan't  be  very  long,"  said  Miss  Brass,  retiring. 

"  Fm  sorry  to  hear  it,  ma'am,"  rejoined  Dick  when  she 
had  shut  the  door.  "  I  hope  you  may  be  unexpectedly 
detained,  ma'am.  If  you  could  manage  to  be  run  over,, 
ma'am,  but  not  seriously,  so  much  the  better." 

Uttering  these  expressions  of  goodwill  with  extreme 
gravity,  Mr.  Swiveller  sat  down  in  the  client's  chair  and. 
pondered  ;  then  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the  room, 
and  fell  into  the  chair  again. 

"  So  I'm  Brass's  clerk,  am  I  ?  "  said  Dick.  "Brass's 
clerk,  eh  ?  And  the  clerk  of  Brass's  sister — clerk  to  a 
female  Dragon.  Very  good,  very  good  !  What  shall  I 
be  next  ?  Shall  I  be  a  convict  in  a  felt  hat  and  a  grey 
suit,  trotting  about  a  dock-yard  with  my  number  neatly 
embroidered  on  my  uniform,  and  the  order  of  the  garter 
on  my  leg,  restrained  from  chafing  my  ankle  bv  a  twisted 
belcher  handkerchief?  Shall  I  be  that ?  Will  that  do, 
or  is  it  too  genteel  ?  Whatever  you  please,  have  it  your 
own  way  of  course," 

As  he  was  entirely  alone,  it  may  be  presumed  that,  in 
these  remarks,  Mr.  Swiveller  addressed  himself  to  his 
fate  or  destiny,  whom,  as  we  learn  by  the  precedents,, 
it  is  the  custom  of  heroes  to  taunt  in  a  very  bitter  and 
ironical  manner  when  they  find  themselves  in  situations- 
of  an  unpleasant  nature.  This  is  the  more  probable 
from  the  circumstance  of  Mr.  Swiveller  directing  his  ob- 
servations to  the  ceiling  which  these  bodiless  personages 
are  usually  supposed  to  inhabit — except  in  theatrical! 
cases,  when  they  live  in  the  heart  of  the  great  chandelier.. 


754 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"  Quilp  offers  me  this  place,  which  he  says  he  can  in- 
sure me,"  resumed  Dick  after  a  thoughtful  silence,  and 
telling  off  the  circumstances  of  his  position,  one  by  one, 
upon  his  fingers  ;  "  Fred,  who,  I  could  have  taken  my 
affidavit,  would  not  have  heard  of  such  a  thing,  backs 
Quilp  to  my  astonishment,  and  urges  me  to  take  it  also 
—staggerer,  number  one  !  My  aunt  in  the  country 
stops  the  supplies,  and  writes  an  affectionate  note  to  say 
that  she  has  made  a  new  will,  and  left  me  out  of  it- 
staggerer,  number  two  !  No  money  ;  no  credit  ;  no  sup- 
port from  Fred,  who  seems  to  turn  steady  all  at  once  ; 
notice  to  quit  the  old  lodgings— staggerers  three,  four, 
five,  and  six  1  Under  an  accumulation  of  staggerers,  no 
man  can  be  considered  a  free  agent.  No  man  knocks 
himself  down  ;  if  his  destiny  knocks  him  down,  his 
destiny  must  pick  him  up  again.  Then  Fjn  very  glad 
that  niine  has  brought  all  this  upon  itself,  and  I  shall 
be  as  careless  as  I  can  and  make  myself  quite  at  home 
to  spite  it.  So  go  on  my  buck,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
taking  his  leave  of  the  ceiling  with  a  significant  nod, 
"  and  let  us  see  which  of  us  will  be  tired  first  !  " 

Dismissing  the  subject  of  his  downfall  with  these  re- 
flections, which  were  no  doubt  very  profound,  and  are 
indeed  not  altogether  unknown  in  certain  systems  of 
moral  philosophy, Mr.  Swiveller  shook  off  his  despondency 
and  assumed  the  cheerful  ease  of  an  irresponsible  clerk. 

As  a  means  towards  his  composure  and  self-possession, 
he  entered  into  a  more  minute  examination  of  the  office 
than  he  had  yet  had  time  to  make  ;  looked  into  the  wig- 
box,  the  books,  and  ink-bottle  ;  untied  and  inspected  all 
the  papers  ;  carved  a  few  devices  on  the  table  with  the 
sharp  blade  of  Mr.  Brass's  penknife  ;  and  wrote  his 
name  on  the  inside  of  the  wooden  coal-scuttle.  Having, 
as  it  were,  taken  formal  possession  of  his  clerkship  in 
virtue  of  these  proceedings,  he  opened  the  window  and 
leaned  negligently  out  of  it  until  a  beer- boy  happened 
to  pass,  whom  he  commanded  to  set  down  his  tray  and 
to  serve  him  with  a  pint  of  mild  porter,  which  he  drank 
upon  the  spot  and  promptly  paid  for,  with  the  view  of 
breaking  ground  for  a  system  of  future  credit  and  open- 
ing a  correspondence  tending  thereto,  without  loss  of 
time.  Then,  three  or  four  little  boys  dropped  in,  on 
legal  errands  from  three  or  four  attorneys  of  the  Brass 
grade  ;  whom  Mr.  Swiveller  received  and  dismissed  with 
about  as  professional  a  manner,  and  as  correct  and  com- 
prehensive an  understanding  of  their  business,  as  would 
have  been  shown  by  a  clown  in  a  pantomime  under  simi- 
lar circumstances.  These  things  done  and  over,  he  got 
upon  his  stool  again  and  tried  his  hand  at  drawing  cari- 
catures of  Miss  Brass  with  a  pen  and  ink,  whistling 
very  cheerfully  all  the  time. 

He  was  occupied  in  this  diversion  when  a  coach  stopped 
near  the  door,  and  presently  afterwards  there  was  a  loud 
double-knock.  As  this  was  no  business  of  Mr.  S  wiveller's, 
the  person  not  ringing  the  office  bell,  he  pursued  his 
diversion  with  perfect  composure,  notwithstanding  that 
he  rather  thought  there  was  nobody  else  in  the  house. 

In  this,  however,  he  was  mistaken  ;  for,  after  the 
knock  had  been  repeated  with  increased  impatience,  the 
door  was  opened,  and  somebody  with  a  very  heavy  tread 
went  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  room  above.  Mr.  Swi- 
veller was  wondering  whether  this  might  be  another  Miss 
Brass,  twin  sister  to  the  Dragon,  when  there  came  a 
rapping  of  knuckles  at  the  office  door. 

"Come  in!"  said  Dick.  "Don't  stand  upon  cere- 
mony. The  business  will  get  rather  complicated  if  I've 
many  more  customers.    Come  in  !  " 

"  Oh,  please,"  said  a  little  voice  very  low  down  in  the 
doorway,  "  will  you  come  and  show  the  lodgings?  " 

Dick  leant  over  the  table,  and  descried  a  small  slip- 
shod girl  in  a  dirty  coarse  apron  and  bib,  which  left 
nothing  of  her  visible  but  her  face  and  feet.  She  might 
as  well  have  been  dressed  in  a  violin-case. 

"  Why,  who  are  you?"  said  Dick. 

To  which  the  only  reply  was,  "  Oh,  please  will  you 
come  and  show  the  lodgings?" 

There  never  was  such  an  old-fashioned  child  in  her 
looks  and  manner.  She  must  have  been  at  work  from 
her  cradle.  She  seemed  as  much  afraid  of  Dick,  as 
Dick  was  amazed  at  her. 

"  I  hav'n't  got  anything  to  do  with  the  lodgings," 
said  Dick.    "  Tell  'em  to  call  again." 


"Oh,  but  please  will  you  come  and  show  the  lodgings," 
returned  the  girl  ;  "  it's  eighteen  shilling  a  week  and  us 
finding  plate  and  linen.  Boots  and  clothes  is  extra,  and 
fires  in  winter-time  is  eightpence  a  day." 

"  Why  don't  you  show 'em  yourself?  You  seem  to 
know  all  about  'em,"  said  Dick. 

"  Miss  Sally  said  I  wasn't  to,  because  people  would'nt 
believe  the  attendance  was  good  if  they  saw  how  small  I 
was  first." 

"  Well,  but  they'll  see  how  small  you  are  afterwards, 
won't  they?"  said  Dick. 

"  Ah  !  But  then  they'll  have  taken  'em  for  a  fort- 
night certain,"  replied  the  child  with  a  shrewd  look  ; 
"  and  people  don't  like  moving  when  they're  once 
settled." 

"  This  is  a  queer  sort  of  thing,"  muttered  Dick,  rising. 
"  What  do  you  mean  to  say  you  are — the  cook  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  plain  cooking  ;  replied  the  child.  "  I'm 
house-maid  too  ;  I  do  all  the  work  of  the  house." 

"  I  suppose  Brass  and  the  Dragon  and  I,  do  the  dirtiest 
part  of  it,"  thought  Dick.  And  he  might  have  thought 
much  more,  being  in  a  doubtful  and  hesitating  mood, 
but  that  the  girl  again  urged  her  request,  and  certain 
mysterious  bumping  sounds  on  the  passage  and  stair- 
case seemed  to  give  note  of  the  applicant's  impatience. 
Richard  Swiveller,  therefore,  sticking  a  pen  behind  each 
ear,  and  carrying  another  in  his  mouth  as  a  token  of  his 
great  importance  and  devotion  to  business,  hurried  out 
to  meet  and  treat  with  the  single  gentleman. 

He  was  a  little  surprised  to  perceive  that  the  bumping 
sounds  were  occasioned  by  the  progress  up-stairs  of  the 
single  gentleman's  trunk,  which,  being  nearly  twice  as 
wide  as  the  staircase,  and  exceedingly  heavy  withal,  it 
was  no  easy  matter  for  the  united  exertions  of  the  single 
gentleman  and  the  coachman  to  convey  up  the  steep 
ascent.  But  there  they  were  crushing  each  other,  and 
pushing  and  pulling  with  all  their  might,  and  getting 
the  trunk  tight  and  fast  in  all  kinds  of  impossible  angles 
and  to  pass  them  was  out  of  the  question  ;  for  which 
sufficient  reason,  Mr.  Swiveller  followed  slowly  behind, 
entering  a  new  protest  on  every  stair  against  the  house  of 
Mr.  Sampson  Brass  being  thus  taken  by  storm. 

To  these  remonstrances,  the  single  gentleman  answered 
not  a  word,  but  when  the  trunk  was  at  last  got  into  the 
bed-room,  sat  down  upon  it  and  wiped  his  bald  head 
and  face  with  his  handkerchief.  He  was  very  warm, 
and  well  he  might  be  ;  for,  not  to  mention  the  exertion 
of  getting  the  trunk  up-stairs,  he  was  closely  muffled  in 
winter  garments,  though  the  thermometer  had  stood 
all  day  at  eighty-one  in  the  shade. 

"  I  believe,  sir,"  said  Richard  Swiveller,  taking  his  pen 
out  of  his  mouth,  "  that  you  desire  to  look  at  these 
j  apartments.  They  are  very  charming  apartments,  sir. 
They  command  an  uninterrupted  view  of — of  over  the 
way,  and  they  are  within  one  minute's  walk  of — of  the 
corner  of  the  street.  There  is  exceedingly  mild  porter, 
sir,  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  and  the  contingent  advan- 
tages are  extraordinary." 

"  What's  the  rent  ?  "  said  the  single  gentleman. 

"  One  pound  per  week,"  replied  Dick,  improving  on 
the  terms. 

"I'll  take  'em." 

"  The  boots  and  clothes  are  extras,"  said  Dick  ;  "  and 
the  fires  in  winter  time  are — " 

"Are  all  agreed  to,"  answered  the  single  gentleman. 

"Two  weeks  certain,"  said  Dick,  "  are  the — " 

"Two  weeks!"  cried  the  single  gentleman  gruffly, 
eyeing  him  from  top  to  toe.  "Two  years.  I  shall  live 
here  for  two  years.  Here.  Ten  pounds  down.  The 
bargain's  made." 

"Why,  you  see,"  said  Dick,  "  my  name's  not  Brass, 
and—" 

"Who  said  it  was?  Mi/  name's  not  Brass.  What 
then  ?  " 

"  The  name  of  the  master  of  the  house  is,"  said  Dick. 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,"  returned  the  single  gentleman  ;  "  it's 
a  good  name  for  a  lawyer.  Coachman,  you  may  go. 
So  may  you,  sir." 

Mr.  Swiveller  was  so  much  confounded  by  the  single 
gentleman,  riding  roughshod  over  him  at  this  rate,  that 
he  stood  looking  at  him  almost  as  hard  as  he  had  looked 
at  Miss  Sally.     The  single  gentleman,  however,  was 


THE  OLD  CURIOSTTY  SHOP. 


755 


not  in  the  slightest  degree  affected  by  this  circumstance, 
but  proceeded  with  perfect  composure  to  unwind  the 
shawl  which  was  tied  round  his  neck,  and  then  to  pull 
off  his  boots.  Freed  of  these  incumbrances,  he  went 
on  to  divest  himself  of  his  other  clothing,  which  he 
folded  up,  piece  by  piece,  and  ranged  in  order  on  the 
trunk.  Then,  he  pulled  down  the  window-blinds,  drew 
the  curtains,  wound  up  his  watch,  and  quite  leisurely 
and  methodically,  got  into  bed. 

"  Take  down  the  bill,"  were  his  parting  words,  as  ho 
looked  out  from  between  the  curtains  ;  "  and  let  nobody 
call  me  till  I  ring  the  bell." 

With  that  the  curtains  closed,  and  he  seemed  to  snore 
immediately. 

"  This  is  a  most  remarkable  and  supernatural  sort  of 
house  !"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  as  he  walked  into  the  office 
with  the  bill  in  his  hand.  "  She-dragons  in  the  busi- 
ness, conducting  themselves  like  professional  gentle- 
men ;  plain  cooks  of  three  feet  high  appearing  mysteri- 
ously from  under  ground  ;  strangers  walking  in  and 
going  to  bed  without  leave  or  licence  in  the  middle  of 
the  day  !  If  he  should  be  one  of  the  miraculous  fellows 
that  turn  up  now  and  then,  and  has  gone  to  sleep  for 
two  years,  I  shall  be  in  a  pleasant  situation.  It's  my 
destiny,  however,  and  I  hope  Brass  may  like  it.  I  shall 
be  sorry  if  he  don't.  But  it's  no  business  of  mine — I 
have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it ! " 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Mr.  Brass  on  returning  home  received  the  report  of 
his  clerk  with  much  complacency  and  satisfaction,  and 
was  particular  in  inquiring  after  the  ten -pound  note, 
which,  proving  on  examination  to  be  a  good  and  lawful 
note  of  the  Governor  and  Company  of  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land, increased  his  good-humour  considerably.  Indeed 
he  so  overflowed  with  liberality  and  condescension,  that, 
in  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  he  invited  Mr.  Swiveller  to 
partake  of  a  bowl  of  punch  with  him  at  that  remote  and 
Indefinite  period  which  is  currently  denominated  "  one 
of  these  days,"  and  paid  him  many  handsome  compli- 
ments on  the  uncommon  aptitude  for  business  which  his 
conduct  on  the  first  day  of  his  devotion  to  it  had  so 
plainly  evinced. 

It  was  a  maxim  with  Mr,  Brass  that  the  habit  of  pay- 
ing compliments  kept  a  man's  tongue  oiled  without  any 
expense  ;  and,  as  that  useful  member  ought  never  to 
grow  rusty  or  creak  in  turning  on  its  hinges  in  the  case 
of  a  i^ractitioner  of  the  law,  in  whom  it  should  be  always 
glib  and  easy,  he  lost  few  opportunities  of  improving 
himself  by  the  utterance  of  handsome  speeches  and 
eulogistic  expressions.  And  this  had  passed  into  such 
a  habit  with  him,  that,  if  he  could  not  be  correctly  said 
to  have  his  tongue  at  his  fingers'  ends,  he  might  certainly 
be  said  to  have  it  anywhere  but  in  his  face  :  which  being, 
as  we  have  already  seen,  of  a  harsh  and  repulsive  char- 
acter, was  not  oiled  so  easily,  but  frowned  above  all  the 
smooth  speeches — one  of  nature's  beacons,  warning  off 
those  who  navigated  the  shoals  and  breakers  of  the 
World,  or  of  that  dangerous  strait  the  Law,  and  admon- 
ishing them  to  seek  less  treacherous  harbours  and  try 
their  fortune  elsewhere. 

While  Mr.  Brass  by  turns  ovei  ^vhelmed  his  clerk  with 
compliments,  and  inspected  the  ten -pound  note,  Miss 
Sally  Showed  little  emotion  and  that  of  no  pleasurable 
kind,  for  as  the  tendency  of  her  legal  practice  had  been 
to  fix  her  thoughts  on  small  gains  and  gripings,  and  to 
whet  and  sharpen  her  natural  wisdom,  she  was  not  a 
little  disappointed  that  the  single  gentleman  had  ob- 
tained the  lodgings  at  such  an  easy  rate,  arguing  that 
when  he  was  seen  to  have  set  his  mind  upon  them,  he 
should  have  been  at  the  least  charged  double  or  treble 
the  usual  terms,  and  that,  in  exact  proportion  as  he 
pressed  forward,  Mr.  Swiveller  should  have  hung  back. 
But  neither  the  good  opinion  of  Mr.  Brass,  nor  the  dis- 
satisfaction of  Miss  Sally,  wrought  any  impression  upon 
that  young  gentleman,  who,  throwing  the  responsibility 
of  this  and  all  other  acts  and  deeds  thereafter  to  be  done 
by  him,  upon  his  unlucky  destiny,  was  quite  resigned 
and  comfortable  :  fully  prepared  for  the  worst,  and  phil- 
osophically indifferent  to  the  best. 


"Good-morning,  Mr.  Richard,"  said  Brass,  on  the 
second  day  of  Mr.  Swiveller's  clcirkship.  "Sally  found 
you  a  second-hand  stool,  sir,  yesterday  evening,  in 
Whitechapel.  She's  a  rare  fellow  at  a  bargain,  I  can 
tell  you,  Mr.  Richard.  You'll  find  that  a  first-rate  stool, 
sir,  take  my  word  for  it." 

"  It's  rather  a  crazy  one  to  look  at,"  said  Dick. 

"  You'll  find  it  a  most  amazing  stool  to  sit  down  upon, 
you  may  depend,"  returned  Mr.  Brass.  "  It  was  bought 
in  the  open  street  just  op^josite  the  hospital,  and  as  it  has 
been  standing  there  a  month  or  two,  it  has  got  rather 
dusty  and  a  little  brown  from  being  in  the  sun,  that's 
all." 

"  I  hope  it  hasn't  got  any  fevers  or  anything  of  that 
sort  in  it,"  said  Dick,  sitting  himself  down  discontent- 
edly, between  Mr.  Sampson  and  the  chaste  Sally.  "One 
of  the  legs  is  longer  than  the  others." 

"  Then  we  get  a  bit  of  timber  in,  sir,"  retorted  Brass. 
"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  We  get  a  bit  of  timber  in,  sir,  and  that's 
another  advantage  of  my  sister's  going  to  market  for  us. 
Miss  Brass,  Mr.  Richard  is  the — " 

"  Will  you  keep  quiet?"  interrupted  the  fair  subject 
of  these  remarks,  looking  up  from  her  papers.  "How 
am  I  to  work  if  you  keep  on  chattering?" 

"What  an  uncertain  chap  you  are!"  returned  the 
lawyer.  "  Sometimes  you're  all  for  a  chat.  At  another 
time  you're  all  for  work.  A  man  never  knows  what 
humour  he'll  find  you  in." 

"I'm  in  a  working  humour  now,"  said  Miss  Sally, 
"so  don't  disturb  me  if  you  please.  And  don't  take 
him,"  Miss  Sally  pointed  with  the  feather  of  her  pen  to 
Richard,  "  off  his  business.  He  won't  do  more  than  he 
can  help,  I  dare  say." 

Mr.  Brass  had  evidently  a  strong  inclination  to  make 
an  angry  reply,  but  was  deterred  by  prudent  or  timid 
considerations,  as  he  only  muttered  something  about  ag- 
gravation and  a  vagabond  ;  not  associating  the  terms 
with  any  individual,  but  mentioning  them  as  connected 
with  some  abstract  ideas  which  happened  to  occur  to 
him.  They  went  on  writing  for  a  long  time  in  silence 
after  this— in  such  a  dull  silence  that  Mr.  Swiveller 
(who  required  excitement)  had  several  times  fallen  asleep, 
and  written  divers  strange  words  in  an  unknown  charac- 
ter with  his  eyes  shut,  when  Miss  Sally  at  length  broke 
in  upon  the  monotony  of  the  office  by  pulling  out  the 
little  tin  box,  taking  a  noisy  pinch  of  snuff,  and  then  ex- 
pressing her  opinion  that  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  had 
"  done  iL." 

"  Done  what,  ma'am?"  said  Richard. 

"  Do  you  know,"  returned  Miss  Brass,  "  that  the  lodger 
isn't  up  yet — that  nothing  has  been  seen  or  heard  of  him 
since  he  went  to  bed  yesterday  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  said  Dick,  "  I  suppose  he  may  sleep 
his  ten  pound  out,  in  peace  and  quietness,  if  he 
likes." 

"  Ah  !  I  begin  to  think  he'll  never  wake,"  observed 
Miss  Sally. 

"  It's  a  very  remarkable  circumstance,"  said  Brass, 
laying  down  his  pen  ;  "  really,  very  remarkable.  Mr. 
Richard,  you'll  remember,  if  this  gentleman  should  be 
found  to  have  hung  himself  to  the  bed-post,  or  any  un- 
pleasant accident  of  that  kind  should  happen — you'll  re- 
member, Mr.  Richard,  that  this  ten-pound  note  was 
given  to  you  in  part  payment  of  two  years'  rent  ?  You'll 
bear  that  in  mind,  Mr.  Richard  ;  you  had  better  make  a 
note  of  it,  sir,  in  case  you  should  ever  be  called  upon  to 
give  evidence." 

Mr.  Swiveller  took  a  large  sheet  of  foolscap,  and  with 
a  countenance  of  profound  gravity,  began  to  make  a  very 
small  note  in  one  corner. 

"We  can  never  be  too  cautious,"  said  Mr.  Brass. 
"  There  is  a  deal  of  wickedness  going  about  the  world, 
a  deal  of  wickedness.  Did  the  gentleman  happen  to  say, 
sir — but  never  mind  that  at  present,  sir  ;  finish  that  lit- 
tle memorandum  first." 

Dick  did  so,  and  handed  it  to  Mr.  Brass,  who  had  dis- 
mounted from  his  stool,  and  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  office. 

"  Oh,  this  is  the  memorandum,  is  it?  "  said  Brass,  run- 
ning his  eye  over  the  document.  "Very  good.  Now, 
Mr.  Richard,  did  the  gentleman  say  anything  else  ?  " 

"No." 


756 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Are  you  sure,  Mr.  Ricliard,"  said  Brass,  solemnly, 
that  the  gentleman  said  nothing  else?" 

"  DeA'il  a  word,  sir,'*  replied  Dick. 

"  Think  again,  sir,"  said  Brass  ;  "  it's  my  duty,  sir,  in 
the  position  in  which  I  stand,  and  as  an  honourable  mem- 
ber of  the  legal  profession — the  first  profession  in  this 
country,  sir,  or  in  any  other  country,  or  in  any  of  the 
planets  that  shine  above  us  at  night  and  are  supposed  to 
be  inhabited— it's  my  duty,  sir,  as  an  honourable  member 
of  that  profession,  not  to  put  to  you  a  leading  question  in 
a  matter  of  this  delicacy  and  importance.  Did  the  gen- 
tleman, sir,  who  took  the  first  floor  of  you  yesterday 
afternoon,  and  who  brought  with  him  a  box  of  property 

 a  box  of  property— say  anything  more  than  is  set 

down  in  this  memorandum  ?  " 

"  Come,  don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Miss  Sally. 

Dick  looked  at  her,  then  at  Brass,  and  then  at  Miss 
Sally  again,  and  still  said  "No." 

"Pooh,  pooh  !  Deuce  take  it,  Mr.  Richard,  how  dull 
you  are  !  "  cried  Brass,  relaxing  into  a  smile.  "  Did  he 
say  anything  about  his  property  ? — there  !  " 

'"That's  the  way  to  put  it,"  said  Miss  Sally,  nodding 
to  her  brother. 

"  Did  he  say,  for  instance,"  added  Brass,  in  a  kind  of 
comfortable,  cozy  tone — "I  don't  assert  that  he  did  say  so, 
mind  ;  I  only  ask  you  to  refresh  your  memory — did  he 
say,  for  instance,  that  he  was  a  stranger  in  London — 
that  it  was  not  his  humour  or  within  his  ability  to  give 
any  references — that  he  felt  we  had  a  right  to  require 
them — and  that,  in  case  anything  should  happen  to  him, 
at  any  time,  he  particularly  desired  that  whatever  prop- 
erty he  had  upon  the  premises  should  be  considered 
mine,  as  some  slight  recompense  for  the  trouble  and  an- 
noyance I  should  sustain — and  were  you,  in  short,"  add- 
ed* Brass,  still  more  comfortably  and  cozily  than  before, 
"  were  you  induced  to  accept  him  on  my  behalf,  as  a 
tenant,  upon  those  conditions  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Dick. 

"  Why,  then,  Mr.  Richard,"  said  Brass,  darting  at  him 
a  supercilious  and  reproachful  look,  "  it's  my  opinion 
that  you've  mistaken  your  calling,  and  will  never  make 
a  lawyer." 

"Not  if  you  live  a  thousand  years,"  added  Miss  Sally. 
Whereupon  the  brother  and  sister  took  each  a  noisy  pinch 
of  snufE  from  the  little  tin  box,  and  fell  into  a  gloomy 
thoughtfulness. 

Nothing  further  passed  up  to  Mr,  Swaveller's  dinner- 
time, which  was  at  three  o'clock,  and  seemed  about 
three  weeks  in  coming.  At  the  first  stroke  of  the  hour, 
the  new  clerk  disappeared.  At  the  last  stroke  of  five 
he  reappeared,  and  the  office,  as  if  by  magic,  became 
fragrant  with  the  smell  of  gin  and  water  and  lemon-peel. 

"Mr.  Richard,"  said  Brass,  "this  man's  not  up  yet. 
Nothing  will  wake  him,  sir.    What's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  I  should  let  him  have  his  sleep  out,"  returned  Dick. 

"  Sleep  out  !  "  cried  Brass  ;  "  why  he  has  been  asleep 
now,  six-and-twenty  hours.  We  have  been  moving 
chests  of  drawers  over  his  head,  we  have  knocked  dou- 
ble knocks  at  the  street-door,  we  have  made  the  servant- 
girl  fall  down-stairs  several  times,  (she's  a  light  weight, 
and  it  don't  hurt  her  much,)  but  nothing  wakes  him." 

"  Perhaps  a  ladder,"  suggested  Dick,  and  getting  in 
at  the  first-floor  window —  " 

"  But  then  there's  a  door  between  :  besides,  the  neigh- 
bourhood would  be  up  in  arms,"  said  Brass. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  getting  on  the  roof  of  the  house 
through  the  trap-door,  and  dropping  down  the  chim- 
ney ?  "  suggested  Dick. 

"  That  would  be  an  excellent  plan,"  said  Brass,  "if 
anybody  would  bn — "  and  here  he  looked  very  hard  at 
Mr.  Swiveller — "  would  be  kind,  and  friendly,  and  gen- 
erous enough,  to  undertake  it.  I  dare  say  it  would  not 
be  anything  like  as  disagreeable  as  one  supposes." 

Dick  had  made  the  suggestion,  thinking  that  the  duty 
might  possibly  fall  within  Miss  Sally's  department.  As 
he  .said  nothing  further,  and  declined  taking  the  hint, 
Mr.  Brass  was  fain  to  i)ropose  that  they  should  go  up- 
stairs together,  and  make  a  last  effort  to  awaken  the 
sleeper  by  some  less  violent  means,  which,  if  they  failed 
on  this  last  trial, must  j)ositively  be  succeeded  by  stronger 
measures.  Mr.  Swiveller,  assenting,  armed  himself 
with  his  stool  and  the  large  ruler,  and  repaired  with  his 


employer  to  the  scene  of  action,  where  Miss  Brass  was 
already  ringing  a  hand-bell  with  all  her  might,  and  yet 
without  producing  the  smallest  effect  upon  their  mys- 
terious lodger. 

"  There  are  his  boots,  Mr.  Richard  !"  said  Brass, 
"Very  obstinate-looking  articles  they  are  too,"  quoth 
Richard  Swiveller,  And  truly,  they  were  as  sturdy  and 
bluff  a  pair  of  boots  as  one  would  wish  to  see  ;  as  firmly 
planted  on  the  ground  as  if  their  owner's  legs  and  feet 
had  been  in  them  ;  and  seeming,  with  their  broad  soles 
and  blunt  toes,  to  hold  possession  of  their  place  by  main 
force. 

"  I  can't  see  anything  but  the  curtain  of  the  bed,"  said 
Brass,  applying  his  eye  to  the  key-hole  of  the  door.  "  Is 
he  a  strong  man,  Mr.  Richard?" 

"  Very,"  answered  Dick. 

"  It  would  be  an  extremely  unpleasant  circumstance 
if  he  was  to  bounce  out  suddenly,"  said  Brass.  "  Keep 
the  stairs  clear,  I  should  be  more  than  a  match  for  him, 
of  course,  but  I'm  the  master  of  the  house,  and  the  laws, 
of  hospitality  must  be  respected. — Hallo  there  !  Hallo, 
hallo  ! " 

While  Mr,  Brass,  with  his  eye  curiously  twisted  into 
the  keyhole,  uttered  these  sounds  as  a  means  of  attract- 
ing the  lodger's  attention,  and  while  Miss  Brass  plied 
the  liand-bell,  Mr.  Swiveller  put  his  stool  close  against 
the  wall  by  the  side  of  the  door,  and  mounting  on  the 
top  and  standing  bolt  upright,  so  that  if  the  lodger  did 
make  a  rush,  he  would  most  probably  pass  him  on  its 
onward  fury,  began  a  violent  battery  with  the  ruler  upon 
the  upper  panels  of  the  door.  Captivated  with  his  own 
ingenuity,  and  confident  in  the  strength  of  his  position, 
which  he  had  taken  up  after  the  method  of  those  hardy 
individuals  who  open  the  pit  and  gallery  doors  of  theatres 
on  crowded  nights,  Mr.  Swiveller  rained  down  such  a 
shower  of  blows,  that  the  noise  of  the  bell  was  drowned  ; 
and  the  small  servant,  who  lingered  on  the  stairs  below, 
ready  to  fly  at  a  moment's  notice,  was  obliged  to  hold  her 
ears  lest  she  should  be  rendered  deaf  for  life. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  unlocked  on  the  inside,  and 
flung  violently  open.  The  small  servant  fled  to  the  coal- 
cellar  ;  Miss  Sally  dived  into  her  own  bed-room  ;  Mr. 
Brass,  who  was  not  remarkable  for  personal  courage,  ran 
into  the  next  street,  and  finding  that  nobody  followed 
him,  armed  with  a  poker  or  other  offensive  weapon,  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  walked  very  slowly  all  at  once, 
and  whistled. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Swiveller,  on  the  top  of  the  stool, 
drew  himself  into  as  flat  a  shape  as  possible  against  the 
wall,  and  looked,  not  tmconcernedly,  down  upon  the 
single  gentleman,  who  appeared  at  the  door  growling  and 
cursing  in  a  very  awful  manner,  and  with  the  boots  in 
his  hands,  seemed  to  have  an  intention  of  hurling  them 
down-stairs  on  speculation.  This  idea,  however,  he 
abandoned.  He  was  turning  into  his  room  again,  still 
growling  vengefuUy,  when  his  eyes  met  those  of  the 
watchful  Richard. 

"  Have  you  been  making  that  horrible  noise  ?  "  said  the 
single  gentleman, 

"I  have  been  helping,  sir,"  returnee^  Dick,  keeping 
his  eye  upon  him,  and  waving  the  ruler  gently  in  his 
right  hand,  as  an  indication  of  what  the  single  gentleman 
had  to  expect  if  he  attempted  any  violence, 

"  How  dare  you  then,"  said  the  lodger,  "Eh?" 

To  this,  Dick  made  no  other  reply  than  by  inquiring 
whether  the  lodger  held  it  to  be  consistent  with  the  con- 
duct and  character  of  a  gentleman  to  go  to  sleep  for  six- 
and-twenty  hours  at  a  stretch,  and  whether  the  peace 
of  an  amiable  and  virtuous  family  was  to  weigh  as  noth- 
ing in  the  balance. 

"  Is  my  peace  nothing?"  said  the  single  gentleman. 

"Is  their  peace  nothing  cir?"  returned  Dick.  "I 
don't  wish  to  hold  out  any  threats,  sir — indeed  the  law 
docs  not  allow  of  threats,  for  to  threaten  is  an  indictable 
offence — but  if  ever  you  do  that  again,  take  care  you're 
not  sat  upon  by  the  coroner  and  buried  in  a  cross  road 
before  you  wake.  We  have  been  distracted  with  fears 
that  you  were  dead,  sir,"  said  Dick,  gently  sliding  to  the 
ground,  "and  the  short  and  the  long  of  it  .is,  that  we 
cannot  allow  single  gentlemen  to  come  into  this  estab- 
lishment and  sleep  like  double  gentlemen  without  pay- 
ing extra  for  it," 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


757 


"  Indeed  ! "  cried  the  lodger. 

"Yes,  sir,  indeed,"  returned  Dick,  yielding  to  his 
destiny  and  saying  whatever  came  uppermost;  "an 
equal  quantity  of  slumber  was  never  got  out  of  one  bed 
and  bedstead,  and  if  you're  going  to  sleep  in  that  way, 
you  must  pay  for  a  double-bedded  room." 

Instead  of  being  thrown  into  a  greater  passion  by  these 
remarks,  the  lodger  lapsed  into  a  broad  grin,  and  looked 
at  Mr.  Swiveller  with  twinkling  eyes.  He  was  a  brown- 
faced  sun-burnt  man,  and  appeared  browner  and  more 
sunburnt  from  having  a  white  nightcap  on.  As  it  was 
clear  that  he  was  a  choleric  fellow  in  some  respects,  Mr. 
Swiveller  was  relieved  to  find  him  in  such  good  humour, 
and  to  encourage  him  in  it,  smiled  himself. 

The  lodger,  in  the  testiness  of  being  so  rudely  roused, 
had  pushed  his  nightcap  very  much  on  one  side  of  his 
bald  head.  This  gave  a  him  rakish  eccentric  air,  which, 
now  that  he  had  leisure  to  observe  it,  charmed  Mr.  Swi- 
veller exceedingly  ;  therefore,  by  way  of  propiti'ation,  he 
expressed  his  hope  that  the  gentleman  was  going  to 
get  up,  and  further,  that  he  would  never  do  so  any  more. 

"Come  here,  you  impudent  rascal  I"  was  the  lodger's 
answer  as  he  re-entered  his  room. 

Mr.  Swiveller  followed  him  in,  leaving  the  stool  out- 
side, but.  reserving  the  rulei"  in  case  of  a  surprise.  He 
rather  congratulated  himself  on  his  prudence  when  the 
single  gentleman,  without  notice  or  explanation  of  any 
kind,  double-locked  the  door. 

"  Can  you  drink  anything  ?"  was  his  next  inquiry. 

Mr.  Swiveller  replied  that  he  had  very  recently  been 
assuaging  the  pangs  of  thirst,  but  that  he  was  still  open 
to  "ti  modest  quencher,"  if  the  materials  were  at  hand. 
Without  another  word  spoken  on  either  side,  the  lodger 
took  from  his  great  trunk,  a  kind  of  temple,  shining  as 
of  polished  silver,  and  placed  it  carefully  on  the  table. 

Greatly  interested  in  his  proceedings,  Mr.  Swiveller  ob- 
served him  closely.  Into  one  little  chamber  of  this  tem- 
ple, he  dropped  an  egg  ;  into  another,  some  coffee  ;  into 
a  third  a  compact  piece  of  raw  steak  from  a  neat  tin  case  ; 
into  a  fourth,  he  poured  some  water.  Then,  with  the  aid 
of  a  phosphorus-box  and  some  matches,  he  procured  a 
light  and  applied  it  to  a  spirit-lamp  which  had  a  place  of 
its  own  below  the  temple  ;  then,  he  shut  down  the  lids 
of  all  the  little  chambers  ;  then  he  opened  them  ;  and 
then,  by  some  wonderful  and  unseen  agency,  the  steak 
was  done,  the  egg  was  boiled,  the  coffee  was  accurately 
prepared,  and  his  breakfast  was  ready. 

"  Hot  water — "  said  the  lodger, handing  it  to  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller with  as  much  coolness  as  if  he  had  a  kitchen  fire 
before  him — "extraordinary  rum — sugar — and  a  travel- 
ling glass.    Mix  for  yourself.    And  make  haste." 

Dick  complied,  his  eyes  wandering  all  the  time  from 
the  temple  on  the  table,  which  seemed  to  do  everything, 
to  the  great  trunk  which  seemed  to  hold  everything. 
The  lodger  took  his  breakfast  like  a  man  who  was  used 
to  work  these  miracles,  and  thought  nothing  of  them. 

"  The  man  of  the  house  is  a  lawyer,  is  he  not  ?"  said 
the  lodger. 

Dick  nodded.    The  rum  was  amazing. 

"  The  woman  of  the  house — what's  she  ?  " 

"  A  dragon,"  said  Dick. 

The  single  gentleman,  perhaps  because  he  had_met  with 
such  things  in  his  travels,  or  perhaps  because  he  was  a 
single  gentleman,  evinced  no  surprise,  but  merely  in- 
quired "Wife  or  Sister?"  "Sister,"  said  Dick. — "So 
much  the  better,"  said  the  single  gentleman,"  he  can  get 
rid  of  her  when  he  likes." 

"  I  want  to  do  as  I  like,  young  man,"  he  added  after  a 
short  silence  :  "  to  go  to  bed  when  I  like,  get  up  when  I 
like,  come  in  when  I  like,  go  out  when  I  like, — to  be 
asked  no  questions  and  be  surrounded  by  no  spies.  In 
this  last  respect,  servants  are  the  devil.  There's  only 
one  here." 

"  And  a  very  little  one,"  said  Dick. 

"  And  a  very  little  one,"  repeated  the  lodger.  "  Well, 
the  place  will  suit  me,  will  it  ?  "  . 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick. 

"  Sliarks,  I  suppose  ?"  said  the  lodger. 

Dick  nodded  assent,  and  drained  his  glass. 

"Let  them  know  my  humour,"  said  the  single  gentle- 
man, rising.  "  If  they  disturb  me,  they  lose  a  good  ten- 
ant.   If  they  know  me  to  be  that,  they  know  enough. 


If  they  try  to  know  more,  it's  a  notice  to  quit.  It's  bet- 
ter to  understand  these  things  at  once.    Good  day." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Dick,  halting  in  his  passage 
to  the  door,  which  the  lodger  prepared  to  open.  "  When 
he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name — " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

" — But  the  name,"  said  Dick— "has  left  but  the  name 
— in  case  of  letters  or  parcels — " 

"  I  never  have  any,"  returned  the  lodger. 
"Or  in  case  anybody  should  call." 
"  Nobody  ever  calls  on  me." 

"If  any  mistake  should  arise  from  not  having  the 
name,  don't  say  it  was  my  fault,  sir,"  added  Dick,  still 
lingering — "Oh  blame  not  the  bard — " 

"  I'll  blame  nobody,"  said  the  lodger,  with  such  irasci- 
bility that  in  a  moment  Dick  found  himself  on  the  stair- 
case, and  the  locked  door  between  them. 

Mr.  Brass  and  Miss  Sally  were  lurking  hard  by,  having 
been,  indeed,  only  routed  from  the  keyhole  by  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller's  abrupt  exit.  As  their  utmost  exertions  had  not 
enabled  them  to  overhear  a  word  of  the  interview,  how- 
ever, in  consequence  of  a  quarrel  for  precedence,  which, 
though  limited  of  necessity  to  pushes  and  pinches  and 
such  quiet  pantomime,  had  lasted  the  whole  time,  they 
hurried  him  down  to  the  office  to  hear  his  account  of  the 
conversation. 

This  Mr.  Swiveller  gave  them — faithfully  as  regarded 
the  wishes  and  character  of  the  single  gentleman,  and 
poetically  as  concerned  the  great  trunk,  of  which  he  gave 
a  description  more  remarkable  for  brilliancy  of  imagina- 
tion than  a  strict  adherence  to  truth  ;  declaring  with 
many  asseverations,  that  it  contained  a  specimen  of  every 
kind  of  rich  food  and  wine,  known  in  these  times,  and  in 
particular  that  it  was  of  a  self-acting  kind  and  served  up 
whatever  was  required,  as  he  supposed  by  clock-work. 
He  also  gave  them  to  understand  that  the  cooking  appa- 
ratus roasted  a  fiue  piece  of  sirloin  of  beef,  weighing 
about  six  pounds  avoirdupois,  in  two  minutes  and  a  quar- 
ter, as  he  had  himself  witnessed,  and  proved  by  his  sense 
of  taste  ;  and  further,  that,  however  the  effect  was  pro- 
duced, he  had  distinctly  seen  water  boil  and  bubble  up 
when  the  single  gentleman  winked  ;  from  which  facts  he 
(Mr.  Swiveller)  was  led  to  infer  that  the  lodger  was  some 
great  conjuror  or  chemist,  or  both,  whose  residence  un- 
der that  roof  could  not  fail  at  some  future  day  to  shed  a 
great  credit  and  distinction  on  the  name  of  Brass,  and  add 
a  new  interest  to  the  history  of  Bevis  Marks. 

There  was  one  point  which  Mr.  Swiveller  deemed  it 
unnecessary  to  enlarge  upon,  and  that  was  the  fact  of 
the  modest  quencher,  which  by  reason  of  its  intrinsic 
strength  and  its  coming  close  upon  the  heels  of  the  tem- 
perate beverage  he  had  discussed  at  dinner,  awakened  a 
slight  degree  of  fever,  and  rendered  necessary  two  or 
three  other  modest  quenchers  at  the  public-house  in  the 
course  of  the  evening. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

As  the  single  gentleman  after  some  weeks*  occupation 
of  his  lodgings,  still  declined  to  correspond,  by  word  or 
gesture,  either  with  Mr.  Brass  or  his  sister  Sally,  but  in- 
variably chose  Richard  Swiveller  as  his  channel  of  com- 
munication ;  and  as  he  proved  himself  in  all  respects  a 
highly  desirable  inmate,  paying  for  everything  before- 
hand, giving  very  little  trouble,  making  no  noise,  and 
keeping  early  hours  ;  Mr.  Richard  imperceptibly  rose  to 
an  important  position  in  the  family,  as  one  who  had  in- 
fluence over  this  mysterious  lodger,  and  could  negotiate 
with  him,  for  good  or  evil,  when  nobody  else  durst  ap- 
proach his  person. 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  even  Mr.  Swiveller's  ap- 
proaches to  the  single  gentleman  were  of  a  very  distant 
kind,  and  met  with  small  encouragement ;  but,  as  he 
never  returned  from  a  monosyllabic  conference  with  the 
unknown,  without  quoting  such  expressions  as  "  Swiv- 
eller, I  know  I  can  rely  upon  you," — "I  have  no  hesita- 
tion in  saying,  Swiveller,  that  I  entertain  a  regard  for 
you," — "  Swiveller,  you  are  my  friend,  and  will  stand  by 
me  I  am  sure,"  with  many  other  short  speeches  of  the 
same  familiar  and  confiding  kind,  purporting  to  have 
been  addressed  by  the  single  gentleman  to  himself,  and 


758 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


to  form  the  staple  of  their  ordinary  discourse,  neither 
Mr.  Brass  nor  Miss  Sally  for  a  moment  questioned  the 
extent  of  his  influence,  but  accorded  to  him  their  fullest 
and  most  unqualified  belief. 

But  quite  apart  from,  and  independent  of,  this  source 
of  popularity,  Mr.  Swiveller  had  another,  which  prom-  : 
ised  to  be  equally  enduring,  and  to  lighten  his  position  \ 
considerably.  | 

He  found  favour  in  the  eyes  of  Miss  Sally  Brass.  Let 
not  the  light  scorners  of  female  fascination  erect  their 
ears  to  listen  to  a  new  tale  of  love  which  shall  serve 
them  for  a  jest ;  for  Miss  Brass,  however  accurately 
formed  to  be  beloved,  was  not  of  the  loving  kind.  That 
amiable  virgin,  having  clung  to  the  skirts  of  the  Law 
from  her  earliest  youth  ;  having  sustained  herself  by 
their  aid,  as  it  were,  in  her  first  running  alone,  and 
maintained  a  firm  grasp  upon  them  ever  since  ;  had 
passed  her  life  in  a  kind  of  legal  childhood.  She  had 
been  remarkable,  when  a  tender  prattler,  for  an  uncom- 
mon talent  in  counterfeiting  the  walk  and  manner  of  a 
bailiff ;  in  which  character  she  had  learned  to  tap  her 
little  playfellows  on  the  shoulder,  and  to  carry  them  off 
to  imaginary  spunging-houses,  with  a  correctness  of  im- 
itation which  was  the  surprise  and  delight  of  all  who 
witnessed  her  performances,  and  which  was  only  to  be 
exceeded  by  her  exquisite  manner  of  putting  an  execu- 
tion into  her  doll's  house,  and  taking  an  exact  inventory 
of  the  chairs  and  tables.  These  artless  sports  had  natu- 
rally soothed  and  cheered  the  decline  of  her  widowed 
father  :  a  most  exemplary  gentleman,  (called  "  Old  Fox- 
ey  "  by  his  friends  from  his  extreme  sagacity,)  who  en- 
couraged them  to  the  utmost,  and  whose  chief  regret  on 
finding  that  he  drew  near  to  Houndsditch  churchyard, 
was,  that  his  daughter  could  not  take  out  an  attorney's 
certificate  and  hold  a  place  upon  the  roll.  Filled  with 
this  affectionate  and  touching  sorrow  he  had  solemnly 
confided  her  to  his  son  Sampson  as  an  invaluable  auxil- 
iary ;  and  from  the  old  gentleman's  decease  to  the  period 
of  which  we  treat,  Miss  Sally  Brass  had  been  the  prop 
and  pillar  of  his  business. 

It  is  obvious  that,  having  devoted  herself  from  infancy 
to  this  one  pursuit  and  study.  Miss  Brass  could  know 
but  little  of  the  world,  otherwise  than  in  connection  with 
the  law ;  and  that  from  a  lady  gifted  with  su.ch  high 
tastes,  proficiency  in  those  gentler  and  softer  arts  iu 
which  women  usually  excel,  was  scarcely  to  be  looked 
for.  Miss  Sally's  accomplishments  were  all  of  a  mascu- 
line and  strictly  legal  kind.  They  began  with  the  prac- 
tice of  an  attorney  and  they  ended  with  it.  She  was  in 
a  state  of  lawful  innocence,  so  to  speak.  The  law  had 
been  her  nurse.  And,  as  bandy -legs  or  such  physical 
deformities  in  children  are  held  to  be  the  consequence 
of  bad  nursing,  so,  if  in  a  mind  so  beautiful  any  moral 
twist  or  bandiness  could  be  found.  Miss  Sally  Brass's 
nurse  was  alone  to  blame. 

It  was  on  this  lady,  then,  that  Mr.  Swiveller  burst  in 
full  freshness  as  something  new  and  hitherto  undreamed 
of,  lighting  up  the  office  with  scraps  of  song  and  merri- 
ment, conjuring  with  inkstands  and  boxes  of  wafers, 
catching  three  oranges  in  one  hand,  balancing  stools 
upon  his  chin  and  penknives  on  his  nose,  and  constantly 
performing  a  hundred  other  feats  with  equal  ingenuity  ; 
for  with  such  unbendings  did  Richard,  in  Mr.  Brass's 
absence,  relieve  the  tedium  of  his  confinement.  These 
social  qualities,  which  Miss  Sally  first  discovered  by  ac- 
cident, gradually  made  such  an  impression  upon  her, 
that  she  would  entreat  Mr.  Swiveller  to  relax  as  though 
she  were  not  by,  which  Mr.  Swiveller,  nothing  loth, 
would  readily  consent  to  do.  By  these  means  a  friend- 
ship  sprung  up  between  them.  Mr.  Swiveller  gradually 
came  to  look  upon  her  as  her  brother  Sampson  did,  and 
as  he  would  have  looked  upon  any  other  clerk.  He  im- 
parted to  her  the  mystery  of  going  the  odd  man  or  plain 
Newmarket  for  fruit,  ginger-beer,  baked  potatoes,  or 
even  a  modest  quencher,  of  which  Miss  Brass  did  not 
scruple  to  partake.  He  would  often  persuade  her  to 
undertake  his  share  of  writing  in  addition  to  her  own  : 
nay,  he  would  sometimes  reward  her  with  a  hearty  slap 
on  the  back,  and  i)rotest  that  she  was  a  devilish  good 
fellow,  a  jolly  dog,  and  so  forth  ;  all  of  which  compli- 
ments  Miss  Sally  would  receive  in  entire  good  part  and 
with  perfect  satisfaction. 


One  circumstance  troubled  Mr.  Swiveller's  mind  very 
much,  and  that  was  that  the  small  servant  always  re- 
mained somewhere  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  under 
Bevis  Marks,  and  never  came  to  the  surface  unless  the 
single  gentleman  rang  his  bell,  when  she  would  answer 
it  and  immediately  disappear  again.  She  never  went 
I  out  or  came  into  the  office,  or  had  a  clean  face,  or  took 
I  off  the  coarse  apron,  or  looked  out  of  any  one  of  the 
windows,  or  stood  at  the  street-door  for  a  breath  of  air, 
or  had  any  rest  or  enjo3maent  whatever.  Nobody  ever 
came  to  see  her,  nobody  spoke  of  her,  nobody  cared 
about  her.  Mr.  Brass  had  said  once,  that  he  believed 
she  was  a  "love-child,"  (which  means  anything  but  a 
child  of  love,)  and  that  was  all  the  information  Richard 
Swiveller  could  obtain. 

"  It's  of  no  use  asking  the  dragon,"  thought  Dick  one 
day,  as  he  sat  contemplating  the  features  of  Miss  Sally 
Brass.  "  I  suspect  if  I  asked  any  questions  on  that  head, 
our  alliance  would  be  at  an  end.  I  wonder  whether  she 
is  a  dragon  by  the  bye,  or  something  in  the  mermaid 
way.  She  has  rather  a  scaly  appearance.  But  mer- 
maids are  fond  of  looking  at  themselves  in  the  glass, 
which  she  can't  be.  And  they  have  a  habit  of  combing 
their  hair,  which  she  hasn't.    No,  she's  a  dragon." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  old  fellow,"  said  Dick  aloud, 
as  Miss  Sally  wiped  her  pen  as  usual  on  the  green  dress, 
and  uprose  from  her  seat. 

**  To  dinner,"  answered  the  dragon. 
"  To  dinner,"  thought  Dick,  "that's  another  circum- 
stance.   I  don't  believe  that  small  servant  ever  has  any- 
thing to  eat. " 

"  Sammy  won't  be  home,"  said  Miss  Brass,  "i^top 
till  I  come  back.    I  shan't  be  long." 

Dick  nodded,  and  followed  Miss  Brass — with  his  eyes 
to  the  door,  and  with  his  ears  to  a  little  back  parlour, 
where  she  and  her  brother  took  their  meals. 

"  Now,"  said  Dick,  walking  up  and  down  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  "  I'd  give  something — if  I  had  it — 
to  know  how  they  use  that  child,  and  where  they  keep 
her.  My  mother  must  have  been  a  very  inquisitive 
woman  ;  I  have  no  doubt  I'm  marked  with  a  note  of  in- 
terrogation somewhere.  My  feelings  I  smother,  but 
thou  hast  been  the  cause  of  this  anguish  my — upon  my 
word,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  checking  himself  and  falling 
thoughtfully  into  the  client's  chair,  "  I  should  like  to 
know  how  they  use  her  !  " 

After  running  on,  in  this  way,  for  some  time,  Mr. 
Swiveller  softly  opened  the  office  door,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  darting  across  the  street  for  a  glass  of  the  mild 
porter.  At  that  moment  he  caught  a  parting  glimpse  of 
the  brown  head-dress  of  Miss  Brass  flitting  down  the 
kitchen  stairs.  "  And  by  Jove  1 "  thought  Dick,  "  shfi's 
going  to  feed  the  Marchioness.    :^ow  or  never  ! " 

First  peeping  over  the  handrail  and  allowing  the  head- 
dress to  disappear  in  the  darkness  below,  he  groped  his 
way  down,  and  arrived  at  the  door  of  a  back  kitchen  im- 
mediately after  Miss  Brass  had  fentered  the  same,  bear- 
ing in  her  hand  a  cold  leg  of  mutton.  It  was  a  very 
dark  miserable  place,  very  low,  and  very  damp  :  the 
walls  disfigured  by  a  thousand  rents  and  blotches.  The 
water  was  trickling  out  of  a  leaky  butt,  and  a  most 
wretched  cat  was  lapping  up  the  drops  with  the  sickly 
eagerness  of  starvation.  The  grate,  which  was  a  wide 
one,  was  wound  and  screwed  up  tight,  so  as  to  hold  no 
more  than  a  little  thin  sandwich  of  fire.  Everything  was 
locked  up  ;  the  coal-cellar,  the  candle-box,  the  salt-box, 
the  meal-safe,  were  all  padlocked.  There  was  nothing 
that  a  beetle  could  have  lunched  upon.  The  pinched  and 
meagre  aspect  of  the  place  would  have  killed  a  chame- 
leon :  he  would  have  known,  at  the  first  mouthful,  that 
the  air  was  not  eatable,  and  must  have  given  up  the 
ghost  in  despair. 

The  small  servant  stood  with  humility  in  presence  of 
Miss  Sally,  and  hung  her  head. 
"  Are  you  there  ?  "  said  Miss  Sally. 
"  Yes,  ma'am,"  v^as  the  answer  in  a  weak  voice. 
"  Go  further  away  from  the  leg  of  mutton  or  you'll  be 
picking  it,  I  know,"  said  Miss  Sally. 

The  girl  withdrew  into  a  corner,  while  Miss  Brass  took 
a  key  from  her  pocket,  and  opening  the  safe,  brought 
from  it. a  dreary  waste  of  cold  potatoes,  looking  as  eat- 
able as  iStonehenge.    This  she  placed  before  the  small 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


759 


servant,  ordering  her  to  sit  down  before  it,  and  then, 
taking  up  a  great  carving-knife,  made  a  mighty  show  of 
sharpening  it  upon  the  carving-fork. 

"  Do  you  see  this  ?  "  said  Miss  Brass,  slicing  off  about 
two  square  inches  of  cold  mutton,  after  all  this  prepara- 
tion, and  holding  it  out  on  the  point  of  the  fork. 

The  small  servant  looked  hard  enough  at  it  with  her 
hungry  eyes  to  see  every  shred  of  it,  small  as  it  was,  and 
answered,  "  yes." 

"Then  don't  you  ever  go  and  say,"  retorted  Miss 
Sally,  "  that  you  hadn't  meat  here.    There,  eat  it  up." 

This  was  soon  done.  "Now,  do  you  want  any  more ? " 
said  Miss  Sally. 

The  hungry  creature  answered  with  a  faint  "  No." 
They  were  evidently  going  through  an  established  form. 

"  Tou've  been  helped  once  to  meat,"  said  Miss  Brass, 
summing  up  the  fact^  you  have  had  as  much  as  you 
can  eat,  you're  asked  if  you  want  any  more,  and  you 
answer  '  no  ! '  Then  don't  you  ever  go  and  say  you  were 
allowanced,  mind  that." 

With  those  words.  Miss  Sally  put  the  meat  away  and 
locked  the  safe,  and  then  drawing  near  to  the  small  ser- 
vant, overlooked  her  while  she  finished  the  potatoes. 

It  was  plain  that  some  extraordinary^  grudge  was  work- 
ing in  Miss  Brass's  gentle  breast,  and  that  it  was  this 
which  impelled  her,  without  the  smallest  present  cause, 
to  rap  the  child  with  the  blade  of  the  knife,  now  on  her 
hand,  now  on  her  head,  and  now  on  her  back,  as  if  she 
found  it  quite  impossible  to  stand  so  close  to  her  without 
administering  a  few  slight  knocks.  But  Mr.  Swiveller 
was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see  his  fellow  clerk,  after 
walking  slowly  backwards  towards  the  door,  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  withdraw  herself  from  the  room  but  could 
not  accomplish  it,  dart  suddenly  forward,  and  falling  on 
the  small  servant  give  her  some  hard  blows  with  her 
clenched  hand.  The  victim  cried,  but  in  a  subdued 
manner  as  if  she  feared  to  raise  her  voice,  and  Miss  Sally, 
comforting  herself  with  a  pinch  of  snuff,  ascended  the 
stairs,  just  as  Richard  had  safely  reached  the  office. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

The  single  gentleman  among  his  other  peculiarities — 
and  he  had  a  very  plentiful  stock,  of  which  he  every  day 
furnished  some  new  specimen — took  a  most  extraordi- 
nary and  remarkable  interest  in  the  exhibition  of  Punch. 
If  the  sound  of  a  Punch's  voice,  at  ever  so  remote  a  dis- 
tance, reached  Beyis  Marks,  the  single  gentleman,  though 
in  bed  and  asleep,  would  start  up,  and  hurrying  on  his 
clothes,  make  for  the  spot  with  all  speed,  and  presently 
return  at  the  head  of  a  long  procession  of  idlers,  having 
in  the  midst  the  theatre  and  its  proprietors.  Straight- 
way, the  stage  would  be  set  up  in  front  of  Mr.  Brass's 
house  ;  the  single  gentleman  would  establish  himself  at 
the  first  floor  window  ;  and  the  entertainment  would 
proceed,  with  all  its  exciting  accompaniments  of  fife  and 
drum  and  shout,  to  the  excessive  consternation  of  all 
sober  votaries  of  business  in  that  silent  thoroughfare.  It 
might  have  been  expected  that  when  the  play  was  done, 
both  players  and  audience  would  have  dispersed  ;  but 
the  epilogue  was  as  bad  as  the  play,  for  no  sooner  was 
the  Devil  dead,  than  the  manager  of  the  puppets  and  his 
partner  were  summoned  by  the  single  gentleman  to  his 
chamber,  where  they  were  regaled  with  strong  waters 
from  his  private  store,  and  where  they  held  with  him 
long  conversations,  the  purport  of  which  no  human  being 
could  fathom.  But  the  secret  of  these  discussions  was 
of  little  importance.  It  was  sufficient  to  know  that  while 
they  were  proceeding,  the  concourse  without  still  lin- 
gered round  the  house  ;  that  boys  beat  upon  the  drum 
with  their  fists,  and  imitated  Punch  with  their  tender 
voices  ;  that  the  office-window  was  rendered  opaque  by 
flattened  noses :  and  the  key -hole  of  the  street  door 
luminous  with  eyes  ;  that  every  time  the  single  gentleman 
or  either  of  his  guests  was  seen  at  the  upper  window,  or 
80  much  as  the  end  of  one  of  their  noses  was  visible, 
there  was  a  great  shout  of  execration  from  the  excluded 
mob,  who  remained  howling  and  yelling,  and  refusing 
consolation,  until  the  exhibitors  were  delivered  up  to 
them  to  be  attended  elsewhere.     It  was  sufficient,  in 


short,  to  know  that  Be  vis  Marks  was  revolutionised  by 
these  popular  movements,  and  that  peace  and  quietness 
fled  from  its  i)recincts. 

Nobody  was  rendered  more  indignant  by  these  pro- 
ceedings than  Mr.  Sampson  Brass,  who,  as  he  could  by 
no  means  afford  to  lose  so  profitable  an  inmate,  deemed 
it  prudent  to  i)Ocket  his  lodger's  affront  along  with  his 
cash,  and  to  annoy  the  audiences  who  clustered  round 
his  door  by  such  imperfect  means  of  retaliation  as  were 
open  to  him,  and  which  were  confined  to  the  trickling 
down  of  foul  water  on  their  heads  from  unseen  watering 
pots,  pelting  them  with  fragments  of  tile  and  mortar 
from  the  roof  of  the  house,  and  bribing  the  drivers  of 
hackney  cabriolets  to  come  suddenly  round  the  corner 
and  dash  in  among  them  precipitately.  It  may,  at  first 
sight,  be  matter  of  surprise  to  the  thoughtless  few  that 
Mr.  Brass,  being  a  professional  gentlemaii,  should  not 
have  legally  indicted  some  party  or  parties,  active  in  the 
promotion  of  the  nuisance  ;  but  they  will  be  good  to 
remember,  that  as  Doctors  seldom  take  their  own  pre- 
scriptions, and  Divines  do  not  always  X)ractice  what  they 
preach,  so,  lawyers  are  shy  of  meddling  with  the  Law 
on  their  own  account :  knowing  it  to  be  an  edged  tool  of 
uncertain  application,  very  expensive  in  the  working, 
and  rather  remarkable  for  its  properties  of  close  shaving, 
than  for  its  always  shaving  the  right  person. 

"Come,"  said  Mr,  Brass  one  afternoon,  "this  is  two 
days  without  a  Punch.  I'm  in  hopes  he  has  run  through 
'em  all  at  last." 

"Why  are  you  in  hopes?"  returned  Miss  Sally. 
"What  harm  do  they  do  ?  " 

"  Here's  a  pretty  sort  of  a  fellow  !  "  cried  Brass,  lay- 
ing down  his  pen  in  despair.  "  Now  here's  an  aggrava- 
ting animal  ! " 

"  Well,  what  harm  do  they  do?  "  retorted  Sally. 

"  What  harm  !  "  cried  Brass.  "  Is  it  no  harm  to  have  a 
constant  hallooing  and  hooting  under  one's  very  nose, 
distracting  one  from  business,  and  making  one  grind 
one's  teeth  with  Vexation  ?  Is  it  no  harm  to  be  blinded 
and  choked  up,  and  have  the  king's  highway  stopped 
with  a  set  of  screamers  and  roarers  whose  throats  must 
be  made  of — of — " 

"Brass,"  suggested  Mr.  Swiveller. 

"Ah  I  of  brass,"  said  the  lawyer,  glancing  at  his 
clerk,  to  assure  himself  that  he  had  suggested  the  word 
in  good  faith,  and  without  any  sinister  intention.  "Is 
that  no  harm  !  " 

The  lawyer  stopped  short  in  his  invective,  and  listening 
for  a  moment,  and  recognising  the  well-known  voice, 
rested  his  head  upon  his  hand,  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling,  and  muttered  faintly. 

"  There's  another  !  " 

Up  went  the  single  gentleman's  window  directly, 

"  There's  another,"  repeated  Brass  ;  "  and  if  I  could 
get  a  break  and  four  blood  horses  to  cut  into  the  Marks 
when  the  crowd  is  at  its  thickest,  I'd  give  eighteen- 
pence  and  never  grudge  it  !" 

The  distant  squeak  was  heard  again.  The  single  gen- 
tleman's door  burst  open.  He  ran  violently  down  the 
stairs,  out  into  the  street,  and  so  past  the  window,  with- 
out any  hat,  towards  the  quarter  whence  the  sound  pro- 
ceeded— bent,  no  doubt,  upon  securing  the  strangers' 
services  directly, 

"  I  wish  I  only  knew  who  his  friends  were,"  muttered 
Sampson,  filling  his  pocket  with  papers  ;  "  if  they'd  just 
get  up  a  pretty  little  Commission  de  lunatico  at  the 
Gray's  Inn  Coffee  House,  and  give  me  the  job,  I'd  be 
content  to  have  the  lodgings  empty  for  one  while,  at  all 
events." 

With  which  words,  and  knocking  his  hat  over  his 
eyes  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  shutting  out  even  a  glimpse 
of  the  dreadful  visitation,  Mr.  Brass  rushed  from  the 
house  and  hurried  away. 

As  Mr,  Swiveller  was  decidedly  favourable  to  these 
performances,  upon  the  ground  that  looking  at  a  Punch, 
or  indeed  looking  at  anything  out  of  window,  was  better 
than  working  ;  and  as  he  had  been,  for  this  reason,  at 
some  pains  to  awaken  in  his  fellow  clerk  a  sense  of 
their  beauties  and  manifold  deserts  ;  both  he  and  Miss 
Sally  rose  as  with  one  accord  and  took  up  their  positions 
at  the  window  :  upon  the  sill  whereof,  as  in  a  post  of 
honour,  sundry  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  were 


760 


CHARLES  BICKEN8'  WORKS, 


employed  in  tlie  dry  nurture  of  babies,  and  who  made  a 
point  of  being  present,  with  their  young  charges,  on 
such  occasions,  had  already  established  themselves  as 
comfortably  as  the  circumstances  would  allow. 

The  glass  being  dim,  Mr.  Swiveller,  agreeably  to  a 
friendly  custom  which  he  had  established  between 
them,  hitched  off  the  brown  head-dress  from  Miss  Sally's 
head,  and  dusted  it  carefully  therewith.  By  the  time 
he  had  handed  it  back,  and  its  beautiful  wearer  had  put 
it  on  again  (which  she  did  with  perfect  composure  and 
indifference),  the  lodger  returned  with  the  show  and 
showmen  at  his  heels,  and  a  strong  addition  to  the  body 
of  spectators.  The  exhibitor  disappeared  with  all  speed 
behind  the  drapery  ;  and  his  partner,  stationing  himself 
bv  the  side  of  the  Theatre,  surveyed  the  audience  with 
a  remarkable  expression  of  melancholy,  which  became 
more  remarkable  still  when  he  breathed  a  hornpipe  tune 
into  that  sweet  musical  instrument  which  is  popularly 
termed  a  mouth-organ,  without  at  all  changing  tlie 
mournful  expression  of  the  upper  part  of  his  face, 
though  his  mouth  and  chin  were,  of  necessity,  in  lively 
spasms. 

The  drama  proceeded  to  its  close,  and  held  the  specta- 
tors enchained  in  the  customary  manner.  The  sensa- 
tion which  kindles  in  large  assemblies,  when  they  are 
relieved  from  a  state  of  breathless  suspense  and  are 
again  free  to  speak  and  move,  was  yet  rife,  when  the 
lodger,  as  usual,  summoned  the  men  upstairs. 

"  Both  of  you,"  he  called  from  the  window  ;  for  only 
the  actual  exhibitor — a  little  fat  man — prepared  to  obey 
the  summons.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Come  both  of 
you  ! " 

"  Come,  Tommy,"  said  the  little  man. 

"  I  an't  a  talker,"  replied  the  other.  "  Tell  him  so. 
What  should  I  go  and  talk  for?  " 

"  Don't  you  see  the  gentlemen's  got  a  bottle  and  glass 
up  there  ?  "  returned  the  little  man. 

'*  And  couldn't  you  have  said  so,  at  first  ?  "  retorted  the 
other  with  sudden  alacrity.  "  Now,  what  are  you  wait- 
ing for?  Are  you  going  to  keep  the  gentleman  expect- 
ing us  all  day  ?  haven't  you  no  manners  ?  " 

With  this  remonstrance,  the  melancholy  man,  who 
was  no  other  than  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  pushed  past  his 
friend  and  brother  in  the  craft,  Mr.  Harris,  otherwise 
Short  or  Trotters,  and  hurried  before  him  to  the  single 
gentleman's  apartment. 

"  Now  my  men,"  said  the  single  gentleman;  "you 
have  done  very  well.  What  will  you  take  ?  Tell  that 
little  man  behind  to  shut  the  door. 

"  Shut  the  door,  can't  you?"  said  Mr.  Codlin,  turning 
gruffly  to  his  friend.  "  You  might  have  knowed  that  the 
gentleman  wanted  the  door  shut,  without  being  told,  I 
think." 

Mr.  Short  obeyed,  observing  under  his  breath  that  his 
friend  seemed  unusally  "  cranky,"  and  expressing  a  hope 
that  there  was  no  dairy  in  the  neighborhood,  or  his  tem- 
per would  certainly  spoil  its  contents. 

The  gentleman  pointed  to  a  couple  of  chairs,  and  inti- 
mated by  an  emphatic  nod  of  his  head  that  he  expected 
them  to  be  seated.  Messrs.  Codlin  and  Short,  after  look- 
ing at  each  other  with  considerable  doubt  and  indecision, 
at  length  sat  down —  each  on  the  extreme  edge  of  tlie 
chair  pointed  out  to  him — and  held  their  hats  very  tight, 
while  the  single  gentleman  filled  a  couple  of  glasses  from 
a  bottle  on  the  table  beside  him,  and  presented  them  in 
due  form. 

"  You're  pretty  well  browned  by  the  sun  both  of  you," 
said  their  entertainer.    "  Have  you  been  travelling?" 

Mr.  Short  replied  in  the  affirmative  with  a  nod  and  a 
;smile.  Mr.  Codlin  added  a  corroborative  nod  and  a 
ishort  groan,  as  if  he  still  felt  the  weight  of  the  Temple 
on  his  shoulders. 

"To  fairs,  markets,  races,  and  so  forth,  I  suppose?" 
-pursued  the  single  gentleman. 

"  Yes  sir,"  returned  Short,  pretty  nigh  all  over  the 
West  of  England." 

"  I  have  talked  to  men  of  your  craft  from  North,  East, 
and  South,"  returned  their  host,  in  rather  a  hasty  manner 
"  but  I  never  lighted  on  any  from  the  West  beifore." 

"  It's  our  reg'lar  summer  circuit  is  the  West,  master," 
said  Short  ;  "  that's  where  it  is.  We  takes  the  East  of 
London  in  the  spring  and  winter,  and  the  West  of  Eng- 


land in  the  summer  time.    Many's  the  hard  day's  walk- 
ing in  rain  and  mud,  and  with  never  a  penny  earned, 
we've  had  down  in  the  west." 
*'  Let  me  fill  your  glass  again." 

"Much  obleeged  to  you  sir,  I  think  I  will,"  said  Mr. 
Codlin,  suddenly  thrusting  in  his  own  and  turning 
Short's  aside.  "  I'm  the  sufferer,  sir,  in  all  the  travel- 
ling, and  in  all  the  staying  at  home.  In  town  or  country, 
wet  or  dry,  hot  or  cold,  Tom  Codlin  suffers.  But  Tom 
Codlin  isn't  to  complain  for  all  that.  Oh,  no  !  Short  may 
complain,  but  if  Codlin  grumbles  by  so  much  as  a  word 
— oh  dear,  down  with  him,  down  with  him  directly.  It 
isn't  Ids  place  to  grumble.  That's  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion." 

"  Codlin  an't  without  his  usefulness,"  observed  Short 
with  an  arch  look,  "  but  he  don't  always  keep  his  eyes 
open.  He  falls  asleep  sometime^ you  know.  Remem- 
ber them  last  races.  Tommy  " 

"  Will  you  ever  leave  off  aggravating  a  man  ?  "  said 
Codlin.  "It's  very  like  I  was  asleep  when  five-and- 
ten pence  was  collected  in  one  round,  isn't  it  ?  I  was  at- 
tending to  my  business,  and  couldn't  have  my  eyes  in 
twenty  places  at  once,  like  a  peacock,  no  more  than  you. 
could.  If  I  an't  a  match  for  an  old  man  and  a  young 
child,  you  an't  neither,  so  don't  throw  that  out  against 
me,  for  the  cap  fits  your  head  quite  as  correct  as  it  fits 
mine." 

"  You  may  as  well  drop  the  subject,  Tom,"  said  Short. 
"  It  isn't  particular  agreeable  to  the  gentleman,  I  dare 
say." 

"  Then  you  shouldn't  have  brought  it  up,  returned  Mr. 
Codlin  ;  "  and  I  ask  the  gentleman's  pardon  on  your 
account,  as  a  giddy  chap  that  likes  to  hear  himself  talk, 
and  don't  much  care  what  he  talks  about,  so  that  he  does 
talk." 

Their  entertainer  had  sat  perfectly  quiet  in  the  be- 
gining  of  this  dispute,  looking  first  at  one  man  and  then 
at  the  other,  as  if  he  were  lying  in  wait  for  an  opportu- 
nity of  putting  some  further  question,  or  reverting  to 
that  from  which  the  discourse  had  strayed.  But,  from 
the  point  where  Mr.  Codlin  was  charged  with  sleepiness, 
he  had  shown  an  increasing  interest  in  the  discussion  : 
which  now  attained  a  very  high  pitch. 

"  You  are  the  two  men  I  want,"  he  said,  "  the  two 
men  I  have  been  looking  for,  and  searching  after  ! 
Where  are  that  old  man  and  that  child  you  speak  of  ?" 

"Sir  !  "  said  Short,  hesitating  and  looking  towards 
his  friend. 

"  The  old  man  and  his  grandchild  who  travelled  with 
you — where  are  they  ?  It  will  be  worth  your  while  to 
speak  out,  I  assure  you.  ;  much  better  worth  your  while 
than  you  believe.  They  left  you,  you  say, — at  those  races, 
as  I  understand.  They  have  been  traced  to  that  place, 
and  there  lost  sight  of.  Have  you  no  clue,  can  you  sug- 
gest no  clue,  to  their  recovery  ?  " 

"Did  I  always  say,  Thomas,"  cried  Short,  turning 
with  a  look  of  amazement  to  his  friend,  "that  there 
was  sure  to  be  an  inquiry  after  them  two  travel- 
lers ?  " 

"You  said!"  returned  Mr.  Codlin.  "Did  I  always 
say  that  that  'ere  blessed  child  was  the  most  interesting 
I  ever  see  ?  Did  I  always  say  I  loved  her,  and  doated 
on  her?  Pretty  creetur,  I  think  I  hear  her  now.  '  Cod- 
lin's  my  friend,'  she  says  with  a  tear  of  gratitude  a  trick- 
ling down  her  little  eye  ;  'Codlin's  my  friend,'  she  says 
— '  not  Short.  Short's  very  well,'  she  says  ;  '  I've  no 
quarrel  with  Short  ;  he  means  kind,  I  dare  say  ;  but 
Codlin,'  she  says,  '  has  the  feelings  for  my  money, 
though  he  mayn't  look  it.'  " 

Repeating  these  words  with  great  emotion  Mr.  Codlin 
rubbed  the  bridge  of  his  nose  with  his  coat-sleeve,  and 
shaking  his  head  mournfully  from  side  to  side,  left  the 
single  gentleman  to  infer  that,  from  the  moment  M^hen 
he  lost  sight  of  his  dear  young  charge,  his  peace  of  mind 
and  happiness  had  fled. 

"Good  Heaven  !"  said  the  single  gentleman,  pacing 
up  and  down  the  room,  "  have  I  found  these  men  at 
last,  only  to  discover  that  they  can  give  me  no  informa- 
tion or  assistance  !  It  would  have  been  better  to  have 
lived  on,  in  hope,  from  day  to  day,  and  never  to  have 
lighted  on  them,  than  to  have  my  expectations  scattered 
thus." 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


761 


*'  Stay  a  minute,"  said  Short.  "  A  man  of  the  name 
of  Jerry — you  know  Jerry,  Thomas?" 

*'  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  of  Jerrys,"  replied  Mr.  Codlin, 
"How  can  I  care  a  pinch  of  snuff  for  Jerrys,  when  I 
think  of  that  'ere  darling  child  ?  '  Codlin's  my  friend,' 
she  says,  *  dear,  good,  kind  Codlin,  as  is  always  a  devising 
pleasures  for  me  !  I  don't  object  to  Short,'  she  says, 
'but  I  cotton  to  Codlin.'  Once,"  said  that  gentleman 
reflectively,  ''she  called  mo  Father  Codlin.  I  thought 
I  should  have  bust ! " 

A  man  of  the  name  of  Jerry,  sir,"  said  Short,  turn- 
ing from  his  selfish  colleague  to  their  new  acquaintance, 
"  wot  keeps  a  company  of  dancing-dogs,  told  me,  in  a 
accidental  sort  of  a  way,  that  he  had  seen  the  old  gen- 
tleman in  connexion  with  a  travelling  wax-work,  unbe- 
known to  him.  As  they'd  give  us  the  slip,  and  nothing 
had  come  of  it,  and  this  was  down  in  the  country  that 
he'd  been  seen,  I  took  no  measures  about  it,  and  asked 
no  questions — But  I  can,  if  yon  like." 

**Is  this  man  in  town?"  said  the  impatient  single 
gentleman.    "  Speak  faster." 

"  No  he  isn't,  but  he  will  be  to-morrow,  for  he  lodges 
in  our  house,"  replied  Mr.  Short  rapidly. 

Then  bring  him  here,"  said  the  single  gentleman. 
*'  Here's  a  sovereign  a-piece.  If  I  can  find  these  people 
through  your  means,  it  is  but  a  prelude  to  twenty  more. 
Return  to  me  to-morrow,  and  keep  your  own  counsel  on 
this  subject — though  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that,  for 
you'll  do  so  for  your  own  sakes.  Now,  give  me  your 
address,  and  leave  me. " 

The  address  was  given,  the  two  men  departed,  the 
crowd  went  with  them,  and  the  single  gentleman  for 
two  mortal  hours  walked  in  uncommon  agitation  up  and 
down  his  room,  over  the  wondering  heads  of  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler  and  Miss  Sally  Brass. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Kit — for  it  happens  at  this  juncture,  not  only  that 
we  have  breathing  time  to  follow  his  fortunes,  but  that 
the  necessities  of  these  adventures  so  adapt  themselves 
to  our  ease  and  inclination  as  to  call  upon  us  impera- 
tively to  pursue  the  track  we  most  desire  to  take — Kit, 
while  the  matters  treated  of  in  the  last  fifteen  chapters 
were  yet  in  progress,  was,  as  the  reader  may  suppose, 
gradually  familiarising  himself  more  and  more  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland,  Mr.  Abel,  the  pony,  and  Barbara, 
and  gradually  coming  to  consider  them  one  and  all  as  his 
particular  private  friends,  and  Abel  Cottage,  Finchley, 
as  his  own  proper  home. 

Stay — the  words  are  written,  and  may  go,  but  if  they 
convey  any  notion  that  Kit,  in  the  plentiful  board  and 
comfortable  lodging  of  his  new  abode,  began  to  think 
slightingly  of  the  poor  fare  and  furniture  of  his  old 
dwelling,  they  do  their  office  badly  and  commit  injus- 
tice. Who  so  mindful  of  those  he  left  at  home — albeit 
they  were  but  a  mother  and  two  young  babies — as  Kit  ? 
What  boastful  father  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart  ever 
related  such  wonders  of  his  infant  prodigy  as  Kit  never 
wearied  of  telling  Barbara  in  the  evening  time,  concern- 
ing little  Jacob?  Was  there  ever  such  a  mother  as 
Kit's  mother,  on  her  son's  sliowii^g ;  or  was  there  ever 
such  comfort  in  poverty  as  in  the  poverty  of  Kit's  family, 
if  any  correct  judgment  might  be  arrived  at,  from  his 
own  glowing  account  ! 

And  let  me  linger  in  this  place,  for  an  instant,  to  re- 
mark that  if  ever  household  ailections  and  loves  are 
graceful  things,  they  are  graceful  in  the  poor.  The  ties 
that  bind  the  wealthy  and  the  proud  to  home  may  be 
forged  on  earth,  but  those  which  link  the  poor  man  to 
his  humble  hearth  are  of  the  truer  metal  and  bear  the 
stamp  of  Heaven.  The  man  of  high  descent  may  love  the 
halls  and  lands  of  his  inheritance  as  a  part  of  himself  : 
as  trophies  of  his  birth  and  power  ;  his  associations  with 
them  are  associations  of  pride  and  wealth  and  triumph  ; 
the  poor  man's  attachment  to  the  tenement  he  holds, 
which  strangers  have  held  before,  and  may  to-morrow 
occupy  again,  has  a  worthier  root,  struck  deep  into  a 
purer  soil.  His  household  gods  are  of  flesh  and  blood, 
with  no  alloy  of  silver,  gold,  or  precious  stone ;  he  has 


no  property  but  in  the  affections  of  his  own  heart ;  and 
when  they  endear  bare  floors  and  walls,  despite  of  rags 
and  toil  and  scanty  fare,  that  man  has  his  love  of  home 
from  God,  and  his  rude  hut  becomes  a  solemn  place. 

Oh  !  if  those  who  rule  the  destinies  of  nations  would 
but  remember  this — if  they  would  but  think  how  hard 
it  is  for  the  very  poor  to  have  engendered  in  their  hearts, 
that  love  of  home  from  which  all  domestic  virtues  spring, 
when  they  live  in  dense  and  squalid  masses  where  social 
decency  is  lost,  or  rather  never  found, — if  they  would 
but  turn  aside  from  the  wide  thoroughfares  and  great 
houses,  and  strive  to  improve  the  wretched  dwellings  in 
bye- ways  where  only  Poverty  may  walk,  many  low  roofs 
would  point  more  truly  to  the  sky,  than  the  loftiest 
steeple  that  new  rears  proudly  up  from  the  midst  of 
guilt,  and  crime,  and  horrible  disease,  to  mock  them  by 
its  contrast.  In  hollow  voices  from  Workhouse,  Hospi- 
tal, and  Jail,  this  truth  is  preached  from  day  to  day,  and 
has  been  proclaimed  for  years.  It  is  no  light  matter — ho 
outcry  from  the  working  vulgar— no  mere  question  of  the 
people's  health  and  comforts  that  may  be  whistled  down 
on  Wednesday  nights.  In  love  of  home  the  love  of 
country  has  its  rise  ;  and  who  are  the  truer  patriots,  or 
the  better  in  time  of  need — those  who  venerate  the  land, 
owning  its  wood,  and  stream,  and  earth,  and  all  that 
they  produce  ?  or  those  who  love  their  country,  boasting 
not  a  foot  of  ground  in  all  its  wide  domain  ! 

Kit  knew  nothing  about  such  questions,  but  he  knew 
that  his  old  home  was  a  very  poor  place,  and  that  his 
new  one  was  very  unlike  it,  and  yet  he  was  constantly 
looking  back  with  grateful  satisfaction  and  affectionate 
anxiety,  and  often  indited  square-folded  letters  to  his 
mother,  inclosing  a  shilling  or  eighteen-pence  or  such 
other  small  remittance,  which  Mr.  Abel's  liberality  en- 
abled him  to  make.  Sometimes,  being  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, he  had  leisure  to  call  upon  her,  and  then,  great 
was  the  joy  and  pride  of  Kit's  mother,  and  extremely 
noisy  the  satisfaction  of  little  Jacob  and  the  baby,  and 
cordial  the  congratulations  of  the  whole  court,  who  lis- 
tened with  admiring  ears  to  the  accounts  of  Abel  Cot- 
tage, and  could  never  be  told  too  much  of  its  wonders 
and  magnificence. 

Although  Kit  was  in  the  very  highest  favour  with  the 
old  lady  and  gentleman,  and  Mr.  Abel,  and  Barbara,  it 
is  certain  that  no  member  of  the  family  evinced  such  a 
remarkable  partiality  for  him,  as  the  self-willed  pony, 
who,  from  being  the  most  obstinate  and  opinionated 
pony  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  was,  in  his  hands,  the 
meekest  and  most  tractable  of  animals.  It  is  true  that 
in  exact  proportion  as  he  became  manageable  by  Kit  he 
become  utterly  ungovernable  by  anybody  else,  (as  if  he 
had  determined  to  keep  him  in  the  family  at  all  risks 
and  hazards,)  and  that,  even  under  the  guidance  of  his 
favourite,  he  would  sometimes  perform  a  great  variety 
of  strange  freaks  and  capers,  to  the  extreme  discom- 
posure of  the  old  lady's  nerves ;  but  as  Kit  always  re- 
presented that  this  was  only  his  fun,  or  a  way  he  had 
of  showing  his  attachment  to  his  employers,  Mrs.  Gar- 
land gradually  suffered  herself  to  be  persuaded  into  the 
belief,  in  which  she  at  last  became  so  strongly  confirmed, 
that  if,  in  one  of  these  ebullitions,  he  had  overturned 
the  chaise,  she  would  have  been  quite  satisfied  that  he 
did  it  with  the  very  best  intentions. 

Besides  becoming  in  a  short  time  a  perfect  marvel  in 
all  stable  matters,  Kit  soon  made  himself  a  very  toler- 
able gardener,  a  handy  fellow  within  doors,  and  an  in- 
dispensable attendant  on  Mr.  Abel,  who  every  day  gave 
him  some  new  proof  of  his  confidence  and  approbation. 
Mr.  Witherden,  the  notary,  too,  regarded  him  with  a 
friendly  eye  ;  and  even  Mr.  Chuckster  would  sometirnes 
condescend  to  give  him  a  slight  nod,  or  to  honour  him 
with  that  particular  form  of  recognition  which  is  called 
"taking  a  sight,"  or  to  favour  him  with  some  other 
salute  combining  pleasantry  with  patronage. 

One  morning  Kit  drove  Mr.  Abel  to  the  Notary's  office, 
as  he  sometimes  did,  and  having  set  him  down  at  the 
house,  was  about  to  drive  off  to  a  livery  stable  hard  by, 
when  this  same  Mr.  Chuckster  emerged  from  the  office- 
door,  and  cried  **  Woa-a-a-a-a-a  !  "—dwelling  upon  the 
note  a  long  time,  for  the  purpose  of  striking  terror  into 
the  pony's  heart,  and  asserting  the  supremacy  of  man 
over  the  inferior  animals. 


762 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"Pull  up,  Snobby,"  cried  Mr.  Chuckster,  addressing 
Limself  to  Kit.       You're  wanted  inside  here." 

"Has  Mr.  Abel  forgotten  anything,  I  wonder?"  said 
Kit  as  he  dismounted. 

"  Ask  no  questions,  Snobby,"  returned  Mr.  Cbuckster, 
"but  go  and  see.  Woa-a-a  then,  will  you?  If  that 
pony  was  mine,  /'d  break  him." 

"*Yoa  must  be  very  gentle  with  him,  if  you  please," 
said  Kit,  "or  you'll  find  him  troublesome.  You'd  better 
not  keep  on  pulling  his  ears,  please.  I  know  he  won't 
like  it." 

To  this  remonstrance  Mr.  Chuckster  deigned  no  other 
answer,  than  addressmg  Kit  with  a  lofty  and  distant  air 
as  "  young  feller,"  and  requesting  him  to  cut,  and  come 
again  with  all  speed.  The  "young  feller,"  complying, 
Mr.  Chuckster  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  tried  to 
look  as  if  he  were  not  minding  the  pony,  but  happened 
to  be  lounging  there  by  accident. 

Kit  scraped  his  shoes  very  carefully,  (for  he  had  not 
yet  lost  his  reverence  for  the  bundles  of  papers  and  the 
tin  boxes,)  and  tapped  at  the  ofRce-door,  which  was 
quickly  opened  by  the  Notary  himself. 

"  Oh  !  come  in,  Christopher,"  said  Mr.  Witherden. 

"  Is  that  the  lad  ?  "  asked  an  elderly  gentleman,  but  of 
a  stout,  bluff  figure — who  was  in  the  room. 

"  That's  the  lad,"  said  Mr.  Witherden.  "  He  fell  in 
with  my  client,  Mr.  Garland,  sir,  at  this  very  door.  I 
have  reason  to  think  he  is  a  good  lad,  sir,  and  that  you 
may  believe  what  he  says.  Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Abel 
Garland,  sir — his  young  master  ;  my  articled  pupil,  sir, 
and  most  particular  friend  : — my  most  particular  friend, 
sir,"  repeated  the  Notary,  drawing  out  his  silk  hand- 
kerchief and  flourishing  it  about  his  face. 

"  Your  servant,  sir,"  said  the  stranger  gentleman. 

"Yours,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  replied  Mr.  Abel  mildly. 
"  You  were  wishing  to  speak  to  Christopher,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  I  was.    Have  I  your  permission  ?  " 

"  By  all  means." 

"My  business  is  no  secret  ;  or  I  should  rather  say  it 
need  be  no  secret  here,"  said  the  stranger,  observing  that 
Mr.  Abel  and  the  Notary  were  preparing  to  retire.  "It 
relates  to  a  dealer  in  curiosities  with  whom  he  lived  and 
in  whom  I  am  earnestly  and  warmly  interested,  I  have 
been  a  stranger  to  this  country,  gentleman,  for  very  many 
years,  and  if  lam  deficient  iu  form  and  ceremony,  I  hope 
you  will  forgive  me." 

"  No  forgiveness  is  necessary,  sir  ; — none  whatever," 
replied  the  Notary.    And  so  said  Mr.  Abel, 

"  I  have  been  making  inquiries  in  the  neighbourhood 
in  which  his  old  master  lived,"  said  the  stranger,  "  and 
I  learn  that  he  was  served  by  this  lad,  I  have  found  out 
his  mother's  house,  and  have  been  directed  by  her  to  this 
place  as  the  nearest  in  which  I  should  be  likely  to  find 
him  That's  the  cause  of  my  presenting  myself  here 
this  morning." 

"I  am  very  glad  of  any  cause,  sir,"  said  the  Notary, 
"  which  procures  me  the  honour  of  this  visit." 

"  Sir,"  retorted  the  stranger,  "you  speak  like  a  mere 
man  of  the  world,  and  I  tliink  you  something  better. 
Therefore,  pray  do  not  sink  your  real  chaxacter  in  pay- 
ing unmeaning  compliments  to  me." 

"Hem!"  coughed  the  Notary.  "You're  a  plain 
speaker,  sir." 

"  And  a  plain  dealer,"  returned  the  stranger.  "  It 
may  be  my  long  absence  and  inexperience  that  lead  me  to 
the  conclusion  ;  but  if  plain  speakers  are  scarce  in  this 
part  of  the  world,  I  fancy  plain  dealers  are  still  scarcer. 
If  ray  speaking  should  offend  you,  sir,  my  dealing,  I 
hope,  will  make  amends," 

Mr.  Witherden  seemed  a  little  disconcerted  by  the  el- 
derly gentleman's  mode  of  conducting  the  dialogue  ;  and 
as  for  Kit,  he  looked  at  him  in  open-mouthed  astonish- 
ment :  wondering  what  kind  of  language  he  would  ad- 
dress to  him,  if  he  talked  in  that  free  and  easy  way  to 
a  Notary.  It  was  with  no  harshness,  however,  though 
with  something  of  constitutional  irritability  and  haste, 
that  he  turned  to  Kit  and  said  : 

"If  you  think,  my  lad,  that  I  am  pursuing  these  in- 
quiries  with  any  other  view  than  that  of  serving  and  re- 
claiming those  I  am  in  search  of,  you  do  me  a  very  great 
wrong,  and  deceive  yourself.  Don't  be  deceived,  I  beg 
of  you,  but  rely  upon  my  assurance.    The  fact  is,  gen- 


tlemen," he  added,  turning  again  to  the  Notary  and  his 
pupil,  "that  I  am  in  a  very  painful  and  wholly  unex- 
pected position.  I  came  to  this  city  with  a  darling  ob- 
ject at  my  heart,  expecting  to  find  no  obstacle  or  diffi- 
culty in  the  way  of  its  attainment.  I  find  myself  sud- 
denly checked  and  stopped  short,  in  the  execution  of  my 
design,  by  a  mystery  which  I  cannot  penetrate.  Every 
effort  I  have  made  to  penetrate  it,  has  only  served  to 
render  it  darker  and  more  obscure  ;  and  I  am  afraid  to 
stir  openly  in  the  matter,  lest  those  whom  I  anxiously 
pursue,  should  fly  still  farther  from  me.  I  assure  you 
that  if  you  could  give  me  any  assistance,  you  would  not 
be  sorry  to  do  so,  if  you  knew  how  greatly  I  stand  in 
need  of  it,  and  what  a  load  it  would  relieve  me  from." 

There  was  a  simplicity  in  this  confidence  which  occa- 
sioned it  to  find  a  quick  response  in  the  breast  of  the 
good-natured  Notary,  who  replied,  in  the  same  spirit, 
that  the  stranger  had  not  mistaken  his  desire,  and  that 
if  he  could  be  of  service  to  him,  he  would  most  readily. 

Kit  was  then  put  under  examination  and  closely  ques- 
tioned by  the  unknown  gentleman  touching  his  old 
master  and  the  child,  their  lonely  way  of  life,  their  re- 
tired habits,  and  strict  seclusion.  The  nightly  absence 
of  the  old  man,  the  solitary  existence  of  the  child  at 
those  times,  his  illness  and  recovery,  Quilp's  possession 
of  the  house,  and  their  sudden  disappearance,  were  all  the 
subjects  of  much  questioning  and  answer.  Finally,  Kit 
informed  the  gentleman  that  the  premises  were  now  to 
let,  and  that  a  board  upon  the  door  referred  all  inquirers 
to  Mr.  Sampson  Brass,  Solicitor,  of  Bevis  Marks,  from 
whom  he  might  perhaps  learn  some  further  particulars. 

"  Not  by  inquiry,"  said  the  gentleman,  shaking  his 
head,    "  I  live  there." 

"  Live  at  Brass's  the  attorneys  !"  cried  Mr.  Wither- 
den in  some  surprise  :  having  professional  knowledge 
of  the  gentleman  in  question. 

"Aye,"  was  the  reply.  "I  entered  on  his  lodgings 
t'other  day,  chiefly  because  I  had  seen  this  very  board. 
It  matters  little  to  me  where  I  live,  and  I  had  a  desperate 
hope  that  some  intelligence  might  be  cast  in  my  way 
there,  which  would  not  reach  me  elsewhere.  Yes,  I 
live  at  Brass's — more  shame  for  me,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  That's  a  mere  matter  of  opinion,"  said  the  Notary, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  He  is  looked  upon  as  rather 
a  doubtful  character." 

"  Doubtful  ?  "  echoed  the  other.  "  I  am  glad  to  hear 
there's  any  doubt  about  it.  I  supposed  that  had  been 
thoroughly  settled,  long  ago.  But  will  you  let  me  speak 
a  word  or  two  with  you  in  private?" 

Mr.  Witherden  consenting,  they  walked  into  that 
gentleman's  private  closet,  and  remained  there,  in  close 
conversation,  for  some  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  they 
returned  into  the  outer  office.  The  stranger  had  left  his 
hat  in  Mr.  Witherden's  room,  and  seemed  to  have  es- 
tablished himself  in  this  short  interval  on  quite  a  friendly 
footing. 

"I'll  not  detain  you  any  longer  now,"  he  said,  putting 
a  crown  into  Kit's  hand,  and  looking  towards  the  No- 
tary. "  You  shall  hear  from  me  again.  Not  a  word  of 
this,  you  know,  except  to  your  master  and  mistress," 

"  Mother,  sir,  would  be  glad  to  know — "  said  Kit, 
faltering. 

"  Glad  to  know  what  ?  " 

"  Anything — so  that  it  was  no  harm— about  Miss 
Nell." 

"  Would  she  ?  Well  then,  you  may  tell  her  if  she  can 
keep  a  secret.  But  mind,  not  a  word  of  this  to  anybody 
else.    Don't  forget  that.    Be  particular." 

"I'll  take  care,  sir,"  said  Kit.  "Thankee,  sir,  and 
good  morning. 

Now,  it  happened  that  the  gentleman,  in  his  anxiety 
to  impress  upon  Kit  that  he  was  not  to  tell  anybody 
what  had  passed  between  them,  followed  him  out  to 
the  door  to  repeat  his  caution,  and  it  further  happened 
that  at  that  moment  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller 
were  turned  in  that  direction,  and  beheld  his  mysterious 
friend  and  Kit  together. 

It  was  quite  an  accident,  and  the  way  in  which  it 
came  about  was  this.  Mr.  Chuckster,  being  a  gentleman 
of  a  cultivated  taste  and  refined  spirit,  was  one  of  that 
Lodge  of  Glorious  Apollos  whereof  Mr.  Swiveller  was 
Perpetual  Grand.    Mr.  Swiveller  passing  through  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SITOP. 


763 


street  in  the  execution  of  some  Brazen  errand,  and  be- 
holding one  of  his  Glorious  Brotherhood  intently  gazing 
cn  a  pony,  crossed  over  to  give  him  that  fraternal  greet- 
ing with  which  Perpetual  Grands  are,  by  the  very  con- 
stitution of  their  office,  bound  to  cheer  and  encourage 
their  disciples.  He  had  scarcely  bestowed  upon  him 
his  blessing,  and  followed  it  with  a  general  remark 
touching  the  present  state  and  prospects  of  the  weather, 
when,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  he  beheld  the  single  gentle- 
man of  Be  vis  Marks  in  earnest  conversation  with  Chris- 
topher Nubbles. 

"  Hallo,"  said  Dick,  "  who  is  that? " 

"He  called  to  see  my  Governor  this  morning,"  replied 
Mr.  Chuckster  ;  "  beyond  that,  I  don't  know  him  from 
Adam." 

"  At  least  you  know  his  name?  "  said  Dick, 

To  which  Mr.  Chuckster  replied  with  an  elevation  of 
speech  becoming  a  Glorious  Apollo,  that  he  was  "  ever- 
lastingly blessed  "  if  he  did. 

"All  I  know  my  dear  feller,"  said  Mr.  Chuckster, 
runaing  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  "  is,  that  he  is  the 
cause  of  my  having  stood  here  twenty  minutes,  for 
which  I  hate  him  with  a  mortal  and  undying  hatred,  and 
would  pursue  him  to  the  confines  of  eternity  if  I  could 
afford  the  time." 

While  they  were  thus  discoursing,  the  subject  of  their 
conversation  (who  had  not  appeared  to  recognise  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Swiveller)  re-entered  the  house,  and  Kit  came  down 
the  steps  and  joined  them  ;  to  whoni  Mr.  Swiveller  again 
propounded  his  inquiry  with  no  better  succe.ss. 

"He  is  a  very  nice  gentleman,  sir,"  said  Kit,  "and 
that's  all  /know  about  him." 

Mr.  Chuckster  waxed  wroth  at  this  answer,  and  without 
applying  the  remark  to  any  particular  case,  mentioned, 
as  a  general  truth,  that  it  was  exi)edient  to  break  the 
heads  of  Snobs,  and  to  tweak  their  noses.  Without  ex- 
pressed his  concurrence  m  this  sentiment,  Mr.  Swiveller 
after  a  few  moments  of  abstraction  inquired  which  way 
Kit  was  driving,  and,  being  informed,  declared  it  was 
his  way,  and  that  he  would  trespass  on  him  for  a  lift. 
Kit  would  gladly  have  declined  the  proffered  honour, 
but  as  Mr.  Swiveller  was  already  established  in  the  seat 
beside  him,  he  had  no  means  of  doing  so,  otherwise  than 
by  a  forcible  ejectment,  and  therefore  drove  briskly  off 
— so  briskly  indeed,  as  to  cut  short  the  leave-taldng 
between  Mr.  Chuckster  and  his  Grand  Master,  and  to 
occasion  the  former  gentleman  some  inconvenience  from 
havine:  his  corns  squeezed  by  the  impatient  pony. 

As  Whisker  was  tired  of  standing,  and  Mr.  Swiveller 
was  kind  enough  to  stimulate  him  by  shrill  whistles,  and 
various  sporting  cries,  they  rattled  off  at  too  sharp  a 
pace  to  admit  of  much  conversation  ;  especially  as  the 
pony,  incensed  by  Mr.  Swiveller's  admonitions,  took  a 
particular  fancy  for  the  lamp-posts,  and  cart-wheels,  and 
evinced  a  strong  desire  to  run  on  the  pavement  and  rasp 
himself  against  the  brick  walls.  It  was  not,  therefore, 
until  they  had  arrived  at  the  stable,  and  the  chaise  had 
been  extricated  from  a  very  small  doorway,  into  which 
the  pony  dragged  it  under  the  impression  that  he  could 
take  it  along  with  him  into  his  usual  stall,  that  Mr. 
Swiveller  found  time  to  talk. 

"  It  hard  work,"  said  Richard.  "  What  do  you  say  to 
some  beer  ?  " 

Kit  at  first  declined,  but  presently  consented,  and  they 
adjourned  to  the  neighbouring  bar  together. 

"  We'll  drink  our  friend  what's-his-name,"  said  Dick, 
holding  up  the  bright  frothy  pot ;  " — that  was  talking 
to  you  this  morning,  you  know — /  know  him — a  good 
fellow,  but  eccentric — very — here's  what's-his-name." 

Kit  pledged  him, 

"  He  lives  in  my  house,"  said  Dick  ;  "  at  least  in  the 
house  occupied  by  the  firm  in  which  I'm  a  sort  of  a — of 
a  managing  partner — a  difficult  fellow  to  get  anything 
out  of,  but  we  like  him — we  like  him." 

"  I  must  be  going  sir,  if  you  please,"  said  Kit,  moving 
away. 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Christopher,"  replied  his  patron, 
"we'll  drink  your  mother." 
"  Thank  you  sir." 

"  An  excellent  woman  that  mother  of  yours,  Christo- 
pher," said  Mr.  Swiveller.  "Who  ran  to  catch  me 
when  I  fell  and  ki.ssed  the  place  to  make  it  well  V  My 


mother.  A  charming  woman.  He's  a  liberal  sort  of 
fellow.  We  must  get  him  to  do  something  for  your 
mother.    Does  he  know  her,  Christopher?" 

Kit  shook  his  head,  and  glancing  slyly  at  his  ques- 
tioner, thanked  him,  and  made  off  before  he  could  say 
another  word. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Mr.  Swiveller  pondering,  "  this  is 
queer.  Nothing  but  mysteries  in  connexion  with  Brass's 
house,  I'll  keep  my  own  counsel,  however.  Everybody 
and  anybody  has  been  in  my  confidence  as  yet,  but  now 
I  think  I'll  set  up  in  business  for  myself.  Queer — very 
queer  ! " 

After  pondering  deeply  and  with  a  face  of  exceeding 
wisdom  for  some  time,  Mr,  Swiveller  drank  some  more 
of  the  beer,  and  summoning  a  small  boy  who  had  been 
watching  his  proceedings,  poured  forth  the  few  remain- 
ing drops  as  a  libation  on  the  gravel,  and  bade  him  carry 
the  em])t}'  vessel  to  the  bar  with  his  comi>liments,  and 
above  all  things  to  lead  a  sober  and  temperate  life,  and 
abstain  from  all  intoxicating  and  exciting  liquors. 
Having  given  him  this  piece  of  moral  advice  for  his 
trouble  (which  as  he  wisely  observed  was  far  better  than 
half-pence)  the  Perpetual  Grand  Master  of  the  Glorious 
Apollos  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  sauntered 
away  :  still  pondering  as  he  went. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

All  that  day,  though  he  waited  for  Mr.  Abel  until 
evening,  Kit  kept  clear  of  his  mother's  house,  determined 
not  to  anticipate  the  pleasures  of  the  morrow,  but  to  let 
them  come  in  their  full  ru.sh  of  delight  ;  for  to-morrow 
was  the  great  and  long  looked-for  epoch  in  his  life — to- 
morrow was  the  end  of  his  first  quarter — the  day  of  re- 
ceiving, for  the  first  time,  one  fourth  part  of  his  annual 
income  of  Six  Pounds  in  one  vast  sum  of  Thirty  Shillings 
— to-morrow  was  to  be  a  half-holiday  devoted  to  a  whirl 
of  entertainments,  and  little  Jacob  was  to  know  what 
oysters  meant,  and  to  see  a  play. 

All  manner  of  incidents  combined  in  favour  of  the 
occasion  :  not  only  had  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland  forewarned 
him  that  they  intended  to  make  no  deduction  for  his 
outfit  from  the  great  amount,  but  to  pay  it  him  unbro- 
ken in  all  its  gigantic  grandeur  ;  not  only  had  the  un- 
known gentleman  increased  the  stock  by  the  sum  of  five 
shillings,  which  was  a  perfect  godsend  and  in  itself  a 
fortune  ;  not  only  had  these  things  come  to  pass  which 
nobody  could  have  calculated  upon,  or  in  their  wildest 
dreams  have  hoped  ;  but  it  was  Barbara's  quarter  too — 
Barbara's  quarter,  that  very  day — and  Barbara  had  a 
half-holiday  as  well  as  Kit,  and  Barbara's  mother  was 
going  to  make  one  of  the  party,  and  to  take  tea  with 
Kit's  mother,  and  cultivate  her  acquaintance. 

To  be  sure  Kit  looked  out  of  his  window  very  early 
that  morning  to  see  which  way  the  clouds  were  flying, 
and  to  be  sure  Barbara  would  have  been  at  hers  too,  if 
she  had  not  sat  up  so  late  over-night,  starching  and  iron- 
ing small  pieces  of  muslin,  and  crimping  them  into 
frills,  and  sewing  them  on  to  other  pieces  to  form  mag- 
nificent wholes  for  next  day's  wear.  But  they  were 
both  up  very  early  for  all  that,  and  had  small  appetites 
for  breakfast  and  less  for  dinner,  and  were  in  a  state  of 
great  excitement  when  Barbara's  mother  came  in,  with 
astonishing  accounts  of  the  fineness  of  the  weather  out 
of  doors  (but  with  a  very  large  umbrella  notwithstand- 
ing, for  people  like  Barbara's  mother  seldom  make  holi- 
day without  one),  and  when  the  bell  rung  for  them  to 
go  up-stairs  and  receive  their  quarter's  money  in  gold 
and  silver. 

Well,  wasn't  Mr.  Garland  kind  when  he  said  "  Chris- 
topher, here's  your  money  and  you  have  earned  it  well ;" 
and  wasn't  Mrs.  Garland'kind  when  she  said  "  Barbara 
here's  yours,  and  I'm  much  j^leased  with  you  ; "  and 
didn't  Kit  sign  his  name  bold  to  his  receipt,  and  didn't 
Barbara  sign  her  name  all  a  trembling  to  hers  ;  and 
wasn't  it  beautiful  to  see  how  Mrs.  Garland  poured  out 
Barbara's  mother  a  glass  of  wine  ;  and  didn't  Barbara's 
mother  speak  up  when  she  said  "  Here's  blessing  you, 
ma'am,  as  a  good  lady,  and  you,  sir,  as  a  good  gentleman, 
and  Barbara  my  love  to  you,  and  here's  towards  you,  Mr. 


764' 


CHA'RLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Christoplier  and  wasn't  slie  as  long  drinking  it  as  if  it 
had  been  a  tumblerful  ;  and  didn't  she  look  genteel, 
standing  there  with  her  gloves  on  ;  and  wasn't  there 
plenty  of  laughing  and  talking  among  them  as  they  re- 
viewed all  these  things  upon  the  ton  of  the  coach  ;  and 
didn't  they  pity  the  people  who  hadn't  got  a  holiday. 

But  Kit's  mother,  again— wouldn't  anybody  have  sup- 
posed she  had  come  of  good  stock  and  been  a  lady  all 
her  life  !  There  she  was,  quite  ready  to  receive  them, 
with  a  display  of  tea-things  that  might  have  warmed 
the  heart  of  a  china-shop  ;  and  little  Jacob  and  the  baby 
in  such  a  state  of  perfection  that  their  clothes  looked  as 
good  as  new,  though  Heaven  knows  they  were  old 
enough  !  Didn't  she  say  before  they  had  sat  down  five 
minutes  that  Barbara's  mother  was  exactly  the  sort  of 
lady  she  expected,  and  didn't  Barbara's  mother  say  thai 
Kit's  mother  was  the  very  picture  of  what  she  had  ex- 
pected, and  didn't  Kit's  mother  compliment  Barbara's 
mother  on  Barbara,  and  didn't  Barbara's  mother  compli- 
ment Kit's  mother  on  Kit,  and  wasn't  Barbara  herself 
quite  fascinated  with  little  Jacob,  and  did  ever  a  child 
show  off  when  he  was  wanted,  as  that  child  did,  or  make 
such  friends  as  he  made  ! 

' '  And  we  are  both  Avidows  too  ! "  said  Barbara's 
mother.  "We  must  have  been  made  to  know  each 
other." 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  about  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Nubbles. 
"And  what  a  pity  it  is,  we  didn't  know  each  other 
sooner." 

"But  then,  you  know,  it's  such  a  pleasure,"  said  Bar- 
bara's mother,  "  to  have  it  brought  about  by  one's  son 
and  daughter,  that  it's  fully  made  up  for.  Now,  an't 
it?" 

To  this,  Kit's  mother  yielded  her  fu.ll  assent,  and  tra- 
cing things  back  from  effects  to  causes,  they  naturally 
reverted  to  their  deceased  husbands,  respecting  whose 
lives,  deaths,  and  burials,  they  compared  notes,  and  dis- 
covered sundry  circumstances  that  tallied  with  wonder- 
ful exactness  ;  such  -as  Barbara's  father  having  been 
exactly  four  years  and  ten  months  older  thfin  Kit's  fa- 
ther, and  one  of  them  having  died  on  a  Wednesday  and 
the  other  on  a  Thursday,  and  both  of  them  having  been 
of  a  very  fine  make  and  remarkably  good-looking,  with 
other  extraordinary  coincidences.  These  recollections 
being  of  a  kind  calculated  to  cast  a  shadow  on  the 
brightness  of  the  holiday.  Kit  diverted  the  conversation 
to  general  topics,  and  they  were  soon  in  great  force  again 
and  as  merry  as  before.  Among  other  things,  Kit  told 
them  about  his  old  place,  and  the  extraordinary  beauty 
of  Nell  (of  whom  he  had  talked  to  Barbara  a  thousand 
times  already) ;  but  the  last-named  circumstance  failed 
to  interest  his  hearers  to  anything  like  the  extent  he 
had  supposed,  and  even  his  mother  said  (looking  acci- 
dentally at  Barbara  at  the  same  time)  that  there  was  no 
doubt  Miss  Nell  was  very  pretty,  but  she  was  but  a 
child  after  all,  and  there  were  many  young  women  quite 
as  pretty  as  she  ;  and  Barbara  mildly  observed  that  she 
should  think  so,  and  that  she  never  could  help  believing 
Mr.  Christopher  must  be  under  a  mistake — which  Kit 
wondered  at  very  much,  not  being  able  ta  conceive  what 
reason  she  had  for  doubting  him.  Barbara's  mother  too 
observed  that  it  was  very  common  for  young  folks  to 
change  at  about  fourteen  or  fifteen,  and  whereas  they 
had  been  very  jiretty  before,  to  grow  up  quite  plain  ; 
which  truth  she  illustrated  by  many  forcible  examples, 
especially  one  of  a  young  man,  who,  being  a  builder 
with  great  prospects,  had  been  particular  in  his  atten- 
tions to  Barbara,  but  whom  Barbara  would  have  nothing 
to  say  to  ;  which  (though  everything  happened  for  the 
best)  she  almost  thought  was  a  pity.  Kit  said  he 
thought  so  too,  and  so  he  did  honestly,  and  he  wondered 
what  made  Barbara  so  silent  all  at  once,  and  why  his 
mother  looked  at  him  as  if  he  shouldn't  have  said  it. 

However,  it  was  high  time  now  to  be  thinking  of  the 
play  ;  for  which,  great  preparation  was  required,  in  the 
way  of  shawls  and  bonnets,  not  to  mention  one  handker- 
chief full  of  oranges  and  another  of  apples,  which  took 
some  time  tying  up,  in  consequence  of  the  fruit  having 
a  tendency  to  roll  out  at  the  corners.  At  length,  every- 
thing was  ready,  and  they  went  off  very  fast ;  Kit's 
mother  carrying  the  baby,  who  was  dreadfully  wide 
awake,  and  Kit  holding  little  Jacob  in  one  hand,  and  es- 


corting Barbara  with  the  other — a  state  of  things  which 
occasioned  the  two  mothers,  who  walked  behind,  to  de- 
clare that  they  looked  quite  family  folks,  and  caused  | 
Barbara  to  blush  and  say,  "  Now  don't,  mother  !  "  But 
Kit  said  she  had  no  call  to  mind  what  they  said  ;  and 
indeed  she  need  not  have  had,  if  she  had  known  how  ' 
very  far  from  Kit's  thoughts  any  love-making  was.  1 
Poor  Barbara  ! 

At  last  they  got  to  the  theatre,  which  was  Astley's  ; 
and  in  some  two  minutes  after  they  had  reached  the  yet  I 
unopened  door,  little  Jacob  was  squeezed  flat,  and  the 
baby  had  received  diverse  concussions,  and  Barbara's 
mother's  umbrella  had  been  carried  several  yards  off  and 
passed  back  to  her  over  the  shoulders  of  the  people,  and 
Kit  had  hit  a  man  on  the  head  with  the  handkerchief  of 
apples  for  "scrowdging"  his  parent  with  unnecessary 
violence,  and  there  was  a  great  uproar.  But,  when  they 
were  once  past  the  pay-place  and  tearing  away  for  very 
life  with  their  checks  in  their  hands,  and,  above  all, 
when  they  were  fairly  in  the  theatre,  and  seated  in  such 
places  that  they  couldn't  have  had  better  if  they  had 
picked  them  out^  and  taken  them  beforehand,  all  this 
was  looked  upon  as  quite  a  capital  joke,  and  an  essen- 
tial part  of  the  entertainment. 

Dear,  dear,  what  a  place  it  looked,  that  Astley's  !  with 
all  the  paint,  gilding,  and  looking-glass  ;  the  vague 
smell  of  horses  suggestive  of  coming  wonders  ;  the  cur- 
tain that  hid  such  gorgeous  mysteries  ;  the  clean  white 
sawdust  down  in  the  circus  ;  the  company  coming  in 
and  taking  their  places  ;  the  fiddlers  looking  carelessly 
up  at  them  while  they  tuned  their  instruments,  as  if 
they  didn't  want  the  play  to  begin,  and  knew  it  all  be- 
forehand !  What  a  glow  was  that,  which  burst  upon 
them  all,  when  that  long,  clear,  brilliant  row  of  lights 
came  slowly  up  ;  and  what  the  feverish  excitement  when 
the  little  bell  rang  and  the  music  began  in  good  earnest, 
with  strong  parts  of  the  drums,  and  sweet  effects  for 
the  triangles  !  Well  might  Barbara's  mother  say  to 
Kit's  mother  that  the  gallery  was  the  place  to  see  from, 
and  wonder  it  wasn't  much  dearer  than  the  boxes  ;  well 
might  Barbara  feel  doubtful  whether  to  laugh  or  cry,  in 
her  flutter  of  delight. 

Then  the  play  itself  !  the  horses  which  little  Jacob  be- 
lieved from  the  first  to  be  alive,  and  the  ladies  mid  gentle- 
men of  whose  reality  he  could  be  by  no  means  persuaded, 
having  never  seen  or  heard  anything  at  all  like  them — the 
firing,  which  made  Barbara  wink — the  forlorn  lady,  who 
made  her  cry — the  tyrant,  who  made  her  tremble — the 
man  who  sang  the  song  .with  the  lady's-maid  and  danced 
the  chorus,  who  made  her  laugh — the  pony  who  reared 
up  on  his  hind  legs  when  he  saw  the  murderer,  and 
wouldn't  hear  of  walking  cn  all  fours  again  until  he 
was  taken  into  custody — the  clown  who  ventured  on  such 
familiarities  with  the  military  man  in  boots — the  lady 
who  jumped  over  the  nine-and-twenty  ribbons  and  came 
down  safe  upon  the  horse's  back — everything  was  de- 
lightful, splendid,  and  surprising !  Little  Jacob  ap- 
plauded until  his  hands  were  sore  ;  Kit  cried  "  an-kor  " 
at  the  end  of  everything,  the  three-act  piece  included  ; 
and  Barbara's  mother  beat  her  umbrella  on  the  floor,  in 
her  ecstasies,  until  it  was  nearly  worn  down  to  the  ging- 
ham. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  fascinations,  Barbara's 
thoughts  seemed  to  have  been  still  running  on  what  Kit 
had  said  at  tea-time  ;  for,  when  they  were  coming  out  of 
the  play,  she  asked  him,  with  an  hysterical  simper,  if  Miss 
Nell  was  as  handsome  as  the  lady  who  jumped  over  the 
ribbons. 

"As  handsome  as  her  ?  "  said  Kit.    "  Double  as  hand- 
some." 

"  Oh  Christopher  !  I'm  sure  she  was  the  beautifullest 
creature  ever  was,"  said  Barbara. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  returned  Kit.  "  She  was  well  enough, 
I  don't  deny  that ;  but  think  how  she  was  dressed  and 
painted,  and  what  a  difference  that  made.  Why  you  are 
a  good  deal  better-looking  than  her,  Barbara." 

"  Oh  Christopher  !"  said  Barbara,  looking  down. 

"You  are,  any  day,"  said  Kit, — "and  so's  your 
mother. " 

Poor  Barbara  ! 

What  was  all  this  though — even  all  this — to  the  ex- 
traordinary dissipation  that  ensued,  when  Kit,  walking 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  8II0P. 


765 


into  an  oyster-shop  as  bold  as  if  ho  lived  there,  and  not 
so  mucli  as  looking  at  the  counter  or  the  man  behind  it, 
led  his  party  into  a  box — a  private  box,  fitted  up  with 
red  curtains,  white  table-cloth,  and  cruet-stand  complete 
— and  ordered  a  fierce  gentleman  with  whiskers,  who 
acted  as  waiter  and  called  him,  him  Christopher  Nubbles, 
"sir,"  to  bring  three  dozen  of  his  largest-sized  oysters, 
and  to  look  sharp  about  it  I  Yes,  Kit  told  this  gentleman 
to  look  sharp,  and  he  not  only  said  he  would  look  sharp, 
but  he  actually  did,  and  presently  came  running  back 
with  the  newest  loaves,  and  the  freshest  butter,  and  the 
largest  oysters,  ever  seen.  Then  said  Kit  to  this  gentle- 
man, "  a  pot  of  beer," — just  so — and  the  gentleman,  in- 
stead of  replying,  "Sir,  did  you  address  that  language 
to  me  ?"  only  said,  "  Pot  o'  beer,  sir?  yes,  sir,"  and  went 
off  and  fetched  it,  and  put  it  on  the  table  in  a  small  de- 
canter-stand, like  those  which  blind  men's  dogs  carry 
about  the  streets  in  their  mouths,  to  catch  the  half-pence 
in  ;  and  both  Kit's  mother  and  Barbara's  mother  de- 
clared as  he  turned  away  that  he  was  one  of  the  slim- 
mest and  gracefullest  young  men  she  had  ever  looked 
iipon. 

Then  they  fell  to  work  upon  the  supper  in  earnest ; 
and  there  was  Barbara,  that  foolish  Barbara,  declaring 
that  she  couldn't  eat  more  than  two,  and  wanting  more 
pressing  than  you  would  believe  before  she  would  eat 
four  :  though  her  mother  and  Kit's  mother  made  up  for 
it  pretty  well,  and  ate  and  laughed  and  enjoyed  them- 
selves so  thoroughly  that  it  did  Kit  good  to  see  them  and 
made  him  laugh  and  eat  likewise  from  strong  sympathy. 
But  the  greatest  miracle  of  the  night  was  little  Jacob, 
who  ate  oysters  as  if  he  had  been  born  and  bred  to  the 
business — sprinkled  the  pepper  and  the  vinegar  with  a 
discretion  beyond  his  years — and  afterwards  built  a 
grotto  on  the  table  with  the  shells.  There  was  the  baby 
too,  who  had  never  closed  an  eye  all  night,  but  had  sat 
as  good  as  gold,  trying  to  force  a  large  orange  into  his 
mouth,  and  gazing  intently  at  the  lights  in  the  chande- 
lier— there  he  was,  sitting  up  in  his  mother's  lap,  staring 
at  the  gas  without  winking,  and  making  indentations  in 
his  soft  visage  with  an  oyster-shell,  to  that  degree  that 
a  heart  of  iron  must  have  loved  him  !  In  short,  there 
never  was  a  more  successful  supper  ;  and  when  Kit 
ordered  in  a  glass  of  something  hot  to  finish  with,  and 
proposed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland  before  sending  it  round, 
there  were  not  six  happier  people  in  all  the  world. 

But  all  happiness  has  an  end — hence  the  chief  pleasure 
of  its  next  beginning — and  as  it  was  now  growing  late, 
they  agreed  it  was  time  to  turn -their  faces  homewards. 
So,  after  going  a  little  out  of  their  way  to  see  Barbara 
and  Barbara's  mother  safe  to  a  friend's  house  where  they 
were  to  pass  the  night,  Kit  and  his  mother  left  them  at 
the  door,  with  an  early  appointment,  for  returning  to 
Finchley  next  morning,  and  a  great  many  plans  for  next 
quarter's  enjoyment.  Then,  Kit  took  little  Jacob  on 
his  back,  and  giving  his  arm  to  his  mother,  and  a  kiss 
to  the  baby,  they  all  trudged  merrily  home  together. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Full  of  that  vague  kind  of  penitence  which  holidays 
awaken  next  morning.  Kit  turned  out  at  sunrise,  and, 
with  his  faith  in  last  night's  enjoyments  a  little  shaken 
by  cool  daylight  and  the  return  to  every-day  duties  and 
occupations,  went  to  meet  Barbara  and  her  mother  at 
the  ayjpointed  place.  And  being  careful  not  to  awaken 
any  of  the  little  household,  who  were  yet  resting  from 
their  unusual  fatigues.  Kit  left  his  money  on  the  chim- 
ney-piece, with  an  inscription  in  chalk  calling  his 
mother's  attention  to  the  circumstance,  and  informing 
her  that  it  came  from  her  dutiful  son  ;  and  went  his 
way,  with  a  heart  something  heavier  than  his  pockets, 
but  free  from  any  very  great  oppression  notwith- 
standing. 

Oh  these  holidays  !  why  will  they  leave  us  some  re- 
gret ?  why  cannot  we  push  them  back,  only  a  week  or 
two  in  our  memories,  so  as  to  put  them  at  once  at  that 
convenient  distance  whence  they  may  be  regarded  either 
with  a  calm  indifference  or  a  pleasant  effort  of  recollec- 
tion I  why  will  they  hang  about  us,  like  the  flavour  of 


yesterday's  wine,  suggestive  of  headaches  and  lassitude, 
and  those  good  intentions  for  the  future,  which,  under 
the  earth,  form  the  everlasting  pavement  of  a  large  es- 
tate, and,  upon  it,  usually  endure  until  dinner-time  or 
thereabouts. 

Who  will  wonder  that  Barbara  had  a  headache,  or  that 
Barbara's  mother  was  disposed  to  be  cross,  or  that  she 
slightly  underrated  Astley's,  and  thought  the  clown  was 
older  than  they  had  taken  him  to  be  last  night  ?  Kit  was 
not  surprised  to  hear  her  say  so — not  he.  He  had  already 
had  a  misgiving  that  the  inconstant  actors  in  that  daz- 
zling vision  had  been  doing  the  same  thing  the  night 
before  last,  and  would  do  it  again  that  night,  and  the 
next,  and  for  weeks  and  months  to  come,  though  he 
would  not  be  there.  Such  is  the  difference  between 
yesterday  and  to-day.  We  are  all  going  to  the  play,  or 
coming  home  from  it. 

However,  the  Sun  himself  is  weak  when  he  first  rises, 
and  gathers  strength  and  courage  as  the  day  gets  on. 
By  degrees,  they  began  to  recall  circumstances  more 
and  more  pleasant  in  their  nature,  until,  what  between 
talking,  walking,  and  laughing,  they  reached  Finchley 
in  such  good  heart,  that  Barbara's  mother  declared  she 
never  felt  less  tired  or  in  better  spirits.  And  so  said 
Kit,  Barbara  had  been  silent  all  the  way,  but  she  said 
so  too.    Poor  little  Barbara  !    She  was  very  quiet. 

They  were  at  home  in  such  good  time  that  Kit  had 
rubbed  down  the  pony  and  made  him  as  spruce  as  a 
race-horse,  before  Mr.  Garland  came  down  to  breakfast ; 
which  punctual  and  industrious  conduct  the  old  lady, 
and  the  old  gentleman,  and  Mr.  Abel,  highly  extolled. 
At  his  usual  hour  (or  rather  at  his  usual  minute  and 
second,  for  he  was  the  soul  of  punctuality)  Mr.  Abel 
walked  out,  to  be  overtaken  by  the  London  coach,  and 
Kit  and  the  old  gentleman  w^ent  to  work  in  the  garden. 

This  was  not  the  least  pleasant  of  Kit's  employments. 
On  a  fine  day  they  were  quite  a  family  party  ;  the  old 
lady  sitting  hard  by  with  her  work-basket  on  a  little 
table  ;  the  old  gentleman  digging,  or  pruning,  or  clip- 
ping about  with  a  large  pair  of  shears,  or  helping  Kit  in 
some  way  or  other  with,  great  assiduity  ;  and  Whisker 
looking  on  from  his  paddock  in  placid  contemplation  of 
them  all.  To-day  they  were  to  trim  the  grape-vine,  so 
Kit  mounted  half-way  up  a  short  ladder,  and  began  to 
snip  and  hammer  away,  while  the  old  gentleman,  with  a 
great  interest  in  his  proceedings,  handed  up  the  nails 
and  shreds  of  cloth  as  he  wanted  them.  The  old  lady 
and  Whisker  looked  on  as  usual. 

"Well  Christopher,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  "and  so  you 
have  made  a  new  friend,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ?  "  returned  Kit,  looking  down 
from  the  ladder, 

"  You  have  made  a  new  friend,  I  hear  from  Mr. 
Abel,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  at  the  office  !  " 

"  Oh— yes  sir,  yes.  He  behaved  very  handsome, 
sir." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  returned  the  old  gentleman 
with  a  smile.  "  He  is  disposed  to  behave  more  hand- 
somely still,  though,  Christopher," 

"  Indeed,  sir  !  It's  very  kind  in  him,  but  I  don't 
want  him  to,  Fm  sure,"  said  Kit,  hammering  stoutly  at 
an  obdurate  nail. 

"He  is  rather  anxious,"  pursued  the  old  gentleman, 
"  to  have  you  in  his  own  service — take  care  what  you're 
doing,  or  you  will  fall  down  and  hurt  yourself." 

"  To  have  me  in  his  service,  sir  ! "  cried  Kit,  who  had 
stopped  short  in  his  work  and  faced  about  on  the  ladder 
like  some  dexterous  tumbler.  "  Wliy,  sir,  I  don't  think 
he  can  be  in  earnest  when  he  says  that." 

"Oh  !  But  he  is  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Garland.  "And 
he  has  told  Mr,  Abel  so." 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  !  "  muttered  Kit,  look- 
ing ruefully  at  his  master  and  mistress.  "  I  wonder  at 
him  ;  that  I  do." 

"You  see,  Christopher,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  "this  is 
a  point  of  much  importance  to  you,  and  you  should  un- 
derstand  and  consider  it  in  that  light.  This  gentleman 
is  able  to  give  you  more  money  than  I — not,  I  hope,  to 
carry  through  the  various  relations  of  master  and  ser- 
vant, more  kindness  and  confidence,  but  certainly, 
Christopher,  to  give  you  more  money. " 

"  Well,"  said  Kit,  "after  that,  sir—" 


766 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


'*Wait  a  moment,"  interposed  Mr.  Garland.  "That 
is  not  al].  Yoa  were  a  very  faithful  servant  to  your  old 
employers,  as  I  understand,  and  should  this  gentleman 
recover  them,  as  it  is  his  purpose  to  attempt  doing  by 
every  means  in  his  power,  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  be- 
ing in  his  service,  would  meet  with  your  reward.  Be- 
sides," added  the  old  gentleman  with  stronger  emphasis, 
"besides  having  the  pleasure  of  being  again  brought 
into  communication  with  those  to  whom  you  seem  to  be 
so  very  strongly  and  disinterestedly  attached.  You 
must  think  of  all  this,  Christopher,  and  not  be  rash  or 
hasty  in  your  choice." 

Kit  did  suffer  one  twinge,  one  momentary  pang,  in 
keeping  the  resolution  he  had  already  formed,  when  this 
last  argument  passed  swiftly  into  his  thoughts,  and  con- 
jured up  the  realisation  of  all  his  hopes  and  fancies. 
But  it  was  gone  in  a  minute,  and  he  sturdily  rejoined 
that  the  gentleman  must  look  out  for  somebody  else,  as 
he  did  think  he  might  have  done  at  first. 

'  *  He  has  no  right  to  think  that  I'd  be  led  away  to  go 
to  him,  sir,"  said  Kit,  turning  round  again  after  half  a 
minute's  hammering.    "  Does  he  think  I'm  a  fool  ?  " 

"He  may,  perhaps,  Christopher,  if  you  refuse  his  of- 
fer," said  Mr.  Garland  gravely. 

"  Then  let  him,  sir,"  retorted  Kit  ;  "  what  do  I  care, 
sir,  what  he  thinks  ?  why  should  I  care  for  his  think- 
ing, sir,  when  I  know  that  I  should  be  a  fool,  and  worse 
than  a  fool,  sir,  to  leave  the  kindest  master  and  mistress 
that  ever  was  or  can  be,  who  took  me  out  of  the  streets 
a  very  poor  and  hungry  lad  indeed — poorer  and  hungrier 
perhaps  than  ever  you  thhik  for,  sir — to  go  to  him  or 
anybody?  If  Miss  Nell  was  to  come  back,  ma'am," 
added  Kit,  turning  suddenly  to  his  mistress,  "  why  that 
would  be  another  thing,  and  perhaps  if  she  wanted  me, 
I  might  ask  you  now  and  then  to  let  me  work  for  her 
when  all  was  done  at  home.  But  when  she  comes  back, 
I  see  now  that  she'll  be  rich  as  old  master  always 
said  she  would,  and  being  a  rich  young  lady,  Avliat  could 
she  want  of  me  !  No,  no,"  added  Kit,  shaking  his  head 
sorrowfully,  "she'll  never  want  me  any  more,  and 
bless  her,  I  hope  she  never  may,  though  I  should  like  to 
see  her  too  ! " 

Here  Kit  drove  a  nail  into  the  wall,  very  hard — much 
harder  than  was  necessary — and  having  done  so,  faced 
about  again. 

"There's  the  pony,  sir,"  said  Kit — "  Whisker,  ma'am 
(and  he  knows  so  well  I'm  talking  about  him  that  he 
begins  to  neigh  directly,  sir), — would  he  let  anybody 
come  near  him  but  me,  ma'am  ?  Here's  the  garden,  sir, 
and  Mr.  Abel,  ma'am.  Would  Mr.  Abel  part  with  me, 
sir,  or  is  there  anybody  that  could  be  f  3nder  of  the  gar- 
den, ma'am?  It  would  break  mother's  heart,  sir,  and 
even  little  Jacob  would  have  sense  enough  to  cry  his 
eyes  out,  ma'am,  if  he  thought  that  Mr.  Abel  could  wish 
to  part  with  me  so  soon,  after  having  told  me,  only  the 
other  day,  that  he  hoped  we  might  be  together  for  years 
to  come — " 

There  is  no  telling  how  long  Kit  might  have  stood 
upon  the  ladder,  addressing  his  master  and  mistress  by 
turns,  and  generally  turning  towards  the  wrong  person, 
if  Barbara  had  not  at  that  moment  come  running  up  to 
say  that  a  messenger  from  the  office  had  brought  a 
note,  which,  with  an  expression  of  some  surprise  at 
Kit's  oratorical  appearance,  she  put  into  her  master's 
hand. 

"Oh  !"  said  the  old  gentleman  after  reading  it,  "  ask 
the  messenger  to  walk  this  way."  Barbara  tripping  off 
to  do  as  she  was  bid,  he  turned  to  Kit  and  said  that  they 
would  not  pursue  the  subject  any  further,  and  that  Kit 
could  not  be  more  unwilling  to  part  with  them,  than 
they  would  be  to  part  with  Kit  ;  a  sentiment  which  the 
old  lady  very  generously  echoed. 

"At  the  same  time,  Christopher,"  added  Mr.  Garland, 
glancing  at  the  note  in  his  hand,  "  if  the  gentleman 
should  want  to  borrow  you  now  and  then  for  an  hour  or 
so,  or  even  a  day  or  so,  at  a  time,  we  must  consent  to 
lend  you,  and  you  must  consent  to  be  lent — Oh  1  here  is 
the  young  gentleman.    How  do  you  do,  .sir  ?  " 

This  salutation  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Chuckster,  who, 
with  his  hat  extremely  on  one  side,  and  his  hair  a  long 
way  beyond  it,  came  swaggering  up  the  walk. 

"  Hope  I  see  you  well,  sir,"  returned  that  gentleman. 


"Hope  I  see  you  well,  ma'am.  Charming  box  this,  sir. 
Delicious  country  to  be  sure." 

"You  want  to  take  Kit  back  with  you,  I  find?"  ob- 
served Mr.  Garland. 

"  I've  got  a  chariot-cab  waiting  on  purpose,"  replied 
the  clerk.  "  A  very  spanking  grey,  in  that  cab,  sir,  if 
you're  a  judge  of  horse-flesh." 

Declining  to  inspect  the  spanking  grey,  on  the  plea 
that  he  was  but  poorly  acquainted  with  such  matters, 
and  would  but  imperfectly  appreciate  his  beauties,  Mr. 
Garland  invited  Mr.  Chuckster  to  partake  of  a  slight 
repast  in  the  way  of  lunch.  That  gentleman  readily 
consenting,  certain  cold  viands,  flanked  with  ale  and 
wine,  were  speedily  prepared  for  his  refreshment.  At 
this  repast,  Mr.  Chuckster  exerted  his  utmost  abilities 
to  enchant  his  entertainers,  and  impress  them  with  a 
conviction  of  the  mental  superiority  of  those  who  dwelt 
in  town  ;  with  which  view  he  led  the  discourse  to  the 
small  scandal  of  the  day,  in  which  he  was  justly  con- 
sidered by  his  friends  to  shine  prodigiously.  Thus,  he 
was  in  a  condition  to  relate  the  exact  circumstances  of 
the  difference  between  the  Marquis  of  Mizzler  and  Lord 
Bobby,  which  it  appeared  originated  in  a  disputed  bottle 
of  champagne,  and  not  in  a  pigeon-pie,  as  erroneously 
reported  in  the  newspapers  ;  neither  had  Lord  Bobby 
said  to  the  Marquis  of  Mizzler,  "  Mizzler,  one  of  us  two 
tells  a  lie,  and  I'm  not  the  man,"  as  incorrectly  stated 
by  the  same  authorities;  but,  "Mizzler,  you  know 
where  I'm  to  be  found,  and,  damme,  sir,  find  me  if  you 
want  me  " — which,  of  course,  entirely  changed  the  aspect 
of  this  interesting  question,  and  placed  it  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent light.  He  also  acquainted  them  with  the  precise 
amount  of  the  income  guaranteed  by  the  Duke  of  Thigs- 
berry  to  Violetta  Stetta  of  the  Italian  Opera,  which  is 
appeared  was  payable  quarterly,  and  not  half-yearly,  at 
the  public  had  been  given  to  understand,  and  which  was 
e^cclusive,  and  not  ^?zclusive,  (as  had  been  monstrously 
stated,)  of  jewelry,  perfumery,  hair-powder  for  five  foot- 
men, and  two  daily  changes  of  kid  gloves  for  a  page. 
Having  entreated  the  old  lady  and  gentleman  to  set 
their  minds  at  rest  on  these  absorbing  points,  for  they 
might  rely  on  his  statement  being  the  correct  one,  Mr. 
Chuckster  entertained  them  with  theatrical  chit-chat 
and  the  court  circular;  and  so  wound  up  a  brilliant  and 
fascinating  conversation  which  he  had  maintained  alone, 
and  without  any  assistance  whatever,  for  upwards  of 
three-quarters  of  an  hour. 

"  And  now  that  the  nag  has  got  his  wind  again,"  said 
Mr.  Chuckster,  rising  in  a  graceful  manner,  ' '  I'm  afraid 
I  must  cut  my  stick." 

Neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Garland  offered  any  opposition 
to  his  tearing  himself  away,  (feeling  no  doubt,  that  such 
a  man  could  ill  be  spared  from  his  proper  sphere  of  ac- 
tion,) and  therefore  Mr.  Chuckster  and  Kit  were  shortly 
afterwards  upon  their  way  to  town  ;  Kit  being  perched 
upon  the  box  of  the  cabriolet  beside  the  driver,  and  Mr. 
Chuckster  seated  in  solitary  state  inside,  with  one  of 
his  boots  sticking  out  at  each  of  the  front  windows. 

When  they  reached  the  Notary's  house,  Kit  followed 
into  the  office,  and  was  desired  by  Mr.  Abel  to  sit  down 
and  wait,  for  the  gentleman  who  wanted  him  had  gone 
out,  and  perhaps  might  not  return  for  some  time.  This 
anticipation  was  strictly  verified,  for  Kit  had  had  his 
dinner,  and  his  tea,  and  had  read  all  the  lighter  matter 
in  the  Law-List,  and  the  Post-Office  Directory,  and  had 
fallen  asleep  a  great  many  times,  before  the  gentleman 
whom  he  had  seen  before,  came  in  ;  which  lie  did  at 
last  in  a  very  great  hurry. 

He  was  closeted  with  Mr.  Witherden  for  some  little 
time,  and  Mr.  Abel  had  been  called  in  to  assist  at  the 
conference,  before  Kit,  wondering  very  much  what  he 
was  wanted  for,  was  summoned  to  attend  them. 

"  Christopher,"  said  the  gentleman,  turning  to  him 
directly  he  entered  the  room,  "I  have  found  your  old 
master  and  young  mistress." 

"  No,  sir  !  Have  you,  though? "  returned  Kit,  his  eyes 
sparkling  with  delight.  "Where  are  they,  sir?  How 
are  they,  sir  ?    Are  they — are  they  near  here  ?  " 

"  A  long  way  from  here,"  returned  the  gentleman, 
shaking  his  head.  "But  lam  going  away  to-night  to 
bring  tliem  back,  and  I  want  you  to  go  with  me." 

"Me,  sir?"  cried  Kit,  full  of  joy  and  surprise. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


7G7 


**Tlie  place,"  said  the  strange  gentleman,  turning 
thoughtfully  to  the  Notary,  "  indicated  by  this  man  of 
the  dogs,  is— how  far  from  here— sixty  miles  ?  " 

"  From  sixty  to  seventy." 

"  Humph  I  If  we  travel  post  all  night,  we  shall  reach 
there  in  good  time  to-morrow  morning.  Now,  the  only 
question  is,  as  they  will  not  know  mo,  and  the  child, 
God  bless  her,  would  think  that  any  stranger  pursuing 
them  had  a  design  upon  her  grandfather's  liberty, — can 
I  do  better  than  take  this  lad,  whom  they  both  know 
and  will  readily  remember,  as  an  assurance  to  them  of 
my  friendly  intentions?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  the  Notary.  Take  Christo- 
pher by  all  means." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Kit,  who  had  listened 
to  this  discourse  with  a  lengthening  countenance,  "but 
if  that's  the  reason,  I'm  afraid  I  should  do  more  harm 
than  good — Miss  Nell,  sir,  she  knows  me,  and  would 
trust  in  me,  I  am  sure  ;  but  old  master — I  don't  know 
why,  gentlemen  ;  nobody  does — would  not  bear  me  in 
his  sight  after  he  had  been  ill,  and  Miss  Nell  herself 
told  me  that  I  must  not  go  near  him  or  let  him  see  me 
any  more.  I  should  spoil  all  that  you  were  doing  if  I 
went,  I'm  afraid.  I'd  give  the  world  to  go,  but  you 
had  better  not  take  me,  sir." 

"  Another  difficulty  ! "  cried  the  impetuous  gentleman. 
"Was  ever  man  so  beset  as  I  ?  Is  there  nobody  else 
that  knew  them,  nobody  else  in  Avhom  they  had  any  con- 
fidence !  Solitary  as  their  lives  were,  is  there  no  one 
person  who  would  serve  my  purpose  ?  " 

"Is  there,  Christopher?"  said  the  Notary. 

"  Not  one,  sir,"  replied  Kit.  "  Yes,  though — there's 
my  mother." 

"  Did  they  know  her  ?"  said  the  single  gentleman. 

"  Know  her,"  sir  !  why,  she  was  always  coming  back- 
wards and  forwards.  They  were  as  kind  to  her,  as  they 
were  to  me.  Bless  you,  sir,  she  expected  they'd  come 
back  to  her  house." 

*'  Then  where  the  devil  is  the  woman  ?"  said  the  im- 
patient gentleman,  catching  up  his  hat.  "  Why  isn't 
she  here  ?  Why  is  that  woman  ahvays  out  of  the  way 
when  she  is  most  wanted  ?  " 

In  a  word,  the  single  gentleman  was  bursting  out  of 
the  office,  bent  upon  laying  violent  hands  on  Kit's  mother, 
forcing  her  into  a  post-chaise,  and  carrying  her  off,  when 
this  novel  kind  of  abduction  was  with  some  difficulty 
prevented  by  the  joint  efforts  of  Mr.  Abel  and  the  No- 
tary, who  restrained  him  by  dint  of  their  remonstrances, 
and  persuaded  him  to  sound  Kit  upon  the  probability  of 
her  being  able  and  willing  to  undertake  such  a  journey 
on  so  short  a  notice. 

This  occasioned  some  doubts  on  the  part  of  Kit,  and 
some  violent  demonstrations  on  that  of  the  single  gentle- 
man, and  a  great  many  soothing  speeches  on  that  of  the 
Notary  and  Mr.  Abel.  The  upshot  of  the  business  was, 
that  Kit,  after  weighing  the  matter  in  his  mind  and  con- 
sidering it  carefully,  promised  on  behalf  of  his  mother, 
that  she  should  be  ready  within  two  hours  from  that 
time  to  undertake  the  expedition,  and  engaged  to  pro- 
duce her  in  that  place,  in  all  respects  equipped  and  pre- 
pared for  the  journey,  before  the  specified  period  had 
expired. 

Having  given  this  pledge,  which  was  rather  a  bold 
one,  and  not  particularly  easy  of  redemption.  Kit  lost  no 
time  in  sallying  forth  and  taking  measures  for  its  im- 
mediate fulfilment. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

Kit  made  his  way  through  the  crowded  streets,  divid- 
ing the  stream  of  people,  dashing  across  the  busy  road- 
ways, diving  into  lanes  and  alleys,  and  stopping  or  turn- 
ing asifle  for  nothing,  until  he  came  in  front  of  the  Old 
Curiosity  Shop,  when  he  came  to  a  stand,  partly  from 
the  habit  and  partly  from  being  out  of  breath. 

It  was  a  gloomy  autumn  evening,  and  he  thought  the 
old  place  had  never  looked  so  dismal  as  in  its  dreary 
twilight.  The  windows,  broken,  the  rusty  sashes  rat- 
tling in  their  frames,  the  deserted  house  a  dull  barrier 
dividing  the  glaring  lights  and  bustle  of  the  street  into 
two  long  lines,  and  standing  in  the  midst,  cold,  dark. 


and  empty, — presented  a  cheerless  spectacle  which 
mingled  harshly  with  the  bright  prospects  the  boy  had 
been  building  up  for  its  late  inmates,  and  came  like  a 
disappointment  or  misfortune.  Kit  would  have  had  a 
good  fire  roaring  up  the  empty  chimneys,  lights  sparkling 
and  shining  through  the  windows,people  moving  briskly 
to  and  fro,  voices  in  cheerful  conversation,  something 
in  unison  with  the  new  hopes  that  were  astir.  He  had 
not  expected  that  the  house  would  wear  any  different 
aspect — had  known  indeed  that  it  could  not— but  com- 
ing upon  it  in  the  midst  of  eager  thoughts  and  expecta- 
tions, it  checked  the  current  in  its  flow,  and  darkened  it 
with  a  mournful  shadow. 

Kit,  however,  fortunately  for  himself,  was  not  learned 
enough  or  contemplative  enough  to  be  troubled  with 
presages  of  evil  afar  off,  and,  having  no  mental  spec- 
tacles to  assist  his  vision  in  this  respect,  saw  nothing  but 
the  dull  house,  which  jarred  uncomfortably  upon  his 
previous  thoughts.  So,  almost  wishing  that  he  had  not 
passed  it,  though  hardly  knowing  why,  he  hurried  on 
again,  making  up  by  his  increased  speed  for  the  few 
moments  he  had  lost. 

"  Now,  if  she  should  be  out,"  thought  Kit,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  poor  dwelling  of  his  mother,  "  and  I  not 
able  to  find  her,  this  impatient  gentleman  would  be  in  a 
pretty  taking.  And  sure  enough  there's  no  light  and 
the  door's  fast.  Now,  God  forgive  me  for  saying  so, 
but  if  this  is  Little  Bethel's  doing,  I  wish  Little  Bethel 
was — was  farther  off,"  said  Kit  checking  himself,  and 
knocking  at  the  door. 

A  second  knock  brought  no  reply  from  within  the 
house  ;  but  caused  a  woman  over  the  way  to  look  out 
and  inquire  who  that  was,  awanting  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

"Me,"  said  Kit.  "She's  at — at  Little  Bethel,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " — getting  out  the  name  of  the  obnoxious  conven- 
ticle with  some  reluctance,  and  laying  a  spiteful  empha- 
sis upon  the  words. 

The  neighbour  nodded  assent. 

"  Then  pray  tell  me  where  it  is,"  said  Kit,  "  for  I 
have  come  on  a  pressing  matter,  and  must  fetch  her  out, 
even  if  she  was  in  the  pulpit." 

It  was  not  very  easy  to  procure  a  direction  to  the  fold 
in  question,  as  none  of  the  neighbours  were  of  the  flock 
that  resorted  thither,  and  few  knew  anything  more  of  it 
than  the  name.  At  last,  a  gossip  of  Mrs.  Nubble's,  who 
had  accompanied  her  to  chapel  on  cne  or  two  occasions 
when  a  comfortable  cup  of  tea  had  preceded  her  devo- 
tions, furnished  the  needful  information,  which  Kit  had 
no  sooner  obtained  than  he  started  off  again. 

Little  Bethel  might  have  been  nearer,  and  might  have 
been  in  a  straighter  road,  though  in  that  case  the  rev- 
erend gentleman  who  presided  over  its  congregation 
would  have  lost  his  favourite  allusion  to  the  crooked 
ways  by  which  it  was  approached,  and  which  enabled  him 
to  liken  it  to  Paradise  itself , in  contradistinction  to  the  par- 
ish church  and  the  broad  thoroughfare  leading  thereunto. 
Kit  found  it,  at  last,  after  some  trouble,  and  pausing  at 
the  door  to  take  breath  that  he  might  enter  with  becom- 
ing decency,  passed  into  the  chapel. 

It  was  not  badly  named  in  one  respect,  being  in  truth 
a  particularly  little  Bethel— a  Bethel  of  the  smallest  di- 
mensions— with  a  small  number  of  small  pews,  and  a  small 
pulpit, in  which  a  small  gentleman  (by  trade  a  Shoemaker, 
and  by  calling  a  Divine)  was  delivering  in  a  by  no  means 
small  voice,  a  by  no  means  small  sermon,  judging  of  its 
dimensions  by  the  condition  of  his  audience,  which  if 
their  gross  amount  were  but  small,  comprised  a  still 
smaller  number  of  hearers,  as  the  majority  were  slumber- 
ing. 

Among  these  was  Kit's  mother,  who,  finding  it  mat- 
ter of  extreme  difficulty  to  keep  her  eyes  open  after  the 
fatigues  of  last  night,  and  feeling  their  inclination  to 
close  strongly  backed  and  seconded  by  the  arguments  of 
the  preacher,  had  yielded  to  the  drowsiness  that  over- 
powered her,  and  fallen  asleep  ;  though  not  so  soundly 
but  that  she  could,  from  time  to  time,  utter  a  slight  and 
almost  inaudible  groan,  as  if  in  recognition  of  the 
orator's  doctrines.  The  baby  in  her  arms  was  as  fast 
asleep  as  she  ;  and  little  Jacob,  whose  youth  prevented 
him  from  recognising  in  this  prolonged  spiritual  nour- 
ishment anything  half  as  l2.t.eresting  as  oysters,  was 
alternately  very  fast  asleep  and  very  wide  awake,  as  his 


7G8 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


inclination  to  slumber,  or  his  terror  at  being  personally 
alluded  to  in  the  discourse,  gained  the  mastery  over 
him. 

"And  now  I'm  here,"  thought  Kit,  gliding  into  the 
nearest  empty  pew  which  was  opposite  his  mother's,  and 
on  the  other  side  of  the  little  aisle,  "how  am  I  ever  to 
get  at  her,  or  persuade  her  to  come  out !  I  might  as 
well  be  twenty  miles  off.  She'll  never  wake  till  it's  all 
over,  and  there  goes  the  clock  again  !  If  he  would  but 
leave  off  for  a  minute,  or  if  they'd  only  sing  ! " 

But  there  was  little  encouragement  to  believe  that 
either  event  would  happen  for  a  couple  of  hours  to  come. 
The  preacher  went  on  telling  them  what  he  meant  to 
convince  them  of  before  he  had  done,  and  it  was  clear 
that  if  he  only  kept  to  one-half  of  his  promises  and  for- 
got the  other,  he  was  good  for  that  time  at  least. 

In  his  desperation  and  restlessness  Kit  cast  his  eyes 
about  the  chapel,  and  happening  to  let  them  fall  upon  a 
little  seat  in  front  of  the  clerk's  desk,  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve them  when  they  showed  him — Quilp  ! 

He  rubbed  them  twice  or  thrice,  but  still  they  insisted 
that  Quilp  was  there,  and  there  indeed  he  was,  sitting 
with  his  hands  upon  his  knees,  and  his  hat  between  them, 
on  a  little  wooden  bracket,  with  the  accustomed  grin  on 
his  dirty  face,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ceiling.  He 
certainly  did  not  glance  afc  Kit  or  at  his  mother,  and  ap- 
peared utterly  unconscious  of  their  presence  ;  still  Kit 
could  not  help  feeling,  directly,  that  the  attention  of  the 
sly  little  fiend  was  fastened  upon  them,  and  upon  nothing 
else. 

But,  astounded  as  he  was  by  the  apparition  of  the 
dwarf  among  the  Little  Bethelites,  and  not  free  from  a 
misgiving  that  it  was  the  forerunner  of  some  trouble  or 
annoyance,  he  was  compelled  to  subdue  his  wonder  and 
to  take  active  measures  for  the  withdrawal  of  his  parent, 
as  the  evening  was  now  creeping  on,  and  the  matter  grew 
serious.  Therefore,  the  next  time  little  Jacob  woke.  Kit 
set  himself  to  attract  his  wandering  attention,  and  this 
not  being  a  very  difficult  task  (one  sneeze  effected  it)  he 
signed  to  him  to  rouse  his  mother. 

Ill-luck  would  have  it,  however,  that,  just  then,  the 
preacher,  in  a  forcible  exposition  of  one  head  of  his  dis- 
course, leaned  over  upon  the  pulpit-desk,  so  that  very 
little  more  of  him  than  his  legs  remained  inside  :  and, 
while  he  made  vehement  gestures  with  his  right  hand, 
and  held  on  with  his  left,  stared,  or  seemed  to  stare, 
straight  into  little  Jacob's  eyes,  threatening  him  by  his 
strained  look  and  attitude — so  it  appeared  to  the  child — 
that  if  he  so  much  as  moved  a  muscle,  he,  the  preacher, 
■would  be  literally,  and  not  figuratively,  "  down  upon 
him  "  that  instant.  In  this  fearful  state  of  things,  dis- 
tracted by  the  sadden  appearance  of  Kit,  and  fascinated 
by  the  eyes  of  the  preacher,  the  miserable  Jacob  sat  bolt 
upright,  Avholly  incapable  of  motion,  strongly  disposed  to 
cry  but  afraid  to  do  so,  and  returning  his  pastor's  gaze 
until  his  infant  eyes  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets. 

"  If  I  must  do  it  openly,  I  must,"  thought  Kit.  With 
that,  he  walked  softly  out  of  his  pew  and  into  his  moth- 
er's, and  as  Mr.  Swiveller  would  have  observed  if  he  had 
been  present,  "collared"  the  baby  without  speaking  a 
word. 

"  Hush,  mother  !  "  whispered  Kit.  "  Come  along  with 
me ,  I've  got  something  to  tell  you. " 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

"  In  this  blessed  Little  Bethel,"  returned  her  son  ^eey- 
ishly. 

"  Blessed  indeed  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Nubbles,  catching  at  the 
word.  "Oh,  Christopher,  how  have  I  been  edified  this 
night  !" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Kit  hastily;  "but  come 
along,  mother,  everybody's  looking  at  us.  Don't  make  a 
noise — bring  Jacob — that's  right  !" 

"  Stay,  Satan,  stay  !"  cried  the  preacher,  as  Kit  was 
moving  off. 

"The  gentleman  says  you're  to  stay,  Christopher," 
whispered  his  mother. 

"  Stay,  Satan,  stay  ! "  roared  the  preacher  again. 
"Tempt  not  the  woman  that  doth  incline  her  ear  to 
thee,  but  liearkcn  to  the  voice  of  him  that  calleth.  He 
hath  a  lamb  from  the  fold  !"  cried  the  preacher,  raising 
his  voice  still  higher  and  pointing  to  tlie  baby.  "  Ho 
beareth  off  a  lamb,  a  precious  lamb  !   He  goeth  about, 


like  a  wolf  in  the  night  season,  and  inveigleth  the  tender 
lambs  ! " 

Kit  was  the  best-tempered  fellow  in  the  world,  but 
considering  this  strong  language,  and  being  somewhat 
excited  by  the  circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed,  he 
faced  round  to  the  pulpit  with  the  baby  in  his  arms,  and 
replied  aloud, 

"  No,  I  don't.    He's  my  brother." 

"  He's  my  brother  !  "  cried  the  preacher. 

"He  isn't,"  said  Kit  indignantly. 

"How  can  you  say  such  a  thing? — and  don't  call  me 
names  if  you  please  ;  what  harm  have  I  done?  I 
shouldn't  have  come  to  take  'em  away,  unless  I  was 
obliged,  you  may  depend  upon  that.  I  wanted  to  do  it 
very  quiet,  but  you  wouldn't  let  me.  Now  you  have 
the  goodness  to  abuse  Satan  and  them,  as  much  as  you 
like,  sir,  and  to  let  me  alone  if  you  please." 

So  saying.  Kit  matched  out  of  the  chapel,  followed  by 
his  mother  and  little  Jacob,  and  found  himself  in  the 
open  air,  with  an  indistinct  recollection  of  having  seen 
the  people  wake  up  and  look  surprised,  and  of  Quilp 
having  remained,  throughout  the  interruption,  in  his  old 
attitude,  without  moving  his  eyes  from  the  ceiling,  or 
appearing  to  take  the  smallest  notice  of  anything  that 
passed. 

"  Oh  Kit  !  "  said  his  mother,  with  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes,  "  what  have  you  done  !  I  never  can  go  there 
again — never  ! " 

"I'm  glad  of  it,  mother.  What  was  there  in  the  little 
bit  of  pleasure  you  took  last  night  that  made  it  neces- 
sary for  you  to  be  low-spirited  and  sorrowful  to-night  ? 
That's  the  way  you  do.  If  you're  happy  or  merry  ever, 
you  come  here  to  say,  along  with  that  chap,  that  you're 
sorry  for  it.  More  shame  for  you,  mother,  I  was  going 
to  say." 

"  Hush,  dear  !"  said  Mrs.  Nubbles  ;  "you  don't  mean 
what  you  say  I  know,  but  you're  talking  sinfulness." 

"  Don't  mean  it?  But  I  do  mean  it!"  retorted  Kit. 
"  I  don't  believe,  mother,  that  harmless  cheerfulness 
and  good-humour  are  thought  greater  sins  in  Heaven 
than  shirt-collars  are,  and  I  do  believe  that  those  chaps 
are  just  about  as  right  and  sensible  in  putting  down  the 
one  as  in  leaving  off  the  other — that's  my  belief.  But  I 
won't  say  anything  more  about  it,  if  you'll  promise  not 
to  cry,  that's  all  ;  and  you  take  the  baby  that's  a  lighter 
weight,  and  give  me  little  Jacob,  and  as  we  go  along 
(which  we  must  do  pretty  quick)  I'll  tell  you  the  news  I 
bring,  which  will  surprise  you  a  little,  I  can  tell  you. 
There — that's  right.  Now  you  look  as  if  you'd  never  seen 
Little  Bethel  in  all  your  life,  as  I  hope  you  never  will 
again  ;  and  here's  the  baby  ;  and  little  Jacob,  you  get 
atop  of  my  back  and  catch  hold  of  me  tight  round  the 
neck,  and  whenever  a  Little  Bethel  parson  calls  you  a 
precious  lamb  or  says  your  brother's  one,  you.  tell  him 
it's  the  truest  thing  he's  said  for  a  twelvemonth,  and 
that  if  he'd  got  a  little  more  of  the  lamb  himself,  and 
less  of  the  mint-sauce — not  being  quite  so  sharp  and  sour 
over  it — I  should  like  him  all  the  better.  That's  what 
you've  got  to  say  to  liim,  Jacob  ! " 

Talking  on  in  this  way,  half  in  jest  and  half  in  ear- 
nest, and  cheering  up  his  mother,  the  children,  and  him- 
self, by  the  one  simple  process  of  determining  to  be  in  a 
good  humour.  Kit  led  them  briskly  forward  ;  and  on  the 
road  home,  he  related  what  had  passed  at  the  Notary's 
house,  and  the  purpose  with  -which  he  had  intruded  on 
the  solemnities  of  Little  Bethel. 

His  mother  was  not  a  little  startled  on  learning  what 
service  was  required  of  her,  and  presently  fell  into  a 
confusion  of  ideas,  of  which  the  most  prominent  were 
that  it  was  a  great  honour  and  dignity  to  ride  in  a  post- 
chaise,  and  that  it  was  a  moral  impossibility  to  leave  the 
children  behind.  But  this  objection,  and  a  great  many 
others,  founded  on  certain  articles  of  dress  being  at  the 
wash,  and  certain  other  articles  having  no  existence  in 
the  wardrobe  of  Mrs.  Nubbles,  were  overcome  by  Kit, 
who  opposed  to  each  and  every  of  them,  the  pleasure  of 
recovering  Nell,  and  the  delight  it  would  be  to  bring  her 
back  in  triumph. 

"There's  only  ten  minutes  now,  mother" — said  Kit 
when  they  reached  home.  "  There's  a  bandbox.  Throw 
in  what  you  want,  and  we'll  be  off  directly. " 

To  tell  how  Kit  then  hustled  into  the  box  all  sorts  of 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


709 


things  ■which  could,  by  no  remote  contingency,  be  want- 
ed, and  how  he  left  out  everything  likely  to  be  of  the 
smallest  use  ;  how  a  neighbour  was  persuaded  to  come 
and  stop  with  tbe  children,  and  how  the  children  at  first 
cried  dismally,  and  then  laughed  heartily  on  being  pro- 
mised all  kinds  of  impossible  and  unheard-of  toys  ;  how 
Kit's  mother  wouldn't  leave  off  kissing  them,  and  how 
Kit  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  to  be  vexed  with  her  for 
doing  it  ;  would  take  more  time  and  room  than  you  and 
I  can  spare.  So,  passing  over  all  such  matters,  it  is  suf- 
ficient to  say  that  within  a  few  minutes  after  the  two 
hours  had  expired.  Kit  and  his  mother  arrived  at  the 
Notary's  door,  where  a  post-chase  was  already  waiting, 

"  With  four  horses  I  declare  !  "  said  Kit,  quite  aghast 
at  the  preparations.  "Well  you  are  going  to  do  it, 
mother  !  Here  she  is,  sir.  Here's  my  mother.  She's 
quite  ready,  sir." 

"  That's  well,"  returned  the  gentleman.  ' '  Now,  don't 
be  in  a  flutter  ma'am  ;  you'll  be  taken  great  care  of. 
Where's  the  box  with  the  new  clothing  and  necessaries 
for  them  ?  " 

"Here  it  is,"  said  the  Notary.  "In  with  it,  Christo- 
pher." 

"  All  right  sir,"  replied  Kit.    "  Quite  ready  now,  sir." 

"  Then  come  along,"  said  the  single  gentleman.  And 
thereupon  he  gave  his  arm  to  Kit's  mother,  handed  her 
into  the  carriage  as  politely  as  you  please,  and  took  his 
seat  beside  her. 

Up  went  the  steps,  bang  went  the  door,  round  whirled 
the  wheels,  and  off  they  rattled,  with  Kit's  mother  hang- 
ing out  at  one  window  waving  a  damp  pocket-handker- 
chief and  screaming  out  a  great  many  messages  to  little 
Jacob  and  the  baby,  of  which  nobody  heard  a  word. 

Kit  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  looked  after 
them  with  tears  in  his  eyes — not  brought  there  by  the 
departure  he  witnessed,  but  by  the  return  to  which  he 
looked  forward.  "They  went  away,"  he  thought,  "on 
foot  with  nobody  to  speak  to  them  or  say  a  kind  word,  at 
parting,  and  they'll  come  back,  drawn  by  four  horses, 
with  this  rich  gentleman  for  their  friend,  and  all  their 
troubles  over !  She'll  forget  that  she  taught  me  to 
write—" 

Whatever  Kit  thought  about  after  this,  took  some 
time  to  think  of,  for  he  stood  gazing  tip  the  lines  of 
shining  lamps,  long  after  the  chaise  had  disappeared,  and 
did  not  return  into  the  house  until  the  Notary  and  Mr. 
Abel,  who  had  themselves  lingered  outside  till  the  sound 
of  the  wheels  was  no  longer  distinguishable,  had  several 
times  wondered  what  could  possibly  detain  him. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

It  behoves  us  to  leave  Kit  for  a  while,  thoughtful  and 
expectant,  and  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  little  Nell ;  re- 
suming the  thread  of  the  narrative  at  the  point  where  it 
was  left,  some  chapters  back. 

In  one  of  those  wanderings  in  the  evening  time,  when, 
following  the  two  sisters  at  a  humble  distance,  she  felt,  in 
her  sympathy  with  them  and  her  recognition  in  their 
trials  of  something  akin  to  her  own  loneliness  of  spirit, 
a  comfort  and  consolation  which  made  such  moments  a 
time  of  deep  delight,  though  the  softened  pleasure  they 
yielded  was  of  that  kind  which  lives  and  dies  in  tears — 
in  one  of  those  wanderings  at  the  quiet  hour  of  twilight, 
when  sky,  and  earth,  and  air,  and  rippling  water,  and 
sound  of  distant  bells,  claimed  kindred  with  the  emotions 
of  the  solitary  child,  and  inspired  her  with  soothing 
thoughts,  but  not  of  a  child's  world  or  its  easy  joys — in  one 
of  those  rambles  which  had  now  become  her  only  pleas- 
ure or  relief  from  care,  light  had  faded  into  darkness 
and  evening  deepened  into  night,  and  still  the  young 
creature  lingered  in  the  gloom  ;  feeling  a  companionship 
in  Nature  so  serene  and  still,  when  noise  of  tongues  and 
glare  of  garish  lights  would  have  been  solitude  indeed. 

The  sisters  had  gone  home,  and  she  was  alone.  She 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  bright  stars,  looking  down  so 
mildly  from  the  wide  worlds  of  air,  and,  gazing  on  them, 
found  new  stars  burst  npon  her  view,  and  more  beyond, 
and  more  beyond  again,  until  the  whole  great  expanse 
sparkled  with  shining  spheres,  rising  higher  and  higher 
Vol.  II. -.-49 


in  immeasurable  space,  eternal  in  tlioir  numbers  as  in 
their  changeless  and  incorruptible  existence.  She  bent 
over  the  calm  river,  and  saw  them  shining  in  the  same 
majestic  order  as  when  the  dove  beheld  them  gleaming 
through  the  swollen  waters,  upon  the  mountain  tops 
down  far  below,  and  dead  mankind,  a  million  fathoms 
deep. 

The  child  sat  silently  beneath  a  tree,  hushed  in  her 
very  breath  by  the  stillness  of  the  night,  and  all  its 
attendant  wonders.  The  time  and  place  awoke  refioction, 
and  she  thought  with  a  quiet  hope — less  hope,  perhaps, 
than  resignation — on  the  past,  and  present,  and  what  was 
yet  before  her.  Between  the  old  man  and  herself  there  had 
come  a  gradual  separation,  harder  to  bear  than  any  former 
sorrow.  Every  evening,  and  often  in  the  day-time  too, 
he  was  absent,  alone  ;  and  although  she  well  knew  where 
he  went,  and  why — too  well  from  the  constant  drain 
upon  her  scanty  purse  and  from  his  haggard  looks — he 
evaded  all  inquiry,  maintained  a  strict  reserve,  and  even 
shunned  her  presence. 

She  sat  meditating  sorrowfully  upon  this  change,  and 
mingling  it,  as  it  were,  with  everything  about  her,  when 
the  distant  church-clock  bell  struck  nine.  Rising  at  the 
sound,  she  retraced  her  steps,  and  turned  thoughtfully 
towards  the  town. 

She  had  gained  a  little  wooden  bridge,  which,  thrown 
across  the  stream,  led  into  a  meadow  in  her  way,  when 
she  came  suddenly  upon  a  ruddy  light,  and  looking  for- 
ward more  attentively,  discerned  that  it  proceeded  from 
what  appeared  to  be  an  encampment  of  gipsies,  who  had 
made  a  fire  in  one  corner  at  no  great  distance  from  the 
path,  and  were  sitting  or  lying  round  it.  As  she  was  too 
poor  to  have  any  fear  of  them,  she  did  not  alter  her 
course,  (which,  indeed,  she  could  not  have  done  without 
going  a  long  way  round,)  but  quickened  her  pace  a  little, 
and  kept  straight  on. 

A  movement  of  timid  curiosity  impelled  her,  when  she 
approached  the  spot,  to  glance  towards  the  fire.  There 
was  a  form  between  it  and  her,  the  outline  strongly 
developed  against  the  light,  which  caused  her  to  stop 
abruptly.  Then,  as  if  she  had  reasoned  with  herself 
and  were  assured  that  it  could  not  be,  or  had  satisfied 
herself  that  it  was  not,  that  of  the  person  she  had  sup- 
posed, she  went  on  again. 

But  at  that  instant  the  conversation,  whatever  it  was, 
Avhich  had  been  carrying  on  near  this  fire  was  resumed, 
and  the  tones  of  the  voice  that  spoke — she  could  not 
distinguish  words — sounded  as  familiar  to  her  as  her 
own. 

She  turned,  and  looked  back.  The  person  had  been 
seated  before,  but  was  now  in  a  standing  posture,  and 
leaning  forward  on  a  stick  on  which  he  rested  both 
hands.  The  attitude  was  no  less  familiar  to  her  than 
the  tone  of  voice  had  been.    It  icas  her  grandfather. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  call  to  him  :  her  next  to  won- 
der who  his  associates  could  be,  and  for  w^hat  purpose 
they  were  together.  Some  vague  apprehension  succeed- 
ed, and,  yielding  to  the  strong  inclination  it  awakened, 
she  drew  nearer  to  the  place  ;  not  advancing  across  the 
open  field,  however,  but  creeping  towards  it  by  the 
hedge. 

In  this  way  she  advanced  within  a  few  feet  of  the  fire, 
and  standing  among  a  few  young  trees,  could  both  see 
and  hear,  without  much  danger  of  being  observed. 

There  were  no  women  or  children,  as  she  had  seen  in 
other  gipsy  camps  they  had  passed  in  their  wayfaring  and 
but  one  gipsy — a  tall  athletic  man,  who  stood  with  his 
arms  folded  leaning  against  a  tree  at  a  little  distance  off, 
looking  now  at  the  fire,  and  noAv  under  his  black  eye- 
lashes, at  three  other  men  who  were  there,  with  a  watch- 
ful but  half-concealed  interest  in  their  conversation.  Of 
these  her  grandfather  was  one  ;  the  others  she  recognised 
as  the  first  card-players  at  the  public-house  on  the  event- 
ful night  of  the  storm — the  man  whom  they  had  called 
Isaac  List,  and  his  gruff  companion.  One  of  the  low, 
arched  gipsy-tents,  common  to  that  people,  was  pitched 
hard  by,  but  it  either  was,  or  appeared  to  be,  empty. 

"Well,  are  you  going?"  said  the  stout  man,  looking 
up  from  the  ground  where  he  was  lying  at  his  ease,  into 
her  grandfather's  face.  "You  were  in  a  mighty  hurry  a 
minute  ago.  Go,  if  you  like.  You're  your  own  master, 
I  hope?" 


770 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Don't  vex  him,"  returned  Isaac  List,  who  was  squat- 
ting'like  a  frog  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  and  had  so 
screwed  himself  up  that  he  seemed  to  be  squinting  all 
over  ;  "he  didn't  mean  any  offence." 

"You  keep  me  poor,  and  plunder  me,  and  make  a 
sport  and  jest  of  me  besides,"  said  the  old  man,  turning 
from  one  to  the  other.    "Ye'll  drive  me  mad  among 

ye." 

The  utter  irresolution  and  feebleness  of  the  grey- 
haired  child,  contrasted  with  the  keen  and  cunning  looks 
of  those  in  whose  hands  he  was,  smote  upon  the  little 
listener's  heart.  But  she  constrained  himself  to  attend  to 
all  that  passed,  and  to  note  each  look  and  word. 

Confound  you,  what  do  you  mean?"  said  the  stout 
man,  rising  a  little,  and  supporting  himself  on  his  elbow. 
"Keep  you  poor?  You'd  keep  us  poor,  if  you  could, 
wouldn't  you?  That's  the  way  with  you  whining,  puny, 
pitiful  players.  When  you  lose,  you're  martyrs ;  but  I 
don't  find  that  when  you  win,  you  look  upon  the  other 
losers  in  that  light.  As  to  plunder  !"  cried  the  fellow, 
raising  his  voice — "  Damme,  what  do  you  mean  by  such 
ungentlemanly  language  as  plunder,  eh  ?  " 

The  speaker  laid  himself  down  again  at  full  length, 
and  gave  one  or  two  short,  angry  kicks,  as  if  in  further 
expression  of  bis  unbounded  indignation.  It  v/as  quite 
plain  that  he  acted  the  bully,  and  his  friend  the  peace- 
maker, for  some  particular  purpose  ;  or  rather,  it  would 
liave  been  to  any  one  but  the  weak  old  man  ;  for  they 
exchanged  glances  quite  openly,  both  with  each  other 
and  with  the  gipsy,  who  grinned  his  approval  of  the 
jest  until  his  white  teeth  shone  again. 

The  old  man  stood  helplessly  among  them  for  a  little 
time,  and  then  said,  turning  to  his  assailant : 

"  You  yourself  were  speaking  of  plunder,  just  now, 
you  know.  Don't  be  so  violent  with  me.  You  were, 
were  you  not !  " 

"  Not  of  plundering  among  present  company  !  Honour 
among — among  gentlemen,  sir,"  returned  the  other,  who 
seemed  to  have  been  very  near  giving  an  awkward  ter- 
mination to  the  sentence. 

"Don't  be  hard  upon  him.  Jowl,"  said  Isaac  List. 
"He's  very  sorry  for  giving  offence.  There, — go  on 
with  what  you  were  saying — go  on." 

"  I'm  a  jolly  old  tender-hearted  lamb,  I  am,"  cried 
Mr.  Jowl,  "  to  be  sitting  here  at  my  time  of  life  giving 
advice,  when  I  know  it  won't  be  taken,  and  that  I  shall 
get  nothing  but  abuse  for  my  pains.  Bat  that's  the  way 
I've  gone  through  life.  Experience  has  never  put  a 
chill  upon  my  warm-heartedness." 

"  I  tell  you  he's  very  sorry,  don't  I?"  remonstrated 
Isaac  List,  "  and  that  he  wishes  you'd  go  on." 

"  Does  he  wish  it?"  said  the  other. 

"Ay,"  groaned  the  old  man,  sitting  down,  and  rock- 
ing himself  to  and  fro.  "  Go  on,  go  on.  It's  in  vain  to 
fight  with  it ;  I  can't  do  it  ;  go  on." 

"I  go  on  then,"  said  Jowl,  "where  I  left  off,  when 
you  got  up  so  quick.  If  you're  persuaded  that  it's  time 
for  luck  to  turn,  as  it  certainly  is,  and  find  that  you 
haven't  means  enough  to  try  it,  (and  that's  where  it  is, 
for  you  know,  yourself,  that  you  never  have  the  funds  to 
keep  on  long  enough  at  a  sitting,)  help  yourself  to  what 
seems  put  in  your  way  on  purpose.  Borrow  it,  I  say, 
and  when  you're  able,  pay  it  back  again." 

"Certainly,"  Isaac  List  struck  in,  "  if  this  good  lady 
as  keeps  the  wax-works  has  money,  and  does  keep  it  in 
a  tin  box  when  she  goes  to  bed,  and  doesn't  lock  her 
door  for  fear  of  fire,  it  seems  a  easy  thing  ;  quite  a 
Providence,  /  should  call  it — but  then  I've  been  relig- 
iously brought  up." 

"You  see,  Isaac,"  said  his  friend,  grov/ing  more  eager, 
and  drawing  himself  closer  to  the  old  man,  while  he 
signed  to  the  gipsy  not  to  come  between  them  ;  "  you  see, 
Isaac,  strangers  are  going  in  and  out,  every  hour  of  the 
day  ;  nothing  would  be  more  likely  than  for  one  of  these 
strangers  to  get  under  the  good  lady's  bed,  or  lock  him- 
self in  the  cupboard  ;  suspicion  would  be  very  wide,  and 
would  fall  a  long  way  from  the  mark,  no  doubt.  I'd 
give  him  his  revenge  to  the  last  farthing  he  brought, 
whatever  the  amount  was." 

"  But  could  you?"  urged  Isaac  List.  "  Is  your  bank 
strong  enough  ?  " 

"Strong  enough  1 "  answered  the  other,  with  assumed 


dignity.    "  Here,  you  sir,  give  me  that  box  out  of  the 

straw  ! " 

This  was  addressed  to  the  gipsy,  who  crawled  into 
the  low  tent  on  all  fours,  and  after  some  rummaging  and 
rustling  returned  with  a  cash-box,  which  the  man  who 
had  spoken  opened  with  a  key  he  wore  about  his  person. 

"Do  you  see  this?"  he  said,  gathering  up  the  money 
in  his  hand  and  letting  it  drop  back  into  the  box,  be- 
tween his  fingers  like  water.  Do  you  hear  it  ?  Do  you 
know  the  sound  of  gold?  There,  put  it  back — and  don't 
talk  about  banks  again,  Isaac,  till  you've  got  one  of 
your  own." 

Isaac  List,  with  great  apparent  humility,  protested 
that  he  never  doubted  the  credit  of  a  gentleman  so  no- 
torious for  his  honourable  dealing  as  Mr.  Jowl,  and  that 
he  had  hinted  at  the  production  of  the  box,  not  for  the 
satisfaction  of  his  doubts,  for  he  could  have  none,  but 
with  a  view  to  being  regaled  with  a  sight  of  so  much 
wealth,  which,  though  it  might  be  deemed  by  some  but 
an  unsubstantial  and  visionary  pleasure,  was  to  one  in 
his  circumstances  a  source  of  extreme  delight,  only  to 
be  surpassed  by  its  safe  despository  in  his  own  personal 
pockets.  Although  Mr.  List  and  Mr.  Jowl  addressed 
themselves  to  each  other,  it  was  remarkable  that  they 
both  looked  narrowly  at  the  old  man,  who,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  fire,  sat  brooding  over  it,  yet  listen- 
ing eagerly — as  it  seemed,  from  a  certainly  involuntary 
motion  of  the  head,  or  twitching  of  the  face  from  time 
to  time — to  all  they  said. 

"My  advice,"  said  Jowl,  lying  down  again,  with  a 
careless  air,  "is  plain — I  have  given  it,  in  fact.  I  act 
as  a  friend.  Why  should  I  help  a  man  to  the  means  per- 
haps of  winning  all  I  have,  unless  I  considered  him  my 
friend?  It's  foolish,  I  dare  say,  to  be  so  thoughtful  of 
the  welfare  of  other  people,  but  that's  my  constitution, 
and  I  can't  help  it ;  so  don't  blame  me,  Isaac  List." 

"/blame  you  !  "  returned  the  per.son  addressed  ;  "not 
for  the  world,  Mr.  Jowl.  I  wish  I  could  afford  to  be  as 
liberal  as  you  ;  and,  as  you  say,  he  might  pay  it  back  if 
he  won — and  if  he  lost — " 

"You're  not  to  take  that  into  consideration  at  all," 
said  Jowl.  "But  suppose  he  did,  (and  nothing's  less 
likely,  from  all  I  know  of  chances.)  why,  it's  better  to 
lose  other  people's  money  than  one's  own,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Ah  !"  cried  Isaac  List  rapturously,  "the  pleasures 
of  winning  !  The  delight  of  picking  up  the  money — 
the  bright,  shining  yellow-boys — and  sweeping  'em  into 
one's  pocket  !  The  deliciousness  of  having  a  triumph 
at  last,  and  thinking  that  one  didn't  stop  short  and  turn 
back,  but  went  half-way  to  meet  it  The — but  you're 
not  going,  old  gentleman?" 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had  risen  and  taken 
two  or  three  hurried  steps  away,  and  now  returned  as 
hurriedly.    "  I'll  have  it,  every  penny." 

"  Why,  that's  brave,"  cried  Isaac,  jumping  up  and 
slapping  him  on  the  shoulder  ;  "  and  I  respect  you  for 
having  so  much  young  blood  left.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Joe 
Jowl's  half  sorry  he  advised  you  now.  We've  got  the 
laugh  against  him.    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! " 

"He  gives  me  my  revenge,  mind,"  said  the  old  man, 
pointing  to  him  eagerly  with  his  shrivelled  hand  ;  "  mind 
— he  stakes  coin  against  coin,  down  to  the  last  one  in 
the  box,  be  there  many  or  few.    Remember  that  !" 

"I'm  witness,"  returned  Isaac.  "I'll  see  fair  be- 
tvveen  you." 

"  I  have  passed  my  word,"  said  Jowl,  with  feigned 
reluctance,  "  and  I'll  keep  it.  When  does  this  match 
come  off  ?    I  wish  it  was  over. — To-night  ?  " 

"  I  must  have  the  money  first,"  said  the  old  man  ; 
"  and  that  I'll  have  to-morrow—" 

"  Why  not  to-night?"  urged  Jowl. 

"It's  late  now,  and  I  should  be  flushed  and  flur- 
ried," said  the  old  man.  "  It  must  be  softly  done.  No, 
to-morrow  night." 

"Then  to-morrow  be  it,"  said  Jowl.  "A  drop  of 
comfort  here.    Luck  to  the  best  man  !    Fill  !" 

Tlie  gipsy  produced  three  tin  cups,  and  filled  them 
to  the  brim  with  brandy.  The  old  man  turned  aside  and 
muttered  to  himself  before  he  drank.  Her  own  name 
struck  upon  the  listener's  ear,  coupled  with  some  wish 
so  fervent,  that  he  seemed  to  breathe  it  in  an  agony  of 
supplication. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


771 


'*  God  be  merciful  to  us  !"  cried  the  child  within  her- 
self, "and  help  us  in  this  trying  hour  I  What  shall  I 
do  to  save  him  !  " 

The  remainder  of  their  converstion  was  carried  on  in 
a  lower  tone  of  voice,  and  was  sufficiently  concise  ;  re- 
lating merely  to  the  execution  of  the  project,  and  the  best 
precautions  for  diverting  suspicion.  The  old  man  then 
shook  hands  with  his  tempters,  and  withdrew. 

They  watched  his  bowed  and  stooping  figure  as  it  re- 
treated slowly,  and  when  he  turned  his  head  to  look 
back,  which  he  often  did,  waved  their  hands,  or  shouted 
some  brief  encouragement.  It  was  not  until  they  had 
seen  him  gradually  diminish  into  a  mere  speck  upon  the 
distant  road,  that  they  turned  to  each  other,  and  ven- 
tured to  laugh  aloud. 

"  So,"  said  Jowl,  warming  his  hands  at  the  fire,  it's 
done  at  last.  He  wanted  more  persuading  than  I  ex- 
pected. It's  three  weeks  ago  since  we  first  put  this  in 
his  head.    What'll  he  bring,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"Whatever  he  brings,  it's  halved  between  us,"  re- 
turned Isaac  List. 

The  other  man  nodded.  "  We  must  make  quick  work 
of  it,"  he  said,  "  and  then  cut  his  acquaintance,  or  we 
may  be  suspected.    Sharp's  the  word." 

List  and  the  gipsy  acquiesced.  When  they  had  all 
three  amused  themselves  a  little  with  their  victim's  in- 
fatuation, they  dismissed  the  subject  as  one  which  had 
been  sufficiently  discussed  and  began  to  talk  in  a  jargon 
which  the  child  did  not  understand.  As  their  discourse 
appeared  to  relate  to  matters  in  which  they  were  warmly 
interested,  however,she  deemed  it  the  best  time  for  escap- 
ing unobserved  ;  and  crept  away  with  slow  and  cautious 
steps,  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedges,  or  forcing  a 
path  through  them  or  the  dry  ditches,  until  she  could 
emerge  upon  the  road  at  a  point  beyond  their  range  of 
vision  Tiien  she  fled  homewards  as  quickly  as  she  could, 
torn  and  bleeding  from  the  wounds  of  thorns  and  briars, 
but  more  lacerated  in  mind,  and  threw  herself  upon  her 
bed,  distracted. 

The  first  idea  that  flashed  upon  her  mind  was  flight, 
instant  flight ;  dragging  him  from  that  place,  and  rather 
dying  of  want  upon  the  roadside,  than  ever  exposing  him 
again  to  such  terrible  temptations.  Then,  she  remem- 
bered that  the  crime  was  not  to  be  committed  until  next 
night,  and  there  was  the  intermediate  time  for  thinking, 
and  resolvimg  what  to  do.  Then,  she  was  distracted 
with  a  horrible  fear  that  he  might  be  committing  it  at 
that  moment  ;  with  a  dread  of  hearing  shriek^;  and  cries 
piercing  the  silence  of  the  night  ;  with  fearful  thoughts 
of  what  he  might  be  tempted  and  led  on  to  do,  if  he 
were  detected  in  the  act,  and  had  but  a  woman  to  strug- 
gle with.  It  was  impossible  to  bear  such  torture.  She 
stole  to  the  room  where  the  money  was,  opened  the 
door,  and  looked  in.  God  be  praised  !  He  was  not 
there,  and  she  was  sleeping  seundly. 

She  went  back  to  her  own  room,  and  tried  to  prepare 
herself  for  bed.  But  who  could  sleep — sleep  !  who 
could  lie  passively  down,  distracted  by  such  terrors? 
They  came  upon  her  more  and  more  strongly  yet  Half 
undressed,  and  with  her  hair  in  wild  disorder,  she  flew 
to  the  old  man's  bedside,  clasped  him  by  the  wrist,  and 
roused  him  from  his  sleep. 

"What's  this!"  he  cried,  starting  up  in  bed,  and 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  her  spectral  face. 

"  I  have  had  a  dreadful  dream,"  said  the  child,  with 
an  energy  that  nothing  but  such  terrors  should  have  in- 
spired. "  A  dreadful  horrible  dream.  I  have  had  it 
once  before.  It  is  a  dream  of  grey-haired  men  like  you, 
in  darkened  rooms  by  night,  robbing  the  sleepers  of 
their  gold.  Up,  up  !  "  the  old  man  shook  in  every  joint, 
and  folded  his  hands  like  one  who  prays. 

"  Not  to  me,"  said  the  child,  "  not  to  me — to  Heaven 
to  save  us  from  such  deeds  !  This  dream  is  too  real 
I  cannot  sleep,  I  cannot  stay  here,  I  cannot  leave  you 
alone  under  the  roof  where  such  dreams  come.  Up  ! 
We  must  fly." 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  a  spirit — she  might 
have  been,  for  all  the  look  of  earth  she  had — and 
trembled  more  and  more, 

"  There  is  no  time  to  lose  ;  I  will  not  lose  one  minute," 
said  the  child.    "  Up  !  and  away  with  me  I " 

"  To-night  ?  "  munnured  the  old  man. 


"  Yes,  to-night,"  replied  the  child.  "  To-morrow  night 
will  be  too  late.  The  dream  will  have  come  again. 
Nothing  but  flight  can  save  us.    Up  I  " 

The  old  man  rose  from  his  bed  :  his  forehead  bedewed 
with  the  cold  sweat  of  fear:  and,  bending  before  the 
child  as  if  she  had  been  an  angel  messenger  sent  to  lead 
him  where  she  would,  made  ready  to  follow  her.  She 
took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  on.  As  they  passed 
the  door  of  the  room  he  had  proposed  to  rob  she  shudder- 
ed and  looked  up  into  his  face,  Wliat  a  white  face 
was  that,  and  with  what  a  look  did  he  meet  hers  ! 

She  took  him  to  her  own  chamber,  and,  still  holding 
him  by  the  hand  as  if  she  feared  to  lose  him  for  an  in- 
stant, gathered  toget'her  the  little  stock  she  had,  and 
hung  her  basket  on  her  arm.  The  old  man  took  his 
wallet  from  her  hands  and  strapped  it  on  his  shoulders 
— his  staff,  too,  she  had  brought  away — and  then  she 
led  him  forth. 

Through  the  strait  streets,  and  narrow  crooked  out- 
skirts, their  trembling  feet  passed  quickly.  Up  the 
steep  hill  too,  crowned  by  the  old  grey  castle,  they  toiled 
with  rapid  steps,  and  had  not  once  looked  behind. 

But  as  they  drew  nearer  the  ruined  walls,  the  moon 
rose  in  all  her  gentle  glory,  and,  from  their  venerable 
age,  garlanded  with  ivy,  moss,  and  waving  grass,  the 
child  looked  back  upon  the  sleeping  town,  deep  in  the 
valley's  shade  :  and  on  the  far-off  river  with  its  winding 
track  of  light  :  and  on  the  distant  hills  ;  and  as  she  did 
so,  she  clasped  the  hand  she  held,  less  firmly,  and  burst- 
ing into  tears,  fell  upon  the  old  man's  neck. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Her  momentary  weakness  past,  the  child  again  sum- 
moned the  resolution  which  had  until  now  sustained  her, 
and,  endeavouring  to  keep  steadily  in  her  view  the  one 
idea  that  they  were  flying  from  disgrace  and  crime,  and 
that  her  grandfather's  preservation  must  depend  solely 
on  her  firmness,  unaided  by  one  word  of  advice  or  any 
helping  hand,  urged  him  onward  and  looked  back  no  more. 

While  he,  subdued  and  abashed,  seemed  to  crouch 
before  her,  and  to  shrink  and  cower  down,  as  if  in  the 
presence  of  some  superior  creature,  the  child  herself 
was  sensible  of  anew  feeling  within  her,  which  elevated 
her  nature,  and  inspired  her  with  an  energy  and  confi- 
dence she  had  never  known.  There  was  no  divided  re- 
sponsibility now ;  the  whole  burden  of  their  two  lives 
had  fallen  upon  her,  and  henceforth  she  must  think  and 
act  for  both.  "I  have  saved  him,"  she  thought.  "In 
all  dangers  and  distresses,  I  will  remember  that." 

At  any  other  time,  the  recollection  of  having  deserted 
the  friend  who  had  shown  them  so  much  homely  kind- 
ness, without  a  word  of  justification — the  thought  that 
they  were  guilty,  in  appearance,  of  treachery  and  ingrat- 
itude— even  the  having  parted  from  the  two  sisters — 
would  have  filled  her  with  sorrow  and  regret.  But  now 
all  other  considerations  were  lost  in  the  new  uncertain- 
ties and  anxieties  of  their  wild  and  wandering  life  ;  and 
the  very  desperation  of  iheir  condition  roused  and  stim- 
ulated her. 

In  the  pale  moonlight,  which  lent  a  wanness  of  its 
own  to  the  delicate  face  where  thoughtful  care  already 
mingled  with  the  winning  grace  and  loveliness  of  youth, 
the  too  bright  eye,  the  spiritual  head,  the  lips  that 
pressed  each  other  with  such  high  resolve  and  courage 
of  the  heart,  the  slight  figure  firm  in  its  bearing,  and 
yet  so  very  weak,  told  their  silent  tale  ;  but  told  it  only 
to  the  wind  that  rustled  by,  which,  taking  up  its  bur- 
den, carried,  perhaps  to  some  mother's  pillow,  faint 
dreams  of  childhood  fading  in  its  bloom,  and  resting  in 
the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking. 

The  night  crept  on  apace,  the  moon  went  down,  the 
stars  grew  pale  and  dim,  and  morning,  cold  as  they, 
slowly  approached.  Then,  from  behind  a  distant  hill, 
the  noble  sun  rose  up,  driving  the  mists  in  phantom 
shapes  before  it,  and  clearing  the  earth  of  their  ghostly 
forms  till  darkness  came  again.  When  it  had  climbed 
higher  jnto  the  sky  and  there  was  warmth  in  its  cheer- 
ful beams,  they  laid  them  down  to  sleep,  upon  a  bank 
hard  by  some  water. 


m 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


But  Nell  retained  her  grasp  upon  the  old  man's  arm, 
and  long  after  he  was  slumbering  soundly,  watched  him 
with  untiring  eyes.  Fatigue  stole  over  her  at  last ;  her 
grasp  relaxed,  tightened,  relaxed  again,  and  they  slept 
side  by  side. 

A  confused  sound  of  voices,  mingling  with  her  dreams, 
awoke  her.  A  man  of  very  uncouth  and  rough  appear- 
ance was  standing  over  them,  and  two  of  his  companions 
were  looking  on  from  a  long  heavy  boat  which  had  come 
close  to  the  bank  while  they  were  sleeping.  The  boat 
had  neither  oar  nor  sail,  but  was  towed  by  a  couple  of 
horses,  who,  with  the  rope  to  which  they  were  harnessed 
slack  and  dripping  in  the  water,  were  resting  on  the 
path. 

**  Holloa  !  "  said  the  man  roughly.  "  What's  the  mat- 
ter here?" 

"  We  were  only  asleep,  sir,"  said  Nell.  "  We  have 
been  walking  all  night." 

"A  pair  of  queer  travellers  to  be  walking  all  night," 
observed  the  man  who  had  first  accosted  them.  "  One 
of  you  is  a  trifle  too  old  for  that  sort  of  work,  and  the 
other  a  trifle  too  young.    Where  are  you  going?" 

Nell  faltered,  and  pointed  at  hazard  towards  the  West, 
upon  which  the  man  inquired  if  she  meant  a  certain 
town  which  he  named.  Nell,  to  avoid  more  questioning 
said,  "  Yes,  that  was  the  place." 

"  Where  have  you  come  from  ?"  was  the  next  ques- 
tion ;  and  this  being  an  easier  one  to  answer,  Nell  men- 
tioned the  name  of  the  village  in  which  their  friend  the 
schoolmaster  dwelt,  as  being  less  likely  to  be  known  to 
the  men  or  to  provoke  further  inquiry. 

"  I  thought  somebody  had  been  robbing  and  ill-using 
you,  might  be,"  said  the  man.   "  That's  all.  Good  day." 

Returning  his  salute  and  feeling  greatly  relieved  by 
his  departure,  Nell  looked  after  him  as  he  mounted  one 
of  the  horses,  and  the  boat  went  on.  It  had  not  gone 
very  far,  when  it  stopped  again,  and  she  saw  the  men 
beckoning  to  her. 

'*  Did  you  call  tome  ?"  said  Nell,  running  up  to  them. 

*' You  may  go  with  us  if  you  like,"  replied  one  of 
those  in  the  boat.    "  We're  going  to  the  same  place." 

The  child  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Thinking,  as  she 
had  thought  with  great  trepidation  more  than  once 
before,  that  the  men  whom  she  had  seen  with  her  grand- 
father might,  perhaps,  in  their  eagerness  for  the  booty, 
follow  them,  and,  regaining  their  influence  over  him, 
set  hers  at  naught  ;  and  that  if  they  went  with  these 
men,  all  traces  of  them  must  surely  be  lost  at  that  spot ; 
determined  to  accept  the  offer.  The  boat  came  close  to 
the  bank  again,  and  before  she  had  had  any  more  time  for 
consideration,  she  and  her  grandfather  were  on  board, 
and  gliding  smoothly  down  the  canal. 

The  sun  shone  pleasantly  on  the  bright  water,  which 
was  sometimes  shaded  by  trees,  and  sometimes  open  to 
a  wide  extent  of  country,  intersected  by  running  streams, 
and  rich  with  wooded  hills,  cultivated  land,  and  shelter- 
ed farms.  Now  and  then,  a  village  with  its  modest 
spire,  thatched  roofs,  and  gable-ends,  would  peep  out 
from  among  the  trees  ;  and,  more  than  once,  a  distant 
town,  with  great  church  towers  looming  through  its 
smoke,  and  high  factories  or  workshops  rising  above 
the  mass  of  houses,  would  come  in  view,  and,  by  the 
length  of  time  it  lingered  in  the  distance,  show  them 
how  slowly  they  travelled.  Their  way  lay,  for  the  most 
part  through  the  low  grounds,  and  open  plains  ;  and 
except  these  distant  places,  and  occasionally  some  men 
working  in  the  fields,  or  lounging  on  the  bridges  under 
which  they  passed,  to  see  them  creep  along,  nothing  en- 
croached on  their  monotonous  and  secluded  track. 

Nell  was  rather  disheartened,  when  they  stopped  at  a 
kind  of  wharf  late  in  the  afternoon,  to  learn  from  one  of 
the  men  that  they  would  not  reach  their  place  of  des- 
tination until  next  day,  and  that,  if  she  had  no  provision 
with  her,  she  had  better  buy  it  there.  She  had  but  a 
few  pence,  having  already  bargained  with  them  for 
some  bread,  but  even  of  these  it  was  necessary  to  be  very 
careful,  as  they  were  on  their  way  to  an  utterly  strange 
place,  with  no  resource  whatever.  A  small  loaf  and  a 
morsel  of  cheese,  therefore,  were  all  she  could  afford, 
and  with  these  she  took  her  place  in  the  boataga^n,  and, 
after  half  an  hour's  delay  during  which  the  men  were 
drinking  at  the  public-house,  proceeded  on  the  journey. 


They  brought  some  beer  and  spirits  into  the  boat  with 
them,  and  what  with  drinking  freely  before,  and  again 
now,  were  soon  in  a  fair  way  of  being  quarrelsome  and 
intoxicated.  Avoiding  the  small  cabin,  therefore,  which 
was  very  dark  and  filthy,  and  to  which  they  often  invit- 
ed both  her  and  her  grandfather,  Nell  sat  in  the  open 
air  with  the  old  man  by  her  side  :  listening  to  their 
boisterous  hosts  with  a  palpitating  heart,  and  almost 
wishing  herself  safe  on  shore  again  though  she  should 
have  to  walk  all  night. 

They  were,  in  truth,  very  rugged,  noisy  fellows,  and 
quite  brutal  among  themselves,  though  civil  enough  to 
their  two  passengers.  Thus,  when  a  quarrel  arose  be- 
tween the  man  who  was  steering  and  his  friend  in  the 
cabin,  upon  the  question  who  had  first  suggested  the 
propriety  of  offering  Nell  some  beer,  and  when  the 
quarrel  led  to  a  scuffle  in  which  they  beat  each  other 
fearfully,  to  her  inexpressible  terror,  neither  visited 
his  displeasure  upon  her,  but  each  contented  himself 
with  venting  it  on  his  adversary,  on  whom,  in  addition 
to  blows,  he  bestowed  a  variety  of  compliments,  which 
happily  for  the  child,  were  conveyed  in  terms,  to  her 
quite  unintelligible.  The  difference  was  finally  adjusted, 
by  the  man  who  had  come  out  of  the  cabin  knocking  the 
other  into  it  head  first,  and  taking  the  helm  into  his  own 
hands,  without  evincing  the  least  discomposure  him- 
self, or  causing  any  in  his  friend,  who,  being  of  a 
tolerably  strong  constitution  and  perfectly  inured  to 
such  trifles,  went  to  sleep  as  he  was,  with  his  heels  up- 
wards, and  in  a  couple  of  minutes  or  so  was  snoring 
comfortably. 

By  this  time  it  was  night  again,  and  though  the  [child 
felt  cold,  being  but  poorly  clad,  her  anxious  thoughts 
were  far  removed  from  her  own  suffering  or  uneasiness, 
and  busily  engaged  in  endeavouring  to  devise  some 
scheme  for  their  joint  subsistence.  The  same  spirit 
which  had  supported  her  on  the  previous  night,  upheld 
and  sustained  her  now.  Her  grandfather  lay  sleeping 
safely  at  her  side,  and  the  crime  to  which  his  madness 
urged  him,  was  not  committed.    That  was  her  comfort. 

How  every  circumstance  of  her  short,  eventful  life, 
came  thronging  into  her  mind,  as  they  travelled  on  ! 
Slight  incidents,  never  thought  of,  or  remembered  until 
now  ;  faces  seen  once  and  ever  since  forgotten  ;  words, 
scarcely  heeded  at  the  time  ;  scenes,  of  a  year  ago  and 
those  of  yesterday,  mixing  up  and  linking  themselves 
together  ;  familiar  places  shaping  themselves  out  in  the 
darkness  from  things  which,  when  approached,  were,  of 
all  others,  the  most  remote  and  most  unlike  them  ;  some- 
times, a  strange  confusion  in  her  mind  relative  to  the 
occasion  of  her  being  there,  and  the  place  to  which  she 
was  going,  and  the  people  she  was  with  ;  and  imagina- 
tion suggesting  remarks  and  questions  which  sounded  so 
plainly  in  her  ears,  that  she  would  start,  and  turn,  and 
be  almost  tempted  to  reply  ; — all  the  fancies  and  contra- 
dictions common  in  watching  and  excitement  and  restless 
change  of  place,  beset  the  child. 

She  happened,  while  she  was  thus  engaged,  to  en- 
counter the  face  of  the  man  on  deck,  in  whom  the  senti- 
mental stage  of  drunkenness  had  now  succeeded  to  the 
boisterous,  and  who,  taking  from  his  mouth  a  short  pipe, 
quilted  over  with  string,  for  its  longer  preservation, 
requested  that  she  would  oblige  him  with  a  song, 

"  You've  got  a  very  pretty  voice,  a  very  soft  eye,  and 
a  very  strong  memory,"  said  this  gentleman  ;  "  the  voice 
and  eye  I've  got  evidence  for,  and  the  memory's  an 
opinion  of  my  own.  And  I'm  never  wrong.  Let  me  hear 
a  song  this  minute, " 

"  I  don't  think  I  know  one,  sir,"  returned  Nell. 

"You  know  forty-seven  songs,"  said  the  man,  with  a 
gravity  which  admitted  of  no  altercation  on  the  subject. 
"  Forty-seven's  your  number.  Let  me  hear  one  of  'em — 
the  best.    Give  me  a  song  this  minute." 

Not  knowing  what  might  be  the  consequences  of  irri- 
tating her  friend,  and  trembling  with  the  fear  of  doing 
so,  poor  Nell  sang  him  some  little  ditty  which  she  had 
learned  in  happier  times,  and  which  was  so  agreeable  to 
his  ear,  that  on  its  conclusion  he  in  the  same  peremptory 
manner  requested  to  be  favoured  with  another,  to  which 
he  was  so  obliging  as  to  roar  a  chorus  to  no  particular 
tune,  and  with  no  words  at  all,  but  which  amply  made 
up  in  its  amazing  energy  for  its  deficiency  in  other  re- 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  lUINOIS 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP.  tit 


gpects.  The  noise  of  this  vocal  performance  awakened 
the  other  man,  who,  staggering  upon  deck  and  shaking 
his  late  opponent  by  the  hand,  swore  that  singing  was 
his  pride  and  joy  and  chief  delight,  and  that  he  desired 
no  better  entertainment.  With  a  third  call,  more  imper- 
ative than  either  of  the  two  former,  Nell  felt  obliged  to 
comply,  and  this  time  a  chorus  was  maintained  not  only 
by  the  two  men  together,  but  also  by  the  third  man  on 
horseback,  who,  being  by  his  position  debarred  from  a 
nearer  participation  in  the  revels  of  the  night,  roared 
when  his  companions  roared,  and  rent  the  very  air.  In 
this  way,  with  little  cessation,  and  singing  the  same 
songs  again  and  again,  the  tired  and  exhausted  child 
kept  them  in  good  humour  all  that  night  ;  and  many  a 
cottager,  who  was  roused  from  his  soundest  sleep  by  the 
discordant  chorus  as  it  floated  away  upon  the  wind,  hid 
his  head  beneath  the  bed-clothes  and  trembled  at  the 
sounds. 

At  length  the  morning  dawned.  It  was  no  sooner  light 
than  it  began  to  rain  lieavily.  As  the  child  could  not 
endure  the  intolerable  vapours  of  the  cabin,  they  covered 
her,  in  return  for  her  exertions,  with  some  pieces  of 
sail-cloth  and  ends  of  tarpaulin,  which  sufficed  to  keep 
her  tolerably  dry  and  to  shelter  her  grandfather  besides. 
As  the  day  advanced  the  rain  increased.  At  noon  it 
poured  down  more  hopelessly  and  heavily  than  ever, 
without  the  faintest  promise  of  abatement. 

They  had,  for  some  time,  been  gradually  approaching 
the  place  for  which  they  were  bound.  The  water  had 
become  thicker  and  dirtier  ;  other  barges,  coming  from 
it,  passed  them  frequently  ;  the  paths  of  coal-ash  and 
huts  of  staring  brick,  marked  the  vicinity  of  some  great 
manufacturing  town  ;  while  scattered  streets  and  houses, 
and  smoke  from  distant  furnaces,  indicated  that  they 
were  already  in  the  outskirts.  Now,  the  clustered  roofs, 
and  piles  of  buildings,  trembling  with  the  working  of 
engines,  and  dimly  resounding  with  their  shrieks  and 
throbbings  ;  the  tall  chimneys  vomiting  forth  a  black 
vapour,  which  hung  in  a  dense  ill-favoured  cloud  above 
the  housetops  and  filled  the  air  with  gloom  ;  the  clank  of 
hammers  beating  upon  iron,  the  roar  of  busy  streets  and 
noisy  crowds,  gradually  augmenting  until  all  the  various 
sounds  blended  into  one  and  none  was  distinguishable 
for  itself,  announced  the  termination  of  their  journey. 

The  boat  floated  into  the  wharf  to  which  it  belonged. 
The  men  were  occupied  directly.  The  child  and  her 
grandfather,  after  waiting  in  vain  to  thank  them,  or  ask 
them  whither  they  should  go,  passed  through  a  dirty  lane 
into  a  crowded  street,  and  stood,  amid  its  din  and  tumult, 
and  ,jn  the  pouring  rain,  as  strange,  bewildered,  and 
confused,  as  if  they  had  lived  a  thousand  years  before, 
and  were  raised  from  the  dead  and  placed  there  by  a 
miracle. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

The  throng  of  people  hurried  by,  in  two  opposite 
streams,  with  no  symptom  of  cessation  or  exhaustion  ; 
intent  upon  their  own  affairs  ;  and  undisturbed  in  their 
business  speculations,  by  the  roar  of  carts  and  waggons 
laden  with  clashing  wares,  the  slipping  of  horses'  feet 
i  upon  the  wet  and  greasy  pavement,  the  rattling  of  the  rain 
\  on  windows  and  umbrella  tops,  the  jostling  of  the  more 
impatient  passengers,  and  all  the  noise  and  tumult  of  a 
crowded  street  in  the  high  tide  of  its  occupation  ;  while 
the  two  poor  strangers,  stunned  and  bewildered  by  the 
hurry  they  beheld  but  had  no  part  in,  looked  mournfully 
on  ;  feeling,  amidst  the  crowd,  a  solitude  which  has  no 
j  parallel  but  in  the  thirst  of  the  shipwrecked  mariner, 

•  who,  tost  to  and  fro  upon  the  billows  of  a  mighty  ocean, 
i  his  red  eyes  blinded  by  looking  on  the  water  which  hems 
I  him  in  on  every  side,  has  not  one  drop  to  cool  his  burning 
'  tongue. 

j  They  withdrew  into  a  low  archway  for  shelter  from 
!  the  rain,  and  watched  the  faces  of  those  who  passed,  to 
!  find  in  one  among  them  a  ray  of  encouragement  or  hope. 
I  Some  frowned,  some  smiled,  some  muttered  to  them- 
selves, some  made  slight  gestures,  as  if  anticipating  the 
conversation  in  which  they  would  shortly  be  engaged, 
I  some  wore  the  cunning  look  of  bargaining  and  plotting, 

•  Kome  were  anxious  and  eager,  some  slow  and  dull ;  in 


some  countenances  were  written  gain  ;  in  others,  loss. 
It  was  like  being  in  the  confidence  of  all  these  x)eople  to 
stand  quietly  there,  looking  into  their  faces  as  they 
flitted  past.  In  busy  places,  where  each  man  has  an 
object  of  his  own,  and  feels  assured  that  every  other 
man  has  his,  his  character  and  purpose  are  written 
broadly  in  his  face.  In  the  public  walks  and  lounges  of 
a  town,  people  go  to  see  and  to  be  seen,  and  there  the  same 
expression,  with  little  variety,  is  repeated  a  hundred 
times.  The  working-day  faces  come  nearer  to  the  truth, 
and  let  it  out  more  plainly. 

Falling  into  that  kind  of  abstraction  which  such  a 
solitude  awakens,  the  child  continued  to  gaze  upon  the 
passing  crowd  with  a  wondering  interest,  amounting  al- 
most to  a  temporary  forgetfulness  of  her  own  condition. 
But  cold,  wet,  hunger,  Avant  of  rest,  and  lack  of  any 
place  in  which  to  lay  her  aching  head,  soon  brought  her 
thoughts  back  to  the  point  whence  they  had  strayed. 
No  one  passed  who  seemed  to  notice  them,  or  to  whom 
she  durst  appeal.  After  some  time,  they  left  their  place 
of  refuge  from  the  weather,  and  mingled  with  the  con- 
course. 

Evening  came  on.  They  were  still  wandering  up  and 
down,  with  fewer  people  about  them,  but  with  the  same 
sense  of  solitude  in  their  own  breasts,  and  the  same  in- 
difference from  all  around.  The  lights  in  the  streets 
and  shops  made  them  feel  yet  more  desolate,  for  with 
their  help,  night  and  darkness  seemed  to  come  on  faster. 
Shivering  with  the  cold  and  damp,  ill  in  body,  and  sick 
to  death  at  heart,  the  child  needed  her  utmost  firmness 
and  resolution  even  to  creep  along. 

Why  had  they  ever  come  to  this  noisy  town,  when 
there  were  peaceful  country  places,  in  which  at  least 
they  might  have  hungered  and  thirsted,  with  less  suf- 
fering than  in  this  squalid  strife  !  They  were  but  an 
atom,  here,  in  a  mountain  heap  of  misery,  the  very  sight 
of  which  increased  their  hopelessness  and  suffering. 

The  child  had  not  only  to  endure  the  accumulated 
hardships  of  their  destitute  condition,  but  to  bear  the 
reproaches  of  her  grandfather,  who  began  to  murmur  at 
having  been  led  away  from  their  late  abode,  and  demand 
that  they  should  return  to  it.  Being  now  penniless,  and 
no  relief  or  prospect  of  relief  appearing,  they  retraced 
their  steps  through  the  deserted  streets,  and  went  back 
to  the  wharf,  hoping  to  find  the  boat  in  which  they  had 
come,  and  to  be  allowed  to  sleep  on  board  that  night. 
But  here  again  they  were  disappointed,  for  the  gate  was 
closed,  and  some  fierce  dogs,  barking  at  their  approach, 
obliged  them  to  retreat. 

"  We  must  sleep  in  the  open  air  to-night,  dear,"  said 
the  child  in  a  weak  voice,  as  they  turned  away  from  this 
last  repulse  ;  *'  and  to-morrow  we  will  beg  our  way  to 
some  quiet  part  of  the  country,  and  try  to  earn  our  bread 
in  very  humble  work," 

"  Why  did  you  bring  me  here  ?"  returned  the  old  man 
fiercely.  '*  I  cannot  bear  these  close  eternal  streets.  We 
came  from  a  quiet  part.  Why  did  you  force  me  to  leave 
it?" 

"  Because  I  must  have  that  dream  I  told  you  of,  no 
more,"  said  the  child,  with  a  momentary  firmness  that 
lost  itself  in  tears  ;  "  and  we  must  live  among  poor  peo- 
ple, or  it  will  come  again.  Dear  grandfather,  you  are 
old  and  weak,  I  know  ;  but  look  at  me.  I  never  will 
complain  if  you  will  not,  but  I  have  some  suffering 
indeed. " 

"Ah  !  poor,  houseless,  wandering,  motherless  child  !" 
cried  the  old  man,  clasping  his  hands  and  gazing  as  if 
for  the  first  time  upon  her  anxious  face,  her  travel- 
stained  dress,  and  bruised  and  swollen  feet;  "has  all 
my  agony  of  care  brought  her  to  this  at  last  !  Was  I  a 
happy  man  once,  and  have  I  lost  happiness  and  all  I  had, 
for  this  ! " 

"  If  we  were  in  the  country  now,"  said  the  child  with 
assumed  cheerfulness,  as  they  walked  on  looking  about 
them  for  a  shelter,  "  we  should  find  some  good  old  tree, 
stretching  out  his  green  arms  as  if  he  loved  us,  and  nod- 
ding and  rustling  as  if  he  would  have  us  fall  asleep, 
thinking  of  him  while  he  watched.  Please  God  we  shall 
be  there  soon — to-morrow  or  next  day  at  the  farthest — 
and  in  the  meantime  let  us  think,  dear,  that  it  was  a 
good  thing  we  came  here  ;  for  we  are  lost  in  the  crowd 
and  hurry  of  this  place,  and  if  any  cruel  people  should 


774 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


pursue  ud,  they  could  surely  never  trace  us  further. 
There's  comfort  in  that.  And  here's  a  deep  old  doorway 
— very  dark,  but  quite  dry,  and  warm  too,  for  the  wind 
don't  blow  in  here — What's  that  ! " 

Uttering  a  half -shriek,  she  recoiled  from  a  black  figure 
which  came  suddenly  out  of  the  dark  recess  in  which 
they  were  about  to  take  refuge,  and  stood  still,  looking 
at  them. 

"  Speak  again,"  it  said  ;  "  do  I  know  the  voice 
"No,"  replied  the  child  timidly  ;  "we  are  strangers, 

and  having  no  money  for  a  night's  lodging,  were  going 

to  rest  here." 

There  was  a  feeble  lamp  at  no  great  distance  ;  the  only 
one  in  the  place,  wliich  was  a  kind  of  square  yard,  but 
sufScient  to  show  how  poor  and  mean  it  was.  To  this, 
the  figure  beckoned  them  ;  at  the  same  time  drawing 
within  its  rays,  as  if  to  show  them  that  it  had  no  desire 
to  conceal  itself  or  take  them  at  an  advantage. 

The  form  was  that  of  man,  miserably  clad,  and  be- 
grimed with  smoke,  which,  perhaps  by  its  contrast  with 
the  natural  colour  of  his  skin,  made  him  look  paler  than 
he  really  was.  That  he  was  naturally  of  a  very  wan 
and  pallid  aspect,  however,  his  hollow  cheeks,  sharp 
features,  and  sunken  eyes,  no  less  than  a  certain  look  of 
patient  endurance,  sufficiently  testified.  His  voice  was 
harsh  by  nature,  but  not  brutal  ;  and  though  his  face, 
besides  possessing  the  characteristics  already  mentioned, 
was  overshadovved  by  a  quantity  of  long  dark  hair,  its 
expression  was  neither  ferocious  nor  bad. 

"  How  came  you  to  think  of  resting  there  ?  "  he  said. 
"Or  how,"  he  added,  looking  more  attentively  at  the 
child,  "  do  you  come  to  want  a  place  of  rest  at  this  time 
of  night?  " 

"  Our  misfortunes,"  the  grandfather  answered,  "are 
the  cause." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  the  man,  looking  still  more 
earnestly  at  Nell,  "how  wet  she  is,  and  that  the  damp 
streets  are  not  a  place  for  her  ?  " 

"  I  know  it  well,  God  help  me,"  he  replied.  "  What 
can  I  do  !  " 

The  man  looked  at  Nell  again,  and  gently  touched  her 
garments,  from  which  the  rain  was  running  off  in  little 
streams,  "I  can  give  you  warmth,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause  ;  "nothing  else.  Such  lodging  as  I  have  is  in  that 
house,"  pointing  to  the  door-way  from  which  he  had 
emerged,  "but  she  is  safer  and  better  there  than  here. 
The  fire  is  in  a  rough  place,  but  you  can  pass  the  night 
beside  it  safely,  if  you'll  trust  yourselves  to  me.  You 
see  that  red  light  yonder?" 

They  raised  their  eyes,  and  saw  a  lurid  glare  hanging 
in  the  dark  sky  ;  the  dull  reflection  of  some  distant  fire. 

It's  not  far,"  said  the  man.  "  Shall  I  take  you  there? 
You  were  going  to  sleep  upon  cold  bricks  ;  I  can  give 
you  a  bed  of  warm  ashes — nothing  better." 

Without  waiting  for  any  further  reply  than  he  saw  in 
their  looks,  he  took  Nell  in  his  arms,  and  bade  the  old 
man  follow. 

Carrying  her  as  tenderly,  and  as  easily  too,  as  if  she 
had  been  an  infant,  and  showing  himself  both  swift  and 
sure  of  foot,  he  led  the  way  through  what  appeared  to 
be  the  poorest  and  most  wretched  quarter  of  the  town  ; 
not  turning  aside  to  avoid  the  overflowing  kennels  or 
running  water-spouts,  but  holding  his  course  regardless 
of  such  obstructions,  and  making  his  way  straight 
through  them.  They  had  proceeded  thus,  in  silence, 
for  some  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  had  lost  sight  of  the 
glare  to  which  he  had  pointed,  in  the  dark  and  narrow 
ways  by  which  they  had  come,  when  it  suddenly  burst 
upon  them  again,  streaming  up  from  the  high  chimney 
of  a  building  close  before  them. 

"This  is  the  place,"  he  said,  pausing  at  a  door  to  put 
Nell  down  and  take  her  hand.  "Don't  be  afraid. 
There's  nobody  here,  will  harm  you." 

It  needed  a  strong  confidence  in  this  assurance  to  in- 
duce them  to  enter,  and  what  they  saw  inside  did  not 
diminish  their  apprehension  and  alarm.  In  a  large  and 
lofty  building,  supported  by  ])i]lars  of  iron,  with  great 
black  apertures  in  the  upper  walls,  open  to  the  external 
air  ;  echoing  to  the  roof  with  the  beating  of  hammers 
and  roar  of  furnaces,  mingled  with  the  hissing  of  nid- 
hot  metal  plunged  in  water,  and  a  hundred  strange  un- 
earthly noises  never  heard  elsewhere ;  in  this  gloomy 


place,  moving  like  demons  among  the  flame  and  smoke, 
dimly  and  fitfully  seen,  flushed  and  tormented  by  the 
burning  fires,  and  wielding  great  weapons,  a  faulty  blow 
from  any  one  of  which  must  have  crushed  some  work- 
man's skull,  a  number  of  men  laboured  like  giants. 
Others  reposing  on  heaps  of  coals  or  ashes,  with  their 
faces  turned  to  the  black  vault  above,  slept  or  rested 
from  their  toil.  Others,  again,  opening  the  white-hot 
furnace-doors,  cast  fuel  on  the  flames,  which  came  rush- 
ing and  roaring  forth  to  meet  it,  and  licked  it  up  like 
oil.  Others  drew  forth,  with  clashing  noise,  upon  the 
ground,  great  sheets  of  glowing  steel,  emitting  an  in- 
supportable heat,  and  a  dull  deep  light  like  that  which 
reddens  in  the  eyes  of  savage  beasts. 

Through  these  bewildering  sights  and  deafening 
sounds,  their  conductor  let  them  to  where,  in  a  dark 
portion  of  the  building,  one  furnace  burnt  by  night  and 
day — so,  at  least,  they  gathered  from  the  motion  of  his 
lips,  for  as  yet  they  could  only  see  him  speak  :  not  hear 
him.  The  man  who  had  been  watching  this  fire,  and 
whose  task  was  ended  for  the  present,  gladly  withdrew, 
and  left  them  with  their  friend,  who,  spreading  Nell's 
little  cloak  upon  a  heap  of  ashes,  and  showing  her 
where  she  could  hang  her  outer-clothes  to  dry,  signed  to 
her  and  the  old  man  to  lie  down  and  sleep.  For  himself 
he  took  his  station  on  a  rugged  mat  before  the  furnace- 
door,  and  resting  his  chin  upon  his  hands,  watched  the 
flame  as  it  shone  through  the  iron  chinks,  and  the  white 
ashes  as  they  fell  into  their  bright  hot  grave  below. 

The  warmth  of  her  bed,  hard  and  humble  as  it  was, 
combined  with  the  great  fatigue  she  had  undergone, 
soon  caused  the  tumult  of  the  place  to  fall  with  a  gentler 
sound  upon  the  child's  tired  ears,  and  was  not  long  in 
lulling  her  to  sleep.  The  old  man  was  stretched  beside 
her,  and  with  her  hand  upon  his  neck  she  lay  and 
dreamed. 

It  was  yet  night  when  she  awoke,  nor  did  she  know 
how  long,  or  for  how  short  a  time,  she  had  slept.  But 
she  found  herself  protected,  both  from  any  cold  air  that 
might  find  its  way  into  the  building,  and  from  the 
scorching  heat,  by  some  of  the  workmen's  clothes,  and 
glancing  at  their  friend  saw  that  he  sat  in  exactly  the 
same  attitude,  looking  with  a  fixed  earnestness  of  atten- 
tion towards  the  fire,  and  keeping  so  very  still  that  he 
did  not  even  seem  to  breathe.  She  lay  in  the  state  be- 
tween sleeping  and  waking,  looking  so  long  at  his 
motionless  figure  that  at  length  she  almost  feared  he 
had  died  as  he  sat  there  ;  and  softly  rising  and  drawing 
close  to  him,  ventured  to  whisper  in  his  ear. 

He  moved,  and  glancing  from  her  to  the  place  she  had 
lately  occupied,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  really 
the  child  so  near  him,  looked  inquiringly  into  her  face. 

"  I  feared  you  were  ill,"  she  said.  "  The  other  men 
are  all  in  motion,  and  you  are  so  very  quiet." 

"  They  leave  me  to  myself,"  he  replied.  "  They 
know  my  humour.  They  laugh  at  me,  but  don't  harm 
me  in  it.    See  yonder  there — that's  my  friend." 

"  The  fire  ?  "  said  the  child. 

"  It  has  been  alive  as  long  as  I  have,"  the  man  made 
answer.    "  We  talk  and  think  together  all  night  long." 

The  child  glanced  quickly  at  him  in  her  surprise,  but 
he  had  turned  his  eyes  in  their  former  direction,  and 
was  musing  as  before. 

"  It's  like  a  book  to  me,"  he  said — "  the  only  book  I 
ever  learned  to  read  ;  and  many  an  old  story  it  tells  me. 
It's  music,  for  I  should  know  its  voice  among  a  thousand 
and  there  are  other  voices  in  its  roar.  It  has  its  pictures 
too.  You  don't  know  how  many  strange  faces  and  dif- 
ferent scenes  I  trace  in  the  red-hot  coals.  It's  my  mem- 
ory, that  fire,  and  shows  me  all  my  life." 

The  child  bending  down  to  listen  to  his  words,  could 
not  help  remarking  with  what  brightened  eyes  he  con- 
tinued to  speak  and  muse. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile,  '/  it  was  the  same 
when  I  was  quite  a  baby,  and  crawled  about  it,  till  I  fell 
asleep.    My  father  watched  it  then." 

"  Had  you  no  mother?"  asked  the  child. 

"  No,  slie  was  dead.  Women  work  hard  in  these 
parts.  She  worked  herself  to  death  they  told  me,  and 
as  they  said  so  then,  the  fire  has  gone  on  saying  the 
same  thing  ever  since.  I  suppose  it  was  true.  I  have 
always  believed  it." 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


775 


"Were  you  broiig^ht  up  here,  then,"  said  the  child, 
*'  Summer  and  winter,"  he  replied.    "  Secretly  at  first 

but  when  they  found  it  out,  they  let  him  keep  me  here. 

So  the  fire  nursed  me — the  same  fire.   It  has  never  f^one 

out." 

"  You  are  fond  of  it  ?"  said  the  child, 

**  Of  course  I  am.  He  died  before  it.  I  saw  him  fall 
down — just  there,  where  those  ashes  are  burning  now 
—  and  wondered,  I  remember,  why  it  didn't  help 
him," 

"Have  you  been  here,  ever  since ? "  asked  the  child, 
"  Ever  since  I  came  to  watch  it ;  but  there  was  a 
while  between,  and  a  very  cold  dreary  while  it  was.  It 
burnt  all  the  time  though,  and  roared  and  leaped  when 
I  came  back,  as  it  used  to  do  in  our  play  days.  You 
may  guess,  from  looking  at  me,  what  kind  of  a  child  I 
was,  but  for  all  the  difference  between  us  I  was  a  child, 
and  when  I  saw  you  in  the  street  to-night,  you  put  me 
in  mind  of  myself,  as  I  was  after  he  died,  and  made  me 
wish  to  bring  you  to  the  fire.  I  thought  of  those  old 
times  again,  when  I  saw  you  sleeping  by  it.  You 
should  be  sleeping  now.  Lie  down  again,  poor  child, 
lie  down  again  !  " 

With  that,  he  led  her  to  her  rude  couch,  and  covering 
her  with  the  clothes  with  which  she  had  found  herself 
enveloped  when  she  woke,  returned  to  his  seat,  whence 
he  moved  no  more  unless  to  feed  the  furnace,  but  re- 
mained motionless  as  a  statue.  The  child  continued  to 
watch  him  for  a  little  time,  but  soon  yielded  to  the 
drowsiness  that  came  upon  her,  and  in  the  dark  strange 
place  and  on  the  heap  of  ashes,  slept  as  peacefully,  as  if 
the  room  had  been  a  palace  chamber,  and  the  bed,  a 
bed  of  down. 

When  she  awoke  again,  broad  day  was  shining  through 
the  lofty  openings  in  the  walls,  and,  stealing  in  slanting 
rays  but  midway  down,  seemed  to  make  the  building 
darker  than  it  had  been  at  night.  The  clang  and  tumult 
were  still  going  on,  and  the  remorseless  fires  were  burn- 
ing fiercely  as  before  ;  for  few  changes  of  night  and  day 
brought  rest  or  quiet  there. 

Her  friend  parted  his  breakfast — a  scanty  mess  of 
coffee  and  some  coarse  bread — with  the  child  and  her 
grandfather,  and  inquired  whither  they  were  going.  She 
told  him  that  they  sought  some  distant  country  place, 
remote  from  towns  or  even  other  villages,  and  with  a 
faltering  tongue  inquired  what  road  they  would  do 
best  to  take. 

"I  know  little  of  the  country,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
head,  "  for  such  as  I,  pass  all  our  lives  before  our  fur- 
nace doors,  and  seldom  go  forth  to  breathe.  But  there 
arc  such  places  yonder." 

"  And  far  from  here  ?"  said  Nell. 

"  Aye  surely.  How  could  they  be  near  us,  and  be 
green  and  fresh  ?  The  road  lies,  too,  though  miles  and 
miles,  all  lighted  up  by  fires  like  ours— a  strange  black 
road,  and  one  that  would  frighten  you  by  night." 

"  We  are  here  and  must  go  on,"  said  the  child  boldly  ; 
for  she  saw  that  the  old  man  listened  with  anxious  ears 
to  this  account. 

"  Rough  people — paths  never  made  for  little  feet  like 
yours — a  dismal,  blighted  way — is  there  no  turning 
back,  my  child  ?  " 

"There  is  none,"  cried  Nell,  pressing  forward.  "  If 
you  can  direct  us,  do.  If  not,  p^-ay  do  not  seek  to  turn 
us  from  our  purpose.  Indeed  you  do  not  know  the 
danger  that  we  shun,  and  how  right  and  true  we  are  in 
flying  from  it,  or  you  would  not  try  to  stop  us,  I  am  sure 
you  would  not." 

"  God  forbid,  if  it  is  so  ! "  said  their  uncouth  protector, 
glancing  from  the  eager  child  to  her  grandfather,  who 
hung  his  head  and  bent  his  eyes  upon  the  ground.  "  I'll 
direct  you  from  the  door,  the  best  I  can,  I  wish  I  could 
do  more." 

He  showed  them,  then,  by  which  road  they  must  leave 
the  town,  and  what  course  they  should  hold  when  they 
had  gained  it.  He  lingered  so  long  on  these  instructions, 
that  the  child,  with  a  fervent  blessing,  tore  herself 
away,  and  staid  to  hear  no  more. 

But,  before  they  had  reached  the  corner  of  the  lane, 
the  man  came  running  after  them,  and,  pressing  her 
hand,  left  something  in  it — two  old,  battered,  smoke- 
encrusted  penny  pieces.    Who  knows  but  they  shone  as 


brightly  in  the  eyes  of  angels,  as  golden  gifts  that  have 
been  chronicled  on  tombs  ? 

And  thus  they  separated  ;  the  child  to  lead  her  sacred 
charge  farther  from  guilt  and  shame  ;  and  the  labourer 
to  attach  a  fresh  interest  to  the  spot  where  his  guesta 
had  slept,  and  read  new  histories  in  his  furnace  fire. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

In  all  their  journeying,  they  had  never  longed  so  ar- 
dently, they  had  never  so  pined  and  wearied,  for  the 
freedom  of  pure  air  and  open  country,  as  now.  No,  not 
even  on  that  memorable  morning,  when,  deserting  their 
old  home,  they  abandoned  themselves  to  the  mercies  of  a 
strange  world,  and  left  all  the  dumb  and  senseless  things 
they  had  known  and  loved,  behind — not  even  then,  had 
they  so  yearned  for  the  fresh  solitudes  of  wood,  hill-side, 
and  field,  as  now,  when  the  noise  and  dirt  and  vapour, 
of  the  great  manufacturing  town,  reeking  with  lean 
misery  and  hungry  wretchedness,  hemmed  them  in  on 
every  side,  and  seemed  to  shut  out  hope,  and  render  es- 
cape impossible. 

"Two  days  and  nights!"  thought  the  child.  "He 
said  two  days  and  nights  we  should  have  to  spend  among 
such  scenes  as  these.  Oh  !  if  we  live  to  reach  the 
country  once  again,  if  we  get  clear  of  these  dreadful 
places,  though  it  is  only  to  lie  down  and  die,  with  what 
a  grateful  heart  I  shall  thank  God  for  so  much  mercy  !  " 

With  thoughts  like  this,  and  with  some  vague  design 
of  travelling  to  a  great  distance  among  streams  and 
mountains,  where  only  very  poor  and  simple  people 
lived,  and  where  they  might  maintain  themselves  by 
very  humble  helping  work  in  farms,  free  from  such 
terrors  as  that  from  which  they  tied, — the  child,  with  no 
resource  but  the  poor  man's  gift,  and  no  encouragement 
but  that  which  flowed  from  her  own  heart,  and  its  sense 
of  the  truth  and  right  of  what  she  did,  nerved  herself  to 
this  last  journey  and  boldly  pursued  her  task. 

"We  shall  be  very  slow  to-day,  dear,"  she  said,  as 
they  toiled  painfully  through  the  streets  ;  "  my  feet 
are  sore,  and  I  have  pains  in  all  my  limbs  from  the  wet 
of  yesterday.  I  saw  that  he  looked  at  us  and  thought 
of  that,  when  he  said  how  long  we  should  be  upon  the 
road," 

"  It  was  a  dreary  way,  he  told  us  of,"  returned  her 
grandfather,  piteously,  "  Is  there  no  other  road  ?  Will 
you  not  let  me  go  some  other  way  than  this  ?" 

"Places  lie  beyond  these,"  said  the  child,  firmly, 
"  where  we  may  live  in  peace,  and  be  tempted  to  do  no 
harm.  We  will  take  the  road  that  promises  to  have 
that  end,  and  we  would  not  turn  out  of  it,  if  it  were  a 
hundred  times  worse  than  our  fears  lead  us  to  expect. 
We  would  not,  dear,  would  we  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  old  man,  wavering  in  his  voice,  no 
less  than  in  his  manner.  "No,  Let  us  go  on.  lam 
ready,    I  am  quite  ready,  Nell." 

The  child  walked  with  more  difficulty  than  she  had 
led  her  companion  to  expect,  for  the  pains  that  racked 
her  joints  were  of  no  common  severity,  and  every  ex- 
ertion increased  them.  But  they  wrung  from  her  no 
complaint,  or  look  of  suffering ;  and,  though  the  two 
travellers  proceeded  very  slowly,  they  did  proceed. 
Clearing  the  town  in  course  of  time,  they  began  to  feel 
that  they  were  fairly  on  their  way. 

A  long  suburb  of  red  brick  houses, — some  with  patches 
of  garden -ground,  where  coal-dust  and  factory  smoke 
darkened  the  shrinking  leaves,  and  coarse  rank  flowers, 
and  where  the  struggling  vegetation  sickened  and  sank 
under  the  hot  breath  of  kiln  and  furnace,  making  them 
by  its  presence  seem  yet  more  blighting  and  unwhole- 
some than  in  the  town  itself, — a  long,  flat,  straggling 
suburb  passed,  they  came,  by  slow  degrees,  upon  a 
cheerless  region,  where  not  a  blade  of  grass  was  seen  to 
grow,  where  not  a  bud  put  forth  its  promise  in  the 
spring,  where  nothing  green  could  live  but  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  stagnant  pools,  which  here  and  there  lay 
idly  sweltering  by  the  black  road  side. 

Advancing  more  and  more  into  the  shadow  of  this 
mournful  place,  its  dark  depressing  influence  stole  upon 
their  spirits,  and  filled  them  with  a  dismal  gloom.  On 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


every  side,  and  far  as  the  eye  could  see  into  the  heavy 
distance,  tall  chimneys,  crowding  on  each  other,  and 
presenting  that  endless  repetition  of  the  same  dull,  ugly 
form,  which  is  the  horror  of  oppressive  dreams,  poured 
out  their  plague  of  smoke,  obscured  the  light,  and  made 
foul  the  melancholy  air.  On  mounds  of  ashes  by  the 
way  side,  sheltered  only  by  a  few  rough  boards,  or  rot- 
ten pent-house  roofs,  strange  engines  spun  and  writhed 
like  tortured  creatures  :  clanking  their  iron  chains, 
shrieking  in  their  rapid  whirl  from  time  to  time  as 
though  in  torment  unendurable,  and  making  the  ground 
tremble  with  their  agonies.  Dismantled  houses  here 
and  there  appeared,  tottering  to  the  earth,  propped  up 
by  fragments  of  others  that  had  fallen  down,  unroofed, 
windowless,  blackened,  desolate,  but  yet  inhabited. 
Men,  women,  children,  wan  in  their  looks  and  ragged 
in  attire,  tended  the  engines,  fed  tbeir  tributary  fires, 
begged  upon  the  road,  or  scowled  half -naked  from  the 
doorless  bouses.  Then,  came  more  of  the  wrathful 
monsters,  whose  like  they  almost  seemed  to  be  in  their 
wildness  and  their  untamed  air,  screeching  and  turning 
round  and  round  again  ;  and  still,  before,  behind,  and  to 
the  right  and  left,  was  the  same  interminable  perspec- 
tive of  brick  towers,  never  ceasing  in  their  black  vomit, 
blasting  all  things  living  or  inanimate,  shutting  out  the 
face  of  day,  and  closing  in  on  all  these  horrors  with  a 
dense  dark  cloud. 

But,  night-time  in  this  dreadful  spot  ! — night,  when 
the  smoke  was  changed  to  fire  ;  when  every  chimney 
spirted  up  its  flame  ;  and  places,  that  had  been  dark 
vaults  all  day,  now  shone  red  hot,  with  figures  moving 
to  and  fro  within  their  blazing  jaws,  and  calling  to  one 
another  with  hoarse  cries — night,  when  the  noise  of 
every  strange  machine  was  aggravated  by  the  darkness  ; 
when  the  people  near  them  looked  wilder  and  more 
savage  ;  when  bands  of  unemployed  labourers  paraded 
the  roads,  or  clustered  by  torch-light  round  their  lead- 
ers, who  told  them,  in  stern  language,  of  their  wrongs, 
and  urged  them  on  to  frightful  cries  and  threats  ;  when 
maddened  men,  armed  with  sword  and  firebrand,  spurn- 
ing the  tears  and  prayers  of  women  who  would  restrain 
them,  rushed  forth  on  errands  of  terror  and  destruction, 
to  work  no  ruin  half  so  surely  as  their  own — night, 
when  carts  came  rumbling  by,  filled  with  rude  coffins 
(for  contagious  disease  and  death  had  been  busy  with 
the  living  crops) ;  when  orphans  cried,  and  distracted 
women  shrieked  and  followed  in  their  wake — night, 
when  some  called  for  bread,  and  some  for  drink  to 
drown  their  cares,  and  some  with  tears,  and  some  with 
staggering  feet,  and  some  with  blood-shot  eyes,  went 
brooding  home  —  night,  which,  unlike  the  night  that 
Heaven  sends  on  earth,  brought  with  it  no  peace,  nor 
quiet,  nor  signs  of  blessed  sleep — who  shall  tell  the 
terrors  of  the  night  to  the  young  wandering  child  ! 

And  yet  she  lay  down,  with  nothing  between  her  and 
the  sky  ;  and,  with  no  fear  for  herself,  for  she  was  past 
it  now,  put  up  a  prayer  for  the  poor  old  man.  So  very 
weak  and  spent,  she  felt,  so  very  calm  and  unresist- 
ing, that  she  had  no  thought  of  any  wants  of  her  own, 
but  prayed  that  God  would  raise  up  some  friend  for 
1dm.  She  tried  to  recall  the  way  they  had  come,  and  to 
look  in  the  direction  where  the  fire  by  which  they  had 
slept  last  night  was  burning.  She  had  forgotten  to  ask 
the  name  of  the  poor  man,  their  friend,  and  when  she 
had  remembered  him  in  her  prayers,  it  seemed  ungrate- 
ful not  to  turn  one  look  towards  the  spot  where  he 
was  watching. 

A  penny  loaf  was  all  they  had  had  that  day.  It  was 
very  little,  but  even  hunger  was  forgotten  in  the  strange 
tranquillity  that  crept  over  her  senses.  She  lay  down, 
very  gently,  and,  with  a  quiet  smile  upon  her  face,  fell 
into  a  slumber.  It  was  not  like  sleep — and  yet  it  must 
have  been,  or  why  those  pleasant  dreams  of  the  little 
scholar  all  night  long  ! 

Morning  came.  Much  weaker,  diminished  powers 
even  of  sight  and  hearing,  and  yet  the  child  made  no 
complaint — perhaps  would  have  made  none,  even  if  she 
had  not  had  that  inducement  to  be  silent,  travelling  by 
her  side.  She  felt  a  hopelessness  of  their  ever  being  ex- 
tricated together  from  that  forlorn  place  ;  a  dull  convic- 
tion that  she  was  very  ill,  perhaps  dying ;  but  no  fear  or 
anxiety. 


A  loathing  of  food  that  she  was  not  conscious  of  until 
they  expended  their  last  penny  in  the  purchase  of  an- 
other loaf,  prevented  her  partaking  even  of  this  poor  re- 
past. Her  grandfather  ate  greedily,  which  she  was  glad 
to  see. 

Their  way  lay  through  the  same  scenes  as  yesterday, 
with  no  variety  or  improvement.  There  was  the  same 
thick  air,  diffi,cult  to  breathe  ;  the  same  blighted  ground, 
the  same  hopeless  prospect,  the  same  misery  and  distress. 
Objects  appeared  more  dim,  the  noise  less,  the  path 
more  rugged  and  uneven,  for  sometimes  she  stumbled, 
and  became  roused,  as  it  were,  in  the  effort  to  prevent 
herself  from  falling.  Poor  child  1  the  cause  was  in  her 
tottering  feet. 

Towards  the  afternoon,  her  grandfather  complained 
bitterly  of  hunger.  She  approached  one  of  the  wretched 
hovels  by  the  way-side,  and  knocked  with  her  hand  upon 
the  door, 

"  What  would  you  have  here?"  said  a  gaunt  man, 
opening  it. 

"Charity,    A  morsel  of  bread." 

"Do  you  see  that?"  returned  the  man  hoarsely, 
pointing  to  a  kind  of  bundle  on  the  ground.  "  That's  a 
dead  child.  I  and  five  hundred  other  men  were  thrown 
out  of  work,  three  months  ago.  That  is  my  third  dead 
child,  and  last.  Do  you  think  I  have  charity  to  bestow, 
or  a  morsel  of  bread  to  spare  ? " 

The  child  recoiled  from  the  door,  and  it  closed  upon 
her.  Impelled  by  strong  necessity,  she  knocked  at  an- 
other :  a  neighbouring  one,  which,  yielding  to  the  slight 
pressure  of  her  hand,  flew  open. 

It  seemed  that  a  couple  of  poor  families  lived  in  this 
hovel,  for  two  women,  each  among  children  of  her  own, 
occupied  different  portions  of  the  room.  In  the  centre,- 
stood  a  grave  gentleman  in  black,  who  appeared  to  have 
just  entered,  and  who  held  by  the  arm  a  boy. 

"Here,  woman,"  he  said,  "here's  your  deaf  and 
dumb  son.  You  may  thank  me  for  restoring  him  to  you. 
He  was  brought  before  me,  this  morning,  charged  with 
theft  ;  and  with  any  other  boy  it  would  have  gone 
hard,  I  assure  you.  But,  as  I  had  compassion  on  his  in- 
firmities, and  thought  he  might  have  learnt  no  better,  I 
have  managed  to  bring  him  back  to  you.  Take  more 
care  of  him  for  the  future." 

"  And  won't  you  give  me  back  my  son  !  "  said  the 
other  woman,  hastily  rising  and  confronting  him. 
"Won't  you  give  me  back  my  son,  sir,  who  was  trans- 
ported for  the  same  offence  !  " 

"  Was  he  deaf  and  dumb,  woman  ! "  asked  the  gen- 
tleman sternly. 

"  Was  he  not,  sir?" 

"  You  know  he  was  not." 

"He  was,"  cried  the  woman.  "He  was  deaf,  dumb, 
and  blind,  to  all  that  was  good  and  right,  from  his  cra- 
dle. Her  boy  may  have  learnt  no  better  1  where  did 
mine  learn  better  V  where  could  he  ?  who  was  there  to 
teach  him  better,  or  where  was  it  to  be  learnt?" 

"Peace,  woman,"  said  the  gentleman,  "your  boy 
was  in  possession  of  all  his  senses." 

"He  was,"  cried  the  mother;  "and  he  was  the 
more  easy  to  be  led  astray  because  he  had  them.  If 
you  save  this  boy  because  he  may  not  know  right  from 
wrong,  why  did  you  not  save  mine  who  was  never 
taught  the  difference  ?  You  gentlemen  have  as  good  a 
right  to  punish  her  boy,  that  God  has  kept  in  ignorance 
of  sound  and  speech,  as  you  have  to  punish  mine,  that 
you  kept  in  ignorance  yourselves.  How  many  of  the  girls 
and  boys — ah,  men  and  women  too — that  are  brought 
before  you  and  you  don't  pity,  are  deaf  and  dumb  in 
their  minds,  and  go  wrong  in  that  state,  and  are  pun- 
ished in  that  state,  body  and  soul,  while  you  gentlemen 
are  quarrelling  among  yourselves  whether  they  ought 
to  learn  this  or  that  ? — Be  a  just  man,  sir,  and  give  me 
back  my  son  ! " 

"  You  are  desperate,"  said  the  gentleman,  taking  out 
his  snuff-box,  "  and  I  am  sorry  for  you." 

"I  arn  desperate,"  returned  the  woman,  "and  you 
have  made  me  so.  Give  me  back  my  son,  to  work  for 
these  helpless  children.  Be  a  just  man,  sir,  and,  as  you 
have  had  mercy  upon  this  boy,  give  me  back  my  son  ! " 

The  child  had  seen  and  heard  enough  to  know  that  this 
was  not  a  place  at  which  to  ask  for  alms.    She  led  the 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


777 


old  man  softly  from  the  door,  and  they  pursued  their 
journey. 

With  less  and  less  of  hope  or  strength,  as  they  went 
on,  but  with  an  undimLnislied  resolution  not  to  betray  by  j 
any  word  or  sign  her  sinking  state,  so  long  as  sbe  bad  en-  j 
ergy  to  move,  the  child,  tbroughout  the  remainder  of  tliat  ; 
hard  day,  compelled  herself  to  proceed  :  not  even  stop- 
ping to  rest  as  frequently  as  usual,  to  compensate  in  some  j 
measure  for  the  tardy  pace  at  which  she  was  obliged  to  | 
walk.    Evening  was  drawing  on,  but  had  not  closed  in, 
when — still  travelling  among  the  same  dismal  objects — 
they  came  to  a  busy  town. 

Faint  and  spiritless  as  they  were,  its  streets  were  in- 
supportable. After  humbly  asking  for  relief  at  some 
few  doors,  and  being  repulsed,  they  agreed  to  make  their 
way  out  of  it  as  speedily  as  they  could,  and  try  if  the  in- 
mates of  any  lone  house  beyond  would  have  more  pity 
on  their  exhausted  state. 

They  were  dragging  themselves  along  through  the  last 
street,  and  the  child  felt  that  the  time  was  close  at  hand 
when  her  enfeebled  powers  would  bear  no  more.  There 
appeared  before  them,  at  this  juncture,  going  in  the  same 
direction  as  themselves,  a  traveller  on  foot,  who,  with  a 
portmanteau  strapped  to  his  back,  leaned  upon  a  stout 
stick  as  he  walked,  and  read  from  a  book  which  he  held 
in  his  other  hand. 

It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  come  iip  with  him,  and 
beseech  his  aid,  for  he  walked  fast,  and  was  a  little  dis- 
tance in  advance.  At  length  he  stopped,  to  look  more  at- 
tentively at  some  passage  in  his  book.  Animated  with  a 
ray  of  hope,  the  child  shot  on  before  her  grandfather, 
and,  going  close  to  the  stranger  without  rousing  him  by 
the  sound  of  her  footsteps,  began,  in  a  few  faint  words, 
to  implore  his  help. 

He  turned  his  head.  The  child  clapped  lier  hands  to- 
gether, uttered  a  wild  shriek,  and  fell  senseless  at  his 
feet. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

It  was  the  poor  schoolmaster.  No  other  than  the  poor 
schoolmaster.  Scarcely  less  moved  and  surprised  by  the 
sight  of  the  child  than  she  had  been  on  recognising  him, 
he  stood,  for  a  moment,  silent  and  confounded  by  this  un- 
expected apparition,  without  even  the  presence  of  mind 
to  raise  her  from  the  ground. 

But,  quickly  recovering  his  self-possession,  he  threw 
down  his  stick  and  book,  and  dropping  on  one  knee  be- 
side her,  endeavoured,  by  such  simple  means  as  occurred 
to  him,  to  restore  her  to  herself  ;  while  her  grandfather, 
standing  idly  by,  wrung  his  hands,  and  implored  her  with 
many  endearing  expressions  to  speak  to  him,  were  it  only 
a  word. 

"  Sheis  quite  exhausted,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  glanc- 
ing upward  into  his  face.  "  You  have  taxed  her  powers 
too  far,  friend." 

"  She  is  perishing  of  want,"  rejoined  the  old  man.  '*  I 
never  thought  how  weak  and  ill  she  was,  till  now." 

Casting  a  look  upon  him,  half-reproachful  and  half- 
compassionate,  the  schoolmaster  took  the  child  in  his 
arms,  and,  bidding  the  old  man  gather  up  her  little  bas- 
ket and  follow  him  directly,  bore  her  away  at  his  utmost 
speed. 

There  was  a  small  inn  within  sight,  to  which,  it  would 
seem,  he  had  been  directing  his  steps  when  so  unexpect- 
edly overtaken.  Towards  this  place  he  hurried  with  his 
unconscious  burden,  and  rushing  into  the  kitchen,  and 
calling  upon  the  company  there  assembled  to  make  way 
for  God's  sake,  deposited  it  on  a  chair  before  the  fire. 

The  company,  who  rose  in  confusion  on  the  schoolmas- 
ter's entrance,  did  .as  people  usually  do  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. Everybody  called  for  his  or  her  favourite 
remedy,  which  nobody  brought  ;  each  cried  for  more  air, 
at  the  same  time  carefully  excluding  what  air  there  was, 
by  closing  round  the  object  of  sympathy  ;  and  all  won- 
dered why  somebody  else  didn't  do,  what  it  never  ap- 
peared to  occur  to  them  might  be  done  by  themselves. 

The  landlady,  however,  who  possessed  more  readiness 
and  activity  than  any  of  them,  and  who  had  withal  a 
quicker  perception  of  the  merits  of  the  case,  soon  came 
running  in,  with  a  little  hot  brandy  and  water,  followed 


by  her  servant-girl,  carrying  vinegar,  hartshorn,  smell- 
ing-salts, and  such  other  restoratives  ;  which,  being  duly 
administered,  recovered  the  child  so  far  as  to  enable  her 
to  thank  them  in  a  faint  voice,  and  to  extend  her  hand  to 
the  poor  schoolmaster,  who  stood,  with  an  anxious  face, 
hard  by.  Without  suffering  her  to  speak  another  word, 
or  so  much  as  to  stir  a  finger  any  more,  the  women 
straightway  carried  her  off  to  bed  ;  and,  having  covered 
her  up  warm,  bathed  her  cold  feet  and  wrapped  them  in 
flannel,  they  despatched  a  messenger  for  the  doctor. 

The  doctor,  who  was  a  red-nosed  gentleman  with  a 
great  bunch  of  seals  dangling  below  a  waistcoat  of  rib- 
bed black  satin,  arrived  with  all  speed,  and  taking  his 
seat  by  the  bedside  of  poor  Nell,  drew  out  his  watch, 
and  felt  her  pulse.  Then  he  looked  at  her  tongue,  then 
he  felt  her  pulse  again,  and  while  he  did  so,  he  eyed  the 
half-emptied  wine-glass  as  if  in  profound  abstraction. 

"I  should  give  her — "  said  the  doctor  at  length,  "A 
teaspoonful,  every  now  and  then,  of  hot  brandy  and 
water." 

"  Why,  that's  exactly  what  we've  done,  sir  !  "  said  the 
delighted  landlady. 

"  I  should  also,"  observed  the  doctor,  who  had  passed 
the  foot-bath  on  the  stairs,  "1  should  also,"  said  the 
doctor,  in  the  voice  of  an  oracle,  "  put  her  feet  in  hot 
water,  and  wrap  them  up  in  flannel.  I  should  likewise," 
said  the  doctor,  with  increased  solemnity,  "give  her 
something  light  for  supper — the  win^  of  a  roasted  fowl 
now — " 

"  Why  goodness,  gracious  me,  sir*  it's  cooking  at  the 
kitchen  fire  this  instant  !  "  cried  the  landlady.  And  so 
indeed  it  was,  for  the  schoolmaster  had  ordered  it  to  be 
put  down,  and  it  was  getting  on  so  well  that  the  doctor 
might  have  smelt  it  if  he  had  tried — perhaps  he  did. 

"You  may  then,"  said  the  doctor,  rising  gravely, 
"give her  a  glass  of  hot  mulled  port  wine,  if  she  likes 
wine — " 

"  And  a  toast,  sir  ?  "  suggested  the  landlady. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  doctor,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who 
makes  a  dignified  concession.  "  And  a  toast — of  bread. 
But  be  very  particular  to  make  it  of  bread,  if  you  please, 
ma'am." 

With  which  parting  injunction,  slowly  and  porten- 
tously delivered,  the  doctor  departed,  leaving  the  whole 
house  in  admiration  of  that  wisdom  which  tallied  so 
closely  with  their  own.  Everybody  said  he  was  a  very 
shrewd  doctor  indeed,  and  knew  perfectly  what  people's 
constitutions  were  ;  which  there  appears  some  reason  to- 
suppose  he  did. 

While  her  supper  was  preparing,  the  child  fell  into  a 
refreshing  sleep,  from  which  they  were  obliged  to  rouse 
her  when  it  was  ready.  As  she  evinced  extraordinary 
uneasiness  on  learning  that  her  grandfather  was  below 
stairs,  and  was  greatly  troubled  at  the  thought  of  their 
being  apart,  he  took  his  supper  with  her.  Finding  her 
still  very  restless  on  this  head,  they  made  him  up  a  bed 
in  an  inner  room,  to  which  he  presently  retired.  The 
key  of  this  chamber  happened  by  good  fortune  to  be  on 
that  side  of  the  door  which  was  in  Nell's  room  ;  she 
turned  it  on  him  when  the  landlady  had  withdrawn,  and 
crept  to  bed  again  with  a  thankful' heart. 

The  schoolmaster  sat  for  a  long  time  smoking  his  pipe 
by  the  kitchen  fire,  which  was  now  deserted,  thinking, 
with  a  very  happy  face,  on  the  fortunate  chance  which 
had  brought  him  so  opportunely  to  the  child's  assistance, 
and  parrying,  as  well  as  in  his  simple  way  he  could,  the 
inquisitive  cross-examination  of  the  landlady,  who  had 
a  great  curiosity  to  be  made  acquainted  with  every  par- 
ticular of  Nell's  life  and  history.  The  poor  schoolmaster 
was  so  open-hearted,  and  so  little  versed  in  the  most  or- 
dinary cunning  and  deceit,  that  she  could  not  have  failed 
to  succeed  in  the  first  five  minutes,  but  that  he  happened 
to  be  unacquainted  with  what  she  wished  to  know  ; 
and  so  he  told  her.  The  landlady,  by  no  means  satisfied 
with  this  assurance,  which  she  considered  an  ingenious 
evasion  of  the  question,  rejoined  that  he  had  his  reasons 
of  course.  Heaven  forbid  that  she  should  wish  to  pry 
into  the  affairs  of  her  customers,  which  indeed  were  no 
business  of  hers,  who  had  so  many  of  her  own.  She 
had  merely  asked  a  civil  question,  and  to  be  sure  she 
knew  it  would  meet  with  a  civil  answer.  She  was  quite 
satisfied — quite.   She  had  rather  perhaps  that  he  would 


4 


778  CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


have  said  at  once  that  he  didn't  choose  to  be  communi- 
cative, because  that  would  have  been  plain  and  intelligi- 
ble. However,  she  had  no  ri^ht  to  be  offended  of  course. 
He  was  the  best  judge,  and  had  a  perfect  right  to  say 
what  he  pleased  ;  nobody  could  dispute  that,  for  a  mo- 
ment. Oh  dear,  no  ! 

"  I  assure  you,  my  good  lady,"  said  the  mild  school- 
master, "  that  I  liave  told  you  the  plain  truth— as  I  hope 
to  be  saved,  I  have  told  you  the  truth." 

"  Why  then,  I  do  believe  you  are  in  earnest,"  rejoined 
the  landlady,  with  ready  good-humour,  "and  I'm  very 
sorry  I  have  teazed  you.  But  curiosity  you  know  is  the 
curse  of  our  sex,  and  that's  the  fact." 

The  landlord  scratched  his  head,  as  if  he  thought  the 
curse  sometimes  involved  the  other  sex  likewise  ;  but  he 
was  prevented  from  making  any  remark  to  that  effect,  if 
he  had  it  in  contemplation  to  do  so,  by  the  schoolmas- 
ter's rejoinder. 

"  You  should  question  me  for  half-a-dozen  hours  at  a 
sitting,  and  welcome,  and  I  would  answer  you  patiently 
for  the  kindness  of  heart  you  have  shown  to-night,  if  I 
could,"  he  said.  "  As  it  is,  please  to  take  care  of  her  in 
the  morning,  and  let  me  know  early  how  she  is ;  and  to 
understand  that  I  am  paymaster  for  the  three." 

So,  parting  with  them  on  most  friendly  terms,  not  the 
less  cordial  perhaps  for  this  last  direction,  the  school- 
master went  to  his  bed,  and  the  host  and  hostess  to  theirs. 

The  report  in  the  morning  was  that  the  child  was  bet- 
ter, but  was  extremely  weak,  and  would  at  least  require 
a  day's  rest,  and  caVeful  nursing,  before  she  could  pro- 
ceed upon  her  journey.  The  schoolmaster  received  this 
communication  with  perfect  cheerfulness,  observing  that 
he  had  a  day  to  spare— two  days  for  that  matter— and 
could  very  well  afford  to  wait.  As  the  patient  was  to  sit 
up  in  the  evening,  he  appointed  to  visit  her  in  her  room 
at  a  certain  hour,  and  rambling  out  with  his  book,  did 
not  return  until  the  hour  arrived. 

Nell  could  not  help  weeping  when  they  were  left  alone; 
whereat,  and  at  sight  of  her  pale  face  and  wasted  figure, 
the  simple  schoolmaster  shed  a  few  tears  himself,  at 
the  same  time  showing  in  very  energetic  language  how 
foolish  it  was  to  do  so,  and  how  very  easily  it  could  be 
avoided,  if  one  tried. 

"  It  makes  me  unhappy  even  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
kindness,"  said  the  child  "  to  think  that  we  should  be 
a  burden  u])on  you.  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  ?  If  I 
had  not  met  you  so  far  from  home,  I  must  have  died,  and 
he  would  have  been  left  alone." 

"  We'll  not  talk  about  dying,"  said  the  schoolmaster  ; 
"  and  as  to  burdens,  I  have  made  my  fortune  since  you 
slept  at  my  cottage." 

"  Indeed  !  "  cried  the  child  joyfully. 

*'  Oh  yes,"  returned  her  friend.  I  have  been  ap- 
pointed clerk  and  schoolmaster  to  a  village  a  long  way 
from  here — and  a  long  way  from  the  old  one  as  you  may 
suppose — at  five-and-thirty  pounds  a  year.  Five-and- 
thirty  pounds  !  " 

"I  am  very  glad,"  said  the  child — "so  very,  very 
glad." 

"I  am  on  my  way  there  now,"  resumed  the  school- 
master. "  They  allowed  me  the  stage -coach -hi re — out- 
side stage-coach-hire  all  the  way.  Bless  you,  they 
(>rudge  n)e  nothing.  But  as  the  time  at  which  I  am 
expected  there,  left  me  ample  leisure,  I  determined  to 
walk  instead.    How  glad  I  am,  to  think  I  did  so  ! " 

"  How  glad  should  we  be  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  movmg  restlessly  in 
his  chair,  "  certainly,  that's  very  true.  But  you — where 
are  you  going,  where  are  you  coming  from,  what  have 
you  been  doing  since  you  left  me,  what  had  you  been 
doing  before  ?  Now,  tell  me — do  tell  mo.  I  know  very 
little  of  the  world,  and  perhaps  you  are  bettor  fitted  to 
advise  me  in  its  affairs  than  I  am  qualified  to  give  ad- 
vice to  you  ;  but  I  am  very  sincere,  and  I  have  a  reason 
(you  have  not  forgotten  it)  for  loving  you.  I  have  felt 
since  that  time  as  if  my  love  for  him  wlio  died,  had  been 
transferred  to  you  wlio  stood  beside  his  bed.  If  this," 
he  added  looking  uy^ward,  "is  the  beautiful  creation 
that  springs  from  ashes,  let  its  peace  prosper  with  me, 
as  I  deal  tenderly  and  compassionately  by  this  young 
child!" 

The  x)lain,  frank  kindness  of  the  honest  schoolmaster, 


the  affectionate  earnestness  of  his  speech  and  manner, the 
truth  which  was  stamped  upon  his  every  word  and  look, 
gave  the  child  a  confidence  in  him,  which  the  utmost 
arts  of  treachery  and  dissimulation  could  never  have 
awakened  in  her  breast.  She  told  him  all — that  they 
had  no  friend  or  relative — that  she  had  fled  with  the  old 
man,  to  save  him  from  a  madhouse  and  all  the  mise- 
ries he  dreaded — that  she  was  flying  now,  to  save  him 
from  himself — and  that  she  sought  an  asylum  in  some  re- 
mote and  primitive  place,  where  the  temptation  before 
which  he  fell  would  never  enter,  and  her  late  sorrows 
and  distresses  could  have  no  place. 

The  schoolmaster  heard  her  with  astonishment. 
"This  child  !"  he  thought— "  Has  this  child  heroically 
persevered  under  all  doubts  and  dangers,  struggled  with 
poverty  and  suffering,  upheld  and  sustained  by  strong  af- 
fection and  the  consciousness  of  rectitude  alone  !  And 
yet  the  world  is  full  of  such  heroism.  Have  I  yet  to 
learn  that  the  hardest  and  best-borne  trials  are  those 
which  are  never  chronicled  in  any  earthly  record,  and  are 
suffered  every  day  !  And  should  I  be  surprised  to  hear 
the  story  of  this  child  ! " 

What  more  he  thought  or  said,  matters  not.  It  was 
concluded  that  Nell  and  her  grandfather  should  accom- 
pany him  to  the  village  whither  he  was  bound,  and  that 
he  should  endeavour  to  find  them  some  humble  occupa- 
tion by  which  they  could  subsist.  "  We  shall  be  sure  to 
succeed,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  heartily.  "  The  cause 
is  too  good  a  one  to  fail." 

They  arranged  to  proceed  upon  their  journey  next 
evening,  as  a  stage-waggon, which  travelled  for  some  dis- 
tance on  the  same  road  as  they  must  take,  would  stop  at 
the  inn  to  change  horses,  and  the  driver  for  a  small  gra- 
tuity would  give  Nell  a  place  inside.  A  bargain  was 
soon  struck  when  the  waggon  came  ;  and  in  due  time  it 
rolled  away;  with  the  child  comfortably  bestowed  among 
the  softer  packages,her  grandfather  and  the  schoolmaster 
walking  on  beside  the  driver,  and  the  landlady  and  all 
the  good  folks  of  the  inn  screaming  out  their  good  wishes 
and  farewells. 

What  a  soothing,  luxurious,  drowsy  way  of  travelling, 
to  lie  inside  that  slowly- moving  mountain,  listening  to 
the  tinkling  of  the  horses'  bells,  the  occasional  smack- 
ing of  the  carter's  whip,  the  smooth  rolling  of  the  great 
broad  wheels,  the  rattle  of  the  harness,  the  cheery  good- 
nights  of  passing  travellers  jogging  past  on  little  short- 
stepped  horses — all  made  pleasantly  indistinct  by  the 
thick  awning,  which  seemed  made  for  lazy  listening 
under,  till  one  fell  asleep  !  The  very  going  to  sleep, 
still  with  an  indistinct  idea,  as  the  head  jogged  to  and 
fro  upon  the  pillow,  of  moving  onward  with  no  trouble 
or  fatigue,  and  hearing  all  these  sounds  like  dreamy 
music,  lulling  to  the  senses — and  the  slow  waking  up, 
and  finding  one's  self  staring  out  through  the  breezy 
curtain  half-opened  in  the  front,  far  up  into  the  cold 
bright  sky  with  its  countless  stars,  and  downward  at  the 
driver's  lantern  dancing  on  like  its  namesake  Jack  of  the 
swamps  and  marshes,  and  sideways  at  the  dark  grim 
trees,  and  forward  at  the  long  bare  road  rising  up,  up, 
up,  until  it  stopped  abruptly  at  a  sharp  high  ridge  as  if 
there  were  no  more  road,  and  all  beyond  was  sky — and 
the  stopping  at  the  inn  to  bait,  and  being  helped  out, 
and  going  into  a  room  with  fire  and  candles,  and  wink- 
ing very  much,  and  being  agreeably  reminded  that  the 
night  was  cold,  and  anxious  for  very  comfort's  sake  to 
think  it  colder  than  it  was  ! — What  a  delicious  journey 
was  that  journey  in  the  waggon. 

Then  the  going  on  again — so  fresh  at  first,  and  shortly 
afterwards  so  sleepy.  The  waking  from  a  sound  nap  as 
the  mail  came  dashing  past  like  a  highway  comet,  with 
gleaming  lamps  and  rattling  hoofs,  and  visions  of  a 
guard  behind,  standing  up  to  keep  his  feet  warm,  and 
of  a  gentleman  in  a  fur  cap  opening  his  eyes  and  looking 
wild  and  stupefied — the  stopping  at  the  turnpike  where 
the  man  was  gone  to  bed,  and  knocking  at  the  door 
until  he  answered  with  a  smothered  shout  from  under 
the  bed-clothes  in  the  little  room  above,  where  the  faint 
light  was  burning,  and  presently  came  down,  night- 
capped  and  shivering,  to  throw  the  gate  wide  open,  and 
wish  all  waggons  off  the  road,  except  by  day.  The  cold 
sharp  interval  between  night  and  mornirg— the  distant 
streak  of  light  widening  and  spreading,  and  turning 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


779 


from  grey  to  white,  and  from  white  to  yellow,  and  from 
yellow  to  burning  red — the  presence  of  day,  with  all  its 
cheerfulness  and  life — men  and  horses  at  the  plough — 
birds  in  the  trees  and  hedges,  and  boys  in  solitary  fields, 
frightening  them  away  with  rattles.  The  coming  to  a 
town — people  busy  in  the  market ;  light  carts  and  chaises 
round  the  tavern  yard ;  tradesmen  standing  at  their 
doors  ;  men  running  horses  up  and  down  the  street  for 
sale  ;  pigs  plunging  and  grunting  in  the  dirty  distance, 
getting  off  with  long  strings  at  their  legs,  running  into 
clean  chemists'  shops  and  being  dislodged  with  brooms 
by  'prentices ;  the  night  coach  changing  horses — the 
passengers  cheerless,  cold,  ugly,  and  discontented  with 
three  months'  growth  of  hair  in  one  night — the  coach- 
man fresh  as  from  a  bandbox,  and  exquisitely  beautiful 
by  contrast : — so  much  bustle,  so  many  things  in  motion, 
such  a  variety  of  incidents — when  was  there  a  journey 
with  so  many  delights  as  that  journey  in  the  waggon  ! 

Sometimes  walking  for  a  mile  or  two  while  her  grand- 
father rode  inside,  and  sometimes  even  prevailing  upon 
the  schoolmaster  to  take  her  place  and  lie  down  to  rest, 
Nell  travelled  on  very  happily  until  they  came  to  a  large 
town,  where  the  waggon  stopped,  and  where  they  spent 
a  night.  They  passed  a  large  church  ;  and  in  the  streets 
were  a  number  of  old  houses,  built  of  a  kind  of  earth  or 
plaster,  crossed  and  recrossed  in  a  great  many  directions 
with  black  beams,  which  gave  them  a  remarkable  and 
very  ancient  look.  Tlie  doors,  too,  were  arched  and  low, 
some  with  open  portals  and  quaint  benches,  where  the 
former  inhabitants  had  sat  on  summer  evenings.  The 
windows  were  latticed  in  little  diamond  panes,  that 
seemed  to  wink  and  blink  upon  the  passengers  as  if 
they  were  dim  of  sight.  They  had  long  since  got  clear 
of  the  smoke  and  f  urnaces,  except  in  one  or  two  solitary 
instances,  where  a  factory  planted  among  fields  withered 
tlie  space  about  it  like  a  burning  mountain.  When  they 
had  passed  through  this  town,  they  entered  again  upon 
the  country,  and  began  to  draw  near  their  place  of  des- 
tination. 

It  was  not  so  near,  however,  but  that  they  spent 
another  night  upon  the  road  ;  not  that  their  doing  so 
was  quite  an  act  of  necessity,  but  that  the  schoolmaster, 
when  they  approached  within  a  few  miles  of  his  village, 
had  a  fidgetty  sense  of  his  dignity  as  the  new  clerk,  and 
was  unwilling  to  make  his  entry  in  dusty  shoes,  and 
travel-disordered  dress.  It  was  a  fine,  clear,  autumn 
morning,  when  they  came  upon  the  scene  of  his  promo- 
tion, and  stopped  to  contemplate  its  beauties. 

"  See— here's  the  church  !"  cried  the  delighted  school- 
master, in  a  low  voice;  "and  that  old  building  close 
beside  it,  is  the  school-house,  I'll  be  sworn.  Five-and- 
thirty  pounds  a-year  in  this  beautiful  place  ! " 

They  admired  everything — the  old  grey  porch,  the 
mullioned  windows,  the  venerable  gravestones  dotting 
the  green  churchyard,  the  ancient  tower,  the  very 
weathercock  ;  the  brown  thatched  roofs  of  cottage,  barn, 
and  homestead,  peeping  from  among  the  trees  ;  the 
stream  that  rippled  by  the  distant  water-mill  ;  the  blue 
Welsh  mountains  far  away.  It  was  for  such  a  spot  the 
child  had  wearied  in  the  dense,  dark,  miserable  haunts 
of  labour.  Upon  her  bed  of  ashes,  and  amidst  the 
squalid  horrors  through  which  they  had  forced  their 
way,  visions  of  such  scenes — beautiful  indeed,  but  not 
more  beautiful  than  this  sweet  reality — had  been  always 
present  to  her  mind.  They  had  seemed  to  melt  into  a 
dim  and  airy  distance,  as  the  prospect  of  ever  beholding 
thera  again  grew  fainter ;  but,  as  they  receded,  she  had 
loved  and  panted  for  them  more. 

"  I  must  leave  you  somewhere  for  a  few  minutes," 
said  the  schoolmaster,  at  length  breaking  the  silence  into 
which  they  had  fallen  in  their  gladness.  "  I  have  a  let- 
ter to  present,  and  inquiries  to  make,  you  know.  Where 
shall  I  take  you  ?    To  the  little  inn  yonder?" 

"Let  us  wait  here,"  rejoined  Nell.  "The  gate  is 
open.  We  will  sit  in  the  church  porch  till  you  come 
back." 

"  A  good  place  too,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  leading 
the  way  towards  it,  disincumbering  himself  of  his  port- 
manteau, and  placing  it  on  the  stone  seat.  "Be  sure 
that  I  come  back  with  good  news,  and  am  not  long 
gone  ?  " 

So  the  happy  schoolmaster  put  on  a  bran-new  pair  of 


glovos  which  he  liad  carried  in  a  little  parcel  in  his 
pocket  all  the  way,  and  hurried  off,  full  of  ardour  and 
excitement. 

The  child  watched  him  from  the  porch  until  the  inter- 
vening foliage  hid  him  from  her  view,  and  then  stepped 
softly  out  into  the  old  church-yard — so  solemn  and  quiet 
that  every  rustle  of  her  dress  upon  the  fallen  leaves, 
which  strewed  the  path  and  made  her  footsteps  noiseless, 
seemed  an  invasion  of  its  silence.  It  was  a  very  aged, 
ghostly  place  ;  the  church  had  been  built  many  hundreds 
of  years  ago,  and  had  once  had  a  convent  or  monastery 
attached  for  arches  in  ruins,  remains  of  oriel  windows, 
and  fragments  of  blackened  walls,  were  yet  standing  ; 
while  other  portions  of  the  old  building,  which  had 
crumbled  away  and  fallen  down,  were  mingled  with  the 
church-yard  earth  and  overgrown  with  grass,  as  if  they 
too  claimed  a  burying-place  and  sought  to  mix  their  ashes 
with  the  dust  of  men.  Hard  by  these  gravestones  of 
dead  years,  and  forming  a  part  of  the  ruin  which  some 
pains  had  been  taken  to  render  habitable  in  modern 
times,  were  two  small  dwellings  with  sunken  windows 
and  oaken  doors,  fast  hastening  to  decay,  empty  and  de- 
solate. 

Upon  these  tenemeuts  the  attention  of  the  child  be- 
came exclusively  riveted.  She  knew  not  why.  The 
church,  the  ruin,  the  antiquated  graves,  had  equal  claims 
at  least  upon  a  stranger's  thoughts,  but  from  the  moment 
when  her  eyes  first  rested  on  these  two  dwellings,  she 
could  turn  to  nothing  else.  Even  when  she  had  made 
the  circuit  of  the  inclosure,  and  returning  to  the  porch, 
sat  pensively  waiting  for  their  friend,  she  took  her  sta- 
tion where  she  could  still  look  upon  them,  and  felt  as 
if  fascinated  towards  that  spot. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

Kit's  mother  and  the  single  gentleman — upon  whose 
track  it  is  expedient  to  follow  with  hurried  steps,  lest 
this  history  should  be  chargeable  with  inconstancy,  and 
the  offence  of  leaving  its  characters  in  situations  of 
uncertainty  and  doubt — Kit's  mother  and  the  single 
gentleman  speeding  onward  in  the  post-chaise-and-four, 
whose  departure  from  the  Notary's  door  we  have  already 
witnessed,  soon  left  the  town  behind  them,  and  struck 
fire  from  the  flints  of  the  broad  highway. 

The  good  woman,  being  not  a  little  embarrassed  by 
the  novelty  of  her  situation,  and  certain  maternal  ap- 
prehensions that  pejhaps  by  this  time  little  Jacob  or  the 
Ijaby,  or  both,  had  fallen  into  the  fire,  or  tumbled  down 
stairs,  or  had  been  squeezed  behind  doors,  or  had  scalded 
their  windpipes  in  endeavouring  to  allay  their  thirst  at 
the  spouts  of  tea-kettles,  preserved  an  uneasy  silence  ; 
and  meeting  from  the  window  the  eyes  of  turnpike-men, 
omnibus-drivers,  and  others,  felt  in  the  new  dignity  of 
her  position  like  a  mourner  at  a  funeral,  who,  not  being 
greatly  afflicted  by  the  loss  of  the  departed,  recognises 
his  every  day  acquaintances  from  the  window  of  the 
mourning  coach,  but  is  constrained  to  preserve  a  decent 
solemnity,  and  the  appearance  of  being  indifferent  to  all 
external  objects. 

To  have  been  indifferent  to  the  companionship  of  the 
single  gentleman  would  have  been  tantamount  to  being 
gifted  with  nerves  of  steel.  Never  did  chaise  inclose, 
or  horses  draw,  such  a  restless  gentleman  as  he.  He 
never  sat  in  the  same  position  for  two  minutes  together, 
but  was  perpetually  tossing  his  arms  and  legs  about, 
pulling  up  the  sashes  and  letting  them  violently  down, 
or  thrusting  his  head  out  of  one  window  to  draw  it  in 
again  and  thrust  it  out  of  another.  He  carried  in  his 
pocket,  too,  a  fire-box  of  mysterious  and  unknown  con- 
struction ;  and  as  sure  as  ever  Kit's  mother  closed  her 
eyes,  so  surely — whisk,  rattle,  fizz — there  was  the  single 
gentleman  consulting  his  watch  by  a  flame  of  fire,  and 
letting  the  sparks  fall  down  among  the  straw  as  if  there 
were  no  such  thing  as  a  possibility  of  himself  and  Kit's 
mother  being  roasted  alive  before  the  boys  could  stop 
their  horses.  Whenever  they  halted  to  change,  there 
he  was — out  of  the  carriage  without  letting  down  the 
steps,  bursting  about  the  inn-yard  like  a  lighted  cracker, 
pulling  out  his  watch  by  lamplight  and  forgetting  to. 


780 


CHABLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


look  at  ]t  before  he  put  it  up  again,  and  in  sliort  com- 
mitting so  many  extravagancies  that  Kit's  mother  was 
afraid  of  him.  Then,  when  the  horses  were  to,  in  he 
came  like  a  Harlequin,  and  before  they  had  gone  a  mile, 
out  came  the  watch  and  the  fire-box  together,  and  Kit's 
mother  was  wide  awake  again,  with  no  hope  of  a  wink 
of  sleep  for  that  stage. 

"Are  you  comfortable?"  the  single  gentleman  would 
say  after  one  of  these  exploits,  turning  sharply  round. 

"  Quite,  sir,  thank  you." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?    An't  you  cold  ?  " 

"It  is  a  little  chilly,  sir,"  Kit's  mother  would  reply. 

"I  knew,  it  !  "  cried  the  single  gentleman,  letting 
down  one  of  the  front  glasses.  "  She  wants  some  brandy 
and  water  !  Of  course  she  does.  How  could  I  forget  it  ? 
Hallo  !  Stop  at  the  next  inn,  and  call  out  for  a  glass  of 
hot  brandy  and  Avater." 

It  was  in  vain  for  Kit's  mother  to  protest  that  she 
stood  in  need  of  notiiing  of  the  kind.  The  single  gentle- 
man was  inexorable  ;  and  whenever  he  had  exhausted 
all  other  modes  and  fashions  of  restlessness,  it  invariably 
occurred  to  him  that  Kit's  mother  wanted  brandy  and 
water. 

In  this  way  they  travelled  on  until  near  midnight, 
when  they  stopped  to  supper,  for  which  meal  the  single 
gentleman  ordered  everything  eatable  that  the  house 
contained  ;  and  because  Kit's  mother  didn't  eat  every- 
thing at  once,  and  eat  it  all,  he  took  it  into  his  head  that 
she  must  be  ill. 

"You're  faint,"  said  the  single  gentleman,  who  did 
nothing  himself  but  walk  about  the  room.  "I  see 
what's  the  matter  with  you,  ma'am.    You're  faint." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I'm  not  indeed." 

*' I  know  you  are,  I'm  sure  of  it.  I  drag  this  poor 
woman  from  the  bosom  of  her  family  at  a  minute's  no- 
tice, and  she  goes  on  getting  fainter  and  fainter  before 
my  eyes.  I'm  a  pretty  fellow  I  How  many  children 
have  you  got,  ma'am  ?  " 

"Two  sir,  besides  Kit." 

"  Boys,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Are  they  christened?" 

"  Only  half  baptised  as  yet,  sir." 

' '  I'm  godfather  to  both  of  'em.  Remember  that,  if  you 
please,  ma'am.  You  had  better  have  some  mulled  wine." 

"  I  couldn't  touch  a  drop  indeed,  sir." 

"  You  must,"  said  the  single  gentleman.  "  I  see  you 
want  it.    I  ought  to  have  thought  of  it  before." 

Immediately  flying  to  the  bell,  and  calling  for  mulled 
wine  as  impetuously  as  if  it  had  been  wanted  for  instant 
use  in  the  recovery  of  some  person  apparently  drowned, 
the  single  gentleman  made  Kit's  mother  swallow  a  bum- 
per of  it  at  such  a  high  temperature  that  the  tears  ran 
down  her  face,  and  then  hustled  her  off  to  the  chaise 
again,  where — not  impossibly  from  the  effects  of  this 
agreeable  sedative — she  soon  became  insensible  to  his 
restlessness,  and  fell  fast  asleep.  Nor  were  the  happy 
effects  of  this  prescription  of  a  transitory  nature,  as  not- 
withstanding that  the  distance  was  greater,  and  the 
journey  longer,  than  the  single  gentleman  had  anticipa- 
ted, she  did  not  awake  until  it  was  broad  day,  and  they 
were  clattering  over  the  pavement  of  a  town. 

"This  is  the  place!"  cried  her  companion,  letting 
down  all  the  glasses.    "  Drive  to  the  wax- work  ! " 

The  boy  on  the  wheeler  touched  his  hat,  and  setting 
spurs  to  his  horse,  to  the  end  that  they  might  go  in  bril- 
liantly, all  four  broke  into  a  smart  canter,  and  dashed 
through  the  streets  with  a  noise  that  brought  the  good 
folks  wondering  to  their  doors  and  windows,  and  drowned 
the  sober  voices  of  the  town-clocks  as  they  chimed  out 
half-past  eight.  They  drove  up  to  a  door  round  which 
a  crowd  of  persons  were  collected,  and  there  stopped. 

"  What's  this  ?"  said  the  single  gentleman,  thrusting 
out  his  head.    "  Is  anything  the  matter  here?" 

"A  wedding,  sir,  a  wedding  1"  cried  several  voices. 
"  Hurrah  ! " 

The  single  gentleman,  rather  bewildered  Jby  finding 
himself  the  centre  of  this  noisy  throng,  alighted  with 
the  assistance  of  one  of  tlie  postilions  and  handed  out 
Kit's  mother,  at  sight  of  whom  the  populace  cried  out, 
"  Here's  another  wedding  ! "  and  roared  and  leaped  for 

joy- . 


"  The  world  has  gone  mad,  I  think,"  said  the  single 
gentleman,  pressing  through  the  concourse  with  his  sup- 
posed bride.  "Stand  back  here,  will  you,  and  let  me 
knock." 

Anything  that  makes  a  noise  is  satisfactory  to  a  crowd. 
A  score  of  dirty  hands  were  raised  directly  to  knock  for 
him,  and  seldom  has  a  knocker  of  equal  powers  been 
made  to  produce  more  deafening  sounds  than  this  par- 
ticular engine  on  the  occasion  in  question.  Having  ren- 
dered these  voluntary  services,  the  throng  modestly  re- 
tired a  little,  preferring  that  the  single  gentleman  should 
bear  their  consequences  alone. 

"Now,  sir,  what  do  you  want?"  said  a  man  with  a 
large  white  bow  at  his  button-hole,  opening  the  door, 
and  confronting  him  with  a  very  stoical  aspect. 

"  Who  has  been  married  here,  my  friend  ?  "  said  the 
single  gentleman. 

"  I  have." 

"You  !  and  to  whom  in  the  devil's  name?" 

"  What  right  have  you  to  ask?"  returned  the  bride- 
groom, eyeing  him  from  top  to  toe. 

"  What  right  I "  cried  the  single  gentleman,  drawing 
the  arm  of  Kit's  mother  more  tightly  through  his  own, 
for  that  good  woman  evidently  had  it  in  contemplation 
to  run  away.  "A  right  you  little  dream  of.  Mind, 
good  people,  if  this  fellow  has  been  marrying  a  minor — 
tut,  tut,  that  can't  be.  Where  is  the  child  you  have 
here,  mv  good  fellow.  You  call  her  Nell.  Where  is 
she?" 

As  he  propounded  this  question,  which  Kit's  mother 
echoed,  somebody  in  a  room  near  at  hand,  uttered  a 
great  shriek,  and  a  stout  lady  in  a  white  dress  came  run- 
ning to  the  door,  and  supported  herself  upon  the  bride- 
groom's arm. 

"  Where  is  she  ! "  cried  this  lady.  "  What  news  have 
you  brought  me  ?    What  has  become  of  her?  " 

The  single  gentleman  started  back,  and  gazed  upon 
the  face  of  the  late  Mrs.  Jarley  (that  morning  wedded  to 
the  philosophic  George,  to  the  eternal  wrath  and  despair 
of  Mr.  Slum  the  poet),  with  looks  of  conflicting  appre- 
hension, disappointment,  and  incredulity.  At  length  he 
stammered  out, 

"  I  ask  2I0U  where  she  is  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh  sir  ! "  cried  the  bride,  "  If  you  have  come  here  to 
do  her  any  good,  why  weren't  you  here  a  week  ago  ?  " 

"  She  is  not — not  dead  ?  "  said  the  person  to  whom  she 
addressed  herself,  turning  very  pale.  • 

*'No,  not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  I  thank  God,"  cried  the  single  gentleman  feebly. 
"  Let  me  come  in." 

They  drew  back  to  admit  him,  and  when  he  had  entered, 
closed  the  door. 

"  You  see  in  me,  good  people,"  he  said,  turning  to  the 
newly-married  couple,  "one  to  whom  life  itself  is  not 
dearer  than  the  two  persons  whom  I  seek.  They 
would  not  know  me.  My  features  are  strange  to  them, 
but  if  they  or  either  of  them  are  here,  take  this  good 
woman  with  you,  and  let  them  see  her  first,  for  her  they 
both  know.  If  you  deny  them  from  any  mistaken  re- 
gard or  fear  for  them,  judge  of  my  intentions  by  their 
recognition  of  this  person  as  their  old  humble  friend." 

"  I  always  said  it  ! "  cried  the  bride,  "  I  knew  she  was 
not  a  common  child  !  Alas,  sir  !  we  have  no  power  to 
help  you,  for  all  that  we  could  do,  has  been  tried  in  vain." 

With  that,  they  related  to  him,  without  disguise  or 
concealment,  all  that  they  knew  of  Nell  and  her 
grandfather,  from  their  first  meeting  with  them,  down 
to  the  time  of  their  sudden  disappearance  ;  adding  (which 
was  quite  true)  that  they  had  made  every  possible  effort 
to  trace  them,  but  without  success  ;  having  been  at  first 
in  great  alarm  for  their  safety,  as  well  as  on  account  of 
the  suspicions  to  which  they  themselves  might  one  day 
be  exposed  in  consequence  of  their  abrupt  departure. 
They  dwelt  upon  the  old  man's  imbecility  of  mind,  upon 
the  uneasiness  the  child  had  always  testified  when  he 
was  absent,  upon  the  company  he  had  been  supposed  to 
keep,  and  upon  the  increased  depression  which  had 
gradually  crept  over  her,  and  changed  her  both  in  health 
and  spirits.  Whether  she  had  missed  the  old  man  in 
the  night,  and  knowing  or  conjecturing  whither  he  had 
bent  his  steps,  had  gone  in  pursuit,  or  whether  they  had 
left  the  house  together,  they  had  no  means  of  determin- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


781 


ing.  Certain  they  considered  it,  that  there  was  but 
slender  prospect  left  of  hearing  of  them  again,  and  that 
whether  their  flight  originated  with  the  old  man,  or  with 
the  child,  there  was  now  no  hope  of  their  return. 

To  all  this,  the  single  gentleman  listened  with  the  air 
of  a  man  quite  borne  down  by  grief  and  disappointment. 
He  shed  tears  when  they  spoke  of  the  grandfather,  and 
appeared  in  deep  affliction. 

Not  to  protract  this  portion  of  our  narrative,  and  to 
make  short  work  of  a  long  story,  let  it  be  briefly  written 
that  before  the  interview  came  to  a  close,  the  single  gen- 
tleman deemed  he  had  sufficient  evidence  of  having  been 
told  the  truth,  and  that  ho  endeavoured  to  force  upon 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  an  acknowledgment  of  their 
kindness  to  the  unfriended  child,  which,  however,  they 
steadily  declined  accepting.  In  the  end,  the  happy 
couple  jolted  away  in  the  caravan  to  spend  their  honey- 
moon in  a  country  excursion  ;  and  the  single  gentleman 
and  Kit's  mother  stood  ruefully  before  their  carriage 
door. 

"  Where  shall  we  drive  you,  sir?"  said  the  post-boy. 

"You  may  drive  me,"  said  the  single  gentleman, 
"to  the — "  He  was  not  going  to  add  "  inn,"  but  he 
added  it  for  the  sake  of  Kit's  mother  ;  and  to  the  inn 
they  went. 

Rumours  had  already  got  abroad  that  the  little  girl 
who  used  to  show  the  wax-work,  was  the  child  of  great 
people  who  had  been  stolen  from  her  parents  in  infancy, 
and  had  only  just  been  traced.  Opinion  was  divided 
whether  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  prince,  a  duke,  an 
earl,  a  viscount,  or  a  baron,  but  all  agreed  upon  the  main 
fact,  and  that  the  single  gentleman  was  her  father  ;  and 
all  bent  forward  to  catch  a  glimpse,  though  it  were  only 
of  the  tip  of  his  noble  nose,  as  he  rode  away,  desponding, 
in  his  four-horse  chaise. 

What  would  he  have  given  to  know,  and  what  sorrow 
would  have  been  saved  if  he  had  only  known,  that  at 
that  moment  both  child  and  grandfather  were  seated  in 
the  old  church  porch,  patiently  awaiting  the  school- 
master's return  ! 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

Popular  rumour  concerning  the  single  gentleman  and 
his  errand,  travelling  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  waxing 
stronger  in  the  marvellous  as  it  was  bandied  about — for 
your  popular  rumour,  unlike  the  rolling  stone  of  the 
proverb,  is  one  which  gathers  a  deal  of  moss  in  its  wan- 
derings up  and  down, — occasioned  his  dismounting  at  the 
inn  door  to  be  looked  upon  as  an  exciting  and  attractive 
spectacle,  which  could  scarcely  be  enough  admired  ;  and 
drew  together  a  large  concourse  of  idlers,  who  having 
recently  been,  as  it  were,  thrown  out  of  employment  by 
the  closing  of  the  wax- work,  and  the  completion  of  the 
nuptial  ceremonies,  considered  his  arrival  as  little  else 
than  a  special  providence,  and  hailed  it  with  demonstra- 
tions of  the  liveliest  joy. 

Not  at  all  participating  in  the  general  sensation,  but 
wearing  the  depressed  and  wearied  look  of  one  who 
sought  to  meditate  on  his  disappointment  in  silence  and 
privacy,  the  single  gentleman  alighted,  and  handed  out 
Kit's  mother  with  a  gloomy  politeness  which  impressed 
the  lookers-on  extremely.  That  done,  he  gave  her  his 
arm  and  escorted  her  into  the  house,  while  several  active 
waiters  ran  on  before  as  a  skirmishing  party,  to  clear  the 
way  and  to  show  the  room  which  was  ready  for  their 
reception. 

* '  Any  room  will  do,"  said  the  single  gentleman.  "  Let 
it  be  near  at  hand,  that's  all." 

"  Close  here,  sir,  if  you  please  to  walk  this  ^ay." 

"Would  the  gentleman  like  this  room?"  said  a  voice, 
as  a  little  out-of-the-way  door  at  the  foot  of  the  well 
staircase  flew  briskly  open  and  a  head  jjopped  out.  "He's 
quite  welcome  to  it.  He's  as  welcome  as  flowers  in  May, 
or  coals  at  Cliristmas.  Would  you  like  this  room,  sir  ?  " 
Honour  me  by  walking  in.    Do  me  the  favour,  pray." 

"  Goodness  gracious  me  !  "  cried  Kit's  mother,  falling 
back  in  extreme  surprise,  "  only  think  of  this  !" 

She  had  some  reason  to  be  astonished,  for  the  person 
who  proffered  the  gracious  invitation  was  no  other  than 
Dauiel  Quilp.  The  little  door  out  of  which  he  had  thrust 


his  head  was  close  to  the  inn  larder  ;  and  there  he  stood, 
bowing  with  grotesque  politeness  ;  as  much  at  his  ease 
as  if  the  door  were  that  of  his  own  house ;  blighting  all 
the  legs  of  mutton  and  cold  roast  fowl  by  his  close  com- 
panionship, and  looking  like  the  evil  genius  of  the  cellars 
come  from  underground  upon  some  work  of  mischief. 

"Would  you  do  me  the  honour?"  said  Quilp. 

"  I  prefer  being  alone,"  replied  the  single  gentleman. 

"Oh  !"  said  Quilp.  And  with  that,  he  darted  in  again 
with  one  jerk  and  clapped  the  little  door  to,  like  a  figure 
in  a  Dutch  clock  when  the  hour  strikes. 

"  Why  it  was  only  last  night,  sir,"  whispered  Kit's 
mother,  "  that  I  left  him  in  Little  Bethel." 

"Indeed!"  said  her  fellow-passenger.  "When  did 
that  person  come  here,  waiter?" 

"  Come  down  by  the  night-coach,  this  morning,  sir." 

"  Humph  I    And  when  is  he  going  ?" 

"  Can't  say,  sir,  really.  When  the  chambermaid  asked 
him  just  now  if  he  should  want  a  bed,  sir,  he  first  made 
faces  at  her,  and  then  wanted  to  kiss  her." 

"  Beg  him  to  walk  this  way,"  said  the  single  gentle- 
man. "  I  should  be  glad  to  exchange  a  word  with  him, 
tell  him.    Beg  him  to  come  at  once,  do  you  hear  ?" 

The  man  stared  on  receiving  these  instructions,  for  the 
single  gentleman  had  not  only  displayed  as  much  aston- 
ishment as  Kit's  mother  at  sight  of  the  dwarf,  but, 
standing  in  no  fear  of  him,  had  been  at  less  pains  to  con- 
ceal his  dislike  and  repugnance.  He  departed  on  his 
errand,  however,  and  immediately  returned,  ushering  in 
its  object. 

"  Your  servant,  sir,"  said  the  dwarf.  "  I  encountered 
your  messenger  half-way.  I  thought  you'd  allow  me  to 
pay  my  compliments  to  you.  I  hope  you're  well.  I  hope 
you're  very  well." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  while  the  dwarf,  with  half- 
shut  eyes  and  puckered  face,  stood  waiting  for  an 
answer.  Receiving  none,  he  turned  towards  his  more 
familiar  acquaintance. 

"Christopher's  mother!"  he  cried.  "Such  a  dear 
lady,  such  a  worthy  woman,  so  blest  in  her  honest  son  ! 
How  is  Christopher's  mother  ?  Have  change  of  air  and 
scene  improved  her  ?  Her  little  family  too,  and  Christo- 
pher ?  Do  they  thrive  ?  Do  they  flourish  ?  Are  they 
growing  into  worthy  citizens,  eh  ?" 

Making  his  voice  ascend  in  the  scale  with  every  suc- 
ceeding question,  Mr.  Quilp  finished  in  a  shrill  squeak, 
and  subsided  into  the  panting  look  which  was  customary 
with  him,  and  which  whether  it  were  assumed  or  natural, 
had  equally  the  effect  of  banishing  all  expression  from 
his  face,  and  rendering  it,  as  far  as  it  afforded  any  index 
to  his  mood  or  meaning,  a  perfect  blank. 

"  Mr.  Quilp,"  said  tbe  single  gentleman. 

The  dwarf  put  his  hand  to  his  great  flapped  ear,  and 
counterfeited  the  closest  attention. 

"  We  too  have  met  before — " 

"  Surely,"  cried  Quilp,  nodding  his  head.  "  Oh  sure- 
ly, sir.  Such  an  honour  and  pleasure — it's  both,  Chris- 
topher's mother,  it's  both — is  not  to  be  forgotten  so  soon. 
By  no  means  !  " 

"You  may  remember  that  the  day  I  arrived  in  Lon- 
don, and  found  the  house  to  which  I  drove,  empty  and 
deserted,  I  was  directed  by  some  of  the  neighbours  to 
you,  and  waited  upon  you  without  stopping  for  rest  or 
refreshment  ?  " 

"How  precipitate  that  was,  and  yet  what  an  earnest 
and  vigorous  measure  ! "  said  Quilp,  conferring  with  him- 
self, in  imitation  of  his  friend  Mr.  Sampson  Brass. 

"  I  found,"  said  the  single  gentleman,  "  you  most  un- 
accountably, in  possession  of  everything  that  had  so  re- 
cently belonged  to  another  man,  and  that  other  man,  who 
up  to  the  time  of  your  entering  upon  his  property  had 
been  looked  upon  as  affluent,  reduced  to  sudden  beg- 
gary, and  driven  from  house  and  home." 

"  We  had  warrant  for  what  we  did,  my  good  sir,"  re- 
joined Quilp,  "  we  had  our  warrant.  Don't  say  driven 
either.  He  went  of  his  own  accord— vanished  in  the 
night,  sir." 

"No  matter,"  said  the  single  gentleman  angrily. 
"  He  was  gone." 

"  Yes,  he  was  gone,"  said  Quilp,  with  the  same  exas- 
perating composure.  "No  doubt  he  was  gone.  The 
only  question  was,  where.    And  it's  a  question  still." 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Now,  what  am  I  to  think,"  said  the  single  gentle- 
man, sternly  regarding  him,  "  of  you,  who,  plainly  in- 
disposed to  give  me  any  information  then — nay,  obvious- 
ly holding  back,  and  sheltering  yourself  with  all  kinds 
of  cunning,  trickery,  and  evasion,— are  dogging  my  foot- 
steps now  ?  " 

"  I  dogging  !  "  cried  Quilp. 

"  Why,  are  you  not?"  returned  his  questioner,  fretted 
into  a  state  of  the  utmost  irritation.  "Were  you  not  a 
few  hours  since,  sixty  miles  off,  and  in  the  chapel  to 
which  this  good  woman  goes  to  say  her  prayers  ?  " 

"  She  was  there  too,  I  think  ?  "  said  Quilp,  still  per- 
fectly unmoved.  "  I  might  say,  if  I  was  mclined  to  be 
rude'  how  do  I  know  but  you  are  dogging  my  footsteps. 
Yes,  I  was  at  cliapel.  What  then?  I've  read  in  books 
that  pilgrims  were  used  to  go  to  chapel  before  they 
went  on  journeys,  to  put  up  petitions  for  their  safe  re- 
turn. Wise  men  !  journeys  are  very  perilous — especial- 
ly outside  the  coach.  Wheels  come  oif,  horses  take 
fright,  coachmen  drive  too  fast,  coaches  overturn.  I 
always  go  to  chapel  before  1  start  on  journeys.  It's  the 
last  thing  I  do  on  such  occasions,  indeed." 

That  Quilp  lied  most  heartily  in  his  speech,  it  needed 
no  very  great  penetration  to  discover,  although  for  any- 
thing that  he  suffered  to  appear  in  his  face,  voice,  or 
manner,  he  miglit  have  been  clinging  to  the  truth  with 
the  quiet  constancy  of  a  martyr. 

"  In  the  name  of  all  that's  calculated  to  drive  one 
crazy,  man,"  said  the  unfortunate  single  gentleman, 
"  have  you  not,  for  some  reason  of  your  own,  taken  upon 
yourself  my  errand  ?  don't  you  know  with  what  object  I 
have  come  here,  and  if  you  do  know,  can  you  throw  no 
light  upon  it  ?  " 

"  You  think  I'm  a  conjuror,  sir,"  replied  Quilp, 
shrugging  up  his  shoulders.  "  If  I  was,  I  should  tell 
my  own  fortune— and  make  it." 

"  Ah  !  we  have  said  all  we  need  say,  I  see,"  returned 
the  other,  throwing  himself  impatiently  upon  a  sofa. 
"Pray  leave  us,  if  you  please." 

"Willingly,"  returned  Quilp,  "Most  willingly. 
Christoplier's  mother,  my  good  soul,  farewell.  A 
pleasant  journey — hack,  sir.    Ahem  !  " 

With  these  parting  words,  and  with  a  grin  iipon  his 
features  altogether  indescribable,  but  which  seemed  to 
be  compounded  of  every  monstrous  grimace  of  which 
men  or  monkeys  are  capable,  the  dwarf  slowly  retreated 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"  Oho  !"  he  said  when  he  had  regained  his  own  room, 
and  sat  himself  down  in  a  chair  with  his  arms  akimbo. 
"  Oho  1    Are  you  there,  my  friend?    In-deed  !  " 

Chuckling  as  though  in  very  great  glee,  and  recom- 
pensing himself  for  the  restraint  he  had  lately  put 
upon  his  countenance  by  twisting  it  into  all  imaginable 
varieties  of  ugliness,  Mr.  Quilp,  rocking  himself  to  and 
fro  in  his  chair  and  nursing  his  left  leg  at  the  same  time, 
fell  into  certain  meditations,  of  which  it  may  be  neces- 
sary to  relate  the  substance. 

First,  he  reviewed  the  circumstances  which  had  led 
to  his  repairing  to  that  spot,  which  were  briefly  these. 
Dropping  in  at  Mr.  Sampson  Brass's  office  on  the  previous 
evening,  in  the  absence  of  that  gentleman  and  his 
learned  sister,  he  had  lighted  upon  Mr.  Swiveller,  who 
chanced  at  the  moment  to  be  sprinkling  a  glass  of  warm 
gin  and  water  on  the  dust  of  the  law,  and  to  be  moisten- 
ing his  clay,  as  the  piirase  goes,  rather  copiously.  But 
as  clay  in  the  abstract,  when  too  much  moistened,  be- 
comes of  a  weak  and  uncertain  consistency,  brealdng 
down  in  unexpected  places,  retaining  impressions  but 
faintly,  and  preserving  no  strength  or  steadiness  of  char- 
acter, so  Mr.  Swiveller's  clay,  having  imbibed  a  consid- 
erable quantity  of  moisture,  was  in  a  very  loose  and 
slippery  state,  insomuch  that  the  various  ideas  im- 
pressed upon  it  were  fast  losing  their  distinctive  charac- 
ter, and  running  into  each  other.  It  is  not  uncommon 
for  human  ckiy  in  this  condition  to  value  itself  above  all 
things  upon  its  great  prudence  and  sagacity  ;  and  Mr. 
Swiveller,  es[)ecially  j)rizing  himself  upon  these  quali- 
ties, took  occasion  to  remark  that  he  had  made  strange 
discoveries,  in  connection  with  the  single  gentleman  who 
lodged  above,  which  he  had  determined  to  keep  within 
his  own  bosom,  and  which  neither  tortures  nor  cajolery 
should  ever  induce  him  to  reveal.  Of  this  determination 


Mr.  Quilp  expressed  his  high  approval,  and  setting  him-' 
self  in  the  same  breath  to  goad  Mr.  Swiveller  on  to 
further  hints,  soon  made  out  that  the  single  gentleman 
had  been  seen  in  communication  with  Kit,  and  that  this 
was  the  secret  which  was  never  to  be  disclosed. 

Possessed  of  this  piece  of  information,  Mr.  Quilp  di- 
rectly supposed  that  the  single  gentleman  above  stairs 
must  be  the  same  individual  who  had  waited  on  him,  and 
having  assured  himself  by  further  inquiries  that  this 
surmise  was  correct,  had  no  difl&culty  in  arriving  at  the 
conclusion  that  the  intent  and  object  of  his  correspond- 
ence with  Kit  was  the  recovery  of  his  old  client  and  the 
child.  Burning  with  curiosity  to  know  what  proceed- 
ings were  afoot,  he  resolved  to  pounce  upon  Kit's 
mother  as  the  person  least  able  to  resist  his  arts,  and 
consequently  the  most  likely  to  be  entrapped  into  such 
revelations  as  he  sought ;  so  taking  an  abrupt  leave  of 
Mr.  Swiveller,  he  hurried  to  her  house.  The  good 
woman  being  from  home,  he  made  inquiries  of  a  neigh- 
bour, as  Kit  himself  did  soon  afterwards,  and  being  di- 
rected to  the  chapel  betook  himself  there,  in  order  to 
waylay  her,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  service.  • 

He  had  not  sat  in  the  chapel  more  than  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  and  with  his  eyes  piously  fixed  upon  the  ceil- 
ing was  chuckling  inwardly  over  the  joke  of  his  being 
there  at  all,  when  Kit  himself  appeared.  Watchful  as 
a  lynx,  one  glance  showed  the  dwarf  that  he  had  come 
on  business.  Absorbed  in  appearance,  as  we  have  seen, 
and  feigning  a  profound  abstraction,  he  noted  every  cir- 
cumstance of  his  behaviour,  and  when  he  withdrew  with 
his  family,  shot  out  after  him.  In  fine,  he  traced  them 
to  the  notary's  house  ;  learnt  the  destination  of  the  car- 
riage from  one  of  the  postilions ;  and  knowing  that  a 
fast  night-coach  started  for  the  same  place,  at  the  very 
hour  which  was  on  the  point  of  striking,  from  a  street 
hard  by,  darted  round  to  the  coach-oflace  without  much 
more  ado,  and  took  his  seat  upon  the  roof.  After  pass- 
ing and  repassing  the  carriage  on  the  road,  and  being 
passed  and  repassed  by  it  sundry  times  in  the  course  of 
the  night,  according  as  their  stoppages  were  longer  or 
shorter,  or  their  rate  of  travelling  varied,  they  reached 
the  town  almost  together.  Quilp  kept  the  chaise  in 
sight,  mingled  with  the  crowd,  learnt  the  single  gentle- 
man's errand,  and  its  failure,  and  having  possessed  him- 
self of  all  that  was  material  to  know,  hurried  off,  reached 
the  inn  before  him,  had  the  interview  just  no*w  detailed, 
and  shut  himself  up  in  the  little  room  in  which  he  hastily 
reviewed  all  these  occurrences. 

"You  are  there,  are  you,  my  friend?"  he  repeated, 
greedily  biting  his  nails,  "  I  am  suspected  and  thrown 
aside,  and  Kit's  the  confidential  agent,  is  he?  I  shall 
have  to  dispose  of  him,  I  fear.  If  we  had  come  up  with 
them  this  morning,"  he  continued,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause,  "I  was  ready  to  prove  a  pretty  good  claim,  I 
could  have  made  my  profit.  But  for  these  canting 
hypocrites,  the  lad  and  his  mother,  I  could  get  this  fiery 
gentleman  as  comfortable  into  my  net  as  our  old  friend 
— our  mutual  friend,  ha  I  ha  ! — and  chubby,  rosy  Nell. 
At  the  worst  it's  a  golden  opportunity,  not  to  be  lost. 
Let  us  find  them  first,  and  I'll  find  means  of  draining  you 
of  some  of  your  superfious  cash,  sir,  while  there  are 
prison  bars  and  bolts,  and  locks,  to  keep  your  friend  or 
kinsman  safely.  I  hate  your  virtuous  people  ! "  said  the 
dwarf,  throwing  off  a  bumper  of  brandy,  and  smacking 
his  lips,  "ah  !  I  hate  'em  every  one  I" 

This  was  not  a  mere  empty  vaunt,  but  a  deliberate 
avowal  of  his  real  sentiments  ;  for  Mr.  Quilp,  who  loved 
nobody,  had  by  little  and  little  come  to  hate  everybody, 
nearly  or  remotely  connected  with  his  ruined  client : — 
the  old  man  himself,  because  he  had  been  able  to  deceive 
him  and  elude  his  vigilance — the  child,  because  she  was 
the  object  of  Mrs.  Quilp's  commiseration  and  constant 
self-reproach — the  single  gentleman,  because  of  his  un- 
concealed aversion  to  himself — Kit  and  his  mother,  most 
mortally,  for  the  reasons  already  shown.  Above  and 
beyond  that  general  feeling  of  opposition  to  them,  which 
would  have  been  inseparable  from  his  ravenous  desire 
to  enrich  himself  by  these  altered  circumstances,  Daniel 
Quilp  hated  them  every  one. 

In  this  amiable  mood,  Mr.  Quilp  enlivened  himself  and 
his  hatreds  with  more  brandy,  and  then,  changing  his 
quarters,  withdrew  to  an  obscure  ale  house,  under  cover 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


783 


of  which  seclusion  he  instituted  all  possible  inquiries 
that  jpight  lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  old  man  and  his 
granochild.  But  all  was  in  vain.  Not  the  slightest 
trace  or  clue  could  be  obtained.  They  had  left  the  town 
by  night  ;  no  one  had  seen  them  go  ;  no  one  had  met 
them  on  the  road  ;  the  driver  of  no  coach,  cart,  or  wag- 
gon, had  seen,  any  travellers  answering  their  description  ; 
nobody  had  fallen  in  with  them  or  heard  of  them.  Con- 
vinced at  last  that  for  the  present  all  such  attempts  were 
hopeless,  he  appointed  two  or  three  scouts,  with  y^romises 
of  large  rewards  in  case  of  their  forwarding  him  any  in- 
telligence, and  returned  to  London  by  next  day's  coach. 

It  was  some  gratification  to  Mr.  Quilp  to  find,  as  he 
took  his  place  upon  the  roof,  that  Kit's  mother  was 
alone  inside  ;  from  which  circumstance  he  derived  in  the 
course  of  the  journey  much  cheerfulness  of  spirit,  inas- 
much as  her  solitary  condition  enabled  him  to  terrify 
her  with  many  extraordinary  annoyances  ;  such  as  hang- 
ing over  the  side  of  the  coach  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  and 
staring  in  with  his  great  goggle  eyes,  which  seemed  in 
hers  the  more  horrible  from  his  face  being  upside  down  ; 
dodging  her  in  this  way  from  one  window  to  another ; 
getting  nimbly  down  whenever  they  changed  horses  and 
thrusting  his  head  in  at  the  window  with  a  dismal 
squint :  which  ingenious  tortures  had  such  an  effect  upon 
Mrs.  Nubbles,  that  she  was  quite  unable  for  the  time  to 
resist  the  belief  that  Mr.  Quilp  did  in  his  own  person 
represent  and  embody  that  Evil  Power,  who  was  so  vig- 
orously attacked  at  Little  Bethel,  and  who,  by  reason  of 
her  back-slidings  in  respect  of  Astley's  and  oysters,  was 
now  frolicsome  and  rampant. 

Kit,  having  been  apprised  by  letter  of  his  mother's  in- 
tended return,  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  coach-oflSce  ; 
and  great  was  his  surprise  when  he  saw,  leering  over 
the  coachman's  shoulder  like  some  familiar  demon,  in- 
visible to  all  eyes  but  his,  the  well-known  face  of  Quilp. 

"  How  are  you,  Christopher  ?  "  croaked  the  dwarf  from 
the  coach-top.  "All  right,  Christopher.  Mother's  in- 
side." 

"Why,  how  did  he  come  here,  mother?"  whispered 
Kit. 

"I  don't  know  how  he  came  or  why,  my  dear,"  re- 
joined Mrs.  Nubbles,  dismounting  with  her  son's  assist- 
ance, "  but  he  has  been  terrifying  me  out  of  my  seven 
senses  all  this  blessed  day." 

"  He  has  ?  "  cried  Kit. 

"  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  that  you  wouldn't,"  replied 
his  mother,  "but  don't  say  a  word  to  him,  for  I  really 
don't  believe  he's  human.  Hush  !  Don't  turn  round  as 
if  I  was  talking  of  him,  but  he's  a  squinting  at  me  now 
in  the  full  blaze  of  the  coach-lamp,  quite  awful  !" 

In  spite  of  his  mother's  injunction.  Kit  turned  sharply 
round  to  look.  Mr.  Quilp  was  serenely  gazing  at  the 
stars,  quite  absorbed  in  celestial  contemplation. 

"  Oh,  he's  the  artf  ullest  creetur  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Nubbles. 
"But  come  away.    Don't  speak  to  him  for  the  world." 

"  Yes  I  will,  mother.    What  nonsense.    I  say  sir — " 

Mr.  Quilp  affected  to  start,  and  looked  smilingly 
round. 

"You  let  my  mother  alone,  will  you?"  said  Kit. 
"How  dare  you  tease  a  poor  lone  woman  like  her,  mak- 
ing her  miserable  and  melancholy  as  if  she  hadn't  got 
enough  to  make  her  so,  without  you.  An't  you  ashamed 
of  yourself,  you  little  monster?" 

"Monster!"  said  Quilp  inwardly  with  a  smile. 
"  Ugliest  dwarf  that  could  be  seen  anywhere  for  a  penny 
— monster — ah  I " 

"  You  show  her  any  of  your  impudence  again,"  re- 
sumed Kit,  shouldering  the  bandbox,  "  and  I  tell  you 
"what,  Mr.  Quilp,  I  won't  bear  with  you  any  more.  You 
have  no  right  to  do  it ;  I'm  sure  we  never  interfered  with 
you.  This  isn't  the  first  time  ;  and  if  ever  you  worry  or 
frighten  her  again,  you'll  oblige  me  (though  I  should  be 
very  sorry  to  do  it,  on  account  of  your  size)  to  beat  you." 

Quilp  said  not  a  word  in  reply,  but  walking  up  so 
close  to  Kit  as  to  bring  his  eyes  within  two  or  three 
inches  of  his  face,  looked  fixedly  at  him,  retreated  a  little  j 
distance  without  averting  his  gaze,  approached  again, 
again  withdrew,  and  so  on  for  half-a-dozen  times,  like  a  ; 
head  in  a  phantasmagoria.    Kit  stood  his  ground  as  if 
in  expectation  of  an  immediate  assault,  but  finding  that  | 
nothing  came  of  these  gestures,  snapped  his  fingers  and 


walked  away  ;  his  mother  dragging  him  off  as  fast  as  she 
could,  and,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  news  of  little  Jacob 
and  the  baby,  looking  anxiously  over  her  shoulder  to 
see  if  Quilp  were  following. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

Kit's  mother  might  have  spared  herself  the  trouble  of 
looking  back  so  often,  for  nothing  was  further  from  Mr. 
Quilp's  thoughts  than  any  intention  of  pursuing  her  and 
her  son,  or  renewing  the  quarrel  with  which  they  had 
|)arted.  He  went  his  way,  whistling  from  time  to  time 
some  fragments  of  a  tune  ;  and,  with  a  face  quite  tran- 
quil and  composed,  jogged  pleasantly  towards  home  ; 
entertaining  himself  as  he  went  witli  visions  of  the  fears 
and  terrors  of  Mrs.  Quilp,  who  having  received  no  in- 
telligence of  him  for  three  whole  days  and  two  nights, 
and  having  had  no  previous  notice  of  his  a])sence,  was 
doubtless  by  that  time  in  a  state  of  distraction,  and  con- 
stantly fainting  away  with  anxiety  and  grief. 

This  facetious  probability  was  so  congenial  to  the 
dwarf's  humour,  and  so  exquisitely  amusing  to  him,  that 
he  laughed  as  he  went  along  until  the  tears  ran  down  his 
cheeks  ;  and  more  than  once,  when  he  found  himself  in 
a  bye  street,  vented  his  delight  in  a  shrill  scream,  whicli 
greatly  terrifying  any  lonely  passenger,  who  happened 
to  be  walking  on  before  him  expecting  nothing  so  little, 
increased  his  mirth,  and  made  him  remarkably  cheerful 
and  light-hearted. 

In  this  happy  flow  of  spirits  Mr.  Quilp  reached  Tower 
Hill,  when,  gazing  up  at  the  window  of  his  own  sitting- 
room,  he  thought  he  descried  more  light  than  is  usual  in 
a  house  of  mourning.  Drawing  nearer,  and  listening 
attentively,  he  could  hear  several  voices  in  earnest  con- 
versation, among  which  he  could  distinguish,  not  only 
those  of  his  wife  and  mother-in-law,  but  the  tongues  of 
men. 

"Ha  \  "  cried  the  jealous  dwarf.  "What's  this!  Do 
they  entertain  such  visitors  while  I'm  away  ! " 

A  smothered  cough  from  above,  was  the  reply.  He 
felt  in  his  pockets  for  his  latch-key,  but  had  forgotten  it. 
There  was  no  resource  but  to  knock  at  the  door. 

"  A  light  in  the  passage,"  said  Quilp,  peeping  through, 
the  key-hole.  "  A  very  soft  knock  ;  and,  by  your  leave, 
my  lady,  I  may  yet  steal  upon  you  unawares.    Soho  I" 

A  very  low  and  gentle  rap,  received  no  answer  from 
within.  But  after  a  second  application  to  the  knocker, 
no  louder  than  the  first,  the  door  was  softly  opened  by 
the  boy  from  the  wharf,  whom  Quilp  instantly  gagged 
with  one  hand,  and  dragged  into  the  street  with  the  other. 

"You'll  throttle  me,  master,"  whispered  the  boy. 
"  Let  go,  will  you." 

"Who's  up-stairs,  you  dog?"  retorted  Quilp  in  the 
same  tone.  "  Tell  me.  And  don't  speak  above  your 
breath,  or  I'll  choke  you  in  good  earnest." 

The  boy  could  only  point  to  the  window,  and  reply 
with  a  stifled  giggle  expressive  of  such  intense  enjoyment, 
that  Quilp  clutched  him  by  the  throat  again,  and  might 
have  carried  his  threat  into  execution,  or  at  least  have 
made  very  good  progress  towards  that  end,  but  for  the 
boy's  nimbly  extricating  himself  from  his  grasp,  and  forti. 
f ying  himself  behind  the  nearest  post,  at  which,  after  some 
fruitless  attempts  to  catch  him  by  the  hair  of  his  head, 
his  master  was  obliged  to  come  to  a  parley. 

"  Will  you  answer  me  ?"  said  Quilp.  "  What's  going 
on,  above  ?  " 

"  You  won't  let  one  speak,"  replied  the  boy.  "  They 
— ha  ha  ha  ! — thev  think  vou're — you're  dead.  Ha  ha 
ha!" 

"  Dead  !  "  cried  Quilp,  relaxing  into  a  grim  laugh  him- 
self.   "No.    Do  they?    Do  they  really,  you  dog?" 

"They  think  you're— you're"^  drowned,"  replied  the 
boy,  who  in  his  malicious  nature  had  a  strong  infusion  of 
his  master.  "  You  was  last  seen  on  the  brink  of  the 
wharf,  and  they  think  you  tumbled  over.    Ha  ha  !  " 

The  prospect  of  playing  the  spy  under  such  delicious 
circumstances,  and  of  disappointing  them  all  by  walk- 
ing in  alive,  gave  more  delight  to  Quilp  than  the  greatest 
stroke  of  good  fortune  could  possibly  have  inspired  him 
with.    He  was  no  less  tickled  than  his  hopeful  assistant. 


784  CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


and  tliey  botli  stood  for  some  seconds,  grinning  and 
gasping,  and  wanrging  their  heads  at  each  other,  on  either 
side  of  the  po  ,t,like  an  unmatchable  pair  of  Chinese  idols. 

"Not  a  word,"  said  Quilp,  making  towards  the  door 
on  tip-toe.  "  Not  a  sound,  not  so  much  as  a  creaking 
board,  or  a  stumble  against  a  cobweb.  Drowned,  eh, 
Mrs.  Quilp  ?    Drowned  !" 

So  saying,  he  blew  out  the  candle,  kicked  off  his  shoes, 
and  groped  his  way  up-stairs ;  leaving  his  delighted 
young  friend  in  an  ecstacy  of  summersets  on  the  pave- 
ment. 

The  bedroom-door  on  the  staircase  being  unlocked,  Mr. 
Quilp  slipped  in,  and  planted  himself  behind  the  door  of 
communication  between  that  chamber  and  the  sitting- 
room,  which  standing  ajar  to  render  both  more  airy,  and 
having  a  very  convenient  chink  (of  which  he  had  often 
availed  himself,  for  purposes  of  espial,  and  had  indeed 
enlarged  with  his  pocket-knife),  enabled  him  not  only  to 
hear,  but  to  see  distinctly,  what  was  passing. 

Applying  his  eye  to  this  convenient  place,  he  descried 
Mr.  Brass  seated  at  the  table  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
and  the  case-bottle  of  rum — his  own  case-bottle,  and  his 
own  particular  Jamaica — convenient  to  his  hand  ;  with 
hot  water,  fragrant  lemons,  white  lump  sugar,  and  all 
things  fitting  :  from  which  choice  materials,  Sampson, 
by  no  means  insensible  to  their  claims  upon  his  attention, 
had  compounded  a  mighty  glass  of  punch  reeking  hot  ; 
which  he  was  at  that  very  moment  stirring  up  with  a 
teaspoon,  and  contemplating  with  looks  in  which  a  faint 
assumption  of  sentimental  regret,  struggled  but  weakly 
with  a  bland  and  comfortable  joy.  At  the  same  table, 
with  both  her  elbows  upon  it,  was  Mrs.  Jiniwin  ;  no 
longer  sipping  other  people's  punch  feloniously  with  tea- 
spoons, but  taking  deep  draughts  from  a  jorum  of  her 
own  ;  while  her  daughter — not  exactly  with  ashes  on  her 
head,  or  sackcloth  on  her  back,  but  preserving  a  very 
decent  and  becoming  appearance  of  sorrow  nevertheless 
— was  reclining  in  an  easy-chair,  and  soothing  her  grief 
with  a  smaller  allowance  of  the  same  glib  liquid.  There 
were  also  present,  a  couple  of  water-side  men,  bearing 
between  them  certain  machines  called  drags  ;  even  these 
fellows  were  accommodated  with  a  stiff  glass  apiece  ; 
and  as  they  drank  with  a  great  relish,  and  were  naturally 
of  a  red-nosed,  pimple-faced,  convivial  look,  their  pres- 
ence rather  increased  than  detracted  from  that  decided 
appearance  of  comfort,  which  was  the  great  characteris- 
tic of  the  party. 

"  If  I  could  poison  that  dear  old  lady's  rum  and  water," 
murmured  Quilp,  "I'd  die  happy." 

"Ah  ! "  said  Mr.  Brass,  breaking  the  silence,  and  raising 
his  eyes  to  the  ceiling  with  a  sigh,  "who  knows  but  he 
may  be  looking  down  upon  us  now  !  Who  knows  but 
he  may  be  surveying  us  from — from  somewheres  or  an- 
other, and  contemplating  us  with  a  watchful  eye  !  Oh 
Lor!" 

Here  Mr.  Brass  stopped  to  drink  half  his  punch,  and 
then  resumed  ;  looking  at  the  other  half,  as  he  spoke, 
with  a  dejected  smile. 

"I  can  almost  fancy,"  said  the  lawyer,  shaking  his 
head,  "that  I  see  his  eye  glistening  down  at  the  very 
bottom  of  my  liquor.  When  shall  we  look  upon  his  like 
again?  Never,  never  !  One  minute  we  are  here" — 
holding  his  tumbler  before  his  eyes — "  the  next  we  are 
there  " — gulping  down  its  contents,  and  striking  himself 
emphatically  a  little  below  the  chest — "  in  the  silent 
tomb.  To  think  that  I  should  be  drinking  his  very  rum  1 
It  seems  like  a  dream." 

With  the  view,  no  doubt,  of  testing  the  reality  of  his 
position,  Mr.  Brass  pushed  his  tumbler  as  he  spoJce  towards 
Mrs.  Jiniwin  for  the  purpose  of  being  replenished  ;  and 
turned  towards  the  attendant  mariners. 

"  The  search  has  been  quite  unsuccessful,  then  ?  " 

"  Quite,  master.  But  I  should  say  that  if  he  turns  up 
anywhere,  he'll  come  ashore  somewhere  about  Grinidge 
to-morrow,  at  ebb  tide,  eh,  mate?" 

The  other  gentleman  assented,  observing  that  he  was 
expected  at  the  Hospital,  and  that  several  pensioners 
would  be  ready  to  receive  him  whenever  he  arrived. 

"  Then  wo  liave  nothing  for  it  but  resignation,"  said 
Mr.  Brass;  "nothing  but  resignation,  and  expectation. 
It  would  be  a  comfort  to  have  his  body ;  it  would  bo  a 
dreary  comfort," 


"  Oh,  beyond  a  doubt,"  assented  Mrs.  Jiniwin  hastily; 
"  if  we  once  had  that  we  should  be  quite  sure,"  % 

"  With  regard  to  the  descriptive  advertisement,"  said 
Sampson  Brass,  taking  up  his  pen.  "  It  is  a  melancholy 
pleasure  to  recall  his  traits.  Respecting  his  legs 
now — ?  " 

"  Crooked,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Jiniwiw. 

"  Do  you  think  they  were  crooked  ?"  said  Brass,  in  an 
insinuating  tone.  "  I  think  I  see  them  now  coming  up 
the  street  very  wide  apart,  in  nankeen  pantaloons  a  little 
shrunk  and  without  straps.  Ah  !  what  a  vale  of  tears 
we  live  in.    Do  we  say  crooked? " 

"  I  think  they  were  a  little  so,"  observed  Mrs.  Quilp, 
with  a  sob. 

"Legs  crooked,"  said  Brass,  writing  as  he  spoke. 
"  Large  head,  short  body,  legs  crooked — " 

"  Very.crooked,"  suggested  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

"We'll  not  say  very  crooked,  ma'am,"  said  Brass 
piously.  "  Let  us  not  bear  hard  upon  the  weaknesses 
of  the  deceased.  He  is  gone,  ma'am,  to  where  his  legs 
will  never  come  in  question. — We  will  content  ourselves 
with  crooked,  Mrs.  Jiniwin." 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  the  truth,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  That's  all." 

"  Bless  your  eyes,  how  I  love  you,"  muttered  Quilp. 
"  There  she  goes  again.    Nothing  but  punch  !" 

"  This  is  an  occupation,"  said  the  lawyer,  laying  down 
his  pen  and  emptying  his  glass,  "which  seems  to  bring 
him  before  my  eyes  like  the  Ghost  of  Hamlet's  father, 
in  the  very  clothes  that  he  wore  on  work-a-days.  His 
coat,  his  waistcoat,  his  shoes  and  stockings,  his  trousers, 
his  hat,  his  wit  and  humour,  his  pathos  and  his  umbrella, 
all  come  before  me  like  visions  of  my  youth.  His 
linen  !"  said  Mr.  Brass,  smiling  fondly  at  the  wall,  "his 
linen  which  was  always  of  a  particular  colour,  for 
such  was  his  whim  and  fancy — how  plain  I  see  his  linen 
now  ! " 

"  You  had  better  go  on,  sir,"  said  Mrs,  Jiniwin  impa- 
tiently. 

"True,  ma'am,  true,"  cried  Mr.  Brass,  "Our  facul- 
ties must  not  freeze  with  grief.  I'll  trouble  you  for  a 
little  more  of  that,  ma'am.  A  question  now  arises,  with 
relation  to  his  nose." 

"  Flat,"  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

"Aquiline  !"  cried  Quilp,  thrusting  in  his  head,  and 
striking  the  feature  with  his  fist,  "Aquiline,  you  hag. 
Do  you  see  it  ?    Do  you  call  this  flat  ?    Do  you  ?   Eh  ?  " 

"Oh  capital,  capital!"  shouted  Brass,  from  the  mere 
force  of  habit.  "Excellent!  How  very  good  he  is! 
He's  a  most  remarkable  man — so  extremely  whimsical  ! 
Such  an  amazing  power  of  taking  people  by  surprise  ! " 

Quilp  paid  no  regard  whatever  to  these  compliments, 
nor  to  the  dubious  and  frightened  look  into  which  the 
lawyer  gradually  subsided,  nor  to  the  shrieks  of  his  wife 
and  mother-in-law,  nor  to  the  latter's  running  from  the 
room,  nor  to  the  former's  fainting  away.  Keeping  his 
eye  fixed  on  Sampson  Brass  he  walked  up  to  the  table, 
and  beginning  with  his  glass,  drank  off  the  contents,  and 
went  regularly  round  until  he  had  emptied  the  other 
two,  when  he  seized  the  case-bottle,  and  hugging  it 
under  his  arm,  surveyed  him  with  a  most  extraordinary 
leer. 

"  Not  yet,  Sampson,"  said  Quilp,    "  Not  just  yet !  " 

"Oh  very  good  indeed  !"  cried  Brass,  recovering  his 
spirits  a  little,  "Ha  ha  ha  I  Oh  exceedingly  good! 
There's  not  another  man  alive  who  could  carry  it  off  like 
that,  A  most  difficult  position  to  carry  off.  But  he  has 
such  a  flow  of  good  humour,  such  an  amazing  flow  !  " 

"Good  night,"  said  the  dwarf,  nodding  expressively. 

"Good  night  sir,  good  night,"  cried  the  lawyer,  re- 
treating backwards  towards  the  door.  "  This  is  a  joy- 
ful occasion  indeed,  extremely  joyful.  Ha  ha  ha  I  oh 
very  rich,  very  rich  indeed,  re-markably  so  !" 

Waiting  until  Mr.  Brass's  ejaculations  died  away  in  the 
distance  (for  he  continued  to  pour  them  out,  all  the  way 
down-stairs),  Quilp  advanced  towards  the  two  men,  who 
yet  lingered  in  a  kind  of  stupid  amazement. 

"  Have  you  been  dragging  the  river  all  day,  gentle- 
men ?"  said  the  dwarf,  holding  the  door  open  with  great 
politeness. 

"And  yesterday  too,  master." 

"  Dear  me  you'Ve  had  a  deal  of  trouble.    Pray  con- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


785 


sider  everything  yours  that  you  find  upon  the — upon  the 
body.    Good -night !  " 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  but  had  evidently  no  in- 
clination to  argue  the  point  just  then,  and  shuffled  out 
of  the  room.  This  speedy  clearance  effected,  Quilp 
locked  the  doors  ;  and,  still  embracing  the  case-bottle 
with  shiugged-up  shoulders  and  folded  arms,  stood 
looking  at  his  insensible  wife  like  a  dismounted  night- 
mare. 


CHAPTER  L. 

Matrimonial  differences  are  usually  discussed  by  the 
parties  concerned  in  the  form  of  dialogue,  in  which  the 
lady  bears  at  least  her  full  half  share.  Those  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Quilp,  however,  were  an  exception  to  the  gen- 
eral rule  ;  the  remarks  vvhich  they  occasioned  being 
limited  to  a  long  soliloquy  on  the  part  of  the  gentleman, 
with  perhaps  a  few  deprecatory  observations  from  the 
lady,  not  extending  beyond  a  trembling  monosyllable  ut- 
tered at  long  intervals,  and  in  a  very  submissive  and 
humble  tone.  On  the  present  occasion,  Mrs.  Quilp  did 
not  for  a  long  time  venture  even  on  this  gentle  defence, 
but,  when  she  had  recovered  from  her  fainting  fit,  sat 
in  a  tearful  silence,  meekly  listening  to  the  reproaches 
of  her  lord  and  master. 

Of  these  Mr.  Quilp  delivered  himself  with  the  utmost 
animation  and  rapidity,  and  with  so  many  distortions  of 
limb  and  feature,  that  even  his  wife,  although  tolerably 
well  accustomed  to  his  proficiency  in  these  respects,  was 
well  nigh  beside  herself  with  alarm.  But  the  Jamaica 
rum,  and  the  joy  of  having  occasioned  a  heavy  disap- 
pointment, by  degrees  cooled  Mr.  Quilp's  wrath  ;  which, 
from  being  at  savage  heat,  dropped  slowly  to  the  banter- 
ing or  chuckling  point,  at  which  it  steadily  remained. 

"So  you  thought  I  was  dead  and  gone,  did  you?" 
said  Quilp.  "You  thought  you  were  a  widow,  eh? 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  you  jade  !  " 

"Indeed  Quilp,"  returned  his  wife.  "I'm  very 
sorry — " 

"Who  doubts  it!"  cried  the  dwarf.  "You  very 
sorry  !  to  be  sure  you  are.  Who  doubts  that  you're  mry 
sorry  ! " 

"  I  don't  mean  sorry  that  you  have  come  home  again 
alive  and  well,"  said  his  wife,  "  but  sorry  that  I  should 
have  been  led  into  such  a  belief.  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
Quilp  ;  indeed  I  am." 

In  truth  Mrs.  Quilp  did  seem  a  great  deal  more  glad  to 
behold  her  lord  than  might  have  been  expected,  and  did 
evince  a  degree  of  interest  in  his  safety  which,  all  things 
considered,  was  rather  unaccountable.  Upon  Quilp, 
however,  this  circumstance  made  no  impression,  farther 
than  as  it  moved  him  to  snap  his  fingers  close  to  his 
wife's  eyes,  with  divers  grins  of  triumph  and  derision. 

"  How  could  you  go  away  so  long,  without  saying  a 
word  to  me  or  letting  me  hear  of  you  or  know  anything 
about  you?"  asked  the  poor  little  woman,  sobjjing. 
"How  could  you  be  so  cruel,  Quilp?" 

"  How  could  I  be  so  cruel  !  cruel !"  cried  the  dwarf. 
"Because  I  was  in  the  humour.  I'm  in  the  humour 
now.  I  shall  be  cruel  when  I  like.  I'm  going  away 
again." 

"  Not  again  !  " 

"  Yes,  again.  I'm  going  away  now.  I'm  off  directly. 
I  mean  to  go  and  live  wherever  the  fancy  seizes  me — at 
the  wharf — at  the  counting-house — and  be  a  jolly  bache- 
lor. You  were  a  widow  in  anticipation.  Damme," 
screamed  the  dwarf,  "  I'll  be  a  bachelor  in  earnest." 

"You  can't  be  serious,  Quilp,"  sobbed  his  wife. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  the  dwarf,  exulting  in  his  pro- 
ject, "  that  I'll  be  a  bachelor,  a  devil-may-care  bachelor  ; 
and  I'll  have  my  bachelor's  hall  at  the  counting-house, 
and  at  such  times  come  near  it  if  you  dare.  And  mind 
too  that  I  don't  pounce  in  upon  you  at  unseasonable 
hours  again,  for  I'll  be  a  spy  upon  you,  and  come  and 
o  like  a  mole  or  a  weazel.  Tom  Scott — where's  Tom 
cott?" 

"Here  I  am,  master,"  cried  the  voice  of  the  boy,  as 
Quilp  threw  up  the  window. 

"Wait  there,  you  dog,"  returned  the  dwarf,  "to 
carry  a  bachelor's  portmanteau.  Pack  it  up,  Mrs.  Quilp. 
Vol.  II.— 50 


Knock  up  the  dear  old  lady  to  help  ;  knock  her  up. 
Hallo  there!  Hallo!" 

With  these  exclamations,  Mr.  Quilp  caught  up  the 
poker,  and  hurrying  to  the  door  of  the  good  lady's 
sleeping-closet,  beat  upon  it  therewith  until  she  awoke 
in  inexpressible  terror,  thinking  that  her  amiable  .son- 
in-law  surely  intended  to  murder  her  in  justification  of 
the  legs  she  had  slandered.  Impressed  with  this  idea, 
she  was  no  sooner  fairly  awake  than  she  screamed  vio- 
lently, and  would  have  quickly  precipitated  herself  out 
of  the  window  and  through  a  neighbouring  skylight,  if 
her  daughter  had  not  hastened  in  to  undeceive  her,  and 
implore  her  assistance.  Somewhat  reassured  by  her  ac- 
count of  the  service  she  was  required  to  render,  Mrs. 
Jini  win  made  her  appearance  in  a  flannel  dressing-gown  ; 
and  both  mother  and  daughter,  trembling  with  terror 
and  cold — for  the  night  was  now  far  advanced — obeyed 
Mr.  Quilp's  directions  in  submissive  silence.  Prolong- 
ing his  preparations  as  much  as  possible,  for  their  great- 
er comfort,  that  eccentric  gentleman  superintended  the 
packing  of  his  wardrobe,  and,  having  added  to  it  with 
his  own  hands,  a  plate,  knife  and  fork,  spoon,  tea-cup 
and  saucer,  and  other  small  household  matters  of  that  na- 
ture, strapped  up  the  portmanteau,  took  it  on  his  shoul- 
ders, and  actually  marched  off  without  another  word,  and 
with  the  case- bottle  (which  he  had  never  once  yjut 
down)  still  tightly  clasped  under  his  arm.  Consigning 
his  heavier  burden  to  the  care  of  Tom  Scott  when  he 
reached  the  street,  taking  a  dram  from  the  bottle  for 
his  own  encouragement,  and  giving  the  boy  a  rap  on  the 
head  with  it  as  a  small  taste  for  himself,  Quilp  very  de- 
liberately led  the  way  to  the  wharf,  and  reached  it  at 
between  three  and  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"Snug  ! "  said  Quilp,  when  he  had  groped  his  way  to 
the  wooden  counting-house,  and  opened  the  door  with  a 
key  he  carried  about  with  him.  "Beautifully  snug! 
Call  me  at  eight,  you  dog." 

With  no  more  formal  leave-taking  or  explanation,  he 
clutched  the  portmanteau,  shut  the  door  on  his  attend- 
ant, and  climbing  on  the  desk,  and  rolling  himself  up  as 
round  as  a  hedgehog,  in  an  old  boat-cloak,  fell  fast 
asleep. 

Being  roused  in  the  morning  at  the  appointed  time, 
and  roused  with  difficulty,  after  his  late  fatigues,  Quilp 
instructed  Tom  Scott  to  make  a  fire  in  the  yard  of  sundry 
pieces  of  old  timber,  and  to  prepare  some  coffee  for 
breakfast  ;  for  the  better  furnishing  of  which  repast  he 
entrusted  him  with  certain  small  moneys,  to  be  expend- 
ed in  the  purchase  of  hot  rolls,  butter,  sugar,  Yarmouth 
bloaters,  and  other  articles  of  house-keeping  ;  so  that  in 
a  few  minutes  a  savoury  meal  was  smoking  on  the 
board.  With  this  substantial  comfort,  the  dwarf  re- 
galed himself  to  his  heart's  content  ;  and  being  highly 
satisfied  with  this  free  and  gipsy  mode  of  life  (which  he 
had  often  meditated,  as  offering,  whenever  he  chose  to 
avail  himself  of  it,  an  agreeable  freedom  from  the  re- 
straints of  matrimony,  and  a  choice  means  of  keeping 
Mrs.  Quilp  and  her  mother  in  a  state  of  incessant  agi- 
tation and  suspense),  bestirred  himself  to  improve  his 
retreat,  and  render  it  more  commodious  and  comforta- 
ble. 

With  this  view  he  issued  forth  to  a  place  hard  by, 
where  sea-stores  were  sold,  purchased  a  second-hand 
hammock,  and  had  it  slung  in  seamanlike  fashion  from 
the  ceiling  of  the  counting-house.  He  also  caused  to  be 
erected,  in  the  same  mouldy  cabin,  an  old  ship's  stove 
with  a  rusty  funnel  to  carry  the  smoke  through  the  roof  ; 
and  these  arrangements  completed,  surveyed  them  with 
ineffable  delight. 

"I've  got  a  country-house  like  Robinson  Crusoe,"  said 
the  dwarf,  ogling  the  accommodations  ;  "a  solitary,  se- 
questered desolate  island  sort  of  a  spot,  where  I  can  be 
quite  alone  when  I  have  business  on  hand,  and  be  secure 
from  all  spies  and  listeners.  Xobody  near  me  here,  but 
rats,  and  they  are  fine  stealthy  secret  fellows.  I  shall 
be  as  merry  as  a  grig  among  these  gentry.  I'll  look  out 
for  one  like  Christopher,  and  poison  him — ha.  ha,  ha  ! 
Business  though — business — we  must  be  mindful  of 
business  in  the  midst  of  pleasure,  and  the  time  has  flown 
this  morning,  I  declare." 

Enjoining  Tom  Scott  to  await  his  return,  and  not  to 
stand  upon  his  head,  or  throw  a  summerset,  or  so  much 


* 


786  CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


as  wait  upon  his  hands  meanwhile,  on  pain  of  lingering 
torments,  the  dwarf  threw  himself  into  a  boat,  and 
crossing  to  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  then  speeding 
away  on  foot,  reached  Mr.  Swiveller's  usual  house  of 
entertainment  in  Bevis  Marks,  just  as  that  gentleman 
sat  down  alone  to  dinner  in  its  dusky  parlour. 

"  Dick,"— said  the  dwarf,  thrusting  his  head  in  at  the 
door,  "  my  pet,  my  pupil,  the  apple  of  my  eye,  hey, 
hey  ! " 

"  Oh  you're  there,  are  you?"  returned  Mr.  Swiveller, 
^'Tiow  are  you  ?  " 

"How's  Dick?"  retorted  Quilp.  How's  the  cream 
of  clerkship,  eh  ?  " 

"  Why,  rather  sour,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Swiveller. 
"  Beginiiing  to  border  upon  cheesiness,  in  fact." 

''What's  the  matter?"  said  the  dwarf,  advancing. 
*'Has  Sally  proved  unkind.  '  Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so 
smart,  there's  none  like — '  eh  Dick  !  " 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  Mr.  Swiveller,  eating  his 
dinner  with  great  gravity,  "none  like  her.  She's  the 
sphynx  of  private  life  is  Sally  B." 

You're  out  of  spirits,"  said  Quilp,  drawing  up  a 
chair.    ' '  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  The  law  don't  agree  with  me,"  returned  Dick.  "  It 
isn't  moist  enough,  and  there's  too  much  confinement. 
I  have  been  thinking  of  running  away." 

"Bah  I  "  said  the  dwarf.  "  Where  would  you  run  to, 
Dick?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Mr.  Swiveller.  "  Towards 
Highgate,  I  suppose.  Perhaps  the  bells  might  strike 
up  'Turn  again  Swiveller,  Lord  Mayor  of  London.' 
Whittington's  name  was  Dick.  I  wish  cats  were 
scarcer." 

Quilp  looked  at  his  companion  with  his  eyes  screwed 
up  into  a  comical  expression  of  curiosity,  and  patiently 
awaited  his  further  explanation  ;  upon  which  however, 
Mr.  Swiveller  appeared  in  no  hurry  to  enter,  as  he  ate  a 
very  long  dinner  in  profound  silence,  finally  pushed 
away  his  plate,  threw  himself  back  into  his  chair,  folded 
his  arms,  and  stared  ruefully  at  the  fire,  in  which  some 
ends  of  cigars  were  smoking  on  their  own  account,  and 
sending  up  a  fragrant  odour, 

"Perhaps  you'd  like  a  bit  of  cake" — said  Dick,  at 
last  turning  to  the  dwarf.  "  You're  quite  welcome  to  it. 
You  ought  to  be,  for  it's  of  your  making." 

"What  do  you  mean?  "  said  Quilp. 

Mr.  Swiveller  replied  by  taking  from  his  pocket  a  small 
and  very  greasy  parcel,  slowly  unfolding  it,  and  display- 
ing a  little  slab  of  plum  cake,  extremely  indigestible  in 
appearance,  and  bordered  with  a  paste  of  white  sugar  an 
inch  and  a  half  deep. 

"What  should  you  say  this  was?"  demanded  Mr. 
Swiveller. 

"It  looks  like  bride-cake,"  replied  the  dwarf,  grin 
ning. 

"  And  whose  should  you  say  it  was?"  inquired  Mr. 
Swiveller,  rubbing  the  pastry  against  his  nose  with  a 
dreadful  calmness.    "  Whose  ?" 

"  Not—" 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  "the  same.  You  needn't  mention 
her  name.  There's  no  such  name  now.  Her  name  is 
Cheggs  now,  Sophy  Cheggs.  Yet  loved  I  as  man  never 
loved  that  hadn't  wooden  legs,  and  my  heart,  my  heart 
is  breaking  for  the  love  of  Sophy  Cheggs." 

With  this  extemporary  adaptation  of  a  popular  ballad 
to  the  distressing  circumstances  of  his  own  case,  Mr. 
Swiveller  folded  up  the  parcel  again,  beat  it  very  flat 
between  the  palms  of  his  hands,  thrust  it  into  his 
breast,  buttoned  his  coat  over  it  and  folded  his  arms 
upon  the  whole. 

'"Now,  I  hope  you're  satisfied  sir,"  said  Dick  ;  "  and 
I  hope  Fred's  satisfied.  You  went  partners  in  the  mis- 
chief, and  I  hope  you  like  it.  This  is  the  triumph  I  was 
to  have,  is  it?  It's  like  the  old  country-dance  of  that 
name,  where  there  are  two  gentlemen  to  one  lady,  and 
one  has  her,  and  the  other  hasn't,  but  comes  limping  up 
behind  to  make  out  the  figure.  But  it's  Destiny,  and 
mine's  a  crusher  I  " 

Disguising  his  secret  joy  in  Mr.  Swiveller's  defeat, 
Daniel  Quilj>  adopted  the  surest  means  of  soothing  him, 
by  ringing  the  bell,  and  ordering  in  a  supply  of  rosy 
wine  (that  is  to  say  of  its  usual  representative), 


which  he  put  about  with  great  alacrity,  calling  upon  Mr. 
Swiveller  to  pledge  him  in  various  toasts  derisive  of 
Cheggs,  and  eulogistic  of  the  happiness  of  single  men. 
Such  was  their  impression  on  Mr.  Swiveller,  coupled 
with  the  reflection  that  no  man  could  oppose  his  destiny, 
that  in  a  very  short  space  of  time  his  spirits  rose  sur- 
prisingly, and  he  was  enabled  to  give  the  dwarf  an  ac- 
count of  the  receipt  of  the  cake,  which,  it  appeared,  had 
been  brought  to  Bevis  Marks  by  the  two  surviving  Miss 
Wackleses  in  person,  and  delivered  at  the  office  door 
with  much  giggling  and  joyfulness. 

"Ha!"  said  Quilp.  "It  will  be  our  turn  to  giggle 
soon.  And  that  reminds  me — you  spoke  of  young  Trent 
— where  is  he  ?  " 

Mr,  Swiveller  explained  that  his  respectable  friend 
had  recently  accepted  a  responsible  situation  in  a  loco- 
motive gaming  house,  and  was  at  that  time  absent  on  a 
professional  tour,  among  the  adventurous  spirits  of  Great 
Britain, 

"  That's  unfortunate,"  said  the  dwarf,  "for  I  came, 
in  fact,  to  ask  you  about  him.  A  thought  has  occurred 
to  me.    Dick  ;  your  friend  over  the  way — " 

"Which  friend?" 

"  In  the  first  floor." 

"Yes?" 

"Your  friend  in  the  first  floor,  Dick,  may  know 
him." 

"No  he  don't,"  said  Mr,  Swiveller,  shaking  his 
head. 

"  Don't.  No,  because  he  has  never  seen  him,"  re- 
joined Quilp  ;  "but  if  we  were  to  bring  them  together, 
who  knows,  Dick,  but  Fred,  properly  introduced,  would 
serve  his  turn  almost  as  well  as  little  Nell  or  her  grand- 
father— who  knows  but  it  might  make  the  young  fel- 
low's fortune,  and,  through  him,  yours,  eh?" 

"Why,  the  fact  is,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
"that  they  have  been  brought  together." 

"Have  been  !"  cried  the  dwarf,  looking  suspiciously 
at  his  companion.    "  Through  whose  means?" 

"Through  mine,"  said  Dick,  slightly  confused. 
"  Didn't  I  mention  it  to  you  the  last  time  you  called  over 
yonder  ? " 

"  You  know  you  didn't,"  returned  the  dwarf, 

"I  believe  you're  right,"  said  Dick.    "  No.    I  didn't, 

I  recollect.    Oh  yes,  I  brought  'em  together  that  very 

day.    It  was  Fred's  suggestion," 
"  And  what  came  of  it  ?" 

"  Why,  instead  of  my  friend's  bursting  into  tears 
when  he  knew  who  Fred  was,  embracing  him  kindly, 
and  telling  him  that  he  was  his  grandfather,  or  his  grand- 
mother in  disguise,  (which  we  fully  expected),  he  flew 
into  a  tremendous  passion  ;  called  him  all  manner  of 
names  ;  and  said  it  was  in  a  great  measure  his  fault  that 
little  Nell  and  the  old  gentleman  had  ever  been  brought 
to  poverty  ;  didn't  hint  at  our  taking  anything  to  drink  ; 
and — and  in  short  rather  turned  us  out  of  the  room  than 
otherwise."  / 

"  That's  strange,"  said  the  dwarf  musing. 

'*  So  we  remarked  to  each  other  at  the  time,"  returned 
Dick  coolly,  "but  quite  true," 

Quilp  was  plainly  staggered  by  this  intelligence,  over 
which  he  brooded  for  some  time  in  moody  silence,  often 
raising  his  eyes  to  Mr.  Swiveller's  face,  and  sharply 
scanning  its  expression.  As  he  could  read  in  it,  how- 
ever, no  additional  information  or  anything  to  lead  him 
to  believe  he  had  spoken  falsely  ;  and  as  Mr.  Swiveller,  • 
left  to  his  own  meditations,  sighed  deeply,  and  was  evi- 
dently growing  maudlin  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Cheggs  ; 
the  dwarf  soon  broke  up  the  conference  and  took  his 
departure,  leaving  the  bereaved  one  to  his  melancholy 
ruminations. 

"Have  been  brought  together,  eh?"  said  the  dwarf, 
as  he  walked  the  streets  alone.  "My  friend  has  stolen 
a  march  upon  me.  It  led  him  to  nothing,  and  therefore 
is  no  great  matter,  save  in  the  intention.  I'm  glad  he 
has  lost  his  mistress.  Ha  ha  !  The  blockhead  mustn't 
leave  the  law  at  present,  I'm  sure  of  him  where  he  is, 
whenever  I  want  him  for  my  own  purposes,  and,  be- 
sides, he's  a  good  unconscious  spy  on  Brass,  and  tells, 
in  his  cups,  all  that  he  sees  and  hears.  You're  useful  to 
me  Dick,  and  cost  nothing  but  a  little  treating  now  and 
then.    I  am  not  sure  that  it  may  not  be  worth  while,  be- 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSiTY  OF  lUlNOIS 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


787 


fore  long,  to  take  credit  with  the  stranger,  Dick,  by  dis- 
covering your  designs  upon  the  child  ;  but  for  the  pres- 
ent, we'll  remain  the  best  friends  in  the  world,  with 
your  good  leave," 

Pursuing  these  thoughts,  and  gasping  as  he  went 
along,  after  his  own  peculiar  fashion,  Mr.  Quilp  once 
more  crossed  the  Thames,  and  shut  himself  up  in  his 
Bachelor's  Hall,  which,  by  reason  of  his  newly  erected 
chimney  depositing  the  smoke  inside  the  room  and  carry- 
ing none  of  it  oif,  was  not  quite  so  agreeable  as  more 
fastidious  people  might  have  desired.  Such  inconveni- 
ences, however,  instead  of  disgusting  the  dwarf  witb 
his  new  abode,  rather  suited  his  humour  ;  so,  after  din- 
ing luxuriously  from  the  public  house,  he  lighted  his 
pipe,  and  smoked  against  the  chimney  until  nothing  of 
him  was  visible  through  the  mist,  but  a  pair  of  red  and 
highly  inHamed  eyes,  with  sometimes  a  dim  vision  of  his 
head  and  face,  as,  in  a  violent  fit  of  coughing,  he  slightly 
stirred  the  smoke  and  scattered  the  heavy  wreaths  by 
which  they  were  obscured.  In  the  midst  of  this  atmos- 
phere, which  must  infallibly  have  smothered  any  other 
man,  Mr.  Quilp  passed  the  evening  with  great  cheerful- 
ness ;  solacing  himself  all  the  time  with  the  pipe  and 
the  case-bottle  ;  and  occasionally  entertaining  himself 
with  a  melodious  howl,  intended  for  a  song,  but  bearing 
not  the  faintest  resemblance  to  any  scrap  of  any  piece 
of  music,  vocal  or  instrumental,  ever  invented  by  man. 
Thus  he  amused  himself  until  nearly  midnight,  when 
he  turned  into  his  hammock  with  the  utmost  satisfac- 
tion. 

The  first  sound  that  met  his  ears  in  the  morning — as 
he  half  opened  his  eyes,  and,  finding  himself  so  unusual- 
ly near  the  ceiling,  entertained  a  drowsy  idea  that  he 
must  have  been  transformed  into  a  fiy  or  blue-bottle  in 
the  course  of  the  night, — was  that  of  a  stifled  sobbing 
and  weeping  in  the  room. 

Peeping  cautiously  over  the  side  of  the  hammock,  he 
descried  Mrs.  Quilp,  to  whom,  after  contemplating  her 
for  some  time  in  silence,  he  communicated  a  violent  start 
by  suddenlv  yelling  out, 

"Halloa"! " 

"Oh  Quilp  !  "  cried  his  poor  little  wife,  looking  up. 
"  How  you  frightened  me  !  " 

"  I  meant  to,  you  jade,"  returned  the  dwarf.  "  What 
do  you  want  here  ?    I'm  dead,  an't  I  ?  " 

"  Oh  please  come  home,  do  come  home,"  said  Mrs. 
Quilp,  sobbing  ;  "  we'll  never  do  so  any  more,  Quilp,  and 
after  all  it  was  only  a  mistake  that  grew  out  of  our  anx- 
iety." 

"  Out  of  your  anxiety,"  grinned  the  dwarf.  "  Yes,  I 
know  that — out  of  your  anxiety  for  my  death.  I  shall 
come  home  when  I  please,  I  tell  you.  I  shall  come  home 
when  I  please,  and  go  when  I  please.  I'll  be  a  Will  o' 
the  Wisp,  now  here,  now  there,  dancing  about  you  al- 
ways, starting  up  when  you  least  expect  me,  and  keep- 
ing you  in  a  constant  state  of  restlessness  and  irritation. 
Will  you  begone  ?  " 

Mrs.  Quilp  durst  only  make  a  gesture  of  entreaty. 

'*  I  tell  you  no,"  cried  the  dwarf.  "  No.  If  you  dare 
to  come  here  again  unless  you're  sent  for,  I'll  keep  watch- 
dogs in  the  yard  that'll  growl  and  bite — I'll  have  man- 
traps, cunningly  altered  and  improved  for  catching 
women — I'll  have  spring  guns  that  shall  explode  when 
you  tread  upon  the  wires,  and  blow  you  into  little  pieces. 
Will  you  go  ?  " 

"  Do  forgive  me.  Do  come  back,"  said  his  wife,  ear- 
nestly. 

"  No-o-o-o-o  !  "  roared  Quilp,  "  Not  till  my  own  good 
time,  and  then  I'll  return  again  as  often  as  I  choose,  and 
be  accountable  to  nobody  for  my  goings  or  comings.  You 
see  the  door  there.    Will  you  go  ?  " 

Mr.  Quilp  delivered  this  last  command  in  such  a  very 
energetic  voice,  and  moreover  accompanied  it  with  such 
a  sudden  gesture,  indicative  of  an  intention  to  spring  out 
of  his  hammock,  and,  night-capped  as  he  was,  bear  his 
wife  home  again  through  the  public  streets,  that  she  sped 
away  like  an  arrow.  Iler  worthy  lord  stretched  his  neck 
and  eyes  until  she  had  crossed  the  yard,  and  then,  not  at 
all  Sony  to  have  had  this  opportunity  of  carrying  his 
point,  and  asserting  the  sanctity  of  his  castle,  fell  into  an 
immoderate  fit  of  laughter,  and  laid  himself  down  to  sleep 
again. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

TnE  bland  and  open-hearted  proprietor  of  Bachelor's 
Hall  slept  on  amidst  the  congenial  accompaniments  of 
rain,  mud,  dirt, damp,  fog,  and  rats,  until  late  in  the  day  ; 
when,  summoning  his  valet  Tom  Scott  to  assist  him  to 
rise,  and  to  prepare  breakfast,  he  quitted  his  couch,  and 
made  his  toilet.  This  duty  performed,  and  his  repast 
ended,  he  again  betook  himself  to  Bevis  Marks. 

This  visit  was  not  intended  for  Mr.  Swiveller,  but  for 
his  friend  and  employer  Mr.  Sampson  Brass.  Both  gen- 
tlemen however  were  from  home,  nor  was  the  life  and 
light  of  law,  Miss  Sally,  at  her  post  either.  The  fact  of 
their  joint  desertion  of  the  office  was  made  known  to  all 
comers  by  a  scrap  of  paper  in  the  handwriting  of  Mr. 
Swiveller,  which  was  attached  to  the  bell-handle,  and 
which,  giving  the  reader  no  clue  to  the  time  of  day  when 
it  was  first  posted,  furnished  him  with  the  rather  vague 
and  unsatisfactory  information  that  that  gentleman 
would  "  return  in  an  hour." 

' '  There's  a  servant,  I  suppose,"  said  the  dwarf,  knock- 
ing at  the  house-door.    "  She'll  do." 

After  a  sufiiciently  long  interval,  the  door  was  opened, 
and  a  small  voice  immediately  accosted  him  with,  "Oh 
please  will  you  leave  a  card  or  message  ?  " 

"Eh?"  said  the  dwarf,  looking  down  (it  was  some- 
thing quite  new  to  him)  upon  the  small  servant. 

To  this,  the  child,  conducting  her  conversation  as 
upon  the  occasion  of  her  first  interview  with  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler, again  replied,  "Oh  please  will  you  leave  a  card  or 
message  ?  " 

"I'll  write  a  note,"  said  the  dwarf,  pushing  past  her 
into  the  office  ;  "  and  mind  your  master  has  it  directly 
he  comes  home."  So  Mr.  Quilp  climbed  up  to  the  top  of 
a  tall  stool  to  write  the  note,  and  the  small  servant  care- 
fully tutored  for  such  emergencies,  looked  on,  with  her 
eyes  wide  open,  ready  if  he  so  much  as  abstracted  a  wa- 
fer, to  rush  into  the  street  and  give  the  alarm  to  the  po- 
lice. 

As  Mr.  Quilp  folded  his  note  (which  was  soon  written  : 
being  a  very  short  one)  he  encountered  the  gaze  of  the 
small  servant.    He  looked  at  her,  long  and  earnestly, 

"How  are  you?"  said  the  dwarf,  moistening  a  wafer 
with  horrible  grimaces. 

The  small  servant,  perhaps  frightened  by  his  looks, 
returned  no  audible  reply  ;  but  it  appeared  from  the 
motion  of  her  lips  that  she  was  inwardly  repeating  the 
same  form  of  expression  concerning  the  note  or  message. 

"Do  they  use  you  ill  here?  is  your  mistress  a  Tar- 
tar?" said  Quilp  with  a  chuckle. 

In  reply  to  the  last  interrogation,  the  small  servant, 
with  a  look  of  infinite  cunning  mingled  with  fear, 
screwed  up  her  mouth  very  tight  and  round,  and  nod- 
ded violently. 

Whether  there  was  anything  in  the  peculiar  slyness 
of  her  action  which  fascinated  Mr.  Quilp,  or  anything  in 
the  expression  of  her  features  at  the  moment  which  at- 
tracted his  attention  for  some  other  reason ;  or  whether 
it  merely  occurred  to  him  as  a  pleasant  whim  to  stare 
the  small  servant  out  of  countenance  ;  certain  it  is,  that 
he  planted  his  elbows  square  and  firmly  on  the  desk, 
and  squeezing  up  his  cheeks  with  his  hands,  looked  at 
her  fixedly. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from?"  he  said  after  a  long 
pause,  stroking  his  chin. 
" I  don't  know." 
"  What's  your  name  ?" 
"Nothing!" 

"Nonsense!"    retorted  Quilp.      "What  does  your 
mistress  call  you  when  she  wants  you  ?  " 
"  A  little  devil,"  said  the  child. 

She  added  in  the  same  breath,  as  if  fearful  of  any 
further  questioning,  "  But  please  will  you  leave  a  card 
or  message  ?  " 

These  unusual  answers  might  naturally  have  provoked 
some  more  inquiries,  Quilp,  however,  without  uttering 
another  word,  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  small  servant, 
stroked  his  chin  more  thoughtfully  than  before,  and  then 
bending  over  the  note  as  if  to  direct  it  with  scrupulous 
and  hair-breadth  nicety,  looked  at  her,  covertly  but  very 
narrowly,  from  under  his  bushy  eyebrows.  The  result 
of  this  secret  survey  was,  that  he  shaded  his  face  with 


788 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


his  hands,  and  laughed  slyly  and  noiselessly,  until  every 
vein  in  it  was  swollen  almost  to  bursting.  ^  Pulling  his 
hat  over  his  brow  to  conceal  his  mirth  and  its  effects,  he 
tossed  the  letter  to  the  child  and  hastily  withdrew. 

Once  in  the  street,  moved  by  some  secret  impulse,  he 
laughed,  and  held  his  sides,  and  laughed  again,  and 
tried  to  peer  through  the  dusty  area  railings  as  if  to 
catch  another  glimpse  of  the  child,  until  he  was  quite 
tired  out.  At  last,  he  travelled  back  to  the  Wilderness, 
which  was  within  rifle-shot  of  his  bachelor  retreat,  and 
ordered  tea  in  the  wooden  summer-house  that  afternoon 
for  three  persons  ;  an  invitation  to  Miss  Sally  Brass  and 
her  brother  to  partake  of  that  entertainment  at  that  place, 
having  been  the  object  both  of  his  journey  and  his  note. 

It  was  not  precisely  the  kind  of  weather  in  which  peo- 
ple usually  take  tea  in  summer-houses,  far  less  in  sum- 
mer-houses in  an  advanced  state  of  decay,  and  over- 
looking the  slimy  banks  of  a  great  river  at  low  water. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  in  this  choice  retreat  that  Mr. 
Quilp  ordered  a  cold  collation  to  be  prepared,  and  it  was 
beneath  its  cracked  and  leaky  roof  that  he,  in  due  course 
of  time,  received  Mr.  Sampson  and  his  sister  Sally. 

"You're  fond  of  the  beauties  of  nature,"  said  Quilp 
with  a  grin.  "  Is  this  charming,  Brass  ?  Is  it  unusual, 
unsophisticated,  primitive?" 

"It's  delightful  indeed,  sir,"  replied  the  lawyer. 

"Cool?"  said  Quilp. 

"N-not  particularly  so,  I  think,  sir,"  rejoined  Brass, 
with  his  teeth  chattering  in  his  head. 

"Perhaps  a  little  damp  and  agueish  ? "  said  Quilp. 

"Just  damp  enough  to  be  cheerful,  sir,"  rejoined 
Brass.    "Nothing  more,  sir,  nothing  more." 

"And  Sally?"  said  the  delighted  dwarf.  "Does  she 
like  it  ! " 

"  She'll  like  it  better,"  returned  that  strong-minded 
lady,  "  when  she  has  tea  ;  so  let  us  have  it,  and  don't 
bother." 

"  Sweet  Sally  !  "  cried  Quilp,  extending  his  arms  as  if 
about  to  embrace  her.  "  Gentle,  charming,  overwhelm- 
ing Sally." 

"He's  a  very  remarkable  man  indeed!"  soliloquised 
Mr.  Brass.  "  He's  quite  a  Troubadour  you  know  ;  quite 
a  Troubadour  ! " 

These  complimentary  expressions  were  uttered  in  a 
somewhat  absent  and  distracted  manner  ;  for  the  unfor- 
tunate lawyer,  besides  having  a  bad  cold  in  his  head, 
had  got  wet  in  coming,  and  would  have  willingly  borne 
some  pecuniary  sacrifice  if  he  could  have  shifted  his 
present  raw  quarters  to  a  warm  room,  and  dried  himself 
at  a  fire.  Quilp,  however, — who,  beyond  the  gratifica- 
tion of  his  demon  whims,  owed  Sampson  some  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  part  he  had  played  in  the  mourning 
scene  of  which  he  had  been  a  hidden  witness, — marked 
these  symptoms  of  uneasiness  with  a  delight  past  all 
expression,  and  derived  from  them  a  secret  joy,  which 
the  costliest  banquet  could  never  have  afforded  him. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  too,  as  illustrating  a  little 
feature  in  the  character  of  Miss  Sally  Brass,  that,  al- 
though on  her  own  account  she  would  have  borne  the 
discomforts  of  the  Wilderness  with  a  very  ill  grace,  and 
would  probably,  indeed,  have  walked  off  before  the  tea 
appeared,  she  no  sooner  beheld  the  latent  uneasiness 
and  misery  of  her  brother  than  she  developed  a  grim 
satisfaction,  and  began  to  enjoy  herself  after  her  own 
manner.  Though  the  wet  came  stealing  through  the 
roof,  and  trickling  down  upon  their  heads.  Miss  Brass 
uttered  no  complaint,  but  presided  over  the  tea  equipage 
with  imperturbable  composure.  While  Mr.  Quilp,  in  his 
uproarious  hospitality,  seated  himself  upon  an  empty 
beer-barrel,  vaunted  the  place  as  the  most  beautiful  and 
comfortable  in  the  three  kingdoms,  and  elevating  his 
glass,  drank  to  their  next  merry-meeting  in  that  jovial 
spot  ;  and  Mr.  Brass,  with  the  rain  plashing  down  into 
his  tea-cup,  made  a  dismal  attempt  to  pluck  ui)his  spirits 
and  appear  at  his  ease  ;  and  Tom  Scott,  who  was  in 
waiting  at  the  door  under  an  old  umbrella,  exulted  in 
his  agonies,  and  bade  fair  to  split  his  sides  with  laughing  ; 
while  all  this  was  passing.  Miss  Sally  Brass,  unmindful 
of  the  wet  which  dripped  down  upon  her  own  feminine 
person  and  fair  apparel,  sat  placidly  behind  tlic  tea- 
board,  erect  and  grizzly,  contemplating  the  unhappiness 
of  her  brother  with  a  mind  at  ease,  and  content,  in  her 


amiable  disregard  of  self,  to  sit  there  all  night,  witness- 
ing the  torments  which  his  avaricious  and  grovelling 
nature  compelled  him  to  endure  and  forbade  him  to  re- 
sent. And  this,  it  must  be  observed,  or  the  illustration 
would  be  incomplete,  although  in  a  business  point  of 
view  she  had  the  strongest  sympathy  with  Mr.  Sampson, 
and  would  have  been  beyond  measure  indignant,  if  he 
had  thwarted  their  client  in  any  one  respect. 

In  the  height  of  his  boisterous  merriment,  Mr.  Quilp, 
having  on  some  pretence  dismissed  his  attendant  sprite 
for  the  moment,  resumed  his  usual  manner  all  at  once, 
dismounted  from  his  cask,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
lawyer's  sleeve. 

"A  word;"  said  the  dwarf,  "before  we  go  farther. 
Sally  hark'ee  for  a  minute." 

Miss  Sally  drew  closer,  as  if  accustomed  to  business 
conferences  with  their  host  which  were  the  better  for  not 
having  air. 

"  Business,"  said  the  dwarf,  glancing  from  brother  to 
sister.  "Very  private  business.  Lay  your  heads  to- 
gether when  you're  by  yourselves," 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  returned  Brass,  taking  out  his  pocket- 
book  and  pencil.  "I'll  take  down  the  heads  if  you 
please,  sir.  Remarkable  documents,"  added  the  lawyer, 
raising  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  "  most  remarkable  docu- 
ments. He  states  his  points  so  clearly  that  it's  a  treat  to 
have  'em.  I  don't  know  any  act  of  parliament  that's 
equal  to  him  in  clearness." 

"  I  shall  deprive  you  of  a  treat,"  said  Quilp.  "Put 
up  your  book.  We  don't  want  any  documents.  So. 
There's  a  lad  name  Kit — " 

Miss  Sally  nodded,  implying  that  she  knew  of  him. 

"  Kit  !"  said  Mr.  Sampson. — "  Kit  !  Ha  !  I've  heard 
the  name  before,  but  I  don't  exactly  call  to  mind — I  don't 
exactly — " 

"  You're  as  slow  as  a  tortoise,  and  more  thick-headed 
than  a  rhinoceros,"  returned  his  obliging  client  with  an 
impatient  gesture. 

"He's  extremely  pleasant!"  cried  the  obsequious 
Sampson.  "  His  acquaintance  with  Natural  History  too 
is  surprising.    Quite  a  Buffoon,  quite  !  " 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Brass  intended  some  com- 
pliment or  other  ;  and  it  has  been  argued  with  show  of 
reason  that  he  would  have  said  Buffon,  but  made  use 
of  a  superfluous  vowel.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Quilp  gave 
him  no  time  for  correction,  as  he  performed  that  office 
himself  by  more  than  tapping  him  on  the  head  with  the 
handle  of  his  umbrella. 

"Don't  let's  have  anj''  wrangling,"  said  Miss  Sally, 
staying  his  hand.  "  I've  shown  you  that  I  know  him, 
and  that's  enough." 

"  She's  always  foremost  !  "  said  the  dwarf  patting  her 
on  the  back  and  looking  contemptuously  at  Sampson.  "  I 
don't  like  Kit,  Sally. " 

"Nor  I,"  rejoined  Miss  Brass. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Sampson. 

"  Why,  that's  right  !  "  cried  Quilp.  "  Half  our  work 
is  done  already.  This  Kit  is  one  of  your  honest  people  ; 
one  of  your  fair  characters  ;  a  prowling,  prying  hound  ; 
a  hypocrite ;  a  double-faced,  white-livered,  sneaking 
spy  :  a  crouching  cur  to  those  that  feed  and  coax  him, 
and  a  barking  yelping  dog  to  all  besides." 

"Fearfully  eloquent!"  cried  Brass  with  a  sneeze. 
"  Quite  appalling  !  " 

"  Come  to  the  point,"  said  Miss  Sally,  "  and  don't  talk 
so  much." 

"  Right  again  !"  exclaimed  Quilp,  with  another  con- 
temptuous look  at  Sampson,  "  always  foremost  !  I  say, 
Sally,  he  is  a  yelping  insolent  dog  to  all  besides,  and 
most  of  all,  to  me.    In  short,  I  owe  him  a  grudge." 

"  That's  enough,  sir,"  said  Sampson. 

"  No,  it's  not  enough,  sir,"  sneered  Quilp  ;  "  will  you 
hear  me  out  ?  Besides  that  I  owe  him  a  grudge  on  that 
account,  he  thwarts  me  at  this  minute,  and  stands  be- 
tween me  and  an  end  which  might  otherwise  prove  a 
golden  one  to  us  all.  Apart  from  that,  I  repeat  that  he 
crosses  ray  humour,  and  I  hate  him.  Now,  you  know 
the  lad,  and  can  guess  the  rest.  Devise  your  own  means 
of  putting  him  out  of  my  way,  and  execute  them.  Shall 
it  be  done  ?  " 

"  It  shall,  sir,"  said  Sampson. 

"Then  give  me  your  hand,"  retorted  Quilp.  "Sally, 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


789 


girl,  yours.  I  rely  as  much,  or  more,  on  you  than  him. 
Tom  Scott  comes  back.  Lantern,  pipes,  more  grog,  and 
a  jolly  night  of  it  !  " 

No  other  word  was  spoken,  no  other  look  exchanged, 
which  had  the  slightest  reference  to  this,  the  real  occa- 
sion of  their  meeting.  The  trio  were  well  accustomed  to 
act  together,  and  were  linked  to  each  other  by  ties  of  mu- 
tual interest  and  advantage,  and  nothing  more  was  need- 
ed. Resuming  his  boisterous  manner  with  the  same  ease 
with  which  he  had  thrown  it  off,  Quilp  was  in  an  instant 
the  same  uproarious,  reckless  little  savage,  he- had  been 
a  few  seconds  before.  It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night  before 
the  amiable  Sally  supported  her  beloved  and  loving 
brother  from  the  Wilderness,  by  which  time  he  needed 
the  utmost  support  her  tender  frame  could  render  :  his 
walk  being  for  some  unknown  reason  anything  but 
steady,  and  his  legs  constantly  doubling  up  at  unexpect- 
ed places. 

Overpowered,  notwithstanding  his  late  prolonged 
slumbers,  by  the  fatigues  of  the  last  few  days,  the  dwarf 
lost  no  time  in  creeping  to  his  dainty  house,  and  was 
soon  dreaming  in  his  hammock.  Leaving  him  to  visions 
in  which  perhaps  the  quiet  figures  we  quitted  in  the  old 
church  porch  were  not  without  their  share,  be  it  our 
task  to  rejoin  them  as  they  sat  and  watched. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

After  a  long  time,  the  schoolmaster  appeared  at  the 
wicket-gate  of  the  churchyard,  and  hurried  towards 
them,  jingling  in  his  hand,  as  he  came  along,  a  bundle 
of  rusty  keys.  He  was  quite  breathless  with  pleasure 
and  haste  when  he  reached  the  porch,  and  at  first  could 
only  point  towards  the  old  building  which  the  child  had 
been  contemplating  so  earnestly. 

"  You  see  those  two  old  houses,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Yes  surely,"  replied  Nell.  "  I  have  been  looking  at 
them  nearly  all  the  time  you  have  been  away." 

' '  And  you  would  have  looked  at  them  more  curiously 
yet,  if  you  could  have  guessed  what  I  have  to  tell  you," 
said  her  friend.    "  One  of  those  houses  is  mine." 

"  Without  saying  any  more,  or  giving  the  child  time 
to  reply,  the  schoolmaster  took  her  hand,  and,  his  honest 
face  quite  radiant  with  exultation,  led  her  to  the  place 
of  which  he  spoke. 

They  stopped  before  its  low  arched  door.  After  try- 
ing several  of  the  keys  in  vain,  the  schoolmaster  found 
one  to  fit  the  huge  lock,  which  turned  back,  creaking, 
and  admitted  them  into  the  house. 

The  room  into  which  they  entered  was  a  vaulted 
chamber  once  nobly  ornamented  by  cunning  architects, 
and  still  retaining,  in  its  beautiful  groined  roof  and  rich 
stone  tracery,  choice  remnants  of  its  ancient  splendour. 
Foliage  carved  in  the  stone,  and  emulating  the  mastery, 
of  Nature's  hand,  yet  remained  to  tell  how  many  times 
the  leaves  outside  had  come  and  gone,  while  it  lived  on 
unchanged.  The  broken  figures  supporting  the  burden 
of  the  chimney-piece,  though  mutilated,  were  still  dis- 
tinguishable for  what  they  had  been — far  different  from 
the  dust  without — and  showed  sadly  by  the  empty  hearth 
like  creatures  who  had  outlived  their  kind,  and  mourned 
their  own  too  slow  decay. 

In  some  old  time — for  even  change  was  old  in  that  old 
place — a  wooden  partition  had  been  constructed  in  one 
part  of  the  chamber  to  form  a  sleeping  closet,  into  which 
the  light  was  admitted  at  the  same  period  by  a  rude 
window,  or  rather  niche,  cut  in  the  solid  wall.  This 
screen,  together  with  two  seats  in  the  broad  chimney, 
had  at  some  forgotten  date  been  part  of  the  church  or 
convent  ;  for  the  oak,  hastily  appropriated  to  its  present 
purpose,  had  been  little  altered  from  its  former  shape, 
and  presented  to  the  eye  a  pile  of  fragments  of  rich 
carving  from  old  monkish  stalls. 

An  open  door  leading  to  a  small  room  or  cell,  dim  with 
the  light  that  came  through  leaves  of  ivy,  completed  the 
interior  of  this  portion  of  the  ruin.  It  was  not  quite 
destitute  of  furniture,  A  few  strange  chairs,  whose 
aaros  and  legs  looked  as  though  they  had  dwindled 
away  with  age  ;  a  table,  the  very  spectre  of  its  race  ;  a 
great  old  chest  that  had  once  held  records  in  the  church, 


with  other  quaintly  fashioned  domestic  necessaries,  and 
store  of  fire-wood  for  the  winter,  were  scattered  around, 
and  gave  evident  tokens  of  its  occupation  as  a  dwelling- 
place  at  no  very  distant  time. 

The  child  looked  around  her,  with  that  solemn  feeling 
with  which  we  contemplate  the  work  of  ages  that  have 
become  but  drops  of  water  in  the  great  ocean  of  eternity. 
The  old  man  had  followed  them,  but  they  were  all  three 
hushed  for  a  space,  and  drew  their  breath  softly,  as  if 
they  feared  to  break  the  silence  even  by  so  slight  a 
sound. 

*'  It  is  a  very  beautiful  place  !  "  said  the  child,  in  alow 
voice, 

"I  almost  feared  you  thought  otherwise,"  returned 
the  school -master,  "  You  shivered  when  we  first  came 
in,  as  if  you  felt  it  cold  or  gloomy." 

It  was  not  that,"  said  Nell,  glancing  round  with  a 
slight  shudder.  "Indeed  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  was, 
but  when  I  saw  the  outside,  from  the  church  porch,  the 
same  feeling  came  over  me.  It  is  its  being  so  old  and 
grey,  perhaps." 

"A  peaceful  place  to  live  in,  don't  you  think  so?" 
said  her  friend. 

"Oh  yes,"  rejoined  the  child,  clasping  her  hands 
earnestly.  "A  quiet,  happy  place — a  place  to  live  and 
learn  to  die  in  ! "  She  would  have  said  more,  but  that 
the  energy  of  her  thoughts  caused  her  voice  to  falter, 
and  come  in  trembling  whispers  from  her  lips. 

"  A  place  to  live,  and  learn  to  live,  and  gather  health 
of  mind  and  body  in,"  said  the  schoolmaster  ;  "  for  this 
old  house  is  yours." 

"  Ours  !  "  cried  the  child. 

"  Aye,"  returned  the  schoolmaster  gaily,  "for  many 
a  merry  year  to  come,  I  hope.  I  shall  be  a  close  neigh- 
bour— only  next  door — but  this  house  is  yours." 

Having  now  disburdened  himself  of  his  great  sur- 
prise, the  schoolmaster  sat  down,  and  drawing  Nell  to 
his  side,  told  her  how  he  had  learnt  that  that  ancient 
tenement  had  been  occupied  for  a  very  long  time  by  an 
old  person,  nearly  a  hundred  years  of  age,  who  kept  the 
keys  of  the  church,  opened  and  closed  it  for  the  services, 
and  showed  it  to  strangers  ;  how  she  had  died  not  many 
weeks  ago,  and  nobody  had  yet  been  found  to  fill  the  of- 
fice ;  how,  learning  all  this  in  an  interview  with  the 
sexton,  who  was  confined  to  his  bed  by  rheumatism,  he 
had  been  bold  to  make  mention  of  his  fellow-traveller, 
which  had  been  so  favourably  received  by  that  high 
authority,  that  he  had  taken  courage,  acting  on  his  ad- 
vice, to  propound  the  matter  to  the  clergyman.  In  a 
word,  the  result  of  his  exertions  was,  that  Nell  and  her 
grandfather  were  to  be  carried  before  the  last-named 
gentleman  next  day  ;  and,  his  approval  of  their  conduct 
and  appearance  reserved  as  a  matter  of  form,  that  they 
were  already  appointed  to  the  vacant  post, 

"There's  a  small  allowance  of  money,"  said  the 
schoolmaster.  "  It  is  not  much,  but  still  enough  to  live 
upon  in  this  retired  spot.  By  clubbing  our  funds  to- 
gether, we  shall  do  bravely  ;  no  fear  of  that." 

"  Heaven  bless  and  prosper  you  !  "  sobbed  the  child. 

"Amen,  my  dear,"  returned  her  friend  cheerfully  ; 
"  and  all  of  us,  as  it  will,  and  has,  in  leading  us  through 
sorrow  and  trouble  to  this  tranquil  life.  But  we  must 
look  at  my  house  now.    Come  !  " 

They  repaired  to  the  other  tenement ;  tried  the  rusty 
keys  as  before  ;  at  length  found  the  right  one  ;  and 
opened  the  worm-eaten  door.  It  led  into  a  chamber, 
vaulted  and  old,  like  that  from  which  they  had  come, 
but  not  so  spacious,  and  having  only  one  other  little 
room  attached.  It  was  not  difficult  to  divine  that  the 
other  house  was  of  right  the  schoolmaster's,  and  that  he 
had  chosen  for  himself  the  least  commodious,  in  his 
care  and  regard  for  them.  Like  the  adjoining  habita- 
tion, it  held  such  old  articles  of  furniture  as  were  abso- 
lutely necessary,  and  had  its  stack  of  fire-wood. 

To  make  these  dwellings  as  habitable  and  full  of  com- 
fort as  they  could,  was  now  their  pleasant  care.  In  a 
short  time,  each  had  its  cheerful  fire  glowing  and 
crackling  on  the  hearth,  and  reddening  the  pale  old 
walls  with  a  hale  and  healthy  blush.  Nell,  busily  ply- 
ing her  needle,  repaired  the  tattered  window-hangings, 
drew  together  the  rents  that  time  had  worn  in  the  thread- 
bare scraps  of  carpet,  and  made  them  whole  and  decent. 


790 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


The  schoolmaster  swept  and  smoothed  the  ground  be- 
fore the  door,  trimmed  the  long  grass,  trained  the  ivy 
and  creeping  plants,  which  hung  their  drooping  heads 
in  melancholy  neglect  ;  and  gave  to  the  outer  walls  a 
cheery  air  of  home.  The  old  man,  sometimes  by  his 
side  and  sometimes  with  the  child,  lent  his  aid  to  both, 
went  here  and  there  on  little  patient  services,  and  was 
happy.  Neighbours  too,  as  they  came  from  work,  prof- 
fered their  help  ;  or  sent  their  children  with  such  small 
presents  or  loans  as  the  strangers  needed  most.  It  was  a 
busy  day  ;  and  night  came  on,  and  found  them  wonder- 
ing that  there  was  yet  so  much  to  do,  and  that  it  should 
be  dark  so  soon. 

They  took  their  supper  together,  in  the  house  which 
may  be  henceforth  called  the  child's  ;  and,  when  they 
had  finished  their  meal,  drew  round  the  fire,  and  almost  in 
whispers — their  hearts  were  too  quiet  and  glad  for  loud 
expressions — discussed  their  future  plans.  Before  they 
separated,  the  schoolmaster  read  some  prayers  aloud  ; 
and  then,  full  of  gratitude  and  happiness,  they  parted 
for  the  night. 

At  that  silent  hour,  when  the  grandfather  was  sleeping 
peacefully  in  his  bed,  and  every  sound  was  hushed,  the 
child  lingered  before  the  dying  embers,  and  thought  of 
her  past  fortunes  as  if  they  had  been  a  dream  and  she 
only  now  awoke.  The  glare  of  the  sinking  flame,  re- 
flected in  the  oaken  panels  whose  carved  tops  were  dimly 
seen  in  the  gloom  of  the  dusky  roof — the  aged  walls, 
where  strange  shadows  came  and  went  with  every  flicker- 
ing of  the  fire — the  solemn  presence,  within,  of  that 
decay  which  falls  on  senseless  things  the  most  enduring 
in  their  nature ;  and,  without,  and  round  about  on  every 
side,  of  Death — filled  her  with  deep  and  thoughtful 
feelings,  but  with  none  of  terror  or  alarm.  A  change 
had  been  gradually  stealing  over  her  in  the  time  of  her 
loneliness  and  sorrow.  With  failing  strength  and 
heightening  resolution,  there  had  sprung  up  a  purified 
and  altered  mind  ;  there  had  grown  in  her  bosom  blessed 
thoughts  and  hopes,  which  are  the  portion  of  few  but 
the  weak  and  drooping.  There  were  none  to  see  the 
frail,  perishable  figure,  as  it  glided  from  the  fire  and 
leaned  pensively  at  the  open  casement ;  none  but  the 
stars,  to  look  into  the  upturned  face  and  read  its  history. 
The  old  church  bell  rang  out  the  hour  with  a  mournful 
sound,  as  if  it  had  grown  sad  from  communicating  with 
the  dead  and  unheeded  warning  to  the  living  ;  the  fallen 
leaves  rustled  ;  the  grass  stirred  upon  the  graves  ;  all 
else  was  still  and  sleeping. 

Some  of  those  dreamless  sleepers  lay  close  within  the 
shadow  of  the  church — touching  the  wall,  as  if  they 
clung  to  it  for  comfort  and  protection.  Others  had  chosen 
to  lie  beneath  the  changing  shade  of  trees  ;  others,  by 
the  path,  that  footsteps  might  come  near  them  ;  others, 
among  the  graves  of  little  children.  Some  had  desired 
to  rest  beneath  the  very  ground  they  had  trodden  in  their 
daily  walks  ;  some,  where  the  setting  sun  might  shine 
upon  their  beds  ;  some,  where  its  light  would  fall  upon 
them  when  it  rose.  Perhaps  not  one  of  the  unprisoned 
souls  had  been  able  quite  to  separate  itself  in  living 
thought  from  its  old  companion.  If  any  had,  it  had  still 
felt  for  it  a  love  like  that  which  captives  have  been  known 
to  bear  towards  the  cell  in  which  they  have  been  long 
confined,  and,  even  at  parting  hung  upon  its  narrow 
bounds  affectionately. 

It  was  long  before  the  child  closed  the  window,  and 
approached  her  bed.  Again  something  of  the  same  sen- 
sation as  before — an  involuntary  chill — a  momentary 
feeling  akin  to  fear — but  vanishing  directly,  and  leaving 
no  alarm  behind.  Again  too,  dreams  of  the  little  scholar  ; 
of  the  roof  opening,  and  a  column  of  bright  faces,  rising 
far  away  into  the  sky,  as  she  had  seen  in  some  old  scrip- 
tural picture  once,  and  looking  down  on  her,  asleep.  It 
was  a  sweet  and  happy  dream.  The  quiet  spot,  outside, 
seemed  to  remain  the  same,  save  that  there  was  music 
in  the  air,  and  a  sound  of  angels'  wings.  After  a 
time  the  sisters  came  there,  hand  in  hand,  and  stood 
among  the  graves.  And  then  the  dream  grew  dim  and 
faded. 

With  the  brightness  and  joy  of  morning,  came  the  re- 
newal of  yesterday's  labours,  the  revival  of  its  pleasant 
thoughts,  the  restoration  of  its  energies,  cheerfulness, 
and  hope.    They  worked  gaily  in  ordering  and  arrang- 


ing the  houses  until  noon,  and  then  went  to  visit  the 
clergyman. 

He  was  a  simple-hearted  old  gentleman,  of  a  shrinking, 
subdued  spirit,  accustomed  to  retirement,  and  very  little 
acquainted  with  the  world,  which  he  had  left  many  years 
before  to  come  and  settle  in  that  place.  His  wife  had 
died  in  the  house  in  which  he  still  lived,  and  he  had 
long  since  lost  sight  of  any  earthly  cares  or  hopes  beyond 
it. 

He  received  them  very  kindly,  and  at  once  showed  an 
interest  in  Nell  ;  asking  her  name,  and  age,  her  birth- 
place, the  circumstances  which  had  led  her  there,  and 
so  forth.  The  schoolmaster  had  already  told  her  story. 
They  had  no  other  friends  or  home  to  leave,  he  said,  and 
had  come  to  share  his  fortunes.  He  loved  the  child  as 
though  she  were  his  own. 

**  Well,  well,"  said  the  clergyman,  **  Let  it  be  as  you 
desire.    She  is  very  young." 

"  Old  in  adversity  and  trial,  sir,"  replied  the  school- 
master. 

"God  help  her  !  Let  her  rest,  and  forget  them,"  said 
the  old  gentleman.  "  But  an  old  church  is  a  dull  and 
gloomy  place  for  one  so  young  as  you,  my  child." 

"Oh  no,  sir,"  returned  Nell.  "I  have  no  such 
thoughts,  indeed." 

"  I  would  rather  see  her  dancing  on  the  green  at 
night,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  laying  his  hand  upon 
her  head,  and  smiling  sadly,  "  than  have  her  sitting  in 
the  shadow  of  our  mouldering  arches.  You  must  look  to 
this,  and  see  that  her  heart  does  not  grow  heavy  among 
these  solemn  ruins.    Your  request  is  granted,  friend." 

After  more  kind  w^ords,  they  withdrew,  and  repaired 
to  the  child's  house  ;  where  they  were  yet  in  conversa- 
tion on  their  happy  fortune,  when  another  friend  ap- 
peared. 

This  was  a  little  old  gentleman,  who  lived  in  the  par- 
sonage house,  and  had  resided  there  (so  they  learnt  soon 
afterwards)  ever  since  the  death  of  the  clergyman's  wife, 
which  had  happened  fifteen  years  before.  He  had  been  his 
college  friend  and  always  his  choice  companion ;  in  the 
first  shock  of  his  grief  he  had  come  to  console  and  com- 
fort him  ;  and  from  that  time  they  had  never  parted  com- 
pany. The  little  old  gentleman  was  the  active  spirit  of  the 
place,  the  adjuster  of  all  differences,  the  promoter  of  all 
merry-makings,  the  dispenser  of  his  friend's  bounty,  and 
of  no  small  charity  of  his  own  besides  ;  the  universal 
mediator,  comforter,  and  friend.  None  of  the  simple 
villagers  had  cared  to  ask  his  name,  or,  when  they  knew 
it,  to  store  it  in  their  memory.  Perhaps  from  some 
vague  rumour  of  his  college  honours  which  had  been 
whispered  abroad  on  his  first  arrival,  perhaps  because 
he  was  an  unmarried,  unincumbered  gentleman,  he  had 
been  called  the  bachelor.  The  name  pleased  him,  or 
suited  him  as  well  as  any  other,  and  the  Bachelor  he  had 
ever  since  remained.  And  the  bachelor  it  was,  it  may 
be  added,  who  with  his  own  hands  had  laid  in  the  stock 
of  fuel  which  the  wanderers  had  found  in  their  new 
habitations. 

The  bachelor,  then — to  call  him  by  his  usual  appel- 
lation— lifted  the  latch,  'showed  his  little  round  mild 
face  for  a  moment  at  the  door,  and  stepped  into  the  room 
like  one  who  was  no  stranger  to  it. 

"You  are  Mr.  Marton,  the  new  school-master  ?"  he 
said,  greeting  Nell's  kind  friend. 

"  I  am,  sir," 

"  You  come  well  recommended,  and  I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  I  should  have  been  in  the  way  yesterday  expecting 
you,  but  I  rode  across  the  country  to  carry  a  message 
from  a  sick  mother  to  her  daughter  in  service  some  miles 
off,  and  have  but  just  now  returned.  This  is  our  young 
church-keeper  !  You  are  not  the  less  welcome,  friend, 
for  her  sake,  or  for  this  old  man's  ;  nor  the  worse  teacher 
for  having  learned  humanity." 

"  She  has  been  ill,  sir,  very  lately,"  said  the  school- 
master, in  answer  to  the  look  with  which  their  visitor 
regarded  Nell  when  he  had  kissed  her  cheek. 

"Yes,  yes.  I  know  she  has,"  he  rejoined.  "There 
have  been  suffering  and  heartache  here." 

"  Indeed  there  have,  sir." 

The  little  old  gentleman  glanced  at  the  grandfather, 
and  back  again  at  the  child,  whose  hand  he  took  tender- 
ly in  his,  and  held. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


791 


"You  will  be  happier  here,"  he  said  ;  "we  will  try, 
at  least,  to  make  you  so.  You  have  made  great  improve- 
ments here  already.    Are  they  the  work  of  your  hands  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"We  may  make  some  others — not  better  in  themselves, 
but  with  better  means,  perhaps,"  said  the  bachelor. 
"  Let  us  see  now,  let  us  see." 

Nell  accompanied  him  into  the  other  little  rooms,  and 
over  both  the  houses,  in  which  he  found  various  small 
comforts  wanting,  which  he  engaged  to  supply  from  a 
certain  collection  of  odds  and  ends  he  had  at  home,  and 
which  must  have  been  a  very  miscellaneous  and  exten- 
sive one,  as  it  comprehended  the  most  opposite  articles 
imaginable.  They  all  came,  however,  and  came  with- 
out loss  of  time  ;  for  the  little  old  gentleman,  disappear- 
ing for  some  five  or  ten  minutes,  presently  returned, 
laden  with  old  shelves,  rugs,  blankets,  and  other 
household  gear,  and  followed  by  a  boy  bearing  a  similar 
load.  These  being  cast  on  the  floor  in  a  promiscuous 
heap,  yielded  a  quantity  of  occupation  in  arranging, 
erecting,  and  putting  away  ;  the  superintendence  of 
which  task  evidently  afforded  the  old  gentleman  extreme 
delight,  and  engaged  him  for  some  time  with  great  brisk- 
ness and  activity.  When  nothing  more  was  left  to  be 
done,  he  charged  the  boy  to  run  off  and  bring  his  school- 
mates to  be  marshalled  before  their  new  master,  and 
solemnly  reviewed. 

"  As  good  a  set  of  fellows,  Marton,  as  you'd  wish  to 
see,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  schoolmaster  when  the  boy 
was  gone  ;  "  but  I  don't  let  'em  know  I  think  so.  That 
wouldn't  do,  at  all." 

The  messenger  soon  returned  at  the  head  of  a  long 
row  of  urchins,  great  and  small,  who,  being  confronted 
by  the  bachelor-  at  the  house  door,  fell  into  various  con- 
vulsions of  politeness  ;  clutching  their  hats  and  caps, 
squeezing  them  into  the  smallest  possible  dimensions, 
and  making  all  manner  of  bows  and  scrapes,  which 
the  little  old  gentleman  contemplated  with  excessive 
satisfaction,  and  expressed  his  approval  of  by  a  great 
many  nods  and  smiles.  Indeed,  his  approbation  of  the 
bo.ys  was  by  no  means  so  scrupulously  disguised  as  he 
had  led  the  schoolmaster  to  suppose,  inasmuch  as  it 
broke  out  in  sundry  loud  whispers  and  confidential  re- 
marks which  were  perfectly  audible  to  them  every  one. 

"This  first  boy,  schoolmaster,"  said  the  bachelor,  "  is 
John  Owen  ;  a  lad  of  good  parts,  sir,  and  frank,  honest 
temper;  but  too  thoughtless,  too  playful,  too  light-headed 
by  far.  That  boy,  my  good  sir,  would  break  his  neck 
with  pleasure,  and  deprive  his  parents  of  their  chief 
comfort— and  between  ourselves  when  you  come  to  see 
him  at  hare  and  hounds,  taking  the  fence  and  ditch  by 
the  finger-post,  and  sliding  down  the  face  of  the  little 
quarry,  you'll  never  forget  it.    It's  beautiful  I  " 

John  Owen  having  been  thus  rebuked,  and  being  in 
perfect  possession  of  the  speech  aside,  the  bachelor  sin- 
gled out  another  boy. 

"  Now  look  at  that  lad,  sir,"  said  the  bachelor.  "  You 
see  that  fellow  ?  Richard  Evans  his  name  is, sir.  An  amaz- 
ing boy  to  learn,  blessed  with  a  good  memory,  and  a  ready 
understanding,  and  moreover  with  a  good  voice  and  ear 
for  psalm-singing,  in  which  he  is  the  best  among  us. 
Yet,  sir,  that  boy  will  come  to  a  bad  end  ;  he'll  never 
die  in  his  bed  ;  he's  always  falling  asleep  in  church  in 
sermon-time — and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Marton,  I 
always  did  the  same  at  his  age,  and  feel  quite  certain 
that  it  was  natural  to  my  constitution  and  I  couldn't 
help  it." 

This  hopeful  pupil  edified  by  the  above  terrible  re- 
proval,  the  bachelor  turned  to  another. 

"  But  if  we  talk  of  examples  to  be  shunned,"  said  he, 
"if  we  come  to  boys  that  should  be  a  warning  and  a 
beacon  to  all  their  fellows,  here's  the  one,  and  I  hope 
you  won't  spare  him.  This  is  the  lad,  sir  ;  this  one  with 
the  blue  eyes  and  light  hair.  This  is  a  swimmer,  sir,  this 
fellow — a  diver,  Lord  save  us  !  This  is  a  boy,  sir,  who 
had  a  fancy  for  plunging  into  eighteen  feet  of  water,  with 
his  clothes  on,  and  Imnging  up  a  blind  man's  dog,  who 
was  being  drowned  by  the  weight  of  his  chain  and  collar, 
while  his  master  stood  wringing  his  hands  upon  the  bank, 
bewailing  the  loss  of  his  guide  and  friend.  I  sent  the 
boy  two  guineas  anonymously,  sir,"  added  the  bachelor, 
in  his  peculiar  whisper,  "directly  I  heard  of  it;  but 


never  mention  it  on  any  account,  for  he  hasn't  the  least 
idea  that  it  came  from  me." 

Having  disj^osed  of  this  culprit,  the  bachelor  turned 
to  another,  and  from  him  to  another,  and  so  on  through 
the  whole  array,  laying,  for  their  wholesome  restriction 
within  due  bounds,  the  same  cutting  emphasis  on  such 
of  their  propensities  as  were  dearest  to  his  heart,  and 
were  unquestionably  referable  to  his  own  precejjt  and 
example.  Thoroughly  persuaded,  in  the  end,  that  he 
made  them  miserable  by  his  severity,  he  dismissed  them 
with  a  small  present,  and  an  admonition  to  walk  quietly 
home,  without  any  leapings,  scufflings,  or  turnings  out  of 
the  way  ;  which  injunction  (he  informed  the  school- 
moster  in  the  same  audible  confidence)  he  did  not  think 
he  could  have  obeyed  when  he  was  a  boy,  had  his  life 
depended  on  it. 

Hailing  these  little  tokens  of  the  bachelor's  disposition 
as  so  many  assurances  of  his  own  welcome  course  from 
that  time,  the  schoolmaster  parted  from  him  with  a  light 
heart  and  joyous  spirits,  and  deemed  himself  one  of  the 
happiest  men  on  earth.  The  windows  of  the  two  old 
houses  were  ruddy  again,  that  night,  with  the  reflection 
of  the  cheerful  fires  that  burnt  within  ;  and  the  bachelor 
and  his  friend,  pausing  to  look  upon  them  as  they  re- 
turned from  their  evening  walk,  spoke  softly  together 
of  the  beautiful  child,  and  looked  round  upon  the 
churchyard  with  a  sigh. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

Nell  was  stirring  early  in  the  morning,  and  having  dis- 
charged her  household  tasks,  and  put  everything  in 
order  for  the  good  schoolmaster  (though  sorely  against 
his  will,  for  he  would  have  spared  her  the  pains),  took 
down,  from  its  nail  by  the  fireside,  a  little  bundle  of 
keys  with  which  the  bachelor  had  formally  invested  her 
on  the  previous  day,  and  went  out  alone  to  visit  the  old 
church. 

The  sky  was  serene  and  bright,  the  air  clear,  perfumed 
with  the  fresh  scent  of  newly  fallen  leaves,  and  grateful 
to  every  sense.  The  nighbouring  stream  sparkled,  and 
rolled  onward  with  a  tuneful  sound  ;  the  dew  glist- 
ened on  the  green  mounds,  like  tears  shed  by  good  spirits 
over  the  dead. 

Some  young  children  sported  among  the  tombs,  and 
hid  from  each  other,  with  laughing  faces.  They  had  an 
infant  with  them,  and  laid  it  down  asleep  upon  a  child's 
grave,  in  a  little  bed  of  leaves.  It  was  a  new  grave — 
the  resting  place  of  some  little  creature,  who,  meek 
and  patient  in  its  illness,  had  often  sat  and  watched 
them,  and  now  seemed,  to  their  minds,  scarcely 
changed. 

Sh*  drew  near  and  asked  one  of  them  whose  grave  it 
was.  The  child  answered  that  that  was  not  its  name  ; 
it  was  a  garden — his  brother's.  It  was  greener,  he  said, 
than  all  the  other  gardens,  and  the  birds  loved  it  better 
I  because  he  had  been  used  to  feed  them.  WTien  he  had 
done  speaking,  he  looked  at  her  with  a  smile,  and  kneel- 
ing down  and  nestling  for  a  moment  with  his  cheek 
against  the  turf,  bounded  merrily  away. 

She  passed  the  church,  gazing  upward  at  its  old  tower, 
I  went  through  tlie  wicket  gate,  and  so  into  the  village. 
I  The  old  sexton,  leaning  on  a  crutch,  was  taking  the  air 
at  his  cottage  door,  and  gave  her  good  morrow. 

"  You  are  better  ?  "  said  the  child,  stopping  to  speak 
with  him. 

"  Aye  surely,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  I'm  thankful 
to  say,  much  better." 

"  You  will  be  quite  well  soon." 

"  With  Heaven's  leave,  and  a  little  patience.  But 
come  in,  come  in  !  " 

The  old  man  limped  on  before,  and  warning  her  of  the 
downward  step,  which  he  achieved  himself  with  no 
small  difficulty,  led  the  way  into  his  little  cottage. 

"  It  is  but  one  room  you  see.  There  is  another  up 
above,  but  the  stairs  got*  harder  to  climb  o'  late  years, 
and  I  never  use  it.  I'm  thinking  of  taking  to  it  again 
next  summer  though." 

The  child  wondered  how  a  grey-headed  man  like 
him — one  of  his  trade  too — could  talk  of  time  so  easily. 


793 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


He  saw  lier  eyes  wanderiDg:  to  the  tools  that  hung  up- 
on the  wall,  and  smiled. 

"  I  warrant  now,"  he  said,  "that  you  think  all  those 
are  used  in  making  graves." 

Indeed,  I  wonde'red  that  you  wanted  so  many." 

"  And  well  you  might.  I  am  a  gardener.  I  dig  the 
ground,  and  plant  things  that  are  to  live  and  grow.  My 
works  don't  all  moulder  away,  and  rot  in  the  earth. 
You  see  that  spade  in  the  centre  ?  " 

"  The  very  old  one— so  notched  and  worn  ?  Yes." 

"  That's  the  sexton's  spade,  and  it's  a  well-used  one, 
as  you  see.  We're  healthy  people  here,  but  it  has  done  a 
power  of  work.  If  it  could  speak  now,  that  spade,  it 
would  tell  you  of  many  an  unexpected  job  that  it  and  I 
have  done  together  ;  but  I  forget  'em,  for  my  memory's 
a  poor  one. — That's  nothing  new,"  he  added  hastily. 
"  It  always  was." 

There  are  flowers  and  shrubs  to  speak  to  your  other 
work,"  said  the  child. 

"  Oh  yes.  And  tall  trees.  But  they  are  not  so  sepa- 
rated from  the  sexton's  labours  as  you  think." 

"  No  ! " 

"Not  in  my  mind,  and  recollection — such  as  it  is," 
said  the  old  man.  "  Indeed  they  often  help  it.  For  say 
that  I  planted  such  a  tree  for  such  a  man.  There  it  stands 
to  remind  me  that  he  died.  Wiien  I  look  at  its  broad 
shadow,  and  remember  what  it  was  in  his  time,  it  helps 
me  to  the  age  of  my  other  work,  and  I  can  tell  you 
pretty  nearly  when  I  made  his  grave." 

"  But  it  may  remind  you  of  one  who  is  still  alive," 
said  the  child. 

"  Of  twenty  that  are  dead,  in  connexion  with  that  one 
who  lives,  then,"  rejoined  the  old  man  ;  "  wife,  hus- 
band, parents,  brothers,  sisters,  children,  friends — a  score 
at  least.  So  it  happens  that  the  sexton's  spade  gets 
worn  and  battered.  I  shall  need  a  new  one — next  sum- 
mer." 

The  child  looked  quickly  towards  him,  thinking  that 
he  jested  with  his  age  and  infirmity  :  but  the  uncon- 
scious sexton  was  quite  in  earnest. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  after  a  brief  silence.  "  People  never 
learn.  They  never  learn.  It's  only  we  who  turn  up  the 
ground  where  nothing  grows  and  everything  decays, 
who  think  of  such  things  as  these — who  think  of  them 
properly,  I  mean.    You  have  been  into  the  church  ?" 

"  I  am  going  there  now,"  the  child  replied. 

**  There's  an  old  well  there,"  said  the  sexton,  "  right 
underneath  the  belfrey ;  a  deep,  dark,  echoing  well. 
Forty  years  ago  you  had  only  to  let  down  the  bucket  till 
the  first  knot  in  the  rope  was  free  of  the  windlass,  and 
you  heard  it  splashing  in  the  cold  dull  water.  By  little 
and  little  the  water  fell  away,  so  that  in  ten  year  after 
that,  a  second  knot  was  made,  and  you  must  unwind  so 
much  rope,  or  the  bucket  swung  tight  and  empty  at  the 
end.  In  ten  years'  time,  the  water  fell  again,  and  a  third 
knot  was  made.  In  ten  year  more,  the  well  dried  up  ; 
and  now,  if  you  lower  the  bucket  till  your  arms  are  tired 
and  let  out  nearly  all  the  cord,  you'll  hear  it  of  a  sudden 
clanking  and  rattling  on  the  ground  below  ;  with  a  sound 
of  being  so  deep  and  so  far  down,  that  your  heart  leaps 
into  your  mouth,  and  you  start  away  as  if  you  were  fall- 
ing in." 

"A  dreadful  place  to  come  on  in  the  dark  1 "  ex- 
claimed the  child,  who  had  followed  the  old  man's  looks 
and  words  until  she  seemed  to  stand  upon  its  brink. 

"What  is  it  but  a  grave  ! "  said  the  sexton,  "What 
else  !  And  which  of  our  old  folks,  knowing  all  this, 
thought,  as  the  spring  subsided,  of  their  own  failing 
strength  and  lessening  life  ?    Not  one  ! " 

"Are  you  very  old  yourself?"  asked  the  child  invol- 
..Tintarily. 

"I  shall  be  seventy-nine— next  summer." 

"  You  still  work  when  you  are  well?" 

"  Work  !  To  be  sure.  You  shall  see  my  gardens  here- 
:  about.  Look  at  the  window  there.  I  made,  and  have 
kept,  that  plot  of  ground  entirely  with  my  own  hands. 
By  this  time  next  year  I  shall  hardly  see  the  sky,  tlie 
boughs  will  liavc  grown  so  thick.  I  shall  have  my  win- 
ter work  at  night  besides." 

lie  opened,  as  he  spoke,  a  cupboard  close  to  where  he 
«at,  and  produced  some  miniature  boxes,  carved  in  a 
homely  manner  and  made  of  old  wood. 


"  Some  gentlefolks  who  are  fond  of  ancient  days,  and 
what  belongs  to  them,"  he  said,  "like  to  buy  these 
keepsakes  from  our  church  and  ruins.  Sometimes,  I 
make  them  of  scraps  of  oak,  that  turn  up  here  and 
there  ;  sometimes  of  bits  of  coffin  which  the  vaults 
have  long  preserved.  See  here — this  is  a  little  chest  of 
the  last  kind,  clasped  at  the  edges  with  fragments  of 
brass  plates  that  had  writing  on  'em  once,  though  it 
would  be  hard  to  read  it  now,  I  haven't  many  by  me  at 
this  time  of  year,  but  these  shelves  will  be  full — next 
summer. " 

The  child  admired  and  praised  his  work,  and  shortly 
afterwards  departed  ;  thinking,  as  she  went,  how  strange 
it  was,  that  this  old  man,  drawing  from  his  pursuits,  and 
everything  around  him,  one  stern  moral,  never  contem- 
plated its  application  to  himself  ;  and  while  he  dwelt 
upon  the  uncertainty  of  human  life,  seemed  both  in  word 
and  deed  to  deem  himself  immortal.  But  her  musings 
did  not  stop  here,  for  she  was  wise  enough  to  think  that 
by  a  good  and  merciful  adjustment  this  must  be  human 
nature,  and  that  the  old  sexton,  with  his  plans  for  next 
summer,  was  but  a  type  of  mankind. 

Full  of  these  meditations,  she  reached  the  church.  It 
j  was  easy  to  find  the  key  belonging  to  the  outer  door,  for 
I  each  was  labelled  on  a  scrap  of  yellow  parchment.  Its 
very  turning  in  the  lock  awoke  a  hollow  sound,  and 
when  she  entered  with  a  faltering  step,  the  echoes  that 
it  raised  in  closing,  made  her  start. 

If  the  peace  of  the  simple  village  had  moved  the  child 
more  strongly,  because  of  the  dark  and  troubled  ways 
that  lay  beyond,  and  through  which  she  had  journeyed 
with  such  failing  feet,  what  was  the  deep  impression  of 
finding  herself  alone  in  that  solemn  building,  where  the 
verv  light  coming  through  sunken  windows,  seemed  old 
and  grey,  and  the  air,  redolent  of  earth  and  mould, 
seemed  laden  with  decay,  purified  by  time  of  all  its 
grosser  particles,  and  sighing  through  arch  and  aisle, 
and  clustered  pillars,  like  the  breath  of  ages  gone  ! 
Here  was  the  broken  pavement,  worn,  so  long  ago,  by 
pious  feet,  that  Time,  stealing  on  the  pilgrims'  steps, 
had  trodden  out  their  track,  and  left  but  crumbling 
stones.  Here  were  the  rotten  beam,  the  sinking  arch, 
the  sapped  and  mouldering  wall, the  lowly  trench  of  earth, 
the  stately  tomb  on  which  no  epitaph  remained, — all — 
marble,  stone,  iron,  wood,  and  dust,  one  common  monu- 
ment of  ruin.  The  best  work  and  the  worst,  the  plainest 
and  the  richest,  the  stateliest  and  the  least  imposing — 
both  of  Heaven's  work  and  Man's — all  found  one  com- 
mon level  here,  and  told  one  comm.on  tale. 

Some  part  of  the  edifice  had  been  a  baronial  chapel, 
and  here  were  effigies  of  the  warriors,  stretched  upon 
their  beds  of  stone  with  folded  hands — cross-legged, 
those  who  had  fought  in  the  Holy  Wars — girded  with 
their  swords,  and  cased  in  armour  as  they  had  lived. 
Some  of  these  knights  had  their  own  weapons,  helmets,^ 
coats  of  mail,  hanging  upon  the  walls  hard  by,  and  dan- 
gling from  rusty  hooks.  Broken  and  dilapidated  as  they 
were,  they  yet  retained  their  ancient  form,  and  some- 
thing of  their  ancient  aspect.  Thus  violent  deeds  live 
after  men  upon  the  earth,  and  traces  of  war  and  blood- 
shed will  survive  in  mcmrnful  shapes,  long  after  those 
who  worked  the  desolation  are  but  atoms  of  earth  them- 
selves. 

The  child  sat  down,  in  this  odd,  silent  place,  among 
the  stark  figures  on  the  tombs — they  made  it  more  quiet 
there,  than  elsewhere,  to  her  fancy — and  gazing  round 
with  a  feeling  of  awe,  tempered  with  a  calm  delight, 
felt  that  now  she  was  happy,  and  at  rest.    She  took  a 
Bible  from  the  shelf,  and  read  ;  then,  laying  it  down, 
thought  of  the  summer  days  and  the  bright  springtime 
that  would  come — of  the  rays  of  sun  that  would  fall  in 
aslant,  upon  the  sleeping  forms — of  the  leaves  that 
would  flutter  at  the  window,  and  play  in  glistening 
shadows  on  the  pavemnt — of  the  songs  of  birds,  and 
'  growth  of  buds  and  blossoms  out  of  doors— of  the  sweet 
j  air,  that  would  steal  in,  and  gently  wave  the  tattered 
I  banners  overhead.      What    if    the   spots  awakened 
thoughts  of  death  !    Die  who  would,  it  would  still  re- 
!  main  the  same  ;  these  sights  and  sounds  would  still  go 
!  on,  as  happily  as  ever.    It  would  be  no  pain  to  sleep 
amidst  them. 

I    She  left  the  chapel — very  slowly  and  often  turning 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


793 


back  to  gaze  again— and  coming  to  a  low  door,  which 
led  into  the  tower,  opened  it,  and  climbed  the  winding 
stair  in  darkness  ;  save  where  she  looked  down,  through 
narrow  loopholes,  on  the  place  she  had  left,  or  caught  a 
glimmering  vision  of  the  dusty  bells.  At  length  she 
gained  the  end  of  the  ascent  and  stood  upon  the  turret 
top. 

Oh  !  the  glory  of  the  sudden  burst  of  light ;  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  fields  and  woods,  stretching  away  on  every 
side,  and  meeting  the  bright  blue  sky  ;  the  cattle  grazing 
in  the  pasturage  ;  the  smoke,  that,  coming  from  among 
the  trees,  seemed  to  rise  upward  from  the  green  earth  ; 
the  children  yet  at  their  gambols  down  below — all,  every- 
thing, so  beautiful  and  happy  !  It  was  like  passing  from 
death  to  life  ;  it  was  drawing  nearer  Heaven. 

The  children  were  gone,  when  she  emerged  into  the 
porch,  and  locked  the  door.  As  she  passed  the  school- 
house  she  could  hear  the  busy  hum  of  voices.  Her  friend 
had  begun  his  labours  only  that  day.  The  noise  grew 
louder,  and,  looking  back,  she  saw  the  boys  come  trooping 
out  and  disperse  themselves,  with  merry  shouts  and  play. 

It's  a  good  thing,"  thought  the  child.  I  am  very  glad 
they  pass  the  church."  And  then  she  stopped  to  fancy 
how  the  noise  would  sound  inside,  and  how  gently  it 
would  seem  to  die  away  upon  the  ear. 

Again  that  day,  yes,  twice  again,  she  stole  back  to  the 
old  chapel,  and  in  her  former  seat  read  from  the  same 
book,  or  indulged  the  same  quiet  train  of  thought.  Even 
when  it  had  grown  dusk,  and  the  shadows  of  coming 
night  made  it  more  solemn  still,  the  child  remained,  like 
one  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  had  no  fear  or  thought  of 
stirring. 

They  found  her  there,  at  last,  and  took  her  home.  She 
looked  pale  but  very  happy,  until  they  separated  for  the 
night ;  and  then,  as  the  poor  schoolmaster  stooped  down 
to  kiss  her  cheek,  he  thought  he  felt  a  tear  upon  his  face. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

The  bachelor,  among  his  various  occupations,  found 
in  the  old  church  a  constant  source  of  interest  and  amuse- 
ment. Taking  that  pride  in  it  which  men  conceive  for 
the  wonders  of  their  own  little  world,  he  had  made  its 
history  his  study  ;  and  many  a  summer  day  within  its 
walls,  and  many  a  winter's  night  beside  the  parsonage 
fire,  had  found  the  bachelor  still  poring  over,  and  adding 
to,  bis  goodly  store  of  tale  and  legend. 

As  he  was  not  one  of  those  rough  spirits  who  would 
strip  fair  Truth  of  every  little  shadowy  vestment  in 
which  time  and  teeming  fancies  love  to  array  her — and 
some  of  which  become  her  pleasantly  enough,  serving, 
like  the  waters  of  her  well,  to  add  new  graces  to  the 
charms  they  half  conceal  and  half  suggest,  and  to  awaken 
interest  and  pursuit  rather  than  languor  and  indifference 
—as,  unlike  this  stern  and  obdurate  class,  he  loved  to 
see  the  goddess  crowned  with  those  garlands  of  wild 
flowers  which  tradition  wreathes  for  her  gentle  wearing, 
and  which  are  often  freshest  in  their  homeliest  shapes, — 
he  trod  with  a  light  step  and  bore  with  a  light  hand  upon 
the  dust  of  centuries,  unwilling  to  demolish  any  of  the 
fairy  shrines  that  had  been  raised  above  it,  if  any  good 
feeling  or  affection  of  the  human  heart  were  hiding 
thereabouts.  Thus,  in  the  case  of  an  ancient  coffin  of 
rough  stone,  supposed,  for  many  generations,  to  contain 
the  bones  of  a  certain  baron,  who,  after  ravaging,  with 
cut,  and  thrust,  and  plunder,  in  foreign  lands,  came 
back  with  a  penitent  and  sorrowing  heart  to  die  at  home, 
but  which  had  been  lately  shown  by  learned  antiquaries 
to  be  no  such  thing,  as  the  baron 'in  question  (so  they 
contended)  had  died  hard  in  battle,  gnashing  his  teeth 
and  cursing  with  his  latest  breath,— the  bachelor  stoutly 
maintained  that  the  old  tale  was  the  true  one  ;  that  the 
baron,  repenting  him  of  the  evil,  had  done  great  charities 
and  meekly  given  up  the  ghost  ;  and  that,  if  ever  baron 
went  to  heaven,  that  baron  was  then  at  peace.  In  like 
manner,  when  the  aforesaid  antiquaries  did  argue  and 
contend  that  a  certain  secret  vault  was  not  the  tomb  of 
a  gray-haired  lady  who  had  been  hanged  and  drawn  and 
quartered  by  glorious  Queen  Bess  for  succouring  a 
wretched  priest  who  fainted  of  thirst  and  hunger  at  her 


door,  the  bachelor  did  solemnly  maintain,  against  all 
comers,  that  the  church  was  hallowed  by  the  said  poor 
lady's  ashes  ;  that  her  remains  had  been  collected  in  the 
night  from  four  of  the  city's  gates,  and  thither  in  secret 
brought,  and  there  deposited;  and  the  bachelor  did  further 
(being  highly  excited  at  such  times)  deny  the  glory  of 
Queen  13ess,  and  assert  the  immeasurably  greater  glory  of 
the  meanest  woman  in  her  realm,  who  had  a  merciful  and 
tender  heart.  As  to  the  assertion  that  the  flat  stone  near 
the  door  was  not  the  grave  of  the  miser  who  had  dis- 
owned his  only  child  and  left  a  sum  of  money  to  the 
church  to  buy  a  peal  of  bells,  the  bachelor  did  readily 
admit  the  same,  and  that  the  place  had  given  birth  to  no 
such  man.  In  a  word,  he  would  have  had  every  stone, 
and  plate  of  brass,  the  monument  only  of  deeds  whose 
memory  should  survive.  All  others  he  was  willing  to 
forget.  They  might  be  buried  in  consecrated  ground, 
but  he  would  have  had  them  buried  deep,  and  never 
brought  to  light  again. 

It  was  from  the  lips  of  such  a  tutor,  that  the  child 
learnt  her  easy  task.  Already  impressed,  beyond  all  tell- 
ing, by  the  silent  building  and  the  peaceful  beauty  of 
the  spot  in  which  it  stood— majestic  age  surrounded  by 
perpetual  youth— it  seemed  to  her,  when  .she  heard  these 
things,  sacred  to  all  goodness  and  virtue.  It  was  anoth- 
er world,  where  sin  and  sorrow  never  came  ;  a  tranquil 
place  of  rest,  where  nothing  evil  entered. 

When  the  bachelor  had  given  her  in  connexion  with 
almost  every  tomb  and  flat  grave-stone  some  history  of 
its  own,  he  took  her  down  into  the  old  crj^pt,  now  a  mere 
dull  vault,  and  showed  her  how  it  had  been  lighted  up 
in  the  time  of  the  monks,  and  how,  amid  lamps  depend- 
ing from  the  roof,  and  swinging  censers  exhaling  scented 
odours,  and  habits  glittering  with  gold  and  silver,  and 
pictures,  and  precious  stuffs,  and  jewels  all  flashing  and 
glistening  through  the  low  arches,  the  chaunt  of  aged 
voices  had  been  many  a  time  heard  there,  at  midnight, 
in  old  days,  while  hooded  figures  knelt  and  prayed  around' 
and  told  their  rosaries  of  beads.  Thence,  he  took  her 
above  ground  again,  and  showed  her,  high  up  in  the  old 
walls,  small  galleries,  where  the  nuns  had  been  wont  to 
glide  along— dimly  seen  in  their  dark  dresses  so  far  off— 
or  to  pause  like  gloomy  shadows,  listening  to  the  prayers. 
I  He  showed  her  too,  how  the  warriors,  whose  figures  rested 
on  the  tombs,  had  worn  those  rotting  scraps  of  armour  up 
above— how  this  had  been  a  helmet,  and  that  a  shield, 
and  that  a  gauntlet— and  how  they  had  wielded  the  great 
two-handed  swords,  and  beaten  men  down,  with  yonder 
iron  mace.  All  that  he  told  the  child  she  treasured  in 
her  mind  ;  and  sometimes,  when  she  awoke  at  night  from 
dreams  of  those  old  times,  and  rising  from  her  bed  looked 
out  at  the  dark  church,  she  almost  hoped  to  see  the  win- 
dows lighted  up,  and  hear  the  organ's  swell,  and  sound  of 
voices,  on  the  rushing  wind. 

The  old  sexton  soon  got  better,  and  was  about  again. 
From  him  the  child  learned  many  other  things,  though  of 
a  different  kind.  He  was  not  able  to  work,  but  one  day 
there  was  a  grave  to  be  made,  and  he  came  to  overlook 
the  man  who  dug  it.  He  was  in  a  talkative  mood  ;  and 
the  child,  at  first  standing  by  his  side,  and  afterwards 
sitting  on  the  grass  at  his  feet,  with  her  thoughtful  face 
raised  towards  his,  began  to  converse  with  him. 

Now,  the  man  who  did  the  sexton's  duty  was  a  little 
older  than  he,  though  much  more  active.'  But  he  was 
deaf  ;  and  when  the  sexton  (who  peradventure,  on  a 
pinch,  might  have  walked  a  mile  with  great  difliculty 
in  half-a-dozen  hours)  exchanged  a  remark  with  him 
about  his  work,  the  child  could  not  help  noticing  that  he 
did  so  with  an  impatient  kind  of  pity  for  his  infirmity,  as 
if  he  were  himself  the  strongest  and'heartiest  man  alive. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  see  there  is  this  to  do,"  said  the  child, 
when  she  approached.   "  I  heard  of  no  one  having  died." 

"  She  lived  in  another  hamlet,  my  dear,"  returned  the 
sexton.    "  Three  mile  away." 
"  Was  she  young  ?  " 

"Ye — yes,"  said  the  sexton;  "not  more  than  sixty- 
four,  I  think.    David,  was  she  more  than  sixty-four?" 

David,  who  was  digging  hard,  heard  nothing  of  the 
question.  The  sexton,  as  he  could  not  reach  to  touch  him 
with  his  crutch,  and  was  too  infirm  to  rise  without  assist- 
ance, called  his  attention  by  throwing  a  little  mould 
upon  his  red  nightcap. 


794 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  What's  tlie  matter  now  ?  "  said  David,  looking  up. 

"  How  old  was  Becky  Morgan  ?  "  asked  tbe  sexton. 

"  Becky  Morgan  ?"  repeated  David. 

"Yes,"  replied  tlie  sexton  ;  adding  in  a  half  compas- 
sionate, half  irritable  tone,  which  the  old  man  couldn't 
hear,  "you're  getting  very  deaf,  Davy,  very  deaf  to  be 
sure  !  "* 

The  old  man  stopped  in  his  work,  and  cleansing  his 
spade  with  a  piece  of  slate  he  had  by  him  for  the  purpose 
— and  scraping  off,  in  the  process,  the  essence  of  Heaven 
knows  how  many  Becky  Morgans — set  himself  to  con- 
sider the  subject. 

"  Let  me  think,"  quoth  he.  "  I  saw  last  night  what 
they  had  put  upon  the  cofRn — was  it  seventy-nine?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  sexton. 

"Ah  yes,  it  was  though,"  returned  the  old  man  with  a 
sigh.  "  For  I  remember  thinking  she  was  very  near  our 
age.    Yes,  it  was  seventy  nine." 

"Are  you  sure  you  didn't  mistake  a  figure,  Davy?" 
asked  the  sexton,  with  signs  of  some  emotion. 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  old  man.    "  Say  that  again." 

"He's  very  deaf.  He's  very  deaf  indeed,"  cried  the 
sexton,  petulantly  ;  "  are  you  sure  you're  right  about  the 
figures  ?  " 

"  Oh  quite,"  replied  the  old  man.    "  Why  not?" 

"  He's  exceedingly  deaf,"  muttered  the  sexton  to  him- 
self.   "  I  think  he's  getting  foolish." 

The  child  rather  wondered  what  had  led  him  to  this 
belief,  as,  to  say  the  truth,  the  old  man  seemed  quite  as 
sharp  as  he,  and  was  infinitely  more  robust.  As  the  sex- 
ton said  nothing  more  just  then,  however,  she  forgot  it 
for  the  time,  and  spoke  again. 

"You  were  telling  me,"  she  said,  "  about  your  gar- 
dening.   Do  you  ever  plant'  things  here  ?  " 

"In  the  churchyard?"  returned  the  sexton,  "Not  I." 

"  I  have  seen  some  flowers  and  little  shrubs  about," 
the  child  rejoined  ;  "  there  are  some  over  there,  you  see. 
I  thought  they  were  of  your  rearing,  though  indeed  they 
grow  but  poorly." 

"  They  grow  as  Heaven  wills,"  said  the  old  man  ; 
"and  it  kindly  ordains  that  they  shall  never  flourish 
here." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Why,  this  it  is,"  said  the  sexton.  "  They  mark  the 
graves  of  those  who  had  very  tender,  loving  friends." 

"  I  was  sure  they  did  !  "  the  child  exclaimed.  "  I  am 
very  glad  to  know  they  do  !  " 

"  Aye,"  returned  the  old  man,  "but  stay.  Look  at 
them.  See  how  they  hang  their  heads,  and  droop,  and 
wither.    Do  you  guess  the  reason  ?  " 

"  No,"  the  child  replied. 

"  Because  the  memory  of  those  who  lie  below,  passes 
away  so  soon.  At  first  they  tend  them,  morning,  noon, 
and  night  ;  they  soon  begin  to  come  less  frequently  ; 
from  once  a  day,  to  once  a  week  ;  from  once  a  week  to 
once  a  month  ;  then ,  at  long  and  uncertain  intervals  ; 
then,  not  at  all.  Such  tokens  seldom  flourish  long.  I 
have  known  the  briefest  summer  flowers  outlive  them." 

"  I  grieve  to  hear  it,"  said  the  child. 

"  Ah  !  so  say  the  gentlefolks  who  come  down  here  to 
look  about  them,"  returned  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head, 
"but  I  say  otherwise.  '  It's  a  pretty  custom  you  have 
in  this  part  of  the  country,'  they  say  to  me  sometimes, 
'  to  plant  the  graves,  but  it's  melancholy  to  see  these 
things  all  withering  or  dead.'  I  crave  their  pardon  and 
tell  them  that,  as  I  take  it,  'tis  a  good  sign  for  the  hap- 
piness of  the  living.    And  so  it  is.    It's  nature." 

"  Perhaps  the  mourners  learn  to  look  to  the  blue  sky 
by  day,  and  to  the  stars  by  night,  and  to  think  that  the 
dead  are  there,  and  not  in  graves,"  said  the  child  in  an 
earnest  voice. 

" Perhaps  so,"  replied  the  old  man  doubtfully.  "It 
may  be." 

"  Whether  it  be  as  I  believe  it  is,  or  no,"  thought  the 
child  within  herself,  "I'll  make  this  place  m?/ garden. 
It  will  be  no  harm  at  least  to  work  here  day  by  day,  and 
pleasant  thoughts  will  come  of  it,  I  am  sure." 

Her  glowing  cheek  and  moistened  eye  passed  unno- 
ticed by  tlie  soxtoM,  who  turned  towards  old  David,  and 
called  him  by  his  name.  It  was  plain  that  Becky  Mor- 
gan's age  still  troubled  him ;  though  why,  the  child 
could  scarcely  understand. 


The  second  or  third  repetition  of  his  name  attracted 
the  old  man's  attention.  Pausing  from  his  work,  he 
leant  on  his  spade,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  dull  ear. 

"  Did  you  call  ?  "  he  said. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Davy,"  replied  the  sexton, 
"  that  she,"  he  pointed  to  the  grave,  "must  have  been 
a  deal  older  than  you  or  me." 

"  Seventy-nine,"  answered  the  old  man  with  a  shake 
of  the  head,  "  I  tell  you  that  I  saw  it." 

"Saw  it?"  replied  the  sexton;  "aye,  but,  Davy, 
women  don't  always  tell  the  truth  about  their  age." 

"  That's  true,  indeed,"  said  the  other  old  man,  with 
a  sudden  sparkle  in  his  eye.  "She  might  have  been 
older." 

"  I'm  sure  she  must  have  been.  Why,  only  think 
how  old  she  looked.   You  and  I  seemed  but  boys  to  her." 

"  She  did  look  old,"  rejoined  David.  "  You're  right. 
She  did  look  old." 

"  Call  to  mind  how  old  she  looked  for  many  a  long, 
long  year,  and  say  if  she  could  be  but  seventy-nine  at 
last — only  our  age,"  said  the  sexton. 

"  Five  year  older  at  the  very  least  !  "  cried  the  other. 

"Five  !"  retorted  the  sexton.  "Ten.  Good  eighty- 
nine.  I  call  to  mind  the  time  her  daughter  died.  She 
was  eighty- nine  if  she  was  a  day,  and  tries  to  pass  upon 
us  now  for  ten  year  younger.    Oh  1  human  vanity  1 " 

The  other  old  man  was  not  behindhand  with  some 
moral  reflections  on  this  fruitful  theme,  and  both  ad- 
duced a  mass  of  evidence,  of  such  weight  as  to  render  it 
doubtful — not  whether  the  deceased  was  of  the  age  sug- 
gested, but  whether  she  had  not  almost  reached  the 
patriarchal  term  of  a  hundred.  When  they  had  settled 
this  question  to  their  mutual  satisfaction,  the  sexton, 
with  his  friend's  assistance,  rose  to  go. 

"It's  chilly,  sitting  here,  and  I  must  be  careful — till 
the  summer,"  he  said,  as  he  prepared  to  limp  away. 

"What?"  asked  old  David. 

"  He's  very  deaf,  poor  fellow  ! "  cried  the  sexton. 
"  Good-bye." 

"Ah!"  said  old  David,  looking  after  him.  "He's 
failing  very  fast.    He  ages  every  day." 

And  so  they  parted  ;  each  persuaded  that  the  other 
had  less  life  in  him  than  himself  ;  and  both  greatly  con- 
soled and  comforted  by  the  little  fiction  they  had  agreed 
upon,  respecting  Becky  Morgan,  whose  decease  was  no 
longer  a  precedent  of  uncomfortable  application,  and 
would  be  no  business  of  theirs  for  half-a-score  of  years 
to  come. 

The  child  remained,  for  some  minutes,  watching  the 
deaf  old  man  as  he  threw  out  the  earth  with  his  shovel, 
and,  often  stopping  to  cough  and  fetch  his  breath,  still 
muttered  to  himself,  with  a  kind  of  sober  chuckle,  that 
the  sexton  was  wearing  fast.  At  length  she  turned  away 
and  walking  thoughtfully  through  the  churchyard, 
came  unexpectedly  upon  the  schoolmaster,  who  was 
sitting  on  a  green  grave  in  the  sun,  reading. 

"Nell  here?"  he  said  cheerfully,  as  he  closed  his 
book.  "  It  does  me  good  to  see  you  in  the  air  and  light. 
I  feared  you  were  again  in  the  church,  where  you  so 
often  are." 

"  Feared  !  "  replied  the  child,  sitting  down  beside  him. 
"  Is  it  not  a  good  place  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "But  you  must 
be  gay  sometimes — nay,  don't  shake  your  head  and 
smile  so  sadly." 

"  Not  sadly,  if  you  knew  my  heart.  Do  not  look  at 
me  as  if  you  thought  me  sorrowful.  There  is  not  a  hap- 
pier creature  on  the  earth,  than  I  am  now." 

Full  of  grateful  tenderness,  the  child  took  his  hand, 
and  folded  it  between  her  own.  "  It's  God's  Avill  1 "  she 
said,  when  they  had  been  silent  for  some  time. 

"What?" 

"All  this,"  she  rejoined;  "all  this  about  us.  But 
which  of  us  is  sad  now  ?    You  see  that  /am  smiling." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  the  schoolmaster  ;  "  smiling  to 
think  how  often  we  shall  laugh  in  this  same  place. 
Were  you  not  talking  yonder  ?  " 

"Yes,"  the  child  rejoined. 

"  Of  something  that  has  made  you  sorrowful  ?" 
There  was  a  long  pause. 

"What  was  it?"  said  the  schoolmaster,  tenderly. 
"Come.    Tell  me.  what  it  was." 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


795 


"  I  rather  grieve— I  do  rather  grieve  to  think,"  said 
the  child,  bursting  into  tears,  "  that  those  who  die  about 
us,  are  so  soon  forgotten." 

"And  do  you  think,"  said  the  schoohnaster,  marking 
tlie  glance  she  had  thrown  around,  "  that  an  unvisited 
grave,  a  withered  tree,  a  faded  flower  or  two,  are  tokens 
of  forgetfulness  or  cold  neglect  ?  Do  you  think  there 
are  no  deeds  far  away  from  here,  in  which  these  dead 
may  be  best  remembered?  Nell,  Nell,  there  may  be 
people  busy  in  the  world,  at  this  instant,  in  whose  good 
actions  and  good  thoughts  these  very  graves — neglected 
as  they  look  to  us — are  the  chief  instruments." 

"  Tell  me  no  more,"  said  the  child  quickly.  "Tell 
me  no  more.  I  feel,  I  know  it.  How  could  1  be  unmind- 
ful of  it  when  I  thought  of  you?" 

"  There  is  nothing,"  cried  her  friend,  "no,  nothing 
innocent  or  good,  that  dies,  and  is  forgotten.  Let  us 
hold  to  that  faith,  or  none.  An  infant,  a  prattling  child, 
dying  in  its  cradle,  will  live  again  in  the  better  thoughts 
of  those  who  loved  it,  and  will  play  its  part,  through 
them,  in  the  redeeming  actions  of  the  world,  though  its 
body  be  burnt  to  ashes  or  drowned  in  the  deepest  sea. 
There  is  not  an  angel  added  to  the  Host  of  Heaven  but 
does  its  blessed  work  on  earth  in  those  that  loved  it  here. 
Forgotten  !  oh,  if  the  good  deeds  of  human  creatures 
could  be  traced  to  their  source,  how  beautiful  would 
even  death  appear  ;  for  how  much  charity,  mercy,  and 
purified  affection,  would  be  seen  to  have  their  growth 
in  dusty  graves  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child,  "  it  is  the  truth  ;  I  know  it  is. 
Who  should  feel  its  force  so  much  as  I,  in  whom  your 
little  scholar  lives  again  !  Dear,  dear,  good  friend,  if 
you  knew  the  comfort  you  have  given  me  !  " 

The  poor  schoolmaster  made  her  no  answer,  but  bent 
over  her  in  silence  ;  for  his  heart  was  full. 

They  were  yet  seated  in  the  same  place,  when  the 
grandfather  approached.  Before  they  had  spoken  many 
words  together,  the  church  clock  struck  the  hour  of 
school,  and  their  friend  withdrew, 

"A  good  man,"  said  the  grandfather,  looking  after 
him;  "a  kind  man.     Surely  he  will  never  harm  us, 
Nell,    We  are  safe  here,  at  last— eh  I  We  will  ue 
away  from  here  ?  " 

The  child  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

"  She  needs  rest,"  said  the  old  man,  patting  her 
cheek  ;  "too  pale— too  pale.  She  is  not  like  what  she 
was  ?  " 

"When?"  asked  the  child, 

"Ha  !  "  said  the  old  man,  "  to  be  sure— when  ?  How 
many  weeks  ago  ?  Could  I  count  them  on  my  fingers  ? 
Let  them  rest  though  ;  they're  better  gone." 

"Much  better,  dear,"  replied  the  child,  "We  will 
forget  them  ;  or  if  we  ever  call  them  to  mind,  it  shall  be 
only  as  some  uneasy  dream  that  has  passed  away." 

"Hush  !  "  said  the  old  man,  motioning  hastily  to  her 
with  his  hand  and  looking  over  his  shoulder  ;  "no  more 
talk  of  the  dream,  and  all  the  miseries  it  brought.  There 
are  no  dreams  here.  'Tis  a  quiet  place,  and  they  keep 
away.  Let  us  never  think  about  them,  lest  they  should 
pursue  us  again.  Sunken  eyes  and  hollow  cheeks — wet, 
cold,  and  famine— and  horrors  before  them  all,  that  were 
even  worse— we  must  forget  such  things  if  we  would  be 
tranquil  here." 

"Thank  Heaven!"  inwardly  exclaimed  the  child, 
"  for  this  most  happy  change  !  "* 

"I  will  be  patient,"  said  the  old  man,  "humble,  very 
thankful  and  obedient,  if  you  will  let  me  stay.  But  do 
not  hide  from  me  ;  do  not  steal  away  alone  ;  let  me  keep 
beside  you.  Indeed,  I  will  be  very  true  and  faithful, 
Nell." 

"I  steal  away  alone  I  why  that,"  replied  the  child, 
with  assumed  gaiety,  "  would  be  a  pleasant  jest  indeed. 
See  here,  dear  grandfather,  we'll  make  this  place  our 
garden— why  not !  It  is  a  very  good  one— and  to-morrow 
we'll  begin,  and  work  together,  side  by  side." 

"It  is  a  brave  thought!"  cried  her  grandfather. 
*'  Mind,  darling — we  begin  to-morrow  !" 

Who  so  delighted  as  the  old  man,  when  they  next  day 
began  their  labour  I  Who  so  unconscious  of  all  associa- 
tions  connected  with  the  spot,  as  he  !  They  plucked  the 
long  grass  and  nettles  from  the  tombs,  thinned  the  poor 
shrubs  and  roots,  made  the  turf  smooth,  and  cleared  it 


iver  go 


of  the  leaves  and  weeds.  They  were  yet  in  the  ardour 
of  their  work,  when  the  child,  raising  her  head  from  tlie 
ground  over  which  she  bent,  observed  that  the  bachelor 
was  sitting  on  the  stilo  close  by,  watching  them  in 
silence. 

"A  kind  office,"  said  the  little  gentleman,  nodding  to 
Nell  as  she  curtseyed  to  him,  "Have  you  done  all  that, 
this  morning  ?" 

"  It  is  very  little,  sir,"  returned  the  child,  with  down- 
cast eyes,  "  to  what  we  mean  to  do." 

"Good  work,  good  work,"  said  the  bachelor.  "But 
do  you  only  labour  at  the  graves  of  children,  and  young 
people  ?" 

"  We  shall  come  to  the  others  in  good  time,  sir," 
replied  Nell,  turning  her  head  aside,  and  speaking 
softly. 

It  was  a  slight  incident,  and  might  have  been  design, 
or  accident,  or  the  child's  unconscious  sympathy  with 
youth.  But  it  seemed  to  strike  upon  her  grandfather, 
though  he  had  not  noticed  it  before.  He  looked  in  a 
hurried  manner  at  the  graves,  then  anxiously  at  the  child, 
then  pressed  her  to  his  side,  and  bade  her  stop  to  rest.' 
Something  he  had  long  forgotten,  appeared  to  struggle 
faintly  in  his  mind.  It  did  not  pass  away,  as  weightier 
things  had  done  ;  but  came  uppermost  again,  and  yet 
again,  and  many  times  that  day,  and  often  afterwards. 
Once,  while  they  were  yet  at  work,  the  child,  seeing 
that  he  often  turned  and  looked  uneasily  at  her,  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  resolve  some  painful  doubts  or 
collect  some  scattered  thoughts,  urged  him  to  tell  the 
reason.  But  he  said  it  was  nothing— nothing— and, 
laying  her  head  upon  his  arm,  patted  her  fair  cheek  with 
his  hand,  and  muttered  that  she  grew  stronger  every 
day,  and  would  be  a  woman,  soon. 


CHAPTER  LY. 

From  that  time,  there  sprung  up  in  the  old  man's 
mind,  a  solicitude  about  the  child  which  never  slept  or 
left  him.  There  are  chords  in  the  human  heart— strange, 
varying  strings— which  are  only  struck  by  accident ; 
which  will  remain  mute  and  senseless  to  appeals  the 
most  passionate  and  earnest,  and  respond  at  last  to  the 
slightest  casual  touch.  In  the  most  insensible  or  child- 
ish minds,  there  ig  some  train  of  reflection  which  art  can 
seldom  lead,  or  skill  attest,  but  which  will  reveal  itself, 
as  great  truths  have  done,  by  chance,  and  when  the  dis- 
coverer has  the  plainest  and  simplest  end  in  view.  From 
that  time,  the  old  man  never,  for  a  moment,  forgot  the 
weakness  and  devotion  of  the  child  ;  from  the  time  of 
that  slight  incident,  he,  who  had  seen  her  toiling  by  his 
side  through  so  much  difficulty  and  suffering,  and  had 
scarcely  thought  of  her  otherwise  than  as  the  partner  of 
miseries  which  he  felt  severely  in  his  own  person,  and 
deplored  for  his  own  sake  at  least  as  much  as  hers,  awoke 
to  a  sense  of  what  he  owed  her,  and  what  those  miseries 
had  made  her.  Never,  no,  never  once,  in  one  unguarded 
moment  from  that  time  to  the  end,  did  any  care  for  him- 
self, any  thought  of  his  own  comfort,  any  selfish  consid- 
eration or  regard,  distract  his  thoughts  from  the  gentle 
object  of  his  love. 

He  would  follow  her  up  and  down,  waiting  till  she 
should  tire  and  lean  upon  his  arm — he  would  sit  opposite 
to  her  in  the  chimney-corner,  content  to  watch,  and  look, 
until  she  raised  her  head  and  smiled  upon  him  as  of  old 
—he  would  discharge  by  stealth,  those  household  duties 
which  tasked  her  powers  too  heavily — he  would  rise,  in 
the  cold  dark  nights,  to  listen  to  her  breathing  in  her 
sleep,  and  sometimes  crouch  for  hours  by  her  bedside 
only  to  touch  her  hand.  He  who  knows  all,  can  only 
know  what  hopes,  and  fears,  and  thoughts  of  deep  affec- 
tion, were  in  that  one  disordered  brain,  and  what  a 
change  had  fallen  on  the  poor  old  man. 

Sometimes — weeks  had  crept  on,  then — the  child,  ex- 
hausted, though  with  little  fatigue,  would  pass  whole 
evenings  on  a  couch  beside  the  fire.  At  such  times,  the 
schoolmaster  would  bring  in  books,  and  read  to  her 
aloud  ;  and  seldom  an  evening  passed,  but  the  bachelor 
came  in,  and  took  his  turn  of  reading. 

The  old  man  sat  and  listened, — with  little  understand- 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


ing  for  tlie  words,  but  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  child, 
— and  if  she  smiled  or  brightened  with  the  story,  he 
would  say  it  was  a  good  one,  and  conceive  a  fondness 
for  the  v'ery  book.  When,  in  their  evening  talk,  the 
bachelor  told  some  tale  that  pleased  her  (as  his  tales 
were  sure  to  do),  the  old  man  would  painfully  try  to 
store  it  in  his  mind  ;  nay,  when  the  bachelor  left  them, 
he  would  sometimes  slip  out  after  him,  and  humbly  beg 
that  he  would  tell  him  such  a  part  again,  that  he  might 
learn  to  win  a  smile  from  Nell. 

But  these  were  rare  occasions,  happily ;  for  the  child 
yearned  to  be  out  of  doors,  and  walking  in  her  solemn 
garden.  Parties  too,  would  come  to  see  the  church  ;  and 
those  who  came,  speaking  to  others  of  the  child,  sent 
more  ;  so  even  at  that  season  of  the  year  they  had  visi- 
tors almost  daily.  The  old  man  would  follow  them  at  a 
little  distance  through  the  building,  listening  to  the 
voice  he  loved  so  well  ;  and  when  the  strangers  left,  and 
parted  from  Nell,  he  would  mingle  with  them  to  catch 
up  fragments  of  their  conversation  ;  or  he  would  stand 
for  the  same  purpose,  with  his  grey  head  uncovered,  at 
the  gate,  as  they  passed  through. 

They  always  praised  the  child,  her  sense  and  beauty, 
and  he  was  proud  to  hear  them  !  But  vi^hat  was  that,  so 
often  added,  which  wrung  his  heart,  and  made  him  sob 
and  weep  alone,  in  some  dull  corner !  Alas  !  even  care- 
less strangers — they  who  had  no  feeling  for  her,  but  the 
interest  of  the  moment — they  who  would  go  away  and 
forget  next  week  that  such  a  being  lived — even  they  saw 
it — even  they  pitied  her — even  they  bade  him  good  day 
compassionately,  and  whispered  as  they  passed. 

The  people  of  the  village,  too,  of  whom  there  was  not 
one  but  grew  to  have  a  fondness  for  poor  Nell ;  even 
among  them,  there  was  the  same  feeling  ;  a  tenderness 
towards  her — a  compassionate  regard  for  her,  increasing 
every  day.  The  very  schoolboys  light-hearted  and 
thoughtless  as  they  were,  even  they  cared  for  her.  The 
roughest  among  them  was  sorry  if  he  missed  her  in  the 
usual  place  upon  his  way  to  school,  and  would  turn  out 
of  the  path  to  ask  for  her  at  the  latticed  window.  If  she 
were  sitting  in  the  church,  they  perhaps  might  peep  in 
softly  at  the  open  door  ;  but  they  never  spoke  to  her, 
unless  she  rose  and  went  to  speak  to  thera.  Some  feeling 
was  abroad  which  raised  the  child  above  them  all. 

So,  when  Sunday  came.  They  were  all  poor  country 
•people  in  the  church,  for  the  castle  in  which  the  old 
family  had  lived,  was  an  empty  ruin,  and  there  were 
none  but  humble  folks  for  seven  miles  around.  There, 
as  elsewhere,  they  had  an  interest  in  Nell.  They  would 
gather  round  her  in  the  porch,  before  and  after  service  ; 
young  children  would  cluster  at  her  skirts;  and  aged 
men  and  women  forsake  their  gossips,  to  give  her  kindly 
greeting.  None  of  them,  young  or  old,  thought  of  pass- 
ing the  child  without  a  friendly  word.  Many  who  came 
from  three  or  four  miles  distant,  brought  her  little  pres- 
ents ;  the  humblest  and  rudest  had  good  wishes  to  be- 
stow. 

She  had  sought  out  the  young  children  whom  she  first 
saw  playing  in  the  churchyard.  One  of  these — he  who 
had  spoken  of  his  brother— was  her  little  favourite  and 
friend,  and  often  sat  by  her  side  in  the  church,  or 
climbed  with  her  to  the  tower-top.  It  was  his  delight 
to  help  her,  or  to  fancy  that  he  did  so,  and  they  soon  be- 
came close  companions. 

It  happened,  that,  as  she  was  reading  in  the  old  spot 
by  herself  one  day,  this  child  came  running  in  with  his 
eyes  full  of  tears,  and  after  holding  her  from  him,  and 
looking  at  her  eagerly  for  a  moment,  clasped  his  little 
arms  passionately  about  her  neck. 

"What  now?"  said  Nell,  soothing  him.  "What  is 
the  matter  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  one  yet  !"  cried  the  boy,  embracing  her 
still  more  closely.    "  No,  no.    Not  yet." 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  and  putting  his  hair 
back  from  his  face,  and  kissing  him,  asked  what  he 
meant. 

"  You  must  not  be  one,  dear  Nell,"  cried  the  boy. 
"We  can't  see  them.  They  never  come  to  play  with 
us,  or  talk  to  us.    Be  what  you  are.    You  are  better 

60." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  the  child.  "  Tell  me 
what  you  mean." 


"Why,  they  say,"  replied  the  boy,  looking  up  into 
her  face,  "that  you  will  be  an  Angel,  before  the  birds 
sing  again.  But  you  M'on't  be,  will  you?  Don't  leave 
us,  Nell,  though  the  sky  is  bright.    Do  not  leave  us  !" 

The  child  dropped  her  head,  and  put  her  hands  before 
her  face. 

"  She  cannot  bear  the  thought  !  "  cried  the  boy,  exult- 
ing through  his  tears.  "You  will  not  go.  You  know 
how  sorry  we  should  be.  Dear  Nell,  tell  me  that  you'll 
stay  amongst  us.  Oh  !  Pray,  pray,  tell  me  that  you 
will." 

The  little  creature  folded  his  hands,  and  knelt  down 
at  her  feet. 

"  Only  look  at  me,  Nell,"  said  the  boy,  "  and  tell  me 
that  you'll  stop,  and  then  I  shall  know  that  they  are 
wrong,  and  will  cry  no  more.  Won't  you  say  yes, 
Nell  ?  " 

Still  the  drooping  head  and  hidden  face,  and  the  child 
quite  silent — save  for  her  sobs. 

"After  a  time,"  pursued  the  boy,  trying  to  draw 
away  her  hand,  "  the  kind  angels  will  be  glad  to  think 
that  you  are  not  among  them,  and  that  you  stayed  here 
to  be  with  us.  Willy  went  away,  to  join  them  ;  but  if 
he  had  known  how  I  should  miss  him  in  our  little  bed 
at  night,  he  never  would  have  left  me,  I  am  sure." 

Yet  the  child  could  make  him  no  answer,  and  sobbed 
as  though  her  heart  were  bursting. 

"  Why  would  you  go,  dear  Nell?  I  know  you  would' 
not  be  happy  when  you  heard  that  we  were  crying  for 
your  loss.  They  say  that  Willy  is  in  Heaven  now,  and 
that  it's  always  summer  there,  and  yet  I'm  sure  he 
grieves  when  I  lie  down  upon  his  garden  bed,  and  he 
cannot  turn  to  kiss  me.  But  if  you  do  go,  Nell,"  said 
the  boy,  caressing  her,  and  pressing  his  face  to  hers, 
"be  fond  of  him  for  my  sake.  Tell  him  how  I  love  him 
still,  and  how  much  I  loved  you  ;  and  when  I  think 
that  you  two  are  together,  and  are  happy,  I'll  try  to 
bear  it,  and  never  give  you  pain  by  doing  wrong — indeed 
I  never  will  !  " 

The  child  suffered  him  to  move  her  hands,  and  put 
them  round  his  neck.  There  was  a  tearful  silence,  but 
it  was  not  long  before  she  looked  upon  him  with  a 
smile,  and  promised  him  in  a  very  gentle  quiet  voice, 
that  she  would  stay,  and  be  his  friend  as  long  as  Heaven 
would  let  her.  He  clapped  his  hands  for  joy,  and 
thanked  her  many  times  ;  and  being  charged  to  tell  no 
person  what  had  passed  between  them,  gave  her  an  ear- 
nest promise  that  he  never  would. 

Nor  did  he,  so  far  as  the  child  could  learn  ;  but  was 
her  quiet  companion  in  all  her  walks  and  musings,  and 
never  again  adverted  to  the  theme,  which  he  felt  had 
given  her  pain,  although  he  was  unconscious  of  its 
cause.  Something  of  distrust  lingered  about  him  still  ; 
for  he  would  often  come,  even  in  the  dark  evenings, 
and  call  in  a  timid  voice  outside  the  door  to  know  if  she 
were  safe  within,  and  being  answered  yes,  and  bade  to 
enter,  would  take  his  station  on  a  low  stool  at  her  feet, 
and  sit  there  patiently  until  they  came  to  seek,  and  take 
him  home.  Sure  as  the  morning  came,  it  found  him 
lingering  near  the  house  to  ask  if  she  were  well ;  and, 
morning,  noon,  or  night,  go  where  she  would,  he  would 
forsake  his  playmates  and  his  sports  to  bear  her  com- 
pany. 

"  And  a  good  little  friend  he  is,  too,"  said  the  old  sex- 
ton to  her  once.  "  When  his  elder  brother  died — elder 
seems  a  strange  word,  for  he  was  only  seven  years  old — 
I  remember  this  one  took  it  sorely  to  heart." 

The  child  thought  of  what  the  schoolmaster  had  told 
her,  and  felt  how  its  truth  was  shadowed  out  even  in 
this  infant. 

"  It  has  given  him  something  of  a  quiet  way,  I  think," 
said  the  old  man,  "  though  for  that  he  is  merry  enough 
at  times.  I'd  wager  now  that  you  and  he  have  been 
listening  by  the  old  well." 

"  Indeed  we  have  not,"  the  child  replied.  "I  have 
been  afraid  to  go  near  it  ;  for  I  am  not  often  down  in 
that  part  of  the  church,  and  do  not  know  the  ground." 

"  Come  down  with  me,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  have 
known  it  from  a  boy.    Come  !  " 

They  descended  the  narrow  steps  which  led  into  the 
crypt,  and  paused  among  the  gloomy  arches,  in  a  dim 
and  murky  spot. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


797 


"This  is  the  place,"  said  the  old  man.  "Give  me 
your  hand  while  you  throw  back  the  cover,  lest  you 
should  stumble  and  fall  in.  I  am  too  old — I  mean  rheu- 
matic— to  stoop,  myself." 

"  A  black  and  dreadful  place  !  "  exclaimed  the  child, 

"Look  in,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing  downward 
with  his  finger. 

The  child  complied,  and  gazed  down  into  the  pit. 

"  It  looks  like  a  grave  itself,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  It  does,"  replied  the  child. 

"  I  have  often  had  the  fancy,"  said  the  sexton,  "  that 
it  might  have  been  dug  at  first  to  make  the  old  place 
more  gloomy,  and  the  old  monks  more  religious.  It's  to 
be  closed  up,  and  built  over." 

The  child  still  stood,  looking  thoughtfully  into  the 
vault. 

"We  shall  see,"  said  the  sexton,  "on  what  gay 
heads  other  earth  will  have  closed,  when  the  light  is 
shut  out  from  here.  God  knows  !  They'll  close  it  up, 
next  spring." 

"The  birds  sing  again  in  spring,"  thought  the  child, 
as  she  leaned  at  her  casement,  window,  and  gazed  at  the 
declining  sun.   "  Spring  ;  a  beautiful  and  happy  time  !  " 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

A  DAT  or  two  after  the  Quilp  tea-party  at  the  Wilder- 
ness, Mr.  Swiveller  walked  into  Sampson  Brass's  of- 
fice at  the  usual  hour,  and  being  alone  in  that  Temple 
of  Probity,  placed  his  hat  upon  the  desk,  and  taking 
from  his  pocket  a  small  parcel  of  black  crape,  applied 
himself  to  folding  and  pinning  the  same  upon  it,  after 
the  manner  of  a  hatband.  Having  completed  the  con- 
struction of  this  appendage,  he  surveyed  his  work  with 
great  complacency,  and  put  his  hat  on  again — very  much 
over  one  eye  to  increase  the  mournf ulness  of  the  effect. 
These  arrangements  perfected  to  his  entire  satisfaction, 
he  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  office  with  measured  steps. 

"  It  has  always  been  the  same  with  me,"  said  Mr. 
Swiveller,  "  always.  'Twas  ever  thus,  from  childhood's 
hour  I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay,  I  never  loved  a 
tree  or  flower  but  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away  ;  I  never 
nursed  a  dear  Gazelle,  to  glad  me  with  its  soft  black 
eye,  but  when  it  came  to  know  me  well,  and  love  me,  it 
v/as  sure  to  marry  a  market-gardener." 

Overpowered  by  these  reflections,  Mr.  Swiveller  stop- 
ped short  at  the  clients'  chair,  and  flung  himself  into  its 
open  arms. 

"  And  this,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  with  a  kind  of  ban- 
tering composure,  "is  life,  I  believe.  Oh,  certainly. 
Why  not  !  I'm  quite  satisfied.  "  I  shall  wear,"  added 
Richard,  taking  off  his  hat  again  and  looking  hard  at  it, 
as  if  he  were  only  deterred  by  pecuniary  considerations 
from  spurning  it  with  his  foot,  "I  shall  wear  this  em- 
blem of  woman's  perfidy,  in  remembrance  of  her  with 
whom  I  shall  never  again  thread  the  windings  of  the 
mazy  ;  whom  I  shall  never  more  pledge  in  the  rosy ; 
who,  during  the  short  remainder  of  my  existence,  will 
murder  the  balmy.    Ha,  ha,  ha  !" 

It  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  lest  there  should  appear 
any  incongruity  in  the  close  of  this  soliloquy,  that  Mr. 
Swiveller  did  not  wind  up  with  a  cheerful  hilarious 
laugh,  which  would  have  been  undoubtedly  at  variance 
with  his  solemn  reflections,  but  that  being  in  a  theatri- 
cal mood,  he  merely  achieved  that  performance  which  is 
designated  in  melo-draraas  "laughing  like  a  fiend," — 
for  it  seems  that  your  fiends  always  laugh  in  syllables, 
and  always  in  three  syllables,  never  more  or  less,  which 
is  a  remarkable  property  in  such  gentry,  and  one  worthy 
of  remembrance. 

The  baleful  sounds  had  hardly  died  away,  and  Mr. 
Swiveller  was  still  sitting  in  a  very  grim  state  in  the 
clients'  chair,  when  there  came  a  ring, — or,  if  we  may 
adapt  the  sound  to  his  then  humour,  a  knell — at  the  of- 
fice bell.  Opening  the  door  with  all  speed,  he  beheld 
the  expressive  countenance  of  Mr.  Chuckster,  between 
■whom  and  himself  a  fraternal  greeting  ensued. 

You're  devilish  early  at  this  pestiferous  old  slaugh- 


ter-house," said  that  gentleman,  poising  himself  on  one 
leg,  and  shaking  the  other  in  an  easy  manner. 
"  Rather,"  returned  Dick. 

"  Rather  !"  retorted  Mr.  Chuckster,  with  that  air  of 
graceful  trifling  which  so  well  became  him.  "  /  should 
think  so.  Why,  my  good  feller,  do  you  know  what 
o'clock  it  is — half-past  nine  a.m.  in  the  morning?" 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ?"  said  Dick.  "  All  alone.  Swiv- 
eller solus.    '  'Tis  now  the  witching — '  " 

"  '  Hour  of  night  1 '  " 

"  '  When  churchyards  yawn.'  " 

"  'And  graves  give  up  their  dead.'" 

At  the  end  of  this  quotation  in  dialogue,  each  gentle- 
man struck  an  attitude,  and  immediately  subsiding  into 
prose,  walked  into  the  office.  Such  morsels  of  enthusi- 
asm were  common  among  the  Glorious  Apollos,  and  were 
indeed  the  links  that  bound  them  together,  and  raised 
them  above  the  cold  dull  earth. 

"  Well,  and  how  are  you  my  buck?"  said  Mr.  Chuck- 
ster, taking  a  stool.  "I  was  forced  to  come  into  the 
city  upon  some  little  private  matters  of  my  own,  and 
couldn't  pass  the  corner  of  the  street  without  looking  in, 
but  upon  my  .soul  I  didn't  expect  to  find  you.  It  is  so 
everlastingly  early." 

Mr.  Swiveller  expressed  his  acknowledgments  ;  audit 
appearing  on  further  conversation  that  he  was  in  good 
health,  and  that  Mr.  Chuckster  was  in  the  like  enviable 
condition,  both  gentlemen,  in  compliance  with  a  solemn 
custom  of  the  ancient  Brotherhood  to  which  they  be- 
longed, joined  in  a  fragment  of  a  popular  duet  of  "All's 
Well  "  with  a  long  shake  at  the  end. 

"  And  what's  the  news  ?  "  said  Richard. 

"The  town's  as  flat,  my  dear  feller,"  replied  Mr. 
Chuckster,  ' '  as  the  surface  of  a  Dutch  oven.  There's 
no  news.  By-the-bye,  that  lodger  of  yours  is  a  most  ex- 
traordinary person.  He  quite  eludes  the  most  vigorous 
comprehension,  you  know.    Never  was  such  a  feller  ! " 

"  What  has  he  been  doing  now?"  said  Dick. 

"By  Jove,  sir,"  returned  Mr,  Chuckster,  taking  out 
j  an  oblong  snuff-box,  the  lid  whereof  was  ornamented 
with  a  fox's  head  curiously  carved  in  brass,  "  that  man 
is  an  unfathomable.  Sir,  that  man  has  made  friends 
with  our  articled  clerk.  There's  no  harm  in  him,  but 
he's  so  amazingly  slow  and  soft.  Now,  if  he  wanted  a 
friend,  why  couldn't  he  have  one  that  knew  a  thing  or 
two,  and  could  do  him  some  good  by  his  manners  and 
conversation.  I  have  my  faults,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chuck- 
ster,— 

"No,  no,"  interposed  Mr,  Swiveller, 

"  Oh  yes  I  have,  I  have  my  faults,  no  man  knows  his 
faults  better  than  I  know  mine.  But,"  said  Mr.  Chuck- 
ster,. "  I'm  not  meek.  My  worst  enemies — every  man 
has  his  enemies,  sir,  and  I  have  mine — never  accused 
me  of  being  meek.  And  I  tell  you  what,  sir,  if  I  hadn't 
more  of  these  qualities  that  commonly  endear  man  to 
man,  than  our  articled  clerk  has,  I'd  steal  a  Cheshire 
cheese,  tie  it  round  my  neck,  and  drown  myself.  I'd 
die  degraded,  as  I  had  lived.    I  would  upon  my  honour. 

Mr.  Chuckster  paused,  rapped  the  fox's  head  exactly 
on  the  nose  with  the  knuckle  of  the  fore-finger,  took  *a 
pinch  of  snuff  and  looked  steadily  at  Mr.  Swiveller,  as 
much  as  to  say  that  if  he  thought  he  was  going  to  sneeze, 
he  would  find  himself  mistaken. 

"Not  contented,  sir,"  said  Mr,  Chuckster,  "with 
making  friends  with  Abel,  he  has  cultivated  the  ac- 
quaintance of  his  father  and  mother.  Since  he  came 
home  from  that  wild-goose  chase,  he  has  been  there — 
actually  been  there.  He  patronises  young  Snobby  be- 
sides ;  you'll  find,  sir,  that  he'll  be  constantly  coming 
backwards  and  forwards  to  this  place  :  yet  I  don't  sup- 
pose that  beyond  the  common  forms  of  civility,  he  has 
ever  exchanged  half-a-dozen  words  with  me.  Now, 
upon  my  soul,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Chuckster,  shaking 
his  head  gravely,  as  men  are  wont  to  do  when  they  con- 
sider things  are  going  a  little  too  far,  "  this  is  altogether 
such  a  low-minded  affair,  that  if  I  didn't  feel  for  the 
governor,  and  know  that  he  could  never  get  on  without 
me,  I  should  be  obliged  to  cut  the  connexion.  I  should 
have  no  alternative." 

Mr.  Swiveller,  who  sat  on  another  stool  opposite  to 
his  friend,  stirred  the  fire  in  an  excess  of  sympathy,  but 
said  nothing. 


798 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"As  to  young  Snob,  sir,"  pursued  Mr.  Chuckster  with 
a  prophetic  look,  "  you'll  find  he'll  turn  out  bad.  In  our 
profession  we  know  something  of  human  nature, and  take 
my  word  for  it,  that  the  feller  that  came  back  to  work 
out  that  shilling,  will  show  himself  one  of  these  days 
in  his  true  colours.  He's  a  low  thief,  sir.  He  must 
be." 

Mr.  Chuckster  being  roused,  would  probably  have 
pursued  this  subject  further,  and  in  more  emphatic  lan- 
guage, but  for  a  tap  at  the  door,  which  seeming  to  an- 
nounce the  arrival  of  somebody  on  business,  caused  him 
to  assume  a  greater  appearance  of  meekness  than  was 
perhaps  quite  consistent  with  his  late  declaration.  Mr. 
Swiveller,  hearing  the  same  sound,  caused  his  stool  to 
revolve  rapidly  on  one  leg  until  it  brought  him  to  his 
desk,  into  which,  having  forgotten  in  the  sudden  flurry 
of  his  spirits  to  part  with  the  poker,  he  thrust  it  as  he 
cried  "  Come  in  ! " 

Who  should  present  himself  but  that  very  Kit  who 
had  heen  the  theme  of  Mr.  Chuckster's  wrath  !  Never 
did  man  pluck  up  his  courage  so  quickly,  or  look  so 
fierce,  as  Mr.  Chuckster  when  he  found  it  was  he.  Mr. 
Swiveller  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  .then  leaping 
from  his  stool,  and  drawing  out  the  poker  from  its 
place  of  concealment,  performed  the  broad  sword  exer- 
cise with  all  the  cuts  and  guards  complete,  in  a  species 
of  frenzy. 

"Is  the  gentleman  at  home  ? "  said  Kit,  rather  aston- 
ished by  this  uncommon  reception. 

Before, Mr.  Swiveller  could  make  any  reply,  Mr. 
Chuckster  took  occasion  to  enter  his  indignant  protest 
against  this  form  of  inquiry  ;  which  he  held  to  be  of  a 
disrespectful  and  snobbish  tendency,  inasmuch  as  the 
inquirer,  seeing  two  gentlemen  then  and  there  present, 
should  have  spoken  of  the  other  gentleman  ;  or  rather 
(for  it  was  not  impossible  that  the  object  of  his  search 
might  be  of  inferior  quality)  should  have  mentioned  his 
name,  leaving  it  to  his  hearers  to  determine  his  degree 
as  they  thought  proper.  Mr.  Chuckster  likewise  re- 
marked, that  he  had  some  reason  to  believe  this  form  of 
address  was  personal  to  himself,  and  that  he  was  not  a 
man  to  be  trifled  with — as  certain  snobs  (whom  he  did 
not  more  particularly  mention  or  describe)  might  find  to 
their  cost. 

"I  mean  the  gentleman  up-stairs,"  said  Kit,  turning 
to  Richard  Swiveller.    "  Is  he  at  home  ?" 
*'  Why  ?  "  rejoined  Dick. 
"  Because  if  he  is,  I  have  a  letter  for  him." 
"  From  whom  ?  "  said  Dick. 
"  From  Mr.  Garland." 

*'0h  !"  said  Dick,  with  extreme  politeness.  "  Then 
you  may  hand  it  over,  sir.  And  if  you're  to  wait  for  an 
answer,  sir,  you  may  Avait  in  the  passage,  sir,  which  is 
an  airy  and  well- ventilated  apartment,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  Kit.  "  But  I  am  to  give  it  to 
himself  if  you  please." 

The  excessive  audacity  of  this  retort  so  overpowered 
Mr.  Chuckster,  and  so  moved  his  tender  regard  for  his 
friend's  honour,  that  he  declared,  if  he  were  not  re- 
strained by  official  considerations,  he  must  certainly  have 
annihilated  Kit  upon  the  spot ;  a  resentment  of  the  af- 
front which  he  did  consider,  under  the  extraordinary  cir- 
cumstances of  aggravation  attending it,could  not  but  have 
met  with  the  proper  sanction  and  approval  of  a  jury  of 
Englishmen,  who,  he  had  no  doubt,  would  have  returned 
a  verdict  of  Justifiable  Homicide, coupled  with  a  high  tes- 
timony to  the  morals  and  character  of  the  avenger.  Mr. 
Swiveller,  without  being  quite  so  hot  upon  the  matter, 
was  rather  shamed  by  liis  friend's  excitement,  and  not  a 
little  puzzled  how  to  act  (Kit  being  quite  cool  and  good 
humoured),  when  the  single  gentleman  was  heard  to 
call  violently  down  the  stairs. 

"  Didn't  I  see  somebody  for  me,  come  in  ?  "  cried  the 
lodger. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Dick,  "Certainly,  sir." 

"  Then  where  is  he  ?  "  roared  the  single  gentleman. 

"lie's  here,  sir,"  rejoined  Mr.  Swiveller.  "Now 
young  man,  don't  you  hear  you're  to  go  up  stairs?  Are 
you  deaf  ?" 

Kit  did  not  appear  to  think  it  worth  his  while  to  enter 
into  any  altercation,  but  hurried  off  and  left  the  GHorious 
Apollo.s  gazing  at  each  other  in  silence. 


"  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?  "  said  Mr.  Chuckster.    **  What 

do  you  think  of  that?" 

Mr.  Swiveller  being  in  the  main  a  good-natured  fellow 
and  not  perceiving  in  the  conduct  of  Kit  any  villany  of 
enormous  magnitude,  scarcely  knew  what  answer  to  re- 
turn. He  was  relieved  from  his  perplexity,  however  by 
the  entrance  of  Mr.  Sampson  and  his  sister,  Sally,  at 
sight  of  whom  Mr.  Chuckster  precipitately  retired. 

Mr.  Brass  and  his  lovely  companion  appeared  to  have 
been  holding  a  consultation  over  their  temperate  break- 
fast, upon  some  matter  of  great  interest  and  importance. 
On  the  occasion  of  such  conferences,  they  generally  ap- 
peared in  the  office  some  half  an  hour  after  their  usual 
time, and  in  a  very  smiling  state,as  though  their  late  plots 
and  designs  had  tranquillised  their  minds  and  shed  a  light 
upon  their  toilsome  way.  In  the  present  instance,  they 
seemed  particularly  gay  ;  Miss  Sally's  aspect  being  of  a 
most  oily  kind,  and  Mr.  Brass  rubbing  his  hands  in  an  ex- 
ceedingly jocose  and  light-hearted  manner. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Richard,"  said  Brass.  "  How  are  we  this 
morning?  Are  we  pretty  fresh  and  cheerful  sir — eh, 
Mr.  Richard  ?  " 

"Pretty  well  sir,"  replied  Dick. 

"  That's  well,"  said  Brass.  "  Ha  ha  !  We  should  be 
as  gay  as  larks  Mr.  Richard — why  not  ?  It's  a  pleasant 
world  we  live  in  sir,  a  very  pleasant  world.  There  are 
bad  people  in  it  Mr.  Richard  ;  but  if  there  were  no  bad 
people,  there  would  be  no  good  lawyers.  Ha  ha  I  Any 
letters  by  the  post  this  morning,  Mr.  Richard  ?  " 

Mr.  Swiveller  answered  in  the  negative, 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Brass,  "  no  matter.  If  there's  little  busi- 
ness to-day,  there'll  be  more  to-morrow.  A  contented 
spirit,  Mr.  Richard,  is  the  sweetness  of  existence.  Any- 
body been  here,  sir?" 

"  Only  my  friend  " — replied  Dick.  "'May  we  ne'er 
want  a — '  " 

"  '  Friend,*  "  Brass  chimed  in  quickly,  "  '  or  a  bottle 
to  give  him.'  Ha  ha  !  That's  the  way  the  song  runs, 
isn't  it  ?  A  very  good  song,  Mr.  Richard,  very  good.  I 
like  the  sentiment  of  it.  Ha  ha  !  Tour  friend's  the 
young  man  from  Witherden's  office  I  think — yes — '  May 
we  ne'er  want  a — '  Nobody  else  at  all,  been,  Mr.  Rich- 
ard ?  " 

"  Only  somebody  to  the  lodger,"  replied  Mr.  Swiveller. 

"Oh indeed  !  "  cried  Brass.  "  Somebody  to  the  lodger, 
eh  ?  Ha  ha  !  '  May  we  ne'er  want  a  friend,  or  a — ' 
Somebody  to  the  lodger,  eh  Mr.  Richard  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  a  little  disconcerted  by  the  exces- 
sive buoyancy  of  spirits  which  his  employer  displayed. 
"  With  him  now." 

"  With  him  now  ! "  cried  Brass  ;  "  Ha  ha  !  There  let 
'em  be,  merry  and  free,  toor  rul  lol  le.  Eh,  Mr.  Richard  ! 
Ha  ha  ! " 

"Oh  certainly,"  replied  Dick. 

"And  who,"  said  Brass,  shuffling  among  his  papers, 
"  who' is  the  lodger's  visitor — not  a  lady  visitor  I  hope, 
eh  Mr.  Richard?  The  morals  of  the  Marks  you  know 
sir — *  when  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly ' — and  all  that 
— eh  Mr.  Richard?" 

"  Another  young  man  who  belongs  to  Witherden's  too  ; 
or  half  belongs  there,"  returned  Richard  "Kit  they 
call  him." 

"  Kit,  eh  !  "  said  Brass.  "  Strange  name — name  of  a 
dancing-master's  fiddle,  eh  Mr.  Richard  ?  Ha  ha  1  Kit's 
there,  is  he  ?   Oh  ! " 

Dick  looked  at  Miss  Sally,  wondering  that  she  didn't 
check  this  uncommon  exuberance  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Sampson  ;  but  as  she  made  no  attempt  to  do  so,  and 
rather  appeared  to  exhibit  a  tacit  acquiescence  in  it,  he 
concluded  that  they  had  just  been  cheating  somebody, 
and  receiving  the  bill. 

"  Will  you  have  the  goodness,  Mr.  Richard,"  said 
Brass,  taking  a  letter  from  his  desk,  "just  to  step  over 
to  Peckham  Rye  with  that  ?  There's  no  answer,  but  it's 
rather  particular,  and  should  go  by  hand.  Charge  the 
office  with  your  coach-hire  back,  you  know  :  don't  spare 
the  office  ;  get  as  much  out  of  it  as  you  can — clerk's 
motto— eh  Mr.  Richard  ?    Ha  ha  !  " 

Mr.  Swiveller  solemnly  doffed  the  aquatic  jacket,  put 
on  his  coat,  took  down  his  hat  from  its  peg,  pocketed 
the  letter,  and  departed.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  uprose 
Miss  Sally  Brass,  and  smiling  sweetly  at  her  brother 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


799 


(who  nodded  and  smote  his  nose  in  return)  withdrew 
also. 

Sampson  Brass  was  no  sooner  left  alone,  than  he  set 
the  office-door  wide  open,  and  establishing  himself  at  his 
desit  directly  opposite,  so  that  he  could  not  fail  to  see 
anybody  who  came  down-stairs  and  passed  out  at  the 
street  door,  began  to  write  with  extreme  cheerfulness 
and  assiduity  ;  humming  as  he  did  so,  in  a  voice  that 
was  anything  but  musical,  certain  vocal  snatches  which 
appeared  to  have  reference  to  the  union  between  Church 
and  State,  inasmuch  as  they  were  compounded  of  the 
Evening  Hymn  and  God  save  the  King. 

Thus,  the  attorney  of  Bevis  Marks  sat,  and  wrote,  and 
hummed,  for  a  long  time,  except  when  he  stopped  to 
listen  with  a  very  cunning  face,  and  hearing  nothing, 
went  on  humming  louder,  and  writing  slower  than  ever. 
At  length,  in  one  of  these  pauses,  he  heard  his  lodger's 
door  opened  and  shut,  and  footsteps  coming  down  the 
stairs.  Then,  Mr.  Brass  left  off  writing  entirely,  and, 
with  his  pen  in  his  hand,  hummed  his  very  loudest ; 
shaking  his  head  meanwhile  from  side  to  side,  like  a  man 
whose  whole  soul  was  in  the  music,  and  smiling  in  a 
manner  quite  seraphic. 

It  was  towards  this  moving  spectacle  that  the  staircase 
and  the  sweet  sounds  guided  Kit :  on  whose  arrival  be- 
fore his  door,  Mr.  Brass  stopped  his  singing,  but  not  his 
smiling,  and  nodded  affably  :  at  the  same  time  beckon- 
ing to  him  with  his  pen. 

"Kit,"  said  Mr.  Brass,  in  the  pleasantest  way  imagin- 
able, "  how  do  you  do  ?" 

Kit,  being  rather  shy  of  his  friend,  made  a  suitable 
reply,  and  had  his  hand  upon  the  lock  of  the  street  door 
when  Mr.  Brass  called  him  softly  back. 

"  You  are  not  to  go,  if  you  please,  Kit,"  said  the  at- 
torney in  a  mysterious  and  yet  business-like  way,  "You 
are  to  step  in  here,  if  you  please.  Dear  me,  dear  me  ! 
When  I  look  at  you,"  said  the  lawyer,  quitting  his  stool, 
and  standing  before  the  fire  with  his  back  towards  it, 
"  I  am  reminded  of  the  sweetest  little  face  that  ever  my 
eyes  beheld.  I  remember  your  coming  there,  twice  or 
thrice,  when  we  were  in  possession.  Ah  Kit,  my  dear 
fellow,  gentlemen  in  my  profession  have  such  painful 
duties  to  perform  sometimes,  that  you  needn't  envy  us — 
you  needn't  indeed  ! " 

"  I  don't  sir,"  said  Kit,  "  though  it  isn't  for  the  like  of 
me  to  judge." 

"Our  only  consolation,  Kit,"  pursued  the  lawyer, 
looking  at  him  in  a  sort  of  pensive  abstraction,  "is,  that 
although  we  cannot  turn  away  the  wind,  we  can  soften 
it ;  we  can  temper  it,  if  I  may  say  so,  to  the  shorn 
lambs." 

"Shorn  indeed!"  thought  Kit.  "Pretty  close!" 
But  he  didn't  say  so. 

"  On  that  occasion.  Kit,"  said  Mr,  Brass,  "on  that  oc- 
casion that  I  have  just  alluded  to,  I  had  a  hard  battle 
with  Mr.  Quilp  (for  Mr.  Quilp  is  a  very  hard  man)  to  ob- 
tain them  them  the  indulgence  they  had.  It  might  have 
cost  me  a  client.  But  suffering  virtue  inspired  me,  and 
I  prevailed," 

"  He's  not  so  bad  after  all,"  thought  honest  Kit,  as  the 
attorney  pursed  up  his  lips  and  looked  like  a  man  who 
was  struggling  with  his  better  feelings. 

"I  respect  Kit,"  said  Brass  with  emotion.  "I 
saw  enough  of  your  conduct,  at  chat  time,  to  respect 
you,  though  your  station  is  humble,  and  your  fortune 
lowly.  It  isn't  the  waistcoat  that  I  look  at.  It  is  the 
heart.  The  checks  in  the  waistcoat  are  but  the  wires  of 
the  cage.  But  the  heart  is  the  bird.  Ah  !  How  many 
sich  birds  are  perpetually  moulting,  and  putting  their 
beaks  through  the  wires  to  peck  at  all  mankind  I " 

This  poetic  figure,  which  Kit  took  to  be  in  special  al- 
lusion to  his  own  checked  waistcoat,  quite  overcame 
him  ;  Mr.  Brass's  voice  and  manner  added  not  a  little  to 
its  effect,  for  he  discoursed  with  all  the  mild  austerity 
of  a  hermit,  and  wanted  but  a  cord  round  the  waist  of 
his  rusty  surtout,  and  a  skull  on  the  chimney-piece,  to 
be  completely  set  up  in  that  line  of  business. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Sampson,  smiling  as  good  men 
smile  when  they  compassionate  their  own  weakness  or 
that  of  their  follow-creatures,  "this  is  wide  of  the  bull's- 
eye.  You're  to  take  that,  if  you  please."  As  he  spoke, 
he  pointed  to  a  couple  of  half  crowns  on  the  desk. 


Kit  looked  at  the  coins,  and  then  at  Sampson,  and 
hesitated. 

"  For  yourself,"  said  Brass. 
"From  " 

"  No  matter  about  the  person  they  came  from,"  re- 
plied the  lawyer.  "  Say  me,  if  you  like.  We  have  ec- 
centric friends  overhead.  Kit,  and  we  musn't  ask  ques- 
tions or  talk  too  much — you  understand  ?  You're  to  take 
them,  that's  all  ;  and  between  you  and  me,  I  don't  think 
they'll  be  the  last  you'll  have  to  take  from  the  same 
place.    I  hope  not.    Good  bye,  Kit.    Good  bye  I  " 

With  many  thanks,  and  many  more  self-reproaches 
for  having  on  such  slight  grounds  suspected  one  who  in 
their  very  first  conversation  turned  out  such  a  different 
man  from  what  he  had  supposed,  Kit  took  the  money 
and  made  the  best  of  his  way  home,  Mr.  Brass  re- 
mained airing  himself  at  the  fire,  and  resumed  his  vocal 
exercise,  and  his  seraphic  smile,  simultaneously. 

"  May  I  come  inV"  said  Miss  Sally  peeping. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  may  come  in,"  returned  her  brother. 

"  Ahem?"  coughed  Miss  Brass  interrogatively. 

"  Why,  yes,"  returned  Sampson,  "  I  should  say  as 
good  as  done." 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

Mr.  Chuckster's  indignant  apprehensions  were  not 
without  foundation.  Certainly  the  friendship  between 
the  single  gentleman  and  Mr.  Garland  was  not  suffered 
to  cool,  but  had  a  rapid  growth  and  flourished  exceed- 
ingly. They  were  soon  in  habits  of  constant  intercourse 
and  communication  ;  and  the  single  gentleman  labour- 
ing at  this  time  under  a  slight  attack  of  illness — the 
consequence  most  probably  of  his  late  excited  feelings 
and  subsequent  disappointment — furnished  a  reason  for 
their  holding  yet  more  frequent  correspondence  ;  so, 
that  some  one  of  the  inmates  of  Abel  Cottage,  Fiuchley, 
came  backwards  and  forwards  between  that  place  and 
Bevis  Marks,  almost  every  day. 

As  the  pony  had  now  thrown  off  all  disguise,  and  with- 
out any  mincing  of  the  matter  or  beating  about  the  bush, 
sturdily  refused  to  be  driven  by  anyijody  but  Kit,  it 
generally  happened  that  whether  old  Mr.  Garland  came, 
or  Mr.  Abel,  Kit  was  of  the  party.  Of  all  messages  and 
inquiries.  Kit  was,  in  right  of  his  position,  the  bearer  ; 
thus  it  came  about  that,  while  the  single  gentleman  re- 
mained indisposed.  Kit  turned  into  Bevis  Marks  every 
morning  with  nearly  as  much  regularity  as  the  General 
Postman. 

Mr,  Sampson  Brass,  who  no  doubt  had  his  reasons  for 
looking  sharply  about  him,  soon  learnt  to  distinguish 
the  pony's  trot  and  the  clatter  of  the  little  chaise  at  the 
corner  of  the  street.  Whenever  this  sound  reached  his 
ears,  he  would  immediately  lay  down  his  pen  and  fall  to 
rubbing  his  hands  and  exhibiting  the  greatest  glee, 

"Ha  ha!  "he  would  cry.  "Here's  the  pony  again! 
Most  remarkable  pony,  extremely  docile,  eh  Mr.  Rich- 
ard, eh  sir  ?  " 

Dick  would  return  some  matter-of-course  reply,  and 
Mr,  Brass,  standing  on  the  bottom  rail  of  his  stool,  so  as 
to  get  a  view  of  the  street  over  the  top  of  the  window- 
blind,  would  take  an  observation  of  the  visitors. 

"  The  old  gentleman  again  !"  he  would  exclaim,  "  a 
very  prepossessing  old  gentleman,  Mr.  Richard— charm- 
ing countenance,  sir — extremely  calm — benevolent  in 
every  feature,  sir.  He  quite  realises  my  idea  of  King 
Lear,  as  he  appeared  when  in  possession  of  his  kingdom, 
Mr,  Richard—the  same  good-humour,  the  same  white 
hair  and  partial  baldness,  the  same  liability  to  be  im- 
posed upon.  Ah  !  A  sweet  subject  for  contemplation 
sir,  very  sweet ! " 

Then,  Mr.  Garland  having  alighted  and  gone  up-stairs, 
Sampson  would  nod  and  smile  to  Kit  from  the  window, 
and  presently  walk  out  into  the  street  to  greet  him, 
when  some  such  conversation  as  the  following  would 
ensue. 

"  Admirably  groomed.  Kit" — Mr,  Brass  is  patting  the 
pony — "does  you  great  credit — amazingly  sleek  and 
bright  to  be  sure.  He  literally  looks  as  if  he  had  been 
varnished  all  over." 

Kit  touches  his  hat,  smiles,  pats  the  pony  himself. 


800 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


and  expresses  Ms  conviction,  "that  Mr.  Brass  will  not 
find  many  like  him," 

''A  beautiful  animal  indeed!"  cries  Brass.  "Sa- 
gacious too?  " 

"  Bless  you  I  "  replies  Kit,  "he  knows  what  you  say 
to  him  as  well  as  a  Christian  does." 

'•'Does  he  indeed  !"  cries  Brass,  who  has  heard  the 
same  thing  in  the  same  place  from  the  same  person  in 
the  same  words  a  dozen  times,  but  is  paralysed  with  as- 
tonishment notwithstanding.    "  Dear  me  !  " 

"  I  little  thought  the  first  time  I  saw  him  sir,"  says 
Kit,  pleased  with  the  attorney's  strong  interest  in  his 
favourite,  "  that  I  should  come  to  be  as  intimate  with 
him  as  I  am  now." 

"  Ah  ! "  rejoins  Mr.  Brass,  brim-full  of  moral  precepts 
and  love  of  virtue.  "A  charming  subject  of  reflection 
for  you,  very  charming.  A  subject  of  proper  pride  and 
congratulation,  Christopher.  Honesty  is  the  best  policy, 
— I  always  find  it  so  myself.  I  lost  forty-seven  pound 
ten  by  being  honest  this  morning.  But  it's  all  gain,  it's 
gain  !  " 

Mr.  Brass  slyly  tickles  his  nose  with  his  pen,  and 
looks  at  Kit  with  the  water  standing  in  his  eyes.  Kit 
thinks  that  if  ever  there  was  a  good  man  who  belied  his 
appearance,  that  man  is  Sampson  Brass. 

"A  man,"  says  Sampson,  "who  loses  forty-seven 
pound  ten  in  one  morning  by  his  honesty,  is  a  man  to  be 
envied.  If  it  had  been  eighty  pound,  the  luxuriousness 
of  feeling  would  have  been  increased.  Every  pound  lost, 
would  have  been  a  hundred-weight  of  happiness  gained. 
The  still  small  voice,  Christopher,"  cries  Brass,  smiling, 
and  tapping  himself  on  the  bosom,  "  is  a  singing  comic 
songs  within  me,  and  all  is  happiness  and  joy  !  " 

Kit  is  so  improved  by  the  conversation,  and  finds  it  go 
so  completely  home  to  his  feelings,  that  he  is  considering 
what  he  shall  say,  when  Mr.  Garland  appears.  The  old  gen- 
tleman is  helped  into  the  chaise  with  great  obsequious- 
ness  by  Mr.  Sampson  Brass  ;  and  the  pony,  after  shaking 
his  head  several  times,  and  standing  for  three  or  four 
minutes,  with  all  his  four  legs  planted  firmly  on  the 
ground,  as  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  never  to  stir  from 
that  spot,  but  there  to  live  and  die,  suddenly  darts  off, 
without  the  smallest  notice,  at  the  rate  of  t  welve  English 
miles  an  hour.  Then,  Mr.  Brass  and  his  sister  (who  has 
joined  him  at  the  door)  exchange  an  odd  kind  of  smile — not 
at  all  a  pleasant  one  in  its  expression — and  return  to  the 
society  of  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller,  who,  during  their  ab- 
sence, has  been  regaling  himself  with  various  feats  of 
pantomime,  and  is  discovered  at  his  desk,  in  a  very 
flushed  and  heated  condition,  violently  scratching  out 
nothing  with  half  a  penknife. 

Whenever  Kit  came  alone,  and  without  the  chaise,  it 
always  happened  that  Sampson  Brass  was  reminded  of 
some  mission,  calling  Mr,  Swiveller,  if  not  to  Peckham 
Bye  again,  at  all  events  to  some  pretty  distant  place  from 
which  he  could  not  be  expected  to  return  for  two  or  three 
hours,  or  in  all  probability  a  much  longer  period,  as  that 
gentleman  was  not,  to  say  the  truth,  renowned  for  using 
great  expedition  on  such  occasions,  but  rather  for  protract- 
ing and  spinning  out  the  time  to  the  very  utmost  limit 
of  possibility.  Mr,  Swiveller  out  of  sight,  Miss  Sally 
immediately  withdrew,  Mr.  Brass  would  then  set  the 
office-door  wide  open,  hum  his  old  tune  with  great  gaiety 
of  heart,  and  smile  seraphically  as  before.  Kit  coming 
down-stairs  would  be  called  in  ;  entertained  with  some 
moral  and  agreeable  conversation  ;  perhaps  entreated  to 
mind  the  office  for  an  instant  while  Mr.  Brass  stepped 
over  the  way  ;  and  afterwards  presented  with  one  or  two 
half  crowns  as  the  case  might  be.  This  occurred  so  often, 
that  Kit,  nothing  doubting  but  that  they  came  from  the 
single  gentleman  who  had  already  rewarded  his  mother 
with  great  liberality,  could  not  enough  admire  his  gener- 
osity ;  and  bought  so  many  cheap  presents  for  her,  and 
for  little  Jacob,  and  for  the  baby,  and  for  Barbara  to 
boot,  that  one  or  other  of  them  was  having  some  new 
trifle  every  day  of  their  lives. 

While  these  acts  and  deeds  were  in  progress  in  and 
out  of  the  oftice  of  Sampson  Brass,  Richard  Swiveller, 
being  often  left  alone  therein,  began  to  find  the  time 
hang  heavy  on  his  hands.  For  the  better  preservation 
of  his  cheefulness,  therefore,  and  to  prevent  his  facul- 
ties from  rusting,  he  provided  himself  with  a  cribbage- 


board  and  pack  of  cards,  and  accustomed  himself  to  play 
at  cribbage  with  a  dummy,  for  twenty,  thirty,  or  some- 
times even  fifty  thousand  pounds  a  side,  besides  many 
hazardous  bets  to  a  considerable  amount. 

As  these  games  were  very  silently  conducted,  notwith- 
standing the  magnitude  of  the  interests  involved,  Mr. 
Swiveller  began  to  think  that  on  those  evenings  when 
Mr,  and  Miss  Brass  were  out  (and  they  often  went  out 
now)  he  heard  a  kind  of  snorting  or  hard-breathing  sound 
in  the  direction  of  the  door,  which  it  occurred  to  him, 
after  some  reflection,  must  proceed  from  the  small  servant, 
who  always  had  a  cold  from  damp  living.  Looking 
intently  that  way  one  night,  he  plainly  distinguished  an 
eye  gleaming  and  glistening  at  the  keyhole  ;  and  having 
now  no  doubt  that  his  suspicions  were  correct,  he  stole 
softly  to  the  door,  and  pounced  upon  her  before  she  was 
aware  of  his  approach, 

"  Oh  !  I  didn't  mean  any  harm  indeed,  upon  my  word 
I  didn't,"  cried  the  small  servant,  struggling  like  a  much 
larger  one.  "It's  so  very  dull,  down-stairs.  Please 
don't  you  tell  upon  me,  please  don't." 

"  Tell  upon  you  ! "  said  Dick.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
were  looking  through  the  keyhole  for  company  ?  " 

"Yes,  upon  my  word  t  was,"  replied  the  small  servant. 

"How  long  have  you  been  cooling  your  eye  there?" 
said  Dick. 

"  Oh  ever  since  you  first  began  to  play  them  cards,  and 
long  before." 

Vague  recollections  of  several  fantastic  exercises  with 
which  he  had  refreshed  himself  after  the  fatigues  of 
business,  and  to  all  of  which,  no  doubt,  the  small  servant 
was  a  party,  rather  disconcerted  Mr.  Swiveller  ;  but  he 
Avas  not  very  sensitive  on  such  points,  and  recovered 
himself  speedily. 

"  Well, — come  in" — he  said,  after  a  little  considera- 
tion,   "  Here — sit  down,  and  I'll  teach  you  how  to  play." 

"  Oh  !  I  durstn't  do  it,"  rejoined  the  small  servant  ; 
"  Miss  Sally  'ud  kill  me,  if  she  know'd  I  come  up  here." 

"  Have  you  got  a  fire  down-stairs  ?  "  said  Dick. 

"  A  very  little  one,"  replied  the  small  servant. 

"Miss  Sally  coulin't  kill  me  if  she  know'd  I  went 
down  there,  so  I'll  come,*'  said  Richard,  putting  the  cards 
into  his  pocket.  "  Why,  how  thin  you  are  !  What  do 
you  mean  by  it  ?  " 

"  It  an't  my  fault." 

"  Could  you  eat  any  bread  and  meat  ?  "  said  Dick,  tak- 
ing down  his  hat,  "  Yes?  Ah  !  I  thought  so.  Did  you 
ever  taste  beer  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  sip  of  it  once,"  said  the  small  servant. 

"  Here's  a  state  of  things  ! "  cried  Mr.  Swiveller,  rais- 
ing his  eyes  to  th3  ceiling.  "She  never  tasted  it — it  can't 
be  tasted  in  a  sip  !    Why,  how  old  are  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

Mr,  Swiveller  opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  and  appeared 
thoughtful  for  a  moment  ;  then,  bidding  the  child  mind 
the  door  until  he  came  back,  vanished  straightway. 

Presently,  he  returned,  followed  by  the  boy  from  the 
public-house,  who  boye  in  one  hand  a  plate  of  bread  and 
beef,  and  in  the  other  a  great  pot,  filled  with  some  very 
fragrant  compound,  which  sent  forth  a  grateful  steam, 
and  was  indeed  choice  purl,  made  after  a  particular  re- 
cipe which  Mr.  Swiveller  had  imparted  to  the  landlord, 
at  a  period  when  he  was  deep  in  his  books  and  desirous 
to  conciliate  his  friendship.  Relieving  the  boy  of  his 
burden  at  the  door,  and  charging  his  little  companion  to 
fasten  it  to  prevent  surprise,  Mr.  Swiveller  followed  her 
into  the  kitchen. 

"  There  !  "  said  Richard,  putting  the  plate  before  her, 
"First  of  all,  clear  that  off,  and  then  you'll  see  what's 
next." 

The  small  servant  needed  no  second  bidding,  and  the 
plate  was  soon  empty, 

"  Next,"  said  Dick,  handing  the  purl,  "take  ,a  pull  at 
that  ;  but  moderate  your  transports,  you  know,  for  you're 
not  used  to  it.    Well,  is  it  good  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  isn't  it  ?  "  said  the  small  servant. 

Mr.  Swiveller  appeared  gratified  beyond  all  expression 
by  this  reply,  and  look  a  long  draught  himself  :  &;tead- 
fastly  regarding  his  companion  while  he  did  so.  These 

f)reliminaries  disposed  of,  he  applied  himself  toteachi  ^ig 
ler  the  game,  which  she  soon  learnt  tolerably  well,  be- 
ing both  sharp-witted  and  cunning. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


801 


"Now,"  sakl  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting  two  sixpences  into 
a  saucer,  and  trimming  the  wretched  candle,  when  the 
cards  liad  been  cut  and  dealt,  "  those  are  the  stakes.  If 
you  win,  you  get  'em  all.  If  I  win,  T  get  'em.  To  make 
it  seem  more  real  and  pleasant,  1  shall  call  you  the  Mar- 
chioness, do  you  hear  ?  " 

The  small  servant  nodded. 

"  Then,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "  fire 
away. " 

The  Marchioness,  holding  her  cards  very  tight  in  both 
hands,  considered  which  to  play,  and  Mr.  Swiveller,  as- 
suming the  gay  and  fashionable  air  which  such  society 
required,  took  another  pull  at  the  tankard,  and  waited 
for  her  lead. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

Mr.  Swiveller  and  his  partner  played  several  rubbers 
with  varying  success,  until  the  loss  of  three  sixpences, 
the  gradual  sinking  of  the  purl,  and  the  striking  of  ten 
o'clock,  combined  to  render  that  gentleman  mindful  of 
the  flight  of  Time,  and  the  expediency  of  withdrawing 
before  Mr.  Sampson  and  Miss  Sally  Brass  returned, 

"  With  which  object  in  view,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr. 
Swiveller  gravely,  "  I  shall  ask  your  ladyship's  permis- 
sion to  put  the  board  in  my  pocket,  and  to  retire  from  the 
presence  when  I  have  finished  this  tankard  ;  merely  ob- 
serving, Marchioness,  that  since  life  like  a  river  is  flow- 
ing, I  care  not  how  fast  it  rolls  on,  ma'am,  on,  w^hile  such 
purl  on  the  bank  still  is  growing,  and  such  eyes  light  the 
waves  as  they  run.  Marchioness,  your  health.  You 
will  excuse  my  wearing  my  hat,  but  the  palace  is  damp, 
and  the  marble  floor,  is — if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expres- 
sion— sloppy." 

As  a  precaution  against  this  latter  inconvenience,  Mr. 
Swiveller  had  been  sitting  for  some  time  with  his  feet  on 
the  hob,  in  which  attitude  he  now  gave  utterance  to  these 
apologetic  observations,  and  slowly  sipped  the  last  choice 
drops  of  nectar, 

"  The  Baron  Sampsono  Brasso  and  his  fair  sister  are 
(you  tell  me)  at  the  Play  ? "  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  lean- 
ing his  left  arm  heavily  upon  the  table,  and  raising  his 
voice  and  his  right  leg  after  the  manner  of  a  theatrical 
bandit. 

The  Marchioness  nodded. 

"Ha!"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  with  a  portentous  frown, 
"  'Tis  well.  Marchioness  ! — but  no  matter.  Some  wine 
there.  Ho  !"  He  illustrated  these  melo-dramatic  mor- 
sels, by  handing  the  tankard  to  himself,  with  great  hu- 
mility, receiving  it  haughtily,  drinking  from  it  thirstily, 
and  smacking  his  lips  fiercely. 

The  small  servant  who  was  not  so  well  acquainted  with 
theatrical  conventionalities  as  Mr.  Swiveller  (having  in- 
deed never  seen  a  play,  or  heard  one  spoken  of,  except 
by  chance  through  chinks  of  doors  and  in  other  forbidden 
places)  was  rather  alarmed  by  demonstrations  so  nov  el  in 
their  nature,  and  showed  her  concern  so  plainly  in  her 
looks,  that  Mr.  Swiveller  felt  it  necessary  to  discharge 
his  brigand  manner  for  one  more  suitable  to  private  life, 
as  he  asked, 

"  Do  they  often  go  where  glory  waits  'em  and  leave 
you  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  believe  you  they  do,"  returned  tlie  small 
servant.    "  Miss  Sally's  such  a  one-er  for  that,  she  is." 

*'  Such  a  what  ?  "  said  Dick. 

**  Such  a  one-er,"  returned  the  Marchioness. 
.  After  a  moment's  reflection,  Mr.  Swiveller  detennined 
to  forego  his  responsible  duty  of  setting  her  right,  and 
to  suffer  her  to  talk  on  ;  as  it  was  evident  that  her  tongue 
was  loosened  by  the  purl,  and  her  opportunities  for  con- 
versation were  not  so  frequent  as  to  render  a  momentary 
^  check  of  little  consequence. 

i  "  They  sometimes  go  to  see  Mr.  Quilp,"  said  the  small 
servant  with  a  shrewd  look  ;  "  they  go  to  a  many  places, 
bless  you  ! " 

"Is  Mr.  Brass  a  wunner?"  said  Dick. 

"Not  half  what  Miss  Sally  is,  he  isn't,"  replied  the 
small  servant,  shaking  her  head.  "  Bless  you,  he'd 
never  do  anything  without  her." 

"  Oh  1  He  vvould'nt,  wouldn't  he  ?  "  said  Dick. 

"  Miss  Sally  keeps  him  in  such  order,"  said  the  small 
Vol.  II.— 51 


servant ;  he  always  asks  her  advice,  he  does  ;  and  he 
catches  it  sometimes.  Bless  you,  you  would'nt  believe 
how  much  he  catches  it," 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Dick,  "  that  they  consult  together, 
a  good  deal,  and  talk  about  a  great  many  people— about 
me  for  instance,  sometimes,  eh.  Marchioness  ? " 

The  Marchioness  nodded  amazingly. 

"  Complimentary  ?"  said  Mr.  Swiveller. 

The  Marchioness  changed  the  motion  of  her  head, 
which  had  not  yet  left  off  nodding,  and  suddenly  began 
to  shako  it  from  side  to  side,  with  a  vehemence  which 
threatened  to  dislocate  her  neck. 

"Humph!"  Dick  muttered.  "Would  it  be  any 
breach  of  confidence.  Marchioness,  to  relate  what  they 
say  of  the  humble  individual  who  has  now  the  honour 
to—?" 

"Miss  Sally  says  you're  a  funny  chap,"  replied  his 
friend. 

"  Well,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "  that's  not 
uncomplimentary.  Merriment,  Marchioness,  is  not  a 
bad  or  a  degrading  quality.  Old  King  Cole  was  himself 
a  merry  old  soul,  if  we  may  put  any  faith  in  the  pages 
of  history." 

"But  she  says,"  pursued  his  companion,  "that  you 
an't  to  be  trusted." 

"  Why,  really  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
thoughtfully  ;  "  several  ladies  and  gentlemen — not  ex- 
actly professional  persons,  but  tradespeople,  ma'am, 
tradespeople — have  made  the  same  remark.  The  ob- 
scure citizen  who  keeps  the  hotel  over  the  way,  inclined 
strongly  to  that  opinion  to-night  when  I  ordered  him  to 
prepare  the  banquet.  It's  a  popular  prejudice.  Mar- 
chioness ;  and  yet  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why,  for  I 
have  been  trusted  in  my  time  to  a  considerable  amount, 
and  I  can  safely  say  that  I  never  forsook  my  trust  until 
it  deserted  me — never.  Mr.  Brass  is  of  the  same  opin- 
ion, I  suppose  ! " 

His  friend  nodded  again,  with  a  cunning  look  which 
seemed  to  hint  that  Mr.  Brass  held  stronger  opinions  on 
the  subject  than  his  sister  ;  and  seeming  to  recollect  her- 
self added  imploringly,  "But  don't  you  ever  tell  upon 
me,  or  I  shall  be  beat  to  death." 

"Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  rising,  "the 
word  of  a  gentleman  is  as  good  as  his  bond — sometimes 
better,  as  in  the  present  case,  where  his  bond  might 
prove  but  a  doubtful  sort  of  security.  I  am  your  friend, 
and  I  hope  we  shall  play  many  more  rubbers  together  in 
this  same  saloon.  But,  Marchioness,"  added  Richard, 
stopping  in  his  way  to  the  door,  and  wheeling  slowly 
round  upon  the  small  servant,  who  was  following  with 
the  candle  ;  "  it  occurs  to  me  that  you  must  be  in  the 
constant  habit  of  airing  your  eye  at  keyholes,  to  know 
all  this." 

"  I  only  wanted,"  replied  the  trembling  Marchioness, 
"  to  know  where  the  key  of  the  safe  was  hid  ;  that  was 
all  ;  and  I  wouldn't  have  taken  much,  if  I  had  found  it 
— only  enough  to  squench  my  hunger." 

"You  didn't  find  it,  then?"  said  Dick.  "But  of 
course  you  didn't,  or  you'd  be  plumper.  Good  night. 
Marchioness.  Fare  thee  well,  and  if  for  ever,  then  for 
ever  fare  thee  well — and  put  up  the  chain.  Marchioness, 
in  case  of  accidents." 

With  this  parting  injunction,  Mr.  Swiveller  emerged 
from  the  house  ;  and  feeling  that  he  had  by  this  time 
taken  quite  as  much  to  drink  as  promised  to  be  good  for 
his  constitution  (purl  being  a  rather  strong  and  heady 
compound),  wisely  resolved  to  betake  himself  to  his 
lodgings,  and  to  bed  at  once.  Homeward  he  went  there- 
fore ;  and  his  apartments  (for  he  still  retained  the  plural 
fiction)  being  at  no  great  distance  from  the  office,  he  was 
soon  seated  in  his  own  bed-chamber,  where,  having 
pulled  off  one  boot  and  forgotten  the  other,  he  fell  into 
deep  cogitation. 

"This  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  folding  his 
arms,  "  is  a  very  extraordinary  person — surrounded  by 
mysteries,  ignorant  of  the  taste  of  beer,  unacquainted 
with  her  own  name  (which  is  less  remarkable and  taking 
a  limited  view  of  society  through  the  keyholes  of  doors — 
can  these  things  be  her  destiny,  or  has  some  unknown 
person  started  an  opposition  to  the  decrees  of  fate?  It  is 
a  most  inscrutable  and  unmitigated  staggerer  !  " 

When  his  meditations  had  attained  this  satisfact9ry 


802 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


point,  he  became  aware  of  his  remaining  boot,  of  which, ' 
with  unimpaired  solemnity,  he  proceeded  to  divest  him- 
self ;  shaking  his  head  with  exceeding  gravity  all  the 
time,  and  sighing  deeply. 

These  rubbers,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting  on  his 
night-cap  in  exactly  the  same  style  he  wore  his  hat, 
"  remind  me  of  the  matrimonial  fireside.  Cheggs's  wife 
plays  cribbage  ;  all  fours  likewise.  She  rings  the  changes 
on  'em  now.  From  sport  to  sport  they  hurry  her,  to 
banish  her  regrets,  and  when  they  win  a  smile  from  her, 
they  think  that  she  forgets — but  she  don't.  By  this  time, 
I  should  say,"  added  Richard,  getting  his  left  cheek  into 
profile,  and  looking  complacently  at  the  reflection  of  a 
rery  little  scrap  of  whisker  in  the  looking-glass ;  "by 
this  time,  I  should  say,  the  iron  has  entered  into  her 
soul.    It  serves  her  right  ! " 

Melting  from  this  stern  and  obdurate,  into  the  tender 
and  pathetic  mood,  Mr.  Swiveller  groaned  a  little,  walked 
wildly  up  and  down,  and  even  made  a  show  of  tearing 
his  hair,  which  however  he  thought  better  of,  and 
wrenched  the  tassel  from  his  night-cap  instead.  At  last, 
undressing  himself  with  a  gloomy  resolution,  he  got  into 
bed. 

Some  men  in  his  blighted  position  would  have  taken 
to  drinking  ;  but  as  Mr.  Swiveller  had  taken  to  that 
before,  he  only  took,  on  receiving  the  news  that  Sophy 
Wackles  was  lost  to  him  for  ever,  to  playing  the  ilute  ; 
thinking  after  mature  consideration  that  it  was  a  good, 
sound,  dismal  occupation,  not  only  in  unison  with  his 
own  sad  thoughts,  but  calculated  to  awaken  a  fellow 
feeling  in  the  bosoms  of  his  neighbors.  In  pursuance  of 
this  resolution,  he  now  drew  a  little  table  to  his  bedside, 
and  arranging  the  light  and  a  small  oblong  music-book  to 
the  best  advantage,  took  his  flute  from  its  box,  and  began 
to  play  most  mournfully. 

The  air  was,  "  Away  with  melancholy" — a  composi- 
tion, which,  when  it  is  played  very  slowly  on  the  flute, 
in  bed,  with  the  further  disadvantage  of  being  performed 
by  a  gentleman  but  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the 
instrument,  who  repeats  one  note  a  great  many  times, 
before  he  can  find  the  next,  has  not  a  lively  efiiect.  Yet, 
for  half  the  night,  or  more,  Mr.  Swiveller  lying  some- 
times on  his  back  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ceiling,  and 
sometimes  half  out  of  bed  to  correct  himself  by  the  book, 
played  this  unhappy  tune  over  and  over  again  ;  never 
leaving  olf,  save  for  a  minute  or  two  at  a  time  to  take 
breath  and  soliloquize  about  the  Marchioness,  and  then 
beginning  again  with  renewed  vigour.  It  was  not  until 
he  had  quite  exhausted  his  several  subjects  of  medita- 
tion, and  had  breathed  into  the  flute  the  whole  sentiment 
of  the  purl  down  to  its  very  dregs,  and  had  nearly  mad- 
dened tlfe  people  of  the  house,  and  at  both  the  next 
doors,  and  over  the  way, — that  he  shut  up  the  music- 
book,  extinguished  the  candle,  and  finding  himself 
greatly  lightened  and  relieved  in  his  mind,  turned  round 
and  fell  asleep. 

He  awoke  in  the  morning,  much  refreshed  :  and  having 
taken  half  an  hour's  exercise  at  the  flute,  and  graciously 
received  a  notice  to  quit  from  his  landlady,  who  had 
been  in  waiting  on  the  stairs  for  that  purpose  since  the 
dawn  of  day,  repaired  to  Be  vis  Marks  ;  where  the  beau- 
tiful Sally  was  already  at  her  post,  bearing  in  her  looks 
a  radiance,  mild  as  that  which  beameth  from  the  virgin 
moon. 

Mr.  Swiveller  acknowledged  her  presence  by  a  nod, 
and  exchanged  his  coat  for  the  aquatic  jacket  ;  which 
usually  took  some  time  fitting  on,  for  in  consequence  of 
a  tightness  in  the  sleeves,  it  was  only  to  be  got  into  by  a 
series  of  struggles.  This  difficulty  overcome,  he  took 
his  seat  at  the  desk. 

"  I  say  " — quoth  Miss  Brass,  abruptly  breaking  silence, 
"  you  haven't  seen  a  silver  pencil-case  this  morning,  have 
you  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  meet  any  in  the  street,"  rejoined  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller. "  I  saw  one— a  stout  pencil-case  of  respectable 
appearance — but  as  he  was  in  company  with  an  elderly 
pen-knife  and  a  young  toothpick  with  whom  he  was  in 
earnest  conversation,  I  felt  a  delicacy  in  speaking  to 
him." 

"No,  but  have  you?"  returned  Miss  Brass.  "Seri- 
ously, you  know." 

"  What  a  dull  dog  you  must  be  to  ask  me  such  a 


question  seriously,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller.    ' '  Haven't  I  this 
moment  come  ?" 

"  Well,  all  I  know  is,"  replied  Miss  Sally,  "  that  it's 
not  to  be  found,  and  that  it  disappeared  one  day  this 
week,  when  I  left  it  on  the  desk." 

"  Holloa  ! "  thought  Richard,  "  I  hope  the  Marchioness 
hasn't  been  at  work  here." 

"  There  was  a  knife  too,"  said  Miss  Sally,  "of  the 
same  pattern.  They  were  given  to  me  by  my  father 
years  ago,  and  are  both  gone.  You  haven't  missed  any- 
thing yourself,  have  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Swiveller  involuntarily  clapped  his  hands  to  the 
jacket  to  be  quite  sure  that  it  teas  a  jacket  and  not  a  1 
skirted  coat  ;  and  having  satisfied  himself  of  the  safety 
of  this,  his  only  moveable  in  Be  vis  Marks,  made  answer 
in  the  negative. 

"  It's  a  very  unpleasant  thing,  Dick,"  said  Miss  Brass,  I 
pulling  out  the  tin  box  and  refreshing  herself  with  a  | 
pinch  of  snuff  ;  "  but  between  you  and  me — between  i 
friends  you  know,  for  if  Sammy  knew  it,  I  should  never 
hear  the  last  of  it — some  of  the  office-money,  too,  that 
has  been  left  about,  has  gone  in  the  same  way.    In  par- 
ticular, I  have  missed  three  half-crowns  at  three  differ- 
ent times. " 

"You  don't  mean  that?"  cried  Dick.  "Be  careful 
what  you  say,  old  boy,  for  this  is  a  serious  matter. 
Are  you  quite  sure  ?    Is  there  no  mistake  ?" 

"It  is  so,  and  there  can't  be  any  mistake  at  all,"  re- 
joined Miss  Brass  emphatically. 

"  Then  by  Jove,"  thought  Richard,  laying  down  his 
pen,  "I  am  afraid  the  Marchioness  is  done  for  !  " 

The  more  he  discussed  the  subject  in  his  thoughts, 
the  more  probable  it  appeared  to  Dick  that  the  miserable 
little  servant  was  the  culprit.    When  he  considered  on 
what  a  spare  allowance  of  food  she  lived,  how  neglected 
and  untaught  she  was,  and  how  her  natural  cunning  had 
been  sharpened  by  necessity  and  privation,  he  scarcely  ' 
doubted  it.    And  yet  he  pitied  her  so  much,  and  felt  so 
unwilling  to  have  a  matter  of  such  gravity  disturbing  | 
the  oddity  of  their  acquaintance,  that  he  thought,  and  | 
thought  truly,  that  ratlier  than  receive  fifty  pounds  ' 
down,  he  would  have  the  Marchioness  proved  innocent. 

While  he  was  plunged  in  very  profound  and  serious 
meditation  upon  this  theme.  Miss  Sally  sat  shaking  her 
head  with  an  air  of  great  mystery  and  doubt  ;  when  the 
voice  of  her  brother  Sampson,  carolling  a  cheerful 
strain,  was  heard  in  the  passage,  and  that  gentleman 
himself,  beaming  with  virtuous  emiles,  appeared. 

"  Mr.  Richard  sir,  good  morning  !  Here  we  are  again  | 
sir,  entering  upon  another  day,  with  our  bodies  strength-  ! 
ened  by  slumber  and  brealcfast,  and  our  spirits  fresh  i 
and  flowing.  Here  we  are,  Mr.  Richard,  rising  with  the  \ 
sun  to  run  our  little  course — our  course  of  duty  sir — and  ' 
like  him,  to  get  through  our  day's  work  with  credit  to 
ourselves  and  advantage  to  our  fellow  creatures.  A 
charming  reflection  sir,  very  charming  !" 

While  he  addressed  his  clerk  in  these  words,  Mr. 
Brass  was  somewhat  ostentatiously,  engaged  in  minutely 
examining  and  holding  up  against  the  light  a  five-pound 
bank-note,  which  he  had  brought  in,  in  his  hand. 

Mr.  Richard  not  receiving  his  remarks  with  anything 
like  enthusiasm,  his  employer  turned  his  eyes  to  his  face 
and  observed  that  it  wore  a  troubled  expression. 

"  You're  out  of  spirits  sir,"  said  Brass.  "  Mr.  Richard 
sir,  we  should  fall  to  work  cheerfully,  and  not  in  a  des- 
pondent state.    It  becomes  us,  Mr.  Richard  sir,  to — " 

Here  the  chaste  Sarah  heaved  a  loud  sigh. 

"Dear  me  !"  said  Mr.  Sampson,  "you  too  I    Is  any- 
thing the  matter  ?    Mr.  Richard  sir — " 

Dick,  glancing  at  Miss  Sally,  saw  that  she  was  mak- 
ing signals  to  him,  to  acquaint  her  brother  with  the  sub- 
ject of  their  recent  conversation.  As  his  own  position 
was  not  a  very  pleasant  one  until  the  matter  was  set  at 
rest  one  way  or  other,  he  did  so  ;  and  Miss  Brass,  plying 
her  snuff-box  at  a  most  wasteful  rate,  corroborated  his 
account. 

The  countenance  of  Sampson  fell,  and  anxiety  over-  i 
spread  his  features.  Instead  of  passionately  bewailing  I 
the  loss  of  his  money,  as  Miss  Sally  had  expected,  he  I 
walked  on  tiptoe  to  the  door,  opened  it,  looked  outside,  ft 
shut  it  softly,  returned  on  tiptoe,  and  said  in  a  whisper,  | 

"  This  is  a  most  extraordinary  and  painful  circumstance  f 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


803 


— Mr.  Richard  sir,  a  most  painful  circumstance.  The  fact 
is,  that  I  myself  have  missed  several  small  suras  from 
the  desk,  of  late,  and  have  refrained  from  mentioning  it, 
hoping  that  accident  would  discover  the  offender  ;  but  it 
has  not  done  so — it  has  not  done  so.  Sally — Mr.  Rich- 
ard sir — this  is  a  particularly  distressing  affair  !  " 

As  Sampson  spoke,  he  laid  the  bank-note  upon  the 
desk  among  some  papers,  in  an  absent  manner,  and 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets.  Richard  Swiveller 
pointed  to  it,  and  admonished  him  to  take  it  up. 

"No,  Mr.  Richard  sir,"  rejoined  Brass  with  emotion, 
*'I  will  not  take  it  up.  I  will  let  it  lie  there,  sir.  To 
take  it  up,  Mr.  Richard  sir,  would  imply  a  doubt  of  you  ; 
and  in  you  sir,  I  have  unlimited  confidence.  We  will 
let  it  lie  there  sir,  if  you  please,  and  we  will  not  take  it 
up  by  any  means."  With  that,  Mr.  Brass  patted  him 
twice  or  thrice  on  the  shoulder,  in  a  most  friendly  man- 
ner, and  entreated  him  to  believe  that  he  had  as  much 
faith  in  his  honesty  as  he  had  in  his  own. 

Although  at  another  time  Mr.  Swiveller  might  have 
looked  upon  this  as  a  doubtful  compliment,  he  felt  it, 
under  the  then-existing  circumstances,  a  great  relief  to 
be  assured  that  he  was  not  wrongfully  suspected.  When 
he  had  made  a  suitable  reply,  Mr.  Brass  wrung  him  by 
the  hand,  and  fell  into  a  brown  study,  as  did  Miss  Sally 
likewise.  Richard  too  remained  in  a  thoughtful  state  ; 
fearing  every  moment  to  hear  the  Marchioness  im- 
peached, and  unable  to  resist  the  conviction  that  she 
must  be  guilty. 

When  they  had  severally  remained  in  this  condition 
for  some  minutes.  Miss  Sally  all  at  once  gave  a  loud  rap 
upon  the  desk  with  her  clenched  fist,  and  cried,  "I've 
hit  it  1" — as  indeed  she  had,  and  chipped  a  piece  out  of 
it  too  ;  but  that  was  not  her  meaning. 

"Well,"  cried  Brass  anxiously.  "Go  on,  will 
you?" 

"  Why,"  replied  his  sister  with  an  air  of  triumph, 
"hasn't  there  been  somebody  always  coming  in  and  out 
of  this  office  for  the  last  three  or  four  weeks ;  hasn't 
that  somebody  been  left  alone  in  it  sometimes — thanks 
to  you  ;  and  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  that  somebody 
isn't  the  thief?" 

"What  somebody?"  blustered  Brass. 

"Why,  what  do  you  call  him — Kit." 

"  Mr.  Garland's  young  man  ?" 

"To  be  sure." 

"Never  ! "  cried  Brass.  " Never.  I'll  not  hear  of  it. 
Don't  tell  me — "  said  Sampson,  shaking  his  head,  and 
working  with  both  his  hands  as  if  he  were  clearing  away 
ten  thousand  cobwebs.  "I'll  never  believe  it  of  him. 
Never ! " 

"  I  say,"  repeated  Miss  Brass,  taking  another  pinch  of 
snuff,  "  that  he's  the  thief." 

"I  say,"  returned  Sampson  violently,  "  that  he  is  ?i(>^. 
What  do  you  mean?  How  dare  you?  Are  characters 
to  be  whispered  away  like  this?  Do  you  know  that  he's 
the  honestest  and  faithfullest  fellow  that  ever  lived,  and 
that  he  has  an  irreproachable  good  name?  Come  in, 
come  in  ! " 

These  last  words  were  not  addressed  to  Miss  Sally, 
though  they  partook  of  the  tone  in  which  the  indignant 
remonstrances  that  preceded  them  had  been  uttered. 
They  were  addressed  to  some  person  who  had  knocked 
at  the  office-door  ;  and  they  had  hardly  passed  the  lips 
of  Mr.  Brass  when  this  very  Kit  himself  looked  in. 

j       "Is  the  gentleman  up-stairs  sir,  if  you  please?" 

I       **  Yes,  Kit,"  said  Brass,  still  fired  with  an  honest  in- 

I  dignation,  and  frowning  with  knotted  brows  upon  his 
sister  ;  "  Yes  Kit,  he  is.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  Kit,  I  am 
rejoiced  to  see  you.  Look  in  again,  as  you  corny  down- 
stairs. Kit.  TViaHad  a  robber!"  cried  Brass  when  he 
had  withdrawn,   "with  that  frank  and  open  counte- 

\  nance  !  I'd  trust  him  with  untold  gold.  Mr.  Richard 
sir,  have  the  goodness  to  step  directly  to  Wrasp  and  Co.'s 
in  Broad  Street,  and  inquire  if  they  have  had  instruc- 
tions to  appear  in  Carkem  and  Painter,  That  lad  a  rob- 
ber," sneered  Sampson,  flushed  and  heated  with  his 
wrath.    "  Am  I  blind,  deaf,  silly  ;  do  I  know  nothing  of 

I  human  nature,  when  I  see  it  before  me  ?  Kit  a  robber  ! 
Bahl" 

I  Flinging  this  final  interjection  at  Miss  Sally  with  im- 
[  measurable  scorn  and  contempt,  Sampson  Brass  thrust 


his  head  into  his  desk,  as  if  to  shut  the  base  world  from 
his  view,  and  breathed  defiance  from  under  its  half- 
closed  lid. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

When  Kit,  having  discharged  his  errand,  came  down- 
stairs from  the  single  gentleman's  apartment  after  the 
lapse  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so,  Mr.  Sampson  Brass 
was  alone  in  the  office.  lie  was  not  singing  as  usual, 
nor  was  he  seated  at  his  desk.  The  open  door  showed 
showed  him  standing  before  the  fire  with  his  back  to- 
wards it,  and  looking  so  very  strange  that  Kit  supposed 
he  must  have  been  suddenly  taken  ill. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter  sir?  "  said  Kit. 

"  Matter  1"  cried  Brass.  "No.  Why  anything  the 
matter?  " 

"You  are  so  very  pale,"  said  Kit,  "that  I  should 
hardly  have  known  you." 

"Pooh  pooh  !  mere  fancy,"  cried  Brass,  stooping  to 
throw  up  the  cinders.  "Never  better  Kit,  never  better 
in  all  my  life.  Merry  too.  Ha  ha  !  How's  our  friend 
above-stairs,  eh  ?  " 

"  A.  great  deal  better,"  said  Kit. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  rejoined  Brass  ;  "  thankful,  I 
may  say.  An  excellent  gentleman— worthy,  liberal, 
generous,  gives  very  little  trouble — an  admirable  lodger. 
Ha  ha  !  Mr.  Garland — he's  well  I  hope,  Kit  — and  the 
pony — my  friend,  my  particular  friend,  you  know.  Ha 
ha  !  " 

Kit  gave  a  satisfactory  account  of  all  the  little  house- 
hold at  Abel  Cottage.  Mr.  Brass,  who  seemed  remarka- 
bly inattentive  and  impatient,  mounted  on  his  stool,  and 
beckoning  him  to  come  nearer,  took  him  by  the  button- 
hole. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Kit,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  that 
I  could  throw  some  little  emoluments  into  your  mother's 
way — You  have  a  mother,  I  think  ?  If  I  recollect  right, 
you  told  me — " 

"  Oh  yes  sir,  yes  certainly." 

"A  widow  I  think?  an  industrious  widow?" 

"  A  harder- working  woman  or  a  better  woman  never 
lived  sir." 

"  Ah  !"  cried  Brass.  "That's  affecting,  truly  affect- 
ing. A  poor  widow  struggling  to  maintain  her  orphans 
in  decency  and  comfort,  is  a  delicious  picture  of  human 
goodness. — Put  down  your  hat,  Kit." 

"  Thank  you  sir,  I  must  be  going  directly." 

"  Put  it  down  while  you  stay,  at  any  rate,"  said  Brass, 
taking  it  from  him  and  making  some  confusion  among 
the  papers,  in  finding  a  place  for  it  on  the  desk.  "I 
was  thinking,  Kit,  that  we  have  often  houses  to  let  for 
people  we  are  concerned  for,  and  matters  of  that  sort. 
Now  you  know  we're  obliged  to  put  people  into  those 
houses  to  take  care  of  'em — very  often  undeserving  people 
that  we  can't  depend  upon.  What's  to  prevent  our 
having  a  person  that  we  can  depend  upon,  and  enjoying 
the  delight  of  doing  a  good  action  at  the  same  time  ?  I 
say,  what's  to  prevent  our  employing  this  worthy  woman, 
your  mother?  What  with  one  job  and  another,  there's 
lodging — and  good  lodging  too— pretty  well  all  the  year 
round,  rent  free,  and  a  weekly  allowance  besides.  Kit, 
that  would  provide  her  with  a  great  many  comforts  she 
don't  at  present  enjoy.  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that? 
Do  you  see  any  objection?  My  only  desire  is  to  serve 
you.  Kit ;  therefore  if  you  do,  say  so  freely." 

As  Brass  spoke,  he  moved  the  hat  twice  or  thrice,  and 
shuffled  among  the  papers  again,  as  if  in  search  of  some- 
thing. 

"  How  can  I  see  any  objection  to  such  a  kind  offer  sir?" 
replied  Kit  with  his  whole  heart,  "  I  don't  know  how 
to  thank  you  sir,  I  don't  indeed," 

"  Wliy  then,"  said  Brass,  suddenly  turning  upon  him 
and  thrusting  his  face  close  to  Kit's  with  such  a  repulsive 
smile  that  "the  latter,  even  in  the  very  height  of  his 
gratitude,  drew  back,  quite  startled.  "Why  then,  it's 
done. " 

Kit  looked  at  him  in  some  confusion. 

"  Done,  I  say,"  added  Sampson,  rubbing  his  hands  and 
veiling  himself  again  in  his  usual  oily  manner.  "  Ha 
ha  !  and  so  you  shall  find  Kit,  so  you  shall  find.  But 


804- 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


dear  me,"  said  Brass,  *'  what  a  time  Mr.  Richard  is  gone  ! 
A  sad  loiterer  to  be  sure  !  Will  you  mind  the  office  one 
minute,  while  I  run  up-stairs  ?  Only  one  niinute.  I'll 
not  detain  you  an  instant  longer,  on  any  account.  Kit." 

Talking  as  he  went,  Mr.  Brass  bustled  out  of  the 
office,  and  in  a  very  short  time  returned.  Mr.  Swiveller 
came  back,  almost  at  the  same  instant ;  and  as  Kit  was 
leaving  the  room  hastily,  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  Miss 
Brass  herself  encountered  him  in  the  doorway. 

Oh  ? "  sneered  Sally,  looking  after  him  as  she  entered. 
**  There  goes  your  pet  Sammy,  eh  ?" 

"Ah  !  There  he  goes,"  replied  Brass.  My  pet,  if 
you  please.  An  honest  fellow,  Mr.  Richard  sir — a  worthy 
fellow  indeed  ! " 

"  Hem  !  "  coughed  Miss  Brass. 

"I  tell  you,  you  aggravating  vagabond,"  said  the 
angry  Sampson,  "that  I'd  stake  my  life  upon  his  honesty. 
Am  I  never  to  hear  the  last  of  this?  Am  I  always  to  be 
baited,  and  beset,  by  your  mean  suspicions  ?  Have  you 
no  regard  for  true  merit,  you  malignant  fellow  ?  If 
you  come  to  that,  I'd  sooner  suspect  your  honesty  than 
his." 

Miss  Sally  pulled  out  the  tin  snuff-box,  and  took  a  long, 
slow  pinch :  regarding  her  brother  with  a  steady  gaze 
at  the  time. 

"  She  drives  me  wild,  Mr.  Richard  sir,"  said  Brass, 
"  she  exasperates  me  beyond  all  bearing.  I  am  heated 
and  excited  sir,  I  know  I  am.  These  are  not  business 
manners,  sir,  nor  business  looks,  but  she  carries  me  out 
of  myself." 

"  Why  don't  you  leave  him  alone  ?"  said  Dick. 
Because  she  can't  sir,"  retorted  Brass  ;  "  because  to 
chafe  and  vex  me  is  a  part  of  her  nature  sir,  and  she 
will  and  must  do  it,  or  I  don't  believe  she'd  have  her 
health.  But  never  mind,"  said  Brass,  "never  mind. 
I've  carried  my  point.  I've  shown  my  confidence  in  the 
lad.  He  has  minded  the  office  again.  Ha  ha  !  Ugh, 
you  viper  ! " 

The  beautiful  virgin  took  another  pinch,  and  put  the 
snuif-box  in  her  pocket ;  still  looking  at  her  brother  with 
perfect  composure. 

"  He  has  minded  the  office  again,"  said  Brass  triumph- 
antly ;  "he  has  had  my  confidence,  and  he  shall  con- 
tinue to  have  it  ;  he — why,  where's  the — " 

"  What  have  you  lost  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Swiveller. 

"  Dear  me  I"  said  Brass,  slapping  all  his  pockets,  one 
after  another,  and  looking  into  his  desk,  and  under  it, 
and  upon  it,  and  wildly  tossing  the  papers  about,  "the 
note,  Mr.  Richard,  sir,  the  five-pound  note — what  can 
have  become  of  it?  I  laid  it  down  here — God  bless  me  !" 

' '  What  ! "  cried  Miss  Sally,  starting  up,  clapping  her 
hands,  and  scattering  the  papers  on  the  iioor.  "Gone  ! 
Now  who's  right?  Now  who's  got  it?  Never  mind  five 
pounds — what's  five  pounds?  He's  honest  you  know, 
quite  honest.  It  would  be  mean  to  suspect  him.  Don't 
run  after  him.    No,  no,  not  for  the  world  !  " 

"Is  it  really  gone  though?"  said  Dick,  looking  at 
Brass  with  a  face  as  pale  as  his  own. 

"Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Richard  sir,"  replied  the  law- 
yer, feeling  in  all  his  pockets  with  looks  of  the  greatest 
agitation,  "I  fear  this  is  a  black  business.  It's  cer- 
tainly gone,  sir.    What's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"Don't  run  after  him,"  said  Miss  Sally,  taking  more 
snuff.  "  Don't  run  after  him  on  any  account.  Give  him 
time  to  get  rid  of  it,  you  know.  It  would  be  cruel  to 
find  him  out !" 

Mr.  Swiveller  and  Sampson  Brass  looked  from  Miss 
Sally  to  each  other,  in  a  state  of  bewilderment,  and 
then,  as  by  one  impulse,  caught  up  their  hats  and 
rushed  out  into  the  street — darting  along  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  and  dashing  aside  all  obstructions,  as 
though  they  were  running  for  their  lives. 

It  happened  that  Kit  had  been  running  too,  though 
not  so  fast,  and  liaving  the  start  of  them  by  some  few 
minutes,  was  a  good  distance  ahead.  As  they  were 
pretty  certain  of  the  road  he  must  have  taken,  however, 
and  kept  on  at  a  great  pace,  they  came  up  with  him,  at 
the  very  moment  when  he  had  taken  breath,  and  was 
breaking  into  a  run  again. 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  Sampson,  laying  his  hand  on  one 
shoulder,  while  Mr.  Swiveller  pounced  upon  the  other. 
"  Not  so  fast  sir.    You're  in  a  hurry  ?  " 


"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  Kit,  looking  from  one  to  the  other 
in  great  surprise. 

"  I — I — can  hardly  believe  it,"  panted  Sampson,  *'  but 
something  of  value  is  missing  from  the  office.  I  hope 
you  don't  know  what." 

"Know  what  !  good  Heaven  Mr.  Brass!"  cried  Kit, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot  ;  "  you  don't  suppose — " 

"  No,  no,"  rejoined  Brass  quickly,  "  I  don't  suppose 
anything.  Don't  say  /said  you  did.  You'll  come  back 
quietly,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  will,"  returned  Kit.    "  Why  not ?  " 

"To  be  sure!"  said  Brass.  "Why  not?  1  hope 
there  may  turn  out  to  be  no  why  not.  If  you  knew  the 
trouble  I've  been  in,  this  morning,  through  taking  your 
part,  Christopher,  you'd  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  And  I  am  sure  you'll  be  sorry  for  having  suspected 
me  sir,"  replied  Kit.  "  Come.  Let  us  make  haste  back." 

"Certainly  !"  cried  Brass,  "  the  quicker,  the  better. 
Mr.  Richard — have  the  goodness  sir  to  take  that  arm.  I'll 
take  this  one.  It's  not  easy  walking  three  abreast,  but 
under  these  circumstances  it  must  be  done  sir ;  there's 
no  help  for  it." 

Kit  did  turn  from  white  to  red,  and  from  red  to  white 
again,  when  they  secured  him  thus,  and  for  a  moment 
seemed  disposed  to  resist.  But,  quickly  recollecting 
himself,  and  remembering  that  if  he  made  any  struggle, 
he  would  perhaps  be  dragged  by  the  collar  through  the 
public  streets,  he  only  repeated,  with  great  earnestness 
and  with  the  tears  standing  in  his  eyes,  that  they  would 
be  sorry  for  this — and  suffered  them  to  lead  him  off. 
While  they  were  on  the  way  back,  Mr.  Swiveller,  upon 
whom  his  present  functions  sat  very  irksomely,  took  an 
opportunity  of  whispering  in  his  ear  that  if  he  would, 
confess  his  guilt,  even  by  so  much  as  a  nod,  and  prom- 
ise not  to  do  so  any  more,  he  would  connive  at  his  kick- 
ing Sampson  Brass  on  the  shins  and  escaping  up  a  court ; 
but  Kit  indignantly  rejecting  this  proposal,  Mr.  Richard 
had  nothing  for  it,  but  to  hold  him  tight  until  they 
reached  Bevis  Marks,  and  ushered  him  into  the  presence 
of  the  charming  Sarah,  who  immediately  took  the  pre- 
caution of  locking  the  door. 

"Now,  you  know,"  said  Brass,  "if  this  is  a  case  of 
innocence,  it  is  a  case  of  that  description,  Christopher, 
where  the  fullest  disclosure  is  the  best  satisfaction  for 
everybody.  Therefore  if  you'll  consent  to  an  examina- 
tion," he  demonstrated  what  kind  of  examination  he 
meant  by  turning  back  the  cuffs  of  his  coat,  "it  will  be 
a  comfortable  and  pleasant  thing  for  all  parties." 

"  Search  me,"  said  Kit,  proudly  holding  up  his  arms. 
"  But  mind  sir — I  know  you'll  be  sorry  for  this,  to  the 
last  day  of  your  life. " 

"It  is  certainly  a  very  painful  occurrence,"  said 
Brass  with  a  sigh,  as  he  dived  into  one  of  Kit's  pockets, 
and  fished  up  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  small  arti- 
cles;  "very  painful.  Nothing  here,  Mr.  Richard,  sir, 
all  perfectly  satisfactory.  Nor  here,  sir.  Nor  in  the 
waistcoat,  Mr.  Richard,  nor  in  the  coat  tails.  So  far,  I 
am  rejoiced,  I  am  sure." 

Richard  Swiveller,  holding  Kit's  hat  in  his  hand,  was 
watching  the  proceedings  with  great  interest,  and  bore 
upon  his  face  the  slightest  possible  indication  of  a  smile, 
as  Brass,  shutting  one  of  his  eyes,  looked  with  the  other 
up  the  inside  of  one  of  the  poor  fellow's  sleeves  as  if  it 
were  a  telescope — when  Sampson  turning  hastily  to  him 
bade  him  search  the  hat. 

"  Here's  a  handkerchief,"  said  Dick. 

"  No  harm  in  that  sir,"  rejoined  Brass,  applying  his 
eye  to  the  other  sleeve,  and  si)eaking  in  the  voice  of  one 
who  was  contemplating  an  immense  extent  of  prospect. 
"  No  harm  in  a  handkerchief  sir,  whatever.  The  facul- 
ty don't  consider  it  a  healthy  custom,  I  believe,  Mr. 
Richard,  to  carry  one's  handkerchief  in  one's  hat — I 
have  heard  that  it  keeps  the  liead  too  warm — but  in 
every  other  point  of  view,  it's  being  there,  is  extremely 
satisfactory — ex-tremely  so." 

An  exclamation,  at  once  from  Richard  Swiveller,  Miss 
Sally,  and  Kit  himself,  cut  the  lawyer  short.  He  turned 
his  iiead,  and  saw  Dick  standing  with  the  bank-note 
in  his  hand. 

"  In  the  hat?  "  cried  Brass,  in  a  sort  of  shriek. 

"Under  the  handkerchief,  and  tucked  beneath  the 
lining, "  said  Dick,  aghast  at  the  discovery. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


805 


Mr.  Brass  looked  at  him,  at  his  sister,  at  the  walls,  at 
the  ceiling,  at  the  floor — everywhere  but  at  Kit,  who 
stood  quite  stupified  and  motionless. 

"  And  this,"  cried  Sampson,  clasping  his  hands,  "is 
the  world  that  turns  upon  its  own  axis,  and  has  Lunar 
influences,  and  revolutions  round  Heavenly  Bodies,  and 
various  games  of  that  sort  !  Tiiis  is  human  natur,  is  it! 
Oh  natur,  natur  !  This  is  the  miscreant  that  I  was 
going  to  benefit  with  all  my  little  arts,  and  that,  even 
now,  I  feel  so  much  for,  as  to  wish  to  let  him  go  !  But," 
added  Mr.  Brass  with  greater  fortitude,"  "  I  am  myself 
a  lawyer,  and  bound  to  set  an  example  in  carrying  the 
laws  of  my  happy  country  into  effect.  Sally  niy  dear, 
forgive  me,  and  catch  hold  of  him  on  the  otlier  side. 
Mr.  Richard  sir,  have  the  goodness  to  run  and  fetch  a 
constable.  The  weakness  is  past  and  over  sir,  and  moral 
strength  returns.    A  constable,  sir,  if  you  please  !  " 


CHAPTER  LX. 

Kit  stood  as  one  entranced  with  his  eyes  opened  wide 
and  fixed  upon  the  ground,  regardless  alike  of  the  trem- 
ulous hold  which  Mr.  Brass  maintained  on  one  side 
of  his  cravat,  and  of  the  firmer  grasp  of  Miss  Sally  upon 
the  other ;  although  this  latter  detention  was  in  itself 
no  small  inconvenience,  as  that  fascinating  woman, 
besides  screwing  her  knuckles  inconveniently  into  his 
throat  from  time  to  time,  had  fastened  upon  him  in  the 
first  instance  with  so  tight  a  grip  that  even  in  the  dis- 
order and  distraction  of  his  tliovights  he  could  not  divest 
himself  of  an  uneasy  sense  of  choking.  Between  the  bro- 
ther and  sister  he  remained  in  this  posture,  quite  unre- 
sisting and  passive,  until  Mr.  Swiveller  returned,  with  a 
police  constable  at  his  heels. 

This  functionary,  being,  of  course,  well  used  to  such 
scenes  ;  looking  upon  all  kinds  of  robbery,  from  petty 
larceny  up  to  housebreaking  or  ventures  on  the  highway, 
as  matters  in  the  regular  course  of  business  ;  and  regard- 
ing the  perpetrators  in  the  light  of  so  many  customers 
coming  to  be  served  at  the  wholesale  and  retail  shop  of 
criminal  law  where  he  stood  behind  the  counter  ;  re- 
ceived Mr.  Brass's  statement  of  facts  with  about  as  much 
interest  and  surprise,  as  an  undertaker  might  evince  if 
required  to  listen  to  a  circumstantial  account  of  the'  last 
illness  of  a  person  whom  he  was  called  in  to  wait  upon 
professionally  ;  and  took  Kit  into  custody  with  a  decent 
indifference. 

"  We  had  better,"  said  this  subordinate  minister  of 
justice,  "  get  to  the  office  while  there's  a  magistrate  sit- 
ting. I  shall  want  you  to  come  along  with  us,  Mr.  Brass, 
and  the — "  he  looked  at  Miss  Sally  as  if  in  some  doubt 
whether  she  might  not  be  a  griffin  or  other  fabulous 
monster. 

"The  lady,  eh?"  said  Sampson. 

"Ah  !  "  replied  the  constable.  "  Yes — the  lady.  Like- 
wise the  young  man  that  found  the  property. " 

"Mr.  Richard,  sir,"  said  Brass  in  a  mournful  voice. 
"  A  sad  necessity.    But  the  altar  of  our  country  sir — " 

"  You'll  have  a  hackney  coach,  I  suppose  ?  "  interrupt- 
ed the  constable,  holding  Kit  (whom  his  captors  had 
released)  carelessly  by  the  arm,  a  little  above  the  elbow. 
"  Be  so  good  as  send  for  one,  will  you  ?  " 

"  But,  hear  me  speak  a  word,"  cried  Kit,  raising  his 
eyes  and  and  looking  imploringly  about  him.  "  Hear 
me  speak  a  word.  I  am  no  more  guilty  than  any  one  of 
you.  Upon  my  soul  I  am  not.  I,  a  thief !  Oh,  Mr. 
Brass,  you  know  me  better.  I  am  sure  you  know  me 
better.    This  is  not  right  of  you,  indeed." 

"  I  give  you  my  word,  constable—"  said  Brass.  But 
here  the  constable  interposed  with  the  constitutional 
principle  "words  be  blowed  ; "  observing  that  words 
were  but  spoon-meat  for  babes  and  sucklings,  and  that 
oaths  were  the  food  for  strong  men. 

"Quite  true,  constable,"  assented  Brass  in  the  same 
mournful  tone.  "  Strictly  correct.  I  give  you  my  oath, 
constable,  that  down  to  a  few  minutes  ago,  when  this 
fatal  discovery  was  made,  I  had  such  confidence  in  that 
lad,  that  I'd  have  trusted  him  with — a  hackney-coach, 
Mr.  Richard  sir  ;  you're  very  slow,  sir." 

"  Who  is  there  that  knows  me,"  cried  Kit,  "  that  would 


not  trust  me — that  does  not  ?  ask  nobody  whether  they 
have  ever  doubted  me  ;  whether  I  have  ever  wronged 
them  of  a  farthing.  Was  I  ever  once  dishonest  when  I 
was  poor  and  hungry,  and  is  it  likely  that  I  would  begin 
now  1  Oh  consider  what  you  do.  How  can  I  meet  the 
kindest  friends  that  ever  human  creature  had,  with  this 
dreadful  charge  upon  me  I" 

Mr.  Brass  rejoined  that  it  would  have  been  well  for 
the  prisoner  if  he  had  thought  of  that  before,  and  was 
about  to  make  some  other  gloomy  observations  when  the 
voice  of  the  single  gentleman  was  heard,  demanding 
from  above-stairs  what  was  the  matter,  and  what  was 
the  cause  of  all  that  noise  and  hurry.  Kit  made  an  in- 
voluntary start  tow<irds  the  door  in  his  anxiety  to  answer 
for  himself,  but  being  speedily  detained  by  the  constable, 
had  the  anxiety  of  seeing  Sampson  Brass  run  out  alone 
to  tell  the  story  in  his  own  way. 

And  he  can  hardly  believe  it,  either,"  said  Sampson, 
when  he  returned,  "  nobody  will.  1  wish  I  could  doubt 
the  evidence  of  my  senses,  but  their  depositions  are  un- 
impeachable. It's  of  no  use  cross-examining  my  eyes," 
cried  Sampson,  winking  and  rubbing  them,  "they  stick 
to  their  first  account,  and  will.  Now,  Sarah,  I  hear  the 
coach  in  the  Marks  ;  get  on  your  bonnet,  and  we'll  be 
off.    A  sad  errand  !  a  moral  funeral,  quite  !  " 

"  Mr.  Brass,"  said  Kit,  "  do  me  one  favour.  Take  me 
to  Mr.  Witherden's  first." 

Sampson  shook  his  head  irresolutely. 

"  Do,"  said  Kit.  **My  master's  there.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  take  me  there,  first." 

"  Well  I  don't  know,"  stammered  Brass,  who  perhaps 
had  his  reasons  for  wishing  to  show  as  fair  as  possible  in 
the  eyes  of  the  notary.  "How  do  we  stand  in  point  of 
time,  constable,  eh  ?  " 

The  constable,  who  had  been  chewing  a  straw  all  this 
while  with  great  philosophy,  replied  that  if  they  went 
away  at  once  they  would  have  time  enough,  but  that  if 
they  stood  shilly-shallying  there,  any  longer,  they  must 
go  straight  to  the  Mansion  House  ;  and  finally  expressed 
his  opinion  that  that  was  where  it  was,  and  that  was  all 
about  it. 

Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  having  arrived  inside  the  coach, 
and  still  remaining  immovable  in  the  most  commodious 
corner  with  his  face  to  the  horses,  Mr.  Brass  instructed 
the  officer  to  remove  his  prisoner,  and  declared  himself 
quite  ready.  Therefore  the  constable,  still  holding  Kit 
in  the  same  manner,  and  pushing  him  on  a  little  before 
him,  so  as  to  keep  him  at  about  three  quarters  of  an  arm's 
length  in  advance  (which  is  the  professional  mode,) 
thrust  him  into  the  vehicle  and  followed  himself.  Miss 
Sally  entered  next  ;  and  there  being  now  four  inside, 
Sampson  Brass  got  upon  the  box,  and  made  the  coach- 
man drive  on. 

Still  completely  stunned  by  the  sudden  and  terrible 
change  which  had  taken  place  in  his  affairs.  Kit  sat 
gazing  out  of  the  coach  window,  almost  hoping  to  see 
some  monstrous  phenomenon  in  the  streets  which  might 
give  him  reason  to  believe  he  was  in  a  dream.  Alas  ! 
Everything  was  too  real  and  familiar  :  the  same  succes- 
sions of  turnings  the  same  houses  the  same  streams  of 
people  running  side  by  side  in  different  directions  upon 
the  pavement,  the  same  bustle  of  carts  and  carriages  in 
the  road,  the  same  well  remembered  objects  in  the  shop 
windows  :  a  regularity  in  the  very  noise  and  hurry  which 
no  dream  ever  mirrored.  Dreamlike  as  the  story  was, 
it  Avas  true.  He  stood  charged  with  robbery  ;  the  note 
had  been  found  upon  him,  though  he  was  innocent  in 
thought  and  deed  ;  and  they  were  carrying  him  back  a 
prisoner. 

Absorbed  in  these  painful  ruminations,  thinking  with 
a  drooping  heart  of  his  mother  and  little  Jacob,  feeling 
as  though  even  the  consciousness  of  innocence  would  be 
insufficient  to  support  him  in  the  presence  of  his  friends 
if  they  believed  him  guilty,  and  sinking  in  hope  and 
courage  more  and  more  as  they  drew  nearer  to  the  no- 
tary's poor  Kit  was  looking  earnestly  out  of  the  window, 
observant  of  nothing, — when  all  at  once,  as  though  it 
had  been  conjured  up  by  magic,  he  became  aware  o"f  the 
face  of  Quilp. 

And  what  a  leer  there  was  upon  the  face  !  It  was 
from  the  open  window  of  a  tavern  that  it  looked  out; 
and  the  dwarf  had  so  spread  himself  over  it,  with  his 


806 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


elbows  on  tlie  window-sill  and  his, head  resting  on  both 
his  hands,  that  what  between  this  attitude  and  his  being 
swoln  with  suppressed  laughter  he  looked  puffed  and 
bloated  into  twice  his  usual  breadth.  Mr.  Brass  on  re- 
cognising him,  immediately  stopped  the  coach.  As  it 
came  to  a  halt  directly  opposite  to  where  he  stood,  the 
dwarf  pulled  ofE  his  hat,  and  saluted  the  party  with  a 
hideous  and  grotesque  politeness. 

"  Aha  !  "  he  cried.  "  Where  now,  Brass?  where  now? 
Sally  with  you  too?  Sweet  Sally  !  And  Dick?  Pleas- 
ant Dick  !    And  Kit  ?    Honest  Kit !  " 

*'He's  extremely  cheerful  1"  said  Brass  to  the  coach- 
man. ''Very  much  sol  Ah  sir — a  sad  business! 
Never  believe' in  honesty  any  more,  ^r." 

"Why  not?"  returned  the  dwarf.  "Why  not,  you 
rogue  of  a  lawyer,  why  not?" 

"  Bank  note  lost  in  our  oflSce  sir,"  said  Brass,  shaking 
his  head.  "Found  it  in  his  hat  sir — he  previously  left 
alone  there — no  mistake  at  all  sir — chain  of  evidence 
complete — not  a  link  wanting." 

"  What  !"  cried  the  dwarf,  leaning  half  his  body  out 
of  the  window,  "Kit  a  thief  !  Kit  a  thief  !  Ha  ha  ha  ! 
Why,  he's  an  uglier  looking  thief  than  can  be  seen  any- 
where for  a  penny.  Eh  Kit — eh  ?  Ha  ha  ha  !  Have 
you  taken  Kit  into  custody  before  he  had  time  and  op- 
portunity to  beat  me  !  Eh  Kit,  eh  ?"  And  with  that  he 
burst  into  a  yell  of  laughter,  manifestly  to  the  great  ter- 
ror of  the  coachman  and  pointed  to  a  dyer's  pole  hard  by, 
whsre  a  dangling  suit  of  clothes  bore  some  resemblance 
to  a  man  upon  a  gibbet. 

"  Is  it  coming  to  that.  Kit  !  "  cried  the  dwarf,  rubbing 
his  hands  violently.  "Ha  ha  ha  ha  I  What  a  disap- 
pointment for  little  Jacob,  and  for  his  darling  mother  ! 
Let  him  have  the  Bethel  minister  to  comfort  and  con- 
sole him,  Brass.  Eh  Kit,  eh?  Drive  on  coachey,  drive 
on.  Bye  bye  Kit  ;  all  good  go  with  you  ;  keep  up  your 
spirits  ;  my  love  to  the  Garlands — the  dear  old  lady  and 
gentleman.  Say  I  inquired  after  'em,  will  you  ?  Bles- 
sings on  'em,  and  on  you,  and  on  everybody,  Kit.  Bles- 
sings on  all  the  world  ! " 

With  such  good  wishes  and  farewells,  poured  out  in  a 
rapid  torrent  until  they  were  out  of  hearing,  Quilp  suf- 
fered them  to  depart  ;  and  when  he  could  see  the  coach 
no  longer,  drew  in  his  head,  and  rolled  upon  the  ground 
in  an  ecstacy  of  en  joyment. 

When  they  reached  the  notary's,  which  they  were  not 
long  in  doing,  for  they  had  encountered  the  dwarf  in  a 
bye  street  at  a  very  little  distance  from  the  house,  Mr. 
Brass  dismounted  ;  and  opening  the  coach  door  with  a 
melancholy  visage,  requested  his  sister  to  accompany 
him  into  the  office,  with  the  view  of  preparing  the  good 
people  within  for  the  mournful  intelligence  that  awaited 
them.  Miss  Sally  complying,  he  desired  Mr.  Swiveller 
to  accompany  them.  So,  into  the  office  they  went  ;  Mr. 
Sampson  and  his  sister  arm-in-arm  ;  and  Mr.  Swiveller 
following  alone. 

The  notary  was  standing  before  the  fire  in  the  outer 
office,  talking  to  Mr.  Abel  and  the  elder  Mr.  Garland, 
while  Mr.  Chuckster  sat  writing  at  the  desk,  picking  up 
such  crumbs  of  their  conversation  as  happened  to  fall  in 
his  way.  This  posture  of  affairs  Mr.  Brass  observed 
through  the  glass-door  as  he  was  turning  the  handle, 
and  seeing  that  the  notary  recognised  him  he  began  to 
shake  his  head  and  sigh  deeply  while  that  partition  yet 
divided  them. 

"  Sir,"  said  Sampson,  taking  off  his  hat,  and  kissing 
the  two  forefingers  of  his  right  hand  beaver  glove,  "my 
name  is  Brass — Brass  of  Bevis  Marks  sir.  I  have  had 
the  honour  and  pleasure,  sir,  of  being  concerned  against 
you  in  some  little  testamentary  matter.  How  do  you  do, 
sir  ! " 

"My  clerk  will  attend  to  any  business  you  may  have 
come  upon,  Mr.  Brass,"  said  the  notary,  turning  away. 

"Thank  you  sir,"  said  Brass,  "  thank  you,  I  am  sure. 
Allow  me,  sir,  to  introduce  my  sister — quite  one  of  us 
sir,  although  of  the  weaker  sex — of  great  use  in  my 
business  sir,  I  assure  you.  Mr.  Richard  sir,  have  the 
goodness  to  come  forward  if  you  please — No  really," 
said  Brass,  stepping  between  the  notary  and  liis  private 
office  (towards  which  he  had  begun  to  retroat),and  speak- 
ing in  the  tone  of  an  injured  man,  "  really  sir,  I  must, 
under  favour,  request  a  word  or  two  with  you,  indeed." 


"  Mr.  Brass,"  said  the  other  in  a  decided  tone,  "  I  am 
engaged.  You  see  that  I  am  occupied  with  these  gen- 
tlemen. If  you  will  communicate  your  business  to  Mr. 
Chuckster  yonder,  you  will  receive  every  attention." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Brass,  laying  his  right  hand  on  his 
waistcoat,  and  looking  towards  the  father  and  son  with 
a  smooth  smile — "Gentlemen,  I  appeal  to  you — really, 
gentlemen — consider,  I  beg  of  you.  I  am  of  the  law. 
I  am  styled  'gentleman '  by  Act  of  Parliament.  I  main- 
tain the  title  by  the  annual  payment  of  twelve  pounds 
sterling  for  a  certificate.  I  am  not  one  of  your  players 
of  music,  stage  actors,  writers  of  books,  or  painters  of 
pictures,  who  assume  a  station  that  laws  of  their  country 
don't  recognise.  I  am  none  of  your  strollers  or  vaga- 
bonds. If  any  man  bring  his  action  against  me,  he  must 
describe  me  as  a  gentleman,  or  his  action  is  null  and 
void.  I  appeal  to  you — ^is  this  quite  respectful  ?  Really, 
gentlemen — " 

"Well,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  state  your  bus- 
iness then,  Mv.  Brass?"  said  the  notary. 

"  Sir,"  rejoined  Brass,  "  I  will.  Ah  Mr.  Witherden  ! 
you  little  know  the — but  I  will  not  be  tempted  to  travel 
from  the  point  sir.  I  believe  the  name  of  one  of  these 
gentlemen  is  Garland." 

"  Of  both,"  said  the  notary. 

"  In-deed  !  "  rejoined  Brass,  cringing  excessively. 
"  But  I  might  have  known  that,  from  the  uncommon 
likeness.  Extremely  happy,  I  am  sure,  to  have  the  hon- 
our of  an  introduction  to  two  such  gentlemen,  although 
the  occasion  is  a  most  painful  one.  One  of  you  gentlemen 
has  a  servant  called  Kit  ?  " 

"  Both,"  replied  the  notary. 

"  Two  Kits  ?  "  said  Brass,  smiling.    "  Dear  me  ! " 

"  One  Kit,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Witherden  angrily,  "  who 
is  employed  by  both  gentlemen.    What  of  him  ?" 

"  This  of  him,  sir,"  rejoined  Brass,  dropping  his  voice 
impressively.  "That  young  man,  sir,  that  I  have  felt 
unbounded  and  unlimited  confidence  in,  and  always  be- 
haved to  as  if  he  was  my  equal — that  young  man  has 
this  morning  committed  a  robbery  in  my  office,  and  been 
taken  almost  in  the  fact." 

"  This  must  be  some  falsehood  ! "  cried  the  notary. 

"  It  is  not  possible,"  said  Mr.  Abel. 

"  I'll  not  believe  one  word  of  it,"  exclaimed  the  old 
gentleman. 

Mr.  Brass  looked  mildly  round  upon  them,  and  rejoined. 

"Mr.  Witherden  sir,  your  words  are  actionable,  and  if 
I  was  a  man  of  low  and  mean  standing,  who  couldn't  af- 
ford to  be  slandered,  I  should  proceed  for  damages.  How- 
s'ever  sir,  being  what  I  am,  I  merely  scorn  such  expres- 
sions. The  honest  warmth  of  the  other  gentleman  I 
respect,  and  I'm  truly  sorry  to  be  the  messenger  of  such 
unpleasant  news.  I  shouldn't  have  x>ut  myself  in  this 
painful  position,  I  assure  you,  but  that  the  lad  himself 
desired  to  be  brought  here  in  the  first  instance,  and  I 
yielded  to  his  prayers.  Mr.  Chuckster  sir,  will  you  have 
the  goodness  to  tap  at  the  window  for  the  constable  that's 
waiting  in  the  coach  ?  " 

The  three  gentlemen  looked  at  each  other  with  blank 
faces  when  these  words  were  uttered,  and  Mr.  Chuckster, 
doing  as  he  was  desired,  and  leaping  off  the  stool  with 
something  of  the  excitement  of  an  inspired  prophet 
whose  foretellings  had  in  the  fulness  of  time  been  reaL 
ised,  held  the  door  open  for  the  entrance  of  the  wretched 
captive. 

Such  a  scene  as  there  was,  when  Kit  came  in,  and 
bursting  into  the  rude  eloquence  with  which  Truth  at 
length  inspired  him,  called  Heaven  to  witness  that  he 
was  innocent,  and  that  how  the  property  came  to  be  found 
on  him  he  knew  not !  Such  a  confusion  of  tongues,  be- 
fore the  circumstances  were  related,  and  the  proofs  dis- 
closed !  Such  a  dead  silence  when  all  was  told,  and  his 
three  friends  exchanged  looks  of  doubt  and  amazement  ! 

"  Is  it  not  possible,"  said  Mr.  Witherden,  alter  a  long 
pause,  "  that  this  note  may  have  found  its  way  into  the 
hat  by  some  accident — such  as  the  removal  of  papers  on 
the  desk,  for  instance  ?" 

But,  this  was  clearly  shown  to  be  quite  impossible. 
Mr.  Swiveller,  though  an  unwilling  witness,  could  not 
iielp  proving  to  demonstration,  from  the  position  in  which 
it  was  found,  that  it  must  have  been  designedly  secreted, 

"It's  very  distressing,"  said  Brass,  "immensely  dis- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


807 


tressing,  I  am  sure.  When  he  comes  to  be  tried,  I  shall 
be  very  happy  to  recommend  him  to  mercy  on  account 
of  his  previous  good  character.  I  did  lose  money  before 
certainly,  but  it  doesn't  quite  follow  that  he  took  it.  The 
presumption's  against  him — strongly  against  him — but 
we're  Christians,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  constable,  looking  round,  "  that 
no  gentleman  here,  can  give  evidence  as  to  whether  he's 
been  flush  of  money  of  late.  Do  you  happen  to  know 
sir  ?  " 

"  He  has  had  money  from  time  to  time,  certainly,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Garland,  to  whom  the  man  had  put  the  ques- 
tion. "  But  that,  as  he  always  told  me,  was  given  him 
by  Mr,  Brass  himself, " 

* "  Yes  to  be  sure,"  said  Kit  eagerly.  "  You  can  bear 
me  out  in  that  sir  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  cried  Brass,  looking  frojn  face  to  face  with  an 
ext)ression  of  stupid  amazement. 

"  The  money  you  know,  the  half-crowns  that  you  gave 
me — from  the  lodger,"  said  Kit. 

"Oh  dear  me  !"  cried  Brass,  shaking  his  head  and 
frowning  heavily.  "  This  is  a  bad  case,  I  find  I  a  verj' 
bad  case  indeed." 

"  What  !  Did  you  give  him  no  money  on  account  of 
anybody,  sir?"  asked  Mr.  Garland  with  great  anxiety, 

*'/give  him  money,  sir  !"  returned  Sampson.  "  Oh, 
come  you  know,  this  is  too  barefaced.  Constable,  my 
good  fellow,  we  had  better  be  going," 

**  What  !  "  shrieked  Kit.  "  Does  he  deny  that  he  did? 
ask  him,  somebody,  pray.  Ask  him  to  tell  you  whether 
he  did  or  not  !  " 

"  Did  you,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  notary. 

"I  tell  you  what,  gentlemen,"  replied  Brass,  in  a 
very  grave  manner,  "  he'll  not  serve  his  case  this  way, 
and  really,  if  you  feel  any  interest  in  him,  you  had  bet- 
ter advise  him  to  go  upon  some  other  tack.  Did  I,  sir? 
Of  course  I  never  did." 

"  Gentlemen,"  cried  Kit,  on  whom  a  light  broke  sud- 
denly, "  Master,  Mr.  Abel,  Mr,  Witherden,  every  one 
of  you— he  did  it  !  What  I  have  done  to  offend  him,  I 
don't  know,  but  this  is  a  plot  to  ruin  me.  Mind,  gen- 
tlemen, it's  a  plot,  and  whatever  comes  of  it,  I  will  say 
with  my  dying  breath  that  he  put  that  note  in  my  hat 
himself  I  Look  at  him,  gentlemen  !  See  how  he  changes 
colour.  Which  of  us  looks  the  guilty  person— he 
or  I  ?  " 

"You  hear  him,  gentlemen?"  said  Brass,  smiling, 
"  you  hear  him.  Now,  does  this  case  strike  you  as  as- 
suming rather  a  black  complexion,  or  does  it  not?  Is  it 
at  all  a  treacherous  case,  do  you  think,  or  is  it  one  of 
mere  ordinary  guilt?  Perhaps,  gentlemen,  if  he  had 
not  said  this  in  your  presence,  and  I  had  reported  it, 
you'd  have  held  this  to  be  impossible  likewise,  eh  ?  " 

With  such  pacific  and  bantering  remarks  did  Mr. 
Brass  refute  the  foul  aspersion  on  his  character ;  but 
the  virtuous  Sarah,  moved  by  stronger  feelings,  and 
having  at  heart,  perhaps,  a  more  jealous  regard  for  the 
honour  of  her  family,  flew  from  her  brother's  side,  with- 
out any  previous  intimation  of  her  design,  and  darted 
at  the  prisoner  with  the  utmost  fury.  It  would  un- 
doubtedly have  gone  hard  with  Kit's  face,  but  that  the 
wary  constable,  foreseeing  her  design,  drew  him  aside 
at  the  critical  moment,  and  thus  placed  Mr.  Chuckster 
in  circumstances  of  some  jeopardy  •  for  that  gentleman 
happening  to  be  next  the  object  of  Miss  Brass's  wrath  ; 
and  rage  being,  like  love  and  fortune,  blind ;  was 
pounced  upon  by  the  fair  enslaver,  and  had  a  false  collar 
plucked  up  by  the  roots,  and  his  hair  veiy  much  dis- 
hevelled, before  the  exertions  of  the  company  could 
make  her  sensible  of  her  mistake. 

The  constable,  taking  warning  by  this  desperate  at- 
tack, and  thinking  perhaps  that  it  would  be  more  satis- 
factory to  the  ends  of  justice  if  the  prisoner  were  taken 
before  a  magistrate,  whole,  rather  than  in  small  pieces, 
led  him  back  to  the  hackney-coach  without  more  ado,  and 
moreover  insisted  on  Miss  13rass  becoming  an  outside  pas- 
senger ;  to  which  proposal  the  charming  creature,  after  a 
little  angry  discussion,  yielded  her  consent  ;  and  so  took 
her  brother  Sampson's  place  upon  the  box  :  Mr.  Brass 
with  some  reluctance  agreeing  to  occupy  her  seat  inside. 
These  arrangeinents  perfected,  they  drove  to  the  justice- 
room  with  all  speed,  followed  by  the  notary  and  his  two 


friends  in  another  coach.  Mr.  Chuckster  alone  was  left 
behind — greatly  to  his  indignation  ;  for  he  held  the  evi- 
dence he  could  have  given,  relative  to  Kit's  returning  to 
work  out  the  shilling,  to  be  so  very  material  as  l)earing 
upon  his  hypocritical  and  designing  character,  tliat  he 
considered  its  suppression  little  better  than  a  compro- 
mise of  felony. 

At  the  justice-room  they  found  the  single  gentleman, 
who  had  gone  straight  there,  and  was  pxjjecting  them 
with  desperate  impatience.  But,  not  fifty  single  gentle- 
men rolled  into  one  could  have  helped  poor  Kit,  who  in 
half  an  hour  afterwards  was  committed  for  trial,  and 
was  assured  by  a  friendly  officer  on  his  way  to  prison 
that  there  was  no  occasion  to  bo  cast  down,  for  the  ses- 
sions would  soon  be  on,  and  he  would,  in  all  likelihood, 
g6t  his  little  affair  disposed  of,  and  be  comfortably 
transported,  in  less  that  a  fortnight. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

Let  moralists  and  philosophers  say  what  they  may,  it 
is  very  questionable  whether  a  guilty  man  would  have 
felt  half  as  much  misery  that  night,  as  Kit  did,  being 
innocent.  The  world,  being  in  the  constant  commission 
of  vast  quantities  of  injustice,  is  a  little  too  apt  to  com- 
fort itself  with  the  idea  that  if  the  victim  of  its  false- 
hood and  malice  have  a  clear  conscience,  he  cannot  fail 
to  be  sustained  under  his  trials,  and  somehow  or  other 
to  come  right  at  last;  "in  which  case"  say  they  who 
have  hunted  him  down,  " — though  we  certainly  don't 
expect  it  —  nobody  will  be  better  pleased  than  we." 
Whereas,  the  world  would  do  well  to  reflect,  that  in- 
justice is  in  itself,  to  every  generous  and  properly  consti- 
tuted mind,  an  injury,  of  all  others  the  most  insuffer- 
able, the  most  torturing,  and  the  most  hard  to  bear  ; 
and  that  many  clear  consciences  have  gone  to  their  ac- 
count elsewhere,  and  many  sound  hearts  have  broken, 
because  of  this  very  reason  ;  the  knowledge  of  their  own 
deserts  only  aggravating  their  sufferings,  and  rendering 
them  the  less  endurable. 

The  world,  however,  was  not  in  fault  in  Kit's  case. 
But,  Kit  was  innocent ;  and  knowing  this,  and  feeling 
that  his  best  friends  deemed  him  guilty, — that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Garland  would  look  upon  him  as  a  monster  of  in- 
gratitude— that  Barbara  would  associate  him  with  all 
that  was  bad  and  criminal — that  the  pony  would  con- 
sider himself  forsaken — and  that  even  his  own  mother 
might  perhaps  yield  to  the  strong  appearances  against 
him,  and  believe  him  to  be  the  wretch  he  seemed — 
knowing  and  feeling  all  this,  he  experienced,  at  first,  an 
agony  of  mind  which  no  words  can  describe,  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  little  cell  in  which  he  was  locked  up 
for  the  night,  almost  beside  himself  with  grief. 

Even  when  the  violence  of  these  emotions  had  in  some 
degree  subsided,  and  he  was  beginning  to  grow  more 
calm,  there  came  into  his  mind  a  new  thought,  the  an- 
guish of  which  was  scarcely  less.  The  child — the  bright 
star  of  the  simple  fellow's  life — she,  who  always  came 
back  upon  him  like  a  beautiful  dream, — who  had  made 
the  poorest  part  of  his  existence  the  happiest  and  best, 
— who  had  ever  been  so  gentle,  and  considerate,  and 
good — if  she  were  ever  to  hear  of  this,  what  would  she 
think  !  As  this  idea  occurred  to  him,  the  walls  of  the 
prison  seemed  to  melt  away,  and  the  old  place  to  reveal 
itself  in  their  stead,  as  it  was  wont  to  be  on  winter 
nights — the  fireside,  the  little  supper-table,  the  old 
man's  hat,  and  coat,  and  stick — the  half- opened  door 
leading  to  her  little  room— they  were  all  there.  And 
Nell  herself  was  there,  and  he— both  laughing  heartily 
as  they  had  often  done— and  when  he  had  got  as  far  as 
this.  Kit  could  go  no  farther,  but  flung  himself  upon  his 
poor  bedstead  and  wept. 

It  was  a  long  night,  which  seemed  as  though  it  would 
have  no  end  ;  but  he  slept  too,  and  dreamed — always  o-f 
being  at  liberty,  and  roving  about,  now  with  one  person 
and  now  with  another,  but  ever  with  a  vague  dread  of 
being  recalled  to  prison  ;  not  that  prison,  but  one  which 
was  in  itself  a  dim  idea — not  of  a  place,  but  of  a  care 
and  sorrow  :  of  something  oppressive  and  always  pres- 
ent, and  yet  impossible  to  define.    At  last,  the  morning 


808 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


dawued,  and  tliere  was  the  jail  itself — cold,  black,  and 
dreary,  and  very  real  indeed. 

He  was  left  to  himself,  however,  and  there  was  com- 
fort in  that.  He  had  liberty  to  walk  in  that  small  paved 
yard  at  a  certain  hour,  and  learnt  from  the  turnkey,  who 
came  to  unlock  his  cell  and  show  him  where  to  wash, 
that  there  was  a  regular  time  for  visiting  every  day, 
and  that  if  any  of  his  friends  came  to  see  him,  he  would 
be  fetched  down  to  the  grate.  When  he  had  given  him 
this  information,  and  a  tin  porringer  containing  his 
breakfast,  the  man  locked  him  up  again  ;  and  went  clat- 
tering along  the  stone  passage,  opening  and  shutting  a 
great  many  other  doors,  and  raising  numberless  loud 
echoes  which  resounded  through  the  building  for  a  long 
time,  as  if  they  were  in  prison  too,  and  unable  to  get 
out. 

This  turnkey  had  given  him  to  understand  that  he 
was  lodged,  like  some  few  others  in  the  jail,  apart  from 
the  mass  of  prisoners  ;  because  he  was  not  supposed  to 
be  utterly  depraved  and  irreclaimable,  and  had  never 
occupied  apartments  in  that  mansion.  Kit  was  thankful 
for  this  indulgence,  and  sat  reading  the  church  cate- 
chism very  attentively  (though  he  had  known  it  by  heart 
from  a  little  child),  until  he  heard  the  key  in  the  lock, 
and  the  man  entered  again. 

"  Now  then,"  he  said,  *'  come  on  ! " 

"Where  to,  sir?  "  asked  Kit. 

The  man  contented  himself  by  briefly  replying  *'  Wis- 
itors  ; "  and  taking  him  by  the  arm  in  exactly  the  same 
manner  as  the  constable  had  done  the  day  before,  led 
him,  through  several  winding  ways  and  strong  gates, 
into  a  passage,  where  he  placed  him  at  a  grating,  and 
turned  upon  his  heel.  Beyond  this  grating,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  about  four  or  five  feet,  was  another,  exactly  like 
it.  In  the  space  between,  sat  a  turnkey  reading  a  news- 
paper ;  and  outside  the  further  railing,  Kit  saw,  with  a 
palpitating  heart,  his  mother  with  the  baby  in  her  arms  ; 
Barbara's  mother  with  her  never-failing  umbrella  ;  and 
poor  little  Jacob,  staring  in  with  all  his  might,  as  though 
he  were  looking  for  the  bird,  or  the  wild  beast,  and 
thought  the  men  were  mere  accidents  with  whom  the 
bars  could  have  no  possible  concern. 

But,  when  little  Jacob  saw  his  brother,  and,  thrusting 
his  arms  between  the  rails  to  hug  him,  found  that  he 
came  no  nearer,  but  still  stood  afar  off  with  his  head 
resting  on  the  arm  by  which  he  held  to  one  of  the  bars, 
he  began  to  cry  most  piteously  ;  whereupon.  Kit's 
mother  and  Barbara's  mother,  who  had  restrained  them- 
selves as  much  as  possible,  burst  out  sobbing  and  weep- 
ing afresh.  Poor  Kit  could  not  help  joining  them,  and 
not  one  of  them  could  speak  a  word. 

During  this  melancholy  pause,  the  turnkey  read  his 
newspaper  with  a  waggish  look  (he  had  evidently  got 
among  the  facetious  paragraphs)  until,  happening  to 
take  his  eyes  off  it  for  an  instant,  as  if  to  get  by  dint  of 
contemplation  at  the  very  marrow  of  some  joke  of  a 
deeper  sort  than  the  rest,  it  appeared  to  occur  to  him, 
for  the  first  time,  that  somebody  was  crying. 

"Now,  ladies,  ladies,"  he  said,  looking  round  with 
surprise,  "  I'd  advise  you  not  to  waste  time  like  this. 
It's  allowanced  here,  you  know.  You  mustn't  let  that 
child  make  that  noise  either.    It's  against  all  rules." 

"I'm  his  poor  mother,  sir,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Nubbles, 
curtseying  humbly,  "And  this  is  his  brother,  sir.  Oh 
dear  me,  dear  me  ! " 

"  Well !  "  replied  the  turnkey,  folding  his  paper  on 
his  knee,  so  as  to  get  with  greater  convenience  at  the 
top  of  the  next  column.  "It  can't  be  helped,  you 
know.  He  ain't  the  only  one  in  the  same  fix.  You 
mustn't  make  a  noise  about  it  !  " 

With  that,  ho  went  on  reading.  The  man  was  not 
naturally  cruel  or  hard-hearted.  Pie  had  come  to  look 
upon  felony  as  a  kind  of  disorder,  like  the  scarlet  fever 
or  erysipelas  :  some  people  had  it — some  hadn't — just  as 
it  might  be. 

"  Oh  !  my  darling  Kit,"  said  his  mother,  whom  Bar- 
bara's motlier  had  charitably  relieved  of  the  baby,"  that 
I  should  see  my  poor  boy  here  !  " 

"You  don't  believe  I  did  what  they  accuse  me  of, 
mother  dear?"  cried  Kit,  in  a  choking  voice. 

"i  believe  it  I"  exclaimed  the  poor  woman,  "7,  that 
never  knew  you  tell  a  lie,  or  do  a  bad  action  from 


your  cradle— that  have  never  had  a  moment's  sorrow 
on  your  account,  except  it  was  for  the  poor  meals 
that  you  have  taken  with  such  good-humour  and  con- 
tent, that  I  forgot  how  little  there  was,  when  I  thought 
how  kind  and  thoughtful  you  were,  though  you  were 
but  a  child  ! — I  believe  it  of  the  son  that's  been  a 
comfort  to  me  from  the  hour  of  his  birth  to  this  time, 
and  that  I  never  laid  down  one  night  in  anger  with  !  I 
believe  it  of  you.  Kit  — "  \ 

"  Why  then,  thank  God  ! "  said  Kit,  clutching  the  bars 
with  an  earnestness  that  shook  them,  "and  I  can  bear 
it  mother  I  Come  what  may,  I  shall  always  have  one 
drop  of  happiness  in  my  heart  when  I  think  that  you 
said  that. " 

At  this,  the  poor  woman  fell  a  crying  again,  and  Bar- 
bara's mother  too.  And  little  Jacob,  whose  disjointed 
thoughts  had  by  this  time  resolved  themselves  into  a 
pretty  distinct  impression  that  Kit  couldn't  go  out  for  a 
walk  if  he  wanted,  and  that  there  were  no  birds,  lions, 
tigers,  or  other  natural  curiosities  behind  those  bars — 
nothing  indeed,  but  a  caged  brother — added  his  tears  to 
theirs  with  as  little  noise  as  possible. 

Kit's  mother,  drying  her  eyes  (and  moistening  them, 
poor  soul,  more  than  she  dried  them),  now  took  from  the 
ground  a  small  basket,  and  submissively  addressed  her- 
self to  the  turnkey,  saying,  would  he  please  to  listen  to 
her  for  a  minute  ?  The  turnkey,  being  in  the  very  crisis 
and  passion  of  a  joke,  motioned  to  her  with  his  hand  to 
keep  silent  one  minute  longer,  for  her  life.  Nor  did  he 
remove  his  hand  into  its  former  posture,  but  kept  it  in 
the  same  warning  attitude  until  he  had  finished  the 
paragraph,  when  he  paused  for  a  few  seconds,  with  a 
smile  upon  his  face,  as  w^ho  should  say,  "  this  editor  is  a 
comical  blade — a  funny  dog,"  and  then  asked  her  what 
she  wanted. 

"  I  have  brought  him  a  little  something  to  eat," 
said  the  good  woman.  "If  you  please,  sir,  might  he 
have  it  ?  " 

"  Yes — he  may  have  it.  There's  no  rule  against 
that.  Give  it  to  me  when  you  go,  and  I'll  take  care  he 
has  it." 

"No,  but  if  you  please  sir — don't  be  angry  with  me,  , 
sir — I  am  his  mother,  and  you  had  a  mother  once — if  I 
might  only  see  him  eat  a  little  bit,  I  should  go  away,  so 
much  more  satisfied  that  he  was  all  comfortable." 

And  again  the  tears  of  Kit's  mother  burst  forth,  and 
of  Barbara's  mother,  and  of  little  Jacob.  As  to  the  baby, 
it  was  crowing  and  laughing  with  all  its  might — under 
the  idea,  apparently,  that  the  whole  scene  had  been  in- 
vented and  got  up  for  its  particular  satisfaction. 

The  turnkey  looked  as  if  he  thoaght  the  request  a 
strange  one  and  rather  out  of  the  common  way,  but 
nevertheless  he  laid  down  his  paper,  and  coming  round 
to  where  Kit's  mother  stood,  took  the  basket  from  her, 
and  after  inspecting  its  contents,  handed  it  to  Kit,  and 
went  back  to  his  place.  It  may  be  easily  conceived  that- 
the  prisoner  had  no  great  appetite,  but  he  sat  down  on 
the  ground,  and  ate  as  hard  as  he  could,  while,  at  every 
morsel  he  put  into  his  mouth,  his  mother  sobbed  and 
wept  afresh,  though  with  a  softened  grief  that  bespoke 
the  satisfaction  the  sight  afforded  her. 

While  he  was  thus  engaged.  Kit  made  some  anxious 
inquiries  about  his  employers,  and  whether  they  had  ex- 
pressed any  opinion  concerning  him  ;  but  all  he  could 
learn  was,  that  Mr.  Abel  had  himself  broken  the  intelli- 
gence to  his  mother,  with  great  kindness  and  delicacy, 
late  on  the  previous  night,  but  had  himself  expressed  no 
opinion  of  his  innocence  or  guilt.  Kit  was  on  the  point 
of  mustering  courage  to  ask  Barbara's  mother  about 
Barbara,  when  the  turnkey  who  had  conducted  him  re- 
appeared, a  second  turnkey  appeared  behind  his  visitors, 
and  the  third  turnkey  with  the  newspaper  cried  "  Time's 
up  !  " — adding  in  the  same  breath  "  Now  for  the  next 
party  ! "  and  then  plunging  deep  into  his  newspaper 
again.  Kit  was  taken  off  in  an  instant,  with  a  blessing 
from  his  mother,  and  a  scream  from  little  Jacob,  ringing 
in  his  ears.  As  he  was  crossing  the  next  yard  with  the 
basket  in  his  hand,  under  the  guidance  of  his  former 
conductor,  another  officer  called  to  them  to  stop,  and, 
cam(i  up  with  a  pint-pot  of  porter  in  his  hand. 

"  This  is  Christopher  Nubbles  isn't  it,  that  come  in 
last  night  for  felony?"  said  the  man. 


THE  OLD  CURI08ITY  SHOP. 


809' 


His  comrade  replied  that  this  was  the  chicken  in 
question. 

"  Then  here's  your  beer,"  said  the  other  man  to  Chris- 
topher. "  What  are  you  looking  at?  There  ain't  a  dis- 
charge in  it." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Kit.    "  Who  sent  it  me?" 

"Why,  your  friend,"  replied  the  man.  "You're  to 
have  it  every  day,  he  says.  And  so  you  will,  if  he  pays 
for  it." 

"My  friend  !"  repeated  Kit. 

"You're  all  abroad,  seemingly,"  returned  the  other 
man.    "  There's  his  letter.    Take  hold  !  " 

Kit  took  it,  and  when  he  was  locked  up  again,  read  as 
follows. 

"Drink  of  this  cup,  you'll  find  there's  a  spell  in  its 
every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality.  Talk  of  the 
cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen  !  Her  cup  was  a  fiction, 
but  this  is  reality  (Barclay  and  Co.'s).  If  they  ever  send  it 
in  a  flat  state,  complain  to  the  Governor.    Yours  R.  S." 

"R.  S.  !"  said  Kit,  after  some  consideration.  "It 
must  be  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller,  Well,  it's  very  kind  of 
him,  and  I  thank  him  heartily  1 " 


CHAPTER  LXn. 

A  FAINT  light,  twinkling  from  the  window  of  the 
counting-house  on  Quilp's  wharf,  and  looking  inflamed 
and  red  through  the  night-fog,  as  though  it  suffered 
from  it  like  an  eye,  forewarned  Mr.  Sampson  Brass,  as  he 
approached  the  wooden  cabin  with  a  cautious  step,  that 
the  excellent;  proprietor,  his  esteemed  client,  was  inside, 
and  probably  waiting  with  his  accustomed  patience  and 
sweetne.ss  of  temper  the  fulfilment  of  the  appointment 
which  now  brought  Mr.  Brass  within  his  fair  domain. 

"A  treacherous  place  to  pick  one's  steps  in,  of  a  dark 
night,"  muttered  Sampson,  as  he  stumbled  for  the 
twentieth  time  over  some  stray  lumber,  and  limped  in 
pain.  "  I  believe  that  boy  strews  the  ground  differently 
every  day,  on  purpose  to  bruise  and  maim  one  ;  unless 
his  master  does  it  with  his  own  hands,  which  is  more 
than  likely.  I  hate  to  come  to  this  place  without  Sally. 
She's  more  protection  than  a  dozen  men." 

As  he  paid  this  compliment  to  the  merit  of  the  absent 
charmer,  Mr.  Brass  came  to  a  halt ;  looking  doubtfully 
towards  the  light,  and  over  his  shoulder. 

"  What's  he  about,  I  wonder?"  murmured  the  lawyer, 
standing  on  tiptoe  and  endeavouring  to  obtain  a  glimpse 
of  what  was  passing  inside,  which  at  that  distance  was 
impossible — "drinking,  I  suppose, — making  himself 
more  fiery  and  furious,  and  heating  his  malice  and  mis- 
chievousness  till  they  boil.  I'm  always  afraid  to  come 
here  by  myself,  when  his  account's  a  pretty  large  one. 
I  don't  believe  he'd  mind  throttling  me,  and  dropping  me 
softly  into  the  river,  when  the  tide  was  at  its  strongest, any 
more  than  he'd  mind  killing  a  rat — indeed  I  don't  know 
whether  he  wouldn't  consider  it  a  pleasant  joke.  Hark  ! 
Now  he's  singing  !" 

Mr.  Quilp  was  certainly  entertaining  himself  with  vo- 
cal exercise,  but  it  was  rather  a  kind  of  chant  than  a 
song  ;  being  a  monotonous  repetition  of  one  sentence  in 
a  very  rapid  manner,  with  a  long  stress  upon  the  last 
word,  which  he  swelled  into  a  dismal  roar.  Nor  did  the 
burden  of  this  performance  bear  any  reference  to  love, 
or  war,  or  wine,  or  loyalty,  or  any  other,  of  the  standard 
topics  of  song,  but  to  a  subject  not  often  set  to  music  or 
generally  known  in  ballads  ;  the  words  being  these  : — 
"The  worthy  magistrate,  after  remarking  that  the  pris- 
oner would  find  some  difficulty  in  persuading  a  jury  to 
Ijelieve  his  tale,  committed  him  to  take  his  trial  at  the 
approaching  sessions  ;  and  directed  the  customary 
rncognizances  to  be  entered  into  for  the  pros-e-cu-tion  !  " 

Every  time  he  came  to  this  concluding  word,  and  had 
exhausted  all  possible  stress  upon  it,  Quilp  burst  into  a 
shriek  of  laughter,  and  began  again. 

"He's  dreadfully  imprudent,"  muttered  Brass,  after 
he  had  listened  to  two  or  three  repetitions  of  the  chant. 
"  Horribly  imprudent.  I  wish  he  was  dumb.  I  wish 
he  was  deaf.  I  wish  he  was  blind.  Hang  him,"  cried 
I  Brass, as  the  chant  began  again.  "  I  wish  he  was  dead  I " 

Giving  utterance  to  these  friendly  aspirations  in  behalf 


of  his  client,  Mr.  Sampson  composed  his  face  into  its 
usual  state  of  smoothness,  and  waiting  until  the  shriek 
came  again  and  was  dying  away,  went  up  to  the  wooden 
house,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 
"  Come  in  !  "  cried  the  dwarf. 

"How  do  you  do  to-night  sir?"  said  Sampson,  peep- 
ing in.  "Ha  ha  ha!  How  do  you  do  sir?  Oh  dear 
me,  how  very  whimsical  !  Amazingly  whimsical  to  be 
sure ! " 

"  Come  in,  you  fool  !  "  returned  the  dwarf,  "  and  don't 
stand  there  shaking  your  head  and  showing  your  teeth. 
Come  in,  you  false  witness,  you  perjurer,  you  suborner 
of  evidence,  come  in  I  " 

"He  has  the  richest  humour  !"  cried  Brass,  shutting 
the  door  behind  him  ;  "  the  most  amusing  vein  of  comi- 
cality  !    But  isn't  it  rather  injudicious  sir —  ?  " 

"  What?"  demanded  Quilp,  "  What,  Judas?" 

"Judas!  cried  Brass.  "He  has  such  extraordinary 
spirits!  His  humour  is  so  extremely  playful  !  Judas! 
Oh  yes — dear  me,  how  very  good  !    Ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

All  this  time,  Sampson  was  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
staring,  with  ludicrous  surprise  and  dismay,  at  a  great, 
goggle-eyed,  blunt-nosed  figure-head  of  some  old  ship, 
which  was  reared  up  against  the  wall  in  a  corner  near 
the  stove,  looking  like  a  goblin  or  hideous  idol  whom 
the  dwarf  worshipped.  A  mass  of  timber  on  its  head, 
carved  into  the  dim  and  distant  semblance  of  a  cocked 
hat,  together  with  a  representation  of  a  star  on  the  left 
breast  and  epaulettes  on  the  shoulders,  denoted  that  it 
was  intended  for  the  effig}''  of  some  famous  admiral ; 
but,  without  those  helps,  any  observer  might  have  sup- 
posed it  the  authentic  portrait  of  a  distinguished  mer- 
man, or  great  sea-monster.  Being  originally  much  too 
large  for  the  apartment  which  it  was  now  employed  to 
decorate,  it  had  been  sawn  short  off  at  the  waist.  Even 
in  this  state  it  reached  from  floor  to  ceiling  ;  and  thrust- 
ing itself  forward,  with  that  excessively  wide-awake 
aspect,  and  air  of  somewhat  obtrusive  politeness,  by 
which  figure-heads  are  usually  characterised,  seemed  to 
reduce  everything  else  to  mere  pigmy  proportions. 

"Do  you  know  it?"  said  the  dwarf,  watching  Samp- 
son's eyes.    "  Do  you  see  the  likeness?" 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Brass,  holding  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
throwing  it  a  little  back,  as  connoisseurs  do.  "  Now  I 
look  at  it  again,  I  fancy  I  see  a — yes,  there  certainly  is 
something  in  the  smile  that  reminds  me  of — and  yet  up- 
on my  word  I — " 

Now,  the  fact  was,  that  Sampson,  having  never  seen 
anything  in  the  smallest  degree  resembling  this  substan- 
tial phantom,  was  much  perplexed  ;  being  uncertain 
whether  Mr.  Quilp  considered  it  like  himself,  and  had 
therefore  bought  it  for  a  family  portrait  ;  or  whether  he 
was  pleased  to  consider  it  as  the  likeness  of  some  enemy. 
He  was  not  very  long  in  doubt  ;  for,  while  he  was  sur- 
veying it  with  that  knowing  look  which  people  assume 
Vv'hen  they  are  contemplating  for  the  first  time  portraits 
which  they  ought  to  recognise  but  don't,  the  dwarf  threw 
down  the  newspaper  from  which  he  had  been  chanting 
the  words  already  quoted,  and  seizing  a  rusty  iron  bar, 
which  he  used  in  lieu  of  poker,  dealt  the  figure  such  a 
stroke  on  the  nose  that  it  rocked  again. 

"  Is  it  like  Kit — is  it  his  picture,  his  image,  his  very 
self?"  cried  the  dwarf,  aiming  a  shower  of  blows  at  the 
insensible  countenance,  and  covering  it  with  deep  dim- 
ples. "Is  it  the  exact  model  and" counterpart  of  the 
dog — is  it — is  it — is  it  ?  "  And  with  every  repetition  of 
the  question,  he  battered  the  great  image,  until  the  per- 
spiration streamed  down  his  face  with  the  violence  of 
the  exercise. 

Although  this  might  have  been  a  very  comical  thing 
to  look  at  from  a  secure  gallery,  as  a  bull-fight  is  found 
to  be  a  comfortable  spectacle  by  those  who  are  not  in 
the  arena,  and  a  house  on  fire  is  better  than  a  play  to 
people  who  don't  live  near  it,  there  Avas  something  in 
the  earnestness  of  Mr.  Quilp's  manner  which  made  his 
legal  adviser  feel  that  the  counting-house  was  a  little 
too  small,  and  a  deal  too  lonely  for  the  complete  enjoy- 
ment of  these  humours.  Therefore  he  stood  as  far  off 
as  he  could,  while  the  dwarf  was  thus  engaged  ;  whim- 
pering out  but  feeble  applause  ;  and  when  Quilp  left  off 
and  sat  down  again  from  pure  exhaustion,  approached 
with  more  obsequiousness  than  ever, 


810 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Excellent  indeed!"  cried  Brass.  "He  he  I  Oh, 
very  good  sir.  You  know,"  said  Sampson,  looking  round 
as  if  in  appeal  to  the  bruised  admiral,  "he's  quite  a 
remarkable  man — quite  \  " 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  dwarf.  "  I  bought  the  dog  yes- 
terday. I've  been  screwing  gimlets  into  him,  and  stick- 
ing forks  in  his  eyes,  and  cutting  my  name  on  him.  I 
mean  to  burn  him  at  last." 

"  Ha  ha  !  "  cried  Brass.  "Extremely  entertaining, 
indeed  ! " 

"  Come  here  ! "  said  Quilp,  beckoning  him  to  draw 
near.    "  What's  injudicious,  hey?" 

"  Nothing  sir — nothing.  Scarcely  worth  mentioning 
sir ;  but  I  thought  that  song— admirably  humorous  in 
itself  you  know — was  perhaps  rather — " 

"  Yes,"  said  Quilp,  "  rather  what  ?  " 

"Just  bordering,  or  as  one  may  say  remotely  verging, 
upon  the  confines  of  in  judiciousness  perhaps  sir,"  re- 
turned Brass,  looking  timidly  at  the  dwarfs  cunning 
eyes,  which  were  turned  towards  the  fire  and  retlectsd 
its  red  light. 

"  Why?  "  inquired  Quilp,  without  looking  up. 

"  Wby,  you  know  sir,"  returned  Brass,  venturing  to 
be  more  familiar  :  " — the  fact  is,  sir,  that  any  allusion 
to  these  little  combinings  together,  of  friends,  for  objects 
in  themselves  extremely  laudable,  but  which  the  law 
terms  conspiracies,  are — you  take  me  sir  ? — best  kept 
snug  among  friends,  you  know." 

"  Eh  !  "  said  Quilp,  looking  up  with  a  perfectly  vacant 
countenance.    "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Cautious,  exceedingly  cautious,  very  right  and 
proper  !"  cried  Brass,  nodding  his  head.  "Mum,  sir, 
even  here — my  meaning  sir,  exactly." 

"  Your  meaning  exactly,  you  brazen  scarecrow, — 
what's  your  meaning  ?  "  retorted  Quilp.  "  Why  do  you 
talk  to  me  of  combining  together?  Do  /combine  ?  Do 
I  know  anything  about  your  combinings  ?  " 

"  No  no,  sir — certainly  not  ;  not  by  any  means,"  re- 
turned Brass. 

"  If  you  so  wink  and  nod  at  me,"  said  the  dwarf, 
looking  about  him  as  if  for  his  poker,  * '  I'll  spoil  the  ex- 
pression of  your  monkey's  face,  I  will," 

"  Don't  put  yourself  out  of  tlie  way  I  beg  sir,"  rejoined 
Brass,  checking  himself  with  great  alacrity,  "  You're 
quite  right  sir,  quite  right.  I  shouldn't  have  mentioned 
the  subject  sir.  It's  much  better  not  to.  You're  quite 
right  sir.  Let  us  change  it,  if  you  please.  You  were 
asking,  sir,  Sally  told  me,  about  our  lodger.  He  has 
not  returned  sir." 

"  No  ?"  said  Quilp,  heating  some  rum  in  alittle  sauce- 
pan, and  watching  it  to  prevent  its  boiling  over.  "  Why 
not  ?  " 

"  Why  sir,"  returned  Brass,  "  he — dear  me,  Mr.  Quilp 
sir  " — 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  the  dwarf,  stopping  his 
hand  in  the  act  of  carrying  the  saucepan  to  his  mouth, 

"You  have  forgotten  the  water,  sir,"  said  Brass, 
"  And — excusji  me  sir— but  it's  burning  hot," 

Deigning  no  other  than  a  practical  answer  to  this  re- 
monstrance, Mr.  Quilp  raised  the  hot  saucepan  to  his 
lips,  and  deliberately  drank  olf  all  the  spirit  it  contained, 
which  might  have  been  in  quantity  about  half  a  pint, 
and  had  been  but  a  moment  before,  when  he  took  it  off 
the  fire,  bubbling  and  hissing  fiercely.  Having  swallow- 
ed this  gentle  stimulant  and  shaken  his  fist  at  the 
admiral,  he  bade  Mr.  Brass  proceed. 

"  But  first,"  said  Quilp,  with  his  accustomed  grin, 
"  have  a  drop  yourself — a  nice  drop — a  good,  warm,  fiery 
drop." 

"  Why  sir,"  replied  Brass,  "  if  there  was  such  a  thing 
as  a  mouthful  of  water  that  could  be  got  without 
trouble—" 

"  There's  no  such  thing  to  be  had  here,"  cried  the 
dwarf.  "  Water  for  lawyers  !  Melted  lead  and  brim- 
stone, you  mean,  nice  hot  l)listering  pitch  and  tar — that's 
the  thing  for  them — eh  Brass,  eh  ?" 

"  Ha  ha  ha  !  "  laughed  Mr.  Brass.  "  Oh  very  biting  ! 
and  yet  it's  like  being  tickled— there's  a  pleasure  in  it 
too,  sir  ! " 

"  Drink  that,"  said  the  d«varf,  who  had  by  this  time 
heated  some  more.  "  Toss  it  off,  don't  leave  any  heel- 
tap, scorch  your  throat  and  be  happy  I " 


The  wretched  Sampson  took  a  few  short  sips  of  the 
liquor,  which  immediately  distilled  itself  into  burning 
tears,  and  in  that  form  came  rolling  down  his  cheeks 
into  the  pipkin  again,  turning  the  colour  of  his  face  and 
eyelids  to  a  deep  red,  and  giving  rise  to  a  violent  fit  of 
coughing,  in  the  midst  of  which  he  was  still  heard  to 
declare,  with  the  constancy  of  a  martyr,  that  it  was 
"  beautiful  indeed  !  "  While  he  was  yet  in  unspeakable 
agonies,  the  dwarf  renewed  their  conversation. 

"  The  lodger,"  said  Quilp, — "  what  about  him  ?" 

"  He  is  still  sir,"  returned  Brass,  with  intervals  of 
coughing,  "  stopping  with  the  Garland  family.  He  has 
only  been  home  once,  sir,  since  the  day  of  the  examin- 
ation of  that  culprit.  He  informed  Mr.  Richard  sir, 
that  he  couldn't  bear  the  house  after  what  had  taken 
place  ;  that  he  was  wretched  in  it  ;  and  that  he  looked 
upon  himself  as  being  in  a  certain  kind  of  way  the  cause 
of  the  occurrence. — A  very  excellent  lodger  sir.  I  hope 
we  may  not  lose  him." 

"Yah  !"  cried  the  dwarf.  "Never  thinking  of  any- 
body but  yourself — why  don't  you  retrench  then — scrape 
up,  hoard,  economise,  eh?" 

"  Why  sir,"  replied  Brass,  "  upon  my  word  I  think 
Sarah's  as  good  an  economiser  as  any  going.  I  do  in- 
deed, Mr,  Quilp." 

"Moisten  your  clay,  wet  the  other  eye,  drink  man  !" 
cried  the  dwarf.    "  You  took  a  clerk  to  oblige  me," 

"  Delighted  sir,  I  am  sure  at  any  time,"  replied  Samp- 
son.   "  Yes  sir,  I  did." 

"  Then,  now  you  may  discharge  him,"  said  Quilp. 
"  There's  a  means  of  retrenchment  for  you  at  once." 

"  Discharge  Mr.  Richard  sir?  "  cried  Brass. 

"Have  you  more  than  one  clerk,  you  parrot,  that  you 
ask  the  question  ?  Yes." 

"  Upon  my  word  sir,"  said  Brass,  "  I  wasn't  prepared 
for  this-" 

"How  could  you  be?"  sneered  the  dwarf,  "when  / 
wasn't?  How  often  am  I  to  tell  you  that  I  brought  him 
to  you  that  I  might  always  have  my  eye  on  him  and 
know  where  he  was,  and  that  I  had  a  plot,  a  scheme,  a 
little  quiet  piece  of  enjoyment  afoot,  of  which  the  very 
cream  and  essence  was,  that  this  old  man  and  grandchild 
(who  have  sunk  underground  I  think)  should  be,  while 
he  and  his  precious  friend  believed  them  rich,  in  reality 
as  poor  as  frozen  rats  ?  " 

"  I  quite  understood  that  sir,"  rejoined  Brass. 
"  Thoroughly," 

"  Well  sir,"  retorted  Quilp,  "and  do  you  understand 
now,  that  they're  not  poor — that  they  can't  be,  if  they 
have  such  men  as  your  lodger  searching  for  them,  and 
scouring  the  country  far  and  wide," 

"  Of  course  I  do  sir,"  said  Sampson, 

"Of  course  you  do,"  retorted  the  dwarf,  viciously 
snapping  at  his  words.  "  Of  course  do  you  understand 
then,  that's  it's  no  matter  what  comes  of  this  fellow? 
of  course  do  you  understand  that  for  any  other  purpose 
he's  no  man  for  me,  nor  for  you?" 

"I  have  frequently  said  to  Sarah  sir,"  returned  Brass, 
"  that  he  was  of  no  use  at  all  in  the  business.  You  can't 
put  any  confidence  in  him  sir.  If  you'll  believe  me  I've 
found  that  fellow,  in  the  commonest  little  matters  of  the 
office  that  have  been  trusted  to  him,  blurting  out  the 
truth,  though  expressly  cautioned.  The  aggravation  of 
that  chap  sir,  has  exceeded  anything  you  can  imagine, 
it  has  indeed.  Nothing  but  the  respect  and  obligation 
I  owe  to  you  sir—" 

As  it  was  plain  that  Sampson  was  bent  o-n  a  compli- 
mentary harangue,  unless  he  received  a  timely  interrup- 
tion, Mr.  Quilp  politely  tapped  him  on  the  crown  of  the 
head  with  the  little  saucepan,  and  requested  that  he 
would  be  so  obliging  as  to  hold  his  peace. 

"  Practical,  sir,  practical,"  said  Brass,  rubbing  the 
place  and  smiling;  "but  still  extremely  pleasant — im- 
mensely so  !" 

"Hearken  to  me,  will  you?"  returned  Quilp,  "or  I'll 
be  a  little  more  pleasant,  presently.  There's  no  chance 
of  his  comrade  and  friend  returning.  The  scamp  has 
been  obliged  to  fly,  as  I  learn,  for  some  knavery,  and  has 
found  his  way  abroad.    Let  him  rot  there." 

"Certainly  sir.  Quite  proper. — Forcible!"  cried 
Brass,  glancing  at  the  admiral  again,  as  if  he  made  a 
third  in  company.    "Extremely  forcible  1" 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


811 


''1  hate  him,"  said  Quilp  between  his  teeth,  "and 
have  always  hated  him,  for  family  reasons.  Besides,  he 
was  an  intractable  ruffian  ;  otherwise  he  would  have  been 
of  use.  This  fellow  is  pigeon-hearted,  and  lighi-headed. 
I  don't  want  him  any  longer.  Let  him  hang  or  drown — 
starve — go  to  the  devil." 

"By  all  means,  sir,"  returned  Brass.  "When  would 
you  wish  him  sir,  to — ha,  ha  ! — to  make  that  little  ex- 
cursion ?  " 

"  When  this  trial's  over,"  said  Quilp.  "  As  soon  as 
that's  ended,  send  him  about  his  business." 

"It  shall  be  done,  sir,"  returned  Brass;  "by  all 
means.  It  will  be  rather  a  blow  to  Sarah,  sir,  but  she 
has  all  her  feelings  under  control.  Ah,  Mr.  Quilp,  I 
often  think  sir,  if  it  had  only  pleased  Providence  to 
bring  you  and  Sarah  together,  in  earlier  life,  what 
blessed  resulis  would  have  flowed  from  such  a  union  ! 
You  never  saw  our  dear  father,  sir  ? — A  charming  gen- 
tleman. Sarah  was  his  pride  and  joy,  sir.  He  would 
have  closed  his  eyes  in  bliss,  would  Foxey,  Mr.  Quilp, 
if  he  could  have  found  her  such  a  partner.  You  esteem 
her,  sir?" 

"  I  love  her,"  croaked  the  dwarf. 

*f  You're  very  good,  sir,"  returned  Brass,  "  I  am  sure. 
Is  there  any  other  order,  sir,  that  I  can  take  a  note  of, 
besides  this  little  matter  of  Mr.  Richard?" 

"None,"  replied  the  dwarf,  seizing  the  saucepan. 
"Let  us  drink  the  lovely  Sarah." 

"If  we  could  do  it  in  something,  sir,  that  wasn't 
quite  boiling,"  suggested  Brass  humbly,  "  perhaps  it 
would  be  better.  I  think  it  will  be  more  agreeable  to 
Sarah's  feelings  when  she  comes  to  hear  from  me  of  the 
honour  you  have  done  her,  if  she  learns  it  was  in  liquor 
rather  cooler  than  the  last,  sir." 

But  to  these  remonstrances,  Mr.  Quilp  turned  a  deaf 
ear.  Sampson  Brass,  who  was,  by  this  time,  anything 
but  sober,  being  compelled  to  take  further  draughts  of 
the  same  strong  bowl,  found  that,  instead  of  at  all  con- 
tributing to  his  recovery,  they  had  the  novel  effect  of 
making  the  counting-house  spin  round  and  round  with 
extreme  velocity,  and  causing  the  floor  and  ceiling  to 
heave  in  a  very  distressing  manner.  After  a  brief  stu- 
por, he  awoke  to  a  consciousness  of  being  partly  under 
the  table  and  partly  under  the  grate.  This  position  not 
being  the  most  comfortable  one  he  could  have  chosen  for 
himself,  he  managed  to  stagger  to  his  feet,  and,  holding 
on  by  the  admiral,  looked  round  for  his  host. 

Mr.  Brass's  first  impression  was,  that  his  host  was 
gone  and  had  left  him  there  alone — perhaps  locked  him 
in  for  the  night.  A  strong  smell  of  tobacco,  however, 
suggesting  a  new  train  of  ideas,  he  looked  upwards,  and 
saw  that  the  dwarf  was  smoking  in  his  hammock. 

"Good  bye,  sir,"  cried  Brass  faintly.  "Good  bye, 
sir." 

"  Won't  you  stop  all  night  ?  "  said  the  dwarf,  peeping 
out.    "  Do  stop  all  night  ! " 

"  I  couldn't  indeed,  sir,"  replied  Brass,  who  was  al- 
most dead  from  nausea  and  the  closeness  of  the  room. 
"  If  you'd  have  the  goodness  to  show  me  a  light,  so  that 
I  may  see  my  way  across  the  yard,  sir — " 

Quilp  was  out  in  an  instant ;  not  with  his  legs  first, 
or  his  head  first,  or  his  arms  first,  but  bodily — alto- 
gether. 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  said,  taking  np  a  lantern,  which  was 
now  the  only  light  in  the  place.  "  Be  careful  how  you 
go,  my  dear  friend.  Be  sure  to  pick  your  way  among 
the  timber,  for  all  the  rusty  nails  are  upwards.  There's 
a  dog  in  the  lane.  He  bit  a  man  last  night,  and  a  woman 
the  night  before,  and  last  Tuesday  he  killed  a  child — 
I   but  that  was  in  play.    Don't  go  too  near  him." 

"  Which  side  of  the  road  is  he,  sir?"  asked  Brass,  in 
\  great  dismay. 

"  He  lives  on  the  right  hand,"  said  Quilp,  "  butsome- 
j  times  he  hides  on  the  left,  ready  for  a  spring.  He's  un- 
I  certain  in  that  respect.  Mind  you  take  care  of  your 
I  self.  I'll  never  forgive  you  if  you  don't.  There's  the 
'  light  out — never  mind — you  know  the  way — straight 
I  on  ! " 

Quilp  had  slyly  shaded  the  light  by  holding  it  against 
I  his  breast,  and  now  stood  chuckling  and  shaking  from 
I  head  to  foot  in  a  rayjture  of  delight,  as  he  heard  the 
I  lawyer  stumbling  up  the  yard,  and  now  and  then  falling 


heavily  down.  At  length,  however,  he  got  quit  of  the 
place,  and  was  out  of  hearing. 

The  dwarf  shut  himself  up  again,  and  sprang  once 
more  into  his  hammock. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

The  professional  gentleman  who  had  given  Kittliat  con- 
solatory piece  of  information  relative  to  the  settlement 
of  his  trifle  of  business  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  the  proba- 
bility of  its  being  very  soon  disposed  of,  turned  out  to  be 
quite  correct  in  his  prognostications.  In  eight  days' 
time,  the  sessions  commenced.  In  one  day  afterwards, 
the  Grand  Jury  found  a  True  Bill  against  Christopher 
Nubbles  for  felony  ;  and  in  two  days  from  that  finding 
the  aforesaid  Christopher  Nubbles  was  called  upon  to 
plead  Guilty  or  Not  Guilty  to  an  indictment  for  that  he 
the  said  Christopher  did  feloniously  abstract  and  steal 
from  the  dwelling-house  and  oflice  of  one  Samp.son 
Brass,  gentleman,  one  Bank  Note  for  Five  Pounds  issued 
by  the  Governor  and  Company  of  the  Bank  of  England  ; 
in  contravention  of  the  Statutes  in  that  case  made  and 
provided,  and  against  the  peace  of  our  Sovereign  Lord 
the  King,  his  crown,  and  dignity. 

To  this  indictment,  Christopher  Nubbles,  in  a  low  and 
trembling  voice,  pleaded  Not  Guilty ;  and  here,  let 
those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  forming  hasty  judgments 
from  appearances,  and  who  would  have  had  Christopher, 
if  innocent,  speak  out  very  strong  and  loud,  observe, 
that  confinement  and  anxiety  will  subdue  the  stoutest 
hearts  ;  and  that  to  one  who  has  been  close  shut  up, 
though  it  be  only  for  ten  or  eleven  days,  seeing  but 
stone  walls  and  a  very  few  stony  faces,  the  sudden  en- 
trance into  a  great  hall  filled  with  life,  is  a  rather  dis- 
concerting and  startling  circumstance.  To  this,  it 
must  be  added,  that  life  in  a  wig,  is,  to  a  large  class  of 
people,  much  more  terrifying  and  impressive  than  life 
with  its  own  head  of  hair  ;  and  if,  in  addition  to  these 
considerations,  there  be  taken  into  account  Kit's  natural 
emotion  on  seeing  the  two  Mr.  Garlands  and  the  little 
Notary  looking  on  with  pale  and  anxious  faces,  it  will 
perhaps  seem  matter  of  no  very  great  wonder  that  he 
should  have  been  rather  out  of  sorts,  and  unable  to  make 
himself  quite  at  home. 

Although  he  had  never  seen  either  of  the  Mr.  Garlands, 
or  Mr.  Witherden,  since  the  time  of  his  arrest,  he  had 
been  given  to  understand  that  they  had  employed  counsel 
for  him.  Therefore,  when  one  of  the  gentlemen  in  wigs 
got  up  and  said  "  I  am  for  the  prisoner  my  Lord,"  Kit 
made  him  a  bow  ;  and  when  another  gentleman  in  a  wig 
got  up  and  said  "And  Tm  against  him  my  Lord,"  Kit 
trembled  very  much  and  bowed  to  him  too.  And  did'nt 
he  hope  in  his  own  heart  that  his  gentleman  was  a 
match  for  the  other  gentleman,  and  would  make  him 
ashamed  of  himself  in  no  time  ! 

The  gentleman  who  was  against  him  had  to  speak  first, 
and  being  in  dreadfully  good  spirits  (for  he  had,  in  the 
last  trial,  very  nearly  procured  the  acquittal  of  a  young 
gentleman  who  had  had  the  misfortune  to  murder  his 
father)  he  spoke  up,  you  may  be  sure  ;  telling  the  Jury 
that  if  they  acquitted  this  prisoner  they  must  expect  to 
suffer  no  less  pangs  and  agonies  than  he  had  told  the 
other  Jury  they  would  certainly  undergo  if  they  convicted 
that  prisoner.  And  when  he  had  told  him  all  about  the 
case,  and  that  he  had  never  known  a  worse  case,  he 
stopped  a  little  while,  like  a  man  who  had  something 
terrible  to  tell  them,  and  then  said  that  he  understood 
an  attempt  would  be  made  by  his  learned  friend  (and 
here  he  looked  sideways  at  Kit's  gentleman)  to  impeach 
the  testimony  of  those  immaculate  witnesses  whom  he 
should  call  before  them  ;  but  he  did  hope  and  trust  that 
his  learned  friend  would  have  a  greater  respect  and 
veneration  for  the  character  of  the  prosecutor  ;  than 
whom,  as  he  well  knew,  there  did  not  exist,  and  never 
had  existed,  a  more  honourable  member  of  that  most 
honourable  profession  to  which  he  was  attached.  And 
then  he  said,  did  the  Jury  know  Bevis  Marks?  And  if 
they  did  know  Bevis  Marks  (as  he  trusted,  for  their  own 
characters,  they  did)  did  they  know  the  historical  and 
elevating  associations  connected  with  that  most  remarka- 
ble spot?   Did  they  believe  that  a  man  like  Brass  could 


812 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


reside  in  a  place  like  Bevis  Marks,  and  not  be  a  virtuous 
and  most  upright  character?  And  when  he  had  said  a 
great  deal  to  them  on  this  point,  he  remembered  that  it 
was  an  insult  to  their  understandings  to  make  any 
remarks  on  what  they  must  have  felt  so  strongly  without 
him,  and  therefore  called  Sampson  Brass  into  the  wit- 
ness-box, straightway. 

Then  up  comes  Mr.  Brass,  very  brisk  and  fresh  ;  and, 
having  bowed  to  the  judge,  like  a  man  who  has  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  him  before,  and  who  hopes  he  has 
been  pretty  well  since  their  last  meeting,  folds  his  arms, 
and  looks  at  his  gentleman  as  much  as  to  say  "Here  I 

am  full  of  evidence — Tap  me  !  "    And  the  gentleman 

does  tap  him  presently,  and  with  great  discretion  too  ; 
drawing  off  the  evidence  by  little  and  little,  and  making 
it  run  quite  clear  and  bright  in  the  eyes  of  all  present. 
Then,  Kit's  gentleman  takes  him  in  hand,  but  can  make 
nothing  of  him  ;  and  after  a  great  many  very  long  ques- 
tions and  very  short  answers,  Mr.  Sampson  Brass  goes 
down  in  glory. 

To  him  succeeds  Sarah,  who  like  in  manner  is  easy  to 
be  managed  by  Mr.  Brass's  gentleman,  but  very  obdu- 
rate to  Kit's.  In  short,  Kit's  gentleman  can  get  nothing 
out  of  her  but  a  repetition  of  what  she  has  said  before 
(only  a  little  stronger  this  time,  as  against  his  client), 
and  therefore  lets  her  go,  in  some  confusion.  Then, 
Mr.  Brass's  gentleman  calls  Richard  Swiveller,  and 
Richard  Swiveller  appears  accordingly. 

Now,  Mr.  Brass's  gentleman  has  it  whispered  in  his 
ear  that  this  witness  is  disposed  to  be  friendly  to  the 
prisoner — which,  to  say  the  truth,  he  is  rather  glad  to 
hear,  as  his  strength  is  considered  to  lie  in  what  is  famil- 
iarly termed  badgering.  Wherefore  he  begins  by  re- 
questing the  officer  to  be  quite  sure  that  this  witness 
kisses  the  book,  and  then  goes  to  worlc  at  him,  tooth 
and  nail. 

"Mr.  Swiveller,"  says  this  gentleman  to  Dick,  when 
he  has  told  his  tale  with  evident  reluctance  and  a  desire 
to  make  the  best  of  it :  "  Pray  sir,  where  did  you  dine 
yesterday?" — "Where  did  I  dine  yesterday?" — "Aye 
sir,  where  did  you  dine  yesterday — was  it  near  here 
sir  ?  " — "  Oh  to  be  sure — yes — just  over  the  way  " — "  To 
be  sure.  Yes.  Just  over  the  way,"  repeats  Mr.  Brass's 
gentleman,  with  a  glance  at  the  court — "Alone  sir?" — 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Mr.  Swiveller,  who  has  not 
caught  the  question — "^?(9we  sir  ?"  repeats  Mr.  Brass's 
gentleman  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  did  you  dine  alone? 
Did  you  treat  anybody  sir?  Come  !" — "Oh  yes  to  be 
sure — yes,  I  did,"  says  Mr.  Swiveller  with  a  smile. 
"  Have  the  goodness  to  banish  a  levity,  sir,  which  is 
very  ill-suited  to  the  place  in  which  you  stand  (though 
perhaps  you  have  reason  to  be  thankful  that  it's  only 
that  place),"  says  Mr.  Brass's  gentleman,  with  a  nod  of 
the  head,  insinuating  that  the  dock  is  Mr.  Swiveller's 
legitimate  sphere  of  action;  "  and  attend  to  me.  You 
v/ere  waiting  about  here,  yesterday,  in  expectation  that 
this  trial  was  coming  on.  You  dined  over  the  way. 
You  treated  somebody.  Now,  was  that  somebody 
brother  to  the  prisoner' at  the  bar?" — Mr.  Swiveller  is 
proceeding  to  explain— "  Yes  or  No  sir,"  cries  Mr.  Brass's 
gentleman — "But  will  you  allow  me — " — "Yes  or  No 
sir"— "Yes  it  was,  but— "—"Yes  it  w^as,"  cries  the 
gentleman,  taking  him  up  short — "And  a  very  pretty 
witness  you  are  ! " 

Down  sits  Mr.  Brass's  gentleman.  Kit's  gentleman, 
not  knowing  how  the  matter  really  stands,  is  afraid  to 
pursue  the  subject.  Richard  Swiveller  retires  abashed. 
Judge,  jury,  and  spectators,  have  visions  of  his  loung- 
ing about,  with  an  ill-looking,  large-whiskered,  disso- 
lute young  fellow  of  six  feet  high.  The  reality  is,  little 
Jacob,  with  the  calves  of  his  legs  exposed  to  the  open 
air,  and  himself  tied  up  in  a  sfiawl.  Nobody  knows  the 
truth  ;  everybody  believes  a  falsehood  ;  and  all  because 
of  the  ingenuity  of  Mr.  Brass's  gentleman. 

Then  come  the  witnesses  to  character,  and  here  Mr. 
Brass's  gentleman  shines  again.  It  turns  out  that  Mr. 
Garland  has  had  no  character  with  Kit,  no  recommenda- 
tion of  him  but  from  his  own  mother,  and  that  he  was 
suddenly  dismissed  by  his  former  master  for  unknown 
reasons.  "Really  Mr.  Garland,"  says  Mr.  Brass's  gen- 
tleman, "  for  a  person  who  has  arrived  at  your  time  of 
life,  you  are,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  singularly  indiscreet, 


I  think."  The  Jury  think  so  too,  and  find  Kit  guilty. 
He  is  taken  off,  humbly  protesting  his  innocence.  The 
spectators  settle  themselves  in  their  places  with  renewed 
attention,  for  there  are  several  female  witnesses  to  be 
examined  in  the  next  case,  and  it  has  been  rumoured 
that  Mr.  Brass's  gentleman  will  make  great  fun  in  cross- 
examining  them  for  the  prisoner. 

Kit's  mother,  poor  woman,  is  waiting  at  the  grate  be- 
low stairs,  accompanied  by  Barbara's  mother  (who,  hon- 
est soul  1  never  does  anything  but  cry  and  hold  the 
baby),  and  a  sad  interview  ensues.  The  newspaper- 
reading  turnkey  has  told  them  all.  He  don't  think  it 
will  be  transportation  for  life,  because  there's  time  to 
prove  the  good  character  yet,  and  that  is  sure  to  serve 
him.  He  wonders  what  he  did  it  for.  "  He  never  did 
it!"  cries  Kit's  mother.  "Well,"  says  the  turnkey, 
"  I  won't  contradict  you.  It's  all  one  now,  whether  he 
did  it  or  not." 

Kit's  mother  can  reach  his  hand  through  the  bars,  and 
she  clasps  it — God,  and  those  to  whom  He  has  given 
such  tenderness,  only  know  in  how  much  agony.  Kit 
bids  her  keep  a  good  heart,  and,  under  pretense  of  hav- 
ing the  children  lifted  up  to  kiss  him,  prays  Barbara's 
mother  in  a  whisper  to  take  her  home. 

"  Some  friend  will  rise  up  for  us,  mother,"  cries  Kit, 
"lam  sure.  If  not  now,  before  long.  My  innocence 
will  come  out,  mother,  and  I  shall  be  brought  back  again; 
I  feel  a  confidence  in  that.  You  must  teach  little  Jacob 
and  the  baby  how  all  this  was,  for  if  they  thought  I  had 
ever  been  dishonest,  when  they  grew  old  enough  to  un- 
derstand, it  would  break  my  heart  to  know  it,  if  I  was 
thousands  of  miles  away. — Oh  !  is  there  no  good  gentle- 
man here,  who  \till  take  care  of  her  1 " 

The  hand  slips  out  of  his,  for  the  poor  creature  sinks 
down  upon  the  earth,  insensible.  Richard  Swiveller 
comes  hastily  up,  elbow^s  the  bystanders  out  of  the  way, 
takes  her  (after  some  trouble)  in  one  arm  after  the  man- 
ner of  theatrical  ravishers,  and,  nodding  to  Kit,  and 
commanding  Barbara's  mother  to  follow,  for  he  has  a 
coach  waiting,  bears  her  swiftly  off. 

Well  ;  Richard  took  her  home.  And  what  astonish- 
ing absurdities  in  the  way  of  quotation  from  song  and 
poem,  he  perpetrated  on  the  road,  no  man  knows.  He 
took  her  home,  and  stayed  till  she  was  recovered  ;  and, 
having  no  money  to  pay  the  coach,  went  back  in  state  to 
Bevis  Marks,  bidding  the  driver  (for  it  was  Saturday 
night)  wait  at  the  door  while  he  went  in  for  "  change." 

"Mr.  Richard  sir,"  said  Brass  cheerfully,  "Good 
evening  ! " 

Monstrous  as  Kit's  tale  had  appeared,  at  first,  Mr. 
Richard  did,  that  night,  half  suspect  his  affable  em- 
ployer of  some  deep  villany.  Perhaps  it  was  but  the 
misery  he  had  just  witnessed  which  gave  his  careless 
nature  this  impulse  ;  but,  be  that  as  it  may,  it  was  very 
strong  upon  him,  and  he  said  in  as  few  words  as  pos- 
sible, what  he  Avanted. 

"  Money  ?"  cried  Brass,  taking  out  his  purse.  "Ha 
ha  !  To  be  sure  Mr.  Richard,  to  be  sure  sir.  All  men 
must  live.  You  haven't  change  for  a  five  pound  note, 
have  you  sir  ?" 

"  No,"  returned  Dick,  shortly. 

"Oh  I"  said  Brass,  "here's  the  very  sum.  That 
saves  trouble.  You're  very  welcome  I'm  sure — Mr. 
Richard  sir — " 

Dick,  who  had  by  this  time  reached  the  door,  turned 
round. 

"  You  needn't,"  said  Brass,  "  trouble  yourself  to  come 
back  any  more  sir." 
"Eh?" 

"  You  see, Mr.  Richard,"  said  Brass,  thrusting  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  and  rocking  himself  to  and  fro  on  his  stool, 
"  the  fact  is,  that  a  man  of  your  abilities  is  lost,  sir,  quite 
lost,  in  o\ir  dry  and  mouldy  line.  It's  terrible  drudgery 
— shocking.  I  should  say,  now,  that  the  stage,  or  the — 
or  the  army  Mr.  Richard— or  something  very  superior 
in  the  licensed  victualling  way — was  the  kind  of  thing 
that  would  call  out  the  genius  of  such  a  man  as  you.  I 
hope  you'll  look  in  to  see  us  now  and  then.  Sally,  sir, 
will  be  delighted  I'm  sure.  She's  extremely  sorry  to 
lose  you  Mr.  Richard,  but  a  sense  of  her  duty  to  society 
reconciles  her.  An  amazing  creature  that,  sir  !  You'll 
find  the  money  quite  correct,  I  think.   There's  a  cracked 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


813 


window  sir,  but  I've  not  made  any  deduction  on  that 
account.  Wlieuever  we  part  with  friends,  Mr.  Rich- 
ard, let  us  part  liberally,  A  delightful  sentiment 
sir  ! " 

To  all  these  rambling  observations,  Mr.  Swiveller  an- 
swered not  one  word,  but,  returning  for  the  aquatic 
jacket,  rolled  it  into  a  tight  round  ball  :  looking  steadily 
at  Brass  meanwhile  as  if  he  had  some  intention  of  bowl- 
ing him  down  with  it.  He  only  took  it  under  his  arm, 
however,  and  marched  out  of  the  office  in  profound 
silence.  When  he  had  closed  the  door,  he  re-opened  it, 
stared  iu  again  for  a  few  moments  with  the  same  por- 
tentous gravity,  and  nodding  his  head  once,  in  a  slow 
and  ghost-like  manner,  vanished. 

He  paid  the  coachman,  and  turned  his  back  on  Bevis 
Marks,  big  with  great  designs  for  the  comforting  of  Kit's 
mother  and  the  aid  of  Kit  himself. 

But,  the  lives  of  gentlemen  devoted  to  such  pleasures 
as  Richard  Swiveller,  are  extremely  precarious.  The 
spiritual  excitement  of  the  last  fortnight,  working  upon 
a  system  affected  in  no  slight  degree  by  the  spirituous 
excitem.ent  of  some  years,  proved  a  little  too  much  for 
him.  That  very  night,  Mr.  Richard  was  seized  with  an 
alarming  illness,  and  in  twenty-four  hours  was  stricken 
with  a  ragmg  fever. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

Tossing  to  and  fro  upon  his  hot,  uneasy  bed  ;  tor- 
mented by  a  fierce  thirst  which  nothing  could  appease  ; 
unable  to  find,  in  any  change  of  posture,  a  moment's 
peace  or  ease  ;  and  rambling,  ever,  thtough  deserts  of 
thought  where  there  was  no  resting  place,  no  sight  or 
sound  suggestive  of  refreshment  or  repose,  nothing  but 
a  dull  eternal  weariness,  with  no  change  but  the  restless 
shiftings  of  his  miserable  body,  and  the  weary  wander- 
ings of  his  mind,  constant  still  to  one  ever-present 
anxiety — to  a  sense  of  something  left  undone,  of  some 
fearful  obstacle,  to  be  surmounted,  of  some  caiking 
care  that  would  not  be  driven  away,  and  which  haunted 
the  distempered  brain,  now  in  this  form,  now  in  that, 
always  shadowy  and  dim,  but  recognisable  for  the  same 
phantom  in  every  shape  it  took  ;  darkening  every  vision 
like  an  evil  conscience,  and  making  slumber  horrible — 
in  these  slow  tortures  of  his  dread  disease,  the  unfortu- 
nate Richard  lay  wasting  and  consuming  inch  by  inch, 
until,  at  last,  when  he  seemed  to  fight  and  struggle  to 
rise  up,  and  to  be  held  down  by  devils,  he  sank  into  a 
deep  sleep,  and  dreamed  no  more. 

He  awoke.  With  a  sensation  of  most  blissful  rest, 
better  than  sleep  itself,  he  began  gradually  to  remember 
something  of  these  sufferings,  and  to  think  what  a  long 
night  it  had  been,  and  whether  he  had  not  been  delirious 
twice  or  thrice.  Happening,  in  the  midst  of  these  cogi- 
tations, to  raise  his  hand,  he  was  astonished  to  find  how 
heavy  it  seemed,  and  yet  how  thin  and  light  it  really 
was.  Still,  he  felt  indifferent  and  happy,  and  having 
no  curiosity  to  pursue  the  subject,  remained  in  the  same 
waking  slumber  until  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
cough.  This  made  him  doubt,  whether  he  had  locked 
his  door  last  night,  and  feel  a  little  surprised  at  having 
a  companion  in  the  room.  Still  he  lacked  energy  to  fol- 
low up  this  train  of  thought  ;  and  ^iij consciously  fell,  in 
a  luxury  of  repose,  to  staring  at  some  green  stripes  on 
the  bed-furniture,  and  associating  them  strangely  with 
patches  of  fresh  turf,  while  the  yellow  ground  between, 
made  gravel-walks,  and  so  helped  out  a  long  perspective 
of  trim  gardens. 

He  was  rambling  in  imagination  on  these  terraces,  and 
had  quite  lost  himself  among  them  indeed,  when  he 
heard  the  cough  once  more.  The  walks  shrunk  into 
stripes  again  at  the  sound  ;  and  raising  himself  a  little 
in  the  bed,  and  holding  the  curtain  open  with  one  hand, 
he  looked  out. 

The  same  room  certainly,  and  still  by  candle-light ; 
but  with  what  unbounded  astonishment  did  he  see  all 
those  bottles,  and  basins,  and  articles  of  linen  airing  by  ! 
the  fire,  and  such-like  furniture  of  a  sick  chamber — all 
yery  clean  and  neat,  but  all  quite  different  from  any- 
thing he  had  left  there,  when  he  went  to .  bed  I  The 
atmosphere,  too,  filled  with  a  cool  smell  of  herbs  and 


vinegar  ;  the  floor  newly  sprinkled  ;  the — the  what  ? 
Th(i  Marchioness? 

Yes ;  playing  cribbage  with  herself  at  the  table. 
There  she  sat,  intent  upon  her  game,  coughing  now  and 
then  in  a  subdued  manner,  as  if  she  feared  to  disturb 
him — shuffling  the  cards,  cutting,  dealing,  playing, 
counting,  pegging — going  through  all  the  mysteries  of 
cribbage  as  if  slie  had  been  in  full  practice  from  her 
cradle  I 

Mr.  Swiveller  contemplated  these  things  for  a  short 
time,  and  suffering  the  curtain  to  fall  into  its  former 
position,  laid  his  head  on  the  pillow  again, 

"I'm  dreaming,"  thought  Richard,  "that's  clear. 
When  I  went  to  bed,  my  hands  were  not  made  of  egg- 
shells :  and  now  I  can  almost  see  through  'em.  If  this 
is  not  a  dream,  I  have  woke  up,  by  mistake,  in  an  Ara- 
bian Night,  instead  of  a  London  one.  But  I  have  no 
doubt  I'm  asleep.    Not  the  least." 

Here  the  small  servant  had  another  cough. 

"Very  remarkable!"  thought  Mr.  Swiveller,  "I 
never  dreamt  such  a  real  cough  as  that,  before,  I  don't 
know,  indeed,  that  I  ever  dreamt  either  a  cough  or  a 
sneeze.  Perhaps  it's  part  of  the  philosophy  of  dreams 
that  one  never  does.  There's  another — and  another — 
I  say  ! — I'm  dreaming  rather  fast  !  " 

For  the  purpose  of  testing  his  real  condition,  Mr, 
Swiveller,  after  some  reflection,  pinched  himself  in  the 
arm. 

"  Queerer  still  !  "  he  thought.  "  I  eame  to  bed  rather 
plump  than  otherwise,  and  now  there's  nothing  to  lay 
hold  of.    I'll  take  another  survey." 

The  result  of  this  additional  inspection  was,  to  con- 
vince Mr.  Swiveller  that  the  objects  by  which  he  was 
surrounded  were  real,  and  that  he  saw  them,  beyond  all 
question,  with  his  waking  eyes. 

"  It's  an  Arabian  Night ;  that's  what  it  is,"  said 
Richard.  "  I'm  in  Damascus  or  Grand  Cairo.  The 
Marchioness  is  a  Genie,  and  having  had  a  wager  with 
another  Genie  about  who  is  the  handsomest  young  man 
alive,  and  the  worthiest  to  be  the  husband  of  the  Prin- 
cess of  China,  has  brought  me  away,  room  and  all,  to 
compare  us  together.  Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
turning  languidly  round  on  his  pillow,  and  looking  on 
that  side  of  his  bed  which  was  next  to  the  wall,  "  the 
Princess  may  be  still — No,  she's  gone." 

Not  feeling  quite  satisfied  with  this  explanation,  as, 
even  taking  it  to  be  the  correct  one,  it  still  involved  a  lit- 
tle mystery  and  doubt,  Mr.  Swiveller  I'aised  the  curtain 
again,  determined  to  take  the  first  favourable  opportu- 
nity of  addressing  his  companion.  An  occasion  soon 
presented  itself.  The  Marchioness  dealt,  turned  up  a 
knave,  and  omitted  to  take  the  usual  advantage  ;  upon 
which,  Mr.  Swiveller  called  out  as  loud  as  he  could — 
"  Two  for  his  heels  ! " 

The  Marchioness  jumped  up  quickly,  and  clapped  her 
hands,  "  Arabian  Night,  certainly,"  thought  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller ;  "  they  always  clap  their  hands  instead  of  ringing 
the  bell.  Now  for  the  two  thousand  black  slaves,  with 
jars  of  jewels  on  their  heads  !  " 

It  appeared,  however,  that  she  had  only  clapped  her 
hands  for  joy  ;  as,  directly  afterwards  she  began  to  laugh, 
and  then  to  cry  ;  declaring,  not  in  choice  Arabic  but  in 
familiar  English,  that  she  was  "  so  glad,  she  didn't  know 
what  to  do." 

"Marchioness,"  said  Mr,  Swiveller,  thoughtfully, 
"  be  pleased  to  draw  nearer.  First  of  all,  will  you  have 
the  goodness  to  inform  me  where  I  shall  find  my  voice  ; 
and  secondly,  what  has  become  of  my  flesh  ?  " 

The  Marchioness  only  shook  her  head  mournfully,  and 
cried  again  ;  whereupon  Mr.  Swiveller  (being  very  weak) 
felt  his  own  eyes  affected  likewise. 

"I  begin  to  infer  from  your  manner,  and  these  appear- 
ances, Marchioness,"  said  Richard  after  a  pause,  and 
smiling  with  a  trembling  lip,  "  that  1  have  been  ill." 

"  You  just  have  !  "  replied  the  small  servant,  wiping 
her  eyes,   "  And  haven't  you  been  a  talking  nonsense  !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Dick,  "  Very  ill.  Marchioness,  have  I 
been  ?  " 

"Dead,  all  but,"  replied  the  small  servant. 
never  thought  you'd  get  better.    Thank  Heaven  you 
have  I  " 

"Mr.  Swiveller  was  silent  for  a  long  while.   Bye  and 


814 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


bye,  he  began  to  talk  again  :  inquiring  how  long  he  had 
been  there. 

"Three  weeks  to-morrow,"  replied  the  small  servant. 
"  Three  what?  "  said  Dick. 

"  Weeks,"  returned  the  Marchioness  emphatically  ; 
"  three  long,  slow,  weeks." 

The  bare  thought  of  having  been  in  such  extremity, 
caused  Richard  to  fall  into  another  silence,  and  to  lie  flat 
down  again,  at  his  full  length.  The  Marchioness,  hav- 
ing arranged  the  bed-clothes  more  comfortably  and  felt 
that  his  hands  and  forehead  were  quite  cool — a  discovery 
that  filled  her  with  delight — cried  a  little  more,  and  then 
applied  herself  to  getting  tea  ready,  and  making  some 
thin  dry  toast. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Swiveller  looked  on 
with  a  grateful  heart,  very  much  astonished  to  see  how 
thoroughly  at  home  she  made  herself,  and  attributing 
this  attention,  in  its  origin,  to  Sally  Brass,  whom,  in  his 
own  mind,  he  could  not  thank  enough.  When  the 
Marchioness  had  finished  her  toasting,  she  spread  a  clean 
cloth  on  a  tray,  and  brought  him  some  crisp  slices  and  a 
great  basin  of  weak  tea,  Avith  which  (she  said)  the  doc- 
tor had  left  word  he  might  refresh  himself  when  he 
awoke.  She  propped  him  up  with  pillows,  if  not  as 
ski  If  ally  as  if  she  had  been  a  professional  nurse  all  her 
life,  at  least  as  tenderly  ;  and  looked  on  with  unutter- 
able satisfaction  while  the  patient — stopping  every  now 
and  then  to  shake  her  by  the  hand — took  his  poor  meal 
with  an  appetite  and  relish,  which  the  greatest  dainties 
of  the  earth,  under  any  other  circumstances,  would 
have  failed  to  provoke.  Having  cleared  away,  and  dis- 
posed everything  comfortably  about  him  again,  she  sat 
down  at  the  table  to  take  her  own  tea. 

"Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "how's  Sally?" 

The  small  servant  screwed  her  face  into  an  expression 
of  the  very  uttermost  entanglement  of  slyness,  and  shook 
her  head. 

"  What,  haven't  you  seen  her  lately  ?"  said  Dick. 

"Seen  her  !"  cried  the  small  servant.  "Bless  you, 
I've  run  away  !  " 

Mr.  Swiveller  immediately  laid  himself  down  again 
quite  flat,  and  so  remained  for  about  five  minutes.  By 
slow  degrees  he  resumed  his  sitting  posture  after  that 
lapse  of  time,  and  inquired  : 

"And  where  do  you  live.  Marchioness?" 

"  Live?  "  cried  the  small  servant.    "  Here  !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Swiveller. 

And  with  that  he  fell  down  flat  again,  as  suddenly  as 
if  he  had  been  shot.  Thus  he  remained,  motionless 
and  bereft  of  speech,  until  she  had  finished  her  meal, 
put  everything  in  its  place,  and  swept  the  hearth  ; 
when  he  motioned  her  to  bring  a  chair  to  the  bedside, 
and,  being  propped  up  again,  opened  a  farther  conver- 
sation. 

"  And  so,"  said  Dick,  "  you  have  run  away  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Marchioness,  "and  they've  been  a 
tizing  of  me." 

"Been — I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Dick — "  what  have 
they  been  doing?  " 

"  Been  a  tizing  of  me — tizing  you  know — in  the  news- 
papers," rejoined  the  Marchioness. 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Dick,  "advertising?" 

The  small  servant  nodded,  and  winked.  •  Her  eyes 
were  so  red  with  waking  and  crying,  that  the  Tragic 
Muse  miglit  have  winked  with  greater  consistency. 
And  so  Dick  felt. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  he,  "how  it  was  that  you  thought  of 
coming  here. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  returned  the  Marchioness,  "when 
you  was  g  me,  I  hadn't  any  friend  at  all,  because  the  lodg- 
er he  never  come  back,  and  I  didn't  know  wliere  either 
him  or  you  was  to  be  found,  you  know.  But  one  morning, 
when  I  was — " 

"  Was  near  a  keyhole  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Swiveller,  ob- 
serving that  she  faltered, 

"  Well  then,"  said  the  small  servant,  nodding  ;  "  when 
I  was  near  the  office  keyhole — as  you  see  me  through, 
you  know — I  heard  somebody  saying  that  she  lived  here, 
and  was  the  lady  whose  house  you  lodged  at,  and  that 
you  was  took  very  bad,  and  wouldn't  nobody  come  and 
take  care  of  you.  Mr.  Brass,  he  says,  '  It's  no  business 
of  mine,'  and  Miss  Sally,  she  says,  '  He's  a  funny  chap. 


but  it's  no  business  of  mine  ;  *  and  the  lady  went  away, 
and  slammed  the  door  to,  when  she  went  out,  I  can  tell 
you.  So  I  ran  away  that  night,  and  come  here,  and  told 
'em  you  was  my  brother,  and  they  believed  me,  and  I've 
been  here  ever  since." 

"This  poor  little  Marchioness  has  been  wearing  her- 
self to  death  !  "  cried  Dick. 

"  No  I  haven't,"  she  returned,  "not  a  bit  of  it.  Don't 
you  mind  about  me*  I  like  sitting  up,  and  I've  often 
had  a  sleep,  bless  you,  in  one  of  them  chairs.  But  if 
you  could  have  seen  how  you  tried  to  jump  out  o'  winder, 
and  if  you  could  have  heard  how  you  used  to  keep  on 
singing  and  making  speeches,  you  wouldn't  have  be- 
lieved it — I'm  so  glad  you're  better,  Mr.  Liverer." 

"  Liverer  indeed  !  "  said  Dick  thoughtfully,  "  It's 
well  I  am  a  liverer,  I  strongly  suspect  I  should  have 
died.  Marchioness,  but  for  you." 

At  this  point,  Mr.  Swiveller  took  the  small  servant's 
hand  in  his,  again,  and  being,  as  we  have  seen,  but  poor- 
ly, might  in  struggling  to  express  his  thanks  have  made 
his  eyes  as  red  as  hers,  but  that  she  quickly  changed 
the  theme  by  making  him  lie  down,  and  urging  him  to 
keep  very  quiet. 

"  The  doctor,"  she  told  him,  "  said  you  was  to  be  kept 
quite  still,  and  there  was  to  be  no  noise  nor  nothing. 
Now,  take  a  rest,  and  then  we'll  talk  again,  I'll  sit  by 
you,  you  know.  If  you  shut  your  eyes,  perhaps  you'll 
go  to  sleep.    "  You'll  be  all  the  better  for  it,  if  you  do." 

The  Marchioness,  in  saying  these  Avords,  brought  a 
little  table  to  the  bedside,  took  her  seat  at  it,  and  began 
to  work  away  at  the  concoction  of  some  cooling  drink, 
with  the  address  of  a  score  of  chemists.  Richard  Swiv- 
eller, being  ind^d  fatigued,  fell  into  a  slumber,  and 
waking  in  about  half  an  hour,  inquired  what  time  it 
was. 

"Just  gone  half  after  six,"  replied  his  small  friend, 
helping  him  to  sit  up  again. 

"Marchioness,"  said  Richard,  passing  his  hand  over 
his  forehead  and  turning  suddenly  round,  as  though  the 
subject  but  that  moment  flashed  upon  him,  "  what  has 
become  of  Kit  ?" 

He  had  been  sentenced  to  transportation  for  a  great 
many  years,  she  said. 

"Has  he  gone?"  asked  Dick — "his  mother — ^liow  is 
she, — what  has  become  of  her  ?  " 

His  nurse  shook  her  head,  and  answered  that  she 
knew  nothing  about  them,  "  But  if  I  thought,"  said 
she,  very  slowly,  "that  you'd  keep  quiet,  and  not  put 
yourself  into  another  fever,  I  could  tell  you — but  I  won't 
now," 

"  Yes  do,"  said  Dick.    "  It  will  amuse  me." 

"Oh  !  would  it  though  !"  rejoined  the  small  servant, 
with  a  horrified  look.  "  I  know  better  than  that.  Wait 
till  you're  better,  and  then  I'll  tell  you." 

Dick  looked  very  earnestly  at  his  little  friend  ;  and 
his  eyes  being  large  and  hollow  from  illness,  assisted 
the  expression  so  much,  that  she  was  quite  frightened, 
and  besought  him  not  to  think  any  more  about  it. 
What  had  already  fallen  from  her,  however,  had  not  only 
piqued  his  curiosity,  but  seriously  alarmed  him,  vv^here- 
fore  he  urged  her  to  tell  him  the  worst  at  once. 

"Oh  !  there's  no  worst  in  it,"  said  the  small  servant. 
"It  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  you." 

"Has  it  anything  to  do  with — is  it  anything  you 
heard  through  chinks  or  keyholes — and  that  you  were 
not  intended  to  hear  ? "  asked  Dick,  in  a  breathless 
state. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  small  servant. 

"  In — in  Bevis  Marks  ?"  pursued  Dick  hastily.  "  Con- 
versations between  Brass  and  Sally  ?  " 

"Yes,"  cried  the  small  servant  again. 

Richard  Swiveller  thrust  his  lank  arm  out  of  bed,  and, 
griping  her  by  the  wrist  and  drawing  her  close  to  him, 
bade  her  out  with  it,  and  freely  too,  or  he  would  not 
answer  for  the  consequences  ;  being  wholly  unable  to 
endure  that  state  of  excitement  and  expectation.  She, 
seeing  that  he  was  greatly  agitated,  and  that  the  effects 
of  postponing  her  revelation  might  be  much  more 
injurious  than  any  that  were  likely  to  ensue  from  its 
being  made  at  once,  promised  compliance,  on  condition 
that  the  patient  kept  himself  perfectly  quiet,  and 
abstained  from  starting  up  or  tossing  about. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


815 


•'Bat  if  you  begin  to  do  that,"  8aid  the  small  servant, 
"  I'll  leave  off.    And  so  I  tell  you." 

"You  can't  leave  off,  till  j^ou  have  gono  on,"  said 
Dick.  "  And  do  go  on,  there's  a  darling.  Speak,  sister, 
speak.  Pretty  Polly  say.  Oh  tell  me  when,  and  tell  me 
where,  pray  Marchioness,  I  beseech  you  ! " 

Unable  to  resist  these  fervent  'adjurations,  which 
Richard  Swiveller  poured  out  as  passionately  as  if  they 
had  been  of  the  most  solemn  and  tremendous  nature,  his 
companion  spoke  thus  : 

"Well  !  Before  I  run  away,  I  used  to  sleep  in  the 
kitchen — where  we  played  cards,  you  know.  Miss  Sally 
used  to  keep  the  key  of  the  kitchen  door  in  her  pocket, 
and  she  always  come  down  at  night  to  take  away  the 
candle  and  rake  out  the  fire.  When  she  had  done  that, 
she  left  me  gp  to  bed  in  the  dark,  locked  the  door  on  the 
outside,  put  the  key  in  her  pocket  again,  and  kept  me 
locked  up  till  she  came  down  in  the  morning — very  early 
I  can  tell  you — and  let  me  out.  I  was  terrible  afraid  of 
being  kept  like  this,  because  if  there  was  a  fire,  I  thought 
they  might  forget  me  and  only  take  care  of  themselves 
you  know.  So,  whenever  I  see  an  old  rusty  key  any- 
where, I  picked  it  up,  and  tried  if  it  would  fit  the  door, 
and  at  last  I  found  in  the  dust  cellar,  a  key  that  did  fit 
it." 

Here,  Mr.  Swiveller  made  a  violent  demonstration  with 
his  legs.  Bat  the  small  servant  immediately  pausing  in 
her  talk,  he  subsided  again,  and  pleading  a  momentary 
forgetfulness  of  their  compact,  entreated  her  to  proceed. 

"  They  kept  me  very  short,"  said  the  small  servant. 
"  Oh  !  you  can't  think  how  short  they  kept  me  !  So  I 
used  to  come  out  at  night  after  they'd  gone  to  bed, 
and  feel  about  in  the  dark  for  bits  of  biscuit,  or  sang- 
witclies  that  you'd  left  in  the  office,  or  even  pieces  of 
orange  peel  to  put  into  cold  water  and  make  believe  it 
was  wine.     Did  you  ever  taste  orange  peel  and  water  ?  " 

Mr.  Swiveller  replied  that  he  had  never  tasted  that 
ardent  liquor  ;  and  once  more  urged  his  friend  to  resume 
the  thread  of  her  narrative. 

"  If  you  make  believe  very  much,  it's  quite  nice,"  said 
the  small  servant  ;  "  but  if  you  don't,  you  know,  it  seems 
as  if  it  would  bear  a  little  more  season  nig,  certainly. 
Well,  sometimes  I  used  to  come  out  after  they'd  gone  to 
bed,  and  sometimes  before,  you  know  ;  and  one  or  two 
nights  before  there  was  all  that  precious  noise  in  the 
office — when  the  young  man  was  took,  I  mean — I  come 
up-stairs  while  Mr.  Brass  and  Miss  Sally  was  a  sittin'  at 
the  office  fire  ;  and  I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  that  I  come  to 
listen  again,  about  the  key  of  the  safe." 

Mr.  Swiveller  gathered  up  his  knees  so  as  to  make  a 
great  cone  of  the  bed-clothes,  and  conveyed  into  his 
countenance  an  expression  of  the  utmost  co)icern.  But, 
the  small  servant  pausing,  and  holding  up  her  finger,  the 
i  cone  gently  disappeared,  though  the  look  of  concern  did 
not. 

"  There  was  him  and  her,"  said  the  small  servant, 
"a  sittin'  by  the  fire,  and  talking  softly  together.  Mr. 
Brass  says  to  Miss  Sally.   *  Upon  my  word,' he  says,  'it's 

I  a  dangerous  thing,  and  it  might  get  us  into  a  world  of 
trouble,  and  I  don't  half  like  it.'  She  says--you  know 
her  way  —  she  says,  '  You're  the  chickenest-hearted, 
feeblest,  faintest  man  I  ever  see,  and  I  think,'  she  says, 
'that  I  ought  to  have  been  the  brother,  and  you  the 

,  sister.  Isn't  Quilp,'  she  says,  'our  principal  support?' 
'He  certainly  is,'  says  Mr.  Brass,  'And  an't  we,'  she 
says,  '  constantly  ruining  somebody  or  other  in  the  way 
of  business  ? '  '  We  certainly  are,'  says  Mr.  Brass.  '  Then 
does  it  signify,'  she  says  '  about  ruining  this  Kit  when 
Quilp  desires  it?'  'It  certainly  does  not  signify,'  says 
Mr.  Brass.  Then,  they  whispered  and  laughed  for  a  long 
time  about  there  being  no  danger  if  it  was  well  done,  and 
then  Mr.  Brass  pulls  out  his  pocket-book,  and  says, 
'  Well,'  he  says,  'here  it  is — Quilp's  own  five-pound  note. 
We'll  agree  that  way,  then,'  he  says.  '  Kit's  coming  to- 
morrow morning,  I  know.  While  he's  up-stairs,  you'll 
get  out  of  the  way,  and  I'll  clear  off  Mr.  Richard.  Having 

I  Kit  alone,  I'll  hold  him  in  conversation,  and  put  this 
property  in  his  hat.  I'll  manage  so,  besides,'  he  says, 
'  that  Mr.  Richard  shall  find  it  there,  and  be  the  evidence. 
And  if  that  don't  get  Christopher  out  of  Mr.  Quilp's  way, 
and  satisfy  Mr.  Quilp's  grudges,'  he  says,  '  the  Devil's  in 
it.'    Miss  Sally  laughed,  and  said  that  was  the  plan,  and 


as  they  seemed  to  be  moving  away,  and  I  was  afraid  to 
stop  any  longer,  I  went  down  stairs  again. — There  !" 

The  small  servant  had  gradually  worked  herself  into 
as  much  agitation  as  Mr,  Swiveller,  and  therefore  made 
no  effort  to  restrain  him  when  he  sat  up  in  bed  and 
hastily  demanded  whether  the  story  had  been  told  to 
anybody. 

"  How  conld  it  be?"  replied  his  nurse.  "  I  was  al- 
most afraid  to  think  about  it,  and  hoped  the  young  man 
would  be  let  off.  When  I  heard  'em  say  they  had  found 
him  guilty  of  what  he  didn't  do,  you  was  gone,  and  so 
was  the  lodger — though  I  think  I  should  have  been 
frightened  to  tell  him,  even  if  he'd  been  there.  Ever 
since  I  come  here,  you've  been  out  of  your  senses,  and 
what  would  have  been  the  good  of  telling  you  then?" 

"Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  plucking  off  his 
nightcap  and  flinging  it  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  ; 
"if  you'll  do  me  the  favour  to  retire  for  a  few  minutes 
and  see  what  sort  of  a  night  it  is,  I'll  get  up." 

"  You  mustn't  think  of  such  a  thing^"  cried  his  nurse. 

"  I  must  indeed,"  said  the  patient,  looking  round  the 
room.    "  Whereabouts  are  my  clothes  ?  " 

"  Oh  I'm  so  glad — you  haven't  got  any,"  replied  the 
Marchioness. 

"  Ma'am  !"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  in  great  astonishment. 

"I've  been  obliged  to  sell  them,  every  one,  to  get  the 
things  that  was  ordered  for  you.  But  don't  take  on 
about  that,"  urged  the  Marchioness,  as  Dick  fell  back 
upon  his  pillow.    "  You're  too  weak  to  stand,  indeed." 

"lam  afraid,"  said  Richard  dolefully,  "  that  you're 
right.    What  ought  I  to  do  !  what  is  to  be  done  !  " 

It  naturally  occurred  to  him  on  very  little  reflection, 
that  the  first  step  to  take  would  be  to  communicate 
with  one  of  the  Mr,  Garlands  instantly.  It  was  very 
possible  that  Mr,  Abel  had  not  yet  left  the  office.  In  as 
little  time  as  it  takes  to  tell  it,  the  small  servant  had 
the  address  in  pencil  on  a  piece  of  paper  ;  a  verbal  de- 
scription of  father  and  son,  which  would  enable  her  to 
recognise  either  without  difficulty  ;  and  a  special  cau- 
tion to  be  shy  of  Mr.  Chuckster,  in  consequence  of  that 
gentleman's  known  antipathy  to  Kit.  Armed  with  these 
slender  powers,  she  hurried  away,  commissioned  to  bring 
either  old  Mr.  Garland  or  Mr,  Abel,  bodily,  to  that  apart- 
ment. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Dick,  as  she  closed  the  door  slowly, 
and  peeped  into  the  room  again,  to  make  sure  that  he 
was  comfortable,  "I  suppose  there's  nothing  left — not 
so  much  as  a  waist-coat  even  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing." 

"It's  embarrassing,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "in  case  of 
fire — even  an  umbrella  would  be  something — but  you 
did  quite  right,  dear  Marchioness.  I  should  have  died, 
without  you  ! " 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

It  was  well  for  the  small  servant  that  she  was  of  a 
sharp,  quick  nature,  or  the  consequence  of  sending  her 
out  alone,  from  the  very  neighbourhood  in  which  it 
was  most  dangerous  for  her  to  appear,  would  probably 
have  been  the  restoration  of  Miss  Sally  Brass  to  the 
supreme  authority  over  her  person.  Not  unmindful  of 
the  risk  she  ran,  however,  the  Marchioness  no  sooner 
left  the  house  than  she  dived  into  the  first  dkrk  by-way 
that  presented  itself,  and,  without  any  present  reference 
to  the  point  to  which  her  journey  tended,  made  it  her 
first  business  to  put  two  good  miles  of  brick  and  mortar 
between  herself  and  Bevis  Marks. 

When  she  had  accomplished  this  object,  she  began  to 
shape  her  course  for  the  notary's  office,  to  which — 
shrewdly  inquiring  of  apple- women  and  oyster-sellers  at 
street  corners,  rather  than  in  lighted  shops  or  of  well- 
dressed  people,  at  the  hazard  of  attracting  notice— she 
easily  procured  a  direction.  As  carrier-pigeons,  on  being 
first  let  loose  in  a  strange  place,  beat  the  air  at  random 
for  a  short  time,  before  darting  off  towards  the  spot  for 
which  they  are  designed,  so  did  the  Marchioness  flutter 
round  and  round  until  she  believed  lier'^clf  in  safety, 
and  then  bear  swiftly  down  upon  the  port  for  which  she 
was  bound. 

She  had  no  bonnet — nothing  on  her  head  but  a  great 


816 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


cap  which,  in  some  old  time,  had  been  worn  by  Sally 
Brass,  whose  taste  in  head-dresses  was,  as  we  have 
seen,  peculiar— and  her  speed  was  rather  retarded  than 
assisted  by  her  shoes,  which  being  extremely  large  and 
slipshod,  flew  off  every  now  then,  and  were  difficalt  to 
find  again,  among  the  crowd  of  passengers.  Indeed, 
the  poor  little  creature  experienced  so  much  trouble  and 
delay  from  having  to  grope  for  these  articles  of  dress  in 
mud  and  kennel,  and  suffered  in  these  researches  so 
much  jostling,  pushing,  squeezing,  and  bandying  from 
hand  to  hand,  that  by  the  time  she  reached  the  street  in 
which  the  notary  lived,  she  was  fairly  worn  out  and  ex- 
hausted, and  could  not  refrain  from  tears. 

But  to  have  got  there  at  last  was  a  great  comfort,  es- 
pecially as  there  were  lights  still  burning  in  the  office 
window,  and  therefore  some  hope  that  she  was  not  too 
late.  So,  the  Marchioness  dried  her  eyes  with  the  backs 
of  her  hands,  and,  stealing  softly  up  the  steps,  peeped  in 
through  the  glass  door. 

Mr.  Cliuckster  was  standing  behind  the  lid  of  his  desk 
making  such  preparations  towards  finishing  off  for  the 
night,  as  pulling  down  his  wristbands  and  pulling  up  his 
shirt-collar,  settling  his  neck  more  gracefully  in  his 
stock,  and  secretly  arranging  his  whiskers  by  the  aid  of 
a  little  triangular  bit  of  looking  glass.  Before  the  ashes 
of  the  fire,  stood  two  gentlemen,  one  of  whom  she  rightly 
judged  to  be  the  notary,  and  the  other  (who  was  button- 
ing his  great-coat,  and  was  evidently  about  to  depart  im- 
mediately) Mr.  Abel  Garland. 

Having  made  these  observations,  the  small  spy  took 
counsel  with  herself,  and  resolved  to  wait  in  the  street 
until  Mr.  Abel  came  out,  as  there  would  be  then  no  fear 
of  having  to  speak  before  Mr.  Chuckster,  and  less  diffi- 
culty in  delivering  her  message.  With  this  purpose  she 
slipped  out  again,  and,  crossing  the  road,  sat  down  upon  a 
door-step  just  opposite. 

She  had  hardly  taken  this  position,  when  there  came 
dancing  up  the  street,  with  his  legs  all  wrong,  and  his 
head  everywhere  by  turns,  a  pony.  This  pony  had  a 
little  phaeton  behind  him,  and  a  man  in  it ;  but  neither 
man  nor  phaeton  seemed  to  embarrass  him  in  the  least, 
as  he  reared  up  on  his  hind  legs,  or  stopped,  or  went  on, 
or  stood  still  again,  or  backed,  or  went  sideways,  with- 
out the  smallest  reference  to  them, — just  as  the  fancy 
seized  him,  and  as  if  he  were  the  freest  animal  in  crea- 
tion. When  they  came  to  the  notary's  door,  the  man 
called  out  in  a  very  respectful  manner,  "  Woa  then," — 
intimating  that  if  he  might  venture  to  express  a  wish,  it 
would  be  that  they  stopped  there.  The  pony  made  a 
moment's  puuse  ;  but,  as  if  it  occurred  to  him  that  to  stop 
when  he  was  required  might  be  to  establish  an  inconve- 
nient and  dangerous  precedent,  he  immediately  started  off 
again,  rattled  at  a  fast  trot  to  the  street-corner,  wheeled 
round,  came  back,  and  then  stopped  of  his  own  ac- 
cord. 

"  Oh  !  you're  a  precious  creatur  !  "  said  the  man — who 
didn't  venture  by  the  bye  to  come  out  in  his  true  colours 
until  he  was  safe  on  the  pavement.  "  I  wish  I  had  the 
rewarding  of  you, — I  do." 

"  What  has  he  been  doing?"  said  Mr.  Abel,  tying  a 
shawl  round  his  neck  as  he  came  down  the  steps. 

**  He's  enough  to  fret  a  man's  heart  out,"  replied  the 
hostler.  "  He  is  the  most  wicious  rascal— woa  then,  will 
you?" 

**  He'll  nfever  stand  still,  if  you  call  him  names,"  said 
Mr.  Abel,  getting  in,  and  taking  the  reins.  "  He's  a 
very  good  fellow  if  you  know  how  to  manage  him.  This 
is  the  first  time  he  has  been  out,  this  long  while,  for  he 
has  lost  his  old  driver  and  wouldn't  stir  for  anybody 
else,  till  this  morning.  The  lamps  are  right,  are  they  ? 
That's  well.  Be  here  to  take  him  to-morrow,  if  you 
please.    Good  night  !  " 

And,  after  one  or  two  strange  plunges,  quite  of  his 
own  invention,  the  pony  yielded  to  Mr.  Abel's  mildness, 
and  trotted  gently  off. 

All  this  time  Mr.  Chuckster  had  been  standing  at  the 
door,  and  the  small  servant  had  been  afraid  to  ai)proach. 
She  had  nothing  for  it  now,therefore,but  to  run  after  the 
chaise,  and  to  call  to  Mr.  Abel  to  stop.  Being  out  of 
breath  v.'lien  she  came  up  with  it,  she  was  unable  to 
make  him  hear.  The  case  was  desperate  ;  for  the  pony 
was  quickening  his  pace.    The  Marchioness  hung  on  be- 


hind for  a  few  moments,  and,  feeling  that  she  could 
go  no  farther,  and  must  soon  yield,  clambered  by  a  vig- 
orous effort  into  the  hinder  seat,  and  in  so  doing  lost  one 
of  the  shoes  for  ever. 

Mr.  Abel  being  in  a  thoughtful  frame  of  mind,  and 
having  quite  enough  to  do  to  keep  the  pony  going,  went 
jogging  on  without  looking  round  :  little  dreaming  of 
the  strange  figure  that  was  close  behind  him,  until  the 
Marchioness,  having  in  some  degree  recovered  her  breath, 
and  the  loss  of  her  shoe,  and  the  novelty  of  her  position, 
uttered  close  into  his  ear,  the  words — 
I  say,  sir  " — 

He  turned  his  head  quickly  enough  then,  and  stop- 
ping the  pony,  cried,  with  some  trepidation,  "God bless 
me,  what  is  this  ! " 

"Don't  be  frightened,  sir,"  replied  the  .still  panting 
messenger.    "  Oh  I've  run  such  a  way  after  you  !  " 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  said  Mr.  Abel. 
"  How  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

"I  got  in  behind,"  replied  the  Marchioness.  "Oh 
please  drive  on,  sir — don't  stop — and  go  towards  the  city 
will  you  ?  And  oh  do  please  make  haste,  because  it's  of 
consequence.  There's  somebody  wants  to  see  you  there. 
He  sent  me  to  say  would  you  come  directly,  and  that  he 
knowed  all  about  Kit,  and  could  save  him  yet,  and  prove 
his  innocence." 

"  What  do  you  tell  me,  child  ?  " 

"The  truth,  upon  my  word  and  honour  I  do.  But 
please  to  drive  on — quick,  please  !  I've  been  such  a 
time  gone,  he'll  think  I'm  lost." 

Mr.  Abel  involuntarily  urged  the  pony  forward.  The 
pony,  impelled  by  some  secret  sympathy  or  some  new 
caprice,  burst  into  a  great  pace,  and  neither  slackened  it, 
nor  indulged  in  any  eccentric  performances,  until  they 
arrived  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Swiveller's  lodging,  where, 
marvellous  to  relate,  he  consented  to  stop  when  Mr.  Abel 
checked  him. 

' '  See  !  It's  that  room  up  there,"  said  the  Marchioness, 
pointing  to  one  where  there  was  a  faint  light.   "  Come  ! " 

Mr.  Abel,  who  was  one  of  the  simplest  and  most  retir- 
ing creatures  in  existence,  and  naturally  timid  withal, 
hesitated  ;  for  he  had  heard  of  people  being  decoyed  into 
strange  places  to  be  robbed  and  murdered,  under  circum- 
stances very  like  the  present,  and,  for  anything  he  knew 
to  the  contrary,  by  guides  very  like  the  Marchioness. 
His  regard  for  Kit,  however,  overcame  every  other  con- 
sideration. So,  intrusting  Whisker  to  the  charge  of  a 
man  who  was  lingering  hard  by  in  expectation  of  the 
job,  he  suffered  his  companion  to  take  his  hand,  and  to 
lead  him  up  the  dark  and  narrow  stairs. 

He  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  find  himself  conducted 
into  a  dimly-lighted  sick  chamber,  where  a  man  was 
sleeping  tranquilly  in  bed. 

"  An't  it  nice  to  see  him  lying  there  so  quiet?"  said 
his  guide,  in  an  earnest  whisper.  "  Oh  !  you'd  say  it  was, 
if  you  had  only  seen  him  two  or  three  days  ago." 

Mr.  Abel  made  no  answer,  and,  to  say  the  truth,  kept 
a  long  way  from  the  bed  and  very  near  the  door.  His 
guide,  who  appeared  to  understand  his  reluctance, 
trimmed  the  candle,  and  taking  it  in  her  hand,  ap- 
proached the  bed.  As  she  did  so,  the  sleeper  started 
up,  and  he  recognised  in  the  wasted  face  the  features  of 
Richard  Swiveller. 

"  Why,  how  is  this  ?  "  said  Mr.  Abel  kindly,  as  he  hur- 
ried towards  him.    "  You  have  been  ill  ?  " 

"Very,"  replied  Dick.  "Nearly  dead.  You  might 
have  chanced  to  hear  of  your  Richard  on  his  bier,  but 
for  the  friend  I  sent  to  fetch  you.  Another  shake  of  the 
hand,  Marchioness,  if  you  please.    Sit  down,  sir." 

Mr.  Abel  seemed  rather  astonished  to  hear  of  the  quality 
of  his  guide,  and  took  a  chair  by  the  bedside. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,  sir,"  said  Dick — "  but  she  told 
you  on  what  account  ?  " 

"  She  did.  I  am  quite  bewildered  by  all  this.  I  really 
don't  know  what  to  say  or  think,"  replied  Mr.  Abel. 

"  You'll  say  that,  presently,"  retorted  Dick.  "Mar- 
chioness, take  a  seat  on  the  bed,  will  you?  Now,  tell 
this  this  gentleman  all  that  you  told  me  ;  and  be  partic- 
ular.   Don't  you  speak  another  word,  sir." 

The  story  was  repeated  ;  it  was,  in  effect,  exactly  the 
same  as  before,  without  any  deviation  or  omission.  Rich- 
ard Swiveller  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  visitor  during  its 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


817 


narration,  and  directly  it  was  concluded,  took  the  word 
again. 

"  You  have  heard  it  all,  and  you'll  not  forget  it.  I'm 
too  giddy  and  too  queer  to  suggest  anything  ;  but  you 
and  your  friends  will  know  what  to  do.  After  this  long 
delay,  every  minute  is  an  age.  If  ever  you  went  home 
fast  in  your  life,  go  home  fast  to-night.  Don't  stop  to 
say  one  word  to  me,  but  go.  She  will  be  found  here, 
whenever  she's  wanted  ;  and  as  to  me,  you're  pretty  sure 
to  find  me  at  home,  for  a  week  or  two.  There  are  more 
reasons  than  one  for  that.  Marchioness,  a  light  I  If  you 
lose  another  minute  in  looking  at  me,  sir,  I'll  never  for- 
give you  !" 

Mr.  Abel  needed  no  more  remonstrance  or  persuasion. 
He  was  gone  in  an  instant ;  and  the  Marchioness,  return- 
ing from  lighting  him  down-stairs,  reported  that  the 
pony,  without  any  preliminary  objection  whatever,  had 
dashed  away  at  full  galop. 

"  That's  right  ! "  said  Dick  ;  "  and  hearty  of  him  ;  and 
I  honour  him  from  this  time.  But  get  some  supper  and 
a  mug  of  beer,  for  I  am  sure  you  must  be  tired.  Do  have 
a  mug  of  beer.  It  will  do  me  as  much  good  to  see  you 
take  it  as  if  I  might  drink  it  myself." 

Nothing  but  this  assurance  could  have  prevailed  upon 
the  small  nurse  to  indulge  in  such  a  luxury.  Having 
eaten  and  drunk  to  Mr.  SwivelJer's  extreme  contentment, 
given  him  his  drink,  and  put  everything  'in  neat  order, 
she  wrapped  herself  in  an  old  coverlet  and  lay  down  upon 
the  rug  before  the  fire. 

Mr.  Swiveller  was  by  that  time  murmuring  in  his  sleep, 
"Strew  then,  oh  strew,  a  bed  of  rushes.  Here  will  we 
stay,  till  morning  blushes.    Good  night,  Marchioness  !  " 


CHAPTER  LXYI. 

On  awaking  in  the  morning,  Richard  Swiveller  became 
conscious,  by  slow  degrees,  of  whispering  voices  in  his 
room.  Looking  out  between  the  curtains  he  espied  Mr. 
Garland,  Mr.  Abel,  the  notary  and  the  single  gentleman, 
gathered  round  the  Marchioness,  and  talking  to  her  with 
great  earnestness  but  in  very  subdued  tones— fearing, 
no  doubt,  to  disturb  him.  He  lost  no  time  in  letting 
them  know  that  this  precaution  was  unnecessarv,  and  all 
four  gentlemen  directly  approached  his  bedside.  Old 
Mr.  Garland  was  the  first  to  stretch  out  his  hai^.^  and  in- 
quire how  he  felt. 

Dick  was  about  to  answer  that  he  felt  much  better, 
though  still  as  weak  as  need  be,  when  his  little  nurse, 
pushing  the  visitors  aside  and  pressing  up  to  his  pillow 
as  if  in  jealousy  of  their  interference,  set  his  breakfast 
before  him,  and  insisted  on  his  taking  it  before  he  un- 
derwent the  fatigue  of  speaking  or  of  being  spoken  to. 
Mr.  Swiveller  who  was  perfectly  ravenous,  and  had  had, 
all  night,  amazingly  distinct  and  consistent  dreams  of 
mutton  chops,  double  stout,  and  similar  delicacies,  felt 
even  the  weak  tea  and  dry  toast  such  irresistible 
temptations,  that  he  consented  to  eat  and  drink  on  one 
condition. 

"And  that  is,"  said  Dick,  returning  the  pressure  of 
Mr.  Garland's  hand,  "that  you  answer  me  this  question 
truly,  before  I  take  a  bit  or  drop.    Is  it  too  late?" 

"For  completing  the  work  you  began  so  well  last 
night?"  returned  the  old  gentleman.  "No.  Set  your 
mind  at  rest  on  that  point.    It  is  not,  I  assure  you." 

Comforted  by  this  intelligence,  the  patient  applied 
himself  to  his  food  with  a  keen  appetite,  though  evi- 
dently not  with  a  greater  zest  in  the  eating  than  his 
nurse  appeared  to  have  in  seeing  him  eat.  The  manner 
of  his  meal  was  this  :— Mr.  Swiveller,  holding  the  slice 
of  toast  or  cup  of  tea  in  his  left  hand,  and  taking  a  bite 
or  drink,  as  the  case  ndght  be,  constantly  kept,  in  his 
right,  one  palm  of  the  Marchioness  tight  locked  ;  and  to 
shake  or  even  to  kiss  this  imprisoned  hand,  he  would 
stop  every  now  and  then,  in  the  very  act  of  swallowing, 
with  perfect  seriousness  of  intention,  and  the  utmost 
gravity.  As  often  as  he  put  anything  into  his  mouth, 
whether  for  eating  or  drinking,  the  face  of  the  Mar- 
chioness lighted  up  beyond  all  description  ;  but,  when- 
ever he  gave  her  one  or  other  of  these  tokens  of  recogni- 
tion, her  countenance  became  overshadowed,  and  she 
Vol.  II.— 52 


began  to  sob.  Now,  whether  she  was  in  her  laughing 
joy,  or  in  her  crying  one,  the  Marchioness  could  not  help 
turning  to  the  visitors  with  an  appealing  look,  which 
seemed  to  say,  "  You  .see  this  fellow — can  I  help  this?" 
— and  they,  being  thus  made,  as  it  were,  parties  to  the 
scene,  as  regularly  answered  by  another  look,  "No. 
Certainly  not."  This  dumb-show,  taking  place  during 
the  whole  time  of  the  invalid's  breakfast,  and  the  invalid 
himself,  pale  and  emaciated,  performing  no  small  part 
in  the  same,  it  may  bo  fairly  questioned  whether  at  any 
nieal,  where  no  word,  good  or  bad,  was  spoken  from  be- 
ginning to  end,  so  much  was  expressed  by  gestures  in 
themselves  so  slight  and  unimportant. 

At  length — and  to  say  the  truth  before  very  long — 
Mr.  Swiveller  had  despatched  as  much  toast  and  tea  as 
in  that  stage  of  his  recovery  it  was  discreet  to  let  him 
have.  But,  the  cares  of  the  Marchioness  did  not  stop 
here ;  for,  disappearing  for  an  instant  and  presently  re- 
turning with  a  basin  of  fair  water,  she  laved  his  face 
and  hands,  brushed  his  hair,  and  in  short  made  him  as 
spruce  and  smart  as  anybody  under  such  circumstances 
could  be  made  ;  and  all  this,  in  as  brisk  and  business-like 
a  manner,  as  if  he  were  a  very  little  boy,  and  she  his 
grown-up  nurse.  To  these  various  attentions,  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller  submitted  in  a  kind  of  grateful  astonishment  be- 
yond the  reach  of  language.  When  they  were  at  last 
brought  to  an  end,  and  the  Marchioness  had  withdrawn 
into  a  distant  corner  to  take  her  own  poor  breakfast 
(cold  enough  by  that  time),  he  turned  his  face  away 
for  some  few  moments,  and  shook  hands  heartily  with 
the  air. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Dick,  rousing  himself  from  this 
pause,  and  turning  round  again,  "you'll  excuse  me. 
Men  who  have  been  brought  so  low  as  I  have  been,  are 
easily  fatigued.  I  am  fresh  again  now,  and  fit  for  talk- 
ing. We're  short  of  chairs  here,  among  other  trifles, 
but  if  you'll  do  me  the  favour  to  sit  upon  the  bed — " 
"  What  can  we  do  for  you?"  said  Mr.  Garland  kindly. 
"If  you  could  make  the  Marchioness  yonder,  a  Mar- 
chioness, in  real,  sober  earnest,"  returned  Dick,  "I'd 
thank  you  to  get  it  done  off-hand.  But  as  you  can't,  and 
as  the  question  is  not  what  you  will  do  for  me,  but  what 
you  will  do  for  somebody  else,  who  has  a  better  claim 
upon  you,  pray  sir  let  me  know  what  you  intend  doing." 

"It's  chiefly  on  that  account  that  we  have  come  just 
now,"  said  the  single  gentleman,  "for  you  will  have 
another  visitor  presently.  We  feared  you  Avould  be 
anxious  unless  you  knew  from  ourselves  what  steps  we 
intended  to  take,  and  therefore  came  to  you  before  w© 
stirred  in  the  matter." 

"Gentlemen,"  returned  Dick,  "I  thank  you.  Any- 
body in  the  helpless  state  that  you  see  me  in,  is  naturally 
anxious.    Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,  sir." 

"Then,  you  see,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  single 
gentleman,  "that  while  we  have  no  doubt  whatever  of 
the  truth  of  this  disclosure,  which  has  so  providentially 
come  to  light — " 

"—Meaning  hers? "said  Dick,  pointing  towards  the 
Marchioness. 

"  Meaning  hers,  of  course.  While  we  have  no  doubt 
of  that,  or  that  a  proper  use  of  it  would  procure  the  poor 
lad's  immediate  pardon  and  liberation,  we  have  a  great 
doubt  whether  it  would,  by  itself,  enable  us  to  reach 
Quilp,  the  chief  agent  in  this  villany.  I  should  tell  you 
that  this  doubt  has  been  confirmed  into  something  very 
nearly  approaching  certainty  by  the  best  opinions  we 
have  been  enabled,  in  this  short  space  of  time,  to  take 
upon  the  subject.  You'll  agree  with  us,  that  to  give  him 
even  the  most  distant  chance  of  escape,  if  we  could  help 
it,  would  be  monstrous.  You  say  with  us,  no  doubt,  if 
somebody  must  escape,  let  it  be  any  one  but  he." 

"Yes,"  returned  Dick,  "certainly.  That  is,  if  some- 
body must — but  upon  my  word,  I'm  unwilling  that 
anybody  should.  Since  laws  were  made  for  every 
degree,  to  curb  vice  in  others  as  well  as  in  me — and  so 
forth  you  know — doesn't  it  strike  you  in  that  light?" 

The  single  gentleman  smiled  as  if  the  light  in  which 
Mr.  Swiveller  had  put  the  question  were  not  the  clearest 
in  the  world,  and  jsroceeded  to  explain  that  they  con- 
templated proceeding  by  stratagem  in  the  first  instance  ; 
and  that  their  design  was,  to  endeavour  to  extort  a  con- 
fession from  the  gentle  Sarah. 


818 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  When  slie  finds  "how  much  we  know,  and  how  we 
know  it,"  he  said,  and  that  she  is  clearly  compromised 
already,  we  are  not  without  strong  hopes  that  we  may  be 
enabled  through  her  means  to  punish  the  other  two 
effectually.  If  we  could  do  that,  she  might  go  scot-free 
for  aught  I  cared." 

Dick  received  this  project  in  anything  but  a  gracious 
manner,  representing  with  as  much  warmth  as  he  was 
then  capable  of  showing,  that  they  would  find  the  old 
buck  (meaning  Sarah)  more  difficult  to  manage  than  Quilp 
himself— that,  for  any  tampering,  terrifying,  or  cajolery, 
she  was  a  very  unpromising  and  unyielding  subject — 
that  she  was  of  a  kind  of  brass  not  easily  melted  or 
moulded  into  shape — in  short,  that  they  were  no  match 
for  her,  and  would  be  signally  defeated.  But,  it  was  in 
vain  to  urge  them  to  adopt  some  other  course.  The 
single  gentleman  has  been  described  as  explaining  their 
joint  intentions,  but  it  should  have  been  written  that  they 
all  spoke  together  ;  that  if  any  one  of  them  by  chance 
held  his  peace  for  a  moment,  he  stood  gasping  and  pant- 
ing for  an  opportunity  to  strike  in  again  ;  in  a  word, 
that  they  had  reached  that  pitch  of  impatience  and 
anxiety  where  men  can  neither  be  persuaded  nor  reasoned 
with  ;  and  that  it  would  have  been  as  easy  to  turn  the 
most  impetuous  wind  that  ever  blew,  as  to  prevail  on 
them  to  reconsider  t?ieir  determination.  So,  after  telling 
Mr.  Swiveller  how  they  had  not  lost  sight  of  Kit's  mother 
and  the  children  ;  how  they  had  never  once  even  lost 
sight  of  Kit  himself,  but  had  been  unremitting  in  their 
endeavours  to  procure  a  mitigation  of  his  sentence  ;  how 
they  had  been  perfectly  distracted  between  the  strong 
proofs  of  his  guilt,  and  their  own  fading  hopes  of  his 
innocence  ;  and  how  he,  Richard  Swiveller,  might  keep 
his  mind  at  rest,  for  everything  should  be  happily  ad- 
justed between  that  time  and  night  ; — after  telling  him 
all  this,  and  adding  a  great  many  kind  and  cordial  ex- 
pressions, personal  to  himself,  which  it  is  unnecessary 
to  recite,  Mr.  Garland,  the  notary,  and  the  single  gen- 
tleman, took  their  leaves  at  a  very  critical  time,  or 
Richard  Swiveller  must  assuredly  have  been  driven  into 
another  fever,  whereof  the  results  might  have  been  fatal. 

Mr.  Abel  remained  behind,  very  often  looking  at  his 
watch  and  at  the  room  door,  until  Mr.  Swiveller  was 
roused  from  a  short  nap,  by  the  setting-down  on  the 
landing-place  outside,  as  from  the  shoulders  of  a  porter, 
of  some  giant  load,  which  seemed  to  shake  the  house, 
and  make  the  little  physic  bottles  on  the  mantel-shelf 
ring  again.  Directly  this  sound  reached  his  ears,  Mr. 
Abel  started  up,  and  hobbled  to  the  door,  and  opened  it ; 
and  behold  !  there  stood  a  strong  man,  with  a  mighty 
hamper,  which,  being  hauled  into  the  room  and  presently 
unpacked,  disgorged  such  treasures  of  tea,  and  coffee, 
and  wine,  and  rusks,  and  oranges,  and  grapes,  and  fowls 
ready  trussed  for  boiling,  and  calves'-foot  jelly,  and 
arrow-root,  and  sago,  and  other  delicate  restoratives,  that 
the  small  servant  who  had  never  thought  it  possible  that 
such  things  could  be,  except  in  shops,  stood  rooted  to 
the  spot  in  her  one  shoe,  with  her  mouth  and  eyes  water- 
ing in  unison,  and  her  power  of  speech  quite  gone.  But 
not  so  Mr.  Abel  ;  or  the  strong  man  who  emptied  the 
hamper,  big  as  it  was,  in  a  twinkling  ;  and  not  so  the 
nice  old  lady,  who  appeared  so  suddenly  that  she  might 
have  come  out  of  the  hamper  too  (it  was  quite  large 
enough),  and  who  bustling  about  on  tiptoe  and  without 
noise— now  here,  now  there,  now  everywhere  at  once — 
began  to  fill  out  the  jelly  in  teacups,  and  to  make  chicken 
broth  in  small  saucepans,  and  to  peel  oranges  for  the  sick 
man  and  to  cut  them  up  in  little  pieces,  and  to  ply  the 
small  servant  with  glasses  of  wine  and  choice  bits  of 
everything  until  more  substantial  meat  could  be  prepared 
for  her  refreshment.  The  whole  of  which  appearances 
were  so  unexpected  and  bewildering,  that  Mr.  Swiveller 
when  he  had  taken  two  oranges  and  a  little  jelly,  and 
had  seen  the  strongman  walk  off  with  the  empty  basket, 
plainly  leaving  all  that  abundance  for  his  use  and  benefit, 
was  fain  to  lie  down  and  fall  asleep  again,  from  sheer 
inability  to  entertain  such  wonders  in  his  mind. 

Meanwhile  the  single  gentleman,  the  Notary,  and  Mr. 
Garland,  repaired  to  a  certain  coffee  house,  and  from  : 
that  place  indited  and  sent  a  letter  to  Miss  Sally  Brass,  [ 
requesting  her,  in  terms  mysterious  and  brief,  to  favour  j 
an  unknown  friend  who  wished  to  consult  her,  with  her  { 


company  there,  as  speedily  as  possible.  The  communi- 
cation performed  its  errand  so  well,  that  within  ten 
minutes  of  the  messenger's  return  and  report  of  its  de- 
livery. Miss  Brass  herself  was  announced. 

Pray  ma'am,"  said  the  single  gentleman,  whom  she 
found  alone  in  the  room,  "  take  a  chair." 

Miss  Brass  sat  herself  down  in  a  very  stiff  and  frigid 
state,  and  seemed — as  indeed  she  was — not  a  little  as- 
tonished to  find  that  the  lodger  and  her  mysterious  cor- 
respondent were  one  and  the  same  person. 

"  You  did  not  expect  to  see  me  ?  "  said  the  single  gen- 
tleman. 

"I  didn't  think  much  about  it,"  returned  the  beauty. 
"  I  supposed  it  was  business  of  some  kind  or  other.  If 
it's  about  the  apartments,  of  course  you'll  give  my 
brother  regular  notice,  you  know — or  money.  That's 
very  easily  settled.  You're  a  responsible  party,  and  in 
such  a  case  lawful  money  and  lawful  notice  are  pretty 
much  the  same." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  good  opinion,"  retorted 
the  single  gentleman,  "  and  quite  concur  in  those  senti- 
ments. But,  that  is  not  the  subject  on  which  I  wish  to 
speak  with  you." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Sally.    "  Then  just  state  the  particulars, 
will  you  ?    I  suppose  it's  professional  business  ?  " 
"  Why  it  is  connected  with  the  law,  certainly." 
"  Very  well, ""returned  Miss  Brass.    *'  My  brother  and 
I  are  just  the  same.    I  can  take  any  instructions  or  give 
you  any  advice." 

"  As  there  are  other  parties  interested  besides  myself," 
said  the  single  gentleman,  rising  and  opening  the  door 
of  an  inner  room,  "  we  had  better  confer  together.  Miss 
Brass  is  here,  gentlemen  !" 

Mr.  Garland  and  the  Notary  walked  in,  looking  very 
grave  ;  and,  drawing  up  two  chairs,  one  on  each  side  of 
the  single  gentleman,  formed  a  kind  of  fence  round  the 
gentle  Sarah,  and  penned  her  into  a  corner.  Her  brother 
Sampson  under  such  circumstances  would  certainly  have 
evinced  some  confusion  or  anxiety,  but  she — all  com- 
posure— pulled  out  the  tin  box  and  calmly  took  a  pinch 
of  snuff. 

"Miss  Brass,"  said  the  Notary,  taking  the  word  at 
this  crisis,  "  we  professional  people  understand  each 
other,  and,  when  we  choose,  can  say  what  we  have  to 
say,  in  very  few  words.  You  advertised  a  runaway  ser- 
vant, the  other  day  ?  "  • 

"Well,"  returned  Miss  Sally,  with  a  sudden  flush 
overspreading  her  features,  "  what  of  that  ?  " 

"She  is  found,  ma'am,"  said  the  Notary,  pulling  out 
his  pocket-handkerchief  with  a  flourish.  *'  She  is 
found." 

"Who  found  her?"  demanded  Sarah  hastily. 
"  We  did  ma'am — we  three.    Only  last  night,  or  you 
would  have  heard  from  us  before." 

"  And  now  I  ?iave  heard  from  you,"  said  Miss  Brass, 
folding  her  arms  as  though  she  were  about  to  deny  some- 
thing  to  the  death,  "  what  have  you  got  to  say  ?  Some- 
thing you  have  got  into  your  heads  about  her,  of  course. 
Prove  it,  will  you — that's  all.  Prove  it.  You  have 
found  her,  you  say.  I  can  tell  you  (if  you  don't  know 
it)  that  you  have  found  the  most  artful,  lying,  pilfering, 
devilish  little  minx  that  was  ever  born. — Have  you  got 
her  here?"  she  added,  looking  sharply  round. 

"  No,  she  is  not  here  at  present,"  returned  the  Notary. 
"  But  she  is  quite  safe." 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  Sally,  twitching  a  pinch  of  snuff  out  of 
her  box,  as  spitefully  as  if  she  were  in  the  very  act  of 
wrenching  off  the  small  servant's  nose;  "she  shall  be 
safe  enough  from  this  time,  I  warrant  you." 

"  I  hope  so,"  replied  the  Notary. — "  Did  it  occur  to 
you  for  the  first  time,  when  you  found  she  had  run 
away,  that  there  were  two  keys  to  your  kitchen  door  ?  " 

Miss  Sally  took  another  pinch,  and,  putting  her  head 
on  one  side,  looked  at  her  questioner,  with  a  curious 
kind  of  spasm  about  her  mouth,  but  with  a  cunning 
aspect  of  immense  expression. 

"Two  keys,"  repeated  the  Notary;  "one  of  which 
gave  her  the  opportunities  of  roaming  through  the  house 
:  at  nights  when  you  supposed  her  fast  locked  up,  and  of 
[  overhearing  confidential  consultations — among  others, 
j  that  particular  conference,  to  be  described  to-day  before 
I  a  justice,  which  you  will  have  an  opportunity  of  hearing 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


819 


lier  relate  ;  that  conference  which  you  and  Mr.  Brass 
held  together,  on  the  night  before  that  most  unfortunate 
and  innocent  young  man  was  accused  of  robbery,  by  a 
horrible  device  of  which  I  will  only  say  that  it  may  be 
characterised  by  the  epithets  you  have  applied  to  this 
wretched  little  witness,  and  by  a  few  stronger  ones  be- 
sides." 

Sally  took  another  pinch.  Although  her  face  was 
wonderfully  composed,  it  was  apparent  that  she  was 
wholly  taken  by  surprise,  and  that  what  she  expected 
to  be  taxed  with,  in  connection  with  her  small  servant, 
was  something  very  different  from  this. 

*•  Come,  come,  Miss  Brass,"  said  the  Notary,  "you 
have  great  command  of  feature,  but  you  feel,  I  see,  that 
by  a  chance  which  never  entered  your  imagination,  this 
base  design  is  revealed,  and  two  of  its  plotters  must  be 
brought  to  justice.  Now,  you  know  the  pains  and  pen- 
alties you  are  liable  to,  and  so  I  need  not  dilate  upon 
them,  but  I  have  a  proposal  to  make  to  you.  You  have 
the  honour  of  being  sister  to  one  of  the  greatest  scoun- 
drels unhung  ;  and,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so  to  a  lady, 
you  are  in  every  respect  quite  worthy  of  him.  But,  con- 
nected with  you  two  is  a  third  party,  a  villain  of  the 
name  of  Quilp,  the  prime  mover  of  the  whole  diabolical 
device,  who  I  believe  to  be  worse  than  either.  For  his 
sake,  Miss  Brass,  do  us  the  favour  to  reveal  the  whole 
history  of  this  affair.  Let  me  remind  you  that  your  do- 
ing so,  at  our  instance,  will  place  you  in  a  safe  and  com- 
fortable position — your  present  one  is  not  desirable — and 
cannot  injure  your  brother  ;  for  against  him  and  you  we 
have  quite  sufficient  evidence  (as  you  hear)  already.  I 
will  not  say  to  you  that  we  suggest  this  course  in  mercy 
(for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  we  do  not  entertain  any  re- 
gard for  you),  but  it  is  a  necessity  to  which  we  are  re- 
duced, and  I  recommend  it  to  you  as  a  matter  of  the 
very  best  policy.  Time,"  said  Mr.  Witherden,  pulling 
out  his  watch,  "  in  a  business  like  this,  is  exceedingly 
precious.  Favour  us  with  your  decision  as  speedily  as 
possible,  ma'am." 

With  a  smile  upon  her  face,  and  looking  at  each  of 
the  three  by  turns.  Miss  Brass  took  two  or  three  more 
pinches  of  snuff,  and  having  by  this  time  very  little 
left,  travelled  round  and  round  the  box  with  her  fore- 
finger and  thumb,  scraping  up  another.  Having  dis- 
posed of  this  likewise  and  put  the  box  carefully  in  her 
pocket,  she  said, — 

"  I  am  to  accept  or  reject  at  once,  am  I  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Witherden. 

The  charming  creature  was  opening  her  lips  to  speak 
in  reply,  when  the  door  was  hastily  opened  too,  and  the 
head  of  Sampson  Brass  was  thrust  into  the  room. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  that  gentleman  hastilv.  "Wait 
a  bit  1 " 

So  saying,  and  quite  indifferent  to  the  astonishment 
his  presence  occasioned,  he  crept  in,  shut  the  door, 
kissed  his  greasy  glove  as  servilely  as  if  it  were  the 
dust,  and  made  a  most  abject  bow. 

"  Sarah,"  said  Brass,  "  hold  your  tongue  if  you  please, 
and  let  me  speak.  Gentlemen,  if  I  could  express  the 
pleasure  it  gives  me  to  see  three  such  men  in  a  happy 
unity  of  feeling  and  concord  of  sentiment,  I  think  you 
would  hardly  believe  me.  But  though  I  am  unfortu- 
nate— nay  gentlemen,  criminal,  if  we  are  to  use  harsh 
expressions  in  company  like  thiG  scill,  I  have  my  feel- 
ings like  other  men.  I  have  heard  of  a  poet,  who  re- 
marked that  feelings  were  the  common  lot  of  all.  If  he 
could  have  been  a  pig,  gentlemen,  and  have  uttered  that 
sentiment,  he  would  still  have  been  immortal." 

"  If  you're  not  an  idiot,"  said  Miss  Brass  harshly, 
**  hold  your  peace." 

"  Sarah,  my  dear,"  returned  her  brother,  "  thank  you. 
But  I  know  what  I  am  about,  my  love,  and  will  take 
the  liberty  of  expressing  myself  accordingly.  Mr. 
Witherden,  sir,  your  handkerchief  is  hanging  out  of 
your  pocket — would  you  allow  me  to — " 

As  Mr.  Brass  advanced  to  remedy  this  accident,  the 
Notary  shrunk  from  him  with  an  air  of  disgust.  Brass, 
who  over  and  above  his  usual  prepossessing  qualities, 
had  a  scratched  face,  a  green  shade  over  one  eye,  and  a 
hat  grievously  crushed,  stopped  short,  and  looked  round 
with  a  pitiful  smile. 

"  He  shuns  me,"  said  Sampson,  "  even  when  I  would, 


as  I  may  say,  heap  coals  of  fire  upon  his  head.  Well  I 
Ah  !  But  1  am  a  falling  house,  and  the  rats  (if  I  may 
be  allowed  the  expression  in  reference  to  a  gentleman  I 
respect  and  love  beyond  everything)  fly  from  me  1  Gen- 
tlemen— regarding  your  conversation  just  now,  I  hap- 
pened to  see  my  sister  on  her  way  here,  and  wondering 
where  she  could  be  going  to,  and  being — may  I  venture 
to  say? — naturally  of  a  suspicious  turn,  followed  her. 
Since  then,  I  have  been  listening." 

"If  you're  not  mad,"  interposed  Miss  Sally,  "stop 
there,  and  say  no  more." 

"  Sarah,  my  dear,"  rejoined  Brass  with  undiminished 
politeness,  "  I  thank  you  kindly,  but  will  still  proceed. 
Mr.  Witherden,  sir,  as  we  have  the  honour  to  be  mem- 
bers of  the  same  profession — to  say  nothing  of  that  other 
gentleman  having  been  my  lodger,  and  having  partak- 
en, as  one  may  say,  of  the  hospitality  of  my  roof — I 
think  you  might  have  given  me  the  refusal  of  this  offer 
in  the  first  instance.  I  do  indeed.  Now,  my  dear  sir," 
cried  Brass,  seeing  that  the  Notary  was  about  to  inter- 
rupt him,  "  suffer  me  to  speak,  I  beg." 

Mr.  Witherden  was  silent,  and  Brass  went  on. 

"  If  you  will  do  me  the  favour,"  he  said,  holding  up 
the  green  shade,  and  revealing  an  eye  most  horribly  dis- 
coloured, "to  look  at  this,  you  will  naturally  inquire, 
in  your  own  minds,  how  did  I  get  it.  If  you  look  from 
that,  to  my  face,  you  will  wonder  what  could  have  been 
the  cause  of  all  these  scratches.  And  if  from  them  to 
my  hat,  how  it  came  into  the  state  in  which  you  see  it. 
Gentlemen,"  said  Brass,  striking  the  hat  fiercely  with 
his  clenched  hand,  "  to  all  these  questions  I  answer — 
Quilp  ! " 

The  three  gentlemen  looked  at  each  other,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  I  say,"  pursued  Brass,  glancing  aside  at  his  sister, 
as  though  he  were  talking  for  her  information,  and 
speaking  with  a  snarling  malignity,  in  violent  contrast 
to  his  usual  smoothness,  "  that  I  answer  to  all  these 
questions — Quilp — Quilp,  who  deludes  me  into  his  infer- 
nal den,  and  takes  a  delight  in  looking  on  and  chuckling 
while  1  scorch,  and  burn,  and  bruise,  and  maim  myself 
— Quilp,  who  never  once,  no  never  once,  in  all  our  com- 
mimications  together,  has  treated  me  otherwise  than  as 
a  dog — Quilp,  whom  I  have  always  hated  with  my  whole 
heart,  but  never  so  much  as  lately.  He  gives  me  the 
cold  shoulder  on  this  very  matter  as  if  he  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  instead  of  being  the  first  to  propose  it.  I 
can't  trust  him.  In  one  of  his  howling,  raving,  blazing 
humours,  I  believe  he'd  let  it  out,  if  it  was  murder,  and 
never  think  of  himself  so  long  as  he  could  terrify  me. 
Now,"  said  Brass,  picking  up  his  hat  again,  replacing 
the  shade  over  his  eye,  and  actually  crouching  down,  in 
the  excess  of  his  servility,  "what  does  all  this  lead  me 
to? — what  should  you  say  it  led  me  to,  gentlemen? — 
could  you  guess  at  all  near  the  mark  ?  " 

"Nobody  spoke.  Brass  stood  smirking  for  a  little 
while,  as  if  he  had  propounded  some  choice  conundrum  ; 
and  then  said  : 

"  To  be  short  with  you,  then,  it  leads  me  to  this.  If 
the  truth  has  come  out,  as  it  plainly  has  in  a  manner 
that  there's  no  standing  up  against — and  a  very  sublime 
and  grand  thing  is  Truth,  gentlemen  in  its  way,  though 
.like  other  sublime  and  grand  things,  such  as  thunder- 
storms and  that,  we're  not  always  over  and  above  glad 
to  see  it — I  liad  better  turn  upon  this  man,  than  let  this 
man  turn  upon  me.  It's  clear  to  me  that  I  am  done  for. 
Therefore,  if  anybody  is  to  split, I  had  better  be  the  person, 
and  have  the  advantage  of  it.  Sarah,  my  dear,  compara- 
tively speaking  you're  safe.  I  relate  these  circumstances 
for  my  own  profit." 

With  that,  Mr.  Brass,  in  a  great  hurry,  revealed  the 
whole  story  ;  bearing  as  heavily  as  possible  on  his  amia- 
ble employer,  and  making  himself  out  to  be  rather  a 
saint-like  and  holy  character,  though  subject  — he 
acknowledged — to  human  weaknesses.  He  concluded 
thus  : 

"  Now,  gentlemen,  I  am  not  a  man  who  does  things 
by  halves.  Being  in  for  a  penny,  I  am  ready,  as  the  say- 
ing is,  to  be  in  for  a  pound.  You  must  do  with  me  as 
you  please,  and  take  me  where  you  please.  If  you  wish 
to  have  this  in  writing,  we'll  reduce  it  into  manuscript 
immediately.    You  will  be  tender  with  me,  I  am  sure. 


820 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


I  am  quite  confident  you  will  be  tender  with  me.  You 
are  men  of  honour,  and  have  feeling  hearts.  I  yielded 
from  necessity  to  Quilp,  for  though  necessity  has  no  law, 
she  has  her  lawyers.  I  yield  to  you  from  necessity  too  ; 
from  policy  besides  ;  and  because  of  feelings  that  have 
been  a  pretty  long  time  working  within  me.  Punish 
Quilp,  gentlemen.  Weigh  heavily  upon  him.  Grind 
him  down.  Tread  him  under  foot.  He  has  done  as 
much  by  me,  for  many  and  many  a  day." 

Having  now  arrived  at  the  conclusion  of  his  discourse, 
Sampson'' checked  the  current  of  his  wrath,  kissed  his 
glove  again,  and  smiled  as  only  parasites  and  cowards 
can. 

"  And  this,"  said  Miss  Brass,  raising  her  head,  with 
which  she  had  hitherto  sat  resting  on  her  hands,  and 
surveying  him  from  head  to  foot  with  a  bitter  sneer, 
"this  is  my  brother,  is  it  !  This  is  my  brother,  that  I 
have  worked  and  toiled  for,  and  believed  to  have  had 
something  of  the  man  in  him  !  " 

"  Sarah,  my  dear,"  returned  Sampson,  rubbing  his 
hands  feebly  ;  "  you  disturb  our  friends.  Besides  you — 
you're  disappointed,  Sarah,  and  not  knowing  what  you 
say,  expose  yourself." 

"  Yes,  you  pitiful  dastard,"  retorted  the  lovely  dam- 
sel, "  I  understand  you.  You  feared  that  I  should  be 
beforehand  with  you.  But  do  you  think  that  /  would 
have  been  enticed  to  say  a  Avord  !  I'd  have  scorned  it,  if 
they  had  tried  and  tempted  me  for  twenty  years." 

"  He,  he  ! "  simpered  Brass,  who,  in  his  deep  debase- 
ment, really  seemed  to  have  changed  sexes  with  his  sis- 
ter, and  to  have  made  over  to  her  any  spark  of  manli- 
ness he  might  have  possessed.  "  You  think  so,  Sarah, 
you  think  so  perhaps  ;  but  you  would  have  acted  quite 
different,  my  good  fellow.  You  will  not  have  forgotten 
that  it  was  a  maxim  with  Foxey — our  revered  father, 
gentlemen — '  Always  suspect  everybody. '  That's  the 
maxim  to  go  through  life  with  !  If  you  were  not  actu- 
ally about  to  purchase  your  own  safety  when  I  showed 
myself,  I  suspect  you'd  have  done  it  by  this  time.  And 
therefore  I've  done  it  myself,  and  spared  you  the  trouble 
as  well  as  the  shame.  The  shame,  gentlemen,"  added 
Brass,  allowing  himself  to  be  slightly  overcome,  "if 
there  is  any,  is  mine.  It's  better  that  a  female  should 
be  spared  it." 

With  deference  to  the  better  opinion  of  Mr.  Brass,  and 
more  particularly  to  the  authority  of  his  Great  Ancestor 
it  may  be  doubted,  with  humility,  whether  the  elevating 
principle  laid  down  by  the  latter  gentleman,  and  acted 
upon  by  his  descendant,  is  always  a  prudent  one,  or  at- 
tended in  practice  with  the  desired  results.  This  is, 
beyond  cpiestion,  a  bold  and  presumptuous  doubt,  inas- 
much as  many  distinguished  characters,  called  men  of 
the  world,  long-headed  customers,  knowing  dogs,  shrewd 
fellows,  capital  hands  at  business,  and  the  like,  have 
made,  and  do  daily  make,  this  axiom  their  polar  star  and 
compass.  Still,  the  doubt  may  be  gently  insinuated. 
And  in  illustration  it  may  be  observed  that  if  Mr.  Brass, 
not  being  over-suspicious,  had,  without  prying  and  list- 
ening, left  his  sister  to  manage  the  conference  on  their 
joint  behalf,  or,  prying  and  listening,  had  not  been  in 
such  a  mighty  hurry  to  anticipate  her  (which  he  would 
not  have  been,  but  for  his  distrust  and  jealousy),  he 
would  probably  have  found  himself  much  better  off  in 
the  end.  Thus,  it  will  always  happen  that  these  men  of  • 
the  world,  who  go  through  it  in  armour,  defend  them- 
selves from  quite  as  much  good  as  evil  ;  to  say  nothing 
of  the  inconvenience  and  absurdity  of  mounting  guard 
with  a  microscope  at  all  times,  and  of  wearing  a  coat  of 
mail  on  the  most  innocent  occasions. 

The  three  gentlemen  spoke  together  apart,  for  a  few 
moments.  At  the  end  of  their  consultation,  which  was 
very  brief,  the  Notary  pointed  to  the  writing  materials 
on  the  table,  and  informed  Mr.  Brass  that  if  he  wished 
to  make  any  statement  in  writing,  he  had  the  opportu- 
nity of  doing  so.  At  the  same  time  he  felt  bound  to  tell 
him  that  they  would  require  his  attendance,  presently, 
l)efore  a  justice  of  the  peace,  and  that  in  what  he  did  or 
said,  he  was  guided  entirely  by  his  own  discretion. 

"  Gentlemen."  said  Brass,  drawing  off  his  gloves,  and 
crawling  in  spirit  upon  the  ground  before  them,  "  I  will 
justify  the  tenderness  with  which  I  know  I  shall  be 
treated  ;  and  as,  without  tenderness,  I  should,  now  that 


this  discovery  has  been  made,  stand  in  the  worst  position 
of  the  three,  you  may  depend  upon  it  I  will  make  a 
clean  breast.  Mr.  Witherden,  sir,  a  kind  of  faintness  is 
upon  my  spirits — if  you  would  do  me  the  favour  to  ring 
the  bell  and  order  up  a  glass  of  something  warm  and 
spicy,  I  shall,  notwithstanding  what  has  passed,  have  a 
melancholy  pleasure  in  drinking  your  good  health.  I 
had  hoped,"  said  Brass,  looking  round  with  a  mournful 
smile,  "to  have  seen  you  three  gentlemen,  one  day  or 
another,  with  your  legs  under  the  mahogany  in  my  hum- 
ble parlour  in  the  Marks.  But  hopes  are  fleeting.  Dear 
me  ! " 

Mr.  Brass  found  himself  so  exceedingly  affected,  at 
this  point,  that  he  could  say  or  do  nothing  more  until 
some  refreshment  arrived.  Having  partaken  of  it, 
pretty  freely  for  one  in  his  agitated  state,  he  sat  down 
to  write. 

The  lovely  Sarah,  now  with  her  arms  folded,  and  now 
with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her,  paced  the  room  with 
many  strides,  while  her  brother  was  thus  employed, 
and  sometimes  stopped  to  pull  out  her  snuff-box  and 
bite  the  lid.  She  continued  to  pace  up  and  down  until 
she  was  quite  tired,  and  then  fell  asleep  on  a  chair  near 
the  door. 

It  has  been  since  supposed,  with  some  reason,  that  this 
slumber  was  a  sham  or  feint,  as  she  contrived  to  slip 
away  unobserved  in  the  dusk  of  the  afternoon.  Whether 
this  was  an  intentional  and  waking  departure,  or  a  som- 
nambulistic leave-taking  and  walking  in  her  sleep,  may 
remain  a  subject  of  contention  ;  but,  on  one  point  (and 
indeed  the  main  one)  all  parties  aj-e  agreed.  In  what- 
ever state  she  walked  away,  she  certainly  did  not  walk 
back  again. 

Mention  having  been  made  of  the  dusk  of  the  after- 
noon, it  will  be  inferred  that  Mr.  Brass's  task  occupied 
some  time  in  the  completion.  It  was  not  finished  until 
evening  ;  but,  being  done  at  last,  that  worthy  person 
and  the  three  friends  adjourned  in  a  hackney-coach  to 
the  private  office  of  a  Justice,  who,  giving  Mr.  Brass  a 
warm  reception  and  detaining  him  in  a  secure  place  that 
he  might  insure  to  himself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him 
on  the  morrow,  dismissed  the  others  with  the  cheering 
assurance  that  a  warrant  could  not  fail  to  be  granted 
next  day  for  the  apprehension  of  Mr.  Quilp,  and  that  a 
proper  application  and  statement  of  all  the  circumstances 
to  the  secretary  of  state  (who  was  fortunately  in  town), 
would  no  doubt  procure  Kit's  free  pardon  and  liberation 
without  delay. 

And  now,  indeed,  it  seemed  that  Quilp's  malignant 
career  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  that  retribution, 
which  often  travels  slowly — especially  when  heaviest — 
had  tracked  his  footsteps  with  a  sure  and  certain  scent, 
and  was  gaining  on  him  fast.  Unmindful  of  her  steal- 
thy tread,  her  Aictim  holds  his  course  in  fancied  triumph. 
Still  at  his  heels  she  comes,  and  once  afoot,  is  never 
turned  aside  ! 

Their  business  ended,  the  three  gentleman  hastened 
back  to  the  lodgings  of  Mr.  Swiveller,  whom  they  found 
progressing  so  favourably  in  his  recovery  as  to  have  been 
able  to  sit  up  for  half  an  hour,  and  to  have  conversed 
with  cheerfulness.  Mrs.  Garland  had  gone  home  some 
time  since,  but  Mr.  Abel  was  still  sitting  with  him. 
After  telling  him  all  they  had  done,  the  two  Mr.  Garlands 
and  the  single  gentleman,  as  if  by  some  previous  under- 
standing, took  their  leaves  for  the  night,  leaving  the  in- 
valid alone  with  the  Notary  and  the  small  servant. 

"As  you  are  so  much  better,"  said  Mr.  Witherden, 
sitting  down  at  the  bedside,  "I  may  venture  to  com- 
municate to  yon  a  piece  of  news  which  has  come  to  me 
professionally." 

The  idea  of  any  professional  intelligence  from  a  gen- 
tleman connected  with  legal  matters,  appeared  to  afford 
Richard  anything  but  a  pleasing  anticipation.  Perhaps 
he  connected  it  in  his  own  mind  with  one  or  two  out- 
standing accounts,  in  reference  to  which  he  had  already 
received  divers  threatening  letters.  His  countenance  fell 
as  he  replied, 

"Certainly,  sir.  I  hope  it's  not  anything  of  a  very 
disagreeable  nature,  though?" 

"  If  I  thought  it  so,  I  should  choose  some  better  time 
for  communicating  it,"  replied  the  Notary.  "Let  me 
tell  you,  first,  that  my  friends  who  have  been  here  to-day 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


821 


know  nothing  of  it,  and  tliat  their  kindness  to  you  has 
been  quite  spontaneous  and  with  no  hope  of  return.  It 
may  do  a  thoughtless,  careless  man,  good,  to  know  that." 

Dick  thanked  him,  and  said  he  ho[)ed  it  would. 

"I  have  been  making  some  inquiries  about  you,"  said 
Mr.  Witherden,  "little  thinking  that  I  should  find  you 
under  such  circumstances  as  those  which  have  brought 
us  together.  You  are  the  nephew  of  Rebecca  Swiveller, 
spinster,  deceased,  of  Cheselbourne,  in  Dorsetshire." 

"  Deceased  !  "  cried  Dick. 

"  Deceased.  If  you  had  been  another  sort  of  nephew, 
you  would  have  come  into  possession  (so  says  the  will, 
and  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  it)  of  five-and-twenty 
thousand  pounds.  As  it  is,  you  have  fallen  into  an  an- 
nuity of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year;  but  I 
think  I  may  congratulate  you  even  upon  that," 

"Sir,"  said  Dick,  sobbing  and  laughing  together, 
"  you  may.  For,  please  God,  we'll  make  a  scholar  of  the 
poor  Marchioness  yet  !  And  she  shall  walk  in  silk  at- 
tire, and  siller  have  to  spare,  or  may  I  never  rise  from 
this  bed  again  ! " 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

Unconscious  of  the  proceedings  faithfully  narrated 
in  the  last  chapter,  and  little  dreaming  of  the  mine 
which  had  been  sprung  beneath  him  (for,  to  the  end  that 
he  should  have  no  warning  of  the  business  a  foot,  the 
profoundest  secrecy  was  observed  in  the  whole  transac- 
tion), Mr  Quilp  remained  shut  up  in  his  hermitage,  un- 
disturbed by  any  suspicion,  and  extremely  well  satisfied 
with  the  result  of  his  machinations.  Being  engaged  in 
the  adjustment  of  some  accounts — an  occupation  to 
which  the  silence  and  solitude  of  his  retreat  were  very 
favourable — he  had  not  strayed  from  his  den  for  two 
whole  days.  The  third  day  of  his  devotion  to  this  pur- 
suit found  him  still  hard  at  work,  and  little  disposed  to 
stir  abroad. 

It  was  the  day  next  after  Mr.  Brass's  confession,  and, 
consequently,  that  which  threatened  the  restriction  of 
Mr.  Quilp's  liberty,  and  the  abrupt  communication  to 
him  of  some  very  unpleasant  and  unwelcome  facts. 
Having  no  intuitive  perception  of  the  cloud  which  low- 
ered upon  his  house,  the  dwarf  was  in  his  ordinary  state 
of  cheerfulness  ;  and  when  he  found  he  was  becoming- 
too  much  engrossed  by  business  with  a  due  regard  to  his 
health  and  spirits,  he  varied  its  monotonous  routine  with 
a  little  screeching,  or  howling,  or  some  other  innocent 
relaxation  of  that  nature. 

He  was  attended,  as  usual,  by  Tom  Scott,  who  sat 
crouching  over  the  fire  after  the  manner  of  a  toad,  and, 
from  time  to  time,  when  his  master's  back  was  turned, 
imitated  his  grimaces  with  a  fearful  exactness.  The 
figure-head  had  not  yet  disappeared,  but  remained  in  its 
old  place.  The  face,  horribly  seared  by  the  frequent 
application  of  the  red-hot  poker,  and  further  ornamented 
by  the  insertion,  in  the  tip  of  the  nose,  of  a  tenpenny 
nail,  yet  smiled  blandly  in  its  less  lacerated  parts,  and 
seemed,  like  a  sturdy  martyr,  to  provoke  its  tormentor 
to  the  commission  of  new  outrages  and  insults. 

The  day,  in  the  highest  and  brightest  quarters  of  the 
town,  was  damp,  dark,  cold,  and  gloomy.  In  that  low 
and  marshy  spot,  the  fog  filled  every  nook  and  corner 
with  a  thick  dense  cloud.  Every  object  was  obscured  at 
one  or  two  yards'  distance.  The  warning  lights  and 
fires  upon  the  river  were  powerless  beneath  this  pall, 
and,  but  for  a  raw  and  piercing  chilness  in  the  air,  and 
now  and  then  the  cry  of  some  bewildered  boatman  as  he 
rested  on  his  oars  and  tried  to  make  out  where  he  was, 
the  river  itself  might  have  been  miles  away. 

The  mist,  though  sluggish  and  slow  to  move,  was  of  a 
keenly  searching  kind.  No  muffling  up  in  furs  and 
broadcloth  kept  it  out.  It  seemed  to  penetrate  into  the 
very  bones  of  the  shrinking  wayfarers,  and  to  rack  them 
with  cold  and  pains.  Everything  was  wet  and  clammy 
to  the  touch.  The  warm  blaze  alone  defied  it,  and  leaped 
and  sparkled  merrily.  It  was  a  day  to  be  at  home, 
crowding  about  the  fire,  telling  stories  of  travellers  who 
had  lost  their  way  in  such  weather  on  heaths  and  moors  • 
and  to  love  a  warm  hearth  more  than  ever. 

The  dwarf's  humour,  as  we  know,  was  to  have  a  fire- 


side to  himself ;  and  when  he  was  disposed  to  be  con- 
vivial, to  enjoy  himself  alone.  By  no  means  insensible 
to  the  comfort  of  being  within  doors,  he  ordered  Tom 
Scott  to  pile  the  little  stove  with  coals,  and,  dismissing 
his  work  for  that  day,  determined  to  be  jovial. 

To  this  end,  lie  lighted  up  fresh  candles  and  heaped 
more  fuel  on  the  fire  ;  and  having  dined  off  a  beefsteak, 
which  he  cooked  himself  in  somewhat  of  a  savage  and 
cannibal-like  manner,  brewed  a  great  bowl  of  hot 
punch,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  sat  down  to  spend  the 
evening. 

At  this  moment  a  low  knocking  at  the  cabin-door  ar- 
rested his  attention.  When  it  had  been  twice  or  thrice 
repeated,  he  softly  opened  the  little  window,  and  thrust- 
ing his  head  out,  demanded  who  was  there. 
"  Only  me,  Quilp,"  replied  a  woman's  voice. 
"  Only  you  ! "  cried  the  dwarf,  stretching  his  neck  to 
obtain  a  better  view  of  his  visitor.  "  And  what  brings 
yon  here,  you  jade?  How  dare  you  approach  the  ogre's 
castle,  ehf" 

"I  have  come  with  some  news,"  rejoined  his  spouse. 
"  Don't  be  angry  with  me." 

"  Is  it  good  news,  pleasant  news,  news  to  make  a  man 
skip  and  snap  his  fingers?"  said  the  dwarf.  "Is  the 
dear  old  lady  dead  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  news  it  is,  or  whether  it's  good 
or  bad,"  rejoined  his  wife. 

"Then  she's  alive,"  said  Quilp,  and  there's  nothing 
the  matter  with  her.  Go  home  again,  you  bird  of  evil 
note,  go  home  ! " 

"I  have  brought  a  letter  "—cried  the  meek  little 
woman. 

"  Toss  it  in  at  the  window  here,  and  go  your  ways," 
said  Quilp,  interrupting  her,  "  or  I'll  come  out  and  scratch 
you." 

"No,  but  please,  Quilp — do  hear  me  speak,"  urged 
his  submissive  wife,  in  tears.    "  Please  do  ! " 

"  Speak  then,"  growled  the  dwarf,  with  a  malicious 
grin.  "Be  quick  and  short  about  it.  Speak,  will 
you?" 

"It  was  left  at  our  house  this  afternoon,"  said  Mrs. 
Quilp,  trembling,  "by  a  boy  who  said  he  didn't  know 
from  whom  it  came,  but  that  it  was  given  to  him  to 
leave,  and  that  he  was  told  to  say  it  must  be  brought  on 
to  you  directly,  for  it  was  of  the  very  greatest  conse- 
quence.—But  please"  she  added,  as  her  husband  stretched 
out  his  hand  for  it,  "  please  let  me  in.  You  don't  know 
how  wet  and  cold  I  am,  or  how  manv  times  I  have  lost 
my  way  in  coming  here  through  this  thick  fog.  Let  me 
dry  myself  at  the  fire  for  five  minutes.  I'll  go  away 
directly  you  tell  me  to,  Quilp.    Upon  my  word  I  will." 

Her  amiable  husband  hesitated  for  a  few  moments  • 
but,  bethinking  himself  that  the  letter  might  require 
some  answer,  of  which  she  could  be  the  bearer,  closed 
the  window,  opened  the  door,  and  bade  her  enter.  Mrs. 
Quilp  obeyed  right  willingly,  and,  kneeling  doAvn  before 
the  fire  to  warm  her  hands,  delivered  int'o  his,  a  little 
packet. 

"I'm  glad  you're  wet,"  said  Quilp,  snatching  it,  and 
squmtmg  at  her.  "I'm  glad  you're  cold.  I'm  glad 
you've  lost  your  way.  I'm  glad  your  eyes  are  red  with 
crying.  It  does  my  heart  good  to  see  your  little  nose  so 
pinched  and  frosty." 

''Oh  Quilp  !"  sobbed  his  wife.  "How  cruel  it  is  of 
you  ! " 

"  Did  she  think  I  was  dead  !"  said  Quilp,  wrinkling 
his  face  into  a  most  extraordinary  series  of  grimaces. 
"Did  she  think  she  was  going  to  have  all  the  money, 
and  to  marry  somebody  she  liked  ?  Ha  ha  ha  !  Did 
she?" 

These  taunts  elicited  no  reply  from  the  poor  little 
woman,  who  remained  on  her  knees,  warming  her  hands 
and  sobbing,  to  Mr.  Quilp's  great  delight.  But,  just  as 
he  was  contemplating  her  and  chuckling  excessively,  he 
happened  to  observe  that  Tom  Scott  was  delighted  too  ; 
wherefore,  that  he  might  have  no  presumptuous  partner 
in  his  glee,  the  dwarf  instantly  collared  him,  dragged 
him  to  the  door,  and  after  a  short  scuffle,  kicked  him 
into  the  yard.  In  return  for  this  mark  of  attention,  Tom 
immediately  walked  upon  his  hands  to  the  window,  and 
— if  the  expression  be  allowable — looked  in  with  his 
shoes  :  besides  rattling  his  feet  upon  the  window  like  a 


S22 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Banshee  upside  down.  As  a  matter  of  course,  Mr.  Quilp 
lost  no  time  in  resorting  to  the  infallible  poller,  with 
which,  after  some  dodging  and  lying  in  ambush,  he  paid 
hib  young  friend  one  or  two  such  unequivocal  compli- 
ments that  he  vanished  precipitately,  and  left  him  in 
quiet  possession  of  the  field. 

"So!  That  little  job  being  disposed  of,"  said  the 
dwarf,  coolly.  "I'll  read  my  letter.  Humph  !"  he  mut- 
tered, looking  at  the  direction.  "  I  ought  to  know  this 
writing.    Beautiful  Sally  ! " 

Opening  it,  he  read,  in  a  fair,  round,  legal  hand,  as 
follows : 

"  Sammy  has  been  practised  upon,  and  has  broken 
confidence.  It  has  all  come  out.  You  had  better  not  be 
in  the  way,  for  strangers  are  going  to  call  upon  you. 
They  have  been  very  quiet  as  yet,  because  they  mean  to 
surprise  you.  Don't  lose  time,  I  didn't.  I  am  not  to 
be  found  anywhere.  If  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  be,  either. 
S.  B.,  late  of  B.  M." 

To  describe  the  changes  that  passed  over  Quilp's  face, 
as  he  read  this  letter  half-a-dozen  times,  would  require 
some  new  language:  such,  for  power  of  expression,  as 
was  never  written,  read,  or  spoken.  For  a  long  time  he 
did  not  utter  one  word  :  but,  after  a  considerable  inter- 
val, during  which  Mrs.  Quilp  was  almost  paralysed  with 
the  alarm  his  looks  engendered,  he  contrived  to  gasp 
out, 

"  — If  I  had  him  here.    If  I  only  liad  him  here — " 
"Oh  Qailp  ! "  said  his  wife,  "what's  the  matter? 
Who  are  you  ang  ry  with  ?  " 

"  I  should  drown  him,"  said  the  dwarf,  not  heeding 
her.  "  Too  easy  a  death,  too  short,  too  quick — but  the 
river  runs  close  at  hand.  Oh  !  If  I  had  him  here  !  Just 
to  take  him  to  the  brink,  coaxingly  and  pleasantly, — 
holding  him  by  the  button-hole — joking  with  him, — and, 
with  a  sudden  push,  to  send  him  sjjlashing  down  ! 
Drowning  men  come  to  surface  three  times  they  say. 
Ah  !  To  see  him  those  three  times,  and  mock  him  as 
his  face  came  bobbing  up, — oh,  what  a  rich  treat  that 
would  be  ! " 

"  Quilp  !  "  stammered  his  wife,  venturing  at  the  same 
time  to  touch  him  on  the  shoulder  :  "  what  has  gone 
wrong  ?  " 

She  was  so  terrified  by  the  relish  with  which  he  pic- 
tured this  pleasure  to  himself,  that  she  could  scarcely 
make  herself  intelligible. 

"  Sucli  a  bloodless  cur ! "  said  Quilp,  rubbing  his 
hands  very  slowly,  and  pressing  them  tight  together. 
"  I  thought  his  cowardice  and  servility  were  the  best 
guarantee  for  his  keeping  silence.  Oh  Brass,  Brass — my 
dear,  good,  affectionate,  faithful,  complimentary,  charm- 
ing friend — if  I  only  had  you  here  ! " 

His  wife,  who  had  retreated  lest  she  should  seem  to 
listen  to  these  mutterings,  ventured  to  approach  him 
again,  and  was  about  to  speak,  when  he  hurried  to  the 
door  and  called  Tom  Scott,  who,  remembering  his  late 
gentle  admonition,  deemed  it  prudent  to  appear  immedi- 
ately. 

"  There  ! "  said  the  dwarf,  pulling  him  in.  "  Take  her 
home.  Don't  come  here  to-morrow,  for  this  place  will 
be  shut  up.  Come  back  no  more  till  you  hear  from  me 
or  see  me.    Do  you  mind  ?  " 

Tom  nodded  sulkily,  and  beckoned  Mrs.  Quilp  to  lead 
the  way. 

"As  for  you,"  said  the  dwarf,  addressing  himself  to 
her,  "  ask  no  questions  about  me,  make  no  search  for 
me,  say  nothing  concerning  me.  I  shall  not  be  dead, 
mistress,  and  that'll  comfort  you.  He'll  take  care  of 
you." 

"But  Quilp?  What  is  the  matter?  Where  are  you 
going?    Do  say  something  more." 

"I'll  say  that,"  said  the  dwarf,  seizing  her  by  the 
arm,  "and  do  that  too,  which  undone  and  unsaid  would 
be  best  for  you,  unless  you  go  directly." 

"Has  anything  happened?"  cried  his  wife.  "Oh! 
Do  tell  me  that." 

"  Yes,"  snarled  the  dwarf.  "  No.  What  matter 
which  ?  I  have  told  you  what  to  do.  Woe  betide  you 
if  you  fail  to  do  it,  or  disobey  me  by  a  hair's  breath. 
Will  you  go  !  " 

"  I  am  going,  I'll  go  directly  ;  but,"  faltered  his  wife, 
"  answer  me  one  question  first.    Has  this  letter  any  con- 


nexion with  dear  little  Nell?  I  must  ask  you  that — I 
must  indeed,  Quilp.  You  cannot  think  what  days  and 
nights  of  sorrow  I  have  had  through  having  once  de- 
ceived that  child.  I  don't  know  what  harm  I  may  have 
brought  about,  but,  great  or  little,  I  did  it  for  you,  Quilp. 
My  conscience  misgave  me  when  I  did.  Do  answer  me 
this  question,  if  you  please." 

The  exasperated  dwarf  returned  no  answer,  but  turned 
round  and  caught  up  his  usual  weapon  with  such  vehe- 
mence, that  Tom  Scott  dragged  his  charge  away,  by  main 
force,  and  as  swiftly  as  he  could.  It  was  well  he  did  so, 
for  Quilp,  who  was  nearly  mad  with  rage,  pursued  them 
to  the  neighbouring  lane,  and  might  have  prolonged  the 
chase  but  for  the  dense  mist  which  obscured  them  from 
his  view,  and  appeared  to  thicken  every  moment. 

"  It  will  be  a  good  night  for  travelling  anonymously," 
he  said,  as  he  returned  slowly  :  being  pretty  well  breathed 
with  his  run.  "  Stay.  We  may  look  better  here.  This 
is  too  hospitable  and  free." 

By  a  great  exertion  of  strength  he  closed  the  two  old 
gates,  which  were  deeply  sunken  in  the  mud,  and  barred 
them  with  a  heavy  beam.  That  done,  he  shook  his  mat- 
ted hair  from  about  his  eyes,  and  tried  them. — Strong 
and  fast. 

"  The  fence  between  this  wharf  and  the  next  is  easily 
climbed,"  said  the  dwarf,  when  he  had  taken  these  pre- 
cautions. "There's  a  back  lane,  too,  from  there.  That 
shall  be  my  way  out.  A  man  need  know  his  road  well, 
to  find  it  in  this  lovely  place  to-night.  I  need  fear  no 
unwelcome  visitors  while  this  lasts,  I  think." 

Almost  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  groping  his  way 
with  his  hands  (it  had  grown  so  dark  and  the  fog  had  so 
much  increased),  he  returned  to  his  lair  ;  and,  after 
musing  for  some  time  over  the  fire,  busied  himself  in 
preparations  for  a  speedy  departure. 

While  he  was  collecting  a  few  necessaries  and  cram- 
ming them  into  his  pockets,  he  never  once  ceased  com- 
muning with  himself  in  a  low  voice,  or  unclenched  his 
teeth  :  which  he  had  ground  together  on  finishing  Miss 
Brass's  note. 

"Oh  Sampson  !"  he  muttered, "  good,  worthy  creature 
— if  I  could  but  hug  you  I  If  I  could  only  fold  you  in 
my  arms,  and  squeeze  your  ribs,  as  I  could  squeeze  them 
if  I  once  had  you  tight — what  a  meeting  there  would  be 
between  us  !  If  we  ever  do  cross  each  other  again, 
Sampson,  we'll  have  a  greeting  not  easily  to  be  forgot- 
ten, trust  me.  This  time,  Sampson,  this  moment  when 
all  had  gone  on  so  well,  was  so  nicely  chosen  !  It  was 
so  thoughtful  of  you,  so  penitent,  so  good.  Oh,  if  we 
were  face  to  face  in  this  room  again,  my  white-livered 
man  of  law,  how  well  contented  one  of  us  would  be  !" 

There  he  stopped  ;  and  raising  the  bowl  of  punch  to 
his  lips,  drank  a  long  deep  draught,  as  if  it  were  fair 
water  and  cooling  to  his  parched  mouth.  Setting  it 
down  abruptly,  and  resuming  his  preparations,  he  went 
on  with  his  soliloquy. 

"There's  Sally,"  he  said,  with  flashing  eyes;  "the 
woman  has  spirit,  determination,  purpose — was  she 
asleep,  or  petrified  ?  She  could  have  stabbed  him — 
poisoned  him  safely.  She  might  have  seen  this,  coming 
on.  Why  does  she  give  me  notice  when  it's  too  late? 
When  he  sat  there, — yonder  there,  over  there, — with  his 
white  face,  and  red  head,  and  sickly  smile,  why  didn't  I 
know  what  was  passing  in  his  heart  ?  It  should  have 
stopped  beating,  that  night,  if  I  had  been  in  his  secret, 
or  there  are  no  drugs  to  lull  a  man  to  sleep,  and  no  fire  to 
burn  him  !  " 

Another  draught  from  the  bowl  ;  and,  cowering  over 
the  fire  with  a  ferocious  aspect,  he  muttered  to  himself 
again. 

"  And  this,  like  every  other  trouble  and  anxiety  I  have 
had  of  late  times,  springs  from  that  old  dotard  and  his 
darling  child — two  wretched  feeble  wanderers  !  I'll  be 
their  evil  genius  yet.  And  you,  sweet  Kit,  honest  Kit, 
virtuous,  innocent  Kit,  look  to  yourself.  Where  I  hate, 
I  bite.  I  hate  you,  my  darling  fellow,  with  good  cause, 
and  proud  as  you  are  to-night,  I'll  have  my  turn. — 
What's  that  I " 

A  knocking  at  the  gate  he  had  closed.  A  loud  and  vi- 
olent knocking.  Then,  a  pause  ;  as  if  those  who  knocked, 
had  stopped  to  listen.  Then,  the  noise  again,  more  clam- 
orous and  importunate  than  before. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


823 


"  So  soon  !  "  said  the  dwarf.  "  And  so  eager  I  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  disappoint  you.  It's  well  I'm  quite  pre- 
pared.   Sally,  I  thank  you  1 " 

As  he  spoke,  he  extinguished  the  candle.  In  his  im- 
petuous attempts  to  subdue  the  brightness  of  the  fire 
he  overset  the  stove,  which  came  tumbling  forward,  and 
fell  with  a  crash  upon  the  burning  embers  it  had 'shot 
forth  m  Its  descent,  leaving  the  room  in  pitchy  darkness 
The  noise  at  the  gate  still  continuing,  ho  felt  his  way  to 
the  door,  and  stepped  into  the  open  air. 

^  At  that  moment  the  knocking  ceased.  It  was  about 
eight  o  clock  ;  but  the  dead  of  the  darkest  night  would 
have  been  as  noon-day,  in  comparison  with  the  thick 
cloud  which  then  rested  upon  the  earth,  and  shrouded 
everything  from  view.  He  darted  forward  for  a  few 
paces,  as  if  into  the  mouth  of  some  dim,  yawning  cavern  • 
then,  thinking  he  had  gone  wrong,  changed  the  direction 
of  his  steps  ;  then,  stood  still,  not  knowing  where  to  turn 
"  If  they  would  knock  again,"  said  Quilp,  trvimr  to 
peer  into  the  gloom  by  which  he  was  surrounded  "  the 
sound  might  guide  me  !  Come  !  Batter  the  g-ate  once 
more  !  "  ^ 

He  stood  listening  intently,  but  the  noise  was  not  re- 
newed. Nothing  was  to  be  heard  in  that  deserted  place 
but,  at  intervals,  the  distant  barkings  of  dogs.  The  sound 
was  far  away— now  in  one  quarter,  now  answered  in  an- 
other—nor was  it  any  guide,  for  it  often  came  from  ship- 
board, as  he  knew. 

"If  I  could  find  a  wall  or  fence,"  said  the  dwarf 
stretching  out  his  arms,  and  walking  slowly  on  "I 
should  know  which  way  to  turn.    A  good,  black,  devil's 


night  this,  to  have  my  dear  friend  here  !  If  I  had  but 
that  wish,  it  might,  for  anything  I  cared,  never  be  dav 
again. " 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips,  he  staggered  and  fell— 
and  next  moment  was  fighting  with  the  cold  dark  water  f 

For  all  its  bubbling  up  and  rushing  in  his  ears,  he 
could  hear  the  knocking  at  the  gate  again— could  hear 
a  shout  that  followed  it  — could  recognise  the  voice 
For  all  his  struggling  and  plashing,  he  could  understand 
that  they  had  lost  their  way,  and  had  wandered  back  to 
the  point  from  which  they  started  ;  that  they  were  all 
but  looking  on,  while  he  was  drowned  ;  that  they  were 
close  at  hand,  but  could  not  make  an  effort  to  save  him  • 
that  he  himself  had  shut  and  barred  them  out  He  an' 
swered  the  shout— with  a  yell,  which  seemed  to  make 
the  hundred  fires  that  danced  before  his  eyes,  tremble 
and  flicker  as  if  a  gust  of  wind  had  stirred  them.  It 
was  of  no  avail.  The  strong  tide  filled  his  throat,  and 
bore  him  on,  upon  its  rapid  current. 

_  Another  mortal  struggle,  and  he  was  up  again,  beat- 
ing the  water  with  his  hands,  and  looking  out,  with  wild 
and  glaring  eyes  that  showed  him  some  black  object  he 
was  drifting  close  upon.  The  hull  of  a  shin  !  He  could 
touch  Its  smooth  and  slippery  surface  with  his  hand. 
One  loud  cry  now— but  the  resistless  water  bore  him 
down  before  he  could  give  it  utterance,  and,  driving 
him  under,  it  carried  away  a  corpse. 

It  toyed  and  sported  with  its  ghastly  freight,  now 
bruising  it  against  the  slimy  piles,  now  hiding  it  in  mud 
or  long  rank  grass,  now  dragging  it  heavily  over  rough 
stones  and  gravel,  now  feigning  to  yield  it  to  its  own 
element,  and  in  the  same  action  luring  it  away  until 
tired  of  the  ugly  plaything,  it  flung  it  on  a  swamp— a 
dismal  place  where  pirates  had  swung  in  chains,  through 
many  a  wintry  night— and  left  it  there  to  bleach. 

And  there  it  lay,  alone.  The  sky  was  red  \vith  flame 
and  the  water  that  bore  it  there  had  been  tinged  with 
the  sullen  light  as  it  flowed  along.  The  place,  the  de- 
serted carcass  had  left  so  recently,  a  living  man  was 
now  a  blazing  ruin.  There  was  something  of  the  glare 
upon  Its  face.  The  hair,  stirred  bv  the  damp  breeze 
played  in  a  kind  of  mockery  of  death— such  a  mockery 
as  the  dead  man  himself  would  have  delighted  in  when 
ah ve— about  its  head,  spnd  its  dress  fluttered  idly  in  the 
night  wind. 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

LmnTED  rooms,  bright  fires,  cheerful  faces,  the  music 
of  glad  voices,  words  of  love  and  welcome,  warm  hearts, 


and  tears  of  happiness— what  a  change  is  this  !    But  it 
is  to  such  delights  that  Kit  is  hastening.     They  are 
awaiting  him,  he  knows.    He  fears  he  will  die  of  joy 
before  he  gets  among  them. 

They  have  prepared  him  for  this,  all  day.  He  is  not 
to  be  carried  off  to-morrow  with  the  rest,  they  tell  him 
first.  By  degrees  they  lot  him  know  that  doubts  have 
arisen,  that  inquiries  are  to  be  made,  and  perhaps  he 
may  be  pardoned  after  all.  At  last,  the  evening  being 
come,  they  bring  him  to  a  room  where  some  gentlemen 
are  assembled.  Foremost  among  them  is  his  good  old 
master,  who  comes  and  takes  him  by  the  hand.  He 
hears  that  his  innocence  is  established,  and  that  he  is 
pardoned.  He  cannot  see  the  speaker,  but  he  turns  to- 
wards the  voice,  and  in  trying  to  answer,  falls  down  in- 
sensible. 

They  recover  him  again,  and  tell  him  he  must  be  com- 
posed, and  bear  this  like  a  man.  Somebody  says  he 
must  think  of  his  poor  mother.  It  is  because  he  does 
think  of  her  so  much,  that  the  happy  news  has  over- 
I)Owered  him.  They  crowd  about  him,  and  tell  him 
that  the  truth  has  gone  abroad,  and  that  all  the  town 
and  country  ring  with  sympathy  for  his  misfortunes. 
He  has  no  ears  for  this.  His  thoughts,  as  vet,  have  no 
wider  range  than  home.  Does  she  know  it?  what  did 
she  say  ?  who  told  her?    He  can  speak  of  nothing  else. 

They  make  him  drink  a  little  wine,  and  talk  kindly 
to  him  for  a  while,  until  he  is  more  collected  and 
can  listen,  and  thank  them.  He  is  free  to  go.  Mr. 
Garland  thinks,  if  he  feels  better,  it  is  time  they  went 
away.  The  gentlemen  cluster  round  him,  and  shake 
hands  with  him.  He  feels  very  grateful  to  them  for 
the  interest  they  have  in  him,  and  for  the  kind  promises 
they  make  ;  but  the  power  of  speech  is  gone  again,  and 
he  has  much  ado  to  keep  his  f.eet,  even  though  leaning 
on  his  master's  arm. 

As  they  come  through  the  dismal  passages,  some  oflB- 
cers  of  the  jail  who  are  in  waiting  there,  congratulate 
him,  m  their  rough,  way,  on  his  release.  The  news- 
monger is  of  the  number,  but  his  manner  is  not  quite 
hearty— there  is  something  of  surliness  in  his  compli- 
ments. He  looks  upon  Kit  as  an  intruder,  as  one  who 
has  obtained  admission  to  that  place  on  false  pretences, 
who  has  enjoyed  a  privilege  without  being  duly  quali- 
fied. He  may  be  a  very  good  sort  of  voung  man,  he 
thinks,  but  he  has  no  business  there,  and  the  sooner  he 
is  gone  the  better. 

The  last  door  shuts  behind  them.  They  liave  passed 
the  outer  wall,  and  stand  in  the  open  air— in  the  street 
he  has  so  often  pictured  to  himself  when  hemmed  in  by 
the  gloomy  stones,  and  which  has  been  in  all  his  dreams. 
It  seems  wider  and  more  busy  than  it  used  to  be.  The 
night  is  bad,  and  yet  how  cheerful  and  gay  in  his  eves  ' 
One  of  the  gentlemen,  in  taking  leave  of  him  pressed 
some  money  into  his  hand.  He  has  not  counted  it ;  but 
when  they  have  gone  a  few  paces  bevond  the  box  for 
poor  Prisoners,  he  hastily  returns  and  drops  it  in. 

Mr.  Garland  has  a  coach  waiting  in  a  neighbouring 
street  and,-  taking  Kit  inside  with  him,  bids  the  man 
drive  home.  At  first,  they  can  only  travel  at  a  foot  pace, 
and  then  with  torches  going  on  before,  because  of  the 
heavy  fog.  But,  as  they  get  farther  from  the  river,  and 
leave  the  closer  portions  of  the  town  behind,  they  are 
able  to  dispense  with  this  precaution  and  to  proceed  at  a 
brisker  rate.  On  the  road,  hard  galloping  would  be  too 
slow  for  Kit ;  but  when  they  are  drawing  near  their 
journey's  end,  he  begs  they  may  go  more  slowly,  and, 
when  the  house  appears  in  sight,  that  they  may' stop — 
only  for  a  minute  or  two,  to  give  him  time  to  breathe. 

But  there  is  no  stopping  then,  for  the  old  gentleman 
speaks  stoutly  to  him,  the  horses  mend  their  pace,  and 
they  are  already  at  the  garden-gate.  Next  minute  they 
are  at  the  door.  There  is  a  noise  of  tongues,  and  tread 
of  feet  inside.  It  opens.  Kit  rushes  in,  and  finds  his 
mother  clinging  round  his  neck. 

And  there,  too,  is  the  ever  faithful  Barbara's  mother, 
still  holding  the  baby  as  if  she  had  never  put  it  down 
since  that  sad  day  when  they  little  hoped  to  have  such 
joy  as  this— there  she  is,  Heaven  bless  her,  crying  her 
eyes  out,  and  sobbing  as  never  woman  sobbed'  before  ; 
and  there  is  little  Barbara— poor  little  Barbara,  so  much 
thinner  and  so  much  paler,  and  yet  so  very  pretty  trem- 


824 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


bling  like  a  leaf  ana  supporting  herself  against  the  wall ; 
and  there  is  Mrs.  Garland,  neater  and  nicer  than  ever, 
fainting  away  stone  dead  with  nobody  to  help  her ;  and 
there  is  Mr.  Abel,  violently  blowing  his  nose,  and  want- 
ing to  embrace  everybody*;  and  there  is  the  single  gen- 
tleman hovering  round  them  all,  and  constant  to  nothing 
for  an  instant  ;  and  there  is  that  good,  dear,  thoughtful 
little  Jacob,  sitting  all  alone  by  himself  on  the  bottom 
stair,  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  like  an  old  man,  roar- 
ing fearfully  without  giving  any  trouble  to  anybody  ; 
and  each  and  all  of  them  are  for  the  time  clean  out  of 
their  wits,  and  do  jointly  and  severally  commit  all  man- 
ner of  follies. 

And  even  when  the  rest  have  in  some  measure  come  to 
themselves  again,  and  can  find  words  and  smiles,  Barbara 
— that  soft-hearted,  gentle,  foolish  little  Barbara — is  sud- 
denly missed,  and  found  to  be  in  a  swoon  by  herself  in 
the  back  parlour,  from  which  swoon  she  falls  into  hyster- 
ics, and  from  which  hysterics  into  a  swoon  again,  and  is, 
indeed,  so  bad,  that  despite  a  mortal  quantity  of  vinegar 
and  cold  water  she  is  hardly  a  bit  better  at  last  than  she 
was  at  first.  Then,  Kit's  mother  comes  in  and  says,  will 
he  come  and  speak  to  her:  and  Kit  says  Yes,"  and 
goes;  and  he  says  in  a  kind  voice,  "Barbara!"  and 
Barbara's  mother  tells  her  that  "it's  only  Kit;"  and 
Barbara  says  (with  her  eyes  closed  all  the  time)  "Oh! 
but  is  it  him  indeed  ?"  and  Barbara's  mother  says,  "To 
be  sure  it  is,  my  dear  ;  there's  nothing  the  matter  now." 
And  in  further  assurance  that  he's  safe  and  sound,  Kit 
speaks  to  her  again  ;  and  then  Barbara  goes  oif  into 
another  fit  of  laughter,  and  then  into  another  fit  of  crying; 
and  then  Barbara's  mother  and  Kit's  mother  nod  to  each 
other  and  pretend  to  scold  her — but  only  to  bring  her  to 
herself  the  faster,  bless  you  ! — and  being  experienced 
matrons,  and  acute  at  perceiving  the  first  dawning  symp- 
toms of  recovery,  they  comfort  Kit  with  the  assurance 
that  "she'll  do  now,"  and  so  dismiss  him  to  the  place 
from  whence  he  came. 

Well  !  In  that  place  (which  is 'the  next  joom)  there 
are  decanters  of  wine,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  set  out 
as  grand  as  if  Kit  and  his  friends  were  first-rate  com- 
pany ;  and  there  is  little  Jacob,  walking,  as  the  popular 
phrase  is,  into  a  home-made  plum-cake,  at  a  most  sur- 
prising pace,  and  keeping  his  eye  on  the  figs  and  oranges 
which  are  to  follow,  and  making  the  best  use  of  his 
time,  you  may  believe.  Kit  no  sooner  comes  in,  than 
that  single  gentleman  (never  was  such  a  busy  gentleman) 
charges  all  the  glasses — bumpers — and  drinks  his  health, 
and  tells  him  he  shall  never  want  a  friend  while  he  lives  ; 
and  so  does  Mr.  Garland,  and  so  does  Mrs.  Garland  and 
so  does  Mr.  Abel.  But  even  this  honour  and  distinction 
is  not  all,  for  the  single  gentleman  forthwith  pulls  out  of 
his  pocket,  a  massive  silver  watch — going  hard,  and 
right  to  half  a  second — and  upon  the  back  of  this  watch 
is  engraved  Kit's  name,  with  flourishes  all  over  ;  and  in 
short  it  is  Kit's  watch,  bought  expressly  for  him,  and 
presented  to  him  on  the  spot.  You  may  rest  assured 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland  can't  help  hinting  about  their 
present  in  store,  and  that  Mr.  Abel  tells  outright  that  he 
has  his  ;  and  that  Kit  is  the  happiest  of  the  happy. 

There  is  one  friend  he  has  not  seen  yet,  and  as  he  can- 
not be  conveniently  introduced  into  the  family  circle, 
by  reason  of  his  being  an  iron-shod  quadruped.  Kit  takes 
the  first  opportunity  of  slipping  away  and  hurrying  to 
the  stable.  The  moment  he  lays  his  hand  upon  the  latch, 
the  pony  neighs  the  loudest  pony's  greeting  ;  before  he 
has  crossed  the  threshold,  the  pony  is  capering  about 
his  loose  box  (for  he  brooks  not  the  indignity  of  a  halter), 
mad  to  give  him  welcome  ;  and  when  Kit  goes  up  to 
caress  and  pat  him,  the  pony  rubs  his  nose  against  his 
coat,  and  fondles  him  more  lovingly  than  ever  pony 
fondled  man.  It  is  the  crowning  circumstance  of  his 
earnest,  heartfelt  reception  ;  and  Kit  fairly  puts  his  arm 
round  Whisker's  neck  and  hugs  him. 

But  how  comes  Barbara  to  trip  in  there  ?  and  how 
smart  she  is  again  !  she  has  been  at  her  glass  since  she 
recovered.  How  comes  Barbara  in  the  stable,  of  all 
the  places  in  the  world  ?  Why,  since  Kit  has  boon  away, 
the  pony  would  take  liis  food  from  nobody  but  her,  and 
Barbara,  you  see,  not  dreaming  Christopher  was  tliero, 
and  just  looking  in,  to  see  that  everything  was  right, 
has  come  upon  him  unawares.    Blushing  little  Barbara  ! 


It  may  be  that  Kit  has  caressed  the  pony  enough  ;  it 
may  be  that  there  are  even  better  things  to  caress  than 
ponies.  He  leaves  him  for  Barbara  at  any  rate,  and  hopes 
she  is  better.  Yes.  Barbara  is  a  great  deal  better.  She  is 
afraid — and  here  Barbara  looks  down  and  blushes  more 
— that  he  must  have  thought  her  very  foolish.  "  Not 
at  all,"  says  Kit.  Barbara  is  glad  of  that,  and  coughs — 
Hem  ! — just  the  slightest  cough  possible — not  more  than 
that. 

"What  a  discreet  pony,  when  he  chooses  !  He  is  as 
quiet  now,  as  if  he  were  of  marble.  He  has  a  very 
knowing  look,  but  that  he  always  has.  "  We  have 
hardly  had  time  to  shake  hands,  Barbara,"  says  Kit. 
Barbara  gives  him  hers.  Why,  she  is  trembling  now  ! 
Foolish,  fluttering  Barbara  ! 

Arm's  length  ?  The  length  of  an  arm  is  not  much. 
Barbara's  was  a  not  long  arm,  by  any  means,  and  besides, 
she  didn't  hold  it  out  straight,  but  bent  a  little.  Kit 
was  so  near  her  when  they  shook  hands  that  he  could 
see  a  small  tiny  tear,  yet  trembling  on  an  eyelash.  It 
was  natural  that  he  should  look  at  it,  unknown  to  Bar- 
bara. It  was  natural  that  Barbara  should  raise  her  eyes 
unconsciously,  and  find  him  out.  Was  it  natural  that 
at  that  instant,  without  any  previous  impulse  or  design, 
Kit  should  kiss  Barbara  !  He  did  it,  whether  or  no. 
Barbara  said  "  for  shame,"  but  let  him  do  it  too — twice. 
He  might  have  done  it  thrice,  but  the  pony  kicked  up 
his  heels  and  shook  his  head,  as  if  he  were  suddenly 
taken  with  convulsions  of  delight,  and  Barbara  being 
frightened,  ran  away — not  straight  to  where  her  mother 
and  Kit's  mother  were,  though,  lest  they  should  see  how 
red  her  cheeks  were,  and  should  ask  her  why.  Sly  lit- 
tle Barbara  ! 

When  the  first  transports  of  the  whole  party  had  sub- 
sided, and  Kit  and  his  mother,  and  Barbara  and  her 
mother,  with  little  Jacob  and  the  baby  to  boot,  had  had 
their  suppers  together — which  there  was  no  hurrying 
over,  for  they  were  going  to  stop  there  all  night — Mr. 
Garland  called  Kit  to  him,  and  taking  him  into  a  room 
where  they  could  be  alone,  told  him  that  he  had  some- 
thing yet  to  say,  which  would  surprise  him  greatly.  Kit 
looked  so  anxious  and  turned  so  pale  on  hearing  this, 
that  the  old  gentleman  hastened  to  add,  he  would  be 
agreeably  surprised  ;  and  asked  him  if  he  would  be  ready 
next  morning  for  a  journey. 

"  For  a  journey,  sir  !"*  cried  Kit. 

"  In  company  with  me  and  my  friend  in  the  next  room. 
Can  you  guess  its  purpose  ?  " 

Kit  turned  paler  yet,  and  shook  his  head. 

"Oh  yes.  I  think  you  do  already,"  said  his  master. 
"  Try." 

Kit  murmured  something  rather  rambling  and  unin- 
telligible, but  he  plainly  pronounced  the  words  "  Miss 
Nell,"  three  or  four  times — shaking  his  head  while  he 
did  so,  as  if  he  would  add  that  there  was  no  hope  of 
that. 

But  Mr.  Garland,  instead  of  saying  "Try  again,"  as 
Kit  had  made  sure  he  would,  told  him,  very  seriously, 
that  he  had  guessed  right. 

"  The  place  of  their  retreat  is  indeed  discovered,"  he 
said,  "at  last.    And  that  is  our  journey's  end." 

Kit  faltered  out  such  questions  as,  where  was  it,  and 
how  had  it  been  found,  and  how  long  since,  and  was  she 
well,  and  happy? 

Happy  she  is,  beyond  all  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Garland. 
"  And  well,  I — I  trust  she  will  be  soon.  She  has  been 
weak  and  ailing,  as  I  learn,  but  she  was  better  when  I 
heard  this  morning,  and  they  were  full  of  hope.  Sit 
you  down,  and  you  shall  hear  the  rest." 

Scarcely  venturing  to  draw  his  breath.  Kit  did  as  he 
was  told.  Mr.  Garland  then  related  to  him,  how  he  had 
a  brother  (of  whom  he  would  remember  to  have  heard 
him  speak,  and  whose  picture,  taken  when  he  was  a 
young  man,  hung  in  the  best  roojn),  and  how  this  brother 
lived  a  long  way  off,  in  a  country-place  with  an  old 
clergyman  who  had  been  his  early  friend.  How,  although 
they  loved  each  other  as  brothers  should,  they  had  not 
met  for  many  years,  but  had  communicated  by  letter 
from  time  to  time,  always  looking  forward  to  some 
period  when  they  would  take  each  other  by  the  hand 
once  more,  and  still  letting  the  Present  time  steal  on, 
as  it  was  the  habit  of  men  to  do,  and  suffering  the  Fu- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP.  825 


ture  to  melt  into  the  Past.  How  this  brother,  whose 
temper  was  very  mild  and  quiet  and  retiring — such  as 
Mr.  Abel's — was  greatly  beloved  by  the  simple  people 
among  whom  he  dwelt,  who  quite  revered  the  Bachelor 
(for  so  they  called  him),  and  how  every  one  experienced 
his  charity  and  benevolence.  How,  even  those  slight 
circumstances  had  come  to  his  knowledge,  very  slowly 
and  in  course  of  years,  for  the  Bachelor  was  one  of  those 
whose  goodness  shuns  the  light,  and  who  have  more 
pleasure  in  discovering  and  extolling  the  good  deeds  of 
others,  than  in  trumpeting  their  own,  be  they  never  so 
commendable.  How,  for  that  reason,  he  seldom  told 
them  of  his  village  friends  ;  but  how,  for  all  that,  his 
mind  had  become  so  full  of  two  among  them — a  child 
and  an  old  man,  to  whom  he  had  been  very  kind — that, 
in  a  letter  received  a  few  days  before,  he  had  dwelt 
upon  them  from  first  to  last,  and  had  told  such  a  tale  of 
their  wandering,  and  mutual  love,  that  few  could  read 
it  without  being  moved  to  tears.  How  he,  the  recipi- 
ent of  that  letter,  was  directly  led  to  the  belief  that 
these  must  be  the  very  wanderers  for  whom  so  much 
search  had  been  made,  and  whom  Heaven  had  directed 
to  his  brother's  care.  How  he  had  written  for  such 
further  information  as  would  put  the  fact  beyond  all 
doubt  ;  how  it  had  that  morning  arrived  ;  had  confirmed 
bis  first  impression  into  a  certainty  ;  and  was  the  imme- 
diate cause  of  that  journey  being  planned,  which  they 
were  to  take  to-morrow. 

"  In  the  mean  time,"  said  the  old  gentleman  rising, 
and  laying  his  hand  on  Kit's  shoulder,  "  you  have  great 
need  oi  rest ;  for  such  a  day  as  this,  would  wear  out  the 
strongest  man.  Good  night,  and  Heaven  send  our  journey 
may  have  a  prosperous  ending  ! " 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 

Kit  was  no  sluggard  next  morning,  but,  springing 
from  his  bed  some  time  before  day,  began  to  prepare  for 
his  welcome  expedition.  The  hurry  of  spirits  consequent 
upon  the  events  of  yesterday,  and  the  unexpected  in- 
telligence he  had  heard  at  night,  had  troubled  his  sleep 
through  the  long  dark  hours,  and  summoned  such  uneasy 
dreams  about  his  pillow  that  it  was  rest  to  rise. 

But  had  it  been  the  beginning  of  some  great  labour 
with  the  same  end  in  view — bad  it  been  the  commence- 
ment of  a  long  journey,  to  be  performed  on  foot  in  that 
inclement  season  of  the  year,  to  be  pursued  under  every 
privation  and  difficulty,  and  to  be  achieved  only  with 
great  distress,  fatigue,  and  suffering — had  it  been  the 
dawn  of  some  painful  enterprise,  and  certain  to  task  his 
utmost  powers  of  resolution  and  endurance,  and  to  need 
his  utmost  fortitude,  but  only  likely  to  end,  if  happily 
achieved,  in  good  fortune  and  delight  to  Nell — Kit's 
cheerful  zeal  would  have  been  as  highly  roused  :  Kit's 
ardour  and  impatience  would  have  been,  at  least,  the 
same. 

Nor  was  he  alone  excited  and  eager.  Before  he  had 
been  up  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  whole  house  were  astir 
and  busy.  Everybody  hurried  to  do  something  towards 
facilitating  the  preparations.  The  single  gentleman,  it 
is  true,  could  do  nothing  himself,  but  he  overlooked 
everybody  else  and  was  morp  loc^Tnotive  than  anybody. 
The  work  of  packing  and  making  ready  went  briskly  on, 
and  by  daybreak  every  preparation  for  the  journey  was 
completed.  Then,  Kit  began  to  wish  they  had  not  been 
quite  so  nimble ;  for  the  travelling-carriage  which  had 
been  hired  for  the  occasion  was  not  to  arrive  until  nine 
o'clock,  and  there  was  nothing  but  breakfast  to  fill  up  the 
intervening  blank  of  one  hour  and  a  half. 

Yes  there  was,  though.  There  was  Barbara.  Barbara 
was  busy,  to  be  sure,  but  so  much  the  better — Kit  could 
lielp  her,  and  that  would  pass  away  the  time  better 
than  any  means  that  could  be  devised.  Barbara  had 
no  objection  to  this  arrangement,  and  Kit,  tracking  out 
the  idea  which  had  come  upon  him  so  suddenly  over- 
night, began  to  think  that  surely  Barbara  was  fond  of 
him,  and  surely  he  was  fond  of  Barbara. 

Now,  Barbara,  if  the  truth  must  be  told — as  it  must 
and  ought  to  be — Barbara  seemed,  of  all  the  little  house- 
hold, to  take  least  pleasure  in  the  bustle  of  the  occasion; 


and  when  Kit,  in  the  openness  of  his  heart,  told  her  how 
glad  and  overjoyed  it  made  him,  Barbara  became  more 
downcast  still,  and  seemed  to  have  eve^ji  less  pleasure  in 
it  than  before  1 

*'  You  have  not  been  home  so  long,  Christopher,"  said 
Barbara — and  it  is  impossible  to  tell  how  carelessly  she 
said  it — "  You  have  not  been  home  so  long,  that  you 
need  be  glad  to  go  away  again,  I  should  think." 

"  But  for  such  a  purpose,"  returned  Kit.  "  To  bring 
back  Miss  Nell  !  To  see  her  again  !  Only  think  of 
that  !  1  am  so  pleased  too,  to  think  that  you  .will  see 
her,  Barbara,  at  last." 

Barbara  did  not  absolutely  say  that  she  felt  no  great 
gratification  on  this  point,  but  she  expressed  the  senti- 
ment so  plainly  by  one  little  toss  of  her  head,  that  Kit 
was  quite  disconcerted,  and  wondered,  in  his  simplicity, 
why  she  was  so  cool  about  it. 

"You'll  say  she  has  the  sweetest  and  beautifullest 
face  you  ever  saw,  I  know,"  said  Kit,  rubbing  his 
hands.    "  I'm  sure  you'll  say  that  !  " 

Barbara  tossed  her  head  again. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Barbara?"  said  Kit. 

"Nothing,"  cried  Barbara.  And  Barbara  pouted — 
not  sulkily,  or  in  an  ugly  manner,  but  just  enough  to 
make  her  look  more  cherry-lipped  than  ever. 

There  is  no  school  in  which  a  pupil  gets  on  so  fast,  as 
that  in  which  Kit  became  a  scholar  when  he  gave  Bar- 
bara the  kiss.  He  saw  what  Barbara  meant  now — he  had 
his  lesson  by  heart  all  at  once — she  was  the  book — there 
it  was  before  him,  as  plain  as  print. 

"  Barbara,"  said  Kit,  "  you're  not  cross  with  me?" 

Oh  dear  no  !  Why  should  Barbara  be  cross  ?  And 
what  right  had  she  to  be  cross  ?  And  what  did  it  mat- 
ter whether  she  was  cross  or  no  ?    Who  minded  her  ! 

"  Why,  /do,"  said  Kit.    "  Of  course  I  do." 

Barbara  didn't  see  why  it  was  of  course,  at  all. 

Kit  was  sure  she  must.    W^ould  she  think  again  ? 

Certainly,  Barbara  would  think  again.  No,  she  didn't 
see  why  it  was  of  course.  She  didn't  understand  what 
Christopher  meant.  And  besides  she  was  sure  they 
wanted  her  up-stairs  by  this  time,  and  she  must  go,  in- 
deed— 

"No,  but  Barbara,"  said  Kit,  detaining  her  gently, 
"  let  us  part  friends.  I  was  always  thinking  of  you,  in 
my  troubles.  I  should  have  been  a  great  deal  more 
miserable  than  I  was,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

Goodness  gracious,  how  pretty  Barbara  was  when  she 
coloured — and  when  she  trembled,  like  a  little  shrinking 
bird  ! 

"I  am  telling  you  the  truth,  Barbara,  upon  my  word, 
but  not  half  so  strong  as  I  could  wish,"  said  Kit. 
"  Wlien  I  want  you  to  be  pleased  to  see  Miss  Nell,  it's 
only  because  I  should  like  you  to  be  pleased,  with  what 
pleases  me — that's  all.  As  to  her,  Barbara,  I  think  I 
could  almost  die  to  do  her  service,  but  you  would  think 
so  too,  if  you  knew  her  as  I  do,    I  am  sure  you  would." 

Barbara  was  touched,  and  sorry  to  have  appeared  in- 
different. 

"  I  have  been  used,  you  see,"  said  Kit,  "  to  talk  and 
think  of  her,  almost  as  if  she  was  an  angel.  When  I 
look  forward  to  meeting  her  again,  I  think  of  her  smil- 
ing as  she  used  to  do,  and  being  glad  to  see  me,  and 
putting  out  her  hand  and  saying,  *  It's  my  own  old  Kit, '  or 
some  such  words  as  those — like  what  she  used  to  say.  I 
think  of  seeing  her  happy,  with  friends  about  her,  and 
brought  up  as  she  deserves,  and  as  she  ought  to  be. 
When  I  think  of  myself,  it's  as  her  old  servant,  and  one 
that  loved  her  dearly,  as  his  kind,  good,  gentle  mistress  ; 
and  who  would  have  gone — yes,  and  still  would  go — 
through  any  harm  to  serve  her.  Once,  I  couldn't  help 
being  afraid  that  if  she  came  back  with  friends  about 
her  might  she  might  forget,  or  be  ashamed  of  having 
known  a  humble  lad  like  me,  and  so  might  speak  coldly, 
which  would  have  cut  me,  Barbara,  deeper  than  I  can 
tell.  But  when  I  came  to  think  again,  I  felt  sure  that  I 
was  doing  her  wrong  in  this  ;  and  so  I  went  on,  as  I  did 
at  first,  hoping  to  see  her  once  more,  just  as  she  used  to 
be.  Hoping  this,  and  remembering  what  she  was,  has 
made  me  feel  as  if  I  would  always  try  to  please  her,  and 
always  be  what  I  should  like  to  seem  to  her  if  I  was  still 
her  servant.  If  I'm  the  better  for  that — and  I  don't 
think  I'm  the  worse — I  am  grateful  to  her  for  it,  and 


826  CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


love  and  honour  her  the  more.  That's  the  plain  honest 
truth,  dear  Barbara,  upon  my  word  it  is  ! " 

Little  Barbara  was  not  of  a  wayward  or  capricious  na- 
ture, and,  being  full  of  remorse,  melted  into  tears.  To 
what  more  conversation  this  might  have  led,  we  need 
not  stop  to  inquire  ;  for  the  wheels  of  the  carriage  were 
heard  at  that  moment,  and,  being  followed  by  a  smart 
ring  at  the  garden  gate,  caused  the  bustle  in  the  house, 
which  had  lain  dormant  for  a  short  time,  to  burst  again 
into  tenfold  life  and  vigour. 

Simultaneously  with  the  travelling  equipage,  arrived 
Mr.  Chuckster  in  a  hackney  cab,  with  certain  papers 
and  supplies  of  money  for  the  single  gentleman,  into 
whose  hands  he  delivered  them.  This  duty  discharged, 
he  subsided  into  the  bosom  of  the  family  ;  and,  enter- 
taining himself  with  a  strolling  or  peripatetic  breakfast, 
watched  with  a  genteel  indifference,  the  process  of  load- 
ing the  carriage. 

"Snobby's  in  this,  I  see,  sir?"  he  said  to  Mr.  Abel 
Garland.  "  I  thought  he  wasn't  in  the  last  trip  because  it 
was  expected  that  his  presence  wouldn't  be  acceptable 
to  the  ancient  buffalo. " 

"  To  whom,  sir,"  demanded  Mr.  Abel. 
To  the  old  gentleman,"  returned  Mr.  Chuckster, 
slightly  abashed. 

"  Our  client  prefers  to  take  him  now,"  said  Mr.  Abel, 
drily.  "  There  is  no  longer  any  need  for  that  precau- 
tion, as  my  father's  relationship  to  a  gentleman  in 
whom  the  objects  of  his  search  have  full  confidence, 
will  be  a  sufficient  guarantee  for  the  friendly  nature  of 
their  errand." 

*'Ah  !"  thought  Mr.  Chuckster,  looking  out  of  win- 
dow, "anybody  but  me  !  Snobby  before  me,  of  course. 
He  didn't  happen  to  take  that  particular  five-pound  note, 
but  I  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  that  he's  always  up  to 
something  of  that  sort.  I  always  said  it,  long  before 
this  came  out.  Devilish  pretty  girl  that !  'Pon  my 
soul,  an  amazing  little  creature  !  " 

Barbara  was  the  subject  of  Mr.  Chuckster's  commen- 
dations ;  and  as  she  was  lingering  near  the  carriage  (all 
being  now  ready  for  its  departure),  that  gentleman  was 
suddenly  seized  with  a  strong  interest  in  the  proceedings 
which  impelled  him  to  swagger  down  the  garden,  and 
take  up  his  position  at  a  convenient  ogling  distance. 
Having  had  great  experience  of  the  sex,  and  being  per- 
fectly acquainted  with  all  those  little  artifices  which  find 
the  readiest  road  to  their  hearts,  Mr.  Chuckster,  on  tak- 
ing his  ground,  planted  one  hand  on  his  hip,  and  with 
the ^ther  adjusted  his  flowing  hair.  This  is  a  favourite 
attitude  in  the  polite  circles,  and,  accompanied  with  a 
graceful  whistling,  has  been  known  to  do  immense  exe- 
cution. 

Such,  however,  is  the  difference  between  town  and 
country,  that  nobody  took  the  smallest  notice  of  this  in- 
sinuating figure  ;  the  wretches  being  wholly  engaged  in 
bidding  the  travellers  farewell,  in  kissing  hands  to  each 
other,  waving  handkerchiefs,  and  the  like  tame  and  vul- 
gar practices.  For,  now,  the  single  gentleman,  and  Mr. 
Garland  were  in  the  carriage,  and  the  post-boy  was  in 
the  saddle,  and  Kit,  well  wrapped  and  muffled  up,  was 
in  the  rumble  behind  ;  and  Mrs.  Garland  was  there,  and 
Mr.  Abel  was  there,  and  Kit's  mother  was  there,  and 
little  Jacob  was  there,  and  Barbara's  mother  was  visible 
in  remote  perspective,  nursing  the  ever-wakeful  baby  ; 
and  all  were  nodding,  beckoning,  curtseying,  or  crying 
out  "  Good-bye  ! "  with  all  the  energy  they  could  ex- 
press. In  another  minute,  the  carriage  was  out  of 
sight ;  and  Mr.  Chuckster  remained  alone  on  the  spot 
where  it  had  lately  been,  with  a  vision  of  Kit  standing 
up  in  the  rumble  waving  his  hand  to  Barbara,  and  of 
Barbara  in  the  full  light  and  lustre  of  his  eyes — Ms  eyes 
— Cliuckster's — Chuckster  the  successful— on  whom 
ladies  of  quality  had  looked  with  favour  from  phaetons 
in  the  parks  on  Sundays — waving  hers  to  Kit  ! 

How  Mr.  Chuckster,  entranced  by  this  monstrous  fact 
stood  for  some  time  rooted  to  the  earth,  ])rotesting  with- 
in himself  that  Kit  was  the  Prince  of  felonious  charac- 
ters, and  very  Emperor  or  Great  Mogul  of  Snobs,  and  how 
he  clearly  traced  this  revolting  circumstance  back  to 
that  old  villany  of  the  shilling,  are  matters  foreign  to  our 
purpose  ;  which  is  to  track  the  rolling  wheels,  and  bear 
the  travellers  comjjany  on  their  cold,  bleak  journey. 


It  was  a  bitter  day.  A  keen  wind  was  blowing,  and 
rushed  against  them  fiercely  :  bleaching  the  hard  ground, 
shaking  the  white  frost  from  the  trees  and  hedges,  and 
whirling  it  away  like  dust.  But,  little  cared  Kit  for 
weather.  There  was  a  freedom  and  freshness  in  the 
wind  as  it  came  howling  by,  which,  let  it  cut  never  so 
sharp,  was  welcome.  As  it  swept  on  with  its  cloud  of 
frost,  bearing  down  the  dry  twigs  and  boughs  and 
withered  leaves,  and  carrying  them  away  pell-mell,  it 
seemed  as  though  some  general  sympathy  had  got 
abroad,  and  everything  was  in  a  hurry,  like  themselves. 
The  harder  the  gusts,  the  better  progress  they  appeared 
to  make.  It  was  a  good  thing  to  go  struggling  and 
fighting  forward,  vanquishing  them  one  by  one  ;  to 
watch  them  driving  up,  gathering  strength  and  fury  as 
they  came  along  ;  to  bend  for  a  moment,  as  they  whis- 
tled past  ;  and  then,  to  look  back  and  see  them  speed 
away,  their  hoarse  noise  dying  in  the  distance,  and  the 
stout  trees  cowering  down  before  them. 

All  day  long,  it  blew  without  cessation.  The  night 
was  clear  and  starlight,  but  the  wind  had  not  fallen,  and 
the  cold  was  piercing.  Sometimes — towards  the  end  of 
a  long  stage — Kit  could  not  help  wishing  it  were  a  little 
warmer  :  but  when  they  stopped  to  change  horses,  and 
he  had  had  a  good  run,  and  what  with  that,  and  the 
bustle  of  paying  the  old  postilion,  and  rousing  the  new 
one,  and  running  to  and  fro  again  until  the  horses  were 
put  to,  he  was  so  warm  that  the  blood  tingled  and 
smarted  in  his  fingers'  ends — then,  he  felt  as  if  to  have 
it  one  degree  less  cold  would  be  to  lose  half  the  delight 
and  glory  of  the  journey  :  and  up  he  jumped  again, 
right  cheerily,  singing  to  the  merry  music  of  the  wheels 
as  they  rolled  away,  and,  leaving  the  townspeople  in 
their  warm  beds,  pursued  their  course  along  the  lonely 
road. 

Meantime  the  two  gentlemen  inside,  who  were  little 
disposed  to  sleep,  beguiled  the  time  with  conversation. 
As  both  were  anxious  and  expectant,  it  naturally  turned 
upon  the  subject  of  their  expedition,  on  the  manner  in 
which  it  had  been  brought  about,  and  on  the  hopes  and 
fears  they  entertained  respecting  it.  Of  the  former  they 
had  many,  of  the  latter  few — none  perhaps  beyond  that 
indefinable  uneasiness  which  is  inseparable  from  sudden- 
ly awakened  hope,  and  protracted  expectation. 

In  one  of  the  pauses  of  their  discourse,  and  when  half 
the  night  had  worn  away,  the  single  gentleman,  who 
had  gradually  become  more  and  more  silent  and  thought- 
ful, turned  to  his  companion  and  said  abruptly  : 

"  Are  you  a  good  listener?  " 

"  Like  most  other  men,  I  suppose,"  returned  Mr.  Gar- 
land, smiling.  "  I  can  be,  if  lam  interested  ;  and  if  not 
interested,  I  should  still  try  to  appear  so.  Why  do  you 
ask  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  short  narrative  on  my  lips,"  rejoined  his 
friend,  "  and  will  try  you  with  it.    It  is  very  brief." 

Pausing  for  no  reply,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  old  gen- 
tleman's sleeve,  and  proceeded  thus  : 

"  There  was  once  two  brothers,  who  loved  each  other 
dearly.  There  was  a  disparity  in  their  ages — some 
twelve  years.  I  am  not  sure  but  they  may  insensibly 
have  loved  each  other  the  better  for  that  reason.  Wide 
as  the  interval  between  them  was,  however,  they  became 
rivals,  too  soon.  The  deepest  and  strongest  affection  of 
both  their  hearts  settled  upon  one  object. 

"  The  youngest — there  were  reasons  for  Ms  being  sen- 
sitive and  watchful — was  the  first  to  find  this  out.  I  will 
not  tell  you  what  misery  he  underwent,  what  agony  of 
soul  he  knew,  how  great  his  mental  struggle  was.  He 
had  been  a  sickly  child.  His  brother,  patient  and  con- 
siderate in  the  midst  of  his  own  high  health  and  strength 
had  many  and  many  a  day  denied  himself  the  sports  he 
loved,  to  sit  beside  his  couch,  telling  him  old  stories  till 
his  pale  face  lighted  up  with  an  unwonted  glow  ;  to  carry 
him  in  his  arms  to  some  green  spot,  where  he  could  tend 
the  poor  pensive  boy  as  he  looked  upon  the  bright  sum- 
mer day,  and  saw  all  nature  healthy  but  himself  ;  to  be, 
in  anyway,  his  fond  and  faithful  nurse.  I  may  not  dwell 
on  all  he  did,  to  make  the  poor,  weak  creature  love  him, 
or  my  tale  would  have  no  end.  But  when  the  time  of 
trial  came,  the  younger  brother's  heart  was  full  of  those 
old  days.  Heaven  strengthened  it  to  repay  the  sacrifices 
of  inconsiderate  youth  by  one  of  thoughtful  manhood. 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


827 


He  left  Ills  brother  to  be  bappy.  The  truth  never 
passed  his  lips,  and  he  quitted  the  country,  hoping  to  die 
abroad. 

"  The.  elder  brother  married  her.  She  was  in  Heaven 
before  long,  and  left  him  with  an  infant  daughter. 

"  If  you  have  seen  the  picture-gallery  of  any  one  old 
family,  you  will  remember  how  the  same  face  and  figure 
— often  the  fairest  and  slightest  of  them  all — come  upon 
you  in  different  generations  ;  and  how  you  trace  the  same 
sweet  girl  through  a  long  line  of  portraits — never  grow- 
ing old  or  changing — the  Good  Angel  of  the  race — 
abiding  by  them  in  all  reverses — redeeming  all  their 
sins — 

"  In  this  daughter,  the  mother  lived  again.  You  may 
judge  with  what  devotion  he  who  lost  that  mother  al- 
most in  the  winning,  clung  to  this  girl,  her  breathing 
image.  She  grew  to  womanhood,  and  gave  her  heart  to 
one  who  could  not  know  its  worth.  Well  !  Her  fond 
father  could  not  see  her  pine  and  droop.  He  might  be 
more  deserving  than  he  thought  him.  He  surely  might 
become  so,  with  a  wife  like  her.  He  joined  their  hands, 
and  they  were  married. 

"  Through  all  the  misery  that  followed  this  union  ; 
through  all  the  cold  neglect  and  undeserved  reproach  ; 
through  all  the  poverty  he  brought  upon  her  ;  through 
all  the  struggles  of  their  daily  life,  too  mean  and  piti- 
ful to  tell,  but  dreadful  to  endure,  she  toiled  on,  in  the 
deep  devotion  of  her  spirit,  and  in  her  better  nature,  as 
only  women  can.  Her  means  and  substance  wasted  ;  her 
father  nearly  beggared  by  her  husband's  hand,  and  the 
hourly  witness  (for  they  lived  now  under  one  roof)  of  her 
ill-usage  and  unhappiness, — she  never,  but  for  him,  be- 
wailed her  fate.  Patient,  and  upheld  by  strong  affection 
to  the  last,  she  died  a  widow  of  some  three  weeks'  date, 
leaving  to  her  father's  care  two  orphans  :  one  a  son  of 
ten  or  twelve  years  old  :  the  other  a  girl — such  another 
infant  child — the  same  in  helplessness,  in  age,  in  form, 
in  feature — as  she  had  been  herself  when  her  young 
mother  died. 

"  The  elder  brother,  grandfather  to  these  two  chil- 
dren, was  now  a  broken  man  ;  crushed  and  borne  down, 
less  by  the  v/eight  of  years  than  by  the  heavy  hand  of 
sorrow.  With  the  wreck  of  his  possessions,  he  began 
to  trade — in  pictures  first,  and  then  in  curious  ancient 
things.  He  had  entertained  a  fondness  for  such  mat- 
ters from  a  boy,  and  the  tastes  he  had  cultivated  were 
now  to  yield  him  an  anxious  and  precarious  subsistence. 

"The  boy  grew  like  his  father  in  mind  and  person  ; 
the  girl  so  like  her  mother,  that  when  the  old  man  had 
her  on  his  knee,  and  looked  into  her  mild  blue  eyes,  he 
felt  as  if  awakening  from  a  wretched  dream,  and  his 
daughter  were  a  little  child  again.  The  wayward  boy 
soon  spurned  the  shelter  of  his  roof,  and  sought  associ- 
ates more  congenial  to  his  taste.  The  old  man  and  the 
child  dwelt  alone  together. 

"  It  was  then,  when  the  love  of  two  dead  people  who 
had  been  nearest  and  dearest  to  his  heart,  was  all  trans- 
ferred to  this  slight  creature  ;  when  her  face,  constantly 
before  him,  reminded  him,  from  hour  to  hour,  of  the 
too  early  change  he  had  seen  in  such  another — of  all 
the  sufferings  he  had  watched  and  known,  and  all  his 
child  had  undergone  ;  when  the  young  man's  profligate 
and  hardened  course  drained  him  of  money  as  his  father's 
had,  and  even  sometimes  or*casior>ea  them  temporary 
privation  and  distress  ;  it  was  then  that  there  began  to 
beset  him,  and  to  be  ever  in  his  mind,  a  gloomy  dread  of 
poverty  and  want.  He  had  no  thought  for  himself  in 
this.  His  fear  was  for  the  child.  It  was  a  spectre  in 
his  house,  and  haunted  him  night  and  day. 

"  The  younger  brother  had  been  a  traveller  in  many 
countries,  and  had  made  his  pilgrimage  through  life 
alone.  His  voluntary  banishment  had  been  misconstrued, 
and  he  had  borne  (not  without  pain)  reproach  and  slight, 
for  doing  that  which  had  wrung  his  heart,  and  cast  a 
mournful  shadow  on  his  path.  Apart  from  this,  commu- 
nication between  him  and  the  elder  Avas  difficult,  and  un- 
certain, and  often  failed  ;  still,  it  was  not  so  wholly 
broken  off  but  that  he  learnt — with  long  blanks  and 
gaps  between  each  interval  of  information — all  that  I 
have  told  you  now. 

"  Then,  dreams  of  their  young,  happy  life — happy  to 
him  though  laden  with  pain  and  early  care — visited  his 


pillow  yet  oftener  than  before  ;  and  every  night,  a  boy 
again,  he  was  at  his  brother's  side.  With  the  utmost 
speed  he  could  exert,  he  settled  his  affairs  ;  converted 
into  money  all  the  goods  he  had  ;  and,  with  honouraljle 
wealth  enough  for  both,  with  open  heart  and  hand,  with 
limbs  that  trembled  as  they  bore  him  on,  with  emotion 
such  as  men  can  hardly  bear  and  live,  arrived  one  even- 
ing at  his  brother's  door  ! " 

The  narrator,  whose  voice  had  faltered  lately,  stopped. 
"  The  rest,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  pressing  his  hand  after  a 
pause,  "  I  know." 

'*  Yes,"  rejoined  his  friend,  *'  we  may  spare  ourselves 
the  sequel.  You  know  the  poor  result  of  all  my  search. 
Even  when,  by  dint  of  such  inquiries  as  the  utmost  vigi- 
lance and  sagacity  could  set  on  foot,  we  found  they  liad 
been  seen  with  two  poor  travelling  showmen — and  in 
time,  discovered  the  men  themselves — and  in  time,  the 
actual  place  of  their  retreat  ;  even  then,  we  were  too 
late.    Pray  God  we  are  not  too  late  again  !  " 

"  We  cannot  be,"  said  Mr.  Garland.  "This  time  we 
must  succeed." 

"I  have  believed  and  hoped  so,"  returned  the  other. 
"  I  try  to  believe  and  hope  so  still.  But  a  heavy  weight 
has  fallen  on  my  spirits,  my  good  friend,  and  the  sadness 
that  gathers  over  me,  will  yield  to  neither  hope  nor 
reason." 

"  That  does  not  surprise  me,"  said  Mr.  Garland  it 
is  a  natural  consequence  of  the  events  you  have  recalled  ; 
of  this  dreary  time  and  place  ;  and  above  all,  of  this  wild 
and  dismal  night.  A  dismal  night,  indeed.  Hark  how 
the  wind  is  howling  ! " 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

Day  broke,  and  found  them  still  upon  their  way.  Since 
leaving  home,  they  had  halted  here  and  there  for  neces- 
sary refreshment,  and  had  frequently  been  delayed,  es- 
pecially in  the  night  time,  by  waiting  for  fresh  horses. 
They  made  no  otlier  stoppages,  but  the  weather  con- 
tinued rough  and  the  roads  were  often  steep  and  heavy. 
It  would  be  night  again  before  they  reached  their  place 
of  destination. 

Kit,  all  bluff  and  hardened  with  the  cold,  went  on 
manfully,  and,  having  enough  to  do  to  keep  his  blood 
circulating,  to  picture  to  himself  the  happy  end  of  this 
adventurous  journey,  and  to  look  about  him  and  be 
amazed  at  everything,  had  little  spare  time  for  thinking 
of  discomforts.  Though  his  impatience,  and  that  of  his 
fellow-travellers,  rapidly  increased  as  the  day  waned, 
the  hours  did  not  stand  still.  The  short  daylight  of 
winter  soon  faded  away,  and  it  was  dark  again  when 
they  had  yet  many  miles  to  travel. 

As  it  grew  dusk,  the  wind  fell  ;  its  distant  moanings 
were  more  low  and  mournful  ;  and,  as  it  came  creeping 
up  the  road,  and  rattling  covertly  among  the  dry  bram- 
bles on  either  hand,  it  seemed  like  some  great  phantom 
for  whom  the  way  was  narrow,  whose  garments  rustled 
as  it  stalked  along.  By  degrees  it  lulled  and  died  away, 
and  then  it  came  on  to  snow. 

The  flakes  fell  fast  and  thick,  soon  covering  the  ground 
some  inches  deep,  and  spreading  abroad  a  solemn  still- 
ness. The  rolling  wheels  were  noiseless,  and  the  sharp 
ring  and  clatter  of  the  horse's  hoofs,  became  a  dull, 
muffled  tramp.  The  life  of  their  progress  seemed  to 
be  slowly  hushed,  and  something  death-like  to  usurp  its 
place. 

Shading  his  eyes  from  the  falling  snow,  which  froze 
upon  their  lashes,  and  obscured  his  sight.  Kit  often  tried 
to  catch  the  earliest  glimpse  of  twinkling  lights  denot- 
ing their  approach  to  some  not  distant  town.  He  could 
descry  objects  enough  at  such  times,  but  none  correctly. 
Now,  a  tall  church  spire  appeared  in  view  which  pres- 
ently became  a  tree,  a  ba,rn,  a  shadow  on  the  ground, 
thrown  on  it  by  their  own  bright  lamps.  Xow,  there 
were  horsemen,  foot-passengers,  carriages  going  on  be- 
fore, or  meeting  them  in  narrow  ways  ;  which,  when 
they  were  close  upon  them  turned  to  shadows  too.  A 
wall,  a  ruin,  a  sturdy  gable  end.  would  rise  up  in  the 
road  ;  and,  when  they  were  plunging  headlong  at  it, 
would  be  the  road  itself.  Strange  turnings  too,  bridges, 
and  sheets  of  water,  appeared  to  start  up  here  and  there. 


828 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


making  the  way  doubtful  and  uncertain  ;  and  yet  they 
were  on  the  same  bare  road,  and  these  things,  like  the 
others,  as  they  were  passed,  turned  into  dim  illusions. 

He  descended  slowly  from  his  seat— for  his  limbs  were 
numbed— when  they  arrived  at  a  lone  posting-house, 
and  inquired  how  far  they  bad  to  go  to  reach  their  jour- 
ney's end.  It  was  a  late  hour  in  such  by-places,  and 
the  people  were  abed  ;  but  a  voice  answered  from  an 
upper  window.  Ten  miles.  The  ten  minutes  that  ensued 
appeared  an  hour  ;  but,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  a  shiver- 
ino-  figure  led  out  the  horses  they  required,  and  after 
another  brief  delay  they  were  again  in  motion. 

It  was  a  cross-country  road,  full,  after  the  first  three 
or  four  miles,  of  holes  and  cart-ruts,  which,  being  covered 
bv  the  snow,  were  so  many  pitfalls  to  the  trembling 
horses,  and  obliged  them  to  keep  a  footpace.  As  it  was 
next  to  impossible  for  men  so  much  agitated  as  they 
were  by  this  time,  to  sit  still  and  move  so  slowly,  all 
three  got  out  and  plodded  on  behind  the  carriage.  The 
distance  seemed  interminable,  and  the  walk  was  most 
laborious.  As  each  was  thinking  within  himself  that 
the  driver  must  have  lost  his  way,  a  church  bell  close 
at  hand  struck  the  hour  of  midnight,  and  the  carriage 
stopped.  It  had  moved  softly  enough,  but  when  it 
ceased  to  crunch  the  snow,  the  silence  was  as  startling  as 
if  some  great  noise  had  been  replaced  by  perfect  still- 
ness. 

"  This  is  the  place,  gentleman,"  said  the  driver,  dis- 
mounting from  his  horse,  and  knocking  at  the  door  of  a 
little  inn.  "Halloa!  Past  twelve  o'clock  is  the  dead 
of  night  here." 

The  knocking  was  loud  and  long,  but  it  failed  to  rouse 
the  drowsy  inmates.  All  continued  dark  and  silent  as 
before.  They  fell  back  a  little,  and  looked  up  at  the 
windows,  which  were  mere  black  patches  in  the  whitened 
house  front.  No  light  appeared.  The  house  might 
have  been  deserted,  or  the  sleepers  dead,  for  any  air  of 
life  it  had  about  it. 

They  spoke  together  with  a  strange  inconsistency,  in 
whispers  ;  unwilling  to  disturb  again,  the  dreary  echoes 
they  had  just  now  raised. 

" Let  us  go  on,"  said  the  younger  brother,  "and  leave 
this  good  fellow  to  wake  them  if  he  can.  I  cannot  rest 
until  I  know  that  we  are  not  too  late.  Let  us  go  on  in 
the  name  of  Heaven  ! " 

They  did  so,  leaving  the  postilion  to  order  such  ac- 
commodation as  the  house  afforded,  and  to  renew  his 
knocking.  Kit  accompanied  them  with  a  little  bundle, 
which  he  had  hung  in  the  carriage  when  they  left  home, 
and  had  not  forgotten  since — the  bird  in  his  old  cage — 
just  as  she  had  left  him.  She  would  be  glad  to  see  her 
bird,  he  knew. 

The  road  wound  gently  downward.  As  they  pro- 
ceeded, they  lost  sight  of  the  church  whose  clock  they 
had  heard,  and  of  the  small  village  clustering  round  it. 
The  knocking,  which  was  now  renewed,  and  which  in 
that  stillness  they  could  plainly  hear,  troubled  them. 
They  wished  the  man  would  forbear,  or  that  they  had 
told  him  not  to  break  the  silence  until  they  returned. 

The  old  church  tower,  clad  in  a  ghostly  garb  of  pure 
cold  white  again  rose  up  before  them,  and  a  few  mo- 
ments brought  them  close  beside  it.  A  venerable  build- 
ing—grey, even  in  the  midst  of  the  hoary  landscape. 
An  ancient  sun-dial  on  the  belfry  wall  was  nearly  hidden 
by  the  snow-drift,  and  scarcely  to  be  known  for  what  it 
was.  Time  itself  seemed  to  have  grown  dull  and  old, 
as  if  no  day  were  ever  to  displace  the  melancholy 
night. 

A  wicket  gate  was  close  at  hand,  but  there  was  more 
than  one  path  across  the  church-yard,  to  which  it  led, 
and,  uncertain  which  to  take,  they  came  to  a  stand 
again. 

The  village  street — if  street  that  could  be  called  which 
was  an  irregular  cluster  of  poor  cottages  of  many  heights 
and  ages,  some  with  their  fronts,  some  with  their  backs, 
and  some  with  gable  ends  towards  the  road,  with  here 
and  there  a  signpost  or  a  shed  encroaching  on  the  path 
— was  close  at  hand.  There  was  a  faint  liglit  in  a  cham- 
ber window  not  far  off,  and  Kit  ran  towards  that  house 
to  ask  their  way. 

His  first  shout  was  answered  by  an  old  man  within, 
who  presently  appeared  at  the  casement,  wrapping  some' 


garment  round  his  throat  as  a  protection  from  the  cold, 
and  demanded  who  was  abroad  at  that  unseasonable 
hour  wanting  him. 

'"Tis  hard  weather  this,"  he  grumbled,  "and  not  a 
night  to  call  me  up  in.  My  trade  is  not  of  that  kind 
that  I  need  be  roused  from  bed.  The  business  on  which 
folks  want  me,  will  keep  cold,  especially  at  this  season. 
What  do  you  want?" 

"I  would  not  have  roused  you,  if  I  had  known  you 
were  old  and  ill,"  said  Kit. 

"  Old  ! "  repeated  the  other  peevishly.  **  How  do  you 
know  I  am  old?  Not  so  old  as  you  think,  friend,  per- 
haps. As  to  being  ill,  you  will  find  many  young  people 
in  worse  case  than  I  am.  More's  the  pity  that  it  should 
be  so — not  that  I  should  be  strong  and  hearty  for  my 
years,  I  mean,  but  that  they  should  be  weak  and  tender. 
I  ask  your  pardon  though,"  said  the  old  man,  "  if  I 
spoke  rather  rough  at  first.  My  eyes  are  not  good  at 
night — that's  neither  age  nor  illness  ;  they  never  were — 
and  I  didn't  see  you  were  a  stranger. 

"I  am  sorry  to  call  you  from  your  bed,"  said  Kit, 
"  but  those  gentlemen  you  may  see  by  the  churchyard 
gate,  are  strangers  too,  who  have  just  arrived  from  a 
long  journey,  and  seek  the  parsonage-house.  You  can 
direct  us  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  able  to,"  answered  the  old  man,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  "for,  come  next  summer,  I  have  been 
sexton  here,  good  fifty  years.  The  right-hand  path, 
friend,  is  the  road. — There  is  no  ill  news  for  our  good 
gentleman,  I  hope  ?  " 

Kit  thank(^d  him,  and  made  him  a  hasty  answer  in  the 
negative  :  he  was  turning  back,  when  his  attention  was 
caught  by  the  the  voice  of  a  child.  Looking  up  he  saw 
a  very  little  creature  at  a  neighbouring  window. 

"What  is  that?"  cried  the  child,  earnestly.  "Has 
my  dream  come  true  ?  Pray  speak  to  me,  whoever  that 
is,  awake  and  up." 

"Poor  boy!"  said  the  sexton,  before  Kit  could  an- 
swer, "  how  goes  it,  darling  ?  " 

"Has  my  dream  come  true?"  exclaimed  the  child 
again,  in  a  voice  so  fervent  that  it  might  have  thrilled 
to  the  heart  of  any  listener.  But  no,  that  can  never  be! 
How  could  it  be — Oh  !  how  could  it  !  " 

"  I  guess  his  meaning,"  said  the  sexton.  "To  bed 
again,  poor  boy  !  " 

"Ay!"  cried  the  child,  in  a  burst  of  despair.  "I 
knew  it  could  never  be,  I  felt  too  sure  of  that,  before  I 
asked  !  But,  all  to-night  and  last  night  too,  it  was  the 
same.  I  never  fall  asleep  but  that  cruel  dream  comes 
back." 

"  Try  to  sleep  again,"  said  the  old  man,  soothingly. 
"  It  will  go,  in  time." 

"  No  no,  I  would  rather  that  it  staid — cruel  as  it  is,  I 
would  rather  that  it  staid,"  rejoined  the  child.  "  I  am 
not  afraid  to  have  it  in  my  sleep,  but  I  am  so  sad — so 
very,  very  sad." 

The  old  man  blessed  him,  the  child  in  tears  replied 
Good  night,  and  Kit  was  again  alone. 

He  hurried  back,  moved  by  what  he  had  heard,  though 
more  by  the  child's  manner  than  by  anything  he  had 
said,  as  his  meaning  was  hidden  from  him.  They  took 
the  path  indicated  by  the  sexton,  and  soon  arrived  before 
the  parsonage  wall.  Turning  round  to  look  about  them 
when  they  had  got  thus  far,  they  saw  among  some  ruined 
buildings  at  a  distance,  one  single  solitary  light. 

It  shone  from  what  appeared  to  be  an  old  oriel  win- 
dow, and  being  surrounded  by  the  deep  shadows  of  over- 
hanging walls,  sparkled  like  a  star.  Bright  and  glim- 
mering as  the  stars  above  their  heads,  lonely  and 
motionless  as  they,  it  seemed  to  claim  some  kindred  with 
the  eternal  lamps  of  Heaven,  and  to  burn  in  fellowship 
with  them. 

"  What  light  is  that  ?"  said  the  younger  brother. 

"  It  is  surely,"  said  Mr.  Garland,  "in  the  ruin  where 
they  live.    I  see  no  other  ruin  hereabouts." 

"They  cannot,"  returned  the  brother  hastily,  "be 
waking  at  this  late  hour — " 

Kit  interposed  directly,  and  begged  that,  while  they 
rang  and  waited  at  the  gate,  they  would  let  him  make 
his  way  to  where  this  light  was  shining,  and  try  to  as- 
certain if  any  people  were  about.  Obtaining  the  per- 
mission he  desired,  he  darted  off  with  breathless  eager- 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


829 


ness,  and,  still  carrying  the  birdcage  in  his  hand,  made 
straight  towards  the  spot. 

It  was  not  easy  to  hold  that  pace  among  the  graves, 
and  at  another  time  he  might  have  gone  more  slowly,  or 
round  by  the  path.  Unmindful  of  all  obstacles,  how- 
ever, he  pressed  forward  without  slackening  his  speed, 
and  soon  arrived  within  a  few  yards  of  the  window. 

He  approached  as  softly  as  he  could,  and  advancing  so 
near  the  wall  as  to  brush  the  whitened  ivy  with  his 
dress,  listened.  There  was  no  sound  inside.  The 
church  itself  was  not  more  quiet.  Touching  the  glass 
•with  his  cheek,  he  listened  again.  No.  And  yet  there 
was  such  a  silence  all  around  that  he  felt  sure  he  could 
have  heard  even  the  breathing  of  a  sleeper,  if  there  had 
been  one  there. 

A  strange  circumstance,  a  light  in  such  a  place  at  that 
time  of  night,  Avith  no  one  near  it. 

A  curtain  was  drawn  across  the  lower  portion  of  the 
window,  and  he  could  not  see  into  the  room.  But  there 
■was  no  shadow  thrown  upon  it  from  within.  To  have 
gained  a  footing  on  the  wall  and  tried  to  look  in  from 
above,  would  have  been  attended  with  some  danger — 
certainly  wuth  some  noise,  and  the  chance  of  terrifying 
the  child,  if  that  really  were  her  habitation.  Again  and 
again  he  listened  ;  again  and  again  the  same  wearisome 
blank. 

Leaving  the  spot  -with  slow  and  cautious  steps,  and 
skirting  the  ruin  for  a  few  paces,  he  came  at  length  to  a 
door.  He  knocked.  No  answer.  But  there  was  a  curi- 
ous noise  inside.  It  was  difficult  to  determine  what  it 
■was.  It  bore  a  resemblance  to  the  low  moaning  of  one 
in  pain,  but  it  was  not  that,  being  far  too  regular  and 
constant.  Now  it  seemed  a  kind  of  song,  now  a  wail — 
seemed,  that  is,  to  his  changing  fancy,  for  the  sound 
itself  was  never  changed  or  checked.  It  was  unlike 
anything  he  had  ever  heard  ;  and  in  its  tone  there  was 
something  fearful,  chilling,  and  unearthly. 

The  listener's  blood  ran  colder  now,  than  ever  it  had 
done  in  frost  and  snow,  but  he  knocked  again.  There 
was  no  answer,  and  the  sound  went  on  ■without  any  in- 
terruption. He  laid  his  hand  softly  upon  the  latch,  and 
put  his  knee  against  the  door.  It  was  secured  on  the 
inside,  but  yielded  to  the  pressure,  and  turned  upon  its 
hinges.  He  saw  the  glimmering  of  a  fire  upon  the  old 
walls,  and  entered. 


CHAPTER  LXXI. 

The  dull,  red  glow  of  a  wood  fire — for  no  lamp  or 
candle  burnt  within  the  room — showed  him  a  figure,  seat- 
ed on  the  hearth  with  its  back  towards  him,  bending 
over  the  fitful  light.  The  attitude  was  that  of  one  who 
sought  the  heat.  It  was,  and  yet  was  not.  The  stoop- 
ing posture  and  the  cowering  form  were  there,  but  no 
hands  were  stretched  out  to  meet  the  grateful  warmth, 
no  shrug  or  shiver  compared  its  luxury  with  the  piercing 
cold  outside.  With  limbs  huddled  together,  head  bowled 
down,  arms  crossed  upon  the  breast,  and  fingers  tightly 
clenched,  it  rocked  to  and  fro  upon  its  seat  without  a 
moment's  pause,  accompanying  the  action  with  the 
mournful  sound  he  had  heard. 

The  heavy  door  had  closed  behindhim  on  his  entrance, 
with  a  crash  that  made  him  start  The  figure  neither 
spoke,  nor  turned  to  look,  nor  gave  in  any  other  way  the 
faintest  sign  of  having  heard  the  noise.  The  form  was 
that  of  an  old  man,  his  white  head  akin  in  colour  to  the 
mouldering  embers  upon  which  he  gazed.  He,  and  the 
failing  light  and  dying  fire,  the  time-worn  room,  the 
solitude,  the  wasted  life,  and  gloom,  were  all  in  fellow- 
ship.   Ashes,  and  dust,  and  ruin  ! 

Kit  tried  to  speak,  and  did  pronounce  some  words, 
though  what  they  were  he  scarcely  knew.  Still  the 
same  terrible  low  cry  went  on — still  the  same  rocking  in 
the  chair — the  same  stricken  figure  was  there,  unchanged 
and  heedless  of  his  presence. 

He  had  his  hand  upon  the  latch,  when  something  in 
the  form — distinctly  seen  as  one  log  broke  and  fell,  and, 
as  it  fell,  blazed  up — arrested  it.  He  returned  to  wdiere 
he  had  stood  before — advanced  a  pace — another — another 
Btill.  Another,  and  he  saw  the  face.  Yes  I  Changed 
as  it  was,  he  knew  it  well. 


"  Master  !  "  he  cried,  stooping  on  one  knee  and  catch- 
ing at  his  hand.    "  Dear  master.    Speak  to  me  I  " 

The  old  man  turned  slowly  towards  him  ;  and  mut- 
tered in  a  hollow  voice, 

"  This  is  another  I  -How  many  of  these  spirits  there 
have  been  to-night  !  " 

"  No  spirit,  master.  No  one  but  your  old  servant. 
You  know  me  now,  I  am  sure?  Mi.ss  Nell — where  is  she 
— where  is  she  !  " 

"  They  all  say  that  1 "  cried  the  old  man.  They  all 
ask  the  same  question,    A  spirit  !  " 

"  Where  is  she?  "  demanded  Kit.  "Oh  tell  me  but 
that — but  that,  dear  master  !  " 

"  She  is  asleep — yonder — in  there." 

"Thank  God  \" 

"Aye!  Thank  God!"  returned  the  old  man.  "I 
have  prayed  to  Him,  many,  and  many,  and  many  a  live- 
long night,  when  she  has  been  asleep,  he  knows.  Hark  1 
Did  she  call  ?  " 

"  I  heard  no  voice." 

"You  did.  You  hear  her  now.  Do  you  tell  me  that 
you  don't  hear  that?  " 

He  started  up,  and  listened  again, 

"Nor  that?"  he  cried,  with  a  triumphant  smile. 
"  Can  anybody  know  that  voice  so  well  as  1 1  Hush  1 
hush  ! " 

Motioning  to  him  to  be  silent,  he  stole  away  into  an- 
other chamber.  After  a  short  absence  (during  which  he 
could  be  heard  to  speak  in  a  softened  soothing  tone)  he 
returned,  bearing  in  his  hand  a  lamp. 

"She  is  still  asleep,"  he  whispered.  "You  ■were 
right.  She  did  not  call — unless  she  did  so  in  her  slum- 
ber. She  has  called  to  me  in  her  sleep  before  now,  sir  ; 
as  I  have  sat  by,  watching,  I  have  seen  her  lips  move, 
and  have  known,  though  no  sound  came  from  them,  that 
she  spoke  of  me.  I  feared  the  light  might  dazzle  her 
eyes  and  wake  her,  so  I  brought  it  here." 

He  spoke  rather  to  himself  than  to  the  visitor,  but 
when  he  had  put  the  lamp  upon  the  table,  he  took  it  up, 
as  if  impelled  by  some  momentary  recollection  or  curi- 
osity, and  held  it  near  his  face.  Then,  as  if  forgetting 
his  motive  in  the  very  action,  he  turned  away  and  put  it 
down  again. 

"  She  is  sleeping  soundly,"  he  said  ;  "  but  no  wonder. 
Angel  hands  have  strewn  the  ground  deep  -with  snow, 
that  the  lightest  footstep  may  be  lighter  yet  ;  and  the 
very  birds  are  dead,  that  they  may  not  wake  her.  She 
used  to  feed  them,  sir.  Though  never  so  cold  and  hun- 
gry, the  timid  things  would  fly  from  us.  They  never 
flew  from  her  ! " 

Again  he  stopped  to  listen,  and  scarcely  drawing 
breath,  listened  for  a  long,  long  time.  That  fancy  past, 
he  opened  an  old  chest,  took  out  some  clothes  as  fondly 
as  if  they  had  been  living  things,  and  began  to  smooth 
and  brush  them  with  his  hand. 

"  Why  dost  thou  lie  so  idle  there,  dear  Nell,"  he  muj*- 
mured,  "when  there  are  bright  red  berries  out  of  doors 
waiting  for  thee  to  pluck  them  !  Why  dost  thou  lie  so 
idle  there,  when  thy  little  friends  come  creeping  to  the 
door,  crying  'where  is  Nell — sweet  Nell?' — and  sob, 
and  weep,  because  they  do  not  see  thee.  She  "«^as  always 
gentle  with  children.  The  ■wildest  would  do  her  bid- 
ding— she  had  a  tender  wav  with  them,  indeed  she 
had  ! " 

Kit  had  no  power  to  speak.  His  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears. 

"  Her  little  homely  dress, — her  favourite  !  "  cried  the 
old  man,  pressing  it  to  his  breast,  and  patting  it  -with 
his  shrivelled  hand.  "  She  will  miss  it  when  she  wakes. 
They  have  hid  it  here  in  sport,  but  she  shall  have  it — 
she  shall  have  it.  I  would  not  vex  my  darling,  for  the 
wide  world's  riches.  See  here — these  shoes — how  worn 
they  are — she  kept  them  to  remind  her  of  our  last  long 
journey.  You  see  where  the  little  feet  went  bare  upon 
the  ground.  They  told  me,  afterwards,  that  the  stones 
had  cut  and  bruised  them.  SJie  never  told  me  that. 
No,  no,  God  bless  her  !  and,  I  have  remembered  since, 
she  walked  behind  me,  sir,  that  I  might  not  see  how 
lame  she  was — but  yet  she  had  my  hand  in  hers,  and 
seemed  to  lead  me  still." 

He  pressed  them  to  his  lips,  and  having  carefully  put 
them  back  again,  went  on  communing  with  himself — 


830 


VHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


looking  wistfully  from 'time  to  time  towards  the  cham- 
ber he  had  lately  visited. 

She  was  not  wont  to  be  a  lie-abed  ;  but  she  was  well 
then.  We  must  have  patience.  When  she  is  well 
again,  she  will  rise  early,  as  she  used  to  do,  and  ramble 
abroad  in  the  healthy  morning  time.  I  often  tried  to 
track  the  way  she  had  gone,  but  her  small  footstep  left 
no  print  upon  the  dewy  ground,  to  guide  me.  Who  is 
that  ?  Shut  the  door.  Quick  !-~Have  we  not  enough 
to  do  to  drive  away  that  marble  cold,  and  keep  her 
warm  !  " 

The  door  was  indeed  opened,  for  the  entrance  of  Mr. 
Garland  and  his  friend,  accompanied  by  two  other  per- 
sons. These  were  the  schoolmaster,  and  the  bachelor. 
The  former  held  a  light  in  his  hand.  He  had,  it  seemed, 
but  gone  to  his  own  cottage  to  replenish  the  exhausted 
lamp,  at  the  moment  when  Kit  came  up  and  found  the 
old  man  alone. 

He  softened  again  at  sight  of  these  two  friends,  and, 
laying  aside  the  angry  manner — if  to  anything  so  feeble 
and  so  sad  the  term  can  be  applied — in  which  he  had 
spoken  when  the  door  opened,  resumed  his  former  seat, 
and  subsided,  by  little  and  little,  into  the  old  action,  and 
the  old,  dull,  wandering  sound. 

Of  the  strangers  he  took  no  heed  whatever.  He  had 
seen  them,  but  appeared  quite  incapable  of  interest  or 
curiosity.  The  younger  brother  stood  apart.  The  bach- 
elor drew  a  chair  towards  the  old  man,  and  sat  down 
close  beside  him.  After  a  long  silence,  he  ventured  to 
speak. 

"  Another  night,  and  not  in  bed  ! "  he  said  softly  :  "  I 
hoped  you  would  be  more  mindful  of  your  promise  to 
me.    Why  do  you  not  take  some  rest  ?  " 

"Sleep  has  left  me,"  returned  the  old  man.  "It  is 
all  with  her  !  " 

"  It  would  pain  her  very  much  to  know  that  you  were 
Avatching  thus,"  said  the  bachelor.  "  You  would  not 
give  her  pain  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  if  it  would  only  rouse  her. 
She  has  slept  so  very  long.  And  yet  I  am  rash  to  say 
so.    It  is  a  good  and  happy  sleep — eh  ?  " 

" Indeed  it  is,"  returned  the  bachelor.  "Indeed,  in- 
deed, it  is  ! " 

"That's  well! — and  the  waking" — faltered  the  old 
man. 

"  Happy  too.  Happier  than  tongue  can  tell,  or  heart 
of  man  conceive." 

They  watched  him  as  he  rose  and  stole  on  tiptoe  to 
the  other  chamber  where  the  lamp  had  been  replaced. 
They  listened  as  he  spoke  again  within  its  silent  walls. 
They  looked  into  the  faces  of  each  other,  and  no  man's 
cheek  was  free  from  tears.  He  came  back,  whispering 
that  she  was  still  asleep,  but  that  he  thought  she  had 
moved.  It  was  her  hand,  he  said — a  little — a  very,  very 
little — but  he  was  pretty  sure  she  had  moved  it — per- 
haps in  seeking  his.  He'had  known  her  do  that,  before 
now,  though  in  the  deepest  sleep  the  while.  And  when 
he  had  said  this,  he  dropped  into  his  chair  again,  and 
clasping  his  hands  above  his  head,  uttered  a  cry  never 
to  be  forgotten. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  motioned  to  the  bachelor  that 
he  would  come  on  the  other  side,  and  speak  to  him. 
They  gently  unlocked  his  fingers,  which  he  had  twisted 
in  his  grey  hair,  and  pressed  them  in  their  own. 

"  He  will  hear  me,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "  I  am  sure. 
He  will  hear  either  me  or  you  if  we  beseech  him.  She 
would,  at  all  times." 

"  I  will  hear  any  voice  she  liked  to  hear,"  cried  the 
old  man.    "  I  love  all  she  loved  !  " 

"  I  know^ou  do,"  returned  the  schoolmaster.  "I  am 
certain  of  it.  Think  of  her  ;  th.ink  of  all  the  sorrows 
and  alllictions  you  have  shared  together  ;  of  all  the  trials 
and  all  the  peaceful  pleasures,  you  have  jointly  known." 

"  1  do.    I  do.    I  think  of  nothing  else." 

"  I  would  liave  you  think  of  nothing  else  to-night— of 
nothing  but  those  things  which  will  soften  your  heart, 
dear  friend,  and  open  it  to  old  affections  and  old  times. 
It  is  HO  that  she  would  speak  to  you  herself,  and  in  her 
name  it  is  that  I  speak  now." 

' '  You  do  well  to  speak  softly,"  said  the  old  man,  "  We 
will  not  wake  her,  I  should  be  glad  to  see  her  eyes 
again,  and  to  see  Ler  smile.    There  is  a  smile  upon  her 


young  face  now,  but  it  is  fixed  and  changeless,  I  would 
have  it  come  and  go.  That  shall  be  in  Heaven's  good 
time.    We  will  not  wake  her." 

"  Let  us  not  talk  of  her  in  her  sleep,  but  as  she  used 
to  be  when  you  were  journeying  together,  far  away — as 
she  was  at  home,  in  the  old  house  from  which  you  fled 
together— as  she  was,  in  the  old  cheerful  time,"  said  the 
schoolmaster. 

"  She  was  always  cheerful — very  cheerful,"  cried  the 
old  man,  looking  steadfastly  at  him.  "  There  was  ever 
something  mild  and  quiet  about  her,  I  remember,  from 
the  first  ;  but  she  was  of  a  happy  nature." 

"We  have  heard  you  say,"  pursued  the  schoolmaster,  • 
"  that  in  this,  and  in  all  goodness,  she  was  like  her  moth- 
er, .You  can  think  of,  and  remember  her?" 

He  maintained  his  steadfast  look,  but  gave  no  answer. 

"  Or  even  one  before  her,"  said  the  bachelor.  "  It  is 
many  years  ago,  and  affliction  makes  the  time  longer, 
but  you  have  not  forgotten  her  whose  death  contributed 
to  make  this  child  so  dear  to  you,  even  before  you  knew 
her  worth  or  could  read  her  heart  ?  Say,  that  you  could 
carry  back  your  thoughts  to  very  distant  days — to  the 
time  of  your  early  life — when,  unlike  this  fair  flower, 
you  did  not  pass  your  youth  alone.  Say,  that  you  could 
remember,  long  ago,  another  child  who  loved  you  dearly, 
you  being  but  a  child  yourself.  Say,  that  you  had  a 
brother,  long  forgotten,  long  unseen,  long  separated  from 
you,  who  now,  at  last,  in  your  utmost  need  came  back  to 
comfort  and  console  you  " 

"  To  be  to  you  what  you  were  once  to  him,"  cried  the 
younger,  falling  on  his  knee  before  him  ;  "to  repay  your 
old  affection,  brother  dear,  by  constant  care,  solicitude, 
and  love  ;  to  be,  at  your  right  hand,  what  he  has  never 
ceased  to  be  when  oceans  rolled  between  us  ;  to  call  to 
witness  his  unchanging  truth  and  mindfulness  of  by-gone 
days,  whole  years  of  desolation.  Give.me  but  one  word 
of  recognition,  brother — and  never — no  never,  in  the 
brightest  moment  of  our  youngest  days,  when,  poor  silly 
boys,  we  thought  to  pass  our  lives  together  have  we 
been  half  as  dear  and  precious  to  each  other  as  we  shall 
be  from  this  time  hence  ! " 

The  old  man  looked  from  face  to  face,  and  his  lips 
moved  ;  but  no  sound  came  from  them  in  reply. 

"  If  we  were  knit  together  then,"  pursued  the  younger 
brother,  "  what  will  be  the  bond  between  us  now  !  Our 
love  and  fellowship  began  in  childhood,  when  life  was 
all  before  us,  and  will  be  resumed  when  we  have  proved 
it,  and  are  but  children  at  the  last.  As  many  restless 
spirits,  who  have  hunted  fortune,  fame,  or  pleasure 
tl3 rough  the  world,  retire  in  their  decline  to  where  they 
first  drew  breath,  vainly  seeking  to  be  children  once  again 
before  they  die,  so  we,  less  fortunate  than  they  in  early 
life,  but  happier  in  its  closing  scenes,  will  set  up  our  rest 
again  among  our  boyish  haunts,  and  going  home  with  no 
hope  realised,  that  had  its  growth  in  manhood — carrying 
back  nothing  that  we  brought  away,  but  our  old  yearn- 
ings to  each  other — saving  no  fragment  from  the  wreck 
of  life,  but  that  which  first  endeared  it — may  be,  indeed, 
but  children  as  at  first.  And  even,"  he  added  in  an  al- 
tered voice,  "  even  if  what  I  dread  to  name  has  come  to 
pass — even  if  that  be  so,  or  is  to  be  (which  Heaven  for- 
bid and  spare  us  !) — still,  dear  brother,  we  are  not  apart, 
and  have  that  comfort  in  our  great  affliction." 

By  little  and  little,  the  old  man  had  drawn  back  towards 
the  inner  chamber,  while  these  words  were  spoken.  He 
pointed  there,  as  he  replied,  with  trembling  lips. 

"  You  plot  among  you  to  wean  my  heart  from  her. 
You  never  will  do  that — never  while  I  have  life.  I  have 
no  relative  or  friend  but  her — I  never  had — I  never  will 
have.  She  is  all  in  all  to  me.  It  is  too  late  to  part  us 
now." 

Waving  them  off  with  his  hand,  and  calling  softly  to 
her  as  he  went,  he  stole  into  the  room.  They  who  were 
left  behind,  drew  close  together,  and  after  a  few  whis- 
pered words — not  unbroken  by  emotion,  or  easily  uttered 
— followed  him.  They  moved  so  gently,  that  their  foot- 
steps made  no  noise  ;  but  there  were  sobs  from  among 
the  group,  and  sounds  of  grief  and  mourning. 

For  she  was  dead.  There,  upon  her  little  bed,  she  lay 
at  rest.    The  solemn  stillness  was  no  marvel  now. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so  free 
from  trace  of  pain,  so  fair  to  look  upon.    She  seemed  a 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


831 


creature  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God,  and  waiting]:  for 
the  breath  of  life  ;  not  one  who  had  lived  and  suffered 
death. 

Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and  there  some  win- 
ter berries  and  green  leaves,  gathered  in  a  spot  she  had 
been  used  to  favour,  "  Wlieu  I  die,  put  near  me  some- 
thing that  has  loved  the  light,  and  had  the  sky  above  it 
always."    These  were  her  words. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell,  was 
dead.  Her  little  bird — a  poor  slight  thing  the  pressure 
of  a  finger  would  have  crushed — was  stirring  nimbly  in 
its  cage  ;  and  the  strong  heart  of  its  child-mistress  was 
mute  and  motionless  for  ever. 

Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her  suffer- 
ings, and  fatigues  ?  All  gone.  Sorrow  was  dead  indeed 
in  her,  but  peace  and  perfect  happiness  were  born  ;  im- 
aged in  her  tranquil  beauty  and  profound  repose. 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  this 
change.  Yes.  The  old  fireside  had  smiled  upon  that 
sweet  face  ;  it  had  passed,  like  a  dream,  through  haunts 
of  misery  and  care  ;  at  the  door  of  the  poor  schoolmas- 
ter on  the  summer  evening,  before  the  furnace  fire  upon 
the  cold  wet  night,  at  the  still  bedside  of  the  dying 
boy,  there  had  been  the  same  mild  lovely  look.  So  shall 
we  know  the  angels  in  their  majesty,  after  death. 

The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and  had  the 
small  hand  tight  folded  to  his  breast,  for  warmth.  It 
was  the  hand  she  had  stretched  out  to  him  with  her  last 
smile — the  hand  that  had  led  him  on,  through  all  their 
wanderings.  Ever  and  anon  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips  ; 
then  hugged  it  to  his  breast  again, murmuring  that  it  was 
warmer  now  ;  and,  as  he  said  it,  he  looked,  in  agony,  to 
those  who  stood  around,  as  if  imploring  them  to  help 
her. 

She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of  it.  The 
ancient  rooms  slje  had  seemed  to  fill  with  life,  even 
while  her  own  was  waning  fast — the  garden  she  had 
tended — the  eyes  she  had  gladdened — the  noiseless 
haunts  of  many  a  thoughtful  hour— the  paths  she  had 
trodden  as  it  were  but  yesterday — could  know  her  never 
more. 

"  It  is  not,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  bent  down 
to  kiss  her  on  the  cheek,  and  gave  his  tears  free  vent, 
"it  is  not  on  earth  that  Heaven's  justice  ends.  Think 
what  earth  is,  compared  to  the  world  to  which  her  young 
spirit  has  winged  its  early  flight  ;  and  say,  if  one  delib- 
erate wish  expressed  in  solemn  terms  above  this  bed 
could  call  her  back  to  life,  which  of  us  would  utter  it !  " 


CHAPTER  LXXII. 

When  morning  came,  and  they  could  speak  more 
calmly  on  the  subject  of  their  grief,  they  heard  how  her 
life  had  closed. 

She  had  been  dead  two  days.  They  were  all  about 
her  at  the  time,  knowing  that  the  end  was  drawing  on. 
She  died  soon  after  daybreak.  They  had  read  and  talked 
to  her  in  the  earlier  portion  of  the  night,  but  as  the 
hours  crept  on,  she  sunk  to  sleep.  They  could  tell  by 
what  she  faintly  uttered  in  her  dreams,  that  they  were 
of  her  journeyings  with  the  old  man  ;  they  were  of  no 
painful  scenes,  but  of  the  people  who  had  helped  and 
used  them  kindly,  for  she  often  said  "  God  bless  you  !  " 
with  great  fervour.  Waking,  she  never  wandered  in  her 
mind  but  once,  and  that  was  of  beautiful  music  which 
she  said  was  in  the  air.  God  knows.  It  may  have 
been. 

Opening  her  eyes  at  last,  from  a  very  quiet  sleep,  she 
begged  that  they  would  kiss  her  once  again.  That  done, 
she  turned  to  the  old  man  with  a  lovely  smile  upon  her 
face — such,  they  said,  as  they  had  never  seen,  and 
never  could  forget — and  clung  with  both  her  arms  about 
his  neck.  They  did  not  know  that  she  was  dead,  at 
first. 

She  had  spoken  very  often  of  the  two  sisters,  who, 
she  said,  were  like  dear  friends  to  her.  She  wished  they 
could  be  told  how  much  she  thought  about  them, and  how 
she  had  watched  them  as  they  walked  together,  by  the 
river  side  at  night.  She  would  like  to  see  poor  Kit,  she 
had  often  said  of  late.    She  wished  there  was  somebody 


to  take  her  love  to  Kit,  And,  even  then,  she  never 
thought  or  spoke  about  him,  but  with  something  of  her 
old,  clear,  merry  laugh. 

For  the  rest,  she  had  never  murmured  or  complained; 
but,  with  a  quiet  mind,  and  manner  quite  unaltered — 
save  that  she  every  day  became  more  earnest  and  more 
grateful  to  them — faded  like  the  light  upon  a  summer's 
evening. 

The  child  who  had  been  her  little  friend  came  there, 
almost  as  soon  as  it  was  day,  with  an  offering  of  dried 
flowers  which  he  begged  them  to  lay  upon  her  breast. 
It  was  he  who  had  come  to  the  window  overnight  and 
spoken  to  the  sexton,  and  they  saw  in  the  snow  traces 
of  small  feet,  where  he  had  been  lingering  near  the  room 
in  which  she  lay,  before  he  went  to  bed.  He  had  a 
fancy,  it  seemed,  that  they  had  left  her  there  alone  ;  and 
could  not  bear  the  thought. 

He  told  them  of  his  dream  again,  and  that  it  was  of 
her  being  restored  to  them,  just  as  she  used  to  be.  He 
begged  hard  to  see  her,  saying  that  he  would  be  very 
quiet,  and  that  they  need  not  fear  his  being  alarmed, 
for  he  had  sat  alone  by  his  young  brother  all  day  long, 
when  7i6  was  dead,  and  had  felt  glad  to  be  so  near  him. 
They  let  him  have  his  wish  ;  and  indeed  he  kept  his 
word,  and  was,  in  his  childish  way,  a  lesson  to  them  all. 

Up  to  that  time,  the  old  man  had  not  spoken  once — 
except  to  her — or  stirred  from  the  bedside.  But  when 
he  saw  her  little  favourite,  he  was  moved  as  they  had 
not  seen  him  yet,  and  made  as  though  he  would  have 
him  come  nearer.  Then,  pointing  to  the  bed,  he  burst 
into  tears  for  the  first  time,  and  they  who  stood  by, 
knowing  that  the  sight  of  this  child  had  done  him  good, 
left  them  alone  together. 

Soothing  him  with  his  artless  talk  of  her,  the  child 
persuaded  him  to  take  some  rest,  to  walk  abroad,  to  do 
almost  as  he  desired  him.  And  when  the  day  came  on, 
which  must  remove  her  in  her  earthly  shape  from  earth- 
ly eyes  forever,  he  led  him  away,  that  he  might  not 
know  when  she  was  taken  from  him. 

They  were  to  gather  fresh  leaves  and  berries  for  her 
bed.  It  was  Sunday — a  bright,  clear,  wintry  afternoon — 
and  as  they  traversed  the  village  street,  those  who  were 
walking  in  their  path  drew  back  to  mal^e  way  for  them, 
and  gave  them  a  softened  greeting.  Some  shook  the  old 
man  kindly  by  the  hand,  some  stood  uncovered  while  he 
tottered  by,  and  many  cried  "  God  help  him  !  "  as  he 
passed  along. 

"  Neighbours  !"  said  the  old  man,  stopping  at  the  cot- 
tage, where  his  young  guide's  mother  dwelt,  "  how  is  it 
that  the  folks  are  nearly  all  in  black,  to-day  ?'  I  have 
seen  a  mourning  ribbon  or  a  piece  of  crape  on  almost 
every  one." 

She  could  not  tell,  the  woman  said. 

"  Why,  you  yourself — you  wear  the  colour  too  !  "  he 
said,  "  Windows  are  closed  that  never  used  to  be  by 
day.    What  does  this  mean  !  " 

Again  the  woman  said  she  could  not  tell, 

"We  must  go  back,"  said  the  old  man,  hurriedly. 
"  We  must  see  what  this  is," 

"  No,  no,"  cried  the  child,  detaining  him.  "Eemem- 
ber  what  you  promised.  Our  way  is  to  the  old  green 
lane,  where  she  and  I  so  often  were,  and  where  you 
found  us,  more  than  once,  making  those  garlands  for 
her  garden.    Do  not  turn  back  !  " 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  "  said  the  old  man.  "  Tell  me 
that." 

"  Do  you  not  know  ?"  returned  the  child.  "  Did  we 
not  leave  her,  but  just  now  ?  " 

*'  True.    True.    It  icas  her  we  left — was  it  !  " 

He  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  brow,  looked  vacantly 
round,  and,  as  if  compelled  by  a  sudden  thought  cross- 
ed the  road,  and  entered  the  sexton's  house.  He  and  his 
deaf  assistant  were  sitting  before  the  fire.  Both  rose 
up,  on  seeing  who  it  was. 

The  child  made  a  hasty  sign  to  them  with  his  hand. 
It  was  the  action  of  an  instant,  but  that,  and  the  old 
man's  look,  were  quite  enough. 

"Do  you — do  you  bury  anyone  to-day?"  he  said, 
eagerly. 

"  No,  no  !  Who  should  we  bury,  sir?"  returned  the 
sexton, 

"  Aye,  who  indeed  !    I  say  with  you,  who  indeed  ?  " 


832 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  It  is  a  holiday  with  us,  good  sir  ?  "  returned  the  sex- 
ton mildly    "  We  have  no  work  to  do  to-day." 

"  Why  then,  I'll  go  where  you  will,"  said  the  old  man 
turning  to  the  child.  You're  sure  of  what  you  tell  me  ? 
You  would  not  deceive  me  ?  I  am  changed,  even  in  the 
little  time  since  you  last  saw  me." 

"  Go  thy  ways  with  him,  sir,"  cried  the  sexton,  "and 
Heaven  be  with  ye  both  ! " 

"  I  am  quite  ready,"  said  the  old  man  meekl}'.  "  Come 
boy,  come—"  and  so  submitted  to  be  led  away. 

And  now  the  bell — the  bell  she  had  so  often  heard,  by 
night  and  day,  and  listened  to  with  solemn  pleasure  al- 
most as  a  living  voice — rung  its  remorseless  toll  for  her, 
so  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good.  Decrepit  age,  and  vig- 
orous life,  and  blooming  youth  and  helpless  infancy, 
poured  forth — on  crutches,  in  the  pride  of  strength  and 
health,  in  the  full  blush  of  promise,  in  the  mere  dawn 
of  life — to  gather  round  her  tomb.  Old  men  were  there, 
whose  eyes  were  dim  and  senses  failing — grandmothers, 
who  might  have  died  ten  years  ago,  and  still  been  old 
— the  deaf,  the  blind,  the  lame,  the  palsied,  the  living 
dead  in  many  shapes  and  forms,  to  see  the  closing  of  that 
early  grave.  What  was  the  death  it  would  shut  in,  to 
that  which  still  could  crawl  and  creep  above  it ! 

Along  the  crowded  path  they  bore  her  now  ;  pure  as 
the  newly  fallen  snow  that  covered  it  ;  whose  day  on 
earth  had  been  as  fleeting.  Under  the  porch,  where  she 
had  sat  when  Heaven  in  its  mercy  brought  her  to  that 
peaceful  spot,  she  passed  again  ;  and  the  old  church  re- 
ceived  her  in  its  quiet  shade. 

They  carried  her  to  one  old  nook,  where  she  had  many 
and  many  a  time  sat  musing,  and  laid  their  burden  soft- 
ly on  the  pavement.  The  light  streamed  on  it  through  the 
coloured  window — a  window,  where  the  boughs  of  trees 
were  ever  rustling  in  the  summer,  and  where  the  birds 
sang  sweetly  all  day  long.  With  every  breath  of  air 
tliat  stirred  among  those  branches  in  the  sunshine,  some 
trembling,  changing  light,  would  fall  upon  her  grave. 

Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust  !  Many 
a  young  hand  dropped  in  its  little  wreath,  many  a  stifled 
sob  was  heard.  Some — and  they  were  not  a  few — knelt 
down.    All  were  sincere  and  truthful  in  their  sorrow. 

The  service  done,  the  mourners  stood  apart,  and  the 
villagers  closed  round  to  look  into  the  grave  before  the 
pavement-stone  should  be  replaced.  One,  called  to  mind 
how  he  had  seen  her  sitting  on  that  very  spot,  and  how 
her  book  had-  fallen  on  her  lap,  and  she  was  gazing 
with  a  pensive  face  upon  the  sky.  Another,  told  how 
he  had  wondered  much  that  one  so  delicate  as  she, 
should  be  so  bold  ;  how  she  had  never  feared  to  enter 
the  church  alone  at  night,  but  had  loved  to  linger  there 
when  all  was  quiet,  and  even  to  climb  the  tower  stair 
with  no  more  light  than  that  of  the  moon  rays  stealing 
through  the  loopholes  in  the  thick  old  wall.  A  whisper 
went  about  among  the  oldest,  that  she  had  seen  and 
talked  with  angels  ;  and  when  they  called  to  mind  how 
she  had  looked,  and  spoken,  and  her  early  death,  some 
thought  it  might  be  so,  indeed.  Thus,  coming  to  the 
grave  in  little  knots,  and  glancing  down,  and  giving 
place  to  others,  and  falling  off  in  whispering  groups  of 
three  or  four,  the  church  was  cleared  in  time,  of  all  but 
the  sexton  and  the  mourning  friends. 

They  saw  the  vault  covered,  and  the  stone  fixed  down. 
Then,  when  the  dusk  of  evening  had  come  on,  and  not 
a  sound  disturbed  the  sacred  stillness  of  the  place — when 
the  bright  moon  poured  in  her  light  on  tomb  and  monu- 
ment, on  pillar,  wall,  and  arch,  and  most  of  all  (it  seemed 
to  them)  upon  her  quiet  grave— in  that  calm  time,  when 
outward  things  and  inward  thoughts  teem  with  assur- 
ances of  immortality,  and  worldly  hopes  and  fears  are 
humbled  in  the  dust  before  them — then,  with  tranquil 
and  sul)missive  hearts  they  turned  away,  and  left  the 
child  with  God. 

Oh  !  it  is  hard  to  take  to  heart  the  lesson  that  such  deaths 
will  teach,  but  let  no  man  reject  it,  for  it  is  one  that  all 
must  learn,  and  is  a  mighty,  universal  Truth.  When 
Death  strikes  down  the  innocent  and  young,  for  every 
fragile  form  from  which  he  lets  the  panting  spirit  fnu;, 
a  hundred  virtues  rise,  in  shapes  of  mercy,  charity,  and 
love,  to  walk  the  world,  and  bl(;ss  it.  Of  every  tear  that 
sorrowing  mortals  shed  on  such  green  graves,  some  good 
is  born,  some  gentler  nature  comes.    In  the  Destroyer's 


steps  there  spring  up  bright  creations  that  defy  his 
power,  and  his  dark  path  becomes  a  way  of  light  to 
Heaven. 

It  was  late  when  the  old  man  came  home.  The  boy 
had  led  him  to  his  own  dwelling,  under  some  pretence, 
on  their  way  back  ;  and,  rendered  drowsy  by  his  long 
ramble  and  late  want  of  rest,  he  had  sunk  into  a  deep 
sleep  by  the  fireside.  He  was  perfectly  exhausted,  and 
they  were  careful  not  to  rouse  him.  The  slumber  held 
him  a  long  time,  and  when  he  at  length  awoke  the  moon 
was  shining. 

The  younger  brother,  uneasy  at  his  protracted  absence, 
was  -watching  at  the  door  for  his  coming,  when  he  ap- 
peared in  the  pathway  with  his  little  guide.  He 
advanced  to  meet  them,  and  tenderly  obliging  the  old 
man  to  lean  upon  his  arm,  conducted  him  with  slow  and 
trembling  steps  towards  the  house. 

He  repaired  to  her  chamber,  straight.  Not  finding 
what  he  had  left  there,  he  returned  with  distracted  looks 
to  the  room  in  which  they  were  assembled.  From  that, 
he  rushed  into  the  schoolmaster's  cottage,  calling  her 
name.  They  followed  close  upon  him,  and  when  he  had 
vainly  searched  it,  brought  him  home. 

With  such  persuasive  words  as  pity  and  affection 
could  suggest,  they  prevailed  upon  him  to  sit  among 
them  and  hear  what  they  should  tell  him.  Then,  en- 
deavouring by  every  little  artifice  to  prepare  his  mind 
for  what  must  come,  and  dwelling  with  many  fervent 
words  upon  the  happy  lot  to  which  she  had  been  re- 
moved, they  told  him,  at  last,  the  truth.  The  moment 
it  had  passed  their  lips,  he  fell  down  among  them  like 
a  murdered  man. 

For  many  hours,  they  had  little  hope  of  his  surviving  ; 
but  grief  is  strong,  and  he  recovered. 

If  there  be  any  who  have  never  known  the  blank  that 
follows  death — the  weary  void — the  sense  of  desolation 
that  will  come  upon  the  strongest  minds,  when  something- 
familiar  and  beloved  is  missed  at  every  turn — the  con- 
nexion between  inanimate  and  senseless  things,  and  the 
object  of  recollection,  when  every  household  god  becomes 
a  monument  and  every  room  a  grave — if  there  be  any 
who  have  not  known  this,  and  proved  it  by  their  own 
experience,  they  can  never  faintly  guess,  how,  for  many 
days,  the  old  man  pined  and  moped  away  the  time,  and 
wandered  here  and  there  as  seeking  something,  and  had 
no  comfort. 

Whatever  power  of  thought  or  memory  he  retained, 
was  all  bound  up  in  her.  He  never  understood,  or 
seemed  to  care  to  understand,  about  his  brother.  To 
every  endearment  and  attention  he  continued  listless. 
If  they  spoke  to  him  on  this,  or  any  other  theme — save 
one — he  would  hear  them  patiently  for  a  while,  then 
turn  away,  and  go  on  seeking  as  before. 

On  that  one  theme,  which  was  in  his  and  all  their 
minds,  it  was  impossible  to  touch.  Dead  !  He  could 
not  hear  or  bear  the  word.  The  slightest  hint  of  it 
would  throw  him  into  a  paroxysm,  like  that  he  had  had 
when  it  was  first  spoken.  In  what  hope  he  lived,  no 
man  could  tell ;  but  that  he  had  some  hope  of  finding 
her  again — some  faint  and  shadowy  hope,  deferred  from 
day  to  day,  and  making  him  from  day  to  day  more  sick 
and  sore  at  heart — was  plain  to  all. 

They  bethought  them  of  a  removal  from  the  scene 
of  this  last  sorrow  ;  of  trying  whether  change  of  place 
would  rouse  or  cheer  him.  His  brother  sought  the  ad- 
vice of  those  who  were  accounted  skilful  in  such  mat- 
ters, and  they  came  and  saw  him.  Some  of  the  number 
stayed  upon  the  spot,  conversed  with  him  when  he  would 
converse,  and  watched  him  as  he  wandered  up  and 
down,  alone  and  silent.  Move  him  where  they  might, 
they  said,  he  would  ever  seek  to  get  back  there.  His 
mind  would  run  upon  that  spot.  If  they  confined  him 
closely,  and  kept  a  strict  guard  upon  him,  they  might 
hold  him  prisoner,  but  if  he  could  by  any  means  escape, 
he  would  surely  wander  back  to  that  place,  or  die  upon 
the  road. 

The  boy  to  whom  he  had  submitted  at  first,  had  no 
longer  any  influence  with  him.  At  times  he  would 
suffer  the  child  to  walk  by  his  side,  or  would  even  take 
such  notice  of  liis  presence  as  giving  him  his  hand,  or 
would  stop  to  kiss  his  cheek,  or  pat  him  on  the  head. 
At  other  times  he  would  entreat  him — not  unkindly — to 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


833 


be  gone,  and  would  not  brook  him  near.  But,  whether 
alone,  or  with  this  pliant  friend,  or  with  those  who 
would  have  given  him,  at  any  cost  or  sacrifice,  some 
consolation  or  some  peace  of  mind,  if  happily  the  means 
could  have  been  devised  ;  he  was  at  all  times  the  same 
— with  no  love  or  care  for  anything  in  life — a  broken- 
hearted man. 

At  length,  they  found,  one  day,  that  he  had  risen 
early,  and,  with  his  knapsack  on  his  back,  his  staff  in 
hand,  her  own  straw  hat,  and  little  basket  full  of  such 
things  as  she  had  been  used  to  carry,  was  gone.  As 
they  were  making  ready  to  pursue  him  far  and  wide,  a 
frightened  schoolboy  came  who  had  seen  him,  but  a 
moment  before,  sitting  in  the  church — upon  her  grave, 
he  said. 

They  hastened  there,  and  going  softly  to  the  door, 
espied  him  in  the  attitude  of  one  who  waited  patiently. 
They  did  not  disturb  him  then,  but  kept  a  watch  upon 
him  all  that  day.  When  it  grew  quite  dark,  he  rose  and 
returned  home,  and  went  to  bed,  murmuring  to  himself, 
"  She  will  come  to-morrow  !  " 

Upon  the  morrow  he  was  there  again  from  sunrise 
until  night  ;  and  still  at  night  he  laid  him  down  to  rest, 
and  murmured,  "  She  will  come  to-morrow  t" 

And  thenceforth,  every  day,  and  all  day  long,  he 
waited  at  her  grave,  for  her.  How  many  pictures  of 
new  journeys  over  pleasant  country,  of  resting-places 
under  the  free  broad  sky,  of  rambles  in  the  fields  and 
woods,  and  paths  not  often  trodden — how  many  tones  of 
that  one  well-remembered  voice — how  many  glimpses  of 
the  form,  the  fluttering  dress,  the  hair  that  waved  so 
gaily  in  the  wind — how  many  visions  of  what  had  been, 
and  what  he  hoped  was  yet  to  be — rose  up  before  him, 
in  the  old,  dull,  silent  church  !  He  never  told  them 
what  he  thought,  or  where  he  went.  He  would  sit  with 
them  at  night,  pondering  with  a  secret  satisfaction,  they 
could  see,  upon  the  flight  that  he  and  she  would  take 
before  night  came  again  ;  and  still  they  would  hear  him 
whisper  in  his  prayers,  "  Lord  !  Let  her  come  to-mor- 
row ! " 

The  last  time  was  on  a  genial  day  in  spring.  He  did 
not  return  at  the  usual  hour,  and  they  went  to  seek  him. 
He  was  lying  dead  upon  the  stone. 

They  laid  him  by  the  side  of  her  whom  he  loved  so 
well ;  and,  in  the  church  where  they  had  often  prayed, 
and  mused,  and  lingered  hand  in  hand,  the  child  and 
the  old  man  slept  together. 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

The  magic  reel,  which,  rolling  on  before,  has  led  the 
chronicler  thus  far,  now  slackens  in  its  pace,  and  stops. 
It  lies  before  the  goal ;  the  pursuit  is  at  an  end. 

It  remains  but  to  dismiss  the  leaders  of  the  little 
crowd  who  have  borne  us  company  upon  the  road,  and 
so  to  close  the  journey. 

Foremost  among  them,  smooth  Sampson  Brass  and 
Sally,  arm  in  arm,  claim  our  polite  attention. 

Mr.  Sampson,  then,  being  detained,  as  already  has  been 
shown,  by  the  justice  upon  whom  he  called,  and  being  so 
strongly  pressed  to  protract  his  stay  that  he  could  by  no 
means  refuse,  remained  under  his  protection  for  a  con- 
siderable time,  during  which  the  great  attention  of  his 
entertainer  kept  him  so  extremely  close,  that  he  was 
quite  lost  to  so(;iety,  and  never  even  went  abroad  for  ex- 
ercise saving  into  a  small  paved  yard.  So  well,  indeed, 
was  his  modest  and  retiring  temper  understood  by  those 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  and  so  jealous  were  they  of 
his  absence,  that  they  required  a  kind  of  friendly  bond 
to  be  entered  into  by  two  substantial  housekeepers,  in 
the  sum  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a-piece,  before  they 
would  suffer  him  to  quit  their  hospitable  roof — doubting 
it  appeared,  that  he  would  return,  if  once  let  loose,  on 
any  other  terms.  Mr.  Brass,  struck  with  the  humour  of 
this  jest,  and  carrying  out  its  spirit  to  the  utmost,  sought 
from  his  wide  connexion  a  pair  of  friends  whose  joint 
possessions  fell  some  halfpence  short  of  fifteen  pence, 
and  proffered  them  as  bail — for  that  was  the  merry  word 
agreed  upon  on  both  sides.  These  gentlemen  being  re» 
jected  after  twenty-four  hours'  pleasantry,  Mr.  Brass 
Vol.  II.— 53 


consented  to  remain,  and  did  remain,  until  a  club  of 
choice  spirits  called  a  Grand  Jury  (who  were  in  the  joke) 
summonwJ  him  to  a  trial  b(;fore  twelve  othe.'  wags  for 
perjury  and  fraud,  who  in  their  turn  found  him  guilty 
with  a  most  facetious  joy, — nay,  the  very  populace  en- 
tered into  the  whim,  and  when  Mr.  Brass,  was  moving 
in  a  hackney-coach  towards  the  building  where  these 
Avags  assembled,  saluted  him  with  rotten  eggs  and  car- 
casses of  kittens,  and  feigned  to  wish  to  tear  him  into 
shreds,  which  greatly  increased  the  comicality  of  the 
thing,  and  made  him  relish  it  the  more,  no  doubt. 

To  work  this  sportive  vein  still  further,  Mr.  Brass,  by 
his  counsel,  moved  in  arrest  of  judgment  that  he  had 
been  led  to  criminate  himself,  by  assurances  of  safety 
and  promises  of  pardon,  and  claimed  the  leniency  which 
the  law  extends  to  such  confiding  natures  as  are  thus  de- 
luded. After  solemn  argument,  this  point  (with  others  of 
a  technical  nature,  whose  humorous  extravagance  it  would 
be  difficult  to  exaggerate)  was  referred  to  the  judges  for 
their  decision,  Sampson  being  meantime  removed  to  his 
former  quarters.  Finally  some  of  the  points  were  given 
in  Sampson's  favour,  and  some  against  him  ;  and  the 
upshot  was,  that,  instead  of  being  desired  to  travel  for 
a  time  in  foreign  pafts,  he  was  permitted  to  grace  the 
mother  country  under  certain  insignificant  restrictions. 

These  were  that  he  should,  for  a  term  of  years,  reside 
in  a  spacious  mansion  where  several  other  gentlemen 
were  lodged  and  boarded  at  the  public  charge,  who  went 
clad  in  a  sober  uniform  of  grey  turned  up  with  yellow, 
had  their  hair  cut  extremely  short,  and  chiefly  lived  on 
gruel  and  light  soup.  It  was  also  required  of  him  that 
he  should  partake  of  their  exercise  of  constantly  ascend- 
ing an  endless  flight  of  stairs  ;  and,  lest  his  legs,  un- 
used to  such  exertion,  should  be  weakened  by  it,  that  he 
should  wear  upon  one  ancle  an  amulet  or  charm  of  iron. 
These  conditions  being  arranged,  he  was  removed  one 
evening  to  his  new  abode,  and  enjoyed,  in  common  with 
nine  other  gentlemen,  and  two  ladies,  the  privilege  of 
being  taken  to  his  place  of  retirement  in  one  of  Royalty's 
own  carriages. 

Over  and  above  these  trifling  penalties,  his  name  was 
erased  and  blotted  out  from  the  roll  of  attorneys ;  which 
erasure  has  been  always  held  in  these  latter  times  to  be 
a  great  degradation  and  reproach,  and  to  imply  the  com- 
mission of  some  amazing  villany — as  indeed  would  seem 
to  be  the  case,  when  so  many  worthless  names  remain 
among  its  better  records,  unmolested. 

Of  Sally  Brass,  conflicting  rumors  went  abroad.  Some 
said  with  confidence  that  she  had  gone  down  to  the  docks 
in  male  attire,  and  had  become  a  female  sailor ;  others 
darkly  whispered  that  she  had  enlisted  as  a  private  in 
the  second  regiment  of  Foot  Guards,  and  had  been  seen 
in  uniform,  and  on  duty,  to  wit,  leaning  on  her  musket 
and  looking  out  of  a  sentry-box  in  St.  James's  Park,  one 
evening.  There  were  many  such  whispers  as  these  in 
circulation  ;  but  the  truth  appears  to  be  that,  after  a 
lapse  of  some  five  years  (during  which  there  is  ho  direct 
evidence  of  her  having  been  seen  at  all),  two  wretched 
people  were  more  than  once  observed  to  crawl  at  dusk 
from  the  inmost  recesses  of  St.  Giles,  and  to  take  their 
way  along  the  streets,  with  shuffling  steps  and  cowering 
shivering  forms,  looking  into  the  roads  and  kennels  as 
they  went  in  search  of  refuse  food  or  disregarded  offal. 
These  forms  were  never  beheld  but  in  those  nights  of 
cold  and  gloom,  when  the  terrible  spectres,  who  lie  at 
all  other  times  in  the  obscene  hiding-places  of  London, 
in  archways,  dark  vaults  and  cellars,  venture  to  creep 
into  the  streets  ;  the  embodied  spirits  of  Disease,  and 
Vice,  and  Famine.  It  was  whispered  by  those  who 
should  have  known,  that  these  were  Sampson  and  his 
sister  Sally  ;  and  to  this  day,  it  is  said,  they  sometimes 
pass,  on  bad  nights,  in  the  same  loathsome  guise,  close 
at  the  elbow  of  the  shrinking  passenger. 

The  body  of  Quilp  being  found — though  not  until 
some  days  had  elapsed — an  inquest  was  held  on  it  near 
the  spot  where  it  had  been  washed  ashore.  The  general 
supposition  was  that  he  had  committed  suicide,  and,  this 
appearing  to  be  favoured  by  all  the  circumstances  of  his 
death,  the  verdict  was  to  that  effect.  He  was  left  to 
be  buried  with  a  stake  through  his  heart  in  the  centre 
of  four  lonely  roads. 

It  was  rumoured  afterwards  that  this  horrible  and 


834 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


barbarous  ceremony  had  been  dispensed  witli,  and  that 
the  remains  had  been  secretly  given  up  to  Tom  Scott. 
But  even  here,  opinion  was  divided  ;  for  some  said  Tom 
had  dug  them  up  at  midnight,  and  carried  them  to  a 
place  indicated  to  him  by  the  widows.  It  is  probable 
that  both  these  stories  may  have  had  their  origin  in  the 
simple  fact  of  Tom's  shedding  tears  upon  the  inquest— 
which  he  certainly  did,  extraordinary  as  it  may  appear. 
He  manifested,  besides,  a  strong  desire  to  assault  the 
jury  ;  and  being  restrained  and  conducted  out  of  court, 
darkened  its  only  window  by  standing  on  his  head  upon 
the  sill,  until  he  was  dexterously  tilted  upon  his  feet 
again  by  a  cautious  beadle. 

Being  cast  upon  the  world  by  his  master's  death,  he 
determined  to  go  through  it  upon  his  head  and  hands, 
and  accordingly  began  to  tumble  for  his  bread.  Find- 
ing however,  his  English  birth  an  insurmountable  ob- 
stacle to  his  advancement  in  this  pursuit  (notwithstand- 
ing that  his  art  was  in  high  repute  and  favour),  he  as- 
sumed the  name  of  an  Italian  image  lad,  with  whom  he 
had  become  acquainted  ;  and  afterwards  tumbled  with 
extraordinary  success  and  to  overflowing  audiences. 

Little  Mrs.  Quilp  never  quite  forgave  herself  the  one 
deceit  that  lay  so  heavy  on  her  conscience,  and  never 
spoke  or  thought  of  it  but  with  bitter  tears.  Her  hus- 
band had  no  relations,  and  she  was  rich.  He  had  made 
no  will  or  she  would  probably  have  been  poor.  Having 
married  the  first  time  at  her  mother's  instigation,  she 
consulted  in  her  second  choice  nobody  but  herself.  It 
fell  upon  a  smart  young  fellow  enough  ;  and  as  he  made 
it  a  preliminary  condition  that  Mrs.  Jiniwin  should  be 
thenceforth  an  out-pensioner,  they  lived  together  after 
marriage  with  no  more  than  the  average  amount  of 
quarrelling,  and  led  a  merry  life  upon  the  dead  dwarf's 
money. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garland,  and  Mr.  Abel,  went  out  as 
usual  (except  that  there  was  a  change  in  their  house- 
hold, as  will  be  seen  presently),  and  in  due  time  the  lat- 
ter went  into  partnership  with  his  friend  the  notary,  on 
which  occasion  there  was  a  dinner,  and  a  ball,  and  great 
extent  of  dissipation.  Unto  this  ball,  there  happened  to 
be  invited  the  most  bashful  young  lady  that  was  ever , 
seen,  with  whom,  Mr.  Abel  happened  to  fall  in  love. 
How  it  happened,  or  how  they  found  it  out,  or  which 
of  them  first  communicated  the  discovery  to  the  yther, 
nobody  knows.  But,  certain  it  is  that  in  course  of  time 
they  were  married  ;  and  equally  certain  it  is  that  they 
were  the  happiest  of  the  happy  ;  and  no  less  certain  it  is 
that  they  deserved  to  be  so.  And  it  is  pleasant  to  write 
down  that  they  reared  a  family  ;  because  any  propaga- 
tion of  goodness  and  benevolence  is  no  small  addition  to 
the  aristocracy  of  nature,  and  no  small  subject  of  rejoic- 
ing for  mankind  at  large. 

The  pony  preserved  his  character  for  independence 
and  principle  down  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life  ; 
which  was  an  unusually  long  one,  and  caused  him  to  be 
looked  iipon,  indeed,  as  the  very  Old  Parr  of  ponies.  He 
often  went  to  and  fro  with  the  little  phaeton  between 
Mr.  Garland's  and  his  son's,  and,  as  the  old  people  and 
the  young  were  frequently  together,  had  a  stable  of  his 
own  at  the  new  establishment,  into  which  he  would 
walk  of  himself  with  surprising  dignity.  He  conde- 
scended to  play  with  the  children,  as  they  grew  old 
enough  to  cultivate  his  friendship,  and  would  run  up 
and  down  the  little  paddock  with  them  like  a  dog  ;  but 
though  he  relaxed  so  far,  and  allowed  them  such  small 
freedoms  as  caresses,  or  even  to  look  at  his  shoes  or  hang 
on  by  his  tail,  he  never  permitted  any  one  among  them 
to  mount  his  back  or  drive  him  ;  thus  showing  that  even 
their  familiarity  must  liave  its  limits,  and  that  there 
were  points  between  them  far  too  serious  for  trifling. 

He  was  not  unsusceptible  of  warm  attachments  in  his 
later  life,  for  when  the  good  bachelor  came  to  live  with 
Mr.  Garland  upon  the  clergyman's  decease,  he  conceived 
a  great  friendship  for  him,  and  amiably  submitted  to  be 
driven  by  his  hands  without  the  least  resistance.  H0 
did  no  work  for  two  three  years  before  ho  died,  but 
lived  in  clover  ;  and  his  last  act  (like  a  choleric  old  gen- 
tleman) was  to  kick  his  doctor. 

Mr.  Swiveller,  recovering  very  slowly  from  his  illness, 
and  entering  into  the  receipt  of  his  annuity,  bought  for 
the  Marchioness  a  handsome  stock  of  clothes,  and  put 


her  to  school  forthwith,  in  redemption  of  the  vow  he  had 
made  upon  his  fevered  bed.  After  casting  about  for 
some  time  for  a  name  which  should  be  worthy  of  her, 
he  decided  in  favour  of  Sophronia  Sphynx,  as  being 
euphonious  and  genteel,  and  furtliermoro  indicative  of 
mystery.  Under  this  title  the  Marchioness  repaired,  in 
tears,  to  the  school  of  his  selection,  from  which,  as  she 
soon  distanced  all  competitors,  she  was  removed  before 
the  lapse  of  many  quarters  to  one  of  a  higher  grade.  It 
is  but  bare  justice  to  Mr.  ISwiveller  to  say,  that,  al- 
though the  expenses  of  her  education  kept  him  in  strait- 
ened circumstances  for  half  a  dozen  years,  he  never 
slackened  in  his  zeal,  and  always  held  himself  sufficient- 
ly repaid  by  the  accounts  he  heard  (with  great  gravity) 
of  her  advancement,  on  his  monthly  visits  to  the  gov- 
erness, who  looked  upon  him  as  a  literary  gentleman  of 
eccentric  habits,  and  of  a  most  prodigious  talent  in  quo- 
tation. 

In  a  word,  Mr.  Swiveller  kept  the  Marchioness  at  this 
establishment  until  she  was,  at  a  moderate  guess,  full 
nineteen  years  of  age — good-looking,  clever,  and  good- 
humoured  ;  when  he  began  to  consider  seriously  what 
was  to  be  done  next.  On  one  of  his  periodical  visits, 
while  he  was  revolving  this  question  in  his  mind,  the 
Marchioness  came  down  to  him,  alone,  looking  more 
smiling  and  more  fresh  than  ever.  Then,  it  occurred  to 
him,  but  not  for  the  first  time,  that  if  she  would  marry 
him,  how  comfortable  they  might  be  !  So  Richard  asked 
her  ;  whatever  she  said,  it  wasn't  No  ;  and  they  were 
married  in  good  earnest  that  day  week,  which  gave  Mr. 
Swiveller  frequent  occasion  to  remark  at  divers  subse- 
quent periods  that  there  had  been  a  young  lady  saving 
up  for  him  after  all. 

A  little  cottage  at  Hampstead  being  to  let,  which  had 
in  its  garden  a  smoking-box,  the  envy  of  the  civilised 
world,  they  agreed  to  become  its  tenants  ;  and,  when  the 
honeymoon  was  over,  entered  upon  its  occupation.  To 
this  retreat  Mr.  Chuckster  repaired  regularly  every  Sun- 
day to  spend  the  day — usually  beginning  with  breakfast 
— and  here  he  was  the  great  purveyor  of  general  news 
and  fashionable  intelligence.  For  some  years  he  con- 
tinued a  deadly  foe  to  Kit,  protesting  that  he  had  a  bet- 
ter opinion  of  him  when  he  was  supposed  to  have  stolen 
the  five-pound  note,  than  when  he  was  shown  to  be  per- 
fectly free  of  the  crime  ;  inasmuch  as  his  guilt  would 
have  had  in  it  something  daring  and  bold,  whereas  his 
innocence  was  but  another  proof  of  a  sneaking  and  crafty 
disposition.  By  slow  degrees,  however,  he  was  recon- 
ciled to  him  in  the  end  ;  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  hon- 
our him  with  his  patronage,  as  one  who  had  in  some 
measure  reformed,  and  was  therefore  to  be  forgiven.  But 
he  never  forgot  or  pardoned  that  circumstance  of  the 
shilling ;  holding  that  if  he  had  come  back  to  get  an- 
other he  would  have  done  well  enough,  but  that  his  re- 
turning to  work  out  the  former  gift  was  a  stain  upon  his 
moral  character  which  no  penitence  or  contrition  could 
ever  wash  away. 

Mr.  Swiveller,  having  always  been  in  some  measure  of 
a  philosophic  and  reflective  turn,  grew  immensely  con- 
templative, at  times,  in  the  smoking-box,  and  was  accus- 
tomed at  such  periods  to  debate  in  his  own  mind  the 
mysterious  question  of  Sophronia's  parentage.  Sophto- 
nia  herself  supposed  she  was  an  orphan  ;  but  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller, putting  various  slight  circumstances  together, 
often  thought  Miss  Brass  must  know  better  than  that  ; 
and,  having  heard  from  his  wife  of  her  strange  interview 
with  Quilp,  entertained  sundry  misgivings  whether  that 
person,  in  his  lifetime,  might  not  also  have  been  able  to 
solve  the  riddle,  had  he  chosen.  These  speculations, 
however,  gave  him  no  uneasiness  ;  for  Sophronia  was 
ever  a  most  cheerful,  affectionate,  and  provident  wife  to 
him  ;  and  Dick  (excepting  for  an  occasional  outbreak 
with  Mr.  Chuckster,  which  she  had  the  good  sense  rather 
to  encourage  than  oppose)  was  to  her  an  attached  and 
domesticated  husband.  And  they  i)layed  many  hundred 
thousand  games  of  cribbage  together.  And  let  it  be  add- 
ed, to  Dick's  honour,  that,  though  we  have  called  her 
Sophronia,  he  called  her  the  Marchioness  from  first  to  last ; 
and  that  upon  every  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which  he 
found  her  in  his  sick  room,  Mr.  Chuckster  came  to  din- 
ner, and  there  was  great  glorification. 

The  gamblers,  Isaac  List  and  Jowl,  with  their  trusty 


THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


835 


confederate  Mr.  Jarr^es  Groves  of  unimpeachable  memo- 
ry, pursued  their  course  with  varying  success,  until  the 
failure  of  a  spirited  enterprise  in  the  way  of  their  pro- 
fession, dispersed  them  in  difFereiit  directions,  and  caused 
their  career  to  receive  a  sudden  check  from  the  long  and 
strong  arm  of  the  law.  This  defeat  had  its  origin  in  the 
untoward  detection  of  a  new  associate — young  Frederick 
Trent — who  thus  became  the  unconscious  instrument  of 
their  punishment  and  his  own. 

For  the  young  man  himself  ,  he  rioted  abroad  for  a  brief 
term,  living  by  his  wits — which  means  by  the  abuse  of 
every  faculty  that  worthily  employed  raises  man  above 
the  beasts,  and  so  degraded,  sinks  him  far  below  them. 
It  was  not  long  before  his  body  was  recognised  by  a 
stranger,  who  chanced  to  visit  that  hospital  in  Paris 
where  the  drowned  are  laid  out  to  be  owned  ;  des[)ite 
the  bruises  and  disfigurements  which  were  said  to  have 
been  occasioned  by  some  previous  scufile.  But  the  stran- 
ger kept  his  own  counsel  until  he  returned  home,  and  it 
was  never  claimed  or  cared  for. 

The  younger  brother,  or  the  single  gentleman,  for  that 
designation  is  more  familiar,  would  have  drawn  the  poor 
schoolmaster  from  his  lone  retreat,  and  made  him  his 
companion  and  friend.  But  the  humble  village  teacher 
Avas  timid  of  venturing  into  the  noisy  world,  and  had 
become  fond  of  his  dwelling  in  the  old  churchyard. 
Calmly  happy  in  his  school,  and  in  the  spot,  and  in  the 
attachment  of  Her  little  mourner,  he  pursued  his  quiet 
course  in  peace  ;  and  was,  through  the  righteous  grati- 
tude of  his  friend — let  this  brief  mention  suffice  for  that 
— -a  poor  schoolmaster  no  more. 

That  friend — a  single  gentleman,  or  younger  brother, 
which  you  will — had  at  his  heart  a  heavy  sorrow  ;  but 
it  bred  in  him  no  misanthropy  or  monastic  gloom.  He 
went  forth  into  the  world,  a  lover  of  his  kind,  For  a 
long,  long  time,  it  was  his  chief  delight  to  travel  in  the 
steps  of  the  old  man  and  the  child  (so  far  as  he  could 
trace  them  from  her  last  narrative),  to  halt  where  they 
had  halted,  sympathise  where  they  had  suffered,  and 
rejoice  where  they  had  been  made  glad.  Those  who  had 
been  kind  to  them,  did  not  escape  his  search.  The  sis- 
ters at  the  school — they  who  were  her  friends,  because 
themselves  so  friendless — Mrs.  Jarley  of  the  wax-work, 
Codlin,  Short — he  found  them  all ;  and  trust  me,  the 
man  who  fed  the  furnace  fire  was  not  forgotten. 

Kit's  story  having  got  abroad,  raised  him  up  a  host  of 
friends,  and  many  offers  of  provision  for  his  future  life. 
He  had  no  idea  at  first  of  ever  quitting  Mr.  Garland's 
service  ;  but  after  serious  remonstrance  and  advice  from 
that  gentleman  began  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
such  a  change  being  brought  about  in  time.  A  good  post 
was  procured  for  him,  with  a  rapidity  which  took  away 
his  breath,  by  some  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  believed 
him  guilty  of  the  offence  laid  to  his  charge,  and  who  had 


acted  upon  that  belief.  Through  the  same  kind  agency, 
hismother  was  secured  from  want,  and  made  quite  happy. 
Thus,  as  Kit  often  said,  his  groat  misfortune  turned  out 
to  be  the  source  of  all  his  subsequent  prosperity. 

Did  Kit  live  a  single  man  all  his  days,  or  did  he  marry? 
Of  course  h(;  married,  and  who  sliould  be  his  wife,  but 
Barbara?  And  the  best  of  it  was,  he  married  as  soon 
that  little  Jacob  was  an  uncle,  before  the  calves  of  his 
legs,  already  mentioned  in  this  history,  had  ever  been 
encased  in  broadcloth  pantaloons — thougli  that  was  not 
quite  the  best  either,  for  of  necessity  the  baby  was  an 
uncle  too.  The  delight  of  Kit's  mother  and  of  Barbara's 
mother  upon  the  great  occasion  is  past  all  telling  ;  find- 
ing they  agreed  so  well  on  that,  and  on  all  other  subjects, 
they  took  up  their  abode  together,  and  were  a  most 
harmonious  pair  of  friends  from  that  time  forth.  And 
hadn't  Astley's  cause  to  bless  itself  for  their  all  going 
together  once  a  quarter — to  the  pit  — and  didn't  Kit's 
mother  always  say,  when  they  painted  the  outside,  that 
Kit's  last  treat  had  helped  to  that,  and  wonder  what  the 
manager  would  feel  if  he  but  knew  it  as  they  passed 
his  house  ! 

When  Kit  had  children  six  and  seven  years  old,  there 
was  a  Barbara  among  them,  and  a  pretty  Barbara  she 
was.  Nor  was  there  wanting  an  exact  fac-simile  and 
copy  of  little  Jacob  as  he  appeared  in  those  remote  times 
when  they  taught  him  what  oysters  meant.  Of  course 
there  was  an  Abel,  own  godson  to  the  Mr.  Garland  of 
that  name  ;  and  there  was  a  Dick,  whom  Mr.  Swiveller 
did  especially  favour.  The  little  group  would  often 
gather  round  him  of  a  night  and  beg  him  to  tell  again 
that  story  of  good  Miss  Nell  who  died.  This,  Kit  would 
do  ;  and  when  they  cried  to  hear  it,  wishing  it  longer 
too,  he  would  teach  them  how  she  had  gone  to  Heaven, 
as  all  good  people  did  ;  and  how,  if  they  were  good  like 
her,  they  might  hope  to  be  there  too,  one  day,  and  to  see 
and  know  her  as  he  had  done  when  he  was  quite  a  boy. 
Then,  he  would  relate  to  them  how  needy  he  used  to  be, 
and  how  she  had  taught  him  what  he  w^as  otherwise  too 
poor  to  learn,  and  how  the  old  man  had  been  used  to  say 
"  she  always  laughs  at  Kit ;  "  at  which  they  w^ould  brush 
aAvay  their  tears,  and  laugh  themselves  to  think  that  she 
had  done  so,  and  be  again  quite  merry. 

He  sometimes  took  them  to  the  street  where  she  had 
lived  ;  but  new  improvements  had  altered  it  so  much,  it 
was  not  like  the  same.  The  old  house  had  been  long 
ago  pulled  down,  and  a  find  broad  road  was  in  its  place. 
At  first,  he  would  draw  with  his  stick  a  square  upon  the 
ground  to  show  them  where  it  used  to  stand.  But,  he 
soon  became  uncertain  of  the  spot,  and  could  only  say  it 
was  thereabouts,  he  thought,  and  that  these  alterations 
were  confusing. 

Such  are  the  changes  which  a  few  years  bring  about, 
and  so  do  things  pass  away,  like  a  tale  that  is  told  1 


\ 


i 


Sketches  by  Boz. 


OUR  PARISH. 


PEEFACE. 

The  whole  of  these  Sketches  were  written  and  pub- 
lished, one  by  one,  when  I  was  a  very  young  man. 
They  were  collected  and  re-published  while  I  was  still 
a  very  young  man  ;  and  sent  into  the  world  with  all 
their  imperfections  (a  good  many)  on  their  heads. 

They  comprise  my  first  attempts  at  authorship — with 
the  exception  of  certain  tragedies  achieved  at  the  mature 
age  of  eight  or  ten,  and  represented  with  great  applause 
to  overflowing  nurseries.  I  am  conscious  of  their  often 
being  extremely  crude  and  ill-considered,  and  bearing 
obvious  marks  of  haste  and  inexperience  ;  particularly 
in  that  section  of  the  present  volume  which  is  comprised 
under  the  general  head  of  Tales. 

But  as  this  collection  is  not  originated  now,  and  was 
very  leniently  and  favourably  received  when  it  was  first 
made,  I  have  not  felt  it  right  either  to  remodel  or  ex- 
punge, beyond  a  few  words  and  phrases  here  and  there. 

October,  1850. 


CHAPTER  I. 


The.  Beadle.    TJie  Parish  Engine.    TTie  Schoolmaster. 

How  much  is  conveyed  in  those  two  short  words — 
"The  Parish  !"  And  with  how  many  tales  of  distress 
and  misery,  of  broken  fortune  and  ruined  hopes,  too 
often  of  unrelieved  wretchedness  and  successful  knavery, 
are  they  associated  I  A  poor  man  with  small  earnings, 
and  a  large  family,  just  manages  to  live  on  from  hand  to 
mouth,  and  to  procure  food  from  day  to  day  ;  he  has 
barely  sufiicient  to  satisfy  the  present  cravings  of  nature, 
and  can  take  no  heed  of  the  future.  His  taxes  are  in 
arrear,  quarter  day  passes  by,  another  quarter  day 
arrives  :  he  can  procure  no  more  quarter  for  himself,  and 
is  summoned  by — the  parish.  His  goods  are  distrained, 
his  children  are  crying  with  cold  and  hunger,  and  the 
very  bed  on  which  his  sick  ^vife  is  lying,  is  dragged  from 
beneath  her.  What  can  he  do?  To  whom  is  he  to  apply 
for  relief?  To  private  charity?  To  benevolent  individ- 
uals? Certainly  not — there  is  his  parish.  There  are  the 
parish  vestry,  the  parish  infirmary,  the  parish  surgeon, 
the  parish  oioacers,  the  parish  beadle.  Excellent  institu- 
tions, and  gentle,  kind-hearted  men.  The  woman  dies — 
she  is  buried  by  the  parish.  The  children  have  no  pro- 
tector— they  are  taken  care  of  by  the  parish.  The  man 
first  neglects,  and  afterwards  cannot  obtain,  work — he  is 
relieved  by  the  parish  ;  and  when  distress  and  drunken- 
ness have  done  their  work  upon  him,  he  is  maintained,  a 
harmless  babbling  idiot,  in  the  parish  asylum. 

The  parish  beadle  is  one  of  the  most,  perhaps  the  most, 
important  member  of  the  local  administration.  He  is  not 
so  well  off  as  the  churchwardens,  certainl}^  nor  is  he  so 
learned  as  the  vestry-clerk,  nor  does  he  order  things  quite 
so  much  his  own  way  as  either  of  them.  But  his  power 
is  very  great,  notwithstanding  ;  and  the  dignity  of  his 
office  is  never  impaired  by  the  absence  of  efforts  on  his 
part  to  maintain  it.  The  beadle  of  our  parish  is  a  splendid 
ifellow.  It  is  quite  delightful  to  hear  him,  as  he  explains 
the  state  of  the  existing  poor  laws  to  the  deaf  old  women 


in  the  board -room-passage  on  business  nights  ;  and  to 
hear  what  he  said  to  the  senior  churchwarden,  and 
what  the  senior  churchwarden  said  to  him  ;  and  what 
"  we"  (the  beadle  and  the  other  gentlemen)  came  to  the 
determination  of  doing.  A  miserable-looking  woman  is 
called  into  the  board  room,  and  represents  a  case  of  ex- 
treme destitution,  affecting  herself — a  widow,  with  six 
small  children.  "  Where  do  you  live  ?"  inquires  one  of 
the  overseers.  "  1  rents  a  two-pair  back,  gentlemen,  at 
Mrs.  Brown's,  Number  3,  Little  King  William's-alley, 
which  has  lived  there  this  fifteen  year,  and  knows  me  to 
be  very  hardworking  and  industrious,  and  when  my  poor 
husband  was  alive,  gentlemen,  as  died  in  the  hospital" 
— "■  Well,  well,"  interrupts  the  overseer,  taking  a  note 
of  the  address,  "  I'll  send  Simmons,  the  beadle,  to- 
morrow morning,  to  ascertain  whether  your  story  is  cor- 
rect ;  and  if  so,  I  suppose  you  must  have  an  order  into 
the  House — Simmons,  go  to  this  woman's  the  first  thing 
to-morrow  morning,  will  you?"  Simmons  bows  assent, 
and  ushers  the  woman  out.  Her  previous  admiration  of 
"the  board"  (who  all  sit  behind  great  books,  and  with 
their  hats  on)  fades  into  nothing  before  her  respect  for 
her  lace-trimmed  conductor ;  and  her  account  of  what 
has  passed  inside,  increases — if  that  be  possible — the 
marks  of  respect,  shown  by  the  assembled  crowd,  to  that 
solemn  functionary.  As  to  taking  out  a  summons,  it's 
quite  a  hopeless  case  if  Simmons  attends  it,  on  behalf  of 
the  parish.  He  knows  all  the  titles  of  the  Lord  Mayor 
by  heart ;  states  the  case  without  a  single  stammer  :  and 
it  is  even  reported  that  on  one  occasion  he  ventured  to 
make  a  joke,  which  the  Lord  Mayor's  head  footman  (who 
happened  to  be  present)  afterwards  told  an  intimate 
friend,  confidentially,  was  almost  equal  to  one  of  Mr. 
Hobler's. 

See  him  again  on  Sunday  in  his  state-coat  and  cocked- 
hat,  with  a  large-headed  staff  for  show  in  his  left  hand, 
and  a  small  cane  for  use  in  his  right.  How  pompously 
he  marshals  the  children  into  their  places  !  and  how 
demurely  the  little  urchins  look  at  him  askance  as  he 
surveys  them  when  they  are  all  seated,  with  a  glare  of 
the  eye  peculiar  to  beadles  !  The  churchwardens  and 
overseers  being  duly  installed  in  their  curtained  pews, 
he  seats  himself  on  a  mahogany  bracket,  erected  ex- 
pressly for  him  at  the  top  of  the  aisle,  and  divides  his 
attention  between  his  prayer-book  and  the  boys.  Sud- 
denly, just  at  the  commencement  of  the  communion 
service,  when  the  whole  congregation  is  hushed  into  a 
profound  silence,  broken  only  by  the  voice  of  the  offici- 
ating clergyman,  a  penny  is  heard  to  ring  on  the  stone 
floor  of  the  aisle  with  astounding  clearness.  Observe  the 
generalship  of  the  beadle.  His  involuntary  look  of  horror 
is  instantly  changed  into  one  of  perfect  indifference,  as 
if  he  were  the  only  person  present  who  had  not  heard 
the  noise.  The  artifice  succeeds.  After  putting  forth 
his  right  leg  now  and  then,  as  a  feeler,  the  victim  who 
dropped  the  money  ventures  to  make  one  or  two  distinct 
dives  after  it ;  and  the  beadle,  gliding  softly  round, 
salutes  his  little  round  head,  when  it  again  appears 
above  the  seat,  with  divers  double  knocks,  administered 
with  the  cane  before  noticed,  to  the  intense  delight  of 
three  young  men  in  an  adjacent  pew,  who  cough  violently 
at  intervals  until  the  conclusion  of  the  sermon. 

Such  are  a  few  traits  of  the  importance  and  gravity  of 
a  parish-beadle — a  gravity  which  has  never  been  dis- 
turbed in  any  case  that  has  come  under  our  observation, 

837 


838 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


except  wlien  the  services  of  that  particularly  useful  ma- 
chine, a  parish  fire-engine,  are  required  :  then  indeed  all 
is  bustle.  Two  little  boys  run  to  the  beadle  as  fast  as 
their  legs  will  carry  them,  and  report  from  their  own 
personal  observation  that  some  neighbouring  chimney  is 
on  fire  ;  the  engine  is  hastily  got  out,  and  a  plentiful 
supply  of  boys  being  obtained,  and  harnessed  to  it  with 
ropes,  away  they  rattle  over  the  pavement,  the  beadle, 
running— vve  do  not  exaggerate — running  at  the  side,  un- 
til they  arrive  at  some  house,  smelling  strongly  of  soot, 
at  the  door  of  which  the  beadle  knocks  with  considerable 
gravity  for  half  an  hour.  No  attention  being  paid  to 
these  manual  applications,  and  the  turn-cock  having 
turned  on  the  water,  the  engine  turns  off  amidst  the 
shouts  of  the  boys  ;  it  pulls  u])  once  more  at  the  work- 
house, and  the  beadle  "pulls  up"  the  unfortunate 
householder  next  day,  for  the  amount  of  his  legal  re- 
ward. We  never  saw  a  parish  engine  at  a  regular  fire 
but  once.  It  came  up  in  gallant  style — three  miles  and 
a  half  an  hour,  at  least ;  there  was  a  capital  supply  of 
water,  and  it  was  first  on  the  spot.  Bang  went  the 
pumps — the  people  cheered — the  beadle  perspired  pro- 
fusely ;  but  it  was  unfortunately  discovered,  just  as  they 
were  going  to  put  the  fire  out,  that  nobody  understood 
the  process  by  which  the  engine  was  filled  with  water  : 
and  that  eighteen  boys,  and  a  man,  had  exhausted  them- 
selves in  pumping  for  twenty  minutes,  without  produc- 
ing the  slightest  effect ! 

The  personages  next  in  importance  to  the  beadle,  are 
the  master  of  the  workhouse  and  the  parish  schoolmas- 
ter. The  vestry-clerk,  as  everybody  knows,  is  a  short 
pudgy  little  man,  in  black,  with  a  thick  gold  watch- 
chain  of  considerable  length,  terminating  in  two  large 
seals  and  a  key.  He  is  an  attorney,  and  generally  in  a 
bustle  ;  at  no  time  more  so  than  when  he  is  hurrying  to 
some  parochial  meeting  with  his  gloves  crumpled  up  in 
one  hand,  and  a  large  red  book  under  the  other  arm. 
As  to  the  churchwardens  and  overseers,  we  exclude  them 
altogether,  because  all  we  know  of  them  is,  that  they 
are  usually  respectable  tradesmen,  who  wear  hats  with 
brims  inclined  to  flatness,  and  who  occasionally  testify 
in  gilt  letters  on  a  blue  ground,  in  some  conspicuous 
part  of  the  church,  to  the  important  fact  of  a  gallery 
having  been  enlarged  and  beautified,  or  an  organ  re- 
built. 

The  master  of  the  workhouse  is  not,  in  our  parish — 
nor  is  he  usually  in  any  other — one  of  that  class  of  men 
the  better  part  of  whose  existence  has  passed  away,  and 
who  drag  out  the  remainder  in  some  inferior  situation, 
with  just  enough  thought  of  the  past,  to  feel  degraded 
by,  and  discontented  with,  the  present.  We  are  unable 
to  guess  precisely  to  our  own  satisfaction  what  station 
the  man  can  have  occupied  before  ;  we  should  think  he 
had  been  an  inferior  sort  of  attorney's  clerk,  or  else  the 
master  of  a  national  school — whatever  he  was,  it  is  clear 
his  present  position  is  a  change  for  the  better.  His  in- 
come is  small  certainly,  as  the  rusty  black  coat  and 
threadbare  velvet  collar  demonstrate  ;  but  then  he  lives 
free  of  house-rent,  has  a  limited  allowance  of  coal  and 
candles,  and  an  almost  unlimited  allowance  of  authority 
in  his  petty  kingdom.  He  is  a  tall,  thin,  bony  man  ;  al- 
ways wears  shoes  and  black  cotton  stockings  with  his 
surtout ;  and  eyes  you  as  you  pass  his  parlour  window, 
as  if  he  wished  you  w^ere  a  pauper,  just  to  give  you  a 
specimen  of  his  power.  He  is  an  admirable  specirnen  of 
a  small  tyrant :  morose,  brutish,  and  ill-tempered  ;  bul- 
lying to  his  inferiors,  cringing  to  his  superiors,  and 
jealous  of  the  influence  and  authority  of  the  beadle. 

Our  schoolmaster  is  just  the  very  reverse  of  this  amia- 
ble official.  He  has  been  one  of  those  men  one  occa- 
sionally hears  of,  on  whom  misfortune  seems  to  have  set 
her  mark  ;  nothing  he  ever  did,  or  was  concerned  in, 
appears  to  have  prospered.  A  rich  old  relation  who  had 
brought  him  up,  and  openly  announced  his  intention  of 
providing  for  liim,  left  him  10,0(K)^.  in  his  will,  and  re- 
voked the  bequest  in  a  codicil.  Thus  unexpect(!dly  re- 
duced to  the  necessity  of  providing  for  himself,  he  ])ro- 
cured  a  situation  in  a  public  office.  The  young  clerks 
below  him,  died  off  as  if  there  were  a  plague  among 
them  ;  but  the  old  fellows  over  his  head,  for  the  rever- 
sion of  whose  places  he  was  anxiously  waiting,  lived  on 
and  on,  as  if  they  were  immortal.    He  speculated  and 


lost.  He  speculated  again,  and  won — but  never  got  his 
money.  His  talents  were  great ;  his  disposition,  easy, 
generous,  and  liberal.  His  friends  profited  by  the  one, 
and  abused  the  other.  Loss  succeeded  loss  ;  misfortune 
crowded  on  misfortune  ;  each  successive  day  brought 
him  nearer  the  verge  of  hopeless  penury,  and  the  quon- 
dam friends  who  had  been  warmest  in  their  professions, 
grew  strangely  cold  and  indifferent.  He  had  children 
whom  he  loved,  and  a  wife  on  whom  he  doted.  The  for- 
mer turned  their  backs  on  him  ;  the  latter  died  broken- 
hearted. He  went  with  the  stream — it  had  ever  been 
his  failing,  and  he  had  not  courage  sufficient  to  bear  up 
against  so  many  shocks — he  had  never  cared  for  himself, 
and  the  only  being  who  had  cared  for  him,  in  his  poverty 
and  distress,  was  spared  to  him  no  longer.  It  was  at 
this  period  that  he  applied  for  parochial  relief.  Some 
kind-hearted  man  who  had  known  him  in  happier  times, 
chanced  to  be  churchwarden  that  year,  and  through  his 
interest  he  was  appointed  to  his  present  situation. 

He  is  an  old  man  now.  Of  the  many  who  once  crowded 
round  him  in  all  the  hollow  friendship  of  boon  compan- 
ionship, some  have  died,  some  have  fallen  like  himself, 
some  have  prospered — all  have  forgotten  him.  Time 
and  misfortune  have  mercifully  been  permitted  to  im- 
pair his  memory,  and  use  has  habituated  him  to  his 
present  condition.  Meek,  uncomplaining,  and  zealous 
in  the  discharge  of  his  duties,  he  has  been  allowed  to 
hold  his  situation  long  beyond  the  usual  period  ;  and  he 
will  no  doubt  continue  to  hold  it,  until  infirmity  renders 
him  incapable,  or  death  releases  him.  As  the  gray- 
headed  old  man  feebly  paces  up  and  down  the  sunny 
side  of  the  little  court-yard  between  school  hours,  it 
would  be  difficult,  indeed,  for  the  most  intimate  of  his 
former  friends  to  recognise  their  once  gay  and  happy  as- 
sociate, in  the  person  of  the  Pauper  Schoolmaster. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Curate.    The  Old  Lady.    The  Half-pay  Captain. 

We  commenced  our  last  chapter  with  the  beadle  of 
our  parish,  because  we  are  deeply  sensible  of  the  im- 
portance and  dignity  of  his  office.  We  will  begin  the 
present,  with  the  clergyman.  Our  curate  is  a  young 
gentleman  of  such  prepossessing  appearance,  and  fasci- 
nating manners,  that  within  one  month  after  his  first  ap- 
pearance in  the  parish,  half  the  young-lady  inhabitants 
were  melancholy  with  religion,  and  the  other  half,  des- 
ponding with  love.  Never  were  so  many  young  ladies 
seen  in  our  parish  church  on  Sunday  before  ;  and  never 
had  the  little  round  angels'  faces  on  Mr.  Tomkins's 
monument  in  the  side  aisle,  beheld  such  devotion  on 
earth  as  they  all  exhibited.  He  was  about  five-and- 
twenty  when  he  first  came  to  astonish  the  parishioners. 
He  parted  his  hair  on  the  centre  of  his  forehead  in  the 
form  of  a  Norman  arch,  wore  a  brilliant  of  the  first 
water  on  the  fourth  finger  of  his  left  hand  (which  he 
always  applied  to  his  left  cheek  when  he  read  prayers), 
and  had  a  deep  sepulchral  voice  of  unusual  solemnity. 
Innumerable  were  the  calls  made  by  prudent  mammas 
on  our  new  curate,  and  innumerable  the  invitations  with 
which  he  was  assailed,  and  which,  to  do  him  justice,  he 
readily  accepted.  If  his  manner  in  the  pulpit  had 
created  an  impression  in  his  favour,  the  sensation  was 
increased  tenfold,  by  his  appearance  in  private  circles. 
Pews  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  pulpit  or  reading- 
desk  rose  in  value  ;  sittings  in  the  centre  aisle  were  at 
a  premium  ;  an  inch  of  room  in  the  front  row  of  the 
gallery  could  not  be  procured  for  love  or  money  ;  and 
some  people  even  went  so  far  as  to  assert,  that  the  three 
Miss  Browns,  who  had  an  obscure  family  pew  just  be- 
hind the  churchwardens',  were  detected,  one  Sunday,  in 
the  free  seats  by  the  communion-table,  actually  lying  in 
wait  for  the  curate  as  he  passed  to  the  vestry  !  Pie  be- 
gan to  preach  extempore  sermons,  and  even  grave  papas 
caught  the  infection.  He  got  out  of  bed  at  half-past 
twelve  o'clock  one  winter's  night,  to  half-baptise  a 
washer-woman's  child  in  a  slop-basin,  and  the  gratitude 
of  the  parishioners  knew  no  bounds — the  very  church- 
wardens grew  generous,  and  insisted  on  the  parish  de- 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


839 


fraying  the  expense  of  the  watch-box  on  wheels  which 
the  new  curate  had  ordered  for  himself,  to  perform  the 
funeral  service  in,  in  wet  weather.  He  sent  three  pints 
of  gruel  and  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  to  a  poor  wo- 
man who  had  been  brought  to  bed  of  four  small  children 
all  at  once — the  parish  were  charmed.  He  got  up  a 
subscription  for  her — the  woman's  fortune  was  made. 
He  spoke  for  one  hour  and  twenty-five  minutes,  at  an 
anti-slavery  meeting  at  the  Goat  and  Boots — the  en- 
thusiasm was  at  its  height.  A  proposal  was  s(^t  on  foot 
for  presenting  the  curate  with  a  piece  of  x)late,  as  a 
mark  of  esteem  for  his  valuable  services  rendered  to  the 
parish.  The  list  of  subscriptions  was  lilled  up  in  no 
time  ;  the  contest  was,  not  who  should  escape  the  con- 
tribution, but  who  should  be  the  foremost  to  subscribe. 
A  splendid  silver  inkstand  was  made,  and  engraved  with 
an  appropriate  inscription  ;  the  curate  was  invited  to  a 
public  breakfast,  at  the  before-mentioned  Goat  and 
Boots  ;  the  inkstand  was  presented  in  a  neat  speech 
by  Mr.  Gubbins,  the  ex-churchwarden,  and  acknowledged 
by  the  curate  in  terms  which  drew  tears  into  the  eyes  of 
all  present — the  very  waiters  were  melted. 

One  would  have  supposed  that,  by  this  time,  the  theme 
of  universal  admiration  was  lilted  to  the  very  pinnacle 
of  popularity.  No  such  thing.  The  curate  began  to 
cough  ;  four  fits  of  coughing  one  morning  between  the 
Litany  and  the  Epistle,  and  five  in  the  afternoon  service. 
Here  was  a  discovery — the  curate  was  consumptive. 
How  interestingly  melancholy  !  If  the  young  ladies 
were  energetic  before,  their  sympathy  and  solicitude  now 
knew  no  bounds.  Such  a  man  as  the  curate — such  a 
dear — such  a  perfect  love — to  be  consumptive  !  It  was 
too  much.  Anonymous  presents  of  black-currant  jam, 
and  lozenges,  elastic  waistcoats,  bosom  friends,  and 
warm  stockings,  poured  in  upon  the  curate  until  he  was 
as  completely  fitted  out,  with  winter  clothing,  as  if  he 
were  on  the  verge  of  an  expedition  to  the  North  Pole  : 
verbal  bulletins  of  the  state  of  his  health  were  circulated 
throughout  the  parish  half-a-dozen  times  a  day  ;  and  the 
curate  was  in  the  very  zenith  of  his  popularity. 

About  this  period,  a  change  came  over  the  spirit  of 
the  parish.  A  very  quiet,  respectable,  dozing  old  gen- 
tleman, who  had  officiated  in  our  chapel  of  ease  for 
tv/elve  years  previously,  died  one  fine  morning,  without 
having  given  any  notice  whatever  of  his  intention.  This 
circumstance  gave  rise  to  counter-sensation  the  first ;  and 
the  arrival  of  his  successor  occasioned  counter-sensation 
the  second.  He  was  a  pale,  thin,  cadaverous  man,  with 
large  black  eyes,  ant^  long  straggling  black  hair  :  his 
dress  was  slovenly  in  the  extreme,  his  manner  ungainly, 
his  doctrines  startling  ;in  short,  he  was  in  every  i*espect 
the  antipodes  of  the  curate.  Crowds  of  our  female  pa- 
rishioners flocked  to  hear  him  :  at  first,  because  he  was  so 
odd-looking, then  because  his  face  was  so  expressive;  then 
because  he  preaclied  so  well  ;  and  the  last,  because  they 
really  thought  that,  after  all,  there  was  something  about 
him  which  it  was  quite  impossible  to  describe.  As  to 
the  curate,  he  was  all  very  well  ;  but  certainly,  after  all, 
there  was  no  denying  that — that — in  short,  the  curate 
wasn't  a  novelty,  and  the  other  clergyman  was.  The  in- 
constancy of  public  opinion  is  proverbial :  the  congrega- 
tion migrated  one  by  one.  The  curate  coughed  till  he 
was  black  in  the  face — it  was  in  vain.  He  respired  with 
difficulty -it  was  equally  ineffectual  in  awaking  sym- 
pathy. Seats  are  once  again  to  be  had  in  any  part  of  our 
parish  church,  and  the  chapel-of-ease  is  going  to  be  en- 
larged, as  it  is  crowded  to  suffocation  every  Sunday  ! 

The  best  known  and  most  respected  among  our  parish- 
ioners, is  an  old  lady,  who  resided  in  our  parish  long 
before  our  name  was  registered  in  the  list  of  baptisms. 
Our  parish  is  a  suburban  one,  and  the  old  lady  lives  in  a 
neat  row  of  houses  in  the  most  airy  and  pleasant  part  of  it. 
The  house  is  her  own  ;  and  it  and  everything  about  it, 
except  the  old  lady  herself,  who  looks  a  little  older  than 
she  did  ten  years  ago,  is  in  just  the  same  state  as  when 
the  old  gentletnan  was  living.  The  little  front  parlour, 
which  is  the  old  lady's  ordinary  sitting-room,  is  a  perfect 
X^icture  of  quiet  neatness  :  the  carpet  is  covered  with 
brown  Holland,  the  glass  and  picture-frames  are  cape- 
fully  enveloped  in  yellow  muslin  ;  the  table-covers  are 
never  taken  ofT,except  when  the  leaves  are  turpentined  and 
bees' waxed,  an  operation  which  is  regularly  commenced 


every  other  morning  at  half-past  nine  o'clock — and  the 
little  nicnacs  are  always  arranged  in  precisely  the  same 
manner.  The  greater  part  of  these  are  presents  from  little 
girls  whose  parents  live  in  the  same  row  ;  but  some  of 
them,  such  as  the  two  old-fashioned  walches  (which 
never  keep  the  same  time,  one  ahvays  being  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  too  slow,  and  the  other  a  quarter  of  an  hour  too 
fast),  the  little  picture  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  and 
Prince  Leopold  as  they  appeared  in  the  Koyal  Box  at 
Drury-lane  Theatre,  and  others  of  the  same  class,  have 
been  in  the  old  lady's  possession  for  many  years.  Here 
the  old  lady  sits  with  her  spectacles  on,  busily  engaged 
in  needlework — near  the  window  in  summer  time  ; 
and  if  she  sees  you  coming  up  the  steps,  and  you 
happen  to  be  a  favourite,  she  trots  out  to  open  the  street 
door  for  you  before  you  knock,  and  as  you  must  be  fa- 
tigued after  that  hot  walk,  insists  on  your  swallowing 
two  glasses  of  sherry  before  you  exert  yourself  by  talk- 
ing. If  you  call  in  the  evening  you  will  find  her  cheer- 
ful, but  rather  more  serious  than  usual,  with  an  open 
Bible  on  the  table,  before  her,  of  which  "  Sarah,"  who 
is  just  as  neat  and  methodical  as  her  mistress,  regularly 
reads  two  or  three  chapters  in  the  parlour  aloud. 

The  old  lady  sees  scarcely  any  company,  except  the 
little  girls  before  noticed,  each  of  whom  has  always  a 
regular  fixed  day  for  a  periodical  tea-drinking  with  her, 
to  which  the  child  looks  forward  as  the  greatest  treat  of 
its  existence.  She  seldom  visits  at  a  greater  distance 
than  the  next  door  but  one  on  either  side  ;  and  when  she 
drinks  tea  here,  Sarah  runs  out  first  and  knocks  a  double- 
knock,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  her  "Missis's" 
catching  cold  by  having  to  wait  at  the  door.  She  is 
very  scrupulous  in  returning  these  little  invitations,  and 
when  she  asks  Mr.  and  Mrs.  So-and-so,  to  meet  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Somebody-else,  Sarah  and  she  dust  the  urn,  and  the 
best  china  tea-service,  and  the  Pope  Joan  board  ;  and 
the  visitors  are  received  in  the  drawing-room  in  great 
state.  She  has  but  few  relations,  and  they  are  scat- 
tered about  in  different  parts  of  the  country,  and  she 
seldom  sees  them.  She  has  a  son  in  India,  whom  she 
always  describes  to  you  as  a  fine,  handsome  fellow — so 
like  the  profile  of  his  poor  dear  father  over  the  sideboard, 
but  the  old  lady  adds,  with  a  mournful  shake  of  the 
head,  that  he  has  always  been  one  of  her  greatest  trials, 
and  that  indeed  he  once  almost  broke  her  heart ;  but  it 
pleased  God  to  enable  her  to  get  the  betierof  it,  and  she 
would  prefer  your  never  mentioning  the  subject  to  her, 
again.  She  has  a  great  number  of  pensioners  ;  and  on 
Saturday,  after  she  comes  back  from  market,  there  is  a 
regular  levee  of  old  men  and  women  in  the  passage, 
waiting  for  their  weekly  gratuity.  Her  name  always 
heads  the  list  of  any  benevolent  subscriptions,  and  hers 
are  always  the  most  liberal  donations  to  the  Winter  Coal 
and  Soup  Distribution  Society,  She  subscribed  twenty 
pounds  towards  the  erection  of  an  organ  in  our  parish 
church,  and  was  so  overcome  the  first  Sunday  the  chil- 
dren sang  to  it,  that  she  was  obliged  to  be  carried  out 
by  the  pew-opener.  Her  entrance  into  church  on  Sun- 
day is  always  the  signal  for  a  little  bustle  in  the  side 
aisle,  occasioned  by  a  general  rise  among  the  poor  people, 
who  bow  and  curtsy  until  the  pew-opener  has  ushered 
the  old  lady  into  her  accustomed  seat,  dropped  a  respect- 
ful curtsy,  and  shut  the  door;  and  the  same  ceremony 
is  repeated  on  her  leaving  church,  when  she  walks  home 
with  the  family  next  door  but  one,  and  talks  about  the 
sermon  all  the  way,  invariably  opening  the  conversation 
by  asking  the  youngest  boy  where  the  text  was. 

Thus,  with  the  annual  variation  of  a  trip  to  some  quiet 
place  on  the  sea-coast,  passes  the  old  lady's  life.  It  has 
rolled  on  in  the  same  unvarying  and  benevolent  course 
for  many  years,  now,  and  must  at  no  distant  period  be 
brought  to  its  final  close.  She  looks  forward  to  its  ter- 
mination, with  calmness  and  without  apprehension. 
She  has  everything  to  hope  and  nothing  to  fear. 

A  very  different  personage,  but  one  who  has  rendered 
himself  very  conspicuous  in  our  parish,  is  one  of  the  old 
lady's  next-door  neighbours.  He  is  an  old  naval  oflacer 
on  half-pay,  and  his" bluff  and  unceremonious  behaviour 
disturbs  the  old  lady's  domestic  economy,  not  a  little. 
In  the  first  place,  he  will  smoke  cigars  in  the  front  court, 
and  when  he  wants  something  to  drink  with  them — 
which  is  by  no  means  an  uncommon  circumstance — he  lifts 


840 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


up  the  old  lady's  knocker  with  his  walking-stick,  and 
demands  to  have  a  glass  of  table  ale,  handed  over  the 
rails.  In  addition  to  this  cool  proceeding,  he  is  a  bit  of 
a  Jack  of  all  trades,  or  to  use  his  own  words,  "A  regu- 
lar Robinson  Crusoe  ;  "  and  nothing  delights  him  better 
than  to  experimentalise  on  the  old  lady's  property.  One 
morning  he  got  up  early,  and  planted  three  or  four  roots 
of  full-grown  marigolds  in  every  bed  of  her  front  gar- 
den, to  the  inconceivable  astonishment  of  the  old  lady, 
who  actually  thought  when  she  got  up  and  looked  out 
of  the  window,  that  it  was  some  strange  eruption  which 
had  come  out  in  the  night.  Another  time  he  took  to 
pieces  the  eight-day  clock  on  the  front  landing,  under 
pretence  of  cleaning  the  works,  which  he  put  together 
again  by  some  undiscovered  process  in  so  wonderful  a 
manner,  that  the  large  hand  has  done  nothing  but  trip 
up  the  little  one  ever  since.  Then  he  took  to  breeding 
silk- worms,  which  he  icould  bring  in  two  or  three  times 
a  day,  in  little  paper  boxes,  to  show  the  old  lady,  gener- 
ally dropping  a  worm  or  two  at  every  visit.  The  conse- 
quence was,  that  one  morning  a  very  stout  silk-worm 
was  discovered  in  the  act  of  walking  up-stairs — probably 
with  the  view  of  inquiring  after  his  friends,  for,  on  fur- 
ther inspection,  it  appeared  that  some  of  his  companions 
had  already  found  their  way  to  every  room  in  the  house. 
The  old  lady  went  to  the  seaside  in  despair,  and  during 
her  absence  he  completely  effaced  the  name  from  her 
brass  door-plate,  in  his  attempts  to  polish  it  with  aqua- 
fortis. 

But  all  this  is  nothing  to  his  seditious  conduct  in  pub- 
lic life.  He  attends  every  vestry  meeting  that  is  held  ; 
always  opposes  the  constituted  authorities  of  the  parish, 
denounces  the  profligacy  of  the  churchwardens,  contests 
legal  points  against  the  vestry-clerk,  loill  make  the  tax- 
gatherer  call  for  his  money  till  he  won't  call  any  longer, 
and  then  he  sends  it ;  finds  fault  with  the  sermon  every 
Sunday,  says  that  the  organist  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself,  offers  to  back  himself  for  any  amount  to  sing 
the  psalms  better  than  all  the  children  put  together, 
male  and  female  ;  and,  in  short,  conducts  himself  in 
the  most  turbulent  and  uproarious  manner.  The  worst 
of  it  is,  that  having  a  high  regard  for  the  old  lady,  he 
wants  to  make  her  a  convert  to  his  views,  and  therefore 
walks  into  her  little  parlour  with  his  newspaper  in  his 
hand,  and  talks  violent  politics  by  the  hour.  He  is  a* 
charitable,  open-hearted  old  fellow  at  bottom,  after  all  ; 
so,  although  he  puts  the  old  lady  a  little  out  occasion- 
ally, they  agree  very  well  in  the  main,  and  she  laughs  as 
much  at  each  feat  of  his  handiwork  when  it  is  all  over, 
as  anybody  else. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

The  Four  Sistei's. 

The  row  of  houses  in  which  the  old  lady  and  her 
troublesome  neighbour  reside,  comprises,  beyond  all 
doubt,  a  greater  number  of  characters  within  its  circum- 
scribed limits,  than  all  the  rest  of  the  parish  put  to- 
gether. As  we  cannot,  consistently  with  our  present 
plan,  however,  extend  the  number  of  our  parochial 
sketches  beyond  six,  it  will  be  better,  perhaps,  to  select 
the  most  peculiar,  and  to  introduce  them  at  once  without 
further  preface. 

The  four  Miss  Willises,  then,  settled  in  our  parish 
thirteen  years  ago.  It  is  a  melancholy  reflection  that 
the  old  adage,  "time  and  tide  wait  for  no  man,"  applies 
with  equal  force  to  the  fairer  portion  of  the  creation; 
and  willingly  would  we  conceal  the  fact,  that  even 
thirteen  years  ago,  the  Miss  Willises  were  far  from 
juvenile.  Our  duty  as  faithful  parochial  chroniclers, 
however,  is  paramount  to  every  other  consideration,  and 
we  are  bound  to  state,  that  thirteen  years  since,  the 
authorities  in  matrimonial  cases  considered  the  youngest 
Miss  Willis  in  a  very  precarious  state,  while  the  eldest 
sister  was  positively  given  over,  as  being  far  beyond  all 
human  hope.  Well,  the  Miss  Willises  took  a  lease  of 
the  house  ;  it  was  fresh  painted  and  papered  from  top  to 
bottom  ;  the  paint  inside  was  all  wainscoted,  the  marble 
all  cleaned,  the  old  grates  taken  down,  and  register- 
stoves,  you  could  see  to  dress  by,  put  up  ;  four  trees  | 


were  planted  in  the  back  garden,  several  small  baskets 
of  gravel  sprinkled  over  the  front  one,  vans  of  elegant 
furniture  arrived,  spring  blinds  were  fitted  to  the  win- 
dows, carpenters  who  had  been  employed  in  the  various 
preparations,  alterations,  and  repairs,  made  confidential 
statements  to  the  different  maid-servants  in  the  row, 
relative  to  the  magnificent  scale  on  which  the  Miss 
Willises  were  commencing  ;  the  maid-servants  told  their 
"  Missises,"  the  Missises  told  their  friends,  and  vague 
rumours  were  circulated  throughout  the  parish,  that  No. 
25,  in  Gordon-place,  had  been  taken  by  four  maiden 
ladies  of  immense  property. 

At  last,  the  Miss  Willises  moved  in  ;  and  then  the 
"calling"  began.  The  house  was  the  perfection  of 
neatness — so  were  the  four  Miss  Willises.  Everything 
was  formal,  stiff,  and  cold — so  were  the  four  Miss  Wil- 
lises. Not  a  single  chair  of  the  whole  set  was  ever  seen 
out  of  its  place — not  a  single  Miss  Willis  of  the  whole 
four  was  ever  seen  out  of  hers.  There  they  always  sat, 
in  the  same  places,  doing  precisely  the  same  things  at 
the  same  hour.  The  eldest  Miss  Willis  used  to  knit,  the 
second  to  draw,  the  two  others  to  play  duets  on  the 
piano.  They  seemed  to  have  no  separate  existence,  but 
to  have  made  up  their  minds  just  to  winter  through  life 
together.  They  were  three  long  graces  in  drapery,  with 
the  addition,  like  a  school-dinner  of  another  long  grace 
afterwards — the  three  fates  with  another  sister — the 
Siamese  twins  multiplied  by  two.  The  eldest  Miss 
Willis  grew  bilious — the  four  Miss  Willises  grew  bilious 
immediately.  The  eldest  Miss  Willis  grew  ill-tempered 
and  religious — the  four  Miss  Willises  were  ill-tempered 
and  religious  directly.  What  ever  the  eldest  did,  the 
others  did,  and  whatever  anybody  else  did,  they  all  dis- 
approved of  ;  and  thus  they  vegetated — living  in  Polar 
harmony  among  themselves,  and,  as  they  sometimes 
went  out,  or  saw  company  "  in  a  quiet-way"  at  home, 
occasionally  iceing  the  neighbours.  Three  years  passed 
over  in  this  way,  wdien  an  unlooked-for  and  extraordinary 
phenomenon  occurred .  The  Miss  Willises  showed  symp- 
toms of  summer,  the  frost  gradually  broke  up  ;  a 
complete  thaw  took  place.  Was  it  possible  ?  one  of  the 
four  Miss  Willises  was  going  to  be  married  ! 

Now,  where  on  earth  the  husband  came  from,  by  what 
feelings  the  poor  man  could  have  been  actuated,  or  by 
what  process  of  reasoning  the  four  Miss  Willises  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  themselves  that  it  was  possible 
for  a  man  to  marry  one  of -them,  without  marrying  them 
all,  are  questions  too  profound  for  us  to  resolve  :  certain 
it  is,  hovk^ever,  that  the  visits  of  Mj.  Robinson  (a  gentle- 
man in  a  public i  office,  with  a  good  salary  and  a  little 
property  of  his  own,  beside)  were  received — that  the 
four  Miss  Willises  were  courted  in  due  form  by  the  said 
Mr,  Robinson — that  the  neighbours  were  perfectly  fran- 
tic in  their  anxiety  to  discover  which  of  the  four  Miss 
Willises  was  the  fortunate  fair,  and  that  the  difficulty 
they  experienced  in  solving  the  problem  was  not  at  all 
lessened  by  the  announcement  of  the  eldest  Miss  Willis, 
— "  We  are  going  to  marry  Mr.  Robinson," 

It  was  very  extraordinary.  They  were  so  completely 
identified,  the  one  with  the  other,  that  the  curiosity  of 
the  whole  row — even  of  the  old  lady  herself — was  roused 
almost  beyond  endurance.  The  subject  was  discussed 
at  every  little  card-table  and  tea-drinking.  The  old 
gentleman  of  silk- worm  notoriety  did  not  hesitate  to  ex- 
press his  decided  opinion  that  Mr.  Robinson  was  of 
Eastern  descent,  and  contemplated  marrying  the  whole 
family  at  once  ;  and  the  row  generally  shook  their  heads 
with  considerable  gravity,  and  declared  the  business  to 
be  very  mysterious.  They  hoped  it  might  all  end  well ; 
— it  certainly  had  a  very  singular  appearance,  but  still 
it  would  be  uncharitable  to  express  any  opinion  without 
good  grounds  to  go  upon,  and  certainly  the  Miss  Willises 
were  quite  old  enough  to  judge  for  themselves,  and  to 
be  sure  people  ought  to  know  their  own  business  best, 
and  so  forth. 

At  last,  one  fine  morning,  at  a  quarter  before  eight 
o'clock,  A.M.,  two  glass-coaches  drove  up  to  the  Miss 
Willises'  door  at  which  Mr.  Robinson  had  arrived  in  a 
cab  ten  minutes  before,  dressed  in  a  light  blue  coat  and 
double-milled  kersey  pantaloons,  white  neckerchief, 
pumps,  and  dress-gloves,  his  manner  denoting,  as  ap- 
peared from  the  evidence  of  the  housemaid  at  No.  23, 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


841 


who  was  sweeping  the  door-steps  at  the  time,  a  consid- 
erable degree  of  nervous  excitement.  It  was  also  hastily 
reported  on  the  same  testimony,  that  the  cook  who 
opened  the  door,  wore  a  large  white  bow  of  unusual  di- 
mensions, in  a  much  smarter  head-dress  than  the  regu- 
lation cap  to  whicli  the  Miss  Willises  invariably  restricted 
the  somewhat  excursive  taste  of  female  servants  in 
general. 

The  intelligence  spread  rapidly  from  house  to  house. 
It  was  quite  clear  that  the  eventful  morning  had  at 
length  arrived  ;  the  whole  row  stationed  themselves  be- 
hind their  first  and  second  floor  blinds,  and  waited  the 
result  in  breathless  expectation. 

At  last  the  Miss  Willises'  door  opened  ;  the  door  of 
the  first  glass-coach  did  the  same.  Two  gentlemen  and 
a  pair  of  ladies  to  correspond — friends  of  the  family,  no 
doubt  ;  up  went  the  steps,  bang  went  the  door,  off  went 
the  first  glass-coach,  and  up  came  the  second. 

The  street-door  opened  again  ;  the  excitement  of  the 
whole  row  increased — Mr.  Robinson  and  the  eldest  Miss 
Willis.  "I  thought  so,"  said  the  lady  at  No.  19;  "I 
always  said  it  was  Miss  Willis!" — "Well,  I  never!" 
ejaculated  the  young  lady  at  No.  18  to  the  young  lady 
at  No.  17 — "  Did  you  ever,  dear  !"  responded  the  young 
lady  at  No.  17  to*  the  young  lady  at  No.  18.  "It's  too 
ridiculous  ! "  exclaimed  a  spinster  of  an  w?icertain  age, 
at  No.  16,  joining  in  the  conversation.  But  who  shall 
pourtray  the  astonishment  of  Gordon-place,  when  Mr. 
Robinson  handed  in  all  the  Miss  Willises,  one  after  the 
other,  and  then  squeezed  himself  into  an  acute  angle  of 
the  glass-coach,  which  forthwith  proceeded  at  a  brisk 
pace,  after  the  other  glass-coach,  which  other  glass- 
coach  had  itself  proceeded,  at  a  brisk  pace,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  parish  church.  Who  shall  depict  the  per- 
plexity of  the  clergyman,  when  all  the  Miss  Willises 
knelt  down  at  the  communion  table,  and  repeated  the 
responses  incidental  to  the  marriage  service  in  an  audi- 
ble voice — or  who  shall  describe  the  confusion  which 
prevailed,  when— even  after  the  difficulties  thus  occa- 
sioned had  been  adjusted — all  the  Miss  Willises  went 
into  hysterics  at  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremony,  until 
the  sacred  edifice  resounded  with  their  united  wailings  ! 

As  the  four  sisters  and  Mr.  Robinson  continued  to  oc- 
cupy the  same  house  after  this  memorable  occasion, 
and  as  the  married  sister,  whoever  she  was,  never  ap- 
peared in  public  without  the  other  three,  we  are  not 
quite  clear  that  the  neighbours  ever  would  have  discov- 
ered the  real  Mrs.  Robinson,  but  for  a  circumstance  ol 
the  most  gratifying  description,  whicli  tcill  happen  occa- 
sionally in  the  best-regulated  families.  Three  quarter- 
days  elapsed,  and  the  row,  on  whom  a  new  light  ap- 
peared to  have  been  bursting  for  some  time,  began  to 
speak  with  a  sort  of  implied  confidence  on  the  subject, 
and  to  wonder  how  Mrs.  Robinson — the  youngest  Miss 
Willis  that  was — got  on ;  and  servants  might  be  seen 
running  up  the  steps,  about  nine  or  ten  o'clock  every 
morning,  with  "  Missis's  compliments,  and  wishes  to 
know  how  Mrs.  Robinson  finds  herself  this  morning?" 
And  the  answer  always  was,  "Mrs.  Robinson's  compli- 
ments, and  she's  in  very  good  spirits,  and  doesn't  find 
herself  any  worse."  The  piano  was  heard  no  longer,  the 
knitting-needles  were  laid  aside,  drawing  was  neglected, 
and  mantua-making  and  millinery,  on  the  smallest  scale 
imaginable,  appeared  to  have  become  the  favourite 
amusement  of  the  whole  family.  The  parlour  wasn't 
quite  as  tidy  as  it  used  to  be,  and  if  you  called  in  the 
morning,  you  would  see  lying  on  a  table,  ^vith  an  old 
newspaper  carelessly  thrown  over  them,  two  or  three 
particularly  small  caps,  rather  larger  than  if  they  had 
been  made  for  a  moderate-sized  doll,  with  a  small  piece 
of  lace,  in  the  shape  of  a  horse-shoe,  let  in  behind  :  or 
perhaps  a  white  robe,  not  very  large  in  circumference, 
but  very  much  out  of  proportion  in  point  of  length,  with 
a  little  tucker  round  the  top,  and  a  frill  round  the  bot- 
tom ;  and  once  when  we  called,  we  saw  a  long  white 
roller,  with  a  kind  of  blue  margin  down  each  side,  the 
probable  use  of  which  we  were  at  a  loss  to  conjecture. 
Then  we  fancied  that  Mr.  Dawson,  the  surgeon,  &c., 
who  displays  a  large  lamp  with  a  different  colour  in 
every  pane  of  glass,  at  the  corner  of  the  row,  began  to 
be  knocked  up  at  night  oftener  than  he  used  to  be  ;  and 
once  we  were  very  much  alarmed  by  hearing  a  hackney. 


coach  stop  at  Mrs.  Robinson's  door,  at  half  past  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  out  of  which  there  emerged  a 
fat  old  woman,  in  a  cloak  and  night-cap,  with  a  bundle 
in  one  hand,  and  a  pair  of  pattens  in  the  other,  who 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  suddenly  knocked  up  out  of 
bed  for  some  very  special  purpose. 

When  we  got  up  in  tlie  morning  we  saw  that  the 
knocker  was  tied  up  in  an  old  white  kid  glove  ;  and  we, 
in  our  innocence  (we  were  in  a  state  of  bachelorship 
then),  wondered  what  on  earth  it  all  meant,  until  we 
heard  the  eldest  Miss  Willis,  in  propria  persond,  say, 
with  great  dignity,  in  answer  to  the  next  inquiry,  "  My 
compliments,  and  Mrs.  Robinson's  doing  as  well  as  can 
be  expected,  and  the  little  girl  thrives  wonderfully." 
And  then,  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  row,  our  curi- 
osity was  satisfied,  and  we  began  to  wonder  it  had  never 
occurred  to  us  what  the  matter  was,  before. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Election  fat  Beadle. 

A  GEEAT  event  has  recently  occurred  in  our  parish.  A 
contest  of  paramount  interest  has  just  terminated  ;  a 
parochial  convulsion  has  taken  place.  It  has  been  suc- 
ceeded by  a  glorious  triumph,  which  the  country — or 
at  least  the  parish — it  is  all  the  same — will  long  remem- 
ber. We  have  had  an  election  ;  an  election  for  beadle. 
The  supporters  of  the  old  beadle  system  have  been 
defeated  in  their  stronghold,  and  the  advocates  of  the 
great  new  beadle  principles  have  achieved  a  proud  vic- 
tory. 

Our  parish,  which,  like  all  other  parishes,  is  a  little 
world  of  its  own,  has  long  been  divided  into  two  parties, 
whose  contentions,  slumbering  for  a  while,  have  never 
failed  to  burst  forth  with  unabated  vigour,  on  any  occa- 
sion on  which  they  could  by  possibility  be  renewed. 
Watching-rates,  lighting-rates,  paving-rates,  sewers'- 
rates,  church-rates,  poor's-rates — all  sorts  of  rates,  have 
been  in  their  turns  the  subjects  of  a  grand  struggle  ; 
and  as  to  questions  of  patronage,  the  asperity  and  deter- 
mination with  which  they  have  been  contested  is  scarcely 
credible. 

The  leader  of  the  official  party — the  steady  advocate 
of  the  churchwardens,  aud  the  unflinching  supporter  of 
the  overseers — is  an  old  gentleman  who  lives  in  our  row. 
He  owns  some  half-dozen  houses  in  it,  and  always  walks 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  so  that  he  may  be  able 
to  take  in  a  view  of  the  whole  of  his  property  at  once. 
He  is  a  tall,  thin,  bony  man,  with  an  interrogative  nose, 
and  little  restless  perking  eyes,  which  appear  to  have 
been  given  him  for  the  sole  purpose  of  peeping  into 
other  people's  affairs  wath.  He  is  deeply  impressed  with 
the  importance  of  our  parish  business,  and  prides  himself, 
not  a  little,  on  his  style  of  addressing  the  parishioners 
in  vestry  assembled.  His  views  are  rather  confined  than 
extensive  ;  his  principles  more  narrow  than  liberal.  He 
has  been  heard  to  declaim  very  loudly  in  favour  of  the 
liberty  of  the  press,  and  advocates  the  repeal  of  the  stamp 
duty  on  newspapers,  because  the  daily  journals  who 
now  have  a  monopoly  of  the  public,  never  give  verbatim 
reports  of  vestry  meetings.  He  would  not  appear  egotist- 
ical for  the  world,  but  at  the  same  time  he  must  say, 
that  there  are  speeches — that  celebrated  speech  of  his 
own,  on  the  emoluments  of  the  sexton,  and  the  duties 
of  the  office,  for  instance — which  might  be  communi- 
cated to  the  public,  greatly  to  their  improvement  and 
advantage. 

His  great  opponent  in  public  life  is  Captain  Purday, 
the  old  naval  officer  on  half-pay,  to  whom  we  have 
already  introduced  our  readers.  *  The  captain  being  a 
determined  opponent  of  the  constituted  authorities,  who- 
ever they  may  chance  to  be,  and  our  other  friend  being 
their  steady  supporter,  with  an  equal  disregard  of  their 
individual  merits,  it  will  readily  be  supposed,  that  occa- 
sions for  their  coming  into  direct  collision  are  neither 
few  nor  far  between.  They  divided  the  vestry  fourteen 
times  on  a  motion  for  heating  the  church  with  warm 
water  instead  of  coals  ;  and  made  speeches  about  liberty 
and  expenditure,  and  prodigality  and  hot  water,  which 


842 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


threw  tlie  whole  parish  into  a  state  of  excitement.  Then 
the  captain,  when  he  was  on  the  visiting  committee,  and 
his  opponent  overseer,  brought  forward  certain  distinct 
and  specific  charges  relative  to  the  management  of  the 
workhouse,  boldly  expressed  his  total  want  of  confidence 
in  the  existing  authorities,  and  moved  for  "  a  copy  of 
the  recipe  by  which  the  paupers'  soup  was  prepared,  to- 
gether with  any  documents  relating  thereto."  This  the 
over.seer  steadily  resisted  ;  he  fortified  himself  by  pre- 
cedent, appealed  to  the  established  usage,  and  declined 
to  produce  the  papers,  on  the  ground  of  the  injury  that 
would  be  done  to  the  public  service,  if  documents  of  a 
strictly  private  nature,  passing  between  the  master  of 
the  workhouse  and  the  cook,  were  to  be  thus  dragged  to 
light  on  the  motion  of  any  individual  member  of  the 
vestry.  The  motion  was  lost  by  a  majority  of  two  ;  and 
then  "^tlie  captain,  who  never  allows  himself  to  be  de- 
feated, moved  for  a  committee  of  inquiry  into  the  whole 
subject.  The  affair  grew  serious  ;  the  question  was  dis- 
cussed at  meeting  after  meeting,  and  vestry  after  vestry  ; 
speeches  were  made,  attacks  repudiated,  personal  de- 
fiances exchanged,  explanations  received,  and  the  great- 
est excitement  prevailed,  until  at  last,  just  as  the  ques- 
tion was  going  to  be  finally  decided,  the  vestry  found 
that  somehow  or  other,  they  had  become  entangled  in  a 
point  of  form,  from  which  it  was  impossible  to  escape  with 
propriety.  So,  the  motion  was  dx'opped,  and  everybody 
looked  extremely  important,  and  seemed  quite  satisfied 
with  the  meritorious  nature  of  the  whole  proceeding. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  in  our  parish  a  week  or 
two  since,  when  Simmons,  the  beadle  suddenly  died. 
The  lamented  deceased  had  over-exerted  himself,  a  day 
or  two  previously,  in  conveying  an  aged  female,  highly 
intoxicated,  to  the  strong  room  of  the  workhouse.  The 
excitement  thus  occasioned,  added  to  a  severe  cold, 
which  this  indefatigable  officer  had  caught  in  his  capac- 
ity of  director  of  the  parish  engine,  hj  inadvertently 
playing  over  himself  instead  of  a  fire,  proved  too  much 
for  a  constitution  already  enfeebled  by  age  ;  and  the  in- 
telligence was  conveyed  to  the  Board  one  evening  that 
Simmons  had  died,  and  left  his  respects. 

The  breath  vfas  scarcely  out  of  the  body  of  the  de- 
ceased functionary,  when  the  field  was  filled  with  com- 
petitors for  the  vacant  office,  each  of  whom  rested  liis 
claims  to  public  support,  entirely  on  the  number  and  ex- 
tent of  his  family,  as  if  the  oflnce  of  beadle  were  origin- 
ally instituted  as  an  encouragement  for  the  propagation 
of  the  human  species.  "  Bung  for  Beadle.  Five  small 
children  !  " — "  Hopkins  for  Beadle.  Seven  small  chil- 
dren !  !  " — Timkins  for  Beadle.  Nine  small  children  !  !  !  " 
Such  were  the  placards  in  large  black  letters  on  a  white 
ground,  which  were  plentifully  pasted  on  the  walls,  and 
posted  in  the  windows  of  the  principal  shops.  Timkin's 
success  was  considered  certain  -several  mothers  of  fam- 
ilies half  promised  their  votes,  and  the  nine  small  children 
would  have  run  over  the  course,  but  for  the  production 
of  another  placard,  announcing  the  appearance  of  a  still 
more  meritorious  candidate.  "  Spruggins  for  Beadle. 
Ten  small  children  (two  of  them  twins),  and  a  wife  !  !  !" 
There  was  no  resisting  this  ;  ten  small  children  would 
have  been  almost  irresistible  in  themselves,  without  the 
twins,  but  the  touching  parenthesis  about  that  interest- 
ing production  of  nature,  and  the  still  more  touching  al- 
lusion to  Mrs.  Spruggins,  must  ensure  success.  Sprug- 
gins  was  the  favourite  at  once,  and  the  appearance  of 
his  lady,  as  she  went  about  to  solicit  votes  (which  en- 
couraged confident  hopes  of  a  still  further  addition  to 
the  house  of  Spruggins  at  no  remote  period),,  increased 
the  general  prepossession  in  IVis  favour..  The  otherrcan- 
didates,  Bung  alone  accepted,  resigned  in  despair.  The 
day  of  election  fixed  ;  and  the  canvass  proceeded  with 
briskness  and  perseA-erance  on  both  sides. 

Tlu;  members  of  the  vestry  could  not  be  supposed  to 
escape  the  contagious  excitement  inse[)arable  from  the 
occasion.  The  majority  of  tlie  lady  inhabitants  of  the 
I>arish  declared  at  once  for  Spruggins  ;  and  the  quondam 
overseer  took  the  same  side,  on  the  ground  that  men 
with  large  families  always  had  been  elected  to  the  of- 
fice, and  that  although  he  must  admit,  that,  in  other 
respects,  Spruggins  was  the  least  qualified  candidate  of 
the  two,  still  it  was  an  old  practice,  and  he  saw  no  rea- 
son why  an  old  practice  should  be  departed  from.  This 


was  enough  for  the  captain.  He  immediately  sided  with 
Bung,  canvassed  for  him  personally  in  all  directions, 
wrote  squibs  on  Spruggins,  and  got  his  butcher  to  skewer 
them  up  on  conspicuous  joints  in  his  shop-front  ;  fright- 
ened his  neighbour,  the  old  lady,  into  a  palpitation  of 
the  heart,  by  his  awful  denunciations  of  Spruggins's 
party  :  and  bounced  in  and  out,  and  up  and  down,  and 
backwards  and  forwards,  until  all  the  sober  inhabitants 
of  the  parish  thought  it  inevitable  that  he  must  die  of  a 
brain  fever,  long  before  the  election  began. 

The  day  of  election  arrived.  It  was  no  longer  an  in- 
dividual struggle,  but  a  party  contest  between  the  ins 
and  outs.  The  question  was,  whether  the  withering  in- 
fluence of  the  overseers,  the  domination  of  the  church- 
wardens, and  the  blighting  despotism  of  the  vestry-clerk, 
should  be  allowed  to  render  the  election  of  beadle  a 
form — a  nullity  :  whether  they  should  impose  a  vestry- 
elected  beadle  on  the  parish,  to  do  their  bidding  and 
forward  their  views,  or  whether  the  parishioners,  fear- 
lessly asserting  their  undoubted  rights,  should  elect  an 
independent  beadle  of  their  own. 

The  nomination  was  fixed  to  take  place  in  the  vestry, 
but  so  great  was  the  throng  of  anxious  spectators,  that  it 
was  found  necessary  to  adjourn  to  the  church,  where 
the  ceremony  commenced  with  due  solemnity.  The  ap- 
pearance of  the  churchwardens  and  overseers,  and  the 
ex-churchwardens,  and  ex-overseers,  with  Spruggins  in 
the  rear,  excited  general  attention.  Spruggins  was  a 
little  thin  man,  in  rusty  black,  with  a  long  pale  face, 
and  a  countenance  expressive  of  care  and  fatigue,  which 
might  either  be  attributed  to  the  extent  of  his  family  or 
the  anxiety  of  his  feelings.  His  opponent  appeared  in  a 
cast-off  coat  of  the  captain's — a  blue  coat  with  bright 
buttons  :  white  trousers,  and  that  description  of  shoes 
familiarly  known  by  the  appellation  of  "high-lows." 
There  was  a  serenity  in  the  open  countenance  of  Bung — 
a  kind  of  moral  dignity  in  his  confident  air — an  "  I  wish 
you  may  get  it"  sort  of  expression  in  his  eye — which  in- 
fused animation  into  his  supporters,  and  evidently  dis- 
pirited his  opponents. 

The  ex- church  warden  rose  to  propose  Thomas  Sprug- 
gins for  beadle.  He  had  known  him  long.  He  had  had 
his  eye  upon  him  closely  for  years  ;  he  had  watched  him 
with  twofold  vigilance  for  months.  (A  parishioner  here 
suggested  that  this  might  be  termed  "taking  a  double 
sight,"  but  the  observation  was  drowned  in  loud  cries  of 
"Order!")  He  would  repeat  that  he  had  had  his  eye 
upon  him  for  years,  and  this  he  would  say,  that  a  more 
well-conducted,  a  more  well-behaved,  a  more  . sober,  a 
more  quiet  man,  with  a  more  well-regulated  mind  he  had 
never  met  with.  A  man  with  a  larger  family  he  had 
never  known  (cheers).  The  parish  required  a  man  who 
could  be  depended  on  ("Hear!"  from  the  Spruggins 
side,  answered  by  ironical  cheers  from  the  Bung  party). 
Such  a  man  he  now  proposed  ("No,"  "  Yes").  He  would 
not  allude  to  individuals  (the  ex-churchwarden  contin- 
ued, in  the  celebrated  negative  style  adopted  by  great 
speakers).  He  would  not  advert  to  a  gentleman  who 
had  once  held  a  high  rank  in  the  service  of  his  majesty  ; 
he  would  not  say,  that  that  gentleman  was  no  gentle- 
man ;  he  would  not  assert,  that  that  man  was  no  man  ; 
he  would  not  say,  that  he  was  a  turbulent  parishioner; 
he  would  not  say,  that  he  had  grossly  misbehaved  him- 
self, not  only  on  this,  but  on  all  former  occasions ;  he 
would  not  say,  that  he  was  one  of  those  discontented  and 
treasonable  spirits,  who  carried  confusion  and  disorder 
wherever  they  went  ;  he  would  not  say,  that  he  har- 
boured in  his  heart  envy,  and  hatred,  and  malice,  and 
all  uncliaritableness.  No  !  He  wished  to  have  every- 
thing  oomf^rtable  and  pleasant,  and  therefore,  he  would 
say — nothing  about  him  (cheers). 

The  captain  rieplied  in  a  similar  parliamentary  style  ; 
He  would,  not  say  he  was  astonished  at  the  speech  they 
had  just  heard;  he  would  not  say,  he  was  disgusted 
(cheers).  He  would  not  retort  the  epithets  which  had, 
l)eon  hurlf^  against  him  (renewed  cheering);  he  would 
not  allude  to  men  once  in  office,  but  now  happily  out  of 
it,  who  had  mismanaged  the  workhouse,  ground  the 
])aupers,  diluted  the  beer,  slack-baked  the  bread,  boned 
the  meat,  heightened  the  work,  and  lowered  the  soup 
(tremendous  cheers).  He  would  not  ask  what  such  men 
deserved  (a  voice  "Nothing  aday,  and  find  them- 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


843 


selves  !  ")•  He  would  not  say,  tliat  one  burst  of  p^eneral 
indignation  should  drive  tlietn  from  the  parish  tliey  pol- 
luted with  their  presence  ("  Give  it  him  1"),  He  would 
not  allude  to  the  unfortunate  man  who  had  been  pro- 
posed— he  would  not  say,  as  the  vestry's  tool,  but  as 
Beadle.  He  would  not  advert  to  that  individual's  fami- 
ly ;  he  would  not  say,  tliat  nine  children,  twins,  and  a 
wife,  were  very  bad  examples  for  pauper  imitation  (loud 
cheers).  He  would  not  advert  in  detail  to  the  qualifica- 
tions of  Bung",  The  man  stood  before  him,  and  he  would 
not  say  in  his  presence,  what  he  miglit  be  disposed  to 
to  say  of  him  if  he  were  absent.  (Here  Mr.  Bung  tele- 
graphed to  a  friend  near  him,  under  cover  of  his  hat,  by 
,  contracting  his  left  eye,  and  applying  his  right  thumb  to 
the  tip  of  his  nose).  It  had  been  objected  to  Bung  that 
he  had  only  five  children  ("Hear,  hear  !"  from  the  op- 
position). Well  ;  he  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  legisla- 
ture had  affixed  any  precise  amount  of  infantine  qualifi- 
cation to  the  office  of  beadle  ;  but  taking  it  for  granted 
that  an  extensive  family  were  a  great  requisite,  he  en- 
treated them  to  look  to  facts,  and  compare  data,  about 
"which  there  could  be  no  mistake.  Bung  was  35  years  of 
age.  Spruggins — of  whom  he  wished  to  speak  with  ail 
possible  respecb — was  50.  Was  it  not  more  than  possible — 
was  it  not  very  probable — that  by  the  time  Bung  attained 
the  latter  age,  he  might  see  around  him  a  family  even 
exceeding  in  number  and  extent  that  to  which  Spruggins 
at  present  laid  claim  (deafening  cheers  and  waving  of 
handkerchiefs)?  The  captain  concluded,  amidst  loud 
applause,  by  calling  upon  the  parishioners  to  sound  the 
tocsin,  rush  to  the  poll,  free  themselves  from  dictation, 
or  be  slaves  for  ever. 

On  the  following  day  the  polling  began,  and  we  never 
have  had  such  a  bustle  in  our  parish  since  we  got  up 
our  famous  anti-slavery  petition,  which  was  such  an  im- 
portant one,  that  the  House  of  Commons  ordered  it  to  be 
printed,  on  the  motion  of  tiie  member  for  the  district. 
The  captain  engaged  two  hackney-coaches  and  a  cab  for 
Bung's  people— the  cab  for  the  drunken  voters,  and  the 
two  coaches  for  the  old  ladies,  the  greater  portion  of 
whom,  owing  to  the  captain's  impetuosity,  were  driven 
up  to  the  poll  and  home  again,  before  they  recovered 
from  their  flurry  sufficiently  to  know,  with  any  degree 
of  clearness,  what  they  had  been  doing.  The  opposite 
party  wholly  neglected  these  precautions,  and  the  con- 
sequence was,  that  a  great  many  ladies  who  were  walk- 
ing leisurely  up  to  the  church — for  it  was  a  very  hot  day 
— to  vote  for  Spruggins,  were  artfully  decoyed  into  the 
coaches,  and  voted  for  Bung.  The  captain's  argument, 
too,  had  produced  considerable  effect  ;  the  attempted 
influence  of  the  vestry  produced  a  greater.  A  threat  of 
exclusive  dealing  was  clearly  established  against  the 
vestry-clerk — a  case  of  heartless  and  profligate  atrocity. 
It  appeared  that  the  delinquent  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
purchasing  six  penn'orth  of  muffins,  weekly,  from  an 
old  woman  who  rents  a  small  house  in  the  parish,  and 
resides  among  the  original  settlers  ;  on  her  last  weekly 
visit,  a  message  was  conveyed  to  her  through  the  medi- 
um of  the  cook,  couched  in  mysterious  terms,  but  indi- 
cating with  sufficient  clearness,  that  the  vestry  clerk's 
appetite  for  muffins,  in  future,  depended  entirely  on  her 
vote  on  the  beadleship.  This  wa«  sufficient  :  the  stream 
had  been  turning  previously,  and  the  impulse  thus  ad- 
ministered directed  its  final  course.  The  Bung  party 
ordered  one  shilling's-worth  of  muffins  weekly  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  old  woman's  natural  life;  the  parishioners 
were  loud  in  their  exclamations  ;  and  the  fate  of  Sprug- 
gins was  sealed. 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  twins  were  exhibited  in  dresses 
of  the  same  pattern,  and  night-caps  to  match,  at  the 
church -door  :  the  boy  in  Mrs.  Spruggins's  right  arm,  and 
the  girl  in  her  left — even  Mrs.  Spruggins  herself  failed 
to  be  an  object  of  sympathy  any  longer.  The  majority 
attained  by  Bung  on  the  gross  poll  was  four  hundred  and 
twenty-eight, and  the  cause  of  the  parishioners  triumphed. 

CHAPTER  V. 

Th^  Broker's  Man. 

The  excitement  of  the  late  election  had  subsided,  and 
our  parish  being  once  again  restored  to  a  state  of  com- 


parative tranquility,  we  are  enabled  to  devote  our  atten- 
tion to  those  parishioners  who  take  little  share  in  our  par- 
ty contests  or  in  the  turmoil  and  bustle  of  public  life. 
And  we  feel  sincere  pleasure  in  acknowledging  here, 
that  in  collecting  materials  for  this  task  we  have  been 
greatly  assisted  by  Mr.  Bung  himself,  who  has  imposed 
on  us  a  debt  of  obligation  which  we  fear  we  can  never 
repay.  The  life  of  this  gentleman  has  been  one  of  a 
very  chequered  description  ;  he  has  undergone  transi- 
tions—not from  grave  to  gay,  for  he  never  was  grave- 
not  from  lively  to  severe,  for  severity  forms  no  part  of 
his  disposition  ;  his  fluctuations  have  been  between  pov- 
erty in  the  extreme,  and  poverty  modified,  or,  to  use  his 
own  emphatic  language,  "  between  nothing  to  eat  and 
just  half  enough."  He  is  not,  as  he  forcibly  remarks, 
"  One  of  those  fortunate  men  who,  if  they  were  to  dive 
under  one  side  a  barge  stark-naked,  would  come  up  on 
the  other  with  a  new  suit  of  clothes  on,  and  a  ticket  for 
soup  in  the  waistcoat-pocket  : "  neither  is  he  one  of 
those,  whose  spirit  has  been  broken  beyond  redemption 
by  misfortune  and  want.  He  is  just  one  of  the  careless, 
good-for-nothing,  happy  fellows,  who  float,  cork-like  on 
the  surface,  for  the  world  to  play  at  hockey  with  : 
knocked  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere  :  now  to  the 
right,  then  to  the  left,  again  up  in  the  air,  and  anon  to 
the  bottom,  but  always  reappearing  and  bounding  with 
the  stream  buoyantly  and  merrily  along.  Some  few 
months  before  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  stand  a  con- 
tested election  for  the  office  of  beadle,  necessity  attached 
him  to  the  service  of  a  broker  ;  and  on  the  opportunities 
he  here  acquired  of  ascertaining  the  condition  of  most  of 
the  poorer  inhabitants  of  the  parish,  his  patron,  the  cap- 
tain, first  grounded  his  claims  to  public  support.  Chance 
threw  the  man  in  our  way  a  short  time  since.  We  were, 
in  the  first  instance,  attracted  by  his  prepossessing  impu- 
dence at  the  election  ;  we  were  not  surprised,  on  further 
acquaintance,  to  find  him  a  shrewd  knowing  fellow, 
with  no  inconsiderable  power  of  observation  ;  and,  after 
conversing  with  him  a  little,  were  somewhat  struck  (as 
we  dare  say  our  readers  have  frequently  been  in  other 
cases)  with  the  power  some  men  seem  to.  have,  not  only 
of  sympathizing  with,  but  to  all  appearance  of  under- 
standing feelings  to  which  they  themselves  are  entire 
strangers.  We  had  been  expressing  to  the  new  func- 
tionary our  surprise  that  he  should  ever  have  served 
in  the  capacity  to  which  we  have  just  adverted,  when 
we  gradually  led  him  into  one  or  two  professional  anec- 
dotes. As  we  are  induced  to  think,  on  reflection,  that  they 
will  tell  better  nearly  in  his  own  words,  than  with 
any  attempted  embellishments  of  ours,  we  will  at  once 
entitle  them 

MR.  BUNG'S  NARRATIVE. 

"It's  very  true,  as  you  say,"  Mr.  Bung  commenced, 
"  that  a  broker's  man's  is  not  a  life  to  be  envied  ;  and  in 
course  you  know  as  well  as  I  do.  though  you  don't  say 
it,  that  people  hate  and  scout  'em  because  they're  the 
ministers  of  wretchedness,  like,  to  poor  people.  But 
what  could  I  do,  sir  ?  The  thing  was  no  Averse  because 
I  did  it,  instead  of  somebody  else  ;  and  if  putting  me  in 
possession  of  a  house  would  put  me  in  possession  of  three 
and  sixpence  a  day,  and  levying  a  distress  on  another 
man's  goods  would  relieve  my  distress  and  that  of  my 
family,  it  can't  be  expected  but  what  I'd  take  the  job 
and  go  through  with  it.  I  never  liked  it,  God  knows  ; 
I  always  looked  out  for  something  else,  and  the  moment 
I  got  other  work  to  do,  I  left  it.  If  there  is  anything 
wrong  in  being  the  agent  in  such  matters — not  the  prin- 
cipal, mind  you — I'm  sure  the  business,  to  a  beginner 
like  I  was,  at  all  events,  carries  its  own  punishment 
along  with  it.  I  wished  again  and  again  that  the  people 
would  only  blow  me  up,  or  pitch  into  me~that  I  wouldn't 
have  minded,  it's  all  in  my  way  ;  but  it's  the  being  shut 
up  by  yourself  in  one  room  for  five  days,  without  so  much 
as  an  old  newspaper  to  look  at,  or  anything  to  see  out  o' 
the  winder  but  the  roofs  and  chimneys  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  or  anything  to  listen  to,  but  the  ticking  perhaps 
of  an  old  Diatch  clock,  the  sobbing  of  the  missis,  now 
and  then,  the  low  talking  of  friends  in  the  next  room, 
who  speak  in  whispers,  lest '  the  man  '  should  overhear 
them,  or  perhaps  the  occasional  opening  of  the  door,  as 


844 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


a  child  peeps  in  to  look  at  you,  and  then  runs  half -fright- 
ened away— It's  all  this,  that  makes  you  feel  sneaking 
somehow,  and  ashamed  of  yourself ;  and  then,  if  it's 
winter  time,  they  just  give  you  fire  enough  to  make  you 
think  you'd  like  more,  and  bring  in  your  grub  as  if  they 
wished  it  'ud  choke  you — as  I  dare  say  they  do,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  most  heartily.  If  they're  very  civil, 
they  make  you  up  a  bed  in  the  room  at  night,  and  if  they 
don't,  your  master  sends  one  in  for  you  ;  but  there  you 
are,  without  being  washed  or  shaved  all  the  time,  shun- 
ned by  everybody,  and  spoken  to  by  no  one,  unless  some 
one  comes  in  at  dinner  lime,  and  asks  you  whether  you 
want  any  more,  in  a  tone  as  much  as  to  say  *  I  hope  you 
don't,'  or,  in  the  evening,  to  inquire  whether  you 
wouldn't  rather  have  a  candle,  after  you've  been  sitting 
in  the  dark  half  the  night.  When  I  was  left  in  this 
way,  1  used  to  sit,  think,  think,  thinking,  till  I  felt  as 
lonesome  as  a  kitten  in  a  washhouse  copper  with  the  lid 
on  ;  but  I  believe  the  old  brokers'  men  who  are  regu- 
larly trained  to  it,  never  think  at  all.  I  have  heard  some 
on  'em  say,  indeed,  that  they  don't  know  how  ! 

"  I  put  in  a  good  many  distresses  in  my  time  (continu- 
ed Mr.  Bung),  and  in  course  I  wasn't  long  in  finding, 
that  some  people  are  not  as  much  to  be  pitied  as  others 
are,  and  that  people  with  good  incomes  who  get  into 
difficulties,  which  they  keep  patching  up  day  after  day, 
and  week  after  week,  get  so  used  to  these  sort  of  things 
in  time,  that  at  last  they  come  scarcely  to  feel  them  at 
all.  I  remember  the  very  first  place  I  was  put  in  posses- 
sion of,  was  a  gentleman's  house  in  this  parish  here,  that 
every  body  would  suppose  couldn't  help  having  money 
if  he  tried.  I  went  with  old  Fixem,  my  old  master, 
'bout  half  arter  eight  in  the  morning  :  rang  the  area-bell  ; 
servant  in  livery  opened  the  door  :  '  Governor  at  home  ? ' 
— *  Yes,  he  is,'  says  the  man  ;  '  but  he  is  breakfasting 
just  now.  *  Never  mind,'  says  Fixem,  '  just  you  tell  him 
there's  a  gentleman  here,  as  wants  to  speak  to  him  par- 
ticler.'  So  the  servant,  he  opens  his  eyes,  and  stares 
about  him  always — looking  for  the  gentleman  as  it  struck 
me,  for  I  don't  think  anybody  but  a  man  as  was  stone- 
blind  would  mistake  Fixem  for  one  ;  and  as  for  me,  I  was 
as  seedy  as  a  cheap  cowcumber,  Hows'ever,  he  turns 
round,  and  goes  to  the  breakfast-parlour,  which  was  a  little 
snug  sort  of  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  and  Fixem 
(as  we  always  did  in  that  profession),  without  waiting 
to  be  announced,  walks  in  arter  him,  and  before  the  ser- 
vant could  get  out — '  Please,  sir,  here's  a  man  as  wants 
to  speak  to  you,' looks  in  at  the  door  as  familiar  and 
pleasant  as  may  be.  *  Who  the  devil  are  you,  and  how 
dare  you  walk  into  a  gentleman's  house  without  leave? ' 
says  the  master,  as  fierce  as  a  bull  in  fits.  '  My  name,' 
says  Fixem,  winking  to  the  master  to  send  the  servant 
away,  and  putting  the  warrant  into  his  hands  folded  up 
like  a  note,  '  My  name's  Smith,'  says  he,  '  and  I  called 
from  Johnson's  about  that  business  of  Thompson's' — 
'  Oh,'  says  the  other,  quite  down  on  him  directly,  '  How 
15  Thompson?'  says  he;  'Pray  sit  down,  Mr.  Smith: 
John,  leave  the  room.'  Out  went  the  servant ;  and  the 
gentleman  and  Fixem  looked  at  one  another  till  they 
couldn't  look  any  longer,  and  then  they  varied  the  amuse- 
ments by  looking  at  me,  who  had  been  standing  on  the 
mat  all  this  time.  '  Hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  I  see,' 
said  the  gentleman  at  last.  '  Hundred  and  fifty  pounds,' 
said  Fixem,'  besides  cost  of  levy,  sheriff's  poundage,  and 
all  other  incidental  expenses.' — '  Um,'  says  the  gentle- 
man, *  I  shan't  be  able  to  settle  this  before  to-morrow 
afternoon.' — '  Very  sorry  ;  but  I  shall  be  obliged  to  leave 
my  man  here  till  then,'  replies  Fixem,  pretending  to  look 
very  miserable  over  it.  '  That's  very  unfort'nate,  says 
the  gentleman,  *  for  I  have  got  a  large  party  here  to- 
night, and  I'm  ruined  if  those  fellows  of  mine  get  an 
inkling  of  the  matter — just  step  here,  Mr.  Smith,'  says 
he,  after  a  short  pause.  So  Fixem  walks  with  him  u]) 
to  the  window,  and  after  a  good  deal  of  whispering,  and 
a  little  chinking  of  suverins,  and  looking  at  me,  he 
comes  back  and  says,  '  Bung,  you're  a  handy  fellow,  and 
very  honest  I  know.  This  gentleman  wants  an  assistant 
to  clean  the  plate  and  wait  at  table  to-day,  and  if  you're 
not  particularly  engaged,'  says  old  Fixem,  grinnin«^  like 
mad,  and  shoving  a  couple  of  suverins  into  my  hand, 
'he'll  be  very  glad  to  avail  himself  of  your  servic(!S.' 
Well,  I  laughed  :  and  the  gentleman  laughed,  and  we 


all  laughed  ;  and  I  went  home  and  cleaned  myself,  leav- 
ing Fixem  there,  and  when  I  went  back,  Fixem  went 
away,  and  I  polished  up  the  plate,  and  waited  at  table, 
and  gammoned  the  servants,  and  nobody  had  the  least 
idea  I  was  in  possession,  though  it  very  nearly  came  out 
after  all ;  for  one  of  the  last  gentlemen  who  remained 
came  down-stairs  into  the  hall  where  I  was  sitting, 
pretty  late  at  night,  and  putting  half-a-crown  into  my 
hand,  says,  *  Here  my  man,'  says  he,  '  run  and  get  me  a 
coach,  will  you  ? '  I  thought  it  was  a  do,  to  get  me  out 
of  the  house,  and  was  jvist  going  to  say  so,  sulkily 
enough,  when  the  gentleman  (who  was  up  to  everything) 
came  running  down-stairs,  as  if  he  was  in  great  anxiety. 
'  Bung,'  says  he,  pretending  to  be  in  a  consuming  pas-  , 
sion.  '  Sir,'  says  I.  '  Why  the  devil  an't  you  looking 
after  that  plate  ?  " — '  I  was  just  going  to  send  him  for  a 
coach  for  me,'  said  the  other  gentleman.  *  And  I  was 
just  a  going  to  say,'  says  I — '  Any  body  else,  my  dear  fel- 
low,' interrupts  the  master  of  the  house,  pushing  me 
down  the  passage  to  get  me  out  of  the  way — '  anybody 
else  ;  but  1  have  put  this  man  in  possession  of  all  the 
plate  and  valuables,  and  I  cannot  allow  him  on  any  con- 
sideration whatever,  to  leave  the  house.  Bung,  you 
scoundrel,  go  and  count  those  forks  in  the  breakfast- 
parlour  instantly.'  You  may  be  sure  I  went  laughing 
pretty  hearty  when  I  found  it  was  all  right.  The  money 
was  paid  next  day,  with  the  addition  of  something  else 
for  myself,  and  that  was  the  best  job  that  I  (and  I  sus- 
pect old  Fixem  too)  ever  got  in  that  line. 

"  But  this  is  the  bright  side  of  the  picture,  sir,  after 
all,"  resumed  Mr.  Bung,  laying  aside  the  knowing  look, 
and  flash  air,  with  which  he  had  repeated  the  previous 
anecdote — "and  I'm  sorry  to  say,  it's  the  side  one  sees 
very,  very  seldom,  in  comparison  with  the  dark  one. 
The  civility  which  money  will  purchase,  is  rarely  ex- 
tended to  those  who  have  none ;  and  there's  a  consola- 
tion even  in  being  able  to  patch  up  one  difficulty,  to 
make  way  for  another,  to  which  very  poor  people  are 
strangers.  I  was  once  put  into  a  house  down  George's 
yard — that  little  dirty  court  at  the  back  of  the  gas-works; 
and  I  never  shall  forget  the  misery  of  them  people,  dear 
me  !  It  was  a  distress  for  half  a  year's  rent — two  pound 
ten  I  think.  There  was  only  two  rooms  in  the  house, 
and  as  there  was  no  passage,  the  lodgers  up-stairs 
always  went  through  the  room  of  the  people  of  the 
house,  as  they  passed  in  and  out ;  and  every  time  they 
did  so — which,  on  the  average,  was  about  four  times 
every  quarter  of  an  hour — they  Ijlowed  up  quite  fright- 
ful :  for  their  things  had  been  seized  too,  and  included 
in  the  inventory.  There  was  a  little  piece  of  inclosed 
dust  in  front  of  the  house,  with  a  cinder-path  leading 
up  to  the  door,  and  an  open  rain-water  butt  on  one  side. 
A  dirty  striped  curtain,  on  a  very  slack  string,  hung  in 
the  window,  and  a  little  triangular  bit  of  broken  look- 
ing-glass rested  on  the  sill  inside.  I  suppose  it  was 
meant  for  the  people's  use,  but  their  appearance  was  so 
wretched,  and  so  miserable,  that  I'm  certain  they  never 
could  have  plucked  up  courage  to  look  themselves  in  the 
face  a  second  time,  if  they  survived  the  fright  of  doing 
so  once.  There  was  two  or  three  chairs,  that  might  have 
been  worth,  in  their  best  days,  from  eightpence  to  a 
shilling  a  piece  ;  a  small  deal  table,  an  old  corner  cup- 
board with  nothing  in  it,  and  one  of  those  bedsteads 
which  turn  up  half  way,  and  leave  the  bottom  legs 
sticking  out  for  you  to  knock  your  head  against,  or 
hang  your  hat  upon  ;  no  bed,  no  bedding.  There  was 
an  old  sack,  by  way  of  rug,  before  the  fire-place,  and 
four  or  five  children  were  grovelling  about,  among  the 
sand  on  the  floor.  The  execution  was  only  put  in  to 
get  'em  out  of  the  house,  for  there  was  nothing  to  take 
to  pay  the  expenses  ;  and  here  I  stopped  for  three  days, 
though  that  was  a  mere  form  too  :  for,  in  course  I  knew, 
and  we  all  knew,  they  could  never  pay  the  money.  In 
one  of  the  chairs,  by  the  side  of  the  place  where  the  fire 
ought  to  have  been,  an  old  'ooman— the  ugliest  and 
dirtiest  I  ever  see — who  sat  rocking  herself  backwards 
and  forwards,  backwards  and  forwards,  without  once 
stopping,  except  for  an  instant  now  and  then,  to  clasp 
together  the  withered  hands  which,  wUh  these  excep- 
tions, she  kept  constantly  rubbing  upon  her  knees,  just 
raising  and  depressing  her  fingers  convulsively,  in  time 
to  the  rocking  of  the  chair.    On  tlie  other  side  sat  the 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


845 


mother  with  an  infant  in  her  arms,  which  cried  till  it 
cried  itself  to  sleep,  and  when  it  'woke,  cried  till  it  cried 
itself  off  again.  The  old  'ooman's  voice  I  never  heard  : 
she  seemed  completely  stupified  ;  and  as  to  the  mother's, 
it  would  have  been  better  if  she  had  been  so  too,  for 
misery  had  changed  her  to  a  devil.  If  you  had  heard 
how  she  cursed  the  little  naked  children  as  was  rolling 
on  the  floor,  and  seen  how  savagely  she  struck  the  in- 
fant when  it  cried  with  hunger,  you'd  have  shuddered 
as  much  as  I  did.  There  they  remained  all  the  time  : 
the  children  ate  a  morsel  of  bread  once  or  twice,  and  I 
gave  'em  best  part  of  the  dinners  my  missis  brought  me, 
but  the  woman  ate  nothing  ;  they  never  even  laid  on  the 
bedstead,  nor  was  the  room  swept  or  cleaned  all  the 
time.  The  neighbours  were  all  too  poor  themselves  to 
take  any  notice  of  'em,  but  from  what  I  could  make  out 
from  the  abuse  of  the  woman  up-stairs,  it  seemed  the 
husband  had  been  transported  a  few  weeks  before.  When 
the  time  was  up,  the  landlord  and  old  Fixem  too,  got 
rather  frightened  about  the  family,  and  so  they  made  a 
stir  about  it,  and  had  'em  taken  to  the  workhouse.  They 
sent  the  sick  couch  for  the  old  'ooman,  and  Simmons  took 
the  children  away  at  night.  The  old  'ooman  went  into 
the  infirmary,  and  very  soon  died.  The  children  are  all 
in  the  house  to  this  day,  and  very  comfortable  they  are 
in  comparison.  As  to  the  mother,  there  was  no  taming 
her  at  all.  She  had  been  a  quiet,  hard-  working  woman, 
I  believe,  but  her  misery  had  actually  drove  her  wild  ; 
so  after  she  had  been  sent  to  the  house  of  correction 
half-a-dozen  times,  for  throwing  inkstands  at  the  over- 
seers, blaspheming  the  churchwardens,  and  smashing 
everybody  as  come  near  her,  she  burst  a  blood-vessel  one 
mornin',  and  died  too  ;  and  a  happy  release  it  was,  both 
for  herself  and  the  old  paupers,  male  and  female,  which 
she  used  to  tip  over  in  all  directions,  as  if  they  were  so 
many  skittles,  and  she  the  ball. 

"Now  this  was  bad  enough,"  resumed  Mr.  Bung, 
taking  a  half-step  towards  the  door,  as  if  to  intimate 
that  he  had  nearly  concluded.  "  This  was  bad  enough, 
but  there  was  a  sort  of  quiet  misery — if  you  understand 
what  I  mean  by  that,  sir — about  a  lady  at  one  house  I 
was  put  into,  as  touched  me  a  good  deal  more.  It  doesn't 
matter  where  it  was  exactly  :  indeed,  I'd  rather  not  say, 
but  it  was  the  same  sort  o'  job.  I  went  with  Fixem  in 
the  usual  way — there  was  a  year's  rent  in  arrear  ;  a  very 
small  servant-girl  opened  the  door,  and  three  or  four 
fine-looking  little  children  was  in  the  front  parlour  we 
were  shown  into,  which  was  very  clean,  but  very  scantily 
furnished,  much  like  the  children  themselves.  'Bung,' 
says  Fixem  to  me,  in  a  low  voice,  when  we  were  left 
alone  for  a  minute,  *  I  know  something  about  this  here 
family,  and  my  opinion  is,  it's  no  go.'  *Do  you  think 
they  can't  settle  ? '  says  I,  quite  anxiously ;  for  I  liked 
the  looks  of  them  children.  Fixem  shook  his  head,  and 
was  just  about  to  reply,  when  the  door  opened,  and  in 
came  a  lady,  as  white  as  ever  I  see  any  one  in  my  days, 
except  about  the  eyes,  which  were  red  with  crying. 
She  walked  in,  as  firm  as  I  could  have  done  ;  shut  the 
door  carefully  after  her,  and  sat  herself  down  with  a 
face  as  composed  as  if  it  was  made  of  stone.  '  What  is 
the  matter,  gentlemen  ?  *  says  she,  in  a  surprisin'  steady 
voice.  *  Is  this  an  execution  ? ' — *  It  is,  mum,'  says 
Fixem.  The  lady  looked  at  him  as  steady  a5  ever  :  she 
didn't  seem  to  have  understood  him.  *  It  is,  mum,'  says 
Fixem  again  ;  '  this  is  my  warrant  of  distress,  mum,* 
says  he,  handing  it  over  as  polite  as  if  it  was  a  news- 
paper which  had  been  bespoke  arter  the  next  gentleman. 

"The  lady's  lip  trembled  as  she  took  the  printed 
paper.  She  cast  her  eye  over  it,  and  old  Fixem  began 
to  explain  the  form,  but  I  saw  she  wasn't  reading  it, 
plain  enough,  poor  thing.  'Oh,  my  God!'  says  she, 
suddenly  a-bursting  out  crying,  letting  the  warrant  fall, 
and  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.  '  Oh,  my  God  !  what 
will  become  of  us  !  *  The  noise  she  made,  brought  in  a 
young  lady  of  about  nineteen  or  twenty,  who,  I  sup- 
pose, had  been  a-listening  at  the  door,  and  who  had  got 
a  little  boy  in  her  arms  :  she  sat  him  down  in  the  lady's 
lap,  without  speaking,  and  she  hugged  the  poor  little 
fellow  to  her  bosom,  and  cried  over  him,  till  even  old 
Fixem  put  on  his  blue  spectacles  to  hide  the  two  tears 
that  was  a-trickling  down,  one  on  each  side  of  his  dirty 
face.    '  Now,  dear  ma,'  says  the  young  lady,  '  you  know- 


how  much  you  have  borne.  For  all  our  sakes — for  pa's 
sake,'  says  she,  'don't  give  way  to  this!'— 'No,  no,  I 
won't !'  says  the  lady,  gathering  herself  up  hastily,  and 
drying  her  eyes  ;  '  I  am  very  foolish,  but  I'm  better  now 
— much  better.'  And  then  she  roused  herself  up,  went 
with  us  into  every  room  while  we  took  the  inventory, 
opened  all  the  drawers  of  her  own  accord,  sorted  the 
children's  little  clothes  to  make  the  work  easier  ;  and, 
except  doing  everything  in  a  strange  sort  of  hurry, 
seemed  as  calm  and  composed  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. When  we  came  down-stairs  again,  she  hesitated 
a  minute  or  two,  and  at  last  says,  '  Gentlemen,'  says  she, 
'  I  am  afraid  I  have  done  wrong,  and  perhaps  it  may 
bring  you  into  trouble,  I  secreted  just  now,'  she  says, 
'the  only  trinket  I  have  left  in  the  world — here  it  is,' 
So  she  lays  down  on  the  table,  a  little  miniature  mounted 
in  gold.  •  It's  a  miniature,'  she  says,  '  of  my  poor  dear 
father  !  I  little  thought  once,  that  I  should  ever  thank 
God  for  depriving  me  of  the  original  ;  but  I  do,  and 
have  done  for  years  back,  most  fervently.  Take  it  away, 
sir,'  she  says,  'it's  a  face  that  never  turned  from  me  in 
sickness  or  distress,  and  I  can  hardly  bear  to  turn  from 
it  now,  when,  God  knows,  I  suffer  both  in  no  ordinary 
degree.*  I  couldn't  say  nothing,  but  I  raised  my  head 
from  the  inventory  which  I  was  filling  up,  and  looked  at 
Fixem  ;  the  old  fellow  nodded  to  me  significantly,  so  I 
ran  my  pen  through  the  'Mini'  I  had  just  written,  and 
left  the  miniature  on  the  table. 

"  Well,  sir,  to  make  short  of  a  long  story,  I  was  left 
in  possession,  and  in  possession  I  remained  ;  and  though 
I  was  an  ignorant  man,  and  the  master  of  the  house  a 
clever  one,  I  saw  what  he  never  did,  but  what  he  would 
give  worlds  now  (if  he  had  'em)  to  have  seen  in  time.  I 
saw,  sir,  that  his  wife  was  wasting  away,  beneath  cares 
of  which  she  never  complained,  and  griefs  she  never 
told.  I  saw  that  she  was  dying  before  his  eyes  ;  I  knew 
that  one  exertion  from  him  might  have  saved  her,  but 
he  never  made  it.  I  don't  blame  him  ;  I  don't  think  he 
could  rouse  himself.  She  had  so  long  anticipated  all 
his  wishes,  and  acted  for  him,  that  he  was  a  lost  man 
when  left  to  himself.  I  used  to  think  when  I  caught 
sight  of  her,  in  the  clothes  she  used  to  wear,  which 
looked  shabby  even  upon  her,  and  would  have  been 
scarcely  decent  on  any  one  else,  that  if  I  was  a  gentle- 
man it  would  wring  my  very  heart  to  see  the  woman  that 
was  a  smart  and  merry  girl  v/hen  I  courted  her,  so  altered 
through  her  love  for  me.  Bitter  cold  and  damp  weather 
it  was,  yet,  though  her  dress  was  thin,  and  her  shoes 
none  of  the  best,  during  the  whole  three  days,  from 
morning  to  night,  she  was  out  of  doors  running'about  to 
try  and  raise  the  money.  The  money  was  raised,  and 
the  execution  was  paid  out.  The  whole  family  crowded 
into  the  room  where  I  was,  when  the  money  arrived. 
The  father  was  quite  happy  as  the  inconvenience  was  re- 
moved— I  daresay  he  didn't  know  ;  the  children  looked 
merry  and  cheerful  again  ;  the  eldest  girl  was  bustling 
about,  making  preparations  for  the  first  comfortable 
meal  they  had  had  since  the  distress  was  put  in  ;  and 
the  mother  looked  pleased  to  see  them  all  so.  But  if 
ever  I  saw  death  in  a  woman's  face,  I  saw  it  in  hers 
that  night. 

"  I  was  right,  sir,"  continued  Mr,  Bung,  hurriedly 
passing  his  coat-sleeve  over  his  face,  "the  family  grew 
more  prosperous,  and  good  fortune  arrived.  But  it  was 
too  late.  Those  children  are  motherless  now,  and  their 
father  would  give  up  all  he  has  since  gained — house, 
home,  goods,  money  :  all  that  he  has,  or  ever  can  have, 
to  restore  the  wife  he  has  lost. " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Ladies'  Societies. 

Our  Parish  is  very  prolific  in  ladies'  charitable  insti- 
tutions. In  winter,  when  wet  feet  are  common  and 
colds  not  scarce,  we  have  the  ladies'  soup  distribution 
society,  the  ladies'  coal  distribution  society,  and  the 
ladies'  blanket  distribution  society  ;  in  summer,  when 
stone  fruits  flourish  and  stomach  aches  prevail,  we  have 
the  ladies'  dispensary,  and  the  ladies'  sick  visitation  com- 


846 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


niittee  ;  and  all  the  year  round  we  have  the  ladies'  child's 
examination  society,  the  ladies'  bible  and  prayer-book 
circulating  society ,  and  the  ladies'  childbed-linen  monthly 
loan  society.  The  two  latter  are  decidedly  the  most  im- 
portant ;  whether  they  are  productive  of  more  benefit 
than  the  rest,  is  not  for  us  to  say,  but  we  can  take  upon 
ourselves  to  affirm,  with  the  utmost  solemnity,  that 
they  create  a  greater  stir,  and  more  bustle  than  all  the 
others  put  together. 

We  should  be  disposed  to  affirm,  on  the  first  blush  of 
the  matter,  that  the  bible  and  prayer-book  society  is  not 
so  popular  as  the  childbed-linen  society  ;  the  bible  and 
prayer-book  society  has,  however,  considerably  increased 
in  importance  within  the  last  year  or  two,  having  de- 
rived some  adventitious  aid  from  the  factious  opposi- 
tion of  the  child's  examination  society  ;  which  factious 
opposition  originated  in  manner  following  : — When  the 
young  curate  was  popular,  and  all  the  unmarried  ladies 
in  the  parish  took  a  serious  turn,  the  charity  children 
all  at  once  became  objects  of  peculiar  and  especial  in- 
terest. The  three  Miss  Browns  (enthusiastic  admirers 
of  the  curate)  taught,  and  exercised,  and  examined  and 
re-examined  the  unfortunate  children,  until  the  boys 
grew  pale,  and  the  girls  consumptive  with  study  and 
fatigue.  The  three  Miss  Browns  stood  it  out  very  well, 
because  they  relieved  each  other ;  but  the  children, 
having  no  relief  at  all,  exhibited  decided  symptoms  of 
weariness  and  care.  The  unthinking  part  of  the  parish- 
ioners laughed  at  all  this,  but  the  more  reflective  portion 
of  the  inhabitants  abstained  from  expressing  any  opinion 
on  the  subject  until  that  of  the  curate  had  been  clearly 
ascertained. 

The  opportunity  was  not  long  wanting.  The  curate 
preached  a  charity  sermon  on  behalf  of  the  charity 
school,  and  in  the  charity  sermon  aforesaid,  expatiated 
in  glowing  terms  on  the  praiseworthy  and  indefatigable 
exertions  of  certain  estimable  individuals.  Sobs  were 
heard  to  issue  from  the  three  Miss  Browns'  pew  ;  the 
pew-opener  of  the  division  was  seen  to  hurry  down  the 
centre  aisle  to  the  vestry  door,  and  to  return  immediately, 
bearing  a  glass  of  water  in  her  hand.  A  low  moaning 
ensued  ;  two  more  pew-openers  rushed  to  the  spot,  and 
the  three  Miss  Browns,  each  supported  by  a  pew-opener, 
were  led  out  of  the  church,  and  led  in  again  after  the 
lapse  of  five  minutes  with  white  pocket-handkerchiefs 
to  their  eyes,  as  if  they  had  been  attending  a  funeral  in 
the  churchyard  adjoining.  If  any  doubt  had  for  a  mo- 
ment existed,  as  to  whom  the  allusion  was  intended  to 
apply,  it  was  at  once  removed.  The  wish  to  enlighten 
the  charity  children  became  universal,  and  the  three 
Miss  Browns  were  unanimously  besought  to  divide  the 
school  into  classes,  and  to  assign  each  class  to  the  super- 
intendence of  two  young  ladies. 

A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing,  but  a  little 
patronage  is  more  so  ;  the  three  Miss  Browns  appointed 
all  the  old  maids,  and  carefully  excluded  the  young 
ones.  Maiden  aunts  triumphed,  mammas  were  reduced 
to  the  lowest  depth  of  despair,  and  there  is  no  telling  in 
what  act  of  violence  the  general  indignation  against  the 
three  Miss  Browns  might  have  vented  itself,  had  not  a 
perfectly  providential  occurrence  changed  the  tide  of 
public  feeling.  Mrs.  Johnson  Parker,  the  mother  of 
seven  extremely  fine  girls — all  unmarried — hastily  re- 
X^rted  to  several  other  mammas  of  several  other  un- 
married families,  that  five  old  men,  six  old  women,  and 
children  innumerable,  in  the  free  seats  near  her  pew, 
were  in  the  habit  of  coming  to  church  every  Sunday, 
without  either  bible  or  prayer-book.  Was  this  to  be 
borne  in  a  civilized  country?  Could  such  things  be  tol- 
erated in  a  Christian  land  ?  Never  1  A  ladies'  bible  and 
prayer-book  distribution  society  was  instantly  formed  : 
president,  Mrs.  Johnson  Parker ;  treasurers,  auditors, 
and  secretary,  the  Misses  Johnson  Parker  :  subscrip- 
tions were  entered  into,  books  were  bought,  all  the  free- 
seat  people  provided  there w'ith,  and  wh(m  the  first  lesson 
was  given  out,  on  the  first  Sunday  succeeding  these 
events,  there  was  such  a  dropping  of  books,  and  rustling 
of  leaves,  that  it  was  morally  impossible  to  hear  one 
word  of  the  service  for  five  minutes  afterwards. 

The  three  Miss  Browns,  and  their  party,  saw  the  a])- 
proaching  danger,  and  endeavoured  to  avert  it  by  ridi- 
cule and  sarcasm.    Neither  the  old  men  nor  the  old 


women  could  read  their  books  now  they  had  got  them, 
said  the  three  Miss  Browns.  Never  mind  ;  they  could 
learn,  replied  Mrs.  Johnson  Parker.  The  children 
couldn't  read  either,  suggested  the  three  Miss  Browns. 
No  matter  ;  they  could  be  taught,  retorted  Mrs.  Johnson 
Parker.  A  balance  of  parties  took  place.  The  Miss 
Browns  publicly  examined— popular  feeling  inclined  to 
the  child's  examination  society.  The  Miss  Johnson 
Parkers  publicly  distributed— a  reaction  took  place  in 
favour  of  the  prayer-book  distribution.  A  feather  would 
have  turned  the  scale  ;  and  a  feather  did  turn  it,  A  mis- 
sionary returned  from  the  West  Indies  ;  he  was  to  be 
presented  to  the  Dissenters'  Missionary  Society  on  his 
marriage  with  a  wealthy  widow.  Overtures  were  made 
to  the  Dissenters  by  the  Johnson  Parkers.  Their  object 
was  the  same,  and  why  not  have  a  joint  meeting  of  the 
two  societies?  The  proposition  was  accepted.  The 
meeting  was  duly  heralded  by  public  announcement, 
and  the  room  was  crowded  to  suffocation.  The  mission- 
ary appeared  on  the  platform  ;  he  was  hailed  with  en- 
thusiasm. He  repeated  a  dialogue  he  had  heard  be- 
tween two  negroes,  behind  a  hedge,  on  the  subject  of 
distribution  societies  ;  the  approbation  was  tumultuous. 
He  gave  an  imitation  of  two  negroes  in  broken  English  ; 
the  roof  was  rent  wdth  applause.  From  that  period  we 
date  (with  one  trifling  exception)  a  daily  increase  in  the 
popularity  of  the  distribution  society,  and  an  increase  of 
popularity,  which  the  feeble  and  impotent  opposition  of 
the  examination  party  has  only  tended  to  augment. 

Now,  the  great  points  about  the  childbed-linen  monthly 
loan  society  are,  that  it  is  less  dependent  on  the  fluctua- 
tions of  public  opinion  than  either  the  distribution  or 
the  child's  examination  ;  and  that,  come  what  may, 
there  is  never  any  lack  of  objects  on  which  to  exercise 
its  benevolence.  Our  parish  is  a  very  populous  one, 
and,  if  anything,  contributes,  we  should  be  disposed  to 
say,  rather  more  than  its  due  share  to  the  aggregate 
amount  of  births  in  the  metropolis  and  its  environs. 
The  consequence  is,  that  the  monthly  loan  society  flour- 
ishes, and  invests  its  members  with  a  most  enviable 
amount  of  bustling  patronage.  The  society  (whose  only 
notion  of  dividing  time  would  appear  to  be  its  allotment 
into  months)  holds  monthly  tea-drinkings,  at  wdiich  the 
monthly  report  is  received,  a  secretary  elected  for  the 
month  ensuing,  and  such  of  the  monthly  boxes  as  may 
not  happen  to  be  out  on  loan  for  the  month,  carefully 
examined. 

We  were  never  present  at  one  of  these  meetings,  from 
all  of  which  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  gentlemen 
are  carefully  excluded  ;  but  Mr.  Bung  has  been  called 
before  the  board  once  or  twice,  and  we  have  his  author- 
ity for  stating  that  its  proceedings  are  conducted  with 
great  order  and  regularity  :  not  more  than  four  members 
being  allowed  to  speak  at  one  time  on  any  pretence 
whatever.  The  regular  committee  is  composed  ex- 
clusively of  married  ladies,  but  a  vast  number  of  young 
unmarried  ladies  of  from  eighteen  to  twenty-five  years 
of  age,  respectively,  are  admitted  as  honorary  members, 
partly  because  they  are  very  useful  in  replenishing  the 
iDoxes,  and  visiting  the  confined  ;  partly  because  it  is 
highly  desirable  that  they  should  be  initiated,  at  an 
early  period,  into  the  more  serious  and  matronly  duties 
of  after-life  ;  and  partly  because  prudent  mammas  have 
not  un  frequently  been  known  to  turn  this  circumstance 
to  wonderfully  good  account  in  matrimonial  speculations. 

In  addition  to  the  loan  of  the  monthly  boxes  (which 
are  aHvays  painted  blue,  with  the  name  of  the  society 
in  large  white  letters  on  the  lid),  the  society  dispense 
occasional  grants  of  beef-tea,  and  a  composition  of  warm 
beer,  spice,  effgs,  and  sugar,  commonly  known  by  the 
name  of  "  caudle,"  to  its  patients.  And  here  again  the 
services  of  the  honorary  members  are  called  into  requi- 
sition, and  most  cheerfully  conceded.  Deputations  of 
twos  or  threes  are  sent  out  to  visit  the  patients,  and  on 
these  occasions  there  is  such  a  tasting  of  caudle  and 
beef-tea,  such  a  stirring  about  of  little  messes  in  tiny 
sauce-pans  on  the  hob,  such  a  dressing  and  undressing 
of  infants,  such  a  tying,  and  folding,  and  pinning  ;  such 
a  nursing  and  warming  of  little  legs  and  feet  before  the 
fire,  such  a  delightful  confusion  of  talking  and  cooking, 
bustle,  importance,  and  officiousness,  as  never  can  be 
enjoyed  in  its  full  extent  but  on  similiar  occasions. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


847 


In  rivalry  of  these  two  institutions,  and  as  a  last  ex- 
piring effort  to  acquire  parochial  popularity,  the  child's 
examination  people  determined,  the  other  day,  on  hav- 
ing a  grand  public  examination  of  the  pupils;  and  the 
large  school-room  of  the  national  seminary  was,  by  and 
with  the  consent  of  the  parish  authorities,  devoted  to  the 
purpose.  Invitation  circulars  were  forwarded  to  all  the 
principal  parishioners,  including,  of  coarse,  the  heads  of 
the  other  two  societies,  for  whose  special  behoof  and 
edification  the  display  was  intended  ;  and  a  large  audi- 
ence was  confidently  anticipated  on  the  occasion.  The 
floor  was  carefully  scrubbed  the  day  before,  under  the 
immediate  superintendence  of  the  three  Miss  Browns  ; 
forms  were  placed  across  the  room  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  visitors,  specimens  in  writing  were  carefully 
selected,  and  as  carefully  patched  and  touched  up,  until 
they  astonished  the  children  who  had  written  them 
rather  more  than  the  company  who  read  them  ;  sums 
in  compound  addition  were  rehearsed  and  re-rehearsed 
until  all  the  children  had  the  totals  by  heart  ;  and  the 
preparations  altogether  were  on  the  most  laborious  and 
most  comprehensive  scale.  The  morning  arrived  :  the 
children  were  yellow-soaped  and  fiannelled,  and  towell- 
ed, till  theif  faces  shone  agam  ;  every  pupil's  hair  was 
carefully  combed  into  his  or  her  eyes,  as  the  case  might 
be  ;  the  girls  were  adorned  with  snow-white  tippets, 
and  caps  bound  round  the  head  by  a  single  purple  rib- 
bon :  the  necks  of  the  elder  boys  were  fixed  into  collars 
of  startling  dimensions. 

The  doors  were  thrown  open  and  the  Misses  Brown 
and  Co.  were  discovered  in  plain  white  muslin  dresses, 
and  caps  of  the  same — the  child's  examination  uniform. 
The  room  filled  :  the  greetings  of  the  company  were 
loud  and  cordial.  The  distributionists  trembled,  for 
their  popularity  was  at  stake.  The  eldest  boy  fell  for- 
ward, and  delivered  a  propitiatory  address  from  behind 
his  collar.  It  was  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Henry  Browu  : 
the  applause  was  universal,  and  the  Johnson  Parkers 
were  aghast.  The  examination  proceeded  with  success, 
and  terminated  in  triumph.  The  child's  examination 
society  gained  a  momentary  victory,  and  the  Johnson 
Parkers  retreated  in  despair. 

A  secret  council  of  the  distributionists  was  held  that 
night,  with  Mrs.  Johnson  Parker  in  ,the  chair,  to  con- 
sider of  the  best  means  of  recovering  the  ground  they 
had  lost  in  the  favour  of  the  parish.  What  could  be 
done  ?  Another  meeting  !  Alas  !  who  was  to  attend  to 
it  ?  The  Missionary  would  not  do  twice  ;  and  the 
slaves  were  emancipated.  A  bold  step  must  be  taken. 
The  parish  must  be  astonished  in  some  way  or  other  ; 
but  no  one  was  able  to  suggest  what  the  step  should  be. 
At  length  a  very  old  lady  was  heard  to  mumble,  in  in- 
distinct tones,  "Exeter  Hall."  A  sudden  light  broke  in 
upon  the  meeting.  It  was  unanimously  resolved,  that  a 
deputation  of  old  ladies  should  wait  upon  a  celebrated 
orator,  imploring  his  assistance,  and  the  favour  of  a 
speech  ;  and  that  the  deputation  should  also  wait 
on  two  or  three  other  imbecile  old  women,  not  resident 
in  the  parish,  and  entreat  their  attendance.  The  appli- 
cation was  successful,  the  meeting  was  held  :  the  orator 
(an  Irishman)  came.  He  talked  of  green  isles — other 
shores — vast  Atlantic — bosom  of  the  deep — Christian 
charity — blood  and  extermination — mercy  in  hearts — 
arms  in  hands — altars  and  homes — household  gods.  He 
wiped  his  eyes,  he  blew  his  nose,  and  he  quoted  Latin. 
The  effect  was  tremendous — the  Latin  was  a  decided 
hit.  Nobody  knew  exactly  what  it  was  about,  but  every- 
body knew  it  must  be  affecting,  because  even  the  orator 
was  overcome.  The  popularity  of  the  distribution 
society  among  the  ladies  of  our  parish  in  unprecedented, 
and  the  child's  examination  is  going  fast  to  decay. 


CHAPTEH  VIL 

Oiir  Next-door  Neighbour. 

We  are  very  fond  of  speculating,  as  we  walk  through 
a  street,  on  the  character  and  pursuits  of  the  people  who 
inhabit  it ;  and  nothing  so  materially  assists  us  in  these 
speculations  as  the  appearance  of  the  house  doors.  The 


various  expressions  of  the  human  countenance  afford  a 
beautiful  and  interesting  study  ;  but  there  is  something 
in  the  physiognomy  of  street-door  knockers,  almost  as 
characteristic,  and  nearly  as  infallible.  Whenever  we 
visit  a  man  for  the  first  time,  we  contemplate  the  features 
of  his  knocker  with  the  greatest  curiosity,  for  we  v.-ell 
know,  that  between  the  man  and  his  knocker,  there  will 
inevitably  be  a  greater  or  less  degree  of  resemblance  and 
sympathy. 

For  instance,  there  is  one  description  of  knockers  that 
used  to  be  common  enough,  but  which  is  fast  passing 
away — a  large  round  one,  with  the  jolly  face  of  a  convi- 
vial lion  smiling  blandly  at  you,  as  you  twist  the  sides  of 
your  hair  into  a  curl,  or  pull  up  your  shirt-collar  while 
you  are  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened  ;  we  never 
saw  that  knocker  on  the  door  of  a  churlish  man — so  far 
as  our  experience  is  concerned,  it  invariably  bespoke 
hospitality  and  another  bottle. 

No  man  ever  saw  this  knocker  on  the  door  of  a  small 
attorney  or  bill-broker  ;  they  always  patronise  the  other 
lion  ;  a  heavy  ferocious-looking  fellow,  with  a  counte- 
nance expressive  of  savage  stupidity — a  sort  of  grand 
master  among  the  knockers,  and  a  great  favourite  with 
the  selfish  and  brutal. 

Then  there  is  a  little  pert  Egyptian  knocker,  with  a 
long  thin  face,  a  pinched  up  nose,  and  a  very  sharp  chin  ; 
he  is  most  in  vogue  with  your  government-oflfice  people, 
in  light  drabs  and  starched  cravats  :  little  spare  priggish 
men,  who  are  perfectly  satisfied  with  their  own  opinions, 
and  consider  themselves  of  paramount  importance. 

We  were  greatly  troubled  a  few  years  ago,  by  the  in- 
novation of  a  new  kind  of  knocker,  without  any  face  at 
all,  composed  of  a  wreath,  depending  from  a  hand  or  small 
truncheon.  A  little  trouble  and  attention,  however,  en- 
abled us  to  overcome  this  difficulty,  and  to  reconcile  the 
new  system  to  our  favourite  theory.  You  will  invariably 
find  this  knocker  on  the  doors  of  cold  and  formal  people, 
who  always  ask  you  why  you  don't  come,  and  never  say 
do. 

Everybody  knows  the  brass  knocker  is  common  to  sub- 
urban villas,  and  extensive  boarding-schools  ;  and  hav- 
ing noticed  this  genus  we  have  recapitulated  all  the  most 
prominent  and  strongly-defined  species. 

Some  phrenologists  affirm,  that  the  agitation  of  a  man's 
brain  by  different  passions,  produces  corresponding  de- 
velopments in  the  form  of  his  skull.  Do  not  let  us  be 
understood  as  pushing  our  theory  to  the  length  of  assert- 
ing, that  any  alteration  in  a  man's  disposition  would  pro- 
duce a  visible  effect  on  the  feature  of  his  knocker.  Our 
position  merely  is,  that  in  such  a  case,  the  magnetism 
which  must  exist  between  a  man  and  his  knocker,  would 
induce  a  man  to  remove,  and  seek  some  knocker  more 
congenial  to  his  altered  feelings.  If  you  ever  find  a  man 
changing  his  habitation  without  any  reasonable  pretext, 
depend  upon  it,  that,  although  he  may  not  be  aware  of 
the  fact  himself,  it  is  because  he  and  his  knocker  are  at 
variance.  This  is  a  new  theory,  but  we  venture  to 
launcii  it,  nevertheless,  as  being  quite  as  ingenious  and 
infallible  as  many  thousand  of  the  learned  speculations 
which  are  daily  broached  for  public  good  and  private  for- 
tune making. 

Entertaining  these  feelings  on  the  subject  of  knockers, 
it  will  be  readily  imagined  with  what  consternation  we 
viewed  the  entire  removal  of  the  knocker  from  the  door 
of  the  next  house  to  the  one  we  lived  in,  some  time  ago, 
and  the  substitution  of  a  bell.  This  was  a  calamity  we 
had  never  anticipated.  The  bare  idea  of  anybody  being 
able  to  exist  without  a  knocker,- appeared  so  %%-ild  and 
visionary,  that  it  had  never  for  oce  instant  entered  our 
imagination. 

We  sauntered  moodily  from  the  spot,  and  bent  our 
steps  tow^ards  Eaton  Square,  then  just  building.  ^\Tiat 
was  our  astonishment  and  indignation  to  find  that  bells 
were  fast  becoming  the  rule,  and  knockers  the  exception! 
Our  theory  trembled  beneath  the  shock.  We  hastened 
home  ;  and  fancying  we  foresaw  in  the  swift  progress 
of  events,  its  entire  abolition,  resolved  from  that  day 
forward  to  vent  our  speculations  on  our  next-door  neigh- 
bours in  person .  The  house  adjoining  ours  on  the  left 
hand  was  uninhabited,  and  we  had,  therefore,  plenty  of 
leisure  to  observe  our  next-door  neighbours  on  the  other 
side. 


848 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  W0RK8. 


The  liouse  witliout  the  knocker  was  in  tlie  occupation 
of  a  city  clerk,  and  there  was  a  neatly-written  bill  in  the 
I)arlour  window  intimating  that  lodgings  for  a  single 
gentleman  were  to  be  let  within. 

It  was  a  neat,  dull  little  house,  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  way,  with  new,  narrow  floorcloth  in  the  passage, 
and  new,  narrow  stair-carpet  up  to  the  first  floor.  The 
paper  was  new,  and  the  paint  was  new,  and  the  furni- 
ture was  new;  and  all  three,  paper,  paint,  and  furniture, 
bespoke  the  limited  means  of  the  tenant.  There  was  a 
little  red  and  black  carpet  in  the  drawing-room,  with  a 
border  of  flooring  all  the  way  round  ;  a  few  stained 
chairs  and  a  perabroke  table.  A  pink  shell  was  displayed 
on  each  of  the  little  sideboards,  which  with  the  addition 
of  a  tea-tray  and  caddy,  a  few  more  shells  on  the  man- 
telpiece, and  three  peacock's  feathers  tastefully  ar- 
ranged above  them,  completed  the  decorative  furniture 
of  the  apartment. 

This  was  the  room  destined  for  the  reception  of  the 
single  gentleman  during  the  day,  and  a  little  back  room 
on  the  same  floor  was  assigned  as  his  sleeping  apart- 
ment by  night. 

The  bill  had  not  been  long  in  the  window,  when  a 
stout  good-humoured  looking  gentleman,  of  about  five- 
and-thirty,  appeared  as  a  candidate  for  the  tenancy. 
Terms  were  soon  arranged,  for  the  bill  was  taken  down 
immediately  after  his  first  visit.  In  a  day  or  two  the 
single  gentleman  came  in,  and  shortly  afterwards  his  real 
character  came  out. 

First  of  all,  he  displayed  a  most  extraordinary  parti- 
ality for  sitting  up  till  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, drinking  whiskey-and-water,  and  smoking  cigars  ; 
then  he  invited  friends  home,  who  used  to  come  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  begin  to  get  happy  about  the  small  hours, 
when  they  would  evince  their  perfect  contentment  by 
singing  songs  with  half-a-dozen  verses  of  two  lines  each, 
and  a  chorus  of  ten,  which  chorus  used  to  be  shouted 
forth  by  the  whole  strength  of  the  company,  in  the  most 
enthusiastic  and  vociferous  manner,  to  the  great  annoy- 
ance of  the  neighbours,  and  the  special  discomfort  of  an- 
other single  gentleman  overhead. 

Now,  this  was  bad  enough,  occurring  as  it  did  three 
times  a  week  on  the  average,  but  this  was  not  all  ; 
for  when  the  company  did  go  away,  instead  of  walk- 
ing quietly  down  the  street,  as  anybody  else's  company 
would  have  done,  they  amused  themselves  by  making 
alarming  and  frightful  noises,  and  counterfeiting  the 
shrieks  of  females  in  distress  ;  and  one  night,  a  red- 
faced  gentleman  in  a  white  hat  knocked  in  the  most 
urgent  manner  at  the  door  of  the  powdered-headed  old 
gentleman  at  No.  3,  and  when  the  powdered-headed  old 
gentleman,  who  thought  one  of  his  married  daughters 
must  have  been  taken  ill  prematurely,  had  groped 
down-stairs,  and  after  a  great  deal  of  unbolting  and 
key-turning,  opened  the  street  door,  the  red- faced 
gentleman  in  the  white  hat  said  he  hoped  he'd  excuse 
his  giving  him  so  much  trouble,  but  he'd  feel  obliged 
if  he'd  favour  him  with  a  glass  of  cold  spring  water,  and 
the  loan  of  a  shilling  for  a  cab  to  take  him  home,  on 
which  the  old  gentleman  slammed  the  door  and  went  up- 
stairs, and  threw  the  contents  of  his  water  jug  out  of  the 
window — very  straight,  only  it  went  over  the  wrong 
man  ;  and  the  whole  street  was  involved  in  confusion. 

A  joke's  a  joke  ;  and  even  practical  jests  are  very  cap- 
ital in  their  way,  if  you  can  only  get  the  other  party  to 
see  the  fun  of  them  ;  but  the  population  of  our  street 
wete  so  dull  of  apprehension,  as  to  be  quite  lost  to  a 
sense  of  the  drollery  of  this  proceeding  ;  and  the  conse- 
quence was,  that  our  next-door  neighbour  was  obliged 
to  tell  the  single  gentleman,  that  unless  he  gave  up  en- 
tertaining his  friends  at  home,  he  really  must  be  com- 
pelled to  part  with  him.  The  single  gentleman  received 
the  remonstrance  with  great  good-humour,  and  promised 
to  spend  his  evenings  at  a  coffee-house — a  determination 
which  afforded  general  and  unmixed  satisfaction. 

The  next  night  passed  off  very  well,  everybody  being 
delighted  with  the  change  ;  but  on  the  next,  the  noises 
were  renewed  with  greater  spirit  than  ever.  The  single 
gentleman's  friends  being  unable  to  see  him  in  his  own 
house  every  alternate  night,  had  come  to  the  determina- 
tion of  seeing  him  home  every  night  ;  and  what  with  the 
discordant  greetings  of  the  friends  at  parting,  and  the 


noise  created  by  the  single  gentleman  in  his  passage  up- 
stairs, and  his  subsequent  struggles  to  get  his  boots  off, 
the  evil  was  not  to  be  borne.  So,  our  next-door  neigh- 
bour gave  the  single  gentleman,  who  was  a  very  good 
lodger  in  other  respects,  notice  to  quit  ;  and  the  single 
gentleman  went  away,  and  entertained  his  friends  in 
other  lodgings. 

The  next  applicant  for  the  vacant  first  floor,  was  of  a 
very  different  character  from  the  troublesome  single 
gentleman  who  had  just  quitted  it.  He  was  a  tall,  thin, 
young  gentleman,  with  a  profusion  of  brown  hair,  red- 
dish whiskers,  and  very  slightly  developed  moustaches. 
He  wore  a  braided  surtout,  with  frogs  behind,  light  grey 
trousers,  and  wash-leather  gloves,  and  had  altogether 
rather  a  military  appearance.  So  unlike  the  roystering 
single  gentleman  !  Such  insinuating  manners,  and  such 
a  delightful  address  !  So  seriously  disposed,  too  1  When 
he  first  came  to  look  at  the  lodgings,  he  inquired  most 
particularly  whether  he  was  sure  to  be  able  to  get  a  seat 
in  the  parish  church  ;  and  when  he  had  agreed  to  take 
them,  he  requested  to  have  a  list  of  the  different  local 
charities,  as  he  intended  to  subscribe  his  mite  to  the 
most  deserving  among  them.  Our  next-door  neighbour 
was  now  perfectly  happy.  He  had  got  a  loHger  at  last, 
of  just  his  own  way  of  thin'Kmg — a  serious,  well-disposed 
man,  who  abhorred  gaiety,  and  loved  retirement.  He 
took  down  the  bill  with  a  light  heart,  and  pictured  in 
imagination  a  long  series  of  quiet  Sundays,  on  which  he 
and  his  lodger  would  exchange  mutual  civilities  and 
Sunday  papers. 

The  serious  man  arrived,  and  his  luggage  was  to  ar- 
rive from  the  country  next  morning.  He  borrowed  a 
clean  shirt,  and  a  prayer-book  from  our  next-door  neigh- 
bour, and  retired  to  rest  at  an  early  hour,  requesting 
that  he  might  be  called  punctually  at  ten  o'clock  next 
morning — not  before,  as  he  was  much  fatigued. 

He  icas  called,  and  did  not  answer;  he  was  called 
again,  but  there  was  no  reply.  Our  next-door  neigh- 
bour became  alarmed,  and  burst  the  door  open.  The 
serious  man  had  left  the  house  mysteriously  ;  carrying 
with  him  the  shirt,  the  prayer-book,  a  tea-spoon,  and  the 
bed-clothes. 

Whether  this  occurrence,  coupled  with  the  irregulari- 
ties of  his  former  Jodger,  gave  our  next-door  neighbour 
an  aversion  to  single  gentlemen,  we  know  not  ;  we  only 
know  that  the  next  bill  which  made  its  appearance  in 
the  parlour  window  intimated  generally,  that  there  were 
furnished  apartments  to  let  on  the  first  floor.  The  bill 
was  soon  removed.  The  new  lodgers  at  first  attracted 
our  curiosity,  and  afterwards  excited  our  interest. 

They  were  a  young  lad  of  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and 
his  mother,  a  lady  of  about  fifty,  or  it  might  be  less. 
The  mother  wore  a  widow's  weeds,  and  the  boy  was  also 
clothed  in  deep  mourning.  They  were  poor — very  poor  ; 
for  their  only  means  of  support  arose  from  the  pittance 
the  boy  earned,  by  copying  writings  and  translating  for 
booksellers. 

They  had  removed  from  some  country  place  and  set- 
tled in  London  ;  partly  because  it  afforded  better  chances 
of  employment  for  the  boy,  and  partly,  perhaps,  with  the 
natural  desire  to  leave  a  place  where  they  had  been  in 
better  circumstances,  and  where  their  poverty  was 
known.  They  were  proud  under  their  reverses,  and 
above  revealing  their  wants  and  privations  to  strangers. 
How  bitter  those  privations  were,  and  how  hard  the  boy 
worked  to  remove  them,  no  one  ever  knew  but  them- 
selves. Night  after  night,  two,  three,  four  hours  after 
midnight,  could  we  hear  the  occasional  raking  up  of  the 
scanty  fire,  or  the  hollow  and  half-stifled  cough,  which 
indicated  his  being  still  at  work  ;  and  day  after  day, 
could  we  see  more  plainly  that  nature  had  set  that  un- 
earthly light  in  his  plaintive  face,  which  is  the  beacon 
of  her  worst  disease. 

Actuated,  we  hope,  by  a  higher  feeling  than  mere  cu- 
riosity, we  contrived  to  establish,  first  an  acquaintance 
and  then  a  close  intimacy,  with  the  poor  strangers.  Our  : 
worst  fears  were  realized  ;  the  boy  was  sinking  fast. 
Through  a  part  of  the  winter,  and  the  whole  of  the  fol- 
lowing spring  and  summer,  his  labours  were  unceasingly 
])rolonged  :  and  the  mother  attempted  to  procure  needle- 
work embroidery — anything  for  bread. 

A  few  shillings  now  and  then,  were  all  she  could  earn. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ,  849 


The  boy  worked  steadily  on  ;  dying  by  minutes,  b«t 
nev^er  once  giving  utterance  to  complaint  or  murmur. 

One  beautiful  autumn  evening  we  went  to  pay  our 
customary  visit  to  the  invalid.  His  little  remaining 
strength  had  been  decreasing  rapidly  for  two  or  three 
days  preceding,  and  he  was  lying  on  the  sofa  at  the  open 
window,  gazing  at  the  setting  sun.  His  mother  had 
been  reading  the  Bible  to  him,  for  she  closed  the  book 
as  we  entered,  and  advanced  to  meet  us. 

"I  was  telling  William,"  she  said,  "that  we  must 
manage  to  take  him  into  the  country  somewhere,  so  that 
he  may  get  quite  well.  He  is  not  ill,  you  know,  but  he 
is  not  very  strong,  and  has  exerted  himself  too  much 
lately."  Poor  thing  !  The  tears  that  streamed  through 
her  fingers,  as  she  turned  aside,  as  if  to  adjust  her  close 
widow's  cap,  too  plainly  showed  how  fruitless  was  the 
attempt  to  deceive  herself. 

We  sat  down  by  the  head  of  the  sofa,  but  said  noth- 
ing, for  we  saw  the  breath  of  life  was  passing  gently 
but  rapidly  from  the  young  form  before  us.  At  every 
respiration,  his  heart  beat  more  slowly. 

The  boy  placed  one  hand  in  ours,  grasped  his  mother's 
arm  with  the  other,  drew  her  hastily  towards  him,  and 


fervently  kissed  her  cheek.  There  was  a  pause.  He 
sunk  back  upon  his  pillow,  and  looked  long  and  earnest- 
ly in  his  mother's  face. 

"  William,  William  1 "  murmured  the  mother  after  a 
long  interval,  "don't  look  at  me  so — speak  to  me, 
dear  ! " 

The  boy  smiled  languidly,  but  an  instant  afterwards 
his  features  resolved  into  the  same  cold,  solemn  gaze. 

"  William,  dear  William  !  rouse  yourself,  dear  ;  don't 
look  at  me  so,  love — pray  don't  \  O  my  God  !  what 
shall  I  do  ! "  cried  the  widow,  clasping  her  hands  in 
agony — "  my  dear  boy  !  he  is  dying  !  " 

The  boy  raised  himself  by  a  violent  effort,  and  folded 
his  hands  together — "  Mother  !  dear,  dear  mother,  bury 
me  in  the  open  fields — anywhere  but  in  these  dreadful 
streets.  I  should  like  to  be  where  you  can  see  my  grave, 
but  not  in  these  close  crowded  streets  ;  they  have  killed 
me  ;  kiss  me  again,  mother  ;  put  your  arm  round  my 
neck — " 

He  fell  back,  and  a  strange  expression  stole  upon  his 
features  ;  not  of  pain  or  suffering,  but  an  indescrib^le 
fixing  of  every  line  and  muscle. 

The  boy  was  dead. 


SCENES. 


CHAPTER  T. 

The  Streets— Morning. 

The  appearance  presented  by  the  streets  of  London  an 
hour  before  sunrise,  on  a  summer's  morning,  is  most 
striking  even  to  the  few  whose  unfortunate  pursuits  of 
pleasure,  or  scarcely  less  unfortunate  pursuits  of  busi- 
ness, cause  them  to  be  well  acquainted  with  the  scene. 
There  is  an  air  of  cold,  solitary  desolation  about  the  noise- 
less streets  which  we  are  accustomed  to  see  thronged  at 
other  times  by  a  busy,  eager  crowd,  and  over  the  quiet, 
closely-shut  buildings,  which  throughout  the  day  are 
swarming  with  life  and  bustle,  that  is  very  impressive. 

The  last  drunken  man,  who  shall  find  his  way  home 
before  sun-light,  has  just  staggered  heavily  along,  roar- 
ing out  the  burden  of  the  drinking  song  of  the  previous 
night :  the  last  houseless  vagrant  whom  penury  and  po- 
lice have  left  in  the  streets,  has  coiled  up  his  chilly 
limbs  in  some  paved  corner,  to  dream  of  food  and 
warmth.  The  drunken,  the  dissipated,  and  the  wretched 
have  disappeared ;  the  more  sober  and  orderly  part  of 
the  population  have  not  yet  awakened  to  the  labours  of 
the  day,  and  the  stillness  of  death  is  over  the  streets  ; 
its  very  hue  seems  to  be  imparted  to  them,  cold  and 
lifeless  as  they  look  in  the  gray,  sombre  light  of  day- 
break. The  coach-stands  in  the  larger  throughfares  are 
deserted  :  the  night-houses  are  closed  ;  and  the  chosen 
promenades  of  profligate  misery  are  empty. 

An  occasional  policeman  may  alone  be  seen  at  the 
street-corners,  listlessly  gazing  on  the  deserted  prospect 
before  him  ;  and  now  and  then  a  rakish -looking  cat 
runs  stealthily  across  the  road  and  descends  his  own 
area  with  as  much  caution  and  slyness — bounding  first 
on  the  water-but,  then  on  the  dust-hole,  and  then  alight- 
ing on  the  flag-stones— as  if  he  v/ere  conscious  that  his 
character  depended  on  his  gallantry  of  the  preceding 
night  escaping  public  observation.  A  partially  opened 
bed  room- window  here  and  there,  bespeaks  the  heat  of 
the  weather,  and  the  uneasy  slumbers  of  its  occupant  ; 
and  the  dim  scanty  flicker  of  the  rush-light,  through 
the  window-blind,  denotes  the  chamber  of  watching  or 
sickness.  With  these  few  exceptions,  the  streets  present 
no  signs  of  life,  nor  the  houses  of  habitation. 

An  hour  wears  away  ;  the  spires  of  the  churches  and 
roofs  of  the  principal  buildings  are  faintly  tinged  with 
the  light  of  the  rising  sun  ;  and  the  streets,  by  almost 
imperceptible  degrees,  begin  to  resume  their  bustle  and 
Vol.  n.— 54 


animation.  Market-carts  roll  slowly  along  ;  the  sleepy 
waggoner  impatiently  urging  on  his  tired  horses,  or 
vainly  endeavouring  to  awaken  the  boy,  who,  luxuri- 
ously stretched  on  the  top  of  the  fruit-baskets,  forgets, 
in  happy  oblivion,  his  long-cherished  curiosity  to  behold 
the  wonders  of  London. 

Rough,  sleepy-looking  animals  of  strange  appearance, 
something  between  ostlers  and  hackney-coachmen,  begin 
to  take  down  the  shutters  of  early  public-houses  ;  and 
little  deal  tables,  with  the  ordinary  preparations  for  a 
street  breakfast,  make  their  appearance  at  the  customary 
stations.  Numbers  of  men  and  women  (principally  the 
latter),  carrying  upon  their  heads  heavy  baskets  of  fruit, 
toil  down  the  park  side  of  Piccadilly,  on  their  way  to 
Covent  Garden,  and,  following  each  other  in  rapid  suc- 
cession, form  a  long  straggling  line  from  thence  to  the 
turn  of  the  road  at  Knightsbridge. 

Here  and  there,  a  bricklayer's  labourer,  with  the  day's 
dinner  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief,  walks  briskly  to  his 
work,  and  occasionally  a  little  knot  of  three  or  four 
schoolboys  on  a  stolen  bathing  expedition  rattle  merrily 
over  the  pavement,  their  boisterous  mirth  contrasting 
forcibly  with  the  demeanour  of  the  little  sweep,  who, 
having  knocked  and  rung  till  his  arm  aches,  and  being 
interdicted  by  a  merciful  legislature  from  endangering 
his  lungs  by  calling  out,  sits  patiently  down  on  the  door 
step  until  the  housemaid  may  happen  to  awake. 

Covent  Garden  market,  and  the  avenues  leading  to  it 
are  thronged  with  carts  of  all  sorts,  sizes,  and  descrip- 
tions, from  the  heavy  lumbering  waggon,  with  its  four 
stout  horses,  to  the  jingling  ccstermonger's  cart  with 
its  consumptive  donkey.  The  pavement  is  already 
strewed  with  decayed  cabbage-leaves,  broken  haybands, 
and  all  the  indescribable  litter  of  a  vegetable  market ; 
men  are  shouting,  carts  backing,  horses  neighing,  boys 
fighting,  basket- women  talking,  piemen  expatiating  on 
the  excellence  of  their  pastry,  and  donkeys  braying. 
These  and  a  hundred  other  sounds  form  a  compound  dis- 
cordant enough  to  a  Londoner's  ears,  and  remarkably 
disagreeable  to  those  of  country  gentlemen  who  are 
sleeping  at  the  Hummums  for  the  first  time. 

Another  hour  passes  away,  and  the  day  begins  in  good 
earnest.  The  servant  of  all  work,  who,  under  the  plea, 
of  sleeping  very  soundly,  has  utterly  disregarded 
"Missis's"  ringing  for  half  an  hour  previously,  is 
warned  by  Master  (whom  Missis  has  sent  up  in  his 
drapery  to  the  landing-place  for  that  purpose)  that  it's 
half -past  six,  whereupon  she  awakes  all  of  a  sudden 


850 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


with  well-feigned  astonislimeiit,  and  goes  down-stairs 
very  sulkily  wishing,  while  she  strikes  a  light,  that  the 
principle  of  spontaneous  combustion  would  extend  itself 
to  coals  and  kitchen  range.  When  the  fire  is  lighted, 
she  opens  the  street-door  to  take  in  the  milk,  when,  by 
the  most  singular  coincidence  in  the  world,  she  discovers 
that  the  servant  next  door  has  just  taken  in  her  milk  too, 
and  that  Mr.  Todd*s  young  man  over  the  way,  is,  by  an 
equally  extraordinary  chance,  taking  down  his  master's 
shutters.  The  inevitable  consequence  is,  that  she  just 
steps,  milk-jug  in  hand,  as  far  as  next  door,  just  to  say 
"good  morning,"  to  Betsy  Clark,  and  that  Mr.  Todd's 
young  man  just  steps  over  the  way  to  say  "good  morn- 
ing "  to  both  of  'em  ;  and  as  the  aforesaid  Mr.  Todd's 
young  man  is  almost  as  good-looking  and  fascinating  as 
the  baker  himself,  the  conversation  quickly  becomes 
very  interesting,  and  probably  would  become  more  so,  if 
Betsy  Clark's  Missis,  who  always  will  be  a  followin'  her 
about,  didn't  give  an  angry  tap  at  her  bedroom  window, 
on  which  Mr.  Todd's  young  man  tries  to  whistle  coolly, 
as  he  goes  back  to  his  shop  much  faster  than  he  came 
from  it  ;  and  the  two  girls  run  back  to  their  respective 
places,  and  shut  their  street-doors  with  surprising  soft- 
ness, each  of  them  poking  their  heads  out  of  the  front 
parlour-window,  a  minute  afterwards,  however,  ostensi- 
bly with  the  view  of  looking  at  the  mail  which  just  then 
passes  by,  but  really  for  the  purpose  of  catching  another 
glimpse  of  Mr.  Todd's  young  man,  who  being  fond  of 
mails,  but  more  of  females,  takes  a  short  look  at  the 
mails,  and  a  long  look  ai  the  girls,  much  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  all  parties  concerned. 

The  mail  itself  goes  on  to  the  coach-oflBce  in  due 
course,  and  the  passengers  who  are  going  out  by  the 
early  coach,  stare  with  astonishment  at  the  passengers 
who  are  coming  in  by  the  early  coach,  who  look  blue 
and  dismal,  and  are  evidently  under  the  influence  of  that 
odd  feeling  produced  by  travelling,  which  makes  the 
events  of  yesterday  morning  seem  as  if  they  had  hap- 
pened at  least  six  mouths  ago,  and  induces  people  to 
wonder  with  considerable  gravity  whether  the  friends 
and  relations  they  took  leave  of  a  fortnight  before,  have 
altered  much  since  they  left  them.  The  coach-office  is 
all  alive,  and  the  coaches  which  are  just  going  out,  are 
surrounded  by  the  usual  crowd  of  Jews  and  nondescripts, 
who  seem  to  consider,  Heaven  knows  why,  that  it  is 
quite  impossible  any  man  can  mount  a  coach  without 
requiring  at  least  six-penny-worth  of  oranges,  a  pen- 
knife, a  pocket-book,  last-year's  annual,  a  pencil-case, 
a  piece  of  sponge,  and  a  small  series  of  caricatures. 

Half  an  liour  more,  and  the  sun  darts  his  bright  rays 
cheerfully  down  the  still  half-empty  streets,  and  shines 
with  sufficient  force  to  rouse  the  dismal  laziness  of  the 
apprentice,  who  pauses  ever}'  other  minute  from  his  task 
of  sweeping  out  the  shop  and  watering  the  pavement  in 
front  of  it,  to  tell  another  apprentice  similarly  employed, 
how  hot  it  will  be  to-day,  or  to  stand  with  his  right 
hand  shading  his  eyes,  and  his  left  resting  on  the  broom, 
gazing  at  the  "Wonder,"  or  the  "Tally-ho,"  or  the 
"  Nimrod,"  or  some  other  fast  coach,  till  it  is  out  of 
sight,  when  he  re-enters  the  shop,  envying  the  passen- 
gers on  the  outside  of  the  fast  coach,  and  thinking  of  the 
old  red  brick  house  "down  in  the  country,"  where  he 
went  to  school  :  the  miseries  of  the  milk  and  water,  and 
thick  bread  and  scrapings,  fading  into  nothing  before  the 
pleasant  recollection  of  the  green  field  the  boys  used  to 
play  in,  and  the  green  pond  he  was  caned  for  presuming 
to  fall  into,  and  other  schoolboy  associations. 

Cabs,  with  trunks  and  band-boxes  between  the  driver's 
legs  and  outside  the  apron,  rattle  briskly  up  and  down 
the  streets  on  their  way  to  the  coach -offices  or  steam- 
packet  wharfs  ;  and  the  cab-drivers  and  hackney-coach- 
men who  are  on  the  stand  polish  up  the  ornamental  part 
of  their  dingy  vehicles— the  former  wondering  how  peo- 
ple can  prefer  "  them  wild  beast  cariwans  of  liomnibuses, 
to  a  riglar  cab  with  a  fast  trotter,"  and  the  latter  admir- 
,  ing  how  people  can  thrust  their  necks  into  one  of  "them 
crazy  cabs,  when  they  can  have  a  'spcctable  'ackney 
ijotche  with  a  pair  of  'orses  as  von't  run  away  with  no 
vun  ; "  a  consolation  unquestionably  founded  on  fact, 
seeing  that  a  liackney  coach-horse  never  was  known  to 
run  at  all,  "  except,"  as  the  smart  cabman  in  front  of  the 
rank  observes,  "  except  one,  and  he  run  back'ards. " 


The  shops  are  now  completely  opened,  and  apprentices 
and  shopmen  are  busily  engaged  in  cleaning  and  decking 
the  windows  for  the  day.  The  bakers'  shops  in  town 
are  filled  with  servants  and  children  waiting  for  the 
drawing  of  the  first  batch  of  rolls— an  operation  which 
was .  performed  a  full  hour  ago  in  the  suburbs  ;  for  the 
early  clerk  population  of  Somers  and  Camden  towns, 
Islington,  and  Pentonville,  are  fast  pouring  into  the  city, 
or  directing  their  steps  towards  Chancery-lane  and  the 
Inns  of  Court.  Middle-aged  men,  whose  salaries  have 
by  no  means  increased  in  the  same  proportion  as  their 
families,  plod  steadily  along,  apparently  with  no  object 
in  view  but  the  counting-house ;  knowing  by  sight 
almost  everybody  they  meet  or  overtake,  for  they  have 
seen  them  every  morning  (Sundays  excepted)  during  the 
last  twenty  years  but  speaking  to  no  one.  If  they  do 
happen  to  overtake  a  personal  acquaintance,  they  just 
exchange  a  hurried  salutation,  and  keep  walking  on 
either  by  his  side,  or  in  front  of  him,  as  his  rate  of  walk- 
ing may  chance  to  be.  As  to  stopping  to  shake  hands, 
or  to  take  the  friend's  arm,  they  seem  to  think  that  as  it 
is  not  included  in  their  salary,  they  have  no  right  to  do 
it.  Small  office  lads  in  large  hats,  who  are  made  men 
before  they  are  boys,  hurry  along  in  pairs,  with  their  first 
coat  carefully  brushed,  and  the  white  trousers  of  last 
Sunday  plentifully  besmeared  with  dust  and  ink.  It 
evidently  requires  a  considerable  mental  struggle  to 
avoid  investing  part  of  the  day's  dinner-money  in  the 
purchase  of  the  stale  tarts  so  temptingly  exposed  in 
dusty  tins  at  the  pastry-cooks'  doors  ;  but  a  consciousness 
of  their  own  importance  and  the  receipt  of  seven  shillings 
a- week,  with  the  prospect  of  an  early  rise  to  eight,  comes 
to  their  aid,  and  they  accordingly  put  their  hats  a  little 
more  on  one  side,  and  look  under  the  bonnets  of  all  the 
milliners'  and  staymakers'  apprentices  they  meet — poor 
girls  ! — the  hardest  worked,  the  worst  paid,  and  too  often 
the  worst  used  class  of  the  community. 

Eleven  o'clock,  and  a  new  set  of  people  fill  the  streets. 
The  goods  in  the  shop-windows  are  invitingly  arranged ; 
the  shopmen  in  their  white  neckerchiefs  and  spruce  coats, 
look  as  if  they  couldn't  clean  a  window  if  their  lives 
depended  on  it ;  the  carts  have  disappeared  from  Covent 
Garden  ;  the  waggoners  have  returned,  and  the  coster- 
mongers  repaired  to  their  ordinary  "beats"  in  the  sub- 
urbs ;  clerks  at  their  offices,  and  gigs,  cabs,  omnibuses, 
and  saddle-horses,  are  conveying  their  masters  to  the 
same  destination.  The  streets  are  thronged  with  a  vast 
concourse  of  people,  gay  and  shabby,  rich  and  poor,  idle 
and  industrious  ;  and  we  come  to  the  heat,  bustle,  and 
activity  of  NoON. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Streets— Night. 

But  the  streets  of  London,  to  be  beheld  in  the  very 
height  of  their  glory,  should  be  seen  on  a  dark,  dull, 
murky  winter's  night,  when  there  is  just  enough  damp 
gently  stealing  down  to  make  the  pavement  greasy,  with- 
out cleansing  it  of  any  of  its  impurities  ;  and  when  the 
heavy  lazy  mist,  which  hangs  over  every  object,  makes 
the  gas-lamps  look  brighter,  and  the  brilliantly  lighted 
shops  more  splendid,  from  the  contrast  they  present  to 
the  darkness  around.  All  the  people  who  are  at  home 
on  such  a  night  as  this,  seem  disposed  to  make  them- 
selves as  snug  and  comfortable  as  possible  ;  and  the  pas- 
sengers in  the  streets  have  excellent  reason  to  envy  the 
fortunate  individuals  who  are  seated  by  their  own  fire- 
sides. 

In  the  larger  and  better  kind  of  streets,  dining-parlour 
curtains  are  closely  drawn,  kitchen  fires  blaze  brightly 
up,  and  savoury  steams  of  hot  dinners  salute  the  nostrils 
of  the  hungry  wayfarer,  as  he  plods  wearily  by  the  area 
railings.  In  the  suburbs,  the  muffin-boy  rings  his  way 
down  the  little  street,  much  more  slowly  than  he  is 
wont  to  do  ;  for  Mrs.  Macklin,  of  No.  4,  has  no  sooner 
opened  her  little  street-door,  and  screamed  out  "  Muf- 
fins I  "  with  all  her  might,  than  Mrs.  Walker,  at  No.  5, 
I)ut  her  head  out  of  the  parlour-window,  and  screams 
"  Muffins  I"  too  ;  and  Mrs.  Walker  had  scarcely  got  the 
words  out  of  her  lips,  than  Mrs.  Peplow,  ovet  the  way. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


851 


lets  loose  Master  Peplow,  who  darts  down  the  street, 
with  a  velocity  which  nothing  but  buttered  muffins  in 
perspective  could  possibly  inspire,  and  drags  the  boy 
back  by  main  force,  whereupon  Mrs.  Macklin  and  Mrs. 
Walker,  just  to  save  the  boy  trouble,  and  to  say  a  few 
neighbourly  words  to  Mrs.  Peplow  at  the  same  time,  run 
over  the  way  and  buy  their  muffins  at  Mrs.  Peplow's  door, 
when  ii  appears  from  the  voluntary  statement  of  Mrs. 
Walker,  that  her  kittle's  just  a  biling,  and  the  cups  and 
sarsers  ready  laid,"  and  that,  as  it  was  such  a  wretched 
night  out  o'  doors,  she'd  made  up  her  mind  to  have  a 
nice  hot  comfortable  cup  o'  tea — a  determination  at 
which,  by  the  most  singular  coincidence,  the  other  two 
ladies  had  simultaneously  arrived. 

After  a  little  conversation  about  the  wretchedness  of 
the  weather  and  the  merits  of  tea,  with  a  digression  re- 
lative to  the  viciousness  of  boys  as  a  rule,  and  the  amia- 
bility of  Master  Peplow  as  an  exception,  Mrs,  Walker 
sees  her  husband  coming  down  the  street  ;  and  as  he 
must  want  his  tea,  poor  man,  after  his  dirty  walk  from 
the  Docks,  she  instantly  runs  across,  muffins  in  hand, 
and  Mrs,  Macklin  does  the  same,  and  after  a  few  words 
to  Mrs.  Walker,  they  all  pop  into  their  little  houses,  and 
slam  their  little  street-doors,  which  are  not  opened  again 
for  the  remainder  of  the  evening.except  to  the  nine  o'clock 
**  beer,"  who  comes  around  with  a  lantern  in  front  of  his 
tray,  and  says,  as  he  lends  Mrs.  Walker  "Yesterday's 
'Tiser,"  that  he's  blessed  if  he  can  hardly  hold  the  pot, 
much  less  feel  the  paper,  for  it's  one  of  the  most  bit- 
terest night  he  ever  felt,  'cept  the  night  when  the  man 
was  frozen  to  death  in  the  Brick-field, 

After  a  little  prophetic  conversation  with  the  police- 
man at  the  street-corner,  touching  a  probable  change  in 
the  weather,  and  the  setting-in  of  a  hard  frost,  the  nine 
o'clock  beer  returns  to  his  master's  house,  and  employs 
himself  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  in  assiduously 
stirring  the  tap-room  fire,  and  deferentially  taking  part 
in  the  conversation  of  the  worthies  assembled  round  it. 

The  streets  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Marsh-gate  and  Victo- 
ria Theatre  present  an  appearance  of  dirt  and  discomfort 
on  such  a  night,  which  the  groups  who  lounge  about  them 
in  no  degree  tend  to  diminish.  Even  the  little  block -tin 
temple  sacred  to  baked  potatoes,  surmounted  by  a  splen- 
did design  in  variegated  lamps,  looks  less  gay  than  usual  ; 
and  as  to  the  kidney-pie  stand,  its  glory  has  quite  de- 
parted. The  candle  in  the  transparent  lamp,  manufac- 
tured of  oil-paper,  embellished  with  "characters,"  has 
been  blown  out  fifty  times,  so  the  kidney-pie  merchant, 
tired  with  running  backwards  and  forwards  to  the  next 
wine-vaults,  to  get  a  light,  has  given  up  the  idea  of  illu- 
mination in  despair,  and  the  only  signs  of  his  "  where- 
about," are  the  bright  sparks,  of  which  a  long  irregular 
train  is  whirled  down  the  street  every  time  he  opens  his 
portable  oven  to  hand  a  hot  kidney-pie  to  a  customer. 

Flat  fish,  oyster,  and  fruit  venders  linger  hopelessly  in 
the  kennel,  in  vain  endeavoring  to  attract  customers  ; 
and  the  ragged  boys  who  usually  disport  themselves 
about  the  streets,  stand  crouched  in  little  knots  in  some 
projecting  doorway,  or  under  the  canvas  blind  of  the 
cheesemonger's,  where  great  flaring  gas-lights,  unsha- 
ded by  any  glass, display  huge  piles  of  bright  red,and  pale 
yellow  cheeses,  mingled  with  little  five-penny  dabs  of 
dingy  bacon,  various  tubs  of  weekly  Dorset,  and  cloudy 
rolls  of  "best  fresh." 

Here  they  amuse  themselves  with  theatrical  converse, 
arising  out  of  their  last  half-price  visit  to  the  Victoria  gal- 
lery, admire  the  terrific  combat,  which  is  nightly  encored, 
and  expatiate  on  the  inimitable  manner  in  which  Bill 
Thompson  can  "  come  the  double  monkey,"  or  go  through 
the  mysterious  involutions  of  a  sailor's  hornpipe. 

It  is  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  cold  thin  rain 
which  has  been  drizzling  so  long,  is  beginning  to  pour 
down  in  good  earnest  ;  the  baked-potato  man  has  de- 
parted— the  kidney-pie  man  has  just  walked  away  with 
his  warehouse  under  his  arm — the  cheesemonger  has 
drawn  in  his  blind,  and  tlie  boys  have  dispersed.  The 
constant  clicking  of  pattens  on  the  slippy  and  uneven 
pavement,  and  the  rustling  of  umbrellas,  as  the  wind 
blows  against  the  shop-windows,  bear  testimony  to  the 
inclemency  of  the  night ;  and  the  policeman,  with  his 
oil-skin  cape  buttoned  closely  round  him,  seems  as  he 
holds  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  turns  round  to  avoid  the 


gust  of  wind  and  rain  which  drives  against  him  at  the 
street-corner,  to  be  very  far  from  congratulating  him- 
self on  the  prospect  before  him. 

The  little  chandler  shop  with  the  cracked  bell  be- 
hind the  door,  whose  melancholy  tinkling  has  been  regu- 
lated by  the  demand  for  quarterns  of  sugar  and  half- 
ounces  of  coffee,  is  shutting  up.  The  crowds  which 
have  been  passing  to  and  fro  during  the  whole  day,  are 
rapidly  dwindling  away  :  and  the  noise  of  shouting  and 
quarrelling  which  issues  from  the  public-houses,  is  al- 
most the  only  sound  that  breaks  the  melancholy  stillness 
of  the  night. 

There  was  another,  but  it  has  ceased.  That  wretched 
woman  with  the  infant  in  her  arms,  round  whose  meagre 
form  the  remnant  of  her  own  scanty  shawl  is  carefully 
wrapped,  has  been  attempting  to  sing  some  popular  bal- 
lad, in  the  hope  of  wringing  a  few  pence  from  the  com- 
passionate passer-by.  A  brutal  laugh  at  her  weak  voice 
is  all  she  has  gained.  The  tears  fall  thick  and  fast  down 
her  own  pale  face  ;  the  child  is  cold  and  hungry,  and  its 
low  half-stifled  wailing  adds  to  the  misery  of  its  wretched 
mother,  as  she  moans  aloud,  and  sinks  despairingly 
down,  on  a  cold  damp  door-step. 

Singing  !  How  few  of  those  who  pass  such  a  misera- 
ble creature  as  this,  think  of  the  anguish  of  heart,  the 
sinking  of  soul  and  spirit,  Avhich  the  very  effort  of  sing- 
ing produces.  Bitter  mockery  !  Disease,  neglect,  and 
starvation,  faintly  articulating  the  words  of  the  joyous 
ditty,  that  has  enlivened  your  hours  of  feasting  and 
merriment.  God  knows  how  often  !  It  is  no  subject  of 
jeering.  The  weak  tremulous  voice  tells  a  fearful  tale 
of  want  and  famishing  ;  and  the  feeble  singer  of  this 
roaring  song  may  turn  away,  only  to  die  of  cold  and 
hunger. 

One  o'clock  !  Parties  returning  from  the  different 
theatres  foot  it  through  the  muddy  streets  :  cabs,  hack- 
ney-coaches, carriages,  and  theatre  omnibuses,  roll 
swiftly  by  ;  watermen  with  dim  dirty  lanterns  in  their 
hands,  the  large  brass  plates  upon  their  breasts,  who 
have  been  shouting  and  rushing  about  for  the  last  two 
hours,  retire  to  their  watering-houses,  to  solace  them- 
selves with  the  creature  comforts  of  pipes  and  purl ; 
the  half-price  pit  and  box  frequenters  of  the  theatres 
throng  to  the  different  houses  of  refreshment ;  and 
chops,  kidneys,  rabbits,  oysters,  stout,  cigars,  and 
"goes"  innumerable,  are  served  up  amidst  a  noise  and 
confusion  of  smoking,  running,  knife-clattering,  and 
waiter-chattering,  perfectly  indescribable. 

The  more  musical  portion  of  the  play-going  community, 
betake  themselves  to  some  harmonic  meeting.  As  a 
matter  of  curiosity  let  us  follow  them  thither  for  a  few 
moments. 

In  a  lofty  room  of  spacious  dimensions,  are  seated 
some  eighty  or  a  hundred  guests  knocking  little  pewter 
measures  on  the  tables,  and  hammering  away  with  the 
handles  of  their  knives,  as  if  they  were  so  many  trunk- 
makers.  They  are  applauding  a  glee,  which  "has  just 
been  executed  by  the  three  "professional  gentlemen" 
at  the  top  of  the  centre  table,  one  of  whom  is  in  the 
chair — the  little  pompous  man  with  the  bald  head  just 
emerging  from  the  collar  of  his  green  coat.  The  others 
are  seated  on  either  side  of  him — the  stout  man  with  the 
small  voice,  and  the  thin-faced  dark  man  in  black.  The 
little  man  in  the  chair  is  a  most  amusing  personage, — 
such  condescending  grandeur,  and  such  a  voice  ! 

"Bass!"  as  the  young  gentleman  near  us  with  the 
blue  stock  forcibly  remarks  to  his  companion,  "bass  !  I 
b'lieve  you  ;  he  can  go  down  lower  than  any  man ;  so 
low  sometimes  that  you  can't  hear  him."  And  so  he  does. 
To  hear  him  growling  away,  gradually  lower  and  lower 
down,  till  he  can't  get  back  again,  is  the  most  delightful 
thing  in  the  world,  and  it  is  quite  impossible  to  witness 
unmoved  the  impressive  solemnity  with  which  he  pours 
forth  his  soul  in  "  My  'art's  in  the  'ighlands,"  or  "  The 
brave  old  Hoak."  The  stout  man  is  also  addicted  to 
sentimentality,  and  warbles  "Fly,  fly  from  the  world, 
my  Bessy,  with  me,"  or  some  such  song,  with  lady -like 
sweetness,  and  in  the  most  seductive  tones  imaginable. 

"Pray  give  your  orders,  gen'l'men— pray  give  your 
orders," — says  the  pale-faced  man  with  the  red  head  ; 
and  demands  for  "goes  "  of  gin  and  goes  of  brandy,  and 
pints  of  stout,  and  cigars  of  peculiar  mildness,  are 


852 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


vociferously  made  from  all  parts  of  the  room.  The 
"professional  gentlemen"  are  in  the  very  height  of 
their  glory,  and  bestow  condescending  nods,  or  even  a 
■word  or  two  of  recognition  on  the  better  known  fre- 
quenters of  the  room,  in  the  most  bland  and  patronising 
manner  possible. 

That  little  round-faced  man,  with  the  small  brown 
surtout,  white  stockings  and  shoes,  is  in  the  comic 
line  ;  the  mixed  air  of  self-denial,  and  mental  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  powers,  with  which  he  acknowledges 
the  call  of  the  chair,  is  particularly  gratifying.  "  Gen'- 
I'men,"  says  the  little  pompous  man,  accompanying  the 
word  with  a  knock  of  the  president's  hammer  on  the 
table — "  Gen'l'men,  allow  me  to  claim  your  attention — 
our  friend,  Mr.  Smuggins  will  oblige." — "Bravo!" 
shout  the  company  ;  and  Smuggins,  after  a  considerable 
quantity  of  coughing  by  way  of  symphony,  and  a  most 
facetious  sniff  or  two,  which  afford  general  delight, 
sings  a  comic  song,  with  a  fal-de-ral — tol-de-rol  chorus 
at  the  end  of  every  verse,  much  longer  than  the  verse 
itself.  It  is  received  with  unbounded  applause,  and 
after  some  aspiring  genius  has  volunteered  a  recitation, 
and  failed  dismally  therein,  the  little  pompous  man 
gives  another  knock,  and  says,  "Gen'l'men,  we  will  at- 
tempt a  glee,  if  you  please."  This  announcement  calls 
forth  tumultuous  applause,  and  the  more  energetic 
spirits  express  the  unqualified  approbation  it  affords 
them,  by  knocking  one  or  two  stout  glasses  off  their 
legs — a  humourous  device  ;  but  one  which  frequently 
occasions  some  slight  altercation  when  the  form  of 
paying  the  damage  is  proposed  to  be  gone  through  by 
the  waiter. 

Scenes  like  these  are  continued  until*  three  or  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning ;  and  even  when  they  close, 
fresh  ones  open  to  the  inquisitive  novice.  But  as  a  de- 
scription of  all  of  them,  however  slight,  would  require 
a  volume,  the  contents  of  which,  however  instructive, 
would  be  by  no  means  pleasing,  we  make  our  bow,  and 
drop  the  curtain. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Shops  and  Their  Tenants. 

What  inexhaustible  food  for  speculation  do  the 
streets  of  London  afford  !  We  never  were  able  to  agree 
with  Sterne  in  pitying  the  man,  who  could  travel  from 
Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  say  that  all  was  barren  ;  we 
have  not  the  slightest  commiseration  for  the  man  who 
can  take  up  his  hat  and  stick,  and  walk  from  Covent 
Garden  to  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  and  back  into  the  bar- 
gain, without  deriving  some  amusement — we  had  al- 
most said  instruction — from  his  perambulation.  And 
yet  there  are  such  beings  :  we  meet  them  every  day. 
Large  black  stocks  and  light  waistcoats,  jet  canes  and 
discontented  countenances  are  the  characteristics  of  the 
race  ;  other  people  brush  quickly  by  you,  steadily  plod- 
ding on  to  business,  or  cheerfully  running  after  plea- 
sure. These  men  linger  listlessly  past,  looking  as  happy 
and  animated  as  a  policeman  on  duty.  Nothing  seems 
to  make  an  Impression  on  their  minds  ;  nothing  short  of 
being  knocked  down  by  a  porter,  or  run  over  by  a  cab, 
will  disturb  their  equanimity.  You  will  meet  them  on 
a  fine  day  in  any  of  the  leading  throughfares  :  peep 
through  the  window  of  a  west-end  cigar-shop  in  the 
evening,  if  yoa  can  manage  to  get  a  glimpse  between 
the  blue  curtains  which  intercept  the  vulgar  gaze,  and 
you  see  them  in  their  only  enjoyment  of  existence. 
There  they  are  lounging  about,  on  round  tubs  and  pipe- 
boxes,  in  all  the  dignity  of  whiskers  and  gilt  watch- 
guards  ;  whispering  soft  nothings  to  the  young  lady  in 
amber,  with  the  large  ear  rings,  who,  as  she  sits  behind 
the  counter  in  a  blaze  of  adoration  and  gas  light,  is  the 
admiration  of  all  the  female  servants  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  the  envy  of  every  milliner's  ai)prontice  with- 
in two  miles  round. 

One  of  our  principal  amusements  is  to  watch  the 
gradual  progress — the  rise  or  fall — of  particular  shops. 
We  have  formed  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  several, 
in  different  parts  of  town,  and  are  perfectly  acquainted 
with  their  whole  history.    We  could  name  off-hand 


twenty  at  least,  which  we  are  quite  sure  have  paid  no 
taxes  for  the  last  six  years.  They  are  never  inhabited 
for  more  than  two  months  consecutively,  and,  we  verily 
believe,  have  witnessed  every  retail  trade  in  the  direc- 
tory. 

There  is  one  whose  history  is  a  sample  of  the  rest, 
in  whose  fate  we  have  taken  especial  interest,  having 
had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  it  ever  since  it  has  been  a 
shop.  It  is  on  the  Surrey  side  of  the  water — a  little  dis- 
tance beyond  the  Marshgate.  It  was  originally  a  sub- 
stantial, good-looking,  private  house  enough  ;  the  land- 
lord got  into  difficulties,  the  house  got  into  Chancery, 
the  tenant  went  away,  and  the  house  went  to  ruin.  At 
this  period  our  acquaintance  with  it  commenced  :  the 
paint  vvas  all  worn  off ;  the  windpws  were  broken,  the 
area  was  green  with  neglect  and  the  overflowings  of  the 
water-butt  ;  the  butt  itself  was  without  a  lid.  and  the 
street-door  was  the  very  picture  of  misery.  The  chief 
pastime  of  the  children  in  the  vicinity  had  been  assem- 
ble in  a  body  on  the  steps,  and  take  it  in  turn  to 
knock  loud  double-knocks  at  the  door,  to  the  great  satis- 
faction of  the  neighbours  generally,  and  especially  of 
the  nervous  old  lady  next  door  but  one.  Numerous 
complaints  were  made,  and  several  small  basins  of  wa- 
ter discharged  over  the  offenders,  but  without  effect.  In 
this  state  of  things,  the  marine-store  dealer  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  street,  in  the  most  obliging  manner  took  the 
knocker  off,  and  sold  it :  and  the  unfortunate  house 
looked  more  wretched  than  ever. 

We  deserted  our  friend  for  a  few  weeks.  What  was 
our  surprise,  on  our  return,  to  find  no  trace  of  its  exis- 
tence !  In  its  place  was  a  handsome  shop,  fast  approach- 
ing a  state  of  completion,  and  on  the  shutters  were  large 
bills,  informing  the  public  that  it  would  shortly  be 
opened  with  "  an  extensive  stock  of  linen-drapery  and 
haberdashery."  It  opened  in  due  course  ;  there  was  the 
name  of  the  proprietor  "  and  Co."  in  gilt  letters,  almost 
too  dazzling  to  look  at.  Such  ribbons  and  shawls  !  and 
two  such  elegant  young  men  behind  the  counter,  each  in 
a  clean  collar  and  white  neck-cloth,  like  the  lover  in  a 
farce.  As  to  the  proprietor,  he  did  nothing  but  walk  up 
and  down  the  shop,  and  hand  seats  to  the  ladies,  and 
hold  important  conversations  with  the  handsomest  of  the 
young  men,  who  was  shrewdly  suspected  by  the  neigh- 
bours to  be  the  "  Co."  We  saw  all  this  with  sorrow  ;  we 
felt  a  fatal  presentiment  that  the  shop  was  doomed — and 
so  it  was.  Its  decay  was  slow,  but  sure.  Tickets  gradu- 
ally appeared  in  the  windows  ;  then  rolls  of  flannels, 
with  labels  on  them,  were  stuck  outside  the  door  ;  then 
a  bill  was  pasted  on  the  street  door,  intimating  that  the 
first  floor  was  to  let  'wnfurnished ;  then  one  of  the  young 
men  disappeared  altogether,  and  the  other  took  to  a  black 
neckerchief,  and  the  proprietor  took  to  drinking.  The 
shop  became  dirty,  broken  panes  of  glass  remained  un- 
mended,  and  the  stock  disappeared  piecemeal.  At  last 
the  company's  man  came  to  cut  off  the  water,  and  then 
the  linendraper  cut  off  himself,  leaving  the  landlord  his 
compliments  and  the  key. 

The  next  occupant  was  a  fancy  stationer.  The  shop 
was  more  modestly  painted  than  before,  still  it  was  neat ; 
but  somehow  we  always  thought,  as  we  passed,  that  it 
looked  like  a  poor  and  struggling  concern.  We  wished 
the  man  well,  but  we  trembled  for  his  success.  He  was 
a  widower  evidently,  and  had  employment  elsewhere, 
for  he  passed  us  every  morning  on  his  road  to  the  citj. 
The  business  was  carried  on  by  his  eldest^  daughter. 
Poor  girl  !  she  needed  no  assistance.  We  occasionally 
caught  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  children,  in  mourning 
like  herself,  as  they  sat  in  the  little  parlour  behind  the 
shop  ;  and  we  never  j)assed  at  night  without  seeing  the 
eldest  girl  at  work,  either  for  them,  or  in  making  some 
elegant  little  trifle  for  sale.  We  often  thought,  as  her 
pale  face  looked  more  sad  and  pensive  in  the  dim  candle- 
light, that  if  those  thoughtless  females  who  interfere 
with  the  miserable  market  of  poor  creatures  such  as 
these,  knew  but  one  half  of  the  misery  they  suffer,  and 
the  bitter  privations  they  endure,  in  their  honourable  at- 
tempts to  earn  a  scanty  subsistence,  they  would,  perhaps, 
r(^sign  even  opportunities  for  the  gratification  of  vanity, 
and  an  immodest  love  of  self-display,  rather  than  drive 
them  to  a  last  dreadful  resource,  which  it  would  shock  the 
delicate  feelings  of  these  charitable  ladies  to  hear  named. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


853 


But  we  are  forgetting  the  shop.  Well,  we  continued 
to  watch  it,  and  every  day  showed  too  clearly  the  in- 
creasing poverty  of  its  inmates.  The  children  were  clean, 
it  is  true,  but  their  clothes  were  threadbare  and  shabby  ; 
no  tenant  had  been  procured  for  the  upi)er  part  of  the 
house,  from  the  letting  of  which,  a  portion  of  the  means 
of  paying  the  rent  was  to  have  been  derived,  and  a  slow, 
wasting  consumption  prevented  the  eldest  girl  from  con- 
tinuing her  exertions.  Quarter-day  arrived.  The  land- 
lord had  suffered  from  the  extravagance  of  his  last  ten- 
ant, and  he  had  no  compassion  for  the  struggles  of  his 
successor ;  he  put  in  an  execution.  As  we  passed  one 
morning,  the  broker's  men  were  removing  the  little  fur- 
niture there  was  in  the  house,  and  a  newly  posted  bill  in- 
formed us  it  was  again  "  To  Let."  What  became  of  the 
last  tenant  we  never  could  learn  ;  we  believe  the  girl  is 
past  all  suffering,  and  beyond  all  sorrow.  God  help  her  ! 
We  hope  she  is. 

We  were  somewhat  curious  to  ascertain  what  would 
be  the  next  stage — for  that  the  place  had  no  chance  of 
succeeding  now,  was  perfectly  clear.  The  bill  was  soon 
taken  down,  and  some  alterations  were  being  made  in 
the  interior  of  the  shop.  We  were  in  a  fever  of  expec- 
tation ;  we  exhausted  conjecture — we  imagined  all  possi- 
ble trades,  none  of  which  were  perfectly  reconcileable 
with  our  idea  of  the  gradual  decay  of  the  tenethent.  It 
opened,  and  we  wondered  why  we  had  not  guessed  at 
the  real  state  of  the  case  before.  The  shop — not  a  large 
one  at  the  best  of  times — had  been  converted  into  two  : 
one  was  a  bonnet- shape  maker's,  the  other  was  opened 
by  a  tobacconist,  who  also  dealt  in  walking-sticks  and 
Sunday  newspapers  ;  the  two  were,  separated  by  a  thin 
partition,  covered  with  tawdry  striped  paper. 

The  tobaconist  remained  in  possession  longer  than  any 
tenant  within  our  recollection.  He  was  a  red-faced, 
impudent,  good-for-nothing  dog,  evidently  accustomed 
to  take  things  as  they  came,  and  to  make  the  best  of  a 
bad  job.  He  sold  as  many  cigars  as  he  could,  and 
smoked  the  rest.  He  occupied  the  shop  as  long  as  he 
could  make  peace  with  the  landlord,  and  when  he  could 
no  longer  live  in  quiet,  he  very  coolly  locked  the  door, 
and  bolted  himself.  From  this  period,  the  two  little 
dens  have  undergone  innumerable  changes.  The  tobac- 
conist was  succeeded  by  a  theatrical  hair-dresser,  who 
ornamented  the  window  with  a  great  variety  of  "  char- 
acters," and  terrific  combats.  The  bonnet-shape  maker 
gave  place  to  a  green-grocer,  and  the  histrionic  barber 
was  succeeded,  in  his  turn  by  a  tailor.  So  numerous 
have  been  the  changes,  that  we  have  of  late  done  little 
more  than  mark  the  peculiar  but  certain  indications  of  a 
house  being  poorly  inhabited.  It  has  been  progressing 
by  almost  imperceptible  degress.  The  occupiers  of  the 
shops  have  gradually  given  up  room  after  room,  until 
they  have  only  reserved  the  little  parlour  for  themselves. 
First  there  appeared  a  brass  plate  on  the  private  door, 
with  "Ladies'  School"  legibly  engraved  thereon; 
shortly  of  terwards  we  observed  a  second  brass  plate,  then 
a  bell,  and  then  another  bell. 

When  we  paused  in  front  of  our  old  friend,  and  ob- 
served these  signs  of  poverty,  which  are  not  to  be  mis- 
taken, we  thought  as  we  turned  away,  that  the  house 
had  attained  its  lowest  pitch  of  degradation.  We  were 
wrong.  When  we  last  passed  it,  a  "  dairy"  was  estab- 
lished in  the  area,  and  a  party  of  melancholy  looking 
fowls  were  amusing  themselves  by  running  in  at  the 
front  door,  and  out  at  the  back  one. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Scotland-yard. 

Scotland- YARD  is  a  small — a  very  small — tract  of  land 
bounded  on  one  side  by  the  river  Thames,  on  the  other 
by  the  gardens  on  Northumberland  House:  abutting 
at  one  end  on  the  bottom  of  Northumberland  street,  at 
the  other  on  the  back  of  Whitehall-place.  When  this 
territory  was  first  accidentally  discovered  by  a  country 
gentleman  who  lost  his  way  in  the  Strand,  some  years 
ago,  the  original  settlers  were  found  to  be  a  tailor,  a 
publican,  two  eating-house  keepers,  and  a  fruit-pie 


maker  ;  and  it  was  also  found  to  contain  a  race  of  strong 
and  bulky  men,  who  repaired  to  the  wharfs  in  Scotland- 
yard  regularly  every  morning,  about  five  or  six  o'clock, 
to  fill  heavy  waggons  with  coal,  with  which  they  pro- 
ceeded to  distant  places  up  the  country,  and  supplied 
the  inhabitants  with  fuel.  When  they  had  emptied  their 
waggons,  they  again  returned  for  a  fresh  supply  ;  and 
this  trade  was  continued  throughout  the  year. 

As  the  settlers  derived  their  subsistence  from  minister- 
ing to  the  wants  of  these  primitive  traders,  the  articles 
exposed  for  sale,  and  the  places  where  they  were  sold, 
bore  strong  outward  marks  of  being  expressly  adapted 
to  their  tastes  and  wishes.  The  tailor  displayed  in  his 
window  a  liliputian  pair  of  leather  gaiters,  and  a  dimin- 
utive round  frock,  while  each  doorpost  was  appropriately 
garnished  with  a  model  of  a  coal-sack.  The  two  eating- 
house  keepers  exhibited  joints  of  a  magnitude,  and 
puddings  of  a  solidity,  which  coalheaver;?  alone  could 
appreciate  ;  and  the  fruit-pie  maker  displayed  on  his 
well-scrubbed  window-board  large  white  compositions 
of  flour  and  dripping,  ornamented  with  pink  stains,  giv- 
ing rich  promise  of  the  fruit  within,  which  made  their 
huge  mouths  water,  as  they  lingered  past. 

But  the  choicest  spot  in  all  Scotland-yard  was  the  old 
public  house  in  the  corner.  Here,  in  a  dark  wainscotted 
room  of  ancient  appearance,  cheered  by  the  glow  of  a 
mighty  fire,  and  decorated  with  an  enormous  clock, 
whereof  the  face  was  white,  and  the  figures  black,  sat 
the  lusty  coalheavers,  quaffing  large  draughts  of  Bar- 
clay's best,  and  puffing  forth  volumes  of  smoke,  which 
wreathed  heavily  above  their  heads,  and  involved  the 
room  in  a  thick  dark  cloud.  From  this  apartment  might 
their  voices  be  heard  on  a  winter's  night,  penetrating 
to  the  very  bank  of  the  river,  as  they  shouted  out  some 
sturdy  chorus,  or  roared  forth  the  burden  of  a  popular 
song  ;  dwelling  upon  the  last  few  words  with  a  strength 
and  length  of  emphasis  which  made  the  very  roof  trem- 
ble above  them. 

Here,  too,  would  they  tell  old  legends  of  what  the 
Thames  was  in  ancient  times,  when  the  patent  shot 
manufactory  wasn't  built,  and  Waterloo-bridge  had 
never  been  thought  of  ;  and  then  they  would  shake  their 
heads  with  portentous  looks,  to  the  deep  edification  of 
the  rising  generation  of  heavers,  who  crowded  round 
them,  and  wondered  where  all  this  would  end  ;  whereat 
the  tailor  would  take  his  pipe  solemnly  from  his  mouth, 
and  say,  how  that  he  hoped  it  might  end  well,  but  he 
very  much  doubted  whether  it  would  or  not,  and  couldn't 
rightly  tell  what  to  make  of  it — a  mysterious  expression 
of  opinion,  delivered  with  a  semiprophetic  air,  which 
never  failed  to  elicit  the  fullest  concurrence  of  the  as- 
sembled company  ;  and  so  they  would  go  on  drinking 
and  wondering  till  ten  o'clock  came,  and  with  it  the 
tailor's  wife  to  fetch  him  home,  when  the  little  party 
broke  up,  to  meet  again  in  the  same  room,  and  say  and 
do  precisely  the  same  things  on  the  following  evening  at 
the  same  hour. 

About  this  time  the  barges  that  came  up  the  river 
began  to  bring  vague  rumours  to  Scotland-yard  of  some- 
body in  the  city  having  been  heard  to  say,  that  the  Lord 
Mayor  had  threatened  in  so  many  words  to  pull  down 
the  old  London-bridge,  and  build  up  a  new  one.  At  first 
these  rumours  were  disregarded  as  idle  tales,  wholly 
destitute  of  foundation,  for  nobody  in  Scotland-yard 
doubted  that  if  the  Lord  Mayor  contemplated  any  such 
dark  design,  he  would  just  be  clapped  up  in  the  Tower 
for  a  week  or  two,  and  then  killed  off  for  high  treason. 

By  degrees,  however,  the  reports  grew  stronger,  and 
more  frequent,  and  at  large  a  barge,  laden  with  numer- 
ous chaldrons  of  the  best  Wallsend,  brought  up  the 
positive  intelligence  that  several  of  the  arches  of  the  old 
bridge  were  stopped,  and  preparations  were  actually  in 
progress  for  constructing  the  new  one.  What  an  excite- 
ment was  visible  in  the  old  tap-room  on  that  memorable 
night  !  Each  man  looked  into  his  neighbour's  face,  pale 
with  alarm  and  astonishment,  and  read  therein  an  echo 
of  the  sentiments  which  filled  his  own  breast.  The 
oldest  heaver  present  proved  to  demonstration,  that  the 
moment  the  piers  were  removed,  all  the  water  in  the 
Thames  would  run  clean  off,  and  leave  a  dry  gully  in  its 
place.  What  was  to  become  of  the  coal-barges — of  tlie 
trade  of  Scotland-yard— of  the  very  existence  of  its 


854 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


population  ?  The  tailor  shook  his  head  more  sagely  than 
usual,  and  grimly  pointing  to  a  knife  on  the  table,  bid 
them  wait  and  see  what  happened.  He  said  nothing — not 
he  ;  but  if  the  Lord  Mayor  didn't  fall  a  victim  to  popu- 
lar indignation,  why  he  would  be  rather  astonished  ;  that 
was  all. 

They  did  wait  ;  barge  after  barge  arrived,  and  still  no 
tidings  of  the  assassination  of  the  Lord  Mayor.  The  first 
stone  was  laid  :  it  was  done  by  a  Duke— the  king's  brother. 
Years  passed  away,  and  the  bridge  was  opened  by  the 
King  himself.  In  course  of  time,  the  piers  were  re- 
moved ;  and  when  the  people  in  Scotland-yard  got  up 
next  morning  in  the  confident  expectation  of  being  able 
to  step  over  to  Pedlar's  Acre  without  wetting  the  soles 
of  their  shoes,  they  found  to  their  unspeakable  aston- 
ishment that  the  water  was  just  where  it  used  to  be. 

A  result  so  different  from  that  which  they  had  anti- 
cipated from  this  first  improvement,  produced  its  full 
effect  upon  tlie  inhabitants  of  Scotland-yard.  One  of  the 
eating-house  keepers  began  to  court  public  opinion,  and 
to  look  for  customers  among  a  new  class  of  people.  He 
covered  his  little  dining-tables  with  white  cloths,  and 
got  a  painter's  apprentice  to  inscribe  something  about 
hot  joints  from  twelve  to  two,  in  one  of  the  little  panes  of 
his  shop-window.  Improvement  began  to  march  with 
rapid  strides  to  the  very  threshold  of  Scotland-yard,  A 
new  market  sprung  up  at  Hungerford,  and  the  Police 
Commissioners  established  their  office  in  Whitehall-place. 
The  traffic  in  Scotland-yard  increased  ;  fresh  Members 
were  added  to  the  House  of  Commons,  the  Metropolitan 
Representatives  found  it  a  near  cut,  and  many  other  foot 
passengers  followed  their  example. 

We  marked  the  advance  of  civilisation,  and  beheld  it 
with  a  sigh.  The  eating-house  keeper  who  manfully 
resisted  the  innovation  of  table-cloths,  was  losing  ground 
every  day,  as  his  opponent  gained  it,  and  a  deadly  feud 
sprung  up  between  them.  The  genteel  one  no  longer 
took  his  evening's  pint  in  Scotland-yard,  but  drank  gin 
and  water  at  a  "parlour"  in  Parliament-street.  The 
fruit-pie  maker  still  continued  to  visit  the  old  room,  but 
he  took  to  smoking  cigars,  and  began  to  call  himself  a 
pastrycook,  and  to  read  the  papers.  The  old  heavers 
still  assembled  roimd  the  ancient  fireplace,  but  their  talk 
was  mournful  :  and  the  loud  song  and  the  joyous  shout 
were  heard  no  more. 

And  what  is  Scotland-yard  now?  How  have  its  old 
customs  changed  ;  and  how  has  the  ancient  simplicity  of 
its  inhabitants  faded  away  !  The  old  tottering  public- 
house  is  converted  into  spacious  and  lofty  "wine 
vaults  ;  "  gold  leaf  has  been  used  in  the  construction  of 
the  letters  which  emblazon  its  exterior,  and  the  poet's 
art  has  been  called  into  requisition,  to  intimate  that  if 
you  drink  a  certain  description  of  ale,  you  must  hold  fast 
by  the  rail.  The  tailor  exhibits  in  his  window  the 
pattern  of  a  foreign -looking  brown  surtout  with  silk  but- 
tons, a  fur  collar  and  fur  cuffs.  He  wears  a  stripe  down 
the  outside  of  each  leg  of  his  trousers  ;  and  we  have 
detected  his  assistants  (for  he  has  assistants  now)  in  the 
act  of  sitting  on  the  shop-board  in  the  same  uniform. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  little  row  of  houses  a  boot- 
maker has  established  himself  in  a  brick  box,  with  the 
additional  innovation  of  a  first  floor ;  and  here  he  ex- 
poses for  sale,  boots— real  Wellington  boots — an  article 
which  a  few  years  ago,  none  of  the  original  inhabitants 
had  ever  seen  or  heard  of.  It  was  but  the  other  day, 
that  a  dress-maker  opened  another  little  box  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  row  ;  and,  when  we  thought  that  the  spirit  of 
change  could  produce  no  alteration  beyond  that,  a  jew- 
eller appeared,  and  not  content  with  exposing  gilt  rings 
and  copper  bracelets  outof  number,  put  up  an  announce- 
ment, which  still  sticks  in  his  window,  that  "ladies' 
ears  may  be  pierced  within."  The  dress-maker  employs 
a  young  lady  who  wears  pockets  in  her  apron  ;  and  the 
tailor  informs  the  public  that  gentlemen  may  have  their 
own  materials  made  up. 

Amidst  all  this  change,  and  restlessness,  and  innova- 
tion, there  remains  but  one  old  man,  who  secsms  to 
mourn  the  downfall  of  this  ancient  place.  He  holds  no 
converse  with  human  kind,  but,  seated  on  a  wooden 
bench  at  the  angle  of  the  wall  which  fronts  the  crossing 
from  Wiiitehall -place,  watches  in  silence  the  gambols  of 
his  sleek  and  well-fed  dogs.    He  is  the  presiding  genius 


of  Scotland-yard.  Years  and  years  have  rolled  over  his 
head  ;  but,  in  fine  weather  or  in  foul,  hot  or  cold,  wet 
or  dry,  hail,  rain,  or  snow,  he  is  still  in  his  accustomed 
spot.  Misery  and  want  are  depicted  in  his  countenance  ; 
his  form  is  bent  by  age,  his  head  is  gray  with  length  of 
trial,  but  there  he  sits  from  day  to  day,  brooding  over 
the  past  ;  and  thither  he  will  continue  to  drag  his  feeble 
limbs,  until  his  eyes  have  closed  upon  Scotland-yard, 
and  upon  the  world  together. 

A  few  years  hence,  and  the  antiquary  of  another  gen- 
eration looking  into  some  mouldy  record  of  the  strife 
and  passions  that  agitated  the  world  in  these  times,  may 
glance  his  eye  over  the  pages  we  have  just  filled  :  and 
not  all  his  knowledge  of  the  history  of  the  past,  not  all 
his  black-letter  lore,  or  his  skill  in  book-collecting,  not 
all  the  dry  studies  of  a  long  life,  or  the  dusty  volumes 
that  have  cost  him  a  fortune,  may  help  him  to  the 
whereabouts,  either  of  Scotland-yard,  or  of  any  one  of 
the  landmarks  we  have  mentioned  in  describing  it. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Seven  Dials. 

We  have  always  been  of  opinion  that  if  Tom  King  and 
the  Frenchman  had  not  immortalised  Seven  Dials,  Seven 
Dials  would  have  immortalised  itself.  Seven  Dials  !  the 
region  of  song  and  poetry — first  effusions,  and  last  dying 
speeches  :  hallowed  by  the  names  of  Catnach  and  of 
Pitts — names  that  will  entwine  themselves  with  coster- 
mongers,  and  barrel  organs,  when  penny  magazines  shall 
have  superseded  penny  yards  of  song,  and  capital  pun- 
ishment be  unknown ! 

Look  at  the  construction  of  the  place.  The  gordian 
knot  was  all  very  well  in  its  way  :  so  was  the  maze  of 
Hampton  Court :  so  is  the  maze  at  the  Beulah  Spa  :  so 
were  the  ties  of  stiff  white  neckcloths,  when  the  diffi- 
culty of  getting  one  on,  was  only  to  be  equalled  by  the 
apparent  impossibility  of  ever  getting  it  off  again.  But 
what  involutions  can  compare  with  those  of  Seven 
Dials  ?  Where  is  there  such  another  maze  of  streets, 
courts,  lanes,  and  alleys?  Where  such  a  pure  mixture 
of  Englishmen  and  Irishmen,  as  in  this  complicated  part 
of  London  ?  We  boldly  aver  that  we  doubt  the  veracity 
of  the  legend  to  which  we  have  adverted.  We  can  sup- 
pose a  man  rash  enough  to  inquire  at  random — at  a 
house  with  lodgers  too — for  a  Mr.  Thompson,  with  all 
but  the  certainty  before  his  eyes,  of  finding  at  least  two 
or  three  Thompsons  in  any  house  of  moderate  dimen- 
sions ;  but  a  Frenchman — a  Frenchman  in  Seven  Dials  ! 
Pooh  !  He  was  an  Irishman.  Tom  King's  education 
had  been  neglected  in  his  infancy,  and  as  he  couldn't 
understand  half  the  man  said,  he  took  it  for  granted  he 
was  talking  French. 

The  stranger  who  finds  himself  in  "  The  Dials  "  for 
the  first  time,  and  stands  Belzoni-like,  at  the  entrance 
of  seven  obscure  passages,  uncertain  which  to  take,  will 
see  enough  around  him  to  keep  his  curiosity  and  atten- 
tion awake  for  no  inconsiderable  time.  From  the  irreg- 
ular square  into  which  he  has  plunged,  the  streets  and 
courts  dart  in  all  directions,  until  they  are  lost  in  the 
unwholesome  vapour  which  hangs  over  the  house-tops, 
and  renders  the  dirty  perspective,  uncertain  and  confined  ; 
and  lounging  at  every  corner,  as  if  they  came  there  to 
take  a  few  gasps  of  such  fresh  air  as  had  found  its  way 
so  far,  but  it  is  too  much  exhausted  already,  to  be  ena- 
bled to  force  itself  into  the  narrow  alleys  around,  are 
groups  of  people,  whose  appearance  and  dwellings 
would  fill  any  mind  but  a  regular  Londoner's  with 
astonishment. 

On  one  side,  a  little  crowd  has  collected  round  a  couple 
of  ladies,  who  having  imbibed  the  contents  of  various 
"  threo-outs  "  of  gin  and  bitters  in  the  course  of  the 
morning,  have  at  length  differed  on  some  point  of  do- 
mestic arrangement,  and  are  on  the  eve  of  settling  the 
(juarrel  satisfactorily,  by  an  appeal  to  blows,  greatly  to 
the  interest  of  other  ladies  who  live  in  the  same  house, 
and  tenements  adjoining,  .and  who  are  all  partisans  on 
one  side  or  other. 

"  Vy  don't  you  pitch  into  her,  Sarah  ?  "  exclaims  one 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


855 


half-dressed  matron,  by  way  of  encouragement.  "  Vy 
don't  you  ?"  if  my  'usband  had  treated  her  with  a  drain 
last  night,  unbeknown  to  me,  I'd  tear  her  precious  eyes 
out — a  wixen  !  " 

"  What's  the  matter,  ma'am  !  "  inquires  another  old 
woman,  who  has  just  bustled  up  to  the  spot. 

"  Matter  ! "  replies  the  first  speaker,  talking  at  the  ob- 
noxious combatant,  "matter!  Here's  poor  dear  Mrs. 
Sulliwin,  as  has  five  blessed  children  of  her  own,  can't 
go  out  a  charing  for  one  arternoon,  but  what  hussies 
must  be  a  comin',  and  'ticing  avay  her  oun'  'usband, 
as  she's  been  married  to  twelve  year  come  next  Easter 
Monday,  for  I  see  the  certificate  ven  I  vas  a  drinkin'  a 
cup  o'  tea  vith  her,  only  the  werry  last  blessed  Ven'sday 
as  ever  was  sent.  I  'appen'd  to  say  promiscuously  '  Mrs. 
Sulliwin,'  says  I — " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  hussies  ?"  interrupts  a  cham- 
pion of  the  other  party,  who  has  evinced  a  strong  incli- 
nation throughout  to  get  up  a  branch  fight  on  her  own 
account  ("  Hooroar,"  ejaculates  a  pot-boy  in  parenthesis, 
"put  the  kyebosk  on  her,  Mary  !").  "What  do  you 
mean  by  hussies  ?"  reiterates  the  champion. 

"  Niver  mind,"  replies  the  opposition  expressively, 
"  niver  mind  ;  you  go  home,  and,  ven  you're  quite  sober, 
mend  your  stockings." 

This  somewhat  personal  allusion,  not  only  to  the 
lady's  habits  of  intemperance,  but  also  to  the  state  of 
her  wardrobe,  rouses  her  utmost  ire,  and  she  accordingly 
complies  with  the  urgent  request  of  the  bystanders  to 
"  pitch  in,"  with  considerable  alacrity.  The  scuffle  be- 
came general,  and  terminates  in  minor  playbill  phrase- 
ology, with  ' '  arrival  of  the  policemen,  interior  of  the 
station-house,  and  impressive  denouement." 

In  addition  to  the  numerous  groups  who  are  idling 
about  the  gin-shops  and  squabbling  in  the  centre  of  the 
road,  every  post  in  the  open  space  has  its  occupant,  who 
leans  against  it  for  hours,  with  listless  perseverance.  It 
is  odd  enough  that  one  class  of  men  in  London  appear 
to  have  no  enjoyment  beyond  leaning  against  posts. 
We  never  saw  a  regular  bricklayer's  labourer  take  any 
other  recreation,  fighting  excepted.  Pass  through  St, 
Giles's  in  the  evening  of  a  week-day,  there  they  are  in 
their  fustian  dresses,  spotted  with  brickdust  and  white- 
wash, leaning  against  posts.  Walk  through  Seven  Dials 
on  Sunday  morning  :  there  they  are  again,  drab  or  light 
corduroy  trousers,  Blucher  boots,  blvie  coats,  and  great 
yellow  waistcoats,  leaning  against  posts.  The  idea  of  a 
man  dressing  himself  in  his  best  clothes,  to  lean  against 
a  post  all  day  ! 

The  peculiar  character  of  these  streets,  and  the  close 
resemblance  each  one  bears  to  its  neighbour,  by  no 
means  tends  to  decrease  the  bewilderment  in  which  the 
unexperienced  wayfarer  through  "The  Dials"  finds 
himself  involved.  He  traverses  streets  of  dirty,  strag- 
gling houses,  with  now  and  then  an  unexpected  court 
composed  of  buildings  as  ill-proportioned  and  deformed 
as  the  half-naked  children  that  wallow  in  the  kennels. 
Here  and  there,  a  little  dark  chandler's  shop,  with  a 
cracked  bell  hung  up  behind  the  door  to  announce  the 
entrance  of  a  customer,  or  betray  the  presence  of  some 
young  gentleman  in  whom  a  passion  for  shop  tills  has 
developed  itself  at  an  early  age  :  others,  as  if  for  sup- 
port, against  some  handsorue  lofty  building,  which 
usurps  the  place  of  a  low  dingy  public-house  ;  long  rows 
of  broken  and  patched  windows  expose  plants  that  may 
have  flourished  when  "  The  Dials"  were  built,  in  vessels 
as  dirty  as  ' '  The  Dials  "  themselves  ;  and  shops  for  the 
purchase  of  rags,  bones,  old  iron,  and  kitchen-stuff,  vie 
in  cleanliness  with  the  bird-fanciers  and  rabbit-dealers, 
which  one  might  fancy  so  many  arks,  but  for  the  irre- 
sistible conviction  that  no  bird  in  its  proper  senses,  who 
was  permitted  to  leave  one  of  them,  would  ever  come 
back  again.  Brokers'  shops,  which  would  seem  to  have 
been  established  by  humane  individuals,  as  refuges  for 
destitute  bugs,  interspersed  with  announcements  of  day- 
school,  penny  theatres,  petition- writers,  mangles,  and 
music  for  balls  or  routs,  complete  the  "  still  life  "  of  the 
subject  ;  and  dirty  men,  filthy  women,  squalid  children, 
fluttering  shuttlecocks,  noisy  battledores,  reeking  pipes, 
bad  fruit,  more  than  doubtful  oysters,  attenuated  cats, 
depressed  dogs  and  anatomical  fowls,  are  its  cheerful 
accompaniments. 


If  the  external' appearance  of  the  houses,  or  a  glance 
at  their  inhabitants,  present  but  few  attractions,  a  closer 
acquaintance  with  cither  is  little  calculated  to  alter  one's 
first  impression.  Every  room  has  its  separate  tenant, 
and  every  tenant  is,  by  the  same  mysterious  dispensa- 
tion which  causes  a  country  curate  to  "  increase  and 
multiply"  most  marvellously,  generally  the  head  of  a 
numerous  family. 

The  man  in  the  shop,perhaps,is  in  the  baked  "jemmy  " 
line,  or  the  firewood  and  hearth-sione  line,  or  any  other 
line  which  requires  a  floating  capital  of  eighteen  pence 
or  thereabouts  :  and  he  and  his  family  live  in  the  shop, 
and  the  small  back  parlour  behind  it.  Then  there  is  an 
Irish  labourer  and  Ids  family  in  the  back  kitchen,  and  a 
jobbing-man — carpet-beater  and  so  forth — with  Jds  fami- 
ly in  the  front  one.  In  the  front  one-pair,  there's  another 
man  with  another  wife  and  family,  and  in  the  back  one- 
pair,  there's  "  a  young  'oman  as  takes  in  tambour  work, 
and  dresses  quite  genteel,"  who  talks  a  good  deal  about 
"my  friend,"  and  "can't  a-bear  anything  low."  The  sec- 
ond floor  front,  and  the  rest  of  the  lodgers,  are  just  a  sec- 
ond edition  of  the  people  below,  exceyjt  a  shabby-gen- 
teel man  in  the  back  attic,  who  has  his  half-pint  of  coffee 
every  morning  from  the  coffee-shop  next  door  but  one, 
which  boasts  a  little  front  den  called  a  coffee-room,  with  a 
fire-place, over  which  is  an  inscription,  politely  requesting 
that,  "To  prevent  mistakes,"  customers  will  "  please  to 
pay  on  delivery."  The  shabby  genteel  man  is  an  object 
of  some  mystery,  but  as  he  leads  a  life  of  seclusion,  and 
never  was  known  to  buy  anything  beyond  an  occasional 
pen,  except  half -pints  of  coffee,  penny  loaves,  and  ha'- 
porths  of  ink,  his  fellow-lodgers  very  naturally  suppose 
him  to  be  an  author ;  and  rumours  are  current  in  the 
Dials,  that  he  writes  poems  for  Mr.  Warren. 

Now  any  body  who  passed  through  the  Dials  on  a  hot 
summer's  evening,  and  saw  the  different  women  of  the 
house  gossiping  on  the  steps,  would  be  apt  to  think  that 
all  was  harmony  among  them,  and  that  a  more  primitive 
set  of  people  than  the  native  Diallers  could  not  be  im- 
agined. Alas,  the  man  in  the  shop  ill-treats  his  family  ; 
the  carpet-beater  extends  his  professional  pursuits  to  his 
wife  ;  the  one-pair  front  has  an  undying  feud  with  the 
two-pair  front,  in  consequence  of  the  two-pair  front  per- 
sisting in  dancing  over  his  (the  one-pair  front's)  head, 
when  he  and  his  family  have  retired  for  the  night  ;  the 
two-pair  back  will  interfere  with  the  front  kitchen's 
children  ;  the  Irishman  comes  home  drunk  every  other 
night,  and  attacks  every  body  ;  and  the  one-pair  back 
screams  at  everything.  Animosities  spring  up  between 
floor  and  floor  ;  the  very  cellar  asserts  his  equality.  Mrs. 

A.  "  smacks  "  Mrs.  B.'s  child,  for  "making  faces.  "  Mrs. 

B.  forthwith  throws  cold  water  over  Mrs.  A.'s  child,  for 
"  calling  names."  The  husbands  are  embroiled — the 
quarrel  becomes  general — an  assault  is  the  consequence, 
and  a  police-oflacer  the  result. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Meditations  in  Monm&uth-street. 

We  have  always  entertained  a  particular  attachment 
towards  Monmouth  Street,  as  the  only  true  and  real  em- 
porium for  second-hand  wearing-apparel.  Monmouth- 
street  is  venerable  from  its  antiquity,  and  respectable 
from  its  usefulness.  Holywell  street  we  despise  ;  the  red- 
headed and  red- whiskered  Jews  who  forcibly  haul  you 
into  their  squalid  houses,  and  thrust  you  into  a  suit  of 
clothes,  whether  you  will  or  not,  we  detest. 

The  inhabitants  of  Monmouth-street  are  a  distinct 
class  ;  a  peaceable  and  retiring  race,  who  immure  them- 
selves for  the  most  part  in  deep  cellars,  or  small  back 
parlours,  and  who  seldom  come  forth  into  the  world,  ex- 
cept in  the  dusk  and  coolness  of  evening,  when  they  may 
be  seen  seated,  in  chairs  on  the  pavement,  smoking  their 
pipes,  or  watching  the  gambols  of  their  engaging  chil- 
dren as  they  revel  in  the  gutter,  a  ha])py  troop  of  in- 
fantine scavengers.  Their  countenances  bear  a  thought- 
ful and  a  dirty  cast,  certain  indications  of  their  love  of 
traffic  ;  and  their  habitations  are  distinguished  by  that 
disregard  of  outward  appeaiance,  and  neglect  of  per- 


856 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


sonal  comfort,  so  common  among  people  who  are  con- 
stantly immersed  in  profound  speculations,  and  deeply 
engaged  in  sedentary  pursuits. 

We  liave  hinted  at  the  antiquity  of  our  favourite  spot. 

A  Monmouth- street  laced  coat"  was  a  by-word  a  cen- 
tury ago  ;  and  still  we  find  Monmouth-street  the  same. 
Pilot  great  coats  with  wooden  buttons,  have  usurped  the 
place  of  the  ponderous  laced  coats  with  full  skirts  ;  em- 
broidered waistcoats  with  large  flaps,  have  yielded  to 
double-breasted  checks  with  rolled-collars  ;  and  three- 
cornered  hats  of  quaint  appearance,  have  given  place  to 
the  low  crowns  and  broad  brims  of  the  coachman  school  ; 
but  it  is  the  times  that  have  changed,  not  Monmouth- 
street.  Through  every  alteration  and  every  change, 
Monmouth-street  has  still  remained  the  burial-place  of 
the  fashions  ;  and  such,  to  judge  from  all  present  ap- 
pearances, it  will  remain  until  there  are  no  more  fashions 
to  bury. 

We  love  to  walk  among  those  extensive  groves  of  the 
illustrious  dead,  and  to  indulge  in  the  speculations  to 
which  they  give  rise  ;  now  fittiug  a  deceased  coat,  then 
a  dead  pair  of  trousers,  and  anon  the  mortal  remains  of 
a  gaudy  waistcoat,  upon  some  being  of  our  own  conjur- 
ing up,  and  endeavouring  from  the  shape  and  fashion  of 
the  garment  itself,  to  bring  its  owner  before  our  mind's 
eyes.  We  have  gone  on  speculating  in  this  way,  until 
whole  rows  of  coats  have  started  from  their  pegs,  and 
buttoned  up,  of  their  own  accord,  round  the  waists  of 
imaginary  wearers  ;  lines  of  trousers  have  jumped  down 
to  meet  them  ;  waistcoats  have  almost  burst  with  anx- 
iety to  put  themselves  on  ;  and  half  an  acre  of  shoes  have 
suddenly  found  feet  to  fit  them,  and  gone  stumping  down 
the  street  with  a  noise  which  has  fairly  awakened  us  from 
our  pleasant  reverie,  and  driven  us  slowly  away,  with  a 
bewildered  stare,  an  object  of  astonishment  to  the  good 
people  of  Monmouth-street,  and  of  no  slight  suspicion  to 
the  policeman  at  the  opposite  street  corner. 

We  svere  occupied  in  this  manner  the  other  day,  en- 
deavouring to  fit  a  pair  of  lace- up  half-boots  on  an  ideal 
personage,  for  whom  to  say  the  truth,  they  were  full  a 
couple  of  sizes  too  small,  when  our  eyes  happened  to 
alight  on  a  few  suits  of  clothes  ranged  outside  a  shop- 
window,  which  it  immediately  struck  us,  must  at  dif- 
ferent periods  have  all  belonged  to,  and  been  worn  by, 
the  same  individual,  and  had  now,  by  one  of  those 
strange  conjunctions  of  circumstances  which  will  occur 
sometimes,  come  to  be  exposed  together  for  sale  in  the 
same  shop.  The  idea  seemed  a  fantastic  one,  and  we 
looked  at  the  clothes  again,  with  a  firm  determination 
not  to  be  easily  led  away.  No,  we  were  right ;  the  more 
we  looked,  the  more  we  were  convinced  of  the  accuracy 
of  our  previous  impression.  There  was  the  man's  whole 
life  written  as  legibly  on  those  clothes,  as  if  we  had  his 
autobiography  engrossed  on  parchment  before  us. 

The  first  was  a  patched  and  much-soiled  skeleton 
suit  ;  one  of  those  straight  blue  cloth  cases  in  which 
small  boys  used  to  be  confined  before  belts  and  tunics 
had  come  in,  and  old  notions  had  gone  out :  an  ingeni- 
ous contrivance  for  displaying  the  full  symmetry  of  a 
boy's  figure,  by  fastening  him  into  a  very  tight  jacket, 
with  an  ornamental  row  of  buttons  over  each  shoulder, 
and  then  buttoning  his  trousers  over  it,  so  as  to  give  his 
legs  the  appearance  of  being  hooked  on,  just  under  the 
armpits.  This  was  the  boy's  dress.  It  had  belonged  to 
a  town  boy,  we  could  see  ;  there  was  a  shortness  about 
the  legs  and  arms  of  the  suit,  and  a  bagging  at  the 
knees,  peculiar  to  the  rising  youth  of  London  streets. 
A  small  day-school  he  had  been  at,  evidently.  If  it  had 
been  a  regular  boys'  school  they  wouldn't  have  let  him 
play  on  the  floor  so  much,  and  rub  his  knees  so  white, 
lie  had  an  indulgent  mother,  too,  and  plenty  of  half- 
jjence,  as  the  numerous  smears  of  some  sticky  substance 
about  the  pockets,  and  just  below  the  chin,  which  even 
'  the  salesman's  skill  could  not  succeed  in  disguising,  suf- 
'  ficiently  betokened.  They  were  decent  people,  but  not 
overburdened  with  riches,  or  he  would  not  have  so  far 
outgrown  the  suit  when  he  passed  into  those  corduroys 
with  the  round  jacket  ;  in  which  he  went  to  a  boys' 
school,  however,  learnt  to  write — and  in  ink  of  pretty 
tolerable  blackness,  too,  if  the  place  where  he  used  to 
wipe  his  pen  might  be  taken  as  evidence. 

A  black  suit  and  jack(;t  changed  into  a  diminutive 


coat.  His  father  had  died,  and  the  mother  had  got  the 
boy  a  message-lad's  place  in  some  oflBce.  A  long-worn 
suit  that  one  ;  rusty  and  threadbare  before  it  was  laid 
aside,  but  clean  and  free  from  soil  to  the  last.  Poor 
woman  I  We  could  imagine  her  assumed  cheerfulness 
over  the  scanty  meal,  and  the  refusal  of  her  own  small 
portion,  that  her  hungry  boy  might  have  enough.  Her 
constant  anxiety  for  his  welfare,  her  pride  in  his  growth, 
mingled  sometimes  with  the  thought,  almost  too  acute 
to  bear,  that  as  he  grew  to  be  a  man  his  old  affection 
might  cool,  old  kindnesses  fade  from  his  mind,  and  old 
promises  be  forgotten — the  sharp  pain  that  even  then  a 
careless  word  or  a  cold  look  could  give  her — all  crowded 
on  our  thoughts  as  vividly  as  if  the  very  scene  were 
passing  before  us. 

These  things  happen  every  hour,  and  we  all  know 
it  ;  and  yet  we  felt  as  much  sorrow  when  we  saw,  or 
fancied  we  saw — it  makes  no  difference  which — the 
change  that  began  to  take  place  now,  as  if  we  had  just 
conceived  the  bare  possibility  of  such  a  thing  for  the 
first  time.  The  next  suit,  smart  but  slovenly  ;  meant 
to  be  gay,  and  yet  not  half  so  decent  as  the  threadbare 
apparel  ;  redolent  of  the  idle  lounge,  and  the  blackguard 
coinpanions,  told  us,  we  thought,  that  the  widow's  com- 
fort had  rapidly  faded  away.  We  could  imagine  that 
coat — imagine  !  we  could  see  it  ;  we  had  seen  it  a  hun- 
dred times — sauntering  in  company  with  three  or  four 
other  coats  of  the  same  cut,  about  some  place  of  profli- 
gate resort  at  night. 

We  dressed  from  the  same  shop  window  in  an  instant, 
half  a  dozen  boys  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty  ;  and  putting 
cigars  into  their  mouths,  and  their  hands  into  their 
pockets,  watched  them  as  they  sauntered  down  the 
street,  and  lingered  at  the  corner,  with  the  obscene  jest 
and  the  oft-repeated  oath.  We  never  lost  sight  of  them, 
till  they  had  cocked  their  hats  a  little  more  on  one  side, 
and  swaggered  into  the  public-house  ;  and  then  we  en- 
tered the  desolate  home,  where  the  mother  sat  late  in  the 
night,  alone  ;  we  watched  her,  as  she  paced  the  room  in 
feverish  anxiety,  and  every  now  and  then  opened  the 
door,  looked  wistfully  into  the  dark  and  empty  street, 
and  again  returned,  to  be  again  and  again  disappointed. 
We  beheld  the  look  of  patience  with  which  she  bore  the 
brutish  threat,  nay,  even  the  drunken  blow  ;  and  we 
heard  the  agony  of  tears  that  gushed  from  her  very 
heart,  as  she  sank  upon  her  knees  in  her  solitary  and 
wretched  apartment. 

A  long  period  had  elapsed,  and  a  greater  change  had 
taken  place  by  the  time  of  casting  off  the  suit  that  hung 
above.  It  was  that  of  a  stout,  broad-shouldered,  sturdy 
chested  man  ;  and  we  knew  at  once,  as  anybody  would, 
who  glanced  at  that  broad-skirted  green  coat,  with  the 
large  metal  buttons,  that  its  wearer  seldom  walked 
forth  without  a  dog  at  his  heels,  and  some  idle  rufiian, 
the  very  counterpart  of  himself,  at  his  side.  The  vices 
of  the  boy  had  grown  with  the  man,  and  we  fancied  his 
home  then — if  such  a  place  deserve  the  name. 

We  saw  the  bare  and  miserable  room,  destitute  of 
furniture,  crowded  with  his  wife  and  children,  pale, 
hungry,  and  emaciated  ;  the  man  cursing  their  lamenta- 
tions, staggering  to  the  tap  room,  from  whence  he  had 
just  returned,  followed  by  his  wife,  and  a  sickly  infant, 
clamouring  for  bread  ;  and  heard  the  street  wrangle  and 
noisy  recrimination  that  his  striking  her  occasioned. 

And  then  imagination  led  us  to  some  metropolitan 
workhouse,  situated  in  the  midst  of  crowded  streets  and 
alleys,  filled  with  noxious  vapours,  and  ringing  with 
boisterous  cries,  where  an  old  and  feeble  woman,  implor- 
ing pardon  for  her  son,  lay  dying  in  a  close  dark  room, 
with  no  child  to  clasp  her  hand,  and  no  pure  air  from 
heaven  to  fan  her  brow.  A  stranger  closed  the  eyes  that 
settled  into  a  cold  unmeaning  glare,  and  strange  ears 
received  the  words  that  murmured  from  the  white  and 
half  closed  lips. 

A  coarse  round  frock,  with  a  worn  cotton  neckerchief, 
and  other  articles  of  clothing  of  the  commonest 
description,  completed^  the  history.  A  prison,  and  the 
sentence — banishment  or  the  gallows.  What  would  the 
man  have  given  then,  to  be  once  again  the  contented 
humble  drudge  of  his  boyish  years  ;  to  have  restored  to 
life,  but  for  a  week,  a  day,  an  hour,  a  minute,  only  for 
so  long  a  time  as  would  enable  him  to  say  one  word  of 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


857 


passionate  regret  to,  and  hear  one  sound  of  heartfelt 
forgiveness  from,  the  cold  and  ghastly  form  that  lay 
rotting  in  the  pauper's  grave  !  The  children  wild  in 
the  streets,  the  mother  a  destitute  widow  ;  both  deeply 
ainted  with  the  deep  disgrace  of  the  husband  and  father's 
name,  and  impelled  by  sheer  necessity,  down  the  preci- 
pice that  had  led  him  to  a  lingering  death,  possibly  of 
many  years'  duration,  thousands  of  miles  away.  We 
had  no  clue  to  the  end  of  the  tale  ;  but  it  was  easy  to 
guess  its  termination. 

We  took  a  step  or  two  further  on,  and  by  way  of  restor- 
ing the  naturally  cheerful  tone  of  our  thoughts,  began 
fitting  visionary  feet  and  legs  into  a  cellar-board  full  of 
boots  and  shoes,  with  a  speed  and  accuracy  that  would 
have  astonished  the  most  expert  artist  in  leather,  living. 
There  was  one  pair  of  boots  in  particular — a  jolly,  good- 
tempered,  hearty-looking  pair  of  tops,  that  excited  our 
wannest  regard  ;  and  we  had  got  a  fine,  red-faced,  jovial 
fellow  of  a  market-gardener  into  them,  before  we  had 
made  their  acquaintance  half  a  minute.  They  were  just 
the  very  thing  for  him.  There  were  his  huge  fat  legs 
bulging  over  the  tops,  and  fitting  them  too  tight  to  ad- 
mit of  his  tucking  in  the  loops  he  had  pulled  them  in  by  ; 
and  his  knee-cords  with  an  interval  of  stocking  ;  and 
his  blue  apron  tucked  up  round  his  waist  ;  and  his  red 
neckerchief  and  blue  coat,  and  a  white  hat  stuck  on  one 
side  of  his  head  ;  and  there  he  stood  with  a  broad  grin  on 
his  great  red  face,  whistling  away,  as  if  any  other  idea 
but  that  of  being  happy  and  comfortable  had  never 
entered  his  brain. 

This  was  the  very  man  after  our  own  heart  ;  we  knew 
all  about  him  ;  we  had  seen  him  coming  up  to  Co  vent- 
garden  in  his  green  chaise- cart,  with  the  fat  tubby  little 
horse,  half  a  thousand  times  ;  and  even  while  we  cast 
an  affectionate  look  upon  his  boots,  at  that  instant,  the 
form  of  a  coquettish  servant-maid  suddenly  sprung  into 
a  pair  of  Denmark  satin  shoes  that  stood  beside  them, 
and  we  at  once  recognised  the  very  girl  who  accepted 
his  offer  of  a  ride,  just  on  this  side  the  Hammersmith  sus- 
pension-bridge, the  very  last  Tuesday  morning  we  rode 
into  town  from  Richmond. 

A  very  smart  female,  in  a  showy  bonnet,  stepped  into 
a  pair  of  gray  cloth  boots,  with  black  fringe  and  binding 
that  were  studiously  pointing  out  their  toes  on  the  other 
side  of  the  top  boots,  and  seemed  very  anxious  to  engage 
his  attention,  but  we  didn't  observe  that  our  friend  the 
market-gardener  appeared  at  all  captivated  with  these 
blandishments  ;  for  beyond  giving  a  knowing  wink 
when  they  first  begun,  as  if  to  imply  that  he  quite  un- 
derstood their  end  and  object,  he  took  no  further  notice 
of  them.  His  indifference,  however,  was  amply  recom- 
pensed by  the  excessive  gallantry  of  a  very  old  gentle- 
man with  a  silver-headed  stick,  who  tottered  into  a  pair 
of  large  list  shoes,  that  were  standing  in  one  corner  of  the 
board,  and  indulged  in  a  variety  of  gestures  expressive 
of  his  admiration  of  the  lady  in  the  cloth  boots,  to  the  im- 
measurable amusement  of  a  young  fellow  we  put  into  a 
pair  of  long-quartered  pumps,  who  we  thought  would 
have  split  the  coat  that  slid  down  to  meet  him  with 
laughing. 

We  had  been  looking  on  at  this  little  pantomime  with 
great  satisfaction  for  some  time,  when  to  our  unspeakable 
astonishment,  we  perceived  that  the  whole  of  the  char- 
acters, including  a  numerous  corps  de  lallet  of  boots  and 
shoes  in  the  background,  into  which  we  had  been  hastily 
thrusting  as  many  feet  as  we  could  press  into  the  service, 
were  arranging  themselves  in  order  for  dancing  ;  and 
some  music  striking  up  at  the  moment,  to  it  they  went 
without  delay.  It  was  perfectly  delightful  to  witness 
the  agility  of  the  market-gardener.  Out  went  the  boots, 
first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  then  cutting,  then 
shuffling,  then  setting  to  the  Denmark  satins,  then  ad- 
vancing, then  retreating,  then  going  round,  and  then 
repeating  the  whole  of  the  evolutions  again,  without 
aj>pearing  to  suffer  in  the  least  from  the  violence  of  the 
exercise. 

Nor  were  the  Denmark  satins  %  bit  behindhand,  for 
they  jumped  and  bounded  about  in  all  directions  ;  and 
thqpgh  they  were  neither  so  regular,  nor  so  true  to  the 
time  as  the  cloth  boots,  still,  as  they  seemed  to  do  it 
from  the  heart,  and  to  enjoy  it  more,  we  candidly  con- 
fess that  we  preferred  their  style  of  dancing  to  the 


other.  But  the  old  gentleman  in  the  list  shoes  vvas  the 
most  amusing  object  in  the  whole  party  ;  for,  besides 
his  grotesque  attempts  to  appear  youthful,  and  amorous, 
which  were  sufficiently  entertaining  in  themselves,  the 
young  fellow  in  the  pumps  managed  so  artfully  that 
every  time  the  old  gentleman  advanced  to  salute  the 
lady  in  the  cloth  boots,  he  trod  with  his  whole  weight 
on  the  old  fellow's  toes,  which  made  him  roar  with  an- 
guish, and  rendered  all  the  others  like  to  die  of  laugh- 
ing. 

We  were  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  these  festivities 
when  we  heard  a  shrill,  and  by  no  means  musical  voice, 
exclaim,  "  Hope  you'll  know  me  agin,  imperence  !  "  and 
on  looking  intently  forward  to  see  from  whence  the 
sound  came,  we  found  that  it  proceeded,  not  from  the 
young  lady  in  the  cloth  boots,  as  we  had  at  first  been 
inclined  to  suppose,  but  from  a  bulky  lady  of  elderly 
appearance  who  was  seated  in  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the 
cellar-steps,  apparently  for  the  purpose  of  superintend- 
ing the  sale  of  the  articles  arranged  there. 

A  barrel  organ  which  had  been  in  full  force  close  be- 
hind us,  ceased  playing  ;  the  people  we  had  been  fitting 
into  the  shoes  and  boots  took  to  flight  at  the  interrup- 
tion ;  and  as  we  were  conscious  that  in  the  depth  of 
our  meditations  we  might  have  been  rudely  staring  at 
the  old  lady  for  half  an  hour  without  knowing  it,  we 
took  to  flight  too,  and  were  soon  immersed  in  the  deep- 
est obscurity  of  the  adjacent  "  Dials." 


CHAPTER  Vir. 

Hackney-coach  Stands. 

We  maintain  that  hackney-coaches,  properly  so  called, 
belong  solely  to  the  metropolis.  We  may  be  told,  that 
there  are  hackney-coach  stands  in  Edinburgh  ;  and  not 
to  go  quite  so  far  for  a  contradiction  to  our  position,  Ave 
may  be  reminded  that  Liverpool,  Manchester,  "  and 
other  large  towns  "  (as  the  Parliamentary  phrase  goes), 
have  their  hackney-coach  stands.  We  readily  concede 
to  these  places,  the  possession  of  certain  vehicles,  which 
may  look  almost  as  dirty,  and  even  go  almost  as  slowly, 
as  London  hackney-coaches  :  but  that  they  have  the 
slightest  claim  to  compete  with  the  metropolis,  either  in 
point  of  stands,  drivers,  or  cattle,  we  indignantly  deny. 

Take  a  regular,  ponderous,  rickety,  London  hackney- 
coach  of  the  old  school,  and  let  any  man  have  the  bold- 
ness to  assert,  if  he  can,  that  he  ever  beheld  any  object 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  which  at  all  resembles  it,  un- 
less, indeed,  it  were  another  hackney-coach  of  the  same 
date.  We  have  recently  observed  on  certain  stands, 
and  we  say  it  with  deep  regret,  rather  dapper  green 
chariots,  and  coaches  of  polished  yellow,  with  four 
wheels  of  the  same  colour  as  the  coach,  whereas  it  is 
perfectly  notorious  to  every  one  who  has  studied  the 
subject,  that  every  wheel  ought  to  be  of  a  different 
colour,  and  a  different  size.  These  are  innovations,  and, 
like  other  miscalled  improvements,  awful  signs  of  the 
restlessness  of  the  public  mind,  and  the  little  respect 
paid  to  our  time-honoured  institutions.  Why  should 
hackney-coaches  be  clean  ?  Our  ancestors  found  them 
dirty,  and  left  them  so.  Why  should  we,  with  a  fever- 
ish wish  to  "  keep  moving,"  desire  to  roll  along  at  the 
rate  of  six  miles  an  hour,  while  they  were  content  to 
rumble  over  the  stones  at  four?  These  are  solemn  con- 
siderations. Hackney-coaches  are  part  and  parcel  of  the 
law  of  the  land  ;  they  were  settled  by  the  Legislature  ; 
plated  and  numbered  %  the  wisdom  of  Parliament. 

Then  why  have  they  been  swamped  by  cabs  and  om- 
nibuses ?  Or  why  should  people  be  allowed  to  ride 
quickly  for  eightpence  a  mile,  after  Parliament  had 
come  to  the  solemn  decision  that  they  should  pay  a  shil- 
ling a  mile  for  riding  slowly  ?  We  pause  for  a  reply  ;— 
and,  having  no  chance  of  getting  one,  begin  a  fresh  par- 
agraph. 

Our  acquaintance  with  hackney-coach  stands  is  of  long 
standing.  We  are  a  wfilking  book  of  fares,  feeling  our- 
selves half-bound,  as  it  were,  to  be  always  in  the  right  on 
contested  points.  We  know  all  the  regular  watermen 
within  three  miles  of  Co  vent-garden  by  sight,  and  should 


858 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


be  almost  tempted  to  believe  tbat  all  tbe  backney-coach 
borses  in  tbat  district  knew  us  by  sigbt  too,  if  one-balf 
of  tbem  were  not  blind.  We  take  great  interest  in 
hackney-coaches,  but  we  seldom  drive,  having  a  knack 
of  taming  ourselves  over,  wiien  we  attempt  to  do  so.  We 
are  as  great  friends  to  horses,  hackney-coach  and  other- 
wise, as  the  renowned  Mr.  Martin,  of  costermonger  no- 
toriety, and  yet  we  never  ride.  We  keep  no  horse,  but 
a  clothes-horse  ;  enjoy  no  saddle  so  much  as  a  saddle  of 
mutton  ;  and,  following  our  own  inclinations,  have  never 
followed  the  hounds.  Leaving  these  fleeter  means  of 
getting  over  the  ground,  or  of  depositing  oneself  upon  it, 
to  those  who  like  them,  by  hackney-coach  stands  we  take 
our  stand. 

There  is  a  hackney-coach  stand  under  the  very  win- 
dow at  which  we  are  writing  ;  there  is  only  one  coach  on 
it  now,  but  it  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  class  of  vehicles 
to  which  we  have  alluded — a  great,  lumbering,  square 
concern  of  a  dingy  yellow  colour  (like  a  bilious  brunette), 
with  very  small  glasses,  but  very  large  frames  ;  the  pan- 
els are  ornamented' with  a  faded  coat  of  arms,  in  shape 
something  like  a  dissected  bat,  the  axle-tree  is  red,  and 
the  majority  of  the  wheels  are  green.  The  box  is  par- 
tially covered  by  an  old  great-coat,  with  a  multiplicity  of 
capes,  and  some  extraordinary-looking  clothes  ;  and  the 
straw,  with  which  the  canvas  cushion  is  stuffed  is  stick- 
ing up  in  several  places,  as  if  in  rivalry  of  the  hay,  which 
is  peeping  through  the  chinks  in  the  boot.  The  horses, 
with  drooping  heads,  and  each  with  a  mane  and  tail  as 
scanty  and  straggling  as  those  of  a  worn-out  rocking- 
horse,  are  standing  patiently  on  some  damp  straw,  occa- 
sionally wincing,  and  rattling  the  harness  ;  and,  now  and 
then,  one  of  them  lifts  his  mouth  to  the  ear  of  his  com- 
panion, as  if  be  were  saying,  in  a  whisper,  that  he  should 
like  to  assassinate  the  coachman.  The  coachman  him- 
self is  in  the  watering-house  ;  and  the  waterman,  with 
his  hands  forced  into  his  pockets,  as  far  as  they  can  pos- 
sibly go,  is  dancing  the  "  double  shuffle  "  in  front  of  the 
pump,  to  keep  his  feet  warm. 

The  servant-girl,  with  thd  pink  ribbons,  at  No.  5,  op- 
posite, suddenly  opens  the  street  door,  and  four  small 
children  forthwith  rush  out,  and  scream  "  Coach  !"  with 
all  their  might  and  main.  The  waterman  darts  from  the 
pump,  seizes  the  horses  by  their  respective  bridles,  and 
drags  them,  and  the  coach  too,  round  to  the  house,  shout- 
ing all  the  time  for  the  coachman  at  the  very  top,  or 
rather  very  bottom  of  his  voice,  for  it  is  a  deep  bass 
growl.  A  response  is  heard  from  the  tap-room  ;  the 
coachman,  in  his  wooden-soled  shoes,  makes  the  street 
echo  again  as  he  runs  across  it ;  and  then  there  is  such 
a  struggling,  and  backing,  and  grating  of  the  kennel,  to 
get  the  coach-door  opposite  the  house-door,  that  the  chil- 
dren are  in  perfect  ecstacies  of  delight.  What  a  commo- 
tion !  The  old  lady,  who  has  been  stopping  there  for 
the  last  month,  is  going  back  to  the  country.  Out  comes 
box  after  box,  and  one  side  of  the  vehicle  is  filled  with 
luggage  in  no  time  ;  the  children  get  into  everybody's 
way,  and  the  youngest,  who  has  upset  himself  in  his 
attempts  to  carry  an  umbrella,  is  borne  off  wounded  and 
kicking.  The  youngsters  disappear,  and  a  short  pause 
ensues,  during  which  the  old  lady  is,  no  doubt,  kissing 
them  all  round  in  the  back  parlour.  She  appears  at  last, 
followed  by  her  married  daugliter,  all  the  children,  and 
both  the  servants,  who,  with  the  joint  assistance  of  the 
coachman  and  waterman,  manage  to  get  her  safely  into 
the  coach.  A  cloak  is  lianded  in,  and  a  little  basket, 
which  we  could  almost  swear  contains  a  small  black  bot- 
tle, and  a  paper  of  sandwiches.  Up  go  the  steps,  bang 
goes  the  door,  "Golden-cross,  Charing-cross,  Tom,"  says 
the  waterman,  "Good  bye,  grandma,"  cry  the  children, 
off  jingles  the  coach  at  the  rate  of  three  miles  an  hour, 
and  the  mamma  and  children  retire  into  the  house,  with 
the  exception  of  one  little  villain,  who  runs  up  the  street 
at  the  top  of  his  speed,  pursued  by  the  servant  ;  not  ill 
pleased  to  have  such  an  opportunity  of  displaying  her 
attractions.  She  brings  him  back,  and,  after  casting  two 
or  three  gracious  glances  across  the  way,  which  are  either 
intended  for  us  or  the  potboy  (we  are  not  quite  certain 
which)  shuts  the  door,  and  the  hackney-coach  stand  is 
again  at  a  stand  still. 

We  have  been  frequently  amused  with  the  intense 
delight  with  which  "a  servant  of  all  work,"  who  is  sent 


for  a  coach,  deposits  herself  inside  ;  and  the  unspeak- 
able gratification  which  boys,  who  have  been  despatched 
on  a  similar  errand,  appear  to  derive  from  mounting 
the  box.  But  we  never  recollect  to  have  been  more 
amused  with  a  hackney-coach  party,  than  one  we  saw 
early  the  other  morning  in  Tottenham-court-road.  It 
was  a  wedding  party,  and  emerged  from  one  of  the  in- 
ferior streets  near  Fitzroy-square.  There  were  the 
bride,  with  a  thin  white  dress,  and  a  great  red  face  ; 
and  the  bridesmaid,  a  little,  dumpy,  good-humoured 
young  woman,  dressed,  of  course,  in  the  same  appropi- 
ate  costume  ;  and  the  bridegroom  and  his  chosen  friend, 
in  blue  coats,  yellow  waistcoats,  white  trousers,  and 
Berlin  gloves  to  match.  They  stopped  at  the  corner  of 
the  street,  and  called  a  coach  with  an  air  of  indescriba- 
ble dignity.  The  moment  they  were  in,  the  bridesmaid 
threw  a  red  shawl,  which  she  had,  no  doubt,  brought  on 
purpose,  negligently  over  the  number  on  the  door,  evi- 
dently to  delude  pedestrians  into  the  belief  that  the  hack- 
ney-coach was  a  private  carriage  ;  and  away  they  went, 
perfectly  satisfied  that  the  imposition  was  successful, 
and  quite  unconscious  that  there  was  a  great  staring 
number  stuck  up  behind,  on  a  plate  as  large  as  a  school- 
boy's slate.  A  shilling  a  mile  ! — the  ride  was  worth  five, 
at  least,  to  them. 

What  an  interesting  book  a  hackney-coach  might  pro- 
duce, if  it  could  carry  as  much  in  its  head  as  it  does  in 
its  body  1  The  autobiography  of  a  broken-down  hack- 
neyed-coach, would  surely  be  amusing  as  the  autobiog- 
raphy of  a  broken-down  hackneyed  dramatist ;  and  it 
might  tell  as  much  of  its  travels  with  the  pole,  as  others 
have  of  their  expeditions  to  it.  How  many  stories  might 
be  related  of  the  different  people  it  had  conveyed  on 
matters  of  business  or  profit — pleasure  or  pain  !  And 
how  many  melancholy  tales  of  the  same  people  at  differ- 
ent periods  !  The  country-girl — the  showy,  over-dressed 
woman — the  drunken  prostitute  !  The  raw  apprentice 
— the  dissipated  spendthrift — the  thief  ! 

Talk  of  cabs  !  Cabs  are  all  very  well  in  cases  of  ex- 
pedition, when  it's  a  matter  of  neck  or  nothing,  life  or 
death,  your  temporary  home  or  your  long  one.  But,  be- 
side a  cab's  lacking  that  gravity  of  deportment  which  so 
peculiarly  distinguishes  a  hackney-coach,  let  it  never  be 
forgotten  that  a  cab  is  a  thing  of  yesterday,  and  that  he 
never  Avas  anything  better.  A  hackney-cab  has  always 
been  a  hackney-cab,  from  his  first  entry  into  public  life  ; 
whereas  a  hackney-coach  is  a  remnant  of  past  gentility,  a 
victim  to  fashion,  a  hanger  on  of  an  old  English  family, 
wearing  their  arms,  and,  in  days  of  yore,  escorted  by  men 
wearing  their  livery,  stripped  of  his  finery,  and  thrown 
upon  the  world,  like  a  once-smart  footman  when  he  is 
no  longer  sufficiently  juvenile  for  his  office,  progressing 
lower  and  lower  in  the  scale  of  four-wheeled  degrada- 
tion, until  at  last  it  comes  to — a  stand  ! 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

Doctor's  Commons. 

Walking  without  any  definite  object,  through  St. 
Paul's  Churchyard,  a  little  while  ago,  we  happened  to 
turn  down  a  street  entitled  "  Paul's-chain,"  and  keeping 
straight  forward  for  a  few  hundred  yards,  found  ourself, 
as  a  natural  consequence,  in  Doctors'  Commons.  Now 
Doctors'  Commons  being  familiar  by  name  to  everybody, 
as  the  place  where  they  grant  marriage-licences  to  love- 
sick couples,  and  divorces  to  unfaithful  ones  ;  register 
the  wills  of  people  who  have  any  property  to  leave,  and 
punish  hasty  gentlemen  who  call  ladies  by  unpleasant 
names,  we  no  sooner  discovered  that  we  were  really 
within  its  precincts,  than  we  felt  a  laudable  desire  to  be- 
come better  acquainted  therewith  ;  and  as  the  first  object 
of  our  curiosity  was  the  Court,  whose  decrees  can  even 
unloose  the  bonds  of  matrimony,  we  procured  a  direc- 
tion to  it ;  and  bent  otir  steps  thither  without  delay. 

Crossing  a  quiet  and  shady  court-yard,  paved  Avith 
stone,  and  frowned  upon  by  old  red-brick  houses,  onThe 
doors  of  which  were  ])ainted  the  names  of  sundry  learned 
civilians,  we  x>aused  before  a  small,  green-baized  brass- 
headed-uailed  door,  which  yielding  to  our  gentle  push. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVEKSin  OF  ILLINOIS 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


at  once  admitted  us  into  an  old  quaint-looking  apart- 
ment, with  sunken  windows,  and  black  carved  wain- 
scottin;^,  at  the  upper  end  of  which,  seated  on  a  raised 
platform,  of  semicircular  shape,  were  about  a  dozen  so- 
lemn-looking gentlemen,  in  crimson  gowns  and  wigs. 

At  a  more  elevated  desk  in  the  centre  sat  a  very  fat 
and  red-faced  gentleman,  in  tortoise-shell  spectacles, 
whose  dignified  appearance  announced  the  judge ;  and 
round  a  long  green-baized  table  below,  something  like  a 
billiard-table  without  the  cushions  and  pockets,  where  a 
number  of  self-important-looking  personages,  in  stiff 
neckcloths,  and  black  gowns  with  white  fur  collars, 
whom  we  at  once  set  down  as  proctors.  At  the  lower 
end  of  the  billiard-table  was  an  individual  in  an  arm- 
chair, and  a  wig,  whom  we  afterwards  discovered  to  be 
the  registrar  ;  and  seated  behind  a  little  desk,  near  the 
door,  were  a  respectable  looking  man  in  black,  of  about 
twenty  stone  weight  or  thereabouts,  and  a  fat-faced, 
smirking,  civil-looking  body,  in  a  black  gown,  black  kid 
gloves,  knee  shorts,  and  silks,  with  a  shirt-frill  in  his 
bosom,  curls  on  his  head,  and  a  silver-staff  in  his  hand, 
whom  we  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  as  the  officer 
of  the  Court.  The  latter,  indeed,  speedily  set  our  mind 
at  a  rest  upon  this  point,  for,  advancing  to  our  elbow, 
and  opening  a  conversation  forthwith,  he  had  com- 
municated to  us,  in  less  than  five  minutes,  that  he  was 
the  apparitor,  and  the  other  the  court  keeper  ;  that  this 
was  the  Arches  Court,  and  therefore  the  counsel  wore  red 
gowns,  and  the  proctors  fur  collars  ;  and  that  when  the 
other  courts  sat  there,  they  didn't  wear  red  gowns  or  fur 
collars  either ;  with  many  other  scraps  of  intelligence 
equally  interesting.  Besides  these  two  officers,  there  was 
a  little  thin  old  man  with  long  grizzly  hair,  crouched  in 
a  remote  corner,  whose  duty  our  communicative  friend  in- 
formed us,  was  to  ring  a  large  hand-bell  when  the  Court 
opened  in  the  morning,  and  who,  for  aught  his  appear- 
ance betokened  to  the  contrary,  might  have  been  simi- 
larly employed  for  the  two  centuries  at  least. 

The  red-faced  gentleman  in  the  tortoise-shell  spectacles 
had  got  all  the  talk  to  himself  just  then,  and  very  well 
he  was  doing  it,  too,  only  he  spoke  very  fast,  but  that 
was  habit  ;  and  rather  thick,  but  that  was  good  liv- 
ing. So  we  had  plenty  of  time  to  look  about  us.  There 
was  one  individual  who  amused  us  mightily.  This  was 
one  of  the  bewigged  gentlemen  in  the  red  robes,  who 
was  straddling  before  the  fire  in  the  centre  of  the  Court, 
in  the  attitude  of  the  brazen  Colossus,  to  the  complete 
exclusion  of  every  body  else.  He  had  gathered  up  his 
robe  behind,  in  much  the  same  manner  as  a  slovenly 
woman  would  her  petticoats  on  a  very  dirty  day,  in  order 
that  he  might  feel  the  full  warmth  of  the  fire.  His  wig 
was  put  on  all  awry,  with  the  tail  straggling  about  his 
neck,  his  scanty  gray  trowsers  and  short  black  gaiters, 
made  in  the  worst  possible  style,  imparted  an  additional 
inelegant  appearance  to  his  uncouth  person  ;  and  his 
limp,  badly  starched  shirt-collar  almost  obscured  his 
eyes.  We  shall  never  be  able  to  claim  any  credit  as  a 
physiognomist  again,  for,  after  a  careful  scrutiny  of  this 
gentleman's  countenance,  we  had  to  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  it  bespoke  nothing  but  conceit  and  silliness, 
when  our  friend  with  the  silver  staff  whispered  in  our 
ear  that  he  was  no  other  than  a  doctor  of  civil  law,  and 
heaven  knows  what  besides.  So  of  course  we  were 
mistaken,  and  he  must  be  a  very  talented  man.  He  con- 
ceals it  so  well  though — perhaps  with  the  merciful  view 
of  not  astonishing  ordinary  people  too  much — that  you 
would  suppose  him  to  be  one  of  the  stupidest  dogs 
jflive. 

The  gentleman  in  the  spectacles  having  concluded  his 
judgment,  and  a  few  minutes  having  been  allowed  to 
elapse,  to  afford  time  for  the  buzz  in  the  Court  to  sub- 
side, the  registrar  called  on  the  next  cause,  which  was 
"  the  office  of  the  Judge  promoted  by  Bumple  against 
Sludberry."  A  general  movement  was  visible  in  the 
Court,  at  this  announcement,  and  the  obliging  function- 
ary with  silver  staff  whispered  us  that  "  there  would  be 
Bome  fun  now,  for  this  was  a  brawling  case." 

We  were  not  rendered  much  the  wiser  by  this  piece 
of  information,  till  we  found  by  the  opening  speech  of 
the  counsel  for  the  promoter,  that,  under  a  half-obsolete 
statute  of  one  of  the  Edwards,  the  court  was  empowered 
to  visit  with  the  penalty  of  excommunication,  any  person 


who  should  be  proved  guilty  of  the  crime  of  "  brawling," 
or  "  smiting,"  in  any  church,  or  vestry  adjoining  there- 
to ;  and  it  appeared,  by  some  eight-and-twenty  ailidavits, 
which  were  duly  referred  to,  that  on  a  certain  night,  at 
a  certain  vestry -meeting,  in  a  certain  parish  particularly 
set  forth,  Thomas  Sludberry,  the  party  appeared  against 
in  that  suit,  had  made  use  of,  and  applied  to  Michael 
Bumple,  the  promoter,  the  words  "You  be  bio  wed  ;" 
and  that,  on  the  said  Michael  Bumple  and  others  re- 
monstrating with  the  said  Thomas  Sludl)erry  on  the  im- 
propriety of  his  conduct,  the  said  Thomas  Sludberry  re- 
peated the  aforesaid  expression,  "  You  be  blowed  and 
furthermore  desired  and  requested  to  know,  whether 
the  said  Michael  Bumple  "wanted  anything  for  him- 
self ; "  adding,  "  that  if  the  said  Michael  Bumple  did 
want  anything  for  himself,  he,  the  said  Thomas  Slud- 
berry, was  the  man  to  give  it  to  him  ;  "  and  at  the  same 
time  making  use  of  other  heinous  and  sinful  expressions, 
all  of  which,  Bumple  submitted,  came  within  the  intent 
and  meaning  of  the  Act ;  and  therefore  he,  for  the  soul's 
health  and  chastening  of  Sludberry,  prayed  for  sentence 
of  excommunication  against  him  accordingly. 

Upon  these  facts  a  long  argument  was  entered  into,  on 
both  sides,  to  the  great  edification  of  a  number  of  persons 
interested  in  the  parochial  squabbles,  who  crowded 
the  court ;  and  when  some  very  long  and  grave  speeches 
had  been  made^r(?  and  con,  the  red-faced  gentleman  in 
the  tortoiseshell  spectacles  took  a  review  of  the  case, 
which  occupied  half  an  hour  more,  and  then  pro- 
nounced upon  Sludberry  the  awful  sentence  of  excon> 
munication  for  a  fortnight,  and  payment  of  the  costs  of 
the  suit.  Upon  this,  Sludberry,  who  was  a  little,  red- 
faced,  sly-looking,  ginger-beer  seller,  addressed  the 
court,  and  said,  if  they'd  be  good  enough  to  take  off  the 
costs,  and  excommunicate  him  for  the  term  of  his 
natural  life  instead,  it  would  be  much  more  convenient 
to  him,  for  he  never  went  to  church  at  all.  To  this  ap- 
peal the  gentleman  in  the  spectacles  made  no  other  re- 
ply than  a  look  of  virtuous  indignation  :  ^and  Sludberry 
and  his  friends  retired.  As  the  man  with  the  silver 
staff  informed  us  that  the  court  was  on  the  point  of 
rising,  we  retired  too — pondering,  as  we  walked  away, 
upon  the  beautiful  spirit  of  these  ancient  ecclesiasti- 
cal laws, the  kind  and  neighbourly  feelings  they  are  calcu- 
lated to  awaken,  and  the  strong  attachment  to  religious 
institutions  which  they  cannot  fail  to  engender. 

We  were  so  lost  in  those  meditations,  that  we  had 
turned  into  the  street,  and  run  up  against  a  door-post, 
before  we  recollected  where  we  were  walking.  On  look- 
ing upwards  to  see  what  house  we  had  stumbled  upon, 
the  words  "  Prerogative  Office,"  written  in  large  char- 
acters, met  our  eye  ;  and  as  we  were  in  a  sight-seeing 
humour  and  the  place  was  a  public  one,  we  walked  in. 

The  room  into  which  we  walked,  was  a  long,  busy- 
looking  place,  partitioned  off,  on  either  side,  into  a  vari- 
ety of  little  boxes,  in  which  a  few  clerks  were  engaged 
in  copying  or  examining  deeds.  Down  the  centre  of  the 
room  were  several  desks  nearly  breast  high,  at  each  of 
which,  three  or  four  people  were  standing,  poring  over 
large  volumes.  As  we  knew  that  they  were  searching 
for  wills  they  attracted  our  attention  at  once. 

It  was  curious  to  contrast  the  lazy  indifference  of  the 
attorney's  clerks  who  were  making  a  search  for  some 
legal  purpose,  with  the  air  of  earnestness  and  interest 
which  distinguished  the  strangers  to  the  place,  who 
were  looking  up  the  will  of  some  deceased  relative  ; 
the  former  pausing  every  now  and  then  with  an  impa- 
tient yawn,  or  raising  their  heads  to  look  at  the  people 
who  passed  up  and  down  the  room  ;  the  latter  stooping 
over  the  book,  and  running  down  column  after  column 
of  names  in  the  deepest  abstraction. 

There  was  one  little  dirty-faced  man  in  a  blue  apron, 
who  after  a  whole  morning's  search,  extending  some  fifty 
years  back,  had  just  found  the  will  to  which  he  wished 
to  refer,  which  one  of  the  ofiicials  was  reading  to  him  in 
a  low  hurried  voice  from  a  thick  vellum  book  with  large 
clasps.  It  was  perfectly  evident  that  the  more  the  clerk 
read,  the  less  the  man  with  the  blue  apron  understood 
about  the  matter.  When  the  volume  was  first  brought 
down,  he  took  off  his  hat,  smoothed  down  his  hair,  smiled 
with  great  self-satisfaction,  and  looked  up  in  the  reader's 
face  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to 


860 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


recollect  every  word  he  heard.  The  first  two  or  three 
lines  were  intelligible  enough  ;  but  then  the  technicali- 
ties began,  and  the  little  man  began  to  look  rather  dubi- 
ous. Then  came  a  whole  string  of  complicated  trusts, 
and  he  was  regularly  at  sea.  As  the  reader  proceeded, 
it  was  quite  apparent  that  it  was  a  hopeless  case,  and 
the  little  man,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face,  looked  on  with  an  expression  of 
bewilderment  and  perplexity  irresistibly  ludicrous. 

A  little  farther  on,  a  hard-featured  old  man,  with  a 
deeply  wrinkled  face,  was  intently  perusing  a  lengthy 
will  with  the  aid  of  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles  :  occasion- 
ally pausing  from  his  task,  and  slily  noting  down  some 
brief  memorandum  of  the  bequests  contained  in  it. 
Every  wrinkle  about  his  toothless  mouth,  and  sharp 
keen  eyes  told  of  avarice  and  cunning.  His  clothes 
were  nearly  threadbare,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he 
wore  them  from  choice  and  not  from  neccessity  ;  all  his 
looks  and  gestures  down  to  the  very  small  pinches  of 
snuff  which  he  every  now  and  then  took  from  a  little  tin 
canister,  told  of  wealth,  and  penury,  and  avarice. 

As  he  leisurely  closed  the  register,  put  up  his  specta- 
cles, and  folded  his  scraps  of  paper  in  a  large  leather 
I)ocket-book,  we  thought  what  a  nice  hard  bargain  he 
was  driving  with  some  poverty-stricken  legatee,  who, 
tired  of  waiting  year  after  year,  until  some  life-interest 
should  fall  in,  was  selling  his  chance,  just  as  it  began  to 
grow  most  valuable,  for  a  twelfth  part  of  its  worth.  It 
was  a  good  speculation — a  very  safe  one.  The  old  man 
stowed  his  pocket-book  carefully  in  the  breast  of  his 
great  coat,  and  hobbled  away  with  a  leer  of  triumph. 
That  will  had  made  him  ten  years  younger  at  the  lowest 
computation. 

Having  commenced  our  observations,  we  should  cer- 
tainly have  extended  them  to  another  dozen  of  people  at 
least,  had  not  a  sudden  shutting  up  and  putting  away  of 
the  worm-eaten  old  books,  warned  us  that  the  time  for 
closing  the  office  had  arrived  ;  and  thus  deprived  us  of 
a  pleasure,  and  spared  our  readers  an  infliction. 

We  naturally  fell  into  a  train  of  reflection  as  we 
walked  homewards,  upon  the  curious  old  records  of  lik- 
ings and  dislikings;  of  jealousies  and  revenges;  of  affec- 
tion defying  the  power  of  death,  and  hatred  pursued 
beyond  the  grave,  which  these  depositaries  contain  ; 
silent  but  striking  tokens,  some  of  them,  of  excellence 
of  heart  and  nobleness  of  soul  ;  melancholy  examples, 
others  of  the  worst  passions  of  human  nature.  How 
many  men  as  they  lay  speechless  and  helpless  on  the 
bed  of  death,  and  would  have  given  worlds  for  the 
strength  and  power  to  blot  out  the  silent  evidence  of 
animosity  and  bitterness,  which  now  stands  registered 
against  them  in  Doctors'  Commons. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

London  Eecreations. 

The  wish  of  persons  in  the  humbler  classes  of  life  to 
ape  the  manners  and  customs  of  those  whom  fortune  has 
placed  above  them,  is  often  the  subject  of  remark,  and 
not  unfrequently  of  complaint.  The  inclination  may, 
and  no  doubt  does,  exist  to  a  great  extent,  among  the 
small  gentility — the  would-be  aristocrats — of  the  middle 
classes.  Tradesmen  and  clerks,  with  fashionable  novel- 
reading  families,  and  circulating-library -subscribing 
daughters,  get  up  small  assemblies  in  humble  imitation 
of  Almack's,  and  promenade  the  dingy  "large  room" 
of  some  second-rate  hotel  with  as  much  complacency  as 
the  enviable  few  who  are  privileged  to  exhibit  their 
magnificence  in  that  exclusive  haunt  of  fashion  and 
foolery.  Aspiring  young  ladies,  who  read  flaming  ac- 
counts of  some  "  fancy  fair  in  high  life,"  suddenly  grow 
desperately  charitable  ;  visions  of  admiration  and  ma- 
trimony float  before  their  eyes  ;  some  wonderfully  meri- 
torious institution,  which,  by  the  strangest  accident  in 
the  world,  has  never  been  heard  of  before,  is  discovered 
to  be  in  a  languishing  condition  ;  Thomson's  great  room, 
or  .Johnson's  nursery-ground  is  forthwith  engaged,  and 
the  aforesaid  young  ladies,  from  mere  charity,  exhibit 
themselves  for  three  days,  from  twelve  to  four,  for  the 


small  charge  of  one  shilling  per  head  !  With  the  ex- 
ception of  these  classes  of  society,  however,  and  a  few 
weak  and  insignificant  persons,  we  do  not  think  the  at- 
tempt at  imitation  to  which  we  have  alluded,  prevails  in 
any  great  degree.  The  different  character  of  the  recrea- 
tions of  different  classes,  has  often  afforded  us  amuse- 
ment ;  and  we  have  chosen  it  for  the  subject  of  our 
present  sketch,  in  the  hope  that  it  may  possess  some 
amusement  for  our  readers. 

If  the  regular  City  man,  who  leaves  Lloyd's  at  five 
o'clock,  and  drives  home  to  Hackney,  Clapton,  Stamford- 
hill,  or  elsewhere,  can  be  said  to  have  any  daily  recrea- 
tion beyond  his  dinner,  it  is  his  garden.  He  never  does 
anything  to  it  with  his  own  hands;  but  he  takes  great 
pride  in  it  notwithstanding  ;  and  if  you  are  desirous  of 
paying  your  addresses  to  the  youngest  daughter,  be  sure 
to  be  in  raptures  with  every  flower  and  shrub  it  contains. 
If  your  poverty  of  expression  compel  you  to  make  any 
distinction  between  the  two,  we  would  certainly  recom- 
mend your  bestowing  more  admiration  on  his  garden 
than  his  wine.  He  always  takes  a  walk  round  it,  Ijefore 
he  starts  for  town  in  the  morning,  and  is  particularly 
anxious  that  the  fish-pond  should  be  kept  specially  neat. 
If  you  call  on  him  on  Sunday  in  summer-time,  about  an 
hour  before  dinner,  you  will  find  him  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair, on  the  lawn  behind  the  house,  with  a  straw  hat 
on,  reading  the  Sunday  paper.  A  short  distance  from 
him  you  will  most  like  observe  a  handsome  paroquet  in 
a  large  brass- wire  cage  :  ten  to  one  but  the  two  eldest 
girls  are  loitering  in  one  of  the  side  walks  accompanied 
by  a  couple  of  young  gentlemen,  who  are  holding  para- 
sols over  them — of  course  only  to  keep  the  sun  off — 
while  the  younger  children,  with  the  under  nursery- 
maid, are  strollins:  listlessly  about,  in  the  shade.  Beyond 
these  occasions,  his  delight  in  his  garden  appears  to 
arise  more  from  the  consciousness  of  possession  than 
actual  enjoyment  of  it.  When  he  drives  you  down  to 
dinner  on  a  week-day,  he  is  rather  fatigued  with  the  oc- 
cupations of  the  morning,  and  tolerably  cross  into  the 
bargain  ;  but  when  the  cloth  is  removed,  and  he  has 
drank  three  or  four  glasses  of  his  favourite  port,  he 
orders  the  French  windows  of  his  dining-room  (which  of 
course  look  into  the  garden)  to  be  opened,  and  throwing 
a  silk  handkerchief  over  his  head,  and  leaning  back  in 
his  arm-chair,  descants  at  considerable  length  upon  its 
beauty,  and  the  cost  of  maintaining  it.  This  is  to  im- 
press you — who  are  a  young  friend  of  the  family — with 
a  due  sense  of  the  excellence  of  the  garden,  and  the 
wealth  of  its  owner  ;  and  when  he  has  exhausted  the 
subject,  he  goes  to  sleep. 

There  is  another  and  very  different  class  of  men, 
whose  recreation  is  their  garden.  An  individual  of  this 
class,  resides  some  short  distance  from  town — say  in  the 
Hampstead-road,  or  the  Kilburn-road,  or  any  other  road 
where  the  houses  are  small  and  neat,  and  have  little 
slips  of  back  garden.  He  and  his  wife — who  is  as  clean 
and  compact  a  little  body  as  himself — have  occupied  the 
same  house  ever  since  he  retired  from  business  twenty 
years  ago.  They  have  no  family.  They  once  had  a  son, 
who  died  at  about  five  years  old.  The  child's  portrait 
hangs  over  the  mantelpiece  in  the  best  sitting-room,  and 
a  little  cart  he  used  to  draw  about,  is  carefully  preserved 
as  a  relic. 

In  fine  weather  the  old  gentleman  is  almost  constantly 
in  the  garden  ;  and  when  it  is  too  wet  to  go  into  it,  he 
will  look  out  of  the  window  at  it  by  the  hour  together- 
He  has  always  something  to  do  there,  and  you  will  see 
him  digging,  and  sweeping,  and  cutting,  and.  planting, 
with  manifest  delight.  In  spring  time,  there  is  no  end 
to  the  sowing  of  seeds,  and  sticking  little  bits  of  wood 
over  them,  with  labels,  which  look  like  epitaphs  to  their 
memory  ;  and  in  the  evening,  when  the  sun  has  gone 
down,  the  perseverance  with  which  he  lugs  a  great 
watering-pot  about  is  perfectly  astonishing.  The  only 
other  recreation  he  has,  is  the  newspaper,  which  he 
peruses  every  day,  from  beginning  to  end,  generally 
reading  the  most  interesting  pieces  of  intelligence  to  his 
wife,  during  breakfast.  The  old  lady  is  very  fond  of 
flowers,  as  the  hyacinth-glasses  in  the  parlour- window, 
and  geranium-pots  dn  the  little  front  court,  testify.  She 
takes  great  pride  in  the  garden  too  :  and  when  one  of  the 
j  four  fruit-trees  produces  rather  a  larger  gooseberry  than 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


861 


usual,  it  is  carefully-  preserved  under  a  wine-glass  on 
the  sideboard,  for  the  edification  of  visitors,  who  are 
duly  informed  that  Mr.  So-and-so  planted  the  tree  which 
produced  it,  with  his  own  hands.  On  a  summer's  even- 
ing, when  the  large  watering-pot  has  hcen  filled  and 
emptied  some  fourteen  times,  and  the  old  couple  have 
quite  exhausted  themselves  by  trotting  about,  you  will 
see  them  sitting  happily  together  in  the  little  summer- 
house,  enjoying  the  calm  and  peace  of  the  twilight,  and 
watching  the  shadows  as  they  fall  upon  the  garden,  and 
gradually  growing  thicker  and  more  sombre,  obscure  the 
tints  of  their  gayest  flowers— no  bad  emblem  of  the  years 
that  have  silently  rolled  over  their  heads,  deadening  in 
their  course  the  brightest  hues  of  early  hopes  and  feel- 
ings wh^ch  have  long  since  faded  away.  These  are  their 
only  recreations,  and  they  require  no  more.  They  have 
within  themselves  the  materials  of  comfort  and  content  ; 
and  the  only  anxiety  of  each,  is  to  die  before  the  other. 

This  is  no  ideal  sketch.  There  used  to  be  many  old 
people  of  this  description  ;  their  numbers  may  have  di- 
minished, and  may  decrease  still  more.  Whether  the 
course  female  education  has  taken  of  late  days — whether 
the  pursuit  of  giddy  frivolities,  and  empty  nothings,  has 
tended  to  unfit  women  for  thai,  quiet  domestic  life,  in 
which  they  show  far  more  beautifully  than  in  the  most 
crowded  assembly,  is  a  question  we  should  feel  little 
gratification  in  discussing  ;  we  hope  not. 

Let  us  turn  now,  to  another  portion  of  the  London 
population,  whose  recreations  present  about  as  strong  a 
contrast  as  can  well  be  conceived — we  mean  the  Sunday 
pleasurers  ;  and  let  us  beg  our  readers  to  imagine  them- 
selves stationed  by  our  side  in  some  well-known  rural 
"  Tea-gardens." 

The  heat  is  intense  this  afternoon,  and  the  people,  of 
whom  there  are  additional  parties  arriving  every  mo- 
ment, look  as  warm  as  the  tables  which  have  been  re- 
cently painted,  and  have  the  appearance  of  being  red- 
hot.  What  a  dust  and  noise  !  Men  and  women — boys 
and  girls — sweethearts  and  married  people — babies  in 
arms,  and  children  in  chaises— pipes  and  shrimps — cigars 
and  periwinkles — tea  and  tobacco.  Gentlemen,  in  alarm- 
ing waistcoats,  and  steel  watch-guards,  promenading 
about,  three  abreast,  with  surprising  dignity^  (or  as  the 
gentleman  in  the  next  box  facetiously  observes,  "cutting 
it  uncommon  fat  ! ") — ladies,  with  great,  long,  white 
pocket-handkerchiefs  like  small  table-cloths,  in  their 
hands,  chasing  one  another  on  the  grass  in  the  most 
playful  and  interesting  manner,  with  the  view  of  at- 
tracting the  attention  of  the  aforesaid  gentlemen — hus- 
bands in  perspective  ordering  bottles  of  ginger-beer  for 
the  objects  of  their  affections,  with  a  lavish  disregard  of 
expense  ;  and  the  said  objects  washing  down  huge  quan- 
tities of  "shrimps"  and  "winkles,"  with  an  equal  dis- 
regard of  their  own  bodily  health  and  subsequent  com- 
fort—boys, with  great  silk  hats  just  balanced  on  the  top 
of  their  heads,  smoking  cigars,  and  trying  to  look  as  if 
they  liked  them — gentlemen  in  pink  shirts  and  blue 
waistcoats,  occasionally  upsetting  either  themselves  or 
somebody  else,  with  their  own  canes. 

Some  of  the  finery  of  these  people  provokes  a  smile, 
but  they  are  all  clean,  and  happy,  and  disposed  to  be 
good-natured  and  sociable.  Those  two  motherly-looking 
women  in  the  smart  pelisses,  who  are  chatting  so  confi- 
dentially, inserting  a  "ma'am "at  every  fourth  word, 
scraped  an  acquaintance  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago: 
it  originated  in  admiration  of  the  little  boy  that  belongs 
to  one  of  them — that  diminutive  specimen  of  mortality  in 
the  three-cornered  pink  satin  hat  with  black  feathers. 
The  two  men  in  the  blue  coats  and  drab  trousers,  who 
are  walking  up  and  down,  smoking  their  pipes,  are  their 
husbands.  The  party  in  the  opposite  box  are  a  pretty 
fair  specimen  of  the  generality  of  the  visitors.  These 
are  the  father  and  mother,  and  old  grandmother ;  a 
young  man  and  woman,  and  an  individual  addressed  by 
the  euphonious  title  of  "  Uncle  Bill,"  who  is  evidently 
the  wit  of  the  party.  They  have  some  half-dozen  chil- 
dren with  them,  but  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  notice  the 
fact,  for  that  is  a  matter  of  course  here.  Every  woman 
in  "  the  gardens,"  who  has  been  married  for  any  length 
of  time,  must  have  had  twins  on  two  or  three  occasions  ; 
it  is  impossible  to  account  for  the  extent  of  juvenile 
population  in  any  other  way. 


Observe  tlio  inexpressible  delight  of  the  old  grand- 
mother, at  Uncle  Bill's  splendid  joke  of  "  tea  for  four  : 
bread  and  butter  for  forty  ;"  and  the  loud  explosion  of 
mirth  which  follows  his  wafering  a  paper  "  pigtail"  on 
the  waiter's  collar.  The  young  man  is  evidently 
"  keeping  company  "  with  Uncle  Bill's  niece:  and  Un- 
cle Bill's  hints— such  as  "  Don't  forget  me  at  the  din- 
ner, you  know,"  "I  shall  look  out  for  the  cake,  Sally," 
"  I'll  be  god-father  to  your  first— wager  it's  a  boy,"  and 
so  forth,  are  equally  embarrassing  to  the  young  people, 
and  delightful  to  the  elder  ones.  As  to  the  old  grand- 
mother, she  is  in  perfect  ecstacies,  and  does  nothing  but 
laugh  herself  into  fits  of  coughing,  until  they  have 
finished  the  "  gin-and-water  warm  with,"  of  which 
Uncle  Bill  ordered  "glasses  round"  after  tea,  "just 
to  keep  the  night  air  out,  and  do  it  up  comfortable  and 
riglar  arter  sitch  an  as-tonishing  hot  day  !" 

It  is  getting  dark,  and  the  people  begin  to  move.  The 
field  leading  to  town  is  quite  full  of  them;- the  little 
hand-chaises  are  dragged  wearily  along,  the  children 
are  tired,  and  amuse  themselves  and  the  company  gen- 
erally by  crying,  or  resort  to  the  much  more  ])leasant 
expedient  of  going  to  sleep — the  mothers  begin  to  wish 
they  were  at  home  again — sweethearts  grow  more  senti- 
mental than  ever,  as  the  time  for  parting  arrives — the 
gardens  look  mournful  enough  by  the  light  of  the  two 
lanterns  which  hang  against  the  trees  for  the  conveni- 
ence of  smokers — and  the  waiters,  who  have  been  run- 
ning about  incessantly  for  the  last  six  hours,  think  they 
feel  a  little  tired,  as  they  count  their  glasses  and  their 
gains. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  Eiver. 

"Are  you  fond  of  the  water?"  is  a  question  very  fre- 
quently asked,  in  hot  summer  weather,  by  amphibious 
looking  young  men.  "  Very,"  is  the  general  reply.  "  An't 
you  !" — "Hardly  ever  off  it,"  is  the  response,  accom- 
panied by  sundry  adjectives,  expressive  of  the  speaker's 
heartfelt  admiration  of  that  element.  Now,  with  all 
respect  for  the  opinion  of  society  in  general,  and  cutter 
clubs  in  particular,  we  humbly  suggest  that  some  of 
the  most  painful  reminiscences  in  the  mind  of  every  indi- 
vidual who  has  occasionally  disported  himself  on  the 
Thames,  must  be  connected  with  his  aquatic  recreations. 
Who  ever  heard  of  a  successful  water-party  ? — or  to  put 
the  question  in  a  still  more  intelligible  form,  who  ever 
saw  one  ?  We  have  been  on  water  excursions  out  of 
number,  but  we  solemnly  declare  that  we  cannot  call  to 
mind  one  single  occasion  of  the  kind,  w^hich  was  not 
marked  by  more  miseries  than  any  one  would  suppose 
could  reasonably  be  crowded  into  the  space  of  some  eight 
or  nine  hours.  Something  has  always  gone  wrong.  Either 
the  cork  of  the  salad-dressing  has  come  out,  or  the  most 
anxiously  expected  member  of  the  party  has  not  come 
out,  or  the  most  disagreeable  man  in  company  would 
come  out,  or  a  child  or  two  have  fallen  into  the  water, 
or  the  gentleman  who  undertook  to  steer  has  endan- 
gered every  body's  life  all  the  way,  or  the  gentlemen 
who  volunteered  to  row  have  been  "  out  of  practice,'* 
and  performed  very  alarming  evolutions,  putting  their 
oars  down  into  the  water  and  not  being  able  to  get  them 
up  again,  or  taking  terrific  pulls  without  putting  them 
in  at  all  ;  in  either  case,  pitching  over  on  the  backs  of 
their  heads  with  startling  violence,  and  exhibiting  the 
soles  of  their  pumps  to  the  "sitters"  in  the  boat,  in  a 
very  humiliating  manner. 

We  grant  that  the  banks  of  the  Thames  are  very 
beautiful  at  Richmond  and  Twickenham,  and  other  dis- 
tant havens,  often  sought  though  seldom  reached  ;  but 
from  the  "Red-us"  back  to  Blackfiiar's-bridge,  the 
scene  is  Avonderfully  changed.  The  Penitentiary  is  a 
noble  building,  no  doubt,  and  the  sportive  youths  who 
"  go  in"  at  that  particular  part  of  the  river,  on  a  sum- 
mer's evening,  may  be  all  very  well  in  perspective  ;  but 
when  you  are  obliged  to  keep  in  shore  coming  home, 
and  the  young  ladies  Avill  colour  up,  and  look  persever- 
ingly  the  other  way,  while  the  married  dittoes  cough 
slightly  and  stare  very  hard  at  the  water,  you  feel  awk- 


862 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


ward — especially  if  you  happen  to  have  been  attempt- 
ing the  most  distant  approach  to  sentimentality,  for  an 
hour  or  two  previously. 

Although  experience  and  suffering  have  produced  in 
our  minds  the  result  we  have  just  stated,  we  are  by  no 
means  blind  to  a  proper  sense  of  the  fun  which  a  looker- 
on  may  extract  from  the  amateurs  of  boating.  What 
can  be  more  amusing  than  Searle's  yard  on  a  fine  Sunday 
morning  ?  It's  a  Richmond  tide,  and  some  dozen  boats 
are  preparing  for  the  reception  of  the  parties  who  have 
engaged  them.  Two  or  three  fellows  in  great  rough 
trousers  and  Guernsey  shirts,  are  getting  them  ready  by 
easy  stages  ;  now  coming  down  the  yard  Avith  a  pair  of 
sculls  and  a  cushion — then  having  a  chat  with  the 
"jack,"  who,  like  all  his  tribe,  seems  to  be  wholly  inca- 
pable of  doing  anything  but  lounging  about — then  going 
back  again,  and  returning  with  a  rudder-line  and  a 
stretcher — then  solacing  themselves  with  another  chat — 
and  then  wondering,  with  their  hands  in  their  capacious 
pockets,  "where  them  gentlemen's  got  to  as  ordered  the 
six."  One  of  these,  the  head  man,  with  the  legs  of  his 
trousers  carefully  tucked  up  at  the  bottom,  to  admit  the 
water,  we  presume — for  it  is  an  element  in  which  he  is 
infinitely  more  at  home  than  on  land — is  quite  a  charac- 
ter, and  shares  with  the  defunct  oyster-swallower  the 
celebrated  n^ame  of  "Dando."  Watch  him,  as  taking  a 
few  minutes'  respite  from  his  toils,  he  negligently  seats 
himself  on  the  edge  of  a  boat,  and  fans  his  broad  bushy 
chest  with  a  cap  scarcely  half  so  furry.  Look  at  his 
magnificent,  though  reddish  whiskers,  and  mark  the 
somewhat  native  humour  with  which  he  "chaffs"  the 
boys  and  'prentices,  or  cunningly  gammons  the  gen'lm'n 
into  the  gift  of  a  glass  of  gin,  of  which  we  vbrily  believe 
he  swallows  in  one  day  as  much  as  any  six  ordmary  men, 
without  ever  being  one  atom  the  worse  for  it. 

But  the  party  arrives,  and  Dando  relieved  from  his 
state  of  uncertainty,  starts  up  into  activity.  They  ap- 
proach in  full  aquatic  costume,  with  round  blue  jackets, 
striped  shirts,  and  caps  of  all  sizes  and  patterns,  from 
the  velvet  skull-cap  of  French  manufacture,  to  the  easy 
head-dress  familiar  to  the  students  of  the  old  spelling- 
books,  as  having,  on  the  authority  of  the  portrait,  formed 
part  of  the  costume  of  the  Reverend  Mr,  Dilwortli, 

This  is  the  most  amusing  time  to  observe  a  regular 
Sunday  water-party.  There  has  evidently  been  up  to 
this  period  no  inconsiderable  degree  of  boasting  on  every- 
body's part  relative  to  his  knowledge  of  navigation  ;  the 
sight  of  the  water  rapidly  cools  their  courage,  and  the 
air  of  self-denial  with  which  each  of  them  insists  on 
somebody  else's  taking  an  oar,  is  perfectly  delightful. 
At  length,  after  a  great  deal  of  changing  and  fidgeting, 
consequent  upon  the  election  of  a  stroke  oar  :  the  inability 
of  one  gentleman  to  pull  on  this  side,  of  another  to  pull 
on  that,  and  of  a  third  to  pull  at  all,  the  boat's  crew  are 
seated.  "  Shove  her  off  ! "  cries  the  coxswain,  who  looks 
as  easy  and  comfortable  as  if  he  were  steering  in  the 
Bay  of  Biscay.  The  order  is  obeyed  ;  the  boat  is  imme- 
diately turned  completely  round,  and  proceeds  towards 
Westminster  Bridge,  amidst  such  a  splashing  and  strug- 
gling as  never  was  seen  before,  except  when  the  Royal 
George  went  down,  "  Back  wa'ater,  sir,"  shouts  Dando, 
"Back  wa'ater,  you  sir,  aft  ;"  upon  which  everybody 
thinking  he  must  be  the  individual  referred  to,  they  all 
back  water,  and  back  comes  the  boat  stern  first,  to  the 
spot  whence  it  started.  "  Back  water,  you  sir,  aft  ;  pull 
round,  you  sir,  for'ad,  can't  you?"  shouts  Dando,  in  a 
frenzy  of  excitement.  "Pull  round,  Tom,  can't  you?" 
re-echoes  one  of  the  party.  "Tom  an't  for'ad,"  replies 
another.  "Yes,  he  is,"  cries  a  third  ;  and  the  unfortu- 
nate young  man,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  breaking  a 
blood-vessel,  pulls  and  pulls,  until  the  head  of  the  boat 
fairly  lies  in  the  direction  of  Vauxhall-bridge,  "  That's 
right — now  pull  all  on  you  !  "  shouts  Dando  again,  adding 
in  an  under  tone,  to  somebody  by  him,  "Blowed  if  hever 
I  see  sich  a  set  of  muffs  !  "  and  away  jogs  the  boat  in  a 
zigzag  direction,  every  one  of  the  six  oars  dipping  into 
the  water  at  a  different  time  ;  and  the  yard  is  once  more 
clear,  until  the  arrival  of  the  next  party. 

A  well-contested  rowing-match  on  the  Thames,  is  a 
very  lively  and  interesting  scene.  The  water  is  studded 
with  boats  of  all  sorts,  kinds,  and  descriptions  ;  places 
in  the  coal-barges  at  the  different  wliarfs  are  let  to 


crowds  of  spectators,  beer  and  tobacco  flow  freely  about ; 
men,  women,  and  children  wait  for  the  start  in  breathless 
expectation,  cutters  of  six  and  eight  oars  glide  gently  up 
and  down,  waiting  to  accompany  their  proteges  during 
the  race  ;  bands  of  music  add  to  the  animation,  if  not  to 
the  harmony  of  the  scene,  groups  of  watermen  are 
assembled  at  the  different  stairs,  discussing  the  merits  of 
the  respective  candidates :  and  the  prize  wherry  which 
is  rowed  slowly  about  by  a  pair  of  sculls,  is  an  object  of 
general  interest. 

Two  o'clock  strikes,  and  everybody  looks  anxiously  in 
the  direction  of  the  bridge  through  which  the  candidates 
for  the  prize  will  come — half-past  two,  and  the  general 
attention  which  has  been  preserved  so  long  begins  to 
flag,  when  suddenly  a  gun  is  heard,  and  the  noise  of  dis- 
tant hurra'ing  along  each  bank  of  the  river — every  head 
is  bent  forward — the  noise  draAvs  nearer  and  nearer — 
the  boats  which  have  been  waiting  at  the  bridge  start 
briskly  up  the  river,  and  a  Avell-manned  galley  shoot? 
through  the  arch,  the  sitters  cheering  on  the  boats  behind 
them,  which  are  not  yet  visible. 

"Here  they  are,"  is  the  general  cry — and  through 
darts  the  first  boat,  the  men  in  her  stripped  to  the  skin, 
and  exerting  every  muscle  to  preserve  the  advantage 
they  have  gained — four  other  boats  follow  close  astern  ; 
there  are  not  tAvo  boats'  length  betAveen  them — the 
shouting  is  tremendous,  and  the  interest  intense.  "  Go 
on.  Pink" — "Give  it  her.  Red" — "  Sulliwin  for  ever" 
— "  Brav^o  !  George" — "Now,  Tom,  now — noAv — noAv — 
why  don't  your  partner  stretch  out  ?  "— "  Two  pots  to  a 
pint  on  YelloAv,"  &c.  &c.  Every  little  public-house  fires 
its  gun,  and  hoists  its  flag ;  and  the  men  Avho  Avin  the 
heat,  come  in,  amidst  a  splashing  and  shouting,  and 
banging  and  confusion,  which  no  one  can  imagine  who 
has  not  witnessed  it,  and  of  which  any  description  would 
couA^ey  a  very  faint  idea. 

One  of  the  most  amusing  places  we  know,  is  the  steam- 
Avharf  of  the  London  Bridge,  or  St.  Katherine's  Dock 
Company,  on  a  Saturday  morning  in  summer,  when  the 
GraA'esend  and  Margate  steamers  are  usually  crowded  to 
excess  ;  and  as  we  have  just  taken  a  glance  at  the  river 
aboA^e  bridge,  we  hope  our  readers  will  not  object  to  ac- 
company us  on  board  a  Gravesend  packet. 

Coaches  are  eA^ery  moment  setting  doAvn  at  the  entrance 
to  the  Avharf,  and  the  stare  of  bewildered  astonishment 
with  Avhich  the  "fares"  resign  themselves  and  their 
luggage  into  the  hands  of  the  porters,  who  seize  all  the 
packages  at  once  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  run  away 
Avith  them,  heaven  knoAvs  where,  is  laughable  in  the 
extreme.  A  Margate  boat  lies  alongside  the  wharf,  the 
Gravesend  boat  (which  starts  first)  lies  alongside  that 
again  ;  and  as  a  temporary  communication  is  formed  be- 
tween the  two,  by  means  of  a  plank  and  a  hand-rail, 
the  natural  confusion  of  the  scene  is  by  no  means  di- 
minished. 

"  Gravesend  ?  "  inquires  a  stout  father  of  a  stout  fam- 
ily, who  folloAv  him,  under  the  guidance  of  their  mother, 
and  a  servant,  at  the  no  small  risk  of  two  or  three  of 
them  being  left  behind  in  the  confusion.  "  Gravesend  ?  " 

"Pass  on,  if  you  please,  sir,"  replies  the  attendant — 
"  other  boat,  sir." 

"'  Hereupon  the  stout  father,  being  rather  mystified, 
and  the  stout  mother  rather  distracted  by  maternal  an- 
xiety, the  whole  party  deposit  themselves  in  the  Mar- 
gate boat,  and  after  having  congratulated  himself  on 
having  secured  A^ery  comfortable  seats,  the  stout  father 
sallies  to  the  chimney  to  look  for  his  luggage,  which  he 
has  a  faint  recollection  of  having  given  some  man  some- 
thing, to  take  somewhere.  No  luggage,  hoAvever,  bear- 
ing the  most  remote  resemblance  to  his  oWn,  in  shape  or 
form,  is  to  be  discoA'ered  ;  on  Avhich  the  stout  father 
calls  very  loudly  for  an  officer,  to  whom  he  states  the 
case,  in  the  presence  of  another  father  of  another  family 
— a  little  thin  man — who  entirely  concurs  Avith  him  (the 
stout  father,)  in  thinking  that  it's  high  time  something 
was  done  with  these  steam  companies,  and  that  as  the 
Corporation  Bill  failed  to  do  it,  something  else  must  ; 
for  really  peoi)le's  property  is  not  to  be  sacrificed  in  this 
way  ;  and  that  if  the  luggage  isn't  restored  Avithout  de- 
lay, he  will  take  care  it  shall  be  put  in  the  papers,  for 
the  public  is  not  to  be  the  victim  of  these  great  monopo- 
lies.   To  this,  the  ofiicer  in  his  turn,  replies,  that  that 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


863 


company  ever  since  it  has  been  St.  Kat'rine's  Dock 
Company,  has  protected  life  and  property ;  that  if 
it  had  been  the  London  Bridge  Wharf  Company,  indeed 
he  shouldn't  have  wondered,  seeing  that  the  morality 
of  that  Company  (they  being  the  opposition)  can't  be 
answered  for,  by  no  one  ;  but  as  it  is,  he  is  con- 
vinced that  there  must  be  some  mistake,  and  he 
wouldn't  mind  making  a  solemn  oath  afore  a  magis- 
trate, that  the  gentleman'll  find  his  luggage  afore  he 
gets  to  Margate. 

Here  the  stout  father,  thinking  he  is  making  a  capital 
point,  replies,  that  as  it  happens,  he  is  not  going  to  Mar- 
gate at  all,  and  that  "  Passenger  to  Gravesend"  was  on 
the  luggage,  in  letters  of  full  two  inches  long  :  on  which 
the  officer  rapidly  explains  the  mistake,  and  the  stout 
mother,  and  the  stout  children,  and  the  servant,  are 
hurried  with  all  possible  despatch  on  board  the  Graves- 
end  boat,  which  they  reach  just  in  time  to  discover  that 
their  luggage  is  there,  and  that  their  comfortable  seats 
are  not.  "Then  the  bell,  which  is  the  signal  for  the 
Gravesend  boat  starting,  begins  to  ring  most  furiously  : 
and  people  keep  time  to  the  bell,  by  running  in  and  out 
of  our  boat  at  a  double-quick  pace.  The  bell  stops  ;  the 
boat  starts  .  people  who  have  been  taking  leave  of  their 
friends  on  board,  are  carried  away  against  their  will ; 
and  people  who  have  been  taking  leave  of  their  friends 
on  shore,  find  that  they  have  performed  a  very  need- 
less ceremony,  in  consequence  of  their  not  being 
carried  away  at  all.  The  regular  passengers,  who 
have  season-tickets,  go  below  to  breakfast  ;  people 
who  have  purchased  morning  papers,  compose  them- 
selves to  read  them  ;  and  people  who  have  not  been 
down  the  river  before,  think  that  both  the  ship- 
ping and  the  water  look  a  great  deal  better  at  a  dis- 
tance. 

When  we  get  down  about  as  far  as  Blackwall,  and 
begin  to  move  at  a  quicker  rate,  the  spirits  of  the  pas- 
sengers appear  to  rise  in  proportion.  Old  women  who 
have  brought  large  wicker  hand-baskets  with  them,  set 
seriously  to  work  at  the  demolition  of  heavy  sandwiches, 
and  pass  round  a  wine-glass,  which  is  frequently  replen- 
ished from  a  flat  bottle  like  a  stomach-warmer,  with 
considerable  glee  :  handing  it  first  to  the  gentleman  in 
the  foraging  cap,  who  plays  the  harp — partly  as  an  ex- 
pression of  satisfaction  with  his  previous  exertions,  and 
partly  to  induce  him  to  play  "  Dumbledumb-deary,"  for 
"  Alick"  to  dance  to  ;  which  being  done,  Alick,  who  is 
a  damp  earthy  child  in  red  worsted  socks,  takes  certain 
small  jumps  upon  the  deck,  to  the  unspeakable  satis- 
faction of  his  family  circle.  Girls  who  have  brought  the 
first  volume  of  some  new  novel  in  their  reticule,  become 
extremely  plaintive,  and  expatiate  to  Mr.  Brown  or  young 
Mr.  O'Brien,  who  has  been  looking  over  them,  on  the 
blueness  of  the  sky,  and  brightness  of  the  water  ;  on 
which  Mr.  Brown  or  Mr.  O'Brien,  as  the  case  may  be, 
remarks  in  a  low  voice  that  he  had  been  quite  insensible 
of  late  to  the  beauties  of  nature— that  his  whole  thoughts 
and  wishes  have  centred  in  one  object  alone — where- 
upon the  young  lady  looks  up,  and  failing  in  her  at- 
tempt to  appear  unconscious,  looks  down  again  :  and 
turns  over  the  next  leaf  with  great  difficulty,  in  order  to 
afEord  opportunity  for  a  lengthened  pressure  of  the 
hand. 

Telescopes,  sandwiches,  and  glasses  of  brandy-and- 
water  cold  without,  begin  to  be  in  great  requisition  ;  and 
bashful  men  who  have  been  looking  down  the  hatchway 
at  the  engine,  find,  to  their  great  relief,  a  subject  on 
which  they  can  converse  with  one  another — and  a  copious 
one  too — Steam. 

"  Wonderful  thing  steam,  sir."  "  Ah  I  (a  deep-drawn 
sigh)  it  is  indeed,  sir,"  "Great  power,  sir."  "Im- 
mense— immense  !  "  "  Great  deal  done  by  steam,  sir." 
*'  Ah  !  (another  sigh  at  the  immensity  of  the  subject,  and 
a  knowing  shake  of  the  head)  you  may  say  that,  sir." 
"Still  in  its  infancy,  they  say,  sir."  Novel  remarks  of 
this  kind,  are  generally  the  commencement  of  a  con- 
versation which  is  prolonged  until  the  conclusion  of  the 
trip,  and,  perhaps,  lays  the  foundation  of  a  speaking 
acquaintance  between  half  a  dozen  gentlemen,  who, 
having  their  families  at  Gravesend,  take  season-tickets' 
for  the  boat,  and  dine  on  board  regularly  every  after-  ! 
noon.  I 


CHAPTER  XI. 
A8Uey''8. 

We  never  see  any  very  large,  staring,  black  Roman 
capitals,  in  a  book,  or  shop-window,  or  placarded  on  a 
wall,  without  their  immediately  recalling  to  our  mind  an 
indistinct  and  confused  recollection  of  the  time  when 
we  were  first  initiated  in  the  mysteries  of  the  alphabet. 
We  almost  fancy  we  sec  the  pin's  point  following  the 
letter,  to  impress  its  form  more  strongly  on  our  be- 
wildered imagination  ;  and  wince  involuntarily,  as  we 
remember  the  hard  knuckles  with  which  the  reverend 
old  lady  who  instilled  into  our  mind  the  first  principles 
of  education  for  ninepence  per  week,  or  ten  and  sixpence 
per  quarter,  was  wont  to  poke  our  juvenile  head  occa- 
sionally, by  way  of  adjusting  the  confusion  of  ideas  in 
which  we  were  generally  involved.  The  same  kind  of 
feeling  pursues  us  in  many  other  instances,  but  there  is 
no  place  which  recalls  so  strongly  our  recollections  of 
childhood  as  Astley's.  It  was  not  a  "Royal  Amphi- 
theatre "  in  those  days,  nor  had  Ducrow  arisen  to  shed 
the  light  of  classic  taste  and  portable  gas  over  the  saw- 
dust of  the  circus  ;  but  the  whole  character  of  the  place 
was  the  same,  the  pieces  were  the  same,  the  clown's 
jokes  were  the  same,  the  riding-masters  were  equally 
grand,  tl^e  comic  performers  equally  witty,  the  trage- 
dians equ'ally  hoarse,  and  the  "  highly-trained  chargers" 
equally  spirited.  Astley's  has  altered  for  the  better — 
we  have  changed  for  the  worse.  Our  histrionic  taste  is 
gone,  and  with  shame  we  confess,  that  we  are  far  more 
delighted  and  amused  with  the  audience,  than  with 
the  pageantry  we  once  so  highly  appreciated. 

We  like  to  watch  a  regular  Astley's  party  in  the  Easter 
or  Midsummer  holidays — pa  and  ma,  and  nine  or  ten 
children,  varying  from  five  foot  six  to  two  foot  eleven  ; 
from  fourteen  years  of  age  to  four.  We  had  just  taken 
our  seat  in  one  of  the  boxes,  in  the  centre  of  the  house, 
the  other  night,  when  the  next  was  occupied  by  just  such 
a  party  as  we  should  have  attempted  to  describe, 
had  we  depicted  our  beau  ideal  of  a  group  of  Astley's 
visitors. 

First  of  all,  there  came  three  little  boys  and  a  little 
girl,  who  in  pursuance  of  pa's  directions,  issued  in  a 
very  audible  voice  from  the  box-door,  occupied  the  front 
row  ;  then  two  more  little  girls  were  ushered  in  by  a 
young  lady,  evidently  the  governess.  Then  came  three 
more  little  boys,  dressed  like  the  first,  in  blue  jackets 
and  trousers,  with  lay-down  shirt-collars  :  then  a  child 
in  a  braided  frock  and  high  state  of  astonishment,  with 
very  large  round  eyes,  open  to  their  utmost  width,  was 
lifted  over  the  seats — a  process  which  occasioned  a  con- 
siderable display  of  the  little  pink  legs — then  came  ma 
and  pa,  and  then  the  eldest  son,  a  boy  of  fourteen  years 
old,  who  was  evidently  trying  to  look  as  if  he  did  not 
belong  to  the  family. 

The  first  five  minutes  were  occupied  in  taking  the 
shawls  oft  the  little  girls,  and  adjusting  the  bows  which 
ornamented  their  hair  ;  then  it  was  providentially  dis- 
covered that  one  of  the  little  boys  was  seated  behind  a 
pillar  and  could  not  see,  so  the  governess  was  stuck  be- 
hind the  pillar,  and  the  boy  lifted  into  her  place.  Then 
pa  drilled  the  boys,  and  directed  the  stowing  away  of 
their  pocket-handkerchiefs  ;  and  ma  having  nodded  and 
v/inked  to  the  governess  to  pull  the  girls'  frocks  a  lit- 
tle more  off  their  shoulders,  stood  up  to  review  the  lit- 
tle troop — an  inspection  which  appeared  to  terminate 
much  to  her  own  satisfaction,  for  she  looked  with  a  com- 
placent air  at  pa,  who  was  standing  up  at  the  further 
end  of  the  seat.  Pa  returned  the  glance,  and  blew  his 
nose  very  emphatically  ;  and  the  poor  governess  peeped 
out  from  behind  the  pillar,  and  timidly  tried  to  catch 
ma's  eye,  with  a  look  expressive  of  her  high  admira- 
tion of  the  whole  family.  Then  two  of  the  little  boys 
who  had  been  discussing  the  point  whether  Astley's 
was  more  than  twice  as  large  as  Drury-lane,  agreed  to 
refer  it  to  "George,"  for  his  decision;  and  which 
"  George,"  who  was  no  other  than  the  young  gentleman 
before  noticed,  waxed  indignant,  and  remonstrated  in  no 
'  very  gentle  terms  on  the  gross  impropriety  of  having 
!  his  name  repeated  in  so  loud  a  voice  at  a  public  place, 
j  on  which  all  the  children  laughed  very  heartily,  and  one 


864 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


of  the  little  boys  wound  up  by  expressing  Ws  opinion, 
that  "  George  began  to  think  himself  quite  a  man  now," 
whereupon  both  pa  and  ma  laughed  too  ;  and  George 
(who  carried  a  dress  cane  and  was  cultivating  whiskers) 
muttered  that  "  William  always  was  encouraged  in  his 
impertinence  ;"  and  assumed  a  look  of  profound  con- 
tempt, which  lasted  the  whole  evening. 

The  play  began  and  the  interest  of  the  little  boys 
knew  no  bounds.  Pa  was  clearly  interested  too,  al- 
though he  very  unsuccessfully  endeavoured  to  look  as 
if  he  wasn't.  As  for  ma,  she  was  perfectly  overcome 
by  the  drollery  of  the  principal  comedian,  and  laughed 
till  every  one  of  the  immense  bows  on  her  ample  cap 
trembled,  at  which  the  governess  peeped  out  from  be- 
hind the  pillar  again,  and  whenever  she  could  catch  ma's 
eye,  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth,  and  appeared, 
as  in  duty  bound,  to  be  in  convulsions  of  laughter  also. 
Then  when  the  man  in  the  splendid  armour  vowed  to 
rescue  the  lady  or  perish  in  the  attempt,  the  little  boys 
applauded  vehemently,  especially  one  little  fellow  who 
was  apparently  on  a  visit  to  the  family,  and  had  been 
carrying  on  a  child's  flirtation,  the  whole  evening,  with 
a  small  coquette  of  twelve  years  old,  who  looked  like  a 
model  of  her  mamma  on  a  reduced  scale  ;  and  who  in 
common  with  the  other  little  girls  (who  generally  speak- 
ing have  even  more  coquettishness  about  them  than  much 
older  ones)  looked  very  properly  shocked,  when  the 
knight's  squire  kissed  the  princess's  confidential  cham- 
ber-maid. 

When  the  scenes  in .  the  circle  commenced,  the  chil- 
dren were  more  delighted  than  ever  ;  and  the  wish  to 
see  what  was  going  forward,  completely  conquering  pa's 
dignity,  he  stood  up  in  the  box,  and  applauded  as  loudly 
as  any  of  them.  Between  each  feat  of  horsemanship, 
the  governess  leant  across  to  ma,  and  retailed  the  clever 
remarks  of  the  children  on  that  which  had  preceded  : 
and  ma,  in  the  openness  of  her  heart,  offered  the  gover- 
ness an  acidulated  drop,  and  the  governess,  gratified  to 
be  taken  notice  of,  retired  behind  her  pillar  again,  with 
a  brighter  countenance  :  and  the  whole  party  seemed 
quite  happy,  except  the  exquisite  in  the  back  of  the 
box,  who,  being  too  grand  to  take  any  interest  in  the 
children,  and  too  insignificant  to  be  taken  notice  of  by 
any  body  else,  occupied  himself,  from  time  to  time,  in 
rubbing  the  place  where  the  whiskers  ought  to  be,  and 
was  completely  alone  in  his  glory. 

We  defy  any  one  who  has  been  to  Astley's  two  or  three 
times,  and  is  consequently  capable  of  appreciating  the 
perseverance  with  which  precisely  the  same  jokes  are 
repeated  night  after  night,  and  season  after  season,  not 
to  be  amused  with  one  part  of  the  performance  at  least 
— we  mean  the  scenes  in  the  circle.  For  ourself,  we 
know  that  when  the  hoop,  composed  of  jets  of  gas,  is 
let  down,  the  curtain  drawn  up  for  the  convenience  of 
the  half-price  on  their  ejectment  from  the  ring,  the 
orange-peel  cleared  away,  and  the  sawdust  shaken,  with 
mathematical  precision,  into  a  complete  circle,  we  feel 
as  much  enlivened  as  the  youngest  child  present  :  and 
actually  join  in  the  laugh  which  follows  the  clown's 
shrill  shoutof  "  Here  we  are  1"  just  for  old  acquaintance 
sake.  Nor  can  we  divest  ourself  of  our  old  feeling  of 
reverence  for  the  riding-master  who  follows  the  clown 
with  a  long  whip  in  his  hand,  and  bows  to  the  audience 
with  graceful  dignity.  He  is  none  of  your  second-rate 
riding-masters  in  nankeen  dressing-gowns,  with  brown 
frogs,  but  the  regular  gentleman-attendant  on  the  prin- 
cipal riders,  who  til  ways  wears  a  military  uniforn  with  a 
table-cloth  inside  the  breast  of  the  coat,  in  which  cos- 
tume he  forcibly  reminds  one  of  a  fowl  trussed  for 
roasting.  He  is — but  why  should  we  attempt  to  describe 
that  of  which  no  description  can  convey  an  adequate 
idea  ?  Everybody  knows  the  man,  and  everybody  re- 
members his  polislied  boots,  his  graceful  demeanour, 
stiff,  as  some  misjudging  persons  have  in  their  jealousy 
considered  it,  and  the  splendid  head  of  black  hair,  part- 
ed high  on  the  forehead,  to  impart  to  the  countenance 
an  ap])earance  of  deep  thought  and  poetic  melancholy. 
His  soft  and  pleasing  voice,  too,  is  in  perfect  unison 
with  his  noble  bearing,  as  he  humours  the  clown  by  in- 
dulging in  a  little  badinage  ;  and  the  striking  recollec- 
tion of  his  own  dignity,  with  which  he  exclaims,  "  Now, 
sir,  if  you  please,  inquire  for  Miss  Woolford,  sir,"  can 


never  be  forgotten.  The  graceful  air,  too  with  which 
he  introduces  Miss  Woolford  into  the  arena,  and  after 
assisting  her  to  the  saddle,  follows  her  fairy  courser 
round  the  circle,  can  never  fail  to  create  a  deep  impres- 
sion in  the  bosom  of  every  female  servant  present. 

When  Miss  Woolford,  and  the  horse,  and  the  orches- 
tra, all  stopped  together  to  take  breath,  he  urbanely 
takes  part  in  some  such  dialogue  as  the  following  (com- 
menced by  the  clown):  "I  say,  sir!" — "Well,  sir?" 
(it's  always  conducted  in  the  politest  manner,) — "Did 
you  ever  happen  to  hear  I  was  in  the  army,  sir?" — "  No, 
sir." — "Oh,  yes,  sir — I  can  go  though  my  exercise,  sir." 
— "  Indeed,  sir  !  "— "  Shall  I  do  it  now,  sir  ?"— "  If  you 
please,  sir  ;  come,  sir — make  haste"  (a  cut  with  the  long 
whip,  and  "Ha'  done  now — I  don't  like  it,"  (from  the 
clown).  Here  the  clown  throws  himself  on  the  ground, 
and  goes  through  a  variety  of  gymnastic  convulsions, 
doubling  himself  up,  and  untying  himself  again,  and 
making  himself  look  very  like  a  man  in  the  most  hope- 
less extreme  of  human  agony,  to  the  vociferous  delight 
of  the  gallery,  until  he  is  interrupted  by  a  second  cut 
from  the  long  whip,  and  a  request  to  see,  "what  Miss 
Woolford's  stopping  for  ?  "  On  which,  to  the  inexpressi- 
ble mirth  of  the  gallery,  he  exclaims,  "Now,  Miss 
Woolford,  what  can  I  come  for  to  go,  for  to  fetch,  for 
to  bring,  for  to  carry,  for  to  do,  for  you,  ma'am  ?  "  On 
the  lady's  announcing  with  a  sweet  smile  that  she  wants 
the  two  flags,  they  are  with  sundry  grimaces,  procured 
and  handed  up  ;  the  clown  facetiously  observing  after 
the  performance  of  the  latter  ceremony — "He,  he,  ho  ! 
I  say,  sir.  Miss  Woolford  knows  me  ;  she  smiled  at  me." 
Another  cut  from  the  whip,  a  burst  from  the  orchestra, 
a  start  from  the  horse,  and  round  goes  Miss  Woolford 
again  on  her  graceful  performance,  to  the  delight  of 
every  member  of  the  audience,  young  or  old.  The  next 
pause  affords  an  opportunity  for  similar  witticisms,  the 
only  additional  fun  being  that  of  the  clown  making  ludi- 
crous grimaces  at  the  riding-master  every  time  his  back 
is  turned ;  and  finally  quitting  the  circle  by  jumping 
over  his  head,  having  previously  directed  his  attention 
another  way. 

Did  any  of  our  readers  ever  notice  the  class  of  people, 
who  hang-  about  the  stage-doors  of  our  minor  theatres 
in  the  day-time.  You  will  rarely  pass  one  of  these  en- 
trances without  seeing  a  group  of  three  or  four  men 
conversing  on  the  pavement,  with  an  indescribable  pub- 
lic -  house  -  parlour  swagger,  and  a  kind  of  conscious 
air,  peculiar  to  people  of  this  description.  They  always 
seem  to  think  they  are  exhibiting  ;  the  lamps  are  ever 
before  them.  The  young  fellow  in  the  faded  brown  coat, 
and  very  full  light 'green  trousers,  pulls  down  the  wrist- 
bands of  his  check  shirt,  as  ostentatiously  as  if  it  were  of 
the  finest  linen,  and  cocks  the  white  hat  of  the  summer- 
before-last  as  knowingly  over  his  right  eye,  as  if  it  were 
a  purchase  of  yesterday.  Look  at  the  dirty  white  Berlin 
gloves,  and  the  cheap  silk-handkerchief  stuck  in  the 
bosom  of  his  threadbare  coat.  Is  it  possible  to  see  him 
for  an  instant,  and  not  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  is 
the  walking  gentleman  who  wears  a  blue  surtout,  clean 
collar,  and  white  trousers,  for  half  an  hour,  and  then 
shrinks  into  his  worn-out  scanty  clothes  :  who  has  to 
boast  night  after  night  of  his  splendid  fortune,  with  the 
painful  consciousness  of  a  pound  a- week  and  his  boots 
to  find  ;  to  talk  of  his  father's  mansion  in  the  country, 
with  a  dreary  recollection  of  his  own  two-pair  back  in 
the  New-Cut ;  and  to  be  envied  and  flattered  as  the 
favoured  lover  of  a  rich  heiress,  remembering  all  the 
while  that  the  ex- dancer  at  home  is  in  the  family  way, 
and  out  of  an  engagement. 

Next  to  him,  perhaps,  you  will  see  a  thin  pale  man, 
with  a  very  long  face,  in  a  suit  of  shining  black,  thought- 
fully knocking  that  part  of  his  boot  which  once  had  a 
heel,  with  an  ash  stick.  He  is  the  man  who  does  the 
heavy  business,  such  as  prosy  fathers,  virtuous  servants, 
curates,  landlords,  and  so  forth. 

By  the  way,  talking  of  fathers,  we  should  very  much 
like  to  see  some  piece  in  which  all  the  dramatis  personee 
were  orphans.  Fathers  are  invariably  great  nuisances 
on  the  stage,  and  always  have  to  give  the  hero  or  heroine 
a  long  explanation  of  what  was  done  before  the  curtain 
rose,  usually  commencing  with  "It  is  now  nineteen 
years,  my  child,  since  your  blessed  mother  (here  the  old 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


806 


villain's  voice  falters)  confided  you  to  my  charge.  You 
■were  then  an  infant,"  &c.,  &c.  Or  else  they  have  to 
discover,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  somebody  whom  they 
have  been  in  constant  conmiuni cation  with,  during  three 
long  acts,  without  the  slightest  suspicion,  is  their  own 
child:  in  which  case  they  exclaim,  "Ah!  what  do  I 
see?  This  bracelet  I  That  smile  I  These  documents  I 
Those  eyes  !  Can  I  believe  my  senses  ? — It  must  be  ! — 
Yes — it  is,  it  is  my  child!" — "My  father!"  exclaims 
the  child  ;  and  they  fall  into  each  other's  arms,  and  look 
over  each  other's  shoulders,  and  the  audience  give  three 
rounds  of  applause. 

To  return  from  this  digression,  we  were  about  to  say, 
that  these  are  the  sort  of  people  whom  you  see  talking, 
and  attitudinising,  outside  the  stage-doors  of  our  minor 
theatres.  At  Astley's  they  are  always  more  numerous 
than  at  any  other  place.  There  is  generally  a  groom  or 
two,  sitting  on  the  window-sill,  and  two  or  three  dirty, 
shabby-genteel  men  in  checked  neckerchiefs,  and  sallow 
linen,  lounging  about,  and  carrying,  perhaps,  under  one 
arm,  a  pair  of  stage  shoes  badly  wrapped  up  in  a  piece 
of  old  newspaper.  Some  years  ago  we  used  to  stand 
looking,  open-mouthed,  at  these  men,  with  a  feeling  of 
mysterious  curiosity,  the  very  recollection  of  which  pro- 
vokes a  smile  at  the  moment  we  are  writing.  We  could 
not  believe  that  the  beings  of  light  and  elegance,  in 
milk-white  tunics,  salmon-coloured  legs,  and  blue  scarfs, 
who  flitted  on  sleek  cream-coloured  horses  before  our 
eyes  at  night,  with  all  the  aid  of  lights,  music,  and  ar- 
tificial flowers,  could  be  the  pale,  dissipated-looking 
creatures  we  beheld  by  day. 

We  can  hardly  believe  it  now.  Of  the  lower  class  of 
actors  we^ave  seen  something,  and  it  requires  no  great 
exercise  of  imagination  to  identify  the  w  alking  gentle- 
man with  the  "  dirty  swell,"  the  comic  singer  with  the 
public-house  chairman,  or  the  leading  tragedian  with 
drunkenness  and  distress  ;  but  these  other  men  are 
mysterious  beings,  never  seen  out  of  the  ring,  never  be- 
held but  in  the  costume  of  gods  and  sylphs.  With  the 
exception  of  Ducrow,  who  can  scarcely  be  classed  among 
them,  who  ever  knew  a  rider  at  Astley's,  or  saw  him  but 
on  horseback?  Can  our  friend  in  the  military  uniform 
ever  appear  in  threadbare  attire,  or  descend  to  the  com- 
paratively un-wadded  costume  of  every-day  life  ?  Im- 
possible !    We  cannot — we  will  not — believe  it. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Greenwich  Fair. 

If  the  Parks  be  "  the  lungs  of  London,*'  we  wonder 
what  Greenwich  Fair  is — a  periodical  breaking  out,  we 
suppose,  a  sort  of  spring-rash  :  a  three  days  fever,  which 
cools  the  blood  for  six  months  aftei'wards,  and  at  the 
expiration  of  which  London  is  restored  to  its  old  habits 
of  plodding  industry,  as  suddenly  and  completely  as  if 
nothing  had  ever  happened  to  disturb  them. 

In  our  earlier  days,  we  were  a  constant  frequenter  of 
Greenwich  Fair  for  years.  We  have  proceeded  to,  and 
returned  from  it,  in  almost  every  description  of  vehicle. 
We  cannot  conscientiously  deny  the  charge  of  having 
once  made  the  passage  in  a  spring-van,  accompanied  by 
thirteen  gentleman,  fourteen  ladies,  an  unlimited  num- 
ber of  children,  and  a  barrel  of  beer  ;  and  we  have  a 
vague  recollection  of  having  in  later  days  found  ourself 
the  eighth  outside,  on  the  top  of  a  hackney-coach,  at 
something  past  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  a 
rather  confused  idea  of  our  own  name,  or  place  of  resi- 
dence. We  have  grown  older  since  then,  and  quiet,  and 
steady  :  liking  nothing  better  than  to  spend  our  Easter, 
and  all  our  other  holidays,  in  some  quiet  nook,  with 
people  of  whom  we  shall  never  tire  :  but  we  think  we 
still  remember  something  of  Greenwich  Fair,  and  of 
those  who  resort  to  it.    At  all  events  we  will  try. 

The  road  to  Greenwich,  during  the  whole  of  Easter 
Monday,  is  in  a  state  of  perpetual  bustle  and  noise. 
Cabs,  hackney-coaches,  "shay"  carts,  coal-wagons, 
stages,  omnibuses,  sociables,  gigs,  donkey-chaises — all 
crammed  with  people  (for  the  question  never  is,  what 
the  horse  can  draw,  but  what  the  vehicle  will  hold),  roll 
Vol.  II.— 55 


along  at  their  utmost  speed  ;  the  dust  flies  in  clouds, 
ginger-beer  corks  go  off  in  volleys,  the  balcony  of  every 
])ublic-house  is  crowded  with  people,  smoking  and 
drinking,  half  the  private  houses  aie  turned  into  tea- 
shops,  fiddles  are  in  great  request,  every  little  fruit-shop 
displays  its  stall  of  gilt  gingerbread  and  penny  toys  ; 
turnpike  men  are  in  despair  ;  horses  won't  go  on,  and 
wheels  will  come  off;  ladies  in  "  carawans "  scream 
with  fright  at  every  fresh  concussion,  and  their  admirers 
find  it  necessary  to  sit  remarkably  close  to  them,  by  way 
of  encouragement  ;  servants  of  all  work,  who  are  not 
allowed  to  have  followers,  and  have  got  a  holiday  for 
the  day,  make  the  most  of  their  time  with  the  faithful 
admirer  who  waits  for  a  stolen  interview  at  the  corner  of 
the  street  every  night,  when  they  go  to  fetch  the  beer — 
apprentices  grow  sentimental,  and  straw-bonnet  makers 
kind.  Everybody  is  anxious  to  get  on,  and  actuated  by 
the  common  wish  to  be  at  the  fair,  or  in  the  park,  as 
soon  as  possible. 

Pedestrians  linger  in  groups  at  the  roadside,  unable  to 
resist  the  allurements  of  the  stout  proprietresis  of  the 
"  Jack-in-the-box,  three  shies  a  penny,"  or  the  more 
splendid  offers  of  the  man  with  three  thimbles  and  a  pea 
on  a  little  round  board,  who  astonishes  the  bewildered 
crowd  with  some  such  address  as,  "  Here's  the  sort  o' 
game  to  make  you  laugh  seven  years  arter  you're  dead, 
and  turn  ev'ry  air  on  your  ed  gray  vith  delight  !  Three 
thimbles  and  vun  little  pea — with  a  vun,  two,  three,  and 
a  two,  three,  vun  ;  catch  him  who  can,  look  on,  keep 
your  eyes  open,  and  niver  say  die  !  niver  mind  the 
change  and  the  expense  :  all  fair  and  above  board  ; 
them  as  don't  play  can't  vin,  and  luck  attend  the  ryal 
sportsman  I  Bet  any  gen'lra'n  any  sum  of  money,  from 
liarf-a-crown  up  to  a  suverin,  as  he  doesn't  name  the 
thimble  as  kivers  the  pea  !  "  Here  some  greenhorn 
Avhispers  his  friend  that  he  distinctly  saw  the  pea  roll 
under  the  middle  thimble — an  impression  which  is  im- 
mediately confirmed  by  a  gentleman  in  top-boots,  who  is 
standing  by,  and  who,  in  a  low  tone,  regrets  his  own 
inability  to  bet  in  consequence  cf  having  unfortunately 
left  his  purse  at  home,  but  strongly  urges  the  stranger 
not  to  neglect  such  a  golden  opportunity.  The  "  plant" 
is  successful,  the  bet  is  made,  the  stranger  of  course 
loses  ;  and  the  gentleman  with  the  thimble  consoles  him, 
as  he  pockets  the  money,  with  an  assurance  that  it's  "  all 
the  fortin  of  war  !  this  time  I  vin,  next  time  you  vin  ; 
never  mind  the  loss  of  two  bob  and  a  bender  !  Do  it  up 
in  a  small  parcel,  and  break  out  in  a  fresh  place.  Here's 
the  sort  o'  game,"  &c. — and  the  eloquent  harangue, 
with  such  variations  as  the  speaker's  exuberant  fancy 
suggests,  is  again  repeated  to  the  gaping  crowd,  rein- 
forced by  the  accession  of  several  new-comers. 

The  chief  place  of  resort  in  the  day-time,  after  the 
public-houses,  is  in  the  park,  in  which  the  principal 
amusement  is  to  drag  young  ladies  up  the  steep  hill 
which  leads  to  the  observatory,  and  then  drag  them 
down  again,  at  the  very  top  of  their  speed,  greatly  ta 
the  derangement  of  their  curls  and  bonnet-caps,  "^and 
much  to  the  edification  of  lookers-on  from  below. 
"Kiss  in  the  Ring,"  and  "  Threading  my  Grandmother's 
Needle,"  too,  are  sports  which  receive  their  full  share 
of  patronage.  Love-sick  swains,  under  the  influence  of 
gin-and-water,  and  the  tender  passion,  become  violently 
affectionate  ;  and  the  fair  objects  of  their  regard  enhance 
the  value  of  stolen  kisses,  by  a  vast  deal  of  struggling, 
and  holding  down  of  heads,  and  cries  of  "  Oh  1  ha* 
done,  then,  George — Oh,  do  tickle  him  for  me,  Mary — 
Well  I  never  ! "  and  similar  Lucretian  ejaculations. 
Little  old  men  and  women,  with  a  small  basket  under 
one  arm,  and  a  wine-glass,  without  a  foot,  in  the  other 
hand,  tender  "  a  drop  'o  the  right  sort"  to  the  different 
groups  ;  and  young  ladies,  who  are  persuaded  to  indulge 
in  a  drop  of  the  aforesaid  right  sort,  display  a  pleasing- 
degree  of  reluctance  to  taste  it,  and  cough  afterwards 
with  great  propriety. 

The  old  pensioners,  who,  for  the  moderate  charge  of  a 
penny,  exhibit  the  mast-house,  the  Thames  and  ship- 
ping,' the  place  where  the  men  used  to  hang  in  chains, 
and  other  interesting  sights,  through  a  telescope,  are 
asked  questions  about  objects  within  the  range  of  the 
glass,  which  it  would  puzzle  a  Solomon  to  answer  ;  and 
requested  to  find  out  particular  houses  in  pxvrticular 


866 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


streets,  which  it  would  have  been  a  task  of  some  difti- 
culty  for  Mr.  Horner  (not  the  young  gentleman  who  ate 
mince  pies  with  his  thumb,  but  the  man  of  Colosseum 
notoriety)  to  discover.  Here  and  there,  where  some 
three  or  four  couple  are  sitting  on  the  grass  together, 
you  will  see  a  sun- burnt  woman  in  a  red  cloak  *'  telling 
fortunes  "  and  prophesying  husbands,  which  it  requires 
no  extraordinary  observation  to  describe,  for  the  origi- 
nals are  before  her.  Thereupon  the  lady  concerned 
laughs  and  blushes,  and  ultimately  buries  her  face  in  an 
imitation  cambric  handkerchief,  and  the  gentleman  de- 
scribed looks  extremely  foolish,  and  squeezes  her  hand, 
and  fees  the  gipsy  liberally  ;  and  the  gipsy  goes  away, 
perfectly  satisfied  herself,  and  leaving  those  behind  her 
perfectly  satisfied  also  :  and  the  prophecy,  like  many 
other  prophecies  of  greater  importance,  fulfils  itself  in 
time. 

But  it  .grows  dark  :  the  crowd  has  gradually  dispersed, 
and  only  a  few  stragglers  are  left  behind.  The  light  in 
the  direction  of  the  church  shows  that  the  fair  is  illumi- 
nated ;  and  the  distant  noise  proves  it  to  be  filling  fast. 
The  spot,  which  half  an  hour  ago  was  ringing  with  the 
shouts  of  boisterous  mirth,  is  as  calm  and  quiet  as  if 
nothing  could  ever  disturb  its  serenity  ;  the  fine  old 
trees,  the  majestic  bailding  at  their  feet,  with  the  noble 
river  beyond,  glistening  in  the  moonlight,  appear  in  all 
their  beauty,  and  under  their  most  favourable  aspect ; 
the  voices  of  the  boys,  singing  their  evening  hymn,  are 
borne  gently  on  the  air  ;  and  the  humblest  mechanic 
who  has  been  lingering  on  the  grass  so  pleasant  to  the 
feet  that  beat  the  same  dull  round  from  week  to  week  in 
the  paved  streets  of  London,  feels  proud  to  think  as  he 
surveys  the  scene  before  him,  that  he  belongs  to  the 
country  which  has  selected  such  a  spot  as  a  retreat  for 
its  oldest  and  best  defenders  in  the  decline  of  their 
lives. 

Five  minute's  walking  brings  you  to  the  fair  ;  a  scene 
calculated  to  awaken  very  different  feelings.  The  en- 
trance is  occupied  on  either  side  by  the  vendors  of  gin- 
gerbread and  toys  :  the  stalls  are  gaily  lighted  up,  the 
most  attractive  goods  profusely  disposed,  and  unbon- 
neted  young  ladies,  in  their  zeal  for  the  interest  of  their 
employers,  seize  you  by  the  coat,  and  use  all  the  blan- 
dishments of  "Do,  dear" — "There's  a  love" — "Don't 
be  cross,  now,"  &c.,  to  induce  you  to  purchase  half  a 
pound  of  the  real  spice  nuts;  of  which  the  majority  of 
the  regular  fair-goers  carry  pound  or  two  as  a  present 
supply,  tied  up  in  a  cotton  pocket-handkerchief.  Occa- 
sionally you  pass  a  deal  table,  on  which  are  exposed 
pen'orths  of  pickled  salmon  (fennel  included),  in  little 
white  saucers  ;  oysters,  with  shells  as  large  as  cheese- 
plates,  and  divers  specimens  of  a  species  of  snail  {vyilks 
we  think  they  are  called),  floating  in  a  somewhat  bilious- 
looking  green  liquid.  Cigars,  too,  are  in  great  demand  ; 
gentlemen  must  smoke,  of  course,  and  here  they  are, 
two  a  penny,  in  a  regular  authentic  cigar-box,  with  a 
lighted  tallow  candle  in  the  centre. 

Imagine  yourself  in  an  extremely  dense  crowd,  which 
swings  you  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out,  and  every  way 
but  the  right  one  ;  add  to  this  the  screams  of  women, 
the  shouts  of  boys,  the  clanging  of  gongs,  the  firing  of 
pistols,  the  ringing  of  bells,  the  bellowings  of  speaking- 
trumpets,  the  squeaking  of  penny  dittos,  the  noise  of  a 
dozen  bands,  with  three  drums  in  each,  all  playing  dif- 
ferent tunes  at  the  same  time,  the  halloing  of  show- 
men, and  an  occasional  roar  from  the  wild-beast  shows  ; 
and  you  are  in  the  very  centre  and  heart  of  the  fair. 

This  immense  booth,  with  the  large  stage  in  front,  so 
brightly  illuminated  with  variegated  lamps,  and  pots  of 
burning  fat,  is  "  Richardson's,"  where  you  have  a 
melodrama  (with  three  murders  and  a  ghost),  a  panto- 
mime, a  comic  song,  an  overture,  and  some  incidental 
music,  all  done  in  live-and-twenty  minutes. 

The  company  are  now  promenading  outside  in  all  the 
dignity  of  wigs,  spangles,  red-ochre,  and  wliitening. 
See  with  what  a  ferocious  air  the  gentleman  who  per- 
sonates the  Mexican  chief,  paces  up  and  down,  and  with 
what  an  eye  of  calm  dignity  the  principal  tragedian 
gazes  on  the  crowd  below,  or  converses  confidentially 
with  the  harlequin  1  The  four  clowns,  who  are  en- 
gaged in  a  mock  broadsword  combat,  may  be  all  very 
well  for  the  low-minded  holiday-makers  ;*but  these  are 


the  people  for  the  reflective  portion  of  the  community. 
They  look  so  noble  in  those  Roman  dresses,  with  theii 
yellow  legs  and  arms,  long  black  curly  heads,  bushy 
eyebrows,  and  scowl  expressive  of  assassination,  and 
vengeance,  and  everything  else  that  is  grand  and  sol- 
emn. Then  the  ladies — were  there  ever  such  innocent 
and  awful-looking  beings  ;  as  they  walked  up  and  down 
the  platforms  in  twos  and  threes,  with  their  arms 
round  each  other's  waists,  or  leaning  for  support  on  one 
of  those  majestic  men  !  Their  spangled  muslin  dresses 
and  blue  satin  shoes  and  sandals  (a  leetle  the  worse  for 
wear)  are  the  admiration  of  all  beholders  ;  and  the  play- 
ful manner  in  which  they  check  the  advances  of ^the 
clown  is  perfectly  enchanting. 

"Just  a-going  to  begin!  Pray  come  for'erd,  come 
for'erd,"  exclaims  the  man  in  the  countryman's  dress, 
for  the  seventieth  time  :  and  people  force  their  way  up 
the  steps  in  crowds.  The  band  suddenly  strikes  up, 
the  harlequin  and  columbine  tei  the  example,  reels  are 
formed  in  less  than  no  time,  the  Roman  heroes  place 
their  arms  a-kimbo,  and  dance  with  considerable  agili- 
ty ;  and  the  leading  tragic  actress,  and  the  gentleman 
who  enacts  the  "swell"  in  the  pantomime,  foot  it  to 
perfection.  "All  in  to  begin,"  shouts  the  manager, 
when  no  more  people  can  be  induced  to  "  come  for'erd," 
and  away  rush  the  leading  members  of  the  company  to 
do  the  dreadful  in  the  first  piece. 

A  change  of  performance  takes  place  every  day  dur- 
ing the  fair,  but  the  story  of  the  tragedy  is  always 
pretty  much  the  same.  There  is  a  rightful  heir,  who 
loves  a  young  lady,  and  is  beloved  by  her  ;  and  a  wrong- 
ful heir,  who  loves  her  too,  and  isn't  beloved  by  her  ; 
and  the  wrongful  heir  gets  hold  of  the  rightful  heir, 
and  throws  him  into  a  dungeon,  just  to  kill  him  off 
when  convenient,  for  which  purpose  he  hires  a  couple 
of  assassins — a  good  one  and  a  bad  one — who,  the  mo- 
ment they  are  left  alone,  get  up  a  little  murder  on  their 
own  account,  the  good  one  killing  the  bad  one,  and  the 
bad  one  wounding  the  good  one.  Then  the  rightful 
heir  is  discovered  in  prison,  carefully  holding  a  long 
chain  in  his  hands,  and  seated  despondingly  in  a  large 
arm-chair  ;  and  the  young  lady  comes  in  to  two  bars  of 
soft  music,  and  embraces  the  rightful  heir  ;  and  then  the 
wrongful  heir  comes  in  to  two  bars  of  quick  music 
(technically  called  "a  hurry"),  and  goes  on  in  the  most 
shocking  manner,  throwing  the  young  lady  about  as  if 
she  was  nobody,  and  calling  the  rightful  heir  "  Ar- 
recreant — ar- wretch  !"  in  a  very  loud  voice,  which  an- 
swers the  double  purpose  of  displaying  his  passion,  and 
preventing  the  sound  being  deafened  by  the  sawdust. 
The  interest  becomes  intense  ;  the  wrongful  heir  draws 
his  sword,  and  rushes  on  the  rightful'  heir  ;  a  blue 
smoke  is  seen,  a  gong  is  heard,  and  a  tall  white  figure 
(who  has  been  all  this  time  behind  the  arm-chair,  cov- 
ered over  with  a  table-cloth),  slowly  rises  to- the  tune  of 
"  Oft  in  the  stilly  night."  This  is  no  other  than  the 
ghost  of  the  rightful  heir's  father,  who  was  killed  by 
the  wrongful  heir's  father,  at  sight  of  which  the  wrong- 
ful heir  becomes  apoplectic,  and  is  literally  struck  "  all 
of  a  heap,"  the  stage  not  being  large  enough  to  admit 
of  his  falling  down  at  full  length.  Then  the  good  as- 
sassin staggers  in,  and  says  he  was  hired  in  conjunction 
with  the  bad  assassin,  by  the  wrongful  heir,  to  kill  the 
rightful  heir ;  and  he's  killed  a  good  many  people  in 
his  time,  but  he's  very  sorry  for  it,  and  won't  do  so  any 
more — a  promise  which  he  immediately  redeems,  by  dy- 
ing off  hand,  without  any  nonsense  about  it.  Then  the 
rightful  heir  throws  down  his  chain  ;  and  then  two 
men,  a  sailor,  and  a  young  woman  (the  tenantry  of  the 
rightful  heir)  come  in,  and  the  ghost  makes  dumb  mo- 
tions to  them,  which  they,  by  supernatural  inference, 
understand — for  no  one  else  can  ;  and  the  ghost  (who 
can't  do  anything  without  blue  fire)  blesses  the  rightful 
heir  and  the  young  lady,  by  half  suffocating  them  with 
smoke  :  and  then  a  mufliu-bell  rings,  and  the  curtain 
drops. 

The  exhibitions  next  in  popularity  to  these  itinerant 
theatres  are  the  travelling  menageries,  or,  to  speak  more 
intelligibly,  the  "  Wild-beast  shows,"  where  a  military 
band  in  beef-eater's  costume,  with  leopard-skin  caps,  play 
incessantly  ;  and  where  large  highly  coloured  represen- 
tations of  tigers  tearing  men's  heads  open,  and  a  lion  be- 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


867 


ing  burnt  with  red-hot  irons  to  induce  him  to  drop  his 
victim,  are  hung  up  outside  by  way  of  attracting  visit- 
ors. 

The  principal  officer  at  these  places  is  generally  a  very 
tall,  hoarse  man,  in  a  scarlet  coat,  with  a  cane  in  his  hand, 
with  which  he  occasionally  raps  the  pictures  we  have 
just  noticed,  by  way  of  illustrating  his  description — 
something  in  this  way.  "Here,  here,  here  ;  the  ]ion, 
the  lion  (tap),  exactly  as  he  is  represented  on  the  canvas 
outside  (three  taps)  :  no  waiting,  remember  ;  no  decep- 
tion. The  fe-ro-cious  lion  (tap,  tap)  who  hit  off  the  gen- 
tleman's head  last  Cambervel  vos  a  twelvemonth,  and 
has  killed  on  the  awerage  three  keepers  a-year  ever  since 
he  arrived  at  matoority.  No  extra  charge  on  this  ac- 
f  count  recollect ;  the  price  of  admission  is  only  sixpence." 
This  address  never  fails  to  produce  a  considerable  sen- 
sation, and  sixpences  flow  into  the  treasury  with  won- 
derful rapidity. 

The  dwarfs  are  also  objects  of  great  curiosity,  and  as  a 
dwarf,  a  giantess,  a  living  skeleton,  a  wild  Indian,  "  a 
young  lady  of  singular  beauty,  with  perfectly  white  hair 
and  pink  eyes,"  and  two  or  three  other  natural  curiosi- 
ties, are  usually  exhibited  together  for  the  small  charge 
of  a  penny,  they  attract  very  numerous  audiences.  The 
best  thing  about  a  dwarf  is,  that  he  has  always  a  little 
box,  about  two  feet  six  inches  high,  into  which,  by  long 
practice,  he  can  just  manage  to  get,  by  doubling  himself 
up  like  a  boot-jack  ;  this  box  is  painted  outside  like  a 
six-roomed  house,  and  as  the  crowd  see  him  ring  a  bell, 
or  fire  a  pistol  out  of  the  first-floor  window,  they  verily 
believe  that  it  is  his  ordinary  town  residence,  divided 
like  other  mansions  into  drawing-rooms,  dining-parlour, 
and  bed  chambers.  Shut  up  in  this  case,  the  unfortu- 
nate little  object  is  brought  out  to  delight  the  throng  by 
holding  a  facetious  dialogue  with  the  proprietor  :  in  the 
course  of  which  the  dwarf  (who  is  always  particularly 
drunk),  pledges  himself  to  sing  a  comic  song  inside,  and 
pays  various  compliments  to  the  ladies,  which  induce 
.  them  to  "  come  for'erd  "  with  great  alacrity.  As  a  giant 
is  not  so  easily  moved,  a  pair  of  indescribables  of  most 
capacious  dimensions,  and  a  huge  shoe,  are  usually 
brought  out,  into  which  two'or  three  stout  men  get  all 
at  once,  to  the  enthusiastic  delight  of  the  crowd,  who  are 
quite  satisfied  with  the  solemn  assurance  that  these  ha- 
biliments form  part  of  the  giant's  every-day  costume. 

The  grandest  and  most  numerously  frequented  booth 
in  the  whole  fair,  however,  is  "  The  Crown  and  Anchor" 
— a  temporary  ball-room — we  forget  how  many  hundred 
feet  long,  the  price  of  admission  to  which  is  one  shilling. 
Immediately  on  your  right  hand  as  you  entor,  after  pay- 
ing your  money,  is  a  refreshment  place,  at  which  cold 
beef,  roast  and  boiled,  French  rolls,  stout,  wine,  tongue, 
ham,  even  fowls,  if  we  recollect  right,  are  displayed  in 
tempting  array.  There  is  a  raised  orchestra,  and  the 
place  is  boarded  all  the  way  down,  in  patches,  just  wide 
enough  for  a  country-dance. 

There  is  no  master  of  the  ceremonies  in  this  artificial 
Eden — all  is  primitive,  unreserved,  and  unstudied.  The 
dust  is  blinding,  the  heat  insupportable,  the  company 
somewhat  noisy,  and  in  the  highest  spirits  possible  :  the 
ladies,  in  the  height  of  their  innocent  animation,  dancing 
in  the  gentlemen's  hats,  and  the  gentlemen  promenading 
"the  gay  and  festive  scene"  in  the  ladies'  bonnets,  or 
with  the  more  expensive  ornaments  of  false  noses,  and 
low-crowned,  tinder-box  looking  hats  :  playing  children's 
drums,  and  accompanied  by  ladies  on  the  penny  trumpet. 

The  noise  of  these  various  instruments,  the  orchestra, 
the  shouting,  the  "scratchers"  and  the  dancing,  is  per- 
fectly bewildering.  The  dancing  itself,  beggars  descrip- 
j  tion — every  figure  lasts  about  an  hour,  and  the  ladies 
I  bounce  up  and  down  the  middle,  with  a  degree  of  spirit 
\  which  is  quite  indescribable.  As  to  the  gentlemen,  they 
stamp  their  feet  against  the  ground,  every  time  "hands 
four  round"  begins,  go  dov.'n  the  middle  and  up  again, 
with  cigars  in  their  mouths,  and  silk  handkerchiefs  in 
their  hands,  and  whirl  their  partners  round,  nothing 
loth,  scrambling  and  falling,  and  embracing,  and  knock- 
ing up  against  the  other  couples,  until  they  are  fairly 
tired  out,  and  can  move  no  longer.  The  same  scene  is 
repeated  again  and  again  (slightly  varied  by  an  occasion- 
al "  row")  until  a  late  hour  at  night  :  and  a  great  many 
clerks  and  'prentices  find  themselves  next  morning  with 


aching  heads,  empty  pockets,  damaged  hats,  and  a  very 
imperfect  recollection  of  how  it  was,  they  did  not  get 
home. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Private  Theatres. 

"RICHARD  THE  THIRD.— Duke  op  Glo'ster,  21  ; 
Earl  of  Richmond,  11.  ;  Duke  op  Buckingham,  15^.; 
Catesby,  128.  ;  Tressell,  lOs.  6cZ.  ;  Lord  Stanley, 
5s.  ;  Lord  Mayor  op  London,  2s.  Qd." 

Such  are  the  written  placards  wafered  up  in  the  gen- 
tlemen's dressing-room,  or  the  green  room  (where  there 
is  any),  at  a  private  theatre  ;  and  such  are  the  sums 
extracted  from  the  shop  till,  or  overcharged  in  the  office 
expenditure,  by  the  donkeys  who  are  prevailed  upon  to 
pay  for  permission  to  exhibit  their  lamentable  ignorance 
and  boobyism  on  the  stage  of  a  private  theatre.  This 
they  do,  in  proportion  to  the  scope  afforded  by  the  char- 
acter for  the  display  of  their  imbecility.  For  instance, 
the  Duke  of  Glo'ster  is  well  worth  two  pounds,  because 
he  has  it  all  to  himself  ;  he  must  wear  a  real  sword, 
and  what  is  better  still,  he  must  draw  it,  several  times  in 
the  course  of  the  piece.  The  soliloquies  alone  are  well 
worth  fifteen  shillings  ;  then  there  is  the  stabbing  King 
Henry — decidedly  cheap  at  three-and-sixpence,  that's 
eighteen-and-sixpence  ;  bullying  the  coffin  bearers — say 
eighteen-pence,  though  it's  worth  much  more— that's  a 
pound.  Then  the  love  scene  with  Lady  Ann,  and  the 
bustle  of  the  fourth  act,  can't  be  dear  at  ten  shillings 
more— that's  only  one  pound  ten, including  the  "  off  with 
his  head  !  " — which  is  sure  to  bring  down  the  applause, 
and  it  is  very  easy  to  do — "Orf  with  his  ed"  (very  quick 
and  loud  ; — then  slow  and  sneeringly) — "So  much  for 
Bu-u-u-uckingham  !  "  Lay  the  emphasis  on  the  "uck  ;" 
get  yourself  gradually  into  a  comer,  and  work  with  your 
right  hand,  while  you're  saying  it,  as  if  you  were  feeling 
your  way,  and  it's  sure  to  do.  The  tent  scene  is  con- 
fessedly worth  half-a-sovereign,  and  so  you  have  the 
fight  in,  gratis,  and  everybody  knows  what  an  effect  may 
be  produced  by  a  good  combat.  One — two — three — four 
--over;  then,  one — two  —  three — four — under;  then 
thrust ;  then  dodge  and  slide  about :  then  fall  down  on 
one  knee  ;  then  fight  upon  it ;  and  then  get  up  again 
and  stagger.  You  may  keep  on  doing  this,  as  long  as 
it  seems  to  take — say  ten  minutes — and  then  fall  down 
(backwards  if  you  can  manage  it  without  hurting  your- 
self), and  die  game  ;  nothing  like  it  for  producing  an 
effect.  They  always  do  it  at  Astley's  and  Sadler's 
Wells,  and  if  they  don't  know  how  to  do  this  sort  of 
thing,  who  in  the  world  does  ?  A  small  child,  or  a  fe- 
male in  white,  increases  the  interest  of  a  combat  mater- 
ially— indeed,  we  are  not  aware  that  a  regular  legitimate 
terrific  broad-sword  combat  could  be  done  without ;  but 
it  would  be  rather  difficult,  and  somewhat  unusual,  to 
introduce  this  effect  in  the  last  scene  of  Richard  the 
Third,  so  the  only  thing  to  be  done,  is,  just  to  make  the 
best  of  a  bad  bargain,  and  be  as  long  as  possible  fighting 
it  out. 

The  principal  patrons  of  private  theatres  are  dirty 
boys,  low  copying-clerks  in  attorney's  offices,  capacious- 
headed  youths  from  city  counting-houses,  .Jews  whose 
business,  as  lenders  of  fancy  dresses,  is  a  sure  passport 
to  the  amateur  stage,  shop-boys  who  now  and  then  mis- 
take their  master's  money  for  their  own  ;  and  a 
choice  miscellany  of  idle  vagabonds.  The  proprietor 
of  a  private  theatre  may  be  an  ex-scene-painter,  a  low 
coffee-house-keeper,  a  disappointed  eighth  rate  actor, 
a  retired  smuggler,  or  an  uncertified  bankrupt.  The 
the  theatre  itself  may  be  in  Catharine-street,  Strand,  the 
purlieus  of  the  city, the  neighbourhood  of  Gray's-inn-lane, 
or  the  vicinity  of  Sadler's  Wells  ;  or  it  may,  perhaps, 
form  the  chief  nuisance  of  some  shabby  street,  on  the 
Surrey  side  of  Waterloo  bridge. 

The  lady  performers  pay  nothing  for  their  characters, 
and  it  is  needless  to  add,  are  usually  selected  from  one 
class  of  society  ;  the  audiences  are  necessarily  of  much 
the  same  character  as  the  performers,  who  receive,  in 
return  for  their  contributions  to  the  management,  tickets 
to  the  amount  of  the  money  they  pay, 


868 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


All  the  minor  theatres  in  London,  especially  the  low- 
est, constitute  the  centre  of  a  little  stage-struck  neigh- 
bourhood. Each  of  them  has  an  audience  exclusively 
its  own  ;  and  at  any  you  will  see  dropping  into  the  pit  at 
half-price,  or  swaggering  into  the  back  of  a  box,  if  the 
price  of  admission  be  a  reduced  one,  divers  boys  of  from 
fifteen  to  twenty-one  years  of  age,  who  throw  back  their 
coat  and  turn  up  their  wristbands,  after  the  portraits  of 
Count  D'Orsay,  hum  tunes  and  whistle  when  the  curtain 
is  down,  by  way  of  persuading  the  people  near  them, 
that  they  are  not  at  all  anxious  to  have  it  up  again, 
and  speak  familiarly  of  the  inferior  performers  as  Bill 
Such-a-one,  and  Ned  So-and-so,  or  tell  each  other  how 
a  new  piece  called  77ie  Unknoicn  Bandit  of  the  Inmsihle 
Cavern,  is  in  rehearsal  ;  how  Mister  Palmer  is  to  play 
The  Unknown  Bandit ;  how  Charley  Scarton  is  to  take 
the  part  of  an  English  sailor,  and  fight  a  broadsword 
combat  with  six  unknown  bandits  at  one  and  the  same 
time  (one  theatrical  sailor  is  always  equal  to  a  half  a 
dozen  men  at  least)  ;  how  Mister  Palmer  and  Charley 
Scarton  are  to  go  through  a  double  hornpipe  in  fetters 
in  the  second  act  ;  how  the  interior  of  the  invisible  ca- 
vern is  to  occupy  the  whole  extent  of  the  stage  ;  and  other 
town-surprising  theatrical  announcements.  These  gentle- 
men are  the  amateurs — the  Richards,  ShylocJcs,  Bemrleys, 
and  Othellos — the  Young  Borntons,  Rovers,  Captain  Abso- 
lutes, and  Charles  Surfaces — of  a  private  theatre. 

See  them  at  the  neighboring  public-house  or  the  theatri- 
cal coffee-shop  !  They  are  the  kings  of  the  place,  suppos- 
ing no  real  performers  to  be  present  ;  and  roll  about, 
hats  on  one  side,and  arms  a-kimbo,as  if  they  had  actually 
come  into  possession  of  eighteen  shillings  a- week,  and  a 
share  of  a  ticket  night.  If  one  of  them  does  but 
know  an  Astley's  supernumerary  he  is  a  happy  fellow. 
The  mingled  air  of  envy  and  admiration  wdth  which  his 
companions  will  regard  him,  as  he  converses  familiarly 
with  some  mouldy- looking  man  in  a  fancy  neckerchief, 
whose  partially  corked  eyebrows,  and  half-rouged  face, 
testify  to  the  fact  of  his  having  just  left  the  stage  or  the 
circle,  sufficiently  shows  in  what  high  admiration  these 
public  characters  are  held. 

With  the  double  view  of  guarding  against  the  discovery 
of  friends  or  employers,  and  enhancing  the  interest  of 
an  assumed  character,  by  attaching  a  high-sounding 
name  to  its  representative,  these  geniuses  assume  ficti- 
tious names,  wjiich  are  not  the  least  amusing  part  of  the 
play-bill  of  a  private  theatre.  Belville,  Melville,  Tre- 
ville,  Berkeley,  Randolph,  Byron,  St.  Clair,  and  so  forth, 
are  among  the  hurnblest ;  and  the  less  imposing  titles  of 
Jenkins,  Walker,  Thomson,  Barker,  Solomons,  &c.,  are 
completely  laid  aside.  There  is  something  imposing  in 
this,  and  it  is  an  excellent  apology  for  shabbiness  into 
the  bargain.  A  shrunken,  faded  coat,  a  decayed  hat,  a 
patched  and  soiled  pair  of  trousers — nay  even  a  very  dirty 
shirt  (and  none  of  these  appearances  are  very  uncommon 
among  the  members  of  the  corps  dramatique),may  be  worn 
for  the  purpose  of  disguise,  and  to  prevent  the  remotest 
chance  of  recognition.  Then  it  prevents  any  trouble- 
some inquiries  or  explanations  about  employment  and 
pursuits  ;  everybody  is  a  gentleman  at  large  for  the  oc- 
casion, and  there  are  none  of  those  unpleasant  and  un- 
necessary distinctions  to  which  even  genius  must  occa- 
sionally succumb  elsewhere.  As  to  the  ladies  (God  bless 
them),  they  are  quite  above  any  formal  absurdities  ;  the 
mere  circumstance  of  your  being  behind  the  scenes 
is  a  sufficient  introduction  to  their  society — for  of  course 
they  know  that  none  but  strictly  respectable  persons 
would  be  admitted  into  that  close  fellowship  with  them 
Avhich  acting  engenders.  They  place  implicit  reliance  on 
the  manager  no  doubt  ;  and  as  to  the  manager,  he  is  all 
affability  when  he  knows  you  well, — or,  in  other  words, 
when  he  has  pocketed  your  money  once,  and  entertains 
confident  hopes  of  doing  so  again. 

A  quarter  before  eight — there  will  be  a  full  house  to- 
night— six  parties  in  the  boxes,  already  ;  four  little  boys 
and  a  woman  in  the  pit  ;  and  two  fiddles  and  a  flute  in 
the  orchestra  ;  who  have  got  through  five  overtures  since 
seven  o'clock  (the  hour  fixed  for  the  commencement  of  the 
performances),  and  have  just  begun  the  sixth.  There 
will  be  plenty  of  it,  though,  when  it  does  begin,  for 
there  is  enough  in  the  bill  to  last  six  hours  at  least. 

That   gentleman  in   the   white  hat  and  checked 


shirt,  brown  coat  and  brass  buttons,  lounging  behind  the 
stage  box  on  the  0.  P.  side,  is  Mr.  Horatio  St.  Julian, 
alias  Jem  Larkins.  His  line  is  genteel  comedy — his 
father's,  coal  and  potato.  He  does  Alfred  Highflier  in  the 
last  piece,  and  very  well  he'll  do  it— at  the  price.  The 
party  of  gentlemen  in  the  opposite  box,  to  whom  he  has 
just  nodded,  are  friends  and  supporters  of  Mr.  Beverley 
(otherwise  Loggins),  the  Macbeth  of  the  night.  You  ob- 
serve their  attempts  to  appear  easy  and  gentlemanly, 
each  member  of  the  party,  with  his 'feet  cocked  upon  the 
cushion  in  front  of  the  box  !  They  let  them  do  these 
things  here,  upon  the  same  humane  principle  which  per- 
mits poor  people's  children  to  knock  double  knocks  at 
the  door  of  an  empty  house — because  they  can't  do  it  any 
where  else.  The  two  stout  men  in  the  centre  box,  with 
an  opera-glass  ostentatiously  placed  before  them,  are 
friends  of  the  proprietor — opulent  country  managers,  as 
he  confidently  informs  every  individual  among  the  crew 
behind  the  curtain — opulent  country  managers  looking 
out  for  recruits  ;  a  representation  which  Mr.  Nathan,  the 
dresser,  who  is  in  the  manager's  interest,  and  has  just 
arrived  with  the  costumes,  offers  to  confirm  upon  oath 
if  required — corroborative  evidence,  however,  is  quite 
unnecessary,  for  the  gulls  believe  it  at  once. 

The  stout  Jewess,  who  has  just  entered,  is  the  mother 
of  the  pale  bony  little  girl  with  the  necklace  of  blue 
glass  beads  sitting  by  her  ;  she  is  being  brought  up  to 
"  the  profession."  Pantomime  is  to  be  her  line,  and  she 
is  coming  out  to-night,  in  a  hornpipe  after  the  tragedy. 
The  short  thin  man  beside  Mr.  St.  Julian,  whose  white 
face  is  so  deeply  scarred  with  the  small -pox,  and  whose 
dirty  shirt-front  is  inlaid  with  open-work,  and  embossed 
with  coral  studs  like  lady-birds,  is  the  low  comedian 
and  comic  singer  of  the  establishment.  The  remainder 
of  the  audience — a  tolerably  numerous  one  by  this  time 
— are  a  motley  group  of  dupes  and  blackguards. 

The  footlights  have  just  made  their  appearance  :  the 
wicks  of  the  six  little  oil  lamps  round  the  only  tier  of 
boxes  are  being  turned  up,  and  the  additional  light  thus 
afforded  serves  to  show  the  presence  of  dirt  and  absence 
of  paint,  which  forms  a  prominent  feature  of  the  audi- 
ence part  of  the  house.  As  these  preparations,  how- 
ever, announce  the  speedy  commencement  of  the  play, 
let  us  take  a  peep  "behind"  previous  to  the  ringing- 
up. 

The  little  narrow  passages  beneath  the  stage  are 
neither  especially  clean  nor  too  brilliantly  lighted  ;  and 
the  absence  of  any  flooring,  together  with  the  damp 
mildew  smell  which  pervades  the  place,  does  not  con- 
duce in  any  great  degree  to  their  comfortable  appear- 
ance. Don't  fall  over  this  plate-basket — it's  one  of  the 
"properties" — the  caldron  for  the  witches'  cave;  and 
the  three  uncouth-looking  figures,  with  broken  clothes- 
props  in  their  hands,  who  are  drinking  gin-and-water 
out  of  a  pint  pot,  are  the  weird  sisters.  This  miserable 
room,  lighted  by  candles  in  sconces  placed  at  lengthened 
intervals  round  the  wall,  is  the  dressing-room,  common 
to  the  gentlemen  performers,  and  the  square  hole  in  the 
ceiling  is  tJie  trap-door  of  the  stage  above.  You  will 
observe  that  the  ceiling  is  ornamented  with  the  beams 
that  sui^port  the  boards,  and  tastefully  hung  with  cob- 
webs. 

The  characters  in  the  tragedy  are  all  dressed,  and 
their  own  clothes  are  scattered  in  hurried  confusion 
over  the  wooden  dresser  which  surrounds  the  room. 
That  snuft-shop-looking  figure,  in  front  of  the  glass,  is 
Banquo  :  and  the  young  lady  with  the  liberal  display  of 
legs,  who  is  kindly  painting  his  face  with  a  hare's  foot, 
is  dressed  for  Fleance.  The  large  woman,  who  is  con,- 
sulting  the  stage  directions  in  C-umberland's  edition  of 
Macbeth,  is  the  Lady  Macbeth  of  the  night ;  she  is  al- 
ways selected  to  play  the  part  because  she  is  tall  and 
stout,  and  looks  a  little  like  Mrs.  Siddons — at  a  con- 
siderable distance.  That  stupid-looking  milksop,  with 
light  hair  and  bow  legs — a  kind  of  man  whom  you  can 
warrant  town-made — is  fresh  caught ;  he  plays  Malcolm 
to-night,  just  to  accustom  himself  to  an  audience.  He 
will  get  on  better  by  degrees  ;  he  will  play  Othello  in  a 
month,  and  in  a  month  more,  will  very  probably  be  ap- 
prehended on  a  charge  of  embezzlement.  The  black- 
eyed  female  with  whom  he  is  talking  so  earnestly,  is 
dressed  for  the  "gentlewoman."   It  is  7ier  first  appear- 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


869 


ance,  too — in  that  character.  The  boy  of  fourteen,  who  is 
having  his  eyebrows  smeared  with  soap  and  whitening-, 
ip  Duncan,  King  of  Scotland  ;  and  the  two  dirty  men 
with  the  corked  countenances,  in  very  old  green  tunics, 
and  dirty  drab  boots,  are  the  "  army." 

"  Look  sharp  below  there,  gents,"  exclaims  the 
dresser,  a  red-headed  and  red-whiskered  Jew,  calling 
through  the  trap,  "they're  a-going  to  ring  up.  The 
flute  says  he'll  be  blowed  if  he  plays  any  more,  and 
they're  getting  precious  noisy  in  front."  A  general 
rush  immediately  takes  place  to  the  half-dozen  little 
steep  steps  leading  to  the  stage,  and  the  heterogeneous 
group  are  soon  assembled  at  the  side  scenes,  in  breath- 
less anxiety  and  motley  confusion. 

"  Now,"  cries  the  manager,  consulting  the  written  list 
which  hangs  behind  the  first  P.  S.  wing,  "  Scene  1,  open 
country — lamps  down — thunder  and  lightning — all  ready, 
White  ?  "  [This  is  addressed  to  one  of  the  army.]  "  All 
ready." — "Very  well.  Scene  2,  front  chamber.  Is  the 
front  chamber  down  ?"  —  "Yes."  —  "Very  well."  — 
"Jones"  [to  the  other  army  who  is  up  in  the  flies]. 
"Hallo  !" — "  Wind  up  the  open  country  when  we  ring 
up." — "I'll  take  care." — "Scene  3,  back  perspective 
with  practical  bridge.  Bridge  ready,  White?  Got  the 
tressels  there  ?  " — "  All  right." 

"Very  well.  Clear  the  stage,"  cries  the  manager, 
hastily  packing  every  member  of  the  company  into  the 
space  there  is  between  the  wings  and  the  wall,  and  one 
wing  and  another.  "  Places,  places.  Now  then,  Witches 
—  Duncan  —  Malcolm  —  bleeding  officer  —  where's  the 
bleeding  officer?" — "Here!"  replies  the  officer,  who 
has  been  rose-pinking  for  the  character.  "Get  ready, 
then  ;  now,  White,  ring  the  second  music-bell."  The 
actors  who  are  to  be  discovered,  are  hastily  arranged, 
and  the  actors  who  are  not  to  be  discovered  place  them- 
selves, in  their  anxiety  to  peep  at  the  house,  just  where 
the  whole  audience  can  see  them.  The  bell  rings,  and 
the  orchestra,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  call,  play  three 
distinct  chords.  The  bell  rings — the  tragedy  (!)  opens — 
and  our  description  closes. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Yauxhall- Gardens  by  Bay. 

Theke  was  a  time  when  if  a  man  ventured  to  wonder 
how  Vauxhall-gardens  would  look  by  day,  he  was  hailed 
with  a  shout  of  derision  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea. 
Vauxhall  by  daylight  !  A  porter-pot  without  porter,  the 
House  of  Commons  without  the  Speaker,  a  gas-lamp  with- 
out the  gas — pooh,  nonsense,  the  thing  was  not  to  be 
thought  of.  It  was  rumoured,  too,  in  those  times,  that 
Vauxhall-gardens  by  day,  were  the  scene  of  secret  and 
hidden  experiments  ;  that  there,  carvers  were  exercised  in 
the  mystic  art  of  cutting  a  moderate-sized  ham  into  slices 
thin  enough  to  pave  the  whole  of  the  grounds  ;  that  be- 
neath the  shade  of  the  tall  trees,  studious  men  were  con- 
stantly engaged  in  chemical  experiments,  with  the  view 
of  discovering  how  much  water  a  bowl  of  negus  could 
possibly  bear  ;  and  that  in  some  retired  nooks,  appro- 
priated to  the  study  of  ornithology,  other  sage  and 
learned  men  were,  by  a  process  known  only  to  them- 
selves, incessantly  employed  in  reducing  fowls  to  a  mere 
combination  of  sldn  and  bone. 

Vague  rumours  of  this  kind,  together  with  many 
others  of  a  similar  nature,  cast  over  Vauxhall-gardens 
an  air  of  deep  mystery  ;  and  as  there  is  a  great  deal  in 
the  mysterious,  there  is  no  doubt  that  to  a  good  many 
people,  at  all  events,  the  pleasure  they  afforded  was  not 
a  little  enhanced  by  this  very  circumstance. 

Of  this  class  of  people  we  confess  to  having  made  one. 
We  love  to  wander  among  these  illuminated  groves, 
thinking  of  the  patient  and  laborious  researches  which  had 
been  carried  on  there  during  the  day,  and  witnessing  their 
results  in  the  suppers  which  were  served  up  beneath  the 
light  of  lamps  and  to  the  sound  of  music,  at  night.  The 
temples  and  saloons  and  cosmoramas  and  fountains  glit- 
tered and  sparkled  before  our  eyes  ;  the  beauty  of  the 
lady  singers  and  the  elegant  deportment  of  the  gentle- 
men, cay)tivated  our  hearts  ;  a  few  hundred  thousand  of 
additional  lamps  dazzled  our  senses  ;  a  bowl  or  two  of 


reeking  punch  bewildered  our  brains ;  and  we  were 
happy. 

In  an  evil  hour,  the  proprietors  of  Vauxhall-gardens 
took  to  opening  them  by  day.  We  regretted  this,  as 
rudely  and  harshly  disturbing  that  veil  of  mystery 
which  had  hung  about  the  property  for  many  years,  and 
which  none  but  the  noonday  sun,  and  the  late  Mr.  Simp- 
son, had  ever  penetrated.  We  shrunk  from  going  ;  at 
this  moment  we  scarcely  know  why.  Perhaps  a  morbid 
consciousness  of  approaching  disappointment — perhaps 
a  fatal  presentiment— perhaps  the  weather  ;  whatever  it 
was,  we  did  not  go  until  the  second  or  third  announce- 
ment of  a  race  between  two  balloons  tempted  us,  and  we 
went. 

We  paid  our  shilling  at  the  gate,  and  then  we  saw  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  entrance,  if  there  had  ever  been 
any  magic  about  it  all,  was  now  decidedly  disenchanted, 
being,  in  fact,  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  combination 
of  very  roughly  painted  boards  and  sawdust.  We 
glanced  at  the  orchestra  and  supper-room  as  we  hurried 
past — we  just  recognized  them,  and  that  was  all.  We 
bent  our  steps  to  the  firework-ground  ;  there,  at  least, 
we  should  not  be  disappointed.  We  reached  it,  and 
stood  rooted  to  the  spot  with  mortification  and  astonish- 
ment. That  the  Moorish  tower — that  wooden  shed  with 
a  door  in  the  centre,  and  daubs  of  crimson  and  yellow 
all  round,  like  a  gigantic  watch-case!  That-the  place 
where  night  after  night  we  had  beheld  the  undaunted 
Mr.  Blackmore  make  his  terrific  ascent,  surrounded  by 
flames  of  fire,  and  peals  of  artillery,  and  where  the  white 
garments  of  Madame  Somebody  (we  forget  even  her 
name  now),  who  nobly  devoted  her  life  to  the  manufac- 
ture of  fireworks,  had  so  often  been  seen  fluttering  in 
the  wind,  as  she  called  up  a  red,  blue,  or  party-coloured 

light  to  illumine  her  temple  !    That  the   But  at 

this  moment  the  bell  rung  ;  the  people  scampered 
away,  pell-mell,  to  the  spot  from  whence  the  sound  pro- 
ceeded ;  and  we,  from  the  mere  force  of  habit,  found 
ourselves  running  among  the  first,  as  if  for  very  life. 

It  was  for  the  concert  in  the  orchestra.  A  small  party 
of  dismal  men  in  cocked  hats  were  "executing"  the 
overture  to  Tancredi,  and  a  numerous  assemblage  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  with  their  families,  had  rushed 
from  their  half-emptied  stout  mugs  in  the  supper  boxes, 
and  crowded  to  the  spot.  Intense  was  the  low  murmur 
of  admiration  when  a  particularly  small  gentleman,  in  a 
dress  coat,  led  on  a  particularly  tall  lady  in  a  blue  sar- 
cenet pelisse  and  bonnet  of  the  same,  ornamented  with 
large  white  feathers,  and  forthwith  commenced  a  plain- 
tive duet. 

We  knew  the  small  gentleman  well ;  we  had  seen  a 
lithographed  semblance  of  him,  on  many  a  piece  of  mu- 
sic, with  his  mouth  wide  open  as  if  in  the  act  of  singing  ; 
a  wine-glass  in  his  hand  ;  and  a  table  with  two  decanters 
and  four  pine-apples  on  it  in  the  background.  The  tall 
lady,  too,  we  had  gazed  on,  lost  in  raptures  of  admira- 
tion, many  and  many  a  time — how  different  people  do 
look  by  daylight,  and  without  punch,  to  be  sure  !  It 
was  a  beautiful  duett :  first  the  small  gentleman  asked 
a  question,  and  then  the  tall  lady  answered  it  ;  then  the 
small  gentleman  and  the  tall  lady  sang  together  most 
melodiously  ;  then  the  small  gentleman  went  through  a 
little  piece  of  vehemence  by  himself,  and  got  very  tenor 
indeed,  in  the  excitement  of  his  feelings,  to  which  the 
tall  lady  responded  in  a  similar  manner  ;  then  the  small 
gentleman  had  a  shake  or  two,  after  which  the  tall  lady 
had  the  same,  and  then  they  both  merged  imperceptibly 
into  the  original  air  :  and  the  band  wound  themselves  up 
to  a  pitch  o"f  fury,  and  the  small  gentleman  handed  tha 
tall  lady  out,  and  the  applause  was  rapturous. 

The  comic  singer,  however,  was  the  especial  favour- 
ite ;  we  really  thought  that  a  gentleman,  with  his  dinner 
in  a  pocket-handkerchief,  who  stood  near  us,  would  have 
fainted  wilh  excess  of  joy.  A  marvellously  facetious 
gentleman  that  comic  singer  is  ;  his  distinguishing  char- 
acteristics are,  a  wig  approaching  to  the  flaxen,  and  an 
aged  countenance,  and  he  bears  the  name  of  one  of  the 
English  counties,  if  we  recollect  right.  He  sang  a  very 
good  song  about  the  seven  ages,  the  first  half-hour  of 
which  afforded  the  assembly  the  purest  delight ;  of  the 
rest  we  can  make  no  report,  as  we  did  not  stay  to  hear 
any  more. 


870 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


We  walked  about,  and  met  witli  a  disappointment  at 
every  turn  ;  our  favourite  views  vrere  mere  patches  of 
paint  ;  the  fountain  that  had  sparkled  so  showily  by 
lamp-light,  presented  very  much  the  appearance  of  a 
water-pipe  that  had  burst  ;  all  the  ornaments  were 
dingy,  and  all  the  walks  gloomy.  There  was  a  spectral 
attempt  at  rope-dancing  in  the  little  open  theatre,  The 
sun  shone  upon  the  spangled  dresses  of  the  performers, 
and  their  evolutions  were  about  as  inspiriting  and  ap- 
propriate as  a  country-dance  in  a  family- vault.  So  we 
retraced  our  steps  to  the  fire  work -ground,  and  mingled 
with  the  little  crowd  of  people  who  were  contemplating 
Mr.  Green. 

Some  half  dozen  men  were  restraining  the  impetuosity 
of  one  of  the  balloons,  which  was  completely  filled,  and 
had  the  car  already  attached  :  and  as  rumours  had  gone 
abroad  that  a  Lord  was  "going  up,"  the  crowd  were 
more  than  usually  anxious  and  talkative.  There  was 
one  little  man  in  faded  black,  with  a  dirty  face  and  a 
rusty  black  neckerchief  with  a  red  border,  tied  in  a 
narrow  wisp  round  his  neck,  who  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  everybody,  and  had  something  to  say  upon 
every  remark  that  was  made  within  his  hearing.  He 
was  standing  with  his  arms  folded,  staring  up  at  the 
balloon,  and  every  now  and  then  vented  his  feeling  of 
reverence  for  the  aeronaut,  by  saying,  as  I:e  looked  round 
to  catch  somebody's  eye,  "He's  a  rum  'un  is  Green; 
think  o'  this  here  being  up'ards  of  his  two  hundredth 
ascent ;  ecod  the  man  as  is  ekal  to  Green  never  had  the 
toothache  yet,  nor  won't  have  within  this  hundred  year, 
and  that's  all  about  it.  When  you  meets  with  real 
talent,  and  native,  too,  encourage  it,  that's  what  I  say  ;" 
and  when  he  had  delivered  himself  to  this  effect,  he 
would  fold  his  arms  with  more  determination  than  ever, 
and  stare  at  the  balloon  with  a  sort  of  admiring  defiance 
of  any  other  man  alive,  beyond  himself  and  Green,  that 
impressed  the  crowd  with  the  opinion  that  he  was  an 
oracle. 

"Ah,  you're  very  right,  sir,"  said  another  gentleman, 
with  his  wife,  and  children,  and  mother,  and  wife's 
sister,  and  a  host  of  female  friends,  in  all  the  gentility 
of  white  pocket-handkerchiefs,  frills,  and  spencers, 
"Mr.  Green  is  a  steady  hand,  sir,  and  there's  no  fear 
about  him." 

"  Fear  ! "  said  the  little  man  ;  isn't  it  a  lovely  thing 
to  see  him  and  his  wife  a  going  up  in  one  balloon,  and 
his  own  son  and  Ms  wife  a  jostling  up  against  them  in 
another,  and  all  of  them  going  twenty  or  thirty  mile  in 
three  hours  or  so,  and  then  coming  back  in  pochayses  ?  I 
don't  know  where  this  here  science  is  to  stop,  mind  you  ; 
that's  what  bothers  me." 

Here  there  was  considerable  talking  among  the  females 
in  the  spencers. 

"  What's  the  ladies  a  laughing  at,  sir?"  inquired  the 
little  man,  condescendingly. 

"  It's  only  my  sister  Mary,"  said  one  of  the  girls,  *'  as 
says  she  hopes  his  lordship  won't  be  frightened  when 
he's  in  the  car,  and  want  to  come  out  again." 

"  Make  yourself  easy  about  that  there,  my  dear,"  re- 
plied the  little  man.  "  If  he  was  so  much  as  to  move  a 
inch  without  leave.  Green  would  jist  fetch  him  a  crack 
over  the  head  with  the  telescope,  as  would  send  him  into 
the  bottom  of  the  basket  in  no  time,  and  stun  him  till 
they  come  down  again." 

Would  he  though?  "  inquired  the  other  man. 

"  Yes,  would  he,"  replied  the  little  one,  "  and  think 
nothing  of  it,  neither,  if  he  was  the  king  himself. 
Green's  presence  of  mind  is  wonderful." 

Just  at  this  moment  all  eyes  were  directed  to  the  pre- 
parations which  were  being  made  for  starting.  The  car 
was  attached  to  the  second  balloon,  the  two  were  brought 
pretty  close  together,  and  a  military  band  commenced 
playing,  with  a  zeal  and  fervour  which  would  render 
the  most  timid  man  in  existence  but  too  happy  to  accept 
any  means  of  quitting  that  particular  spot  of  earth  on 
which  they  were  stationed.  Then  Mr.  Green,  sen.,  and 
his  noble  companion  entered  one  car,  and  Mr.  Green,  jun., 
and  his  companion  the  other  ;  and  then  the  balloon  went 
up,  and  the  aerial  travellers  stood  up,  and  the  crowd 
outside  roared  with  delight,  and  the  two  gentleman  who 
had  never  ascended  before,  tried  to  wave  their  flags,  as 
if  they  were  not  nervous,  but  held  on  very  fast  all  the 


while  ;  and  the  balloons  were  wafted  gently  away,  our 
little  friend  solemnly  protesting,  long  after  they  were 
reduced  to  mere  specks  in  the  air,  that  he  could  still 
distinguish  the  white  hat  of  Mr.  Green.  The  gardens 
disgorged  their  multitudes, boys  ran  up  and  down  scream- 
ing "bal-loon  and  in  all  the  crowded  thoroughfares 
people  rushed  out  of  their  shops  into  the  middle  of  the 
road,  and  having  stared  up  in  the  air  at  two  little  black 
objects  till  they  almost  dislocated  their  necks,  walked 
slowly  in,  perfectly  satisfied. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  grand  account  of  the  ascent 
in  the  morning  papers,  and  the  public  were  informed  how 
it  was  the  finest  day  but  four  in  Mr.  Green's  remembrance ; 
how  they  retained  sight  of  the  earth  till  they  lost  it  be- 
hind the  clouds  ;  and  how  the  reflection  of  the  balloon 
on  the  undulating  masses  of  vapour  was  gorgeously 
picturesque  ;  together  with  a  little  science  about  the 
refraction  of  the  sun's  rays,  and  some  mysterious  hints 
respecting  atmospheric  heat  and  eddying  currents,  of 
air. 

There  was  also  an  interesting  account  how  a  man  in  a 
boat  was  distinctly  heard  by  Mr.  Green,  Jun.,  to  exclaim, 
"My  eye  !"  which  Mr.  Green,  Jun.,  attributed  to  his 
voice  rising  to  the  balloon,  and  the  sound  being  thrown 
back  from  its  surface  into  the  car  ;  and  the  whole  con- 
cluded with  a  slight  allusion  to  another  ascent  next 
Wednesday,  all  of  which  was  very  instructive  and  very 
amusing,  as  our  readers  will  see  if  they  look  to  the  pa- 
pers. If  we  have  forgotten  to  mention  the  date,  they 
have  only  to  wait  till  next  summer,  and  take  the  account 
of  the  first  ascent,  and  it  will  answer  the  purpose 
equally  well. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
Early  Coaches. 

We  have  oftened  wondered  how  many  months'  inces- 
sant travelling  in  a  post-chaise,  it  would  take  to  kill  a 
man  ;  and  wondering  by  analogy,  we  should  very  much 
like  to  know  how  many  months  of  constant  travelling  in 
a  succession  of  early  coaches,  an  unfortunate  mortal 
could  endure.  Breaking  a  man  alive  upon  the  wheel, 
would  be  nothing  to  breaking  his  rest,  his  peace,  his  heart 
— everything  but  his  fast — upon  four  ;  and  the  punish- 
ment of  Ixion  (the  only  practical  person,  by  the  by,  who 
has  discovered  the  secret  of  the  perpetual  motion)  would 
sink  into  utter  insignificance  before  the  one  we  have 
suggested.  If  we  had  been  a  powerful  churchman  in 
those  good  times  when  blood  was  shed  as  freely  as 
water  and  men  were  mowed  down  like  grass,  in  the 
sacred  cause  of  religion,  we  would  have  lain  by  very 
quietly  till  we  got  hold  of  some  especially  obstinate  mis- 
creant, who  possibly  refused  to  be  converted  to  cur  faith, 
and  then  we  would  have  booked  him  for  an  inside  place 
in  a  small  coach,  which  travelled  day  and  night :  and  se- 
curing the  remainder  of  the  places  for  stout  men  with  a 
slight  tendency  to  coughing  and  spitting,  we  would  have 
started  him  forth  on  his  last  travels  :  leaving  him  mer- 
cilessly to  all  the  tortures  which  the  waiters,  landlords, 
coachmen,  guards,  boots,  chambermaids,  and  other 
familiars  on  his  line  of  road,  might  think  proper  to  in- 
flict. 

Who  has  not  experienced  the  miseries  inevitably  con- 
sequent upon  a  summons  to  undertake  a  hasty  journey  ? 
You  receive  an  intimation  from  your  place  of  business 
— wherever  that  may  be,  or  whatever  you  may  be — that 
it  will  be  necessary  to  leave  town  without  delay.  You 
and  your  family  are  forthwith  thrown  into  a  state  of 
tremendous  excitement  ;  an  express  is  inmiediately  dis- 
patched to  the  washwoman's  ;  everybody  is  in  a  bustle  ; 
and  you,  yourself,  with  a  feeling  of  dignity  which  you 
cannot  altogether  conceal,  sally  forth  to  the  booking-of- 
fice to  secure  your  place.  Here  a  painful  consciousness 
of  your  own  unimportance  first  rushes  on  your  mind 
— the  people  are  as  cool  and  collected  as  if  nobody 
were  going  out  of  town,  or  as  if  a  journey  of  a  hun- 
dred odd  miles  were  a  mere  nothing.  You  enter  a 
mouldy  looking  room,  ornamented  with  large  posting- 
bills  ;  the  greater  part  of  the  place  enclosed  behind 
a  huge  lumbering  rough  counter,  and  fitted  up  with  re- 


\ 


I 

I 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


871 


cesses  that  look  like  the  dens  of  the  smaller  animals  in 
a  travelling  menagerie,  without  the  bars.  Some  half- 
dozen  people  are  "  booking"  brown-paper  parcels,  which 
one  of  the  clerks  flings  into  the  aforesaid  recesses  with 
an  air  of  recklessness  which  you,  remembering  the  new 
carpet-bag  you  brought  in  the  morning,  feel  consider- 
ably annoyed  at  ;  porters  looking  like  so  many  Atlases, 
keep  rushing  in  and  out,  with  large  packages  on  their 
shoulders,  and  while  you  are  waiting  to  make  the  neces- 
sary inquiries,  you  wonder  what  on  earth  the  booking- 
ofl5ce  clerks  can  have  been  before  they  were  booking  of- 
fice clerks  ;  one  of  them  with  his  pen  behind  his  ear, 
and  his  hands  behind  him,  is  standing  in  front  of  the  fire, 
like  a  full-length  portrait  of  Napoleon  ;  the  other  with 
his  hat  half  off  his  head,  enters  the  passengers'  names  in 
the  books  with  a  coolness  which  is  inexpressibly  provok- 
ing :  and  the  villain  whistles — actually  whistles — while 
a  man  asks  him  what  the  fare  is  outside — all  the  way  to 
Holyhead  ! — in  frosty  weather  too  ?  They  are  clearly  an 
isolated  race,  evidently  possessing  no  sympathies  or  feel- 
ings in  common  with  the  rest  of  mankind.  Your  turn 
comes  at  last,  and  having  paid  the  fare,  you  tremblingly 
inquire — "  What  time  will  it  be  necessary  for  me  to  be 
here  in  the  morning?" — "Six  o'clock,"  replies  the 
whistler,  carelessly  pitching  the  sovereign  you  have  just 
parted  with,  into  a  wooden  bowl  on  the  desk.  "  Rather 
before  than  arter,"  adds  the  man  with  the  semi-roasted 
unmentionables,  with  just  as  much  ease  and  complacency 
as  if  the  whole  world  got  out  of  bed  at  five.  You  turn 
into  the  street,  ruminating  as  you  bend  your  steps  home- 
wards on  the  extent  to  which  men  become  hardened  in 
cruelty,  by  custom. 

If  there  be  one  thing  in  existence  more  miserable  than 
another,  it  most  unquestionably  is  the  being  compelled 
to  rise  by  candle-light.  If  you  ever  doubted  the  fact, 
you  are  painfully  convinced  of  your  error,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  your  departure.  You  left  strict  orders,  overnight, 
to  be  called  at  half-past  four,  and  you  have  done  nothing 
all  night  but  doze  for  five  minutes  at  a  time,  and  start 
up  suddenly  from  a  terrific  dream  of  a  large  church- 
clock  with  a  small  hand  running  round,  with  astonish- 
ing rapidity,  to  every  figure  on  the  dial-plate.  At  last, 
completely  exhausted,  you  fall  gradually  into  a  refresh- 
ing sleep — your  thoughts  grow  confused — the  stage- 
coaches, which  have  been  *'  going  off  "  before  your  eyes 
all  night,  becomes  less  and  less  distinct,  until  they  go 
off  altogether  ;  one  moment  you  are  driving  with  all 
the  skill  and  smartness  of  an  experienced  whip — the 
next  you  are  exhibiting,  a  la  Ducro,  on  the  off  leader ; 
anon  you  are  closely  muffled  up,  inside,  and  have  just 
recognised  in  the  person  of  the  guard  an  old  school- 
fellow, whose  funeral,  even  in  your  dream,  you  remem- 
ber to  have  attended  eighteen  years  ago.  At  last  you 
fall  into  a  state  of  complete  oblivion,  from  which  you 
are  aroused,  as  if  into  a  new  state  of  existence,  by  a 
singular  illusion.  You  are  apprenticed  to  a  trunk- 
maker  ;  how,  or  why,  or  when,  or  wherefore,  you  don't 
take  the  trouble  to  inquire  ;  but  there  you  are,  pasting 
the  lining  in  the  lid  of  a  portmanteau.  Confound  that 
other  apprentice  in  the  back  shop,  how  he  is  hammer- 
ing ! — rap,  rap,  rap, — what  an  industrious  fellow  he 
must  be  !  you  have  heard  him  at  work  for  half  an  hour 
past,  and  he  has  been  hammering  incessantly  the  whole 
time.  Rap,  rap,  rap,  again — he's  talking  now — what's 
that  he  said  ?  Five  o'clock  !  You  make  a  violent 
exertion,  and  start  up  in  bed.  The  vision  is  at  once 
dispelled  ;  the  trunk  maker's  shop  is  in  your  own  bed- 
room, and  the  other  apprentice  your  shivering  servant, 
who  has  vainly  been  endeavouring  to  wake  you  for  the 
last  quarter  of  an  hour,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  breaking 
either  his  own  knuckles  or  the  panels  of  the  door. 

You  proceed  to  dress  yourself  with  all  possible  dis- 
patch. The  flaring  flat  candle  with  the  long  snuff,  gives 
light  enough  to  show  that  the  things  you  want,  are  not 
where  they  ought  to  be,  and  you  undergo  a  trifling  delay 
in  consequence  of  having  carefully  packed  up  one  of 
your  boots  in  your  over  anxiety  of  the  preceding  night. 
You  soon  complete  your  toilet,  however,  for  you  are 
not  particular  on  such  an  occasion,  and  you  shaved 
yesterday  evening  ;  so,  mounting  your  Petersham  great- 
coat, and  green  travelling-shawl,  and  grasping  your 
carpet-bag  in  your  right  hand,  you  walk  lightly  down- 


stairs,  lest  you  should  awaken  any  of  the  family,  and 
after  pausing  in  the  common  sitting-room  for  a  moment, 
just  to  have  a  cuj)  of  coffee  (the  said  common  sitting- 
room  looking  remarkably  comfortable,  with  everything 
out  of  its  ])]ace,  and  strewed  with  crumbs  of  last  night's 
supper),  you  undo  the  chain  and  bolts  of  the  street-door, 
and  find  yourself  fairly  in  the  street, 

A  thaw,  by  all  that  is  miserable  !  The  frost  is  com- 
pletely broken  up.  You  look  down  the  long  perspective 
of  Oxford  street,  the  gas-lights  mournfully  reflected  on 
the  wet  pavement,  and  can  discern  no  speck  in  the  road 
to  encourage  the  belief  there  is  a  cab  or  a  coach  to  be 
had — the  very  coachmen  have  gone  home  in  despair. 
The  cold  sleet  is  drizzling  down  with  that  gentle  regular- 
ity, which  betokens  a  duration  of  four-and-twenty  hours 
at  least ;  the  damp  hangs  upon  the  house-tops,  and  lamp- 
posts, and  clings  to  you  like  an  invisible  cloak.  The 
water  is  "  coming  in  "  in  every  area,  the  pipes  have 
burst,  the  water-butts  are  running  over  ;  the  ken- 
nels seem  to  be  doing  matches  against  time,  pump- 
handles  descend  of  their  own  accord,  horses  in  market- 
carts  fall  down,  and  there's  no  one  to  help  them  up 
again,  policemen  look  as  if  they  had  been  carefully 
sprinkled  with  powdered  glass  ;  here  and  there  a  milk- 
woman  trudges  slowly  along,  with  a  bit  of  list  round 
each  foot  to  keep  her  from  slipping  ;  boys  who 
"  don't  sleep  in  the  house,"  and  are  not  allowed  much 
sleep  out  of  it,  can't  wake  their  masters  by  thundering 
at  the  shop-door,  and  cry  with  the  cold — the  compound 
of  ice,  snow,  and  water  on  the  pavement,  is  a  couple  of 
inches  thick — nobody  ventures  to  walk  fast  to  keep  him- 
self warm,  and  nobody  could  succeed  in  keeping  himself 
warm  if  he  did. 

It  strikes  a  quarter  past  five  as  you  trudge  down  Wa- 
terloo-place on  your  way  to  the  Golden-cross,  and  you 
discover,  for  the  first  time,  that  you  were  called  about 
an  hour  too  early.  You  have  not  time  to  go  back  ;  there 
is  no  place  open  to  go  into,  and  you  have,  therefore,  no 
resource  but  to  go  forward,  which  you  do,  feeling  re- 
markably satisfied  with  yourself  and  everything  about 
you.  You  arrive  at  the  ofl[ice,  and  look  wistfully  up  the 
yard  for  the  Birmingham  High-flier,  which,  for  aught 
you  can  see,  may  have  flown  away  altogether,  for  no 
preparations  appear  to  be  on  foot  for  the  departure  of 
any  vehicle  in  the  shape  of  a  coach.  You  wander  into 
the  booking-office,  which  with  the  gas-lights  and  blazing 
fire,  looks  quite  comfortable  by  contrast — that  is  to  say, 
if  any  place  can  look  comfortable  at  half -past  five  on  a 
winter's  morning.  There  stands  the  identical  book- 
keeper in  the  same  position  as  if  he  had  not  moved  since 
you  saw  him  yesterday.  As  he  informs  you,  that  the 
coach  is  up  the  yard,  and  will  be  brought  round  in  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  you  leave  your  bag,  and  repair  to 
"The  Tap" — not  with  any  absurd  idea  of  warming 
yourself,  because  you  feel  such  a  result  to  be  utterly 
hopeless,  but  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  some  hot 
brandy-and- water,  which  you  do, — when  the  kettle  boils  ! 
an  event  which  occurs  exactly  two  minutes  and  a  half 
before  the  time  fixed  for  the  starting  of  the  coach. 

The  first  stroke  of  six  peals  from  St.  Martin's  church 
steeple,  just  as  you  take  the  first  sip  of  the  boiling 
liquid.  You  find  yourself  at  the  booking-office  in  two 
seconds,  and  the  tap-waiter  finds  himself  much  com- 
forted by  your  brandy-and-water,  in  about  the  same 
period.  The  coach  is  out,  the  horses  are  in,  and  the 
guard  and  two  or  three  porters  are  stowing  the  luggage 
away,  and  running  up  the  steps  of  the  booking-otfice, 
and  down  the  steps  of  the  booking-oflace,  with  breathless 
rapidity.  The  place,  which  a  few  minutes  ago  was  so 
still  and  quiet,  is  now  all  bustle  ;  the  early  venders  of 
the  morning  papers  have  arrived,  and  you  are  assailed 
on  all  sides  with  shouts  of  "  Times,  gen'lm'n.  Times," 
"Here's  Chron—Chron—Chron,"  "Herald,  ma'am," 
"  Highly  interesting  murder,  genllm'n,"  "  Curious  case 
o*  breach  o'  promise,  ladies."  The  inside  passengers 
are  already  in  their  dens,  and  the  outsides,  with  the 
exception  of  yourself,  are  pacing  up  and  down  the  pave- 
ment to  keep  themselves  warm  ;  they  consist  of  two 
young  men  with  very  long  hair,  to  which  the  sleet  has 
communicated  the  appearance  of  crystallized  rats'  tails  ; 
one  thin. young  woman  cold  and  peevish,  one  old  gentle- 
man ditto  ditto,  and  something  in  a  cloak  and  cap,  in- 


872 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


tended  to  represent  a  military  officer  ;  every  member  of 
the  party  with  a  large  stiff  shawl  over  his  chin,  looking 
exactly  as  if  he  were  playing  a  set  of  Pan's  pipes. 

"Take  off  the  cloths,  Bob, "  says  the  coachman  who 
now  appears  for  the  first  time,  in  a  rough  blue  great- 
coat, of  which  the  buttons  behind  are  so  far  apart,  that 
you  can't  see  them  both  at  the  same  time.  "  Now, 
gen'lm'n,"  cries  the  guard,  with  the  way-bill  in  his 
hand.  "Five  minutes  behind  time  already!"  Up 
jump  the  passengers— the  two  young  men  smoking  like 
iime-kilus,  and  the  old  gentleman  grumbling  audibly. 
The  thin  young  woman  is  got  upon  the  roof,  by  dint  of 
a  great  deal  of  pulling,  and  pushing,  and  helping  and 
trouble,  and  she  repays  it  by  expressing  her  solemn 
conviction  that  she  will  never  be  able  to  get  down 
again. 

"All  right,"  sings  out  the  guard  at  last,  jumping  up 
as  the  coach  starts,  and  blowing  his  horn  directly  after- 
wards, in  proof  of  the  soundness  of  his  wind.  "Let 
'em  go,  Harry,  give  'em  their  heads,"  cries  the  coach- 
man— and  off  we  start  as  briskly  as  if  the  morning  were 
"all  right,"  as  well  as  the  coach  :  and  looking  forward 
as  anxiously  to  the  termination  of  our  journey,  as  we 
fear  our  readers  will  have  done,  long  since,  to  the  con- 
clusion of  our  paper. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Omnibuses, 

It  is  very  generally  allowed  that  public  conveyances 
afford  an  extensive  field  for  amusement  and  observation. 
Of  all  the  public  conveyances  that  have  been  constructed 
since  the  days  of  the  Ark — we  think  that  is  the  earliest 
on  record — to  the  present  time,  commend  us  to  an 
omnibus.  A  long  stage  is  not  to  be  despised,  but  there 
you  have  only  six  insides,  and  the  chances  are,  that  the 
same  people  go  all  the  way  with  you — there  is  no  change, 
no  variety.  Besides,  after  the  first  twelve  hours  or  so, 
people  get  cross  and  sleepy,  and  when  you  have  seen  a 
man  in  his  nightcap,  you  lose  all  respect  for  him  ;  at 
least,  that  is  the  case  with  us.  Then  on  smooth  roads 
people  frequently  get  prosy,  and  tell  long  stories,  and 
even  those  who  don't  talk,  may  have  very  unpleasant 
predilections.  We  once  travelled  four  hundred  miles, 
inside  a  stage-coach,  with  a  stout  man,  who  had  a 
glass  of  rum-and-water  warm,  handed  in  at  the  window 
at  every  place  where  we  changed  horses.  This  was  de- 
cidedly unpleasant.  We  have  also  travelled  occasionally, 
with  a  small  boy  of  a  pale  aspect,  with  light  hair,  and  no 
perceptible  neck,  coming  up  to  town  from  school  under 
the  protection  of  the  guard,  and  directly  to  be  left  at 
the  Cross  Keys  till  called  for.  This  is,  perhaps,  even 
worse  than  rum-and-water  in  a  close  atmosphere.  Then 
there  is  the  whole  train  of  evils  consequent  on  a  change 
of  the  coach  man  and  the  misery  of  the  discovery — 
which  the  guard  is  sure  to  make  the  moment  you  begin 
to  doze — that  he  wants  a  brown-paper  parcel,  which  he 
distinctly  remembers  to  have  deposited  under  the  seat 
on  which  you  are  reposing.  A  great  deal  of  bustle  and 
groping  takes  place,  and  when  you  are  thoroughly  awak- 
ened, and  severely  cramped,  by  holding  yourlegs  up  by 
an  almost  supernatural  exertion,  while  he  is  looking  be- 
hind them,  it  suddenly  occurs  to  him  that  he  put  it  in 
the  fore-boot.  Bang  goes  the  door  ;  the  parcel  is  imme- 
diately found  ;  off  starts  the  coach  again  ;  and  the  guard 
plays  on  the  key-bugle  as  loud  as  he  can  play  it,  as  if 
in  mockery  of  your  wretchedness. 

Now  you  meet  with  none  of  these  afflictions  in  an 
omnibus  ;  sameness  there  can  never  be.  The  passengers 
change  as  often  in  the  course  of  one  journey  as  the  figures 
in  a  kaleidoscope,  and  though  not  so  glittering,  are  far 
more  amusing.  We  ^believe  there  is  no  instance  on 
record,  of  a  man's  having  gone  to  sleep  in  one  of  these 
vehicles.  As  to  long  stories,  would  any  man  venture  to 
tell  a  long  story  in  an  omnibus?  And  even  if  he  did, 
where  would  bo  the  harm  ?  nobody  could  possibly  hear 
what  he  was  talking  about.  Again  ;  children,  though 
occasionally,  are  not  often  to  bo  found  in  an  omnibus  ; 
and  even  when  they  are,  if  the  vehicle  be  full,  as  is 
generally  the  case,  somebody  sits  upon  them,  and  we 


are  unconscious  of  their  presence.  Yes,  after  mature 
reflection,  and  considerable  experience,  we  are  decidedly 
of  opinion,  that  of  all  known  vehicles,  from  the  glass- 
coach  in  which  we  were  taken  to  be  christened,  to  that 
sombre  caravan  in  which  we  must  one  day  make  our  last 
earthly  journey,  there  is  nothing  like  an  omnibus. 

We  will  back  the  machine  in  which  we  make  our 
daily  peregrination  from  the  top  of  Oxford  Street  to  the 
city,  against  any  "  buss"  on  the  road,  whether  it  be  for 
the  gaudiness  of  its  exterior,  the  perfect  simplicity  of 
its  interior,  or  the  native  coolness  of  its  cad.  This 
young  gentleman  is  a  singular  instance  of  self-devotion  ; 
his  somewhat  intemperate  zeal  on  behalf  of  his  employers, 
is  constantly  getting  him  into  trouble,  and  occasionally 
into  the  house  of  correction.  He  is  no  sooner  emanci- 
pated, however,  than  he  resumes  the  duties  of  his  pro- 
fession with  unabated  ardour.  His  principal  distinction 
in  his  activity.  His  great  boast  is,  "  that  he  can  chuck 
an  old  gen'lm'n  into  the  buss,  shut  him  in,  and  rattle  off, 
afore  he  knows  where  it's  a  going  to  " — a  feat  which  he 
frequently  performs,  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  every 
one  but  the  old  gentleman  concerned,  who,  somehow  or 
other,  never  can  see  the  joke  of  the  thing. 

"  We  are  not  aware  that  it  has  ever  been  precisely  as- 
certained how  many  passengers  our  omnibus  will  contain. 
The  impression  on  the  cad's  mind,  evidently  is,  that  it 
is  amply  sufficient  for  the  accomodation  of  any  number 
of  persons  that  can  be  enticed  into  it.  "Any  room?" 
cries  a  very  hot  pedestrian.  "Plenty  o'  room,  sir," 
replies  the  conductor,  gradually  opening  the'  door,  and 
not  disclosing  the  real  state  of  the  case  until  the  wretched 
man  is  on  the  steps.  "  Where  ?"  inquires  the  entrapped 
individual,  with  an  attempt  to  back  out  again.  "  Either 
side,  sir,"  rejoins  the  cad,  shoving  him  in,  and  slamming 
the  door.  "All  right.  Bill."  Retreat  is  impossible; 
the  new-comer  rolls  about,  till  he  falls  down  somewhere, 
and  there  he  stops. 

As  we  get  into  the  city  a  little  before  ten,  four  or  five 
of  our  party  are  regular  passengers.  We  always  take 
them  up  at  the  same  places,  and  they  generally  occupy 
the  same  seats  ;  they  are  always  dressed  in  the  same 
manner,  and  invariably  discuss  the  same  topics — the  in- 
creasing rapidity  of  cabs,  and  the  disregard  of  moral 
obligations  evinced  by  omnibus  men.  There  is  a  little 
testy  old  man,  with  a  powdered  head,  w^ho  always  sits 
on  the  right  hand  side  of  the  door  as  you  enter,  with  his 
hands  folded  on  the  top  of  his  umbrella.  He  is  extremely 
impatient,  and  sits  there  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  a 
sharp  eye  on  the  cad,  with  whom  he  generally  holds  a 
running  dialogue.  He  is  very  officious  in  helping  people 
in  and  out,  and  always  volunteers  to  give  the  cad  a  poke 
with  his  umbrella,  when  any  one  wants  to  alight.  He 
usually  recommends  ladies  to  have  sixpence  ready,  to 
prevent  delay  ;  and  if  anybody  puts  a  window  down, 
that  he  can  reach,  he  immediately  puts  it  up  again. 

"Now,  what  you  stopping  for?"  says  the  little  old 
man  every  morning,  the  moment  there  is  the  slightest 
indication  of  "pulling  up,"  at  the  corner  of  Regent- 
street,  when  some  such  dialogue  as  the  following  takes 
place  between  him  and  the  cad  : 

"  What  are  you  stopping  for  ?  " 

Here  the  cad  whistles  and  affects  not  to  hear  the  ques- 
tion. 

"I  say  [a  poke],  what  are  you  stopping  for  ?  " 

"  For  passengers,  sir.    Ba — nk. — Ty." 

"  I  know  you're  stopping  for  passengers  ;  but  you've 
no  business  to  do  so.     Why  are  you  stopping  ?" 

"  Vy,  sir,  that's  a  difficult  question.  I  think  it  is  be- 
cause we  prefer  stopping  here  to  going  on." 

"Now  mind,"  exclaims  the  little  old  man,  with  great 
vehemence,  "I'll  pull  you  up  to-morrow;  I've  often 
threatened  to  do  it ;  now  I  will." 

"  Thankee,"  sir,  replies  the  cad,  touching  his  hat  with 
a  mock  expression  of  gratitude  ; — "  werry  much  obliged 
to  you  indeed,  sir."  Here  the  young  men  in  the  omnibus 
laugh  very  heartily,  and  the  old  gentleman  gets  very 
red  in  the  face,  and  seems  highly  exasperated. 

The  stout  gentleman  in  the  white  neckcloth,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  vehicle,  looks  very  prophetic,  and  says 
that  something  must  shortly  be  done  with  these  fellows, 
or  there's  no  saying  where  all  this  will  end  ;  and  the 
shabby-genteel  man  with  the  green  bag,  expresses  his 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


873 


entire  concurrence  in  the  opinion,  as  he  has  done  regular- 
ly every  morning  for  the  last  six  months. 

A  second  omnibus  now  comes  up,  and  stops  immedi- 
ately behind  us.  Another  old  gentleman  elevat(;s  his 
cane  in  the  air,  and  runs  with  all  his  might  towards  our 
omnibus  ;  we  watch  his  progress  with  great  interest  ;  the 
door  is  opened  to  receive  him,  he  suddenly  disappears — 
he  has  been  spirited  away  by  the  opposition.  Hereupon 
the  driver  of  the  opposition  taunts  our  people  with  his 
having  "  regularly  done  '  em  out  of  that  old  swell,"  and 
the  voice  of  the  "old  swell"  is  heard,  vainly  protesting 
against  this  unlawful  detention.  We  rattle  off,  the 
other  omnibus  rattles  after  us,  and  every  time  we  stop 
to  take  up  a  passenger,  they  stop  to  take  him  too  ;  some- 
times we  get  him  ;  sometimes  they  get  him  ;  but  who- 
ever don't  get  him,  say  they  ought  to  have  had  him,  and 
the  cads  of  the  respective  vehicles  abase  one  another 
accordingly. 

As  we  arrive  in  the  vicinity  of  Lincoln's-inn-fields, 
Bedford  row,  and  other  legal  haunts,  we  drop  a  great 
many  of  our  original  passengers,  and  take  up  fresh  ones, 
who  meet  with  a  very  sulky  reception.  It  is  rather  re- 
markable that  the  people  already  in  an  omnibus,  always 
look  at  new  comers,  as  if  they  entertained  some  undefined 
idea  that  they  have  no  business  to  come  in  at  all.  We 
are  quite  persuaded  the  little  old  man  has  some  notion  of 
this  kind,  and  that  he  considers  their  entry  as  a  sort  of 
negative  impertinence. 

Conversation  is  now  entirely  dropped  ;  each  person 
gazes  vacantly  through  the  window  in  front  of  him, 
and  everybody  thinks  that  his  opposite  neighbour  is 
staring  at  him.  If  one  man  gets  out  at  Shoe-lane,  and 
another  at  the  corner  of  Farringdon -street,  the  little  old 
gentleman  grumbles,  and  suggests  to  the  latter,  that  if 
he  had  got  out  at  Shoe-lane  too,  he  would  have  saved 
them  the  delay  of  another  stoppage  ;  whereupon  the 
young  men  laugh  again,  and  the  old  gentleman  looks 
very  solemn,  and  says  nothing  more  till  he  gets  to  the 
Bank,  when  he  trots  off  as  fast  as  he  can,  leaving  us  to 
do  the  same,  and  to  wish,  as  we  walk  away,  that  we 
could  impart  to  others  any  portion  of  the  amusement  we 
have  gained  for  ourselves. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  last  Cab-driver,  and  the  First  Omnibus  Cad. 

Op  all  the  cabriolet-drivers  whom  we  ever  had  the 
honour  and  gratification  of  knowing  by  sight — and  our 
acquaintance  in  this  way  has  been  most  extensive — there 
is  one  who  made  an  impression  on  our  mind  which  can 
never  be  effaced,  and  who  awakened  in  our  bosom  a  feel- 
ing of  admiration  and  respect,  which  we  entertain  a  fatal 
presentiment  will  never  be  called  forth  again  by  any 
human  being.  He  was  a  man  of  most  simple  and  prepos- 
sessing appearance.  He  was  a  brown-whiskered,  white- 
hatted,  no-coated  cabman  ;  his  nose  was  generally  red, 
and  his  bright  blue  eye  not  unfrequently  stood  out  in 
bold  relief  against  a  black  border  of  artificial  workman- 
ship ;  his  boots  were  of  the  Wellington  form,  pulled  up 
to  meet  his  corduroy  knee-smalls,  or  at  least  to  approach 
as  near  them  as  their  dimensions  would  admit  of  ;  and 
his  neck  was  usually  garnished  with  a  bright  yellow 
handkerchief.  In  summer  he  carried  in  his  mouth  a 
flower  ;  in  winter,  a  straw — slight,  but  to  a  contempla- 
tive mind,  certain  indications  of  a  love  of  nature,  and  a 
taste  for  botany. 

His  cabriolet  was  gorgeously  painted — a  bright  red  ; 
and  wherever  we  went.  City  or  West  End,  Paddington  or 
Ilolloway,  North,  East,  West,  or  South,  there  was  the 
red  cab,  bumping  up  against  the  posts  at  the  street  cor- 
ners, and  turning  in  and  out  among  hackney-coaches, 
and  drays,  and  carts,  and  waggons,  and  omnibuses,  and 
contriving  by  some  strange  means  or  other,  to  get  out  of 
places  which  no  other  vehicle  but  the  red  cab  could  ever 
by  any  possibility  have  contrived  to  get  into  at  all.  Our 
fondness  for  that  red  cab  was  unbounded.  How  we 
should  have  liked  to  see  it  in  the  circle  at  Astley's  !  Our 
life  upon  it,  that  it  should  have  perfonned  such  evolu- 
tions as  would  have  put  the  whole  company  to  shame — 
Indian  chiefs,  knights,  Swiss  peasants,  and  all. 


Some  people  object  to  the  exertion  of  getting  into  cabs, 
and  others  object  to  the  difficulty  of  getting  out  of 
them  ;  we  think  both  these  are  objections  which  take 
their  rise  in  perverse  and  ill-conditioned  minds.  The 
getting  into  a  cab  is  a  very  pretty  and  graceful  process, 
which,  when  well  performed,  is  essentially  melodra- 
matic. First,  there  is  the  expressive  pantomime  of  every 
one  of  the  eighteen  cabmen  on  the  stand,  the  moment 
you  raise  your  eyes  from  the  ground.  '1  hen  there  is  your 
own  pantomime  in  reply — quite  a  little  ballet.  Four 
cabs  immediately  leave  the  stand,  for  your  especial 
accomodation  ;  and  the  evolutions  of  the  animals  who 
draw  them,  are  beautiful  in  the  extreme,  as  they  grate 
the  wheels  of  the  cabs  against  the  curbstones,  and  sport 
playfully  in  the  kennel.  You  single  out  a  particular  cab, 
and  dart  swiftly  towards  it.  One  bound,  and  you  are  on 
the  first  step  ;  turn  your  body  lightly  round  to  the  right, 
and  you  are  on  the  second  ;  bend  gracefully  beneath  the 
reins,  working  round  to  the  left  at  the  same  time,  and 
you  are  in  the  cab.  There  is  no  difficulty  in  finding  a 
seat :  the  apron  knocks  you  comfortably  into  it  at  once, 
and  off  you  go. 

The  getting  out  of  a  cab,  is  perhaps  rather  more  com- 
plicated in  its  theory,  and  a  diade  more  difficult  in  its 
execution.  We  have  studied  the  subject  a  great  deal, 
and  we  think  the  best  way  is,  to  throw  your;- elf  out,  and 
trust  to  chance  for  alighting  on  your  feet.  If  you  make 
the  driver  alight  first,  and  then  throw  yourself  upon  him, 
you  will  find  that  he  breaks  your  fall  materially.  In  the 
event  of  your  contemplating  an  offer  of  eightpence,  on 
no  account  make  the  tender,  or  shpw  the  money,  until 
you  are  safely  on  the  pavement.  It  is  very  bad  policy 
attempting  to  save  the  fourpence.  You  are  very  much 
in  the  power  of  a  cabman,  and  he  considers  it  a  kind  of 
fee  not  to  do  you  any  wilful  damage.  Any  instruction, 
however,  in  the  art  of  getting  out  of  a  cab,  is  wholly 
unnecessary  if  you  are  going  any  distance,  because  the 
probability  is,  that  you  will  be  shot  lightly  out  before 
you  have  completed  the  third  mile. 

We  are  not  aware  of  any  instance  on  record  in  which 
a  cab-horse  has  performed  three  consecutive  miles  with- 
out going  down  once.  What  of  that  ?  It  is  all  excite- 
ment. And  in  these  days  of  derangement  of  the  nervous 
system  and  universal  lassitude,  people  are  content  to  pay 
handsomely  for  excitement  ;  where  can  it  be  procured  at 
a  cheaper  rate  ? 

But  to  return  to  the  red  cab  ;  it  was  omnipresent.  You 
had  but  to  walk  down  Holborn,  or  Fleet-street,  or  any  of 
the  principal  thoroughfares  in  which  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  traffic,  and  judge  for  yourself.  You  had  hardly  turned 
into  the  street,  when  you  saw  a  trunk  or  two,  lying  on 
the  ground  :  an  uprooted  post,  a  hat-box,  a  portmanteau, 
and  a  carpet-bag,  strew^ed  about  in  a  very  picturesque 
manner  :  a  horse  in  a  cab  standing  by,  looking  about  him 
with  great  concern  ;  and  a  crowd,  shouting  and  scream- 
ing with  delight,  cooling  their  flushed  faces  against  the 
glass  windows  of  a  chemist's  shop. — "  What's  the  matter 
here,  can  you  tell  me  ?  " — "  O'ny  a  cab,  sir." — "  Anybody 
hurt,  do  3'ou  know  V — "  O'ny  the  fare,  sir.  I  see  him  a 
turnin'  the  corner,  and  I  ses  to  another  gen'lm'n,  '  that's  a 
regular  little  'oss  that,  and  he's  a  comin'  along  rayther 
sweet,  an't  he  ?  ' — '  He  just  is,'  ses  the  other  gen'lm'n,  ven 
bump  they  comes  agin  the  post,  and  out  flies  the  fare  like 
bricks."  Need  we  say  it  was  the  red  cab  ;  or  that  the 
gentleman  with  the  straw  in  his  mouth,  who  emerged  so 
coolly  from  the  chemist's  shop  and  philosophically  climb- 
ing into  the  little  dickey,  started  off  at  full  gallop,  was 
the  red  cab's  licensed  driver  ? 

The  ubiquity  of  this  red  cab,  and  the  influence  it  exer- 
cised over  the  risible  muscles  of  justice  itself,  was  per- 
fectly astonishing.  You  walked  into  the  justice-room  of 
the  Mansion-house :  the  whole  court  resounded  with 
merriment.  The  Lord  Mayor  threw  himself  back  in  his 
chair,  in  a  state  of  frantic  delight  at  his  own  joke  ;  every 
vein  in  Mr.  Hobler's  countenance  was  swollen  with 
laughter,  partly  at  the  Lord  Mayor's  facetiousness,  but 
more  at  his  own  ;  the  constables  and  police-ofiicers  were 
(as  in  duty  bound)  in  ecstasies  at  Mr.  Hobler  and  the 
Lord  Mayor  combined  ;  and  the  very  paupers,  glancing 
respectfully  at  the  beadle's  countenance,  tried  to  smile, 
as  oven  he  relaxed.  A  tall,  weazen-faced  man,  with  an 
impediment  in  his  speech,  would  be  endeavouring  to 


874 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


state  a  case  of  imposition  against  the  red  cab's  driver ; 
and  the  red  cab's  driver,  and  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  Mr. 
Hobler,  would  be  having  a  little  fun  among  themselves, 
to  the  inordinate  delight  of  everybody  but  the  complain- 
ant. In  the  end,  justice  would  be  so  tickled  with  the 
red-cab-driver's  native  humour,  that  the  fine  would  be 
mitigated,  aiid  he  would  go  away  full  gallop,  in  the  red 
e&h,  to  impose  on  somebody  else  without  loss  of  time. 

The  driver  of  the  red  cab,  confident  in  the  strength  of 
his  own  moral  principles,  like  many  other  philosophers, 
was  wont  to  set  the  feelings  and  opinions  of  society  at 
complete  defiance.  Generally  speaking,  perhaps,  he 
would  as  soon  carry  a  fare  safely  to  his  destination,  as 
he  would  upset  him — sooner,  perhaps,  because  in  that 
case  he  not  only  got  the  money,  but  had  the  additional 
amusement  of  running  a  longer  heat  against  some  smart 
rival.  But  society  made  war  upon  him  in  the  shape  of 
penalties,  and  he  must  make  war  upon  society  in  his 
own  way.  This  was  the  reasoning  of  the  red-cab-driver 
So,  he  bestowed  a  searching  look  upon  the  fare,  as  he 
put  his  hand  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  when  he  had  gone 
half  the  mile,  to  get  the  money  ready  ;  and  if  he  brought 
forth  eightpence,  out  lie  went. 

The  last  time  we  saw  our  friend  was  one  wet  evening 
in  Tottenham-court-road,  when  he  was  engaged  in  a 
very  warm  and  somewhat  personal  altercation  with  a 
loquacious  little  gentleman  in  a  green  coat.  Poor  fel- 
low !  there  were  great  excuses  to  be  made  for  him  :  he 
had  not  received  above  eighteenpence  more  than  his 
fare,  and  consequently  laboured  under  a  great  deal  of 
very  natural  indignation.  The  dispute  had  attained  a 
pretty  considerable  height,  when  at  last  the  loquacious 
little  gentleman,  making  a  mental  calculation  of  the 
distance,  and  finding  that  he  had  already  paid  more  than 
he  ought,  avowed  his  unalterable  determination  to 
"pull  up  "  the  cabman  in  the  morning. 

*'Now,  just  mark  this,  young  man,"  said  the  little 
gentleman,     I'll  pull  you  up  to-morrow  morning." 

"No!  will  you  though?"  said  our  friend  with  a 
sneer. 

"I  will,"  replied  the  little  gentleman,  "mark  my 
words,  that's  all.  If  I  live  till  to-morrow  morning,  you 
shall  repent  this." 

There  was  a  steadiness  of  purpose,  and  indignation  of 
speech,  about  the  little  gentleman,  as  he  took  an  angry 
pinch  of  snuff,  after  this  last  declaration,  which  made  a 
visible  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  red-cab-driver. 
He  appeared  to  hesitate  for  an  instant.  It  was  only  for 
an  instant ;  his  resolve  was  soon  taken. 

"  You'll  pull  me  up,  will  you  ?  "  said  our  friend. 

"  I  will,"  rejoined  the  little  gentleman,  with  even 
greater  vehemence  than  before. 

"Very  well,"  said  our  friend,  tucking  up  his  shirt 
sleeves  very  calmly.  "  There'll  be  three  veeks  for  that. 
Wery  good  ;  that'll  bring  me  up  to  the  middle  o'  next 
month.  Three  veeks  more  would  carry  me  on  to  my 
birthday,  and  then  I've  got  ten  pound  to  draw.  I  may 
as  well  get  board,  lodgin',  and  washin',  till  then,  out  of 
the  county,  as  pay  for  it  myself ;  consequently  here 
goes  ! " 

So,  without  more  ado,  the  red-cab-driver  knocked  the 
little  gentleman  down,  and  then  called  the  police  to 
take  himself  into  custody,  with  all  the  civility  in  the 
world. 

A  story  is  nothing  without  the  sequel  ;  and  therefore 
we  may  state,  that  to  our  certain  knowledge,  the  board, 
lodging,  and  washing,  were  all  provided  in  due  course. 
We  happen  to  know  the  fact,  for  it  came  to  our  knowl- 
edge, thus  :  We  went  over  the  House  of  Correction  for 
the  county  of  Middlesex  shortly  after  to  witness  the  op- 
eration of  the  silent  system  :  and  looked  on  all  the 
"wheels"  with  the  greatest  anxiety,  in  search  of  our 
long-lost  friend.  He  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  however, 
and  we  began  to  think  that  the  little  gentleman  in  the 
green  coat  must  have  relented,  when  as  we  were  travers- 
ing the  kitchen-garden,  which  lies  in  a  sequestered  part 
of  tlie  prison,  we  were  startled  by  hearing  a  voice,  which 
apparently  proceeded  from  the  wall,  pouring  forth  its 
soul  in  the  ])laintive  air  of  "all  round  my  hat,"  which 
was  then  just  beginning  to  form  a  recognised  portion  of 
tur  national  music. 

We  started.—"  What  voice  is  that  ?  "  said  we. 


The  Governor  shook  his  head. 

"Sad  fellow,"  he  replied,  "very  sad.  He  positively 
refused  to  work  on  the  wheel  ;  so,  after  many  trials,  I 
was  compelled  to  order  him  into  solitary  confinement. 
He  says  he  likes  it  very  much  though,  and  1  am  afraid  he 
does,  for  he  lies  on  his  back  on  the  floor,  and  sings  comic 
songs  all  day  ! " 

Shall  we  add  that  our  heart  had  not  deceived  us  ;  and 
that  the  comic  singer  was  no  other  man  than  our  eagerly- 
sought  friend,  the  red-cab-driver? 

We  have  never  seen  him  since,  but  we  have  strong 
reason  to  suspect  that  this  noble  individual  was  a  distant 
relative  of  a  waterman  of  our  acquaintance,  who,  on 
one  occasion,  when  we  were  passing  the  coach-stand 
over  which  he  presides,  after  standing  very  quietly  to 
see  a  tall  man  struggle  into  a  cab,  ran  up  very  briskly 
when  it  was  all  over  (as  his  brethren  invariably  do),  and, 
touching  his  hat,  asked  as  a  matter  of  course,  for  "a 
copper  for  the  waterman."  Now,  the  fare  was  by  no 
means  a  handsome  man  ;  and,  waxing  very  indignant  at 
the  demand,  he  replied; — "  Money  !  What  for?  Coming 
up  and  looking  at  me,  I  suppose  ?  " — "  Veil,  sir,"  rejoined 
the  waterman,  with  a  smile  of  immovable  complacency. 
"  That's  worth  twopence." 

This  identical  waterman  afterwards  attained  a  very 
prominent  station  in  society  ;  and  as  we  know  something 
of  his  life,  and  have  often  thought  of  telling  what  we 
do  know,  perhaps  we  shall  never  have  a  better  oppor- 
tunity than  the  present. 

Mr.  William  Barker,  then,  for  that  was  the  gentle-  , 
man's  name,  Mr.  William  Barker  was  born — but  why 
need  we  relate  where  Mr.  William  Barker  was  born,  or  ; 
when  ?    Why  scrutinise  the  entries  in  parochial  ledgers,  ■ 
or  seek  to  penetrate  the  Lucinian  mysteries  of  lying-in  ; 
hospitals?    Mr.  William  Barker  was  born,  or  he  had  ' 
never  been.    There  is  a  son — there  was  a  father.  There 
is  an  effect — there  was  a  cause.    Surely  this  is  sufficient  ' 
information  for  the  most  Fatima-like  curiosity  ;  and,  if  ' 
it  be  not,  we  regret  our  inability  to  supply  any  further  ' 
evidence  on  the  point.    Can  there  be  a  more  satisfactory, 
or  more  strictly  parliamentary  course  ?    Impossible.  i 

We  at  once  avow  a  similar  inability  to  record  at  what 
precise  period,  or  by  what  particular  process,  this  gen-  , 
tleman's  patronymic  of  William  Barker  became  cor-  ' 
rupted  into  "  Bill  Boorker."    Mr.  Barker  acquired  a  high  ( 
standing,  and  no  inconsiderable  reputation,  among  the  i 
members  of  that  profession  to  which  he  more  peculiarly  / 
devoted  his  energies  ;  and  to  them  he  was  generally  ' 
known,  either  by  the  familiar  appellation  of  "  Bill  Boor- 
ker," or  the  flattering  designation  of  "Aggerawatin  j 
Bill,"  the  latter  being  a  playful  and  expressive  sobriquet, 
illustrative  of  Mr.  Barker's  great  talent  in  "aggerawa- 
tin" and  rendering  wild  such  subjects  of  her  Majesty  as 
are  conveyed  from  place  to  place,  through  the  instrumen- 
tality of  omnibuses.  Of  the  early  life  of  Mr.  Barker  little 
is  known,  and  even  that  little  is  involved  in  considerable 
doubt  and  obsciirity.  A  want  of  application,  a  restlessness 
of  purpose,  a  thirsting  after  porter,  a  love  of  all  that  is 
roving  and  cadger-like  in  nature,  shared  in  common  with 
many  other  great  geniuses,  appear  to  have  been  his  lead- 
ing characteristics.    The  busy  hum  of  a  parochial  free 
school,  and  the  shady  repose  of  a  county  gaol,  were 
alike  inefficacious  in  producing  the  slightest  alteration  in 
Mr.  Barker's  disposition.    His  feverish  attachment  to 
change  and  variety,  nothing  could  repress  ;  his  native  t 
daring  no  punishment  could  subdue.  | 

If  Mr.  Barker  can  be  fairly  said  to  have  had  any  weak- 
ness in  his  earlier  years,  it  was  an  amiable  one — love  ; 
love  in  its  most  comprehensive  form — a  love  of  ladies, 
liquids,  and  pocket-handkerchiefs.  It  was  no  selfish 
feeling ;  it  was  not  confined  to  his  own  possessions, 
which  but  too  many  men  regard  with  exclusive  compla- 
cency. No  ;  it  was  a  nobler  love — a  general  principle. 
It  extended  itself  with  equal  force  to  the  property  of 
other  people. 

There  is  something  very  affecting  in  this.  It  is  still 
more  affecting  to  know,  that  such  philanthrophy  is  but 
imperfectly  rewarded.  Bow-street,  Newgate,  and  Mill- 
bank,  are  a  poor  return  for  general  benevolence,  evin- 
cing itself  in  an  irrepressible  love  for  all  created  objects. 
Mr.  Barker  felt  it  so.  After  a  lengthened  interview  with 
the  highest  legal  authorities,  he  quitted  his  ungrateful 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


875 


country,  with  the  consent,  and  at  the  expense  of  its 
Government ;  proceeded  to  a  distant  shore  ;  and  there 
employed  himself,  like  another  Cincinnatus,  in  clearing 
and  cultivating?  the  soil — a  peaceful  pursuit,  in  which  a 
term  of  seven  years  glided  almost  imperceptibly  away. 

Whether,  at  the  expiration  of  the  period  we  have 
just  mentioned,  the  British  Government  required  Mr. 
Barker's  presence  here,  or  did  not  require  his  residence 
abroad,  we  have  no  distinct  means  of  ascertaining.  We 
should  be  inclined,  however,  to  favour  tlie  latter  posi- 
I  tion,  inasmuch  as  we  do  not  find  that  he  was  advanced 
!  to  any  other  public  post  on  his  return,  than  the  post  at 
the  corner  of  the  Haymarket,  where  he  officiated  as  as- 
sistant-waterman to  the  hackney-coach  stand.  Seated, 
in  this  capacity,  on  a  couple  of  tubs  near  the  curb-stone, 
with  a  brass-plate  and  number  suspended  round  his  neck 
by  a  massive  chain,  and  his  ankles  curiously  enveloped 
in  haybands,  he  is  supposed  to  have  made  those  observa- 
tions on  human  nature  which  exercised  so  material  an 
influence  over  all  his  proceedings  in  later  life. 

Mr.  Barker  had  not  officiated  for  many  months  in  this 
capacity,  when  the  appearance  of  the  first  omnibus 
caused  the  public  mind  to  go  in  a  new  direction,  and 
prevented  a  great  many  hackney-coaches  from  going  in 
any  direction  at  all.  The  genius  of  Mr.  Barker  at  once 
perceived  the  whole  extent  of  the  injury  that  would  be 
eventually  inflicted  on  cab  and  coach  stands,  and,  by  con- 
sequence, on  watermen  also,  by  the  progress  of  the  sys- 
tem of  which  the  first  omnibus  was  a  part.  He  saw, 
too,  the  necessity  of  adopting  some  more  profitable  pro- 
fession ;  and  his  active  mind  at  once  perceived  how 
much  might  be  done  in  the  way  of  enticing  the  youthful 
and  unwary,  and  shoving  the  old  and  helpless,  into  the 
wrong  buss,  and  carrying  them  off,  until,  reduced  to  de- 
spair, they  ransomed  themselves  by  the  payment  of  six- 
pence a-head,  or,  to  adopt  his  own  figurative  expression 
in  all  its  native  beauty,  "till  they  was  rig'larly  done 
over,  and  forked  out  the  stumpy." 

An  opportunity  for  realising  his  fondest  anticipations 
soon  presented  itself.  Rumours  were  rife  on  the  hack- 
ney-coach stands,  that  a  buss  was  building,  to  run  from 
Lissou-grove  to  the  Bank,  down  Oxford-street  and 
Holborn  ;  and  the  rapid  increase  of  busses  on  the  Pad- 
.  dington-road,  encouraged  the  idea.  Mr.  Barker  secretly 
and  cautiousJy  inquired  in  the  proper  quarters.  The 
report  was  correct ;  the  "  Royal  William"  was  to  make 
its  first  journey  on  the  following  Monday.  It  was  a 
crack  affair  altogether.  An  enterprising  young  cabman, 
of  established  reputation  as  a  dashing  whip— for  he  had 
compromised  with  the  parents  of  three  scrunched  chil- 
dren, and  just  "  worked  out"  his  fine  for  knocking  down 
an  old  lady — was  the  driver  ;  and  the  spirited  proprietor, 
knowing  Mr.  Barker's  qualifications,  appointed  him 
to  the  vacant  office  of  cad  on  the  very  first  application. 
The  buss  began  to  run,  and  Mr.  Barker  entered  into  a 
new  suit  of  clothes,  and  on  a  new  sphere  of  action. 

To  recapitulate  all  the  improvements  introduced  by 
this  extraordinary  man,  into  the  omnibus  system — grad- 
ually, indeed,  but  surely — would  occupy  a  far  greater 
space  than  we  are  enabled  to  devote  to  this  imperfect 
memoir.  To  him  is  universally  assigned  the  original 
suggestion  of  the  practice  which  afterwards  became  so 
general — of  the  driver  of  a  second  buss  keeping  constant- 
ly behind  the  first  one,  and  driving  the  pole  of  his  vehicle 
either  into  the  door  of  the  other,  every  time  it  was 
opened,  or  through  the  body  of  any  lady  or  gentleman 
who  might  make  an  attempt  to  get  into  it  ;  a  humorous 
and  pleasant  invention,  exhibiting  all  that  originality  of 
idea  and  fine  bold  flow  of  spirits  so  conspicuous  in  every 
action  of  this  great  man. 

Mr.  Barker  had  opponents  of  course  ;  what  man  in 
public  life  has  not  ?  But  even  his  worst  enemies  cannot 
deny  that  he  has  taken  more  old  ladies  and  gentlemen 
to  Paddington  who  wanted  to  go  to  the  Bank,  and  more 
old  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  the  Bank  who  wanted  to  g^o 
to  Paddington,  than  any  six  men  on  the  road ;  and 
however  much  malevolent  spirits  may  pretend  to  doubt 
the  accuracy  of  the  statement,  they  well  know  it  to  be 
an  established  fact,thathe  has  forcibly  conveyed  a  variety 
of  ancient  persons  of  either  sex,  to  both  places,  who  had 
not  the  slightest  or  most  distant  intention  of  going  any- 
where at  ail. 


[  Mr.  Barker  was  the  identical  cad  who  nobly  distin- 
guish(;d  him.se] f,  some  time  since,  by  kc.'cping  a  trades- 

!  man  on  the  step— the  omnibus  going  at  full  speed  all 
the  time — till  he  had  thrashed  him  to  his  entire 
satisfaction,  and  finally  throwing  him  a  way  when  he  had 
quite  done  with  him.    Mr.  Barker  it  ought  to  have  been, 

I  who  honestly  indignant  at  being  ignominously  ejected 
from  a  house  of  public  entertainment,  kicked  the  land- 
lord in  the  knee,  and  thereby  caused  his  death.  We 
say  it  f/ugJit  to  have  been  Mr.  Barker,  because  the  action 
was  not  a  common  one,  and  could  have  emanated  from 
no  ordinary  mind. 

It  has  now  become  matter  of  history  ;  it  is  recorded  in 
the  Newgate  Calendar  ;  and  we  wish  we  could  attribute 
this  piece  of  daring  heroism  to  Mr.  Barker.  We  regret 
being  compelled  to  state  that  it  was  not  performed  by 
him.  Would,  for  the  family  credit  we  could  add,  that 
it  was  achieved  by  his  brother  ! 

It  was  in  the  exercise  of  the  nicer  details  of  his  pro- 
fession, that  Mr.  Barker's  knowledge  of  human  nature 
was  beautifully  displayed.  He  could  tell  at  a  glance 
where  a  passenger  wanted  to  go  to,  and  would  shout  the 
name  of  the  place  accordingly,  without  the  slightest 
reference  to  the  real  destination  of  the  vehicle.  He  knew 
exactly  the  kind  of  old  lady  that  would  be  too  much 
flurried  by  the  process  of  pushing  in,  and  pulling  out  of 
the  caravan,  to  discover  where  she  had  been  put  down, 
until  too  late  ;  had  an  intuitive  perception  of  what  was 
passing  in  a  passenger's  mind,  when  he  inwardly  re- 
solved to  "  pull  that  cad  up  to-morrow  morning  and 
never  failed  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  female  ser- 
vants, whom  he  would  place  next  the  door,  and  talk  to 
all  the  way. 

Human  judgment  is  never  infallible,  and  it  would 
occasionally  happen  that  Mr.  Barker  experimentalised 
with  the  timidity  or  forbearance  of  the  wrong  person,  in 
which  case  a  summons  to  a  police-office,  was,  on  more 
than  one  occasion,  followed  by  a  committal  to  prison.  It 
was  not  in  the  power  of  trifles  such  as  these,  however, 
to  subdue  the  freedom  of  his  spirit.  As  soon  as  they 
passed  away,  he  resumed  the  duties  of  his  profession 
with  unabated  ardour. 

We  have  spoken  of  Mr.  Barker  and  of  the  red-cab- 
driver  in  the  past  tense.  Alas  !  Mr.  Barker  has  again 
become  an  absentee  ;  and  the  class  of  men  to  which  they 
both  belonged  are  fast  disappearing.  Improvement  has 
peered  beneath  the  aprons  of  our  cabs,  and  penetrated 
to  the  very  innermost  recesses  of  our  omnibuses.  Dirt 
and  fustian  will  vanish  before  cleanliness  and  livery. 
Slang  will  be  forgotten  when  civility  becomes  general : 
and  that  enlightened,  eloquent,  sage,  and  profound  body, 
the  Magistracy  of  London,  will  be  deprived  of  half  their 
amusement,  and  half  their  occupation. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  Parliamentary  Sketch. 

We  hope  our  readers  will  not  be  alarmed  at  this  rather 
ominous  title.  We  assure  them  that  we  are  not  about 
to  become  political,  neither  have  we  the  slightest  inten- 
tion of  being  more  prosy  than  usual — if  we  can  help  it. 
It  has  occurred  to  us  that  a  slight  sketch  of  the  general 
aspect  of  "  the  House,"  and  the  crowds  that  resort  to  it 
on  the  night  of  an  important  debate,  would  be  produc- 
tive of  some  amusement ;  and  as  we  have  made  some 
few  calls  at  the  aforesaid  house  in  our  time — have  visited 
it  quite  often  enough  for  our  purpose,  and  a  great  deal 
too  often  for  our  own  personal  peace  and  comfort — we 
have  determined  to  attempt  the  description.  Dismissing 
from  our  minds,  therefore,  all  that  feeling  of  awe,  which 
vague  ideas  of  breaches  of  privilege,  Sergeaut-at-Arms, 
heavy  denunciations,  and  still  heavier  fees,  are  calcu- 
lated to  awaken,  we  enter  at  once  into  the  building,  and 
upon  our  subject. 

Half-past  four  o'clock — and  at  five  the  mover  of  the 
Address  will  be  "on  his  legs,"  as  the  newspapers  an- 
nounce sometimes  by  way  of  novelty,  as  if  speakers  were 
occasionally  in  the  habit  of  standing  on  their  heads. 
The  members  are  pouring  in,  one  after  the  other,  in 


876 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


shoals.  The  few  spectators  who  can  obtain  standing- 
room  in  the  passages,  scrutinize  them  as  they  pass,  with 
the  utmost  interest,  and  the  man  who  can  identify  a 
member  occasionally,  becomes  a  person  of  great  import- 
ance. Every  now  and  then  you  hear  earnest  whispers 
of  "That's  Sir  John  Thomson."  "Which?  him  with 
the  gilt  order  round  his  neck  ?  "  No,  no  ;  that's  one 
of  the  messengers— that  other  with  the  yellow  gloves, 
is  Sir  John  Thomson."  "  Here's  Mr.  Smith."  "Lor!" 
*''Yes,  how  d'ye  do,  sir? — (He  is  our  new  member) — 
How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  Mr.  Smith  stops  :  turns  round, 
with  an  air  of  enchanting  urbanity  (for  the  rumour  of  an 
intended  dissolution  has  been  very  extensively  circu- 
lated this  morning)  ;  seizes  both  the  hands  of  his  grati- 
fied constituent,  and,  after  greeting  him  with  the  most 
enthusiastic  warmth,  darts  into  the  lobby  with  an  extra- 
ordinary display  of  ardour  in  the  public  cause,  leaving 
an  immense  impression  in  his  favour  on  the  mind  of  his 
fellow-townsman." 

The  arrivals  increase  in  number,  and  the  heat  and 
noise  increase  in  very  unpleasant  proportion.  The  livery 
servants  form  a  complete  lane  on  either  side  of  the  pas- 
sage, and  you  reduce  yourself  into  the  smallest  possi- 
ble space  to  avoid  being  turned  out.  You  see  that  stout 
man  with  the  hoarse  voice,  in  ihe  blue  coat,  queer 
crowned,  broad-brimmed  hat,  white  corduroy  breeches, 
and  great  boots,  who  has  been  talking  incessantly  for 
half  an  hour  past,  and  whose  importance  has  occasioned 
no  small  quantity  of  mirth  among  the  strangers.  That 
is  the  great  conservator  of  the  peace  of  Westminster. 
You  cannot  fail  to  have  remarked  the  grace  with  which 
he  saluted  the  noble  Lord  who  passed  just  now,  or  the 
excessive  dignity  of  his  air,  as  he  expostulates  with  the 
crowd.  He  is  rather  out  of  temper  now,  in  consequence 
of  the  very  irreverent  behaviour  of  those  two  young 
fellows  behind  him,  who  have  done  nothing  but  laugh 
all  the  time  they  have  been  here. 

"  Will  they  divide  to-night,  do  you  think,  Mr.  ?  " 

timidly  inquires  a  little  thin  man  in  the  crowd,  hoping 
to  conciliate  the  man  of  office. 

*'  How  can  you  ask  such  questions,  sir?  "  replies  the 
functionary,  in  an  incredibly  loud  key,  and  pettishly 
grasping  the  thick  stick  he  carries  in  his  right  hand. 
"  Pray  do  not,  sir,  I  beg  of  you  ;  pray  do  not,  sir."  The 
little  man  looks  remarkably  out  of  his  element,  and  the 
uninitiated  part  of  the  throng  are  in  positive  convulsions 
of  laughter. 

Just  at  this  moment,  some  unfortunate  individual  ap- 
pears, with  a  very  smirking  air,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
long  passage.  He  has  managed  to  elude  the  vigilance 
of  the  special  constable  down-stairs,  and  is  evidently 
congratulating  himsejf  on  having  made  his  way  so  far. 

"Go  back,  sir — you  must  ?i(9f  come  here,"  shouts  the 
hoarse  one,  with  tremendous  emphasis  of  voice  and  ges- 
ture, the  moment  the  offender  catches  his  eye. 

The  stranger  pauses. 

"  Do  you  hear,  sir — will  you  go  back  ?  "  continues  the 
official  dignitary,  gently  pushing  the  intruder  some  half- 
dozen  yards. 

"  Come,  don't  push  me,"  replies  the  stranger,  turning 
angrily  round. 
"  I  will,  sir." 
"  You  won't,  sir." 
"Go  out,  sir." 

"Take  your  hands  off  me,  sir." 

"Go  out  off  the  passage,  sir." 

"  You're  a  Jack-in-office,  sir." 

"  A  what  ?  "  ejaculates  he  of  the  boots. 

"  A  Jack-in  office,  sir,  and  a  very  insolent  fellow," 
reiterates  the  stranger,  now  completely  in  a  ])assion. 

"  Pray  do  not  force  me  to  put  you  out,  sir,"  retorts 
the  other — "  pray  do  not — my  instructions  are  to  keep 
this  passage  clear — it's  the  Speaker's  orders,  sir." 

"  D — n  the  Speaker,  sir  I  "  shouts  the  intruder. 

"Here,  Wilson  ! — Collins  !  "  gasps  the  officer,  actually 
paralyzed  at  this  insulting  expression,  which  in  his  mind 
is  all  but  high  treason  ;  "  take  this  man  out — take  him 
out,  I  say  !  How  dare  you,  sir  ?"  and  down  goes  the  un- 
fortunate man  five  stairs  at  a  time,  turning  round  at 
every  stoppage,  to  come  back  again,  and  dtmouncing 
bitter  vejigeanco  against  the  commander-in-chief,  and  all 
his  supernumeraries. 


"Make  way,  gentlemen — pray  make  way  for  the 
Members,  I  beg  of  you!  "  shouts  the  zealous  officer,  turn- 
ing back,  and  preceding  a  whole  string  of  the  liberal  and 
independent. 

You  see  this  ferocious-looking  gentleman,  with  a  com- 
plexion almost  as  sallow  as  his  linen,  and  whose  large 
l3lack  moustache  would  give  him  the  appearance  of  a 
figure  in  a  hair-dresser's  window,  if  his  countenance 
possessed  the  thought  which  is  communicated  to  those 
waxen  caricatures  of  the  human  face  divine.  He  is  a 
militia-officer,  and  the  most  amusing  person  in  the  House.  • 
Can  anything  be  more  exquisitely  absurd  than  the  bur- 
lesque grandeur  of  his  air,  as  he  strides  up  to  the  lobby, 
his  eyes  rolling  like  those  of  a  Turk's  head  in  a  cheap 
Dutch  clock  ?  He  never  appears  without  that  bundle  of 
dirty  papers  which  he  carries  under  his  left  arm,  and 
which  are  generally  supposed  to  be  the  miscellaneous  es- 
timates for  1804,  or  some  equally  important  documents. 
He  is  very  punctual  in  his  attendance  at  the  House,  and 
his  self-satisfied  "  He-ar-He-ar,"  is  not  unfrequently  the 
signal  for  a  general  titter. 

This  is  the  gentleman  who  once  actually  sent  a  messen- 
ger up  to  the  Strangers'  gallery  in  the  old  House  of  Com- 
mons, to  inquire  the  name  of  an  individual  who  was 
using  an  eye-glass,  in  order  that  he  might  complain  to 
the  Speaker  that  the  person  in  question  was  quizzing  him! 
On  another  occasion,  he  is  reported  to  have  repaired  to 
Bellamy's  kitchen — a  refreshment  room,  where  persons 
who  are  not  Members  are  admitted  on  sufferance,  as  it 
were — and  perceiving  two  or  three  gentlemen  at  supper,  , 
who  he  was  aware  were  not  Members,  and  could  not,  in 
that  place,  very  well  resent  his  behaviour,  he  indulged  in 
the  pleasantry  of  sitting  with  his  booted  leg  on  the  table 
at  which  they  were  supping  !  He  is  generally  harmless,  \ 
though,  and  always  amusing. 

By  dint  of  patience  and  some  little  interest  with  our 
friend  the  constable,  we  have  contrived  to  make  our  way  ' 
to  the  Lobby,  and  you  can  just  manage  to  catch  an  occa-  ' 
sional  glimpse  of  the  House,  as  the  door  is  opened  for  ' 
the  admission  of  Members.    It  is  tolerably  full  already, 
and  little  groups  of  Members  are  congregated  together 
here,  and  discussing  the  interesting  topics  of  the  day. 

That  smart-looking  fellow  in  the  black  coat  with  velvet 
facings  and  cuffs,  who  wears  his  D' Orsay  hfit  so  rakishly, 
is  "  Honest  Tom,"  a  metropolitan  representative;  and  the  ; 
large  man  in  the  cloak  with  the  white  lining — not  the  ; 
man  by  the  pillar  ;  the  other  with  the  light  hair  hanging  ; 
over  his  coat  collar  behind — is  his  colleague.    The  quiet  ' 
gentlemanly -looking  man  in  the  blue  surtout,  gray  trou-  , 
sers,  white  neckerchief,  and  gloves,  whose  closely-but- 
toned coat  displays  his  manly  figure  and  broad  chest  to 
great  advantage,  is  a  very  well-known  character.  He 
has  fought  a  great  many  battles  in  his  time,  and  con- 
quered like  the  heroes  of  old,  with  no  other  arms  than 
those  the  gods  gave  him.    The  old  hard-featured  man 
who  is  standing  near  him,  is  really  a  good  specimen  of  a 
class  of  men  now  nearly  extinct.  He  is  a  county  Member, 
and  has  been  from  time  whereof  the  memory  of  man 
is  not  to  the  contrary.    Look  at  his  loose,  wide,  brown 
coat,  with  capacious  pockets  on  each  side  ;  the  knee- 
breeches  and  boots,  the  immensely  long  waistcoat,  and 
silver  watch-chain  dangling  below  it,  the  wide-brimmed 
brown  hat,  and  the  white  handkerchief  tied  in  a  great  bow 
with  straggling  ends  sticking  out  beyond  his  shirt-frill. 
It  is  a  costume  one  seldom  sees  nowadays,  and  when  the 
few  who  wear  it  have  died  off,  it  will  be  quite  extinct. 
He  can  tell  you  long  stories  of  Fox,  Pitt,  Sheridan,  and 
Canning,  and  how  much  better  the  House  was  managed  in 
those  times,  when  they  used  to  get  up  at  eight  or  nine 
o'clock,  except  on  regular  field  days,  of  which  everybody 
was  apprised  beforehand.    He  has  a  great  contempt  for 
all  .young  Members  of  Parliament,  and  thinks  it  quite 
impossible  that  a  man  can  say  anything  worth  hearing, 
unless  he  has  sat  in  the  House  for  fifteen  years  at  least,  i 
without  saying  anything  at  all.    He  is  of  opinion  that  i 
"that  young  Macaulay"  was  a  regular  impostor;  he  al-  j 
lows  that  Lord  Stanley  may  do  something  one  of  these 
days,  but  "he's  too  young,  sir — too  young."    He  is  an 
excellent  authority  on  points  of  precedent,  and  when  he 
grows  talkative,  after  his  wine,  will  tell  you  how  Sir 
Somebody  Something,  when  he  was  whipper-in  for  the  i 
Governmentjbrought  four  men  out  of  their  beds  to  vote  in  1 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


877 


the  majority, three  of  whom  died  on  their  way  home  a^^ain; 
how  the  House  once  divided  on  the  question,  that  fresh 
candles  be  now  brought  in  ;  how  the  Speaker  was  once 
upon  a  time  left  inthecliairby  accident,  at  the  conclusion 
of  business,  and  was  obliged  to  sifc  in  the  House  by  himself 
for  three  hours,  till  some  Member  could  be  knocked  up, 
and  brought  back  again,  to  move  the  adjournment  ;  and 
a  great  many  other  anecdotes,  of  a  similar  description. 

There  he  stands,  leaning  on  his  stick  ;  looking  at  the 
throng  of  Exquisites  around  him  with  most  profound 
contempt  ;  and  conjuring  up,  before  his  mind's  eye,  the 
scenes  he  beheld  in  the  old  House  in  days  gone  by, 
when  his  own  feelings  were  fresher  and  brighter,  and 
when,  as  he  imagines,  wit,  talent,  and  patriotism  flour- 
ished more  brightly  too. 

You  are  curious  to  know  who  that  young  man  in  the 
rough  great-coat  is,  who  has  accosted  every  Member 
who  has  entered  the  House  since  we  have  been  standing 
here.  He  is  not  a  Member  ;  he  is  only  an  "hereditary 
bondsman,"  or,  in  other  words,  an  Irish  correspondent 
of  an  Irish  newspaper,  who  has  just  procured  his  forty- 
second  frank  from  a  Member  whom  he  never  saw  in  his 
life  before  There  he  goes  again — another  !  Bless  the 
man,  he  has  his  hat  and  pockets  full  already. 

We  will  try  our  fortunes  at  the  Strangers'  gallery, 
though  the  nature  of  the  debate  encourages  very  little 
hope  of  success.  What  on  earth  are  you  about  ?  Hold- 
ing up  your  order  as  if  it  were  a  talisman  at  whose 
command  the  wicket  would  fly  open  ?  Nonsense.  Just 
preserve  the  order  for  an  autograph,  if  it  be  worth  keep- 
ing at  all,  and  make  your  appearance  at  the  door  with 
your  thumb  and  forefinger  expressively  inserted  in 
your  waistcoat- pocket.  This  tall  stout  man  in  black  is 
the  doorkeeper.  "Any  room?" — "Not  an  inch — two 
or  three  dozen  gentlemen  waiting  down  stairs  on  the 
chance  of  somebody's  going  out."  Pull  out  your  purse 
— "  Are  you  quite  sure  there's  no  room  ?" — "  I'll  go  and 
look,"  replies  the  door-keeper,  with  a  wistful  glance  at 
your  purse,  "  but  I'm  afraid  there's  not."  He  returns, 
and  with  real  feeling  assures  you  that  it  is  morally  im- 
])ossible  to  get  near  the  gallery.  It  is  of  no  use  waiting. 
When  you  are  refused  admission  into  the  Strangers' 
gallery  at  the  House  of  Commons,  under  such  circum- 
staitces,  you  may  return  home  thoroughly  satisfied  that 
the  place  must  be  remarkably  full  indeed.* 

Retracing  our  steps  through  the  long  passage,  de- 
scending the  stairs,  and  crossing  Palace-yard,  we  halt  at 
a  small  temporary  door-way  adjoining  the  King's  en- 
trance to  the  House  of  Lords.  The  order  of  the  serjeant- 
at-arms  will  admit  you  into  the  Reporters'  gallery,  from 
whence  you  can  obtain  a  tolerably  good  view  of  the 
House.  Take  care  of  the  stairs,  they  are  none  of  the 
best ;  through  this  little  wicket — there.  As  soon  as 
your  eyes  become  a  little  used  to  the  mist  of  the  place, 
and  the  glare  of  the  chandeliers  below  you,  you  will  see 
that  some  unimportant  personage  on  the  Ministerial  side 
of  the  House  (to  your  right  hand)  is  speaking,  amidst  a 
hum  of  voices  and  confusion  which  would  rival  Babel, 
but  for  the  circumstance  of  its  being  all  in  one  lan- 
guage. 

The  "hear,  hear,"  which  occasioned  that  laugh, 
proceeded  from  our  warlike  friend  with  the  moustache  ; 
he  is  sitting  on  the  back  scat  aj^ainst  the  wall,  behind 
the  Member  who  is  speaking,  looking  as  ferocious  and 
intellectual  as  usual.  Take  one  look  around  you,  and 
retire  !  The  body  of  the  Plouse  and  the  side  galleries 
are  full  of  Members  ;  some,  with  their  legs  on  the  back 
of  the  opposite  seat ;  some,  with  theirs  stretched  out  to 
their  utmost  length  on  the  floor  ;  some  going  out,  others 
coming  in  ;  all  talking,  laughing,  lounging,  coughing, 
o-ing,  questioning,  or  groaning ;  presenting  a  conglom- 
eration of  noise  and  confusion,  to  be  met  with  in  no 
other  place  in  existence,  not  even  excepting  Smithfield 
on  a  market-day,  or  a  cockpit  in  its  glory. 

But  let  us  not  omit  to  notice  Bellamy's  kitchen,  or,  in 
other  words,  the  refreshment-room,  common  to  both 
Houses  of  Parliament,  where  Ministerialists  and  Oppo- 
sitionists, Whigs  and  Tories,  Radicals,  Peers,  and  De- 


♦  This  paper  wai=t  written  before  the  practice  of  exhibitino:  Mem- 
bers of  Parliament,  like  other  curiosities,  for  the  small  charge  of 
/lalf-a-crown,  was  abolished. 


structives,  strangers  from  the  gallery,  and  the  more 
favoured  strangers  from  below  tiie  bar,  are  alike  at 
liberty  to  resort;  where  divers  honourable  Members 
prove  their  perfect  independence  by  remaining  during 
the  whole  of  a  heavy  debate,  solacing  themselves  with 
the  creature  comforts  ;  and  whence  they  are  summoned 
by  whippers-in,  when  the  House  is  on  the  point  of 
dividing  ;  either  to  give  their  "  conscientious  votes"  on 
questions  of  which  they  are  conscientiously  innocent  of 
knowing  anything  whatever,  or  to  find  a  vent  for  the 
playful  exuberance  of  their  wine-inspired  fancies,  in 
boisterous  shouts  of  "Divide,"  occasionally  varied  with 
a  little  howling,  barking,  crowing,  or  other  ebullitions 
of  senatorial  pleasantry. 

When  you  have  ascended  the  narrow  staircase  which, 
in  the  present  temporary  House  of  Commons,  leads  to 
the  yjlace  we  are  describing,  you  will  probably  observe 
a  couple  of  rooms  on  your  right  hand,  with  tables  spread 
for  dining.  Neither  of  these  is  the  kitchen,  although 
they  are  both  devoted  to  the  same  purpose  ;  the  kitchen 
is  further  on  to  our  left,  up  these  half-dozen  stairs. 
Before  we  ascend  the  staircase,  however,  we  must 
request  you  to  pause  in  front  of  this  little  bar-place  with 
the  sash-windows  ;  and  beg  your  particular  attention  to 
the  steady  honest-looking  old  fellow  in  black,  who  is  its 
sole  occupant.  Nicholas  (we  do  not  mind  mentioning 
the  old  fellow's  name,  for  if  Nicholas  be  not  a  public 
man,  who  is? — and  public  men's  names  are  public  pro- 
perty)— Nicholas  is  the  Butler  of  Bellamy's,  and  has  held 
the  same  place,  dressed  exactly  in  the  same  manner,  and 
said  precisely  the  same  things,  ever  since  the  oldest  of 
its  present  visitors  can  remember.  An  excellent  servant 
Nicholas  is — an  unrivalled  compounder  of  salad-dressing 
— an  admirable  preparer  of  soda-water  and  lemon — a 
special  mixer  of  cold  grog  and  punch — and,  above  all, 
an  unequalled  judge  of  cheese.  If  the  old  man  have 
such  a  thing  as  vanity  in  his  composition,  this  is  certain- 
ly his  pride  ;  and  if  it  be  possible  to  imagine  that  any 
thing  in  this  world  could  disturb  his  impenetrable  calm- 
ness, we  should  say  it  would  be  the  doubting  his 
judgment  on  this  important  point. 

We  needn't  tell  you  all  this,  however,  for  if  you  have 
an  atom  of  observation,  one  glance  at  his  sleek,  knowing- 
looking  head  and  face — his  prim  white  neckerchief,  with 
the  wooden  tie  into  which  it  has  been  regularly  folded 
for  twenty  years  past,  merging  b}^  imperceptible  degrees 
into  a  small-plaited  shirt-frill — and  his  comfortable 
looking  form  encased  in  a  well -brushed  suit  of  black — 
would  give  you  a  better  idea  of  his  real  character  than  a 
column  of  our  poor  description  could  convey. 

Nicholas  is  rather  out  of  his  element  now  ;  he  cannot 
see  the  kitchen  as  he  used  to  in  the  old  House  ;  there, 
one  window  of  his  glass-case  opened  into  the  room,  and 
then,  for  the  edification  and  behoof  of  more  juvenile 
questioners,  he  would  stand  for  an  hour  together,  an- 
swering deferential  questions  about  Sheridan,  and  Perce- 
val, and  Castlereagh,  and  Heaven  knows  who  beside, 
with  manifest  delight,  always  inserting  a  "Mister" 
before  every  commoner's  name. 

Nicholas,  like  all  men  of  his  age  and  standing,  has  a 
great  idea  of  the  degeneracy  of  the  times.  He  seldom 
expresses  any  political  opinions,  but  we  managed  to 
ascertain,  just  before  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill, 
that  Nicholas  was  a  thorough  Reformer.  What  was  our 
astonishment  to  discover  shortly  after  the  meeting  of 
the  first  reformed  Parliament,  that  he  was  a  most  invet- 
erate and  decided  Tory  !  It  was  very  odd  :  some  men 
change  their  opinions  from  necessity,  others  from  expedi- 
ency, others  from  inspiration  ;  but  that  Nicholas  should 
undergo  any  change  in  any  respect,  was  an  event  we  had 
never  contemplated,  and  should  have  considered  impos- 
sible. His  strong  opinion  against  the  clause  which 
empowered  the  metropolitan  districts  to  return  Members 
to  Parliament,  too,  was  perfectly  unaccountable. 

We  discovered  the  secret  at  last  ;  the  metropolitan 
Members  always  dined  at  home.  The  rascals  !  As  for 
giving  additional  Members  to  Ireland,  it  was  even  worse 
— decidedly  unconstitutional.  Why,  sir,  an  Irish  Mem- 
ber would  go  up  there,  and  eat  more  dinner  than  three 
English  Members  put  together.  He  took  no  wine  ;  drank 
table-beer  by  the  half-gallon  ;  and  went  home  to  Man- 
chester-buildings, or  Milbank-street,  for  his  whiskey- 


878 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


and-water.  And  what  was  the  consequence  ?  Why  the 
concern  lost— actually  lost,  sir— by  his  patronage. 

A  queer  old  fellow'is  Nicholas,  and  as  completely  a 
part  of  the  building  as  the  house  itself.  V/ e  wonder  he 
ever  left  the  old  pface,  and  fully  expected  to  see  in  the 
papers,  the  morning  after  the  fire,  a  pathetic  account  of 
an  old  gentleman  in  black,  of  decent  appearance,  who 
was  seen  at  one  of  the  upper  windows  when  the  flames 
were  at  their  height,  and  declared  his  resolute  intention 
of  falling  with  the  floor.  He  must  have  been  got  out  by 
force.  However,  he  was  got  out — here  he  is  again, 
looking  as  he  always  does,  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  band- 
box ever  since  the  last  session.  There  he  is,  at  his  eld 
post  eveiy  night,  just  as  we  have  described  him  :  and,  as 
characters  are  scarce,  and  faithful  servants  scarcer,  long 
may  he  be  there  say  we  ! 

Now,  when  you  have  taken  your  seat  in  the  kitchen, 
and  duly  noticed  the  large  fire  and  roasting-jack  at  one 
end  of  the  room — the  little  table  for  washing  glasses 
and  draining  jugs  at  the  other — the  clock  over  the  win- 
dow oppo'^ite  St.  Margaret's  Church  — the  deal -tables  and 
wax-candles — the  damask  table-cloths  and  bare  floor — 
the  plate  and  china  on  the  tables,  and  the  gridiron  on 
the  fire  ;  and  a  few  other  anomalies  peculiar  to  the 
place — we  will  point  out  to  your  notice  two  or  three  of 
the  people  present,  whose  station  or  absurdities  render 
them  the  most  worthy  of  remark. 

It  is  half-past  twelve  o'clock,  and  as  the  division  is 
not  expected  for  an  hour  or  two,  a  few  Members  are 
lounging  away  the  time  here,  in  preference  to  standing  at 
the  bar  of  the  House,  or  sleeping  in  one  of  the  side  gal- 
leries. That  singularly  awkward  and  ungainly-looking 
man,  in  the  brownish  white  hat,  with  the  straggling 
black  trousers  which  reach  about  half-way  down  the  leg 
of  his  boots,  who  is  leaning  against  the  meat-screen, 
apparently  deluding  himself  into  the  belief  that  he  is 
thinking  about  something,  is  a  splendid  sample  of  a  Mem- 
ber of  the  House  of  Commons  concentrating  in  his  own 
person  the  wisdom  of  a  constituency.  Observe  the  wig, 
of  a  dark  hue  but  indescribable  colour,  for  if  it  be  natu- 
rally brown,  it  has  acquired  a  black  tint  by  long  service, 
and  if  it  be  naturally  black,  the  same  cause  has  imparted 
to  it  a  tinge  of  rusty  brown  ;  and  remark  how  very  ma- 
terially the  great  blinker-like  spectacles  assist  the  ex- 
pression of  that  most  intelMgent  face.  Seriously  speak- 
ing, did  3^ou  ever  see  a  countenance  so  expressive  of  the 
most  hopeless  extreme  of  heavy  dullness,  or  behold  a 
form  so  strangely  put  together  ?  He  is  no  great  speaker  : 
but  when  he  does  address  the  House,  the  effect  is  abso- 
lutely irresistible. 

The  small  gentleman  with  the  sharp  nose,  who  has 
just  saluted  him,  is  a  member  of  Parliament,  an  ex- Al- 
derman, and  a  sort  of  amateur  fireman.  He,  and  the 
celebrated  fireman's  dog,  were  observed  to  be  remarkably 
active  at  the  conflagration  of  the  two  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment— they  both  ran  up  and  down,  and  in  and  out,  get- 
ting under  people's  feet,  and  into  everybody's  w^ay,  fuWy 
impressed  with  the  belief,  that  they  were  doing  a  great 
deal  of  good,  and  barking  tremendously.  The  dog  went 
quietly  back  to  his  kennel  with  the  engine,  but  the  gen- 
tleman kept  up  such  an  incessant  noise  for  some  weeks 
after  the  occurrence,  that  he  became  a  positive  nuisance. 
As  no  more  parliamentary  fires  have  occurred,  however, 
and  as  he  has  consequently  had  no  more  opportunities 
of  writing  to  the  newspapers  to  relate  how,  by  way  of 
preserving  pictures,  he  cut  them  out  of  their  frames, 
and  performed  other  great  national  services,  he  has  grad- 
ually relapsed  into  his  old  state  of  calmness. 

That  female  in  black — not  the  one  whom  the  Lord's- 
Day  Bill  Baronet  has  just  chucked  under  the  chin  ;  the 
shorter  of  the  two— is  "Jane  : "  the  Hebe  of  Bellamy's. 
Jane  is  as  great  a  character  as  Nicholas,  in  her  way. 
Her  leading  features  are  a  thorough  contempt  for  the 
great  majority  of  her  visitors  ;  her  predominant  quality, 
love  of  admiration,  as  you  cannot  fail  to  observe,  if  you 
mark  the  glee  with  which  she  listens  to  something  the 
young  Member  near  her  mutters  somewhat  unintelligi- 
bly in  her  ear  (for  his  speech  is  rather  thick  from  some 
cause  or  other),  and  how  playfully  she  digs  the  handle 
of  a  fork  into  the  arm  with  which  he  detains  her,  by 
way  of  reply. 

Jane  is  no  bad  hand  at  repartees,  and  showers  them 


about,  -with  a  degree  of  liberality  and  total  absence  of  • 
reserve  or  constraint,  which  occasionally  excites  no  small 
amazement  in  the  minds  of  strangers.  She  cuts  jokes 
with  Nicholas,  too,  but  looks  up  to  him  with  a  great  deal 
of  respect  ;  the  immovable  solidity  with  which  Nicholas 
receives  the  aforesaid  jokes,  and  looks  on  at  certain  pas- 
toral friskings  and  rompings  (Jane's  only  recreations, 
and  they  are  very  innocent  too)  which  occasionally  take 
place  in  the  passage,  is  not  the  least  amusing  part'of  his 
character. 

The  two  persons  who  are  seated  at  the  table  in  the 
corner,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  have  been  con- 
stant guests  here  for  many  years  past  ;  and  one  of  them 
has  feasted  within  these  walls,  many  a  time,  with  the 
most  brilliant  characters  of  a  brilliant  period.  He  has 
gone  up  to  the  other  House  since  then  ;  the  greater  part 
of  his  boon  companions  have  shared  Yorick's  fate,  and 
his  visits  to  Bellamy's  are  comparatively  few. 

If  he  really  be  eating  his  supper  now,  at  what  hour  can 
he  possibly  have  dined  !  A  second  solid  mass  of  rump- 
steak  has  disappeared,  and  he  ate  the  first  in  four  min- 
utes and  three  quarters,  by  the  clock  over  the  window. 
Was  there  ever  such  a  personification  of  Falstaff  !  Mark 
the  air  with  which  he  gloats  over  that  Stilton  as  he  re- 
moves the  napkin  which  has  been  placed  beneath  his 
chin  to  catch  the  superfluous  gravy  of  the  steak,  and 
with  what  gusto  he  imbibes  the  porter  which  has  been 
fetched,  expressly  for  him,  in  the  pewter  pot.  Listen  to 
the  hoarse  sound  of  that  voice,  kept  down  as  it  is  by  lay- 
ers of  solids,  and  deep  draughts  of  rich  wine,  and  tell  us 
if  you  ever  saw  such  a  perfect  picture  of  a  regular  gour- 
mand; and  whether  he  is  not  exactly  the  man  whom  you 
would  pitch  upon  as  having  been  the  partner  of  Sheri- 
dan's parliamentary  carouses,  the  volunteer  driver  of  the 
hackney-coach  that  took  him  home,  and  the  involuntary 
upsetter  of  the  whole  party  ? 

What  an  amusing  contrast  between  his  voice  and  ap- 
pearance and  that  of  the  spare,  squeaking  old  man,  who 
sits  at  the  same  table,  and  who  elevating  a  little  cracked 
bantam  sort  of  voice  to  its  highest  pitch,  invokes  damna- 
tion upon  his  own  eyes  or  somebody  else's  at  the  com- 
mencement of  every  sentence  he  utters.  "  The  Captain," 
as  they  call  him,  is  a  very  old  frequenter  of  Bellamy's  ; 
much  addicted  to  stopping  "  after  the  House  is  up"  (an 
inexpiable  crime  in  Jane's  eyes),  and  a  complete  walking 
reservoir  of  spirits  and  water. 

The  old  Peer — or  rather,  the  old  man — for  his  peerage 
is  of  comparatively  recent  date — has  a  huge  tumbler  of 
hot  punch  brought  him  ;  and  the  other  damns  and  drinks, 
and  drinks  and  damns,  and  smokes.  Members  arrive 
every  moment  in  a  great  bustle  to  report  that  '*  The 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer's  up,"  and  to  get  glasses 
of  brandy-and-water  to  sustain  them  during  the  division  ; 
people  who  have  ordered  supper,  countermand  it,  and 
prepare  to  go  down-stairs,  when  suddenly  a  bell  is  heard 
to  ring  witli  tremendous  violence,  and  a  cry  of  "  Di- vi- 
sion !  "  is  heard  in  the  passage.  This  is  enough  ;  away 
rush  the  members  pell-mell.  The  room  is  cleared  in  an 
instant ;  the  noise  rapidly  dies  away  ;  you  hear  the  creak- 
ing of  the  last  boot  on  the  last  stair,  and  are  left  alone 
with  the  leviathan  of  rump-steaks. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Public  Dinners. 

All  public  dinners  in  London,  from  the  Lord  Mayor's 
annual  banquet  at  Guildhall,  to  the  Chimney-Sweepers' 
anniversary  at  White  Conduit  House  ;  from  the  Gold- 
smiths' to  the  Butchers',  from  the  Sheriffs'  to  the 
Licensed  Victuallers'  ;  are  amusing  scenes.  Of  all  en- 
tertainments of  this  description,  however,  we  think  the 
annual  dinner  of  some  public  charity  is  the  most  amusing. 
At  a  Company's  dinner,  the  people  are  nearly  all  alike — 
regular  old  stagers,  who  make  it  a  matter  of  business, 
and  a  thing  not  to  be  laughed  at.  At  a  political  dinner, 
everybody  is  disagreeable,  and  inclined  to  speechify — 
much  the  same  thing,  by  the  by  ;  but  at  a  charity  dinner 
you  see  people  of  all  sorts,  kinds,  and  descriptions.  The 
wine  may  not  be  remarkably  special,  to  be  sure,  and  we 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


879 


have  heard  some  hard-hearted  monsters  grumble  at  the 
collection  ;  but  we  really  think  the  amusement  to  be 
derived  from  the  occasion,  sufficient  to  counterbalance, 
even  these  disadvantages. 

Let  us  suppose  you  are  induced  to  attend  a  dinner  of 
this  description — "  Indigent  Orphans'  Friends'  Benevo- 
lent Institution,"  we  think  it  is.  The  name  of  the 
charity  is  a  line  or  two  longer,  but  never  mind  the  rest. 
You  have  a  distinct  recollection,  however,  that  you  pur- 
chased a  ticket  at  the  solicitation  of  some  charitable 
friend  :  and  you  deposit  yourself  in  a  hackney-coacli,  the 
driver  of  which — no  doubt  that  you  may  do  the  thing  in 
style — turns  a  deaf  ear  to  your  earnest  entreaties  to  be 
setdown  at  the  corner  of  Great  Queen-street,  and  persists 
in  carrying  you  to  the  very  door  of  the  Freemasons', 
round  which  a  crowd  of  people  are  assembled  to  witness 
the  entrance  of  the  indigent  orphans'  friends.  You  hear 
great  speculation  as  you  pay  the  fare,  on  the  possibility 
of  your  being  the  noble  Lord  who  is  announced  to  fill 
the  chair  on  the  occasion,  and  are  highly  gratified  to 
hear  it  eventually  decided  that  you  are  only  a  "  wo- 
calist." 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  you,  on  your  entrance,  is 
the  astonishing  importance  of  the  committee.  You  ob- 
serve a  door  on  the  first  landing,  carefully  guarded  by 
two  waiters,  in  and  out  of  which  stout  gentlemen  with 
very  red  faces  keep  running,  with  a  degree  of  speed 
highly  unbecoming  the  gravity  of  persons  of  their  years 
and  corpulency.  You  pause,  quite  alarmed  at  the  bus- 
tle, and  thinking,  in  your  innocence,  that  two  or  three 
people  must  have  been  carried  out  of  the  dining-room  in 
fits,  at  least.  You  are  immediately  undeceived  by  the 
waiter — "  Up-stairs,  if  you  please,  sir  ;  this  is  the  com- 
mittee-room." Up-stairs  you  go,  accordingly  ;  won- 
dering, as  you  mount,  what  the  duties  of  the  com- 
mittee can  be,  and  whether  they  ever  do  anything 
beyond  confusing  each  other,  and  running  over  the 
waiters. 

Having  deposited  your  hat  and  cloak,  and  received 
a  remarkably  small  scrap  of  pasteboard  in  exchange 
(which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  you  lose,  before  you  re- 
quire it  again),  you  enter  the  hall,  down  which  there  are 
three  long  tables  for  the  less  distinguished  guests,  with 
a  cross  table  on  a  raised  platform  at  the  upper  end  for 
the  reception  of  the  very  particular  friends  of  the  in- 
digent orphans.  Being  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  plate 
without  anybody's  card  in  it,  you  wisely  seat  yourself 
at  once,  and  have  a  little  leisure  to  look  about  you. 
Waiters,  with  wine-baskets  in  their  hands,  are  placing 
decanters  of  sherry  down  the  tables,  at  very  respectable 
distances  ;  melancholy-looking  saltcellars,  and  decayed 
vinegar-cruets,  which  might  have  belonged  to  the  parents 
of  the  indigent  orphans  in  their  time,  are  scattered  at 
distant  intervals  on  the  cloth  ;  and  the  knives  and  forks 
look  as  if  they  had  done  duty  at  every  public  dinner  in 
London  sirtce  the  accession  of  George  the  First.  The 
musicians  are  scraping  and  grating  and  screwing  tre- 
mendously— playing  no  notes  but  notes  of  preparation  ; 
and  several  gentlemen  are  gliding  along  the  sides  of  the 
tables,  looking  into  plate  after  plate  with  frantic  eager- 
ness, the  expression  of  their  countenances  growing  more 
and  more  dismal  as  they  meet  with  everybody's  card 
but  their  own. 

You  turn  round  to  take  a  look  at  the  table  behind  you, 
and — not  being  in  the  habit  of  attending  public  dinners 
— are  somewhat  struck  by  the  appearance  of  the  party 
on  which  your  eyes  rest.  One  of  its  principal  members 
appears  to  be  a  little  man,  with  a  long  and  rather  in- 
flamed face,  and  gray  hair  brushed  bolt  upright  in  front ; 
he  wears  a  wisp  of  black  silk  round  his  neck,  without 
any  stiffener,  as  an  apology  for  a  neckerchief,  and  is  ad- 
dressed by  his  companions  by  the  familiar  appellation  of 
"  Fitz,"  or  some  such  monosyllable.  Near  him  is  a  stout 
man  in  a  white  neckerchief  and  buff  waistcoat,  with  shin- 
ing dark  hair,  cut  very  short  in  front,  and  a  great  round 
healthy-looking  face,  on  which  he  studiously  preserves 
a  half-sentimental  simper.  Next  him,  again,  is  a  large- 
headed  man,  with  black  hair  and  bushy  whiskers  ;  and 
opposite  them  are  two  or  three  others,  one  of  whom  is  a 
little  round-faced  person,  in  a  dress-stock  and  blue  un- 
der-waistcoat.  There  is  something  peculiar  in  their  air 
and  manner,  though  you  could  hardly  describe  what  it 


is  ;  you  cannot  divest  yourself  of  the  idea  that  they  have 
come  for  some  other  purpose  than  mere  eating  and 
drinking.  You  have  no  time  to  debate  the  matter,  how- 
ever, for  the  waiters  (who  have  been  arranged  in  lines 
down  the  room,  placing  the  dishes  on  table),  retire  to 
the  lower  end  ;  the  dark  man  in  the  blue  coat  and  bright 
buttons,  v^ho  has  the  direction  of  the  music,  looks  up  to 
the  gallery,  and  calls  out  "band"  in  a  very  loud  voice  ; 
out  burst  the  orchestra,  up  rise  the  visitors,  in  march 
fourteen  stewar/ls,  each  with  a  long  wand  in  his  hand, 
like  the  evil  genius  in  a  pantomime  ;  then  the  chairman, 
then  the  titled  visitors  ;  they  all  make  their  way  up  the 
room,  as  fast  as  they  can,  bowing,  and  smiling,  and 
smirking,  and  looking  remarkably  amiable.  The  ap- 
plause ceases,  grace  is  said,  the  clatter  of  plates  and 
dishes  begins  ;  and  every  one  appears  highly  gratified, 
either  with  the  presence  of  the  distinguished  visitors, 
or  the  commencement  of  the  anxiously  expected  din- 
ner. 

As  to  the  dinner  itself — the  mere  dinner — it  goes  off 
much  the  same  everywhere.  Tureens  of  soup  are  emp- 
tied with  awful  rapidity— waiters  take  plates  of  turbot 
away,  to  get  lobster- sauce,  and  bring  back  plates  of  lob- 
ster-sauce without  turbot ;  people  who  can  carve  poultry, 
are  great  fools  if  they  own  it.  and  people  who  can't,  have 
no  wish  to  learn.  The  knives  and  forks  form  a  pleasing 
accompaniment  to  Auber's  music,  and  Auber's  music 
would  form  a  pleasing  accompaniment  to  the  dinner,  if 
you  could  hear  anything  besides  the  cymbals.  The  sub- 
stantials  disappear — moulds  of  jelly  vanish  like  light- 
ning— hearty  eaters  wipe  their  foreheads,  and  appear 
rather  overcome  with  their  recent  exertions — people  who 
have  looked  very  cross  hitherto,  become  remarkably 
bland,  and  ask  you  to  take  wine  in  the  most  friendly 
manner  possible — old  gentlemen  direct  your  attention  to 
the  ladies'  gallery,  and  take  great  pains  to  impress  you 
with  the  fact  that  the  charity  is  always  peculiarly  fav- 
oured in  this  respect — every  one  appears  disposed  to  be- 
come talkative — and  the  hum  of  conversation  is  loud  and 
general, 

"  Pray,  silence,  gentlemen,  if  you  please,  for  ^on 
nobis/"  shouts  the  toast-master  with  stentorian  lungs — 
a  toast-master's  shirt-front,  waistcoat,  and  neckerchief, 
by  the  by,  always  exhibit  three  distinct  shades  of  cloudy- 
white. — "Pray,  silence,  gqptlemen,  for  Hon  nobis/" 
The  singers,  whom  you  discover  to  be  no  other  than  the 
very  party  that  excited  your  curiosity  at  first  after 
"pitching"  their  voices  immediately  begin  too-toomg 
most  dismally,  on  which  the  regular  old  stagers  burst 
into  occasional  cries  of — "  Sh — Sh — waiters! — Silence, 
waiters — stand  still,  waiters — keep  back,  waiters,"  and 
other  exorcisms,  delivered  in  a  tone  of  indignant  remon- 
strance. The  grace  is  soon  concluded,  and  the  company 
resume  their  seats.  The  uninitiated  portion  of  the 
guests  applaud  Ifon  nobis  as  vehemently  as  if  it  were  a 
capital  comic  song,  e:reatly  to  the  scandal  and  indigna- 
tion of  the  regular  diners,  who  immediately  attempt  to 
quell  this  sacrilegious  approbation,  by  cries  of  "Hush, 
hush  !  "  whereupon  the  others,  mistaking  these  sounds 
for  hisses,  applaud  more  tumultuously  than  before, 
and  by  way  of  placing  their  approval  beyond  the 
possibility  of  doubt,  shout  "Encore/"  most  vocifer- 
ously. 

The  moment  the  noise  ceases,  up  starts  the  toast-mas- 
ter : — "Gentlemen,  charge  your  glasses,  if  you  please  !** 
Decanters  having  been  handed  about,  and  glasses  filled, 
the  toast-master  proceeds,  in  a  regular  ascending  scale  ; 
— "Gentlemen — air — you — all  charged?  Pray — silence 
— gentlemen — for — the  cha — i— r  ! "  The  chairman  rises, 
and,  after  stating  that  he  feels  it  quite  unnecessary  to 
i  preface  the  toast  he  is  about  to  propose  with  any  obser- 
!  vations  whatever,  wanders  into  a  maze  of  sentences,  and 
flounders  about  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner,  pre- 
senting a  lamentable  spectacle  of  mystified  humanity, 
until  he  arrives  at  the  words,  "constitutional  sovereign 
of  these  realms,"  at  which  elderly  gentlemen  exclaim 
"bravo!"  and  hammer  the  table  tremendously  with 
their  knife  handles.  "Under  any  circumstances,  it 
would  give  him  the  greatest  pride,  it  would  give  him 
the  greatest  pleasure — he  might  almost  say,  it  would 
afford  him  satisfaction  [cheers]  to  propose  that  toast. 
What  must  be  his  feelings,  then  when  he  has  the  grati- 


880 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


fication  of  announcing,  that  lie  lias  received  her  Majes- 
ty's commands  to  apply  to  the  Treasurer  of  her  Majesty's 
Household,  for  her  Majesty's  annual  donation  of  35?., 
in  aid  of  the  funds  of  this  charity!"  This  announce- 
ment (which  has  been  regularly  made  by  every  chair- 
man, since  the  first  foundation  of  the  charity,  forty- 
two  years  ago,)  calls  forth  the  most  vociferous 
applause  ;  the  toast  is  drunk  with  a  great  deal  of 
cheering  and  knocking;  and  "  God  save  the  Queen" 
is  sung  by  the  "professional  gentlemen;"  the  un- 
professional grentlemen  joining  in  the  chorus,  and 
giving  the  national  anthem  an  effect  which  the 
newspapers,  with  great  justice,  describe  as  " perfectly 
electrical."  r 

The  other  "loyal  and  patriotic"  toasts  having  been 
drunk  with  all  due  enthusiasm,  a  comic  song  having 
been  well  sung  by  the  gentleman  with  the  smail  necker- 
chief, and  a  sentimental  one  by  the  second  of  the  party, 
we  come  to  the  most  important  toast  of  the  evening — 
''Prosperity  to  tlie  charity."  Here  again  we  are  com- 
pelled to  adopt  newspaper  phraseology,  and  to  express 
our  regret  at  being  "precluded  from  giving  even  the 
substance  of  the  noble  lord's  observations."  SufHce  it  to 
say,  tliat  the  speech,  which  is  somewhat  of  the  longest, 
is  rapturously  received ;  and  the  toast  having  been 
drunk,  the  stewards  (looking  more  important  than  ever) 
leave  the  room,  and  presently  return,  heading  a 
procession  of  indigent  orphans,  boys  and  girls,  who 
walk  round  the  room,  curtseying,  and  bowing,  and 
treading  on  each  other's  heels,  and  looking  very 
much  as  if  they  would  like  a  glass  of  wine  apiece, 
to  the  high  gratification  of  the  company  generally, 
and  especially  of  the  lady  patronesses  in  the  gal- 
lery. Exeunt  children,  and  re-enter  stewards,  each 
with  a  blue  plate  in  his  hand.  The  band  plays  a 
lively  air  ;  the  majority  of  the  company  put  their  hands 
in  their  pockets  and  look  rather  serious  ;  and  the  noise 
of  sovereigns,  rattling  on  crockery,  is  heard  from  all 
parts  of  the  room. 

After  a  short  interval,  occupied  in  singing  and  toasting, 
the  secretary  puts  on  his  spectacles,  and  proceeds  to  read 
the  report  and  iist  of  subscriptions,  the  latter  being  lis- 
tened to  with  great  attention.  "  Mr.  Smith,  one  guinea — 
Mr.  Tompkins,  one  guinea — Mr.  Wilson,  one  guinea — 
Mr.  Hickson,  one  guinea — JVIr.  Nixon,  one  guinea — Mr. 
Charles  Nixon,  one  guinea — [hear,  hear  !] — Mr.  James 
Nixon,  one  guinea — Mr.  Thomas  Nixon,  one  pound  one 
[tremendous  applause].  Lord  Fitz  Binkle,  the  chairman 
of  the  day,  in  addition  to  an  annual  donation  of  fifteen 
pounds  —  thirty  guineas  [prolonged  knocking:  several 
gentlemen  knock  the  stems  off  their  wine-glasses,  in  the 
vehemence  of  their  approbation].  Lady  Fitz  Binkle,  in 
addition  to  an  annual  donation  of  ten  pound — twenty 
pound"  [protracted  knocking  and  shouts  of  "  Bravo  !"]. 
The  list  being  at  length  concluded,  the  chairman  rises 
and  proposes  the  health  of  the  secretary,  than  whom  he 
knows  no  more  zealous  or  estimable  individual.  The 
secretary,  in  returning  thanks,  observes  that  he  knows 
no  more  excellent  individual  than  the  chairman — except 
the  senior  officer  of  the  charity,  whose  health  he  begs  to 
propose.  The  senior  officer  in  returning  thanks,  observes 
that  he  knows  no  more  worthy  man  than  the  secretary — 
except  Mr.  Walker,  the  auditor,  whose  health  lie  begs 
to  propose.  Mr.  Walker,  in  returning  thanks,  discovers 
some  other  estimable  individual,  to  whom  alone  the  sen- 
ior officer  is  inferior — and  so  they  go  on  toasting  and 
lauding  and  thanking:  the  only  other  toast  of  impor- 
tance being  "The  Lady  Patronesses  now  present  !"  on 
which  all  tlie  gentlemen  turn  their  faces  towards  the 
ladies'  gallery,  shouting  tremendously  ;  and  little  prig- 
gish men,  who  have  imbibed  more  wine  than  usual, 
kiss  their  hands  and  exhibit  distressing  contortions  of 
visage. 

We  have  protracted  our  dinner  to  so  great  a  length, 
that  we  have  hardly  time  to  add  one  word  by  way 
of  grace.  We  can  only  entreat  our  readers  not  to 
imagine,  because  we  have  attempted  to  extract  some 
amusement  from  a  charity  dinner,  that  we  are  at 
all  disposed  to  underrate,  either  the  excellence  of 
the  benevolent  institutions  with  which  London 
abounds,  or  the  estimable  motives  of  those  who  sup- 
port them. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  First  of  May, 

"Now  ladies,  up  in  the  sky-parlour :  only  once  a  year,  if  you 
please  !  " 

YoDNG  Lady  with  Brass  Ladle. 

"  Sweep— sweep— sw-c-ep  !  " 

Illegal  Watchword. 

The  first  of  May  !  There  -is  a  merry  freshness  in  the 
sound,  calling  to  our  minds  a  thousand  thoughts  of  all 
that  is  pleasant  and  beautiful  in  nature,  in  her  most  de- 
lightful form.  What  man  is  there,  over  whose  mind  a 
bright  spring  morning  does  not  exercise  a  magic  influ- 
ence— carrying  him  back  to  the  days  of  his  childish 
sports,  and  conjuring  up  before  him  the  old  green  field 
with  its  gentle-waving  trees,  where  the  birds  sang  as  he 
has  never  heard  them  since — where  the  butterfly  flut- 
tered far  more  gaily  than  he  ever  sees  him  now,  in  all 
his  ramblings — where  the  sky  seemed  bluer,  and  the  sun 
shone  more  brightly — where  the  air  blew  more  freshly 
over  greener  grass,  and  sweeter-smelling  flowers — where 
everything  wore  a  richer  and  more  brilliant  hue  than  it 
is  ever  dressed  in  now  !  Such  are  the  deep  feelings  of 
childhood,  and  such  are  the  impressions  which  every 
lovely  object  stamps  upon  its  heart  !  The  hardy  traveller 
wanders  through  the  maze  of  thick  and  pathless  woods, 
where  the  sun's  rays  never  shone,  and  heaven's  pure  air 
never  played  ;  he  stands  on  the  brink  of  the  roaring 
waterfall,  and,  giddy  and  bewildered,  watches  the  foam- 
ing mass  as  it  leaps  from  stone  to  stone,  and  from  crag 
to  crag  ;  he  lingers  in  the  fertile  plains  of  a  land  of  per- 
petual sunshine,  and  revels  in  the  luxury  of  their  balmy 
breath.  But  what  are  the  deep  forests,  or  the  thunder- 
ing waters,  or  the  richest  landscapes  that  bounteous 
nature  ever  spread,  to  charm  the  eyes,  and  captivate  the 
senses  of  man,  compared  with  the  recollection  of  the  old 
scenes  of  his  early  youth  ?  Magic  scenes  indeed,  for  the 
fancies  of  childhood  dressed  them  in  colours  brighter 
than  the  rainbow,  and  almost  as  fleeting  ! 

In  former  times,  spring  brought  with  it  not  only  such 
associations  as  these,  connected  with  the  past,  but  sports 
and  games  for  the  present — merry  dances  round  rustic 
pillars,  adorned  with  emblems  of  the  season,  and  reared 
in  honour  of  its  coming.  Where  are  they  now  !  Pillars 
we  have,  but  they  are  no  longer  rustic  ones  ;  and  as  to 
dancers,  they  are  used  to  rooms  and  lights,  and  would 
not  show  well  in  the  open  air.  Think  of  the  immorali- 
ty, too  !  What  would  your  sabbath  enthusiasts  say  to 
an  aristocratic  ring  encircling  the  Duke  of  York's  col- 
umn in  Carlton-terrace — a  grand  j^oussette  of  the  middle 
classes,  round  Alderman  Waithman's  monument  in  Fleet- 
street, — or  a  general  hands-four  round  of  ten-pound 
lioaseliolders,  at  the  foot  of  the  Obelisk  in  St.  George's- 
fields  ?  Alas  !  romance  can  make  no  head  against  the 
riot  act ;  and  pastoral  simplicity  is  not  understood  by  the 
police. 

Well  ;  many  years  ago  we  began  to  be  a  steady  and 
matter-of-fact  sort  of  people,  and  dancing  in  spring  being 
beneath  our  dignity,  we  gave  it  up,  and  incourse  of  time 
it  descended  to  the  sweeps — a  fall  certainly,  because, 
though  sweeps  are  very  good  fellows  in  their  way,  and 
moreover  very  useful  in  a  civilised  community,  they  are 
not  exactly  the  sort  of  people  to  give  the  tone  to  the  lit- 
tle elegances  of  society.  The  sweeps,  however,  got  the 
dancing  to  themselves,  and  they  kept  it  up,  and  handed 
it  down.  This  was  a  severe  blow  to  the  romance  of 
spring-time,  but,  it  did  not  entirely  destroy  it,  either; 
for  a  portion  of  it  descended  to  the  sweeps  with  the  danc- 
ing, and  rendered  them  objects  of  great  interest.  A 
mystery  hung  over  the  sweeps  in  those  days.  Legends 
were  in  existence  of  wealthy  gentlemen  who  had  lost 
children,  and  who,  after  many  years  of  sorrow  and  suf- 
fering, had  found  them  in  the  character  of  sweeps. 
Stories  were  related  of  a  young  boy  who,  having  been 
stolen  from  his  parents  in  his  infancy,  and  devoted  to  the 
occupation  of  chimney -sweeping,  was  sent,  in  the  course 
of  his  professional  career,  to  sweep  the  chimney  of  his 
mother's  bedroom  ;  and  how,  being  hct  and  tired  when 
ho  came  out  of  the  chimney,  he  got  into  the  bed  he  had 
so  often  slept  in  as  an  infant,  and  was  discovered  and 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


881 


recognised  fherein  by  liig  motlier,  who  once  every  year 
of  her  life,  thereafter,  requested  the  pleasure  of  the 
company  of  every  London  sweep,  at  half -past  one  o'clock, 
to  roast  beef,  plum-pudding,  porter,  and  sixpence. 

Such  stories  as  these,  and  there  were  many  such, 
threw  an  air  of  mystery  round  the  sweeps,  and  produced 
for  them  some  of  those  good  effects  which  animals  de- 
rive from  the  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  souls. 
No  one  (except  the  masters)  thought  of  ill-treating  a 
sweep,  because  no  one  knew  who  he  might  be,  or  what 
nobleman's  or  gentleman's  son  he  might  turn  out. 
Chimney- sweeping  was,  by  many  believers  in  the  mar- 
vellous, considered  as  a  sort  of  probationary  term,  at  an 
earlier  or  later  period  of  which,  divers  young  noblemen 
were  to  come  into  possession  of  their  rank  and  titles  ; 
and  the  profession  was  held  by  them  in  great  respect 
accordingly. 

We  remember  in  our  young  days,  a  little  sweep  about 
our  own  age,  with  curly  hair  and  white  teeth,  whom 
we  devoutly  and  sincerely  believed  to  be  the  lost  son  and 
heir  of  some  illustrious  personage — an  impression  which 
was  resolved  into  an  unchangeable  conviction  on  our  in- 
fant mind,  by  the  subject  of  o'lr  speculations  informing 
us,  one  day,  in  reply  to  our  question,  yjropounded  a  few 
moments  before  his  ascent  to  the  summit  of  the  kitchen- 
chimney,  "  that  he  believed  he'd  been  born  in  the  vur- 
kis,  but  he'd  never  know'd  his  father."  We  felt  cer- 
tain, from  that  time  forth,  that  he  would  one  day  be 
owned  by  a  lord  ;  and  we  never  heard  the  church-bells 
ring,  or  saw  a  flag  hoisted  in  the  neighbourhood,  with- 
out thinking  that  the  happy  event  had  at  last  occurred, 
and  that  his  long-lost  parent  had  arrived  in  a  coach  and 
six,  to  take  him  home  to  Grosvenor-square.  He  never 
came,  however ;  and,  at  the  present  moment,  the 
young  gentleman  in  question  is  settled  down  as  a  master 
sweep  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Baltlebridge,  his  distin- 
guishing characteristics  being  a  decided  antipathy  to 
washing  himself,  and  the  possession  of  a  pair  of  legs 
very  inadequate  to  the  support  of  his  unwieldy  and  cor- 
pulent body. 

The  romance  of  spring  having  gone  out  before  our 
time,  we  were  fain  to  console  ourselves  as  we  best  could 
with  the  uncertainty  that  enveloped  the  birth  and  par- 
entage of  its  attendant  dancers,  the  sweeps  ;  and  we 
did  console  ourselves  with  it  for  many  years.  But, 
even  this  wretched  source  of  comfort  received  a  shock, 
from  which  it  has  never  recovered — a  shock  which  has 
been,  in  reality,  its  deatli-blow.  We  could  not  disguise 
from  ourselves  the  fact  that  whole  families  of  sweeps 
were  regularly  born  of  sweeps,  in  the  rural  districts  of 
Somers  Town  and  Camden  Town — that  the  eldest  son 
succeeded  to  the  father's  business,  that  the  other 
branches  assisted  him  therein,  and  commenced  on  their 
own  account  ;  that  their  children  again,  were  educated 
to  the  profession  ;  and  that  about  their  identity  there 
could  be  no  mistake  whatever.  We  could  not  be  blind, 
we  say,  to  this  melancholy  truth,  but  we  could  not 
bring  ourselves  to  admit  it,  nevertheless,  and  we  lived 
on  for  some  years  in  a  state  of  voluntary  ignorance. 
We  were  roused  from  our  pleasant  slumber  by  certain 
dark  insinuations  thrown  out  by  a  friend  of  ours,  to  the 
effect  that  children  in  the  lower  mnks  of  life  were  be- 
ginning to  citoose  chimney-sweeping  as  their  particular 
walk  ;  that  applications  had  been  made  by  various  boys 
to  the  constituted  authorities,  to  allow  them  to  pursue 
the  object  of  their  ambition  with  the  full  concurrence 
and  sanction  of  the  law  :  that  the  affair,  in  short,  was 
becoming  one  of  mere  legal  contract.  We  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  these  rumours  at  first,  but  slowly  and  surely 
they  stole  upon  us.  Month  after  month,  week  after 
week,  nay,  day  after  day,  at  last,  did  we  meet  with  ac- 
counts of  similar  applications. 

The  veil  was  removed,  all  mystery  was  at  an  end,  and 
chimney-sweeping  had  become  a  favourite  and  chosen 
pursuit.  There  is  no  longer  any  occasion  to  steal  boys  ; 
.for  boys  flock  in  crowds  to  bind  themselves.  The  ro- 
mance of  the  trade  has  fled,  and  the  chimney-sweeper  of 
the  present  day,  is  no  more  like  unto  him  of  thirty 
years  ago,  than  is  a  Fleet-street  pickpocket  to  a  Spanish 
brigand,  or  Paul  Pry  to  Caleb  Williams. 

This  gradual  decay  and  disuse  of  the  practice  of  lead- 
ing noble  youths  into  captivity,  and  compelling  them  to 
Vol.  II.— 56 


ascend  chimneys,  was  a  severe  blow,  if  we  may  so 
speak,  to  the  romance  of  chimney-sweeping,  and  to  the 
romance  of  spring  at  the  same  time.  But  even  this  was 
not  all,  for  some  few  years  ago  the  dancing  on  May-day 
began  to  decline  ;  small  sweeps  were  observed  to  congre- 
gate in  twos  or  threes,  unsupported  by  a  "green,"  with 
no  "  My  Lord  "  to  act  as  master  of  the  ceremonies,  and 
no  "My  Lady"  to  preside  over  the  exchequer.  Even 
in  companies  where  there  was  a  "  green"  it  was  an  ab- 
solute nothing — a  mere  s])rout — and  the  instrumental 
accompaniments  rarely  extended  beyond  the  shovels 
and  a  set  of  pan-pipes,  better  known  to  the  many,  as  a 
"  mouth  organ." 

These  are  signs  of  the  times,  portentous  omens  of  a 
coming  change  ;  and  what  was  the  result  which  they 
shadowed  forth  ?  Why,  the  master  sweeps,  influenced 
by  a  restless  spirit  of  innovation,  actually  interposed 
their  authority,  in  opposition  to  the  dancing,  and  sub- 
stituted a  dinner — an  anniversary  dinner  at  White  Con- 
duit House — where  clean  faces  appeared  in  lieu  of  black 
ones  smeared  with  rose  pink ;  and  knee  cords  and  tops 
superseded  nankeen  drawers  and  rosetted  shoes. 
^  Gentlemen  who  were  in  the  habit  of  riding  shy 
horses  ;  and  steady-going  people,  who  have  no  vagrancy 
in  their  souls,  lauded  this  alteration  to  the  skies,  and 
the  conduct  of  the  master  sweeps  was  described  as  be- 
yond the  reach  of  praise.  But  how  stands  the  real 
"fact?  Let  any  man  deny,  if  he  can,  that  when  the  cloth 
had  been  removed,  fresh  pots  and  pipes  laid  upon  the 
table,  and  the  customary  loyal  and  patriotic  toasts  pro- 
posed, the  celebrated  Mr.  Sluffen,  of  Adam-and-Eve- 
court,  whose  authority  not  the  most  malignant  of  our 
opponents  can  call  in  question,  expressed  himself  in  a 
manner  following:  "That  now  he'd  cotcht  the  cheer- 
man's  hi,  he  vished  he  might  be  jolly  veil  blessed,  if 
he  worn't  a  goin'  to  have  his  innings,  vich  he  vould 
say  these  here  obserwashuns — that  how  some  mischee- 
vus  coves  as  know'd  nuffin  about  the  consarn,  had 
tried  to  sit  people  agin  the  mas'r  swips,  and  take  the 
shine  out  o'  their  bis'nes,  and  the  bread  out  o'  the  traps 
o'  their  preshus  kids,  by  a'  makin'  o'  this  here  remark, 
as  chimblies  could  be  as  veil  svept  by  'sheenery  as  by 
boys  ;  and  that  the  makin'  use  o'  boys  for  that  there 
purpuss  vos  babareous  ;  vereas,  he  'ad  been  a  chummy 
— he  begged  the  cheerman's  parding  for  usin'  such  a 
wulgar  hexpression — more  nor  thirty  year — he  might 
say  he'd  been  born  in  a  chimbley — and  he  know'd  un- 
common veil  as  'sheenery  vos  vus  nor  o'  no  use  :  and  as 
to  kerhewelty  to  the  boys,  every  body  in  the  chimbley 
line  know'd  as  veil  as  he  did,  that  they  liked  the  clim- 
bin'  better  than  nuffin  as  vos."  From  this  day,  we 
date  the  total  fall  of  the  last  lingering  remnant  of  May- 
day dancing,  among  the  elite  of  the  profession  :  and 
from  this  period  we  commence  a  new  era  in  that  por- 
tion of  our  spring  associations,  which  relates  to  the  1st 
of  May. 

We  are  aware  that  the  unthinking  part  of  the  popula- 
tion will  meet  us  here,  with  the  assertion,  that  dancing 
on  May-day  still  continues — that  "greens"  are  annually 
seen  to  roll  along  the  streets — that  youths  in  the  garb  of 
clowns,  precede  them,  giving  vent  to  the  ebullitions  of 
their  sportive  fancies  ;  and  that  lords  and  ladies  follow 
in  their  wake. 

Granted,  We  are  ready  to  acknowledge  that  in  out- 
ward show,  these  processions  have  greatly  improved  : 
we  do  not  deny  the  introduction  of  solos  on  the  drum  ; 
we  will  even  go  so  far  as  to  admit  an  occasional  fantasia 
on  the  triangle,  but  here  our  admissions  end.  We  posi- 
tively deny  that  the  syeeps  have  art  or  part  in  these 
proceedings.  We  distinctly  charge  the  dustman  with 
throwing  what  they  ought  to  clear  away,  into  the  eyes 
of  the  public.  We  accuse  scavengers,  brick -makers, 
and  gentlemen  who  devote  their  energies  to  the  coster- 
mongering  line,  with  obtaining  money  once  a-year,  under 
false  pretences.  We  cling  with  peculiar  fondness  to  the 
custom  of  days  gone  by,  and  have  shut  out  conviction  as 
long  as  we  could,  but  it  has  forced  itself  upon  us  ;  and 
we  now  proclaim  to  a  deluded  public,  that  the  May-day 
dancers  are  not  sweeps.  The  size  of  them,  alone,  is  suf- 
ficient to  repudiate  the  idea.  It  is  a  notorious  fact  that 
the  widely-spread  taste  for  register  stoves  has  materially 
increased  the  demand  for  small  boys  ;  whereas  the  men, , 


882 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


wTio,  under  a  fictitious  character,  dance  about  tlie  streets 
on  the  first  of  May  nowadays,  would  be  a  tight  fit  in  a 
kitchen  flue,  to  say  nothing  of  the  parlour.  This  is 
strong  presumptive  evidence,  but  we  have  positive  proof 
—the  evidence  of  our  own  senses.  And  here  is  our 
testimony. 

Upon  the  morning  of  the  second  of  the  merry  month 
of  May,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand  eight 
hundred  and  thirty-six,  we  went  out  for  a  stroll,  with  a 
kind  of  forlorn  hope  of  seeing  something  or  other  which 
might  induce  us  to  believe  that  it  was  really  spring,  and 
not  Christmas.  After  wandering  as  far  as  Copenhagen 
House,  without  meeting  anything  calculated  to  dispel 
our  impression  that  there  was  a  mistake  in  the  almanacks, 
we  turned  back  down  Maiden-lane,  with  the  intention  of 
passing  through  the  extensive  colony  lying  between  it 
and  Battle-bridge,  which  is  inhabited  by  proprietors  of 
donkey-carts,  boilers  of  horseflesh,  makers  of  tiles,  and 
sifters  of  cinders  ;  through  which  colony  we  should  have 
passed,  without  stoppage  or  interruption,  if  a  little 
crowd  gathered  round  a  shed  had  not  attracted  our  atten- 
tion, and  induced  us  to  pause. 

When  we  say  a  "  shed,"  we  do  not  mean  the  conser- 
vatory sort  of  building,  which,  according  to  the  old  song. 
Love  tenanted  when  he  was  a  young  man,  but  a  wooden 
house  with  windows  stuffed  with  rags  and  paper,  and  a 
small  yard  at  the  side,  with  one  dust-cart,  two  baskets,  a 
few  shovels,  and  little  heaps  of  cinders,  and  fragments 
of  china  and  tiles,  scattered  about  it.  Before  this  invit- 
ing spot  we  paused  ;  and  the  longer  we  looked,  the 
more  we  wondered  what  exciting  circumstance  it  could 
be,  that  induced  the  foremost  members  of  the  crowd  to 
flatten  their  noses  against  the  parlour  window,  in  the 
vain  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  what  was  going  on 
inside.  After  staring  vacantly  about  us  for  some  min- 
utes, we  appealed,  touching  the  cause  of  this  assemblage, 
to  a  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  tarpauling,  who  wa3  smoking 
his  pipe  on  our  right  hand  ;  but  as  the  only  answer  we 
obtained  was  a  playful  inquiry  whether  our  mother  had 
disposed  of  her  mangle,  we  determined  to  await  the 
issue  in  silence. 

Judge  of  our  virtuous  indignation,  when  the  street 
door  of  the  shed  opened,  and  a  party  emerged  therefrom, 
clad  in  the  costume  and  emulating  the  appearance,  of 
May-day  sweeps  ! 

The  first  person  who  appeared  was  "my  lord,"  habited 
in  a  blue  coat  and  bright  buttons,  with  gilt  paper  tacked 
over  the  seams,  yellow  knee-breeches,  pink  cotton 
stockings,  and  shoes  ;  a  cocked  hat,  ornamented  with 
shreds  of  various-coloured  paper,  on  his  head,  a  louquet, 
the  size  of  a  prize  cauliflower  in  his  button-hole,  a  long 
Belcher  handkerchief  in  his  right  hand,  and  a  thin  cane 
in  his  left.  A  murmur  of  applause  ran  through  the 
crowd  (which  was  chiefly  composed  of  his  lordship's 
personal  friends),  when  this  graceful  figure  made  his 
appearance,  which  swelled  into  a  burst  of  applause  as 
his  fair  partner  in  the  dance  bounded  forth  to  join  him. 
Her  ladyship  was  attired  in  pink  crape  over  bed-furni- 
ture, with  a  low  body  and  short  sleeves.  The  symmetry 
of  her  ankles  was  partially  concealed  by  a  very  percepti- 
ble pair  of  frilled  trousers  ;  and  the  inconvenience  which 
might  have  resulted  from  the  circumstance  of  her  white 
satin  shoes  being  a  few  sizes  too  large,  was  obviated  by 
their  being  firmly  attached  to  her  legs  with  strong  tape 
sandals. 

Her  head  was  ornamented  with  a  profusion  of  artificial 
flowers  ;  and  in  her  hand  she  bore  a  large  brass  ladle, 
wherein  to  receive  what  she  figuratively  denominated 
*'  the  tin."  The  other  characters  were  a  young  gentle- 
man in  girl's  clothes  and  a  widow's  cap  ;  two  clowns 
who  walked  upon  their  hands  inthcmud,  to  the  immeas- 
urable delight  of  all  the  spectators  ;  a  man  with  a  drum, 
another  man  with  a  flageolet  ;  a  dirty  woman  in  a  large 
shawl,  with  a  box  under  her  arm  for  tlie  money, — and 
last,  though  not  least,  the  "  green,"  animated  by  no  less 
a  personage  than  our  identical  friend  in  the  tarpauling 
suit. 

The  man  hammered  away  at  the  drum,  the  flageolet 
squeaked,,  the  shovels  rattled,  the  "  green"  rolhul  about 
pitching  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other  ;  my  lady 
threw  her  right  foot  over  her  left  ankle,  and  her  left 
foot  over  hor  right  ankle,  alternately ;  my  lord  ran  a 


few  paces  forward,  and  butted  at  the  ''green,"  and 
then  a  few  paces  backward  upon  the  toes  of  the  crowd, 
and  then  went  to  the  right,  and  then  to  the  left,  and  then 
dodged  my  lady  round  the  "  green  ;  "  and  finally  drew 
her  arm  through  his,  and  called  upon  the  boys  to  shout, 
which  they  did  lustily--for  this  was  the  dancing. 

We  passed  the  same  group,  accidentally,  in  the  even- 
ing. We  never  saw  a"  green"  so  drunk,  a  lord  so 
quarrelsome  (no  :  not  even  in  the  house  of  peers  after 
dinner),  a  pair  of  clowns  so  melancholy,  a  lady  so  muddy 
or  a  party  so  miserable. 

How  has  May- day  decayed  ! 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Brokers''  and  3farine-slore  Shops, 

When  we  affirm  that  brokers'  shops  are  strange  places, 
and  that  if  an  authentic  history  of  their  contents  could 
be  procured,  it  would  furnish  many  a  page  of  amuse- 
ment, and  many  a  melancholy  tale,  it  is  necessary  to 
explain  the  class  of  shops  to  which  we  allude.  Perhaps 
when  we  make  use  of  the  term  "Brokers'  Shop,"  the 
minds  of  our  readers  will  at  once  picture  large,  handsome 
warehouses,  exhibiting  a  long  perspective  of  French- 
polished,  dining  tables,  rosewood  chiffoniers,  and  ma- 
hogany wash-hand  stands,  with  an  occasional  vista  of 
a  four- post  bedstead  and  hangings,  and  an  appropriate 
foreground  of  dining-room  chairs.  Perhaps  they  will 
imagine  that  we  mean  an  humble  class  of  second-hand 
furniture  repositories.  Their  imagination  will  then 
naturally  lead  them  to  that  street  at  the  back  of  Long- 
acre,  which  is  composed  almost  entirely  of  brokers' 
shops  ;  where  you  walk  through  the  groves  of  deceitful, 
showy-looking  furniture,  and  where  the  prospect  is 
occasionally  enlivened  by  a  bright  red,  blue,  and  yellow 
hearth-rug,  embellished  with  the  pleasing  device  of  a 
mail-coach  at  full  speed,  or  a  strange  animal,  supposed 
to  have  been  originally  intended  for  a  dog,  with  a  mass 
of  worsted-work  in  his  mouth,  which  conjecture  has 
likened  to  a  basket  of  flowers. 

This,  by  the  by,  is  a  tempting  article  to  young  wives 
in  the  humbler  ranks  of  life,  who  have  a  first  floor-front 
to  furnish — they  are  lost  in  admiration,  and  hardly  know 
which  to  admire  most.  The  dog  is  very  beautiful,  but 
they  have  a  dog  already  on  the  best  tea-tray,  and  two 
more  on  the  mantelpiece.  Then,  there  is  something  so 
genteel  about  that  mail  coach  ;  and  the  passengers  out- 
side (who  are  all  hat)  give  it  such  an  air  of  reality  ! 

The  goods  here  are  adapted  to  the  taste,  or  rather  to 
the  means,  of  cheap  purchasers.  There  are  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  looking  Pembroke  tables  that  were  ever 
beheld  ;  the  wood  as  green  as  the  trees  in  the  park,  and 
the  leaves  almost  as  certain  to  fall  off  in  the  course  of  a 
year.  There  is  also  a  most  extensive  assortment  of  tent 
and  turn-up  bedsteads,  made  of  stained  wood  ;  and  in- 
numerable specimens  of  that  base  imposition  on  society 
— a  sofa  bedstead. 

A  turn-up  bedstead  is  a  blunt,  honest  piece  of  furni- 
ture ;  it  may  be  slightly  disguised  with  a  sham  drawer  ; 
and  sometimes  a  mad  attempt  is  even  made  to  pass  it  off 
for  a  book-case  ;  ornament  it  as  you  will,  hoAvever,  the 
turn-up  bedstead  seems  to  defy  disguise,  and  to  insist  on 
having  it  distinctly  understood  that  he  is  a  turn-up  bed- 
stead, and  nothing  else — that  he  is  indispensably  neces- 
sary, and  that  being  so  useful,  he  disdains  to  be  orna- 
mental. 

How  different  is  the  demeanour  of  a  sofa  bedstead  1 
Ashamed  of  its  real  use,  it  strives  to  appear  an  article  of 
luxury  and  gentility — an  attempt  in  which  it  miserably 
fails.  *  It  has  neither  the  respectability  of  a  sofa,  nor  the 
virtues  of  a  bed  ;  every  man  who  keeps  a  sofa  bedstead 
in  his  house,  becomes  a  party  to  a  wilful  and  designing 
fraud — we  question  whether  you  could  insult  him  more, 
than  by  insinuating  that  you  entertain  the  least  suspicion 
of  its  real  use. 

To  return  from  this  digression,  we  beg  to  say,  that 
neither  of  those  classes  of  brokers'  shops,  form  the  subject 
of  this  sketch.  The  shops  to  which  we  advert,  are  immeas- 
urably inferior  to  those  on  whose  outward  appearance  we 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


883 


•"have  slightly  touclied.  Our  readers  must  often  have  ob- 
served in  some  by-street,  in  a  poor  neighbourhood,  a 
small  dirty  shop,  exposing  for  sale  the  most  extraordi- 
.nary  and  confused  jumble  of  old,  worn-out,  wretched 
articles,  that  can  well  be  imagined.  Our  wonder  at 
their  ever  having  been  bought,  is  only  to  be  equalled  by 
our  astonishment  at  the  idea  of  their  ever  being  sold 
again.  On  a  board,  at  the  side  of  the  door,  are  placed 
about  twenty  books — all  odd  volumes ;  and  as  many 
wine-glasses — all  different  patterns  ;  several  locks,  an  old 
earthenware  pan,  full  of  rusty  keys  ;  two  or  three  gaudy 
chimney-ornaments — cracked,  of  course  ;  the  remains  of 
a  lustre,  Avithout  any  drops  ;  a  round  frame  like  a  capi- 
tal O,  which  has  once  held  a  mirror  ;  a  flute,  complete 
with  the  exception  of  the  middle  joint  ;  a  pair  of  curl- 
ing-irons ;  and  a  tinder-box.  In  front  of  the  shop-win- 
dow, are  ranged  some  half-dozen  high-backed  chairs, 
with  spinal  complaints  and  wasted  legs  ;  a  corner  cup- 
board ;  two  or  three  very  dark  mahogany  tables  with 
flaps  like  mathematical  problems ;  some  pickle-jars, 
some  surgeons'  ditto,  with  gilt  labels  and  without  stop- 
pers ;  an  unframed  portrait  of  some  lady  who  flourished 
about  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century,  by  an 
artist  who  never  flourished  at  all ;  an  incalculable  host 
of  miscellanies  of  every  description,  including  bottles 
and  cabinets,  rags  and  bones,  fenders  and  street-door 
knockers,  fire-irons,  wearing-apparel  and  bedding,  a 
hall-lamp,  and  a  room-door.  Imagine,  in  addition  to 
this  incongruous  mass,  a  black  doll  in  a  white  frock, 
with  two  faces — one  looking  up  the  street,  and  the  other 
looking  down,  swinging  over  the  door  ;  a  board  with  the 
squeezed-up  inscription  "Dealer  in  marine  stores,"  in 
lanky  white  letters,  whose  height  is  strangely  out  of 
proportion  to  their  width  ;  and  you  have  before  you  pre- 
cisely the  kind  of  shop  to  which  we  wish  to  direct  your 
attention. 

Although  the  same  heterogeneous  mixture  of  things 
will  be  found  at  all  these  places,  it  is  curious  to  observe 
how  truly  and  accurately  some  of  the  minor  articles 
which  are  exposed  for  sale — articles  of  wearing-apparel, 
for  instance — mark  the  character  of  the  neighbourhood. 
Take  Drury-lane  and  Covent-garden  for  example. 

This  is  essentially  a  theatrical  neighbourhood.  There 
is  not  a  potboy  in  the  vicinity  who  is  not,  to  a  greater  or 
less  extent,  a  dramatic  character.  The  errand-boys  and 
chandler's  shop-keepers'  sons,  are  all  stage  struck  :  they 
"get  up"  plays  in  back  kitchens  hired  for  the  purpose, 
and  will  stand  before  a  shop-window  for  hours,  contem- 
plating a  great  staring  portrait  of  Mr.  somebody  or  other, 
of  the  Royal  Coburg  Theatre,  "as  he  appeared  in  the 
character  of  Tongo  the  Denounced."  The  consequence 
is,  that  there  is  not  a  marine-store  shop  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, which  does  not  exhibit  for  sale  some  faded 
articles  of  dramatic  finery,  such  as  three  or  four  pairs  of 
soiled  buff  boots  with  turn-over  red  tops,  heretofore 
worn  by  a  "  fourth  robber,"  or  "fifth  mob;"  a  pair  of 
rusty  broad-swords,  a  few  gauntlets,  and  certain  re- 
splendent ornaments,  which,  if  they  were  yellow  instead 
of  white,  might  be  taken  for  insurance  jilates  of  the  Sun 
Fire-office,  There  are  several  of  these  shops  in  the 
narrow  streets  and  dirty  courts,  of  which  there  are  so 
many  near  the  national  theatres,  and  they  all  have 
tempting  goods  of  this  descripiion,  with  the  addition, 
perhaps,  of  a  lady's  pink  dress  covered  with  spangles  ; 
white  wreaths,  stage  shoes,  and  a  tiara  like  a  tin  lamp 
reflector.  They  have  been  purchased  of  some  wretched 
supernumeraries,  or  sixth-rate  actors,  and  are  now  of- 
fered for  the  benefit  of  the  rising  generation,  who,  on 
condition  of  making  certain  weekly  payments,  amount- 
ing in  the  whole  to  about  ten  times  their  value,  may 
avail  themselves  of  such  desirable  bargains. 

Let  us  take  a  very  different  quarter  and  apply  it  to  the 
same  test.  Look  at  the  marine-store  dealer's  in  that 
reservoir  of  dirt,  drunkenness,  and  drabs  :  thieves,  oys- 
ters, baked  potatoes,  and  pickled  salmon — Ratcliff-high- 
way.  Here,  the  wearing  apparel  is  all  nautical.  Rough 
blue  jackets,  with  mother-of-pearl  buttons,  oil-skin  hats, 
coarse  checked  shirts,  and  large  canvas  trousers  that 
look  as  if  they  were  made  for  a  pair  of  bodies  instead  of 
a  pair  of  logs,  are  the  staple  commodities.  Then,  there 
are  large  bunches  of  cotton  pocket-handkerchiefs,  in 
colour  and  pattern  unlike  any,  one  ever  saw  before,  with 


the  exception  of  those  on  the  backs  of  the  throe  young 
ladies  without  bonnets  who  passed  just  now.  The  fur- 
niture is  much  the  same  as  elsewhere,  with  the  addition 
of  one  or  two  models  of  ships,  and  some  old  prints  of 
naval  engagements  in  still  older  frames.  In  the  window, 
are  a  few  compasses,  a  small  tray  containing  silver 
watches  in  clumsy  thick  cases ;  and  tobacco-boxes,  the 
lid  of  each  ornamented  with  a  ship,  or  an  anchor,  or 
some  such  trophy.  A  sailor  generally  pawns  or  sells  all 
he  has  before  he  has  been  long  ashore,  and  if  he  does 
not,  some  favoured  companion  kindly  saves  him  the 
trouble.  In  either  case,  it  is  an  even  chance  that  he 
afterward  unconsciously  repurchases  the  same  things  at 
a  higher  price  than  he  gave  for  them  at  first. 

Again  :  pay  a  visit  with  a  similar  object,  to  a  part  of 
London,  as  unlike  both  of  these  as  they  are  to  each  other. 
Cross  over  to  the  Surrey  side,  and  look  at  such  shops  of 
this  description  as  are  to  be  found  near  the  King's  bench 
prison  and  in  "the  Rules,"  How  different,  and  how 
strikingly  illustrative  of  the  decay  of  some  of  the  un- 
fortunate residents  in  this  part  of  the  metropolis  !  Im- 
prisonment and  neglect  have  done  their  work.  There  is 
contamination  in  the  profligate  denizens  of  a  debtor's 
prison  ;  old  friends  have  fallen  off  ;  the  recollection  of 
former  prosperity  has  passed  away  ;  and  with  it  all 
thoughts  for  the  past,  all  care  for  the  future.  First, 
watches  and  rings,  then  cloaks,  coats,  and  all  the  more 
expensive  articles  of  dress,  have  found  their  way  to  the 
pawnbroker's.  That  miserable  resource  has  failed  at 
last,  and  the  sale  of  some  trifling  article  at  one  of  these 
shops,  has  been  the  only  mode  left  of  raising  a  shilling 
or  two,  to  meet  the  urgent  demands  of  the  moment. 

Dressing-cases  and  writing-desks,  too  old  to  i)awn  but 
too  good  to  keep  ;  guns,  fishing  rods,  musical  instru- 
ments, all  in  the  same  condition  ;  have  first  been  sold, 
and  the  sacrifice  has  been  but  slightly  felt.  But,  hunger 
must  be  allayed,  and  what  has  already  become  a  habit, 
is  easily  resorted  to  when  an  emergency  arises.  Light 
articles  of  clothing,  first  of  the  ruined  man,  then  of  his 
wife,  at  last  of  their  children,  even  of  the  youngest,  have 
been  parted  with,  piecemeal.  There  they  are,  thrown 
carelessly  together  until  a  purchaser  presents  himself, 
old,  and  patched  and  repaired,  it  is  true  ;  but  the  make 
and  materials  tell  of  better  days  ;  and  the  older  they  are, 
the  greater  and  misery  and  destitution  of  those  whom 
they  once  adorned. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 
Gin-shops. 

It  is  a  remarkable  circumstance,  that  different  trades 
appear  to  partake  of  the  disease  to  which  elephants  and 
dogs  are  especially  liable,  and  to  run  stark,  staring,  rav- 
ing mad,  periodically.  The  great  distinction  between 
the  animals  and  the  trades,  is,  that  the  former  run  mad 
with  a  certain  degree  of  propriety — they  are  very  regular 
in  their  irregularities.  We  know  the  period  at  which 
the  emergency  will  arise,  and  provide  against  it  accord- 
ingly. If  an  elephant  run  mad,  we  are  all  ready  for  him 
— kill  or  cure — pills  or  bullets — calomel  in  conserve  of 
roses,  or  lead  in  a  musket-barrel.  If  a  dog  hapjDen  to 
look  unpleasantly  warm  in  the  summer  months,  and  to 
trot  about  the  shady  side  of  the  streets  with  a  quarter  of 
a  yard  of  tongue  hanging  out  of  his  mouth,  a  thick  leather 
muzzle,  which  has  been  previously  prepared  in  compli- 
ance with  the  thoughtful  injunctions  of  the  Legislature, 
is  instantly  clapped  over  his  head,  by  way  of  making  him 
cooler,  and  he  either  looks  remarkably  unhappy  for  the 
next  six  weeks,  or  becomes  legally  insane,  and  goes  mad, 
as  it  were,  by  act  of  Parliament,  But  these  trades  are 
as  eccentric  as  comets  ;  nay,  worse,  for  no  one  can  calcu- 
late on  the  recurrence  of  the  strange  appearances  which 
betoken  the  disease.  Moreover,  the  contagion  is  general, 
and  the  quickness  with  which  is  diffuses  itself,  almost 
incredible. 

We  will  cite  two  or  three  cases  in  illustration  of  our 
meaning.  Six  or  eight  years  ago,  the  epidemic  began  to 
display  itself  among  the  linen-drapers  and  haberdashers. 
The  primary  symptoms  were  an  inordinate  love  of  plate- 
glass,  and  a  passion  for  gas-lights  and  gilding.  The 


884 


CHARLES  niC KENS'  WORKS. 


disease  gradually  progressed,  and  at  last  attained  a  fear- 
ful height.  Quiet  dusty  old  shops  in  different  parts  of 
town,  were  pulled  down  ;  spacious  premises  with  stuccoed 
fronts  and  gold  letters,  were  erected  instead  ;  floors  were 
covered  with  Turkey  carpets  ;  roofs,  supported  by  mass- 
ive  pillars  ;  doors,  knocked  into  windows  ;  a  dozen  squares 
of  glass  into  one  ;  one  shopman  into  a  dozen  ;  and  there 
is  no  knowing  what  would  have  been  done,  if  it  had  not 
been  fortunately  discovered,  just  in  time,  that  the  Com- 
missioners of  Bankruptcy  were  as  competent  to  decide 
such  cases  as  the  Commissioners  of  Lunacy,  and  that  a 
little  confinement  and  gentle  examination  did  wonders. 
The  disease  abated.  It  died  away.  A  year  or  two  of  com- 
parative tranquility  ensued.  Sudden tly  it  burst  out 
again  among  the  chemists  ;  the  symptoms  were  the  same, 
with  the  addition  of  a  strong  desire  to  stick  the  royal 
arms  over  the  shop-door,  and  a  great  rage  for  mahogany, 
varnish,  and  expensive  floor-cloth.  Then,  the  hosiers 
were  infected,  and  began  to  pull  down  their  shop-fronts 
with  frantic  recklessness.  The  mania  again  died  away, 
and  the  public  began  to  congratulate  themselves  on  its 
entire  disappearance,  when  it  burst  forth  with  ten-fold 
violence  among  the  publicans,  and  keepers  of  "  wine- 
vaults."  From  that  moment  it  has  spread  among  them 
with  unprecedented  rapidity,  exhibiting  a  concatenation 
of  all  the  previous  symptoms  ;  onward  it  has  rushed  to 
every  part  of  town,  knocking  down  all  the  old  public- 
houses,  and  depositing  splendid  mansions,  stone  balus- 
trades, rosewood  fittings,  immense  lamps,  and  illuminated 
clocks,  at  the  corner  of  every  street. 

The  extensive  scale  on  which  these  places  are  estab- 
lished, and  the  ostentatious  manner  in  which  the  busi- 
ness of  even  the  smallest  among  them  is  divided  into 
branches,  is  amusing.  A  handsome  plate  of  ground 
glass  in  one  door  directs  you  "  To  the  Counting-house';'' 
another  to  the  "Bottle  Department ;"  a  third  to  the 
"Wholesale  Department;"  a  fourth  "To  the  Wine 
Promenade  ;  "  and  so  forth,  until  we  are  in  daily  expec- 
tation of  meeting  with  a  "  Brandy  Bell,"  or  a  "  Whiskey 
Entrance."  Then,  ingenuity  is  exhausted  in  devising 
attractive  titles  for  the  different  descriptions  of  gin  ;  and 
the  dram-drinking  portion  of  the  community  as  they 
gaze  upon  the  gigantic  black  and  white  announcements, 
which  are  only  to  be  equalled  in  size  by  the  figures  be- 
neath them,  are  left  in  a  state  of  pleasing  hesitation  be- 
tween "  The  Cream  of  the  Valley,"  "The  Out  and  Out" 
"  The  No  Mistake,"  "The  Good  for  Mixing,"  "  The  real 
Knock-me-down,"  "The  celebrated  Butter  Gin,"  "The 
regular  Flare-up,"  and  a  dozen  other  equally  inviting 
liqueurs.  Although  places  of  this  description  are  to  be 
met  with  in  every  second  street,  they  are  invariably 
numerous  and  splendid  in  precise  proportion  to  the  dirt 
and  poverty  of  the  surrounding  neighbourhood.  The 
gin-shops  in  and  near  Drury-lane,  Hoi  born,  St.  Giles's, 
Covent-garden,  and  Clare-market,  are  the  handsomest  in 
London.  There  is  more  of  filth  and  squalid  misery  near 
those  great  thoroughfares  than  in  any  part  of  this  mighty 
city. 

We  will  endeavour  to  sketch  the  bar  of  a  large  gin- 
shop,  and  its  ordinary  customers,  for  the  edification  of 
such  of  our  readers  as  may  not  have  had  opportunities 
of  observing  such  scenes  ;  and  on  the  chance  of  finding 
one  well  suited  to  our  purpose,  we  will  make  for  Drury- 
lane,  through  the  narrow  streets  and  dirty  courts  which 
divide  it  from  Oxford-street,  and  that  classical  spot  ad- 
joining the  brewery  at  the  bottom  of  Tottenham-court- 
road,  best  known  to  the  initiated  as  the  "  Rookery." 

The  filthy  and  miserable  appearance  of  this  part  of 
London  can  hardly  be  imagined  by  those  (and  there  are 
many  such)  who  have  not  witnessed  it.  Wretched 
houses  with  broken  windows  patched  with  rags  and 
paper :  every  room  let  out  to  a  different  family,  and  in 
many  instances  to  two  or  even  three — fruit  and  "sweet- 
stuff"  manufacturers  in  the  cellars,  barbers  and  red- 
herring  venders  in  the  front  parlours,  cobblers  in  the 
back  ;  a  bird  fancier  in  the  first  floor,  three  families  on 
the  second,  starvation  in  the  attics,  Irishmen  in  the  pas- 
sage, a  "  musician  "  in  the  front  kitchen,  and  a  char- 
woman and  five  hungry  children  in  the  back  one — filth 
everywhere — a  gutter  before  the  houses,  and  a  drain 
behind — ch)thes  drying  and  slops  emptying,  from  the 
windows  ;  girls  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  with  matted  hair,  [ 


walking  about  barefoot,  and  in  white  great-coats,  almost 
their  only  covering  ;  boys  of  all  ages,  in  coats  of  all 
sizes  and  no  coats  at  all  ;  men  and  women,  in  every 
variety  of  scanty  and  dirty  apparel,  lounging,  scolding, 
drinking,  smoking,  squabbling,  fighting,  and  swearing. 

You  turn  the  corner.  What  a  change.  All  is  light 
and  brilliancy.  The  hum  of  many  voices  issues  from 
that  splendid  gin-shop  which  forms  the  commencement 
of  the  two  streets  opposite  ;  and  the  gay  building  with 
the  fantastically  ornamented  parapet,  the  illuminated 
clock,  the  plate-glass  windows  surrounded  by  stucco  ro- 
settes, and  its  profusion  of  gas-lights  in  richly -gilt 
burners,  is  perfectly  dazzling  when  contrasted  with  the 
darkness  and  dirt  we  have  just  left.  The  interior  is 
even  gayer  than  the  exterior.  A  bar  of  French -polished 
mahogany,  elegantly  carved,  extends  the  whole  width 
of  the  place  ;  and  there  are  two  side-aisles  of  great 
casks,  painted  green  and  gold,  enclosed  within  a  light 
brass  rail,  and  bearing  such  inscriptions  as  "Old  Tom, 
549  ;"  "Young  Tom,  360;"  "Samson,  1421"— the  fig- 
ures agreeing,  we  presume,  with  "gallons,"  understood. 
Beyond  the  bar  is  a  lofty  and  spacious  saloon,  full  of  the 
same  enticing  vessels,  with  a  gallery  running  round  it, 
equally  well  furnished.  On  the  counter,  in  addition  to 
the  usual  spirit  apparatus,  are  two  or  three  little  baskets 
of  cakes  and  biscuits,  which  are  carefully  secured  at  top 
with  wicker-work,  to  prevent  their  contents  being  unlaw- 
fully abstracted.  Behind  it,  are  two  showily-dressed 
damsels  with  large  necklaces,  dispen'sing  the  spirits  and 
"  compounds."  They  are  assisted  by  the  ostensible  pro- 
prietor of  the  concern,  a  stout  coarse  fellow  in  a  fur  cap, 
put  on  very  much  on  one  side  to  give  him  a  knowing 
air,  and  to  display  his  sandy  whiskers  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. 

The  two  old  washerwomen,  who  are  seated  on  the 
little  bench  to  the  left  of  the  bar,  are  rather  overcome 
by  the  head-dresses  and  haughty  demeanor  of  the  young 
ladies  who  officiate.  They  receive  their  half-quartern 
of  gin  and  peppermint  with  considerable  deference,  pre- 
facing a  request  for  "one  of  them  soft  biscuits,"  with  a 
"  Jist  be  good  enough,  ma'am."  They  are  quite  aston- 
ished at  the  impudent  air  of  the  young  fellow  in  a  brown 
coat  and  bright  buttons,  who,  ushering  in  his  two  com- 
panions, and  walking  up  to  the  bar  in  as  careless  a 
manner,  as  if  he  had  been  used  to  green  and  gold  orna- 
ments all  his  life,  winks  at  one  of  the  young  ladies 
with  singular  coolness,  and  calls  for  a  "kervorteen  and 
a  three-out  glass,"  just  as  if  the  place  were  his  own. 
"Gin  for  you,  sir?"  says  the  young  lady  when  she  has 
drawn  it  :  carefully  looking  every  way  but  the  right  one, 
to  show  that  the  wink  had  no  effect  upon  her.  "  For 
me,  Mary,  my  dear,"  replies  the  gentleman  in  brown. 
"  My  name  ain't  Mary,  as  it  happens,"  says  the  young 
girl,  rather  relaxing  as  she  delivers  the  change.  "  Well, 
if  it  an't  it  ought  to  be,"  responds  the  irresistible  one  ; 
"all  the  Marys  as  ever  /  see,  was  handsome  gals." 
Here  the  young  lady,  not  precisely  remembering  how 
blushes  are  managed  in  such  cases,  abruptly  ends  the 
flirtation  by  addressing  the  female  in  the  faded  feathers 
who  has  just  entered,  and  who,  after  stating  explicity, 
to  prevent  any  subsequent  misunderstanding,  that  "  this 
gentleman  pays,"  calls  for  "  a  glass  of  port  wine  and  a 
bit  of  sugar." 

Those  two  old  men  who  came  in  "just  to  have  a 
drain,"  finishe(J  their  third  quartern  a  few  seconds  ago  ; 
they  have  made  themselves  crying  drunk  ;  and  the  fat 
comfortable-looking  elderly  women,  who  had  "  a  glass 
of  rum  srub"each,  having  chimed  in  with  their  com- 
plaints, on  the  hardness  of  the  times,  one  of  the  women 
has  agreed  to  stand  a  glass  round,  jocularly  observing 
that  "  grief  never  mended  no  broken  bones,  and  as  good 
people's  wery  scarce,  what  I  says  is,  make  the  most  on 
'em,  and  that's  all  about  it  1 "  a  sentiment  which  appears 
to  afford  unlimited  satisfaction  to  those  who  have  noth- 
ing to  pay. 

It  is  growing  late,  and  the  throng  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  who  have  been  constantly  going  in  and  out, 
dwindles  down  to  two  or  three  occasional  stragglers — 
cold,  wretched-looking  creatures,  in  the  last  stage  of 
emaciation  and  disease.  The  knot  of  Irish  labourers  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  place,  who  have  been  alternately 
shaking  hands  with,  and  threatening  the  life  of  each. 


LIBRARY 
OF  fHE 
UNIVERtilh  Of  ILLINOIS 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


885 


other,  for  the  last  hour,  become  furious  in  their  disputes, 
and  finding  it  impossible  to  silence  one  man,  who  is  par- 
ticular anxious  to  adjust  the  difference,  they  resort  to  the 
expedient  of  knocking  him  down  and  jumping  on  him 
afterwards.  The  man  in  the  fur-cap  and  the  pot-boy 
rush  out  ;  a  scene  of  riot  and  confusion  ensues  ;  half  the 
Irishmen  get  shut  out,  and  the  other  half  get  shut  in  ; 
the  pot-boy  is  knocked  among  the  tubs  in  no  time  ;  the 
landlord  hits  everybody,  and  everybody  hits  the  land- 
lord ;  the  barmaids  scream  ;  the  police  come  in  ;  the 
rest  is  a  confused  mixture  of  arms,  legs,  staves,  torn 
coats,  shouting,  and  struggling.  Some  of  the  party  are 
borne  off  to  the  station-house,  and  the  remainder  slink 
home  to  beat  their  wives  for  complaining,  and  kick  the 
children  for  daring  to  be  hungry. 

We  have  sketched  this  subject  very  slightly,  not  only 
because  our  limits  compel  us  to  do  so,  but  because,  if  it 
were  pursued  farther,  it  would  be  painful  and  repulsive. 
Well-disposed  gentlemen,  and  charitable  ladies,  would 
alike  turn  with  coldness  and  disgust  from  a  description 
of  the  drunken  besotted  men,  and  wretched  broken- 
down  miserable  women,  who  form  no  inconsiderable 
portion  of  the  frequenters  of  these  haunts  ;  forgetting, 
in  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  their  own  rectitude, 
the  poverty  of  the  one,  and  the  temptation  of  the  other. 
Gin-drinking  is  a  great  vice  in  England,  but  wretched- 
ness and  dirt  are  a  greater  ;  and  until  you  improve  the 
homes  of  the  poor,  or  persuade  a  half- famished  wretch 
not  to  seek  relief  in  the  temporary  oblivion  of  his  own 
misery,  with  the  pittance  which,  divided  among  his 
family,  would  furnish  a  morsel  of  bread  for  each,  gin- 
shops  will  increase  in  number  and  splendour.  If  Tem- 
perance Societies  would  suggest  an  antidote  against  hun- 
ger, filth  and  foul  air,  or  could  establish  dispensaries 
for  the  gratuitous  distribution  of  bottles  of  Lethe-water, 
gin-palaces  would  be  numbered  among  the  things  that 
were. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  Pawnbroker's  Shop. 

Of  the  numerous  receptacles  for  misery  and  distress 
with  which  the  streets  of  London  unhappily  abound, 
there  are,  perhaps,  none  which  present  such  striking 
scenes  as  the  pawnbrokers'  shops.    The  very  nature  and 
j  description  of  these  places  occasions  their  being  but 
little  known,  except  to  the  unfortunate  beings  whose 
I  profligacy  or  misfortune  drives  them  to  seek  the  tempo- 
:  rary  relief  they  offer.    The  subject  may  appear,  at  first 
.  sight,  to  be  anything  but  an  inviting  one,  but  we  venture 
;  on  it  nevertheless,  in  the  hope  that,  as  far  as  the  limits 
I  of  our  present  paper  are  concerned,  it  will  present  noth- 
'  ing  to  disgust,  even  the  most  fastidious  reader. 

There  are  some  pawnbrokers*  shops  of  a  very  superior 
description.    There  are  grades  in  pawning  as  in  every- 
thing else,  and  distinctions  must  be  observed  even  in 
poverty.    The  aristocratic  Spanish  cloak  and  the  plebeian 
I  calico  shirt,  the  silver  fork,  and  the  flat  iron,  the  muslin 
cravat  and  the  Belcher  neckerchief,  would  but  ill  assort 
together  ;  so,  the  better  sort  of  pawnbroker  calls  himself 
a  silversmith,  and  decorates  his  shop  with  handsome 
trinkets  and  expensive  jewellery,  while  the  more  humble 
money-lender  boldly  advertises  his  calling,  and  invites 
I  observation.    It  is  with  pawnbrokers'  shops  of  the  latter 
j  class,  that  we  have  to  do.    We  have  selected  one  for 
j  our  pui-jjose,  and  will  endeavour  to  describe  it. 

The  pawnbroker's  shop  is  situated  near  Drury  Lane, 
at  the  corner  of  a  court,  which  affords  a  side  entrance 
j  for  the  accommodation  of  such  customers  as  may  be 
I  desirous  of  avoiding  the  observation  of  the  passers  by, 
,  or  the  chance  of  recognition  in  the  public  street.    It  is 
a  low,  dirty-looking,  dusty  shop,  the  door  of  which 
?^ands  always  doubtfully,  a  little  way  open,  half  invit- 
ing, half  repelling  the  hesitating  visitor,  who,  if  he  be  as 
yet  uninitiated,  examines  one  of  the  old  garnet  brooches 
m  the  window  for  a  minute  or  two  with  affected  eager- 
ness,  as  if  he  contemplated  making  a  purchase  ;  and 
'hen  looking  cautiously  round  to  ascertain  that  no  one 
batches  him,  hastily  slinks  in  ;  the  door  closing  of  itself 
after  him,  to  jiiat  its  former  width.    The  shop  front  and 


the  window  frames  bear  evident  marks  of  having  been 
once  painted ;  but,  what  the  colour  was  originally,  or  at 
what  date  it  was  probably  laid  on,  are  at  this  remote 
period  questions  which  may  be  asked,  but  cannot  be  an- 
swered. Tradition  states  that  the  transparencj'  in  the 
front  door  which  displays  at  night  three  red  balls  on  a 
blue  ground,  once  bore  also,  inscribed  in  graceful  waves, 
the  words  "  Money  advanced  on  plate,  jewels,  wearing 
apparel,  and  every  description  of  property,"  but  a  few 
illegible  hieroglyphics  are  all  that  now  remain  to  attest 
the  fact.  The  plates  and  jewels  would  seem  to  have 
disappeared,  together  with  the  announcement,  for  the 
articles  of  stock,  which  are  displayed  in  some  profusion 
in  the  window,  do  not  include  any  very  valuable  luxuries 
of  either  kind.  A  few  old  china  cups  ;  some  modern 
vases,  adorned  with  paltry  paintings  of  three  Spanish 
cavaliers  playing  three  Spanish  guitars ;  or  a  party  of 
boors  carousing  ;  each  boor  with  one  leg  painfully  ele- 
vated in  the  air,  by  way  of  expressing  his  perfect  free- 
dom and  gaiety  ;  several  sets  of  chessmen,  two  or  three 
flutes  a  few  fiddles,  a  round-faced  portrait  staring  in 
astonishment  from  a  very  dark  ground  ;  some  gaudily- 
bound  prayer-books  and  testaments,  two  rows  of  silver 
watches  quite  as  clumsy  and  almost  as  large  as  Fergu- 
son's first ;  numerous  old-fashioned  table  and  tea  spoons, 
displayed,  fan-like,  in  half-dozens  ;  strings  of  coral  with 
great  broad  gilt  snaps  ;  cards  of  rings  and  brooches,  fas- 
tened and  labeled  separately,  like  the  insects  in  the 
British  Museum  :  cheap  silver  penholders  and  snuff- 
boxes, with  a  masonic  star,  complete  the  jewellery  de- 
partment :  while  five  or  six  beds  in  smeary  clouded 
ticks,  strings  of  blankets  and  sheets,  silk  and  cotton 
handkerchiefs,  and  wearing  apparel  of  every  description, 
form  the  more  useful,  though  even  less  ornamental,  part, 
of  the  articles  exposed  for  sale.  An  extensive  collection 
of  planes,  chisels,  saws,  and  other  carpenters'  tools, 
which  have  been  pledged,  and  never  redeemed,  form  the 
foreground  of  the  picture  ;  while  the  large  frames  full  of 
ticketed  bundles,  which  are  dimly  seen  through  the 
dirty  casement  up-stairs — the  squalid  neighbourhood — 
the  adjoining  houses,  straggling,  shrunken,  and  rotten, 
with  one  or  two  filthy,  unwholesome-looking  heads, 
thrust  out  of  every  window,  and  old  red  pans  and  stunted 
plants  exposed  on  the  tottering  parapets,  to  the  manifest 
hazard  of  the  heads  of  the  passers-by— the  noisy  men 
loitering  under  the  archway  at  the  corner  of  the  court, 
or  about  the  gin-shop  next  door — and  their  wives  patiently 
standing  on  the  curbstone,  with  large  baskets  of  cheap 
vegetables  slung  round  them  for  sale,  are  its  immediate 
auxiliaries. 

If  the  outside  of  the  pawnbroker's  shop,  be  calculated 
to  attract  the  attention,  or  excite  the  interest,  of  the 
speculative  pedestrian,  its  interior  cannot  fail  to  produce 
the  same  effect  in  an  increased  degree.  The  front  door, 
which  we  have  before  noticed,  opens  into  the  common 
shop,  which  is  the  resort  of  all  those  customers  whose 
habitual  acquaintance  with  such  scenes  renders  them  in- 
different to  the  observation  of  their  companions  in  pov- 
erty. The  side  door  opens  into  a  small  passage  from 
w^hich  some  half-dozen  doors  (which  may  be  secured  on 
the  inside  by  bolts)  open  into  a  corresponding  number  of 
little  dens,  or  closets,  which  face  the  counter.  Here, 
the  more  timid  or  respectable  portion  of  the  crowd 
shroud  themselves  from  the  notice  of  the  remainder,  and 
patiently  wait  until  the  gentleman  behind  the  counter, 
with  the  curly  black  hair,  diamond  ring,  and  double 
silver  watch-guard  shall  feel  disposed  to  favour  them 
with  his  notice — a  consummation  which  depends  consid- 
erably on  the  temper  of  the  aforesaid  gentleman  for  the 
time  being. 

At  the  present  moment,  this  elegantly-attired  indi- 
vidual is  in  the  act  of  entering  the  duplicate  he  has  just 
made  out,  in  a  thick  book  ;  a  process  from  which  he  is 
diverted  occasionally,  by  a  conversation  he  is  carrying 
on  with  another  young  man  similarly  employed  at  a 
little  distance  from  him,  whose  allusions  to  "  that  last 
bottle  of  soda-water  last  night,"  and  "how  regularly 
round  my  hat  he  felt  himself  when  the  young  'ooman 
gave  'em  in  charge,"  would  appear  to  refer  to  the  con- 
sequences of  some  stolen  joviality  of  the  preceding  even- 
ing. The  customers  generally,  however,  seem  unable 
to  participate  in  the  amusement  derivable  from  this 


886 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


source,  for  an  old  sallow-looking  woman,  who  lias  been 
leaning  witli  both  arms  on  the  counter  with  a  small 
bundle  before  her,  for  half  an  hour  previously,  suddenly 
interrupts  the  conversation  by  addressing  the  jewelled 
shopman — "Now,  Mr.  Henry,  do  make  haste,  there's  a 
good  soul,  for  my  two  grandchildren's  locked  up  at  home, 
and  I'm  afeer'd  of  the  fire."  The  shopman  slightly 
raises  his  head,  with  an  air  of  deep  abstraction,  and  re- 
sumes his  entry  with  as  much  deliberation  as  if  he  were 
engraving.  "You're  in  a  hurry,  Mrs.  Tatham,  this 
ev'nin',  an't  you?"  is  the  only  notice  he  deigns  to  take, 
after  the  lapse  of  five  minutes  or  so.  "  Yes,  I  am  indeed, 
Mr.  Henry  ;  now,  do  serve  me  next,  there's  a  good 
creetur.  I  wouldn't  worry  you,  only  it's  all  along  o' 
them  botherin'  children."  "  What  have  you  got  here  ?" 
inquires  the  shopman,  unpinning  the  bundle  —  "old 
concern,  I  suppose — pair  o'  stays  and  a  petticut.  You 
must  look  up  somethin'  else,  old  'ooman  ;  I  can't  lend 
you  anything  more  upon  them,  they're  completely  worn 
out  by  this  time,  if  it's  only  by  putting  in,  and  taking 
out  again,  three  times  a  week.*'  "Oh!  you're  a  rum 
un,  you  are,"  replies  the  old  woman,  laughing  extremely, 
as  in  duty  bound  ;  "  I  wish  I'd  got  the  gift  of  the  gab  like 
you  ;  see  if  I'd  be  up  the  spent  so  often  then  !  No,  no  ; 
it  an't  the  petticut ;  it's  a  child's  frock  and  a  beautiful 
silk-ankercher,  as  belongs  to  my  husband.  He  gave 
four  shillin'  for  it,  the  werry  same  blessed  day  as  he 
broke  his  arm."  "What  do  you  want  ujDon  these?" 
inquires  Mr.  Henry,  slightly  glancing  at  the  articles, 
which  in  all  probability  are  old  acquaintances.  "  What 
do  you  want  upon  these  ?" — "  Eighteen-pence." — "  Lend 
you  nine-pence." — "  Oh,  make  it  a  shillin';  there's  a 
dear — do  now!" — "Not  another  farden." — "Well,  I 
suppose  I  must  take  it."  The  duplicate  is  made  out, 
one  ticket  pinned  on  the  parcel,  the  other  given  to  the 
old  woman  ,  the  parcel  is  flung  carelessly  down  into  a 
corner,  and  some  other  customer  prefers  his  claim  to  be 
served  without  further  delay. 

The  choice  falls  on  an  unshaven,  dirty,  sottish -looking 
fellow,  whose  tarnished  paper-cap,  stuck  negligently 
over  one  eye,  communicates  an  additionally  repulsive 
expression  to  his  very  uninviting  countenance.  He  was 
enjoying  a  little  relaxation  from  his  sedentary  pursuits  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  in  kicking  his  wife  up  the  court. 
He  has  come  to  redeem  some  tools  : — probably  to  com- 
plete a  job  with,  on  account  of  which  he  has  already 
received  some  money,  if  his  inflamed  countenance  and 
drunken  stagger,  may  be  taken  as  evidence  of  the  fact. 
Having  waited  some  little  time,  he  makes  his  presence 
known  by  venting  his  ill-humour  on  a  ragged  urchin, 
who,  being  unable  to  bring  his  face  on  a  level  with  the 
counter  by  any  other  process,  has  employed  himself  in 
climbing  up,  and  then  hooking  himself  on  with  his 
elbows — an  uneasy  perch,  from  which  he  has  fallen  at 
intervals,  generally  alighting  on  the  toes  of  the  person 
in  his  immediate  vicinity.  In  the  present  case,  the  un- 
fortunate little  wretch  has  received  a  cuff  which  sends 
him  reeling  to  the  door  ;  and  the  donor  of  the  blow  is 
immediately  the  object  of  general  indignation. 

"What  do  you  strike  the  boy  for,  you  brute?"  ex- 
claims, a  slip-shod  woman,  with  two  flat  irons  in  a  little 
basket.  "  Do  you  think  he's  your  wife,  you  willin?" — 
"  Go  and  hang  yourself  ! "  replies  the  gentleman  ad- 
dressed, with  a  drunken  look  of  savage  stupidity,  aim- 
ing at  the  same  time  a  blow  at  the  womam  which  for- 
tunately misses  its  object.  "Go  and  hang  yourself; 
and  wait  till  I  come  and  cut  you  down." — "Cut  you 
down,"  rejoins  the  woman,  "  I  wish  I  had  the  cutting 
of  you  up,  you  wagabond  !  (loud.)  Oh  !  you  precious 
v/agabond  !  (rather  louder.)  Where's  your  wife,  you 
willin  ?  (louder  still  ;  women  of  this  class  are  always 
sympathetic,  and  work  themselves  into  a  tremendous 
passion  on  the  shortest  notice.)  Your  poor  dear  wife  as 
you  uses  worser  nor  a  dog — strike  a  woman — you  a 
man  !  (very  shrill  ;)  I  wish  I  had  you — I'd  murd(!r  you,  I 
would,  if  i  died  for  it  !" — "Now  bo  civil,"  retorts  the 
man  fiercely.  "Be  civil,  you  wiper!"  ejaculat(!S  the 
woman  contemptuously,  "An't  it  shocking?"  she  con- 
tinues, turning  round,  and  appealing  to  an  old  woman 
who  is  peeping  out  of  one  of  tlie  little  closets  we  have 
before  described,  and  who  has  not  the  slightest  objec- 
tion to  join  in  the  attack,  possessing,  as  she  does,  the 


comfortable  conviction  that  she  is  bolted  in.  "  An't  it 
shocking,  ma'am?  (Dreadful  !  says  the  old  woman  in  a 
parenthesis,  not  exactly  knowing  what  the  question 
refers  to.)  He's  got  a  wife,  ma'am,  as  takes  in  mangling, 
and  is  as  'dustrious  and  hard-working  a  young  'ooman 
as  can  be,  (very  fast)  as  lives  in  the  back-i^arlour  of  our 
'ous,  which  my  husband  and  me  lives  in  the  front  one 
(with  great  rapidity) — and  we  hears  him  a  beaten'  on  her 
sometimes  when  he  comes  home  drunk,  the  whole  night 
through,  and  not  only  a  beaten'  her,  but  beaten'  his  own 
child  too,  to  make  her  more  miserable — ugh  !  you  beast  I 
and  she,  poor  creater,  won't  swear  the  peace  agin  him, 
nor  do  nothin',  because  she  likes  the  wretch  arter  all — 
worse  luck!"  Here  as  the  woman  has  completely  run 
herself  out  of  breath,  the  pawnbroker  himself,  who  has 
just  appeared  behind  the  counter  in  a  gray  dressing- 
gown,  embraces  the  favourable  opportunity  of  ])utting 
in  a  word  : — "Now  I  won't  have  none  of  this  sort  of 
thing  on  my  premises  ! "  he  interposes  with  an  air  of 
authority.  "Mrs.  Mackin,  keep  yourself  to  yourself,  or 
you  don't  get  four-pence  for  a  flat  iron  here  ;  and  Jin- 
Idns,  you  leave  your  ticket  here  till  you're  sober,  and 
send  your  wife  for  them  two  planes,  for  I  won't  have  you 
in  my  shop  at  no  price  ;  so  make  yourself  scarce,  before 
I  make  you  scarcer." 

This  eloquent  address  produces  any  thing  but  the  ef- 
fect desired  ;  the  old  women  rail  in  concert  ;  the  man 
hits  about  him  in  all  directions,  and  is  in  the  act  of 
establishing  an  indisputable  claim  to  gratuitous  lodging 
for  the  night,  when  the  entrance  of  his  wife,  a  wretched 
worn-out  woman,  apparently  in  the  last  stage  of  consump- 
tion, whose  face  bears  evident  marks  of  recent  ill-usage, 
and  whose  strength  seems  hardly  equal  to  the  burden, 
— light  enough  God  knows  I — of  the  thin  sickly  child  she 
carries  in  her  arms,  turns  his  cowardly  rage  in  a  safer 
direction.  "  Come  home,  dear,"  cries  the  miserable 
creature,  in  an  imploring  tone  ;  "  (?o  come  home,  there's 
a  good  fellow,  and  go  to  bed." — "Go  home  yourself," 
rejoins  the  furious  I'uflSan.  "Do  come  home  quietly," 
repeats  the  wife,  bursting  into  tears.  "  Go  home  your- 
self," retorts  the  husband  again,  enforcing  his  argument 
by  a  blow  which  sends  the  poor  creature  flying  out  of 
the  shop.  Her  "natural  protector"  follows  her  up  the 
court,  alternately  venting  his  rage  in  accelerating  her 
progress,  and  in  knocking  the  little  scanty  blue  bonnet 
of  the  unfortunate  child  over  its  still  more  scanty  and 
faded-looking  face. 

In  the  last  box,  which  is  situated  in  the  darkest  and 
most  obscure  corner  of  the  shop,  considerably  removed 
from  either  of  the  gas-lights,  are  a  young  delicate  girl 
of  about  twenty,  and  an  elderly  female,  evidently  her 
mother  from  the  resemblance  between  them,  who  stand 
at  some  distance  back  as  if  to  aA^oid  the  observation  even 
of  the  shopman.  It  is  not  their  first  visit  to  a  pawn- 
broker's shop,  for  they  answer  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation the  usual  questions  put  in  a  rather  respectful 
manner,  and  in  a  much  lower  tone  than  usual,  of  "  What 
name  shall  I  say?— Your  own  property,  of  course? — 
Where  do  you  live  ? — Housekeeper  or  lodger?"  They^ 
bargain,  too,  for  a  higher  loan  than  the  shopman  is  a1 
first  inclined  to  offer,  which  a  perfect  stranger  woiild 
be  little  disposed  to  do  ;  and  the  elder  female  urgej 
her  daughter  on,  in.  scarcely  audible  whispers,  to  exerl 
her  utmost  powers  of  persuasion  to  obtain  an  advance  of 
the  sum.,  and  expatiate  on  the  value  of  the  articles  they 
have  brought  to  raise  a  present  supply  upon.  They 
are  a  small  gold  chain  and  a  "Forget  me  not"  ring: 
the  girl's  property,  for  they  are  both  too  small  for  the 
mother  ;  given  "her  in  better  times  ;  prized,  perhaps, 
once,  for  the  giver's  sake,  but  parted  with  now,  with- 
out a  struggle  ;  for  want  has  hardened  the  mother,  and 
her  example  has  hardened  the  girl,  and  the  prospect  of 
receiving  money,  coupled  with  a  recollection  of  the 
misery  they  have  both  endured  from  the  want  of  it — the 
coldness  of  old  friends — the  stern  refusal  of  some,  andj 
the  still  more  galling  compassion  of  others — appears  tojj 
have  obliterated  the  consciousness  of  self-humiliatiori 
which  the  idea  of  their  present  situation  would  onceji 
have  aroused.  ^  \ 

In  the  next  box,  is  a  young  female,  whose  attirei 
miserably  poor,  but  extremely  gaudy,  wretchedly  coldj, 
but  extravagantly  fine,  too  plainly  bespeaks  her  station^H 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


887 


The  ricli  satin  gown  with  its  faded  trimmings,  the  worn- 
out  thin  shoes,  and  pink  silk  stockings,  the  summer 
bonnet  in  winter  and  the  sunken  face,  where  a  daub  of 
rouge  only  serves  as  an  index  to  the  ravages  of  squan- 
dered health  never  to  be  regained,  and  lost  happiness 
never  to  be  restored,  and  where  the  practised  smile  is  a 
wretched  mockery  of  the  misery  of  the  heart,  cannot  be 
mistaken.  There  is  something  in  the  glimpse  she  has 
just  caught  of  her  young  neiglibour,  and  in  the  sight  of 
the  little  trinkets  she  has  offered  in  pawn,  that  seems  to 
have  awakened  in  this  woman's  mind  some  slumbering 
recollection,  and  to  have  changed,  for  an  instant,  her 
whole  demeanour.  Her  first  hasty  impulse  was  to  bend 
forward  as  if  to  scan  more  minutely  the  appearance  of 
her  half-concealed  companions  ;  her  next  on  seeing  them 
involuntarily  shrink  from  her,  to  retreat  to  the  back  of 
the  box,  cover  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

There  are  strange  chords  in  the  human  heart,  which 
will  lie  dormant  through  years  of  depravity  and  wicked- 
ness, but  which  will  vibrate  at  last  to  some  slight  cir- 
cumstance apparently  trivial  in  itself,  but  connected  by 
some  undefined  and  indistinct  association,  with  past  days 
that  can  never  be  recalled,  and  with  bitter  recollections 
from  which  the  most  degraded  creature  in  existence  can- 
not escape. 

There  has  been  another  spectator,  in  the  person  of  a 
woman  in  the  common  shop  ;  the  lowest  of  the  low  ; 
dirty,  unbonneted,  flaunting,  and  slovenly.  Her  curiosity 
was  at  first  attracted  by  the  little  she  could  see  of  the 
group  ;  then  her  attention.  The  half-intoxicated  leer 
changed  to  an  expression  of  something  like  interest,  and 
a  feeling  similar  to  that  we  have  described,  appeared  for 
a  moment,  and  only  a  moment,  to  extend  itself  even  to 
her  bosom. 

Who  shall  say  how  soon  these  women  may  change 
places  ?  The  last  has  but  two  more  stages — the  hospital 
and  the  grave.  How  many  females  situated  as  her  two 
companions  are,  and  as  she  may  have  been  once,  have 
terminated  the  same  wretched  course,  in  the  same 
wretched  manner.  One  is  already  tracing  her  footsteps 
with  frightful  rapidity.  How  soon  may  the  other  follow 
her  example  !    How  many  have  done  the  same  ! 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Criminal  Courts. 

We  shall  never  forget  the  mingled  feelings  of  awe 
and  respect  with  which  we  used  to  gaze  on  the  exterior 
of  Newgate  in  our  schoolboy  days.  How  dreadful  its 
rough  heavy  walls,  and  low  massive  doors,  appeared  to 
us — the  latter  looking  as  if  they  were  made  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  letting  people  in,  and  never  letting  them 
out  again.  Then  the  fetters  over  the  debtor's  door, 
which  we  used  to  think  were  a  h on d  fide  set  of  irons,  just 
hung  up  there  for  convenience  sake,  ready  to  be  taken 
down  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  rivetted  on  the  limbs  of 
some  refractory  felon  !  We  were  never  tired  of  wonder- 
ing how  the  hackney-coachman  on  the  opposite  stand 
could  cut  jokes  in  the  presence  o/  such  horrors,  and  drink 
pots  of  half-and-half  so  near  the  last  drop. 

Often  have  we  strayed  here,  in  sessions  time,  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  whipping-place,  and  that  dark  building 
on  one  side  of  the  yard,  in  which  is  kept  the  gibbet  and 
all  its  dreadful  apparatus,  and  on  the  door  of  which  we 
half -expected  to  see  a  brass  plate,  with  the  inscription  of 
"Mr.  Ketch;"  for  we  never  imagined  that  the  distin- 
guished functionary  could  by  possibility  live  anywhere 
else  !  The  days  of  those  childish  dreams  have  passed 
away,  and  with  them  many  other  boyish  ideas  of  a  gayer 
nature.  But  we  still  retain  so  much  of  our  original  feel- 
ing, that  to  this  hour  we  never  pass  the  building  without 
something  like  a  shudder. 

What  London  pedestrian  is  there  who  has  not,  at  some 
time  or  other,  cast  a  hurried  glance  through  the  wicket 
at  which  prisoners  are  admitted  into  this  gloomy  mansion, 
and  surveyed  the;  few  objects  he  could  discern,  with  an 
indescribable  feeling  of  curiosity  ?  The  thick  door,  plated 
with  iron  and  mounted  with  spikes,  just  low  enough  to 


enable  you  to  see,  leaning  over  them,  an  iil-looking  fel- 
low, in'a  broad-brimmed  hat,  belcher  1  andkerchicf  and 
top-boots :  with  a  brown  coat,  something  between  a 
great-coat  and  a  "sporting"  jacket,  on  his  back,  and  an 
immense  key  in  his  left  hand.  Perhaps  you  are  lucky 
enough  to  pass,  just  as  the  gate  is  being  opened  ;  then, 
you  see  on  the  other  side  of  the  lodge,  another  gate,  the 
image  of  its  predecessor,  and  two  or  three  more  turnkeys, 
who  look  like  multiplications  of  the  first  one,  seated 
round  a  fire  which  just  lights  up  the  whitewashed  apart- 
ment sufficiently  to  enable  you  to  catch  a  hasty  glimpse 
of  these  different  objects.  We  have  a  great  respect  for 
Mrs.  Fry,  but  she  certainly  ought  to  have  written  more 
romances  than  Mrs.  Radcliffe. 

We  were  walking  leisurely  down  the  Old  Bailey,  some 
time  ago,  when,  as  we  passed  this  identical  gate,  it  was 
opened  by  the  officiating  turnkey.  We  turned  quickly 
round  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  saw  two  persons  de- 
scending the  steps.  We  could  not  help  stopping  and 
observing  them. 

They  were  an  elderly  woman  of  decent  appearance, 
though  evidently  poor,  and  a  boy  of  about  fourteen  or 
fifteen.  The  woman  was  crying  bitterly  ;  she  carried  a 
small  bundle  in  her  hand,  and  the  boy  followed  at  a 
short  distance  behind  her.  Their  little  history  was  ob- 
vious. The  boy  was  her  son,  to  whose  early  comfort  she 
had  perhaps  sacrificed  her  own — for  whose  sake  she  had 
borne  misery  without  repining,  and  poverty  without  a 
murmur — looking  steadily  forward  to  the  time,  when  he 
who  had  so  long  witnessed  her  struggles  for  himself, 
might  be  enabled  to  make  some  exertions  for  their  joint 
support.  He  had  formed  dissolute  connections  ;  idleness 
had  led  to  crime  ;  and  he  had  been  committed  to  take  his 
trial  for  some  petty  theft.  He  had  been  long  in  prison, 
and,  after  receiving  some  trifling  additional  punishment, 
had  been  ordered  to  be  discharged  that  morning.  It  was 
his  first  offence,  and  his  poor  old  mother,  still  hoping  to 
reclaim  him,  had  been  waiting  at  the  gate  to  implore  him 
to  return  home. 

We  cannot  forget  the  boy  ;  he  descended  the  steps 
with  a  dogged  look,  shaking  his  head  with  an  air  of 
bravado  and  obstinate  determination.  They  walked  a 
few  paces,  and  paused.  The  woman  put  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder  in  an  agony  of  entreaty,  and  the  boy  sul- 
lenly raised  his  head  as  if  in  refusal.  It  was  u  brilliant 
morning,  and  every  object  looked  fresh  and  happy  in 
the  broad,  gay  sun-light  ;  he  gazed  round  him  for  a  few 
moments,  bewildered  with  the  brightness  of  the  scene, 
for  it  was  long  since  he  had  beheld  anything  save  the 
gloomy  walls  of  a  prison.  Perhaps  the  wretchedness 
of  his  mother  made  some  impression  on  the  boy's  heart ; 
perhaps  some  undefined  recollection  of  the  time  when 
he  was  a  happy  child,  and  she  his  only  friend,  and  best 
companion,  crowded  on  him — he  burst  into  tears  ;  and 
covering  his  face  with  one  hand,  and  hurriedly  placing 
the  other  in  his  mother's,  walked  away  with  her. 

Curiosity  has  occasionally  led  us  into  both  the  Courts 
at  the  Old  Bailey.  Nothing  is  so  likely  to  strike  the 
person  who  enters  them  for  the  first  time,  as  the  calm 
indifference  with  which  the  proceedings  are  conducted  ; 
every  trial  seems  a  mere  matter  of  business.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  form,  but  no  compassion  ;  considerable  in- 
terest, but  no  sympathy.  Take  the  Old  Court  for  exam- 
ple. There  sit  the  Judges,  with  whose  great  dignity 
every  body  is  acquainted,  and  of  whom  therefore  we 
need  say  no  more.  Then,  there  is  the  Lord  Mayor  In 
the  centre,  looking  as  cool  as  a  Lord  Mayor  can  look, 
with  an  immense  bouquet  before  him,  and  habited  in  all 
the  splendour  of  his  office.  Then,  there  are  the  Sheriffs, 
who  are  almost  as  dignified  as  the  Lord  Mayor  himself  ; 
and  the  Barristers,  who  are  quite  dignified  enough  in 
their  own  opinion  ;  and  the  spectators,  who  having  paid 
for  their  admission,  look  upon  the  whole  scene  as  if  it 
were  got  up  especially  for  their  amusement.  Look  upon 
the  whole  group  in  the  body  of  the  Court — some  wholly 
engrossed  in  the  morning  papers,  others  carelessly  con- 
versing in  low  whispers,  and  others,  again,  quietly  doz- 
ing away  an  hour — and  you  can  scarcely  believe  that 
the  result  of  the  trial  is  a  matter  of  life  or  death  to  one 
wretched  being  present.  But  turn  your  eyes  to  the 
dock  ;  watch  the  prisoner  attentively  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  and  the  fact  is  before  you,  in  all  its  painful  re- 


888 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


ality.  Mark  how  restlessly  he  has  been  engaged  for  the 
last  ten  minutes,  in  forming  all  sorts  of  fantastic  figures 
with  the  herbs  which  are  strewed  upon  the  ledge  before 
him  ;  observe  the  ashy  paleness  of  his  face  when  a  par- 
ticular witness  appears,  and  how  he  changes  his  position 
and  wipes  his  clammy  forehead,  and  feverish  hands, 
when  the  case  for  the  prosecution  is  closed  as  if  it  were 
a  relief  to  him  to  feel  that  the  jury  knew  the  worst. 

The  defense  is  concluded  ;  the  judge  proceeds  to  sum 
up  the  evidence ;  and  the  prisoner  watches  the  coun- 
tenances of  the  jury,  as  a  dying  man,  clinging  to  life  to 
the  very  last,  vainly  looks  in  the  face  of  his  physician 
for  a  slight  ray  of  hope.  They  turn  round  to  consult ; 
you  can  almost  hear  the  man's  heart  beat,  as  he  bites  the 
stalk  of  rosemary,  with  a  desperate  effort  to  appear  com- 
posed. They  resume  their  places — a  dead  silence  pre- 
vails as  the  foreman  delivers  in  the  verdict — "  Guilty  !  " 
A  shriek  bursts  from  a  female  in  the  gallery  ;  the  pris- 
oner casts  one  look  at  the  quarter  from  whence  the  noise 
proceeded  ;  and  is  immediately  hurried  from  the  dock  by 
the  gaoler.  The  clerk  directs  one  of  the  officers  of  the 
court  to  "take  the  woman  out,"  and  fresh  business  is 
proceeded  with,  as  if  notliing  had  occurred. 

No  imaginary  contrast  to  a  case  like  this,  could  be  as 
complete  as  that  which  is  constantly  presented  in  the 
New  Court,  the  gravity  of  which  is  frequently  disturbed 
in  no  small  degree,  by  the  cunning  and  pertinacity  of 
juvenile  offenders.  A  boy  of  thirteen  is  tried,  say  for 
picking  the  pocket  of  some  subject  of  her  Majesty,  and 
the  offence  is  about  as  clearly  proved  as  an  offence  can 
be.  He  is  called  upon  for  his  defence,  and  contents 
himself  with  a  little  declamation  about  the  jurymen  and 
his  country — asserts  that  all  the  witnesses  have  com- 
mitted perjury,  and  hints  that  the  police  force  generally 
have  entered  into  a  conspiracy  "  again"  him.  However 
probable  this  statement  may  be,  it  fails  to  convince  the 
Court,  and  some  such  scene  as  the  following  then  takes 
place  : 

Court:  Have  you  any  witnesses  to  speak  to  your 
character,  boy? 

Boy :  Yes,  my  Lord  ;  fifteen  gen'lm'n  is  a  vaten  out- 
side, and  vos  a  vaten  all  day  yesterday,  vitch  they  told 
me  the  night  afore  my  trial  vos  a  comin'  on. 

Court :    Inquire  for  those  witnesses. 

Here,  a  stout  beadle  runs  out,  and  vociferates  for  the 
witnesses  at  the  very  top  of  his  voice  ;  for  you  hear  his 
cry  grow  fainter  and  fainter  as  he  descends  the  steps 
into  the  court-yard  below.  After  an  absence  of  five  min- 
utes, he  returns,  very  warm  and  hoarse,  and  informs  the 
Court  of  what  it  knew  perfectly  well  before — namely, 
that  there  are  no  such  witnesses  in  attendance.  Here- 
upon the  boy  sets  up  a  most  awful  howling  ;  screws  the 
lower  part  of  the  palms  of  his  hands  into  the  corners  of 
his  eyes  ;  and  endeavours  to  look  the  picture  of  injured 
innocence.  The  jury  at  once  find  him ''guilty,"  and  his 
endeavours  to  squeeze  out  a  tear  or  two  are  redoubled. 
The  governor  of  the  gaol  then  states,  in  reply  to  an  in- 
quiry from  the  bench,  that  the  prisoner  has  l3een  under 
his  care  twice  before.  This  the  urchin  resolutely  de- 
nies in  some  such  terms  as — "  S'elp  me,  gen'lm'n,  I 
never  vos  in  trouble  afore — indeed,  my  Lord,  I  never 
vos.  It's  all  a  howen  to  my  having  a  twin  brother, 
vich  has  wrongfully  got  into  trouble,  and  vitch  is  so  ex- 
actly like  me,  that  no  vun  ever  knows  the  difference 
at  ween  us." 

This  representation,  like  the  defence,  fails  in  produc- 
ing the  desired  effect,  and  the  boy  is  sentenced,  perhaps, 
for  seven  years'  transportation.  Finding  it  impossible  to 
excite  compassion,  he  gives  vent  to  his  feelings  in  an  im- 
precation bearing  reference  to  tlie  eyes  of  "  old  big  vig  I  " 
and  as  he  declines  to  take  the  trouble  of  walking  from 
the  dock,  is  forthwith  carried  out,  congratulating  him- 
self on  having  succeeded  in  giving  everybody  as  much 
trouble  as  possible. 
!   ' 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

A  Vifit  to  Newgate. 

"  The  force  of  habit"  is  a  trite  phrase  in  every  body's 
mouth  ;  and  it  is  not  a  little  remarkable  that  those  who 


use  it  most  as  applied  to  others,  unconsciously  afford  in 
their  own  persons  singular  examples  of  the  power  which 
habit  and  custom  exercise  over  the  minds  of  men,  and  of 
the  little  reflection  they  are  apt  to  bestow  on  subjects  with 
which  every  day's  experience  has  rendered  them  familiar. 
If  Bedlam  could  be  suddenly  removed  like  another  Alad- 
din's palace  and  set  down  on  the  space  now  occupied  by 
Newgate,  scarcely  one  man  out  of  a  hundred,  whose  road  to 
business  every  morning  lies  through  Newgate-street,  or 
the  Old  Bailey,  would  pass  the  building  without  bestowing 
ahasty  glance  on  its  small,  grated  windows,  and  a  transi- 
ent thought  upon  the  condition  of  the  unhappy  beings 
immured  in  its  dismal  cells  ;  and  yet  these  same  men, 
day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  pass  and  repass  this 
gloomy  depository  of  the  guilt  and  misery  of  London,  in 
one  perpetual  stream  of  life  and  bustle,  utterly  unmind- 
ful of  the  throng  of  wretched  creatures  pent  up  within 
it — nay,  not  even  knowing,  or  if  they  do,  not  heeding, 
the  fact,  that  as  they  pass  one  particular  angle  of  the 
massive  wall  with  a  light  laugh  or  a  merry  whistle,  they 
stand  within  one  yard  of  a  fellow-creature,  bound  and 
helpless,  whose  hours  are  numbered,  from  whom  the 
last  feeble  ray  of  hope  has  fled  for  ever,  and  whose 
miserable  career  will  shortly  terminate  in  a  violent  and 
shameful  death.  Contact  with  death  even  in  its  least 
terrible  shape,  is  solemn  and  appalling.  How  much 
more  awful  is  it  to  reflect  on  this  near  vicinity  to  the 
dying — to  men  in  full  health  and  vigour,  in  the  flower  of 
youth  or  the  prime  of  life,  with  all  their  faculties  and 
preceptions  as  acute  and  perfect  as  your  own  ;  but  dying 
nevertheless — dying  as  surely — with  the  hand  of  death 
imprinted  upon  them  as  indelibly — as  if  mortal  disease 
had  wasted  their  frames  to  shadows,  and  corruption  had 
already  begun  ! 

It  was  with  some  such  thoughts  as  these  that  we  de- 
termined, not  many  weeks  since,  to  visit  the  interior  of 
Newgate — in  an  amateur  capacity  of  course  ;  and  hav- 
ing carried  our  intention  into  effect,  we  proceed  to  lay 
its  results  before  our  readers,  in  the  hope — founded 
more  upon  the  nature  of  the  subject,  than  on  any  pre- 
sumptuous confidence  in  our  own  descriptive  powers — 
that  this  paper  may  not  be  found  wholly  devoid  of  inter- 
est. We  have  only  to  premise,  that  we  do  not  intend  to 
fatigue  the  reader  with  any  statistical  accounts  of  the 
prison  ;  they  will  be  found  at  length  in  numerous  re- 
ports of  numerous  committees,  and  a  variety  of  authori- 
ties of  equal  weight.  We  took  no  notes,  made  no  memo- 
randa, measured  none  of  the  yards,  ascertained  the  ex- 
act number  of  inches  in  no  particular  room  ;  are  unable 
even  to  report  of  how  many  apartments  the  gaol  is  com- 
posed. 

We  saw  the  prison,  and  saw  the  prisoners  ;  and  what 
we  did  see,  and  what  we  thought,  we  will  tell  at  once  in 
our  own  way. 

Having  delivered  our  credentials  to  the  servant  who 
answered  our  knock  at  the  door  of  the  governor's  house, 
we  were  ushered  into  the  "  oflSce  ;  "  a  little  room,  on  the 
right-hand  side  as  you  enter,  with  two  windows  looking 
into  the  Old  Bailey  :  fitted  up  like  an  ordinary  attorney's 
office,  or  merchant's  counting-house,  with  the  usual  fix- 
tures— a  wainscoted  partition,  a  shelf  or  two,  a  desk,  a 
couple  of  stools,  a  pair  of  clerks,  an  almanack,  a  clock, 
and  a  few  maps.  After  a  little  delay,  occasioned  by 
sending  into  the  interior  of  the  prison  for  the  officer 
whose  duty  it  was  to  conduct  us,  that  functionary  ar- 
rived ;  a  respectable-looking  man  of  about  two  or  three 
and  fifty,  in  a  broad- brimmed  hat,  and  full  suit  of  black, 
who,  but  for  his  keys,  would  have  looked  quite  as  much 
like  a  clergyman  as  a  turnkey.  We  were  disappointed  ; 
he  had  not  even  top-boots  on.  Following  our  conductor 
by  a  door  opposite  to  that  at  which  we  had  entered,  we 
arrived  at  a  small  room,  without  any  other  furniture  than 
a  little  desk,  with  a  book  for  visitors'  autographs,  and  a 
shelf  on  which  were  a  few  boxes  for  papers,  and  casts 
of  the  heads  and  faces  of  the  two  notorious  murderers, 
Bishop  and  Williams;  the  former,  in  particular,exhibiting 
a  style  of  head  and  set  of  features,  which  might  have 
afforded  suflRcient  moral  grounds  for  his  instant  execu- 
tion at  any  time,  even  had  there  been  no  other  evidence 
against  him.  Leaving  this  room  also,  by  an  opposite 
door,  we  found  ourself  in  the  lodge  which  opens  on  the 
Old  Bailey  ;  one  side  of  which  is  plentifully  garnished 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


889 


with  a  clioice  collection  of  heavy  sets  of  irons,  including 
those  worn  bv  the  redoubtable  Jack  Sheppard — genuine; 
and  those  said  to  have  been  graced  by  the  sturdy  limbs  of 
the  no  less  celebrated  Dick  Turpin — doubtful.  From  this 
lodge,  a  heavy  oaken  gate,  bound  with  iron,  studded  with 
nails  of  the  same  material,  and  guarded  by  an  other  turn- 
key, opens  on  a  few  steps,  if  we  remember  right,  which 
terminate  in  a  narrow  and  dismal  stone  passage,  running 
parallel  with  the  Old  Bailey,  and  leading  to  the  different 
yards,  through  a  number  of  tortuous  and  intricate  wind- 
ings, guarded  in  their  turn  by  huge  gates  and  gratings, 
whose  appearance  is  sufficient  to  dispel  at  once  the  slight- 
est hope  of  escape  that  any  new  comer  may  have  enter- 
tained ;  and  the  very  recollection  of  which,  on  eventual- 
ly traversing  the  place  again  involves  one  in  a  maze  of 
confusion. 

It  is  necessary  to  explain  here,  that  the  buildings  in 
the  prison,  or  in  other  words  the  different  wards — form 
a  square,  of  which  the  four  sides  abut  respectively  on 
the  Old  Bailey,  the  old  College  of  Physicians  (now  form- 
ing a  part  of  Newgaie-market),  the  Sessions-house,  and 
Newgate-street.  Tlie  intermediate  space  is  divided  in- 
to several  paved  yards,  in  which  prisoners  take  such  air 
and  exercise  as  can  be  had  in  such  a  place.  These  yards 
with  the  exception  of  that  in  which  prisoners  under 
sentence  of  death  are  confined  (of  which  we  will  shall 
presently  give  a  more  detailed  description),  run  parallel 
with  Newgate  street,  and  consequently  from  the  Old 
Bailey  as  it  were,  to  Newgate-market.  The  women's 
side  is  in  the  right  wing  of  the  prison  nearest  the  Ses- 
sions-house. As' we  were  introduced  into  this  part  of  the 
building  first,  we  will  adopt  the  same  order,  and  intro- 
duce our  readers  to  it  also. 

Turning  to  the  right,  then,  down  the  passage  to  which 
we  just  now  adverted,  omitting  any  mention  of  interven- 
ing gates — for  if  we  noticed  every  gate  that  was  unlock- 
ed for  us  to  pass  through,  and  locked  again  as  soon  as 
we  had  passed,  we  should  require  a  gate  at  every  com- 
ma— we  came  to  a  door  composed  of  thick  bars  of  wood, 
through  which  were  discernible,  passing  to  and  fro  in  a 
narrow  yard,  some  twenty  women  :  the  majority  of 
whom,  however,  as  soon  as  they  were  aware  of  the  pres- 
ence of  strangers,  retreated  to  their  wards.  One  side  of 
this  yard  is  railed  off  at  a  considerable  distance,  and 
formed  into  a  kind  of  iron  cage,  about  five  feet  ten  inches 
in  height,  roofed  at  the  top,  and  defended  in  front  by 
iron  bars,  from  which  the  friends  of  the  female  prison- 
ers communicate  with  them.  In  one  corner  of  this  sin- 
gular-looking den,  was  a  yellow,  haggard,  decrepit  old 
woman  in  a  tattered  gown  that  had  once  been  black,  and 
the  remains  of  an  old  straw  bonnet,  with  faded  ribbon 
of  the  same  hue,  in  earnest  conversation  with  a  young 
girl — a  prisoner,  of  course — of  about  two-and-twenty. 
It  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  more  poverty-stricken  ob- 
ject, or- a  creature  so  borne  down  in  soul  and  body  by  ex- 
cess of  misery  and  destitution,  as  the  old  woman.  The 
girl  was  a  good-looking  robust  female,  with  a  profusion 
of  hair  streaming  about  in  the  wind — for  she  had  no 
bonnet  on — and  a  man's  silk  pocket-handkerchief  loosely 
thrown  over  a  most  ample  pair  of  shoulders.  The  old 
woman  was  talking  in  that  low,  stifled  tone  of  voice 
which  tells  so  forcibly  of  mental  anguish  ;  and  every 
now  and  then  burst  into  an  irrepressible  sharp,  abrupt 
cry  of  grief,  the  most  distressing  sound  that  ears  can 
hear.  The  girl  was  perfectly  unmoved.  Hardened  be- 
yond all  hope  of  redemption,  she  listened  doggedly  to  her 
mother's  entreaties,  whatever  they  were  :  and,  beyond 
enquiring  after  "  Jem,"  and  eagerly  catching  at  the  few 
half-pence  her  miserable  parent  had  brought  her,  took 
DO  more  apparent  interest  in  the  conversation  than  the 
most  unconcerned  spectators.  Heaven  knows  there  were 
enough  of  them,  in  the  persons  of  the  other  prisoners  in 
the  yard,  who  were  no  more  concerned  by  what  was  pass- 
ing before  their  eyes,  and  within  their  hearing,  than  if 
they  were  blind  and  deaf.  Why  should  they  be  ?  In- 
side the  prison,  and  out,  such  scenes  were  too  familiar  to 
them,  to  excite  even  a  passing  thought,  unless  of  ridicule 
or  contempt  for  feelings  which  they  had  long  since  for- 
gotten. 

A  little  farther  on,  a  squalid-looking  woman  in  a  slo- 
venly thick-bordered  cap,  with  her  arms  muflled  in  a 
large  red  shawl,  the  fringed  ends  of  which  straggled 


nearly  to  the  bottom  of  a  dirty  white  apron,  was  com- 
municating some  instructions  to  her  visitor — her  daugh- 
ter evidently.  The  girl  was  thinly  clad,  and  shaking 
with  the  cold.  Some  ordinary  word  of  recognition 
passed  between  her  and  her  mother  when  she  appeared 
at  the  grating,  but  neither  hope,  condolence,  regret,  nor 
affection  was  expressed  on  either  side.  The  mother 
whispered  her  instructions,  and  the  girl  received  them 
with  her  pinched-up  half-starved  features  twisted  into  an 
expression  of  careful  cunning.  It  was  some  scheme  for 
the  woman's  defence  that  she  was  disclosing,  perhaps ; 
and  a  sullen  smile  came  over  the  girl's  face  for  an  in- 
stant, as  if  she  were  pleased;  not  so  much  at  the  pro- 
bability of  her  mother's  liberation,  as  at  the  chance  of 
her  "  getting  off  "  in  spite  of  her  prosecutors.  The  dia- 
logue was  soon  concluded  ;  and  with  the  same  careless 
indifference  with  which  they  had  approached  each 
other,  the  mother  turned  towards  the  inner  end  of  the 
yard,  and  the  girl  to  the  gate  at  which  she  had  entered. 

The  girl  belonged  to  a  class — unhappily  but  too  ex- 
tensive— the  very  existence  of  which,  should  make 
men's  hearts  bleed.  Barely  past  her  childhood,  it  re- 
quired but  a  glance  to  discover  that  she  was  one  of  those 
children,  born  and  bred  in  neglect  and  vice,  who  have 
never  known  what  childhood  is  :  who  have  never  been 
taught  to  love  and  courb  a  parent's  smile,  or  to  dread  a 
parent's  frown.  The  thousand  nameless  endearments  of 
childhood,  its  gaiety  and  its  innocence,  are  alike  un- 
known to  them.  They  have  entered  at  once  upon  the 
stern  realities  and  miseries  of  life,  and  to  their  better 
nature  it  is  almost  hopeless  to  appeal  in  aftertimes,  by 
any  of  the  references  which  will  awaken,  if  it  be  only 
for  a  moment,  some  good  feeling  in  ordinary  bosoms, 
however  corrupt  they  may  have  become.  Talk  to  them 
of  parental  solicitude,  the  happy  days  of  childhood,  and 
the  merry  games  of  infancy  !  Tell  them  of  hunger  and 
the  streets,  beggary  and  stripes,  the  gin-shop,  the  sta- 
tion-house, and  the  pawnbroker's,  and  they  will  under- 
stand you. 

Two  or  three  women  were  standing  at  different  parts 
of  the  grating,  conversing  with  their  friends,  but  a  very 
large  proportion  of  the  prisoners  appeared  to  have  no 
friends  at  all,  beyond  such  of  their  old  companions  as 
might  happen  to  be  within  the  w^alls.  So,  passing 
hastily  down  the  yard,  and  pausing  only  for  an  instant 
to  notice  the  little  incidents  we  have  just  recorded,  we 
were  conducted  up  a  clean  and  well-lighted  flight  of 
stone  stairs  to  one  of  the  wards.  There  are  several  in 
this  part  of  the  building,  but  a  description  of  one  is  a 
description  of  the  whole. 

It  was  a  spacious,  bare,  whitewashed  apartment, 
lighted  of  course,  by  windows  looking  into  the  interior 
of  the  prison,  but  far  more  light  and  airy  than  one  could 
reasonably  expect  to  find  in  such  a  situation.  There 
was  a  large  fire  with  a  deal  table  before  it,  round  which 
ten  or  a  dozen  women  were  seated  on  wooden  forms  at 
dinner.  Along  both  sides  of  the  room  ran  a  shelf  ;  be- 
low it,  at  regular  intervals,  a  row  of  large  hooks  were 
fixed  in  the  wall,  on  each  of  which  was  hung  the 
sleeping-mat  of  a  prisoner:  her  rug  and  blanket  being 
folded  up,  and  placed  on  the  shelf  above.  At  night 
these  mats  are  placed  on  the  floor,  each  beneath  the 
hook  on  which  it  hangs  during  the  day  ;  and  the  ward 
is  thus  made  to  answer  the  purposes  both  of  a  day-room 
and  sleeping  apartment.  Over  the  fireplace,  was  a  large 
sheet  of  pasteboard,  on  which  were  displayed  a  variety 
of  texts  from  Scripture,  which  were  also  scattered  about 
the  room  in  scraps  about  the  size  and  shape  of  the  copy 
slips  which  are  used  in  schools.  On  the  table  was  a 
sufficient  provision  of  a  kind  of  stewed  beef  and  brown 
bread,  in  pewter  dishes,  wdiicli  are  kept  perfectly  bright, 
and  displayed  on  shelves  in  great  order  and  regularity 
when  they  are  not  in  use. 

The  women  rose  hastily,  on  our  entrance,  and  retired 
in  a  hurried  manner  to  either  side  of  the  fireplace.  They 
were  all  cleanly — many  of  them  decently — attired,  and 
there  was  nothing  peculiar  in  their  appearance  or  de- 
meanour. One  or  two  resumed  the  needlework  which 
they  had  probably  laid  aside  at  the  commencement  of 
their  meal  ;  others  gazed  at  the  visitors  with  listless 
curiosity  ;  and  a  few  retired  behind  their  companions  to 
the  very  end  of  the  room,  as  if  desirous  to  avoid  even 


890 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


the  casual  observation  of  the  strangers.  Some  old  Irish 
women,  both  in  this  and  other  wards,  to  whom  the  thing 
was  no  novelty,  appeared  perfectly  indifferent  to  our 
presence,  and  remained  standing  close  to  the  seats  from 
which  they  had  just  risen  ;  but  the  general  feeling 
among  the  females  seemed  to  be  one  of  uneasiness  dur- 
ing the  period  of  our  stay  among  them :  which  was  very 
brief.  Xot  a  word  was  uttered  during  the  time  of  our 
remaining,  unless,  indeed,  by  the  wardswoman  in  reply 
to  some  question  which  we  put  to  the  turnkey  who  ac- 
companied us.  In  every  ward  on  the  female  side,  a 
wardswoman  is  appointed  to  preserve  order,  and  a  simi- 
lar regulation  is  adopted  among  the  males.  The  wards- 
men  and  wards  women  are  all  prisoners,  selected  for 
good  conduct.  They  alone  are  allowed  the  privilege  of 
sleeping  on  bedsteads  ;  a  small  stump  bedstead  being 
placed  in  every  ward  for  that  purpose.  On  both  sides  of 
the  gaol,  is  a  small  receiving- room,  to  which  prisoners 
are  conducted  on  the  first  reception,  and  whence  they 
cannot  be  removed  until  they  have  been  examined  by 
the  surgeon  of  the  prison.* 

Retracing  our  steps  to  the  dismal  passage  in  which  we 
found  ourselves  at  first  (and  which,  by  the  by,  contains 
three  or  four  dark  cells  for  the  accommodation  of  refrac- 
tory prisoners),  we  were  led  through  a  narrow  yard  to 
the  "  school," — a  portion  of  the  prison  set  apart  for  boys 
under  fourteen  years  of  age.  In  a  tolerable-sized  room,  in 
which  were  writing-materials  and  some  copy-books,  was 
a  schoolmaster,  with  a  couple  of  his  pupils;  the  remainder 
hav^ing  been  fetched  from  an  adjoining  apartment,  the 
whole  were  drawn  up  in  line  for  our  inspection.  There 
were  fourteen  of  them  in  all,  some  with  shoes,  some 
without ;  some  in  pinafores  without  jackets,  others  in 
jackets  without  pinafores,  and  one  in  scarce  anything  at 
all.  The  whole  number,  without  an  exception  we  believe, 
had  been  committed  for  trial  on  charges  of  pocket  pick- 
ing ;  and  fourteen  such  terrible  little  faces  we  never  be- 
held.— There  was  not  one  redeeming  feature  among  them 
— not  a  glance  of  honesty — not  a  wink  expressive  of  any- 
thing but  the  gallows  and  the  hulks,  in  the  whole  col- 
lection. As  to  anything  like  shame  or  contrition,  that 
was  entirely  out  of  the  question.  They  were  evidently 
quite  gratified  at  being  thought  worth  the  trouble  of 
looking  at;  their  idea  appeared  to  be, that  we  had  come  to 
see  Newgate  as  a  grand  affair,  and  that  they  were  an  indis- 
pensable part  of  the  show  ;  and  every  boy  as  he  "  fell 
in  "  to  the  line,  actually  seemed  as  pleased  and  impor- 
tant as  if  he  had  done  something  excessively  meritorious 
in  getting  there  at  all.  We  never  looked  upon  a  more 
disagreeable  sight,  because  we  never  saw  fourteen  such 
hopeless  creatures  of  neglect  before. 

On  either  side  of  the  school-yard  is  a  yard  for  men,  in 
one  of  which — that  towards  Newgate-street — prisoners 
of  the  more  respectable  class  are  confined.  Of  the  other, 
w^e  have  little  description  to  offer,  as  the  different  wards 
necessarily  partake  of  the  same  character.  They  are 
provided,  like  the  wards  on  the  women's  side,  with  mats 
and  rugs,  which  are  disposed  of  in  the  same  manner  dur- 
ing the  day  ;  the  only  very  striking  difference  between 
their  appearance  and  that  of  the  wards  inhabited  by  the 
females,  is  the  utter  absence  of  any  employment.  Hud- 
dled together  on  two  opposite  forms,  by  the  fireside,  sit 
twenty  men  perhaps  ;  here,  a  boy  in  livery;  there,  a  man 
in  a  rough  great-coat  and  top-boots  ;  farther  on,  a  des- 
perate-looking fellow  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  an  old 
Scotch  cap  upon  his  shaggy  head  ;  near  him  again,  a  tall 
ruffian,  in  a  smock-frock  ;  next  to  him,  a  miserable  being 
of  distressed  appearance,  with  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand  ; — all  alike  in  one  respect,  all  idle  and  listless.  When 
they  do  leave  the  fire,  sauntering  moodily  about,  loung- 
ing in  the  window,  or  leaning  against  the  wall,  vacantly 
swinging  their  bodies  to  and  fro.  With  the  exception 
of  a  man  reading  an  old  newspaper,  in  two  or  three  in- 
stances, this  was  tlie  case  in  every  ward  we  entercMl, 

The  only  communication  these  men  have  with  their 
friends,  is  through  two  close  iron  gratings,  with  an  in- 
termediate space  of  about  a  yard  in  width  between  the 


*  The  rcjjulationB  of  tho  prison  rdativo  to  the  confinement  of 
I)riHoncr8  during  the  day,  their  sleeping  at  night,  their  taking  their 
mealH,  and  other  inatterH  of  ^aol  economy,  liave  be(!U  all  altered— 
greatly  for  the  better— bince  tiiia  sketch,  was  first  publiahed. 


two,  so  that  nothing  can  be  handed  across,  nor  can  the 
prisoner  have  any  communication  by  touch  with  the  per- 
son who  visits  him.  The  married  men  have  a  separate 
grating,  at  which  to  see  their  wives,  but  its  construction 
is  the  same. 

The  prison  chapel  is  situated  at  the  back  of  the  gov- 
ernor's house  :  the  latter  having  no  windows  looking  into 
the  interior  of  the  prison.  Whether  the  associations 
connected  with  the  place — the  knowledge  that  here  a 
portion  of  the  burial  service  is,  on  some  dreadful  occa- 
sions, performed  over  the  quick  and  not  upon  the  dead — 
cast  over  it  a  still  more  gloomy  and  sombre  air  than 
art  has  imparted  to  it,  we  know  not,  but  its  appearance 
is  very  striking.  There  is  something  in  a  silent  and 
deserted  place  of  worship,  solemn  and  impressive  at 
any  time  ;  and  the  very  dissimilarity  of  this  one  from 
any  we  have  been  accustomed  to,  only  enhances  the  im- 
pression. The  meanness  of  its  appointments— the  bare 
and  scanty  pulpit,  with  the  paltry  painted  pillars  on 
either  side — the  women's  gallery  with  its  great  heavy 
curtain — the  men's  with  its  unpainted  benches  and  dingy 
front — the  tottering  little  table  at  the  altar,  with  the 
commandments  on  the  wall  above  it,  scarcely  legible 
through  lack  of  paint  and  dust  and  damp — so  unlike  the 
velvet  and  gilding,  the  marble  and  wood,  of  a  modern 
church — are  strange  and  striking.  There  is  one  object, 
too,  which  rivets  the  attention  and  fascinates  the  gaze, 
and  from  which  we  may  turn  horror-stricken  in  vain,  for 
the  recollection  of  it  will  haunt  us,  waking  and  sleeping, 
for  a  long  time  afterwards.  Immediately'  below  the  read- 
ing-desk, on  the  floor  of  the  chapel,  and  forming  the  most 
conspicuous  object  in  its  little  area,  is  the  condemned  pew; 
a  huge  black  pen,  in  which  the  wretched  people,  who  are 
singled  out  for  death,  are  placed,  on  the  Sunday  preced- 
ing their  execution,  in  sight  of  all  their  fellow-prisoners, 
from  many  of  whom  they  may  have  separated  but  a  week 
before,  to  hear  prayers  for  their  own  souls,  to  join  in  the 
responses  of  their  own  burial  service,  and  to  listen  to 
an  address,  warning  their  recent  companions  to  take 
example  by  their  fate,  and  urging  themselves,  while 
there  is  yet  time — nearly  four-and-twenty  hours,  to 
"turn  and  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come!"  Imagine 
what  have  been  the  feelings  of  the  men  whom  that  fear- 
ful pew  has  enclosed,  and  of  whom,  between  the  gallows 
and  the  knife  no  mortal  remnant  may  now  remain  ! 
Think  of  the  hopeless  clinging  to  life  to  the  last,  and  the 
wild  despair,  far  exceeding  in  anguish  the  felon's  death 
itself,  by  which  they  have  heard  the  certainty  of  their 
speedy  transmission  to  another  world,  with  all  their 
crimes  upon  their  heads,  rung  into  their  ears  by  the  oflBc- 
iating  clergyman  ! 

At  one  time — and  at  no  distant  period  either — the  cof- 
fins of  the  men  about  to  be  executed,  were  placed  in 
that  pew,  upon  the  seat  by  their  side,  during  the  whole 
service.  It  may  seem  incredible,  but  it  is  true.  Let  us 
hope  that  the  increased  spirit  of  civilization  and  humanity 
which  abolished  this  frightful  and  degrading  custom, 
may  extend  itself  to  other  usages  equally  barbarous; 
usages  which  have  not  even  the  plea  of  utility  in  their 
defence,  as  evfery  year's  experience  has  shown  them  to 
be  more  and  more  inefficacious. 

Leaving  the  chapel,  descending  to  the  passage  so  fre- 
quently alluded  to,  and  crossing  the  yard  before  noticed 
as  being  allotted  to  prisoners  of  a  more  respectable  de- 
scription than  the  generality  of  men  confined  here,  the 
visitor  arrives  at  a  thick  iron  gate  of  great  size  and 
strength.  Having  been  admitted  through  it  by  the 
turnkey  on  duty,  he  turns  sharp  round  to  the  left,  and 
pauses  before  another  gate  ;  and,  having  passed  this 
last  barrier,  he  stands  in  the  most  terrible  part  of  this 
gloomy  building — the  condemned  ward. 

The  press-yard,  well  known  by  name  to  newspaper 
readers,  from  its  frequent  mention  in  accounts  of  execu- 
tions, is  at  the  corner  of  the  building,  and  next  to  the 
ordinary's  house,  in  Newgate-street  :  running  from  New- 
gate-street, towards  the  centre  of  the  prison,  parallel 
with  Newgate-market.  It  is  a  long,  narrow  court, 
of  which  a  portion  of  the  wall  in  Newgate-street  forms 
one  end,  and  the  gate  the  other.  At  the  upper  end,  on 
tlie  left-hand—that  is,  adjoining  the  wall  in  Newgate- 
street— is  a  cistern  of  water,  and  at  the  bottom  a  double 
grating  (of  which  the  gate  itself  forms  a  part)  similar  to 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


891 


that  before  described.  Throiigh  these  grates  the  prison- 
ers are  allowed  to  see  their  friends  ;  a  turnkey  always 
remaining  in  the  vacant  space  between,  during  tlic 
whole  interview.  Im.mediately  on  the  right  as  you 
enter,  is  a  building  containing  the  prc^s-room,  day- 
room,  and  cells  ;  the  yard  is  on  every  side  surrounded 
by  lofty  walls  guarded  by  cJievaux  tie  frise ;  and  the 
whole  is  under  the  constant  inspection  of  vigilant  and 
experienced  turnkeys. 

In  the  first  apartment  into  which  we  were  conducted 
— which  was  at  the  top  of  a  staircase,  and  immediately 
over  the  press-room — were  five-and-twenty  or  thirty 
prisoners,  all  under  sentence  of  death,  awaiting  the  re- 
sult of  the  recorder's  report — men  of  all  ages  and  ap- 
pearance, from  a  hardened  old  ofiPender  with  swarthy 
face  and  grizzly  beard  of  three  days'  growth,  to  a  hand- 
some boy,  not  fourteen  years  old,  and  of  singularly  youth- 
ful appearance  even  for  that  age,  who  had  been  con- 
demned for  burglary.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in 
the  appearance  of  these  prisoners.  One  or  two  decently 
dressed  men  were  brooding  with  a  dejected  air  over  the 
fire  ;  several  little  groups  of  two  or  three  had  been  en- 
gaged in  conversation  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  or 
in  the  windows  ;  and  the  remainder  were  crowded  round 
a  young  man  seated  at  a  table,  who  appeared  to  be  en- 
gaged in  teaching  the  younger  ones  to  write.  The  room 
was  large,  airy,  and  clean.  There  was  very  little  anx- 
iety or  mental  suffering  depicted  in  the  countenances  of 
any  of  the  men  ; — they  had  all  been  sentenced  to  death, 
it  is  true,  and  the  recorder's  report  had  not  yet  been 
made  ;  but,  we  question  whether  there  was  a  man  among 
them,  notwithstanding,  who  did  not  knoio  that  although 
he  had  undergone  the  ceremony,  it  never  was  intended 
that  his  life  should  be  sacrificed.  On  the  table  lay  a 
Testament,  but  there  were  no  tokens  of  its  having  been 
in  recent  use. 

In  the  press-room  below,  were  three  men,  the  nature 
of  whose  offence  rendered  it  necessary  to  separate  them, 
even  from  their  companions  in  guilt.  It  is  a  long,  som- 
bre room,  with  two  windows  sunk  into  the  stone  wall, 
and  here  the  wretched  men  are  pinioned  on  the  morning 
of  their  execution,  before  moving  towards  the  scaffold. 
The  fate  of  one  of  these  prisoners  was  uncertain  ;  some 
mitigatory  circumstances  having  come  to  light  since  his 
trial,  which  had  been  humanely  represented  in  the 
proper  quarter.  The  other  two  had  nothing  to  expect 
from  the  mercy  of  the  crown  ;  their  doom  was  sealed  ; 
no  plea  could  be  urged  in  extenuation  of  their  crime, 
and  they  well  knew  that  for  them  there  was  no  hope  in 
this  world.  "  The  two  short  ones,"  the  turnkey  whis- 
pered, "  were  dead  men." 

The  man  to  whom  we  have  alluded  as  entertaining 
some  hopes  of  escape,  was  lounging  at  the  greatest  dis- 
tance he  could  place  between  himself  and  his  companions, 
in  the  window  nearest  to  the  door.  He  was  probably 
aware  of  our  approach,  and  had  assumed  an  air  of  coura- 
geous indifference  ;  his  face  was  jjurposely  averted 
towards  the  window,  and  he  stirred  not  an  inch  while 
we  were  present.  The  other  two  men  were  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  room.  One  of  them,  who  was  imperfectly 
seen  in  the  dim  light,  had  his  back  towards  us,  and  was 
stooping  over  the  fire,  with  his  right  arm  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  his  head  sunk  upon  it.  The  other,  was  lean- 
ing on  the  sill  of  the  farthest  window.  The  light  fell 
full  upon  him,  and  communicated  to  his  pale,  haggard 
face,  and  disordered  air,  an  appearance  which,  at  that 
distance,  was  ghastly.  His  cheek  rested  upon  his  hand  ; 
and,  with  his  face  a  little  raised,  and  his  eyes  widely 
staring  before  him,  he  seemed  to  be  unconsciously  intent 
on  counting  the  chinks  in  the  opposite  wall.  We  passed 
this  room  again  afterwards.  The  first  man  was  pacing 
up  and  down  the  court  with  a  firm  military  step — he  had 
been  a  soldier  in  the  foot  guards — and  a  cloth  cap  jaun- 
tily thrown  on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  bowed  respect- 
fully to  our  conductor,  and  the  salute  was  returned. 
The  other  two  still  remained  in  the  positions  we  have 
described,  and  were  as  motionless  as  statues.* 

A  few  paces  up  the  yard,  and  forming  a  continuation 
of  the  building,  in  whicjj  are  the  two  rooms  we  have  just 


*  Thene  two  men  were  executed  shortly  afterwards.  The  other 
wns  rcipited  during  her  majesty's  pleasure. 


quitted,  lie  the  condemned  cells.  The  entrance  is  by  a 
narrow  and  obscure  staircase  leading  to  a  dark  jjassage, 
in  which  a  charcoal  stove  casts  a  lurid  tint  over  the 
objects  in  its  immediate  vicinity,  and  diffuses  some- 
thing like  warmth  around.  From  the  left-hand  side  of 
this  passage,  the  massive  door  of  every  cell  on  the  story 
oi)ens  ;  and  from  it  alone  can  they  be  approached.  Tlicre 
are  three  of  these  passages,  and  three  of  these  ranges  of 
cells,  one  above  the  other  ;  but  in  size,  furniture,  and  ap- 
pearance, they  are  all  precisely  alike.  Prior  to  the  re- 
corder's report  being  made,  all  the  prisoners  under  sen- 
tence of  death  are  removed  from  the  day-room  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  locked  up  in  these  cells,  where 
theyare  allowed  a  candle  until  ten  o'clock  ;  and  here  they 
remain  until  seven  next  morning.  When  the  warrant 
for  a  prisoner's  execution  arrives,  he  is  removed  to  the 
cells  and  confined  in  one  of  them  until  he  leaves  it  for 
the  scaffold.  lie  is  at  liberty  to  walk  in  the  yard  ;  but, 
both  in  his  walks  and  in  his  cell,  he  is  constantly  at- 
tended by  a  turnkey  who  never  leaves  him  on  any  pre- 
tence. 

We  entered  the  first  cell.  It  was  a  stone  dungeon, 
eight  feet  long  by  six  wide,  with  a  bench  at  the  upper 
end,  under  which  were  a  common  rug,  a  bible  and 
prayer-book.  An  iron  candlestick  was  fixed  in  the  wall 
at  the  side  ;  and  a  small  high  window  in  the  back  ad- 
mitted as  much  air  and  light  as  could  struggle  in'between 
a  double  row  of  heavy,  crossed  iron  bars.  It  contained 
no  other  furniture  of  any  description. 

Conceive  the  situation  of  a  man,  spending  his  last  night 
on  earth  in  this  cell.  Buoyed  up  with  some  vague  and 
undefined  hope  of  reprieve,  he  knew  not  why — indulging 
in  some  wild  and  visionary  idea  of  escaping,  he  knew 
not  how — hour  after  hour  of  the  three  preceding  days 
allowed  him  for  preparation,  has  fled  with  a  speed 
which  no  man  living  would  deem  possible,  for  none  but 
this  dying  man  can  know.  He  has  wearied  his  friends 
with  entreaties,  exhausted  the  attendants  with  importu- 
nities, neglected  in  his  feverish  restlessness  the  timely 
warnings  of  his  spiritual  consoler ;  and,  now  that  the 
illusion  is  at  last  dispelled,  now  that  eternity  is  before 
him  and  guilt  behind,  now  that  his  fears  of  death  amount 
almost  to  madness,  and  an  overwhelming  sense  of  his 
helpless,  hopeless  state  rushes  upon  him,  he  is  lost  and 
stupefied,  and  has  neither  thoughts  to  turn  to,  nor  power 
to  call  upon,  the  Almighty  Being,  from  whom  alone  he 
can  seek  mercy  and  forgiveness,  and  before  whom  his 
repentance  can  alone  avail. 

Hours  have  glided  by,  and  still  he  sits  upon  the  same 
stone  bench  with  folded  arms,  heedless  alike  of  the  fast- 
decreasing  time  before  him,  and  the  urgent  entreaties  of 
the  good  man  at  his  side.  The  feeble  light  is  wasting 
gradually,  and  the  death-like  stillness  of  the  street 
without,  broken  only  by  the  rumbling  of  some  passing 
vehicle  which  echoes  mournfully  through  the  empty 
yards,  warns  him  that  the  night  is  waning  fast  away. 
The  deep  bell  of  St.  Paul's  strikes— one  !  He  heard  it  ; 
it  has  roused  him.  Seven  hours  left!  He  paces  the 
narrow  limits  of  his  cell  with  rapid  strides,  cold  drops  of 
terror  starting  on  his  forehead,  and  every  muscle  of  his 
frame  quivering  with  agony.  Seven  hours  !  He  suffers 
himself  to  be  led  to  his  seat,  mechanically  takes  the 
Bible  which  is  placed  in  his  hand,  and  tries  to  read  and 
listen.  No  :  his  thoughts  will  wander.  The  book  is 
torn  and  soiled  by  use — and  like  the  book  he  read  his 
lessons  in,  at  school,  just  forty  years  ago  !  He  has  never 
bestowed  a  thought  upon  it,  perhaps,  since  he  left  it  as 
a  child  :  and  yet  the  place,  the  time,  the  room — nay,  the 

I  very  boys  he  played  with,  crowd  as  vividly  before  him  as 
if  they  were  scenes  of  yesterday  ;  and  some  forgotten 

I  phrase,  some  childish  word,  rings  in  his  ears  like  the 
echo  of  one  uttered  but  a  minute  since.  The  voice  of  the 
clergyman  recals  him  to  himself.    He  is  reading  from 

\  the  sacred  book  its  solemn  promises  of  pardon  for  repen- 
tance, and  its  awful  denunciation  of  obdurate  men. 
He  falls  upon  his  knees  and  clasps  his  hands  to  pray. 
Hush  !  what  sound  was  that  ?  He  starts  upon  his  feet. 
It  cannot  be  two  yet.  Hark  !  Two  quarters  have 
struck  ; — the  third — the  fourth.  It  is  !  Six  hours  left. 
Tell  him  not  of  repentance  !  Six  hours'  repentance  for 
eight  times  six  years  of  guilt  and  sin?  He  buries  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  throws  himself  on  the  bench. 


892 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Worn  with  watching  and  excitement,  he  sleeps,  and 
the  same  unsettled  state  of  mind  pursues  him  in  his 
dreams.  An  insupportable  load  is  taken  from  his  breast  ; 
he  is  walking  with  his  wife  in  a  pleasant  field,  with  the 
bright  sky  above  them,  and  a  fresh  and  boundless  pros- 
pect on  every  side— how  different  from  the  stone  walls 
of  Newgate*!  She  is  looking— not  as  she  did  when 
he  saw  her  for  the  last  time  in  that  dreadful  place,  but 
as  she  used  when  he  loved  her— long,  long  ago,  before 
misery  and  ill-treatment  had  altered  her  looks,  and  vice 
had  changed  his  nature,  and  she  is  leaning  upon  his 
arm,  and  looking  up  into  his  face  with  tenderness  and 
affection — and  he  does  not  strike  her  now,  nor  rudely 
shake  her  from  him.  And  oh  !  how  glad  he  is  to  tell 
her  all  he  had  forgotten  in  that  last  hurried  interview, 
and  to  fall  on  his  knees  before  her  and  fervently  be- 
seech her  pardon  for  all  the  unkindness  and  cruelty  that 
wasted  her  form  and  broke  her  heart !  The  scene  sud- 
denly changes.  He  is  on  his  trial  again  :  there  are  the 
judge  and  jury,  and  prosecutors,  and  witnesses,  just  as 
they  were  before.  How  full  the  court  is — what  a  sea  of 
heads — with  a  gallows,  too,  and  a  scaffold — and  how  aTl 


those  people  stare  at  Jdm!  Verdict,  "Guilty."  No 
matter  ;  he  will  escape. 

The  night  is  dark  and  cold,  the  gates  have  been  left 
open,  and  in  an  instant  he  is  in  the  street,  flying  from 
the  scene  of  his  imprisonment  like  the  wind.  The 
streets  are  cleared,  the  open  fields  are  gained  and  the 
broad  wide  country  lies  before  him.  Onward  he  dashes 
in  the  midst  of  darkness,  over  hedge  ani  ditch,  through 
mud  and  pool,  bounding  from  spot  to  spot  with  a  speed 
and  lightness,  astonishing  even  to  himself.  At  length 
he  pauses  ;  he  must  be  safe  from  pursuit  now ;  he 
will  stretch  himself  on  that  bank  and  sleep  till  sun- 
rise. 

A  period  of  unconsciousness  succeeds.  He  wakes, 
cold  and  wretched.  The  dull  grey  light  of  morning  is 
stealing  into  the  cell,  and  falls  upon  the  form  of  the  at- 
tendant turnkey.  Confused  by  his  dreams,  he  starts 
from  his  uneasy  bed  in  momentary  uncertainty.  It  is 
but  momentary.  Every  object  in  the  narrow  cell  is  too 
frightfully  real  to  admit  of  doubt  or  mistake.  He  is  the 
condemned  felon  again,  guilty  and  despairing  ;  and  in 
two  hours  more  will  be  dead. 


CHAE  ACTERS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Thoughts  about  People. 

It  is  strange  with  how  little  notice,  good,  bad,  or  indif- 
ferent, a  man  may  live  and  die  in  London.  He  awakens 
no  sympathy  in  the  breast  of  any  single  person  ;  his  ex- 
istence is  a  matter  of  interest  to  no  one  save  himself  ;  he 
cannot  be  said  to  be  forgotten  when  he  dies,  for  no  one 
remembered  him  when  he  was  alive.  There  is  a  numer- 
ous class  of  people  in  this  great  metropolis  who  seem  not 
to  possess  a  single  friend,  and  whom  nobody  appears  to 
care  for.  Urged  by  imperative  necessity  in  the  first  in- 
stance, they  have  resorted  to  London  in  search  of  em- 
ployment, and  the  meaas  of  subsistence.  It  is  hard,  we 
know,  to  break  the  ties  which  bind  us  to  our  homes  and 
friends,  and  harder  still  to  efface  the  thousand  recollec- 
tions of  happy  days  and  old  times,  which  have  been  slum- 
bering in  our  bosoms  for  years,  and  only  rush  upon  the 
mind,  to  bring  before  it  associations  connected  with  the 
friends  we  have  left,  the  scenes  we  have  beheld  too  prob- 
ably for  the  last  time,  and  the  hopes  we  once  cherished, 
but  may  entertain  no  more.  These  men,  however,  hap- 
pily for  themselves,  have  long  forgotten  such  thoughts. 
Old  country  friends  have  died  or  emigrated  ;  former  cor- 
respondents have  become  lost,  like  themselves,  in  the 
crowd  and  turmoil  of  some  busy  city  ;  and  they  have 
gradually  settled  down  into  mere  passive  creatures  of 
haljit  and  endurance. 

We  were  seated  in  the  enclosure  of  St.  James's  Park 
the  other  day,  when  our  attention  was  attracted  by  a  man 
whom  we  immediately  put  down  in  our  own  mind  as  one 
of  this  class.  He  was  a  tall,  thin,  pale  person,  in  a  black 
coat,  scanty  gray  trousers,  little  pinch ed-up  gaiters,  and 
brown  beaver  gloves.  He  had  an  umbrella  in  his  hand 
— not  for  use,  for  the  day  was  fine — but,  evidently,  be- 
cause he  always  carried  one  to  the  office  in  the  morning. 
He  walked  up  and  down  before  the  little  patch  of  grass 
on  which  the  chairs  are  placed  for  hire,  not  as  if  he  were 
doing  it  for  pleasure  or  recreation,  but  as  if  it  were  a 
matter  of  compulsion,  just  as  he  would  walk  to  the  office 
every  morning  from  the  back  settlements  of  Islington. 
It  was  Monday  ;  he  had  escaped  for  four-and-twenty 
hours  from  the  thraldom  of  the  desk  ;  and  was  walking 
here  for  exercise  and  amusement — perhaps  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life.  We  were  inclined  to  think  ho  had  never 
had  a  holiday  before,  and  that  he  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  himself.  Children  were  playing  on  the  grass; 
groups  of  people  were  loitering  about,  chatting  and 


laughing  ;  but  the  man  walked  steadily  up  and  down, 
unheeding  and  unheeded,  his  spare  pale  face  looking  as 
if  it  were  incapable  of  bearing  the  expression  of  curiosi- 
ty or  interest. 

There  was  something  in  the  man's  manner  and  appear- 
ance which  told  us,  we  fancied  his  whole  life,  or  rather 
his  whole  day,  for  a  man  of  this  sort  has  no  variety  of 
days.    We  thought  we  almost  saw  the  dingy  little  back 
office  into  which  he  walks  every  morning,  hanging  his 
hat  on  the  same  peg,  and  placing  his  legs  beneath  the 
same  desk  :  first,  taking  off  that  black  coat  which  lasts 
1  the  year  through,  and  putting  on  the  one  which  did  duty 
:  last  year,  and  which  he  keeps  in  his  desk  to  save  the  other. 
'  There  he  sits  till  five  o'clock,  working  on,  all  day,  as  regu- 
larly as  the  dial  over  the  mantelpiece,  whose  loud  ticking 
i  is  as  monotonous  as  his  whole  existence  :  only  raising  his 
i  head  when  some  one  enters  the  counting-house,  or  when, 
in  the  midst  of  some  difficult  calculation,  he  looks  up  to 
j  the  ceiling  as  if  there  were  inspiration  in  the  dusty  sky- 
1  light  with  a  green  knot  in  the  centre  of  every  pane  of 
j  glass.    About  five,  or  half-past,  he  slowly  dismounts 
from  his  accustomed  stool,  and  again  changing  his  coat, 
proceeds  to  his  usual  dining-place,  somewhere  near  Buck- 
lersbury.    The  waiter  recites  the  bill  of  fare  in  a  rather 
confidential  manner — for  he  is  a  regular  customer — and 
after  inquiring  "  What's  in  the  best  cut?"  and  "What 
was  up  last?"  he  orders  a  small  plate  of  roast  beef,  with 
i  greens,  and  half-a-pint  of  porter.    He  has  a  small  plate 
to-day,  because  greens  are  a  penny  more  than  potatoes, 
and  he  had  "  two  breads"  yesterday,  with  the  additional 
enormity  of  "  a  cheese  "  the  day  before.    This  important 
point  settled,  he  hangs  up  his  hat — he  took  it  off  the  mo- 
ment he  sat  down — and  bespeaks  the  paper  after  the 
next  gentleman.    If  he  can  get  it  while  he  is  at  dinner, 
he  eats  with  much  greater  zest  ;  balancing  it  against  the 
water-bottle,  and  eating  a  bit  of  beef,  and  reading  a  line 
or  two,  alternately.    EiXactly  at  five  minutes  before  the 
hour  is  up,  he  produces  a  shilling,  pays  the  reckoning, 
carefully  deposits  the  change  in  his  waistcoat-pocket 
(first  deducting  a  penny  for  the  waiter),  and  returns  to 
the  office,  from  which,  if  it  is  not  foreign  post  night,  he 
again  sallies  forth,  in  about  half  an  hour.    He  then  walks 
home,  at  his  usual  pace,  to  his  little  back  room  at  Isling- 
ton, where  he  has  his  tea  ;  perhaps  solacing  himself  dur- 
I  ing  the  meal  with  the  conversation  of  his  landlady's 
little  boy,  whom  he  occasionally  4-ewards  with  a  penny, 
for  solving  ])roblems  in  simple  addition.  Sometimes, 
there  is  a  letter  or  two  to  take  up  to  his  employers,  in 
llussell-square  ;  and  then,  the  wealthy  man  of  business, 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


893 


hearing  his  voice,  calls  ont  from  tlie  dining  parlour, — 
"Come  in,  Mr.  Smith  ;"  and  Mr.  Smith,  putting  his  hat 
at  the  feet  of  one  of  the  hall  chairs,  walks  timidly  in,  and 
being  condescendingly  desired  to  sit  down,  carefully 
tucks  his  legs  nnder  his  chair,  and  sits  at  a  considerable 
distance  from  the  table  while  he  drinks  the  glass  of  sher- 
ry which  is  poured  out  for  him  by  the  eldest  boy,  and  | 
after  drinking  which,  he  backs  and  slides  out  of  the 
room,  in  a  state  of  nervous  agitation  from  which  he  does 
not  perfectly  recover,  until  he  finds  himself  once  more  in 
the  Islington -road.  Poor,  harmless  creatures  such  men 
are  ;  contented  but  not  happy  ;  broken-spirited  and  hum- 
bled,they  may  feel  no  pain, but  they  never  know  pleasure. 

Compare  these  men  with  another  class  of  beings,  who 
like  them,  having  neither  friend  nor  companion,  but 
whose  position  in  society  is  the  result  of  their  own 
choice.  These  are  generally  old  fellows  with  white 
heads  and  red  faces,  addicted  to  port  wine  and  Hessian 
boots,  who  from  some  cause,  real  or  imaginary — gener- 
ally the  former,  the  excellent  reason  being  that  they  are 
rich,  and  their  relations  poor — grow  suspicious  of  every 
body  and  do  the  misanthropical  in  chambers,  taking 
great  delight  in  thinking  themselves  unhappy,  and 
making  every  body  they  come  near,  miserable.  You 
[  may  see  such  men  as  these,  any  where  ;  you  will  know 
I  them  at  coffee-houses  by  their  discontented  exclamations 
i  and  the  luxury  of  their  dinners  ;  at  theatres,  by  their 
always  sitting  in  the  sajne  place  and  looking  with  a 
jaundiced  eye  on  all  the  young  people  near  them  ;  at 
church,  by  the  pomposity  with  which  they  enter,  and 
the  loud  tone  in  which  they  repeat  the  responses  ;  at 
parties,  by  their  getting  cross  at  whist  and  hating  music. 
An  old  fellow  of  this  kind  will  have  his  chambers  splen- 
■didly  furnished,  and  collect  books,  plate,  and  pictures 
about  him  in  profusion  ;  not  so  much  for  his  own  gratifi- 
cation, as  to  be  superior  to  those  who  have  the  desire, 
but  not  the  means,  to  compete  with  him.  He  belongs  to 
two  or  three  clubs,  and  is  envied,  and  fxattered,  and  hated 
by  the  members  of  them  all.  Sometimes  he  will  be  ap- 
pealed to  by  a  poor  relation — a  married  nephew  perhaps 
— for  some  little  assistance  :  and  then  he  will  declaim 
with  honest  indignation  on  the  improvidence  of  young 
married  people,  the  worthlessness  of  a  wife,  the  inso- 
lence of  having  a  family,  the  atrocity  of  getting  into 
debt  with  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds  a-year,  and 
other  unpardonable  crimes  ;  winding  up  his  exhortations 
with  a  complacent  review  of  his  own  conduct,  and  a 
delicate  allusion  to  parochial  relief.  He  dies,  some  day 
after  dinner,  of  apoplexy,  having  bequeathed  his  prop- 
erty to  a  Public  Society,  and  the  Institution  erects  a  tab- 
let to  his  memory,  expressive  of  their  admiration  of  his 
Christian  conduct  in  this  world,  and  their  comfortable 
conviction  of  his  happiness  in  the  next. 

But  next  to  our  very  particular  friends,  hackney- 
coachmen,  cabmen  and  cads,  whom  we  admire  in  propor- 
tion to  the  extent  of  their  cool  impudence  and  perfect 
self-possession,  there  is  no  class  of  people  who  amuse  us 
more  than  London  apprentices.  They  are  no  longer  an 
organized  body,  bound  down  b}'  solemn  compact  to  ter- 
rify his  majesty's  subjects,  whenever  it  pleases  them  to 
take  offence  in  their  heads  and  staves  in  their  hands. 
They  are  only  bound,  now,  by  indentures  ;  and  as  to 
their  valour,  it  is  easily  restrained  by  the  wholesome 
dread  of  the  New  Police,  and  f  perspective  view  of  a 
damp  station-house,  terminating  in  a  police-office  and  a 
reprimand.  They  are  still,  however,  a  peculiar  class, 
and  not  the  less  pleasant  for  being  inoffensive.  Can  any 
one  fail  to  have  noticed  them  in  the  streets  on  Sunday  ? 
And  were  there  ever  such  harmless  efforts  at  the  grand 
and  magnificent  as  the  young  fellows  display  !  We 
walked  down  the  Strand,  a  Sunday  or  two  ago,  behind  a 
little  group  ;  and  they  furnished  food  for  our  amusement 
the  whole  way.  They  had  come  out  of  some  part  of 
the  city  ;  it  was  between  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  ;  and  they  were  on  their  way  to  the  Park. 
There  were  four  of  them,  all  arm-in-arm,  with  white  kid 
gloves  like  so  many  bridegrooms,  light  trousers  of  un- 
precedented patterns,  and  cr^ts  for  which  the  English 
language  has  yet  no  name — a  kind  of  cross  between  a 
great-coat  and  a  surtout,  with  the  collar  of  the  one,  the 
skirts  of  the  other,  and  pockets  peculiar  to  themselves. 
Each  of  the  gentlemen  carried  a  thick  stick,  with  a 


large  tassel  at  the  top,  which  he  occasionally  twirled 
gracefully  round  ;  and  the  whole  four,  by  way  of  look- 
ing easy  and  unconcerned,  were  walking  with  a  paralytic 
swagger  irresistibly  ludicrous.  One  of  the  party  had  a 
watch  about  the  size  and  shape  of  a  reasonable  Ribstone 
pippin,  jammed  into  his  waistcoat-pocket,  which  he  care- 
fully compared  with  the  clocks  at  St.  Clement's  and  the 
new  church,  the  illuminated  clock  at  Exeter  'Change,  the 
clock  of  St.  Martin's  Church,  and  the  clock  of  the  Horse 
Guards.  When  they  at  last  arrived  in  St.  James's  Park, 
the  member  of  the  party  who  had  the  best  made  boots 
on,  hired  a  second  chair  expressly  for  his  feet,  and  flung 
himself  on  this  two-pennyworth  of  sylvan  luxury  with 
an  air  which  levelled  all  distinctions  between  Brookes's 
and  Snooks's,  Crockford's  and  Bagnigge  Wells. 

We  may  smile  at  such  people,  but  they  can  never 
excite  our  anger.  They  are  usually  on  the  best  terms 
with  themselves,  and  it  follows  almost  as  a  matter  of 
course,  in  good  humour  with  every  one  about  them. 
Besides,  they  are  always  the  faint  reflection  of  higher 
lights  ;  and,  if  they  do  display  a  little  occasional  foolery 
in  their  own  proper  persons,  it  is  surely  more  tolerable 
than  precocious  puppyism  in  the  Quadrant,  Avhiskered 
dandyism  in  Regent-street  and  Pall-mall,  or  gallantry  in 
its  dotage  any  where. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  Christmas  Dinner. 

Christmas  Time  !  That  man  must  be  a  misanthrope 
indeed,  in  whose  breast  something  like  a  jovial  feeling 
is  not  roused — in  whose  mind  some  pleasant  associations 
are  not  awakened  —  by  the  recurrence  of  Christmas. 
There  are  people  who  will  tell  you  that  Christmas  is  not 
to  them  what  it  used  to  be  ;  that  each  succeeding 
Christmas  has  found  some  cherished  hope,  or  happy  pros- 
pect, of  the  year  before,  dimmed  or  passed  av/ay  ;  that 
the  present  only  serves  to  remind  them  of  reduced  cir- 
cumstances and  straightened  incomes — of  the  feasts  they 
once  bestowed  on  hollow  friends,  and  of  the  cold  looks 
that  meet  them  now,  in  adversity  and  misfortune.  Never 
heed  such  dismal  reminiscences.  There  are  few  men 
who  have  lived  long  enough  in  the  world,  who  cannot 
call  up  such  thoughts  any  day  in  the  year.  Then  do  not 
select  the  merriest  of  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five, 
for  your  doleful  recollections,  but  draw  your  chair  nearer 
the  blazing  fire— fill  the  glass  and  send  round  the  song — 
and  if  your  room  be  smaller  than  it  was  a  dozen  years 
ago,  or  if  your  glass  be  filled  with  reeking  punch,  instead 
of  sparkling  wine,  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  and 
empty  it  off-hand,  and  fill  another,  and  troll  off  the  old 
ditty  you  used  to  sing,  and  thank  God  it's  no  worse. 
Look  on  the  merry  faces  of  your  children  (if  you  have 
any)  as  they  sit  round  the  fire.  One  little  seat  may  be 
empty  ;  one  slight  form  that  gladdened  the  father's 
heart,  and  roused  the  mother's  pride  to  look  upon,  may 
not  be  there.  Dwell  not  upon  the  past ;  think  not  that 
one  short  year  ago,  the  fair  child  now  resolving  into 
dust,  sat  before  you,  with  the  bloom  of  health  u])on  its 
cheek,  and  the  gaiety  of  infancy  in  its  joyous  eye.  Reflect 
upon  your  present  blessings — of  which  every  man  has 
many — not  on  your  past  misfortunes,  of  which  all  men 
have  some.  Fill  your  glass  again,  with  a  merry  face  and 
contented  heart.  Our  life  on  it,  but  your  Christmas  shall 
be  merry,  and  your  new  year  a  happy  one  ! 

Who  'can  be  insensible  to  the  out-pourings  of  good 
feeling,  and  the  honest  interchange  of  affectionate  attach- 
ment, which  abound  at  this  season  of  the  year?  A 
Christmas  family-party  !  We  know  nothing  in  nature 
more  delightful !  There  seems  a  magic  in  the  very  name 
of  Christmas.  Petty  jealousies  and  discords  are  forgot- 
ten ;  social  feelings  are  awakened,  in  bosoms  to  which 
they  have  long  been  strangers  ;  father  and  son,  or  brother 
and  sister,  who  have  met  and  passed  with  averted  gaze, 
or  a  look  of  cold  recognition,  for  months  before,  proffer 
and  return  the  cordial  embrace,  and  bury  their  past  ani- 
mosities in  their  present  happiness.  Kindly  hearts  that 
have  yearned  towards  each  other,  but  have  been  with- 
held by  false  notions  of  pride  and  self -dignity,  are  again 
reunited,  and  all  is  kindness  and  benevolence  !  Would 
that  Christmas  lasted  the  whole  year  through  (as  it 


894 


CHARLES  DIG  KEN 8'  WORKS. 


Guglit),  and  tliat  tlie  prejudices  and  passions  wliicli 
deform  our  better  nature,  were  never  called  into  action 
among  those  to  whom  they  should  ever  be  strangers  I 

The  Christmas  family-party  that  we  mean,  is  not  a 
mere  assemblage  of  relations,  got  up  at  a  week  or  two's 
notice,  originating  this  year,  having  no  family  precedent 
in  the  last,  and  not  likely  to  be  repeated  in  the  next. 
No.  It  is  an  annual  gathering  of  all  the  accessible  mem- 
bers of  Llie  family,  young  or  old,  rich  or  poor  ;  and  all 
the  children  look  forward  to  it,  for  two  months  before- 
hand, in  a  fever  of  anticipation.  Formerly  it  was  held 
at  grandpapa's  ;  but  grandpapa  getting  old,  and  grand- 
mamma getting  old  too,  and  rather  infirm,  they  have 
given  up  housekeeping,  and  domesticated  themselves 
with  uncle  George  ;  so,  the  party  always  takes  place  at 
uncle  George's  house,  but  grandmamma  sends  in  most 
of  the  good  things,  and  grandpapa  always  tcill  toddle 
down,  all  the  way  to  Newgate- market,  to  buy  the  turkey, 
which  he  engages  a  porter  to  bring  home  i)ehind  him  in 
triumph,  always  insisting  on  the  man's  being  rewarded 
with  a  glass  of  spirits,  over  and  above  his  hire,  to  drink 
"a  merry  Christmas  and  a  happy  new  year"  to  aunt 
George,  As  to  grandmamma,  she  is  very  secret  and 
mysterious  for  two  or  three  days  beforehand,  but  not 
sufficiently  so  to  prevent  rumours  getting  afloat  that  she 
has  purchased  a  beautiful  new  cap  with  pink  ribbons  for 
each  of  the  servants,  together  with  sundry  books,  and 
pen-knives,  and  pencil-cases,  for  the  younger  branches  ; 
to  say  nothing  of  divers  secret  additions  to  the  order 
originally  given  by  aunt  George  at  the  pastry-cook's,  such 
as  another  dozen  of  mince-pies  for  the  dinner,  and  a  large 
plum-cake  for  the  children. 

On  Christmas-eve,  grandmamma  is  always  in  excel- 
lent spirits,  and  after  employing  all  the  children,  during 
the  day,  in  stoning  the  plums,  and  all  that,  insists,  regu- 
larly every  year,  on  uncle  George  coming  down  into  the 
kitchen,  taking  off  his  coat,  and  stirring  the  pudding  for 
half  an  hour  or  so,  which  uncle  George  good-humouredly 
does  to  the  vociferous  delight  of  the  children  and  ser- 
vants. The  evening  concludes  with  a  glorious  game  of 
blind-man's-buff,  in  an  early  stage  of  which  grandpapa 
takes  great  care  to  be  caught,  in  order  that  he  may  have 
an  opportunity  of  displaying  his  dexterity. 

On  the  following  morning,  the  tld  couple,  with  as 
many  of  the  children  as  the  pew  will  hold,  go  to  church 
in  great  state  :  leaving  aunt  George  at  home  dusting  de- 
canters and  filling  castors,  and  uncle  George  carrying 
bottles  into  the  dining-parlour,  and  calling  for  cork- 
screws, and  getting  into  everybody's  way. 

When  the  church-party  return  to  lunch,  grandpapa 
produces  a  small  sprig  of  mistletoe  from  his  pocket,  and 
tempts  the  boys  to  kiss  their  little  cousins  under  it — a  pro- 
ceeding which  affords  both  the  boys  and  the  old  gentleman 
Unlimited  satisfaction,  but  which  rather  outrages  grand- 
mamma's ideas  of  decorum,  until  grandpapa  says,  that 
when  he  was  just  thirteen  years  and  three  months  old, 
he  kissed  grandmamma  under  a  mistletoe  too,  on  which 
the  children  cla])  their  hands,  and  laugh  very  heartily, 
as  do  aunt  George  and  uncle  George  ;  and  grandmamma 
looks  pleased,  and  says,  with  a  l)enevolent  smile,  that 
grandpapa  was  an  impudent  young  dog,  on  which  the 
children  laugh  very  heartily  again,  and  grandpapa  more 
heartily  than  any  of  them. 

But  all  these  diversions  are  nothing  to  the  subsequent 
excitement  when  grandmamma  in  a  high  cap,  and  slate- 
coloured  silk  gown  ;  and  grandpapa  with  a  beautifully 
plaited  shirt-frill,  and  white  neckerchief  ;  seat  them- 
selves on  one  side  of  the  drawing-room  fire,  with  imcle 
George's  children  and  cousins  innumerable,  seated  in  the 
front,  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  expected  visitors.  Sud- 
denly a  hackney-coach  is  heard  to  stop,  and  uncle 
George,  who  has  been  looking  out  of  the  window,  ex- 
clainis  "Here's  Jane  I"  on  which  the  children  rush  to 
the  door,  and  helter-skelter  down-stairs  ;  and  uncle 
Robert  and  aunt  Jane,  and  the  dear  little  baby,  and  the 
nurse,  and  the  whole  party,  are  ushered  up-stairs  amidst 
tumultuous  shouts  of  "Oh,  my!"  from  the  children, 
and  frequently  repeated  warnings  not  to  hurt  baby  from 
the  nurse.  And  grandpapa  takes  the  child,  and  grand- 
mamma kisses  her  daughter,  and  the  confusion  of  this 
first  entry  has  scarcely  subsided,  when  some  other  aunts 
and  uncles  with  more  cousins  arrive,  and  the  grown-up 


cousins  flirt  with  each  other,  and  so  do  the  little  cousins 
too,  for  that  matter,  and  nothing  is  to  be  heard  but  a 
confused  din  of  talking,  laughing,  and  merriment. 

A  hesitating  double  knock  at  the  street-door,  heard 
during  a  momentary  pause  in  the  conversation,  excites  a 
general  inquiry  of  "Who's  that?"  and  two  or  three 
children,  who  have  been  standing  at  the  window,  an- 
nounce in  a  low  voice,  that  it's  "  poor  aunt  Margaret." 

Upon  which,  aunt  George  leaves  the  room  to  welcome 
the  new  comer ;  and  grandmamma  draws  herself  up, 
rather  stiff  and  stately  ;  for  Margaret  married  a  poor 
man  without  her  consent,  and  poverty  not  being  a  suf- 
ficiently weighty  punishment  for  her  offence,  has  been 
discarded  by  her  friends,  and  debarred  the  society  of  her 
dearest  relatives.  But  Christmas  has  come  round,  and 
the  unkind  feelings  that  have  struggled  against  better 
dispositions  during  the  year,  have  melted  away  before 
its  genial  influence,  like  half-formed  ice  beneath  the 
morning  sun.  It  is  not  difficult  in  a  moment  of  angry 
feeling  for  a  parent  to  denounce  a  disobedient  child  ;  but 
to  banish  her  at  a  period  of  general  good  will  and  hilari- 
ty, from  the  hearth,  round  which  she  has  sat  on  many  an- 
niversaries of  the  same  day,  expanding  by  slow  degrees 
from  infancy  to  girlhood,  and  then  bursting,  almost  im- 
perceptibly, into  a  woman,  is  widely  different.  The  air 
of  conscious  rectitude,  and  cold  forgiveness,  which  the 
old  lady  has  assumed,  sits  ill  upon  her  ;  and  when  the 
poor  girl  is  led  in  by  her  sister,  pale  in  looks  and  broken 
in  hope — not  from  jwverty,  for  that  she  could  bear,  but 
from  the  consciousness  of  undeserved  neglect,  and  un- 
merited unkindness — it  is  easy  to  see  how  much  of  it  is 
assumed.  A  momentary  pause  succeeds  ;  the  girl  breaks 
suddenly  from  her  sister  and  throws  herself  sobbing,  on 
her  mother's  neck.  The  father  steps  hastily  forward, 
and  takes  her  husband's  hand.  Friends  crowd  round  to 
offer  their  hearty  congratulations,  and  happiness  and 
harmony  again  prevail. 

As  to  the  dinner,  it's  perfectly  delightful — nothing 
goes  wrong,  and  everybody  is  in  the  very  best  of  spirits, 
and  disposed  to  please  and  be  pleased.  Grandpapa  re- 
lates a  circumstantial  account  of  the  purchase  of  the 
turkey,  with  a  slight  digression  relative  to  the  purchase 
of  previous  turkeys,  on  former  Christmas-days,  which 
grandmamma  corroborates  in  the  minutest  particular. 
Uncle  George  tells  stories,  and  carves  poultry,  and  takes 
wine,  and  jokes  with  the  children  at  the  side-table,  and 
winks  at  the  cousins  that  are  making  love,  or  being  made 
love  to,  and  exhilarates  everybody  with  his  good  humour 
and  hospitality  ;  and  when,  at  last,  a  stout  servant  stag- 
gers in  with  a  gigantic  pudding,  with  a  sprig  of  holly  in 
the  top,  there  is  such  a  laughing,  and  shouting,  and 
clapping  of  little  chubby  hands,  and  kicking  up  of  fat 
dumpy  legs,  as  can  only  be  equalled  by  the  applause 
with  which  the  astonishing  feat  of  pouring  lighted  bran- 
dy into  mince-pies,  is  received  by  the  younger  visitors. 
Then  the  dessert  ! — and  the  wine  ! — and  the  fun  !  Such 
beautiful  speeches,  and  such  songs,  from  Aunt  Mar- 
garet's husband,  who  turns  out  to  be  such  a  nice  man, 
and  so  attentive  to  grandmamma  !  Even  grandpapa  not 
only  sings  his  annual  song  with  unprecedented  vigour, 
but  on  being  honoured  with  an  unanimous  encore,  accord- 
ing to  annual  custom,  actually  comes  out  with  a  new  one 
which  nobody  but  grandmamma  ever  heard  before  ;  and 
a  young  scape-grace  of  a  cousin,  who  has  been  in  some 
disgrace  with  the  old  people,  for  certain  heinous  sins  of 
omission  and  commission — neglecting  to  call,  and  per- 
sisting in  drinking  Burton  ale — astonishes  everybody  in- 
to convulsions  of  laughter  by  volunteering  the  most  ex- 
traordinary comic  songs  that  ever  were  heard.  And  thus 
the  evening  passes,  in  a  strain  of  rational  good-will  and 
cheerfulness,  doing  more  to  awaken  the  sympathies  of 
every  member  of  the  party  in  behalf  of  his  neighbour, 
and  to  perpetuate  their  good  feeling  during  the  ensuing: 
year,  than  half  the  homilies  that  have  ever  been  writ- 
ten, by  half  the  Divines  that  have  ever  lived. 

CHAPTER  III. 

T/ie  N^w  Year. 

Next  to  Christmas-day,  the  most  pleasant  annual 
epoch  in  existence  is  the  advent  of  the  New  Year.  There 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


895 


are  a  lachrymose  set  of  people  who  usher  in  the  Now 
Year  with  watching  and  fasting,  as  if  they  were  bound 
to  attend  as  chief  mourners  at  the  obsequies  of  the  old 
one.  Now,  we  cannot  but  think  it  a  great  deal  more 
complimentary,  both  to  the  old  year  that  has  rolled  away, 
and  to  the  New  Year  that  is  just  beginning  to  dawn  upon 
us,  to  see  the  old  fellow  out,  and  the  new  one  in,  with 
gaiety  and  glee. 

There  must  have  been  some  few  occurrences  in  the 
past  year  to  which  we  can  look  back,  with  a  smile  of 
cheerful  recollection,  if  not  with  a  feeling  of  heartfelt 
thankfulness.  And  we  are  bound  by  every  rule  of  jus- 
tice and  equity  to  give  the  New  Year  credit  for  being  a 
good  one,  until  he  proves  himself  unworthy  the  confi- 
dence we  repose  in  him. 

This  is  our  view  of  the  matter  ;  and  entertaining  it, 
notwithstanding  our  respect  for  the  old  year,  one  of  the 
few  remaining  moments  of  whose  existence  passes  away 
with  every  word  we  write,  here  we  are,  seated  by  our 
fireside  on  this  last  night  of  the  old  year,  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  thirty-six,  penning  this  article  with 
as  jovial  a  face  as  if  nothing  extmordinary  had  hap- 
pened, or  was  about  to  happen,  to  disturb  our  good 
humour. 

Hackney-coaches  and  carriages  keep  rattling  up  the 
street  and  down  the  street  in  rapid  succession,  conveying, 
doubtless,  smartly-dressed  coachfulsto  crowded  parties  ; 
loud  and  repeated  double  knocks  at  the  house  with  green 
blinds,  opposite,  announce  to  the  neighbourhood  that 
there's  one  large  party  in  the  street  at  all  events  ;  and  we 
saw  through  the  window^  and  through  the  fog  too,  till  it 
grew  so  thick  that  we  rung  for  candles,  and  drew  our 
curtains,  pastrycooks'  men  with  green  boxes  on  their 
heads,  and  rout-furniture- warehouse-carts,  with  cane 
seats  and  French  lamps,  hurrying  to  the  numerous 
houses  where  an  annual  festival  is  held  in  honour  of 
the  occasion. 

We  can  fancy  one  of  these  parties,  we  think,  as  well 
as  if  we  were  duly  dress-coated  and  pumped,  and  had 
just  been  announced  at  the  drawing-room  door. 

Take  the  house  with  the  green  blinds  for  instance. 
We  know  it  is  a  quadrille  party,  because  we  saw  some  men 
taking  up  the  front  drawing-room  carpet  while  we  sat  at 
breakfast  this  morning,  and  if  further  evidence  be  re- 
quired, and  we  must  tell  the  truth,  we  just  now  saw  one 
of  the  young  ladies  "  doing  "  another  of  the  young  ladies' 
hair,  near  one  of  the  bed-room  windows,  in  an  unusual 
style  of  splendour,  which  nothing  else  but  a  quadrille 
party  could  possibly  justify. 

The  master  of  the  house  with  the  green  blinds  is  in  a 
public  office  ;  we  know  the  fact  by  the  cut  of  his  coat, 
the  tie  of  his  neckcloth,  and  the  self-satisfaction  of  his 
gait — the  very  green  blinds  themselves  have  a  Somerset 
House  air  about  them. 

Hark  ! — a  cab  1  That's  a  junior  clerk  in  the  same 
office  ;  a  tidy  sort  of  a  young  man,  with  a  tendency  to 
cold  and  corns,  who  comes  in  a  pair  of  boots  with  black 
cloth  fronts,  and  brings  his  shoes  in  his  coat-pocket, 
which  shoes  he  is  at  this  very  moment  putting  on  in  the 
hall.  Now,  he  is  announced  by  the  man  in  the  passage 
to  another  man  in  a  blue  coat,  who  is  a  disguised  mes- 
senger from  the  office. 

The  man  on  his  first  landing  precedes  him  to  the  draw- 
ing-room door,  **  Mr.  Tupple  !  "  shouts  the  messenger. 
"  How  are  you,  Tupple?"  says  the  master  of  the  house, 
advancing  from  the  fire,  before  which  he  has  been  talk- 
ing politics  and  airing  himself.  "  My  dear,  this  is  Mr. 
Tupple  (a  courteous  salute  from  the  lady  of  the  house)  : 
Tupple,  my  eldest  daughter ;  Julia,  my  dear,  Mr. 
Tupple  ;  Tupple,  my  other  daughters  ;  my  son,  sir  ;  " 
Tupple  rubs  his  hands  very  hard,  and  smiles  as  if  it  were 
all  capital  fun,  and  keeps  constantly  bowing  and  turning 
himself  round,  till  the  whole  family  have  been  intro- 
duced, when  he  glides  into  a  chair  at  the  corner  of  the 
sofa,  and  opens  a  miscellaneous  conversation  with  the 
young  ladies  upon  the  weather,  and  the  theatres,  and 
the  old  year,  and  the  last  new  murder,  and  the  balloon, 
and  the  ladies'  sleeves,  and  the  festivities  of  the  season, 
and  a  great  many  other  topics  of  small  talk.  I 

More  double  knocks  !  what  an  extensive  party  ;  what 
an  incessant  hum  of  conversation  and  general  sipping  of  ' 
t5oiIee  !    We  see  Tupple  now,  in  our  mind's  eye,  in  the  j 


height  of  his  glory.  He  has  just  handed  that  stout  old 
lady's  cup  to  the  servant  ;  and  now,  he  dives  among  the 
crowd  of  young  men  by  the  door,  to  intercept  the  other 
servant,  and  secure  the  muffin-plate  for  the  old  lady's 
daughter,  before  he  leaves  the  room  ;  and  now,  as  he 
passes  the  sofa  on  his  way  back,  he  bestows  a  glance  of 
recognition  and  patronage  upon  tlie  young  ladies,  as 
condescending  and  familiar  as  if  he  had  known  them 
from  infancy. 

Charming  person  Mr.  Tupple — perfect  ladies'  man — 
such  a  delightful  companion,  too  !  Laugh  ! — nobody 
ever  understood  x>apa's  jokes  half  so  well  as  Mr.  Tupple, 
who  laughs  himself  into  convulsions  at  every  fresh  burst 
of  facetiousness.  Most  delightful  partner  !  talks  through 
the  whole  set  !  and  although  he  does  seem  at  first  rather 
gay  and  frivolous,  so  romantic  and  with  so  much  feeling. 
Quite  a  love.  No  great  favourite  with  the  young  men, 
certainly,  who  sneer  at,  and  affect  to  despise  him  ;  but 
every  body  knows  that's  only  envy,  and  they  needn't 
give  themselves  the  trouble  to  depreciate  his  merits  at 
any  rate,  for  Ma  says  he  shall  be  asked  to  every  future 
dinner-party,  if  it's  only  to  talk  to  people  between  the 
courses,  and  distract  their  attention  when  there's  any 
unexpected  delay  in  the  kitchen. 

At  supper,  Mr.  Tupple  shows  to  still  greater  advantage 
than  he  has  done  throughout  the  evening,  and  when  Pa 
requests  every  one  to  fill  their  glasses  for  the  purpose  of 
drinking  happiness  throughout  the  year,  Mr.  Tupple  is 
so  droll  ;  insisting  on  all  the  young  ladies  having  their 
glasses  filled,  notwithstanding  their  repeated  assurances 
that  they  never  can,  by  any  possibility,  think  of  empty- 
ing them  :  and  subsequently  begging  permission  to  say 
a  few  v/ords  on  the  sentiment  which  has  just  been  utter- 
ed by  Pa — when  he  makes  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and 
poetical  speeches  that  can  possibly  be  imagined,  about 
the  old  year  and  new  one.  After  the  toast  had  been 
drunk,  and  when  the  ladies  have  retired,  Mr.  Tupple 
requests  that  every  gentleman  will  do  him  the  favour  of 
filling  his  glass,  for  he  has  a  toast  to  propose  :  on  which 
all  the  gentlemen  cry  "Hear!  hear!"  and  pass  the 
decanters  accordingly  :  and  Mr.  Tupple  being  informed 
by  the  master  of  the  house  that  they  are  all  charged,  and 
waiting  for  his  toast,  rises,  and  begs  to  remind  the  gen- 
tlemen present,  how  much  they  have  been  delighted  by 
the  dazzling  array  of  elegance  and  beauty  which  the 
drawing-room  has  exhibited  that  night,  and  how  their 
senses  have  been  charmed,  and  their  hearts  captivated, 
by  the  bewitching  concentration  of  female  loveliness 
which  that  very  room  has  so  recently  displayed.  (Loud 
cries  of  "  Hear  !  ")  Much  as  he  (Tupple)  would  be  dis- 
posed to  deplore  the  absence  of  the  ladies,  on  other 
grounds,  he  cannot  but  derive  some  consolation  from  the 
reflection  that  the  very  circumstance  of  their'not  being 
present,  enables  him  to  propose  a  toast,  which  he  would 
have  otherwise  bfeen  prevented  from  giving — that  toast  he 
begs  to  say  is — "  The  Ladies  !  !  (Great  applause.)  The 
Ladies  !  among  whom  the  fascinating  daughters  of  their 
excellent  host  are  alike  conspicuous  for  their  beauty 
their  accomplishments,  and  their  elegance.  He  begs 
them  to  drain  a  bumper  to  "The  Ladies,  and  a  happy 
new  year  to  them  I  "  (Prolonged  approbation  ;  above 
which  the  noise  of  the  ladies  dancing  the  Spanish  dance 
among  themseves  over  head,  is  distinctly  audible.) 

The  applause  consequent  on  this  toast  has  scarcely 
subsided,  when  a  young  gentleman  in  a  pink  under- 
waistcoat,  sitting  towards  the  bottom  of  the  table,  is  ob- 
served to  grow  very  restless  and  fidgety,  and  to  evince 
strong  indications  of  some  latent  desire  to  give  vent  to 
his  feelings  in  a  speech,  Avhicli  the  wary  Tupple  at  once 
perceiving,  determines  to  forestall  by  speaking  himself. 
He,  therefore,  rises  again,  with  an  air  of  solemn  impor- 
tance, and  trusts  he  may  be  permitted  to  propose  another 
toast  (unqualified  approbation,  and  Mr.  Tupple  jiroceeds). 
He  is  sure  they  must  all  be  deeply  impressed  with  the 
hospitality — he  may  say  the  splendour— with  which  they 
have  been  that  night  received  by  their  worthy  host  and 
hostess.  (Unbounded  applause.)  Although  this  is  the  first 
occasion  on  which  he  has  had  the  pleasure  and  delight 
I  of  sitting  at  that  board,  he  has  known  his  friend  Dobble 
long  and  intimately  ;  he  has  been  connected  with  him  in 
'  business— he  wishes  everybody  present  knew  Dobble  as 
I  well  as  he  does.    (A  cough  from  the  host.)   He  (Tupple) 


896 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


can  lay  liis  "hand  upon  liis  (Tupple's)  heart,  and  declare  liis 
confident  belief  that  a  better  man,  a  better  husband,  a 
better  father,  a  better  brother,  a  better  son,  a  better  re- 
lation in  any  relation  of  life,  than  Dobble,  never  existed. 
(Loud  cries  of  "Hear  !")  They  have  seen  him  to-night 
in  the  peaceful  bosom  of  his  family  :  they  should  see 
him  in  the  morning,  in  the  trying  duties  of  his  office. 
Calm  in  the  perusal  of  the  morning  papers,  uncompro- 
mising in  the  signature  of  his  name,  dignified  in  his  re- 
plies to  the  inquiries  of  stranger  applicants,  deferen- 
tial in  his  behaviour  to  his  superiors,  majestic  in  his  de- 
portment to  the  messengers.  (Cheers.)  When  he  bears 
this  merited  testimony  to  the  excellent  qualities  of  his 
friend  Dobble,  what  can  he  say  in  approaching  such  a 
subject  as  Mrs.  Dobble  ?  Is  it  requisite  for  him  to  ex- 
patiate on  the  qualities  of  that  amiable  woman?  No; 
he  will  spare  his  friend  Dobble's  feelings  ;  he  will  spare 
the  feelings  of  his  friend — if  he  will  allow  him  to  liave 
the  honour  of  calling  him  so — Mr.  Dobble,  junior. 
(Here  Mr.  Dobble,  junior,  who  has  been  previously  dis- 
tending his  mouth  to  a  considerable  width,  by  thrusting 
a  particularly  fine  orange  into  that  feature,  suspends 
operations,  and  assvimes  a  proper  appearance  of  intense 
melancholy.)  He  will  simply  say — and  he  is  quite  cer- 
tain it  is  a  sentiment  in  which  all  who  hear  him  will 
readily  concur — that  his  friend  Dobble  is  as  superior  to 
any  man  he  ever  knew,  as  Mrs.  Dobble  is  far  beyond  any 
woman  he  ever  saw  (except  her  daughters) ;  and  he  will 
conclude  by  proposing  their  worthy  "Host  and  Hostess, 
and  may  they  live  to  enjoy  many  more  new  years  1" 

The  toast  is  drunk  with  acclamation.  Dobble  returns 
thanks  and  the  whole  party  rejoin  the  ladies  in  the 
drawing-room.  Young  men  wdio  were  too  bashful  to 
dance  before  supper,  find  tongues  and  pai'tners  ;  the 
musicians  exhibit  unequivocal  symptoms  of  having 
drunk  the  new  year  in,  while  the  company  were  out ; 
and  dancing  is  kept  up,  until  far  in  the  first  morning  of 
the  new  year.  ♦ 

We  have  scarcely  written  the  last  word  of  the  previ- 
ous sentences,  when  the  first  stroke  of  twelve,  peals 
from  the  neighbouring  churches.  There  certainly — we 
must  confess  it  now — is  something  awful  in  the  sound. 
Strictly  speaking,  it  may  not  be  more  impressive  now, 
than  at  any  other  ttme  :  for  the  hours  steal  as  swiftly  on,  at 
other  periods,  and  their  flight  is  little  heeded.  But,  we 
measure  man's  life  by  years,  and  it  is  a  solemn  knell  that 
warns  us  we  have  passed  another  of  the  landmarks 
which  stand  between  us  and  the  grave.  Disguise  it  as 
we  may,  the  reflection  will  force  itself  on  our  minds, 
that  when  the  next  bell  announces  the  arrival  of  a  new 
year,  we  may  be  insensible  alike  of  the  timely  warning 
we  have  so  often  neglected,  and  of  all  the  warm  feelings 
that  glow  within  us  now. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Miss  Evans  and  the  Eagle. 

Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins  was  a  carpenter,  a  journey- 
man carpenter  of  small  dimensions,  decidedly  below  the 
middle  size — bordering,  perhaps,  upon  the  dwarfish. 
His  face  was  round  and  shining,  and  his  hair  carefully 
twisted  into  the  outer  corner  of  each  eye,  till  it  formed 
a  variety  of  that  description  of  semi-curls,  usually 
known  as  "  aggerawators."  His  earnings  were  all- 
sufficient  for  his  wants,  varying  from  eighteen  shillings 
to  one  pound  five,  weekly — his  manner  undeniable — his 
sabbath  waistcoats  dazzling.  No  wonder  that,  with 
these  qualifications,  Samuel  Wilkins  found  favour  in  the 
eyes  of  the  other  sex  :  many  women  have  been  captivated 
by  far  less  substantial  qualifications.  But,  Samuel  was 
proof  against  their  blandishments,  until  at  length  his 
eyes  rested  on  those  of  a  Being  for  whom,  from  that 
time  forth,  he  felt  fate  had  destined  him.  He  came,  and 
conquered — proposed,  and  was  accepted — loved,  and  was 
beloved.  Mr.  Wilkins  "  kept  company  "  with  Jemima 
Evans. 

Miss  Evans  for  Ivins,  to  adopt  the  pronunciation  most 
in  vogue  with  her  circle  of  acquaintance)  had  adopted  in 
early  life  the  useful  pursuit  of  shoe-binding,  to  which  she 


had  afterwards  superadded  the  occupation  of  a  straw- 
bonnet  maker.  Herself,  her  maternal  parent,  and  two 
sisters,  formed  an  harmonious  quartett  in  the  most  se- 
cluded portion  of  Camden-town  ;  and  here  it  was  that 
Mr.  Wilkins  presented  himself,  one  Monday  afternoon, 
in  his  best  attire,  with  his  face  more  shining  and  his 
waistcoat  more  bright  than  either  had  ever  appeared  be- 
fore. The  family  were  just  going  to  tea,  and  were  so 
glad  to  see  him.  It  was  quite  a  little  feast ;  two  ounces 
of  seven-and-sixpenny  green,  and  a  quarter  of  a  pound 
of  the  best  fresh  ;  and  Mr.  Wilkins  had  brought  a  pint 
of  shrimps,  neatly  folded  up  in  a  clean  belcher,  to  give 
a  zest  to  the  meal,  and  propitiate  Mrs.  Ivins.  Jemima 
was  "  cleaning  herself"  up-stairs  ;  so  Mr.  Samuel  Wil- 
kins  sat  down  and  talked  domestic  economy  with  Mrs. 
Ivins,  whilst  the  two  youngest  Miss  Ivinses  poked  bits 
of  lighted  brown  paper  between  the  bars  under  the  ket- 
tle to  make  the  water  boil  for  tea. 

"I  Avos  a  thinking,"  said  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins,  during 
a  pause  in  the  conversation — "  I  wos  a  thinking  of  taking 
J'mima  to  the  Eagle  to-night." — "O  ray!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Ivins.  "  Lor  !  how  nice  !  "  said  the  youngest  Miss 
Ivins.  "Well,  I  declare!"  added  the  youngest  Miss 
Ivins  but  one.  "  Tell  J'mima  to  put  on  her  white  mus- 
lin, Tilly,"  screamed  Mrs.  Ivins,  with  motherly  anxiety  ; 
and  down  came  J'mima  herself  soon  afterwards  in  a 
white  muslin  gown  carefully  hooked  and  eyed,  a  little 
red  shawl,  plentifully  pinned,  a  white  straw  bonnet 
trimmed  with  red  ribbons,  a  small  necklace,  a  large  pair 
of  bracelets,  Denmark  satin  shoes,  and  open-worked 
stockings  ;  white  cotton  gloves  on  her  fingers,  and  a 
cambric  pocket-handkerchief,  carefully  folded  up  in  her 
hand, — all  quite  genteel  and  ladylike.  And  away  went 
Miss  Jemima  Ivins  and  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins,  and  a  dress 
cane,  with  a  gilt  knob  at  the  top,  to  the  admiration  and 
envy  of  the  street  in  general,  and  to  the  high  gratifica- 
tion of  Mrs.  Ivins,  and  the  two  youngest  Miss  Ivinses  in 
particular.  They  had  no  sooner  turned  into  the  Pancras 
road,  than  who  should  Miss  J'mima  Ivins  stumble  upon, 
by  the  most  fortunate  accident  in  the  world,  but  a  young 
lady  as  she  knew,  with  her  young  man  ! — And  it  is  so 
strange  how  things  do  turn  out  sometimes — they  were 
actually  going  to  the  Eagle  too.  So  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins 
was  introduced  to  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend's  young 
man,  and  they  all  walked  on  together,  talking,  and  laugh- 
ing, and  joking  away  like  anything  ;  and  when  they  got 
as  far  as  Pentonville,  Miss  Ivins's  friend's  young  man 
iDOuld  have  the  ladies  go  into  the  Crown,  to  taste  some 
shrub,  which,  after  a  great  blushing  and  giggling,  and 
hiding  of  faces  in  elaborate  pocket  handkerchiefs,  they 
consented  to  do.  Having  tasted  it  once,  they  were  easily 
prevailed  upon  to  taste  it  again  ;  and  they  sat  out  in 
the  garden  tasting  shrub,  and  looking  at  the  Busses  al- 
ternately, till  it  was  j  ust  the  proper  time  to  go  to  the 
Eagle  ;  and  then  they  resumed  their  journey,  and  walked 
very  fast,  for  fear  they  should  lose  the  beginning  of  the 
concert  in  the  rotunda. 

"How  ev'nly!"  said  Miss  Jemima  Ivins,  and  Miss 
Jemima  Ivins's  friend,  both  at  once,  when  they  had 
passed  the  gate  and  were  fairly  inside  the  gardens. 
There  were  the  walks,  beautifully  gravelled  and  planted 
— and  the  refreshment-boxes,  painted  and  ornamented 
like  so  many  snuff-boxes — and  the  variegated  lamps 
shedding  their  rich  light  upon  the  company's  heads — and 
the  place  for  dancing  ready  chalked  for  the  company's 
feet — and  a  Moorish  band  playing  at  one  end  of  the  gar- 
dens—and an  opposition  military  band  playing  away  at 
the  other.  Then,  the  waiters  were  rushing  to  and  fro 
with  glasses  of  negus,  and  glasses  of  brandy- and-water, 
and  bottles  of  ale,  and  bottles  of  stout  ;  and  ginger-beer 
was  going  off  in  one  place,  and  practical  jokes  were  going 
on  in  another  ;  and  people  were  crowding  to  the  door  of 
the  rotunda  ;  and  in  short  the  whole  scene  was,  as  Miss 
J'mima  Ivins,  inspired  by  the  novelty,  or  the  shrub,  or 
both,  observed — "one  of  dazzling  excitement."  As  to 
the  concert-room,  never  was  anything  lialf  so  splendid. 
There  was  an  orchestra  for  the  singers,  all  paint,  gilding, 
and  ])late-glass  ;  and  such  an  organ  !  Miss  J'mima 
Ivins'  friend's  young  man  whispered  it  had  cost  "four 
hundred  jwund,'"  which  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins  said  was 
"  not  dear  neither  ;  "  an  opinion  in  which  the  ladies  per- 
fectly coincided.    The  audience  were  seated  on  elevated 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


897 


benches  round  the  room,  and  crowded  into  every  part  of 
it  ;  and  everybody  was  eating  and  drinking  as  comforta- 
bly as  possible.  Just  before  the  concert  commenced,  Mr. 
Samuel  Wilkins  ordered  two  glasses  of  rum-and-water 
"  warm  with — "  and  two  slices  of  lemon,  for  himself  and 
the  other  young  man,  together  with  "  a  pint  o'  sherry  wine 
for  the  ladies,  and  some  sweet  caraway-seed  biscuits  ;  " 
and  they  would  have  been  quite  comfortable  and  happy, 
only  a  strange  gentleman  with  large  whiskers  icould 
stare  at  Miss  J'mima  Ivins,  and  another  gentleman  in  a 
plaid  waistcoat  icould  wink  at  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend  ; 
on  which  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend's  young  man  ex- 
hibited symptoms  of  boiling  over,  and  began  to  mutter 
about  "  people's  imperence,"  and  "swells  out  o'  luck  ;" 
and  to  intimate,  in  oblique  terms,  a  vague  intention  of 
knocking  somebody's  head  off  ;  which  he  was  only  pre- 
vented from  announcing  more  emphatically,  by  both 
Miss  J'mima  Ivins  and  her  friend  threatening  to  faint 
away  on  the  spot  if  he  said  another  word. 

The  concert  commenced — overture  on  the  organ. 
"  How  solemn  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  J'mima  Ivins,  glancing, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  at  the  gentleman  with  the  whis- 
kers. Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins,  who  had  been  muttering 
apart  for  some  time  past,  as  if  he  were  holding  a  confi- 
dential conversation  With  the  gilt  knob  of  the-  dress 
cane,  breathed  hard — breathing  vengeance,  perhaps, — 
but  said  nothing.  "The  soldier  tired,"  Miss  Somebody 
in  white  satin.  ""Ancore!"  cried  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's 
friend.  "  Ancore  !"  shouted  the  gentleman  in  the  plaid 
waistcoat  immediately,  hammering  the  table  with  a 
stout-bottle.  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend's  young  man 
eyed  the  man  behind  the  waistcoat  from  head  to  foot, 
and  cast  a  look  of  interrogative  contempt  towards  Mr. 
Samuel  Wilkins.  Comic  song,  accompanied  on  the 
organ.  Miss  J'mima  Ivins  was  convulsed  with  laughter 
— so  was  the  man  with  the  whiskers.  Every  thing  the 
ladies  did,  the  plaid  waistcoat  and  whiskers  did,  by 
way  of  expressing  unity  of  sentiment  and  congeniality 
of  soul ;  and  Miss  J'mima  Ivins,  and  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's 
I  friend,  grew  lively  and  talkative,  as  Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins, 
and  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend's  young  man,  grew 
morose  and  surly  in  inverse  proportion. 

Now,  if  the  matter  had  ended  here,  the  little  party 
might  soon  have  recovered  their  former  equanimity  ;  but 
Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins  and  his  friend  began  to  throw  looks 
of  defiance  upon  the  waistcoat  and  whiskers.  And  the 
waistcoat  and  whiskers,  by  way  of  intimating  the  slight 
degree  in  which  they  were  affected  by  the  looks  afore- 
said, bestowed  glances  of  increased  admiration  upon 
Miss  J'mima  Ivins  and  friend.  The  concert  and  vaude- 
ville concluded,  they  promenaded  the  gardens.  The 
waistcoat  and  whiskers  did  the  same ;  and  made  divers 
remarks  complimentary  to  the  ankles  of  Miss  J'mima 
Ivins  and  friend,  in  an  audible  tone.  At  length,  not 
satisfied  with  these  numerous  atrocities,  they  actually 
came  up  and  asked  Miss  J'mima  Ivins,  and  Miss  J'mima 
Ivins's  friend  to  dance,  without  taking  no  more  notice  of 
Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins,  and  Miss  J'mima  Ivins's  friend's 
young  man,  than  if  they  was  nobody  ! 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  scoundrel?"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Samuel  Wilkins,  grasping  the  gilt-knobbed  dress- 
cane  firmly  in  his  right  hand.  "  What's  the  matter 
with  you,  you  little  humbug?"  replied  the  whiskers. 
"  How  dare  you  insult  me  and  my  friend  ?"  inquired  the 
friend's  young  man.  "  You  and  your  friend  be  hanged  !  " 
responded  the  waistcoat.  "  Take  that,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Samuel  Wilkins.  The  ferrule  of  the  gilt-knobbed  dress- 
cane  was  visible  for  an  instant,  and  then  the  light  of  the 
variegated  lamps  shone  brightly  upon  it  as  it  whirled 
into  the  air,  cane  and  all.  "Give  it  him,"  said  the 
waistcoat.  "  Horficer  !  "  screamed  the  ladies.  Miss 
J'mima  Ivins's  beau,  and  the  friend's  young  man.  lay 
gasping  on  the  gravel,  and  the  waistcoat  and  whiskers 
were  seen  no  more. 

Miss  J'mima  Ivins  and  friend  being  conscious  that  the 
affray  was  in  no  slight  degree  attributable  to  themselves, 
of  course  went  into  hysterics  forthwith  ;  declared  them- 
selves the  most  injured  of  women  ;  exclaimed,  in  inco- 
herent ravings,  that  they  had  been  suspected — wrong- 
fully suspected — oh  !  that  they  should  ever  have  lived 
to  see  the  day — and  so  forth  ;  suffered  a  relapse  every 
time  they  opened  their  eyes  and  saw  their  unfortunate 
Vol.  II.— 57 


little  admirers  ;  and  were  carried  to  their  respective 
abodes  in  a  hackney-coach,  and  a  state  of  insensibility, 
compounded  of  slirub,  sherry,  and  excitement. 


CHAPTER  V. 
TJie  Parlour  Orator. 

We  had  been  lounging  one  evening,  down  Oxford- 
street,  Holborn,  Cheapside,  Coleman-street,  Finsbury- 
square,  and  so  on,  with  the  intention  of  returning  west- 
ward, by  Pentonville  and  the  New-road,  when  we  began 
to  feel  rather  thirsty,  and  disposed  to  rest  for  five  or  ten 
minutes.  So,  we  turned  back  towards  an  old,  quiet,  de- 
cent public-house,  which  we  remembered  to  have  passed 
but  a  moment  before  (it  was  not  far  from  the  City-road), 
for  the  purpose  of  solacing  ourself  with  a  glass  of  ale. 
The  house  was  none  of  your  stuccoed,  French-polished, 
illuminated  palaces,  but  a  modest  public-house  of  the  old 
school,  with  a  little  old  bar,  and  a  little  old  landlord, 
who,  with  a  wife  and  daughter  of  the  same  pattern,  was 
comfortably  seated  in  the  bar  aforesaid — a  snug  little 
room  with  a  cheerful  fire,  protected  by  a  large  screen  : 
from  behind  which  the  young  lady  emerged  on  our  re- 
presenting our  inclination  for  a  glass  of  ale. 

"Won't  you  walk  into  the  parlour,  sir  ?"  said  the 
young  lady,  in  seductive  tones. 

"  You  had  better  walk  into  the  parlour,  sir,"  said  the 
little  old  landlord,  throwing  his  chair  back,  and  looking 
round  one  side  of  the  screen,  to  survey  our  appearance. 

"  You  had  much  better  step  into  the  parlour,  sir,"  said 
the  little  old  lady,  popping  out  her  head,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  screen. 

We  cast  a  slight  glance  around,  as  if  to  express  our 
ignorance  of  the  locality  so  much  recommended.  The 
little  old  landlord  observed  it  ;  bustled  out  of  the  small 
door  of  the  small  bar  :  and  forthwith  ushered  us  into  the 
parlour  itself. 

It  was  an  ancient,  dark-looking  room,  with  oaken 
wainscoting,  a  sanded  floor,  and  a  high  mantelpiece. 
The  walls  were  ornamented  with  three  or  four  old  col- 
oured prints  in  black  frames,  each  print  representing  a 
naval  engagement,  with  a  couple  of  men-of-war  bang- 
ing away  at  each  other  most  vigorously,  while  another 
vessel  or  two  were  blowing  up  in  the  distance,  and 
the  foreground  presented  a  miscellaneous  collection  of 
broken  masts  and  blue  legs  sticking  up  out  of  the  water. 
Depending  from  the  ceiling  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
were  a  gas-light  and  bell-pull  ;  on  each  side  were  three 
or  four  long  narrow  tables,  behind  which  was  a  thickly- 
planted  row  of  those  slippery,  shiny-looking  wooden 
chairs,  peculiar  to  hostelries  of  this  description.  The 
monotonous  appearance  of  the  sanded  boards  was  re- 
lieved by  an  occasional  spittoon  ;  and  a  triangular  pile 
of  those  useful  articles  adorned  the  two  upper  corners 
of  the  apartment. 

At  the  furthest  table,  nearest  the  fire,  with  his  face 
towards  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  room,  sat  a  stcut- 
ish  man  of  about  forty,  whose  short,  stiff,  black  hair 
curled  closely  round  a  broad  high  forehead,  and  a  face 
to  which  something  besides  water  and  exercise  had  com- 
municated a  rather  inflamed  appearance.  He  was  smok- 
ing a  cigar,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  and  had 
that  confident  oracular  air  which  marked  him  as  the 
leading  politician,  general  authority,  and  universal 
anecdote-relater,  of  the  place.  He  had  evidently  just 
delivered  himself  of  something  very  weighty  ;  for  the 
remainder  of  the  company  were  puffing  at  their  respect- 
ive pipes  and  cigars  in  a  kind  of  solemn  abstraction,  as 
if  quite  overwhelmed  with  the  magnitude  of  the  subject 
recently  under  discussion. 

On  his  right  hand  sat  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a 
white  head,  and  broad-brimmed  brown  hat  ;  on  his 
left,  a  sharp-nosed  light-haired  man  in  a  brown  surtout 
reaching  nearly  to  his  heels,  who  took  a  whiff  at  his 
pipe,  and  an  admiring  glance  at  the  red -faced  man, 
alternately. 

"  Very  extraordinary  !  "  said  the  light-haired  man 
after  a  pause  of  five  minutes.  A  murmur  of  assent  ran 
through  the  company. 


898 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Not  at  all  extraordinary — not  at  all,"  said  the  red- 
faced  man,  awakening  suddenly  from  his  reverie,  and 
turning  upon  the  liglit-haired  man,  the  moment  he  had 
spoken. 

"  Why  should  it  be  extraordinary  ?— why  is  it  extra- 
ordinary ?  —prove  it  to  be  extraordinary  !  " 

*'  Oh,  if  you  come  to  that — "  said  the  light-haired 
man,  meekly. 

"Come  to  that!"  ejaculated  the  man  with  the  red 
face  ;  "  but  we  must  come  to  that.  We  stand,  in  these 
times,  upon  a  calm  elevation  of  intellectual  attainment, 
and  not  in  the  dark  recess  of  mental  deprivation.  Proof 
is  what  I  require — proof,  and  not  assertions,  in  these 
stirring  times.  Every  gen'lem'n  that  knov/s  me,  knows 
what  was  the  nature  and  effect  of  my  observations,  when 
it  was  in  the  contemplation  of  the  Old-street  Suburban 
Representative  Discovery  Society,  to  recommend  a  can- 
didate for  that  place  in  Cornwall  there — I  forget  the 
name  of  it.  '  Mr.  Snobee,'  said  Mr.  Wilson,  '  is  a  fit 
and  proper  person  to  represent  the  borough  in  Parlia- 
ment.' *  Prove  it,'  says  I.  *  He  is  a  friend  to  Reform,' 
says  Mr.  Wilson.  '  Prove  it,'  says  I.  '  The  abolition- 
ist of  the  national  debt,  the  unflinching  opponent  of 
pensions,  the  uncompromising  advocate  of  the  negro, 
the  reducer  of  sinecures  and  the  duration  of  Parliaments  ; 
the  extender  of  nothing  but  the  suffrages  of  the  people,' 
says  Mr.  Wilson.  '  Prove  it,'  says  I.  '  His  acts  prove 
it,'  says  he.    *  Prove  them'  says  I. 

"And  he  could  not  prove  them,"  said  the  red-faced 
man,  looking  round  triumphantly  ;  "  and  the  borough 
didn't  have  him ;  and  if  you  carried  this  principle  to  the 
full  extent,  you'd  have  no  debt,  no  pensions,  no  sinecures, 
no  negroes,  no  nothing.  And  then,  standing  upon  an 
elevation  of  intellectual  attainment,  and  having  reached 
the  summit  of  popular  prosperity,  you  might  bid  defi- 
ance to  the  nations  of  the  earth,  and  erect  yourselves  in 
the  proud  confidence  of  wisdom  and  superiority.  This 
is  my  argument— this  always  has  been  my  argument — 
and  if  I  was  a  Member  of  the  House  of  Commons  to- 
morrow, I'd  make  'em  shake  in  their  shoes  with  it." 
And  the  red-faced  man,  having  struck  the  table  very 
hard  with  his  clenched  fist,  to  add  weight  to  the  declar- 
ation, smoked  away  like  a  brewery. 

"Well!"  said  the  sharp-nosed  man,  in  a  very  slow 
and  soft  voice,  addressing  the  company  in  general,  "I 
always  do  say,  that  of  all  the  gentlemen  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  in  this  room,  there  is  not  one  whose 
conversation  I  like  to  hear  so  much  as  Mr.  Rogers's,  or 
who  is  such  improving  company." 

"Improving  company  !"  said  Mr.  Rogers,  for  that,  it 
seemed,  was  the  name  of  the  red -faced  man,  "  You  may 
say  1  am  improving  company,  for  I've  improved  you  all 
to  some  purpose  ;  though  as  to  my  conversation  being  as 
my  friend  Mr.  Ellis  here  describes  it,  that  is  not  for  me 
to  say  anything  about.  You,  gentlemen,  are  the  best 
judges  on  that  point  ;  but  this  I  will  say,  when  I  came 
into  this  parish,  and  first  used  this  room,  ten  years  ago, 
I  don't  believe  there  was  one  man  in  it  who  knew  he 
was  a  slave — and  now  you  all  know  it,  and  writhe 
under  it.  Inscribe  that  upon  my  tomb,  and  I  am  sat- 
isfied." 

"  Why,  as  to  inscribing  it  on  your  tomb,"  said  a  little 
greengrocer  with  a  chubby  face,  "of  course  you  can 
have  anything  chalked  up,  as  you  likes  to  pay  for,  so 
far  as  it  relates  to  yourself  and  your  affairs  ;  but,  when 
you  come  to  talk  about  slaves  and  that  there  abuse, 
you'd  better  keep  it  in  the  family,  'cos  I  for  one  don't 
like  to  be  called  them  names,  niglit  after  night." 

"  You  are,  a  slave,"  said  the  red-faced  man,  "and  the 
most  pitiable  of  all  slaves." 

"  Werry  hard  if  I  am,"  interrupted  the  greengrocer, 
"  for  I  got  no  good  out  of  the  twenty  million  that  was 
paid  for  'mancipation,  any  how." 

"A  willing  slave,"  ejaculated  the  red-faced  man,  get- 
ting more  red  with  eloquence,  and  contradiction — "  re- 
signing the  dearest  birthright  of  your  children — neglect- 
ing the  sacred  call  of  Liberty— who,  standing  imploringly 
before  you,  appeals  to  the  warmest  feelings  of  your 
heart,  and  points  to  your  helpless  infants  but  in  vain." 

"  Prove  it,"  said  the  greengrocer. 

"  Prove  it ! "  sneered  the  man  with  the  red  face. 
**  What  !  bending  beneath  the  yoke  of  an  insolent  and  fac- 


tious oligarchy  ;  bowed  down  by  the  domination  of  cruel 
laws  ;  groaning  beneath  tyranny  and  oppression  on  every 
hand,  at  every  side,  and  in  every  corner.  Prove  it? — " 
The  red -faced  man  abruptly  broke  off,  sneered  melo- 
dramatically, and  buried  his  countenance  and  his  indig- 
nation together,  in  a  quart  pot. 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Rogers,"  said  a  stout  broker  in 
a  large  waistcoat,  who  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  this 
luminary  all  the  time  he  was  speaking.  "Ah,  to  be 
sure,"  said  the  broker  with  a  sigh,  "  that's  the  point." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  divers  members  of  the 
company,  who  understood  almost  as  much  about  the 
matter  as  the  broker  himself. 

"You  had  better  let  him  alone,  Tommy,"  said  the 
broker,  by  way  of  advice  to  the  little  greengrocer,  "he 
can  tell  what's  o'clock  by  an  eight-day,  without  looking 
at  the  minute  hand,  he  can.  Try  it  on,  on  some  other 
suit  ;  it  won't  do  with  him,  Tommy." 

"What  is  a  man?"  continued  the  red-faced  specimen 
of  the  species,  jerking  his  hat  indignantly  from  its  peg 
on  the  wall.  "  What  is  an  Englisliman?  Is  he  to  be 
trampled  upon  by  every  oppressor  ?  Is  he  to  be  knocked 
down  at  everybody's  bidding?  What's  freedom?  Not 
a  standing  army.  What's  a  standing  army?  Not  free- 
dom. What's  general  happiness  ?  Not  universal  misery. 
Liberty  ain't  the  window-tax,  is  it?  The  Lords  ain't 
the  Commons,  are  they?"  And  the  red-faced  man, 
gradually  bursting  into  a  radiating  sentence,  in  which 
such  adjectives  as  "dastardly,"  "oppressive,"  "  vio- 
lent,"  and  "  sanguinary,"  formed  the  most  conspicuous 
words,  knocked  his  hat  indignantly  over  his  eyes,  left 
the  room,  and  slammed  the  door  after  him. 

"  Wonderful  man  !"  said  he  of  the  sharp  nose. 

"  Splendid  speaker  !"  added  the  broker. 

"  Great  power  !  "  said  every  body  but  the  greengrocer. 

And  as  they  said  it,  the  whole  party  shook  their  heads 
mysteriously,  and  one  by  one  retired,  leaving  us  alone 
in  the  old  parlour.  If  we  had  followed  the  established 
precedent  in  all  such  instances,  we  should  have  fallen 
into  a  fit  of  musing  without  delay.  The  ancient  appear- 
ance of  the  room — the  old  panelling  of  the  wall— the 
chimney  blackened  with  smoke  and  age — would  have 
carried  us  back  a  hundred  years  at  least,  and  we  should 
have  gone  dreaming  on,  until  the  pewter-pot  on  the 
table,  or  the  little  beer-chiller  on  the  fire,  had  started 
into  life,  and  addressed  to  us  a  long  story  of  days  gone 
by.  But,  by  some  means  or  other,  we  were  not  in  a 
romantic  humour  ;  and  although  we  tried  very  hard  to 
invest  the  furniture  with  vitality,  it  remained  perfectly 
unmoved,  obstinate,  and  sullen.  Being  thus  reduced 
to  the  unpleasant  necessity  of  musing  about  ordinary 
matters,  our  thoughts  reverted  to  the  red-faced  man, 
and  his  oratorical  display. 

A  numerous  race  are  these  red-faced  men  ;  there  is 
not  a  parlour  or  club-room,  or  benefit  society,  or  humble 
party  of  any  kind,  without  its  red-faced  man.  Weak- 
pated  dolts  they  are,  and  a  great  deal  of  mischief  they 
do  to  their  cause,  however  good.  So,  just  to  hold  a  pat- 
tern one  up,  to  know  the  others  by,  we  took  his  likeness 
at  once,  and  put  him  in  here.  And  that  is  the  reason 
why  we  have  written  this  paper. 


CHAPTER  VL 

The  Hospital  Patient. 

In  our  rambles  through  the  streets  of  London  after 
evening  has  set  in,  we  often  pause  beneath  the  windows 
of  some  public  hospital,  and  picture  to  ourselves  the 
gloomy  and  mournful  scenes  that  are  passing  within. 
The  sudden  moving  of  a  taper  as  its  feeble  ray  shoots 
from  window  to  window,  until  its  light  gradually  disap- 
pears, as  if  it  were  carried  farther  back  into  the  room 
to  the  bedside  of  some  suffering  patient,  is  enough^  to 
awaken  a  whole  crowd  of  reflections  :  the  mere  glim-' 
mcring  of  the  low-burning  lamps,  which,  when  all  others 
habitations  are  wrapped  in  darkness  and  slumber,  de- 
note the  chamber  where  so  many  forms  are  writhing 
with  pain,  or  wasting  with  disease,  is  sufficient  to  checklj 
the  most  boisterous  merriment. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


899 


WTio  can  tell  the  anfyuisli  of  those  weary  hours,  when 
the  only  sound  the  sick  man  hears,  is  the  disjointed 
wandering-s  of  some  feverish  slumberer  near  him,  the 
low  moan  of  pain,  or  perhaps  the  muttered,  long-forgot- 
ten prayer  of  a  dying  man  ?  Who,  but  they  who  have 
felt  it,  can  imagine  the  sense  of  loneliness  and  desola- 
tion which  must  be  the  portion  of  those  who  in  the  hour 
of  dangerous  illness  are  left  to  be  tended  by  strangers  ; 
for  what  hands,  be  they  ever  so  gentle,  can  wipe  the 
clammy  brow,  or  smooth  the  restless  bed,  like  those  of 
mother,  wife,  or  child  ? 

Impressed  with  these  thoughts,  we  have  turned  away, 
through  the  nearly  deserted  streets  ;  and  the  sight  of 
the  few  miserable  creatures  still  hovering  about  them, 
has  not  tended  to  lessen  the  pain  which  such  medita- 
tions awaken.  The  hospital  is  a  refuge  and  resting- 
place  for  hundreds,  who  but  for  such  institutions  must 
die  in  the  streets  and  doorways  ;  but  what  can  be  the 
feelings  of  some  outcasts  when  they  are  stretched  on 
the  bed  of  sickness  with  scarcely  a  hope  of  recovery? 
The  wretched  woman  who  lingers  about  the  pavement, 
hours  after  midnight,  and  the  miserable  shadow  of  a 
man— the  ghastly  remnant  that  want  and  drunkenness 
have  left — which  crouches  beneath  a  window-ledge,  to 
sleep  where  there  is  some  shelter  from  the  rain,  have 
little  to  bind  them  to  life,  but  what  have  they  to  look 
back  upon,  in  death?  What  are  the  unwonted  comforts 
of  a  roof  and  a  bed,  to  them,  when  the  recollections  of  a 
whole  life  of  debasement  stalk  before  them  ;  when  re- 
pentance seems  a  mockery,  and  sorrow  comes  too  late? 

About  a  twelvemonth  ago,  as  we  were  strolling 
through  Covent  garden,  (we  had  been  thinking  about 
these  things  over-night)  we  were  attracted  by  the  very 
prepossessing  appearance  of  a  pickpocket,  who  having 
declined  to  take  the  trouble  of  walking  to  the  Police- 
office,  on  the  ground  that  he  hadn't  the  slightest  wish  to 
go  there  at  all,  was  being  conveyed  thither  in  a  wheel- 
barrow, to  the  huge  delight  of  a  crowd. 

Somehow  we  never  can  resist  joining  a  crowd,  so  we 
turned  back  with  the  mob,  and  entered  the  office,  in 
company  with  our  friend  the  pickpocket,  a  couple  of  po- 
licemen, and  as  many  dirty-faced  spectators  as  could 
squeeze  their  way  in. 

There  was  a  powerful,  ill-looking  young  fellow  at  the 
bar,  who  was  undergoing  an  examination,  on  the  very 
common  charge  of  having  on  the  previous  night,  ill- 
treated  a  woman,  with  whom  he  lived  in  some  court 
hard  by.  Several  witnesses  bore  testimony  to  acts  of 
the  grossest  brutality  ;  and  a  certificate  was  read  from 
the  house-surgeon  of  a  neighbouring  hospital,  describ- 
ing the  nature  of  the  injuries  the  woman  had  received, 
and  intimating  that  her  recovery  was  extremely  doubt- 
ful. 

Some  question  appeared  to  have  been  raised  about  the 
identity  of  the  prisoner  ;  for  when  it  was  agreed  that 
the  two  magistrates  should  visit  the  hospital  at  eight 
o'clock  that  evening,  to  take  her  deposition,  it  was  set- 
tled that  the  man  should  be  taken  there  also.  He  turned 
pale  at  this,  and  we  saw  him  clench  the  bar  very  hard 
when  the  order  was  given.  He  was  removed  directly 
afterwards,  and  he  spoke  not  a  word. 

We  felt  an  irrepressible  curiosity  to  witness  this  in- 
terview, although  it  is  hard  to  tell  why,  at  this  instant, 
for  we  knew  it  must  be  a  painful  one.  It  was  no  very 
difficult  matter  for  us  to  gain  permission,  and  we  ob- 
tained it. 

The  prisoner,  and  the  officer  who  had  him  in  custody, 
were  already  at  the  hospital  when  we  reached  it,  and 
waiting  the  arrival  of  the  magistrates  in  a  small  room 
below  stairs.  The  man  was  handcuffed,  and  his  hat  was 
pulled  forward  over  his  eyes.  It  was  easy  to  see,  though, 
by  the  whiteness  of  his  countenance,  and  the  constant 
twitching  of  the  muscles  of  his  face,  that  he  dreaded 
what  was  to  come.  After  a  short  interval,  the  magis- 
trate and  clerk  were  bowed  in  by  the  house-surgeon  and 
a  couple  of  young  men  who  smeit  very  strong  of  tobacco- 
smoke — they  were  introduced  as  "dressers  " — and  after 
one  magistrate  had  complained  bitterly  of  the  cold,  and 
the  other  of  the  absence  of  any  news  in  the  evening 
paper,  it  was  announced  that  the  patient  was  prepared  ; 
and  we  were  conducted  to  the  "casualty  ward"  in 
which  she  was  lying, 


The  dim  light  which  burnt  in  the  spacious  room,  in- 
creased rather  than  diminished  the  ghastly  appearance 
of  the  hapless  creatures  in  the  beds,  which  were  ranged 
in  two  long  rows  on  either  side.  In  one  bed,  lay  a  child 
enveloped  in  bandages,  with  its  body  half  consumed  by 
fire;  in  another,  a  female,  rendered  hideous  by  some  dread- 
ful accident,  was  wildly  beating  her  clenched  fists  on  the 
coverlet,  in  pain  ;  on  a  third,  there  lay  stretched  a  young 
girl,  apparently  in  the  heavy  stupor  often  the  immediate 
precursor  of  death  :  her  face  was  stained  with  blood, 
and  her  breast  and  arms  were  bound  up  in  folds  of  linen. 
Two  or  three  of  the  beds  were  empty,  and  their  recent 
occupants  were  sitting  beside  them,  but  with  faces  so 
wan,  and  eyes  so  bright  and  glassy,  that  it  was  fearful 
to  meet  their  gaze.  On  every  face  was  stamped  the  ex- 
pression of  anguish  and  suffering. 

The  object  of  the  visit,  was  lying  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  room.  She  was  a  fine  young  woman  of  about  two  or 
three  and  twenty.  Her  long  black  hair  which  had  been 
hastily  cut  from  near  the  wounds  on  her  head,  streamed 
over  the  pillow  in  jagged  and  matted  locks.  Her  face 
bore  deep  marks  of  the  ill-usage  she  had  received  :  her 
hand  was  pressed  upon  her  side,  as  if  her  chief  pain 
was  there  ;  her  breathing  was  short  and  heavy  :  and  it 
was  plain  to  see  that  she  was  dying  fast.  She  mur- 
mured a  few  words  in  reply  to  the  magistrate's  inquiry 
whether  she  was  in  great  pain  ;  and,  having  been  raised 
on  the  pillow  by  the  nurse,  looked  vacantly  upon  the 
strange  countenances  that  surrounded  her  bed.  The 
magistrate  nodded  to  the  officer,  to  bring  the  man  for- 
ward. He  did  so,  and  stationed  him  at  the  bedside. 
The  girl  looked  on,  with  a  wild  and  troubled  expression 
of  face  ;  but  her  sight  was  dim,  and  she  did  not  know 
him. 

"Takeoff  his  hat,"  said  the  magistrate.  The  officer 
did  as  he  was  desired,  and  the  man's  features  were  dis- 
closed. 

The  girl  started  up,  with  an  energy  quite  preterna- 
tural ;  the  fire  gleamed  in  her  heavy  eyes,  and  the  blood 
rushed  to  her  pale  and  sunken  cheeks.  It  was  a  convul- 
sive effort.  She  fell  back  upon  her  pillow,  and  cover- 
ing her  scarred  and  bruised  face  with  Y^^-  hands,  burst 
into  tears.  The  man  cast  an  anxious  look  towards  her, 
but  otherwise  appeared  wholly  unmoved.  After  a  brief 
pause  the  nature  of  their  errand  was  explained,  and  the 
oath  tendered. 

"Oh,  no,  gentlemen,"  said  the  girl,  raising  herself 
once  more,  and  folding  her  hands  together  ;  "  no  gentle- 
men, for  God's  sake  !  I  did  it  myself — it  was  nobody's 
fault — it  was  an  accident.  He  didn't  hurt  me  ;  he 
wouldn't  for  all  the  world.  Jack,  dear  Jack,  you  know 
you  wouldn't  !" 

Her  sight  was  fast  failing  her,  and  her  hand  groped 
over  the  bedclothes  in  search  of  his.  Brute  as  the  man 
was,  he  was  not  prepared  for  this.  He  turned  his  face 
from  the  bed,  and  sobbed.  The  girl's  colour  changed, 
and  her  breathing  grew  more  difficult.  She  was  evi- 
dently dying. 

"  We  respect  the  feelings  which  prompt  you  to  this," 
said  the  gentleman  who  had  spoken  first,  "but  let  me 
warn  you,  not  to  persist  in  what  you  know  to  be  untrue, 
until  it  is  too  late.    It  cannot  save  him." 

"Jack,"  murmured  the  girl,  laying  her  hand  upon  his 
arm,  "  they  shall  not  persuade  me  to  swear  your  life 
away.  He  didn't  do  it,  gentlemen.  He  never  hurt  me." 
She  grasped  his  arm  tightly,  and  added,  in  a  broken 
whisper,  "  I  hope  God  Almighty  will  forgive  me  all  the 
wrong  I  have  done,  and  the  life  I  have  led.  God  bless 
you.  Jack.  Some  kind  gentleman  take  my  love  to  my 
poor  old  father.  Five  years  ago  he  said  he  \^'1shedI  had 
died  a  child.    Oh,  I  wish  I  had  !    I  wish  I  had  ! " 

The  nurse  bent  over  the  girl  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
then  drew  the  sheet  over  her  face.    It  covered  a  corpse. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Misjjlaced  Attachment  of  Mr.  John  Bounce. 

If  we  had  to  make  a  classification  of  society,  there  are 
a  particular  kind  of  men  whom  we  should  immediately 


900 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


set  down  under  the  liead  of  "  Old  Boys  ; "  and  a  column 
of  most  extensive  dimensions  the  old  boys  would  re- 
quire. To  what  precise  causes  the  rapid  advance  of  old 
boy  population  is  to  be  traced,  we  are  unable  to  deter- 
mine. It  would  be  an  interesting  and  curious  specula- 
tion, but  as  we  have  not  sufficient  space  to  devote  to  it 
here,  we  simply  state  the  fact  that  the  numbers  of  the  old 
boys  have  been  gradually  augmenting  within  the  last 
few  years,  and  that  they  are  at  this  moment  alarmingly 
on  the  increase. 

Upon  a  great  review  of  the  subject,  and  without  con- 
sidering it  minutely  in  detail,  we  should  be  disposed  to 
subdivide  the  old  boys  into  two  distinct  classes — the  gay 
oldi)oys,  and  the  steady  old  boys,  The  gay  old  boys, 
are  paunchy  old  men  in  the  disguise  of  young  ones,  who 
frequent  the  Qaadrant  and  Regent-street  in  the  day-time  : 
the  theatres  (especially  theatres  under  lady  management) 
at  night ;  and  who  assume  all  the  foppishness  and  levity  of 
boys,  without  the  excuse  of  youth  or  inexperience.  The 
steady  old  boys  are  certain  stout  old  gentlemen  of  clean 
appearance,  who  are  always  to  be  seen  in  the  same  tav- 
erns, at  the  same  hours  every  evening,  smoking  and 
drinking  in  the  same  company. 

There  was  once  a  fine  collection  of  old  boys  to  be  seen 
round  the  circular  table  at  Offley's  eveiy  night,  between 
the  hoars  of  half -past  eight  and  half- past  eleven.  We 
have  lost  sight  of  them  for  some  time.  There  were,  and 
may  be  still,  for  aught  we  know,  two  splendid  specimens 
in  full  blossom  at  the  liainbow  Tavern  in  Fleet-street, 
who  always  used  to  sit  in  the  box  nearest  the  fire-place, 
and  smoked  long  cherry-stick  pipes  which  went  under 
the  table,  with  the  bowls  resting  on  the  floor.  Grand 
old  boys  they  were — fat,  red-faced,  white-headed,  old 
fellows — always  there — one  on  one  side  the  table,  and 
the  other  opposite — puffing  and  drinking  away  in  great 
state.  Everybody  knew  them,  and  it  was  supposed  by 
some  people  that  they  were  both  immortal. 

Mr.  John  Dounce  was  an  old  boy  of  the  latter  class 
(we  don't  mean  immortal,  but  steady),  a  retired  glove  and 
braces  maker,  a  widower,  resident  with  three  daughters 
— all  grown  up,  and  all  unmarried — in  Cursitor-street, 
Chancery-lane.  He  was  a  short,  round,  large  faced, 
tubbish  sort  of  man,  with  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  a 
square  coat  ;  and  had  that  grave,  but  confident,  kind  of 
roll,  peculiar  to  old  boys  in  general.  Regular  as  clock- 
work—breakfast at  nine — dress  and  tittivate  a  little — 
down  to  the  Sir  Somebody's  Head — glass  of  ale  and  the 
paper — come  back  again  and  take  daughters  out  for  a 
walk — dinner  at  three— glass  of  grog  and  pipe — nap — 
tea — little  walk — Sir  Somebody's  Head  again — capital 
house — delightful  evenings.  There  were  Mr.  Harris  the 
law-stationer,  and  Mr.  Jennings,  the  robe-maker  (two 
jolly  young  fellows  like  himself),  and  Jones,  the  barris- 
ter's clerk — rum  fellow  that  Jones — capital  company — 
full  of  anecdote  ! — and  there  they  sat  every  night  till 
just  ten  minutes  before  twelve,  drinking  their  brandy- 
and-water,  and  smoking  their  pipes,  and  telling  stories, 
aud  enjoying  themsslves  with  a  kind  of  solemn  joviality 
particularly  edifying. 

Sometimes  Jones  would  propose  a  half-price  visit  to 
Drury  Lane  or  Covent  Garden,  to  see  two  acts  of  a  five- 
act  play,  and  a  new  farce,  perhaps,  or  a  ballet,  on  which 
occasions  the  whole  four  of  them  went  together  ;  none 
of  your  hurrying  and  nonsense,  but  having  their  brandy- 
and-vvater  first,  coinfortably,  and  ordering  a  steak  and 
some  oysters  for  their  supper  against  they  came  back, 
and  then  walking  coolly  into  the  pit,  when  the  "rush" 
bad  gone  in,  as  all  sensible  people  do,  and  did  when  Mr. 
Dounce  was  a  young  man,  except  when  the  celebrated 
Master  Betty  was  at  the  height  of  his  popularity,  and 
then,  sir, — then — Mr.  Dounce  perfectly  well  remembered 
getting  a  holiday  from  business  ;  and  going  to  the  pit 
doors  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  and  waiting  there, 
till  six  in  the  afternoon,  with  some  sandwiches  in  a 
pocket-handkerchief  and  some  wine  in  a  phial  ;  and  faint- 
ing after  all,  with  the  heat  and  fatigue  before  the  play 
began  ;  in  which  situation  he  was  lifted  out  of  the  pit, 
into  one  of  the  dress  boxes,  sir,  by  five  of  the  finest 
women  of  that  day,  sir,  who  compassionated  his  situation 
and  administered  restoratives,  and  sent  a  black  servant, 
six  foot  high,  in  blue  and  silver  livery,  next  morning 
with  their  Compliments,  to  know  how  he  found  himself, 


sir— by  G—  !  Between  the  acts  Mr.  Dounce  and  Mr. 
Harris,  and  Mr.  Jennings,  used  to  stand  up,  and  look 
round  the  house,  and  Jones — knowing  fellow  that  Jones 
—knew  everybody,  pointed  out  the  fashionable  and  cele- 
brated lady  So-and-So  in  the  boxes,  at  the  mention  of 
whose  name  Mr.  Dounce,  after  brushing  up  his  hair,  and 
adjusting  his  neckerchief,  would  inspect  the  aforesaid 
lady  So-and-So  through  an  immense  glass,  and  remark, 
either,  that  she  was  a  "fine  woman — very  fine  woman, 
indeed,"  or  that  "  there  might  be  a  little  more  of  her, — 
eh,  Jones?"  just  as  the  case  might  happen  to  be. 
When  the  dancing  began,  John  Dounce  and  the  other  old 
boys  were  particularly  anxious  to  see  what  was  going 
forward  on  the  stage,  and  Jones — wicked  dog  that  Jones — 
whispered  little  critical  remarks  into  the  ears  of  John 
Dounce,  which  John  Dounce  retailed  to  Mr.  Harris,  and 
Mr.  Harris  to  Mr.  Jennings  ;  and  then  they  all  four 
laughed,  until  the  tears  ran  down,  out  of  their  eyes. 

When  the  curtain  fell,  they  walked  back  together, 
two  and  tw^o,  to  the  steaks  and  oysters  ;  and  when  they 
came  to  the  second  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  Jones, — 
hoaxing  scamp,  that  Jones — used  to  recount  how  he  had 
observed  a  lady  in  white  feathers,  in  one  of  the  pit  boxes, 
gazing  intently  on  Mr.  Dounce  all  the  evening,  and  how 
he  had  caught  Mr.  Dounce,  whenever  he  thought  no  one 
was  looking  at  him,  bestowing  ardent  looks  of  intense 
devotion  on  the  lady  in  return  ;  on  which  Mr.  Harris  and 
Mr.  Jennings  used  to  laugh  very  heartily,  and  John 
Dounce  more  heartily  than  either  of  them,  acknowledg- 
ing, however,  that  the  time  had  been  when  he  might  have 
done  such  things  ;  upon  which  Mr.  Jones  used  to  poke 
him  in  the  ribs,  and  tell  him  he  had  been  a  sad  dog  in 
his  time,  which  John  Dounce,  with  chuckles,  confessed. 
And  after  Mr.  Harris  and  Mr.  Jennings  had  preferred 
tlieir  claims  to  the  character  of  having  been  sad  dogs  too, 
they  separated  harmoniously,  and  trotted  home. 

The  decrees  of  Fate,  and  the  means  by  which  they  are 
brought  about,  are  mysterious  and  inscrutable.  John 
Dounce  had  led  this  life  for  twenty  years  and  upwards, 
without  wish  for  change,  or  care  for  variety,  when  his 
whole  social  system  was  suddenly  upset,  and  turned 
completely  topsy-turvy — not  by  an  earthquake,  or  some 
other  dreadful  convulsion  of  nature,  as  the  reader  would 
be  inclined  to  suppose,  but  by  the  simple  agency  of  an 
oyster  ;  and  thus  it  happened. 

Mr.  John  Dounce  was  returning  one  night  from  the 
Sir  Somebody's  Head,  to  his  residence  in  Cursi tor-street 
— not  tipsy,  but  rather  excited,  for  it  was  Mr.  Jennings's 
birthday,  and  they  had  had  a  brace  of  partridges  for  sup- 
per, and  a  brace  of  extra  glasses  afterwards,  and  Jones 
had  been  more  than  ordinarily  amusing — when  his  eyes 
rested  on  a  newly  opened  oyster-shop,  on  a  magnificent 
scale,  with  natives  laid  one  deep,  in  circular  marble 
basins  in  the  windows,  together  with  little  round  bar- 
rels of  oysters  directed  to  Lords  and  Baronets,  and 
Colonels  and  Captains,  in  every  part  of  the  habitable 
globe. 

Behind  the  natives  were  the  barrels,  and  behind  the 
barrels  was  a  young  lady  of  about  five-and-twenty,  all 
in  blue,  and  all  alone — splendid  creature,  charming  face, 
and  lovely  figure  !  It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  Mr. 
John  Dounce's  red  countenance,  illuminated  as  it  was  by 
the  flickering  gas  light  in  the  window  before  which  he 
paused,  excited  the  lady's  risibility,  or  whether  a  nat- 
ural exuberance  of  animal  spirits  proved  too  much  for 
that  staidness  of  demeanour  which  the  forms  of  society 
rather  dictatorially  prescribe.  But  certain  it  is,  that  the 
lady  smiled  ;  then  put  her  finger  upon  her  lip,  with  a 
striking  recollection  of  what  was  due  to  herself,  and 
finally  retired,  in  oyster-like  bashfulness,  to  the  very 
back  of  the  counter.  The  sad-dog  sort  of  feeling  came 
strongly  upon  John  Dounce  :  he  lingered— the  lady  in 
blue  made  no  sign.  He  coughed — still  she  came  not. 
He  entered  the  shop. 

"Can  you  open  me  an  oyster,  my  dear?"  said  Mr. 
John  Dounce, 

"  Dare  say  I  can,  sir,"  replied  the  lady  in  blue,  with 
playfulness.  And  Mr.  John  Dounce  eat  one  oyster,  and 
then  looked  at  the  young  lady,  and  then  ate  another,  and 
then  squeezed  the  young  lady's  hand  as  she  was  opening 
the  third,  and  so  forth,  until  he  had  devoured  a  dozen  of 
those  at  eightpence  in  less  than  no  time. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


901 


"  Can  you  open  me  half-a-dozen  more,  my  dear  ?  "  in- 
quired Mr.  John  Doance. 

"  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  yon,  sir,"  replied  the  young 
lady  in  blue,  even  more  bewitchingly  than  before  ;  and 
Mr.  John  Dounce  ate  half-a-dozen  more  of  those  at 
eightpence. 

"  You  couldn't  manage  to  get  me  a  glass  of  brandy- 
and-water,  my  dear,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Mr.  John  Dounce, 
■when  he  had  finished  the  oysters  ;  in  a  tone  which  clear- 
ly implied  his  supposition  that  she  could. 

"  I'll  see,  sir,"  said  the  young  lady  ;  and  away  she  ran 
out  of  the  shop,  and  down  the  street,  her  long  auburn 
ringlets  shaking  in  the  wind  in  the  most  enchanting 
manner  ;  and  back  she  came  again,  tripping  over  the 
coal-cellar  lids  like  a  whipping-top,  with  a  tumbler  of 
brandy-and-water,  which  Mr.  John  Dounce  insisted  on 
her  taking  a  share  of,  as  it  was  regular  ladies'  grog — hot 
strong,  sweet,  and  plenty  of  it. 

So,  the  young  lady  sat  down  with  Mr.  John  Dounce 
in  a  little  red  box  with  a  green  curtain,  and  took  a 
small  sip  of  the  brandy-and-water,  and  a  small  look  at 
Mr.  John  Dounce,  and  then  turned  her  head  away,  and 
went  through  various  other  serio-pantomimic  fascina- 
tions which  forcibly  reminded  Mr.  John  Dounce  of  the 
first  time  he  courted  his  first  wife,  and  which  made  him 
feel  more  affectionate  than  ever  ;  in  pursuance  of  which 
affection,  and  actuated  by  which  feeling,  Mr,  John 
Dounce  sounded  the  young  lady  on  her  matrimonial  en- 
gagements, when  the  young  lady  denied  having  formed 
any  such  engagements  at  all — she  couldn't  abear  the 
men,  they  were  such  deceivers  ;  thereupon  Mr.  John 
Dounce  inquired  whether  this  sweeping  condemnation 
was  meant  to  include  other  than  very  young  men  ;  on 
which  the  young  lady  blushed  deeply — at  least  she 
turned  away  her  head,  and  said  Mr.  John  Dounce  had 
made  her  blush,  so  of  course  she  did  blush — and  Mr. 
John  Dounce  was  a  long  time  drinking  the  brandy-and- 
water  ;  and  at  last,  John  Dounce  went  home  to  bed,  and 
dreamed  of  his  first  wife,  and  his  second  wife,  and  the 
young  lady,  and  partridges,  and  oysters,  and  brandy-and- 
water,  and  disinterested  attachments. 

The  next  morning  John  Dounce  was  rather  feverish 
with  the  extra  brandy-and-water  of  the  previous  night ; 
and  partly  in  the  hope  of  cooling  himself  with  an  oyster, 
and  partly  with  the  view  of  ascertaining  whether  he 
owed  the  young  lady  anything,  or  not,  went  back  to  the 
oyster-shop.  If  the  young  lady  had  appeared  beautiful 
by  night,  she  was  perfectly  irresistible  by  day  ;  and, 
from  this  time  forward,  a  change  came  over  the  spirit  of 
John  Dounce's  dream.  He  bought  shirt-pins  wore  a  ring 
on  his  third  finger  ;  read  poetry  ;  bribed  a  cheap  minia- 
ture-painter to  perpetrate  a  faint  resemblance  to  a  youth- 
ful face,  with  a  curtain  over  his  head,  six  large  books 
in  the  background,  and  an  open  country  in  the  distance 
(this  he  called  his  portrait);  "  went  on  "  altogether  in 
such  an  uproarious  manner,  that  the  three  Miss  Dounces 
went  off  on  small  pensions,  he  having  made  the  tene- 
ment in  Cursitor-street  too  warm  to  contain  them  ;  and 
in  short,  comported  and  demeaned  himself  in  every  re- 
spect like  an  unmitigated  old  Saracen,  as  he  was. 

As  to  his  jincient  friends,  the  other  old  boy  sat  the  Sir 
Somebody's  Head,  he  dropped  off  from  them  by  gradual 
degrees  :  for,  even  when  he  did  go  there,  Jones — vulgar 
fellow  that  Jones — persisted  in  asking  "  when  it  was  to 
be?  "and  "whether  Iiq  was  to  have  any  gloves?"  to- 
gether with  other  inquiries  of  an  equally  offensive  na- 
ture :  at  which  not  only  Harris  laughed,  but  Jennings 
also ;  so,  he  cut  the  two,  altogether,  and  attached  him- 
self solely  to  the  blue  young  lady  at  the  smart  oyster- 
shop. 

Now  comes  the  moral  of  the  story — for  it  has  a  moral 
after  all.    The  last  mentioned  young  lady,  having  de- 
rived sufficient  profit  and  emolument  from  John  Dounce's 
attachment,  not  only  refused,  when  matters  came  to  a 
crisis,  to  take  him  for  better  for  worse,  but  expressly 
declared,  to  use  her  own  forcible  words,  that  she 
"wouldn't  have  him  at  no  price  ;"  and  John  Dounce, 
having  lost  his  old  friends,  alienated  his  relations,  and 
rendered  himself  ridiculous  to  everybody,  made  offers 
'  cessively  to  a  schoolmistress,  a  landlady,  a  feminine 
>!i.cconist,  and  a  housekeeper  ;  and  being  directly  re- 
ted  by  each  and  every  one  of  them,  was  accepted  by  his 


cook,  with  whom  he  now  lives,  a  henpecked  husband,  a 
melancholy  monument  of  antiquated  misery,  and  a  living 
warning  to  all  uxorious  old  boys. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  Mistaken  Milliner.  A  tale  of  Ambition.. 

Miss  Amelia  Mahtin  was  pale,  tallish,  thin,  and  two- 
and-thirty — what  ill-natured  people  would  call  plain, 
and  police  reports  interesting.  She  was  a  milliner  and 
dressmaker,  living  on  her  business  and  not  above  it. 
If  you  had  been  a  young  lady  in  service,  and  had  wanted 
Miss  Martin,  as  a  great  many  young  ladies  in  service  did, 
you  would  just  have  stepped  up,  in  the  evening,  to 
number  forty-seven,  Drummond-street,  George-street, 
Euston-square,  and  after  casting  your  eye  on  a  brass 
door-plate,  one  foot  ten  by  one  and  a  half,  ornamented 
with  a  great  brass  knob  at  each  of  the  four  corners,  and 
bering  the  inscription  "Miss  Martin;  millinery  and 
dressmaking,  in  all  its  branches;"  you'd  just  have 
knocked  two  loud  knocks  at  the  street-door  ;  and  down 
would  have  come  Miss  Martin  herself,  in  a  merino  gown 
of  the  newest  fashion,  black  velvet  bracelets  on  the  gen- 
teelest  principle,  and  other  little  elegances  of  the  most 
approved  description. 

If  Miss  Martin  knew  the  young  lady  who  called,  or  if 
the  young  lady  who  called  had  been  recommended  by 
any  other  young  lady  whom  Miss  Martin  knew.  Miss 
Martin  would  forthwith  show  her  up-stairs  into  the  two 
pair  front,  and  chat  she  would — so  kind,  and  so  comfort- 
able— it  really  wasn't  like  a  matter  of  business,  she  was 
so  friendly  ;  and,  then  Miss  Martin,  after  contemplating 
the  figure  and  general  appearance  of  the  young  lady  in 
service  with  great  apparent  admiration,  would  say  how 
well  she  would  look,  to-be-sure,  in  a  low  dress  with 
short  sleeves  :  made  very  full  in  the  skirts,  with  four 
tucks  in  the  bottom  ;  to  which  the  young  lady  in  service 
would  reply  in  terms  expressive  of  her  entire  concur- 
rence in  the  notion,  and  of  the  virtuous  indignation  with 
which  she  reflected  on  the  tyranny  of  "Missis,"  who 
wouldn't  allow  a  young  girl  to  wear  a  short  sleeve  of  an 
arternoon — no,  nor  nothing  smart,  not  even  a  pair  of 
ear-rings  ;  let  alone  hiding  people's  heads  of  hair  under 
them  frightful  caps.  At  the  termination  of  this  com- 
plaint. Miss  Amelia  Martin  would  distantly  suggest  cer- 
tain dark  suspicions  that  some  people  were  jealous  on 
account  of  their  own  daughters,  and  were  obliged  to 
keep  their  servants'  charms  under,  for  fear  they  should 
get  married  first,  which  was  no  uncommon  circumstance 
— leastways  she  had  known  two  or  three  young  ladies  in 
service,  who  had  married  a  great  deal  better  than  their 
mistresses,  and  they  were  not  very  good-looking  either  ; 
and  then  the  young  lady  would  inform  Miss  Martin, 
in  confidence,  that  how  one  of  the  young  ladies  was 
engaged  to  a  young  man  and  was  a-going  to  be  married, 
and  Missis  was  so  proud  about  it  there  was  no  bearing 
of  her  ;  but  how  she  needn't  hold  her  head  quite  so  high 
neither,  for,  after  all,  he  was  only  a  clerk.  And,  after 
expressing  due  contempt  for  clerks  in  general,  and  the 
engaged  clerk  in  particular,  and  the  highest  opinion 
possible  of  themselves  and  each  other,  Miss  Martin  and 
the  young  lady  in  service  would  bid  each  other  good 
night,  in  a  friendly  but  perfectly  genteel  manner  :  and 
the  one  went  back  to  her  "  place,"  and  the  other,  to  her 
room  on  the  second-floor  front. 

There  is  no  saying  how  long  Miss  Amelia  Martin  might 
have  continued  this  course  of  life  ;  how  extensive  a 
connexion  she  might  have  established  among  young 
ladies  in  service  ;  or  what  amount  her  demand  upon 
their  quarterly  receipts  might  have  ultimately  attained, 
had  not  an  unforeseen  train  of  circumstances  directed 
her  thoughts  to  a  sphere  of  action  very  different  from 
dressmaking  or  millinery. 

A  friend  of  Miss  Martin's  who  had  long  been  keeping 
company  with  an  ornamental  painter  and  decorator's 
journeyman,  at  last  consented  (on  being  at  last  asked  to  do 
so)  to  name  the  day  which  would  make  the  aforesaid 
journeyman  a  happy  husband.  It  was  a  Monday  that 
was  appointed  for  the  celebration  of  the  nuptials,  and 


902 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Miss  Amelia  Martin  was  invited,  among  others,  to  honour 
the  wedding-dinner  with  her  presence.  It  was  a  charm- 
ing party  ;  Somers'  town  the  locality,  and  a  front  parlour 
the  apartment.  The  ornamental  painter  and  decorator's 
journeyman  had  taken  a  house— no  lodgings  nor  vulgarity 
of  that  kind,  but  a  house— four  beautiful  rooms,  and  a 
delightful  little  washhouse  at  the  end  of  the  passage— 
which  was  the  most  convenient  thing  in  the  world,  for 
the  bridesmaids  could  sit  in  the  front  parlour  and  receive 
the  company,  and  then  run  into  the  little  washhouse  and 
see  how" the  pudding  and  boiled  pork  were  getting  on  in 
the  copper,  and  then  pop  back  into  the  parlour  again,  as 
snug  and  comfortable  as  possible.  And  such  a  parlour 
as  it  was  !  Beautiful  Kidderminster  carpet — six  bran- 
new  cane-bottomed  stained  chairs — three  wine-glasses 
and  a  tumbler  on  each  sideboard — farmer's  girl  and 
farmer's  boy  on  the  mantelpiece  :  girl  tumbling  over  a 
stile,  and  boy  spitting  himself,  on  the  handle  of  a  pitch- 
fork—long white  dimity  curtains  in  the  window — and, 
in  short,  everything  on  the  most  genteel  scale  imagin- 
able. 

Then,  the  dinner.  There  was  baked  leg  of  mutton  at 
the  top,  boiled  leg  of  mutton  at  the  bottom,  pair  of 
fowls  and  leg  of  pork  in  the  middle  ;  porter-pots  at  the 
corners ;  pepper,  mustard,  and  vinegar  in  the  centre  ; 
vegetables  on  the  floor;  and  plum-pudding  and  apple-pie 
and  tartlets  without  number  :  to  say  nothing  of  cheese, 
and  celery,  and  water-cresses,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
As  to  the  company  !  Miss  Amelia  Martin  herself  de- 
clared, on  a  subsequent  occasion,  that,  much  as  she  had 
heard  of  the  ornamental  painter's  journeyman's  connex- 
ion, she  never  could  have  supposed  it  washalf  so  genteel. 
There  was  his  father,  such  a  funny  old  gentleman — and 
his  mother,  such  a  dear  old  lady— and  his  sister,  such  a 
charming  girl — and  his  brother,  such  a  manly-looking 
young  man — with  such  an  eye  !  But  even  all  these  were 
as  nothing  when  compared  with  his  musical  friends,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph,  from  White  Conduit,  with 
whom  the  ornamental  painter's  journeyman  had  been 
fortunate  enough  to  contract  an  intimacy  while  engaged 
in  decorating  the  concert-room  of  that  noble  institution. 
Tohear  them  sing  separately,  was  divine,  but  when  they 
went  through  the  tragic  duet  of  "  Red  Ruffian,  retire  !  " 
it  was,  as  Miss  Martin  afterwards  remarked,  "thrilling." 
And  why  (as  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph  observed)  why  were 
they  not  engaged  at  one  of  the  patent  theatres.  If  he 
was  to  be  told  that  their  voices  were  not  powerful  enough 
to  fill  the  House,  his  only  reply  was,  that  he  would  back 
himself  for  any  amount  to  fill  Russell-square — a  state- 
ment in  which  the  company,  after  hearing  the  duet, 
expressed  their  full  belief  ;  so  they  all  said  it  was  shame- 
ful treatment ;  and  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph 
said  it  was  shameful  too  ;  and  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph 
looked  very  serious,  and  said  he  knew  who  his  malignant 
opponents  were,  but  they  had  better  take  care  how  far 
they  went,  for  if  they  irritated  him  too  much  he  had  not 
quite  made  up  his  mind  whether  he  wouldn't  bring  the 
subject  before  Parliament ;  and  they  all  agreed  that  it 
"  'ud  serve  'em  quite  right,  and  it  was  very  proper  that 
such  people  should  be  made  an  example  of."  So  Mr. 
Jennings  Rodol})h  said  he'd  think  of  it. 

When  the  conversation  resumed  its  former  tone,  Mr. 
Jennings  Rodolph  claimed  his  right  to  call  upon  a  lady, 
and  the  right  being  conceded,  trusted  Miss  Martin  would 
favour  the  company — a  yjroposal  which  met  with  unani- 
mous approbation,  whereupon  Miss  Martin,  after  sundry 
hesitatings  and  coughings,  with  a  preparatory  choking 
or  two,  and  an  introductory  declaration  that  she  was 
frightened  to  deatli  to  attem])t  it  before  such  great  judges 
of  the  art,  commenced  a  species  of  treble  chirruping 
containing  frequently  allusions  to  some  young  gentleman 
of  the  name  of  llen-e-ry,  with  an  occasional  reference  to 
madness  and  broken  hearts.  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph 
frequently  interrupted  the  ]>rogress  of  the  song,  by  ejac- 
ulating "  Beautiful  !  " — "  Charming  ! " — "Brilliant  !  " — 
"Oh  !  splendid,"  &c.  ;  and  at  its  close,  the  admiration  of 
himself,  and  his  lady,  knew  no  bounds. 

"Did  you  ever  bear  so  sweet  a  voice,  ray  dear?" 
inquired  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph  of  Mrs.  Jennings  Ro- 
dolph. 

"Never;  indeed  I  never  did,  love;"  replied  Mrs. 
Jennings  Rodolph. 


"  Don't  you  think  Miss  Martin,  with  a  little  cultivation, 
would  be  very  like  Signora  Marra  Boni,  my  dear?"  asked 
Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph. 

"Just  exactly  the  very  thing  that  struck  me,  my 
love,"  answered  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph. 

And  thus  the  time  passed  away  ;  Mr.  Jennings  Ro- 
dolph played  tunes  on  a  walking-stick,  and  then  went 
behind  the  parlour  door  and  gave  his  celebrated  imita- 
tions of  actors,  edge-tools,  and  animals  ;  Miss  Martin 
sang  several  other  songs  with  increased  admiration 
every  time  ;  and  even  the  funny  old  gentleman  began 
singing.  His  song  had  properly  seven  verses,  but  as  he 
couldn't  recollect  more  than  the  first  one  he  sang  that 
over,  seven  times,  apparently  very  much  to  his  own 
personal  gratification.  And  then  all  the  company  sang 
the  national  anthem  with  national  independence— each 
for  himself,  without  reference  to  the  other — and  finally 
separated  :  all  declaring  that  they  never  had  spent  so 
pleasant  an  evening  :  and  Miss  Martin  inwardly  resolving 
to  adopt  the  advice  of  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph,  and  to 
"come  out"  without  delay. 

Now  "coming  put,"  either  in  acting,  or  singing,  or 
society,  or  facetiousness,  or  anything  else,  is  all  very 
well,  and  remarkably  pleasant  to  the  individual  princi- 
pally concerned,  if  he  or  she  can  but  manage  to  come 
out  with  a  burst,  and  being  out,  to  keep  out,  and  not  go 
m  again  ;  but,  it  does  unfortunately  happen  that  both 
consummations  are  extremely  difficult  to  accomplish, 
and  that  the  difficulties,  of  getting  out  at  all  in  the  first* 
instance,  and  if  you  surmount  them,  of  keeping  out  in 
the  second,  are  pretty  much  on  a  par,  and  no  slight  ones 
either — and  so  Miss  Amelia  Martin  shortly  discovered. 
It  is  a  singular  fact  (there  being  ladies  in  the  case)  that 
Miss  Amelia  Martin's  foible  was  vanity,  and  the  leading 
characteristic  of  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph  an  attachment 
to  dress.  Dismal  wailings  were  heard  to  issue  from  the 
second  floor  front,  of  number  forty-seven,  Drummond- 
street,  George-street,  Euston-square  ;  it  was  Miss  Martin 
practising.  Half-suppressed  murmurs  disturbed  the 
calm  dignity  of  the  White  Conduit  orchestra  at  the 
the  commencement  of  the  season.  It  was  the  appearance 
of  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph  in  full  dress,  that  occasioned 
them.  Miss  Martin  studied  incessantly— the  practising 
was  the  consequence.  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph  taught 
gratuitiously  now  and  then — the  dresses  were  the  re- 
sult. 

Weeks  passed  away  ;  the  White  Conduit  season  had 
begun,  had  progressed,  and  was  more  than  half  over. 
The  dress-making  business  had  fallen  off,  from  neglect ; 
and  its  profits  had  dwindled  away  almost  imperceptibly. 
A  benefit-night  approached ;  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph 
yielded  to  the  earnest  solicitations  of  Miss  Amelia  Mar- 
tin, and  introduced  her  personally  to  the  "comic  gentle- 
man" whose  benefit  it  was.  The  comic  gentleman  was 
all  smiles  and  blandness— he  had  composed  a  duet,  ex- 
pressly for  the  occasion,  and  Miss  Martin  should  sing  it 
with  him.  The  night  arrived  ;  there  was  an  immense 
room  —  ninety-seven  sixpenn'orths  of  gin-and-water, 
thirty-two  small  glasses  of  brandy-and-water,  five-and- 
twenty  bottled  ales,  and  forty-one  neguses  :  and  the  or- 
namental painter's  journeyman,  with  his  wife  and  a  select 
circle  of  acquaintance,  were  seated  at  one  of  the  side- 
tables  near  the  orchestra.  The  concert  began.  Song — 
sentimental— by  a  light-haired  young  gentleman  in  ablue 
coat,  and  bright  basket  buttons  [applause].  Another 
song,  doubtful,  by  another  gentfeman  in  another  blue 
coat  and  more  bright  basket  buttons— [increased  ap- 
plause]. Duet,  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph,  and  Mrs.  Jennings 
Rodolph,  "Red  Ruffian,  retire  !  "—[great  applause]. 
Solo,  Miss  Julia  Montague  (positively  on  this  occasion 
only)— "  I  am  a  friar  "—[enthusiasm].  Original  duet, 
comic— Mr.  H.  Taplin  (the  comic  gentleman)  and  Miss 
Martin— "The  Time  of  Day."  "  Brayvo  I— Bray vo  1" 
cried  the  ornamental  painter's  journeyman's  party,  aSi 
Miss  Martin  was  gracefully  led  in  by  the  comic  gentle-J 
man.  "  Go  to  work,  Harry, "  cried  the  comic  gentleman's 
personal  friends.  "  Tap— tap — tap,"  went  the  leader's 
bow  on  the  music  desk.  The  symphony  began,  and  was 
soon  afterwards  followed  by  a  faint  kind  of  ventriloquiaJj 
chirping,  proceeding  apparently  from  the  deepest  re- 
cesses of  the  interior  of  Miss  Amelia  Martin.  "Sing 
out " — shouted  one  gentleman  in  a  white  great-coat.i 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


903 


''Don't  be  afraid  to  put  the  steam  on,  old  gal,"  exclaimed 
another.  "S — s — s — s— s — s — s" — went  the  five-and- 
tvventy  bottled  ales.  "  Shame,  shame  ! "  remonstrated 
the  ornamental  painter's  journeyman's  party — "  S — s — s 
— s  "  went  the  bottled  ales  again,  accompanied  by  alltbe 
gins,  and  a  majority  of  tiie  brandies. 

"  Turn  them  geese  out,"  cried  the  ornamental  paint- 
er's journeyman's  party,  with  great  indignation. 

"  Sing  out,"  whispered  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph. 

"  So  I  do,"  responded  Miss  Amelia  Martin. 

*'  Sing  louder,"  said  Mrs.  Jennings  Rodolph. 

"I  can't,"  replied  Miss  Amelia  Martin. 
Otf,  off,  off,"  cried  the  rest  of  the  audience. 

"  Bray-vo  !  "  shouted  the  painter's  party.  It  wouldn't 
do — Miss  Amelia  Martin  left  the  orchestra,  with  much 
less  ceremony  than  she  liad  entered  it ;  and,  as  she 
couldn't  sing  out,  never  came  out.  The  general  good 
humour  was  not  restored  until  Mr.  Jennings  Rodolph 
had  become  purple  in  the  face,  by  imitating  divers 
quadrupeds  for  half  an  hour,  without  being  able  to 
render  himself  audible  ;  and,  to  this  day,  neither  has 
Miss  Amelia  Martin's  good  humour  been  restored,  nor 
the  dresses  made  for  and  presented  to  Mrs.  Jennings 
Rodolph,  nor  the  vocal  abilities  which  Mr.  Jennings 
Rodolph  once  staked  his  professional  reputation  that 
Miss  Martin  possessed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Dancing  Academy. 

Of  all  the  dancing  academies  that  ever  were  estab- 
lished, there  never  was  one  more  popular  in  its  imme- 
diate vicinity  than  Signor  Billsmethi's  of  the  "  King's 
Theatre."  It  was  not  in  Spring-gardens,  or  Newman- 
street,  or  Berners-street,  or  Gower-street,  or  Charlotte- 
street,  or  Percy-street,  or  any  other  of  the  numerous 
streets  which  have  been  devoted  time  out  of  mind  to 
professional  people,  dispensaries,  and  boarding-houses  ; 
it  was  not  in  the  West-end  at  all — it  rather  approxi- 
mated to  the  eastern  portion  of  London,  being  situated 
in  the  populous  and  improving  neighbourhood  of  Gray's- 
inn-lane.  It  was  not  a  dear  dancing  academy — four- 
and-sixpence  a  quarter  is  decidedly  cheap  upon  the 
whole.  It  w^as  very  select,  the  number  of  pupils  being 
strictly  limited  to  seventy-five,  and  a  quarter's  pay- 
ment in  advance  being  rigidly  exacted.  There  was 
public  tuition  and  private  tuition — an  assembly-room 
and  a  parlour.  Signor  Billsmethi's  family  were  always 
thrown  in  with  the  parlour,  and  included  in  parlour 
price  ;  that  is  to  say,  a  private  pupil  had  Signor  Bill- 
smethi's pailour  to  dance  in,  and  Signor  Billsmethi's 
family  to  dance  tnth  ;  and  when  he  had  been  sufficiently 
broken  in  in  the  parlour,  he  began  to  run  in  couples  in 
the  Assembly-room. 

Such  was  the  dancing  academy  of  Signor  Billsmethi, 
when  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper,  of  Fetter-lane,  first  saw  a>n 
unstamped  advertisement  walking  leisurely  down  Hol- 
born-hill,  announcing  to  the  Avorld  that  Signor  Bill- 
smethi, of  the  King's  Theatre,  intended  opening  for  the 
season  with  a  Grand  Ball, 

Now,  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  was  in  the  oil  and  colour 
line — just  of  age,  with  a  little  money,  a  little  business, 
and  a  little  mother,  who  having  managed  her  husband 
and  his  business  in  his  lifetime  took  to  managing  her 
son  and  his  business  after  his  decease  ;  and  so,  somehow 
or  other,  he  had  been  cooped  up  in  the  little  back  par- 
lour behind  the  shop  on  week  days,  and  in  a  litJe  deal 
box  without  a  lid  (called  by  courtesy  a  pew)  at  Bethel 
Chapel,  on  Sundays,  and  had  seen  no  more  of  the  Avorld 
than  if  he  had  been  an  infant  all  his  days ;  whereas 
Young  White,  at  the  Gas-fitter's  over  the  way,  three 
years  younger  than  him,  had  been  flaring  away  like 
winkin' — going  to  the  theatre — supping  at  harmonic 
meetings — eating  oysters  by  the  barrel — drinking  stout 
by  the  gallon — even  stopping  out  all  night,  and  coming 
home  as  cool  in  the  morning  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
So  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
■would  not  stand  it  any  longer,  and  had  that  very  morn- 
ing expressed  to  his  mother  a  firm  determination  to  be 


"  blowed,"  in  the  event  of  his  not  being  instantly  pro- 
vided with  a  street-door  key.  And  he  was  walking 
down  Holborn-hill,  thinking  about  all  these  things,  and 
wondering  how  he  could  manage  to  get  introduced  into 
genteel  society  for  the  first  time,  when  his  eyes  rested 
on  Signor  Billsmethi's  announcement,  which  it  immedi  - 
ately struck  him  was  just  the  very  thing  he  wanted  ; 
for  he  should  not  only  be  able  to  select  a  genteel  circle 
of  acquaintance  at  once,  out  of  the  five-and-seventy  pu- 
pils at  four-and-sixpence  a  quarter,  but  should  qualify 
himself  at  the  same  time  to  go  through  a  horn-pipe  in 
private  society,  with  perfect  ease  to  himself,  and  great 
delight  to  his  friends.  So,  he  stopped  the  unstamped 
advertisement — an  animated  sandwich,  composed  of  a 
boy  between  two  boards — and  having  procured  a  very 
small  card  with  the  Signer's  address  indented  thereon, 
walked  straight  at  once  to  the  Siguor's  house — and  very 
fast  he  walked  too,  for  fear  the  list  should  be  fill^^d  up, 
and  the  five-and-seventy  completed,  before  he  got  tlicre. 
The  Signor  was  at  home,  and,  what  was  still  more  grati- 
fying, he  was  an  Englishman  !  Such  a  nice  man— and 
so  polite  !  The  list  was  not  full,  but  it  was  a  most  ex- 
traordinary circumstance  that  tliere  was  only  just  one 
vacancy,  and  even  that  one  would  have  been  filled  up, 
that  very  morning,  only  Signor  Billsmethi  was  dissatis- 
fied with  the  reference,  and  being  very  much  afraid 
that  the  lady  wasn't  select,  wouldn't  take  her.  "And 
very  much  delighted  I  am,  Mr.  Cooper,"  said  Signor 
Billsmethi,  "that  I  did  not  take  her.  I  assure  you,  Mr. 
Cooper — I  don't  say  it  to  flatter  you,  for  I  know  you're 
above  it — that  I  consider  myself  extremely  fortunate  in 
having  a  gentleman  of  your  manners  and  appearance, 
sir." 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it  too,  sir,"  said  Augustus  Cooper. 

"  And  I  hope  we  shall  be  better  acquainted,  sir,"  said 
Signor  Billsmethi. 

"And  I'm  sure  I  hope  we  shall  too,  sir,"  responded 
Augustus  Cooper.  Just  then,  the  door  opened,  and  in 
came  a  young  lady,  with  her  hair  curled  in  a  crop  all  over 
her  head,  and  her  shoes  tied  in  sandals  all  over  her  an- 
kles. 

"Don't  run  away,  my  dear,"  said  Signor  Billsmethi  ; 
for  the  young  lady  didn't  know  Mr.  Cooper  was  there 
when  she  ran  in,  and  was  going  to  ru7i  out  again  in 
her  modesty,  all  in  confusion  like.  "Don't  run  away, 
my  dear,"  said  Signor  Billsmethi,  "this  is  Mr.  Cooper — 
Mr.  Cooper,  of  Fetter-lane.  Mr.  Cooper,  my  daughter, 
sir — Miss  Billsmethi,  sir,  who  I  hope  will  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  dancing  many  a  quadrille,  minuet,  gavotte,  coun- 
try dance,  fandango,  double-hornpipe,  and  farinagholka- 
jingo  with  you,  sir.  She  dances  them  all,  sir  ;  and  so 
shall  you  sir  before  you're  a  quarter  older,  sir." 

And  Signor  Billsmethi  slapped  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper 
on  the  back,  as  if  he  had  known  him  a  dozen  years, — so 
friendly  ; — and  Mr.  Cooper  bowed  to  the  young  lady,  and 
the  young  lady  curtseyed  to  him,  and  Signor  Billsmethi 
said  they  were  as  handsome  a  pair  as  ever  he'd  wish  to 
see  ;  upon  which  the  young  lady  exclaimed  "Lor,  pa  !" 
and  blushed  as  red  as  Mr.  Cooper  himself — you  might 
have  thought  they  were  both  standing  under  a  red  lamp 
at  a  chemist's  shop  ;  and  before  Mr.  Cooper  went  away 
it  was  settled  that  he  should  join  the  family  circle  that 
very  night — taking  them  just  as  they  were — no  ceremo- 
ny nor  nonsense  of  that  kind — and  learn  his  positions, 
in  order  that  he  might  lose  no  time,  and  be  able  to  come 
out  at  the  forthcoming  ball. 

Well ;  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  went  away  to  one  of  the 
cheap  shoemakers'  shops  in  Holborn,  where  gentlemen's 
dress-pumps  are  seven-and-sixpence,  and  men's  strong 
walking  just  nothing  at  all,  and  bought  a  pair  of  the  reg- 
ular seven-and-sixpenny,  long-quartered,  toAvn  mades,  in 
which  he  astonished  himself  quite  as  much  as  his  moth- 
er, and  sallied  forth  to  Signor  Billsmethi's.  There  were 
four  other  private  pupils  in  the  parlour  ;  two  ladies  and 
two  gentlemen.  Such  nice  people  !  Not  a  bit  of  pride 
about  them.  One  of  the  ladies  in  particular,  who  was 
in  training  for  a  Columbine,  was  remarkably  affable  ;  and 
she  and  Miss  Billsmethi  took  such  an  interest  in  Mr.  Au- 
gustus Cooper,  and  joked  and  smiled,  and  looked  so  be- 
witching, that  he  got  quite  at  home,  and  learnt  his  steps 
in  no  time.  After  the  practising  was  over,  Signor  Bill- 
smethi, and  Miss  Billsmethi,  and  Master  Billsmethi,  and 


904 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORK 8. 


a  young  lady,  and  the  two  ladies,  and  the  two  gentlemen, 
danced  a  quadrille— none  of  your  slipping  and  sliding 
about,  but  regular  w^arm  work,  flying  into  corners,  and 
diving  among  chairs,  and  shooting  out  at  the  door, — 
something  like  dancing  !  Signor  Billsmethi  in  particu- 
lar, notwithstanding  his  having  a  little  fiddle  to  play  all 
the  time,  was  out  on  the  landing  every  figure,  and  Mas- 
ter Billsmethi,  when  everybody  else  was  breathless, 
danced  a  hornpipe,  with  a  cane  in  his  hand,  and  a  cheese- 
plate  on  his  head,  to  the  unqualified  admiration  of  the 
whole  company.  Then  Signor  Billsmethi  insisted  as 
they  were  so  happy,  that  they  should  all  stay  to  supper, 
and  proposed  sending  Master  Billsmethi  for  the  beer  and 
spirits,  whereupon  the  two  gentlemen  swore  "  strike  'em 
wulgar  if  they'd  stand  that  ; "  and  were  just  going  to 
quarrel  who  should  pay  for  it,  when  Mr.  Augustus  Coo- 
per said  be  would,  if  they'd  have  the  kindness  to  allow 
him — and  they  had  the  kindness  to  allow  him  ;  and  Mas- 
ter Billsmethi  brought  the  beer  in  a  can,  and  the  rum  in 
a  quartpot.  They  had  a  regular  night  of  it ;  and  Miss 
Billsmethi  squeezed  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper's  hand  under 
the  table  ;  and  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  returned  the  squeeze 
and  returned  home  too,  at  something  to  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  when  he  was  put  to  bed  by  main  force  by 
the  apprentice,  after  repeatedly  expressing  an  uncontrol- 
lable desire  to  pitch  his  reverend  parent  out  of  the  sec- 
ond-floor window,  and  to  throttle  the  apprentice  with  his 
own  neck -handkerchief. 

Weeks  had  worn  on,  and  the  seven-and-sixpenny  town- 
mades  had  nearly  worn  out,  when  the  night  arrived  for 
the  grand  dress-ball  at  which  the  whole  of  the  five-and- 
seventy  pupils  were  to  meet  together,  for  the  first  time 
that  season,  and  to  take  out  some  portion  of  their  re- 
spective four-and-sixpences  in  lamp  oil  and  fiddlers. 
Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  had  ordered  a  new  coat  for  the  oc- 
casion— a  two-pound-tenner  from  Turnstile.  It  was  his 
first  appearance  in  public  ;  and,  after  a  grand  Sicilian 
shawl-dance  by  fourteen  young  ladies  in  character,  he 
was  to  open  the  quadrille  department  with  Miss  Bill- 
smethi herself,  with  whom  he  had  become  quite  intimate 
since  his  first  introduction.  It  teas  a  night  I  Every  thing 
was  admirably  arranged.  The  sandwich-boy  took  the 
hats  and  bonnets  at  the  street-door  ;  there  was  a  turn-up 
bedstead  in  the  back  parlour,  on  which  Miss  Billsmethi 
made  tea  and  coffee  for  such  of  the  gentlemen  as  chose 
to  pay  for  it,  and  such  of  the  ladies  as  the  gentlemen 
treated  ;  red  port-wine  negus  and  lemonade  were  handed 
round  at  eighteen-pence  a  head  ;  and  in  pursuance  of  a 
previous  engagement  with  the  public-house  at  the  corner 
of  the  street,  an  extra  pot-boy  was  laid  on  for  the  occa- 
sion. In  short,  nothing  could  exceed  the  arrangements, 
except  the  company.  Such  ladies  !  Such  pink  silk 
stockings  !  Such  artificial  flowers  !  Such  a  number  of 
cabs  !  No  sooner  had  one  cab  set  down  a  couple  of  la- 
dies, than  another  cab  drove  up  and  set  down  another 
couple  of  ladies,  and  they  all  knew :  not  only  one  an- 
other, but  the  majority  of  the  gentlemen  into  the  bar- 
gain, which  made  it  all  as  pleasant  and  lively  as  could 
be.  Signor  Billsmethi,  in  black  tights,  with  a'large  blue 
bow  in  his  buttonhole,  introduced  the  ladies  to  such  of 
the  gentlem.en  as  were  strangers  ;  and  the  ladies  talked 
away — and  laughed  they  did — it  was  delightful  to  see 
them. 

As  to  the  shawl-dance,  it  was  the  most  exciting  thing 
that  ever  was  beheld  ;  there  was  such  a  whisking, 
and  rustling,  and  fanning,  and  getting  ladies  into  a 
tangle  with  artificial  flowers,  and  then  disentangling 
them  again  !  And  as  to  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper's  share 
in  the  quadrille,  he  got  through  it  admirably.  He  was 
missing  from  his  partner,  now  and  tlien.  certainly,  and 
discovered  on  such  occasions  to  be  either  dancing  with 
laudable  perseverence  in  another  set,  or  sliding  about  in 
perspective,  without  any  definite  object  ;  but  generally 
speaking,  they  managed  to  shove  him  through  the  figure, 
until  he  turned  up  in  the  right  place.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
when  he  had  finished,  a  great  many  ladies  and  gentle- 
men came  up  and  complimented  him  very  much,  and 
said  they  had  never  seen  a  beginner  do  anything  like  it 
before  ;  and  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  was  perfectly  satisfied 
with  himself,  and  everybody  else  into  the  bargain  ;  and 
"stood"  considerable  quantities  of  spirits  and- water, 
negus  and  compounds,  for  the  use  and  behoof  of  two  or 


three  dozen  very  particular  friends,  selected  from  the 
select  circle  of  five-and-seventy  pupils. 

Now,  whether  it  was  the  strength  of  the  compounds, 
or  the  beauty  of  the  ladies,  or  what  not,  it  did  so  happen 
that  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  encouraged,  rather  than  re- 
pelled, the  very  flattering  attentions  of  a  young  lady  in 
brown  gauze  over  white  calico  who  had  appeared  par- 
ticularly struck  with  him  from  the  first ;  and  when  the 
encouragements  had  been  prolonged  for  some  time.  Miss 
Billsmethi  betrayed  her  spite  and  jealousy  thereat  by  call- 
ing  the  young  lady  in  brown  gauze  a  "  creetur,"  which 
induced  the  young  lady  in  brown  gauze  to  retort,  in  cer- 
tain sentences  containing  a  taunt  founded  on  the  pay- 
ment of  four-and-sixpence  a  quarter,  Avhich  reference 
Mr.  Augustus  Cooper,  being  then  and  there  in  a  state  of 
considerable  beVilderment,  expressed  his  entire  concur- 
rence in.  Miss  Billsmethi,  thus  renounced,  forthwith 
began  screaming  in  the  loudest  key  of  her  voice,  at  the 
rate  of  fourteen  screams  a  minute  ;  and  being  unsuccess- 
ful, in  an  onslaught  on  the  eyes  and  face,  first  of  the 
lady  in  gauze  and  then  of  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper,  called 
distractedly  on  the  other  three-and-seventy  pupils  to 
furnish  her  with  oxalic  acid  for  her  own  private  drink- 
ing ;  and,  the  call  not  being  honoured,  made  another 
rush  at  Mr.  Cooper,  and  then  had  her  stay-lace  cut,  and 
was  carried  off  to  bed.  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper,  not  being 
remarkable  for  quickness  of  apprehension,  was  at  a  loss 
to  understand  what  all  this  meant,  until  Signor  Bill- 
smethi explained  it  in  a  most  satisfactory  manner,  by 
stating  to  the  pupils  that  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  had  made 
and  confirmed  divers  promises  of  marriage  to  his  daugh- 
ter on  divers  occasions,  and  had  now  basely  deserted  her; 
on  which,  the  indignation  of  the  pupils  became  univer- 
sal ;  and  as  chivalrous  gentlemen  inquired  rather  press- 
ingly  of  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper,  whether  he  required 
anything  for  his  own  use,  or,  in  other  words  whether  he 
"  wanted  anything  for  himself,"  he  deemed  it  prudent 
to  make  a  precipitate  retreat.  And  the  upshot  of  the 
matter  was,  that  a  lawyer's  letter  came  next  day,  and  an 
action  was  commenced  next  week  ;  and  that  Mr.  Augus- 
tus Cooper,  after  walking  twice  to  the  Serpentine  for 
the  purpose  of  drowning  himself,  and  coming  twice  back  , 
without  doing  it,  made  a  confidant  of  his  mother,  who 
compromised  the  matter  with  twenty  pounds  from  the 
till :  which  made  twenty  pounds  four  shillings  and  six- 
pence paid  to  Signor  Billsmethi,  exclusive  of  treats  and 
pumps.  And  Mr.  Augustus  Cooper  went  back  and  lived 
with  his  mother,  and  there  he  lives  to  this  day  ;  and  as 
he  has  lost  his  ambition  for  society,  and  never  goes  into 
the  world,  he  will  never  see  this  account  of  himself, 
and  will  never  be  any  the  wiser.  i 


CHAPTER  X. 

Shabby-genteel  People. 

There  are  certain  descriptions  of  people  who,  oddly 
enough,  appear  to  appertain  exclusively  to  the  metrop- 
olis. You  meet  them,  every  day,  in  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don, but  no  one  ever  encounters  them  elsewhere  ;  they 
seem  indigenous  to  the  soil,  and  to  belong  as  exclusively 
to  London,  as  its  own  smoke,  or  the  dingy  bricks  and 
mortar.  We  could  illustrate  the  remark  by  a  variety  of 
examples,  but,  in  our  present  sketch,  we  will  only  advert 
to  one  class  as  a  specimen — that  class  which  is  so  aptly 
and  expressively  designated  as  "shabby-genteel." 

Now^,  shabby  people,  God  knows,  may  be  found  any 
where,  and  genteel  people  are  not  articles  of  greater 
scarcity  out  of  London  than  in  it  ;  but  this  compound  of 
the  two  —  this  shabby-gentility  —  is  as  purely  local  as 
the  statue  at  Charing- cross,  or  the  pump  at  Aldgate.  It 
is  worthy  of  remark,  too,  that  only  men  are  shabby* 
genteel  ;  a  woman  is  always  either  dirty  and  slovenly  in 
the  extreme,  or  neat  and  respectable,  however  poverty- 
stricken  in  appearance.  A  very  poor  man,  "who  has! 
seen  better  days,"  as  the  phrase  goes,  is  a  strange  com-, 
pound  of  dirty  slovenliness  and  wretched  attempts  at 
faded  smartness. 

We  will  endeavour  to  explain  our  conception  of  the  I 
term  which  forms  the  title  of  this  paper.    If  you  meet  a  I 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


905 


man,  lounging  up  Drury-lane,  or  leaning  witli  his  hack 
against  a  post  in  Long-acre,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets 
of  a  pair  of  drab  trousers  plentifully  besprinkled  with 
grease-spots  :  the  trousers  made  very  full  over  the  boots, 
and  ornamented  with  two  cords  down  the  outside  of  each 
leg — wearing,  also,  what  has  been  a  brown  coat  with 
bright  buttons,  and  a  hat  very  much  pinched  up  at  the 
sides,  cocked  over  his  right  eye — don't  pity  him.  He  is 
not  shabby-genteel.  The  "harmonic  meetings"  at  some 
fourth-rate  public-house,  or  the  purlieus  of  a  private 
theatre,  are  his  chosen  haunts ;  he  entertains  a  rooted 
antipathy  to  any  kind  of  work,  and  is  on  familiar  terms 
with  several  pantomime  men  at  the  large  houses.  But, 
if  you  see  hurrying  along  a  bye  street,  keeping  as  close 
as  he  can  to  the  area-railings,  a  man  of  about  forty  or 
fifty,  clad  in  an  old  rusty  suit  of  threadbare  black  cloth 
which  shines  with  constant  wear  as  if  it  had  been  bees- 
waxed— the  trousers  tightly  strapped  down,  partly  for 
the  look  of  the  thing  and  partly  to  keep  his  old  shoes 
from  slipping  off  at  the  heels, — if  you  observe,  too,  that 
his  yeTlowish-white  neckerchief  is  carefully  pinned  up,  to 
conceal  the  tattered  garment  underneath,  and  that  his 
hands  are  encased  in  the  remains  of  an  old  pair  of  beaver 
gloves,  you  may  set  him  down  as  a  shabby-genteel  man, 
A  glance  at  that  depressed  face,  and  timorous  air  of  con- 
scious poverty,  will  make  your  heart  ache — always  sup- 
posing that  you  are  neither  a  philosopher  nor  a  political 
economist. 

We  were  once  haunted  by  a  shabby-genteel  man  ;  he 
was  bodily  present  to  our  senses  all  day,  and  he  was  in 
our  mind's  eye  all  night.  The  man  of  whom  Sir  Walter 
Scott  speaks  of  in  his  Demonology,  did  not  suffer  half 
the  persecution  from  his  imaginary  gentleman-usher  in 
black  velvet,  that  we  sustained  from  our  friend  in  quon- 
dam black  cloth.  He  first  attracted  our  notice,  by  sitting 
opposite  to  us  in  the  reading-room  at  the  British  Museum  ; 
and  what  made  the  man  more  remarkable  was,  that  he 
always  had  before  him  a  couple  of  shabby-genteel  books 
—  two  old  dogs-eared  folios,  in  mouldy  worm-eaten 
covers,  which  had  once  been  smart.  He  was  in  his  chair 
every  morning,  just  as  the  clock  struck  ten  ;  he  was 
always  the  last  to  leave  the  room  in  the  afternoon  ;  and 
when  he  did,  he  quitted  it  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
knew  not  where  else  to  go,  for  warmth  and  quiet  There 
he  used  to  sit  all  day,  as  close  to  the  table  as  possible, 
in  order  to  conceal  the  lack  of  buttons  on  his  coat  :  with 
his  old  hat  carefully  deposited  at  his  feet,  where  he 
evidently  flattered  himself  it  escaped  observation. 

About  two  o'clock  you  would  see  him  munching  a 
French  roll  or  a  penny  loaf  ;  not  taking  it  boldly  out  of 
his  pocket  at  once,  like  a  man  who  knew  he  was  only 
making  a  lunch  ;  but  breaking  off  little  bits  in  his 
pocket,  and  eating  them  by  stealth.  He  knew  too  well 
it  was  his  dinner. 

When  we  first  saw  this  poor  object,  we  thought  it 
quite  impossible  that  his  attire  could  ever  become  worse. 
We  even  went  so  far,  as  to  speculate  on  the  possibility 
of  his  shortly  appearing  in  a  decent  second-hand  suit. 
We  knew  nothing  about  the  matter  ;  he  grew  more  and 
more  shabby-genteel  every  day.  The  buttons  dropped 
off  his  waistcoat,  one  by  one  ;  then,  he  buttoned  his  coat; 
and  when  one  side  of  the  coat  was  reduced  to  the  same 
condition  as  the  waistcoat,  he  buttoned  it  over  on  the 
other  side.  He  looked  somewhat  better  at  the.  beginning 
of  the  week  than  at  the  conclusion,  because  the  necker- 
chief, though  yellow,  was  not  quite  so  dingy  ;  and,  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  wretchedness,  he  never  appeared  with- 
out gloves  and  straps.  He  remained  in  this  state  for  a 
week  or  two.  At  length,  one  of  the  buttons  on  the  back 
of  the  coat  fell  off,  and  then  the  man  himself  disap- 
peared, and  we  thought  he  was  dead. 

We  were  sitting  at  the  same  table  about  a  week  after 
his  disappearance,  and  as  our  eyes  rested  on  his  vacant 
chair,  we  insensibly  fell  into  a  train  of  meditation  on  the 
subject  of  his  retirement  from  public  life.  We  were 
wondering  whether  he  had  hung  himself  or  throv^^n  him- 
self off  a  bridge — whether  he  really  was  dead  or  had 
only  been  arrest(?d — when  our  conjectures  were  suddenly 
set  at  rest  by  the  entry  of  the  man  himself.  He  had 
undergone  some  strange  metamorphosis,  and  walked  up 
the  centre  of  room  with  an  air  which  showed  he  was 
fully  confident  of  the  improvement  in  his  appearance 


It  was  very  odd.  His  clothes  were  a  fine,  deep,  and 
glossy  black  ;  and  yet  they  looked  like  the  same  suit : 
nay,  there  were  the  very  darns  with  which  old  acquaint- 
ance had  made  us  familiar.  The  hat,  too — nobody  could 
mistake  the  shape  of  that  hat,  with  its  high  crown 
gradually  increasing  in  circumference  towards  the  top. 
Long  service  had  imparted  to  it  a  reddish -brown  tint  ; 
but  now,  it  was  as  black  as  the  coat.  The  truth  flashed 
suddenly  upon  us — they  had  been  "revived."  It  is  a 
deceitful  liquid  that  black  and  blue  reviver  ;  we  have 
watched  its  effects  on  many  a  shabby-genteel  man.  It 
betrays  its  victims  into  a  temporary  assumption  of  im- 
portance :  possibly  into  the  purchase  of  a  new  pair  of 
gloves,  or  a  cheap  stock,  or  some  other  trifling  article  of 
dress.  It  elevates  their  spirits  f()r  a  week,  only  to  de- 
press them,  if  possible,  below  their  original  level.  It 
was  so  in  this  case  ;  the  transient  dignity  of  the  un- 
happy man  decreased,  in  exact  proportion  as  the  "re- 
viver "  wore  off.  The  knees  of  the  unmentionables,  and 
the  elbows  of  the  coat,  and  the  seams  generally,  soon 
began  to  get  alarmingly  white.  The  hat  was  once  more 
deposited  under  the  table,  and  its  owner  crept  into  his 
seat  as  quietly  as  ever. 

There  was  a  week  of  incessant  small  rain  and  mist. 
At  its  expiration  the  "reviver"  had  entirely  vanished, 
and  the  shabby-genteel  man  never  afterwards  attempted 
to  effect  any  improvement  in  his  outward  appearance. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  particular  part  of 
town  as  the  principal  resort  of  shabby-genteel  men.  We 
have  met  a  great  many  persons  of  this  description  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  inns  of  court.  They  may  be  met 
with,  in  Holtoorn,  between  eight  and  ten  any  morning  ; 
and  whoever  has  the  curiosity  to  enter  the  Insolvent 
Debtors'  Court  will  observe,  both  among  spectators  and 
practitioners,  a  great  variety  of  them.  We  never 
went  on  'Change,  by  any  chance,  without  seeing  some 
shabby-genteel  men,  and  we  have  often  wondered  what 
earthly  business  they  can  have  there.  They  will  sit 
there,  for  hours,  leaning  on  great,  dropsical,  mildewed 
umbrellas,  or  eating  Abernethy  biscuits.  Nobody  speaks 
to  them,  nor  they  to  any  one.  On  consideration,  we 
remember  to  have  occasionally  seen  two  shabby-genteel 
men  conversing  together  on  'Change,  but  our  experience 
assures  us  that  this  is  an  uncommon  circumstance,  oc- 
casioned by  the  offer  of  a  pinch  of  snuff,  or  some  such 
civility. 

It  would  be  a  task  of  equal  difficulty,  either  to  assign 
any  particular  spot  for  the  residence  of  these  beings,  or 
to  endeavour  to  enumerate  their  general  occupations. 
We  were  never  engaged  in  business  with  more  than  one 
shabby-genteel  man  ;  and  he  was  a  drunken  engraver, 
and  lived  in  a  damp  back-parlour  in  a  new  row  of  houses 
at  Camden-town,  half  street,  half  brick-field,  somewhere 
near  the  canal.  A  shabby  genteel  man  may  have  no 
occupation,  or  he  may  be  a  corn  agent,  or  a  coal  agent, 
or  a  wine  agent,  or  a  collector  of  del3ts,  or  a  broker's 
assistant,  or  a  broken  down  attorney.  He  may  be  a 
clerk  of  the  lowest  description,  or  a  contributor  to  the 
press  of  the  same  grade.  Whether  our  readers  have 
noticed  these  men,  in  their  walks,  as  often  as  we  have, 
Ave  know  not  ;  this  we  know — that  the  miserably  poor 
man  (no  matter  whether  he  owes  his  distresses  to  his 
own  conduct,  or  that  of  others)  who  feels  his  poverty 
and  vainly  strives  to  conceal  it,  is  one  of  the  most  piti- 
able objects  in  human  nature.  Such  objects,  with  few 
exceptions,  are  shabby-genteel  people. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Making  a  Night  of  It. 

Damon  and  Pythias  were  undoubtedly  very  good  fel- 
lows in  their  way  :  the  former  for  his  extreme  readiness 
to  put  in  special  bail  for  a  friend  :  and  the  latter  for  a 
certain  trump-like  punctuality  in  turning  up  just  in  the 
very  nick  of  time,  scarcely  less  remarkable.  Many 
points  in  their  character  have,  however,  grown  obsolete, 
Damons  are  rather  hard  to  find,  in  these  days  of  imprison- 
ment for  debt  (except  the  sham  ones,  and  they  cost  half- 
a-crown) ;  and,  as  to  the  Pythiases,  the  few  that  have 


906 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


existed  in  tliese  degenerate  times,  have  had  an  unfortu- 
nate knack  of  making  themselves  scarce,  at  the  very 
moment  when  their  appearance  would  have  been  strictly 
classical.  If  the  actions  of  these  heroes,  however,  can 
find  no  parallel  in  modern  times,  their  friendship  can. 
We  have  Damon  and  Pythias  on  the  one  hand.  We  have 
Potter  and  Smithers  on  the  other  ;  and,  lest  the  two  last- 
mentioned  names  should  never  have  reached  the  ears 
of  our  unenlightened  readers,  we  can  do  no  better  than 
make  them  acquainted  with  the  owners  thereof. 

Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  then,  was  a  clerk  in  the  city,  and 
Mr.  Robert  Smithers  was  a  ditto  in  the  same  ;  their  in- 
comes were  limited,  but  their  friendship  was  unbounded. 
They  lived  in  the  same  street,  walked  into  town  every 
morning  at  the  same  hour,  dined  at  the  same  slap-bang 
every  day,  and  revelled  in  each  other's  company  every 
night.  They  v/ere  knit  together  by  the  closest  ties  of 
intimacy  and  friendship,  or,  as  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  touch- 
ing!} observed,  they  were  "  thick-and-thin  pals,  and 
nothing  but  it."  There  was  a  spice  of  romance  in  Mr. 
Smitliers's  disposition,  a  ray  of  poetry,  a  gleam  of  mis- 
ery a  sort  of  consciousness  of  he  didn't  exactly  know 
what,  coming  across  him  he  didn't  precisely  know  why 
— which  stood  out  in  fine  relief  against  the  off  -hand, 
dashing,  amatear-pickpocket-sort-of-manner,  which  dis- 
tinguished Mr.  Potter  is  an  eminent  degree. 

The  peculiarity  of  their  respective  dispositions,  extend- 
ed itself  to  their  individual  costume.  Mr.  Smithers  gen- 
erally appeared  in  public  in  a  surtout  and  shoes,  with  a 
narrow  black  neckerchief  and  a  brown  hat,  very  much 
turned  up  at  the  sides — peculiarities  which  Mr.  Potter 
wholly  eschewed,  for  it  was  his  ambition  to  do  something 
in  the  celebrated  "  kiddy  "  or  stage  coach  way,  and  he 
had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  invest  capital  in  the  purchase 
of  a  rough  blue  coat  with  wooden  buttons,  made  upon 
the  fireman's  principle,  in  which,  with  the  addition  of  a 
crowned,  flower-pot-saucer-shaped  hat,  he  bad  created 
no  inconsiderable  sensation  at  the  Albion  in  Little  Rus- 
sell-street, and  divers  other  places  of  public  and  fashion- 
able resort. 

Mr.  Potter  and  Mr.  Smithers  had  mutually  agreed  that 
on  the  receipt  of  their  quarter's  salary,  they  would  joint- 
ly and  in  company  "spend  the  evening" — an  evident 
misnomer — the  spending  applying,  as  everybody  knows, 
not  to  the  evening  itself  but  to  all  the  money  the  indi- 
vidual may  chance  to  be  possessed  of,  on  the  occasion  to 
which  reference  is  made  ;  and  they  had  likewise  agreed 
that,  on  the  evening  aforesaid,  they  would  "make  a 
night  of  it  " — an  expressive  term,  implying  the  borrow- 
ing of  several  hours  from  to-morrow  morning,  adding 
them  to  the  night  before,  and  manufacturing  a  compound 
night  of  the  whole. 

The  quarter-day  arrived  at  last — we  say  at  last,  be- 
cause quarter  days  are  as  eccentric  as  comets  :  moving 
wonderfully  quick  when  you  have  a  good  deal  to  pay, 
and  marvellously  slow  when  you  have  a  little  to  receive. 
Mr.  Thomas  Potter  and  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  met  by  ap- 
pointment to  begin  the  evening  with  a  dinner ;  and  a 
nice,  snug,  comfortable  dinner  they  had,  consisting  of  a 
little  procession  of  four  chops  and  four  kidneys,  follow- 
ing each  other,  supported  on  either  side  by  a  pot  of  the 
real  draught  stout,  and  attended  by  divers  cushions  of 
bread,  and  wedges  of  cheese. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  or- 
dered the  waiter  to  bring  in  two  goes  of  his  best  Scotch 
whiskey,  with  warm  water  and  sugar,  and  a  cou- 
ple of  his  "  very  mildest"  Ilavannahs,  which  the  waiter 
did.  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  mixed  his  grog,  and  lighted 
his  cigar  ;  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  did  the  same  ;  and  then, 
Mr.  Thomas  Potter  jocularly  proposed  as  the  first  toast, 
"  the  abolition  of  all  offices  whatever"  (not  sinecures  but 
counting-houses),  which  was  immediately  drunk  by  Mr. 
Robert  Smithers  with  onthusiatic  applause.  So  they 
went  on,  talidng  politics,  pulfing  cigars  and  sipping 
whiskey-and-water,  until  the  "goes" — most  appro- 
priately so  called — were  both  gone,  whicli  Mr.  Robert 
Smithers  perceiving,  immediately  ordered  in  two  more 
goes  of  the  best  Scotch  whiskey,  and  two  more  of  the 
very  mildest  Ilavannahs  ;  and  the  goes  kept  coming  in, 
and  the  mild  Ilavannahs  kept  going  out,  until  what  with 
the  drinking,  and  lighting,  and  i)utfing,  and  the  stale 
ashes  on  the  table,  and  the  tallow-grease  on  the  cigars, 


Mr.  Robert  Smithers  began  to  doubt  the  mildness  of  the 
Havannahs,  and  to  feel  very  much  as  if  he  had  been  ait- 
ting  in  a  hackney-coach  with  his  back  to  the  horses. 

As  to  Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  he  icovld  keep  laughing  out 
loud,  and  volunteering  inarticulate  declarations  that  he 
was  "  all  right  ;  "  in  proof  of  which  he  feebly  bespoke 
the  evening  paper  after  the  next  gentleman,  but  finding 
it  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  to  discover  any  news  in  its 
columns,  or  to  ascertain  distinctly  whether  it  had  any  col- 
umns at  all,  walked  slowly  out  to  look  for  the  moon,  and, 
after  coming  back  quite  pale  with  looking  up  at  the  sky  so 
long,  and  attempting  to  express  mirth  at  Mr.  Robert 
Smithers  having  fallen  asleep,  by  various  galvanic  chuck- 
les, laid  his  head  on  his  arm,  and  went  to  sleep  also. 
When  he  awoke  again,  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  awoke  too, 
and  they  both  very  gravely  agreed  it  was  extremely  un- 
wise to  eat  so  many  pickled  walnuts  with  the  chops,  as 
it  was  a  notorious  fact  that  they  always  made  people 
queer  and  sleepy  ;  indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
whiskey  and  the  cigars,  there  was  no  knowing  what 
harm  they  might  have  done  'era.  So  they  took  some 
coffee,  and  after  paying  the  bill, — twelve  and  twopence 
the  dinner,  and  the  odd  tenpence  for  the  waiter — thir- 
teen shillings  in  all — started  out  on  their  expedition  to 
manufacture  a  night. 

It  was  just  half -past  eight,  so  they  thought  they 
couldn't  do  better  than  go  at  half-price  to  the  slips  at 
the  City  Theatre,  which  they  did  accordingly.  Mr. 
Robert  Smithers,  who  had  become  extremely  poetical 
after  the  settlement  of  the  bill,  enlivening  the  walk  by 
informing  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  in  confidence  that  he  felt 
an  inward  presentiment  of  approaching  dissolution,  and 
subsequently  embellishing  the  theatre,  by  falling  asleep 
with  his  head  and  both  arms  gracefully  drooping  over 
the  front  of  the  boxes. 

Such  was  the  quiet  demeanour  of  the  unassuming 
Smithers,  and  such  were  the  happy  effects  of  Scotch 
whiskey  and  Havannahs  on  that  interesting  person  ! 
But  Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  whose  great  aim  it  was  to  be 
considered  as  a  "knowing  card,"  a  "  fast  goer,"  and  so 
forth,  conducted  himself  in  a  very  different  manner,  and 
commenced  going  very  fast  indeed — rather  too  fast  at 
last,  for  the  patience  of  the  audience  to  keep  pace  with 
him.  On  his  first  entry,  he  contented  himself  by  earn- 
estly calling  upon  the  gentlemen  in  the  gallery  to  "  flare 
up,"  accompanying  the  demand  with  another  request, 
expressive  of  his  wish  that  they  would  instantaneously 
"  form  a  union,"  both  which  requisitions  were  responded 
to,  in  the  manner  most  in  vogue  on  such  occasions, 

"  Give  that  dog  a  bone  !  "  cried  one  gentleman  in  his 
shirt-sleeves. 

"  Where  have  you  been  a  having  half  a  pint  of  inter- 
mediate beer  ?  "  cried  a  second.  "  Tailor  !  "  screamed  a 
third.  "  Barber's  clerk  !  "  shouted  a  fourth.  "  Throw 
him  O — VER  1  "  roared  a  fifth  ;  while  numerous  voices 
concurred  in  desiring  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  to  "go  home 
to  his  mother  I "  All  these  taunts  Mr.  Thomas  Potter 
received  with  supreme  contempt,  cocking  the  low- 
crowned  hat  a  little  more  on  one  side,  whenever  any  ref- 
erence was  made  to  his  personal  appearance,  and,  stand- 
ing up  with  his  arms  a-kimbo,  expressing  defiance  melo- 
dramatically. 

The  overture — to  which  these  various  sounds  had  been 
an  ad  libitum  accompaniment — concluded,  the  second 
piece  began,  and  Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  emboldened  by  im- 
punity, proceeded  to  behave  in  a  most  unprecedented 
and  outrageous  manner.  First  of  all,  he  imitated  the 
shake  of  the  principal  female  singer  ;  then,  groaned  at 
the  blue  fire  ;  then,  affected  to  be  frightened  into  con- 
vulsions of  terror  at  the  appearance  of  the  ghost  ;  and, 
lastly,  not  only  made  a  running  commentary,  in  an  au- 
dible voice,  upon  the  dialogue  on  the  stage,  but  actually 
awoke  Mr.  Robert  Smithers,  who,  hearing  his  compan- 
ion making  a  noise,  and  having  a  very  indistinct  notion 
where  he  was,  or  what  was  required  of  him,  immediate- 
ly, by  way  of  imitating  a  good  example,  set  up  the  most 
unearthly,  unremitting,  and  appalling  howling  that  ever 
audience  heard.  It  was  too  much.  "T^urn  them  out  1" 
was  the  general  cry.  A  noise,  as  of  shuffling  of  feet  and 
men  being  knocked  up  with  violence  against  wainscot- 
ting,  was  heard  :  a  hurried  dialogue  of  "  Come  out?'' — 
"  1  won't  1 "  You  shall  1 "— "  I  shan't  !  "— "  Give  me. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


907 


your  card,  sir  !  " — "  You're  a  scoundrel,  sir  !  "  and  so 
forth  succeeded.  A  round  of  applause  betokened  the 
approbation  of  the  audience,  and  Mr.  Robert  Smithers 
and  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  found  themselves  shot  with  as- 
tonishing swiftness  into  the  road,  without  having  had 
the  trouble  of  once  putting  foot  to  ground  during  the 
whole  progress  of  their  rai)id  descent. 

Mr.  Robert  Smithers,  being  constitutionally  one  of  the 
slow-goers,  and  havmg  had  quite  enough  of  fast-going, 
in  the  course  of  his  recent  expulsion,  to  last  until  the 
quarter-day  then  next  ensuing  at  the  very  least,  had  no 
sooner  emerged  with  his  companion  from  the  precinct  of 
Millon-street,  than  he  proceeded  to  indulge  in  circuitous 
references  to  the  beauties  of  sleep,  mingled  with  distant 
allusions  to  the  propriety  of  returning  to  Islington,  and 
testing  the  influence  of  their  patent  Bramahs  over  the 
street-door  locks  to  which  they  respectively  belonged. 
Mr.  Thomas  Potter,  however,  was  valorous  and  per- 
emptory. They  had  come  out  to  make  a  night  of  it : 
and  a  night  must  be  made.  So  Mr.  Robert  Smithers, 
who  was  three  parts  dull,  and  the  other  dismal,  despair- 
ingly assented  ;  and  they  went  into  a  wine-vault,  to  get 
materials  for  assisting  them  in  making  a  night ;  where 
they  found  a  good  many  young  ladies,  and  various  old 
gentlemen,  and  a  plentiful  sprinkling  of  hackney-coach- 
men and  cab-drivers,  all  drinking  and  talking  together  ; 
and  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  and  Mr.  Robert  Smithers  drank 
small  glasses  of  brandy,  and  large  glasses  of  soda,  until 
they  began  to  have  a  very  confused  idea,  either  of  things 
in  general,  or  of  anything  in  particular  ;  and,  when  they 
had  done  treating  themselves  they  began  to  treat  every- 
body else  ;  and  the  rest  of  the  entertainment  was  a  con- 
fused mixture  of  heads  and  heels,  black  eyes  and  blue 
uniforms,  mud  and  gas-lights,  thick  doors  and  stone 
paving. 

Then,  as  standard  novelists  expressively  inform  us 
— "all  was  a  blank  !  "  and  in  the  morning  the  blank  was 
filled  up  with  the  words  "  Station-house,"  and  the 
station-house  was  filled  up  with  Mr.  Thomas  Potter, 
Mr.  Robert  Smithers,  and  the  major  part  of  their  wine- 
vault  companions  of  the  preceding  night,  with  a  com- 
paratively small  portion  of  clothing  of  any  kind.  And 
it  was  disclosed  at  the  Police-office,  to  the  indignation  of 
the  Bench,  and  the  astonishment  of  the  spectators,  how 
one  Robert  Smithers,  aided  and  abetted  by  one  Thomas 
Potter,  had  knocked  down  and  beaten,  in  divers  streets, 
at  different  times,  five  men  and  four  boys  and  three 
women  ;  how  the  said  Thomas  Potter  had  feloniously 
obtained  possession  of  five  door-knockers,  two  bell- 
handles,  and  a  bonnet ;  how  Robert  Smithers,  his  friend, 
had  sworn,  at  least  forty  pounds'  worth  of  oaths,  at  the 
rate  of  five  shillings  a-piece  ;  terrified  whole  streets  full 
of  Her  Majesty's  subjects  with  awful  shrieks  and  alarms 
of  fire  ;  destroyed  the  uniforms  of  five  policemen  ;  and 
committed  various  other  atrocities,  too  numerous  to  re- 
capitulate. And  the  Magistrate,  after  an  appropriate 
reprimand,  fined  Mr.  Thomas  Potter  and  Mr.  Robert 
Smithers  five  shillings  each,  for  being,  what  the  law 
vulgarly  terms,  drunk  ;  and  thirty-four  pounds  for  seven- 
teen assaults  at  forty  shillings  a-head,  with  liberty  to 
speak  to  the  prosecutors. 

The  prosecutors  were  spoken  to,  and  Messrs.  Potter 
and  Smithers  lived  on  credit,  for  a  quarter,  as  best  they 
might ;  and  although  the  y^rosecutors  expressed  their 
readiness  to  be  assaulted  twice  a  week,  on  the  same 
terms,  they  have  never  since  been  detected  in  "making 
a  night  of  it. " 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  Prisoners'  Van. 

We  were  passing  the  corner  of  Bow-street,  on  our  re- 
turn from  a  lounging  excursion  the  other  afternoon, 
when  a  crowd  assembled  round  the  door  of  the  Police- 
office,  attracted  our  attention.  We  turned  up  the  street 
accordingly.  There  were  thirty  or  forty  people,  stand- 
ing on  the  pavement  and  half  across  the  road  ;  and  a  few 
stragglers  were  patiently  standing  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  way — all  eviflently  waiting  in  expectation  of  some 
arrival.    We  waited  too,  a  few  minutes,  but  nothing  oc- 


curred ;  so  we  turned  round  to  an  unshorn,  sallow-look- 
ing cobbler,  who  was  standing  next  us  with  his  hands 
under  the  bib  of  his  apron,  and  put  the  usual  question 
of  "What's  the  matter?"  The  cobbler  eyed  us  from 
head  to  foot,  with  superlative  contempt,  and  laconically 
replied  "Nuffin." 

Now,  wc  were  perfectly  aware  that  if  two  men  stop  in 
the  street  to  look  at  any  given  object,  or  even  to  gaze  in 
the  air,  two  hundred  men  will  be  assembled  in  no  time  ; 
but,  as  we  knew  very  well  that  no  crowd  of  people 
could  by  possibility  remain  in  a  street  for  five  minutes 
without  getting  up  a  little  amusement  among  themselves, 
unless  they  had  some  absorbing  object  in  view,  the 
natural  inquiry  next  in  order  was,  "  What  are  ail  these 
l^eople  waiting  here  for?" — "Her  Majesty's  carriage," 
replied  the  cobbler.  This  was  still  more  extraordinary. 
We  could  not  imagine  what  earthly  business  Her  Majes- 
ty's could  have  at  the  Public  Office,  Bow-street.  We 
were  beginning  to  ruminate  on  the  possible  causes  of 
such  an  uncommon  appearance,  when  a  general  exclama- 
tion from  all  the  boys  in  the  crowd  of  "  Here's  the  wan  I" 
caused  us  to  raise  our  heads,  and  look  up  the  street. 

The  covered  vehicle,  in  which  prisoners  are  conveyed 
from  the  police-offices  to  the  different  prisons,  was  com- 
ing along  at  full  speed.  It  then  occurred  to  us,  for  the 
first  time,  that  her  Majesty's  carriage  was  merely  another 
name  for  the  prisoner's  van,  conferred  upon  it,  not  only 
by  reason  of  the  superior  gentility  of  the  term,  but  be- 
cause the  aforesaid  van  is  maintained  at  Iler  Majesty's 
expense  :  having  been  originally  started  for  the  exclu- 
sive accomodation  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  under  the 
necessity  of  visiting  the  various  houses  of  call  known  by 
the  general  denomination  of  "Her  Majesty's  Gaols." 

The  van  drew  up  at  the  office  door,  and  the  people 
thronged  round  the  steps,  just  leaving  a  little  alley  for 
prisoners  to  pass  through.  Our  friend,  the  cobbler,  and 
the  other  stragglers,  crossed  over,  and  we  followed  their 
example.  The  driver,  and  another  man  who  had  been 
seated  by  his  side  in  front  of  the  vehicle,  dismounted, 
and  were  admitted  into  the  office.  The  office  door  was 
closed  after  them,  and  the  crowd  were  on  the  tiptoe  of 
expectation. 

After  a  few  minutes'  delay,  the  door  again  opened,  and 
the  two  first  prisoners  appeared.  They  weje  a  couple 
of  girls,  of  whom  the  elder  could  not  have  been  more 
than  sixteen,  and  the  younger  of  whom  had  certainly 
not  attained  her  fourteenth  year.  That  they  were  sis- 
ters, was  evident,  from  the  resemblance  which  still  sub- 
sisted between  them,  though  two  additional  years  of 
depravity  had  fixed  their  brand  upon  the  elder  girl's 
features,  as  legibly  as  if  a  red-hot  iron  had  seared  them. 
They  were  both  gaudily  dressed,  the  younger  one  especi- 
ally ;  and  although  there  was  a  strong  similarity  be- 
tween them  in  both  respects,  which  was  rendered  the 
more  obvious  by  their  being  hand-cuffed  together,  it  is 
impossible  to  conceive  a  greater  contrast  than  the 
demeanour  of  the  two  presented.  The  younger  girl  was 
weeping  bitterly — not  for  display,  or  in  the  hope  of  pro- 
ducing effect,  but  for  very  shame ;  her  face  was  buried 
in  her  handkerchief  ;  and  her  whole  manner  was  but 
too  expressive  of  bitter  and  unavailing  sorrow. 

"How  long  are  you  for,  Emily?"  screamed  a  red- 
faced  woman  in  the  crowd.  "Six  weeks  and  labour," 
replied  the  elder  girl  with  a  flaunting  laugh  ;  "  and  that's 
better  than  the  stone  jug  anyhow  ;  the  mill's  deal  better 
than  the  Sessions,  and  here's  Bella  a-going  too  for  the 
first  time.  Hold  up  your  head,  you  chicken,"  she  con- 
tinued, boisterously  tearing  the  other  girl's  handker- 
chief away ;  "  Hold  up  your  head,  and  show  'em  your 
face,  I  an't  jealous,  but  I'm  blessed  if  I  an't  game  !  " — 
"  That's  right,  old  gal,"  exclaimed  a  man  in  a  paper 
cap,  who,  in  common  with  the  greater  part  of  the  crow  d, 
had  been  inexpressibly  delighted  with  this  little  incident. 
— "  Right  !  "  replied  the  girl  !  "ah,  to  be  sure  ;  what's 
the  odds,  eh?" — "Come!  In  with  you,"  interrupted 
the  driver. — "Don't  you  be  in  a  hurry,  coachman,"  re- 
plied the  girl.  "  and  recollect  I  want  to  be  set  down  in 
Cold  Bath  Fields — large  house  with  a  high  garden-w  all 
in  front  ;  you  can't  mistake  it.  Hallo.  Bella,  where 
are  you  going  to — you'll  pull  my  precious  arm  off?" 
This*  was  addressed  to  the  younger  girl,  who,  in  her 
anxiety  to  hide  herself  in  the  caravan,  had  ascended  the 


908 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


steps  first,  and  forg-otten  tlie  strain  npon  the  handcuff  ; 
"Come  down,  and  let's  show  you  the  way."  And  after 
jerlcing  tlie  miserable  girl  down  with  a  force  which  made 
her  stagger  on  the  pavement,  she  got  into  the  vehicle, 
and  was'followed  by  her  wretched  companion. 

These  two  girls  had  been  thrown  upon  London  streets, 
their  vices  and  debauchery,  by  a  sorbid  and  rapacious 
mother.  What  the  younger  girl  was,  then,  the  elder 
had  been  once  ;  and  what  the  elder  then  was,  the  younger 
must  soon  become.  A  melancholy  prospect,  but  how 
to  be  realised  ;  a  tragic  drama,  but  how  often  acted  ! 
Turn  to  the  prisons  and  police  offices  of  London — nay, 
look  into  the  very  streets  themselves.  These  things  pass 
before  our  eyes,  day  after  day,  hour  after  hour — they 
have  become  such  matters  of  course,  that  they  are  utterly 
disregarded.  The  progress  of  these  girls  in  crime  will  be 
as  rapid  as  the  flight  of  a  pestilence,  resembling  it  too  in 


its  baneful  influence  and  wide-spreading  infection.  Step 
by  step,  how  many  wretched  females,  within  the  sphere 
of  every  man's  observation,  have  become  involved  in  a  ca- 
reer of  vice,  frightful  to  contemplate  ;  hopeless  at  its  com- 
mencement, loathsome  and  repulsive  in  its  course;  friend- 
less, forlorn,  and  unpitied,  at  its  miserable  conclusion  1 

There  were  other  prisoners — boys  of  ten,  as  hardened 
in  vice  as  men  of  fifty — a  houseless  vagrant,  going  joy- 
fully to  prison  as  a  place  of  food  and  shelter,  handcuffed 
to  a  man  whose  prospects  were  ruined,  character  lost, 
and  family  rendered  destitute,  by  his  first  offence.  Our 
curiosity,  however,  was  satisfied.  The  first  group  had 
left  an  impression  on  our  mind  we  would  gladly  have 
avoided,  and  would  willingly  have  effaced. 

The  crowd  dispersed  ;  the  vehicle  rolled  away  with  its 
load  of  guilt  and  misfortune  j  and  we  saw  no  more  of  the 
Prisoners'  Van. 


—  4-  ^ 

TALES. 


CHAPTER  L 

The  Boarding-house.    Chapter  I. 

M"RS.  TiBBS  was,  beyond  all  dispute,  the  most  tidy, 
fidgety,  thrifty,  little  personage  that  ever  inhaled  the 
smoke  of  London  :  and  the  house  of  Mrs.  Tibbs  was, 
decidedly  the  neatest  in  all  Great  Coram-street.  The 
area  and  the  area  steps,  and  the  street-door,  and  the 
street-door  steps,  and  the  brass  handle,  and  the  door- 
plate,  and  the  knocker,  and  the  fan-light,  were  all  as 
clean  and  bright  as  indefatigable  white-washing,  and 
hearth-stoning,  and  scrubbing  and  rubbing  could  make 
them.  The  wonder  was,  that  the  brass  door-plate,  with 
the  interesting  inscription  "Mrs.  Tibbs,"  had  never 
caught  fire  from  constant  friction,  so  perseveringly  was 
it  polished.  There  were  meat-safe-looking  blinds  in  the 
parlour  windows,  blue  and  gold  curtains  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  spring-roller  blinds,  as  Mrs.  Tibbs  was  wont 
in  the  pride  of  her  heart  to  boast,  *'all  the  way  up." 
The  bell-lamp  in  the  passage  looked  as  clear  as  a  soap- 
bubble  ;  you  could  see  yourself  in  all  the  tables,  and 
French-polish  yourself  on  any  one  of  the  chairs.  The 
banisters  were  bees'-waxed  ;  and  the  very  stair-wires 
made  your  eyes  wink,  they  were  so  glittering. 

Mrs.  Tibbs  was  somewhat  short  of  stature,  and  Mr. 
Tibbs  was  by  no  means  a  large  man.  He  had  moreover, 
very  short  legs,  but  by  way  of  indemnification,  his  face 
was  peculiarly  long.  He  was  to  his  wife  what  the  0  is 
in  90 — he  was  of  some  importance  iDith  her — he  was 
nothing  without  her.  Mrs.  Tibbs  was  always  talking. 
Mr.  Tibbs  rarely  spoke  ;  but,  if  it  were  at  any  time  pos- 
sible to  put  in  a  word,  when  he  should  have  said  nothing 
at  all,  he  had  that  talent.  Mrs.  Tibbs  detested  long 
stories,  and  Mr.  Tibbs  had  one,  the  conclusion  of  which 
had  never  been  hoard  by  his  most  intimate  friends.  It 
always  began,  "  I  recollect  when  I  was  in  the  volunteer 
corps,  in  eighteen  hundred  and  six," — but,  as  he  spoke 
very  slowly  and  softly,  and  his  better  half  very  quickly 
and  loudly,  he  rarely  got  beyond  the  introductory  sen- 
tence. He  was  a  melancholy  specimen  of  the  story-tel- 
ler.   He  was  the  wandering  Jew  of  Joe  Millerism. 

Mr.  Tibbs  enjoyed  a  small  independence  f  rom  the  pen- 
sion-list— about  43^.  15-9.  lOrl  a-year.  His  father,  mother, 
and  five  interesting  scions  from  the  same  stock  drew  a  like 
sum  from  the  revenue  of  a  grateful  country,  though  for 
what  particular  service  was  never  known.  But,  as  this  said 
independence  was  not  quite  sufficient  to  furnish  two  peo- 
ple with  all  tlie  luxuries  of  this  life,  it  had  occurred  to  the 
busy  little  spouse  of  Tibbs,  that  the  best  thing  she  could 
do  with  a  legacy  of  700/.,  would  be  to  take  and  furnish  a 
tolerable  house — somewhere  in  that  partially  oxjdored 
tract  of  country  which  li(;s  between  the  British  Museum, 
and  a  remote  village  called  Somers'  town — for  the  recep- 


tion of  boarders.  Great  Coram-street  was  the  spot 
pitched  upon.  The  house  had  been  furnished  accord- 
ingly ;  two  female  servants  and  a  boy  engaged  ;  and  an 
advertisement  inserted  in  the  morning  papers,  informing 
the  public  that  "Six  individuals  would  meet  with  all 
the  comforts  of  a  cheerful  musical  home  in  a  select 
private  family,  residing  within  ten  minutes'  walk  of  " — 
everywhere.  Answers  out  of  number  were  received, 
with  all  sorts  of  initials  ;  all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet 
seemed  to  be  seized  with  a  sudden  wish  to  go  out  board- 
ing and  lodging  ;  voluminous  was  the  correspondence 
between  Mrs.  Tibbs  and  the  applicants ;  and  most  pro- 
found was  the  secrecy  observed.  "  E."  didn't  like  this  ; 
"  I."  couldn't  think  of  putting  up  with  that ;  "  L  O.  U." 
didn't  think  the  terms  would  suit  him;  and  "G.  R.'* 
had  never  slept  in  a  French  bed.  The  result,  however, 
was,  that  three  gentlemen  became  inmates  of  Mrs. 
Tibbs's  house,  on  terms  which  were  "  agreeable  to  all 
parties."  In  went  the  advertisement  again,  and  a  lady 
with  her  two  daughters,  proposed  to  increase — not  their 
families,  but  Mrs.  Tibbs's. 

"  Charming  woman,  that  Mrs.  Maplesone  !"  said  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  as  she  and  her  spouse  were  sitting  by  the  fire 
after  breakfast ;  the  gentlemen  having  gone  out  on  their 
several  avocations.  "  Charming  woman,  indeed  ! "  re- 
peated little  Mrs.  Tibbs,  more  by  way  of  soliloquy  than 
anything  else,  for  she  never  thought  of  consulting  her 
husband.  "  And  the  two  daughters  are  delightful. 
We  must  have  some  fish  to-day  ;  they'll  join  us  at  din- 
ner for  the  first  time." 

Mr.  Tibbs  placed  the  poker  at  right  angles  with  the 
fire  shovel,  and  essayed  to  speak,  but  recollected  he  had 
nothing  to  say. 

"  The  young  ladies,"  continued  Mrs.  T.  " have  kindly 
volunteered  to  bring  their  own  piano." 

Tibbs  thought  of  the  volunteer  story,  but  did  not  ven- 
ture it.    A  bright  thought  struck  him — 

"  It's  very  likely — "  said  he. 

"  Pray  don't  lean  your  head  against  the  paper,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Tibbs;  "and  don't  put  your  feet  on  the 
steel  fender  ;  that's  worse." 

Tibbs  took  his  head  from  the  paper,  and  his  feet  from 
the  fender,  and  proceeded.  "  It's  very  likely  one  of  the 
young  ladies  may  set  her  cap  at  young  Mr.  Simpson,  and 
you  know  a  marriage  " — 

"A  what!"  shrieked  Mrs  Tibbs.  Tibbs  modestly 
repeated  his  former  suggestion. 

"  1  beg  you  won't  mention  such  a  thing,"  said  Mrs.  T. 
"  A  marriage  indeed  ! — to  rob  me  of  my  boarders — no, 
not  for  the  world." 

Tibbs  thought  in  his  own  mind  that  the  event  was  by 
no  means  unlikely  ;  but,  as  he  never  argued  with  his 
wife,  ho  put  a  stop  to  the  dialogue,  by  observing  it  was 
"  time  to  go  to  business."    He  always  went  out  at  ten 

■'f-y 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


909 


o'clock  in  the  morning',  and  returned  at  five  in  the  after- 
noon, with  an  exceedingly  dirty  face,  and  smelling 
mouldy.  Nobody  knew  what  lie  was  or  where  he  went  ; 
but  Mrs.  Tibbs  used  to  say  with  an  air  of  great  import- 
ance that  h3  was  engaged  in  the  City. 

The  Miss  Maplesones  and  their  accomplished  parent 
arrived  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  in  a  hackney- 
coach,  and  accompanied  by  a  most  astonishing  number 
of  packages.  Trunks,  bonnet-boxes,  muff-boxes,  and 
parasols,  guitar-cases,  and  parcels  of  all  imaginable 
shapes,  done  up  in  brown  paper,  and  fastened  with  pins, 
filled  the  passage.  Then,  there  was  such  a  running  up 
and  down  with  the  luggage,  such  scampering  for  warm 
water  for  the  ladies  to  wash  in,  and  such  a  bustle,  and 
confusion,  and  heating  of  servants  and  curling-irons,  as 
had  never  been  known  in  Great  Coram-street  before. 
Little  Mrs.  Tibbs  was  quite  in  her  element,  bustling 
about,  talking  incessantly,  and  distributing  towels  and 
soap  like  a  head  nurse  in  a  hospital.  The  house  was  not 
restored  to  its  usual  state  of  quiet  repose,  until  the  ladies 
were  safely  shut  up  in  their  respective  bed-rooms,  en- 
gaged in  the  important  occupation  of  dressing  for 
dinner. 

"Are  these  gals  'andsome  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Simpson  of 
Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  another  of  the  boarders,  as  they 
were  amusing  themselves  in  the  drawing-room,  before 
dinner  by  lolling  on  sofas  and  contemplating  their  pumps. 

"  Don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  who  was 
a  tallish,  white-faced  young  man,  with  spectacles,  and  a 
black  ribbon  round  his  neck  instead  of  a  neckkerchief — 
a  most  interesting  person  ;  a  poetical  walker  of  the  hos- 
pitals, and  a  "  very  talented  young  man."  He  was  fond 
of  "  lugging  "  into  conversation,  all  sorts  of  quotations 
from  Don  Juan,  without  fettering  himself  by  the  propriety 
of  their  application  ;  in  which  particular  he  was  re- 
markably independent.  The  other,  Mr.  Simpson,  was 
one  of  those  young  men,  who  are  in  society  what  walk- 
ing gentlemen  are  on  the  stage,  only  infinitely  worse 
skilled  in  his  vocation  than  the  most  indifferent  artist. 
He  was  as  empty-headed  as  the  great  bell  of  St  Paul's  ; 
always  dressed  according  to  the  caricatures  published  in 
the  monthly  fashions  ;  and  spelt  Character  with  a  K. 

"  I  saw  a  devilish  number  of  parcels  in  the  passage 
when  I  came  home,"  simpered  Mr.  Simpson. 

"  Materials  for  tiie  toilet,  no  doubt,"  rejoined  the  Don 
Juan  reader. 

 "  'Much  linen,  lace,  and  several  pair 

Of  stocking,  slippers,  brushes,  combs,  complete  ; 

With  other  articles  of  ladies'  fair, 

To  keep  them  beautiful,  or  leave  them  neat.'  " 

"Is  that  from  Milton?"  inquired  Mr.  Simpson, 
"  No — from  Byron,"  returned  Mr.  Hicks,  with  a  look 
of  contempt.  He  was  quite  sure  of  his  author,  because 
he  had  never  read  any  other.  "Hush!  Here  comes 
the  gals,"  and  they  both  commenced  talking  in  a  very 
loud  key. 

"  Mrs.  Maplesone  and  the  Miss  Maplesones,  Mr.  Hicks. 
Mr.  Hicks — Mrs.  Maplesone  and  the  Miss  Maplesones," 
said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  with  a  very  red  face,  for  she  had  been 
superintending  the  cooking  operations  below  stairs,  and 
looked  like  a  wax  doll  on  a  sunny  day.  "  Mr.  Simpson, 
I  beg  your  pardon — Mr.  Simpson — Mrs.  Maplesone  and 
the  Miss  Maplesones" — and  mce  versa.  The  gentlemen 
immediately  began  to  slide  about  with  much  politeness, 
and  to  look  as  if  they  wished  their  arms  had  been  legs, 
so  little  did  they  know  what  to  do  with  them.  The 
ladies  smiled,  curtsied,  and  glided  into  chairs,  and  dived 
for  dropped  pocket-handkerchiefs  ;  the  gentlemen  leant 
against  two  of  the  curtain-pegs  ;  Mrs.  Tibbs  went  through 
an  admirable  bit  of  serious  pantomime  with  a  servant 
who  had  come  up  to  ask  some  question  about  the  fish- 
sauce  ;  and  then  the  two  young  ladies  looked  at  each 
other  ;  and  everybody  else  appeared  to  discover  some- 
thing very  attractive  in  the  pattern  of  the  fender. 

"Julia  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Maplesone  to  her  young- 
est daughter,  in  a  tone  loud  enough  for  the  remainder 
of  the  company  to  hear, — "Julia." 

"  Yes,  Ma." 

"  Don't  stoop." — Tliis  was  said  for  the  purpose  of  di- 
recting general  attention  to  Miss  Julia's  figure,  which 


was  undeniable.  Everybody  looked  at  her,  accordingly, 
and  there  was  another  pause. 

"  We  had  the  most  uncivil  hackney-coachman  to-day, 
you  can  imagine,"  said  Mrs.  Maplesone  to  Mrs.  Tibbs, 
in  a  confidential  tone. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  replied  the  hostess,  with  an  air  of  great 
commiseration.  She  couldn't  say  more,  for  the  servant 
again  appeared  at  the  door,  and  commenced  telegraphing 
most  earnestly  to  her  "Missis." 

"I  think  hackney-coachmen  generally  are  uncivil," 
said  Mr.  Hicks  in  his  most  insinuating  tone. 

"Positively  I  think  they  are,"  replied  Mrs.  Maple- 
sone, as  if  the  idea  had  never  struck  her  before. 

"  And  cabmen,  too,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  This  remark 
was  a  failure,  for  no  one  intimated,  by  word  or  sign, 
the  slightest  knowledge  of  the  manners  and  customs  of 
cabmen. 

"Robinson,  what  do  you  want?"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs  to 
the  servant,  who,  by  way  of  making  her  presence 
known  to  her  mistress,  had  been  giving  sundry  hems 
and  sniffs  outside  the  door,  during  the  preceding  five 
minutes. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  master  wants  his  clean  things,'*  re- 
plied the  servant,  taken  off  her  guard.  The  two  young 
men  turned  their  faces  to  the  window,  and  "went  off" 
like  a  couple  of  bottles  of  ginger  beer ;  the  ladies  put 
their  handkerchiefs  to  their  mouths  ;  and  little  Mrs. 
Tibbs  bustled  out  of  the  room  to  give  Tibbs  his  clean 
linen, — and  the  servant  warning. 

Mr.  Calton,  the  remaining  boarder,  shortly  afterwards 
made  his  appearance,  and  proved  a  surprising  promoter 
of  the  conversation.  Mr,  Calton  was  a  superannuated 
beau — an  old  boy.  He  used  to  say  of  himself  that  al- 
though his  features  were  not  regularly  handsome,  they 
were  striking.  They  certainly  were.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  look  at  his  face  without  being  reminded  of  a 
chubby  street-door  knocker,  half-lion  half-raonkey  :  and 
the  comparison  might  be  extended  to  his  whole  charac- 
ter and  conversation.  He  had  stood  still,  while  every- 
thing else  had  been  moving.  He  never  originated  a 
conversation,  or  started  an  idea;  but  if  any  common- 
place topic  were  broached,  or,  to  pursue  the  comparison, 
if  anybody  lifted  Mm  up,  he  would  hammer  away  with 
surprising  rapidity.  He  had  the  tic-doloreux  occasion- 
ally, and  then  lie  might  be  said  to  be  muffled,  because 
he  did  not  make  quite  as  much  noise  as  at  other  times, 
when  he  would  go  on  prosing,  rat-tat-tat  the  same  thing 
over  and  over  again.  He  had  never  been  married  ;  but 
he  was  still  on  the  lookout  for  a  wife  with  money.  He 
had  a  life  interest  worth  about  300?,  a  year — he  was  ex- 
ceedingly vain,  and  inordinately  selfish.  He  had  acquired 
the  reputation  of  being  the  very  pink  of  politeness,  and 
he  walked  round  the  park,  and  up  Regent-street,  every 
day. 

This  respectable  personage  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
render  himself  exceedingly  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Maplesone 
— indeed,  the  desire  of  being  as  amiable  as  possible  ex- 
tended itself  to  the  whole  party  ;  Mrs.  Tibbs  having 
considered  it  an  admirable  little  bit  of  management  to 
represent  to  the  gentlemen  that  she  had  some  reason  to 
believe  the  ladies  were  fortunes,  and  to  hint  to  the 
ladies,  that  all  the  gentlemen  were  "  eligible."  A  little 
flirtation,  she  thought,  might  keep  her  house  full,  with- 
out leading  to  any  other  result. 

Mrs.  Maplesone  was  an  enterprising  widow  of  about 
fifty  :  shrewd,  scheming,  and  good-looking.  She  was 
amiably  anxious  on  behalf  of  her  daughters  ;  in  proof 
whereof  she  used  to  remark,  that  she  would  have  no  ob- 
jection to  marry  again,  if  it  would  benefit  her  dear  girls 
— she  could  have  no  other  motive.  The  "dear  girls  " 
themselves  were  not  at  all  insensible  to  the  merits  of 
"  a  good  establishment."  One  of  them  was  twenty-five  ; 
the  other,  three  years  younger.  They  had  been  at  dif- 
ferent watering-places  for  four  seasons  ;  they  had  gam- 
bled at  libraries,  read  books  in  balconies,  sold  at  fancy 
fairs,  danced  at  assemblies,  talked  sentiment — in  short, 
they  had  done  all  that  industrious  girls  could  do — but, 
as  yet,  to  no  purpose. 

"  What  a  magnificent  dresser  Mr.  Simpson  is  !  "  whis- 
pered Matilda  Maplesone  to  her  sister  Julia. 

"Splendid!"  returned  the  youngest.  The  magnifi- 
cent individual  alluded  to  wore  a  maroou-coloured  dress- 


910 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


coat,  with  a  velvet  collar  and  cuffs  of  tlie  same  tint-- 
verv  like  tliat  which  usually  invests  the  form  of  the 
distinguished  unknown  who  condescends  to  play ^  the 
"swell"  in  the  pantomime  at  "  Richardson  s  bhow. 

"  What  ^vhiskers  !  "  said  Miss  Julia. 

"  Charming  ! "  responded  her  sister ;  '  and  what 
hair  I  "  His  hair  was  like  a  wig,  and  distinguished  by 
that  'insinuating  wave  which  graces  the  shining  locks 
of  those  chpfs-d'oiuvre  of  art  surmounting  the  waxen 
imao-es  in  Bartellot's  window,  in  Regent-street ;  _  his 
whiskers  meeting  beneath  his  chin,  seemed  strings 
wherewith  to  tie  it  on.  ere  science  had  rendered  them 
unnecessary  bv  her  patent  invisible  springs. 

"  Dinner's  on  the  table,  ma'am,  if  you  please,  said 
the  boy,  who  now  appeared  for  the  first  time,  in  a  revived 
black  coat  of  his  master's.         ,    ^  ,^    ,  „ 

"  Oh  '  Mr.  Calton,  will  you  lead  Mrs.  Maplesone  I — 
Thank  you."  Mr.  Simpson  offered  his  arm  to  Miss 
Julia  •  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  escorted  the  lovely  Matilda  ; 
and  the  procession  proceeded  to  the  dining-room.  Mr 
Tibbs  was  introduced,  and  Mr.  Tibbs  bobbed  up  and 
down  to  the  three  ladies  like  a  figure  in  a  Dutch  clock, 
with  a  powerful  spring  in  the  middle  of  his  body,  and 
then  dived  rapidly  into  his  seat  at  the  bottom  of  the 
table,  delighted  to  screen  himself  behind  a  soup-tureen, 
which  he  "could  just  see  over,  and  that  was  all.  The 
boarders  were  seated,  a  lady  and  gentleman  alternately, 
like  the  layers  of  bread  and  meat  in  a  plate  of  sand- 
wiches ;  and  then  Mrs.  Tibbs  directed  James  to  take  off 
the  covers.  Salmon,  lobster-sauce,  giblet-soup,  and  the 
usual  accompaniments  were  discovered  :  potatoes  like 
petrifactions,  and  bits  of  toasted  bread,  the  shape  and 
size  of  blank  dice. 

"  Soup  for  Mis.  Maplesone,  my  dear,'  said  the  bust- 
ling Mrs.  Tibbs.  She  always  called  her  husband  "my 
dear  "  before  company.  Tibbs  who  had  been  eating  his 
bread,  and  calculating  how  long  it  would  be  before  he 
should  Get  any  fish,  helped  the  soup  in  a  hurry,  made  a 
small  island  on  the  tablecloth,  and  put  his  glass  upon  it, 
to  hide  it  from  his  wife. 

"  Miss  Julia,  shall  I  assist  you  to  some  fish  ?  ' 
"If  you  please — very  little — oh  !  plenty,  thank  you" 
(a  bit  about  the  size  of  a  walnut  put  upon  the  plate). 

"Julia  is  a  very  little  eater,"  said  Mrs.  Maplesone  to 
Mr.  Calton. 

The  knocker  gave  a  single  rap.  He  was  busy  eat-, 
ino-  the  fish  with  his  eyes  :  so  he  only  ejaculated, 
"  Ah  ! " 

"  Mv  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs  to  her  spouse  after  every 
one  else  had  been  helped,  "What  do  you  take?"  The 
inquiry  was  accompanied  with  a  look  intimating  that  he 
mustn't  say  fish,  because  there  was  not  much  left.  Tibbs 
thought  the  frown  referred  to  the  island  on  the  table- 
cloth ;  he  therefore  coolly  replied,  "  Why— I'll  take  a 
little— fish,  I  think." 

"  Did  you  say  fish,  my  dear?"  (another  frown.) 

"  Yes,  dear,"  replied  the  villain,  with  an  expression 
of  acute  hunger  depicted  in  his  countenance.  The  tears 
almost  started  to  Mrs.  Tibbs's  eyes  as  she  helped  her 
"  wretch  of  a  husband,"  as  she  inwardly  called  him,  to 
the  last  eatable  bit  of  salmon  on  the  dish. 

"  James,  take  this  to  your  master,  and  take  away  your 
master's  knife."*  This  was  deliberate  revenge,  as  Tibbs 
never  could  eat  fish  without  one.  He  was,  however, 
constrained  to  chase  small  particles  of  salmon  round  and 
round  his  i)late  with  a  piece  of  bread  and  a  fork,  the 
number  of  successful  attempts  being  about  one  in  seven- 
teen. 

"  Take  away,  James,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  as  Tibbs  swal- 
lowed the  fourth  mouthful— and  away  went  the  plates 
like  lightning. 

"  I'll  take  a  bit  of  bread,  James,"  said  the  poor  "  mas- 
ter of  the  house."  more  hungry  than  ever. 

"  Never  mind  your  master  now,  James,"  said  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  "see  about  the  meat."  This  was  conveyed  in 
the  tone  in  which  ladies  usually  give  admonitions  to 
servants  in  company,  tliat  is  to  say,  a  low  one  ;  but 
which,  like  a  stage  whisper,  from  its  peculiar  emphasis, 
is  most  distinctly  heard  by  everybody  present. 

A  pause  ensued,  before  the  table  was  replenished— a 
.sort  of  parcMithesis  in  which  Mr.  Simpson,  Mr.  Calton, 
and  Mr.  Hicks,  produced  respectively  a  bottle  of  sau- 


terne,  bucellas,  and  sherry,  and  took  wine  with  every- 
body— except  Tibbs.    No  one  ever  thought  of  him. 

Between  the  fish  and  an  intimated  sirloin,  there  was  a 
prolonged  interval. 

Here  was  an  opportunity  for  Mr.  Hicks.  He  could 
not  resist  the  singularly  appropriate  quotation — 


"But  beef  ii«  rare  within  these  oxless  isles  ; 
Goats'  fleyh  there  is,  no  doubt,  and  kid,  and  mutton, 
And,  when  a  holidaj^  upon  them  smiles, 
A  joint  upon  their  barbarous  spits  they  put  on." 

"  Very  ungentlemanly  behaviour,"  thought  little  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  "  to  talk  in  that  way." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Calton,  filling  his  glass.  "  Tom  Moore 
is  my  poet." 

"  And  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Maplesone. 
"  And  mine,"  said  Miss  Julia. 
"  And  mine,"  added  Mr.  Simpson. 
"  Look  at  his  compositions,"  resumed  the  knocker. 
"  To  be  sure,"  said  Simpson,  with  confidence. 
"  liook  at  Don  Juan,"  replied  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks. 
"  Julia's  letter,"  suggested  Miss  Matilda. 
"  Can  anything  be  grander  than  the  Fire  Worship- 
pers ?  "  inquired  Miss  J  ulia. 
"  To  be  sure,"  said  Simpson. 
"  Or  Paradise  and  the  Peri,"  said  the  old  beau. 
"  Yes  ;  or  Paradise  and  the  Peer,"  repeated  Simpson, 
who  thought  he  was  getting  through  it  capitally. 

"  It's  all  very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  who, 
as  we  have  before  hinted,  never  had  read  anything  but 
Don  Juan.  "Where  will  you  find  anything  finer  than 
the  description  of  the  siege,  at  the  commencement  of  the 
seventh  canto  ?  "  \  r  ■,  i- 

"  Talking  of  a  siege,"  said  Tibbs,  with  a  mouthful  of 
bread— "when  I  was  in  the  volunteer  corps,  in  eighteen 
hundred  and  six,  our  commanding  oflScer  was  Sir  Charles 
Rampart ;  and  one  day,  when  we  were  exercising  on  the 
ground  on  which  the  London  University  now  stands, 
he  says,  says  he,  Tibbs  (calling  me  from  the  ranks) 
Tibbs—"  ,  ^.^^ 

"Tell  your  master,  James,"  interrupted  Mrs.  iibbs, 
in  an  awfully  distinct  tone,  "  tell  your  master  if  he  won't 
carve  those  fowls,  to  send  them  to  me."  The  discomfited 
volunteer  instantly  set  to  work,  and  carved  the  fowls 
almost  as  expeditiously  as  his  wife  operated  on  the 
haunch  of  mutton.  Whether  he  ever  finished  the  story 
is  not  known  ;  but,  if  he  did,  nobody  heard  it. 

As  the  ice  was  now  broken,  and  the  new  inmates  more 
at  home,  every  member  of  the  company  felt  more  at  ease. 
Tibbs  himself  most  certainly  did,  because  he  went  to 
sleep  immediately  after  dinner.  Mr.  Hicks  and  the 
ladies  discoursed  most  eloquently  about  poetry,  and  the 
theatres,  and  Lord  Chesterfield's  Letters  ;  and  Mr.  Cal- 
ton  followed  up  what  everybody  said,  with  continuous 
double  knocks.  Mrs.  Tibbs  highly  approved  of  every 
observation  that  fell  from  Mrs.  Maplesone  ;  and  as  Mr.^ 
Simpson  sat  with  a  smile  upon  his  face  and  said  "  Yes, 
or  "  Certainlv,"  at  intervals  of  about  four  minutes  each, 
he  received  full  credit  for  understanding  what  was  going 
forward.  The  gentlemen  rejoined  the  ladies  in  the 
drawing-room  very  shortly  after  they  had  left  the  din- 
ing-parlour.  Mrs.  Maplesone  and  Mr.  Calton  played 
cribbage,  and  the  "young  people"  amused  themselv 
with  music  and  conversation.  The  Miss  Mapleson 
sang  the  most  fascinating  duets,  and  accompanied  the 
selves  on  guitars,  ornamented  with  bits  of  ethere 
blue  ribbon.  Mr.  Simpson  put  on  a  pink  waistco 
and  said  he  was  in  raptures  ;  and  Mr.  Hicks  felt  in  t 
seventh  heaven  of  poetry,  or  the  seventh  canto  of  D 
Juan-it  was  the  same  thing  to  him.-  Mrs.  Tibbs  w 
quite  charmed  with  the  new  comers  ;  and  Mr.  lib 
spent  the  evening  in  his  usual  way— he  went  to  slee 
and  woke  up,  and  went  to  sleep  again,  and  woke 
supper-time.  ^  *  *  * 

We  are  not  about  to  adopt  the  license  of  nov 
writers,  and  to  let  "  years  roll  on  ; "  but  we  will  takf 
the  liberty  of  requesting  the  reader  to  suppose  thai 
six  months  have  elapsed,  since  the  dinner  we  have  de 
scribed,  and  that  Mrs.  Tibbs's  boarders  have,  dunn^ 
that  period,  sang,  and  danced,  and  gone  to  theatre? 
and  exhibitions,  together,   as  ladies  and  gentlemen 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


911 


wherever  tbey  board,  often  do.  And  we  will  beg  tliem, 
the  period  we  have  mentioned  having  elapsed,  to  im- 
agine farther,  than  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  received,  in 
his  own  bedroom  (a  front  attic),  at  an  early  hour  one 
morning,  a  note  from  Mr.  Calton,  requesting  the  favour 
of  seeing  him,  as  soon  as  convenient  to  himself,  in  his 
(Calton's)  dressing-room  on  the  second  lioor  back. 

'*  Tell  Mr.  Calton  I'll  come  down  directly,"  said  Mr. 
Septimus  to  the  boy.  "Stop — is  Mr.  Calton  unwell?" 
inquired  this  excited  walker  of  hospitals,  as  he  put  on 
a  bed-furniture-looking  dressing-gown. 

"  Not  as  I  knows  on,  sir,"  replied  the  boy.  "  Please, 
sir,  he  looks  rather  rum,  as  it  might  be." 

"  Ah,  that's  no  proof  of  his  being  ill,"  returned  Hicks, 
unconsciously.  "Very  well;  I'll  be  down  directly. 
Down-stairs  ran  the  boy  with  the  message,  and  down 
went  the  excited  Hicks  himself,  almost  as  soon  as 
the  message  was  delivered.  "  Tap,  tap."  "  Come  in." — 
Door  opens,  and  discovers  Mr.  Calton  sitting  in  an  easy 
chair.  Mutual  shakes  of  the  hand  exchanged,  and  Mr. 
Septimus  Hicks  motioned  to  a  seat.  A  short  pause. 
Mr.  Hicks  coughed,  and  Mr.  Calton  took  a  pinch  of 
snuff.  It  was  one  of  tho?e  interviews  where  neither 
party  knows  what  to  say.  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  broke 
silence. 

"  I  received  a  note — "  he  said,  very  tremulously,  in  a 
voice  like  a  Punch  with  a  cold. 

"Yes,"  returned  the  other,  "you  did." 

"  Exactly." 

"Yes." 

Now,  although  this  dialogue  must  have  been  satisfac- 
tory, both  gentlemen  felt  there  was  something  more  im- 
portant to  be  said  ;  therefore  they  did  as  most  men  in 
such  a  situation  would  have  done — they  looked  at  the 
table  with  a  determined  aspect.  The  conversation  had 
been  opened,  however,  and  Mr.  Calton  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  continue  it,  with  a  regular  double  knock.  He 
always  spoke  very  pompously. 

"  Hicks,"  said  he,  "  I  have  sent  for  you,  in  consequence 
of  certain  arrangements  which  are  pending  in  this  house, 
connected  with  a  marriage." 

"With  a  marriage!"  gasped  Hicks,  compared  with 
whose  expression  of  countenance,  Hamlet's,  when  he 
sees  his  father's  ghost,  is  pleasing  and  composed. 

"  With  a  marriage,"  returned  the  knocker.  "I  have 
sent  for  you  to  prove  the  great  confidence  I  can  repose 
in  you." 

"And  will  you  betray  me?"  eagerly  inquired  Hicks, 
who  in  his  alarm  had  even  forgotten  to  quote. 

"  /  betray  you  !    Won't  you  betray  me  ?  " 

"Never:  no  one  shall  know,  to  my  dying  day,  that 
you  had  a  hand  in  the  business,"  responded  the 
agitated  Hicks  with  an  inflamed  countenance,  and  his 
hair  standing  on  end  as  if  he  were  on  the  stool  of  an 
electrifying  machine  in  full  operation. 

"  People  must  know  that,  some  time  or  other — within 
a  year,  I  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Calton.  with  an  air  of  great 
self-complacency.    "  We  may  have  a  family." 

"We! — That  won't  affect  you,  surely?" 

"  The  devil  it  won't  !  " 

"  No  !  how  can  it?"  said  the  bewildered  Hicks.  Cal- 
ton was  too  much  in  wrapped  in  the  contemplation  of  his 
happiness  to  see  the  equivoque  between  Hicks  and  him- 
self ;  and  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "  Oh, 
Matilda  !  "  sighed  the  antique  beau,  in  a  lack-a-daisical 
voice,  and  applying  his  right  hand  a  little  to  the  left  of 
the  fourth  button  of  his  waistcoat,  counting  from  the 
bottom.    "  Oh,  Matilda  1 " 

"  What  Matilda  ?  "  inquired  Hicks,  starting  up. 

"  Matilda  Maplesone,"  responded  the  other,  doing  the 
same. 

"  I  marry  her  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Hicks. 

"  It's  false,"  rejoined  his  companion  :  "  I  marry  her  !" 

"  You  marry  her  !  " 

"  I  marry  her  !  " 

"  You  marry  Matilda  Maplesone?" 
"  Matilda  Maplesone." 
"  Mifts  Maplesone  marry  you  ?  " 
"  Miss  Maplesone  !    No  :  Mrs.  Maplesone." 
"Good  Heaven  !"  said  Hicks,  falling  into  his  chair  : 
"You  marry  the  mother,  and  I  the  daughter  !  " 
"Most  extraordinary  circumstance  I  "  replied  Mr.  Cal- 


ton, "  and  rather  inconvenient  too  ;  for  the  fact  is,  that 
owing  to  Matilda's  wishing  to  keep  her  intention  secret 
from  her  daughters  until  the  ceremony  had  taken  place, 
she  doesn't  like  applying  to  any  of  her  friends  to  give 
her  away.  I  entertain  an  objection  to  making  the  affair 
known  to  my  acquaintance  just  now  ;  and  the  conse- 
quence is,  that  I  sent  lo  you,  to  know  whether  you'd 
oblige  me  by  acting  as  father. " 

"  I  should  have  been  most  happy,  I  assure  you,"  said 
Hicks,  in  a  tone  of  condolence  ;  "but,  you  see,  I  shall  be 
acting  as  bridegroom.  One  character  is  frequently  a 
consequence  of  the  other  ;  but  it  is  not  usual  to  act  in 
both  at  the  same  time.  There's  Simpson— I  have  no 
doubt  he'll  do  it  for  you." 

"  I  don't  like  to  ask  him,"  replied  Calton  ;  "  he's  such 
a  donkey." 

Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  and 
down  at  the  floor ;  at  last  an  idea  struck  him.  "  Let  the 
man  of  the  house,  Tibbs,  be  the  father,"  he  suggest- 
ed ;  and  then  he  quoted,  as  peculiarly  applicable  to 
Tibbs  and  the  pair — 

"  Oh  Powers  of  Heaven  !  what  dark  eyes  meets  she  there  ? 
'Tis— ■'tis  her  father's— fixed  upou  the  pair." 

"The  idea  has  struck  me  already,"  said  Mr.  Calton: 
"  but,  you  see,  Matilda,  for  what  reason  I  know  not,  is 
very  anxious  that  Mrs.  Tibbs  should  know  nothing 
about  it,  till  it's  all  over.  It's  a  natural  delicacy,  after 
all,  you  know." 

"  He's  the  best-natured  little  man  in  existence,  if  you 
manage  him  properly,"  said  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks.  "  Tell 
him  not  to  mention  it  to  his  wife,  and  assure  him  she 
won't  mind  it,  and  he'll  do  it  directly.  My  marriage  is 
to  be  a  secret  one,  on  account  of  the  mother  and  my 
father  ;  therefore  he  must  be  enjoined  to  secrecy." 

A  small  double  knock,  like  a  presumptuous  single  one, 
was  that  instaht  heard  at  the  street-door.  It  was  Tibbs  ; 
it  could  be  no  one  else;  for  no  one  else  occupied  five 
minutes  in  rubbing  his  shoes.  He  had  been  out  to  pay 
the  baker's  bill. 

"Mr.  Tibbs,"  called  Mr.  Calton  in  a  very  bland  tone, 
looking  over  the  banisters. 

"  Sir  ! "  replied  he  of  the  dirty  face. 

"  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  step  up-stairs  for  a 
moment  ?  " 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  Tibbs,  delighted  to  be  taken 
notice  of.  The  bed-room  door  was  carefully  closed,  and 
Tibbs,  having  put  his  hat  on  the  floor  (as  most  timid 
men  do),  and  been  accommodated  with  a  seat,  looked  as 
astounded  as  if  he  were  suddenly  summoned  before  the 
familiars  of  the  Inquisition. 

"A  rather  unpleasant  occurrence,  Mr.  Tibbs,"  said 
Calton,  in  a  very  portentous  manner,  "obliges  me  to 
consult  you,  and  to  beg  you  will  not  communicate  what 
I  am  about  to  say,  to  your  wife." 

Tibbs  acquiesced,  wondering  in  his  own  mind  what 
the  deuce  the  other  could  have  done,  and  imagining  that 
at  least  he  must  have  broken  the  best  decanters. 

Mr.  Calton  resumed:  "I  am  placed,  Mr.  Tibbs,  in 
rather  an  unpleasant  situation." 

Tibbs  looked  at  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  as  if  he  thought 
Mr.  H. 's  being  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  his  fellow- 
boarder  might  constitute  the  unpleasantness  of  his  sit- 
uation ;  but  as  he  did  not  exactly  know  what  to  say,  he 
merely  ejaculated  the  monosyllable  "Lor  !" 

"  Now,"  continued  the  knocker,  "  let  me  beg  you  will 
exhibit  no  manifestations  of  surprise,  which  may  be  over- 
heard by  the  domestics,  when  I  tell  you — command  your 
feelings  of  astonishment — that  two  inmates  of  this  house 
intend  to  be  married  to-morrow  morning."  And  he  drev^ 
back  his  chair,  several  feet,  to  perceive  the  effect  of  the 
unlooked-for  announcement. 

If  Tibbs  had  rushed  from  the  room,  staggered  down- 
stairs, and  fainted  in  the  passage — if  he  had  instantan- 
eously jumped  out  of  the  window  into  the  mews  behind 
the  house,  in  an  agony  of  surprise — his  behaviour  would 
have  been  much  less' inexplicable  to  Mr.  Calton  than  it 
was,  when  he  put  his  hands  into  his  inexpressible- 
pockets,  and  said  with  a  half -chuckle,  "  Just  so." 

"You  are  not  surprised,  Mr.  Tibbs?"  inquired  Mr. 
Calton. 


912 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


''Bless  you,  no,  sir,"  returned  Tibbs  ;  "after  all  it's 
very  natural.  When  two  young  people  get  together,  you 
know — " 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Calton,  with  an  indescrib- 
able air  of  self-satisfaction. 

"  You  don't  think  it's  at  all  an  out-of-the-way  affair 
then?"  asked  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks,  who  had  watched 
the  countenance  of  Tibbs  in  mute  astonishment. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Tibbs  ;  "I  was  just  the  same  at  his 
age."    He  actually  smiled  Avhen  he  said  this. 

"  How  devilish  well  I  must  carry  my  years  ! "  thought 
the  delighted  old  beau,  knowing  he  was  at  least  ten  years 
older  than  Tibbs  at  that  moment. 

"Well  then,  to  come  to  the  point  at  once,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  I  have  to  ask  you  whether  you  will  object  to 
act  as  father  on  the  occasion  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Tibbs  ;  still  without  evincing 
an  atom  of  surprise. 

"You  will  not?" 

"  Decidedly  not,"  reiterated  Tibbs,  still  as  calm  as  a 
pot  of  porter  with  the  head  off. 

Mr.  Calton  seized  the  hand  of  the  petticoat-governed 
little  man,  and  vowed  eternal  friendship  from  that  hour. 
Hicks,  who  was  all  admiration  and  surprise,  did  the  same. 

"Now  confess,"  asked  Mr.  Calton  of  Tibbs,  as  he 
picked  up  his  hat,  "  were  you  not  a  little  surprised  ?" 

"  I  b'lieve  you  !  "  replied  that  illustrious  person,  hold- 
ing up  one  hand  ;  "  I  b'lieve  you  !  When  I  first  heard 
of  it." 

"  So  sudden,"  said  Septimus  Hicks. 

"  So  strange  to  ask  me,  you  know,"  said  Tibbs. 

"  So  odd  altogether  ! "  said  the  superannuated  love- 
maker  ;  and  then  all  three  laughed. 

"  I  say,"  said  Tibbs,  shutting  the  door  which  he  had 
previously  opened,  and  giving  full  vent  to  a  hitherto 
corked-up  giggle,  "  what  bothers  me  is,  what  iDill  his 
father  say  ?  " 

Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  looked  at  Mr.  Caltoh. 

"  Yes  ;  but  the  best  of  it  is,"  said  the  latter,  giggling 
in  his  turn,  "  I  haven't  got  a  father — ^lie  !  he  !  he  !" 

"  You  haven't  got  a  father.  No  ;  but  he  has,"  said 
Tibbs. 

"  Who  has  ?  "  inquired  Septimus  Hicks. 
"  Why  Mm." 

"  Him,  who  ?  Do  you  know  my  secret  ?  Do  you  mean 
me  ?  " 

"  You  ?  No  ;  you  know  who  I  mean,"  returned  Tibbs 
with  a  knowing  wink. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  whom  do  you  mean?"  inquired 
Mr.  Calton,  who,  like  Septimus  Hicks,  was  all  but  out  of 
his  senses  at  the  strange  confusion. 

"  Why  Mr.  Simpson,  of  course,"  replied  Tibbs  ;  "  who 
else  could  I  mean?" 

"  I  see  it  all,"  said  the  Byron -quoter  ;  "  Simpson  mar- 
ries Julia  Maplesone  to-morrow  morning  !  " 

"  Undoubtedly,"  replied  Tibbs,  thoroughly  satisfied, 
"  of  course  he  does." 

It  would  require  the  pencil  of  Hogarth  to  illustrate — 
our  feeble  pen  is  inadequate  to  describe — the  expression 
which  the  countenances  of  Mr.  Calton  and  Mr.  Septimus 
Hicks  respectively  assumed,  at  this  unexpected  announce- 
ment. Equally  impossible  is  it  to  describe,  although 
perhaps  it  is  easier  for  our  lady  readers  to  imagine,  what 
arts  the  three  ladies  could  have  used,  so  completely  to 
entangle  their  separate  partners.  Whatever  they  were, 
however,  they  were  successful.  The  mother  was  per- 
fectly aware  of  the  intended  marriage  of  both  daughters  ; 
and  the  young  ladies  were  equally  acquainted  with  the 
intention  of  their  estimable  parent.  They  agreed,  how- 
ever, that  it  would  have  a  much  better  appearance  if 
each  feigned  ignorance  of  the  other's  engagement  ;  and 
it  was  equally  desirable  that  all  the  marriages  should 
take  place  on  the  same  day,  to  prevent  the  discovery  of 
one  clandestine  alliance,  operating  ])rejudicially  on  the 
others.  Hence,  the  mystification  of  Mr.  Calton  and  Mr. 
Septimus  Hicks,  and  the  pre-engagemeut  of  the  unwary 
Tibbs. 

On  the  following  morning,  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  was 
united  to  Miss  Matilda  Maplesone.  Mr.  Simpson  also 
entered  into  a  "holy  alliance  "  with  Miss  Julia  :  Tibbs  act- 
ing as  father,  "  his  first  appearance  in  that  character." 
Mr.  Calton,  not  being  quite  so  eager  as  the  two  young 


men,  was  rather  struck  by  the  double  discovery  ;  and  a.? 
he  had  found  some  difficulty  in  getting  any  one  to  give 
the  lady  away,  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  best  mode  of 
obviating  the  inconvenience  would  be  not  to  take  her  at 
all.  The  lady,  however,  "  appealed,"  as  her  counsel  said 
on  the  trial  of  the  cause,  Maplesone  v.  Calton,  for  a  breach 
of  promise,  "with  a  broken  heart,  to  the  outraged  laws 
of  her  country."  She  recovered  damages  to  the  amount 
of  1,000?.  which  the  unfortunate  knocker  was  compelled 
to  pay.  Mr.  Septimus  Hicks  having  walked  the  hospi- 
tals, took  it  into  his  head  to  walk  off  altogether.  His  in- 
jured wife  is  at  present  residing  with  her  mother  at  Bou- 
logne. Mr.  Simpson,  having  the  misfortune  to  lose  his 
wife  six  weeks  after  marriage  (by  her  eloping  with  an 
officer  during  his  temporary  sojourn  in  the  Fleet  Prison, 
in  consequence  of  his  inability  to  discharge  her  little 
mantua-maker's  bill),  and  being  disinherited  by  his  fath- 
er, who  died  soon  afterwards,  was  fortunate  enough  to 
obtain  a  permanent  engjgement  at  a  fashionable  hair- 
cutter's  :  hair-dressing  b  ;ing  a  science  to  which  he  had 
frequently  directed  his  $  ctention.  In  this  situation  he 
had  necessarily  many  o  portunities  of  making  himself 
acquainted  with  the  hal  ts,  and  style  of  thinking,  of  the 
exclusive  portion  of  the  nobility  of  this  kingdom.  To 
this  fortunate  circumstance  are  we  indebted  for  the  pro- 
duction of  those  brilliant  efforts  of  genius,  his  fashiona- 
ble novels,  which  so  long  as  good  taste,  unsullied  by 
exaggeration,  cant,  and  quackery,  continues  to  exist, 
cannot  fail  to  instruct  and  amuse  the  thinking  portion  of 
the  community. 

It  only  remains  to  add,  that  this  complication  of  dis- 
orders completely  deprived  poor  Mrs.  Tibbs  of  all  her  in- 
mates, except  the  one  whom  she  could  have  best  spared 
— her  husband.  That  wretched  little  man  returned 
home,  on  the  day  of  the  wedding,  in  a  state  of  partial 
intoxication  ;  and,  under  the  influence  of  wine,  excite- 
ment, and  despair,  actually  dared  to  brave  the  anger  of 
his  wife.  Since  that  ill-fated  hour  he  has  constantly 
taken  his  meals  in  the  kitchen,  to  which  apartment,  it  is 
understood  his  witticisms  will  be  in  future  confined  :  a 
turn-up  bedstead  having  been  conveyed  there  by  Mrs. 
Tibbs's  order  for  his  exclusive  accommodation.  It  is 
possible  that  he  will  be  enabled  to  finish,  in  that  seclu- 
sion, his  story  of  the  volunteers. 

The  advertisement  has  again  appeared  in  the  morning 
papers.    Results  must  be  reserved  for  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND. 

"  Well  !  "  said  little  Mrs.  Tibbs  to  herself,  as  she  sat  in 
the  front  parlour  of  the  Coram-street  mansion  one  morn- 
ing, mending  a  piece  of  stair-carpet  off  the  first  landing  ; 
— "  Things  have  not  turned  out  so  badly,  either,  and  if  I 
only  get  a  favourable  answer  to  the  advertisement,  we 
shall  be  full  again." 

Mrs.  Tibbs  resumed  her  occupation  of  making  worsted 
lattice-work  in  the  carpet,  anxiously  listening  to  the  two- 
penny postman,  who  was  hammering  his  way  down  the 
street,  at  the  rate  of  a  penny  a  knock.  The  house  was 
as  quiet  as  possible.  There  was  only  one  low  sound  to 
be  heard — it  was  the  unhappy  Tibbs  cleaning  the  gentle- 
T\ien's  boots  in  the  back  kitchen,  and  accompanying  him- 
self with  a  buzzing  noise,  in  wretched  mockery  of  hum- 
ming a  tune. 

The  postman  drew  near  the  house.  He  paused — so  did 
Mrs.  Tibbs.    A  knock — a  bustle — a  letter — post-paid. 

"  T.  I.  presents  compt.  to  I.  T.  and  T.  I.  begs  To  say 
that  i  see  the  advertisement  And  she  will  Do  Herself  the 
pleasure  of  calling  On  you  at  12  o'clock  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. 

"  T.  I.  as  To  apologise  to  I.  T.  for  the  shortness  Of  the 
notice  But  i  hope  it  will  not  unconvenience  you 
"  I  remain  yours  Truly 

'  *  Wednesday  evening." 

Little  Mrs.  Tibbs  perused  the  document,  over  and  over 
again  ;  and  the  more  she  read  it,  the  more  was  she  con- 
fused by  the  mixture  of  the  first  and  third  person  ;  the 
substitution  of  the  "  I  "  for  the  "  T.  I.  ; "  and  the  transi- 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


913 


tion  from  the  "  I.  T."  to  the  "  you."  The  writing  looked 
like  a  skein  of  thread  in  a  tangle,  and  the  note  was  in- 
geniously folded  into  a  perfect  square,  with  the  direction 
squeezed  up  into  the  right-hand  corner,  as  if  it  were 
ashamed  of  itself.  The  back  of  the  epistle  was  pleas- 
ingly ornamented  with  a  large  red  wafer,  which,  with 
the  addition  of  divers  ink-stains,  bore  a  marvellous  re- 
semblance to  a  black  beetle  trodden  upon.  One  thing, 
however,  was  perfectly  clear  to  the  perplexed  Mrs.  Tibbs. 
Somebody  was  to  call  at  twelve.  The  drawing-room  was 
forthwith  dusted  for  the  third  time  that  morning  ;  three 
or  four  chairs  were  pulled  out  of  their  places,  and  a  cor- 
responding number  of  books  carefully  upset,  in  order 
that  there  might  be  a  due  absence  of  formality.  Down 
went  the  piece  of  stair-carpet  before  noticed,  and  up  ran 
Mrs.  Tibbs  "  to  make  herself  tidy." 

The  clock  of  New  Saint  Pancras  Church  struck  twelve, 
and  the  Foundling,  with  laudable  politeness,  did  the  same 
ten  minutes  afterwards.  Saint  something  else  struck 
the  quarter,  and  then  there  arrived  a  single  lady  with  a 
double  knock,  in  a  pelisse  the  colour  of  the  interior  of  a 
damson  pie  ;  a  bonnet  of  the  same,  with  a  regular  con- 
servatory  of  artificial  flowers  ;  a  white  vail,  and  a  green 
parasol,  with  a  cobweb  border. 

The  visitor  (who  was  very  fat  and  red-faced)  was 
shown  into  the  drawing-room  ;  Mrs.  Tibbs  presented 
herself,  and  the  negotiation  commenced. 

"I  called  in  consequence  of  an  advertisement,"  said 
the  stranger,  in  a  voice  as  if  she  had  been  playing  a  set 
of  Pan's  pipes  for  a  fortnight  without  leaving  off. 

"Yes!"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  rubbing  her  hands  very 
slowly,  and  looking  the  applicant  full  in  the  face— two 
things  she  always  did  on  such  occasions. 

"Money  isn't  no  object  whatever  to  me,"  said  the 
lady,  "so  much  as  living  in  a  state  of  retirement  and 
obtrusion." 

Mrs.  Tibbs,  as  a  matter  of  course,  acquiesced  in  such 
an  exceedingly  natural  desire. 

"I  am  constantly  attended  by  a  medical  man,"  re- 
sumed the  pelisse  wearer;  "I  have  been  a  shocking 
unitarian  for  some  time— I,  indeed,  have  had  very  little 
peace  since  the  death  of  Mr.  Bloss." 

Mrs.  Tibbs  looked  at  the  relict  of  the  departed  Bloss, 
and  thought  he  must  have  have  had  very  little  peace  in 
his  time.  Of  course  she  could  not  say  so  ;  so  she  looked 
very  sympathising. 

"I  shall  be  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Bloss  ;  "  but,  for  that  trouble  I  am  willing  to  pay.  I  am 
going  through  a  course  of  treatment  which  renders  at- 
tention necessary.  I  have  one  mutton  chop  in  bed  at 
half-past  eight,  and  another  at  ten,  every  morning." 

Mrs.  Tibbs,  as  in  duty  bound,  expressed  the  pity  she 
felt  for  any  body  placed  in  such  a  distressing  situation  : 
and  the  carnivorous  Mrs.  Bloss  proceeded  to  arrange  the 
various  preliminaries  with  wonderful  despatch.  "  Now 
mind,"  said  that  lady,  after  terms  Avere  arranged;  "I 
am  to  have  the  second-floor  front,  for  my  bed-room?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  you'll  find  room  for  my  little  servant  Agnes?" 
"  Oh  !  certainly, " 

"And  I  can  have  one  of  the  cellars  in  the  area  for  my 
bottled  porter  !" 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure  ;— James  shall  get  it 
ready  for  you  by  Saturday." 

"And  I'll  join  the  company  at  the  breakfast-table  on 
Sunday  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Bloss.  "  I  shall  get  up  on 
purpose." 

"  Very  well,"  returned  Mrs.  Tibbs,  in  her  mo.st  amiable 
tone;  for  satisfactory  references  had  "been  given  and 
required,"  and  it  was  quite  certain  that  the  new  comer 
had  plenty  of  money.  It's  rather  singular,"  continued 
Mrs."  Tibbs,  with  what  was  meant  for  a  most  bewitching 
smile,  "that  we  have  a  gentleman  now  with  us,  who  is 
m  a  very  delicate  state  of  health— a  Mr.  Gobler.— His 
apartment  is  the  back  drawing-room." 

I 'The  next  room?"  inquired  Mrs.  Bloss. 

''The  next  room,"  repeated  the  hoste.ss. 

"How  very  promiscuous  I"  ejaculated  the  widow. 

\\ ?^  ^a/^ily  ever  gets  up,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs  in  a  whisper. 
Lor  I  "  cried  Mrs.  Bloss,  in  an  equally  low  tone. 

r"And  when  he  is  up,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  "we  never 
persuade  him  to  go  to  bed  again." 
Vol.  II.— 58 


"Dear  me  I"  said  the  astonished  Mrs.  Bloss,  draw- 
ing her  chair  nearer  Mrs.  Tibbs.  "  What  is  his  com- 
plaint?" 

"Why,  the  fact  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Tibbs,  with  a  most 
communicative  air,  " he  has  no  stomach  whatever." 

"No  what?"  inquired  Mrs.  Bloss,  with  a  look  of  the 
most  indescribable  alami. 

"No  stomach,"  repeated  Mrs.  Tibbs,  with  a  shake  of 
the  head. 

"  Lord  bless  us  !  what  an  extraordinary  case  !  "  gasped 
Mrs.  Bloss,  as  if  she  understood  the  communication  in 
its  literal  sense,  and  was  astonished  at  a  gentleman 
without  a  stomach  finding  it  necessary  to  board  any- 
where. 

"  When  I  say  he  has  no  stomach,"  explained  the 
chatty  little  Mrs.  Tibbs.  "  I  mean  that  his  digestion  is 
so  much  impaired,  and  his  interior  so  deranged,  that  his 
stomach  is  not  of  the  least  use  to  him  ;— in  fact,  it's  an 
inconvenience." 

"Never  heard  such  a  case  in  my  life!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Bloss.    "  Why,  he's  worse  than  I  am. " 

"  Oh ,  yes  ! "  replied  Mrs.  Tibbs  ;— ' '  certainly."  She 
said  this  with  great  confidence,  for  the  damson  pelisse 
suggested  that.  Mrs.  Bloss,  at  all  events,  was  not  suffer- 
ing under  Mr.  Gobler's  complaint. 

"You  have  quite  incited  my  curiosity,"  said  Mrs. 
Bloss,  as  she  rose  to  depart.  "How  I  long  to  see 
him  !" 

"He  generally  comes  down,  once  a  week,"  replied 
Mrs.  Tibbs;  "I  dare  say  you'll  see  him  on  Sunday." 
With  this  consolatory  promise  Mrs.  Bloss  was  obliged  to 
be  contented.  She  accordingly  walked  slowly  down  the 
stairs,  detailing  her  complaints  all  the  way;  and  Mrs. 
Tibbs  followed  her,  uttering  an  exclamation  of  compas- 
sion at  every  step.  James  (who  looked  very  gritty,  for 
he  was  cleaning  the  knives)  fell  up  the  kitchen -stairs,  and 
opened  the  street-door  ;  and,  after  mutual  farewells, 
Mrs.  Bloss  slowly  departed,  down  the  shady  side  of  the 
street. 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  say,  that  the  lady  whom  we 
have  just  shown  out  at  the  street-door  (and  whom  the 
two  female  servants  are  now  inspecting  from  the  second- 
floor  windows)  was  exceeding  vulgar,  ignorant,  and  self- 
ish. Her  deceased  better-half  had  been  an  eminent 
cork-cutter,  in  which  capacity  he  had  amassed  a  decent 
fortune.  He  had  no  relative  but  his  nephew,  and  no 
friend  but  his  cook.  The  former  had  the  insolence  one 
morning  to  ask  for  the  loan  of  fifteen  pounds  ;  and,  by 
way  of  retaliation,  he  married  the  latter  next  day  ;  he 
made  a  will  immediately  afterwards,  containing  a  burst 
of  honest  indignation  against  his  nephew  (who  supported 
himself  and  two  sisters  on  100^.  a  year),  and  a  bequest  of 
his  whole  property  to  his  wife.  He  fell  ill  after  break- 
fast,_  and  died  after  dinner.  There  is  a  mantelpiece- 
looking  tablet  in  a  civic  parish  church,  setting  forth  his 
virtues^  and  deploring  his  loss.  He  never  dishonoured 
a  bill,  or  gave  away  a  halfpenny. 

The  relict  and  sole  executrix  of  this  noble-minded  man 
was  an  odd  mixture  of  shrewdness  and  simplicity,  liber- 
ality and  meanness.  Bred  up  as  she  had  been,  she  knew 
no  inode  of  living  so  agreeable  as  a  boarding-house  ;  and 
having  nothing  to  do,  and  nothing  to  wish  for,  she  natu- 
rally imagined  she  must  be  very  ill— an  impression  which 
was  most  assiduously  promoted  by  her  medical  attendant. 
Dr.  Wosky,  and  her  handmaid  Agnes  ;  both  of  whom, 
doubtless  for  good  reasons,  encouraged  all  her  extrava- 
gant notions. 

Since  the  catastrophe  recorded  in  the  last  chapter, 
Mrs.  Tibbs  had  been  very  shy  of  young-lady  boarders. 
Her  present  inmates  Avere  all  'lords*  of  the  creation,  and 
she  availed  herself  of  the  opportunity  of  their  assem- 
blage at  the  dinner-table,  to  announce  the  expected  ar- 
rival of  Mrs.  Bloss.  The  gentlemen  received  the  com- 
munication with  stoical  indifference,  and  Mrs.  Tibbs 
devoted  all  her  energies  to  prepare  for  the  reception  of 
the  valetudinarian.  The  second-floor  front  was  scrub- 
bed, and  washed,  and  flannelled,  till  the  wet  went 
through  to  the  drawing-room  ceiling.  Clean  white 
counterpanes,  and  curtains,  and  napkins,  water-bottles  as 
clear  as  crystal,  blue  jugs,  and  mahogany  furniture, 
added  to  the  splendour,  and  increased  the'  comfort,  of 
the  apartment.    The  warming-pan  was  in  constant  re- 


914 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


qnisition,  and  a  fire  liglited  in  the  room  every  day.  The 
chattels  of  Mrs.  Bloss  were  forwarded  by  instalments. 
First,  there  came  a  large  hamper  of  Guinness  s  stout, 
and  an  umbrella;  then,  a  train  of  trunks;  then,  a  pair 
of  cloo-s  and  a  bandbox  ;  then,  an  easy  chair  with  an  air- 
cushion  :  then,  a  variety  of  suspicious-lookmg  packages  ; 
and-"  though  last  not  least  "—Mrs.  Bloss  and  Agnes  : 
tlie  latter  in  a  cherry-coloured  merino  dress,  open-work 
stockings,  and  shoes  with  sandals  :  like  a  disguised 

^^S^ii^tallation  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  as  Chan- 
cellor of  the  University  of  Oxford,  was  nothing  m  point 
of  bustle  and  turmoil,  to  the  installation  of  Mrs.  Bloss 
in  her  new  quarters.  True,  there  was  no  bright  doctor 
of  civil  law  to  deliver  a  classical  address  on  the  occa- 
sion ;  but  there  were  several  other  old  women  present, 
who  spoke  quite  as  much  to  the  purpose,  and  understood 
themselves  equally  well.  The  chop-eater  was  so  fatigued 
with  the  process  of  removal  that  she  declined  leaving 
her  room  until  the  following  morning  ;  so  a  mutton-chop, 
pickle,  a  pill,  a  pint  bottle  of  stout,  and  other  medicines, 
were  carried  up-stairs  for  her  consumption. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  think,  ma'am?"  inquired  the  in- 
quisitive Agnes  of  her  mistress,  after  they  had  been  in 
the  house  some  three  hours;  "what  do  you  think, 
ma'am?  the  lady  of  the  house  is  married." 

"Married!"  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  taking  the  pill  and  a 
draught  of  Guinness—' '  married  !    Unpossible  !  " 

"She  is  indeed,  ma'am,"  returned  the  Columbine; 
"  and  her  husband,  ma'am,  lives— he— he— he— lives  in 
the  kitchen,  ma'am." 

"  In  the  kitchen  !" 

"  Yes,  ma'am  :  and  he— he— he— the  housemaid  says, 
he  never  goes  in  the  parlour  except  on  Sundays  ;  and 
that  Mrs.  Tibbs  makes  him  clean  the  gentlemen's  boots  ; 
and  that  he  cleans  the  windows,  too,  sometimes  ;  and 
that  one  morning  early,  when  he  was  in  the  front  bal- 
cony cleaning  the  drawing-room  windows,  he  called  out 
to  a  gentleman  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  who 
used  to  live  here—'  Ah  !  Mr.  Calton,  sir,  how  are  you  ! ' " 
Here  the  attendant  laughed  till  Mrs.  Bloss  was  in  serious 
apprehension  of  her  chuckling  herself  into  a  fit. 

"  Well  I  never  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bloss. 

"Yes.  And  please,  ma'am,  the  servants  gives  him 
gin-and-water  sometimes  ;  and  then  he  cries,  and  says 
he  hates  his  wife  and  the  boarders,  and  wants  to  tickle 
them." 

"  Tickle  the  boarders  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bloss,  seriously 
alarmed. 

"  No,  ma'am,  not  the  boarders,  the  servants." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ! "  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  quite  satisfied. 
•    "He  wanted  to  kiss  me  as  I  came  up  the  kitchen-stairs, 
just  now,"  said  Agnes,  indignantly  ;  "  but  I  gave  it 
him — a  little  wretch  !  " 

This  intelligence  was  but  too  true.  A  long  course  of 
snubbing  and  neglect ;  his  days  spent  in  the  kitchen, 
and  his  nights  in  the  turn-up  bedstead,  had  completely 
broken  the  little  spirit  that  the  unfortunate  volunteer 
had  ever  possessed.  He  had  no  one  to  whom  he  could 
detail  his  injuries  but  the  servants,  and  they  were  almost 
of  necessity  his  chosen  confidants.  It  is  no  less  strange 
than  true,  however,  that  the  little  weaknesses  which  he 
had  incurred,  most  probably  during  his  military  career, 
seemed  to  increase  as  his  comforts  diminished.  He  was 
actually  a  sort  of  journeyman  Giovanni  of  the  basement 
story. 

The  ncxt.morning  being  Sunday,  breakfast  was  laid 
in  the  front  parlour  at  ten  o'clock.  Nine  was  the  usual 
time,  but  the  family  always  breakfasted  an  hour  later 
on  Sabbath.  Tibbs  enrobed  himself  in  his  Sunday  cos- 
tume—a black  coat,  and  exceedingly  short  thin  trousers  ; 
with  a  very  large  white  waistcoat,  white  stockings  and 
cravat,  and  Blucher  boots — and  mounted  to  the  parlour 
aforesaid.  Nobody  had  come  down,  and  he  amused 
himself  by  drinking  the  contents  of  the  milkpot  with  a 
teaspoon. 

A  pair  of  slippers  were  heard  descending  the  stairs. 
Tibbs  flew  to  a  chair  ;  and  a  stern-looking  man,  of  about 
fifty,  with  very  little  hair  on  his  head,  and  a  Sunday 
paper  in  his  hand,  entered  the  room. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Evenson,"  said  Tibbs,  very  hum- 
bly, with  something  between  a  nod  and  bow. 


"  How  do  you,  Mr.  Tibbs  ?"  replied  he  of  the  slippers, 
as  he  sat  himself  down,  and  began  to  read  his  paper 
without  saying  another  word. 

"  Is  Mr.  Wisbottle  in  town  to-day,  lio  you  know  sir?  " 
inquired  Tibbs,  just  for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"  I  should  think  he  was,"  replied  the  stern  gentleman. 
"He  was  whistling  '  The  Light  Guitar,'  in  the  next 
room  to  mine,  at  five  o'clock  this  morning." 

"  He's  very  fond  of  whistling,"  said  Tibbs,  with  a 
slight  smirk. 

"  Yes — I  ain't,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 
Mr.  John  Ev^enson  was  in  the  receipt  of  an  independent 
income,  arising  chiefly  from  various  houses  he  owned 
in  the  different  suburbs.  He  was  very  morose  and  dis- 
contented. He  was  a  thorough  radical,  and  used  to  at- 
tend a  great  variety  of  public  meetings,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  finding* fault  with  everything  that  was  pro- 
y^osed.  Mr.  Wisbottle,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  high 
Tory.  He  was  a  clerk  in  the  Woods  and  Forests  Office, 
which  he  considered  rather  an  aristocratic  employment ; 
he  knew  the  peerage  by  heart,  and  could  tell  you  off- 
hand, where  any  illustrious  personage  lived.  He  had  a 
good  set  of  teeth,  and  a  capital  tailor.  Mr.  Evenson 
looked  on  all  these  qualifications  with  profound  contempt; 
and  the  consequence  was  that  the  two  were  always  dis- 
puting, much  to  the  edification  of  the  rest  of  the  house. 
It  should  be  added,  that,  in  addition  to  his  partiality  fot 
whistling,  Mr.  Wisbottle  had  a  great  idea  of  his  singing 
powers.  There  were  two  other  boarders,  besides  thd 
gentleman  in  the  back  drawing-room— Mr.  Alfred  Tom- 
kins  and  Mr.  Frederick  O'Bleary.  Mr.  Tomkins  was  a 
clerk  in  a  wine-house  ;  he  was  a  connoisseur  in  paintings, 
and  had  a  wonderful  eye  for  the  picturesque.  Mr. 
O'Bleary  was  an  Irishman,  recently  imported  ;  he  was  in 
a  perfectly  wild  state  ;  and  had  come  over  to  England  to 
be  an  apothecary,  a  clerk  in  a  goverment  office,  an  actor, 
a  reporter,  or  anything  else  that  turned  up— he  was  not 
particular.  He  was  on  familiar  terms  with  two  small 
Irish  members,  and  got  franks  for  everybody  in  the 
house.  He  felt  convinced  that  his  intrinsic  merits  must 
procure  him  a  high  destiny.  He  wore  shepherd's-plaid 
inexpressibles,  and  used  to  look  under  all  the  ladies' 
bonnets  as  he  walked  along  the  streets.  His  manners 
and  appearance  reminded  one  of  Orson. 

"Here  comes  Mr.  Wisbottle,"  said  Tibbs;  and  Mr. 
Wisbottle  forthwith  appeared  in  blue  slippers  and  a 
shawl  dressing  gown,  whistling  "Di  Piacer." 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Tibbs  again.  It  was  almost 
the  only  thing  he  ever  said  to  anybody. 

"How  are  you,  Tibbs?"  condescendingly  replied  the 
amateur ;  and  he  walked  to  the  window,  and  whistled 
louder  than  ever.  _ 
"Pretty  air,  that  !"  said  Evenson,  with  a  snarl,  ana 
without  taking  his  eyes  off  the  paper. 

"  Glad  you  like  it,"  replied  Wisbottle,  highly  grati- 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  sound  better  if  you  whistl'ed*' 
it  a  little  louder?"  inquired  the  mastiff. 

"No;  I  don't  think  it  would,"  rejoined  the  uncon 
scious  Wisbottle. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Wisbottle,"  said  Evenson,  wh 
had  been  bottling  up  his  anger  for  some  hours—"  tb 
next  time  you  feel  disposed  to  whistle   'The  Ligh 
Guitar '  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I'll  trouble  y^ 
to  whistle  it  with  your  head  out  o'  window.    If  you  don't, 
I'll  learn  the  triangle— I  will  by—" 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Tibbs  (with  the  keys  in  a  little 
basket)  interrupted  the  threat,  and  prevented  its  conclu- 

sioh.  ,     1  .  At. 

Mrs.  Tibbs  apologised  for  being  down  rather  late  ;  tne 
bell  was  rung  ;  James  brought  up  the  urn,  and  received 
an  unlimited  order  for  dry  toast  and  bacon.  Tibbs  sat 
down  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  and  began  eating  water- 
cresses  like  a  Nebuchadnezzar.  Mr.  O'Bleary  appeafedj 
and  Mr.  Alfred  Tomkins.  The  compliments  of  tW 
morning  were  exchanged,  and  the  tea  was  made, 

"  God  bless  me  1"  exclaimed  Tomkins,  who  had  been 
looking  out  at  the  window.  "  Here— Wisbottle— praj| 
come  here — make  haste." 

Mr.  Wisbottle  started  from  the  table,  and  every  om 
looked  up.  ,    .  1,  * 

"  Do  you  see/'  said  the  connoisseur,  placing  Wisbol 


th| 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


915 


tie  in  the  nglit  position— "a  little  more  this  way  :  there 
-^o  you  see  how  splendidly  the  light  falls  upon  the  left 
side  of  that  broken  chimney-pot  at  No.  48  ?" 

"  Dear  me  !  1  see,"  replied  Wisbottle,  in  a  tone  of  ad- 
miration. 

"I  never  saw  an  object  stand  out  so  beautifully 
against  the  clear  sky  in  my  life,"  ejaculated  Alfred. 
±.  very  body  (except  J  ohn  E  venson)  echoed  the  sentiment ; 
for  Mr.  Tomkins  had  a  great  character  for  finding  out 
beauties  which  no  one  else  could  discover— he  certainly 
deserved  it. 

"I  have  frequently  observed  a  chimney-pot  in  College- 
Green,  Dublin,  which  has  a  much  better'effect,"  sa'dthe 
patriotic  O'Bleary,  who  never  allowed  Ireland  to  be  out- 
done on  any  point. 

The  assertion  was  received  with  obvious  incredulity,  for 
Mr.  Tomkins  declared  that  no  other  chimney-pot  in  the 
U  nited  Kingdom,  broken  or  unbroken,  could  be  so  beau- 
tiful as  the  one  at  No.  48. 

The  room-door  was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and  Agnes 
appeared  leading  in  Mrs.  Bloss,  who  was  dressed  in  a 
geranium-coloured  muslin  gown,  and  displayed  a  gold 
watch  of  huge  dimensions;  a  chain  to  match;  and  a 
splendid  assortment  of  rings,  with  enormous  stones.  A 
general  rush  was  made  for  a  chair,  and  a  regular  intro- 
duction took  place.  Mr.  John  E venson  made  a  slio-ht 
mchnation  of  the  head  ;  Mr.  Frederick  O'Bleary  Mr 
Alfred  Tomkins,  and  Mr.  Wisbottle,  bowed  like  the 
mandarins  m  a  grocer's  shop  ;  Tibbs  rubbed  hands,  and 
went  round  in  circles.  He  was  observed  to  close  one 
eye,  and  to  assume  a  clock-work  sort  of  expression  with 
the  other  ;  this  has  been  considered  as  a  wink,  and  it 
has  been  reported  that  Agnes  was  its  object.  We  repel 
the  calumny,  and  challenge  contradiction. 

Mrs.  Tibbs  inquired  after  Mrs.  Bloss's  health  in  a  low 
tone.  Mrs.  Bloss,  with  a  supreme  contempt  for  the 
memory  of  Lindley  Murray,  answered  the  various  ques- 
tions in  a  more  satisfactory  manner  ;  and  a  pause  ensued 
during  which  the  eatables  disappeared  with  awful  rapi 
idity.  ^ 

"You  must  have  been  very  much  pleased  with  the 
appearance  of  the  ladies  going  to  the  drawing-room  the 
other  day,  Mr.  O'Bleary  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  hoping  to 
start  a  topic.  ^ 

"  Yes,"  replied  Orson,  with  a  mouthful  of  toast. 

"Never  saw  anything  like  it  before,  I  suppose?"  suo-- 
gested  Wisbottle.  * 

^^^^  Lieutenant's  levees,"  replied 
O  Bleary.  ^ 

"  Are  they  at  all  equal  to  our  drawing-rooms  ?  " 
"  Oh,  infinitely  superior  I" 

"  Gad  !  I  don't  know,"  said  the  aristocratic  Wisbot- 
tle. "  The  Dowager  Marchioness  of  Publiccash  was  most 
magnificently  dressed  and  so  was  the  Baron  Slappen- 
bachenhausen." 

"  What  was  he  pre.sented  on  ?  "  inquired  Evenson. 

"  On  his  arrival  in  England." 

"I  thought  so,"  growled  the  radical;  "you  never 
hear  of  these  fellows  being  presented  on  their  going 
away  again.    They  know  better  than  that." 

"Unless  somebody  pervades  them  with  an  apint- 
ment,"  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  joining  in  conversation  in  a  faint 
voice. 

"  Well,"  said  Wisbottle,  evading  the  point.  "  it's  a 
splendid  sight." 

"  And  did  it  never  occur  to  you, "inquired  the  radical 
who  never  would  be  quiet ;  "did  it  never  occur  to  you,' 
^^^^J^yy.  pay  for  these  precious  ornaments  of  society?"' 

*' It  certainly  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  Wisbottle, 
who  thought  this  answer  was  a  poser  ;  "  it  has  occurred 
to  me,  and  I  am  willing  to  pay  for  them." 

"  Well,  and  it  has  occurred"  to  me  too,"  replied  John 
li^venson,  "and  I  ain't  willing  to  pay  for  'em.  Then 
why  should  I?— I  say,  why  should  I?"  continued  the 
pohtician,  laying  down  the  paper,  and  knocking  his 
knuckles  on  the  table.  "  There  are  two  great  principles 
—demand—"  o       ^  f 

"  A  cup  of  tea  if  you  please,  dear,"  interrupted  Tibbs 

"  And  supply — " 

"  May  I  trouble  you  to  hand  this  tea  to  Mr.  Tibbs*?  " 
said  Mrs  Tibr)s,  interrupting  the  argument,  and  uncon- 
Bciously  illustrating  it. 


The  thread  of  the  orator's  discourse  was  broken.  He 
drank  his  tea  and  resumed  the  paper. 

"If  it's  very  fine,"  said  Mr.  Alfred  Tomkins,  address- 
ing the  company  in  general,  "  I  shall  ride  down  to  Rich- 
mond to-day,  and  come  back  by  the  steamer.  There  are 
some  splendid  effects  of  light  and  shade  on  the  Thames  ; 
the  contrast  between  the  blueness  of  the  skv  and  the 
yellow  water  is  frequently  exceedingly  beautiful."  Mr. 
Wisbottle  hummed,  "  Flow  on,  thou  shining  river. 

"  We  have  some  splendid  steam- vessels  in  Ireland  " 
said  O'Bleary. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  delighted  to  find  a  sub- 
ject broached  in  which  she  could  take  part. 

"The  accommodations  are  extraordinary,"  said 
O'Bleary. 

"Extraordinary  indeed," returned  Mrs.  Bloss.  "  When 
Mr.  Bloss  was  alive,  he  was  promiscuously  obligated  to 
go  to  Ireland  on  business.  I  went  with  him,  and  raly 
the  manner  in  which  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  ac- 
commodated with  berths,  is  not  creditable." 

Tibbs,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  dialogue,  looked 
aghast,  and  evinced  a  strong  inclination  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion, but  was  checked  by  a  look  from  his  wife.  Mr 
Wisbottle  laughed,  and  said  Tomkins  had  made  a  pun  • 
and  Tomkins  laughed  too,  and  said  he  had  not.  ' 

The  remainder  of  the  meal  passed  off  as  breakfasts 
usually  do.  Conversation  flagged,  and  people  played 
with  their  tea-spoons.  The  gentlemen  looked  out  at  the 
window  :  walked  about  the  room ;  and,  when  they  got 
near  the  door,  dropped  off  one  by  one.  Tibbs  retired  to 
the  back  parlour  by  his  wife's  orders,  to  check  the  green- 
grocer's weekly  account  ;  and  ultimately  Mrs.  Tibbs  and 
Mrs.  Bloss  were  left  alone  together. 

^  ^"  Oh  dear  !  "  said  the  latter,  "  I  feel  alarmingly  faint  • 
it  s  very  singular."  (It  certainly  was,  for  she  had  eaten 
four  pounds  of  solids  that  morning.)  "  By-the-by,"  said 
Mrs.  Bloss,  "  I  have  not  seen  Mr.  What's  his  name  yet  " 
"  Mr.  Gobler  ? "  suggested  Mrs.  Tibbs. 
"  Yes." 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  "he  is  a  most  mysterious 
person.  He  has  his  meals  regularly  sent  up-stairs,  and 
sometimes  don't  leave  his  room  for  weeks  together." 

"I  haven't  seen  or  heard  nothing  of  him."  repeated 
Mrs.  Bloss.  ^         >  ^ 

"  I  dare  say  you'll  hear  him  to-night,"  replied  Mrs 
Tibbs  ; ."  he  generally  groans  a  good  deal  on  Sunday 
evenings.' 

"  I  never  felt  such  an  interest  in  any  one  in  my  life  " 
ejaculated  Mrs.  Bloss.  A  little  double-knock  inter- 
rupted the  conversation  ;  Doctor  Wosky  was  announced 
and  duly  shown  in.  He  was  a  little  man  with  a  red 
tace,— dressed  of  course  in  black,  with  a  stiff  white 
neckerchief.  He  had  a  very  good  practice,  and  plenty 
of  money,  which  he  had  amassed  by  invariably  humour- 
ing the  worst  fancies  of  all  the  females  of  all  the  fam- 
ilies he  had  ever  been  introduced  into.  Mrs.  Tibbs  of- 
fered to  retire,  but  was  entreated  to  stay. 

"  Well,  my  dear  ma'am,  and  how  are  we?"  inquired 
vVosky,  in  a  soothing  tone. 

Very  ill,  doctor—very  ill,"  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  in  a 
whisper. 

^  "  Ah  !  we  must  take  care  of  ourselves  ;— we  must, 
indeed,"  said  the  obsequious  Wosky,  as  he  felt  the  pulse 
of  his  interesting  patient. 
"  How  is  our  appetite?" 
Mrs.  Bloss  shook  her  head. 

"Our  friend  requires  great  care,"  said  Wosky,  appeal- 
ing to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  who  of  course  assented.  "  I  hope, 
however,  with  the  blessing  of  Providence,  that  we  shali 
be  enabled  to  make  her  quite  stout  again."  Mrs.  Tibbs 
wondered  in  her  own  mind  what  the  patient  would  be 
when  she  was  made  quite  stout. 

"  We  must  take  stimulants,"  said  the  cunning  Wosky 
'  plenty  of  nourishment,  and,  above  all,  we  must  keep 
our  nerves  quiet ;  we  positively  must  not  give  way  to  our 
sensibilities.  We  must  take  all  we  can  get,"  concluded  the 
doctor,as  he  pocketed  his  fee,  "  and  we  must  keep  quiet." 

"Dear  man!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bloss,  as  the  doctor 
stepped  into  his  carriage. 

"Charming  creature  indeed — quite  a  lady's  man!" 
said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  and  doctor  Wosky  rattled  away  to  make 
fresh  gulls  of  delicate  females,  and  pocket  fresh  fees. 


91G 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


As  we  liad  occasion,  in  a  former  paper,  to  describe  a  i 
dinner  at  Mrs.  Tibbs's  ;  and  as  one  meal  went  off  very  { 
like  another  on  all  ordinary  occasions  ;  we  will  not  fatigue  i 
our  readers  by  entering  into  any  other  detailed  account 
of  the  domestic  economy  of  the  establishment.    We  will  ] 
therefore  proceed  to  events,  merely  premising  that  the  ; 
mysterious  tenant  of  the  back  drawing-room  was^a  lazy, 
selfish,  hypochondriac  ;  always  complaining  and  never 
ill     As  his  character  in  many  respects  closely  assimilated 
to 'that  of  Mrs.  Bloss,  a  very  warm  friendship  soon 
sprung  up  between  them.    He  was  tall,  thm,  and  pale  ; 
he  always  fancied  he  had  a  severe  pain  somewhere  or 
other  and  his  face  invariably  wore  a  pinched,  screwed- 
up  expression  ;  he  looked,  indeed,  like  a  man  who  had 
got  his  feet  in  a  tub  of  exceedingly  hot  water,  against 

^^For\wo  or  three  months  after  Mrs.  Bloss's  first  appear- 
ance in  Coram-street,  John  Evenson  was  observed  to 
become,  every  day,  more  sarcastic,  and  more  ill-natured  ; 
and  there  was  a  degree  of  additional  importance  in  his 
manner,  which  clearly  showed  that  he  fancied  he  had 
discovered  something,  which  he  only  wanted  a  proper 
opportunity  of  divulging.    He  found  it  at  last. 

One  evening,  the  different  inmates  of  the  house  were 
assembled  in  the  drawing-room  engaged  in  their  ordinary 
occupations.  Mr.  Gobler  and  Mrs.  Bloss  were  sitting  at 
a  small  card-table  near  the  centre  window,  playing  crib- 
bage  ;  Mr.  Wisbottle  was  describing  semicircles  on  the 
music-stool,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book  on  the 
piano,  and  humming  most  melodiously  ;  Alfred  Tomkins 
was  sitting  at  the  round  table,  with  his  elbows  duly 
squared,  making  a  pencil  sketch  of  a  head  considerably 
larger  than  his  own  ;  O'Bleary  was  reading  Horace,  and 
trying  to  look  as  if  he  understood  it  ;  and  John  Evenson 
had  drawn  his  chair  close  to  Mrs.  Tibbs's  work-table,  and 
was  talking  to  her  very  earnestly  in  a  low  tone, 

"  I  can  assure  you,  Mrs.  Tibbs,"  said  the  radical,  lay- 
ing his  forefinger  on  the  muslin  she  was  at  work  on  ;  "I 
can  assure  you,  Mrs.  Tibbs,  that  nothing  but  the  interest 
I  take  in  your  welfare  would  induce  me  to  make  this 
communication.  1  repeat,  I  fear  Wisbottle  is  endeavour- 
ing to  gain  the  affections  of  that  young  woman,  Agnes, 
and  that  he  is  in  the  habit  of  meeting  her  in  the  store- 
room on  the  first  floor,  over  the  leads.  From  my  bedroom 
I  distinctly  heard  Voices  there,  last  night.  I  opened  my 
door  immediately,  and  crept  very  softly  on  to  tl^e  land- 
ing :  there  I  saw  Mr.  Tibbs,  who,  it  seems,  had  been 
disturbed  also.— Bless  me,  Mrs.  Tibbs,  you  change 
colour  ! " 

"  No,  no— it's  nothing,"  returned  Mrs.  T.  in  a  hurried 
manner  ;  "  it's  only  the  heat  of  the  room," 

"  A  flush  ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bloss  from  the  card-table  ; 
"  that's  good  for  four." 

"If  I  thought  it  was  Mr.  Wisbottle,"  said  Mrs.  Tibbs, 
after  a  pause,  "he  should  leave  this  house  instantly." 

"Go  I"  said  Mrs,  Bloss  again. 

"  And  if  I  thought,  continued  the  hostess  with  a  most 
threatening  air,  "If  I  thought  he  was  assisted  by  Mr. 
Tibbs"— 

"  One  for  his  nob  ! "  said  Gobler. 

"  Oh,"  said  Evenson,  in  a  most  soothing  tone — he  liked 
to  make  mischief — "  I  should  hope  Mr.  Tibbs  was  not  in 
any  way  implicated.  He  always  appeared  to  me  very 
harmless." 

"  I  have  generally  found  him  so,"  sobbed  poor  little 
Mrs,  Tibbs  ;  crying  like  a  water-pot, 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  pray — Mrs.  Tibbs— consider — we  shall 
be  observed — pray,  don't  !"  said  John  Evenson,  fearing 
his  whole  plan  would  be  interrupted,  "  Wo  will  set  the 
matter  at  rest  with  the  utmost  ease,  and  I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  assist  you  in  doing  so." 

Mrs,  Tibbs  murmured  her  thanks, 

"  VVhen  you  think  every  one  has  retired  to  rest  to- 
night," said  Evenson  very  pompously,  "if  you'll  meet 
me  without  a  light,  just  outside  my  bedroom-door,  by  the 
staircase- window,  I  think  we  can  ascertain  who  the 
parties  really  are,  and  you  will  afterwards  be  enabled  to 
proceed  as  you  think  proper." 

Mrs,  Tibbs  was  easily  persuaded  ;  her  curiosity  was 
excited,  her  jealousy  was  roused,  and  the  arrangement 
was  forthwith  made.  She  resumed  her  work,  and  John 
Evenson  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  his  hands 


in  his  pockets,  looking  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  The 
game  of  cribbage  was  over,  and  conversation  began 
again. 

"Well,  Mr.  O'Bleary,"  said  the  humming  top,  turning 
round  on  his  pivot,  and  facing  the  company,  "  what  did 
you  think  of  Vauxhall  the  other  night?" 

"  Oh,  it's  very  fair,"  replied  Orson,  who  had  been  en- 
thusiastically delighted  with  the  whole  exhibition. 

"  Never  saw  anything  like  that  Captain  Ross's  set-out 
—eh?" 

"  No,"  returned  the  patriot,  with  his  usual  reservation 
— "  except  in  Dublin." 

"  I  saw  the  Count  de  Canky  and  Captain  Fitzthompson 
in  the  Gardens,"  said  Wisbottle  ;  "  they  appeared  much 
delighted." 

"Then  it  must  be  beautiful,"  snarled  Evenson. 
"  I  think  the  white  bears  is  partickerlerly  Avell  done," 
suggested  Mrs.  Bloss.    "In  their  shaggy  white  coats 
they  look  just  like  Polar  bears— don't  you  think  they  do, 
Mr.  Evenson?" 

"  I  think  they  look  a  great  deal  more  like  omnibus 
cads  on  all  fours,"  replied  the  discontented  one. 

"Upon  the  whole,  I  should  have  liked  our  evening 
very  well,"  gasped  Gobler  ;  "only  I  caught  a  desperate 
cold  which  increased  my  pain  dreadfully  I  I  was  obliged 
to  have  several  shower-baths,  before  I  could  leave  my 
room," 

"  Capital  things  those  shower-baths  ! "  ejaculated 
Wisbottle, 

"  Excellent !  "  said  Tomkins. 

"  Delightful  ! "  chimed  in  O'Bleary.  (He  had  once 
seen  one  outside  a  tinman's.) 

"Disgusting  machines!"  rejoined  Evenson,  who  ex- 
tended his  dislike  to  almost  every  created  object,  mascu- 
line, feminine,  or  neuter. 

"Disgusting,  Mr.  Evenson  ! "  said  Gobler,  in  a  tone  of 
strong  indignation.— "  Disgusting  !  Look  at  their 
utility — consider  how  many  lives  they  have  saved  'oy 
promoting  perspiration." 

"  Promoting  perspiration,  indeed,"  growled  John  Even- 
son,  stopping  short  in  his  walk  across  the  large  squares 
in  the  pattern  of  the  carpet—"  I  was  ass  enough  to  be 
persuaded  some  time  ago  to  have  one  in  my  bed-room. 
'Gad,  I  was  in  it  once,  and  it  effectually  cured  me,  for 
the  mere  sight  of  it  threw  me  into  a  profuse  perspiration 
for  six  months  afterwards." 

A  titter  followed  this  announcement,  and  before  it  had 
subsided  James  brought  up  "  the  tray,"  containing  the 
remains  of  a  leg  of  lamb  which  had  made  its  debut  at 
dinner  ;  bread  ;  cheese  ;  an  atom  of  butter  in  a  forest 
of  parsley  ;  one  pickled  walnut  and  the  third  of  another, 
and  so  forth.  The  boy  disappeared,  and  returned 
again  with  another  tray,  containing  glasses  and  jugs  of 
hot  and  cold  water.  The  gentlemen  brought  in  their 
spirit  bottles  ;  the  housemaid  placed  divers  plated  bed- 
room  candlesticks  under  the  card-table;  and  the  ser- 
vants retired  for  the  night. 

Chairs  were  drawn  round  the  table,  and  the  conversa- 
tion proceeded  in  the  customary  manner.  John  Even- 
son,  who  never  ate  supper,  lolled  on  the  sofa,  and 
amused  himself  by  contradicting  every  body.  O'Bleary 
ate  as  much  as  he  could  conveniently  carry,  and  Mrs. 

•  Tibbs  felt  a  due  degree  of  indignation  thereat  ;  Mr. 
Gobler  and  Mrs.  Bloss  conversed  most  affectionately  on 

t  the  subject  of  pill-taking  and  other  innocent  amuse- 
ments ;  and  Tomkins  and  Wisbottle  "  got  into  an  argu- 
:  ment ;  "  that  is  to  say,  they  both  talked  very  loudly  and 

•  vehemently,  each  flattering  himself  that  he  had  got  some 
!  advantage  about  something,  and  neither  of  them  having 
;  more  than  a  very  indistinct  idea  of  what  they  were  talk- 
ing about.    An  hour  or  two  passed  away  ;  and  the 
boarders  and  the  brass  candlesticks  retired  in  pairs  to 

.  their  respective  bedrooms.  John  Evenson  pulled  off  his 
i  boots,  locked  his  door,  and  determined  to  sit  up  until 
)  Mr.  Gobler  had  retired.  He  always  sat  in  the  drawing- 
5  room  an  hour  after  everybody  else  had  left  it,  taking 
)  medicine,  and  groaning. 

Great  Coram-street  was  hushed  into  a  state  of  pro- 
j  found  repose  ;  it  was  nearly  two.  o'clock.  A  hackney- 
t  coach  now  and  then  rumbled  slowly  by  ;  and  occasional- 
i  ly  some  stray  lawyer's  clerk,  on  his  way  home  to  Som- 
5  ers'-town,  struck  his  iron  heel  on  the  top  of  the  coal- 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


917 


cellar  with  a  noise  resembling  the  click  of  a  smoke-jack. 
A  low,  monotonous,  gushing  sound  wsus  heard,  which 
added  considerably  to  the  romantic  dreariness  of  the 
scene.    It  was  the  water  "  coming  in  "  at  number  eleven. 

"  He  must  be  asleep  by  this  time,"  said  John  Even- 
son  to  himself  after  waiting  with  exemplary  patience  for 
nearly  an  hour  after  Mr.  Gobler  had  left  the  drawing- 
room.  He  listened  for  a  few  moments  ;  the  house  was 
perfectly  quiet  ;  he  extinguished  his  rushlight,  and 
opened  his  bedroom  door.  The  staircase  was  so  dark 
that  it  was  impossible  to  see  anything. 

'/  S — s — s  !"  whispered  the  mischief-maker,  making  a 
noise  like  the  first  indication  a  catherine-wheel  gives  of 
the  probability  of  its  going  off. 

"  Hush  ;  "  whispered  somebody  else. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mrs.  Tibbs  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  sir." 

"Where?" 

"  Here  ; "  and  the  misty  outline  of  Mrs.  Tibbs  ap- 
peared at  the  staircase  window  like  the  ghost  of  Queen 
Anne  in  the  tent  scene  in  Richard. 

"This  way,  Mrs.  Tibbs,"  whispered  the  delighted 
busybody:  "give  me  your  hand — there!  Whoever 
these  people  are,  they  are  in  the  store-room  now,  for  I 
have  been  looking  down  from  my  window,  and  I  could 
see  that  they  accidentally  upset  their  candlestick,  and  are 
now  in  darkness.    You  have  no  shoes  on,  have  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  little  Mrs.  Tibbs,  who  could  hardly  speak 
for  trembling. 

"Well;  I  have  taken  my  boots  off,  so  we  can  go 
down,  close  to  the  store-room -door,  and  listen  over  the 
banisters  ; "  and  down  stairs  they  both  crept,  according- 
ly, every  board  creaking  like  a  patent  mangle  on  a 
Saturday  afternoon. 

"  It's  Wisbottle  and  somebody  I'll  swear,"  exclaimed 
the  radical  in  an  energetic  whisper,  when  they  had  lis- 
tened for  a  few  moments. 

"  Hush— pray  let's  hear  what  they  say!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Tibbs,  the  gratification  of  whose  curiosity  was  now 
paramount  to  every  other  consideration. 

"  Ah  !  if  I  could  but  believe  you,"  said  a  feeble  voice 
coquetishly,  "I'd  be  bound  to  settle  my  missis  for  life." 

"What  does  she  say?"  inquired  Mr.  Evenson,  who 
was  not  quite  so  well  situated  as  his  companion. 

"  She  says  she'll  settle  her  missis's  life,"  replied  Mrs. 
Tibbs.    "The  wretch  !  they're  plotting  murder." 

"I  know  you  want  money,"  continued  the  voice, 
which  belonged  to  Agnes  ;  "  and  if  you'd  secure  me  the 
five  hundred  pound,  I  warrant  she  should  take  fire  soon 
enough." 

"  What's  that?"  inquired  Evenson  again.  He  could 
just  hear  enough  to  want  to  hear  more. 

"  I  think  she  says  she'll  set  the  house  on  fire,  replied 
the  affrighted  Mrs.  Tibbs.  "  But  thank  God  I'm  insured 
in  the  Phcenix  ! " 

"  The  moment  I  have  secured  your  mistress,  my  dear," 
said  a  man's  voice  in  a  strong  Irish  brogue,  "you  may 
depend  on  having  the  money." 

"Bless  my  soul,  it's  Mr.  O'Bleary  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  in  a  parenthesis. 

"  The  villain  ! "  said  the  indignant  Mr.  Evenson. 

"  The  first  thing  to  be  done,"  continued  the  Hibernian, 
"  is  to  poison  Mr.  Gobler's  mind." 

"  Oh,  certainly  ;  "  returned  Agnes. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  inquired  Evenson  again,  in  an  agony 
of  curiosity  and  a  whisper. 

"  He  says  she's  to  mind  and  poison  Mr.  Gobler,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Tibbs,  aghast  at  this  sacrifice  of  human  life. 

"  And  in  regard  of  Mrs.  Tibbs,"  continued  O'Bleary. — 
Mrs.  Tibbs  shuddered. 

"  Hush  !  "  exclaimed  Agnes,  in  a  tone  of  the  greatest 
alarm,  just  as  Mrs.  Tibbs  was  on  the  extreme  verge  of  a 
fainting-fit.    "  Hush  !  " 

"Hush  !"  exclaimed  Evenson,  at  the  same  moment 
to  Mrs.  Tibbs. 

''  There's  somebody  coming  up  stairs,"  said  Agnes  to 
O'Bleary. 

"There's  somebody  coming  doion  stairs,"  whispered 
Evenson  to  Mrs.  Tibbs, 

"  Go  into  the  parlofir,  sir,"  said  Agnes  to  her  com- 
panion. "  You  will  get  there,  before  whoever  it  is,  gets 
to  the  top  of  the  kitchen  stairs." 


"The  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Tibbs!"  whispered  the 
astonished  Evenson  to  his  equally  astonished  companion  ; 
and  for  the  drawing-room  they  both  made,  plainly  hear- 
ing the  rustling  of  two  persons,  one  coming  down-stairs, 
and  one  coming  up. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tibbs.  "  It's  like 
a  dream.    I  wouldn't  be  in  this  situation  for  the  world  I  " 

"  Nor  I,"  returned  Evenson,  who  could  never  bear  a 
joke  at  his  own  expense.  Hush  !  here  they  are  at  the 
door." 

"What  fun?"  whispered  one  of  the  newcomers. — It 
was  Wisbottle. 

"  Glorious  !  "  replied  his  companion,  in  an  equally  low 
tone.— This  was  Alfred  Tomkins.  "Who  would  *havo 
thought  it  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Wisbottle,  in  a  most  knowing 
whisper.  "  Lord  bless  you,  he  has  paid  her  most  ex- 
traordinary attention  for  the  last  two  months.  I  saw  'em 
when  I  was  sitting  at  the  piano  to-night. 

"  Well  do  you  know  I  didn't  notice  it?  "  interrupted 
Tomkins. 

"  Not  notice  it  !  •'  continued  Wisbottle.  "  Bless  you  ; 
I  saw  him  whispering  to  her,  and  she  crying  ;  and  then 
I'll  swear  I  heard  him  say  something  about  to-night 
when  we  were  all  in  bed." 

"They're  talking  of  us!"  exclaimed  the  agonised 
Mrs.  Tibbs,  as  the  painful  suspicion,  and  a  sense  of  their 
situation  flashed  upon  her  mind. 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it,"  replied  Evenson,  with  a  mel- 
ancholy consciousness  that  there  was  no  mode  of  escape. 

"  What's  to  be  done  ?  we  cannot  both  stop  here  ! "  ejac- 
ulated Mrs.  Tibbs,  in  a  state  of  partial  derangement. 

"  I'll  get  up  the  chimney,"  replied  Evenson,  who  real- 
ly meant  what  he  said. 

"You  can't,"  said  Mrs,  Tibbs,  in  despair.  "You 
can't — it's  a  register  stove." 

"  Hush  !  "  repeated  John  Evenson. 

"  Hush — hush  !"  cried  somebody  down  stairs. 

"  What  a  d-d  hushing  !"  said  Alfred  Tomkins,  who 
began  to  get  rather  bewildered, 

"  They  are  there  !  "  exclaimed  the  sapient  Wisbottle, 
as  a  rustling  noise  was  heard  in  the  store-room. 

"  Hark  !  "  whispered  both  the  young  men. 

"  Hark  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Tibbs  and  Evenson. 

"  Let  me  alone,  sir,  said  a  female  voice  in  the  store- 
room. 

"Oh*  Hagnes  ! "  cried  another  voice,  which  clearly 
belonged  to  Tibbs,  for  nobody  else  ever  owned  one  like 
it.    "  Oh,  Hagnes — lovely  creature  I  " 

**  Be  quiet,  sir  !  "  (a  bounce,) 

"Hag-" 

"  Be  quiet,  sir — I  am  ashamed  of  you.  Tliink  of  your 
wife,  Mr,  Tiljbs.    Be  quiet,  sir  !  " 

"  My  wife  !"  exclaimed  the  valorous  Tibbs,  who  was 
clearly  under  the  influence  of  gin-and- water,  and  a  mis- 
placed attachment ;  "  I  ate  her  !  Oh,  Hagnes  !  when  I 
was  in  the  volunteer  corps,  in  eighteen  hundred  and — " 

"I  declare  I'll  scream.  Be  quiet,  sir,  will  you?" 
(Another  bounce  and  a  scuffle, ) 

"  What's  that  ! "  exclaimed  Tibbs,  with  a  start. 

"  What's  what  ?  "  said  Agnes  stopping  short. 

"  Why  that  ! " 

"  Ah  !  you  have  done  it  nicely  now,  sir,"  sobbed  the 
frightened  Agnes,  as  a  tapping  was  heard  at  Mrs.  Tibbs' 
bedroom  door,  which  would  have  beaten  any  dozen 
woodpeckers  hollow. 

"Mrs.  Tibbs!  Mrs,  Tibbs!"  called  out  Mrs.  Bloss. 
"Mrs.  Tibbs,  pray  get  up."  (Here  the  imitation  of  a 
woodpecker  was  resumed  with  tenfold  violence.) 

"Oh,  dear — dear  !"  exclaimed  the  wretched  partner 
of  the  depraved  Tibbs.  "  She's  knocking  at  my  door. 
We  must  be  discovered  !    What  will  they  think?" 

"  Mrs.  Tibbs  !  Mrs.  Tibbs  !  "  screamed  the  woodpecker 
again, 

"What's  the  matter  !"  shouted  Gobler,  bursting  out 
of  the  back  drawing  room,  like  the  dragon  at  Astley's. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Gobler  !"  cried  Mrs.  Bloss,  with  a  proper 
approximation  to  hysterics  ;  "I  think  the  house  is  on 
fire,  or  else  there's  thieves  in  it.  I  have  heard  the  most 
dreadful  noises  I " 

"  The  devil  you  have  !  "  shouted  Gobler  again  bounc- 
ing back  into  his  den,  in  happy  imitation  of  the  afore- 


918 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


said  dragon,  and  returning  immediately  witli  a  lighted 
candle.  "Why,  what's  this?  Wisbottle  !  Tomkins ! 
O'Bleary !  Agnes !  What  the  deuce  I  all  up  and 
dressed  ?  " 

"  Astonishing  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  who  had  run  down- 
stairs, and  taken  Mr.  Gobler's  arm. 

"Call  Mrs.  Tibbs  directly,  somebody,"  said  Gobler, 
turning  into  the  front  drawing-room.  What !  Mrs.  Tibbs 
and  Mr.  Evenson  !  !  " 

"Mrs.  Tibbs  and  Mr.  Ev^enson  !  "  repeated  everybody, 
as  that  unhappy  pair  was  discovered  :  Mrs.  Tibbs  seated 
in  an  arm-chair'by  the  fireplace,  and  Mr.  Evenson  stand- 
ing by  her  side. 

We  must  leave  the  scene  that  ensued  to  the  reader's 
imagination.  We  could  tell,  how  Mrs.  Tibbs  forthwith 
fainted  away,  and  how  it  required  the  united  strength 
of  Mr.  Wisbottle  and  Mr.  Alfred  Tomkins  to  hold  her  in 
her  chair  ;  how  Mr.  Evenson  explained,  and  how  his  ex- 
planation was  evidently  disbelieved  ;  how  Agnes  repel- 
led the  accusations  of  Mrs.  Tibbs,  by  proving  that  she 
was  negotiating  with  Mr.  O'Bleary  to  influence  her  rais- 
tress's  affections  in  his  behalf  ;  and  how  Mr.  Gobler 
threw  a  damp  counterpane  on  the  hopes  of  Mr.  O'Bleary 
by  avowing  that  he  (Gobler)  had  already  proposed  to,  and 
been  accepted  by,  Mrs.  Bloss  ;  how  Agnes  was  discharg- 
ed from  that  lady's  service  ;  how  Mr.  O'Bleary  dis- 
charged himself  from  Mrs.  Tibbs's  house,  without  going 
through  the  form  of  previously  discharging  his  bill  ;  and 
how  that  disappointed  young,  gentleman  rails  against 
England  and  the  English,  and  vows  there  is  no  virtue 
or  fine  feeling  extant,  "  except  in  Ireland."  We  repeat 
that  we  could  tell  all  this,  but  we  love  to  exercise  our 
self-denial,  and  we  therefore  prefer  leaving  it  to  be  ima- 
gined. 

The  lady  whom  we  have  hitherto  described  as  Mrs. 
Bloss,  is  no  more.  Mrs.  Gobler  exists  ;  Mrs.  Bloss  has 
left  us  for  ever.  In  a  secluded  retreat  in  Newington 
Butts,  far,  far,  removed  from  the  noisy  strife  of  that 
great  boarding  house,  the  world,  the  enviable  Gobler  and 
his  pleasing  wife  revel  ia  retirement  ;  happy  in  their 
complaints,  their  table,  and  their  medicine  ;  wafted 
through  life  by  the  grateful  prayers  of  all  the  purveyors 
of  animal  food  within  three  miles  round. 

We  would  willingly  stop  here,  but  we  have  a  painful 
duty  imposed  upon  us  which  we  must  discharge.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Tibbs  have  separated  by  mutual  consent,  Mrs. 
Tibbs  receiving  one  moiety  of  43^.  15s.  10(^.,  which  we 
before  stated  to  be  the  amount  of  her  husband's  annual 
income,  and  Mr.  Tibbs  the  other.  He  is  spending  the 
evening  of  his  days  in  retirement ;  and  he  is  spending 
also  annually,  that  small  but,  honourable  independence. 
He  resides  among  the  original  settlers  at  Walworth  ;  and 
it  has  been  stated,  on  unquestionable  authority,  that  the 
conclusion  of  the  volunteer  story  has  been  heard  in  a 
small  tavern  in  that  respectable  neighbourhood. 

The  unfortunate  Mrs.  Tibbs  has  determined  to  dispose 
of  the  whole  of  her  furniture  by  public  auction,  and  to 
retire  from  a  residence  in  which  she  has  suffered  so 
much.  Mr.  Robins  has  been  applied  to,  to  conduct  the 
sale,  and  the  transcendent  abilities  of  the  literary  gen- 
tlemen connected  with  his  establishment  are  now  devoted 
to  the  task  of  drawing  up  the  preliminary  advertisement. 
It  is  to  contain,  among  a  variety  of  brilliant  matter, 
seventy-eight  words  in  large  capitals,  and  six  original 
quotations  ia  inverted  commas. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Mr.  Minns  and  Jiis  Cousin. 

Mr.  Augustus  Minns  was  a  bachelor,  of  about  forty 

as  he  said— of  about  eight-and-forty  as  his  friends  said. 
He  was  always  exceedingly  clean,  precise,  and  tidy  ; 
perhaps  .somewhat  priggish,  and  the  most  retiring  man 
in  the  world.  He  usually  wore  a  brown  frock-coat  with- 
out a  wrinkle,  light  inexplicables  without  a  spot,  a  neat 
neckerchief  with  aremarkable  neat  tie,  and  boots  without 
a  fault ;  moreover,  he  always  carried  a  brown  silk  um- 
brella with  an  ivory  handle.  He  was  a  clerk  in  Somerset- 
house,  or,  as  he  said  himself ,  he  held  "a  responsible 


situation  under  Government,"  He  had  a  good  and  in- 
creasing salary,  in  addition  to  some  10,000^.  of  his  own 
(invested  in  the  funds),  and  he  occupied  a  first  floor  in 
Tavistock-street,  Covent  Garden,  where  he  had  resided 
for  twenty  years,  having  been  in  the  habit  of  quarrelling 
with  his  landlord  the  whole  time  :  regularly  giving 
notice  of  his  intention  to  quit  on  the  first  day  of  every 
quarter,  and  as  regularly  countennanding  it  on  the 
second.  There  were  two  classes  of  created  objects  which 
he  held  in  the  deepest  and  most  unmingled  horror  ; 
these  were  dogs,  and  children.  He  was  not  unamiable, 
but  he  could,  at  any  time,  have  viewed  the  execution  of 
a  dog,  or  the  assassination  of  an  infant  with  the  liveliest 
satisfaction.  Their  habits  were  at  variance  with  his 
love  of  order  ;  and  his  love  of  order  was  as  powerful  as 
his  love  of  life.  Mr.  Augustus  Minns  had  no  relations, 
in  or  near  London,  with  the  exception  of  his  cousin,  Mr. 
Octavius  Budden,  to  whose  son,  whom  he  had  never 
seen  (for  he  disliked  the  father)  he  had  consented  to 
become  godfather  by  proxy.  Mr.  Budden  having  realised 
a  moderate  fortune  by  exercising  the  trade  or  calling  of 
a  corn-chandler,  and  having  a  great  predilection  for  the 
country,  had  purchased  a  cottage  in  the  vicinity  of 
Stamford -hill,  whither  he  retired  with  the  wife  of  his 
bosom  and  his  only  son.  Master  Alexander  Augustus 
Budden.  One  evening,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B.  were  admiring 
their  son,  discussing  his  various  merits,  talking  over  his 
education,  and  disputing  whether  the  classics  should  be 
made  an  essential  part  thereof,  the  lady  pressed  so 
strongly  upon  her  husband  the  propriety  of  cultivating 
the  friendship  of  Mr.  Minns  in  behalf  of  their  son,  that 
Mr.  Budden  at  last  made  up  his  mind,  that  it  should  not 
be  his  fault  if  he  and  his  cousin  were  not  in  future  more 
intimate. 

"  I'll  break  the  ice,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Budden,  stirring 
up  the  sugar  at  the  bottom  of  his  glass  of  brandy -and- 
water,  and  casting  a  sidelong  look  at  his  spouse  to  see 
the  effect  of  the  announcement  of  his  determination, 
'*  by  asking  Minns  down  to  dine  with  us  on  Sunday." 

"Then,  pray  Budden  write  to  your  cousin  at  once," 
replied  Mrs.  Budden.  *'  Who  knows,  if  we  could  only 
get  him  down  here,  but  he  might  take  a  fancy  to  our 
Alexander,  and  leave  him  his  property? — Alick,  my  dear, 
take  your  legs  off  the  rail  of  the  chair  !  " 

"Very  true,"  said  Mr.  Budden,  musing,  "very  true 
indeed,  my  love  !" 

On  the  following  morning,  as  Mr.  Minns  was  sitting 
at  his  breakfast-table,  alternately  biting  his  dry  toast, 
and  casting  a  look  upon  the  columns  of  his  morning  pa- 
per, which  he  always  read  from  the  title  to  the  printer's 
name,  he  heard  a  loud  knock  at  the  street-door ;  which 
was  shortly  afterwards  followed  by  the  entrance  of  his 
servant,  who  put  into  his  hand  a  particularly  small  card, 
on  which  was  engraven  in  immense  letters  "Mr.  Octa- 
vius Budden,  Amelia  Cottage,  (Mrs.  B's.  name  was 
Amelia,)  Poplar-walk,  Stamford-hill." 

"  Budden  1"  ejaculated  Minns,  "  what  can  bring  that 
vulgar  man  here  ! — say  I'm  asleep — say  I'm  out,  and 
shall  never  be  home  again — anything  to  keep  him  down- 
stairs." 

"  But  please,  sir,  the  gentleman's  coming  up,"  replied 
the  servant  :  and  the  fact  was  made  evident  by  an 
appalling  creaking  of  boots  on  the  staircase  accompanied 
by  a  pattering  noise  the  cause  of  which,  Minns  could  not 
for  the  life  of  him,  divine. 

"Hem  ! — show  the  gentleman  in,"  said  the  unfortu- 
nate bachelor.  Exit  servant,  and  enter  Octavius  preceded 
by  a  large  white  dog,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  tieecy  hosiery, 
with  pink  eyes,  large  ears,  and  no  perceptible  tail. 

The  cause  of  the  pattering  on  the  stairs  was  but  too 
plain.  Mr.  Augustus  Minns  staggered  beneath  the 
shock  of  the  dog's  appearance. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  how  are  you?"  said  Budden,  as  h<$  j 
entered. 

He  always  spoke  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  always 
said  the  same  thing  half-a-dozen  times. 
"  How  are  you,  my  hearty  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Budden  ? — pray  take  a  chair  !  " 
politely  stammered  the  discomfited  Minns. 

"  Thank  you — thank  you — well*— how  are  you,  eh  ?  ' 

"  Uncommonly  well,  thank  you,"  said  Minns,  casting 
a  diabolical  look  at  the  dog,  who,  with  his  hind  legs  on 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


919 


the  floor,  and  his  fore  paws  resting  on  the  table,  was 
dragging  a  bit  of  bread-and-butter  out  of  a  plate  prepar- 
atory to  devouring  it,  with  the  buttered  side  next  the 
carpet, 

"  Ah,  yon  rftgue  ! "  said  Budden  to  his  dog  ;  "  you  see, 
Minns,  he's  like  me,  always  at  home,  eh,  niy  boy  ? — Egad, 
I'm  precious  hot  and  hungry  !  I've  walked  all  the  way 
from  Stamford-hill  this  morning. 

'*  Have  you  breakfasted  ?  "  inquired  Minns. 

"Oh  no  ! — came  to  breakfast  with  you;  so  ring  the 
bell,  my  dear  fellow,  will  you?  and  let's  have  another 
cup  and  saucer,  and  the  cold  ham. — Make  myself  at 
home  you  see  !  "  continued  Budden,  dusting  his  boots 
with  a  table  napkin.  "Ha  I— ha  ! — ha  ! — 'pon  my  life, 
I'm  hungry." 

Minns  rang  the  bell,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  I  decidedly  never  was  so  hot  in  my  life,"  continued 
Octavius,  wiping  his  forehead  :  '*  well,  but  how  are  you, 
Minns  ?    'Pon  my  soul  you  wear  capitally  I  " 

"  D'ye  think  so?"  said  Minns  ;  and  he  tried  another 
smile. 

"  'Pon  my  life,  I  do  I  " 

"  Mrs.  B.  and — what's  his  name — quite  well?" 

"  Alick — my  son,  you  mean,  never  better — never  bet- 
ter. But  at  such  a  place  a;^  we've  got  at  Poplar- walk, 
you  know,  he  couldn't  be  ill  if  he  tried.  When  I  first 
saw  it,  by  Jove  !  it  looked  so  knowing,  with  the  front- 
garden,  and  the  green  railings,  and  the  brass  knocker,  and 
all  that — I  really  thought  it  was  a  cut  above  me." 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  like  the  ham  better,"  inter- 
rupted Minns,  "if  you  cut  it  the  other  way?"  He  saw 
with  feelings  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe,  that  his 
visitor  was  cutting  or  rather  maiming  the  ham,  in  utter 
violation  of  all  established  rules. 

"  Xo  thank  ye,"  returned  Budden,  with  the  most  barbar- 
ous indifference  to  crime,  "  I  prefer  it  this  way — it  eats 
short.  But  I  say  Minns,  when  will  you  come  down  and 
see  us  ?  You  will  be  delighted  with  the  place  ;  I  know 
you  will.  Amelia  and  I  were  talking  about  you  the 
other  night,  and  Amelia  said — another  lump  of  sugar, 
please  ;  thank  ye — she  said  don't  you  think  you  could 
contrive,  my  dear,  to  say  to  Mr.  Minns,  in  a  friendly  way 
—  come  down  sir — damn  the  dog  1  he's  spoiling  your 
curtains  Minns — ha  ! — ha  1 — ha  !  I"  Minns  leaped  from 
his  seat  as  though  he  had  received  a  discharge  from  a 
galvanic  battery. 

"Come  out,  sir  ! — go  out,  hoo  !"  cried  poor  Augustus, 
keeping  nevertheless,  at  a  very  respectable  distance 
from  the  dog  ;  having  read  of  a  case  of  hydrophobia  in 
the  paper  of  that  morning.  By  dint  of  great  exertion, 
much  shouting,  and  a  marvelous  deal  of  poking  under 
the  tables  with  a  stick  and  umbrella,  the  dog  was  at  last 
dislodged,  and  placed  on  the  landing  outside  the  door, 
where  he  immediately  commenced  a  most  appalling 
howling  ;  at  the  same  time  vehemently  scratching 
the  paint  off  the  two  nicely-varnished  bottom  panels, 
until  they  resembled  the  interior  of  a  back-gammon 
board. 

"  A  good  dog  for  the  country  that  !  "  coolly  observed 
Budden  to  the  distracted  Minns,  "but  he's  not  much 
used  to  confinement.  But  now,  Minns,  when  will  you 
come  down,  I'll  take  no  denial,  positively.  Let's  see, 
to-day's  Thursday. — Will  you  come  on  Sunday  ?  We 
dine  at  five,  don't  say  no — do." 

After  a  great  deal  of  pressing,  Mr.  Augustus  Minns, 
driven  to  despair,  accepted  the  invitation  and  promised 
to  be  at  Poplar- walk  on  the  ensuing  Sunday,  at  a  quarter 
before  five  to  the  minute. 

"  Now  mind  the  direction,"  said  Budden  ;  "  the  coach 

foes  from  the  Flower-pot,  in  Bishopsgate-street,  every 
alf  hour.    When  the  coach  stops  at  the  Swan,  you'll 
see,  immediately  opposite  you,  a  white  house." 

"  Which  is  your  house — I  understand,"  said  Minns, 
■wishing  to  cut  short  the  visit,  and  the  story,  at  the  same 
time. 

"  No,  no,  that's  not  mine  ;  that's  Grogus's,  the  great 
ironmonger's.  I  was  going  to  say — you  turn  down  by 
the  Bide  of  the  white  house  till  you  can't  go  another 
8tep  further — mind  that  ! — and  then  you  turn  to  your 
right,  by  some  stables — well  ;  close  to  you,  you'll  see  a 
wall  with  '  Beware  of  the  Dog '  written  on  it  in  large 
letters — (Minns  shuddered) — go  along  by  the  side  of  that 


wall  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile — and  anybody  will 
show  you  which  is  my  place." 

"  Very  well — thank  ye — good  bye." 

"  Be  x^unctual." 

"  Certainly  :  good  morning." 

"  I  say,  Minns,  you've  got  a  card." 

"  Yes,  I  have  :  thank  ye."  And  Mr.  Octavius  Budden 
departed,  leaving  his  cousin  looking  forward  to  his  visit 
of  the  following  Sunday,  with  the  feelings  of  a  penni- 
less poet  to  the  weekly  visit  of  his  Scotch  landlady. 

Sunday  arrived  ;  the  sky  was  bright  and  clear  ;  crowds 
of  people  were  hurrying  along  the  streets,  intent  on 
their  different  schemes  of  pleasure  for  the  day  ;  every- 
thing and  everybody  looked  cheerful  and  happy  except 
Mr.  Augustus  Minns. 

The  day  was  fine,  but  the  heat  was  considerable  ; 
when  Mr.  Minns  fagged  up  the  shady  side  of  Fleet- 
street,  Cbeapside,  and  Threadneedle-street,  he  had  be- 
come pretty  wanu,  tolerably  dusty,  and  it  was  getting 
late  into  the  bargain.  By  the  most  extraordinary  good 
fortune,  however,  a  coach  was  waiting  at  the  Flower- 
pot, into  which  Mr.  Augustus  Minns  got,  on  the  solemn 
assurance  of  the  cad  that  the  vehicle  would  start  in 
three  minutes — that  being  the  very  utmost  extremity  of 
time  it  was  allowed  to  wait  by  Act  of  Parliament.  A 
quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed,  and  there  were  no  signs  of 
moving.    Minns  looked  at  his  watch  for  the  sixth  time. 

"Coachman,  are  you  going  or  not?"  bawled  Mr. 
Minns,  with  his  head  and  half  his  body  out  of  the  coach- 
window. 

"  Di — rectly,  sir,"  said  the  coachman,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  looking  as  much  unlike  a  man  in  a  hurry 
as  possible. 

"  Bill,  take  them  cloths  off."  Five  minutes  more 
elapsed  ;  at  the  end  of  which  time  the  coachman  mount- 
ed the  t)Ox,  from  whence  he  looked'  down  the  street, 
and  up  the  street,  and  hailed  all  the  pedestrians  for  an- 
other five  minutes. 

"  Coachman  !  if  you  don't  go  this  moment,  I  shall  get 
out,"  said  Mr.  Minns,  rendered  desperate  by  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour,  and  the  impossibility  of  being  in 
Poplar-walk  at  the  appointed  time. 

"Going  this  minute,  sir,"  was  the  reply; — and,  ac- 
cordingly the  machine  trundled  on  for  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred yards,  and  then  stopped  again.  Minns  doubled 
himself  up  in  a  corner  of  the  coach,  and  abandoned  him- 
self to  his  fate,  as  a  child,  a  mother,  a  bandbox,  and  a 
parasol,  became  his  fellow  passengers. 

The  child  was  an  affectionate  and  an  amiable  infant  ; 
the  little  dear  mistook  Minns  for  his  other  parent,  and 
screamed  to  embrace  him. 

"Be  quiet,  dear,"  said  the  mamma,  restraining  the 
impetuosity  of  the  darling,  whose  little  fat  legs  were 
kicking  and  stamping,  and  twining  themselves  into  the 
most  complicated  forms  in  an  ecstacy  of  impatience. 
"  Be  quiet,  dear,  that's  not  your  papa." 

"  Thank  Heaven  I  am  not  ! "  thought  Minns,  as  the 
first  gleam  of  pleasure  he  had  experienced  that  morning 
shone  like  a  meteor  through  his  wretchedness. 

Playfulness  was  agreeably  mingled  with  affection  in 
the  disposition  of  the  boy.  When  satisfied  that  Mr. 
Minns  was  not  his  parent,  he  endeavoured  to  attract  his 
notice  by  scraping  his  drab  trousers  with  his  dirty  shoes, 
poking  his  chest  with  his  mamma's  parasol,  and  other 
nameless  endearments  peculiar  to  infancy,  with  which 
he  beguiled  the  tediousness  of  the  ride,  apparently  very 
much  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

When  the  unfortunate  gentleman  arrived  at  the  Swan, 
he  found  to  his  great  dismay,  that  it  was  a  quarter  past 
five.  The  white  house,  the  stables,  the  "Beware  of 
the  Dog," — every  landmark  was  passed  with  a  rapidity 
not  unusual  to  a  gentleman  of  a  certain  age  when  too 
late  for  dinner.  After  the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes,  Mr. 
Minns  found  himself  opposite  a  yellow  brick  house  with 
a  green  door,  brass  knocker  and  door-plate,  green  win- 
dow-frames and  ditto  railings,  with  a  "garden"  in 
front,  that  is  to  say,  a  small  loose  bit  of  gravelled 
ground,  with  one  round  and  two  scalene  triangular  beds, 
containing  a  fir-tree,  twenty  or  thirty  bulbs,  and  an  un- 
limited number  of  marigolds.  The  taste  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Budden  was  further  displayed  by  the  appearance 
of  a  Cupid  on  each  side  of  the  door,  perched  upon  a  heap 


920 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


of  large  clialk  flints,  variegated  with  pink  concli-shells. 
His  knock  at  the  door  was  answered  by  a  stumpy  boy, 
in  drab  livery,  cotton  stockings,  and  high-lows,  who, 
after  hanging  his  hat  on  one  of  the  dozen  brass  pegs 
which  ornamented  the  passage,  denominated  by  courtesy 
"The  Hall,"  ushered  him  into  a  front  drawing-room, 
commanding  a  very  extensive  view  of  the  backs  of  the 
neia-hbouring  houses.  The  usual  ceremony  of  introduc- 
tion, and  so  forth,  over,  Mr.  Minns  took  his  seat  :  not  a 
little  agitated  at  finding  that  he  was  the  last  comer, 
and,  somehow  or  other,  the  Lion  of  about  a  dozen  peo- 
ple, sitting  together  in  a  small  drawing-room,  getting 
rid  of  that  most  tedious  of  all  time,  the  time  preceding 
dinner. 

"  Well,  Brogson,"  said  Budden,  addressing  an  elderly 
gentleman  in  a  black  coat,  drab  knee-breeches,  and 
long  gaiters,  who  under  pretence  of  inspecting  the  prints 
in  an  Annual,  had  been  engaged  in  satisfying  himself  on 
the  subject  of  Mr.  Minns's  general  appearance,  by  look- 
ing at  him  over  the  tops  of  tlie  leaves — "  Well,  Brogson, 
what  do  Ministers  mean  to  do  ?  Will  they  go  out,  or 
what?" 

"  Oh — why — really,  you  know,  I'm  the  last  person  in 
the  world  to  ask  for  news.  Your  cousin,  from  his  situa- 
tion, is  the  most  likely  person  to  answer  the  question." 

Mr.  Minns  assured  the  last  speaker,  that  although  he 
was  in  Somerset-house,  he  possessed  no  official  communi- 
cation relative  to  the  projects  of  his  Majesty's  Minister's. 
But  his  remark  was  evidently  received  incredulously ; 
and  no  further  conjectures  being  hazarded  on  the  sub- 
ject, a  long  pause  ensued,  during  which  the  company 
occupied  themselves  in  coughing  and  blowing  their  noses 
until  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Budden  caused  a  general  rise. 

The  ceremony  of  introduction  being  over,  dinner  was 
announced,  and  down-stairs  the  party  proceeded  accord- 
ingly— Mr.  Minns* escorting  Mrs.  Budden  as  far  as  the 
drawing-room  door,  but  being  prevented,  by  the  narrow- 
ness of  the  staircase,  from  extending  his  gallantry  any 
farther.  The  dinner  passed  off  as  such  dinners  usually 
do.  Ever  and  anon,  amidst  the  clatter  of  knives  and 
forks,  and  the  hum  of  conversation,  Mr.  B.'s  voice  might 
be  heard,  asking  a  friend  to  take  wine,  and  assuring  him 
he  was  glad  to  see  him  ;  and  a  great  deal  of  by-play  took 
place  between  Mrs.  B.  and  the  servants,  respecting  the 
removal  of  the  dishes,  during  which  her  countenance 
assumed  all  the  variations  of  a  weather-glass,,  from 
"  stormy  "  to  "  set  fair." 

Upon  the  dessert  and  wine  being  placed  on  the  table, 
the  servant,  in  compliance  with  a  significant  look  from 
Mrs.  B.,  brought  down  Master  Alexander,"  habited  in 
a  sky-blue  suit  with  silver  buttons  ;  and  possessing  hair 
of  nearly  the  same  colour  as  the  metal.  After  sundry 
praises  from  his  mother,  and  various  admonitions  as  to 
his  behaviour  from  his  father,  he  was  introduced  to  his 
godfather. 

"Well,  my  little  fellow — you  are  a  fine  boy,  ain't 
you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Minns,  as  happv  as  a  tomtit  on  birdlime. 
"  Yes." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

**  Eight,  next  We'nsday.    How  old  are  you  f  " 

"  Alexander,"  interrupted  his  mother,  "  how  dare  you 
ask  Mr.  Minns  how  old  he  is  !  " 

"He  asked  me  how  old  /  was,"  said  the  precocious 
child,  to  whom  Minns  had  from  that  moment  internally 
resolved  that  he  never  would  bequeath  one  shilling.  As 
soon  as  the  titter  occasioned  by  the  observation,  had 
subsided,  a  little  smirking  man  with  red  whiskers,  sitting 
at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  who  during  the  whole  of  din- 
ner had  been  endeavouring  to  obtain  a  listener  to  some 
stories  about  Sheridan,  called  out,  with  a  very  patron- 
izing air — "  Alick,  what  part  of  speech  is  he  ?  " 

"  A  verb." 

"  That's  a  good  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Budden  with  all  a 
mother's  pride.     "  Now,  you  know  what  a  verb  is  ?  " 

"  A  verb  is  a  word  which  signifies  to  bo,  to  do,  or  to 
suffer  ;  as,  1  am— I  rule— I  am  ruled.  Give  me  an  apple, 
Ma." 

"I'll  give  you  an  apple,"  replied  the  man  with  the 
rod  whiskers,  who  was  an  established  friend  of  the 
family,  or  in  other  words  was  always  invited  by  Mrs, 
Budden,  whether  Mr.  Budden  liked  it  or  not,  "  if  you'll 
tell  me  the  meaning  of  be." 


"Be?  "said  the  prodigy,  after  a  little  hesitation— 
"an  insect  that  gathers  honey." 

"No,  dear,"  frowned  Mrs.  Budden;  "B  double  E  is 
the  substantive." 

"  I  don't  think  he  knows  much  yet  about  common 
substantives,"  said  the  smirking  gentleman,  who  thought 
this  an  admirable  opportunity  for  letting  off  a  joke. 
"  It's  clear  he's  not  very  well  acquainted  Vfiih.  proper 
names.    He  !  He  !  He  !" 

"  Gentlemen,"  called  out  Mr.  Budden  from  the  end 
of  the  table,  in  a  stentorian  voice,  and  with  a  very  im- 
portant air,  "  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  charge  your 
glasses  ?    I  have  a  toast  to  propose." 

"Hearl  hear!"  cried  the  gentlemen,  passing  the 
decanters.  After  they  had  made  the  round  of  the  table, 
Mr.  Budden  proceeded — "  Gentlemen  ;  there  is  an  indi- 
vidual present — " 

"Hear!  hear  1 "  said  the  little  man  with  red  whisk- 
ers. 

"  Pray  be  quiet,  Jones,"  remonstrated  Budden. 

"  I  say,  gentlemen,  there  is  an  individual  present," 
resumed  the  host,  "in  whose  society,  I  am  sure  we 
must  take  great  delight — and — and — the  conversation  of 
that  individual  must  have  afforded  to  every  one  present, 
the  utmost  pleasure."  ["  Thank  Heaven,  he  does  not 
mean  me  !  "  thought  Minns,  conscious  that  his  diffidence 
and  exclusiveness  had  prevented  his  saying  above  a  doz- 
en words  since  he  entered  the  house.]  "Gentlemen,  I  am 
but  a  humble  individual  myself,  and  I  perhaps  ought  to 
apologise  for  allowing  any  individual  feelings  of  friend- 
ship and  affection  for  the  person  I  allude  to,  to  induce 
me  to  venture  to  rise,  to  propose  the  health  of  that 
person — a  person  that  I  am  sure — that  is  to  say,  a  person 
whose  virtues  must  endear  him  to  those  who  know  him 
— and  those  who  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  him, 
cannot  dislike  him." 

"Hear  1  hear  !"  said  the  company,  in  a  tone  of  en- 
couragement and  approval. 

"Gentlemen,"  continued  Budden,  "my  cousin  is  a 
man  who — who  is  a  relation  of  my  own."  (Hear  !  hear  !) 
Minns  groaned  audibly.  "  Who  I  am  most  happy  to  see 
here,  and  who,  if  he  were  not  here,  would  certainly  have 
deprived  us  of  the  great  pleasure  we  all  feel  in  seeing  him. 
(Loud  cries  of  hear  I)  Gentlemen,  I  feel  that  I  have  al- 
ready trespassed  on  your  attention  for  too  long  a  time. 
With  every  feeling — of — with  every  sentiment  of — 
of—" 

"Gratification  " — suggested  the  friend  of  the  family. 
" — Of  gratification,  I  beg  to  propose  the  health  of  Mr. 
Minns." 

"Standing,  gentlemen!"  shouted  the  indefatigable 
little  man  with  the  whiskers — "  ar\,d  with  the  honours. 
Take  your  time  from  me,  if  you  please.  Hip!  hip  I  hip! 
— Za  !— Hip  !  hip  !  hip  I— Za  !— Hip  !  hip  !— Za— a—a  !  " 

All  eyes  were  now  fixed  on  the  subject  of  the  toast, 
who  by  gulping  down  port- wine  at  the  imminent  hazard 
of  suffocation,  endeavoured  to  conceal  his  confusion. 
After  as  long  a  pause  as  decency  would  admit,  he  rose, 
but,  as  the  newspapers  sometimes  say  in  their  reports, 
"we  regret  that  we  are  quite  unable  to  give  even  the 
substance  of  the  honourable  gentleman's  observations.** 
The  words  "present  company — honour — present  occa- 
sion," and  "great  happiness" — heard  occasionally,  and 
repeated  at  intervals,  with  a  countenance  expressive  of 
the  utmost  confusion  and  misery,  convinced  the  com- 
pany that  he  was  making  an  excellent  speech  ;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, on  his  resuming  his  seat,  they  cried  "  Bravo! " 
and  manifested  tumultuous  applause.  Jones,  who  had 
been  long  watching  his  opportunity,  then  darted  up. 

"  Budden,"  said  he,  "  will  you  allow  me  to  propose  a 
toast  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Budden,  adding  in  an  under  tone 
to  Minns  right  across  the  table.  "  Devilish  sharp  fellow 
that  :  you'll  be  very  much  pleased  with  his  speech.  He 
talks  equally  well  on  any  subject."  Minns  bowed,  and 
Mr.  Jones  proceeded : 

"  It  has  on  several  occasions,  in  various  instances, 
under  many  circumstance,  and  in  different  companies, 
fallen  to  my  lot  to  propose  a  toast  to  those  by  whom,  at 
the  time,  I  have  had  the  honour  to  be  surrounded.  I 
have  sometimes,  I  will  cheerfully  own — for  why  should 
I  deny  it?— felt  the  overwhelming  nature  of  the  task  I 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


921 


have  undertaken,  and  my  own  utter  incapability  to  do 
justice  to  the  subject.  If  such  had  been  my  feelings  on 
former  occasions,  what  must  they  be  now — now — under 
the  extraordinary  circumstances  in  which  I  am  placed, 
(Hear  !  hear  !)  To  describe  my  feelings  accurately,  would 
be  impossible  ;  but  I  cannot  give  you  a  better  idea  of 
them,  gentlemen,  than  by  referring  to  a  circumstance 
which  happens,  oddly  enough,  to  occur  to  my  mind  at 
the  moment.  On  one  occasion,  when  that  truly  great 
and  illustrious  man,  Sheridan,  was — " 

Now,  there  is  no  knowing  what  new  villany  in  the 
form  of  a  joke  would  have  been  heaped  on  tlie  grave  of 
That  very  ill-used  man,  Mr.  Sheridan,  if  the  boy  in  drab 
had  not  at  that  moment  entered  the  room  in  a  breathless 
state,  to  report  that,  as  it  was  a  very  wet  night,  the  nine 
o'clock  stage  had  come  round,  to  know  whether  there 
was  anybody  going  to  town,  as,  in  that  case,  he  (the  nine 
o'clock)  had  room  for  one  inside. 

Mr.  Minns  started  up  ;  and,  despite  countless  exclama- 
tions of  surprise,  and  entreaties  to  stay,  persisted  in  his 
determination  to  accept  the  vacant  place.  But  the  brown 
silk  umbrella  was  nowhere  to  be  found ;  and  as  the 
coachman  couldn't  wait,  he  drove  back  to  the  Swan, 
leaving  word  for  Mr.  Minns  to  "run  round"  and  catch 
him.  However,  as  it  did  not  occur  to  Mr.  Minns  for  some 
ten  minutes  or  so,  that  he  had  left  the  brown  silk  um- 
brella with  the  ivory  handle  in  the  other  coach,  coming 
down  ;  and,  moreover,  as  he  was  by  no  means  remarka- 
ble for  speed,  it  is  no  matter  of  surprise  that  when  he 
accomplished  the  feat  of  "running  round"  to  the  Swan, 
the  coach — the  last  coach — had  gone  without  him. 

It  was  somewhere  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
when  Mr.  Augustus  Minns  knocked  feebly  at  the  street- 
door  of  his  lodgings  in  Tavistock-street,  cold,  wet,  cross, 
and  miserable.  He  made  his  will  next  morning,  and  his 
professional  man  informs  us,  in  that  strict  confidence  in 
which  we  inform  the  public,  that  neither  the  name  of 
Mr.  Octavius  Budden,  nor  of  Mrs.  Amelia  Budden,  nor 
of  Master  Alexander  Augustus  Budden  appears  therein. 


CHAPTER  IIL 
Sentiment. 

The  Miss  Crumptons,  or  to  quote  the  authority  of  the 
inscription  on  the  garden-gate  of  Minerva  House,  Ham- 
mersmith, "  The  Misses  Crumpton,"  were  two  unusually 
tall,  particularly  thin,  and  exceedingly  skinny  person- 
ages ;  very  upright,  and  very  yellow.  Miss  Amelia 
Crumpton  owned  to  thirty -eight,  and  Miss  Maria  Crump- 
ton  admitted  she  was  forty  :  an  admission  which  was 
rendered  perfectly  unnecessary  by  the  self-evident  fact 
of  her  being  at  least  fifty.  They  dressed  in  the  most 
interesting  manner — like  twins;  and  looked  as  happy 
and  comfortable,  as  a  couple  of  marigolds  run  to  seed. 
They  were  very  precise,  had  the  strictest  possible  ideas 
of  propriety,  wore  false  hair,  and  always  smelt  very 
strongly  of  lavender. 

Minerva  House,  conducted  under  the  auspices  of  the 
two  sisters,  was  a  "  finishing  establishment  for  young 
ladies,"  where  some  twenty  girls  of  the  ages  of  from 
thirteen  to  nineteen  inclusive,  acquired  a  smattering  of 
everything,  and  a  knowledge  of  nothing  ;  instruction  in 
French  and  Italian,  dancing  lessons  twice  a-week  ;  and 
other  necessaries  of  life.  The  house  was  a  white  one,  a 
little  removed  from  the  road-side,  with  close  palings  in 
front.  The  bed-room  windows  were  always  left  partly 
open,  to  afford  a  bird's  eye  view  of  numerous  little  bed- 
steads with  very  white  dimity  furniture,  and  thereby 
impress  the  passer-by  with  a  due  sense  of  the  luxuries 
of  the  establishment  ;  and  there  was  a  front  parlour 
hung  round  with  highly  varnished  maps  which  nobody 
ever  looked  at,  and  filled  with  books  which  no  one  ever 
read,  appropriated  exclusively  to  the  reception  of  pa- 
rents, who,  whenever  they  called,  could  not  fail  to  be 
struck  with  the  very  deep  appearance  of  the  place. 

"  Amelia,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Maria  Crumpton,  enter- 
nirr  the  school-room  one  morning,  with  her  false  hair  in 

iiers  :  as  she  occasionally  did,  in  order  to  impress  the 
H)g  ladies  with  a  conviction  of  its  reality.    "  Amelia, 


my  dear,  here  is  a  most  gratifying  note  I  have  just  re- 
ceived.   You  needn't  mind  reading  it  aloud." 

Miss  Amelia,  thus  advised,  proceeded  to  read  the  fol- 
lowing note  with  an  air  of  great  triumph  : 

"Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall,  Esq.,  M.P.,  presents  his 
compliments  to  Miss  Crumpton,  and  will  feel  much 
obliged  by  Miss  Crumpton's  calling  on  him,  if  she  con- 
veniently can,  to-morrow  morning  at  one  o'clock,  as 
Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall,  Esq.,  M.P.,  is  anxious  to  see 
Miss  Crumpton  on  tlie  subject  of  jilacing  Miss  Brook 
Dingwall  under  her  charge.  • 
"  Adelphi, 

"  Monday  morning." 

"  A  member  of  Parliament's  daughter  !  "  ejaculated 
Amelia,  in  an  ecstatic  tone. 

"A  Member  of  Parliament's  daughter  !  "  repeated  Miss 
Maria,  with  a  smile  of  delight,  which,  of  course  elicited 
a  concurrent  titter  of  pleasure  from  all  the  young  ladies. 

"  It's  exceedingly  delightful  ! "  said  Miss  Amelia  ; 
whereupon  all  the  young  ladies  murmured  their  admira- 
tion again.  Courtiers  are  but  school-boys,  and  court- 
ladies  school-girls. 

So  important  an  announcement,  at  once  superseded 
the  business  of  the  day.  A  holiday  was  declared,  iu 
commemoration  of  the  great  event  ;  the  Miss  Crumptons 
retired  to  their  private  apartment  to  talk  it  over  ;  the 
smaller  girls  discussed  the  probable  manners  and  customs 
of  the  daughter  of  a  Member  of  Parliament  ;  and  the 
young  ladies  verging  on  eighteen  wondered  whether  she 
was  engaged,  whether  she  was  pretty,  whether  she 
wore  much  bustle,  and  many  other  irhethers  of  equal  im- 
portance. 

The  two  Crumptons  proceeded  to  the  Adelphi  at  the 
apxminted  time  next  day,  dressed,  of  course,  in  their 
best  style,  and  looking  as  amiable  as  they  possibly  could 
— which,  by  the  by,  is  not  saying  much  for  them. 
Having  sent  in  their"  cards,  through  the  medium  of  a 
red-hot  looking  footman  in  bright  livery,  they  were 
ushered  into  the  august  presence  of  the  profound  Ding- 
wall. 

Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall,  Esq.,  M.P.,  was  very 
haughty,  solemn,  and  portentous.  He  had,  naturally,  a 
somewhat  spasmodic  expression  of  countenance,  which 
was  not  rendered  the  less  remarkable  by  his  wearing  an 
extremely  stiff  cravat.  He  was  wonderfully  proud  of 
the  M.P.,  attached  to  his  name,  and  never  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity of  reminding  people  of  his  dignity.  He  had  a 
great  idea  of  his  own  abilities,  which  must  have  been  a 
great  comfort  to  him,  as  no  one  else  had  ;  and  in  diplo- 
macy, on  a  small  scale,  in  his  own  family  arrangements, 
he  considered  himself  unrivalled.  He  was  a  county 
magistrate,  and  discharged  the  duties  of  his  station  with 
all  due  justice  and  impartiality  ;  frequently  committing 
poachers,  and  occasionally  committing  himself.  Miss 
Brook  Dingwall  was  one  of  that  numerous  class  of  young 
ladies,  who,  like  adverbs,  may  be  known  by  their  answer- 
ing to  a  commonplace  question,  and  doing  nothing  else. 

On  the  present  occasion  this  talented  individual  was 
seated  in  a  small  library  at  a  table  covered  with  papers, 
doing  nothing,  but  trying  to  look  busy — playing  at  shop. 
Acts  of  Parliament,  and  letters  directed  to  "  Cornelius 
Brook  Dingwall,  Esq.,  M.P. ,"  were  ostentatiously  scat- 
tered over  the  table  ;  at  a  little  distance  from  which,  Mrs. 
Brook  Dingwall  was  seated  at  work.  One  of  those  pub- 
lic nuisances,  a  spoiled  child,  was  playing  about  the 
room,  dressed  after  the  most  approved  fashion— in  a  blue 
tunic  with  a  black  belt  a  quarter  of  a  yard  wide,  fastened 
with  an  immense  buckle— looking  like  a  robber  in  a 
melodrama,  seen  through  a  diminishing  glass. 

After  a  little  pleasantry  from  the  sweet  child,  who 
amused  himself  by  running  away  with  Miss  Maria 
Crumpton's  chair  as  fast  as  it  was  placed  for  her,  the 
visitors  were  seated,  and  Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall,  Esq., 
opened  the  conversation. 

He  had  sent  for  Miss  Crumpton,  he  said,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  high  character  he  had  received  of  her  es- 
tablishment from  his  friend  Sir  Alfred  Muggs. 

Miss  Crumpton  murmured  her  acknowledgments  to 
him  (Muggs),  and  Cornelius  proceeded. 

"  One  "of  my  principal  reasons,  Miss  Crumpton,  for 


9^ 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


parting  witli  my  daugliter,  is,  that  she  has  lately  ac- 
quired some  sentimental  ideas,  which  it  is  most  desir- 
able to  eradicate  from  her  young  mind."  (Here  the  lit- 
tle innocent  before  noticed,  fell  out  of  an  arm  chair  with 
an  awful  crash.) 

*'  Naughty  boy  ! "  said  the  mamma,  who  appeared 
more  surprised  at  his  taking  the  liberty  of  falling  down, 
than  at  anything  else  ;  "  I'll  ring  the  bell  for  James  to 
take  him  away." 

Pray  don't  check  him,  my  love,"  said  the  diploma- 
tist, as  soon  as  he  could  make  himself  heard  amidst  the 
unearthly  howling  consequent  upon  the  threat  and  the 
tumble.       It  all  arises  from  his  great  flow  of  spirits." 

This  last  explanation  was  addressed  to  Miss  Crump- 
ton. 

Certainly,  sir,"  replied  the  antique  Maria  :  not  ex- 
actly seeing,  laowever,  the  connexion  between  a  flow  of 
animal  spirits,  and  a  fall  from  an  arm-chair. 

Silence  was  restored,  and  the  M.P.  resumed  :  "  Now, 
I  know  nothing  so  likely  to  effect  this  object,  Miss 
Crumpton,  as  her  mixing  constantly  in  the  society  of 
girls  of  her  own  age  ;  and,  as  I  know  that  in  your  estab- 
lishment she  will  meet  such  as  are  not  likely  to  con- 
taminate her  young  mind,  I  propose  to  send  her  to  you." 

The  youngest  Miss  Crumpton  expressed  the  acknovvl- 
edgments  of  the  establishment  generally.  Maria  was 
rendered  speechless  by  bodily  pain.  The  dear  little  fel- 
low, having  recovered  his  animal  spirits,  was  standing 
upon  her  most  tender  foot,  by  way  of  getting  his  face 
(which  looked  like  a  capital  O  in  a  red  lettered  play- bill) 
on  a  level  with  the  writing  table. 

"  Of  course,  Lavinia  will  be  a  parlour  boarder,"  con- 
tinued the  enviable  father  ;  "  and  on  one  point  I  wish 
my  directions  to  be  strictly  observed.  The  fact  is,  that 
some  ridiculous  love  affair,  with  a  person  much  her  in- 
ferior in  life,  has  been  the  cause  of  her  present  state  of 
mind.  Knowing  that  of  course,  under  your  care,  she 
can  have  no  opportunity  of  meeting  this  person,  I  do  not 
object  to — indeed,  I  should  rather  prefer — her  mixing 
with  such  society  as  you  see  yourself." 

This  important  statement  was  again  interrupted  by  the 
high-spirited  little  creature,  in  the  excess  of  his  joyous- 
ness  breaking  a  pane  of  glass,  and  nearly  precipitating 
himself  into  an  adjacent  area.  James  was  rung  for  ; 
considerable  confusion  and  screaming  succeeded  ;  two 
little  blue  legs  were  seen  to  kick  violently  in  the  air  as 
the  man  left  the  room,  and  the  child  was  gone. 

*'  Mr.  Brook  Dingwall  would  like  Miss  Brook  Dingwall 
to  learn  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Brook  Dingwall,  who 
hardly  ever  said  anything  at  all. 

"  Certainly,"  said  both  the  Miss  Crumptons  together. 

"And  as  I  trust  the  plan  I  have  devised  will  be  ef- 
fectual in  weaning  my  daughter  from  this  absurd  idea, 
Miss  Crumpton,"  continued  the  legislator,  "I  hope  you 
will  have  the  goodness  to  comply,  in  all  respects,  with 
any  request  I  may  forward  to  you." 

The  promise  was  of  course  made,  and  after  a  length- 
ened discussion,  conducted  on  behalf  of  the  Dingwalls 
with  the  most  becoming  diplomatic  gravity,  and  on  that 
of  the  Crumptons  with  profound  respect,  it  was  finally 
arranged  that  Miss  Lavinia  should  be  forwarded  to  Ham- 
mersmith on  the  next  day  but  one,  on  which  occasion 
the  half-yearly  ball  given  at  the  establishment  was  to 
take  place.  It  might  divert  the  dear  girl's  mind.  This, 
by  the  way,  was  another  bit  of  diplomacy. 

Miss  Lavinia  was  introduced  to  her  future  governess, 
and  both  the  Miss  Crumptons  pronounced  her  "  a  most 
charming  girl  ; "  an  opinion  which,  by  a  singular  coinci- 
dence, they  always  entertained  of  any  new  pupil. 

Courtesies  were  exchanged,  acknoAvledgments  ex- 
pressed, condescension  exhibited,  and  the  interview  ter- 
minated. 

Preparations,  to  make  use  of  theatrical  phraseology, 
**  on  a  scale  of  magnitude  never  before  attempted,"  were 
Incessantly  made  at  Minerva  House  to  give  every  effect 
to  the  forthcoming  ball.  The  largest  roo^n  in  the  house 
was  pleasingly  ornamented  with  blue  calico  roses,  plaid 
tulips,  and  other  equally  natural-looking  artificial  flowers, 
the  work  of  the  young  ladies  themselves.  The  carpet 
was  taken  up,  the  folding-doors  were  taken  down,  tljo 
furniture  was  taken  out,  and  rout-seats  were  taken  in. 
The  linen-drapers  of  Hammersmith  were  astounded  at 


the  sudden  demand  for  blue  sarsenet  ribbon,  and  long 
white  gloves.  Dozens  of  geraniums  were  purchased  for 
bouquets,  and  a  harp  and  two  violins  were  bespoke  from 
town,  in  addition  to  the  grand  piano  already  on  the 
premises.  The  young  ladies  who  were  selected  to  show 
off  on  the  occasion,  and  do  credit  to  the  establishment, 
practised  incessantly,  much  to  their  own  satisfaction,  and 
greatly  to  the  annoyance  of  the  lame  old  gentleman  over 
the  way ;  and  a  constant  correspondence  was  kept  np, 
between  the  Misses  Crumpton  and  the  Hammersmith 
pastrycook. 

The  evening  came  ;  and  then  there  was  such  a  lacing 
of  stays,  and  tying  of  sandals,  and  dressing  of  hair,  as 
never  can  take  place  with  a  proper  degree  of  bustle  out 
of  a  boarding-school.  The  smaller  girls  managed  to  be 
in  everybody's  way,  and  were  pushed  about  accordingly ; 
and  the  elder  ones  dressed,  and  tied,  and  flattered,  and 
envied,  one  another,  as  earnestly  and  sincerely  as  if  they 
had  actually  come  out. 

"How  do  I  look,  dear?"  inquired  Miss  Emily  Smithers, 
the  belle  of  the  house,  of  Miss  Caroline  Wilson,  who  was 
her  bosom  friend,  because  she  was  the  ugliest  girl  in 
Hammersmith,  or  out  of  it. 

"  Oh  1  charming,  dear.    How  do  I  ?" 

"Delightful!  you  never  looked  so  handsome,"  re- 
turned the  belle,  adjusting  her  own  dress,  and  not  be- 
stowing a  glance  on  her  poor  companion. 

"  I  hope  young  Hilton  will  come  early,"  said  another 
young  lady  to  Miss  somebody  else,  in  a  fever  of  expecta- 
tion. 

"  I'm  sure  he'd  be  highly  flattered  if  he  knew  it,"  re- 
turned the  other,  who  was  practising  Veie. 

"Oh  1  he's  so  handsome,"  said  the  first. 

"  Such  a  charming  person  ! "  added  a  second. 

"  Such  a  distingue  air  ; "  said  a  third. 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  think  ?  "  said  another  girl,  running 
into  the  room  ;  "  Miss  Crumpton  says  her  cousin's  com- 
ing." 

"What!    Theodosius  Butler?"    said  everybody  in 
raptures. 

"  Is  lie  handsome  ?"  inquired  a  novice. 

"No,  not  particularly  handsome,"  was  the  general 
reply  ;  "  but,  oh,  so  clever  !" 

Mr.  Theodosius  Butler  was  one  of  those  immortal  gen- 
iuses who  are  to  be  met  with,  in  almost  every  circle. 
They  have,  usually,  very  deep  monotonous  voices.  They 
always  persuade  themselves  that  they  are  wonderful 
persons,  and  that  they  ought  to  be  very  miserable,  though 
they  don't  precisely  know  why.  They  are  very  conceited, 
and  usually  possess  half  an  idea  ;  but,  with  enthusiastic 
young  ladies,  and  silly  young  gentlemen,  they  are  very  i 
wonderful  persons.  The  individual  in  question,  Mr. 
Theodosius,  had  written  a  pamphlet  containing  some 
very  weighty  considerations  on  the  expediency  of  doing 
something  or  other ;  and  as  every  sentence  contained  a  i 
good  many  words  of  four  syllables,  his  admirers  took  it 
for  granted  that  he  meant  a  good  deal. 

"  Perhaps  that's  he,"  exclaimed  several  young  ladies, 
as  the  first  pull  of  the  evening  threatened  destruction  to 
the  bell  of  the  gate. 

An  awful  pause  ensued.  Some  boxes  arrived  and  a 
young  lady — Miss  Brook  Dingwall,  in  full  ball  costume, 
with  an  immense  gold  chain  round  her  neck,  and  her 
dress  looped  up  with  a  single  rose  ;  an  ivory  fan  in  her 
hand,  and  a  most  interesting  expression  of  despair  in  her 
face. 

The  Miss  Crumptons  inquired  after  the  family,  with 
the  most  excruciating  anxiety,  and  Miss  Brook  Dingwall 
was  formally  introduced  to  her  future  companions.  The 
Miss  Crumptons  conversed  with  the  young  ladies  in 
the  most  mellifluous  tones,  in  order  that  Miss  Brook 
Dingwall  might  be  properly  impressed  with  their  amiable 
treatment. 

Another  pull  at  the  bell.  Mr.  Dadson  the  writing- 
master,  and  his  wife.  The  wife  in  green  silk,  with  shoes 
and  cap-trimmings  to  correspond  ;  the  writing-master  in 
a  white  waistcoat,  black  knee-shorts,  and  ditto  silk 
.stockings,  displaying  a  leg  large  enough  for  two  writing- 
masters.  The  young  ladies  whispered  one  another,  and 
the  writing-master  and  his  wife  flattered  the  Miss  Crump- 
tons, who  were  dressed  in  amber,  witli  long  sashes,  like 
dolls. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


923 


Repeated  pulls  at  the  bell,  and  arrivals  too  numerous 
to  particularise :  papas  and  majnmas,  and  aunts  and 
uncles,  tlie  owners  and  guardians  of  the  different  pupils  ; 
the  singing-master,  Signor  Lobskini,  in  a  black  wig  ;  the 
piano-forte  player  and  the  violins  ;  the  harp  in  a  state  of 
intoxication  ;  and  some  twenty  young  men,  who  stood 
near  the  door,  and  talked  to  one  another,  occasionally 
bursting  into  a  giggle.  A  general  hum  of  conversation. 
Coffee  handed  round,  and  plentifully  partaken  of  by  fat 
mammas,  who  looked  like  the  stout  people  who  come  on 
in  pantomimes  for  the  sole  purpose  of  being  knocked 
down. 

The  popular  Mr.  Hilton  was  the  next  arrival ;  and  he 
having,  at  the  request  of  the  Miss  Crumptons,  undertak- 
en the  office  of  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  the  quadrilles 
commenced  with  considerable  spirit.  The  young  men 
by  the  door  gradually  advanced  into  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  in  time  became  sufficiently  at  ease  to  consent 
to  be  introduced  to  partners.  The  writing-master  danced 
every  set,  springing  about  in  the  most  fearful  agility, 
and  his  wife  played  a  rubber  in  the  back-parlour — a  lit- 
tle room  with  five  book-shelves,  dignified  by  the  name  of 
the  study.  Setting  her  down  to  whist  was  a  half-yearly 
piece  of  generalship  on  the  part  of  the  Miss  Crumptons  ; 
it  was  necessary  to  hide  her  somewhere,  on  account  of 
her  being  a  fright. 

The  interesting  Lavinia  Brook  Dingwall  was  the  only 
girl  present,  who  appeared  to  take  no  interest  in  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  evening.  In  vain  was  she  solicited  to 
dance  ;  in  vain  was  the  universal  homage  paid  to  her  as 
the  daughter  of  a  member  of  parliament.  She  was 
equally  unmoved  by  the  splendid  tenor  of  the  inimitable 
Lobskini,  and  the  brilliant  execution  of  Miss  LEetitia 
Parsons,  whose  performance  of  "  The  Recollections  of 
Ireland"  was  universally  declared  to  be  almost  equal  to 
that  of  Moscheles  himself.  Not  even  the  announcement 
of  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Theodosius  Butler  could  induce  her 
to  leave  the  corner  of  the  back  drawing-room  in  which 
she  was  seated. 

"  Now,  Theodosius,"  said  Miss  Maria  Crumpton,  after 
that  enlightened  pamphleteer  had  nearly  run  the  gaunt- 
let of  the  whole  company,  "  I  must  introduce  you  to  our 
new  pupil." 

Theodosius  looked  as  if  he  cared  for  nothing  earthly. 
"  She's  the  daughter  of  a  member  of  parliament, "said 
Maria. — Theodosius  started. 

"  And  her  name  is — ?  "  he  inquired. 
"  Miss  Brook  Dingwall." 

"  Great  Heaven  !  "  poetically  exclaimed  Theodosius, 
in  a  low  tone. 

MisB  Crumpton  commenced  the  introduction  in  due 
form.    Miss  Brook  Dingwall  languidly  raised  her  head. 

"  Edward  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  half-shriek,  on  see- 
ing the  well-known  nanlieen  legs. 

Fortunately,  as  Miss  Maria  Crumpton  possessed  no  re- 
markable share  of  penetration,  and  as  it  was  one  of  the 
diplomatic  arrangements  that  no  attention  was  to  be  paid 
to  Miss  Lavinia's  incoherent  exclamations,  she  was  per- 
fectly unconscious  of  the  mutual  agitation  of  the  parties  ; 
and  therefore,  seeing  that  the  offer  of  his  hand  for  the 
next  quadrille,  was  accepted,  she  left  him  by  the  side  of 
Miss  Brook  Dingwall. 

"  Oh,  Edward  1 "  exclaimed  that  most  romantic  of  all 
romantic  young  ladies,  as  the  light  of  science  seated 
himself  beside  her,  "  Oh,  Edward,  is  it  you?" 

Mr.  Theodosius  assured  the  dear  creature,  in  the  most 
impassioned  manner,  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  being 
anybody  but  himself. 

'*  Then  why — why — this  disguise  ?  Oh  Edward  M 'Ne- 
ville Walter,  what  have  I  not  suffered  on  your  account?" 

*'  Lavinia,  hear  me,"  replied  the  hero,  in  his  most  po- 
etic strain.  "  Do  not  condemn  me,  unheard.  If  any- 
thing that  emanates  from  the  soul  of  such  a  wretch  as  I, 
can  occupy  a  place  in  your  recollection — if  any  being,  so 
vile,  deserve  your  notice — you  may  remember  that  I  once 
published  a  pamphlet  (and  paid  for  its  publication)  en- 
titled 'Considerations  on  the  Policy  of  Removing  the 
Duty  on  Bees'-wax.* " 

"  I  do — I  do  1 "  sobbed  Lavinia. 

"  That,"  continued  the  lover,  "  was  a  subject  to  which 
your  father  was  devoted  heart  and  soul." 

**  He  was— he  was  !"  reiterated  the  sentimentalist. 


"I  knew  it,"  continued  Tlieodoslus,  tragically;  "I 
knew  it — I  forwarded  him  a  copy.  Ho  wished  to  know 
me.  Could  I  disclose  my  real  name  ?  Never  1  No,  I 
assumed  that  name  which  you  have  so  often  pronounced 
in  tones  of  endearment.  As  M'Neville  Walter,  I  devoted 
myself  to  the  stirring  cau.se ;  as  M'Neville  Walter,  I 
gained  your  heart  ;  in  the  same  character  I  was  ejected 
from  your  house  by  your  father's  domestics  ;  and  in  no 
character  at  all  have  I  since  been  enabled  to  f«ee  you. 
We  now  meet  again,  and  I  proudly  own  that  1  am — The- 
odosius Butler." 

The  young  lady  appeared  perfectly  satisfied  with  this 
argumentative  address,  and  bestowed  a  look  of  the  most 
ardent  affection  on  the  immortal  advocate  of  boes'-was. 

"  May  I  hope,"  said  he,  "  that  the  promise  your  fath- 
er's violent  behaviour  interrupted,  may  be  renewed?" 

"  Let  us  join  this  set,"  replied  Lavinia,'coquettishly — 
for  girls  of  nineteen  can  coquette. 

"No,"  ejaculated  he  of  the  nankeens;  "I  stir  not 
from  this  spot,  writhing  under  this  torture  of  suspense. 
Mav  I — may  I — hope  ?  " 

"'You  may." 

"  The  promise  is  renewed  1  '* 
"  It  is." 

"  I  have  your  permission  ?" 

"  You  have."  , 

"To  the  fullest  extent ? " 

"  You  know  it,"  returned  the  blushing  Lavinia.  The 
contortions  of  the  interesting  Butler's  visage  expressed 
his  raptures. 

We  could  dilate  upon  the  occurrences  that  ensued. 
How  Mr.  Theodosius  and  Miss  Lavinia  danced,  and 
talked,  and  sighed  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening — 
how  the  Miss  Crumptons  were  delighted  thereat.  How 
the  writing-master  continued  to  frisk  about  with  one- 
horse  power,  and  how  his  wife,  from  some  accountable 
freak,  left  the  whist-table  in  the  little  back  parlour,  and 
persisted  in  displaying  her  green  head-dress  in  the  most 
conspicuous  part  of  the  drawing-room.  How  the  supper 
consisted  of  small  triangular  sandwiches  in  trays,  and  a 
tart  here  and  there  by  way  of  variety  ;  and  how  the 
visitors  consumed  warm  water  disguised  with  lemon, 
and  dotted  with  nutmeg,  under  the  denomination  of 
negus.  These,  and  other  matters  of  as  much  interest, 
however,  we  pass  over,  for  the  purpose  of  describing  a 
scene  of  even  more  importance. 

A  fortnight  after  the  date  of  the  ball,  Cornelius  Brook 
Dingwall,  Esq.,  M.P.,  was  seated  at  the  same  library 
table,  and  in  the  same  room,  as  we  have  before  de- 
scribed. He  was  alone,  and  his  face  bore  an  expression 
of  deep  thought  and  solemn  gravity — he  was  drawing 
up  "A  Bill  for  the  better  observance  of  Easter  Monday." 

The  footman  tapped  at  the  door — the  legislator  started 
from  his  reverie,  and  "Miss  Crumpton  "  was  announced. 
Permission  was  given  for  Miss  Crumpton  to  enter  the 
sanctum;  Maria  came  sliding  in,  and  having  taken  her 
seat  with  a  due  portion  of  affectation,  the  footman  re- 
tired, and  the  governess  was  left  alone  with  the  M.P. 
Oh  ;  how  she  longed  for  the  presence  of  a  third  party  ! 
Even  the  facetious  young  gentleman  would  have  been  a 
relief. 

Miss  Crumpton  began  the  duet.  She  hoped  Mrs. 
Brook  Dingwall  and  the  handsome  little  boy  were  in 
good  health. 

They  were.  Mrs.  Brook  Dingwall  and  little  Frederick 
were  at  Brighton. 

"  Much  obliged  to  you.  Miss  Crumpton,"  said  Cor- 
nelius, in  his  most  dignified  manner,  "  for  your  attention 
in  calling  this  morning.  I  should  have  driven  down  to 
Hammersmith,  to  see  Lavinia,  but  your  account  was  so 
very  satisfactory,  and  my  duties  in  the  House  occupy 
me  so  much,  that  I  determined  to  postpone  it  for  a  week. 
How  has  she  gone  on  ?  " 

"Very  well  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Maria,  dreading  to 
inform  the  father  that  she  had  gone  off. 

"  Ah  I  thought  the  plan  on  which  I  proceeded  would 
be  a  match  for  her." 

Here  was  a  favourable  opportunity  to  say  that  some- 
body else  had  been  a  match  for  her.  But  the  unfortu- 
nate governess  was  unequal  to  the  task. 

"  You  have  persevered  strictly  in  the  line  of  conduct 
I  prescribed.  Miss  Crumpton  ?  " 


924 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"  Strictly,  sir." 

"  You  tell  me  in  your  note  that  her  spirits  gradually 
improved." 

"  Very  much  indeed,  sir." 

*'  To  be  sure.    I  was  convinced  they  would." 

"But  I  fear,  sir,"  said  Miss  Crumpton,  with  visible 
emotion,  "I  fear  the  plan  has  not  succeeded,  quite  so 
well  as  we  could  have  wished." 

"No!"  exclaimed  the  prophet.  "Bless  me!  Miss 
Crumpton,  you  look  alarmed.    What  has  happened?" 

"Miss  Brook  Dingwall,  sir — " 

"  Yes,  ma'am?  " 

"  Has  gone,  sir," — said  Maria,  exhibiting  a  strong  in- 
clination to  faint. 
"  Gone  ! " 
"Eloped,  sir." 

"Eloped  ! — Who  with — when — where — how?"  almost 
shrieked  the  agitated  diplomatist. 

The  natural  yellow  of  the  unfortunate  Maria's  face 
changed  to  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  as  she  laid  a 
small  packet  on  the  member's  table. 

He  hurriedly  opened  it.  A  letter  from  his  daughter, 
and  another  from  Theodosius.  He  glanced  over  their 
contents — "Ere  this  reaches  you,  far  distant — appeal  to 
feelings — love  to  distraction — bees'- wax — slavery,"  &c., 
&c.  He  dashed  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  paced  the 
room  with  fearfully  long  strides,  to  the  great  alarm  of 
the  precise  Maria. 

"Now  mind  ;  from  this  time  forward,"  said  Mr.  Brook 
Dingwall,  suddenly  stopping  at  the  table,  and  beating 
time  upon  it  with  his  hand  ;  "from  this  time  forward,  I 
never  will,  under  any  circumstances  whatever,  permit  a 
man  who  writes  pamphlets  to  enter  any  other  room  of 
this  house  but  the  kitchen. — I'll  allow  my  daughter 
and  her  husband  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a-year, 
and  never  see  their  faces  again  ;  and,  damme  I  ma'am,  I'll 
bring  in  a  bill  for  the  abolition  of  finishing  Schools  I " 

Some  time  has  elapsed  since  this  passionate  declara- 
tion. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Butler  are  at  present  rusticating  in 
a  small  cottage  at  Ball's-pond,  pleasantly  situated  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  a  brick-field.  They  have  no 
family.  Mr.  Theodosius  looks  very  important,  and 
writes  incessantly  ;  but,  in  consequence  of  a  gross  com- 
bination on  the  part  of  publishers,  none  of  his  produc- 
tions appear  in  print.  His  young  wife  begins  to  think 
that  ideal  misery  is  preferable  to  real  unhappiness  ;  and 
that  a  marriage,  contracted  in  haste,  and  repented  at 
leisure,  is  the  cause  of  more  substantial  wretchedness 
than  she  ever  anticipated. 

On  cool  reflection,  Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall,  Esq., 
M.P.,  was  reluctantly  compelled  to  admit  that  the  un- 
toward result  of  his  admirable  arrangements  was 
attributable,  not  to  the  Miss  Crumptons,  but  his  own 
diplomacy.  He  however  consoles  himself,  like  some 
other  small  diplomatists,  by  satisfactorily  proving  that 
if  his  plans  did  not  succeed,  they  ought  to  have  done  so. 
Minerva  House  is  in  statu  quo,  and  "The  Misses  Crump- 
ton "  remain  in  the  peaceable  and  undisturbed  enjoyment 
of  all  the  advantages  resulting  from  their  Finishing- 
School. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Tiiggsea  at  Eamsgate. 

Once  upon  a  time,  there  dwelt,  in  a  narrow  street  on 
the  Surrey  side  of  the  water,  within  three  minutes* 
walk  of  old  London  Bridge,  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs — a  little 
dark-faced  man,  with  shiny  hair,  twinkling  eyes,  short 
legs,and  a  body  of  very  considerable  thickness,measuring 
from  the  centre  button  of  his  waistcoat  in  front,  to  the 
ornamental  buttons  of  his  coat  behind.  The  figure  of 
the  amiable  Mrs.  Tuggs,  if  not  perfectly  symmetrical, 
was  decidedly  comfortable  ;  and  the  form  of  her  only 
daughter,  the  accomplished  Miss  Charlotte  Tuggs,  was 
fast  ripening  into  tliat  state  of  luxuriant  plumpness 
which  had  enchanted  the  eyes,  and  captivated  the  heart, 
of  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  in  his  earlier  days.  Mr.  Simon 
Tuggs,  his  only  son,  and  Miss  Charlotte  Tuggs's  only 
brother,  was  as  differently  formed  in  body,  as  he  was 
differently  constituted  in  mind,  from  the  remainder  of 


his  family.  There  was  that  elongation  in  his  thought- 
ful face,  and  that  tendency  to  weakness  in  his  interesting 
legs,  which  tell  so  forcibly  of  a  great  mind  and  romantic 
disposition.  The  slightest  traits  of  character  in  such  a 
being,  possess  no  mean  interest  to  speculative  minds. 
He  usually  appeared  in  public,  in  capacious  shoes  with 
black  cotton  stockings  ;  and  was  observed  to  be  par- 
ticularly attached  to  a  black  glazed  stock,  without  tie  or 
ornament  of  any  description. 

There  is  perhaps,  no  profession,  however  useful  ;  no 
pursuit,  however  meritorious ;  which  can  escape  the 
petty  attacks  of  vulgar  minds.  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  was  a 
grocer.  It  might  be  supposed  that  a  grocer  was  beyond 
the  breath  of  calumny  ;  but  no — the  neighbours  stigma- 
tised him  as  a  chandler  ;  and  the  poisonous  voice  of 
envy  distinctly  asserted  that  he  dispensed  tea  and  coffee 
by  the  quartern,  retailed  sugar  by  the  ounce,  cheese  by 
the  slice,  tobacco  by  the  screw,  and  butter  by  the  pat. 
These  taunts,  however,  were  lost  upon  the  Tuggses. 
Mr.  Tuggs  attended  to  the  grocery  department ;  Mrs. 
Tuggs  to  the  cheese-mongery  ;  and  Miss  Tuggs  to  her 
education.  Mr.  Simon  Tuggs  kept  his  father's  books, 
and  his  own  counsel. 

One  fine  spring  afternoon,  the  latter  gentleman  was 
seated  on  a  tub  of  weekly  Dorset,  behind  the  little  red 
desk  with  a  wooden  rail,  which  ornamented  a  corner  of 
the  counter ;  when  a  stranger  dismounted  from  a  cab, 
and  hastily  entered  the  shop.  He  was  habited  in  black 
cloth,  and  bore  with  him,  a  green  umbrella,  and  a  blue 
bag. 

"Mr.  Tuggs?"  said  the  stranger,  inquiringly. 

"  My  name  is  Tuggs,"  replied  Mr.  Simon. 

"  It's  the  other  Mr.  Tuggs,"  said  the  stranger,  looking 
towards  the  glass  door  which  led  into  the  parlour  behind 
the  shop,  and  on  the  inside  of  which,  the  round  face  of 
Mr.  Tuggs,  senior,  was  distinctly  visible,  peeping  over 
the  curtain. 

Mr.  Simon  gracefully  waved  his  pen,  as  if  in  intima- 
tion of  his  wish  that  his  father  would  advance.  Mr. 
Joseph  Tuggs,  with  considerable  celerity,  removed  his 
face  from  the  curtain,  and  placed  it  before  the  stranger. 

"  I  come  from  the  Temple,"  said  the  man  with  the  bag. 

"  From  the  Temple  !"  said  Mrs.  Tuggs,  flinging  open 
the  door  of  the  little  parlour  and  disclosing  Miss  Tuggs 
in  prospective. 

"  From  the  Temple  ! "  said  Miss  Tuggs  and  Mr.  Simon 
Tuggs  at  the  same  moment. 

"  From  the  Temple  !  "  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  turning 
as  pale  as  a  Dutch  cheese. 

"  From  the  Temple,"  repeated  the  man  with  the  bag  ; 
"  from  Mr.  Cower's  the  solicitor's.  Mr.  Tuggs,  I  con- 
gratulate you,  sir.  Ladies,  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  pros- 
perity !  We  have  been  successful."  And  the  man  with 
the  bag  leisurely  divested  himself  of  his  umbrella  and 
glove,  as  a  preliminary  to  shaking  hands  with  Mr. 
Joseph  Tuggs. 

Now  the  words  "we  have  been  successful,"  had  no 
sooner  issued  from  the  mouth  of  the  man  with  the  bag, 
than  Mr.  Simon  Tuggs  rose  from  the  tub  of  weekly  Dor- 
set, opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  gasped  for  breath,  made 
figures  of  eight  in  the  air  with  his  pen,  and  finally  fell 
into  the  arms  of  his  anxious  mother,  and  fainted  away, 
without  the  slightest  ostensible  cause  or  pretence. 

"Water!"  screamed  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"  Look  up,  my  son,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tuggs. 

"  Simon  !  dear  Simon  I  "  shrieked  Miss  Tuggs. 

"  I'm  better  now,"  said  Mr.  Simon  Tuggs.  "  What  I 
successful!"  And  then,  as  corroborative  evidence  of 
his  being  better,  he  fainted  away  again,  and  was  borne 
into  the  little  parlour  by  the  united  efforts  of  the  remain- 
der of  the  family,  and  the  man  with  the  bag. 

To  a  casual  spectator,  or  to  any  one  unacquainted  with 
the  position  of  the  family,  this  fainting  would  have  been 
unaccountable.  To  those  who  understood  the  mission 
of  the  man  with  the  bag,  and  were  moreover  acquainted 
with  the  excitability  of  the  nerves  of  Mr.  Simon  Tuggs, 
it  was  quite  comprehensible.  A  long  pending  law-suit 
respecting  the  validity  of  a  will,  had  been  unexpectedly 
decided  ;  and  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  was  the  possessor  of 
twenty  thousand  pounds. 

A  prolonged  consultation  took  place  that  night,  in  the 
little  parlour — a  consultation  that  was  to  settle  the  fu- 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


925 


ture  destinies  of  the  Tuggses.  The  shop  was  shut  up  at 
an  unusually  early  hour  ;  and  many  were  the  unavailing 
kicks  bestowed  upon  the  closed  door  by  applicants  for 
quarterns  of  sugar,  or  half-quarterns  of  bread,  or  pen- 
n'orths of  pepper,  which  were  to  have  been  "left  till 
Saturday,"  but  which  fortune  had  decreed  were  to  be 
left  alone  altogether. 

"  We  must  certainly  give  up  business,"  said  Miss 
Tuggs. 

"Oh,  decidedly,"  said  Mrs.  Tuggs. 
"Simon   shall  go  to  the   bar,"  said  Mr.  Joseph 
Tuggs. 

"  And  I  shall  always  sign  myself  'Cymon '  in  future," 
said  his  son. 

"  And  1  shall  call  myself  Charlotta,"  said  Miss  Tuggs. 

"And  you  must  always  call  me  'Ma,'  and  father 
*Pa,'  "  said  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"  Tes,  and  Pa  must  leave  off  all  his  vulgar  habits," 
interposed  Miss  Tuggs. 

"  I'll  take  care  of  all  that,"  responded  Mr.  Joseph 
Tuggs,  complacently.  He  was,  at  that  very  moment, 
eating  pickled  salmon  with  a  pocket-knife. 

"  We  must  leave  town  immediately,"  said  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs. 

Everybody  concurred  that  this  was  an  indispensable 
preliminary  to  being  genteel.  The  question  then  arose. 
Where  should  they  go  ? 

"Gravesend?"  mildly  suggested  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs. 
The  idea  was  unanimously  scouted.    Gravesend  was  low. 

"Margate?"  insinuated  Mrs.  Tuggs.  Worse  and 
worse — nobody  there,  but  tradespeople. 

"Brighton?"  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  opposed  an  insur- 
mountable objection.  All  the  coaches  had  been  upset, 
in  turn,  within  the  last  three  weeks  ;  each  coach  had 
averaged  two  passengers  killed,  and  six  wounded  ;  and, 
in  ever}^  case,  the  newspapers  had  distinctly  understood 
that  "  no  blame  whatever  was  attributable  to  the  coach- 
man." 

"Ramsgate?"  ejaculated  Mr.  Cymon,  thoughtfully. 
To  be  sure  :  how  stupid  they  must  have  been,  not  to 
have  thought  of  that  before  !  Ramsgate  was  just  the 
place  of  all  others. 

Two  months  after  this  conversation,  the  City  of  Lon- 
don Ramsgate  steamer  was  running  gaily  down  the 
river.  Her  Hag  was  flying,  her  baud  was  playing,  her 
passengers  were  conversing  ;  everything  about  her 
seemed  gay  and  lively. — No  wonder — the  Tuggses  were 
on  board. 

"  Charming,  ain't  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  in  a 
bottle-green  great-coat,  with  a  velvet  collar  of  the  same, 
and  a  blue  travelling-cap  with  a  gold  band. 

"  Soul-inspiring,"  replied  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs — he  was 
entered  at  the  bar.    "  Soul-inspiring  1 " 

"  Delightful  morning,  sir  !"  said  a  stoutish,  military- 
looking  gentlemen  in  a  blue  surtout  buttoned  up  to  his 
chin,  and  white  trousers  chained  down  to  the  soles  of 
his  boots. 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  took  upon  himself  the  responsibili- 
ty of  answering  the  observation.  "  Heavenly  I  "  he 
replied. 

"  You  are  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  beauties  of 
Nature,  sir?"  said  the  military  gentleman. 

"  I  am,  sir,"  replied  Mr,  Cymon  Tuggs. 

"  Travelled  much  sir?"  inquired  the  military  gentle- 
man. 

"Not  much,"  replied  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs. 

"You've  been  on  the  continent,  of  course?"  inquired 
the  military  gentleman. 

"  Not  exactly,"  replied  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs — in  a  quali- 
fied tone,  as  if  he  wished  it  to  be  implied  that  he  had 
gone  half  way  and  come  back  again. 

"You  of  course  intend  your  son  to  make  the  grand 
tour,  sir?"  said  the  military  gentleman,  addressing  Mr. 
Joseph  Tuggs. 

As  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  did  not  precisely  understand 
what  the  grand  tour  was,  or  how  such  an  article  was 
manufactured,  he  replied,  "  Of  course.  Just  as  he  said 
the  word,  there  came  tripping  up,  from  her  seat  at  the 
stern  of  the  vessel,  a  young  lady  in  a  puce-coloured  silk 
cloak,  and  boots  of  the  same  ;  with  long  black  ringlets, 
large  black  eyes,  brief  petticoats,  and  unexceptionable 
ankles. 


"  Walter,  my  dear,"  said  the  young  lady  to  the  mili- 
tary gentleman. 

"Yes,  Belinda,  my  love,  responded  the  military  gen- 
tleman to  the  black-eyed  young  lady. 

"  What  have  you  left  me  alone  so  long  for  !  "  said  the 
young  lady.  "  I  have  been  stared  out  of  countenance 
by  those  rude  young  men." 

"  What  I  stared  at?"  exclaimed  the  military  gentle- 
man, with  an  emphasis  which  made  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs 
withdraw  his  eyes  from  the  young  lady's  face  with  in- 
conceivable rapidity.  "Which  young  men — where?" 
and  the  military  gentleman  clenched  his  fist,  and  glared 
fearfully  on  the  cigar-smokers  around. 

"Be  calm,  Walter,  I  entreat,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"  I  won't,"  said  the  military  gentleman. 

"Do,  sir,"  interposed  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs.  "They 
ain't  worth  your  notice." 

"  No — no — they  are  not,  indeed,"  urged  the  young 
lady. 

"  I  will  be  calm,"  said  the  military  gentleman.  "  You 
speak  truly,  sir.  I  thank  you  for  a  timely  remonstrance, 
which  may  have  spared  me  the  guilt  of  manslaughter. 
Calming  his  wrath,  the  military  gentleman  wrung  Mr. 
Cymon  Tuggs  by  the  hand. 

"My  sister,  sir  !"  said  Cymon  Tuggs  ;  seeing  that  the 
military  gentleman  was  casting  an  admiring  look  towards 
Miss  Charlotta. 

"My  wife,  ma'am — Mrs.  Captain  Waters,"  said  the 
military  gentleman,  presenting  the  black-eyed  young 
lady. 

"  My  mother,  ma'am — Mrs.  Tuggs,"  said  Mr.  Cymon. 
The  military  gentleman  and  his  wife  murmured  enchant- 
ing courtesies  ;  and  the  Tuggses  looked  as  unembar- 
rassed  as  they  could. 

"  Walter,  my  dear,"  said  the  black-eyed  young  lady, 
after  they  had  sat  chatting  with  the  Tuggses  some  half 
an  hour. 

"  Yes,  my  love,"  said  the  military  gentleman. 

"  Don't  you  think  this  gentleman  (with  an  inclination 
of  the  head  towards  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs)  is  very  much 
like  the  Marquis  Carriwini  ?  " 

"Lord  bless  me,  very  !"  said  the  military  gentleman. 

"It  struck  me  the  moment  I  saw  him,"  said  the  young 
lady,  gazing  intently,  and  with  a  melancholy  air,  on  the 
scarlet  countenance  of  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs.  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs  looked  at  everybody  ;  and  finding  that  everybody 
was  looking  at  him,  appeared  to  feel  some  temporary 
difficulty  in  disposing  of  his  eyesight. 

"  So  exactly  the  air  of  the  marquis,"  said  the  military 
gentleman. 

"  Quite  extraordinary  ! "  sighed  the  military  gentle- 
man's lady. 

"You  don't  know  the  marquis,  sir?"  inquired  the 
military  gentleman. 

"Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  stammered  a  negative. 

"  If  you  did,"  continued  Captain  Walter  Waters,  "  you 
would  feel  how  much  reason  you  have  to  be  proud  of 
the  resemblance — a  most  elegant  man,  with  a  most  pre- 
possessing appearance." 

"  He  is — he  is  indeed  1 "  exclaimed  Belinda  Waters 
energetically.  As  her  eye  caught  that  of  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs,  she  withdrew  it  from  his  features  in  bashful  con- 
fusion. 

All  this,  was  highly  gratifying  to  the  feelings  of  the 
Tuggses ;  and  when,  in  the  course  of  farther  conversa- 
tion, it  was  discovered  that  Miss  Charlotta  Tuggs  was 
the  fax  simile  of  a  titled  relative  of  Mrs.  Belinda  Waters, 
and  that  Mrs.  Tuggs  herself  was  the  very  picture  of  the 
Dowager  Duchess  of  Dobbleton,  their  delight  in  the  ac- 
quaintance, knew  no  bounds.  Even  the  dignity  of  Cap- 
tain Walter  Waters  relaxed,  to  that  degree,  that  he  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  prevailed  upon  by  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs, 
to  partake  of  cold  pigeon-pie  and  sherry,  on  deck  ;  and  a 
most  delightful  conversation  aided  by  these  agreeable 
stimulants,  was  prolonged,  until  they  ran  alongside 
Ramsgate  Pier. 

"  Good  bye,  dear  !  "  said  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  to  Miss 
Charlotta  Tuggs,  just  before  the  bustle  of  landing  com- 
menced ;  "we  shall  see  you  on  the  sands  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  and,  as  we  are  sure  to  have  found  lodgings  before 
then,  I  hope  we  shall  be  inseparable  for  many  weeks  to 
come." 


i 


926  CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Oh  !  I  hope  so,"  said  Miss  Charlotta  Tuggs,  em- 
phatically. 

"  Tickets,  ladies  and  gen'lm'n,"  said  the  man  on  the 
paddle-box. 

"  Want  a  porter,  sir,"  inquired  a  dozen  men  in  smock 
frocks. 

"  Now,  my  dear  ! "  said  Captain  Waters. 

"  Good  bye  ! "  said  Mrs.  Captain  Waters—"  good  bye, 
Mr.  Cyraon  !"  and  with  a  pressure  of  the  hand  which 
threw  the  amiable  young  man's  nerves  into  a  state  of 
considerable  derangement,  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  disap- 
peared among  the  crowd.  A  pair  of  puce-coloured 
boots  were  seen  ascending  the  steps,  a  white  handker- 
chief fluttered,  a  black  eye  gleamed.  The  Waterses 
were  gone,  and  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  was  alone  in  a  heart- 
less world. 

Silently  and  abstractedly  did  that  too  sensitive  youth 
follow  his  revered  parents,  and  a  train  of  smock-frocks 
and  wheel-barrows  along  the  pier,  until  the  bustle  of 
the  scene  around,  recalled  him  to  himself.  The  sun 
was  shining  briglitly  ;  the  sea,  dancing  to  its  own  mu- 
sic, rolled  merrily  in  ;  crowds  of  people  promenaded  to 
and  fro  ;  young  ladies  tittered  ;  old  ladies  talked ; 
nurse-maids  displayed  their  charms  to  the  greatest  pos- 
sible advantage  ;  and  their  little  charges  ran  up  and 
down,  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out,  under  the  feet,  and 
between  the  legs,  of  the  assembled  concourse,  in  the 
most  playful  and  exhilarating  manner.  There  were  old 
gentlemen,  trying  to  make  out  objects  through  long  tele- 
scopes ;  and  young  ones,  making  objects  of  themselves 
in  open  shirt-collars ;  ladies,  carrying  about  portable 
chairs,  and  portable  chairs  carrying  about  invalids  ; 
parties  waiting  on  the  pier  for  parties  who  had  come 
by  the  steaml3oat  ;  and  nothing  was  to  be  heard  but 
talking,  laughing,  welcoming,  and  merriment. 

"  Fly,  sir?"  exclaimed  a  chorus  of  fourteen  men  and 
six  boys,  the  moment  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  at  the  head 
of  his  little  party,  set  foot  in  the  street. 

"Here's  the  gen'lm'n  at  last!"  said  one,  touching 
his  hat  with  mock  politeness,  "  Werry  glad  to  see  you, 
sir, — been  a-waiting  for  you  these  six  weeks.  Jump  in, 
if  you  please,  sir  !  " 

"  Nice  light  fly  and  a  fast  trotter,  sir,"  said  another  : 
"fourteen  mile  a  hour,  and  surroundin'  objects  ren- 
dered inwisible  by  ex-treme  welocity  I  " 

"Large  fly  for  your  luggage,  sir,"  cried  a  third. 
"  Werry  large  fly  here,  sir — reg'lar  bluebottle  I" 

"Here's  your  fly,  sir!'*  shouted  another  aspiring 
charioteer,  mounting  the  box,  and  inducing  an  old  gray 
horse  to  indulge  in  some  imperfect  reminiscences  of  a 
canter.  "  Look  at  him,  sir  ! — temper  of  a  lamb  and 
liaction  of  a  steam-ingine  !  " 

Resisting  even  the  temptation  of  securing  the  services 
of  so  valuable  a  quadruped  as  the  last-named,  Mr. 
Joseph  Tuggs  beckoned  to  the  proprietor  of  a  dingy  con- 
veyance of  a  greenish  hue,  lined  with  faded  striped 
calico;  and,  the  luggage  and  the  family  having  been 
deposited  therein,  the  animal  in  the  shafts,  after  de- 
scribing circles  in  the  road  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  at 
last  consented  to  depart  in  quest  of  lodgings. 

"How  many  beds  have  you  got?"  screamed  Mrs. 
Tuggs  out  of  the  fly,  to  the  woman  who  opened  the 
door  of  the  first  house  which  displayed  a  bill  intimating 
that  apartments  were  to  be  let  within. 

"How  many  did  you  want,  ma'am?"  was,  of  course, 
the  reply. 

"  Three." 

"  Will  you  step  in,  ma'am  ?  "  Down  got  Mrs.  Tuggs. 
The  family  were  delighted.  Splendid  view  of  the  sea 
from  the  front  windows — charming  !  A  short  pause. 
Back  came  Mrs.  Tuggs  again. — One  parlour  and  a  mat- 
tress. 

"Why  the  devil  didn't  they  say  so  at  first?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  rather  pettishly. 
"  Don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"  Wretches  !  "  exclaimed  the  nervous  Cymon.  Another 
bill — another  stoppage.  Same  question— same  answer — 
similar  result. 

"  What  do  they  mean  by  this?"  inquired  Mr.  Joseph 
Tuggs,  thoroughly  out  of  temper. 

"  Don't  know,"  said  the  placid  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"Orvis  the  vay  here,  sir,"  said  the  driver,  by  way  of 


accounting  for  the  circumstance  in  a  satisfactory  man- 
ner ;  and  off  they  went  again  to  make  fresh  inquries, 
and  encounter  fresh  disappointments. 

It  had  grown  dusk  when  the  "  fly  " — the  rate  of  whose 
progress  greatly  belied  its  name — after  climbing  up  four 
or  five  perpendicular  hills,  stopped  before  the  door  of  a 
dusty  house,  with  a  bay  window,  from  which  you  could 
obtain  a  beautiful  glimpse  of  the  sea — if  you  thrust 
half  your  body  out  of  it,  at  the  imminent  peril  of  falling 
into  the  area.  Mrs.  Tuggs  alighted.  One  ground-floor 
sitting-room,  and  three  cells  with  beds  in  them  up 
stairs.  A  double  house.  Family  on  the  opposite  side. 
Five  children  milk-and- watering  in  the  parlour,  and  one 
little  boy,  expelled  for  bad  behaviour,  screaming  on  his 
back  in  the  passage. 

"  What's  the  terms?"  said  Mrs.  Tuggs.  The  mistress 
of  the  house  was  considering  the  expediency  of  putting 
on  an  extra  guinea  ;  so,  she  coughed  slightly,  and  affected 
not  to  hear  the  question. 

"What's  the  terms?"  said  Mrs.  Tuggs,  in  a  louder 
key. 

"  Five  guineas  a  week,  ma'am,  with  attendance," 
replied  the  lodging-house  keeper.  (Attendance  means 
the  privilege  of  ringing  the  bell  as  often  as  you  like,  for 
your  own  amusement.) 

"Rather  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tuggs. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,  ma'am  ! "  replied  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  with  a  benign  smile  of  pity  at  the  ignorance  of 
rnanners  and  customs,  which  the  observation  betrayed. 
"Very  cheap  I" 

Such  an  authority  was  indisputable.  Mrs.  Tuggs  paid 
a  week's  rent  in  advance,  and  took  the  lodgings  for  a 
month.  In  an  hour's  time,  the  family  were  seated  at  tea 
in  their  new  abode. 

"  Capital  srimps  !"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs. 

Mr.  Cymon  eyed  his  father  with  a  rebellious  scowl,  as 
he  emphatically  said  "  Shrimps.'* 

"Well  then,  shrimps,"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs. 
"  Srimps  or  shrimps,  don't  much  matter." 

There  was  pity,  blended  with  malignity,  in  Mr.  Cymon's 
eye,  as  he  replied,  "  Don't  matter,  father  !  What  would 
Captain  Waters  say,  if  he  heard  such  vulgarity?" 

"  Or  what  would  dear  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  say,"  added 
Charlotta,  "if  she  saw  mother — ma,  I  mean — eating  them 
whole,  heads  and  all  ! " 

"  It  won't  bear  thinking  of  !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Cpnon, 
with  a  shudder.  "How  different,"  he  thought,  "  from 
the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Dobbleton  ! " 

"  Very  pretty  woman,  Mrs.  Captain  Waters,  is  she  not, 
Cymon?"  inquired  Miss  Charlotta. 

A  glow  of  nervous  excitement  passed  over  the  coun- 
tenance of  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs,  as  he  replied,  "An  angel 
of  beauty  ! " 

"Hallo!"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  "  Hallo,  Cymon, 
my  boy,  take  care.  Married  lady  you  know  ; "  and  he 
winked  one  of  his  twinkling  eyes  knowingly. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Cymon,  starting  up  with  an  ebul- 
lition of  fury,  as  unexpected  as  alarming,  "  Why  am  I  to 
be  reminded  of  that  blight  of  my  happiness,  and  ruin  of 
my  hopes?  Why  am  I  to  be  taunted  with  the  miseries 
which  are  heaped  upon  my  head  ?  Is  it  not  enough  to — 
to — to,"  and  the  orator  paused  ;  but  whether  from  want 
of  words,  or  lack  of  breath,  was  never  distinctly  ascer- 
tained. 

There  was  an  impressive  solemnity  in  the  tone  of  this 
address,  and  in  the  air  with  which  the  romantic  Cymon, 
at  its  conclusion,  rang  the  bell,  and  demanded  a  flat 
candlestick,  which  effectually  forbade  a  reply.  He 
stalked  dramatically  to  bed,  and  the  Tuggses  went  to 
bed  too,  half  an  hour  afterwards,  in  a  state  of  consider- 
able mystification  and  perplexity. 

If  the  pier  had  presented  a  scene  of  life  and  bustle  to 
the  Tuggses  on  their  first  landing  at  Ramsgate,  it  was 
far  surpassed  by  the  appearance  of  the  sands  on  the 
morning  after  their  arrival.  It  was  a  fine,  bright,  clear 
day,  with  a  light  breeze  from  the  sea.  There  were  the 
same  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  same  children,  the  same 
nursemaids,  the  same  telescopes,  the  same  portable 
chairs.  The  ladies  were  employed  in  needlework,  or 
watch-guard  making,  or  knitting,  or  reading  novels  ;  the 
gentlemen  were  reading  newspapers  and  magazines  ;  the 
children  were  digging  holes  in  the  sand  with  wooden 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


927 


spades,  and  collecting  waier  therein  ;  the  nursemaids, 
with  their  young-est  charges  in  their  arms,  were  running 
in  after  the  waves,  and  then  running  back  with  the  waves 
after  them  ;  and,  now  and  tlien,  a  little  sailing-boat 
either  departed  with  a  gay  and  talkative  cargo  of  passen- 
gers, or  returned  with  a  very  silent,  and  particularly 
uncomfortable-looking  one. 

"Well,  I  never  1 "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tuggs,  as  she  and 
Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  and  Miss  Charlotta  Tuggs,  and  Mr. 
Cymon  Tuggs,  with  their  eight  feet  in  a  corresponding 
number  of  yellow  shoes,  seated  themselves  on  four  rush- 
bottomed  chairs,  which,  being  placed  in  a  soft  part  of 
the  sand,  forthwith  sunk  down  some  two  feet  and  a  half. 
— "  Well,  I  never  ! " 

Mr.  Cymon,  by  an  exertion  of  great  personal  strength, 
uprooted  the  chairs,  and  removed  them  further  back. 

"  Why,  I'm  bless'd  if  there  ain't  some  ladies  a-going 
in  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs,  with  intense  aston- 
ishment. 

**  Lor,  pa  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Cliarlotta. 

"  There  is,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs.  And, 
sure  enough,  four  young  ladies,  each  furnished  with  a 
towel,  tripped  up  the  steps  of  a  bathing-machine.  In 
went  the  horse,  floundering  about  in  the  water  ;  round 
turned  the  ma<;hine  ;  down  sat  the  driver  ;  and  presently 
out  burst  the  young  ladies  aforesaid,  with  four  distinct 
splashes. 

"Well,  that's  sing'ler,  too,"  ejaculated  Mr.  Joseph 
Tuggs,  after  an  awkward  pause.  Mr.  Cymon  coughed 
slightly. 

"Why,  here's  some  gentlemen  a-going  in  on  this 
side,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tuggs,  in  a  tone  of  horror. 

Three  machines — three  horses — three  flounderings — 
three  turnings  round — three  splashes — three  gentlemen, 
disporting  themselves  in  the  water  like  so  many  dol- 
phins. 

"  Well,  thaVs  sing'ler  !  "  said  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  again. 
Miss  Charlotta  coughed  this  time,  and  another  pause 
ensued.    It  was  agreeably  broken. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  dear?  We  have  been  looking  for  you, 
all  the  morning,"  said  a  voice  to  Miss  Charlotta  Tuggs. 
Mrs.  Captain  Waters  was  the  owner  of  it. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  said  Captain  Walter  Waters,  all 
suavity,  and  a  most  cordial  interchange  of  greetings  en- 
sued. 

"Belinda,  my  love,"  said  Captain  Walter  Waters, 
applying  his  glass  to  his  eye,  and  looking  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  sea. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Captain  Waters. 

"  There's  Harry  Thompson  1 " 

"  Where  ? "  said  Belinda,  applying  her  glass  to  her 
eye. 

"Bathing." 

"  Lor,  so  it  is  !    He  don't  see  us,  does  he  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  he  does,"  replied  the  captain. 
"Bless  my  soul,  how  very  singular  I" 

"  What  ?  "  inquired  Belinda. 

"  There's  Mary  Qolding  too." 

"  Lor  ! — where  ?"  (up  went  the  glass  again.) 

"There!"  said  the  captain,  pointing  to  one  of  the 
young  ladies  before  noticed,  who,  in  her  bathing  cos- 
tume, looked  as  if  she  was  enveloped  in  a  patent  Mack- 
intosh, of  scanty  dimensions. 

"  So  it  is,  I  declare  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Captain  Waters. 
"How  very  curious  we  should  see  them  both  !" 

"Very,"  said  the  captain,  with  perfect  coolness. 

"It's  the  reg'lar  thing  here,  you  see,"  whispered  Mr. 
Cymon  Tuggs  to  his  father. 

"I  see  it  is,"  whispered  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  in  reply. 
"  Queer  though — ain't  it?"  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  nodded 
assent. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  doing  with  yourself  this 
morning?"  inquired  the  captain.  "Shall  we  lunch  at 
Pegwell?" 

"  I  should  like  that  very  much  indeed,"  interposed 
Mrs.  Tuggs.  She  had  never  heard  of  Pegwell ;  but  the 
word  "lunch"  had  reached  her  ears,  and  it  sounded 
very  agreeably. 

"How  shall  we  go?"  inquired  the  captain;  "it's  too 
warm  to  walk." 

"  A  shay  ?"  suggested  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs. 

"  Chaise,"  whispered  Mr.  Cymon. 


"I  should  think  one  would  be  enough,"  said  Mr. 
Joseph  Tuggs  aloud,  quite  unconscious  of  the  meaning 
of  the  correction.    "  However,  two  shays  if  you  like." 

"I  should  like  a  donkey  m  much,"  said  Belinda. 

"  Oh,  so  should  I  1"  echoed  Charlotta  Tuggs. 

"Well,  we  can  have  a  fly,"  suggested  the  captain, 
"and  you  can  have  a  couple  of  donkeys." 

A  fresh  difficulty  arose.  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  declared 
it  would  be  decidedly  improper  for  two  ladies  to  ride 
alone.  The  remedy  was  obvious.  Perhaps  young  Mr. 
Tuggs  would  be  gailant  enough  to  accompany  them. 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  blushed,  smiled,  looked  vacant,  and 
faintly  protested  that  he  was  no  horseman.  The  objec- 
tion was  at  once  overruled.  A  fly  was  speedily  found  ; 
and  three  donkeys — which  the  proprietor  declared  on  his 
solemn  asseveration  to  be  "  three  parts  blood,  and  the 
other  corn" — were  engaged  in  the  service. 

"Kim  up  !"  shouted  one  of  the  two  boys  who  fol- 
lowed behind,  to  propel  the  donkeys,  when  Belinda 
Waters  and  Charlotta  Tuggs  had  been  hoisted,  and 
pushed,  and  pulled,  into  their  respective  saddles. 

"Hi — hi — hil"  groaned  the  other  boy  behind  Mr. 
Cymon  Tuggs.  Away  went  the  donkey,  with  the  stirrups 
jingling  against  the  heels  of  Cy men's  boots,  and  Cymon's 
boots  nearly  scraping  the  ground. 

"Way — way!  Wo — o — o — o — !"  cried  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs  as  well  as  he  could,  in  the  midst  of  the  joiting. 

"Don't  make  it  gallop!"  screamed  Mrs.  Captain 
Waters,  behind. 

"  My  donkey  idll  go  into  the  public-house  ! "  shrieked 
Miss  Tuggs  in  the  rear. 

"Hi — hi — hi  !"  groaned  both  the  boys  together  ;  and 
on  went  the  donkeys  as  if  nothing  would  ever  stop 
them. 

Everything  has  an  end,  however ;  even  the  galloping 
of  donkeys  will  cease  in  time.  The  animal  which  Mr. 
Cymon  Tuggs  bestrode,  feeling  sundry  uncomfortable 
tugs  at  the  bit,  the  intent  of  which  he  could  by  no  means 
divine,  abruptly  sidled  against  a  brick  wall,  and  ex- 
pressed his  uneasiness  by  grinding  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs's 
leg  on  the  rough  surface.  Mrs.  Captain  Waters's  don- 
key, apparently  under  the  influence  of  some  playfulness 
of  spirit,  rushed  suddenly,  head  first,  into  a  hedge,  and 
declined  to  come  out  again  :  and  the  quadruped  on  which 
Miss  Tuggs  was  mounted,  expressed  his  delight  at  this 
humorous  proceeding  by  firmly  planting  his  fore-feet 
against  the  ground,  and  kicking  up  his  hind-legs  in  a 
very  agile,  but  somewhat  alarming  manner. 

This  abrupt  termination  to  the  rapidity  of  the  ride, 
naturally  occasioned  some  confusion.  Both  the  ladies 
indulged  in  vehement  screaming  for  several  minutes  ; 
and  Mr.  Cj'mon  Tuggs,  besides  sustaining  intense  bodily 
pain,  had  the  additional  mental  anguish  of  witnessing 
their  distressing  situation,  without  having  the  power  to 
rescue  them,  by  reason  of  his  leg  being  firmly  screwed 
in  between  the  animal  and  the  wall.  The  efforts  of  the 
boys,  however,  assisted  by  the  ingenious  expedient  of 
twisting  the  tail  of  the  most  rebellious  donkey,  restored 
order  in  a  much  shorter  time  than  could  have  reasonably 
been  expected,  and  the  little  party  jogged  slowly  on  to- 
gether. 

"Now  let  *em  walk,"  said  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs.  "It's 
cruel  to  overdrive  'em." 

"  Werry  well,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  with  a  grin  at  his 
companion,  as  if  he  understood  Mr.  Cymon  to  mean  that 
the  cruelty  applied  less  to  the  animals  than  to  their  rid- 
ers. 

"  What  a  lovely  day,  dear  !  "  said  Charlotta. 

"  Charming  ;  enchanting,  dear  !  "  responded  Mrs.  Cap- 
tain Waters.    "  What  a  beautiful  prospect,  Mr.  Tuggs  ! " 

Cymon  looked  full  in  Belinda's  face,  as  he  responded 
— "  Beautiful,  indeed  !"  The  lady  cast  down  her  eyes, 
and  suffered  the  animal  she  was  riding  to  fall  a  little 
back.    Cymon  Tuggs  instinctively  did  the  same. 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  broken  only  by  a  sigh  from 
Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs. 

"  Mr,  Cymon,"  said  the  lady  suddenly,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  Mr.  Cymon — I  am  another's. " 

Mr.  Cymon  expressed  his  perfect  concurrence  in  a 
statement  which  it  was  impossible  to  controvert. 

"  If  I  had  not  been — "  resumed  Belinda  ;  and  there  she 
stopped. 


928 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


What— what?"  said  Mr.  Cymon  earnestly.  "Do not 
torture  me.    What  would  you  say  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  not  been  "—continued  Mrs.  Captain  Waters 
— "  if,  in  earlier  life,  it  had  been  my  fate  to  have  known, 
and  been  beloved  by,  a  noble  youth — a  kindred  soul — a 
congenial  spirit — one  capable  of  feeling  and  appreciating 
the  sentiments  which — " 

"Heavens  !  what  do  I  hear?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs.  "  Is  it  possible  !  can  I  believe  my— come  up  !  " 
(This  last  unsentimental  parenthesis  was  addressed  to 
the  donkey,  who  with  his  head  between .  his  fore-legs, 
appeared  to  be  examining  the  state  of  his  shoes  with 
great  anxiety.) 

"Hi — ^hi--hi,"  said  the  boys  behind.  "Come  up," 
expostulated  Cymon  Tuggs  again.  "  Hi — hi— hi  !"  re- 
peated the  boys.  And  whether  it  was  that  the  animal 
felt  indignant  at  the  tone  of  Mr.  Tuggs's  command,  or 
felt  alarmed  by  the  noise  of  the  deputy  proprietor's 
boots  running  behind  him  ;  or  whether  he  burned  with 
a  noble  emulation  to  outstrip  the  other  donkeys  ;  certain 
it  is  that  he  no  sooner  heard  the  second  series  of  "  hi — 
hi's,"  than  he  started  away,  with  a  celerity  of  pace  which 
jerked  Mr.  Cymon's  hat  off,  instantaneously,  and  carried 
him  to  the  Pegwell  Bay  hotel  in  no  time,  where  he  de- 
posited his  rider  without  giving  him  the  trouble  of  dis- 
mounting, by  sagaciously  pitching  him  over  his  head, 
into  the  very  doorway  of  the  tavern. 

Great  was  the  confusion  of  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs,  when 
he  was  put,  right  end  uppermost,  by  two  waiters  ;  con- 
siderable was  the  alarm  of  Mrs.  Tuggs  in  behalf  of  her 
son  ;  agonisiug  were  the  apprehensions  of  Mrs.  Captain 
Waters  on  his  account.  It  was  speedily  discovered,  how- 
ever, that  he  had  not  sustained  much  more  injury  than 
the  donkey — he  was  grazed,  and  the  animal  was  grazing 
— and  then  it  wm  a  delightful  party  to  be  sure  !  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tuggs,  and  the  Captain  had  ordered  lunch  in  the 
little  garden  behind  : — small  saucers  of  large  shrimps, 
dabs  of  butter,  crusty  loaves,  and  bottled  ale.  The  sky 
was  without  a  cloud  ;  there  were  flower-pots  and  turf  be- 
fore them  ;  the  sea,  from  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  stretching 
away  as  far  as  the  eye  could  discern  anything  at  all  ; 
vessels  in  the  distance  with  sails  as  white,  and  as  small, 
as  nicely-got  up  cambric  handkerchiefs.  The  shrimps 
were  delightful,  the  ale  better,  and  the  Captain  even 
more  pleasant  than  either.  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  was  in 
8ucli  spirits  after  lunch  ! — chasing,  first  the  captain  across 
the  turf,  and  among  the  flower-pots  ;  and  then  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs  ;  and  then  Miss  Tuggs  ;  and  laughing,  too,  quite 
boisterously.  But  as  the  captain  said,  it  didn't  matter  ; 
who  knew  what  they  were,  there  ?  For  all  the  people  of 
the  house  knew,  they  might  be  common  people.  To 
which  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  responded,  "  To  be  sure."  And 
then  they  went  down  tlie  steep  wooden  steps  a  little  fur- 
ther on,  which  led  to  the  bottom  of  the  cliff ;  and  looked 
at  the  crabs,  and  the  seaweed,  and  the  eels,  till  it  was 
more  than  fully  time  to  go  back  to  Ranisgate  again. 
Finally,  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  ascended  the  steps  last, 
and  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  last  but  one ;  and  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs  discovered  that  the  foot  and  ancle  of  Mrs.  Captain 
Waters,  were  even  more  unexceptionable  than  he  had  at 
first  supposed. 

Taking  a  donkey  towards  his  ordinary  place  of  resi- 
dence, is  a  v(;ry  different  thing,  and  a  feat  much  more 
easily  to  be  accomplished,  than  taking  him  from  it.  It 
requires  a  great  deal  of  foresight  and  presence  of  mind 
in  the  one  case,  to  anticipate  the  numerous  flights  of  his 
discursive  imagination  ;  whereas,  in  the  other,  all  you 
have  to  do,  is,  to  hold  on,  and  place  a  blind  confidence  in 
the  animal.  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  adopted  the  latter  expe- 
dient on  his  return  ;  and  his  nerves  was  so  little  discom- 
posed by  the  journey,  that  he  distinctly  understood  they 
were  all  to  meet  again  at  the  library  in  the  evening. 

The  library  was  crowded.  There  were  the  same  ladies, 
and  the  same  gentlemen,  who  had  been  on  the  sands  in 
the  morning,  and  on  the  pier  the  day  before.  There 
were  young  ladies,  in  maroon-coloured  gowns  and  black 
velvet  bracelets,  dispensing  fancy  articles  in  the  shop, 
and  presiding  over  games  of  chance  in  the  concert-room. 
There  were  marriageable  daughters,  and  marriage-mak- 
ing mammas,  gaming  and  promenading,  and  turning 
over  music,  and  flirting.  There  were  some  male  beaux 
doing  the  sentimental  in  whispers,  and  others  doing  the 


ferocious  in  moustache.  There  were  Mrs.  Tuggs  in  am- 
ber. Miss  Tuggs  in  sky  -blue,  Mrs.  Captain  Waters  in 
pink.  There  was  Captain  Waters  in  a  braided  surtout  ; 
there  was  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  in  pumps  and  a  gilt  waist- 
coat ;  there  was  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  in  a  blue  coat,  and  a 
shirt-frill. 

"  Numbers  three  eight,  and  eleven  ! "  cried  one  of  the 
young  ladies  in  the  maroon-coloured  gowns. 

"  Number  three,  eight,  and  eleven  !  "  echoed  another 
young  lady  in  the  same  uniform. 

"  Number  three's  gone,"  said  the  first  young  lady. 
"Numbers  eight  and  eleven  !  " 

"Numbers  eight  and  eleven!"  echoed  the  second 
young  lady. 

"  Number  eight's  gone,  Mary  Ann,"  said  the  first 
young  lady. 

"Number  eleven  !  "  screamed  the  second. 

"  The  numbers  are  all  taken  now,  ladies,  if  you  please," 
said  the  first.  The  representatives  of  numbers  three, 
eight  and  eleven,  and  the  rest  of  the  numbers,  crowded 
round  the  table. 

"  Will  you  throw,  ma'am  ?  "  said  the  presiding  goddess, 
handing  the  dice-box  to  the  eldest  daughter  of  a  stout 
lady  with  four  girls. 

There  was  a  profound  silence  among  the  lookers  on. 

"Throw,  Jane,  my  dear,"  said  the  stout  lady.  An  in- 
teresting display  of  bashfulness — a  little  blushing  in  a 
cambric  handkerchief — a  whispering  to  a  younger  sister. 

"Amelia,  my  dear,  throw  for  your  sister,"  said  the 
stout  lady  ;  and  then  she  turned  to  a  walking  advertise- 
ment of  Rowland's  Macassar  Oil,  who  stood  next  to  her, 
and  said,  "Jane  is  so  ijer^' modest  and  retiring  ;  but  I 
can't  be  angry  with  her  for  it.  An  artless  and  unsophis- 
ticated girl  is  so  truly  amiable,  that  I  often  wish  Amelia 
was  more  like  her  sister  !  " 

The  gentleman  with  the  whiskers, whispered  his  admir- 
ing approval. 

"  Now,  my  dear  !  "  said  the  slout  lady.  Miss  Amelia 
threw — eight  for  her  sister,  ten  for  herself. 

"  Nice  figure,  Amelia,"  whispered  the  stout  lady,  to  a 
thin  youth  beside  her. 

"Beautiful!" 

"  And  such  a  spirit !  I  am  like  you  in  that  respect.  I 
can  not  help  admiring  that  life  and  vivacity.  Ah  !  (a 
sigh)  I  wish  I  could  make  poor  Jane  a  little  more  like 
my  dear  Amelia  !  " 

The  young  gentleman  cordially  acquiesced  in  the  sen- 
timent ;  both  he,  and  the  individual  first  addressed, 
were  perfectly  contented. 

"Who's  this  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  of  Mrs. 
Captain  Waters,  as  a  short  female,  in  a  blue  velvet  hat 
and  feathers,  was  led  into  the  orchestra,  by  a  fat  man  in 
black  tights,  and  cloudy  Berlins. 

"Mrs.  Tippin  of  the  London  theatres,"  replied  Belinda, 
referring  to  the  programme  of  the  concert. 

The  talented  Tippin  having  condescendingly  acknowl- 
edged the  clapping  of  hands,  and  shouts  of  "  bravo  ! " 
which  greeted  her  appearance,  proceeded  to  sing  the 
popular  cavatina  of  "  Bid  me  discourse,"  accompanied  on 
the  piano  by  Mr.  Tippin  ;  after  which  Mr.  Tippin  sang 
a  comic  song,  accompanied  on  the  piano  by  Mrs.  Tippin  : 
the  applause  consequent  upon  which,  was  only  to  be  ex- 
ceeded by  the  enthusiastic  approbation  bestowed  upon 
an  air  with  variations  on  the  guitar,  by  Miss  Tippin, 
accompanied  on  the  chin  by  Master  Tippin. 

Thus  passed  the  evening  ;  thus  passed  the  days  and 
evenings  of  the  Tuggses,  and  the  Waterses,  for  six 
weeks.  Sands  in  the  morning — donkeys  at  noon — pier  in 
afternoon— library  at  night — and  the  same  people  every- 
where. 

On  that  very  night  six  weeks,  the  moon  was  shining 
brightly  over  the  calm  sea,  which  dashed  against  the 
feet  of  the  tall  gaunt  cliffs,  with  just  enough  noise  to  lull 
the  old  fish  to  sleep,  without  disturbing  the  young  ones, 
when  two  figures  were  discernible — or  would  have  been, 
if  anybody  had  looked  for  them — seated  on  one  of  the 

I  wooden  benches  which  are  stationed  near  the  verge  of 
the  western  cliff.  The  moon  had  climbed  higher  in  the 
heavens,  by  two  hours'  journeying  since  these  figures 
first  sat  down — and  yet  they  had  moved  not.  The  crowd 
of  loungers  had  thinned  and  dispersed  ;  the  noise  of 

I  itinerant  musicians  had  died  away  ;  light  after  light  had 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


929 


appeared  in  the  windows  of  the  different  houses  in  the 
distance  ;  blockade-man  after  blockade-man  had  passed 
the  spot,  wending  his  way  towards  his  solitary  post  ; 
and  yet  those  figures  had  remained  stationary.  Some 
portions  of  the  two  forms  were  in  deep  shadow,  but 
the  light  of  the  moon  fell  strongly  on  a  puce-coloured 
boot  and  a  glazed  stock.  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs,  and  Mrs. 
Captain  Waters,  were  seated  on  that  bench.  They  spoke 
not,  but  were  silently  gazing  on  the  sea. 

"  Walter  will  return  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Captain 
Waters,  mournfully  breaking  silence. 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  sighed  like  a  gust  of  wind  through 
a  forest  of  gooseberry  bushes,  as  he  replied,  "  Alas  he 
will." 

"  Oh,  Cymon  !  "  resumed  Belinda,  "  the  chaste  delight, 
the  calm  happiness  of  this  one  week  of  Platonic  love,  is 
too  much  for  me  ! " 

Cymon  was  about  to  suggest  that  it  was  too  little  for 
him,  J)ut  he  stopped  himself,  and  murmured  unintelli- 
gibly. 

"  And  to  think  that  even  this  glimpse  of  happiness, 
innocent  as  it  is,"  exclaimed  Belinda,  "is  now  to  be  lost 
for  ever  !  " 

*'  Oh,  do  not  say  for  ever,  Belinda,"  exclaimed  the  ex- 
citable Cymon,  as  two  strongly  defined  tears  chased  each 
other  down  his  pale  face — it  was  so  long  that  there  was 
plenty  of  room  for  a  chase — ' '  Do  not  say  for  ever  1 " 

"  I  must,"  replied  Belinda. 

"Why?"  urged  Cymon,  "oh  why?  Such  Platonic 
acquaintance  as  ours,  is  so  harmless,  that  even  your 
husband  can  never  object  to  it." 

"My  husband!"  exclaimed  Belinda.  "You  little 
know  him.  Jealous  and  revengeful  ;  ferocious  in  his 
revenge — a  maniac  in  his  jealousy  !  Would  you  be 
assassinated  before  my  eyes?"  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs,  in  a 
voice  broken  by  emotion,  expressed  his  disinclination  to 
undergo  the  process  of  assassination  before  the  eyes  of 
anybody. 

"  Then  leave  me,"  said  Mrs.  Captain  Waters.  "Leave 
me,  this  night,  for  ever.    It  is  late  ;  let  us  return." 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  sadly  offered  the  lady  his  arm,  and 
escorted  her  to  her  lodgings.  He  paused  at  the  door — 
he  felt  a  Platonic  pressure  of  his  hand.  "  Good  night," 
he  said,  hesitating. 

"Good  night,"  sobbed  the  lady.  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs 
paused  again. 

"Won't  you  walk  in,  sir,"  said  the  servant.  Mr. 
Tuggs  hesitated.    Oh,  that  hesitation  !    He  did  walk  in. 

"Good  night  !"  said  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  again,  when 
he  reached  the  drawing-room. 

"Good  night!"  replied  Belinda;  "and,  if  at  any 
period  of  my  life,  I — hush  ! "  The  lady  paused  and 
stared,  with  a  steady  gaze  of  horror,  on  the  ashy  coun- 
tenance of  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs.  There  was  a  double 
knock  at  the  street-door. 

"It  is  my  husband  !  "  said  Belinda,  as  the  captain's 
voice  was  heard  below. 

"  And  my  family  !  "  added  Cymon  Tuggs,  as  the  voices 
of  his  relatives  floated  up  the  staircase. 

"  The  curtain  !  The  curtain  !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Captain 
Waters,  pointing  to  the  window,  before  which  some 
chintz  hangings  were  closely  drawn. 

"But  I  have  done  nothing  wrong,"  said  the  hesitating 
Cymon. 

"The  curtain!"  reiterated  the  frantic  lady  :  "you 
will  be  murdered."  This  last  appeal  to  his  feelings  was 
irresistible.  The  dismayed  Cymon  concealed  himself 
behind  the  curtain  with  pantomimic  suddenness. 

Enter  the  captain,  Joseph  Tuggs,  Mrs.  Tuggs,  and 
Cb  arietta. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  captain,  "  Lieutenant  Slaughter." 
Two  iron-shod  boots  and  one  gruff  voice  were  heard  by 
Mr.  Cymon  to  advance,  and  acknowledge  the  honour  of 
the  introduction.  The  sabre  of  the  lieutenant  rattled 
heavily  upon  the  floor,  as  he  seated  himself  at  the  table. 
Mr.  Cymon's  fears  almost  overcame  his  reason. 

"  The  brandy,  my  dear  !  "  said  the  captain.  Here  was 
a  situation  !  They  were  going  to  make  a  night  of  it  ! 
And  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  was  pent  up  behind  the  curtain 
and  afraid  to  breathe  ! 

"  Slaughter,"  said  the  captain,  "  a  cigar  ?" 

Now,  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  never  could  smoke,  without 
Vol.  II  .-59 


feeling  it  indispensably  necessary  to  retire,  immediately, 
and  never  could  smell  smoke  without  a  strong  disposition 
to  cough.  The  cigars  were  introduced  ;  the  captain  was 
a  professed  smoker  so  was  the  lieutenant ;  so  was  Joseph 
Tuggs.  The  apartment  was  small,  the  door  was  closed, 
the  smoke  powerful  :  it  hung  in  heavy  wreaths  over 
the  room,  and  at  length  found  its  way  behind  the  cur- 
tain. Cymon  Tuggs  held  his  nose,  his  mouth,  his 
breath.    It  was  all  of  no  use— out  came  the  cough. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  said  the  captain.  "I  beg  your 
pardon.  Miss  Tuggs.    You  dislike  smoking?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  don't  indeed,"  said  Charlotta. 

"  It  makes  you  cough." 

"  Oh  dear  no." 

"  You  coughed  just  now." 

"  Me,  Captain  Waters  I    Lor  !  how  can  you  say  so  ?  " 
"  Somebody  coughed,"  said  the  captain. 
"  I  certainly  thought  so,"  said  Slaughter.  No  ;  every- 
body denied  it. 

"  Fancy,"  said  the  captain. 
"  Must  be,"  echoed  Slaughter. 

Cigars  resumed — more  smoke — another  cough — smoth- 
ered, but  violent. 

* '  Damned  odd  ! "  said  the  captain,  staring  about 
him. 

"Sing'ler!"  ejaculated  the  unconscious  Mr.  Joseph 
Tuggs. 

Lieutenant  Slaughter  looked  first  at  one  person 
mysteriously,  then  at  another  ;  then,  laid  down  his  cigar  ; 
then,  approached  the  window  on  tiptoe,  and  pointed  with 
his  right  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  in  the  direction  of 
the  curtain. 

"Slaughter!"  ejaculated  the  captain,  rising  from 
table,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

The  lieutenant,  in  reply,  drew  back  the  curtain  and 
discovered  Mr,  Cymon  Tuggs  behind  it  ;  pallid  with 
apprehension,  and  blue  with  wanting  to  cough. 

"Aha  !"  exclaimed  the  captain  furiously,  "  What  do 
I  see?    Slaughter,  your  sabre  1" 

"  Cymon  !"  screamed  theTuggses. 

"Mercy  !  "  said  Belinda. 

"  Platonic  I  "  gasped  Cymon. 

"  Your  sabre  !  "  roared  the  captain  :  "  Slaughter — un- 
hand me — the  villain's  life  !  " 

"  Murder  !"  screamed  the  Tuggses. 

"  Hold  him  fast,  sir  !  "  faintly  articulated  Cymon. 

"  Water  !  "  exclaimed  Joseph  Tuggs — and  Mr.  Cymon 
Tuggs  and  all  the  ladies  forthwith  fainted  away,  and 
formed  a  tableau. 

Most  willingly  would  we  conceal  the  disastrous 
termination  of  the  six  weeks  acquaintance.  A  trouble- 
some form,  and  an  arbitrary  custom,  however,  prescribe 
that  a  story  should  have  a  conclusion,  in  addition  to  a 
commencement  ;  we  have  therefore  no  alternative. 
Lieutenant  Slaughter  brought  a  message — the  captain 
brought  an  action.  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  interposed — the 
lieutenant  negotiated.  When  Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  recover- 
ed from  the  nervous  disorder  into  which  misplaced  affec- 
tion, and  exciting  circumstances  had  plunged  him,  he 
found  that  his  family  had  lost  their  pleasant  acquaintance 
that  his  father  was  minus  fifteen  hundred  pounds  ;  and 
the  captain  plus  the  precise  sum.  The  money  was  paid 
to  hush  the  matter  up,  but  it  got  abroad  notv^ithstand- 
ing  ;  and  there  are  not  wanting  some  who  afiirm  that 
three  designing  impostors  never  found  more  easy  dupes, 
than  did  Captain  Waters,  and  Lieutenant  Slaughter,  in 
the  Tuggses  at  Ramsgate. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Horatio  Sparkins. 

"  Indeed,  my  love,  he  paid  Teresa  very  great  attention 
on  the  last  assembly  night,"  said  Mrs,  Maldertou,  ad- 
dressing her  spouse,  who  after  the  fatigues  of  the  day 
j  in  the  City,  was  sitting  with  a  silk  handkerchief  over 
his  head,  and  his  feet  on  the  fender,  drinking  his  port  ; 
"very  great  attention  ;  and  I  say  again,  every  possible 
encouragement  ought  to  be  given  him.  He  positively 
must  be  asked  down  here  to  dine." 


930 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Who  must  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Malderton. 

"  Why,  you  know  whom  I  mean,  my  dear — the  young 
man  with  the  black  wliiskers  and  the  white  cravat,  who 
has  just  come  out  at  our  assembly  ;  and  whom  all  the 
girls  are  talking  about.  Young— dear  me  !  what's  his 
name  ?— Marianne  what  is  his  name?"  continued  Mrs 
Malderton,  addressing  her  youngest  daughter,  who  was 
engaged  in  netting  a  purse  and  looking  sentimental. 

"Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins,  ma,"  replied  Miss  Marianne, 
witli  a  sigh, 

''Oh  !  yes,  to  be  sure — Horatio  Sparkins,"  said  Mrs. 
Malderton.  **  Decidedly  the  most  gentleman-like  young 
man  1  ever  saw.  I  am  sure,  in  the  beautifully  made  coat 
he  wore  the  other  night,  he  looked  like — like — " 

"  Like  Prince  Leopold,  ma — so  noble,  so  full  of  senti- 
ment !  "  suggested  Marianne,  in  a  tone  of  enthusiastic 
admiration. 

"  You  should  recollect,  my  dear,"  resumed  Mrs.  Mal- 
derton, "that  Teresa  is  now  eight-and-twenty  ;  and  that 
it  really  is  very  important  that  something  should  be 
done. " 

Miss  Teresa  Malderton  was  a  very  little  girl,  rather 
fat,  with  Vermillion  cheeks,  but  good-humoured,  and 
still  disengaged,  although  to  do  her  justice,  the  misfor- 
tune arose  from  no  lack  of  perseverance  on  her  part.  In 
vain,  had  she  flirted  for  ten  years  ;  in  vain,  had  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Malderton  assiduously  kept  up  an  extensive 
acquaintance  among  the  young  eligible  batchelors  of 
Camberwell,  and  even  of  Wandsworth  and  Brixton  ;  to 
say  nothing  of  those  who  "dropped  in"  from  town. 
Miss  Malderton  was  as  well  known  as  the  lion  on  the  top 
of  Northumberland  House,  and  had  an  equal  chance  of 
*'  going  off." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  you'd  like  him,"  continued  Mrs.  Mal- 
derton ;  "he  is  so  gentlemanly  !  " 

"  So  clever  !  "  said  Miss  Marianne. 

"  And  has  such  a  flow  of  language  !  "  added  Miss 
Teresa. 

"  He  has  a  great  respect  for  you,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Malderton  to  her  husband.  Mr.  Malderton  coughed,  and 
looked  at  the  fire. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  he's  very  much  attached  to  pa's  so- 
ciety," said  Miss  Marianne. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  echoed  Miss  Teresa. 

"  Indeed,  he  said  as  much  to  me  in.  confidence,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Malderton. 

"Well,  well,"  returned  Mr.  Malderton,  somewhat 
flattered  :  "  If  I  see  him  at  the  assembly  to-morrow,  per- 
haps I'll  ask  him  down.  I  hope  he  knows  we  live  at  Oak 
Lodge,  Camberwell,  my  dear  ! " 

"Of  course — and  that  you  keep  a  one-horse  carriage." 

"I'll  see  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Malderton,  composing 
himself  for  a  nap  ;  "  I'll  see  about  it." 

Mr.  Malderton  was  a  man  whose  whole  scope  of  ideas 
was  limited  to  Lloyd's,  the  Exchange,  the  India  House, 
and  the  Bank.  A  few  successful  speculations  had  raised 
him  from  a  situation  of  obscurity  and  comparative 
poverty,  to  a  state  of  affluence.  As  frequently  happens 
in  such  cases,  the  ideas  of  himself  and  his  family  became 
elevated  to  an  extraordinary  pitch  as  their  means  in- 
creased ;  they  affected  fashion,  taste,  and  many  other  fool- 
eries, in  imitation  of  their  betters,  and  had  a  very  decided 
and  becoming  horror  of  anything  which  could,  by  possi- 
bility, be  considered  low.  He  was  hospitable  from  osten- 
tation, illiberal  from  ignorance,  and  prejudiced  from 
conceit.  Egotism  and  the  love  of  display  induced  him 
to  keep  an  excellent  table  ;  convenience,  and  a  love  of 
good  things  of  this  life,  ensured  him  plenty  of  guests. 
He  liked  to  have  clever  men,  or  what  he  considered  such, 
at  his  table,  because  it  was  a  great  thing  to  talk  about  ; 
but  he  never  could  endure  what  he  called  "  sharp  fel- 
lows." Probably,  he  cherished  this  feeling  out  of  com- 
pliment to  his  two  sons,  who  gave  their  respected  parent 
no  uneasiness  in  that  particular.  The  family  were 
ambitious  of  forming  acquaintances  and  connexions  in 
some  sphere  of  society  superior  to  that  in  which  they 
themselves  moved  ;  and  one  of  the  necessary  consequen- 
ces of  this  desire,  added  to  their  utter  ignorance  of  the 
world  beyond  their  own  small  circle,  was,  that  any  one 
who  could  lay  claim  to  an  acquaintance  with  people  of 
rank  and  title,  had  a  sure  passport  to  the  table  at  Oak 
Lodge,  Camberwell. 


The  appearance  of  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins  at  the  assem 
bly  had  excited  no  small  degree  of  surprise  and  curiosity 
among  its  regular  frequenters.  Who  could  he  be  ?  He 
was  evidently  reserved,  and  apparently  melancholy. 
Was  he  a  clergyman  ?— He  danced  too  well.'  A  barrister? 
He  said  he  was  not  called.  He  used  very  fine  words, 
and  talked  a  great  deal.  Could  he  be  a  distinguished 
foreigner,  come  to  England  for  the  purpose  of  describing 
the  country,  its  manners  and  customs  ;  and  frequenting 
public  balls  and  public  dinners,  with  the  view  of  be- 
coming acquainted  v/ith  high  life,  polished  etiquette  and 
English  refinement  ? — No,  he  had  not  a  foreign  accent. 
Was  he  a  surgeon,  a  contributor  to  the  magazines,  a  writer 
of  fashionable  novels,  or  an  artist  ? — no  ;  to  each  and  all 
of  these  surmises,  there  existed  some  valid  ejection. — 
"  Then,"  said  everybody,  "he  must  be  somebody." — "I 
should  think  he  must  be,"  reasoned  Mr.  Malderton,  with 
himself,  "  because  he  perceives  our  superiority,  and  pays 
us  so  much  attention." 

The  night  succeeding  the  conversation  we  have  just 
recorded,  was  "assembly  night."    The  double-fly  was 
ordered  to  be  at  the  door  of  Oak  Lodge  at  nine  o'clock 
precisely.    The  Miss  Maldertons  were  dressed  in  sky- 
blue  satin  trimmed  with  artificial  flowers  ;  and  Mrs.  M. 
(who  was  a  little  fat  woman),  in  ditto  ditto,  looked  like 
her  eldest  daughter  multiplied  by  two.    Mr.  Frederick 
Malderton,  the  eldest  son,  in  full-dress  costume,  was  the 
very  "beau  ideal  of  a  smart  writer  ;  and  Mr.  Thomas  Mal- 
derton, the  youngest,  with  his  white  dress-stock,  blue 
coat,  Ijright  buttons,  and  red  watch-ribbon,  strongly 
resembled  the  portrait  of  that  interesting,  but  rash 
young  gentleman,  George  Barnwell.    Every  member  of 
the  party  had  made  up  his  or  her  mind  to  cultivate  the 
acquaintance  of  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins.    Miss  Teresa,  of 
course,  was  to  be  as  amiable  and  interesting  as  ladies  of 
eight-and-twenty  on  the  look-out  for  a  husband,  usually 
are.    Mrs.  Malderton  would  be  all  smiles  and  graces. 
Miss  Marianne  would  request  the  favour  of  some  verses 
for  her  album.    Mr.  Malderton  would  patronise  the  great 
unknown  by  asking  him  to  dinner.    Tom  intended  to 
ascertain  the  extent  of  his  information  on  the  inter- 
esting topics  of  snuff  and  cigars.    Even  Mr.  Frederick 
Malderton  himself,  the  family  authority  on  all  points  of 
taste,  dress,  and  fashionable  arrangement ;  who  had  i 
lodgings  of  his  own  in  town  ;  who  had  a  free  admission  I 
to  Covent-garden  theatre  ;  who  always  dressed  according  i 
to  the  fashions  of  the  months ;  who  went  up  the  water  ; 
twice  a-week  in  the  season  ;  and  who  actually  had  an  i 
intimate  friend  who  once  knew  a  gentleman  who  for-  | 
merly  lived  in  the  Albany, — even  he  had  determined  ii 
that  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins  must  be  a  devilish  good  fellow,  ,| 
and  that  he  would  do  him  the  honour  of  challenging  \ 
him  to  a  game  of  billiards.  i 

The  first  object  that  met  the  anxious  eyes  of  the  ex-  \ 
pectant  family  on  their  entrance  into  the  ball-room,  was  j 
the  interesting  Horatio,  with  his  hair  brushed  off  his  !] 
forehead,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  reclining  in  \ 
a  contemplative  attitude  on  one  of  the  seats.  j 

"  There  he  is,  my  dear,"  whispered  Mrs.  Malderton  to  i 
Mr.  Malderton.  j 

"  How  like  Lord  Byron  ! "  murmured  Miss  Teresa.  I 

"  Or  Montgomery  !  "  whispered  Miss  Marianne.  ] 

"  Or  the  portraits  of  Captain  Cook  !  "  suggested  Tom. 

"  Tom — dou't  be  an  ass  !"  said  his  father,  who  check-  ^ 
ed  him  on  all  occasions,  probably  with  a  view  to  prevent 
his  becoming  "sharp" — which  was  very  unnecessary. 

The  elegant  Sparkins  attitudinised  with  admirable 
effect,  until  the  family  had  crossed  the  room.  He  then 
started  up,  with  the  most  natural  appearance  of  surprise 
and  delight ;  accosted  Mrs.  Malderton  with  the  utmost 
cordiality  ;  saluted  the  young  ladies  in  the  most  enchant- 
ing manner  ;  bowed  to,  and  shook  hands  with,  Mr. 
Malderton,  with  a  degree  of  respect  amounting  almost 
to  veneration  ;  and  returned  the  greetings  of  the  two 
young  men  in  a  half-gratified,  half-patronising  manner, 
whicli  fully  convinced  them  that  he  must  be  an  important, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  condescending  personage. 

"  Miss  Malderton,"  said  Horatio,  after  the  ordinary  i 
salutati<ms,  and  bowing  very  low,  "may  I  be  permitted  j  , 
to  presume  to  hope  that  you  will  allow  me  to  have  the  . 
pleasure — "  i  « 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  engaged,"  said  Miss  Teresa,  with  p 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


931 


a  dreadful  affectation  of  indifference — "  bat,  really — 
so  many — " 

Horatio  looked  handsomely  miserable. 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy,"  simpered  the  interesting 
Teresa  at  last.  Horatio's  countenance  brightened  up, 
like  an  old  hat  in  a  shower  of  rain, 

"  A  very  genteel  young  man,  certainly  !  "  said  the 
gratified  Mr.  Malderton,  as  the  obsequious  Sparkins  and 
his  partner  joined  the  quadrille  which  was  just  forming. 

"  He  has  a  remarkably  good  address,"  said  Mr,  Fred- 
erick, 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  prime  fellow,"  interposed  Tom,  who 
always  managed  to  put  his  foot  in  it — "  he  talks  just 
like  an  auctioneer." 

"  Tom  !  "  said  his  father  solemnly,  "  I  think  I  desired 
you,  before,  not  to  be  a  fool."  Tom  looked  as  happy  as 
a  cock  on  a  drizzly  morning, 

"How  delightful !  "  said  the  interesting  Horatio  to  his 
partner,  as  they  promenaded  the  room  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  set — "how  delightful,  how  refreshing  it  is,  to 
retire  from  the  cloudy  storms,  the  vicissitudes,  and  the 
troubles,  of  life,  even  if  it  be  but  for  a  few  short  fleeting 
moments ;  and  to  spent  those  moments,  fading  and 
evanescent  though  they  be,  in  the  delightful,  the  bless- 
ed, society,  of  one  individual — whose  frowns  would  be 
death,  whose  coldness  would  be  madness,  whose  false- 
hood would  be  ruin,  whose  constancy  would  be  bliss  ; 
the  possession  of  whose  affection  would  be  the  brightest 
and  best  reward  that  Heaven  could  bestow  on  man  ! " 

"  What  feeling  !  what  sentiment  1 "  thought  Miss 
Teresa,  as  she  leaned  more  heavily  on  her  companion's 
arm. 

"But  enough — enough?"  resumed  the  elegant  Spar- 
kins,  with  a  theatrical  air,  "  What  have  I  said?  what 
have  I — I — to  do  with  sentiments  like  these  !  Miss 
Malderton — "  here  he  stopped  short — "  may  I  hope  to  be 
permitted  to  offer  the  humble  tribute  of — " 

"  Really,  Mr.  Sparkins,"  returned  the  enraptured 
Teresa,  blushing  in  the  sweetest  confusion,  "I  must  re- 
fer you  to  papa,  I  never  can,  without  his  consent, 
venture  to — " 

"  Surely  he  cannot  object — " 

"Oh,  yes.  Indeed,  indeed,  you  know  him  not  !"  in- 
terrupted Miss  Teresa,  well  knowing  there  was  nothing 
to  fear,  but  wishing  to  make  the  interview  resemble  a 
scene  in  some  romantic  novel, 

"  He  cannot  object  to  my  offering  you  a  glass  of  negus," 
returned  the  adorable  Sparkins,  with  some  surprise. 

"Is  that  all?"  thought  the  disappointed  Teresa. 
"  What  a  fuss  about  nothing  !  " 

"It  will  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure,  sir,  to  see  you 
to  dinner  at  Oak  Lodge,  Camber  well,  on  Sunday  next  at 
five  o'clock,  if  you  have  no  better  engagement,"  said 
Mr.  Malderton,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  evening,  as  he 
and  his  sons  were  standing  in  conversation  with  Mr. 
Horatio  Sparkins, 

Horatio  bowed  his  acknowledgments,  and  accepted  the 
flattering  invitation. 

"  I  must  confess,"  continued  the  father,  offering  his 
snuff-box  to  his  new  acquaintance,  "  that  I  don't  enjoy 
these  assemblies  half  so  much  as  the  comfort — I  had  al- 
mast  said  the  luxury — of  Oak  Lodge.  They  have  no 
great  charms  for  an  elderly 

"  And,  after  all,  sir,  what  is  man  ?  "  said  the  metaphy- 
sical Sparkins,     "  I  say,  what  is  man  ?" 

"  Ah  !  very  true,"  said  Mr,  Malderton  ;  "  very  true." 

"  We  know  that  we  live  and  breathe,"  continued  Hor- 
atio, "that  we  have  wants  and  wishes,  desires  and  ap- 
petites— " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Frederick  Malderton,  looking 
profound. 

"  I  say,  we  know  that  we  exist,"  repeated  Horatio, 
raising  his  voice,  "but  there,  we  stop  ;  there  is  an  end 
to  our  knowledge  ;  there  is  the  summit  of  our  attain- 
ments ;  there  is  the  termination  of  our  ends.  What 
more  do  we  know  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Frederick — than  whom  no  one 
was  more  capable  of  answering  for  himself  in  that  par- 
ticular. Tom  was  about  to  hazard  something,  but,  for- 
tunately for  his  reputation,  he  caught  his  father's  angry 
eye.and  slunk  off  like  a  puppy  convicted  of  petty  larceny, 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Mr.  Malderton  the  elder,  as  i 


they  v/ere  returning  home  in  the  fly,  "  that  Mr.  Sparkins 
is  a  wonderful  young  man.  Such  surprising  knowledge! 
such  extraordinary  information  1  and  such  a  splendid 
mode  of  expressing  himself  !  " 

"  I  think  he  must  be  somebody  in  disguise,"  said  Miss 
Marianne.    "  How  charmingly  romantic  !  " 

"  He  talks  very  loud  and  nicely,"  timidly  observed 
Tom,  "  but  I  don't  exactly  understand  what  he  means." 

"  I  am  almost  begin  to  despair  of  your  understanding 
anything,  Tom,"  said  his  father,  who,  of  course,  had  been 
much  enlightened  by  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins'  conversation. 

"  It  strikes  me,  Tom,"  said  Miss  Teresa,  "that  you 
have  made  yourself  very  ridiculous  this  evening." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  cried  everybody — and  the  unfortu- 
nate Tom  reduced  himself  into  the  least  possible  space. 
That  night,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Malderton  had  a  long  conver- 
sation respecting  their  daughter's  prospects  and  future 
arrangements.  Miss  Teresa  went  to  bed,  considering 
whether,  in  the  event  of  her  marrying  a  title  she  could 
conscientiously  encourage  the  visits  of  her  present  asso- 
ciates ;  and  dreamed,  all  night,  of  disguised  noblemen, 
large  routs,  ostrich  plumes,  bridal  favours,  and  Horatio 
Sparkins. 

Various  surmises  were  hazarded  on  the  Sunday  morn- 
ing, as  to  the  mode  of  conveyance  which  the  anxiously 
expected  Horatio  would  adopt.  Did  he  keep  a  gig? — 
was  it  possible  he  could  come  on  horseback? — or  would 
he  patronize  the  stage  ?  These,  and  various  other  con- 
jectures of  equal  importance,  engrossed  the  attention  of 
Mrs,  Malderton  and  her  daughters  during  the  whole 
morning  after  church, 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,  it's  a  most  annoying  thing 
that  that  vulgar  brother  of  yours  should  have  invited 
himself  to  dine  here  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Malderton  to  his 
wife.  "  On  account  of  Mr,  Sparkin's  coming  down,  I 
purposely  abstained  from  asking  anyone  but  Flamwell. 
And  then  to  think  of  your  brother — a  tradesman— it's 
insufferable  !  I  declare  I  wouldn't  have  him  mention 
his  shop,  before  our  new  guest — no,  not  for  a  thousand 
pounds  !  I  wouldn't  care  if  he  had  the  good  sense  to 
conceal  the  disgrace  he  is  to  his  family  ;  but  he's  so  fond 
of  his  horrible  business,  that  he  tcill  let  people  know 
what  he  is,"  ^ 

Mr.  Jacob  Barton,  the  individual  allilled  to,  was  a 
large  grocer  ;  so  vulgar,  and  so  lost  to  alP  sense  of  feel- 
ing, that  he  actually  never  scrupled  to  avow  that  he 
wasn't  above  his  business  :  "  he'd  made  his  money  by  it, 
and  he  didn't  care  who  know'd  it," 

"Ah!    Flamwell,  my  dear  fellow,  how  d'ye  do?" 
said  Mr.  Malderton,  as  a  little  spoffish  man,  with  green 
spectacles,  entered  the  room.    "  You  got  my  note  ?  " 
"  Yes,  I  did  ,  and  here  I  am  in  consequence." 
"You  don't  happen  to  know  this  Mr.  Sparkins  by 
name  ?    You  know  everybody  ?  " 

Mr.  Flamwell  was  one  of  those  gentlemen  of  remark- 
ably extensive  information  whom  one  occasionally  meets 
in  society,  who  pretend  to  know  everybody,  but  in  reali- 
ty know  nobody.  At  Malderton's,  where  any  stories 
about  great  people  were  received  with  a  greedy  ear,  he 
was  an  especial  favourite  ;  and,  knowing  the  kind  of 
people  he  had  to  deal  with,  he  carried  his  passion  of  claim- 
ing acquaintance  with  everybody,  to  the  most  immode- 
rate length.  He  had  rather  a  singular  way  of  telling  his 
greatest  lies  in  a  parenthesis,  and  with  an  air  of  self- 
denial,  as  if  he  feared  being  thought  egotiscal. 

"  Why,  no,  I  don't  know' him  by  that  name,"  returned 
Flamwell,  in  a  low  tone,  and  with  an  air  of  immense 
importance.  "I  have  no  doubt  I  know  him,  though. 
Is  he  tall  ?  " 

"  Middle  sized,"  said  Miss  Teresa. 
"With  black  hair?"  inquired  Flamwell,  hazarding  a 
bold  guess. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Miss  Teresa,  eagerly. 
"  Rather  a  snub  nose  ?  " 

"  No,  said  the  disappointed  Teresa,  "  he  has  a  Roman 
nose." 

"  I  said  a  Roman  nose,  didn't  I  ?  "  inquired  Flamwell. 
"  He's  an  elegant  young  man  ?  " 
"  Oh,  certainly." 

"  With  remarkably  prepossessing  manners  ?" 
"  Oh,  yes  ! "  said  all  the  family  together.    "  You  must 
!  know  him." 


932 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Yes,  I  thought  you  knew  him,  if  he  was  an.ybody," 
triumphantly  excla'imed  Mr.  Malderton.  "  Who  d'ye 
think  he  is  ?  " 

"Why,  from  your  description,"  said  Flamwell,  rumi- 
nating, and  sinking  his  voice,  almost  to  a  whisper,  "he 
bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  Honourable  Augustus 
Fitz-Edward  Fitz-John  Fitz-Osborue.  He's  a  very  tal- 
ented young  man,  and  rather  eccentric.  It's  extremely 
probable  he  may  have  changed  his  name  for  some  tem- 
porary purpose." 

Teresa's  heart  beat  high.  Could  he  be  the  Honour- 
able Augustus  Fitz-Edward  Fitz-John  Fitz-Osborne  ! 
What  a  name  to  be  elegantly  engraved  upon  two  glazed 
cards,  tied  together  with  a  piece  of  white  satin  ribbon  ! 
"  The  Honourable  Mrs.  Augustus  Fitz-Edward  Fitz-John 
Fitz-Osborne  !  "    The  thought  was  transport. 

"It's  five  minutes  to  five,"  said  Mr.  Malderton,  look- 
ing at  his  watch  :  "I  hope  he's  not  going  to  disappoint 
us." 

"  There  he  is  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Teresa,  as  a  loud 
double  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  Everybody  en- 
deavoured to  look — as  people  when  they  particularly  ex- 
pect a  visitor  always  do — as  if  they  were  perfectly  un- 
suspicious of  the  approach  of  anybody. 

The  room-door  opened — "  Mr.  Barton  !  "  said  the  ser- 
vant. 

"  Confound  the  man  !  "  murmured  Malderton.  "Ah  ! 
my  dear  sir,  how  d'ye  do  !    Any  news  ?  " 

"  Why  no,"  returned  the  grocer,  in  his  usual  bluff 
manner.  "  No,  none  partickler.  None  that  I  am  much 
aware  of.  How  d'ye  do,  gals  and  boys  ?  Mr.  Flamwell, 
sir — glad  to  see  you." 

"  Here's  Mr.  Sparkins  ! "  said  Tom,  who  had  been 
looking  out  at  the  window,  "on  such  a  black  horse  1" 
There  was  Horatio,  sure  enough,  on  a  large  black  horse, 
curvetting  and  prancing  along,  like  an  Astley's  super- 
numerary. After  a  great  deal  of  reining  in,  and  pulling 
up,  with  the  accompaniments  of  snorting,  rearing,  and 
kicking,  the  animal  consented  to  stop  at  about  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  gate,  where  Mr.  Sparkins  dis- 
mounted, and  confided  him  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Malder- 
ton's  groom.  The  ceremony  of  introduction  was  gone 
through,  in  all  due  form.  Mr.  Flamwell  looked  from 
behind  his  green  spectacles  at  Horatio  with  an  air  of 
mysterious  importance  ;  and  the  gallant  Horatio  looked 
unutterable  things  at  Teresa. 

"  Is  he  the  Honourable  Mr.  Augustus  what's  his 
name?"  whispered  Mrs.  Malderton  to  Flamwell,  as  he 
was  escorting  her  to  the  dining-room. 

"Why,  no — at  least  not  exactly,"  returned  that  great 
authority — "not  exactly." 

"  Who  is  he  then  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Flamwell,  nodding  his  head  with  a 
grave  air,  importing  that  he  knew  very  well  ;  but^was 
prevented,  by  some  grave  reasons  of  state,  from  disclos- 
ing the  important  secret.  It  might  be  one  of  the  minis- 
ters making  himself  acquainted  with  the  views  of  the 
people. 

"Mr.  Sparkins,"  said  the  delighted  Mrs.  Malderton, 
"  pray  divide  the  ladies.  John,  put  a  chair  for  the  gen- 
tleman between  Miss  Teresa  and  Miss  Marianne."  This 
was  addressed  to  a  man  who,  on  ordinary  occasions, 
acted  as  half-groom,  half  gardener ;  but  who,  as  it  was 
important  to  make  an  impression  on  Mr,  Sparkins,  had 
been  forced  into  a  white  neckerchief  and  shoes,  and 
touched  up,  and  brushed,  to  look  like  a  second  foot- 
man. 

The  dinner  was  excellent  ;  Horatio  was  most  attentive 
to  Miss  Teresa,  and  everyone  felt  in  high  spirits,  except 
Mr,  Malderton,  who,  knowing  the  propensity  of  his 
brother-in-law,  Mr.  Barton,  endured  that  sort  of  agony 
which  the  newspapers  inform  us  is  experienced  by  the 
surrounding  neighbourhood  when  a  pot-boy  hangs  him- 
self in  a  hay-loft,  and  which  is  "much  easier  to  be  im- 
agined than  described." 

"  Have  you  seen  your  friend.  Sir  Thomas  Noland, 
lately,  Flamwell  V  "  inquired  Mr.  Malderton,  casting  a 
sidelong  look  at  Horatio,  to  see  what  effect  the  mention 
of  so  great  a  man  had  upon  him. 

"  Wiiy,  no — not  very  lately.  I  saw  Lord  Gubbleton, 
the  day  before  yesterday. 

"  Ah  1  I  hope  his  lordship  is  very  well?"  said  Mal- 


derton, in  a  tone  of  the  greatest  interest.  It  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  say  that,  until  that  moment,  he  had  been 
quite  innocent  of  the  existence  of  such  a  person. 

"  Why,  yes  ;  he  vv^as  very  well — very  well  indeed. 
He's  a  devilish  good  fellow.  I  met  him  in  the  City,  and 
had  a  long  chat  with  him.  Indeed,  I'm  rather  intimate 
with  him.  I  couldn't  stop  to  talk  to  him  as  long  as  I 
could  wish,  though,  because  I  was  on  my  way  to  a 
banker's,  a  very  rich  man,  and  a  member  of  Parliament, 
with  whom  I  am  also  rather,  indeed  I  may  say  very,  in- 
timate." 

"  I  know  whom  you  mean,"  returned  the  host,  conse- 
quentially— in  reality  knowing  as  much  about  the  mat- 
ter as  Flamwell  himself.    "  He  has  a  capital  business." 

This  was  touching  on  a  dangerous  topic. 

"Talking  of  business,"  interposed  Mr.  Barton,  from 
the  centre  of  the  table.  "  A  gentleman  whom  you  knew 
very  well,  Malderton,  before  you  made  that  first  lucky 
spec  of  yours,  called  at  our  shop  the  other  day,  and — " 

"Barton,  may  I  trouble  you  for  a  potato,"  interrupted 
the  wretched  master  of  the  house,  hoping  to  nip  the 
story  in  the  bud. 

"  Certainly,"  returned  the  grocer,  quite  insensible  of 
his  brother-in-law's  object — "  and  he  said  in  a  very  plain 
manner — " 

"  Floury,  if  you  please,"  interrupted  Malderton  again  ; 
dreading  the  termination  of  the  anecdote,  and  fearing  a 
repetition  of  the  word  "  shop." 

"  He  said,  says  he,"  continued  the  culprit,  after  dis- 
patching the  potato  ;  ' '  says  he,  how  goes  on  your  busi- 
ness? So  I  said,  jokingly — you  know  my  way — says  I, 
I'm  never  above  my  business,  and  I  hope  my  business 
will  never  be  above  me.    Ha,  ha  !" 

"Mr.  Sparkins,"  said  the  host,  vainly  endeavouring 
to  conceal  his  dismay,  "a  glass  of  wine  ?  " 

"  With  the  utmost  pleasure,  sir." 

" Happy  to  see  you." 

"Thank  you." 

"We  were  talking  the  other  evening,"  resumed  the 
host,  addressing  Horatio,  partly  with  the  view  of  dis- 
playing the  conversational  powers  of  his  new  acquaint- 
ance, and  partly  in  the  hope  of  drowning  the  grocer's 
stories — "we  were  talking  the  other  night  about  the 
nature  of  man.  Your  argument  struck  me  very  forci- 
bly." 

"  And  me,"  said  Mr.  Frederick.  Horatio  made  a 
graceful  inclination  of  the  head. 

"Pray  what  is  your  opinion  of  woman,  Mr.  Spar- 
kins ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Malderton.  The  young  ladies 
simpered. 

"Man,"  replied  Horatio,  "man,  whether  he  ranged 
the  bright,  gay,  flowery  plains  of  a  second  Eden,  or  the 
more  sterile,  barren,  and  I  may  say,  common-place  re- 
gions, to  which  we  are  compelled  to  accustom  ourselves, 
in  times  such  as  these  ;  man,  under  any  circumstances, 
or  in  any  place — whether  he  were  bending  beneath  the 
withering  blasts  of  the  frigid  zone,  or  scorching  under 
the  rays  of  a  vertical  sun — man,  without  woman,  would 
be — alone." 

"I  am  very  happy  to  find  you  entertain  such  honour- 
able opinions,  Mr.  Sparkins,"  said  Mrs.  Malderton. 

"  And  I,"  added  Miss  Teresa.  Horatio  looked  his  de- 
light, and  the  young  lady  blushed. 

"  Now  it's  my  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Barton — 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  interposed  Malder- 
ton, determined  not  to  give  his  relation  another  oppor- 
tunity, "  and  I  don't  agree  with  you."   '  i 

"  What  ?  "  inquired  the  astonished  grocer.  * 

"I  am  sorry  to  differ  from  you.  Barton,"  said  the 
host,  in  as  positive  a  manner  as  if  he  really  were  con- 
tradicting a  position  which  the  other  had  laid  down, 
"  but  I  cannot  give  my  assent  to  what  I  consider  a  very 
monstrous  proposition." 

"But  I  meant  to  say — " 

"  You  can  never  convince  me,"  said  Malderton,  w' 
an  air  of  obstinate  determination,    "  Never." 

"  And  I,"  said  Mr.  Frederick,  following  uphisfathe 
attack,  "  cannot  entirely  agree  in  Mr,  Sparkins's  ar" 
mont." 

"What!"  said  Horatio,  who  became  more  metaphy- 
sical, and  more  argumentative,  as  he  saw  the  female  paxt 
of  the  family  listening  in  wondering  delight — "What! 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


933 


Is  effect  tlie  consequence  of  cause  ?  Is  cause  tlie  pre- 
cursor of  effect  ?  " 

"That's  the  point,"  said  Flamwell. 

*'  To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Malderton. 

**  Because,  if  effect  is  the  consequence  of  cause,  and 
if  cause  does  precede  effect,  I  apprehend  you  are  wrong, " 
added  Horatio. 

"Decidedly,"  said  the  toad-eating  Flamwell. 

"  At  least,  I  apprehend  that  to  be  the  just  and  logical 
deduction  ?  "  said  Sparkins,  in  a  tone  of  interrogation. 

"No  doubt  of  it,"  chimed  in  Flamwell  again.  "It 
settles  the  point." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  does,"  said  Mr.  Frederick;  "I 
didn't  see  it  before." 

"  I  don't  exactly  see  it  now,"  thought  the  grocer  ; 
"  but  I  suppose  it's  all  right." 

"How  wonderfully  clever  he  is!"  whispered  Mrs. 
Malderton  to  her  daughters,  as  they  retired  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"Oh,  he's  quite  a  love ? "  said  both  the  young  ladies 
together  ;  "  he  talks  like  an  oracle.  He  must  have  seen 
a  great  deal  of  life  !  " 

The  gentlemen  being  left  to  themselves,  a  pause  en- 
sued, during  which  everybody  looked  very  grave,  as  if 
they  were  quite  overcome  by  the  profound  nature  of  the 
previous  discussion.  Flamwell,  who  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  find  out  who  and  what  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins 
really  was.  first  broke  silence, 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  that  distinguished  personage, 
"  I  presume  you  have  studied  for  the  bar?  I  thought 
of  entering  once,  myself — indeed,  I'm  rather  intimate 
with  some  of  the  highest  ornaments  of  that  distinguished 
profession." 

"  N — no  !  "  said  Horatio,  with  a  little  hesitation  ;  "  not 
exactly." 

"But  you  have  been  much  among  the  silk  gowns,  or  I 
mistake?"  inquired  Flamwell,  deferentially. 

"Nearly  all  my  life,"  returned  Sparkins. 

The  question  was  thus  pretty  well  settled  in  the  mind 
of  Mr.  Flamwell.  He  was  a  young  gentleman  "about 
to  be  called." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  a  barrister,"  said  Tom,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time,  and  looking  round  the  table  to  find 
somebody  who  would  notice  the  remark. 

No  one  made  any  reply. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  wear  a  wig,"  said  Tom,  hazarding 
another  observation. 

"  Tom,  I  beg  you  will  not  make  yourself  ridiculous," 
said  his  father,  "Pray  listen,  and  improve  yourself  by 
the  conversation  you  hear,  and  don't  be  constantly  mak- 
ing these  absurd  remarks." 

"  Very  well,  father,"  replied  the  unfortunate  Tom, 
who  had  not  spoken  a  word  since  he  had  asked  for  an- 
other slice  of  beef  at  a  quarter-past  five  o'clock  p.m., 
and  it  was  then  eight. 

"  Well,  Tom,"  observed  his  good-natured  uncle, 
"nevermind  !  /  think  with  you.  I  shouldn't  like  to 
wear  a  wig.    I'd  rather  wear  an  apron." 

"Mr.  Malderton  coughed  violently.  Mr,  Barton  re- 
sumed— "  For  if  a  man's  above  his  business — " 

The  cough  returned  with  ten-fold  violence,  and  did 
not  cease  until  the  unfortunate  cause  of  it,  in  his  alarm, 
had  quite  forgotten  what  he  intended  to  say. 

"Mr.  Sparkins,"  said  Flamwell,  returning  to  the 
charge,  "do  you  happen  to  know  Mr.  Delafontaine,  of 
Bedford-square  ?  " 

"  I  have  exchanged  cards  with  him  ;  since  which,  in- 
deed, I  have  had  an  opportunity  of  serving  him  consid- 
erably," replied  Horatio,  slightly  colouring  ;  no  doubt, 
at  having  been  betrayed  into  making  the  acknowledge- 
ment. 

"  You  are  very  lucky,  if  you  have  had  an  opportunity 
of  obliging  that  great  man,"  observed  Flamwell,  with  an 
air  of  profound  respect. 

"  I  don't  know  who  he  is,"  he  whispered  to  Mr.  Mal- 
derton, confidentially,  as  they  followed  Horatio  up  to 
the  drawing-room.  "It's  quite  clear,  however,  that  he 
belongs  to  the  law,  and  that  he  is  somebody  of  great  im- 
portance, and  very  highly  connected." 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  returned  his  companion. 

The  remainder  of  the  evening  passed  away  most  de- 
lightfully.   Mr.  Malderton,  relieved  from  his*  apprehen- 


sions by  the  circumstance  of  Mr.  Barton's  falling  into  a 
profound  sleep,  was  as  affable  and  gracious  as  i)ossible. 
Miss  Teresa  played  the  "  Fail  of  Paris,"  as  Mr.  Sparkins 
declared,  in  a  most  masterly  manner,  and  both  of  them, 
assisted  by  Mr.  Frederick,  tried  over  glees  and  trios 
without  number  ;  they  having  made  the  pleasing  dis- 
covery that  their  voices  harmonized  beautifully.  To  be 
sure,  they  all  sang  the  first  part ;  and  Horatio,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  slight  drawback  of  having  no  ear,  was  per- 
fectly innocent  of  knowing  a  note  of  music  ;  still,  they 
passed  the  time  very  agreeably,  and  it  was  past  twelve 
o'clock  before  Mr.  Sparkins  ordered  the  mourning-coacli- 
looking  steed  to  be  brought  out — an  order  which  was 
only  complied  with,  on  the  distinct  understanding  that 
he  was  to  repeat  his  visit  on  the  following  Sunday. 

"But,  perhaps,  Mr,  Sparkins  will  form  one  of  our 
party  to-morrow  evening?"  suggested  Mrs.  M,  "Mr, 
Malderton  intends  taking  the  girls  to  see  the  pantomime." 
Mr.  Sparkins  bowed,  and  promised  to  join  the  party  in 
box  48,  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

"We  will  not  tax  you  for  the  morning,"  said  Miss 
Teresa,  bewitchingly  ;  "  for  ma  is  going  to  take  us  to 
all  sorts  of  places,  shopping.  I  know  that  gentlemen 
have  a  great  horror  of  that  employment."  Mr.  Sparkins 
bowed  again,  and  declared  that  he  should  be  delighted, 
but  business  of  importance  occupied  him  in  the  morning. 
Flamwell  looked  at  Malderton  significantly — "  It's  term 
time  !  "  he  whispered. 

At  twelve  o'clock  on  the  following  morning,  the  "fly" 
was  at  the  door  of  Oak  Lodge,  to  convey  Mrs.  Malderton 
and  her  daughters  on  their  expedition  for  the  day.  They 
were  to  dine  and  dress  for  the  play  at  a  friend's  house. 
First,  driving  thither  with  their  band-boxes,  they  depart- 
ed on  their  first  errand  to  make  some  purchases  at 
Messrs.  Jones,  Spruggins,  and  Smith's,  of  Tottenham- 
court-road  ;  after  which,  they  were  to  go  to  Redmayne's 
in  Bond-street  ;  thence  to  innumerable  places  that  no  one 
ever  heard  of.  The  young  ladies  beguiled  the  tedious- 
ness  of  the  ride  by  eulogising  Mr.  Horatio  Sparkins, 
scolding  their  mamma  for  taking  them  so  far  to  save  a 
shilling,  and  wondering  whether  they  should  ever  reach 
their  destination.  At  length,  the  vehicle  stopped  before 
a  dirty-looking  ticketed  linen  draper's  shop,  with  goods 
of  all  kinds,  and  labels  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  in  the  vdn- 
dow.  There  were  dropsical  figures  of  seven  with  a  little 
three  farthings  in  the  corner;  "perfectly  invisible  to 
the  naked  eye  ; "  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  ladies' 
boas,  from  one  shilling  and  a  penny  halfpenny  ;  real 
French  kid  shoes,  at  two  and  nine  pence  per  pair  ;  green 
parasols,  at  an  equally  cheap  rate;  and  "every  des- 
cription of  goods,"  as  the  proprietors  said — and  they 
must  know  best — "  fifty  per  cent,  under  cost-price." 

"  Lor  !  ma,  what  a  place  you  have  brought  us  to  ! " 
said  Miss  Teresa  ;  ' '  what  would  Mr.  Sparkins  say  if  he 
could  see  us  ! " 

"Ah  !  what,  indeed  !"  said  Miss  Marianne,  horrified 
at  the  idea. 

"  Pray  be  seated,  ladies.  What  is  the  first  article?  " 
inquired  the  obsequious  master  of  the  ceremonies  of  the 
establishment,  who,  in  his  large  white  neckcloth  and 
formal  tie,  looked  like  a  bad  "portrait  of  a  gentleman" 
in  the  Somerset- house  exhibition. 

"  I  want  to  see  some  silks,"  answered  Mrs.  Malderton. 

"Directly,  ma'am. — Mr.  Smith!  Where  is  Mr. 
Smith?" 

"  Here,  sir,"  cried  a  voice  at  the  back  of  the  shop. 

"  Pray  make  haste,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  the  M.  C.  "  You 
never  are  to  be  found  when  you're  wanted,  sir." 

Mr.  Smith,  thus  enjoined  to  use  all  possible  despatch, 
leaped  over  the  counter  with  great  agility,  and  placed 
himself  before  the  newly  arrived  customers.  Mrs.  Mal- 
derton uttered  a  faint  scream  ;  Miss  Teresa,  who  had 
been  stooping  down  to  talk  to  her  sister,  raised  her  head, 
and  beheld  Horatio  Sparkins  ! 

We  will  draw  a  veil,  as  novel  writers  say,  over  the 
scene  that  ensued.  The  mysterious,  philosophical,  ro- 
mantic, metaphysical  Sparkins — he  who  to  the  interesting 
Teresa,  seemed  like  the  embodied  idea  of  the  young 
dukes  and  poetical  exquisites  in  blue  silk  dressing- 
gowns,  and  ditto  ditto  slippers,  of  whom  she  had  read 
and  dreamed,  but  had  never  expected  to  behold,  was 
suddenly  converted  into  Mr,  Samuel  Smith,  the  assistant 


934 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


at  a  "  cheap  sTiop  tlie  junior  partner  in  a  slippery  firm 
of  some  tbree  weeks'  existence.  The  dignified  evanish- 
ment  of  the  hero  of  Oalc  Lodge,  on  this  unexpected  re- 
cognition, could  only  be  equalled  by  that  of  a  furtive  dog 
with  a  considerable  kettle  at  his  tail.  All  the  hopes  of 
the  Maldertons  were  destined  at  once  to  melt  away,  like 
the  lemon  ices  at  a  Company's  dinner  ;  Almack's  was 
still  to  them  as  distant  as  the  North  Pole;  and  Miss 
Teresa  had  as  much  chance  of  a  husband  as  Captain  Koss 
had  of  the  north-west  passage. 

Years  have  elapsed  since  the  occurrence  of  this  dread- 
ful morning.  The  daisies  have  thrice  bloomed  on  Cam- 
berwell-green  ;  the  sparrows  have  thrice  repeated  their 
vernal  chirps  in  Camberwell-grove  ;  but  the  Miss  Mal- 
dertons are  still  unmated.  Miss  Teresa's  case  is  more 
desperate  than  ever  ;  but  Flam  well  is  yet  in  the  zenith  of 
his  reputation  ;  and  the  family  have  the  same  predilec- 
tion for  aristocratic  personages,  with  an  increased  aver- 
sion to  anything  low. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Black  Veil. 

One  winter's  evening  towards  the  close  of  the  year 
1800,  or  within  a  year  or  two  of  that  time,  a  young  med- 
ical practitioner,  recently  established  in  business,  was 
seated  by  a  cheerful  fire,  in  his  little  parlour,  listening 
to  the  wind  which  was  beating  the  rain  in  pattering 
drops  against  the  window,  and  rumbling  dismally  in  the 
chimney.  The  night  was  wet  and  cold  ;  he  had  been 
walking  through  mud  and  water  the  whole  day,  and  was 
now  comfortably  reposing  in  his  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  more  than  half  asleep  and  less  than  half  awake, 
revolving  a  thousand  matters  in  his  wandering  imagina- 
tion. First,  he  thought  how  hard  the  wind  was  blow- 
ing, and  how  the  cold,  sharp  rain  would  be  at  that  mo- 
ment beating  in  his  face,  if  he  were  not  comfortably 
housed  at  home.  Then,  his  mind  reverted  to  his  annual 
Christmas  visit  to  his  native  place  and  dearest  friends  ; 
he  thought  how  glad  they  would  all  be  to  see  him,  and 
how  happy  it  would  make  Rose  if  he  could  only  tell  her 
that  he  had  found  a  patient  at  last,  and  hoped  to  have 
more,  and  to  come  down  again,  in  a  few  months'  time, 
and  marry  her,  and  take  her  home  to  gladden  his  lonely 
fire-side,  and  stimulate  him  to  fresh  exertions.  Then,  he 
began  to  wonder  when  his  first  patient  would  appear,  or 
whether  he  was  destined  by  a  special  dispensation  of 
Providence,  never  to  have  any  patients  at  all ;  and  then, 
he  thought  about  Rose  again,  and  dropped  to  sleep  and 
dreamed  about  her,  till  the  tones  of  her  sweet  merry 
voice  sounded  in  his  ear,  and  her  soft  tiny  hand  rested 
on  his  shoulder. 

There  was  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  but  it  was 
neither  soft  nor  tiny  ;  its  owner  being  a  corpulent 
round-headed  boy,  who,  in  consideration  of  the  sum  of 
one  shilling  per  week  and  his  food,  was  let  out  by  the 
parish  to  carry  medicine  and  messages.  As  there  was 
no  demand  for  the  medicine,  however,  and  no  necessity 
for  the  messages,  he  usually  occupied  his  unemployed 
hours— averaging  fourteen  a  day— in  abstracting  pepper- 
mint drops,  taking  animal  nourishment,  and  going  to 
sleep. 

"A  lady,  sir — a  lady  !"  whispered  the  boy,  rousing 
his  master  with  a  shake, 

"  What  lady?"  cried  our  friend,  starting  up,  not  quite 
certain  that  his  dream  was  an  illusion,  and  half  expect- 
ing that  it  might  be  Rose  herself, —  "What  lady? 
Where  ?  " 

"  There,  sir  ! "  replied  the  boy,  pointing  to  the  glass 
door  leading  into  the  surgery,  with  an  expression  of 
alarm  which  the  very  unusual  apparition  of  a  customer 
might  have  tended  to  excite. 

The  surgeon  looked  towards  the  door,  and  started  him- 
self for  an  instant,  on  beholding  the  appearance  of  his 
unlooked-for  visitor. 

It  was  a  singularly  tall  woman,  dressed  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, and  standing  so  close  to  the  door  that  her  face 
almost  touched  tlie  glass.  The  upper  part  of  her  figure 
was  carefully  mufilcd  in  a  black  shawl,  as  if  for  the 
I^urpose  of  concealment ;  and  her  face  was  bhrouded  by 


a  thick  black  veil.  She  stood  perfectly  erect  ;  her  figure 
was  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  and  though  the  surgeon 
felt  that  the  eyes  beneath  the  veil  were  fixed  on  him, 
she  stood  perfectly  motionless,  and  evinced,  by  no 
gesture  whatever,  the  slightest  consciousness  of  his  hav- 
ing turned  towards  her. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  consult  me  ?  "  he  inquired,  with  some 
hesitation,  holding  open  the  door.  It  opened  inwards 
and  therefore  the  action  did  not  alter  the  position  of  the 
figure,  which  still  remained  motionless  on  the  same 
spot. 

She  slightly  inclined  her  head  in  token  of  acqui- 
escence. 

"  Pray  walk  in,"  said  the  surgeon. 

The  figure  moved  a  step  forward  ;  and  then,  turning 
its  head  in  the  direction  of  the  boy — to  his  infinite  hor- 
ror— appeared  to  hesitate. 

"Leave  the  room,  Tom,"  said  the  young  man,  address- 
ing the  boy,  whose  large  round  eyes  had  been  extended  to 
their  utmost  width  during  this  brief  interview.  "  Draw 
the  curtain,  and  shut  the  door." 

The  boy  ^rew  a  green  curtain  across  the  glass  part  of 
the  door,  retired  into  the  surgery,  closed  the  door  after 
him,  and  immediately  applied  one  of  his  large  eyes  to 
the  keyhole  on  the  other  side. 

The  surgeon  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire,  and  motioned  the 
visitor  to  a  seat.  The  mysterious  figure  slowly  moved 
towards  it.  As  the  blaze  shone  upon  the  black  dress,  the 
surgeon  observed  that  the  bottom  of  it  was  saturated 
with  mud  and  rain. 

"  You  are  very  wet,"  he  said. 

"I  am,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  low  deep  voice. 

*'  And  are  you  ill?"  added  the  surgeon,  compassion- 
ately, for  the  tone  was  that  of  a  person  in  pain. 

"I  am,"  was  the  reply — "very  ill:  not  bodily,  but 
mentally.  It  is  not  for  myself,  or  on  my  own  behalf," 
continued  the  stranger,  "that  I  come  to  you.  If  I 
laboured  under  bodily  disease,  I  should  not  be  out,  alone, 
at  such  an  hour,  or  on  such  a  night  as  this  :  and  if  I 
were  afflicted  with  it,  twenty-four  hours  hence,  God 
knows  how  gladly  I  would  lie  down  and  pray  to  die. 
It  is  for  another  that  I  beseech  your  aid,  sir.  I  may  be 
mad  to  ask  it  for  him — I  think  I  am  ;  but,  night  after 
night  through  the  long  dreary  hours  of  watching  and 
weeping,  the  thought  lias  been  ever  present  to  my  mind  ; 
and  though  even  /see  the  hopelessness  of  human  assist- 
ance availing  him,  the  bare  thought  of  laying  him  in 
his  grave  without  it,  makes  my  blood  run  cold  !  "  And 
a  shudder,  such  as  the  surgeon  well  knew  art  could  not 
produce,  trembled  through  the  speaker's  frame. 

There  was  a  desperate  earnestness  in  this  woman's 
manner,  that  went  to  the  young  man's  heart.  He  was 
young  in  his  profession, and  had  not  yet  witnessed  enough 
of  the  miseries  which  are  daily  presented  before  the 
eyes  of  its  members,  to  have  grown  comparatively  callous 
to  human  suffering. 

"If,"  he  said,  rising  hastily,  "the  person  of  whom 
you  speak,  be  in  so  hopeless  a  condition  as  you  describe, 
not  a  moment  is'to  be  lost.  I  will  go  with  you  instantly. 
Why  did  you  not  obtain  medical  advice  before?  " 

"  Because  it  would  have  been  useless  before — because 
it  is  useless  even  now,"  replied  the  woman,  clasping  her 
hands  passionately. 

The  surgeon  gazed,  for  a  moment,  on  the  black  veil, 
as  if  to  ascertain  the  expression  of  the  features  beneath 
it  ;  its  thickness,  however,  rendered  such  a  result  impos- 
sible. 

"  You  are  ill,"  he  said,  gently,  "  although  you  do  not 
know  it.  The  fever  which  has  enabled  you  to  bear, 
without  feeling  it,  the  fatigue  you  have  evidently  under- 
gone, is  burning  within  you  now.  Put  that  to  your 
lips,"  he  continued,  pouring  out  a  glass  of  water — "com- 
pose yourself  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  tell  me,  as 
calmly  as  you  can,  what  the  disease  of  the  patient  is,  and 
how  long  he  has  been  ill.  When  I  know  what  it  is 
necessary  I  should  know,  to  render  my  visit  serviceable 
to  him,  i  am  ready  to  accompany  you." 

The  stranger  lifted  the  glass  of  water  to  her  mouth, 
without  raising  the  veil :  put  it  down  again,  untasted  ; 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  sobbing  aloud,  "that  what  I  say- 
to  you  nowj  seems  like  the  ravings  of  fever.    I  have 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


935 


been  told  so  before,  less  kindly  than  by  you.  I  am  not 
a  young  woman  ;  and  they  do  say  that  as  life  steals  on  to- 
wards its  final  close,  the  last  short  remnant,  worthless  as 
it  may  seem  to  all  beside,  is  dearer  to  its  possessor  than 
all  the  years  that  have  g-one  before,  connected  though 
they  be  with  the  recollection  of  old  friends  long  since 
dead,  and  young  ones — children  perhaps — who  have 
fallen  off  from,  and  forgotten  one  as  completely  as  if 
they  had  died  too.  My  natural  term  of  life  cannot  be 
many  years  longer,  and  should  be  dear  on  that  account ; 
but  I  would  lay  it  down  without  a  sigh — with  cheerful- 
ness— with  joy — if  what  I  tell  you  now,  were  only  false, 
or  imaginary.  To-morrow  morning,  he  of  whom  I  speak 
will  be  I  know,  though  I  would  fain  think  otherwise, 
beyond  the  reach  of  human  aid  ;  and  yet,  to-night, 
though  he  is  in  deadly  peril,  you  must  not  see,  and  could 
not  serve,  him." 

*'  I  am  unwilling  to  increase  your  distress,"  said  the 
surgeon,  after  a  short  pause,  "  by  making  any  comment 
on  what  you  have  just  said,  or  appearing  desirous  to  in- 
vestigate a  subject  you  are  so  anxious  to  conceal ;  but 
there  is  an  inconsistency  in  your  statement  which  I  can- 
not reconcile  with  probability.  This  person  is  dying  to- 
night, and  I  cannot  see  him  when  my  assistance  might 
possibly  avail  :  you  apprehend  it  will  be  useless  to-mor- 
row, and  yet  you  would  have  me  see  him  then  !  If  he 
be,  indeed,  as  dear  to  you  as  your  words  and  manner 
would  imply,  why  not  try  to  save  his  life  before  delay 
and  the  progress  of  his  disease  render  it  impracticable  ?  " 

"God  help  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  woman,  weeping  bit- 
terly, "  how  can  I  hope  strangers  will  believe  what  ap- 
pears incredible,  even  to  myself?  You  will  not  see  him 
then,  sir?"  she  added,  rising  suddenly. 

"  I  did  not  say  that  I  declined  to  see  him,"  replied 
the  surgeon  ;  "  but  I  warn  you,  that  if  you  persist  in 
this  extraordinary  procrastination,  and  the  individual 
dies,  a  fearful  responsibility  rests  with  you." 

The  responsibility  will  rest  heavily  somewhere," 
replied  the  stranger  bitterly.  "  Whatever  respcnsibility 
rests  with  me,  I  am  content  to  bear,  and  ready  to  an- 
swer." 

"  As  I  incur  none,"  continued  the  surgeon,  "by  ac- 
ceding to  your  request,  I  will  see  him  in  the  morning, 
if  you  leave  me  the  address.    At  what  hour  can  he  be 

seen?" 

"Nine,"  replied  the  stranger. 

"  You  must  excuse  my  pressing  these  inquiries,"  said 
the  surgeon.    "  But  is  he  in  your  charge  now  !  " 
"  He  is  not,"  was  her  rejoinder. 

*'  Then,  if  I  gave  you  instructions  for  his  treatment 
through  the  night,  you  could  not  assist  him?" 

The  woman  wept  bitterly,  as  she  replied,  "  I  could 
not." 

Finding  that  there  was  little  prospect  of  obtaining 
more  information  by  prolonging  the  interview  ;  and 
anxious  to  spare  the  woman's  feelings,  which,  subdued 
at  first  by  a  violent  effort,  were  now  irrepressible  and 
most  painful  to  witness  ;  the  surgeon  repeated  his  pro- 
mise of  calling  in  the  morning  at  the  appointed  hour. 
His  visitor,  after  giving  him  a  direction  to  an  obscure 
part  of  Walworth,  left  the  house  in  the  same  mysterious 
manner  in  which  she  had  entered  it. 

It  will  be  readily  believed  thr.t  so  extraordinary  a 
visit  produced  a  considerable  impression  on  the  mind  of 
the  young  surgeon  :  and  that  he  speculated  a  great  deal 
and  to  very  little  purpose  on  the  possible  circumstances 
of  the  case.  In  common  with  the  generality  of  people, 
he  had  often  heard  and  read  of  singular  instances,  in 
which  a  presentiment  of  death,  at  a  particular  day,  or 
even  minute,  had  been  entertained  and  realised.  At 
one  moment  he  was  inclined  to  think  that  the  present 
might  be  such  a  case  ;  but,  then,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
all  the  anecdotes  of  the  kind  he  had  ever  heard,  were  of 
persons  who  had  been  troubled  with  a  foreboding  of 
their  own  death.  This  woman,  however,  spoke  of  an- 
other person — a  man  ;  and  it  was  impossible  to  suppose 
that  a  mere  dream  or  delusion  of  fancy  would  induce 
her  to  speak  of  his  approaching  dissolution  with  such 
terrible  certainty  as  she  had  spoken.  It  could  not  be  that 
the  man  was  to  be  murdered  in  the  morning,  and  that 
the  woman,  originally  a  consenting  party,  and  bound  to 
secrecy  by  an  oath,  had  relented,  and,  rhough  unable  to 


prevent  tlie  commission  of  some  outrage  on  the  victim, 
had  determined  to  prevent  his  death  if  possible,  by  the 
timely  interposition  of  medical  aid  ?  The  idea  of  such 
things  happening  within  two  miles  of  the  metropolis  ap- 
peared too  wild  and  preposterous  to  be  entertained  be- 
yond the  instant.  Then,  his  original  impression  that 
the  woman's  intellects  were  disordered,  recurred  ;  and, 
as  it  was  the  only  mode  of  solving  the  difficulty  with 
any  degree  of  satisfaction,  he  obstinately  made  up  his 
mind  to  believe  that  she  was  mad.  Certain  misgivings 
upon  this  point,  however,  stole  upon  his  thoughts  at  the 
time,  and  presented  themselves  again  and  again  through 
the  long  dull  course  of  a  sleepless  night  :  during  which, 
in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  the  contrary,  he  was  unable 
to  banish  the  black  veil  from  his  disturbed  imagination. 

The  back  part  of  Walworth,  at  its  greatest  distance 
from  town,  is  a  straggling  miserable  place  enough,  even 
in  these  days  ;  but  five-and-thirty  years  ago,  the  greater 
portion  of  it  was  little  better  than  a  dreary  waste,  inhab- 
ited by  a  few  scattered  people  of  questionable  character, 
whose  poverty  prevented  their  living  in  any  better  neigh- 
bourhood, or  whose  pursuits  and  mode  of  life  rendered 
its  solitude  desirable.  Very  many  of  the  houses  which 
have  since  sprung  up  on  all  sides,  were  not  built  until 
some  years  afterwards  ;  and  the  great  majority  even  of 
those  which  were  sprinkled  about,  at  irregular  intervals, 
were  of  the  rudest  and  most  miserable  description. 

The  appearance  of  the  place  through  which  he  walked 
in  the  morning,  was  not  calculated  to  raise  the  spirits  of 
the  young  surgeon,  or  to  dispel  any  feeling  of  anxiety 
or  depression  which  the  singular  kind  of  visit  he  was 
about  to  make,  had  awakened.  Striking  off  from  the 
high  road,  his  way  lay  across  a  marshy  common,  through 
irregular  lanes,  with  here  and  there  a  ruinous  and  dis- 
mantled cottage  fast  falling  to  pieces  M'ith  decay  and 
neglect,  A  stunted  tree,  or  ])Ool  of  stagnant  water, 
roused  into  a  sluggish  action  by  the  heavy  rain  of  the 
preceding  night,  skirted  the  path  occasionally  ;  and,  now 
and  then,  a  miserable  patch  of  garden-ground,  with  a 
few  old  boards  knocked  together  for  a  summer-house, 
and  old  palings  imperfectly  mended  with  stakes  pilfered 
from  the  neighbouring  hedges,  bore  testimony,  at  once, 
to  the  poverty  of  the  inhabitants,  and  the  little  scruple 
they  entertained  in  appropriating  the  property  of  .other 
people  to  their  own  use.  Occasionally,  a  filthy-looking 
woman  would  make  her  appearance  from  the  door  of  a 
dirty  house,  to  empty  the  contents  of  some  cooking 
utensil  into  the  gutter  in  front,  or  to  scream  after  a  little 
slip-shod  girl  who  had  contrived  to  stagger  a  few  yards 
from  the  door  under  the  weight  of  a  sallow  infant  almost 
as  big  as  herself ;  but,  scarcely  anything  was  stirring 
around  ;  and  so  much  of  the  prospect  as  could  be  faintly 
traced  through  the  cold  damp  mist  which  hung  heavily 
over  it,  presented  a  lonely  and  dreary  appearance  per- 
fectly in  keeping  with  the  objects  we  have  described. 

After  plodding  wearily  through  the  mud  and  mire  ; 
making  many  inquiries  for  the  place  to  which  he  had 
been  directed,  and  receiving  as  many  contradictory  and 
unsatisfactory  replies  in  return  ;  the  young  man  at  length 
arrived  before  the  house  v/hich  had  been  pointed  out  to 
him  as  the  object  of  his  destination.  It  was  a  small  low 
building,  one  story  above  the  ground,  with  even  a  more 
desolate  and  unpromising  exterior  than  any  he  had  yet 
passed.  An  old  yellow  curtain  was  closely  drawn  across 
the  window  up  stairs,  and  the  parlour  shutters  were 
closed,  but  not  fastened.  The  house  was  detached  from 
any  other,  and,  as  it  stood  at  an  angle  of  a  narrow  lane, 
there  was  no  other  habitation  in  sight. 

When  we  say  that  the  surgeon  hesitated,  and  walked 
a  few  paces  beyond  the  house,  before  he  could  prevail 
upon  himself  to  lift  the  knocker,  we  say  nothing  that 
heed  raise  a  smile  upon  the  face  of  the  boldest  reader. 
The  police  of  London  were  a  very  different  body  in  that 
day  ;  the  isolated  position  of  the  suburbs,  when  the  rage 
for  building  and  the  progress  of  improvement,  had  not 
yet  begun  to  connect  them  with  the  main  body  of  the 
city  and  its  environs,  rendered  many  of  them  (and  this  in 
particular)  a  place  of  resort  for  the  worst  and  most  de- 
praved characters.  Even  the  streets  in  the  gayest  parts 
of  London  were  imperfectly  lighted,  at  that  time  ;  and 
such  places  as  these,  were  left  entirely  to  the  mercy  of 
the  moon  and  stars.    The  chances  of  detecting  desperate 


936 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


characters,  or  of  tracing  tliem  to  tlieir  haunts,  were  thus 
rendered  very  few,  and  their  offences  naturally  increased 
in  boldness,  as  the  consciousness  of  comparative  security 
became  the  more  impressed  upon  them  by  daily  experi- 
ence. Added  to  these  considerations,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  the  young  man  had  spent  some  time  in  the 
public  hospitals  of  the  metropolis  ;  and  although  neither 
Burke  nor  Bishop  had  then  gained  a  horrible  notoriety, 
his  own  observation  might  have  suggested  to  him  how 
easily  the  atrocities  to  which  the  former  has  since  given 
his  name,  might  be  committed.  Be  this  as  it  may,  what- 
ever reHection  made  him  hesitate,  he  did  hesitate  ;  but, 
being  a  young  man  of  strong  mind  and  great  personal 
courage  it  was  only  for  an  instant ; — he  stepped  briskly 
back,  and  knocked  gently  at  the  door. 

A  low  whispering  was  audible,  immediately  after- 
wards, as  if  some  person  at  the  end  of  the  passage  were 
conversing  stealthily,  with  another  on  the  landing  above. 
It  was  succeeded  by  the  noise  of  a  pair  of  heavy  boots 
upon  the  bare  floor.  The  door-chain  was  softly  unfas- 
tened ;  the  door  opened  ;  and  a  tall,  ill-favoured  man, 
with  black  hair,  and  a  face  as  the  surgeon  often  declared 
afterwards,  as  pale  and  haggard  as  the  countenance  of 
any  dead  man  he  ever  saw,  presented  himself. 

"  Walk  in,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

The  surgeon  did  so,  and  the  man,  having  secured  the 
door  again  by  the  chain,  led  the  way  to  a  small  back 
parlour  at  the  extremity  of  the  passage. 

"Am  I  in  time  ?  " 

"Too  soon!"  replied  the  man.  The  surgeon  turned 
hastily  round,  with  a  gesture  of  astonishment  not  un- 
mixed with  alarm,  which  he  found  it  impossible  to  re- 
press. 

"  If  you'll  step  in  here,  sir,"  said  the  man,  who  had 
evidently  noticed  the  action — "if  you'll  step  in  here, 
sir,  you  won't  be  detained  five  minutes,  I  assure  you." 

The  surgeon  at  once  walked  into  the  room.  The  man 
closed  the  door,  and  left  him  alone. 

It  was  a  little  cold  room,  with  no  other  furniture  than 
two  deal  chairs,  and  a  table  of  the  same  material.  A. 
handful  of  fire,  unguarded  by  any  fender,  was  burning 
in  the  grate,  which  brought  out  the  damp  if  it  served 
no  more  comfortable  purpose,  for  the  unwholesome 
moisture  was  stealing  down  the  walls,  in  long,  slug-like 
tracks.  The  window,  which  was  broken  and  patched 
in  many  places,  looked  into  a  small  enclosed  piece  of 
ground,  almost  covered  with  water.  Not  a  sound  was 
to  be  heard,  either  within  the  house,  or  without.  The 
young  surgeon  sat  down  by  the  fireplace,  to  await  the 
result  of  his  first  professional  visit. 

He  had  not  remained  in  this  position  many  minutes, 
when  the  noise  of  some  approaching  vehicle  struck  his 
ear.  It  stopped  ;  the  street-door  was  opened ;  a  low 
talk  succeeded,  accompanied  with  a  shufiling  noise  of 
footsteps,  along  the  passage  and  on  the  stairs,  as  if  two 
or  three  men  were  engaged  in  carrying  some  heavy 
body  to  the  room  above.  The  creaking  on  the  stairs,  a 
few  seconds  afterwards,  announced  that  the  newcomers 
having  completed  their  task,  whatever  it  was,  were 
leaving  the  house.  The  door  was  again  closed,  and  the 
former  silence  was  restored. 

Another  five  minutes  elapsed,  and  the  surgeon  had  re- 
solved to  explore  the  house,  in  search  of  some  one  to 
whom  he  might  make  his  errand  known,  when  the  room- 
door  opened,  and  his  last  night's  visitor,  dressed  in  ex- 
actly the  same  manner,  with  the  veil  lowered  as  before, 
motioned  him  to  advance.  The  singular  height  of  her 
form,  coupled  with  the  circumstance  of  her  not  speak- 
ing, caused  the  idea  to  i)ass  across  his  brain,  for  an  in- 
stant, that  it  might  be  a  man  disguised  in  woman's 
attire.  The  hysteric  sobs  which  issued  from  beneath 
the  veil,  and  the  convulsive  attitude  of  grief  of  the 
whole  figure,  however,  at  once  exposed  the  absurdity 
of  the  suspicion  ;  and  ho  hastily  followed. 

The  woman  led  the  way  uj)  stairs  to  the  front  room, 
and  paused  at  the  door,  to  let  him  enter  first.  It  was 
scantily  furnished  with  an  old  deal  box,  a  few  chairs, 
and  a  tent  bedst(;ad,  without  hangings  or  cross-rails, 
which  was  covered  with  a  j)atch-work  counterpane.  The 
dim  light  admitted  through  the  curtain  which  he  had 
noticed  from  the  outside,  rendered  the  objects  in  the 
room  so  indistinct,  and  communicated  to  all  of  them  ao 


uniform  a  hue,  that  he  did  not,  at  first,  perceive  the  ob- 
ject on  which  liis  eye  at  once  rested  when  the  woman 
rushed  frantically  past  him,  and  flung  herself  on  her 
knees  by  the  bedside. 

Stretched  upon  the  bed,  closely  enveloped  in  a  linen 
wrapper,  and  covered  with  blankets,  lay  a  human  form, 
stiff  and  motionless.  The  head  and  face,  which  were 
those  of  a  man,  were  uncovered,  save  by  a  bandage 
which  passed  over  the  head  and  under  the  chin.  The 
eyes  were  closed.  The  left  arm  lay  heavily  across  the 
bed,  and  the  woman  held  the  passive  hand. 

The  surgeon  gently  pushed  the  woman  aside,  and  took 
the  hand  in  his. 

"  My  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  letting  it  fall  involuntarily 
— "  the  man  is  dead  !  " 

The  woman  started  to  her  feet  and  beat  her  hands  to- 
gether. "  Oh  !  don't  say  so,  sir,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
burst  of  passion,  amounting  almost  to  frenzy.  "Oh  ! 
don't  say  so,  sir  I  I  can't  bear  it  !  Men  have  been  brought 
to  life  before,  when  unskilful  people  have  given  them 
up  for  lost  ;  and  men  have  died,  who  might  have  been 
restored,  if  proper  means  had  been  resorted  to.  Don't 
let  him  lie  here,  sir,  without  one  effort  to  save  him  ! 
This  very  moment  life  may  be  passing  away.  Do  try, 
sir, — do,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  " — And  while  speaking,  she 
hurriedly  chafed,  first  the  forehead,  and  then  the  breast, 
of  the  senseless  form  before  her  ;  and  then,  wildly  beat 
the  cold  hands,  which  when  she  ceased  to  hold  them, 
fell  listlessly  and  heavily  back  on  the  coverlet. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  my  good  woman,"  said  the  surgeon, 
soothingly,  as  he  withdrew  his  hand  from  the  man's 
breast.    "  Stay — undraw  that  curtain  !" 

"Why?"  said  the  woman,  starting  up. 

"  Undraw  that  curtain  !  "  repeated  the  surgeon,  in  an 
agitated  tone. 

"/darkened  the  room  on  purpose,"  said  the  woman, 
throwing  herself  before  him  as  he  rose  to  undraw  it. — 
"  Oh  !  sir,  have  pity  on  me  !  If  it  can  be  of  no  use,  and 
he  is  really  dead,  do  not  expose  that  form  to  other  eyes 
than  mine  ! " 

"  This  man  died  no  natural  or  easy  death,"  said  the 
surgeon.  "  I  must  see  the  body  !"  With  a  motion  so 
sudden,  that  the  woman  hardly  knew  that  he  had  slipped 
from  beside  her,  he  tore  open  the  curtain,  admitted  the 
full  light  of  day,  and  returned  to  the  bedside. 

"  There  has  been  violence  here,"  he  said,  pointing  to- 
wards the  body,  and  gazing  intently  on  the  face,  from 
which  the  black  veil  was  now  for  the  first  time,  removed. 
In  the  excitement  of  a  minute  before,  the  female  had 
thrown  off  the  bonnet  and  veil,  and  now  stood  with  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  him.  Her  features  were  those  of  a  wo- 
man of  about  fifty,  who  had  once  been  handsome.  Sorrow 
and  weeping  had  left  traces  upon  them  which  not  time 
itself  would  ever  have  produced  without  their  aid  ;  her 
face  was  deadly  pale  ;  and  there  was  a  nervous  contor- 
tion of  the  lip,  and  an  unnatural  fire  in  her  eye,  which 
showed  too  plainly  that  her  bodily  and  mental  powers 
had  nearly  sunk,  beneath  an  accumulation  of  misery. 

"  There  has  been  violence  here,"  said  the  surgeon, 
preserving  his  searching  glance. 

"  There  has  !  "  replied  the  woman. 

"  This  man  has  been  murdered." 

"  That  I  call  God  to  witness  he  has,"  said  the  woman, 
passionately  ;  "  pitilessly,  inhumanly  murdered  !  " 

"  By  whom  ?"  said  the  surgeon,  seizing  the  woman  by 
the  arm. 

"  Look  at  the  butcher's  marks,  and  then  ask  me  ! "  she 
replied. 

The  surgeon  turned  his  face  towards  the  bed,  and  bent 
over  the  body  which  now  lay  full  in  the  light  of  the  win- 
dow. The  throat  was  swollen,  and  a  livid  mark  encir- 
cled it.    The  truth  flashed  suddenly  upon  him. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  men  who  were  hanged  this  morn- 
ing !  "  he  exclaimed,  turning  away  with  a  shudder. 

"  It  is,"  replied  the  woman,  with  a  cold,  unmeaning 
stare. 

"  Who  was  he  ?  "  inquired  the  surgeon. 
"  3Ty  son,"  rejoined  the  woman  ;  and  fell  senseless  at 
his  feet. 

It  was  true.  A  companion,  equally  guilty  with  him- 
self, liad  been  acquitted  for  want  of  evidence  ;  and  this 
man  had  been  left  for  death,  and  executed.    To  recount 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


937 


the  circumstances  of  the  case,  at  this  distant  period, 
must  be  unnecessary,  and  might  give  pain  to  some  per- 
sons still  alive.  The  history  vv^as  an  everyday  one.  The 
mother  was  a  widow  without  friends  or  money,  and  had 
denied  herself  necessaries  to  bestow  them  on  licr  orphan 
boy.  That  boy,  unmindful  of  her  prayers,  and  forgetful 
of  the  sufferings  she  had  endured  for  him — incessant 
anxiety  of  mind,  and  voluntary  starvation  of  body — had 
plunged  into  a  career  of  dissipation  and  crime.  And  this 
was  the  result  :  his  own  death  by  the  hangman's  hands, 
and  his  mother's  shame,  and  incurable  insanity. 

For  many  years  after  this  occurrence,  and  when  profit- 
able and  arduous  avocations  would  have  led  many  men 
to  forget  that  such  a  miserable  being  existed,  the  young 
surgeon  was  a  daily  visitor  at  the  side  of  the  harmless 
mad  woman  ;  not  only  soothing  her  by  his  presence  and 
kindness,  but  alleviating  the  rigour  of  her  condition  by 
pecuniary  donations  for  her  comfort  and  support,  be- 
stowed with  no  sparing  hand.  In  the  transient  gleam  of 
recollection  and  consciousness  whicli  preceded  her  death, 
a  prayer  for  his  welfare  and  protection,  as  fervent  as 
mortal  ever  breathed,  rose  from  the  lips  of  this  poor 
friendless  creature.  That  prayer  flew  to  Heaven  and 
was  heard.  The  blessings  he  was  instrumental  in  con- 
ferring, have  been  repaid  to  him  a  thousand- fold  ;  but, 
amid  all  the  honours  of  rank  and  station  which  have 
since  been  heaped  upon  him,  and  which  he  has  so  well 
earned,  he  can  have  no  reminiscence  more  gratifying  to 
his  heart  than  that  connected  with  the  Black  Veil. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Steam  Excursion. 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was  a  law-student,  inhabiting  a  set 
of  chambers  on  the  fourth  floor,  in  one  of  those  houses 
in  Gray's-inn-square  which  command  an  extensive  view  of 
the  gardens  and  their  usual  adjuncts — flaunting  nursery- 
maids, and  town-made  children,  with  parenthetical  legs. 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was  what  is  generally  termed — "a 
devilish  good  fellow."  He  had  a  large  circle  of  acquaint- 
ance, and  seldom  dined  at  his  own  expense.  He  used  to 
talk  politics  to  papas,  flatter  the  vanity  of  mammas,  do 
the  amiable  to  their  daughters,  and  make  pleasure  en- 
gagements with  their  sons,  and  romp  with  the  younger 
branches.  Like  those  paragons  of  perfection,  advertis- 
ing footmen  out  of  place,  he  was  always  "willing  to 
make  himself  generally  useful."  If  any  old  lady,  whose 
son  was  in  India,  gave  a  ball,  Mr,  Percy  Noakes  was  mas- 
ter of  the  ceremonies  ;  if  any  young  lady  made  a  stolen 
match,  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  gave  her  away  ;  if  a  juvenile 
wife  presented  her  husband  with  a  blooming  cherub,  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes  was  either  godfather,  or  deputy  godfather  ; 
and  if  any  member  of  a  friend's  family  died,  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes  was  invariably  to  be  seen  in  the  second  mourn- 
ing coach,  with  a  white  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  sob- 
ing — to  use  his  own  appropriate  and  expressive  descrip- 
tion—  like  winkin  I  " 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  that  these  numerous  avoca- 
tions were  rather  calculated  to  interfere  with  Mr,  Percy 
Noakes's  professional  studies.  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was 
perfectly  aware  of  the  fact,  and  had,  therefore,  after 
mature  reflection,  made  up  his  mind  not  to  study  at 
all — a  laudable  determination,  to  which  he  adhered  in 
the  most  praiseworthy  manner.  His  sitting-room  pre- 
sented a  strange  chaos  of  dress-gloves,  boxing-gloves, 
caricatures,  albums,  invitation-cards,  foils,  cricket-bats, 
card-board  drawings,  paste,  gum,  and  fifty  other  miscel- 
laneous articles,  heaped  together  in  the  strangest  con- 
fusion. He  was  always  making  something  for  some- 
body, or  planning  some  party  of  y)leasure,  which  was 
his  great  forte.  He  invariably  spoke  with  astonishing 
rapidity  ;  was  smart,  spoffish,  and  eight- and-twenty. 

"Splendid  idea,  'pon  my  life  ! "  soliloquised  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes,  over  his  morning's  coffee,  as  his  mind  reverted 
to  a  suggestion  which  had  been  thrown  out  the  previous 
night,  by  a  lady  at  whose  house  he  had  spent  the  even- 
ing.   "  Glorious  idea  ! — Mrs.  Stubbs." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  a  dirty  old  woman  with  an  in- 
flamed countenance,  emerging  from  the  bedroom,  with 


a  barrel  of  dirt  and  cinders — this  was  the  laundress. 
"Did  you  call,  sir?" 

"Oh!  Mrs.  Stubbs,  Fm  going  out.  If  that  tailor 
should  call  again,  you'd  better  say — you'd  better  say  I'm 
out  of  town,  and  shan't  be  back  for  a  fortnight  ;  and  if 
that  bootmaker  should  come,  tell  him  I've  lost  his  ad- 
dress, or  I'd  have  sent  him  that  little  amount.  Mind  he 
writes  it  down  ;  and  if  Mr.  Hardy  should  call— you  know 
Mr,  Hardy?" 

"  The  funny  gentleman,  sir?" 

"Ahl  the  funny  gentleman.  If  Mr.  Hardy  should 
call,  say  I've  gone  to  Mrs,  Taunton's  about  that  water- 
party." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  if  any  fellow  calls,  and  says  he's  come  about  a 
steamer,  tell  him  to  be  here  at  five  o'clock  this  after- 
noon, Mrs.  Stubbs." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

Mr,  Percy  Noakes  brushed  his  hat,  whisked  the 
crumbs  off  his  inexplicables  with  a  silk  handkerchief, 
gave  the  ends  of  his  hair  a  persuasive  roll  round  his  fore- 
finger, and  sallied  forth  for  Mrs.  Taunton's  domicile  in 
Great  Marlborough-street,  where  she  and  her  daughters 
occupied  the  upper  part  of  a  house.  She  was  a  good- 
looking  widow  of  fifty,  with  the  form  of  a  giantess  and 
the  mind  of  a  child.  The  j)ursuit  of  pleasure,  and  some 
means  of  killing  time,  were  the  sole  end  of  her  existence. 
She  doted  on  her  daughters,  who  were  as  frivolous  as 
herself. 

A  general  exclamation  of  satisfaction  hailed  the  ar- 
rival of  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  who  went  through  the  ordi- 
nary salutations,  and  threw  himself  into  an  easy  chair 
near  the  lady's  work-table,  with  the  ease  of  a  regularly 
established  friend  of  the  family.  Mrs.  Taunton  was 
busily  engaged  in  planting  immense  bright  bows  on 
every  part  of  a  smart  cap  on  which  it  was  possible  to 
stick  one  ;  Miss  Emily  Taunton  was  making  a  watch- 
guard  ;  Miss  Sophia  was  at  the  piano,  practising  a  new 
song — poetry  by  the  young  otficer,  or  the  police-officer, 
or  the  custom-house  officer,  or  some  other  interesting 
amateur. 

"  You  good  creature  !"  said  Mrs.  Taunton,  addressing 
the  gallant  Percy.  "  You  really  are  a  good  soul  !  You've 
come  about  the  water-party,  I  know." 

"  I  should  rather  suspect  I  had,"  replied  Mr.  Noakes, 
triumphantly,  "Now  come  here  girls,  and  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it."  Miss  Emily  and  Miss  Sophia  advanced  to 
the  table, 

"Now,"  continued  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  "it  seems  to 
me  that  the  best  way  will  be,  to  have  a  committee  of 
ten,  to  make  all  the  arrangements,  and  manage  the 
whole  set-out.  Then,  I  propose  that  the  expenses  shall 
be  paid  by  these  ten  fellows  jointly." 

"Excellent,  indeed  !  "  said  Mrs.  Taunton,  who  highly 
approved  of  this  part  of  the  arrangements. 

"  Then,  my  plan  is,  that  each  of  these  ten  fellows 
shall  have  the  power  of  asking  five  people.  There  must 
be  a  meeting  of  the  committee,  at  my  chambers,  to  make 
all  the  arrangements,  and  these  people  shall  be  then 
named  ;  every  member  of  the  committee  shall  have  the 
power  of  black-balling  any  one  who  is  proposed  ;  and 
one  black-ball  shall  exclude  that  person,  This  will  en- 
sure our  having  a  pleasant  party,  you  know." 

"  What  a  manager  you  are  !"  interrupted  Mrs.  Taun- 
ton again, 

"  Charming  !  "  said  the  lovely  Emily. 

"  I  never  did  !  "  ejaculated  Sophia. 

"Yes,  I  think  it'll  do,"  replied  Mr.  Percy  Noakes, 
who  was  now  quite  in  his  element.  "  I  think  it'll  do. 
Then  you  know  we  shall  go  down  to  the  Nore,  and  back, 
and  have  a  regular  capital  cold  dinner  laid  out  in  the 
cabin  before  we  start,  so  that  everything  may  be  ready 
without  any  confusion  ;  and  we  shall  have  the  lunch 
laid  out,  on  deck,  in  those  little  tea-garden-looking  con- 
cerns by  the  paddle-boxes — I  don't  know  what  you  call 
'em.  Then,  we  shall  hire  a  steamer  expressly  for  our 
party,  and  a  band,  and  have  the  deck  chalked,  and  we 
shall  be  able  to  dance  quadrilles  all  day  ;  and  then, 
whoever  we  know  that's  musical,  you  know,  why  they'll 
make  themselves  useful  and  agreeable  ;  and — and — 
upon  the  whole,  I  really  hope  we  shall  have  a  glorious 
day,  you  know  I " 


938 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Tlie  announcement  of  tliese  arrangements  was  received 
with  the  utmost  enthusiasm.  Mrs.  Taunton,  Emily,  and 
Sophia,  were  loud  in  their  praises. 

"  Well,  but  tell  me,  Percy,"  said  Mrs.  Taunton, 
"  who  are  the  ten  gentlemen  to  be  ?" 

"Oh!  I  know  plenty  of  fellows  who'll  be  delighted 
with  the  scheme,"  replied  Mr.  Percy  Noakes :  "of 
course  we  shall  have  " 

"Mr.  Hardy!"  interrupted  the  servant,  announcing 
the  visitor.  Miss  Sophia  and  Miss  Emily  hastily  as 
sumed  the  most  interesting  attitudes  that  could  be 
adopted  on  so  short  a  notice. 

"  How  are  you  ?  "  said  a  stout  gentleman  of  about 
forty,  pausing  at  the  door  in  the  attitude  of  an  awk- 
ward harlequin.  This  was  Mr.  Hardy,  whom  we  have 
before  described,  on  the  authority  of  Mrs.  Stubbs,  as 
"the  funny  gentleman."  He  was  au  Astley-Cooperish 
Joe  Miller — a  practical  joker,  immensely  popular  with 
married  ladies,  and  a  general  favourite  with  young  men. 
He  was  always  engaged  in  some  pleasure  excursion  or 
other,  and  delighted  in  getting  somebody  into  a  scrape 
on  such  occasions.  He  could  sing  comic  songs,  imitate 
hackney-coachmen  and  fowls,  play  airs  on  his  chin,  and 
execute  concertos  on  the  Jew's-harp.  He  always  ate 
and  drank  immoderately,  and  was  the  bosom  friend  of 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes.  He  had  a  red  face,  a  somewhat 
husky  voice,  and  a  tremendous  laugh. 

"  How  you?  "  said  this  worthy,  laughing,  as  if  it 
were  the  finest  joke  in  the  world  to  make  a  morning 
call,  and  shaking  hands  with  the  ladies  with  as  much 
vehemence  as  if  their  arms  had  been  so  many  pump- 
handles. 

"  You're  just  the  very  man  I  wanted,"  said  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes,  who  proceeded  to  explain  the  cause  of 
his  being  in  requisition. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  shouted  Hardy,  after  hearing  the 
statement,  and  receiving  a  detailed  account  of  the  pro- 
posed excursion.  "  Oh,  capital  !  glorious  !  What  a 
day  it  will  be  !  What  fun  ! — But  I  say,  when  are  you 
going  to  begin  making  the  arrangements  ?" 

"  No  time  like  the  present — at  once,  if  you  please." 

"  Oh,  charming  !  "  cried  the  ladies.    "  Pray,  do  !  " 

Writing  materials  were  laid  before  Mr.  Percy  Noakes, 
and  the  names  of  the  different  members  of  the  commit- 
tee were  agreed  on,  after  as  much  discussion  between 
him  and  Mr.  Hardy  as  if  the  fate  of  nations  had  de- 
pended on  their  appointment.  It  was  then  agreed  that 
a  meeting  should  take  place  at  Mr.  Percy  Noakes's 
chambers  on  the  ensuing  Wednesday  evening  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  the  visitors  departed.  1 

Wednesday  evening  arrived  ;  eight  o'clock  came,  and  \ 
eight  members  of  the  committee  were  punctual  in  their  ; 
attendance.  Mr.  Loggins,  the  solicitor,  of  Boswell-court,  ' 
sent  an  excuse,  and  Mr.  Samuel  Briggs  the  ditto  of 
Furnival's  Inn,  sent  his  brother  ;  much  to  his  (the  bro- 
ther's) satisfaction,  and  greatly  to  the  discomfiture  of 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes.  Between  the  Briggses  and  the 
Tauntons  there  existed  a  degree  of  implacable  hatred, 
quite  unprecedented.  The  animosity  between  the  Mon- 
tagues and  Capulets,  was  nothing  to  that  which  pre- 
vailed between  these  two  illustrious  houses.  Mrs. 
Briggs  was  a  widow,  with  three  daughters  and  two 
sons  ;  Mr.  Samuel  the  eldest,  was  an  attorney,  and  Mr. 
Alexander,  the  youngest,  was  under  articles  to  his 
brother.  They  resided  in  Portland-street,  Oxford-street, 
and  moved  in  the  same  orbit  as  the  Tauntons — hence 
their  mutual  dislike.  If  the  Miss  Briggses  appeared  in 
smart  bonnets,  the  Miss  Tauntons  eclipsed  them  with 
smarter.  If  Mrs.  Taunton  appeared  in  a  cap  of  all  the 
hues  of  the  rainbow,  Mrs,  Briggs  forthwith  mounted  a 
toque,  with  all  the  patterns  of  the  kaleidoscope.  If 
Miss  Sopliia  Taunton  learnt  a  new  song,  two  of  the  Miss 
Briggses  came  out  with  a  new  duet.  The  Tauntons  had 
once  gained  a  temporary  triumph  with  the  assistance  of 
a  liarp,  but  the  Briggses  brought  three  guitars  into  the 
field,  and  efr(?ctual]y  routed  the  enemy.  There  was  no 
end  to  the  rivalry  between  them. 

Now,  as  Mr,  Samuel  Briggs  was  a  mere  machine,  a 
sort  of  self-acting  legal  walking-stick  ;  and  as  the  party 
was  known  to  have  originated,  however  remotely,  with 
Mrs.  Taunton,  the  female  branches  of  the  Briggs  family 
liad  arranged  that   Mr.  Alexander  bhould  attend,  in- 


stead of  his  brother  ;  and  as  the  said  Mr,  Alexander 
was  deservedly  celebrated  for  possessing  all  the  perti- 
nacity of  a  bankruptcy-court  attorney,  combined  with 
all  the  obstinacy  of  that  useful  animal' which  browses  on 
the  thistle,  he  required  but  little  tuition.  He  was  espe- 
cially enjoined  to  make  himself  as  disagreeable  as  pos- 
sible ;  and,  above  all,  to  blackball  the  Tauntons  at 
every  hazard. 

The  proceedings  of  the  evening  were  opened  by  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes,  After  successfully  urging  on  the  gentle> 
men  present  the  propriety  of  their  mixing  some  brandy- 
and-water,  he  briefly  stated  the  object  of  the  meeting, 
and  concluded  by  observing  that  the  first  step  must  be 
the  selection  of  a  chairman,  necessarily  possessing  some 
arbitrary — he  trusted  not  unconstitutional — powers,  to 
whom  the  personal  direction  of  the  whole  of  the  arrange- 
ments (subject  to  the  approval  of  the  committee)  should 
be  confided,  A  pale  young  gentleman,  in  a  green  stock 
and  spectacles  of  the  same,  a  member  of  the  honourable 
society  of  the  Inner  Temple,  immediately  rose  for  the 
purpose  of  proposing  Mr,  Percy  Noakes,  He  had  known 
him  long,  and  this  he  would  say,  that  a  more  honourable, 
a  more  excellent,  or  a  better-hearted  fellow,  never  existed. 
— (Hear,  hear  !)  The  young  gentleman,  who  was  a 
member  of  a  debating  society,  took  this  opportunity  of 
entering  into  an  examination  of  the  state  of  the  English 
law,  from  the  days  of  William  the  Conqueror  down  to 
the  present  period  ;  be  briefly  adverted  to  the  code  es- 
tablished by  the  ancient  Druids  ;  slightly  glanced  at  the 
principles  laid  down  by  the  Athenian  lawgivers  ;  and 
concluded  with  a  most  glowing  eulogium  on  pic-nics  and 
constitutional  rights. 

Mr.  Alexander  Briggs  opposed  the  motion.  He  had 
the  highest  esteem  for  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  as  an  individ- 
ual, but  he  did  consider  that  he  ought  not  to  be  en- 
trusted with  these  immense  powers — (oh,  oh  !) — He  be- 
lieved that  in  the  proposed  capacity  Mr.  Percy  Noakes 
would  not  act  fairly,  impartially,  or  honourably  ;  but  he 
begged  it  to  be  distinctly  understood,  that  he  said  this, 
without  the  slightest  personal  disrespect.  Mr.  Hardy 
defended  his  honourable  friend,  in  a  voice  rendered  par- 
tially unintelligible  by  emotion  and  brandy-and-water. 
The  proposition  was  put  to  the  vote,  and  there  appearing 
to  be  only  one  dissentient  voice,  Mr,  Percy  Noakes  was 
declared  duly  elected,  and  took  the  chair  accordingly. 

The  business  of  the  meeting  now  proceeded  with 
rapidity.  The  chairman  delivered  in  his  estimate  of  the 
probable  expense  of  the  excursion,  and  every  one  present 
subscribed  his  proportion  thereof.  The  question  was  put 
that  "The  Endeavor"  be  hired  for  the  occasion;  Mr. 
Alexander  Briggs  moved  as  an  amendment,  that  -the  word 
"  Fly  "  be  substituted  for  the  word  "Endeavor;"  but 
after  some  debate  consented  to  withdraw  his  opposition. 
The  important  ceremony  of  balloting  then  commenced. 
A  tea-caddy  was  then  placed  on  a  table  in  a  dark  comer, 
of  the  apartment,  and  everyone  was  provided  with  two 
backgammon  men,  one  black  and  one  white. 

The  chairman  with  great  solemnity  then  read  the  fol- 
lowing list  of  the  guests  whom  he  proposed  to  intro- 
duce : — Mrs.  Taunton  and  two  daughters,  Mr.  Wizzle, 
Mr.  Simson.  The  names  were  respectively  balloted  for, 
and  Mrs.  Taunton  and  her  daughters  were  declared  to  be 
black-balled.  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  and  Mr.  Hardy  ex- 
changed glances. 

"Is  your  list  prepared,  Mr.  Briggs  ?"  inquired  the 
chairman. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Alexander,  delivering  in  the  follow- 
ing : — "Mrs.  Briggs  and  three  daughters,  Mr.  Samuel 
Briggs."  The  previous  ceremony  was  repeated,  and  Mrs. 
Briggs  and  three  daughters  were  declared  to  be  black- 
balled. Mr.  Alexander  Briggs  looked  rather  foolish, 
and  the  remainder  of  the  company  appeared  somewhat- 
overawed  by  the  mysterious  nature  of  the  proceedings. 

The  balloting  proceeded  ;  but,  one  little  circumstance 
which  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  had  not  originally  foreseen, 
prevented  the  system  from  working  quite  as  well  as  he 
iiad  anticipated.  Everybody  was  black-balled.  Mr. 
Alexander  Briggs,  by  way  of  retaliation,  exercised  his 
power  of  exclusion  in  every  instance,  and  the  result  was, 
tliat  after  three  hours  had  l)een  consumed  in  hard  ballot- 
ing, the  names  of  only  three  gentlemen  were  found  to 
have  been  agreed  to.    In  this  dilemma  what  was  to  be 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


done  ?  either  the  whole  plan  must  fall  to  the  ground,  or 
a  compromise  must  be  effected.  The  latter  alternative 
was  preferable  ;  and  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  therefore  pro- 
posed that  the  form  of  balloting-  sliould  be  dispensed 
with,  and  that  every  gentleman  should  merely  be  required 
to  state  whom  he  intended  to  bring.  The  proposal  was 
acceded  to  ;  the  Tauntons  and  the  Briggses  were  rein- 
stated ;  and  the  party  was  formed. 

The  next  Wednesday  was  fixed  for  the  eventful  day, 
and  it  was  unanimously  resolved  that  every  member  of 
committee  siiould  wear  a  piece  of  blue  sarsenet  ribbon 
round  his  left  arm.  It  appeared  from  the  statement  of 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  that  the  boat  belonged  to  the  General 
Steam  Navigation  Company,  and  was  then  lying  off  the 
Custom-house  ;  and,  as  he  proposed  that  the  dinner  and 
wines  should  be  provided  by  an  eminent  city  purveyor, 
it  was  arranged  that  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  should  be  on 
board  by  seven  o'clock  to  superintend  the  arrangements, 
and  that  the  remaining  members  of  the  committee,  to- 
gether with  the  company  generally,  should  be  expected 
to  join  her  by  nine  o'clock.  More  brandy-and-water  was 
despatched  ;  several  speeches  were  made  by  the  different 
law  students  present  ;  thanks  were  voted  to  the  chair- 
man ;  and  the  meeting  separated. 

The  weather  had  been  beaatifiil  up  to  this  period,  and 
beautiful  it  continued  to  be.  Sunday  passed  over,  and 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes  became  unusually  fidgetty — rushing, 
constantly,  to  and  from  the  Steam  Packet  Wharf,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  clerks,  and  the  great  emolument  of 
the  Holborn  cabmen.  Tuesday  arrived,  and  the  anxiety 
of  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  knew  no  bounds.  He  was  every  in- 
stant running  to  the  window,  to  look  out  for  clouds  ;  and 
Mr.  Hardy  astonished  the  whole  square  by  practising  a  new 
comic  song  for  the  occasion,  in  the  chairman's  chambers. 

Uneasy  were  the  slumbers  of  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  that 
night ;  he  tossed  and  tumbled  about,  and  had  confused 
dreams  of  steamers  starting  off,  and  gigantic  clocks  with 
the  hands  pointing  to  a  quarter  past  nine,  and  the  ugly 
face  of  Mr.  Alexander  Briggs  looking  over  the  boat's 
side,  and  grinning,  as  if  in  derision  of  his  fruitless  at- 
tempts to  move.  He  made  a  violent  effort  to  get  on 
board,  andn^woke.  The  bright  sun  was  shining  cheer- 
fully into  the  bed-room,  and  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  started 
up  for  his  watch,  in  the  dreadful  expectation  of  finding 
his  worst  dreams  realised. 

It  was  just  five  o'clock.  He  calculated  the  time — he 
should  be  a  good  half -hour  dressing  himself  ;  and  as  it 
was  a  lovely  morning,  and  the  tide  would  be  then  run- 
ning down,  he  would  walk  leisurely  to  Strand-lane,  and 
have  a  boat  to  the  Custom-house. 

He  dressed  himself,  took  a  hasty  apology  for  a  break- 
fast, and  sallied  forth.  The  streets  looked  as  lonely  and 
deserted  as  if  they  had  been  crowded,  overnight,  for  the 
last  time.  Here  and  there,  an  early  apprentice,  with 
quenched-looking  sleepy  eyes,  was  taking  down  the 
shutters  of  a  shop  ;  and  a  policeman  or  milk-woman 
might  occasionally  be  seen  pacing  slowly  along  ;  but  the 
servants  had  not  yet  begun  to  clean  the  doors,  or  light 
the  kitchen  fires,  and  London  looked  the  picture  of 
desolation.  At  the  corner  of  a  bye-street,  near  Temple- 
bar,  was  stationed  a  "  street-breakfast."  The  coffee  was 
boiling  over  a  charcoal  fire,  and  large  slices  of  bread  and 
butter  were  piled  one  upon  the  other,  like  deals  in  a 
timber-yard.-  The  company  were  seated  on  a  form, 
which,  with  a  view  both  to  security  and  comfort,  was 
placed  against  a  neighbouring  wall.  Two  young  men, 
whose  uproarious  mirth  and  disordered  dress  bespoke 
the  conviviality  of  the  preceding  evening,  were  treating 
three  "ladies"  and  an  Irish  labourer.  A  little  sweep 
was  standing  at  a  short  distance,  casting  a  longing  eye 
at  the  tempting  delicacies  ;  and  a  policeman  was  watch- 
ing the  group  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  The 
wan  looks,  and  gaudy  finery  of  the  thinly-clad  women 
contrasted  as  strangely  with  the  gay  sunlight,  as  did  their 
forced  merriment  with  the  boisterous  hilarity  of  the  two 
young  men,  who,  now  and  then,  varied  their  amusements 
by  "bonneting"  the  proprietor  of  this  itinerant  coffee- 
house. 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  walked  briskly  by,  and  when  he 
turned  down  Strand  lane,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
glistening  water,  he  thought  he  had  never  felt  so  impor- 
tant or  so  happy  in  his  life. 


"Boat,  sirl"  cried  one  of  the  three  waterman  who 
were  moi)ping  out  their  boats,  and  all  whistling.  "  Boat, 
sir  !" 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  rather  ftharjily  ;  for 
the  incjuiry  was  not  made  in  a  manner  at  all  suitable  to 
his  dignity. 

"  Would  you  prefer  a  wessel,  sir?"  inquired  another, 
to  the  infinite  delight  of  the  "  Jack-in-the-water." 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  replied  with  a  look  of  supreme  con- 
tempt. 

"  Did  you  want  to  be  put  on  board  a  steamer,  sir?" 
inquired  an  old  fireman-waterman,  very  confidentially. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  faded  red  suit,  just  the  colour  of 
the  colour  of  a  very  old  Court-guide. 

"  Yes,  make  haste — the  Endeavour — off  the  Custom* 
house." 

"  Endeavour  !"  cried  the  man  who  has  convulsed  the 
"  Jack"  Joefore.  "  Vy,  I  see  the  Endeavour  go  up  half 
an  hour  ago." 

"  So  did  I,"  said  another  ;  and  I  should  think  she'd 
gone  down  by  this  time,  for  she's  a  precious  sight  too 
full  of  ladies  and  gen'lemen. 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  affected  to  disregard  these  repre- 
sentations, and  stepped  into  the  boat,  which  the  old 
man,  by  dint  of  scrambling,  and  shoving,  and  grating, 
had  brought  up  to  the  causeway.  "  Shove  her  off  !  " 
cried  Mr,  Percy  Noakes,  and  away  the  boat  glided  down 
the  river  ;  Mr,  Percy  Noakes  seated  on  the  recently 
j  mopped  seat,  and  the  watermen  at  the  stairs  offering  to 
bet  him  any  reasonable  sum  that  he'd  never  reach  the 
"  Custom-US." 

"Here  she  is,  by  Jove  !"  said  the  delighted  Percy,  as 
they  ran  alongside  the  Endeavour. 

"Hold  hard  !"  cried  the  steward  over  the  side,  and 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes  jumped  on  board. 

"Hope  you  will  find  everything  as  you  wished,  sir. 
She  looks  uncommon  well  this  morning." 

"  She  does,  indeed,"  replied  the  manager,  in  a  state  of 
ecstacy  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe.  The  deck 
wa^  scrubbed,  and  the  seats  were  scrubbed,  and  there 
was  a  bench  for  the  band,  and  a  place  for  dancing,  and 
a  pile  of  campstools,  and  an  awning ;  and  then,  Mr, 
Percy  Noakes  bustled  down  below,  and  there  were  the 
pastrycook's  men,  and  the  steward's  wife,  laying  out  the 
dinner  on  two  tables  the  whole  length  of  the  cabin  ;  and 
then,  Mr,  Percy  Noakes  took  off  his  coat,  and  rushed 
backwards  and  forwards,  doing  nothing,  but  quite  con- 
vinced he  was  assisting  everybody  ;  and  the  steward's 
wife  laughed  till  she  cried,  and  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  panted 
with  the  violence  of  his  exertions.  And  then,  the  bell 
at  London-bridge  wharf  rang  ;  and  a  Margate  boat  was 
just  starting  ;  and  a  Gravesend  boat  w^as  just  starting  ; 
and  people  shouted,  and  porters  ran  down  the  steps 
with  luggage  that  would  crush  any  men  but  porters; 
and  sloping  boards,  with  bits  of  wood  nailed  on  them 
were  placed  between  the  outside  boat  and  the  inside 
boat ;  and  the  passengers  ran  along  them,  and  looked 
like  so  many  fowls  coming  out  of  an  area  ;  and  then,  the 
bell  ceased,  and  the  boards  were  taken  away,  and  the 
boats  started,  and  the  whole  scene  was  one  of  the  most 
delightful  bustle  and  confusion. 

The  time  wore  on ;  half- past  eight  o'clock  arrived  : 
the  pastrycook's  men  went  ashore  ;  the  dinner  was  com- 
pletely laid  out ;  and  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  locked  the  prin- 
cipal cabin,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  in  order  that 
it  might  be  suddenly  disclosed,  in  all  its  magnificence, 
to  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  company.  The  band  came 
on  board,  and  so  did  the  wine. 

Ten  minutes  to  nine,  and  the  committee  embarked  in 
a  body.  There  was  Mr,  Hardy,  in  a  blue  jacket  and 
waistcoat,  white  trousers,  silk  stockings,  and  pumps — in 
full  aquatic  costume,  with  a  straw  hat  on  his  head,  and 
an  immense  telescope  under  his  ai*m  ;  and  there  was  the 
young  gentleman  with  the  green  spectacles,  with  nankeen 
inexplicables,  with  a  ditto  waistcoat  and  bright  buttons, 
like  the  pictures  of  Paul— not  the  saint,  but  he  of  Vir- 
ginia notoriety.  The  remainder  of  the  committee,  dressed 
in  white  hats,  light  jackets,  waistcoats,  and  trousers, 
looked  something  between  waiters  and  West  India 
planters. 

Nine  o'clock  struck,  and  the  company  arrived  in  shoals. 
Mr.  Samuel  Briggs,  Mrs.  Briggs,  and  the  Misses  Briggs, 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


made  their  appearance  in  a  smart  private  wherry.  The 
three  guitars,  in  their  respective  dark  green  cases,  were 
carefully  stowed  away  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  accom- 
panied by  two  immense  portfolios  of  music,  which  it 
would  take  at  least  a  week's  incessant  playing  to  get 
through.  The  Tauntons  arrived  at  the  same  moment 
with  more  music,  and  a  lion— a  gentleman  with  a  bass 
voice  and  an  incipient  red  moustache.  The  colours  of 
the  Taunton  party  were  pink  ;  those  of  the  Briggses  a 
light  blue.  The  Tauntons  had  artificial  flowers  in  their 
bonnets  ;  here  the  Briggses  gained  a  decided  advantage 
— they  wore  feathers. 

"How  d'ye  do,  dear?"  said  the  Misses  Briggs  to  the 
Misses  Taunton.  (The  word  "dear"  among  the  girls  is 
frequently  synonymous  with  "wretch.") 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,  dear/'  replied  the  Misses 
Taunton  to  the  Misses  Briggs  ;  and  then,  there  was  such 
a  kissing,  and  congratulating,  and  shaking  of  .hands,  as 
might  have  induced  one  to  suppose  that  the  two  families 
were  the  best  friends  in  the  world,  instead  of  each 
wishing  the  other  overboard  as  they  most  sincerely 
did. 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  received  the  visitors,  and  bowed  to 
the  strange  gentleman,  as  if  he  should  like  to  know  who 
he  was.  This  was  just  what  Mrs.  Taunton  wanted. 
Here  was  an  opportunity  to  astonish  the  Briggses. 

"Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  general  of  the 
Taunton  party,  with  a  careless  air. — "Captain  Helves — 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes — Mrs.  Briggs — Captain  Helves." 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  bowed  very  low  ;  the  gallant  captain 
did  the  same  with  all  due  ferocity,  and  the  Briggses 
were  clearly  overcome. 

"Our  friend,  Mr.  Wizzle,  being  unfortunately  pre- 
vented from  coming,"  resumed  Mrs.  Taunton,  "I  did 
myself  the  pleasure  of  bringing  the  captain,  whose  mu- 
sical talents  I  knew  would  be  a  great  acquisition." 

"In  the  name  of  the  committee  I  have  to  thank  you 
for  doing  so,  and  to  offer  you  welcome,  sir,"  replied 
Percy.  (Here  the  scraping  was  renewed.)  "But  pray 
be  seated — won't  you  walk  aft?  Captain,  will  you 
conduct  Miss  Taunton? — Miss  Briggs,  will  you  allow 
me?" 

"  Where  could  they  have  picked  up  that  military 
man?"  inquired  Mrs.  Briggs  of  Miss  Kate  Briggs,  as 
they  followed  the  little  party. 

"I  can't  imagine,"  replied  Miss  Kate,  bursting  with 
vexation  ;  for  the  very  fierce  air  with  which  the  gallant 
captain  regarded  the  company,  had  impressed  her  with 
a  high  sense  of  his  importance. 

Boat  after  boat  came  alongside,  and  guest  after  guest 
arrived.  The  invites  had  been  excellently  arranged: 
Mr.  Percy  Noakes  having  considered  it  as  important 
that  the  number  cf  young  men  should  exactly  tally  with 
that  of  the  young  ladies,  as  that  the  quantity  of  knives 
on  board  sliould  be  in  precise  proportion  to  the  forks. 

"Now,  is  every  one  on  board?"  inquired  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes.  The  committee  (who,  with  their  bits  of  blue 
ribbon,  looked  as  if  they  were  all  going  to  be  bled) 
bustled  about  to  ascertain  the  fact,  and  reported  that 
they  might  safely  start. 

"  Go  on  !  "  cried  the  master  of  the  boat  from  the  top 
of  one  of  the  paddle-boxes. 

"Go  on  !"  echoed  the  boy,  who  was  stationed  over 
the  hatchway  to  pass  the  directions  down  to  the  engi- 
neer ;  and  away  went  the  vessel  with  that  agreeable 
noise  which  is  peculiar  to  steamers,  and  which  is  com- 
posed of  a  mixture  of  creaking,  gushing,  clanging,  and 
snorting. 

"Hoi — oi — oi — oi — oi — oi — o — i — i — i  !"  shouted  half- 
a-dozen  voices  from  the  boat,  a  quarter  cf  a  mile  astern. 

"  Ease  her  ! "  cried  the  captain  :  "  do  these  people  be- 
long to  us,  sir?  " 

"  Noakes,"  exclaimed  Hardy,  who  had  been  looking 
at  every  object,  far  and  near,  through  the  largo  tele- 
scope, "it's  the  Fleetwoods  and  the  Wakefields— and 
two  children  with  them,  by  jove  !  " 

"  What  a  shame  to  luring  children  !"  said  everybody  ; 
**how  very  inconsiderate  !" 

"I  say  it  would  be  a  good  joke  to  pretend  not  to  see 
'em,  wouUln't  it?  "  suggested  Hardy,  to  tlie  immense  de- 
light of  the  company  generally.  A  council  of  war  was 
hastily  held,  and  it  was  resolved  that  the  new  comers 


should  be  taken  on  board,  on  Mr,  Hardy's  solemnly 
pledging  himself  to  tease  the  children  during  the  whole 
day. 

"  Stop  her  !  "  cried  the  captain. 

"  Stop  her  ! "  repeated  the  boy  ;  whizz  went  the  steam, 
and  all  the  young  ladies,  as  in  duty  bound,  screamed  in 
concert.  They  were  only  appeased  by  the  assurance  of 
the  martial  Helves,  that  the  escape  of  steam  consequent 
on  stopping  a  vessel  was  seldom  attended  with  any  great 
loss  of  human  life. 

Two  men  ran  to  the  side  ;  and  after  some  shouting, 
and  swearing,  and  angling  for  the  wherry  with  a  boat- 
hook,  Mr.  Fleetwood,  and  Mrs,  Fleetwood,  and  Master 
Fleetwood,  and  Mr.  Wakefield,  and  Mrs.  Wakefield, 
and  Miss  Wakefield,  were  safely  deposited  on  the  deck. 
The  girl  was  about  six  years  old,  the  boy  about  four ; 
the  former  was  dressed  in  a  white  frock  with  a  pink 
sash  and  dog's-eared-looking  little  spencer  :  a  straw  bon- 
net and  green  veil,  six  inches  by  three  and  a  half ;  the 
latter,  was  attired  for  the  occasion  in  a  nankeen  frock, 
between  the  ])ottom  of  which,  and  the  top  of  his  plaid 
socks,  a  considerable  portion  of  two  small  mottled  legs 
was  discernible.  He  had  a  light  blue  cap  with  a  gold 
band  and  tassel  on  his  head,  and  a  damp  piece  of  ginger- 
bread in  his  hand.  With  which  he  had  slightly  embossed 
his  countenance. 

The  boat  once  more  started  off  ;  the  band  played  "  Off 
she  goes  ; "  the  major  part  of  the  company  conversed 
cheerfully  in  groups  ;  and  the  old  gentlemen  walked  up 
and  down  the  deck  in  pairs,  as  perseveringly  and  gravely 
as  if  they  were  doing  a  match  against  time  for  an  im- 
mense stake.  They  ran  briskly  down  the  Pool ;  the 
gentlemen  pointed  out  the  Docks,  the  Thames  police- 
office,  and  other  elegant  public  edifices  ;  and  the  young 
ladies  exhibited  a  proper  display  of  horror  at  the  appear- 
ance of  the  coal-whippers  and  ballast-heavers.  Mr. 
Hardy  told  stories  to  the  married  ladies,  at  which  they 
laughed  very  much  in  their  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and 
hit  him  on  the  knuckles  with  their  fans,  declaring  him 
to  he  a  "naughty  man — a  shocking  creaC|5re  " — and  so 
forth  ;  and  Captain  Helves  gave  slight  descriptions  of 
battles,  and  duels,  with  a  most  blcodthirstjE*  air,  which 
made  him  the  admiration  of  the  women,  and  the  envy 
of  the  men.  Quadrilling  commenced  ;  Captain  Helves 
danced  one  set  with  Miss  Emily  Taunton,  and  another 
set  with  Miss  Sophia  Taunton.  Mrs.  Taunton  was  in 
ecstasies.  The  victory  appeared  to  be  complete  ;  but 
alas  I  the  inconstancy  of  man  !  Having  performed  this 
necessary  duty,  he  attached  himself  solely  to  Miss  Julia 
Briggs,  with  whom  he  danced  no  less  than  three  sets 
consecutively,  and  from  whose  side  he  evinced  no  inten- 
tion of  stirring  for  the  remainder  of  the  day, 

Mr.  Hardy,  having  played  one  or  two  very  brilliant 
fantasias  on  the  Jew's-harp,  and  having  frequently  re- 
peated the  exquisitely  amusing  joke  of  slily  chalking  a 
large  cross  on  the  back  of  some  member  of  the  commit- 
tee, Mr.  Percy  Noakes  expressed  his  hope  that  some  of 
their  musical  friends  would  oblige  the  company  by  a 
display  of  their  abilities. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  in  a  very  insinuating  manner, 
"Captain  Helves  will  oblige  us?'*  Mrs.  Taunton's 
countenance  lighted  up,  for  the  captain  only  sang  duets, 
and  couldn't  sing  them  with  anybody  but  one  of  her 
daughters. 

"Really,"  said  that  warlike  individual,  "I  should  be 
very  happy,  but—" 

**  Oh  !  pray  do,"  cried  all  the  young  ladies. 

"Miss  Sophia,  have  you  any  objection  to  join  in  a 
duet  ?  " 

"  Oh  1  not  the  slightest,"  returned  the  young  lady,  in  a 
tone  which  clearly  showed  she  had  the  greatest  possible 
objection. 

"  Shall  I  accompany  you,  dear  ?  "  inquired  one  of  the 
Miss  Briggses,  with  the  bland  intention  of  spoiling  the 
effect. 

"  Very  much  obliged  to  you.  Miss  Briggs,"  sharply 
retorted  Mrs.  Taunton,  who  saw  through  the  manoeuvre  ; 
"my  daughters  always  sing  without  accompaniments.' 

"And  without  voices,"  tittered  Mrs.  Briggs,  in  alow 
tone. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Taunton,  reddening,  for  she 
guessed  the  tenor  of  the  observation,  though  she  had  not 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


941 


heard  it  clearly — "Perlmps  it  would  l)o  as  well  for  some 
people,  if  their  voices  were  not  quite  so  audible  as  they 
are  to  other  ijeople." 

"And,  perhaps,  if  gentlemen  who  are  kidnapped  to 
pay  attention  to  some  persons'  daughters,  had  not  suffici- 
ent discernment  to  pay  attention  to  otlier  persons* 
daughters,"  returned  Mrs.  Briggs,  "  some  persons  would 
not  be  so  ready  to  display  that  ill-temper  which,  thank 
God,  distinguishes  them  from  other  persons." 

"Persons  !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Taunton. 

"  Persdns,"  replied  Mrs.  Briggs. 

**  Insolence  ! " 

"  Creature  ! " 

*'  Hush  !  hush  1 "  interrupted  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  who 
was  one  of  the  very  few  by  whom  this  dialogue  had  been 
overheard.    "  Hush  ! — pray,  silence  for  the  duet." 

After  a  great  deal  of  preparatory  crowing  and  hum- 
ming, the  captain  began  the  following  duet  from  the 
opera  of  "Paul  and  Virginia,"  in  that  grunting  tone  in 
which  a  man  gets  down,  Heaven  knows  where,  without 
the  remotest  chance  of  ever  getting  up  again.  This,  in 
private  circles,  is  frequently  designated  "a  bass  voice." 

"  See  (sung  the  captain)  from  o— ce— an  ri — sing 
Bright  flames  the  or— b  of  d— a}^ 
From  yon  gro — ove,  the  varied  so— ougs — 

Here,  the  singer  was  interrupted  by  varied  cries  of  the 
most  dreadful  description,  proceeding  from  some  grove 
in  the  immediat  e  vicinity  of  the  starboard  paddle-box. 

"  My  child  !  "  screamed  Mrs.  Fleetwood.  "  My  child  I 
it  is  his  voice — I  know  it." 

Mr.  Fleetwood,  accompanied  by  several  gentlemen, 
here  rushed  to  the  quarter  from  whence  the  noise  pro- 
ceeded, and  an  exclamation  of  horror  burst  from  the 
company  ;  the  general  impression  being,  that  the  little 
innocent  had  either  got  his  head  in  the  water,  or  his 
legs  in  the  machinery. 

"What  is  the  matter  ?"  shouted  the  agonised  father, 
as  he  returned  with  the  child  in  his  arms. 

"Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !"  screamed  the  small  sufferer  again. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  ? "  inquired  the  father, 
once  more — hastily  stripping  off  the  nankeen  frock,  for 
the  purpose  of  ascertaining  whether  the  child  had  one 
bone  which  was  not  smashed  to  pieces. 

"Oh  !  oh  ! — I'm  so  frightened?" 

"  What  at,  dear  ? — what  at  ?  "  said  the  mother,  sooth- 
ing the  sweet  infant. 

"Oh!  he's  been  making  such  dreadful  faces  at  me," 
cried  the  boy,  relapsing  into  convulsions  at  the  bare  re- 
collection. 

"He  1 — who  !"  cried  everybody,  crowding  round  him. 

"Oh  ! — him!  "  replied  the  child,  pointing  at  Hardy, 
who  affected  to  be  the  most  concerned  of  the  whole 
group. 

The  real  state  of  the  case  at  once  flashed  upon  the 
minds  of  all  present,  with  the  exception  of  the  Fleet- 
woods and  the  Wakefields.  The  facetious  Hardy,  in 
fulfilment  of  his  promise,  had  watched  the  child  to  a 
remote  part  of  the  vessel,  and,  suddenly  appearing  be- 
fore him  with  the  most  awful  contortions  of  visage,  had 
produced  his  paroxysm  of  terror.  Of  course,  he  now 
observed  that  it  was  hardly  nece'?sary  for  him  to  deny 
the  accusation  ;  and  the  unfortunate  little  victim  was 
accordingly  led  below,  after  receiving  sundry  thumps 
on  the  head  from  both  his  parents,  for  having  the  wick- 
edness to  tell  a  story. 

This  little  interruption  having  been  adjusted,  the  cap- 
tain resumed,  and  Miss  Emily  chimed  in,  in  (iue  course. 
The  duet  was  loudly  applauded,  and,  certainly,  the  per- 
fect independence  of  the  parties  deserved  great  com- 
mendation. Miss  Emily  sang,  her  part,  without  the 
slightest  reference  to  the  captain  ;  and  the  captain  sang 
so  loud,  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea  what  was 
being  done  by  his  partner.  After  having  gone  through 
the  last  few  eighteen  or  nineteen  bars  by  himself,  there- 
fore, he  acknowledged  the  plaudits  of  the  circle  with 
that  air  of  self-denial  which  men  usually  assume  when 
they  think  they  have  done  something  to  astonish  the 
company. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  who  had  just  ascend- 
ed from  the  fore-cabin,  where  Jie  had  been  busily 


engaged  decanting  the  wine,  "  if  the  Misses  Briggs  will 
oblige  us  with  something  before  dinner,  I  am  sure  wo 
shall  be  very  much  delighted." 

One  of  those  hums  of  admiration  followed  the  sugges- 
tion, which  one  frequently  hears  in  society,  when 
nobody  has  the  most  distant  notion  what  he  is  expressing 
his  approval  of.  The  three  Misses  Briggs  looked  mo- 
destly at  their  mamma,  and  the  mamma  looked  approv- 
ingly at  her  daughters,  and  Mrs.  Taunton  looked 
scornfully  at  all  of  them.  The  Misses  Briggs  asked  for 
their  guitars,  and  several  gentlemen  seriously  damaged 
the  cases  in  their  anxiety  to  present  them.  Theti,  there 
was  a  very  interesting  production  of  three  little  keys  for 
the  aforesaid  cases,  and  a  melodramatic  expression  of 
horror  at  finding  a  string  broken  ;  and  a  vast  deal  of 
screwing  and  tightening,  and  winding,  and  tuning, 
during  which  Mrs.  Briggs  expatiated  to  those  near  her 
on  the  immense  difficulty  of  playing  a  guitar,  and  hinted 
at  the  wondrous  proficiency  of  her  daughters  in  that 
mystic  art.  Mrs.  Taunton  whispered  to  a  neighbor  that 
it  was  "quite  sickening!"  and  the  Misses  Taunton 
looked  as  if  they  knew  how  to  play,  but  disdained  to 
do  it. 

At  length,  the  Misses  Briggs  began  in  real  earnest. 
It  was  a  new  Spanish  composition,  for  three  voices  and 
three  guitars.  The  effect  was  electrical.  All  eyes  were 
turned  upon  the  captain,  who  was  reported  to  have  once 
passed  through  Spain  with  his  regiment,  and  who  must 
be  well  acquainted  with  the  national  music.  He  was  in 
raptures.  This  was  sufficient ;  the  trio  was  encored  ;  the 
applause  was  universal  ;  and  never  had  the  Tauntons 
suffered  such  a  complete  defeat. 

"  Bravo  !  bravo  ! "  ejaculated  the  captain  ; — "  Bravo  ! " 
Pretty!  isn't  it,  sir?"  inquired  Mr.  Samuel  Briggs, 
with  the  air  of  a  self-satisfied  showman.  By-the-by, 
these  were  the  first  words  he  had  been  heard  to  utter 
since  he  left  Boswell-court  the  evening  before. 

"De — lightful  !"  returned  the  captain,  with  a  flourish, 
and  a  military  cough  ; — "  de — lightful  I" 

"  Sweet  instrument  ?"  said  an  old  gentleman  with  a 
bald  head,  who  had  been  trying  all  the  morning  to  look 
through  a  telescope,  inside  the  glass  of  which  Mr.  Hardy 
had  fixed  a  large  black  wafer. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  a  Portuguese  tamborine  ?  "  inquired 
that  jocular  individual. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  a  tom-tom,  sir?  "  sternly  inquired 
the  captain,  who  lost  no  opportunity  of  showing  off  his 
travels,  real  or  pretended. 

"  A  what?"  asked  Hardy  rather  taken  aback. 

"  A  tom-tom." 

"  Never ! " 

'  *  Nor  a  gum-gum  ?  " 

"  Never  ! " 

"What  is  a  gum-gum?"  eagerly  inquired  several 
youns:  ladies. 

"  When  I  was  in  the  East  Indies,"  replied  the  captain. 
(Here  was  a  discovery — he  had  been  in  the  East  Indies  !) 
— "when  I  was  in  the  East  Indies,  I  was  once  stopping, 
a  few  thousand  miles  up  the  country,  on  a  visit  at  the 
house  of  a  very  particular  friend  of  mine,  Ram  Chow- 
dar  Doss  Azuph  Al  Bowlar — a  devilish  pleasant  fellow. 
As  we  were  enjoying  our  hookahs,  one  evening,  in  the 
cool  verandah  in  front  of  his  villa,  we  were  rather  sur- 
prised by  the  sudden  appearance  of  thirty-four  of  his 
Kit-ma-gars  (for  he  had  rather  a  large  establishment 
there),  accompanied  by  an  equal  number  of  Con-su-mars, 
approaching  the  house  with  a  threatening  aspect,  and 
beating  a  tom-tom.    The  Ram  started  up — " 

"Who?"  inquired  the  bald  gentleman,  intensely  in- 
terested. 

"  The  Ram — Ram  Chowdar — " 

"  Oh  ! "  said  the  old  gentlemen,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  ; 
pray  go  on." 

"* — Started  up  a  drew  a  pistol.  'Helves/  said  he, 
'my  boy,' — he  always  called  me,  my  boy — '  Helves,'  said 
he,  'do  you  hear  that  tom-tom?'*  'I*do,'  said  I.  His 
countenance,  which  before  was  pale,  assumed  a  most 
frightful  appearance  ;  his  whole  visage  was  distorted, 
and  his  frame  shaken  by  violent  emotions.  '  Do  you  see 
that  gum-gum? '  said  he.  'No,'  said  I,  staring  about 
me.  'You  don't?'  said  he.  'No,  I'll  be  damned  if  I 
do,'  said  I ;  '  and  what's  more,  I  don't  know  what  a 


943 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


um-giim  is,'  said  I.    I  really  tliought  the  Ram  would 
ave  dropped.    He  drew  me  aside,  and  with  an  expres- 
sion of  agony  I  shall  never  forget,  said  in  a  low  whis- 
per— " 

"  Dinner's  on  the  table,  ladies,"  interrupted  the  stew- 
ard's wife. 

"  Will  you  allow  me?  "  said  the  captain,  immediately 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  and  escorting  Miss  Julia 
Briggs  to  the  cabin,  with  as  much  ease  as  if  he  had  fin- 
ished the  story. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  circumstance! "  ejaculated  the 
same  old  gentleman,  preserving  liis  listening  attitude. 

"  What  a  traveller  ! "  said  the  young  ladies. 
What  a  singular  name  ! "  exclaimed  the  gentlemen, 
rather  confused  by  the  coolness  of  the  whole  aifair. 

"  I  wish  he  had  finished  the  story,"  said  an  old  lady. 
♦*  I  wonder  what  a  gum-gum  really  is  ?" 

"  By  Jove  ! "  exclaimed  Hardy,  who  until  now  had 
been  lost  in  utter  amazement,  "I  don't  know  what  it 
may  be  in  India,  but  in  England  I  think  a  gum-gum  has 
very  much  the  same  meaning  as  a  hum-bug." 

"  How  illiberal  ;  how  envious  !  "  cried  everybody,  as 
they  made  for  the  cabin,  fully  impressed  with  a  belief 
in  the  captain's  amazing  adventures.  Helves  was  the 
sole  lion  for  the  remainder  of  the  day — impudence  and 
the  marvellous  are  pretty  sure  passports  to  any  society. 

The  party  had  by  this  time  reached  their  destination, 
and  put  about  on  their  return  home.  The  Avind,  which 
had  been  with  them  the  whole  day,  was  now  directly  in 
their  teeth  ;  the  weather  had  become  gradually  more 
and  more  overcast  ;  and  the  sky,  water,  and  shore,  were 
all  of  that  dull,  heavy,  uniform  lead-colour,  which  house- 
painters  daub  in  the  first  instance  over  a  street-door 
which  is  gradually  approaching  a  state  of  convalescence. 
It  had  been  "  spitting  "  with  rain  for  the  last  half  hour, 
and  now  began  to  pour  in  good  earnest.  The  wind  was 
freshening  very  fast,  and  the  waterman  at  the  wheel  had 
unequivocally  expressed  his  opinion  that  there  would 
shortly  be  a  squall.  A  slight  emotion  on  the  part  of  the 
vessel,  now  and  then,  seemed  to  suggest  the  possibility 
of  its  pitching  to  a  very  uncomfortable  extent  in  the 
event  of  its  blowing  harder  ;  and  every  timber  began  to 
creak,  as  if  the  boat  were  an  overladen  clothes-basket. 
Sea-sickness,  however,  is  like  a  belief  in  ghosts— every 
one  entertains  some  misgivings  on  the  subject,  but  few 
will  acknowledge  any.  The  majority  of  the  company, 
therefore  endeavoured  to  look  peculiarly  happy,  feeling 
all  the  while  especially  miserable. 

"  Don't  it  rain?"  inquired  the  old  gentleman  before 
noticed,  when,  by  dint  of  squeezing  and  jamming,  they 
were  all  seated  at  table. 

"I  think  it  does— a  little,"  replied  Mr.  Percy  Noakes, 
who  could  hardly  hear  himself  speak,  in  consequence  of 
the  pattering  on  the  deck. 

"  Don't  it  blow  ?  "  inquired  some  one  else. 

"  No — I  don't  think  it  does, "  responded  Hardy,  sincerely 
wishing  that  he  could  persuade  himself  that  it  did  not : 
for  he  sat  near  the  door,  and  was  almost  blown  off  his 
seat. 

"It'll  soon  clear  up,"  said  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  in  a 
cheerful  tone. 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  "  ejaculated  the  committee  generally. 

"No  doubt  of  it  !  "said  the  remainder  of  the  company, 
whose  attention  was  now  pretty  well  engrossed  by  the 
serious  business  of  eating,  carving,  taking  wine,  and  so 
forth. 

The  throbbing  motion  of  the  engine  was  but  too  per- 
ceptible. There  was  a  large,  substantial,  cold  boiled  leg 
of  mutton,  at  the  bottom  of  the  table  shaking  like  blanc- 
mange ;  a  previously  hearty  sirloin  of  beef  looked  as  if 
it  had  lieen  suddenly  seized  with  the  palsy  ;  and  some 
tongues,  which  which  were  placed  on  dishes  rather  too 
large  for  them,  went  through  the  most  surprising  evolu- 
tions ;  darting  from  side,  and  from  end  to  end,  like  a 
fly  in  an  inverted  wine-glass.  Then,  the  sweets  shook 
and  trembled,  till  it  was  quite  impossible  to  help  them, 
and  people  gave  up  the  attempt  in  desy)air  ;  and  the 
pigeon-pies  looked  as  if  the  birds,  whose  legs  wore  stuck 
outside,  were  trying  to  get  tliem  in.  The  table  vibrated 
and  started  like  a  feverish  pulse,  and  the  very  legs  were 
convulsed — everything  was  shaking  and  jarring.  The 
beams  in  the  roof  of  the  cabin  seemed  as  if  they  were 


put  there  for  the  sole  purpose  of  giving  people  tead- 
aches,  and  several  elderly  gentlemen  became  ill-temper- 
ed in  consequence.  As  fast  as  the  steward  put  the 
fire-irons  up,  they  would  fall  down  again  ;  and  the  more 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  tried  to  sit  comfortably  on  their 
seats,  the  more  the  seats  seemed  to  slide  away  from  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  Several  ominous  demands  were 
made  for  small  glasses  of  brandy  ;  the  countenances  of 
the  company  gradually  underwent  most  extraordinary 
changes  ;  one  gentleman  was  observed  suddenly  to  rush 
from  table  witlhout  the  slightest  ostensible  reason,  and 
dart  up  the  steps  with  incredible  swiftness  :  thereby 
greatly  damaging  both  himself  and  the  steward,  who 
happened  to  be  coming  down  at  the  same  moment. 

The  cloth  was  removed  ;  the  dessert  was  laid  on  the 
table  ;  and  the  glasses  were  filled.  The  motion  of  the 
boat  increased  ;  several  members  of  the  party  began  to 
feel  rather  vague  and  misty,  and  looked  as  if  they  had 
only  just  got  up.  The  young  gentleman  with  the  specta- 
cles, who  had  been  in  a  fluctuating  state  for  some  time 
— at  one  moment  bright,  and  at  another  dismal,  like  a 
revolving  light  on  the  sea-coast— rashly  announced  his 
wish  to  propose  a  toast.  After  several  ineffectual 
attempts  to  preserve  his  perpendicular,  the  young  gen- 
tleman, having  managed  to  hook  himself  to  the  centre 
leg  of  the  table  with  his  left  hand  as  follows  : 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen.  A  gentleman  is  among  us — 
I  may  say  a  stranger — (here  some  painful  thought  seem- 
ed to  strike  the  orator  ;  he  paused,  and  looked  extremely 
odd)  whose  talents,  whose  travels,  whose  cheerful- 
ness— " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Edkins,"  hastily  interrupted  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes.    "  Hardy,  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  the  "  funny  gentleman,"  who  had 
just  life  enough  left  to  utter  two  consecutive  syllables. 

"  Will  you  have  some  brandy  ?  " 

"  No  1"  replied  Hardy  in  a  tone  of  great  indignation, 
and  looking  as  comfortable  as  Temple-bar  in  a  Scotch 
mist  ;  "  what  should  I  want  brandy  for  ?  " 
Will  you  go  on  deck?" 

"  No,  I*  will  not."  This  was  said  with  a  most  deter- 
mined air,  and  in  a  voice  which  might  have  been  taken 
for  an  imitation  of  anything  ;  it  was  quite  as  much  like 
a  guinea-pig  as  a  bassoon. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Edkins,"  said  the  courteous  Per- 
cy ;  "I  thought  our  friend  was  ill.    Pray  go  on. 

A  pause. 

"  Pray  go  on." 

"  Mr.  Edkins  is  gone,"  cried  somebody. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  steward,  running  up 
to  Mr.  Percy  Nc^kes,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  the 
gentleman  as  just  went  on  deck — him  with  the  green 
spectacles — is  uncommon  bad,  to  be  sure  ;  and  the  young 
man  as  played  the  wiolin  says,  that  unless  he  has  some 
brandy  he  can't  answer  for  the  consequences.  He  says 
he  has  a  wife  and  two  children,  whose  worry  subsistence 
depends  on  his  breaking  a  wessel,  and  he  expects  to  do 
so  every  moment.  The  flageolet's  been  wery  ill,  but  he's 
better,  only  he's  in  a  dreadful  prusperation. 

All  disguise  was  now  useless  ;  the  company  staggered 
on  deck;  the  gentlemen  tried  to  see  nothing  but  the  clouds; 
and  the  ladies,  muffled  up  in  such  shawls  and  cloaks 
as  they  had  brought  with  them,  lay  about  on  the  seats, 
and  under  the  seats,  in  the  most  wretched  condition. 
Never  was  such  a  blowing  and  raining,  and  pitching  and 
tossing,  endured  by  any  pleasure  party  before.  Several 
remonstrances  were  sent  down  below,  on  the  subject  of 
Master  Fleetwood,  but  they  were  totally  unheeded  in 
consequence  of  the  indisposition  of  his  natural  protec- 
tors. That  interesting  child  screamed  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  until  he  had  no  voice  left  to  scream  with  ;  and 
then.  Miss  Wakefield  began,  and  screamed  for  the  re 
mainder  of  the  passage. 

Mr.  Hardy  was  observed,  some  hours  afterwards,  in  an 
attitude  wliich  induced  his  friends  to  suppose  that  he  was 
busily  engaged  in  contemplating  the  beauties  of  the 
deep  ;  they  only  regretted  that  his  taste  for  the  pictur- 
esque should  lead  him  to  remain  so  long  in  a  position, 
vory  injurious  at  all  times,  but  especially  so  to  an  indi- 
vidual labouring  under  a  tendency  of  blood  to  the  head. 

The  party  arrived  off  the  Custom-house  at  about  two 
o'clock  on  the  Thursday  morning,  dispirited  and  worn 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


943 


out.  The  Tauntons  were  too  ill  to  quarrel  with  the 
Briga:ses,  and  the  Briggses  were  too  wretched  to  annoy 
the  Tauntons.  One  of  the  guitar-cases  was  lost  on  its 
passage  to  a  hackney-coach,  and  Mrs.  Briggs  has  not 
scrupled  to  state  that  the  Tauntons  bribed  a  porter  to 
throw  it  down  an  area.  Mr.  Alexander  Bri^-gs  opposes 
vote  by  ballot — he  says  from  personal  experience  of  its 
inefficacy  ;  and  Mr.  Samuel  Briggs,  whenever  he  is  asked 
to  express  iiis  sentiments  on  the  point,  says  he  has  no 
opinion  on  that  or  any  other  subject. 

Mr.  Edkins — the  young  gentleman  in  the  green  specta- 
cles— makes  a  speech  on  every  occasion  on  which  a  speech 
can  possibly  be  made  :  the  eloquence  of  which  can  only 
be  equalled  by  its  length.  In  the  event  of  his  not  being 
previously  appointed  to  a  judgeship,  it  is  probable  that 
ne  will  practise  as  a  barrister  in  the  new  Central  Crim- 
inal Court, 

Captain  Helves  continued  his  attention  to  Miss  Julia 
Briggs,  whom  he  might  possibly  have  espoused,  if  it  had 
not  unfortunately  happened  that  Mr.  Samuel  arrested 
him  in  the  way  of  business,  pursuant  to  instructions  re- 
ceived from  Messrs.  Scroggins  and  Payne,  whose  town- 
debts  the  gallant  captain  had  condescended  to  collect, 
but  whose  accounts,  with  the  indiscretion  sometimes  pe- 
culiar to  military  minds,  he  had  omitted  to  keep  with 
that  dull  accuracy  which  custom  has  rendered  necessary. 
Mrs.  Taunton  complains  that  she  has  been  much  deceived 
in  him.  He  introduced  himself  to  the  family  on  board  a 
Gravesend  steam-packet,  and  certainly,  therefore,  ought 
to  have  proved  respectable. 

Mr.  Percy  Noakes  is  as  liglit-hearted  and  careless  as 
ever. 


CHAPTER  Vin. 
The  Great  Winglebury  Dud. 

The  little  town  of  Great  Winglebury  is  exactly  forty- 
two  miles  and  three  quarters  from  Hyde  Park  corner. 
It  has  a  long,  straggling,  quiet  High-street,  with  a  great 
black  and  white  clock  at  a  small  red  Town-hall,  half- 
way up — a  market-place — a  cage — an  assembly-room — a 
church — a  bridge — a  chapel — a  theatre — a  library — an 
inn — a  pump — and  a  Post-office.  Tradition  tells  of  a 
"Little  Winglebury,"  down  some  cross-road  about  two 
miles  off  ;  and,  as  a  square  mass  of  dirty  paper,  supposed 
to  have  been  originally  intended  for  a  letter,  with  certain 
tremulous  characters  inscribed  thereon,  in  which  a  lively 
imagination  might  trace  a  remote  resemblance  to  the 
word  "Little,"  was  once  stuck  up  to  be  owned  in  the 
sunny  window  of  the  Great  Winglebury  Post-office,  from 
which  it  only  disappeared  when  it  fell  to  pieces  with 
dust  and  extreme  old  age,  there  would  appear  to  be  some 
foundation  for  the  legend.  Common  belief  is  inclined  to 
bestow  the  name  upon  a  little  hole  at  the  end  of  a  mud- 
dy lane  about  a  couple  of  miles  long,  colonised  by  one 
wheelwright,  four  paupers,  and  a  beer-shop  ;  but  even 
this  authority,  slight  as  it  is,  must  be  regarded  with  ex- 
treme suspicion,  inasmuch  as  the  inhabitants  of  the  hole 
aforesaid,  concur  in  opining  that  it  never  had  any  name 
at  all,  from  the  earliest  ages  down  to  the  present  day. 

The  Winglebury  Arms,  in  the  centre  of  the  High- 
street,  opposite  the  small  building  with  the  big  clock,  is 
the  principal  inn  of  Great  Winglebury — the  commercial 
inn,  posting-house,  and  excise-office  ;  the  "Blue"  house 
at  every  election,  and  the  Judges'  house  at  every  assizes. 
It  is  the  head-quarters  of  the  Gentlemen's  Whist  Club  of 
Winglebury  Blues  (so  called  in  opposition  to  the  Gentle- 
men's Whist  Club  of  Winglebury  Buffs,  held  at  the  other 
house,  a  little  further  down);  and  whenever  a  juggler, 
or  wax-work  man,  or  concert-giver,  takes  Great  Wingle- 
bury in  his  circuit,  it  is  immediately  placarded  all  over 
the  town  that  Mr.  So-and-so,  "  trusting  to  that  liberal 
support  which  the  inhabitants  of  Great  Winglebury  have 
long  been  so  liberal  in  bestowing,  has  at  a  great  expense 
engaged  tho  elegant  and  commodious  assembly-rooms, 
attached  to  the  Winglebury  Arms."  The  house  is  a  large 
one,  with  a  red  brick  and  stone  front  ;  a  pretty  spacious 
hall,  ornamented  with  evergreen  plants,  terminates  in  a 
perspective  view  of  the  bar,  and  a  glass  case,  in  which 
are  displayed  a  choice  variety  of  delicacies  ready  for 
dres.sing,  to  catch  the  eye  of  a  newcomer  the  moment  he 


enters,  and  excite  his  appetite  to  the  highest  possible 
pitch.  Opposite  doors  lead  to  the  "coffee"  and  "com- 
mercial "  rooms  ;  and  a  great  wide,  rambling  staircase, — 
three  stairs  and  a  landing — four  stairs  and  another  land- 
ing— one  step  and  another  landing — half-a-dozen  stairs 
and  another  landing— and  so  on— conducts  to  galleries  of 
bed-rooms,  and  labyrinths  of  sitting-rooms,  denominated 
"private,"  where  you  may  enjoy  yourself,  as  privately 
as  you  can  in  any  place  where  some  bewildered  being 
walks  into  your  room  every  five  minutes,  by  mistake,  and 
then  walks  out  again,  to  open  all  the  doors  along  the  gal- 
lery until  he  finds  his  own. 

Such  is  the  Winglebury  Arms,  at  this  day,  and  such 
was  the  Winglebury  Arms  some  time  since — no  matter 
when — two  or  three  minutes  before  the  arrival  of  the 
London  stage.  Four  horses  with  cloths  on — diange  for  a 
coach — were  standing  quietly  at  the  corner  of  tlie  yard, 
surrounded  by  a  listless  group  of  post-boys  in  shiny  hats 
and  smock-frocks,  engaged  in  discussing  the  merits  of 
the  cattle  ;  half-a-dozen  ragged  boys  were  standing  a  little 
apart,  listening  with  evident  interest  to  the  conversation 
of  these  worthies  ;  and  a  few  loungers  were  collected 
round  the  horse-trough,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  coach. 

The  day  was  hot  and  sunny,  the  town  in  the  zenith  of 
its  dullness,  and  with  the  exception  of  these  few  idlers, 
not  a  living  creature  was  to  be  seen.  Suddenly,  the  loud 
notes  of  a  key-bugle  broke  tlie  monotonous  stillness  of 
the  street  ;  in  came  the  coach,  rattling  over  the  uneven 
paving  with  a  noise  startling  enough  to  stop  even  the 
large- faced  clock  itself.  Down  got  the  outsides,  up  went 
the  windows  in  all  directions,  out  came  the  waiters,  up 
started  the  ostlers,  and  the  loungers  and  the  post-boys, 
and  the  ragged  boys,  as  if  they  were  electrified — unstrap- 
ping, and  unchaining,  and  unbuckling,  and  dragging 
willing  horses  out,  and  forcing  reluctant  horses  in,  and 
making  a  most  exhilarating  bustle.  "  Lady  inside,  here  ! " 
said  the  guard.  "Please  to  alight,  ma'am,"  said  the 
waiter.  "  Private  sitting-room  ?"  interrogated  the  lady. 
"  Certainly,ma'am,"  responded  the  chambermaid.  "Noth- 
ing but  these  'ere  trunks,  ma'am  ?  "  inquired  the  guard. 
"Nothing  more,"  replied  the  lady.  Up  got  the  outsides 
again,  and  the  guard,  and  the  coachman  ;  off  came  tbe 
cloths  with  a  jerk,  "All  right"  v/as  the  cry  ;  and  away 
they  went.  The  loungers  lingered  a  minute  or  two  in 
the  road,  watching  the  coach  until  it  turned  the  corner, 
and  then  loitered  away  one  by  one.  The  street  was 
clear  again,  and  the  town,  by  contrast,  quieter  than  ever. 

"Lady  in  number  twenty-five,"  screamed  the  land- 
lady.— "  Thomas  ?  " 

"  Yes  ma'am." 

"Letter  just  been  left  for  the  gentleman  in  number 
nineteen.    Boots  at  the  Lion  left  it.    No  answer." 

"Letter  for  you  sir,"  said  Thomas,  depositing  the  letter 
on  number  nineteen's  table. 

"For  me?"  said  number  nineteen,  turning  from  the 
window,  out  of  whicli  he  had  been  surveying  the  scene 
just  described. 

"Yes,  sir," — (waiters  always  speak  in  hints,  and  never 
utter  complete  sentences) — "  yes  sir, — Boots  at  the  Lion, 
sir, — Bar,  sir — Missis  said  number  nineteen,  sir — Alex- 
ander Trott,  Esq.,  sir?— Your  card  at  the  bar  sir,  I 
think,  sir  ?  " 

"My  name  is  Trott,"  replied  number  nineteen,  break- 
ing the  seal.  "  You  may  go  waiter."  The  waiter  pulled 
down  the  window-blind,  and  then  pulled  it  up  again — 
for  a  regular  waiter  must  do  something  before  he  leaves 
the  room — adjusted  the  glasses  on  the  sideboard,  brushed 
a  place  that  was  7iot  dusty,  rubbed  his  hands  very  hard, 
walked  stealthily  to  the  door,  and  evaporated. 

There  was,  evidently,  something  in  the  contents  of  the 
letter  of  a  nature,  if  not  wholly  unexpected,  certainly 
extremely  disagreeable.  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  laid  it 
down,  and  took  it  up  again,  and  walked  about  the  room 
on  particular  squares  of  the  carpet,  and  even  attempted, 
though  unsuccessfully,  to  whistle  an  air.  It  wouldn't 
do.  He  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  read  the  follow- 
ing epistle  aloud  : — 

"  Blue  Lion  and  Stomach- warmer. 
Great  Winglebury. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
"  Sir, — Immediately  on  discovering  your  intentions,  I 


944 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


left  our  counting-lioiise,  and  followed  you.  I  know  tlie 
purport  of  your  journey ; — that  journey  shall  never  be 
completed. 

"  I  have  no  friend  here,  just  now,  on  whose  secrecy  I  can 
rely.  This  shall  be  no  obstacle  to  my  revenge.  Neither 
shall  Emily  Brown  be  exposed  to  the  mercenary  solici- 
tations of  a  scoundrel,  odious  in  her  eyes,  and  contemp- 
tible in  every  body  else's  :  nor  will  I  tamely  submit  to 
the  clandestine  attacks  of  a  base  umbrella-maker. 

"  Sir,  from  Great  Winglebury  church,  a  footpath  leads 
through  four  meadows  to  a  retired  spot  known  to  the 
townspeople  as  Stiffun's  Acre."  [Mr,  Trott  shuddered.] 
"  I  shall  be  waiting  there  alone,  at  twenty  minutes  before 
six  o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  Should  I  be  disappointed 
in  seeing  you  there,  I  will  do  myself  the  pleasure  of 
calling  with  a  horsewhip. 

"  Horace  Hunter. 

**P.S.  There  is  a  gunsmith's  in  the  High- street ;  and 
they  won't  sell  gunpowder  after  dark — you  understand 
me. 

"P.P.S.  You  had  better  not  order  your  breakfast  in 
the  morning  until  you  have  met  me.  It  may  be  an 
unnecessary  expense. " 

"  Desperate-minded  villain  !  I  knew  how  it  would 
be!"  ejaculated  the  terrified  Trott.  "I  always  told 
father,  that  once  start  me  on  this  expedition,  and  Hunter 
w^ould  pursue  me  like  the  Wandering  Jew.  It's  bad 
enough  as  it  is,  to  marry  with  the  old  people's  commands, 
and  without  the  girl's  consent  ;  but  what  will  Emily 
think  of  me,  if  I  go  down  there,  breathless  with  running 
away  from  this  infernal  salamander?  What  s/irt/^  I  do  ? 
What  can  I  do  ?  If  I  go  back  to  the  city,  I'm  disgraced 
for  ever — lose  the  girl — and,  what's  more,  lose  the  money 
too.  Even  if  I  did  go  on  to  the  Browns'  by  the  coach. 
Hunter  would  be  after  me  in  a  post-chaise  ;  and  if  I  go 
to  this  place,  this  Stiffun's  Acre  (another  shudder),  I'm 
as  good  as  dead.  I've  seen  him  hit  the  man  at  the  Pall- 
mall  shooting-gallery,  in  the  second  button-hole  of  the 
waistcoat,  five  times  out  of  every  six,  and  when  he  didn't 
hit  him  there,  he  hit  him  in  the  head."  With  this  con- 
solatory reminiscence,  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  again  ejacu- 
lated, • '  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Long  and  weary  were  his  reflections,  as,  burying  his 
face  in  his  hands,  he  sat  ruminating  on  the  best  course 
to  be  pursued.  His  mental  direction-post  pointed  to 
London.  He  thought  of  "the  governor's"  anger,  and 
the  loss  of  the  fortune  which  the  paternal  Brown  had 
promised  the  paternal  Trott  his  daughter  should  con- 
tribute to  the  coffers  of  his  son.  Then  the  words  "  to 
Brown's  "  were  legibly  inscribed  on  the  said  direction- 
post,  but  Horace  Hunter's  denunciation  rung  in  his  ears  ; 
last  of  all  it  bore,  in  red  letters,  the  words,  "  To  Stiffun's 
Acre  ;"  and  then  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  decided  on  adopt- 
ing a  plan  which  he  presently  matured. 

First  and  foremost,  he  dispatched  the  under-boots  to 
the  Blue  Lion  and  Stomach- warmer,  with  a  gentlemanly 
note  to  Mr.  Horace  Hunter,  intimating  that  he  thirsted 
for  his  destruction,  and  would  do  himself  the  pleasure 
of  slaughtering  him  next  morning,  without  fail.  He 
then  wrote  another  letter,  and  requested  the  attendance 
of  the  other  boots — for  they  kept  a  pair.  A  modest 
knock  at  the  room-door  was  heard.  "  Come  in,"  said 
Mr.  Trott.  A  man  thrust  in  a  red  head  with  one  eye  in 
it,  and  being  again  desired  to  "  come  in,"  brought  in  the 
body  find  the  legs  to  which  the  head  belonged,  and  a  fur 
cap  which  belonged  to  the  head. 

You  are  the  upper- boots,  I  think?"  inquired  Mr.  Trott. 

*'  Yes,  I  am  the  upper- boots,"  replied  a  voice  from  in- 
side a  velveteen  case  with  mother-of-pearl  buttons — 
"that  is,  I'm  the  boots  as  b'longs  to  the  house  ;  the  other 
man's  my  man,  as  goes  errands,  and  does  odd  jobs.  Top 
boots  and  half-boots  I  calls  us." 

"  You're  from  London  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Trott. 

"  Driv  a  cab  once,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"  Why  don't  you  drive  it  now?  "  asked  Mr.  Trott. 

"  Over-driv  the  cab,  and  driv  over  a  'ooraan,"  replied 
the  top-boots,  with  brevity. 

"  Do  you  know  the  mayor's  house?"  inquired  Trott. 

"  Rather,"  replied  the  boots,  significantly,  as  if  ho  had 
some  good  reason  to  remember  it. 


"  Do  you  think  you  could  manage  to  leave  a  letter 
there  ?  "  interrogated  Trott. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder,"  responded  boots. 

"  But  this  letter,"  said  Trott,  holding  a  deformed  note 
with  a  paralytic  direction  in  one  hand,  and  five  shillings 
in  the  other — "  This  letter  is  anonymous." 

"  A — what  ?  "  interrupted  the  boots. 

"Anonymous — he's  not  to  know  who  it  comes  from." 

"  Oh  !  i  see,"  responded  the  reg'lar,  with  a  knowing 
wink,  but  without  evincing  the  slightest  disinclination 
to  undertake  the  charge — "  I  see — bit  o'  Sving,  eh  ?  "  and 
his  one  eye  wandered  round  the  room,  as  if  \xi  quest  of  a 
dark  lantern  and  phosph  orous-box.  "But,  t  say  !"  he 
continued,  recalling  the  eye  from  its  search  and  bring- 
ing it  to  bear  on  Mr.  Trott.  "  I  say,  he's  a  lawyer,  oiir 
mayor,  and  insured  in  the  County.  If  you've  a  spite 
agen  him,  you'd  better  not  burn  his  house  down — bless- 
ed if  I  don't  think  it  would  be  the  greatest  favour  you 
could  do  him."    And  he  chuckled  inwardly. 

If  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  had  been  in  any  other  situa- 
tion, his  first  act  would  have  been  to  kick  the  man  down 
stairs  by  deputy  ;  or  in  other  words,  to  ring  the  bell,  and 
desire  the  landlord  to  take  his  boots  off.  He  contented 
himself,  however,  with  doubling  the  fee  and  explaining 
that  the  letter  merely  related  to  a  breach  of  the  peace. 
The  top-boots  retired,  solemnly  pledged  to  secrecy  ;  and 
Mr.  Alexander  Trott  sat  down  to  a  fried  sole,  maintenon 
cutlet,  Madeira,  and  sundries,  with  greater  composure 
than  he  had  experienced  since  the  receipt  of  Horace  Hun-  , 
ter's  letter  of  defiance. 

The  lady  who  had  alighted  from  the  London  coach  had 
no  sooner  been  installed  in  number  twenty-five,  and 
made  some  alteration  in  her  traveling  dress,  than  she  in- 
dicted a  note  to  Joseph  Overton,  esquire,  solicitor,  and 
mayor  of  Great  Winglebury,  requesting  his  immediate 
attendance  on  private  business  of  paramount  impor- 
tance— a  summons  which  that  worthy  functionary  lost  no 
time  in  obeying  ;  for  after  sundry  openings  of  his  eyes, 
divers  ejaculations  of  "  Bless  me  !"  and  other  manifes- 
tations of  surprise,  he  took  his  broad-brimmed  hat  from 
its  accustomed  peg  in  his  little  front  office,  and 
walked  briskly  down  the  High-street  to  the  Winglebury 
Arms  ;  through  the  hall  and  up  the  staircase  of  which  es- 
tablishment he  was  ushered  by  the  landlady,  and  a 
crowd  of  officious  waiters,  to  the  doors  of  number  twen- 
ty-five. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  in,"  said  the  stranger  lady,  in  . 
reply  to  the  foremost  waiter's  announcement.    The  gen- 
tleman was  shown  in  accordingly. 

The  lady  rose  from  the  sofa  ;  the  mayor  advanced  a 
step  from  the  door  ;  and  there  they  both  paused,  for  a 
minute  or  two,  looking  at  one  another  as  if  by  mutual 
consent.  The  mayor  saw  before  him  a  buxom  richly-dres- 
sed female  of  about  forty  ;  the  lady  looked  upon  a  sleek 
man,  about  ten  years  older,  in  drab  shorts  and  continu- 
ations, black  coat,  neckcloth,  and  gloves. 

"  Miss  Julia  Manners  !  "  exclaimed  the  mayor  at  length 
"  you  astonish  me." 

"  That's  very  unfair  of  you,  Overton,"  replied  Miss 
Julia,  "for  I  have  known  you,  long  enough,  not  to  be 
surprised  at  anything  you  do,  and  you  might  extend 
equal  courtesy  to  me." 

"  Btit  to  run  away — actually  run  away — with  a  young 
man  !  "  remonstrated  the  mayor. 

"You  wouldn't  have  me  actually  run  away  with  an 
old  one,  I  presume  ?  "  was  the  cool  rejoinder. 

"  And  then  to  ask  me— me — of  all  people  in  the  world 
— a  man  of  my  age  and  appearance — mayor  of  the  town 
— to  promote  such  a  scheme  !"  pettishly  ejaculated  Jo- 
seph Overton  ;  throwing  himself  into  an  arm  chair,  and 
producing  Miss  Julia's  letter  from  his  pocket,  as  if  to 
corroborate  the  assertion  that  he  had  been  asked. 

"  Now,  Overton,"  replied  the  lady,  "  I  want  your  as- 
sistance in  this  matter,  and  I  must  have  it.  In  the  life- 
time of  that  poor  old  dear,  Mr.  Cornberry,  who — Avho — '* 

"  Who  was  to  liave  married  you,  and  didn't,  because  he 
died  first  ;  and  who  loft  you  his  property  unencumbered 
with  the  addition  of  himself,"  suggested  the  mayor. 

"  Well,"  replied  Miss  Julia,reddening  slightly,"  in  the 
life-time  of  the  poor  old  dear,  the  property  had  the  in- 
cumbrance of  your  management  ;  and  all  I  will  say  of 
that,  is,  that  I  only  wonder  it  didn't  die  of  consumption 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


945 


instead  of  its  master.  You  helped  yourself  then  :— help 
me  now." 

Mr.  Joseph  Overton  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  an 
attorney,  and  as  certain  indistinct  recollections  of  an  odd 
thousand  pounds  or  two  appropriated  by  mistake,  passed 
across  his  mind,  he  hemmed  deprecatingly,  smiled  bland- 
ly, remained  silent  for  a  few  seconds;  and  finally  in- 
quired, "  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 

*' I'll  tell  you,"  replied  Miss  Julia — "I'll  tell  you  in 
three  words.    Dear  Lord  Peter — " 

"  That's  the  young  man,  I  suppose—"  interrupted  the 
mayor. 

That's  the  young  Nobleman,"  replied  the  lady,  with 
a  great  stress  on  the  last  word.  ''Dear  Lord  Peter  is 
considerably  afraid  of  the  resentment  of  his  family  ;  and 
we  have  therefore  thought  it  better  to  make  the  match 
a  stolen  one.  He  left  town  to  avoid  suspicion,  on  a  visit 
to  his  friend,  the  Honourable  Augustus  Flair,  whose  seat 
as  you  know,  is  about  thirty  miles  from  this,  accom- 
panied only  by  his  favourite  tiger.  We  arranged  that  I 
should  come  here  alone  in  the  London  coach  ;  and  that 
he,  leaving  his  tiger  and  cab  behind  him,  should  come 
on,  and  arrive  here  as  soon  as  possible  this  afternoon." 

"Very  well,"  observed  Joseph  Overton.  "  and  then  he 
can  order  the  chaise,  and  you  can  go  on  to  Gretna  Green 
together,  without  requiring  the  presence  or  interference 
of  a  third  party,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Miss  Julia.  "We  have  every  reason 
to  believe — dear  Lord  Peter  not  being  considered  very 
prudent  or  sagacious  by  his  friends,  and  they  having  dis- 
covered his  attachment  to  me — that,  immediately  on  his 
absence  being  observed,  pursuit  will  be  made  in  this  di- 
rection :  to  elude  which,  and  to  prevent  our  being  traced 
I  wish  it  to  be  understood  in  this  house  that  dear  Lord 
Peter  is  slightly  deranged,  though  perfectly  harmless  ; 
and  that  I  am,  unknown  to  him,  awaiting  his  arrival  to 
convey  him  in  a  post-chaise  to  a  private  asylum — at  Ber- 
wick, say.  If  I  don't  show  myself  much,  I  dare  say  I 
can  manage  to  pass  for  his  mother." 

The  thought  occurred  to  the  mayor's  mind  that  the 
lady  might  show  herself  a  good  deal  vrithout  fear  of  de- 
tection ;  seeing  that  she  was  about  double  the  age  of  her 
intended  husband.  He  said  nothing,  however,  and  the 
lady  proceeded. 

"With  the  whole  of  this  arrangement  dear  Lord 
Peter  is  acquainted  ;  and  all  I  want  you  to  do,  is,  to 
make  the  delusion  more  complete  by  giving  it  the  sanc- 
tion of  your  influence  in  this  place,  and  assigning  this  as 
a  reason  to  the  people  of  the  house  for  my  taking  the 
young  gentleman  away.  As  it  w^ould  not  be  consistent 
with  the  story  that  I  should  see  him  until  after  he  has 
entered  the  chaise,  I  also  wish  you  to  communicate  with 
him,  and  inform  him  that  it  is  all  going  on  well." 

"  Has  he  arrived?"  inquired  Overton. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  Then  how  am  I  to  know  !  "  inquired  the  mayor. 
"Of  course  he  will  not  give  his  own  name  at  the  bar." 

"  I  begged  him,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  to  write 
you  a  note,"  replied  Miss  Manners  :  "  and  to  prevent  the 
possibility  of  our  project  being  discovered  through  its 
means  I  desired  him  to  write  anonymously,  and  in  mys- 
terious terms  to  acquaint  you  with  the  number  of  his 
room." 

"Bless  me!"  exclaimed  the  mayor,  rising  from  his 
seat,  and  searching  his  pockets — "most  extraordinary 
circumstance — he  lias  arrived — mysterious  note  left  at  my 
house  in  a  most  mysterious  manner,  just  before  yours — 
didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it  before,  and  certainly 
shouldn't  have  attended  to  it. — Oh  !  here  it  is,"  And 
Josep)h  Overton  pulled  out  of  an  inner  coat-pocket  the 
identical  letter  penned  by  Alexander  Trott.  "  Is  this 
his  lordship's  hand  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Julia  ;  "  good,  punctual  creature  ! 
I  have  not  seen  it  more  than  once  or  twice,  but  I  know 
he  writes  very  badly  and  very  large.  These  dear,  wild 
young  noblemen,  you  know,  Overton — 

"Ay,  ay,  I  see,"  replied  the  mayor. — "Horses  and 
dogs,  play  and  wine — grooms,  actresses,  and  cigars — the 
stable,  the  gT6?en-room,  the  saloon,  and  the  tavern  ;  and 
the  legislative  assembly  at  last." 

"  Here's  what  he  says,"  pursued  the  mayor  :  '  Sir, — A 
young  gentleman  in  number  nineteen  at  the  Winglebury 
Vol.  II.— 60 


Arms,  is  bent  on  committing  a  rash  act  to-morrow  morn- 
ing at  an  early  hour.'  (That's  good — he  means  marry- 
ing.) *  If  you  have  any  regard  for  the  peace  of  this 
town,  or  the  preservation  of  one — it  may  be  two — human 
lives ' — what  the  deuce  does  he  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"That  he  is  so  anxious  for  the  ceremony,  he  will  ex- 
pire if  it's  put  off,  and  that  I  may  possibly  do  the  same," 
replied  the  lady  with  great  comy^lacency. 

"  Oh  !  I  see — not  much  fear  of  that ; — well — 'two  hu- 
man lives,  you  will  cause  him  to  be  removed  to-night.' 
(He  wants  to  start  at  once.)  '  Fear  not  to  do  this  on  your 
responsibility;  for  to-morrow  the  absolute  necessity  of 
the  proceeding  will  be  but  too  apparent.  Remember  : 
number  nineteen.  The  name  is  Trott.  No  delay  ;  for 
life  and  death  depend  upon  your  promptitude.'  Passion- 
ate language,  certainly.    Shall  I  see  him  ?  " 

"Do,"  replied  Miss  Julia;  "and  entreat  him  to  act 
his  part  well.  I  am  half  afraid  of  him.  Tell  him  to  be 
cautious." 

"  I  will,"  said  the  mayor. 

"  Settle  all  the  arrangements." 

"  I  will,"  said  the  mayor  again. 

"  And  say  I  think  the  chaise  had  better  be  ordered  for 
one  o'clock." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  mayor  once  more  ;  and,  rumina- 
ting on  the  absurdity  of  the  situation  in  which  fate  and 
old  acquaintance  had  placed  him,  he  desired  a  waiter  to 
herald  his  approach  to  the  temporary  representative  of 
number  nineteen. 

The  announcement,  "  Gentleman  to  speak  with  you, 
sir,"  induced  Mr.  Trott  to  pause  half  way  in  the  glass 
of  port,  the  contents  of  which  he  was  in  the  act  of  im- 
bibing at  the  moment  ;  to  rise  from  his  chair ;  and  re- 
treat a  few  paces  towards  the  window,  as  if  to  secure  a 
retreat,  in  the  event  of  the  visitor  assuming  the  form 
and  appearance  of  Horace  Hunter.  One  glance  at  Jo- 
seph Overton,  however,  quieted  his  apprehensions.  He 
courteously  motioned  the  stranger  to  a  seat.  The  waiter, 
after  a  little  jingling  with  the  decanter  and  glasses,  con- 
sented to  leave  the  room ;  and  Joseph  Overton,  placing 
the  broad-brimmed  hat  on  the  chair  next  him,  and  bend- 
ing his  body  gently  forward,  opened  the  business  by 
saying  in  a  very  low  and  cautious  tone. 

"  My  Lord — " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Alexander  Trott,  in  a  loud  key,  with 
the  vacant  and  mystified  stare  of  a  chilly  somnambu- 
list. 

"  Hush — hush  !"  said  the  cautious  attorney  ;  "  to  be 
sure — quite  right — no  titles  here — my  name  is  Overton, 
sir." 

"  Overton?" 

"  Yes  :  the  mayor  of  this  place — you  sent  me  a  letter 
with  anonymous  information,  this  afternoon." 

"I,  sir?"  exclaimed  Trott,  with  ill-dissembled  sur- 
prise ;  for,  coward  as  he  was,  he  would  willingly  have 
repudiated  the  authorship  of  the  letter  in  question.  "  I, 
sir  ?  " 

"Yes,  you,  sir;  did  you  not?"  responded  Overton, 
annoyed  with  what  he  supposed  to  be  an  extreme  degree 
of  unnecessary  suspicion.  "  Either  this  letter  is  yours, 
or  it  is  not.  If  it  be,  we  can  converse  freely,  upon  the 
subject  at  once.  If  it  be  not,  of  course  I  have  no  more' 
to  say." 

"  Stay,  stay,"  said  Trott,  "  it  is  mine  ;  I  did  write  it. 
What  could  I  do,  sir  ?    I  had  no  friend  here." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  Mayor,  encourag- 
ingly, "  you  could  not  have  managed  it  better.  Well, 
sir ;  it  will  be  necessary  for  you  to  leave  here  to-night 
in  a  post-chaise  and  four.  And  the  harder  the  boys, 
drive,  the  better.    You  are  not  safe  from  pursuit." 

"  Bless  me  !"  exclaimed  Trott,  in  an  agony  of  appre- 
hension, "can  such  things  happen  in  a  country  like 
this?  Such  unrelenting  and  cold-blooded  hostility!" 
He  wiped  off  the  concentrated  essence  of  cowardice  that 
was  oozing  fast  down  his  forehead,  and  looked  aghast 
at  Joseph  Overton. 

"  It  certainly  is  a  very  hard  case,"  replied  the  mayor- 
with  a  smile,  "that,  in  a  free  country,  people  can't 
marry  whom  they  like,  without  being  hunted  down  as  if 
they  were  criminals.  However,  in  the  presence  instance 
the  lady  is  willing,  you  know,  and  that's  the  main  point,, 
after  all." 


946 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"Lady  willing!"  repeated  Trott,  mechanically. 
"How  do  you  know  tlie  lady  is  willing?" 

"  Come,  come,  that's  a  good  one,"  said  the  mayor,  be- 
nevolently tapping  Mr.  Trott  on  the  arm  with  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat  ;  "I  have  known  her,  well,  for  a  longtime  ; 
and  if  anybody  could  entertain  the  remotest  doubt  on 
the  subject,  I  assure  you  I  have  none,  nor  need  you 
have." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Trott,  ruminating.  "  This  is 
very  extraordinary  !  " 

Well,  Lord  Peter?"  said  the  mayor  rising. 

"Lord  Peter?"  repeated  Mr.  Trott. 

'«0h— ah,  I  forgot.  Mr.  Trott,  then— Trott — very 
good,  ha  !  ha  ! — Well,  sir,  the  chaise  shall  be  ready  at 
half  past  twelve." 

"  And  what  is  to  become  of  me  until  then  ?"  inquired 
Mr.  Trott,  anxiously.  "  Wouldn't  it  save  appearances, 
if  I  were  placed  under  some  restraint?" 

"  Ah  !  "  replied  Overton,  "  very  good  thought — capi- 
tal idea  indeed.  I'll  send  somebody  up  directly.  And 
if  you  make  a  little  resistance  when  we  put  you  in  the 
chaise  it  wouldn't  be  amiss — look  as  if  you  didn't  want 
to  be  taken  away,  you  know." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Trott — "  to  be  sure." 

"  Well,  my  lord,"  said  Overton,  in  a  low  tone,  "until 
then,  I  wish  your  lordship  a  good  evening." 

"Lord — lordship?"  ejaculated  Trott  again,  falling 
back  a  step  or  two,  and  gazing,  in  unutterable  wonder, 
on  the  countenance  of  the  mayor. 

"  Ha-ha  !  I  see,  my  lord — practising  the  madman  ? — 
very  good  indeed — very  vacant  look — capital,  my  lord, 
capital — good  evening,  Mr. — Trott — ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  That  mayor's  decidedly  drunk,"  soliloquised  Mr. 
Trott,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  in  an  altitude 
of  reflection. 

"He  is  a  much  cleverer  fellow  than  I  thought  him, 
that  young  nobleman — he  carries  it  off  uncommonly 
well,"  thought  Overton,  as  he  went  his  way  lo  the  bar, 
there  to  complete  his  arrangements.  This  was  soon 
done.  Every  word  of  the  story  was  implicitly  believed, 
and  the  one-eyed  boots  was  immediately  instructed  to 
repair  to  number  nineteen,  to  act  as  custodian  of  the 
person  of  the  supposed  lunatic  until  half-past  twelve 
o'clock.  In  pursuance  of  this  direction,  that  somewhat 
eccentric  gentleman  armed  himself  with  a  walking-stick 
of  gigantic  dimensions,  and  repaired  with  his  usual 
equanimity  of  manner,  to  Mr.  Trott's  apartment,  which 
he  entered  without  any  ceremony,  and  mounted  guard 
in,  by  quietly  depositing  himself  on  a  chair  near  the 
door,  where  he  proceeded  to  beguile  the  time  by  whist- 
ling a  popular  air  with  great  apparent  satisfaction. 

"  What  do  you  want  here,  you  scoundrel?"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Alexander  Trott,  with  a  proper  appearance  of  indig- 
nation at  his  detention. 

The  boots  beat  time  with  his  head,  as  he  looked  gently 
round  at  Mr.  Trott  with  a  smile  of  pity,  and  whistled  an 
adagio  movement. 

' '  Do  you  attend  in  this  room  by  Mr.  Overton's  desire  ?  " 
inquired  Trott,  rather  astonished  at  the  man's  demea- 
nour. 

"  Keep  yourself  to  yourself,  young  fellow,"  calmly 
responded  the  boots,  "  and  don't  say  nothin'  to  nobody." 
And  he  whistled  again. 

"Now,  mind  I "  ejaculated  Mr.  Trott,  anxious  to  keep 
up  the  farce  of  wishing  with  great  earnestness  to  fight  a 
duel  if  they'd  let  him.  "  I  protest  against  being  kept 
here.  I  deny  that  I  have  any  intention  of  fighting  with 
anybody.  But,  as  it's  useless  contending  with  superior 
numl)ers,  I  shall  sit  quietly  down." 

"You'd  better,"  observed  the  placid  boots,  shaking 
the  large  stick  expressively. 

"  Under  protest,  however,"  added  Alexander  Trott, 
seating  himself  with  indignation  in  his  face,  but  great 
content  in  his  heart.    "  Under  protest." 

"Oh,  certainly  1"  responded  the  boots;  "anything 
you  please.  If  you're  liappy,  I'm  transported ;  only 
don't  talk  too  much — it'll  make  you  worse." 

"Make  me  worse?"  exclaimed  Trott,  in  unfeigned 
astonishment :  "  the  man's  drunk  I  " 

"  You'd  better  be  quiet,  young  fellow,"  remarked  the 
boots,  going  through  a  threatening  piece  of  pantomime 
with  the  stick. 


"  Or  mad  !  "  said  Mr.  Trott,  rather  alarmed.  "Leave 

the  room,  sir,  and  tell  them  to  send  somebody  else." 
"  Won't  do  !  "  replied  the  boots. 

"  Leave  the  room  !  "  shouted  Trott,  ringing  the  bell 
violently  ;  for  he  began  to  be  alarmed  on  a  new  score. 

"  Leave  that  'ere  bell  alone,  you  wretched  loo-nattic  ! " 
said  the  boots,  suddenly  forcing  the  unfortunate  Trott 
back  into  his  chair,  and  brandishing  the  stick  aloft. 
"Be  quiet,  you mis'rable  object,  and  don't  let  everybody 
know  there's  a  madman  in  the  house." 

"  He  is  a  madman  !  He  is  a  madman  !  "  exclaimed 
the  terrified  Mr.  Trott,  gazing  on  the  one  eye  of  the  red- 
headed boots  with  a  look  of  abject  horror. 

"  Madman  !  "  replied  the  boots,  "dam'me,  I  think  he 
is  a  madman  with  a  vengeance  !  Listen  to  me,  you  un- 
fort'nate.  Ah  1  would  you?"  [a  slight  tap  on  the  head 
with  the  large  stick,  as  Mr.  Trott  made  another  move 
towards  the  bell-handle]  "  I  caught  you  there  !  did  I?" 

"  Spare  my  life  !  "  exclaimed  Trott,  raising  his  hands 
imploringly. 

"I  don't  want  your  life,"  replied  the  boots,  disdain- 
fully, "  though  I  think  it  'ud  be  a  charity  if  somebody 
took  it." 

"  No,  no,  it  wouldn't,"  interrupted  poor  Mr.  Trott, 
hurriedly  ;  "  no,  no,  it  wouldn't  1  I — I — 'd  rather  keep 
it  1" 

"Oh  worry  well,"  said  the  boots;  "that's  a  mere 
matter  of  taste — ev'ry  one  to  his  liking.  Hows'ever,  all 
I've  got  to  say  is  this  here  :  you  sit  quietly  down  in  that 
chair,  and  I'll  sit  hoppersite  you  here,  and  if  you  keep 
quiet  and  don't  stir,  I  won't  damage  you  ;  but  if  you 
move  hand  or  foot  till  half-past  twelve  o'clock,  I  shall 
alter  the  expression  of  your  countenance  so  completely, 
that  the  next  time  you  look  in  the  glass  you'll  ask  vether 
you've  gone  out  of  town,  and  ven  you're  likely  to  come 
back  again.    So  sit  down." 

"  I  will — I  will,"  responded  the  victim  of  mistakes  ; 
and  down  sat  Mr.  Trott  and  down  sat  the  boots  too,  ex- 
actly opposite  him,  with  the  stick  ready  for  immediate 
action  in  case  of  emergency. 

Long  and  dreary  were  the  hours  that  followed.  The 
bell  of  Great  Winglebury  church  had  just  struck  ten, 
and  two  hours  and  a  half  would  probably  elapse  before 
succor  arrived.  For  half  an  hour,  the  noise  occasioned 
by  shutting  up  the  shops  in  the  street  beneath,  beto- 
kened something  like  life  in  the  town,  and  rendered  Mr. 
Trott's  situation  a  little  less  insupportable  ;  but,  when 
even  these  ceased,  and  nothing  was  heard  beyond  the 
occasional  rattling  of  a  post-chaise  as  it  drove  up  the 
yard  to  change  horses,  and  then  drove  away  again,  or 
the  clattering  of  horses'  hoofs  in  the  stables  behind,  it 
became  almost  unbearable.  The  boots  occasionally 
moved  an  inch  or  two,  to  knock  superfluous  bits  of  wax 
off  the  candles,  which  were  burning  low,  but  instantan- 
eously resumed  his  former  position ;  and  as  he  remem- 
bered to  have  heard,  somewhere  or  other,  that  the 
human  eye  had  an  unfailing  efEect  in  controlling  mad 
people,  he  kept  his  solitary  organ  of  vision  constantly 
fixed  on  Mr.  Alexander  Trott.  That  unfortunate  indi- 
vidual stared  at  his  companion  in  his  turn,  until  his 
features  grew  more  and  more  indistinct — his  hair  gradu- 
ally less  red — and  the  room  more  misty  and  obscure. 
Mr.  Alexander  Trott  fell  into  a  sound  sleep,  from  which 
he  was  awakened  by  a  rumbling  in  the  street,  and  a  cry 
of  "  Chaise-and-four  for  number  twenty-five  ! "  A  bustle 
on  the  stairs  succeeded ;  the  room-door  was  hastily 
thrown  open  ;  and  Mr,  Joseph  Overton  entered,  followed 
by  four  stout  waiters,  and  Mrs.  Williamson  the  stout 
landlady  of  the  Winglebury  Arms. 

"Mr.  Overton!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Alexander  Trott, 
jumping  up  in  a  frenzy,  "  look  at  this  man,  sir  ;  consider 
the  situation  in  which  I  have  been  placed  for  three  hours 
past— the  person  you  sent  to  guard  me,  sir,  was  a  mad- 
man— a  madman— a  raging,  ravaging,  furious  madman." 

"  Bravo  !  "  whispered  Overton. 

"Poor  dear  !"  said  the  compassionate  Mrs.  William- 
son, "mad  people  always  thinks  other  people's  mad." 

"  Poor  dear  !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Alexander  Trott,  "  What 
the  devil  do  you  mean  by  poor  dear  I  Are  you  the  land- 
lady of  this  house?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  stout  old  lady,  "don't  exert 
yourself,  there's  a  dear  1  Consider  your  health,  now  ;  do." 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


947 


"  Exert  myself  !  "  shouted  Mr.  Alexander  Trott,  "  it's 
a  mercy,  ma'am,  that  I  have  any  breath  to  exert  myself 
with  1  I  might  have  been  assassinated  three  hours  at^o 
by  that  one-eyed  monster  with  the  oakum  head.  How 
dare  you  have  a  madman,  ma'am,  how  dare  you  liave  a 
madman,  to  assault  and  terrify  the  visitors  to  your 
house  ? " 

"I'll  never  have  another,"  said  Mrs.  Williamson,  cast- 
ing a  look  of  reproach  at  the  mayor. 

"Capital,  capital,"  whispered  Overton  again,  as 
he  enveloped  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  in  a  thick  travelling- 
cloak. 

"Capital,  sir  !"  exclaimed  Trott,  aloud,  "it's  horri- 
ble. The  very  recollection  makes  me  shudder.  I'd 
rather  fight  four  duels  in  three  hours,  if  I  survived  the 
first  three,  than  I'd  sit  for  that  time  face  to  face  with  a 
madman, " 

"  Keep  it  up,  my  lord,  as  you  go  down-stairs,'*  whis- 
pered Overton,  "  your  bill  is  paid,  and  your  portmanteau 
in  the  chaise."  And  then,  he  added  aloud,  "Now,  wait- 
ers, the  gentleman's  ready." 

At  this  signal,  the  waiters  crowded  round  Mr.  Alexan- 
der Trott.  One,  took  one  arm  ;  another,  the  other  ;  a 
third  walked  before  with  a  candle  ;  the  fourth,  behind, 
with  another  candle  :  the  boots  and  Mrs.  Williamson 
brought  up  the  rear  ;  and  down-stairs  they  went  :  Mr. 
Alexander  Trott,  expressing  alternately  at  the  very  top 
of  his  voice  either  his  feigned  reluctance  to  go,  or  his 
unfeigned  indignation  at  being  shut  up  with  a  madman. 

Mr.  Overton  was  waiting  at  the  chaise-door,  the  boys 
were  ready  mounted,  aud  a  few  ostlers  and  stable  non- 
descripts were  standing  round  to  witness  the  departure 
of  "the  mad  gentleman."  Mr.  Alexander  Trott's  foot 
was  on  the  step,  when  he  observed  (which  the  dim  light 
had  prevented  his  doing  before),  a  figure  seated  in  the 
chaise,  closely  muffled  up  in  a  cloak  like  his  own. 

"  Who's  that?"  he  inquired  of  Overton,  in  a  whisper. 

"Hush,  hush,"  replied  the  mayor  ;  "  the  other  party 
of  course. " 

"  The  other  party  !"  exclaimed  Trott,  with  an  effort 
to  retreat. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  you'll  soon  find  that  out  before  you  go  far 
I  should  think — but  make  a  noise,  you'll  excite  suspicion 
if  you  whisper  to  me  so  much." 

"I  won't  go  in  this  chaise  !"  shouted  Mr.  Alexander 
Trott,  all  his  original  fears  recurring  with  tenfold  vio- 
lence.   "  I  shall  be  assassinated— I  shall  be — " 

"  Bravo,  bravo,"  whispered  Overton.    "  I'll  push  you 

in. 

"  But  I  won't  go,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Trott.  "  Help  here, 
help  !  They're  carrying  me  away  against  my  will.  This 
is  a  plot  to  murder  me." 

"  Poor  dear  !  "  said  Mrs.  Williamson  again. 

"  Now,  boys,  put  'em  along,"  cried  the  mayor,  pushing 
Trott  in  and  slamming  the  door.  "Off  with  you,  as 
quick  as  you  can,  and  stop  for  nothing  till  you  come  to 
the  next  stage — all  right  1 " 

"  Horses  are  paid,  Tom,"  screamed  Mrs.  Williamson  ; 
and  away  went  the  chaise,  at  the  rate  of  fourteen  miles  an 
hour,  with  Mr.  Alexander  Trott  and  Miss  Julia  Manners 
carefully  shut  up  in  the  inside. 

Mr.  Alexander  Trott  remained  coiled  up  in  one  corner 
of  the  chaise,  and  his  mysterious  '''^inpanion  in  the  other, 
for  the  first  two  or  three  miles  ;  Mr.  Trott  edging  more 
and  more  into  his  corner,  as  he  felt  his  companion  grad- 
ually edging  more  and  more  from  hers  ;  and  vainly  en- 
deavouring in  the  darkness  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
furious  face  of  the  supposed  Horace  Hunter, 

"  We  may  speak  now,"  said  his  fellow  traveler,  at 
length  ;  "  the  post-boys  can  neither  see  nor  hear  us." 

"That's  not  Hunter's  voice!" — thought  Alexander, 
astonished. 

"  Dear  Lord  Peter  !  "  said  Miss  Julia,  most  winningly: 
putting  her  arm  on  Mr.  Trott's  shoulder.  "Dear  Lord 
Peter.    Not  a  word  ?  " 

"  Why,  it's  a  woman  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Trott,  in  a  low 
tone  of  excessive  wonder. 

"  Ah  I  Whose  voice  is  that?"  said  Julia;  "'tis  not 
Lord  Peter's." 

"No, — it's  mine,"  replied  Mr.  Trott. 

"  Yours  ! "  ejaculated  Miss  Julia  Manners  ;  "  a  strange 
man  1   Gracious  Heaven  1   How  came  you  here  ?" 


"Whoever  you  are,  you  might  have  known  that  I 
came  against  my  will,  ma'am,"  replied  Alexander,  "  for 
I  made  noise  enough  when  I  got  in." 

"Do  you  come  from  Lord  Peter?"  inquired  Miss 
Manners. 

"  Confound  Lord  Peter,"  replied  Trott,  pettishly.  "  I 
don't  know  any  Lord  Peter.  I  never  heard  heard  of  him 
before  to-night,  when  I've  been  Lord  Peter'd  by  one  and 
Lord  Peter'd  by  another,  till  I  verily  believe  I'm  mad,  or 
dreaming — " 

"Whither  are  Ave  going?"  inquired  the  lady  tragic- 
ally. 

"  How  should  /  know,  ma'am  ? '*  replied  Trott  with 
singular  coolness ;  for  the  events  of  the  evening  had 
completely  hardened  him. 

"  Stop  1  stop  !  "  cried  the  lady,  letting  down  the  front 
glasses  of  the  chaise. 

"  Stay,  my  dear  ma'am  !"  said  Mr.  Trott,  pulling  the 
glasses  up  again  with  one  hand,  and  gently  squeezing 
Miss  Julia's  waist  with  the  other.  "  There  is  some  mis- 
take here  ;  give  me  till  the  end  of  this  stage  to  explain 
my  share  of  it.  We  must  go  so  far  ;  you  cannot  be  set 
down  here  alone,  at  this  hour  of  the  night." 

The  lady  consented  ;  the  mistake  was  mutually  ex- 
plained. Mr.  Trott  was  a  young  man,  had  highly  prom- 
ising whiskers,  an  undeniable  tailor,  and  an  insinuating 
address — he  wanted  nothing  but  valour,  and  who  wants 
that  with  three  thousand  a  year?  The  lady  had  this, 
and  more  ;  she  wanted  a  young  husband,  and  the  only 
course  open  to  Mr.  Trott  to  retrieve  his  disgrace  was  a 
rich  wife.  So,  they  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would 
be  a  pity  to  have  all  this  trouble  and  expense  for  noth- 
ing ;  and  that  as  they  were  so  far  on  the  road  already, 
they  had  better  go  to  Gretna  Green  and  marry  each 
other ;  and  they  did  so.  And  the  very  next  preceding 
entry  in  the  Blacksmith's  book,  was  an  entry  of  the 
marriage  of  Emily  Brown  with  Horace  Hunter.  Mr. 
Hunter  took  his  wife  home,  and  begged  pardon,  and  icas 
pardoned  ;  and  Mr.  Trott  took  Ms  wife  home,  begged 
pardon  too,  and  was  pardoned  also.  And  Lord  Peter, 
who  had  been  detained  beyond  his  time  by  drinking 
champagne  and  riding  a  steeple-chase,  went  back  to  the 
Honourable  Augustus  Flair's  and  drank  more  champagne, 
and  rode  another  steeple-chase,  and  was  thrown  and 
killed.  And  Horace  Hunter  took  great  credit  to  himself 
for  practising  on  the  cowardice  of  Alexander  Trott ;  and 
all  these  circumstances  were  discovered  in  time,  and 
carefully  noted  down  ;  and  if  you  ever  stop  a  week  at 
the  Winglebury  Arms,  they  will  give  you  just  this  ac- 
count of  The  Great  Winglebury  Duel. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Mrs.  Joseph  Porter. 

Most  extensive  were  the  preparations  at  Rose  Villa, 
Clapham  Rise,  in  the  occupation  of  Mr.  Gattleton  (a 
stockbroker  in  especially  comfortable  circumstances),  and 
great  was  the  anxiety  of  Mr.  Gattleton's  interesting 
family,  as  the  day  fixed  for  the  representation  of  the 
Private  Play  which  had  been  "many  months  in  prepar- 
ation," approached.  The  whole  family  was  infected 
with  the  mania  for  private  Theatricals  ;  the  house,  usu- 
ally so  clean  and  tidy,  was,  to  use  Mr.  Gattleton's  ex- 
pressive description,  "  regularly  turned  out  o'  windows  ;" 
the  large  dining-room,  dismantled  of  its  furniture  and 
ornaments,  presented  a  strange  jumble  of  flats,  flies, 
wings,  lamps,  bridges,  clouds,  thunder  and  lightning, 
festoons  and  flowers,  daggers  and  foil,  and  various  other 
messes  in  theatrical  slang  included  under  the  compre- 
hensive name  of  "properties."  The  bed-rooms  were 
crowded  w^ith  scenery,  the  kitchen  was  occupied  by  car- 
penters. Rehearsals'  took  place  every  other  night  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  every  sofa  in  the  house  was  more  or 
less  damaged  by  the  perseverance  and  spirit  with  Vvhich 
Mr.  Sempronius  Gattleton,  and  Miss  Lucina,  rehearsed 
the  smothering  scene  in  "  Othello  " — it  having  been  de- 
termined that  that  tragedy  should  form  the  first  portion 
of  the  evening's  entertainments. 

"When  we're  a  leetU  more  perfect,  I  think  it  will 


948 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


go  admirably,"  said  Mr.  Serapronius,  addressing  liis 
corps  dramatique,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  hundred  and 
fiftieth  rehearsal.  In  consideration  of  his  sustaining 
the  trifling  inconvenience  of  bearing  all  the  expenses  of 
the  play,  Mr.  Sempronius  had  been,  in  the  most  hand- 
some manner,  unanimously  elected  stage  -  manager. 
"Evans,"  continued  Mr.  Gattleton,  the  younger,  ad- 
dressing a  tall,  thin,  pale  young  gentleman,  with  exten- 
sive whiskers.  "Evans,  you  play  Boderigo  beauti- 
fully." 

"Beautifully!"  echoed  the  three  Miss  Gattletons ; 
for  Mr.  Evans  was  pronounced  by  all  his  lady  friends  to 
be  "quite  a  dear."  He  looked  so  interesting,  and  had 
such  lovely  whiskers  :  to  say  nothing  of  his  talent  for 
writing  verses  in  albums  and  playing  the  flute.  Roderigo 
simpered  and  bowed. 

"  But  I  think,"  added  the  manager,  "you  are  hardly 
perfect  in  the — fall — in  the  fencing-scene,  where  you 
are — you  understand  ?  " 

"It's  very  difficult,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  thoughtfully; 
"  I've  fallen  about,  a  good  deal,  in  our  counting-house 
lately  for  practice,  only  I  find  it  hurts  one  so.  Being 
obliged  to  fall  backwards  you  see,  it  bruises  one's  head 
a  good  deal." 

"But  you  must  take  care  you  don't  knock  a  wing 
down,"  said  Mr.  Gattleton,  the  elder,  who  had  been 
appointed  prompter,  and  who  took  as  much  interest  in 
the  play  as  the  youngest  of  the  company.  "  The  stage 
is  very  narrow,  you  know. " 

"Oh  !  don't  be  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  with  a  very 
self-satisfied  air  :  "  I  shall  fall  with  m.y  head  *  off,'  and 
then  I  can't  do  any  harm." 

"But,  egad  !"  said  the  manager,  rubbing  his  hands, 
"we  shall  made  a  decided  hit  in  '  Masaniello.'  Har- 
leigh  sings  that  music  admirably." 

Everybody  echoed  the  sentiment.  Mr.  Harleigh 
smiled,  and  looked  foolish — not  an  unusual  thing  with 
him — hummed  '  Behold  how  brightly  breaks  the  morn- 
ing,' and  blushed  as  red  as  the  fisherman's  nightcap  he 
was  trying  on. 

"Let's  see,"  resumed  the  manager,  telling  the  num- 
ber on  his  fingers,  "  we  shall  have  three  dancing  female 
peasants,  besides  Fenella,  and  four  fishermen.  Then, 
there's  our  man  Tom  ;  he  can  have  a  pair  of  ducks  of 
mine,  and  a  check  shirt  of  Bob's,  and  a  red  nightcap, 
and  he'll  do  for  another — that's  five.  In  the  choruses, 
of  course,  we  can  sing  at  the  sides  ;  and  in  the  market- 
scene,  we  can  walk  about  in  cloaks  and  things.  When 
the  revolt  takes  place,  Tom  must  keep  rushing  in  on 
one  side  and  out  on  the  other,  with  a  pickaxe,  as  fast  as 
he  can.  The  effect  will  be  electrical  ;  it  will  look  ex- 
actly as  if  there  were  an  immense  number  of  'em.  And 
in  the  eruption  scene  we  must  burn  the  red  fire,  and 
upset  the  tea-trays,  and  make  all  sorts  of  noises— and 
it's  sure  to  do." 

"  Sure  !  sure  !  "  cried  all  the  performers  und  wee — 
and  away  hurried  Mr.  Sempronius  Gattleton  to  wash 
the  burnt  cork  off  his  face,  and  superintend  the  "  set- 
ting up  "  of  some  of  the  amateur-painted,  and  never-suf- 
ficiently-to-be admired,  scenery. 

Mrs.  Gattleton  was  a  kind,  good-tempered,  vulgar 
soul,  exceedingly  fond  of  her  husband  and  children, 
and  entertaining  only  three  dislikes.  In  the  first  place 
she  had  a  natural  antipathy  to  anybody  else's  unmarried 
daughters  ;  in  the  second,  she  was  in  bodily  fear  of  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  ridicule  ;  lastly — almost  a  necessary 
consequence  of  this  feeling — she  regarded,  with  feelings 
of  the  utmost  horror,  one  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter  over  tlie 
way.  However,  the  good  folks  of  Clapham  and  its 
vicinity  stood  very  much  in  awe  of  scandal  and  sar- 
casm ;  and  thus  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter  was  courted,  and 
flattered,  and  caressed,  and  invited,  for  much  tlie  same 
reason  that  induces  a  poor  author,  without  a  farthing  in 
his  pocket,  to  behave  with  extraordinary  civility  to  a 
two-penny  postman. 

"  Never  mind,  ma,"  said  Miss  Emma  Porter  in  collo- 
quy with  her  respected  relative,  and  trying  to  look  un- 
concerned ;  "if  they  had  invited  me,  you  know  that 
neither  you  nor  pa  would  have  allowed  me  to  take  jjart 
in  such  an  exhibition." 

"Just  what  I  should  have  thought  from  your  high 
Bense  of  propriety,"  returned  the  mother.    "  I  am  glad 


to  see,  Emma,  you  know  how  to  designate  the  proceed- 
ing." Miss  P.,  by-the-by,  had  only  the  week  before 
made  "an  exhibition"  of  herself  for  four  days,  behind 
a  counter  at  a  fancy  fair,  to  all  and  every  of  her 
Majesty's  liege  subjects  who  were  disposed  to  pay  a 
shilling  each  for  the  privilege  of  seeing  some  four  dozen 
girls  flirting  with  strangers,  and  playing  at  shop. 

"  There  !  "  said  Mrs.  Porter,  looking  out  of  window  ; 
"there  are  two  rounds  of  beef  and  a  ham  going  in — 
clearly  for  sandwiches  and  Thomas,  the  pastry-cook, 
says,  there  have  been  tAviBlve  dozen  tarts  ordered,  besides 
blanc-mange  and  jellies.  Upon  my  word  !  think  of  the 
Miss  Gattletons  in  fancy  dresses,  too  !  " 

"Oh,  it's  too  ridiculous  !"  said  Miss  Porter,  hysteri- 
cally. 

"  I'll  manage  to  put  them  a  little  out  of  conceit  with 
the  business,  however,"  said  Mrs.  Porter  ;  and  out  she 
went  on  her  charitable  errand. 

"Well,  my  dear  Mrs.  Gattleton,"  said  Mrs.  Joseph 
Porter,  after  they  had  been  closeted  for  some  time,  and 
when,  by  dint  of  indefatigable  pumping,  she  had  man- 
aged to  extract  all  the  news  about  the  play,  "  well,  my 
dear,  people  may  say  what  they  please  ;  indeed  we 
know  they  will,  for  some  folks  are  so  ill-natured.  Ah,  my 
dear  Miss  Lucina,  how  d'ye  do?  I  was  just  telling 
your  mamma  tliat  I  have  heard  it  said,  that — " 

"What?" 

"  Mrs.  Porter  is  alluding  to  the  play,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Gattleton  ;  "  she  was,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  just  in- 
forming me  that — " 

"Oh,  now  pray  don't  mention  it,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Porter  ;  "  it's  most  absurd — quite  as  absurd  as  young 
What's-his-name  saying  he  wondered  how  Miss  Caroline, 
with  such  a  foot  and  ankle,  could  have  the  vanity  to 
play  Fenella." 

"Highly  impertinent,  whoever  said  it,"  said  Mrs, 
Gattleton,  bridling  up. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,"  chimed  in  the  delighted  Mrs. 
Porter  ;  "  most  undoubtedly  I  Because,  as  I  said,  if 
Miss  Caroline  does  play  Fenella.  it  doesn't  follow,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  that  she  should  think  she  has  a  pretty 
foot  ;  and  then — such  puppies  as  these  young  men  are — 
he  had  the  impudence  to  say,  that — " 

How  far  the  amiable  Mrs.  Porter  might  have  suc- 
ceeded in  her  pleasant  purpose,  it  is  impossible  to  say, 
had  not  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Thomas  Balderstone,  Mrs. 
Gattleton's  brother  familiarly  called  in  the  family 
"  Uncle  Tom,"  changed  the  course  of  conversation,  and 
suggested  to  her  mind  an  excellent  plan  of  operation  on. 
the  evening  of  the  play. 

Uncle  Tom  was  very  rich,  and  exceedingly  fond  of  his 
nephews  and  nieces  :  as  a  matter  of  course,  therefore, 
he  was  an  object  of  great  importance  in  his  own  family. 
He  was  one  of  the  best-hearted  men  in  existence  ;  al- 
ways in  a  good  temper  and  always  talking.  It  was  his 
boast  that  he  wore  top-boots  on  all  occasions,  and  had 
never  worn  a  black  silk  neckkerchief  ;  and  it  was  his 
pride  that  he  remembered  all  the  principal  plays  of 
Shakspeare  from  beginning  to  end — and  so  he  did.  The 
result  of  this  parrot-like  acomplishment  was  that  he 
was  not  only  perpetually  quoting  himself,  but  that  he 
could  never  sit  by  and  hear  a  misquotation  from  the 
"  Swan  of  Avon  "  without  setting  the  unfortunate  delin- 
quent right.  He  was  also  something  of  a  wag  ;  never 
missed  an  opportunity  of  saying  what  he  considered  a  | 
good  thing,  and  invariably  laughed  until  he  cried  at.  j 
anything  that  appeared  to  him  mirth-moving  or  ridicu-1 
lous.  j 

"  Well  girls?"  said  Uncle  Tom,  after  the  preparatory  1 
ceremony  of  kissing  and  how-d'ye-do-ing  had  been  gone  | 
through — "  how  d'ye  get  on  ?    Know  your  parts,  eh  ? — 
Lucina,  my  dear,  act  ii.,  scene  1 — place,  left — cue — 
'Unknown   fate, '--What's   next,  eh  ?— Go   on— 'The 
heavens — ' " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Miss  Lucina,  "  I  recollect — 

'The  heavens  forbid 
Rut  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should  increase 
Even  as  our  days  do  grow  ! '  " 

"  Make  a  pause  here  and  there,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, who  was  a  great  critic.  '  But  that  our  loves  and 
comforts  should  increase  ' — emphasis  on  the  last  syllable. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


949 


'crease/ — loud  'even' — one,  two,  three,  four;  then 
loud  again,  '  as  our  days  do  grow  emphasis  on  days. 
That's  the  way,  my  dear  ;  trust  to  your  uncle  for  em- 
phasis.   Ah  !  Sem,  my  boy,  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  thankee  uncle,"  returned  Mr.  Sempronius 
had  just  appeared,  looking  something  like  a  ring  dove 
with  a  small  circle  round  each  eye  ;  the  result  of  his 
constant  corking.  "  Of  course,  we  see  you  on  Thurs- 
day." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear  boy." 

"  What  a  pity  it  is  your  nephew  didn't  think  of  mak- 
ing yoLi  prompter,  Mr.  Balderstone  ! "  whispered  Mrs. 
Joseph  Porter  ;  "you  would  have  been  invaluable." 

"  Well,  I  flatter  myself  I  should  have  been  tolerably 
up  to  the  thing,"  responded  Uncle  Tom. 

"I  must  bespeak  sitting  next  you  on  the  night,"  re- 
sumed Mrs.  Porter;  "and  then,  if  our  dear  young 
friends  here,  should  be  at  all  wrong  you  will  be  able  to 
enlighten  me.    I  shall  be  so  interested." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  give  you  any  as- 
sistance in  my  power." 

"Mind,  it's  a  bargain." 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is  "  said  Mrs.  Gattleton  to  her 
daughters,  as  they  were  sitting  round  the  fire  in  the 
evening,  looking  over  their  parts,  "  but  I  really  very 
much  wish  Mrs.  Porter  wasn't  coming  on  Thursday.  I 
am  sure  she's  scheming  something." 

"  She  can't  make  us  ridiculous,  however,"  observed 
Mr.  Sempronius  Gattleton,  haughtily. 

The  long-looked-for  Thursday  arrived  in  due  course, 
and  brought  with  it,  as  Mr,  Gattleton,  senior,  philoso- 
phically observed,  "no  disappointments  to  speak  of." 
True,  it  was  yet  a  matter  of  doubt  whether  Cassio  would 
be  enabled  to  get  into  the  dress  which  had  been  sent  for 
him  from  the  masquerade  warehouse.  It  was  equally 
uncertain  whether  the  principal  female  singer  would  be 
sufficiently  recovered  from  the  influenza  to  make  her 
appearance  ;  Mr.  Harleigh,  the  Masaniello  of  the  night, 
was  hoarse,  and  rather  unwell,  in  consequence  of  the 
great  quantity  of  lemon  and  sugar  candy  he  had  eaten 
to  improve  his  voice  ;  and  two  flutes  and  a  violoncello 
had  pleaded  severe  colds.  What  of  that?  the  audience 
were  all  coming.  Everybody  knew  his  part ;  the  dresses 
were  covered  with  tinsel  and  spangles  ;  the  white 
plumes  looked  beautiful  ;  Mr.  Evans  had  practised  fall- 
ing until  he  was  bruised  from  head  to  foot  and  quite 
perfect;  lago  was  sure  that  in  the  stabbing-scene,  he 
should  make  "  a  decided  hit."  A  self-taught  deaf  gen- 
tleman, who  had  kindly  offered  to  bring  his  flute,  would 
be  a  most  valuable  addition  to  the  orchestra  ;  Miss  Jen- 
kins's talent  for  the  piano  was  too  well  known  to  be 
doubted  for  an  instant  ;  Mr.  Cape  had  practiced  the 
violin  accompaniment  with  her,  frequently  ;  and  Mr. 
Brown,  who  had  kindly  undertaken,  at  a  few  hours' 
notice,  to  bring  his  violoncello,  would,  no  doubt,  manage 
extremely  well. 

Seven  o'clock  came,  and  so  did  the  audience  ;  all  the 
rank  and  fashion  of  Clapham  and  its  vicinity  was  fast 
filling  the  theatre.  There  were  the  Smiths,  the  Gubbin- 
ses,  the  Nixons,  the  Dixons,  the  Hicksons,  people  with 
all  sorts  of  names,  two  alderman,  a  sheriff  in  perspec- 
tive, Sir  Thomas  Glumper  (wlio  had  been  knighted  in 
the  last  reign  for  carrying  up  an  address  on  somebody's 
escaping  from  nothing)  ;  and  last  not  least,  there  were 
Mrs.  Joseph  Porter  and  Uncle  Tom,  seated  in  the  centre 
of  the  third  row  from  the  stage  ;  Mrs.  P.  amusing  Uncle 
Tom  with  all  sorts  of  stories,  and  Uncle  Tom  amusing 
every  one  else  by  laughing  most  immoderately. 

Ting,  ting,  ting !  went  the  prompter's  bell  at  eight 
o'clock  precisely,  and  dash  went  the  orchestra  into  the 
overture  to  "The  Men  of  Prometheus."  The  pianoforte 
player  hammered  away  with  laudable  perseverance  ;  and 
the  violoncello,  which  struck  in  at  intervals,  "sounded 
very  well  considering."  The  unfortunate  individual, 
however,  who  had  undertaken  to  play  the  flute  accom- 
paniment "at  sight,"  found  from  fatal  experience,  the 
perfect  truth  of  the  old  adage,  "out  of  sight,  out  of 
mind  ; "  for  being  very  near-sighted,  and  being  placed 
at  a  considerable  distance  from  his  music-book,  all  he 
had  an  opportunity  of  doing  was  to  play  a  bar  now  and 
then  in  the  wrong  place,  and  put  the  other  performers 


out.  It  is,  however,  but  justice  to  Mr.  Brown  to  say 
that  he  did  this  to  admiration.  The  overture,  in  fact, 
was  not  unlike  a  race  between  the  different  instruments  ; 
the  piano  came  in  first  by  several  bars,  and  the  violon- 
cello next,  quite  distancing  the  poor  flute  ;  for  the  deaf 
gentleman  too-too'd  away,  quite  unconscious  that  he  was 
at  all  wrong,  until  apprised  by  the  applause  of  the  audi- 
ence, that  the  overture  was  concluded.  A  considerable 
bustle  and  shuffling  of  feet  was  then  heard  upon  the 
stage,  accompanied  by  whispers  of  "Here's  a  x^retty  go  I 
— what's  to  be  done?"  &c.  The  audience  ax)plauded 
again,  by  wa}'  of  raising  the  spirits  of  the  performers  ; 
and  then  Mr.  Sempronius  desired  the  prompter,  in  a  very 
audible  voice,  to  "  clear  the  stage,  and  ring  up." 

Ting,  ting,  ting  !  went  the  bell  again.  Everybody 
sat  down  ;  the  curtain  shook  ;  rose  sufficiently  high  to 
display  several  pair  of  yellow  boots  paddling  about ;  and 
there  remained. 

Ting,  ting,  ting  !  went  the  bell  again.  The  curtain 
was  violently  convulsed,  but  rose  no  higher  1  the  audi- 
ence tittered  ;  Mrs,  Porter  looked  at  Uncle  Tom  ;  Uncle 
Tom  looked  at  everybody,  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
laughing  with  perfect  rapture.  After  as  much  ringing 
with  the  little  bell  as  a  muffin-boy  would  make  in  going 
down  a  tolerably  long  street,  and  a  vast  deal  of  whisper- 
ing, hammering,  and  calling  for  nails  and  cord,  the  cur- 
tain, at  length  rose  and  discovered  Mr.  Sempronius  Gat- 
tleton, solus,  and  decked  for  Othello.  After  three  dis- 
tinct rounds  of  applause,  during  which  Mr,  Sempronius 
applied  his  right  hand  to  his  left  breast,  and  bowed  in 
the  most  approved  manner,  the  manager  advanced,  and 
said  : 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen — I  assure  you  it  is  with  sin- 
cere regret,  that  I  regret  to  be  compelled  to  inform  you, 
that  lago  who  was  to  have  played  Mr,  Wilson — I  beg  your 
pardon.  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  but  I  am  naturally  some- 
what agitated  (applause) — I  mean,  Mr,  Wilson,  who  was 
to  have  played  lago,  is — that  is,  has  been — or,  in  other 
words.  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  the  fact  is,  that  I  have 
just  received  a  note,  in  which  I  am  informed  that  Ingo 
is  unavoidably  detained  at  the  Post-office  this  evening. 
Under  these  circumstances,  I  trust — a — a — amateur  per- 
formance— a — another  gentleman  undertaken  to  read  the 
part — requests  indulgence  for  a  short  time — courtesy  and 
kindness  of  a  British  audience,"  Overwhelming  ap- 
plause. Exit  Mr.  Sempronius  Gattleton,  and  curtain 
falls. 

The  audience  were,  of  course,  exceedingly  good-hu- 
moured ;  the  whole  business  was  a  joke  ;  and  according- 
ly they  waited  for  an  hour  with  the  utmost  patience, 
being  enlivened  by  an  interlude  of  rout-cakes  and  lemon- 
ade. It  appeared  by  Mr.  Sempronius's  subsequent  ex- 
planation, that  the  delay  would  not  have  been  so  great, 
had  it  not  so  happened  that  when  the  substitute  lago 
had  finished  dressing,  and  just  as  the  play  was  on  the 
point  of  commencing,  the  original  lago  unexpectedly 
arrived.  The  former  was  therefore  compelled  to  undress, 
and  the  latter  to  dress  for  his  part ;  which  as  he  found 
some  difficulty  in  getting  into  his  clothes,  occupied  no 
inconsiderable  time.  At  last,  the  tragedy  began  in  real 
earnest.  It  went  off  well  enough,  until  the  third  scene 
of  the  first  act,  in  which  Othello  addresses  the  Senate  : 
the  only  remarkable  circumstance  being,  that  as  lago 
could  not  get  on  any  of  the  stage  boots,  in  consequence 
of  his  feet  being  violently  swelled  with  the  heat  and  ex- 
citement, he  w^as  under  the  necessity  of  playing  the  part 
in  a  pair  of  Wellingtons,  which  contrasted  rather  oddly 
with  his  richly  embroidered  pantaloons.  When  Othello 
started  with  his  address  to  the  Senate  (whose  dignity 
was  represented  by  the  Duke,  a  carpenter,  two  men  en- 
gaged on  the  recommendation  of  the  gardener,  and  a 
boy),  Mrs.  Porter  found  the  opportunity  she  so  anxiously 
sought. 

Mr.  Sempronius  proceeded  : 

"  '  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors, 
My  very  noble  and  approved  good  masters?, 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter. 
It  is  most  true  ;— rude  am  I  in  my  speech—'  " 

"Is  that  right?"  whispered  Mrs.  Porter  to  Uncle 
Tom. 
"No." 


950 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"Tell  him  so,  then." 

'•I  will.  Sem?"  called  Uncle  Tom,  "that's  wrong, 
my  boy." 

"'  What's  wrong.  Uncle?"  demanded  Othello,  quite 
forgetting  the  dignity  of  the  situation. 

"  You've  left  out'  something.  '  True  I  have  mar- 
ried— ' " 

"Oh,  ah!"  said  Mr,  Sempronius,  endeavouring  to 
hide  his  confusion  as  much  and  as  ineffectually  as  the 
audience  attempted  to  conceal  their  half -suppressed  tit- 
tering, by  coughing  with  extraordinary  violence — 

 "  'true  I  have  niarriod  her  ;— 

"  The  very  head  and  front  of  ray  offending 
Hath  this  extent ;  no  more.' 

{AMe)  Why  don't  you  prompt,  father  ?  " 

"  Because  I've  mislaid  my  spectacles,"  said  poor  Mr. 
Gattleton,  almost  dead  with  the  heat  and  bustle. 

"There,  now  it's  'rude  am  I,'  "  said  Uncle  Tom. 

"Yes,  I  know  it  is,"  returned  the  unfortunate  mana- 
ger, proceeding  with  his  part. 

It  would  be  useless  and  tiresome  to  quote  the  number 
of  instances  in  which  Uncle  Tom,  now  completely  in  his 
element,  and  instigated  by  the  mischievous  Mrs.  Por- 
ter, corrected  the  mistakes  of  the  performers  ;  suffice  it 
to  say,  that  having  mounted  his  hobby,  nothing  could 
induce  him  to  dismount  ;  so,  during  the  whole  re- 
mainder of  the  play,  he  performed  a  kind  of  running  ac- 
companiment, by  muttering  everybody's  part  as  it  was 
being  delivered,  in  an  undertone.  The  audience  were 
highly  amused,  Mrs.  Porter  delighted,  the  performers 
embarrassed  :  Uncle  Tom  never  was  better  pleased  in 
all  his  life  ;  and  Uncle  Tom's  nephews  and  nieces  had 
never,  although  the  declared  heirs  to  his  large  proper- 
ty, so  heartily  wished  him  gathered  to  his  fathers  as  on 
that  memoraijle  occasion. 

Several  other  minor  causes,  too,  united  to  damp  the 
ardour  of  the  dramatis  personcE.  None  of  the  performers 
could  walk  in  their  tights,or  move  their  arms  in  their  jack- 
ets ;  the  pantaloons  were  too  small,  the  boots  too  large, 
and  the  swords  of  all  shapes  and  sizes.  Mr.  Evans,  nat- 
urally too  tall  for  the  scenery,  wore  a  black  velvet  hat 
with  immense  white  plumes,  the  glory  of  which  was 
lost  in  "  the  flies  ;  "  and  the  only  other  inconvenience  of 
which  was,  that  when  it  was  off  his  head  he  could  not 
put  it  on,  and  when  it  was  on  he  could  not  take  it  off. 
Notwithstanding  all  his  practice,  too,  he  fell  with  his 
head  and  shoulders  as  neatly  through  one  of  the  side 
scenes,  as  a  harlequin  would  jump  through  a  .panel  in  a 
Christmas  pantomime.  The  pianoforte  player,  overpow- 
ered by  the  extreme  heat  of  the  room,  fainted  away  at 
the  commencement  of  the  entertainment,  leaving  the 
music  of  "Masaniello"  to  the  flute  and  violoncello. 
The  orchestra  complained  that  Mr.  Harleigh  put  them 
out,  and  Mr.  Harleigh  declared  that  the  orchestra  pre- 
vented his  singing  a  note.  The  fishermen,  who  w^ere 
hired  for  the  occasion,  revolted  to  the  very  life,  posi- 
tively refusing  to  play  without  increased  allowance  of 
spirits  ;  and,  their  demand  being  complied  with,  getting 
drunk  in  the  eruption  scene  as  naturally  as  possible. 
The  red  fire,  which  was  burnt  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
second  act,  not  only  nearly  suffocated  the  audience,  but 
nearly  set  the  house  on  fire  into  the  bargain  :  and,  as  it 
was,  the  remainder  of  the  piece  was  acted  in  a  thick 
fog. 

In  short,  the  whole  affair  was,  as  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter 
triumphantly  told  everybody,  "a  complete  failure." 
The  audience  went  home  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
exhausted  with  laughter,  suffering  from  severe  head- 
aches, and  smelling  terribly  of  brimstone  and  gunpow- 
der. The  Messrs.  Gattleton,  senior  and  junior,  retired 
to  rest,  with  the  vaguo  idea  of  emigrating  to  Swan 
River  early  in  the  ensuing  week. 

Rose  Villa  has  once  again  resumed  its  wonted  appear- 
ance :  the  dining-room  furniture  has  been  replaced ; 
the  tables  are  as  neatly  polished  as  formerly  :  the  horse- 
hair chairs  are  ranged  against  the  wall,  as  regular- 
ly as  ever  ;  Venetian  blinds  have  been  fitted  to  every 
window  in  the  house  to  intercept  the  prying  gaze  of  Mrs. 
Jose7)h  Porter.  The  subject  of  theatricals  is  never 
mentioned  in  the  Gattleton  family,  unless,  indeed,  by 
Uncle  Tom,  who  cannot  refrain  from  sometimes  expres- 


sing his  surprise  and  regret  at  finding  that  his  nephews 
and  nieces  appear  to  have  lost  the  relish  they  once  pos- 
sessed for  the  beauties  of  Shakespeare,  and  quotations 
from  the  works  of  that  immortal  bard. 


CHAPTER  X. 
A  Passage  in  the  Life  of  Mr.  Watkins  Totile. 
CHAPTER  THE  FIRST. 

Matrimony  is  proverbially  a  serious  undertaking. 
Like  an  overweening  predilection  for  brandy-and -water, 
it  is  a  misfortune  into  which  a  man  easily  falls,  and 
from  which  he  finds  it  remarkably  difficult  to  extricate 
himself.  It  is  of  no  use  telling  a  man  who  is  timorous  on 
these  points,  that  it  is  but  one  plunge,  and  all  is  over. 
They  say  the  same  thing  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  the  un- 
fortunate victims  derive  as  much  comfort  from  the 
assurance  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  was  a  rather  uncommon  compound 
of  strong  uxorious  inclinations,  and  an  unparalleled  de- 
gree of  anti-connubial  timidity.  He  was  about  fifty  years 
of  age  ;  stood  four  feet  six  inches  and  three-quarters  in 
his  socks — for  he  never  stood  in  stockings  at  all — plump, 
clean,  and  rosy.  He  looked  something  like  a  vignette  to 
one  of  Richardson's  novels,  and  had  a  clean-cravatish 
formality  of  manner,  and  kitchen -pokerness  of  carriage, 
w^hich  Sir  Charles  Grandison  himself  might  have  envied. 
He  lived  on  an  annuity,  w^hich  was  well-adapted  to  the 
individual  who  received  it,  in  one  respect — it  was  rather 
small.  He  received  it  in  periodical  payments  on  every 
alternate  Monday  ;  but  he  ran  himself  out,  about  a  day 
after  the  expiration  of  the  first  week,  as  regularly  as  an 
eight  day  clock  ;  and  then,  to  make  the  comparison  com- 
plete, his  landlady  wound  him  ujj,  and  he  went  on  with 
a  regular  tick. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  had  long  lived  in  a  state  of  single 
blessedness,  as  bachelors  say,  or  single  cursedness,  as 
spinsters  think  ;  but  the  idea  of  matrimony  had  never 
ceased  to  haunt  him.  Wrapt  in  profound  reveries  on 
this  never-failing  theme,  fancy  transformed  his  small 
parlour  in  Cecil -street, Strand, into  a  neat  house  in  the  sub- 
urbs ;  the  half-hundredweight  of  coals  under  the  kitchen- 
stairs  suddenly  sprang  up  into  three  tons  of  the  best 
Walls-end  ;  his  small  French  bedstead  was  converted 
into  a  regular  matrimonial  four-poster  ;  and  in  the  empty 
chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire-place,  imagination 
seated  a  beautiful  young  lady, with  a  very  little  indepen- 
dence or  will  of  her  own,  and  a  very  large  independence 
under  a  will  of  her  father's. 

"Who's  there?"  inquired  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  as  a 
gentle  tap  at  his  room-door  disturbed  these  meditations 
one  evening. 

"Tottle,  my  dear  fellow,  how  do  you  do?"  said  a 
short  elderly  gentleman  with  a  gruffish  voice,  bursting 
into  the  room,  and  replying  to  the  question  by  asking 
another. 

"Told  you  I  should  drop  in  some  evening,"  said  the 
short  gentleman,  as  he  delivered  his  hat  into  Tottle's 
hand,  after  a  little  struggling  and  dodging. 

"  Delighted  to  see  you,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle,  wishing  internally  that  his  visitor  had  "  dropped 
in  "  to  the  Thames  at  the  bottom  of  the  street,  instead 
of  dropping  into  his  parlour.  The  fortnight  was  nearly 
up,  and  Watkins  was  hard  up. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Gabriel  Parsons?"  inquired  Tottle. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons, 
for  that  was  the  name  the  short  gentleman  revelled 
in.  Here  there  was  a  pause ;  the  short  gentleman 
looked  at  the  left  hob  of  the  fireplace  ;  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle  stared  vacancy  out  of  countenance. 

"Quite  well,"  repeated  the  short  gentleman,  when 
five  minutes  had  expired.  "  I  may  say  remarkably  well." 
And  he  rubbed  the  palms  of  his  hands  as  hard  as  if  he 
were  going  to  strike  a  light  by  friction. 

"  What  will  you  take  ?"  inquire  Tottle,  with  the  des- 
perate suddenness  of  a  man  who  knew  that  imless  the 
visitor  took  his  leave,  he  stood  very  little  chance  of 
taking  anything  elsa 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


951 


"Oh,  I  don't  know, — Have  you  any  whiskey?" 

"  Why,"  replied  Tottle,  very  slowly,  for  all  this  was 
gaining  time,  "  I  Jiad  some  capital,  and  remarkably 
strong  whiskey  last  week  ;  but  it's  all  gone — and  there- 
fore its  strength — " 

*'  Is  much  beyond  proof  ;  or,  in  other  words,  impossi- 
ble to  be  proved,"  said  the  short  gentleman  ;  and  he 
laughed  very  heartily,  and  seemed  quite  glad  the  whis- 
key had  been  drunk.  Mr.  Tottle  smiled — but  it  was 
the  smile  of  despair.  When  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  had 
done  laughing,  he  delicately  insinuated  that,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  whiskey,  he  would  not  be  averse  to  brandy. 
And  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  lighting  a  flat  candle  very  os- 
tentatiously ;  and  displaying  an  immense  key,  which  be- 
longed to  the  street-door,  but  which,  for  the  sake  of  ap- 
pearances, occasionally  did  duty  in  an  imaginary  wine- 
cellar  ;  left  the  room  to  entreat  his  landlady  to  charge 
their  glasses,  and  charge  them  in  the  bill.  The  applica- 
tion was  successful  ;  the  spirits  were  speedily  called — 
not  from  the  vasty  deep,  but  the  adjacent  wine  vaults. 
The  two  short  gentlemen  mixed  their  grog ;  and  then 
sat  cozily  down  before  the  fire — a  pair  of  shorts,  airing 
themselves, 

"  Tottle,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  "you  know  my 
way — off-hand,  open,  say  Vvhat  I  mean,  mean  what  I  say, 
hate  reserve  and  can't  bear  affectation.  One,  is  a  bad 
domino  which  only  hides  what  good  people  have  about 
'em,  without  making  the  bad  look  better  ;  and  the  other 
is  much  about  the  same  thing  as  pinking  a  white  cotton 
stocking  to  make  it  look  like  a  silk  one.  Now  listen  to 
what  I'm  going  to  say." 

Here,  the  little  gentleman  paused,  and  took  a  long 
pull  at  his  brandy-and- water.  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  took 
a  sip  of  his,  stirred  the  fire,  and  assumed  an  air  of  pro- 
found attention. 

"  It's  of  no  use  humming  and  ha'ing  about  the  mat- 
ter," resumed  the  short  gentleman — "you  want  to  get 
married. " 

"  Why,"  replied  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  evasively  ;  for 
he  trembled  violently,  and  felt  a  sudden  tingling 
throughout  his  whole  frame  ;  "  why — I  should  certainly 
— at  least,  I  tJdnk  I  should  like — " 

"  Won't  do,"  said  the  short  gentleman, — "  Plain  and 
free — or  there's  an  end  of  the  matter.  Do  you  want 
money  ? ' ' 

"  You  know  I  do," 

"  You  admire  the  sex?  " 

"I  do." 

"  And  you'd  like  to  be  married?" 
"  Certainly." 

"  Then  you  s'hall  be.  There's  an  end  of  that."  Thus 
saying  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
mixed  another  glass. 

"  Let  me  entreat  you  to  be  more  explanatory,"  said 
Tottle.  "Really,  as  the  party  principally  interested,  I 
cannot  consent  to  be  disposed  of  in  this  way." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  replied  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  %varming 
with  the  subject,  and  the  brandy-and-water. — "1  know 
a  lady — she's  stopping  with  my  wife  now — who's  just 
the  thing  for  you.  Well-educated  ;  talks  French  ;  plays 
the  piano  ;  knows  a  good  deal  about  flowers  and  shells, 
and  all  of  that  sort  of  thing  ;  and  has  five  hundred  a-year, 
with  an  uncontrollable  power  of  disposing  of  it  by  her 
last  will  and  testament." 

"  I'll  pay  my  addresses  to  her,"  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tot- 
tle.   "  She  isn't  very  young — is  she?" 

"  Not  very  ;  just  the  thing  for  you. — I've  said  that  al- 
ready." 

What  coloured  hair  has  the  lady  ? "  inquired  Mr. 
Watkins  Tottle. 

"  Egad,  I  hardly  recollect,"  replied  Gabriel  with  cool- 
ness. "Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  observed,  at  first,  she 
wears  a  front." 

"  A  what  1 "  ejaculated  Tottle. 

"One  of  those  things  with  curls,  along  here,"  said 
Parsons,  drawing  a  straight  line  across  his  forehead,  just 
over  his  eyes,  in  illustration  of  his  meaning,  ' '  I  know 
the  front's  black  :  I  can't  speak  quite-  positively  about 
her  own  hair  ;  because,  unless  one  walks  behind  her, 
and  catches  a  glimpse  of  it  under  her  bonnet,  one  sel- 
dom sees  it ;  but  I  should  say  that  it  was  rather  lighter 
than  the  front — a  shade  of  a  greyish  tinge,  perhaps." 


Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  looked  as  if  he  had  certain  mis- 
givings of  mind.  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  perceived  it,  and 
thought  it  would  be  safe  to  begin  the  next  attack  with- 
out delay. 

"  Now,  were  you  ever  in  love,  Tottle?"  he  inquired. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  blushed  up  to  the  eyes,  and  down 
to  the  chin,  and  exhibited  a  most  extensive  combination 
of  colours  as  he  confessed  the  soft  impeachment. 

"  I  suppose  you  popped  the  question,  more  than  once, 
when  you  were  a  young — I  beg  your  pardon — a  younger 
— man,"  said  Par.5ons. 

"Never  in  my  life  !"  replied  his  friend,  apparently 
indignant  at  being  suspected  of  such  an  act,  "  Never  ! 
The  fact  is,  that  I  entertain,  as  you  know,  peculiar 
opinions  on  these  subjects,  I  am  not  afraid  of  ladies, 
young  or  old — far  from  it ;  but,  I  think,  that  in  compli- 
ance with  the  custom  of  the  present  day,  they  allow  too 
much  freedom  of  speech  and  manner  to  marriageable 
men.  Now,  the  fact  is,  that  anything  like  this  easy 
freedom  I  never  could  acquire  ;  and  as  I  am  always 
afraid  of  going  too  far,  I  am  generally,  I  dare  say,  con- 
sidered formal  and  cold." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  were,"  replied  Parsons, 
gravely  :  "  I  shouldn't  wonder.  However,  you'll  be  all 
right  in  this  case  ;  for  the  strictness  and  delicacy  of  this 
lady's  ideas  greatly  exceed  your  own.  Lord  bless  you, 
why  when  she  came  to  our  house,  there  was  an  old  por- 
trait of  some  man  or  other,  with  two  large  black  staring 
eyes,  hanging  up  in  her  bedroom  ;  she  positively  refused 
to  go  to  bed  there,  till  it  was  taken  down,  considering  it 
decidedly  wrong." 

"I  think  so,  too,"  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle;  "cer- 
tainly." 

"  And  then,  the  other  night — I  never  laughed  so  much 
in  my  life" — resumed  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons;  "I  had 
driven  home  in  an  easterly  wind,  and  caught  a  devil  of 
a  face-ache.  Well ;  as  Fanny — that's  Mrs.  Parsons,  you 
know — and  this  friend  of  hers,  and  I,  and  Frank  Ross, 
were  playing  a  rubber,  I  said,  jokingly,  that  when  I 
went  to  bed  I  should  wrap  my  head  in  Fanny's  flannel 
petticoat.  She  instantly  threw  up  her  cards,  and  left 
the  room." 

"  Quite  right  !  "  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  "  she  could 
not  possibly  have  behaved  in  a  more  dignified  manner. 
What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  Do? — Frank  took  dummy  ;  and  I  won  sixpence  !  '* 

"  But,  didn't  you  apologise  for  hurting  her  feelings?" 

"  Devil  a  bit.  Next  morning  at  breakfast,  we  talked 
it  over.  She  contended  that  any  reference  to  a  flannel 
petticoat  was  improper  ; — men  ought  not  to  be  supposed 
to  know  that  such  things  were.  I  pleaded  my  coverture  ; 
being  a  married  man." 

"And  what  did  the  lady  say  to  that  ?  "  inquired  Tottle. 
deeply  interested. 

"  Changed  her  ground,  and  said  that  Frank,  being  a 
single  man,  its  impropriety  was  obvious." 

"  Noble-minded  creature  !"  exclaimed  the  enraptured 
Tottle, 

"  Oh  !  both  Fanny  and  I  said,  at  once,  that  she  was' 
regularly  cut  out  for  you." 

A  gleam  of  placid  satisfaction  shone  on  the  circular 
face  of  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  as  he  heard  the  prophecy. 

"There's  one  thing  I  can't  understand,"  said  Mr. 
Gabriel  Parsons,  as  he  rose  to  depart;  "I  cannot,  for 
the  life  and  soul  of  me  imagine,  how  the  deuce  you'll 
ever  contrive  to  come  together.  The  lady  would  cer- 
tainly go  into  convulsions  if  the  subject  were  men- 
tioned. Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  sat  down  again,  and  laughed 
until  he  was  weak.  Tottle  owed  him  money,  so  he  had 
a  perfect  right  to  laugh  at  Tottle's  expense. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  feared,  in  his  own  mind,  that  this 
was  another  characteristic  which  he  had  in  common  with 
this  modern  Lucretia.  He,  however,  accepted  the  invi- 
tation to  dine  with  the  Parsonses  on  the  next  day  but 
one,  with  great  firmness  ;  and  looked  forward  to  the  in- 
troduction, when  again  left  alone,  with  tolerable  com- 
posure. 

The  sun  that  rose  on  the  next  day  but  one,  had  never 
beheld  a  sprucer  personage  on  the  outside  of  the  Nor- 
wood stage,  than  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  ;  and  when  the 
coach  drew  up  before  a  card  board  looking  house  with 
disguised  chimneys,  and  a  lawn  like  a  large  sheet  of 


952 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


green  letter-paper,  lie  certainly  had  never  lighted  to  his 
place  of  destination  a  gentleman  who  felt  more  uncom- 
fortable. 

The  coach  stopped,  and  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  jumped— 
we  beg  his  pardon — alighted  with  great  dignity.  "All 
right  ! "  said  he,  and  away  went  the  coach  up  the  hill 
with  that  beautiful  equanimity  of  pace  for  which 
"  short  "  stages  are  generally  remarkable. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  gave  a  faltering  jerk  to  the  han- 
dle of  the  garden-gate  bell.  He  essayed  a  more  ener- 
getic tug,  and  his  previous  nervousness  was  not  at  all 
diminished  by  hearing  the  bell  ringing  like  a  fire  alarum. 

"Is  Mr.  Parsons  at  home?"  inquired  Tottle  of  the 
man  who  opened  the  gate.  He  could  hardly  hear  him- 
self speak,  for  the  bell  had  not  yet  done  tolling. 

"  Here  I  am,"  shouted  a  voice  on  the  lawn, — and  there 
was  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  in  a  flannel  jacket,  running 
backwards  and  forwards,  from  a  wicket  to  two  hats 
piled  on  each  other,  and  from  the  two  hats  to  the  wicket, 
in  the  most  violent  manner,  while  another  gentleman 
vni\i  his  coat  off  was  getting  down  the  area  of  the  house, 
after  a  ball.  When  tlie  gentleman  without  the  coat  had 
found  it — which  he  did  in  less  than  ten  minutes — he 
ran  back  to  the  hats,  and  Gabriel  Parsons  pulled  up. 
Then,  the  gentleman  without  the  coat  called  out  "  play," 
very  loudly,  and  bowled.  Then,  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons 
knocked  the  ball  several  yards,  and  took  another  run. 
Then,  the  other  gentleman  aimed  at  the  wicket,  and 
didn't  hit  it  ;  and  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  having  finished 
running  on  his  own  account,  laid  down  the  bat  and  ran 
after  the  ball,  which  went  into  a  neighbouring  field. 
They  called  this  cricket. 

"Tottle,  will  you  'go  in?'"  inquired  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons,  as  he  approached  him,  wiping  the  perspiration 
off  his  face. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  declined  the  offer,  the  bare  idea 
of  accepting  which  made  him  even  warmer  than  his 
friend. 

"  Then  we'll  go  into  the  house,  as  it's  past  four,  and  I 
shall  have  to  wash  my  hands  before  dinner,"  said  Mr. 
Gabriel  Parsons.  "  Here,  I  hate  ceremony,  you  know  ! 
Timson,  that's  Tottle — Tottle,  that's  Tirason  ;  bred  for 
the  church,  which  I  fear  will  never  be  bread  for  him  ;  " 
and  he  chuckled  at  the  old  joke.  Mr.  Timson  bowed 
carelessly.  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  bowed  stiffly.  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons  led  the  way  to  the  house.  He  was  a  rich  sugar- 
baker,  who  mistook  rudeness  for  honesty,  and  abrupt 
bluntness  for  an  open  and  candid  manner  ;  many  besides 
Gabriel  mistake  bluntness  for  sincerity. 

Mrs.  Gabriel  Parsons  received  the  visitors  most  gra- 
ciously on  the  steps,  and  preceded  them  to  the  drawing- 
room.  On  the  sofa,  was  seated  a  lady  of  very  prim 
appearance,  and  remarkably  inanimate.  She  was  one  of 
those  persons  at  whose  age  it  is  impossible  to  make  any 
reasonable  guess  ;  her  features  might  have  been  re- 
markably pretty  when  she  was  younger,  and  they  might 
always  have  presented  the  same  appearance.  Her  com- 
plexion— with  a  slight  trace  of  powder  here  and  there — 
was  as  clear  as  that  of  a  well-made  wax  doll,  and  her 
face  as  expressive.  She  was  handsomely  dressed,  and 
was  winding  up  a  gold  watch. 

"  Miss  Lillerton,  my  dear,  this  is  our  friend  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle  ;  a  very  old  acquaintance  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Parsons,  presenting  the  Strephon  of  Cecil-street,  Strand. 
The  lady  rose,  and  made  a  deep  courtesy  ;  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle  made  a  deep  bow. 

"  Splendid,  majestic  creature  !  "  thought  Tottle. 

Mr.  Timson  advanced,  and  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  began 
to  hate  liim.  Men  generally  discover  a  rival  instinctive- 
ly, and  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  felt  that  his  hate  was  de- 
served. 

"May  I  beg,"  said  the  reverend  gentleman, — "May  I 
beg  to  call  upon  you,  Miss  Lillerton,  for  some  trifling 
donation  to  my  soup,  coals,  and  blanket-distribution 
I  society  ?" 

"  Put  my  name  down,  for  two  sovereigns,  if  you 
please,"  responded  Miss  Lillerton. 

"  You  are  truly  charitable,  madam,"  said  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Timson,  "  and  we  know  that  charity  will  cover  a 
multitude  of  sins.  Let  mo  beg  you  to  understand  that 
I  do  not  say  this  from  the  supptjsition  that  you  have 
many  sins  which  require  palliation ;  believe  me  when  I 


say  that  I  never  yet  met  any  one  who  had  fewer  to  atone 
for,  than  Miss  Lillerton." 

Something  like  a  bad  imitation  of  animation  lighted 
up  the  lady's  face,  as  she  acknowledged  the  compliment. 
Watkins  Tottle  incurred  the  sin  of  wishing  that  the 
ashes  of  the  Reverend  Charles  Timson  were  quietly  de- 
posited in  the  church-yard  of  his  curacy,  wherever  it 
might  be. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  interrupted  Parsons,  who  had 
just  appeared  with  clean  hands,  and  a  black  coat,  "  it's 
my  private  opinion,  Timson,  that  your  '  distribution- 
society '  is  rather  a  humbug." 

"  You  are  so  severe,"  replied  Timson,  with  a  Christian 
smile  ;  he  disliked  Parsons,  but  liked  his  dinners. 

"  So  positively  unjust  ! "  said  Miss  Lillerton. 

"  Certainly,"  observed  Tottle.  The  lady  looked  up  ; 
her  eyes  met  those  of  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle.  She  with- 
drew them  in  a  sweet  confusion,  and  Watkins  Tottle 
did  the  same — the  confusion  was  mutual. 

"  Why,"  urged  Mr.  Parsons,  pursuing  his  objections, 
"  what  on  earth  is  the  use  of  giving  a  man  coals  who 
has  nothing  to  cook,  or  giving  him  blankets  when  he 
hasn't  a  bed,  or  giving  him  soup  when  he  requires  sub- 
stantial food  ? — *  like  sending  them  ruffles  when  wanting 
a  shirt.'  Why  not  give  'em  a  trifle  of  money,  as  I  do, 
when  I  think  they  deserve  it,  and  let  them  purchase 
what  they  think  best  ?  Why  ? — because  your  subscri- 
bers wouldn't  see  their  names  flourishing  in  print  on  the 
church-door — that's  the  reason." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Parsons,  I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  insin- 
uate that  I  wish  to  see  my  name  in  print,  on  the  church- 
door,"  interrupted  Miss  Lillerton. 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  putting  in 
another  word,  and  getting  another  glance. 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  Parsons.  "I  dare  say  you 
wouldn't  mind  seeing  it  in  writing,  though,  in  the 
church  register — eh  ?  " 

"  Register!  what  register  ?  "  inquired  the  lady,  gravely. 

"  Why  the  register  of  marriages,  to  be  sure,"  replied 
Parsons,  chuckling  at  the  sally,  and  glancing  at  Tottle. 
Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  thought  he  should  have  fainted  for 
shame,  and  it  is  quite  impossible  to  imagine  v^^hat  effect 
the  joke  would  have  had  upon  the  lady,  if  dinner  had 
not  been,  at  that  moment,  announced.  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle,  with  an  unprecedented  effort  of  gallantry,  offered 
the  tip  of  his  little  finger  ;  Miss  Lillerton  accepted  it 
gracefully,  with  maiden  modesty  ;  and  they  proceeded 
in  due  state  to  the  dinner-table,  where  they  were  soon 
deposited  side  by  side.  The  room  was  very  snug,  the 
dinner  very  good,  and  the  little  party  in  spirits.  The  con- 
versation became  pretty  general,  and  when  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle  had  extracted  one  or  two  cold  observations  from 
his  neighbour,  and  had  taken  wine  with  her,  he  began 
to  acquire  confidence  rapidly.  The  cloth  was  removed  ; 
Mrs.  Gabriel  Parsons  drank  four  glasses  of  port  on  the  plea 
of  being  a  nurse  just  then  ;  and  Miss  Lillerton  took 
about  the  same  number  of  sips,  on  the  plea  of  not  wanting 
any  at  all.  At  length,  the  ladies  retired,  to  the  great 
gratification  of  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  who  had  been 
coughing  and  frowning  at  his  wife,  for  half  an  hour 
previously— signals  which  Mrs.  Parsons  never  happened 
to  observe,  until  she  had  been  pressed  to  take  her  ordi- 
nary quantum,  which,  to  avoid  giving  trouble,  she  gen- 
erally did  at  once. 

"What  do  you  think  of  her?"  inquired  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons  of  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  in  an  undertone. 

"  I  dote  on  her  with  enthusiasm  already  !  "  replied 
Mr.  Watkins  Tottle. 

"Gentlemen,  pray  let  us  drink  'the  ladies,'  "  said  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Timson. 

"  The  ladies  !  "  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  emptying 
his  glass.  In  the  fulness  of  his  confidence,  he  felt  as  if 
he  could  make  love  to  a  dozen  ladies,  off-hand. 

"Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  "  I  remember  when 
I  was  a  young  man — fill  your  glass,  Timson." 

"  I  have  this  moment  emptied  it," 

"  Then  fill  again." 

"I  will,"  said  Timson,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word. 

"  I  remember,"  resumed  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  "  when 
I  was  a  younger  man,  with  what  a  strange  compound  of 
feelings  I  used  to  drink  that  toast,  and  how  I  used  to 
think  every  woman  was  an  angel." 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


953 


"Was  that  before  you  were  married?"  mildly  in- 
quired Mr.  Watkins  Tottle. 

"Oil!  certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  "I 
have  never  tliouglifc  so  since  ;  and  a  precious  milksop  I 
must  have  been,  ever  to  have  thought  so  at  all.  But, 
you  know,  I  married  Fanny  under  the  oddest,  and  most 
ridiculous  circumstances  possible." 

"What  were  they,  if  one  may  inquire?"  asked  Tim- 
son,  who  had  heard  the  story,  on  an  average,  twice  a 
week  for  the  last  six  months.  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle 
listened  attentively,  in  the  hope  of  picking  up  some  sug- 
gestion that  might  be  useful  to  him  in  his  new  under- 
taking. 

"  I  spent  my  wedding-night  in  a  back -kitchen  chim- 
ney," said  Parsons,  by  way  of  a  beginning. 

"  In  a  back-kitchen  chimney!"  ejaculated  Watkins 
Tottle.    "  How  dreadful  !  " 

"  Yes,  it  wasn't  very  pleasant,"  replied  the  small  host. 
"  The  fact  is,  Fanny's  father  and  mother  liked  me  well 
enough,  as  an  individual,  but  had  a  decided  objection  to 
my  becoming  a  husband.  You  see  I  hadn't  any  money 
in  those  days,  and  they  had  ;  and  so  they  wanted  Fanny 
to  pick  up  somebody  else.  However,  we  managed  to 
discover  the  state  of  each  other's  affections  somehow.  I 
used  to  meet  her  at  some  mutual  friends'  parties  ;  at  first 
we  danced  together,  and  talked  and  flirted,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing  ;  then,  I  used  to  like  nothing  so  well  as  sit- 
ting by  her  side — we  didn't  talk  so  much  then,  but  I  re- 
member 1  used  to  have  a  great  notion  of  looking  at  her 
out  of  the  extreme  corner  of  my  left  eye — and  then  I  got 
very  miserable  and  sentimental,  and  began  to  write 
verses,  and  use  Macassar  oil.  At  last  I  couldn't  bear  it 
any  longer,  and  after  I  had  walked  up  and  down  the 
sunny  side  of  Oxford -street  in  tight  boots  for  a  week — 
and  a  devilish  hot  summer  it  was  too — in  the  hope  of 
meeting  her,  I  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter,  and  begged 
her  to  manage  to  see  me  clandestinely,  for  I  wanted  to 
hear  her  decision  from  her  own  mouth.  I  said  I  had 
discovered,  to  my  perfect  satisfaction,  that  I  couldn't 
live  without  her,  and  that  if  she  didn't  have  me,  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  take  prussic  acid,  or  take  to  drink- 
ing, or  emigrate,  so  as  to  take  myself  off  in  some  way  or 
other.  Well,  1  borrowed  a  pound,  and  bribed  the  house- 
maid to  give  h«^r  the  note,  which  she  did." 

"And  what  was  the  reply?"  inquired  Timson,  who 
had  found,  before,  that  to  encourage  the  repetition  of 
old  stories  is  to  get  a  general  invitation. 

"  Oh,  the  usual  one  !  Fanny  expressed  herself  very 
miserable  ;  hinted  at  the  possibiliffy  of  an  early  grave  ; 
said  that  nothing  should  induce  her  to  swerve  from  the 
duty  she  owed  her  parents  ;  implored  me  to  forget  her, 
and  find  out  somebody  more  deserving,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  She  said  she  could,  on  no  account,  think  of 
meeting  me  unknown  to  her  pa  and  ma  ;  and  entreated 
me,  as  she  should  be  in  a  particular  part  of  Kensington 
Gardens  at  eleven  o'clock  next  morning,  not  to  attempt 
to  meet  her  there." 

"  You  didn't  go,  of  course  ?"  said  Watkins  Tottle. 

"  Didn't  1? — Of  course  I  did.  There  she  was,  with 
the  identical  housemaid  in  perspective,  in  order  that 
there  might  be  no  interruption.  We  walked  about,  for 
a  couple  of  hours  ;  made  ourselves  delightfully  miser- 
able ;  and  were  regularly  engaged.  Then,  we  began  to 
'  correspond  ' — that  is  to  say,  we  used  to  exchange  about 
four  letters  a  day  ;  what  we  used  to  say  in  'em  I  can't 
imagine.  And  I  used  to  have  an  interview,  in  the  kitch- 
en, or  the  cellar,  or  some  such  place,  every  evening. 
Well,  things  went  on  this  way  for  some  time  ;  and  we 
got  fonder  of  each  other  every  day.  At  last,  as  our  love 
was  raised  to  such  a  pitch,  and  as  my  salary  had  been 
raised  too,  shortly  before,  we  determined  on  a  secret 
marriage.  Fanny  arranged  to  sleep  at  a  friend's,  on  the 
previous  night ;  we  were  to  bo  married  early  in  the 
morning  ;  and  then  we  were  to  return  to  her  home  and 
be  pathetic.  She  was  to  fall  at  the  old  gentleman's  feet 
and  bathe  his  boots  with  her  tears  ;  and  I  was  to  hug  the 
old  lady  and  call  her  '  mother,'  and  use  my  pocket-hand- 
kerchief as  much  as  possible.  Married  we  were  the  next 
morning  ;  two  girls — friends  of  Fanny's — acting  as 
bridesmaids;  and  a  man,  who  was  hired  for  five  shil- 
lings and  a  pint  of  porter,  officiating  as  father.  Now, 
the  old  lady  unfortunately  put  off  her  return  from  Rams- 


gate,  where  she  had  been  paying  a  visit,  until  the  next 
morning  ;  and  as  we  placed  great  reliance  on  her,  we 
agreed  to  postpone  our  confession  for  four-and-twenty 
hours.  My  newly  made  wife  returned  home,  and  I  spent 
my  wedding-day  in  strolling  about  Ilampsted-heath,  and 
execrating  my  father-in-law.  Of  course,  I  went  to  com- 
fort my  dear  little  wife  at  night,  as  much  as  I  could, 
with  the  assurance  that  our  troubles  would  soon  be  over. 
I  opened  the  garden-gate,  of  Avhich  I  had  a  key,  and  was 
shown  by  the  servant  to  our  old  place  of  meeting — a  back- 
kitchen,  with  a  stone  floor  and  a  dresser  ;  upon  which, 
in  the  absence  of  chairs,  we  used  to  sit  and  make  love." 

"Make  love  upon  a  kitchen-dresser?"  interrupted 
Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,  whose  ideas  of  decorum  were 
greatly  outraged. 

"  Ah  !  On  a  kitchen-dresser  ! "  replied  Parsons.  "And 
let  me  tell  you,  old  fellow,  that,  if  you  were  really  over 
head  and  ears  in  love,  and  had  no  other  place  to  make  love 
in,  you'd  be  devilish  glad  to  avail  yourself  of  such  an 
opportunity.    However,  let  me  see  ; — where  was  I?" 

"On  the  dresser,"  suggested  Timson. 

"  Oh — ah  !  Well,  here  I  found  poor  Fanny,  quite  dis- 
consolate and  uncomfortable.  The  old  boy  had  been 
very  cross  all  day,  which  made  her  feel  still  more  lonely  ; 
and  she  was  quite  out  of  spirits.  So,  I  put  a  good  face 
on  the  matter,  and  laughed  it  off,  and  said  we  should 
enjoy  the  pleasures  of  a  matrimonial  life  more,  by  con- 
trast ;  and,  at  length,  poor  Fanny  brightened  up  a  little. 
I  stopped  there,  till  about  eleven  o'clock,  and,  just  as  I 
was  taking  my  leave  for  the  fourteenth  time,  the  girl 
came  running  down  the  stairs,  without  her  shoes,  in  a 
great  fright,  to  tell  us  that  the  old  villain — Heaven  for- 
give me  for  calling  him  so,  for  he  is  dead  and  gone  now  ! 
— prompted  I  suppose  by  the  prince  of  darkness,  was 
coming  down,  to  draw  his  own  heer  for  supper— a  thing 
he  had  not  done  before,  for  six  months,  to  my  certain 
knowledge  ;  for  the  cask  stood  in  that  very  back-kitchen. 
If  he  discovered  me  there,  explanation  would  have  been 
out  of  the  question  ;  for  he  was  so  outrageously  violent, 
when  at  all  excited,  that  he  never  would  have  listened 
to  me.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  The  chim- 
ney was  a  very  wide  one  ;  it  had  been  originally  built 
for  an  oven  ;  went  up  perpendicularly  for  a  few  feet, 
and  then  shot  backward  and  formed  a  sort  of  small 
cavern.  My  hopes  and  fortune — the  means  of  our  joint 
existence  almost — were  at  stake.  I  scrambled  in,  like  a 
squirrel  ;  coiled  myself  up  in  this  recess  ;  and,  as  Fanny 
and  the  girl  replaced  the  deal  chimney-board,  I  could  see 
the  light  of  the  candle  which  my  unconscious  father-in- 
law  carried  in  his  hand.  I  heard  him  draw  the  beer ; « 
and  I  never  heard  beer  run  so  slowly.  He  was  just  leav- 
ing the  kitchen,  and  I  was  preparing  to  descend,  when 
down  came  the  infernal  chimney  board  with  a  tremen- 
dous crash.  He  stopped,  and  put  down  the  candle  and 
the  jug  of  beer  on  the  dresser  ;  he  was  a  nervous  old 
fellow,  and  any  unexpected  noise  annoyed  him.  He 
cooly  observed  that  the  fireplace  was  never  used,  and 
sending  the  frightened  servant  into  the  next  kitchen  for 
a  hammer  and  nails,  actually  nailed  up  the  board,  and 
locked  the  door  on  the  outside.  So,  there  was  I,  on  my 
wedding-night,  in  the  light  kerseymere  trousers,  fancy 
waistcoat,  and  blue  coat,  that  I  had  been  married  in  in 
the  morning,  in  a  back-kitchen  chimney,  the  bottom  of 
which  was  nailed  up,  and  the  top  of  which  had  been  for- 
merly raised  some  fifteen  feet,  to  prevent  the  smoke  from 
annoying  the  neighbours.  And  there,"  added  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons,  as  he  passed  the  bottle,  "  there  I  remained  till 
half-past  seven  the  next  morning,  when  the  housemaid's 
sweetheart,  who  was  a  carpenter,  unshelled  me.  The 
old  dog  had  nailed  me  up  so  securely,  that,  to  this  very 
hour,  I  firmly  believe  that  no  one  but  a  carpenter  could 
ever  have  got  me  out." 

"And  what  did  Mrs.  Parsons's  father  say,  when  he 
found  you  were  married?"  inquired  Watkins  Tottle, 
who,  although  lie  never  saw  a  joke,  was  not  satisfied 
until  he  heard  a  story  to  the  very  end. 

"  Why,  the  affair  of  the  chimney  so  ticklfd  his  fancy, 
that  he  pardoned  us  off-hand,  and  allowed  us  something 
to  live  on  till  he  went  the  way  of  all  flesh.  I  spent  the 
next  night  in  his  second-floor  front,  much  more  comfort- 
ably than  I  had  spent  the  preceding  one  ;  for,  as  you 
will  probably  guess — " 


954 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Please  sir,  missis  lias  made  tea,"  said  a  middle-aged 
female  servant,  bobbing  into  the  room. 

"  That's  the  very  housemaid  that  figures  in  my  story," 
said  Mr.  Gabriel 'Parsons.  "  Slie  went  into  Fanny's 
service  when  we  were  first  married,  and  has  been  with 
us  ever  since  ;  but  I  don't  think  she  has  felt  one  atom 
of  respect  for  me  since  the  morning  she  saw  me  released, 
when  she  went  into  violent  hysterics,  to  which  she  has 
been  subject  ever  since.  Now,  shall  we  join  the  ladies?  " 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle. 

"By  all  means,"  added  the  obsequious  Mr.  Timson  ; 
and  the  trio  made  for  the  drawing-room  accordingly. 

Tea  being  concluded,  and  the  toast  and  cups  having 
been  duly  handed,  and  occasionally  upset,  by  Mr.  Wat- 
kins  Tottle,  a  rubber  was  proposed.  They  cut  for  part- 
ners— Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parsons  ;  and  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle 
and  Miss  Lillerton.  Mr.  Timson  having  conscientious 
scruples  on  the  subject  of  card-playing,  drank  brandy- 
and- water,  and  kept  up  a  running  spar  with  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle.  The  evening  went  off  well  ;  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle 
was  in  high  spirits,  having  some  reason  to  be  gratified 
with  his  reception  by  Miss  Lillerton  ;  and  before  he  left, 
a  small  party  was  made  up  to  visit  the  Beulah  Spa  on 
the  following  Saturday. 

"It's  all  right,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  to 
Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  as  he  opened  the  garden  gate  for 
him. 

"I  hope  so,"  he  replied,  squeezing  his  friend's  hand. 

"  You'll  be  down  by  the  first  coacli  on  Saturday,"  said 
Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons. 

"  Certainlv,"  replied  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle.  "  Undoubt- 
edly." 

But  fortune  had  decreed  that  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle 
should  not  be  down  by  the  first  coacii  on  Saturday.  His 
adventures  on  that  day  however,  and  the  success  of  his 
wooing,  are  subjects  for  another  chai)ter. 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND. 

"  The  first  coach  has  not  come  in  yet,  has  it,  Tom?" 
inquired  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  as  he  very  complacently 
paced  up  and  down  the  fourteen  feet  of  gravel  which 
bordered  the  "lawn,"  on  the  Saturday  morning  which 
had  been  fixed  upon  for  the  Beulah  Spa  jaunt. 

"No,  sir  ;  I  haven't  seen  it,"  replied  a  gardener  in  a 
blue  apron,  who  let  himself  out  to  do  the  ornamental 
for  half-a-crown  a  day  and  his  "  keep." 

"  Time  Tottle  was  down,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons, 
ruminating — "  Oh,  here  he  is,  no  doubt,"  added  Gabriel, 
as  a  cab  drove  rapidly  up  the  hill ;  and  he  buttoned  his 
dressing-gown,  and  opened  the  gate  to  receive  the  ex- 
pected visitor.  The  cab  stopped,  and  out  jumped  a  man 
in  a  coarse  Petersham  great-coat,  whity-brown  necker- 
chief, faded  black  suit,  gamboge-coloured  top-boots,  and 
one  of  those  large- crowned  hats,  formerly  seldom  met 
with,  but  new  very  generally  patronised  by  gentlemen 
and  costermongers. 

"Mr.  Parsons?"  said  the  man,  looking  at  the  super- 
scription of  a  note  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  addressing 
Gabriel  with  an  inquiring  air. 

"  My  name  is  Parsons,"  responded  the  sugar  baker. 

"I've  brought  this  here  note,"  replied  the  individual 
in  the  painted  tops,  in  a  hoarse  whisper  ;  "  I've  brought 
this  here  note  from  a  gen'lm'n  as  come  to  our  house  this 
mornin'." 

"  I  expected  the  gentleman  at  my  house,"  said  Par- 
sons, as  he  broke  the  seal,  which  bore  the  impression  of 
her  majesty's  profile  as  it  is  seen  on  a  sixpence. 

"  I've  no  doubt  the  gen'lm'n  would  ha'  been  here," 
replied  the  stranger,  "  if  he  hadn't  happened  to  call  at 
our  house  first ;  but  we  never  trust  no  gen'lm'n  furder 
nor  we  can  see  him — no  mistake  about  that  there  " — 
added  the  unknown,  with  a  facetious  grin  ;  "beg  your 
pardon,  sir,  no  offence  meant,  only — once  in,  and  I  wish 
you  may — catch  the  idea,  sir?"* 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  was  not  remarkable  for  catching 
anything  suddenly,  but  a  cold.  He  therefore  only  be- 
stowed a  glance  of  profound  astonishment  on  liis  myste- 
rious com])anion,  and  i)roceeded  to  unfold  the  note  of 
which  he  had  been  the  bearer.    Once  opened  and  the 


idea  was  caught  with  very  little  difficulty.  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle  had  been  suddenly  arrested  for  33^.  105.  4(Z.,  and 
dated  his  communication  from  a  lock-up  house  in  the 
vicinity  of  Chancery-lane. 

"  Unfortunate  affair,  this  !  "  said  Parsons,  refolding 
the  note. 

"Oh  !  nothin'  ven  you're  used  to  it,"  coolly  observed 
the  man  in  the  Peter.sham. 

"  Tom  !  "  exclaimed  Parsons,  after  a  few  minutes'  con- 
sideration, "just  put  the  horse  in,  will  you? — Tell  the 
gentleman  that  I  shall  be  there  almost  as  soon  as  you 
are,"  he  continued,  addressing  the  sheriff -officer's  Mer- 
cury. 

"  Werry  well,"  replied  that  important  functionary  ; 
adding,  in  a  confidential  manner,  "  I'd  advise  the  gen'l- 
m'n's  friends  to  settle.  You  see  it's  a  mere  trifle  ;  and, 
unless  the  gen'lm'n  means  to  go  up  afore  the  court,  it's 
hardly  worth  while  waiting  for  detainers  you  know. 
Our  governor's  wide  awake,  lie  is.  I'll  tiever  say  nothin' 
agin  him,  nor  no  man  ;  but  he  knows  what's  o'clock,  he 
does,  uncommon."  Having  delivered  this  eloquent,  and, 
to  Parsons,  particularly  intelligible  harangue,  the  mean- 
ing of  which  was  eked  out  by  divers  nods  and  winks,  the 
gentleman  in  the  boots  reseated  himself  in  the  cab,  which 
went  rapidly  off  and  was  sobn  out  of  sight.  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons  continued  to  pace  up  and  down  the  pathway  for 
some  minutes,  apparently  absorbed  in  deep  meditation. 
The  result  of  his  cogitations  seemed  to  be  perfectly  sat- 
isfactory to  himself,  for  he  ran  briskly  into  the  house  ; 
said  that  business  had  suddenly  summoned  him  to  town  ; 
that  he  had  desired  the  messenger  to  inform  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle  of  the  fact  ;  and  that  they  would  return  together 
to  dinner.  He  then  hastily  equipped  himself  for  a  drive, 
and  mounting  his  gig,  was  soon  on  his  way  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  Mr.  Solomon  Jacobs,  situate  (as  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle  had  informed  him)  in  Cursitor-street,  Chancery- 
lane. 

When  a  man  is  in  a  violent  hurry  to  get  on,  and  has  a 
specific  object  in  view,  the  attainment  of  which  depends 
on  the  completion  of  his  journey,  the  difficulties  which 
interpose  themselves  in  his  way  appear  not  culy  to  be  in- 
numerable, but  to  have  been  called  into  existence  espe- 
cially for  the  occasion.  The  remark  is  by  no  means  a 
new  one,  and  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  had  practical  and  pain- 
ful experience  of  its  justice  in  the  course  of  his  drive. 
There  are  three  classes  of  animated  objects  which  pre- 
vent your  driving  with  any  degree  of  comfort  or  celerity 
through  the  streets  which  are  but  little  frequented — 
they  are  pigs,  childreif,  and  old  women.  On  the  occa- 
sion we  are  describing,  the  pigs  were  luxuriating  on  cab- 
bage-stalks ;  and  the  shuttlecocks  fluttered  from  the 
little  deal  battledores,  and  the  children  played  in  the 
road  ;  and  women,  with  a  basket  in  one  hand  and  the 
street-door  key  in  the  other,  would  cross  just  before  the 
horse's  head,  until  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  was  perfectly 
savage  with  vexation,  and  quite  hoarse  with  lioi-ing  and 
imprecating.  Then,  when  he  got  into  Fleet-street,  there 
was  "a  stoppage,"  in  which  people  in  vehicles  have  the 
satisfaction  of  remaining  stationary  for  half  an  hour,  and 
envying  the  slowest  pedestrians  ;  and  where  policemen 
rush  about,  and  seize  hold  of  horses'  bridles,  and  back 
them  into  shop-windows,  by  way  of  clearing  the  road  and 
preventing  confusion.  At  length  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons 
turned  into  Chancery-lane,  and  having  inquired  for,  and 
been  directed  to  Cursitor- street  (for  it  was  a  locality  of 
which  he  was  quite  ignorant),  he  soon  found  himself  op- 
posite the  house  of  Mr.  Solomon  Jacobs.  Confiding  his 
horse  and  gig  to  the  care  of  one  of  the  fourteen  boys  who 
had  followed  him  from  the  other  side  of  Blackfriars- 
bridge  on  the  chance  of  his  requiring  their  -services,  Mr. 
Gabriel  Parsons  crossed  the  road  and  knocked  at  an  in- 
ner door,  the  upper  part  of  which  was  of  glass,  grated 
like  the  windows  of  this  inviting  mansion  with  iron  bars 
— painted  white  to  look  comfortable. 

The  knock  was  answered  by  a  sallow-faced  red-haired 
sulky  boy,  who,  after  surveying  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons 
through  the  glass,  applied  a  large  key  to  an  immense 
wooden  excrescence,  which  was  in  reality  a  lock,  but 
which,  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  iron  nails  with 
which  the  ])anels  were  studded,  gave  the  door  the  ap- 
pearance of  being  subject  to  warts. 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle,"  said  Parsons. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


955 


*'  It's  the  gentleman  tliat  come  in  this  morning,  Jem," 
screamed  a  voice  from  the  top  of  the  kitchen  stairs, 
which  belonged  to  a  dirty  woman  who  had  just  brought 
her  chin  to  a  level  with  the  passage-floor.  * '  The  gentle- 
man's in  the  coffee  room." 

"  Up-stairs,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  just  opening  the  door 
wide  enough  to  let  Parsons  in  without  squeezing  hiin, 
and  double-locking  it  the  moment  he  had  made  his 
way  through  the  aperture — "  First  floor — door  on  the 
left." 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  thus  instructed,  ascended  the  un- 
carpeted  and  ill-lighted  stair-case,  and  after  giving  sev- 
eral subdued  taps  at  the  before-mentioned  "door  on  the 
left,"  which  were  rendered  inaudible  by  the  hum  of 
voices  within  the  room,  and  the  hissing  noise  attendant 
on  some  frying  operations  which  were  carrying  on  below 
stairs,  turned  the  handle,  and  entered  the  apartment. 
Being  informed  that  the  unfortunate  object  of  his  visit 
had  just  gone  up-stairs  to  write  a  letter,  he  had  leisure 
to  sit  down  and  observe  the  scene  before  him. 

The  room — which  was  a  small,  confined  den — was  par- 
titioned off  into  boxes,  like  the  common-room  of  some 
inferior  eating-house.  The  dirty  floor  had  evidently  been 
as  long  a  stranger  to  the  scrubbing  brush  as  to  carpet  or 
floor-cloth  ;  and  the  ceiling  was  completely  blackened  by 
the  flare  of  the  oil-lamp  by  which  the  room  was  lighted 
at  night.  The  gray  ashes  on  the  edges  of  the  tables,  and 
the  cigar  ends  which  were  plentifully  scattered  about  the 
dusty  grate,  fully  accounted  for  the  intolerable  smell  of 
tobacco  which  pervaded  the  place  ;  and  the  empty  glasses 
and  half-saturated  slices  of  lemon  on  the  tables,  together 
with  the  porter  pots  Ibeneath  them,  bore  testimony  to  the 
frequent  libations  in  which  the  individuals  who  honoured 
Mr.  Solomon  Jacobs  by  a  temporary  residence  in  his 
house  indulged.  Over  the  mantel-shelf  was  a  paltry 
looking-glass,  extending  about  half  the  width  of  the 
chimney-piece  ;  but  by  way  of  counterpoise  the  ashes 
were  confined  by  a  rusty  fender  about  twice  as  long  as 
the  hearth. 

From  this  cheerful  room  itself,  the  attention  of  Mr. 
Gabriel  Parsons  was  naturally  directed  to  its  inmates. 
In  one  of  the  boxes  two  men  were  playing  at  cribbage 
with  a  very  dirty  pack  of  cards,  some  with  blue,  some 
with  green,  and  some  with  red  backs — selections  from 
decayed  packs.  The  cribbage  board  had  been  long  ago 
formed  on  the  table  by  some  ingenious  visitor  with  the 
assistance  of  a  pocket-knife  and  a  two  pronged  fork, 
with  which  the  necessary  number  of  holes  had  been 
made  in  the  table  at  proper  distances  for  the  reception 
of  the  wooden  pegs.  In  another  box  a  stout,  hearty- 
looking  man,  of  about  forty,  was  eating  some  dinner 
which  his  wife — an  equally  comfortable-looking  person- 
age— ^liad  brought  him  in  a  basket  !  and  in  a  third,  a 
genteel-looking  young  man  was  talking  earnestly,  and 
in  a  low  tone  to  a  young  female,  whose  face  was  con- 
cealed by  a  thick  veil,  but  whom  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons 
immediately  set  down  in  his  own  mind  as  the  debtor's 
wife.  A  young  fellow  of  vulgar  manners,  dressed  in 
the  very  extreme  of  the  prevailing  fashion,  was  pacing 
up  and  down  the  room,  with  a  lighted  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  ever  and  anon  puffing 
forth  volumes  of  smoke,  and  occasionally  applying,  with 
much  apparent  relish,  to  a  pint  pot,  the  contents  of 
which  were  "  chilling  "  ou  the  hob. 

"Fourpence  more,  by  gum  !"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
cribbage  players,  lighting  a  pipe,  and  addressing  his  ad- 
versary at  the  close  of  the  game  ;  "  one  'ud  think  you'd 
got  luck  in  a  pepper-cruet,  and  shook  it  out  when  you 
wanted  it." 

"Well,  that  a'nt  a  bad  un,"  replied  the  other,  who 
was  a  horse-dealer  from  Islington. 

"  No  ;  I'm  blessed  if  it  is,"  interposed  the  jollj'-look- 
ing  fellow,  who,  having  finished  his  dinner,  was  drink- 
ing out  of  the  same  glass  as  his  wife,  in  truly  conjugal 
harmony,  some  hot  gin-and-water.  The  faithful  partner 
of  his  cares  had  brought  a  plentiful  supply  of  the  anti- 
temperance  fluid  in  a  large  flat  stone  bottle,  which 
looked  like  a  half-gallon  jar  that  had  been  successfully 
tapped  for  the  dropsy.  "You're  a  rum  chap,  you  are, 
Mr.  Walker — will  you  dip  your  beak  into  this,  sir?" 

"Thank'ee  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Walker,  leaving  his  box, 
and  advancing  to  the  other  to  accept  the  proffered  glass. 


"  Here's  your  health,  sir,  and  your  good  'ooman's  here. 
Gentlemen  all— yours,  and  better  luck  still.  Well,  Mr. 
Willis,"  continued  the  facetious  prisoner,  addressing  the 
young  man  with  the  cigar  "you  seem  rather  down  to- 
day— floored,  as  one  may  say.  What's  the  matter,  sir  V 
Never  say  die,  you  know." 

"Oh  1  I'm  all  right,"  replied  the  smoker.  "I  shall 
be  balled  out  to-morrow." 

"Shall  you,  though?"  inquired  the  other.  "Damme, 
I  wi.sh  I  could  say  the  same.  I  am  as  regularly  over 
head  and  ears  as  the  Royal  George,  and  stand  about  as 
much  chance  of  being  hailed  out.    Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  " 

"Why,"  said  the  young  man,  stopping  short,  and 
speaking  in  a  very  loud  key,  "  look  at  me.  What  d'ye 
think  I've  stopped  here  two  days  for?  " 

"Cause  you  couldn't  get  out,  I  suppose,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Walker,  winking  to  the  company.  "  Not  that  you're 
exactly  obliged  to  stop  here,  only  you  can't  help  it.  No 
compulsion,  you  know,  only  you  must — eh  ?" 

"  xi'nt  he  a  rum  un?  "  inquired  the  delighted  indi- 
vidual, who  had  offered  the  gin-and-water,  of  his  wife. 

"Oh,  he  just  is  !"  replied  the  lady,  who  was  quite 
overcome  by  these  flashes  of  imagination. 

"Why,  my  case,"  frowned  the  victim,  throwing  the 
end  of  his  cigar  into  the  fire,  and  illustrating  his  argu- 
ment by  knocking  the  bottom  of  the  pot  on  the  table,  at 
intervals, — "my  case  is  a  very  singular  one.  'My  fa- 
ther's a  man  of  large  property,  and  I  am  his  son." 

"That's  a  very  strange  circumstance!"  interrupted 
the  jocose  Mr.  Walker,  en  'passant. 

" — I  am  his  son,  and  have  received  a  liberal  educa- 
tion. I  don't  owe  no  man  nothing — not  the  value  of  a 
farthing,  but  I  was  induced,  you  see,  to  put  my  name  to 
some  bills  for  a  friend — bills  to  a  large  amount,  I 
may  say  a  very  large  amount,  for  which  I  didn't  re- 
ceive no  consideration.    What's  the  consequence?'* 

"  Why,  I  suppose  the  bills  went  out,  and  you  came  in. 
The  acceptances  weren't  taken  up,  and  you  were,  eh  ?  " 
inquired  Walker. 

"  To  be  sure,"  replied  the  liberally  educated  young 
gentleman.  "  To  be  sure  ;  and  so  here  I  am,  locked  up 
for  a  matter  of  twelve  hundred  pound." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  your  old  governor  to  stump  up?" 
inquired  Walker,  with  a  somewhat  sceptical  air. 

"  Oh  !  bless  you,  he'd  never  do  it,"  replied  the  other, 
in  a  tone  of  expostulation — "  Never  !  " 

"Well,  it  is  very  odd  to — be — sure,"  interposed  the 
owner  of  the  flat  bottle,  mixing  another  glass;  "but 
I've  been  in  difficulties,  as  one  may  say,  now  for  thirty 
year.  I  went  to  pieces  when  I  was  in  a  milk-walk,  thirty 
year  ago  ;  arterwards  when  I  was  a  fruiterer,  and  kept 
a  spring  wan  ;  and  arter  that  again  in  the  coal  and  'tatur 
line — but  all  that  time  I  never  see  a  youngish  chap  come 
into  a  place  of  this  kind,  who  wasn't  going  out  directly, 
and  who  hadn't  been  arrested  On  bills  which  he'd  given 
a  friend  and  for  which  he'd  received  nothing  whatsom- 
ever — not  a  fraction." 

"Oh  !  its  always  the  cry,"  said  Walker.  "I  can't 
see  the  use  on  it  ;  that's  what  makes  me  so  wild.  Why, 
I  should  have  a  much  better  opinion  of  an  individual,  if 
he'd  say  at  once  in  an  honourable  and  gentlemanly  man- 
ner as  he'd  done  everybody  he  possibly  could." 

"Ay,  to  be  sure,"  interposed  the  horse-dealer,  with 
whose  notions  of  bargain  and  sale  the  axiom  perfectly 
coincided,  "  so  should  I." 

The  young  gentleman,  who  had  given  rise  to  these  ob- 
servations, was  on  the  point  of  offering  a  rather  angry 
reply  to  these  sneers,  but  the  rising  of  the  young  man 
before  noticed,  and  of  the  female  who  had  been  sitting 
by  him,  to  leave  the  room,  interrupted  the  conversation. 
She  had  been  weeping  bitterly,  and  the  noxious  at- 
mosphere of  the  room  acting  upon  her  excited  feelings 
and  delicate  frame,  rendered  the  support  of  her  compan- 
ion necessary  as  they  quitted  it  together. 

There  was  an  air  of  superiority  about  them  both,  and 
something  in  their  appearance  so  unusual  in  such  a  place, 
that  a  respectful  silence  was  observed  until  tlie  whirr — 
r — hang  of  the  spring  door  announced  that  they  w^ereout 
of  hearing.  It  was  broken  by  the  wife  of  the  ex -fruit- 
erer. 

"  Poor  creetur  !  "  said  she,  quenching  a  sigh  in  a  rivu- 
let of  gin-and-water.    "  She's  very  young." 


956 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"She's  a  nice-looking 'ooman  too,"  added  the  horse- 
dealer. 

"What's  he  in  for,  Ikey?"  inquired  Walker,  of  an 
individual  who  was  spreading  a  cloth  with  numerous 
blotches  of  mustard  upon  it,  on  one  of  the  tables,  and 
whom  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  had  no  difficulty  in  recog- 
nising as  the  man  who  had  called  upon  him  in  the 
morning. 

"  Vy,"  responded  the  factotum,  "it's  one  of  the  rum- 
miest  rigs  you  ever  heard  on.  He  come  in  here  last 
Vensday,  which  by  the  by  he's  a  going  over  the  water 
to-nig-ht — hows'ever  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  You 
see  I've  been  a  going  back'ards  and  for'ards  about  his 
business,  and  ha'  managed  to  pick  up  some  of  his  story 
from  his  servants  and  them  ;  and  so  far  as  I  can  make  it 
out,  it  seems  to  be  summat  to  this  here  effect — " 

"  Cut  it  short,  old  fellow,"  interrupted  Walker,  who 
knew  from  former  experience  that  he  of  the  top-boots 
was  neither  very  concise  nor  intelligible  in  his  narra- 
tives. 

"  Let  me  alone,"  replied Ikey,  "and  I'll  ha'  vound  up, 
and  made  my  lucky  in  five  seconds.  This  here  young 
gen'lm'n's  father — so  I'm  told,  mind  ye — and  the  father 
o'  the  young  voman,  have  always  been  on  very  bad,  out- 
and-out,  rig'lar  knock-me-down  sort  o'  terms  ;  but  some- 
how or  another,  when  he  was  a  wisitin'  at  some  gentle- 
folk's house,  as  he  knowed  at  college,  he  come  into 
contract  with  the  young  lady.  He  seed  her  several 
times,  and  then  he  up  and  said  he'd  keep  company  with 
her,  if  so  be  as  she  vos  agreeable.  Veil,  she  vos  as  sweet 
upon  him  as  he  vos  upon  her,  and  so  I  s'pose  they  made 
it  all  right  ;  for  they  got  married  'bout  six  months  arter- 
wards,  unbeknown,  mind  ye,  to  the  two  fathers — least- 
ways so  I'm  told.  When  they  heard  on  it — my  eyes,  there 
was  such  a  combustion!  Starvation  vos  the  very  least  that 
vos  to  be  done  to  'em.  The  young  gen'lm'n's  father  cut 
him  off  with  a  bob,  'cos  he'd  cut  himself  off  vith  a  wife  ; 
and  the  young  lady's  father  he  behaved  even  worser  and 
more  unnat'ral,  for  he  not  only  bio  wed  her  up  dreadful, 
and  swore  he'd  never  see  her  again,  but  he  employed  a 
chap  as  I  knows — and  as  you  knows,  Mr.  Valker,  a 
precious  sight  too  well — to  go  about  and  buy  up  the 
IdIIIs  and  them  things  on  which  the  young  husband, 
thinking  his  governor  'ud  come  round  agin,  had  raised 
the  vind  just  to  blow  himself  on  vith  for  a  time  ;  besides 
vich,  he  made  all  the  interest  he  could  to  set  other  peo- 
ple agin  him.  Consequence  vos,  that  he  paid  as  long  as 
he  could  ;  but  things  he  never  expected  to  have  to  meet 
till  he'd  had  time  to  turn  himself  round,  come  fast  upon 
him,  and  he  vos  nabbed.  He  vos  brought  here,  as  I 
said  afore,  last  Vensday,  and  I  think  there's  about — ah, 
half-a-dozen  detainers  agin  him  down-stairs  now.  I 
have  been,"  added  Ikey,  "in  the  purfession  these  fif- 
teen year,  and  I  never  met  with  such  windictiveness 
afore  ! " 

"Poor  creeturs  !"  exclaimed  the  coal-dealer's  wife 
once  more  :  again  resorting  to  the  same  excellent  pre- 
scription for  nipping  a  sigh  in  the  bud  :  "  Ah  !  when 
they've  seen  as  much  trouble  as  I  and  my  old  man  here 
have,  they'll  be  as  comfortable  under  it  as  we  are." 

"The  young  lady's  a  pretty  creature,"  said  Walker, 
"only  she's  a  little  too  delicate  for  my  taste — there  ain't 
enough  of  her.  As  to  the  young  cove,  he  may  be  very 
respectable  and  what  not,  but  he's  too  down  in  the 
mouth  for  me — he  ain't  game." 

"Game!"  exclaimed  Ikey,  who  had  been  altering 
the  position  of  a  green-handled  knife  and  fork  at  least  a 
dozen  times,  in  order  that  he  might  remain  in  the  room 
under  the  pi'etext  of  having  something  to  do.  "  He's 
game  enough  ven  there's  anything  to  be  fierce  about  ; 
but  who  could  be  game,  as  you  call  it,  Mr.  Walker,  with 
a  pale  young  creetur  like  that,  hanging  about  him  ? — 
It's  enough  to  drive  any  man's  heart  into  his  boots  to 
pee  'era  together — and  no  mistake  at  all  about  it.  I 
never  shall  forget  her  first  comin'  here  ;  he  wrote  to  her 
on  the  Thursday  to  come — I  know  he  did,  'cos  I  took 
the  letter.  Uncommon  fidgety  he  was  all  day  to  be 
sure,  and  in  the  evening  he  goes  down  into  the  office, 
and  he  says  to  Jacobs,  says  he,  '  Sir,  can  I  have  the  loan 
of  a  private  room  for  a  few  minutes  this  evening,  with- 
out incurring  any  additional  expense — just  to  see  my 
wife  in  ?  '  says  he.    Jacobs  looked  as  much  as  to  Bay — 


'Strike  me  bountiful  if  you  ain't  one  of  the  modest 
sort  ! '  but  as  the  gen'lm'n  who  had  been  in  the  back 
parlour  had  just  gone  out,  and  had  paid  for  it  that  day, 
he  says— worry  grave— Sir,'  says  he,  '  it's  agin  our  rules 
to  let  private  rooms  to  our  lodgers  on  gratis  terms,  but,' 
says  he',  '  for  a  gentleman,  I  don't  mind  breaking  through 
them  for  once.'  So  then  he  turns  round  to  me,  and  says, 
'  Ikey,  put  two  mould  candles  in  the  back  parlour,  and 
charge  'em  to  this  gen'lm'n's  account,'  vich  I  did.  Veil, 
by-and-by  a  hackney-coach  comes  up  to  the  door,  and 
there,  sure  enough,  was  the  young  lady,  wrapped  up  in 
a  hopera-cloak,  as  it  might  be,  and  all  alone.  I  opened 
the  gate  that  night,  so  I  went  up  when  the  coach  come, 
and  he  vos  a  waitin'  at  the  parlour-door — and  wasn't  he 
a-trembling,  neither?  The  poor  creetur  see  him,  and 
could  hardly  walk  to  meet  him.  *0h,  Harry!'  she 
says,  *  that  it  should  have  come  io  this  ;  and  all  for  my 
sake,'  says  she,  putting  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
So  he  puts  his  arm  round  her  pretty  little  waist,  and 
leading  her  gently  a  little  way  into  the  room,  so  that  he 
might  be  able  to  shut  the  door,  he  says  so  kind  and  soft- 
like—'Why,  Kate,'  says  he—" 

"  Here's  the  gentleman  you  want,"  said  Ikey,  abruptly 
breaking  off  in  his  story,  and  introducing  Mr.  Gabriel 
Parsons  to  the  crest-fallen  Watkins  Tottle,  who  at  that 
moment  entered  the  room.  Watkins  advanced  with  a 
wooden  expression  of  passive  endurance,  and  accepted 
the  hand  which  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  held  out. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Gabriel,  with  a  look 
strongly  expressive  of  his  dislike  of  the  company, 

"  This  way,"  replied  the  imprisoned  one,  leading  tlie 
way  to  the  front  drawing-room,  where  rich  debtors  did 
the  luxurious  at  the  rate  of  a  couple  of  guineas  a  day. 

"  Well,  here  I  am,"  said  Watkins,  as  he  sat  down  on 
the  sofa  ;  and  placing  the  palms  of  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  anxiously  glanced  at  his  friend's  countenance. 

"Yes;  and  here  you're  likely  to  be,"  said  Gabriel, 
coolly,  as  he  rattled  the  money  in  his  unmentionable 
pockets,  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  What's  the  amount  with  the  costs  ?"  inquired  Par- 
sons, after  an  awkward  pause. 

"37?.  35.  lOd" 

*  *  Have  you  any  money  ?  " 

"  Nine  and  sixpence  halfpenny." 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
for  a  few  seconds,  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  to 
disclose  the  plan  he  had  formed  ;  he  was  accustomed  to 
drive  hard  bargains,  but  was  always  most  anxious  to 
conceal  his  avarice.  At  length  he  stopped  short,  and 
said, — "  Tottle,  you  owe  me  fifty  pounds," 

"I  do." 

"And  from  all  I  see,  I  infer  that  you  are  likely  to 
owe  it  to  me." 
"  I  fear  I  am." 

' '  Though  you  have  every  disposition  to  pay  me  if  you 
could?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then,"  said  Mr,  Gabriel  Parsons,  "listen;  here's 
my  proposition.  You  know  my  way  of  old.  Accept  it 
— yes  or  no — I  will  or  I  won't.  I'll  pay  the  debt  and 
costs,  and  I'll  lend  you  more  (which,  added  to  your 
annuity,  will  enable  you  to  carry  on  the  war  well)  if 
you'll  give  me  your  note  of  hand  to  pay  me  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  within  six  months  after  you  are  married 
to  Miss  Lillerton." 

"  My  dear — " 

"  Stop  a  minute — on  one  condition  ;  and  that  is,  that 
you  propose  to  Miss  Lillerton  at  once," 

"  At  once  I    My  dear  Parsons,  consider," 

"  It's  for  you  to  consider,  not  me.  She  knows  you 
well  from  reputation,  though  she  did  not  know  you  per- 
sonally until  lately.  Notwithstanding  all  her  maiden 
modesty,  I  think  she'd  be  devilish  glad  to  get  married 
out  of  hand,  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  My  wife 
has  sounded  her  on  the  subject,  and  she  has  confessed." 

"What — what?"  eagerly  Interrupted  the  enamoured 
Watkins. 

"Why,"  replied  Parsons,  "to  say  exactly  what  she 
has  confessed,  would  be  rather  difficult,  because  they 
only  spoke  in  hints,  and  so  forth  ;  but  my  wife,  who  is 
no  bad  judge  in  these  cases,  declared  to  me  that  what 
she  had  confessed  was  as  good  as  to  say  that  she  was 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


957 


not  insensible  of  your  merits — in  fact,  that  no  other  man 
should  have  her." 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  rose  hastily  from  his  seat,  and 
rang  the  bell. 

"What's  that  for?"  inquired  Parsons. 

"I  want  to  send  the  man  for  the  bill  stamp,"  replied 
Mr.  Watkins  Tottle. 

"  Then  you've  made  up  your  mind?" 
I  have," — and  they  shook  hands  most  cordially.  The 
note  of  hand  was  given — the  debt  and  costs  were  paid — 
Ikey  was  satisfied  for  his  trouble,  and  the  two  friends  soon 
found  themselves  on  that  side  of  Mr.  Solomon  Jacobs's 
establishment,  on  which  most  of  his  visitors  were  very 
happy  when  they  found  themselves  once  again — to  wit, 
on  the  owteide. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  as  they  drove  to 
Norwood  together — "you  shall  have  an  opportunity  to 
make  the  disclosure  to-night,  and  mind  you  speak  out, 
Tottle." 

"I  will — I  will !"  replied  Watkins  valorously. 

"How  I  should  like  to  see  you  together,"  ejaculated 
Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons — "What  fun  !  "  and  he  laughed  so 
long  and  so  loudly,  that  he  disconcerted  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle  and  frightened  the  horse. 

"There's  Fanny  and  your  intended  walking  about  on 
the  lawn,"  said  Gabriel,  as  they  approached  the  house — 
"Mind  your  eye,  Tottle." 

"Never  fear,"  replied  Watkins,  resolutely,  as  he 
made  his  way  to  the  spot  where  the  ladies  were  walk- 
ing. 

"Hfere's  Mr.  Tottle,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons,  ad- 
dressing Miss  Lillerton.  The  lady  turned  quickly  round, 
and  acknowledged  his  courteous  salute  with  the  same 
sort  of  confusion  that  Watkins  had  noticed  on  their  first 
interview,  but  with  something  like  a  slight  expression 
of  disappointment  or  carelessness. 

"  Did  you  see  how  glad  she  was  to  see  you  V  whispered 
Parsons  to  his  friend. 

"Why  I  really  thought  she  looked  as  if  she  would 
rather  have  seen  somebody  else,"  replied  Tottle. 

"Pooh,  nonsense  !"  whispered  Parsons  again — "it's 
al  ways  the  way  with  the  women,  young  or  old.  They 
never  show  how  delighted  they  are  to  see  those  whose 
presence  makes  their  hearts  beat.  It's  the  way  with  the 
whole  sex,  and  no  man  should  have  lived  to  your  time 
of  life  without  knowing  it.  Fanny  confessed  it  to  me, 
when  we  were  first  married,  over  and  over  again — see 
what  it  is  to  have  a  wife." 

"Certainly,"  whispered  Tottle,  whose  courage  was 
vanishing  fast. 

"Well,  now,  you'd  better  begin  to  pave  the  way," 
said  Parsons,  who,  having  invested  some  money  in  the 
speculation,  assumed  the  office  of  director. 

".Yes,  yes,  I  will — presently,"  replied  Tottle,  greatly 
flurried. 

"Say  something  to  her,  man,"  urged  Parsons  again. 
"  Confoand  it  !  pay  her  a  comx)liraent,  can't  you?  " 

"  No  !  not  till  after  dinner,"  replied  the  bashful  Tottle, 
anxious  to  postpone  the  evil  moment. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons,  "you  are 
really  very  polite  ;  you  stay  away  the  whole  morning, 
after  promising  to  take  us  out,  and  when  you  do  come 
home,  you  stand  whispering  together,  and  take  no  notice 
of  us." 

"  We  were  talking  of  the  business,  my  dear,  which  de- 
tained us  this  morning,"  replied  Parsons,  looldng  signi- 
ficantly at  Tottle. 

"Dear  me  !  how  very  quickly  the  morning  has  gone, 
said  Miss  Lillerton,  referring  to  the  gold  watch,  which 
was  wound  up  on  state  occasions,  whether  it  required  it 
or  not. 

"/think  it  has  passed  very  slowly,"  mildly  suggested 
Tottle. 

("  That's  right — bravo  !")  whispered  Parsons. 
"  Indeed  1 "  said  Miss  Lillerton,  with  an  air  of  majestic 
surprise.  . 

"  I  can  only  impute  it  to  my  unavoidable  absence 
from  your  society,  madam,"  said  Watkins,  and  that  of 
Mrs.  Parsons." 

During  this  short  dialogue,  the  ladies  had  been  leading 
the  way  to  the  house. 

"  What  the  deuce  did  you  stick  Fanny  into  that  last 


compliment  for?"  inquired  Parsons,  as  they  followed 
together  ;  "  it  quite  spoilt  the  effect." 

"  Oh  !  it  really  would  have  been  too  broad  without," 
replied  Watkins  Tottle,  "  much  too  broad  !" 

"  He's  mad  !"  Parsons  whisx>ered  to  his  wife  as  they 
entered  the  drawing-room,  "mad  from  modesty." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  ejaculated  the  lady,  "  I  never  hoard  of 
such  a  thing." 

"You'll  find  we  have  quite  a  family  dinner,  Mr. 
Tottle,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons,  when  they  sat  down  to  table  : 
"  Miss  Lillerton  is  one  of  us,  and  of  course  we  make  no 
stranger  of  you." 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  expressed  a  hope  that  the  Parsons 
family  never  would  make  a  stranger  of  him  ;  and  wished 
internally  that  his  bashfulness  would  allow  him  to  feel  a 
little  less  like  a  stranger  himself, 

"Take  off  the  covers,  Martha,"  said  Mrs.  Par.sons, 
directing  the  shifting  of  the  scenery  with  great  anxiety. 
The  order  was  obeyed,  and  a  pair  of  boiled  fowls,  with 
tongue  and  et  ceteras,  were  displayed  at  the  top,  and  a 
fillet  of  veal  at  the  bottom.  On  one  side  of  the  table  two 
green  sauce-tureens,  with  ladles  of  the  same,  were  set- 
ting to  each  other  in  the  green  dish  ;  and  on  the  other 
was  a  curried  rabbit,  in  a  brown  suit,  turned  up  with 
lemon. 

"  Miss  Lillerton,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons,  "  shall 
I  assist  you?" 

"  Thank  you,  no  ;  I  think  I'll  trouble  Mr.  Tottle."  » 

Watkins  started — trembled — helped  the  rabbit — and 
broke  a  tumbler.  The  countenance  of  the  lady  of  the 
house,  which  had  been  all  smiles  previously,  underwent 
an  awful  change. 

"  Extremely  sorry,"  stammered  Watkins,  assisting 
himself  to  currie  and  parsley  and  butter,  in  the  extremity 
of  his  confusion.  "  Not  the  least  consequence,"  replied 
Mrs.  Parsons,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  it  was  of  the 
greatest  consequence  possible, — directing  aside  the  re- 
searches of  the  boy,  who  was  groping  under  the  table  for 
the  bits  of  broken  glass. 

"I  presume,"  said  Miss  Lillerton,  "that  Mr.  Tottle  is 
aware  of  the  interest  which  bachelors  usually  pay  in  such 
cases  ;  a  dozen  glasses  for  one  is  the  lowest  penalty." 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  gave  his  friend  an  admonitory 
tread  on  the  toe.  Here  was  a  clear  hint  that  the  sooner 
he  ceased  to  be  a  bachelor  and  emancipated  himself  from 
such  penalties,  the  better.  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  viewed 
the  observation  in  the  same  light,  and  challenged  Mrs. 
Parsons  to  take  wine,  with  a  degree  of  presence  of  mind 
which,  under  all  the  circumstances,  was  really  extra- 
ordinary. 

"Miss  Lillerton,"  said  Gabriel,  "  may  I  have  the 
pleasure  ?  " 

"I  shall  be  most  happy." 

"  Tottle,  will  you  assist  Miss  Lillerton,  and  pass  the 
decanter.  Thank  you."  (The  usual  pantomimic  cere- 
mony of  nodding  and  sipping  gone  through) — 

"Tottle,  were  you  ever  in  Suffolk?"  inquired  the 
master  of  the  house,  who  was  burning  to  tell  one  of  his 
seven  stock  stories. 

"No,"  responded  Watkins,  adding,  by  way  of  a  saving 
clause,  "but  I've  been  in  Devonshire." 

"Ah!"  replied  Gabriel,  "it  was  in  Suffolk  that  a 
rather  singular  cicumstance  happened  to  me,  many  years 
ago.    Did  you  ever  happen  to  hear  me  mention  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  Iiad  happened  to  hear  his  friend 
mention  it  some  four  huudred  times.  Of  course  he  ex- 
pressed great  curiosity,  and  evinced  the  utmost  impa- 
tience to  hear  the  story  again.  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons 
forthwith  attempted  to  proceed,  in  spite  of  the  interrup- 
tions to  which,  as  our  readers  must  frequently  have 
observed,  the  master  of  the  house  is  often  exposed  in 
such  cases.  We  will  attempt  to  give  them  an  idea  of 
our  meaning. 

"  When  I  was  in  Suffolk,"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons — 
"  Take  off  the  fowls  first,  Martha,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear." 

"  When  I  was  in  Suffolk,"  resumed  Mr.  Parsons  with 
an  impatient  glance  at  his  wife,  who  pretended  not  to 
observe  it,  "  which  is  now  some  years  ago,  business  led 
me  to  the  town  of  Bury  St.  Edmund's.  I  had  to  stop  to 
the  principal  places  in  my  way,  and  therefore,  for  the 
saice  of  convenience,  I  travelled  in  a  gig.    I  left  Sudbury. 


958 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


one  dark  niglit— it  was  winter  time — about  nine  o'clock  ; 
tlie  rain  poured  in  torrents,  tlie  wind  howled  among  the 
trees  that  skirted  the  road-side,  and  I  was  obliged  to 
proceed  at  a  foot-pace,  for  I  could  hardly  see  my  hand 
before  me,  it  was  so  dark — " 

"John,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Parsons,  in  a  low  hollow 
voice,  "don't  spill  that  gravy." 

"Fanny"  said  Parsons  impatiently,  "I  wish  you'd 
defer  these  domestic  reproofs  to  some  more  suitable  time. 
Pteally,  my  dear,  these  constant  interruptions  are  very 
aunoving." 

"  My  dear,  I  didn't  interrupt  you,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons. 
"  But,  my  dear,  you  did  interrupt  me,"  remonstrated 
Mr.  "Parsons. 

'  *  How  very  absurd  you  are,  my  love  !  I  must  give 
directions  to  the  servants  ;  I  am  quite  sure  that  if  I  sat 
here  and  allowed  John  to  spill  the  gravy  over  the  new 
carpet,  you'd  be  the  first  to  find  fault  when  you  saw  the 
stain  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Well,"  continued  Gabriel,  with  a  resigned  air,  as  if 
he  knew  there  was  no  getting  over  the  point  about  the 
carpet,  "I  was  just  saying,  it  was  so  dark  that  I  could 
hardly  see  my  hand  before  me.  The  road  was  very 
lonely,  and  I  assure  you,  Tottle  (this  was  a  device  to 
arrest  the  wandering  attention  of  that  individual,  which 
was  distracted  by  a  confidential  communication  between 
Mrs.  Parsons  and  Martha,  accompanied  by  the  delivery 
ofia  large  bunch  of  keys),  I  assure  you,  Tottle,  I  became 
somehow  impressed  with  a  sense  of  the  loneliness  of  my 
situation — " 

"Pie  to  your  master,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Parsons,  again 
directing  the  servant. 

"  Now,  pray,  my  dear,"  remonstrated  Parsons  once 
more,  very  pettishly.  Mrs.  P.  turned  up  her  hands  and 
eyebrows,  and  appealed  in  dumb  show  to  Miss  Lillerton. 
"  As  I  turned  a  corner  of  the  road,"  resumed  Gabriel, 
"  the  horse  stopped  short,  and  reared  tremendously.  I 
pulled  up,  jumped  out,  ran  to  his  head,  and  found  a  man 
lying  on  his  back  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  sky.  I  thought  he  was  dead  :  but  no, 
he  was  alive,  and  there  appeared  to  be  nothing  the  mat- 
ter with  him.  He  jumped  up,  and  putting  his  hand  to 
his  chest,  and  fixing  npon  me  the  most  earnest  gaze  you 
can  imagine,  exclaimed — " 

"  Pudding  here,"  said  Mrs.  Parsons. 

"Oh  !  it's  no  use,"  exclaimed  the  host,  now  rendered 
desperate.  "  Here,  Tottle  ;  a  glass  of  wine.  It's  use- 
less to  attempt  relating  anything  when  Mrs.  Parsons  is 
present." 

This  attack  was  received  in  the  usual  way.  Mrs.  Par- 
sons talked  to  Miss  Lillerton  and  at  her  better  half  ;  ex- 
patiated on  the  impatience  of  men  generally  ;  hinted 
that  her  husband  was  peculiarly  vicious  in  this  respect, 
and  wound  up  by  insinuating  that  she  must  be  one  of  the 
best  tempers  that  ever  existed,  or  she  never  could  put  up 
with  it.  Really  what  she  had  to  endure  sometimes,  was 
more  than  any  one  who  saw  her  in  every  day  life  could 
by  possibility  suppose.  The  story  was  now  a  painful 
subject,  and  therefore  Mr.  Parsons  declined  to  enter  into 
any  details,  and  contented  himself  by  stating  that  the 
man  was  a  maniac,  who  had  escaped  from  a  neighbour- 
ing mad-house. 

The  cloth  was  removed  ;  the  ladies  soon  afterwards  re- 
tired, and  Miss  Lillerton  played  the  piano  in  the  draw- 
ing room  over  head,  very  loudly,  for  the  edification  of 
the  visitor.  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  and  Mr.  Gabriel  Par- 
sons sat  chatting  comfortably  enough  until  the  con- 
clusion of  the  second  bottle,  when  the  latter,  in  propos- 
ing an  adjournment  to  the  drawing-room,  informed  Wat- 
kins  that  he  had  concerted  a  plan  with  his  wife,  for 
leaving  him  and  Miss  Lillerton  alone,  soon  after  tea. 

"I  say,"  said  Tottle,  as  they  went  up-stairs,  "  Don't 
you  think  it  would  be  better  to  put  it  off — till — to-mor- 
row?" 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  have  been  much  better  if  I 
had  left  you  in  that  wretched  hole  I  found  you  in 
this  morning?  "  retorted  Parsons,  bluntly. 

"Well — well — I  only  made  a  suggestion,"  said  poor 
Watkins  Tottle,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

Tea  was  soon  concluded,  and  Miss  Lillerton  drawing  a 
small  work-table  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  and  placing  a 
little  wooden  frame  upon  it,  something  like  a  miniature 


clay-mill  without  the  horse,  was  soon  busily  engaged  in 
making  a  watch-guard  with  brown  silk. 

"  God  bless  me  !  "  exclaimed  Parsons,  starting  up  with 
well-feigned  surprise,  "  I've  forgotten  those  confounded 
letters.    Tottle,  I  know  you'll  excuse  me." 

If  Tottle  had  been  a  free  agent,  he  would  have  allow- 
ed no  one  to  leave  tlie  room  on  any  pretence,  except 
himself.  As  it  was,  however,  he  was  obliged  to  look 
cheerful  when  Parsons  quitted  the  apartment. 

He  had  scarcely  left,  when  Martha  put  her  head  into 
the  room,  with — "  Please,  ma'am,  you're  wanted." 

Mrs.  Parsons  left  the  room,  shut  the  door  carefully  af- 
ter her,  and'  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  was  left  alone  with  Miss 
Lillerton. 

For  the  first  five  minutes  there  was  a  dead  silence. — 
Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  was  thinking  how  he  should  begin, 
and  Miss  Lillerton  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  nothing. 
The  fire  was  burning  low  ;  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  stirred 
it,  and  put  some  coals  on. 

"  Hem  !  "  coughed  Miss  Lillerton  ;  Mr.  Watkins  Tot- 
tle thought  the  fair  creature  had  spoken.  "  I  beg  your 
!  pardon,"  said  he. 

"Eh?" 

"I  thought  you  spoke." 
"  No." 
"Oh  !" 

"  There  are  some  books  on  the  sofa,  Mr.  Tottle,  if  you 
would  like  to  look  at  them,"  said  Miss  Lillerton,  after 
the  lapse  of  another  five  minutes. 

"No,  thank  you,"  returned  Watkins  :  and  then  he 
added,  with  a  courage  which  was  perfectly  astonisliing, 
even  to  himself,  "Madam,  that  is  Miss  Lillerton,  I  wish 
to  speak  to  you." 

"To  me  !"  said  Miss  Lillerton,  letting  the  silk  drop 
from  her  hands,  and  sliding  her  chair  back  a  few  paces. 
— "  Speak — to  me  !  " 

"  To  you,  madam — and  on  the  subject  of  the  state  of 
your  affections."  The  lady  hastily  rose,  and  would  have 
i  left  the  room  ;  but  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  gently  detained 
her  by  the  hand,  and  holding  it  as  far  from  him  as  the 
joint  length  of  their  arms  would  permit,  he  thus  pro- 
ceeded ;  "Pray  do  not  misunderstand  me,  or  suppose  I 
am  led  to  address  you,  after  so  short  an  acquaintance, 
by  any  feeling  of  my  own  merits — for  merits  I  have  none 
which  could  give  me  a  claim  to  your  hand.  I  hope  you 
will  acquit  me  of  my  presumption  when  I  explain 
that  I  have  been  acquainted  through  Mr.  Parsons,  with 
the  state — that  is,  that  Mrs.  Parsons  has  told  me — at 
least,  not  Mrs.  Parsons,  but — "  here  Watkins  began  to 
wander,  but  Miss  Lillerton  relieved  him. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  Mr.  Tottle,  that  Mrs.  Parsons 
has  acquainted  you  with  my  feeling — my  affection — I 
mean  my  respect  for  an  individual  of  the  opposite  sex?  " 

"  She  has." 

"Then  what?"  inquired  Miss  Lillerton,  averting  her 
face,  with  a  girlish  air,  "  what  could  induce  you  to  seek 
such  an  interview  as  this?  What  can  your  object  be? 
how  can  I  promote  your  happiness,  Mr.  Tottle  ?" 

Here  was  the  time  for  a  flourish — "  By  allowing  me," 
replied  Watkins,  falling  bump  on  his  knees,  and  break- 
ing two  brace-buttons  and  a  waistcoat-string,  in  the  act 
— "By  allowing  me  to  be  your  slave,  your  servant — in 
short,  by  unreservedly  making  me  the  confidant  of  your 
heart's  feelings — may  I  say,  for  the  promotion  of  your 
own  happiness — may  I  say,  in  order  that  you  may  be- 
come the  wife  of  a  kind  and  affectionate  husband  ?  " 

"Disinterested  creature  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Lillerton, 
hidiifg  her  face  in  a  white  pocket-handkerchief  with  an 
eyelet-hole  border. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  thought  that  if  the  lady  knew  all, 
she  might  possibly  alter  her  opinion  on  this  last  point. 
He  raised  the  tip  of  her  middle  finger  ceremoniously  to 
his  lips,  and  got  off  his  knees  as  gracefully  as  he  could. 
"My  information  was  correct?"  he  tremulously  in- 
quired, when  he  was  once  more  on  his  feet. 

"  It  was."  Watkins  elevated  his  hands  and  looked  up 
to  the  ornament  in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling,  which  had 
been  made  for  a  lamp,  by  way  of  expressing  his  rapture. 

"Our  situation,  Mr.  Tottle,"  resumed  the  lady,  glan- 
cing at  him  through  one  of  the  eyelet-holes," is  a  most 
peculiar  and  delicate  one." 

"  It  is,"  said  Mr.  Tottle. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


959 


"  Our  acquaintance  has  been  of  so  short  a  duration," 
said  Miss  Lillerton. 

**Oulj  a  week,"  assented  Watkins  Tottle. 

"Oh  !  more  than  that,"  exclaimed  the  lady  in  a  tone 
of  surprise. 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Tottle. 

"  More  than  a  month — more  than  two  mouths  1 "  said 
Miss  Lillerton, 

"Rather  odd,  this,"  thought  Watkins. 

"  Oh  1"  he  said,  recollecting  Parsons's  assurance  that 
she  had  known  him  from  report,  "  I  understand.  But, 
my  dear  madam,  pray  consider.  The  longer  this  ac- 
quaintance has  existed,  the  less  reason  is  there  for  delay 
now.  Why  not  at  once  fix  a  period  for  gratifying  the 
hopes  of  your  devoted  admirer?" 

"It  has  been  represented  to  me  again  and  again  that 
this  is  the  course  I  ought  to  pursue,"  replied  Miss  Lil- 
lerton, "  but  pardon  my  feelings  of  delicacy,  Mr.  Tottle 
— pray  excuse  this  embarrassment — I  have  peculiar 
ideas  on  such  subjects,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  never 
could  summon  up  fortitude  enough  to  name  the  day  to 
my  future  husband." 

"  Then  allow  me  to  name  it,"  said  Tottle  eagerly. 

"  I  should  like  to  fix  it  mvself,"  replied  Miss  Liller- 
ton, bashfully,  "  but  I  cannot  do  so  without  at  once  re- 
sorting to  a  third  party. 

"A  third  party!"  thought  Watkins  Tottle;  "who 
the  deuce  is  that  to  be,  I  wonder  !" 

"  Mr.  Tottle,"  continued  Miss  Lillerton,  "  you  have 
made  me  a  most  disinterested  and  kind  offer — that  offer 
I  accept.  Will  you  at  once  be  the  bearer  of  a  note  from 
me  to — Mr.  Timson  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Timson  ! "  said  Watkins. 

"After  what  has  passed  between  us,"  responded 
Miss  Lillerton,  still  averting  her  head,  "you  must  un- 
derstand whom  I  mean  ;  Mr.  Timson,  the — the — clergy- 
man." 

"Mr.  Timson,  the  clergyman!"  ejaculated  Watkins 
Tottle,  in  a  state  of  inexpressible  beatitude,  and  positive 
wonder  at  his  own  success.  "  Angel  1  Certainly^ — this 
moment ! " 

"I'll  prepare  it  immediately,"  said  Miss  Lillerton, 
making  for  the  door ;  "  the  events  of  this  day  have 
'  flurried  me  so  much,  Mr.  Tottle,  that  I  shall  not  leave 
my  room  again  this  evening  ;  I  will  send  you  the  note 
by  the  servant." 

"  Stay — stay,"  cried  Watkins  Tottle,  still  keeping  a 
most  respectful  distance  from  the  lady;  "when  shall 
we  meet  again  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Tottle,"  replied  Miss  Lillerton,  coquet- 
tishly,  "when  we  are  married,  I  can  never  see  you 
too  often,  nor  thank  you  too  much  ;  "  and  she  left  the 
room. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  flung  himself  into  an  arm-chair, 
and  indulged  in  the  most  delicious  reveries  of  future 
bliss,  in  which  the  idea  of  "  Five  Jiundred  pounds  per 
annum,  with  an  uncontrolled  power  of  disposing  of  it  by 
her  last  will  and  testament,"  was  somehow  or  other  the 
foremost.  He  had  gone  through  the  interview  so  well, 
and  it  had  terminated  so  admirably,  that  he  almost  be- 
gan to  wish  he  had  expressly  stipulated  for  the  settle- 
ment of  the  annual  five  hundred  on  himself. 

"May  I  come  in?"  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  peeping 
in  at  the  door, 

"  You  may,"  replied  Watkins. 

"  Well,  have  you  done  it  ? "  anxiously  inquired 
Gabriel. 

"  Have  I  done  it  1 "  said  Watkins  Tottle,  "  Hush— I'm 
going  to  the  clergyman." 

"No  ! "  said  Parsons.  "How  well  you  have  managed 
it !" 

"  Where  does  Timson  live  ?  "  inquired  Watkins. 

"  At  his  uncle's,"  replied  Gabriel,  "just  round  the 
lane.  "He's  waiting  for  a  living,  and  has  been  assist- 
ing his  uncle  here  for  the  last  two  or  three  months. 
But  how  well  you  have  done  it — I  didn't  think  you  could 
have  carried  it  off  so  ! " 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  was  proceeding  to  demonstrate 
that  the  Richardsonian  principle  was  the  best  on  which 
love  could  possibly  be  made,  when  he  was  interrupted 
by  ihe  entrance  of  Martha,  with  a  little  pink  note  folded 
like  a  fancy  cocked-hat. 


"Miss  Lillerton's  compliments,'*  said  Martha,  as  she 
delivered  it  into  Tottle's  hands,  and  vanished. 

"  Do  you  observe  the  delicacy?"  said  Tottle,  appeal- 
ing to  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons.  "  Compliments  not  love,  by 
the  servant,  eh  ?  " 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  didn't  exactly  know  what  reply 
to  make,  so  he  poked  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand 
between  the  third  and  fourth  ribs  of  Mr.  Watkins 
Tottle. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Watkins,  when  the  explosion  of 
mirth  consequent  on  this  practical  jest,  had  subsided, 
"  we'll  be  off  at  once — let's  lose  no  time." 

"Capital!"  echoed  Gabriel  Parsons;  and  in  five 
minutes  they  were  at  the  garden-gate  of  the  villa  ten- 
anted by  the  uncle  of  Mr.  Timson. 

"Is  Mr.  Charles  Timson  at  home?"  inquired  Mr. 
Watkins  Tottle  of  Mr.  Charles  Timson's  uncle's  man. 

"  Mr,  Charles  is  at  home,"  replied  the  man  stammer- 
ing ;  "  but  he  desired  me  to  say  he  couldn't  be  inter- 
rupted, sir,  by  any  of  the  parishioners." 

"/am  not  a  parishioner,"  replied  Watkins. 

"Is  Mr.  Charles  writing  a  sermon,  Tom?"  inquired 
Parsons,  thrusting  himself  forward. 

"No,  Mr.  Parsons,  sir  ;  he's  not  exactly  writing  a  ser- 
mon, but  he  is  practising  the  violoncello  in  his  own  bed- 
room, and  gave  strict  orders  not  to  be  disturbed." 

"  Say  I'm  here,"  replied  Gabriel,  leading  the  way 
across  the  garden  ;  "  Mr.  Parsons  and  Mr.  Tottle,  on 
private  and  particular  business." 

They  were  shown  into  the  parlour,  and  the  servant 
departed  to  deliver  his  message.  The  distant  groaning 
of  the  violoncello  ceased ;  footsteps  were  heard  on  the 
stairs  ;  and  Mr.  Timson  presented  himself,  and  shook 
hands  with  Parsons  with  the  utmost  cordiality. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?"  said  Watkins  Tottle,  with 
great  solemnity. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir?"  replied  Timson,  with  as  much 
coldness  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to 
him  how  he  did,  as  it  very  likely  was. 

"  I  beg  to  deliver  this  note  to  you,"  said  Watkins  Tot- 
tle, producing  the  cocked  hat. 

"From  Miss  Lillerton  !"  said  Timson,  suddenly  chan- 
ging colour.    "  Pray  sit  down." 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  sat  down ;  and  while  Timson 
perused  the  note,  fixed  his  eyes  on  an  oyster-sauce-col- 
oured portrait  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  which 
hung  over  the  fireplace. 

Mr.  Timson  rose  from  his  seat  when  he  had  concluded 
the  note,  and  looked  dubiously  at  Parsons — "  May  I 
ask,"  he  inquired,  appealing  to  Watkins  Tottle  "whether 
our  friend  here  is  acquainted  with  the  object  of  your 
visit  ?  " 

"  Our  friend  is  in  my  confidence,"  replied  Watkins, 
with  considerable  importance. 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  Timson,  seizing  both  Tottle's  hands 
"  allow  me  in  his  presence  to  thank  you  most  unfeigned- 
ly  and  cordially,  for  the  noble  part  you  have  acted  in 
this  affair." 

"He  thinks  I  recommended  him,"  thought  Tottle. 
"  Confound  these  fellows  !  they  never  think  of  anything 
but  their  fees." 

"  I  deeply  regret  having  misunderstood  your  inten- 
tions, my  dear  sir,"  continued  Timson.  "  Disinterested 
and  manly,  indeed  !  There  are  very  few  men  who  would 
have  acted  as  you  have  done." 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  could  not  help  thinking  that  this 
last  remark  was  anything  but  complimentary.  He  there- 
fore inquired,  rather  hastily,  "  When  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

"On  Thursday,"  replied  Timson,— "on  Thursday 
morning  at  half-past  eight." 

"  Uncommonly  early,"  observed  Watkins  Tottle,  with 
an  air  of  triumphant' self-denial.  "I  shall  hardly  be 
able  to  get  down  here  by  that  hour."  (This  was  in- 
tended for  a  joke.) 

"Never  mind,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  Timson,  all 
suavity,  shaking  hands  with  Tottle  again  most  heartily, 
"  so  long  as  we  see  you  to  breakfast,  you  know — " 

"Eh  !  "  said  Parsons,  with  one  of  the  most  extraordi- 
nary expressions  of  countenance  that  ever  appeared  in  a 
human  face, 

"What!"  ejaculated  Watkins  Tottle  at  the  same 
moment. 


960 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"  I  say  tliat  so  long  as  we  see  yon  to  breakfast,"  re- 
peated Timson,  "  we  will  excuse  your  being  absent  from 
the  ceremony,  tliough  of  course  your  presence  at  it 
would  give  us  the  utmost  pleasure." 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  staggered  against  the  wall,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  Timson  with  appalling  persever- 
ance. 

"Timson,"  said  Parsons,  hurriedly  brushing  his  hat 
with  his  left  arm,  "  when  you  say  '  us/  whom  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"Mr.  Timson  looked  foolish  in  his  turn,  when  he  re- 
plied, "  Why — Mrs.  Timson  that  will  be  this  day  week  : 
Miss  Lillerton  that  is—" 

"  Now  don't  stare  at  that  idiot  in  the  corner,"  angrily 
exclaimed  Parsons,  as  the  extraordinary  convulsions  of 
Watkins  Tottle's  countenance  excited  the  wondering 
gaze  of  Timson, — "but  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  in 
three  words  the  contents  of  that  note." 

"  This  note,"  replied  Timson,  "is  from  Miss  Lillerton 
to  whom  I  have  been  for  the  last  five  Aveeks  regularly 
engaged.  Her  singular  scruples  and  strange  feeling  on 
some  points  have  hitherto  prevented  my  bringing  the  en- 
gagement to  that  termination  which  I  so  anxiously  de- 
sire. She  informs  me  here,  that  she  sounded  Mrs.  Par- 
sons with  the  view  of  making  her  her  confidant  and  go- 
between,  that  Mrs.  Parsons  informed  this  elderly  gen- 
man,  Mr.  Tottle,  of  the  circumstance,  and  that  he,  in  the 
most  kind  and  delicate  terms,  offered  to  assist  us  in  any 
way,  and  even  undertook  to  convey  this  note,  which  con- 
tains the  promise  I  have  long  sought  in  vain — an  act  of 
kindness  for  which  I  can  never  be  sufficiently  grate-  I 
ful." 

"  Good  night,  Timson,"  said  Parsons  hurrying  off,  and 
carrying  the  bewildered  Tottle  with  him. 

"Won't you  stay — and  have  something?"  said  Tim- 
son. 

"No,  thank  ye,"  replied  Parsons;  I've  had  quite 
enough  ;  and  away  he  went,  followed  by  Watkins  Tot- 
tle in  a  state  of  stupefaction. 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  whistled  until  they  had  walked 
some  quarter  of  a  mile  past  his  own  gate,  when  he  sud- 
denly stopped,  and  said — 

"  You  are  a  clever  fellow,  Tottle,  ain't  you?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  unfortunate  Watkins. 

"I  suppose  you'll  say  this  is  Fanny's  fault,  won't 
you  ?  "  inquired  Gabriel. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  replied  the  be- 
wildered Tottle. 

"  Well,"  said  Parsons,  turning  on  his  heel  to  go  home 
"  the  next  time  you  make  an  offer,  you  had  better  speak 
plainly,  and  don't  throw  a  chance  away.  And  the  next 
time  you're  locked  up  in  a  spunging-house,  just  wait 
there  till  I  come  and  take  you  out,  there's  a  good  fel- 
low." 

How,  or  at  what  hour,  Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  returned 
to  Cecil-street  is  unknown.  His  boots  were  seen  outside 
his  bedroom-door  next  morning  ;  but  we  have  the  au- 
thority of  his  landlady  for  stating  that  he  neither 
emerged  therefrom  nor  accepted  sustenance  for  four-and- 
twenty  hours.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period  and 
when  a  council  of  war  was  being  held  in  the  kitchen  on 
the  propriety  of  summoning  the  parochial  beadle  to 
break  his  door  open,  he  rang  his  bell,  and  demanded  a 
cup  of  milk-and-water.  The  next  morning  he  went 
through  the  formalities  of  eating  and  drinking  as  usual, 
but  a  week  afterwards,  he  was  seized  with  a  relapse, 
while  perusing  the  list  of  marriages  in  a  morning  paper, 
from  which  he  never  perfectly  recovered. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  last-named  occurrence,  the 
body  of  a  gentleman  unknown,  was  found  in  the  Re- 
gent's canal.  In  the  trousers-pockets  were  four  shil- 
lings and  threepence  halfpenny  ;  a  matrimonial  adver- 
tisment  from  a  lady,  which  appeared  to  have  been  cut 
out  of  a  Sunday  paper  ;  a  toothpick,  and  a  card-case, 
which  it  is  confidently  believed  would  have  led  to  the 
identification  of  the  unfortunate  gentleman,  but  for  the 
circumstance  of  there  being  none  but  blank  cards  in  it. 
Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  absented  himself  from  his  lodgings 
shortly  before.  A.  bill,  which  had  not  been  taken  u}), 
was  presented  next  morning  ;  and  a  bill,  which  had  not 
been  taken  down,  was  soon  afterwards  affixed  in  his 
parlour  window. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Tlie  Bloomsbury  Christening. 

[The  A  uthor  may  be  permitted  to  observe  that  this  sketch  was  pnb- 
lished  some  time  before  the  Farce  entitled  "  The  Christening  "  was 
first  represented.] 

Mr.  Nicodemus  Dumps,  or,  as  his  acquaintance 
called  him,  "long  Dumps,"  was  a  bachelor,  six  feet  high, 
and  fifty  years  old  ;  cross,  cadaverous,  odd,  and  ill-na- 
tured. He  was  never  happy  but  when  he  was  miserable  ; 
and  always  miserable  when  he  had  the  best  reason  to  be 
happy.  The  only  real  comfort  of  his  existence  was  to 
make  everybody  about  him  wretched — then  he  might  be 
truly  said  to  enjoy  life.  He  was  afflicted  with  a  situa- 
tion in  the  Bank  worth  five  hundred  a  year,  and  he 
rented  a  "  first-floor  furnished,"  at  Pentonville,  which  he 
originally  took  because  it  commanded  a  dismal  prospect 
of  an  adjacent  churchyard.  He  was  familiar  with  the 
face  of  every  tombstone,  and  the  burial  service  seemed 
to  excite  his  strongest  sympathy.  His  friends  said  he 
was  surly — he  insisted  he  was  nervous  ;  they  thought 
him  a  lucky  dog,  but  he  protested  that  he  was  "  the 
most  unfortunate  man  in  the  world."  Cold  as  he 
was,  and  wretched  as  he  declared  himself  to  be,  he  was 
not  wholly  unsusceptible  of  attachments.  He  revered 
the  memory  of  Hoyle,  as  he  was  himself  an  admirable 
and  imperturbable  whist-player,  and  he  chuckled  with 
delight  at  a  fretful  and  impatient  adversary.  He  adored 
I  King  Herod  for  his  massacre  of  the  innocents  ;  and  if  he 
hated  one  thing  more  than  another,  it  was  a  child.  How- 
ever, he  could  hardly  be  said  to  hate  anything  in  par- 
ticular, because  he  disliked  everything  in  general ;  but 
perhaps  his  greatest  antipathies  were  cabs,  old  women, 
doors  that  would  not  shut,  musical  amateurs,  and  omni- 
bus cabs.  He  subscribed  to  the  "  Society  for  the  Sup- 
pression of  Vice,"  for  the  pleasure  of  putting  a  stop  to 
any  harmless  amusements  ;  and  he  contributed  largely 
towards  the  support  of  two  itinerant  methodist  parsons 
in  the  amiable  hope  that  if  circumstances  rendered  any 
people  happy  in  this  world,  they  might  perchance  be 
rendered  miserable  by  fears  for  the  next. 

Mr.  Dumps  had  a  nephew  who  had  been  married  about 
a  year,  and  who  was  somewhat  of  a  favourite  with  his 
uncle,  because  he  was  an  admirable  subject  to  exercise 
his  misery- creating  powers  upon.  Mr.  Charles  Kitter- 
bell  was  a  small,  sharp,  spare  man,  with  a  very  large 
head,  and  a  broad,  good-humoured  countenance.  He 
looked  like  a  faded  giant,  with  the  head  and  face  par- 
tially restored  ;  and  he  had  a  cast  in  his  eye  which  ren- 
dered it  quite  impossible  for  any  one  with  whom  he  con- 
versed to  know  where  he  was  looking.  His  eyes  ap- 
peared fixed  on  the  wall,  and  he  was  staring  you  out  of 
countenance  ;  in  short,  there  was  no  catching  his  eye, 
and  perhaps  it  is  a  merciful  dispensation  of  Providence 
that  such  eyes  are  not  catching.  In  addition  to  these 
characteristics,  it  may  be  added  that  Mr.  Charles  Kitter- 
bell  was  one  of  the  most  credulous  and  matter-of-fact 
little  personages  that  ever  took  to  himself  a  wife,  and 
for  himself  a  house  in  Great  Russell-street,  Bedford- 
square.  (Uncle  Dumps  always  dropped  the  "Bedford- 
square,"  and  inserted  in  lieu  thereof  the  dreadful  words 
"Tottenham-court  road.") 

"No,  but  uncle,  'pon  my  life  you  must — you  must 
promise  to  be  godfather,"  said  Mr.  Kitterbell,  as  he  sat 
in  conversation  with  his  respected  relative  one  morning. 
"  I  cannot,  indeed  I  cannot,"  returned  Dumps. 
"  Well,  but  why  not  ?    Jemima  will  think  it  very  un- 
kind.   It's  very  little  trouble." 

"As  to  the  trouble,"  rejoined  the  most  unhappy  man 
in  existence,  "  I  don't  mind  that ;  but  my  nerves  are  in 
that  state — I  cannot  go  through  the  ceremony.  You 
know  I  don't  like  going  out.— For  God's  sake,  Charles, 
don't  fidget  with  that  stool  so  ;  you'll  drive  me  mad." 
Mr.  Kitterbell  quite  regardless  of  his  uncle's  nerves,  had 
occupied  himself  for  some  ten  minutes  in  describing  a 
circle  on  the  floor  with  one  leg  of  the  oflace-stool  on 
which  he  was  seated,  keeping  the  other  three  up  in  the 
air,  and  iiolding  fast  on  by  the  desk. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  uncle,"  said  Kitterbell,  quite 
abashed,  suddenly  releasing  his  hold  of  the  desk,  and 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


961 


"bringing  the  three  wandering  legs  back  to  the  floor,  with 
a  force  sufficient  to  drive  them  through  it. 

•*  But  come,  don't  refuse.  If  it's  a  boy,  you  know,  we 
must  have  two  godfathers." 

"  If  it's  a  boy  ! "  said  Dumps  ;  "  why  can't  you  say  at 
once  whether  it  is  a  boy  or  not  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  very  happy  to  tell  you,  but  it's  impossible 
I  can  undertake  to  say  whether  it's  a  girl  or  a  boy,  if  the 
child  isn't  born  yet." 

''Not  born  yet  !"  echoed  Dumps,  with  a  gleam  of 
hope  lighting  up  his  lugubrious  visage.  "  Oh  well,  it 
onay  be  a  girl,  and  then  you  won't  want  me  ;  or  if  it  is  a 
boy,  it  may  die  before  it  is  christened." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  the  father  that  expected  to  be, 
looking  very  grave. 

"  I  hope  not,"  acquiesced  Dumps,  evidently  pleased 
with  the  subject.  He  was  beginning  to  get  happy. 
hope  not,  but  distressing  cases  frequently  occur  during 
the  first  two  or  three  days  of  a  child's  life  ;  fits,  I  am 
told,  are  exceedingly  common,  and  alarming  convulsions 
are  almost  matters  of  course." 

"  Lord,  uncle,"  ejaculated  little  Kitterbell,  gasping 
for  breath, 

"  Yes  ;  my  landlady  was  confined — let  me  see — last 
Tuesday  :  an  uncommonly  tine  boy.  On  the  Tuesday 
night  the  nurse  was  sitting  with  him  upon  her  knee  be- 
fore the  fire,  and  he  was  as  well  as  possible.  Suddenly 
he  became  black  in  the  face,  and  alarmingly  spasmodic. 
The  medical  man  was  instantly  sent  for,  and  every 
remedy  was  tried,  but — " 

"How  frightful!"  interrupted  the  horror-stricken 
Kitterbell. 

"The  child  died,  of  course.  However,  your  child 
may  not  die ;  and  if  it  should  be  a  boy,  and  should  live 
to  be  christened,  why  I  suppose  I  must  be  one  of  the 
sponsors."  Dumps  was  evidently  good-natured  on  the 
faith  of  his  anticipations. 

"  Thank  you,  uncle,"  said  his  agitated  nephew, 
grasping  his  hand  as  warmly  as  if  he  had  done  him  some 
essential  service.  "Perhaps  I  had  better  not  tell  Mrs. 
K.  what  you  have  mentioned." 

"Why,  if  she's  low  spirited,  perhaps  you  had  better 
not  mention  the  melancholy  case  to  her,"  returned 
Dumps,  who  of  course  had  invented  the  whole  story  ; 
"  though  perhaps  it  would  be  but  doing  your  duty  as  a 
husband  to  prepare  her  for  the  worst." 

A  day  or  two  afterwards,  as  Dumps  was  perusing  a 
morning  paper  at  the  chop-house  which  he  regularly 
frequented,  the  following  paragraph  met  his  eye  : — 

"  Births.— On  Saturday,  the  18th  inst.,  in  Great  Russell  street,  the 
lady  of  Charles  Kitterbell,  Esq.,  of  a  son." 

"  it  ^«  a  boy  !  "  he  exclaijned,  dashing  down  the  paper, 
to  the  astonishment  of  the  waiters.  "It  is  a  boy!" 
But  he  speedily  regained  his  composure  as  his  eye  rested 
on  a  paragraph  quoting  the  number  of  infant  deaths 
from  the  bills  of  mortality. 

Six  weeks  passed  away,  and  as  no  communication  had 
been  received  from  the  Kitterbells,  Dumps  was  begin- 
ning to  flatter  himself  that  the  child  was  dead,  when  the 
following  note  painfully  resolved  his  doubts  : — 

Great  Russell  street, 

''Monday  morning. 

"  Dear  Uncle,— You  will  be  delighted  to  hear  that 
my  dear  Jemima  has  left  her  room,  and  that  your  future 
godson  is  getting  on  capitally.  He  Avas  very  thin  at 
first,  but  he  is  getting  much  larger,  and  nurse  says  he  is 
filling  out  every  day.  He  cries  a  good  deal,  and  is  a  very 
singular  colour,  which  made  Jemima  and  me  rather  un- 
comfortable ;  but  as  nurse  says  it's  natural  and  as  of 
course  we  know  nothing  about  these  things  yet,  we  are 
quite  satisfied  with  what  nurse  says.  We  think  he  will 
be  a  sharp  child  ;  and  nurse  says  she's  sure  he  will,  be- 
cause he  never  goes  to  sleep.  You  will  readily  believe 
that  we  are  all  very  happy,  only  we're  a  little  worn  out 
for  want  of  rest,  as  he  keeps  us  awake  all  night  ;  but 
tills  we  must  expect,  nurse  says,  for  the  first  six  or 
eight  months.  He  has  been  vaccinated,  but  in  conse- 
quence of  the  operation  being  rather  awkwardly  per- 
foinned,  some  small  particles  of  glass  were  introduced 
Vol.  II.— 61 


into  the  arm  with  the  matter.  Perhaps  this  may  in  some 
degree  account  for  his  being  rather  fractious  ;  at  least, 
so  nurse  says.  We  propose  to  have  him  christened  at 
twelve  o'clock  on  Friday,  at  Saint  George's  church,  in 
Hart-street,  by  the  name  of  Frederick  Charles  William. 
Pray  don't  be  later  than  a  quarter  before  twelve.  We 
shall  have  a  very  few  friends  in  the  evening,  when  of 
course  we  shall  see  you.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the 
dear  boy  appears  rather  restless  and  uneasy  to-day  :  the 
cause,  I  fear,  is  fever. 

"Believe  me,  dear  Uncle, 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  Charles  Kitterbell. 

"P.S. — I  open  this  note  to  say  that  we  have  just  dis- 
covered-the  cause  of  little  Frederick's  restlessness.  It 
is  not  fever,  as  I  apprehended,  but  a  small  pin,  which 
nurse  accidentally  stuck  in  his  leg  yesterday  evening. 
We  have  taken  it  out,  and  he  appears  more  composed, 
though  he  still  sobs  a  good  deal," 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  perusal  of  the 
above  interesting  statement  was  no  great  relief  in  the 
mind  of  the  hypochondriacal  Dumps.  It  was  impossible 
to  recede,  however,  and  so  he  put  the  best  face — that  is 
to  say,  an  uncommonly  miserable  one— upon  the  matter ; 
and  purchased  a  handsome  silver  mug  for  the  infant 
Kitterbell,  upon  which  he  ordered  the  initials  "  F.  C. 
W,  K."  with  the  customary  untrained  grapevine-looking 
flourishes,  and  a  large  full  stop  to  be  engraved  forth- 
with. 

Monday  was  a  fine  day,  Tuesday  was  delightful,  Wed- 
nesday was  equal  to  either,  and  Thursday  was  finer  than 
ever ;  four  successive  fine  days  in  London  !  Hackney- 
coachmen  became  revolutionary,  and  crossing-sweepers 
began  to  doubt  the  existence  of  a  First  Cause.  The 
Morning  Herald  informed  its  readers  that  an  old  woman 
in  Camden  Town  had  been  heard  to  say  that  the  fineness 
of  the  season  was  "unprecedented  in  the  memory  of  the 
oldest  inhabitant  ; "  and  Islington  clerks,  with  large 
families  and  small  salaries,  left  off  their  black  gaiters, 
disdained  to  carry  their  once  green  cotton  umbrellas,  and 
walked  to  town  in  the  conscious  pride  of  white  stockings 
and  cleanly-brushed  Bluchers.  Dumps  beheld  all  this 
with  an  eye  of  supreme  contempt — his  triumph  was  at 
hand.  He  knew  that  if  it  had  been  fine  for  four  weeks 
instead  of  four  days,  it  would  rain  when  he  went  out ; 
he  was  lugubriously  happy  in  the  conviction  that  Friday 
would  be  a  wretched  day — and  so  it  was.  "  I  knew  how 
it  would  be,"  said  Dumps,  as  he  turned  round  opposite 
the  Mansion-house  at  half-past  eleven  o'clock  on  the 
Friday  morning.  "  I  knew  how  it  would  be  ;  /am  con- 
cerned, and  that's  enough  ;  " — and  certainly  the  appear- 
ance of  the  day  was  sufficient  to  depress  the  spirits  of  a 
much  more  buoyant-hearted  individual  than  himself. 
It  had  rained  without  a  moment's  cessation,  since  eight 
o'clock  ;  everybody  that  passed  up  Cheapside,  and  down 
Cheapside,.  looked  wet,  cold,  and  dirty.  All  sorts  of 
forgotten  and  long-concealed  umbrellas  had  been  put 
into  requisition.  Cabs  whisked  about  with  the  "  fare" 
as  carefully  boxed  up  behind  two  glazed  calico  curtains 
as  any  mysterious  picture  in  any  one  of  Mrs.  Eadcliffe's 
castles ;  omnibus  horses  smoked  like  steam-engines ; 
nobody  thought  of  "standing  up"  under  doorways  or 
arches  ;  they  were  painfully  convinced  it  was  a  hopeless 
I  case  ;  and  so  everybody  went  hastily  along,  jumbling 
'  and  jostling,  and  swearing  and  perspiring,  and  slipping 
about,  like  amateur  skaters  behind  wooden  chairs  on  the 
Serpentine  on  a  frosty  Sunday. 

Dumps  paused  ;  he  could  not  think  of  walking,  being 
rather  smart  for  the  christening.  If  he  took  a  cab  he 
was  sure  to  be  spilt,  and  a  hackney  coach  was  too  ex- 
pensive for  his  economical  ideas.  An  omnibus  was 
waiting  at  the  opposite  corner — it  was  a  desperate  case 
— he  had  never  heard  of  an  omnibus  upsetting  or  running 
away,  and  if  the  cad  did  knock  him  down,  he  could 
"  pull  him  up"  in  return. 

"Now,  sir  ! "  cried  the  young  gentleman  who  oflBciated 
as  "  cad  "  to  the  "Lads  of  the  Village,"  which  was  the 
name  of  the  machine  just  noticed.    Dumps  crossed. 

"This  vay,  sir!"  shouted  the  driver  of  the  "Hark- 
away,"  pulling  up  his  vehicle  immediately  across  the 


962 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


door  of  the  opposition— "  This  vay,  sir— he's  full." 
Dumps  hesitated,  whereupon  the  "  Lads  of  the  Village" 
comraenced  pouring  out  a  torrent  of  abuse  against  the 
"  Harkaway  but  the  conductor  of  the  "'Admiral  Na- 
pier "  settled  the  contest  in  a  most  satisfactory  manner 
for  all  parties,  by  seizing  Dumps  round  the  waist,  and 
thrusting  him  into  the  middle  of  his  vehicle  which  had 
just  come  up  and  only  wanted  the  sixteenth  inside. 

"All  right,"  said  the  "Admiral,"  and  oft'  the  thing 
thundered"^  like  a  fire-engine  at  full  gallop,  with  the  kid- 
napped customer  inside,  standing  in  the  position  of  a 
half  doubled  up  bootjack,  and  falling  about  with  every 
jerk  of  the  machine,  first  on  the  one  side  and  then  on 
the  other  like  a  "Jack-in-the-green"  on  May-day,  set- 
ting to  the  lady  with  a  brass  ladle. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  where  am  I  to  sit  ?"  inquired  the 
miserable  man  of  an  old  gentleman,  into  whose  stomach 
he  had  just  fallen  for  the  fourth  time. 

"  Any  where  but  on  my  chest,  sii,"  replied  the  old  gen- 
tleman, in  a  surly  tone. 

Perhaps  the  box  would  suit  the  gentleman  better," 
suggested  a  very  damp  lawyer's  clerk,  in  a  pink  shirt, 
and  a  smirking  countenance. 

After  a  great  deal  of  struggling  and  falling  about, 
Dumps  at  last  managed  to  squeeze  himself  into  a  seat, 
which  in  addition  to  the  slight  disadvantage  of  being 
between  a  window  that  would  not  shut,  and  a  door  that 
must  be  open,  placed  him  in  close  contact  with  a  passen- 
ger who  had  been  walking  about  all  the  morning  without 
an  umbrella,  and  who  looked  as  if  he  had  spent  the  day 
in  a  full  water-butt — only  wetter. 

"  Don't  bang  the  door  so,"  said  Dumps  to  the  conduc- 
tor, as  he  shut  it,  after  letting  out  four  of  the  passen- 
gers ;  "I  am  very  nervous — it  destroys  me." 

"Did  any  gen'lm'n  say  anythink?"  replied  the  cad, 
thrusting  in  his  head,  and  trying  to  look  as  if  he  didn't 
understand  tlie  question. 

"  I  told  you  not  to  bang  the  door  so  ! "  repeated  Dumps, 
with  an  expression  of  countenance  like  the  knave  of 
clubs,  in  convulsions. 

"  Oh  !  vy,  it's  rather  a  sing'ler  circumstance  about  this 
here  door,  sir,  that  it  won't  shut  without  banging,"  re- 
plied the  conductor  ;  and  he  opened  the  door  very  wide, 
and  shut  it  again  with  a  terrific  bang,  in  proof  of  the 
assertion. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  a  little  prim  wheezing 
old  gentleman,  sitting  opposite  Dumps,  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don ;  but  have  you  ever  observed,  when  you  have  been 
in  an  omnibus  on  a  wet  day,  that  four  people  out  of  five 
always  come  in  with  large  cotton  uml^rellas,  without  a 
handle  at  the  top,  or  the  brass  spike  at  the  bottom  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  returned  Dumps,  as  he  heard  the  clock 
strike  twelve,  "  it  never  struck  me  before  ;  but  now  you 
mention  it,  I — Hollo  !  hollo  ! "  shouted  the  persecuted 
individual,  as  the  omnibus  dashed  past  Drury-lane, 
where  he  had  directed  to  be  set  down. — "  Where  is  the 
cad?" 

"  I  think  he's  on  the  boi,  sir,"  said  the  youn^  gentle- 
man before  noticed  in  the  pink  shirt,  which  looked  like 
a  white  one  ruled  with  red  ink. 

"  I  want  to  be  set  down  !  "  said  Dumps  in  a  faint  voice, 
overcome  by  his  previous  efforts. 

"I  think  these  cads  want  to  be  set  down,"  returned 
the  attorney's  clerk,  chuckling  at  his  sally. 

"  Hollo  I  "  cried  Dumps  again, 

"  Hollo  ! "  echoed  the  passengers.  The  omnibus  passed 
St.  Giles's  cliurch. 

"Hold  hard!"  said  the  conductor;  "I'm  blowed  if 
we  lia'n't  forgot  the  gen'lm'n  as  vas  to  be  set  down  at 
Doory-lane.-  Now,  sir,  make  haste,  if  you  please,"  he 
added,  opening  the  door,  and  assisting  Dumps  out  with 
as  much  coolness  as  if  it  was  "  all  right."  Dumps's  in- 
dignation was  for  once  getting  the  better  of  his  cyni(;al 
equanimity.  "Drury-lane  !"  he  gasped  with  the  voice 
of  a  boy  in  a  cold  bath  for  the  first  time. 

"Doory-lane,  sir?  —  yes,  sir, — third  turning  on  the 
right-hand  side,  sir." 

Dumps's  i)assion  was  paramount  ;  he  clutched  his 
umbrella,  and  was  striding  off  with  the  firm  determina- 
tion of  not  paying  the  fare.  The  cad,  by  a  remarkable 
coincidence,  happtmed  to  entertain  a  directly  contrary 
opinion,  and  Hcuveu  knows  how  far  the  altercation  would 


have  proceeded,  if  it  had  not  been  most  ably  and  satis- 
factorily brought  to  a  close  by  the  driver. 

"Hollo  !"  said  that  respectable  person,  standing  up 
on  the  box,  and  leaning  with  one  hand  on  the  roof  of  the 
omnibus.  "  Hollo,  Tom  !  tell  the  gentleman  if  so  be  as 
he  feels  aggrieved,  we  will  take  him  up  to  the  Edge-er 
(Edge ware)  Road  for  nothing,  and  set  him  down  at 
Doory-lane  when  we  comes  back.  He  can't  reject  that, 
anyhow," 

The  argument  was  irresistible  :  Dumps  paid  the  dis- 
puted sixpence,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  on  the 
staircase  of  No.  14,  Great  Russell-street. 

Everything  indicated  that  preparations  were  making 
for  the  reception  of  "  a  few  friends  "  in  the  evening. 
Two  dozen  extra  tumblers,  and  four  ditto  wine-glasses — 
looking  anything  but  transparent,  with  little  bits  of  straw 
in  them — were  on  the  slab  in  the  passage,  just  arrived. 
There  was  a  great  smell  of  nutmeg,  port  wine,  and 
almonds  on  the  staircase  ;  the  covers  were  taken  off  the 
stair-carpet,  and  the  figure  of  Venus  on  the  first  landing 
looked  as  if  she  were  ashamed  of  the  composition-candle 
in  her  right  hand,  which  contrasted  beautifully  with  the 
lamp-blacked  drapery  of  the  goddess  of  love.  The  female 
servant  (who  looked  very  warm  and  bustling)  ushered 
Dumps  into  a  front  drawing-room,  very  prettily  fur- 
nished, with  a  plentiful  sprinkling  of  little  baskets,  paper 
table-mats,  china  watchmen,  pink  and  gold  albums,  and 
rainbow-bound  little  books  on  the  different  tables. 

"Ah,  uncle!"  said  Mr.  Kitterbell,  "how  d'ye  do? 
Allow  me — Jemima,  my  dear — my  uncle.  I  think  you've 
seen  Jemima  before,  sir?" 

"Have  had  the  pleasure,"  returned  big  Dumps,  his 
tone  and  look  making  it  doubtful  whether  in  his  life  he 
had  ever  experienced  the  sensation. 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Kitterbell  with  a  languid  smile, 
and  a  slight  cough.  "I'm  sure — hem — any  friend — of 
Charles's— hem — much  less  a  relation,  is — " 

"  I  knew  you'd  say  so,  my  love,"  said  little  Kitterbell, 
who,  while  he  appeared  to  be  gazing  on  the  opposite 
houses,  was  looking  at  his  wife  with  a  most  affectionate 
air:  "Bless  you  !"  The  last  two  words  were  accom- 
panied with  a  simper,  and  a  squeeze  of  the  hand,  which 
stirred  up  all  Uncle  Dumps's  bile. 

"  Jane,  tell  nurse  to  bring  down  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Kit- 
terbell, addressing  the  servant.  Mrs.  Kitterbell  was  a 
tall,  thin  young  lady,  with  -^ry  light  hair,  and  a  partic- 
ularly white  face — one  of  those  young  women  who  almost 
invariably,  though  one  hardly  knows  why,  recall  to  one's 
mind  the  idea  of  a  cold  fillet  of  veal.  Out  went  the  ser- 
vant, and  in  came  the  nurse,  with  a  remarkably  small 
parcel  in  her  arms,  packed  up  in  a  blue  mantle  trimmed 
with  white  fur — This  was  the  baby. 

"  Now,  uncle,"  said  Mr.  Kitterbell,  lifting  up  that  part 
of  the  mantle  which  covered  the  infant's  face,  wit  If  an 
air  of  great  triumph,  ''Who  do  you  think  he's  like  ?" 

"  He  !  he  !  Yes,  who  ?"  said  Mrs.  K.,  putting  her  arm 
through  her  husband's,  and  looking  up  into  Dumps's 
face  with  an  expression  of  as  much  interest  as  she  was 
capable  of  displaying, 

"Good  God,  how  small  he  is  !"  cried  the  amiable 
uncle,  starting  back  with  well- feigned  surprise;  "re- 
markably small  indeed." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  inquired  poor  little  Kitterbell, 
rather  alarmed.  "  He's  a  monster  to  what  he  was — ain't 
he,  nurse  ?  " 

"He's  a  dear,"  said  the  nurse,  squeezing  the  child, 
and  evading  the  question — not  because  she  scrupled  to 
disguise  the  fact,  but  because  she  couldn't  afford  to 
throw  away  the  chance  of  Dumps's  half-crown, 

"  Well,  but  who  is  he  like?"  inquired  little  Kitterbell. 

Dumps  looked  at  the  little  pink  heap  before  him,  and 
only  thought  at  the  moment  of  the  best  mode  of  morti- 
fying the  youthful  parents, 

"  I  really  don't  know  who  he's  like,"  lie  answered,  very 
well  knowing  the  reply  expected  of  him. 

"Don't  you  think  he's  like  me  ?  "  inquired  his  nephew 
with  a  knowing  air. 

"Oh,  decidedly  not  !"  returned  Dumps,  with  an  em- 
phasis not  to  be  misunderstood.  "  Decidedly  not  like 
you. — Oh,  certainly  not." 

"  Like  Jemima?"  asked  Kitterbell,  faintly. 

"Oh  dear,  no;  not  in  the  least.    I'm  no  judge,  of 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


9G3 


course,  in  such  cases  ;  but  I  really  think  he's  more  like 
one  of  those  little  carved  representations  that  one  some- 
times sees  blowing  a  trumpet  on  a  tombstone  ! "  Tlie 
nurse  stooped  down  over  tiie  child,  and  with  great  ditli- 
culty  prevented  an  explosion  of  mirth.  Pa  and  ma 
looked  almost  as  miserable  as  their  amiable  uncle. 

"  Well  !"  said  the  disappointed  little  father,  "you'll 
be  better  able  to  tell  what  he's  like  by-and-by.  You 
shall  see  him  this  evening  with  his  mantle  off." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dumps,  feeling  particularly  grate- 
ful. 

"Now,  my  love,"  said  Kiiterbell  to  his  wife,  "it's 
time  we  were  off.  We're  to  meet  the  other  godfather- 
and  the  godmother  at  the  church,  uncle, — Mr.  and  Mrs, 
Wilson  from  over  the  way — uncommonly  nice  people. 
My  love,  are  you  well  wrapped  up  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  won't  have  another  shawl?"  in- 
quired the  anxious  husband. 

"No,  sweet,"  returned  the  charming  mother,  accept- 
ing Dumps's  proffered  arm  ;  and  the  little  party  entered 
the  hackney  coach  that  was  to  take  them  to  the  church  ; 
Dumps  amusing  Mrs.  Kitterbell  by  expatiating  largely 
on  the  danger  of  measles,  thrush,  teeth-cutting,  and 
other  interesting  diseases  to  which  children  are  subject. 

The  ceremony  (which  occupied  about  five  minutes) 
passed  off  without  anything  particular  occurring.  The 
clergyman  had  to  dine  some  distance  from  town,  and 
had  two  churchings,  three  christenings,  and  a  funeral 
to  perform  in  something  less  than  an  hour.  The  god- 
fathers and  godmother,  therefore,  promised  to  renounce 
the  devil  and  all  his  works — "  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  " 
—as  little  Kitterbell  said — "  in  less  than  no  time  ;"  and, 
with  the  exception  of  Dumps  nearly  letting  the  child  fall 
into  the  font  when  handed  to  the  clergyman,  the  whole 
affair  went  off  in  the  usual  business-like  and  matter-of- 
course  manner,  and  Dumps  re-entered  the  Bank-gates  at 
two  o'clock  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  the  painful  convic- 
tion that  he  was  regularly  booked  for  an  evening  party. 

Evening  came — and  so  did  Dumps's  pumps,  black  silk 
stockings,  and  white  cravat  which  he  had  ordered  to  be 
forwarded,  per  boy,  from  Pentonville.  The  depressed 
godfather  dressed  himself  at  a  friend's  counting-house, 
from  whence,  with  his  spirits  fifty  degrees  below  proof, 
he  sallied  forth — as  the  weather  had  cleared  up,  and  the 
evening  was  tolerably  fine — to  walk  to  Great  Russell- 
street.  Slowly  he  paced  up  Cheapside,  Newgate- street, 
down  Snow-hill,  and  up  Holburn  ditto,  looking  as  grim 
as  the  figure  head  of  a  man-of-war,  and  finding  out  fresh 
causes  of  misery  at  every  step.  As  he  was  crossing  the 
corner  of  Hatton-garden,  a  man  apparently  intoxicated, 
rushed  against  him,  and  would  have  knocked  him  down, 
had  he  not  been  providentially  caught  by  a  very  genteel 
young  man,  who  happened  to  be  close  to  him  at  the 
time.  The  shock  so  disarranged  Dumps's  nerves,  as 
well  as  his  dress,  that  he  could  hardly  stand.  The  gen- 
tleman took  his  arm,  and  in  the  kindest  manner  walked 
with  him  as  far  as  Furnival's  Inn.  Dumps,  for  about 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  felt  grateful  and  polite  ;  and  he 
and  the  gentlemanly-looking  young  man  parted  with 
mutual  expressions  of  good  will. 

"  There  are  at  least  some  well  disposed  men  in  the 
world,"  ruminated  the  misanthropical  Dumps,  as  he 
proceeded  towards  his  destination. 

Rat — tat — ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat— knocked  a  hackney-coach- 
man at  Kitterbell 's  door,  in  imitation  of  a  gentleman's 
servant,  just  at  Dumps  reached  it  ;  and  out  came  an  old 
lady  in  a  large  toque,  and  an  old  gentleman  in  a  blue 
coat,  and  three  female  copies  of  the  old  lady  in  pink 
dresses,  and  shoes  to  match. 

"It's  a  large  party,"  sighed  the  unhappy  godfather, 
wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead,  and  leaning 
against  the  area-railings.  It  was  some  time  before  the 
miserable  man  could  muster  up  courage  to  knock  at  the 
door,  and  when  he  did,  the  smart  appearance  of  a  neigh- 
bouring greengrocer  (who  had  been  hired  to  wait  for 
seven  and  sixpence,  and  whose  calves  alone  were  worth 
double  the  money),  the  lamp  in  the  passage,  and  the 
Venus  on  the  landing,  added  to  the  hum  of  many  voices, 
and  the  sound  of  a  harp  and  two  violins,  painfully  con- 
vinced him  that  his  surmises  were  but  too  well  founded. 

"How  are  you?"  said  little  Kitterbell,  in  a  greater 


bustle  than  ever,  bolting  out  of  the  little  back  parlour 
with  a  cork-screw  in  his  hand,  and  various  particles  of 
sawdust,  looking  like  so  many  inverted  commas,  on  his 
inexpressibles. 

"  Good  God  !  "  said  Dumps,  turning  into  the  aforesaid 
parlour  to  put  his  shoes  on  which  he  had  brought  in  his 
coat-pocket,  and  still  more  appalled  by  the  siglit  of  seven 
fresh-drawn  corks,  and  a  corresponding  number  of  de- 
canters.   "  How  many  people  are  there  up-stairs  ?  " 

"Oh,  not  above  thirty-five.  We've  had  the  carpet 
taken  up  in  the  back  drawing-room,  and  the  piano  and 
the  card-tables  are  in  front.  Jemima  thought  we'd  bet- 
ter have  a  regular  sit-down  supper  in  the  front  parlour, 
because  of  the  speechifying,  and  all  that.  But,  Lord  ! 
uncle,  what's  the  matter?"  continued  the  excited  little 
man,  as  Dumps  stood  with  one  shoe  on,  rummaging  his 
pockets  with  the  most  frightful  distortion  of  visage. 
"  What  have  you  lost  ?    Your  Y)ocket-book  ?" 

"  No,"  returned  Dumps,  diving  first  into  one  pocket 
and  then  into  the  other,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  like 
Desdemona  with  the  pillow  over  her  mouth, 

"Your  card-case?  snuff-box?  the  key  of  your  lodg- 
ings?" continued  Kitterbell,  pouring  question  on  ques- 
tion with  the  rapidity  of  lightning. 

"No!  no  !"  ejaculated  Dumps,  still  diving  eagerly 
into  his  empty  pocket. 

"  Not — not — the  mug  you  spoke  of  this  morning?  " 

"  Yes  the  mug  !  "  replied  Dumps,  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"  How  could  you  have  done  it  ?  "  inquired  Kitterbell. 
"  Are  you  sure  you  brought  it  .out  ?  " 

Yes  !  yes  !  I  see  it  all,"  said  Dumps,  starting  up  as 
the  idea  flashed  across  his  mind  ;  "  miserable  dog  that  I 
am — I  was  born  to  suffer.  I  see  it  all  ;  it  was  the  gen- 
tlemanly-looking young  man  !  " 

"Mr,  Dumps!"  shouted  the  greengrocer  in  a  sten- 
torian voice,  as  he  ushered  the  somewhat  recovered  god- 
father into  the  drawing-room  half  an  hour  after  the 
above  declaration.  "Mr.  Dumps  !  " — everybody  looked 
at  the  door,  and  in  came  Dumps,  feeling  about  as  much 
out  of  place  as  a  salmon  might  be  supposed  to  be  on  a 
gravel-walk. 

"  Happy  to  see  you  again,"  said  Mrs.  Kitterbell,  quite 
unconscious  of  the  unfortunate  man's  confusion  and 
misery  ;  "  you  must  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  a  few 
of  our  friends  : — my  mamma,  Mr.  Dumps — my  papa  and 
sisters."  Dumps  seized  the  hand  of  the  mother  as 
warmly  as  if  she  was  his  own  parent,  bowled  to  the 
young  ladies,  and  against  a  gentleman  behind  him,  and 
took  no  notice  whatever  of  the  father,  who  had  been 
bowing  incessantly  for  three  minutes  and  a  quarter. 

"  Uncle,"  said  little  Kitterbell,  after  Dumps  had  been 
introduced  to  a  select  dozen  or  two,  "you  must  let  me 
lead  you  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  to  introduce  you 
to  my  friend  Danton.  Such  a  splendid  fellow  ! — I'm 
sure  you'll  like  him — this  way," — Dumps  followed  as 
tractable  as  a  tame  bear. 

Mr.  Danton  was  a  young  man  of  about  five  and-twenty, 
with  a  considerable  stock  of  impudence,  and  a  very 
small  share  of  ideas  :  he  was  a  great  favourite,  espec- 
ially with  young  ladies  of  from  sixteen  to  twenty-six 
years,  of  age,  both  inclusive.  He  could  imitate  the 
French-horn  to  admiration,  sang  comic  songs  most  in- 
imitably, and  had  the  most  insinuating  way  of  saving 
impertinent  nothings  to  his  doting  female  admirers. 
He  had  acquired,  somehow  or  other,  the  reputation  of 
being  a  great  wit,  and  accordingly,  whenever  he  opened 
his  mouth  everybody  who  knew  him  laughed  very 
heartily. 

The  introduction  took  place  in  due  form,  Mr.  Danton 
bowed,  and  twirled  a  lady's  handkerchief,  which  he 
held  in  his  hand,  in  a  most  comic  way.  Everybody 
smiled. 

"Very  warm,"  said  Dumps,  feeling  it  necessaf^-  to  say 
something. 

"  Yes.  It  was  warmer  yesterday,"  returned  the  bril- 
liant Mr.  Danton. -^A  general  laugh. 

"  I  have  great  pleasure  in  congratulating  you  on  your 
first  appearance  in  the  character  of  a  father,  sir,"  he 
continued,  addressing  Dumps — "godfather,  I  mean." — 
The  young  ladies  were  convulsed,  and  the  gentlemen  in 
ecstacies. 

A  general  hum  of  admiration  interrupted  the  con-. 


964 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


versation,  and  announced  fhe  entrance  of  the  nurse  witli 
the  baby.  An  universal  rush  of  the  young  ladies  im- 
mediately took  place.  (Girls  are  always  so  fond  of 
babies  in  company.) 

"  Oh,  you  dear  !  "  said  one. 

"How  sweet  !"  cried  another,  in  a  low  tone  of  the 
most  enthusiastic  admiration. 
"Heavenly  !  "  added  a  third. 

"Oh  !  what  dear  little  arms  !"  said  a  fourth,  holding 
up  an  arm  and  list  about  the  size  and  shape  of  the  leg  of 
a  fowl  cleanly  picked. 

"Did  you  ever  !" — said  a  little  coquette  with  a  large 
bustle,  who  looked  like  a  French  lithograph,  appealing 
to  a  gentleman  in  three  waistcoats — "  Did  you  ever  !  " 

"Never,  in  my  life,"  returned  her  admirer,  pulling 
up  his  collar. 

"Oh  !  do  let  me  take  it,  nurse,"  cried  another  young 
lady.    "The  love!" 

"Can  it  open  its  eyes,  nurse?"  inquired  another,  af- 
fecting the  utmost  innocence. — Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the 
single  ladies  unanimously  voted  him  an  angel,  and  that 
the  married  ones,  mem.  con. ,  agreed  that  he  was  deci- 
dedly the  finest  baby  they  had  ever  beheld — except 
their  own. 

The  quadrilles  were  resumed  with  great  spirit.  Mr. 
Danton  was  universally  admitted  to  be  beyond  himself, 
several  young  ladies  enchanted  the  company  and  gained 
admirers  by  singing  "  We  met " — "I  saw  her  at  the 
Fancy  Fair" — and  other  equally  sentimental  and  inter- 
esting ballads.  "The  young  men,"  as  Mrs.  Kitterbell 
said,  "made  themselves  very  agreeable  ;  "  the  girls  did 
not  lose  their  opportunity  ;  aad  the  evening  promised  to 
go  off  excellently.  Dumps  didn't  mind  it :  he  had  de- 
vised a  plan  for  himself — a  little  bit  of  fun  in  his  own 
way — and  he  was  almost  happy  !  He  played  a  rubber 
and  lost  every  point.  Mr.  Danton  said  he  could  not  have 
lost  every  point,  because  he  made  a  point  of  losing: 
everybody  laughed  tremendously.  Dumps  retorted  with 
a  better  joke,  and  nobody  smiled,  with  the  exception  of 
the  host,  wdio  seemed  to  consider  it  his  duty  to  laugh  till 
he  was  black  in  the  face,  at  everything.  There  was 
only  one  drawback — the  musicians  did  not  play  with 
quite  as  much  spirit  as  could  have  been  wished.  The 
cause,  however  was  satisfactorily  explained  ;  for  it  ap- 
peared, on  the  testimony  of  a  gentleman  who  had  come 
up  from  Oravesend  in  the  afternoon,  that  they  had  been 
engaged  on  board  a  steamer  all  day,  and  had  played  al- 
most without  cessation  all  the  way  to  Gravesend,  and  all 
the  way  back  again. 

The  "sit-down  supper"  was  excellent;  there  were 
four  barley-sugar  temples  on  the  table,  which  would 
have  looked  beautiful  if  they  had  not  melted  away  when 
the  supper  began  ;  and  a  water-mill,  whose  only  fault 
was  that  instead  of  going  round  it  ran  over  the  table- 
cloth. Then  there  were  fowls,  and  tongue,  and  trifle, 
and  sweets,  and  lobster  salad,  and  potted  beef — and 
everything.  And  little  Kitterbell  kept  calling  out  for 
clean  plates,  and  the  clean  plates  did  not  come  ;  and 
then  the  gentlemen  who  wanted  the  plates  said  they 
didn't  mind,  they'd  take  a  lady's  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Kitter- 
bell applauded  their  gallantry,  and  the  greengrocer  ran 
about  till  he  tliought  his  seven  and  sixpence  was  very 
hardly  earned  ;  and  the  young  ladies  didn't  eat  much  for 
fear  it  shouldn't  look  romantic,  and  the  married  ladies 
ate  as  much  as  possible,  for  fear  they  shouldn't  have 
enough  ;  and  a  great  deal  of  wine  was  drunk,  and  every- 
body talked  and  laughed  considerably. 

"Hush!  hush!"  said  Mr.  Kitterbell,  rising  and  look- 
ing very  important.  "My  love  (this  was  addressed  to 
his  wife  at  the  other  end  of  the  table),  take  care  of  Mrs. 
Maxwell,  and  your  mamma  and  the  rest  of  the  married 
ladies  ;  the  gentlemen  will  persuade  the  young  ladies  to 
fill  their  glasses,  I  am  sure." 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  long  Dumps,  in  a  very 
sepulchral  voice  and  rueful  accent,  rising  from  his  chair 
like  the  ghost  in  Don  Juan,  "  will  you  have  the  kindness 
to  charge  your  glasses  ?  I  am  desirous  of  proposing  a 
toast." 

A  dead  silence  ensued,  and  the  glasses  were  filled — 
everybody  looked  serious. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  slowly  continued  the  omi- 
nous Dumj)H,  "  I  "—(here  Mr.  Danton  imitated  two  notes 


from  the  French-horn,  in  a  very  loud  key,  which  electri- 
fied the  nervous  toast-proposer,  and  convulsed  his  au- 
dience). 

"  Order  !  order  1 "  said  little  Kitterbell,  endeavouring 
to  suppress  his  laughter. 

"  Order  !  "  said  the  gentlemen. 

"  Danton,  be  quiet,"  said  a  particular  friend  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  table. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  resumed  Dumps,  somewhat 
recovered,  and  not  much  disconcerted,  for  he  was  always 
a  pretty  good  hand  at  a  speech — "  In  accordance  with 
what  is  I  believe,  the  established  usage  on  these  occa- 
sions, I,  as  one  of  the  godfathers  of  Master  Frederick 
Charles  William  Kitterbell — (here  the  speaker's  voice 
faltered,  for  he  remembered  the  mug) — venture  to  rise 
to  propose  a  toast.  I  need  hardly  say  that  it  is  the 
health  and  prosperity  of  that  young  gentleman,  the 
particular  event  of  whose  early  life  we  are  here  met  to 
celebrate — (applause).  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  it  is  im- 
possible to  suppose  that  our  friends  here,  whose  sincere 
well-wishers  we  all  are,  can  pass  through  life  without 
some  trials,  considerable  suffering,  severe  affliction,  and 
heavy  losses  !  " — Here  the  arch  traitor  paused,  and  slow- 
ly drew  forth  a  long  w^hite  pocket-handkerchief — his 
example  was  followed  by  several  ladies.  "  That  these 
trials  may  be  long  spared  them  is  my  most  earnest 
prayer,  my  most  fervent  wish  (a  distinct  sob  from  the 
grandmother).  I  hope  and  trust,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
that  the  infant  whose  christening  we  have  this  evening 
met  to  celebrate,  may  not  be  removed  from  the  arms  of 
his  parents  by  premature  decay  (several  cambrics  were 
in  requisition)  ;  that  his  young  and  now  apparently 
healthy  form,  may  not  be  wasted  by  lingering  disease. 
(Here  Dumps  cast  a  sardonic  glance  around,  for  a  great 
sensation  was  manifest  among  the  married  ladies.)  You, 
I  am  sure,  will  concur  with  me  in  wishing  that  lie  may 
live  to  be  a  comfort  and  a  blessing  to  his  parents.  ('Hear, 
hear!'  and  an  audible  sob  from  Mr.  Kitterbell.)  But 
should  he  not  be  what  we  could  wish — should  he  forget 
in  after  times  the  duty  which  he  owes  to  them — should 
they  unhappily  experience  that  distracting  truth,  '  how 
sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is  to  have  a  thankless 
child.'  " — Here  Mrs.  Kitterbell,  with  her  handkerchief 
to  her  eyes,  and  accompanied  by  several  ladies,  rushed 
from  the  room,  and  went  into  violent  hysterics  in  the 
passage,  leaving  her  better  half  in  almost  as  bad  a  con- 
dition, and  a  general  impression  in  Dumps's  favour  ;  for 
people  like  sentiment,  after  all. 

It  need  hardly  be  added,  that  this  occurrence  quite 
put  a  stop  to  the  harmony  of  the  evening.  Vinegar, 
hartshorn,  and  cold  water,  were  now  as  much  in  request 
as  negus,  rout-cakes,  and  hon-hons  had  been  a  short  time 
before.  Mrs.  Kitterbell  was  immediately  conveyed  to 
her  apartment,  the  musicians  were  silenced,  flirting  ceased, 
and  the  company  slowly  departed.  Dumps  left  the 
house  at  the  commencement  of  the  bustle,  and  walked 
home  with  a  light  step,  and  (for  him)  a  cheerful  heart. 
His  landlady  who  slept  in  the  next  room,  has  offered  to 
make  oath  that  she  heard  him  laugh,  in  his  peculiar 
manner,  after  he  had  locked  his  door.  The  assertion, 
however,  is  so  improbable,  and  bears  on  the  face  of  it 
such  strong  evidence  of  untruth,  that  it  has  never  ob- 
tained credence  to  this  hour. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Kitterbell  has  considerably  increased 
since  the  period  to  which  we  have  referred  ;  he  has  now 
two  sons  and  a  daughter  ;  and  as  he  expects,  at  no  distant 
period,  to  have  another  addition  to  his  blooming  pro- 
geny, he  is  anxious  to  secure  an  eligible  godfather  for 
the  occasion.  He  is  determined,  however,  to  impose 
upon  him  two  conditions.  He  must  bind  himself,  by  a 
solemn  obligation,  not  to  make  any  speech  after  supper  ; 
and  it  is  indispensable  that  he  should  be  in  no  way  con- 
nected with  "  the  most  miserable  man  in  the  world." 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

77ie  DrunkartTs  Death. 

We  will  be  bold  to  say, that  there  is  scarcely  a  man  in  the 
constant  habit  of  walking,  day  after  day,  through  any  of 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 


965 


the  crowded  thorouglifares  of  London,  wlio  cannot  recol- 
lect among  the  people  whom  he  "knows  by  sight,"  to 
use  a  familiar  phrase,  some  being  of  abject  and  wretclied 
appearance  whom  he  remembers  to  have  seen  in  a  very 
different  condition,  whom  he  has  observed  sinking  lower 
and  lower,  by  almost  imperceptible  degrees,  and  the 
Bhabbiness  and  utter  destitution  of  whose  a|)pearance, 
at  last,  strike  forcibly  and  painfully  upon  him,  as  he 
passes  by.  Is  .there  any  man  who  has  mixed  much  with 
society,  or  whose  avocations  have  caused  him  to  mingle, 
at  one  time  or  other,  with  a  great  number  of  people,  who 
cannot  call  to  mind  the  time  when  some  shabby,  miser- 
able wretch,  in  rags  and  filth,  who  shuffles  past  him 
now  in  all  the  squalor  of  disease  and  poverty,  was  a  re- 
spectable tradesman  or  a  clerk,  or  a  man  following  some 
thriving  pursuit,  with  good  prospects,  and  decent  means? 
— or  cannot  any  of  our  readers  call  to  mind  from  among 
the  list  of  their  quondam  acquaintance,  some  fallen  and 
degraded  man,  who  lingers  about  the  pavement  in  hun- 
gry misery — from  whom  every  one  turns  coldly  away, 
and  who  preserves  himself  from  sheer  starvation,  nobody 
knows  how  ?  Alas  !  such  cases  are  of  too  frequent  oc- 
currence to  be  rare  items  of  any  man's  experience  ;  and 
but  too  often  arise  from  one  cause — drunkenness — that 
fierce  rage  for  the  slow,  sure  poison,  that  oversteps  every 
other  consideration  ;  that  casts  aside  wife,  children, 
friends,  happiness,  and  station  ;  and  hurries  its  victims 
madly  on  to  degradation  and  death. 

Some  of  these  men  have  been  impelled,  by  misfortune 
and  misery,  to  the  vice  that  has  degraded  them.  The 
ruin  of  worldly  expectations,  the  death  of  those  they 
loved,  the  sorrow  that  slowly  consumes,  but  will  not 
break  the  heart,  has  driven  them  wild  ;  and  they  present 
the  hideous  spectacle  of  madmen,  slowly  dying  by  their 
own  hands.  But  by  far  the  greater  part  have  wilfully, and 
with  open  eyes,  plunged  into  the  gulf  from  which  the 
man  who  once  enters  it  never  rises  more,  but  into  which 
he  sinks  deeper  and  deeper  down, .  until  recovery  is 
hopeless. 

Such  a  man  as  this  once  stood  by  the  bed-side  of  his 
dying  wife,  while  his  children  knelt  around,  and  mingled 
low  bursts  of  grief  with  their  innocent  prayers.  The 
room  was  scantily  and  meanly  furnished  ;  and  it  needed 
but  a  glance  at  the  pale  form  from  which  the  light  of 
life  was  fast  passing  away,  to  know  that  grief,  and  want, 
and  anxious  care,  had  been  busy  at  the  heart  for  many  a 
weary  year.  An  elderly  female,  with  her  face  bathed  in 
tears,  was  supporting  the  head  of  the  dying  woman — 
her  daughter — on  her  arm.  But  it  was  not  towards  her 
that  the  wan  face  turned  ;  it  was  not  her  hand  that  the 
cold  and  trembling  fingers  clasped  ;  they  pressed  the  hus- 
band's arm  ;  the  eyes  so  soon  to  be  closed  in  death  rested 
on  his  face,  and  the  man  shook  beneath  their  gaze.  His 
dress  was  slovenly  and  disordered,  his  face  inflamed,  his 
eyes  blood-shot  and  heavy.  He  had  been  summoned 
from  some  wild  debauch  to  the  bed  of  sorrow  and 
death. 

A  shaded  lamp  by  the  bed-side  cast  a  dim  light  on  the 
figures  around,  and  left  the  remainder  of  the  room  in 
thick,  deep  shadow.  The  silence  of  night  prevailed 
without  the  house,  and  the  stillness  of  death  was  in  the 
chamber,  A  watch  hung  over  the  mantel-shelf  ;  its  low 
ticking  was  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  profound 
quiet,  but  it  was  a  solemn  one,  for  well  they  knew 
who  heard  it,  that  before  it'  had  recorded  the  passing 
of  another  hour,  it  would  beat  the  knell  of  a  departed 
spirit. 

It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  wait  and  watch  for  the  ap- 
proach of  death  ;  to  know  that  hope  is  gone,  and  recovery 
impossible  ;  and  to  sit  and  count  the  dreary  hours  through 
long,  long,  nights — such  nights  as  only  w^atchers  by  the 
bed  of  sickness  know.  It  chills  the  blood  to  hear  the 
dearest  secrets  of  the  heart — the  pent-up,  hidden  secrets 
of  many  years— poured  forth  by  the  unconscious  helpless 
being  before  you  ;  and  to  think  how  little  the  reserve 
and  cunning  of  a  whole  life  will  avail,  when  fever  and 
delirium  tear  off  the  mask  at  last.  Strange  tales  have 
been  told  in  the  wanderings  of  dying  men  ;  tales  so  full 
of  guilt  and  crime,  that  those  who  stood  by  the  sick  per- 
son's couch  have  fled  in  horror  and  affright,  lest  they 
should  be  scared  to  madness  by  what  they  heard  and 
saw  ;  and  many  a  wretch  has  died  alone,  raving  of  deeds 


the  very  name  of  which  has  driven  the  boldest  man 
away. 

But  no  such  ravings  were  to  be  heard  at  the  bed-side 
by  which  the  children  knelt.  Their  half  stifled  sobs  and 
moanings  alone  broke  the  silence  of  the  lonely  chamber. 
And  when  at  last  the  mother's  grasp  relaxed,  and,  turn- 
ing one  look  from  the  children  to  their  father,  she  vainly 
strove  to  speak,  and  fell  backward  on  the  pillow,  all  was 
so  calm  and  tranquil  that  she  seemed  to  sink  to  sleep. 
They  leant  over  her  ;  they  called  upon  her  name,  softly 
at  first,  and  then  in  the  loud  and  piercing  tones  of  des- 
peration. But  there  was  no  reply.  Tlie}-  listened  for 
her  breath,  but  no  sound  came.  They  felt  for  the  palpi- 
tation of  the  heart,  but  no  faint  throb  responded  to  the 
touch.    That  heart  was  broken,  and  she  was  dead  ! 

The  husband  sunk  into  a  chair  by  the  bed-side,  and 
clasped  his  hands  upon  his  burning  forehead.  He  gazed 
from  child  to  child,  but  when  a  weeping  eye  met  his,  he 
quailed  beneath  its  look.  No  word  of  comfort  was  whis- 
pered in  his  ear,  no  look  of  kindness  lighted  on  his  face. 
All  shrunk  from  and  avoided  him  ;  and  when  at  last  he 
staggered  from  the  room,  no  one  sought  to  follow  or  con- 
sole the  widower. 

The  time  had  been  when  many  a  friend  would  have 
crowded  round  him  in  his  affliction,  and  many  a  heartfelt 
condolence  would  have  met  him  in  his  grief.  Where 
were  they  now  ?  One  by  one,  friends,  relations,  the  com- 
monest acquaintance  even,  had  fallen  off  from  and  desert- 
ed the  drunkard.  His  wife  alone  had  clung  to  him  in 
good  and  evil,  in  sickness  and  poverty  ;  and  how  had  he 
resvarded  her  ?  He  had  reeled  from  the  tavern  to  her 
bed-side,  in  time  to  see  her  die. 

He  rushed  from  the  house,  and  walked  swiftly  through 
the  streets.  Remorse,  fear,  shame,  all  crowded  on  his 
mind.  Stupefied  with  drink,  and  bewildered  with  the 
scene  he  had  just  witnessed,  he  re-entered  the  tavern  he 
had  quitted  shortly  before.  Glass  succeeded  glass.  His 
blood  mounted,  and  his  brain  whirled  round.  Death  I 
Every  one  must  die,  and  why  not  she.  She  was  too  good 
for  him  ;  her  relations  had  often  told  him  so.  Curses  on 
them  !  Had  they  not  deserted  her,  and  left  her  to  whine 
away  the  time  at  home  ?  Well — she  was  dead,  and  hap- 
py perhaps.  It  was  better  as  it  was.  Another  glass — 
one  more  !  Hurrah  !  It  was  a  merry  life  while  it  lasted  ; 
and  he  would  make  the  most  of  it. 

Time  went  on  ;  the  three  children  who  were  left  to  him, 
grew  up,  and  were  children  no  longer.  The  father  re- 
mained the  same — poorer,  shabbier,  and  more  dissolute- 
looking,  tut  the  same  confirmed  and  irreclaimable 
drunkard.  The  boys  had,  long  ago,  run  wild  in  the 
streets,  and  left  him  ;  the  girl  alone  remained,  but  she 
worked  hard,  and  w^ords  or  blows  could  always  procure 
him  something  for  the  tavern.  So  he  went  on  in  the  old 
course,  and  a  merry  life  he  led. 

One  night,  as  early  as  ten  o'clock — for  the  girl  had 
been  sick  for  many  days,  and  there  Avas,  consequently, 
little  to  spend  at  the  public-house — he  bent  his  steps 
homewards,  bethinking  himself  that  if  he  would  have 
her  able  to  earn  money,  it  would  be  as  well  to  apply  to 
the  parish  surgeon,  or,  at  all  events,  to  take  the  trouble 
of  inquiring  what  ailed  her,  which  he  had  not  thought 
it  wwth  wiiile  to  do.  It  was  a  wet  December  night ;  the 
wind  blew  piercing  cold,  and  the  rain  poured  heavily 
down.  He  begged  a  few  halfpence  from  a  passer-by, 
and  having  bought  a  small  loaf  (for  it  was  his  interest 
to  keep  the  girl  alive,  if  he  could),  he  shuffled  onwards 
as  fast  as  the  wind  and  rain  w^ould  let  him. 

At  the  back  of  Fleet-street,  and  lying  between  it  and 
the  water-side,  are  several  mean  and  narrow  courts, 
which  form  a  portion  of  Whitefriars ;  it  was  to  one  of 
these  that  he  directed  his  steps. 

The  alley  into  which  he  turned,  might,  for  filth  and 
misery,  have  competed  with  the  darkest  corner  of  this 
ancient  sanctuary  in  its  dirtiest  and  most  lawless  time. 
The  houses,  varying  from  two  stories  in  height  to  four, 
Avere  stained  with  every  indescribable  hue  that  long  ex- 
posure to  the  weather,  damp,  and  rottenness  can  impart 
to  tenements  composed  originally  of  the  roughest  and 
coarsest  materials.  The  windows  were  patched  with 
paper,  and  stuffed  with  the  foulest  rags  ;  the  doors  were 
falling  from  their  hinges  ;  poles  with  lines  on  which 
to  dry  clothes,  projected  from  every  casement,  and 


966 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


sounds  of  quarrelling  or  drunkenness  issued  from  every 
room. 

The  solitary  oil  lamp  in  the  centre  of  the  court  had 
been  blown  out,  either  by  the  violence  of  the  wind  or 
the  act  of  some  inhabitant  who  had  excellent  reasons 
for  objecting  to  his  residence  being  rendered  too  con- 
spicuous ;  and  the  only  light  which  fell  upon  the  broken 
and  uneven  pavement,  was  derived  from  the  miserable 
candles  that  here  and  there  twinkled  in  the  rooms  of 
such  of  the  more  fortunate  residents  as  could  afford  to 
indulge  in  so  expensive  a  luxury.  A  gutter  ran  down 
the  centre  of  the  alley  — all  the  sluggish  odours  of 
which  had  been  called  forth  by  the  rain  ;  and  as  the  wind 
whistled  through  the  old  houses,  the  doors  and  shut- 
ters creaked  upon  their  hinges,  and  the  windows 
shook  in  their  frames,  with  a  violence  which  every  mo- 
ment seemed  to  threaten  the  destruction  of  the  whole 
place. 

The  man  whom  we  followed  into  this  den,  walked  on 
in  the  darkness,  sometimes  stumbling  into  the  main  gut- 
ter, and  at  others  into  some  branch  repositories  of  garb- 
age which  had  been  formed  by  the  rain,  until  he  reached 
the  last  house  in  the  court.  The  door,  or  rather  what 
was  left  of  it,  stood  ajar,  for  the  convenience  of  the 
numerous  lodgers ;  and  he  proceeded  to  grope  his  way 
up  the  old  and  broken  stair,  to  the  attic  story. 

He  was  within  a  step  or  two  of  his  room  door,  when  it 
opened,  and  a  girl,  whose  miserable  emaciated  appear- 
ance was  only  to  be  equalled  by  that  of  the  candle  which 
she  shaded  with  her  hand,  peeped  anxiously  out. 

"Is  that  you,  father?"  said  the  girl. 

"Who  else  should  it  be?"  replied  the  man  gruffly. 
"  What  are  you  trembling  at?  It's  little  enough  that 
I've  had  to  drink  to-day,  for  there's  no  drink  without 
money,  and  no  money  without  work.  What  the  devil's 
the  matter  with  the  girl  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  well,  father — not  at  all  well,"  said  the  girl, 
bursting  into  tears. 

"Ah  !"  replied  the  man,  in  the  tone  of  a  person  who 
is  compelled  to  admit  a  very  unpleasant  fact,  to  which 
he  would  rather  remain  blind,  if  he  could.  "  You  must 
get  better  somehow,  for  we  must  have  money.  You 
must  go  to  the  parish  doctor,  and  make  him  give  you 
some  medicine.  They're  paid  for  it,  damn  'em.  What 
are  you  standing  before  the  door  for  ?  Let  me  come  in, 
can't  you  ?  " 

"  Father,"  whispered  the  girl,  shutting  the  door  be- 
hind her,  and  placing  herself  before  it,  "William  has 
come  back." 

' '  Who  ! "  said  the  man  with  a  start, 

"Hush,"  replied  the  girl,  "William;  brother  Wil- 
liam." 

"  And  what  does  he  want?"  said  the  man,  with  an 
effort  at  composure — "money?  meat?  drink?  He's 
come  to  the  wrong  shop  for  that,  if  he  does.  Give  me 
the  candle — give  me  the  candle,  fool — I  ain't  going  to 
hurt  him."  He  snatched  the  candle  from  her  hand, 
and  walked  into  the  room. 

Sitting  on  an  old  box,  with  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  wretched  cinder  fire  that 
was  smouldering  on  the  hearth,  was  a  young  man,  of 
about  two-and-twenty,  miserably  clad  in  an  old  coarse 
jacket  and  trousers.  He  started  up  when  his  father 
entered. 

"Fasten  the  door,  Mary,"  said  the  young  man  hastily 
— "Fasten  the  door.  You  look  as  if  you  didn't  know  me, 
father.  It's  long  enough,  since  you  drove  me  from 
home  ;  you  may  well  forget  me." 

"And  what  do  you  want  here,  now?  "  said  the  father, 
seating  himself  on  a  stool,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire- 
place.   "  What  do  you  want  here,  now  ?  " 

"Shelter,"  replied  the  son,  "  I'm  in  trouble  ;  that's 
enough.  If  I'm  caught  1  shall  swing  ;  that's  certain. 
Caught  I  shall  be,  unless  I  stop  here  ;  that's  as  certain. 
And  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"You  mean  to  say,  you've  been  robbing,  or  murder, 
ing,  then  ?"  said  the  father. 

"  Yes  I  do,"  replied  the  son.  "  Does  it  surprise  you, 
father?"  He  looked  steadily  in  the  man's  face,  but  he 
withdrew  his  eyes,  and  bent  them  on  the  ground. 

"Where's  your  brothers?"  he  said,  after  a  long 
pause. 


"  Where  they'll  never  trouble  you,"  replied  his  son  : 
"John's  gone  to  America,  and  Henry's  dead." 

"Dead  !  "  said  the  father,  with  a  shudder,  which  even 
he  could  not  repress. 

"  Dead,"  replied  the  young  man.  "He  died  in  my 
arms — shot  like  a  dog,  by  a  gamekeeper.  He  staggered 
back,  I  caught  him,  and  his  blood  trickled  down  my 
hands.  It  poured  out  from  his  side  like  water.  He  was 
weak,  and  it  blinded  him,  but  he  threw  himself  down 
on  his  knees,  on  the  grass,  and  prayed  to  God,  that  if 
his  mother  was  in  heaven,  he  would  hear  her  prayers 
for  pardon  for  her  youngest  son.  *  I  was  her  favourite 
boy.  Will,'  he  said,  *  and  I  am  glad  to  think,  now,  that 
when  she  was  dying,  though  I  was  a  very  young  child 
then,  and  my  little  heart  was  almost  bursting,  I  knelt 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  thanked  God  for  having 
made  me  so  fond  of  her  as  to  have  never  once  done  any- 
thing to  bring  the  tears  into  her  eyes.  O  Will,  why  was 
she  taken  away,  and  father  left  ! '  There's  his  dying 
words,  father,"  said  the  young  man;  "make  the  best 
you  can  of  'em.  You  struck  him  across  the  face,  in  a 
drunken  fit,  the  morning  we  ran  away  ;  and  here's  the 
end  of  it  !  " 

The  girl  wept  aloud  ;  and  the  father,  sinking  his  head 
upon  his  knees,  rocked  himself  to  and  fro. 

"  If  I  am  taken,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  shall  be 
carried  back  into  the  country,  and  hung  for  that  man's 
murder.  They  cannot  trace  me  here,  without  your  assist- 
ance, father.  For  aught  I  know,  you  may  give  me  up 
to  justice;  but  unless  you  do,  here  I  stop,  until  I  can 
venture  to  escape  abroad." 

For  two  whole  days,  all  three  remained  in  the  wretched 
room,  without  stirring  out.  On  the  third  evening,  how- 
ever, the  girl  was  worse  than  she  had  been  yet,  and  the 
scraps  of  food  they  had  were  gone.  It  was  indispensa- 
bly necessary  that  somebody  should  go  out :  and  as  the 
girl  was  too  weak  and  ill,  the  father  went,  just  at  night- 
fall. 

He  got  some  medicine  for  the  girl,  and  a  trifle  in  the 
way  of  pecuniary  assistance.  On  his  way  back,  he  earned 
sixpence  by  holding  a  horse  ;  and  he  turned  homewards 
with  enough  money  to  supply  their  most  pressing  wants 
for  two  or  three  days  to  come.  He  had  to  pass  the  pub- 
lic-house. He  lingered  for  an  instant,  walked  past  it, 
turned  back  again,  lingered  once  more,  and  finally  slunk 
in.  Two  men  whom  he  had  not  observed,  were  on  the 
watch.  They  were  on  the  point  of  giving  up  their 
search  in  despair,  when  his  loitering  attracted  their  at- 
tracted their  attention  ;  and  when  he  entered  the  public- 
house,  they  followed  him. 

"  You'll  drink  with  me,  master,"  said  one  of  them, 
proffering  him  a  glass  of  liquor. 

"  And  me  too,"  said  the  other,  replenishing  the  glass 
as  soon  as  it  was  drained  of  its  contents. 

The  man  thought  of  his  hungry  children,  and  his  son's 
danger.  But  they  were  nothing  to  the  drunkard.  He 
did  drink  ;  and  his  reason  left  him. 

"  A  wet  night.  Warden,"  whispered  one  of  the  men  in 
his  ear,  as  he  at  length  turned  to  go  away,  after  spend- 
ing in  liquor  one-half  of  the  money  on  which,  perhaps, 
his  daughter's  life  depended. 

"  The  right  sort  of  night  for  our  friends  in  hiding, 
Master  Warden,"  whispered  the  other. 

"Sit  down  here,"  said  the  one  who  had  spoken  first, 
drawing  him  into  a  corner.  "We  have  been  looking 
arter  the  young  un.  We  came  to  tell  him,  it's  all  right 
now,  but  we  couldn't  find  him,  'cause  we  hadn't  got  the 
precise  direction.  But  that  ain't  strange,  for  I  don't 
think  he  know'd  it  himself,  when  he  come  to  London, 
did  he?" 

"  No,  he  didn't,"  replied  the  father. 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances. 

"  There's  a  vessel  down  at  the  docks,  to  sail  at  mid- 
night, when  it's  high  water,  resumed  the  first  speaker,  j 
"and  we'll  put  him  on  board.    His  passage  is  taken  in  ' 
another  name,  and  what's  better  than  that,  it's  paid  for. 
lucky  we  met  you." 

"  Very,"  said  the  second. 

"  Capital  luck,"  said  the  first,  with  a  wink  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"  Great,"  replied  the  second,  with  a  slight  nod  of  in- 
telligence. 


SKETCHES  BY  BOZ, 


967 


"  Anotlier  glass  here  ;  quick  "—said  the  first  speaker. 
And  in  five  minutes  more  the  father  liad  uncon- 
sciously yielded  up  his  own  son  into  the  hangman's 
hands. 

Slowly  and  heavily  the  time  dragged  along,  as  the 
brother  and  sister,  in  their  miserable  hiding-place,  lis- 
tened in  anxious  suspense  to  the  slightest  sound.  At 
length,  a  heavy  footstep  was  heard  upon  the  stair  ;  it 
approached  nearer  ;  it  reached  the  lauding :  the  father 
staggered  into  the  room. 

The  girl  saw  that  he  was  intoxicated,  and  advanced 
•with  the  candle  in  her  hand  to  meet  him  ;  she  stopped 
short,  gave  a  loud  scream,  and  fell  senseless  on  the 
ground.  She  had  caught  sight  of  the  shadow  of  a  man 
reflected  on  the  floor.  They  both  rushed  in,  and  in  an- 
other instant  the  young  man  was  a  prisoner,  and  hand- 
cuffed, 

"  Very  quietly  done,"  said  one  of  the  men  to  his  com- 
panion, *'  thanks  to  the  old  man.  Lift  up  the  girl,  Tom 
— come,  come,  it's  no  use  crying,  young  woman.  It's 
all  over  now,  and  can't  be  helped." 

The  young  man  stooped  for  an  instant  over  the  girl, 
and  then  turned  fiercely  round  upon  his  father,  who  had 
reeled  against  the  wall,  and  was  gazing  on  the  group 
with  drunken  stupidity. 

"  Listen  to  me,  father,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  made 
the  drunkard's  flesh  creep.  "  My  brother's  blood,  and 
mine,  is  on  your  head  :  I  never  had  kind  look,  or  word, 
or  care,  from  you,  and,  alive  or  dead,  I  never  will  for- 
give you.  Die  when  you  will,  or  how,  I  will  be  vp-ith 
you.  I  speak  as  a  dead  man  now,  and  I  warn  you,  fa- 
ther, that  as  surely  as  you  must  one  day  stand  before 
your  Maker,  so  surely  shall  your  children  be  there, 
hand  in  hand,  to  cry  for  judgment  against  you."  He 
raised  his  manacled  hands  in  a  threatening  attitude, 
fixed  his  eyes  on  his  shrinking  parent,  and  slowly  left 
the  room  ;  and  neither  father  nor  sister  ever  beheld  him 
more,  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 

When  the  dim  and  misty  light  of  a  winter's  morning 
penetrated  into  the  narrow  court,  and  struggled  through 
the  begrimed  window  of  the  wretched  room.  Warden 
awoke  from  his  heavy  sleep,  and  found  himself  alone. 
He  rose,  and  looked  round  him  ;  the  old  flock  mattress 
on  the  floor  was  undisturbed  ;  everything  was  just  as  he 
remembered  to  have  seen  it  last  :  and  there  were  no 
signs  of  any  one,  save  himself,  having  occupied  the 
room  during  the  night.  He  inquired  of  the  other  lodg- 
ers, and  of  the  neighbours  ;  but  his  daughter  had  not 
been  seen  or  heard  of.  He  rambled  through  the  streets, 
and  scrutinised  each  wretched  face  among  the  crowds 
that  thronged  them,  with  anxious  eyes.  But  his  search 
was  fruitless,  and  he  returned  to  his  garret  when  night 
came  on,  desolate  and  weary. 

For  many  days  he  occupied  himself  in  the  same  man- 
ner, but  no  trace  of  his  daughter  did  he  meet  with,  and 
no  word  of  her  reached  his  ears.  At  length  he  gave  up 
the  pursuit  as  hopeless.  He  had  long  thought  of  the 
probability  of  her  leaving  him,  and  endeavouring  to 
gain  her  bread  in  quiet,  elsewhere.  She  had  left  him 
at  last  to  starve  alone.  He  ground  his  teeth,  and  cursed 
her! 

He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door.  Every  half- 
penny he  could  ring  from  the  pity  or  credulity  of  those 
to  whom  he  addressed  himself,  was  spent  in  the  old 
way.  A  year  passed  over  his  head  ;  the  roof  of  a  jail 
was  the  only  one  that  had  sheltered  him  for  many 
months.  He  slept  under  archways,  and  in  brick-fields 
— anywhere,  where  there  was  some  warmth  or  shel- 
ter from  the  cold  and  rain.  But  in  the  last  stage  of 
povert.y,  disease  and  houseless  want,  he  was  a  drunk- 
ard still. 

At  last,  one  bitter  night,  he  sunk  down  on  a  door  step 
faint  and  ill.  The  premature  decay  of  vice  and  profli- 
gacy had  worn  him  to  the  bone.  His  cheeks  were  hol- 
low and  livid  ;  his  eyes  were  sunken,  and  their  sight 
was  dim.  His  legs  trembled  beneath  his  weight,  and  a 
cold  shiver  ran  through  every  limb. 

And  now  the  long-forgotten  scenes  of  a  mis-spent  life 
crowded  thick  and  fast  upon  him.  He  thought  of  the 
time  when  he  had  a  home — a  happy,  cheerful  home — 
and  of  those  who  peopled  it,  and  flocked  about  him 
then,  until  the  forms  of  his  elder  children  seemed  t® 


rise  from  the  grave,  and  stand  about  him— so  plain,  so 
clear,  and  so  distinct  they  were,  that  he  could  touch  and 
feel  them.  Looks  that  he  had  long  forgotten  were  fixed 
upon  him  once  more  ;  voices  long  since  hushed  in  death 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  music  of  villag(;  bells.  But 
it  was  only  for  an  instant.  The  rain  beat  heavily  upon 
him  ;  and  cold  and  hunger  were  gnawing  at  his  heart 
again. 

He  rose,  and  dragged  his  feeble  limbs  a  few  paces 
further.  The  street  was  silent  and  empty ;  the  few 
passengers  who  passed  by,  at  that  late  hour,  hurried 
quickly  on,  and  his  tremuloivs  voice  was  lost  in  the  vio- 
lence of  the  storm.  Again  that  heavy  chill  struck 
through  his  frame,  and  his  blood  seemed  to  stajrnate  be- 
neath it.  He  coiled  himself  up  in  a  projecting  doorway, 
and  tried  to  sleep. 

But  sleep  had  fled  from  his  dull  and  glazed  eyes.  His 
mind  wandered  strangely,  but  he  was  awake,  and  con- 
scious. The  well-known  shout  of  drunken  mirth 
sounded  in  his  ear,  the  glass  was  at  his  lips,  the  board 
was  covered  with  choice  rich  food — they  were  before 
him  ;  he  could  see  them  all,  he  had  but  to  reach  out  his 
hand,  and  take  them — and,  though  the  illusion  was  re- 
ality itself,  he  knew  that  he  was  sitting  alone  in  the  de- 
serted street,  watching  the  rain-drops  as  they  pattered 
on  the  stones  ;  that  death  was  coming  upon  him  by 
inches — and  that  there  was  none  to  care  for  or  help 
him. 

Suddenly  he  started  up,  in  the  extremity  of  ter- 
ror. He  had  heard  his  own  voice  shouting  in  the  night 
air,  he  knew  not  what  or  why.  Hark  !  A  groan  ! — 
another  !  His  senses  were  leaving  him  :  half-formed 
and  incoherent  words  burst  from  his  lips  ;  and  his 
hands  sought  to  tear  and  lacerate  his  flesh.  He  was 
going  mad,  and  he  shrieked  for  help  till  his  voice  failed 
him. 

He  raised  his  head,  and  looked  up  the  long  dismal 
street.  He  recollected  that  outcasts  like  himself,  con- 
demned to  wander  day  and  night  in  those  dreadful 
streets,  had  sometimes  gone  distracted  with  their  own 
loneliness.  He  remembered  to  have  heard  many  years 
before  that  a  homeless  wretch  had  once  been  found  in  a 
solitary  corner,  sharpening  a  rusty  knife  to  plunge  into 
his  own  heart,  preferring  death  to  that  endless,  weary, 
wandering  to  and  fro.  In  an  instant  his  resolve  was 
taken,  his  limbs  received  new  life  ;  he  ran  quickly  from 
the  spot,  and  paused  not  for  breath  until  he  reached  the 
river-side. 

He  crept  softly  down  the  steep  stone  stairs  that  lead 
from  the  commencement  of  Waterloo  Bridge,  down  to 
the  water's  level.  He  crouched  into  a  corner,  and  held 
his  breath,  as  the  patrol  passed.  Never  did  prisoner's 
heart  throb  with  the  hope  of  liberty  and  life  half  so 
eagerly  as  did  that  of  the  wretched  man  at  the  prospect 
of  death.  The  watch  passed  close  to  him,  but  he  re- 
mained unobserved  ;  and  after  waiting  till  the  sound  of 
footsteps  had  died  away  in  the  distance,  he  cautiously 
descended  and  stood  beneath  the  gloomy  arch  that  forms 
the  landing-place  from  the  river. 

The  tide  was  in,  and  the  water  flowed  at  his  feet.  The 
rain  had  ceased,  the  wind  was  lulled,  and  all  was,  for 
the  moment,  still  and  quiet — so  quiet,  that  the  slightest 
sound  on  the  opposite  bank,  even  the  rippling  of  the 
water  against  the  barges  that  were  moored  there,  was 
distinctly  audible  to  his  ear.  The  stream  stole  languidly 
and  shiggishly  on.  Strange  and  fantastic  forms  rose  to 
the  surface,  and  beckoned  him  to  approach  ;  dark  gleam- 
ing eyes  peered  from  the  water,  and  seemed  to  mock 
his  hesitation,  while  hollow  murmurs  from  behind, 
urged  him  onwards.  He  retreated  a  few  paces,  took 
a  short  run,  desperate  leap,  and  plunged  into  the 
river. 

Not  five  seconds  had  passed  when  he  rose  to  the 
water's  surface — but  what  a  change  had  taken  place  in 
that  short  time,  in  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings  !  Life 
— life — in  any  form,  poverty,  misery,  starvation — any- 
thing but  death.  He  fought  and  struggled  with  the 
water  that  closed  over  his  head,  and  screamed  in  agonies 
of  terror.  The  curse  of  his  own  son  rang  in  his  ears. 
The  shore — but  one  foot  of  dry  ground — he  could 
almost  touch  the  step.  One  hand's  breath  nearer,  and 
he  was  saved — but  the  tide  bore  him  onward,  under 


968 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


the  dark  arches  of  the  bridge,  and  he  sank  to  the  bot- 
tom. 

Again  he  rose,  and  struggled  for  life.  For  one  instant 
—for  one  brief  instant— the  buildings  on  the  river's 
banks,  the  lights  on  the  bridge  through  which  the  cur- 
rent had  borne  him,  the  black  water,  and  the  fast-flying 
clouds,  were  distinctly  visible— once  more  he  sunk,  and 
once  again  he  rose.    Bright  flames  of  fire  shot  up  from 


earth  to  heaven,  and  reeled  before  his  eyes,  while  the 
water  thundered  in  his  ears,  and  stunned' him  with  its 
furious  roar. 

A  week  afterwards  the  body  was  washed  ashore, 
some  miles  down  the  river,  a  swollen  and  disfigured 
mass.  Unrecognized  and  unpitied,  it  was  borne  to 
the  grave ;  and  there  it  has  long  since  mouldered 
away  I 


Hard  Times. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST-SOWING. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  One  Thing  Needfvl. 

"  Now,  what  I  want  is,  Facts.  Teacli  these  boys  and 
girls  nothing  but  Facts.  Facts  alone  are  wanted  in  life. 
Plant  nothing  else,  and  root  out  everything  else.  You 
can  only  form,  the  minds  of  reasoning  animals  upon 
facts  ;  nothing  else  will  ever  be  of  any  service  to  them. 
This  is  the  principle  on  which  I  bring  up  my  own  chil- 
dren, and  tliis-is-the -principle  on^  which  I  bring  up  these 
children.  jStick  to  Facts,  sir  !"  ■ 

The  scene  was  a  plain,  bare, 'monotonous  vault  of  a 
school-room,  and  the  speaker's  square  forefinger  empha- 
sised his  observations  by  underscoring  every  sentence 
with  a  line  on  the  schoolmaster's  sleeve.  The  emphasis 
was  helped  by  the  speaker's  square  wall  of  a  forehead, 
which  had  his  eyebrows  for  its  base,  while  his  eyes 
found  commodious  cellarage  in  two  dark  caves,  over- 
shadowed by  the  wall.  The  emphasis  was  helped  by 
the  speaker's  mouth,  which  was  wide,  thin,  and  hard 
set.  The  emphasis  was  helped  by  the  speaker's  voice, 
which  was  inflexible,  dry,  and  dictatorial.  The  empha- 
sis was  helped  by  the  speaker's  hair,  which  bristled  on 
the  skirts  of  his  bald  head,  a  plantation  of  firs  to  keep 
the  wind  from  its  shining  surface,  all  covered  with 
knobs,  like  the  crust  of  a  plum  pie,  as  if  the  head  had 
scarcely  warehouse-room  for  the  hard  facts  stowed  inside. 
The  speaker's  obstinate  carriage,  square  coat,  square 
legs,  square  shoulders, — nay,  his  very  neckcloth,  trained 
to  take  him  by  the  throat  with  an  unaccommodating 
grasp,  like  a  stubborn  fact,  as  it  was, — all  helped  the 
emphasis. 

"  In  this  life,  we  want  nothing  but  Facts,  sir  ;  nothing 
but  Facts  !  " 

The  speaker,  and  the  schoolmaster,  and  the  third 
grown  person  present,  all  backed  a  little,  and  swept 
with  their  eyes  the  inclined  plane  of  little  vessels  then 
and  there  arranged  in  order,  ready  to  have  imperial  gal- 
lons of  facts  poured  into  them  until  they  were  full  to 
the  brim. 


CHAPTER  n. 

Murdering  the  h\aocents. 

Thomas  Gradgrind,  sir.  A  man  of  realities.  A  man 
of  facts  and  calculations.  A  man  who  proceeds  upon 
the  principle  that  two  and  two  are  four,  and  nothing 
over,  and  who  is  not  to  be  talked  into  allowing  for  any 
thing  over.  Thomas  Gradgrind,  sir  —  peremptorily 
Thomas — Thomas  Gradgrind.  With  a  rule  and  a  pair 
of  scales,  and  the  multiplication  table  always  in  his 
pocket,  sir,  ready  to  weigh  and  measure  any  parcel  of 
human  nature,  and  tell  you  exactly  what  it  comes  to. 
It  is  a  mere  question  of  figures,  a  case  of  simple  arith- 
metic. You  might  hope  to  get  some  other  nonsensical 
belief  into  the  head  of  George  Gradgrind,  or  Augustus 
Gradgrind,  or  John  Gradgrind,  or  Joseph  Gradgrind  (all 
supposititious,  non-existent  persons),  but  into  the  head 
of  Thomas  Gradgiind — no,  sir  ! 

In  such  terms  Mr,  Gradgrind  always  mentally  intro- 
duced himself,  whether  to  his  private  circle  of  acquaint- 
ance, or  to  the  public  in  general.  In  such  terms,  no 
doubt,  substituting  the  words  "boys  and  girls,"  for 


"sir,"  Thomas  Gradgrind  now  presented  Thomas  Grad- 
grind to  the  little  pitchers  before  him,  who  were  to  be 
filled  so  full  of  facts. 

Indeed,  as  he  eagerly  sparkled  at  them  from  the  cel- 
larage before  mentioned,  he  seemed  a  kind  of  cannon 
loaded  to  the  muzzle  with  facts,  and  prepared  to  blow 
them  clean  out  of  the  regions  of  childhood  at  one  dis- 
charge. He  seemed  a  galvanising  apparatus,  too, 
charged  with  a  grim  mechanical  substitute  for  the 
tender  young  imaginations  that  were  to  be  stormed 
a*way, 

"Girl  number  twenty,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  squarely 
pointing  with  his  square  forefinger,  "  I  don't  know  that 
girl.    Who  is  that  girl  ?  " 

"  Sissy  Jupe,  sir,"  explained  number  twenty,  blushing, 
standing  up,  and  curtseying. 

"  Sissy  is  not  a  name,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "Don't 
call  yourself  Sissy.    Call  yourself  Cecilia." 

"  It's  father  as  calls  me  Sissy,  sir,"  returned  the  young 
girl  in  a  trembling  voice,  and  with  another  curtsey. 

"  Then  he  has  no  business  to  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, "  Tell  him  he  mustn't,  Cecilia  Jupe.  Let  me 
see.    What  is  your  father  ?  " 

"  He  belongs  to  the  horse-riding,  if  you  please,  sir." 

Mr,  Gradgrind  frowned,  and  waved  off  the  objection- 
able calling  with  his  hand. 

"  We  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  that,  here. 
You  mustn't  tell  us  about  that,  here.  Your  father  breaks 
horses,  don't  he  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  when  they  can  get  any  to  break, 
they  do  break  horses  in  the  ring,  sir." 

"  You  mustn't  tell  us  about  the  ring  here.  Very  well, 
then.  Describe  your  father  as  a  horsebreaker.  He  doc- 
tors sick  horses,  I  dare  say  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  then.  He  is  a  veterinary  surgeon,  a  far- 
rier, and  horsebreaker.  Give  me  your  definition  of  a 
horse. " 

(Sissy  Jupe  throwniinto  the  greatest  alann  by  this  de- 
mand.) 

"  Girl  number  twenty  unable  to  define  a  horse  !  "  said 
Mr,  Gradgrind,  for  the, general  behoof  of  all  the  little 
pitchers.  "  Girl  number  twenty  possessed  of  no  facts, 
in  reference  to  one  of  the( commonest  of  animals  I  Some 
boy's  definition  of  a  horse.  Bitzer,.^yours." 

The  square  finger,  moving  here  and  there,  lighted 
suddenly  on  Bitzer,  perhaps  because  he  chanced  to  sit  in 
the  same  ray  of  sunlight  which,  darting  in  at  one  of  the 
bare  windows  of  the  intensely  whitewashed  room,  irra- 
diated Sissy.  For,  the  boys  and. girls  sat  on  the  face  of 
the  inclined  plane  in  two  compact  bodies,  divided  up  the 
centre  by  a  narrow  interval  ;  and  Sissy,  being  at  the 
corner  of  a  row  on  the  sunny  side,  came  in  for  the  be- 
ginning of  a  sunbeam,  of  which  Bitzer,  being  in  the  cor- 
ner of.a  row  on  the  other  side,  a  few  rows  in  advance, 
caught  the  end.  But,  whereas  the  girl  was  so  dark-eyed 
and  dark-haired,  that  she  seemed  to  receive  a  deeper  and 
more  lustrous  colour  from  the  sun,  when  it  shone  upon 
her,  the  boy  was  so  light-eyed  and  light-haired  that  the 
self -same  rays  appeared  to  draw  out  of  him  what  little 
colour  he  ever  possessed.  His  cold  eyes  would  hardly 
have  been  eyes,  but  for  the  short  ends  of  lashes  which, 
by  bringing* them  into  immediate  contrast  with  some- 
thing paler  than  themselves,  expressed  their  form.  His 
short-cropped  hair  might  have  been  a  mere  continuation 
of  the  sandy  freckles  on  his  forehead  iind  face.   His  skin 

969 


970 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


was  so  un wholesomely  deficient  in  the  natural  tinge, 
that  he  looked  as  though,  if  he  were  cut,  he  would  bleed 
white. 

"  Bitzer,"  said  Thomas  Gradgrind.  "  Your  definition 
of  a  horse." 

"  Quadruped.  Graminivorous.  Forty  teeth,  namely 
twenty  four  grinders,  four  eye-teeth,  and  twelve  incisive. 
Sheds  coat  in  the  spring;  in  marshy  countries,  sheds 
hoofs,  too.  Hoofs  hard,  but  requiring  to  be  shod  with 
iron.  Age  known  by  marks  in  mouth."  Thus  (and 
much  more)  Bitzer. 

"  Now  girl  number  twenty,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
"  You  know  what  a  horse  is. " 

She  curtseyed  again,  and  would  have  blushed  deeper, 
if  she  could  have  blushed  deeper  than  she  had  blushed 
all  the  time.  Bitzer,  after  rapidly  blinking  at  Thomas 
Gradgrind  with  both  eyes  at  once,  and  so  catching  the 
light  upon  his  quivering  ends  of  lashes  that  they  looked 
like  the  antennae  of  busy  insects,  put  his  knuckles  to  his 
freckled  forehead,  and  sat  down  again. 

The  tliird  gentleman  now  stepped  forth.  A  mighty 
man  at  cutting  and  drying,  he  was  ;  a  government  of- 
ficer ;  in  his  way  (and  in  most  other  people's  too),  a  pro- 
fessed pugilist ;  always  in  training,  always  with  a  sys- 
tem to  force  down  the  general  throat  like  a  bolus,  always 
to  be  heard  at  the  bar  of  his  little  Public-office,  ready  to 
fight  all  England.  To  continue  in  fistic  phraseology,  he 
had  a  genius  for  coming  up  to  the  scratch,  wherever  and 
whatever  it  was,  and  proving  himself  an  ugly  customer. 
He  would  go  in  and  damage  any  subject  whatever  with 
his  right,  follow  up  with  his  left,  stop,  exchange, 
counter,  bore  his  opponent  (he  always  fought  All  En- 
gland) to  the  ropes,  and  fall  upon  him  neatly.  He  was 
certain  to  knock  the  wind  out  of  common  sense,  and 
render  that  unlucky  adversary  deaf  to  the  call  of  time. 
And  he  had  it  in  charge  from  high  authority  to  bring 
about  the  great  public-office  Millennium,  when  Com- 
missioners should  reign  upon  earth. 

"Very  well,"  said  this  gentleman,  briskly  smiling, 
and  folding  his  arms.  "  That's  a  horse.  Now,  let  me 
ask  you  girls  and  boys,  Would  you  paper  a  room  with 
representation^  of  horses?  " 

After  a  pause,  one  half  the  children  cried  in  chorus, 
"  Yes,  sir  !  "  Upon  which  the  other  half,  seeing  in  the 
gentleman's  face  that  Yes  was  wrong,  cried  out  in 
chorus,  "  No  sir  !  " — as  the  custom  is,  in  these  examina- 
tions. 

"  Of  course,  No.    Why  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

A  pause.  One  corpulent  slow  boy,  with  a  wheezy  man- 
ner of  breathing,  ventured  the  answer.  Because  he 
wouldn't  paper  a  room  at  all,  but  would  paint  it. 

"  You  must  paper  it,"  said  the  gentleman,  rather 
warmly. 

"You  must  paper  it,"  said  Thomas  Gradgrind, 
"  whether  you  like  it  or  not.  Don't  tell  us  you  wouldn't 
paper  it.    What  do  you  mean  boy  ?  " 

"  I'll  explain  to  you,  then,"  said  the  gentleman,  after 
another  and  a  dismal  pause,  "  why  you  wouldn't  paper  a 
room  with  representations  of  horses.  Do  you  ever  see 
liorses  walking  up  and  down  the  sides  of  rooms  in  reality 
— in  fact  ?    Do  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir!"  from  one  half.  *'No,  sir!"  from  the 
other. 

"  Of  course  no, "  said  the  gentleman,  with  an  indig- 
nant look  at  the  wrong  half.  "  Why,  then,  you  are 
not  to  see  anywhere,  what  you  don't  see  in  fact  ;  you 
are  not  to  have  anywhere,  what  you  don't  have  in 
fact.  What  is  called  Taste,  is  only  another  name  for 
Fact." 

Thomas  Gradgrinti  nodded  his  approbation, 
"  This  is  a  new  principal,  a  discovery,  a  great -discov- 
ery,"  said  the  gentleman.  "Now  I'll  try  you  again. 
Suppose  you  were  going  to  carpet  a  room.  Would  you 
use  a  carpet  having  a  representation  of  flowers  upon 
it?" 

There  being  a  general  conviction  by  this  time  that 
"No,  sir  !"  was  always  the  right  answer  to  this  gen- 
tleman, the  chorus  of  No  was  very  strong.  Only 
a  few  feeble  stragglers  said  Yes  ;  among  them  Sissy 
Jupe. 

"  Girl  number  twenty,"  said  the  gentleman,  smiling 
in  calm  strength  of  knowledge. 


Sissy  blushed,  and  stood  up. 

"  So  you  wovild  carpet  your  room— or  your  husband's 
room,  if  you  were  a  grown  woman,  and  had  a  husband 
— with  representations  of  flowers,  would  you,"  said  the 
gentleman,    ' '  Why  would  you  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I  am  very  fond  of  flowers,"  re- 
turned the  girl. 

"  And  is  that  why  you  would  put  tables  and  chairs  up- 
on them,  and  have  people  walking  over  them  with  heavy 
boots  ?  " 

"It  wouldn't  hurt  them,  sir.  They  wouldn't  crush 
and  wither  if  you  please,  sir.  They  would  be  the  pic- 
tures of  what  was  very  pretty  and  pleasant,  and  I  would 
fancy — " 

"Ay,  ay,  ay!  But  you  mustn't  fancy,"  cried  the 
gentleman,  quite  elated  by  coming  so  happily  to  his 
point.    "  That's  it !    You  are  never  to  fancy." 

"  You  are  not,  Cecelia  Jupe,"  Thomas  Gradgrind  sol- 
emnly repeated,  "to  do  anything  of  that  kind." 

"  Fact,  fact,  fact  !  "  said  the  gentleman.  And  "  Fact, 
fact,  fact ! !'  repeated  Thomas  Gradgrind. 

"  You  are  to  be  in  all  things  regulated  and  governed," 
said  the  gentleman,  "  by  fact.  We  hope  to  have  before 
long,  a  board  of  fact,  composed  of  commisioners  of  fact, 
who  will  force  the  people  to  be  a  people  of  fact,  and  of 
nothing  but  fact.  You  must  discard  the  word  fancy  al- 
together. You  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  are 
not  to  have,  in  any  object  of  use  or  ornament, 'what 
would  be  a  contradiction  in  fact.  You  don't  walk  upon 
flowers  in  fact  ;  you  cannot  be  allowed  to  walk  upon 
flowers  in  carpets.  You  don't  find  that  foreign  birds  and 
butterflies  come  and  perch  upon  your  crockery  ;  you  can 
not  be  permitted  to  paint  foreign  birds  and  butterflies 
upon  your  crockery.  You  never  meet  with  quadrupeds 
going  up  and  down  walls  ;  you  must  have  not  have 
quadrupeds  represented  upon  walls.  You  must  use," 
said  the  gentleman,  "for  all  these  purposes,  combina- 
tions and  modifications  (in  primary  colours)  of  mathe- 
matical figures  which  are  susceptible  of  proof  and  de- 
monstration. This  is  the  new  discovery.  This  is  fact. 
This  is  taste." 

The  girl  curtseyed  and  sat  down.  She  was  very  young, 
and  she  looked  as  if  she  were  frightened  by  the  matter 
of  fact  prospect  the  world  afforded. 

"Now,  if  Mr.  M'Choakumchild,"  said  the  gentleman, 
"  will  proceed  to  give  his  first  lesson  here,  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
I  shall  be  happy,  at  your  request,  to  observe  his  mode  of 
procedure." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  was  much  obliged.  "  Mr.  M'Choak- 
umchild,,we  only  wait  for  you." 

So,  Mr.  M'Choakumchild  began  in  his  best  manner. 
He  and  some  one  hundred  and  forty  other  schoolmasters, 
had  been  lately  turned  at  the  same  time,  in  the  same  fac- 
tory, on  the  same  principles,  like  so  many  pianoforte  legs. 
He  had  been  put  through  an  immense  variety  of  paces, 
and  had  answered  volumes  of  head-breaking  questions. 
Orthography,  etymology,  syntax,  and  prosody,  biography, 
astronomy,  geography,  and  general  cosmography,  the 
sciences  of  compound  proportion,  algebra,  land-survey- 
ing and  levelling,  vocal  music  and  drawing  from  models, 
were  all  the  ends  of  his  ten  chilled  fingers.  He  had 
worked  his  stony  way  into  Her  Majesty's  most  Honoura- 
ble Privy  Council's  Scheduled,  and  had  taken  the  bloom 
off  the  higher  branches  of  mathematics  and  physical 
science,  French,  German,  Latin,  and  Greek.  He  knew 
all  about  all  the  Water  Sheds  of  all  the  world  (whatever 
they  are),and  all  the  histories  of  all  thepeoples,and  all  the 
names  of  all  the  rivers  and  mountains,  and  all  the  pro- 
ductions, manners,  and  customs  of  all  the  countries,  and 
all  their  boundaries  and  bearings  on  the  two  and  thirty 
points  of  the  compass.  Ah,  rather  overdone,  M'Choak- 
umchild. If  he  had  only  learned  a  little  less,  how 
infinitely  better  he  might  have  been  taught  much 
more  ! 

He  went  to  work  in  this  preparatory  lesson,  not  unlike 
Morgiana  in  the  Forty  Thieves  :  looking  into  all  the 
vessels  ranged  before  him,  one  after  another,  to  see  what 
they  contained.  Say,  good  M'Choakumchild.  When 
from  thy  boiling  store,  thou  shalt  fill  each  jar  brim  full 
by  and  by,  dost  thou  think  that  thou  wilt  always  kill 
outright  the  robber  Fancy  lurking  within — or  sometimes 
only  maim  him  and  distort  him  1 


HARD 

CHAPTER  III. 

A  LoopJwle. 

Me.  Gradgrind  walked  homeward  from  the  school,  in 
a  state  of  considerable  satisfaction.  It  was  his  school, 
and  he  intended  it  to  be  a  model.  He  intended  every 
child  in  it  to  be  a  model — just  as  the  young  Gradgrinds, 
were  all  models. 

There  were  five  young  Gradgrinds  and  they  were 
models  every  one.  They  had  been  lectured  at,  from  their 
tenderest  years  ;  coursed,  like  little  hares.  Almost  as  soon 
as  they  could  run  alone,  they  had  been  to  run  to  the 
lecture-room.  The  first  object  with  which  they  had  an 
association,  or  of  which  they  had  a  remembrance,  was 
a  large  black  board  with  a  dry  Ogre  chalking  ghastly 
white  figures  on  it. 

Not  that  they  knew,  by  name  or  nature,  anything 
about  an  Ogre.  Fact  forbid  !  I  only  use  the  word  to 
express  a  monster  in  a  lecturing  castle,  with  Heaven 
knows  how  many  heads  manipulated  into  one,  taking 
childhood  captive,  and  dragging  it  into  gloomy  statistical 
dens  by  the  hair. 

No  little  Gradgrind  had  ever  seen  a  face  in  the  moon  ; 
it  was  up  in  the  moon  before  it  could  speak  distinctly. 
No  little  Gradgrind  had  ever  learnt  the  silly  jingle, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star  ;  how  I  wonder  what  you 
are  !  No  little  Gradgrind  had  ever  known  wonder  on  the 
subject,  each  little  Gradgrind  having  at  five  years  old 
dissected  the  Great  Bear  like  a  Professor  Owen,  and  driven 
Charles's  Wain  like  a  locomotive  engine-driver.  No 
little  Gradgrind  had  ever  associated  a  cow  in  a  field  with 
that  famous  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn  who  tossed  the 
dog  who  worried  the  cat  who  killed  the  rat  who  ate  the 
malt,  or  with  that  yet  more  famous  cow  who  swallowed 
Tom  Thumb  :  it  had  never  heard  of  those  celebrities, 
and  had  only  been  introduced  to  a  cow  as  a  gramnivorous 
ruminating  quadruped  with  several  stomachs. 

To  his  matter-of-fact  home,  which  was  called  Stone 
Lodge,  Mr.  Gradgrind  directed  his  steps.  He  had 
virtually  retired  from  the  wholesale  hardware  trade  be- 
fore he  built  Stone  Lodge,  and  was  now  looking  about 
for  a  suitable  opportunity  of  making  an  arithmetical 
figure  in  Parliament.  Stone  Lodge  was  situated  on  a 
moor  within  a  mile  or  two  of  a  great  town — called  Coke- 
town  in  the  present  faithful  guide-book. 

A  very  regular  feature  on  the  face  of  the  country. 
Stone  Lodge  was.  Not  the  least  disguise  toned  down  or 
shaded  off  that  uncompromising  fact  in  the  landscape. 
A  great  square  house,  with  a  heavy  portico  darkening 
the  principal  windows,  as  its  master's  heavy  brows  over- 
shadowed his  eyes.  A  calculated,  cast  up,  balanced,  and 
proved  house.  Six  windows  on  this  side  of  the  door,  six 
on  that  side  ;  a  total  of  twelve  in  this  wing,  a  total  of 
twelve  in  the  other  wing  ;  four-and-twenty  carried  over 
to  the  back  -wings.  A  lawn  and  garden  and  an  infant 
avenue,  all  ruled  straight  like  a  botanical  account-book. 
Gas  and  ventilation,  drainage  and  water-service,  all  of 
the  primest  quality.  Iron  clamps  and  girders,  fireproof 
from  top  to  bottom  ;  mechanical  lifts  for  the  housemaid, 
with  all  their  brushes  and  brooms  ;  everything  that 
heart  could  desire. 

Everything  ?  Well,  I  suppo^p  30.  The  little  Grad- 
grinds had  cabinets  in  various  departments  of  science 
too.  They  had  a  little  conchological  cabinet,  and  a  little 
metallurgical  cabinet,  and  a  little  mineralogical  cabinet  ; 
and  the  specimens  were  all  arranged  and  labelled,  and 
the  bits  of  stone  and  ore  looked  as  though  they  might 
have  been  broken  from  the  parent  substances  by  those 
tremendously  hard  instruments  their  own  names  ;  and, 
to  paraphrase  the  idle  legend  of  Peter  Piper,  who  had 
never  found  his  way  into  their  nursery.  If  the  greedy 
little  Gradgrinds  grasped  at  more  than  this,  what  was  it 
for  good  gracious  goodness'  sake,  that  the  greedy  little 
Gradgrinds  grasped  at ! 

Their  father  walked  on  in  a  hopeful  and  satisfied 
frame  of  mind.  He  was  an  affectionate  father,  after  his 
manner  ;  but  he  would  probably  have  described  himself 
(if  he  had  been  put,  like  Sissy  Jupe,  upon  a  definition) 
as  "  an  eminently  practical  "  father.  He  had  a  partic- 
ular pride  in  the  phrase  eminently  practical,  which  was 
considered  to  have  a  special  application  to  him.  What- 


TIME8,  971 

soever  the  public  meeting  held  in  Coketown,  and  what- 
soever the  subject  of  such  meeting,  some  Coketowner 
was  sure  to  seize  the  occasion  of  alluding  to  his  emi- 
nently practical  friend  Gradgrind.  This  always  pleased 
the  eminently  practical  friend.  He  knew  it  to  be  his 
due,  but  his  due  was  acceptable. 

He  had  reached  the  neutral  ground  upon  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  which  was  neither  town  nor  country,  and 
yet  was  either  spoiled,  when  his  ears  were  invaded  by 
the  sound  of  music.  The  clashing  and  banging  band 
attached  to  the  horse-riding  establishment  which  had 
there  set  up  its  rest  in  a  wooden  pavilion,  was  in  full 
bray.  A  flag,  floating  from  the  summit  of  the  temple, 
proclaimed  to  mankind  that  it  was  "  Sleary's  Horse-rid- 
ing" which  claimed  their  suffrages,  Sleary  himself,  a 
stout  modern  statue  with  a  money-box  at  its  elbow,  in  an 
ecclesiastical  niche  of  early  Gothic  architecture,  took 
the  money.  Miss  Josephine  Sleary,  as  some  very  long 
and  very  narrow  strips  of  printed  bill  announced,  was 
then  inaugurating  the  entertainments  with  her  graceful 
equestrian  Tyrolean  flower-act.  Among  the  other  pleas- 
ing but  always  strictly  moral  wonders  which  must  be  seen 
to  be  believed.  Signer  Jupe  was  that  afternoon  to  "  eluci- 
date the  diverting  accomplishments  of  his  highly  trained 
performing  dog  Merrylegs. "  He  was  also  to  exhibit 
"his  astounding  feat  of  throwing  seventy-five  hundred- 
weight in  rapid  succession  backhanded  over  his  head 
thus  forming  a  fountain  of  solid  iron  in  mid-air,  a  feat 
never  before  attempted  in  this  or  any  other  countiy  and 
which  having  elicited  such  rapturous  plaudits  from  en- 
thusiastic throngs  it  cannot  be  withdrawn."  The  same 
Signer  Jupe  was  to  "  enliven  the  varied  performances  at 
frequent  intervals  with  his  chaste  Shakesperean  quips 
and  retorts."  Lastly,  he  was  to  wind  them  up  by  ap- 
pearing in  his  favourite  character  of  Mr.  William' But- 
ton, of  Tooley  Street,  in  "  the  highly  novel  and  laughable 
hippo-comedietta  of  The  Tailor's  Journey  to  Brentford." 

Thomas  Gradgrind  took  no  heed  of  these  trivialities  of 
course,  but  passed  on  as  a  practical  man  ought  to  pass 
on,  either  brushing  the  noisy  insects  from  his  thoughts, 
or  consigning  them  to  the  House  of  Correction.  But, 
the  turning  of  the  road  took  him  by  the  back  of  the 
booth,  and  at  the  back  of  the  booth  a  number  of  children 
were  congi'egated  in  a  number  of  stealthy  attitudes, 
striving  to  peep  in  at  the  hidden  glories  of  the  place. 

This  brought  him  to  a  stop.  *'  Now,  to  think  of  these 
vagabonds,"  said  he,  "attracting  the  young  rabble  from 
a  model  school." 

A  space  of  stunted  grass  and  dry  rubbish  being  be- 
tween him  and  the  young  rabble,  he  took  his  eyeglass 
out  of  his  waistcoat  to  look  for  any  child  he  knew  by 
name,  and  might  order  off.  Phenomenon  almost  incred- 
ible though  distinctly  seen,  what  did  he  then  behold  but 
his  own  metallurgical  Louisa  peeping  with  all  her  might 
through  a  hole  in  a  deal  board,  and  his  own  mathemati- 
cal Thomas  abasing  himself  on  the  ground  to  catch  but 
a  hoof  of  the  graceful  equestrian  Tyrolean  flower-act  ! 

Dumb  with  amazement,  Mr.  Gradgrind  crossed  to  the 
spot  where  his  family  was  thus  disgraced,  laid  his  hand 
upon  each  erring  child,  and  said  : 

"  Louisa  !  !    Thomas  ! !  " 

Both  rose,  red  and  disconcerted.  But  Louisa  looked 
at  her  father  with  more  boldness  than  Thomas  did.  In- 
deed, Thomas  did  not  look  at  him,  but  gave  himself  up 
to  be  taken  home  like  a  machine. 

"  In  the  name  of  wonder,  idleness,  and  folly  !  "  said 
Mr.  Gradgrind,  leading  each  away  by  a  hand  ;  "  what 
do  you  do  here  ?  " 

Wanted  to  see  what  it  was  like,"  returned  Lousia, 
shortlv. 

"What  it  was  like?" 

"Yes,  father." 

There  was  an  air  of  jaded  sullenness  in  them  both, 
and  particularly  in  the  girl  :  yet,  struggling  through  the 
dissatisfaction  of  her  face,  there  was  a  light  with  noth- 
ing to  rest  upon,  a  fire  with  nothing  to  burn,  a  starved 
imagination  keeping  life  in  itself  somehow,  which 
brightened  its  expression.  Not  with  the  brightness  nat- 
ural to  cheerful  youth,  but  with  uncertain,  eager,  doubt- 
ful flashes,  which  had  something  painful  in  them,  analo- 
gous to  the  changes  on  a  blind  face  groping  its  way. 

She  was  a  child  now,  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  ;  but  at  no 


972 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


distant  day  would  seem  to  become  a  woman  all  at  once. 
Her  father  thought  so  as  he  looked  at  her.  She  was 
pretty.  Would  have  been  self-willed  (he  thought  in  his 
eminently  practical  way),  but  for  her  bringing-up. 

"  Thomas,  though  I  have  the  fact  before  me,  I  find  it 
difficult  to  believe  that  you,  with  your  education  and  re- 
sources, should  have  brought  your  sister  to  a  scene  like 
this." 

"I  brought  liim,  father,"  said  Louisa,  quickly.  "I 
asked  him  to  come." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  I  am  very  sorry  indeed  to  hear 
it.  It  makes  Thomas  no  better,  and  it  makes  you  worse, 
Louisa." 

She  looked  at  her  father  again,  but  no  tear  fell  down 
her  cheek. 

"  You  !  Thomas  and  you,  to  whom  the  circle  of  the 
sciences  is  open  ;  Thomas  and  you,  who  may  be  said  to 
be  replete  with  facts  ;  Thomas  and  you,  who  have  been 
trained  to  mathematical  exactness ;  Thomas  and  you, 
here  !"  cried  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "In  this  degraded  posi- 
tion !    I  am  amazed." 

"  I  was  tired,  father.  I  have  been  tired  a  long  time," 
said  Louisa. 

"  Tired  ?   Of  what  ?"  asked  the  astonished  father. 

"  I  don't  know  of  what — of  everything  I  think." 

"Say  not  another  word,"  returned  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
"  Tou  are  childish.  I  will  hear  no  more."  He  did  not 
speak  again  until  they  had  walked  some  half-a-mile  in 
silence,  when  he  gravely  broke  out  with,  "  What  would 
your  best  friends  say,  Louisa  ?  Do  you  attach  no  value 
to  their  good  opinion  ?  What  would  Mr.  Bounderby 
say?" 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  his  daughter  stole  a  look 
at  him,  remarkable  for  its  intense  and  searching  charac- 
ter.. He  saw  nothing  of  it,  for  before  he  looked  at  her, 
she  had  again  cast  down  her  eyes  ! 

"  What,"  he  repeated  presently,  "  would  Mr.  Bounder- 
by say  !"  All  the  way  to  Stone  Lodge,  as  with  grave 
indignation  he  led  the  two  delinquents  home,  he  repeat- 
ed at  intervals,  "What  would  Mr.  Bounderby  say  !" — 
as  if  Mr.  Bounderby  had  been  Mrs.  Grundy. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Mr.  Bounderby. 

Not  being  Mrs.  Grundy,  who  was  Mr.  Bounderby  ? 

Why,  Mr.  Bounderby  was  as  near  being  Mr.  Grad- 
grind's  bosom  friend,  as  a  man  perfectly  devoid  of  senti- 
ment can  approach  that  spiritual  relationship  towards 
another  man  perfectly  devoid  of  sentiment.  So  near  was 
Mr.  Bounderby — or,  if  the  reader  should  prefer  it,  so  far 
off. 

He  was  a  rich  man  :  banker,  merchant,  manufacturer, 
and  what  not.  A  big,  loud  man,  with  a  stare,  and  a  me- 
tallic laugh.  A  man  made  out  of  a  coarse  material,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  stretched  to  make  so  much  of  him. 
A  man  with  a  great  puffed  head  and  forehead,  swelled 
veins  in  his  temples,  and  such  a  strained  skin  to  his  face 
that  it  seemed  to  hold  his  eyes  open,  and  lift  his  eye- 
brows up.  A  man  with  a  pervading  appearance  on  him 
of  being  inflated  like  a  balloon,  and  ready  to  start  A 
man  who  could  never  sufRciently  vaunt  himself  a  self- 
made  man.  A  man  who  was  always  proclaiming,  through 
that  brassy  speaking-trumpet  of  a  voice  of  his,  his  old 
ignorance  and  his  old  poverty.  A  man  who  was  the  Bul- 
ly of  humility. 

A  year  or  two  younger  than  his  eminently  practical 
friend,  Mr.  Bounderby  looked  older  ;  his  seven  or  eight 
and  forty  might  have  had  the  seven  or  eight  added  to  it 
again,  without  surprising  anybody.  He  had  not  much 
hair.  One  might  have  fancied  he  had  talked  it  off  ;  and 
that  what  was  left,  all  standing  up  in  disorder,  was  in 
that  condition  from  being  constantly  blown  about  by  his 
windy  boast  fulness. 

In  the  formal  drawing-room  of  Stone  Lodge,  standing 
on  the  hearth-rug,  warming  himself  before  the  fire,  Mr. 
Bounderby  delivered  some  observations  to  Mrs.  Grad- 
grind on  the  circumstance  of  its  being  his  birthday.  He 
stood  before  the  fire,  partly  because  it  was  a  cool  spring 


afternoon,  though  the  sun  shone ;  partly  because  the 
shade  of  Stone  Lodge  was  always  haunted  by  the  ghost 
of  damp  mortar  ;  partly  because  he  thus  took  up  a  com- 
manding position,  from  which  to  subdue  Mrs.  Grad- 
grind. 

"  I  hadn't  a  shoe  to  my  foot.  As  to  a  stocking,  I  didn't 
know  such  a  thing  by  name.  I  passed  the  day  in  a  ditch, 
and  the  night  in  a  pigsty.  That's  the  way  I  spent  my 
tenth  birth-day.  Not  that  a  ditch  was  new  to  me,  for  I 
w-as  born  in  a  ditch. 

Mrs.  Gradgrind,  a  little,  thin,  white,  pink-eyed  bun- 
dle of  shawls,  of  surpassing  feebleness,  mental  and 
bodily  ;  who  was  always  taking  physic  without  any 
effect,  and  who,  whenever  she  showed  a  symptom  of 
coming  to  life,  was  invariably  stunned  by  some  weighty 
piece  of  fact  tumbling  on  her  ;  Mrs.  Gradgrind  hoped  it 
was  a  dry  ditch  ? 

"No  !  As  wet  as  a  sop.  A  foot  of  water  in  it,"  said 
Mr.  Bounderby. 

"  Enough  to  give  a  baby  cold,"  Mrs.  Gradgrind  con- 
sidered. 

"  Cold  ?  I  was  born  with  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and 
of  everything  else,  I  believe,  that  was  capable  of  inflam- 
mation," returned  Mr.  Bounderby.  "  For  years,  ma'am, 
I  was  one  of  the  most  miserable  little  wretches  ever 
seen.  I  was  so  sickly,  that  I  was  always  moaning  and 
groaning.  I  was  so  ragged  and  dirty,  that  you  wouldn't 
have  touched  me  with  a  pair  of  tongs." 

Mrs.  Gradgrind  faintly  looked  at  the  tongs,  as  the 
most  appropriate  thing  her  imbecility  could  think  of  do- 
ing. 

"How  I  fought  through  it,  /  don't  know,"  said 
Bounderby.  "I  was  determined,  I  suppose.  I  have 
been  a  determined  character  in  later  life,  and  I  suppose 
I  was  then.  Here  I  am,  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  anyhow,  and 
nobody  to  thank  for  my  being  here,  but  myself. " 

Mrs.  Gradgrind  meekly  and  weakly  hoped  that  his  mo- 
ther— 

"  My  mother  ?  Bolted,  ma'am  !  "  said  Bounderby. 
Mrs.  Gradgrind,  stunned  as  usual,  collapsed  and*  gave 
it  up. 

"  My  mother  left  me  to  my  grandmother,"  said  Boun- 
derby ;  "  and,  according  to  the  best  of  my  remembrance, 
my  grandmother  was  the  wickedest  and  the  worst  old 
woman  that  ever  lived.  If  I  got  a  little  pair  of  shoes  by 
any  chance,  she  would  take  'em  off  and  sell  'em  for 
drink.  Why,  I  have  known  that  grandmother  of  mine 
lie  in  her  bed  and  drink  her  fourteen  glasses  of  liquorc 
before  breakfast !  "  i 

Mrs.  Gradgrind,  w^eakl}"  smiling,  and  giving  no  other  | 
sign  of  vitality,  looked  (as  she  always  did)  like  an  indif-l 
f erently  executed  transparency  of  a  small  female  figure, ' 
without  enough  light  behind  it.  j 

"She  kept  a  chandler's  shop,"  pursued  Bounderby,! 
"  and  kept  me  in  an  egg-box.  That  was  the  cot  of  my^ 
infancy  ;  an  old  egg-box.  As  soon  as  I  was  big  enough 
to  run  away,  of  course  I  ran  away.  Theii  I  became  a 
young  vagabond  ;  and  instead  of  one  old  woman  knock- 
ing me  about  and  starving  me,  everybody  of  all  ages 
knocked  me  about  and  starved  me.  They  w^ere  right  ; 
they  had  no  business  to  do  anything  else.  I  was  a  nui- 
sance, an  incumbrance,  and  a  pest.  I  know  that  very 
well." 

His  pride  in  having  at  any  time  of  his  life  achieved 
such  a  great  social  distinction  as  to  be  a  nuisance,  an  in- 
cumbrance, and  a  pest,  was  only  to  be  satisfied  by  three 
sonorous  repetitions  of  the  boast. 

"  I  was  to  pull  through  it  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Gradgrind. 
Whether  I  was  to  do  it  or  not,  ma'am,  I  did  it.  I  pulled 
through  it,  though  nobody  threw  me  out  a  rope.  Vaga- 
bond, errand-boy,  vagabond,  laborer,  porter,  clerk,  chief 
manager,  small  partner,  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown. 
Those  are  the  antecedents,  and  the  culmination.  Josiah 
Bounderby  of  Coketown  learnt  his  letters  from  the  out- 
sides  of  the  shops,  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  and  was  first  able 
to  tell  the  time  upon  a  dial -plate,  from  studying  the 
steeple  clock  of  St.  Giles's  Church,  London,  under  the 
directions  of  a  drunken  cripple,  who  was  a  convicted 
thief,  and  an  incorrigible  vagrant.  Tell  Josiah  Bound- 
erby of  Coketown,  of  your  district  schools  and  your 
model  schools,  and  your  training  schools,  and  your 
whole  kettle-of-fish  of  schools  ;  and  Josiah  Bounderby 


HARD 

of  Coketown,  tells  you  plainly,  all  riglit,  all  correct — he 
hadn't  such  advantages— but  let  us  liave  hard-headed, 
solid-fisted  people — the  education  that  made  liim  won't 
do  for  everybody,  he  knows  well — such  and  sucli  his 
education  was,  however,  and  you  may  force  him  to  swal- 
low boiling  fat,  but  you  shall  never  force  him  to  sup- 
press the  facts  of  his  life." 

Being  heated  when  he  arrived  at  this  climax,  Josiah 
Bounderby  of  Coketown  stopped.  His  stopped  just  as 
his  eminently  practical  friend,  still  accompanied  by  tlie 
two  young  culprits,  entered  the  room.  His  eminently 
practical  friend,  on  seeing  him,  stopped  also,  and  gave 
Louisa  a  reproachful  loolc  that  plainly  said,  "Behold 
your  Bounderby  ! " 

"Well!"  blustered  Mr.  Bounderby,  "what's  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  What  is  young  Thomas  in  the  dumps  about  ?  " 
He  spoke  of  young  Thomas,  but  he  looked  at  Louisa, 
"  We  were  peeping  at  the  circus,"  muttered  Louisa 

haughtily,  without  lifting  up  her  eyes,  "  and  father 

caught  us." 

"  And  Mrs.  Gradgrind,"  said  her  husband  in  a  lofty 
manner,  "I  should  as  soon  have  expected  to  find  my  chil- 
dren reading  poetry. " 

"Dear  me,"  whimpered  Mrs.  Gradgrind.  "How  can 
you,  Louisa  and  Thomas  !  I  wonder  at  you.  I  declare 
you're  enough  to  make  one  regret  ever  having  had  a 
family  at  all.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  say  I  wish  I 
hadn't.  Then  what  would  you  have  done,  I  should  like 
to  know." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  did  not  seem  favourably  impressed  by 
these  cogent  remarks.    He  frowned  impatiently. 

"  As  if,  with  my  head  in  its  present  throbbing  state, 
you  couldn't  go  and  look  at  the  shells,  and  minerals  and 
things  provided  for  you,  instead  of  circuses  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Gradgrind.  ' '  You  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  no  young  peo- 
jDle  have  circus  masters,  or  keep  circuses  in  cabinets,  or 
attend  lectures  of  circuses.  What  can  you ''possibly 
want  to  know  about  circuses  then  ?  I  am  sure  you  have 
enough  to  do,  if  that's  what  you  want.  With  my  head 
in  its  present  state,  I  couldn't  remember  the  mere  names 
of  half  the  facts  you  have  got  to  attend  to." 

"  That's  the  reason!  "  pouted  Louisa. 

"Don't  tell  me  that's  the  reason,  because  it  can  be 
nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind.  "Go  and  be 
sometliingological  directly.'*  Mrs.  Gradgrind  was  not  a 
scientific  character,  and  usually  dismissed  her  children 
to  their  studies  with  this  general  injunction  to  choose 
their  pursuit. 

In  truth,  Mrs.  Gradgrind's  stock  of  facts  in  general  was 
woefully  defective  ;  but  Mr.  Gradgrind  in  raising  her  to 
her  high  matrimonial  position,  had  been  influenced  by 
two  reasons.  Firstly,  she  was  most  satisfatory  as  a  ques- 
tion of  figures;  and  secondly,  she  had  "  no  nonsense" 
about  her.  By  nonsense  he  meant  fancy  ;  and  truly  it  is 
probable  she  was  as  free  from  any  alloy  of  that  nature, 
as  any  human  being  not  arrived  at  the  perfection  of  an 
absolute  idiot,  ever  was. 

The  simple  circumstance  of  being  left  alone  with  her 
her  husband  and  Mr.  Bounderby,  was  sufficient  to  stun 
this  admirable  lady  again  without  collision  between  her- 
self and  any  other  fact.  So,  she  once  more  died  away, 
and  nobody  minded  her. 

"Bounderby,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  drawing  a  chair  to 
the  fireside,  "you  are  always  so  interested  in  my  young 
people — particularly  in  Louisa — that  I  make  no  apology 
for  saying  to  you,  I  am  very  much  vexed  by  this  discov- 
ery. I  have  systematically  devoted  myself  (as  you  know) 
to  the  education  of  the  reason  of  my  family.  The  reason 
is  (as  you  know)  the  only  faculty  to  which  education 
should  be  addressed.  And  yet,  Bounderby,  it  would  ap- 
pear from  this  unexpected  circumstance  of  to-day, though 
in  itself  a  triflng  one,  as  if  something  had  crept  into 
Thomas's  and  Louisa's  minds  which  is — or  rather,  which 
is  not — I  don't  know  that  I  can  express  myself  better  than 
by  saying — which  has  never  been  intended  to  be  devel- 
oped, and  in  which  their  reason  has  no  part." 

"There  certainly  is  no  reason  in  looking  with  interest 
at  a  parcel  of  vag^ibonds,"  returned  Bounderby.  "  When 
I  was  a  vagabond  myself,  nobody  loked  with  any  interest 
at  me;,  I  know  that." 

"  Then  comes  the  question,"  said  the  eminently  prac- 


TIMFS,  973 

tical  father,  with  his  eyes  on  the  fire,  "  in  what  has  this 
vulgar  curiosity  its  rise  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  in  what.    In  idle  imagination." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  the  eminently  practical  ;  "I  con- 
fess, however,  the  misgiving  has  crossed  me  on  my  way 
home." 

"  In  idle  imagination,  Gradgrind,"  repeated  Bounder- 
by. "  A  very  bad  thing  for  anybody,  but  a  cursed  bad 
thing  for  a  girl  like  Louisa.  I  should  ask  Mrs.  Grad- 
grind's pardon  for  strong  expressions,  but  that  she  knows 
very  well  that  I  am  not  a  refined  character.  Whoever 
expects  refinement  in  me  will  be  disappointed.  I  hadn't 
a  refined  bringing  up." 

"  Whether,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  pondering  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  cavernous  eyes  on  the  fire, 
"  whether  any  instructor  or  servant  can  have  suggested 
anything?  Whether  Louisa  or  Thomas  can  have  been 
reading  anything?  Whether,  in  spite  of  all  precautions, 
any  idle  storybook  can  have  got  into  the  house  ?  Be- 
cause, in  minds  that  have  been  practically  formed  by 
rule  and  line,  from  the  cradle  upwards,  this  is  so  curi- 
ous, so  incomprehensible." 

"  Stop  a  bit  I"  cried  Bounderby,  who  all  this  time  had 
been  standing,  as  before,  on  the  hearth,  bursting  at  the 
very  furniture  of  the  room  with  explosive  humility. 
"  You  have  one  of  those  strollers'  children  in  the  school." 

"  Cecilia  Jupe,  by  name,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  with 
something  of  a  striken  look  at  his  friend. 

"Now,  stop  a  bit  !"  cried  Bounderby  again.  "How 
did  she  come  there  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  I  saw  this  girl  myself,  for  the  first 
time,  only  just  now.  She  specially  applied  here  at  the 
house  to  be  admitted,  as  not  regularly  belonging  to  our 
town,  and — yes,  you  are  right,  Bounderby,  you  are  right." 

"  Now,  stop  a  bit  ! "  cried  Bounderby,  once  more. 
"  Louisa  saw  her  when  she  came  ?  " 

"  Louisa  certainly  did  see  her,  for  she  mentioned  the 
application  to  me.  But  Louisa  saw  her,  I  have  no  doubt, 
in  Mrs.  Gradgrind's  presence." 

"Pray,  Mrs.  Gradgrind,"  said  Bounderby,  "what 
passed  ?  " 

"Oh,  my  poor  health!"  returned  Mrs.  Gradgrind. 
"The  girl  wanted  to  come  to  the  school,  and  Mr. 
Gradgrind  wanted  girls  to  come  to  the  school,  and  Lou- 
isa and  Thomas  both  said  that  the  girl  wanted  to  come, 
and  that  Mr.  Gradgrind  wanted  girls  to  come,  and  how 
was  it  possible  to  contradict  them  when  such  was  the 
fact  ! " 

"Now  I  tell  you  what,  Gradgrind  !  "  said  Mr.  Bound- 
derby.  "Turn  this  girl  to  the  rightabout,  and  there's 
an  end  of  it." 

"'  I  am  much  of  your  opinion." 

"Do  it  at  once,"  said  Boimderby,  "has  always  been 
my  motto  from  a  child.  W^hen  I  thought  I  would  run 
away  from  my  egg-box  and  my  grandmother,  I  did  it  at 
once.    Do  you  the  same.    Do  this  at  once  !  " 

^*Are  you  walking?"  asked  his  friend.  "  I  have  the 
father's  address.  Perhaps  you  would  not  mind  walking 
to  town  with  me  ?  " 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
"  as  long  as  you  do  it  at  once  ! " 

So,  Mr.  Bounderby  threw  on  his  hat — he  always  threw 
it  on,  as  expressing  a  man  who  has  been  far  too  busily 
employed  in  making  himself,  to  acquire  any  fashion  of 
wearing  his  hat — and  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
sauntered  out  into  the  hall.  "  I  never  wear  gloves,"  it 
was  his  custom  to  say.  "  I  didn't  climb  up  the  ladder 
in  them.    Shouldn't  be  so  high  up,  if  I  had." 

Being  left  to  saunter  in  the  hall  a  minute  or  two  while 
Mr.  Gradgrind  went  up-stairs  for  the  address,  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  children's  study  and  looked  into  that 
serene  floor-clothed  apartment,  which,  notwithstanding 
its  book-cases  and  its  cabinets  and  its  variety  of  learned 
and  philosophical  appliances,  had  much  of  the  genial 
aspect  of  a  room  devoted  to  hair-cutting.  Louisa  lan- 
guidly leaned  upon  the  Avindow  looking  out,  without 
looking  at  at  anything,  while  young  Thomas  stood  sniff- 
ing revengefully  at  the  fire.  Adam  Smith,  and  Malthus, 
two  younger  Gradgrinds,  were  out  at  lecture  in  custody  ; 
and  little  Jane,  after  manufacturing  a  good  deal  of  moist 
pipe-clay  on  her  face  with  slate-pencil  and  tears,  had 
fallen  asleep  over  vulgar  fractions. 


974 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"It's  all  right  now,  Louisa;  it's  all  right,  young 
Thomas,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby  ;  "you  won't  do  so  any 
more.  I'll  answer  for  it's  being  all  over  with  father. 
Well,  Louisa,  tliat's  worth  a  kiss,  isn't  it?" 

"  You  can  take  one,  Mr.  Bounderby,"  returned  Louisa, 
when  she  had  coldly  paused,  and  slowly  walked  across 
the  room,  and  ungraciously  raised  her  cheek  towards 
him,  with  her  face  turned  away. 

"  Always  my  pet,  ain't  you,  Louisa?"  said  Mr.  Boun- 
derby.   "  Good  bye,  Louisa  !  " 

He  went  his  way,  but  she  stood  on  the  same  spot, 
rubbing  the  cheek  he  had  kissed,  with  her  handkerchief, 
until  it  was  burning  red.  She  was  still  doing  this,  five 
minutes  afterwards. 

"What  are  you  about,  Loo?"  her  brother  sulkily 
remonstrated.    "  You'll  rub  a  hole  in  your  face." 

"  You  may  cut  the  piece  out  with  your  penknife  if  you 
like,  Tom.    I  wouldn't  cry  ! " 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Key-note. 

COKETOWN,  to  which  Messrs.  Bounderby  and  Gradgrind 
now  walked,  was  a  triumph  of  fact ;  it  had  no  greater 
taint  of  fancy  in  it  than  Mrs.  Gradgrind  herself.  Let 
us  strike  the  key-note,  Coketown,  before  pursuing  our 
tune. 

It  was  a  town  of  red  brick,  or  of  brick  that  would 
have  been  red  if  the  smoke  and  ashes  had  allowed  it  ; 
but  as  matters  stood  it  was  a  town  of  unnatural  red  and 
and  black  like  the  painted  face  of  a  savage.  It  was  a 
town  of  machinery  and  tall  chimneys,  out  of  which  in- 
terminable serpents  of  smoke  trailed  themselves  for  ever 
and  ever,  and  never  got  uncoiled.  It  had  a  black  canal 
in  it,  and  a  river  that  ran  purple  with  ill-smelling  dye, 
and  vast  piles  of  building  full  of  windows  where  there 
was  a  rattling  and  a  trembling  all  day  long,  and  where 
the  piston  of  the  steam-engine  worked  monotonously  up 
and  down,  like  the  head  of  an  elephant  in  a  state  of 
melancholy  madness.  It  contained  several  large  streets 
all  very  like  one  another,  and  many  small  streets  still 
more  like  one  another,  inhabited  by  people  equally 
like  one  another,  who  all  went  in  and  out  at  the  same 
hours,  with  the  same  sound  upon  the  same  pavements, 
to  do  the  same  work,  and  to  whom  every  day  was  the 
same  as  yesterday  and  to-morrow,  and  every  year  the 
counterpart  of  the  last  and  the  next. 

These  attributes  of  Coketown  were  in  the  main  insep- 
arable from  the  work  by  which  it  was  sustained  ;  against 
them  were  to  be  set  ofE,  comforts  of  life,  which  found 
their  way  all  over  the  world,  and  elegances  of  life  which 
made,  we  will  not  ask  how  much  of  the  fine  lady,  who 
could  scarcely  bear  to  hear  the  place  mentioned.  The 
rest  of  its  features  were  voluntary,  and  they  were 
these. 

You  saw  nothing  in  Coketown  but  what  was  severely 
workf  ul.  If  the  members  of  a  religious  persuasion  built 
a  chapel  there — as  the  members  of  eighteen  religious 
persuasions  had  done — they  made  it  a  pious  warehouse 
of  red  brick,  with  sometimes  (but  this  is  only  in  highly 
ornamented  examples)  a  bell  in  a  bird-cage  on  the  top  of 
it.  The  solitary  exception  was  the  New  Church  ;  a  stuc- 
coed edifice  with  a  square  steeple  over  the  door,  terminat- 
ing in  four  short  pinnacles  like  florid  wooden  legs.  All  the 
public  inscriptions  in  the  town  were  painted  alike,  in 
severe  characters  of  black  and  white.  The  jail  might 
liave  been  the  infirmary,  the  infirmary  might  have  been 
the  jail,  the  town-hall  might  have  been  either,  or  both 
or  anything  else,  for  anything  that  appeared  to  the  con- 
trary in  the  graces  of  their  construction.  Fact,  fact, 
fact,  everywhere  in  the  material  aspect  of  the  town  ; 
fact,  fact,  fact,  everywhere  in  the  immaterial.  The 
M'Choakumchild  school  was  all  fact,  and  the  school  of 
design  was  all  fact,  and  the  relations  between  master  and 
man  were  all  fact,  and  everything  was  fact  between  the 
lying-in  hospital  and  the  cemetery,  and  what  you  couldn't 
state  in  figures,  or  show  to  be  purchaseable  in  the 
cheapest  market  and  saleable  in  the  dearest,  was  not, 
and  never  should  be,  world  without  end.  Amen. 


A  town  so  sacred  to  fact,  and  so  triumphant  in  its  as- 
sertion, of  course  got  on  well  ?  Why,  no,  not  quite 
well.    No  ?    Dear  me  ! 

No.  Coketown  did  not  come  out  of  its  own  furnaces,  in 
all  respects  like  gold  that  had  stood  the  fire.  First,  the 
perplexing  mystery  of  the  place  was.  Who  belonged  to 
the  eighteen  denominations?  Because,  who  ever  did, 
the  labouring  people  did  not.  It  was  very  strange  to 
walk  through  the  streets  on  a  Sunday  morning,  and  note 
how  few  of  them  the  barbarous  jangling  of  bells  that  was 
driving  the  sick  and  nervous  mad,  called  away  from 
their  own  quarter,  from  their  own  close  rooms,  from  the 
corners  of  their  own  streets,  where  they  lounged  listless- 
ly, gazing  at  all  the  church  and  chapel  going,  as  at  a 
thing  with  which  they  had  no  manner  of  concern.  Nor 
was  it  merely  the  stranger  who  noticed  this,  because 
there  was  a  native  organisation  in  Coketown  itself, 
whose  members  were  to  be  heard  of  in  the  House  of 
Commons  every  session,  indignantly  petitioning  for  acts 
of  parliament  that  should  make  these  people  religious 
by  main  force.  Then  came  the  Teetotal  Society,  who 
complained  that  these  same  people  z^ow^t?  get  drunk,  and 
showed  in  tabular  statements  that  they  did  get  drunk,  and 
proved  at  tea  parties  that  no  inducement,  human  or 
Divine  (except  a  medal),  Avould  induce  them  to  forego 
their  custom  of  getting  drunk.  Then  came  the  chemist 
and  druggist,  with  other  tabular  statements,  showing 
that  when  they  didn't  get  drunk,  they  took  opium. 
Then  came  the  experienced  chaplain  of  the  jail,  with 
more  tabular  statements,  outdoing  all  the  previous  tabu- 
lar statements,  and  showing  that  the  same  people  would 
resort  to  low  haunts,  hidden  from  the  public  eye,  where 
they  heard  low  singing  and  saw  low  dancing,  and  may- 
hap joined  in  it  ;  and  where  A.  B.,  aged  twenty- four 
next  birthday,  and  committed  for  eighteen  months'  soli- 
tary, had  himself  said  (not  that  he  had  ever  shown  him- 
self particularly  worthy  of  belief)  his  ruin  began,  as  he 
was  perfectly  sure  and  confident  that  otherwise  he  would 
have  been  a  tip-top  moral  specimen.  Then  came  Mr. 
Gradgrind  and  Mr.  Bounderby,  the  two  gentlemen  at 
this  present  moment  walking  through  Coketown,  and 
both  eminently  practical,  who  could,  on  occasion,  furnish 
more  tabular  statements  derived  from  their  own  person- 
al experience,  and  illustrated  by  cases  they  had  known 
and  seen,  from  which  it  clearly  ayjpeared — in  short,  it 
was  the  only  clear  thing  in  the  case — that  these  same 
people  were  a  bad  lot  altogether,  gentlemen  ;  that  do 
what  you  would  for  them  they  were  never  thankful  for 
it,  gentlemen  ;  that  they  were  restless,  gentlemen  ;  that 
they  never  knew  what  they  wanted  ;  that  they  live  upon 
the  best,  and  bought  fresh  butter  ;  and  insisted  on  Mocha 
coffee,  and  rejected  all  but  prime  parts  of  meat,  and  yet 
were  eternally  dissatisfied  and  unmanageable.  In  short 
it  was  the  moral  of  the  old  nursery  fable  : 

There  was  an  old  woman,  and  what  do  you  think  ? 
She  lived  Tipon  nothing  but  victuals  and  drink  ; 
Victuals  and  drink  were  the  whole  of  her  diet, 
And  yet  this  old  woman  would  never  be  quiet. 

Is  it  possible,  I  wonder,  that  there  was  any  analogy 
between  the  case  of  the  Coketown  population  and  the 
case  of  the  little  Gradgrinds?  Surely  none  of  us  in  our 
sober  senses  and  acquainted  with  figures,  are  to  be  told 
at  this  time  of  day,  that  one  of  the  foremost  elements  in 
the  existence  of  the  Coketown  working-people  had  been 
for  scores  of  years,  deliberately  set  at  naught?  That 
there  was  any  Fancy  in  them  demanding  to  be  brought 
into  healthy  existence  instead  of  struggling  on  in  con- 
vulsions ?  That  exactly  in  the  ratio  as  they  worked  long 
and  monotonously,  the  craving  grew  within  them  for 
some  physical  relief — some  relaxation,  encouraging  good 
humour  and  good  spirits,  and  giving  them  a  vent — some 
recognised  holiday,  though  it  were  but  for  an  honest 
dance  to  a  stirring  band  of  music, — some  occasional  light 
pie  in  which  even  M'Choakumchild  had  no  finger — which 
craving  must  and  would  be  satisfied  aright,  or  must  and 
would  inevitably  go  wron^,  until  the  laws  of  the  Crea- 
ti(m  were  repealed  ? 

"  This  man  lives  at  Pod's  End,  and  I  don't  quite  know 
Pod's  End,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "  Which  is  it,  Boun- 
derby ?  " 

Mr.  Bounderby  knew  it  was  somewhere  down  town. 


HARD 

but  knew  no  more  respecting  it.  So  tliey  stopped  for  a 
moment,  looking  about. 

Almost  as  tliey  did  so,  tliere  came  running  round  the 
corner  of  the  street  at  a  quick  pace  and  with  a  frightened 
look,  a  girl  whom  Mr.  Gradgrind  recognised.  "  Halloa  1 " 
said  he.  "Stop!  Where  are  you  going?  Stop!" 
Girl  number  twenty  stopped  then,  palpitating,  and  made 
him  a  curtsey. 

"  Why  are  you  tearing  about  the  streets,"  said  Mr. 
Gradgrind,  "  in  this  improper  manner?" 

"  I  was — I  was  run  after,  sir,"  the  girl  panted,  **  and 
I  wanted  to  get  away." 

"  Run  after  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "  Who  would 
run  after  you  f  " 

The  question  was  unexpectedly  and  suddenly  answered 
for  her,  by  the  colourless  boy,  Bitzer,  who  came  round  the 
comer  with  such  blind  speed  and  so  little  anticipating  a 
stoppage  on  the  pavement,  that  he  brought  himself  up 
against  Mr.  Gradgrind's  waistcoat  and  rebounded  into 
the  road. 

"What  do  you  mean,  boy?"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
"What  are  you  doing?  How  dare  you  dash  against — 
everybody — in  this  manner?" 

Bitzer  picked  up  his  cap,  which  the  concussion  had 
knocked  off  ;  and  backing,  and  knuckling  his  forehead, 
pleaded  that  it  was  an  accident. 

"  Was  this  boy  running  after  you,  Jupe  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Gradgrind. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  girl  reluctantly. 

"  No,  I  wasn't,  sir  I"  cried  Bitzer.  "  Not  till  she  run 
away  from  me.  But  the  horse-riders  never  mind  what 
they  say,  sir  ;  they're  famous  for  it.  You  know  the 
horse-riders  are  famous  for  never  minding  what  they 
say,"  addressing  Sissy.  "  It's  as  well  known  in  the 
town  as — please,  sir,  as  the  multiplication  table  isn't 
known  to  the  horse-riders."  Bitzer  tried  Mr.  Bounderby 
with  this. 

"  He  frightened  me  so,"  said  the  girl,  "  with  his  cruel 
faces  ! " 

"Oh!  "cried  Bitzer.  "Oh!  An't  you  one  of  the 
rest !  An't  you  a  horse-rider  !  I  never  looked  at  her, 
sir.  I  asked  her  if  she  would  know  how  to  define  a 
horse  to-morrow,  and  offered  to  tell  her  again,  and  she 
ran  away,  and  I  ran  after  her,  sir,  that  she  might  know 
how  to  answer  when  she  was  asked.  You  wouldn't 
have  thought  of  saying  such  mischief  if  you  hadn't 
been  a  horse-rider  !  " 

"Her  calling  seems  to  be  pretty  well  known  among 
'em,"  observed  Mr.  Bounderby.  "You'd  have  had  the 
whole  school  peeping  in  a  row,  in  a  week." 

"Truly,  I  think  so,"  returned  his  friend.  "Bitzer, 
turn  you  about  and  take  yourself  home.  Jupe,  stay 
here  a  moment.  Let  me  hear  of  your  running  in  this 
manner  any  more,  boy,  and  you  will  hear  of  me  through 
the  master  of  the  school.  You  understand  what  I  mean. 
Go  along." 

The  boy  stopped  in  his  rapid  blinking,  knuckled  his 
forehead  again,  glanced  at  Sissy,  turned  about,  and  re- 
treated. 

"Now,  girl,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "take  this  gentle- 
man and  me  to  your  father's  ;  we  are  going  tliere.  What 
have  you  got  in  that  bottle  you  are  carrying  ?  " 

"  Gin,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby. 

"  Dear,  no  sir  !    It's  the  nine  oils." 

"  The  what?"  cried  Mr.  Bounderby. 

"  The  nine  oils,  sir.    To  rub  father  with." 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  with  a  loud  short  laugh, 
"  what  the  devil  do  you  rub  your  father  with  nine  oils 
for?" 

"  It's  what  our  people  always  use,  sir,  when  they  get 
any  hurts  in  the  ring,"  replied  the  girl,  looking  over 
her  shoulder,  to  assure  herself  that  her  pursuer  was 
gone.  "They  bruise  themselves  very  bad  some- 
times." 

"Serve  'em  right,"  said  Mr.  Bounderbj^  "for  being 
idle."  She  glanced  up  at  his  face,  with  mingled  aston- 
ishment and  dread. 

"  By  George  !  "  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "  when  I  was 
four  or  five  years  younger  than  you,  I  had  worse 
bruises  upon  me  than  ten  oils,  twenty  oils,  forty  oils 
would  have  rubbed  off.  I  didn't  get  'em  by  posture- 
making,  but  by  being  banged  about.  There  was  no  rope- 


TIMES.  975 

dancing  for  me  ;  I  danced  on  the  bare  ground  and  was 
larruped  with  the  rope." 

Mr.  Gradgrind,  though  hard  enough,  was  by  no  means 
so  rough  a  man  as  Mr.  Bounderby.  His  character  was 
not  unkind,  all  things  considered  ;  it  might  have  been 
a  very  kind  one  indeed,  if  he  had  only  made  some  round 
mistake  in  the  arithmetic  that  balanced  it.  years  ago.  He 
said,  in  what  he  meant  for  a  re-assuring  tone,  as  they 
turned  down  a  narrow  road,  "  And  this  is  Pod's  End  ; 
is  it,  Jupe  ?  " 

"This  is  it,  sir,  and— if  you  wouldn't  mind,  sir— this 
is  the  house." 

She  stopped,  at  twilight,  at  the  door  of  a  mean  little 
public  house,  with  dim  red  lights  in  it.  As  haggard  and 
as  shabby,  as  if,  for  want  of  custom,  it  had  itself  taken 
to  drinking,  and  had  gone  the  way  all  drunkards  go,  and 
was  very  near  the  end  of  it. 

"It's  only  crossing  the  bar,  sir,  and  up  the  stairs,  if 
you  wouldn't  mind,  and  waiting  there  for  a  moment  till  I 
get  a  candle.  If  you  should  hear  a  dog,  sir,  it's  only 
Merrylegs,  and  he  only  barks." 

"Merrylegs  and  nine  oils,  eh  !"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
entering  last  with  his  metallic  laugh.  "Pretty  well 
this,  for  a  self-made  man  !" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Sleary^s  Horsemanship. 

The  name  of  the  public  house  was  the  Pegasus's  Arms. 
The  Pegasus's  legs  might  have  been  more  to  the  pur- 
pose ;  but,  underneath  the  winged  horse  upon  the  sign- 
board, the  Pegasus's  Arras  was  inscribed  in  Roman  let- 
ters. Beneath  that  inscription  again,  in  a  flowing  scroll, 
the  painter  had  touched  off  the  lines  : 

Good  malt  makes  fjood  beer, 
Walk  in,  and  they'll  draw  it  here  ; 
Good  wine  makes  good  brandy, 
Give  us  a  call,  and  you'll  find  it  handy. 

Framed  and  glazed  upon  the  wall  behind  the  dingy 
little  bar,  was  another  Pegasus — a  theatrical  one — with 
real  gauze  let  in  for  his  wings,  golden  stars  stuck  on  all 
over  him,' and  his  ethereal  harness  made  of  red  silk. 

As  it  had  grown  too  dusky  without,  to  see  the  sign, 
and  as  it  had  not  grown  light  enough  within  to  see  the 
picture,  Mr.  Gradgrind  and  Mr.  Bounderby  received  no 
offence  from  these  idealities.  They  followed  the  girl  up 
some  steep  corner-stairs  without  meeting  anyone,  and 
stopped  in  the  dark  while  she  went  on  for  a  candle. 
They  expected  every  moment  to  hear  Merrylegs  give 
tongue,  but  the  highly  trained  performing  dog  had  not 
barked  when  the  girl  and  the  candle  api)eared  together. 

"  Father  is  not  in  our  room,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a  face 
of  great  surprise.  "If  you  wouldn't  mind  walking  in, 
I'll  find  him  directly." 

They  walked  in  ;  and  Sissy,  having  set  two  chairs  for 
them,  sped  away  with  a  quick  light  step.  It  was  a  mean, 
shabbily  furnished  room,  with  a  bed  in  it.  The  white 
nightcap,  embellished  with  two  peacock's  feathers  and  a 
pigtail  bolt  upright,  in  which  Signor  Jupe  had  that  very 
afternoon  enlivened  the  varied  performances  with  his 
chaste  Shakespearian  quips  and  retorts,  hung  upon  a 
nail  ;  but  no  other  portion  of  his  wardrobe,  or  other  token 
of  himself  or  his  pursuits,  was  to  be  seen  anywhere.  As 
to  Merrylegs,  that  respectable  ancestor  of  the  highly 
trained  animal  who  went  aboard  the  ark,  might  have 
been  accidentally  shut  out  of  it,  for  any  sign  of  the  dog 
that  was  manifest  to  eye  or  ear  in  the  Pegasus's  Arms. 

They  heard  the  doors  of  rooms  above,  opening  and 
shutting  as  Sissy  went  from  one  to  another  in  quest  of 
her  father ;  and  presently  they  heard  voices  expressing 
surprise.  She  came  bounding  down  again  in  a  great 
hurry,  opened  a  battered  and  mangy  old  hair  trunk, 
found  it  empty,  and  looked  round  with  her  hands  clasped 
and  her  face  full  of  terror. 

"Father  must  have  gone  down  to  the  Booth,  sir.  I 
'  don't  know  why  he  should  go  there,  but  he  must  be 
there;  I'll  bring  him  in  a  minute  I "  She  was  gone 
directly,  without  her  bonnet  ;  with  her  long,  dark,  child- 
ish hair  streaming  behind  her. 


976 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"  What  does  she  mean  ! "  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.  '*  Back 
in  a  minute  ?    It's  more  than  a  mile  off." 

Before  Mr.  Bounderby  could  reply,  a  young  man  ap- 
peared at  the  door,  and  introducing  himself  with  the 
words,  "By  your  leaves,  gentlemen  !"  walked  in  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets.  His  face,  close-shaven,  thin, 
and  sallow,  was  shaded  by  a  great  quantity  of  dark  hair, 
brushed  into  a  roll  all  round  his  head,  and  parted  up 
the  centre.  His  legs  were  very  robust,  but  shorter  than 
legs  of  good  proportions  should  have  been.  His  chest 
and  back  were  as  much  too  broad,  as  his  legs  were  too 
short.  He  was  dressed  in  a  Newmarket  coat  and  tight- 
fitting  trousers  ;  wore  a  shawl  round  his  neck  ;  smelt  of 
lamp-oil,  straw,  orange-peel,  horse's  provender,  and  saw- 
dust ;  and  looked  a  most  remarkable  sort  of  Centaur, 
compounded  of  the  stable  and  the  play-house.  Where 
the  one  began,  and  the  other  ended,  nobody  could  have 
told  with  any  precision.  This  gentleman  was  mentioned 
in  the  bills  of  the  day  as  Mr.  E.  W.  B.  Childers,  so  justly 
celebrated  for  his  daring  vaulting  act  as  the  Wild  Hunts- 
man of  the  North  American  prairies  ;  in  which  popular 
performance,  a  diminutive  boy  with  an  old  face,  who 
now  accompanied  him,  assisted  as  his  infant  son  :  being 
carried  upside  down  over  his  father's  shoulder,  by  one 
foot,  and  held  by  the  crown  of  his  head,  heels  upwards, 
in  the  palm  of  his  father's  hand,  according  to  the  violent 
paternal  manner  in  which  wild  huntsmen  may  be  ob- 
served to  fondle  their  offspring.  Made  up  with  curls, 
wreaths,  wings,  white  bismuth,  and  carmine,  this  hope- 
ful young  person  soared  into  so  pleasing  a  Cupid  as  to 
constitute  the  chief  delight  of  the  maternal  part  of  the 
spectators  ;  but  in  private,  where  his  characteristics  were 
a  precocious  cutaway  coat  and  an  extremely  gruff  voice, 
he  became  of  the  Turf,  turfy. 

"By  your  leaves,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  E.  W.  B. 
Childers,  glancing  round  the  room.  "  It  was  you,  I  be- 
lieve, that  were  wishing  to  see  Jupe  ?  " 

"It  was,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "His  daughter  has 
gone  to  fetch  him,  but  I  can't  wait;  therefore,  if  you 
please,  I  will  leave  a  message  for  him  with  you." 

"You  see,  my  friend,"  Mr.  Bounderby  put  in,  "we 
are  the  kind  of  people  who  know  the  value  of  time,  and 
you  are  the  kind  of  people  who  don't  know  the  value  of 
time." 

"I  have  not,"  retorted  Mr.  Childers,  after  surveying 
him  from  head  to  foot,  "the  honour  of  knowing  you  ; — 
but  if  you  mean  that  you  can  make  more  money  of  your 
time  than  I  can  of  mine,  I  should  judge  from  your  ap- 
pearance, that  you  are  about  right." 

"And  when  you  have  made  it,  you  can  keep  it  too,  I 
should  think,"  said  Cupid. 

"Kidderminster,  stow  that ! "  said  Mr.  Childers.  (Mas- 
ter Kidderminster  was  Cupid's  mortal  name.) 

"What  does  he  come  here  cheeking  us  for,  then?" 
cried  Master  Kidderminster,  showing  a  very  irascible 
temperament.  "If  you  want  to  cheek  us,  pay  your 
ochre  at  the  doors  and  take  it  out," 

"Kidderminster,"  said  Mr.  Childers,  raising  his 
voice,  "stow  that ! — Sir,"  to  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "I  was  ad- 
dressing myself  to  you.  You  may  or  you  may  not  be 
aware  (for  perhaps  you  have  not  been  much  in  the  audi- 
ence), that  Jupe  has  missed  his  tip  very  often,  lately." 

"  Has — what  has  he  missed?  "  asked  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
glancing  at  the  potent  Bounderby  for  assistance. 

"  Missed  his  tip," 

"  Offered  at  the  Garters  four  times  last  night,  and 
never  done  'em  once,"  said  Mastca*  Kidderminster. 
"  Missed  his  tip  at  the  banners,  too,  and  was  k)ose  in  his 
ponging," 

"Didn't  do  what  he  ought  to  do.  Was  short  in  his 
leaps  and  bad  in  his  tumbling,"  Mr.  Childers  inter- 
preted. 

"  Oh  !"  said  Mr,  Gradgrind,  "  that  is  tip,  is  it?" 

"  In  a  general  way  that's  missing  his  tip,"  Mr.  E.  W. 
B.  Childers  answered. 

"  Nine  oils,  Merrylegs,  missing  tips,  garters,  banners, 
and  Ponging,  eh  ? "  ejaculated  Bounderby,  with  his 
laugh  of  laughs.  "  Queer  sort  of  company,  too,  for  a 
man  who  has  raised  himself." 

"Lower  yourself,  then,"  retorted  Cupid,  "Oh  Lord  I 
if  you've  raised  yourself  so  high  as  all  that  comes  to, 
lot  yourself  down  a  bit." 


"  This  is  a  very  obtrusive  lad  !"  said  Mr,  Gradgrind, 
turning,  and  knitting  his  brows  on  him. 

"  We'd  have  had  a  young  gentleman  to  meet  you,  if 
we  had  known  you  were  coming,"  retorted  Master  Kid- 
derminster, nothing  abashed.  "  It's  a  pity  you  don't 
1  have  a  bespeak,  being  so  particular.  YoVre  on  the 
Tight- Jeff,  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  What  does  this  unmannerly  boy  mean,"  asked  Mr. 
Gradgrind,  eyeing  him  in  a  sort  of  desperation,  "  by 
Tight-Jeff  ?  " 

"There!  Get  out,  get  out!"  said  Mr.  Childers, 
thrusting  his  young  friend  from  the  room,  rather  in  the 
prairie  manner.  ' '  Tight- Jeff  or  Slack-Jeff,  it  don't  much 
signify  :  it's  only  tight-rope  and  slack -rope.  You  were 
going  to  give  me  a  message  for  Jupe  ?  " 

"  Yes,  1  was." 

"  Then,"  continued  Mr.  Childers,  quickly,  "my  opinion 
is,  he  will  never  receive  it.  Do  you  know  much  of 
him  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  the  man  in  my  life." 

"I  doubt  if  you  ever  will  see  him  now.  It's  pretty 
plain  to  me,  he's  off." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  has  deserted  his  daughter?" 

"  Ay  !  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Childers,  with  a  nod,  "  that 
he  has  cut.  He  was  goosed  last  night,  he  was  goosed 
the  night  before  last,  he  was  goosed  to-day.  He  has 
lately  got  in  the  way  of  being  always  goosed,  and  he 
can't  stand  it." 

"Why  has  he  been — so  very  much — Goosed?"  asked 
Mr.  Gradgrind,  forcing  the  word  out  of  himself,  with 
great  solemnity  and  reluctance, 

"  His  joints  are  turning  stiff,  and  he  is  getting  used 
up,"  said  Childers.  "He  has  his  points  as  a  Cackler 
still,  but  he  can't  get  a  living  out  of  them." 

"A  Cackler!"  Bounderby  repeated.  "Here  we  go 
agg,in  ! " 

"  A  speaker,  if  the  gentleman  likes  it  better,"  said 
Mr.  E.  W.  B.  Childers,  superciliously  throwing  the  in- 
terpretation over  his  shoulder,  and  accompanying  it  with 
a  shake  of  his  long  hair — which  all  shook  at  once. 
"  Now,  it's  a  remarkable  fact,  sir,  that  it  cut  that  man 
deeper,  to  know  that  his  daughter  Imew  of  his  being 
goosed,  than  to  go  through  with  it," 

"  Good  ! "  interrupted  Mr.  Bounderby.  "  This  is  good, 
Gradgrind !  A  man  so  fond  of  his  daughter,  that  he 
runs  away  from  her  !  This  is  devilish  good  !  Ha  !  ha  ! 
Now,  rn'tell  you  what,  young  man,  I  haven't  always 
occupied  my  present  station  of  life,  I  know  what  these 
things  are.  You  may  be  astonished  to  hear  it,  but  my 
mother  ran  away  from  me." 

E,  W.  B,  Chiiders  replied  pointedly  that  he  was  not 
at  all  astonished  to  hear  it, 

"Very  well,"  said  Bounderby,  "I  was  born  in  a 
ditch,  and  my  mother  ran  away  from  me.  Do  I  excuse 
her  for  it  ?  No,  Have  I  ever  excused  her  for  it  ?  Not 
I.  What  do  I  call  her  for  it  ?  I  call  her  probably  the 
very  worst  woman  that  ever  lived  in  the  world,  except 
my  drunken  grandmother.  There's  no  family  pride 
about  me,  there's  no  imaginative  sentimental  humbug 
about  me,  I  call  a  spade  a  spade  ;  and  I  call  the  mother 
of  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown,  without  any  fear  or 
any  favour,  what  I  should  call  her  if  she  had  been  the 
mother  of  Dick  Jones  of  Wapping.  So,  with  this  man. 
He  is  a  runaway  rogue  and  a  vagabond,  that's  what  he 
is,  in  English," 

"  It's  all  the  same  to  me  what  he  is  or  what  he  is  not, 
whether  in  English  or  whether  in  French,"  retorted  Mr. 
E.  W.  B,  Childers,  facing  about,  "I  am  telling  your 
friend;  what's  the  fact ;  if  you  don't  like  to  hear  it,  you 
can  availi  yourself  of  the  open  air.  You  give  it  mouth 
enough,  you  do  ;  but  give  it  mouth  in  your  own  building 
at  least,"  remonstrated  E.  W.  B.  with  stern  irony. 
"  Don't  give  it  mouth  in  this  building,  till  you're  called 
upon.  You  have  got  some  building  of  your  own,  I  dare 
say,  now  ?" 

"Perhaps  so,"  replied  Mr.  Bounderby,  rattling  his 
money  and  laughing. 

"Then  give  it  mouth  in  your  own  building,  will  you, 
if  you  please?"  said  Childers.  "Because  this  isn't  a 
strong  building,  and  too  much  of  you  might  bring  it 
down  !  " 

Eyeing  Mr,  Bounderby  from  head  to  foot  again,  he 


HARD  TIMES. 


977 


turned  from  liim,  as  from  a  man  finally  disposed  of,  to 
Mr.  Grad^rlnd. 

"  Jupe  sent  Lis  daughter  out  on  an  errand  not  an  hour 
ag-o,  and  then  Avas  seen  to  slip  out  himself,  witli  his  hat 
over  his  eyes  and  a  bundle  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief 
under  his  arm.  She  will  never  believe  it  of  him,  but  he 
has  cut  away  and  left  her. " 

"Pray,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "why  will  she  never 
believe  it  of  him  ?  " 

"  Because  those  two  were  one.  Because  they  were 
never  asunder.  Because,  up  to  this  time,  he  seemed  to 
dote  upon  her,"  said  Childers,  taking  a  step  or  two  to 
look  into  the  empty  trunk.  Both  Mr.  Childers  and  Mas- 
ter Kidderminster  walked  in  a  curious  manner  ;  with 
their  legs  wider  apart  than  the  general  run  of  men,  and 
with  a  very  knowing  assumption  of  being  stiff  in  the 
knees.  This  walk  was  common  to  all  the  male  members 
of  Sleary's  company,  and  was  understood  to  express, 
that  they  were  always  on  horseback. 

"Poor  Sissy!  He  had  better  have  apprenticed  her," 
said  Childers,  giving  his  hair  another  shake,  as  he  looked 
up  from  the  empty  box.  "  Now,  he  leaves  her  without 
anything  to  take  to." 

"  It  is  creditable  to  you,  who  have  never  been  appren- 
ticed, to  express  that  opinion,"  returned  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
approvingly. 

"  /  never  apprenticed  ?  I  was  apprenticed  when  I  was 
seven  year  old." 

"Oh!  Indeed?"  said  Mr,  Gradgrind,  rather  resent- 
fully, as  having  been  defrauded  of  his  good  opinion. 
"  I  was  not  aware  of  its  being  the  custom  to  apprentice 
young  persons  to — " 

"Idleness,"  Mr.  Bounderby  put  in  with  a  loud  laugh. 
"  No  ;  by  the  Lord  Harry  !    Nor  I  I  " 

"  Her  father  alwaj'S  had  it  in  his  head,"  resumed 
Childers,  feigning  unconsciousness  of  Mr.  Bounderby's 
existence,  "  that  she  was  to  be  taught  the  deuce-and-all 
of  education.  How  it  got  into  his  head,  I  can't  say  ; 
I  can  only  say  that  it  never  got  out.  He  has  been  ]3ick- 
ing  up  a  bit  of  reading  for  her,  here — and  a  bit  of  writ- 
ing for  her,  there — and  a  bit  of  ciphering  for  her,  some- 
where else — these  seven  years." 

Mr.  E.  W.  B.  Childers  took  one  of  his  hands  out  of 
his  pockets,  stroked  his  face  and  chin,  and  looked,  with 
a  good  deal  of  doubt  and  a  little  hope,  at  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
From  the  first  he  had  sought  to  conciliate  that  gentle- 
man, for  the  sake  of  the  deserted  girl. 

"  When  Sissy  got  into  the  school  here,"  he  pursued, 
"  her  father  was  as  pleased  as  Punch.  I  couldn't  alto- 
gether make  out  why,  myself,  as  we  were  not  stationary 
here,  being  but  comers  and  goers  anywhere.  I  suppose, 
however,  he  had  this  move  in  his  mind — he  was  always 
half-cracked — and  then  considered  her  provided  for.  If 
you  should  happen  to  have  looked  in  to-night,  for  the 
purpose  of  telling  him  that  you  were  going  to  do  her  any 
little  service,"  said  Mr.  Childers,  stroking  his  face  again, 
and  repeating  his  look,  "  it  would  be  very  fortunate  and 
well-timed  ;  very  fortunate  and  well-timed." 

"On  the  contrary,"  returned  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "  I  came 
to  tell  him  that  her  connexions  made  her  not  an  object 
for  the  school,  and  that  she  must  not  attend  any  more. 
Still,  if  her  father  really  has  left  her,  without  any  con- 
nivance on  her  j)art — Bounderby,  let  me  have  a  word 
with  you." 

Upon  this,  Mr.  Childers  politely  betook  himself,  with 
his  equestrian  walk,  to  the  lauding  outside  the  door,  and 
there  stood  stroking  his  face  and  softly  whistling. 
While  thus  engaged,  he  overheard  such  phrases  in  Mr. 
Bounderby's  voice  as  "  No.  /say  no.  I  advise  you  not. 
I  say  by  no  means."  While,  from  Mr.  Gradgrind,  he 
heard  in  his  much  lower  tone  the  words,  "  But  even  as 
an  example  to  Louisa,  of  what  this  pursuit  which  has 
been  the  subject  of  a  vulgar  curiosity,  leads  to  and  ends 
iH.    Think  of  it,  Bounderby,  in  that  point  of  view." 

Meanwhile,  the  various  members  of  Sleary's  company 
gradually  gathered  together  from  the  upper  regions, 
where  they  were  quartered,  and,  from  standing  about, 
talking  in  low  voices  to  one  another  and  to  Mr.  Childers, 
gradually  insinuated  themselves  and  him  into  the  room. 
There  were  two  or  three  handsome  young  women  among 
them,  with  their  two  or  three  husbands,  and  their  two 
or  three  mothers,  and  their  eight  or  nine  little  children, 
Vol.  II.— 62 


who  did  the  fairy  business  when  required.  The  father 
of  one  of  the  families  was  in  the  habit  of  balancing  the 
father  of  another  of  the  families  on  the  top  of  a  great 
pole  ;  the  father  of  a  third  family  often  made  a  i^yramid 
of  both  those  fathers,  with  Master  Kidderminster  for  the 
apex,  and  himself  for  the  base  ;  all  the  fathers  could 
dance  upon  rolling  casks,  stand  upon  bottles,  catch 
knives  and  balls,  twirl  hand-basins,  ride  upon  anything, 
jump  over  everything,  and  stick  at  nothing.  All  the 
mothers  could  (and  did)  dance,  upon  the  slack  wire,  and 
performed  rapid  acts  on  bare-backed  steeds  ;  none  of 
them  were  at  all  particular  in  respect  of  showing  their 
legs  ;  and  one  of  them,  alone  in  a  Greek  chariot,  drove 
six  in  hand  into  every  town  they  came  to.  They  all 
assumed  to  be  mighty  takish  and  knowing,  they  were 
not  tidy  in  their  private  dresses,  they  were  not  at  all 
orderly  in  their  domestic  arrangements,  and  the  com- 
bined literature  of  the  whole  company  would  have  pro- 
duced but  a  poor  letter  on  any  subject.  Yet  there  was  re- 
markable gentleness  and  childishness  about  these  people, 
a  special  inaptitude  for  any  kind  of  sharp  practice,  and 
an  untiring  readiness  to  help  and  pity  one  another,  de- 
serving, often  of  as  much  respect,  and  always  of  as 
much  generous  construction,  as  the  every-day  virtues  of 
any  class  of  people  in  the  world. 

Last  of  all  appeared  Mr,  Sleary  :  a  stout  man  as  al- 
ready mentioned,  with  one  fixed  eye  and  one  loose  eye, 
a  voice  (if  it  can  be  called  so)  like  the  efforts  of  a  broken 
old  pair  of  bellows,  a  flabby  surface,  and  a  muddled 
head  which  was  never  sober  and  never  drunk. 

"  Thquire  !"  said  Mr,  Sleary,  who  was  troubled  with 
asthma,  and  whose  breath  came  far  too  thick  and  heavy 
for  the  letters,  "Your  thervant  !  Thith  ith  a  bad 
piethe  of  bithnith,  thith  ith.  You've  heard  of  my  Clown 
and  hith  dog  being  thuppothed  to  have  morrithed?" 

He  addressed  Mr.  Gradgrind,  who  answered  "Yes,'* 

"  Well  Thquire,"  he  returned,  taking  off  his  hat,  and 
rubbing  the  lining  with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  which 
he  kept  inside  for  the  purpose,  "  Ith  it  your  intenthion 
to  do  anything  for  the  poor  girl,  Thquire  ?  " 

"  I  shall  have  something  to  propose  to  her  when  she 
comes  back,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"  Glad  to  hear  it,  Thquire.  Not  that  I  want  to  get 
rid  of  the  child,  any  more  than  I  want  to  thtand  in  her 
way.  I'm  willing  to  take  her  prenthith,  though  at  her 
age  ith  late.  My  voithe  ith  a  little  huthky,  Thquire, 
and  not  eathy  heard  by  them  ath  don't  know  me  ;  but 
if  you'd  been  chilled  and  heated,  heated  and  chilled, 
chilled  and  heated  in  the  ring  when  you  wath  young, 
ath  often  ath  I  have  been,  your  voithe  wouldn't  have 
I  lathted  out,  Thquire,  no  more  than  mine." 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"  What  thall  it  be,  Thquire,  while  you  wait?  Thall 
it  be  Therry  ?  Give  it  a  name,  Thquire!"  said  Mr. 
Sleary,  with  hospitable  ease. 

"  Nothing  for  me,  I  thank  you,'*  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"Don't  thay  nothing,  Thquire,  What  doth  your 
friend  thay  ?  If  you  haven't  took  your  feed  vet,  have  a 
glath  of  bitterth." 

Here  his  daughter  Josephine — a  pretty  fair-haired 
girl  of  eighteen,  who  had  been  tied  on  a'  horse  at  two 
years  old,  and  had  made  a  will  at  twelve,  which  she  al- 
ways carried  about  with  her, expressive  of  her  dying  desire 
to  be  drawn  to  the  grave  by  the  two  piebald  ponies — cried 
"  Father,  hush  !  she  has  come  back  !"  then  came  Sissy' 
Jupe,  running  into  the  room  as  she  had  run  out  of  it. 
And  when  she  saw  them  all  assembled,  and  saw  their 
looks,  and  saw  no  father  there,  she  broke  into  a  most 
I  deplorable  cry,  and  took  refuge  on  the  bosom  of  the 
j  most  accomplished  tight-rope  lady  (herself  in  the  family 
j  way),  who  knelt  down  on  the  floor  to  nm-se  her,  and  to 
I  weep  over  her. 

"  Ith  an  infernal  thame,  upon  my  thoul  it  ith,"  said 
Sleary. 

"  d  my  dear  father,  my  good  kind  father,  where  are 
you  gone?  You  are  gone  to  try  to  do  me  some  good,  I 
know  !  You  are  gone  away  for  my  sake,  I  am  sure. 
And  how  miserable  and  helpless  you  will  be  without  me, 
poor,  poor  father,  until  you  come  back  ! "  It  was  so 
pathetic  to  hear  her  saying  many  things  of  this  kind,  with 
her  face  turned  upward,  and  her  arms  stretched  out  as  if 
she  were  trying  to  stop  this  departing  shadow  and  em- 


978 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


brace  it,  that  no  one  spoke  a  word  until  Mr.  Bounderby 
(growing  impatient)  took  the  case  in  hand, 

"Now,  good  people  all,"  said  he,  "this  is  wanton 
waste  of  time.  Let  the  girl  understand  the  fact.  Let 
her  take  it  from  me,  if  you  like,  who  have  been  run 
away  from,  myself.  Here,  what's  your  name  !  Your 
father  has  absconded — deserted  you — and  you  mustn't 
expect  to  see  him  again  as  long  as  you  live." 

They  cared  so  little  for  plain  Fact,  these  people,  and 
were  in  that  advanced  state  of  degeneracy  on  the  sub- 
ject, that  instead  of  being  impressed  by  the  speaker's 
strong  common  sense,  they  took  it  in  extraordinary  dud- 
geon. The  men  muttered  "Shame  !"  and  the  women 
"  Brute  !  "  and  Sleary,  in  some  haste,  communicated  the 
following  hint,  apart  to  Mr.  Bounderby. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Thquire.  To  thpeak  plain  to  you, 
my  opinion  ith  that  you  had  better  cut  it  thort,  and  drop 
it.  They're  a  very  good-natur'd  people,  my  people,  but 
they're  accuthtomed  to  be  quick  in  their  movement ; 
and  if  you  don't  act  upon  my  advithe,  I'm  damned  if  I 
don't  believe  they'll  pith  you  out  o'  winder." 

Mr.  Bounderby  being  restrained  by  this  mild  sugges- 
tion, Mr.  Gradgrind  found  an  opening  for  his  eminently 
practical  exposition  of  the  subject. 

"  It  is  of  no  moment,"  said  he,  "  whether  this  person 
is  to  be  expected  back  at  any  time,  or  the  contrary.  He 
is  gone  away,  and  there  is  no  present  expectation  of  his 
return.    That,  I  believe,  is  agreed  on  all  hands." 

"  Thath  agreed,  Thquire.  Thick  to  that ! "  From 
Sleary. 

"  Well  then.  I,  who  came  here  to  inform  the  father 
of  the  poor  girl,  Jupe,  that  she  could  not  be  received  at 
the  school  any  more,  in  consequence  of  there  being  prac- 
tical objections,  into  which  I  need  not  enter,  to  the  re- 
ception there  of  the  children  of  persons  so  employed,  am 
prepared  in  these  altered  circumstances  to  make  a  pro- 
posal. I  am  willing  to  take  charge  of  you,  Jupe,  and 
to  educate  you,  and  provide  for  you.  The  only  condition 
(over  and  above  your  good  behaviour)  I  make  is,  that 
you  decide  now,  at  once,  whether  to  accompany  me  or 
remain  here.  Also,  that  if  you  accompany  me  now,  it  is 
understood  that  you  communicate  no  more  with  any  of 
your  friends  who  are  here  present.  These  observations 
comprise  the  whole  of  the  case." 

"  At  the  thame  time,"  said  Sleary,  "  I  muth  put  in  my 
word,  Thquire,  tho  that  both  tliides  of  the  banner  may 
be  equally  theen.  If  you  like,  Thethilia,  to  be  prentitht, 
you  know  the  natur  of  the  work  and  you  know  your 
companionth.  Emma  Gordon,  in  whothe  lap  you're  a 
lying  at  prethent,  would  be  a  mother  to  you,  and  Joth'- 
phine  would  be  a  thithther  to  you,  I  don't  pretend  to  be 
of  tlie  angel  breed  myself,  and  I  don't  thay  but  what, 
when  you  mith'd  your  tip,  you'd  find  me  cut  up  rough, 
and  thwear  a  oath  or  two  at  you.  But  what  I  thay, 
Thquire,  ith,  that  good  tempered  or  bad  tempered,  I 
never  did  a  horthe  a  injury  yet,  no  more  than  thwearing 
at  him  went,  and  that  I  don't  expect  I  shall  begin  other- 
withe  at  my  time  of  life,  with  a  rider.  I  never  wath 
much  of  a  Cackler,  Thquire,  and  I  have  thed  my  thay," 

The  latter  part  of  this  speech  was  addressed  to  Mr. 
Gradgrind,  who  received  it  with  a  grave  inclination  of 
his  head,  and  then  remarked  : 

"  The  only  observation  I  will  make  to  you,  Jupe,  in 
the  way  of  influencing  your  decision,  is,  that  it  is  highly 
desirable  to  have  a  sound  practical  education,  and  that 
even  your  father  himself  (from  what  I  understand)  ap- 
pears, on  your  behalf,  to  have  known  and  felt  that 
much." 

The  last  words  had  a  visible  effect  upon  her.  She 
stopped  in  her  wild  crying,  a  little  detached  herself  from 
Emma  Gordon,  and  turned  her  face  full  upon  her  patron. 
The  whole  Comi)any  perceived  the  force  of  the  cliange, 
and  drew  a  long  breath  together,  that  plainly  said,  "she 
will  go." 

"  Be  sure  you  know  your  own  mind,  Jupe,"  Mr.  Grad- 
grind cautioned  her  ;  "  I  say  no  more.  Be  sure  you  know 
your  own  mind  I  " 

"  When  father  comes  back,"  cried  the  girl,  bursting 
into  tears  again  after  a  minute's  silence,  "  how  will  he 
ever  find  me  if  I  go  away  !" 

"  You  may  be  quit(i  at  ease,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
calmly  ;  he  worked  out  the  whole  matter  like  a  sum  : 


"  you  may  be  quite  at  ease,  Jupe,  on  that  score.  In 
such  a  case,  your  father,  I  apprehend,  must  find  out 
Mr.  — " 

"  Thleary.  Thath  my  name,  Thquire.  Not  athamed 
of  it.  Known  all  over  England,  and  alwaytli  paythe  ith 
way." 

"  Must  find  out  Mr,  Sleary,  who  would  then  let  him 
know  where  you  went,  I  should  have  no  power  of 
keeping  you  against  his  wish,  and  he  would  have  no 
diflBculty  at  any  time,  in  finding  Mr.  Thomas  Gradgrind 
of  Coketown.    I  am  well  known." 

"  Well  known,"  assented  Mr.  Sleary,  rolling  his  loose 
eye, 

"You're  one  of  the  thort,  Thquire,  that  keepth  a  pre- 
thiouth  thight  out  money  out  of  the  houthe.  But  never 
mind  that  at  prethent." 

There  was  another  silence  ;  and  then  she  exclaimed, 
sobbing  with  her  hands  before  her  face,  "  Oh  give  me  my 
clothes,  give  me  my  clothes,  and  let  me  go  away  before 
I  break  my  heart  !  " 

The  women  sadly  bestirred  themselves  to  get  the 
clothes  together — it  was  soon  done,  for  they  were  not 
many — and  to  pack  them  in  a  basket  which  had  often 
travelled  with  them.  Sissy  sat  all  the  time,  upon  the 
ground,  still  sobbing,  and  covering  her  eyes.  Mr. 
Gradgrind  and  his  friend  Bounderby  stood  near  the  door, 
ready  to  take  her  away.  Mr.  Sleary  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  with  the  male  members  of  the  company 
about  him,  exactly  as  he  would  have  stood  in  the  centre 
of  the  ring  during  his  daughter  Josephine's  performance. 
He  wanted  nothing  but  his  whip. 

The  basket  packed  in  silence,  they  brought  her  bon- 
net to  her,  and  smoothed  her  disordered  hair,  and  put  it 
on.  Then  they  pressed  about  her,  and  bent  over  her  in 
very  natural  altitudes,  kissing  and  embracing  her  :  and 
brought  the  children  to  take  leave  of  her  ;  and  were  a 
tender-hearted,  simple,  foolish  set  of  women  altogether. 

Now,  Jupe,"  said  Mr,  Gradgrind.  "If  you  are  quite 
determined,  come  ! " 

But  she  had  to  take  her  farewell  of  the  male  part  of 
the  company  yet,  and  every  one  of  them  had  to  unfold 
his  arms  (for  they  all  assumed  the  professional  attitude 
when  they  found  themselves  near  Sleary),  and  give  her 
a  parting  kiss — Master  Kidderminister  excepted,  in 
whose  young  nature  there  was  an  original  flavour  of  the 
misanthrope,  who  v/as  also  known  to  have  harboured 
matrimonial  views,  and  who  moodily  withdrew,  Mr. 
Sleary  was  reserved  until  the  last.  Opening  his  arms 
wide  he  took  her  by  both  her  hands,  and  would  have 
sprung  her  up  and  down,  after  the  riding-master  manner 
of  congratulating  young  ladies  on  their  dismounting  from 
a  rapid  act  ;  but  there  was  no  rebound  in  Sissy,  and  she 
only  stood  before  him  crying. 

"Good  bye,  my  dear  I"  said  Sleary.  "You'll  make 
your  fortun,  I  hope,  and  none  of  our  poor  folkth  will 
ever  trouble  you,  I'll  pound  it.  I  with  your  father  hadn't 
taken  hith  dog  with  him  ;  ith  a  ill-con wenienth  to  have 
the  dog  out  of  the  billth.  But  on  thecond  though th,  he 
wouldn't  have  performed  without  hith  mathter,  tho  ith 
ath  broad  ath  ith  long  ! " 

Wi  th  that  he  regarded  her  attentively  with  his  fixed 
eye,  surveyed  his  company  with  his  loose  one,  kissed 
her,  shook  his  head,  and  handed  her  to  Mr.  Gradgrind  as 
to  a  horse. 

"  There  the  ith,  Thquire,"  he  said,  sweeping  her  with 
a  professional  glance  as  if  she  were  being  adjusted  in 
her  seat,  "and  the'll  do  vou  juthtithe.  Good  bye, 
Thethilia  ! " 

"  Good  bye,  Cecilia  !  "  "  Good  bye,  Sissy  ! "  "  God 
bless  you,  dear  ! "  In  a  variety  of  voices  from  all  the 
room. 

But  the  riding-master's  eye  had  observed  the  bottle  of 
the  nine  oils  in  her  bosom,  and  he  now  interposes  with 
"Leave  the  bottle,  my  dear  ;  ith  large  to  carry  ;  it  will 
be  of  no  uthe  to  you  now.    Give  it  to  me  ! " 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  said,  in  another  burst  of  tears.  "Oh 
no  1  Pray  let  me  keep  it  for  father  till  he  comes  back  ! 
Ho  will  want  it  when  he  comes  back.  He  had  never 
thought  of  going  away,  when  he  sent  me  for  it.  I  must 
Ivoep  it  for  him,  if  you  please  ! " 

"  Tho  be  it,  my  dear.  (You  thee  how  it  ith,  Thquire  !) 
Farewell,  Thethilia  1   My  latht  wordth  to  you  ith  thith, 


HARD 

Thtick  to  the  termth  of  your  engagement,  he  ohedient 
to  the  Thquire,  and  forget  uth.  But  if,  when  you're 
grown  up  and  married  and  well  off,  you  come  upon  any 
horthe-riding  ever,  don't  be  hard  upon  it,  don't  be  croth 
with  it,  give  it  a  Bethpeak  if  you  can,  and  think  you 
might  do  wurth.  People  must  be  amuthed,  Thquire, 
thomehovv,"  continued  Sleary,  rendered  more  pursy 
than  ever,  by  so  much  talking  ;  "  they  can't  be  alwayth 
a  working,  nor  yet  they  can't  be  alwayth  a  learning. 
Make  the  betht  of  uth  ;  not  the  wurth t.  I've  got  my 
living  out  of  the  horthe-riding  all  my  life,  I  know  ;  but 
I  conthider  that  I  lay  down  the  pliilothophy  of  the  thub- 
ject  when  I  thay  to  you,  Thquire,  make  the  betht  of  us  : 
not  the  wurtht  !  " 

The  Sleary  philosophy  was  propounded  as  they  went 
down-stairs  ;  and  the  fixed  eye  of  Philosophy — and  its 
rolling  eye,  too — soon  lost  the  three  figures  and  the  bas- 
ket in  the  darkness  of  the  street. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

3Irs,  Sparsit. 

Mr.  BotJNDERBY  being  a  bachelor,  an  elderly  lady 
presided  over  his  establishment,  in  consideration  of  a 
certain  annual  stipend.  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  this  lady's 
name  ;  and  she  was  a  prominent  figure  in  attendance 
on  Mr.  Bouuderby's  car,  as  it  rolled  along  in  triumph 
with  the  Bully  of  humility  inside. 

For,  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  not  only  seen  different  days,  but 
was  highly  connected.  She  had  a  great  aunt  living  in 
these  very  times  called  lady  Scadgers.  Mr.  Sparsit,  de- 
ceased, of  whom  she  was  the  relict,  had  been  by  the 
mother's  side  what  Mrs.  Sparsit  still  called  "  a  Powler." 
Strangers  of  limited  information  and  dull  apprehension 
were  sometimes  observed  not  to  know  what  a  Powler 
was,  and  even  to  appear  uncertain  whether  it  might  be 
a  business,  or  a  political  party,  or  a  profession  of  faith. 
The  better  class  of  minds,  however,  did  not  need  to  be 
informed  that  the  Powlers  were  an  ancient  stock,  who 
could  trace  themselves  so  exceedingly  far  back  that  it 
was  not  surprising  if  they  sometimes  lost  themselves — 
which  they  had  rather  frequently  done,  as  respected 
horseflesh,  blind-hookey,  Hebrew  monetary  transactions, 
and  the  Insolvent  Debtors  Court. 

The  late  Mr.  Sparsit,  being  by  the  mother's  side  a 
Powler,  married  this  lady,  being  by  the  father's  side  a 
Scadgers.  Lady  Scadgers  (an  immensely  fat  old  woman, 
with  an  inordinate  appetite  for  butcher's  meat,  and  a 
mysterious  leg  which  had  now  refused  to  get  out  of  bed 
for  fourteen  years)  contrived  the  marriage,  at  a  period 
when  Sparsit  was  j  ust  of  age,  and  chiefly  noticeable  for 
a  slender  body,  weakly  supported  on  two  long  slim  props, 
and  surmounted  by  no  head  worth  mentioning.  He  in- 
herited a  fair  fortune  from  his  uncle,  but  owed  it  all  be- 
fore he  came  into  it,  and  spent  it  twice  over  immediately 
afterwards.  Thus  when  he  died,  at  twenty-four  (the 
scene  of  his  decease,  Calais,  and  the  cause  brandy),  he 
did  not  leave  his  widow,  from  whom  he  had  been  sepa- 
rated soon  after  the  honeymoon,  in  affluent  crcumstances. 
That  bereaved  lady,  fifteen  years  older  than  he,  fell 
presently  at  deadly  teua  with  her  only  relative,  Lady 
Scadgers  ;  and,  partly  to  spite  her  ladyship,  and  partly 
to  maintain  herself,  went  out  at  a  salary.  And  here  she 
was  now,  in  her  elderly  days,  with  the  Coriolanian  style 
of  nose  and  tlie  dense  black  eyebrows  which  had  capti- 
vated Sparsit,  making  Mr.  Bouuderby's  tea  as  he  took 
his  breakfast. 

If  Bound erby  had  been  a  Conqueror,  and  Mrs.  Sparsit 
a  captive  Princess  whom  he  took  about  as  a  feature  in 
his  state  processions,  he  could  not  have  made  a  greater 
flourish  with  her  than  he  habitually  did.  Just  as  it  be- 
belonged  to  his  boastfulness  to  depreciate  his  own  extrac- 
tion, so  it  belonged  to  it  to  exalt  Mrs.  Sparsit's.  lu  the 
measure  that  he  would  not  allow  his  own  youth  to  have 
been  attended  by  a  single  favourable  circumstance,  he 
brightened  Mrs.  Sparsit's  juvenile  career  with  every  pos- 
sible advantage,  and  showered  wagon-loads  of  early  roses 
all  over  that  lady's  path.  "And  yet,  sir,"  he  would 
say,  "  how  does  it  turn  out  after  all  ?    Why  here  she  is 


TIMES,  979 

at  a  hundred  a  year  (I  give  her  a  hundred,  which  she  is 
pleased  to  term  handsome),  keeping  the  house  of  Josiali 
Bounderby  of  Coketown  !  " 

Nay,  he  made  this  foil  of  his  so  very  widely  known, 
that  third  parties  took  it  up,  and  handled  it  on  some  oc- 
casions with  considerable  briskness.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  exasperating  attributes  of  Bounderby,  that  he  not 
only  sang  his  own  [jraises  but  stimulated  other  men  to 
sing  them.  There  was  a  moral  infection  of  clap-trap  in 
him.  Strangers,  modest  enough  elsewhere,  started  up 
at  dinners  in  Coketown,  and  boasted,  in  quite  a  rampant 
way,  of  Bounderby.  They  made  him  out  to  be  the  Royal 
arms,  the  Ujiion-Jack,  Magna  Charta,  John  Bull,  Habeas 
Corpus,  the  Bill  of  Rights,  an  Englishman's  house  is  his 
castle.  Church  and  State,  and  God  save  the  Queen,  all 
put  together.  And  as  often  (as  it  was  very  often)  as  an 
orator  of  this  kind  brought  into  his  peroration, 

"  Princes  and  Lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade, 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made," 

— it  was,  for  certain,  more  or  less  understood  among  the 
company  that  he  had  heard  of  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"Mr.  Bounderby,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "you  are  un- 
usually slow,  sir,  with  your  breakfast  this  morning." 

"  Why,  ma'am,"  he  returned,  "  I  am  thinking  about 
Tom  Gradgrind's  whim  ;"  Tom  Gradgrind,  for  a  bluff  in- 
dependent manner  of  speaking — as  if  somebody  were 
always  endeavouring  to  bribe  him  with  immense  sums 
to  say  Thomas,  and  he  wouldn't ;  "  Tom  Gradgrind's 
whim,  ma'am  of  bringing  up  the  tumbling  girl." 

"  The  girl  is  now  waiting  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
"  whether  she  is  to  go  straight  to  the  school,  or  up  to  the 
Lodge." 

"  She  must  wait,  ma'am,"  answered  Bounderby,  "  till 
I  know  myself.  We  shall  have  Tom  Gradgrind  down 
here  presently,  I  suppose.  If  he  should  wish  her  to 
remain  here  a  day  or  two  longer,  of  course  she  can, 
ma'am." 

"  Of  course  she  can  if  you  wish  it,  Mr.  Bounderby." 

"  I  told  him  I  would  give  her  a  shake-down  here,  last 
night,  in  order  that  he  might  sleep  on  it  before  he  de- 
cided to  let  her  have  any  association  with  Louisa." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Bounderby?    Very  thoughtful  of  you  !" 

Mrs.  Sparsit's  Coriolanian  nose  underwent  a  slight  ex- 
pansion of  the  nostrils,  and  her  black  eyebrows  contracted 
as  she  took  a  sip  of  tea. 

•'•It's  tolerably  clear  to  ^ne,"  said  Bounderby,  "that 
the  little  puss  can  get  small  good  out  of  such  companion- 
ship. " 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  young  Miss  Gradgrind,  Mr. 
Bounderby?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  am  speaking  of  Louisa." 

"  Your  observation  being  limited  to  'little  puss,'  "  said 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  and  there  being  two  little  girls  in  ques- 
tion, I  did  not  know  which  might  be  indicated  by  that 
expression." 

"Louisa,"  repeated  Mr.  Bounderby.  "Louisa,  Lou- 
isa." 

"  You  are  quite  another  father  to  Louisa,  sir."  Mrs. 
Sparsit  took  a  little  more  tea  ;  and,  as  she  bent  her  again 
contracted  eyebrows  over  her  steaming  cup,  rather  looked 
as  if  her  classical  countenance  were  invoking  the  infernal 
gods. 

"If  you  had  said  I  was  another  father  to  Tom— young 
Tom,  I'mean,  not  my  friend,  Tom  Gradgrind — you  might 
have  been  nearer  the  mark.  I  am  going  to  take  young 
Tom  into  my  office.  Going  to  have  him  under  my  wing, 
ma'am." 

"Indeed?  Rather  young  for  that,  is  he  not,  sir?" 
Mrs.  Sparsit's  "sir,"  in  addressing  Mr.  Bounderby,  was 
a  word  of  ceremony,  rather  exacting  consideration  for 
herself  in  the  use,  than  honouring  him. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  take  him  at  once  ;  he  is  to  finish  his 
educational  cramming  before  then,"  said  Bounderby. 
"  By  the  Lord  Harry,  he'll  have  enough  of  it,  first  and 
last !  He'd  open  his  eyes,  that  boy  would,  if  he  knew 
how  empty  of  learning  my  young  maw  was,  at  his  time 
of  life."  Which,  by  the  by,  he  probably  did  know,  for 
he  had  heard  of  it  often  enough,  "  But  it's  extraordi- 
nary the  difficulty  I  have  on  scores  of  such  subjects,  in 
speaking  to  any  one  on  equal  terms.    Here,  for  example, 


980 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


I  have  been  speaking  to  yon  this  morning  about  tumblers. 
Why,  what  do  you  know  about  tumblers?  At  the  time 
when,  to  have  been  a  tumbler  in  the  mud  of  the  streets^ 
would  have  been  a  godsend  to  me,  a  prize  in  the  lottery 
to  me,  you  were  at  the  Italian  Opera.  You  v/ere  coming 
out  of  the  Italian  Opera,  ma'am,  in  white  satin  and  jew- 
els, a  blaze  of  splendour,  when  I  hadn't  a  penny  to  buy 
a  link  to  light  you." 

"  I  certainly,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a  dig- 
nity serenely  mournful,  "  was  familiar  with  the  Italian 
Opera  at  a  very  early  age." 

"Egad,  ma'am,  so  was  I,"  said  Bonnderby,  " — with 
the  wrong  side  of  it.  A  hard  bed  the  pavement  of  it's 
Arcade  used  to  make,  I  assure  you.  People  like  you, 
ma'am,  accustomed  from  infancy  to  lie  on  Down  feathers, 
have  no  idea  how  hard  a  paving-stone  is,  without  trying 
it.  No,  no,  it's  of  no  use  my  talking  to  you  about  tum- 
blers. I  should  speak  of  foreign  dancers,  and  the  West 
End  of  J/ondon,  and  May  Fair,  and  lords  and  ladies  and 
honourables." 

"I  trust,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  decent  resigna- 
tion, "  it  is  not  necessary  that  you  should  do  anytliing 
of  that  kind.  I  hope  I  have  learnt  how  to  accommodate 
myself  to  the  changes  of  life.  If  I  have  acquired  an  in- 
terest in  hearing  of  your  instructive  experiences,  and 
can  scarcely  hear  enough  of  them,  I  claim  no  merit  for 
that,  since  I  believe  it  is  a  general  sentiment." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  her  patron,  "perhaps  some 
people  may  be  pleased  to  say  that  they  do  like  to  hear, 
in  his  own  unpolished  way,  what  Josiah  Bounderby  of 
Coketown,  has  gone  through.  But  you  must  confess 
that  you  were  born  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  yourself. 
Come,  ma'am,  you  know  you  were  born  in  the  lap  of 
luxury." 

"  I  do  not,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit  with  a  shake 
of  her  head,  "  deny  it." 

Mr.  Bounderby  was  obliged  to  get  up  from  the  table, 
and  stand  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  looking  at  her  ;  she 
was  such  an  enhancement  of  his  position. 

"And  you  were  in  crack  society.  Devilish  high  soci- 
ety," he  said,  warming  his  legs. 

"  It  is  true,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  an  affec- 
tation of  humility  the  very  opposite  of  his,  and  therefore 
in  no  danger  of  jostling  it. 

"  You  were  in  the  tiptop  fashion,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a  kind  of  social 
widowhood  upon  her.    "It  is  unquestionably  true." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  bending  himself  at  the  knees,  literally 
embraced  his  legs  in  his  great  satisfaction  and  laughed 
aloud.  Mr.  and  Miss  Gradgrind  being  then  announced, 
he  received  the  former  with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  the 
latter  with  a  kiss. 

"Can  Jupe  be  sent  here,  Bounderby?"  asked  Mr. 
Gradgrind. 

Certainly.  So  Jupe  was  sent  there.  On  coming  in, 
she  curtseyed  to  Mr.  Bounderby,  and  to  his  friend  Tom 
Gradgrind,  and  also  to  Louisa  ;  but  in  her  confusion  un- 
luckily omitted  Mrs.  Sparsit.  Observing  this,  the  blus- 
trous  Bounderby  had  the  following  remarks  to  make  : 

"  Now,  I  tell  you  what,  my  girl.  The  name  of  that 
lady  by  the  teapot,  is  Mrs.  Sparsit.  That  lady  acts  as 
mistress  of  this  house,  and  she  is  a  highly  connected 
lady.  Consequently,  if  ever  you  come  again  into  any 
room  in  this  house,'you  will  make  a  short  stay  in  it  if 
you  don't  behave  towards  that  lady  in  your  most  respect- 
ful manner.  Now,  I  don't  care  a  button  what  you  do  to 
me,  because  I  don't  affect  to  be  anybody.  So*  far  from 
having  high  connections,  \  have  no  connections  at  all,  and 
I  come  of  the  scum  of  the  earth.  But  towards  that  lady, 
I  do  care  what  you  do  ;  and  you  shall  do  what  is  defer- 
ential and  respectful,  or  you  shall  not  come  here." 

"  I  hope,  Bounderby,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  in  a  concili- 
atory voice,  "that  this  was  merely  an  oversight." 

"  My  friend  Tom  Gradgrind  suggests,  Mrs.  Sparsit," 
said  Bounderby,  "that  this  was  merely  an  oversight. 
Very  likely.  However,  as  you  are  aware,  ma'am,  I  don't 
allow  of  even  oversights  towards  you." 

"  You  are  very  good  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit, shaking  her  head  with  her  State  humility,  "It  is 
not  worth  speaking  of." 

Sissy,  who  all  this  time  liad  been  faintly  excusing  her- 


self with  tears  in  her  eyes,  was  now  waved  over  by  the 
master  of  the  house  to  Mr.  Gradgrind.  She  stood,  look- 
ing intently  at  him,  and  Louisa  stood  coldly  by,  with  her 
eyes  upon  the  ground,  while  he  proceeded  thus  : 

"  Jupe,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  take  you  into  my 
house  ;  and,  when  you  are  not  in  attendance  at  the 
school,  to  employ  you  about  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  who  is 
rather  an  invalid.  I  have  explained  to  Miss  Louisa — 
this  is  Miss  Louisa — the  miserable  but  natural  end  of 
your  late  career  ;  and  you  are  to  expressly  understand 
that  the  whole  of  that  subject  is  past,  and  is  not  to  be  re- 
ferred to  any  more.  From  this  time  you  begin  your  his- 
tory.   You  are,  at  present,  ignorant,  I  know," 

"Yes,  sir,  very,"  she  answered,  curtseying. 

"  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction  of  causing  you  to  be 
strictly  educated  ;  and  you  will  be  a  living  proof  to  all 
who  come  into  communication  with  you,  of  the  advan- 
tages of  the  training  you  will  receive.  You  will  be  re- 
claimed and  formed.  You  have  been  in  the  habit  now 
of  reading  to  your  father,  and  those  people  I  found  you 
among,  I  dare  say  ?"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  beckoning  her 
nearer  to  him  before  he  said  so,  and  dropping  his  voice. 

"  Only  to  father  and  Merrylegs,  sir.  At  least  I  mean 
to  father,  when  Merrylegs  was  always  there." 

"Never  mind  Merrylegs,  Jupe,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
with  a  passing  frown.  "  I  don't  ask  about  him.  I  un- 
derstand you  to  have  been  in  the  habit  of  reading  to  your 
father  ?  "* 

"  O  yes,  sir,  thousands  of  times.  They  were  the  hap- 
piest— 0,  of  all  the  happy  times  we  had  together,  sir  ! " 

It  was  only  now  when  her  sorrow  broke  out,  that 
Louisa  looked  at  her. 

"And  what,"  asked  Mr.  Gradgrind,  in  a  still  lower 
voice,  "did  you  read  to  your  father,  Jupe ?" 

"  About  the  Fairies,  sir,  and  the  Dwarf,  and  the 
Hunchback,  and  the  Genies,"  she  sobbed  out;  "and 
about — " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "that  is  enough.  Nev- 
er breathe  a  word  of  such  destructive  nonsense  anymore. 
Bounderby,  this  a  case  of  rigid  training,  and  I  shall  ob- 
serve it  with  interest." 

"  Well,"  returned  Mr.  Bounderby,  "  I  have  given  you 
my  opinion  already,  and  I  shouldn't  do  as  you  do.  But, 
very  well,  very  well.  Since  you  are  bent  upon  it,  nery 
well  ! " 

So,  Mr.  Gradgrind  and  his  daughter  took  Cecilia  Jupe 
off  with  them  to  Stone  Lodge,  and  on  the  way  Louisa 
never  spoke  one  word,  good  or  l3ad.  And  Mr.  Bounder- 
by went  about  his  daily  pursuits.  And  Mrs.  Sparsit  got 
behind  her  eyebrow^s  and  meditated  in  the  gloom  of  that 
retreat,  all  the  evening. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Nevei'  Wonder. 

Let  us  strike  the  key-note  again,  before  pursuing  the 
tune.  When  she  was  half  a  dozen  years  younger, 
Louisa  had  been  overheard  to  begin  a  conversation  with 
her  brother  on  one  day,  by  saying,  "  Tom,  I  wonder  " — 
upon  which  Mr.  Gradgrind,  who  was  the  person  over- 
hearing, stepped  forth  into  the  light,  and  said,  "Louisa, 
never  wonder  1 " 

Herein  lay  the  spring  of  the  mechanical  art  and 
mystery  of  educating  the  reason  without  stooping  to  the 
cultivation  of  the  sentiments  and  affections.  Never 
wonder.  By  means  of  addition,  subtraction,  multiplica- 
tion, and  division,  settle  everything  somehow,  and  never 
wonder.  Bring  to  me,  says  M'Choakumchild,  yonder 
baby  just  able  to  walk,  and  I  will  engage  that  it  shall 
never  wonder. 

Now,  besides  very  many  babies  just  able  to  walk,  there 
happened  to  be  in  Coketown  a  considerable. population  of 
babies  who  had  been  walking  against  time  towards  the 
infinite  Avorld,  twenty,  thirty,  forty,  fifty  years  and  more. 
These  portentous  infants  being  alarming  creatures  to 
stalk  about  in  any  human  society,  the  eighteen  denom- 
inations incessantly  scratched  one  another's  faces  and 
])ulled  one  another's  hair  by  way  of  agreeing  on  the  steps 
to  be  taken  for  their  improvement — which  they  never 
did  ;  a  surprising  circumstance,  when  the  happy  adapta- 


HARD 

tion  of  the  means  to  the  end  is  considered.  Still, 
althougli  tliey  differed  in  every  other  particular,  con- 
ceivable and  inconceivable  (especially  inconceivable), 
they  were  pretty  vv^ell  united  on  the  point  that  these  un- 
lucky infants  were  never  to  wonder,  Bcidy  number  one, 
said  they  must  take  everything  on  tlLUst,  Body  number 
two,  said  they  must  take  everything  on  political  economy. 
Body  number  three,  wrote  leaden  little  books  for  them, 
showing-  how  the  good  grown-up  baby  invariably  got  to 
the  Savings-bank,  and  the  bad  grown-up  baby  invariably 
got  transported.  Body  number  four,  under  dreary  pre- 
tences of  being  droll  (when  it  was  very  melancholy 
indeed),  made  the  shallowest  pretences  of  concealing 
pitfalls  of  knowledge,  into  which  it  was  the  duty  of  these 
babies  to  be  smuggled  and  inveigled.  But,  all  the  bodies 
agreed  that  they  were  never  to  wonder. 

There  was  a  library  in  Coketown,  to  which  general 
access  was  easy.  Mr.  Gradgrind  greatly  tormented  his 
mind  about  what  the  people  read  in  this  library  :  a  point 
whereon  little  rivers  of  tabular  statements  periodically 
flowed  into  the  howling  ocean  of  tabular  statements, 
which  no  diver  ever  got  to  any  depth  in  and  came  up 
sane.  It  was  a  disheartening  circumstance,  but  a  melan- 
choly fact,  that  even  these  readers  persisted  in  wondering. 

They  wondered  about  human  nature,  human  passions, 
human  hopes  and  fears,  the  struggles,  triumphs  and 
defeats,  the  cares  and  joys  and  sorrows,  the  lives  and 
deaths,  of  common  men  and  women  !  They  sometimes, 
after  fifteen  hours'  work,  sat  down  to  read  mere  fables 
about  men  and  women,  more  or  less  like  themselves,  and 
about  children,  more  or  less  like  their  own.  They  took 
DeFoe  to  their  bosoms,  instead  of  Euclid,  and  seemed  to 
be  on  the  whole  more  comforted  by  Goldsmith  than  by 
Cocker.  Mr.  Gradgrind  was  for  ever  working,  in  print 
and  out  of  print,  at  this  eccentric  sum,  and  he  never 
could  make  out  how  it  yielded  this  unaccountable  pro- 
duct. 

"  I  am  sick  of  my  life.  Loo.  I  hate  it  altogether,  and  I 
hate  everybody  except  you,"  said  the  unnatural  young 
Thomas  Gradgrind  in  the  hair-cutting  chamber  at 
twilight. 

"  You  don't  hate  Sissy,  Tom?" 

"  I  hate  to  be  obliged  to  call  her  Jupe.  And  she  hates 
me,"  said  Tom  moodily. 

"  No  she  does  not,  Tom,  I  am  sure." 

"She  must,"  said  Tom.  "She  must  just  hate  and 
detest  the  whole  set-out  of  us.  They'll  bother  her  head 
off,  I  think,  before  they  have  done  with  her.  Already 
she's  getting  as  pale  as  wax,  and  as  heavy  as — I  am." 

Young  Thomas  expressed  these  sentiments  sitting 
astride  of  a  chair  before  the  fire,  with  his  arms  on  the 
back,  and  his  sulky  face  on  his  arms.  His  sister  sat  in 
the  darker  corner  by  the  fireside,  now  looking  at  him, 
now  looking  at  the  bright  sparks  as  they  dropped  upon 
the  hearth. 

"  As  to  me,"  said  Tom,  tumbling  his  hair  all  manner  of 
ways  with  his  sulky  hands,  "  1  am  a  Donkey,  that's  what 
/am.  I  am  as  obstinate  as  one,  I  am  more  stupid  than 
one,  I  get  as  much  pleasure  as  one,  and  I  should  like  to 
kick  like  one." 

"  Not  me,  I  hope,  Tom  ?  " 

"  No,  Loo  ;  I  wouldn't  hurt  you.  I  made  an  exception 
of  you  at  first.  I  don't  know  what  this — jolly  old — Jaun- 
diced Jail,"  Tom  had  pauaed  to  find  a  suflSciently  com- 
plimentary and  expressive  name  for  the  parental  roof, 
and  seemed  to  relieve  his  mind  for  a  moment  by  the 
strong  alliteration  of  this  one  "  would  be  without  you." 

"  Indeed,  Tom?    Do  you  really  and  truly  say  so?  " 

"Why,  of  course  I  do.  What's  the  use  of  talking 
about  it  ! "  returned  Tom,  chafing  his  fc«ce  on  his  coat- 
sleeve,  as  if  to  mortify  his  flesh,  and  have  it  in  unison 
with  his  spirit. 

' '  Because,  Tom, "  said  his  sister,  after  silently  watching 
the  sparks  awhile,  "as  I  get  older,  and  nearer  growing 
up,  I  often  sit  wondering  here,  and  think  how  unfor- 
tunate it  is  for  me  that  I  can't  reconcile  you  to  home 
better  than  I  am  able  to  do.  I  don't  know  what  other 
girls  know.  I  can't  play  to  you,  or  sing  to  you.  I  can't 
talk  to  you  so  as  to  lighten  your  mind,  for  I  never  see 
any  amusing  sights  or  read  any  amusing  books  that  it 
would  be  a  pleasure  or  relief  to  you  to  talk  about, 
when  you  are  tired." 


TIMES,  981 

"  Well,  no  more  do  I,  I  am  as  bad  as  you  in  that  re- 
spect ;  and  I  am  a  Mule  too,  which  you're  not.  If  father 
was  determined  to  make  me  either  a  Prig  or  a  Mule,  and 
I  am  not  a  Prig,  why,  it  stands  to  reason,  I  must  be  a 
Mule.    And  so  I  am,"  said  Tom,  desperately. 

"  It's  a  great  pity,"  said  Louisa,  after  another  pause, 
and  speaking  thoughtfully  out  of  her  dark  corner  ;  it's 
a  great  pity,  Tom.  It's  very  unfortunate  for  both  of 
us." 

"Oh  !  You,"  said  Tom  ;  "  you  are  a  girl,  Lou,  and  a 
girl  comes  out  of  it  better  than  a  boy  does.  I  don't  miss 
anything  in  you.  You  are  the  only  pleasure  I  have — you 
can  brighten  even  this  place — and  you  can  always  lead 
me  as  you  like." 

"  You  are  a  dear  brother,  Tom  ;  and  while  you  think 
I  can  do  such  things,  I  don't  so  much  mind  knowing  bet- 
ter. Though  I  do  know  better,  Tom,  and  am  very  sorry 
for  it,"  She  came  and  kissed  him,  and  went  back  into  a 
corner  again. 

"  I  wish  I  could  collect  all  the  Facts  we  hear  so  much 
about,"  said  Tom,  spitefully  setting  his  teeth,  "  and  all 
the  Figures,  and  all  the  people  who  found  them  out  ; 
and  I  wish  I  could  put  a  thousand  barrels  of  gunpowder 
under  them,  and  blow  them  all  up  together  !  However, 
when  I  go  to  live  with  old  Bounderby,  I'll  have  my  re- 
venge." 

"  Your  revenge,  Tom  ?  " 

"I  mean,  I'll  enjoy  myself  a  little,  and  go  about  and 
see  something  and  hear  something,  I'll  recompense  my- 
self for  the  way  in  which  I  have  been  brought  up," 

"  But  don't  disappoint  yourself  beforehand,  Tom,  Mr. 
Bounderby  thinks,  as  father  thinks,  and  is  a  great  deal 
rougher,  and  not  half  so  kind." 

"Oh  ;"  said  Tom,  laughing;  "I  don't  mind  that.  I 
shall  very  well  know  how  to  manage  and  smoothe  old 
Bounderby  ! " 

Their  shadows  were  defined  upon  the  wall,  but  those 
of  the  high  presses  in  the  room  were  all  blended  to- 
gether on  the  wall  and  on  the  ceiling,  as  if  the  brother 
and  sister  were  overhung  by  a  dark  cavern.  Or,  a  fanci- 
ful imagination — if  such  treason  could  have  been  there — 
might  have  made  it  out  to  be  the  shadow  of  their  subject, 
of  its  lowering  association  with  their  future. 

"  What  is  your  great  mode  of  smoothing  and  manag- 
ing, Tom  ?    Is  it  a  secret  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Tom,  "if  it  is  a  secret,  it's  not  far  off. 
I  It's  you.  You  are  his  little  pet,  you  are  his  favourite  ; 
he'll  do  anything  for  you.  When  he  says  to  me  what  I 
don't  like,  I  shall  say  to  him,  '  My  sister  Loo  will  be 
hurt  and  disappointed,  Mr,  Bounderby.  She  always  used 
to  tell  me  she  was  sure  you  would  be  easier  with  me  than 
this.'    That'll  bring  him  about,  or  nothing  will." 

After  waiting  for  some  answering  remark,  and  getting 
none,  Tom  wearily  relapsed  into  the  present  time,  and 
twined  himself  yawning  round  and  about  the  rails  of  his 
chair,  and  rumpled  his  head  more  and  more,  until  he 
suddenly  looked  up,  and  asked  : 

"  Have  you  gone  to  sleep.  Loo?" 

"  No,  Tom.    I  am  looking  at  the  fire." 

"  You  seem  to  find  more  to  look  at  in  it  than  ever  I 
could  find,"  said  Tom.  "Another  of  the  advantages,  I 
suppose,  of  being  a  girl." 

"  Tom,"  enquired  his  sister,  slowly,  and  in  a  curious 
tone,  as  if  she  were  reading  what  she  asked  in  the  fire, 
and  it  were  not  quite  plainly  written  there,  "  do  you 
look  forward  with  any  satisfaction  to  this  change  to  Mr. 
Bounderby's  ?  " 

"  Why,  there's  one  thing  to  be  said  of  it,"  returned 
Tom,  pushing  his  chair  from  him,  and  standing  up  ;  "it 
will  be  getting  away  from  home." 

"There's  one  thing  to  be  said  of  it,"  Louise  repeated 
in  her  former  curious  tone  ;  "  it  will  be  getting  away 
from  home,  Y'es." 

"  Not  but  what  I  shall  be  very  unwilling,  both  to  leave 
you.  Loo,  and  to  leave  you  here.  But  I  must  go,  you 
know,  whether  I  like  It  or  not ;  and  I  had  better  go 
where  I  can  take  with  me  some  advantage  of  your  influ- 
ence, than  where  I  should  lose  it  altogether.  "Don't 
you  see  ?  " 

"Y^es,  Tom," 

The  answer  was  so  long  in  coming,  though  there  was 
no  indecision  in  it,  that  Tom  went  and  leaned  on  the 


982 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


back  of  her  chair,  to  contemplate  the  fire  which  so  en- 
grossed her,  from  her  point  of  view,  and  see  what  he 
could  make  of  it. 

"  Except  that  it  is  a  fire,"  said  Tom,  "  it  looks  to  me 
as  stupid  and  blank  as  everything  else  looks.  What  do 
you  see  in  it  ?    Not  a  circus?  " 

"I  don't  see  anything  in  it,  Tom,  particularly.  But 
since  I  have  been  looking  it,  I  have  been  wondering 
about  you  and  me  grown  up." 

"  Wondering  again  !  "  said  Tom. 

"I  have  such  unmanageable  thoughts,"  returned  his 
sister,  "that  they  will  wonder." 

"  Then  I  beg  of  you,  Louisa,"  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind, 
who  had  entered  the  door  without  being  heard,  "to  do 
nothing  of  that  description,  for  goodness'  take,  you  in- 
considerate girl,  or  I  shall  never  hear  the  last  of  it  from 
vour  father,  i^nd  Thomas,  it  is  really  shameful,  with 
my  poor  head  continually  wearing  me  out,  that  a  boy 
brought  up  as  you  have  been,  and  whose  education  has 
cost  what  yours  has,  should  be  found  encouraging  his 
sister  to  wonder,  when  he  knows  his  father  has  ex- 
pressly said  that  she  is  not  to  do  it." 

Louisa  denied  Tom's  participation  in  the  offence  ;  but 
her  mother  stopped  her  with  the  conclusive  answer, 
"  Louisa,  don't  tell  me,  in  my  state  of  health  ;  for  unless 
you  have  been  encouraged,  it  is  morally  and  physically 
impossible  that  you  could  have  done  it." 

"  I  was  encouraged  by  nothing,  mother,  but  by  look- 
ing at  the  red  sparks  dropping  out  of  the  fire,  and 
whitening  and  dying.  It  made  me  think,  after  all,  how 
short  my  life  would  be,  and  how  little  I  could  hope  to 
do  in  it." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  rendered  almost 
energetic.  "  Nonsense  !  Don't  stand  there  and  tell,  me 
such  stuff,  Louisa,  to  my  face,  when  you  know  very 
well  that  if  it  was  ever  to  reach  your  father's  ears  I 
should  never  hear  the  last  of  it.  After  all  the  trouble 
that  has  been  taken  with  you  !  After  the  lectures  you 
have  attended,  and  the  experiments  you  have  seen  ! 
After  I  have  heard  you  myself,  when  the  whole  of  my 
right  side  has  been  benumbed,  going  on  with  your  mas- 
ter about  combustion,  and  calcination,  and  calorification, 
and  I  may  say  every  kind  of  ation  that  could  drive  a  poor 
invalid  distracted,  to  hear  you  talking  in  this  absurd 
way  about  sparks  and  ashes  !  I  wish,"  whimpered  Mrs. 
Gradgrind,  taking  a  chair  and  discharging  her  strongest 
point  before  succumbing  under  these  mere  shadows  of 
facts,  "  yes,  I  really  do  wish  that  I  had  never  had  a 
family,  and  then  you  would  have  known  what  it  was  to 
do  without  me  1  " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Sissi/s  Progress. 

Sissy  Jupe  had  not  an  easy  time  of  it,  between  Mr. 
M'Choakumchild  and  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  and  was  not  with- 
out strong  impulses,  in  the  first  months  of  her  proba- 
tion, to  run  away.  It  hailed  facts  all  day  long  so  very 
hard,  and  life  in  general  was  opened  to  her  as  such 
a  closely  ruled  ciphering-book,  that  surely  she  would 
have  run  away,  but  for  only  one  restraint. 

It  is  lamentable  to  think  of  ;  but  this  restraint  was 
the  result  of  no  arithmetical  progress,  was  self-imposed 
in  defiance  of  all  calculation,  and  went  dead  against  any 
table  of  probabilities  that  any  Actuary  would  have 
drawn  up  from  the  premises.  The  girl  believed  that  her, 
father  had  not  deserted  her  ;  she  lived  in  the  hope  that 
he  would  come  back,  and  in  the  faith  that  he  would  be 
made  the  happier  by  her  remaining  where  she  was. 

The  wretched  ignorance  with  which  Jupe  clung  to 
this  consolation,  rejecting  the  superior  comfort  of  know- 
ing, on  a  sound  arithmetical  basis,  that  her  father  was 
an  unnatural  vagabond,  filled  Mr.  Gradgrind  with  pity. 
Yet,  what  was  to  be  done?  M'Choakumchild  rej)orted 
that  she  had  a  very  dense  head  for  figures  ;  that,  once 
possessed  with  a  general  idea  of  the  globe,  she  took 
the  smallest  conceivable  interest  in  its  exact  measure- 
ments ;  that  she  was  extremely  slow  in  the  acquisition 
of  dates,  unless  some  pitiful  incident  hapy)enod  to  be 
connected  therewith  ;  that  she  would  burst  into  tears  on 


being  required  (by  the  mental  process)  immediately  to 
name  the  cost  of  two  hundred  and  forty-seven  muslin 
caps  at  fourteenpence  halfpenny  ;  that  she  was  as  low 
down,  in  the  school,  as  low  could  be  ;  that  after  eight 
weeks  of  induction  into  the  elements  of  Political  Econo- 
my, she  had  only  yesterday  been  set  right  by  a  prattler 
three  feet  high,  for  returning  to  the  question,  "  What 
is  the  first  principle  of  this  science?"  the  absurd  an^ 
swer,  "  To  do  unto  others  as  I  would  that  they  should 
do  unto  me." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  observed,  shaking  his  head,  that  all 
this  was  very  bad  ;  that  it  showed  the  necessity  of  in- 
finite grinding  at  the  mill  of  knowledge,  as  per  system, 
schedule,  blue  book,  report,  and  tabular  statements  A 
to  Z  ;  and  that  Jupe  "must  be  kept  to  it."  So  Jupe  was 
kept  to  it,  and  became  low-spirited,  but  no  wiser. 

"  It  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  you,  Miss  Louisa  !  " 
she  said,  one  night,  when  Louisa  had  endeavoured  to 
make  her  perplexities  for  next  day  something  clearer  to 
her. 

"  Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  should  know  so  much.  Miss  Louisa.  All  that  is 
difficult  to  me  now,  would  be  so  easy  then." 

"  You  might  not  be  the  better  for  it,  Sissyi" 

Sissy  submitted,  after  a  little  hesitation,  "  I  should 
not  be  the  worse.  Miss  Louisa."  To  which  Miss  Louisa 
answered,  "  I  don't  know  that." 

There  had  been  so  little  communication  between  these 
two— both  because  life  at  Stone  Lodge  went  monotonously 
round  like  a  piece  of  machinery  which  discouraged  hu- 
man interference,  an^  because  of  the  prohibition  relative 
to  Sissy's  past  career — that  they  were  still  almost  stran- 
gers. Sissy,  with  her  dark  eyes  wonderingly  directed  to 
Louisa's  face,  was  uncertain  whether  to  say  more  or  to 
remain  silent. 

"  You  are  more  useful  to  my  mother,  and  more  pleas- 
ant with  her  than  I  can  ever  be,"  Louisa  resmmed. 
"  You  are  pleasanter  to  yourself,  than  Jam  to  my  self." 

"  But,  if  you  please  Miss  Louisa,"  Sissy  pleaded,  "  I 
am — 0  so  stupid  !  " 

Louisa,  with  a  brighter  laugh  than  usual,  told  her  she 
would  be  wiser  by  and  by. 

"  You  don't  know,"  said  Sissy,  half  crying,  "  what  a 
stupid  girl  I  am.  All  through  school  hours  I  make  mis- 
takes. Mr.  and  Mrs.  M'Choakumchild  call  me  up,  over 
and  over  again,  regularly  to  make  mistakes.  I  can't 
help  them.    They  seem  to  come  natural  to  me." 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  M'Choakumchild  never  make  any  mis- 
takes themselves,  I  suppose.  Sissy  ?  " 

"  0  no  !  "  she  eagerly  returned.  "  They  know  every- 
thing." 

"Tell  me  some  of  your  mistakes." 

"  I  am  almost  ashamed,"  said  Sissy,  with  reluctance. 
"  But  to-day,  for  instance,  Mr.  M'Choakumchild  was  ex- 
plaining to  us  about  Natural  Prosperity." 

"  National,  I  think  it  must  have  been,"  observed 
Louisa. 

"  Yes,  it  was. — But  isn't  it  the  same  ?  "  she  timidly 
asked. 

"  You  had  better  say.  National,  as  he  said  so,"  re- 
turned Louisa,  with  her  dry  reserve. 

"  National  Prosperity.  And  he  said.  Now,  this  school- 
room is  a  Nation.  And  in  this  nation,  there  are  fifty 
millions  of  money.  Isn't  this  a  prosperous  nation  ?  Girl 
number  twenty,  isn't  this  a  prosperous  nation,  and  a'n't 
you  in  a  thriving  state  ?  " 

"  What  did  you  say?"  asked  Louisa. 
.  "Miss  Louisa,  I  said  I  didn't  know.  I  thought  I 
couldn't  know  whether  it  was  a  prosperous  nation  ornot, 
and  whether  I  was  in  a  thriving  state  or  not,  unless  I 
knew  who  had  got  the  money,  and  whether  any  of  it  was 
mine.  But  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  was  not 
in  the  figures  at  all,"  said  Sissy,  wiping  her  eyes, 

"  That  was  a  great  mistake  of  yours,"  observed 
Louisa. 

"Yes,  Miss  Louisa,  I  know  it  was,  now.  Then  Mr. 
M'Choakumchild  said  ho  would  try  me  again.  And 
he  said.  This  school -room  is  an  immense  town,  and  in 
it  there  are  a  million  of  inhabitants,  and  only  five-and- 
twenty  are  starved  to  death  in  the  streets,  in  the  course 
of  a  year.  What  is  your  remark  on  that  proportion? 
And  my  remark  was — for  I  couldn't  think  of  a  better  one 


IT  WOULD  BE  A  FINE  THING  TO  BE  YOU,  MISS  LOUIS 


LIBRARY 

OF  m 

UNIVEKSIIY  OF  ILLINOIS 


HARD  TIMES. 


983 


— tliat  I  tTiouglit  it  must  be  just  as  hard  upon  tliose  who 
were  starved,  whether  the  others  wore  a  million,  or  a 
million  million.    And  that  was  wroug  too." 
"  Of  course  it  was." 

''Then  Mr.  M'Choakum child  said  he  would  try  me 
once  more.    And  he  saW,  Here  are  the  stutterings— " 
"Statistics,"  said  Louisa. 

"Tes,  Miss  Louisa— they  always  remind  me  of  stut- 
teriugs  and  that's  another  or"  my  mistakes— of  accidents 
upon  the  sea.  And  I  find  (Mr.  M'Choakunichild  said) 
that  in  a  given  time  a  hundred  thousand  persons  went 
to  sea  on  long  voyages, -xnd  only  five  hundred  of  them 
were  drowned  or  burnt  to  death.  What  is  the  percent- 
age? And  I  said,  Miss  ;"  here  Sissy  fairly  sobbed  as 
confessing  with  extreme  contrition  to  her  greatest  error  ; 
*'  I  said  ib  was  nothing." 

"  Nothing,  Sissy  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Miss— to  the  relations  and  friends  of  tlie 
people  who  were  killed.  I  shall  never  learn,"  said  Sis- 
sy. "And  the  worst  of  all  is,  that  although  my  poor 
father  wished  me  so  much  to  learn,  and  although  I  am 
so  anxious  to  learn,  because  he  wished  me  to,  I  am 
afraid  I  don't  like  it."  i  ^ 

Louisa  stood  looking  at  the  pretty  modest  head,  as  it 
drooped  abashed  before  her,  until  it  was  raised  again  to 
glance  at  her  face.    Then  she  asked  : 

"Did  your  father  know  so  much  himself,  that  he 
wished  you  to  be  well  taught  too.  Sissy  ?  " 

Sissv  hesitated  before  replying,  and  so  plainly  showed 
her  sense  that  thev  were  entering  on  forbidden  grdund, 
that  Louisa  added*,  "No  one  hears  us  ;  and  if  any  one 
did,  I  am  sure  no  harm  could  be  found  in  such  an  inno- 
cent question." 

"  No,  Miss  Louisa,"  answered  Sissy,  upon  this  encour- 
agement,  shaking  her  head  ;  "father  knows  very  little 
indeed.  It's  as  much  as  he  can  do  to  write  ;  and  it's 
more  than  people  in  general  can  do  to  read  his  writing. 
Though  it's  plain  to  me.'" 

*' Your  mother  ?" 

"Father  said  she  was  quite  a  scholar.  She  died  when 
I  was  born..  She  was;"  Sissy  made  the  terrible  com- 
munication nervously  ;  "  she  was  a  dancer." 

"Did  your  father  love  her?"  Louisa  asked  these 
questions  with  a  strong,  wild,  wandering  interest  pecu- 
liar to  her  ;  an  interest  gone  astray  like  a  banished  crea- 
ture, and  hiding  in  solitary  places. 

"  Oh  yes  !  As  dearly  as  he  loves  me.  Father  loved 
me,  first,  for  her  sake.  He  carried  me  about  with  him 
when  I  was  quite  a  baby.  We  have  never  been  asunder 
from  that  time." 

"  Yet  he  leaves  you  now.  Sissy  ?  " 
"  Only  for  my  good.  Nobody  understands  him  as  I  do, 
nobody  knows  "him  as  I  do.  When  he  left  me  for  my 
good— he  never  would  have  left  me  for  his  own— I  know 
he  was  almost  broken-hearted  with  the  trial.  He  will 
not  be  happy  for  a  single  minute,  till  he  comes  back.' 

"  Tell  me^more  about  him,"  said  Louisa,  "I  Mdll  never 
ask  you  again.    Where  did  you  live  ?  " 

"  We  travelled  about  the  country,  and  had  no  hxed 
place  to  live  in.  Father's  a  ;"  Sissy  whispered  the  awful 
word  "  a  clown."  ,  -r     .  a 

"  To  make  the  people  laugh  ?"  said  Louisa,  with  a  nod 
of  intelligence. 

"  Yes  But  they  wouldn't  lauffli  sometimes,  and  then 
father  cried.  Lately,  they  very  often  wouldn't  laugh, 
and  he  used  to  come  home  despairing.  Father  s  not  lil^e 
most.  Those  who  didn't  know  him  as  well  as  I  do,  and 
didn't  love  him  as  dearly  as  I  do,  might  believe  he  was 
not  quite  right.  Sometimes  they  played  tricks  upon 
him  •  but  they  never  knew  how  he  felt  them,  and  shrunk 
up  when  he  was  alone  with  me.  He  was  far,  far  timider 
than  they  thought  ! "  x.. 
"  And  you  were  his  comfort  through  everything  t 
She  nodded,  with  the  tears  rolling  down  her  face.  "I 
hope  so,  and  father  said  I  was.  It  was  because  I  grew 
so  scared  and  trembling,  and  because  he  felt  himself  to 
be  a  poor,  weak,  ignorant,  helpless  man,  (those  used  to 
be  his  words),  that  he  wanted  me  so  much  to  know  a 
great  deal,  and  be  different  from  him.  I  used  to  read  to 
him  to  cheer  his  courage,  and  he  was  very  fond  of  that. 
They  were  wrong  books — I  am  never  to  speak  of  them 
here— but  we  didn't  know  there  was  any  harm  in  them." 


"  And  ho  liked  them  ?  "  said  Louisa,  with  her  search- 
ing gaze  on  Sissy  all  this  thne.  ... 

"O  very  much!  They  kept  him,  many  times,  from 
what  did  him  real  harm.  And  often  and  often  of  a  night, 
he  used  to  forget  all  his  troubles  in  wondering  wlu;ther 
the  Sultan  would  let  the  lady  go  on  with  the  story,  or 
wonld  liave  her  head  cut  off  before  it  was  finished 

"  And  your  father  was  always  kind  I    To  the  last  t 
asked  Louisa;  contravening  the  great  principle,  and 
wondering  very  much.  . 

"Always,  always!"  returned  Sissy,  clasping  her 
hands.  "  Kinder  and  kinder  than  I  can  tell  He  was 
anffry  only  one  night,  and  that  was  not  to  mc  but  Merry- 
le|s.  Merrylegs  ;"  she  whispered  the  awful  fact;  is 
his  performing  dog."  ^     .     ,         i  , 

"  Why  was  he  angry  with  the  dog?"  Louisa  demanded. 
"  Father,  soon  after  tliey  came  home  from  performing, 
told  Merrylegs  to  jump  up  on  the  backs  of  the  two  chairs 
and  stand  across  them— which  is  one  of  his  tricks.  He 
looked  at  father,  and  didn't  do  it  at  once.  Everything  of 
father's  had  gone  wrong  that  night,  and  he  hadn  t  pleased 
the  public  at  all.  He  cried  out  that  the  very  dog  knew 
he  was  failing,  and  had  no  compassion  on  him.  Ihen  he 
beat  the  dog,  and  I  was  frightened  and  said,  'Father 
father  !  Pray  don't  hurt  the  creature  who  is  so  fond  ot 
vou  I  0  Heaven  forgive  you,  father,  stop  1 '  And  he 
stopped,  and  the  dog  was  bloody,  and  father  lay  down 
crying  on  the  floor  with  his  dog  in  his  arms,  and  the 
dog  licked  his  face."  .  . 

Louisa  saw  that  she  was  sobbing  ;  and  going  to  her, 
kissed  her,  took  her  hand,  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  Finish  by  telling  me  how  your  father  left  you.  Sissy. 
Now  that  I  have  asked  you  so  much,  tell  me  the  end. 
The  blame,  if  there  is  any  blame,  is  mine,  not  yours.' 

"  Dear  Miss  Louisa,"  said  Sissy,  covering  her  eyes,  and 
sobbing  vet  ;  "  I  came  home  from  the  school  that  after- 
noon, and  found  poor  father  just  come  home  too  from  the 
booth.  And  he  sat  rocking  himself  over  the  fire,  as  if  he 
was  in  pain.  And  I  said,  'Have  you  hurt  yourself 
father  ?'  (as  he  did  sometimes,  like  they  all  did,)  and  he 
said  '  A  little,  my  darling.'  And  when  I  came  to  stoop 
down  and  look  up  at  his  face,  I  saw  that  he  was  crying 
The  more  I  spoke  to  him,  the  more  he  hid  his  face  ;  and 
at  first  he  shook  all  over,  and  said  nothing  but  '  My  dar- 
ling ;  and  '  My  love  !  "'  -,    .  ^ 

Here  Tom  came  lounging  in,  and  stared  at  the  two 
with  a  coolness  not  particularly  savouring  of  interest  m 
anything  but  himself,  and  not  much  of  that  at  present. 

"  I  am  asking  Sissy  a  few  questions,  Tom,"  observed 
his  sister.  "You  have  no  occasion  to  go  away  ;  but 
don't  interrupt  us  for  a  moment,  Tom  dear." 

"  Oh  !  very  well  !  "  returned  Tom.  ' '  Only  father  has 
brought  old  Bounderby  home,  and  I  want  you  to  come 
into  the  drawing-room.  Because  if  you  come,  there's  a 
good  chance  of  old  Bound erby's  asking  me  to  dinner ; 
and  if  you  don't  there's  none." 
"  I'll  come  directly." 

"  I'll  wait  for  you,"  said  Tom,  "  to  make  sure. 
Sissy  resumed  in  a  lower  voice.  "  At  last  poor  father 
said  that  he  had  given  no  satisfaction  again,  and  never 
did  give  any  satisfaction  now,  and  that  he  was  a  shame 
and  disgrace,  and  I  should  have  done  better  without  him 
all  along.  I  said  all  the  affectionate  things  to  him 
that  came  into  my  heart,  and  presently  he  was  quiet 
and  I  sat  down  by  him,  and  told  him  all  about  the  school 
and  everything  that  had  been  said  and  done  there 
When  I  had  no  more  left  to  tell,  he  put  his  arms  round 
my  neck,  and  kissed  me  a  great  many  times  Ihen  he 
asked  me  to  fetch  some  of  the  stuff  he  used,  for  the  little 
hurt  he  had  had,  and  to  get  it  at  the  best  place,  which 
was  at  the  other  end  of  town  from  there  ;  and  then,  after 
kissing  me  again,  he  let  me  go  W  hen  I  liad  gone 
down-?tairs,  I  turned  back  that  I  might  be  a  litt.e  bit 
more  companv  to  him  yet,  and  looked  in  at  the  door,  and 
said  'Father  dear,  shall  I  take  Merrylegs?  lather 
shook  his  head  and  said,  'No,  Sissy,  no  ;  take  nothing 
that's  known  to  be  mine,  my  darling  ;  and  I  left  him 
sitting  by  the  fire.  Then  the  thought  must  have  come 
upon  hini,  poor,  poor  father  !  of  going  away  to  try  some- 
thing for  my  sake  ;  for,  when  I  came  bock  he  was  gone. 

"1  say  !    Look  sharp  for  old  Bounderby,  Loo  1'  Tom 
remonstrated. 


984 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  There's  no  more  to  tell,  Miss  Louisa.  I  keep  the 
nine  oils  ready  for  him  and  I  know  he  will  come  back. 
Every  letter  that  I  see  in  Mr.  Gradgrind's  hand  takes 
my  breath  away  and  blinds  my  eyes,  for  I  think  it  comes 
from  father,  or  from  Mr.  Sleary  about  father.  Mr. 
Sleary  promised  to  write  as  soon  as  ever  father  should 
be  heard  of,  and  I  trust  to  him  to  keep  his  word." 

"  Do  look  sharp  for  old  Bounderby,  Loo  !  "  said  Tom, 
-with  an  impatient  whistle.  "  He'll  be  off  if  you  don't 
look  sharp  !  " 

After  this,  whenever  Sissy  dropped  a  curtsey  to  Mr. 
Gradgrind  in  the  presence  of  his  family,  and  said  in  a 
faltering  way,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  being  trou- 
blesome— but— have  you  had  any  letter  yet  about  me?" 
Louisa  would  suspend  the  occupation  of  the  moment, 
whatever  it  was,  and  look  for  the  reply  as  earnestly  as 
Sissy  did.  And  when  Mr.  Gradgrind  regularly  answered, 
"No,  Jupe,  nothing  of  the  sort,"  the  trembling  of 
Sissy's  lip  would  be  repeated  in  Louisa's  face,  and  her 
eyes  would  follow  Sissy  with  compassion  to  the  door. 
Mr.  Gradgrind  usually  improved  these  occasions  by  re- 
marking, when  she  was  gone,  that  if  Jupe  had  been 
properly  trained  from  an  early  age  she  v/ould  have  de- 
monstrated to  herself  on  sound  principles  the  baseless- 
ness of  these  fantastic  hopes.  Yet  it  did  seem  (though 
not  to  him,  for  he  saw  nothing  of  it)  as  if  fantastic  hope 
could  take  as  strong  a  hold  as  Fact. 

This  observation  must  be  limited  exclusively  to  his 
daughter.  As  to  Tom,  he  was  becoming  that  not  unpre- 
cedented triumph  of  calculation  which  is  usually  at 
work  on  number  one.  As  to  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  if  she  said 
anything  on  the  subject,  she  would  come  a  little  way 
out  of  her  wrappers,  like  a  feminine  dormouse,  and  say  : 

"  Good  gracious  bless  me,  how  my  poor  head  is  vexed 
and  worried  bv  that  girl  Jupe's  so  perseveringly  asking, 
over  and  over  again,  about  her  tiresome  letters  !  Upon 
my  word  and  honour  I  seem  to  be  fated,  and  destined, 
aud  ordained,  to  live  in  the  midst  of  things  that  I  am 
never  to  hear  the  last  of.  It  really  is  a  most  extraor- 
dinary circumstance  that  it  appears  as  if  I  never  were  to 
hear  the  last  of  anything  ! " 

At  about  this  point,  Mr.  Gradgrind's  eye  would  fall 
upon  her  ;  and  under  the  influence  of  that  wintry  piece 
of  fact,  she  would  become  torpid  again. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Stephen  Blackpool. 

I  EHTERTATN  a  Weak  idea  that  the  English  people  are 
as  hard  worked  as  any  people  upon  whom  the  sun 
shines.  I  acknowledge  to  this  ridiculous  idiosyncrasy, 
as  a  reason  why  I  would  give  them  a  little  more'  play. 

In  the  hardest  working  part  of  Coketown  ;  in  the  in- 
nermost fortifications  of  that  ugly  citadel,  where  Nature 
was  as  strongly  bricked  oat  as  killing  airs  and  gases 
were  bricked  in  ;  at  the  heart  of  the  labyrinth  of  nar- 
row courts  upon  courts,  and  close  streets'  upon  streets, 
which  had  come  into  existence  piecemeal,  every  piece  in 
a  violent  hurry  for  some  one  man's  purpose,  and  the 
whole  an  unnatural  family,  shouldering,  and  trampling, 
and  pressing  one  another  to  death  ;  in  the  last  close  nook 
of  this  great  exhausted  receiver,  where  the  chimneys, 
for  want  of  air  to  make  a  draught,  were  built  an  immense 
variety  of  stunted  and  crooked  shapes,  as  though  every 
liouso  put  out  a  sign  of  the  kind  of  people  who  might  be 
expected  to  be  born  in  it  ;  among  the  multitude  of  Coke- 
town,  generically  called  "  the  Hands," — a  race  who  would 
have  found  more  favour  with  some  people,  if  Providence 
had  seen  fit  to  make  them  only  hands,  or,  like  the  lower 
creatures  of  the  sea-shore,  only  hands  and  stomachs — 
lived  a  certain  Stephen  Blackpool,  forty  years  of  age. 

Stephen  looked  older,  but  ho  had  had  a  hard  life.  It 
'is  said  that  every  life  has  its  roses  and  thorns;  there 
seemed,  however,  to  have  been  a  misadventure  or  mis- 
take in  Stephen's  case,  whereby  somebody  else  had  be- 
come possessed  of  his  roses  and  he  had  become  pos- 
sessed of  the  same  somebody  else's  thorns  in  addition  to 
his  own.  He  had  known,  to  use  his  words,  a  peck  of 
troublf!.  He  was  usually  called  Old  Stephen,  in  a  kind 
of  rough  homage  to  the  fact. 


A  rather  stooping  man,  with  a  knitted  brow,  a  ponder- 
ing expression  of  face,  and  a  hard-looking  head  suffi- 
ciently capacious,  on ■  which  his  iron-grey  hair  lay  long 
and  thin.  Old  Stephen  might  have  passed  for  a  particu- 
larly intelligent  man  in  his  condition.  Yet  he  was  not. 
He  took  no  place  among  those 'remarkable  "Hands," 
who,  piecing  together  their  broken  intervals  of  leisure 
through  many  years,  had  mastered  difficult  sciences, 
and  acquired  a  knowledge  of  most  unlikely  things.  He 
held  no  station  among  the  Hands  who  could  make 
speeches  and  carry  on  debates.  Thousands  of  his  com- 
peers could  talk  much  better  than  he,  at  any  time.  He 
was  a  good  power-loom  weaver,  and  a  man  of  perfect 
integrity.  What  more  he  was,  or  what  else  he  had  in 
him,  if  anything,  let  him  show  for  himself. 

The  lights  in  the  great  factories,  which  looked,  when 
they  were  illuminated,  like  Fairy  palaces — or  the  travel- 
lers by  express-train  said  so — were  all  extinguished  ; 
and  the  bells  had  rung  for  knocking  off  for  the  night, 
and  had  ceased  again  ;  and  the  Hands,  men  and  women, 
boy  and  girl,  were  clattering  home.  Old  Stephen  was 
standing  in  the  street,  with  the  odd  sensation  upon  him 
which  the  stoppage  of  the  machinery  always  produced — 
the  sensation  of  its  having  worked  and  stopped  in  his 
own  head. 

"  Yet  I  don't  see  Rachael,  still  !  "  said  he. 

It  was  a  wet  night,  and  many  groups  of  young  women 
passed  him,  with  their  shawls  drawn  over  their  bare  heads 
and  held  close  under  their  chins  to  keep  the  rain  out. 
He  knew  Rachael  well,  for  a  glance  at  any  one  of  these 
groups  was  sufficient  to  show  him  that  she  was  not 
there.  At  last,  there  was  no  more  to  come  ;  and  then 
he  turned  away,  saying  in  a  tone  of  disappointment, 
"  Why,  then,  I  ha'  missed  her  !  " 

But,  he  had  not  gone  the  length  of  three  streets,  when 
he  saw  another  of  the  shawled  figures  in  advance  of 
him,  at  which  he  looked  so  keenly  that  perhaps  its  mere 
shadow  indistinctly  reflected  on  the  wet  pavement — if 
he  could  have  seen  it  without  the  figure  itself  moving 
along  from  lamp  to  lamp,  brightening  and  fading  as  it 
went — would  have  been  enough  to  tell  him  who  was 
there.  Making  his  pace  at  once  much  quicker  and 
much  softer,  he  darted  on  until  he  was  very  near  this 
figure,  then  fell  into  his  former  walk,  and  called  "  Ra- 
chael ! " 

She  turned,  being  then  in  the  brightness  of  a  lamp  ; 
and  raising  her  hood  a  little,^  showed  a  quite  oval  face, 
dark  and  rather  delicate,  irradiated  by  a  pair  of  very 
gentle  eyes,  and  further  set  off  by  the  perfect  order  of 
her  shining  black  hair.  It  was  not  a  face  in  its  first 
bloom  ;  she  was  a  woman  five  and  thirty  years  of  age, 

"Ah,  lad!  'Tis  thou?"  When  she  had  said  this, 
with  a  smile  which  would  have  been  quite  expressed, 
though  nothing  of  her  had  been  seen  but  her  pleasant 
eyes,  she  replaced  her  hood  again,  and  they  went  on  to- 
gether. 

"  I  thought  thou  wast  ahind  me,  Rachael  ?  " 
"  No." 

"  Early  t'night,  lass  ?  " 

"'Times  I'm  a  little  early,  Stephen;  'times  a  little 
late.    I'm  never  to  be  counted  on,  going  home." 

"  Nor  going  t'other  way,  neither,  't  seems  to  me, 
Rachael  ?  " 

"  No,  Stephen." 

He  looked  at  her  with  some  disappointment  in  his 
face,  but  with  a  respectful  and  patient  conviction  that 
she  must  be  right  in  whatever  she  did.  The  expression 
was  not  lost  upon  her  ;  she  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his 
arm  a  moment  as  if  to  thank  him  for  it. 

"  We  are  such  true  friends,  lad,  and  such  old  friends, 
and  getting  to  be  such  old  folk,  now." 

"No,  Rachael,  thou'rt  as  young  as  ever  thou  wast." 

"  One  of  us  would  be  puzzled  how  to  get  old,  Stephen, 
without  t'other  getting  so  too,  both  being  alive,"  she 
answered,  laughing  ;  "  but,  any  ways,  we're  such  old 
friends,  that  t'  hide  a  word  of  honest  truth  fro'  one  an- 
other would  be  a  sin  and  a  pity.  'Tis  better  not  to  walk 
too  much  together.  'Times,  yes  !  'Twould  be  hard,  in- 
deed, if  'twas  not  to  be  at  all,"  she  said,  with  a  cheer- 
fulness she  sought  to  communicate  to  him. 

"  'Tis  hard,  anyways,  Rachel." 

"  Try  to  think  not ;  and  'twill  seem  better." 


HARD 

"I've  tried  a  lonj^  timo,  and 'ta'nt  got  better.  But 
thou'rt  right ;  'tmiglit  mak  fok  talk,  even  of  thee.  Thou 
hast  been  that  to  me,  Rachel,  through  so  many  year  : 
thou  hast  done  me  so  much  good,  and  heartened  of  me 
in  that  cheering  way,  that  thy  word  is  a  law  to  me.  Ah 
lass,  and  a  bright  good  law  1  Better  than  some  real 
ones." 

"Never  fret  about  them,  Stephen,"  .she  answered 
quickly,  and  not  without  an  anxious  glance  at  his  face. 
"  Let  the  laws  be." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  slow  nod  or  two.  "Lot  'em 
be.  Let  everything  be.  Let  all  sorts  alone.  'Tis  a 
muddle,  and  that's  aw." 

"  Always  a  muddle  ?  "  said  Rachael,  with  another  gen- 
tle touch  upon  his  arm,  as  if  to  recall  him  out  of  the 
thoughtful ness,  in  which  he  was  biting  the  long  ends  of 
his  loose  neckerchief  as  he  walked  along.  The  touch 
had  its  instantaneous  effect.  lie  let  them  fall,  turned  a 
smiling  face  upon  her,  and  said,  as  he  broke  into  a  good- 
humoured  laugh,  "Ay,  Rachael,  lass,  awlus  a  muddle. 
That's  where  I  stick.  I  come  to  the  muddle  many  times 
and  agen,  and  I  never  get  beyond  it." 

They  had  walked  some  distance,  and  were  near  their 
own  homes.  The  woman's  was  the  first  reached.  It 
was  in  one  of  the  many  small  streets  for  which  the  fa- 
vourite undertaker  (who  turned  a  handsome  sum  out  of 
the  one  poor  ghastly  pomp  of  the  neighbourhood)  kept 
a  black  ladder,  in  order  that  those  who  had  done  their 
daily  groping  up  and  down  the  narrow  stairs  might  slide 
out  of  this  working  world  by  the  windows.  She  stopped 
at  the  corner,  and  putting  her  hand  in  his,  wished  him 
good  night. 

"  Good  night,  dear  lass  ;  good  night ! " 

She  went,  with  her  neat  figure  and  her  sober  womanly 
step,  down  the  dark  street,  and  he  stood  looking  after 
her  until  she  turned  into  one  of  the  small  houses.  There 
was  not  a  flutter  of  her  coarse  shawl,  perhaps,  but  had 
its  interest  in  this  man's  eyes  ;  not  a  tone  of  her  voice 
but  had  its  echo  in  his  innermost  heart. 

When  she  was  lost  to  his  view,  he  pursued  his  home- 
ward way,  glancing  up  sometimes  at  the  sky,  where  the 
clouds  were  sailing  fast  and  wildly.  But,  they  were 
broken  now,  and  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  moon 
shone — looking  down  the  high  chimneys  of  Coketown  on 
the  deep  furnaces  below,  and  casting  Titanic  shadows  of 
the  steam  engines  at  rest,  upon  the  walls  where  they 
were  lodged.  The  man  seemed  to  have  brightened  with 
the  night,  as  he  went  on. 

His  home,  in  such  another  street  as  the  first,  saving 
that  it  was  narrower,  was  over  a  little  shop.  How  it 
came  to  pass  that  any  people  found  it  worth  their  while 
to  sell  or  buy  the  wretched  little  toys,  mixed  up  in  its 
window  with  cheap  newspapers  and  pork  (there  was  a 
leg  to  be  raffled  for  to-morrow  night),  matters  not  here. 
He  took  his  end  of  candle  from  a  shelf,  lighted  it  at  an- 
other end  of  candle  on  the  counter,  without  disturbing 
the  mistress  of  the  shop  who  was  asleep  in  her  little 
room,  and  went  up-stairs  into  his  lodging. 

It  was  a  room,  not  unacquainted  with  the  black  ladder 
under  various  tenants  ;  but  as  neat,  at  present,  as  such 
a  room  could  be.  A  few  books  and  writings  were  on 
an  old  bureau  in  a  corner,  the  furniture  was  decent  and 
sufficient,  and  though  the  atmosphere  was  tainted,  the 
room  was  clean. 

Going  to  the  hearth  to  set  the  candle  down  upon  a 
round  three-legged  table  standing  there,  he  stumbled 
against  something.  As  he  recoiled,  looking  down  at  it, 
it  raised  itself  up  into  the  form  of  a  woman  in  a  sitting 
attitude. 

"  Heaven's  mercy,  woman  !  "  he  cried,  falling  farther 
off  from  the  figure.    "  Hast  thou  come  back  again  !  " 

Such  a  woman  !  A  disabled,  drunken  creature,  barely 
able  to  preserve  her  sitting  posture  by  steadying  herself 
with  one  begrimed  hand  on  the  floor,  while  the  other 
was  so  purposeless  in  trying  to  push  away  lier  tangled 
hair  from  her  face,  that  it  only  blinded  her  the  more 
with  the  dirt  upon  it.  A  creature  so  foul  to  look  at,  in 
her  tatters,  stains  and  splashes,  but  so  much  fouler  than 
that  in  her  moral  infamy,  that  it  was  a  shameful  thing 
even  to  see  her. 

After  an  impatient  oath  or  two,  and  some  stupid  claw- 
ing of  herself  with  the  hand  not  necessary  to  her  support, 


TIMES,  085 

she  got  her  hair  away  from  her  eyes  sufficiently  to  ob- 
tain a  sight  of  him.  Then  she  sat  swaying  her  body  to 
and  fro,  and  making  gestures  with  her  unnerved  arm, 
which  seemed  intended  as  the  accompaniment  to  a  fit  of 
laughter,  though  her  face  was  stolid  and  drowsy. 

' '  Eigh  lad  ?  What,  yo'r  there  ?  "  Some  hoarse  sounds 
meant  for  this,  came  mockingly  out  of  her  at  last  ;  and 
her  head  dropped  forward  on  her  breast. 

"  Back  agenV"  she  screeched,  after  some  minutes,  as 
if  lie  had  that  moment  said  it.  "  Yes  !  And  back  agen. 
Back  agen  ever  and  ever  so  often.  Back?  Yes,  back. 
Why  not  ?  " 

Roused  by  the  unmeaning  violence  with  which  she 
cried  it  out,  she  scrambled  up,  and  stood  supporting  her- 
self with  her  shoulders  against  the  wall  ;  dangling  in 
one  hand  by  the  strings,  a  dunghill -fragment  of  a  bon- 
net, and  trying  to  look  scornfully  at  him. 

"  I'll  sell  thee  off  again,  and  I'll  sell  thee  off  again, 
and  I'll  sell  thee  off  a  score  of  times  ! "  she  cried,  with 
something  between  a  furious  menace  and  an  effort  at  a 
defiant  dance.  "Come  awa' from  th'  bed!"  He  was 
sitting  on  the  side  of  it,  with  his  face  hidden  in  his 
hands.  "  Come  awa'  from  't.  'Tis  mine,  and  I've  a 
right  to 't  !  " 

As  she  staggered  to  it,  he  avoided  her  with  a  shudder, 
and  passed — liis  face  still  hidden — to  the  opx)Osite  end  of 
the  room.  She  threw  herself  upon  the  bed  heavily,  and 
soon  was  snoring  hard.  He  sunk  into  a  chair,  and  moved 
but  once  all  that  night.  It  was  to  throw  a  covering  over 
her  ;  as  if  his  hands  were  not  enough  to  hide  her,  even 
in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XL 

No  Way  Out. 

The  Fairy  palaces  burst  into  illumination,  before  pale 
morning  showed  the  monstrous  serpents  of  smoke  trail- 
ing themselves  over  Coketown.  A  clattering  of  clogs 
upon  the  pavement ;  a  rapid  ringing  of  bells  ;  and  all 
the  melancholy  mad  elephants,  polished  and  oiled  up  for 
the  day's  monotony,  were  at  their  heavy  exercise  again. 

Stephen  bent  over  his  loom,  quiet,  watchful,  and 
steady.  A  special  contrast,  as  every  man  was  in  the 
forest  of  looms  where  Stephen  worked  to  the  crashing, 
smashing,  tearing  piece  of  mechanism  at  which  he 
laboured.  Never  fear,  good  people  of  an  anxious  turn 
of  mind,  that  Art  will  consign  Nature  to  oblivion.  Set 
anywhere,  side  by  side,  the  work  of  God  and  the  v/ork 
of  man  ;  and  the  former,  even  though  it  be  a  troop  of 
Hands  of  very  small  account,  will  gain  in  dignity  from 
the  comparison. 

So  many  hundred  Hands  in  this  Mill ;  so  many  hun- 
dred horse  Steam  Power.  It  is  known,  to  the  force  of  a 
single  pound  weight,  what  the  engine  will  do  ;  but,  not 
all  the  calculators  of  the  National  Debt  can  tell  me  the 
capacity  for  good  or  evil,  for  love  or  hatred,  for  patriot- 
ism or  discontent,  for  the  decomposition  of  virtue  into  vice, 
or  the  reverse,  at  any  single  moment  in  the  soul  of  one  of 
these  its  quiet  servants,  with  the  composed  faces  and  the 
regulated  actions.  There  is  no  mystery  in  it  ;  there  is 
an  unfathomable  mystery  in  the  meanest  of  them,  for 
ever. — Su])posing  we  were  to  reserve  our  arithmetic  for 
material  objects,  and  to  govern  these  awful  unknown 
quantities  by  other  means  ! 

The  day  grew  strong,  and  showed  itself  outside  even 
against  the  flaming  lights  within.  The  lights  were 
turned  out,  and  the  work  went  on.  The  rain  fell,  and 
the  Smoke-serpents,  submissive  to  the  curse  of  all  that 
tribe,  trailed  themselves  upon  the  earth.  In  the  waste- 
yard  outside,  the  steam  from  the  escape  pipe,  the  litter 
of  barrels  and  old  iron,  the  shining  heaps  of  coals,  the 
ashes  everywhere,  were  shrouded  in  a  veil  of  mist  and 
rain. 

The  work  went  on,  until  the  noon-bell  rang.  More 
clattering  upon  the  pavements.  The  looms,  and  wheels, 
and  Hands  all  out  of  gear  for  an  hour. 

Stephen  came  out  of  the  hot  mill  into  the  damp  wind 
and  cold  wet  streets,  haggard  and  worn.  He  turned 
from  his  own  class  and  his  own  quarter,  taking  nothing 
but  a  little  bread  as  he  walked  along,  towards  the  hifl 


986 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


on  which  his  principal  employer  lived  in  a  red  house 
with  black  outside  shutters,  green  inside  blinds,  a  black 
street  door,  up  two  white  steps,  Bounderby  (in  letters 
very  like  himself)  upon  a  brazen  plate,  and  a  round 
brazen  door-handle  underneath  it,  like  a  brazen  full- 
stop. 

Mr.  Bounderby  was  at  his  lunch.  So  Stephen  had  ex- 
pected. Would  his  servant  say  that  one  of  the  Hands 
begged  leave  to  speak  to  him?  Message  in  return,  re- 
quiring name  of  such  Hand.  Stephen  Blackpool.  There 
was  nothing  troublesome  against  Stephen  Blackpool ; 
yes,  he  might  come  in. 

Stephen  Blackpool  in  the  parlour.  Mr.  Bounderby 
(whom  he  just  knew  by  sight),  at  lunch  on  chop  and 
sherry.  Mrs.  Sparsit  netting  at  the  fire-side,  in  a  side- 
saddle attitude  with  one  foot  in  a  cotton  stirrup.  It  was 
a  part,  at  once  of  Mrs.  Sparsit's  dignity  and  service,  not 
to  lunch.  She  supervised  the  meal  officially,  but  im- 
plied that  in  her  own  stately  person  she  considered  lunch 
a  weakness. 

"IS'ow,  Stephen,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  ''what's  the 
matter  with  you  f  " 

Stephen  made  a  bow.  Not  a  servile  one — these  Hands 
will  never  do  that !  Lord  bless  you,  sir,  you'll  never 
catch  them  at  that,  if  they  have  been  with  you  twenty 
years  ! — and,  as  a  complimentary  toilet  for  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
tucked  his  neckerchief  ends  into  his  waistcoat. 

"Now  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  taking  some 
sherry,  "  we  have  never  had  any  difficulty  with  you,  and 
you  have  never  been  one  of  the  unreasonable  ones.  You 
don't  expect  to  be  set  up  in  a  coach  and  six,  and  to  be 
fed  on  turtle  soup  and  venison,  with  a  gold  spoon,  as  a 
good  many  of  'em  do  !"  Mr.  IBounderby  always  repre- 
sented this  to  be  the  sole,  immediate,  and  direct  object 
of  any  Hand  who  was  not  entirely  satisfied  ;  "  and  there- 
fore I  know  already  that  you  have  not  come  here  to  make 
a  complaint.  Now,  you  know,  I  am  certain  of  that 
beforehand." 

"  No  sir,  sure  I  ha'  not  coom  for  nowt  o'  th'  kind." 

Mr.  Bounderby  seemed  agreeably  surprised,  notwith- 
standing his  previous  strong  conviction.  "Very  well," 
he  returned,  "You're  a  steady  Hand,  and  I  was  not  mis- 
taken. Now,  let  me  hear  what  it's  all  about.  As  it's  not 
that,  let  me  hear  what  it  is.  What  have  you  got  to  say? 
Out  with  it  lad  !" 

Stephen  happened  to  glance  towards  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "  I 
can  go,  Mr.  Bounderby,  if  you  wish  it,"  said  that  self- 
sacrificing  lady,  making  a  feint  of  taking  her  foot  out  of 
the  stirrup. 

Mr.  Bounderby  stayed  her,  by  holding  a  mouthful  of 
chop  in  suspension  before  swallowing  it,  and  putting  out 
his  left  hand.  Then,  withdrawing  his  hand,  and  swal- 
lowing his  mouthful  of  chop,  he  said  to  Stephen  : 

"  Now  you  know,  this  good  lady  is  a  born  lady,  a  high 
lady.  You  are  not  to  suppose  because  she  keeps  my 
house  for  me,  that  she  hasn't  been  very  high  up  the  tree 
— ah,  up  at  the  top  of  the  tree  !  Now,  if  you  have  got 
anything  to  say  that  can't  be  said  before  a  born  lady,  this 
lady  will  leave  the  room.  If  what  you  have  got  to  say 
can  be  said  before  a  born  lady,  this  lady  will  stay  where 
she  is." 

"  Sir,  I  hope  I  never  had  nowt  to  say,  not  fitten  for  a 
born  lady  to  year,  sin'  I  were  born  roysen,"  was  the 
reply,  accompanied  with  a  slight  flush. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  pushing  away  his 
plate,  and  leaning  back.    "  Fire  away  !  " 

"I  ha'  coom,"  Stephen  began,  raising  his  eyes  from 
the  floor,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  "  to  ask  yo  yor 
advice.  I  need't  overmuch.  I  were  married  on  Eas'r 
Monday  nineteen  year  sin,  long  and  dree.  She  were  a 
young  lass — pretty  enow — wi'  good  accounts  of  herseln. 
Well!  Slie  went  bad — soon.  Not  along  of  me.  Gonnows 
I  were  not  a  unkind  husband  to  her."  ^ 

"  I  have  heard  all  this  before,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby. 
»  "  She  took  to  drinking,  left  off  working,  sold  the  furni- 
ture, pawned  the  clothes,  and  played  old  Gooseberry." 

"  I  were  patient  wi'  her." 

("  The  more  fool  you,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  in 
confidence  to  his  wine-glass.) 

"  I  were  very  patient  wi'  her.  I  tried  to  wean  her  fra't 
ower  and  ower  agon.  I  tried  this,  I  tried  that,  I  tried 
t'other.    I  ha'  gone  home,  many's  the  time,  and  found 


all  vanished  as  I  had  in  the  world,  and  her  without  a 
sense  left  to  bless  herseln  lying  on  bare  ground.  I  ha' 
dun't  not  once,  not  twice — twenty  time  ! " 

Every  line  in  his  face  deepened  as  he  said  it,  and  put 
in  its  affecting  evidence  of  the  suffering  he  had  under- 
gone. 

"  From  bad  to  worse,  from  worse  to  worsen.  She  left 
me.  She  disgraced  herseln  every  ways,  bitter  and  bad. 
She  coom  back,  she  coom  back,  she  coom  back.  What 
could  I  do  t'  hinder  her?  I  ha'  walked  the  streets  nights 
long,  ere  ever  I'd  go  home.  I  ha'  gone  t'  th'  bri gg, 
minded  to  fling  myseln  ower,  and  ha'  no  more  on't.  I  ha' 
bore  that  much,  that  I  were  owd  when  I  were  young." 

Mrs.  Sparsit  easily  ambling  along  with  her  netting- 
needles,  raised  the  Coriolanian  eyebrows  and  shook  her 
head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "The  great  know  trouble  as 
well  as  the  sniall.  Please  to  turn  your  humble  eye  in 
My  direction." 

"  I  ha'  paid  her  to  keep  awa'  fra'  me.  These  five  year 
I  ha'  paid  her.  I  ha'  gotten  decent  fewtrils  about  me 
agen.  I  ha'  lived  hard  and  sad,  but  not  ashamed  and 
fearfo'  a'  the  minnits  o'  my  life.  Last  night,  I  went 
home.  There  she  lay  upon  my  har-stone  !  There  she  is  ! " 

In  the  strength  of  his  misfortune,  and  the  energy  of 
his  distress,  he  fired  for  the  moment  like  a  proud  man. 
In  another  moment,  he  stood  as  he  had  stood  all  the  time 
— his  usual  stoop  upon  him  ;  his  pondering  face  addressed 
to  Mr.  Bounderby,  with  a  curious  expression  on  it,  half 
shrewd,  half  perplexed,  as  if  his  mind  were  set  upon 
unravelling  something  very  difficult ;  his  hat  held  tight 
in  his  left  hand,  which  rested  on  his  hip  ;  his  right  arm, 
with  a  rugged  propriety  and  force  of  action,  very  ear- 
nestly emphasising  what  he  said  :  not  least  so  when  it 
always  paused,  a  little  bent,  but  not  withdrawn,  as  he 
paused. 

"  I  was  acquainted  with  all  this,  you  know,"  said 
Mr.  Bounderby,  "  except  the  last  clause,  long  ago.  It's 
a  bad  job  ;  that's  what  it  is.  You  had  better  have  been 
satisfied  as  you  were,  and  not  have  got  married.  How- 
ever, it's  too  late  to  say  that. " 

"  Was  it  an  unequal  marriage,  sir,  in  point  of  years?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"  You  hear  what  this  lady  asks.  Was  it  an  unequal 
marriage  in  point  of  years,  this  unlucky  job  of  yours?  '* 
said  Mr.  Bounderby. 

"Not  e'en  so.  I  were  one-and-twenty  myseln;  she 
were  twenty  nighbut. " 

"Indeed,  sir?"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit  to  her  Chief,  with 
great  placidity.  "  I  inferred,  from  its  being  so  misera- 
ble a  marriage,  that  it  was  probably  an  unequal  one  in 
point  of  years." 

Mr.  Bounderby  looked  very  hard  at  the  good  lady  in  a 
sidelong  way  that  had  an  odd  sheej)islmess  about  it.  He 
fortified  himself  with  a  little  more  sherry. 

"Well?  Why  don't  you  go  on?"  he  then  asked, 
turning  rather  irritably  on  Stephen  Blackpool. 

'/  I  ha'  coom  to  ask  yo,  sir,  how  I  am  to  be  ridded  o' 
tlii's  woman."  Stephen  infused  a  yet  deeper  gravity  into 
the  mixed  expression  of  his  attentive  face.  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit uttered  a  gentle  ejaculation,  as  having  received  a 
moral  shock. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Bounderby,  getting  up  to 
lean  his  back  against  the  chimney-piece.  "  What  are 
you  talking  about  ?    You  took  her  for  better  for  worse." 

"  I  mun'  be  ridden  o'  her.  I  cannot  bear 't  nommore. 
I  ha'  lived  under 't  so  long,  for  that  I  ha'  had'n  the  pity 
and  comforting  words  o'  th'  best  lass  living  or  dead. 
Haply,  but  for  her,  I  should  ha'  gone  hottering  mad." 

"He  wishes  to  be  free,  to  marry  the  female  of  whom 
he  speaks,  1  fear,  sir,"  observed  Mrs.  Sparsit  in  an  un- 
dertone, and  much  dejected  by  the  immorality  of  the 
people. 

"  I  do.  The  lady  says  what's  right.  I  do.  I  were  a 
coming  to 't.  I  ha'  read  1'  th'  papers  that  great  fok 
(fair  faw  'em  a'  !  I  wishes  'em  no  hurt  !)  are  not  bonded 
together  for  better  for  worse  so  fast,  but  that  they  can 
be  set  free  fro'  their  misfortnet  marriages,  an  marry 
ower  agen.  When  they  dunnot  agree,  for  that  their 
tempers  is  ill-sorted,  they  has  rooms  o'  one  kind  an  an- 
other in  their  houses,  above  a  bit,  and  they  can  live 
asunders.  We  fok  ha'  only  one  room,  an  Ave  can't.  When 
that  won't  do,  they  ha'  gowd  an  other  cash,  an  they  can/ 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


UB  FELT  A  TOUCH  UPON  HIS  ARM." 


HARD 

say,  *  This  for  yo',  an  tliat  for  mo,*  an  tlioy  can  go  their 
separate  ways.  We  can't.  S])itc  o'  all  tliat,  they  can 
be  set  free  for  smaller  wrongs  than  mine.  So,  I  raun 
be  ridden  o'  this  woman,  and  I  want  t'  know  how  ?  " 

"  No  how,"  returned  Mr.  Bounder  by. 

"  If  I  do  her  any  hurt,  sir,  there's  a  law  to  punish 
me?  " 

"  Of  course  there  is." 

"  If  I  flee  from  her,  there's  a  law  to  punish  me  ?  " 
"Of  course  there  is." 

"If  I  marry  t'oother  dear  lass,  there's  a  law  to  punish 
me?" 

"  Of  course  there  is." 

"If  I  was  to  live  wi' her  an  not  marry  her — saying 
such  a  thing  could  be,  which  it  never  could  or  would, 
an  her  so  good — there's  a  law  to  punish  me,  in  every  in- 
nocent child  belonging  to  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course  there  is." 

"  Now,  a'  God's  name,"  said  Stephen  Blackpool, 
"  show  me  the  law  to  help  me  !  " 

"Hem  !  There's  a  sancity  in  this  relation  of  life," 
said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "  and — and — it  must  be  kept  up/' 

"  No  no,  dunnot  say  that,  sir.  'Tan't  kep'  up  that  way. 
Not  that  way.  'Tis  kep'  down  that  way.  I'm  a  weaver, 
I  were  in  a  fact'ry  when  a  chilt,  but  I  ha'  gotten  een  to 
see  wi'  and  eern  to  year  wi'.  I  read  in  th'  papers  every 
'Sizes,  every  Sessions — and  you  read  too — I  know  it  ! — 
with  dismay — how  th'  supposed  unpossibility  o'  ever  get- 
ting unchained  from  one  another,  at  any  price,  on  any 
terras,  brings  blood  upon  this  land,  and  brings  many 
common  married  fok  to  battle,  murder,  and  sudden 
death.  Let  us  ha'  this,  right  understood.  Mine's  a 
grievous  case,  an  I  want — if  yo  will  be  so  good — t'knaw 
the  law  that  helps  me." 

"Now,  I  tell  you  what!"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  put- 
ting his  hands  in  his  pockets.    "  There  is  such  a  law." 

Stephen,  subsiding  into  his  quiet  manner,  and  never 
wandering  in  his  attention  gave  a  nod. 

"  But  it's  not  for  you  at  all.  It  costs  money.  It  costs 
a  mint  of  money." 

"  How  much  might  that  be  ?  "  Stephen  calmly  asked. 

"  Why,  you'd  have  to  go  to  Doctors'  Commons  with  a 
suit,  and  you'd  have  to  go  to  a  court  of  Common  Law 
with  a  suit,  and  you'd  have  to  go  to  the  House  of 
Lords  with  a  suit,  and  you'd  have  to  get  an  Act  of  Par- 
liament to  enable  you  to  marry  again,  and  it  would  cost 
you  (if  it  was  a  case  of  very  plain-sailing),  I  suppose 
from  a  thousand  to  fifteen  hundred  pounds,"  said  Mr. 
Bounderby.    "  Perhaps  twice  the  money." 

"  There's  no  other  law  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"Why  then,  sir,"  said  Stephen,  turning  white,  and 
motioning  with  that  right  hand  of  his,  as  if  he  gave 
everything  to  the  four  winds,  "  'tis  a  muddle.  'Tis  just 
a  muddle  a'toogether,  an  the  sooner  I  am  dead,  the  bet- 
ter." 

(Mrs.  Sparsit  again  dejected  by  the  impiety  of  the 
people.) 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  Don't  you  talk  nonsense,  my  good  fel- 
low," said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "  about  things  you  don't  un- 
derstand ;  and  don't  you  call  the  Institutions  of  your 
country  a  muddle,  or  you'll  get  yourself  into  a  real  mud- 
dle one  of  these  fine  mornings.  The  institutions  of  your 
country  are  not  your  piece-work,  and  the  only  thing  you 
have  got  to  do,  is,  to  mind  your  piece-work.  You  didn't 
take  your  wife  for  fast  and  for  loose  ;  but  for  better  for 
worse.  If  she  has  turned  out  worse — why,  all  we  have 
got  to  say  is,  she  might  have  turned  out  better." 

"  'Tis  a  muddle,"  said  Stephen,  shaking  his  head  as 
he  moved  to  the  door.    **  'Tis  a'  a  muddle  !  " 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  !"  Mr.  Bounderby  resumed, 
as  a  valedictory  address.  "With  what  I  shall  call  your 
unhallowed  opinions,  you  have  been  quite  shocking  this 
-lady  :  who,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  is  a  born  lady, 
and  who,  as  I  have  not  already  told  you,  has  had  her 
own  marriage  misfortunes  to  the  tune  of  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  pounds — tens  of  Thou-sands  of  Pounds  !  "  (he 
repeated  it  with  great  relish).  "  Now,  you  have  always 
been  a  steady  Hand  hitherto  ;  but  my  opinion  is,  and  so 
I  tell  you  plainly,  that  you  are  turning  into  the  wrong 
road.  You  have  been  listening  to  some  mischievous 
stranger  or  other — they're  always  about — and  the  best 


TIMES.  987 

thing  you  can  do  is,  to  come  out  of  that.  Now  you 
know;"  here  his  countenance  expressed  marvellous 
Hcuteness  ;  "  I  can  see  as  far  into  agrindstone  as  another 
man  ;  farther  than  a  good  many,  perhaps,  because  I  had 
my  nose  well  kept  to  it  when  I  was  young.  I  see  traces 
of  the  turtle  soup,  and  venison,  and  gold  spoon  in  this. 
Yes,  I  do  !  "  cried  Mr.  Bounderby,  shaking  his  head 
with  obstinate  cunning.    "  By  the  Lord  Harry,  I  do  !  " 

With  a  very  different  shake  of  the  head  and  deep  sigh, 
Stephen  said,  "  Thank  you,  sir,  I  wish  you  good  day." 
So  he  left  Mr.  Bounderby  swelling  at  his  own  portrait  on 
the  wall,  as  if  he  were  going  to  explode  himself  into  it ; 
and  Mrs.  Sparsit  still  ambling  on  with  her  foot  in  her 
stirrup,  looking  quite  cast  down  by  the  popular  vices. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

TJie  Old  M'otnan. 

Old  Stephen  descended  the  two  white  steps,  shut- 
ting the  black  door  with  the  brazen  door-ydate,  by  the 
aid  of  the  brazen  full-stop,  to  which  he  gave  a  parting 
polish  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  observing  that  his  hot 
hand  clouded  it.  He  crossed  the  street  with  his  eyes 
bent  upon  the  ground,  and  thus  was  walking  sorrow- 
fully away,  when  he  felt  a  touch  upon  his  arm. 

It  was  not  the  touch  he  needed  most  at  such  a  mo- 
ment— the  touch  that  could  calm  the  wild  waters  of  his 
soul,  as  the  uplifted  hand  of  the  sublimest  love  and 
patience  could  abate  the  raging  of  the  sea — yet  it  was  a 
woman's  hand  too.  It  was  an  old  woman,  tall  and 
shapely  still,  though  withered  by  time,  on  whom  his 
eyes  fell  when  he  stopped  and  turned.  She  was  very 
cleanly  and  plainly  dressed,  had  country  mud  uppn  her 
shoes,  and  was  newly  come  from  a  journey.  The  flutter 
of  her  manner,  in  the  unwonted  noise  of  the  streets  ;  the 
spare  shawl,  carried  unfolded  on  her  aim  ;  the  heavy 
umbrella,  and  little  basket  ;  the  loose  long-fingered 
gloves,  to  which  her  hands  were  unused  ;  all  bespoke 
an  old  woman  from  the  country,  in  her  plain  holiday 
clothes,  come  into  Coketown  on  an  expedition  of  rare  oc- 
currence. Remarking  this  at  a  glance,  with  the  qiiick 
observation  of  his  class,  Stephen  Blackpool  bent  his  at- 
tentive face — his  face,  which  like  the  faces  of  many  of 
his  order,  by  dint  of  long  working  with  eyes  and  hands  in 
the  midst  of  a  prodigious  noise,  had  acquired  the  concen- 
trated look  with  which  we  are  familiar  in  the  counte- 
nances of  the  deaf — the  better  to  hear  what  she  asked 
him. 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  didn't  I  see  you 
come  out  of  that  gentleman's  house  ?"  pointing  back  to 
Mr.  Bounderby's.  "  I  believe  it  was  you,  unless  I  have 
had  the  bad  luck  to  mistake  the  person  in  following  ?  " 

"  Yes,  missus,"  returned  Stephen,  "  it  were  me." 

"  Have  you — you'll  excuse  an  old  woman's  curiosity — 
have  you  seen  the  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Yes,  missus." 

"And  how  did  he  look,  sir?  Was  he  portly,  bold, 
out-spoken,  and  hearty  ?  "  As  she  straightened  her  own 
figure,  and  held  up  her  head  in  adapting  her  action  to 
her  words,  the  idea  crossed  Stephen  that  he  had  seen 
this  old  woman  before,  and  had  not  quite  liked  her. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  returned,  observing  her  more  attentively, 
"  he  were  all  that." 

"And  healthy,"  said  the  old  woman,  "as  the  fresh 
wind  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Stephen.  "  He  were  ett'n  and  drink- 
ing— as  large  and  loud  as  a  Hummobee." 

"  Thank  you  !  "  said  the  old  woman  with  infinite  con- 
tent.   "Thank  you!" 

He  certainly  never  had  seen  this  old  woman  before. 
Yet  there  was  a  vague  remembrance  in  his  mind,  as  if  he 
had  more  than  once  dreamed  of  some^old  woman  like  her. 

She  walked  along  at  his  side,  and,  gently  accommodat- 
ing himself  to  her  humour,  he  said  Coketown  was  a  busy 
place,  was  it  not?  To  which  she  answered  "  Eigh  sure  ! 
Dreadful  busy  !  "  Then  he  said,  she  came  from  the  coun- 
try, he  saw  ?    To  which  she  answered  in  the  atfirmative. 

"  By  Parliamentary,  this  morning.  I  came  forty  mile 
by  Parliamentary  this  morning,  and  I'm  going  back  the 


988 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


same  forty  mile  this  afternoon,  I  walked  nine  mile  to 
the  station  this  morning,  and  if  I  find  nobody  on  the  road 
to  give  me  a  lift,  I  shall  walk  the  nine  mile  back  to- 
night. That's  pretty  well,  sir,  at  my  age  1 "  said  the 
chatty  old  woman,  her  eye  brightening  with  exultation. 

"  Deed  'tis.    Don't  do't  too  often,  missus." 

"  No,  no.  Once  a  year,"  she  answered,  shaking  her 
head.  "  I  spend  my  savings  so,  once  every  year.  I 
come  regular,  to  tramp  about  the  streets,  and  see  the 
gentlemen." 

* '  Only  to  see  'em  ?  " 

"  That's  enough  for  me,"  she  replied,  with  great  ear- 
nestness and  interest  of  manner.  "I  ask  no  more!  I 
have  been  standing  about  on  this  side  of  the  way,  to  see 
that  gentleman,"  turning  her  head  back  towards  Mr. 
Bounder by's  again,  "  come  out.  But,  he's  late  this  year, 
and  I  have  not  seen  him.  You  came  out  instead.  Now 
if  I  am  obliged  to  go  back  without  a  glimpse  of  him — I 
only  want  a  glimpse — well  !  I  have  seen  you,  and  you 
have  seen  him,  and  I  must  make  that  do."  Saying  this, 
she  looked  at  Stephen  as  if  to  fix  his  features  in  her 
mind,  and  as  her  eye  was  not  so  bright  as  it  had  been. 

With  a  large  allowance  for  difference  of  tastes,  and 
with  all  submission  to  the  patricians  of  Coketown,  this 
seemed  so  extraordinary  a  source  of  interest  to  take  so 
much  trouble  about,  that  it  perplexed  him.  But  they 
were  passing  the  church  now,  and  his  eye  caught  the 
clock,  he  quickened  his  pace. 

He  was  going  to  his  work  ?  the  old  woman  said,  quick- 
ening hers,  too,  quite  easily.  Yes,  time  was  nearly  out. 
On  his  telling  her  where  he  worked,  the  old  woman  be- 
came a  more  singular  old  woman  than  before. 

"  An't  you  happy  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

*'  Why — there's  awmostnoboddy  but  has  their  troubles, 
missus."  He  answered  evasively,  because  the  old  wo- 
man appeared  to  take  it  for  granted  that  he  would  be 
very  happy  indeed,  and  he  had  not  the  heart  to  disap- 
point her.  He  knew  that  there  was  trouble  enough  in  the 
world;  and  if  the  old  woman  had  lived  so  long,  and  could 
count  upon  his  having  so  little,  why  so  much  the  better 
for  her,  and  none  the  worse  for  him. 

"  Ay,  ay  !  You  have  your  troubles  at  home, you  mean?" 
she  said. 

"  Times.    Just  now  and  then,"  he  answered  slightly. 

"But,  working  under  such  a  gentleman,  they  don't 
follow  you  to  the  Factory  ?" 

No,  no  ;  they  didn't  follow  him  there,  said  Stephen. 
All  correct  there.  Everything  accordant  there.  (He  did 
not  go  so  far  as  to  say,  for  her  pleasure,  that  there  was 
a  sort  of  Divine  Right  there  ;  but,  I  have  heard  claims 
almost  as  magnificent  of  late  years.) 

They  were  now  in  the  black  by-road  near  the  place, 
and  the  Hands  were  crowding  in.  The  bell  was  ring- 
ing, and  the  Serpent  was  a  Serpent  of  many  coils,  and 
the  Elephant  was  getting  ready.  The  strange  old  wo- 
man was  delighted  with  the  very  bell.  It  was  the  beauti- 
f  ullest  bell  she  had  ever  heard,  she  said,  and  sounded 
grand  ! 

She  asked  him,  when  he  stopped  goodnaturedly  to 
shake  hands  with  her  before  going  in,  how  long  he  had 
worked  there  ? 

"  A  dozen  year,"  he  told  her. 

"I  must  kiss  the  hand,"  said  she,  "  that  has  worked  in 
this  fine  factory  for  a  dozen  years  !  "  And  she  lifted  it, 
though  he  would  have  prevented  her,  and  put  it  to  her 
lips.  What  harmony,  besides  her  age  and  her  simplic- 
ity, surrounded  her,  he  did  not  know,  but  even  in  this 
fantastic  action  there  was  a  something  neither  out  of 
time  nor  place :  a  something  which  it  seemed  as  if  no- 
body else  could  have  made  as  serious,  or  done  with  such 
a  natural  and  touching  air. 

He  had  been  at  his  loom  full  half  an  hour,  thinking 
about  this  old  woman,  when,  having  occasion  to  move 
round  the  loom  for  its  adjustment,  he  glanced  through  a 
window  wliich  was  in  his  corner,  and  saw  her  still  looking 
np  at  the  i)ile  of  building,  lost  in  admiration.  Heedless 
of  the  smoke  and  mud  and  wet,  and  of  her  two  long  jour- 
neys, she  was  gazing  at  it,  as  if  the  heavy  thrum  that 
issued  from  its  many  stories  were  proud  music  to  her. 

She  was  gone  by  and  by,  and  the  day  went  after  her, 
and  the  lights  sprung  up  again,  and  the  Express  whirled 
in  full  sight  of  the  Fairy  Palace  over  the  arches  near  ; 


little  felt  amid  the  jarring  of  the  machinery,  and  scarcely 
heard  above  its  crash  and  battle.  Long  before  then  his 
thoughts  had  gone  back  to  the  dreary  room  above  the 
little  shop,  and  to  the  shameful  figure  heavy  on  the 
bed,  but  heavier  on  his  heart. 

Machinery  slackened  ;  throbbing  feebly  like  a  fainting 
pulse  ;  stopped.  The  bell  again  ;  the  glare  of  light  and 
heat  dispelled ;  the  factories,  looming  heavy  in  the 
black  wet  night — their  tall  chimneys  rising  up  into  the 
air  like  competing  Towers  of  Babel. 
•  He  had  spoken  to  Rachael  only  last  night,  it  was  true, 
and  had  walked  with  her  a  little  way  ;  but  he  had  his 
new  misfortune  on  him  in  which  no  one  else  could  give 
him  a  moment's  relief,  and,  for  the  sake  of  it,  and  be- 
cause he  knew  himself  to  want  that  softening  of  his 
anger  which  no  voice  but  hers  could  elfect,  he  felt  he 
might  so  far  disregard  what  she  had  said  as  to  wait  for 
her  again.  He  waited,  but  she  had  eluded  him.  She 
was  gone.  On  no  other  night  in  the  year  could  he  so  ill 
have  spared  her  patient  face. 

Oh  !  better  to  have  no  home  in  which  to  lay  his  head, 
than  to  have  a  home  and  dread  to  go  to  it,  through  such 
a  cause.  He  ate  and  drank,  for  he  was  exhausted — but 
he  little  knew  or  cared  what ;  and  he  wandered  about  in 
the  chill  rain,  thinking  and  thinking,  and  brooding  and 
brooding. 

No  word  of  a  new  marriage  had  ever  passed  between 
them  ;  but  Rachael  had  taken  great  pity  on  him  years 
ago,  and  to  her  alone  he  had  opened  his  closed  heart  all 
this  time,  on  the  subject  of  his  miseries  ;  and  he  knew 
very  well  that  if  he  were  free  to  ask  her,  she  would 
take  him.  He  thought  of  the  home  he  might  at  that 
moment  have  been  seeking  with  pleasure  and  pride  :  of 
the  different  man  he  might  have  been  that  night ;  of  the 
lightness  then  in  his  now  heavy-laden  breast ;  of  the 
then  restored  honor,  self-respect,  and  tranquillity  all  torn 
to  pieces.  He  thought  of  the  waste  of  the  best  part  of 
his  life,  of  the  change  it  made  in  his  character  for  the 
worse  every  day,  of  the  dreadful  nature  of  his  exist- 
ence, bound  hand  and  foot,  to  a  dead  woman,  and  tor- 
mented by  a  demon  in  her  shape.  He  thought  of 
Rachael,  how  young  when  they  were  first  brought  to- 
gether in  these  circumstances,  how  mature  now,  how 
soon  to  grow  old.  He  thought  of  the  number  of  girls 
and  women  she  had  seen  marry,  how  many  homes  with 
children  in  them  she  had  seen  grow  up  around  her,  how 
she  had  contentedly  pursued  her  own  lone  quiet  path — 
for  him — and  how  he  ^  had  seen  sometimes  a  shade  of 
melancholy  on  her  blessed  face,  that  smote  him  with 
remorse  and  despair.  He  set  the  picture  of  her  up,  be- 
side the  infamous  image  of  last  night ;  and  thought, 
Could  it  be,  that  the  whole  earthly  course  of  one  so  gen- 
tle, good,  and  self-denying,  was  subjugate  to  such  a 
wretch  as  that ! 

Filled  with  these  thoughts — so  filled  that  he  had  an 
unwholesome  sense  of  growing  larger,  of  being  placed 
in  some  new  and  diseased  relation  towards  the  objects 
among  which  he  passed,  of  seeing  the  iris  round  every 
misty  light  turn  red— he  went  home  for  shelter. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
Rachael. 

A  CANDLE  faintly  burned  in  the  window,  to  which  the 
black  ladder  had  often  been  raised  for  the  sliding  away 
of  all  that  was  most  precious  in  this  world  to  a  striving 
wife  and  a  brood  of  hungry  babies  ;  and  Stephen  added 
to  his  other  thoughts  the  stern  reflection,  that  of  all  the 
casualties  of  this  existence  upon  earth,  not  one  was  dealt 
out  with  so  unequal  a  hand  as  Death.  The  inequality 
of  Birtli  was  nothing  to  it.  For,  say  that  the  child  of  a 
King  and  the  child  of  a  Weaver  were  born  to-night  in 
the  same  moment,  what  was  that  disparity,  to  the  death 
of  any  liuman  creature  who  was  serviceable  to,  or  be- 
loved by  another,  while  this  abandoned  woman  lived  on  I 

From'  the  outside  of  his  home  he  gloomily  passed  to 
tin;  inside,  with  suspended  breath  and  with  slow  foot- 
step, lie  went  up  to  his  door  and  opened  it,  and  so  into 
the  room. 


HARD 

Quiet  and  peace  were  there.  Rachael  was  there,  sit- 
ting by  the  bed. 

She  turned  her  head,  and  the  light  of  her  face,  shone 
in  upon  the  midnight  of  his  mind.  She  sat  by  the  bed, 
watching  and  tending  his  wife.  That  is  to  say,  he  saw 
that  some  one  lay  there,  and  he  know  too  well  it  must 
be  she  ;  but  Rachael 's  Lands  had  put  a  curtain  up,  so 
that  she  was  screened  from  his  eyes.  Her  disgraceful 
garments  were  removed,  and  some  of  Rachael's  were  in 
the  room.  Everything  was  in  its  place  and  order  as  he 
had  always  kept  it,  the  little  fire  was  newly  trimmed, 
and  the  hearth  was  freshly  swept.  It  appeared  to  him 
that  he  saw  all  this  in  Rachael's  face,  and  looked  at 
nothing  besides.  While  looking  at  it,  it  was  shut  out 
from  his  view  by  the  softened  tears  that  filled  his  eyes  ; 
hut  not  before  ho  had  seen  how  earnestly  she  looked  at 
him,  and  how  her  own  eyes  were  filled  too. 

She  turned  again  towards  the  bed,  and  satisfying  her- 
self that  all  was  quiet  there,  spoke  in  a  low,  calm, 
cheerful  voice. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  at  last,  Stephen.  You  are 
very  late." 

"I  ha'  been  walking  up  an'  down." 

"I  thought  so.  But  'tis  too  bad  a  night  for  that.  The 
rain  falls  very  heav'y,  and  the  wind  has  risen." 

The  wind  ?  True.  It  was  blowing  hard.  Hark  to 
the  thundering  in  the  chimney,  and  the  surging  noise  ! 
To  have  been  out  in  such  a  wind,  and  not  to  have  known 
it  was  blowing  ! 

"  I  have  been  here  once  before  to-day,  Stephen. 
Landlady  came  round  for  me  at  dinner-time.  There  was 
some  one  here  who  needed  looking  to,  she  said.  And 
'deed  she  was  right.  All  wandering  and  lost,  Stephen. 
Wounded  too,  and  bruised." 

He  slowdy  moved  to  a  chair  and  sat  down,  drooping 
his  head  before  her. 

I  came  to  do  what  little  I  could,  Stephen  ;  first  for 
that  she  Avorked  with  me  when  we  were  girls  both,  and 
for  that  vou  courted  and  married  her  when  I  was  her 
friend—'"^ 

He  laid  his  furrowed  forehead  on  his  hand,  with  a  low 
groan. 

"And  next,  for  that  I  know  your  heart,  and  am  right 
sure  and  certain,  that  'tis  far  too  merciful  to  let  her 
die,  or  even  so  much  as  suffer,  for  want  of  aid.  Thou 
knovvest  who  said,  '  Let  him  who  is  without  sin  among 
you  cast  the  first  stone  at  her  ! '  There  have  been  plenty 
to  do  that.  Thou  art  not  the  man  to  cast  the  last  stone, 
Stephen,  when  she  is  brought  so  low." 

"O  Rachael,  Rachael  I" 

"  Thou  hast  been  a  cruel  sufferer.  Heaven  reward 
thee  !"  she  said,  in  compassionate  accents.  "I  am  thy 
poor  friend,  with  all  my  heart  and  mind." 

The  wounds  of  which  she  had  spoken,  seemed  to  be 
about  the  neck  of  the  self-made  outcast.  She  dressed 
them  now,  still  without  showing  her.  She  steeped  a 
piece  of  linen  in  a  basin,  into  which  she  poured  some 
liquid  from  a  bottle,  and  laid  it  with  a  gentle  hand  upon 
the  sore.  The  three-legged  table  had  been  drawn  close 
to  the  bedside,  and  on  it  there  were  two  bottles.  This 
was  one. 

It  was  not  so  far  off,  but  that  Stephen,  following  her 
hands  with  his  eyes,  could  read  what  was  printed  on  it, 
in  large  letters.  He  turned  of  a  deadly  hue,  and  a  sud- 
den horror  seemed  to  fall  upon  him. 

"I  will  stay  here,  Stephen,"  said  Rachael,  quietly 
resuming  her  seat,  "  till  the  bells  go  Three.  "lis  to  be 
done  again  at  three,  and  then  she  may  be  left  till  morn- 
ing." ^ 

"  But  thy  rest  agen  to-morrow's  work,  my  dear." 

"  I  slept  sound  last  night.  I  can  wake  many  nights, 
when  I  am  put  to  it.  'Tis  thou  who  art  in  need  of  rest — 
so  white  and  tired.  Try  to  sleep  in  the  chair  there,  while 
I  watch.  Thou  hadst  no  sleep  last  night,  I  can  well 
believe.  To-morrow's  work  is  far  harder  for  thee  than 
for  me." 

He  heard  the  thundering  and  surging  out  of  doors,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  late  angry  mood  were  going 
about  trying  to  get  at  him.  She  had  cast  it  out  ;  she 
would  keep  it  out ;  he  trusted  to  her  to  defend  him  from 
himself. 

"She  don't  know  me,  Stephen;  she  just  drowsily 


TIMES.  989 

mutters  and  stares.  I  have  spoken  to  her  times  and 
again,  but  she  don't  notice  1  'Tis  as  well  so.  When  she 
comes  to  her  right  mind  once  more,  1  shall  have  done 
what  I  can,  and  she  never  the  wiser." 

"How  long,  Rachael,  is't  looked  for,  that  she'll  be 
so?" 

"  Doctor  said  she  would  haply  come  to  her  mind  to- 
morrow." 

His  eyes  again  fell  on  the  bottle,  and  a  tremble  passed 
over  him,  causing  him  to  shiver  in  every  limb.  She 
thought  he  was  chilled  with  the  wet.  "No,"  he  said  ; 
"  it  was  not  that.    He  had  had  a  fright." 

"A  fright?" 

"  Ay,  ay  !  coming  in.  When  I  were  walking.  When 
I  were  thinking.  When  I — "  It  seized  him  again  ;  and 
he  stood  up,  holding  by  the  mantle-shelf,  as  he  pressed 
his  dank  cold  hair  down  with  a  hand  that  shook  as  if  it 
were  palsied. 

"  Stephen  ! " 

She  was  coming  to  him,  but  he  stretched  out  his  arm 
to  stop  her. 

"  No  !  Don't  please  ;  don't  !  Let  me  see  thee  setten  by 
the  bed.  Let  me  see  thee,  a'  so  good,  and  so  forgiving. 
Let  me  see  thee  as  I  have  seen  thee  when  I  coom  in.  I 
can  never  see  thee  better  than  so.  Never,  never,  never  !" 

He  had  a  violent  fit  of  trembling,  and  then  sunk  into 
his  chair.  After  a  time  he  controlled  himself,  and  rest- 
ing with  an  elbow  on  one  knee,  and  his  head  upon  that 
hand,  could  look  toward  Rachael.  Seen  across  the  dim 
candle  with  his  moistened  eyes,  she  looked  as  if  she  had 
a  glory  shining  round  her  head.  He  could  have  believed 
she  had.  He  did  believe  it,  as  the  noise  without  shook 
the  window,  rattled  at  the  door  below,  and  went  about 
the  house  clamoring  and  lamenting. 

"When  she  gets  better,  Stephen,  'tis  to  be  hoped 
she'll  leave  thee  to  thyself  again,  and  do  thee  no  more 
hurt.  Anyways  we  will  hope  so  now.  And  now  I  shall 
keep  silence,  for  I  want  thee  to  sleep." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  more  to  please  her  than  to  rest  his 
weary  head ;  but,  by  slow  degrees  as  he  listened  to  the 
great  noise  of  the  wind,  he  ceased  to  hear  it,  or  it 
changed  into  the  working  of  his  loom,  or  even  into  the 
voices  of  the  day  (his  own  included)  saying  what  had 
been  really  said.  Even  this  imperfect  consciousness 
faded  away  at  last,  and  he  dreamed  a  long,  troubled 
dream. 

He  thought  that  he,  and  some  one  on  whom  his  heart 
had  long  been  set — but  she  was  not  Rachael,  and  that 
surprised  him,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  imaginary  hap- 
piness— stood  in  the  church  being  married.  While  the 
ceremony  was  performing,  and  while  he  recognised 
among  the  witnesses  some  whom  he  knew  to  be  living, 
and  many  whom  he  knew  to  be  dead,  darkness  came  on, 
succeeded  by  the  shining  of  a  tremendous  light.  It  broke 
from  one  line  in  the  table  of  commandments  at  the  altar, 
and  illuminated  the  building  with  the  words.  They 
were  sounded  through  the  church  too,  as  if  there  were 
voices  in  the  fiery  letters.  Upon  this,  the  whole  appear- 
ance before  him  and  around  him  changed,  and  nothing 
was  left  as  it  had  been,  but  himself  and  the  clergyman. 
They  stood  in  the  daylight  before  a  crowd  so  vast,  that 
if  all  the  people  in  the  world  could  have  been  brought 
together  into  one  space,  they  could  not  have  looked,  he 
thought,  more  numerous  ;  and  they  all  abhorred  him, 
and  there  was  not  one  pitying  or  friendly  eye  among  the 
millions  that  w^ere  fastened  on  his  face.  He  stood  on  a 
raised  stage,  under  his  own  loom  ;  and,  looking  up  at 
the  shape  the  loom  took,  and  hearing  the  burial  service 
distinctly  read,  he  knew  that  he  was  there  to  suffer 
death.  In  an  instant  what  he  stood  on  fell  below  him, 
and  he  was  gone. 

Out  of  w^hat  mystery  he  came  back  to  his  usual  life, 
and  to  places  that  he  knew,  he  was  unable  to  consider  ; 
but  he  was  back  in  those  places  by  some  means,  and 
with  this  condemnation  upon  him,  that  he  was  never,  in 
this  world  or  the  next,  through  all  the  unimaginable 
ages  of  eternity,  to  look  on  Rachael's  face  or  hear  her 
voice.  Wandering  to  fro,  unceasingly,  without  hope, 
and  in  search  of  he  knew  not  what  (he  only  knew  that 
he  was  doomed  to  seek  it),  he  was  the  subject  of  a 
nameless,  horrible  dread,  a  mortal  fear  of  one  particular 
shape  which  everything  took.    Whatsoever  he  looked 


990 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


at,  grew  into  tliat  form  sooner  or  later.  The  object  of 
his  miserabJe  existence  was  to  prevent  its  recognition  by 
any  one  among  the  various  people  he  encountered. 
Hopeless  labor  !  If  he  led  them  out  of  rooms  where  it 
was,  if  he  shut  up  drawers  and  closets  where  it  stood,  if 
he  drew  thv;  curious  from  places  where  he  knevv  it  to  be 
secreted,  and  got  them  out  into  the  streets,  the  very 
chimneys  of  the  mills  assumed  that  shape,  and  round 
them  was  the  printed  word. 

The  wind  was  blowing  again,  the  rain  was  beating  on 
the  housetops,  and  the  larger  spaces  through  which  he 
had  strayed  contracted  to  the  four  walls  of  his  room. 
Saving  that  the  fire  had  died  ont,  it  was  as  his  eyes  had 
closed  upon  it.  Rachael  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  a 
dose,  in  the  chair  by  the  bed.  She  sat  wrapped  in  her 
shawl,  perfectly  still.  The  table  stood  in  the  same 
place,  close  by  the  bedside,  and  on  it,  in  its  real  propor- 
tions and  appearance,  was  the  shape  so  often  re- 
peated. 

He  thought  he  saw  the  curtain  move.  He  looked 
again,  and  he  was  sure  it  moved.  He  saw  a  hand  come 
forth,  and  grope  about  a  little.  Then  the  curtain  moved 
more  perceptibly,  and  the  woman  in  the  bed  put  it 
back,  and  sat  up. 

With  her  woful  eyes,  so  haggard  and  wild,  so  heavy 
and  large,  she  looked  all  round  the  room,  and  passed  the 
corner  where  he  slept  in  his  chair.  Her  eyes  returned 
to  that  corner,  and  she  put  her  hand  over  them  as  a 
shade,  while  she  looked  into  it.  Again  they  went  all 
round  the  room,  scarcely  heeding  Rachael  if  at  all,  and 
returned  to  that  corner.  He  thought,  as  she  once  more 
shaded  them — not  so  much  looking  at  him,  as  looking 
for  him  with  a  brutish  instinct  that  he  was  there — that 
no  single  trace  was  left  in  those  debauched  features,  or 
in  the  mind  that  went  along  with  them,  of  the  woman 
he  had  married  eighteen  years  before.  But  that  he  had 
seen  her  come  to  this  by  inches,  he  never  could  have 
believed  her  to  be  the  same. 

All  this  time,  as  if  a  spell  were  on  him,  he  was  motion- 
less and  powerless,  except  to  watch  her. 

Stupidly  dozing,  or  communing  with  her  incapable 
self  about  nothing,  she  sat  for  a  little  while  with  her 
hands  at  her  ears,  and  her  head  resting  on  them.  Pres- 
ently, she  resumed  her  staring  round  the  room.  And 
now,  for  the  first  time,  her  eyes  stopped  at  the  table 
with  the  bottles  on  it. 

Straightway  she  turned  her  eyes  back  to  his  corner, 
with  the  defiance  of  last  night,  and,  moving  very  cau- 
tiously and  softly,  stretched  out  her  greedy  hand.  She 
drew  a  mug  into  the  bed,  and  sat  for  a  while  consider- 
ing which  of  the  two  bottles  she  should  choose.  Finally, 
she  laid  her  insensate  grasp  upon  the  bottle  that  had 
swift  and  certain  death  in  it,  and,  before  his  eyes,  pulled 
out  the  cork  with  her  teeth. 

Dream  or  reality,  he  had  no  voice,  nor  had  he  power  to 
stir.  If  this  be  real,  and  her  allotted  time  be  not  yet 
come,  wake,  Rachael,  wake  ! 

She  thouglit  of  that,  too.  She  looked  at  Rachael,  and 
very  slowly,  very  cautiously,  poured  out  the  contents. 
The  draught  was  at  her  lips.  A  moment  and  she  would 
be  past  all  help,  let  the  whole  world  wake  and  come 
about  her  with  its  utmost  power.  But,  in  that  moment 
Rachael  started  up  with  a  suppressed  cvj.  The  creature 
struggled,  struck  her,  seized  her  by  the  hair  ;  but  Ra- 
chael had  the  cup. 

Stephen  broke  out  of  his  chair.  **  Rachael,  am  I 
wakin'  or  dreamin'  this  dreadfo'  night?" 

"  'Tis  all  well,  Stephen.  I  have  been  asleep  myself. 
'Tin  near  three.    Hush  !    I  hear  the  bells." 

The  wind  brought  the  sounds  of  the  church  clock  to 
the  window.  They  listened,  and  it  struck  three.  Ste- 
phen looked  at  her,  saw  how  pale  she  was,  noted  the  dis- 
order of  her  hair,  and  the  red  marks  of  fingers  on  her 
forehead,  and  felt  assured  that  his  senses  of  sight  and 
hearing  had  been  awake.  She  held  the  cup  in  her  hand 
even  now. 

"  I  tliouglit  it  must  be  near  three,"she  said, calmly  pour- 
ing from  the  cup  into  tlie  basin,  and  steeping  the  linen 
as  before.  "I  am  thankful  I  stayed!  'Tis  done  now, 
when  I  have  put  this  on.  There  !  And  now  she's  quiet 
again.  The  few  drops  in  the  basin  I'll  pour  away,  for 
'tis  bad  stuff  to  leave  about,  though  ever  so  little  of  it." 


As  she  spoke  as  she  drained  the  basin  into  the  ashes  of 
the  fire,  and  broke  the  bottle  on  the  hearth. 

She  had  nothing  to  do,  then,  but  to  cover  herself  with 
her  shawl  before  going  out  into  the  wind  and  rain. 

"  Thou'lt  let  me  walk  wi'  thee  at  this  hour,  Ra- 
chael?" 

"  No,  Stephen.    'Tis  but  a  minute  and  I'm  home." 

"  Thou'rt  not  fearfo'  ;  "  he  said  it  in  a  low  voice,  as  they 
went  out  at  the  door  ;  "  to  leave  me  alone  wi'  her  ! " 

As  she  looked  at  him,  saying  "  Stephen  ?  "  he  went 
down  on  his  knee  before  her,  on  the  poor  mean  stairs, 
and  put  an  end  of  her  shawl  to  his  lips. 

"  Thou  art  an  Angel.     Bless  thee,  bless  thee  ! ". 

"I  am,  as  I  have  told  thee,  Stephen,  thy  poor  friend. 
Angels  are  not  like  me.  Between  them,  and  a  working 
woman  fu'  of  faults,  there  is  a  deep  gulf  set.  My  little 
sister  is  among  them,  but  she  is  changed." 

She  raised  her  eyes  for  a  moment  as  she  said  the  words: 
and  then  they  fell  again,  in  all  their  gentleness  and  mild- 
ness, on  his  face. 

"  Thou  changest  me  from  bad  to  good.  Thou  mak'st 
me  humbly  wishfo'  to  be  more  like  thee,  and  fearfo'  to 
lose  thee  when  this  life  is  ower,  and  a'  the  muddle 
cleared  awa'.  Thou'rt  an  Angel  ;  it  may  be,  thou  hast 
saved  my  soul  alive  !  " 

She  looked  at  him  on  his  knee  at  her  feet,  with  her 
shawl  still  in  his  hand,  and  the  reproof  on  her  lips  died 
away  when  she  saw  the  working  of  his  face. 

"I  coom  home  desp'rate.  I  coom home  wi'out  a  hope, 
and  mad  wi'  thinking  that  when  I  said  a  word  o'  com- 
plaint I  was  reckoned  a  onreasonable  Hand.  I  told  thee  I 
had  had  a  fright.  It  were  the  Poison-bottle  on  table. 
I  never  hurt  a  livin'  creatur  ;  but  happenin'  so  suddenly 
upon 't,  I  thowt,  *  How  can  /say,  what  I  may  ha'  done 
to  myseln,  or  her,  or  both  ! '  " 

She  put  her  two  hands  on  his  mouth,  with  a  face  of 
terror,  to  stop  him  from  saying  more.  He  caught  them 
in  his  unoccupied  hand,  and  holding  them, and  still  clasp- 
ing the  border  of  her  shawl,  said  hurriedly  : 

"  But  I  see  thee,  Rachael,  setten  by  the  bed.  I  ha' 
seen  thee,  aw  this  night.  In  my  troublous  sleep  I  ha' 
known  thee  still  to  be  there.  Evermore  I  will  see  there. 
I  nevermore  will  see  her  or  think  o'  her,  but  thou  shalt 
be  beside  her.  I  nevermore  will  see  or  think  o'  anything 
that  angers  me,  but  thou,  so  much  better  than  me,  shalt 
be  by  th'  side  on't.  And  so  I  will  try  t'  look  t'  th'  time, 
and  so  I  will  try  t'  trust  t'  th'  time, when  thou  and  me  at 
last  shall  walk  together  far  awa',  beyond  the  deep  gulf, 
in  th'  country  where  thy  little  sister  is." 

He  kissed  the  border  of  her  shawl  again,  and  let  her 
go.  She  bade  him  good-night  in  a  broken  voice,  and 
went  out  into  the  street. 

The  wind  blew  from  the  quarter  where  the  day  would 
soon  appear,  and  still  blew  strongly.  It  had  cleared  the 
sky  before  it,  and  the  rain  had  spent  itself  or  travelled 
elsewhere,  and  the  stars  were  bright.  He  stood  bare- 
headed in  the  road,  watching  her  quick  disappearance. 
As  the  shining  stars  were  to  the  heavy  candle  in  the  win- 
dow, so  v/as  Rachael,  in  the  rugged  fancy  of  this  man, 
to  the  common  experiences  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  Great  Mauvfadurer. 

Time  went  on  in  Coketown  like  its  own  machinery  :  so 
much  material  wrought  up,  so  much  fuel  consumed,  so 
many  powers  worn  out,  so  much  money  made.  But,  less 
inexorable  than  iron,  steel,  and  brass,  it  brought  its  vary- 
ing seasons  even  into  that  wilderness  of  smoke  and  brick, 
and  made  the  only  stand  that  ever  was  made  in  the  place 
against  its  direful  uniformity. 

"  liouisa  is  becoming,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "almost  a 
young  woman." 

Time,  with  his  innumerable  horse-power,  worked 
away,  not  minding  what  anybody  said,  and  presently 
turned  out  young  Thomas  a  foot  taller  tlian  when  his 
fath(>r  had  last  taicen  particular  notice  of  him. 

"Thomas  is  becoming,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "almost 
a  young  man." 


HARD  TIMES, 


991 


Time  passed  Thomas  on  the  mill,  while  his  father 
was  thinking-  about  it,  and  tli^ere  he  stood  in  along-tailed 
coat  and  a  stiff  shirt-collar.  ^ 

**  Really,"  said  Mr.  Grad/yrin^l,  "  the  period  has  arrived 
when  Thomas  ought  to  go  to  BQunderV)y." 

Time,  sticking  to  him,  passed  him  on  into  Bounderby's 
Bank,  made  him  an  inmate  of  Bounderby's  house,  neces- 
sitated the  purchase  of  his  first  razor,  and  exercised  him 
diligently  in  his  calculations  relative  to  number  one. 

The  same  great  manufacturer,  always  with  an  immense 
variety  of  work  on  hand,  in  every  stage  of  development, 
passed  Sissy  onward  in  his  mill,  and  worked  her  up  into 
a  very  pretty  article  indeed. 

"  I  fear,  Jupe,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "that  your  contin- 
uance at  the  school  any  longer,  would  be  useless. " 

"I  am  afraid  it  would,  sir,"  Sissy  answered  with  a 
curtsey. 

"  I  cannot  disguise  from  you,  Jupe,"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, knitting  his  brow,  "that  the  result  of  your  pro- 
bation there  has  disappointed  me  ;  has  greatly  disap- 
pointed me.  You  have  not  acquired,  under  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
M'Choakumchild,  anything  like  that  amount  of  exact 
knowledge  which  I  looked  for.  You  are  extremely  de- 
ficient in  your  facts.  Your  acquaintance  with  figures  is 
very  limited.  You  are  altogether  backward,  and  below 
the  mark." 

"  I  am  sorry  sir,"  she  returned  ;  "  but  I  know  it  is  quite 
true.    Yet  I  have  tried  hard,  sir." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  *'  yes,  I  believe  you  have 
tried  hard  ;  I  have  observed  you,  and  I  can  find  no  fault 
in  that  respect." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  have  thought  sometimes  ;"  Sissy 
very  timid  here  ;  "  that  perhaps  I  tried  to  learn  too  much, 
and  that  if  I  had  asked  to  be  allowed  to  try  a  little  less, 
I  might  have — " 

"  No,  Jupe,  no,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  shaking  his  head 
in  his  profoundest  and  most  eminently  practical  way. 
"No.  The  course  you  pursued,  you  pursued  according 
to  the  system — the  system — and  there  is  no  more  to  be 
said  about  it.  I  can  only  suppose  that  the  circumstances 
of  your  early  life  were  too  unfavourable  to  the  develop- 
ment of  your  reasoning  powers,  and  that  we  began  too 
late.    Still,  as  I  have  said  already,  I  am  disappointed." 

"I  wish  I  could  have  a  better  acknowledgment,  sir,  of 
your  kindness  to  a  poor  forlorn  girl  who  had  no  claim 
upon  you,  and  of  your  protection  of  her." 

"  Don't  shed  tears,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "  Don't  shed 
tears.  I  don't  complain  of  you.  You  are  an  affectionate, 
earnest,  good  young  woman,  and — and  we  must  make 
that  do." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  very  much,"  said  Sissy,  with  a  grate- 
ful curtsey." 

"  You  are  useful  to  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  and  (in  a  generally 
pervading  way)  you  are  serviceable  in  the  family  also  ; 
so  I  understand  from  Miss  Louisa,  and,  indeed,  so  I  have 
observed  myself.  I  therefore  hope,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
"  that  you  can  make  yourself  happy  in  those  relations." 

"  I  should  have  nothing  to  wish,  sir,  if — " 

"I  understand  you,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind  ;  "you  still 
refer  to  your  father.  I  have  heard  from  Miss  Louisa 
that  you  still  preserve  that  bottle.  Well  !  If  your  train- 
ing in  the  science  of  arriving  at  exact  results  had  been 
more  successful,  you  would  have  been  wiser  on  these 
points.    I  will  ^zj  no  more." 

He  really  liked  Sissy  too  well  to  have  contempt  for 
her  ;  otherwise  he  held  her  calculating  powers  in  such 
very  slight  estimation  that  he  must  have  fallen  upon  that 
conclusion.  Somehow  or  other,  he  had  become  possessed 
by  an  idea  that  there  was  something  in  this  girl  which 
could  hardly  be  set  forth  in  a  tabular  form.  Her  capac- 
ity of  definition  might  be  easily  stated  at  a  very  low  fig- 
ure, her  mathematical  knowledge  at  nothing  ;  yet  he 
was  not  sure  that  if  he  had  been  required,  for  example, 
to  kick  her  off  into  columns  in  a  parliamentary  return, 
he  would  have  quite  known  how  to  divide  her.  * 

In  some  stages  of  his  manufacture  of  the  human  fab- 
ric, the  processes  of  Time  are  very  rapid.  Young  Thomas 
and  Sissy  l)eing  both  at  such  a  stage  of  their  working 
up,  these  changes  were  effected  in  a  year  or  two  ;  while 
Mr.  Gradgrind  himself  seemed  stationary  in  his  course, 
and  underwent  no  alteration.  Except  one,  which  was 
apart  from  his  necessary  progress  through  the  mill. 


Time  hustled  him  into  a  little  noisy  and  rather  dirty 
machinery,  in  a  by -corner,  and  made  him  MemV^er  of 
Parliament  for  Coketown  :  one  of  the  respected  mem- 
b(!rs  for  ounce  weights  and  measures,  one  of  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  multiplication  table,  one  of  the  deaf 
honorable  gentlemen,  dumb  lionorable  gentlemen,  blind 
honorable  gentlemen,  lame  honorable  gentlemen,  dead 
honorable  gentlemen,  to  every  other  consideration.  Else 
wherefore  live  we  in  a  Christian  land,  eighteen  hundred 
and  odd  years  after  our  Master  ? 

All  this  while,  Louisa  had  been  passing  on,  so  quiet 
and  reserved,  and  so  much  given  to  watching  the  bright 
ashes  at  twilight  as  they  fell  into  the  grate  and  became 
extinct,  that  from  the  period  when  her  father  had  said 
she  was  almost  a  young  woman — which  seemed  but  yes- 
terday--she  had  scarcely  attracted  his  notice  again,  when 
he  found  her  quite  a  young  woman. 

"  Quite  a  young  woman,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  musing. 
"  Dear  me  ! " 

Soon  after  this  discovery  he  became  more  thoughtful 
than  usual  for  several  days,  and  seemed  much  engrossed 
by  one  subject.  On  a  certain  night,  when  he  was  going 
out,  and  Louisa  came  to  bid  him  good-bye  before  his  de- 
parture— as  he  was  not  to  be  home  until  late  and  she 
would  not  see  him  again  until  the  morning — he  held  her 
in  his  arms,  looking  at  her  in  his  kindest  manner,  and 
said  : 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  you  are  a  woman  !  " 

She  answered  him  with  the  old,  quick,  searching  look 
of  the  night  when  she  was  found  at  the  Circus  ;  then 
cast  down  her  eyes.    "Yes,  father." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "I  must  speak  with 
you  alone  and  seriously.  Come  to  me  in  my  room  after 
breakfast  to-morrow,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father." 

"Your  hands  are  rather  cold,  Louisa.  Are  you  not 
well?" 

"  Quite  well,  father." 
"  And  cheerful  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  again,  and  smiled  in  her  peculiar 
manner.  "  I  am  as  cheerful,  father,  as  I  usually  am,  or 
usually  have  been." 

"  That's  well,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.  So,  he  kissed 
her  and  went  away  ;  and  Louisa  returned  to  the  serene 
apartment  of  the  hair-cutting  character,  and  leaning  her 
elbow  on  her  hand,  looked  again  at  the  short-lived  sparks 
that  soon  subsided  into  ashes. 

"  Are  you  there.  Loo  ?  "  said  her  brother,  looking  in  at 
the  door.  He  was  quite  a  young  gentleman  of  pleasure 
now,  and  not  quite  a  prepossessing  one. 

"  Dear  Tom,"  she  answered,  rising  and  embracing  him, 
"  how  long  it  is  since  you  have  been  to  see  me  I  " 

"  Why,  I  have  been  otherwise  engaged,  Loo,  in  the 
evenings  ;  and  in  the  daytime  old  Bound  erby  has  been 
keeping  me  at  it  rather.  But  I  touch  him  up  with  you, 
when  he  comes  it  too  strong,  and  so  we  preserve  an  un- 
derstanding. I  say  !  Has  father  said  anything  particu- 
lar to  you,  to-day  or  yesterday.  Loo  ?  " 

"  No,  Tom.  But  he  told  me  to-night  that  he  wished 
to  do  so  in  the  morning." 

"Ah!  that's  what  I  mean,"  said  Tom.  "Do  you 
know  where  he  is  to-night  ?" — with  a  deep  expression. 

"No." 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you.  He's  with  old  Bounderby.  Thev 
are  having  a  regular  confab  together,  up  at  the  Bank. 
Why  at  the  Bank,  do  you  think  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you 
again.  To  keep  Mrs.  Sparsit's  ears  as  far  off  as  possible, 
I  expect." 

With  her  hand  upon  her  brother's  shoulder,  Louisa' 
still  stood  looking  at  the  fire.  Her  brother  glanced  at 
her  face  with  gre'ater  interest  than  usual,  and  encircling 
her  waist  with  his  arm,  drew  her  coaxingly  to  him. 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  me,  an't  you,  Loo?  " 

"Indeed  I  am,  Tom,  though  you  do  let  such  long 
intervals  go  by  without  coming  to  see  me." 

"Well,  sister  of  mine,"  said  Tom,  "when  you  say 
that,  you  are  near  my  thoughts.  We  might  be  so  much 
oftener  together — mightn't  we?  Always  together,  al- 
most— mightn't  we  ?  It  would  do  me  a  great  deal  of 
good  if  you  were  to  make  up  your  mind  to  I  know  what. 
Loo,  H  would  be  a  splendid  thing  forme.  It  would 
be  uncommonly  jolly  ! " 


992 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Her  tliouglitfulness  baffled  his  cunning  scrutiny.  He 
could  make  nothing  of  her  face.  He  pressed  her  in  his 
arm,  and  kissed  her  cheek.  She  returned  the  kiss,  but 
still  looked  at  the  fire. 

"  I  say,  Loo  !  I  thought  I'd  come,  and  just  hint  to  tou 
what  was  going  on  :  though  I  supposed  you'd  most  like- 
ly guess,  even  if  you  didn't  know.  I  can't  stay,  because 
I'm  engaged  to  some  fellows  to-night.  You  won't  for- 
get how  fond  you  are  of  me  ?  " 

**No,  dear  Tom,  I  won't  forget." 

"That's  a  capital  girl,"  said  Tom.    "Good-bye,  Loo." 

She  gave  him  an  affectionate  good-night,  and  went 
out  with  him  to  the  door,  whence  the  fires  of  Coketown 
could  be  seen,  making  the  distance  lurid.  She  stood 
there  looking  steadfastly  towards  them,  and  listening  to 
his  departing  steps.  They  retreated  quickly,  as  glad  to 
get  away  from  Stone  Lodge  ;  and  she  stood  there  yet, 
when  he  was  gone  and  all  was  quiet.  It  seemed  as  if, 
first  in  her  own  fire  within  the  house,  and  then  in  the 
fiery  haze  without,  she  tried  to  discover  what  kind  of 
woof  Old  Time,  that  greatest  and  longest-established 
Spinner  of  all,  would  weave  from  the  threads  he  had 
already  spun  into  a  woman.  But  his  factory  is  a  secret 
place,  his  work  is  noiseless,  and  his  Hands  are  mutes. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Father  and  Daughter. 

Although  Mr.  Gradgrind  did  not  take  after  Blue 
Beard,  his  room  was  quite  a  blue  chamber  in  its  abun- 
dance of  blue  books.  Whatever  they  could  prove 
(which  is  usually  anything  you  like),  they  proved  there, 
in  an  army  constantly  strengthening  by  the  arrival  of 
new  recruits.  In  that  charmed  apartment,  the  most 
complicated  social  questions  were  cast  up,  got  into  the 
exact  totals,  and  finally  settled — if  those  concerned  could 
only  have  been  brought  to  know  it.  As  if  an  astronom- 
ical observatory  should  be  made  without  any  windows, 
and  the  astronomer  within  should  arrange  the  starry  uni- 
verse solely  by  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  so  Mr.  Gradgrind  in 
7m  Observatory  (and  there  are  many  like  it),  had  no 
need  to  cast  an  eye  upon  the  teeming  myriads  of  human 
beings  around  him,  but  could  settle  all  their  destinies  on 
a  slate,  and  wipe  out  all  their  tears  with  one  dirty  little 
bit  of  sponge. 

To  this  Observatory,  then  :  a  stem  room,  with  a  deadly 
statistical  clock  in  it,  which  measured  every  second  with 
a  beat  like  a  rap  upon  a  coffin-lid  :  Louisa  repaired  on 
the  appointed  morning.  A  window  looked  towards 
Coketown  ;  and  when  she  sat  down  near  her  father's 
table,  she  saw  the  high  chimneys  and  the  long  tracts  of 
smoke  looming  in  the  heavy  distance  gloomily. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  her  father,  "I  prepared  you 
last  night  to  give  me  your  serious  attention  in  the  con- 
versation we  are  now  going  to  have  together.  You  have 
been  so  well  trained,  and  you  do,  I  am  happy  to  say,  so 
much  justice  to  the  education  you  have  received,  that  I 
have  perfect  confidence  in  your  good  sense.  You  are  not 
impulsive,  you  are  not  romantic,  you  are  accustomed  to 
view  everything  from  the  strong  dispassionate  ground 
of  reason  and  calculation.  From  that  ground  alone,  I 
know  you  will  view  and  consider  what  I  am  going  to 
communicate." 

He  waited,  as  if  he  would  have  been  glad  that  she  said 
something.    But  she  said  never  a  word. 

"Louisa,  my  dear,  you  are  the  subject  of  a  proposal 
of  marriage  that  has  been  made  to  me." 

Again  he  waited,  and  again  she  answered  not  one 
word.  This  so  far  suprised  him,  as  to  induce  him  gen- 
tly to  repeat,  "a  proposal  of  marriage,  my  dear."  To 
which  she  returned,  without  any  visible  emotion  what- 
ever : 

"  I  hear  you,  father.    I  am  attending,  I  assure  you." 

"Well  !"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  breaking  into  a  smile, 
after  being  for  the  moment  at  a  loss,  "you  are  even 
more  dispassionate  than  I  expected,  Louisa.  Or,  perhai)s, 
you  are  not  unprepared  for  the  announcement  I  have  in 
charge  to  make  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  that,  father,  until  I  hear  it.  Prepared 


or  unprepared,  I  wish  to  hear  it  all  from  you.  I  wish 
to  hear  you  state  it  to  me,  father." 

Strange  to  relate,  Mr.  Gradgrind  was  not  so  collected 
at  this  moment  as  his  daughter  was.  He  took  a  paper- 
knife  in  his  hand,  turned  it  over,  laid  it  down,  took  it 
up  again,  and  even  then  had  to  look  along  the  blade  of 
it,  considering  how  to  go  on. 

"  What  you  say,  my  dear  Louisa,  is  perfectly  reason- 
able. I  have  undertaken  then  to  let  you  know  that — in 
short,  that  Mr.  Boun derby  has  informed  me  that  he  has 
long  watched  your  progress  with  particular  interest  and 
pleasure,  and  has  long  hoped  that  the  time  might  ulti- 
mately arrive  when  he  should  offer  you  his  hand  in  mar- 
riage. That  time  to  which  he  has  so  long,  and  certainly 
with  great  constancy,  looked  forward,  is  now  come. 
Mr.  Bounderby  has  made  his  proposal  of  marriage  to  me, 
and  has  entreated  me  to  make  it  known  to  you,  and  to 
express  his  hope  that  you  will  take  it  into  your  favour- 
able consideration." 

Silence  between  them.  The  deadly  statistical  clock 
very  hollow.    The  distant  smoke  very  black  and  heavy. 

"Father,"  said  Louisa,  "do  you  think  I  love  Mr. 
Bounderby  ?  " 

Mr.  Gradgrind  was  extremely  discomfited  by  this  un- 
expected question.  "  Well,  my  child,"  he  returned,  "I 
— really — cannot  take  upon  myself  to  say." 

"Father,"  pursued  Louisa  in  exactly  the  same  voice 
as  before,  "  do  you  ask  me  to  love  Mr."  Bounderby  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  no.    No.    I  ask  nothing." 

"Father,"  she  still  pursued,  "does  Mr.  Bounderby 
ask  me  to  love  him?" 

"  Really,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  answer  your  question — " 

"  Difficult  to  answer  it.  Yes  or  No,  father  ?  " 

"Certainly,  my  dear.  Because;"  here  was  some- 
thing to  demonstrate,  and  it  set  liim  up  again  ;  "  be- 
cause the  reply  depends  so  materially,  Louisa,  on  the 
sense  in  which  we  use  the  expression.  Now,  Mr.  Boun- 
derby does  not  do  you  the  injustice,  and  does  not  do 
himself  the  injustice,  of  pretending  to  anything  fanci- 
ful, fantastic,  or  (I  am  using  synonymous  terms)  sen- 
timental. Mr.  Bounderby  would  have  seen  you  grow 
up  under  his  eyes,  to  very  little  purpose,  if  he  could  so 
far  forget  what  is  due  to  your  good  sense,  not  to  say 
to  his,  as  to  address  you  from  any  such  ground. 
Therefore,  perhaps  the  expression  itself — I  merely  sug- 
gest this  to  you,  my  dear — may  be  a  little  misplaced." 

"What  would  you  advise  me  to  use  in  its  stead, 
father  ?  " 

."Why,  my  dear  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  com- 
pletely recovered  by  this  time,  "I  would  advise  you 
(since  you  ask  me)  to  consider  this  question,  as  you  have 
been  accustomed  to  consider  every  other  question,  sim- 
ply as  one  of  tangible  Fact.  The  ignorant  and  the  giddy 
may  embarrass  such  subjects  with  irrelevant  fancies, 
and  other  absurdities  that  have  no  existence,  properly 
viewed — really  no  existence — but  it  is  no  compliment  to 
you  to  say,  that  you  know  better.  Now,  what  are 
the  Facts  of  this  case  ?  You  are,  we  will  say  in  round 
numbers,  twenty  years  of  age  ;  Mr.  Bounderby  is,  we 
will  say  in  round  numbers,  fifty.  There  is  some  dis- 
parity in  your  respective  years,  but  in  your  means  and 
positions  there  is  none  ;  on  the  contrary,  there  is  a  great 
suitability.  Then  the  question  arises.  Is  this  one  dis- 
parity sufficient  to  operate  as  a  bar  to  such  a  mar- 
riage ?  In  considering  this  question,  it  is  not  unim- 
portant to  take  into  account  the  statistics  of  marriage, 
so  far  as  they  have  yet  been  obtained,  in  England  and 
Wales.  I  find,  on  reference  to  the  figures,  that  a  large 
proportion  of  these  marriages  are  contracted  between 
parties  of  very  unequal  ages,  and  that  the  elder  of  these 
contracting  parties,  is,  in  rather  more  than  three-fourths 
of  these  instances,  the  bridegroom.  It  is  remarkable  as 
showing  the  wide  prevalence  of  this  law,  that  among 
the  natives  of  the  British  possessions  in  India,  also  in  a 
considerable  part  of  China,  and  among  the  Calmucks  of 
Tartary,  the  best  means  of  computation  yet  furnished 
us  by  travellers,  yield  similar  results.  The  disparity  I 
have  mentioned,  therefore,  almost  ceases  to  be  disparity, 
and  (virtually)  all  but  disappears." 

"  What  do  you  recommend,  father,"  asked  Louisa, 
her  reserved  composure  not  in  the  least  affected  by 


LOUISA,  MY  DEAR,  YOU  ARF  THE  SUBJECT  OF  A  PROPOSAL  OF  MARRIAGE  THAT  HAS 

BEEN  MADE  TO  ME." 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNlVtRSlTV  OF  ILLINOIS 


HARD  TIMES. 


993 


these  gratifying  results,  "  that  I  should  substitute  for 
the  term  I  used  just  now?  For  the  misplaced  expres- 
sion ?" 

"  Louisa,"  returned  her  father,  *'  it  appears  to  me 
that  nothing  can  be  plainer.  Confining  yourself  rigidly 
to  Fact,  the  question  of  Fact  you  state  to  yourself  is  : 
Does  Mr,  Bounderby  ask  me  to  marry  him  ?  Yes,  he 
does.  The  sole  remaining  question  then  is  :  Shall  I 
marry  him?   I  think  nothing  can  be  plainer  than  that." 

'*  Shall  I  marry  him?"  repeated  Louisa,  with  great 
deliberation. 

"  Precisely.  And  it  is  satisfactory  to  me,  as  your  fa- 
ther, my  dear  Louisa,  to  know  that  you  do  not  come  to 
the  consideration  of  that  question  with  the  previous 
habits  of  mind,  and  habits  of  life,  that  belong  to  many 
young  women." 

"  No,  father,"  she  returned,  "I  do  not." 

"I  now  leave  you  to  judge  for  yourself,"  said  Mr. 
Gradgrind.  "  I  have  stated  the  case,  as  such  cases  are 
usually  stated  among  practical  minds  ;  I  have  stated  it, 
as  the  case  of  your  mother  and  myself  was  stated  in  its 
time.    The  rest,  my  dear  Louisa,  is  for  you  to  decide." 

From  the  beginning  she  had  sat  looking  at  him  fixedly. 
As  he  now  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  bent  his  deep-set 
eyes  upon  her  in  his  turn,  perhaps  he  might  have  seen 
one  wavering  moment  in  her,  when  she  was  impelled  to 
throw  herself  upon  his  breast  and  give  him  the  pent-up 
confidences  of  her  heart.  But,  to  see  it,  he  must  have 
overleaped  at  a  bound  the  artificial  barriers  he  had  for 
many  years  been  erecting,  between  himself  and  all  those 
subtile  essences  of  humanity  which  will  elude  the  ut- 
most cunning  of  algebra  until  the  last  trumpet  ever  to 
be  sounded  shall  blow  even  algebra  to  wreck.  The  bar- 
riers were  too  many  and  too  high  for  such  a  leap.  With 
his  unbending,  utilitarian,  matter-of-fact  face,  he  hard- 
ened her  again  ;  and  the  moment  shot  away  into  the 
plumbless  depths  of  the  past,  to  mingle  with  all  the  lost 
opportunities  that  are  drowned  there. 

Removing  her  eyes  from  him,  she  sat  so  long  looking 
silently  towards  the  town,  that  he  said,  at  length  :  "Are 
you  consulting  the  chimneys  of  the  Coketown  works, 
Louisa  ?  " 

"  There  seems  to  be  nothing  there  but  languid  and 
monotonous  smoke.  Yet  when  the  night  comes.  Fire 
bursts  out,  father  ! "  she  answered,  turning  quickly. 

"Of  course  I  know  that,  Louisa.  I  do  not  see  the 
application  of  the  remark."  To  do  him  justice,  he  did 
not,  at  all. 

She  passed  it  away  with  a  slight  motion  of  her  hand, 
and  concentrating  her  attention  upon  him  again,  said 
"Father,  I  have  often  thought  that  life  is  very  short " — 
This  was  so  distinctly  one  of  his  subjects  that  he  inter- 
posed : 

"It  is  short,  no  doubt,  my  dear.  Still  the  average 
duration  of  human  life  is  proved  to  have  increased  of 
late  years.  The  calculations  of  various  life  assurance 
and  annuity  ofiices,  among  other  figures  which  cannot 
go  wrong,  have  established  the  fact." 

"  I  speak  of  my  own  life,  father." 

"O  indeed?  Still,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "I  need  not 
point  out  to  you,  Louisa,  that  it  is  governed  by  the  laws 
which  govern  lives  in  the  aggregate." 

"  While  it  lasts,  I  would  wish  to  do  the  little  I  can, 
and  the  little  I  am  fit  for.    What  does  it  matter  !  " 

Mr.  Gradgrind  seemed  rather  at  a  loss  to  understand 
the  last  four  words;  replying,  "How,  matter?  What 
matter,  my  dear  ?  " 

"Mr.  Bounderby,"  she  went  on  in  a  steady,  straight 
way,  without  regarding  this,  "  asks  me  to  marry  him. 
The  question  I  have  to  ask  myself  is.  Shall  I  marry 
him?  That  is  so,  father,  is  it  not  ?  You  have  told  me 
so,  father.    Have  you  not  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear." 

"  Let  it  be  so.  Since  Mr.  Bounderby  likes  to  take  me 
thus,  I  am  satisfied  to  accept  his  proposal.  Tell  him, 
father,  as  soon  as  you  please,  that  this  was  my  answer. 
Repeat  it,  word  for  word,  if  you  can,  because  I  should 
wish  him  to  know  what  I  said." 

"  It  is  quite  right,  my  dear,"  retorted  her  father  ap- 
provingly, "  to  be  exact.    I  will  observe  your  very  pro- 
per request.    Have  you  any  wish  in  reference  to  the 
period  of  your  marriage,  my  child  ?  " 
Vol.  II.— 63 


"  None,  father.  What  does  it  matter  I " 
Mr.  Gradgrind  had  drawn  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to 
her,  and  taken  her  liand.  But,  her  repetition  of  these 
words  seemed  to  strike  with  some  little  discord  on  his 
ear.  He  paused  to  look  at  her,  and,  still  holding  her 
hand,  said  : 

"  Louisa,  I  have  not  considered  it  essential  to  ask  you 
one  question,  because  the  possibility  implied  in  it  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  too  remote.  But  perhaps,  I  ought  to 
do  so.  You  have  never  entertained  in  secret  any  other 
proposal  ?  " 

"  Father,"  she  returned,  almost  scornfully,  "  what 
other  proposal  can  have  been  made  to  me?  Whom 
have  I  seen  ?  Where  have  I  been  ?  What  are  my 
heart's  experiences?" 

"My  dear  Louisa,"  returned  Mr.  Gradgrind,  reassured 
and  satisfied,  "  you  correct  me  justly.  I  merely  wished 
to  discharge  my  duty." 

"What  do /know  father,"  said  Louisa  in  her  quiet 
manner,  "  of  tastes  and  fancies  ;  of  aspirations  and  affec- 
tions ;  of  all  that  part  of  my  nature  in  which  such  light 
things  might  have  been  nourished?  What  escape  have 
I  had  from  problems  that  could  be  demonstrated,  and 
realities  that  could  be  grasped  ?  "  As  she  said  it,  she 
unconsciously  closed  her  hand,  as  if  upon  a  solid  object, 
and  slowly  opened  it  as  though  she  were  releasing  dust 
or  ash. 

"My  dear,"  assented  her  eminently  practical  parent, 
"  quite  true,  quite  true." 

"Why,  father,"  she  pursued,  "  what  a  strange  ques- 
tion to  ask  me!  The  baby-preference  that  even  I  have 
heard  of  as  common  among  children,  has  never  had  its 
innocent  resting-place  in  my  breast.  You  have  been  so 
careful  of  me,  that  I  never  had  a  child's  heart.  You 
have  trained  me  so  well,  that  I  never  dreamed  a  child's 
dream.  You  have  dealt  so  wisely  with  me,  father,  from 
my  cradle  to  this  hour,  that  I  never  had  a  child's  belief 
or  a  child's  fear." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  was  quite  moved  by  his  success,  and 
by  this  testimony  to  it.  "My  dear  Louisa,"  said  he, 
"  you  abundantly  repay  my  care.  Kiss  me,  my  dear 
girl." 

So,  his  daughter  kissed  him.  Detaining  her  in  his 
embrace,  he  said,  "  I  may  assure  you  now,  my  favourite 
child,  that  I  am  made  happy  by  the  sound  decision  at 
which  you  have  arrived.  Mr.  Bounderby  is  a  very  remark- 
able man  ;  and  what  little  disparity  can  be  said  to  exist 
between  you — if  any — is  more  than  counterbalanced  by 
the  tone  your  mind  has  acquired.  It  has  always  been 
my  object  so  to  educate  you,  as  that  you  might,  while 
still  in  your  early  youth,  be  (if  I  may  so  express  myself) 
almost  any  age.  Kiss  me  once  more,  Louisa.  Now,  let 
us  go  and  find  your  mother." 

Accordingly,  they  went  down  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  the  esteemed  lady  with  no  nonsense  about  her, 
was  recumbent  as  usual,  while  Sissy  worked  beside  her. 
She  gave  some  feeble  signs  of  returning  animation  when 
they  entered,  and  presently  the  faint  transparency  was 
presented  in  a  sitting  attitude. 

"  Mrs.  Gradgrind,"  said  her  husband,  who  had  waited 
for  the  achievement  of  this  feat  with  some  impatience, 
"  allow  me  to  present  to  you  Mrs.  Bounderby." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  "  so  you  have  settled  it  ! 
Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  your  health  may  be  good,  Louisa  ; 
for  if  your  head  begins  to  split  as  soon  as  you  are  married, 
which  was  the  case  with  mine,  I  cannot  consider  that 
you  are  to  be  envied,  though  I  have  no  doubt  you  think 
you  are,  as  all  girls  do.  However,  I  give  you  joy,  my  dear 
— and  I  hope  you  may  now  turn  all  your  ological  studies 
to  good  account,  I  am  sure  I  do  !  I  must  give  you  a  kiss, 
of  congratulation,  Louisa  ;  but  don't  touch  my  right 
shoulder,  for  there's  something  running  down  it  all  day 
long.  And  now,  you  see,"  whimpered  Mrs.  Gradgrind, 
adjusting  her  shawls  after  the  affectionate  ceremony, 
j  "  I  shall  be  worrying  myself,  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
to  know  what  I  am  to  call  him  !  " 

I  "Mrs.  Gradgrind,"  said  her  husband,  solemnly,  "  what:, 
j  do  you  mean  ?" 

I  "  W^hatever  I  am  to  call  him,  Mr.  Gradgrind,  when 
I  he  is  married  to  Louisa  !    I  must  call  him  something. 

It's  impossible,"  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  with  a  mingled. 

sense  of  politeness  and  injury,  "to  be  constantly  ad« 


994 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


dressing  Mm  and  never  giving  him  a  name.  I  cannot 
call  him  Josiah,  for  the  name  is  insupportable  to  me. 
You  yourself  wouldn't  hear  of  Joe,  you  very  well  know. 
Am  I  to  call  my  own  son-in-law,  Mister.  Not,  I  believe, 
unless  the  time  has  arrived  when,  as  an  invalid,  I  am  to 
be  trampled  upon  by  my  relations.  Then,  what  am  I  to 
call  him  ! " 

Nobody  present  having  any  suggestion  to  offer  in  the 
remarkable  emergency,  Mrs.  Gradgrind  departed  this 
life  for  the  time  being,  after  delivering  the  following 
codicil  to  her  remarks  already  executed  : 

"As  to  the  wedding,  all  I  ask,  Louisa,  is, — and  I  ask 
it  with  a  fluttering  in  my  chest,  which  actually  extends 
to  the  soles  of  my  feet, — that  it  may  take  place  soon. 
Otherwise,  I  know  it  is  one  of  those  subjects  I  shall  never 
hear  the  last  of." 

When  Mr.  Gradgrind  had  presented  Mrs.  Bounderby, 
Sissy  had  suddenly  turned  her  head,  and  looked,  in 
wonder,  in  pity,  in  sorrow,  in  doubt,  in  a  multitude  of 
emotions,  towards  Louisa.  Louisa  had  known  it,  and 
seen  it,  without  looking  at  her.  From  that  moment  she 
was  impassive,  proud,  and  cold — held  Sissy  at  a  distance 
— changed  to  her  altogether. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Husband  and  Wife. 

Mr.  Bounderby's  first  disquietude  on  hearing  of  his 
happiness,  was  occasioned  by  the  necessity  of  imparting 
it  to  Mrs.  Sparsit.  He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  how 
to  do  that,  or  what  the  consequences  of  the  step  might 
be.  Whether  she  would  instantly  depart,  bag  and  bag- 
gage, to  Lady  Scadgers,  or  would  positively  refuse  to 
budge  from  the  premises  ;  whether  she  would  be  plain- 
tive or  abusive,  tearful  or  tearing  ;  whether  she  would 
break  her  heart,  or  break  the  looking-glass  ;  Mr.  Boun- 
derby could  not  at  all  foresee.  However,  as  it  must  be 
done,  he  had  no  choice  but  to  do  it ;  so,  after  attempting 
several  letters,  and  failing  in  them  all,  he  resolved  to  do 
it  by  word  of  mouth. 

On  his  way  home,  on  the  evening  he  set  aside  for  this 
momentous  purpose,  he  took  the  precaution  of  stepping 
into  a  chemist's  shop  and  buying  a  bottle  of  the  very 
strongest  smelling-salts.  "  By  George  !  "  said  Mr.  Boun- 
derby, "if  she  takes  it  in  the  fainting  way,  I'll  have  the 
skin  off  her  nose,  at  all  events  !  "  But,  in  spite  of  being 
thus  forearmed,  he  entered  his  own  house  with  anything 
but  a  courageous  air  ;  and  appeared  before  the  object  of 
his  misgivings,  like  a  dog  who  was  conscious  of  coming 
direct  from  the  pantry. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Bounderby  !  '* 

"  Good  evening,  ma'am,  good'  evening.'*  He  drew  up 
his  chair,  and  Mrs.  Sparsit  drew  back  hers  as  who  should 
say,  "  Your  fireside,  sir.  I  freely  admit  it.  It  is  for  you 
to  occupy  it  all,  if  you  think  proper." 

"Don't  go  to  tiie  North  Pole,  ma'am!"  said  Mr. 
Bounderby. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  and  returned, 
though  short  of  her  former  position. 

Mr.  Bounderby  sat  looking  at  her,  as,  with  the  points 
of  a  stiff,  sharp  pair  of  scissors,  she  picked  out  holes  for 
some  inscrutable  ornamental  purpose,  in  a  piece  of 
cambric.  An  operation  which,  taken  in  connexion  with 
the  bushy  eye-brows  and  the  Roman  nose,  suggested 
with  some  liveliness  tlie  idea  of  a  hawk  engaged  upon 
the  eyes  of  a  tough  little  bird.  She  was  so  steadfastly 
occupied,  that  many  minutes  elapsed  before  she  looked 
up  from  her  work  :  when  she  did  so,  Mr.  Bounderby  be- 
spoke her  attention  with  hitch  of  his  head. 

"  Mrs.  Sparsit  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  putting 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  assuring  himself  with  his 
right  hand  that  the  cork  of  the  little  bottle  was  ready  for 
use,  "  I  have  no  occasion  to  say  to  you,  that  you  are  not 
only  a  lady  born  and  bred,  but  a  devilish  sensible 
woman." 

"  Sir,"  returned  the  lady,  "  this  is  indeed  not  the  first 
time  that  you  have  honoured  me  with  similar  expressions 
of  your  good  opinion." 

"Mrs.  Sparsit  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "I  am 
going  to  astonish  you." 


"Yes,  sir?"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  interrogatively, 
and  in  the  most  tranquil  manner  possible.  She  generally 
wore  mittens,  and  she  now  laid  down  her  work,  and 
smoothed  those  mittens. 

"I  am  going,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby,  "to  marry 
Tom  Gradgrind's  daughter." 

"  Yes,  sir  ?  "  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "  I  hope  you  may 
be  happy,  Mr.  Bounderby.  Oh,  indeed  I  hope  you  may 
be  happy,sir  I "  And  she  said  it  with  such  great  condescen- 
sion, as  well  as  with  such  great  compassion  for  him,  that 
Bounderby, — far  more  disconcerted  than  if  she  had 
thrown  her  work-box  at  the  mirror,  or  swooned  on  the 
hearth-rug, — corked  up  the  smelling-salts  tight  in  his 
pocket,  and  thought,  "Now  confound  this  woman,  who 
could  have  ever  guessed  that  she  would  take  it  in  this 
way  ! " 

"  I  wish  with  all  my  heart,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  in 
a  highly  superior  manner  ;  somehow  she  seemed,  in  a 
moment,  to  have  established  a  right  to  pity  him  ever 
afterwards;  "that  you  may  be  in  all  respects  very 
happy." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  returned  Bounderby,  with  some  re- 
sentment in  his  tone  :  which  was  clearly  lowered,  though 
in  spite  of  himself,  "  I  am  obliged  to  you.  I  hope  I 
shall  be." 

"  Do  you,  sir  ! "  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  great  affability. 
"But  naturally  you  do  ;  of  course  you  do." 

A  very  awkward  pause  on  Mr.  Bounderby's  part,  suc- 
ceeded. Mrs.  Sparsit  sedately  resumed  her  work,  and 
occasionally  gave  a  small  cough,  which  sounded  like  the 
cough  of  conscious  strength  and  forbearance. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  resumed  Bounderby,  "under  these 
circumstances,  I  imagine  it  would  not  be  agreeable 
to  a  character  like  yours  to  remain  here,  though  you 
would  be  very  welcome  here  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  no,  sir,  I  could  on  no  account  think  of  that  I" 
Mrs.  Sparsit  shook  her  head,  still  in  her  highly  superior 
manner,  and  a  little  changed  the  small  cough — coughing 
now,  as  if  the  spirit  of  prophecy  rose  within  her,  but  had 
better  be  coughed  down. 

"  However,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby,  "there  are  apart- 
ments at  the  Bank,  where  a  born  and  bred  lady,  as  keeper 
of  the  place,  would  be  rather  a  catch  than  otherwise  ; 
and  if  the  same  terms — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  You  were  so  good  as  to  prom- 
ise that  you  would  always  substitute  the  phrase,  annual 
compliment." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  annual  compliment.  If  the  same 
annual  compliment  would  be  acceptable  there,  why,  I 
see  nothing  to  part  us  unless  you  do." 

"  Sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  the  proposal  is  like 
yourself,  and  if  the  position  I  shall  assume  at  the  Bank 
is  one  that  I  could  occupy  without  descending  lower  in 
the  social  scale — " 

"  Why,  of  course  it  is,"  said  Bounderby.  "  If  it  was 
not,  ma'am,  you  don't  suppose  that  I  should  offer  it  to  a 
lady  who  has  moved  in  the  society  you  have  moved  in. 
Not  that  I  care  for  such  society,  you  know  !  But  you 
do." 

"  Mr.  Bounderby,  you  are  very  considerate." 

"  You'll  have  your  own  private  apartments,  and  you'll 
have  your  coals  and  your  candles  and  all  the  rest  of  it, 
and  you'll  have  your  maid  to  attend  upon  you,  and  you'll 
have  your  light  porter  to  protect  you,  and  you'll  be 
what  I  take  the  liberty  of  considering  precious  comfort- 
able," said  Bounderby. 

"  Sir,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  say  no  more.  In  yield- 
ing up  my  trust  here,  I  shall  not  be  freed  from  the  neces- 
sity of  eating  the  bread  of  dependence  ;  "  she  might  have 
said  the  sweet-bread,  for  that  delicate  article  in  a  savoury 
brown  sauce  was  her  favourite  supper  ;  "and  I  would 
rather  receive  it  from  your  hand,  than  from  any  other. 
Therefore,  sir,  I  accept  your  offer  gratefully,  and  with 
many  sincere  acknowledgments  for  past  favors.  And  I 
hope  sir,"  said.Mrs.  Sparsit,  concluding  in  an  impressive- 
ly compassionate  manner,  "  I  fondly  hope  that  Miss 
Gradgrind  may  be  all  you  desire,  and  deserve  !" 

Nothing  moved  Mrs.  Sparsit  from  that  position  any 
more.  It  was  in  vain  for  Bounderby  to  bluster,  or  to  as- 
sert himself  in  any  of  his  explosive  ways  ;  Mrs.  Sparsit 
was  resolved  to  have  compassion  on  him,  as  a  Victim. 
She  was  polite,  obliging,  cheerful,  hopeful  ;  but,  the 


HARD 

iTiOre  polite,  the  more  obliging,  the  more  cheerful,  the 
more  hopeful,  the  more  exemplary  altogether,  she  ;  the 
forloruer  Sacrifice  and  Victim,  he.  She  had  that  tender- 
ness for  his  melancholy  fate,  that  his  great  red  counte- 
nance used  to  break  out  into  cold  perspirations  when  she 
looked  at  him. 

Meanwhile  the  marriage  was  appointed  to  be  solem- 
nised in  eight  weeks'  time,  and  Mr.  Bounderby  went  every 
evening  to  Stone  Lodge  as  an  accepted  wooer.  Love  was 
made  on  these  occasions  in  fche  form  of  bracelets  ;  and, 
on  all  occasions  during  the  period  of  betrotlial,  took  a 
manufacturing  aspect.  Dresses  were  made,  jewellery 
was  made,  cakes  and  gloves  were  made,  settlements  were 
made,  and  an  extensive  assortment  of  Facts  did  appro- 
priate honour  to  the  contract.  The  business  was  all  Fact, 
from  first  to  last.  The  Hours  did  not  go  through  any  of 
those  rosy  performances,  which  foolish  poets  have  as- 
cribed to  them  at  such  times  ;  neither  did  the  clocks  go 
any  faster,  or  any  slower,  than  at  any  other  seasons.  The 
deadly  statistical  recorder  in  the  Qradgrind  observatory 
knocked  every  second  on  the  head  as  it  was  born,  and 
buried  it  with  his  accustomed  regularity. 

So  the  day  came,  as  all  other  days  come  to  people  who 
will  only  stick  to  reason  ;  and  when  it  came,  there  were 
married  in  the  church  of  the  florid  wooden  legs — that 
popular  order  of  architecture — Josiah  Bounderby  Esquire 
of  Coketown,  to  Louisa  eldest  daughter  of  Thoma^'Grad- 
grind  Esquire  of  Stone  Lodge,  M.  P.  for  that  borough. 
And  when  they  were  united  in  holy  matrimony,  they 
went  home  to  breakfast  at  Stone  Lodge  aforesaid. 

There  was  an  improving  party  assembled  on  the  aus- 
picious occasion,  who  knew  what  everything  they  had  to 
eat  and  drink  was  made  of,  and  how  it  was  imported  or 
exported,  and  in  what  quantities,  and  in  what  bottoms, 
whether  native  or  foreign,  and  all  about  it.  The  brides- 
maids, down  to  little  Jane  Gradgrind,  were,  in  an  intel- 
lectual point  of  view,fit  helpmates  for  the  calculating  boy; 
and  there  was  no  nonsense  about  any  of  the  company. 

After  breakfast,  the  bridegroom  addressed  them  in  the 
following  terms. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  Josiah  Bounderby  of 
Coketown.  Since  you  have  done  my  wife  and  myself  the 
honour  of  drinking  our  healths  and  happiness,  I  suppose 
I  must  acknowledge  the  same  ;  though,  as  you  all  know 


TIMES.  995 

me,  and  know  what  I  am,  and  what  my  extraction  was, 
you  won't  expect  a  speech  from  a  man  who,  when  he  sees 
a  Post,  says  '  that's  a  Post,'  and  when  he  sees  a  Pump 
says  '  that's  a  Pump,*  and  is  not  to  be  got  to  call  a  Post 
a  Pump,  or  a  Pump  a  Post,  or  either  of  them  a  Tooth- 
pick. If  you  want  a  speech  this  morning,  my  friend  and 
father-in-law,  Tom  Gradgrind,  is  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  you  know  where  to  get  it.  I  am  not  your 
man.  However,  if  I  feel  a  little  independent  when  I  look 
around  this  table  t<j-day,  and  reflect  liow  little  I  thought 
of  marrying  Tom  Gradgrind 's  daugliter  when  I  was  a 
ragged  street- boy,  who  never  washed  his  face  unless  it 
was  at  a  pump,  and  that  not  oftener  than  once  a  fort- 
niglit,  I  hope  I  may  be  excused.  So,  I  hope  you  like  my 
feeling  independent  ;  if  you  don't  I  can't  help  it.  I  do 
feel  independent.  Now  I  have  mentioned,  and  you  have 
mentioned,  that  I  am  this  day  married  to  Tom  Grad- 
grind's  daughter.  I  am  very  glad  to  be  so.  It  has  long 
been  my  wish  to  be  so.  I  have  watched  her  bringing  -up, 
and  I  believe  she  is  worthy  of  me.  At  the  same  time — 
not  to  deceive  you — I  believe  I  am  worthy  of  her.  So,  I 
thank  you,  on  both  our  parts,  for  the  good-will  you  have 
shown  towards  us  ;  and  the  best  wish  I  can  give  the  un- 
married part  of  the  present  company,  is  tliis  :  I  hope 
every  bachelor  may  find  as  good  a  wife  as  I  have  found. 
And  I  hope  every  spinster  may  find  as  good  a  husband  as 
my  wife  has  found." 

Shortly  after  which  oration,  as  they  were  going  on  a 
nuptial  trip  to  Lyons,  in  order  that  Mr.  Bounderby  might 
take  the  opportunity  of  seeing  how  the  Hands  got  on  in 
those  parts,  and  whether  they,  too,  required  to  be  fed 
with  gold  spoons  ;  the  happy  pair  departed  for  the  rail- 
road. The  bride,  in  passing  down -stairs,  dressed  for  her 
journey,  found  Tom  waiting  for  her — flushed,  either  with 
his  feelings  or  the  vinous  part  of  the  breakfast. 

"  What  a  game  girl  you  are,  to  be  such  a  first-rate 
sister.  Loo  !"  whispered  Tom. 

She  clung  to  him,  as  she  should  have  clung  to  some  far 
better  nature  that  day,  and  was  a  little  shaken  in  her  re- 
served composure  for  the  first  time. 

"Old  Bounderby's  quite  ready,"  said  Tom.  "Time's 
up.  Good-bye  !  I  shall  be  on  the  look-out  for  you,  when 
you  come  back.  I  say,  my  dear  Loo  1  An't  it  uncom- 
monly jolly  now  1 " 


BOOK  THE  SECO^iD.-REAPING, 


CHAPTER  L 

Effects  in  the  Bank. 

A  STTNNT  midsummer  day.  There  was  such  a  thing 
sometimes,  even  in  Coketown. 

Seen  from  a  distance  In  such  weather,  Coketown  lay 
shrouded  in  a  haze  of  its  own,  which  appeared  imper- 
vious to  the  sun's  rays.  You  only  knew  the  town  was 
there,  because  you  knew  there  could  have  been  no  such 
sulky  blotch  upon  the  prospect  without  a  town.  A  blur 
of  soot  and  smoke,  now  confusedly  tending  this  way, 
now  that  way,  now  aspiring  to  the  vault  of  Heaven,  now 
murkily  creeping  along  the  earth,  as  the  wind  rose  and 
fell,  or  changed  its  quarter:  a  dense  formless  jumble, 
with  sheets  of  cross  light  in  it,  that  showed  nothing  but 
masses  of  darkness  : — Coketown  in  the  distance  was  sug- 
gestive of  itself,  though  not  a  brick  of  it  could  be  seen. 

The  wonder  was,  it  was  there  at  all.  It  had  been 
ruined  so  often,  that  it  was  amazing  how  it  had  borne  so 
many  shocks.  Surely  there  never  was  such  fragile  china- 
ware  as  that  of  which  the  millers  of  Coketown  were 
made.    Handle  them  never  so  lightly,  and  tbey  fell  to 

Eieces  with  such  ease  that  you  might  suspect  them  of 
aving  been  flawed  before.    They  were  ruined,  when 


they  were  required  to  send  labouring  children  to  school ; 
they  were  ruined  when  inspectors  were  appointed  to  look 
into  their  works  ;  they  were  ruined,  when  such  inspectors 
considered  it  doubtful  whether  they  were  quite  justified 
in  chopping  people  up  with  their  machinery  ;  they  were 
utterly  undone,  when  it  was  hinted  that  perhaps  they 
need  not  always  make  quite  so  much  smoke.  Besides 
Mr.  Bounderby's  gold  spoon  which  was  generally  received 
in  Coketown,  another  prevalent  fiction  was  very  popular 
there.  It  took  the  form  of  a  threat.  Whenever  a  Coke- 
towner  felt  he  was  ill-used — that  is  to  say,  whenever  he 

i  was  not  left  entirely  alone,  and  it  was  proposed  to  hold. 

j  him  accountable  for  the  consequences  of  any  of  his  acts\ 
— he  was  sure  to  come  out  with  the  awful  menace,  that  / 

■  he  would  "  sooner  pitch  his  property  into  the  Atlantic. 'y 
This  liad  terrified  the  Home  Secretary  within  an  inch  oi 

'  his  life,  on  several  occasions. 

j  However,  the  Coketowners  were  so  patriotic  after  all, 
that  they  never  had  pitched  their  property  into  the 
'  Atlantic  yet,  but  on  the  contrary,  had  been  kind  enough 
'  to  take  mighty  good  care  of  it.  So  there  it  was,  in  the 
I  haze  yonder  Tandit  increased  and  multiplied. 
I  The  streets  were  hot  and  dusty  on  the  summer  day, 
'  and  the  sun  was  so  bright  that  it  even  shone  through 
j  the  heavy  vapour  drooping  over  Coketown,  and  could  not 


996 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


be  looked  at  steadily.  Stokers  emerged  from  low  un- 
derground doorways  into  factory  yards,  and  sat  on  steps, 
and  posts,  and  pa'lings,  wiping  their  swarthy  visages, 
and  contemplating  coals.  The  whole  town  seemed  to  be 
frying  in  oil.  There  was  a  stifling  smell  of  hot  oil  every- 
where. The  steam-engines  shone  with  it,  the  dresses 
of  the  Hands  were  soiled  with  it,  the  mills  throughout 
their  many  stories  oozed  and  trickled  it.  The  atmos- 
phere of  those  Fairy  palaces  was  like  the  breath  of  the 
simoom  ;  and  their  inhabitants,  wasting  with  heat,  toiled 
languidly  in  the  desert.  But  no  temperature  made  the 
melancholy  mad  elephants  more  mad  or  more  sane. 
Their  wearisome  heads  went  up  and  down  at  the  same 
rate,  in  hot  weather  and  cold,  wet  weather  and  dry, 
fair  weather  and  foul.  The  measured  motion  of  their 
shadows  on  the  walls,  was  the  substitute  CoketoAvn  had 
to  show  for  the  shadows  of  rustling  woods  ;  while,  for 
the  summer  hum  of  insects,  it  could  offer,  all  the  year 
round,  from  the  dawn  of  Monday  to  the  night  of  Satur- 
day, the  whirr  of  shafts  and  wheels. 

Drowsily  they  whirred  all  through  this  sunny  day, 
making  the  passenger  more  sleepy  and  more  hot  as  he 
passed  the  humming  walls  of  the  mills.  Sun-blinds, 
and  sprinklings  of  water,  a  little  cooled  the  main  streets 
and  the  shops  ;  but  the  mills,  and  the  courts  and  the 
alleys,  baked  at  a  fierce  heat.  Down  upon  the  river 
that  was  black  and  thick  with  dye,  some  Coketown  boys 
who  were  at  large — a  rare  sight  there — rowed  a  crazy 
boat,  which  made  a  spumous  track  upon  the  water  as  it 
jogged  along,  while  every  dip  of  an  oar  stirred  up  vile 
smells.  But  the  sun  itself,  however  beneficent  generally, 
was  less  kind  to  Coketown  than  hard  frost,  and  rarely 
looked  intently  into  any  of  its  closer  regions  without 
engendering  more  death  than  life.  So  does  the  eye  of 
Heaven  itself  become  an  evil  eye,  when  incapable  or 
sordid  hands  are  interposed  between  it  and  the  things 
it  looks  upon  to  bless. 

Mrs.  Sparsit  sat  in  her  afternoon  apartment  at  the 
Bank,  on  the  shadier  side  of  the  frying  street.  Office- 
hours  were  over  :  and  at  that  period  of  the  day,  in  warm 
weather,  she  usually  embellished  with  her  genteel 
presence,  a  managerial  board-room  over  the  public  office. 
Her  own  private  sitting-room  was  a  story  high,  at  the 
window  of  which  post  of  observation  she  was  ready, 
every  morning,  to  greet  Mr.  Bound erby,  as  he  came 
across  the  road  with  the  sympathising  recognition  ap- 
propriate to  a  Victim.  He  had  been  married  now,  a 
year  ;  and  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  never  released  him  from  her 
determined  pity  a  moment. 

The  Bank  offered  no  violence  to  the  wholesome  mono- 
tony of  the  town.  It  was  another  red  brick  house,  with 
black  outside  shutters,  green  inside  blinds,  a  black 
street-door  up  two  white  steps,  a  brazen  door-plate,  and 
a  brazen  door-handle  full  stop.  It  was  a  size  larger 
than  Mr.  Bounderby's  house,  as  other  houses  were  from 
a  size  to  a  half-a-dozen  sizes  smaller  ;  in  all  other  parti- 
culars, it  was  strictly  according  to  pattern. 

Mrs.  Sparsit  was  conscious  that  by  coming  in  the  even- 
ing tide  among  the  desks  and  writing  implements,  she 
shed  a  feminine,  not  to  say  also  aristocratic,  grace  upon 
the  office.  Seated,  with  her  needlework  or  netting 
apparatus,  at  the  window,  she  had  a  self-laudatory  sense 
of  correcting,  by  her  ladylike  deportment,  the  rude  busi- 
ness aspect  of  the  place.  With  this  impression  of  her 
interesting  character  upon  her,  Mrs.  Sparsit  considered 
herself,  in  some  sort,  the  Bank  Fairy.  The  townspeople 
who,  in  their  jmssing  and  repassing,  saw  her  there 
regarded  her  as  the  Bank  Dragon  keeping  watch  over 
the  treasures  of  the  mine. 

What  those  treasures  were,  Mrs.  Sparsit  knew  as  little 
as  they  did.  Gold  and  silver  coin,  precious  paper,  secrets 
that  if  divulged  would  bring  a  vague  destruction  upon 
vague  persons  (generally,  however,  people  whom  she 
disliked),  were  the  chief  items  in  her  ideal  catalogue 
thereof.  For  the  rest,  she  knew  that  after  office-hours, 
she  reigned  supreme  over  all  the  office  furniture,  and 
over  a  locked -up  iron  room  with  three  locks,  against  the 
door  of  which  strong  chamber  the  light  porter  laid  liis 
head  every  night,  on  a  truckle  bed,  that  disappeared  at 
cockcrow.  Further  she  was  lady  paramount  over  cer- 
tain vaults  in  the  basement,  sharply  piked  off  from 
communication  with  the  predatory  world  ;  and  over  the 


I  relics  of  the  current  day's  work,  consisting  of  blots  of 
ink,  worn-out  pens,  fragments  of  wafers,  and  scraps  of 
paper  torn  so  small;  that  nothing  interesting  could  ever 
be  deciphered  on  them  when  Mrs.  Sparsit  tried.  Lastly, 
she  was  guardian  over  a  little  armoury  of  cutlasses  and 
carbines,  arrayed  in  vengeful  order  above  one  of  the 
official  chimney-pieces  ;  and  over  that  respectable  tradi- 
tion never  to  be  separated  from  a  place  of  business 
claiming  to  be  wealthy — a  row  of  fire-buckets — vessels 
calculated  to  be  of  no  physical  utility  on  any  occasion, 
but  observed  to  exercise  a  fine  moral  influence,  almost 
equal  to  bullion,  on  most  beholders, 

A  deaf  serving  woman  and  a  light  porter  completed 
Mrs,  Sparsit's  empire.  The  deaf  serving  woman  was 
rumoured  to  be  wealthy  ;  and  a  saying  had  for  years 
gone  about  among  the  lower  orders  of  Coketown,  that 
she  would  be  murdered  some  night  when  the  Bank  was 
shut,  for  the  sake  of  her  money.  It  was  generally  con- 
sidered, indeed,  that  she  had  been  due  some  time,  and 
ought  to  have  fallen  long  ago  ;  but  she  had  kept  her  life, 
and  her  situation,  with  an  ill-conditioned  tenacity  that 
occasioned  much  offence  and  disappointment. 

Mrs.  Sparsit's  tea  was  just  set  for  her  on  a  pert  little 
table,  with  its  tripod  of  legs  in  an  attitude,  which  she 
insinuated  after  office-hours,  into  the  company  of  the 
steriji  leathern-topped,  long  board-table  that  bestrode  the 
midme  of  the  room.  The  light  porter  placed  the  tea- 
tray  on  it,  knuckling  his  forehead  as  a  form  of  homage. 

"  Thank  you,  Bitzer,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  the  light  porter.  He 
was  a  very  light  porter  indeed  ;  as  light  as  in  the  days 
when  he  blinkingly  defined  a  horse,  for  girl  number 
twenty. 

"All  is  shut  up,  Bitzer?"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 
"All  is  shut  up,  ma'am." 

"And  what,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  pouring  out  her  tea, 
"  is  tbe  news  of  the  day  ?  Anything?" 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  can't  say  that  I  have  heard  anything 
particular.  Our  people  are  a  bad  lot  ma'am  ;  but  that 
is  no  news,  unfortunately." 

"What  are  the  restless  wretches  doing  now?"  asked 
Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"Merely  going  on  in  the  old  way,  ma'am.  Uniting, 
and  leaguing,  and  engaging  to  stand  by  one  another." 

"It  is  much  to  be  regretted,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  mak- 
ing her  nose  more  Roman  and  her  eyebrows  more  Corio- 
lanian  in  the  strength  of  severity,  "that  the  united 
masters  allow  of  any  such  class-combinations," 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer. 

"Being  united  themselves,  they  ought  one  and  all  to 
set  their  faces  against  employing  any  man  who  is  united 
with  any  other  man,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"  They  have  done  that,  ma'am,"  returned  Bitzer ;  "  but 
it  rather  fell  through,  ma'am." 

"  I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  these  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  dignity,  "  my  lot  having  been  origi- 
nally cast  in  a  widely  different  sphere  ;  and  Mr.  Sparsit, 
as  a  Powler,  being  also  quite  out  of  the  pale  of  any  such, 
dissensions.  I  only  know  that  these  people  must  be 
conquered,  and  that  it's  high  time  it  was  done,  once  for 
all." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Bitzer,  wdth  a  demonstration 
of  great  respect  for  Mrs.  Sparsit's  oracular  authority. 
"  You  couldn't  put  it  clearer,  I  am  sure,  ma'am." 

As  this  was  his  usual  hour  for  having  a  little  con- 
fidential chat  with  Mrs.  Sparsit,  and  as  he  had  already 
caught  her  eye  and  seen  that  she  was  going  to  ask  him 
something,  he  made  a  pretence  of  arranging  the  rulers, 
inkstands,  and  so  forth,  while  that  lady  went  on  with 
her  tea,  glancing  through  the  open  window,  down  into 
the  street.  ' 

"  Has  it  been  a  busy  day,  Bitzer?  "  asked  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"Not  a  very  busy  day,  my  lady.  About  an  average 
day."  He  now  and  then  glided  into  my  lady,  instead  of 
ma'am,  as  an  involuntary  acknowledgment  of  Mrs. 
Sparsit's  personal  dignity  and  claims  to  reverence. 

"  The  clerks,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  carefully  brushing 
an  imperceptible  crumb  of  bread  and  butter  from  her 
left  hand  mitten,  "  are  trustworthy,  punctual,  and  in- 
dustrious, of  course  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,  pretty  fair,  ma'am.  With  the  usual 
exception." 


HARD 

He  held  tlie  respectable  office  of  general  spy  and  in- 
former in  the  establishment,  for  wliicli  volunteer  service 
he  received  a  present  at  Christmas,  over  and  above  his 
weekly  wages.  He  had  grown  into  an  extremely  clear- 
headed, cautious,  prudent  young  man,  who  was  safe  to 
rise  in  the  world.  His  mind  was  so  exactly  regulated, 
that  he  had  no  affection  or  passions.  All  his  proceed- 
ings were  the  result  of  the  nicest  and  coldest  calcula- 
tion;  and  it  was  not  without  cause  that  Mrs.  Sparsifc 
habitually  observed  of  him,  that  he  was  a  young  man  of 
the  steadiest  principle  she  had  ever  known.  Having 
satisfied  himself,  on  his  father's  death,  that  his  mother 
had  a  right  of  settlement  in  Coketown,  this  excellent 
young  economist  had  asserted  that  right  for  her  with 
such  a  steadfast  adherence  to  the  principle  of  the  case, 
that  she  had  been  shut  up  in  the  workhouse  ever  since. 
It  must  be  admitted  that  he  allowed  her  half  a  pound  of 
tea  a  year,  whicli  was  weak  in  him  :  first,  because  all 
gifts  have  an  inevitable  tendency  to  pauperise  the  re- 
cipient, and  secondly,  because  his  only  reasonable  trans- 
action in  that  commodity  would  have  been  to  buy  it  for 
as  little  as  he  could  possibly  give,  and  sell  it  for  as  much 
as  he  could  possibly  get  ;  it  having  been  clearly  ascer- 
tained by  philosophers  that  in  this  is  comprised  the  whole 
duty  of  man — not  a  part  of  man's  duty,  but  the  whole. 

"Pretty  fair  ma'am.  With  the  usual  exception, 
ma'am,"  repeated  Bitzer. 

"Ah — h  !"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  shaking  her  head  over 
her  tea-cup,  and  taking  a  long  gulp. 

"  Mr.  Thomas,  ma'am,  I  doubt  Mr.  Thomas  very  much, 
ma'am,  I  don't  like  his  ways  at  all." 

"Bitzer,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  in  a  very  impressive 
manner,  "  do  you  recollect  my  having  said  anything  to 
you  respecting  names  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  It's  quite  true  that  you 
did  object  to  names  being  used,  and  they're  always 
best  avoided." 

"Please  to  remember  that  I  have  a  charge  here," 
said  Mrs,  Sparsit,  with  her  air  of  state.  "I  hold  a  trust 
here,  Bitzer,  under  Mr.  Bounderby.  However  improb- 
able both  Mr.  Bounderby  and  myself  might  have  deemed 
it  years  ago,  that  he  would  ever  become  my  patron, 
making  me  an  annual  compliment,  I  cannot  but  regard 
him  in  that  light.  From  Mr.  Bounderby  I  have  received 
every  acknowledgment  of  my  social  station,  and  every 
recognition  of  my  family  descent,  that  I  could  possibly 
expect.  More,  far  more.  Therefore,  to  my  patron  I 
will  be  scrupulously  true.  And  I  do  not  consider,  I  will 
not  consider,  I  cannot  consider,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with 
a  most  extensive  stock  on  hand  of  honour  and  morality, 
"  that  I  should  be  scrupulously  true,  if  I  allowed  names 
to  be  mentioned  under  this  roof,  that  are  unfortunately 
— most  unfortunately — no  doubt  of  that — connected  with 
his." 

Bitzer  knuckled  his  forehead  again,  and  again  begged 
pardon. 

"No,  Bitzer,"  continued  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "say  an  indi- 
vidual, and  I  will  hear  you  ;  say  Mr.  Thomas,  and  you 
must  excuse  me." 

"  With  the  usual  exception,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer,  try- 
ing back,  "of  an  individual." 

"  Ah — h  !"  Mrs.  Sparsit  repeated  the  ejaculation,  the 
shake  of  the  head  over  her  tea-cup,  and  the  long  gulp, 
as  taking  up  the  conversation  again  at  the  point  where 
it  had  been  interrupted. 

"  An  individual,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer,  "  has  never  been 
what  he  ought  to  have  been,  since  he  first  came  into  the 
place.  He  is  a  dissipated,  extravagant  idler.  He  is  not 
worth  his  salt,  ma'am.  He  wouldn't  get  H  either,  if  he 
hadn't  a  friend  and  relation  at  court,  ma'am  !  " 

"  Ah — h  ! "  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  another  melancholy 
shake  of  her  head, 

"I  only  hope,  ma'am,"  pursued  Bitzer,  "that  his 
friend  and  relation  may  not  supply  him  with  the  means 
of  carrying  on.  Otherwise,  ma'am,  we  know  out  of 
whose  pocket  that  money  comes." 

"Ah — h  !"  sighed  Mrs.  Sparsit  again,  with  another 
melancholy  shake  of  her  head. 

"  He  is  to  be  pitied,  ma'am.  The  last  party  I  have 
alluded  to,  is  to  be  pitied,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer. 

"Yes,  Bitzer,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "I  have  always 
pitied  the  delusion,  always." 


TIMES.  997 

"  As  to  an  individual,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer,  dropping 
his  voice  and  drawing  nearer,  "he  is  as  improvident  as 
any  of  the  people  in  this  town.  And  you  know  what 
their  improvidence  is,  ma'am.  No  one  could  wish  to 
know  it  better  than  a  lady  of  your  eminence  does." 

"They  would  do  well,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "to 
take  example  by  you,  Bitzer," 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am.  But,  since  you  do  refer  to  me, 
now  look  at  me,  ma'am.  I  have  put  by  a  little,  ma'am, 
already.  That  gratuity  which  I  receive  at  Christmas, 
ma'am  :  I  never  touch  it.  I  don't  even  go  the  length  of 
my  wages,  though  they're  not  high,  ma'am.  Why  can't 
they  do  as  I  have  done,  ma'am  ?  What  one  jjerson  can 
do,  another  can  do." 

This  again,  was  among  the  fictions  of  Coketown.  Any 
capitalist  there,  who  had  made  sixty  thousand  pounds 
out  of  sixpence,  always  professed  to  wonder,  why  the 
sixty  thousand  nearest  Hands  didn't  each  make  sixty 
thousand  pounds  out  of  sixpence,  and  more  or  less  re- 
proached them  every  one  for  not  accomplishing  the  little 
feat.  What  I  did  you  can  do.  Why  don't  you  go  and 
doit? 

"  As  to  their  wanting  recreations,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer, 
"it's  stuff  and  nonsense.  /  don't  want  recreations. 
I  never  did,  and  I  never  shall  ;  I  don't  like  'em.  As  to 
their  combining  together  ;  there  are  many  of  them,  I 
have  no  doubt,  that  by  watching  and  informing  upon 
one  another  could  earn  a  trifle  now  and  then,  whether  in 
money  or  good  will,  and  improve  their  livelihood.  Then, 
why  don't  they  improve  it,  ma'am  ?  It's  the  first  con- 
sideration of  a  rational  creature,  and  it's  what  they  pre- 
tend to  want." 

"  Pretend  indeed  !  "  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  constantly  hearing,  ma'am,  till  it 
becomes  quite  nauseous,  concerning  their  wives  and 
families,"  said  Bitzer.  "  Why  look  at  me,  ma'am  !  / 
don't  want  a  wife  and  family.    Why  should  they  ?  " 

"  Because  they  are  improvident,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Bitzer,  "that's  where  it  is. 
If  they  were  more  provident,  and  less  perverse,  ma'am, 
what  would  they  do  ?  They  would  say,  '  While  my  hat 
covers  my  family,'  or  *  while  my  bonnet  covei-s  my 
family' — as  the  case  might  be,  ma'am — '  I  have  only  one 
to  feed,  and  that's  the  person  I  most  like  to  feed." 

"To  be  sure,"  assented  Mrs.  Sparsit,  eating  mirSin. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer,  knuckling  his  fore- 
head again,  in  return  for  the  favour  of  Mrs.  Sparsit's 
improving  conversation.  "  Would  you  wish  a  little 
more  hot  water,  ma'am,  or  is  there  anything  else  that  I 
could  fetch  you  ?  " 

"Nothing  just  now,  Bitzer." 

* '  Thank  you,  ma'am.  I  shouldn't  wish  to  disturb 
you  at  your  meals,  ma'am,  particularly  tea,  knowing 
your  partiality  for  it,"  said  Bitzer,  craning  a  little  to 
look  over  into  the  street  from  where  he  stood;  "but 
there's  a  gentleman  been  looking  up  here  for  a  minute 
or  so,  ma'am,  and  he  has  come  across  as  if  he  was  going 
to  knock.    That  is  his  knock,  ma'am,  no  doubt." 

He  stepped  to  the  window  ;  and  looking  out,  and 
drawing  in  his  head  again,  confirmed  himself  with, 
"  Yes,  ma'am.  Would  you  wish  the  gentleman  to  be 
shown  in,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  who  it  can  be,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  wip- 
ing her  mouth  and  arranging  her  mittens. 

"A  stranger,  ma'am,  evidently." 

"  What  a  stranger  can  want  at  the  Bank  at  this  time 
of  the  evening,  unless  he  comes  upon  some  business  for 
which  he  is  too  late,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
"  but  I  hold  a  charge  in  this  establishment  from  Mr. 
Bounderby,  and  I  will  never  shrink  from  it.  If  to  see 
him  is  any  part  of  the  duty  I  have  accepted,  I  will  see 
him.    Use  your  ovrn  discretion,  Bitzer." 

Here  the  visitor,  all  unconscious  of  Mrs.  Sparsit's 
magnanimous  \vords,  repeated  his  knock  so  loudly  that 
the  light  porter  hastened  down  to  open  the  door  ;  while 
Mrs.  Sparsit  took  the  precaution  of  concealing  her  little 
table,  with  all  its  appliances  upon  it  in  a  cupboard,  and 
then  decamped  up-stairs  that  she  might  appear,  if  need- 
ful, with  the  greater  dignity. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  the  gentleman  would  wish  to 
see  you,"  said  Bitzer,  with  his  light  eye  at  Mrs.  Sparsit's 
keyhole.    So,  Mrs.  Sparsit,  who  had  improved  the  in- 


998 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


terval  by  touching  up  her  cap,  took  her  classical  fea- 
tures down-stairs  again,  and  entered  the  board-room  in 
the  manner  of  a  Roman  matron  going  outside  the  city 
walls  to  treat  with  an  invading  general. 

The  visitor  having  strolled  to  the  window,  and  being 
then  engaged  in  looking  carelessly  out,  was  as  unmoved 
by  this  impressive  entry  as  man  could  possibly  be.  He 
stood  whistling  to  himself  with  all  imaginable  coolness, 
with  his  hat  still  on,  and  a  certain  air  of  exhaustion  upon 
him,  in  part  arising  from  excessive  summer,  and  in  part 
from  excessive  gentility.  For,  it  was  to  be  seen  with 
half  an  eye  that  he  was  a  thorough  gentleman  made  to 
the  model  of  the  time  ;  weary  of  everything,  and  putting 
no  more  faith  in  anything  fchan  Lucifer. 

"  I  believe,  sir,"  quoth  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  you  wished  to 
see  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  turning  and  removing 
his  hat ;  "  pray  excuse  me," 

"Humph!"  thought  Mrs.  Sparsit,  as  she  made  a 
stately  bend.  "Five  and  thirty,  good-looking,  good 
figure,  good  teeth,  good  voice,  good  breeding,  well- 
dressed,  dark  hair,  bold  eyes."  All  which  Mrs.  Sparsit 
observed  in  her  womanly  way — like  the  Sultan  who  put 
his  head  in  the  pail  of  water — merely  in  dipping  down 
and  coming  up  again. 

"  Please  to  be  seated,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"  Thank  you.  Allow  me."  He  placed  a  chair  for 
her,  but  remained  himself  carelessly  lounging  against 
the  table.  "I  left  my  servant  at  the  railway  looking 
after  the  luggage — very  heavy  train  and  vast  quantity 
of  it  in  the  van — and  strolled  on,  looking  about  me. 
Exceedingly  odd  place.  Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you 
if  it's  always  as  black  as  this?" 

"In  general  much  blacker,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  in 
her  uncompromising  way. 

"Is  it  possible  !  Excuse  me  :  you  are  not  a  native,  I 
think?" 

"No,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "  It  was  once  my 
good  or  ill  fortune,  as  it  may  be — before  I  became  a 
widow — to  move  in  a  very  different  sphere.  My  hus- 
band was  a  Powler." 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  really  !  "  said  the  stranger. 
"Was—?" 

Mrs.  Sparsit  repeated,  "A  Powler."  "Powler  Fam- 
ily," said  the  stranger,  after  reflecting  a  few  moments. 
Mrs.  Sparsit  signified  assent.  The  stranger  seemed  a 
little  more  fatigued  than  before. 

"  You  must  be  very  much  bored  here?"  was  the  in- 
ference he  drew  from  the  communication. 

"  I  am  the  servant  of  circumstances,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  "and  I  have  long  adapted  myself  to  the  govern- 
ing power  of  my  life." 

"Very  philosophical,"  returned  the  stranger,  "and 
very  exemplary  and  laudable,  and — "  It  seemed  to  be 
scarcely  worth  his  while  to  finish  the  sentence,  so  he 
played  with  his  watch-chain  wearily. 

"  May  I  be  permitted  to  ask,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
"  to  what  I  am  indebted  for  the  favour  of — " 

"  Assuredly,"  said  the  stranger.  "Much  obliged  to 
you  for  reminding  me.  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  Mr.  Bounderby  the  banker.  Walking 
through  this  extraordinarily  black  town,  while  they  were 
getting  dinner  ready  at  the  hotel,  I  asked  a  fellow  whom 
I  met ;  one  of  the  working  people  ;  who  appeared  to  have 
been  taking  a  shower-bath  of  something  fluffy,  which  I 
assume  to  be  the  raw  material — " 

Mrs.  Sparsit  inclined  her  head. 

"  — Raw  material — where  Mr.  Bounderby,  the  banker, 
might  reside.  Upon  which,  misled  no  doubt  by  the  word 
Banker,  he  directed  me  to  the  Bank.  Fact  being,  I  pre- 
sume, that  Mr.  Bounderby  the  Banker,  does  not  reside  in 
the  edifice  in  which  I  have  the  honour  of  offering  this 
explanation  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "he  does  not." 

"Thank  you.  I  had  no  intention  of  delivering  my 
letter  at  the  present  moment,  nor  have  I.  But  strolling 
on  to  the  Bank  to  kill  time,  and  having  the  good  fortune 
to  observe  at  the  window,"  towards  which  he  languidly 
waved  his  hand,  then  slightly  bowed,  "  a  lady  of  a  very 
superior  and  agreeable  appearance,  I  considered  that  I 
could  not  do  better  than  take  the  liberty  of  asking  that 
lady  where  Mr,  Bounderby  the  Banker  does  live.  Which 


I  accordingly  venture,  with  all  suitable  apologies,  to 
do." 

The  inattention  and  indolence  of  his  manner  were 
sufficiently  relieved,  to  Mrs.  Sparsit's  thinking,  by  a 
certain  gallantry  at  ease,  which  offered  her  homage  too. 
Here  he  was,  for  instance,  at  this  moment,  all  but  sitting 
on  the  table  and  yet  lazily  bending  over  her,  as  if  he 
acknowledged  an  attraction  in  her  that  made  her  charm- 
ing— in  her  way. 

"  Banks,  I  know,  are  always  suspicious,  and  officially 
niust  be,"  said  the  stranger,  whose  lightness  and  smooth- 
ness of  speech  were  pleasant  likewise ;  suggesting 
matter  far  more  sensible  and  humorous  than  it  ever 
contained — which  was  perhaps  a  shrewd  device  of  the 
founder  of  this  numerous  sect,  whosoever  may  have  been 
that  great  man  :  "  therefore  I  may  observe  that  my  letter 
— here  it  is — is  from  the  member  for  this  place — Grad- 
grind — whom  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  in 
London." 

Mrs.  Sparsit  recognized  the  hand,  intimated  that  such 
confirmation  was  quite  unnecessary,  and  gave  Mr.  Boun- 
derby's  address,  with  all  needful  clues  and  directions  in 
aid. 

"Thousand  thanks,"  said  the  stranger.  "Of  course 
you  know  the  Banker  well  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "In  my  depen- 
dent  relation  towards  him,  I  have  known  him  ten  years." 

"  Quite  an  eternity  I  I  think  he  married  Gradgrind's 
daughter?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  suddenly  compressing  her 
mouth.    "  He  had  that— honour." 

"  The  lady  is  quite  a  philosopher,  I  am  told?" 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit.  she?" 

"  Excuse  my  impertinent  curiosity,"  pursued  the 
stranger,  fluttering  over  Mrs.  Sparsit's  eyebrows,  with  a 
propitiatory  air,  "  but  you  know  the  family,  and  know 
the  world.  I  am  about  to  know  the  family,  and  may 
have  much  to  do  with  them.  Is  the  lady  so  very  alarm- 
ing? Her  father  gives  her  such  a  portentously  hard- 
headed  reputation,  that  I  have  a  burning  desire  to  know. 
Is  she  absolutely  unapproachable?  Repellently  and 
stunningly  clever?  I  see,  by  your  meaning  smile,  you 
think  not.  You  have  poured  balm  into  my  anxious  soul. 
As  to  age,  now.    Forty  !    Five  and  thirty  ?" 

Mrs.  Sparsit  laughed  outright.  "A  chit,"  said  she. 
"Not  twenty  when  she  was  mai^ied." 

"  I  give  you  my  honour,  Mrs.  Powler,"  returned  the 
stranger,  detaching  himself  from  the  table,  "  that  I 
never  was  so  astonished  in  my  life  !" 

It  really  did  seem  to  impress  him,  to  the  utmost  extent 
of  his  capacity  of  being  impressed.  He  looked  at  his 
informant  for  full  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  and  appeared 
to  have  the  surprise  in  his  mind  all  the  time.  "  I  assure 
you,  Mrs,  Powler,"  he  then  said,  much  exhausted,  "  that 
the  father's  manner  prepared  me  for  a  grim  and  stony 
maturity.  I  am  obliged  to  you,  of  all  things,  for  correct- 
ing so  absurd  a  mistake.  Pray  excuse  my  intrusion. 
Many  thanks.    Good  day  ! " 

He  bowed  himself  out ;  and  Mrs.  Sparsit,  hiding  in 
the  window-curtain,  saw  him  languishing  down  the 
street  on  the  shady  side  of  the  way,  observed  of  all  the 
town. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  gentleman,  Bitzer  ?  "  she 
asked  the  light  porter,  when  he  came  to  take  away. 

"  Spends  a  deal  of  money  on  his  dress,  ma'am." 

"It  must  be  admitted,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "that  it's 
very  tasteful." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Bitzer,  "if  that's  worth  the 
money." 

"Besides  which,  ma'am,"  resumed  Bitzer,  while  he 
was  polishing  the  table,  "he  looks  to  me  as  if  he  gamed." 

"It's  immoral  to  game,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"It's  ridiculous,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer,  "because  the 
chances  are  against  the  players." 

Whether  it  was  that  the  heat  prevented  Mrs.  Sparsit 
from  working,  or  whether  it  was  that  her  hand  was  out, 
she  did  no  work  that  night.  She  sat  at  the  window, 
when  the  sun  began  to  sink  behind  the  smoke ;  she  sat 
there,  when  the  smoke  was  burning  red,  when  the  color 
faded  from  it,  when  darkness  seemed  to  rise  slowly  out 
of  the  ground,  and  creep  upward,  upward,  up  to  the 
house-tops,  up  the  church  steeple,  up  to  the  summits  of 


HARD  TIMES. 


999 


the  factory  chimneys,  up  to  the  sky.  Without  a  candle 
in  the  room,  Mrs.  Sparsit  sat  at  the  window,  with  her 
hands  before  her,  not  thinkin<^  much  of  tlie  sounds  of 
evening  ;  the  whooping  of  boys,  tlie  barking  of  dogs,  the 
rumbling  of  wheels,  the  steps  and  voices  of  passengers, 
the  shrill  street  cries,  the  clogs  upon  the  pavement  when 
it  was  their  hour  for  going  by,  the  shutting-up  of  shop- 
shutters.  Not  until  the  light  porter  announced  that  her 
nocturnal  sweetbread  was  ready,  did  Mrs.  Sparsit  arouse 
herself  from  her  reverie,  and  convey  her  dense  black  eye- 
brows— by  that  time  creased  with  meditation,  as  if  they 
needed  ironing  out — up-stairs. 

**  0,  you  Fool  !"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  when  she  was  alone 
at  her  supper.  Whom  she  meant,  she  did  not  say  ;  but 
she  could  scarcely  have  meant  the  sweetbread. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Mr,  James  Harthmse. 


The  Gradgrind  party  wanted  assistance  in  cutting  the 
throats  of  the  Graces.  They  went  about  recruiting  ;  and 
where  could  they  enlist  recruits  more  hopefully,  than 
among  the  fine  gentlemen  who,  having  found  out  every- 
thing to  be  worth  nothing,  were  equally  ready  for  any- 
thing ? 

Moreover,  the  healthy  spirits  who  had  mounted  to  this 
sublime  height  were  attractive  to  many  of  the  Gradgrind 
school.  They  liked  fine  gentlemen  ;  they  pretended  that 
they  did  not,  but  they  did.  They  became  exhausted  in 
imitation  of  them  ;  and  they  yaw-yawed  in  their  speech 
like  them  ;  and  they  served  out,  with  an  enervated  air, 
the  little  mouldy  rations  of  political  economy,  on  which 
they  regaled  their  disciples.  There  never  before  was 
seen  on  earth  such  a  wonderful  hybrid  race  as  was  thus 
produced. 

Among  the  fine  gentlemen  not  regularly  belonging  to 
the  Gradgrind  school,  there  was  one  of  a  good  family 
and  a  better  appearance,  with  a  happy  turn  of  humour 
which  had  told  immensely  with  the  House  of  Commons 
on  the  occasion  of  his  entertaining  it  with  his  (and  the 
Board  of  Directors')  view  of  a  railway  accident,  in  which 
the  most  careful  officers  ever  known,  employed  by  the 
most  liberal  managers  ever  heard  of,  assisted  by  the  fin- 
est mechanical  contrivances  ever  devised,  the  whole  in 
action  on  the  best  line  ever  constructed,  had  killed  five 
people  and  wounded  thirty-two,  by  a  casualty  without 
which  the  excellence  of  the  whole  system  would  have 
been  positively  incomplete.  Among  the  slain  was  a  cow, 
and  among  the  scattered  articles  unowned,  a  widow's  cap. 
And  the  honourable  member  had  so  tickled  the  House 
(which  has  a  delicate  sense  of  humour)  by  putting  the 
cap  on  the  cow,  that  it  became  impatient  of  any  serious 
reference  to  the  Coroner's  Inque.^t,  and  brought  the  rail- 
way off  with  Cheers  and  Laughter. 

Now,  this  gentleman  had  a  younger  brother  of  still 
better  appearance  than  himself,  who  had  tried  life  as  a 
Cornet  of  Dragoons,  and  found  it  a  bore  ;  and  had  after- 
wards tried  it  in  the  train  of  an  English  minister  abroad, 
and  found  it  a  bore  ;  and  had  then  strolled  to  Jerusalem, 
and  got  bored  there  ;  and  had  then  gone  yachting  about 
the  world,  and  got  bored  everywhere.  To  whom  this 
honourable  and  jocular  member  fraternally  said  one  day, 
"  Jem,  there's  a  good  opening  among  the  hard  Fact  fel- 
lows, and  they  want  men.  1  wonder  you  don't  go  in  for 
statistics."  Jem,  rather  taken  by  the  novelty  of  the 
idea,  and  very  hard  up  for  a  change,  was  as  ready  to  "  go 
in"  for  statistics  as  for  anything  else.  So,  he  went  in. 
He  coached  himself  up  witli  a  blue-book  or  two  ;  and  his 
brother  put  it  about  among  the  hard  Fact  fellows,  and 
said,  "  If  you  want  to  bring  in,  for  any  place,  a  handsome 
dog  who  can  make  you  a  devilish  good  speech,  look  after  | 
my  brother  Jem,  for  he's  your  man."  After  a  few  dashes 
in  the  public  meeting  way,  Mr.  Gradgrind  and  a  council  { 
of  political  sages  approved  of  Jem,  and  it  was  resolved 
to  send  him  down  to  Coketown,  to  become  known  there 
and  in  the  neighbourhood.  Hence  the  letter  Jem  had 
last  night  shown  to  Mrs.  Sparsit,  which  Mr.  Bounderby 
now  held  in  his  hand  ;  superscribed,  '*  Josiah  Bounderby, 
Esquire,  Banker,  Coketown.  Specially  to  introduce  James 
Harthouse,  Esquire.    Thomas  Gradgrind." 


Within  an  hour  of  the  receipt  of  this  dispatch  and 
Mr.  James  Ifarthouse's  card,  Mr.  Bounderby  put  on  his 
hat  and  went  down  to  the  Hotel.  There  he  found  Mr. 
James  Harthouse  looking  out  of  window,  in  a  state  of 
mind  so  disconsolate,  that  he  was  already  half  disposed 
to  "  go  in  "  for  something  else. 

"My  name,  sir,"  said  his  visitor,  "is  Josiah  Boun- 
derby, of  Coketown." 

Mr.  James  Harthouse  was  very  happy  indeed  (though 
he  scarcely  looked  bo),  to  have  a  pleasure  he  had  long 
expected. 

"Coketown,  sir,"  said  Bounderby,  obstinately  taking 
a  chair,  "  is  not  the  kind  of  place  you  have  been  accus- 
tomed to.  Therefore,  if  you  will  allow  me — or  whether 
you  will  or  not,  for  I  am  a  plain  man — I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing about  it  before  we  go  any  further." 

Mr.  Harthouse  would  be  charmed. 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  Bounderby.  "I 
don't  promise  it.  First  of  all,  you  see  our  smoke. 
That's  meat  and  drink  to  us.  It's  the  healthiest  thing 
in  the  world  in  all  respects,  and  jmrticularly  for  the 
lungs.  If  you  are  one  of  those  who  want  us  to  consume 
it,  I  differ  from  you.  We  are  not  going  to  wear  the  bot- 
toms of  our  boilers  out  any  faster  than  we  wear  'em  out 
now,  for  all  the  humbugging  sentiment  in  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland." 

By  way  of  "going  in"  to  the  fullest  extent,  Mr. 
Harthouse  rejoined,  "Mr.  Bounderby,  I  assure  you  I 
am  entirely  and  completely  of  your  way  of  thinking. 
On  conviction." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Bounderby.  "Now, 
you  have  heard  a  lot  of  talk  about  the  work  in  our 
mills,  do  doubt.  You  have  ?  Very  good.  I'll  state  the 
fact  of  it  to  you.  It's  the  pleasantest  work  there  is,  and 
it's  the  lightest  work  there  is,  and  it's  the  best  paid 
work  there  is.  More  than  that,  we  couldn't  improve 
the  mills  themselves,  unless  we  laid  down  Turkey  car- 
pets on  the  floors.    Which  we're  not  a-going  to  do." 

"  Mr.  Bounderby,  perfectly  right." 

"Lastly,"  said  Bounderby,  "as  to  our  Hands. 
There's  not  a  Hand  in  this  town,  sir,  man,  woman,  or 
child,  but  has  one  ultimate  object  in  life.  That  object 
is,  to  be  fed  on  turtle  soup  and  venison  with  a  gold 
spoon.  Now,  they're  not  a-going — none  of  'em — ever  to 
be  fed  on  turtle  soup  and  venison  with  a  gold  spoon. 
And  now  you  know  the  place." 

Mr.  Harthouse  professed  himself  in  the  highest  de- 
gree instructed  and  refreshed,  by  this  condensed  epi- 
tome of  the  whole  Coketown  question. 

"Why,  you  see,"  replied  Mr.  Bounderby,  "it  suits 
my  disposition  to  have  a  full  understanding  with  a  man, 
particularly  with  a  public  mao,  when  I  make  his  ac- 
quaintance. I  have  only  one  thing  more  to  say  to  you, 
Mr.  Harthouse,  before  assuring  you  of  the  pleasure  with 
which  I  shall  respond,  to  the  utmost  of  my  poor  ability, 
to  my  friend  Tom  Gradgriud's  letter  of  introduction. 
You  are  a  man  of  family.  Don't  you  deceive  yourself 
by  supposing  for  a  moment  that  /  am  a  man  of  family. 
I  am  a  bit  of  dirty  riff-raff  and  a  genuine  scrap  of  tag, 
rag-,  and  bobtail." 

If  anything  could  have  exalted  Jem's  interest  in  Mr. 
Bounderby,  it  would  have  been  this  very  circumstance. 
Or,  so  he  told  him. 

"  So  now,"  said  Bounderby,  "we  may  shake  hands  on 
equal  terms.  I  say,  equal  terms,  because  although  I 
know  what  I  am,  and  the  exact  depth  of  the  gutter  I 
have  lifted  myself  out  of,  better  than  any  man  does,  I 
am  as  proud  as  you  are.  I  am  just  as  proud  as  you  are. 
Having  now  asserted  my  independence,  in  a  proper  man- 
ner, I  may  come  to  how  do  you  find  yourself,  and  I 
hope  you're  pretty  well." 

The  better,  Mr.  Harthouse  gave  him  to  understand  as 
they  shook  hands,  for  the  salubrious  air  of  Coketown. 
Mr.  Bounderby  received  the  answer  with  favour. 

"  Perhaps  you  know,"  said  he,  "or  perhaps  you  don't 
know,  I  mari-ied  Tom  Gradgrind's  daughter.  If  you 
have  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  walk'up  town  with 
me,  I  shall  be  glad  to  introduce  you  to  Tom  Gradgrind's 
daughter." 

"Mr.  Bounderby,"  said  Jem,  "you  anticipate  my 
dearest  wishes." 

They  went  out  without  further  discourse  ;  and  Mr. 


1000 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Bound erby  piloted  the  new  acquaintance  who  so  strongly 
contrasted  with  him,  to  the  private  red  brick  dwelling, 
with  the  black  outside  shutters,  the  green  inside  blinds, 
and  the  black  street  door  up  the  two  white  steps.  In 
the  drawing-room  of  which  mansion,  there  presently  en- 
tered to  them  the  most  remarkable  girl  Mr.  James  Hart- 
house  had  ever  seen.  She  was  so  constrained,  and  yet 
so  careless  ;  so  reserved,  and  yet  so  watchful ;  so  cold 
and  proud,  and  yet  so  sensitively  ashamed  of  her  hus- 
band's braggart  humility— from  which  she  shrunk  as  if 
every  example  of  it  were  a  cut  or  a  blow  ;  that  it  was 
quite  a  new  sensation  to  observe  her.  In  face  she  was 
no  less  remarkable  than  in  manner.  Her  features  were 
handsome  :  but  their  natural  play  was  so  locked  up, 
that  it  seemed  impossible  to  guess  at  their  genuine  ex- 
pression. Utterly  indifferent,  perfectly  self-reliant, 
never  at  a  loss,  and  yet  never  at  her  ease,  with  her 
figure  in  company  with  them  there,  and  her  mind  appar- 
ently quite  alone — it  was  of  no  use  "  going  in  "  yet  awhile 
to  comprehend  this  girl,  for  she  baffled  all  penetration. 

From  the  mistress  of  the  house,  the  visitor  glanced  to 
the  house  itself.  There  was  no  mute  sign  of  a  woman 
in  the  room.  No  graceful  little  adornment,  no  fanciful 
little  device,  however  trivial,  anywhere  expressed  her 
influence.  Cheerless  and  comfortless,  boastfully  and 
doggedly  rich,  there  the  room  stared  at  its  present  occu- 
pants, unsoftened  and  unrelieved  by  the  least  trace  of 
any  womanly  occupation.  As  Mr.  Bounderby  stood  in 
the  midst  of  his  household  gods,  so  those  unrelenting 
divinities  occupied  their  places  around  Mr.  Bounderby, 
and  they  were  worthy  of  one  another,  and  well  matched. 

"This,  sir,"  said  Bounderby,  "is  my  wife,  Mrs. 
Bounderl)y  :  Tom  Gradgrind's  eldest  daughter.  Loo, 
Mr.  James  Harthouse.  Mr.  Harthouse  has  joined  your 
father's  muster-roll.  If  he  is  not  Tom  Gradgrind's  col- 
league before  long,  I  believe  we  shall  at  least  hear  of 
him  in  connexion  with  one  of  our  neighbouring  towns. 
You  observe,  Mr.  Harthouse,  that  my  wife  is  my  junior. 
I  don't  know  what  she  saw  in  me  to  marry  me,  but  she 
.saw  something  in  me,  I  suppose,  or  she  wouldn't  have 
married  me.  She  has  lots  of  expensive  knowledge,  sir, 
political  and  otherwise.  If  you  want  to  cram  for  any- 
thing, I  should  be  troubled  to  recommend  you  to  abetter 
adviser  than  Loo  Bounderby." 

To  a  more  agreeable  adviser,  or  one  from  whom  he 
•would  be  more  likely  to  learn,  Mr.  Harthouse  could 
never  be  recommended. 

"Come  !"  said  his  host.  "If  you're  in  the  compli- 
mentary line,  you'll  get  on  here,  for  you'll  meet  with  no 
competition.  I  have  never  been  in  the  way  of  learning 
compliments  myself,  and  I  don't  profess  to  understand 
the  art  of  paying  'em.  In  fact,  despise  'em.  But,  your 
bringing-up  was  different  from  mine  ;  mine  was  a  real 
thing,  by  George  !  You're  a  gentleman,  and  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  be  one.  I  am  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown, 
and  that's  enough  for  me.  However,  though  I  am  not 
influenced  by  manners  and  station.  Loo  Bounderby  may 
be.  She  hadn't  my  advantages — disadvantages  you 
would  call  'em,  but  I  call  'em  advantages — so  you'll  not 
waste  your  power,  I  dare  say." 

"Mr.  Bounderby,"  said  Jem,  turning  with  a  smile  to 
Lousia,  "  is  a  noble  animal  in  a  comparatively  natural 
state,  quite  free  from  the  harness  in  which  a  conven- 
tioftal  hack  like  myself  works." 

"  You  respect  Mr.  Bounderby  very  much,"  she  quietly 
returned.    "  It  is  natural  that  you  should." 

He  was  disgracefully  thrown  out,  for  a  gentleman  who 
had  seen  so  much  of  the  world,  and  thought,  "  Now  how 
am  I  to  take  this  ?  " 

"  You  are  going  to  devote  yourself,  as  I  gather  from 
■what  Mr.  Bounderby  has  said,  to  the  service  of  your 
country.  You  have  made  up  your  mind,"  said  Louisa, 
still  standing  before  him  where  she  had  first  stopped — 
in  all  the  singular  contrariety  of  her  self-possession,  and 
•  her  being  obviously  very  ill  at  ease — "  to  show  the  na- 
tion the  way  out  of  all  its  difficulties." 

"  Mrs.  Bounderby,"  he  returned,  laughing,  "upon my 
honour,  no.  I  will  make  no  such  pretence  to  yon.  I 
1  have  seen  a  little,  here  and  there,  \x\y  and  down  ;  I  have 
found  it  all  to  be  very  worthless,  as  everybody  has,  and 
as  some  confess  they  have,  and  some  do  not  ;  and  I  am 
going  in  for  your  respected  father's  opinions— really  be- 


cause I  have  no  choice  of  opinions,  and  may  as  well  back 
them  as  anything  else." 

"  Have  you  none  of  your  own  ?"  asked  Louisa. 

"  I  have  not  so  much  as  the  slightest  predilection  left. 
I  assure  you  I  attach  not  the  least  importanee  to  any 
opinions.  The  result  of  the  varieties  of  boredom  I  have 
undergone,  is  a  conviction  (unless  conviction  is  too  in- 
dustrious a  word  for  the  lazy  sentiment  I  entertain  on 
the  subject),  that  any  set  of  ideas  will  do  just  as  much 
good  as  any  other  set,  and  just  as  much  harm  as  any  other 
set.  There's  an  English  family  with  a  charming  Italian 
motto.  What  will  be,  will  be.  It's  the  only  truth  go- 
ing!" 

This  vicious  assumption  of  honesty  in  dishonesty — a 
vice  so  dangerous,  so  deadly,  and  so  common — seemed, 
he  observed,  a  little  to  impress  her  in  his  favour.  He 
followed  up  the  advantage,  by  saying  in  his  pleasantest 
manner  :  a  manner  to  which  she  might  attach  as  much 
or  as  little  meaning  as  she  pleased  :  "The  side  that  can 
prove  anything  in  a  line  of  units,  tens,  hundreds,  and 
thousands,  Mrs.  Bounderby,  seems  to  me  to  afford  the 
most  fun,  and  to  give  a  man  the  best  chance.  I  am 
quite  as  much  attached  to  it  as  if  I  believed  it.  I  am 
quite  ready  to  go  in  for  it,  to  the  same  extent  as  if  I 
believed  it.  And  what  more  could  I  possibly  do,  if  I  did 
believe  it  1 " 

"  You  are  a  singular  politician,"  said  Louisa. 

"  Pardon  me  ;  I  have  not  even  that  merit.  We  are 
the  largest  party  in  the  state,  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Boun- 
derby, if  we  all  fell  out  of  our  adopted  ranks  and  were 
reviewed  together." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  who  had  been  in  danger  of  bursting 
in  silence,  interposed  here  with  a  project  for  postponing 
the  family  dinner  till  half -past  six,  and  taking  Mr.  James 
Harthouse  in  the  meantime  on  a  round  of  visits  to  the 
voting  and  interesting  notabilities  of  Coketown  and  its 
vicinity.  The  round  of  visits  was  made  ;  and  Mr.  James 
Harthouse,  with  a  discreet  use  of  his  blue  coaching, 
came  off  triumphantly,  though  with  a  considerable  ac- 
cession of  boredom. 

In  the  evening,  he  found  the  dinner-table  laid  for  four, 
but  they  sat  down  only  three.  It  was  an  appropriate  oc- 
casion for  Mr.  Bounderby  to  discuss  the  flavour  of  the 
hap'orth  of  stewed  eels  he  had  purchased  in  the  streets 
at  eight  years  old  ;  and  also  of  the  inferior  water,  spe- 
cially used  for  laying  the  dust,  with  which  he  had  washed 
down  that  repast.  He  likewise  entertained  his  guest 
over  the  soup  and  fish,  with  the  calculation  that  he 
(Bounderby)  had  eaten  in  his  youth  at  least  three  horses 
under  the  guise  of  polonies  and  saveloys.  These  reci- 
tals, Jem,  in  a  languid  manner,  received  with  "  charm- 
ing ! "  every  now  and  then  ;  and  they  probably  would 
have  decided  him  to  "go  in  "  for  Jerusalem  again  to- 
morrow morning,  had  he  been  less  curious  respecting 
Louisa. 

"Is  there  nothing,"  he  thought,  glancing  at  her  as 
she  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  where  her  youthful 
figure,  small  and  slight,  but  very  graceful,  looked  as 
pretty  as  it  looked  misplaced  ;  "  is  there  nothing  that 
will  move  that  face?" 

Yes  !  By  Jupiter,  there  was  something,  and  here  it 
was,  in  an  unexpected  shape  !  Tom  appeared.  She 
changed  as  the  door  opened,  and  broke  into  a  beaming 
smile. 

A  beautiful  smile.  Mr.  James  Harthouse  might  not 
have  thought  so  much  of  it,  but  that  he  had  wondered 
so  long  at  her  impassive  face.  She  put  out  her  hand — 
a  pretty  little  soft  hand  ;  and  her  fingers  closed  upon 
her  brother's,  as  if  she  would  have  carried  them  to  her 
lips. 

"  Ay,  ay  ?  '*  thought  the  visitor.  "  This  whelp  is  the 
only  creature  she  cares  for.    So,  so  !  " 

The  whelp  was  presented,  and  took  his  chair.  The 
appelation  was  not  flattering,  but  not  unmerited. 

"  When  I  was  your  age,  young  Tom,"  said  Bounderby, 
"  I  was  punctual,  or  I  got  no  dinner  1  " 

"When  you  were  my  age,"  returned  Tom,  "you 
hadn't  a  wrong  balance  to  get  right,  and  hadn't  to  dress 
afterwards." 

"  Never  mind  that  now,"  said  Bounderby. 

"Well,  then,"  grumbled  Tom.  "  Don'o  begin  with 
me." 


HARD 

*'  Mrs.  Bounderby,"  said  Harthouse,  perfectly  hearing 
tbis  uuder-strain  as  it  went  on  ;  "  your  brother's  face  is 
quite  familiar  to  me.  Can  I  have  seen  him  abroad?  Or 
at  some  public  school,  perhaps  ?  " 

**  No,"  she  returned,  quite  interested,  "he  has  never 
been  abroad  yet,  and  was  educated  here,  at  home.  Tom, 
love,  I  am  telling  Mr.  Harthouse  that  he  never  saw  you 
abroad. " 

"  No  such  luck,  sir,"  said  Tom. 

There  was  little  enough  in  him  to  brighten  her  face, 
for  he  was  a  sullen  young  fellow,  and  ungracious  inihis 
manner  even  to  her.  So  much  the  greater  must  have 
been  the  solitude  of  her  heart,  and  her  need  of  some 
one  on  whom  to  bestow  it. 

"  So  much  the  more  is  this  whelp  the  only  creature 
she  has  ever  cared  for,"  thought  Mr.  James  Harthouse, 
turning  it  over  and  over.  So  much  the  more.  So 
much  the  more." 

Both  in  his  sister's  presence,  and  after  she  had  left 
the  room,  the  whelp  took  no  pains  to  hide  his  contempt 
for  Mr,  Bounderby,  whenever  he  could  indulge  it  with- 
out the  observation  of  that  independent  man,  by  making 
wry  faces,  or  shutting  one  eye.  Without  responding  to 
these  telegraphic  communications,  Mr.  Harthouse  en- 
couraged him  much  in  t,he  course  of  the  evening,  and 
showed  an  unusual  liking  for  him.  .  At  last,  when  he 
rose  'W'Kfcturn  to  his  hotel,  and  was  a  little  doubtful 
whether  he  knew  the  w^ay  by  night,  the  whelp  immedi- 
ately proffered  his  services  as  guide,  and  turned  out  with 
him  to  escort  him  thither. 


CHAPTER  in. 

The  Whelp, 

It  was  very  remarkable  that  a  young  gentleman  who 
had  been  brought  up  under  one  continuous  system  of 
unnatural  restraint,  should  be  a  hypocrite  ;  but  it  was 
certainly  the  case  with  Tom.  It  was  very  strange  that 
a  young  gentleman  who  had  never  been  left  to  his  own 
guidance  for  five  consecutive  minutes,  should  be  inca- 
pable at  last  of  governing  himself  ;  but  so  it  was  with 
Tom.  It  was  altogether  unaccountable  that  a  young 
gentleman  whose  imagination  had  been  strangled  in  his 
cradle,  should  be  still  inconvenienced  by  its  ghost  in 
the  form  of  grovelling  sensualities  ;  but  such  a  monster, 
beyond  all  doubt,  was  Tom, 

" Do  you  smoke? "  asked  Mr.  James  Harthouse,  when 
they  came  to  the  hotel. 

*'  I  believe  you  ! "  said  Tom, 

He  could  do  no  less  than  ask  Tom  up  ;  and  Tom  could 
do  no  less  than  go  up.  What  with  a  cooling  drink  adapted 
to  the  weather,  but  not  so  weak  as  cool  ;  and  what  with 
a  rarer  tobacco  than  was  to  be  bought  in  those  parts  ; 
Tom  was  soon  in  a  highly  free  and  easy  state  at  his  end 
of  the  sofa,  and  more  than  ever  disposed  to  admire  his 
new  friend  at  the  other  end. 

Tom  blew  his  smoke  aside,  after  he  had  been  smoking 
a  little  while,  and  took  an  observation  of  his  friend. 
"  He  don't  seem  to  care  about  his  dress,"  thought  Tom, 
**  and  yet  how  capitallv  he  does  it.  What  an  easy  swell 
he  is  ! " 

Mr.  James  Harthouse,  happening  to  catch  Tom's  eye, 
remarked  that  he  drank  nothing,  and  filled  his  glass  with 
his  own  negligent  hand. 

"Thank'ee,"  said  Tom.  "  Thank'ee.  Well,  Mr. 
Harthouse  I  hope  you  have  had  about  a  dose  of  old 
Bounderby  to  night."  Tom  said  this  with  one  eye  shut 
up  again,  and  looking  over  his  glass  knowingly,  at  his 
entertainer. 

"A  very  good  fellow  indeed!"  returned  Mr.  James 
Harthouse. 

"  You  think  so,  don't  you  ?  "  said  Tom.  And  shut  up 
his  eye  again. 

Mr.  James  Harthouse  smiled  ;  and  rising  from  his  end 
of  the  sofa,  and  lounging  with  his  back  against  the 
chimney-piece,  so  that  he  stood  before  the  empty  fire- 
grate as  he  smoked,  in  front  of  Tom  and  looking  down 
at  him,  observed  : 

"  What  a  comical  brother-in-law  you  are  !  " 


TIMES.  1001 

"What  a  comical  brother-in-law  old  Bounderby  is,  I 
think  you  mean,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  are  a  piece  of  caustic,  Tom,"  retorted  Mr.  James 
Harthouse. 

There  was  something  so  very  agreeable  in  being  so 
intimate  with  such  a  waistcoat ;  in  being  called  Tom,  in 
such  an  intimate  way,  by  such  a  voice  ;  in  being  on  such 
off-hand  terms  so  soon  with  such  a  pair  of  whiskers; 
that  Tom  was  uncommonly  pleased  with  himself. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  care  for  old  Bounderby,"  said  he,  "  if 
you  mean  that.  1  have  always  called  old  Bounderby  by 
the  same  name  when  I  have  talked  about  him,  and  I  have 
always  thought  of  him  in  the  same  way.  I  am  not  going 
to  begin  to  be  polite  now,  about  old  Bounderby.  It  would 
be  rather  late  in  the  day. " 

"Don't  mind  me,"  returned  James;  "but  take  care 
when  his  wife  is  by,  you  know." 

"  His  wife?"  said  Tom.  "  My  sister  Loo?  O  yes  !" 
And  he  laughed,  and  took  a  little  more  of  the  cooling 
drink. 

James  Harthouse  continued  to  lounge  in  the  same 
place  and  attitude,  smoking  his  cigar  in  his  own  easy 
way,  and  looking  pleasantly  at  the  whelp,  as  if  he  knew 
himself  to  be  a  kind  of  agreeable  demon  who  had  only 
to  hover  over  him.  and  he  must  give  up  his  whole  soul 
if  required.  It  certainly  did  seem  that  the  whelp  yielded 
to  this  influence.  He  looked  at  his  companion  sneaking- 
ly,  he  looked  at  him  admiringly,  he  looked  at  him  boldly, 
and  put  up  one  leg  on  the  sofa. 

"  My  sister  Loo?"  said  Tom.  "She  never  cared  for 
old  Bounderby." 

"That's  the  past  tense,  Tom,"  returned  Mr.  James 
Harthouse,  striking  the  ash  from  his  cigar  with  his  little 
finger. 

"  We  are  in  the  present  tense,  now." 

"Verb  neuter,  not  to  care.  Indicative  mood,  present 
tense.  First  person  singular,  I  do  not  care  ;  second  per- 
son singular,  thou  dost  not  care  ;  third  person  singular, 
she  does  not  care,"  returned  Tom. 

"Good!  Very  quaint  !  "  said  his  friend,  "Though 
you  don't  mean  it," 

"  But  I  do  mean  it,"  cried  Tom.  "  Upon  my  honour  ! 
Why,  you  won't  tell  me,  Mr.  Harthouse,  that  you 
really  suppose  my  sister  Loo  does  care  for  old  Bounder- 
by." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  returned  the  other,  "what  am  I 
bound  to  suppose,  when  I  find  two  married  people  living 
in  harmony  and  happiness?" 

Tom  had  by  this  time  got  both  his  legs  on  the  sofa. 
If  his  second  leg  had  not  been  already  there  when  he 
was  called  a  dear  fellow,  he  would  have  put  it  up  at 
that  great  stage  of  the  conversation.  Feeling  it  necessary 
to  do  something  then,  he  stretched  himself  out  at  greater 
length,  and,  reclining  with  the  back  of  his  head  on  the 
end  of  the  sofa,  and  smoking  with  an  infinite  assumption 
of  negligence,  turned  his  common  face,  and  not  too  sober 
eyes,  towards  the  face  looking  down  upon  him  so  care- 
lessly yet  so  potently. 

"  You  know  our  governor,  Mr.  Harthouse,"  said  Tom, 
"  and  therefore  you  needn't  be  surprised  that  Loo  married 
old  Bounderby,  She  never  had  a  lover,  and  the  governor 
proposed  old  Bounderby,  and  she  took  him." 

"Very  dutiful  in  your  interesting  sister,"  said  Mr. 
James  Harthouse. 

"  Yes,  but  she  wouldn't  have  been  as  dutiful,  and  it 
would  not  have  come  off  as  easily,"  returned  the  whelp, 
"  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me." 

The  tempter  merely  lifted  his  eyebrows  ;  but  the  whelp 
was  obliged  to  go  on. 

" /persuaded  her,"  he  said,  with  an  edifying  air  of 
superiority.  "  I  was  stuck  into  old  Bounderby's  bank 
(where  I  never  wanted  to  be),  and  I  knew  I  should  get 
into  scrapes  there,  if  she  put  old  Bounderby's  pipe  out ;  so 
I  told  her  my  wishes,  and  she  came  into  them.  She 
w^ould  do  anything  for  me.  It  was  very  game  of  her, 
wasn't  it  ?  " 

"It  w^as  charming,  Tom  !  " 

"Not  that  it  was  altogether  so  important  to  her  as  it 
was  to  me,"  continued  Tom  coolly,  "  because  my  liberty 
and  comfort,  and  perhaps  my  getting  on,  depended  on  it ; 
and  she  had  no  other  loverj  and  staying  at  home  was  like 
staying  in  jail — especially  when  I  was  gone.   It  wasn't  as 


1002 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


if  she  gave  up  anotlier  lover  for  old  Bounderby  ;  but  still 
it  was  a  good  tiling  in  her. " 

"  Perfectly  delig-htful.    And  slie  gets  on  so  placidly." 

*' Oh,"  returned^ Tom,  with  contemptuous  patronage, 
"she's  a  regular  girl.  A  girl  can  get  on  anywhere. 
She  has  settled  down  to  the  life,  and  she  don't  mind. 
It  does  just  as  well  as  another.  Besides,  though  Leo  is 
a  girl,  she's  not  a  common  sort  of  girl.  She  can  shut 
herself  up  within  herself,  and  think— as  I  have  often 
known  her  sit  and  watch  the  fire — for  an  hour  at  a 
stretch." 

"  Ay,  ay  ?  Has  resources  of  her  own,"  said  Harthouse, 
smoking  quietly. 

"  Not  so  much  of  that  as  you  may  suppose,"  returned 
Tom,  "  for  our  governor  had  her  crammed  with  all  sorts 
of  dry  bones  and  sawdust.    It's  his  system." 

"  Formed  his  daughter  on  his  own  model  ?  "  suggested 
Harthouse. 

"His  daughter?   Ah  !  and  everybody  else.    Why  he 
formed  Me  that  way,"  said  Tom. 
"  Impossible  !  " 

"  He  did  though,"  said  Tom,  shaking  his  head.  "I 
mean  to  say,  Mr.  Harthouse,  that  when  I  first  left  home 
and  went  to  old  Bounderby's,  I  was  as  flat  as  a  warming 
pan,  and  knew  no  more  about  life,  than  any  oyster 
does. " 

"  Come,  Tom  !  I  can  hardly  believe  that.  A  joke's  a 
joke." 

"  Upon  my  soul  !  "  said  the  whelp.  "  I  am  serious  ;  I 
am  indeed  !  "  He  smoked  with  great  gravity  and  dignity 
for  a  little  while,  and  then  added,  in  a  highly  complacent 
tone.  "  Oh  !  I  have  picked  up  a  little,  since.  I  don't  deny 
that.  But  I  have  done  it  myself;  no  thanks  to  the  gov- 
ernor," 

"  And  your  intelligent  sister?  " 

"  My  iurelligent  sister  is  about  where  she  was.  She 
used  to  complain  to  me  that  she  had  nothing  to  fall  back 
upon,  that  girls  usually  fall  back  upon  :  and  I  don't  see 
how  she  is  to  have  got  over  that  since.  But  she  don't 
mind,"  he  sagaciously  added,  puffing  at  his  cigar  again. 
"  Girls  can  always  get  on  somehow." 

"  Calling  at  the  Bank  yesterday  evening,  for  Mr. 
Bounderby's  address,  I  found  an  ancient  lady  there,  who 
seems  to  entertain  great  admiration  for  your  sister,"  ob- 
served Mr.  James  Harthouse,  throwing  away  the  last 
small  remnant  of  tbe  cigar  he  had  now  smoked  out. 

' '  Mother  Sparsit  ?  "  said  Tom.  ' '  What !  you  have  seen 
her  already,  have  you  ?  " 

His  friend  nodded.  Tom  took  his  cigar  out  of  his 
mouth,  to  shut  up  his  eye  (which  had  grown  rather  un- 
manageable) with  the  greater  expression,  and  to  tap  his 
nose  several  times  with  his  finger. 

*'  Mother  Sparsit's  feeling  for  Loo  is  more  than  admi- 
ration, I  should  think,"  said  Tom.  "  Say  affection  and 
devotion.  Mother  Sparsit  never  set  her  cap  at  Bounder- 
by when  he  was  a  bachelor.    Oh  no  I  " 

These  were  the  last  words  spoken  by  the  whelp,  before 
a  giddy  drowsiness  came  upon  him,  followed  by  complete 
oblivion.  He  was  roused  from  the  latter  state  by  an 
uneasy  dream  of  being  stirred  up  with  a  boot,  and  also  of 
a  voice  saying  :  "  Come,  it's  late.    Be  oif  ! " 

"  Well  !  "  he  said,  scrambling  from  the  sofa.  "  I  must 
take  my  leave  of  you  though.  I  say.  Yours  is  very 
good  tobacco.    But  it's  too  mild." 

"  Yes,  it's  too  mild,"  returned  his  entertainer. 

"  It's — it's  ridiculously  mild,"  said  Tom.  "  Where's 
the  door  ?    Good  night  ! " 

He  had  another  odd  dream  of  being  taken  by  a  waiter 
through  a  mist,  which  after  giving  him  some  trouble  and 
difiiculty,  resolved  itself  into  the  main  street,  in  which 
he  stood  alone.  He  then  walked  home  pretty  easily, 
though  not  yet  free  from  an  impression  of  the  presence 
and  influence  of  his  new  friend — as  if  he  were  lounging 
somewhere  in  the  air,  in  the  same  negligent  attitude,  re- 
garding him  with  the  same  look. 

The  whelp  went  home,  and  went  to  bed.  If  he  had 
any  sense  of  what  he  had  done  that  night,  and  had  been 
less  of  a  whelp  and  more  of  a  brother,  ho  might  have 
turned  short  on  the  road,  might  have  gone  down  to  the 
ill-smelling  river  that  was  dyofl  black,  might  have  gone 
to  bed  in  it  for  good  and  all,  and  have  curtained  his  head 
for  ever  with  its  filthy  waters. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Men  and  Brothers. 

*'  Oh  my  friends,  the  down-trodden  operatives  of  Coke- 
town  !  Oh  my  friends  and  fellow-countrymen,  the  slaves 
of  an  iron-handed  and  grinding  despotism  !  Oh  my 
friends  and  fellow-sufferers,  and  fellow-workmen,  and 
feJlow-men  !  I  tell  you  that  the  hour  is  come,  when  we 
must  rally  round  one  another  as  One  united  power,  and 
crumble  into  the  dust  oppressors  that  too  long  have 
battened  upon  the  i)lunder  of  our  families,  upon  the 
sweat  of  our  brows,  upon  the  labour  of  our  hands,  upon 
the  strength  of  our  sinews,  upon  the  God-created  glori- 
ous rights  of  Humanity,  and  upon  the  holy  and  eternal 
privileges  of  Brotherhood  !  " 

"  Good  !  "  "  Hear,  hear,  hear  !  "  "  Hurrah!  "  and  other 
cries, arose  in  many  voices  from  various  parts  of  the  dense- 
ly crowded  and  suffocatingly  close  Hall,  in  which  the  or- 
ator, perched  on  a  stage,  delivered  himself  of  this,  and 
what  other  froth  and  fume  he  had  in  him.  He  had  de- 
claimed himself  into  a  violent  heat,  and  was  as  hoarse 
as  he  was  hot.  By  dint  of  roaring  at  the  top  of  his  voice 
under  a  flaring  gas-light,  clenching  his  fists,  knitting  his 
brows,  setting  his  teeth,  and  pounding  with  his  arms, 
he  had  taken  so  much  out  of  himself  by  this  time,  that 
he  was  brought  to  a  stop,  and  called  for  a  glass  of 
water. 

As  he  stood  there,  trying  to  quench  his  fiery  face  with 
his  drink  of  water,  the  comparison  between  the  orator 
and  the  crowd  of  attentive  faces  turned  towards  him,  was 
extremely  to  his  disadvantage.  Judging  him  by  Nature's 
evidence,  he  was  above  the  mass  in  very  little  but  the 
stage  on  which  he  stood.  In  many  great  respects  he  was 
essentially  below  them.  He  was  not  so  honest,he  was  not 
so  manly,  he  was  not  so  good-humoured  ;  he  substituted 
cunning  for  their  simplicity, and  passion  for  their  safe  solid 
sense.  An  ill-made  high-shouldered  man,  with  lowering 
brows,  and  his  features  crushed  into  an  habitually  sour 
expression,  he  contrasted  most  unfavourably,  even  in  his 
mongrel  dress,  with  the  great  body  of  his  hearers  in  their 
plain  working  clothes.  Strange  as  it  always  is  to  con- 
sider any  assembly  in  the  act  of  submissively  resigning 
itself  to  the  dreariness  of  some  complacent  person,  lord 
or  commoner,  whom  three-fourths  of  it  could,  by  no  hu- 
man means,  raise  out  of  the  slough  of  inanity  to  their 
own  intellectual  level,  it  was  particularly  strange,  and  it 
was  even  particularly  affecting,  to  see  this  crowd  of  ear- 
nest faces,  whose  honesty  in  the  main  no  competent  ob- 
server free  from  bias  could  doubt,  so  agitated  by  such  a 
leader. 

Good  !  Hear,  hear !  Hurrah  !  The  eagerness,  both 
of  attention  and  intention,  exhibited  in  all  the  counte- 
nances, made  them  a  most  impressive  sight.  There  was 
no  carelessness,no  languor,  no  idle  curiosity;  none  of  the 
many  shades  of  indifference  to  be  seen  in  all  other  as- 
semblies, visible  for  one  moment  there.  That  every 
man  felt  his  condition  to  be,  somehow  or  other,  worse  than 
it  might  be  ;  that  every  man  considered  it  incumbent 
on  him  to  join  the  rest,  towards  the  making  of  it  better  ; 
that  every  man  felt  his  only  hope  to  be  in  his  ally- 
ing himself  to  the  comrades  by  whom  he  was  surrounded; 
and  that  in  this  belief,  right  or  wrong  (unhappily  wrong 
then),  the  whole  of  that  crowd  were  gravely,  deeply, 
faithfully  in  earnest ;  must  have  been  as  plain  to  any 
one  who  chose  to  see  what  was  there,  as  the  bare  beams 
of  the  roof,  and  the  whitened  brick  walls.  Nor  could 
any  such  spectator  fail  to  know  in  his  own  breast,  that 
these  men,  through  their  very  delusions,  showed  great 
qualities  susceptible  of  being  turned  to  the  happiest  and 
best  account ;  and  that  to  pretend  (on  the  strength  of 
sweeping  axioms,  howsoever  cut  and  dried)  that  they 
went  astray  wholly  without  cause,  and  of  their  own  ir- 
rational wills,  was  to  pretend  that  there  could  be  smoke 
without  fire,  death  without  birth,  harvest  without  seed, 
anything  or  everything  produced  from  nothing. 

The  orator  having  refreshed  himself,  Aviped  his  corru- 
gated forehead  from  left  to  right  several  times  with  his 
handkerchief  folded  into  a  pad,  and  concentrated  all 
his  revived  forces,  in  a  sneer  of  great  disdain  and  bitter- 
ness. 

"But,  oh  my  friends  and  brothers  I    Oh  men  and 


HARD 

Englishmen,  the  down- trod  den  operatives  of  Ooketown! 
What  shall  we  say  of  that  man — that  workln<,^-man, 
that  I  should  find  it  necessary  so  to  libel  the  glorious 
name—who,  being  practically  and  well  acquainted  with 
the  grievances  and  wrongs  of  you,  the  injured  pith  and 
marrow  of  this  land,  and  having  heard  you,  with  a  noble 
and  majestic  unanimity  that  will  make  Tyrants  tremble, 
resolve  for  to  subscribe  to  the  funds  of  the  United  Ag- 
gregate Tribunal,  and  to  abide  by  the  injunctions  issued 
by  that  body  for  your  benefit,  whatever  they  may  be — 
what,  I  ask  you,  will  you  say  of  that  working-man, 
since  such  I  must  acknowledge  him  to  be,  who,  at  such 
a  time,  deserts  his  post,  and  sells  his  flag  ;  who,  at  such 
a  time,  turns  a  traitor  and  a  craven  and  a  recreant  ;  who, 
at  such  a  time  is  not  ashamed  to  make  to  you  the  das- 
tardly and  humiliating  avowal  that  he  will  hold  himself 
aloof,  and  will  not  be  one  of  those  associated  in  the  gal- 
lant  stand  for  Freedom  and  for  Rights?" 

The  assembly  was  divided  at  this  point.  There  were 
some  groans  and  hisses,  but  the  general  sense  of  honour 
was  much  too  strong  for  the  condemnation  of  a  man  un- 
heard. "Be  sure  you're  right,  Slackbridge  ! "  "Put 
him  up  !  *'  "  Let's  hear  him  !  "  Such  things  were  said 
on  many  sides.  Finally,  one  strong  voice  called  out, 
*'  Is  the  man  heer?  If  the  man's  heer,  Slackbridge,  let's 
hear  the  man  himseln,  'stead  o'  yo."  Which  was  re- 
ceived with  a  round  of  applause.  , 

Slackbridge,  the  orator,  looked  about  him  with  a 
withering  smile  ;  and,  holding  out  his  right  hand  at 
arm's  length  (as  the  manner  of  all  Slackbridges  is),  to 
still  the  thundering  sea,  waited  until  there  was  a  pro- 
found silence. 

"  Oh  my  friends  and  fellow-men  ! "  said  Slackbridge 
then,  shaking  his  head  with  violent  scorn,  "I  do  not 
wonder  that  you,  the  prostrate  sons  of  labour,  are  in- 
credulous of  the  existence  of  such  a  man.  f  But  he  who 
sold  his  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage  existed,  and 
Judas  Iscariot  existed,  and  Castlereagh  existed,  and  this 
man  exists  1  " 

Here  a  brief  press  and  confusion  near  the  stage,  ended 
in  the  man  himself  standing  at  the  orator's  side  before 
the  concourse.  lie  was  pale  and  a  little  moved  in  the 
face — his  lips  especially  showed  it ;  but  he  stood  quiet, 
with  his  left  hand  at  his  chin,  waiting  to  be  heard. 
There  was  a  chairman  to  regulate  the  proceedings, 
and  this  functionary  now  took  the  case  into  his  own 
hands. 

"My  friends,"  said  he,  **by  virtue  o*  my  office  as 
your  president,  I  ashes  o'  our  friend  Slackbridge,  who 
may  be  a  little  over  better  in  this  business,  to  take  his 
seat,  whiles  this  man  Stephen  Blackpool  is  heern.  You 
all  know  this  man  Stephen  Blackpool,  You  know  him 
awluns"  o'  his  misfort'ns,  and  his  good  name," 

With  that,  tiie  chairman  shook  him  frankly  by  the 
hand,  and  sat  down  again.  Slackbridge  likewise  sat 
down,  wiping  his  hot  forehead — always  from  left  to 
right,  and  never  the  reverse  way. 

"My  friends,"  Stephen  began,  in  the  midst  of  a  dead 
calm,  "  I  ha'  hed  what's  been  spok'n  o'  me,  and  'tis 
likly  that  I  shan't  mend  it.  But  I'd  liefer  you'd  hearn 
the  truth  concernin  myseln,  fro  my  lips  than  fro  onny 
other  man's  though  I  never  cud'n  speak  afore  so  monny, 
w'out  being  moydert  ^nd  ir'^ddled." 

Slackbridge  shook  his  head  as  if  he  would  shake  it 
off,  in  his  bitterness. 

"I'm  th'  one  single  Hand  in  Boimderby's  mill,  o'  a' 
the  men  theer,  as  don't  coom  in  wi'  tli'  proposed  reg'la- 
tions.  I  canna'  coom  in  wi'  'em.  My  friends,  I  doubt 
their  doin'  yo  onny  good.    Licker  they'll  do  yo  hurt." 

Slackbridge  laughed,  folded  his  arms,  and  frowned 
sarcastically. 

"  But 't  ant  sommuch  for  that  as  I  stands  out.  If  that 
were  aw,  I'd  coorn  in  wi'  th'  rest.  But  I  ha'  my  reasons 
— mine,  yo  see — for  being  hindered  ;  not  on'y  now,  but 
awlus — awlus — life  long  !  " 

Slackbridge  jumped  up  and  stood  beside  him,  gnashing 
and  tearing.  "  Oh  my  friends,  what  but  this  did  I  tell 
you  ?  Oh  my  fellow-countrymen,  what  warning  but 
this  did  I  give  you  ?  And  how  shows  this  recreant  con- 
duct in  a  man  on  whom  unequal  laws  are  known  to  have 
fallen  heavy?  Oh  you  Englishmen,  I  ask  you  how  does 
this  subornation  show  in  one  of  yourselves,  who  is  thus 


TIMES.  1003" 

consenting  to  his  own  undoing  and  to  yours,  and  to  your 
children's  and  to  your  children's  children's?" 

There  was  some  applause,  and  some  crying  of  Shame 
upon  the  man  ;  but  the  greater  j^art  of  the  audience 
were  quiet.  They  looked  at  Stephen's  worn  face,  ren- 
dered more  pathetic  by  the  homely  emotions  it  evinced  ; 
and,  in  the  kindness  of  their  nature,  they  were  more 
sorry  than  indignant, 

" 'Tis  this  Delegate's  trade  fort'  speak,"  said  Stephen, 
"  an  he's  paid  for 't,  and  he  knows  his  work.  Let  him 
keep  to 't.  Let  him  give  no  heed  to  what  I  ha  had'n  to 
bear.  That's  not  for  him.  That's  not  for  nobbody  but 
me." 

There  was  a  propriety,  not  to  say  a  dignity  in  these 
words,  that  made  the  hearers  yet  more  quiet  and  atten- 
tive. The  same  strong  voice  called  out,  "  Slackbridge, 
let  the  man  be  heern,  and  liowd  thee  tongue  ! "  Then 
the  place  was  wonderfully  still. 

"  My  brothers,"  said  Stephen,  whose  low  voice  was 
distinctly  heard,  "and  my  fellow-workmen — for  that  yo 
are  to  me,  though  not,  as  I  knows  on,  to  this  delegate 
heer — I  ha  but  a  word  to  sen,  and  I  could  sen  nommore 
if  I  was  to  speak  till  Strike  o'  day.  I  know  weel,  aw 
what's  afore  me.  I  know  weel  that  yo  are  aw  resolve  to 
ha  nommore  ado  wi'  a  man  who  is  not  wi'  yo  in  this 
matther.  I  know  weel  that  if  I  was  a  lyin  parisht  i' 
th'  road,  yo'd  feel  it  right  to  pass  me  by,  as  a  forrenner 
and  stranger.    What  I  ha  getn,  I  mun  mak  th'  best  on." 

"  Stephen  Blackpool,"  said  the  chairman,  rising, 
"think  on't  agen.  Think  on't  once  agen,  lad,  afore 
thonr't  shunned  by  aw  owd  friends." 

There  was  an  universal  murmur  to  the  ."^ame  effect, 
though  no  man  articulated  a  word.  Every  eye  was  fixed 
on  Stephen's  face.  To  repent  of  his  determination, 
would  be  to  take  a  load  from  all  their  minds.  He  looked 
around  him,  and  knew  that  it  was  so.  Not  a  grain  of 
anger  with  them  was  in  his  heart  ;  he  knew  them,  far 
below  their  surface  weaknesses  and  misconceptions,  as 
no  one  but  their  fellow-labourer  could. 

"I  ha' thowt  on't,  above  a  bit,  sir.  I  simply  canna 
coom  in.  I  mun  go  th'  way  as  lays  afore  me.  I  mun 
tak  my  leave  o'  aw  heer." 

He  made  a  sort  of  reverence  to  them  by  holding  up  his 
arms,  and  stood  for  the  moment  in  that  attitude  :  not 
speaking  until  they  slowlj^  dropped  at  his  sides, 

"Mouny's  the  pleasant  word  as  seem  heer  has  spok'n 
wi'  me  ;  monny's  the  face  I  see  heer,  as  I  first  seen  when 
I  were  yoong  and  lighter  heart'n  than  now.  I  ha  never 
had  no  fratch  afore,  sin  ever  I  were  born,  wi'  any  o'  my 
like  ;  Gonnows  I  ha'  none  now  that's  o'  my  makin'. 
Yo'll  ca'  me  traitor  and  that — yo  I  mean  t'  say,"  address- 
ing Slackbridge,  "but  'tis  easier  to  ca'  than  mak'  out. 
So  let  be," 

He  had  moved  away  a  pace  or  two  to  come  down  from 
the  platform,  when  he  remembered  something  he  had 
not  said,  and  returned  again. 

"  Haply,"  he  said,  turning  his  furrowed  face  slowly 
about,  that  he  might  as  it  were  individually  address  the 
whole  audience,  those  both  near  and  distant  ;  "  haply, 
when  this  question  has  been  tak'n  up  and  discoosed, 
there'll  be  a  threat  to  turn  out  if  I'm  let  to  work  among 
yo.  I  hope  I  shall  die  ere  ever  such  a  time  cooms,  and  I 
shall  work  solitary  among  yo  unless  it  cooms — truly, 
I  mun  do't,  my  friends  ;  not  to  brave  yo,  but  to  live,  I 
ha  nobbut  work  to  live  by  ;  and  wheerever  can  I  go,  I 
who  ha  worked  sin  I  were  no  heiglith  at  aw,  in  Coke- 
town  heer  ?  I  mak'  no  complaints  o'  bein  turned  to  the 
wa',  o'  bein  outcasten  and  overlookeu  fro  this  time 
forrard,  but  I  hope  I  shall  be  let  to  work.  If  there  is 
any  right  for  me  at  aw,  my  friends,  I  think  'tis  that." 

Not  a  wprd  was  spoken.  Not  a  sound  was  audible  in 
the  building,  but  the  slight  rustle  of  men  moving  a  little 
apart,  all  along  the  centre  of  the  room,  to  open  a  means 
of  passing  out,  to  the  man  with  whom  they  had  all  bound 
themselves  to  renounce  companionship.  Looking  at  no 
one,  and  going  his  way  with  a  lowly  steadiness  upon  him 
that  asserted  nothing  and  sought  nothing.  Old  Stephen, 
with  all  his  troubles  on  his  head,  left  the  scene. 

Then  Slackbridge,  who  had  kept  his  oratorical  arm  ex- 
tended during  the  going  out,  as  if  he  were  repressing 
with  infinite  solicitude  and  by  a  wonderful  moral  power 
the  vehement  passions  of  the  multitude,  applied  himself 


1004 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


to  raising  their  spirits.  Had  not  the  Roman  Brutus,  oh 
my  British  countrymen,  condemned  his  son  to  death  ; 
and  had  not  the  Spartan  mothers,  oh  my  soon  to  be 
victorious  friends,  driven  their  flying  children  on  the 
points  of  their  enemies'  swords  ?  Then  was  it  not  the 
sacred  duty  of  the  men  of  Coketown,  with  forefathers 
before  them,  an  admiring  world  in  company  with  them, 
and  a  posterity  to  come  after  them,  to  hurl  out  traitors 
from  the  tents  they  had  pitched  in  a  sacred  and  a  Godlike 
cause  ?  The  winds  of  Heaven  answered  Yes  ;  and  bore 
Yes,  east,  west,  north,  and  south.  And  consequently 
three  cheers  for  the  United  Aggregate  Tribunal  ! 

Slackbridge  acted  as  fugleman,  and  gave  the  time. 
The  multitude  of  doubtful  faces  (a  little  conscience- 
stricken)  brightened  at  the  sound,  and  took  it  up.  Private 
feeling  must  yield  to  the  common  cause.  Hurrah  1  The 
roof  yet  vibrated  with  the  cheering,  when  the  assembly 
dispersed. 

Thus  easily  did  Stephen  Blackpool  fall  into  the  lone- 
liest of  lives,  the  life  of  solitude  among  a  familiar  crowd. 
The  stranger  in  the  land  who  looks  into  ten  thousand 
faces  for  some  answering  look  and  never  finds  it,  is  in 
cheering  society  as  compared  with  him  who  passes  ten 
averted  faces  daily,  that  were  once  the  countenances  of 
friends.  Such  experience  was  to  be  Stephen's  now, in  every 
waking  moment  of  his  life  ;  at  his  work,  on  his  way  to 
it  and  from  it,  at  his  door,  at  his  window,  everywhere.  By 
general  consent,  they  even  avoided  that  side  of  the  street 
on  which  he  habitually  walked  ;  and  left  it,  of  all  the 
working  men,  to  him  only. 

He  had  been  for  many  years,  a  quiet  silent  man,  as- 
sociating but  little  with  other  men,  and  used  to  compan- 
ionship with  his  own  thoughts.  He  had  never  known 
before  the  strength  of  the  want  in  his  heart  for  the 
frequent  recognition  of  a  nod,  a  look,  a  word  ;  or  the 
immense  amount  of  relief  that  had  been  poured  into  it 
by  drops,  through  such  small  means.  It  was  even  harder 
than  he  could  have  believed  possible,  to  separate  in  his 
own  conscience  his  abandonment  by  all  his  fellows,  from 
a  baseless  sense  of  shame  and  disgrace. 

The  first  four  days  of  his  endurance  were  days  so  long 
and  heavy,  that  he  began  to  be  appalled  by  the  prospect 
before  him.  Not  only  did  he  see  no  Rachael  all  the 
time,  but  he  avoided  every  chance  of  seeing  her  ;  for, 
although  he  knew  that  the  prohibition  did  not  yet  for- 
mally extend  to  the  women  working  in  the  factories,  he 
found  that  some  of  them  with  whom  he  was  acquainted 
were  changed  to  him,  and  he  feared  to  try  others,  and 
dreaded  that  Rachael  might  be  even  singled  out  from  the 
rest  if  she  were  seen  in  his  company.  So,  he  had  been 
quite  alone  during  the  four  days,  and  had  spoken  to  no 
one,  when,  as  he  was  leaving  his  work  at  night,  a  young 
man  of  a  very  light  complexion  accosted  him  in  the  street. 

"Your  name's  Blackpool,  ain't  it?"  said  the  young 
man. 

Stephen  coloured  to  find  himself  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  in  his  gratitude  for  being  spoken  to,  or  in  the  sud- 
denness of  it,  or  both.  He  made  a  feint  of  adjusting 
the  lining,  and  said,  "  Yes." 

"You  are  the  Hand  they  have  sent  to  Coventry,  I 
mean  ?  "  said  Bitzer,  the  very  light  young  man  in  ques- 
tion. 

Stephen  answered  "  Yes,"  again, 

"  I  supposed  so,  from  their  all  appearing  to  keep  away 
from  you.  Mr.  Bounderby  wants  to  speak  to  you.  You 
know  his  house,  don't  you?" 

Stephen  said  "Yes,"  again, 

"Then  go  straight  up  there,  will  you?"  said  Bitzer, 
"You're  expected,  and  have  only  to  tell  the  servant  it's 
you.  I  belong  to  the  Bank  ;  so,  if  you  go  straight  up  with- 
out me  (I  was  sent  to  fetch  you),  you'll  save  me  a  walk." 

Stephen,  whose  way  had  been  in  the  contrary  direc- 
tion, turned  about,  and  betook  himself  as  in  duty  bound, 
to  the  red  brick  castle  of  the  giant  Bounderby. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Men  and  Masters. 

"Well,  Stephen,"  said  Bounderby,  in  his  windy 
manner,  "what's  this  I  hear?    What  have  these  pests 


of  the  earth  been  doing  to  you  f  Come  in  and  speak 
up." 

It  was  into  the  drawing-room  that  he  was  thus  bidden. 
A  tea-table  was  set  out ;  and  Mr.  Bounderby's  young 
wife,  and  her  brother,  and  a  great  gentleman  from  Lon- 
don, were  present.  To  whom  Stephen  made  his  obeis- 
ance, closing  the  door  and  standing  near  it,  with  his  hat 
in  his  hand. 

"  This  is  the  man  I  was  telling  you  about,  Harthouse," 
said  Mr.  Bounderby.  The  gentleman  he  addressed,  who 
was  talking  to  Mrs.  Bounderby  on  the  sofa,  got  up,  say- 
ing in  an  indolent  way,  "Oh  really?"  and  dawdled  to 
the  hearthrug  where  Mr.  Bounderby  stood. 

"  Now,"  said  Bounderby,  "speak  up  ! " 

After  the  four  days  he  had  passed,  this  address  fell 
rudely  and  discordantly  on  Stephen's  ear.  Besides  being 
a  rough  handling  of  his  wounded  mind,  it  seemed  to  as- 
sume that  he  really  was  the  self-interested  deserter  he 
had  been  called. 

"What  were  it,  sir,"  said  Stephen,  "as  yo  were 
pleased  to  want  wi'  me  ?" 

"  Why,  I  have  told  you,"  returned  Bounderby.  "  Speak 
up  like  a  man,  since  you  are  a  man,  and  tell  us  about 
yourself  and  this  Combination." 

"Wi'  yor  pardon,  sir,"  said  Stephen  Blackpool,  "I 
ha'  nowt  to  sen  about  it." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  who  was  always  more  or  less  like  a 
Wind,  finding  something  in  his  way  here,  began  to  blow 
at  it  directly. 

"Now,  look  here,  Harthouse,"  said  he,  "here's  a 
specimen  of  'em.  When  this  man  was  here  once  be- 
fore, I  warned  this  man  against  the  mischievous  stran- 
gers who  are  always  about — and  who  ought  to  be  hanged 
wherever  they  are  found — and  I  told  this  man  that  he 
was  going  in  the  wrong  direction.  Now,  would  you  be- 
lieve it,  that  although  they  have  put  this  mark  upon 
him,  he  is  such  a  slave  to  them  still,  that  he's  afraid  to 
open  his  lips  about  them  ?  " 

"  I  sed  as  I  had  nowt  to  sen,  sir  ;  not  as  I  was  fearfo* 
o'  openin'  my  lips." 

"  You  said.  Ah  !  /  know  what  you  said  ;  more  than 
that,  I  know  what  you  mean,  you  see.  Not  always  the 
same  thing,  by  the  Lord  Harry  !  Quite  different  things. 
You  had  better  tell  us  at  once,  that  that  fellow  Slack- 
bridge  is  not  in  the  town,  stirring  up  the  people  to 
mutiny  ;  and  that  he  is  not  a  regular  qualified  leader  of 
the  people  :  that  is,  a  most  confounded  scoundrel.  You 
had  better  tell  us  so  at  once  ;  you  can't  deceive  me.  You 
want  to  tell  us  so.    Why  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  as  sooary  as  yo,  sir,  w^hen  the  people's  leaders  is 
bad,"  said  Stephen,  shaking  his  head,  "They  taks 
such  as  offers.  Haply  'tis  na'  the  sma'est  o'  their  mis- 
fortuns  when  they  can  get  no  better." 

The  wind  began  to  get  boisterous. 

"  Now,  you'll  think  this  pretty  well,  Harthouse,"  said 
Mr.  Bounderby.  "  You'll  tliink  this  tolerably  strong. 
You'll  say,  upon  my  soul  this  is  a  tidy  specimen  of  what 
my  friends  have  to  deal  with ;  but  this  is  nothing,  sir  ! 
You  shall  hear  me  ask  this  man  a  question.  Pray,  Mr. 
Blackpool" — wind  springing  up  very  fast — "  may  I  take 
the  liberty  of  asking  you  how  it  happens  that  you  refused 
to  be  in  this  Combination  ?  " 

"  How't  happens  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  with  his  thumbs  in  the 
arms  of  his  coat,  and  jerking  his  head  and  shutting  his 
eyes  in  confidence  with  the  opposite  wall :  "how  it  hap- 
pens." 

"I'd  leefer  not  coom  to  't,  sir;  but  sin  you  put  th* 
question — an  not  want'n  t'  be  ill-manner'n — I'll  answer. 
I  ha  passed  a  promess." 

"Not  to  me,  you  know,"  said  Bounderby.  (Gusty 
weather  with  deceitful  calms.    One  now  prevailing.) 

"  0  no,  sir.    Not  to  yo." 

"  As  for  me,  any  consideration  for  me  has  had  just 
nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it,"  said  Bounderby,  still  in 
confidence  with  the  wall.  "If  only  Josiah  Bounderby 
of  Coketown  had  been  in  question,  you  would  have 
joined  and  made  no  bones  of  it?  " 

"  Why  yes,  sir.    'Tis  true." 

"Though  he  knows,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  now  blow- 
ing a  gale,  "that  these  are  a  set  of  rascals  and  rebels 
whom  transportation  is  too  good  for  !    Now,  Mr.  Hart- 


HARD  TIMES. 


1005 


house,  you  have  been  knocking  about  in  the  world  some 
time.  Did  you  ever  meet  with  anything?  like  that  man 
out  of  this  blessed  country?"  And  Mr.  Bounderby 
pointed  him  out  for  inspection,  with  an  angry  finger. 

"  Nay,  ma'am,"  said  Stephen  Blackpool,  staunchly 
protesting  against  the  words  that  had  been  used,  and  in- 
stinctively addressing  himself  to  Louisa,  after  glancing 
at  her  face.  "Not  rebels,  nor  yet  rascals.  Nowt  o'  th' 
kind,  ma'am,  nowt  o'  th'  kind.  They've  not  doon  me  a 
kindness,  ma'am,  as  I  know  and  feel.  But,  there's  not 
a  dozen  men  amoong 'em,  ma'am — a  dozen?  Not  six — 
but  what  believes  as  he  has  doon  his  duty  by  the  rest 
and  by  himseln.  God  forbid  as  I,  that  ha  known,  and 
had'n  experience  o'  these  men  aw  my  life — I,  that  ha' 
ett'n  an  droonken  wi'  em,  an  seet'n  wi'  em,  and  toil'n 
wi'  em,  and  lov'n  'em,  should  fail  fur  to  stan  by  'em  wi' 
the  truth,  let  'em  ha  doon  to  me  what  they  may  1" 

He  spoke  with  the  rugged  earnestness  of  his  place 
and  character — deepened  perhaps  by  a  proud  conscious- 
ness that  he  was  faithful  to  his  class  under  all  their 
mistrust ;  but  he  fully  remembered  where  he  was,  and 
did  not  even  raise  his  voice. 

"  No  ma'am,  no.  They're  true  to  one  another,  faithfo' 
to  one  another,  fectionate  to  one  another,  e'en  to  death. 
Be  poor  amoong  'em,  be  sick  amoong  'em,  grieve  amoong 
'em  for  onny  o'  th'  monny  causes  that  carries  grief  to 
the  poor  man's  door,  an  they'll  be  tender  wi'  yo,  gentle 
wi'  yo,  comfortable  wi'  yo,  Chrisen  wi'  yo.  Be  sure  o' 
that,  ma'am.  They'd  be  riven  to  bits,  ere  ever  they'd 
be  different." 

"In  short,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "it's  because  they 
are  so  full  of  virtues  that  they  have  turned  you  adrift. 
Go  through  with  it  while  you  are  about  it.  Oat  with 
it." 

"How  'tis,  ma'am,"  resumed  Stephen,  appearing  still 
to  find  his  natural  refuge  in  Louisa's  face,  "that  what 
is  best  in  us  fok,  seems  to  turn  us  most  to  trouble  an 
misfort'n  an  mistake,  I  dunno.  But  'tis  so.  I  know  'tis, 
as  I  know  the  heavens  is  over  me  ahint  the  smoke. 
We're  patient  too,  and  wants  in  general  to  do  right. 
An'. I  canna  think  the  fawt  is  aw  wi'  us." 

"Now,  my  friend,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  whom  he 
could  not  have  exasperated  more,  quite  unconscious  of 
it  though  he  was,  than  by  seeming  to  appeal  to  any  one 
else,  "  if  you  will  favour  me  with  your  attention  for 
half  a  minute,  I  should  like  to  have  a  word  or  two  with 
you.  You  said  just  now,  that  you  had  nothing  to  tell 
us  about  this  business.  You  are  quite  sure  of  that  be- 
fore we  go  any  further?" 

"  Sir,  I  am  sure  on 't." 

"Here's  a  gentleman  from  London  present,"  Mr. 
Bounderby  made  a  back-handed  poiut  at  Mr.  James 
Harthouse  with  his  thumb,  "  Parliament  gentleman.  I 
should  like  him  to  hear  a  short  bit  of  dialogue  between 
you  and  me,  instead  of  taking  the  substance  of  it — for 
I  know  precious  well,  before-hand,  what  it  will  be  ;  no- 
body knows  better  than  I  do,  take  notice  1 — instead  of 
receiving  it  on  trust,  from  your  mouth." 

Stephen  bent  his  head  to  the  gentleman  from  London, 
and  showed  a  rather  more  troubled  mind  than  usual. 
He  turned  his  eyes  involuntarily  to  his  former  refuge, 
but  at  a  look  from  that  quarter  (expressive  though  in- 
stantaneous) he  settled  them  on  Mr.  Bounderby 's  face. 

"Now,  what  do  you  complain  of?"  asked  Mr.  Boun- 
derby. 

"I  ha'  not  coom  here,  sir,"  Stephen  reminded  him, 
"to  complain.    I  coom  for  that  I  were  sent  for." 

"What,"  repeated  Mr.  Bounderby,  folding  his  arms, 
"do  you  people,  in  a  general  way,  complain  of?" 

Stephen  looked  at  him  with  some  little  irresolution  for 
a  moment,  and  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind. 

"  Sir,  I  were  never  good  at  showin  o't,  though  I  ha 
had'n  my  share  in  feeling  O't.  'Deed  we  are  in  a  muddle, 
sir.  Look  round  town — so  rich  as  'tis — and  see  the  num- 
bers o'  people  as  has  been  broughten  into  bein  heer,  fur 
to  weave,  and  to  card,  and  to  piece  out  alivin',  aw  the 
same  one  way,  somehows,  twixt  their  cradles  and  their 
graves.  Look  how  we  live,  an  wheer  we  live,  an  in 
what  numbers,  an  by  what  chances,  and  wi'  what  same- 
ness ;  and  look  how  the  mills  is  awlus  a  goin,  and  how 
they  never  works  us  no  nigher  to  ony  dis'ant  object— ceptin 
awlus.  Death.    Look  how  you  considers  of  us,  an  writes 


of  us  an  talks  of  us,  an  goes  up  wi'  yor  deputations  to 
Secretaries  o'  State 'bout  us,  an  how  yo  are  awlus  right, 
and  how  we  are  awlus  wrong,  and  never  had'n  no  reason 
in  us  sin  ever  we  were  born.  Look  how  this  ha  growen 
an  growen,  sir,  bigger  an  bigger,  broader  an  broader, 
harder  an  harder,  fro  year  to  year,  fro  generation  unto 
generation.  Who  can  look  on  't,  sir,  and  fairly  tell 
a  man  'tis  not  a  muddle  ?  " 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby.  "Now  perhaps 
you'll  let  the  gentleman  know,  how  you  would  set  this 
muddle  (as  you're  so  fond  of  calling  it)  to  rights." 

"  I  donno,  sir.  I  canna  be  expecten  to  't.  'Tis  not 
me  as  should  be  looked  to  for  that,  sir.  'Tis  them  as  is 
put  ower  me,  and  ower  aw  tlie  rest  of  us.  What  do  they 
tak  upon  themseln,  sir,  if  not  to  do 't?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  something  towards  it,  at  any  rate,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Bounderby.  "  We  will  make  an  example  of 
half  a  dozen  Slackbridges.  We'll  indict  the  blackguards 
for  felony,  and  get 'em  shipped  off  to  penal  settlements." 

Stephen  gravely  shook  his  head. 

"  Don't  tell  me  we  won't,  man,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
by  this  time  blowing  a  hurricane,  "because  we  will,  I 
tell  you  ! " 

"  Sir,"  returned  Stephen,  with  the  quiet  confidence  of 
absolute  certainty,  "  if  yo  was  t'  tak  a  hundred  Slack- 
bridges — aw  as  there  is,  and  aw  the  number  ten  times 
towd — and  was  t'  sew  'em  up  in  separate  sacks,  and  sink 
'em  in  the  deepest  ocean  as  were  made  ere  ever  dry  land 
coom  to  be,  yo'd  leave  the  muddle  just  wheer  'tis. 
Mischeevous  strangers  !  "  said  Stephen  with  an  anxious 
smile  ;  "  when  ha  we  not  heern,  I  am  sure,  sin  ever  we 
can  call  to  mind,  o'  th'  mischeevous  strangers  1  'Tis 
not  by  them  the  trouble's  made,  sir.  'Tis  not  wi'  them 
't  commences.  I  ha  no  favour  for'  em — I  ha  no  reason  to 
to  favour  'em — but  'tis  hopeless  and  useless  to  dream 
o'  takin  them  fro  their  trade,  'stead  o'  takin  their  trade 
fro  them  !  Aw  that's  now  about  me  in  this  room  were 
heer  afore  I  coom,  and  will  be  heer  when  I  am  gone. 
Put  that  clock  aboard  a  ship  and  pack  it  off  to  Norfolk 
Island,  an  the  time  will  go  on  just  the  same.  So  'tis  wi' 
Slackbridge  every  bit. " 

Reverting  for  a  moment  to  his  former  refuge,  he 
observed  a  cautionary  movement  of  her  eyes  towards 
the  door.  Stepping  back,  he  put  his  hand  upon  the  lock. 
But  he  had  not  spoken  out  of  his  own  will  and  desire  ; 
and  he  felt  it  in  his  heart  a  noble  return  for  his  late 
injurious  treatment  to  be  faithful  to  the  last  to  those 
who  had  repudiated  him.  He  stayed  to  finish  what  was 
in  his  mind. 

"  Sir,  I  canna,  wi'  my  little  learning  an  my  common 
way,  tell  the  genelman  what  will  be  better  aw  this 
— though  some  workingmen  o'  this  town  could,  above 
my  powers — but  I  can  tell  him  what  I  know  will  never 
do 't.  The  strong  hand  will  never  do 't.  Vict'ry  and 
triumph  will  never  do  't.  Agreeing  for  to  mak  one 
side  unnat'rally  awlus  and  forever  right,  and  toother 
side  unnat'rally  awlus  forever  wrong,  will  never, 
never  do  't.  Nor  yet  lettin  alone  will  never  do 't.  Let 
thousands  upon  thousands  alone,  aw  leadin  the  like  lives 
and  aw  faw'en  into  the  like  muddle,  and  they  will  be  as 
one,  and  yo  will  be  as  anoother,  wi'  a  black  unpassable 
world  betwixt  yo,  just  as  long  or  short  a  time  as  sitch- 
like  misery  can  last.  Not  drawin  nigh  to  fok,  wi' 
kindness  and  patience  an  cheery  ways,  that  so  draws 
nigh  to  one  another  in  their  monny  trebles,  and  so  cher- 
ishes one  another  in  their  distresses  wi'  what  they  need 
themseln — like,  I  humbly  believe,  as  no  people  the  genel- 
man ha  seen  in  aw  his  travels  can  beat— will  never  do 't  till 
th'  Sun  turns  t'  ice.  Most  o'  aw,  ratin  'em  as  so  much 
Power,  and  reg'latin  'em  as  if  they  was  figures  in  a  socm 
or  machines  :  wi'out  loves  and  likens,  wi'oat  memories 
and  inclinations,  wi'out  souls  to  weary  and  souls  to 
hope — when  aw  goes  quiet,  draggin  on  wi'  'em  as  if 
they'd  nowt  o'  th'  kind,  and  when  aw  goes  onquiet,  re- 
proachin 'em  for  their  want  o'  sitch  humanly  feelins  in 
their  dealins  wi'  yo — this  will  never  do 't,  sir,  till  God's 
work  is  unmade." 

Stephen  stood  with  the  open  door  in  his  hand,  waiting 
to  know  if  anything  more  were  expected  of  him. 

"  Just  stop  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  excessive- 
ly red  in  the  face.  "  I  told  you,  the  last  time  you  were 
here  with  a  grievance,  that  you  had  better  turn  about 


1006 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


and  come  out  of  that.  And  I  also  told  you,  if  you 
remember,  that  I  was  up  to  the  gold  spo'on  look-out." 

"  I  were  not  up  to 't  myseln,  sir  ;  I  do  assure  yo." 

"  Now  it's  clear  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "  that 
you  are  one  of  those  chaps  who  have  always  got  a  griev- 
ance. And  you  go  about,  sowing  it  and  raising  crops. 
That's  the  business  of  your  life,  my  friend." 

Stephen  shook  his  head,  mutely  protesting  that  indeed 
he  had  other  business  to  do  for  his  life. 

"  You  are  such  a  waspish,  raspish,  ill-conditioned 
chap,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "that  even  your 
own  Union,  the  men  who  know  you  best,  will  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  you.  I  never  thought  those  fellows 
could  be  right  in  anything  ;  but  I  tell  you  what  !  I  so  far 
go  along  with  them  for  a  novelty  that  i^ll  have  nothing 
to  do  with  you  either." 

Stephen  raised  his  eyes  quickly  to  his  face. 

"  You  can  finish  off  what  you're  at,"  said  Mr.  Boun- 
derby, with  a  meaning  nod,  "  and  then  go  elsewhere." 

"Sir,  yo  know  weel,"  said  Stephen  expressively, 
"  that  if  i  canna  get  work  wi'  yo,  I  canna  get  it  else- 
wheer." 

The  reply  was,  "  What  I  know,  I  know  ;  and  what 
you  know,  you  know.    I  have  no  more  to  say  about  it." 

Stephen  glanced  at  Louisa  again,  but  her  eyes  were 
raised  to  his  no  more  ;  therefore,  with  a  sigh,  and  say- 
ing, barely  above  his  breath,  "  Heaven  help  us  aw  in 
this  world  !  "  he  departed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Fading  Away. 

It  was  falling  dark  when  Stephen  came  out  of  Mr. 
Bounderby 's  house.  The  shadows  of  night  had  gathered 
so  fast,  that  he  did  not  look  about  him  when  he  closed 
the  door,  but  plodded  straight  along  the  street.  Nothing 
was  further  from  his  thoughts  than  the  curious  old 
woman  he  had  encountered  on  his  previous  visit  to  the 
same  house,  when  he  heard  a  step  behind  him  that  he 
knew,  and,  turning,  saw  her  in  Rachael's  company. 

He  saw  Rachael  first,  as  he  had  heard  her  only. 

"  Ah  Rachael,  my  dear  !    Missus,  thou  we'  her  !  " 

"  "Well,  and  now  you  are  surprised  to  be  sure,  and  with 
reason  I  must  say,"  the  old  woman  returned.  "  Here  I 
am  again,  you  see." 

"But  how  wi'  Rachael?"  said  Stephen,  falling  into 
their  step,  walking  between  them,  and  looking  from  the 
one  to  the  other. 

' '  Why,  I  come  to  be  with  this  good  lass  pretty  much 
as  I  came  to  be  with  you,"  said  the  old  woman  cheer- 
fully, taking  the  reply  upon  herself.  "  My  visiting  time 
is  later  this  year  than  usual,  for  I  have  been  rather 
troubled  with  shortness  of  breath,  and  so  put  it  off  till 
the  weather  was  fine  and  warm.  For  the  same  reason  I 
don't  make  all  my  journey  in  one  day,  but  divide  it  into 
two  days,  and  get  a  bed  to-night  at  the  Travellers'  Cof- 
fee House  down  by  the  railroad  (a  nice  clean  house),  and 
go  back  Parliamentary,  at  six  in  the  morning.  Well, 
but  what  has  this  to  do  with  this  good  lass,  says  you? 
I'm  going  to  tell  you.  I  have  heard  of  Mr.  Bounderby 
being  married.  I  read  it  in  the  paper,  where  it  looked 
grand — oh,  it  looked  fine  ! "  the  old  woman  dwelt  on  it 
with  a  strange  enthusiasm  :  "  and  I  want  to  see  his  wife. 
I  have  never  seen  her  yet.  Now,  if  you'll  believe  me, 
she  hasn't  come  out  of  that  house  since  noon  to-day.  So 
not  to  give  her  up  too  easily,  I  was  waiting  about,  a  lit- 
tle last  bit  more,  when  I  passed  close  to  this  good  lass 
two  or  three  times  ;  and  her  face  being  so  friendly  I 
spoke  to  her,  and  she  spoke  to  me.  There  !  "  said  the 
old  woman  to  Stephen,  "  you  can  make  all  the  rest  out 
for  yourself  now,  a  deal  shorter  than  I  can,  I  dare  say  I  " 

Once  again,  Stephen  had  to  conquer  an  instinctive  pro- 
pensity to  dislike  this  old  woman,  though  her  manner 
was  as  honest  and  simple  as  a  manner  possibly  could  be. 
With  a  gentleness  that  was  natural  to  him  as  he  knew 
it  to  bo  to  Rachael,  he  pursued  the  subject  that  inter- 
ested her  in  her  old  age, 

"Well,  Missus,"  said  he,  "I  ha  seen  the  lady,  and 
bIig  v/ere  yoong  and  hansom.    Wi'  fine  dark  thinkiu 


eyes,  and  a  still  way,  Rachael,  as  I  ha  never  seen  the 
like  on." 

"  Young  and  handsome.  Yes  ! "  cried  the  old  woman, 
quite  delighted.  "  As  bonny  as  a  rose  1  And  what  a 
happy  wife  ! " 

"  Aye,  missus,  I  suppose  she  be,"  said  Stephen.  But 
with  a  doubtful  glance  at  Rachael. 

"  Suppose  she  be  ?  She  must  be.  She's  your  master's 
wife,"  returned  the  old  woman. 

Stephen  nodded  assent.  "  Though  as  to  master,"  said 
he,  glancing  again  at  Rachael,  "  not  master  onny  more. 
That's  aw  end  en  twixt  him  and  me." 

"Have  you  left  his  work,  Stephen?"  asked  Rachael, 
anxiously  and  quickly. 

"  Why  Rachael,"  he  replied,  "whether  I  ha  lef'n  his 
work  or  whether  his  work  ha  lef'n  me,  cooms  t'  th' 
same.  His  work  and  me  are  parted.  'Tis  as  weel  so — 
better,  I  were  thinken  when  yo  coom  up  wi'  me.  It 
would  ha  brought'n  trouble  upon  trouble  if  I  had  stayed 
theer;  Haply  'tis  a  kindness  to  monny  that  I  go  ;  haply 
'tis  a  kindness  to  myseln  ;  anyways  it  mun  be  done.  I 
mun  turn  my  face  fro  Coketown  fur  th'  time,  and  seek 
a  fort'n,  dear,  by  beginnin  fresh." 

"  Where  will  you  go,  Stephen  ?" 

"  I  donno  t'night,"  said  he,  lifting  off  his  hat,  and 
smoothing  his  tliiu  hair  with  the  flat  of  his  hand,  "But 
I'm  not  goin  t'night,  Rachael,  nor  yet  t' morrow.  Tan't 
easy  overmuch,  t'know  weer  't  turn,  but  a  good  heart 
will  coom  to  me." 

Herein,  too,  the  sense  of  even  thinking  unselfishly 
aided  him.  Before  he  had  so  much  as  closed  Mr.  Boun- 
derby's  door,  he  had  reflected  that  at  least  his  being 
obliged  to  go  away  was  good  for  her,  as  it  would  save 
her  from  the  chance  of  being  brought  into  question  for 
not  withdrawing  from  him.  Though  it  would  cost  him 
a  hard  pang  to  leave  her,  and  though  he  could  think  of 
no  similar  place  in  which  his  condemnation  would  not 
pursue  him,  perhaps  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  be  forced 
away  from  the  endurance  of  the  last  four  days,  even 
to  unknown  difficulties  and  distresses. 

So  he  said,  with  truth,  "I'm  more  leetsome,  Rachael, 
under 't  than  I  could'n  ha  believed."  It  was  not  her 
part  to  make  his  burden  heavier.  She  answered  with 
her  comforting  smile,  and  the  three  walked  on  together. 

Age,  especially  when  it  strives  to  be  self-reliant  and 
cheerful,  finds  much  consideration  among  the  poor.  The 
woman  was  so  decent  and  contented,  and  made  so  light 
of  her  infirmities,  though  they  had  increased  upon  her 
since  her  former  interview  with  Stephen,  that  they  both 
took  an  interest  in  her.  She  was  too  sprightly  to  allow 
of  their  walking  at  a  slow  pace  on  her  account,  but  she 
was  very  grateful  to  be  talked  to,  and  very  willing  to 
talk  to  any  extent :  so,  when  they  came  to  their  part  of 
the  town,  she  was  more  brisk  and  vivacious  than  ever. 

"  Coom  to  my  poor  place,  missus,"  said  Stephen, 
"  and  tak  a  coop  o'  tea.  Rachael  will  coom  then  ;  and 
arterwards  I'll  see  thee  safe  t'  thy  Travellers'  lodgin. 
'T  may  be  long,  Rachael,  ere  ever  I  ha'  th*  chance  o'  thy 
company  agin," 

They  complied,  and  the  three  went  on  to  the  house 
where  he  lodged.  When  they  turned  into  a  narrow 
street,  Stephen  glanced  at  his  window  with  a  dread  that 
always  haunted  his  desolate  home  ;  but  it  was  open,  as 
he  had  left  it,  and  no  one  was  there.  The  evil  spirit  of 
his  life  had  flitted  away  again,  months  ago,  and  he  had 
heard  no  more  of  her  since.  The  only  evidences  of  her 
last  return  now,  were  the  scantier  moveables  in  his 
room,  and  the  grayer  hair  upon  his  head. 

He  lighted  a  candle,  set  out  his  little  tea-board,  got 
hot  water  from  below,  and  brought  in  small  portions  of 
tea  and  sugar,  a  loaf,  and  some  butter,  from  the  nearest 
shop.  The  bread  was  new  and  crusty,  the  butter  fresh, 
and  the  sugar  lump,  of  course— in  fulfilment  of  the 
standard  testimony  of  the  Coketown  magnates,  that 
these  people  lived  like  princes,  sir.  Rachael  made  the 
tea  (so  large  a  party  necessitated  the  borrowing  of  a 
cup),  and  the  visitor  enjoyed  it  niightily.  It  was  the 
first  glimpse  of  sociality  the  host  had  had  for  many  days. 
He  too,  with  the  world  a  wide  heath  before  him,  en- 
joyed the  meal — again  in  corroboration  of  the  magnates, 
as  exemplifying  the  utter  want  of  calculation  on  the 
part  of  these  people,  sir. 


HARD 

"  I  lia  never  tbowt  yet,  missus,"  said  Stephen,  "  o* 
askin  thy  name." 

Tlie  old  lady  announced  herself  as  "  Mrs.  Pegler." 

"A  widder,  I  think?"  said  Stephen. 

"  Oh,  many  years  ! "  Mrs.  Pegler's  husband  (one  of 
the  best  on  record)  was  already  dead,  by  Mrs.  Pegler's 
calculation,  when  Stephen  was  born. 

"  'Twere  a  bad  job  too,  to  lose  so  good  a  one,"  said 
Stephen,    "  Onny  children  ?" 

Mrs.  Pegler's  cup,  rattling  against  her  saucer  as  she 
held  it,  denoted  some  nervousness  on  her  part.  "No," 
she  said.    "  Not  now,  not  now." 

"  Dead,  Stephen,"  Rachael  softly  hinted. 

"  I'm  sooary  I  ha'  spok'n  on  't,"  said  Stephen,  "  I 
ought  t'  hadn  in  ray  mind  as  I  might  touch  a  sore  place. 
I — I  blame  myseln." 

While  he  excused  himself,  the  old  lady's  cup  rattled 
more  and  more.  "  I  had  a  son,"  she  said,  curiously  dis- 
tressed, and  not  by  any  of  the  usual  appearances  of  sor- 
row ;  "  and  he  did  well,  wonderfully  well.  But  he  is  not 
to  be  spoken  of  if  you  please.  He  is — "  Putting  down 
her  cup,  she  moved  her  hands  as  if  she  would  have 
added,  by  her  action,  "deadl"  Then  she  said  aloud, 
*'  I  have  lost  him." 

Stephen  had  not  yet  got  the  better  of  his  having  given 
the  old  lady  pain,  when  his  landlady  came  stumbling 
up  the  narrow  stairs,  and  calling  him  to  the  door,  whis- 
pered in  his  ear.  Mrs.  Pegler  was  by  no  means  deaf, 
for  she  caught  a  word  as  it  was  uttered. 

"Bounderby  !  "  she  cried,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  start- 
ing up  from  the  table.  "  Oh  hide  me  !  Don't  let  me  be 
seen  for  the  world.  Don't  let  him  come  up  till  I've  got 
away.  Pray,  pray  !  "  She  trembled,  and  was  excessively 
agitated  ;  getting  behind  Rachael,  when  Rachael  tried 
to  reassure  her  ;  and  not  seeming  to  know  what  she  was 
about. 

"But  hearken,  missus,  hearken  ;  "  said  Stephen,  as- 
tonished, "'Tisn't  Mr.  Bounderby  ;  'tis  his  wife.  Your 
not  fearfo'  o'  her.  Yo  was  hey-go-mad  about  her,  but  an 
hour  sin." 

"  But  are  you  sure  it's  the  lady,  and  not  the  gentle- 
man ?  "  she  asked,  still  trembling. 
"  Certain  sure  !  " 

"  Well  then,  pray  don't  speak  to  me,  nor  yet  take  any 
notice  of  me,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  Let  me  be  quite  to 
myself  in  this  corner." 

Stephen  nodded  ;  looking  to  Rachael  for  an  explana- 
tion, which  she  was  quite  unable  to  give  him  ;  took  the 
candle,  went  down-stairs,  and  in  a  few  moments  returned, 
lighting  Louisa  into  the  room.  She  was  followed  by  the 
whelp. 

Rachel  had  risen,  and  stood  apart  with  her  shawl  and 
bonnet  in  her  hand,  when  Stephen,  himself  profoundly 
astonished  by  this  visit,  put  the  candle  on  the  table. 
Then  he  too  stood,  with  his  doubled  hand  upon  the  table 
near  it,  waiting  to  be  addressed. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Louisa  had  come  into  one 
of  the  dwellings  of  Coketown  hands  ;  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  she  was  face  to  face  with  anything  like  indi- 
viduality in  connection  with  them.  She  knew  of  their 
existence  by  hundreds  and  by  thousands.  She  knew 
what  results  in  work  a  given  number  of  them  would 
produce,  in  a  given  space  of  time.  She  knew  them  in 
crowds  passing  to  and  from  their  nests,  like  ants  or 
beetles.  But  she  knew  from  her  reading  infinitely  more 
of  the  ways  of  toiling  insects  than  of  these  toiling  men 
and  women. 

Something  to  be  worked  so  much  and  paid  so  much, 
and  there  ended ;  something  to  be  infallibly  settled  by 
laws  of  supply  and  demand  ;  something  that  blundered 
against  those  laws,  and  floundered  into  difficulty  ;  some- 
thing that  was  a  little  pinched  when  wheat  was  dear, 
and  over-ate  itself  when  wheat  was  cheap  ;  something 
that  increased  at  such  a  rate  of  percentage,  and  yielded 
such  another  percentage  of  crime,  and  such  another  per- 
centage of  pauperism  ;  something  wholesale,  of  which 
vast  fortunes  were  made  ;  sometliing  that  occasionally 
rose  like  the  sea,  and  did  some  harm  and  waste  (chiefly 
to  itself),  and  fell  again  ;  this  she  knew  the  Coketown 
Hands  to  be.  But,  she  had  scarcely  thought  more  of 
separating  tliem  into  units,  than  of  separating  the  sea  it- 
self into  component  drops. 


TIMES.  1007 

She  stood  for  some  moments  looking  round  the  room. 
From  the  few  chairs,  the  few  books,  the  common  prints, 
and  the  bed,  she  glanced  to  the  two  women,  and  to 
Stephen. 

"  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you,  in  consequence  of  what 
passed  just  now.  I  should  like  to  be  serviceable  to  you, 
if  you  will  let  me.    Is  this  your  wife  ?  " 

Rachael  raised  her  eyes,  and  they  sufficiently  answered 
no,  and  dropped  again. 

"  I  remember,"  said  Loui.^a,  reddening  at  her  mistake  ; 
"  I  recollect,  now,  to  have  heard  your  domestic  misfor- 
tunes spoken  of,  though  I  was  not  attending  to  the  par- 
ticulars at  the  time.  It  was  not  my  meaning  to  ask  a 
question  that  would  give  pain  to  any  one  here.  If  I 
should  ask  any  other  question  that  may  happen  to  have 
that  result,  give  me  credit,  if  you  please,  for  being  in  ig- 
norance how  to  speak  to  you  as  I  ought." 

As  Stephen  had  but  a  little  while  ago  instinctively  ad- 
dressed himself  to  her,  so  she  now  instinctively  addressed 
herself  to  Rachael.  Her  manner  was  short  and  abrupt, 
yet  faltering  and  timid. 

"  He  has  told  you  what  has  passed  between  himself 
and  my  husband  ?  You  would  be  his  first  resource,  I 
think." 

"I  have  heard  the  end  of  it,  young  lady,'"  said  Ra- 
chael. 

"Did  I  understand,  that,  being  rejected  by  one  em- 
ployer, he  would  probably  be  rejected  by  all?  I  thought 
he  said  as  much  ?  " 

"  The  chances  are  very  small,  young  lady — next  to 
nothing — for  a  man  who  gets  a  bad  name  among  tliem." 

"  Wliat  shall  I  understand  that  you  mean  by  a  bad 
name  ?  " 

"  The  name  of  being  troublesome." 

"  Then,  by  the  prejudices  of  his  own  class,  and  by  the 
prejudices  of  the  other,  he  is  sacrificed  alike  ?  Are  the 
two  so  deeply  separated  in  this  town,  that  there  is  no  place 
whatever,  for  an  honest  workman  between  them  ?  " 

Rachael  shook  her  head  in  silence. 

"He  fell  into  suspicion,"  said  Louisa,  "with  his  fel- 
low-weavers, because  he  had  made  a  promise  not  to  be 
one  of  them.  I  think  it  must  have  been  to  you  that  he 
made  that  promise.    Might  I  ask  you  why  he  made  it?" 

Rachael  burst  into  tears.  "  I  didn't  seek  it  of  him, 
poor  lad,  I  prayed  him  to  avoid  trouble  for  his  own  good, 
little  thinking  he'd  come  to  it  through  me.  But  I  know 
he'd  die  a  hundred  deaths,  ere  ever  he'd  break  his  word. 
I  know  that  of  him  well. " 

Stephen  had  remained  quietly  attentive,  in  his  usual 
thoughtful  attitude,  with  his  hand  at  his  chin.  He  now 
spoke  in  a  voice  rather  less  steady  than  usual. 

' '  No  one.  excepting  myseln,  can  ever  know  what  hon- 
our, an  what  love,  and  respect,  I  bear  to  Rachael,  or  wi' 
what  cause.  When  I  passed  that  promess,  I  towd  her 
true,  she  were  th'  Angel  o'  my  life.  'Twere  a  solemn 
promess.    'Tis  gone  fro'  me,  for  ever." 

Louisa  turned  her  head  to  him,  and  bent  it  with  a 
deference  that  was  new  in  her.  She  looked  from  him  to 
Rachael,  and  her  features  softened,  "^^^lat  will  you 
do  ?  "  she  asked  him.    And  her  voice  had  softened  too. 

"  Weel,  ma'am,"  said  Stephen,  making  the  best  of  it, 
with  a  smile  ;  "  when  I  ha  finished  off,  I  mun  quit  this 
part,  and  try  another.  Fortnet  or  misfortnet,  a  man  can 
but  try  ;  there's  nowt  to  be  done  wi'out  tryin' — cept  lay- 
ing down  and  dying." 

"  How  will  you  travel  ?  "  * 

"  Afoot,  my  kind  ledy,  afoot." 

Louisa  colored,  and  a  purse  appeared  in  her  hand. 
The  rustling  of  a  bank-note  was  audible,  as  she  un- 
folded one  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  ' 

"  Rachael,  will  you  tell  him — for  you  know  how, 
without  offence — that  this  is  freely  his,  to  help  him  on 
his  way?    Will  you  entreat  him  to  take  it ?" 

"  I  canna  do  that,  young  lady,"  she  answered,  turning 
her  head  aside.  "  Bless  you  for  thinking  o'  the  poor  lad 
wi'  such  tenderness.  But  'tis  for  him  to  know  his  heart 
and  what  is  right  according  to  it." 

Louisa  looked,  in  part  incredulous,  in  part  frightened, 
in  part  overcome  with  quick  sjTnpathy,  when  this  man 
of  so  much  self-command,  who  had  been  so  plain  and 
steady  through  the  late  interview,  lost  his  composure  in 
a  moment,  and  now  stood  with  his  hand  before  his  face. 


1G08 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


She  stretched  ont  hers,  as  if  she  would  have  touched 
him  ;  then  checked  herself  and  remained  still. 

"Not  e'en  Rachael,"  said  Stephen,  when  he  stood 
again  with  his  face  uncovered,  "  could  mak  sitch  a  kind 
oSerin,  by  onny  words,  kinder  T'  show  that  I'm  not  a 
man  wi'out  reason  and  gratitude,  I'll  tak  two  pound. 
I'll  borrow 't  for  t'  pay 't  back.  'Twill  be  the  sweetest 
work  as  ever  I  ha  done,  that  puts  it  in  my  power  t'  ac- 
knowledge once  more  my  lasting  thankfulness  for  this 
present  action." 

She  was  fain  to  take  up  the  note  again,  and  to  substi- 
tute the  much  smaller  sum  he  had  named.  He  was 
neither  courtly,  nor  handsome,  nor  jjicturesque,  in  any 
respect  ;  and  yet  his  manner  of  accepting  it,  and  of  ex- 
pressing his  thanks  without  more  words,  had  a  grace  in 
it  that  Lord  Chesterfield  could  not  have  taught  his  son  in 
a  century. 

Tom  had  sat  upon  the  bed,  swinging  one  leg,  and 
sucking  his  walking-stick  with  suflBcient  unconcern,  un- 
til the  visit  had  attained  this  stage.  Seeing  his  sister 
ready  to  depart,  he  got  up,  rather  harriedly,  and  put  in 
a  word. 

"  Jast  wait  a  moment,  Loo  !  Before  we  go,  I  should 
like  to  speak  to  him  a  moment.  Something  comes  into 
my  head.  If  you'll  step  out  on  the  stairs,  Blackpool,  I'll 
mention  it.  Never  mind  a  light,  man  !  "  Tom  was  re- 
markably impatient  of  his  moving  towards  the  cupboard 
to  get  one.    "  It  don't  want  a  light." 

Stephen  followed  him  out,  and  Tom  closed  the  room 
door,  and  held  the  lock  in  his  hand. 

"  I  say  ! "  he  whispered.  "  I  think  I  can  do  you  a 
good  turn.  Don't  ask  me  what  it  is,  because  it  may  not 
come  to  anything.    But  there's  no  harm  in  my  trying." 

His  breath  fell  like  a  flame  of  fire  on  Stephen's  ear,  it 
was  so  hot. 

"That  was  our  light  porter  at  the  Bank,"  said  Tom, 
"  who  brought  you  the  message  to-night.  I  call  him  our 
light  porter,  because  I  belong  to  the  Bank  too." 

Stephen  thought,  ' '  What  a  hurry  he  is  in  ! "  He 
spoke  so  confusedly. 

"Well  !"  said  Tom.  "Now  look  here  1  When  are 
you  off?" 

"  T'  day's  Monday,"  replied  Stephen,  considering. 
"Why,  sir,  Friday  or  Saturday,  nigh  'bout." 

"Friday  or  Saturday,"  said  Tom.  "  Now,  look  here  ! 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  do  you  the  good  turn  I  want  to 
do  you — that's  my  sister,  you  know,  in  your  room — but 
I  may  be  able  to,  and  if  I  should  not  be  able  to,  there's 
no  harm  done.  So  I  tell  you  what.  You'll  know  our 
light  porter  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sure,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Very  well,"  returned  Tom.  "  When  you  leave  work 
of  a  night,  between  this  and  your  going  away,  just  hang 
about  the  Bank  an  hour  or  so,  will  you  ?  Don't  take  on, 
as  if  you  meant  anything,  if  he  should  see  you  hanging 
about  there  ;  because  I  shan't  put  him  up  to  speak  to 
you,  unless  I  find  I  can  do  you  the  service  I  want  to  do 
you.  In  that  case  he'll  have  a  note  or  a  message  for 
you,  but  not  else.  Now  look  here  !  You  are  sure  you 
understand. " 

He  had  wormed  a  finger,  in  the  darkness,  through  a 
button-hole  of  Stephen's  coat,  and  was  screwing  that 
corner  of  the  garment  tight  up,  round  and  round,  in  an 
extraordinary  manner. 

"I  understand,  sir,"  said  Stephen. 
•  "  Now  look  hero,"  repeated  Tom.  "  Be  sure  you  don't 
make  any  mistake  then,  and  don't  forget.  I  shall  tell 
my  sister  as  we  go  home,  what  I  have  in  view,  and  she'll 
approve,  I  know.  Now  look  here  !  You're  all  right,  are 
you  ?  You  understand  all  about  it  ?  Very  well  then. 
Come  along,  Loo  !  " 

He  pushed  the  door  open  as  he  called  to  her,  but  did  not 
return  into  the  room,  or  wait  to  be  lighted  down  the 
narrow  stairs.  He  was  at  the  bottom  when  she  began 
to  descend,  and  was  in  the  street  before  she  could  take 
his  arm. 

Mrs.  Pegler  remained  in  her  corner  until  the  brother 
and  sister  were  gone,  and  until  Stephen  came  back  with 
the  candle  in  his  hand.    She  was  in  a  state  of  inexpres-  j 
sible  admiration  of  Mrs.  Bounderby,  and,  like  an  unac-  | 
countable  old  woman,  wept,  "  because  she  was  such  a  ' 
pretty  dear."    Yet  Mrs.  Pegler  was  so  flurried  lest  the  j 


object  of  her  admiration  should  return  by  chance,  or 
anybody  else  should  come,  that  her  cheerfulness  was 
ended  for  that  night.  It  was  late  too,  to  people  who 
rose  early  and  worked  hard  ;  therefore  the  party  broke 
up  ;  and  Stephen  and  Rachael  escorted  their  mysterious 
acquaintance  to  the  door  of  the  Traveller's  Coffee  House, 
where  they  parted  from  her. 

They  walked  back  together  to  the  corner  of  the  street 
where  Rachael  lived,  and  as  they  drew  nearer  and  nearer 
to  it,  silence  crept  upon  them.  *When  they  came  to  the 
dark  corner  where  their  unfrequent  meetings  always 
ended,  they  stopped,  still  silent,  as  if  both  were  afraid 
to  speak. 

"I  shall  strive  t'  see  thee  agen,  Rachael,  afore  I  go, 
but  if  not — " 

"Thou  wilt  not,  Stephen,  I  know.  'Tis  better  that 
we  make  up  our  minds  to  be  open  wi'  one  another." 

"  Thou'rt  awl  us  right.  'Tis  bolder  and  better.  I  ha 
been  thinkin  then,  Rachael,  that  as  'tis  but  a  day  or  two 
that  remains  'twere  better  for  thee,  my  dear,  not  t'  be 
seen  wi'  me.  'T  might  bring  thee  into  trouble  fur  no 
good." 

"'Tis  not  for  that,  Stephen,  that  I  mind.    But  thou 

know'st  our  old  agreement.    'Tis  for  that." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he.    "  'Tis  better  onyways." 

"  Thou'lt  write  to  me,  and  tell  me  all  that  happens, 
Stephen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  What  can  I  say  now,  but  Heaven  be  wi'  thee, 
Heaven  bless  thee,Heaven  thank  thee  and  reward  thee  !  " 

"  May  it  bless  thee,  Stephen,  too,  in  all  thy  wander- 
ings, and  send  thee  peace  and  rest  at  last !" 

"I  towd  thee,  my  dear,"  said  Stephen  Blackpool — 
"that  night — that  I  would  never  see  or  think  o'  onything 
that  angered  me,  but  thou,  so  much  better  than  me, 
should'st  be  beside  it.  Thou'rt  beside  it  now.  Thou 
mak'st  me  see  it  wi'  a  better  eye.  Bless  thee.  Good  night. 
Good-bye  ! " 

It  was  but  a  hurried  parting  in  a  common  street,  3'et 
it  was  a  sacred  remembrance  to  these  two  common 
people.  Utilitarian  economists,  skeletons  of  schoolmas- 
ters. Commissioners  of  Fact,  genteel  and  used-up  infidels, 
gabblers  of  many  little  dog's-eared  creeds,  the  poor  you 
will  have  always  with  you.  Cultivate  in  them,  while 
there  is  yet  time,  the  utmost  graces  of  the  fancies  and 
affections,  to  adorn  their  lives  so  much  in  need  of  orna- 
ment ;  or,  in  the  day  of  your  triumph,  when  romance  is 
utterly  driven  out  of  their  souls,  and  they  and  a  bare 
existence  stand  face  to  face.  Reality  will  take  a  wolfish 
turn,  and  make  an  end  of  you. 

Stephen  worked  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  uncheered 
by  a  word  from  any  one,  and  shunned  in  all  his  comings 
and  goings,  as  before.  At  the  end  of  the  second  day, 
he  saw  land  ;  at  the  end  of  the  third,  his  loom  stood 
empty. 

He  had  overstayed  his  hour  in  the  street  outside  the 
Bank,  on  each  of  the  two  first  evetiings  ;  and  nothing 
had  happened  there,  good  or  bad.  That  he  might  not 
be  remiss  in  his  part  of  the  engagement,  he  resolved  to 
wait  full  two  hours,  on  this  third  and  last  night. 

There  was  the  lady  who  had  once  kept  Mr.  Bounderby's 
house,  sitting  at  the  first  floor  window  as  he  had  seen 
her  before  ;  and  there  was  the  light  porter,  sometimes 
talking  with  her  there,  and  sometimes  looking  over  the 
blind  below  which  had  'Bank  upon  it,  and  sometimes 
coming  to  the  door  and  standing  on  the  steps  for  a  breath 
of  air.  When  he  first  came  out,  Stephen  thought  he 
might  be  looking  for  him,  and  passed  near ;  but  the 
light  porter  only  cast  his  winking  eyes  upon  him  slightly, 
and  said  nothing. 

Two  hours  were  a  long  stretch  of  lounging  about, 
after  a  long  day's  labour.  Stephen  sat  upon  the  step  of 
a  door,  leaned  against  a  wall  under  an  archway,  strolled 
up  and  down,  listened  for  the  church  clock,  stopped  and 
watched  children  playing  in  the  street.  Some  purpose 
or  other  is  so  natural  to  every  one,  that  a  mere  loiterer 
always  looks  and  feels  remarkable.  When  the  first  hour 
was  out,  Stephen  even  began  to  have  an  uncomfortable 
sensation  upon  him  of  being  for  the  time  a  disreputable 
character. 

Then  came  the  lamplighter,  and  two  lengthening  lines 
of  light  all  down  the  long  perspective  of  the  street,  until 
they  were  blended  and  lost  in  the  distance.    Mrs,  Sparsit 


HARD 

closed  the  first  floor  window,  drew  down  the  hlind,  and 
went  up-stairs.  Presently,  a  light  went  up-stairs  after 
her,  passing  first  the  fanlight  of  the  door,  and  afterwards 
the  two  staircase  windows,  on  its  way  up.  By  and  by, 
one  corner  of  the  second  floor  blind  was  disturbed,  as  if 
Mrs.  Sparsit's  eye  were  there  ;  also  the  other  corner,  as 
if  the  light  porter's  eye  were  on  that  side.  Still  no  com- 
munication was  made  to  Stephen.  Much  relieved  when 
the  two  hours  were  at  last  accomplished,  he  went  away 
at  a  quick  pace,  as  a  recompense  for  so  much  loitering. 

He  had  only  to  take  leave  of  his  landlady,  and  lie  down 
on  his  temporary  bed  upon  the  floor  ;  for  his  bundle  was 
made  up  for  to-morrow,  and  all  was  arranged  for  his 
departure.  He  meant  to  be  clear  of  the  town  very  early  ; 
before  the  Hands  were  in  the  streets. 

It  was  barely  daybreak,  when,  with  a  parting  look 
round  his  room,  mournfully  wondering  whether  he  should 
ever  see  it  again,  he  went  out.  The  town  was  as  en- 
tirely deserted  as  if  the  inhabitants  had  abandoned  it, 
rather  than  hold  communication  with  him.  Everything 
looked  wan  at  that  hour.  Even  the  coming  sun  made 
but  a  pale  waste  in  the  sky,  like  a  sad  sea. 

By  the  place  where  Rachael  lived,  though  it  was  not 
in  his  way  ;  by  the  red  brick  streets  ;  by  the  great  silent 
factories,  not  trembling  yet ;  by  the  railway,  where  the 
danger-lights  were  waning  in  the  strengthening  day  ; 
by  the  railway's  crazy  neighbourhood,  half  pulled  down 
and  half  built  up  ;  by  scattered  red  brick  villas,  where 
the  besmoked  evergreens  were  sprinkled  with  a  dirty 
powder,  like  untidy  snuff-takers  ;  by  coal-dust  paths  and 
many  varieties  of  ugliness  ;  Stephen  got  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  and  looked  back. 

Day  was  shining  radiantly  upon  the  town  then,  and 
the  bells  were  going  for  the  morning  work.  Domestic 
fires  were  not  yet  lighted,  and  the  high  chimneys  had 
the  sky  to  themselves.  Puffing  out  their  poisonous 
volumes,  they  would  not  be  long  in  hiding  it ;  but,  for 
half  an  hour,  some  of  the  many  windows  were  golden, 
which  showed  the  Coketown  people  a  sun  eternally  in 
eclipse,  through  a  medium  of  smoked  glass. 

So  strange  to  turn  from  the  chimnes's  to  the  birds. 
So  strange  to  have  the  road-dust  on  his  feet  instead  of 
the  coal-grit.  So  strange  to  have  lived  to  his  time  of 
life,  and  yet  to  be  beginning  like  a  boy  this  summer 
morning  !  With  these  musings  in  his  mind,  and  his 
bundle  under  his  arm,  Stephen  took  his  attentive  face 
along  the  high  road.  And  the  trees  arched  over  him, 
whispering  that  he  left  a  true  and  loving  heart  behind. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Gunixnvder. 

Mr.  James  Harthouse,  "going  in'*  for  his  adopted 
party,  soon  began  to  score.  With  the  aid  of  a  little 
more  coaching  for  the  political  sages,  a  little  more  gen- 
teel listlessness  for  the  general  society,  and  a  tolerable 
management  of  the  assumed  honesty  in  dishonesty,  most 
effective  and  most  patronized  of  the  polite  deadly  sins, 
he  speedily  came  to  be  considered  of  much  promise. 
The  not  being  troubled  with  earnestness  was  a  grand 
point  in  his  favour,  enabling  him  to  take  to  the  hard 
Fact  fellows  with  as  good  a  grace  as  if  he  had  been  born 
one  of  the  tribe,  and  to  throw  all  other  tribes  overboard, 
as  conscious  hypocrites. 

"  Whom  none  of  us  believe,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bounderby, 
and  who  do  not  believe  themselves.  The  only  difference 
between  us  and  the  professors  of  virtue  or  benevolence, 
or  philanthopy — never  mind  the  name — is,  that  we  know 
it  is  all  meaningless,  and  say  so  ;  while  they  know  it 
equally  and  will  never  say  so." 

Why  should  she  be  shocked  or  warned  by  this  reiter- 
ation? It  was  not  so  unlike  her  father's  principles,  and 
her  early  training,  that  it  need  startle  her.  Where  was 
the  great  difference  between  the  two  schools,  when  each 
chained  her  down  to  material  realities,  and  inspired  her 
with  no  faith  in  anything  else  ?  What  was  there  in  her 
soul  for  James  Harthouse  to  destroy,  which  Thomas 
Qradgrind  had  nurtured  there  in  its  state  of  innocence  ! 

It  was  even  the  worse  for  her  at  this  pass,  that  in  her 
Vol.  II.— 64 


TIMES.  1009 

mind — implanted  there  before  her  eminently  practical 
father  began  to  form  it— a  struggling  disposition  to  be- 
lieve in  a  wider  and  nobler  humanity  than  she  had  ever 
heard  of,  constantly  stn)ve  with  doubts  and  resentments. 
With  doubts,  because  the  aspiration  had  been  so  laid 
waste  in  her  youth.  With  resentments,  because  of  the 
wrong  that  had  been  done  her,  if  it  were  indeed  a  whisper 
of  the  truth.  Upon  a  nature  long  accustomed  to  self- 
suppression,  thus  torn  and  divided,  the  Harthouse 
philosophy  came  as  a  relief  and  justification.  Everything 
being  hollow  and  worthless,  she  had  missed  nothing  and 
sacrificed  nothing.  What  did  it  matter,  she  had  said  to 
her  father,  when  he  proposed  her  husband.  What  did 
it  matter,  she  said  still.  With  a  scornful  self-reliance, 
she  asked  herself.  What  did  anything  matter — and  went 
on. 

Towards  what?  Step  by  step,  onward  and  downward, 
towards  some  end,  yet  so  gradually,  that  she  believed 
herself  to  remain  motionless.  As  to  Mr.  Harthouse, 
whither  he  tended  he  neither  considered  nor  cared.  He 
had  no  particular  design  or  plan  before  him  :  no  ener- 
getic wickedness  ruffled  his  lassitude.  He  was  as  much 
amused  and  interested  at  present,  as  it  became  so  fine  a 
gentleman  to  be  ;  perhaps  even  more  than  it  would  have 
been  consistent  with  his  reputation  to  confess.  Soon 
after  his  arrival  he  languidly  wrote  to  his  brother,  the 
honourable  and  jocular  member,  that  the  Bounderbys 
were  "  great  fun  ;  "  and  further,  that  the  female  Boun- 
derby, instead  of  being  the  Gorgon  he  expected,  was 
young,  and  remarkably  pretty.  After  that,  he  wrote  no 
more  about  them,  and  devoted  his  leisure  chiefly  to 
their  house.  He  was  very  often  in  their  house,  in  his 
flittings  and  visitings  about  the  Coketown  district  ;  and 
was  much  encouraged  by  Mr,  Bounderby.  It  was  quite 
in  Mr.  Bounderby's  gusty  way  to  boast  to  all  his  world 
that  he  didn't  care  about  your  highly  connected  people, 
but  that  if  his  wife,  Tom  Gradgrind's  daughter,  did,  she 
was  welcome  to  their  company. 

Mr.  James  Harthouse  began  to  think  it  would  be  a  new 
sensation,  if  the  face  which  changed  so  beautifully  for 
the  whelp,  would  change  for  him. 

He  was  quick  enough  to  observe  ;  he  had  a  good  mem- 
ory, and  did  not  forget  a  word  of  the  brother's  revela- 
tions. He  interwove  them  with  everything  he  saw  of 
the  sister,  and  he  began  to  understand  her.  To  be  sure, 
the  better  and  profounder  part  of  her  character  was  not 
within  his  scope  of  perception  ;  for  in  natures,  as  in 
seas,  depth  answers  unto  depth  ;  but  he  soon  began  to 
read  the  rest  with  a  student's  eye. 

Mr.  Bounderby  had  taken  possession  of  a  house  and 
grounds,  about  fifteen  miles  from  the  town,  and  accessi- 
ble within  a  mile  or  two,  by  a  railway  striding  on  many 
arches  over  a  wild  country,  undermined  by  deserted 
coal-shafts,  and  spotted  at  night  by  fires  and  black  shapes 
of  stationary  engines  at  pits'  mouths.  This  country, 
gradually  softening  towards  the  neigbourhood  of  Mr. 
Bounderby's  retreat,  there  mellowed  into  a  rustic  land- 
scape, golden  with  heath,  and  snowy  with  hawthorn  in 
the  spring  of  the  year,  and  tremulous  with  leaves  and 
their  shadows  all  the  summer  time.  The  bank  had  fore- 
closed a  mortgage  effected  on  the  property  thus  pleasantly 
situated,  by  one  of  the  Coketown  magnates,  who,  in  his 
determination  to  make  a  shorter  cut  than  usual  to  an 
enormous  fortune,  overspfeculated  himself  by  about  two 
hundred  thousand  pounds.  These  accidents  did  some- 
times happen  in  the  best-regulated  families  of  Coketown, 
but  the  bankrupts  had  no  connexion  whatever  with  the 
improvident  classes. 

It  afforded  Mr.  Bounderby  supreme  satisfaction  to  in- 
stal  himself  in  this  snug  little  estate,  and  with  demon- 
strative humility  to  grow  cabbages  in  the  flower-garden. 
He  delighted  to  live,  barrack-fashion,  among  the  elegant 
furniture,  and  he  bullied  the  very  pictures  with  his  ori- 
gin. "  Why,  sir,"  he  would  say  to  a  visitor,  "  I  am  told 
that  Nickits,"  the  late  owner,  "  gave  seven  hundred 
pound  for  that  Sea-beach.  Now  to  be  plain  with  you,  if 
I  ever,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life,  take  seven  looks 
at  it,  at  a  hundred  pound  a  look,  it  will  be  as  much  as  I 
shall  do.  No,  by  George !  I  don't  forget  that  I  am 
Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown.  For  years  upon  years, 
the  only  pictures  in  my  possession,  or  that  I  could'  have 
got  into  my  possession  by  any  means,  unless  I  stole  'em. 


1010 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


were  tlie  engravings  of  a  man  shaving  himself  in  a  boot, 
on  the  blacking  bottles  that  I  was  overjoyed  to  use  in 
cleaning  boots  with,  and  that  I  sold  when  they  were 
empty  for  a  farthing  apiece,  and  glad  to  get  it  !  " 

Then  he  would  address  Mr.  Harthouse  in  the  same 
style. 

"Harthouse,  you  have  a  couple  of  horses  down  here. 
Bring  half  a  dozen  more  if  you  like,  and  we'll  find  room 
for  'em.  There's  stabling  in  this  place  for  a  dozen 
horses  ;  and  unless  Nickits  is  belied,  he  kept  the  full 
number.  A  round  dozen  of  'em,  sir.  When  that  man  was 
a  boy,  he  went  to  Westminster  School.  Went  to  West- 
minster School  as  a  King's  Scholar,  when  I  was  princi 
pally  living  on  garbage,  and  sleeping  in  market  baskets. 
Why,  if  I  wanted  to  keep  a  dozen  horses — which  I  don't, 
for  one's  enough  for  me — I  couldn't  bear  to  see  'em  in 
their  stalls  here,  and  think  what  my  own  lodging  used 
to  be.  I  couldn't  look  at  'em,  sir,  and  not  order  'em  out. 
Yet  so  things  come  round.  You  see  this  place  ;  you  know 
what  sort  of  a  place  it  is  ;  you  are  aware  that  there's  not 
a  completer  place  of  its  size  in  this  kingdom  or  else- 
where— I  don't  care  where — and  here,  got  into  the  middle 
of  it,  like  a  maggot  into  a  nut,  is  Josiah  Bounderby. 
WTiile  Nickits  (as  a  man  came  into  my  office,  and  told 
me  yesterday),  Nickits,  who  used  to  act  in  Latin,  in 
Westminster  School  plays,  with  the  chief -justices  and 
nobility  of  this  country  applauding  him  till  they  were 
black  in  the  face,  is  drivelling  at  this  minute — drivelling, 
sir ! — in  a  fifth  floor  up  a  narrow  dark  back  street  in 
Antwerp.'* 

It  was  among  the  leafy  shadows  of  this  retirement,  in 
the  long  sultry  summer  days,  that  Mr.  Harthouse  began 
to  prove  the  face  which  had  set  him  wondering  when  he 
first  saw  it,  and  to  try  if  it  would  change  for  him. 

"Mrs.  Bounderby,  I  esteem  it  a  most  fortunate  acci- 
dent that  I  find  you  alone  here.  I  have  for  some  time 
had  a  particular  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

It  was  not  by  any  wonderful  accident  that  he  found  her, 
the  time  of  day  being  that  at  which  she  was  always  alone, 
and  the  place  being  her  favourite  resort.  It  was  an  open- 
ing in  a  dark  wood,  where  some  felled  trees  lay,  and 
w^here  she  would  sit  watching  the  fallen  leaves  of  last 
year,  as  she  had  watched  the  falling  ashes  at  home. 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  with  a  glance  at  her  face. 

"  Your  brother.    My  young  friend  Tom — " 

Her  color  brightened,  and  she  turned  to  him  wnth  a 
look  of  interest.  "  I  never  in  my  life,"  he  thought,  "  saw 
anything  so  remarkable  and  so  captivating  as  the  light- 
ing of  those  features  !"  His  face  betrayed  his  thoughts 
— perhaps  without  betraying  him,  for  it  might  have  been 
according  to  its  instructions  so  to  do. 

'*  Pardon  me.    The  expression  of  your  sisterly  interest 
is  so  beautiful — Tom  should  be  so  proud  of  it — I  know 
this  is  inexcusable,  but  I  am  so  compelled  to  admire." 
Being  so  impulsive,"  she  said  composedly. 

"Mrs.  Bounderby,  no  :  you  know  I  make  no  pretence 
with  you.  You  know  I  am  a  sordid  piece  of  human 
nature,  ready  to  sell  myself  at  any  time  for  any  reason- 
able sum,  and  altogether  incapable  of  any  Arcadian  pro- 
ceeding whatever." 

"I  am  waiting,"  she  returned,  "  for  your  further  ref- 
erence to  my  brother." 

"Your  are  rigid  with  me,  and  I  deserve  it.  I  am  as 
worthless  a  dog  as  you  will  find,  except  that  I  am  not 
false — not  false.  But  you  surprised  and  started  me  from 
my  subject,  which  was  your  brother.  I  have  an  interest 
in  him." 

"  Have  you  an  interest  in  anything,  Mr.  Harthouse  ?" 
she  asked,  half  incredulously  and  half  gratefully. 

"  If  you  had  asked  me  when  I  first  came  here,  I  should 
have  said  no.  I  must  say  now — even  at  the  hazard  of 
api)earing  to  make  a  pretence,  and  of  justly  awakening 
your  incredulity — yes." 

She  made  a  slight  movement,  as  if  she  were  trying  to 
speak,  but  could  not  find  voice  ;  at  length  she  said, 
"  Mr.  Harthouse,  I  give  you  credit  for  being  interested 
in  my  brother." 

"  Thank  you.  I  claim  to  deserve  it.  You  know  how 
little  I  do  claim,  but  I  will  go  that  length.  You  liave 
done  so  much  for  him,  you  are  so  fond  of  him  ;  your 
whole  life,  Mrs.  Bounderby,  expresses  sucli  charming 
self-forgetfulness  on  his  account — pardon  me  again— 1 


am  running  wide  of  the  subject.  I  am  interested  in  him 
for  his  own  sake." 

She  had  made  the  slightest  action  possible,  as  if  she 
would  have  risen  in  a  hurry  and  gone  away.  He  had 
turned  the  course  of  what  he  said  at  that  instant,  and  she 
remained. 

"Mrs.  Bounderby,"  he  resumed,  in  a  lighter  manner, 
yet  with  a  show  of  effort  in  assuming  it,  which  was  even 
more  expressive  than  the  manner  he  dismissed  ;  "it  is 
no  irrevocable  offence  in  a  young  fellow  of  your  brother's 
years,  if  he  is  heedless,  inconsiderate,  and  expensive — a 
little  dissipated,  in  the  common  phrase.    Is  he  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Allow  me  to  be  frank.  Do  you  think  he  games  at 
all?" 

"  I  think  he  makes  bets."  Mr.  Harthouse  waiting  as 
if  that  were  not  her  whole  answer,  she  added,  "  I  know 
he  does." 

"  Of  course  he  loses  ?" 
Yes." 

"  Everybody  does  lose  who  bets.  May  I  hint  at  the 
probability  of  your  sometimes  supplying  him  with  money 
for  these  purposes  ?  " 

She  sat,  looking  down  ;  but,  at  this  question,  raised 
her  eyes  searchingly  and  a  little  resentfully. 

"  Acquit  me  of  impertinent  curiosity,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Bounderby.  I  think  Tom  may  be  gradually  falling  into 
trouble,  and  I  wish  to  stretch  out  a  helping  hand  to  him 
from  the  depths  of  my  wicked  experience. — Shall  I  say 
again,  for  his  sake  ?    Is  that  necessary  ?  " 

She  seemed  to  try  to  answer,  but  nothing  came  of 

it. 

"  Candidly  to  confess  everything  that  has  occurred  to 
me,"  said  James  Harthouse,  again  gliding  with  the  same 
appearance  of  effort  into  his  more  airy  manner  ;  "I  will 
confide  to  you  my  doubt  whether  he  has  had  many 
advantages.  Whether — forgive  my  plainness — whether 
any  great  amount  of  confidence  is  likely  to  have  been 
established  between  himself  and  his  most  worthy  father." 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Louisa,  flushing  with  her  own  great 
remembrance  in  that  wise,  "think  it  likely." 

"Or,  between  himself,  and — I  may  trust  to  your  perfect 
understanding  of  my  meaning,  I  am  sure — and  his  highly 
esteemed  brother-in-law." 

She  flushed  deeper  and  deeper,  and  was  burning  red 
when  she  replied  in  a  fainter  voice,  "  I  do  not  think  that 
likely  either." 

"  Mrs.  Bounderby,"  said  Harthouse,  after  a  short  si- 
lence, "  may  there  be  a  better  confidence  between  your- 
self and  me  ?  Tom  has  borrowed  a  considerable  sum  of 
you  ?  " 

"You  will  understand,  Mr.  Harthouse,"  she  returned, 
after  some  indecision  :  she  had  been  more  or  less  uncer- 
tain, and  troubled  throughout  the  conversation,  and  yet 
had  in  the  main  preserved  her  self  contained  manner  ; 
' '  you  will  understand  that  if  I  tell  you  what  you  press 
to  know,  it  is  not  by  way  of  complaint  or  regret.  I 
would  never  complain  of  anything,  and  what  I  have 
done  I  do  not  in  the  least  regret." 

"  So  spirited  too  ! "  thought  James  Harthouse. 

"  When  I  married,  I  found  that  my  brother  was  even 
at  that  time  heavily  in  debt.  Heavily  for  him,  I  mean. 
Heavily  enough  to  oblige  me  to  sell  some  trinkets.  They- 
were  no  sacrifice.  I  sold  them  very  willingly.  I  at- 
tached no  value  to  them.  They  were  quite  worthless  to 
me.'* 

Either  she  saw  in  his  face  that  he  knew,  or  she  only 
feared  in  her  conscience  that  he  knew,  that  she  spoke  of 
some  of  her  husband's  gifts.  She  stopped,  and  red- 
dened again.  If  he  had  not  known  it  before,  he  would 
have  known  it  then,  though  he  had  been  a  much  duller 
man  than  he  was. 

"  Since  then,  I  have  given  my  brother,  at  various 
times,  what  money  I  could  spare  :  in  short,  what  money 
I  have  had.  Confiding  in  you  at  all,  on  the  faith  of  the 
interest  you  profess  for  him,  I  will  not  do  so  by  halves. 
Since  you  have  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  here,  he  has 
wanted  in  one  sum  as  much  as  a  hundred  pounds.  I 
have  not  been  able  to  give  it  to  him.  I  have  felt  uneasy 
for  the  consequences  of  his  being  so  involved,  but  I  have 
kept  these  secrets  until  now,  when  I  trust  them  to  your 
honour.    I  have  held  no  confidence  with  any  one,  be- 


HARD  TIMES, 


1011 


cause— you  anticipated  my  reason  just  now."  She  ab- 
ruptly broke  off. 

He  was  a  ready  man,  and  he  saw,  and  seized,  an  op- 
portunity here  of  presenting  her  own  image  to  her, 
^lightly  disguised  as  her  brother. 

"Mrs.  Bounderby,  though  a  graceless  person,  of  the 
world  worldly,  I  feel  the  utmost  interest,  I  assure  you, 
in  what  you  tell  me.  I  cannot  possibly  be  hard  upon 
your  brother.  I  understand  and  share  the  wise  consid- 
eration with  which  you  regard  his  errors.  With  all  pos- 
sible respect  both  for  Mr.  Gradgrind  and  for  Mr.  Boun- 
derby, I  think  I  perceive  that  he  has  not  been  fortunate 
in  his  training.  Bred  at  a  disadvantage  towards  the 
society  in  which  he  has  his  part  to  phiy,  he  rushes  into 
these  extremities  for  himself,  from  opposite  extremes 
that  have  long  been  forced — witii  the  very  best  in- 
tentions we  have  no  doubt — upon  him.  Mr.  Bounder- 
by's  fine  bluif  English  independence,  though  a  most 
charming  characteristic,  does  not — as  we  have  agreed — 
invite  confidence.  If  I  might  venture  to  remark  that 
it  is  the  least  in  the  world  deficient  in  that  delicacy  to 
which  a  youth  mistaken,  a  character  misconceived,  and 
abilities  misdirected,  would  turn  for  relief  and  guid- 
ance, I  should  express  what  it  presents  to  my  own 
view." 

As  she  sat  looking  straight  before  her,  across  the 
changing  lights  upon  the  grass  into  the  darkness  of  the 
wood  beyond,  he  saw  in  her  face  her  application  of  his 
very  distinctly  uttered  words. 

**  All  allowance,"  he  continued,  "must  be  made.  I 
have  one  great  fault  to  find  with  Tom,  however,  which 
I  cannot  forgive,  and  for  which  I  take  him  heavily  to 
account." 

Louisa  turned  her  eyes  to  his  face,  and  asked  him 
what  fault  was  that  ? 

"  Perhaps,"  he  returned,  "I  have  said  enough.  Per- 
haps it  would  have  been  better,  on  the  whole,  if  no  allu- 
sion to  it  had  escaped  me." 

"  You  alarm  me,  Mr.  Harthouse.  Pray  let  me  know 
it." 

"  To  relieve  you  from  needless  apprehension — and  as 
this  confidence  regarding  your  brother,  which  I  prize  I 
am  sure  above  all  possible  things,  has  been  established 
between  us — I  obey.  I  cannot  forgive  him  for  not  being 
more  sensible  in  every  word,  look,  and  act  of  his  life,  of 
the  affection  of  his  best  friend  ;  of  the  devotion  of  his 
best  friend  ;  of  her  unselfishness  ;  of  her  sacrifice.  The 
return  he  makes  her,  within  my  observation,  is  a  very 
poor  one.  What  she  has  done  for  him  demands  his  con- 
stant love  and  gratitude,  not  his  ill- humour  and  caprice. 
Careless  fellow  as  I  am,  I  am  not  so  indifferent,  Mrs. 
Bounderby,  as  to  be  regardless  of  this  vice  in  your 
brother,  or  inclined  to  consider  it  a  venial  offence." 

The  wood  floated  before  her,  for  her  eyes  were  suffused 
with  tears.  They  rose  from  a  deep  well,  long  concealed, 
and  her  heart  was  filled  with  acute  pain  that  found  no 
relief  in  them. 

"  In  a  word,  it  is  to  correct  your  brother  in  this,  Mrs. 
Bounderby,  that  I  must  aspire.  My  better  knowledge 
of  his  circumstances,  and  my  direction  and  advice  in 
extricating  him — rather  valuable,  I  hope,  as  coming 
from  a  scrapegrace  on  a  much  larger  scale — will  give 
me  some  influence  over  him,  and  all  I  gain  I  shall  cer- 
tainly use  towards  this  end.  I  have  said  enough,  and 
more  than  enough.  I  seem  to  be  protesting  that  I  am  a 
sort  of  good  fellow,  when,  upon  my  honour,  I  have  not 
the  least  intention  to  make  any  protestation  to  that  ef- 
fect, and  openly  announce  that  I  am  nothing  of  the 
sort.  Yonder,  among  the  trees,"  he  added,  having  lifted 
up  his  ej'es  and  looked  about ;  for  he  had  watched  her 
closely  until  now  ;  "  is  your  brother  himself  ;  no  doubt, 
just  come  down.  As  he  seems  to  be  loitering  in  this  di- 
rection, it  may  be  as  well,  perhaps,  to  walk  towards 
him,  and  throw  ourselves  in  his  way.  He  has  been  very 
silent  and  doleful  of  late.  Perhaps  his  brotherly  con- 
science is  touched  —  if  there  are  such  things  as  con- 
sciences. Though,  upon  my  honour,  I  hear  of  them  much 
too  often  to  believe  in  them." 

He  assisted  her  to  rise,  andfshe  took  his  arm,  and  they 
advanced  to  meet  the  whelp.  He  was  idly  beating  the 
branches  as  he  lounged  along  :  or  he  stooped  viciously 
to  rip  the  moss  from  the  trees  with  his  stick.    He  was 


startled  when  they  came  upon  him  while  he  was  engaged 
in  this  latter  pastime,  and  his  colour  changed. 

"  Halloa  1 "  he  stammered  ;  "  I  didn't  know  you  were 
here. " 

"Whose  name,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Harthouse,  putting  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  turning  him,  so  that  they 
all  three  walked  towards  the  house  together,  have  you 
been  carving  on  tlie  trees?" 

"  Whose  name?"  returned  Tom.  "Oh  !  You  mean 
what  girl's  name  ?  " 

"You  have  a  suspicious  appearance  of  inscribing  some 
fair  creature's  on  the  bark,  Tom." 

"  Not  much  of  that,  Mr.  Harthouse,  unless  some  fair 
creature  with  a  slashing  fortune  at  her  own  disposal 
would  take  a  fancy  to  me.  Or  she  might  be  as  ugly  as 
she  was  rich,  without  any  fear  of  losing  me,  I'd  carve 
her  name  as  often  as  she  liked." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  mercenary,  Tom," 

"Mercenary,"  repeated  Tom.  "Who  is  not  merce- 
nary ?    Ask  my  sister." 

"  Have  you  so  proved  it  to  be  a  failing  of  mine, 
Tom  ?  "  said  Louisa,  showing  no  other  sense  of  his  dis- 
content and  ill-nature. 

"You  know  whether  the  cap  fits  you,  Loo,"  returned 
her  brother  sulkily.    "If  it  does,  you  can  wear  it." 

"  Tom  is  misanthropical  to-day,  as  all  bored  people  are 
now  and  then,"  said  Mr.  Harthou<^:e.  "Don't  believe 
him,  Mrs.  Bounderby.  He  knows  much  better.  I  shall 
disclose  some  of  his  opinions  of  you,  privately  expressed 
to  me,  unless  he  relents  a  little. 

"  At  all  events,  Mr.  Harthouse,"  said  Tom,  softening 
in  his  admiration  of  his  patron,  but  shaking  his  head 
sullenly  too,  "you  can't  tell  her  that  I  ever  praised  her 
for  being  mercenary.  I  may  have  praised  her  for  being 
the  contrary,  and  1  should  do  it  again  if  I  had  as  good 
reason.  However,  never  mind  this  now  ;  it's  not  very 
interesting  to  you,  and  I  am  sick  of  the  subject." 

They  walked  on  to  the  house,  where  Louisa  quitted 
her  visitor's  arm  and  went  in.  He  stood  looking  after 
her,  as  she  ascended  the  steps,  and  passed  into  the 
.shadow  of  the  door  ;  then  put  his  hand  upon  her  brother's 
shoulder  again,  and  invited  him  with  a  confidential  nod 
to  a  walk  in  the  garden. 

"  Tom,  my  fine  fellow,  I  want  to  have  a  word  with 
you." 

They  had  stopped  among  a  disorder  of  roses — it  was 
part  of  Mr.  Bounderby's  humility  to  keep  Nickits's  roses 
on  a  reduced  scale — and  Tom  sat  down  on  a  terrace-para- 
pet plucking  buds  and  picking  them  to  pieces  ;  while  his 
powerful  Familiar  stood  over  him,  with  a  foot  upon  the 
parapet,  and  his  figure  easily  resting  on  the  arm  sup- 
ported by  that  knee.  They  were  just  visible  from  her 
window.    Perhaps  she  saw  them. 

"  Tom,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Oh!  Mr.  Harthouse,"  said  Tom,  wnth  a  groan,  "I 
am  hard  up,  and  bothered  out  of  my  life." 
"  My  good  fellow,  so  am  I." 

"  You  1 "  returned  Tom,  "  You  are  the  picture  of  in- 
dependence. Mr.  Harthouse,  I  am  in  a  horrible  mess. 
You  have  no  idea  what  a  state  I  have  got  myself  into — 
what  a  state  my  sister  might  have  got  me  out  of,  if  she 
would  only  have  done  it." 

He  took  to  biting  the  rosebuds  now,  and  tearing  them 
away  from  his  teeth  with  a  hand  that  trembled  like  an 
infirm  old  man's.  After  one  exceedingly  observant  look 
at  him,  his  companion  relapsed  into  his  "lightest  air. 

"Tom,  you  are  inconsiderate:  you  expect  too  much 
of  your  sister.  You  have  had  money  of  her,  you  dog, 
you  know  you  have." 

"W^ell,  Mr.  Harthouse,  I  know  I  have.  How  else 
was  I  to  get  it  ?  Here's  old  Bounderby  always  boasting 
that  at  my  age  he  lived  upon  two-pence  a  month,  or 
I  something  of  that  sort.  Here's  my  father  drawing  w^hat 
he  calls  a  line,  and  tying  me  down  to  it  from  a  baby, 
neck  and  heels.  Here's  my  mother  who  never  has  any- 
thing of  her  own,  except  her  complaints.  WTiat  is  a 
fellow  to  do  for  money,  and  where  am  I  to  look  for  it,  if 
not  to  my  sister  ?" 

He  was  almost  crying,  and  scattered  the  buds  about 
by  dozens.  Mr.  Harthouse  took  him  persuasively  by 
the  coat. 

"  But,  my  dear  Tom,  if  your  sister  has  not  got  it — " 


101% 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


"  Not  got  it,  Mr.  Harthouse  ?  I  don't  say  she  has  got 
it.  I  may  have  wanted  more  than  she  was  likely  to 
have  got.  But  then  she  ought  to  get  it.  iihe  could  get 
it.  It's  of  no  use  pretending  to  make  a  secret  of  matters 
now,  after  what  I  have  told  you  already  ;  you  know  she 
didn't  marry  old  Bounderby  for  her  own  sake,  or  for  his 
sake,  but  for  my  sake.  Then  why  doesn't  she  get  what 
I  want,  out  of  him,  for  my  sake?  She  is  not  obliged  to 
say  what  she  is  going  to  do  with  it ;  she  is  sharp 
enough  ;  she  could  manage  to  coax  it  out  of  him,  if  she 
chose.  Then  why  doesn't  she  choose,  when  I  tell  her 
of  what  consequence  it  is  ?  But  no.  There  she  sits  in 
his  company  like  a  stone,  instead  of  making  herself 
agreeable  and  getting  it  easily.  I  don't  know  what  you 
may  call  this,  but  /  call  it  unnatural  conduct." 

There  was  a  piece  of  ornamental  water  immediately 
below  the  parapet,  on  the  other  side,  into  which  Mr. 
James  Harthouse  had  a  very  strong  inclination  to  pitch 
Mr.  Thomas  Gradgrind  Junior,  as  tlie  injured  men  of 
Coketown  threatened  to  pitch  their  property  into  the 
Atlantic.  But  he  preserved  his  easy  attitude  ;  and 
nothing  more  solid  went  over  the  stone  balustrades  than 
the  accumulated  rosebuds  now  floating  about,  a  little 
surface-island. 

"My  dear  Tom,"  said  Harthouse,  "let  me  try  to  be 
your  banker." 

"  For  God  sake,"  replied  Tom,  suddenly,  "  don't  talk 
about  bankers  !  "  and  very  white  he  looked,  in  contrast 
with  the  roses.    Very  white. 

Mr.  Harthouse,  as  a  thoroughly  well  bred  man,  ac- 
customed to  the  best  society,  was  not  to  be  surprised — 
he  could  as  soon  have  been  affected — but  he  raised  his 
eyelids  a  little  more,  as  if  they  were  lifted  by  a  feeble 
touch  of  wonder.  Albeit  it  was  as  much  against  the 
precepts  of  his  school  to  wonder,  as  it  was  against  the 
doctrines  of  the  Gradgrind  College. 

"What  is  the  present  need,  Tom?  Three  figures? 
Out  with  them.    Say  what  they  are." 

"Mr.  Harthouse,"  returned  Tom,  now  actually  cry- 
ing ;  and  his  tears  were  better  than  his  injuries,  how- 
ever pitiful  a  figure  he  made  ;  "it's  too  late  ;  the  money 
is  of  no  use  to  me  at  present.  I  should  have  had  it  be- 
fore to  be  of  use  to  me.  But  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you  ;  you're  a  true  friend." 

A  true  friend  !  "  Whelp,  whelp  !  "  thought  Mr.  Hart- 
house, lazily  ;  "  what  an  Ass  you  are  !  " 

"And  I  take  your  offer  as  a  great  kindness,"  said 
Tom  grasping  his  hand.  "As  a  great  kindness,  Mr. 
Harthouse. ' ' 

"  Well,"  returned  the  other,  "it  may  be  of  more  use 
by  and  by.  And,  my  good  fellow,  if  you  will  open  your 
bedevilments  to  me  when  they  come  thick  upon  you,  I 
may  show  you  better  ways  out  of  them  than  you  can 
find  for  yourself. " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tom,  shaking  his  head  dismally, 
and  chewing  rosebuds.  "  I  wish  I  had  known  you 
sooner,  Mr.  Harthouse." 

"Now,  you  see,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Harthouse  in  conclu- 
sion, himself  tossing  over  a  rose  or  two,  as  a  contribu- 
tion to  the  island,  which  was  always  drifting  to  the 
wall  as  if  it  wanted  to  become  a  part  of  the  mainland  : 
"every  man  is  selfish  in  everything  he  does,  and  I  am 
exactly  like  the  rest  of  my  fellow  creatures.  I  am  despe- 
rately intent ;  "  the  languor  of  his  desperation  being  quite 
tropical;  "on  your  softening  towards  your  sister — 
which  you  ought  to  do  ;  and  on  your  being  a  more  loving 
and  agreeable  sort  of  brother — which  you  ought  to  be." 

"I  will  be,  Mr.  Harthouse." 

"No  time  like  the  present,  Tom.    Begin  at  once." 

"  Certainly  I  will.    And  my  sister  Loo  shall  say  so." 

"Having  made  which  bargain,  Tom,"  said  Hart- 
house, clapping  him  on  the  shoulder  again,  with  an  air 
which  left  him  at  liberty  to  infer— as  he  did,  poor  fool — 
that  this  condition  was  imposed  upon  him  in  mere  care- 
less good  nature  to  lessen  his  sense  of  obligation,  "  we 
will  tear  ourselves  asunder  until  dinner-time." 

When  Tom  appeared  before  dinner,  though  his  mind 
seemed  heavy  enough,  his  body  was  on  the  alert ;  and 
he  appeared  before  Mr.  Bounderby  came  in.  "1  didn't 
mean  to  be  cross.  Loo,"  he  said,  giving  her  his  hand, 
and  kissing  her.  "  I  know  you  are  fond  of  me,  and  you 
know  I  am  fond  of  you." 


After  this,  there  was  a  smile  upon  Louisa's  face  that 
day,  for  some  one  else.    Alas,  for  some  one  else  ! 

"  So  much  the  less  is  the  whelp  the  only  creature  that 
she  cares  for,"  thought  James  Harthouse,  reversing  the 
reflection  of  his  first  day's  knowledge  of  her  pretty  face. 
"  So  much  the  less,  so  much  the  less." 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

Bxplosion. 

The  next  morning  was  too  bright  a  morning  for  sleep, 
and  James  Harthouse  rose  early,  and  sat  in  the  pleasant 
bay  window  of  his  dressing-room,  smoking  the  rare  to- 
bacco that  had  had  so  wholesome  an  influence  on  his 
young  friend.  Reposing  in  the  sunlight,  with  the  fra- 
grance of  his  eastern  pipe  about  him,  and  the  dreamy 
smoke  vanishing  into  the  air,  so  rich  and  soft  with  sum- 
mer odors,  he  reckoned  up  his  advantages  as  an  idle  win- 
ner might  count  his  gains.  He  was  not  at  all  bored  for 
the  time,  and  could  give  his  mind  to  it. 

He  had  established  a  confidence  with  her,  from  which 
her  husband  was  excluded.  He  had  established  a  con- 
fidence with  her,  that  absolutely  turned  upon  her  indif- 
ference towards  her  husband,  and  the  absence,  now  and 
at  all  times,  of  any  congeniality  between  them.  He  had. 
artfully,  but  plainly  assured  her,  that  he  knew  her  heart 
in  its  most  delicate  recesses  ;  he  had  come  so  near  to  her 
through  its  tenderest  sentiment ;  he  had  associated 
himself  with  that  feeling  ;  and  the  barrier  behind  which 
she  lived,  melted  away.  All  very  odd,  and  very  satisfac- 
tory ! 

And  yet  he  had  not  even  now,  any  earnest  wickedness 
of  purpose  in  him.  Publicly  and  privately,  it  were  much 
better  for  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  that  he  and  the 
legion  of  whom  he  was  one  were  designedly  bad,  than 
indifferent  and  purposeless.  It  is  the  drifting  icebergs 
setting  with  any  current  anywhere,  that  wreck  the  ships. 

When  the  Devil  goeth  about  like  a  roaring  lion,  he 
goeth  about  in  a  shape  by  which  few  but  savages  and 
hunters  are  attracted.  But,  when  he  is  trimmed, 
smoothed,  and  varnished,  according  to  the  mode  :  when 
he  is  aweary  of  vice,  and  aweary  of  virtue,  used  up  as 
to  brimstone,  and  used  up  as  to  bliss  ;  then,  whether 
he  take  to  the  serving  out  of  red  tape,  or  to  the 
kindling  of  red  fire,  he  is  the  very  Devil. 

So,  James  Harthouse  reclined  in  the  window,  in- 
dolently smoking,  and  reckoning  up  the  steps  he  had 
taken  on  the  road  by  which  he  happened  to  be  trav- 
elling. The  end  to  which  it  led  was  before  him, 
pretty  plainly  ;  but  he  troubled  himself  with  no  calcu- 
lations about  it.    What  will  be,  will  be. 

As  he  had  rather  a  long  rid  3  to  take  that  day — for 
there  was  a  public  occasion  "to  do"  at  some  distance, 
which  afforded  a  tolerable  opportunity  of  going  in  for 
the  Gradgrind  men — he  dressed  early,  and  went  down 
to  breakfast.  He  was  anxious  to  see  if  she  had  re- 
lapsed since  the  previous  evening.  No.  He  resumed 
where  he  had  left  off.  The  was  a  lock  of  interest  for 
him  again. 

He  got  through  the  day  as  much  (or  as  little)  to  his 
own  satisfaction,  as  was  to  be  expected  under  the 
fatiguing  circumstances  ;  and  came  riding  back  at  six 
o'clock.  There  was  a  sweep  of  some  half  mile  between 
the  lodge  and  the  house,  and  he  was  riding  along  at 
a  foot  pace  over  the  smooth  gravel,  once  Nickits's, 
when  Mr.  Bounderby  burst  oift  of  the  shrubbery, 
with  such  violence  as  to  make  his  horse  shy  across  the 
rpad. 

"Harthouse,"  cried  Mr.  Bounderby.  "Have  you 
heard  ?  " 

"Heard  what?"  said  Harthouse,  soothing  his  horse, 
and  inwardly  favouring  Mr.  Bounderby  with  no  good 
wishes. 

"  Then  you  liamn't  heard  !" 

"I  have  heard  you,  and  so  has  this  brute.  I  have 
heard  nothing  else." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  red  and  hot,  planted  himself  in  the 
centre  of  the  patli  before  the  horse's  head,  to  explode 
his  bombshell  with  more  e£Eect. 


HARD 

*•  The  Bank's  robbed  1  '* 
"You  don't  mean  it!" 

**  Robbed  last  ni^ht,  sir.    Robbed  in  an  extraordi- 
nary manner.    Robbed  with  a  false  key." 
"  Of  much  ?" 

Mr.  Bounderby,  in  his  desire  to  make  the  most  of 
it,  really  seemed  mortified  by  being  obliged  to  reply, 
**  Wliv,  no ;  not  of  very  much.  But  it  might  have 
been." 

"Of  how  much?" 

"  Oh  !  as  a  sum — if  you  stick  to  a  sum — of  not  more 
than  a  hundred  and  fifty  pound,"  said  Bounderby, 
with  impatience.  "  But  it's  not  tbe  sum  ;  it's  the  fact. 
It's  the  fact  of  the  bank  being  robbed,  that's  the  im- 
portant circumstance.  I  am  surprised  you  don't  see 
it." 

My  dear  Bounderby,"  said  James,  dismounting,  and 
giving  his  bridle  to  his  servant,  "I  do  see  it;  and  am 
as  overcome  as  you  can  jjossibly  desire  me  to  be,  by  the 
spectacle  afforded  to  my  mental  view.  Nevertheless,  I 
may  be  allowed,  I  hope,  to  congratulate  you — which  1 
do  with  all  my  soul,  I  assure  you— on  your  not  having 
sustained  a  greater  loss." 

"  Thank'ee,"  replied  Bounderby,  in  a  short,  ungra- 
cious manner.  "  IBut  I  tell  you  what.  It  might  have 
been  twenty  thousand  pound." 

"  I  suppose  it  might." 

"  Suppose  it  might  !  By  the  Lord,  you  may  suppose 
so.  By  George ! "  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  with  sundry 
menacing  nods  and  shakes  of  his  head,  "It  might  have 
been  twice  twenty.  There's  no  knowing  what  it  would 
have  been,  or  wouldn't  have  been,  as  it  was,  but  for  the 
fellows'  being  disturbed." 

Louisa  had  come  up  now,  and  Mrs.  Sparsit,  and  Bit- 
zer. 

"Here's  Tom  Gradgrind's  daughter  knows  pretty  well 
what  it  might  have  been,  if  you  don't,"  blustered 
Bounderby.  "*Dropped,  sir,  as  if  she  was  shot  when  I 
told  her  !  Never  knew  her  to  do  such  a  thing  before. 
Does  her  credit,  under  the  circumstances,  in  my  opin- 
ion ! " 

She  still  looked  faint  and  pale.  James  Harthouse 
begged  her  to  take  his  arm  ;  and  as  they  moved  on  very 
slowly,  asked  her  how  the  robbery  had  been  committed. 

"  Why,  I  am  going  to  tell  you,"  said  Bounderby,  ir- 
ritably giving  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "  If  you  hadn't 
been  so  mighty  particular  about  the  sum,  I  should  have 
begun  to  tell  you  before.  You  know  this  lady  (for  she 
is  a  lady),  Mrs.  Sparsit  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  had  the  honour — " 

"Very  well.  And  this  young  man,  Bitzer,  you  saw 
saw  him  too  on  the  same  occasion?"  Mr.  Harthouse  in- 
clined his  head  in  assent,  and  Bitzer  knuckled  his  fore- 
head. 

"  Very  well.  They  live  at  the  Bank.  You  know  they 
live  at  the  Bank,  perhaps?  Very  well.  Yesterday  after- 
noon, at  the  close  of  business  hours,  everything  was  put 
away  as  usual.  In  the  iron  room  that  this  young  fellow 
sleeps  outside  of,  there  was  never  mind  how  much.  In 
the  little  safe  in  young  Tom's  closet,  the  safe  used  for 
petty  purposes,  there  was  a  hundred  and  fifty  odd 
pound." 

"  A  hundred  and  fifty-four,  seven,  one,"  said  Bitzer. 

"  Come ! "  retorted  Bounderby,  stopping  to  wheel 
round  upon  him,  "  let's  have  none  of  your  interruptions. 
It's  enough  to  be  robbed  while  you're  snoring  because 
you're  too  comfortable,  without  being  put  right  with 
your  four  seven  ones.  I  didn't  snore,  myself,  when  I 
was  your  age,  let  me  thW  you.  I  hadn't  victuals  enough 
to  snore.    And  I  didn't  four  seven  one.    Not  if  knew  it." 

Bitzer  knuckled  his  forehead  again,  in  a  sneaking 
manner,  and  seemed  at  once  particularly  impressed  and 
depressed  by  the  instance  last  given  of  Mr.  Bounderby's 
moral  abstinence. 

"A  hundred  and  fifty  odd  pound,"  resumed  Mr. 
Bounderby.  "That  sum  of  money,  young  Tom  locked 
in  his  safe  ;  not  a  very  strong  safe,  but  that's  no  matter 
now.  Everything  was  left,  all  right.  Some  time  in  the 
night,  while  this  young  fellow  snored — Mrs.  Sparsit, 
ma'am,  you  say  you  have  heard  him  snore?" 

"Sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "I  cannot  say  that  I 
have  heard  him  precisely  snore,  and  therefore  must  not 


TIMES.  im 

make  that  statement.  But  on  winter  evenings,  when  he 
has  fallen  asleep  at  his  table,  I  have  heard  him,  what  J 
should  prefer  to  describe  as  partially  choke.  I  have 
heard  him  on  such  occasions  produce  sounds  of  a  nature 
similar  to  what  may  be  sometimes  heard  in  Dutch  clocks. 
Not,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a  lofty  sense  of  giving 
strict  evidence,  "  that  I  would  convey  any  imputation  on 
his  moral  character.  Far  from  it.  I  have  always  con- 
sidered Bitzer  a  young  man  of  the  most  upright  prin- 
ciple ;  and  to  that  I  beg  to  bear  my  testimony," 

"  Well !"  said  the  exasperated  Bounderby,  "  wlule  he 
was  snoring,  or  choking,  or  Dutch-clocking,  or  something 
or  other — being  asleep — .some  fellows,  somehow,  whether 
previously  concealed  in  the  house  or  not  remains  to  be 
seen,  got  to  young  Tom's  safe,  forced  it,  and  abstracted 
the  contents.  Being  then  disturbed,  they  made  off  ;  let- 
ting themselves  out  at  the  main  door,  and  double-locking 
it  again  (it  was  double-locked,  and  the  key  under  Mrs. 
Sparsit's  pillow)  with  a  false  key,  which  was  picked  up 
in  the  street  near  the  Bank,  about  twelve  o'clock  to-day. 
No  alarm  takes  place,  till  this  chap,  Bitzer,  turns  out 
this  morning,  and  begins  to  open  and  prepare  the  f>ffices 
for  business.  Then,  looking  at  Tom's  safe,  he  sees  the 
door  ajar,  and  finds  the  lock  forced,  and  the  money 
gone." 

"  Wliere  is  Tom,  by  the  by  ?  "  asked  Harthouse,  glanc- 
ing round. 

"  He  has  been  helping  the  police,"  said  Bounderby, 
"  and  stays  behind  at  the  Bank.  I  wish  these  fellows 
had  tried  to  rob  me  when  I  was  at  his  time  of  life. 
They  would  have  been  out  of  pocket  if  they  had  invested 
eighteenpence  in  the  job  :  I  can  tell  'em  that." 

"Is  anybody  suspected ? " 

"Suspected?  I  should  think  there  was  somebody 
suspected.  Egod  ! "  said  Bounderby,  relinquishing  Mrs. 
Sparsit's  arm  to  wipe  his  heated  head.  "  Josiah  Boun- 
derby, of  Coketovvn  is  not  to  be  plundered  and  nobody 
suspected.    No,  thank  you  ! " 

Might  Mr.  Harthouse  inquire  Who  was  suspected  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Bounderby,  stopping  and  facing  about 
to  confront  them  all,  "  I'll  tell  yoii.  It's  not  to  be  men- 
tioned everywhere,  it's  not  to  be  mentioned  anywhere  : 
in  order  that  the  scoundrels  concerned  (there's  a  gang  of 
'em)  may  be  thrown  off  their  guard.  So  take  this  in 
confidence.  Now  wait  a  bit."  Mr.  Bounderby  wiped 
his  head  again.  "  What  should  you  say  to;"  here  he 
violently  exploded  :  "  to  a  Hand  being  in  it  ?" 

"  I  hope,"  said  Harthouse,  lazily,  "  not  our  friend 
Blackpot?" 

"  Say  Pool  instead  of  Pot,  sir,"  returned  Bounderby, 
"  and  that's  the  man." 

Louisa  faintly  uttered  some  word  of  incredulity  and 
surprise. 

"O  yes!  I  know!"  said  Bounderby,  immediately 
catching  at  the  sound.  "  I  know  !  I  am  used  to  that.  I 
know  all  about  it.  They  are  the  finest  people  in  the 
world,  these  fellows  are.  They  have  got  the  gift  of  the 
gab,  they  have.  They  only  want  to  have  their  rights 
explained  to  them,  they  do.  But  I  tell  you  what. 
Show  me  a  dissatisfied  Hand,  and  I'll  show  you  a  man 
that's  fit  for  anything  bad,  I  don't  care  what  it  is." 

Another  of  the  popular  fictions  of  Coketown,  which 
some  pains  had  been  taken  to  disseminate — and  which 
soTue  people  really  believed. 

"But  I  am  acquainted  with  those  chaps,"  said  Boun- 
derby. "  I  can  read  'em  off,  like  books.  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
ma'am,  I  appeal  to  you.  What  warning  did  I  give  that 
fellow,  the  first  time  he  set  foot  in  the  house,  when  the 
express  object  of  his  visit  was  to  know  how  he  could 
knock  Religion  over,  and  floor  the  Established  Church  ? 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  in  point  of  high  connexions,  you  are  on  a 
level  with  the  aristocracy, — did  I  say,  or  did  I  not  say, 
to  that  fellow,  'you  can't  hide  the  truth  from  me  :  you 
are  not  the  kind  of  fellow  I  like  ;  you'll  come  to  no 
good '  ?  " 

"Assuredly,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Spai-sit,  "you  did, 
in  a  highly  impressive  manner,  give  him  such  an  ad- 
monition." 

"  When  he  shocked  you,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby  ; 
"  when  he  shocked  your  feelings  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a  meek  shake 
of  her  head,  "he  certainly  did  so.    Though  I  did  not 


1014 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


mean  to  say  but  that  my  feelings  may  be  weaker  on 
such  points— more  foolish  if  the  term  is  preferred— than 
they  might  have  been,  if  I  had  always  occupied  my 
present  position." 

Mr.  Bounderby  stared  with  a  bursting  pride  at  Mr. 
Harthouse,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  am  the  proprietor  of 
this  female,  and  she's  worth  your  attention,  I  think." 
Then,  resumed  his  discourse. 

•  "You  can  recall  for  yourself,  Harthouse,  what  I  said 
to  him  when  you  saw  him.  I  didn't  mince  the  matter 
with  him,  I  am  never  mealy  with  'em.  I  know  'em. 
Very  well,  sir.  Three  days  after  that,  he  bolted.  Went 
off,  nobody  knows  where  :  as  my  mother  did  in  my  in- 
fancy— only  with  this  difference,  that  he  is  a  worse  sub- 
ject than  niy  mother,  if  possible.  What  did  he  do  before 
he  went  ?  What  do  you  say  ;  "  Mr.  Bounderby,  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  gave  a  beat  upon  the  crown  at  every 
little  division  of  his  sentences,  as  if  it  were  a  tambourine  ; 
"to  his  being  seen — night  after  night — watching  the 
Bank? — to  his  lurking  about  there — after  dark? — to  its 
striking  Mrs.  Sparsit — that  he  could  be  lurking  for  no 
good — to  her  calling  Bitzer's  attention  to  him,  and  their 
both  taking  notice  of  him — And  to  its  appearing  on  in- 
quiry to-day — that  he  was  also  noticed  by  the  neigh- 
bours?" Having  come  to  the  climax,  Mr.  Bounderby, 
like  an  oriental  dancer,  put  his  tambourine  on  his  head. 

"  Suspicious,"  said  James  Harthouse,  "  certainly." 

"I  think  so,  sir,"  said  Bounderby,  with  a  defiant  nod. 
"  I  think  so.  But  there  are  more  of  'em  in  it.  There's 
an  old  woman.  One  never  hears  of  these  things  till  the 
mischiefs  done  ;  all  sorts  of  defects  are  found  out  in  the 
stable  door  after  the  horse  is  stolen  ;  there's  an  old 
woman  turns  up  now.  An  old  woman  who  seems  to 
have  been  flying  into  town  on  a  broomstick,  every  now 
and  then.  She  watches  the  place  a  whole  day  before 
this  fellow  begins,  and  on  the  night  when  you  saw  him, 
she  steals  away  with  him,  and  holds  a  council  with  him 
— I  suppose,  to  make  her  report  on  going  off  duty,  and 
be  damned  to  her. " 

There  was  such  a  person  in  the  room  that  night,  and 
she  shrunk  from  observation,  thought  Louisa. 

"This  is  not  all  of  'em,  even  as  we  already  know 
'em,"  said  Bounderby,  with  many  nods  of  hidden  mean- 
ing. "  But  I  have  said  enough  for  the  present.  You'll 
have  the  goodness  to  keep  it  quiet,  and  mention  it  to  no 
one.  It  may  take  time,  but  we  shall  have  'em.  It's 
policy  to  give  'em  line  enough,  and  there's  no  objection 
to  that. " 

"  Of  course,  they  will  be  punished  with  the  utmost 
rigour  of  the  law,  as  notice-boards  observe,"  replied 
John  Harthouse,  "and  serve  them  right.  Fellows  who 
go  in  for  Banks  must  take  the  consequences.  If  there 
were  no  consequences,  we  should  all  go  in  for  Banks." 
He  had  gently  taken  Louisa's  parasol  from  her  hand, 
and  had  put  it  up  for  her  ;  and  she  walked  under  its 
shade,  though  the  sun  did  not  shine  there. 

"  For  the  present.  Loo  Bounderby,"  said  her  husband, 
"  here's  Mrs.  Sparsit  to  look  after.  Mrs.  Sparsit's  nerves 
have  been  acted  upon  by  this  business,  and  she'll  stay 
here  a  day  or  two.    So,  make  her  comfortable." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  that  discreet  lady  ob- 
.served,  "  but  pray  do  not  let  My  comfort  be  a  consider- 
ation.   Anything  will  do  for  Me." 

It  soon  appeared  that  if  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  a  failing  in 
her  association  with  that  domestic  establishment,  it  was 
that  she  was  so  excessively  regardless  of  herself  and  re- 
gardful of  others,  as  to  be  a  nuisance.  On  being  shown 
her  chamber,  she  was  so  dreadfully  sensible  of  its  com- 
forts as  to  suggest  the  inference  that  she  would  have 
preferred  to  pass  the  night  on  the  mangle  in  the  laundry. 
True,  the  Powlers,  and  the  Scadgerses  were  accustomed 
to  splendour,  "  but  it  is  my  duty  to  remember,"  Mrs. 
Sparsit  was  fond  of  observing  with  a  lofty  grace  :  par- 
ticularly when  any  of  the  domestics  were  present,  "  that 
what  I  was,  I  am  no  longer.  Indeed,"  said  she,  "if  I 
could  altogether  cancel  the  remembrance  that  Mr.  Spar- 
sit was  a  Fowler,  or  that  I  myself  am  related  to  the 
Scadgers  family  ;  or  if  I  could  even  revoke  the  fact,  and 
make  myself  a  i)er.son  of  common  descent  and  ordinary 
connexions  ;  I  would  gladly  do  so,  I  should  think  it, 
under  existing  circumstances,  right  to  do  so."  The  same 
Uermitical  state  of  mind  led  to  her  renunciation  of  made 


dishes  and  wines  at  dinner,  until  fairly  commanded  by 
Mr.  Bounderby  to  take  them  ;  when  she  said,  "  Indeed 
you  are  very  good,  sir  ;  "  and  departed  from  a  resolution 
of  which  she  had  made  rather  formal  and  public  an- 
nouncement, to  "  wait  for  the  simple  mutton."  She  was 
likewise  deeply  apologetic  for  wanting  the  salt ;  and 
feeling  amiably  bound  to  bear  out  Mr.  Bounderby  to  the 
fullest  extent  in  the  testimony  he  had  borne  to  her  nerves, 
occasionally  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  silently  wept ;  at 
which  periods  a  tear  of  large  dimensions,  like  a  crystal 
ear-ring,  might  be  observed  (or  rather,  must  be,  for  it 
insisted  on  public  notice)  sliding  down  her  Roman  nose. 

But  Mrs.  Sparsit's  greatest  point,  first  and  last,  was 
her  determination  to  pity  Mr.  Bounderby.  There  were 
occasions  when  in  looking  at  him  she  was  involuntarily 
moved  to  shake  her  head,  as  who  would  say,  "  Alas  poor 
Yorick  !  "  After  allowing  herself "  to  be  betrayed  into 
these  evidences  of  emotion,  she  would  force  a  lambent 
brightness,  and  would  be  fitfully  cheerful,  and  would 
say,  "  You  have  still  good  spirits,  sir,  I  am  thankful  to 
find  ;  "  and  would  appear  to  hail  it  as  a  blessed  dispen- 
sation that  Mr,  Bounderby  bore  up  as  he  did.  One  idio- 
syncrasy for  which  she  often  apologised,  she  found  it 
excessively  difficult  to  conquer.  She  had  a  curious  pro- 
pensity to  call  Mrs.  Bounderby  "Miss  Gradgrind,"  and 
yielded  to  it  some  three  or  four  score  times  in  the  course 
of  the  evening.  Her  repetition  of  this  mistake  covered 
Mrs.  Sparsit  with  modest  confusion  ;  but  indeed,  she 
said,  it  seemed  so  natural  to  say  Miss  Gradgrind  : 
whereas,  to  persuade  herself  that  the  young  lady  whom 
she  had  had  the  happiness  of  knowing  from  a  child  could 
be  really  and  truly  Mrs.  Bounderby,  she  found  almost 
impossible.  It  was  a  further  singularity  of  this  remark- 
able case,  that  the  more  she  thought  about  it,  the  more 
impossible  it  appeared  ;  "the  differences,"  she  observed, 
"  being  such," 

In  the  drawing-room  after  dinner,  Mr,  Bounderby 
tried  the  case  of  the  robbery,  examined  the  witnesses, 
made  notes  of  the  evidence,  found  the  suspected  persons 
guilty,  and  sentenced  them  to  the  extreme  punishment 
of  the  law.  That  done,  Bitzer  was  dismissed  to  town 
with  instructions  to  recommend  Tom  to  come  home  by 
the  mail-train. 

When  candles  were  brought,  Mrs.  Sparsit  murmured, 
"  Don't  be  low.  sir.  Pray  let  me  see  you  cheerful,  sir, 
as  I  used  to  do."  Mr.  Bounderby,  upon  whom  these 
consolations  had  begun  to  produce  the  effect  of  making 
him,  in  a  bull  headed  blundering  way,  sentimental, 
sighed  like  some  large  sea-animal.  "I  cannot  bear  to 
see  you  so,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "  liy  a  hand  at 
backgammon,  sir,  as  you  used  to  do  when  I  had  the 
honour  of  living  under  your  roof."  "  I  haven't  played 
backgammon,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "since  that 
time."  "  No,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  scothingly,  "  I  am 
aware  that  you  have  not.  I  remember  that  Miss  Grad- 
grind takes  no  interest  in  the  game.  But  I  shall  be 
happy,  sir,  if  you  will  condescend." 

They  played  near  a  window,  opening  on  the  garden. 
It  was  a  fine  night :  not  moonlight,  but  sultry  and  fra- 
grant. Louisa  and  Mr,  Harthouse  strolled  out  into  the 
garden,  where  their  voices  could  be  heard  in  the  still- 
ness, though  not  what  they  said.  Mrs.  Sparsit,  from 
her  place  at  the  backgammon  board,  was  constantly 
straining  her  eyes  to  pierce  the  shadows  without. 
"What's  the  matter,  ma'am  ? "  said  Mr.  Bounderby; 
"you  don't  see  a  Fire,  do  you?"  "Oh  dear  no,  sir," 
returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  I  was  thinking  of  the  dew." 
"  What  have  you  got  to  do  with  the  dew,  ma'am?"  said 
Mr.  Bounderby.  "It's  not  myself,  sir,"  returned  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  "  I  am  fearful  of  Miss  Gradgrind's  taking  cold." 
"  She  never  takes  cold,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby.  "  Really 
sir  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Sparsit.  And  was  affected  with  a  cough 
in  her  throat. 

When  the  time  drew  near  for  retiring,  Mr.  Bounderby 
took  a  glass  of  water.  "Oh,  sir?"  said  Mrs.  Spatsit. 
"  Not  your  sherry  warm,  with  lemon-peel  and  nutmeg?  " 
"  Why  I  have  got  out  of  the  habit  of  taking  it  now, 
ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby.  "  The  more's  the  pity, 
sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit;  "you  are  losing  all  your 
good  old  habits.  Cheer  up,  sir  !  If  Miss  Gradgrind  will 
l)ermit  me,  I  will  offer  to  make  it  for  you,  as  I  have 
often  done." 


HARD 

Miss  Gradgrind  readily  permitting  Mrs.  Sparsit  to  do 
anything-  she  pleased,  that  considerate  lady  made  the 
beverage,  and  handed  it  to  Mr.  Bounderl^y.  "  It  will 
do  you  good,  sir.  ft  will  warm  your  heart.  It  is  the 
sort  of  thing  you  want,  and  ought  to  take,  sir."  And 
when  Mr.  Bounderby  said,  "Your  health,  ma'am  I "  she 
answered  with  great  feeling.  "Thank  you,  sir.  The 
same  to  you,  and  happiness  also."  Finally,  she  wished 
him  good  night,  with  great  pathos  ;  and  Mr.  Bounderby 
went  to  bed,  with  a  maudlin  persuasion  that  he  had 
been  crossed  in  something  tender,  though  he  could  not, 
for  his  life,  have  mentioned  what  it  was. 

Long  after  Louisa  had  undressed  and  lain  down,  she 
watched  and  waited  for  her  brother's  coming  home. 
That  could  hardly  be,  she  knew,  until  an  hour  past 
midnight  ;  but  in  the  country  silence,  which  did  any- 
thing but  calm  the  trouble  of  her  thoughts,  time  lagged 
wearily.  At  last,  when  the  darkness  and  stillness  had 
seemed  for  hours  to  thicken  one  another,  she  heard  the 
bell  at  the  gate.  She  felt  as  though  she  would  have 
been  glad  that  it  rang  on  until  day-light  ;  but  it  ceased, 
and  the  circles  of  its  last  sound  spread  out  fainter  and 
wider  in  the  air,  and  all  was  dead  again. 

She  waited  yet  some  quarter  of  an  hour,  as  she  judged. 
Then  she  arose,  put  on  a  loose  robe,  and  went  out  of  her 
room  in  the  dark,  and  up  the  staircase  to  her  brother's 
room.  His  door  being  shut,  she  softly  opened  it  and 
spoke  to  him,  approaching  his  bed  with  a  noiseless  step. 

She  kneeled  down  beside  it,  passed  her  arm  over  his 
neck,  and  drew  his  face  to  hers.  She  knew  that  he 
only  feigned  to  be  asleep,  but  she  said  nothing  to  him. 

He  started  by  and  by  as  if  he  were  just  then  awak- 
ened, and  asked  who  that  was,  and  what  was  the  matter? 

"  Tom,  have  you  anything  to  tell  me?  If  ever  you 
loved  me  in  your  life,  and  have  anything  concealed  from 
every  one  besides,  tell  it  to  me." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Loo.  You  have  been 
dreaming." 

"  My  dear  brother  :  "  she  laid  her  head  down  on  his 
pillow,  and  her  hair  flowed  over  him  as  if  she  would 
hide  him  from  every  one  but  herself  :  "is  there  noth- 
ing that  you  have  to  tell  me  ?  Is  there  nothing  you  can 
tell  me  if  you  will?  You  can  tell  me  nothing  that  will 
change  me.    O  Tom,  tell  me  the  truth  ! " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Loo  !  " 

"As  you  lie  here  alone,  my  dear,  in  the  melancholy 
night,  so  you  must  lie  somewhere  one  night,  when  even 
I,  if  I  am  living  then,  shall  have  left  you.  As  I  am  here 
beside  you,  barefoot,  unclothed,  undistinguishable  in 
darkness,  so  must  I  lie  through  all  the  night  of  my  de- 
cay, until  I  am  dust.  In  the  name  of  that  time,  Tom, 
tell  me  the  truth  now  !  " 

"  What  is  it  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"  You  may  be  certain  ; "  in  the  energy  of  her  love  she 
took  him  to  her  bosom  as  if  he  were  a  child  ;  "  that  I 
w411  not  reproach  you.  You  may  be  certain  that  I  will 
be  compassionate  and  true  to  you.  You  may  be  certain 
that  I  will  save  you  at  whatever  cost.  O  Tom,  have  you 
nothing  to  tell  me?  Whisper  very  softly.  Say  only 
*yes,'  and  I  shall  under.stand  you  !" 

She  turned  her  ear  to  his  lips,  but  he  remained  dog- 
gedly silent. 

"  Not  a  word,  Tom?" 

"  How  can  I  say  Yp's.^  or  how  can  I  say  No,  when  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean  ?  Loo,  you  are  a  brave,  kind 
girl,  worthy  I  begin  to  think  of  a  better  brother  than  I 
am.  But  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  Go  to  bed,  go  to 
bed." 

"  You  are  tired,"  she  whispered  presently,  more  in  her 
usual  way. 

"  Yes,  I  am  quite  tired  out." 

"You  have  been  so  hurried  and  disturbed  to-day. 
Have  any  fresh  discoveries  been  made?" 

"Only  those  you  have  heard  of,  from — him." 

"  Tom,  have  you  said  to  any  one  that  we  made  a  visit 
to  those  people,  and  that  we  saw  those  three  together?" 

"  No.  Didn't  you  yourself  particularly  ask  me  to 
keep  it  quiet,  when  you  asked  me  to  go  theye  with 
you  ?  " 

"Yes.  But  I  did  not  know  then  what  was  going  to 
happen. " 

"  Nor  I  neither.    How  could  I  ?  " 


TIMES.  1015 

lie  was  very  quick  upon  her  with  this  retort. 

"Ought  I  to  say,  after  what  has  happened,"  said  his 
sister,  standing  by  the  bed— she  had  gradually  with- 
drawn herself  and  risen,  "that  I  made  that  visit? 
Should  I  say  .so?   Must  I  say  so?" 

"Good  Heavens,  Loo,"  returned  her  brother,  "you 
are  not  in  the  habit  of  asking  my  advice.  Say  what  you 
like.  If  you  keep  it  to  yourself,  I  shall  keep  it  to  mjf- 
self.    If  you  disclose  it,  there's  an  end  of  it." 

It  was  too  dark  for  either  to  see  the  other's  face  ;  but 
each  seemed  very  attentive,  and  to  consider  before 
speaking. 

"Tom,  do  you  believe  the  man  I  gave  the  money  to, 
is  really  implicated  in  this  crime?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't  be." 

"  He  seemed  to  me  an  honest  man." 

"  Another  j^erson  may  seem  to  you  dishonest,  and  yet 
not  be  so." 

There  was  a  pause,  for  he  had  hesitated  and  stopped. 

"In  short,"  resumed  Tom,  as  if  he  had  made  up  his 
mind,  "  if  you  come  to  that,  perhaps  I  was  so  far  from 
being  altogether  in  his  favour,  that  I  took  him  outside 
the  door  to  tell  him  quietly,  that  I  thought  he  might 
consider  himself  very  well  off  to  get  such  a  windfall  as 
he  had  got  from  my  sister,  and  that  I  hoped  he  would 
make  good  use  of  it.  You  remember  whether  I  took 
him  out  or  not.  I  say  nothing  against  the  man  ;  he  may 
be  a  very  good  fellow,  for  anything  I  know  ;  I  hope  he 
is." 

"  Was  he  offended  by  what  you  said  ?  " 

"No,  he  took  it  pretty  well;  he  was  civil  enough. 
Where  are  you.  Loo?"  He  sat  up  in  bed  and  kissed  her. 
"  Good  night,  my  dear,  good  night  !  " 

"  You  have  nothing  more  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  No.  What  should  I  have  ?  l^'ou  wouldn't  have  me 
tell  you  a  lie  ?  " 

"I  wouldn't  have  you  do  that  to-night,  Tom,  of  all 
the  nights  in  your  life  ;  many  and  much  happier  as  I 
hope  they  will  be." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  Loo.  I  am  so  tired,  that  I  am 
sure  I  wonder  I  don't  say  anything  to  get  to  sleep.  Go 
to  bed,  go  to  bed." 

.  Kissing  her  again,  he  turned  round,  drew  the  coverlet 
over  his  head,  and  lay  as  still  as  if  that  time  had  come 
by  which  she  had  adjured  him.  She  stood  for  some 
time  at  the  bedside  before  she  slowly  moved  away.  She 
stopped  at  the  door,  looked  back  when  she  had  opened 
it,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  called  her  ?  But  he  lay  still, 
and  she  softly  closed  the  door  and  returned  to  her  room. 

Then  the  wretched  boy  looked  cautiously  up  and  found 
her  gone,  crept  out  of  bed,  and  threw  himself  upon  his 
pillow  again  :  tearing  his  hair,  morosely  crying,  grudg- 
ingly loving  her,  hatefully  but  impenitently  spurning 
himself,  and  no  less  hatefully  and  unprofitably  spuming 
all  the  good  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Hearing  the  last  of  It. 

Mrs.  Spaksit,  lying  by  to  recover  the  tone  of  her 
nerves  in  Mr.  Bounderby's  retreat,  kept  such  a  sharp 
look-out,  night  and  day,  under  her  Corioianian  eyebrows, 
that  her  eyes,  like  a  couple  of  lighthouses  on  an  iron- 
bound  coast,  might  have  warned  all  prudent  mariners 
from  that  bold  rock  her  Roman  nose  and  the  dark  and 
craggy  region  in  its  neighbourhood,  but  for  the  placid- 
ity of  her  manner.  Although  it  was  hard  to  believe 
that  her  retiring  for  the  night  could  be  anything  but  a 
form,  so  severely  wide  awake  were  those  classical  eyes 
of  hers,  and  so  impossible  did  it  seem  that  her  rigid  nose 
could  yield  to  any  relaxing  influence,  yet  her  manner  of 
sitting,  smoothing  her  uncomfortable,  not  to  say,  gritty 
mittens  (they  were  cons! ructed  of  a  cool  fabric  like  a 
meat-safe),  or  of  ambling  to  unknown  places  of  destina- 
tion with  her  foot  in  her  cotton  stirrup,  was  so  perfectly 
serene,  that  most  observers  would  have  been  constrained 
to  suppose  her  a  dove,  embodied  by  some  freak  of 
nature,  in  the  earthly  tabernacle  of  a  bird  of  the  hook- 
beaked  order. 


1016 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


She  was  a  most  wonderful  woman  for  prowling 
about  the  house.  How  she  got  from  story  to  story  was 
a  mystery  beyond  solution.  A  lady  so  decorous  in  her- 
self, and  so  highly  connected,  was  not  to  be  suspected 
of  dropping  over  the  banisters  or  sliding  down  them, 
yet  her  extraordinary  facility  of  locomotion  suggested 
the  wild  idea.  Another  noticeable  circumstance  in  Mrs. 
Sparsit  was,  that  she  was  never  hurried.  She  would 
shoot  with  consummate  velocity  from  the  roof  to  the 
hall,  yet  would  be  in  full  possession  of  her  breath  and 
dignity  on  the  moment  of  her  arrival  there.  Neither  was 
she  ever  seen  by  human  vision  to  go  at  a  great  pace. 

She  took  very  kindly  to  Mr.  Harthouse,  and  had  some 
pleasant  conversation  with  him  soon  after  her  arri- 
val. She  made  him  her  stately  curtsey  in  the  garden, 
one  morning  before  breakfast. 

"  It  appears  but  yesterday,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
"  that  I  had  the  honour  of  receiving  you  at  the  Bank, 
when  you  were  so  good  ds  to  wish  to  be  made  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Bounderby's  address." 

"An  occasion,  I  am  sure,  not  to  be  forgotten  by  my- 
self in  the  course  of  Ages,"  said  Mr.  Harthouse,  inclin- 
ing his  head  to  Mrs.  Sparsit  with  the  most  indolent  of  all 
possible  airs. 

We  live  in  a  singular  world,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"I  have  had  the  honour,  by  a  coincidence  of  which  I 
am  proud,  to  have  made  a  remark,  similar  in  effect, 
though  not  so  epigrammatically  expressed." 

"A  singular  world  I  would  say,  sir,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Sparsit;  after,  acknowledging  the  compliment  with  a 
drooping  of  her  dark  eyebrows,  not  altogether  so  mild 
in  its  expression  as  her  voice  was  in  its  dulcet  tones  ; 
"as  regards  the  intimacies  we  form  at  one  time,  with 
individuals  we  were  quite  ignorant  of,  at  another.  I 
recall,  sir,  that  on  that  occasion  you  went  so  far  as  to 
say  you  were  actually  apprehensive  of  Miss  Gradgrind." 

"  Your  memory  does  me  more  honour  than  my  insig- 
nificance deserves.  I  availed  myself  of  your  obliging 
hints  to  correct  my  timidity,  and  it  is  unnecessary  to  add 
that  they  were  perfectly  accurate.  Mrs.  Sparsit's  talent 
for — in  fact  for  anything  requiring  accuracy — with  a 
combination  of  strength  of  mind — and  Family — is  too 
habitually  developed  to  admit  of  any  question."  He 
was  almost  falling  asleep  over  this  compliment ;  it  took 
him  so  long  to  get  through,  and  his  mind  wandered  so 
much  in  the  course  of  its  execution. 

"  You  found  Miss  Gradgrind — I  really  cannot  call  her 
Mrs.  Bounderby  ;  it's  very  absurd  of  me — as  youthful  as 
I  described  her?  "  asked  Mrs.  Sparsit,  sweetly. 

"You  drew  her  portrait  perfectly,"  said  Mr.  Hart- 
house.   "  Presented  her  dead  image." 

"Very  engaging,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  causing  her 
mittens  slowly  to  revolve  over  one  another. 

"  Highly  so." 

"  It  used  to  be  considered,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "that 
Miss  Gradgrind  was  wanting  in  animation,  but  I  confess 
she  appears  to  me  considerably  and  strikingly  improved 
in  that  respect.  Ay,  and  indeed  here  is  Mr.  Bound- 
erby !  "  cried  Mrs.  Sparsit,  nodding  her  head  a  great 
many  times,  as  if  she  had  been  talking  and  thinking  of 
no  one  else.  "How  do  you  find  yourself  this  morning, 
sir  ?    Pray  let  us  see  you  cheerful'  sir." 

Now,  these  persistent  assuagements  of  his  misery,  and 
lightenings  of  his  load,  had  by  this  time  begun  to  have 
the  effect  of  making  Mr.  Bounderby  softer  than  usual 
towards  Mrs.  Sparsit,  and  harder  than  usual  to  most 
other  people  from  his  wife  downward.  So,  when  Mrs. 
Sparsit  said  with  forced  lightness  of  heart,  "  You  want 
your  breakfast,  sir,  but  I  daresay  Miss  Gradgrind  will 
soon  be  here  to  preside  at  the  table,"  Mr,  Bounderby 
replied,  "If  I  waited  to  be  taken  care  of  by  my  wife, 
ma'am,  I  believe  you  know  pretty  well  I  should  wait  till 
Doomsday,  so  I'll  trouble  you  to  take  charge  of  the  tea- 
pot." Mrs.  Sparsit  complied,  and  assumed  her  old  posi- 
tion at  table. 

This  again  made  the  excellent  woman  vastly  senti- 
mental. She  was  .so  humble  withal,  that  when  Louisa 
appeared,  she  rose,  protesting  she  never  could  think  of 
sitting  in  that  place  under  existing  circumstances,  often 
as  she  had  had  the  honour — of  making  Mr.  Bounderby's 
breakfast,  before  Mrs.  Gradgrind — she  begged  pardon, 
she  meant  to  say,  Miss  Bounderby — she  hojjed  to  be  ex- 


cused, but  she  really  could  not  get  it  right  yet,  though 
she  trusted  to  become  familiar  with  it  by  and  by — had 
assumed  her  present  position.  It  was  only  (she  observed) 
because  Miss  Gradgrind  happenedtto  be  a  little  late, 
and  Mr.  Bounderby's  time  is  so  very  precious,  and  she 
knew  it  of  old  to  be  so  essential  that  he  should  break- 
fast to  the  moment,  that  she  had  taken  the  liberty  of 
complying  with  his  request,  long  as  his  will  had  been  a 
law  to  her. 

"  There !  Stop  where  you  are,  ma'am,"  said  Mr. 
Bounderby,  "stop  where  you  are!  Mrs.  Bounderby 
will  be  very  glad  to  be  relieved  of  the  trouble,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"  Don't  say  that,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  almost 
with  severity,  "  because  that  is  very  unkind  to  Mrs. 
Bounderby.    And  to  be  unkind  is  not  to  be  you,  sir. " 

"  You  may  set  your  mind  at  rest,  ma'am. — You  can 
take  it  very  quietly,  can't  you.  Loo?"  said  Mr.  Boun- 
derby, in  a  blustering  way  to  his  wife. 

"  Of  course.  It  is  of  no  moment.  Why  should  it  be 
of  any  importance  to  me?" 

"Why  should  it  be  of  any  importance  to  anyone, 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  ma'am  ? "  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  swelling 
with  a  sense  of  slight.  "  You  attach  too  mijch  impor- 
tance to  these  things,  ma'am.  By  George,  you'll  be 
corrupted  in  some  of  your  notions  here.  You  are  old 
fashioned,  ma'am.  You  are  behind  Tom  Gradgrind's 
children's  time." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  asked  Louisa,  coldly 
surprised.    "  What  has  given  you  offence  ?  " 

"  Offence  !  "  repeated  Bounderby.  "  Do  you  suppose 
if  there  was  any  offence  given  me,  I  shouldn't  name  it, 
and  request  to  have  it  corrected  ?  I  am  a  straightfor- 
ward man,  I  believe.  I  don't  go  beating  about  for  side 
winds." 

"  I  suppose  no  one  ever  had  occasion  to  think  you  too 
diffident,  or  too  delicate,"  Louisa  answered  him  com- 
posedly :  "  I  have  never  made  that  objection  to  you, 
either  as  a  child  or  as  a  woman.  I  don't  understand 
what  you  would  have." 

" Have ?"  returned  Mr.  Bounderby.  "Nothing.  Other- 
wise, don't  you,  Loo  Bounderby,  know  thoroughly  well 
that  I,  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown,  would  have  it?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  as  he  struck  the  table  and  made 
the  tea-cups  ring,  with  a  proud  colour  in  her  face  that 
was  a  new  change,  Mr.  Harthouse  thought.  "  You  are 
incomprehensible  this  morning,"  said  Louisa.  "Pray 
take  no  further  trouble  to  explain  yourself.  I  am  not 
curious  to  know  your  meaning.    What  does  it  matter  !  " 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  this  theme,  and  Mr.  Hart- 
house vvas  soon  idly  gay  on  indifferent  subjects.  But 
from  this  day,  the  Sparsit  action  upon  Mr.  Bounderby 
threw  Louisa  and  James  Harthouse  more  together,  and 
strengthened  the  dangerous  alienation  from  her  husband 
and  confidence  against  him  with  another,  into  which  she 
had  fallen  by  degrees  so  fine  that  she  could  not  retrace 
them  if  she  tried.  But,  whether  she  ever  tried  or  no, 
lay  hidden  in  her  own  closed  heart. 

Mrs.  Sparsit  was  so  much  affected  on  this  particular 
occasion,  that,  assisting  Mr.  Bounderby  to  his  hat  after 
breakfast,  and  being  then  alone  with  him  in  the  hall,  she 
imprinted  a  chaste  kiss  upon  his  hand,  murmured  "My 
benefactor  ! "  and  retired,  overwhelmed  with  grief. 
Yet  it  is  an  indubitable  fact,  within  the  cognizance  of 
this  history,  that  five  minutes  after  he  had  left  the 
house  in  the  self-same  hat,  the  same  descendant  of  the 
Scadgerses  and  connexion  by  matrimony  of  the  Powlers, 
shook  her  right-hand  mitten  at  his  portrait,  made  a  con- 
temptuous grimace  at  that  work  of  art,  and  said  "  Serve 
you  right,  you  Noodle,  and  I  am  glad  of  it  !" 

Mr.  Bounderby  had  not  been  long  gone,  when  Bitzer 
appeared.  Bitzer  had  come  down  by  train,  shrieking 
and  rattling  over  the  long  line  of  arches  that  bestrode 
the  wild  country  of  past  and  present  coalpits,  with  an 
express  from  Stone  Lodge.  It  was  a  hasty  note  to  inform 
Louisa,  that  Mrs.  Gradgrind  lay  very  ill.  She  had  never 
been  well  within  her  daughter's  knowledge  ;  but,  she 
had  declined  within  the  last  few  days,  had  continued 
sinking  all  through  the  night,  and  was  now  as  nearly 
d(;ad,  as  her  limited  capacity  of  being  in  any  state  that 
implied  the  ghost  of  an  intention  to  get  out  of  it,  allowed. 

Accompanied  by  the  lightest  of  porters,  fit  colourless 


LIBRARf 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


I 


HARD 

servitor  at  Death's  door  when  Mrs.  Gradgrind  knocked, 
Louisa  rumbled  to  Coketown,  over  the  coalpits  past  and 
present,  and  was  whirled  into  its  smoky  jaws.  She  dis- 
missed the  messenger  to  his  own  devices,  and  rode  away 
to  her  old  home. 

She  had  seldom  been  there  since  her  marriage.  Her 
father  was  usually  sifting  and  sifting  at  his  parliament- 
ary cinder-heap  in  London  (without  being  observed  to 
turn  up  many  precious  articles  among  the  rubbish),  and 
was  still  hard  at  it  in  the  national  dust-yard.  Her 
mother  had  taken  it  rather  as  a  disturbance  than  other- 
wise, to  be  visited,  as  she  reclined  upon  her  sofa  ;  young 
people,  Louisa  felt  herself  all  unfit  for  ;  Sissy  she  had 
never  softened  to  again,  since  the  night  when  the 
stroller's  child  had  raised  her  eyes  to  look  at  Mr.  Boun- 
derby's  intended  wife.  She  had  no  inducements  to  go 
back,  and  had  rarely  gone. 

Neither,  as  she  approached  her  old  home  now,  did  any 
of  the  best  influences  of  old  home  descend  upon  her. 
The  dreams  of  childhood — its  airy  fables  ;  its  graceful, 
beautiful,  humane,  impossible  adornments  of  the  world 
beyond  :  so  good  to  be  believed  in  once,  so  good  to  be 
remembered  when  outgrown,  for  then  the  least  among 
them  rises  to  the  stature  of  a  great  Charity  in  the  heart, 
suffering  little  children  to  come  into  the  midst  of  it,  and 
to  keep  with  their  pure  hands  a  garden  in  the  stony 
ways  of  this  world,  wherein  it  were  better  for  all  the 
children  of  Adam  that  they  should  oftener  sun  them- 
selves, simple  and  trustful,  and  not  worldly-wise— what 
had  she  to  do  with  these  ?  Remembrances  of  how  she 
had  journeyed  to  the  little  that  she  knew,  by  the  enchant- 
ed roads  of  what  she  and  millions  of  innocent  creatures 
had  hoped  and  imagined  ;  of  how,  first  coming  upon 
Reason  through  the  tender  light  of  Fancy,  she  had  seen 
it  a  beneficent  god,  deferring  to  gods  as  great  as  itself  : 
not  a  grim  Idol,  cruel  and  cold,  with  its  victims  bound 
hand  to  foot,  and  its  big  dumb  shape  set  vip  with  a 
sightless  stare,  never  to  be  moved  by  anything  but  so 
many  calculated  tons  of  leverage — what  had  she  to  do 
with  these  ?  Her  remembrances  of  home  and  childhood 
were  remembrances  of  the  drying  up  of  every  spring  and 
fountain  in  her  young  heart  as  it  gushed  out.  The 
golden  waters  were  not  there.  They  were  flowing  for 
the  fertilisation  of  the  land  where  grapes  are  gathered 
from  thorns,  and  figs  from  thistles. 

She  went,  with  a  heavy,  hardened  kind  of  sorrow 
upon  her,  into  the  house  and  into  her  mother's  room. 
Since  the  time  of  her  leaving  home,  Sissy  had  lived  with 
the  rest  of  the  family  on  equal  terms.  Sissy  was  at  her 
mother's  side  ;  and  Jane,  her  sister,  now  ten  or  twelve 
years  old,  was  in  the  room. 

There  was  great  trouble  before  it  could  be  made  known 
to  Mrs.  Gradgrind  that  her  eldest  child  was  there.  She 
reclined,  propped  up,  from  mere  habit,  on  a  couch  :  as 
nearly  in  her  old  usual  attitude,  as  anything  so  helpless 
could  be  kept  in.  She  had  positively  refused  to  take  to 
her  bed  ;  on  the  ground  that  if  she  did,  she  would  never 
hear  the  last  of  it. 

Her  feeble  voice  sounded  so  far  away  in  her  bundle  of 
shawls,  and  the  sound  of  another  voice  addressing  her 
seemed  to  take  such  a  long  time  in  getting  down  to  her 
ears,  that  she  might  have  been  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a 
well.  The  old  lady  was  nearer  Truth  than  she  ever  had 
been  :  which  had  much  to  Jo  with  it. 

On  being  told  that  Mrs.  Bounderby  was  there,  she  re- 
plied, at  cross-purposes,  that  she  had  never  called  him 
by  that  name,  since  he  married  Louisa  ;  that  pending 
her  choice  of  an  objectionable  name,  she  had  called  him 
J  ;  and  that  she  could  not  at  present  depart  from  that 
regulation,  not  being  yet  provided  with  a  permanent 
substitute.  Louisa  had  sat  by  her  for  some  minutes,  and 
had  spoken  to  her  often,  before  she  arrived  at  a  clear 
understanding  who  it  was.  She  then  seemed  to  come  to 
it  all  at  once. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  "and  I  hope 
you  are  going  on  satisfactorily  to  yourself.  It  was  all 
father's  doing.  He  set  his  heart  upon  it.  And  he 
ougut  to  know." 

"I  want  to  hear  of  you,  mother  ;  not  of  myself." 

"  You  want  to  hear  of  me,  my  dear  ?  That's  something 
new,  I  am  sure,  when  anybody  wants  to  hear  of  me.  Not 
at  all  well,  Louisa.    Very  faint  and  giddy." 


TIMES,  1017 

"Are  you  in  pain,  dear  mother?" 

"  I  think  there's  a  pain  somewhere  in  the  room,"  said 
Mrs.  Gradgrind,  "  but  I  couldn't  positively  say  that  I 
have  got  it." 

After  this  strange  speech,  she  lay  silent  for  sometime. 
Louisa,  holding  her  hand,  could  feel  no  pulse ;  but 
kissing  it,  could  see  a  slight  thin  thread  of  life  in  flut- 
tering motion. 

"  You  very  seldom  see  your  .sister,"  said  Mrs.  Grad- 
grind. "She  grows  like  you.  I  wish  you  would  look 
at  her.    Sissy,  bring  her  here." 

She  was  brought,  and  stood  with  her  hand  in  her 
sister's.  Louisa  had  observed  lier  with  her  arm  round 
Sissy's  neck,  and  she  felt  the  difference  of  this  approach. 

"  Do  you  see  the  likeness,  Louisa?" 

"  Yes,  mother.    I  should  think  her  like  me.    But — " 

"Eh?  Yes,  I  always  say  so,"  Mrs.  Gradgrind  cried, 
with  unexpected  quickness.  "  And  that  reminds  me.  I 
— I  want  to  speak  to  you,  my  dear.  Sissy  my  good  girl, 
leave  us  alone  a  minute." 

Louisa  had  relinquished  the  hand  :  had  thought  that 
her  sister's  was  a  better  and  brighter  face  than  hers  had 
ever  been  ;  had  seen  in  it,  not  without  a  rising  feeling  of 
resentment,  even  in  that  place  and  at  that  time,  some- 
thing of  the  gentleness  of  the  other  face  in  the  room  ; 
the  sweet  face  with  the  trusting  eyes,  made  paler  than 
watching  and  sympathy  made  it,  by  the  rich  dark  hair. 

Left  alone  with  her  mother,  Louisa  saw  her  lying  with 
an  awful  lull  upon  her  face,  like  one  who  was  floating 
away  upon  some  great  water,  all  resistance  over,  content 
to  be  carried  down  the  stream.  She  put  the  shadow  of 
a  hand  to  her  lips  again,  and  recalled  her. 

"  You  were  going  to  speak  to  me,  mother." 

"  Eh  ?  Yes,  to  be  sure,  my  dear.  You  know  that 
your  father  is  almost  always  away  now,  and  therefore  I 
must  write  to  him  about  it." 

"About  what,  mother?  Don't  be  troubled.  About 
what  ! " 

"  You  must  remember,  my  dear,  that  whenever  I  have 
said  anything,  on  any  subject,  I  have  never  heard  the 
last  of  it  ;  and  consequently,  that  I  have  long  left  o£E 
saying  anything." 

"  I  can  hear  you,  mother."  But  it  was  only  by  dint  of 
bending  down  her  ear,  and  at  the  same  time  attentively 
watching  the  lips  as  they  moved,  that  she  could  link 
such  faint  and  broken  sounds  into  any  chain  of  con- 
nexion. 

"  You  learnt  a  great  deal,  Louisa,  and  so  did  your 
brother.  Ologies  of  all  kinds  from  morning  to  night.  If 
there  is  any  Ology  left,  of  any  description,  that  has  not 
been  worn  to  rags  in  this  house,  all  I  can  say  is,  I  hope  I 
shall  never  hear  its  name." 

"  I  can  hear  you,  mother,  when  you  have  strength  to 
go  on."    This,  to  keep  her  from  floating  away. 

"  But  there  is  something — not  an  Ology  at  all — that 
your  father  has  missed,  or  forgotten,  Louisa.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  I  have  often  sat  with  Sissy  near  me, 
and  thought  about  it.  I  shall  never  get  its  name  now. 
But  your  father  may.  It  makes  me  restless.  I  want  to 
write  to  him,  to  find  out  for  God's  sake  what  it  is.  Give 
me  a  pen,  give  me  a  pen." 

Even  the  power  of  restlessness  was  gone,  except  from 
the  poor  head,  which  could  just  turn  from  side  to  side. 

She  fancied,  however,  that  her  request  had  been  com- 
plied with,  and  that  the  pen  she  could  not  have  held  was 
in  her  hand.  It  matters  little  what  figures  of  wonderful 
no-meaning  she  began  to  trace  upon  her  wrappers.  The 
hand  soon  stopped  in  the  midst  of  them  ;  the  light  that 
had  always  been  feeble  and  dim  behind  the  weak  trans- 
parency, went  out,  and  even  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  emerged 
from  the  shadow  in  which  man  walketh  and  disquieteth 
himself  in  vain,  took  upon  her  the  dread  solemnity  of 
the  sages,  and  patriarchs. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Mrs.  SparsiCs  Staircase. 

Mrs.  Sparsit's  nerves  being  slow  to  recover  their  tone, 
the  worthy  woman  made  a  stay  of  some  weeks  in  dura- 


1018 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


tion  at  Mr.  Bounderby's  retreat,  where,  notwithstanding 
her  anchorite  turn  of  mind  based  upon  her  becoming 
consciousness  of  her  altered  station,  she  resigned  herself 
with  noble  fortitude  to  lodging,  as  one  may  say,  in  clover, 
and  feeding  on  the  fat  of  the  land.  During  the  whole 
term  of  this  recess  from  the  guardianship  of  the  Bank, 
Mrs.  Sparsit  was  a  pattern  of  consistency  ;  continuing  to 
take  such  pity  on  Mr.  Bounderby  to  his  face,  as  is  rarely 
taken  on  man,  and  to  call  his  portrait  a  Noodle  to  its  face, 
with  the  greatest  acrimony  and  contempt. 

Mr.  Bounderby,  having  got  it  into  his  explosive  compo- 
sition that  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  a  highly  superior  woman  to 
perceive  that  he  had  that  general  cross  upon  him  in  his 
deserts,  (for  he  had  not  yet  settled  what  it  was),  and  fur- 
ther, that  Louisa  would  have  objected  to  her  as  a  fre- 
quent visitor  if  it  had  comported  with  his  greatness  that 
she  should  object  to  anything  he  choose  to  do,  resolved 
not  to  lose  sight  of  Mrs.  Sparsit  easily.  So  when  her 
nerves  were  strung  up  to  the  pitch  of  again  consuming 
sweet-breads  in  solitude,  he  said  to  her  at  the  dinner- 
table,  on  the  day  before  her  departure,  "I  tell  you  what, 
ma'ain  ;  you  shall  come  down  here  of  a  Saturday,  while 
the  fine  weather  lasts,  and  stay  till  Monday."  To  which 
Mrs.  Sparsit  returned,  in  effect,  though  not  of  the  Moham- 
medan persuasion  :  "To  hear  is  to  obey." 

Now  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  not  a  poetical  'woman  ;  but  she 
took  an  idea  in  the  nature  of  an  allegorical  fancy,  into 
her  head.  Much  watching  of  Louisa,  and  much  conse- 
quent observation  of  her  impenetrable  demeanour,  which 
keenly  whetted  and  sharpened  Mrs.  Sparsit's  edge,  must 
have  given  her  as  it  were  a  lift,  in  the  way  of  inspiration. 
She  erected  in  her  mind  a  mighty  Staircase,  with  a  dark 
pit  of  shame  and  ruin  at  the  bottom  ;  and  down  those 
stairs,  from  day  to  day  and  hour  to  hour,  she  saw  Louisa 
coming. 

It  became  the  business  of  Mrs.  Sparsit's  life,  to  look  up 
at  her  staircase,  and  to  watch  Louisa  coming  down. 
Sometimes  slowly,  sometimes  quickly,  sometimes  sever- 
al steps  at  one  bout,  sometimes  stopping,  never  turning 
back.  If  she  had  once  turned  back,  it  might  have  been 
the  death  of  Mrs.  Sparsit  in  spleen  and  grief. 

She  had  been  descending  steadily,  to  the  day,  and  on 
the  day,  when  Mr.  Bounderby  issued  the  weekly  invita- 
tion recorded  above.  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  in  good  spirits, 
and  inclined  to  be  conversational. 

"And  pray,  sir,"  said  she,  "  if  I  may  venture  to  ask  a 
question  appertaining  to  any  subject  on  which  you  show 
reserve— which  is  indeed  hardy  in  me,  for  I  well  know 
you  have  a  reason  for  everything  you  do — have  you  re- 
ceived intelligence  respecting  the  robbery?" 

"  Wliy,  ma'am,  no  ;  not  yet.  Under  the  circumstances, 
I  didn't  expect  it  yet.  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day, 
ma'am ." 

"Very  true,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  shaking  her  head. 
"  Nor  yet  in  a  week,  ma'am." 

"  No,  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a  gentle 
melancholy  upon  her. 

"In  a  similar  manner,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby,  "I 
can  wait,  you  know.  If  Romulus  and  Remus  could  wait, 
Josiah  Bounderby  can  wait.  They  were  better  off  in 
their  youth  than  I  was,  however.  They  had  a  she- wolf 
for  a  nurse  ;  /  had  only  a  she- wolf  for  a  grandmother. 
She  didn't  give  any  miJk,  ma'am  ;  she  gave  bruises.  She 
was  a  regular  Alderney  at  that." 

"Ah  !  "  Mrs.  Sparsit  sighed  and  shuddered. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  continued  Bounderby,  "  f  have  not 
heard  anything  more  about  it.  It's  in  hand,  though  ;  and 

young  Tom,  who  rather  sticks  to  business  at  present  

something  new  for  him  ;  he  hadn't  the  schooling  /  had  

is  helping.  My  injunction  is,  Keep  it  quiet,  and  let  it 
seem  to  blow  over.  Do  what  you  like  under  the  rose, 
but  don't  give  a  sign  of  what  you're  about;  or  half  a 
hundred  of  'em  will  combine  together  and  get  this  fellow 
who  l>as  bolted,  out  of  reach  for  good.  Keep  it  quiet, 
and  the  thieves  will  grow  in  confidence  by  little  and  lit- 
tle, and  we  shall  have  'em." 

"Very  sagacious  indeed,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 
"Very  interesting.  Tlie  old  woman  you  mentioncul, 
sir — " 

"The  old  woman  I  mentioned,  ma'am,"  said  Bounder- 
by, cutting  the  matter  short,  as  it  was  nothing  to  boast 
about,  "  is  not  laid  hold  of  ;  but  she  may  take  her  oath 


she  will  be,  if  thai  is  any  satisfaction  to  her  villanous 
old  mind.  In  the  mean  time,  ma'am,  I  am  of  opinion,  if 
you  ask  me  my  opinion,  that  the  less  she  is  talked  about, 
the  better." 

That  same  evening,  Mrs.  Sparsit,  in  her  chamber 
window,  resting  from  her  packing  operations,  looked 
towards  her  great  staircase  and  saw  Louisa  still  descend- 
ing. 

She  sat  by  Mr.  Harthouse,  in  an  alcove  in  the  garden, 
talking  very  low,  he  stood  leaning  over  her,  as  they 
whispered  together,  and  his  face  almost  touched  her 
hair.  "  If  not  quite  !"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  straining  her 
hawk's  eyes  to  the  utmost.  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  too  distant 
to  hear  a  word  of  their  discourse,  or  even  to  know  that 
they  were  speaking  softly,  otherwise  than  from  the  ex- 
pression of  their  figures  ;  but  what  they  said  was  this  : 
"  You  recollect  the  man,  Mr.  Harthouse?" 
"Oh,  perfectly  ! " 

"  His  face,  and  his  manner,  and  what  he  said  ?" 
"Perfectly.  And  an  infinitely  dreary  person  he  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be.  Lengthy  and  prosy  in  the  extreme. 
It  was  knowing  to  hold  forth,  in  the  humble-virtue 
school  of  eloquence  ;  but,  I  assure  you  I  thought  at  the 
time,  '  My  good  fellow,  you  are  over-doing  this  ! '  " 

"  It  has  been  very  difficult  to  me  to  think  ill  of  that 
man." 

"My  dear  Louisa— as  Tom  says."    Which  he  never 
did  say.    "You  know  no  good  of  the  fellow  ?  " 
"  No,  certainly." 

"  Nor  of  any  other  such  person  ?  " 
"How  can  1,"  she  returned,  with  more  of  her  first 
manner  on  her  than  he  had  lately  seen,  "when  I  know 
nothing  of  them,  men  or  women?" 
^  "My  dear  Louisa,  then  consent  to  receive  the  submis- 
sive representation  of  your  devoted  friend,  who  knows 
something  of  several  varieties  of  his  excellent  fellow- 
creatures— for  excellent  they  are,  I  am  quite  ready  to 
believe,  in  spite  of  such  little  foibles  as  always  helping 
themselves  to  what  they  can  get  hold  of.  This  fellow 
talks.  Well  ;  every  fellow  talks.  He  professes  morality,  . 
Well  ;  all  sorts  of  humbugs  profess  morality.  From 
the  House  of  Commons  to  the  House  of  Correction,  there 
is  a  general  profession  of  morality,  except  among  our 
people  ;  it  really  is  that  exception  which  makes  our  peo- 
ple quite  reviving.  You  saw  and  heard  the  case.  Here 
was  one  of  the  fluffy  classes  pulled  up  extremely  short 
by  my  esteemed  friend  Mr.  Bounderby— who,  as  we 
know,  is  not  possessed  of  that  delicacy  which  would 
soften  so  tight  a  hand.  The  member  of  the  fluffy  classes 
was  injured,  exasperated,  left  the  house  grumbling,  met 
somebody  who  proposed  to  him  to  go  in  for  some  share  in 
this  Bank  business,  went  in,  put  something  in  his  pocket 
which  had  nothing  in  it  before,  and  relieved  his  mind 
extremely.  Really  he  would  have  been  an  uncommon, 
instead  of  a  common,  fellow,  if  he  had  not  availed  him- 
self of  such  an  opportunity.  Or  he  may  have  originated 
it  altogether,  if  he  had  the  cleverness." 

"I  almost  feel  as  though  it  must  be  bad  in  me,"  re- 
turned Louisa,  after  sitting  thoughtful  awhile,  to  be 
so  ready  to  agree  with  you,  and  to  be  so  lightened  in  my 
heart  by  what  you  say. " 

"I  only  say  what  is  reasonable;  nothing  worse.  I 
have  talked  it  over  with  my  friend  Tom  more  than  once 
—of  course  I  remain  on  terms  of  perfect  confidence  with 
Tom — and  he  is  quite  of  my  opinion,  and  I  am  quite  of 
his.    Will  you  walk  ?  " 

They  strolled  away,  among  the  lanes  beginning  to  be 
indistinct  in  the  twilight — she  leaning  on  his  arm — and 
she  little  thought  how  she  was  going  down,  down,  down, 
Mrs.  Sparsit's  staircase. 

Night  and  day,  Mrs.  Sparsit  kept  it  standing.  When 
Louisa  had  arrived  at  the  bottom  and  disappeared  in  the 
gulf,  it  might  fall  in  upon  her  if  it  would  ;  but,  until 
then,  there  it  was  to  be  a  Building,  before  Mrs.  Sparsit's 
eyes.  And  there  Louisa  always  was,  upon  it.  And  al- 
ways gliding  down,  down,  dovvn  ! 

Mrs.  Sparsit  saw  James  Harthouse  come  and  go;  she 
hoard  of  him  hero  and  there  ;  she  saw  the  changes  of 
the  face  he  had  studied  ;  she,  too,  remarked  to  a  nicety 
how  and  when  it  clouded,  how  and  when  it  cleared  ;  she 
kept  her  black  eyes  wide  open,  with  no  touch  of  pity, 
with  no  touch  of  compunction,  all  absorbed  in  interest. 


HARD 

In  the  interest  of  seeing  her,  ever  drawing,  with  no  liand 
to  stay  her,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  bottom  of  tliis  new 
Giant's  Staircase. 

With  all  her  deference  for  Mr.  liounderby  as  contra- 
distinguished from  his  portrait,  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  not  the 
smallest  intention  of  interrupting  the  descent.  Eager  to 
see  it  accomplished,  and  yet  patient,  she  waited  for  the 
last  fall,  as  for  the  ripeness  and  fulness  of  the  harvest 
of  her  ropes.  Hushed  in  expectancy,  she  kept  her  wary 
gaze  upon  tlie  stairs  ;  and  seldom  so  much  as  darkly 
shook  her  right  mitten  (with  her  fist  in  it),  at  the  figure 
coming  down. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Lower  and  Lower, 

The  figure  descended  the  great  stairs  steadily,  steadily; 
always  verging,  like  a  weight  in  deep  water,  to  the  black 
gulf  at  the  bottom. 

Mr.  Gradgrind,  apprised  of  his  wife's  decease,  made  an 
expedition  from  London,  and  buried  her  in  a  business- 
like manner.  He  then  returned  with  promptitude  to  the 
national  cinder-heap,  and  resumed  his  sifting  for  the 
odds  and  ends  he  wanted,  and  his  throwing  of  the  dust 
about  into  the  eyes  of  other  people  who  wanted  other 
odds  and  ends — in  fact  resumed  his  parliamentary  duties. 

In  the  mean  time,  Mrs.  Sparsit  kept  unwinking  watch 
and  ward.  Separated  from  her  staircase,  all  the  week, 
by  the  length  of  iron  road  dividing  Coketown  from  the 
country-house,  she  yet  maintained  her  cat-like  observa- 
tion of  Louisa,  through  her  husband,  through  her  brother, 
through  James  Harthouse,  through  the  outsides  of  let- 
ters and  packets,  through  everything  animate  and  inani- 
mate that  at  any  time  went  near  the  stairs.  "  Your  foot 
is  on  the  last  step,  my  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  apostro- 
phising the  descending  figure,  with  the  aid  of  her  threat- 
ening mitten,  "  and  all  your  art  shall  never  blind  me." 

Art  or  nature  though,  the  original  stock  of  Louisa's 
character  or  the  graft  of  circumstances  upon  it, — her 
curious  reserve  did  baffle,  while  it  stimulated,  one  as 
sagacious  as  Mrs.  Sparsit.  There  were  times  when  Mr. 
James  Harthouse  was  not  sure  of  her.  There  were  times 
when  he  could  not  read  the  face  he  had  studied  so  long  ; 
and  when  this  lonely  girl  was  a  greater  mystery  to  him, 
than  any  woman  of  the  world  with  a  ring  of  satellites  to 
help  her. 

So  the  time  went  on  ;  until  it  happened  that  Mr. 
Bounderby  was  called  away  from  home  by  business 
which  required  his  presence  elsewhere,  for  three  or  four 
days.  It  was  on  a  Friday  that  he  intimated  this  to  Mrs. 
Sparsit  at  the  Bank,  adding  :  "But  you'll  go  down  to- 
morrow, ma'am,  all  the  same.  You'll  go  down  just  as  if 
I  was  there.    It  will  make  no  difference  to  you." 

"Pray,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  reproachfully,  "let 
me  beg  you  not  to  say  that.  Your  absence  will  make  a 
vast  difference  to  me,  sir,  as  I  think  you  very  well  know." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  then  you  must  get  on  in  my  absence 
as  well  as  you  can,"  said  Boiinderby,  not  displeased. 

"Mr.  Bounderby,"  retorted  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "your  will  is 
to  me  a  law,  sir  ;  otherwise,  it  might  be  my  inclination 
to  dispute  your  kind  commands,  not  feeling  sure  that  it 
will  be  quite  so  agreeable  to  Miss  Gradgrind  to  receive 
me,  as  it  ever  is  to  your  own  munificent  hospitality.  But 
you  shall  say  no  more,  sir.  I  will  go,  upon  your  invita- 
tion." 

"  Why,  when  I  invite  you  to  my  house,  ma'am,"  said 
Bounderby,  opening  his  eyes,  "  I  should  hope  you  want 
no  other  invitation." 

"No,  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Mrs,  Sparsit,  "I  should 
hope  not.  Say  no  more,  sir,  I  would,  sir,  I  could  see 
you  cay  again," 

"  What  do  you  mean,  ma'am  ?"  blustered  Bounderby. 

"Sir,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "there  was  wont  to  be 
an  elasticity  in  you  which  I  sadly  miss.  Be  buoyant, 
sir  !" 

Mr.  Bounderby,  under  the  influence  of  this  difficult 
adjuration,  backed  up  by  her  compassionate  eye,  could 
only  scratch  his  head  in  a  feeble  and  ridiculous  manner, 
and  afterwards  assert  himself  at  a  distance,  by  being 
heard  to  bully  the  small  fry  of  business  all  the  morning. 


TIMES.  1019 

"  Bitzer,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit  tli^t  afternoon,  when  her 
patron  was  gone  on  his  journey,  and  the  Bank  was  clos- 
ing, "  present  my  compliments  to  young  Mr.  Thomas, 
and  ask  him  if  he  would  step  up  and  partake  of  a  lamb 
chop  and  walnut  ketchup,  with  a  glass  of  India  ale?" 
Young  Mr.  Thomas  being  usually  ready  for  anything  in 
that  way,  returned  a  gracious  answer,  and  followed  on 
its  heels.  "Mr.  Thomas,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "these 
plain  viands  being  on  table,  I  thought  you  might  be 
tempted."  "  Thank'ee,  Mrs.  Sparsit,"  said  the  whelp. 
And  gloomily  fell  to. 

"How  is  Mr.  Harthouse,  Mr.  Tom?"  asked  Mrs. 
Sparsit. 

"Oh,  bo's  all  right,"  said  Tom. 

"Where  may  he  be  at  present?"  Mrs.  Sparsit  asked 
in  a  light  conversational  manner,  after  mentally  devoting 
the  whelp  to  the  Furies  for  being  so  uncommunica- 
tive. . 

"He  is  shooting  in  Yorkshire,"  said  Tom,  "  Sent  Loo 
a  basket  half  as  big  as  a  church,  yesterday." 

"The  kind  of  gentleman,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
sweetly,  "  whom  one  might  wager  to  be  a  good  .shot  !  " 

"  Crack,"  said  Tom. 

He  had  long  been  a  down-looking  young  fellow,  but 
this  cl.'aracteristic  had  so  increased  of  late,  that  he 
never  raised  his  eyes  to  any  face  for  three  seconds  to- 
gether. Mrs,  Sparsit  consequently  had  ample  means  of 
watching  his  looks,  if  she  were  so  inclined. 

"Mr,  Harthouse  is  a  great  favourite  of  mine,"  said 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  as  indeed  he  is  of  most  people.  May  we 
expect  to  see  him  again  shortly,  Mr.  Tom  ?  " 

"Why,  /expect  to  see  him  to-morrow,"  returned  the 
whelp, 

"  Good  news  !  "  cried  Mrs,  Sparsit,  blandly. 

"  I  have  got  an  appointment  with  him  to  meet  him  in 
the  evening  at  the  station  here,"  said  Tom,  "and  I  am 
going  to  dine  with  him  afterwards,  I  believe.  He  is  not 
coming  down  to  the  country  house  for  a  week  or  so, 
being  due  somewhere  else.  At  least,  he  says  so  ;  but  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  to  stop  here  over  Sunday, 
and  stray  that  way." 

"  Which  reminds  me  !"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "  Would 
you  remember  a  message  to  your  sister,  Mr.  Tom,  if  I 
was  to  charge  you  with  one  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  I'll  try,"  returned  the  reluctant  whelp,  "  if 
it  isn't  a  long  un." 

"  It  is  merely  my  respectful  compliments,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  "  and  I  fear  I  may  not  trouble  her  with  my 
society  this  week  ;  being  still  a  little  nervous,  and  better 
perhaps  by  my  poor  self." 

"  Oh  !  if  that's  all,"  observed  Tom,  "  it  wouldn't  much 
matter,  even  if  I  was  to  forget  it,  for  Loo's  not  likely  to 
think  of  you  unless  she  sees  you." 

Having  paid  for  his  entertainment  with  this  agreeable 
compliment,  he  relapsed  into  a  hangdog  silence  until 
there  was  no  more  India  ale  left,  when  he  said,  "  Well, 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  I  must  be  off  ! "  and  went  off. 

Next  day,  Saturday,  Mrs.  Sparsit  sat  at  her  window 
all  day  long  :  looking  at  the  customers  coming  in  and 
out,  watching  the  postman,  keeping  an  eye  on  the  gen- 
eral traffic  of  the  street,  revolving  many  things  in  her 
mind,  but,  above  all,  keeping  her  attention  on  her  stair- 
case. The  evening  came,  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  went  quietly  out  :  having  her  reasons  for 
hovering  in  a  furtive  way  about  the  station  by  which  a 
passenger  would  arrive  from  Yorkshire,  and  for  prefer- 
ring to  peep  into  it  round  pillars  and  corners,  and  out  of 
ladies'  waiting-room  windows,  to  appearing  in  its  pre- 
cincts openly. 

Tom  was  in  attendance,  and  loitered  about  until  the 
expected  train  came  in.  It  brought  no  Mr.  Harthouse. 
Tom  waited  until  the  crowd  had  dispersed,  and  the 
bustle  was  over  ;  and  then  referred  to  a  posted  list  of 
trains,  and  took  counsel  with  porters.  That  done,  he 
strolled  away  idly,  stopping  in  the  street  and  looking  up 
it  and  down  it,  and  lifting  his  hat  off  and  putting  it 
on  again,  and  yawning  and  stretching  himself,  and  ex- 
hibiting all  the  symptoms  of  mortal  weariness  to  be  ex- 
pected in  one  who  had  still  to  wait  imtil  the  next  train 
should  come  in,  an  hour  and  forty  minutes  hence. 

"  This  is  a  device  to  keep  him  out  of  the  way,"  said 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  starting  from  the  dull  office  window  whence 


1020 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


she  had  watched  him^last.  *'Harthouse  is  with  his 
sister  now  ! " 

It  was  the  conception  of  an  inspired  moment,  and  she 
shot  off  with  her  utmost  swiftness  to  work  it  out.  The 
station  for  the  country  house  was  at  the  opposite  end  of 
the  town,  the  time  was  short,  the  road  not  easy ;  but 
she  was  so  quick  on  pouncing  on  a  disengaged  coach,  so 
quick  in  darting  out  of  it,  producing  her  money,  seizing, 
her  ticket,  and  diving  into  the  train,  that  she  was  borne 
along  the  arches  spanning  the  land  of  coal-pits  past  and 
present,  as  if  she  had  been  caught  up  in  a  cloud  and 
whirled  away. 

All  the  journey,  immovable  in  the  air  though  never 
left  behind  ;  plain  to  the  dark  eyes  of  her  mind,  as  the 
electric  wires  which  ruled  a  colossal  strip  of  music  paper 
out  of  the  evening  sky,  was  plain  to  the  dark  eyes  of 
her  body  ;  Mrs.  Sparsit  saw  her  staircase  with  the  figure 
coming  down.  Very  near  the  bottom  now.  Upon  the 
brink  of  the  abyss. 

An  overcast  September  evening,  just  at  nightfall,  saw 
beneath  its  drooping  eyelid  Mrs.  Sparsit  glide  out  of  her 
carriage,  pass  down  the  wooden  steps  of  the  little  station 
into  a  stony  road,  cross  it  into  a  green  lane,  and  become 
hidden  in  a  summer-growth  of  leaves  and  branches. 
One  or  two  late  birds  sleepily  chirping  in  their  nests, 
and  a  bat  heavily  crossing  and  recrossing  her,  and  the 
reek  of  her  own  tread  in  the  thick  dust  that  felt  like 
velvet,  were  all  Mrs.  Sparsit  heard  or  saw  until  she  very 
softly  closed  a  gate. 

She  went  up  to  the  house,  keeping  within  the  shrub- 
bery, and  went  round  it,  peeping  between  the  leaves  at 
the  lower  windows.  Most  of  them  were  open,  as  they 
usually  were  in  such  warm  weather,  but  there  were  no 
lights  yet,  and  all  was  silent.  She  tried  the  garden  with 
no  better  effect.  She  thought  of  the  wood,  and  stole  to- 
wards it,  heedless  of  long  grass  and  briers  :  of  worms, 
snails,  and  slugs,  and  all  the  creeping  things  that 
be.  With  her  dark  eyes  and  her  hook  nose  warily  in 
advance  of  her,  Mrs.  Sparsit  softly  crushed  her  way 
through  the  thick  undergrowth,  so  intent  upon  her  ob- 
ject that  she  probably  would  have  done  no  less,  if  the 
wood  had  been  a  wood  of  adders. 

Hark  ! 

The  smaller  birds  might  have  tumbled  out  of  their 
nests,  fascinated  by  the  glittering  of  Mrs.  Sparsit's  eyes 
in  the  gloom,  as  she  stopped  and  listened. 

Low  voices  close  at  hand.  His  voice  and  hers.  The 
appointment  ims  a  device  to  keep  the  brother  away  1 
There  they  were  yonder,  by  the  felled  tree. 

Bending  low  among  the  dewy  grass,  Mrs.  Sparsit  ad- 
vanced closer  to  them.  She  drew  herself  up,  and  stood 
behind  a  tree,  like  Robinson  Crusoe  in  his  ambuscade 
against  the  savages  ;  so  near  to  them  that  at  a  spring, 
and  that  no  great  one,  she  could  have  touched  them  both. 
He  was  there  secretly,  and  had  not  shown  himself  at  the 
house.  He  had  come  on  horseback,  and  must  have 
passed  through  the  neighbouring  fields,  for  his  horse 
was  tied  to  the  meadow  side  of  the  fence,  within  a  few 
paces. 

My  dearest  love,"  said  he,'*  what  could  I  do  ?  Know- 
ing you  were  alone,  was  it  possible  that  I  could  stay 
away  ?  " 

"  You  may  hang  your  head,  to  make  yourself  the  more 
attractive  ;  /don't  know  what  they  see  in  you  when  you 
hold  it  up,"  thought  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  but  you  little  think, 
my  dearest  love,  whose  eyes  are  on  you  !  " 

That  she  hung  her  head  was  certain.  She  urged  him 
to  go  away,  she  commanded  him  to  go  away  ;  but  she 
neither  turned  her  face  to  him,  nor  raised  it.  Yet  it  was 
remarkable  that  she  sat  as  still  as  ever  the  amiable  wo- 
man in  ambuscade  had  seen  her  sit,  at  any  period  in  her 
life.  Her  hands  rested  in  one  another,  like  the  hands  of 
a  statue  ;  and  even  her  manner  of  speaking  was  not  hur- 
ried. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Harthouse ;  Mrs.  Sparsit  saw 
with  delight  that  his  arm  embraced  her  ;  "  will  you  not 
bear  with  my  society  for  a  little  while  ?" 

**Not  here." 

"  Where,  Louisa? " 

"  Not  here." 

"But  we  have  so  little  time  to  make  so  much  of,  and 
I  have  come  so  far,  and  am  altogether  so  devoted  and 


distracted.  There  never  was  a  slave  at  once  so  devoted 
and  ill-used  by  his  mistress.  To  look  for  your  sunny 
welcome  that  has  warmed  me  into  life,  and  to'be  received 
in  your  frozen  manner,  is  heart-rending. " 

"Am  I  to  say  again,  that  I  must  be  left  to  myself 
here  ?  " 

"But  we  must  meet,  my  dear  Louisa.  Where  shall 
we  meet  ?  " 

They  both  started.  The  listener  started,  guiltily,  too  ; 
for  she  thought  there  was  another  listener  among  the 
trees.  It  was  only  rain,  beginning  to  fall  fast,  in  heavy 
drops. 

"  Shall  I  ride  up  to  the  house  a  few  minutes  hence, 
innocently  supposing  that  its  master  is  at  home  and  will 
be  charmed  to  receive  me  ?  " 

"  No  ! " 

*  *  Your  cruel  commands  are  implicitly  to  be  obeyed  ; 
though  I  am  the  most  unfortunate  fellow  in  the  world, 
I  believe,  to  have  been  insensible  to  all  other  women, 
and  to  have  fallen  prostrate  at  last  under  the  foot  of  the 
most  beautiful,  and  the  most  engaging,  and  the  most 
imperious.  My  dearest  Louisa,  I  cannot  go  myself,  or 
let  you  go,  in  this  hard  abuse  of  your  power." 

Mrs.  Sparsit  saw  him  detain  her  with  his  encircling 
arm,  and  heard  hirn  then  and  the»e,  within  her  (Mrs. 
Sparsit's)  greedy  hearing,  tell  her  how  he  loved  her,  and 
how  she  was  the  stake  for  which  he  ardently  desired  to 
play  away  all  that  he  had  in  life.  The  objects  he  had 
lately  pursued,  turned  worthless  beside  her  ;  such  suc- 
cess as  was  almost  in  his  grasp,  he  flung  away  from  him 
like  the  dirt  it  was,  compared  with  her.  Its  pursuit, 
nevertheless,  if  it  kept  him  near  her,  or  its  renunciation 
if  it  took  him  from  her,  or  flight  if  she  shared  it,  or  secre- 
cy if  she  commanded  it,  or  any  fate,  or  every  fate,  all  was 
alike  to  him,  so  that  she  was  true  to  him, — the  man  who 
had  seen  how  cast  away  she  was,  whom  she  had  inspired 
at  their  first  meeting  with  an  admiration,  an  interest,  of 
which  he  had  thought  himself  incapable,  whom  she  had 
received  into  her  confidence,  who  was  devoted  to  her  and 
adored  her.  All  this,  and  more,  in  his  hurry,  and  in  hers, 
in  the  whirl  of  her  own  gratified  malice,  in  the  dread  of 
being  discovered,  in  the  rapidly  increasing  noise  of  heavy 
rain  among  the  leaves,  and  a  thunder-storm  rolling  up — 
Mrs.  Sparsit  received  into  her  mind,  set  off  with  such  an 
unavoidable  halo  of  confusion  and  indistinctness,  that 
when  at  length  he  climbed  the  fence  and  led  his  horse 
away,  she  was  not  sure  where  they  were  to  meet,  or 
when,  except  that  they  had  said  it  was  to  be  that  night. 

But  one  of  them  yet  remained  in  the  darkness  before 
her  ;  and  while  she  tracked  that  one  she  must  be  right. 
"  Oh,  my  dearest  love,"  thought  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "you  lit- 
tle think  how  well  attended  you  are  ! " 

Mrs.  Sparsit  saw  her  out  of  the  wood,  and  saw  her 
enter  the  house.  What  to  do  next  ?  It  rained  now,  in 
a  sheet  of  water.  Mrs.  Sparsit's  white  stockings  were 
of  many  colours,  green  predominating  ;  prickly  things 
were  in  her  shoes  ;  caterpillars  slung  themselves  in  ham- 
mocks of  their  own  making,  from  various  parts  of  her 
dress ;  rills  ran  from  her  bonnet,  and  her  Roman 
nose.  In  such  condition,  Mrs.  Sparsit  stood  hidden  in 
the  density  of  the  shrubbery,  considering  what  next  ? 

Lo,  Louisa  coming  out  of  the  house  !  Hastily  cloaked 
and  muffled,  and  stealing  away.  She  elopes  !  She  falls 
from  the  lowermost  stair,  and  is  swallowed  up  in  the 
gulf! 

Indifferent  to  the  rain,  and  moving  with  a  quick  de- 
termined step,  she  struck  into  a  side-path  parallel  with 
the  ride.  Mrs.  Sparsit  followed  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees,  at  but  a  short  distance  ;  for  it  was  not  easy  to  keep 
a  figure  in  view  going  quickly  through  the  umbrageous 
darkness. 

When  she  stopped  to  close  the  side-gate  without  noise, 
Mrs.  Sparsit  stopped.  When  she  went  on,  Mrs.  Sparsit 
went  on.  She  went  by  the  way  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  come, 
emerged  from  the  green  lane,  crossed  the  stony  road, 
and  ascended  the  wooden  steps  to  the  railroad,  A  train 
for  Coketown  would  come  through  i)resently,  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit knew  ;  so  she  understood  Coketown  to  be  her  first 
place  of  destination. 

In  Mrs.  Sparsit's  limp  and  streaming  state,  no  exten- 
sive precautions  were  necessary  to  change  her  usual  ap- 
pearance ;  but,  she  stopped  under  the  lee  of  the  station 


HARD 

wall,  tumbled  her  shawl  into  a  new  shape,  and  put  it 
on  over  her  bonnet.  So  disguised,  she  had  no  fear  of 
being  recognised  when  she  followed  up  the  railroad 
steps,  and  paid  her  money  in  the  small  office.  Louisa 
sat  waiting  in  a  corner,  Mrs,  Sparsit  sat  waiting  in  an- 
other corner.  Both  listened  to  the  thunder,  which  was 
loud,  and  to  the  rain,  as  it  washed  off  the  roof,  and  pat- 
tered on  the  parapets  of  the  arches.  Two  or  three 
lamps  were  rained  out  and  blown  out ;  so,  both  saw  the 
lightning  to  advantage  as  it  quivered  and  zig-zagged  on 
the  iron  tracks. 

The  seizure  of  the  station  with  a  fit  of  trembling, 
gradually  deepening  to  a  complaint  of  the  heart,  an- 
nounced the  train.  Fire  and  steam,  and  smoke,  and  red 
light ;  a  hiss,  a  crash,  a  bell,  and  a  shriek  ;  Louisa  put 
into  one  carriage,  Mrs.  Sparsit  put  into  another  :  the 
little  station  a  desert  speck  in  the  thunder-storm. 

Though  her  teeth  chattered  in  her  head  from  wet  and 
cold,  Mrs.  Sparsit  exulted  hugely.  The  figure  had 
plunged  down  the  precipice,  and  she  felt  herself,  as  it 
were,  attending  on  the  body.  Could  she,  who  had  been 
so  active  in  the  getting  up  of  the  funeral  triumph,  do 
less  than  exult  ?  "  She  will  be  at  Coketown  long  before 
him,"  thought  Mrs.  Sparsit,  **  though  his  liorse  is  never 
so  good.  Where  will  she  wait  for  him  ?  And  where 
will  they  go  together?    Patience.    We  shall  see," 

The  tremendous  rain  occasioned  infinite  confusion, 
when  the  train  stopped  at  its  destination.  Gutters  and 
pipes  had  burst,  drains  had  overflowed,  and  streets  were 
under  water.  In  the  first  instant  of  alighting,  Mrs. 
Sparsit  turned  her  distracted  eyes  towards  the  waiting 
coaches,  which  were  in  great  request.  **She  will  get 
into  one,"  she  considered,  "  and  will  be  away  before  I 
can  follow  in  another.  At  all  risks  of  being  run  over,  I 
must  see  the  number,  and  hear  the  order  given  to  the 
coachman." 

But,  Mrs,  Sparsit  was  wrong  in  her  calculation,  Louisa 
got  into  no  coach,  and  was  already  gone.  The  black  eyes 
kept  upon  the  railroad-carriage  in  which  she  had  trav- 
elled, settled  upon  it  a  moment  too  late.  The  door  not 
being  opened  after  several  minutes,  Mrs,  Sparsit  passed  it 
and  repassed  it,  saw  nothing,  looked  in,  and  found  it 
empty.  Wet  through  and  through  :  with  her  feet  squelch- 
ing and  squashing  in  her  shoes  whenever  she  moved  ; 
with  a  rash  of  rain  upon  her  classical  visage  ;  with  a 
bonnet  like  an  over-ripe  fig  ;  with  all  her  clothes  spoiled  ; 
with  damp  impressions  of  every  button,  string,and  hook- 
and-eye  she  wore,  printed  off  upon  her  highly  connected 
back  ;  with  a  stagnant  verdure  on  her  general  exterior, 
such  as  accumulates  on  an  old  park  fence  in  a  mouldy 
lane  ;  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  no  resource  but  to  burst  into 
tears  of  bitterness  and  say,  "  I  have  lost  her  !  " 


CHAPTER  Xn. 
Down. 

>  The  national  dustmen,  after  entertaining  one  another 
with  a  great  many  noisy  little  fights  among  themselves, 
had  dispersed  for  the  present,  and  Mr.  Gradgrind  was 
at  home  for  the  vacation. 

He  sat  writing  in  the  room  with  the  deadly  statistical 
clock,  proving  something  no  doubt — probably,  in  the 
main,  that  the  Good  Samaritan  was  a  Bad  Economist. 
The  noise  of  the  rain  did  not  disturb  him  much  ;  but  it 
attracted  his  attention  sufficiently  to  make  him  raise  his 
head  Sometimes,  as  if  he  were  rather  remonstrating  with 
the  elements.  When  it  thundered  very  loudly,  he 
glanced  towards  Coketown,  having  it  in  his  mind  that 
some  of  the  tall  chimneys  might  be  struck  by  lightning. 

The  thunder  was  rolling  into  distance,  and  the  rain 
was  pouring  down  like  a  deluge,  when  the  door  of  his 
room  opened.  He  looked  round  the  lamp  upon  his 
table,  and  saw,  with  amazement,  his  eldest  daughter. 

"  Louisa  1  " 

"  Father,  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Wliat  is  the  matter  ?  Ho w 'strange  you  look  1  And 
good  Heaven,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  wondering  more 
and  more,  "have  you  come  here  exposed  to  this  storm  ?" 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  dress,  as  if  she  hardly  knew. 

"  Yes."    Then  she  uncovered  her  head,  and  letting  her 


TIMES.  1021 

cloak  and  hood  fall  where  they  might,  stood  looking  at 
him  ;  so  colourless,  so  dishevelled,  so  defiant  and  despair- 
ing, that  he  was  afraid  of  her, 

"  What  is  it  ?  I  conjure  you,  Louisa,  tell  me  what  is 
the  mutter." 

She  dropped  in#o  a  chair  before  him,  and  put  her  cold 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Father,  you  have  trained  me  from  my  cradle  ?  " 
"  Yes,  Louisa." 

"  I  curse  the  hour  in  which  I  was  born  to  such  a  des- 
tiny." 

He  looked  at  her  in  doubt  and  dread,  vacantly  repeat- 
ing, "  Curse  the  hour?    Curse  the  hour?" 

"  How  could  you  give  me  life,  and  take  from  me  all 
the  inappreciable  things  that  raise  it  from  the  state  of 
conscious  death  ?  Where  are  the  graces  of  my  soul  ? 
Where  are  the  sentiments  of  my  heart  ?  What  have  you 
done,  O  father,  what  have  you  done,  with  the  garden 
that  should  have  bloomed  once,  in  this  great  wilderness 
here  ! " 

She  struck  herself  with  both  her  hands  upon  her  bosom. 

"  If  it  had  ever  been  here,  its  ashes  alone  would  save 
me  from  the  void  in  which  my  whole  life  sinks.  I  did  not 
mean  to  say  this  ;  but,  father,  you  remember  the  last 
time  we  conversed  in  this  room  ?  " 

He  had  been  so  wholly  unprepared  for  what  he 
heard  now,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he  answered,  "  Yes, 
Louise." 

"  What  has  risen  to  my  lips  now,  would  have  risen  to 
my  lips  then,  if  you  had  given  me  a  moment's  help.  I 
don't  reproach  you,  father.  What  you  have  never  nur- 
tured in  me,  you  have  never  nurtured  in  yourself  ;  but 

0  I  if  you  had  only  done  so  long  ago,  or  if  you  had  only 
neglected  me,  what  a  much  better  and  much  happier 
creature  I  should  have  been  this  day  ! " 

On  hearing  this,  after  all  his  care,  he  bowed  his  head 
upon  his  hand  and  groaned  aloud, 

"Father,  if  you  had  known,  when  we  were  last  to- 
gether here,  what  even  I  feared  while  I  strove  against  it 
— as  it  has  been  my  task  from  infancy  to  strive  against 
every  natural  prompting  that  has  arisen  in  ray  heart  ;  if 
you  had  known  that  there  lingered  in  my  breast,  sensibili- 
ties,affections.  Weaknesses  capable  of  being  cherished  into 
strength,  defying  all  the  calculations  ever  made  by  man, 
and  no  more  known  to  his  arithmetic  than  his  Creator 
is, — would  yoahave  given  me  to  the  husband  whom  I  am 
now  sure  that  I  hate?" 

He  said,  "  No.    No,  my  poor  child." 

"  Would  you  have  doomed  me,  at  any  time,  to  the 
frost  and  blight  that  have  hardened  and  spoiled  me  ? 
Would  you  have  robbed  me — for  one's  enrichment— only 
for  the  greater  desolation  of  this  world — of  the  immaterial 
part  of  my  life,  the  spring  and  summer  of  my  belief,  my 
refuge  from  what  is  sordid  and  bad  in  the  real  things 
around  me,  my  school  in  which  I  should  have  learned  to 
be  more  humble  and  more  trusting  with  them,  and  to 
hope  in  my  little  sphere  to  make  them  better  ?  " 

"  O  no,  no.    No,  Louisa." 

"  Yet,  father,  if  I  had  been  stone  blind  ;  if  I  had  grop- 
ed my  way  by  my  sense  of  touch,  and  had  been  free,  while 

1  knew  the  shapes  and  surfaces  of  things,  to  exercise 
my  fancy  somewhat,  in  regard  to  them  ;  I  should  have 
been  a  million  times  wiser,  happier,  more  loving,  more 
contented,  more  innocent  and  human  in  all  good  respects, 
than  I  am  with  the  eyes  I  have.  Now,  hear  what  I  have 
come  to  say. " 

He  moved,  to  support  her  with  his  arm.  She  rising  as 
he  did  so,  they  stood  close  together  :  she,  with  a  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  looking  fixedly  in  his  face. 

"With  a  hunger  and  thirst  upon  me,  father,  which 
have  never  been  for  a  moment  appeased  ;  with  an  ardent 
impulse  towards  some  region  where  rules,  and  figures, 
and  definitions  were  not  quite  absolute  ;  I  have  grown 
up,  battling  every  inch  of  my  way." 

"  I  never  knew  you  were  unhappy,  my  child." 

"  Father,  I  always  knew  it.  In  this  strife  I  have  al- 
most repulsed  and  crushed  my  better  angel  into  a 
demon.  What  I  have  learned  has  left  me  doubting, 
misbelieving,  despising,  regretting,  what  I  have  not 
learned  ;  and  my  dismal  resource  has  been  to  think  that 
life  would  soon  go  by,  and  that  nothing  in  it  could  be 
worth  the  paiu  and  trouble  of  a  contest." 


1022 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


*'  And  you  so  young,  Louisa  ! "  he  said  witli  pity. 

"  And  I  so  young.  In  this  condition,  father — for  I 
show  you  now,  without  fear  or  favour,  the  ordinary  dead- 
ened state  of  my  mind  as  I  know  it — you  proposed  my 
husband  to  me.  I  took  him.  I  never  made  a  pretence 
to  him  or  you  that  I  loved  him.  I  knew,  and,  father, 
you  knew,  and  he  knew,  that  I  never  did,  I  was  not 
wholly  indifferent,  for  I  had  a  hope  of  being  pleasant 
and  useful  to  Tom.  I  made  that  wild  escape  into  some- 
thing visionary,  and  have  slowly  found  out  how  wild  it 
was.  But  Tom  had  been  the  subject  of  all  the  little 
tenderness  of  my  life  ;  perhaps  he  became  so  because  I 
knew  so  well  how  to  pity  him.  It  matters  little  now, 
except  as  it  may  dispose  you  to  think  more  leniently  of 
his  errors." 

As  her  father  held  her  in  his  arms,  she  put  her  other 
hand  upon  his  other  shoulder,  and  still  looking  fixedly  in 
his  face  went  on, 

"  When  I  was  irrevocably  married,  there  rose  up  into 
rebellion  against  the  tie,  the  old  strife,  made  fiercer  by 
all  those  causes  of  disparity  which  arise  out  of  our  two 
individual  natures,  and  which  no  general  laws  shall  ever 
rule  or  state  for  me,  father,  until  they  shall  be  able  to 
direct  the  anatomist  where  to  strike  his  knife  into  the 
secrets  of  my  soul." 

"Louisa  !"  he  said,  and  said  imploringly  ;  for  he  well 
remembered  what  had  passed  between  ihem  in  their 
former  interview. 

"  I  do  not  reproach  you,  father  ;  I  make  no  complaint. 
I  am  here  with  another  object." 

"  What  can  I  do,  child?    Ask  me  what  you  will." 

"I  am  coming  to  it.  Father,  chance  then  threw  into 
my  way  a  new  acquaintance ;  a  man  such  as  I  had  had 
no  experience  of  ;  used  to  the  world  ;  light,  polished, 
€asy  ;  making  no  pretences  ;  avowing  the  low  estimate 
of  everything,  that  I  was  half  afraid  to  form  in  secret ; 
conveying  to  me  almost  immediately,  though  I  don't 
know  how  or  by  what  degrees,  that  he  understood  me, 


and  read  my  thoughts.    I  could  not  find  that  he  was 
worse  than  I.    There  seemed  to  be  a  near  affinity  be- 
tween us.  I  only  wondered  it  should  be  worth  his  while, 
who  cared  for  nothing  else,  to  care  so  much  for  me." 
"For  you,  Louisa?" 

Her  father  might  instinctively  have  loosened  his  hold, 
but  that  he  felt  her  strength  departing  from  her,  and  saw 
a  wild  dilating  fire  in  the  eyes  steadfastly  regarding  him.' 

I  say  nothing  of  his  plea  for  claiming  my  confidence. 
It  matters  very  little  how  he  gained  it.  Father,  he  did 
gain  it.  What  you  know  of  the  story  of  my  marriage, 
he  soon  knew,  just  as  well." 

Her  father's  face  was  ashy  white,  and  he  held  her  in 
both  his  arms. 

"  I  have  done  no  worse ;  I  have  not  disgraced  you. 
But  if  you  ask  me  whether  I  have  loved  him,  or  do  love 
him,  I  tell  you  plainly,  father,  that  it  may  be  so.  I  don't 
know  !  " 

She  took  her  hands  suddenly  from  his  shoulders  and 
pressed  them  both  upon  her  side ;  while  in  her  face,  not 
like  itself — and  in  her  figure,  drawn  up,  resolute  to  finish 
by  a  last  effort  what  she  had  to  say — the  feelings  long 
suppressed  broke  loose. 

"This  night,  my  husband  being  away,  he  has  been 
with  me,  declaring  himself  my  lover.  This  minute  he 
expects  me,  for  I  could  release  myself  of  his  presence 
by  no  other  means.  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  sorry,  I  do 
not  know  that  I  am  ashamed,  1  do  not  know  that  I  am 
degraded  in  my  own  esteem.  All  that  I  know  is,  your 
philosophy  and  your  teaching  will  not  save  me.  Now, 
father,  you  have  brought  me  to  this.  Save  me  by  some 
other  means ! " 

He  tightened  his  hold  in  time  to  prevent  her  sinking 
on  the  floor,  but  she  cried  out  in  a  terrible  voice,  "I 
shall  die  if  you  hold  me  !  Let  me  fall  upon  the  ground  ! " 
And  he  laid  her  down  there,  and  saw  the  pride  of  his 
heart  and  the  triumph  of  his  system,  lying,  an  insensible 
heap,  at  his  feet. 


>4< 


BOOK  THE  THIRD.-GARNERING. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Another  Thing  Needful. 

LOUTSA  awoke  from  a  torpor,  and  her  eyes  languidly 
opened  on  her  old  bed  at  home,  and  her  old  room.  It 
seemed,  at  first,  as  if  all  that  had  happened  since  the 
days  when  these  objects  were  familiar  to  her  were  the 
shadows  of  a  dream  ;  but  gradually,  as  the  objects  be- 
came more  real  to  her  sight,  the  events  became  more  real 
to  her  mind. 

She  could  scarcely  move  her  head  for  pain  and  heavi- 
ness, her  eyes  were  strained  and  sore,  and  she  was  very 
weak.  A  curious  passive  inattention  had  such  posses- 
sion of  her,  that  the  presence  of  her  little  sister  in  the 
room  did  not  attract  her  notice  for  some  time.  Even  when 
their  eyes  had  met,  and  her  sister  had  approached  the 
bed,  Louisa  lay  for  minutes  looking  at  her  in  silence, 
and  suffering  her  timidly  to  hold  her  jjassive  hand,  be- 
fore she  asked  : 

"  When  was  I  brought  to  this  room?" 

"  Last  night,  Louisa." 

**  Who  brought  me  here?" 

"  Sissy,  I  believe." 

"  Why  do  you  believe  so  ?  " 

"  Because  1  found  her  here  this  morning;  She  didn't 
come  to  my  bedside  to  wake  me,  as  she  always  does  ; 
and  I  went  to  look  for  her.  She  was  not  in  her  own  room 
either;  and  I  went  looking  for  her  all  over  the  house, 
until  I  found  her  here,  taking  care  of  you  and  cooling 


your  head.  Will  you  see  father  ?  Sissy  said  I  was  to 
tell  him  when  you  woke." 

"  What  a  beaming  face  you  have,  Jane  !"  said  Lou- 
isa, as  her  young  sister — timidly  still — bent  down  to  kiss 
her, 

"  Have  I  ?  I  am  very  glad  you  think  so.  I  am  sure  it 
must  be  Sissy's  doing." 

The  arm  Louisa  had  begun  to  twine  about  her  neck, 
unbent  itself.  "  You  can  tell  father,  if  you  will."  Then, 
staying  her  a  moment,  she  said,  "It  yvas  you  who 
made  my  room  so  cheerful,  and  gave  it  this  look  of  wel- 
come ?  " 

"Oh  no,  Louisa,  it  was  done  before  I  came.    It  was — " 

Louisa  turned  upon  her  pillow,  and  heard  no  more. 
When  her  sister  had  withdrawn,  she  turned  her  head 
back  again,  and  lay  with  her  face  towards  the  door,  un- 
til it  opened  and  her  father  entered. 

He  had  a  jaded  anxious  look  upon  him,  and  his  hand, 
usually  steady,  trembled  in  hers.  He  sat  down  at  the 
side  of  the  bed,  tenderly  asking  how  she  was,  and  dwell- 
ing on  the  necessity  of  her  keeping  very  quiet  after  her 
agitation  and  exposure  to  the  weather  last  night.  Ho 
spoke  in  a  subdued  and  troubled  voice,  very  different 
from  his  usual  dictatorial  manner  ;  and  was  often  at  a 
loss  for  words, 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  My  poor  daughter."  He  was  so 
much  at  a  loss  at  that  place,  that  he  stopped  altogether. 
He  tried  again. 

"  My  unfortunate  child."  The  place  was  so  difficult 
to  get  over,  that  ho  tried  again. 


HARD 

••'It  would  be  hopeless  for  me,  Louisa,  to  endeavour  to 
tell  you  how  overwhelmed  I  have  been,  and  still  am, 
by  what  broke  upon  me  last  night.  The  ground  on 
which  I  stand  has  ceased  to  be  solid  under  my  feet.  The 
only  support  on  which  I  leaned,  and  the  strength  of 
which  it  seemed  and  still  does  seem,  impossible  to  ques- 
tion, has  given  way  in  an  instant.  I  am  stunned  by  these 
discoveries.  I  have  no  selfish  meaning  in  what  I  say  ; 
but  I  find  the  shock  of  what  broke  upon  me  last  night, 
to  be  very  heavy  indeed." 

She  could  give  him  no  comfort  herein.  She  had  suf- 
fered the  wreck  of  her  whole  life  upon  the  rock. 

"  I  will  not  say,  Louisa,  that  if  you  had  by  any  happy 
chance,  undeceived  me  some  time  ago,  it  would  have 
been  better  for  us  both  ;  better  for  your  peace,  and  bet- 
ter for  mine.  For  I  am  sensible  that  it  may  not  have 
been  a  part  of  my  system  to  invite  any  confidence  of 
that  kind.  I  have  proved  my — my  system,  to  myself, 
and  I  have  rigidly  administered  it,  and  I  must  bear 
the  responsibility  of  its  failures.  I  only  entreat  you  to 
believe,  my  favourite  child,  that  I  have  meant  to  do 
right." 

He  said  it  so  earnestly,  and  to  do  him  justice  he  had. 
In  gauging  fathomless  deer>s  with  his  little  mean  excise- 
rod,  and  in  staggering  over  the  universe  with  his  rusty 
stiff-legged  compasses,  he  had  meant  to  do  great  things. 
Within  the  limits  of  his  short  tether  he  had  tumbled 
about,  annihilating  the  flowers  of  existence  with  greater 
singleness  of  purpose  than  many  of  the  blatant  person- 
ages whose  company  he  kept. 

"  I  am  well  assured  of  what  you  say,  father.  I  know 
I  have  been  your  favourite  child.  I  know  you  have  in- 
tended to  make  me  happy.  I  have  never  blamed  you, 
and  I  never  shall." 

He  took  her  outstretched  hand  and  retained  it  in  his. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  remained  all  night  at  my  table, 
pondering  again  and  again  on  what  has  so  painfully 
passed  between  us.  When  I  consider  your  character  ; 
when  I  consider  that  what  has  been  known  to  me  for 
hours,  has  been  concealed  by  you  for  years  ;  when  I 
consider  under  what  immediate  pressure  it  has  been 
forced  from  you  at  last ;  I  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  cannot  but  mistrust  myself." 

He  might  have  added  more  than  all,  when  he  saw 
the  face  now  looking  at  him.  He  did  add  it  in  effect, 
perhaps,  as  he  softly  moved  her  scattered  hair  from  her 
forehead  with  his  hand.  Such  little  actions,  slight  in 
another  man,  were  very  noticeable  in  him  ;  and  his 
daughter  received  them  as  if  they  had  been  words  of 
contrition. 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  slowly,  and  with  hesita- 
tion, as  well  as  with  a  wretched  sense  of  helplessness, 
"  if  I  see  reason  to  mistrust  myself  for  the  past,  Louisa, 
I  should  also  mistrust  myself  for  the  present  and  the  fu- 
ture. To  speak  unreservedly  to  you,  I  do.  I  am  far 
from  feeling  convinced  now,  however  differently  I  might 
have  felt  only  this  time  yesterday,  that  I  am  fit  for  the 
trust  you  repose  in  me  ;  that  I  know  how  to  respond  to 
the  appeal  you  have  come  home  to  make  to  me  ;  that  I 
have  the  right  instinct — supposing  it  for  the  moment  to 
be  some  quality  of  that  nature — how  to  help  you,  and  to 
set  you  right,  my  child." 

She  had  turned  upon  her  pillow,  and  lay  with  her 
face  upon  her  arm,  so  that  he  could  not  see  it.  All  her 
wildness  and  passion  had  subsided  ;  but,  though  soft- 
ened, she  was  not  in  tears.  Her  father  was  changed  in 
nothing  so  much  as  in  the  respect  that  he  would  have 
been  glad  to  see  her  in  tears. 

"Some  persons  hold,"  he  pursued,  still  hesitating, 
"  that  there  is  a  wisdom  of  the  Head,  and  that  there  is 
a  wisdom  of  the  Heart.  I  have  not  supposed  so  ;  but,  as  I 
have  said,  I  mistrust  myself  now.  I  have  supposed  the 
Head  to  be  all-sufficient.  It  may  not  be  all-sufficient ; 
how  can  I  venture  this  morning  to  say  it  is  !  If  that 
other  kind  of  wisdom  should  be  what  I  have  neglected, 
and  should  be  the  instinct  that  is  wanted,  Louisa — " 

He  suggested  it  very  doubtfully,  as  if  he  were  half 
unwilling  to  admit  it  even  now.  She  made  him  no  an- 
swer, lying  before  him  on  her  bed,  still  half-dressed, 
much  as  he  had  seen  her  lying  on  the  floor  of  his  room 
la.st  night. 

'*  Louisa,"  and  his  haiid  rested  on  her  hair  agai^  *'  I 


TIMES.  1023 

have  been  absent  from  here,  my  dear,  a  good  deal  of 
late  ;  and  though  your  sister's  training  has  been  pur- 
sued according  to — the  system,"  he  appeared  to  come  to 
that  word  with  great  reluctance  always,  "has  necessa- 
rily been  modified  by  daily  associations  begun,  in  her 
case,  at  an  early  age.  I  ask  you— ignorantly  and  hum- 
bly, my  daughter — for  the  better,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Father,"  she  replied,  without  stirring,  "  if  any  har- 
mony has  been  awakened  in  her  young  breast  that  was 
mute  in  mine  until  it  turned  to  discord,  let  her  thank 
Heaven  for  it,  and  go  upon  her  happier  way,  taking 
it  as  her  greatest  blessing  that  she  has  avoided  my 
way." 

O  my  child,  my  child  ! "  he  said,  in  a  forlorn  man- 
ner, "I  am  an  unhax)py  man  to  see  you  thus  I  What 
avails  it  to  me  that  you  do  not  reproach  me,  if  I  so  bit- 
terly reproach  myself  !  "  He  bent  his  head,  and  spoke 
low  to  her.  "Louisa,  I  have  a  misgiving  that  some 
change  may  have  been  slowly  working  about  me  in  this 
house,  by  mere  love  and  gratitude  ;  that  what  the  Head 
had  left  undone  and  could  not  do,  the  Heart  may  have 
been  doing  silently.  Can  it  be  so  ?  " 
She  made  him  no  reply. 

"  I  am  too  proud  to  believe  it,  Louisa.  How  could  I 
be  arrogant,  and  you  before  me  !  Can  it  be  so  ?  Is  it 
so,  my  dear?" 

He  looked  upon  her,  once  more,  lying  cast  away 
there  ;  and  without  another  word  went  out  of  the  room. 
He  had  not  been  long  gone,  when  she  heard  a  light 
tread  near  the  door,  and  she  knew  that  some  one  stood 
beside  her. 

She  did  not  raise  her  head.  A  dull  anger  that  she 
should  be  seen  in  her  distress,  and  that  the  involuntary 
look  she  had  so  resented  should  come  to  this  fulfilment, 
smouldered  within  her  like  an  unwholesome  fire.  All 
closely  imprisoned  forces  rend  and  destroy.  The  air 
that  would  be.  healthful  to  the  earth,  the  water  that 
would  enrich  it,  the  heat  that  would  ripen  it,  tear  it  when 
caged  up.  So  in  her  bosom  even  now  ;  the  strongest 
qualities  she  possessed,  long  turned  upon  themselves, 
became  a  heap  of  obduracy,  that  rose  against  a  friend. 

It  was  well  that  soft  touch  came  upon  her  neck,  and 
that  she  understood  herself  to  be  supposed  to  have  fal- 
len asleep.  The  sympathetic  hand'  did  not  claim  her 
resentment.    Let  it  lie  there,  let  it  lie. 

It  lay  there,  warming  into  life  a  crowd  of  gentler 
thoughts  and  she  rested.  As  she  softened  with  the 
quiet,  and  the  consciousness  of  being  so  watched,  some 
tears  made  their  way  into  her  eyes.  The  face  touched 
hers,  and  she  knew  that  there  were  tears  upon  it  too, 
and  she  the  cause  of  them. 

As  Louisa  feigned  to  rouse  herself,  and  sat  up.  Sissy 
retired,  so  that  she  stood  placidly  near  the  bed-side. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  disturbed  you.  I  have  come  to 
ask  if  you  would  let  me  stay  with  you." 

*'  Why  should  you  stay  with  me  ?  My  sister  will  miss 
you.    You  are  everything  to  her." 

"Am  I?"  returned  Sissy,  shaking  her  head.  "I 
would  be  something  to  you,  if  I  might." 

"  What?"  said  Louisa,  almost  sternly. 

"  Whatever  you  want  most,  if  I  could  be  that.  At 
all  events,  I  would  like  to  try  to  be  as  near  it  as  I  can.  And 
however  far  off  that  may  be,  I  will  never  tire  of  trying. 
Will  you  let  me  ?  " 

"  My  father  sent  you  to  ask  me." 

"No  indeed,"  replied  Sissy.  "He  told  me  that  I 
might  come  in  now,  but  he  sent  me  away  from  the  room 
this  morning — or  at  least — "   She  hesitated  and  stopped. 

"At  least,  what? "said  Louisa,  with  her  searching 
eyes  upon  her. 

"  I  thought  it  best  myself  that  I  should  be  sent  away, 
for  I  felt  very  uncertain  whether  you  would  like  to  find 
me  here." 

"  Have  I  always  hated  you  so  much  ?  " 

"I  hope  not,  for  I  have  always  loved  you,  and  have 
always  wished  that  you  should  know  it.  But  you 
changed  to  me  a  little,  shortly  before  you  left  home. 
Not  that  I  wondered  at  it.  You  knew  so  much,  and  I 
knew  so  little,  and  it  was  so  natural  in  many  ways, 
going  as  you  were  among  many  friends,  that  I  had 
nothing  to  complain  of,  and  was  not  at  all  hurt." 

Her  colour  rose  as  she  said  it  modestly  and  hurriedly. 


1024 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Louisa  understood  tlie  loving  pretence,  and  her  heart 
smote  her. 

"  May  I  try  ?  "  said  Sissy,  emboldened  to  raise  her  hand 
to  the  neck  that  was  insensibly  drooping  towards  her. 

Louisa,  taking  down  the  hand  that  would  have  em- 
braced her  in  another  moment,  held  it  in  one  of  hers, 
and  answered  : 

"First,  Sissy,  do  you  know  what  I  am?  I  am  so 
proud  and  so  hardened,  so  confused  and  troubled,  so  re- 
sentful and  unjust  to  every  one  and  to  myself,  that  every- 
thing is  stormy,  dark,  and  wicked  to  me.  Does  not  that 
repel  you  ?  " 
No ! " 

**  I  am  so  unhappy,  and  all  that  should  have  made  me 
otherwise  is  so  laid  waste,  that  if  I  had  been  bereft  of 
sense  to  this  hour,  and  instead  of  being  as  learned  as  you 
think  me,  had  to  begin  to  acquire  the  simplest  truths,  I 
could  not  want  a  guide  to  peace,  contentment,  honour, 
all  the  good  of  which  I  am  quite  devoid,  more  abjectly 
than  I  do.    Does  not  that  repel  you  ?  " 

"No!"  V 

In  the  innocence  of  her  brave  affection,  and  the  brim- 
ming up  of  her  old  devoted  spirit,  the  once  deserted  girl 
shone  like  a  beautiful  light  upon  the  darkness  of  the 
other. 

Louisa  raised  the  hand  that  it  might  clasp  her  neck 
and  join  its  fellow  there.  She  fell  upon  her  knees,  and 
clinging  to  this  stroller's  child  looked  up  at  her  almost 
with  veneration. 

"  Forgive  me,  pity  me,  help  me  !  Have  compassion 
on  my  great  need,  and  let  me  lay  this  head  of  mine  upon 
a  loving  heart  ?" 

**  Oh  lay  it  here  ! "  cried  Sissy.  **  Lay  it  here,  my  dear." 


CHAPTER  n. 

Very  Eidiculous. 

Mr.  James  Harthouse  passed  a  whole  night  and  a 
day  in  a  state  of  so  much  hurry,  that  the  World,  with 
its  best  glass  in  its  eye,  would  scarcely  have  recognised 
him  during  that  insane  interval,  as  the  brother  Jem  of 
the  honourable  and  jocular  member.  He  was  positively 
agitated.  He  several  times  spoke  with  an  emphasis 
similar  to  the  vulgar  manner.  He  went  in  and  went  out 
in  an  unaccountable  way,  like  a  man  without  an  object. 
He  rode  like  a  highwayman.  In  a  word,  he  was  so  hur- 
riedly bored  by  existing  circumstances,  that  he  forgot  to 
go  in  for  boredom  in  the  manner  prescribed  by  the 
authorities. 

After  putting  his  horse  at  Coketown  through  the 
storm  as  if  it  were  a  leap,  he  waited  up  all  night  :  from 
time  to  time  ringing  his  bell  with  the  greatest  fury, 
charging  the  porter  who  kept  watch  with  delinquency  in 
withholding  letters  or  messages  that  could  not  fail  to 
have  been  entrusted  to  him,  and  demanding  restitution 
on  the  spot.  The  dawn  coming,  the  morning  coming, 
and  the  day  coming,  and  neither  message  nor  letter 
coming  with  either,  he  went  down  to  the  country-house. 
There  the  report  was,  Mr.  Bounderby  away  and  Mrs. 
Bounderby  in  town.  Left  for  town  suddenly  last  even- 
ing. Not  even  known  to  be  gone  until  receipt  of  mes- 
sage importing  that  her  return  was  not  to  be  expected 
for  the  present. 

In  these  circumstances  he  had  nothing  for  it  but  to 
follow  her  to  town.  He  went  to  the  house  in  town,  Mrs, 
Bounderby  not  there.  He  looked  in  at  the  Bank,  Mr. 
Bounderby  away,  and  Mjs,  Sparsit  away.  Mrs.  Sparsit 
away?  Who  could  have  been  reduced  to  sudden  ex- 
tremity for  the  company  of  that  griffin  ! 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom,  who  had  his  own 
reasons  for  being  uneasy  about  it.  •  "  She  was  off  some- 
where at  daybreak  this  morning.  She's  always  full  of 
mystery  ;  I  hate  her.  So  I  do  that  white  chap  ;  he's 
always  got  his  blinking  eyes  upon  a  fellow." 

"  Where  were  you  last  night,  Tom?" 

"Where  was  f  last  night!"  said  Tom.  "Come!  I 
like  that,  I  was  waiting  for  you,  Mr,  Harthouse,  till  it 
came  down  as  /  never  saw  it  come  down  before.  Where 
was  I  too  !    Where  were  you,  you  mean." 


"  I  was  prevented  from  coming— detained." 

"  Detained  ! "  murmured  Tom,  "  Two  of  us  were  de- 
tained. I  was  detained  looking  for  you,  till  I  lost  every 
train  but  the  mail.  It  would  have  been  a  pleasant  job 
to  go  down  by  that  on  such  a  night,  and  have  to  walk 
home  through  a  pond.  I  was  obliged  to  sleep  in  town 
after  all," 

"  Where?" 

"  Where  ?    Why,  in  my  own  bed  at  Bounderby's." 

"  Did  you  see  your  sister  ?" 

"How  the  deuce,"  returned  Tom  staring,  "could  I 
see  my  sister  when  she  was  fifteen  miles  off  ?  " 

Cursing  these  quick  retorts  of  the  young  gentleman  to 
whom  he  was  so  true  a  friend,  Mr,  Harthouse  disembar- 
rassed himself  of  that  interview  with  the  smallest  con- 
ceivable amount  of  ceremony  and  debated  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  what  all  this  could  mean  ?  He  made  only 
one  thing  clear.  It  was,  that  whether  she  was  in  town 
or  out  of  town,  whether  he  had  been  premature  with  her 
who  was  so  hard  to  comprehend,  or  she  had  lost  courage, 
or  they  were  discovered,  or  some  mischance  or  mistake, 
at  present  incomprehensible,  had  occurred,  he  must  re- 
main to  confront  his  fortune,  whatever  it  was.  The 
hotel  where  he  was  known  to  live  when  condemned  to 
that  region  of  blackness,  was  the  stake  to  which  he  was 
tied.    As  to  all  the  rest — What  will  be,  will  be. 

"  So,  whether  I  am  waiting  for  a  hostile  message,  or 
an  assignation,  or  a  penitent  remonstrance,  or  an  im- 
promptu wrestle  with  my  friend  Bounderby  in  the  Lan- 
cashire manner — which  would  seem  as  likely  as  anything 
else  in  the  present  state  of  affairs — I'll  dine,"  said  Mr. 
James  Harthouse.  "Bounderby  has  the  advantage  in 
point  of  weight ;  and  if  anything  of  a  British  nature  is 
to  come  off  between  us,  it  may  be  as  well  to  be  in  train- 
ing." 

Therefore  he  rang  the  bell,  and  tossing  himself  negli- 
gently on  a  sofa,  ordered  "  Some  dinner  at  six — with  a 
beefsteak  in  it,"  and  got  through  the  intervening  time 
as  well  as  he  could.  That  was  not  particularly  well ; 
for  he  remained  in  the  greatest  perplexity,  and,  as  the 
hours  went  on,  and  no  kind  of  explanation  offered  itself, 
his  perplexity  augmented  at  compound  interest. 

However,  he  took  affairs  as  coolly  as  it  was  in  human 
nature  to  do,  and  entertained  himself  with  the  facetious 
idea  of  the  training  more  than  once.  "  It  wouldn't  be 
bad,"  he  yawned  at  one  time,  "  to  give  the  waiter  five 
shillings,  and  throw  him."  At  another  time  it  occurred 
to  him,  "  Or  a  fellow  of  about  thirteen  or  fourteen  stone 
might  be  hired  by  the  hour. "  But  these  jests  did  not 
tell  materially  on  the  afternoon,  or  his  suspense  ;  and 
sooth  to  say  they  both  lagged  fearfully. 

It  was  impossible,  even  before  dinner,  to  avoid  often 
walking  about  in  the  pattern  of  the  carpet,  looking  out 
of  the  window,  listening  at  the  door  for  footsteps,  and 
occasionally  becoming  rather  hot  when  any  steps  ap- 
proached that  room.  But,  after  dinner,  when  the  day 
turned  to  twilight,  and  the  twilight  turned  to  night,  and 
still  no  communication  was  made  to  him,  it  began  to  be 
as  he  expressed  it,  "like  the  Holy  Office  and  slow  tor- 
ture." However,  still  true  to  his  conviction  that  indif- 
ference was  the  genuine  high-breeding  (the  only  convic- 
tion he  had),  he  seized  this  crisis  as  the  opportunity  for 
ordering  candles  and  a  newspaper. 

He  had  been  trying  in  vain,  for  half  an  hour,  to  read 
this  newspaper,  when  the  waiter  appeared  and  said,  at 
once  mysteriously  and  apologetically  : 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir.  You're  wanted,  sir,  if  you 
please." 

A  general  recollection  that  this  was  the  kind  of  thing 
the  Police  said  to  the  swell  mob,  caused  Mr.  Harthouse 
to  ask  the  waiter  in  return,  with  bristling  indignation, 
what  the  Devil  he  meant  by  "  wanted  "  ? 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir.  Young  lady  outside,  sir, 
wishes  to  see  you." 

"Outside?  Where?" 

"  Outside  this  door,  sir." 

Giving  the  waiter  to  the  personage  before  mentioned, 
as  a  blockhead  duly  qualified  for  that  consignment,  Mr. 
Harthouse  hurried  into  the  gallery.  A  young  woman 
whom  he  had  never  seen  stood  there.  Plainly  dressed, 
very  quiet,  very  pretty.  As  he  conducted  her  into  the 
room  and  placed  a  chair  for  her,  he  observed,  by  the 


HARD  TIME 8. 


1025 


liglit  of  the  candles,  that  she  was  even  prettier  than  he 
had  at  first  believed.  Her  face  was  innocent  and  youthful, 
and  its  expression  remarkably  pleasant.  She  was  not 
afraid  of  him,  or  in  any  way  disconcerted  ;  she  seemed 
to  have  her  mind  entirely  pre-occupied  with  the  occasion 
of  iier  visit,  and  to  have  substituted  that  consideration 
for  herself. 

"I  speak  to  Mr.  Ilarthouse  ? "  she  said,  when  they 
were  alone. 

•'To  Mr.  Harthouse."  He  added  in  his  mind,  "And 
you  speak  to  him  with  the  most  confiding  eyes  I  ever 
saw,  and  the  most  earnest  voice  (thoug-h  so  quiet)  I  ever 
heard." 

"If  I  do  not  understand — and  I  do  not,  sir" — said 
Sissy,  "  what  your  honour  as  a  gentleman  binds  you  to, 
in  other  matters  the  blood  really  rose  in  his  face  as 
she  began  in  these  words  :  '*  I  am  sure  I  may  rely  u])on 
it  to  keep  my  visit  secret,  and  to  keep  what  I  am  going 
to  say.  I  may  rely  upon  it,  if  you  will  tell  me  I  may  so 
far  trust- 

"  You  may,  I  assure  you." 

"  I  am  young,  as  you  see  ;  I  am  alone,  as  you  see.  In 
coming  to  you,  sir,  I  have  no  advice  or  encouragement 
beyond  my  own  hope." 

He  thought  "  But  that  is  very  strong,"  as  he  followed 
the  momentary  upward  glance  of  her  eyes.  He  thought 
besides,  "This  is  a  very  odd  beginning.  I  don't  see 
where  we  are  going." 

"I  think,"  said  Sissy,  "you  have  already  guessed 
whom  I  left  just  now  ?" 

"  I  have  been  in  the  greatest  concern  and  uneasiness 
during  the  last  four-and-twenty  hours  (which  have  ap- 
peared as  many  years),"  he  returned,  "  on  a  lady's  ac- 
count. The  hopes  t  have  been  encouraged  to  form  that 
you  came  from  that  lady,  do  not  deceive  me,  I  trust." 

"I  left  her  within  an  hour." 

"At—?" 

"  At  her  father's." 

Mr.  Harthouse's  face  lengthened  in  spite  of  his  coolness, 
and  his  perplexity  increased.  "  Then  I  certainly,"  he 
thought,  "  do  not  see  where  we  are  going." 

"  She  hurried  there  last  night.  She  arrived  there  in 
great  agitation,  and  was  insensible  all  through  the  night. 
I  live  at  her  father's,  and  was  with  her.  You  may 
be  sure,  sir,  you  will  never  see  her  again  as  long  as  you 
live." 

Mr.  Harthouse  drew  a  long  breath  ;  and,  if  ever  man 
found  himself  in  the  position  of  not  knowing  what  to 
say,  made  the  discovery  beyond  all  question  that  he  was 
so  circumstanced.  The  child-like  ingenuousness  with 
which  his  visitor  spoke,  her  modest  fearlessness,  her 
truthfulness  which  put  all  artifice  aside,  her  entire  for- 
getfulness  of  herself  in  her  earnest  quiet  holding  to  the 
object  with  which  she  had  come  ;  all  this,  together  with 
her  reliance  on  his  easily  given  promise — which  in  itself 
shamed  him — presented  something  in  which  he  was  so 
inexperienced,  and  against  which  he  knew  any  of  his 
usual  weapons  would  fall  so  powerless  ;  that  not  a  word 
could  he  rally  to  his  relief. 

At  last  he  said  : 

"  So  startling  an  announcement,  so  confidently  made, 
and  by  such  lips,  is  really  disconcerting  in  the  last 
degree.  May  I  be  permitted  to  inquire,  if  you  are 
charged  to  convey  that  information  to  me  in  those  hope- 
less words,  by  the  lady  of  whom  we  speak." 

"  I  have  no  charge  from  her." 

"  The  drowning  man  catches  at  the  straw.  With  no 
disrespect  for  your  judgment,  and  with  no  doubt  of 
your  sincerity,  excuse  my  saying  that  I  cling  to  the 
belief  that  there  is  yet  hope  that  I  am  not  condemned 
to  perpetual  exile  from  that  Jady's  presence." 

"  There  is  not  the  least  hope.  The  first  object  of  my 
f;oraing  here,  sir,  is  to  assure  you  that  you  must  believe 
that  there  is  no  more  hope  of  your  ever  speaking  with 
her  again,  than  there  would  be  if  she  had  died  when  she 
came  home  last  night." 

"  Must  believe?  But  if  I  can't — or  if  I  should,  by  in- 
firmity of  nature,  be  obstinate — and  won't — " 

"  It  is  still  true.    There  is  no  hop^" 

James  Harthouse  looked  at  her  with  an  incredulous 
smile  upon  his  lips  ;  but  her  mind  looked  over  and 
beyond  him,  and  the  smile  was  quite  thrown  away. 
Vol.  II.— 65 


He  bit  his  lip,  and  took  a  little  time  for  considera- 
tion. 

"  Well  !  If  it  should  unhappily  appear,"  he  said, 
"  after  due  pains  and  duty  on  my  part,  that  I  am  brought 
to  a  position  so  desolate  as  this  banishment,  I  shall  not 
become  the  lady's  persecutor.  But  you  said  you  had  no 
commission  from  her  ?  " 

"  1  have  only  the  commission  of  my  love  for  her.  and 
her  love  for  me,  I  have  no  other  trust,  than  that  I  have 
been  with  her  since  she  came  home,  and  that  she  has 
given  me  her  confidence.  I  have  no  further  trust,  than 
that  I  know  something  of  her  character  and  her  mar- 
riage. O  Mr,  Ilarthouse,  I  think  you  had  that  trust 
too  ! " 

He  was  touched  in  the  cavity  where  his  heart  should 
have  been — in  that  nest  of  addled  eggs,  where  the  birds 
of  heaven  would  have  lived  if  they  had  not  been  whis- 
tled away — by  the  fervour  of  this  approach. 

"I  am  not  a  moral  sort  of  fellow,"  he  said,  "and  I 
never  make  any  pretensions  to  the  character  of  a  moral 
sort  of  fellow.  I  am  as  immoral  as  need  be.  At  the 
same  time,  in  bringing  any  distress  uj)on  the  lady  who 
is  the  subject  of  the  present  conversation,  or  in  unfortu- 
nately compromising  her  in  any  way,  or  in  committing 
myself  by  any  expression  of  sentiments  towards  her, 
not  perfectly  reconcilable  with — in  fact  with — the  do- 
1  mestic  hearth  ;  or  in  taking  any  advantage  of  her  fa- 
ther's being  a  machine,  or  of  her  brother's  being  a  whelp, 
or  of  her  husband's  being  a  bear  ;  I  beg  to  be  allowed 
to  assure  you  that  I  have  had  no  particularly  evil  inten- 
tions, but  have  glided  on  from  one  step  to  another  with 
a  smoothness  so  perfectly  diabolical,  that  I  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  the  catalogue  was  half  so  long  until  I 
began  to  turn  it  over.  Whereas  I  find,"  said  Mr.  James 
Harthouse,  in  conclusion,  "  that  it  is  really  in  several 
volumes." 

Though  he  said  all  this  in  his  frivolous  way,  the  way 
seemed,  for  that  once,  a  conscious  polishing  of  but  an 
ugly  surface.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment  ;  and  then 
proceeded  with  a  more  self-possessed  air,  though  with 
traces  of  vexation  and  disappointment  that  would  not  be 
polished  out. 

•"  After  what  has  been  just  now  represented  to  me,  in 
a  manner  I  find  it  impossible  to  doubt — I  know  of  hardly 
any  other  source  from  which  I  could  have  accepted  it  so 
readily — I  feel  bound  to  say  to  you,  in  whom  the  confi- 
dence you  have  mentioned  has  been  reposed,  that  I  can- 
not refuse  to  contemplate  the  possibility  (liowever  unex- 
pected) of  my  seeing  the  lady  no  more.  I  am  solely  to 
l3lame  for  the  thing  having  come  to  this— and — and,  I 
cannot  say,"  he  added,  rather  hard  up  for  a  general  per- 
oration, "  that  I  have  any  sanguine  expectation  of  ever 
becoming  amoral  sort  of  fellow,  or  that  I  have  any  belief 
in  any  moral  sort  of  fellow  whatever." 

Sissy's  face  sufficiently  showed  that  her  appeal  to  him 
was  not  finished. 

"  You  spoke,"  he  resumed,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
him  again,  "of  your  first  object.  I  may  assume  that 
there  is  a  second  to  be  mentioned  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Will  you  oblige  me  by  confiding  it?  " 

"  Mr.  Harthouse,"  returned  Sissy,  with  a  blending  of 
gentleness  and  steadiness  that  quite  defeated  him,  and 
with  a  simple  confidence  in  his  being  bound  to  do  what 
she  required,  that  held  him  at  a  singular  disadvantage, 
"  the  only  reparation  that  remains  with  you,  is  to  leave 
here  immediately,  and  finally.  I  am  quite  sure  that  you 
can  mitigate  in  no  other  way  the  wrong  and  harm  you  have 
done.  I  am  quite  sure  that  it  is  the  only  compensation 
you  have  left  it  in  your  power  to  make.  I  do  not  say  that 
it  is  much,  or  that  it  is  enough  ;  but  it  is  something,  and 
it  is  necessary.  Therefore,  though  without  any  other 
authority  thaii  I  have  given  you,  and  even  without  the 
knowledge  of  any  other  person  than  yourself  and  my- 
self, I  ask  you  to  depart  from  this  place  to-night,  under 
i  an  obligation  never  to  return  to  it." 

If  she  had  asserted  any  influence  over  him  beyond  her 
plain  faith  in  the  truth  and  right  of  what  she  said  ;  if 
she  had  concealed  the  least  doubt  or  irresolution,  or  had 
harboured  for  the  best  purpose  any  reserve  or  pretence  ; 
if  she  had  shown,  or  felt,  the  lightest  trace  of  any  sen- 
sitiveness to  his  ridicule  or  his  astonishment,  or  any  re- 


1026 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


monstrance  he  might  offer  ;  he  would  have  carried  it 
against  her  at  this  point.  But  he  could  as  easily  have 
changed  a  clear  sky  by  looking  at  it  in  surprise,  as  affect 
her. 

"  But  do  you  know,"  he  asked,  quite  at  a  loss,  "  the 
extent  of  what  you  ask  ?  You  probably  are  not  aware 
that  I  am  here  on  a  public  kind  of  business,  preposterous 
enough  in  itself,  but  which  I  have  gone  in  for,  and 
sworn  by,  and  am  supposed  to  be  devoted  to  in  quite  a 
desperate  manner  ?  You  probably  are  not  aware  of  that, 
but  I  assure  you  it's  the  fact." 

It  had  no  effect  on  Sissy,  fact  or  no  fact. 

"  Besides  which,"  said  Mr.  Harthouse,  taking  a  turn 
or  two  across  the  room,  dubiously,  "it's  so  alarmingly 
absurd.  It  would  make  a  man  so  ridiculous,  after  going 
in  for  these  fellows,  to  back  out  in  such  an  incompre- 
hensible way." 

"lam  quite  sure,"  repeated  Sissy,  "that  it  is  the 
only  reparation  in  your  power,  sir.  I  am  quite  sure,  or 
I  would  not  have  come  here." 

He  glanced  at  her  face,  and  walked  about  again. 
"  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  So  im- 
mensely absurd  ! " 

It  fell  to  his  lot,  now,  to  stipulate  for  secrecy. 

"  If  I  were  to  do  such  a  very  ridiculous  thing,"  he 
said,  stopping  again  presently,  and  leaning  against  the 
chimney-piece,  "  it  could  only  be  in  the  most  inviolable 
confidence." 

"I  will  trust  to  you,  sir,"  returned  Sissy,  "and  you 
will  trust  to  me," 

His  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece  reminded  him 
of  the  night  with  the  whelp.  It  was  the  self -same 
chimney-piece,  and  somehow  he  felt  as  if  he  were  the 
whelp  to-night.    He  could  make  no  way  at  all, 

"I  suppose  a  man  never  was  placed  in  a  more  ridicu- 
lous position,"  he  said,  after  looking  down,  and  looking 
up,  and  laughing,  and  frowning,  and  walking  off,  and 
walking  back  again.  "But  I  see  no  way  out  of  it. 
What  will  be,  will  be.  This  will  be,  I  suppose.  I  must 
take  off  myself,  I  imagine — in  short,  I  engage  to  do  it." 

Sissy  rose.  She  was  not  surprised  by  the  result,  but 
she  was  happy  in  it,  and  her  face  beamed  brightly. 

"You  will  permit  me  to  say,"  continued  Mr.  Janjes 
Harthouse,  "  that  I  doubt  if  any  other  ambassador,  or 
ambassadress,  could  have  addressed  me  with  tlie  same 
success.  I  must  not  only  regard  myself  as  being  in  a 
very  ridiculous  position,  but  as  being  vanquished  at  all 
points.  Will  you  allow  me  the  privilege  of  remember- 
ing my  enemy's  name  ?  " 

"  My  name?"  said  the  ambassadress. 

"  The  onlv  name  I  could  possibly  care  to  know,  to- 
night." 

"  Sissy  Jupe." 

"  Pardon  my  curiosity  at  parting.  Related  to  the 
family?" 

"I  am  only  a  poor  girl,"  returned  Sissy.  "I  was 
separated  from  my  father — he  was  only  a  stroller — and 
taken  pity  on  by  Mr.  Gradgrind.  I  have  lived  in  the 
house  ever  since," 

She  was  gone. 

"It  wanted  this  to  complete  the  defeat,"  said  Mr, 
James  Harthouse,  sinking,  with  a  resigned  air,  on  the 
sofa,  after  standing  transfixed  a  little  while.  "The  de- 
feat may  now  be  considered  perfectly  accomplished. 
Only  a  poor  girl — only  a  stroller — only  James  Harthouse 
made  nothing  of — only  James  Harthouse  a  Great  Pyramid 
of  failure," 

The  Great  Pyramid  put  it  into  his  head  to  go  up  the 
Nile,  He  took  a  pen  upon  the  instant,  and  wrote  the 
following  note  (in  appropriate  hieroglyphics)  to  his 
brother : 

Dear  Jack.  All  up  at  Coketown.  Bored  out  of  the  place,  and  go- 
ing in  for  camels.    Affectionately,  Jem. 

He  rang  the  bell. 

"  Send  my  fellow  here," 

"  Gone  to  bed,  sir." 

"  Tell  him  to  get  up,  and  pack  up," 

He  wrote  two  more  notes.  One,  to  Mr,  Bounderby, 
announcing  his  retirement  from  that  part  of  the  country, 
and  showing  where  he  would  be  found  for  the  next 


fortnight.  The  other,  similar  in  effect,  to  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, Almost  as  soon  as  the  ink  was  dry  upon  their 
superscriptions,  he  had  left  the  tall  chimneys  of  Coke- 
town  behind,  and  was  in  a  railway  carriage,  tearing  and 
glaring  over  the  dark  landscape. 

The  moral  sort  of  fellows  might  suppose  that  Mr. 
James  Harthouse  derived  some  comfortable  reflections 
afterwards,  from  this  prompt  retreat,  as  one  of  his  few 
actions  that  made  any  amends  for  anything,  and  as  a 
token  to  himself  that  he  had  escaped  the  climax  of  a 
very  bad  business.  But  it  was  not  so,  at  all.  A  secret 
sense  of  having  failed  and  been  ridiculous — a  dread  of 
what  other  fellows  Avho  went  in  for  similar  sorts  of 
things,  would  say  at  his  expense  if  they  knew  it — so  op- 
pressed him,  that  what  was  about  the  very  best  passage 
in  his  life  was  the  one  of  all  others  he  would  not  have 
owned  to  on  any  account,  and  the  only  one  that  made 
him  ashamed  of  himself. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Very  Decided. 

The  indefatigable  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a  violent  cold 
upon  her,  her  voice  reduced  to  a  whisper,  and  her  state- 
ly frame  so  racked  by  continual  sneezes  that  it  seemed 
in  danger  of  dismemberment,  gave  chase  to  her  patron 
until  slie  found  him  in  the  metropolis  ;  and  there,  majes- 
tically sweeping  in  upon  him  at  his  hotel  in  St.  James's 
Street,  exploded  the  combustibles  with  which  she  was 
charged,  and  blew  up.  Having  executed  her  mission 
with  infinite  relish,  this  high-minded  woman  then 
fainted  away  on  Mr.  Bounderby's  coat-collar. 

Mr.  Bounderby's  first  procedure  was  to  shake  Mrs. 
Sparsit  off,  and  leave  her  to  progress  as  she  might 
through  various  stages  of  suffering  on  the  floor.  He 
next  had  recourse  to  the  administration  of  potent  restora- 
tives, such  as  screwing  the  patient's  thumbs,  smiting 
her  hands,  abundantly  watering  her  face,  and  inserting 
salt  in  her  mouth.  When  these  attentions  had  recovered 
her  (which  they  speedily  did),  he  hustled  her  into  a  fast 
train  without  offering  any  other  refreshment,  and  car- 
ried her  back  to  Coketown  more  dead  than  alive. 

Regarded  as  a  classical  ruin,  Mrs,  Sparsit  was  an  in- 
teresting spectacle  on  her  arrival  at  her  journey's  end  ; 
but  considered  in  any  other  light,  the  amount  of  damage 
she  had  by  that  time  sustained  was  excessive,  and  im- 
paired her  claims  to  admiration.  Utterly  heedless  of 
the  wear  and  tear  of  her  clothes  and  constitution,  and 
adamant  to  her  pathetic  sneezes,  Mr,  Bounderby  im- 
mediately crammed  her  into  a  coach,  and  bore  her  off  to 
Stone  Lodge, 

"Now,  Tom  Gradgrind,"  said  Bounderby,  bursting 
into  his  father-in-law's  room  late  at  night;  "here's  a 
lady  here — Mrs,  Sparsit — you  know  Mrs.  Sparsit— who 
has  something  to  say  to  you  that  will  strike  you  dumb." 

"  You  have  missed  my  letter  !  "  exclaimed  Mr,  Grad- 
grind, surprised  by  the  apparition. 

"  Missed  your  letter,  sir  !  "  bawled  Bounderby.  "  The 
present  time  is  no  time  for  letters.  No  man  shall  talk 
to  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown  about  letters,  with 
his  mind  in  the  state  it's  in  now," 

"Bounderby,"  said  Mr,  Gradgrind,  in  a  tone  of  tem- 
perate remonstrance,  "I  speak  of  a  very  special  letter  I 
have  written  to  you,  in  reference  to  Louisa," 

"Tom  Gradgrind,"  replied  Bounderby,  knocking  the 
flat  of  his  hand  several  times  with  great  vehemence  on 
the  table,  "  I  speak  of  a  very  special  messenger  that 
has  come  to  me,  in  reference  to  Louisa.  Mrs.  Sparsit 
ma'am,  stand  forward  !  "  ' 

That  unfortunate  lady  hereupon  essaying  to  offer  tes- 
timony, without  any  voice  and  with  painful  gestures 
expressive  of  an  inflamed  throat,  became  so  aggravat- 
ing  and  underwent  so  many  facial  contortions,  that  Mr. 
Bounderby,  unable  to  bear  it,  seized  her  by  the  arm  and 
shook  her. 

"If  you  can't  net  it  out,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby, 
"  leave  me  to  get  it  out.  This  is  not  a  time  for  a  lady, 
however  highly  connected,  to  be  totally  inaudible,  and 
seemingly  swallowing  marbles.    Tom  Gradgrind,  Mrs» 


HARD 

Sparsit  latterly  found  herself,  by  accident,  in  a  situation 
to  overhear  a  conversation  out  of  doors  between  your 
daughter  and  your  precious  gentleman- friend,  Mr.  James 
Harthouse." 

' '  Indeed  !  "  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

'  Ah!  Indeed!"  cried  Bounderby.  "And  in  that 
conversation — " 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  repeat  its  tenor,  Bounderby. 
I  know  what  passed." 

"You  do?  Perhaps,"  said  Bounderby,  staring  with 
all  his  might  at  his  so  quiet  and  assuasive  father-in- 
law,  "  you  know  where  your  daughter  is  at  the  present 
time  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly.    She  is  here." 
"Here?" 

"My  dear  Bounderby,  let  me  beg  you  to  restrain  these 
loud  outbreaks,  on  all  accounts.  Louisa  is  here.  The 
moment  she  could  detach  herself  from  that  interview 
with  the  person  of  whom  yon  speak,  and  whom  I  deeply 
regret  to  have  been  the  means  of  introducing  to  you, 
Louisa  hurried  here,  for  protection.  I  myself  had  not 
been  at  home  many  hours,  when  I  received  her — here,  in 
this  room.  She  hurried  by  the  train  to  town,  she  ran 
from  town  to  this  house  through  a  raging  storm,  and 
presented  herself'  before  me  in  a  state  of  distraction.  Of 
course,  she  has  remained  here  ever  since.  Let  me  en- 
treat you,  for  your  own  sake  and  for  hers,  to  be  more 
quiet." 

Mr.  Bounderby  silently  gazed  about  him  for  some 
moments,  in  every  direction  except  Mrs.  Sparsit's  direc- 
tion ;  and  then,  abruptly  turning  upon  the  niece  of  Lady 
Scadgers,  said  to  that  wretched  woman  : 

"Now,  ma'am  !  We  shall  be  happy  to  hear  any  little 
apology  you  may  think  proper  to  offer,  for  going  about 
the  country  at  express  pace,  with  no  other  luggage  than 
a  Cock-and-a-Bull,  ma'am  !  " 

"  Sir,"  whispered  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  my  nerves  are  at 
present  too  much  shaken,  and  my  health  is  at  present 
too  much  impaired,  in  your  service,  to  admit  of  my  doing 
more  than  taking  refuge  in  tears." 

(Which  she  did.) 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby,  "without  making 
any  observation  to  you  that  may  not  be  made  with  pro- 
priety to  a  woman  of  good  family,  what  I  have  got  to 
add  to  that,  is  that  there  is  something  else  iu  which  it 
appears  to  me  you  may  take  refuge,  namely,  a  coach. 
And  the  coach  in  which  we  came  here,  being  at  the  door, 
you'll  allow  me  to  hand  you  down  to  it,  and  pack  you 
home  to  the  Bank  :  where  the  best  course  for  you  to 
pursue,  will  be  to  put  your  feet  into  the  hottest  water 
you  can  bear,  and  take  a  glass  of  scalding  rum  and  but- 
ter after  you  get  into  bed."  With  these  words,  Mr. 
Bounderby  extended  his  right  hand  to  the  weeping  lady 
and  escorted  her  to  the  conveyance  in  question,  shedding 
many  plaintive  sneezes  by  the  way.  He  soon  returned 
alone. 

"  Now,  as  you  showed  me  in  your  face,  Tom  Gradgrind, 
that  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me,"  he  resumed,  "here  I 
am.  But,  I  am  not  in  a  very  agreeable  state,  I  tell  you 
plainly  ;  not  relishing  this  business,  even  as  it  is,  and 
not  considering  that  I  am  at  any  time  as  dutifully  and 
submissively  treated  by  your  daughter,  as  Josiah  Boun- 
derby of  Coketown  ought  to  be  treated  by  his  wife.  You 
have  your  opinion,  I  dare  say  ;  and  I  have  mine,  I  know. 
If  you  mean  to  say  anything  to  me  to-night,  that  goes 
against  this  candid  remark,  you  had  better  let  it  alone." 

Mr.  Gcadgrind,  it  will  be  observed,  being  much  soft- 
ened, Mr.  Bounderby  took  particular  pains  to  harden 
himself  at  all  points.    It  was  his  amiable  nature. 

"My  dear  Bounderby,"  Mr.  Gradgrind  began  in 
reply. 

"  Now,  you'll  excuse  me,"  said  Bounderby,  "but  I 
don't  want  to  be  too  dear.  That,  to  start  with.  When 
I  begin  to  be  dear  to  a  man,  I  generally  find  that  his  in- 
tention is  to  come  over  me.  I  am  not  speaking  to  you 
politely  ;  but,  as  you  are  aware,  I  am  not  polite.  If  you 
like  politeness,  you  know  where  to  get  it.  You  have 
your  gentleman-friends,  you  know,  and  they'll  serve 
you  with  as  much  of  the  article  as  you  want.  I  don't 
keep  it  myself." 

"  Bounderby,"  urged  Mr,  Gradgrind,  "  we  are  all  lia- 
ble to  mistakes — " 


TIMES.  1027 

"  I  thought  you  couldn't  make  'em,"  interrupted 
Bounderby. 

"  Perhaps  I  thought  so.  But  I  say  we  are  all  liable  to 
mistakes  ;  and  1  should  feel  sensible  of  your  delicacy 
and  grateful  for  it,  if  you  would  spare  me  these  refer- 
ences to  Harthouse.  I  shall  not  associate  him  in  our 
conversation  with  your  intim.acy  and  encouragement ; 
pray  do  not  persist  in  connecting  him  with  mine." 

"I  never  mentioned  his  name  !"  said  Bounderby. 

"Well,  well!"  returned  Mr.  Gradgrind,  with  a  pa- 
tient, even  a  submissive,  air.  And  he  sat  for  a  little 
while  pondering.  "Bounderby,  I  see  reason  to  doubt 
whether  we  have  ever  quite  understood  Louisa." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  We?" 

"Let  me  say  I,  then,"  he  returned,  in  answer  to  the 
coarsely  blurted  question  ;  "  I  doubt  whether  I  have  un- 
derstood Louisa.  I  doubt  whether  I  have  been  quite 
right  in  the  manner  of  her  education." 

"There  you  hit  it,"  returned  Bounderby.  "There  I 
agree  with  you.  You  have  found  it  out  at  last,  have 
you?  Education  !  I'll  tell  you  what  education  is — To 
be  tumbled  out  of  doors,  neck  and  crop,  and  put  upon 
the  shortest  allowance  of  everything  except  blows. 
That's  what  /call  education." 

"I  think  your  good  sense  will  perceive,"  Mr.  Grad- 
grind remonstrated  in  all  humility,  "that  whatever  the 
merits  of  such  a  system  may  be,  it  would  be  dilficult  of 
general  application  to  girls." 

"I  don't  see  it  at  all,  sir,"  returned  the  obstinate 
Bounderby. 

"  Well,"  sighed  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  we  will  not  enter 
into  the  question.  I  assure  you  I  have  no  desire  to  be 
controversial.  I  seek  to  repair  what  is  amiss,  if  I  possi- 
bly can  ;  and  I  hope  you  will  assist  me  in  a  good  s{)irit, 
Bounderby,  for  I  have  been  very  much  distressed." 

"I  don't  understand  you  yet,"  said  Bounderby,  with 
determined  obstinacy,  "  and  therefore  I  won't  make  any 
promises." 

"In  the  course  of  a  few  hours,  my  dear  Bounderby," 
Mr.  Gradgrind  proceeded  in  the  same  depressed  and 
propitiatory  manner,  "I  appear  to  myself  to  have  be- 
come better  informed  as  to  Louisa's  character,  than  in 
previous  years.  The  enlightenment  has  been  painfully 
forced  upon  me,  and  the  discovery  is  not  mine.  I  think 
there  are — Bounderby,  you  will  be  surprised  lo  hear  me 
say  this — I  think  there  are  qualities  in  Louisa,  which — 
which  have  been  harshly  neglected,  and — and  a  little 
perverted.  And — and  I  would  suggest  to  you,  that — 
that  if  you  would  kindly  meet  me  in  a  timely  endeavour 
to  leave  her  to  her  better  nature  for  a  while — and  to  en- 
courage it  to  develope  itself  by  tender*iess  and  consider- 
ation— it — it  would  be  the  better  for  the  happiness  of  all 
of  us.  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  shading  his  face 
with  his  hand,  "  has  always  been  my  favourite  child." 

The  blustrous  Bounderby  crimsoned  and  swelled  to 
such  an  extent  on  hearing  these  words,  that  he  seemed 
to  be,  and  probably  was,  on  the  brink  of  a  fit.  With  his 
very  ears  a  bright  purple  shot  with  crimson,  he  pent  up 
his  indignation,  however,  and  said  : 

"  You'd  like  to  keep  her  here  for  a  time  ?  " 

"  I — I  had  intended  to  recommend,  my  dear  Bounder- 
by, that  you  should  allow  Louisa  to  remain  here  on  a 
visit,  and  be  attended  by  Sissy  (I  mean  of  course  Cecilia 
Jupe),  who  tmderstands  her,  and  in  whom  she  trusts." 

"  I  gather  from  all  this,  Tom  Gradgrind,"  said  Boun- 
derby, standing  up  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  "that 
you  are  of  opinion  that  there's  what  people  call  some  in- 
compatibility between  Loo  Bounderby  and  myself." 

"I  fear  there  is  at  present  a  general  incompatibility 
between  Louisa  and — and— and  almost  all  the  relations 
in  which  I  have  placed  her,"  was  her  father's  sorrowful 
reply. 

"Now,  look  you  here,  Tom  Gradgrind,"  said  Boun- 
derby the  flushed,  confronting  him  with  his  legs  wide 
apart,  his  hands  deeper  in  his  pockets,  and  his  hair  like  a 
hayfield  wherein  his  windy  anger  was  boisterous.  "  YoiE 
have  said  your  say  ;  I  am  going  to  say  mine.  I  am  a 
Coketown  man.  I  am  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown. 
I  know  the  bricks  of  this  town,  and  I  know  the  works  of 
this  town,  and  I  know  the  chimneys  of  this  town,  and  I 
know  the  smoke  of  this  town,  and  I  know  the  Hands  of 
this  town.    I  know  'em  all  pretty  well.    They're  real. 


1028 


CHARLES  Die  KEN 8'  WORKS. 


When  a  man  tells  me  anything  about  imaginative  quali- 
ties, I  always  tell  that  man,  whoever  he  is,  that  I  know 
Avhat  he  means.  He  means  turtle-soup  and  venison,  with 
a  gold  spoon,  and  that  he  wants  to  be  set  up  with  a  coach 
and  six.  That's  what  your  daughter  wants.  Since  you 
are  of  opinion  that  she  ought  to  have  what  she  wants,  I 
recommend  you  to  provide  it  for  her.  Because,  Tom 
Gradgrind,  she  will  never  have  it  from  me." 

"  Bounderby,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  I  hoped,  after  my 
entreaty,  you  would  have  taken  a  different  tone." 

"  Just  wait  a  bit,"  r^etorted  Bounderby,  "  you  have  said 
your  say,  I  believe.  I  heard  you  out  ;  hear  me  out,  if 
you  please.  Don't  make  yourself  a  spectacle  of  unfair- 
ness as  well  as  inconsistency,  because,  although  I  am 
sorry  to  see  Tom  Gradgrind  reduced  to  his  present  posi- 
tion' I  should  be  doubly  sorry  to  see  him  brought  so  low 
as  that.  Now,  there's  an  incompatibility  of  some  sort  or 
anocher,  I  am  given  to  understand  by  you,  between  your 
daughter  and  me.  I'll  give  you  to  understand,  in  reply 
to  that,  that  there  unquestionably  is  an  incompatibility 
of  the  first  magnitude — to  be  summed  up  in  this — that 
your  daughter  don't  properly  know  her  husband's  merits, 
and  is  not  impressed  with  such  a  sense  as  would  become 
her,  by  George  !  of  the  honour  of  his  alliance.  That's 
plain  speaking,  I  hope." 

"Bounderby,"  urged  Mr,  Gradgrind,  ''this  is  unrea- 
sonable." 

''Is  it?"  said  Bounderby.  "I  am  glad  to  hear  you 
say  so.  Because  when  Tom  Gradgrind  with  his  new 
lights,  tells  me  that  what  I  say  is  unreasonable,  I  mn 
convinced  at  once  it  must  be  devilish  sensible.  With 
your  permission  I  am  going  on.  You  know  my  origin  ; 
and  you  know  that  for  a  good  many  years  of  my  life  I 
didn't  want  a  shoeing-horn,  in  consequence  of  not  having 
a  shoe.  Yet  you  may  believe  or  not,  as  you  think  proper, 
that  there  are  ladies — born  ladies — belonging  to  families 
— Families  ! — who  next  to  worship  the  ground  I  walk  on." 

He  discharged  this  like  a  Rocket,  at  his  father-in-law's 
head. 

"Whereas  your  daughter,"  proceeded  Bounderby,  "  is 
far  from  being  a  born  lady.  That  you  know,  yourself. 
Not  that  I  care  a  pinch  of  candle-snuff  about  such  things, 
for  you  are  very  well  aware  I  don't  ;  but  that  such  is  the 
fact,  and  you,  Toiil  Gradgrind,  can't  change  it.  Why  do 
I  say  this  ?  " 

"  Not,  I  fear,"  observed  Mr.  Gradgrind,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  to  spare  me." 

"Hear  me  out,"  said  Bounderby,  "and  refrain  from 
cutting  in  till  your  turn  comes  round.  I  say  this,  because 
highly  connected  females  have  been  astonished  to  see 
the  way  in  which  your  daughter  has  conducted  herself, 
and  to  witness  her  insensibility.  They  have  wondered 
how  I  have  suffered  it.  And  I  wonder  myself  now,  and  I 
won't  suffer  it." 

"Bounderby,"  returned  Mr.  Gradgrind,  rising,  "the 
less  we  say  to-night  the  better,  I  think." 

"On  the  contrary,  Tom  Gradgrind,  the  more  we  say 
to-night,  the  better,  I  think.  That  is,"  the  consideration 
checked  him,  "  till  I  have  said  all  I  mean  to  say,  and 
tlien  1  don't  care  how  soon  we  stop.  I  come  to  a  question 
that  may  shorten  the  business.  What  do  you  mean  by 
the  proposal  you  made  just  now  t " 

"  What  do  I  mean,  Bounderby  ?" 

"  By  your  visiting  proposition,"  said  Bounderby,  with 
an  inflexible  jerk  of  the  hayfield. 

"  I  mean  that  I  hope  you  may  be  induced  to  arrange 
in  a  friendly  manner,  for  allowing  Louisa  a  period  of 
repose  and  j-eflection  here,  which  may  tend  to  a  gradual 
alteration  for  the  better  in  many  respects." 

"To  a  softening  down  of  your  ideas  of  the  incompati- 
bility?" said  Bounderby. 

"if  you  put  it  in  those  terms." 

"  What  made  you  think  of  this  ?"  said  Bounderby. 

"  I  have  already  said,  I  fear  Louisa  lias  not  been  under- 
stood. Is  it  asking  too  much,  Bounderby,  that  you,  so 
far  her  elder,  should  aid  in  trying  to  set  her  right  ?  You 
have  accepted  a  great  charge  of  her  ;  for  better  for 
worwe,  for — " 

Mr.  Bounderby  may  have  been  annoyed  by  the  repeti- 
tion of  his  own  words  to  Stephen  Blacki)ool,  but  he  cut 
the  quotation  short  with  an  angry  start. 

"  Come  !  "  said  he,  "  I  don't  want  to  be  told  about  that. 


I  know  what  I  took  her  for,  as  well  as  you  do.  Never 
you  mind  what  I  took  her  for  ;  that's  my  lookout." 

"I  was  merely  going  on  to  remark,  Bounderby,  that 
we  may  all  be  more  or  less  in  the  wrong,  not  even  ex- 
cepting you  ;  and  that  some  yielding  on  your  part,  re- 
membering the  trust  you  have  accepted,  may  not  only  be 
an  act  of  true  kindness,  but  perhaps  a  debt  incurred 
towards  Louisa." 

"  I  think  differently,"  blustered  Bounderby.  "I  am 
going  to  finish  this  business  according  to  my  own  opinions. 
Now,  I  don't  want  to  make  a  quarrel  of  it  with  you,  Tom 
Gradgrind.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  think  it  would 
be  worthy  of  my  reputation  to  quarrel  on  such  a  subject. 
As  to  your  gentleman -friend,  he  may  take  himself  off, 
wherever  he  likes  best.  If  he  falls  in  my  way,  I  shall 
tell  him  my  mind  ;  if  he  don't  fall  in  my  way,  I  shan't, 
for  it  won't  be  worth  my  while  to  do  it.  As  to  your 
daughter,  whom  I  made  Loo  Bounderby,  and  might  have 
done  better  by  leaving  Loo  Gradgrind,  if  she  don't  come 
home  to-morrow,  by  twelve  o'clock  at  noon,  I  shall  un- 
derstand that  she  prefers  to  stay  away,  and  I  shall  send 
her  wearing  apparel  and  so  forth  over  here,  and  you'll 
take  charge  of  her  for  the  future.  What  I  shall  say  to 
people  in  general,  of  the  incompatibility  that  led  to  my 
so  laying  down  the  law,  will  be  this.  l  am  Josiah  Boun- 
derby, and  I  had  my  bringing-up  ;  she's  the  daughter  of 
Tom  Gradgrind,  and  she  had  her  bringing-up;  and  the  two 
horses  wouldn't  pul  I  together.  I  am  pretty  well  known  to 
be  rather  an  uncommon  man,  I  believe  :  and  most  people 
will  understand  fast  enough  that  it  must  be  a  woman 
rather  out  of  the  common,  also,  who,  in  the  long  run, 
would  come  up  to  my  mark." 

"  Let  me  seriously  entreat  you  to  reconsider  this,  Boun- 
derby," urged  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  before  you  commit  your- 
self to  such  a  decision." 

"  I  always  come  to  a  decision,"  said  Bounderby,  toss- 
ing his  hat  on  :  "and  whatever  I  do,  I  do  at  once.  I 
should  be  surprised  at  Tom  Gradgrind's  addressing  such 
a  remark  to  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown,  knowing 
what  he  knows  of  him,  if  I  could  be  surprised  by  any- 
thing Tom  Gradgrind  did,  after  his  making  himself  a 
party  to  sentimental  humbug.  I  have  given  you  my  de- 
cision, and  I  have  got  no  more  to  say.    Good-night  ! " 

So  Mr.  Bounderby  went  home  to  his  town  house  to  bed. 
At  five  minutes  past  twelve  o'clock  next  day,  he  directed 
Mrs.  Bounderby's  property  to  be  carefully  packed  up  and 
sent  to  Tom  Gradgrind's  ;  advertised  his  country  retreat 
for  sale  by  private  contract ;  and  resumed  a  bachelor 
life. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Lost. 


The  robbery  at  the  Bank  had  not  languished  before, 
and  did  not  cease  to  oticupy  a  front  place  in  the  attention 
of  the  principal  of  that  establishment  now.  In  boastful 
proof  of  his  promptitude  and  activity,  as  a  remarkable 
man,  and  a  self-made  man,  and  a  commercial  wonder 
more  admirable  than  Venus,  who  had  risen  out  of  the 
mud  instead  of  the  sea,  he  liked  to  show  how  little  his 
domestic  affairs  abated  his  business  ardour.  Conse- 
quently, in  the  first  few  weeks  of  his  resumed  bachelor- 
hood, he  even  advanced  upon  his  usual  display  of  bustle, 
and  every  day  made  such  a  rout  in  renewing  his  investi- 
gations into  the  robbery,  that  the  oflficers  who  had  it.  in 
hand  almost  wished  it  had  never  been  committed. 

They  were  at  fault  too,  and  off  the  scent.  Although 
they  had  been  so  quiet  since  the  first  outbreak  of  the 
matter,  that  most  people  really  did  suppose  it  to  have 
been  abandoned  as  hopeless,  nothing  new  occurred.  No 
implicated  man  or  woman  took  untimely  courage,  or 
made  a  self-betraying  step.  More  remarkable  yet, 
Sfephen  Blackpool  could  not  be  heard  of,  and  the  myste- 
rious old  woman  remained  a  mystery. 

Things  having  come  to  this  pass,  and  showing  no  la- 
tent signs  of  stirring  beyond  it,  the  upshot  of  Mr.  Boun- 
d(;rby's  investigations  was,  that  he  resolved  to  hazard  a 
l)old  burst.  He  drew  up  a  placard,  offering  Twenty 
Pounds  reward  for  the  apprehension  of  Stephen  Black- 
pool, suspected  of  complicity  in  the  robbery  of  the  Coke- 


HARD  TIMES. 


1029 


town  Bank  on  such  a  night  ;  he  described  the  said 
Stephen  Blackpool  by  dress,  complexion,  estimated 
height,  and  manner,  p.s  minutely  as  he  could  ;  he  recited 
how  he  had  left  the  town,  and  in  what  direction  he  had 
been  last  seen  going  ;  he  had  the  whole  printed  in  great 
black  letters  on  a  staring  broadsheet ;  and  he  caused  the 
walls  to  be  posted  with  it  in  the  dead  of  night,  so  that  it 
should  strike  upon  the  sight  of  the  whole  population  at 
one  blow. 

The  factory-bells  had  need  to  ring  their  loudest  that 
morning  to  disperse  the  groups  of  workers  who  stood  in 
the  tardy  daybreak,  collected  round  the  placards,  devour- 
ing them  with  eager  eyes.  Not  the  least  eager  of  the 
eyes  assembled,  were  the  eyes  of  those  who  could  not 
read.  These  people,  as  they  listened  to  the  friendly 
voice  that  read  aloud — there  was  always  some  such  ready 
to  help  them — stared  at  the  characters  which  meant  so 
much  with  a  vagae  awe  and  respect  that  would  have 
been  half  ludicrous,  if  any  aspect  of  public  ignorance 
could  ever  be  otherwise  than  threatening  and  full  of 
evil.  Many  ears  and  eyes  were  busy  with  a  vision  of  the 
matter  of  these  placards,  among  turning  spindles,  rat- 
tling looms,  and  whirring  wheels,  for  hours  afterwards  ; 
and  when  the  Hands  cleared  out  again  into  the  streets, 
there  were  still  as  many  readers  as  before. 

Slackbridge,  the  delegate,  had  to  address  his  audience 
too  that  nighi  ;  and  Slackbridge  had  obtained  a  clean 
bill  from  the  printer,  and  had  brought  it  in  his  pocket. 
O  my  friends  and  fellow  countrymen,  the  down-trodden 
operatives  of  Coketown,  oh,  my  fellow  brothers  and 
fellow  workmen  and  fellow  citizens  and  fellow  men, 
what  a  to-do  was  there,  when  Slackbridge  unfolded 
what  he  called  "  that  damning  document,"  and  held  it 
up  to  the  gaze,  and  for  the  execration,  of  the  working- 
man  community  !  "Oh  my  fellow  men,  behold  what  a 
traitor  in  the  camp  of  those  great  spirits  who  are  enrolled 
upon  the  holy  scroll  of  Justice  and  of  Union,  is  appro- 
priately capable  !  Oh  my  prostrate  friends,  with  the 
galling  yoke  of  tyrants  on  your  necks  and  the  iron  foot 
of  despotism  treading  down  your  fallen  forms  into  the 
dust  of  the  earth,  upon  which  right  glad  would  your 
oppressors  be  to  see  you  creeping  on  your  bellies  all  the 
days  of  your  lives,  like  the  serpent  in  the  garden — oh 
my  brothers,  and  shall  I  as  a  man  not  add,  my  sisters 
too,  what  do  you  say,  now,  of  Stephen  Blackpool,  with  a 
slight  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  and  about  five  foot  seven 
in  height,  as  set  forth  in  this  degrading  and  disgusting 
document,  this  blighting  bill,  this  pernicious  placavd, 
this  abominable  advertisement ;  and  with  what  majesty 
of  denouncement  will  you  crush  the  viper,  who  would 
bring  this  stain  and  shame  upon  the  God-like  race  that 
happily  has  cast  him  out  for  ever  !  Yes,  ray  compatriots, 
happily  cast  him  out  and  send  him  forth  !  For  you  re- 
member how  he  stood  here  before  you  on  this  platform  ; 
you  remember  how,  face  to  face  and  foot  to  foot,  I 
pursued  him  through  all  his.  intricate  windings  ;  you 
remember  how  he  sneaked  and  slunk,  and  sidled,  and 
splitted  of  straws,  until,  with  not  an  inch  of  ground  to 
which  to  cling,  I  hurled  him  out  from  amongst  us  :  an 
object  for  the  undying  finger  of  scorn  to  point  at,  and 
for  the  avenging  fire  of  every  free  and  thinking  mind  to 
scorch  and  sear  !  And  now  my  friends — my  labouring 
friends,  for  I  rejoice  and  Iriumph  in  that  stigma — my 
friends  whose  hard  but  honest  beds  are  made  in  toil, 
and  whose  scanty  but  independent  pots  are  boiled  in 
hardship  ;  and,  now  I  say,  my  friends,  what  appellation 
has  that  dastard  craven  taken  to  himself,  when,  with 
the  mask  torn  from  his  features  he  stands  before  us  in 
all  his  native  deformity,  a  What?  A  thief  !  A  plunderer  ! 
A  proscribed  fugitive,  with  a  price  upon  his  head  ;  a 
fester  and  a  wound  upon  the  noble  character  of  the 
Coketown  operative  !  Therefore,  my  band  of  brothers 
in  a  sacred  bond,  to  which  your  children  and  your  chil- 
dren's children  yet  unborn  have  set  their  infant  hands 
and  seals,  I  propose  to  you  on  the  part  of  the  United 
Aggregate  Tribunal,  ever  watchful  for  your  welfare,  ever 
zealous  for  your  benefit,  that  this  meeting  does  Resolve  ; 
That  Stephen  Blackpool,  weaver,  referred  to  in  this  pla- 
card, having  been  already  solemnly  disowned  by  the 
community  of  Coketown  Hands,  the  same  are  free  from 
the  shame  of  his  misdeeds,  and  cannot  as  a  class  be  re- 
proached with  his  dishonest  actions  I  " 


!     Thus  Slackbridge  ;  gnashing  and  perspiring  after  a 

I  prodigious  sort.    A  few  stern  voices  called  out  "  No  !  " 

j  and  a  score  or  two  hailed,  with  assenting  cries  of  "  Hear, 
hear!  "  the  caution  from  one  man,  "  Slackbridge,  y'or  over 
better  int ;  y'or  a  goen  too  fast  !  "  But  these  were  pigmies 
against  an  army  ;  the  general  assemblage  subscribed  to 

I  the  gospel  according  to  Slackbridge,  and  gave  three 
cheers  for  him,  as  he  sat  demonstratively  panting  at 
them. 

j     These  men  and  women  were  yet  in  the  streets,  passing 
I  quietly  to  their  homes,  when  Sissy,  who  had  been  called 
!  away  from  Louisa  some  minutes  before,  returned. 
I     "  Who  is  it  ?  "  asked  Louisa. 

I  "  It  is  Mr.  Bounderby,"  said  Sissy,  timid  of  the  name, 
"  and  your  brother  Mr.  Tom,  and  a  young  woman  who 

I  says  her  name  is  Rachael,  and  that  you  know  her." 

i     "  What  do  they  want,  Sissy  dear  ?" 

!     "  They  want  to  see  you.  Kachael  has  been  crying,  and 

j  seems  angry." 

"  Father,"  said  Louisa,  for  he  was  present,  "  I  cannot 

I  refuse  to  see  them,  for  a  reason  that  will  explain  itself. 
Shall  they  come  in  here  ?  " 

As  he  answered  in  the  affirmative.  Sissy  went  away  to 
bring  them.  She  re-appeared  with  them  directly.  Tom 
was  last  ;  and  remained  standing  in  the  obscurest  part  of 
the  room,  near  the  door. 

!  "  Mrs.  Bounderby,"  said  her  hu.sband,  entering  with  a 
cool  nod,  "  I  don't  disturb  you,  I  hope.  This  is  an  un- 
seasonable hour,  but  here  .is  a  young  woman  who  has 
been  making  statements  which  render  my  visit  necessary. 
Tom  Gradgrind,  as  your  son,  young  Tom,  refuses  for 
some  obstinate  reason  or  other  to  say  anything  at  all 
about  those  statements,  good  or  bad,  I  am  obliged  to 
confront  her  with  your  daughter," 

j     "You  have  seen  me  once  before,  young  lady,"  said 
Rachael,  standing  in  front  of  Louisa, 
j     Tom  coughed.  * 

"  You  have  seen  me,  young  lady,"  repeated  Rachael, 
as  she  did  not  answer,  "  once  before.'* 
Tom  coughed  again. 
"  I  have." 

Rachael  cast  her  eyes  proudly  towards  Mr.  Bounderby, 
I  and  said,  "  Will  you  make  it  known,  young  lady,  where, 
I  and  who  was  there  ?  " 

"  I  went  to  the  house  where  Stephen  Blackpool  lodged, 
on  the  night  of  his  discharge  from  his  work,  and  I  saw 
you  there.  He  was  there  too  :  and  an  old  woman  who 
did  not  speak,  and  whom  I  could  scarcely  see,  stood  in  a 
dark  corner.    My  brother  was  with  me."* 

"Why  couldn't  you  say  so,  young  Tom?"  demanded 
Bounderby. 

"I  promised  my  sister  I  wouldn't."  Which  Louisa 
hastily  confirmed.  "And  besides,"  said  the  wheip 
bitterly,  "she  tells  her  own  story  so  precious  well — and 
so  fuli — that  what  business  had  I  to  take  it  out  of  her 
mouth  !  " 

"  Say,  young  lady,  if  you  please,"  pursued  Rachael, 
"  why  in  an  evil  hour,  you  ever  came  to  Stephen's  that 
j  night. 

"I  felt  compassion  for  him,"  said  Louisa,  her  colour 
I  deepening,  "  and  I  wished  to  know  what  he  was  going  to 
I  do,  and  wished  to  offer  him  assistance." 
I     "Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby.  "Much 
!  flattered  and  obliged." 

"  Did  you  offer  him,"  asked  Rachael,  "  a  bank-note?" 
"  Yes  ;  but  he  refused  it,  and  would  only  take  two 
pounds  in  gold." 

Rachael  cast  her  eyes  towards  Mr.  Bounderby  again, 
j     "Oh  certainly  !"  said  Bounderby.    "If  you  put  the 
I  question  whether  your  ridiculous  and  improbable  account 
I  was  true  or  not,  I  am  bound  to  say  it's  confirmed.  "' 

"  Young  lady,"  said  Rachael,  "Stephen  Blackpool  is 
now  named  as  a  thief  in  public  print  all  over  this  town, 
i  and  where  else  !    There  have  been  a  meeting  to-night 
I  where  he  have  been  spoken  of  in  the  same  shameful 
,  way.    Stephen  !    The  honestest  lad,  the  truest  lad,  the 
best!"    Her  indignation  failed  her,  and  she  broke  off, 
sobbing. 

I     "I  am  very,  very  sorry,"  said  Louisa, 
j     "O  young  lady,  young  lady,"  returned  Rachael,  "1 
'  hope  you  may  be,  but  I  don't  know  !    I  can't  say  what 
j  you  may  ha'  done  !    The  like  of  you  don't  know  us,  don't 


1030  '  CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


care  for  us,  don't  belong  to  us.  I  am  not  sure  why  you 
may  lia'  come  that  night.  I  can't  tell  but  what  you  may 
ha'  come  wi'  some  aim  of  your  own,  not  niindin  to  what 
trouble  you  brought  such  as  the  poor  lad,  I  said  then. 
Bless  you  for  coming,  and  I  said  it  of  my  lieart,  you 
seemed  to  take  so  pitifully  to  him  ;  but  I  don't  know 
now,  I  don't  know  !  " 

Louisa  could  not  reproach  her  for  her  unjust  suspici- 
ons ;  she  was  so  faithful  to  her  idea  of  the  man,  and  so 
afflicted. 

"  And  when  I  think,"  said  Rachael  through  her  sobs, 
"  that  the  poor  lad  was  so  grateful,  thinkin  you  so  good 
to  him — when  I  mind  that  he  put  his  hand  over  his  hard- 
worken  face  to  hide  the  tears  that  you  brought  up  there 
— 0,  I  hope  you  may  be  sorry,  and  ha'  no  bad  cause  to 
be  it  ;  but  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know  ! " 

"  You're  a  pretty  article,"  growled  the  whelp,  moving 
uneasily  in  his  dark  corner,  "to  come  here  with  these 
precious  imputations  !  You  ought  to  be  bundled  out  for 
not  knowing  how  to  behave  yourself,  and  you  would  be 
by  rights." 

She  said  nothing  in  reply  ;  and  her  low  weeping  was 
the  only  sound  that  was  heard,  until  Mr.  Bounderby 
spoke. 

"  Come  !  "  said  he,  "  you  know  what  you  have  engaged 
to  do.    You  had  better  give  your  mind  to  that  ;  not  this." 

"'Deed,  I  am  loath,"  returned  Rachael,  drying  her 
eyes,  "that  any  here  should  see  me  like  this;  but  I 
won't  be  seen  so  again.  Young  lady,  when  I  had  read 
what's  put  in  print  of  Stephen — and  what  has  just  as 
much  truth  in  it  as  if  it  had  been  put  in  })rint  of  you — I 
went  straight  to  the  Bank  to  say  I  knew  where  Stephen 
was,  and  to  give  a  sure  and  certain  promise  that  he 
should  be  here  in  two  days.  I  couldn't  meet  wi'  Mr. 
Bounderby  then,  and  your  brother  sent  me  away,  and  I 
tried  to  find  you,  but  you  was  not  to  be  found,  and  I 
Avent  back  to  work.  Soon  as  I  come  out  of  the  Mill  to- 
night,  I  hastened  to  hear  what  was  said  of  Stephen — for 
I  know  wi'  pride  he  will  come  back  to  shame  it  ! — and 
then  I  went  again  to  seek  Mr.  Bounderby,  and  I  found 
him,  and  I  told  him  every  word  I  knew  ;  and  he  believed 
no  word  I  said,  and  brought  me  here." 

"  So  far,  that's  true  enough,"  assented  Mr.  Bounderby, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  hat  on.  "  But  I 
have  known  you  people  before  to-day,  you'll  observe, 
and  I  know  yoa  never  die  for  want  of  talking.  Now, 
I  recommend  you  not  so  much  to  mind  talking  just  now, 
as  doing.  You  have  undertaken  to  do  something  ;  all  I 
remark  upon  that  at  present  is,  do  it  ! " 

"  I  have  written  to  Stephen  by  the  post  that  went  out 
this  afternoon,  as  I  have  written  to  him  once  before  sin' 
he  went  away,"  said  Rachael  ;  "  and  he  will  be  here,  at 
furthest,  in  two  days." 

"  Then,  I'll  tell  you  something.  You  are  not  aware 
perhaps,"  retorted* Mr.  Bounderby,  "that  you  yourself 
have  been  looked  after  now  and  then,  not  being  consid- 
ered quite  free  from  suspicion  in  this  business,  on  ac- 
count of  most  people  being  judged  according  to  the 
company  they  keep.  The  post-office  hasn't  been  forgot- 
ten either.  What  I'll  tell  you  is,  that  no  letter  to 
Stephen  Blackpool  has  ever  got  into  it.  Therefore,  what 
has  become  of  yours,  I  leave  you  to  guess.  Perhaps 
you're  mistaken,  and  never  wrote  any." 

"  He  hadn't  been  gone  from  here,  young  lady,"  said 
Rachael,  turning  appealingly  to  Louisa,  "  as  much  as  a 
week,  when  he  sent  me  the  only  letter  I  have  had  from 
him,  saying  that  he  was  forced  to  seek  work  in  another 
name." 

"  Oh,  by  George  !  "  cried  Bounderby,  shaking  his 
head,  with  a  whistle,  "  he  changes  his  name,  does  he  ! 
That's  rather  unlucky,  too,  for  such  an  immaculate  chap. 
It's  considered  a  little  suspicious  in  Courts  of  Justice,  I 
believe,  when  an  Innocent  happens  to  have  many  names." 

"What,"  said  Rachael,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  again, 
"what  young  lady,  in  the  name  of  Mercy,  was  left  the 
poor  lad  to  do  !  Tlie  masters  against  him  on  one  hand, 
the  men  against  him  on  the  other,  he  only  wantin  to 
work  hard  in  peace,  and  do  what  he  felt  right.  Can  u 
man  have  no  soul  of  his  own,  no  mind  of  his  own? 
Must  he  go  wrong  all  through  wi'  this  side,  or  must  he 
go  wrong  all  through  wi'  that,  or  else  be  hunted  like  a 
hare  ?  " 


"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  x)ity  him  from  my  heart,"  return-  , 
ed  Louisa  ;  "and  I  hope  that  he  will  clear  himself."  j 

"  You  need  have  no  fear  of  that,  young  lady.    He  is 
sure  !  " 

"  All  the  surer,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "for 
your  refusing  to  tell  where  he  is  ?    Eh  ?  "  ' 

"  He  shall  not,  through  any  act  of  mine,  come  back 
wi'  the  unmerited  reproach  of  being  brought  back.  He 
shall  come  back  of  his  own  accord  to  clear  himself,  and 
put  all  those  that  have  injured  his  good  character,  and 
he  not  here  for  its  defence,  to  shame.  I  have  told  him 
what  has  been  done  against  him,"  said  Rachael,  throw- 
ing off  all  distrust  as  a  rock  throws  off  the  sea,  ' '  and  he 
will  be  here,  at  furthest,  in  two  days." 

"  Notwithstanding  which,"  added  Mr,  Bounderby,  "if 
he  can  be  laid  hold  of  any  sooner,  he  shall  have  an  ear- 
lier opportunity  of  clearing  himself.    As  to  you,  I  have 
nothing  against  you  ;  what  you  came  and  told  me  turns 
out  to  be  true,  and  I  have  given  you  the  means  of  i 
proving  it  to  be  true,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.    I  wish  | 
you  good-night  all  !    I  must  be  off  to  look  a  little  far-  ! 
ther  into  this," 

Tom  came  out  of  his  corner  when  Mr.  Bounderby 
moved,  moved  with  him,  kept  close  to  him,  and  went 
away  with  him.    The  only  parting  salutation  of  which 
he  delivered  himself  was  a  sulky  "  Good-night,  father  !"  ^ 
With  a  brief  speech,  and  a  scowl  at  his  sister,  he  left  I 
the  house. 

Since  his  sheet  anchor  had  come  home,  Mr,  Gradgrind 
had  been  sparing  of  speech.  He  still  sat  silent,  when 
Louisa  mildly  said  : 

"  Rachael,  you  will  not  distrust  me  one  day,  when  you 
know  me  better." 

"  It  goes  against  me,"  Rachael  answered  in  a  gentler 
manner,  "to  mistrust  any  one  ;  but  when  I  am  so  mis-  |i 
trusted — when  we  all  are — I  cannot  keep  such  things  I 
quite  out  of  my  mind.    I  ask  your  pardon  for  having  ' 
done  you  an  injury.    I  don't  think  what  I  said,  now. 
Yet  I  might  come  to  think  it  again,  wi'  the  poor  lad  so 
wronged." 

"Did  you  tell  him  in  your  letter,"  inquired  Sissy, 
"that  suspicion  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  him,  because 
he  had  been  seen  about  the  bank  at  night  ?  He  would 
then  know  what  he  would  have  to  explain  on  coming 
back,  and  would  be  ready," 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  returned  ;  "  but  I  can't  guess  what  ' 
can  have  ever  taken  him  there.  He  never  used  to  go  there. 
It  was  never  in  his  way.  His  way  was  the  same  as  mine,  ' 
and  not  near  it." 

Sissy  had  already  been  at  her  side  asking  her  where  " 
she  lived,  and  whether  she  might  come  to-morrow  night 
to  inquire  if  there  were  news  of  him, 

"  I  doubt,"  said  Rachael,  "  if  he  can  be  here  till  next 
day." 

"  Then  I  will  come  next  night  too,"  said  Sissy. 

When  Rachael,  assenting  to  this,  was  gone,  Mr.  Grad- 
grind lifted  up  his  head,  and  said  to  his  daughter  : 

"  Louisa,  my  dear,  I  have  never  that  I  know  of,  seen 
this  man.    Do  you  believe  him  to  be  imj^licated  ?  " 

"I  think  I  have  believed  it,  father,  though  with  great 
difficulty.    I  do  not  believe  it  now." 

"  That  is  to  say,  you  once  persuaded  yourself  to  believe 
it,  from  knowing  him  to  be  suspected.  His  appearance 
and  manner  ;  are  they  so  honest  ?  " 

"Very  honest." 

"And  her  confidence  not  to  be  shaken  !'  I  ask  my- 
self," said  Mr,  Gradgrind,  musing,  "  does  the  real  cul- 
prit know  of  these  accusations  ?  Where  is  he  ?  Who 
is  he?" 

His  hair  had  latterly  began  to  change  colour.  As  he 
leaned  upon  his  hand  again,  looking  gray  and  old, 
Louisa,  with  a  face  of  fear  and  ]nty,  hurriedly  went 
over  to  him,  and  sat  close  at  his  side.  Her  eyes  by  ac- 
cident met  Sissy's  at  the  moment.  Sissy  flushed  and 
started,  and  Louisa  put  her  finger  on  her  lip. 

Next  night,  when  Sissy  returned  home  and  told  Louisa 
that  Stej^hen  was  not  come,  she  told  it  in  a  whisper. 
Next  night  again,  when  she  came  home  with  the  same 
account,  and  added  that  he  had  not  been  heard  of,  she 
spoke  in  the  same  low  frightened  tone.  F'rom  the  mo- 
ment of  that  interchange  of  looks,  they  never  uttered 
his  name,  or  any  reference  to  him,  aloud  ;  nor  ever  pur- 


HARD  TIMES. 


1031 


sued  the  subject  of  the  robbery,  when  Mr.  Gradgrind 
spoke  of  it. 

The  two  appointed  days  ran  out,  three  days  and  nights 
ran  out,  and  Stephen  Blackpool  was  not  come,  and  re- 
mained unheard  of.  On  the  fourth  day,  Rachael,  with 
unabated  confidence,  but  considering  her  despatch  to 
have  miscarried,  went  up  to  the  Bank,  and  showed  her 
letter  from  him  with  his  address,  at  a  working  colony, 
one  of  many,  not  upon  the  main  road,  sixty  miles  away. 
Messengers  were  sent  to  that  place,  and  the  whole  town 
looked  for  Stephen  to  be  brought  in  next  day. 

During  this  whole  time  the  whelp  moved  about  with 
Mr.  Bounderby  like  his  shadow,  assisting  in  all  the  pro- 
ceedings. He  was  greatly  excited,  horribly  fevered,  bit 
Lis  nails  down  to  the  quick,  spoke  in  a  hard  rattling 
voice,  and  with  lips  that  were  black  and  burnt  up.  At 
the  hour  when  the  suspected  man  was  looked  for,  the 
whelp  was  at  the  station  ;  offering  to  wager  that  he  had 
made  off  before  the  arrival  of  those  who  were  sent  in 
quest  of  him,  and  that  he  would  not  appear. 

The  whelp  was  right.  The  messengers  returned  alone. 
RachaeFs  letter  had  gone,  Rachael's  letter  had  been 
delivered,  Stephen  Blackpool  had  decamped  in  that  same 
hour  ;  and  no  soul  knew  more  of  him.  The  only  doubt 
in  Coketown  was,  whether  Rachael  had  written  in  good 
faith,  believing  that  he  really  would  come  back,  or 
warning  him  to  fly.  On  this  point  opinion  was  di- 
vided. 

Six  days,  seven  days,  far  on  into  another  week.  The 
wretched  whelp  plucked  up  a  ghastly  courage,  and  be- 
gan to  grow  defiant.  ''Was  the  suspected  fellow  the 
thief?  A  pretty  question  !  If  not,  where  was  the  man, 
and  why  did  he  not  come  back?" 

Where  was  the  man,  and  why  did  he  not  come  back? 
In  the  dead  of  night  the  echoes  of  his  own  words,  which 
had  rolled  Heaven  knows  how  far  away  in  the  daytime, 
came  back  instead,  and  abided  by  him  until  morning. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Found. 


Day  and  night  again,  day  and  night  again.  No  Stephen 
Blackpool.  Where  was  the  man,  and  why  did  he  not 
come  back? 

Every  night.  Sissy  went  to  Rachael's  lodging,  and  sat 
with  her  in  her  small  neat  room.  All  day,  Rachael  toiled 
as  such  people  must  toil,  whatever  their  anxieties.  The 
smoke-serpents  were  indifferent  who  was  lost  or  found, 
who  turned  out  bad  or  good  ;  the  melancholy  mad  ele- 
phants, like  the  Hard  Fact  men,  abated  nothing  of  their 
set  routine,  whatever  happened.  Day  and  night  again, 
day  and  night  again.  The  monotony  was  unbroken. 
Even  Stephen  Blackpool's  disappearance  was  falling  into 
the  general  way,  and  becoming  as  monotonous  a  wonder 
as  any  piece  of  machinery  in  Coketown. 

"  I  misdoubt,"  said  Rachael,  '*if  there  is  as  many  as 
twenty  left  in  all  this  place,  who  have  any  trust  in  the 
poor  dear  lad  now." 

She  said  it  to  Sissy,  as  they  sat  in  her  lodging,  lighted 
only  by  the  lamp  at  the  street-corner.  Sissy  had  come 
there  when  it  was  already  dark,  to  await  her  return 
from  work  ;  and  they  had  since  sat  at  the  window  where 
Rachael'  had  found  her,  wanting  no  brighter  light  to 
shine  On  their  sorrowful  talk. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  mercifully  brought  about,  that  I 
was  to  have  you  to  speak  to,"  pursued  Rachael,  "  times 
are,  when  I  think  my  mind  would  not  have  kept  right. 
But  I  get  hope  and  strength  through  you  ;  and  you  be- 
lieve that  though  appearances  may  rise  against  him,  he 
will  be  proved  clear?" 

"I  do  believe  so,"  returned  Sissy,  "with  my  whole 
heart.  I  feel  so  certain,  Rachael,  that  the  confidence 
you  hold  in  yours  against  all  discouragement,  is  not  like 
to  be  wrong,  that  I  have  no  more  doubt  of  him  than  if  I 
had  known  him  through  as  many  years  of  trial  as  you 
have." 

"  And  I,  my  dear,"  said  Rachael,  with  a  tremble  in  her 
voice,  "  have  known  him  through  them  all,  to  be,  accord- 
ing to  his  quiet  ways,  so  faithful  to  everything  honest 


and  good,  that  if  he  was  never  to  be  heard  of  more,  and 
I  was  to  live  to  be  a  hundred  years  old,  I  could  say  with 
my  last  breath,  God  knows  my  heart.  I  have  never  once 
left  trusting  Stephen  Blackpool  !  " 

"  We  all  believe,  up  at  the  Lodge,  Rachael,  that  he 
will  be  freed  from  suspicion,  sooner  or  later." 

"The  better  I  knoAv  it  to  be  so  believed  there,  my 
dear,"  said  Rachael,  "  and  the  kinder  I  feel  it  that  you 
come  away  from  there,  purposely  to  comfort  me,  and 
keep  me  company,  and  be  seen  wi'  me  when  I  am  not 
yet  free  from  all  suspicion  myself,  the  more  grieved  I 
am  that  I  should  ever  have  spoken  those  mistrusting 
words  to  the  young  lady.    And  yet — " 

"  You  don't  mistrust  her  now,  Rachael?" 

"  Now  that  you  have  brought  us  more  together,  no. 
But  I  can't  at  all  times  keep  out  of  my  mind — " 

Her  voice  so  sunk  into  a  low  and  slow  communing  with 
herself,  that  Sissy,  sitting  by  her  side,  was  obliged  to 
listen  with  attention. 

"  I  can't  at  all  times  keep  out  of  my  mind,  mistrust- 
ings  of  some  one.  I  can't  think  who  'tis,  I  can't  think 
how  or  why  it  may  be  done,  but  I  mistrust  that  some  one 
has  put  Stephen  out  of  the  way.  I  mistrust  that  by  his 
coming  back  of  his  own  accord,  and  showing  himself  in- 
nocent before  them  all,  some  one  would  be  confounded, 
who — to  prevent  that — has  stopped  him,  and  put  him  out 
of  the  way." 

"That  is  a  dreadful  thought,"  said  Sissy,  turning 
pale. 

"  It  is  a  dreadful  thought  to  think  he  may  be  mur- 
dered." 

Sissy  shuddered  and  turned  paler  yet. 

"  When  it  makes  its  way  into  my  mind,  dear,"  said 
Rachael,  "  and  it  will  come  sometimes,  though  I  do  all 
I  can  to  keep  it  out,  wi'  counting  on  to  high  numbers  as 
I  work,  and  saying  over  and  over  again  pieces  that  I 
knew  when  I  were  a  child — I  fall  into  such  a  wild,  hot 
hurry,  that,  however  tired  I  am,  I  want  to  walk  fast, 
miles  and  miles.  I  must  get  the  better  of  this  before 
bed-time.    I'll  walk  home  wi'  you." 

"  He  might  fall  ill  upon  the  journey  back,"  said  Sissy, 
faintly  offering  a  worn-out  scrap  of  hope  ;  "  and  in  such 
a  case,  there  are  many  places  on  the  road  where  he  might 
stop." 

"  But  he  is  in  none  of  them.  He  has  been  sought  for 
in  all,  and  he's  not  there." 

"True,"  was  Sissy's  reluctant  admission. 

"  He'd  walk  the  journey  in  two  days.  If  he  was  foot- 
sore and  couldn't  walk,  I  sent  him  in  the  letter  he  got, 
the  money  to  ride,  lest  he  should  have  none  of  his  own 
to  spare." 

"  Let  us  hope  that  to-morrow  will  bring  something 
better,  Rachael.    Come  into  the  air  !  " 

Her  gentle  hand  adjusted  Rachael's  shawl  upon  her 
shining  black  hair  in  the  usual  manner  of  her  wearing 
it,  and  they  went  out.  The  night  being  fine,  little  knots 
of  Hands  were  here  and  there  lingering  at  street-corners  ; 
but  it  was  supper  time  wdth  the  greater  part  of  them, 
and  there  were  but  few^  people  in  the  streets. 

"  You  are  not  so  hurried  now,  Rachael,  and  your  hand 
is  cooler." 

"  I  get  better,  dear,  if  I  can  only  walk,  and  breathe  a 
little  fresh.  'Times  when  I  can't,  I  turn  weak  and  con- 
fused." 

"  But  you  must  not  begin  to  fail,  Rachael,  for  you  may 
be  wanted  at  any  time  to  stand  by  Stephen.  To-morrow 
is  Saturday.  If  no  news  comes  to-morrow,  let  us  walk 
in  the  country  on  Sunday  morning,  and  strengthen  you 
for  another  week.    Will  you  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear." 

They  were  by  this  time  in  the  street  where  INIr.  Boun- 
derby's  house  stood.  The  way  to  Sissy's  destination 
led  them  past  the  door,  and  they  were  going  straight  to- 
wards it.  Some  train  had  newly  arrived  in  Coketown, 
which  had  put  a  number  of  vehicles  in  motion,  and 
scattered  a  considerable  bustle  about  the  town.  Several 
coaches  were  rattling  before  them  and  behind  them  as 
they  approached  Mr.  Bounderby's,  and  one  of  the  latter 
drew  up  with  such  briskness  as  they  were  in  the  act  of 
passing  the  house,  that  they  looked  round  involuntarily. 
The  bright  gas-light  over  Mr.  Bounderby's  steps  showed 
them  Mrs.  Sparsit  in  the  coach,  in  an  ecstasy  of  excite- 


1032 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


nient,  struggling  to  open  the  door ;  Mrs.  Sparsit  seeing 
them  at  the  same  moment,  called  to  them  to  stop. 

"It's  a  coincidence,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sparsit,  as  she 
was  released  by  the  coachman.  "It's  a  Providence! 
Come  out,  ma'am  !  "  then  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  to  some 
one  inside,  "  Come  out,  or  we'll  have  you  dragged 
out  ! " 

Hereupon,  no  other  than  the  mysterious  old  woman  de- 
scended.   Whom  Mrs.  Sparsit  incontinently  collared, 

"  Leave  her  alone, every  body  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with 
great  energy.  "  Let  nobody  touch  her.  She  belongs  to 
me.  Come  in,  ma'am  ! "  then  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  revers- 
ing her  former  word  of  command.  "  Come  in,  ma'am, 
or  we'll  have  you  dragged  in  !  " 

The  spectacle  of  a  matron  of  classical  deportment,  seiz- 
ing an  ancient  woman  by  the  throat,  and  hauling  her  in- 
to a  dwelling-house,  would  have  been,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, sufficient  temptation  to  all  true  English 
stragglers  so  blest  as  to  witness  it,  to  force  a  way  into 
that  dwelling-house  and  see  the  matter  out.  But  when 
the  phenomenon  was  enhanced  by  the  notoriety  and  mys- 
tery by  this  time  associated  all  over  the  town,  with  the 
Bank  robbery,  it  would  have  lured  the  stragglers  in, 
with  an  irresistible  attraction,  though  the  roof  had  been 
expected  to  fall  upon  their  heads.  Accordingly,  the 
chance  witnesses  on  the  ground,  consisting  of  the  busi- 
est of  the  neighbours  to  the  number  of  some  five-and- 
twenty,  closed  in  after  Sissy  and  Rachael,  as  they  closed 
it  after  Mrs.  Sparsit  and  her  prize  ;  and  the  whole  body 
made  a  disorderly  irruption  into  Mr.  Bounderby's  dining- 
room,  where  the  people  behind  lost  not  a  moment's  time 
in  mounting  on  the  chairs,  to  get  the  better  of  the  peo- 
ple in  front. 

"  Fetch  Mr.  Bounderby  down  !  "  cried  Mrs,  Sparsit. 
"Rachael,  young  woman  ;  you  know  who  this  is?" 

"It's  Mrs.  Pegler,"  said  Rachael. 

"I  should  think  it  is!"  cried  Mrs.  Sparsit,  exult- 
ing. "Fetch  Mr.  Bounderby.  Stand  away,  every- 
body !  "  Here  old  Mrs,  Pegler,  muffling  herself  up,  and 
shrinking  from  observation,  whispered  a  word  of  en- 
ti-eaty.  "  Don't  tell  me,"  said  Mrs,  Sparsit,  aloud, 
"I  have  told  you  twenty  times,  coming  along,  that  I 
will  not  leave  you  till  I  have  handed  yon  over  to  him 
myself." 

Mr.  Bounderby  now  appeared,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Gradgrind  and  the  whelp,  with  whom  he  had  been 
holding  conference  up-stairs.  Mr.  Bounderby  looked 
more  astonished  than  hospitable,  at  the  sight  of  this 
uninvited  party  in  his  dining-room. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  now?"  said  he.  "Mrs. 
Sparsit,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  explained  that  worthy  woman,  "  I  trust  it  is 
my  good  fortune  to  produce  a  person  you  have  much 
desired  to  find.  Stimulated  by  my  wish  to  relieve  your 
mind,  sir,  and  connecting  together  such  imperfect  clues 
to  the  part  of  the  country  in  which  that  person  "might 
be  supposed  to  reside,  as  have  been  afforded  by  the 
young  woman  Racliael,  fortunately  now  present  to 
identify,  I  have  had  the  happiness  to  succeed,  and  to 
bring  that  person  with  me — I  need  not  say  most  un- 
willingly on  lier  part.  It  has  not  been,  sir,  without 
some  trouble  that  I  have  effected  this  ;  but  trouble  in 
your  service  is  to  me  a  pleasure,  and  hunger,  thirst, 
and  cold  a  real  gratification." 

Here  Mrs,  Sparsit  ceased  ;  for  Mr.  Bounderby's  visage 
exhibited  an  extraordinary  combination  of  all  possible 
colours  and  expressions  of  discomfiture,  as  old  Mrs. 
Pegler  was  disclosed  to  his  view. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  by  this?"  was  his  highly 
unexpected  demand,  in  great  warmth.  "  I  ask  you, 
what  do  you  mean  by  this,  Mrs,  Sparsit,  ma'am  ? " 

"Sir  !"  exclaimed  Mrs,  Sparsit,  faintly. 

"Why  don't  you  mind  your  own  business,  ma'am?" 
roared  Bounder])y.  "How  dare  you  go  and  poke  your 
officious  nose  into  my  family  affairs?" 

This  allusion  to  lier  favourite  feature  overpowered 
Mrs,  Sparsit.  She  sat  down  stiffly  in  a  chair,  as  if 
she  were  frozen  ;  and,  with  a  fixed  stare  at  Mr.  Boun- 
derby, slowly  grated  her  mittens  against  one  another,  as 
if  they  were  frozen  too, 

"My  dear  Josiah ! "  cried  Mrs.  Pegler,  trembling. 
"My  darling  boy!    I  am  not  to  blame.    It's  not  my 


fault,  Josiah.  I  told  this  lady  over  and  over  again,  that 
I  knew  she  was  doing  what  would  not  be  agreeable  to 
you,  but  she  would  do  it." 

"  What  did  you  let  her  bring  you  for  ?  Couldn't  you 
knock  her  cap  off,  or  her  tooth  out,  or  scratch  her,  or  do 
something  or  other  to  her?"  asked  Bounderby. 

"  My  own  boy  !  She  threatened  me  that  if  I  resisted 
her,  I  should  be  brought  by  constables,  and  it  was  better 
to  come  quietly  than  make  that  stir  in  such  a — "  Mrs. 
Pegler  glanced  timidly  but  proudly  round  the  walls — 
"  such  a  fine  house  as  this.  Indeed,  indeed,  it  is  not 
my  fault  !  My  dear,  noble,  stately  boy  !  I  have  always 
lived  quiet  and  secret,  Josiah,  my  dear.  1  have  never 
broken  the  condition  once.  I  have  never  said  I  was 
your  mother.  I  have  admired  you  at  a  distance  ;  and  if 
I  have  come  to  town  sometimes,  with  long  times  between, 
to  take  a  proud  peep  at  you,  I  have  done  it  unbeknown, 
my  love,  and  gone  away  again." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  walked 
in  impatient  mortification  up  and  down  at  the  side  of  the 
long  dining-table,  while  the  spectators  greedily  took  in 
every  syllable  of  Mrs.  Pegler's  appeal,  and  each  succeed- 
ing syllable  became  more  and  more  round-eyed.  Mr, 
Bounderby  still  walking  up  and  down,  when  Mrs.  Pegler 
had  done,  Mr.  Gradgrind  addressed  that  maligned  old 
lady  : 

"  I  am  surprised,  madam,"  he  observed  with  severity, 
"  that  in  your  old  age  you  have  the  face  to  claim  Mr. 
Bounderby  for  your  son,  after  your  unnatural  and  in- 
human treatment  of  him," 

"Me  unnatural  !"  cried  poor  old  Mrs,  Pegler,  "Me 
inhuman  !    To  my  dear  boy?" 

"Dear!"  repeated  Mr,  Gradgrind,  "Yes;  dear  in 
his  self-made  prosperity,  madam,  I  dare  say.  Not  very 
dear,  however,  when  you  deserted  him  in  his  infancy, 
and  left  him  to  the  brutality  of  a  drunken  grand- 
mother," 

"/deserted  my  Josiah  !"  cried  Mrs.  Pegler,  clasping 
her  hands.  "Now,  Lord  forgive  you,  sir,  for  your 
wicked  imaginations,  and  for  your  scandal  against  the 
memory  of  my  poor  mother,  who  died  in  my  arms  before 
Josiah  was  born.  May  you  repent  of  it,  sir,  and  live  to 
know  better  ! " 

She  was  so  very  earnest  and  injured,  that  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, shocked  by  the  possibility  which  dawned  upon 
him,  said  in  a  gentler  tone  : 

"Do  you  deny,  then,  madam,  that  you  left  your  son 
to — to  be  brought  up  in  the  gutter?" 

"Josiah  in  the  gutter  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pegler.  "  No 
such  a  thing,  sir.  Never  !  For  shame  on  you  !  My 
dear  boy  knows,  and  will  give  you  to  know,  that  though 
he  come  of  humble  parents,  he  come  of  parents  that 
loved  him  as  dear  as  tlie  best  could,  and  never  thought 
it  hardship  on  themselves  to  pinch  a  bit  that  he  might 
write  and  cipher  beautiful,  and  I've  his  books  at  home 
to  show  it  !  Aye,  have  I  !  "  said  Mrs.  Pegler,  with  in- 
dignant pride.  "  And  my  dear  boy  knows,  and  will  give 
you  to  know,  sir,  that  after  his  beloved  father  died  when 
he  was  eight  year  old,  his  mother,  too,  could  pinch  a 
bit,  as  it  was  her  duty  and  her  pleasure  and  her  pride  to 
do  it,  to  help  him  out  in  life,  and  put  him  'prentice. 
And  a  steady  lad  he  was,  and  a  kind  master  he  had  to 
lend  him  a  hand,  and  well  he  worked  his  own  way  for- 
ward to  be  rich  and  thriving.  And  i'll  give  you  to 
know,  sir — for  this  my  dear  boy  won't — that  though  his 
mother  kept  but  a  little  village  shop,  he  never  forgot 
her,  but  pensioned  me  on  thirty  pound  a-year— more 
than  I  want,  for  I  put  by  out  of  it— only  making  the 
condition  that  I  was  to  keep  down  in  my  own  part,  and 
make  no  boasts  about  him,  and  not  trouble  liim.  And  I 
never  have,  except  with  looking  at  him  once  a  year, 
when  he  has  never  knowed  it,  "  And  it's  right,"  said 
poor  old  Mrs,  Pegler,  in  affectionate  championship, 
"  that  I  should  keep  down  in  my  own  part,  and  I  have  no 
doubts  that  if  I  was  here  I  should  do  a  many  unbefitting 
things,  and  I  am  well  contented,  and  I  can  keep  my  pride 
in  my  Josiah  to  myself,  and  I  can  love  for  love's  own  sake  ! 
And  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pegler,  lastly, 
"  for  your  slanders  and  suspicions.  And  I  never  stood 
here  before,  nor  never  wanted  to  stand  here  when  my 
dear  son  said  no.  And  I  shouldn't  be  here  now,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  being  brought  here.    And  for  shame 


HARD 

upon  you,  O  for  shame,  to  accuse  me  of  being  a  bad 
mother  to  my  son,  with  my  son  standing  here  to  tell  you 
so  different  !  " 

The  bystanders,  on  and  off  the  dining-room  chairs, 
raised  a  murmur  of  sympathy  with  Mrs.  Pegler,  and 
Mr.  Gradgrind  felt  himself  innocently  placed  in  a  very 
distressing  predicament,  when  Mr,  Bounderby,  who  had 
never  ceased  walking  up  and  down,  and  had  every  mo- 
ment swelled  larger  and  larger,  and  grown  redder  and 
redder,  stopped  short. 

"  I  don't  exactly  know,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "how  I 
conie  to  be  favoured  with  the  attendance  of  the  present 
company,  but  I  don't  inquire.  When  they're  quite  sat- 
isfied, perhaps  they'll  be  so  good  as  to  disperse  ;  whether 
they're  satisfied  or  not,  perhaps  they'll  be  so  good  as  to 
disperse.  I'm  not  bound  to  deliver  a  lecture  on  my 
family  affairs,  I  have  not  undertaken  to  do  it,  and  I'm 
not  a  going  to  do  it.  Therefore  those  who  expect  any 
explanation  whatever  upon  that  branch  of  the  subject, 
will  be  disappointed — particularly  Tom  Gradgrind,  and 
he  can't  know  it  too  soon.  In  reference  to  the  Bank 
robbery,  there  has  been  a  mistake  made,  concerning  my 
mother.  If  there  hadn't  been  over-officiousness,  it 
wouldn't  have  been  made,  and  I  hate  over-officiousness 
at  all  times,  whether  or  no.    Good  evening  ! " 

Although  Mr.  Bounderby  carried  it  off  in  these  terms, 
holding  the  door  open  for  the  company  to  depart,  there 
was  a  blustering  sheepishness  upon  him,  at  once  ex- 
tremely crestfallen  and  superlatively  absurd.  Detected 
as  the  Bully  of  humility,  who  had  built  his  windy  repu- 
tation upon  lies,  and  in  his  boastfulness  had  put  the 
honest  truth  as  far  away  from  him  as  if  he  had  advanced 
the  mean  claim  (there  is  no  meaner)  to  tack  himself  on 
to  a  pedigree,  he  cut  a  most  ridiculous  figure.  With 
the  people  filing  off  at  the  door  he  held,  who  he  knew 
would  carry  what  had  passed  to  the  whole  town,  to  be 
given  to  the  four  winds,  he  could  not  have  looked  a 
Bully  more  shorn  and  forlorn,  if  he  had  had  his  ears 
cropped.  Even  that  unlucky  female,  Mrs.  Sparsit,  fallen 
from  her  pinnacle  of  exultation  into  the  Slough  of  De- 
spond, was  not  in  so  bad  a  plight  as  that  remarkable  man 
and  self-made  Humbug,  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coke- 
town. 

Rachael  and  Sissy,  leaving  Mrs.  Pegler  to  occupy  a 
bed  at  her  son's  for  that  night,  walked  together  to  the 
gate  of  Stone  Lodge  and  there  parted.  Mr.  Gradgrind 
joined  them  before  they  had  gone  very  far,  and  spoke 
with  much  interest  of  Stephen  Blackpool  ;  for  whom  he 
thought  this  signal  failure  of  the  suspicions  against  Mrs. 
Pegler  was  likely  to  work  well. 

As  to  the  whelp  ;  throughout  this  scene  as  on  all  other 
late  occasions,  he  had  stuck  close  to  Bounderby.  He 
seemed  to  feel  that  as  long  as  Bounderby  could  make 
no  discovery  without  his  knowledge,  he  was  so  far  safe. 
He  never  visited  his  sister,  and  had  only  seen  her  once 
since  she  went  home  :  that  is  to  say,  on  the  night 
when  he  still  stuck  close  to  Bounderby,  as  already  re- 
lated. 

There  was  one  dim  unformed  fear  lingering  about 
his  sister's  mind,  to  which  she  never  gave  utterance, 
which  surrounded  the  graceless  and  ungrateful  boy  with 
a  dreadful  mystery.  The  same  darlc  possibility  had 
presented  itself  in  the  same  shapeless  guise,  this  very 
day,  to  Sissy,  when  Haohael  spoke  of  some  one  who 
would  be  confounded  by  Stephen's  return,  having  put 
him  out  of  the  way,  Louisa  had  never  spoken  of  har- 
bouring any  suspicion  of  her  brother  in  connexion  with 
the  robbery,  she  and  Sissy  had  held  no  confidence  on 
tlie  subject,  save  in  that  one  interchange  of  looks  when 
the  unconscious  father  rested  his  gray  head  on  his 
hand  ;  but  it  was  understood  between  them,  and  they 
both  knew  it.  This  other  fear  was  so  awful,  that  it 
hovered  about  each  of  them  like  a  ghostly  shadow  ; 
neither  daring  to  think  of  its  being  near  herself,  far  less 
of  its  being  near  the  other. 

And  still  the  forced  spirit  which  the  whelp  had 
plucked  up,  throve  with  him.  If  Stephen  Blackpool 
was  not  the  thief,  let  him  show  himself.  Why  didn't 
he? 

Another  night.  Another  day  and  night.  No  Stephen 
Blackpool.  Where  was  the  man,  and  why  did  he  not 
come  back  ? 


TIMES.  1033 

CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Sla.r light. 

The  Sunday  was  a  bright  Sunday  in  autumn,  clear 
and  cool,  when  early  in  the  morning  Sissy  and  Rachael 
met,  to  walk  in  the  country. 

As  Coketown  cast  ashes  not  only  on  its  own  head  but 
on  the  neighbourhood's  too — after  the  manner  of  tho.se 
pious  persons  who  do  penance  for  their  own  sins  by  put- 
ting other  people  into  sackcloth — it  was  customary  for 
those  who  now  and  then  thirsted  for  a  draught  of  pure 
air,  which  is  not  absolutely  the  most  wicked  among  the 
vanities  of  life,  to  get  a  few  miles  away  by  the  railroad, 
and  then  begin  their  walk,  or  their  lounge  in  the  fields. 
Sissy  and  Rachael  helped  themselve>^  out  of  the  smoke 
by  the  usual  means,  and  were  put  down  at  a  station 
about  midway  between  the  town  and  Mr,  Bounderby 's 
retreat. 

Though  the  green  landscape  was  blotted  here  and 
there  with  heaps  of  coal,  it  was  green  elsewhere,  and 
there  were  trees  to  see,  and  there  were  larks  singing 
(though  it  was  Sunday),  and  there  were  pleasant  scents 
in  the  air,  and  all  was  overarched  by  a  bright  blue  sky. 
In  the  distance  one  way,  Coketown  showed  as  a  black 
mist ;  in  another  distance,  hilis  began  to  rise  ;  in  a 
third,  there  was  a  faint  change  in  the  light  of  the  hori- 
zon, where  it  shone  upon  the  far-off  sea.  Under  their 
feet,  the  grass  was  fresh  ;  beautiful  shadows  of  branch- 
es flickered  upon  it,  and  speckled  it ;  hedgerows  were 
luxuriant  ;  everything  was  at  peace.  Engines  at  pits' 
mouths,  and  lean  old  horses  that  had  worn  the  circle  of 
their  daily  labour  into  the  ground,  were  alike  quiet  ; 
wheels  had  ceased  for  a  short  space  to  turn  ;  and  the 
great  wheel  of  earth  seemed  to  revolve  without  the 
shocks  and  noises  of  another  time. 

They  walked  on  across  the  fields  and  down  the  shady 
lanes,  sometimes  getting  over  a  fragment  of  a  fence  so 
rotten  that  it  dropped  at  a  touch  of  the  foot,  sometimes 
passing  near  a  wreck  of  bricks  and  beams  overgrown 
with  grass,  marking  the  site  of  deserted  works.  They 
followed  paths  and  tracks,  however  slight.  Mounds 
where  the  grass  was  rank  and  high,  and  where  bram- 
bles, dock-weed,  and  such-like  vegetation,  were  confus- 
edly heaped  together,  they  always  avoided  ;  for  dismal 
stories  were  told  in  that  country  of  the  old  pits  hidden 
beneath  such  indications. 

The  sun  was  high  when  they  sat  down  to  rest.  They 
had  seen  no  one,  near  or  distant,  for  a  long  time  ;  and 
the  solitude  remained  unbroken.  *'  It  is  so  still  here, 
Rachael,  and  the  way  is  so  untrodden,  that  I  think  we 
must  be  the  first  who  have  been  here  all  the  summer." 

As  Sissy  said  it  her  eyes  were  attracted  by  another  of 
those  rotten  fragments  of  fence  upon  the  ground.  She 
got  up  to  look  at  it.  "  And  yet  I  don't  know.  This  has 
not  been  broken  very  long.  The  wood  is  quite  fresh 
where  it  gave  way.  Here  are  footsteps  too, — 0  Ra- 
chael !  " 

She  ran  back  and  caught  her  round  the  neck.  Ra- 
chael had  already  started  up. 
"  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    There  is  a  hat  lying  in  the  grass. 

They  went  forward  together.  Rachael  took  it  up, 
shaking  from  head  to  foot.  She  broke  into  a  passion  of 
tears  and  lamentations  :  Stephen  Blackpool  was  written 
in  his  own  hand  on  the  inside. 

"  O  the  poor  lad,  the  poor  lad  !  He  had  been  made 
away  with.    He  is  lying  murdered  here  !  " 

"Is  there — has  the  hat  any  blood  upon  it?"  Sissy 
faltered. 

They  were  afraid  to  look  ;  but  they  did  examine  it, 
and  found  no  mark  of  violence,  inside  or  out.  It  had 
been  lying  there  for  some  days,  for  rain  and  dew  had 
stained  it,  and  the  mark  of  its  shape  was  on  the  grass 
where  it  had  fallen.  They  looked  fearfully  about 
them,  without  moving,  but  could  see  nothing  more. 
"Rachael,"  Sissy  whispered,  "I  will  go  on  a  little  by 
myself." 

She  had  unclasped  her  hand,  and  was  in  the  act  of 
stepping  forward,  when  Rachael  caught  her  in  both 
arms  with  a  scream  that  resounded  over  the  wide  land- 
scape.   Before  them,  at  their  very  feet,  was  the  brink 


1034 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


of  a  black  ragged  cliasm  hidden  by  the  thick  grass. 
They  sprang  hacli,  and  fell  upon  their  knees,  each  hid- 
ing iier  face  upon  the  other's  neck. 

"  0,  my  good  Lord  !  He's  down  there  !  Down  there  ! " 
At  first  this,  and  her  terrific  screams,  were  all  that  could 
be  got  from  Rachael,  by  any  tears,  by  any  prayers,  by 
auy'representations,  by  any  means.  It  was  impossible 
to  liush  her  ;  and  it  was  deadly  necessary  to  hold  her,  or 
she  would  have  flung  herself  down  tlie  shaft. 

"Rachael,  dear  Rachael,  good  Rachael,  for  the  love 
of  Heaven  not  these  dreadful  cries  !  Think  of  Stephen, 
think  of  Stephen,  think  of  Stephen  ! " 

By  an  earnest  repetition  of  this  entreaty,  poured  out 
in  all  the  agony  of  such  a  moment.  Sissy  at  last  brought 
her  to  be  silent,  and  to  look  at  her  with  a  tearless  face 
of  stone. 

"Rachael,  Stephen  may  be  living.  You  wouldn't 
leave  him  lying  maimed  at  the  bottom  of  this  dreadful 
place,  a  moment,  if  you  could  bring  help  to  him  ! " 

"  No,  no,  no  ! " 

"  Don't  stir  from  here,  for  his  sake  !  Let  me  go  and 
listen." 

She  shuddered  to  approach  the  pit ;  but  she  crept  to- 
wards it  on  her  hands  and  knees,  and  called  to  him  as 
loud  as  she  could  call.  She  listened,  but  no  sound  re- 
plied. She  called  again  and  listened  ;  still  no  answering 
sound.  She  did  this,  twenty,  thirty  times.  She  took  a 
little  clod  of  earth  from  the  broken  ground  where  he  had 
stumbled  and  threw  it  in.    She  could  not  hear  it  fjill. 

The  wide  prospect,  so  beautiful  in  its  stillness  but  a 
few  minutes  ago,  almost  carried  despair  to  her  brave 
heart,  as  she  rose  and  looked  all  round  her,  seeing  no 
help.  "Rachael,  we  must  lose  not  a  moment.  We 
must  go  in  different  directions,  seeking  aid.  You  shall 
go  by  the  way  we  have  come,  and  I  will  go  forward  by 
the  path.  Tell  any  one  you  see,  and  every  one  what 
has  happened.    Think  of  Stephen,  think  of  Stephen  !" 

She  knew  by  Rachael's  face  that  she  might  trust  her 
now.  And  after  standing  for  a  moment  to  see  her  run- 
ning, wringing  her  hands  as  she  ran,  she  turned  and 
Avent  upon  her  own  search  ;  she  stopped  at  the  hedge  to 
tie  her  shawl  there  as  a  guide  to  the  place,  then  threw 
her  bonnet  aside,  and  ran  as  she  had  never  run  before. 

Run,  Sissy,  run,  in  Heaven's  name  !  Don't  stop  for 
breath.  Run,  run  !  Quickening  herself  by  carrying 
such  entreaties  in  her  thoughts,  she  ran  from  field  to 
field,  and  lane  to  lane,  and  place  to  place,  as  she  had 
never  run  before  ;  until  she  came  to  a  shed  by  an  engine- 
house,  where  two  men  lay  in  the  shade,  asleep  on  straw. 

First  to  wake  them,  and  next  to  tell  them,  all  so  wild 
and  breathless  as  she  was,  what  had  brought  her  there, 
were  difficulties ;  but  they  no  sooner  understood  her 
than  their  spirits  were  on  fire  like  hers.  One  of  the 
men  was  in  a  drunken  slumber,  but  on  his  comrade's 
shouting  to  him  that  a  man  had  fallen  down  the  Old 
Hell  Shaft,  he  started  out  to  a  pool  of  dirty  water,  put 
his  head  in  it,  and  came  back  sober. 

With  these  two  men  she  ran  to  another  half-a-mile 
further,  and  with  that  one  to  another,  while  they  ran 
elsewhere.  Then  a  horse  was  found  ;  and  she  got  another 
man  to  ride  for  life  or  death  to  the  railroad,  and  send  a 
me.ssage  to  Louisa,  which  she  wrote  and  gave  him.  By 
this  time  a  whole  village  was  up  ;  and  windlasses,  poles, 
candles,  lanterns,  all  things  necessary,  were  fast  col- 
lecting and  being  brought  into  one  place,  to  be  carried 
to  the  Old  Hell  Shaft. 

It  seemed  now  hours  and  hours  since  she  had  left  the 
lost  man  lying  in  the  grave  v^rhere  he  had  been  buried 
alive.  She  could  not  bear  to  remain  away  from  it  any 
longer — it  was  like  deserting  him — and  she  hurried 
swiftly  back,  accompanied  by  half-a-dozen  laborers,  in- 
cluding the  drunken  njan  whom  the  news  had  sobered, 
and  wlio  was  the  best  man  of  all.  When  they  came  to 
the  Old  Hell  Shaft,  they  found  it  as  lonely  as  she  had 
left  it.  The  men  called  and  listened  as  she  had  done, 
and  examined  the  edge  of  the  chasm,  and  settled  how  it 
had  happened,  and  then  sat  down  to  wait  until  the  im- 
I)lements  they  wanted  should  come  up. 

Every  sound  of  insects  in  the  air,  every  stirring  of  the 
leaves,  every  whisper  among  these  men,  made  Sissy 
tremble,  for  she  thought  it  was  a  cry  at  the  bottom  of 
the  pit.    But  the  wind  blew  idly  over  it,  and  no  sound 


arose  to  the  surface,  and  they  sat  upon  the  grass,  wait- 
ing and  waiting.  After  they  had  waited  some  time, 
straggling  people  who  had  heard  of  the  accident  began 
to  come  up  ;  then  the  real  help  of  implements  began  to 
arrive.  In  the  midst  of  this,  Rachael  returned  ;  and 
with  her  party  there  was  a  surgeon,  who  brought  some 
wine  and  medicines.  But,  the  expectation  among  the 
people  that  the  man  would  be  found  alive,  was  very 
slight  indeed. 

There  being  now  people  enough  present  to  impede  the 
work,  the  sobered  man  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the 
rest,  or  was  put  there  by  the  general  consent,  and  made 
a  large  ring  round  the  Old  Hell  Shaft,  and  appointed  men 
to  keep  it.  Besides  such  volunteers  as  were  accepted  to 
work,  only  Sissy  and  Rachael  were  at  first  permitted 
within  this  ring  ;  but,  later  in  the  day,  when  the  mes- 
sage brought  an  express  from  Coketown,  Mr.  Gradgrind 
and  Louisa,  and  Mr.  Bounderby  and  the  whelp,  were 
also  there. 

The  sun  was  four  hours  lower  than  when  Sissy  and 
Rachael  had  first  sat  down  upon  the  grass,  before  a 
means  of  enabling  two  men  to  descend  securely  was 
rigged  with  poles  and  ropes.  Difficulties  had  arisen  in  the 
construction  of  this  machine,  simple  as  it  was  ;  requisites 
had  been  found  wanting,  and  messages  had  had  to  go  and 
!  return.  It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  bright 
j  autumnal  Sunday,  before  a  candle  was  sent  down  to  try 
the  air,  while  three  or  four  rough  faces  stood  crowded 
close  together,  attentively  watching  it  :  the  men  at  the 
windlass  lowering  as  they  were  told.  The  candle  was 
brought  up  again,  feebly  burning,  and  then  some  water 
was  cast  in.  Then  the  bucket  was  hooked  on  ;  and  the 
sobered  man  and  another  got  in  with  lights,  giving  the 
word  ' '  Lower  away  ! " 

As  the  rope  went  out,  tight  and  strained,  and  the  wind- 
lass creaked,  there  was  not  a  breath  among  the  one  or 
two  hundred  men  and  women  looking  on,  that  came  as 
it  was  wont  to  come.  The  signal  was  given  and  the 
windlass  stopped,  with  abundant  rope  to  spare.  Appa- 
rently so  long  an  interval  ensued  with  the  men  at  the 
windlass  standing  idle,  that  some  women  shrieked  that 
another  accident  had  happened  !  But  the  surgeon  who 
held  the  watch,  declared  five  minutes  not  to  have  elapsed 
yet,  and  sternly  admonished  them  to  keep  silence.  He 
had  not  well  done  speaking,  when  the  windlass  was  re- 
versed and  worked  again.  Practised  eyes  knew  that  it 
did  not  go  as  heavily  as  it  would  if  both  workmen  had 
been  coming  up,  and  that  only  one  was  returning. 

The  rope  came  in  tight  and  strained  ;  and  ring  after 
ring  was  coiled  upon  the  barrel  of  the  windlass,  and  all 
eyes  were  fastened  on  the  pit.  The  sobered  man  was 
brought  up  and  leaped  out  briskly  on  the  grass.  There 
was  an  universal  cry  of  "Alive  or  dead?"  and  then  a 
deep,  profound  hush. 

When  he  said  "  Alive  I  "  a  great  shout  arose  and  many 
eyes  had  tears  in  them. 

"But  he's  hurt  very  bad,"  he  added,  as  soon  as  he 
could  make  himself  heard  again.  "Where's  doctor? 
He's  hurt  so  very  bad,  sir,  that  we  donno  how  to  get  him 
up. " 

•  They  all  consulted  together,  and  looked  anxiously  at 
the  surgeon,  as  he  asked  some  questions,  and  shook  his 
head  on  receiving  the  replies.  The  sun  vvas  setting  now  ; 
and  the  red  light  in  the  evening  sky  touched  every  face 
there,  and  caused  it  to  be  distinctly  seen  in  all  its  wrapt 
suspense. 

The  consultation  ended  in  the  men  returning  to  the 
windlass,  and  the  ])itman  going  down  again,  carrying  the 
wine  and  some  other  small  matters  with  him."  Then  the 
other  man  came  up.  In  the  meantime  under  the  sur- 
geon's directions,  some  men  brought  a  hurdle  on  which 
others  made  a  thick  bed  of  spare  clothes  covered  with 
loose  straw,  while  he  himself  contrived  some  bandages 
and  slings  from  shawls  and  handkerchiefs.  As  these 
were  made,  they  were  hung  upon  an  arm  of  the  pitman 
who  had  last  come  up,  with  instructions  how  to  use 
them  :  and  as  he  stood,  shown  by  the  light  he  carried, 
leaning  his  powerful  loose  hand  upon  one  of  the 
poles,  and  sometimes  glancing  down  the  pit,  and  some- 
times glancing  round  upon  the  people,  he  was  not  the 
least  conspicuous  figure  in  the  scene.  It  was  dark  now, 
and  torches  were  kindled. 


HARD 

It  appeared  from  the  little  tliis  man  said  to  those  about  j 
him,  which  was  quickly  repeated  all  over  the  circle,  that  I 
the  lost  man  had  fallen  upon  a  mass  of  crumbled  rub- 
bish with  which  the  pit  was  half  choked  up,  and  that  his 
fall  had  been  further  broken  by  some  jagged  earth  at 
the  side.  He  lay  upon  his  back  with  one  arm  doubled 
under  him,  and  according  to  his  own  belief  had  hardly 
stirred  since  he  fell,  except  that  he  had  moved  his  free 
hand  to  a  side  pocket,  in  which  he  remembered  to  have 
some  bread  and  meat  (of  which  he  had  swallowed 
crumbs),  and  had  likewise  scooped  up  a  little  Ayater  in  it 
now  and  then.  He  had  come  straight  away  from  his 
work,  on  being  written  to,  and  had  walked  the  whole 
journey  ;  and  was  on  his  way  to  Mr.  Bounderby's  coun- 
try-house after  dark,  when  he  fell.  He  was  crossing 
that  dangerous  country  at  such  a  dangerous  time,  be- 
cause he  was  innocent  of  what  was  laid  to  his  charge, 
and  couldn't  rest  from  coming  the  nearest  way  to  deliver 
himself  up.  The  Old  Hell  Shaft,  the  pitman  said,  with 
a  curse  upon  it,  was  woi*thy  of  its  bad  name  to  the  last  ; 
for  though  Stephen  could  speak  now,  he  believed  it 
would  soon  be  found  to  have  mangled  the  life  out  of 
him. 

When  all  was  ready,  this  man,  still  taking  his  last 
hurried  charges  from  his  comrades  and  the  surgeon  after 
the  windlass  had  begun  to  lower  him,  disappeared  into 
the  pit.  The  rope  went  out  as  before,  the  signal  was 
made  as  before,  and  the  windlass  stopped.  No  man  re- 
moved his  hand  from  it  now.  Every  one  waited  with 
his  grasp  set,  and  his  body  bent  down  to  the  work,  ready 
to  reverse  and  wind  in.  At  length  the  signal  was  given, 
and  all  the  ring  leaned  forward. 

For,  now,  the  rope  came  in,  tightened  and  strained  to 
its  utmost  as  it  appeared,  and  the  men  turned  heavily, 
and  the  windlass  complained.  It  was  scarcely  endur- 
able to  look  at  the  rope,  and  think  of  its  giving  way. 
But,  ring  after  ring  was  coiled  upon  the  barrel  of  the 
windlass  safely,  and  the  connecting  chains  appeared,  and 
finally  the  bucket  with  the  two  men  holding  on  at  the 
sides — a  sight  to  make  the  head  swim,  and  oppress  the 
head — and  tenderly  supporting  between  them,  slung  and 
tied  M  ithin,  the  figure  of  a  poor,  crushed,  human  crea- 
ture. 

A  low  murmur  of  pity  went  round  the  throng,  and  the 
women  wept  aloud,  as  this  form,  almost  without  form, 
was  moved  very  slowly  from  its  iron  deliverance,  and 
laid  upon  the  bed  of  straw.  At  first,  none  but  the  sur- 
geon went  close  to  it.  He  did  what  he  could  in  its  ad- 
justment on  the  couch,  but  the  best  he  could  do  was  to 
cover  it.  That  gently  done,  he  called  to  him  Rachael 
and  Sissy.  And  at  that  time  the  pale,  worn,  patient  face 
was  seen  looking  up  at  the  sky,  with  the  broken  right 
hand  lying  bare  on  the  outside  of  the  covering  garments, 
as  if  waiting  to  be  taken  by  another  hand. 

They  gave  him  drink,  moistened  his  face  with  water, 
and  administered  some  drops  of  cordial  and  wine. 
Though  he  lay  quite  motionless  looking  up  at  the  sky, 
he  smiled  and  said,  Rachael." 

She  stooped  down  on  the  grass  at  his  side,  and  bent 
over  him  until  her  eyes  were  between  his  and  the  sky, 
for  he  could  not  so  much  as  turn  them  to  look  at  her. 

"  Rachael,  my  dear." 

She  took  hand.  He  smiled  again  and  said,  "  Don't  let 
'tgo." 

"  Thou  'rt  in  great  pain,  my  own  dear  Stephen?" 

"  I  ha'  been,  but  not  now.  I  ha'  been — dreadful,  and 
dree,  and  long,  my  dear — but  'tis  ower  now.  Ah, 
Rachael,  aw  a  muddle  !    Fro'  first  to  last,  a  muddle  ! " 

The  spectre  of  his  old  look  seemed  to  pass  as  he  said 
the  word. 

"  I  ha'  fell  into  th'  pit,  my  dear,  as  have  cost  wl'in  the 
knowledge  o'  old  fok  now  livin,  hundreds  and  hundreds 
o'  men's  lives — fathers,  sons,  brothers,  dear  to  thousands 
an  thousands,  an  kee})in  'em  fro'  want  and  hunger.  I 
ha'  fell  into  a  ])it  that  ha'  been  wi'  th'  Fire-damp  crueller 
than  battle.  I  ha'  read  on 't  in  the  public  petition,  as  onny 
one  may  read,  fro'  the  men  that  works  in  pits,  on  which 
they  ha'  pray'n  an  pray'n  the  lawmakers  for  Christ's  sake 
not  to  let  their  work  be  murder  to  'em,  but  to  spare  'em 
for  th'  wives  and  children  that  thoy  loves  as  well  as 
gentlefok  loves  th  eirs.  When  it  were  in  work,  it  killed 
wi'out  need  ;  when  'tis  let  alone,  it  kills  wi'out  need. 


TIMES.  1035 

See  how  we  die  an  no  need,  one  way  an  another — in  a 
muddle — every  day  !" 

He  faintly  said  it,  without  any  anger  against  any  one. 
Merely  as  tlie  truth. 

Thy  little  sister,  Rachael,  thou  hast  not  forgot  her. 
Thou'rt  not  like  to  forget  her  now,  and  me  so  nigh  her. 
Thou  know'st — poor,  patient,  suff'rin,  dear — how  thou 
didst  work  for  her,  seet'n  all  day  long  in  her  little  chair 
at  thy  winder,  and  how  she  died,  young  and  misshapen, 
awlung  o'  sickly  air  as  had'n  no  need  to  be,  an  awlung 
o'  working  people's  miserable  homes.  A  muddle  !  Aw 
a  muddle  !  " 

Louisa  approached  him  ;  but  he  could  not  see  her, 
lying  with  his  face  turned  up  to  the  night  sky. 

"  \i  aw  th'  things  that  tooches  us,  my  dear,  was  not  so 
muddled,  I  should'n  lia'  had'n  need  to  coom  heer.  If 
we  was  not  in  a  muddle  among  ourseln,  I  should'n  ha' 
been,  by  my  own  fellow  weavers  and  workin'  brothers, 
so  mistook.  If  Mr.  Bounderby  had  ever  know'd  me 
right — it  he'd  ever  know'd  me  at  aw — he  would'n  ha' 
took'n  offence  wi'  me.  He  wouldn't  ha'  suspect'n  me. 
But  look  up  yonder,  Rachael  !  Look  aboove  !  "  following 
his  eyes,  she  saw  that  he  was  gazing  at  a  star. 

'*  It  ha'  shined  upon  me,"  he  said  reverently,  "  in  my 
I^ain  and  trouble  down  below.  It  ha'  shined  into  my 
mind,  I  ha'  look'n  at 't  an  thowt  o'  thee,  Rachael,  till 
the  muddle  in  my  mind  have  cleared  awa,  above  a  bit,  I 
hope.  If  soom  ha'  been  wantin'  in  unnerstan'in  me  bet- 
ter, I,  too,  ha'  been  wantin'  in  unnerstan'in  them  better. 
When  I  got  thy  letter,  I  easily  believen  that  what  the 
yoong  ledy  sen  and  done  to  me,  an  what  her  brother  sen 
and  done  to  me,  was  one,  and  that  there  were  a  wicket 
plot  betwixt  'em.  When  I  fell,  I  w^ere  in  anger  wi'  her, 
and  hurryin  on  t'  be  as  unjust  t'  her  as  oothers  was  t' 
me.  But  in  our  judgments,  like  as  in  our  doins,  we 
mun  bear  and  forbear.  In  my  pain  and  trouble,  lookin 
up  yonder, — wi'  it  shinin  on  me — I  ha"  seen  more  clear, 
and  ha'  made  it  my  dyin  prayer  that  aw  th'  world  may 
on'y  coom  toogether  more  and  get  a  better  unnerstan'in 
o'  one  another,  than-  when  I  were  in't  my  own  weak 
seln." 

Louisa  hearing  what  he  said,  bent  over  him  on  the 
opposite  side  to  Rachael,  so  that  he  could  see  her. 

"  You  ha'  heard?"  he  said  after  a  few  moments'  si- 
lence.   "  I  ha'  not  forgot  you,  ledy." 

"Yes,  Stephen,  I  have  heard  you.  And  your  prayer 
is  mine." 

"  You  ha'  a  father.    Will  yo  tak'  a  message  to  him  ?  " 
"He  is  here,"  said  Louisa,  with  dread.    "Shall  I 
•bring  him  to  you  ?  " 
"  If  you  please." 

Louisa  returned  with  her  father.  Standing  hand-in- 
hand,  they  both  looked  down  upon  the  solemn  counte- 
nance. 

"  Sir,  yo  will  clear  me  and  mak  my  name  good  wi'  aw 
men.    This  I  leave  to  yo." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  was  troubled  and  asked  how? 

"  Sir,"  was  the  reply  :  "  yor  son  will  tell  yo  how.  Ask 
him.  I  make  no  charges  :  I  leave  none  ahint  me  :  not  a 
single  word.  I  ha'  seen  and  spok'n  wi'  yor  son,  one 
night.  I  ask  no  more  o*  yo  than  that  yo  clear  me — an 
I  trust  to  yo  to  do't." 

The  bearers  being  now  ready  to  carry  him  away,  and 
the  surgeon  being  anxious  for  his  removal,  those  who 
had  torches  or  lanterns  prepared  to  go  in  front  of  the 
litter.  Before  it  was  raised,  and  while  they  were  ar- 
ranging how  to  go,  he  said  to  Rachael,  looking  upward 
at  the  star  : 

"  Often  as  I  coom  to  myseln,  and  found  it  shinin  on 
me  down  there  in  my  trouble,  I  thowt  it  were  the  star  as 
guided  to  Our  Saviour's  home.  I  awmust  think  it  be  the 
very  star  ! " 

They  lifted  him  up  and  he  was  overjoyed  to  find  that 
they  were  about  to  take  him  in  the  direction  whither  the 
star  seemed  to  him  to  lead. 

"  Rachael,  beloved  lass  !  Don't  let  go  my  hand.  We 
may  walk  toogether  t'uight,  my  dear  !  " 

"  I  will  hold  thy  hand,  and  keep  beside  thee,  Stephen, 
all  the  way." 

"Bless  thee!    Will  soombody  be  pleased  to  coover 

my  face  !  " 

They  carried  him  very  gently  along  the  fields,  and 


1036 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


down  the  lanes,  and  over  the  wide  landscape  ;  Rachael 
always  holding  the  hand  in  hers.  Very  few  whispers 
broke  the  mournful  silence.  It  was  soon  a  funeral  pro- 
cession. The  star  had  shown  him  where  to  find  the  God 
of  the  poor  ;  and  through  humility,  and  sorrow,  and  for- 
giveness, he  had  gone  to  his  Redeemer's  rest. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Wieljj-fmnting. 

Before  the  ring  formed  round  the  Old  Hell  Shaft  was 
broken,  one  figure  had  disappeared  from  within  it.  Mr, 
Bounderby  and  his  shadow  had  not  stood  near  Louisa, 
who  held  her  father's  arm,  but  in  a  retired  place  by 
themselves.  When  Mr.  Gradgrind  was  summoned  to 
the  couch,  Sissy,  attentive  to  all  that  happened,  slipped 
behind  that  wicked  shadow — a  sight  in  the  horror  of 
his  face,  if  there  had  been  eyes  there  for  any  sight  but 
one — and  whispered  in  his  ear.  Without  turning  his 
head,  he  conferred  with  her  a  few  moments,  and  van- 
ished. Thus  the  whelp  had  gone  out  of  the  circle  before 
the  people  moved. 

When  the  father  reached  home,  he  sent  a  message  to 
Mr.  Bounderby's,  desiring  his  son  to  come  to  him  direct- 
ly. The  reply  was,  that  Mr.  Bounderby  having  missed 
him  in  the  crowd,  and  seeing  nothing  of  him  since,  had 
supposed  him  to  he  at  Stone  Lodge. 

"I  believe,  father,"  said  Louisa,  "he  will  not  come 
back  to  town  to-night."  Mr.  Gradgrind  turned  away 
and  said  no  more. 

In  the  morning  he  went  down  to  the  Bank  himself  as 
soon  as  it  was  opened,  and  seeing  his  son's  place  empty 
(he  had  not  the  courage  to  look  in  at  first),  went  back 
along  the  street  to  meet  Mr,  Bounderby  on  his  way  there. 
To  whom  he  said  that,  for  reasons  he  would  soon  ex- 
plain, but  entreated  not  then  to  be  asked  for,  he  had 
found  it  necessary  to  employ  his  son  at  a  distance  for  a 
little  while.  Also,  that  he  was  charged  with  the  duty 
of  vindicating  Stephen  Blackpool's  memory,  and  declaring 
the  thief.  Mr.  Bounderby  quite  confounded,  stood  stock- 
still  in  the  street  after  his  father-in-law  had  left  him, 
swelling  like  an  immense  soap-bubble,  without  its 
beauty. 

Mr.  Gradgrind  went  home,  locked  himself  in  his  room, 
and  kept  it  all  that  day.  When  Sissy  and  Louisa  tapped 
at  his  door,  he  said,  without  opening  it,  "Not  now,  my 
dears  ;  in  the  evening."  On  their  return  in  the  evening, 
he  said,  "  I  am  not  able  yet — to-morrow."  He  ate  noth- 
ing all  day,  and  had  no  candle  after  dark  :  and  they 
heard  him  walking  to  and  fro  late  at  night. 

But  in  the  morning  he  appeared  at  breakfast  at  the 
usual  hour,  and  took  his  usual  place  at  the  table.  Aged 
and  bent  he  looked,  and  quite  bowed  down  ;  and  yet  he 
looked  a  wiser  man,  and  a  better  man,  than  in  the  days 
when  in  this  life  he  wanted  nothing  but  Facts.  Before 
he  left  the  room,  he  appointed  a  time  for  them  to  come 
to  him  ;  and  so  with  his  gray  head  drooping  went 
away. 

"  Dear  father,"  said  Louisa,  when  they  kept  their  ap- 
pointment, "  you  have  three  young  children  left.  They 
will  be  different,  1  will  be  different  yet,  with  Heaven's 
help." 

She  gave  her  hand  to  Sissy,  as  if  she  meant  with  her 
help  too. 

"Your  wretched  brother,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "  Do 
you  think  he  had  planned  this  robbery,  when  he  went 
with  you  to  the  lodgings  ?" 

"I  fear  so,  father,  i  know  he  had  wanted  money 
very  much,  and  had  sy)ent  a  great  deal." 

"  The  ])oor  man  being  about  to  leave  the  town,  it  came 
into  his  evil  brain  to  cast  suspicion  on  him  ?" 

"  I  think  it  must  have  flashed  upon  h'nn  while  he  sat 
there,  father.  For  I  asked  him  to  go  there  with  me. 
The  visit  did  not  originate  with  him." 

"He  had  some  conversation  with  the  ])oor  man.  Did 
he  take  him  aside  ?  " 

"  He  took  him  out  of  the  room.  I  asked  him  after- 
wards, wliy  he  done  so,  and  he  made  a  plausible  excuse  ; 
but  since  last  night,  father,  and  when  I  remember  the 


circumstances  by  its  light,  I  am  afraid  I  can  imagine  too 
truly  what  passed  between  them." 

"Let  me  know,"  said  her  father,  "  if  your  thoughts 
present  your  guilty  brother  in  the  same*  dark  view  as 
mine." 

"  I  fear,  father,"  hesitated  Louisa,  "  that  he  must 
have  made  some  representation  to  Stephen  Blackpool — 
perhaps  in  my  name,  perhaps  in  his  own — which  induced 
him  to  do  in  good  faith  and  honesty,  what  he  had  never 
done  before,  and  to  wait  about  the  Bank  those  two  or 
three  nights  before  he  left  the  town." 

"  Too  plain  !  "  returned  the  father.    "Too  plain  !  " 

He  shaded  his  face,  and  remained  silent  for  some 
moments.    Recovering  himself,  he  said  : 

"  And  now,  how  is  he  to  be  found  ?  How  is  he  to  be 
saved  from  justice?  In  the  few  hours  that  I  can  pos- 
sibly allow  to  elapse  before  I  publish  the  truth,  how  is 
he  to  be  found  by  us,  and  only  by  us  ?  Ten  thousand 
pounds  could  not  effect  it." 

"  Sissy  has  effected  it,  father." 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  where  she  stood,  like  a  good  fairy 
in  his  house,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  softened  gratitude  and 
grateful  kindness,  "It  is  always  you,  my  child  !  " 

"  We  had  our  fears,"  Sissy  explained,  glancing  at 
Louisa,  "before  yesterday  ;  and  when  I  saw  you  brought 
to  the  side  of  the  litter  last  night,  and  heard  what 
passed  (being  close  to  Rachael  all  the  time),  I  went  to 
him  when  no  one  saw,  and  said  to  him,  '  Don't  look  at 
me.  See  where  your  father  is.  Escape  at  once,  for  his 
sake  and  your  own  ! '  He  was  in  a  tremble  before  I 
whispered  to  him,  and  he  started  and  trembled  more 
then,  and  said,  '  Where  can  I  go  ?  I  have  very  little 
money,  and  I  don't  know  who  will  hide  me  !"  I  thought 
of  father's  old  circus.  I  have  not  forgotten  where  Mr. 
Sleary  goes  at  this  time  of  year,  and  1  read  of  him  in  a 
paper  only  the  other  day.  1  told  him  to  hurry  there, 
and  tell  his  name,  and  ask  Mr.  Sleary  to  hide  him  till  I 
came.  Til  get  to  him  before  the  morning,' he  .sakl. 
And  I  saw  him  shrink  away  among  the  people." 

"  Thank  Heaven  !"  exclaimed  his  father.  "  He  may 
be  got  abroad  yet." 

It  was  the  more  hopeful  as  the  town  to  which  Sissy  had 
directed  him  was  within  three  hours'  journey  of  Liver- 
pool, whence  he  could  be  swiftly  dispatched  to  any  part 
of  the  world.  But,  caution  being  necessary  in  communi- 
cating with  him— for  there  was  a  greater  danger  every 
moment  of  his  being  suspected  now,  and  nobody  could 
be  sure  at  heart,  but  that  Mr.  Bounderby  himself,  in  a 
bullying  vein  of  public  zeal,  might  play  a  Roman  part — 
it  was  consented  that  Sissy  and  Louisa  should  repair  to 
the  place  in  question,  by  a  circuitous  course  alone  ;  and 
that  the  unhappy  father,  setting  forth  in  an  opposite  di- 
rection, should  get  round  to  the  same  bourne  by  another 
and  wider  route.  It  was  further  agreed  that  he  should 
not  present  himself  to  Mr.  Sleary,  lest  his  intentions 
should  be  mistrusted,  or  the  intelligence  of  his  arrival 
should  cause  his  sou  to  take  flight  anew  ;  but,  that  the 
communication  .should  be  left  to  Sissy  and  Louisa  to 
open  ;  and  that  they  should  inform  the  cause  of  so  much 
misery  and  disgrace,  of  his  father's  being  at  hand  and  of 
the  purpose  for  which  they  had  come.  When  these 
arrangements  had  been  well  considered  and  were  fully 
understood  by  all  three,  it  was  time  to  begin  to  carry 
them  into  execution.  Early  in  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Grad- 
grind walked  direct  from  his  own  house  into  the  country, 
to  be  taken  up  on  the  line  by  which  he  was  to  travel  ; 
and  at  night  the  remaining  two  set  forth  upon  their  dif- 
ferent course,  encouraged  by  not  seeing  any  face  they 
knew. 

The  two  travelled  all  night,  except  when  they  were 
left,  for  odd  numbers  of  minutes,  at  branch-places  up  il- 
limitable flights  of  steps,  or  down  wells — which  was  the 
only  variety  of  those  branches — and,  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, were  turned  out  on  a  swamp,  a  mile  or  two  from  the 
town  they  sought.  From  this  dismal  spot  they  were 
rescued  by  a  savage  old  postilion,  who  haj)pened  to  be  up 
early,  kicking  a  horse  in  a  fly  ;  and  so  were  smuggled 
into  the  town  by  all  the  back  lanes  where  the  pigs  lived  : 
which,  although  not  a  magnificent  or  even  savoury  ap- 
proach, was,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  the  legitimate 
highway. 

The  first  thing  they  saw  on  entering  the  town  was  the 


HARD 

skeleton  of  Sleary's  Circus.  The  company  had  departed 
for  another  town  more  than  twenty  miles  off,  and  had 
opened  there  last  night.  The  connection  between  tlie 
two  places  was  by  a  hilly  turnpike-road,  and  the  travel- 
ling on  that  road  was  very  slow.  Though  they  took  but 
a  hasty  breakfast,  and  no  rest  (which  it  would  have  been 
in  vain  to  seek  under  such  circumstances),  it  was  noon 
before  they  began  to  find  the  bills  of  Sleary's  Horse- 
riding  on  barns  and  walls,  and  one  o'clock  when  they 
stopped  in  the  market-place. 

A  Grand  Morning  Performance  by  the  Riders,  com- 
mencing at  that  very  hoar,  was  in  course  of  announce- 
ment by  the  bellman  as  they  set  their  feet  upon  the 
-stones  of  the  street.  Sissy  recommended  that,  to  avoid 
making  inquiries  and  attracting  attention  in  the  town, 
they  should  present  themselves  to  pay  at  the  door.  If 
Mr.  Sleary  were  taking  the  money,  he  would  be  sure  to 
know  her,  and  would  proceed  with  discretion.  If  he 
were  not,  he  would  be  sure  to  see  them  inside  ;  and, 
knowing  what  he  had  done  with  the  fugitive,  would  pro- 
ceed with  discretion  still. 

Therefore,  they  repaired,  with  fluttering  hearts,  to  the 
well  remembered  booth.  The  flag  with  the  inscription 
Sleary's  Horseriding,  was  there  ;  and  the  Gothic  niche 
was  there  ;  but  Mr.  Sleary  was  not  there.  Master  Kid- 
derminster, grown  too  maturely  turfy  to  be  received  by 
the  wildest  credulity  as  Cupid  any  more,  had  yielded  to 
the  invincible  force  of  circumstances  (and  his  beards, 
and,  in  the  capacity  of  a  man  who  made  himself  gener- 
ally useful,  presided  on  this  occasion  over  the  exchequer 
— having  also  a  drum  in  reserve,  on  which  to  expend  his 
leisure  moments  and  superfluous  forces.  In  the  extreme 
sharpness  of  his  look  out  for  base  coin,  Mr.  Kiddermin- 
ster, as  at  present  situated,  never  saw  anything  but 
money  ;  so  Sissy  passed  him  unrecognised,  and  they  went 
in. 

The  Emperor  of  Japan,  on  a  steady  old  white  horse 
stencilled  with  black  spots,  was  twirling  five  wash-hand 
basins  at  once,  as  it  is  the  favourite  recreation  of  that 
monarch  to  do.  Sissy,  though  well  acquainted  with  his 
Royal  line,  had  no  personal  knowledge  of  the  present 
Emperor,  and  his  reign  was  peaceful.  Miss  Josephine 
Sleary,  in  her  celebrated  graceful  Equestrian  Tyrolean 
Flower-Act  was  then  announced  by  a  new  clown  (who 
humorously  said  Cauliflower  Act),  and  Mr.  Sleary  ap- 
peared, leading  her  in. 

Mr..  Sleary  had  only  made  one  cut  at  the  Clown  with 
his  long  whip-lash,  and  the  Clown  had  only  said,  "If 
you  do  it  again,  I'll  throw  the  horse  at  you  ! "  when 
Sissy  was  recognised  both  by  father  and  daughter.  But 
they  got  through  the  Act  with  great  self-possession  ;  and 
Mr.  Sleary,  saving  for  the  first  instant,  conveyed  no 
more  expression  into  his  locomotive  eye  than  into  his 
fixed  one.  The  performance  seemed  a  little  long  to  Sissy 
and  Louisa,  particularly  when  it  stopped  to  afford  the 
Clown  an  opportunity  of  telling  Mr.  Sleary  (who  said 
"  Indeed,  sir  I "  to  all  his  observations  in  the  calmest 
way,  and  with  his  eye  on  the  house),  about  two  legs  sit- 
ting on  three  legs  looking  at  one  leg,  when  in  came  four 
legs,  and  laid  hold  of  one  leg,  and  up  got  two  legs, 
caught  hold  of  three  legs,  and  threw 'em  at  four  legs, 
who  ran  away  with  one  leg.  For,  although  an  ingenious 
Allegory  relating  to  a  butcher,  a  three-legged  stool,  a 
dog,  and  a  leg  of  mutton  this  narrative  consumed  time  ; 
and  they  were  in  great  suspense.  At  last,  however,  lit- 
tle fair-haired  Josephine  made  her  curtsey  amid  great 
applause  ;  and  the  Clown,  left  alone  in  the  ring,  had  just 
warmed  himself,  and  said,  "Now  I'W  have  a  turn!" 
when  Sissy  was  touched  on  the  shoulder,  and  beckoned 
out. 

She  took  Louisa  with  her  ;  and  they  were  received  by 
Mr.  Sleary  in  a  very  little  private  apartment,  with  can- 
vas sides,  a  grass  floor,  and  a  wooden  ceiling  all  aslant, 
on  which  the  box  company  stamped  their  approbation, 
as  if  they  were  coming  through.  "  Tliethilia,"  said  Mr. 
Sleary,  who  had  brandy  and  water  at  hand,  "  it  doth  me 
good  to  thee  you.  You  wath  alwayth  a  favourite  with  uth, 
and  you've  have  done  uth  credit  thinth  the  old  timeth 
I'm  thure.  You  mutht  thee  our  people,  my  dear,  afore 
we  thpeak  of  bithnith,or  they'll  break  their  hearts — eth- 
pethially  the  women.  Here'th  Jothphiue  hath  been  and 
got  married  to  E.  W.  B.  Childerth,  and  thee  hath  got  a 


TIMES.  1037 

boy,  and  though  he'th  only  three  yearth  old,  he  thtickth 
on  to  any  pony  you  can  bring  againth  him.  Ile'th  named 
The  Little  Wonder  Of  Thcolathic  Equitation  ;  and  if 
you  don't  hear  of  that  boy  at  Athley'th,  you'll  hear  of  him 
at  Parith.  And  you  recollect  Kidderminthter,  that  wath 
thought  to  be  rather  thweet  upon  yourthelf.  Well. 
He'th  married  too.  Married  a  widder.  Old  enough  to 
be  hith  mother.  Thee  wath  Tightrope,  thee  wath,  and 
now  thee'th  nothing— on  accounth  of  fat.  They've  got 
two  children,  tho  we're  thtrong  in  the  Fairy  bithnith 
and  the  Nurthery  dodge.  If  you  wath  to  thee  our  Chil- 
dren in  the  Wood,  with  their  father  and  mother  both  a 
dyin'  on  a  horthe — their  uncle  a  rethieving  of  'em  ath 
hitli  wardth,  upon  a  horthe— themthelvth  both  a  goin' 
a  blackberry  in' on  a  horthe— and  the  Robin  th  a  coming 
in  to  cover  'em  with  leavth,  upon  a  horthe — you'd  thay 
it  wath  ■  the  completetht  thing  ath  ever  you  thet  your 
eyeth  on  !  And  you  remember  Emma  Gordon,  my  dear, 
ath  wath  a'motht  a  mother  to  you  ?  Of  courthe  you  do  ; 
I  needn't  athk.  Well  !  Emma,  thee  lotht  her  huthband. 
He  wath  throw'd  a  heavy  back-fall  off  a  Elephant  in  a 
thort  of  a  Pagoda  thing  ath  the  Thultan  of  the  Indieth, 
and  he  never  got  the  better  of  it  ;  and  thee  married  a 
thecond  time — married  a  Cheethe-monger  ath  fell  in  love 
with  her  from  the  front— and  he'th  a  Overtheer  and 
makin'  a  fortun." 

These  various  changes,  Mr.  Sleary,  very  short  of 
breath  now,  related  with  heartiness,  and  with  a  wonder- 
ful kind  of  innocence,  considering  what  a  bleary  and 
brandy-and- watery  old  veteran  he  was.  Afterwards  he 
brought  in  Josephine,  and  E.  W.  B.  Childers  (rather 
deeply-lined  in  the  jaws  by  daylight),  and  The  Little 
Wonder  of  Scholastic  Equitation,  and  in  a  word,  all  the 
company.  Amazing  creatures  they  were  in  Louisa's 
eyes,  so  white  and  pink  of  complexion,  so  scant  of  dress, 
and  so  demonstrative  of  leg  ;  but  it  was  very  agreeable 
to  see  them  crowding  about  Sissy,  and  very  natural  in 
Sissy  to  be  unable  to  refiain  from  tears. 

"There  1  Now  Thethilia  hath  kithd  all  the  children, 
and  hugged  all  the  women,  and  thaken  handth  all  round 
with  all  the  men,  clear,  every  one  of  you,  and  ring  in 
the  band  for  the  thecond  part !  " 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  he  continued  in  a  low  tone. 
"  Now,  Thethilia,  I  don't  athk  to  know  any  thecret,  but 
I  thuppothe  I  may  conthider  thith  to  be  Mith  Thquire." 

"  This  is  his  sister.  Yes." 

"And  t'other  on'th  daughter.  That'll  what  I  mean. 
Hope  I  thee  you  well,  mith.  And  I  hope  the  Thquire'th 
well?" 

"My  father  will  be  here  soon,"  said  Louisa,  anxious 
to  bring  him  to  the  point.    "  Is  my  brother  safe?" 

"  Thafe  and  thound!"  he  replied.  "I  want  you 
jutht  to  take  a  peep  at  the  Ring,  mith,  through  there. 
Thethilia,  you  know  the  dodgeth  ;  find  a  thpy-hole  for 
yourthelf." 

They  each  looked  through  a  chinck  in  the  boards. 

"  That'h  Jack  the  Giant  Killer — piethe  of  comic  infant 
bithnith,"  said  Sleary.  "  There'th  a  property-houthe, 
you  thee,  for  Jack  to  hide  in  ;  there'th  my  Clown  with  a 
thauthpanlid  and  a  thpit, for  Jack' th  thervant;  there'th  lit- 
tle Jack  himtlielf  in  a  thplendid  thoot  of  armour  ;  there'th 
two  comic  black  thervants  twithe  ath  big  ath  the  houthe, 
to  thtand  by  it  and  to  bring  it  in  and  clear  it ;  and  the 
Giant  (a  very  ecthpenthive  bathket  one),  he  an't  on  yet. 
Now,  do  you  know  thee  'em  all  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  they  both  said. 

"Look  at  'em  again,"  said  Sleary,  "look  at  'em  well. 
You  thee  'em  all  ?  Very  good.  Now,  mith  ;  "  he  put  a 
form  for  them  to  sit  on  ;  "I  have  my  opinion  th,  and  the 
Thquire  your  father  hath  hith.  I  don't  want  to  know 
what  your  brother'th  been  up  to  ;  ith  better  for  me  not 
to  know.  All  I  thay  ith,  the  Thquire  hath  thtood  by 
Thethilia,  and  I'il  thtarid  by  the  Thquire.  Your  brother 
ith  one  o'  them  black  tliervanth." 

Louisa  uttered  an  exclamation,  partly  of  distress, 
partly  of  satisfaction. 

"  Ith  a  fact,"  said  Sleary,  "  and  even  knowin'  it,  you 
couldn't  put  your  finger  on  him.  Let  the  Thquire  come. 
I  thall  keep  your  brother  here  after  the  performanth.  I 
thunt  undreth  him,  nor  yet  wath  hith  paint  off.  Let  the 
Thquire  come  here  after  the  performanth,  or  con.e  here 
yourthelf  after  the  performanth,  and  you  thall  find  your 


1038 


CHARLES  DIG  KENS'  WORKS. 


brother,  an(^.  have  the  whole  plathe  to  talk  to  him  in. 
Never  mind  the  lookth  of  him,  ath  long  ath  he'th  well 
hid." 

Louisa,  wHh  many  thanks  and  with  a  lightened  load, 
detained  Mr.  Sleary  no  longer  then.  She  left  her  love 
for  her  brother,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears  ;  and  she  and 
Sissy  went  away  until  later  in  the  afternoon. 

Mr.  Qradgrind  arrived  within  an  hour  afterwards.  He 
too  had  encountered  no  one  whom  he  knew  ;  and  was 
now  sanguine  with  Sleary 's  assistance,  of  getting  his 
disgraced  son  to  Liverpool  in  the  night.  As  neither  of 
the  three  could  be  his  companion  without  almost  inden- 
tifving  him  under  any  disguise,  he  prepared  a  letter  to  a 
correspondent  whom  he  could  trust,  beseeching  him  to 
ship  the  bearer  off  at  any  cost,  to  North  or  South  Amer- 
ica, or  any  distant  part  of  the  world  to  which  he  could 
be  the  most  speedily  and  privately  dispatched. 

This  done,  they  walked  about,  waiting  for  the  Circus 
to  be  quite  vacated  ;  not  only  by  the  audience,  but  by 
the  company  and  by  the  horses.  After  watching  it  a  long 
time,  they  saw  Mr.  Sleary  bring  out  a  chair  and  sit  down 
by  the  side-door  smoking  ;  as  if  that  were  the  signal 
that  they  might  approach. 

"  Your  thervant,  Thquire,"  was  his  cautious  salutation 
as  they  passed  in,  "If  you  want  me  you'll  find  me 
here.  You  musthn't  mind  your  tlion  having  a  comic 
livery  on." 

They  all  three  went  in  ;  and  Mr.  Gradgrind  sat  down 
forlorn,  on  the  Clown's  performing  chair  in  the  middle 
of  the  ring.  On  one  of  the  back  benches,  remote  in  the 
subdued  light  and  the  strangeness  of  the  place,  sat  the 
villainous  whelp,  .sulky  to  the  last,  whom  he  had  the 
misery  to  call  his  son. 

In  a  preposterous  coat,  like  a  beadle's,  with  cuffs  and 
flaps  exaggerated  to  an  unspeakable  extent ;  in  an  im- 
mense waistcoat,  knee-breeches,  buckled  shoes,  and  a 
mad  cocked  hat  ;  with  nothing  fitting  him,  and  every- 
thing of  coarse  material,  moth-eaten,  and  full  of  holes  ; 
with  seams  in  his  black  face,  where  fear  and  heat  had 
started  through  the  greasy  composition  daubed  all  over 
it ;  anything  so  grimly,  detestably,  ridiculously  shameful 
as  the  whelp  in  his  comic  livery,  Mr.  Gradgrind  never 
could  by  any  other  means  ^lave  believed  in,  weighable 
and  measureable  fact  though  it  was.  And  one  of  his 
model  children  had  come  to  this  ! 

At  first  the  whelp  would  not  draw  any  nearer,  but 
persisted  in  remaining  up  there  by  himself.  Yielding 
at  length,  if  any  concession  so  sullenly  made  can  be 
called  yielding,  to  the  entreaties  of  Sissy — for  Louisa  he 
disowned  altogether — he  came  down,  bench  by  bench, 
until  he  stood  in  the  sawdust,  on  the  verge  of  the  circle, 
as  far  as  possible,  within  its  limits,  from  where  his  father 
sat. 

"How  was  this  done?"  asked  the  father. 
"  How  was  what  done?  "  moodily  answered  the  son. 
"  Tills  robbery,"  said  the  father,  raising  his  voice  upon 
the  word. 

"I  forced  the  safe  myself  overnight,  and  shut  it  up 
ajar  before  I  went  away.  I  had  had  the  key  that  was 
found,  made  long  before.  I  dropped  it  that  morning, 
that  it  might  be  supposed  to  have  been  used.  I  didn't 
take  the  money  all  at  once.  I  pretended  to  put  my  bal- 
ance away  every  night,  but  I  didn't.  Now  you  know  all 
about  it," 

"  If  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  on  me,"  said  the  father, 
"it  would  have  shocked  me  less  than  this  ! " 

"I  don't  see  why,"  grumbled  the  son.  "So  many 
people  are  employed  in  situations  of  trust  ;  so  many 
people,  out  of  so  many,  will  be  dishonest,  I  have  heard 
you  talk,  a  hundred  times,  of  its  being  a  law.  How  can 
1  help  laws?  You  have  comforted  others  with  such 
things,  father.    Comfort  yourself  !  " 

The  father  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  the  son 
stood  in  his  disgraceful  grotesqueness,  biting  straw  :  his 
hands,  with  the  black  partly  worn  away  inside,  looking 
like  the  hands  of  a  monkey.  The  evening  was  fast  clos- 
ing in  ;  and  from  time  to  time,  he  turned  the  wliites  of 
his  eyes  restlessly  and  impatiently  towards  liis  father. 
They  were  the  only  parts  of  his  face  that  showed  any 
life  or  expression,  the  pigment  upon  it  was  so  thick. 

"  You  must  be  got  to  Liverpool,  and  sent  abroad." 

"I  suppose  I  must.    1  can't  be  more  miserable  any- 


!  where,"  whimpered  the  whelp,  "  than  I  have  been  here, 
j  ever  since  I  can  remember.    That's  one  thing," 

Mr,  Gradgrind  went  to  the  door,  and  returned  with 
Sleary,  to  whom  he  submitted  the  question.  How  to  get 
this  deplorable  object  away? 

"  Why,  I've  been  thinking  of  it,  Thquire,  There'th 
not  muth  time  to  lothe,  tho  you  muth  thay  yeth  or  no. 
'  Ith  over  twenty  raileth  to  the  rail.  Thereth  a  coath  in 
in  half  an  hour,  that  goeth  to  the  rail,  'purpothe  to  cath 
the  mail  train.  That  train  will  take  him  right  to  Liver- 
pool." 

"But  look  at  him,"  groaned  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "Will 
any  coach — " 

"  I  don't  mean  that  he  thould  go  in  the  comic  livery," 
said  Sleary.  "  Thay  the  word,  and  I'll  make  a  Jothkin 
of  him,  out  of  the  wardrobe,  in  five  minutes." 
"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
"A  Jothkin — a  Carter.  Makeup  your  mind  quick, 
Thquire.  There'll  be  beer  to  feth.  I've  never  met 
with  nothing  but  beer  ath '11  ever  clean  a  comic  blacka- 
moor." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  rapidly  assented  ;  Mr.  Sleary  rapidly 
turned  out  from  a  box,  a  smock  frock,  a  felt  hat,  and 
other  essentials  ;  the  whelp  rapidly  changed  clothes  be- 
hind a  screen  of  baize  ;  Mr.  Sleary  rapidly  brought  beer, 
and  washed  him  white  again, 

"Now,"  said  Sleary,  "come  along  to  the  coath,  and 
jump  up  behind  ;  I'll  go  with  you  there,  aiKl  they'll 
!  thuppothe  you  one  of  my  people.  Thay  farewell  to  your 
j  family,  and  tharj)'th  the  word."    With  which  he  deli- 
1  cately  retired. 

[  "Here  is  your  letter,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "All 
necessary  means  will  be  provided  for  you.  Atone,  by  re- 
pentance and  better  conduct,  for  the  shocking  action  you 
have  committed,  and  the  dreadful  consequences  to  which 
it  has  led.  Give  me  your  hand,  my  poor  boy,  and  may 
God  forgive  you  as  I  do  !  " 

The  culprit  was  moved  to  a  few  abject  tears  by  these 
words  and  their  pathetic  tone.  But,  when  Louisa 
opened  her  arms,  he  repulsed  her  afresh. 

"  Not  you.  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  say  to 
you  ! " 

"  O  Tom,  Tom,  do  we  end  so,  after  all  my  love  !  " 
"After  all  your  love!"  he  returned,  obdurately. 
"  Pretty  love  !  Leaving  old  Bounderby  to  himself,  and 
packing  my  best  friend  Mr.  Harthouse  off,  and  going 
home  just  when  T  vvas  in  the  greatest  danger.  Pretty 
love  that  !  Coming  out  with  every  word  about  our 
having  gone  to  that  place,  when  you  saw  the  net  was 
gathering  round  me.  Pretty  love  that !  You  have 
regularly  given  me  up.  You  never  cared  for  me." 
"  Tharp'th  the  word  !  "  said  Sleary  at  the  door. 
They  all  confusedly  went  out :  Louisa  crying  to  him 
that  she  forgave  him,  and  loved  him  still,  and  that  he 
would  one  day  be  sorry  to  have  left  her  so,  and  glad  to 
think  of  these  her  last  words,  far  away  :  when  some  one 
ran  against  them.  Mr.  Gradgrind  and  Sissy,  who  were 
both  before  him  while  his  sister  yet  clung  to  his  shoul- 
der, stopped  and  recoiled. 

For,  there  was  Bitzer,  out  of  breath,  his  thin  lips 
parted,  his  thin  nostrils  distended,  his  white  eyelashes 
quivering,  his  colourless  face  more  colourless  than  ever, 
as  if  he  ran  himself  into  a  white  heat,  when  other  peo- 
ple ran  themselves  into  a  glow.  There  he  stood,  pant- 
ing and  heaving,  as  if  he  had  never  stopped  since  the 
night,  now  long  ago,  when  he  had  run  them  down  be- 
fore. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  interfere  with  your  plans,"  said  Bitzer, 
shaking  his  head,  "  but  I  can't'allow  myself  to  be  done 
by  horseridei's.  I  must  have  young  Mr.  Tom  ;  he 
mustn't  be  got  away  by  horseriders  ;  here  he  is  in  a 
smock  frock,  and  I  must  have  him  !  " 

By  the  collar,  too,  it  seemed.  For,  so  he  took  posses- 
sion of  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PJdlosophical. 

They  went  back  into  the  booth,  Sleary  shutting  the 
door  to  keep  intruders  out,    Bitzer,  still  holding  the 


HARD  TIMES. 


1039 


paralysed  culprit  by  the  collar,  stood  in  the  Ring,  blink- 
ing at  his  old  patron  through  the  darkness  of  the  twi- 
light. 

"Bitzer,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  broken  down,  and  mis- 
erably submissive  to  him,  "  have  you  a  heart?" 

"The  circulation  sir,"  returned  Bitzer,  smiling  at  the 
oddity  of  the  question,  "  couldn't  be  carried  on  without 
one.  No  man,  sir,  acquainted  with  the  facts  established 
by  Harvey  relating  to  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  can 
doubt  that  I  have  a  heart." 

"  Is  it  accessible,"  cried  Mr,  Gradgrind,  "  to  any  com- 
passionate inlluence?" 

"  It  is  accessible  to  Reason,  sir,"  returned  the  excel- 
lent young  man.    "  And  to  nothing  else." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  ;  Mr.  Gradgrind's 
face  as  white  as  the  pursuer's. 

"  What  motive — even  what  motive  in  reason — can  you 
have  for  preventing  the  escape  of  this  wretched  youth," 
said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  and  crushing  his  miserable  father? 
See  his  sister  here.    Pity  us  !  " 

"  Sir,"  returned  Bitzer,  in  a  very  business-like  and 
logical  manner,  "  since  you  ask  me  what  motive  I  have 
in  reason,  for  taking  young  Mr.  Tom  back  to  Coketown, 
it  is  only  reasonable  to  let  you  know.  I  have  suspected 
young  Mr.  Tom  of  this  bank  robbery  from  the  first.  I 
had  had  my  eye  uy)on  him  before  that  time,  for  I  knew 
his  ways.  I  have  kept  my  observations  to  myself,  but 
I  have  made  them  ;  and  I  have  got  ample  proofs  against 
him  now,  besides  his  running  away,  and  besides  his  own 
confessions,  which  I  was  just  in  time  to  overhear.  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  watching  your  house  yesterday  morning, 
and  following  you  here.  I  am  going  to  take  young  Mr. 
Tom  back  to  Coketown,  in  order  to  deliver  him  oVer  to 
Mr.  Bounderby.  Sir,  I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  Mr. 
Bounderby  will  then  promote  me  to  young  Mr.  Tom's 
situation.  And  I  wish  to  have  his  situation,  sir,  for  it 
will  be  a  rise  to  me,  and  will  do  me  good." 

"If  this  is  solely  a  question  of  self-interest  with 
you — "  Mr.  Gradgrind  began. 

"  I  beg  v'our  pardon  for  interrupting^you,  sjr,,"  returned 
Bitzer  ;  Tmt  I  am  sure  you  know  tliat"the  "whole  social 
systeiiijs^ii  qiiestlon  of  self-interest.  What  you  must 
always  appeal  to,  is  a  person's  self-interest.  It's  your 
only  hold.  We  are  so  constituted.  I  was  brought  up 
in  that  catechism  when  I  was  very  young,  sir,  as  you  are 
aware." 

"What  sum  of  money,"  said  Mr,  Gradgrind,  "will 
you  set  against  your  expected  promotion  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Bitzer,  "  for  hinting  at 
the  proposal  ;  but  I  will  not  set  any  sum  against  it. 
Knowing  that  your  clear  head  would  propose  that  alter- 
native, I  have  gone  over  the  calculations  in  my  mind, 
and  I  find  that  to  compound  a  felony,  even  on  very  high 
terms  indeed,  would  not  be  as  safe  and  good  for  me  as 
my  improved  prospects  in  the  Bank." 

"Bitzer,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  stretching  out  his 
hands  as  though  he  would  have  said,  See  bow  miserable 
I  am  ! 

"  Bitzer,  I  have  but  one  chance  left  to  soften  you. 
You  were  many  years  at  my  school.  If,  in  remem- 
brance of  the  pains  bestowed  upon  you  there,  you  can 
persuade  yourself  in  any  degree  to  disregard  your  pres- 
ent interest  and  release  my  son,  I  entreat  and  pray  you 
to  give  him  the  benefit  of  that  rpmembrance." 

"  I  really  wonder,  sir,"  rejoined  the  old  pupil  in  an 
argumentative  manner,"  to  findyou  taking  a  position  so 
untenable.  My  schooling  was  paid  for  ;  it  was  a  bar- 
gain ;  and  when  I  came  away,  the  bargain  ended." 

It  was  a  fundamenal  principle  of  the  Gradgrind  phi- 
losophy, that  everything  was  to  be  paid  for.  Nobody 
was  ever  on  any  account  to  give  anybody  anything, 
or  render  anybody  help  without  purchase.  Gratitude 
was  to  be  abolished,  and  the  virtues  springing  from  it 
were  not  to  be.  Every  inch  of  the  existence  of  man- 
kind, from  birth  to  death,  was  to  be  a  bargain  across  a 
counter.  And  if  we  didn't  get  to  Heaven  that  way,  it 
was  not  a  politico-economical  jjlace,  and  we  had  no  busi- 
ness there. 

"I  don't  deny,"  added  Bitzer,  "that  my  schooling 
was  cheap.  But  that  comes  right,  sir.  I  was  made  in 
the  cheayjest  market,  and  have  to  dispose  of  myself  in 
the  dearest." 


He  was  a  little  troubled  here, by  Louisa  and  Sissy  crying. 

"Pray  don't  do  that,"  said  he,  "  it's  of  no  use  doing 
that  :  it  only  worries.  You  seem  to  think  that  I  have 
some  animosity  against  young  Mr.  Tom  ;  whereas  I  have 
none  at  all.  I  am  only  going,  on  the  reasonable  grounds 
I  have  mentioned,  to  take  him  back  to  Coketown.  If 
he  was  to  resist,  I  should  set  up  the  cry  of  Stop  Thief  ! 
But,  he  won't  resist,  you  may  depend  upon  it." 

Mr.  Sleary,  who,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  rolling 
eye  as  immovably  jammed  in  his  head  as  his  fixed  one, 
had  listened  to  these  doctrines  with  profound  attention, 
here  stepped  forward. 

"  Thquire,  you  know  perfectly  well,  and  your  daughter 
knowth  perfectly  well  (better  than  you,  becauthe  I  thed 
it  to  her),  that  I  didn't  know  what  your  thon  had  done, 
and  that  I  didn't  want  to  know — I  thed  it  wath  better  not, 
though  I  only  thought  then,  it  wath  thome  thkylarking. 
However,  thith  young  man  having  made  it  known  to  be 
a  robbery  of  abank,  why,  that'll  a  theriouth  thing  ;  muth 
too  theriouth  a  thing  for  me  to  compound,  ath  thith 
young  man  hath  very  properly  called  it.  Conthequently, 
Thquire,  you  muthn't  quarrel  with  me  if  I  take  thith 
young  man'th  thide,  and  thay  he'th  right  and  there'th 
no  help  for  it.  But  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Thquire  ;  I'll 
drive  your  thon  and  thith  young  man  over  to  the  rail, 
and  prevent  expothure  here.  I  can't  conthent  to  do 
more,  but  I'll  do  that." 

Fresh  lamentations  from  Louisa,  and  deeper  affliction 
on  Mr.  Gradgrind's  part,  followed  this  desertion  of  tliem 
by  their  last  friend.  But,  Sissy  glanced  to  him  with 
great  attention  ;  nor  did  she  in  her  own  breast  misunder- 
stand him.  As  they  were  all  going  out  again,  he 
favoured  her  with  one  slight  roll  of  his  movable  eye, 
desiring  her  to  linger  behind.  As  he  locked  the  door, 
he  said  excitedly  : 

"The  Thquire  thtood  by  you,  Thethilia,  and  I'll 
thtand  by  the  Thquire.  More  than  that :  thith  ith  a 
pretliiouth  rathcal  andbelongth  to  that  bluthteringCove 
that  my  people  nearly  pitht  out  o'  winder.  It'll  be  a 
dark  night  ;  I've  got  a  horthe  that'll  do  anything  but 
thpeak  ;  I've  got  a  pony  that'll  go  fifteen  \vA\e  an  hour 
with  Childertli  driving  of  him  ;  I've  got  a  dog  that'll 
keep  a  man  to  one  plathe  four-and-twenty  hourth.  Get 
a  word  with  the  young  Thquire.  Tell  him,  when  he 
theeth  our  horthe  begin  to  danthe,  not  to  be  afraid  of 
being  thpilt,  but  to  look  out  for  a  pony-gig  coming  up. 
Tell  him,  when  he  theeth  that  gig  clothe  by,  to  jump 
down,  and  it'll  take  him  off  at  a  rattling  pathe.  If  my 
dog  letli  thith  young  man  thtir  a  peg  on  foot,  I  give  him 
leave  to  go.  And  if  my  horthe  ever  thtirth  from  that 
thpot  where  he  beginth  a  danthing,  till  the  morning — I 
don't  know  him? — Tharp'th  the  word  !  " 

The  word  was  so  sharp,  that  in  ten  minutes  Mr. 
Childers,  sauntering  about  the  market-place  in  a  pair  of 
slippers,  had  his  cue,  and  Mr.  Sleary's  equipage  was 
ready.  It  was  a  fine  sight  to  behold  the  learned  dog 
barking  round  it,  and  Mr.  Sleary  instructing  him,  with 
his  one  practical  eye,  that  Bitzer  was  the  object  of  his 
particular  attentions.  Soon  after  dark  they  all  three 
got  in  and  started  ;  the  learned  dog  (a  formidable  creat- 
ure) already  pinning  Bitzer  with  his  eye,  and  sticking 
close  to  the  wheel  on  his  side,  that  he  might  be  ready 
for  him  in  the  event  of  his  showing  the  slightest  dis- 
position to  alight. 

The  other  three  sat  up  at  the  inn  all  night  in  great 
suspense.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  Mr.  Sleary 
and  the  dog  reappeared  :  both  in  high  spirits. 

"All  right,  Thquire  !"  said  Mr.  Sleary,  "your  thon 
may  be  aboard-a-thip  by  thith  time.  Childerth  took  him 
off,' an  hour  and  a  half  after  we  left  here  lathe  night. 
The  horth  danthed  the  polka  till  he  was  dead  beat  (he 
would  have  walthed,  if  he  hadn't  been  in  harneth),  and 
then  I  gave  him  the  word  and  he  went  to  thleep  comfor- 
table. Then  that  prethiouth  young  Rathcal  thed  he'd 
go  for'ard  afoot,  the  dog  hung  on  to  hith  neck-handkercher 
with  all  four  legth  in  the  air  and  pulled  him  down  and 
rolled  him  over.  Tlio  he  come  back  into  the  drag,  and 
there  he  that,  'till  I  turned  the  horthe'th  head,  at  half- 
path  thixth  thith  morning." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  overwhelmed  him  with  thanks,  of 
course  ;  and  hinted  as  delicately  as  he  could,  at  a  hand- 
some remuneration  in  money. 


1040 


CHARLES  Die  KEN 8'  WORKS. 


"  I  don't  wan't  money  mythelf,  Tliquire  ;  but  Childerth 
ith  a  family  man,  and  if  you  wath  to  like  to  offer  him  a 
five-pound  note,  it  mightn't  be  unactheptable.  Like- 
withe  if  you  wath  to  thand  a  collar  for  the  dog,  or  a  thet 
of  belth  for  the  horthe,  I  thould  be  very  glad  to  take  'em. 
Brandy  and  water  I  alwayth  take."  He  had  already 
called  for  a  glass,  and  now  called  for  another.  "If  you 
wouldn't  think  it  going  too  far,  Thquire,  to  make  a  little 
thpread  for  the  company  at  about  three  and  thixth 
ahead  ;  not  reckoning  Luth,  it  would  make  'em  happy." 

All  these  little  tokens  of  his  gratitude,  Mr,  Gradgrind 
very  willingly  undertook  to  render.  Though  he  thought 
them  far  too  slight,  he  said,  for  such  a  service. 

"  Very  well,  Thqiiire  ;  then,  if  you'll  only  give  a 
Horthe-riding,  a  bethpeak,  whenever  you  can,  you'll 
more  than  balanthe  the  account.  Now,  Thquire,  if  your 
daughter  will  excuthe  me,  I  thoud  like  one  parting  word 
with  you." 

Louisa  and  Sissy  withdrew  into  an  adjoining  room  ; 
Mr.  Sleary,  stirring  and  drinking  his  brandy  and  water 
as  he  stood,  went  on  : 

Thquire,  you  don't  need  to  be  told  that  dogth  is  won- 
derful animal  th." 

"  Their  instinct,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  is  surprising." 

"  Wliatever  you  call  it — and  I'm  bletht  if  /  know  what 
to  call  it " — said  Sleary,  "  it  ith  athonithing.  The  way  in 
with  a  dog'll  find  you — the  dithtanthe  he'll  come  !" 

"  His  scent,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  being  so  fine." 

■"  I'm  bletht  if  I  know  what  to  call  it,"  repeated  Sleary, 
shaking  his  head,  "  but  I  have  had  dogth  find  me, 
Thquire,  in  a  way  that  made  me  think  whether  that  dog 
hadn't  gone  to  another  dog,  and  thed,  *  You  don't  happen 
to  know  a  perthon  of  the  name  of  Thleary,  do  you? 
Perthon  of  the  name  of  Thleary,  in  the  Horthe-Riding 
way — thout  man  — game  eye?'  And  whether  that  dog 
mightn't  have  thed,  'Well,  I  can't  thay  I  know  him 
mythelf,  but  I  know  a  dog  that  I  think  would  be  likely 
to  be  acquainted  with  him.'  And  whether  that  dog 
mightn't  have  thought  it  over,  and  thed,  'Thleary, 
Thleary  !  0  yeth,  to  be  thure  1  A  friend  of  mine  men- 
thioned  him  to  me  at  one  time.  I  can  get  you  hith 
addreth  directly.'  In  conthequenth  of  my  being  afore 
the  public,  and  going  about  tho  muth,  you  thee,  there 
muth  be  a  number  of  dogth  acquainted  with  me,  Thquire, 
that  /  don't  know  !  " 

Mr.  Gradgrind  seemed  to  be  quite  confounded  by  this 
speculation. 

^'  Any  way,"  said  Sleary,  after  putting  his  lips  to  his 
•brandy  and  water,  "ith  fourteen  month  ago,  Thquire, 
thin  the  we  wath  at  Chethter.  We  wath  getting  up  our 
"Children  in  the  Wood  one  morning,  when  there  cometh 
into  our  Ring,  by  the  thtage  door,  a  dog.  He  had  travelled 
a  long  way,  he  wath  in  very  bad  condithon,  he  wath  lame, 
and  pretty  well  blind.  He  went  round  to  our  children, 
one  after  another,  as  if  he  wath  a  theeking  for  a  child  he 
know'd  ;  and  then  he  come  to  me,  and  tlirowed  hithelf 
up  i)ehind,  and  thood  on  hith  two  fore-legth,  weak  ath 
he  wath,  and  then  he  wagged  hith  tail  and  died.  Thquire, 
that  dog  wath  Merrylegth." 

"  Sissy's  father's  dog  !" 

"  Thethilia'th  father'th  old  dog.  Now,  Thquire,  I  can 
take  my  oath,  from  my  knowledge  of  that  dog,  that  that 
man  wath  dead — and  buried — afore  that  dog  come  back 
to  me.  Joth'i)hine  and  Childerth  and  me  talked  it  over 
a  long  time,  whether  I  thoud  write  or  not.  But  we 
agreed,  '  No.  There'th  nothing  comfortable  to  tell  :  why 
unthettle  her  mind,  and  make  her  unhappy  ? '  Tho, 
whether  her  father  bathely  detherted  her ;  or  whether 
he  broke  his  own  heart  alone,  rather  than  pull  her  down 
along  with  him  ;  never  will  be  known,  now,  Thquire,  till 
— no,  not  till  we  know  how  the  dog  findth  nth  out  !" 

"  She  keeps  the  bottle  that  he  sent  her  for,  to  this 
hour  ;  and  slie  will  believe  in  his  affection  to  the  last  mo- 
ment of  her  life,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"It  theemth  to  prethent  two  thingth  to  a  perthon,  don't 
it,  Thquire  V  "  said  Mr.  Sleary,  musing  as  he  looked  down 
into  the  depths  of  his  brandy  and  water:  "one,  that 
tliere  ith  a  love  in  the  world,  not  all  Thelf  intereth  after 
all,  but  thomething  very  different  ;  t'other,  that  it  hath 
a  way  of  ith  own  of  calculating  or  not  calculating,  whith 
thomehow  or  another  ith  at  leatht  ath  hard  to  give  a 
name  to,  ath  the  wayth  of  the  dogth  ith  !  " 


Mr.  Gradgrind  looked  out  of  window,  and  made  no  re- 
ply. Mr.  Sleary  emptied  his  glass  and  recalled  the  ladies. 

"Thethilia  my  dear,  kith  me  and  good-bye  !  Mith 
Thquire,  to  thee  you  treating  of  her  like  a  thithter,  and  a 
thithter  that  you  trutht,  and  honour  with  all  your  heart 
and  more,  ith  a  very  pretty  thight  to  me.  I  hope  your 
brother  may  live  to  be  better  detlierving  of  you,  and  a 
greater  comfort  to  you.  Thquire,  thake  handth,  firtht 
and  latht  !  Don't  be  croth  with  uth  poor  vagabondth. 
People  mutht  be  amuthed.  They  can't  be  alwayth  a 
learning,  nor  yet  they  can't  be  alwayth  a  working,  they 
an't  made  for  it."  You  mutht  have  uth,  Thquire.  Do  the 
withe  thing  and  the  kind  thing  too,  and  make  the  beth 
uth  :  not  the  wurth  ! 

"  And  I  never  thought  before,"  said  Mr.  Sleary,  put- 
ting his  head  in  at  the  door  again  to  say  it,  "  that  I  wath 
tho  muth  of  a  Cackler  !  " 


!  CHAPTER  IX. 

i  Final. 

It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  see  anything  in  the  sphere  of 
[  a  vain  blusterer,  before  the  vain  blusterer  sees  it  himself, 
{  Mr.  Bounderby  felt  that  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  audaciously 
anticipated  him,  and  presumed  to  be  wiser  than  he.  In- 
appeasably  indignant  with  her  for  her  triumphant  discov- 
ery of  Mrs.  Pegler,  he  turned  his  presumption,  on  the  part 
of  a  woman  in  her  dependent  position,  over  and  over  in 
his  mind,  until  it  accumulated  with  turning  like  a  great 
snowball.    At  last  he  made  the  discovery  that  to  dis- 
charge this  highly  connected  female — to  have  it  in  his 
power  to  say,  "  She  w^s  a  woman  of  family,  and  wanted 
to  stick  to  me,  but  I  wouldn't  have  it,  and  got  rid  of 
her  " — would  be  to  get  the  utmost  possible  amount  of 
crowning  glory  out  of  the  connection,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  punish  Mrs.  Sparsit  according  to  her  deserts. 
I     Filled  fuller  than  ever, with  this  great  idea,  Mr.  Boun- 
derby came  into  lunch,  and  sat  himself  down  in  the  din- 
i  ing-room  of  former  days,  where  his  portrait  was.  Mrs. 
j  Sparsit  sat  by  the  fire,  with  her  foot  in  her  cotton  stir- 
I  rup,  little  thinking  whither  she  was  posting, 
i     Since  the  Pegler  affair,  this  gentlewoman  had  covered 
j  her  pity  for  Mr.  Bounderby  with  a  veil  of  quiet  melan- 
I  choly  and  contrition.    In  virtue  thereof,  it  had  become 
her  habit  to  assume  a  woful  look  ;  which  woful  look 
she  now  bestowed  upon  her  patron. 

i  "  What's  the  matter  now,  ma'am?"  said  Mr.  Bounder- 
by, in  a  very  short,  rough  way. 

"Pray,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "do  not  bite  my 
nose  off." 

"  Bite  your  nose  off,  ma'am  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Bounder- 
by. ''  Tour  nose  !"  meaning,  as  Mrs.  Sparsit  conceived, 
that  it  was  too  developed  a  nose  for  the  purpose.  After 
which  offensive  implication,  he  cut  himself  a  crust  of 
bread,  and  threw  the  knife  down  with  a  noise. 

Mrs.  Sparsit  took  her  foot  out  of  her  stirrup,  and  said, 
"Mr.  Bounderby,  sir!" 

"  Well,  ma'am  ?"  retorted  Mr.  Bounderby.  "  Wliat 
are  yon  staring  at?  " 

"  May  I  ask,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  have  you  been 
ruffled  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"May  I  inquire,  sir,"  pursued  the  injured  woman, 
"  whether  /  am  the  unfortunate  cause  of  your  having  lost 
temper  ?  " 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby, 
"  I  am  not  come  here  to  be  bullied.  A  female  may  be 
highly  connected,  but  she  can't  be  permitted  to  bother 
and  badger  a  man  in  my  position,  and  I  am  not  going  to 
put  up  with  it."  (Mr.  Bounderby  felt  it  necessary  to  get 
on  ;  foreseeing  that  if  he  allowed  of  details,  he  would  be 
beaten.) 

Mrs.  Sparsit  first  elevated,  then  knitted,  her  Coriola- 
nian  eyebrows  ;  gathered  up  her  work  into  its  proper 
basket ;  and  rose. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  majestically.  "  It  is  apparent  to  nu' 
that  I  am  in  your  way  at  present.  I  will  retire  to  my 
own  apartment." 

"  Allow  me  to  open  the  door,  ma'am." 


HARD  TIMES, 


1041 


"Thank  you,  sir  ;  I  can  do  it  for  myself," 
"  You  had  better  allow  me,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby, 
passing  her,  and  getting  his  haiid  upon  the  lock  ;  "  be- 
cause I  can  take  the  opi)ortunity  of  saying  a  word  to 
you,  before  you  go.  Mrs.  Sparsit,  ma'am,  I  rather 
think  you  are  cramped  here,  do  you  know  ?  It  appears 
to  me,  that,  undfcr  my  humble  roof,  there's  hardly  open- 
ing enough  for  a  lady  of  your  genius  in  other  people's 
affairs." 

Mrs.  Sparsit  gave  him  a  look  of  the  darkest  scorn,  and 
said  with  great  politeness,  "  Really,  sir  ?  " 

*'  I  have  been  thinking  it  over,  you  see,  since  the  late 
affairs  have  happened,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby  ;  "  and 
it  appears  to  my  poor  judgment — " 
/~  "  Oh  !     Pray,   sir,"    Mrs.    Sparsit  interposed,  with 
1  sprightly  cheerfulness,  "  don't  disparage  your  judgment. 
\ Everybody  knows  how  unerring  Mr.  Bounderby's  judg- 
y  ment  is.    Everybody  has  had  proofs  of  it.    It  must  be 
j  the  theme  of  general  conversation.    Disparage  anything 
'  in  yourself  but  your  judgment,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
Vlaughing. 

Mr.  Bounderby,  very  red  and  uncomfortable,  re- 
sumed : 

"  It  appears  to  me,  ma'am,  I  say,  that  a  different  sort 
of  establishment  altogether,  would  bring  out  a  lady  of 
your  powers.  Such  an  establishment  as  your  relation, 
Lady  Scadgers's  now.  Don't  you  think  you  might  find 
some  affairs  there,  ma'am,  to  interfere  with  ?  " 

"  It  never  occurred  to  me  before,  sir,"  returned  Mrs. 
Sparsit;  "but  now  you  mention  it,  I  should  think  it 
highly  probable." 

"  Then  suppose  you  try,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby  lay- 
ing an  envelope  with  a  cheque  in  it,  in  her  little  basket. 
"  You  can  take  your  own  time  for  going,  ma'am  ;  but 
perhaps  in  the  meanwhile,  it  will  be  more  agreeable  to 
a  lady  of  your  powers  of  mind,  to  eat  her  meals  by  her- 
self, and  not  to  be  intruded  upon.  I  really  ought  to 
apologise  to  you — tlfiijlg  only  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coke- 
tOH^n — for  having  stood  in  your  light  so  long." 

"  Pray  don't  name  it,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "If 
that  portrait  could  speak,  sir,— -but  it  has  the  advantage 
over  the  original  of  not  possessing  the  power  of  commit- 
ting itself  and  disgusting  others, — it  would  testify,  that 
a  long  period  has  elapsed  since  I  first  habitually  ad- 
dressed it  as  the  picture  of  a  Noodle.  Nothing  that  a 
Noodle  does,  can  awaken  surprise  or  indignation ;  the 
proceedings  of  a  Noodle  can  only  inspire  contempt." 

Thus  saying,  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  her  Roman  features 
like  a  medal  struck  to  commemorate  her  scorn  of  Mr. 
Bounderby,  surveyed  him  fixedly  from  head  to  foot, 
'  swept  disdainfully  past  him,  and  ascended  the  staircase. 
Mr.  Bounderby  closed  the  door,  and  stood  before  the 
fire  ;  projecting  himself  after  his  old  explosive  manner 
into  his  portrait — and  into  futurity. 

Into  how  much  of  futurity  ?    He  saw  Mrs.  Sparsit 
fighting  out  a  daily  fight,  at  the   points  of  all  the 
weapons  in  the  female  armory,  with  the  grudging, 
smarting,  peevish,  tormenting  Lady  Scadgers,  still  laid 
up  in  bed  with  her  mysterious  leg,  and  gobbling  her 
insufficient  income  down  by  about  the  middle  of  every 
quarter,  in  a  mean  little  airless  lodging,  a  mere  closet 
for  one,  a  mere  crib  for  two  ;  but  did  he  see  more?  Did 
he  catch  any  glimpse  of  Inmselt  making  a  show  of  Bit- 
zer  to  strangers,  as  the  rising  young  man,  so  devoted  to 
his  master's  great  merits,  who  had  won  young  Tom's 
place,  and  had  almost  captured  young  Tom  himself,  in 
^le  times  when  by  various  rascals  he  was  spirited  away  ? 
/ Did  he  see  any  faint  reflection  of  his  own  image  making 
I  a  vain-glorious  will,  whereby  five-and-twenty  Humbugs, 
\  past  five  and  fifty  years  of  age,  each  taking  upon  him- 
\  self  the  name,  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown,  should 
for  ever  dine  in  Bounderby  Hall,  for  ever  lodge  in 
I  Bounderby  Buildings,  for  ever  attend  a  Bounderby  chap- 
el, for  ever  go  to  sleep  under  a  Bounderby  chaplain,  for 
ever  be  supported  out  of  a  Bounderby  estate,  and  for 
ever  nauseate  all  healthy  stomachs,  with  a  vast  amount 
of  Bounderby  balderdash  and  bluster?     Had  he  any 
prescience  of  the  day,  five  years  to  come,  when  Josiah 
(Bounderby  of  Coketown  was  to  die  of  a  fit  in  the  Coke- 
Vtown  street,  and  this  same  precious  will  was  to  begin  its 
Vol.  II.— 6G 


long  career  of  quibble,  plunder,  false  pretences,  vile  ex- 
amj)le,  little  service  and  much  law?  Probably  not. 
Yet  the  portrait  was  to  see  it  all  out. 

Here  was  Mr.  Qradgrind  on  the  same  day,  and  in  the 
same  hour,  sitting  thoughtful  in  his  own  room.  How 
much  of  futurity  did  he  see?  Did  he  see  himself,  a 
white-haired  decrepit  man,  bending  his  hitherto  inflexi- 
ble theories  to  appointed  circumstances  ;  making  his 
facts  and  figures  subservient  to  Faith,  Hope,  and  Chari- 
ty ;  and  no  longer  trying  to  grind  that  Heavenly  trio  in 
his  dusty  little  mills?  Did  he  catch  sight  of  himself, 
therefore  much  despised  by  his  late  political  associates  ? 
Did  he  see  them,  in  the  era  of  its  being  quite  settled  that 
the  national  dustmen  have  only  to  do  with  one  another, 
and  owe  no  duty  to  an  abstraction  called  a  Peoi)le,  "  taunt- 
ing the  honourable  gentleman  "  with  this  and  with  that 
and  with  what  not,  five  nights  a-week,  until  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning?  Probably  he  had  that  much 
fore-knowledge,  knowing  his  men. 

Here  was  Louisa  on  the  night  of  the  same  day,  watch- 
ing the  fire  as  in  days  of  yore,  though  with  a  gentler  and 
a  humbler  face.  How  much  of  the  future  might  arise 
before  hei*  vision  ?  Broadsides  in  the  streets,  signed 
with  her  father's  name,  exonerating  the  late  Stephen 
Blackpool,  weaver,  from  misplaced  suspicion,  and  pub- 
lishing the  guilt  of  his  own  son,  with  such  extenuation 
as  his  years  and  temptation  (he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  add,  his  education)  might  beseech;  were  of  -  the 
Present.  So,  Stephen  Blackpool's  tombstone,  with  her 
father's  record  of  his  death,  was  almost  of  the  Present, 
for  she  knew  it  was  to  be.  These  things  she  could 
plainly  see.    But,  how  much  of  the  Future  ? 

A  working  woman,  christened  Rachael,  after  a  long 
illness  once  again  appearing  at  the  ringing  of  the  Factory 
bell,  and  passing  to  and  fro  at  the  set  hours,  among 
the  Coketown  Hands ;  a  woman  of  a  pensive  beauty, 
always  dressed  in  black,  but  sweet-tempered  and  serene, 
and  even  cheerful  ;  who,  of  all  the  people  in  the  place, 
alone  appeared  to  have  compassion  on  a  degraded, 
drunken  wretch  of  her  own  sex,  who  was  sometimes  seen 
in  the  town  secretly  begging  of  her,  and  crying  to  her ; 
a  woman  working,  ever  working,  but  content  to  do  it, 
and  preferring  to  do  it  as  her  natural  lot,  uniil  she 
should  be  too  old  to  labour  any  more  ?  Did  Louisa  see 
this  ?    Such  a  thing,  was  to  be. 

A  lonely  brother,  many  thousands  of  miles  away, 
writing,  on  paper  blotted  with  tears,  that  her  words  had 
too  soon  come  true,  and  that  all  the  treasures  in  the 
world  would  be  cheaply  bartered  for  a  sight  of  her  dear 
face?  At  length  this  brother  coming  nearer  home,  with 
hope  of  seeing  her,  and  being  delayed  by  illness  ;  and 
then  a  letter,  in  a  strange  hand,  saying  "  he  died  in 
hospital,  of  fever,  such  a  day,  and  died  in  penitence  and 
love  of  you  :  his  last  word  being  your  name  ? "  Did 
Louisa  see  these  things  ?    Such  things  v»  ere  to  be. 

Herself  again  a  wife — a  mother — lovingly  watchful  of 
her  children,  ever  careful  that  they  should  have  a  child- 
hood of  the  mind  no  less  than  a  childhood  of  the  body,  as 
knowing  it  to  be  even  a  more  beautiful  thing,  and  a  posses- 
sion, any  hoarded  scrap  of  which,  is  a  blessing  and 
happiness  to  the  wisest?  Did  Louisa  see  this?  Such  a 
thing  was  never  to  be. 

But,  happy  Sissy's  happy  children  loving  her  ;  all 
children  loving  her  ;  she,  grown  learned  in  childish  love  ; 
thinking  no  innocent  and  pretty  fancy  ever  to  be  despised  ; 
trying  hard  to  know  her  humbler  fellow  creatures,  and 
beautify  their  lives  of  machinery  and  reality  with  those 
imaginative  graces  and  delights,  without  which  the  heart 
of  infancy  will  wither  up,  the  sturdiest  physical  man- 
hood will  be  morally  stark  death,  and  the  plainest  national 
prosperity  figures  cam  show,  will  be  the  Writing  on  the 
Wall, — she  holding  this  course  as  part  of  no  fantastic 
vow,  or  bond,  or  brotherhood,  or  sisterhood,  or  pledge, 
or  covenant,  or  fancy  dress,  or  fancy  fair  ;  but  simply 
as  a  duty  to  be  done, — Did  Louisa  see  these  things  of 
herself?    These  things  were  to  be.  --^ 

Dear  reader  !  It  rests  vA.i\x  you  and  me,  whether,  in 
our  two  fields  of  action,  similar  things  shall  be  or  not. 
Let  them  be  !  We  shall  sit  with  lighter  bosoms  on  the 
hearth,  to  see  the  ashes  of  our  fires  turn  gray  and  cold. 


A  Message  from  the  Sea. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  Village. 

"  And  a  mighty  sing'lar  and  pretty  place  it  is,  as  ever 
I  saw  in  all  the  days  of  my  life  !  "  said  Captain  Jorgan, 
looking  up  at  it. 

Captain  Jorgan  had  to  look  high  to  look  at  it,  for  the 
village  was  built  sheer  up  the  face  of  a  steep  and  lofty 
cliff.  There  was  no  road  to  it,  there  was  no  wheeled 
vehicle  in  it,  there  was  not  a  level  yard  in  it.  From  the 
sea-beach  to  the  cliff-top  two  irregular  rows  of  white 
houses,  placed  opposite  to  one  another,  and  twisting  here 
and  there,  and  there  and  here,  rose,  like  the  sides  of  a 
long  succession  of  stages  of  crooked  ladders,  and  you 
climbed  up  the  village  or  climbed  down  the  village  by 
the  staves  between,  some  six  feet  wide  or  so,  and  made 
of  sharp  irregular  stones.  The  old  pack-saddle,  long  laid 
aside  in  most  parts  of  England  as  one  of  the  appendages  of 
its  infancy,  flourished  here  intact.  Strings  of  pack-horses 
and  pack-donkeys  toiled  slowly  up  the  staves  of  the  lad- 
ders, bearing  fish,  and  coal,  and  other  such  cargo  as  was 
unshipping  at  the  pier  from  the  dancing  fleet  of  village 
boats,  and  from  two  or  three  little  coasting  traders.  As 
the  beasts  of  burden  ascended  laden,  or  descended  light, 
they  got  so  lost  at  intervals  in  the  floating  clouds  of  vil- 
lage smoke,  that  they  seemed  to  dive  down  some  of  the 
village  chimneys,  and  come  to  the  surface  again  far  off, 
high  above  others.  No  two  houses  in  the  village  were 
alike,  in  chimney,  size,  shape,  door,  window,  gable,  roof- 
tree,  anything.  The  sides  of  the  ladders  were  musical 
with  water,  running  clear  and  bright.  The  staves  were 
musical  with  the  clattering  feet  of  the  pack-horses  and 
pack-donkeys,  and  the  voices  of  the  fishermen  urging 
them  up,  mingled  with  the  voices  of  the  fishermen's 
wives  and  their  many  children.  The  pier  was  musical 
with  the  wash  of  the  sea,  the  creaking  of  capstans  and 
windlasses,  and  the  airy  fluttering  of  little  vanes  and 
sails.  The  rough,  sea-bleached  boulders  of  which  the 
pier  was  made,  and  the  whiter  boulders  of  the  shore, 
were  brown  with  drying  nets.  The  red-brown  cliffs, 
richly  wooded  to  their  extremest  verge,  had  their  sof- 
tened and  beautiful  forms  reflected  in  the  bluest  water, 
under  the  clear  North  Devonshire  sky  of  a  November 
day  without  a  cloud.  The  village  itself  was  so  steeped 
in  autumnal  foliage,  from  the  houses  lying  on  the  pier 
to  the  topmost  round  of  the  topmost  ladder,  that  one 
might  have  fancied  it  was  out  a  birds'-nesting,  and  was 
(as  indeed  it  was)  a  wonderful  climber.  And  mentioning 
birds,  the  place  was  not  without  some  music  from  them 
too  ;  for  the  rook  was  very  busy  on  the  higher  levels, 
and  the  gull  with  his  flapping  wings  was  fishing  in  the 
bay,  and  the  lusty  little  robin  was  hopping  among  the 
great  stone  blocks  and  iron  rings  of  the  breakwater, 
fearless  in  the  faith  of  his  ancestors,  and  the  Children 
in  the 'Wood. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Captain  Jorgan,  sitting  bal- 
ancing himself  on  the  pier-wall,  struck  his  leg  with  his 
open  hand,  as  some  men  do  when  they  are  pleased — and 
as  he  always  did  when  he  was  pleased — and  said, — 

"A  mighty  sing'lar  and  pretty  place  it  is,  as  ever  I 
saw  in  all  the  days  of  my  life  !  " 

Captain  Jorgan  had  not  been  through  the  village,  but 
had  come  down  to  the  pier  by  a  winding  side-road,  to 
have  a  preliminary  look  at  it  from  the  level  of  his  own 
natural  element.  He  had  seen  many  things  and  places, 
and  had  stowed  them  all  away  in  a  shrewd  intellect  and 
a  vigorous  memory.  He  was  an  American  born,  was 
Captain  Jorgan, — aNewEnglander, — but  he  was  a  citizen 
of  the  world,  and  a  combination  of  most  of  the  best  qual- 
ities of  most  of  its  best  countries. 

For  Cai)tain  Jorgan  to  sit  anywhere  in  his  long-skirted 


blue  coat  and  blue  trousers,  without  holding  converse 
with  everybody  within  speaking  distance, was  a  sheer  im- 
possibility. So  the  captain  fell  to  talking  with  the  fish- 
ermen, and  to  asking  them  knowing  questions  about  the 
fishery,  and  the  tides,  and  the  currents,  and  the  race  of 
Avater  off  that  point  yonder,  and  what  you  kept  in  your 
eye,  and  got  into  a  line  with  what  else  when  you  ran  into 
the  little  harbour  ;  and  other  nautical  profundities. 
Among  the  men  who  exchanged  ideas  with  the  Captain 
was  a  young  fellow,  who  exactly  hit  his  fancy, — a  young 
fisherman  of  two  or  three-and-twenty,  in  the  rough  sea- 
dress  of  his  craft,  with  a  brown  face,  dark  curling  hair, 
and  bright  modest  eyes  under  his  Sou'wester  hat,  and 
with  a  frank,  but  simple  and  retiring  manner,  which  the 
Captain  found  uncommonly  taking.  "I'd bet  a  thousand 
dollars,"  said  the  Captain  to  himself,  "  that  your  father 
was  an  honest  man  !  " 

"Might  you  be  married  now?"  asked  the  captain, 
when  he  had  had  some  talk  with  this  new  acquaintance. 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Going  to  be  ?  "  said  the  captain. 
"  I  hope  so." 

The  captain's  keen  glance  followed  the  slightest 
possible  turn  of  the  dark  eye,  and  the  slightest  possible 
tilt  of  the  Sou'wester  hat.  The  captain  then  slapped 
both  his  legs,  and  said  to  himself, 

"  Never  knew  such  a  good  thing  in  all  my  life  !  There's 
his  sweetheart  looking  over  the  wall  ! " 

There  was  a  very  pretty  girl  looking  over  the  wall, 
from  a  little  platform  of  cottage,  vine,  and  fuchsia  ;  and 
she  certainly  did  not  look  as  if  the  presence  of  that  young 
fisherman  in  the  landscape  made  it  any  the  less  sunny 
and  hopeful  for  her. 

Captain  Jorgan,  having  doubled  himself  up  to  laugh 
with  that  hearty  good-nature  which  is  quite  exultant  in 
the  innocent  happiness  of  other  people,  had  undoubled 
himself,  and  was  going  to  start  a  new  subject,  when  there 
appeared  coming  down  the  lower  ladders  of  stones,  a  man 
whom  he  hailed  as  "  Tom  Pettifer,  Ho  !  "  Tom  Petti fer, 
Ho,  responded  with  alacrity,  and  in  speedy  course  de- 
scended on  the  pier. 

"  Afraid  of  a  sun-stroke  in  England  in  November,  Tom, 
that  you  wear  your  tropical  hat,  strongly  paid  outside 
and  paper-lined  inside,  here  ?  "  said  the  captain,  eyeing 
it. 

"It's  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  sir,"  replied 
Tom. 

"  Safe  side  !  "  repeated  the  captain,  laughing.  "  You'd 
guard  against  a  sun-stroke,  with  that  old  hat,  in  an  Ice 
Pack.  Wa'al !  What  have  you  made  out  at  the  Post 
Office  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  Post-ofl5ce,  sir." 

"  What's  the  Post-office?"  said  the  captain. 

"  The  name,  sir.    The  name  keeps  the  Post-office.*' 

"A  coincidence  !"  said  the  captain.  "A  lucky  hit  ! 
Show  me  where  it  is.  Good-b}^,  shipmates,  for  the  pres- 
ent !  I  shall  come  and  have  another  look  at  you,  afore  I 
leave,  this  afternoon." 

This  was  addressed  to  all  there,  but  especially  the 
young  fisherman ;  so  all  there  acknowledged  it,  but  espec- 
ially the  young  fisherman.  "He's  a  sailor  !"  said  one  to 
another,  as  they  looked  after  the  captain  moving  away, 
That  he  was  ;  and  so  outspeaking  was  the  sailor  in  him. 
that  although  his  dress  had  nothing  nautical  about  it, 
with  the  single  exception  of  its  colour,  but  was  a  suit  of 
a  shoregoing  shape  and  form,  too  long  in  the  sleeves 
and  too  short  in  the  legs,  and  too  unaccommodating  every- 
where, terminating  earthward  in  a  pair  of  Wellington 
boots,  and  surmounted  by  a  tall,  stiff  hat,  which  no 
mortal  could  have  worn  at  sea  in  any  wind  under  hea- 
ven :  nevertheless,  a  glimpse  of  his  sagacious,  weather- 
beaten  face,  or  his  strong,  brown  hand,  would  have  es- 

1043 


1044 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


tablisbed  tlie  captain's  calling.  Whereas  Mr.  Pettifer — 
a  man  of  a  certain  plump  neatness,  witli  a  curly  whis- 
ker, and  elaborately  nautical  in  a  jacket,  and  shoes,  and 
all  things  correspondent — looked  no  more  like  a  seaman, 
beside  Captain  Jorgan,  than  he  looked  like  a  sea-ser- 
pent. 

The  two  climbed  high  up  the  village, — which  had  the 
most  arbitrary  turns  and  twists  in  it,  so  that  the  cobbler's 
house  came  dead  across  the  ladder,  and  to  have  held  a 
reasonable  course,  you  must  have  gone  through  his 
house,  and  through  him  too,  as  he  sat  at  his  work  be- 
tween two  little  windows,  with  one  eye  microscopically 
on  the  geological  formation  of  that  part  of  Devonshire, 
and  the  other  telescopically  on  the  open  sea, — the  two 
climbed  high  up  the  village,  and  stopped  before  a  quaint 
little  house,  on  which  was  painted,  "  Mes.  Raybrock, 
Draper"  ;  and  also  "Post-office."  Before  it,  ran  a 
rill  of  murmuring  water  and  access  to  it  was  gained  by 
a  little  plank-ridge. 

"Here's  the  name,"  said  Captain  Jorgan,  "sure 
enough.    You  can  come  in  if  you  like,  Tom." 

The  captain  opened  the  door,  and  passed  into  an  odd 
little  shop,  about  six  feet  high,  with  a  great  variety  of 
beams  and  bumps  in  the  ceiling,  and,  besides  the  princi- 
pal window  giving  on  the  ladder  of  stones,  a  purblind 
little  window  of  a  single  pane  of  glass,  peeping  out  of  an 
abutting  corner  at  the  sun-lighted  ocean,  and  winking 
at  its  brightness. 

"  How  do  you  do,  ma'am?"  said  the  captain.  *"  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you.  I  have  come  a  long  way  to  see 
you." 

"  Have  you,  sir?  Then  I  am  sure  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you,  though  I  don't  know  you  from  Adam." 

Thus  a  comely  elderly  woman,  short  of  stature,  plump 
of  form,  sparlding  and  dark  of  eye,  who,  perfectly  clean 
and  neat  herself,  stood  in  the  midst  of  her  perfectly 
clean  and  neat  arrangements,  and  surveyed  Captain  Jor- 
gan w4th  smiling  curiosity.  "  Ah!  but  you  are  a  sailor, 
sir,"  she  added  almost  immediately,  and  with  a  slight 
movement  of  her  hands,  that  was  not  very  unlike  wring- 
ing them  ;  "  then  you  are  heartily  welcome." 

"  Thank'ee,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain.  "  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,  I  am  sure,  that  brings  out  the  salt  in  me,  but 
everybody  seems  to  see  it  on  the  crown  of  my  hat  and 
the  collar  of  my  coat.  Yes,  ma'am,  I  am  in  that  way  of 
life." 

*'  And  the  other  gentleman,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Raybrock. 
Well  now,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain,  glancing 
shrewdly  at  the  other  gentleman,  "you  are  that  nigh 
right,  that  he  goes  to  sea, — if  that  makes  him  a  sailor. 
This  is  my  steward,  ma'am,  Tom  Pettifer  ;  he's  been 
a'most  all  trades  you  could  name,  in  the  course  of  his 
life, — would  have  bought  all  your  chairs  and  tables  once, 
if  you  had  wished  to  sell  'em, — but  now  he's  my  stew- 
ard. My  name's  Jorgan,  and  I'm  a  ship-owner,  and  I 
sail  my  own  and  my  partner's  ships,  and  have  done  so 
this  fiVe-and-twenty  year.  According  to  custom  I  am 
called  Captain  Jorgan,  but  I  am  no  more  a  captain,  bless 
my  heart  !  than  you  are." 

"  Perhaps  you'll  come  into  my  parlour,  sir,  and  take  a 
chair  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Raybrock. 

"  Ex-actly  what  I  was  going  to  propose  myself,  ma'am. 
After  you." 

Thus  replying,  and  enjoining  Tom  to  give  an  eye  to 
the  shop.  Captain  Jorgan  followed  Mrs.  Raybrock  into 
the  little,  low  back-room, — decorated  with  divers  plants 
in  j)ots,  tea-trays,  old  china  teapots,  and  punch-bowls, 
which  was  at  once  the  private  sitting-room  of  the  Ray- 
brock family  and  the  inner  cabinet  of  the  post-office  of 
the  village  of  Steepways. 

"Now,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain,  "it  don't  signify  a 
cent  to  you  where  I  was  born,  except — "  But  here  the 
shadow  of  some  one  entering  fell  upon  the  captain's  fig- 
ure, and  he  broke  off  to  double  himself  up,  slap  botli 
his  legs,  and  ejaculate,  "Never  knew  such  a  thing  in 
all  my  life  !    Here  he  is  again  !    How  are  you  ?  " 

These  words  referred  to  the  young  fellow  who  had  so 
taken  Captain  Jorgan's  fancy  down  at  the  pier.  To  make 
it  all  quite  complete  he  came  in  accompanied  by  the 
sweetheart  whom  the  captain  had  detected  looking  over 
the  wall.  A  prettier  sweetheart  the  sun  could  not  have 
shone  upon  that  shining  day.    As  she  stood  before  the 


captain,  with  her  rosy  lips  just  parted  in  surprise,  her 
brown  eyes  a  little  wider  open  than  was  usual  from  the 
same  cause,  and  her  breathing  a  little  quickened  by  the 
ascent  (and  possibly  by  some  mysterious  hurry  and  flurry 
at  the  parlour  door,  in  which  the  captain  had  observed 
her  face  to  be  for  a  moment  totally  eclipsed  by  the  Sou'- 
wester hat),  she  looked  so  charming,  that  the  captain 
felt  himself  under  amoral  obligation  to  slap  both  his  legs 
again.  She  was  very  simply  dressed,  with  no  other  orna- 
ment than  an  autumnal  flower  in  her  bosom.  She  wore 
neither  hat  nor  bonnet,  but  merely  a  scarf  or  kerchief 
folded  squarely  back  over  the  head,  to  keep  the  sun  ofi", 
— according  to  a  fashion  that  may  be  sometimes  seen  in 
the  more  genial  parts  of  England  as  well  as  of  Italy,  and 
which  is  probably  the  first  fashion  of  headdress  that 
came  into  the  world  when  grasses  and  leaves  went  out. 

"  In  my  country,"  said  the  captain,  rising  to  give  her 
his  chair,  and  dexterously  sliding  it  close  to  another 
chair  on  which  the  young  fisherman  must  necessarily  es- 
tablish himself, — "  in  my  country  we  call  Devonshire 
beauty  first-rate  !  " 

Whenever  a  frank  manner  is  offensive,  it  is  because 
it  is  strained  or  feigned  ;  for  there  may  be  quite 
as  much  intolerable  affectation  in  plainness  as  minc- 
ing nicety.  All  that  the  captain  said  and  did  was  honestly 
according  to  his  nature  ;  and  his  nature  was  open  nature 
and  good  nature  ;  therefore,  when  he  paid  this  little 
compliment,  and  expressed  with  a  sparkle  or  two  of  his 
knowing  eye,  "I  see  how  it  is,  and  nothing  could  be 
better,"  he  had  established  a  delicate  confidence  on  that 
subject  with  the  family. 

"  I  was  saying  to  your  worthy  mother,"  said  the  cap- 
tain to  the  young  man,  after  again  introducing  himself 
by  name  and  occupation, — "I  was  saying  to  your  mother 
(and  you're  very  like  her)  that  it  didn't  signify  where  I 
was  born,  except  that  I  was  raised  on  question-asking 
ground,  where  the  babies  as  soon  as  ever  they  come  into 
the  world,  inquire  of  their  mothers,  '  Neow,  how  old  may 
you  be,  and  wa'at  air  you  a  goin'  to  name  me  ?' — which 
is  a  fact."  Here  he  slapped  his  leg.  "  Such  being  the 
case,  I  may  be  excused  for  asking  you  if  vour  name's 
Alfred  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  my  name  is  Alfred,"  returned  the  young 
man. 

"I  am  not  a  conjurer,"  pursued  the  captain,  "and 
don't  think  me  so,  or  I  shall  right  soon  undeceive  you. 
Likewise  don't  think,  if  you  please,  though  I  do  come 
from  that  country  of  the  babies,  that  I  am  asking  ques- 
tions for  question-asking's  sake,  for  I  am  not.  Somebody 
belonging  to  you  went  to  sea  ?  " 

"My  elder  brother,  Hugh,"  returned  the  young  man. 
He  said  it  in  an  altered  and  lower  voice,  and  glanced  at 
his  mother,  who  raised  her  hands  hurriedly,  and  put 
them  together  across  her  black  gown,  and  looked  eagerly 
at  the  visitor. 

"  No  !  For  God's  sake,  don't  think  that  ! "  said  the 
captain,  in  a  solemn  way  ;  "  I  bring  no  good  tidings  of 
him." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  the  mother  turned  her  face 
to  the  fire  and  put  her  hand  between  it  and  her  eyes.  The 
young  fisherman  slightly  motioned  toward  the  window, 
and  the  captain,  looking  in  that  direction,  saw  a  young 
widow,  sitting  at  a  neighbouring  window  across  a  little 
garden,  engaged  in  needle-work,  with  a  young  child 
sleeping  on  her  bosom.  The  silence  continued  until  the 
captain  asked  of  Alfred, 

"  How  long  is  it  since  it  happened  ?  " 

"  He  shipped  for  his  last  voyage  better  than  three  years 
ago." 

"  Ship  struck  upon  some  reef  or  rock,  as  I  take  it," 
said  the  captain,  "  and  all  hands  lost  ?  " 
"Yes." 

"  Wa'al  !  "  said  the  captain,  after  a  shorter  silence, 
"  here  I  sit  who  may  come  to  the  same  end,  like  enough. 
He  holds  the  seas  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand.  We  must 
all  strike  somewhere  and  go  down.  Our  comfort,  then, 
for  ourselves  and  one  another  is  to  have  done  our  duty. 
I'd  wager  your  brother  did  his  !  " 

"  He  did  !  "  answered  the  young  fisherman.  "  If  ever 
man  strove  faithfully  on  all  occasions  to  do  his  duty,  my 
brother  did.  My  brother  was  not  a  quick  man  (anything 
but  that),  but  he  was  a  faithful,  true,  and  just  man. 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA. 


1045 


We  were  the  sons  of  only  a  small  tradesman  in  tins 
country,  sir  ;  yet  our  father  was  as  watchful  of  his  good 
name  as  if  he  had  been  a  king." 

"  A  precious  sight  more  so,  I  hope, — bearing  in  mind 
the  general  run  of  that  class  of  crittur,"  said  the  captain. 
*'  But  I  interrupt." 

"  My  brother  considered  that  our  father  left  the  good 
name  to  us,  to  keep  clear  and  true." 

"Your  brother  considered  right,"  said  the  captain; 
"and  you  couldn't  take  care  of  a  better  legacy.  But 
again  I  interrupt." 

"  No  ;  for  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  We  know  that 
Hugh  lived  well  for  the  good  name,  and  we  feel  certain 
that  he  died  well  for  the  good  name.  And  now  it  has 
come  into  my  keeping.    And  that's  all.'* 

"  Well  spoken  !  "  cried  the  captain.  "  Well  spoken, 
young  man  I  Concerning  the  manner  of  your  brother's 
death," — by  this  time  the  captain  had  released  the  hand 
he  had  shaken,  and  sat  with  his  own  broad,  brown  hands 
spread  out  on  his  knees,  and  spoke  aside, — "  concerning 
the  manner  of  your  brother's  death,  it  may  be  that  I  have 
some  information  to  give  you  ;  though  it  may  not  be,  for 
I  am  far  from  sure.    Can  we  have  a  little  talk  alone?  " 

The  young  man  rose  ;  but  not  before  the  captain's 
quick  eye  had  noticed  that,  on  the  pretty  sweetheart's 
turning  to  the  window  to  greet  the  young  widow  with  a 
nod  and  wave  of  the  hand,  the  young  widow  had  held 
up  to  her  the  needle-work  on  which  she  was  engaged, 
with  a  patient  and  pleasant  smile.  So  the  captain  said, 
being  on  his  legs, 

"  What  might  she  be  making  now  ?  '* 

"  What  is  Margaret  making,  Kitty  ?  "  asked  the  young 
fisherman, — with  one  of  his  arms  apparently  mislaid 
somewhere. 

As  Kitty  only  blushed  in  reply,  the  captain  doubled 
himself  up  as  far  as  he  could,  standing,  and  said,  with 
a  slap  of  his  leg, 

"In  my  country  we  should  call  it  wedding-clothes. 
Fact !    We  should,  I  do  assure  you. " 

But  it  seemed  to  strike  the  captain  in  another  light 
too  ;  for  his  laugh  was  not  a  long  one,  and  he  added,  in 
quite  a  gentle  tone, 

"And  it's  very  pretty,  my  dear,  to  see  her — poor 
young  thing,  with  her  fatherless  child  upon  her  bosom 
— giving  up  her  thoughts  to  your  home  and  your  happi- 
ness. It's  very  pretty,  my  dear,  and  it's  very  good. 
May  your  marriage  be  more  prosperous  than  hers,  and 
be  a  comfort  to  her  too.  May  the  blessed  sun  see  you 
all  happy  together,  in  possession  of  the  good  name,  long 
after  I  have  done  ploughing  ihe  great  salt  field  that  is 
never  sown  !  " 

Kitty  answered  very  earnestly,  "  Oh  !  Thank  you, 
sir,  with  all  my  heart  ! "  And,  in  her  loving  little  way, 
kissed  her  hand  to  him,  and  possibly  by  implication  to 
the  young  fisherman,  too,  as  the  latter  held  the  parlour 
door  open  for  the  captain  to  pass  out. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Money. 

"The  stairs  are  very  narrov.-,  sir, "  said  Raybrock  to 
Captain  Jorgan. 

"Like  my  cabin-stairs,"  returned  the  captain,  "on 
many  a  voyage." 

"And  they  are  rather  inconvenient  for  the  head." 

"If  my  head  can't  take  care  of  itself  by  this  time, 
after  all  the  knocking  about  the  world  it  ha?  had,"  re- 
plied the  captain,  as  unconcernedly  as  if  he  had  no  con- 
nection with  it,  "  it's  not  worth  looking  after." 

Thus  they  came  into  the  young  fisherman's  bedroom, 
which  was  as  perfectly  neat  and  clean  as  the  shop  and 
parlour  below  ;  though  it  was  but  a  little  place,  with  a 
sliding  window,  and  a  phrenological  ceiling  expressive 
of  all  the""  peculiarities  of  the  house-roof.  Here  the  cap- 
tain sat  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and,  glancing  at  a 
dreadful  libel  on  Kitty  which  ornamented  the  wall, — 
the  production  of  some  wandering  limner,  whom  the 
captain  secretly  admired,  as  having  studied  portraiture 
from  the  figure-heads  of  ships, — motioned  to  the  young 


man  to  take  the  rush -chair  on  the  other  side  of  the 
small,  round  table.  That  done,  the  captain  put  his 
hand  in  the  deep  breast-pocket  of  his  long-skirted  blue 
coat,  and  took  out  of  it  a  strong  square  case-bottle, — 
not  a  large  bottle,  but  such  as  may  be  seen  in  any  ordi- 
nary ship's  medicine  chest.  Setting  this  bottle  on  the 
tabic  without  removing  his  hand  from  it.  Captain  Jor- 
gan then  si)ake  as  follows  : 

"  In  my  last  voyage  homeward-bound,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "and  that's  the  voyage  off  of  which  I  now  come 
straight,  I  encountered  such  weather  off  the  Horn  as  is 
not  very  often  met  with,  even  there.  I  have  rounded 
that  stormy  Cape  pretty  often,  and  I  believe  I  first  beat 
about  there  in  the  identical  storms  that  blew  the  Devil's 
horns  and  tail  off,  and  led  to  the  horns  being  worked 
up  into  tooth- picks  for  the  plantation  overseers  in  my 
country,  who  may  be  seen  (if  you  travel  down  South, 
or  away  West,  fur  enough)  picking  their  teeth  with  'em, 
while  the  whips,  made  of  the  tail,  fiog  hard.  In  this 
last  voyage,  homeward-bound  for  Liverpool  from  South 
America,  I  say  to  you,  my  young  friend,  it  blew.  Whole 
measures  !  No  half  measures,  nor  making  believe  to 
blow  ;  it  blew  !  Now  I  warn't  blown  clean  out  of  the 
water  into  the  sky, — though  I  expected  to  be  even  that, 
— but  I  was  blown  clean  out  of  my  course  ;  and  when  at 
last  it  fell  calm,  it  fell  dead  calm,  and  a  strong  current 
set  one  way,  day  and  night,  night  and  day,  and  I  drifted 
— drifted — drifted — out  of  all  the  ordinary  tracks  and 
courses  of  ships,  and  drifted  yet,  and  yet  drifted.  It  be- 
hooves a  man  who  takes  charge  of  fellow-critturs'  lives, 
never  to  rest  from  making  himself  master  of  his  calling. 
I  never  did  rest,  and  consequently  I  knew  pretty  well 
('specially  looking  over  the  side  in  the  dead  calm  of  that 
strong  current)  what  dangers  to  expect,  and  what  precau- 
tions to  take  against  'em.  In  short,  we  were  driving  head 
on  to  an  island.  There  was  no  island  in  the  chart,  and, 
therefore,  you  may  say  it  was  ill  manners  in  the  island 
to  be  there  ;  I  don't  dispute  its  bad  breeding,  but  there 
it  was.  Thanks  be  to  Heaven,  I  was  as  ready  for  the 
island  as  the  island  was  ready  for  me.  I  made  it  cut 
myself  from  the  masthead,  and  I  got  enough  way  upon 
her  in  good  time  to  keep  her  off.  I  ordered  a  boat  to 
be  lowered  and  manned,  and  went  in  that  boat  myself 
to  explore  the  island.  There  was  a  reef  outside  it,  and 
floating  in  a  corner  of  the  smooth  water  within  the  reef, 
was  a  heap  of  sea- weed,  and  entangled  in  that  sea- weed 
was  this  bottle." 

Here  the  captain  took  his  hand  from  the  bottle  for  a 
moment,  that  the  young  fisherman  might  direct  a  won- 
dering glance  at  it ;  and  then  replaced  his  hand  and  went 
on  : 

"  If  ever  you  come — or  even  if  ever  you  don't  come — 
to  a  desert  place,  use  you  your  eyes  and  your  spy -glass 
well  ;  for  the  smallest  thing  you  see  may  prove  of  use  to 
you,  and  may  have  some  information  or  some  warning 
in  it.  That's  the  principle  on  which  I  came  to  see  this 
bottle.  I  picked  up  the  bottle  and  ran  the  boat  along- 
side the  island,  and  made  fast  and  went  ashore  armed, 
with  a  part  of  my  boat's  crew.  We  found  that  every 
scrap  of  vegetation  on  the  island  (I  give  it  you  as  my 
opinion,  but  scant  and  scrubby  at  the  best  of  times)  had 
been  consumed  by  fire.  As  we  were  making  our  way, 
cautiously  and  toilsomely,  over  the  pulverized  embers, 
one  of  my  people  sank  into  the  earth  breast-high.  He 
turned  pale,  and  *  Haul  me  out  smart,  shipmates,'  says 
he,  'for  my  feet  are  among  bones.'  We  soon  got  him 
on  his  legs  again,  and  then  we  dug  up  the  spot,  and  we 
found  that  the  man  was  right,  and  that  his  feet  had  been 
among  bones.  More  than  that,  they  were  human  bones  ; 
though  whether  the  remains  of  one  man,  or  of  two  or 
three  men,  what  with  calcination  and  ashes,  and  what 
with  a  poor  practical  knowledge  of  anatomy,  I  can't  un- 
dertake to  say.  We  examined  the  whole  island  and 
made  out  nothing  else,  save  and  except  that,  from  its 
opposite  side,  I  sighted  a  considerable  tract  of  land, 
which  land  I  was  able  to  identify,  and  according  to  the 
bearings  of  which  (not  to  trouble  you  with  my  log)  I  took 
a  fresh  departure.  When  I  got  aboard  again  I  opened 
the  bottle,  which  was  oilskin-covered  as  you  see,  and 
glass-stoppered  as  you  see.  Inside  of  it,"  pursued  the 
captain,  suiting  his  action  to  his  words,  "I  found  this 
little  crumpled,  folded  paper,  just  as  you  see.  Outside 


1046 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


of  it  was  written,  as  you  see,  these  words  :  '  Whoever 
finds  this,  is  solemn' y  entreated  hy  the  dead  to  convey  it 
unread  to  Alfred  Rayhrock,  Steepways,  NortJi  Devon, 
England.'  A  sacred  charge,"  said  the  captain,  conclud- 
ing his  narrative,  "and,  Alfred  Raybrock,  there  it  is  !  " 

"  This  is  my  poor  brother's  writing  ! " 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Captain  Jorgan.  "I'll  take  a 
look  out  of  this  little  window  while  you  read  it." 

"  Pray  no,  sir  !  I  should  be  hurt.  My  brother 
couldn't  know  it  would  fall  into  such  hands  as  yours." 

The  captain  sat  down  again  on  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
and  the  young  man  opened  the  folded  paper  with  a 
trembling"^  hand,  and  spread  it  on  the  table.  The  ragged 
paper,  evidently  creased  and  torn  both  before  and  after 
being  written  on,  was  much  blotted  and  stained,  and  the 
ink  had  faded  and  run,  and  many  words  were  wanting. 
What  the  captain  and  the  young  fisherman  made  out 
together,  after  much  re-reading  and  much  humouring  of 
the  folds  of  the  paper,  was,  that  £500  had  been  Stolen  ! 

The  young  fisherman  had  become  more  and  more 
agitated,  as  the  writing  had  become  clearer  to  him. 
He  now  left  it  lying  before  the  captain,  over  whose 
shoulder  he  had  been  reading  it,  and  dropping  into  his 
former  seat,  leaned  forward  on  the  table  and  laid  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

"What,  man,"  urged  the  captain,  "don't  give  in  1 
Be  up  and  doing  liJce  a  man  ! " 

"  It  is  selfish,  I  know, — but  doing  what,  doing  what?" 
cried  the  young  fisherman,  in  complete  despair,  and 
stamping  his  sea-boot  on  the  ground. 

"Doing  what?"  returned  the  captain.  "Something! 
I'd  go  down  to  the  little  breakwater  below  yonder,  and 
take  a  wrench  at  one  of  the  salt-rusted  iron-rings  there, 
and  either  wrench  it  up  by  the  roots  or  wrench  my  teeth 
out  of  my  head,  sooner  than  I'd  do  nothing.  Nothing  !  " 
ejaculated  the  captain.  "  Any  fool  or  faint-heart  can  do 
that,  and  nothing  can  come  of  nothing — which  was  pre- 
tended to  be  found  out,  I  believe,  by  one  of  them  Latin 
critters,"  said  the  captain  with  the  deepest  disdain  ; 
"  as  if  Adam  hadn't  found  it  out,  afore  ever  he  so  much 
as  named  the  beasts  !  " 

Yet  the  captain  saw,  in  spite  of  his  bold  words,  that 
there  was  some  greater  reason  than  he  yet  understood 
for  the  young  man's  distress.  And  he  eyed  him  with  a 
sympathizing  curiosity. 

"Come,  come!"  continued  the  captain.  "Speak 
out.    What  is  it,  boy  !  " 

"  You  have  seen  how  beautiful  she  is,  sir,"  said  the 
young  man,  looking  up  for  the  moment,  with  a  flushed 
face  aad  rumpled  hair. 

"  Did  any  man  ever  say  she  warn't  beautiful?"  re- 
torted the  captain.    "  If  so,  go  and  lick  him." 

The  young  man  laughed  fretfully  in  spite  of  himself, 
and  said,  "It's  not  that,  it's  not  that." 

"  Wa'al  then,  what  is  it  ?"  said  the  captain,  in  a  more 
soothing  tone. 

The  young  fisherman  mournfully  composed  himself  to 
tell  the  captain  what  it  was,  and  began  :  "  We  were  to 
have  been  married  next  Monday  week — " 

"  Were  to  have  been  !"  interrupted  Captain  Jorgan. 
"  And  are  to  be  ?    Hey  ?  " 

Young  Raybrock  shook  his  head,  and  traced  out  with 
his  forefinger  the  words  "poor  father's  five  hundred 
pounds,"  in  the  written  paper. 

"  Go  along,"  said  the  captain.  "  Five  hundred  pounds  ? 
Yes?" 

"  That  sum  of  money,"  pursued  the  young  fisherman, 
entering  with  the  greatest  earnestness  on  his  demonstra- 
tion, while  the  captain  eyed  him  with  equal  earnestness, 
"  was  all  my  late  father  possessed.  When  he  died,  he 
owed  no  man  more  than  he  left  means  to  pay,  but  he  had 
been  able  to  lay  by  only  five  hundred  pounds." 

"Five  hundred  pounds," repeated  the  captain.  "Yes?" 

"In  his  lifetime,  years  before,  he  had  expressly  laid 
the  money  aside  to  leave  to  my  mother, — like  to  settle 
upon  her,  if  I  make  myself  understood." 

"Yes?" 

"  He  had  risked  it  once — my  father  put  down  in  writ- 
ing at  that  time,  respecting  the  money — and  was  re- 
solved never  to  risk  it  again." 

"  Not  a  spec'iator,"  said  the  captain.  "  My  country 
wouldn't  have  suited  him.    Yes  V* 


"My  mother  has  never  touched  the  money  till  now. 
And  now  it  was  to  have  been  laid  out,  this  very  next 
week,  in  buying  me  a  handsome  share  in  our  neighbour- 
ing fishery  here,  to  settle  me  in  life  with  Kitty. " 

The  captain's  face  fell,  and  he  passed  and  repassed  his 
sun-browned  right  hand  over  his  thin  hair,  in  a  discom- 
fited manner. 

"Kitty's  father  has  no  more  than  enough  to  live  on, 
even  in  the  sparing  way  in  which  we  live  about  here. 
He  is  a  kind  of  bailiff  or  steward  of  manor  rights  here, 
and  they  are  not  much,  and  it  is  but  a  poor  little  office. 
He  was  better  off  once,  and  Kitty  must  never  marry  to 
mere  drudgery  and  hard  living." 

The  captain  still  sat  stroking  his  thin  hair,  and  lookiTig 
at  the  young  fisherman. 

"I  am  as  certain  that  my  father  had  no  knowledge 
that  any  one  was  wronged  as  to  this  money,  or  that  any 
restitution  ought  to  be  made,  as  I  am  certain  that  the  sun 
now  shines.  I3ut,  after  this  solemn  warning  from  my 
brother's  grave  in  the  sea,  that  the  money  is  Stolen 
Money,"  said  Young  Raybrock,  forcing  himself  to  the 
utterance  of  the  words,  "  can  I  doubt  it?  Can  I  touch 
it?" 

"  About  not  doubting,  I  ain't  so  sure,"  observed  the 
captain;  "but  about  not  touching — no — I  don't  think 
you  can." 

"See  then,"  said  Young  Raybrock,  "why  I  am  so 
grieved.  Think  of  Kitty.  Think  what  I  have  got  to  tell 
her  ! " 

His  heart  quite  failed  him  again  when  he  had  come 
round  to  that,  and  he  once  more  beat  his  sea-boot  softly 
on  the  floor.  But  not  for  long  ;  he  soon  began  again,  in 
a  quietly  resolute  tone  : 

' '  However  !  Enough  of  that !  .  You  spoke  some  brave 
words  to  me  just  now.  Captain  Jorgan,  and  they  shall 
not  be  spoken  in  vain.  I  have  got  to  do  something. 
What  I  have  got  to  do,  before  all  other  things,  is  to  trace 
out  the  meaning  of  this  paper,  for  the  sake  of  the  Good 
Name  that  has  no  one  else  to  put  it  right.  And  still  for 
the  sake  of  the  Good  Name,  and  my  father's  memory, 
not  a  word  of  this  writing  must  be  breathed  to  my  moth- 
er, or  to  Kitty,  or  to  any  human  creature.  You  agree  in 
this  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  they'll  think  of  us  below,"  said 
the  captain,  ' '  but  for  certain  I  can't  oppose  it.  Now,  as 
to  tracing.    How  will  you  do  ?" 

They  both,  as  by  consent,  bent  over  the  paper  again, 
and  again  carefully  puzzled  out  the  whole  of  the  writ- 
ing. 

"I  make  out  that  this  would  stand,  if  all  the  writing 
was  here,  '  Inquire  among  the  old  men  living  there,  for' 
— some  one.  Most  like,  you'll  go  to  this  village  named 
here  ! "  said  the  captain,  musing,  with  his  finger  on  the 
name. 

"  Yes  !  And  Mr.  Tregarthen  is  a  Cornishman,  and — 
to  be  sure  ! — comes  from  Lanrean." 

"  Does  he  ?  "  said  the  captain  quietly.  "  As  I  ain't  ac- 
quainted with  him,  who  may  he  be  ?" 

"Mr.  Tregarthen  is  Kitty's  father." 

"  Ay,  ay  ! "  cried  the  captain,  "  Now  you  speak  I  Tre- 
garthen knows  this  village  of  Lanrean,  then  ?" 

"  Beyond  all  doubt  he  does.  I  have  often  heard  him 
mention  it,  as  being  his  native  place.    He  knows  it  well." 

"  Stop  half  a  moment,"  said  the  captain.  "  You  could 
ask  Tregarthen  (or  if  you  couldn't  I  could)  what  names 
of  old  men  he  remembers  in  his  time  in  those  diggings  ? 
Hey  ?  " 

"  I  can  go  straight  to  his  cottage,  and  ask  him  now." 

"  Take  me  with  you,"  said  the  captain,  rising  in  a 
stolid  way  that  had  a  most  comfortable  reliability  in  it, 
"and just  a  word  more  first.  I  have  knocked  about 
harder  than  you,  and  have  got  along  further  than  you. 
I  have  had,  all  my  sea-going  life  long,  to  keep  my  wits 
polished  bright  with  acid  and  friction,  like  the  brass 
cases  of  the  ship's  instruments.  I'll  keep  you  company 
on  this  expedition.  Now  you  don't  live  by  talking  any 
more  than  I  do.  Clench  that  hand  of  yours  in  this  hand 
of  mine,  and  that's  a  speech  on  both  sides."  ^  \ 

Captain  Jorgan  took  command  of  the  expedition  with 
that  hearty  shake.  He  at  once  refolded  the  paper  ex- 
actly as  before,  replaced  it  in  the  bottle,  put  the  stopper 
in,  put  the  oilskin  over  the  stopper,  confided  the  whole 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA. 


1047 


to  Young  Raybrock's  keeping,  and  led  the  way  down- 
stairs. 

But  it  was  harder  navigation  below  stairs  than  above. 
The  instant  they  set  foot  in  the  parlour  the  quick,  wo- 
manly eye  detected  that  there  was  something  wrong. 
Kitty  exclaimed,  frightened,  as  she  ran  to  her  lover's 
side,  "  Alfred  1  What's  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Ray  brock 
cried  out  to  the  captain,  "  Gracious  !  what  have  you 
done  to  my  son  to  change  him  like  this  all  in  a  minute  ?" 
And  the  young  widow — who  was  there  with  her  work 
upon  her  arm — was  at  first  so  agitated  that  she  fright- 
ened the  little  girl  she  held  in  her  hand,  who  hid  her  face 
in  her  mother's  skirts  and  screamed.  The  captain,  con- 
scious of  being  held  responsible  for  this  domestic  change 
contemplated  it  with  quite  a  guilty  expression  of  counte- 
nance, and  looked  to  the  young  fisherman  to  come  to  his 
rescue. 

"Kitty,  darling,"  said  Young  Raybrock,  "Kitty,  dear- 
est love,  I  must  go  away  to  Lanrean,  and  I  don't  know 
where  else  or  how  much  further,  this  very  day.  Worse 
than  that — our  marriage,  Kitty,  must  be  put  off,  and  I 
don't  know  for  how  long." 

Kitty  stared  at  him,  in  doubt  and  wonder  and  in  anger, 
and  pushed  hirn  from  her  with  her  hand. 

"Put  off?"  cried  Mrs.  Raybrock.  "The  marriage 
put  off  ?  And  you  going  to  Lanrean  1  Why,  in  the 
name  of  the  dear  Lord  ?  " 

"  Mother  dear,  I  can't  say  why  :  I  must  not  say  why. 
It  would  be  dishonourable  and  undutiful  to  say  why." 

"Dishonourable  and  undutiful?"  returned  the  dame, 
"  And  is  there  nothing  dishonourable  or  undutiful  in  the 
boy's  breaking  the  heart  of  his  own  plighted  love,  and 
his  mother's  heart  too,  for  the  sake  of  the  dark  secrets 
and  counsels  of  a  wicked  stranger  ?  Why  did  you  ever 
come  here  ? "  she  apostrophized  the  innocent  captain. 
"  Who  wanted  you  ?  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  Why 
couldn't  you  rest  in  your  own  bad  place,  wherever  it  is, 
instead  of  disturbing  the  peace  of  quiet  unoffending  folk 
like  us  ?  " 

"  And  what,"  sobbed  the  poor  little  Kitty,  "have  I 
ever  done  to  you,  you  hard  and  cruel  captain,  that  you 
should  come  and  serve  me  so  ?  " 

And  then  they  both  began  to  weep  most  pitifully, 
while  the  captain  could  only  look  from  the  one  to  the 
other,  and  lay  hold  of  himself  by  the  coat  collar. 

"  Margaret,"  said  the  poor  young  fisherman,  on  his 
knees  at  Kitty's  feet,  while  Kitty  kept  both  her  hands 
before  her  tearful  face,  to  shut  out  the  traitor  from  her 
view, — but  kept  her  fingers  wide  asunder  and  looked  at 
him  all  the  time, — "  Margaret,  you  have  suffered  so  much 
so  uncomplainingly,  and  are  always  so  careful  and  con- 
siderate !    Do  take  my  part  for  poor  Hugh's  sake  ! " 

The  quiet  Margaret  was  not  appealed  to  in  vain.  "  I 
will,  Alfred,"  she  returned,  "and  I  do.  I  wish  this 
gentleman  had  never  come  near  us  ; "  whereupon  the 
captain  laid  hold  of  himself  the  tighter;  "but  I  take 
your  part  for  all  that.  I  am  sure  you  have  some  strong 
reason  and  some  sufficient  reason  for  what  you  do,  strange 
as  it  is,  and  even  for  not  saying  why  you  do  it,  strange  as 
that  is.  And,  Kitty  darling,  you  are  bound  to  think  so 
more  than  any  one,  for  true  love  believes  everything,  and 
bears  everything,  and  trusts  everything.  And,  mother 
dear,  you  are  bound  to  think  so  too,  for  you  know  you 
have  been  blest  with  good  sons,  whose  word  was  alwa3''S 
as  good  as  their  oath,  and  who  were  brought  up  in  as 
true  a  sense  of  honour  as  any  gentleman  in  this  land. 
And  I  am  sure  you  have  no  more  call,  mother,  to  doubt 
your  living  son  than  to  doubt  your  dead  son  ;  and  for  the 
sake  of  the  dear  dead,  I  stand  up  for  the  dear  living." 

"  Wa'al  now,"  the  captain  struck  in,  with  enthusiasm, 
'*  this  I  say.  That  whether  your  opinions  flatter  me  or 
not,  you  are  a  young  woman  of  sense,  and  spirit,  and 
feeling  ;  and  I'd  sooner  have  you  by  my  side,  in  the  hour 
of  danger,  than  a  good  half  of  the  men  I've  ever  fallen 
in  with — or  fallen  out  with,  ayther." 

Margaret  did  not  return  the  captain's  compliment,  or 
appear  fully  to  reciprocate  his  good  opinion,  but  she  ap- 
I^lied  herself  to  the  consolation  of  Kitty,  and  of  Kitty's 
mother-in-law  that  was  to  have  been  next  Monday  week, 
and  soon  restored  the  parlour  to  a  quiet  condition. 

"Kitty,  my  darling,"  said  the  young  fisherman,  "I 
must  go  to  your  father  to  entreat  him  still  to  trust  me  in 


spite  of  this  wretched  change  and  mystery,  and  to  ask 
him  for  some  directions  concerning  Lanrean.  Will  you 
come  heme  ?    Will  you  come  with  me,  Kitty  ?" 

Kitty  answered  not  a  word,  but  rose  sobbing,  with  the 
end  of  her  simple  head-dress  at  her  eyes.  Captain  Jor- 
gan  followed  the  lovers  out,  quite  sheepishly,  pausing  in 
the  shop  to  give  an  instruction  to  Mr.  Pettifer. 

"  Here,  Tom  1 "  said  the  captain,  in  a  low  voice. 
"Here's  something  in  your  line.  Here's  an  old  lady 
poorly  and  low  in  her  spirits.  Cheer  her  up  a  bit,  Tom. 
Cheer  'em  all  up." 

Mr.  Pettifer,  with  a  brisk  nod  of  intelligence,  imme- 
diately assumed  his  steward  face,  and  went  with  his 
quiet,  helpful,  steward  step  into  the  parlour,  where  the 
captain  had  the  great  satisfaction  of  seeing  him,  through 
the  glass  door,  take  the  child  in  his  arms  (who  offered 
no  objection),  and  bend  over  Mrs.  Raybrock,  administer- 
ing soft  words  of  consolation. 

"  Though  what  he  finds  to  say,  unless  he's  telling  her 
that  it'll  soon  be  over,  or  that  most  people  is  so  at  first, 
or  that  it'll  do  her  good  afterwards,  I  cannot  imaginate! " 
was  the  captain's  reflection  as  he  followed  the  lovers. 

He  had  not  far  to  follow  them,  since  it  was  but  a  short 
descent  down  the  stony  ways  to  the  cottage  of  Kitty's 
father.  But  short  as  the  distance  was,  it  was  long 
enough  to  enable  the  captain  to  observe  that  he  was  fast 
becoming  the  village  Ogre  ;  for  there  was  not  a  woman 
standing  working  at  her  door,  or  a  fisherman  coming  up 
or  going  down,  who  saw  Young  Raybrock  unhappy  and 
little  Kitty  in  tears,  but  he  or  she  instantly  darted  a 
suspicious  and  indignant  glance  at  the  captain,  as  the 
foreigner  who  must  somehow  be  responsible  for  this  un- 
usual spectacle.  Consequently  when  they  came  into 
Tregarthen's  little  garden. — which  formed  the  platform 
from  which  the  captain  had  seen  Kitty  peeping  over  the 
wall,— the  captain  brought  to  and  stood  off  and  on  at 
the  gate,  while  Kitty  hurried  to  hide  her  tears  in  her 
own  room,  and  Alfred  spoke  with  her  father,  who  was 
working  in  the  garden.  He  was  a  rather  infirm  man, 
but  could  scarcely  be  called  old  yet,  with  an  agreeable 
face  and  a  promising  air  of  making  the  best  of  things. 
The  conversation  began  on  his  side  with  great  cheerful- 
ness and  good  humour,  but  soon  became  distrustful,  and 
soon  angry.  That  was  the  captain's  cue  for  striking 
both  into  the  conversation  and  the  garden. 

"  Morning,  sir  I "  said  Captain  Jorgan.  "  How  do  you 
do?" 

"  The  gentleman  I  am  going  away  with,"  said  the 
young  fisherman  to  Tregarthen. 

"Oh!"  returned  Kitty's  father,  surveying  the  un- 
fortunate captain  with  a  look  of  extreme  disfavour.  "  I 
confess  that  I  can't  say  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"  No,"  said  the  captain,  "and,  to  admit  the  truth, 
that  seems  to  be  the  general  opinion  in  these  parts.  But 
don't  be  hasty  ;  you  may  think  better  of  me  by  and  by." 

"I  hope  so,"  observed  Tregarthen, 

"  Wa'al,  /hope  so,"  observed  the  captain,  quite  at  his 
ease  ;  "  more  than  that,  I  believe  so — though  you  don't. 
Now,  Mr.  Tregarthen,  you  don't  want  to  exchange  words 
of  mistrust  with  me  ;  and  if  you  did,  you  couldn't,  be- 
cause I  wouldn't.  You  and  I  are  old  enough  to  know 
better  than  to  judge  against  experience  from  surfaces 
and  appearances ;  and  if  you  haven't  lived  to  find  out 
the  evil  and  injustice  of  such  judgments,  you  are  a 
lucky  man, " 

The  other  seemed  to  shrink  under  this  remark,  and 
replied,  "  Sir,  I  Jiave  lived  to  feel  it  deeply," 

"  W^a'al,"  said  the  captain,  mollified,  "  then  I've  made 
a  good  cast  without  knowing  it.  Now,  Tregarthen, 
there  stands  the  lover  of  your  only  child,  and  here  stand 
I  who  know  his  secret.  1  warrant  it  a  righteous  secret, 
and  none  of  his  making,  though  bound  to  be  of  his  keep- 
ing. I  want  to  help  him  out  with  it,  and  tewwards 
that  end  we  ask  you  to  favour  us  with  the  names  of  two 
or  three  old  residents  in  the  village  of  Lanrean.  As  I 
am  taking  out  my  pocket-book  and  pencil  to  put  the 
names  down,  I  may  as  well  observe  to  you  that  this, 
wrote  atop  of  the  first  page  here,  is  my  name  and  address: 
'  Silas  Jonas  Jorgan,  Salem,  Massachusetts,  United  States.* 
If  ever  you  take  it  in  your  head  to  run  over  any  morning, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  welcome  you.  Now,  what  may  be  the 
spelling  of  these  said  names  ?  " 


1048 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"There  was  nn  elderly  man,"  said  Tregartlien,  "  named 
David  Polreath.    He  may  be  dead." 

"Wa'al,"  said  the  captain,  cheerfully,  "if  Polreath's 
dead  and  buried,  and  can  be  made  of  any  service  to  us, 
Polreath  won't  object  to  our  digging  of  him  up.  Pol- 
reath's  down  anyhow." 

"  There  was  another  named  Penrewen.  I  don't  know 
his  Christian  name." 

"  Never  mind  his  Christ'en  name,"  said  the  captain. 
*'  Penrewen,  for  short." 

**  There  was  another  named  John  Tredgear," 

**  And  a  pleasant-sounding  name,  too,"  said  the  cap- 
tain ;  "  John  Tredgear's  booked," 

"I  can  recall  no  other  except  old  Parvis." 

"  One  of  old  Parvis's  fam'ly  I  reckon,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  kept  a  dry -goods  store  in  New  York  city,  and  re- 
alised a  handsome  competency  by  burning  his  house  to 
ashes.  Same  name  anyhow.  David  Polreath,  Unchris'en 
Penrewen,  John  Tredgear,  and  old  Arson  Parvis." 

"  I  cannot  recall  any  others  at  the  moment," 

**  Thank'ee,"  said  the  captain.  "  And  so,  Tregarthen, 
hoping  for  your  good  opinion  yet,  and  likewise  for  the 
fair  Devonshire  flower's,  your  daughter's,  I  give  you  my 
hand,  sir,  and  wish  you  good  day." 

Young  Raybrock  accompanied  him  disconsolately  ;  for 
there  was  no  Kitty  at  the  window  when  he  looked  up,  no 
Kitty  in  the  garden  when  he  shut  the  gate,  no  Kitty 
gazing  after  them  along  the  stony  ways  when  they  be- 
gan to  climb  back. 

"  Now  I  tell  you  what,**  said  the  captain,  Not  be- 
ing at  present  calc'lated  to  promote  harmony  in  your 
family,  I  won't  come  in.  You  go  and  get  your  dinner  at 
home,  and  PU  get  mine  at  the  little  hotel.  Let  our  hour 
of  meeting  be  two  o'clock,  and  you'll  find  me  smoking 
a  cigar  in  the  sun  afore  the  hotel  door.  Tell  Tom  Pet- 
tifer,  my  steward,  to  consider  himself  on  duty,  and  to 
look  after  your  people  till  we  come  back  ;  you'll  find 
he'll  have  made  himself  useful  to  'em  already,  and  will 
be  quite  acceptable." 

All  was  done  as  Captain  Jorgan  directed.  Punctually 
at  two  o'clock  the  young  fisherman  appeared  with  his 
knapsack  at  his  back  ;  and  punctually  at  two  o'clock 
the  captain  jerked  away  the  last  feather-end  of  his  cigar. 

"Let  me  carry  your  baggage.  Captain  Jorgan  ;  I  can 
easily  take  it  with  mine." 

"  Thank'ee,"  said  the  captain.  "I'll  carry  it  myself. 
It's  only  a  comb," 

They  climbed  out  of  the  village,  and  paused  among 
the  trees  and  fern  on  the  summit  of  the  hill  above,  to 
take  breath,  and  to  look  down  at  the  beautiful  sea. 
Suddenly  the  captain  gave  his  leg  a  resounding  slap,  and 
cried,  "  Never  knew  such  a  right  thing  in  all  my  life  ! " 
— and  ran  away. 

The  cause  of  this  abrupt  retirement  on  the  part  of  the 
captain  was  little  Kitty  among  the  trees.  The  captain 
went  out  of  sight  and  waited,  and  kept  out  of  sight  and 
Avaited,  until  it  occurred  to  him  to  beguile  the  time  with 
another  cigar.  He  lighted  it,  and  smoked  it  out,  and 
still  he  was  out  of  sight  and  waiting.  He  stole  within 
sight  at  last,  and  saw  the  lovers,  with  their  arms  en- 
twined and  their  bent  heads  touching,  moving  slowly 
among  the  trees.  It  was  the  golden  time  of  the  after- 
noon then,  and  the  captain  said  to  him,  "Golden  sun, 
golden  sea,  golden  sails,  golden  leaves,  golden  love,  gold- 
en youth, — a  golden  state  of  things  altogether  !  " 

Nevertheless  the  captain  found  it  necessary  to  hail  his 
young  companion  before  going  out  of  sight  again.  In  a 
few  moments  more  he  came  up  and  they  began  their 
journey. 

"  That  still  young  woman  with  the  fatherless  child," 
said  Captain  Jorgan,  as  they  fell  into  step,  "  didn't  throw 
her  words  away  ;  but  good  honest  words  are  never  thrown 
away.  And  now  that  I  am  conveying  you  off  from  that 
tender  little  thing  that  loves,  and  relies,  and  hopes, 
I  feel  just  as  if  I  was  the  snarling  crittur  in  the  picters, 
with  the  tight  legs,  the  long  nose,  and  the  feather  in  his 
cap,  the  tips  of  whose  mustaches  get  up  nearer  to  his 
eyes  the  wickeder  he  gets." 

The  young  fisherman  knew  nothing  of  Mephistophe- 
les  ;  but  he  smiled  when  the  captain  stopped  to  double 
himself  up  and  slap  liis  leg,  and  they  went  along  in 
right  good-fellowship. 


CHAPTER  in. 
The  Club-nighi. 

A  Cornish  moor,  when  the  east-wind  drives  over  it, 
is  as  cold  and  rugged  a  scene  as  a  traveller  is  likely  to 
find  in  a  year's  travel.  A  Cornish  moor,  in  the  dark,  is 
as  blank  a  solitude  as  the  traveller  is  likely  to  wish  him- 
self well  out  of  in  the  course  of  a  life's  wanderings.  A 
Cornish  moor,  in  a  night  fog,  is  a  wilderness  where  the 
traveller  needs  to  know  his  way  well,  or  the  chances  are 
very  strong  that  his  life  and  his  wanderings  will  soon 
perplex  him  no  more. 

Captain  Jorgan  and  the  young  fisherman  had  faced  the 
east  and  the  southeast  winds  from  the  first  rising  of 
the  sun  after  their  departure  from  the  village  of  Steep- 
ways.  Thrice  had  the  sun  risen,  and  still  all  day  long 
had  the  sharp  wind  blown  at  them  like  some  malevolent 
spirits  bent  on  forcing  them  back.  But  Captain  Jorgan 
was  too  familiar  with  all  the  winds  that  blow,  and  too 
much  accustomed  to  circumvent  their  slightest  weak- 
nesses, and  get  the  better  of  them  in  the  long  run,  to  be 
beaten  by  any  member  of  the  airy  family.  Taking  the 
year  round,  it  was  his  opinion  that  it  mattered  little  what 
wind  blew,  or  how  hard  it  blew  :  so  he  was  as  indiffer- 
ent to  the  wind  on  this  occasion  as  a  man  could  be  who 
frequently  observed  "  that  it  freshened  him  up,"  and 
who  regarded  it  in  the  light  of  an  old  acquaintance.  One 
might  have  supposed,  from  his  way,  that  there  was  even 
a  kind  of  fraternal  understanding  between  Captain  Jor- 
gan and  the  wind,  as  between  two  professed  fighters 
often  opposed  to  one  another.  The  young  fisherman, 
for  his  part,  was  accustomed  within  his  narrower  limits 
to  hold  hard  weather  cheap,  and  had  his  anxious  object 
before  him  ;  so  the  wind  went  by  him,  too,  little  heeded, 
and  went  upon  its  way  to  kiss  Kitty. 

Their  varied  course  had  lain  by  the  side  of  the  sea, 
where  the  brown  rocks  cleft  it  into  fountains  of  spray, 
and  inland  where  once  barren  moors  were  reclaimed  and 
cultivated,  and  by  lonely  villages  of  poor-enough  cabins 
with  mud  walls,  and  by  a  town  or  two  with  an  old  church 
and  a  market-place.  But,  always  travelling  through  a 
sparely  inhabited  country  and  over  a  broad  expanse,  they 
had  come  at  last  upon  the  true  Cornish  moor  within 
reach  of  Lanrean.  None  but  gaunt  spectres  of  miners 
passed  them  here,  with  metallic  masks  of  faces,  ghastly 
with  dust  of  copper  and  tin  ;  anon,  solitary  works  on 
remote  hill-tops,  and  bare  machinery  of  torturing  wheels 
and  cogs  and  chains,  writhing  up  hillsides,  were  the  few 
scattered  hints  of  human  presence  in  the  landscape  ; 
during  long  intervals,  the  bitter  wind,  howling  and 
tearing  at  them  like  a  fierce  wild  monster,  had  them  all 
to  itself. 

"A  sing'lar  thing  it  is,"  said  the  captain,  looking 
round  at  the  brown  desert  of  rank  grass  and  poor  moss, 
"how  like  this  airth  is  to  the  m.en  that  live  upon  it  ! 
Here's  a  spot  of  country  rich  with  hidden  metals,  and  it 
puts  on  the  worst  rags  of  clothes  possible,  and  crouches 
and  shivers  and  makes  believe  to  be  so  poor  that  it  can't 
so  much  as  afford  a  feed  for  a  beast.  Just  like  a  human 
miser,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"But  they  find  the  miser  out,"  returned  the  young 
fisherman,  pointing  to  where  the  earth  by  the  water- 
courses and  along  the  valleys  was  turned  up  for  miles, 
in  trying  for  metal. 

"Ay,  they  find  him  out,"  said  the  captain  ;  "but  he 
makes  a  struggle  of  it  even  then,  and  holds  back  all  he 
can.    He's  a 'cute 'un." 

The  gloom  of  evening  was  already  gathering  on  the 
dreary  scene,  and  they  were,  at  the  shortest  and  best,  a 
dozen  miles  from  their  destination.  But  the  captain,  in 
his  long  skirted  blue  coat  and  his  boots  and  his  hat  and 
his  square  shirt-collar,  and  without  any  extra  defence 
against  the  weather,  walked  coolly  along  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  as  if  he  lived  under  ground  somewhere 
hard  by,  and  had  just  come  up  to  show  his  friend  the 
road. 

"  I'd  have  liked  to  have  had  a  look  at  this  place,  too," 
said  the  captain,  "  when  there  was  a  monstrous  sweep  of 
water  rolling  over  it,  dragging  the  powerful  great  stones 
along  and  piling  *em  atop  of  one  another,  and  depositing 
the  foundations  for  all  manner  of  superstitions.  Bless 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA. 


1049 


joM  I  the  old  priests,  smart  mechanical  critturs  as  they 
were,  never  piled  up  many  of  these  stones.  Water's  the 
lever  that  moved  'em.  When  you  see  'em  thick  and 
blunt  tewwards  one  point  of  the  compass,  and  fined  away 
thin  tewwards  the  opposite  point,  you  may  be  as  good  as 
moral  sure  that  the  name  of  the  ancient  Druid  that  fixed 
'em  was  Water." 

The  captain  referred  to  some  great  blocks  of  stone 
presenting  this  characteristic,  which  were  wonderfully 
balanced  and  heaped  on  one  another,  on  a  desolate  hill. 
Looking  back  at  these,  as  they  stood  out  against  the 
lurid  glare  of  the  west,  just  then  expiring,  they  were 
not  unlike  enormous  antediluvian  birds,  that  had  perched 
there  on  crags  and  peaks,  and  had  been  petrified  there. 

''But  it's  an  interesting  country,"  said  the  captain, 
"fact!  It's  old  in  the  annals  of  that  said  old  Arch- 
Druid,  Water,  and  it's  old  in  the  annals  of  the  said  old 
parson-critturs  too.  It's  a  mighty  interesting  thing  to 
set  your  boot  (as  I  did  this  day)  on  a  rough,  honeycombed 
old  stone,  with  just  nothing  you  can  name  but  weather 
visible  upon  it ;  which  the  scholars  that  go  about  with 
hammers,  chipping  pieces  off  the  universal  airth,  find  to 
be  an  inscription  entreating  prayers  for  the  soul  of  some 
for-ages-bust-up  crittur  of  a  governor  that  overtaxed  a 
people  never  heard  of."  Here  the  captain  stopped  to 
slap  his  leg.  "  It's  a  mighty  interesting  thing  to  come 
upon  a  score  or  two  of  stones  set  up  on  end  in  a  desert, 
— some  short,  some  tall,  some  leaning  here,  some  leaning 
there,  and  to  know  that  they  were  pop'larly  supposed — 
and  may  be  still  —to  be  a  group  of  Cornish  men  that  got 
changed  into  that  geological  formation  for  playing  a 
game  upon  a  Sunday,  They  wouldn't  have  it  in  my 
country,  I  reckon,  even  if  they  could  get  it, — but  it's 
very  interesting." 

In  this  the  captain,  though  it  amused  him,  was  quite 
sincere.  Quite  as  sincere  as  when  he  added,  after  look- 
ing well  about  him  :  "  That  fog-bank,  coming  up  as  the 
sun  goes  down,  will  spread,  and  we  shall  have  to  feel 
our  way  into  Lanrean  full  as  much  as  see  it." 

All  the  way  along  the  young  fisherman  had  spoken  at 
times  to  the  captain  of  his  interrupted  hopes,  and  of  the 
family  good  name,  and  of  the  restitution  that  must  be 
made,  and  of  the  cherished  plans  of  his  heart,  so  near 
attainment,  which  must  be  set  aside  for  it.  In  his  sim- 
ple faith  and  honour,  he  seemed  incapable  of  entertain- 
ing the  idea  that  it  was  within  the  bounds  of  possibility 
to  evade  the  doing  of  what  their  inquiries  should  establish 
to  be  right.  This  was  very  agreeable  to  Captain  Jorgan, 
and  won  his  genuine  admiration.  Wherefore  he  now 
turned  the  discourse  back  into  that  channel,  and  encour- 
aged his  companion  to  talk  of  Kitty,  and  to  calculate  how 
many  years  it  would  take,  without  a  share  in  the  fishery, 
to  establish  a  home  for  her,  and  to  relieve  his  honest 
heart  by  dwelling  on  its  anxieties. 

Meanwhile  it  fell  very  dark,  and  the  fog  became  dense, 
though  the  wind  howled  at  them  and  bit  them  as  savagely 
as  ever.  The  captain  had  carefully  taken  the  bearings 
of  Lanrean  from  the  map,  and  carried  his  pocket- compass 
with  him  ;  the  young  fisherman,  too,  possessed  that  kind 
of  cultivated  instinct  for  shaping  a  course  which  is  often 
found  among  men  of  such  pursuits.  But  although  they 
held  a  true  course  in  the  main,  and  corrected  it  when  they 
lost  the  road,  by  aid  of  the  compass  and  a  light  obtained 
with  great  difficulty  in  the  iuumy  depths  of  the  captain's 
hat,  thej  could  not  help  losing  the  road  often.  On  such 
occasions  they  would  become  involved  in  the  difficult 
ground  of  the  spongy  moor,  and,  after  making  a  labori- 
ous loop,  would  emerge  upon  the  road  at  some  point  they 
had  passed  before  they  left  it,  and  thus  would  have  a 
good  deal  of  work  to  do  twice  over.  But  the  young 
fisherman  was  not  easily  lost,  and  the  captain  (and  his 
comb)  would  probably  have  turned  up  with  perfect  cool- 
ness and  self-possession,  at  any  appointed  spot  on  the 
surface  of  this  globe.  Consequently,  they  were  no  more 
than  retarded  in  their  progress  to  Lanrean,  and  arrived 
in  that  small  place  at  nine  o'clock.  By  that  time  the  cap- 
tain's hat  had  fallen  back  over  his  ears,  and  rested  on  the 
nape  of  his  neck  ;  but  he  still  had  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  showed  no  other  sign  of  dilapidation. 

They  had  almost  run  against  a  low  stone  house  with 
red-curtained  windows  before  they  knew  they  had  hit 
upon  the  little  hotel,  the  King  Arthur's  Arms.  They 


could  just  descry  through  the  mist,  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  narrow  road,  other  low  stone  buildings  which  were 
its  outhouses  and  stables  ;  and  somewhere  overhead  its 
invisible  sign  was  being  wrathfully  swung  by  the  wind. 

"Now,  wait  a  bit,"  said  the  captain.  "They  might 
be  full  here,  or  they  might  offer  us  cold  quarters.  Con- 
sequently, the  policy  is  to  take  an  observation,  and,  when 
we've  found  the  warmest  room,  walk  right  slaj)  into  it." 

The  warmest  room  was  evidently  that  from  which  fire 
and  candle  streamed  reddest  and  brightest,  and  fiom 
which  the  sound  of  voices  engaged  in  some  discussion 
came  out  into  the  night.  Captain  Jorgan,  having  estab- 
lished the  bearings  of  this  room,  merely  said  to  his 
young  friend,"  Follow  me  !  "  and  was  in  it  before  King 
Arthur's  Arms  had  any  notion  that  they  infolded  a 
stranger. 

"Order,  order,  order!"  cried  several  voices,  as  the 
captain,  with  his  hat  under  his  arm,  stood  within  the 
door  he  had  opened. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  captain,  advancing,  **  I  am 
much  beholden  to  you  for  the  opportunity  you  give  me 
of  addressing  you ;  but  will  not  detain  you  with  any 
lengthened  observations.  I  have  the  honour  to  be  a 
cousin  of  yours  on  the  Uncle  Sam  side  ;  this  young  friend 
of  mine  is  a  nearer  relation  of  yours  on  the  Devonshire 
side  ;  we  are  both  pretty  nigh  used  up,  and  much  in  want 
of  supper.  I  thank  you  for  your  welcome,  and  I  am 
proud  to  take  you  by  the  hand,  sir,  and  I  hope  I  see  you 
well." 

These  last  words  were  addressed  to  a  jolly-looking  chair- 
man, with  a  wooden  hammer  near  him  ;  which,  but  for 
the  captain's  friendly  grasp,  he  would  have  taken  up  and 
hammered  the  table  with. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?"  said  the  captain,  shaking  this 
chairman's  hand  with  the  greatest  heartiness,  while  his 
new  friend  ineffectually  eyed  his  hammer  of  office  ; 
"  when  you  come  to  my  country,  I  shall  be  proud  to 
return  your  welcome,  sir,  and  that  of  this  good  company." 

The  captain  now  took  his  seat  near  the  fire,  and  invited 
his  companion  to  do  the  like, — whom  he  congratulated 
aloud,  on  their  having  "  fallen  on  their  feet." 

The  company,  who  might  be  about  a  dozen  in  number, 
were  at  a  loss  what  to  make  of,  or  do  with,  the  captain. 
But  one  little  old  man  in  long,  flapping  shirt-collars,  who, 
with  only  his  face  and  them  visible  through  a  cloud  of 
tobacco-smoke,  looked  like  a  superannuated  Cherubim, 
said  sharply, 

"  This  is  a  Club." 

"This  is  a  Club,"  the  captain  repeated  to  his  young 
friend.  "  Wa'al  now,  that's  curious  !  Didn't  I  say,  com- 
ing along,  if  we  could  only  light  upon  a  Club  ?  " 

The  captain's  doubling  himself  up  and  slapping  his  leg 
finished  the  chairman.  He  had  been  softening  towards 
the  captain  from  the  first,  and  he  melted.  "  Gentlemen 
King  Arthurs,"  said  he,  rising,  "though  it  is  not  the 
custom  to  admit  strangers,  still,  as  we  have  broken  the 
rule  once  to-night,  I  will  exert  my  authority  and  break  it 
again.  And  while  the  supper  of  these  travellers  is  cook- 
ing,"— here  his  eye  fell  on  the  landlord,  \fho  discreetly 
took  the  hint  and  withdrew  to  see  about  it,  "I  will  recall 
you  to  the  subject  of  the  seafaring  man." 

"  D'ye  hear  !  "  said  the  captain,  aside  to  the  young  fish- 
erman ;  "  that's  in  our  way.  Who's  the  seafaring  man, 
I  wonder  ?  " 

"  I  see  several  young  men  here,"  returned  the  young 
fisherman,  eagerly,  for  his  thoughts  were  always  on  his 
object.  "  Perhaps  one  or  more  of  the  old  men  whose 
names  you  wrote  down  in  your  book  may  be  here." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  captain  ;  "I've  got  my  eye  on 
'em.    But  don't  force  it.    Try  if  it  won't  come  nat'ral." 

Thus  the  two,  behind  their  hands,  wHile  they  sat 
warming  themselves  at  the  fire.  Simultaneously,  the 
Club  beginning  to  be  at  ease  again,  and  resuming  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  seafaring  man,  the  captain  winked  to  his 
fellow-traveller  to  let  him  attend  to  it. 

As  it  was  a  kind  of  conversation  not  altogether  unpre- 
cedented in  such  assemblages,  where  most  of  those  who 
spoke  at  all  spoke  all  at  once,  and  where  half  of  these  could 
put  no  beginning  to  what  they  had  to  say,  and  the  other 
half  could  put  no  end,  the  tendency  of  the  debate  was 
discursive,  and  not  very  intelligible.  All  the  captain 
had  made  out,  down  to  the  time  when  the  separate  little 


1050 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


table  laid  for  two  was  covered  with  a  smoking  broiled 
fowl  and  rashers  of  bacon,  reduced  itself  to  these  heads  : 
That  a  seafaring-  man  had  arrived  at  the  King  Arthurs 
Arms,  benighted,  an  hour  or  so  earlier  in  the  evening. 
That  the  gentlemen  King  Arthurs  had  admitted  him, 
though  air  unknown,  into  the  sanctuary  of  their  Club. 
That  they  had  invited  him  to  make  his  footing  good  by 
telling  a  story.  That  he  had,  after  some  pressing,  be- 
gun a  story  of  adventure  and  shipwreck  ;  at  an  interest- 
ing point  of  which  he  had  suddenly  broken  ofp,  and  posi- 
tively refused  to  finish.  That  he  had  thereupon  taken 
up  a  candlestick,  and  gone  to  bed,  and  was  now  the  sole 
occupant  of  a  double-bedded  room  up-stairs.  The  ques- 
tion raised  on  these  premises  appeared  to  be,whether  the 
seafaring  man  was  not  in  a  state  of  contumacy  and  con- 
tempt, and  ought  not  to  be  formally  voted  and  declared 
in  that  condition.  This  deliberation  involved  the  diffi- 
culty (suggested  by  the  more  jocose  and  irreverent  of  the 
Gentlemen  King  Arthurs)  that  it  might  make  no  sort  of 
difference  to  the  seafaring  man  whether  he  was  so  voted 
and  declared,  or  not. 

Captain  Jorgan  and  the  young  fisherman  ate  their  sup- 
per and  drank  their  beer,  and  their  knives  and  forks  had 
ceased  to  rattle  and  their  glasses  had  ceased  to  clink, 
and  still  the  discussion  showed  ho  symptoms  of  coming 
to  any  conclusion.  But  when  they  had  left  their  little 
supper-table,  and  had  returned  to  their  seats  by  the  fire, 
the  Chairman  hammered  himself  into  attention,  and  thus 
outspake  : 

"  Gentlemen  King  Arthurs,  when  the  night  is  so  bad 
without,  harmony  should  prevail  within.  When  the 
moor  is  so  windy,  cold,  and  bleak,  this  room  should  be 
cheerful, convivial,  and  entertaining.  Gentlemen,  at  pres- 
ent it  is  neither  the  one  nor  yet  the  other,  nor  yet  the  oth- 
er. Gentlemen  King  Arthurs,  I  recall  you  to  yourselves. 
Gentlemen  King  Arthurs,  what  are  you?  You  are  in- 
habitants— old  inhabitants — of  the  noble  village  of  Lan- 
rean.  You  are  in  council  assembled.  You  are  a  monthly 
Club  through  all  the  winter  months,  and  they  are 
many.  It  is  your  perroud  perrivilege,  on  a  new  mem- 
ber's entrance,  or  on  a  member's  birthday,  to  call  upon 
that  member  to  make  good  his  footing  by  relating  to 
yoa  some  transaction  or  adventure  in  his  life,  or  in  the 
life  of  a  relation,  or  in  the  life  of  a  friend,  and  then 
depute  me  -as  your  representative  to  spin  a  teetotum 
to  pass  it  round.  Gentlemen  King  Arthurs,  your  per- 
roud perrivileges  shall  not  suffer  in  my  keeping. 
N — no  !  Therefore,  as  the  member  whose  birthday  the 
present  occasion  has  the  honour  to  be  has  gratified  you, 
and  as  the  seafaring  man  overhead  has  not  gratified 
3'ou,  I  start  you  fresh,  by  spinning  the  teetotum  attached 
to  my  office,  and  calling  on  the  gentleman  it  falls  to  to 
speak  up  when  his  name  is  declared." 

The  captain  and  his  young  friend  looked  hard  at  the 
teetotum  as  it  whirled  rapidly,  and  harder  still  when  it 
gradually  became  intoxicated  and  began  to  stagger  about 
fhe  table  in  an  ill-conducted  and  disorderly  manner. 
Finally  it  came  into  collision  with  a  candlestick,  and 
leaped  against  the  pipe  of  the  old  gentleman  with  the 
flapping  shirt-collars.  Thereupon  the  chairman  struck 
the  table  once  with  his  hammer  and  said, 

"Mr.  Parvis  \  " 

"  D'ye  hear  that  ?  "  whispered  the  captain,  greatly  ex- 
cited, to  the  young  fisherman.  "  I'd  have  laid  you  a 
thousand  dollars  a  good  half-hour  ago,  that  that  old 
cherubim  in  the  cloud  was  Arson  Parvis  !" 

The  respectable  personage  in  question,  after  turning 
up  one  eye  to  assist  his  memory, — at  which  time  he  bore 
a  very  striking  resemblance  indeed  to  the  conventional 
representations  of  liis  race  as  executed  in  oil  by  various 
ancient  masters, — commenced  a  narrative,  of  which  the 
interest  centred  in  a  waistcoat.  It  appeared  that  the 
waistcoat  was  a  yellow  waistcoat  with  a  green  stripe, 
white  sleeves,  and  a  plain  brass  button.  It  also  appeared 
that  the  waistcoat  was  made  to  order,  by  Nicholas  Pen- 
dold  of  Penzance,  who  was  thrown  off  the  top  of  a  four- 
horse  coach  coming  down  the  hill  on  the  Plymouth  road, 
and,  y>itching  on  his  head  where  he  was  not  sensitive, 
lived  two-and-thirty  years  afterward,  and  considered  him- 
self the  Ijetter  for  the  accident, — roused  up,  as  it  might  be. 
It  further  appeared  that  the  waistcoat  belonged  to  Mr, 
Parvis's  father,  and  liad  once  attended  him,  in  company 


with  a  pair  of  gaiters,  to  the  annual  feast  of  miners  at 
St,  Just ;  where  the  extraordinary  circumstances  which 
ever  afterward  rendered  it  a  waistcoat  famous  in  story 
had  occurred.  But  the  celebrity  of  the  waistcoat  was  not 
thoroughly  accounted  for  by  Mr,  Parvis,  and  had  to  be 
to  some  extent  taken  on  trust  by  the  company,  in  conse- 
quence of  that  gentleman's  entirely  forgetting  all  about 
the  extraordinary  circumstance  that  had  handed  it  down 
to  fame.  Indeed,  he  was  even  unable,  on  a  gentle  cross- 
examination  instituted  for  the  assistance  of  his  memory, 
to  inform  the  Gentlemen  King  Arthurs  whether  it  was  a 
circumstance  of  a  natural  or  a  supernatural  character. 
Having  thus  responded  to  the  teetotum,  Mr.  Parvis,  after 
looking  out  from  his  clouds  as  if  he  would  like  to  see 
the  man  who  would  beat  that,  subsided  into  himself. 

The  fraternity  were  plunged  into  a  blank  condition  by 
Mr.  Parvis's  success,  and  the  chairman  was  about  to  try 
another  spin,  when  Young  Raybrock — whom  Captain 
Jorgan  had  with  difiSculty  restrained — rose,  and  said 
might  he  ask  Mr,  Parvis  a  question. 

The  Gentlemen  King  Arthurs  holding,  with  loud  cries 
of  **  Order  ! "  that  he  might  not,  he  asked  the  question 
as  soon  as  he  could  possibly  make  himself  heard. 

Did  the  forgotten  circumstance  relate  in  any  way  to 
money?  To  a  sum  of  money,  such  as  five  hundred 
pounds  ?  To  money  supposed  by  its  possessor  to  be  hon- 
estly come  by,  but  in  reality  ill-gotten  and  stolen  ? 

A  general  surprise  seized  upon  the  club  when  this 
remarkable  inquiry  was  preferred  ;  which  would  have 
become  resentment  but  for  the  captain's  interposition. 

Strange  as  it  sounds,"  said  he,  "  and  suspicious  as  it 
sounds,  I  pledge  myself,  gentlemen,  that  my  young  friend 
here  has  a  manly,  stand-up  Cornish  reason  for  his  words. 
Also,  I  pledge  myself  that  they  are  inoffensive  words. 
He  and  I  are  searching  for  information  on  a  subject  which 
those  words  generally  describe.  Such  information  we 
may  get  from  the  honestest  and  best  of  men, — may  get, 
or  not  get,  here  or  anywhere  aboul  here.  I  hope  the 
Honourable  Mr.  Arson — I  ask  his  pardon — Parvis — will 
not  object  to  quiet  my  young  friend's  mind  by  saying  Yes 
or  No," 

After  some  time,  the  obtuse  Mr.  Parvis  was  with  great 
trouble  and  difficulty  induced  to  roar  out  "No  !  "  For 
which  concession  the  captain  rose  and  thanked  him. 

"  Now,  listen  to  the  next,"  whispered  the  captain  to 
the  yoimg  fisherman,  "  There  maj^  be  more  in  him  than 
in  the  other  crittur.  Don't  interrupt  him.  Hear  him 
out. " 

The  chairman  with  all  due  formality  spun  the  teeto- 
tum, and  it  reeled  into  the  brandy -and- water  of  a  strong, 
brown  man  of  sixty  or  so, — John  Tredgear,  the  manager 
of  a  neighbouring  mine.  He  immediately  began  as  fol- 
lows, with  a  plain,  business-like  air  that  gradually 
warmed  as  he  proceeded  : — 

It  happened  that  at  one  period  of  my  life  the  path  of 
my  destiny  (not  a  tin  path  then)  lay  along  the  high-ways 
and  by-ways  of  France,  and  that  I  had  occasion  to  make 
frequent  stoppages  at  common  French  roadside  cabarets, 
— that  kind  of  tavern  which  has  a  very  bad  name  in 
French  books  and  French  plays.  I  had  engaged  myself 
in  an  undertaking  which  rendered  such  journeys  neces- 
sary. A  very  old  friend  of  mine  had  recently  established 
himself  at  Paris  in  a  wholesale  commercial  enterprise, 
into  the  nature  of  which  it  is  not  necessary  for  our  pres- 
ent purpose  to  enter.  He  had  proposed  to  me  a  certain 
share  in  the  undertaking,  and  one  of  the  duties  of  my 
post  was  to  involve  occasional  journeys  among  the 
smaller  towns  and  villages  of  France,  with  the  view  of 
establishing  agencies  and  opening  connections.  My  friend 
had  applied  to  me  to  undertake  this  function,  rather  than 
to  a  native,  feeling  that  he  could  trust  me  better  than  a 
stranger.  He  knew,  also,  that  in  consequence  of  my 
having  been  half  of  my  life  at  school  in  France,  my 
knowledge  of  the  language  would  be  sufficient  for  every 
purpose  that  could  be  required. 

1  accepted  my  friend's  proposal,  and  entered  with  such 
energy  as  I  could  command  upon  my  new  mode  of  life. 
Sometimes  my  journeyings  from  place  to  place  were 
accomplished  by  means  of  the  railroad,  or  other  public 
conveyance  ;  but  there  were  other  occasions,  and  these 
last  I  liked  the  best,  when  it  was  necessary  I  should  go 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA, 


1051 


to  out-of-tlie-way  places,  and  by  such  cross-roads  as  ren- 
dered It  more  convenient  for  me  to  travel  with  a  carriage 
and  horse  of  my  own.  My  carriage  was  a  kind  of  phae- 
ton without  a  coach-box,  with  a  leather  hood  that  would 
put  up  and  down  ;  and  there  was  ])lenty  of  room  at  the 
back  for  such  specimens  or  samples  of  goods  as  it  was 
necessary  that  I  should  carry  with  me.  For  my  horse, — 
it  was  absolutely  indispensable  that  it  should  be  an 
animal  of  some  value,  as  no  horse  but  a  very  good  one 
would  be  capable  of  performing  the  long  courses,  day 
after  day,  which  my  mode  of  travelling  rendered  neces- 
sary. She  cost  me  two  thousand  francs,  and  was  any- 
thing but  dear  at  the  price. 

Many  were  the  journeys  we  performed  together  over 
the  broad  acres  of  beautiful  France.  Many  were  the 
hotels,  many  the  auberges,  many  the  bad  dinners,  many 
the  damp  beds,  and  many  the  fleas  which  I  encountered 
en  route.  Many  were  the  dull  old  fortified  towns,  over 
whose  drawbridges  I  rolled  ;  many  the  still  more  dull 
old  towns  without  fortifications  and  without  drawbridges, 
at  which  my  avocation  made  it  necessary  for  me  to  halt. 

I  don't  know  hovt^  it  was  that  on  the  morning  when  I 
was  to  start  from  the  town  of  Doulaise,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  sleeping  at  Francy-le-Grand,  I  was  an  hour  later 
in  commencing  my  journe;)^  than  I  ought  to  have  been. 
I  have  said  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  this  is  scarcely 
true.  I  do  kno.w  how  it  was.  It  was  because  on  that 
morning,  to  use  a  popular  expression,  everything  went 
wrong.  So  it  was  an  hour  later  than  it  ought  to  have 
been,  gentlemen,  when  I  drew  up  the  sheep-skin  lining 
of  ray  carriage-apron  over  my  legs,  and,  establishing  my 
little  dog  comfortably  on  the  seat  beside  me,  set  off  on 
my  journey.  In  all.  my  expeditions  I  was  accompanied 
by  a  favourite  terrier  of  mine,  which  I  had  brought  with 
me  from  England.  I  never  travelled  without  her,  and 
found  her  a  companion. 

It  was  a  miserable  day  in  the  month  of  October.  A 
perfectly  gray  sky,  with  white  gleams  about  the  horizon, 
gave  unmistakable  evidence  that  the  small  drizzle  which 
was  falling  would  continue  for  four-and-twenty  hours  at 
least.  It  was  cold  and  cheerless  weather,  and  on  the 
deserted  road  I  was  pursuing  there  was  scarcely  a  human 
being  (unless  it  was  an  occasional  cantonnier,  or  road- 
mender)  to  break  the  solitude.  A  deserted  way  indeed, 
with  poplars  on  each  side  of  it,  which  had  turned  yel- 
low in  tlie  autumn,  and  had  shed  their  leaves  in  abun- 
dance all  across  the  road,  so  that  my  mare's  footsteps 
had  quite  a  muffled  sound  as  she  trampled  them  under 
her  hoofs.  Widely  extended  flats  spread  out  on  either 
side  till  the  view  was  lost  in  an  inconceivably  melan- 
choly scene,  and  the  road  itself  was  so  perfectly  straight, 
that  you  could  see  something  like  ten  miles  of  it  dimin- 
ishing to  a  point  in  front  of  you,  while  a  similar  view 
was  visible  through  the  little  window  at  the  back  of  the 
carriage. 

In  the  liurry  of  the  morning's  departure,  I  had  omitted 
to  inquire,  as  I  generally  did  in  travelling  an  unknown 
road,  at  what  village  it  would  be  best  for  me  to  stop, 
about  noon,  to  bait,  and  what  was  the  name  of  the  most 
respectable  house  of  public  entertainment  in  my  way  ; 
so  that  when  I  arrived,  between  twelve  and  one  o'clock, 
at  a  certain  place  where  four  roads  met,  and  when,  at  one 
of  the  corners  formed  by  their  union,  I  saw  a  great  bare- 
looking  inn,  with  the  slgu  of  the  Tete  Noire  swinging  in 
front,  Lhad  nothing  for  it  but  to  put  up  there,  without 
knowing  anything  of  the  character  of  the  house. 

The  look  of  the  place  did  not  please  me.  It  was  a 
great,  bare,  uninhabited-looking  house,  which  seemed 
much  larger  than  was  necessary,  and  presented  a  black 
and  dirty  appearance,  which,  considering  the  distance 
from  any  town,  it  was  difficult  to  account  for.  All  the 
doors  and  all  the  windows  were  shut ;  there' was  no  sign 
of  any  living  creature  about  the  place  ;  and  niched  into 
the  wall  above  the  principal  entrance  was  a  grim  and 
ghastly-looking  life-size  figure  of  a  saint.  For  a 
moment  I  hesitated  whether  I  should  turn  into  the  open 
gates  of  the  stable-yard,  or  go  farther  in  search  of  some 
more  attractive  lialting-place.  But  my  mare  was  tired, 
I  was  more  than  half-way  on  my  road,  and  this  would 
be  the  best  division  of  the  journey.  Besides,  gentlemen, 
why  not  put  up  here  ?  If  I  was  only  going  to  stop  at 
such  places  of  entertainment  as  completely  satisfied  me, 


externally  as  well  as  internally,  I  had  better  give  up 
travelling  altogether. 

There  were  no  more  signs  of  life  in  the  interior  of  the 
,  yard  than  were  presented  by  the  external  aspect  of  the 
I  house  as  it  fronted  the  road.     Everything  seemed  shut 
up.    All  the  stables  and  out-houses  were  characterized 
I  by  closed  doors,  without  so  much  as  a  straw  clinging  to 
j  their  thresholds  to  indicate  that  these  buildings  were 
I  sometimes  put  to  a  practical  use.     I  saw  no  manure 
j  strewed  about  the  place,  and  no  living  creature  ;  no 
1  pigs,  no  ducks,  no  fowls.    It  was  perfectly  still  and 
quiet,  and  as  it  was  one  of  those  days  when  a  fine  small 
rain  descends  quite  straiglit,  without  a  breath  of  air  to 
drive  it  one  way  or  the  other,  tlie  silence  was  complete 
j  and  distressing.     I  gave  a  loud  shout,  and  began  un- 
doing the  harness  while  my  summons  was  taking  elTect. 

The  first  person  whom  the  sound  of  my  voice  appeared 
to  have  reached  was  a  small  but  precocious  boy,  who 
opened  a  door  in  the  back  of  the  house,  and  descending 
the  flight  of  steps  which  led  to  it,  approached  to  aid  me 
in  my  task.  I  was  just  undoing  the  final  buckle  on  my 
side  of  the  harness,  when,  happening  to  turn  round,  I 
discovered,  standing  close  behind  me,  a  personage  who 
had  approached  so  quietly  that  it  would  have  been  a  con- 
fusing thing  to  find  hiih  so  near,  even  if  there  had  been 
nothing  in  his  appearance  which  was  calculated  to  star- 
tle one.  He  was  the  most  ill-looking  man,  gentlemen, 
that  it  w^as  ever  m.y  fortune  to  behold.  Nearer  fifty  than 
any  other  age  I  could  give  him,  his  dry,  spare  nature 
had  kept  him  as  light  and  active  as  a  restless  boy.  An 
absence  of  flesh,  however,  was  not  the  only  want  I  felt 
to  exist  in  the  personal  appearance  of  the  landlord  of  the 
Tete  Noire.  There  was  a  much  more  serious  defect  in 
him  than  this.  A  want  of  any  hint  of  mercy,  or  con- 
science, or  any  accessible  approach  to  the  better  side  (if 
there  was  a  better  side)  of  the  man's  nature.  When 
first  I  looked  at  his  eyes,  as  he  stood  behind  me  in  the 
open  court,  and  as  they  rapidly  glanced  over  the  comely 
points  of  my  horse,  and  thence  to  the  packages  inside 
my  carriage,  and  the  portmanteau  strapped  on  in  front 
of  it, — at  "that  time  the  colour  of  his  eyes  appeared  to 
me  to  be  of  an  almost  orange  tinge  ;  but  when,  a  minute 
afterward,  we  stood  together  in  the  dark  stable,  I  noted 
that  a  kind  of  blue  phosphorescence  gleamed  upon  their 
surface,  veiling  their  real  hue,  and  imparting  to  them  a 
tigerish  lustre.  The  moment  when  I  remarked  this,  by 
the  by,  was  when  the  organs  I  have  been  describing 
were  fixed  upon  the  very  large  gold  ring  which  I  had 
not  ceased  to  wear  when  I  adopted  my  adventurous  life, 
and  which  you  may  see  upon  my  finger  now.  There 
were  two  other  things  about  this  man  that  struck  me. 
These  were  a  bald  red-i)rojecting  lump  of  flesh  at  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  a  deep  scar,  which  a  scrap  of 
frowzy  whisker  on  his  cheek  wholly  declined  to  conceal. 

"A  nasty  day  for  a  journey  of  pleasure,"  said  the 
landlord,  looking  at  me  with  a  satirical  smile. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not  a  journey  of  pleasure,"  I  answered, 
dryly. 

"  We  have  few  such  travellers  on  the  road  now,"  said 
the  evil-faced  man.  "  The  railroads  make  the  country 
a  desert,  and  the  roads  are  as  wild  as  they  were  three 
hundred  years  ago." 

"  They  are  well  enough,"  I  answered  carelessly,  "  for 
those  who  are  obliged  to  travel  by  them.  Nobody  else, 
I  should  think,  would  be  likely  to  make  use  of  them." 

"Will  you  come  into  the  house?"  said  the  landlord, 
abruptly,  looking  me  full  in  the  face. 

I  never  felt  a  stronger  repugnance  than  I  entertained 
toward  the  idea  of  entering  this  man's  doors.  Yet  what 
other  course  was  open  to  me  ?  My  mare  was  already 
half  through  the  first  instalment  of  her  oats,  so  there 
was  no  more  excuse  for  remaining  in  the  stable.  To 
take  a  walk  in  the  drenching  rain  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, and  to  remain  sitting  in  my  caleche  would  have 
been  a  worse  indication  of  suspicion  and  mistrust.  Be- 
sides, I  had  had  nothing  since  the  morning's  coffee,  and 
I  wanted  something  to  eat  and  drink.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  be  done,  then,  but  to  accept  my  ill-looking  friend's 
offer.  He  led  the  way  up  the  flight  of  steps  which  gave 
access  to  the  interior  of  the  building. 

The  room  in  which  1  found  myself  on  passing  through 
the  door  at  the  top  of  these  steps  was  one  of  those  rooms 


1052 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


which  an  excess  of  light  not  only  fails  to  enliven,  but 
seems  even  to  invest  with  an  additional  degree  of  gloom. 
There  is  sometimes  this  character  about  light,  and  I  have 
seen  before  now  a  workhouse  ward,  and  a  barren  school- 
room, which  have  owed  a  good  share  of  their  melancholy 
to  an  immoderate  amount  of  cold,  gray  daylight.  This 
room,  then,  into  which  I  was  shown,  was  one  of  those 
which,  on  a  wet  day,  seemed  several  degrees  lighter  than 
the  open  air.  Of  course  it  could  not  be  really  lighter  than 
the  thing  that  lit  it,  but  it  seemed  so.  It  also  appeared 
larger  than  the  whole  out-door  world  ;  and  this,  certainly, 
could  not  be,  either,  but  seemed  so.  Vast  as  it  was,  there 
appeared  through  two  glass  doors  in  one  of  the  walls 
another  apartment  of  similar  dimensions.  It  was  not  a 
square  room,  nor  an  oblong  room,  but  was  smaller  at  one 
end  than  at  the  other  ;  a  phenomenon  which,  as  you 
have  very  likely  observed,  gentlemen,  has  always  an 
unpleasant  effect.  The  billiard-table,  which  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  apartment,  though  really  of  the  usual 
size,  looked  quite  a  trifling  piece  of  furniture  ;  and  as  to 
the  other  tables,  which  were  planted  sparingly  here  and 
there  for  purposes  of  refreshment,  they  were  quite  lost 
in  the  immensity  of  space  about  them.  A  cupboard,  a 
rack  of  billiard  cues,  a  marking-board,  and  a  print  of  the 
murder  of  the  Archbishop  of  Paris,  in  a  black  frame, 
alone  broke  the  uniformity  of  wall.  The  ceiling,  as  far 
as  one  could  judge  of  anything  at  that  altitude,  appeared 
to  be  traversed  by  an  enormous  beam  with  rings  fastened 
into  it  adapted  for  suicidal  purposes,  and  splashed  with 
the  whitewash  with  which  the  ceiling  itself  and  the  walls 
had  just  been  decorated.  Even  my  little  terrier,  whom 
I  had  been  obliged  to  take  up  in  my  arms  on  account  of 
the  disposition  she  had  manifested  to  tiy  at  the  shins  of 
our  detested  landlord,  looked  around  the  room  with  a 
gaze  of  horror  as  I  set  her  down,  and  trembled  and  shiv- 
ered as  if  she  would  come  out  of  her  skin. 

"And  so  you  don't  like  him,  Nelly,  and  your  little 
beads  of  eyes,  that  look  up  at  me  from  under  that  hairy 
pent-house,  with  nothing  but  love  in  them,  are  all 
ablaze  with  fury  when  they  are  turned  upon  his  sinister 
face?  And  how  did  he  get  that  scar,  Nelly?  Did  he 
get  it  Avhen  he  slaughtered  his  last  traveller?  And 
what  do  you  think  of  his  eyes,  Nelly?  And  what  do 
you  think  of  the  back  of  his  head,  my  dog?  What 
do  you  think  he's  about  now,  eh  ?  What  mischief  do 
you  think  he's  hatching?  Don't  you  wish  you  were 
sitting  by  my  side  in  the  caleche,  and  that  we  were  out 
on  the  free  road  again  ?  " 

To  all  these  questions  and  remarks,  my  little  com- 
panion responded  very  intelligibly  by  faint  thumpings 
of  the  ground  with  her  tail,  and  by  certain  flutterings 
of  her  ears,  which,  from  long  habits  of  intercourse,  I 
understood  very  well  to  mean  that  whatever  my  opinion 
might  be  she  coincided  in  it. 

I  had  ordered  an  omelet  and  some  wine  when  I  first 
entered  the  house,  and,  as  I  now  sat  waiting  for  it,  I 
observed  that  my  landlord  would  every  now  and  then 
leave  what  he  was  about  in  the  other  room — \vhere  I 
concluded  that  he  was  engaged  preparing  my  meal — 
and  would  come  and  peer  at  me  furtively  through  the 
glass  doors  which  connected  the  room  I  was  in  with  that 
in  which  he  was.  Once,  too,  I  heard  him  go  out,  and  I 
felt  sure  that  he  had  retired  to  the  stables,  to  examine 
more  minutely  the  value  of  my  horse  and  carriage. 

I  took  it  into  my  head  that  my  landlord  was  a  desper- 
ate rogue ;  that  his  business  was  not  sufficient  to  sup- 
port him  ;  that  he  had  remarked  that  I  was  in  possession 
of  a  very  valuable  horse  and  carriage,  which  would 
fetch  something,  and  a  quantity  of  luggage  in  which 
there  were  probably  articles  of  price.  I  had  other  things 
of  worth  about  my  x^erson,  including  a  sum  of  money, 
without  which  I  could  not  be  travelling  about,  as  he 
saw  me,  from  place  to  place. 

While  my  mind  was  amusing  itself  with  these  cheer- 
!ful  reflections  a  little  girl,  of  about  twelve  years  old, 
entered  the  room  through  the  glass  doors,  and,  after 
honouring  me  with  a  long  stare,  went  to  the  cupboard 
at  the  other  end  of  the  apartment,  and,  opening  it  with 
a  bunch  of  keys  which  she  brought  with  her  in  her 
hand,  took  out  a  small  white  paper  packet,  about  four 
inchr^s  square,  and  retired  with  it  by  tlie  way  by  which 
she  had  entered ;  still  staring  at  mo  so  diligently  that 


from  want  of  proper  attention  to  where  she  was  going, 
she  got  (I  am  happy  to  state)  a  severe  bump  against  the 
door  as  she  passed  through  it.  She  was  a  horrid  little 
girl  this,  with  eyes  that  in  shirking  the  necessity  of  look- 
ing straight  at  anybody  or  any  thing,  had  got  at  last  to 
look  only  at  her  nose, — finding  it,  probably,  as  bad  a 
nose  as  could  be  met  with,  and  therefore  a  congenial 
companion.  She  had,  moreover,  frizzy  and  fluey  hair, 
was  excessively  dirty,  and  had  a  slow,  crab-like  way  of 
going  along  without  looking  at  what  she  was  about, 
which  was  very  noisome  and  detestable. 

It  was  not  long  before  this  young  lady  reappeared, 
bearing  in  her  hand  a  plate  containing  the  omelet,'which 
she  placed  upon  the  table  without  going  through  the 
previous  form  of  laying  a  cloth.  She  next  cut  an  im- 
mense piece  of  bread  from  a  loaf  shaped  like  a  ring, 
and,  having  clapped  this  also  down  upon  the  dirtiest 
part  of  the  table,  and  having  further  favoured  me  with 
a  Aviped  knife  and  fork,  disappeared  once  more.  She 
disappeared  to  fetch  the  wine.  When  this  had  been 
brought,  and  some  water,  the  preparations  for  my  feast 
were  considered  complete,  and  I  was  left  to  enjoy  it 
alone. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  that  the  horrid  waiting- 
maid  appeared  to  excite  as  strong  an  antipathy  in  the 
breast  of  my  little  dog  as  that  which  my  landlord  him- 
self had  stirred  up  ;  and  I  am  happy  to  ^ay,  that,  as  the 
child  left  the  room,  I  was  obliged  to  interfere  to  pre- 
vent Nelly  from  harassing  her  retreating  calves. 

Gentlemen,  an  experienced  traveller  soon  learns  that 
he  must  eat  to  support  nature  ;  closing  his  eyes,  nose, 
and  ears  to  all  suggestions,  I  set  to  work  then  at  the 
omelet  with  energy,  and  at  the  tough,  sour  bread  with 
good-will,  and  had  swallowed  half  a  tumbler  of  wine 
and  water,  when  a  thought  suddenly  occurred  to  me 
which  caused  me  to  set  the  glass  down  upon  the  table. 
I  had  no  sooner  done  this  than  I  raised  it  again  to  my 
lips,  took  a  fresh  sip,  rolled  the  liquid  about  in  my  mouth 
two  or  three  times,  and  spat  it  out  upon  the  floor.  But 
I  uttered  as  I  did  so,  in  an  audible  tone,  the  monosvlla- 
ble  "Pooh  !" 

"  Pooh  !  Nelly,"  I  said,  looking  down  at  my  dog,  who 
was  watching  me  intensely  with  her  head  on  one  side, — 
"pooh!  Nelly,"  I  repeated,  "what  frantic  and  incon- 
ceivable nonsense  ! " 

And  what  was  it  that  I  thus  stigmatized?  What  was 
it  that  had  made  me  pause  in  the  middle  of  my  draught? 
What  thought  was  it  that  caused  me  to  set  down  my 
glass  with  half  its  contents  remaining  in  it?  It  was  a 
suspicion,  driven  straight  and  swift  as  an  arrow  into  the 
innermost  recesses  of  my  soul,  that  the  wine  I  had  just 
been  drinking,  and  which,  contrary  to  my  custom,  I  had 
mingled  with  water,  was  drugged  ! 

There  are  some  thoughts  which,  like  noxious  insects, 
come  buzzing  back  into  one's  mind  as  often  as  we  re- 
pulse them.  We  confute  them  in  argument,  prove  them 
illogical,  leave  them  not  a  leg  to  stand  upon,  and  yet 
there  they  are  the  next  moment  as  brisk  as  bees,  and 
stronger  on  their  pins  than  ever.  It  was  just  such  a 
thought  as  this  with  which  I  had  now  to  deal.  It  was 
well  to  say  "  Pooh  !  "  It  was  well  to  remind  myself  that 
this  was  the  nineteenth  century,  that  I  was  not  acting  a 
part  in  a  French  melodrama,  that  such  things  as  I  was 
thinking  of  were  only  known  in  romances  ;  it  was  well 
to  argue  that  to  set  a  respectable  man  down  as  a  murderer, 
because  he  had  peculiar  colored  eyes,  and  a  scar  upon 
his  cheek,  were  ridiculous  things  to  do.  There  seemed 
to  be  two  separate  parties  within  me, — one  possessed  of 
great  powers  of  argument  and  a  cool  judgment  ;  the 
other,  an  irrational  or  opposition  party,  whose  chief 
force  consisted  in  a  system  of  dogged  assertion  which  all 
the  arguments  of  the  rational  party  were  insufficient  to 
put  down. 

It  was  not  long  before  an  additional  force  was  im- 
parted to  the  tactics  of  the  irrational  party,  by  certain 
symptoms  which  began  to  develope  themselves  in  my 
internal  organization,  and  which  seemed  favourable  to 
the  view  of  the  case  I  was  so  anxious  to  refute.  In  spite 
of  all  my  efforts  to  the  contrary,  I  could  not  help  feeling 
that  some  very  remarkable  sensations  were  slowly  and 
gradually  stealing  over  me.  First  of  all,  I  began  to  find 
that  I  was  a  little  at  fault  in  my  system  of  calculating 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA. 


1053 


distances  ;  so  that  when  I  took  up  any  object  and  at- 
tempted to  replace  it  on  th^  tal)]e,  I  either  brought  it 
into  contact  with  that  article  of  furniture  with  a  crash, 
in  consequence  of  conceiving  it  to  be  lower  than  it  was  ; 
or  else,  imagining  that  the  table  was  several  inches 
nearer  to  the  ceiling  than  was  the  case,  I  abandoned 
whatever  I  held  in  my  hand  sooner  than  I  should,  and 
found  that  I  was  confiding  it  to  space.  Then,  again,  my 
head  felt  light  upon  my  shoulders,  there  was  a  slight 
tingling  in  my  hands,  and  a  sense  that  they,  as  well  as 
my  feet  (which  were  very  cold)  were  swelling  to  gigan- 
tic size,  and  were  also  surrounded  with  numerous, 
rapidly-revolving  wheels  of  a  light  structure,  like  Catha- 
rine-wheels previous  to  ignition.  It  also  appeared  to  me 
that  when  I  spoke  to  my  dog,  my  voice  had  a  curious 
sound,  and  my  words  were  very  imperfectly  articu- 
lated. 

It  would  happen,  too,  that  when  I  looked  toward  the 
glass  doors,  my  landlord  was  there,  peering  at  me 
through  the  muslin  curtain  ;  or  the  horrid  little  girl 
would  enter  with  no  obvious  intention,  and  having 
loitered  for  a  little  time  about  the  room,  would  leave  it 
again.  At  length  the  landlord  himself  came  in,  and 
coolly  walking  up  to  the  table  at  which  I  was  seated, 
glanced  at  the  hardly  tasted  wine  before  me. 

"  It  would  appear  that  the  wine  of  the  country  is  not 
to  your  taste,"  he  said. 

"It  is  good  enough,"  I  answered,  as  carelessly  as  I 
could  ;  the  words  sounding  to  me  as  if  they  were  uttered 
inside  the  cupola  of  St.  Paul's,  and  were  conveyed  by 
iron  tubes  to  the  place  I  occupied. 

I  was  in  a  strange  state, — perfectly  conscious,  but  im- 
perfectly able  to  control  my  thoughts,  my  words,  my 
actions.  I  believe  my  landlord  stood  staring  down  at 
me  as  I  sat  staring  up  at  him,  and  watching  the  Catharine- 
wheels  as  they  revolved  round  his  eyes,  and  nose,  and 
chin — gentlemen,  they  seemed  absolutely  to  Jizz  when 
they  got  to  the  scar  on  his  cheek. 

At  this  time  a  noisy  party  entered  the  main  room  of 
the  auberge,  which  I  have  described  as  being  visible 
though  the  glass-doors,  and  the  landlord  had  to  leave 
me  for  a  time  to  go  and  attend  to  them.  I  think  I  must 
have  fallen  into  a  slight  and  strongly  resisted  doze,  and 
that  when  I  started  out  of  it  it  was  in  consequence  of  the 
violent  barking  of  my  terrier.  The  landlord  was  in  the 
room  ;  he  was  just  unlocking  the  cupboard  from  which 
the  little  girl  had  taken  the  paper  parcel.  He  took  out 
just  such  another  paper  parcel,  and  returned  again 
though  the  doors.  As  he  did  so,  I  remember  stupidly 
wondering  what  had  become  of  the  little  girl.  Pres- 
ently his  evil  face  appeared  again  at  the  door. 

"  I  am  going  to  prepare  the  coffee,"  said  the  landlord  ; 
"  perhaps  monsieur  will  like  it  better  than  the  wine." 

As  the  man  disappeared  I  started  suddenly  and  vio- 
lently upon  my  feet.  I  could  deceive  myself  no  longer. 
My  thoughts  were  like  lightning.  "The  wine  having 
been  taken  in  so  small  a  quantity  and  so  profusely  mixed 
with  water,  has  done  its  work  (as  this  man  can  see)  but 
imperfectly.  The  coffee  will  finish  that  work.  He  is 
now  preparing  it.  The  cupboard,  the  little  parcel — 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  I  will  leave  this  place  while 
I  yet  can.  Now  or  never  ;  if  those  men  whose  voices  I 
hear  in  the  other  room  IpHve  +hc  house,  it  will  be  too 
late.  With  so  many  witnesses  no  attempt  will  be  made 
to  prevent  my  departure,  I  will  not  sleep, — I  will  act, — 
I  icill  force  my  muscles  to  their  work,  and  get  away  from 
this  place." 

Gentlemen,  in  compensation  for  a  set  of  nerves  of  dis- 
tressing sensitiveness,  I  have  received  from  nature  a  re- 
markable power  of  controlling  my  nerves  for  a  time.  I 
staggered  to  the  door,  closing  it  after  me  more  violently 
than  I  had  intended,  and  descended — the  fresh  air  mak- 
ing me  feel  very  giddy — into  the  yard. 

As  I  went  down  the  steps  I  saw  the  little  girl  of  whom 
I  have  already  spoken  entering  the  yard,  followed  by  a 
blacksmith,  carrying  a  hammer  and  some  other  imple- 
ments of  his  trade.  Catching  sight  of  me,  the  girl  spoke 
quickly  to  the  blacksmith,  and  in  an  instant  they  both 
changed  their  course,  which  was  directed  toward  the  [ 
stable,  and  entered  an  outhouse  on  the  other  side  of  the 
yard.  The  thought  entered  my  head  that  this  man  had  j 
been  sent  for  to  drive  a  nail  into  my  horse's  foot,  so  that  [ 


in  the  event  of  the  drugged  wine  failing  I  might  still  be 
unable  to  proceed.  This  horrible  idea  added  new  force 
to  my  exertions.  I  seized  the  shafts  of  my  carriage  and 
commenced  dragging  it  out  of  the  yard  and  round  to  the 
front  of  the  house  ;  feeling  that  if  it  was  once  in  the 
highway  there  would  be  less  possibility  of  offering  any 
impediment  to  my  starting.  I  am  conscious  of  having 
fallen  twice  to  the  ground  in  my  struggles  to  got  the 
carriage  out  of  the  yard.  Next  I  hastened  to  the  stable. 
My  mare  was  still  harnessed,  with  the  exception  of  the 
headstall.  I  managed  to  get  the  bit  into  her  mouth, 
and  dragged  her  to  the  place  where  I  had  left  the  car- 
riage. After  I  know  not  how  many  efforts  to  place  the 
docile  beast  in  the  shafts — for  I  was  as  incapable  of  cal- 
culating distances  as  a  drunken  man — I  recollect,  but 
how  I  know  not,  securing  the  assistance  of  tlie  boy  I  had 
seen.  I  was  making  a  final  effort  to  fasten  the  trace  to 
its  little  j)in,  when  a  voice  behind  me  said, 

"Are  you  going  away  without  drinking  your  coffee?  " 

I  turned  round  and  saw  my  landlord  standing  close 
beside  me.  He  was  watching  my  bungling  efforts  to 
secure  the  harness,  but  he  made  no  movement  to  assist 
me. 

"I  do  not  want  any  coffee,"  I  answered. 

"No  coffee,  and  no  wine  !  It  would  appear  that  the 
gentleman  is  not  a  great  drinker.  You  have  not  given 
your  horse  much  of  a  rest,"  he  added,  presently. 

"  I  am  in  haste.    What  have  I  to  pay  ?  " 

"You  will  take  something  else,"  said  the  landlord ; 
"a  glass  of  brandy  before  starting  in  the  wet '?" 

"  No,  nothing  more.    What  have  I  to  pay  ?  " 

"You  will  at  least  come  in  for  an  instant,  and  warm 
your  feet  at  the  stove  ?  " 

"  No.    Tell  me  at  once  how  much  I  am  to  pay." 

BaflEled  in  all  his  efforts  to  get  me  again  into  the  house, 
my  detested  landlord  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  answer 
my  demand. 

"Four  litres  of  oats,"  he  muttered,  "a  half-truss  of 
hay,  breakfast,  wine,  coffee," — he  emphasized  the  last 
two  words  with  a  malignant  grin, — "  seven  francs  fifty 
centimes." 

My  mare  was  by  this  time  somehow  or  other  buckled 
into  the  shafts,  and  now  I  had  to  get  out  my  purse  to 
pay  this  demand.  My  hginds  were  cold,  my  head  was 
giddy,  my  sight  was  dim,  and,  as  I  brought  out  my 
purse  (which  was  a  porte-monnaie,  opening  with  a  hinge), 
I  managed  v/hile  paying  the  bill  to  turn  the  purse  over 
and  to  drop  some  gold  pieces. 

"  Gold  !"  cried  the  boy  who  had  been  helping  me  to 
harness  the  horse,  speaking  as  if  by  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse. 

The  landlord  made  a  sudden  dart  at  it,  but  instantly 
checked  himself. 

"People  want  plenty  of  gold,"  he  said,  "when  they 
make  a  journey  of  pleasure." 

I  felt  myself  getting  worse.  I  could  not  pick  up  the 
gold  pieces  as  they  lay  on  the  ground.  I  fell  on  my 
knees,  and  my  head  bowed  forward.  I  could  not  hit  the 
place  where  a  coin  lay  ;  I  could  see  it,  but  I  could  not 
guide  my  fingers  to  it.  Still  I  did  not  yield.  I  got  some 
of  the  money  up,  and  the  stable-boy,  who  was  very  offi- 
cious in  assisting  me,  gave  me  one  or  two  pieces, — to 
this  day  I  don't  know  how  many  he  kept.  I  cast  a  hasty 
glance,  and  seeing  no  more  gold  on  the  ground,  raised 
myself  by  a  desperate  effort,  and  scrambled  to  my  place' 
in  the  carriage.  I  shook  the  reins  instinctively,  and  the 
mare  began  to  move. 

The  well-trained  beast  was  beginning  to  trot  away  as 
cleverly  as  usual,  when  a  thought  suddenly  flashed  into- 
my  brain,  as  will  sometimes  happen  when  we  are  just 
going  to  sleep, — a  thought  which  woke  me  up  like  a. 
pistol-shot,  and  caused  me  to  spring  forward  and  gather 
up  the  reins  so  violently  as  almost  to  bring  the  mare' 
back  upon  her  haunches. 

"My  dog,  my  dear  little  Nelly!"  I  had  left  her 
behind  ! 

To  abandon  my  little  favourite  was  a  thing  that  never 
entered  my  head.  "  No,  I  must  return.  I  must  go  back 
to  the  horrible  place  I  have  just  escaped  from.  He  has 
seen  my  gold,  too,  now,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  turned  my 
horse's  head  with  many  clumsy  efforts  ;  "the  men  who 
were  drinking  in  the  auberge  are  gone  ;  and,  what  is 


1054 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


worse  than  all,  I  feel  more  under  the  influence  of  the 
drug  I  have  swallowed." 

As  I  approached  the  auberge  once  more  I  remember 
noticing  that  its  walls  looked  blacker  than  ever,  that  the 
rain  was  falling  more  heavily,  that  the  landlord  and  the 
stable-boy  were  on  the  steps'of  the  inn,  evidently  on  the 
look-out  for  me.  One  thing  more  I  noticed, — on  the 
road  a  small  speck,  as  of  some  vehicle  nearing  the  place. 

"  I  have  come  back  for  my  dog,"  said  I. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  your  dog." 

"  It  is  false  !    I  left  her  shut  up  in  the  inner  room." 
* '  Go  there  and  find  her  then,"  retorted  the  man,  throw- 
ing off  all  disguise. 

"  I  will,"  was  my  answer. 

I  knew  it  was  a  trap  to  get  me  into  the  house  ;  I  knew 
I  was  lost  if  I  entered  it  ;  but  I  did  not  care.  I  descended 
from  the  carriage,  I  clambered  up  the  steps  with  the  aid 
of  the  balusters,  I  heard  the  barking  of  my  little  Nelly 
as  I  passed  through  the  outer  room  and  approached  the 
glass  doors,  steadying  myself  as  I  went  by  the  articles  of 
furniture  in  the  room.  I  burst  the  doors  open,  and  my 
favourite  bounded  into  my  arms. 

And  now  I  felt  that  it  was  too  late.  As  I  approached 
the  door  that  opened  to  the  road,  I  saw  my  carriage  being 
led  round  to  the  back  of  the  house,  and  the  form  of  the 
landlord  appeared  in  the  door-way  blocking  up  the 
passage.  I  made  an  effort  to  push  past  him,  but  it  was 
useless.  My  little  Nelly  fell  out  of  my  arms  on  the  steps 
outside  ;  the  landlord  slammed  the  door  heavily  ;  and  I 
fell  without  sense  or  knowledge  at  his  feet. 

*  *  *  *  4fr  * 

It  was  dark,  gentlemen, — dark,  and  very  cold.  The 
little  patch  of  sky  I  was  looking  up  at  had  in  it  a  marvel- 
lous number  of  stars,  which  would  have  looked  bright 
but  for  a  blazing  planet  which  seemed  to  eclipse,  in  the 
absence  of  the  moon,  all  the  other  luminaries  round 
about  it.  To  lie  thus  was,  in  spite  of  the  cold,  quite  a 
luxurious  sensation.  As  I  turned  my  head  to  ease  it  a 
little  (for  it  seemed  to  have  been  in  this  position  some 
time),  I  felt  stiff  and  weak. 

At  this  moment,  too,  I  feel  a  stirring  close  beside  me, 
and  first  a  cold  nose  touching  my  hand,  and  then  a  hot 
tongue  licking  it.  As  to  my  other  sensation,  I  was  aware 
of  a  gentle  rumbling  sound,  and  could  feel  that  I  was 
being  carried  slowly  along,  and  that  every  now  and  then 
there  was  a  slight  jolt  ;  one  of  which,  perhaps  more 
marked  than  the  rest,  might  be  the  cause  of  my  being 
awake  at  all. 

Presently  other  matters  began  to  dawn  upon  my  mind 
through  the  medium  of  my  senses.  I  could  see  the 
regular  movement  of  a  horse's  ears  walking  in  front  of 
me  ;  surely  I  saw,  too,  part  of  tlie  figure  of  a  man, — a 
pair  of  sturdy  shoulders,  the  hood  of  a  coat,  and  a  head 
with  a  wide-awake  hat  upon  it.  I  could  hear  the  occa- 
sional sounds  of  encouragement  which  seemed  to  emanate 
from  this  figure,  and  which  were  addressed  to  the  horse. 
I  could  hear  the  tinkling  of  bells  upon  the  animal's 
neck.  Surely,  too,  I  heard  a  rumbling  sound  behind  us, 
and  the  tread  of  a  horse's  feet, — just  as  if  there  were 
another  vehicle  following  close  upon  us.  Was  there 
anything  more  ?  Yes,  in  the  distance  I  was  able  to  detect 
the  twinkling  of  a  light  or  two,  as  if  a  town  were  not  far 
off. 

Now,  gentlemen,  as  I  lay  and  observed  all  these  things, 
there  was  such  a  languor  shed  over  my  spirits,  such  a 
sense  of  utter,  but  not  unpleasant  weakness,  that  I  hardly 
cared  to  ask  myself  what  it  all  meant,  or  to  inquire 
where  I  was  or  how  I  came  there.  A  conviction  that  all 
was  well  with  me  lay  like  an  anodyne  upon  my  heart, 
and  it  was  only  slowly  and  gradually  that  any  curiositj^ 
as  to  how  I  came  to  be  so,  developed  itself  in  my  brain. 
I  dare  say  we  had  been  jogging  along  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  during  which  I  had  been  perfectly  conscious,  before 
I  struggled  up  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  recognized  the 
hoodetl  i)ack  of  the  man  at  the  horse's  head. 

"Dufay  ?" 

Tlie  man  with  the  hooded  coat,  who  was  walking  by 
the  side  of  the  horse,  suddenly  cried  out  "  Wo  !"  in  a 
sturdy  voice  ;  then  ran  to  the  back  of  the  carriage  and 
cried  out  "  Wo  ! "  again  ;  and  then  we  came  to  a  stand 
still.  In  another  moment  he  had  mounted  on  the  step 
of  the  carriage,  and  had  taken  me  cordially  by  the  hand. 


"What,"  he  said,  "  awake  at  last  ?  Thank  Heaven! 
I  had  almost  begun  to  despair  of  you." 

"  My  dear  friend,  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  Where  am 
I  ?  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  This  is  not  my  caleche, 
this  is  not  my  horse." 

*'  Both  are  safe  behind,"  said  Dufay,  heartily  ;  and 
having  told  you  so  much,  I  will  not  utter  another  word 
till  you  are  safe  and  warm  at  the  Lion  d'Or.  See  !  There 
are  the  lights  of  the  town.  Now,  not  another  word." 
And,  pulling  the  horse-cloth  under  which  I  was  lying 
more  closely  over  me,  my  friend  dismounted  from  the 
step,  started  the  vehicle  with  the  customary  cry,  of 
"  Aliens  done  ! "  and  a  crack  of  the  whip,  and  we  were 
soon  once  more  in  motion. 

Castaing  Dufay  was  a  man  into  whose  company  cir- 
cumstances had  thrown  me  very  often,  and  with  whom 
I  had  become  intimate  from  choice.  Of  the  numerous 
class  to  which  he  belonged,  those  men  whose  sturdy 
vehicles  and  sturdier  horses  are  to  be  seen  standing  in 
the  yards  and  stables  of  all  the  inns  in  provincial  France, 
— the  class  of  the  commis-voyageurs,  or  French  commer- 
cial travellers, — Castaing  Dufay  was  more  than  a  favour- 
able specimen.  I  was  very  fond  of  him.  In  the  course 
of  our  intimacy  I  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  have  the 
opportunity  of  being  useful  to  him  in  matters  of  some 
importance.  I  think,  gentlemen,  we  like  those  we  have 
served  quite  as  well  as  they  like  us. 

The  town  lights  were  indeed  close  by,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  we  turned  into  the  yard  of  the  Lion  d'Or, 
and  found  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  warmth  and  bright- 
ness, and  surrounded  by  faces  which,  after  the  dangers 
I  had  passed  through,  looked  perfectly  angelic. 

I  had  no  idea,  till  I  attempted  to  move,  how  weak  and 
dazed  I  was.  I  was  too  far  gone  for  dinner.  A  bed  and 
a  fire  were  the  only  things  I  coveted,  and  I  was  soon  in 
possession  of  both. 

I  was  no  sooner  snugly  ensconced  with  my  head  on 
the  pillow,  watching  the  crackling  logs  as  they  sparkled, 
— my  little  Nelly  lying  outside  the  counterpane, — than  my 
friend  seated  himself  beside  me,  and  volunteered  to  re- 
lieve my  curiosity  as  to  the  circumstance  of  my  escape 
from  the  Tete  Noir.  It  was  now  my  turn  to  refuse  to 
listen,  as  it  had  been  his  before  to  refuse  to  speak. 

"  Not  one  word,"  I  said,  *'  till  you  have  had  a  good 
dinner,  after  which  you  will  come  up  and  sit  beside  me, 
and  tell  me  all  I  am  longing  to  know.  And  stay, — you 
will  do  one  thing  more  for  me,  I  know  ;  when  you  come 
up  you  will  bring  me  a  plateful  of  bones  for  Nelly  ;  she 
will  not  leave  me  to-night,  I  swear,  to  save  herself  from 
starving." 

"  She  deserves  some  dinner,"  said  Dufay,  as  he  left 
the  room,  "  for  I  think  it  is  through  her  instrumentality 
that  you  are  alive  at  this  moment." 

The  bliss  in  which  I  lay  after  Dufay  had  left  the  room 
is  known  only  to  those  who  have  passed  through  some 
great  danger,  or  who,  at  least,  are  newly  relieved  from 
some  condition  of  severe  and  protracted  suffering.  It 
was.  a  state  of  perfect  repose  and  happiness. 

When  my  friend  came  back,  he  brought, — not  only  a 
plate  of  fowl-bones  for  Nelly,  but  a  basin  of  soup  for 
me.  When  I  bad  finished  lapping  it  up,  and  while 
Nelly  was  still  crunching  the  bones,  Dufay  spoke  as 
follows  : 

"  I  said  just  now  that  it  was  to  your  little  dog  you  owe 
the  preservation  of  your  life,  and  I  must  now  tell  you 
how  it  was.  You  remember  that  you  left  Doulaise  this 
morning — " 

"  It  seems  a  week  ago,"  I  interrupted. 

"  This  morning,"  continued  Dufay.  "  Well  you  were 
hardly  out  of  the  inn-yard  before  I  drove  into  it,  having 
made  a  small  stage  before  breakfast.  I  heard  where  you 
were  gone,  and,  as  I  was  going  that  way  too,  I  deter- 
mined to  give  my  horse  a  rest  of  a  couple  of  hours, 
while  I  breakfasted  and  transacted  some  business  in  the 
town,  and  then  set  off  after  you.  '  Have  you  any  idea,' 
I  said,  as  I  left  the  inn  at  Doulaise,  '  whether  monsieur 
meant  to  stop  en  route,  and  if  so,  where  ? '  The  garden 
did  not  know.  '  Let  me  see,'  I  said,  '  the  Tete  Noire  at 
Mauconsiel  would  be  a  likely  place,  wouldn't  it  ? '  '  No,' 
said  the  boy  ;  '  the  house  does  not  enjoy  a  good  charac- 
ter, and  no  one  from  here  ever  stops  there.'  '  Well,* 
said  I,  thinking  no  more  of  what  he  said,  *  I  shall  be 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA, 


1055 


sure  to  find  "him.  I  will  inquire  after  him  as  I  go 
along.' 

"  The  afternoon  was  getting  on  when  I  came  within 
sight  of  the  inn  of  the  Tete  Noire.  As  you  know,  I  am 
a  little  near-sighted,  but  I  saw,  as  I  drew  near  the  au- 
berge,  that  a  conveyance  of  some  kind  was  being  taken 
round  to  the  yard  at  the  back  of  the  house.  This  cir- 
cumstance, however,  I  should  have  paid  no  attention  to, 
had  not  my  attention  been  suddenly  caught  by  the  vio- 
lent barking  of  a  dog,  which  seemed  to  be  trying  to  gain 
admittance  at  the  closed  door  of  the  inn.  At  a  second 
glance  I  knew  the  dog  to  be  yours.  Pulling  up  my 
horse,  I  got  down  and  ascended  the  steps  of  the  auberge. 
One  sniff  at  my  shins  was  enough  to  convince  Nelly  that 
a  friend  was  at  hand,  and  her  excitement  as  I  approached 
the  door  was  frantic. 

"  On  my  entering  the  house  I  did  not  at  first  see  you, 
"but  on  looking  in  the  direction  toward  which  your  dog 
had  hastened  as  soon  as  the  door  was  opened,  I  saw  a 
dark  wooden  staircase,  which  led  out  of  one  corner  of  the 
apartment  I  was  standing  in.  I  saw,  also,  that  you,  my 
friend,  were  being  dragged  up  the  stairs  in  the  arms  of 
a  very  ill -looking  man,  assisted  by  (if  possible)  a  still 
more  ill-looking  little  girl,  who  had  charge  of  your  legs. 
At  sight  of  me  the  man  deposited  you  upon  the  stairs, 
and  advanced  to  meet  me. 

"'What  are  you  doing  with  that  gentleman?*  I 
asked. 

"  '  He  is  unwell/  replied  the  ill-looking  man,  *  and  I 
am  helping  him  up-stairs  to  bed.' 

"  '  That  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  mine.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  his  being  in  this  state  ? ' 

"  *  How  should  I  know  ? '  was  the  answer ;  '  I  am  not 
the  guardian  of  the  gentleman's  health.' 

"  '  Well,  then,  I  am,'  said  I,  approaching  the  place 
where  you  were  lying  ;  '  and  I  prescribe,  to  begin  with, 
that  he  shall  leave  this  place  at  once.' 

"I  must  own,"  continued  Dufay,  "that  you  were 
looking  horribly  ill,  and  as  I  bent  over  and  felt  your 
hardly  fluttering  pulse,  I  felt  for  a  moment  doubtful 
whether  it  was  safe  to  move  you.  However,  I  deter- 
mined to  risk  it. 

"  *  Will  you  help  me,'  I  said,  '  to  move  this  gentleman 
to  his  carriage  ? ' 

"  '  No,'  replied  the  rufSan,  'he  is  not  fit  to  travel. 
Besides,  what  right  have  you  over  him  ?' 

"  '  The  right  of  being  his  friend.' 

"  '  How  do  I  know  that  ?  ' 

"  '  Because  I  tell  you.    See,  his  dog  knows  me.' 

"' Suppose  I  decline  to  accept  that  as  evidence,  and 
refuse  to  let  this  gentleman  leave  my  house  in  his  pres- 
ent state  of  health  ? ' 

"  '  You  dare  not  do  it.' 

"  'Why?' 

"  '  Because,'  I  answered,  slowly,  *  I  should  go  to  the 
Gendarmerie  in  the  village,  and  mention  under  what 
suspicious  circumstances  I  found  my  friend  here,  and 
because  your  house  has  not  the  best  of  characters. ' 

"The  man  was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  a  little 
baffled.  He  seemed,  however,  determined  to  try  once 
more. 

"  '  And  suppose  I  close  my  doors,  and  decline  to  let 
either  of  you  go  ;  what  is  to  prevent  me  ? ' 

"  '  In  the  first  place,'  1  answered,  '/  will  effectually 
prevent  you  detaining  me  single-handed.  If  you  have 
assistance  near,  I  am  expected  to-night  at  Francy,  and 
if  I  do  not  arrive  there,  I  shall  soon  be  sought  out.  It 
was  known  that  I  left  Doulaise  this  morning,  and  most 
people  are  aware  that  there  is  an"  auberge  on  the  road 
which  does  not  bear  the  best  of  reputations,  and  that  its 
name  is  La  Tete  Noire.    Now  will  you  help  me?' 

"  '  No,'  replied  the  savage,  '  I  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  affair.' 

"It  was  not  an  easy  task  to  drag  you  without  assist- 
ance from  the  place  where  you  were  lying,  out  into  the 
open  air,  down  the  steps,  and  put  you  into  my  convey- 
ance, which  was  standing  outside  ;  but  I  managed  to  do  it. 
The  next  thing  I  had  to  accomplish  was  the  feat  of  driv- 
ing two  carriages  and  two  horses  single-handed.  I  could 
see  only  one  way  in  managing  this.  I  led  my  own  horse 
round  to  the  gate  of  the  stable-yard,  where  I  could  keep 
my  eye  upon  him,  while  I  went  in  search  of  your  horse 


and  carriage,  which  I  had  to  get  right  without  assistance. 
It  was  done  at  last.  I  fastened  your  horse's  head  by  a 
halter  to  the  back  of  my  carriage,  and  then,  leading  my 
own  beast  by  the  bridle,  I  managed  to  start  the  proces- 
sion. And  so  (though  only  at  a  foot-pace)  we  turned  our 
backs  upon  the  Tete  Noire.  And  now  you  know  every- 
thing." 

"I  feel,  Castaing,  as  if  I  should  never  be  able  to 
think  of  this  adventure,  or  speak  of  it  again.  It  wears, 
somehow  or  another,  such  a  ghastly  aspect,  that  I  sicken 
at  the  mere  memory  of  it." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Dufay,  cheerily  ;  "you  will 
live  to  tell  it  as  a  stirring  tale,  some  winter  night,  take 
my  word  for  it." 

Gentlemen,  the  prediction  is  verified.  May  the  teeto- 
tum fall  next  time  with  more  judgment  ! 

"  Wa'al,  now  !  "  said  Captain  Jorgan,  rising,  with  his 
hand  upon  the  sleeve  of  liis  fellow-traveller  to  keep  him 
down  ;  "  I  congratulate  you,  sir,  upon  that  ad  venter  ;  un- 
pleasant at  the  time,  but  pleasant  to  look  back  upon,  as 
many  adventers  in  many  lives  are.  Mr.  Tredgear,  you 
had  a  feeling  for  your  money  on  that  occasion,  and  it 
went  hard  on  being  Stolen  Money.  It  was  not  a  sum  of 
five  hundred  pound,  perhaps?" 

"  I  wish  it  had  been  half  as  much,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  Might  I  ask  the  question  of  you 
that  has  been  already  put  ?  About  this  place  of  Lanrean 
did  you  ever  hear  of  any  circumstances  whatever  that 
might  seem  to  have  a  bearing — anyhow — on  that  ques- 
tion?" 

"  Never." 

"  Thank  you  again  for  a  straightfor'ard  answer,"  said 
the  captain,  apologetically.  "You  see,  we  have  been 
referred  to  Lanrean  to  make  inquiries,  and  happening 
in  among  the  inhabitants  present,  we  use  the  opportun- 
ity.   In  my  country  we  always  do  use  opportunities." 

"And  you  turn  them  to  good  account,  I  believe,  and 
prosper  ?  " 

"  It's  a  fact,  sir, "  said  the  captain,  "  that  we  get  along. 
Yes,  we  get  along,  sir. — But  I  stop  the  teetotum." 

It  was  twirled  again,  and  fell  to  David  Polreath, — an 
iron-gray  man  ;  "  as  old  as  the  hills,"  the  captain  whis- 
pered to  Young  Raybrock,  "  and  as  hard  as  nails.  And 
I  admire,"  added  the  captain,  glancing  about,  "  whether 
Unchris'en  Penrewen  is  here,  and  which  is  he  !  " 

David  Polreath  stroked  down  the  long,  iron-gray  hair 
that  fell  massively  upon  the  shoulders  of  his  large-but- 
toned coat,  and  spake  thus  : 

The  question  was.  Did  he  throw  himself  over  the  cliff 
of  set  purpose,  or  did  he  lose  his  way  in  the  dusk  and 
fall  over  accidentally,  or  was  he  pushed  over  by  some 
person  or  persons  unknown  ? 

His  body  was  found  nearly  fifty  yards  below  the  fall, 
caught  in  the  low  branches  of  trees  that  overhang  the 
water  at  the  foot  of  the  track  down  the  cliff.  It  was 
shockingly  bruised  and  disfigured,  so  much  so  as  to  be 
hardly  recognizable  ;  but  for  his  clothing  and  the  name 
on  his  linen  I  doubt  whether  anybody  could  have  identi- 
fied him  except  myself.  There  was,  however,  no  suspi- 
cion of  foul  play  ;  the  signs  of  rough  usage  might  all 
have  been  caused  by  the  body  having  been  driven  about 
among  the  stones  that  encumber  the  bed  of  the  river  a 
long  way  below  the  fall. 

When  i speak  of  the  fall,  I  speak  of  the  Ashenfall,  by 
Ashendell  village,  within  an  hour's  drive  of  this  house. 
This,  gentlemen,  is  for  the  information  of  strangers. 

He  had  been  seen  by  many  persons  about  the  village 
during  the  day  ;  I  myself  had  seen  him  go  up  the  hill 
past  the  parsonage  toward  the  church, — which  I  rather 
wondered  at  considering  who  was  buried  there,  and  how, 
and  why.  I  Avill  even  confess  that  I  watched  him  ;  and 
he  went — as  I  expected  he  would,  since  he  had  the  heart 
to  go  near  the  place  at  all — round  to  the  back  of  the 
church  where  Honor  Livingston's  grave  is  ;  and  there  he 
stayed,  sitting  by  himself  on  the  low  wall  for  an  hour  or 
more.  Sometimes  he  turned  to  look  across  the  valley, — 
many  a  time  and  oft  I  had  seen  him  there  before,  with 
Honor  beside  him,  watching,  while  he  sketched  the  beau- 
tiful landscape, — and  sometimes  he  had  his  back  to  it, 
and  his  head  down,  as  if  he  were  watching  her  grave. 


1056 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


Kot  tTiat  there  is  anjtliing  pleasant  or  comforting  to  read 
there,  as  on  the  graves  of  good  Christian  people  who 
have  died  in  their^beds  ;  for,  being  a  suicide,  when  they 
buried  her  on  the  north  side  of  the  cliurcli,  it  was  at 
dusk,  and  without  any  service,  and,  of  course,  no  stone 
was  allowed  to  be  put  up  over  it.  Our  clergyman  has 
talked  of  having  the  mound  levelled  and  turfed  over, 
and  I  wish  he  would  ;  it  always  hurts  me  when  I  go  up 
to  Sunday  service,  to  see  that  ragged  grave  lying  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wall,  for  I  remember  the  pretty  little  lass 
ever  since  she  could  run  alone  ;  and  though  she  was  pas- 
sionate, her  heart  was  as  good  as  gold.  She  had  been 
religiously  brought  up,  and  I  am  quite  sure  in  my  own 
mind,  let  the  coroner's  inquest  have  said  what  it  would, 
that  she  was  out  of  herself,  and  Bedlam-mad  when  she 
did  it. 

The  verdict  on  him  was  "  accidental  death,"  and  he 
had  a  regular  funeral, — priest,  bell,  clerk,  and  sexton, 
complete  ;  and  there  he  lies,  only  a  stone's-tbrow  from 
Honor,  with  a  ton  or  two  of  granite  over  him,  and  an  in- 
scription setting  forth  what  a  great  man  he  was  in  his 
day,  and  what  mighty  engineering  works  he  did  at  home 
and  abroad,  and  how  he  sleeps  now  in  the  hope  of  a  joy- 
ful resurrection  with  the  just  made  perfect.  These  pres- 
ent strangers  can  read  it  for  themselves  ;  many  strangers 
go  up  to  look  at  it.  His  grave  is  as  famous  as  the  Ash- 
enfall  itself,  and  I  have  known  folks  come  away  with 
tears  in  their  eyes  after  reading  the  flourishing  inscrip- 
tion ;  believing  it  all  like  gospel,  and  saying  how  sad  that 
so  distinguished  a  man  should  have  been  cut  off  in  the 
prime  of  his  days.  But  I  don't  believe  it.  He  was  never 
any  more  than  plain  James  Lawrence  to  me, — a  young 
fellow  who,  as  a  lad,  had  paddled  bare-legged  over  the 
stones  of  the  river  as  a  guide  across  for  visitors,  who  had 
been  taken  a  fancy  to  by  one  of  them,  and  decently  edu- 
cated ;  who  had  made  the  most  of  his  luck,  and  done  a 
clever  thing  or  two  in  engineering  ;  who  had  come  back 
among  us  in  all  his  glory,  to  dazzle  most  people's  eyes, 
and  break  little  Honor  Livingston's  heart.  The  one  good 
thing  I  knovv  of  him  was,  that  he  pensioned  his  poor  old 
mother  ;  but  he  did  not  often  come  near  her,  and  never 
after  Honor  Livingston  was  dead, — no,  not  even  in  her  last 
illness.  It  was  a  marvel  to  everybody  what  brought  him 
•over  here,  when  we  saw  him  the  day  before  he  was  found 
dead  ;  but  it  was  his  fate,  and  he  couldn't  keep  away. 
That  is  my  view  of  it.  About  his  death  and  the  manner 
of  it,  all  Lanrean  had  its  speculation,  and  said  its  say  ; 
but  I  held  my  peace.  I  had  my  opinion,  however,  and  I 
keep  it.  I  have  never  seen  reason  to  change  it ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  I  can  show  you  evidence  to  establish  it.  I 
do  not  believe  he  either  threw  himself  over  the  cliff, 
or  fell  over,  or  was  pushed  over  ;  no,  I  believe  he  was 
drawn  over,— drawn  over  by  something  below.  When 
you  have  heard  the  notes  he  made  in  a  little  book  that 
was  found  among  his  things  after  he  was  dead,  you 
will  know  what  I  mean.  His  cousin  gave  that  book  to 
me,  knowing  I  am  curious  after  odd  stories  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  and  what  I  am  going  to  read,  is  written  in  his 
band.    I  know  his  hand  well,  and  certify  to  it. 


PASSAGES  FROM  JAMES  LAWRENCE'S  JOURNAL. 

London,  August  11, 1829. — Honor  Livingston  has  kept 
her  word  with  me.  I  saw  her  last  night  as  plainly  as  I 
now  see  this  pen  I  am  Meriting  with,  and  the  ink-bottle 
I  have  just  dipped  it  into.  I  saw  her  standing  betwixt  the 
two  lights,  looking  at  me,  exactly  as  she  looked  the  last 
time  I  saw  her  alive.  I  was  neither  asleep  nor  dream- 
ing awake.  I  had  only  drunk  a  couple  of  glasses  of 
wine  at  dinner,  and  was  as  much  my  own  man  as  ever  I 
was  in  ray  life.  It  is  all  nonsense  to  talk  about  fancy 
and  optical  delusions  in  this  case  ;  I  saw  her  with  my 
eyes  as  distinctly  as  I  ever  saw  her  alive  in  the  body. 
The  hall  clock  had  just  struck  eight,  and  it  was  growing 
dusk  ;  exactly  the  time  of  evening,  as  I  well  remember, 
when  she  came  creeping  round  by  the  cottage  wall,  and 
saw  me  through  the  open  window,  gathering  up  my 
books  and  making  ready  to  go  away  from  Ashendell. 
Sli(!  was  the  last  thought  to  have  come  into  my  mind  at 
that  moment,  for  I  was  just  on  th(^  point  of  lighting 
my  cigar  and  going  out  for  a  stroll,  before  turning  in  at 


the  Dal  tons  to  chat  with  Anne.  All  at  once  there  she 
was,  Honor  herself  !  I  could  have  sworn  it,  liad  I  not 
seen  them  put  her  under  ground  just  a  twelvemonth 
ago.  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  her  ;  and  there  she 
stood,  as  nearly  as  I  can  tell,  a  minute, — but  it  may  have 
been  an  hour, — and  then  the  place  she  had  filled  was 
empty.  I  was  so  much  bewildered  and  out  of  myself 
as  it  were,  that  for  a  while  I  could  neither  think  of  any- 
thing, nor  hear  anything,  but  the  mad,  heavy  throbbing 
of  my  own  pulses.  I  cannot  say  that  I  was*  scared  ex- 
actly ;  for  the  time  I  was  completely  rapt  away  ;  the  first 
actual  sensation  I  had  was  of  my  own  heart*  thumping 
in  my  breast  like  a  sledge-hammer. 

But  I  can  call  her  up  now  and  analyze  her, — a  wan, 
vague,  misty  outline,  with  Honor's  own  eyes  full  upon 
me,  I  can  almost  fancy  I  hear  her  asking  again,  "  Is  it 
true  you're  going,  James?  You're  not  really  going, 
James?  " 

Now  I  am  not  the  man  to  be  frightened  by  a  shadow, 
though  that  shadow  be  Honor  Livingston,  whom  they 
say  I  as  good  as  murdered.  I  always'had  a  turn  for  in- 
vestigating riddles,  spiritual,  physiological,  and  other- 
wise, and  I  shall  follow  this  mystery  up,  and  note 
whether  she  comes  back  to  me  year  by  year,  as  she 
pronused.  I  have  never  kept  a  diary  of  personal  mat- 
ters before,  not  being  one  who  cares  to  see  spectres  of 
himself  at  remote  periods  of  his  life,  talking  to  him 
again  of  his  adventures  and  misadventures  out  of  yellow 
old  pages  that  had  better  never  have  been  written  ;  but 
this  is  a  marked  event  worth  commemorating,  and  a  well- 
authenticated  ghost  story  to  me  who  never  believed  in 
ghosts  before. 

It  was  a  rather  spiteful  threat  of  Honor, — "I'll  haunt 
you  till  you  come  to  the  Ashenfall,  where  I'm  going 
now  ! "  I  might  have  stopped  her,  but  it  never  entered 
my  mind  what  she  meant  until  it  was  done.  I  did  not 
expect  she  would  make  a  tragedy  of  a  little  love-story  ; 
she  did  not  look  like  that  sort  of  thing.  She  was  no 
ghost,  bless  her!  in  the  flesh,  but  as  round,  rosy,  dim- 
pled a  little  creature  as  one  would  wish  to  see  ;  and 
what  could  possess  her  to  throw  herself  over  the  fall. 
Heaven  only  knows.  Bah  !  Yes,  I  know  ;  I  need  tell 
no  lies  here,  I  need  not  do  any  false  swearing  to  my- 
self,— the  poor  little  creature  loved  me,  and  I  wanted 
her  to  love  me,  and  I  petted  and  plagued  her  into  loving 
me,  becaiise  I  was  idle  and  had  the  opportunity  ;  and 
then  I  had  nothing  better  to  tell  her  than  that  I  was  only 
in  jest, — I  could  not  marry  her,  for  I  was  engaged  to  an- 
other woman.  She  would  not  believe  it.  Tliat  sounded 
to  her  more  like  jest  than  the  other.  And  she  did  not 
believe  it  until  she  saw  me  making  ready  to  go,  and  then, 
all  in  a  moment,  I  suppose  madness  seized  her,  and  she 
neither  knew  where  she  went  nor  what  she  did.  I  fancy 
I  can  see  her  now  coming  tripping  down  the  field  leading 
her  little  brother  by  the  hand,  and  I  fancy  I  can  see  the 
saucy  laugh  she  gave  me  over  her  shoulder  as  I  asked 
her  if  she  had  any  ripe  cherries  to  sell.  She  looked  the 
very  mischief  with  those  pretty  eyes,  and  I  was  taken 
rather  aback  when  she  said,  "I  know  you,  Jemmy  Law- 
rence." That  was  the  beginning  of  it.  Little  Honor  and 
her  mother  lived  next  door  to  mine,  and  she  had  not 
forgotten  me  though  I  had  been  full  seven  years  away. 
I  did  not  know  her,  the  gypsy,  but  I  must  needs  go  in 
and  see  her  that  evening  ;  and  so  we  went  on  until  I 
asked  her  if  she  remembered  when  we  went  to  dame- 
school  together,  and  when  she  promised  to  be  my  little 
wife?  if  she  remembered!  Of  course  she  did,  every 
word  of  it,  and  more;  and  she  was  so  pretty,  and  the 
lanes  in  the  summer  were  so  pleasant  that  sometimes 
my  fancy  did  play  Anne  Dalton  false,  and  I  believed  I 
should  like  Honor  better ;  and  I  said  more  than  I  meant, 
and  she  took  it  all  in  the  grand,  serious  manner. 

I  was  not  much  to  blame.  I  would  not  have  injured 
her  for  the  world  ;  she  was  as  good  a  little  soul  as  ever 
lived.  Love  and  jealousy,  as  i)assions,  seem  to  find  their 
strongholds  under  thatch.  If  Phillis,  the  milkmaid,  is 
disappointed,  she  drowns  herself  in  the  mill-pool  ;  if 
Lady  Clara  gets  a  cross  of  the  heart,  she  indites  a  lach- 
rymose sonnet,  and  marries  a  gouty  peer  ;  if  Colin's 
sweetheart  smiles  on  Lubin,  Colin  loads  his  gun  and 
shoots  them  both  ;  if  Sir  Harry's  fair  flouts  him,  he 
whistles  her  down  the  wind,  and  goes  a  wooing  else- 


A  MESSAGE  FBOM  THE  SEA, 


1057 


where.  Had  little  Honor  been  a  fine  lady  she  would  be 
living'  still,  O  the  pretty,  demure  lips,  and  the  shy 
glances,  and  the  rosy  blushes  !  When  I  saw  Anne  Dal- 
ton  to-day  I  could  not  help  comparing  her  frigid  gentility 
with  poor  Honor.  Anne  loves  herself  better  tlian  she 
will  ever  love  any  man  alive.  But  then  I  know  she  is 
the  kind  of  wife  to  help  a  man  up  in  the  world,  and  that 
is  the  kind  of  wife  for  me. 

Honor  Livingston  lying  on  her  little  bed,  and  her  blind 
mother  feeling  her  cold,  dead  face  !  I  wish  1  had  never 
seen  it,  I  would  have  given  the  world  to  keep  away, 
but  something  compelled  me  to  go  in  and  look  at  her  ; 
and  I  did  feel  then  as  if  I  had  killed  her.  Last  night 
she  was  a  shadowy  essence  of  this  drowned  Ophelia  and  j 
of  her  living  self.  She  was  like,  yet  unlike  ;  but  I 
knew  it  was  Honor  ;  and  I  sup]wse,  if  she  has  her  will, 
wherever  her  restless  spirit  may  be  condemned  to  bide 
between  whiles, — on  the  10th  of  August  she  will  always 
come  back  to  me,  and  haunt  me  until  I  go  to  her, 

Hastings,  August  11,  1830. — Again  !  1  had  forgotten 
the  day, — forgotten  every  thing  about  that  wretched  bus- 
iness of  poor  Honor  Livingston  when  last  night  I  saw 
her. 

Anne  and  I  were  sitting  together  out  in  the  veranda,  | 
talking  of  all  sorts  of  commonplace  things, — our  neigh-  ! 
bours^  affairs,  money,  this,  that,  and  the  other, — the  sea  ' 
was  beautiful,  and  I  was  on  tlie  point  of  proposing  a  row 
by  moonlight,  v.'hen  Anne  said,  "How  lovely  the  even- 
ings are,  James,  in  this  place  !    Look  at  the  sky  over  the 
down,  how  clear  it  is  !  "    Turning  my  head,  I  saw  Honor 
standing  on  the  grass  only  a  few  paces  off,  her  shadowy 
shape  quite  distinct  against  the  reds  and  purples  of  the 
clouds, 

Anne  clutched  my  hand  with  a  sudden  cry,  for  she 
was  looking  at  my  face  all  the  time,  and  asked  me  pas- 
sionately what  I  saw.  With  that  Honor  was  gone,  and, 
passing  my  hand  over  my  eyes,  I  put  my  wife  off  with 
an  excuse  about  a  spasm  at  my  heart.  And,  indeed,  it 
was  no  lie  to  say  so,  for  this  visitation  gave  me  a  terrible 
shock . 

Anne  insisted  on  my  seeing  the  doctor.  "  It  must  be 
something  dreadful,  if  not  dangerous,  that  could  make 
you  look  in  that  way  ;  you  had  an  awful  face,  James, 
for  a  moment." 

I  begged  her  not  to  talk  about  it,  assured  her  that  it 
was  a  thing  of  very  rare  occurrence  with  me,  and  that 
there  was  no  cure  for  it.  But  this  did  not  pacify  her, 
and  this  morning  no  peace  could  be  had  until  Dr,  Hutch- 
inson was  sent  for  and  she  had  given  the  old  gentleman 
her  own  account  of  me.  He  said  he  would  talk  to  me  by 
and  by.  And  when  he  got  me  by  myself,  I  cannot  tell 
how  it  was,  but  he  absolutely  contrived  to  worm  the 
facts  out  of  me,  and  I  was  fool  enough  to  let  him  do  it. 
He  looked  at  me  very  oddly,  with  a  sort  of  suspicious 
scrutiny  in  his  eye  ;  but  I  understood  him,  and  said, 
laughing,  "No,  doctor,  no,  there  is  nothing-  wrong 
here,"  tapping  my  forehead  as  I  spoke. 

"  I  should  say  not,  except  this  fancy  for  seeing 
ghosts."  replied  he,  dryly.  But  I  perceived,  all  the  time 
that  he  was  with  me,  that  I  was  the  object  of  a  furtive 
and  carefully  dissembled  observation,  which  was  exces- 
sively trying,  I  could  with  diflBculty  keep  my  temper 
under  it,  and  I  believe  he  saw  the  struggle, 

I  fancy  he  wanted  to  have  some  talk  with  Anne  by 
herself,  but  I  prevented  that  by  never  losing  sight  of 
him  until  he  was  safely  off  the  premises.  If  he  proposed  a 
private  interview  while  I  was  out  alone,  I  prevented  that, 
too,  by  immediately  ordering  Anne  to  pack  up  our  traps, 
and  coming  back  to  town  that  very  day.  I  have  not 
been  well  since,  I  feel  out  of  spirits,  bored,  worried, 
sick  of  everything.  If  the  feeling  does  not  leave  me, 
in  si)ite  of  all  Anne  may  say,  I  shall  take  that  offer  to 
go  to  South  America,  and  start  by  the  next  packet,  I 
should  like  to  see  Dr,  Hutchinson's  face  when  he  calls 
at  our  lodgings  to  visit  his  patient  and  finds  the  bird 
flown. 

London,  August  20,  1830.— This  wretched  state  of 
things  does  not  cease.  One  day  I  feel  in  full,  firm,  clear 
possession  of  my  soul,  and  the  next,  perhaps,  I  am  hurried 
to  and  fro  with  the  most  tormenting  fancies.  I  see  sha- 
dows of  Honor  wherever  I  turn,  and  she  is  no  longer 
motionless  as  before,  but  beckons  me  with  her  hand  un- 
VOL,  II.— 67 


til  I  tremble  in  every  limb.  My  heart  is  sick  almost  to 
death.  For  three  days  now  I  have  had  no  rest,  I  can- 
not sleep  at  nights  for  hideous  dreams  ;  and  Anne 
watches  me  stealthily,  I  see,  and  never  remains  with  me 
longer  tlian  she  can  help.  I  can  perceive  that  she  is 
afraid  of  me,  and  tlmt  she  suspects  something,  without 
knowing  what.  To-day  she  must  needs  suggest  my  see- 
ing a  doctor  here,  and  when  I  replied  I  was  going  to 
South  America,  she  told  me  that  I  was  not  fit  for  it,  in 
such  a  contemptuous  tone  of  provocation  that  I  lifted  my 
hand  and  struck  her.  Then  she  quailed,  and  while 
shrinking  under  my  eyes,  she  said,  "James,  your  conduct 
is  that  of  a  madman  !  "  Since  then  I  know  she  sits  with 
me  in  silent  terror,  longing  to  escape  and  find  some  one 
to  listen  to  her  grievances.  But  I  shall  keep  strict  ward 
that  she  does  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  will  not  have  my 
foes  of  my  own  household,  and  no  spying  relatives  shall 
come  between  us  to  put  asunder  those  whom  God  has 
joined  together. 

AcAPULCO,  March  17,  1831, — It  is  six  months  since  I 
wrote  the  above.  In  the  interval  I  have  been  miserably 
ill,  grievously  tormented  both  in  mind  and  body  ;  but 
now  that  I  have  ffot  safely  away  from  them  all,  with  the 
Atlantic  between  myself  and  my  wicked  wife,  whose  con- 
duct toward  me  I  will  never  forgive,  I  can  collect  my 
powers  of  mind,  and  bend  them  again  to  my  work.  Bur- 
ton came  out  in  the  same  ship  with  me  to  engage  in  the 
same  enterprise.  After  a  few  days'  rest,  we  intend  set- 
ting out  on  our  journey  to  the  mining  districts,  where 
we  are  to  act.  My  head  feels  perfectly  light  and  clear, 
all  my  impressions  are  distinct  and  vivid  again,  and  I  can 
get  through  a  hard  day's  close  study  without  inconven- 
ience. There  was  nothing  but  my  miserable  liver  to 
blame,  and  when  that  was  set  right  all  my  imaginary 
phantoms  disappeared,  Umpleby  said  it  had  been  com- 
ing gradually  for  months,  and  that  there  was  nothing  at 
all  extraordinary  in  my  delusions  ;  my  diseased  state 
was  one  always  so  attended,  more  or  less.  And  Anne, 
in  her  cowardly  malignity,  would  have  consigned  me  for 
life  to  a  lunatic  asylum.  It  was  Umpleby  who  saved 
me,  and  I  have  put  his  name  down  in  my  will  for  a 
handsome  remembrance.  As  for  Anne,  she  has  chosen, 
to  return  to  her  family,  and  they  may  keep  her  ;  she 
will  never  see  my  face  again,  of  my  free  will,  as  long  as 
I  live. 

The  picturesqueness  of  this  place  is  not  noteworthy 
in  any  high  degree.  The  harbour  is  enclosed  by  a  chain 
of  mountains,  and  has  two  entrances  formed  by  the 
island  of  Roquetta  ;  the  castle  of  St,  Diego  commands 
the  town  and  the  bay,  standing  on  a  spur  of  the  hills. 
Burton  has  been  to  and  fro  on  his  rambles  ever  since  we 
landed  ;  but  I  find  the  heat  too  great  for  much  exertion, 
and  when  we  begin  our  journey  into  the  interior  I  have 
need  of  all  my  forces  ;  therefore,  better  husband  them 
now, 

Mexico,  April  24,  1831.— We  are  better  off  here  than 
we  anticipated.  Burton  has  found  an  old  fellow-pupil 
engaged  as  engineering  tutor  in  the  School  of  Mines, 
and  there  are  civilized  amusements  which  we  neither  of 
us  had  any  hope  of  finding.  The  city  is  full  of  ancient 
relics,  and  Burton  is  on  foot  exploring,  day  by  day.  I 
prefer  the  living  interests  of  this  strange  place,  and 
sometimes  early  in  the  morning  I  betake  myself  to  the 
market-place,  and  watch  the  Indians  dress  their  stalls. 
No  matter  what  they  sell  they  decorate  their  shops  with 
fresh  herbs  and  flow^ers  until* they  are  sheltered  under  a 
bower  of  verdure.  They  display  their  fruit  in  open 
basket-work,  laying  the  pears  and  raisins  below,  and 
covering  them  above  with  odorous  flowers.  An  artist 
might  make  a  pretty  picture  here  when  the  Indian* 
arrive  at  sunrise  in  their  boats  loaded  with  the  produce 
of  their  floating  gardens.  Next  week  Burton,  his  friend, 
and  I  are  to  set  out  for  the  mines  of  Morau  and  Real  del 
Monte,  I  should  have  preferred  to  delay  our  journey 
a  while  longer  for  reasons  of  my  own,  but  Burton  presses, 
and  feels  we  have  already  delayed  longer  than  enough. 

MoRAN,  July  4,  1831. — I  am  sick  of  this  place,  but  our 
business  here  is  now  on  the  verge  of  completion,  and  in 
a  few  days  we  start  on  our  expedition  to  the  mines  of 
Guanamato,  The  director.  Burton,  and  myself  are  all  of 
opinion  that  immense  advantages  are  to  be  gained  by 
improving  the  working  of  the  mines,  which  is,  at  present. 


1058 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


In  a  very  defective  condition.  There  is  great  mortality 
among  the  Indians  who  are  the  beasts  of  burden  of  the 
mines  ;  they  carry  on  their  backs  loads  of  metal  of  from 
two  hundred  and  fifty  to  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
at  a  time,  ascending  and  descending  thousands  of  steps, 
in  files  which  contain  old  men  of  sex^enty  and  mere  chil- 
dren. I  have  not  been  very  well  here,  having  had  some 
return  of  old  symptoms,  but  under  proper  treatment  they 
dispersed  ;  however,  I  shall  be  thankful  to  be  on  the 
move  again. 

Pascuaro,  August  11,  1831. — Can  any  man  evade 
his  thoughts,  impalpable  curses  sitting  on  his  heart, 
mocking  like  fiends  ?  I  cannot  evade  mine.  All  yester- 
day I  was  haunted  by  a  terrible  anxiety  and  dread.  At 
every  turn,  at  every  moment,  I  expected  to  see  Honor 
Livingston  appear  before  me,  but  I  did  not  see  her.  The 
day  and  the  night  i:>assed,  and  I  was  freed  from  that 
great  horror, — how  great  I  had  not  realized,  until  its 
hour  had  gone  and  left  no  trace.  This  morning  I  am 
myself  again  ;  my  spirits  revive  ;  I  have  escaped  my  en- 
emy, and  have  proved  that  it  was,  indeed,  but  a  subtle 
emanation  of  my  own  diseased  body  and  mind.  But 
these  thoughts,  these  troublesome,  persistent  thoughts, 
how  combat  them?  Burton,  very  observant  of  me  at 
all  times,  was  yesterday  watchful  as  an  inquisitor  ;  he 
said  he  hoped  I  was  not  going  to  have  the  frightful  fever 
which  is  prevailing  here,  but  I  know  he  meant  something 
else.  I  have  not  a  doubt  now  that  Anne  and  all  that 
confederacy  warned  him  before  we  set  sail  to  beware  of 
me,  for  I  had  been  mad  ;  that  is  the  cursed  lie  they  set 
abroad.    Mad  !    All  the  world's  mad,  or  on  the  way  to  it  I 

But  if  Honor  had  come  back  to  me  yesterday,  we 
might  have  gone  and  have  looked  down  together  into 
hell,  through  the  ovens  of  Jorulla.  The  missionaries 
cursed  this  frightful  place  generations  since ;  and  it  is 
accursed  if  ever  land  was.  Nothing  more  awful  than 
this  desolate,  burning  waste,  which  the  seas  could  not 
quench.  When  I  remember  it  and  all  I  underwent  yes- 
terday, the  confusion  and  horror  return  upon  me  again, 
and  my  brain  swerves  like  the  brain  of  a  drunken  man. 
I  will  write  no  more, — sufficient  to  record  that  the  ap- 
pointed time  came  and  went,  and  Honor  Livingston  did 
not  keep  her  word  with  me. 

New  Orleans,  February,  1832. — T  left  Burton  still  in 
Mexico,  and  came  here  alone.  His  care  and  considerate- 
ness  were  more  than  I  could  put  up  with,  and  after  two 
or  three  ineffectual  remonstrances,  Ave  came  to  a  violent 
rux)ture,  and  I  determined  to  throw  up  my  engagement, 
rather  than  carry  it  out  in  conjunction  with  such  a  man. 
There  was  no  avoiding  the  quarrel.  Was  I  to  be  tutored 
day  by  day,  and  the  wine-bottle  removed  out  of  my 
reach  ?  He  dared  to  tell  me  that  when  I  was  cool,  clear, 
— myself,  in  short, — there  was  no  man  my  master  in  our 
profession  ;  but  that  when  I  had  drunk  freely  I  was  un- 
manageable as  a  lunatic  !  A  lie,  of  course  ;  but  unscru- 
pulous persecutors  are  difficult  to  circumvent.  Anne's 
malice  pursues  me  even  here.  When  I  was  out  yester- 
day, my  footsteps  were  dogged  pertinaciously  wherever 
I  went,  and  perhaps  an  account  of  my  doings  will  precede 
me  home  ;  but  if  they  do,  I  defy  them  all  to  do  their 
worst. 

AsiiENDELL,  August  9,  1839. — This  old  book  turned 
up  to-day,  among  some  traps  that  have  lain  by  in  London 
all  the  years  that  I  have  spent,  first  in  Spain  and  after- 
wards in  Russia.  What  fool's  talk  it  is  !  but  I  suppose 
it  was  true  at  the  time.  I  know  I  was  in  a  wretched 
condition  while  I  was  in  Mexico  and  in  the  States,  but  I 
have  been  sane  enough  and  sound  enough  ever  since  the 
illness  I  had  at  Baltimore.  To  prove  how  little  hold  on 
me  my  ancient  horrors  have  retained,  I  find  myself  at 
Ashendell  in  the  very  sea.son  of  the  year  when  Honor 
Livingston  destroyed  herself, — to-morrow  is  the  anni- 
versary of  her  death.  So  I  take  my  enemy  by  the  throat, 
and  crush  him  !  These  fantastical  maladies  will  not 
stand  against  a  determined  will.  At  Moscow,  at  Cher- 
son,  at  Archangel,  the  10th  of  August  has  come  and  gone, 
unmarked.  Honor  failed  of  her  threat  everywhere  ex- 
cept at  Lisbon.  1  saw  her  there  twice,  just  before  we 
sailed.  I  saw  her,  when  we  were  off  that  coast  where 
we  so  narrowly  escaped  wreck,  rising  and  falling  upon 
the  waves.  I  saw  her  in  London  that  day  I  appointed  to 
see  Anne.    But  I  know  what  it  means  ;  it  means  that  I 


must  put  myself  in  Umpleby's  hands  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  that  the  shadows  will  forthwith  vanish.  Shadows 
they  are,  out  of  my  own  brain,  and  they  take  the  shape 
of  Honor  because  I  have  let  her  become  a  fixed  idea  in 
my  mind.  Yet  it  is  very  strange  that  the  last  time  she 
appeared  to  me  I  heard  her  speak.  I  fancied  she  said 
that  it  was  Almost  time  ;  and  then  louder,  "I'll  haunt 
you,  James,  until  you  come  to  the  Ashenfall,  where  I  am 
going  now  ! "  And  with  that  she  vanished.  Fancy 
plays  strange  tricks  with  us,  and  makes  cowards  of  us 
almost  as  cleverly  as  conscience. 

August  10. — I  have  had  a  very  unpleasant  impression 
on  me  all  day.  ,  I  wi.sh  I  had  resisted  Linchley's  persua- 
sions more  steadily.  I  ought  never  to  have  come  down 
here  again.  The  excitement  of  its  miserable  recollec- 
tions is  too  much  for  me.  The  man  at  the  inn  called  me 
by  my  name  this  morning,  and  said  he  recollected  me, — 
looking  up  toward  the  church  as  he  spoke.  Damn  him  I 
All  day  I  seem  to  have  been  acting  against  my  will. 
What  should  possess  me  to  go  there  this  afternoon? 
Round  about  among  the  graves,  until  I  came  to  the 
grassy  hillock  on  the  north  side  of  the  church  where 
they  buried  Honor  that  night  without  a  prayer.  I  sat 
down  on  the  low  wall,  and  looked  across  to  the  hills  be- 
yond the  river,  listening  to  the  monotonous  sing-song  of 
the  fall.  I  would  give  all  I  possess  to-day  to  be  able  to 
tread  back  or  to  untread  a  score  of  the  years  of  my  life. 
It  seems  such  a  blank  ;  of  all  I  planned  and  schemed 
how  little  have  I  accomplished  ?  Watching  by  Honor's 
grave,  I  fell  to  thinking  of  her.  What  had  either  of  us 
done  that  we  should  be  so  wretched  ?  Is  it  part  and 
parcel  of  the  great  injustice  of  life  that  some  must  suffer 
so  signally  while  others  escape?  The  coarse  grass  is 
never  cut  at  the  north  side  of  the  church,  nettles  and 
brambles  grow  about  the  grave.  Honor  was  mad,  poor 
soul  !  they  might  have  given  her  a  prayer  for  rest,  if 
they  were  forbidden  to  believe  she  died  in  hope.  I 
prayed  for  her  to-day, — more  need,  perhaps,  to  pray  for 
myself, — and  then  there  came  a  crazed  whirl  in  my 
brain,  and  I  set  off  to  find  Linchley.  As  I  came  down 
near  the  water,  the  fall  sounded  very  tumultuous  ;  it 
was  sultry,  hot,  and  I  should  have  liked  to  turn  down 
by  the  river,  but  I  said,  "No,  it  is  the  10th  of  August ! 
If  I  am  to  meet  Honor  Livingston  to-day,  I'll  not  meet 
her  by  Ashenfall ! "  So  I  came  home  to  our  lodgings,  to 
find  that  Linchley  had  gone  over  to  Warfe,  and  had  left 
a  message  that  he  should  not  return  until  to-morrow. 
I  have  the  night  before  me  alone  ;  it  is  not  like  an 
English  night  at  all  ;  it  is  like  the  nights  I  remember 
at  Cadiz,  which  always  heralded  a  tremendous  storm. 
And  I  think  we  shall  have  a  storm  here,  too,  before  the 
morning. 


Those  were  the  last  words  James  Lawrence  ever  wrote, 
gentlemen.  Further  than  this  no  man  can  speak  of  his 
death  ;  it  is  plain  to  me  that  one  of  his  mad  fits  was  com- 
ing on  before  he  left  Lisbon  ;  that  it  grew  and  increased 
until  he  came  here  ;  and  that  here  it  reached  its  climax, 
and  urged  him  to  his  death.  I  believe  in  the  ghosts 
James  Lawrence  saw,  as  I  believe  in  the  haunting  power 
of  any  great  misdeed  that  has  driven  a  fellow  creature 
into  deadly  sin. 

When  David  Polreath  had  finished,  the  chairman  gave 
the  teetotum  such  a  swift  and  sudden  twirl,  to  be  before- 
hand with  any  interruption,  that  it  twirled  among  all  the 
glasses,  and  into  all  corners  of  the  table,  and  finally 
flew  off  the  table  and  lodged  in  Captain  Jorgan's  waist- 
coat. 

"  A  kind  of  a  judgment  !  "  said  the  captain,  taking  it 
out.  "  What's  to  be  done  now?  /  know  no  story,  ex- 
cept Down-Easters,  and  they  didn't  happen  to  myself, 
or  any  one  of  my  acquaintance,  and  you  couldn't  enjoy 
'em  without  going  out  of  your  minds  first.  And  perhaps 
the  company  ain't  prepared  to  do  that  ?  " 

The  chairman  interposed  by  rising  and  declaring  it  to 
be  his  perroud  perrivilege  to  stop  preliminary  observa- 
tions. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  the  captain,  "  I  defer  to  the  President, 
which  ain't  at  all  what  they  do  in  my  country,  where 
they  lay  into  him,  head,  limbs,  and  body."    Here  he 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA. 


1059 


slapped  his  leg.  "  But  I  beg  to  ask  a  preliminary  ques- 
tion. Colonel  Polreath  has  read  from  a  diary.  Might  I 
read  from  a  pipe-light?" 

The  chairman  requested  explanation. 

"  The  history  of  the  pipe-light,"  said  the  captain,  "  is 
just  this:  that  it's  verses,  and  was  made  on  the  voy- 
age home  by  a  passenger  I  brought  over.  And  he  was 
a  quiet  crittur  of  a  middle-aged  man,  with  a  pleasant 
countenance.  And  he  wrote  it  on  the  head  of  a  cask. 
And  he  was  a  most  etarnal  time  about  it,  tew.  And  he 
blotted  it  as  if  he  had  wrote  it  in  a  continual  squall  of 
ink.  And  then  he  took  an  indigestion,  and  1  physicked 
hinfl,  for  want  of  a  better  doctor.  And  then  to  show  his 
liking  for  me  he  copied  it  out  fair,  and  gave  it  to  me  for 
a  pipe-light.  And  it  ain't  been  lighted  yet,  and  that's  a 
fact." 

"  Let  it  be  read,"  said  the  chairman. 

"  With  thanks  to  Colonel  Polreath  for  setting  the  ex- 
ample," pursued  the  captain,  "  and  with  apologies  to  the 
Honourable  A.  Parvis  and  the  whole  of  the  present  com- 
pany for  this  passenger's  having  expressed  his  mind  in 
verses, — which  he  may  have  done  along  of  bein'  sea- 
sick, and  he  was  very,— the  pipe-light,  unrolled,  comes 
to  this  : 

We  sit  by  the  lire  so  w  ide  aiul  i  ctl. 

With  the  dance  of  the  young  Avithin, 
Who  have  yet  small  Icarhingof  cold  and  dread, 

And  of  sorrow  no  more  than  of  sin  ; 
Nor  dream  of  a  night  on  a  sleepless  bed 
Of  waves  with  their  terrible  wrecks  o'erspread. 

We  sit  round  the  hearth  as  red  as  gold, 

And  the  legends  beloved  we  tell, 
How  battles  were  won  by  the  nobles  bold, 

Where  hamlets  of  villains  fell  : 
And  we  praise  our  God,  while  we  cnt  the  bread, 
And  share  the  wine  round,  for  our  heroes  dead. 

And  we  talk  of  the  Kings,  those  strong,  proud  men. 

Who  ravaged,  confessed,  and  died  ; 
And  of  churls  who  rabbled  them  oft  and  again, 

Perchance  with  a  kindred  pride,— 
Though  the  Kings  built  churches  to  pierce  the  sky, 
And  the  rabbling  churls  in  the  cross-road  lie. 

Yet  'twixt  the  despot  iind  slave  half-free. 

Old  Truth  may  have  message  clear  ; 
Since  the  hai  d  black  yew  and  the  lithe  young  tree 

Belong  to  an  age— and  a  year, 
And  though  distant  in  might  and  in  leaf  they  be. 

In  right  of  the  woods  they  are  near. 

And  old  Truth's  message,  perchance,  may  be  : 
"  Believe  iit,  thy  kind,  whatever  the  degree^ 
Be  it  King  on  Jus  throne  or  serf  on  his  knee. 
While  our  Lord  showers  light,  in  his  bovnty  free, 
On  the  rock  and  the  vale,— on  the  sand  and  the  sea.''"' 

They  are  singing  within,  with  their  voices  dear, 

To  the  tunes  which  are  dear  as  well  ; 
And  we  sit  and  dream  while  the  words  we  hear. 

Having  tale  of  our  own  to  tell,— 
Of  a  far  midnight  on  the  terrible  sea. 
Which  comes  back  on  the  tune  of  their  blithe  old  glee. 

As  old  as  the  hills,  and  as  old  as  the  sky.— 
As  the  King  on  his  throne,— as  the  serf  on  his  knee, 
A  song  wherein  rich  can  with  poor  agree, 
With  its  chorus  to  make  them  laugh  or  cry, — 
Which  the  young  are  singing,  with  no  thought  uigh, 
Of  a  night  on  a  terrible  sea  : 

"  I  care  for  nobody  ;  no  not  I, 
Since  nobody  cares  for  me." 


The  storm  had  its  will.   There  was  wreck,- there  was  flight 
O'er  an  ocean  of  Alps,  through  the  pitch-black  night, 
When  a  good  ship  sank,  and  a  few  got  free, 
To  cope  in  their  boat  with  the  terrible  sea. 

And  when  the  day  broke,  there  was  blood  on  the  sea, 

From  the  wild,  hot  eye  of  the  sun  ouLshed, 

For  the  heaven  was  aflame  as  with  fire  from  Hell, 

And  a  scorching  balm  on  the  waters  fell. 
As  if  ruin  had  won.  and  with  fiendish  glee, 

Sailed  forth  in  his  galky  to  number  the  dead. 

Anfl  they  rowed  their  boat  o'er  the  terrible  sea. 
Ah  mute  as  a  crew  made  of  ghosts  might  be  ; 
For  the  best  in  his  heart  had  not  manhood  to  saj'. 
That  the  land  was  five  hundred  miles  away. 

A  day  and  a  week.   There  was  bread  for  one  man  ; 

The  water  was  dry.    And  on  this,  the  few 
Who  were  rowing  their  boat  o'er  the  terrible  sea. 
To  murmur,  to  curse,  and  to  crave  began. 

And  how 't  was  agreed  on,  no  one  knew. 
But  the  feeble  and  famished,  and  scorched  by  the  sun 
With  his  pitiless  eye,  drew  lots  to  agree. 
What  their  hideous  morrow  of  meat  must  be. 


O  then  were  the  faces  frightful  to  read, 
Of  ravening  hope,  and  of  cowardly  \n  \i\v, 
'I'hat  lies  to  the  last,  its  sharp  terror  to  hide  ; 
And  a  stillness  as  though  'twere  some  game  of  the  Dead, 

While  they  wailed  the  number  their  lot  to  decide- 
There  were  nine  in  that  boat  on  the  terrible  sea, 
And  he  who  drew  nine  was  the  victim  to  be. 

You  may  think  what  a  ghastly  shiver  there  ran. 
From  mate  to  his  mate,  as  the  doom  began. 

Six— had  a  wife  with  a  wild-rose  cheek; 

1'wo— a  brave  boy,  not  a  year  yet  old  ; 
Eight— his  last  sister,  lame  and  weak. 

Who  quivered  with  palsy  more  than  with  cold. 

You  may  think  what  a  breath  the  respited  drew, 
And  how  wildly  still  sat  the  rest  of  the  crew  ; 
How  the  voice  as  it  called  spoke  hoarser  and  slower ; 
The  number  it  next  dared  to  speak  was—rouR. 

'Twas  the  rude  black  man,  who  had  handled  an  oar 
The  best,  on  that  terrible  sea,  of  the  few. 

And  ugly  and  grim  in  the  sunshine  glare 
Were  his  thick  parched  lips,  and  his  dull,  small  eyes, 

And  the  tangled  fleece  of  his  rusty  hair  ;— 
Ere  the  next  of  the  breathless  the  death  lot  drew. 

His  shout  like  a  sword  pierced  the  silence  through. 

Let  the  play  end  with  your  number  Foi;r. 

What  need  to  draw  ?   Live  along  you  few 
Who  have  hopes  to  save  and  have  wives  to  cry 

O'er  the  cradles  of  children  free  ! 
What  matter  if  folk  without  home  should  die. 
And  be  eaten  by  land  or  sea 't 
"  I  care  for  nobody  ;  no,  not  I, 
Since  nobody  cares  for  me." 

And  with  that,  a  knife— and  a  heart  struck  through — 
And  the  warm  red  blood,  and  the  coal-black  clay. 

And  the  famine  withdrawn  from  among  the  few, 
By  their  horrible  meal  for  another  day  ! 


So  the  eight,  thus  fed,  came  at  last  to  land, 

And  the  tale  of  their  shipmate  told. 
As  of  water  found  in  the  burning  sand. 

Which  braves  not  the  thirsty,  cold. 
But  the  love  of  the  listener,  safe  and  free. 
Goes  forth  to  that  slave  on  that  terrible  sea. 

For  fancies  from  hearth  and  from  home  will  stray, 

Though  within  are  the  dance  and  the  song  ; 
And  a  grave  tale  told,  if  the  tune  be  gay, 

Says  little  to  scare  the  youn§;. 
While  they  sing,  with  their  voices  clear  as  can  be, 
Having  callea  once  more  for  the  blithe  old  glee,— 
"I  care  for  nobody  :  no,  not  I, 
Since  nobody  cares  for  me." 

But  the  careless  tune,  it  saith  to  the  old. 

Who  sit  by  the  liearth  as  red  as  gold, 

When  they  think  of  their  tale  of  the  terrible  sea  ; 

"  Believe  in  thy  kind  ivhate^er  the  degree, 

Be  it  King  on  his  throne,  or  serf  on  his  knee, 

Wiile  Our  Lord  shoviers  good  from  his  bounty  free. 

Over  storm,  over  calm,  over  land,  over  sea. " 

Mr.  Parvis  had  so  greatly  disquieted  the  minds  of  the 
Gentlemen  King  Arthurs  for  some  minutes  by  snoring, 
with  strong  symptoms  of  apoplexy, — which,  in  a  mild 
form,  was  his  normal  state  of  health, — that  it  was  now 
deemed  expedient  to  wake  him  and  entreat  him  to  allow 
himself  to  be  escorted  home.  Mr.  Parvis's  reply  to  this 
friendly  suggestion  could  not  be  placed  on  record  with- 
out the  aid  of  several  dashes,  and  is  therefore  omitted. 
It  was  conceived  in  a  spirit  of  the  profoundest  irritation, 
and  executed  with  vehemence,  contempt,  scorn,  and 
disgust.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  the  excel- 
lent gentleman  alone,  and  he  fell,  without  loss  of  time, 
into  a  defiant  slumber. 

The  teetotum  being  twirled  again,  so  buzzed  and 
bowed  in  the  direction  of  the  young  fisherman,  that 
Captain  Jorgan  advised  him  to  be  bright,  and  prepare 
for  the  worst.  But  it  started  off  at  a  tangent,  late  iu 
its  career,  and  fell  before  a  well-looking,  bearded  man 
(one  who  made  working  drawings  for  machinery,  the 
captain  was  informed  by  his  next  neighbour),  who 
promptly  took  it  up,  like  a  challenger's  glove. 

"Oswald  Penrewen  ! "  said  the  chairman. 

"  Here's  Unchris'en  at  last!"  the  captain  whispered 
Alfred  Raybrock.  "  Unchris'en  goes  ahead  right  smart ; 
don't  he?" 

He  did,  without  one  introductory  word. 

Mine  is  my  brother's  Ghost  Story.  It  happened  to  my 
brother  about  thirty  years  ago,  while  he  was  wander- 
ing, sketch-book  in  hand,  among  the  High  Alps,  picking 


1060 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


up  subjects  for  an  illustrated  work  on  Switzerland. 
Having  entered  the  Oberland  by  the  Brunig  Pass,  and 
filled  his  portfolio  with  what  he  used  to  call  "bits" 
from  the  neighbourhood  of  Meyringen,  he  went  over 
the  Great  tScheideck  to  Grindlewald,  where  he  arrived 
one  dusky  September  evening,  about  three  quarters  of 
an  hour  after  sunset.  There  had  been  a  fair  that  day, 
and  the  place  was  crowded.  In  the  best  inn  there  was 
not  an  inch  of  space  to  spare — there  were  only  two  inns 
at  Grindlewald  thirty  years  ago — so  my  brother  went  to 
one  at  the  end  of  the  covered  bridge  next  the  church, 
and  there,  with  some  difficulty,  'obtained  the  promise  of  a 
pile  of  rugs  and  a  mattress,  in  a  room  which  was  already 
occupied  by  three  other  travellers. 

The  Adler  was  a  primitive  hostelry,  half  farm,  half 
inn,  with  great  rambling  galleries  outside,  and  a  huge 
general  room,  like  a  barn.  At  the  upper  end  of  this 
room  stood  long  stoves,  like  metal  counters,  laden  with 
steaming  pans,  and  glowing  underneath  like  furnaces. 
At  the  lower  end  smoking,  supping,  and  chatting,  were 
congregated  some  thirty  or  forty  guests,  chiefly  moun- 
taineers, char-drivers,  and  guides.  Among  these  my 
brother  took  his  seat,  and  was  served,  like  the  rest, 
with  a  bowl  of  soup,  a  platter  of  beef,  a  flagon  of  coun- 
try wine,  and  a  loaf  made  of  Indian  corn.  Presently  a 
huge  St.  Bernard  dog  came  and  laid  his  nose  upon  my 
brother's  arm.  In  the  mean  time  he  fell  into  conversa- 
tion with  two  Italian  youths,  bronzed  and  dark-eyed,  near 
whom  he  happened  to  be  seated.  They  were  Florentines. 
Their  names,  they  told  him,  were  Stefano,  and  Battisto. 
They  had  been  travelling  for  some  months  on  commis- 
sion, selling  cameos,  mosaics,  sulphur-casts,  and  the 
like  pretty  Italian  trifles,  and  were  now  on  their  way  to 
Interlaken  and. Geneva.  Weary  of  the  cold  North,  they 
longed,  like  children,  for  the  moment  which  should 
take  them  back  to  their  own  blue  hills  and  grey-green 
olives  ;  to  their  workshop  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  and 
their  home  down  by  the  Arno. 

It  was  quite  a  relief  to  my  brother,  on  going  up  to 
bed,  to  find  that  these  youths  were  to  be  two  of  his 
fellow-lodgers.  The  third  was  already  there,  and  sound 
asleep,  with  his  face  to  the  wall.  They  scarcely  looked 
at  this  third.  They  were  all  tired,  and  all  anxious  to 
rise  at  daybreak,  having  agreed  to  walk  together  over 
the  Wengern  Alp  as  far  as  Lauterbrunnen.  So  my 
brother  and  the  two  youths  exchanged  a  brief  good- 
night, and,  before  many  minutes,  were  all  as  far  away 
in  the  land  of  dreams  as  their  unknown  companion. 

My  brother  slept  profoundly, — so  profoundly  that, 
being  roused  in  the  morning  by  a  clamour  of  merry 
voices,  he  sat  up  dreamily  in  his  rugs,  and  wondered 
where  he  was.  "  Good  day,  Signor,"  cried  Battisto. 
"  Here  is  a  fellow-traveller  going  the  same  way  as  our- 
selves." 

"  Christien  Baumann,  native  of  Kandersteg,  musical- 
box  maker  by  trade,  stands  five  feet  eleven  in  his  shoes, 
and  is  at  monsieur's  service  to  command,"  said  the 
sleeper  of  the  night  before. 

He  was  a  fine  young  fellow  as  one  would  wish  to  see. 
Light  and  strong,  and  well-proportioned,  with  curling 
brown  hair,  and  bright  honest  eyes  that  seemed  to  dance 
at  every  word  he  uttered. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  my  brother.  "  You  were  asleep 
last  night  when  we  came  up." 

"  Asleep  !  I  should  think  so,  after  being  all  day  in 
the  fair,  and  walking  from  Meyringen  the  evening  be- 
fore.   What  a  capital  fair  it  was  !  " 

"Capital,  indeed,"  said  Battisto.  "We  sold  cameos 
and  mosaics  yesterday  for  nearly  fifty  francs." 

"  0,  you  sell  cameos  and  mosaics,  you  two  !  Show  me 
your  cameos,  and  I  will  show  you  my  musical  boxes.  I 
have  such  pretty  ones,  with  coloured  views  of  Geneva 
and  Chillon  on  the  lids,  playing  two,  four,  six,  and  even 
eight  tunes.    Bah  !    I  will  give  you  a  concert  ! " 

And  with  this  he  unstrapped  his  pack,  displayed  his 
little  boxes  on  the  table,  and  wound  them  up  one  after 
the  other,  to  the  delight  of  the  Italians. 

"  I  helped  to  make  them  myself,  every  one,"  said  he, 
proudly.  "  Is  it  not  pretty  music  ?  I  sometimes  set  one 
of  them  when  I  go  to  bed  at  night,  and  fall  asleep  listen 
ing  to  it.  I  am  sure,  then,  to  have  pleasant  dreams  1 
But  let  us  see  your  cameos.    Perhaps  I  may  buy  one  for 


Marie,  if  they  are  not  too  dear.  Marie  is  my  sweetheart, 
and  we  are  to  be  married  next  week ." 

"Next  week!"  exclaimed  Stefano.  "That  is  very 
soon.  Battisto  has  a  sweetheart  also,  up  at  Impruneta  ; 
but  they  will  have  to  wait  a  long  time  before  they  can 
buy  the  ring." 

Battisto  blushed  like  a  girl. 

"Hush,  brother!"  said  he.  "Show  the  cameos  to 
Christien,  and  give  your  tongue  a  holiday  !  " 

But  Christien  was  not  so  to  be  put  off. 

"  What  is  her  name?"  said  he.  "Tush!  Battisto, 
you  must  tell  me  her  name  !  Is  she  pretty  ?  Is  she  dark 
or  fair  ?  Do  you  often  see  her  when  you  are  at  home  ? 
Is  she  very  fond  of  you  ?  Is  she  as  fond  of  you  as  Marie 
is  of  me  ?  " 

"  Nay,  how  should  I  know  that?"  asked  the  soberer 
Battisto.    "  She  loves  me,  and  I  love  her, — that  is  all." 
"  And  her  name  ?  " 
"  Margherita." 

"  A  charming  name  !  And  she  is  herself  as  pretty  as 
her  name,  I'll  engage.    Did  you  say  she  was  fair?" 

"I  said  nothing  about  it  one  way  or  the  other,"  said 
Battisto,  unlocking  a  green  box  clamped  with  iron,  and 
taking  out  tray  after  tray  of  his  pretty  wares.  "  There  ! 
Those  pictures  all  inlaid  in  little  bits  are  Roman  mosaics, 
— the  flowers  on  a  black  ground  are  Florentine.  The 
ground  is  of  hard,  dark  stone,  and  the  flowers  are  made 
of  thin  slices  of  jasper,  onyx,  carnelian,  and  so  forth. 
Those  forget-me  nots,  for  instance,  are  bits  of  turquoise, 
and  that  poppy  is  cut  from  a  piece  of  coral." 

"  I  like  the  Roman  ones  best,"  said  Christien.  "  What 
place  is  that  with  all  the  arches  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  Coliseum,  and  the  one  next  to  it  is  St. 
Peter's.  But  we  Florentines  care  little  for  the  Roman 
work.  It  is  not  half  so  fine  or  so  valuable  as  ours.  The 
Romans  make  their  mosaics  of  composition." 

"  Composition  or  no,  I  like  the  little  landscapes  best," 
said  Christien.  "  There  is  a  lovely  one,  with  a  pointed 
building,  and  a  tree,  and  mountains  at  the  back.  How  I 
should  like  that  one  for  Marie  !  " 

"  You  may  have  it  for  eight  francs,"  replied  Battisto  ; 
"  we  sold  two  of  them  yesterday  for  ten  each.  It  repre- 
sented the  tomb  of  Caius  Cestius,  near  Rome." 

"  A  tomb  !  "  echoed  Christien,  considerably  dismayed. 
"  Diable  !  That  would  be  a  dismal  present  to  one's 
bride." 

"  She  would  never  guess  that  it  was  a  tomb  if  you  did 
not  tell  her,"  suggested  Stefano. 
Christien  shook  his  head. 

"  That  would  be  next  door  to  deceiving  her,"  said  he. 

"  Nay,"  interposed  my  brother,  "  the  owner  of  that 
tomb  has  been  dead  these  eighteen  or  nineteen  hundred 
years.  One  almost  forgets  that  he  was  ever  buried  in 
it." 

"  Eighteen  or  nineteen  hundred  years  ?  Then  he  was 
a  heathen  !  " 

"  Undoubtedly,  if  by  that  you  mean  that  he  lived  be- 
fore Christ." 

Christien's  face  lighted  up  immediately. 

"  Oh,  that  settles  the  question,"  said  he,  pulling  out 
his  little  canvas  purse,  and  paying  his  money  down  at 
once.  "  A  heathen's  tomb  is  as  good  as  no  tomb  at  all. 
I'll  have  it  made  into  a  brooch  for  her,  at  Interlaken. 
Tell  me,  Battisto,  what  shall  you  take  home  to  Italy  for 
your  Margherita?" 

Battisto  laughed  and  chinked  his  eight  francs.  "  That 
depends  on  trade,"  said  he  ;  "if  we  make  good  profits 
between  this  and  Christmas  I  may  take  her  a  Swiss  mus- 
lin from  Berne  ;  but  we  have  already  been  away  seven 
months,  and  we  have  hardly  made  a  hundred  francs  over 
and  above  our  expenses." 

And  with  this  the  talk  turned  upon  general  matters, 
and  the  Florentines  locked  away  their  treasures,  Chris- 
tien restrapped  his  pack,  and  my  brother  and  all  went 
down  together,  and  breakfasted  in  the  open  air  outside 
the  inn. 

It  was  a  magnificent  morning  ;  cloudless  and  sunny, 
with  a  cool  breeze  that  rustled  in  the  vine  upon  the 
porch  and  flecked  the  table  with  shifting  shadows  of 
gre(!n  leaves.  All  around  and  about  them  stood  the 
great  mountains  with  their  blue-white  glaciers  bristling 
down  to  the  verge  of  the  pastures,  and  the  pine-woods 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA. 


1061 


creeping  darkly  up  their  sides.  To  the  left  the  Wetter- 
horn  ;  to  the  right,  the  Eigher  ;  straight  before  them, 
dazzling  and  imperishable,  like  an  obelisk  of  frosted  sil- 
ver, the  Schreckhorn,  or  Peak  of  Terror.  Breakfast  over, 
they  bade  farewell  to  their  hostess,  and,  mountain  staff 
in  hand,  took  the  path  to  the  Wengern  Alp.  Half  in 
light,  half  in  shadow,  lay  the  quiet  valley,  dotted  over 
with  farms,  and  traversed  by  a  torrent  tliat  rushed, 
milk-white,  from  its  prison  in  the  glacier.  The  three 
lads  walked  briskly  in  advance,  their  voices  chiming 
together  every  now  and  then  in  chorus  of  laughter. 
Somehow  my  brother  felt  sad.  He  lingered  behind,  and 
plucking  a  little  red  flower  from  the  bank,  watched  it 
hurry  away  with  the  torrent,  like  a  life  on  the  stream  of 
time.  Why  was  his  heart  so  heavy,  and  why  were  their 
hearts  so  light  ? 

As  the  day  went  on  my  brother's  melancholy  and  the 
mirth  of  the  young  men  seemed  to  increase.  Full  of 
youth  and  hope  they  talked  of  the  joyous  future,  and 
built  up  pleasant  castles  in  the  air.  Battisto,  grown 
more  communicative,  admitted  that  to  marry  Margheri- 
ta,  and  become  a  master  mosaicist,  wonid  fulfil  the  dear- 
est dream  of  his  life,  Stefano,  not  being  in  love,  pre- 
ferred to  travel.  Christien,  who  seemed  to  be  the  most 
prosperous,  declared  that  it  was  his  darling  ambition  to 
rent  a  farm  in  his  native  Kander  Valley,  and  lead  the 
patriarchal  life  of  his  fathers.  As  for  the  musical-box 
trade,  he  said,  one  should  live  in  Geneva,  to  make  it  an- 
swer ;  and  for  his  part  he  loved  the  pine- forests  and  the 
snow-peaks  better  than  all  the  towns  in  Europe.  Marie, 
too,  had  been  born  among  the  mountains,  and  it  would 
break  her  heart  if  she  thought  she  were  to  live  in  Geneva 
all  her  life  and  never  see  the  Kander  Thai  again. 
Chatting  thus  the  morning  wore  on  to  noon,  and  the 
party  rested  awhile  in  the  shade  of  a  clump  of  gigan- 
tic firs  festooned  with  trailing  banners  of  gray  green 
moss. 

Here  they  ate  their  lunch,  to  the  silvery  music  of  one 
of  Christien's  little  boxes,  and  by  and  by  heard  the  sul- 
len echo  of  an  avalanche  far  away  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
Jungfrau. 

Then  they  went  on  again  in  the  burning  afternoon,  to 
heights  where  the  Alp-rose  fails  fmm  the  sterile  steep, 
and  the  brown  lichen  grows  more  and  more  scantily 
among  the  stones.  Here  only  the  bleached  and  barren 
skeletons  of  a  forest  of  dead  pines  varied  the  desolate 
monotony  ;  and  high  on  the  summit  of  the  pass  stood  a 
little  solitary  inn,  between  them  and  the  sky. 

At  this  inn  they  rested  again,  and  drank  to  the  health 
of  Christien  and  his  bride  in  a  jug  of  country  wine.  He 
was  in  uncontrollable  spirits,  and  shook  hands  with  them 
all,  over  and  over  again. 

"By  nightfall  to-morrow,"  said  he,  "I  shall  hold  her 
once  more  in  my  arms  !  It  is  now  nearly  two  years  since 
I  came  home  to  see  her,  at  the  end  of  my  apprenticeship. 
Now  I  am  foreman,  with  a  salary  of  thirty  francs  a  week, 
and  well  able  to  marry." 

"  Thirty  francs  a  week  ! "  echoed  Battisto.  "  Corpo  di 
Bacco  !  that  is  a  little  fortune." 

Christien's  face  beamed. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  we  shall  be  very  happy  ;  and  by  and 
by — who  knows  ? — we  may  end  our  days  in  the  Kander 
Thai,  and  bring  up  our  childrcr^  co  succeed  us.  Ah  !  if 
Marie  knew  that  I  should  be  there  to-morrow  night  how 
delighted  she  would  be  ! " 

"How  so,  Christien?"  said  my  brother.  "Does  she 
not  expect  you?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  She  has  no  idea  that  I  can  be  there 
till  the  day  after  to-morrow, — nor  could  I  if  I  took  the 
road  all  round  by  Unterseen  and  Friitigen.  I  mean  to 
sleep  to-night  at  Lauterbrunnen,  and  to-morrow  morning 
shall  strike  across  the  Tschlingel  glacier  to  Kandersteg. 
If  I  rise  a  little  before  daybreak  I  shall  be  at  home  by 
sunset." 

At  this  moment  the  path  took  a  sudden  turn,  and 
began  to  descend  in  sight  of  an  immense  prospective  of 
very  distant  valleys.  Christien  flung  his  cap  into  the  air 
and  uttered  a  great  shout. 

"Look  1"  said  he,  stretching  out  his  arms  as  if  to 
embrace  all  the  dear  familiar  scene,  —  "Oh!  Look! 
There  are  the  hills  and  woods  of  Interlaken  ;  and  here, 
below  the  precipices  on  which  we  stand,  lies  Lauter- 


brunnen !  God  be  praised,  who  has  made  our  native 
land  so  beautiful  !  " 

The  Italians  smiled  at  each  other,  thinking  their  own 
Arno  Valley  far  more  fair  ;  but  my  brothei-^s  heart 
warmed  to  the  boy,  and  echoed  his  thanksgiving  in  that 
spirit  which  accepts  all  beauty  as  a  birthright  and  an 
inheritance.  And  now  their  course  lay  across  an  im- 
n)ense  plateau,  all  rich  with  corn-fields  and  meadows, 
and  studded  with  substantial  homesteads  built  of  old 
brown  wood,  with  huge,  sheltering  eaves,  and  strings  of 
Indian  corn  hanging  like  golden  ingots  along  the  carven 
balconies.  Blue  whortleberries  grew  beside  the  footway, 
and  now  and  then  they  came  upon  a  wild  gentian,  or  a 
star-shaped  immortelle.  Then  the  path  became  a  mere 
zigzag  on  the  face  of  the  precipice,  and  in  less  than  half 
an  hour  they  reached  the  lowest  level  of  the  valley.  The 
glowing  afternoon  had  not  yet  faded  from  the  uppermost 
pines  when  they  were  all  dining  together  in  the  parlour 
of  a  little  inn  looking  to  the  Jungfrau.  In  the  evening 
my  brother  wrote  letters,  while  the  three  lads  strolled 
about  the  village.  At  nine  o'clock  they  bade  each  other 
good  night,  and  went  to  their  several  rooms. 

Weary  as  he  was,  my  brother  found  it  impossible  to 
sleep.  The  same  unaccountable  melancholy  still  pos- 
sessed him,  and  when  at  last  he  dropped  into  an  uneasy 
slumber,  it  was  but  to  start  over  and  over  again  from 
frightful  dreams,  faint  with  a  nameless  terror.  Toward 
morning  he  fell  into  a  profound  sleep,  and  never  woke 
until  the  day  was  fast  advancing  toward  noon.  He 
then  found,  to  his  regret,  that  Christien  had  long  since 
gone.  He  had  risen  before  daybreak,  breakfasted  by 
candle-light,  and  started  off  in  the  gray  dawn, — "  as 
merry,"  said  the  host,  "as  a  fiddler  at  a  fair." 

Stefano  and  Battisto  were  still  waiting  to  see  my 
brother,  being  charged  by  Christien  with  a  friendly  fare- 
well message  to  him,  and  an  invitation  to  the  wedding. 
They,  too,  were  asked,  and  meant  to  go  ;  so  my  brother 
agreed  to  meet  them  at  Interlaken  on  the  following 
Tuesday,  whence  they  might  walk  to  Kandersteg  by  easy 
stages,  reaching  their  destination  on  the  Thursday  morn- 
ing, in  time  to  go  to  church  with  the  bridal  party.  My 
brother  then  bought  some  of  the  little  Florentine  cameos, 
wished  the  two  boys  every  good  fortune,  and  watched 
them  down  the  road  till  he  could  see  them  no  longer. 

Left  now  to  himself,  he  wandered  out  with  his  sketch- 
book, and  spent  the  day  in  the  upper  valley  ;  at  sunset 
he  dined  alone  in  his  chamber,  by  the  light  of  a  single 
lamp.  This  meal  despatched,  he  drew  nearer  to  the  fire, 
took  out  a  pocket  edition  of  Goethe's  Essays  on  Art,  and 
promised  himself  some  hours  of  pleasant  reading.  (Ah, 
how  well  I  know  that  very  book,  in  its  faded  cover,  and 
how  often  have  I  heard  him  describe  that  lonely  ev«n- 
ing  I)  The  night  had  by  this  time  set  in  cold  and  wet. 
The  damp  logs  spluttered  on  the  hearth,  and  a  wailing 
wind  swept  down  the  valley,  bearing  the  rain  in  sudden 
gusts  against  the  panes.  My  brother  soon  found  that  to 
read  was  impossible.  His  attention  wandered  incessantly. 
He  read  the  same  sentence  over  and  over  again,  uncon- 
scious of  its  meaning,  and  fell  into  long  trains  of  thought 
leading  far  into  the  dim  past. 

Thus  the  hours  went  by,  and  at  eleven  o'clock  he  heard 
the  doors  closing  below,  and  the  household  retiring  to 
rest.  He  determined  to  yield  no  longer  to  this  dreaming 
apathy.  He  threw  on  fresh  logs,  trimmed  the  lamp,  and 
took  several  turns  about  the  room.  Then  he  opened  the 
casement,  and  suffered  the  rain  to  beat  against  his  face, 
and  the  wind  to  ruifle  his  hair  as  it  ruffled  the  acacia 
leaves  in  the  garden  below.  Some  minutes  passed  thus, 
and  when,  at  length,  he  closed  the  window  and  came  back 
into  the  room,  his  face  and  hair  and  all  the  front  of  his 
shirt  were  thoroughly  saturated.  To  unstrap  his  knap- 
sack and  take  out  a  dry  shirt  was,  of  course,  his  first 
impulse, — to  drop  the  garment,  listen  eagerly,  and  start 
to  his  feet,  breathless  and  bewildered,  was  the  next. 

For,  borne  fitfully  upon  the  outer  breeze,  now  sweeping 
past  the  window,  now  dying  in  the  distance,  he  heard 
a  well -remembered  strain  of  melody,  subtle  and  silvery 
as  the  "sweet  airs"  of  Prospero's  isle,  and  proceeding 
unmistakably  from  the  musical-box  which  had,  the  day 
before,  accompanied  the  lunch  under  the  fir-trees  of  the 
Wengern  Alp  ! 

HaS  Christien  come  back,  and  was  it  thus  that  he 


1062 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


announced  his  return  ?  If  so,  where  was  he  ?  Tinder  the 
window?    Outside  in  the  corridor?    Sheltering  in  the 
porch,  and  waiting  for  admittance?    My  brother  threw 
open  the  casement  again,  and  called  him  by  his  name. 
"  Christien  !    Is  that  you  ?" 

All  without  was  intensely  silent.  He  could  hear  the 
last  gust  of  wind  and  rain  moaning  farther  and  farther 
away  upon  its  wild  course  down  the  valley,  and  the  pine- 
trees  shivering  like  living  things. 

"  Christien  !  "  he  said  again,  and  his  own  voice  seemed 
to  echo  strangely  on  his  ear.    "  Speak  !    Is  it  you  ?  " 

Still  no  one  answered.  He  leaned  out  into  the  dark 
night,  but  could  see  nothing, — not  even  the  outline  on 
the  porch  below.  He  began  to  think  that  his  imagina- 
tion had  deceived  him,  when  suddenly  the  strain  burst 
forth  again  :  this  time  apparently  in  his  own  chamber. 

As  be  turned,  expecting  to  find  Christien  at  his  elbow, 
the  sounds  broke  off  abruptly,  and  a  sensation  of  inten- 
sest  cold  seized  him  in  every  limb, — not  the  mere  chill  of 
nervous  terror,  not  the  mere  physical  result  of  exposure 
to  wind  and  rain,  but  a  deadly  freezing  of  every  vein, 
a  paralysis  of  every  nerve,  an  appalling  consciousness 
that  in  a  few  moments  more  the  lungs  must  cease  to 
play,  and  the  heart  to  beat  !  Powerless  to  speak  or 
stir,  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  believed  that  he  was  dying. 

This  strange  faintness  lasted  but  a  few  seconds. 
Gradually  the  vital  warmth  returned,  and,  with  it, 
strength  to  close  the  window,  and  stagger  to  a  chair.  As 
he  did  so,  he  found  the  breast  of  his  shirt  all  stiff  and 
fK)zen,  and  the  rain  clinging  in  solid  icicles  upon  his  hair. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  had  stopped  at  twenty 
minutes  before  twelve.  He  took  his  thermometer  from 
the  chimney-piece,  and  found  the  mercury  at  sixty-eight. 
Heavenly  powers  !  How  were  these  things  possible  in  a 
temperature  of  sixty-eight  degrees,  and  with  a  large  fire 
blazing  on  the  hearth. 

He  poured  out  half  a  tumbler  of  cognac,  and  drank  it 
at  a  draught.  Going  to  bed  was  out  of  the  question. 
He  felt  that  he  dared  not  sleep, — that  he  scarcely  dared 
to  think.  All  he  could  do  was  to  change  his  linen,  pile 
on  more  logs,  wrap  himself  in  his  blankets,  and  sit  all 
night  in  an  easy-chair  before  the  fire. 

My  brother  had  not  long  sat  thus,  however,  before  the 
warmth,  and  probably  the  nervous  reaction,  drew  him 
off  to  sleep.  In  the  morning,  he  found  himself  lying  on 
the  bed,  without  being  able  to  remember  in  the  least 
how  or  when  he  reached  it. 

It  was  again  a  glorious  day.  The  rain  and  wind  were 
gone,  and  the  Silverhorn  at  the  end  of  the  valley  lifted  its 
head  into  an  unclouded  sky.  Looking  out  upon  the  sun- 
shine, he  almost  doubted  the  events  of  the  night,  and 
but  for  the  evidence  of  his  watch,  which  still  pointed  to 
twenty  minutes  before  twelve,  would  have  been  disposed 
to  treat  the  whole  matter  as  a  dream.  As  it  was,  he  at- 
tributed more  than  half  his  terrors  to  the  promptings  of 
an  over-active  and  over-wearied  brain.  For  all  this,  he 
still  felt  depressed  and  uneasy,  and  so  very  unwilling  to 
pass  another  night  at  Lauterbrunnen,  that  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  proceed  that  morning  to  Interlaken.  While 
he  was  yet  loitering  over  his  breakfast,  and  considering 
whether  he  should  walk  the  seven  miles  of  road,  or  hire 
a  vehicle,  a  char  came  rapidly  up  to  the  inn-door,  and  a 
young  man  jumped  out. 

"Why,  Battisto  !"  exclaimed  my  brother,  in  astonish- 
ment, as  he  came  into  the  room  ;  "  what  hv'mgs  you  here 
to-day?    Where  is  Stefano?  " 

"  I  have  left  him  at  Interlaken,  signer,"  replied  the 
Italian. 

Something  there  was  in  his  voice,  something  in  his 
face,  both  strange  and  startling. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  asked  my  brother,  breathless- 
ly.   "  He  is  not  ill  ?    No  accident  has  happened  ?  " 

Battisto  .shook  his  head,  glanced  furtively  up  and 
down  the  passage,  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Stefano  is  well,  signor  ;  but — but  a  circumstance  has 
occurred — a  circumstance  so  strange  ! — Signor,  do  you 
believe  in  spirits?  " 

"  In  spirits,  Battisto  ?  " 

"  Ay,  signor  ;  for  if  ever  the  spirit  of  any  man,  dead 
or  living,  appealed  to  human  ears,  the  spirit  of  Christien 
came  to  me  last  night,  at  twenty  minutes  before  twelve 
o'clock." 


"  At  twenty  minutes  before  twelve  o'clock  !  "  repeated 
my  brother. 

"  I  was  in  bed,  signor,  and  Stefano  was  sleeping  in  the 
same  room.  I  had  gone  up  quite  warm,  and  had  fallen 
asleep,  full  of  pleasant  thoughts.  By  and  by,  although 
I  had  plenty  of  bed-clothes,  and  a  rug  over  me  as  well, 
I  woke,  frozen  with  cold,  and  scarcely  able  to  breathe. 
I  tried  to  call  to  Stefano,  but  I  had  no  power  to  utter 
the  slightest  sound.  I  thought  my  last  moment  was 
come.  All  at  once  I  heard  a  sound  under  the  window, 
— a  sound  which  I  knew  to  be  Christien's  musical-box  ; 
and  it  played  as  it  played  when  we  lunched  under  the 
fir-trees,  except  that  it  was  more  wild  and  strange  and 
melancholy,  and  most  solemn  to  hear, — awful  to  hear  ! 
Then,  signor,  it  grew  fainter  and  fainter, — and  then  it 
seemed  to  float  past  upon  the  wind  and  die  away.  When 
it  ceased,  my  frozen  blood  grew  warm  again,  and  I  cried 
out  to  Stefano.  When  I  told  him  what  happened,  he 
declared  I  had  been  only  dreaming.  I  made  him  strike 
a  light,  that  I  might  look  at  my  watch.  It  pointed  to 
twenty  minutes  before  twelve,  and  had  stopped  there  ; 
and — stranger  still — Stefano's  watch  had  done  the  very 
same.  Now  tell  me,  signor,  do  you  believe  that  there  is 
any  meaning  in  this,  or  do  you  think,  as  Stefano  persists 
in  thinking,  that  it  was  all  a  dream  ?  " 

"  What  is  your  own  conclusion,  Battisto?  " 

''My  conclusion,  signor,  is  that  some  harm  has  hap- 
pened to  poor  Christien  on  the  glacier,  and  that  his  spirit 
came  to  me  last  night." 

"  Battisto,  he  shall  have  help  if  living,  or  rescue  for 
his  poor  corpse  if  dead  ;  for  I,  too,  believe  that  all  is  not 
well." 

And  with  this  my  brother  told  him  briefly  what  had  oc- 
curred to  himself  in  the  night  ;  despatched  messengers 
for  the  three  best  guides  in  Lauterbrunnen  ;  and  pre- 
pared ropes,  ice-hatchets,  alpenstocks,  and  all  such 
matters  necessary  for  a  glacier  expedition.  Hasten  as 
he  would,  however,  it  was  nearly  midday  before  the 
party  started. 

Arriving  in  about  half  an  hour  at  a  place  called  Stech- 
elberg,  they  left  the  char  in  which  they  had  travelled  so 
far,  at  a  chalet,  and  ascended  a  steep  path  in  full  view 
of  the  Briethorn  glacier,  which  rose  up  to  the  left  like 
a  battlemented  wall  of  solid  ice.  The  way  now  lay  for 
some  time  among  pastures  and  pine-forests.  Then  they 
came  to  a  little  colony  of  chalets,  called  Steinberg,  where 
they  fllled  their  water  bottles,  got  their  ropes  in  readi- 
ness, and  prepared  for  the  Tschlingel  glacier.  A  few 
minutes  more  and  they  were  on  the  ice. 

At  this  point  the  guides  called  a  halt  and  consulted 
together.  One  was  for  striking  across  the  lower  glacier 
toward  the  left,  and  reaching  the  upper  glacier  by  the 
rocks  which  bound  it  on  the  south.  The  other  two  pre- 
ferred the  north,  or  right  side  ;  and  this  my  brother  fin- 
ally took.  The  sun  was  now  pouring  down  with  almost 
tropical  intensity,  and  the  surface  of  the  ice,  which  was 
broken  into  long,  treacherous  fissures,  smooth  as  glass 
and  blue  as  the  summer  sky,  was  both  difficult  and  dan- 
gerous. Silently  and  cautiously  they  went,  tied  together 
at  intervals  of  about  three  yards  each  ;  with  two  guides 
in  front,  and  the  third  bringing  up  the  rear.  Turning 
presently  to  the  right,  they  found  themselves  at  the  foot 
of  a  steep  rock,  some  forty  feet  in  height,  up  which 
they  must  climb  to  reach  the  upper  glacier.  The 
only  way  in  which  Battisto  or  my  brother  could  hope  to 
do  this  was  by  the  help  of  a  rope  steadied  from  below 
and  above.  Two  of  the  guides  accordingly  clambered 
up  the  face  of  the  crag  by  notches  in  the  surface  and  one 
remained  below.  The  rope  was  then  let  down,  and  my 
brother  prepared  to  go  first.  As  he  planted  his  foot  in  the 
first  notch  a  smothered  cry  from  Battisto  arrested  him. 

"  Santa  Maria  !    Signor  !    Look  yonder  !  " 

My  brother  looked,  and  there  (he  ever  afterward  de- 
clared), as  surely  as  there  is  a  heaven  above  us  all,  he 
saw  Christien  Baumann  standing  in  the  full  sunlight  not 
a  hundred  yards  distant  !  Almost  in  the  same  moment 
that  my  brother  recognized  him  he  was  gone.  He  neither  • 
faded,  nor  sank  down,  nor  moved  away ;  but  was  simply 
gone  as  if  he  had  never  been.  Pale  as  death,  Battisto 
fell  upon  his  knees  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
My  brother,  awe-stricken  and  speechless,  leaned  againsit 
the  rock,  and  felt  that  the  object  of  his  journey  was  bu"*; 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA. 


too  fatally  accomplished.  As  for  the  guides,  they  could 
not  conceive  what  had  happened. 

"  Did  you  see  nothing?"  asked  ray  brother  and  Battis- 
to,  both  together. 

But  the  men  had  seen  nothing,  and  the  one  who  had 
remained  below  said,  "What  should  I  see  but  the  ice 
and  the  sun  ?  " 

To  this  my  brother  made  no  other  reply  than  ])y  an- 
nouncing his  intention  to  have  a  certain  crevasse,  from 
which  he  had  not  once  removed  his  eyes  since  he  saw  the 
figure  standing  on  the  brink,  thoroughly  explored  before 
he  went  a  step  further,  whereupon  the  two  men  came 
down  from  the  top  of  the  crag,  resumed  the  ropes,  and 
followed  my  brother  incredulously.  At  the  narrow  end 
of  the  fissure  he  paused,  and  drove  his  alpenstock 
firmly  into  the  ice.  It  was  an  unusually  long  crevasse, 
— at  first  a  mere  crack,  but  widening  gradually  as  it 
went,  and  reaching  down  to  unknown  depths  of  dark, 
deep  blue,  fringed  with  long,  pendent  icicles  like  dia- 
mond stalactites.  Before  they  had  followed  the  course  of 
the  crevasse  for  more  than  ten  minutes  the  youngest  of 
the  guides  uttered  a  hasty  exclamation. 

"I  see  something!"  cried  he,  "Something  dark, 
wedged  in  the  teeth  of  the  crevasse,  a  great  way 
down  ! " 

They  all  saw  it, — a  mere  indistinguishable  mass,  al- 
most closed  over  by  the  ice- walls  at  their  feet.  My 
brother  offered  a  hundred  francs  to  the  man  who  would 
go  down  and  bring  it  up.    They  all  hesitated. 

"  We  don't  know  what  it  is,"  said  one. 

"  Perhaps  it's  only  a  dead  chamois,"  suggested  an- 
other. 

Their  apathy  enraged  him. 

"It  is  no  chamois,"  he  said,  angrily.  *'  It  is  the  body 
of  Christien  Baumann,  native  of  Kandersteg.  And,  by 
Heaven,  if  you  are  all  too  cowardly  to  make  the  attempt, 
I  will  go  down  myself  !  " 

The  youngest  guide  threw  off  his  hat  and  coat,  tied  a 
rope  about  his  waist,  and  took  a  hatchet  in  his  hand. 

"I  will  go,  monsieur,"  said  he,  and  without  another 
word  suffered  himself  to  be  lowered  in.  My  brother 
turned  away.  A  sickening  anxiety  came  upon  him,  and 
presently  he  heard  the  dull  echo  of  the  hatchet  far  down 
in  the  ice.  Then  there  was  a  call  for  another  rope,  and 
then — the  men  all  drew  aside  in  silence,  and  my  brother 
saw  the  youngest  guide  standing  once  more  beside  the 
chasm,  flushed  and  trembling,  with  the  body  of  Christien 
lying  at  his  feet. 

Poor  Christien  !  They  made  a  rough  bier  with  their 
ropes  and  alpenstocks,  and  carried  him,  with  great  diffi- 
culty, back  to  Steinberg.  There  they  got  additional  help 
as  far  as  Stechelberg,  where  they  laid  him  in  the  char, 
and  so  brought  him  on  to  Lauterbrunnen.  The  next  day 
my  brother  made  it  his  sad  business  to  precede  the  body 
to  Kandersteg,  and  prepare  his  friends  for  its  arrival. 
To  this  day,  though  all  these  things  happened  thirty 
years  ago,  he  cannot  bear  to  recall  Marie's  despair,  or 
all  the  mourning  that  he  innocently  brought  upon  that 
peaceful  valley.  Poor  Marie  has  been  dead  this  many  a 
year  ;  and  wlien  my  brother  last  passed  through  the 
Kander  Thai  on  his  way  to  the  Ghemmi,  he  saw  her 
grave,  beside  the  grave  of  Christien  Baumann,  in  the 
village  burial-ground.  This  is  my  brother's  Ghost  Story. 

The  chairman  now  announced  that  the  clock  declared 
the  teetotum  spun  out,  and  that  the  meeting  was  dissolved. 
Yet  even  then  the  young  fisherman  could  not  refrain 
from  once  more  asking  his  question.  This  occasioned 
the  Gentlemen  King  Arthurs,  as  they  got  on  their  hats 
and  great-coats,  evidently  to  regard  him  as  a  young 
fisherman  who  was  touched  in  the  head,  and  some  of 
tliem  even  cherished  the  idea  that  the  captain  was  his 
keeper. 

As  no  man  dared  to  awake  the  mighty  Parvis,  it  was 
resolved  that  a  heavy  member  of  the  society  should 
fall  against  him  as  it  were  by  accident,  and  immediately 
withdraw  to  a  safe  distance.  The  experiment  was  so 
happily  accomplished  that  Mr.  Parvis  started  to  his  feet 
on  the  best  terms  with  himself,  as  a  light  sleeper  whose 
wits  never  left  him,  and  who  could  always  be  broad 
awake  on  occasion.  Quite  an  airy  jocundity  sat  upon 
this  respectable  man  in  consequence  ;  and  he  rallied  the 


briskest  member  of  the  fraternity  on  being  "a  sleepy- 
head," with  an  amount  of  humour  previously  supposed 
to  be  quite  incompatible  with  his  responsible  circum- 
stances in  life. 

Gradually  the  society  departed  into  the  cold  night,  and 
the  captain  and  his  young  companion  were  left  alone. 
The  captain  had  so  refreshed  himself  by  shaking  hands 
with  everybody  to  an  amazing  extent  that  he  was  in  no 
hurry  to  go  to  bed. 

"To-morrow  morning,"  said  the  captain,  "we  must 
find  out  the  lawyer  and  the  clergyman  here  ;  they  are 
the  people  to  consult  on  our  business.  And  I'll  be  up 
and  out  early,  and  asking  questions  of  everybody  I  see  ; 
thereby  propagating  at  least  one  of  the  Institutions  of 
my  native  country." 

As  the  captain  was  slapping  his  leg  the  landlord  ap- 
peared with  two  small  candlesticks. 

"Your  room,"  said  he,  "is  at  the  top  of  the  house. 
An  excellent  bed,  but  you'll  hear  the  wind." 

"I've  heard  it  afore,"  replied  the  captain.  "Come 
and  make  a  passage  with  me,  and  you  shall  hear  it." 

"It's  considered  to  blow  here,"  said  the  landlord. 

"  Weather  gets  its  young  strength  here,"  replied  the 
captain;  "goes  into  training  for  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 
Yours  are  little  winds  just  beginning  to  feel  their  way 
and  crawl.  Make  a  voyage  with  me,  and  I'll  show  you  a 
grown-up  one  out  on  business.  But  you  haven't  told  my 
friend  where  he  lies." 

"  It's  the  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  before  you 
take  the  second  staircase  through  the  wall,"  returned  the 
landlord.  "  You  can't  mistake  it, — it's  a  double-bedded 
room, — because  there's  no  other." 

"  The  room  where  the  seafaring  man  is  ! "  said  the 
captain . 

"  The  room  where  the  seafaring  man  is." 

"  I  hope  he  mayn't  finish  telling  his  story  in  his  sleep," 
remarked  the  captain.  "  Shall  /  turn  into  the  room 
where  the  seafaring  man  is,  Alfred  ?  " 

"  No,  Captain  Jorgan,  why  should  you  ?  There  would 
be  little  fear  of  his  waking  me,  even  if  he  told  his  whole 
story  out." 

"  He's  in  the  bed  nearest  the  door,"  said  the  landlord. 
"I've  been  into  look  at  him  once,  and  he's  sound 
enough.    Good-night,  gentlemen." 

The  captain  immediately  shook  hands  with  the  land- 
lord in  quite  an  enthusiastic  manner,  and  having  per- 
formed that  national  ceremony  as  if  he  had  had  no  op- 
portunity of  performing  it  for  a  long  time,  accompanied 
his  young  friend  upstairs, 

"  Something  tells  me,"  said  the  captain  as  they  went, 
"that  Miss  Kitty  Tregarthen's  marriage  ain't  put  off  for 
long,  and  that  we  shall  light  on  what  we  want." 

"  I  hope  so.    When,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Wa'al,  I  couldn't  say  just  when,  but  soon.  Here's 
your  room,"  said  the  captain,  softly  opening  the  door  and 
looking  in  ;  "and  here's  the  berth  of  the  seafaring  man. 
I  wonder  what  like  he  is.    He  breathes  deep,  don't  he  ?  " 

"  Sleeping  like  a  child,  to  judge  from  the  sound,"  said 
the  young  fisherman. 

"  Dreaming  of  home,  maybe,"  returned  the  captain. 
"Can't  see  him.  Sleeps  a  deal  move  wholesomely  than 
Arson  Parvis,  but  a'most  as  sound;  don't  he?  Good 
night,  fellow-traveller," 

"  Good-night,  Captain  Jorgan,  and  many  many 
thanks ! " 

"  I'll  wait  till  I  'arn  'em,  boy,  afore  I  take  'em,"  re- 
turned the  captain,  clapping  him  cheerfully  on  the  back. 
"  Pleasant  dreams  of — you  know  who  !  " 

When  the  young  fisherman  had  closed  the  door,  the 
captain  waited  a  moment  or  two,  listening  for  any  stir 
on  the  part  of  the  unknown  seafaring  man.  But  none 
being  audible,  the  captain  pursued  the  way  to  his  own 
chamber. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Seafaring  Man. 

Who  was  the  Seafaring  Man?  And  what  might  he 
have  to  say  for  himself  ?  He  answers  those  questions  in 
his  own  words  : 


1064 


CHARLE8  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


I  begin  by  mentioning  what  happened  on  my  journey 
northward,  from  Falmouth,  in  Cornwall,  to  Steepways, 
in  Devonshire.  I  have  no  occasion  to  say  (being  here) 
that  it  brought  me  last  night  to  Lanrean.  I  had  busi- 
ness in  hand  which  was  part  very  serious,  and  part  (as  I 
hoped)  very  joyful  ;  and  this  business,  you  will  please  to 
remember,"  was  the  cause  of  my  journey. 

After  landing  at  Falmouth  I  travelled  on  foot,  because 
of  the  expense  of  riding,  and  because  I  had  anxieties 
heavy  on  my  mind,  and  walking  was  the  best  way  I 
knew  of  to  lighten  them.  The  first  two  days  of  my 
journey  the  weather  was  fine  and  soft,  the  wind  being 
mostly  light  airs  from  south,  and  south  by  west.  On 
the  third  day  I  took  a  wrong  turning,  and  had  to  fetch 
a  long  circuit  to  get  right  again.  Toward  evening,  while 
I  was  still  on  the  road,  the  wind  shifted  ;  and  a  sea-fog 
came  rolling  in  on  the  land.  I  went  on  through,  what  I 
ask  leave  to  call,  the  white  darkness  ;  keeping  the  sound 
of  the  sea  on  my  left  hand  for  a  guide,  and  feeling  those 
anxieties  of  mine  before  mentioned  pulling  heavier  and 
heavier  at  my  mind,  as  the  fog  thickened  and  the  wet 
trickled  down  my  face. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  evening,  when  I  heard  a  dog 
bark,  away  in  the  distance,  on  the  right  hand  side  of 
me.  Following  the  sound  as  well  as  I  could,  and  shout- 
ing to  the  dog  from  time  to  time,  to  set  him  barking 
again,  I  stumbled  up  at  last  against  the  back  of  a  house  ; 
and,  hearing  voices  inside,  groped  my  way  round  to  the 
door,  and  knocked  on  it  smartly  with  the  flat  of  my  hand. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  slip-shod  hussy  in  a  torn 
gown  ;  and  the  first  inquiries  I  made  of  her  discovered 
to  me  that  the  house  was  an  inn. 

Before  I  could  ask  more  questions  the  landlord  opened 
the  parlour  of  the  inn  and  came  out.  A  clamour  of  voices, 
and  a  fine,  comforting  smell  of  fire  and  grog  and  tobacco 
came  out,  also,  along  with  him. 

"  The  tap  room  fire's  out,"  says  the  landlord.  "  You 
don't  think  you  would  dry  more  comfortable-like,  if  you 
went  to  bed  ?  "  says  he,  looking  hard  at  me. 

"  No,"  says  I,  looking  hard  at  him,  "  I  don't." 

Before  more  words  were  spoken  a  jolly  voice  hailed  us 
from  inside  the  parlour. 

"  What's  the  matter,  landlord  V  "  says  the  jolly  voice. 
"  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"A  seafaring  man,  by  the  looks  of  him,"  says  the 
landlord,  turning  round  from  me,  and  speaking  into  the 
parlour. 

"Let's  have  the  seafaring  man  in,"  says  the  voice, 
"  Let's  vote  him  free  of  the  Club,  for  this  night  only." 

A  lot  of  other  voices  thereupon  said,  "  Hear  !  hear  !  " 
in  a  solemn  manner,  as  if  it  was  church  service.  After 
which  there  was  a  hammering,  as  if  it  was  a  trunk-mak- 
er's shop.  After  which  the  landlord  took  me  by  the  arm, 
gave  me  a  push  into  the  parlour,  and  there  I  was,  free  of 
the  Club. 

The  change  from  the  fog  outside  to  the  warm  room  and 
the  shining  candles  so  completely  dazed  me,  that  I  stood 
blinking  at  the  company  more  like  an  owl  than  a  man. 
Upon  which  the  company  again  said,  "  Flear !  hear  ! " 
Upon  which  I  returned  for  answer,  "  Hear  !  hear  !  " — 
considering  those  words  to  mean,  in  the  Club's  language, 
something  similar  to  "  How  d'ye  do."  The  landlord 
then  took  me  to  a  round  table  by  the  fire,  where  I  got 
my  supper,  together  with  the  information  that  my  bed- 
room, when  I  wanted  it,  was  number  four  up-stairs. 

I  noticed  before  I  fell  to  with  my  knife  and  fork,  that 
the  room  was  full,  and  that  the  chairman  at  the  top  of 
the  table  was  the  man  with  the  jolly  voice,  and  was 
seemingly  amusing  the  company  by  telling  them  a  story. 
I  paid  more  attention  to  my  supper  than  to  what  he  was 
saying  ;  and  all  I  can  now  report  of  it  is,  that  his  story- 
telling and  my  eating  and  drinking  both  came  to  an  end 
together. 

"Now,"  says  the  chairman,  "  I  have  told  my  story  to 
start  you  all.  Who  comes  next  ?"  He  took  up  a  teeto- 
tum, and  gave  it  a  spin  on  the  table.  When  it  toppled 
over,  it  fell  opposite  me  ;  upon  wliich  the  chairman  said, 
"  It's  your  turn  next.  Order  !  order  !  I  call  on  the  sea- 
faring man  to  tell  the  second  story  1 "  He  finished  the 
words  off  with  a  knock  of  his  hammer  ;  and  the  Club 
(having  nothing  else  to  say,  as  I  suppose)  tried  back,  and 
once  again  sang  out  all  together,  "  Hear  !  hear  \  " 


"  I  hope  you  will  please  to  let  me  off,"  I  said  to  the  chair- 
man, "  for  the  reason  that  I  have  got  no  story  to  tell." 

"No  story  to  tell!  "  says  he.  "A  sailor  without  a 
story  !    Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  ?    Nobody  !  " 

"  Nobody,"  says  the  Club,  bursting  out  all  together  at 
last  with  a  new  word,  by  way  of  a  change. 

I  can't  say  I  quite  relished  the  chairman's  talking  of  me 
as  if  I  was  before  the  mast.  A  man  likes  his  true  qual- 
ity to  be  known,  when  he  is  publicly  spoken  to  among  a 
party  of  strangers.  I  made  my  true  quality  known  to 
the  chairman  and  company  in  these  words  : 

"  All  men  who  follow  the  sea,  gentlemen,  are  sailors," 
I  said.  "  But  there's  a  degree  aboard  ship  as  well  as 
ashore.  My  rating,  if  you  please,  is  the  rating  of  a 
second  mate." 

"Ay,  ay,  surely?"  says  the  chairman.  "  Where  did 
you  leave  your  ship?" 

"  At  the  bottom  of  the  sea,"  I  made  answer, — which 
was,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  only  too  true. 

"  What  !  you've  been  wrecked  ?  "  says  he.  "  Tell  us 
all  about  it.  A  shipwreck-story  is  just  the  sort  of  story 
we  like.  Silence  there,  all  down  the  table  ! — silence  for 
the  second  mate  ! " 

The  Club,  upon  this,  instead  of  keeping  silence,  broke 
out  vehemently  with  another  new  word, and  said,"  Chair!" 
After  which  every  man  suddenly  held  his  peace,  and 
looked  at  me. 

I  did  a  very  foolish  thing.  Without  stopping  to  take 
counssl  with  myself,  I  started  off  at  score,  and  did  just 
what  the  chairman  had  bidden  me.  If  they  had  waited 
the  whole  night  for  it,  I  should  never  have  told  them  the 
story  they  wanted  from  me  at  first,  having  all  my  life 
been  a  wretched  bad  hand  at  such  matters, — for  the 
reason,  as  I  take  it,  that  a  story  is  bound  to  be  something 
which  is  not  true.  But  when  1  found  the  company 
willing,  on  a  sudden,  to  put  up  with  nothing  better  than 
the  account  of  my  shipwreck  (which  is  not  a  story  at  all), 
the  unexpected  luck  of  being  let  off  with  only  telling 
the  truth  about  myself  was  too  much  of  a  temptation  for 
me, — so  I  up  and  told  it. 

I  got  on  well  enough  with  the  storm,  and  the  striking 
of  the  vessel,  and  the  strange  chance  afterward,  which 
proved  to  be  the  saving  of  my  life, — the  assembly  all 
listening  (to  my  great  surprise)  as  if  they  had  never 
heard  anything  of  the  sort  before.  But  when  the  neces- 
sity came  next  for  going  further  than  this,  and  for  telling 
them  what  had  happened  to  me  after  the  saving  of  my 
life, — or,  to  put  it  plainer,  for  telling  ihem  what  place  I 
was  cast  away  on,and  what  company  I  was  cast  away  in, — 
the  words  died  straight  off  on  my  lips.  For  this  reason, 
namely,  that  those  particulars  of  my  statement  made  up 
just  that  part  of  it  which  I  couldn't  and  durstn't  let  out 
to  strangers, — no,  not  if  every  man  among  them  had  of- 
fered me  a  hundred  pounds  apiece,  on  the  spot,  to  do  it  ! 

"  Go  on  ! "  says  the  chairman.  "  What  happened 
next  ?    How  did  you  get  on  shore  ?  " 

Feeling  what  a  fool  I  had  been  to  run  myself  headlong 
into  a  scrape,  for  want  of  thinking  before  I  spoke,  I  now 
cast  about  discreetly  in  my  mind  for  the  best  means  of 
finishing  off-hand  without  letting  out  a  word  to  the  com- 
pany concerning  those  particulars  before  mentioned.  I 
was*^  some  little  time  before  seeing  my  way  to  this ; 
keeping  the  chairman  and  company  all  the  while  waiting 
for  an  answer.  The  Club  losing  patience,  in  consequence, 
got  from  staring  hard  at  me,  to  drumming  with  their 
feet  and  then  to  calling  out  lustily,  "  Go  on  !  go  on  I 
Chair  !  Order  !  "  and  such  like.  In  the  midst  of  this 
childish  hubbub  I  saw  my  way  to  what  I  considered  to 
be  rather  a  neat  finish,  and  got  on  my  legs  to  ease  them 
all  off  with  it  handsomely. 

"  Hear  !  hear  !  "  says  the  Club.  "  He's  going  on  again 
at  last." 

"  Gentlemen  ! "  I  made  answer,  "  with  your  permission 
I  will  now  conclude  by  wishing  you  all  good-night  !  " 
Saying  which  words,  I  gave  them  a  friendly  nod,  to  make 
things  pleasant,  and  walked  straight  to  the  door.  It's 
hardly  to  be  believed,  though  nevertheless  quite  true, 
that  these  curious  men  all  howled  and  groaned  at  me 
directly,  as  if  I  had  done  them  some  grievous  injury. 
Thinking  I  would  try  to  pacify  them  with  their  own  fa- 
vourite catch-word,  I  said,  "  Hear  !  hear  !  "as  civilly  as 
might  be,  whereupon  they  all  returned  for  answer,  "  Oh  ! 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA, 


1065 


oh  !"  I  never  belonged  to  a  Club  of  any  kind  myself ; 
and  after  what  I  saw  of  that  Club,  I  don't  care  if  I  never 
do. 

My  bedroom,  vv'hen  I  found  my  way  up  to  it,  was 
larg-e  and  airy  enough,  but  not  over-clean.  There  were 
two  beds  in  it,  not  over-clean  either.  Both  being  empty, 
I  had  my  choice.  One  was  near  the  window,  and  one 
near  the  door.  I  thought  the  bed  near  the  door  looked 
a  trifle  the  sweeter  of  the  two,  and  took  it. 

After  falling  asleep,  it  was  the  gray  of  the  morning 
before  I  woke.  When  I  had  fairly  opened  my  eyes  and 
shook  up  my  memory  into  telling  me  wdiere  I  was,  I 
made  two  discoveries.  First,  that  the  room  was  a  deal 
colder  in  the  new  morning  than  it  had  been  overnight. 
Second,  that  the  other  bed  near  the  window  had  got 
some  one  sleeping  in  it.  Not  that  I  could  see  the  man 
from  where  I  lay  ;  but  I  heard  his  breathing  plain 
enough.  He  must  have  come  up  into  the  room,  of 
course,  after  I  had  fallen  asleep,  and  he  had  tumbled 
himself  quietly  into  bed  without  disturbing  me.  There 
was  nothing  wonderful  in  that  ;  and  nothing  wonderful 
in  the  landlord  letting  the  empty  bed  if  he  could  find  a 
customer  for  it.  I  turned  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep  again  ; 
but  I  was  out  of  sorts, — out  of  sorts  so  badly,  that  even 
the  breathing  of  the  man  in  the  other  bed  fretted  and 
worried  me.  After  tumbling  and  tossing  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  or  more,  I  got  up  for  a  change  ;  and  walked 
softly  in  my  stockings  to  the  window  to  look  at  the 
morning. 

The  heavens  were  brightening  into  daylight,  and  the 
mists  were  blowing  off,  past  the  window,  like  puffs  of 
smoke.  When  I  got  even  with  the  second  bed  I  stopped 
to  look  at  the  man  in  it.  He  lay,  sound  asleep,  turned 
toward  the  window  ;  and  the  end  of  the  counterpane 
was  drawn  up  over  the  lower  half  of  his  face.  Some- 
thing struck  me,  on  a  sudden,  in  his  hair  and  his  fore- 
head ;  and,  though  not  an  inquisitive  man  by  nature,  I 
stretched  out  my  hand  to  the  end  of  the  counterpane,  in 
spite  of  myself. 

I  uncovered  his  face  softly  ;  and  there,  in  the  morning 
light,  I  saw  my  brother,  Alfred  Raybrook, 

What  I  ought  to  have  done,  or  what  other  men  might 
have  done  in  my  place,  I  don't  know.  What  I  really 
did,  was  to  drop  back  a  step, — to  steady  myself,  with 
my  hand,  on  the  sill  of  the  window, — and  to  stand  so, 
looking  at  him.  Three  years  ago  I  had  said  good-by  to 
my  wife,  to  my  little  child,  to  my  old  mother,  and  to 
Brother  Alfred  here,  asleep  under  my  eyes.  For  all 
those  three  years  no  news  from  me  had  reached  them, 
— and  the  underwriters,  as  I  knew,  must  have  long 
since  reported  that  the  ship  I  sailed  in  was  lost,  and  that 
all  hands  on  board  had  perished.  My  heart  was  heavy 
when  1  thought  of  my  kindred  at  home,  and  of  the 
weary  time  they  must  have  waited  and  sorrowed  before 
they  gave  me  up  for  dead.  Twice  I  reached  outm^'^  hand 
to  wake  Alfred,  and  to  ask  him  about  my  wife  and  my 
child  ;  and  twice  I  drew  it  back  again,  in  fear  of  what 
might  happen  if  he  saw  me,  standing  by  his  bed-head  in 
the  gray  morning,  like  Hugh  Ray  brock  risen  up  from 
the  grave. 

I  drew  my  hand  back  the  second  time,  and  waited  a 
minute.  In  that  minute  he  woke.  I  had  not  moved,  or 
spoken  a  word,  or  touched  him. — I  had  only  looked  at 
him  longingly.  If  such  things  could  be,  I  should  say 
it  was  my  looking  that  woke  him.  His  eyes,  when  they 
opened  under  mine,  passed  on  a  sudden  from  fast  asleep 
to  broad  awake.  They  first  settled  on  my  face  with  a 
startled  look, — which  passed  directly.  He  lifted  him- 
self on  his  elbow,  and  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but 
never  said  a  word.  His  eyes  strained  and  strained  into 
mine  ;  and  his  face  turned  all  over  of  a  ghastly  white. 
"Alfred  1"  I  said,  "don't  you  know  me?"  There 
seemed  to  be  a  deadly  terror  pent  up  in  him,  and  I 
thought  my  voice  might  set  it  free.  I  took  fast  hold  of 
him  by  the  hands  and  spoke  again.   "  Alfred  !  "  I  said — 

O  sirs,  wh(?re  can  a  man  like  me  find  words  to  tell  all 
that  was  said  and  all  that  was  thought  between  us  two 
brothers  ?  Please  to  pardon  my  not  saying  more  of  it 
than  I  say  here.  We  sat  down  together  side  by  side. 
The  poor  lad  burst  out  crying,  and  got  vent  that  way.  I 
kept  my  hold  of  his  hands,  and  waited  a  bit  before  I 
spoke  to  him  again,    I  think  I  was  worse  off  now  of  the 


two, — no  tears  came  to  help  me, — I  haven't  got  my 
brother's  quickness  any  way  ;  and  my  troubles  have 
roughened  and  hardened  me  outside.  13ut,  God  knows, 
I  felt  it  keenly  ;  all  the  more  keenly,  maybe,  because  I 
was  slow  to  show  it. 

After  a  little,  I  put  the  questions  to  him  which  I  had 
been  longing  to  ask  from  the  time  when  I  first  saw  his 
face  on  the  pillow.  Had  they  all  given  me  up  at  home 
for  dead  (I  asked)?  Yes;  after  long,  long  hoping,  one 
by  one  they  had  given  me  up, — my  wife  (God  bless  her  !) 
last  of  all.  I  meant  to  ask  next  if  my  wife  was  alive 
and  well  ;  but,  try  as  I  might,  I  could  only  say  "Mar- 
garet?" and  look  hard  in  my  brother's  face.  He  knew 
what  I  meant.  Yes,  (he  said,)  she  was  living  ;  she  was 
at  home  ;  she  was  in  her  widow's  weeds, — poor  soul  ; 
her  widow's  weeds  ?  I  got  on  better  with  my  next 
question  about  the  child.  Was  it  born  alive  ?  Yes. 
Boy  or  girl  ?  Girl.  And  living  now  ;  and  much  grown? 
Living,  surely,  and  grown, — poor  little  thing,  what  a 
question  to  ask  ! — grown  of  course,  in  three  years  !  And 
mother !  Well,  mother  was  a  trifle  fallen  away,  and 
more  silent  within  herself  than  she  used  to  be, — fretting 
(like  ray  wife)  on  nights  when  the  sea  rose,  and  the  win- 
dows shook  and  shivered  in  the  wind.  Thereupon  my 
brother  and  I  waited  a  bit  again, — I  with  my  questions, 
and  he  with  his  answers, — and  while  we  waited,  I 
thanked  God  inwardly,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  for 
bringing  me  back,  living,  to  wife  and  kindred,  while 
wife  and  kindred  were  living  too. 

My  brother  dried  the  tears  off  his  face,  and  looked  at 
me  a  little.  Then  he  turned  aside  suddenly,  as  if  he  re- 
membered something,  and  stole  his  hand  in  a  hurry 
under  the  pillow  of  his  bed.  Nothing  came  out  from 
below  the  pillow  but  his  black  neck-handkerchief,  which 
he  now  unfolded  slowly,  looking  at  me  all  the  while 
with  something  strange  in  his  face  that  I  couldn't  make 
out. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  I  asked  him,  "What  are 
you  looking  at  me  like  that  for?  " 

Instead  of  making  answer,  he  took  a  crumpled  morsel 
of  paper  out  of  his  neck -handkerchief,  opened  it  care- 
fully, and  held  it  to  the  light  to  let  me  see  what  it  was. 
Lord  in  heaven  ! — my  own  writing, — the  morsel  of  paper 
I  had  committed,  long,  long  since,  to  the  mercy  of  the 
deep.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  miles  away  I  had 
trusted  that  Message  to  the  waters,  and  here  it  was  now, 
in  my  brother's  hands  !  A  chilly  fear  came  over  me  at 
the  seeing  it  again.  Scrap  of  paper  as  it  was,  it  looked 
to  my  eyes  like  the  ghost  of  my  own  past  self,  gone  home 
before  me  invisibly  over  the  great  wastes  of  the  sea. 

My  brother  pointed  down  solemnh'  to  the  writing. 

"  Hugh,"  he  said,  "  were  you  in  your  right  mind  when 
you  wrote  those  words  ?  " 

"  Tell  me,  first,"  I  made  answer,  "  how  and  when  the 
Message  came  to  you,  I  can't  quiet  myself  fit  to  talk 
till  I  know  that." 

He  told  me  how  the  paper  had  come  to  hand, — also 
how  his  good  friend,  the  captain,  having  promised  to 
help  him,  was  then  under  the  same  roof  with  our  two 
selves.  But  there  he  stopped.  It  was  not  till  later  in 
the  day  that  I  heard  of  what  had  happened  (through 
this  dreadful  doubt  about  the  money)  in  the  matter  of 
his  sweetheart  and  his  marriage. 

The  knowledge  that  the  Message  had  reached  him  by 
mortal  means — on  the  word  of  a  seaman,  I  half  doubted 
it  when  I  first  set  eyes  on  the  paper  !  — eased  me  in  my 
mind  ;  and  I  now  did  my  best  to  quiet  Alfred,  in  my 
turn.  I  told  him  that  I  was  in  my  right  senses,  though 
sorely  troubled,  Avhen  my  hand  had  written  those  words. 
Also,  that  where  the  writing  was  rubbed  out,  I  could  tell 
him,  for  his  necessary  guidance  and  mine,  what  once 
stood  in  the  empty  places.  Also,  that  I  knew  no  more 
what  the  real  truth  might  be  than  he  did,  till  inquiry 
was  made,  and  the  slander  on  father's  good  name  was 
dragged  boldly  into  daylight  to  show  itself  for  what  it 
was  worth.  Lastly,  that  all  the  voyage  home  there  was 
one  hope  and  one  determination  uppennost  in  my  mind, 
— the  hope  that  I  might  get  safe  to  England,  and  find 
my  wife  and  kindred  alive  to  take  me  back  among  them 
again, — the  determination  that  I  would  put  the  doubt 
about  father's  five  hundred  pounds  to  the  proof,  if  ever 
my  feet  touched  English  land  once  more. 


1066 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


"  Come  out  with  me  now,  Alfred,"  I  said,  after  wind- 
ing up  as  above,  "  and  let  me  tell  you  in  the  quiet  of  the 
morning  how  that  Message  came  to  be  written  and  com- 
mitted to  the  sea," 

We  went  downstairs  softly,  and  let  ourselves  out  with- 
out disturbing  any  one.  The  sun  was  just  rising  when 
we  left  the  village  and  took  our  way  slowly  over  the 
cliffs.  x\s  soon  as  the  sea  began  to  open  on  us  I  returned 
to  that  true  story  of  mine  which  I  had  left  but  half  told 
the  night  before,— and  this  time  I  went  through  with  it 
to  the  end. 

I  shipped,  as  you  may  remember  (were  my  first  words 
to  Alfred),  in  a  second  mate's  berth,  on  board  the 
Peruvian,  nine  hundred  tons'  burden.  We  carried  an 
assorted  cargo,  and  we  were  bound  round  the  Horn,  to 
Truxillo  and  Guayaquil,  on  the  western  coast  of  South 
America.  From  this  last  port — namely,  Guayaquil — we 
were  to  go  back  to  Truxillo,  and  there  to  take  in  another 
cargo  for  the  return  voyage.  Those  were  all  the  instruc- 
tions communicated  to  me  when  I  signed  articles  with 
the  owners,  in  London  City,  three  years  ago. 

After  we  had  been,  I  think,  a  week  at  sea,  I  heard 
from  the  first  mate, — who  had  himself  heard  it  from  the 
captain, — that  the  supercargo  we  were  taking  with  us, 
on  the  outward  voyage,  was  to  be  left  at  Truxillo, 
and  that  another  supercargo  (also  connected  with  our 
firm,  and  latterly  employed  by  them  as  their  foreign 
agent)  was  to  ship  with  us  at  that  port  for  the  voyage 
home.  His  name  on  the  captain's  instructions  was  Mr. 
Lawrence  Clissold.  None  of  us  had  ever  set  eyes  on  him 
to  our  knowledge,  and  none  of  us  knew  more  about  him 
than  what  I  have  told  you  here. 

We  had  a  wonderful  voyage  out,  especially  round  the 
Horn.  I  never  before  saw  such  fair  weather  in  that  in- 
fernal latitude,  and  I  never  expect  to  see  the  like  again. 
We  followed  our  instructions  to  the  letter,  discharging 
our  cargo  in  fine  condition,  and  returning  to  Truxillo  to 
load  again  as  directed.  At  this  place  I  was  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  be  seized  with  the  fever  of  the  country,  which 
laid  me  on  my  back,  while  we  were  in  harbour  ;  and 
which  only  let  me  return  to  my  duty  after  we  had  been 
ten  days  at  sea,  on  the  voyage  home  again.  For  this 
reason,  the  first  morning  when  I  was  able  to  get  on  deck 
■was  also  the  first  time  of  my  setting  eyes  on  our  new 
supercargo,  Mr.  Lawrence  Clissold. 

I  found  him  to  be  a  long,  lean,  wiry  man,  with  some 
complaint  in  his  eyes  which  forced  him  to  wear  spectacles 
of  blue  glass.  His  age  appeared  to  be  fifty-six,  or  there- 
abouts ;  but  he  might  well  have  been  more.  There  was 
not  above  a  handful  of  gray  hair,  altogether,  on  his  bald 
head, — and  as  for  the  wrinkles  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
and  the  side  of  his  mouth,  if  he  could  have  had  a  pound 
apiece  in  his  pocket  for  every  one  of  them,  he  might  have 
retired  from  business  from  that  time  forth.  Judging  by 
certain  signs  in  his  face,  and  by  a  suspicious  morning- 
tremble  in  his  hands,  I  set  him  down,  in  my  own  mind 
(rightly  enough,  as  it  afterwards  turned  out),  for  a 
drinker.  In  one  word,  I  didn't  like  the  looks  of  the  new 
supercargo  ;  and,  on  the  first  day  when  I  got  on  deck, 
I  found  that  he  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  paying  me 
back  in  my  own  coin,  and  not  liking  my  looks,  either. 

''I've  been  asking  the  captain  about  you,"  were  his 
first  words  to  me  in  return  for  ray  civilly  wishing  him 
good-morning.  "  You're  name's  Raybrock,  I  hear.  Are 
you  any  relation  to  the  late  Hugh  Raybrock,  of  Barnsta- 
ple, Devonshire  ?" 

"  Rather  a  near  relation,"  I  made  answer.  "  I  am  the 
late  Hugh  Raybrock's  eldest  son." 

There  was  no  telling  how  his  eyes  looked,  because  they 
were  hidden  by  his  blue  spectacles,  but  I  saw  him  wince 
at  the  mouth  when  I  gave  him  that  reply. 

"  Your  father  ended  by  failing  in  business  ;  didn't  he?" 
was  the  next  question  the  supercargo  put  to  me. 

"  Who  told  you  ho  failed?"  I  asked,  sharply  enough. 

"  Oh,  I  haard  it  !  "  says  Mr.  Lawrence  Clissold,  both 
looking  and  speaking  as  if  he  was  glad  to  have  heard  it, 
and  he  hoped  it  was  true. 

"  Wlioever  told  you  my  father  failed  in  business  told 
you  a  lie,"  I  said.  "  His-  business  fell  off  towards  the 
last  years  of  his  life, — I  don't  deny  it.  But  every  credi- 
tor he  liad  was  honestly  paid  at  his  death,  without  so 


much  as  touching  the  provision  left  for  his  widow  and 
children.  Please  to  mention  that  next  time  you  hear  it 
reported  that  my  father  failed  in  business." 

Mr.  Clissold  grinned  to  himself,  and  I  lost  my  tem- 
per. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  I  said  to  him,  "  I  don'  t  like  your 
laughing  to  yourself  when  I  ask  you  to  do  justice  to  my 
father's  memory  ;  and,  what  is  more,  I  didn't  like  the 
way  you  mentioned  that  report  of  his  failing  in  busi- 
ness, just  now.  You  looked  as  if  you  hoped  it  was 
true." 

"  Perhaps  I  did,"  says  Mr.  Clissold,  coolly.  "  Shall  I 
tell  you  why  ?  When  I  was  a  young  man  I  was  unlucky 
enough  to  owe  your  father  some  money.  He  was  a  mer- 
ciless creditor,  and  he  threatened  me  with  a  prison  if  the 
debt  remained  unpaid  on  the  day  when  it  was  due.  I  have 
never  forgotten  that  circumstance  ;  and  I  should  certain- 
ly not  have  been  sorry  if  your  father's  creditors  had 
given  him  a  lesson  in  forbearance,  by  treating  him 
as  harshly  as  he  once  treated  me." 

"  My  father  had  a  right  to  ask  for  his  own,"  I  broke 
out.    "  If  you  owed  him  the  money  and  didn't  pay  it — " 

"  I  never  told  you  I  didn't  pay  it,"  says  Mr.  Clissold, 
as  coolly  as  ever. 

"  Well,  if  you  did  pay  it,"  I  put  in,  "  then  you  didn't 
go  to  prison,  and  you  have  no  cause  of  complaint  now. 
My  father  wronged  nobody  ;  and  I  won't  believe  he  ever 
wronged  you.  He  was  a  just  man  in  all  his  dealings  ; 
and  whoever  tells  me  to  the  contrary — " 

"  That  will  do,"  says  Mr.  Clissold,  backing  away  to  the 
cabin  stairs.  "  You  seem  to  have  not  quite  got  over  your 
fever  yet.  I'll  leave  you  to  air  yourself  in  the  sea- 
breeze,  Mr.  Second  Mate  ;  and  I'll  receive  your  excuses 
when  you  are  cool  enough  to  make  them." 

"  It  is  a  son's  business  to  defend  his  father's  charac- 
ter," I  answered  ;  "  and,  cool  or  hot,  I'll  leave  the  ship 
sooner  than  ask  your  pardon  for  doing  my  duty  !  " 

"  You  loill  leave  the  ship ! "  says  the  supercargo, 
quietly  going  down  into  the  cabin.  "You  will  leave  at 
the  next  port,  if  I  have  any  interest  with  the  captain." 

That  was  how  Mr.  Clissold  and  I  scraped  acquaint- 
ance on  the  first  day  when  we  met  together  !  And  as 
we  began,  so  we  went  on  to  the  end.  But  though  he 
persecuted  me  in  almost  every  other  way,  he  did  not 
anger  me  again  about  father's  affairs  ;  he  seemed  to  have 
dropped  talking  of  them  at  once  and  forever.  On  my 
side  I  nevertheless  bore  in  mind  what  he  had  said  to  me, 
and  determined,  if  I  got  home  safe,  to  go  to  the  lawyer 
at  Barnstaple  who  keeps  father's  old  books  and  letters 
for  us,  and  see  what  information  they  might  give  on  the 
subject  of  Mr.  Lawrence  Clissold.  I  myself  had  never 
heard  his  name  mentioned  at  home,— father  (as  you 
know,  Alfred)  being  always  close  about  business-matters, 
and  mother  never  troubling  him  with  idle  questions 
about  his  affairs.  But  it  was  likely  enough  that  he  and 
Mr.  Clissold  might  have  been  concerned  in  money-mat- 
ters, in  past  years,  and  that  Mr.  Clissold  might  have  tried 
to  cheat  him,  and  failed.  I  rather  hoped  it  might  prove 
to  be  so, — for  the  truth  is,  the  supercargo  provoked  me 
past  all  endurance,  and  I  hated  him  as  heartily  as  he 
hated  me. 

All  this  while  the  ship  was  making  such  a  speedy 
voyage  down  the  coast  that  we  began  to  think  we  were 
carrying  back  with  us  the  fine  weather  we  had  brought 
out.  But  on  nearing  Cape  Horn  the  signs  and  tokens 
appeared  which  told,  us  that  our  run  of  luck  was  at 
an  end.  Down  went  the  barometer,  lower  and  lower  ; 
and  up  got  the  wind  in  the  northerly  quarter,  higher  and 
higher.  This  happened  toward  nightfall,  and  at  day- 
break next  day  we  found  ourselves  forced  to  lay  to.  It 
blew  all  that  day  and  all  that  night  ;  toward  noon  the 
next  day  it  lulled  a  little,  and  we  made  sail  again.  But 
at  sunset  the  heavens  grew  blacker  than  ever,  and  the 
wind  returned  upon  us  with  double  and  treble  fury. 
The  Peruvian  was  a  fine,  stout,  roomy  ship,  but  the  un- 
handi(%st  vessel  at  laying  to  I  ever  sailed  in.  After  tak- 
ing tons  of  water  on  board  and  losing  our  best  boat,  we 
had  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  turn  tail  and  scud  for  our 
lives.  For  the  next  three  days  and  nights  we  ran  be- 
fore tlu;  wind.  The  gale  moderated  more  than  once  in 
that  time,  but  there  was  such  a  sea  on  that  we  durstn't 
heave  the  ship  to.    From  the  beginning  of  the  gale  none 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA, 


1067 


of  us  officers  had  a  chance  of  taking  any  observations. 
We  only  knew  that  the  wind  was  driving  us  as  hard  as 
we  could  go  in  a  southerly  direction,  and  that  we  were 
by  this  time  hundreds  of  miles  out  of  the  ordinary 
course  of  ships  in  doubling  the  Cape. 

On  the  third  night — or  rather,  I  should  say,  early  on 
the  fourth  morning — I  went  below,  dead-beat,  to  get  a 
little  rest,  leaving  the  vessel  in  charge  of  the  captain 
and  first  mate.  The  night  was  then  pitch-dark, — it  was 
raining,  hailing,  and  sleeting  all  at  once, — and  the 
Peruvian  was  wallowing  in  the  frightful  seas,  as  if  she 
meant  to  roll  the  masts  out  of  her.  I  tumbled  into  bed 
the  instant  my  wet  oil-skins  were  off  my  back,  and  slept 
as  only  a  man  can  who  lays  himself  down  dead-beat. 

I  was  woke — how  long  afterward  I  don't  know — by  be- 
ing pitched  clean  out  of  my  berth  on  to  the  cabin  floor  ; 
and  at  the  same  moment  I  heard  the  crash  of  the  ship's 
timbers,  forward,  which  told  me  it  was  all  over  with  us. 

Though  bruised  and  shaken  by  my  fall  I  was  on  deck 
directly.  Before  I  had  taken  two  steps  forward  the 
Peruvian  forged  ahead  on  the  send  of  the  sea,  swung 
round  a  little,  and  struck  heavily  at  the  bows  for  the 
second  time.  The  shrouds  of  the  foremast  cracked  one 
after  another,  like  pistol-shots,  and  the  mast  went  over- 
board. I  next  felt  our  people  go  tearing  past  me,  in  the 
black  darkness,  to  the  lee-side  of  the  vessel  ;  and  I 
knew  that  in  their  last  extremity  they  were  taking  to 
the  boats.  I  say  I  felt  them  go  past  me,  because  the 
roaring  of  the  sea  and  the  howling  of  the  wind  deafened 
me,  on  deck,  as  completely  as  the  darkness  blinded  me. 
I  myself  no  more  believed  the  boats  would  live  in  the 
sea  than  I  believed  the  ship  would  hold  together  on  the 
reef  ;  but  as  the  rest  were  running  the  risk,  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  run  it  with  them. 

But  before  I  followed  the  crew  to  leeward  I  went  be- 
low again  for  a  minute, — not  to  save  money  or  clothes, 
for,  with  death  staring  me  in  the  face,  neither  were  of 
any  account  now, — but  to  get  my  little  writing-case 
which  mother  had  given  me  at  parting.  A  curl  of 
Margaret's  hair  was  in  the  pocket  inside  it,  with  all  the 
letters  she  had  sent  me  when  I  had  been  away  on  other 
voyages.  If  I  saved  anything  I  was  resolved  to  save 
this  ;  and  if  I  died,  I  would  die  with  it  about  me. 

My  locker  was  jammed  with  the  wrenching  of  the 
ship,  and  had  to  be  broken  open.  I  was,  maybe,  longer 
over  this  job  than  I  myself  supposed.  At  any  rate, 
when  I  got  on  deck  again  with  my  case  in  my  breast,  it 
was  useless  calling  and  useless  groping  about.  The 
larger  of  the  two  boats,  when  I  felt  for  it,  was  gone  ; 
and  every  soul  on  board  was  beyond  a  doubt  gone  with 
her. 

Before  I  had  time  to  think  I  was  thrown  off  my  feet 
by  another  sea  coming  on  board,  and  a  great  heave  of 
the  vessel  which  drove  her  farther  over  the  re&f,  and 
canted  the  after-part  of  her  up  like  the  roof  of  a  house.  In 
that  position  the  stern  stuck,  wedged  fast  into  the  rocks 
beneath,  while  the  fore-part  of  the  ship  was  all  to 
pieces  and  down  under  water.  If  the  after-part  kept 
the  place  it  was  now  jammed  in  till  daylight  there  might 
be  a  chance,  but  if  the  sea  wrenched  it  out  from  be- 
tween the  rocks  there  was  an  end  of  me.  After  strain- 
ing my  eyes  to  discover  if  there  was  land  beyond  the 
reef,  and  seeing  nothing  but  the  flash  of  the  breakers, 
like  white  fire  in  the  darkness,  1  crawled  below  again  to 
the  shelter  of  the  cabin  stairs  and  waited  for  death  or  j 
daylight. 

As  the  morning  hours  wore  on  the  weather  moderated 
again,  and  the  after-part  of  the  vessel,  though  shaken  i 
often,  was  not  shaken  out  of  its  place.    A  little  before 
dawn  the  winds  and  the  waves,  though  fierce  enough 
still,  allowed 'me  at  last  to  hear  something  be.^^ides  them-  j 
.selves.  What  I  did  hear,  crouched  up  in  my  dark  corner,  j 
was  a  heavy  thumping  and  grinding,  every  now  and  then, 
against  the  side  of  the  ship  to  windward.    Day  broke 
.soon  afterward,  and  when  I  climbed  to  the  deck  I  clawed 
my  way  up  to  windward  first  to  see  what  the  noise  was 
caused  by.  j 

My  first  look  over  the  bulwark  showed  me  that  it  was 
caused  by  the  boat  which  my  unfortunate  brother- officers 
and  the  crew  had  launched  and  gone  away  in  when  the  { 
ship  struck.    The  boat  was  bottom 'upward,  thumping 
against  the  ship's  side  on  the  lift  of  the  sea.    I  wanted  ; 


no  second  look  at  it  to  tell  me  that  every  mother's  son  of 
them  was  drowned. 

The  main  and  mizzen  masts  still  stood.  I  got  into  the 
mizzen  rigging  to  look  out  next  to  leeward, — and  there, 
in  the  blessed  daylight,  I  saw  a  low,  green,  rocky  little 
island,  lying  away  beyond  the  reef,  barely  a  mile  distant 
from  the  ship  !  My  life  began  to  look  of  some  small  value 
to  me  again  when  I  saw  land.  I  got  higher  up  in  the  rig- 
ging to  note  how  the  current  set,  and  where  there  might 
be  a  passage  through  the  reef.  The  ship  had  driven  over 
the  rocks  through  the  worst  of  the  surf,  and  the  sea  be- 
tween myself  and  the  island,  though  angry  and  broken  in 
places,  was  not  too  high  for  a  lost  man  like  me  to  venture 
on,  provided  I  could  launch  the  last  and  smallest  boat 
still  left  in  the  vessel.  I  noted  carefully  the  likeliest- 
looking  channel  for  trying  the  experiment,  and  then  got 
down  on  deck  again  to  see  what  I  could  do,  first  of  all, 
with  the  boat. 

At  the  moment  when  my  feet  touched  the  deck  I  heard 
a  dull  knocking  and  banging  just  under  them,  in  the 
region  of  the  cabin.  When  the  sound  first  reached  my 
ears  I  got  such  a  shock  of  surprise  that  I  could  neither 
move  nor  speak.  It  had  never  yet  crossed  my  mind  that 
a  single  soul  was  left  in  the  vessel  besides  myself  ;  but 
now  there  was  something  in  the  knocking  noise  which 
started  the  hope  in  me,  that  I  was  not  alone.  I  shook 
myself  up,  and  got  down  directly. 

The  noise  came  from  inside  one  of  the  sleeping-berths, 
on  the  far  side  of  the  main  cabin  ;  the  door  of  which  was 
jammed,  no  doubt,  just  as  my  locker  had  been  jammed, 
by  the  wrenching  of  the  ship.  "  Who's  there  ?"  I  called 
out.  A  faint  muffled  kind  of  voice  answered  something 
through  the  air-grating  in  the  upper  part  of  the  door. 
I  got  up  on  the  overthrown  cabin  furniture  ;  and,  looking 
in  through  the  trellis-work  of  the  grating,  found  myself 
face  to  face  with  the  blue  spectacles  of  Mr.  Lawrence 
Clissold,  looking  out ! 

God  forgive  me  for  thinking  it,  but  there  was  not  a 
man  in  the  vessel  I  wouldn't  sooner  have  found  alive  in 
her  than  Mr.  Clissold  !  Of  all  that  ship's  company,  we 
two,  who  were  least  friendly  together,  were  the  only  two 
saved. 

I  had  a  better  chance  of  breaking  out  the  jammed  door 
from  the  main  cabin  than  he  had  from  the  berth  inside  ; 
and  in  less  than  five  minutes  he  was  set  free.  I  had 
smelled  spirits  already  through  the  air-grating,  and  now, 
when  he  and  I  stood  face  to  face,  I  saw  what  the  smell 
meant.  There  was  an  open  case  of  spirits  by  the  bedside, 
— two  of  the  bottles  out  of  it  were  lying  broken  on  the 
floor, — and  Mr.  Clissold  was  drunk. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  ship  ?"  says  he,  looking 
fierce,  and  speaking  thick. 

"  You  shall  see  for  yourself,"  says  I.  With  which 
words  I  took  hold  of  him,  and  pulled  him  after  me  up 
the  cabin  stairs.  I  reckoned  on  the  sight  that  would 
meet  him,  when  he  first  looked  over  the  deck  to  sober  his 
drunken  brains, — and  I  reckoned  right  ;  he  fell  on  his 
knees,  stock  still  and  speechless  as  if  he  was  turned  to 
stone. 

I  lashed  him  up  safe  to  the  cabin  rail,  and  left  it  to  the 
air  to  bring  him  round.  He  had,  likely  enough,  been 
drinking  in  the  sleeping-berth  for  days  together, — for 
none  of  us,  as  I  now  remembered,  had  seen  him  since  the 
gale  set  in, — and  even  if  he  had  had  sense  enough  to  try 
to  get  out,  or  to  call  for  help,  when  the  ship  struck,  he 
would  not  have  made  himself  heard  in  the  noise  and 
confusion  of  that  awful  time.  But  for  the  lull  in  the 
weather  I  should  not  have  heard  him  myself  when  he 
attempted  to  get  free  in  the  morning.  Enemy  of  mine 
as  he  was,  he  had  a  pair  of  arms, — and  he  was  worth 
untold  gold,  in  my  situation,  for  that  reason.  With  the 
help  I  could  make  him  give  me,  there  was  no  doubt  now 
about  launching  the  boat.  In  half  an  hour  I  had  the 
means  ready  for  trying  the  experiment ;  and  Mr.  Clissold 
was  sober  enough  to  see  that  his  life  depended  on  his 
doing  what  I  told  him. 

The  sky  looked  angry  still, — there  was  no  opening 
anywhere, — and  the  clouds  were  slowly  banking  up 
again  to  windward.  The  supercargo  knew  what  I  meant 
when  I  pointed  that  way,  and  worked  with  a  will  when 
I  gave  him  the  word.  I  had  previously  stowed  away  in 
the  boat  such  stores  of  meat,  biscuit,  and  fresh  water  as 


1068 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


I  could  readily  lay  hands  on  ;  together  with  a  compass, 
a  lantern,  a  few  candles,  and  some  boxes  of  matches  in 
my  pocket,  to  kindle  light  and  fire  with.  At  the  last  mo- 
ment I  thought  of  a  gun  and  some  powder  and  shot.  The 
powder  and  shot  I  found,  and  an  old  flint  pocket-pistol 
in  the  captain's  cabin,— with  which,  for  fear  of  wasting 
precious  time,  I  was  forced  to  be  content.  The  pistol  lay 
on  the  top  of  the  medicine-chest,  and  I  took  that  also, 
finding  it  handy,  and  not  knowing  but  what  it  might  be 
of  use.  Having  made  these  preparations,  we  launched 
the  boat  down  the  steep  of  the  deck,  into  the  water  over 
the  forward  part  of  the  ship  which  was  sunk.  I  took 
the  oars,  ordering  Mr.  Clissold  to  sit  still  in  the  stern- 
sheets,  and  pulled  for  the  island. 

It  was  neck  or  nothing  with  us  more  than  once,  before 
we  were  two  hundred  yards  from  the  ship.  Luckily  the 
supercargo  was  used  to  boats  ;  and  muddled  as  he  still 
was,  he  had  sense  enough  to  sit  quiet.  We  found  our 
way  into  the  smooth  channel  which  I  had  noted  from  the 
mizzen-rigging,  after  which  it  was  easy  enough  to  get 
ashore. 

We  landed  on  a  little  sandy  creek.  From  the  time  of 
our  leaving  the  ship  the  supercargo  had  not  spoken  a 
word  to  me,  nor  I  to  him.  I  now  told  him  to  lend  a  hand 
in  getting  the  stores  out  of  the  boat,  and  in  helping  me 
to  carry  them  to  the  first  sheltered  place  we  could  find 
in-shore  on  the  island.  He  shook  himself  up  with  a  sulky 
look  at  me,  and  did  as  I  had  bidden  him.  We  found  a 
little  dip,  or  dell,  in  the  ground,  after  getting  up  the 
low  sides  of  the  island,  which  was  sheltered  to  wind- 
ward,— and  here  I  left  him  to  stow  away  the  stores  while 
I  walked  farther  on  to  survey  the  place. 

According  to  the  hasty  judgment  I  formed  at  the  time, 
the  island  was  not  a  mile  across,  and  not  much  more  than 
three  miles  round.  I  noted  nothing  in  the  way  of  food 
but  a  few  wild  roots  and  vegetables,  growing  in  ragged 
patches  amidst  the  thick  scrub  which  covered  the  place. 
There  was  not  a  tree  on  it  anywhere,  nor  any  living 
creatures,  nor  any  signs  of  fresh  water  that  I  could  see. 
Standing  on  the  highest  ground,  I  looked  about  anxious- 
ly for  other  islands  that  might  be  inhabited  ;  there  were 
none  visible, — at  least  none  in  the  hazy  state  of  the 
heavens  that  morning.  When  I  fairly  discovered  what 
a  desert  the  place  was  ;  when  I  remembered  how  faf  it 
lay  out  of  the  track  of  ships  ;  and  when  I  thought  of  the 
small  store  of  provisions  which  we  had  brought  with  us, 
the  doubt  lest  we  might  only  have  changed  the  chance 
of  death  by  drowning  for  the  chance  of  death  by  starva- 
tion was  so  strong  in  me  that  I  determined  to  go  back  to 
the  boat,  with  the  desperate  notion  of  making  another 
trip  to  the  vessel  for  water  and  food.  I  say  desperate, 
because  the  clouds  to  windward  were  banking  up  blacker 
and  higher  every  minute.  The  wind  was  freshening  al- 
ready, and  there  was  every  sign  of  the  storm  coming  on 
again  wilder  and  fiercer  than  ever. 

Mr.  Clissold,  when  I  passed  him  on  my  way  back  to 
the  beach,  had  got  the  stores  pretty  tidy,  covered  with 
the  tarpaulin  which  I  had  thrown  over  them  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  boat.  Just  as  I  looked  down  at  him  in  the 
hollow,  I  saw  him  take  a  bottle  of  spirits  out  of  the 
pocket  of  his  pilot-coat.  He  must  have  stowed  the  bot- 
tle away  there,  as  I  suppose,  while  I  was  breaking  open 
the  door  of  his  berth.  "You'll  be  drowned,  and  I  shall 
have  double  allowance  to  live  upon  here,"  was  all  he  said 
to  me  when  he  heard  I  was  going  back  to  the  ship. 
"Yes  !  and  die,  in  your  turn,  when  you've  got  through 
it,"  says  I,  going  away  to  the  boat.  It's  shocking  to 
think  of  now,  but  we  couldn't  be  civil  to  each  other, 
even  on  the  first  day  when  we  were  wrecked  together  ! 

Having  previously  stripped  to  my  trousers,  in  case  of 
accident,  I  now  pulled  out.  On  getting  from  the  channel 
into  the  broken  water  again,  I  looked  over  my  shoulder 
to  windward,  and  saw  that  I  was  too  late.  It  was  com- 
ing ! — the  ship  was  hidden  already  in  the  horrible  haze 
of  it.  I  got  the  boat's  head  round  to  pull  back — and  I 
did  pull  back,  just  inside  the  opening  in  the  reef  which 
made  the  mouth  of  the  channel — when  the  storm  came 
down  on  me  like  death  and  judgment.  The  boat  filled 
in  an  instant,  and  I  was  tossed  head  over  heels  into  the 
water.  The  sea,  which  burst  into  raging  surf  upon  the 
rock  on  either  side,  rushed  in  one  great  roller  up  the 
deep  channel  between  them,  and  took  me  with  it.  If 


the  under-tow  afterward  had  lasted  for  half  a  minute,  I 
should  have  been  carried  into  the  white  water  and  lost. 
But  a  second  roller  followed  the  first,  almost  on  the  in- 
stant, and  swept  me  right  up  on  the  beach.  I  had  just 
strength  enough  to  dig  my  arms  and  legs  well  into  tlie 
wet  sand  ;  and  though  I  was  taken  back  with  the  back- 
ward shift  of  it,  I  was  not  taken  into  deep  water  again. 
Before  the  third  roller  came  I  was  out  of  its  reach,  and 
was  down  in  a  sort  of  swoon  on  the  dry  sand. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  hollow  in  shore,  where  I  had 
left  my  clothes  under  shelter  with  the  stores,  I  found 
Mr.  Clissold  snugly  crouched  up,  in  the  driest  place, 
with  the  tarpaulin  to  cover  him.  "  Oh  !"  says  he,  in  a 
state  of  great  surprise,  "you're not  drowned?"  "No,'* 
says  I  ;  "  you  won't  get  your  double  allowance  after  all.'* 
"  How  much  shall  I  get  ?"  says  he,  rousing  up  and  look- 
ing anxious.  "  Your  fair  half-share  of  what  is  here,"  I 
answered  him.  "And  how  long  will  thM  last  me  ?  "  says 
he.  "  The  food,  if  you  have  sense  enough  to  eke  it  out 
with  what  you  may  find  in  this  miserable  place,  barely 
three  weeks,"  says  I ;  "  and  the  water  (if  you  ever  drink 
any)  about  a  fortnight."  At  hearing  that,  he  took  the 
bottle  out  of  his  pocket  again,  and  put  it  to  his  lips. 
"  I'm  cold  to  the  bones,"  says  I,  frowning  at  him  for  a 
drop.  "  And  I'm  warm  to  the  marrow,"  says  he,  chuck- 
ling, and  handing  me  the  bottle  empty.  I  pitched  it 
away  at  once, — or  the  temptation  to  break  it  over  his 
head  might  have  been  too  much  for  me, — I  pitched  it 
away,  and  looked  into  the  medicine-chest  to  see  if  there 
was  a  drop  of  peppermint,  or  anything  comforting  of 
that  sort,  inside.  Only  three  physic  bottles  were  left  in 
it,  all  three  being  neatly  tied  over  with  oil-skin.  One  of 
them  held  a  strong  white  liquor,  smelling  like  hartshorn. 
The  other  two  were  filled  with  stuff  in  powder,  having 
the  names  in  printed  gibberish  pasted  outside.  On  look- 
ing a  little  closer,  I  found  under  some  broken  divisions 
of  the  chest,  a  small  flask  covered  with  wicker-work. 
"  Ginger-brandy,"  was  written  with  pen  and  ink  on  the 
wicker-work,  and  the  flask  was  full  !  I  think  that  blessed 
discovery  saved  me  from  shivering  myself  to  pieces. 
After  a  pull  at  the  flask  which  made  a  new  man  of  me,  I 
put  it  away  in  my  inside  breast-pocket ;  Mr.  Clissold 
watching  me  with  greedy  eyes,  but  saying  nothing. 

All  this  while  the  rain  was  rushing,  the  wind  roaring, 
and  the  sea  crashing,  as  if  Noah's  Flood  had  come  again. 
I  sat  close  against  the  supercargo,  because  he  was  in  the 
driest  place,  and  pulled  my  fair  share  of  the  tarpaulin 
away  from  him,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not.  He  by  no 
means  liked  it ;  being  in  that  sort  of  half-drunken,  half- 
sober  state  (after  finishing  his  bottle),  in  which  a  man's 
temper  is  most  easily  upset  by  trifles.  The  upset  of  Jiis 
temper  showed  itself  in  the  way  of  small  aggravations, 
of  which  I  took  no  notice,  till  he  suddenly  bethought 
himself  of  angering  me  by  going  back  again  to  that  dis- 
pute about  father,  which  had  bred  ill-blood  between  us 
on  the  day  when  we  first  saw  each  other.  If  he  had 
been  a  younger  man,  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  stopped 
him  by  a  punch  on  the  head.  As  it  was,  considering  his 
age  and  the  shame  of  this  quarrelling  betwixt  us  when 
we  were  both  cast  away  together,  I  only  warned  him 
that  I  might  punch  his  head  if  he  went  on.  It  did  just 
as  well,  and  I'm  glad  now  to  think  that  it  did. 

We  were  huddled  so  close  together  that  when  he  coiled 
himself  up  to  sleep  (with  a  growl),  and  when  he  did  go 
to  sleep  (with  a  grunt),  he  growled  and  grunted  into  my 
ear.  His  rest,  like  the  rest  of  all  the  regular  drunkards 
I  have  ever  met  with,  was  broken.  He  ground  his  teeth, 
and  talked  in  his  sleep.  Among  the  words  he  mumbled 
to  himself  I  heard,  as  plain  as  could  be,  father's  name. 
This  vexed,  but  did  not  surprise  me,  seeing  that  he  had 
talked  of  father  before  he  dropped  off.  But  when  I  made 
out  next,  among  his  mutterings  and  mumblings,  the 
words  "  five  hundred  pound,"  spoken  over  and  over  again, 
with  father's  name,  now  before,  now  after,  now  mixed 
in  along  with  them,  I  got  curious,  and  listened  for  more. 
My  listening  (and  serve  me  right,  you  will  say)  came  to 
nothing  ;  he  certainly  talked  on,  but  I  couldn't  make  out 
a  word  more  that  he  said. 

When  he  woke  up,  I  told  him  plainly  he  had  been  talk- 
ing in  his  sleep  ;  ^nd  mightily  taken  aback  he  looked 
when  he  first  heard  it.  "What  about? "says  he.  I 
made  answer,  "My  father,  and  five  hundred  pound; 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA. 


1069 


and  how  do  you  come  to  couple  tliein  together,  I  should 
like  to  know?"  "  I  couldn't  have  coupled  them,"  says 
he,  in  a  great  hurry  ;  "  what  do  I  know  about  it  ?  I  don't 
belie v^e  a  man  like  your  father  ever  had  such  a  sum  of 
money  as  that  in  all  his  life,"  "Don't  you?"  says  I, 
feeling  the  aggravation  of  him,  in  spite  of  myself  ;  **  I 
can  just  tell  you  my  father  had  such  a  sum  when  he  was 
no  older  a  man  than  I  am, — and  saved  it, — and  left  it  for 
a  provision,  in  his  will  to  my  mother,  who  has  got  it  now, 
— and,  I  say  again,  how  came  a  stranger  like  you  to  be 
talking  of  it  in  your  sleep?"  At  hearing  this,  he  went 
about  on  the  other  tack  directly.  "Was  that  all  your 
father  left  after  his  debts  were  paid?"  says  he.  "Are 
you  very  curious  to  know  ?  "  says  I.  He  took  no  notice, 
— he  only  persisted  with  his  question.  "  Was  it  just  five 
hundred' pound,  no  more  and  no  less?"  says  he.  "  Sup- 
pose it  was,"  says  I ;  "what  then?"  "O,  nothing!" 
says  he,  and  turns  sharp  round  from  me  and  chuckles  to 
hiinself.  "You're  drunk  !"  says  I.  "Yes,"  says  he; 
"that's  it, — stick  to  that, — I'm  drunk," — and  he  chuckles 
again.  Try  as  I  might,  and  threaten  as  I  might,  not 
another  word  on  the  matter  of  the  five  hundred  pound 
could  I  get  from  him,  I  bore  it  well  in  mind,  though, 
for  all  that, — it  being  one  of  my  slow  ways  not  easily  to 
forget  anything  that  had  once  surprised  me,  and  not  to 
give  up  returning  to  it  over  and  over  again  as  time  and 
occasion  may  serve  for  the  purpose, 

The  hours  wore  on,  and  the  storm  raged  on.  We  had 
our  half-rations  of  food  when  hunger  took  us  (I  being 
much  the  hungrier  of  the  two)  ;  and  slept,  and  grumbled, 
and  quarrelled  the  weary  time  out  somehow.  Toward 
dusk  the  wind  lessened,  and  v/hen  I  got  up  out  of  the 
hollow  to  look  out  there  was  a  faint  watery  break  in  the 
western  heavens.  At  times,  through  the  watches  of  the 
long  night,  the  stars  showed  in  patches  for  a  little  while 
through  the  rents  that  opened  and  closed  by  fits  in  the 
black  sky.  When  I  fell  asleep  toward  the  dawning  the 
wind  had  fallen  to  a  moan,  though  the  sea,  slower  to  go 
down,  sounded  as  loud  as  ever.  From  what  I  could 
make  of  the  weather,  the  storm  had  by  that  time  as  good 
as  blown  itself  out. 

I  had  been  wise  enough  (knowing  who  was  near  me) 
to  lay  myself  down,  whenever  I  slept,  on  the  side  of  me 
which  was  next  to  the  flask  of  ginger- brandy  stowed 
away  in  my  breast-pocket.  When  I  awoke  at  sun- 
rise it  was  the  supercargo's  hand  that  roused  me  up, 
trying  to  steal  my  flask  while  I  was  asleep.  I  rolled 
him  over  headlong  among  the  stores,  out  of  which 
I  had  the  humanity  to  pull  him  again  with  my  own 
hands. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  says  I,  "  if  us  two  keep  company 
any  longer  we  shan't  get  on  smoothly  together.  You're 
the  oldest  man  ;  and  you  stop  here,  where  we  know 
there  is  shelter.  We  will  divide  the  stores  fairly,  and 
I'll  go  and  shift  for  myself  at  the  other  end  of  the 
island.    Do  you  agree  to  that?" 

"  Yes,"  says  he  ;  "and  the  sooner  the  better." 

I  left  him  for  a  minute,  and  went  away  to  look  out  on 
the  reef  that  had  wrecked  us.  The  splinters  of  the 
Peruvian  scattered  broadcast  over  the  beach,  or  tossing  up 
and  down  darkly,  far  out  in  the  white  surf,  were  all  that 
remained  to  tell  of  the  ship.  I  don't  deny  that  my  heart 
sank  when  I  looked  it  the  place  where  she  struck,  and 
saw  nothing  before  me  but  sea  and  sky. 

But  what  was  the  use  of  standing  and  looking?  It 
was  a  deal  better  to  rouse  myself  by  doing  some- 
thing. I  returned  to  Mr.  Clissold,  and  then  and  there 
divided  the  stores  into  two  equal  parts,  including  every- 
thing down  to  the  matches  in  my  pocket.  Of  these  parts 
I  gave  him  first  choice.  I  also  left  him  the  wdiole  of  the 
tarpaulin  to  himself,  keeping  in  my  own  possession  the 
medicine-chest  and  the  pistol  ;  which  last  I  loaded  with 
powder  and  shot,  in  case  any  sea-birds  might  fly  within 
reach.  When  the  division  was  made,  and  when  I  had 
moved  my  part  out  of  his  way  and  out  of  his  sight,  I 
thought  it  uncivil  to  bear  malice  any  longer  now  that  we 
had  agreed  to  separate.  We  were  cast  away  on  a  desert 
island,  and  we  had  death,  as  well  as  I  could  see,  within 
about  tliree  weeks'  hail  of  us  ;  but  that  was  no  reason 
for  not  making  things  reasonably  pleasant  as  long  as  we 
could,  I  was  some  time  (in  consequence  of  my  natural 
slowness  where  matters  of  seafaring  duty  don't  happen 


to  be  concerned)  before  I  came  to  this  conclusion.  When 
I  did  come  to  it,  I  acted  on  it, 

"Shake  hands  before  parting,"  I  .said,  suiting  the  ac- 
tion to  the  word, 

"  No  !  "  says  he,  "  I  don't  like  you." 

"  Please  yourself,"  says  I ;  and  so  we  parted. 

Turning  my  back  on  the  west,  which  was  his  territory 
according  to  agreement,  I  walked  away  toward  the 
southeast,  where  the  sides  of  the  island  rose  highest. 
Here  I  found  a  sort  of  half-rift,  half -cavern,  in  the  rocky 
banks,  which  looked  as  likely  a  place  as  any  other  ;  and 
to  this  refuge  I  moved  my  share  of  the  stores,  I  thatched 
it  over,  as  well  as  I  could,  with  scrub,  and  heaped  up 
some  loose  stones  at  the  mouth  of  it.  At  home  in  Eng- 
land I  should  have  been  ashamed  to  put  my  dog  in  such 
a  place  ;  but  when  a  man  believes  his  days  to  be  num- 
bered he  is  not  over-particular  about  his  lodgings,  and  I 
was  not  over-particular  about  mine. 

When  my  work  was  done  the  heavens  were  fair,  the 
sun  was  shining,  and  it  was  long  past  noon.  I  went  up 
again  to  the  high  ground,  to  see  what  I  could  make  out 
in  the  new  clearness  of  the  air.  North,  east,  and  west 
there  was  nothing  but  sea  and  sky  ;  but  south  I  now  saw 
land.  It  was  high,  and  looked  to  be  a  matter  of  seven 
or  eight  miles  otf.  Island  or  not,  it  must  have  been  of  a 
good  size  for  me  to  see  it  as  I  did.  Known  or  not  known 
to  mariners,  it  was  certainly  big  enough  to  have  li\ing 
creatures  on  it, — animals  or  men,  or  both.  If  I  had  not 
lost  the  boat  in  my  second  attempt  to  reach  the  vessel 
we  might  have  easily  got  to  it.  But  situated  as  we  were 
now,  with  no  wood  to  make  a  boat  of  but  the  scattered 
splinters  from  the  ship,  and  with  no  tools  to  use  even, 
that  much,  there  might  just  as  well  have  been  no  land 
in  sight  at  all,  so  far  as  we  were  concerned.  The  poor 
hope  of  a  ship  coming  our  road  was  still  the  only  hope 
left.  To  give  us  all  the  little  chance  we  might  get 
that  way,  I  now  looked  about  on  the  beach  for  the  long- 
est morsel  of  a  wrecked  spar  that  I  could  find,  planted 
it  on  the  high  ground,  and  rigged  up  to  it  the  one  shirt 
I  had  on  my  back  for  a  signal.  While  coming  and  going 
on  this  job,  I  noted  with  great  joy  that  rain-water  enough 
lay  in  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  above  the  sea-line  to  save 
our  small  store  of  fresh  water  for  a  week  at  least. 
Thinking  it  only  fair  to  the  supercargo  to  let  him  know 
what  I  had  found  out,  I  went  to  his  territories,  after 
setting  up  the  morsel  of  a  spar,  and  discreetly  shouted 
my  news  down  to  him  without  showing  myself.  "  Keep 
to  your  own  side  ! "  was  all  the  thanks  I  got  for  this 
piece  of  civility,  I  went  back  to  my  own  side  immedi- 
ately, and  crawled  into  my  little  cavern,  quite  content 
to  be  alone.  On  that  first  night,  strange  as  it  seems 
now,  I  once  or  twice  nearly  caught  myself  feeling 
happy  at  the  thought  of  being  rid  of  Mr.  Lawrence 
Clissold. 

According  to  my  calculations, — which  were  made  by 
tying  a  fresh  knot  every  morning  in  a  piece  of  marline, 
— we  two  men  were  just  a  week,  each  on  his  own 
side  of  the  island,  without  seeing  or  communicating, 
anyhow,  with  one  another.  The  first  half  of  the  week 
I  had  enough  to  do  with  cudgeling  my  brains  for  a  means 
of  helping  ourselves,  to  keep  my  mind  steady. 

I  thought  first  of  picking  up  all  the  longest  bits  of 
spars  that  had  been  cast  ashore,  lashing  them  together 
with,  ropes  twisted  out  of  the  long  grass  on  the  island, 
and  trusting  to  raft-navigation  to  get  to  that  high  land 
away  in  the  south.  But  when  I  looked  among  the  spars, 
there  were  not  half  a  dozen  of  them  left  whole  enough 
for  the  purpose.  And  even  if  there  had  been  more,  the 
short  allowance  of  food  would  not  have  given  me  time 
sufiicient,  or  strength  suflEicient,  to  gather  the  grass,  to 
twist  it  into  ropes,  and  to  lash  a  raft  together  big  enough 
and  strong  enough  for  us  two  men.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  give  up  this  notion, — and  I  gave  it  up. 
The  next  chance  I  thought  of  was  to  keep  a  fire  burning 
on  the  shore  every  night,  with  the  wood  of  the  wreck, 
in  case  vessels  at  sea  might  notice  it  on  one  side,  or  the 
people  of  the  high  land  in  the  south  (if  the  distance  was 
not  too  great)  might  notice  it  on  the  other.  There  was 
sense  in  this  notion,  and  it  could  be  turned  to  account 
the  moment  the  wood  was  dry  enough  to  burn.  The 
wood  got  dry  enough  before  the  week  was  out.  Whether 
it  was  the  end  of  the  stormy  season  in  those  latitudes,  or 


1070 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


whether  it  was  only  the  shiftmg  of  the  Avind  to  the  west, 
I  don't  know  ;  but  now,  day  after  day,  the  heavens  were 
clear,  and  the  sun  shone  scorching  hot.  The  scrub  on 
the  island  (which  was  of  no  great  account)  dried  up,  but 
the  fresh  water  in  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  (which  was, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  serious  business)  dried  up  too. 
Troubles  seldom  come  alone  ;  and  on  the  day  when  I 
made  this  discovery  I  also  found  out  that  I  had  calcu- 
lated wrong  about  the  food.  Eke  it  out  as  I  might, 
with  scurvy  grass  and  roots,  there  would  not  be  above 
eight  days  more  of  it  left  when  the  first  week  was  past  ; 
and  as  for  the  fresh  water,  half  a  pint  a  day,  unless 
more  rain  fell,  would  leave  me  at  the  end  of  my  store, 
as  nearly  as  I  could  guess,  about  the  same  time. 

This  was  a  bad  look-out,  but  I  don't  think  the  pros- 
pect of  it  upset  me  in  my  mind  so  much  as  the  having 
nothing  to  do.  Except  for  the  gathering  of  the  wood, 
and  the  lighting  of  the  signal-fire  every  night,  I  had  no 
work  at  all  toward  the  end  of  the  week  to  keep  me 
steady.  I  checked  myself  in  thinking  much  about  home, 
for  fear  of  losing  heart,  and  not  holding  out  to  the  last, 
as  became  a  man.  For  the  same  reasons  I  likewise  kept 
my  mind  from  raising  hopes  of  help  in  me  which  were 
not  likely  to  come  true.  What  else  was  there  to  think 
about  ?  Nothing  but  the  man  on  the  other  side  of  the 
island, — and  be  lianged  to  him  ! 

I  thought  about  those  words  I  heard  him  say  in  his 
sleep  ;  I  thought  about  how  he  was  getting  on  by  him- 
self ;  how  he  liked  nothing  but  water  to  drink,  and  little 
enough  of  that ;  how  he  was  eking  out  his  food  ;  whether 
he  slept  much  or  not  ;  whether  he  saw  the  smoke  of  my 
fire  at  night  or  not ;  whether  be  held  up  better  or  worse 
than  I  did  ;  whether  he  would  be  glad  to  see  me  if  I 
went  to  him  to  make  it  up  ;  whether  he  or  I  would  die 
first ;  whether  if  it  was  me,  he  would  do  for  me  what  I 
would  have  done  for  him,  namely,  bury  him,  with  the 
last  strength  I  had  left.  All  these  things,  and  lots  more, 
kept  coming  and  going  in  my  mind,  till  I  could  stand  it 
no  longer.  On  the  morning  of  the  eighth  day  I  roused 
up  to  go  to  his  territories,  feeling  it  would  do  me  good 
to  see  him  and  hear  him,  even  if  we  quarrelled  again 
the  instant  we  set  eyes  on  each  other. 

I  climbed  up  to  the  grassy  ground  ;  and  when  I  got 
there,  what  should  I  see  but  the  supercargo  himself 
coming  to  my  territories,  and  wandering  up  and  down 
in  the  scrub  through  not  knowing  where  to  find  them  ! 

It  almost  kicked  me  over,  when  we  met,  the  man  was 
changed  so.  He  looked  eighty  years  old  :  the  little  flesh 
he  had  on  his  miserable  face  hung  baggy  ;  his  blue  spec- 
tacles had  dropped  down  on  his  nose,  and  his  eyes 
showed  over  them  wild  and  red-brimmed  ;  his  lips  were 
black  ;  his  legs  staggered  under  him.  He  came  up  to 
me  with  his  eyes  all  of  a  glare,  and  put  both  his  hands 
on  my  breast,  just  over  the  pocket  in  which  I  kept  that 
flask  of  ginger-brandy  which  he  had  tried  to  steal  from 
me. 

"  Have  you  got  any  of  it  left  ?  "  says  he,  in  a  whisper. 

**  About  two  moutbfuls,"  says  I. 

"  Give  us  one  of  them,  for  God's  sake,"  says  he. 

Giving  him  one  of  those  mouthfuls  was  just  about 
equal  to  giving  him  a  day  of  my  life.  In  the  case  of  a 
man  I  liked,  I  would  not  have  thought  twice  about  giving 
it.  In  the  case  of  Mr.  Clissold  I  did  think  twice.  I 
would  have  been  a  better  Christian  if  I  could,  but  just 
then  I  couldn't. 

He  thought  I  was  going  to  say  No.  His  eyes  got  cun- 
ning directly.  He  reached  his  hand  to  my  shoulders, 
and  whispered  these  words  in  my  ear  : 

'*  I'll  tell  you  what  I  know  about  the  five  hundred 
I)Ound  if  you'll  give  me  a  drop." 

I  determined  to  give  it  to  him,  and  pulled  out  the  flask. 
I  took  his  hand,  and  poured  the  drop  into  the  hollow  of 
it,  and  held  it  for  a  moment. 

"  Tell  me  first,"  I  said,  "  and  drink  afterwards." 

He  looked  all  around  him,  as  if  he  thought  there  were 
X)eople  on  the  island  to  hear  us.  "Hush!"  he  said  ; 
"  let's  whisper  about  it."  The  next  question  and  answer 
that  passed  between  us  was  louder  than  before  on  my 
side,  and  softer  than  ever  on  his.  This  was  the  ques- 
tion,— 

"  What  do  you  know  about  the  five  hundred  pound  ?  " 
And  this  was  the  answer, — 


"  It's  Stolen  Money  !  " 

My  hand  dropped  away  from  his  as  if  lie  had  shot  me. 
He  instantly  fastened  on  the  drop  of  liquor  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand,  like  a  hungry  wild  beast  on  a  bone,  and 
then  looked  up  for  more.  Something  in  my  face  (God 
knows  what)  seemed  suddenly  to  frighten  him  out  of  his 
life.  Before  I  could  stir  a  step,  or  get  a  word  out,  down 
he  dropped  on  his  knees,  whining  and  whimpering  in 
the  high  grass  at  my  feet. 

I     "  Don't  kill  me  !  -''  says  he  ;  "  I'm  dying,— I'll  think  of 
j  my  poor  soul.    I'll  repent  while  there's  time — " 
j     Beginning  in  that  way,  he  maundered  awfully,  grovel- 
j  ling  down  in  the  .grass  ;  asking  me  every  other  minute 
I  for  "  a  drop  more,  and  a  drop  more  "  ;  and  talking  as  if 
i  he  thought  we  were  both  in  England.    Out  of  his  wan- 
derings,his  beseechings  for  another  drop,  and  his  misera- 
ble beggars'  petitions  for  his  "  poor  soul,"  I  gathered  to- 
gether these  words,— the  same  which  I  wrote  down  on 
the  morsel  of  paper,  and  of  which  nine  parts  out  of  ten 
are  now  rubbed  off  ! 

The  first  I  made  out — though  not  the  first  he  said — 
was  that  some  one,  whom  he  spoke  of  as  "  the  old  man," 
was  alive  ;  and  "Lanrean"  was  the  place  he  lived  in. 
I  was  to  go  there,  and  ask  among  the  old  men,  for  '  *  Tre- 
garthen — " 

(At  the  mention  by  me  of  the  name  of  Tregarthen,  my 
brother,  to  my  great  surprise,  stopped  me  with  a  start  ; 
made  me  say  the  name  over  more  than  once  ;  and  then, 
for  the  first  time,  told  me  of  the  trouble  about  his  sweet- 
heart and  his  marriage.  We  waited  a  little  to  talk  that 
matter  over,  after  which  I  went  on  again  with  my  story, 
in  these  words  :) 

Well,  as  I  made  out  from  Clissold's  wanderings,  I  was 
to  go  to  Lanrean,  to  ask  among  the  old  men  for  Tregar- 
then, and  to  say  to  Tiegarthen,  "  Clissold  was  the  man. 
Clissold  bore  no  malice  ;  Clissold  repented  like  a  Chris- 
tian, for  the  sake  of  his  poor  soul."  No  !  I  was  to  say 
something  else  to  Tregarthen.  I  was  to  say,  "Look 
among  the  books  :•  look  at  the  leaf  you  know  of,  and  see 
for  yourself  it's  not  the  right  leaf  to  be  there."  No  !  I 
was  to  say  something  else  to  Tregarthen.  I  was  to  say, 
"  The  right  leaf  is  hidden,  not  burned.  Clissold  had 
time  for  everything  else,  but  no  time  to  burn  that  leaf. 
Tregarthen  came  in  when  he  had  got  the  candle  lit  to 
burn  it.  There  was  just  time  to  let  it  drop  from  under 
his  hand  into  the  great  crack  in  the  desk,  and  then  he 
was  ordered  abroad  by  the  House,  and  there  was  no 
chance  of  doing  more."  No  !  I  was  to  say  none  of  these 
things  to  Tregarthen.  Only  this  instead  :  "  Look  in 
Clissold's  desk, — and  if  you  blame  anybody,  blame 
Miser  Ray  brock  for  driving  him  to  it."  And,  O,  another 
drop, — for  the  Lord's  sake,  give  him  another  drop  ! 

So  he  went  on,  over  and  over  again,  till  I  found  voice 
enough  to  speak  and  stop  him. 

"Get  up  and  go  ! "  I  said  to  the  miserable  wretch. 
"Get  back  to  your  own  side  of  the  island,  or  I  may  do 
you  a  mischief,  in  spite  of  my  own  self." 

"  Give  me  another  drop  and  I  will,"  was  all  the  an- 
swer I  could  get  from  him. 

I  threw  him  the  flask.  He  pounced  upon  it  with  a 
howl.  I  turned  my  back, — for  I  could  look  at  him  no 
longer, — and  climbed  down  again  to  my  cavern  on  the 
beach. 

I  sat  down  alone  on  the  sand,  and  tried  to  quiet  myself 
fit  to  think  about  what  I  had  heard.  That  father  could 
ever  have  wilfully  done  anything  unbecoming  his  charac- 
ter as  an  honest  man,  was  what  I  wouldn't  believe,  in 
the  first  place.  And  that  the  wretched  brute  I  had  just 
parted  from  was  in  his  right  senses, was  what  I  wouldn't 
believe  in  the  second  place.  What  I  had  myself  seen 
of  drinkers,  at  sea  and  ashore,  helped  me  to  understand 
the  condition  into  which  he  had  fallen.  I  knew  that  when 
a  man  who  had  been  a  drunkard  for  years  is  suddenly 
cut  off  his  drink,  he  drops  to  pieces  like,  body  and  mind, 
for  the  want  of  it.  I  had  also  heard  ship-doctors  talk, 
by  some  name  of  their  own,  of  a  drink-madness,  which 
we  ignorant  men  call  the  Horrors.  And  I  made  it  out, 
easy  enough,  that  I  had  seen  the  supercargo  in  the  first 
of  these  conditions  ;  and  that  if  we  both  lived  long 
enough  without  help  coming  to  us,  I  might  soon  see  him 
in  the  second.  But  when  I  tried  to  get  farther,  and  set- 
tle how  much  of  what  1  had  heard  was  wandering  and 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA, 


how  much  tmth,  and  what  it  meant  if  any  of  it  was 
truth,  my  slowness  ^ot  in  my  way  again  ;  and  where  a 
quicker  man  might  have  made  up  his  mind  in  an  liour 
or  two,  I  was  all  day,  in  sore  distress,  making  up  mine. 
The  upshot  of  what  I  settled  with  myself  was,  in  two 
words,  this  :  having  mother's  writing-case  handy  about 
me,  I  determined  first  to  set  down  for  my  own  self's 
reminder,  all  that  T  had  heard.  Second,  to  clear  the 
matter  up  if  ever  I  got  back  to  England  alive  ;  and  if 
wrong  had  been  done  to  that  old  man,  or  to  anybody  else, 
in  father's  name  (without  father's  knowledge),  to  make 
restoration  for  his  sake. 

All  that  day  I  neither  saw  nor  heard  more  of  the 
supercargo.  I  passed  a  miserable  night  of  it,  after 
writing  my  memorandum,  fighting  with  my  loneliness 
and  my  own  thoughts.  The  remembrance  of  those 
words  in  father's  will,  saying  that  the  five  hundred 
pound  was  money  which  he  had  once  run  a  risk  with, 
kept  putting  into  my  mind  suspicions  I  was  ashamed  of. 
When  daylight  came,  I  almost  felt  as  if  I  was  going  to 
have  the  Horrors  too,  and  got  up  to  walk  them  off,  if 
possible,  in  the  morning  air. 

I  kept  on  the  northern  side  of  the  island,  walking 
backward  and  forward  for  an  hour  or  more.  Then  I  re- 
turned to  my  cavern  ;  and  the  first  thing  I  saw,  on  get- 
ting near  it,  was  other  footsteps  than  mine  marked  on 
the  sand.  I  suspected  at  once  that  the  supercargo  had 
been  lurking  about  watching  me  instead  of  going  back 
to  his  own  side  ;  and  that,  in  my  absence,  he  had  been 
at  his  thieving  tricks  again. 

The  stores  were  what  I  looked  at  first.  The  food  he 
had  not  touched  ;  but  the  water  he  had  either  drunk 
or  wasted, — there  was  not  half  a  pint  of  it  left.  The 
medicine-chest  was  open,  and  the  bottle  with  the  harts- 
horn was  gone.  When  I  looked  next  for  the  pistol, 
which  I  had  loaded  with  powder  and  shot  for  the  chance 
of  bird-shooting  that  never  came,  the  pistol  was  gone 
too.  After  making  this  last  discovery,  there  was  but 
one  thing  to  be  done, — namely,  to  find  out  where  he  was, 
and  to  take  the  pistol  away  from  him. 

1  set  off  to  search  first  on  the  western  side.  It  was  a 
beautiful,  clear,  calm,  sunshiny  morning  ;  and  as  I 
crossed  the  island,  looking  out  on  my  left  hand  and  my 
right  I  stopped  on  a  sudden,  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth, 
as  the  saying  is.  Something  caught  my  eye,  far  out  at 
sea,  in  the  northwest.  I  looked  again, — and  there,  as 
true  as  the  heavens  above  me,  I  saw  a  ship,  with  the 
sunlight  on  her  top-sails,  hull  down,  on  the  water-line 
in  the  ofling. 

All  thought  of  the  errand  I  was  bent  on  went  out  of 
my  mind  in  an  instant.  I  ran  as  fast  as  my  weak  legs 
would  carry  me  to  the  northern  beach  ;  gathered  up  the 
broken  wood  which  was  still  lying  there  plentifully, 
and,  with  the  help  of  the  dry  scrub,  lit  the  largest  fire  I 
had  made  yet.  This  was  the  only  signal  it  was  in  my 
power  to  make  that  there  were  men  on  the  island.  The 
fire  in  the  bright  daylight  would  never  be  visible  to  the 
ship  ;  but  the  smoke  curling  up  from  it  in  the  clear  sky 
might  be  seen,  if  they  had  a  look-out  at  the  mast-head. 

While  I  was  still  feeding  the  fire,  and  so  rapt  up  in 
doing  it  that  I  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for  anything 
else,  I  heard  the  supercargo's  voice,  on  a  sudden,  at  my 
back.  He  had  stolen  on  me  along  the  sand.  When  I 
faced  him  he  was  swinging  his  arms  about  in  the  air, 
and  saying  to  himself,  over  and  over  again,  "  I  see  the 
ship  !    I  see  the  ship  !  " 

After  a  little  he  came  close  up  to  me.  By  the  look  of 
him  he  had  been  drinking  the  hartshorn,  and  it  had 
strung  him  up  a  bit,  body  and  mind,  for  the  time.  He 
kept  his  right  hand  behind  him,  as  if  he  was  hiding 
something.  I  suspected  that  "something"  to  be  the 
pistol  I  was  in  search  of. 

"  Will  the  ship  come  here?"  says  he. 

"Yes,  if  they  see  the  smoke,"  says  I,  keeping  my  eye 
on  him. 

He  waited  a  bit,  frowning  suspiciously,  and  looking 
hard  at  me  all  the  time. 

What  did  I  say  to  you  yesterday?"  he  asked. 

"  What  I  have  got  written  down  here,"  I  made  an- 
swer, smacking  my  hand  over  the  writing-case  in  my 
breast-pocket ;  "  and  what  I  mean  to  put  to  the  proof,  if 
the  ship  sees  us  and  we  get  back  to  England." 


He  whipped  his  right  hand  round  from  behind  him 
like  lightning,  and  snapped  the  pistol  at  me.  It  missed 
fire.  I  wrenched  it  from  him  in  a  moment,  and  was 
just  within  one  hair's  breadth  of  knocking  him  on  the 
head  witli  the  butt-end  afterwards.  I  lifted  my  hand, 
— then  thought  better,  and  dropped  it  again. 

"  No,"  says  I,  fixing  my  eyes  on  him  steadily  :  "I'll 
wait  till  the  ship  finds  us." 

He  slunk  away  from  me  ;  and,  as  he  slunk,  looked, 
hard  into  the  fire.  He  stopped  a  minute  so,  thinking  to 
himself  ;  then  he  looked  back  at  me  again,  with  some 
mad  mischief  in  him,  that  twinkled  through  his  blue 
spectacles,  andgi'inned  on  his  dry  i)lack  lips. 

"  The  ship  shall  never  find  you,"  he  said.  With  which 
words  he  turned  himself  about  towards  his  own  side  of 
the  island,  and  left  me. 

He  only  meant  that  saying  to  be  a  threat, — but,  bird 
of  ill-omen  that  he  was,  it  turned  out  as  good  as  a  proph- 
ecy !  All  my  hard  work  with  the  fire  proved  work  in 
vain  ;  all  hope  was  quenched  in  me  long  before  the  em- 
bers I  had  set  light  to  were  burned  out.  ^\^lether  the 
smoke  was  seen  or  not  from  the  vessel  is  more  than  I 
can  tell.  I  only  know  that  she  filled  away  on  the 
other  tack,  not  ten  minutes  after  the  supercargo  left  me. 
In  less  than  an  hour's  time  the  last  glimpse  of  the  bright 
top-sails  had  vanished  out  of  view. 

I  went  back  to  my  cavern, — Avhich  was  now  likelier 
than  ever  to  be  my  grave  as  well.  In  that  hot  climate, 
with  all  the  moisture  on  the  island  dried  up,  with  not 
quite  so  much  as  a  tumblerful  of  fresh  water  left,  with 
my  strength  wasted  by  living  on  half-rations  of  food, — 
two  days  more,  at  most,  would  see  me  out.  It  was  hard 
enough  for  a  man  at  my  age,  Avith  all  that  I  had  left  at 
home  to  make  life  precious,  to  die  such  a  death  as  was 
now  before  me.  It  was  harder  still  to  have  the  sting  of 
death  sharpened — as  I  felt  it  then — by  what  had  just 
happened  between  the  supercargo  and  myself.  There 
was  no  hope  now  that  the  wanderings,  the  day  before, 
had  more  falsehood  than  truth  in  them.  The  secret  he 
had  let  out  was  plainly  true  enough  and  serious  enough 
to  have  scared  him  into  attempting  my  life,  rather  than 
let  me  keep  possession  of  it,  when  there  was  a  chance  of 
the  ship  rescuing  us.  That  secret  had  father's  good 
name  mixed  up  with  it, — and  here  was  I,  instead  of 
clearing  the  villanous  darkness  from  off  of  it,  carrying 
it  with  me,  black  as  ever,  into  my  grave. 

It  was  out  of  the  horror  I  felt  at  doing  that,  and  out 
of  the  yearning  of  my  heart  toward  you,  Alfred,  when 
I  thought  of  it,  that  the  notion  came  to  comfort  me,  of 
writing  the  Message  at  the  top  of  the  paper,  and  of 
committing  it  in  the  bottle  to  the  sea.  Drowning  men, 
they  say,  catch  at  straws, — and  the  straw  of  comfort  I 
caught  at  was  the  one  chance  in  ten  thousand  that  the 
Message  might  float  till  it  was  picked  up,  and  that  it 
might  reach  you.  My  mind  might,  or  might  not,  have 
been  failing  me  by  this  time, — but  it  is  true,  either  way, 
that  I  did  feel  comforted  when  I  had  emptied  one  of 
the  two  bottles  left  in  the  medicine  chest,  had  put  the 
paper  inside,  had  tied  the  stopper  carefully  over  with  the 
oil-skin,  and  had  laid  the  whole  by  in  my  pocket,  ready, 
when  I  felt  my  time  coming,  to  drop  into  the  sea.  I  was 
rid  of  the  secret,  I  thought  to  myself  ;  and,  if  it  pleased 
God,  I  was  rid  of  it,  Alfred,  to  you. 

The  day  waned,  and  the  sun  set,  all  cloudless  and 
golden,  in  a  dead  calm.  There  was  not  a  ripple  anywhere 
on  the  long  oily  heaving  of  the  sea.  Before  night  came 
I  strengthened  myself  with  a  better  meal  than  usual  as  to 
food, — for  where  was  the  use  of  keeping  meat  and  bis- 
cuit when  I  had  not  water  enough  to  last  along  with 
them  ?  When  the  stars  came  out  and  the  moon  rose  I 
gathered  the  wood  together  and  lit  the  signal-fire,  ac- 
cording to  custom,  on  the  beach  outside  my  cavern.  I 
had  no  hope  from  it,  — but  the  fire  was  company  to  me  ; 
the  looking  into  it  quieted  my  thoughts,  and  the  crack- 
ling of  it  was  a  relief  in  the  silence.  I  don't  know  why 
it  was,  but  the  breathless  stillness  of  that  night  had 
something  awful  in  it,  and  went  near  to  frightening  me. 

The  moon  got  high  in  the  heavens,  and  the  light  of 
her  lay  all  in  a  flood  on  the  sand  before  me,  on  the  rocks 
that  jutted  out  from  it,  and  on  the  calm  sea  beyond.  I 
was  thinking  of  Margaret — wondering  if  the  moon  was 
shining  on  our  little  bay  at  Steep  ways  and  if  she  was 


1072 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


looking  at  it  too, — when  T  saw  a  man's  shadow  steal  over 
the  white  of  the  sand.  He  was  lurking  near  me  again  1 
In  a  minute  he  came  into  view.  The  moonshine  glinted 
on  his  blue  spectacles,  and  glimmered  on  his  bald  head. 
He  stopped  as  he  passed  the  rocks  and  looked  about  for 
a  loose  stone  ;  he  found  a  large  one,  and  came  straight 
with  it  on  tiptoe  up  to  the  fire.  I  showed  myself  to  him 
on  a  sudden,  in  the  red  of  the  flame,  with  the  pistol  in 
my  hand.  He  dropped  the  stone  and  shrank  back  at  the 
sight  of  it.  When  he  was  close  to  the  sea  he  stopped, 
and  screamed  out  at  me,  "  The  ship's  coming  !  The 
ship's  coming  !  The  ship  shall  never  find  you!  "  The 
notion  of  the  ship,  and  that  other  notion  of  killing  me 
before  help  came  to  us,  seemed  never  to  have  left  him. 
When  he  turned,  and  went  back  by  the  way  he  had  come, 
he  was  still  shouting  out  those  same  Avords.  For  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  or  more  I  heard  him,  till  the  silence  swal- 
lowed up  his  ravings,  and  led  me  back  again  to  my 
thoughts  of  home. 

Those  thoughts  kept  with  me  till  the  moon  was  on  the 
wane.  It  was  darker  now,  and  stiller  than  ever.  I  had 
not  fed  the  signal-fire  for  half  an  hour  or  more,  and  had 
roused  myself  up,  at  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  to  do  it, 
when  I  saw  the  dying  gleams  of  moonshine  over  the  sea 
on  either  side  of  me  change  colour  and  turn  red.  Blaclc 
shadows,  as  from  low-flying  clouds,  swept  after  each 
other  over  the  deepening  redness.  The  air  grew  hot, — 
a  sound  came  nearer  and  nearer,  from  above  me  and  be- 
hind me,  like  the  rush  of  wind  and  the  roar  of  water 
both  together,  and  both  far  off.  I  ran  out  on  to  the  sand 
and  looked  back.    The  island  was  on  fire  ! 

On  fire  at  the  point  of  it  opposite  to  me, — on  fire  in  one 
great  sheet  of  flame  that  stretched  right  across  the  isl- 
and, and  bore  down  on  me  steadily  before  the  light 
westerly  wind  which  was  blowing  at  the  time.  Only 
one  hand  could  have  kindled  that  terrible  flame, — the 
hand  of  the  lost  wretch  who  had  left  me,  with  the  mad 
threat  on  his  lips  and  the  murderous  notion  of  burning 
me  out  of  my  refuge,  working  in  his  crazy  brain.  On 
his  side  of  the  island  (where  the  fire  had  begun),  the  dry 
grass  and  scrub  grew  all  round  the  little  hollow  in  the 
earth  which  I  had  left  to  him  for  his  place  of  refuge.  If 
he  had  had  a  thousand  liv^es  to  lose  he  would  have  lost 
that  thousand  already  ! 

Having  nothing  to  feed  on  but  the  dry  scrub,  the  flame 
swept  forward  with  such  a  frightful  swiftness  that  I  had 
barely  time,  after  mastering  my  own  scattered  senses, 
to  turn  back  into  the  cavern  to  get  my  last  drink  of 
water  and  my  last  mouthful  of  food,  before  I  heard  the 
fiery  scorch  crackling  over  the  thatched  roof  which  my 
own  hands  had  raised.  I  ran  across  the  beach  to  the 
spur  of  rock  which  jutted  out  into  the  sea,  and  there 
crouched  down  on  the  farthest  edge  I  could  reach  to. 
There  was  nothing  for  the  fire  to  lay  hold  of  between 
me  and  the  top  of  the  island  bank.  I  was  far  enough 
away  to  be  out  of  the  lick  of  the  flames,  and  low  enough 
down  to  get  air  under  the  sweep  of  the  smoke.  You 
may  well  wonder  why,  with  death  by  starvation  threat- 
ening me  close  at  hand,  I  should  have  schemed  and 
struggled  as  I  did  to  save  myself  from  a  quicker  death 
by  suffocation  in  the  smoke.  I  can  only  answer  to  that, 
that  I  wonder  too, — but  so  it  was. 

The  flames  ate  their  way  to  the  edge  of  the  bank,  and 
lapped  over  it  as  if  they  longed  to  lick  me  up.  The 
heat  scorched  nearer  than  I  had  thought,  and  the  smoke 
poured  lower  and  thicker.  I  lay  down  sick  and  weak  on 
the  rock,  with  my  face  over  the  calm,  cool  water.  When 
I  ventured  to  lift  myself  up  again,  the  top  of  the  island 
was  of  a  ruby  red,  the  smoke  rose  slowly  in  little  streams, 
and  the  air  above  was  quivering  with  the  heat.  While 
I  looked  at  it  I  felt  a  kind  of  surging  and  singing  in  my 
head,  and  a  deadly  faintness  and  coldness  crept  all  over 
me.  I  took  the  bottle  that  held  the  Message  from  my 
pocket,  and  dropped  it  into  the  sea, — then  crawled  a 
little  way  back  over  the  rocks,  and  fell  forward  on  them 
before  I  could  get  as  far  as  the  sand.  The  last  I  re- 
member was  trying  to  say  my  prayers, — losingthe  words, 
— losing  my  sight, — losing  the  sense  of  where  I  was, — 
losing  everything. 

The  day  was  breaking  again  when  I  was  roused  up  by 
feeling  rough  hands  on  me.  Naked  savages — some  on 
the  rocks,  some  in  the  water,  some  in  two  long  canoes — 


were  clamouring  and  crowding  about  on  all  sides.  They 
bound  me  and  took  me  off  at  once  to  one  of  the  canoes. 
The  other  kept  company,  and  both  were  paddled  back  to 
that  high  land  which  I  had  seen  in  the  south.  Death 
had  passed  me  by  once  more,  and  Captivity  had  come  in 
its  place. 

The  story  of  my  life  among  the  savages,  having  no 
concern  with  the  matter  now  in  hand,  may  be  passed  by 
here  in  few  words.  They  had  seen  the  fire  on  the  isl- 
and ;  and  paddling  over  to  reconnoitre,  had  found  me. 
Not  one  of  them  had  ever  set  eyes  on  a  white  man  be- 
fore. I  was  taken  away  to  be  shown  about  among  them 
for  a  curiosity.  When  they  were  tired  of  showing  me, 
they  spared  my  life,  finding  my  knowledge  and  general 
handiness  as  a  civilized  man  useful  to  them  in  various 
ways.  '  I  lost  all  count  of  time  in  my  captivity,  and  can 
only  guess  now  that  it  lasted  more  than  one  year  and  less 
than  two.  I  made  two  attempts  to  escape,  each  time  in 
a  canoe,  and  was  balked  in  both.  Nobody  at  home  in 
England  would  ever,  as  I  believe,  have  seen  me  again  if 
an  outward-bound  vessel  had  not  touched  at  the  little 
desert  island  for  fresh  water.  Finding  none  there  she 
came  on  to  the  territory  of  the  savages  (which  was  an 
island  too).  When  they  took  me  on  board  I  looked  little 
better  than  a  savage  myself,  and  could  hardly  talk  my 
own  language.  By  the  help  of  the  kindness  .shown  to 
me  I  was  right  again  by  the  time  we  spoke  the  first  ship 
homeward-bound.  To  that  vessel  I  was  transferred  ; 
and  in  her  I  worked  my  passage  back  to  Falmouth. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Restitution. 

Captain  Jorgan,  up  and  out  betimes,  had  put  the 
whole  village  of  Lanrean  under  an  amicable  cross-ex- 
amination, and  was  returning  to  the  King  Arthur's  Arms 
to  breakfast,  none  the  wiser  for  his  trouble,  when  he 
beheld  the  young  fisherman  advancing  to  meet  him  ac- 
companied by  a  stranger.  A  glance  at  this  stranger  as- 
sured the  captain  that  he  could  be  no  other  than  the 
Seafaring  Man  ;  and  the  captain  was  about  to  hail  him 
as  a  fellow-craftsman,  when  the  two  stood  still  and  silent 
before  the  captain,  and  the  captain  stood  still,  silent,  and 
wondering  before  them. 

"  Why,  what's  this?"  cried  the  captain,  when  at  last 
he  broke  the  silence.  "  You  two  are  alike.  You  two 
are  much  alike  !    What's  this?  " 

Not  a  word  was  answered  on  the  other  side,  until  after 
the  seafaring  brother  had  got  hold  of  the  captain's  right 
hand,  and  the  fisherman  brother  had  got  hold  of  the 
captain's  left  hand  ;  and  if  ever  the  captain  had  had  his 
fill  of  hand-shaking,  from  his  birth  to  that  hour,  he  had 
it  then.  And  presently  up  and  spoke  the  two  brothers, 
one  at  a  time,  two  at  a  time,  two  dozen  at  a  time  for  the 
bewilderment  into  which  they  plunged  the  captain,  until 
he  gradually  had  Hugh  Raybrock's  deliverance  made 
clear  to  him,  and  also  unravelled  the  fact  that  the  person 
referred  to  in  the  half -obliterated  paper  was  Tregarthen 
himself. 

"Formerly,  dear  Captain  Jorgan,"  said  Alfred,  *'of 
Lanrean,  you  recollect  ?  Kitty  and  her  father  came  to 
live  at  Steepways  after  Hugh  shipped  on  his  last 
voyage." 

"Ay,  ay!"  cried  the  captain,  fetching  a  breath. 
"Now  you  have  me  in  tow.  Then  your  brother  here 
don't  know  his  sister-in-law  that  is  to  be  so  much  as  by 
name  ?  " 

"  Never  saw  her  ;  never  heard  of  her  !  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay  ! "  cried  the  captain.  "  Why  then  we 
every  one  go  back  together — paper,  writer,  and  all — and 
take  Tregarthen  into  the  secret  we  kept  from  him  ?  " 

"Surely,"  said  Alfred,  "we  can't  help  it  now.  We 
must  go  through  with  our  duty." 

"  Not  a  doubt,"  returned  the  captain.  "  Give  me  an 
arm  apiece,  and  let  us  set  this  ship-shape." 

So  walking  up  and  down  in  the  shrill  wind  on  the  wild 
moor,  while  the  neglected  breakfast  cooled  within,  the 
captain  and  the  brothers  settled  their  course  of  action. 

It  was  that  they  should  all  proceed  by  the  quickest 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA, 


1073 


means  they  could  secure  to  Barnstaple,  and  there  look 
over  the  father's  books  and  papers  in  the  lawyer's  keep- 
ing ;  as  Hugh  had  proposed  to  himself  to  do  if  ever  he 
reached  home.  That,  enlightened  or  unenlightened,  they 
should  then  return  to  Steepways  and  go  straight  to  Mr. 
Tregarthen,  and  tell  him  all  they  knew,  and  see  what 
came  of  it,  and  act  accordingly.  Lastly,  that  when  they 
got  there  they  should  enter  the  village  with  all  precau- 
tions against  Hugh's  being  recognized  by  any  chance  ; 
and  that  to  the  captain  should  be  consigned  the  task  of 
preparing  his  wife  and  mother  for  his  restoration  to  this 
life. 

**  For  you  see,"  quoth  Captain  Jorgan,  touching  the 
last  head,  "  it  requires  caution  any  way,  great  joys  being 
as  dangerous  as  great  griefs,  if  not  more  dangerous,  as 
being  more  uncommon  (and  therefore  less  provided 
against)  in  this  round  world  of  ours.  And  besides,  I 
should  like  to  free  my  name  with  the  ladies,  and  take 
you  home  again  at  your  brightest  and  luckiest ;  so  don't 
let's  throw  away  a  chance  of  success." 

The  captain  was  highly  lauded  by  the  brothers  for  his 
kind  interest  and  foresight. 

**  And  now  stop  !"  said  the  captain,  coming  to  a  stand- 
still, and  looking  from  one  brother  to  the  other,  with 
quite  a  new  rigging  of  wrinkles  about  each  eye  ;  "you 
are  of  opinion,"  to  the  elder,  "that  you  are  ra'ather 
slow." 

"  I  assure  you  I  am  very  slow,"  said  the  honest  Hugh. 

"  Wa'al,"  replied  the  captain,  "I  assure  that  to 
the  best  of  my  belief  I  am  ra'ather  smart.  Now  a  slow 
man  ain't  good  at  quick  business,  is  he  ?  " 

That  was  clear  to  both. 

"  You,"   said  the  captain,  turning  to  the  younger 
brother,  "  are  a  little  in  love  ;  ain't  you?" 
"  Not  a  little.  Captain  Jorgan." 

"Much  or  little,  you're  sort  preoccupied  ;  ain't  you?" 
It  was  impossible  to  be  denied. 

*'  And  a  sort  preoccupied  man  ain't  good  at  quick  busi- 
ness, is  he?"  said  the  captain. 
Equally  clear  on  all  sides. 

"  Now,"  said  the  captain,  "I  ain't  in  love  myself,  and 
I've  made  many  a  smart  run  across  the  ocean,  and  I 
should  like  to  carry  on  and  go  ahead  with  this  aifair  of 
yours  and  make  a  run  slick  through  it.  Shall  I  try  ? 
Will  you  hand  it  over  to  me  ?" 

They  were  both  delighted  to  do  so,  and  thanked  him 
heartily. 

"  Good,"  said  the  captain,  taking  out  his  watch, 
"This  is  half  past  eight  A.  M.,  Friday  morning.  I'll  joi 
that  down,  and  we'll  compute  how  many  hours  we've 
been  out  when  we  run  into  your  mother's  post-office. 
There  !    The  entry's  made,  and  now  we  go  ahead." 

They  went  ahead  so  well  that  before  the  Barnstaple 
lawyer's  office  was  open  next  morning,  the  captain  was 
sitting  whistling  on  the  step  of  the  door,  waiting  for  the 
clerk  to  come  down  the  street  with  his  key  and  open  it. 
But  instead  of  the  clerk  there  came  the  master,  with 
whom  the  captain  fraternized  on  the  spot  to  an  extent 
that  utterly  confounded  him. 

As  he  ])ersonally  knew  both  Hugh  and  Alfred,  there 
was  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  immediate  access  to  such  of 
the  father's  papers  as  were  in  his  keeping.  These  were 
chiefly  old  letters  and  cash  accounts  ;  from  which  the 
captain  with  a  shrewdness  and  despatch  that  left  the 
lawyer  far  behind,  established  with  perfect  clearness,  by 
noon,  the  following  particulars  : — 

That  one  Lawrence  Clissold  had  borrowed  of  the  de- 
ceased, at  a  time  when  he  was  a  thriving  young  trades- 
man in  the  town  of  Barnstaple,  the  sum  of  five  hundred 
pounds.  That  he  had  borrowed  it  on  the  written  state- 
ment that  it  was  to  be  laid  out  in  furtherance  of  a  spec- 
ulation which  he  expected  would  raise  him  to  independ- 
ence ;  he  being,  at  the  time  of  writing  that  letter,  no 
more  than  a  clerk  in  the  house  of  Dringworth  Brothers, 
America  Square,  London.  That  the  money  was  borrowed 
for  a  stipulated  period  ;  but  that,  when  the  term  was  out, 
the  aforesaid  speculation  failed,  and  Clissold  was  without 
means  of  repayment.  That,  hereupon,  he  had  written  to 
his  creditor,  in  no  very  persuasive  terms,  vaguely  request- 
ing further  time.  That  the  creditor  had  refused  this  con- 
cession, declaring  that  he  could  not  afford  delay.  That 
Cliasold  then  paid  the  debt,  accompanying  the  remit- 
VOL.  II.— 68 


tance  of  the  money  with  an  angry  letter  describing  it  as 
having  been  advanced  by  a  relative  tf)  save  hiin  from 
ruin.  That  in  acknowledging  the  receipt,  Raybrock  had 
cautioned  Clissold  to  seek  to  borrow  money  of  him  no 
more,  as  he  would  never  so  risk  money  again. 

Before  the  lawyer  the  captain  said  never  a  word  in  ref- 
erence to  these  discoveries.    But  when  the  pajjers  had 
I  been  put  back  in  their  box,  and  he  and  his  two  compan- 
I  ions  were  well  out  of  the  office,  his  right  leg  suffered  for 
!  it,  and  he  said, — 

I     "  So  far  this  run's  begun  with  a  fair  wind  and  a  pros- 
I  perous  ;  for  don't  you  see  that  all  this  agrees  with  that 
!  dutiful  trust  in  his  father  maintained  by  the  slow  mem- 
ber of  the  Raybrock  family  ?" 

Whether  the  brothers  had  seen  it  before  or  no,  they 
saw  it  now.  Not  that  the  captain  gave  them  much  time 
to  contemplate  the  state  of  things  at  their  ease,  for  he 
instantly  whipped  them  into  a  chaise  again,  and  bore 
them  off  to  Steepways.  Although  the  afternoon  was  but 
just  beginning  to  decline  when  they  reached  it,  and  it 
was  broad  daylight,  still  they  had  no  dithculty,  by  dint 
of  muffling  the  returned  sailor  up,  and  ascending  the  vil- 
lage rather  than  descending  it,  in  reaching  Tregarthen's 
cottage  unobserved.  Kitty  was  not  visible,  and  they  sur- 
prised Tregarthen  sitting  writing  in  the  small  bay-win- 
dow of  his  little  room. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  captain,  instantly  shaking  hands  with 
him,  pen  and  all,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  sir.    How  do  you 
do,  sir?    I  told  you  you'd  think  better  of  me  by  and  by, 
and  I  congratulate  you  on  going  to  do  it." 
!    Here  the  captain's  eye  fell  on  Tom  Petti fer  Ho,  en- 
I  gaged  in  preparing  some  cookery  at  the  fire. 

"  That  critter,"  said  the  captain,  smiting  his  leg,  "is 
J  a  born  steward,  and  never  ought  to  have  been  in  any 
!  other  way  of  life.  Stop  w^here  you  are,  Tom,  and  make 
j  yourself  useful.  Now,  Tregarthen,  I'm  going  to  try  a 
I  chair." 

I  Accordingly  the  captain  drew  one  close  to  him,  and 
j  went  on  : 

I  "This  loving  member  of  the  Raybrock  family  you 
know,  sir.  This  slow  member  of  the  same  family,  you 
don't  know,  sir.  Wa'al,  these  two  are  brothers, — fact  ! 
Hugh's  come  to  life  again,  and  here  he  stands.    Now  see 

I  here,  my  friend  1    You  don't  want  to  be  told  that  he  was 

I  cast  away,  but  you  do  want  to  be  told  (for  there's  a  pur- 

!  pose  in  it)  that  he  was  cast  away  with  another  man. 

I  That  man  by  name  was  Lawrence  Clissold." 

1  At  the  mention  of  this  name  Tregarthen  started  and 
changed  colour.    "  WTiat's  the  matter?"  said  the  cap- 

I  tain. 

I  "He  was  a  fellow-clerk  of  mine  thirty — five-aud-thirty 
j  — years  ago." 

!  "  True,"  said  the  captain,  immediately  catching  at  the 
clew  :  "Dringworth  Brothers,  America  Square,  London 
City." 

The  other  started  again,  nodded,  and  said,  "That  was 
the  house." 

"Now,"  pursued  the  captain,  "between  those  two 
men  cast  away  there  arose  a  mystery  concerning  the 
round  sum  of  five  hundred  pound." 

Again  Tregarthen  started,  changing  colour.  Again  the 
captain  said,  "What's  the  matter?" 

As  Tregarthen  only  answered,  "  Please  to  go  on,"  the 
captain  recounted,  very  tersely  and  plainly,  the  nature  of 
Clissold's  wanderings  on  the  barren  island,  as  he  had  con- 
densed them  in  his  mind  from  the  seafaring  man.  Tre- 
garthen became  agitated  during  this  recital,  and  at  length 
exclaimed, 

"  Clissold  was  the  man  who  ruined  me  !  I  have  sus- 
pected it  for  many  a  long  year,  and  now  I  know  it." 

"And  how,"  said  the  captain,  drawing  his  chair  still 
closer  to  Tregarthen,  and  clapping  his  hand  upon  his 
shoulder, — "  how  may  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  When  we  w^ere  fellow-clerks,"  replied  Tregarthen, 
"in  that  London  house,  it  was  one  of  my  duties  to  enter 
daily  in  a  certain  book  an  account  of  the  sums  received 
that  day  by  the  firm,  and  afterward  paid  into  the  banker's. 
One  memorable  day,— a  Wednesday,  the  black  day  of 
my  life, — among  the  sums  I  so  entered  was  one  of  five 
hundred  pounds." 

"  I  begin  to  make  it  out,"  said  the  captain.    "  Yes  ?  " 

"It  was  one  of  Clissold's  duties  to  copy  from  this 


1074 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


entry  a  memorandum  of  the  sums  which  the  clerk  em- 
ployed to  go  to  the  bankers  paid  in  there.  It  was  my 
duty  to  hand  the  money  to  Clissold  ;  it  was  Clissold's  to 
hand  it  to  the  clerk,  with  that  memorandum  of  his  writ- 
ing. On  that  Wednesday  I  entered  a  sum  of  five  hun- 
dred pounds  received.  I  handed  that  sum,  as  I  handed 
the  other  sums  in  the  day's  entry,  to  Clissold.  I  was  ab- 
solutely certain  of  it  at  the  time  ;  I  have  been  absolutely 
certain  of  it  ever  since.  A  sum  of  five  hundred  pounds 
was  afterward  found  by  the  house  to  have  been  that  day 
wanting  from  the  bag,  from  Clissold's  memorandum,  and 
from  the  entries  in  my  book.  Clissold,  being  questioned, 
stood  upon  his  perfect  clearness  in  the  matter,  and  em- 
phatically declared  that  he  asked  no  better  than  to  be 
tested  by" '  Tregarthen's  book.'  My  book  was  examined, 
and  the  entry  of  five  hundred  pounds  was  not  there." 

*'  How  not  there,"  said  the  captain,  "  when  you  made 
it  yourself?" 

Tregarthen  continued  : 

"I  was  then  questioned.  Had  I  made  the  entry? 
Certainly  I  had.  The  house  produced  my  book,  and  it 
was  not  "there.  I  could  not  deny  my  book  ;  I  could  not 
deny  my  writing.  I  knew  there  must  be  forgery  by 
some  one  ;  but  the  writing  was  wonderfully  like  mine, 
and  I  could  impeach  no  one  if  the  house  could  not.  I 
was  required  to  pay  the  money  back.  I  did  so  ;  and  I 
left  the  house,  almost  broken-hearted  rather  than  re- 
main there, — even  if  I  could  have  done  so, — with  a  dark 
shadow  of  suspicion  always  on  me.  I  returned  to  my 
native  place,  Lanrean,  and  remained  there,  clerk  to  a 
mine,  until  I  was  appointed  to  my  little  post  here." 

"  I  well  remember,"  said  the  captain,  *'  that  I  told  you 
that  if  you  had  had  no  experience  of  ill  judgments  on 
^deceiving  appearances,  you  were  a  lucky  man.  You 
went  hurt  at  that,  and  I  see  why.    I'm  sorr)^" 

"Thus  it  is,"  said  Tregarthen.  "Of  my  own  inno- 
cence I  have  of  course  been  sure  ;  it  has  been  at  once  my 
comfort  and  my  trial.  Of  Clissold  I  have  always  had 
suspicions  almost  amounting  to  certainty  ;  but  they  have 
never  been  confirmed  until  now.  For  my  daughter's 
sake  and  for  my  own  I  have  carried  this  subject  in  my 
own  heart,  as  the  only  secret  of  my  life,  and  have  long 
believed  that  it  would  die  with  me." 

•"Wa'al,  m}'^  good  sir,"  said  the  captain,  cordially, 
"the  present  question  is,  and  will  be  long,  I  hope,  con- 
cerning living,  and  not  dying.  Now,  here  are  two  hon- 
est friends,  the  loving  Raybrock  and  the  slow.  Here 
they  stand,  agreed  on  one  point,  on  which  I'd  back  'em 
round  the  world,  and  right  across  it  from  north  to  south, 
and  then  from  east  to  west,  and  through  it,  from  your 
deepest  Cornish  mine  to  China.  It  is,  that  they  will 
never  use  this  same  so-mentioned  sum  of  money,  and 
that  restitution  of  it  must  be  made  to  you.  These  two,  the 
loving  member  and  the  slow,  for  the  sake  of  the  right 
and  of  their  father's  memory,  will  have  it  ready  for  you 
to-morrow.  Take  it,  and  ease  their  minds  and  mine,  and 
end  a  most  unfort'nate  transaction.'* 

Tregarthen  took  the  captain  by  the  hand,  and  gave  his 
hand  to  each  of  the  y«ung  men,  but  positively  and  final- 
ly answered  No.  He  said,  they  trusted  to  his  word,  and 
he  was  glad  of  it  and  at  rest  in  his  mind  ;  but  there  was 
no  proof,  and  the  money  must  remain  as  it  was.  All 
were  very  earnest  over  this  ;  and  earnestness  in  men, 
when  they  are  right  and  true,  is  so  impressive,  that  Mr. 
Pettifer  deserted  his  cookery  and  looked  on  quite  moved. 

•*  And  so,"  said  the  captain,  *'  so  we  come, — as  that  law- 
yer crittur  over  yonder  where  we  were  this  morning  might, 
—to  mere  proof ;  do  we?  We  must  have  it ;  must  we  ? 
How  ?  From  this  Clissold's  wanderings,  and  from  what 
you  say,  it  ain't  hard  to  make  out  that  there  was  a  neat 
forgery  of  your  writing  committed  by  the  too  smart 
Rowdy  that  was  grease  and  ashes  when  I  made  his  ac- 
quaintance, and  a  substitution  of  a  forged  leaf  in  your 
book  for  a  real  and  true  leaf  torn  out.  Now  was  that 
real  and  true  leaf  then  and  there  destroyed?  No, — for 
says  he,  in  his  drunken  way,  he  slipped  it  into  a  crack  in 
liis  own  desk,  because  you  came  into  the  office  before 
there  was  time  to  burn  it,  and  could  never  get  back  to 
it  arterwards.  Wait  a  bit.  Where  is  that  desk  now? 
Do  you  consider  it  likely  to  be  in  America  Square,  Lon- 
don City  ?  " 

Tregarthen  shook  his  head. 


"The  house  has  not,  for  years,  transacted  business 
in  that  place.  I  have  heard  of  it,  and  read  of  it,  as 
removed,  enlarged,  every  way  altered.  Things  alter  so 
fast  in  these  times." 

"  You  think  so,"  returned  the  captain,  with  compas- 
sion ;  "  but  you  should  come  over  and  see  me  afore  you 
talk  about  that.  Wa'al,  now.  This  desk,  this  paper, — 
this  paper,  this  desk,"  said  the  captain,  ruminating  and 
walking  about,  and  looking,  in  his  uneasy  abstraction, 
into  Mr.  Pettifer's  hat  on  a  table,  among  other  things. 
"This  desk,  this  paper, — this  paper,  this  desk,"  the 
captain  continued,  musing  and  roaming  about  the  room, 
"I'd  give — " 

However,  he  gave  nothing,  but  took  up  his  steward's 
hat  instead,  and  stood  looking  into  it,  as  if  he  had  just 
come  into  Church.  After  that  he  roamed  again,  and 
again  said,  "This  desk,  belonging  to  this  House  of 
Dringworth  Brothers,  America  Square,  London  City — " 

Mr.  Pettifer,  still  strangely  moved,  and  now  more 
moved  than  before,  cut  the  captain  off  as  he  backed 
across  the  room,  and  bespake  him  thus  : 

"  Captain  Jorgan,  I  have  been  wishful  to  engage  your 
attention,  but  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  am  unwilling  to  inter- 
rupt. Captain  Jorgan,  but  I  must  do  it.  /  know  something 
about  that  house." 

The  captain  stood  stock-still,  and  looked  at  him — with 
his  (Mr.  Pettifer's)  hat  under  his  arm. 

"  You're  aware,"  pursued  his  steward,  "that  I  was 
once  in  the  broking  business.  Captain  Jorgan  ?  " 

"  I  was  aware,"  said  the  captain,  "  that  you  had  failed 
in  that  calling,  and  in  half  the  businesses  going,  Tom." 

"  Not  quite  so.  Captain  Jorgan  ;  but  I  failed  in  the 
broking  business.  I  was  partners  with  my  brother,  sir. 
There  was  a  sale  of  old  office  furniture  at  Dringworth 
Brothers  when  the  house  was  moved  from  America 
Square,  and  me  and  my  brother  made  what  we  call  in 
the  trade  a  Deal  there,  sir.  And  I'll  make  bold  to  say, 
sir,  that  the  only  thing  I  ever  had  from  my  brother,  or 
from  any  relation, — for  my  relations  have  mostly  taken 
property  from  me  instead  of  giving  me  any, — was  an  old 
desk  we  bought  at  that  same  sale,  with  a  crack  in  it. 
My  brother  wouldn't  have  given  me  even  that,  when  we 
broke  partnership,  if  it  had  been  worth  anything." 

"  Where  is  that  desk  now  ?"  said  the  captain. 

"  Well,  Captain  Jorgan,"  replied  the  steward,  "  I 
couldn't  say  for  certain  where  it  is  now  ;  but  when  I 
saw  it  last, — which  was  last  time  we  were  outward-bound, 
— it  was  at  a  very  nice  lady's  at  Wapping,  along  with  a 
little  chest  of  mine  which  was  detained  for  a  small 
matter  of  a  bill  owing." 

The  captain,  instead  of  paying  that  rapt  attention  to 
his  steward  which  was  rendered  by  the  other  three  per- 
sons present,  went  to  Church  again,  in  respect  of  the 
steward's  hat.  And  a  most  especially  agitated  and 
memorable  face  the  captain  produced  from  it,  after  a 
short  pause. 

"  Now,  Tom,"  said  the  captain,  "  I  spoke  to  you,  when 
we  first  came  here,  respecting  your  constitutional  weak- 
ness on  the  subject  of  sunstroke." 

"  You  did,  sir." 

"  Will  my  slow  friend,"  said  the  captain,  "lend  me 
his  arm,  or  I  shall  sink  right  back'ards  into  this  blessed 
steward's  cookery?  Now,  Tom,"  pursued  the  captain, 
when  the  required  assistance  was  given,  "on  your  oath 
as  a  steward,  didn't  you  take  that  desk  to  pieces  to  make 
a  better  one  out  of  if  and  put  it  together  fresh — or  some- 
thing of  the  kind?" 

"  On  my  oath  I  did,  sir,"  replied  the  steward. 

"  And  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  my  friends,  one  and 
all,"  cried  the  captain,  radiant  with  joy — "  of  the  Heaven 
that  put  it  into  this  Tom  Pettifer's  head  to  take  so  much 
care  of  liis  head  against  the  bright  sun, — he  lined  his 
hat  with  the  original  leaf  in  Tregarthen's  writings,— -and 
here  it  is  1 " 

With  that  the  captain,  to  the  utter  destruction  of  Mr. 
Pettifer's  favourite  hat,  produced  the  book  leaf  very 
much  worn,  but  still  legible,  and  gave  both  his  legs  such 
tremendous  slaps  that  they  were  heard  far  off  in  the  bay, 
and  never  accounted  for. 

"A  quarter  past  five  P.  M.,"  said  the  captain,  pulling 
out  his  watch,  "  and  that's  thirty- three  hours  and  a  quar- 
ter in  all,  and  a  pretty  run  1 " 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  SEA, 


1075 


How  they  were  all  overpowered  with  delight  and 
triumph  ;  how  the  money  was  restored,  then  and  there, 
to  Tregarthen  ;  how  Tregarthen,  then  and  there,  gave  it 
all  to  his  daughter  ;  how  the  captain  undertook  to  go  to 
Dringworth  Brothers  and  re-establish  the  reputation  of 
their  forgotten  old  clerk  ;  how  Kitty  came  in,  and  was 
nearly  torn  to  pieces,  and  the  marriage  was  reappointed, 
needs  not  to  be  told.  Nor  how  she  and  the  young  fisher- 
man went  home  to  the  post-ofRce  to  prepare  the  way  for 
the  captain's  coming,  by  declaring  him  to  be  the  might- 
iest of  men,  who  had  made  all  their  fortunes, — and  then 
dutifully  withdrew  together,  in  order  that  he  might 
have  the  domestic  coast  entirely  to  himself.  How  he 
availed  himself  of  it  is  all  that  remains  to  tell. 

Deeply  delighted  with  his  trust,  and  putting  his  heart 
into  it,  he  raised  the  latch  of  the  post-office  parlour 
where  Mrs.  Raybrock  and  the  young  widow  sat,  and 
said, 

"  May  I  come  in  ?" 

"Sure  you  may,  Captain  Jorgan!"  replied  the  old 
lady.  "  And  good  reason  you  have  to  be  free  of  the 
bouse,  though  you  have  not  been  too  well  used  in  it  by 
some  who  ought  to  have  known  better.  I  ask  your 
pardon." 

"No,  you  don't,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain,  "for  I 
won't  let  you.  Wa'al,  to  be  sure  I  "  By  this  time  he 
had  taken  a  chair  on  the  hearth  between  them. 

"  Never  felt  such  an  evil  spirit  in  the  whole  course  of 
my  life  !  There  1  I  tell  you  !  I  could  a'most  have  cut 
my  own  connection.  Like  the  dealer  in  my  country, 
away  West,  who  when  he  had  let  himself  be  outdone  in 
a  bargain,  said  to  himself,  *  Now  I  tell  you  what  !  I'll 
never  speak  to  you  again.'  And  he  never  did,  but 
joined  a  settlement  of  oysters,  and  translated  the  multi- 
plication-table into  their  language, — which  is  a  fact  that 
can  be  proved.  If  you  doubt  it,  mention  it  to  any 
oyster  you  come  across,  and  see  if  he'll  have  the  face  to 
contradict  it." 

He  took  the  child  from  her  mother's  lap  and  set  it  on 
his  knee. 

"Not  a  bit  afraid  of  me  now,  you  see.  Knows  I  am 
fond  of  small  people.  I  have  a  child,  and  she's  a  girl, 
and  I  sing  to  her  sometimes." 

"  What  do  you  sing  ?  "  asked  Margaret. 

"  Not  a  long  song,  my  dear. 

Silas  Joro^an 
Played  the  organ. 

That's  about  all.  And  sometimes  I  tell  her  stories, — 
stories  of  sailors  supposed  to  be  lost,  and  recovered  after 
all  hope  was  abandoned."  Here  the  captain  musingly 
went  back  to  his  song, 

Silas  Jorgan 
Played  the  organ ; 

repeating  it  with  his  eyes  on  the  fire,  as  he  softly  danced 
the  child  on  his  knee.  For  he  felt  that  Margaret  had 
stopped  working. 

— "  Yes,"  said  the  captain,  still  looking  at  the  fire. 
"  I  make  up  stories  and  tell 'em  to  that  child.  Stories 
of  shipwreck  on  desert  island,  and  long  delay  in  getting 
back  to  civilized  lands.  It  is  to  stories  the  like  of  that 
mostly,  that 

Silas  Jorgan 
Played  the  organ." 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  but  the  light  of  the 
fire  ;  for  the  shades  of  night  were  on  the  village,  and 
the  stars  had  begun  to  peep  out  of  the  sky  one  by  one,  as 
the  houses  of  the  village  peeped  out  from  among  the 
foliage  when  the  night  departed.    The  captain  felt  that 


Margaret's  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  thought  it  dis- 
creetest  to  keep  his  own  eyes  on  the  fire, 

"Yes;  I  make 'em  up,"  said  the  captain.  "  I  make 
up  stories  of  brothers  brought  together  by  the  good 
providence  of  God,  Of  sons  brought  back  to  mothers, 
— husbands  l)rought  back  to  wives, — fathers  raised  from 
the  deep,  for  little  children  like  herself." 

Margaret's  touch  was  on  his  arm,  and  he  could  not 
choose  but  look  round  now.  Next  moment  her  hand 
moved  imploringly  to  his  breast,  and  she  was  on  her 
knees  before  him, — supporting  the  mother,  who  was 
also  kneeling. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  the  captain.  "What's 
the  matter  ? 

Silas  Jorgan 
Played  the—" 

Their  looks  and  tears  were  too  much  for  him,  and  he 
could  not  finish  the  song,  short  as  it  was. 

"  Mistress  Mai'garet,  you  have  borne  ill  fortune  well. 
Could  you  bear  good  fortune  equally  well,  if  it  was  to 
come?" 

"I  hope  so.  I  thankfully  and  humbly  and  earnestly 
hope  so  ! " 

"  Wa'al,  my  dear,"  said  the  captain,  "p'r'aps  it  has 
come.  He's  —  don't  be  frightened  —  shall  I  say  the 
word?  " 

"Alive?" 

"Yes  !" 

The  thanks  they  fervently  addressed  to  Heaven  were 
again  too  much  for  the  captain,  who  openly  took  out  his 
handkerchief  and  dried  his  eyes. 

"He's  no  further  off,"  resumed  the  captain,  "than 
my  country.  Indeed,  he's  no  further  off  than  his  own 
native  country.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  he's  no  further 
off  than  Falmouth.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  he's  quite  so 
fur.  Indeed,  if  you  was  quite  sure  you  could  bear  it 
nicely,  and  I  was  to  do  no  more  than  whistle  for  him — " 

The  captain's  trust  was  discharged.  A  rush  came, 
and  they  were  all  together  again. 

This  was  a  fine  opportunity  for  Tom  Pettifer  to  ap- 
pear with  a  tumbler  of  cold  water,  and  he  presently  ap- 
peared with  it,  and  administered  it  to  the  ladies  ;  at  the 
same  time  soothing  them,  and  composing  their  dresses, 
exactly  as  if  they  had  been  passengers  crossing  the 
Channel.  The  extent,  to  which  the  captain  slapped  his 
legs,  when  Mr.  Pettifer  acquitted  himself  of  this  act  of 
stewardship,  could  have  been  thoroughly  appreciated  by 
no  one  but  himself  ;  inasmuch  as  he  must  have  slapped 
them  black  and  blue,  and  they  must  have  smarted  tre- 
mendously. 

He  couldn't  stay  for  the  wedding,  having  a  few  ap- 
pointments to  keep  at  the  irreconcilable  distance  of  about 
four  thousand  miles.  So  next  morning  all  the  village 
cheered  him  up  to  the  level  ground  above,  and  there  he 
shook  hands  with  a  complete  Census  of  its  population, 
and  invited  the  whole  without  exception,  to  come  and 
stay  several  months  with  him  at  Salem,  Mass.,  U.  S. 
And  there  as  he  stood  on  the  spot  where  he  had  seen 
that  little  golden  picture  of  love  and  parting,  and  from 
which  he  could  that  morning  contemplate  another 
golden  picture  with  a  vista  of  golden  years  in  it,  little 
Kitty  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  kissed  him  on 
both  his  bronzed  cheeks,  and  laid  her  pretty  face  upon 
his  storm-beaten  breast,  in  sight  of  all, — ashamed  to 
have  called  such  a  noble  captain  names.  And  there  the 
captain  waved  his  hat  over  his  head  three  final  times;  and 
there  he  was  last  seen,  going  away  accompanied  by  Tom 
Pettifer  Ho,  and  carrying  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  And 
there,  before  that  ground  was  softened  with  the  fallen 
leaves  of  three  more  summers,  a  rosy  little  boy  took  his 
first  unsteady  run  to  a  fair  young  mother's  breast,  and 
the  name  of  that  infant  fisherman  was  Jorgan  liaybiock. 


Master  Humphrey's  Clock. 


PEEFACE. 

When  the  author  commenced  this  Work,  he  proposed 
to  himself  three  objects. 

First.  To  establish  a  periodical,  which  should  enable 
him  to  present,  under  one  general  head,  and  not  as  sep- 
arate and  distinct  publications,  certain  fictions  which  he 
had  it  in  contemplation  to  write. 

Secondly.  To  produce  these  tales  in  weekly  numbers  ; 
hoping  that  to  shorten  the  intervals  of  communication 
between  himself  and  his  readers,  would  be  to  knit  more 
closely  the  pleasant  relations  they  had  held  for  Forty 
Months. 

Thirdly.  In  the  execution  of  this  weekly  task,  to  have 
as  much  regard  as  its  exigencies  would  permit,  to  each 
story  as  a  whole,  and  to  the  possibility  of  "its  publication 
at  some  distant  day,  apart  from  the  machinery  in  which 
it  had  its  origin. 

The  characters  of  Master  Humphrey  and  his  three 
friends,  and  the  little  fancy  of  the  clock,  were  the  result 
of  these  considerations.  When  he  sought  to  interest  his 
readers  in  those  who  talked,  and  read,  and  listened,  he 
revived  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  humble  friends,  not  with 
any  intention  of  reopening  an  exhausted  and  abandoned 
mine,  but  to  connect  them,  in  the  thoughts  of  those 
whose  favourites  they  had  been,  with  the  tranquil  enjoy- 
ments of  Master  Humphrey. 

It  was  never  the  author's  intention  to  make  the  Mem- 
bers of  Master  Humphrey's  Clock  active  agents  in  the 
stories  they  are  supposed  to  relate.  Having  brought 
himself,  in  the  commencement  of  his  undertaking,  to 
feel  an  interest  in  these  quiet  creatures,  and  to  imagine 
them  in  their  old  chamber  of  meeting,  eager  listeners  to 
all  he  had  to  tell,  the  author  hoped — as  authors  will — 
to  succeed  in  awakening  some  of  his  own  emotions  in  the 
bosoms  of  his  readers.  Imagining  Master  Humphrey  in 
his  chimney-corner,  resuming  night  after  night  the  nar- 
rative,— say,  of  the  Old  Curiosity  Shop, — picturing  to 
himself  the  various  sensations  of  his  hearers, — thinking 
how  Jack  Redburn  might  incline  to  poor  Kit,  and  per- 
haps lean  too  favourably  even  towards  the  lighter  vices 
of  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller, — how  the  deaf  gentleman 
would  have  his  favourite,  and  Mr.  Miles  his, — and  how 
all  these  gentle  spirits  would  trace  some  faint  reflection 
of  their  past  lives  in  the  varying  current  of  the  tale, — he 
has  insensibly  fallen  into  the  belief  that  they  are  present 
to  his  readers  as  they  are  to  him,  and  has  forgotten  that, 
like  one  whose  vision  is  disordered,  he  may  be  conjuring 
up  bright  figures  where  there  is  nothing  but  empty  space. 

The  short  papers  which  are  to  be  found  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  volume  were  indispensable  to  the  form  of 
publication  and  the  limited  extei^t  of  each  number,  as  no 
story  of  lengthened  interest  could  be  begun  until  "  The 
Clock  "  was  wound  up  and  fairly  going. 

The  author  would  fain  hope  that  there  are  not  many 
who  would  disturb  Master  Humphrey  and  his  friends  in 
their  seclusion  ;  who  would  have  them  forego  their  pres- 
ent enjoyments  to  exchange  those  confidences  with  each 
other,  the  absence  of  which  is  the  foundation  of  their 
mutual  trust.  For  when  their  occupation  is  gone,  when 
their  tales  are  ended,  and  but  their  personal  histories 
remain,  the  chimney-corner  will  be  growing  cold,  and 
the  clock  will  be  about  to  stop  forever. 

One  other  word  in  his  own  person,  and  he  returns  to 
the  more  grateful  task  of  speaking  for  those  imaginary 
people  whose  little  world  lies  within  these  pages. 

It  may  be  some  consolation  to  the  well-disposed  ladies 
or  gentlemen  who,  in  the  interval  between  the  conclusion 
of  his  last  work  and  the  commencement  of  this,  origin- 
ated a  report  that  he  had  gone  raving  mad,  to  know  that 


it  spread  as  rapidly  as  could  be  desired,  and  was  made 
the  subject  of  considerable  dispute  ;  not  as  regarded  the 
fact,  for  that  was  as  thoroughly  establishfjd  as  the  duel 
between  Sir  Peter  Teazle  and  Charles  Surface  in  the 
"  School  for  Scandal"  ;  but  with  reference  to  the  unfor- 
tunate lunatic's  place  of  confinement,— -one  party  insist- 
ing positively  on  Bedlam,  another  inclining  favourably 
towards  St.  Luke's,  and  a  third  swearing  strongly  by  the 
asylum  at  Hanwell  ;  while  each  backed  its  case  by  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  of  the  same  excellent  nature  as 
that  brought  to  bear  by  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  on  the 
pistol  shot  which  struck  against  the  little  bronze  bust  of 
Shakespeare  over  the  fireplace,  grazed  out  of  the  window 
at  a  right  angle,  and  wounded  the  postman,  who  was 
coming  to  the  door  with  a  double  letter  from  Northamp- 
tonshire. 

It  will  be  a  great  affliction  to  these  ladies  and  gentle- 
men to  learn — and  he  is  so  unwilling  to  give  pain,  that 
he  would  not  whisper  the  circumstance  on  any  account, 
did  he  not  feel  in  a  manner  bound  to  do  so,  in  gratitude 
to  those  among  his  friends  who  were  at  the  trouble  of 
being  angry  with  the  absurdity — that  their  invention  made 
the  author's  home  unusually  merry,  and  gave  rise  to  an 
extraordinary  number  of  jests,  of  which  we  will  only  add, 
in  the  words  of  the  good  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  "  I  cannot 
say  whether  we  had  more  wit  among  us  than  usual ;  but 
I  am  sure  we  had  more  laughing." 


I. 

MASTER  HUMPHREY,  FROM  HIS  CLOCK-SIDE  IN 
THE  CHIMNEY-CORNER. 

The  reader  must  not  expect  to  know  where  I  live.  At 
present,  it  is  true,  my  abode  may  be  a  question  of  little 
or  no  import  to  anybody.  But  if  I  should  carry  my 
readers  with  me,  as  I  hope  to  do,  and  there  should 
spring  up,  between  them  and  me,  feelings  of  homely 
affection  and  regard  attaching  something  of  interest  to 
matters  ever  so  slightly  connected  with  my  fortunes  or 
my  speculations,  even  my  place  of  residence  might  one 
day  have  a  kind  of  charm  for  them.  Bearing  this  pos- 
sible contingency  in  mind,  I  wish  them  to  understand  in 
the  outset,  that  they  must  never  expect  to  know  it. 

I  am  not  a  churlish  old  man.  Friendless  I  can  never 
be,  for  all  mankind  are  my  kindred,  and  I  am  on  ill 
terms  with  no  one  member  of  my  great  family.  But 
for  many  years  I  have  led  a  lonely,  solitary  life  ; — what 
wound  I  sought  to  heal,  what  sorrow  to  forget,  origin- 
ally, matters  not  now  ;  it  is  sufficient  that  retirement 
has  become  a  habit  with  me,  and  that  I  am  unwilling  to 
break  the  spell  which  for  so  long  a  time  has  shed  its 
quiet  influence  upon  my  home  and  heart. 

I  live  in  a  venerable  suburb  of  London,  in  an  old 
house,  which  in  bygone  days  was  a  famous  resort  for 
merry  roysterers  and  peerless  ladies,  long  since  departed. 
It  is  a  silent,  shady  place,  with  a  paved  court-yard  so 
full  of  echoes  that  sometimes  I  am  tempted  to  believe 
that  faint  responses  to  the  noises  of  old  times  linger 
there  yet,  and  that  these  ghosts  of  sound  haunt  my  foot- 
steps as  I  pace  it  up  and  down.  I  am  the  more  confirmed 
in  this  belief,  because,  of  late  years,  the  echoes  that  at- 
tend my  walks  have  been  less  loud  and  marked  than 
they  were  wont  to  be  ;  and  it  is  pleasanter  to  imagine  in 
them  the  rustling  of  silk  brocade,  and  the  light  step  of 
some  lovely  girl,  than  to  recognize  in  their  altered  note 
the  failing  tread  of  an  old  man. 

Those  who  like  to  read  of  brilliant  rooms  and  gorgeous 

1077 


1078 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


furniture  would  derive  but  little  pleasure  from  a  minute 
description  of  my  simple  dwelling.  It  is  dear  to  me  for 
the  same  reason  that  tliey  would  hold  it  in  slight  regard. 
Its  worm-eaten  doors,  and  low  ceilings  crossed  by  clumsy 
beams  :  its  walls  of  wainscot,  dark  stairs,  and  gaping 
closets  ;  its  small  chambers,  communicating  with  each 
other  by  winding  passages  or  narrow  steps  ;  its  many 
nooks,  scarce  larger  than  its  corner-cupboards  ;  its  very 
dust  and  duluess,  are  all  dear  to  me.  The  moth  and 
spider  are  my  constant  tenants,  for  in  my  house  the  one 
basks  in  his  long  sleep,  and  the  other  plies  his  busy  loom, 
secure  and  undisturbed.  I  have  a  pleasure  in  thinking 
on  a  summer's  day,  how  many  butterflies  have  sprung 
for  the  first  time  into  light  and  sunshine  from  some  dark 
corner  of  these  old  walls. 

When  I  first  came  to  live  here,  .which  was  many  years 
ago,  the  neighbours  were  curious  to  know  who  I  was, 
and  whence  I  came,  and  why  I  lived  so  much  alone.  As 
time  went  on,  and  they  still  remained  unsatisfied  on 
these  points,  I  became  the  centre  of  a  popular  ferment, 
extending  for  half  a  mile  round,  and  in  one  direction  for 
a  full  mile.  Various  rumors  were  circulated  to  my  pre- 
judice. I  was  a  spy,  an  infidel,  a  conjurer,  a  kidnapper 
of  children,  a  refugee,  a  priest,  a  monster.  Mothers 
caught  up  their  infants  and  ran  into  their  houses  as  I 
passed  ;  men  eyed  me  spitefully,  and  muttered  threats 
and  curses.  I  was  the  object  of  suspicion  and  distrust ; 
ay,  of  downright  hatred,  too. 

But  when  in  course  of  time  they  found  I  did  no  harm, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  inclined  towards  them  despite  their 
unjust  usage,  they  began  to  relent.  I  found  my  foot- 
steps no  longer  dogged,  as  they  had  often  been  before, 
and  observed  that  the  women  and  children  no  longer  re- 
treated, but  would  stand  and  gaze  at  me  as  I  passed 
their  doors.  I  took  this  for  a  good  omen,  and  waited 
patiently  for  better  times.  By  degrees  I  began  to  make 
friends  among  these  humble  folks,  and  though  they 
were  yet  shy  of  speaking,  would  give  them  "good  day," 
and  so  pass  on.  In  a  little  time,  those  whom  I  had  thus 
accosted,  would  make  a  point  of  coming  to  their  doors 
and  windows  at  the  usual  hour,  and  nod  or  curtsey  to 
me  ;  children,  too,  came  timidly  within  my  reach,  and 
ran  away  quite  scared  when  I  patted  their  heads  and 
bade  them  be  good  at  school.  These  little  people  soon 
grew  more  familiar.  From  exchanging  mere  words  of 
course  with  my  older  neighbours,  I  gradually  became 
their  friend  and  adviser,  the  depositary  of  their  cares 
and  sorrows,  and  sometimes,  it  may  be,  the  reliever,  in 
my  small  way,  of  their  distresses.  And  now  I  never 
walk  abroad,  but  pleasant  recognitions  and  smiling  faces 
wait  on  Master  Humphrey. 

It  was  a  whim  of  mine,  perhaps  as  a  whet  to  the  curi- 
osity of  my  neighbours,  and  a  kind  of  retaliation  upon 
them  for  their  suspicions, — it  was,  I  say,  a  whim  of 
mine,  when  I  first  took  up  my  abode  in  this  place,  to  ac- 
knowledge no  other  name  than  Humphrey.  With  my 
detractors,  I  was  Ugly  Humphrey.  When  I  began 
to  convert  them  into  friends,  I  was  Mr.  Humphrey,  and 
Old  Mr.  Humphrey.  At  length  I  settled  down  into  plain 
Master  Humphrey,  which  was  understood  to  be  the  title 
most  pleasant  to  my  ear  ;  and  so  completely  a  matter  of 
course  has  it  become,  that  sometimes  when  I  am  taking 
my  morning  walk  in  my  little  court-yard,  I  overhear  my 
barber — who  has  a  profound  respect*  for  me,  and  would 
not,  I  am  sure,  abridge  my  honours  for  the  world — 
holding  forth  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  touching  the 
state  of  "  Master  Humphrey's  "  health,  and  communicat- 
ing to  some  friend  the  substance  of  the  conversation  that 
he  and  Master  Humphrey  have  had  together  in  the 
course  of  the  shaving  which  he  has  just  concluded. 

That  I  may  not  make  acquaintance  with  my  readers 
under  false  pretences,  or  give  them  cause  to  complain 
hereafter,  that  I  have  withheld  any  matter  which  it  was 
essential  for  them  to  have  learnt  at  first,  I  wish  them  to 
know — and  I  smile  sorrowfully  to  think  that  the  time 
has  been  when  the  confession  would  have  given  me 
pain — that  I  am  a  misshapen,  deformed  old  man. 

I  have  never  been  made  a  misanthrope  by  this  cause. 
I  have  never  been  stung  by  any  insult,  nor  wounded  by 
any  jest  upon  my  crooked  figure.  As  a  child  I  was 
melancholy  and  timid,  but  that  was  because  the  gentle 
consideration  paid  to  my  misfortune  sunk  deep  into  my 


spirit  and  made  me  sad,  even  in  those  early  days.  I  was 
but  a  very  young  creature  when  my  poor  mother  died, and 
yet  I  remember  that  often  when  I  hung  around  her  neck, 
and  oftener  still  when  I  played  about  the  room  before 
her,  she  would  catch  me  to  her  bosom,  and  bursting  into 
tears,  would  soothe  me  with  every  term  of  fondness  and 
affection.  God  knows  I  was  a  happy  child  at  those  times, 
— happy  to  nestle  in  her  breast, — happy  to  weep  when 
she  did,— happy  in  not  knowing  why. 

These  occasions  are  so  strongly  impressed  upon  my 
memory,  that  they  seem  to  have  occupied  whole  years. 
I  had  numbered  very,  very  few  when  they  ceased  for 
ever,  but  before  then  their  meaning  had  been  revealed 
to  me. 

I  do  not  know  whether  all  children  are  imbued  with  a 
quick  perception  of  childish  grace  and  beauty,  and  a 
strong  love  for  it,  but  I  was.  I  had  no  thought  that  I  re- 
member.either  that  I  possessed  it  myself  or  that  I  lacked  it, 
but  I  admired  it  with  an  intensity  that  I  cannot  describe. 
A  little  knot  of  playmates— they  must  have  been  beauti- 
ful, for  I  see  them  now — were  clustered  one  day  round 
my  mother's  knee  in  eager  admiration  of  some  picture 
representing  a  group  of  infant  angels,  which  she  held  in 
her  hand.  Whose  the  picture  was,  whether  it  was 
familiar  to  me  or  otherwise,  or  how  all  the  children 
came  to  be  there,I  forget  ;  lhave  some  dim  thought  it  was 
my  birthday,  but  the  Ijeginning  of  my  recollection  is  that 
we  were  all  together  in  the  garden,  and  it  was  summer 
weather, — I  am  sure  of  that,  for  one  of  the  little  girls 
had  roses  in  her  sash.  There  were  many  lovely  angels 
in  this  picture,  and  I  remember  the  fancy  coming  upon 
me  to  point  out  which  of  them  represented  each  child 
there,  and  that  when  I  had  gone  through  my  companions, 
I  stopped  and  hesitated,  wondering  which  was  most  like 
me.  I  remember  the  children  looking  at  each  other,  and 
my  turning  red  and  hot,  and  their  crowding  round  to 
kiss  me,  saying  that  they  loved  me  all  the  same  ;  and 
then,  and  when  the  old  sorrow  came  into  my  dear 
mother's  mild  and  tender  look,  the  truth  broke  upon  me 
for  the  first  time,  and  I  knew,  while  watching  my  awk- 
ward and  ungainly  sports,  how  keenly  she  had  felt  for 
her  poor  crippled  boy. 

I  used  frequently  to  dream  of  it  afterwards,  and  now 
my  heart  aches  for  that  child  as  if  I  had  never  been  he, 
when  I  think  how  often  he  awoke  from  some  fairy 
change  to  his  own  old  form,  and  sobbed  himself  to  sleep 
again. 

Well,  well, — all  these  sorrows  are  past.  My  glancing 
at  them  may  not  be  without  its  use,  for  it  may  help  in 
some  measure  to  explain  why  I  have  all  my  life  been 
attached  to  the  inanimate  objects  that  people  my  cham- 
ber, and  how  I  have  come  to  look  upon  them  rather  in 
the  light  of  old  and  constant  friends,  than  as  mere  chairs 
and  tables  which  a  little  money  could  replace  at  will. 

Chief  and  first  among  all  these  is  my  Clock, — my  old, 
cheerful,  companionable  Clock.  How  can  I  ever  convey 
to  others  an  idea  of  the  comfort  and  consolation  that  this 
eld  clock  has  been  for  years  to  me  ! 

It  is  associated  with  my  earliest  recollections.  It 
stood  upon  the  staircase  at  home  (I  call  it  home  still 
mechanically),  nigh  sixty  years  ago.  I  like  it  for  that, 
but  it  is  not  on  that  account,  nor  because  it  is  a  quaint 
old  thing  in  a  huge  oaken  case  curiously  and  richly 
carved,  that  I  prize  it  as  I  do.  I  incline  to  it  as  if  it 
were  alive,  and  could  understand  and  give  me  back  the 
love  I  bear  it. 

And  what  other  thing  that  has  not  life  could  cheer  me 
as  it  does  ;  what  other  thing  that  has  not  life  (I  will  not 
say  how  few  things  that  have)  could  have  proved  the  same 
patient,  true,  untiring  friend  !  How  often  have  I  sat  in 
the  long  winter  evenings  feeling  such  society  in  its 
cricket-voice,  that  raising  my  eyes  from  my  book  and 
looking  gratefully  towards  it,  the  face  reddened  by  the 
glow  of  the  shining  fire  has  seemed  to  relax  from  its 
staid  expression  and  to  regard  me  kindly  ;  how  often  in 
the  summer  twilight,  when  my  thoughts  have  wandered 
back  to  a  melancholy  past,  have  its  regular  whisperings 
recalled  them  to  the  calm  and  peaceful  present ;  how 
often  in  the  dead  tranquility  of  night  has  its  bell  broken 
the  oppressive  silence,  and  seemed  to  give  me  assurance 
that  the  old  clock  was  still  a  faithful  watcher  at  my 
chamber  door  !    My  easy-chair,  raj  desk,  my  ancient 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 


1079 


furniture,  my  very  books,  I  can  scarcely  bring  myself  to 
love  even  these  last,  like  my  old  clock  ! 

It  stands  in  a  snug  corner,  midway  between  the  fire- 
side and  a  low  arched  door  leading  to  my  bedroom.  Its 
fame  is  diffused  so  extensively  throughout  the  neighbour- 
hood, that  I  have  often  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  the 
publican,  or  the  baker,  and  sometimes  even  the  parish 
clerk,  petitioning  my  housekeeper  (of  whom  I  shall 
have  much  to  say  by  and  by)  to  inform  him  the  exact 
time  by  Master  Humphrey's  Clock.  My  barber,  to 
whom  I  have  referred,  would  sooner  believe  it  than  the 
sun.  Nor  are  these  its  only  distinctions.  It  has  ac- 
quired, I  am  happy  to  say,  another,  inseparably  connect- 
ing it  not  only  with  my  enjoyments  and  reflections,  but 
with  those  of  other  men  ;  as  I  shall  now  relate.  ^ 

I  lived  alone  here  for  a  long  time  without  any  friend 
or  acquaintance.  In  the  course  of  my  wanderings  by 
night  and  day,  at  all  hours  and  seasons,  in  city  streets 
and  quiet  country  parts,  I  came  to  be  familiar  \fith  cer- 
tain faces,  and  to  take  it  to  heart  as  quite  a  heavy  dis- 
appointment if  they  failed  to  present  themselves  each  at 
its  accustomed  spot.  But  these  were  the  only  friends  I 
knew,  and  beyond  them  I  had  none. 

It  happened  however,  when  I  had  gone  on  thus  for  a 
long  time,  that  I  formed  an  acquaintance  with  a  deaf 
gentleman,  which  ripened  into  intimacy  and  close  com- 
panionship. To  this  hour,  I  am  ignorant  of  his  name. 
It  is  his  humour  to  conceal  it,  or  he  has  a  reason  and  pur- 
pose for  so  doing.  In  either  case  I  feel  that  he  has  a 
right  to  require  a  return  of  the  trust  he  has  reposed,  and 
as  he  has  never  sought  to  discover  my  secret,  I  have 
never  sought  to  penetrate  his.  There  may  have  been 
something  in  this  tacit  confidence  in  each  other,  flatter- 
ing and  pleasant  to  us  both,  and  it  may  have  imparted 
in  the  beginning  an  additional  zest,  perhaps,  to  our 
friendship.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  have  grown  to  be 
like  brothers,  and  still  I  only  know  him  as  the  deaf 
gentleman. 

I  have  said  that  retirement  has  become  a  habit  with 
me.  When  I  add  that  the  deaf  gentleman  and  I  have 
two  friends,  I  communicate  nothing  which  is  inconsist- 
ent with  that  declaration.  I  spend  many  hours  of  every 
day  in  solitude  and  study,  have  no  friends  or  change  of 
friends  but  these,  only  see  them  at  stated  periods,  and 
am  supposed  to  be  of  a  retired  spirit  by  the  very  nature 
and  object  of  our  association. 

We  are  men  of  secluded  habits,  with  something  of  a 
cloud  upon  our  early  fortunes,  whose  enthusiasm,  never- 
theless, has  not  cooled  with  age,  whose  spirit  of  romance 
is  not  yet  quenched,  who  are  content  to  ramble  through 
the  world  in  a  pleasant  dream,  rather  than  ever  waken 
again  to  its  harsh  realities.  We  are  alchemists  who 
would  extract  the  essence  of  perpetual  youth  from  dust 
and  ashes,  tempt  coy  Truth  in  many  light  and  airy 
forms  from  the  bottom  of  her  well,  and  discover  one 
crumb  of  comfort  or  one  grain  of  good  in  the  commonest 
and  least  regarded  matter  that  passes  through  our  cruci- 
ble. Spirits  of  past  times,  creatures  of  imagination,  and 
people  of  to-day  are  alike  the  objects  of  our  seeking, 
and,  unlike  the  objects  of  search  with  most  philoso- 
phers, we  can  insure  their  coming  at  our  command. 

The  deaf  gentleman  and  I  first  began  to  beguile  our 
days  with  these  fancies,  and  uui  nights  in  communicat- 
ing them  to  each  other.  We  are  now  four.  But  in  my 
room  there  are  six  old  chairs,  and  we  have  decided  that 
the  two  empty  seats  shall  always  be  placed  at  our  table 
when  we  meet,  to  remind  us  that  we  may  yet  increase 
our  company  by  that  number,  if  we  should  find  two  men 
to  our  mind.  When  one  among  us  dies,  his  diair  will 
always  be  set  in  its  usual  place,  but  never  occupied 
again  ;  and  I  have  caused  my  will  to  be  so  drawn  out, 
that  when  we  are  all  dead  the  house  shall  be  shut  up, 
and  the  vacant  chairs  still  left  in  their  accustomed 
places.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  that  even  then  our 
shades  may,  perhaps,  assemble  together  as  of  yore  we 
did,  and  join  in  ghostly  converse. 

One  night  in  every  week,  as  the  clock  strikes  ten,  we 
meet.    At  the  second  stroke  of  two,  I  am  alone. 

And  now  shall  I  tell  how  that  my  old  servant,  besides 
giving  us  note  of  time,  and  ticking  cheerful  encourage- 
ment of  our  proceedings,  lends  its  name  to  our  society, 
which  for  its  punctuality  and  my  love,  is  christened 


"Master  Humphrey's  Clock?"  Now  shall  I  tell,  how 
that  in  the  bottom  of  the  old  dark  closet,  where  the 
steady  pendulum  throbs  and  beats  vvith  healthy  action, 
though  the  pulse  of  him  who  made  it  stood  still  long 
ago,  and  never  moved  again,  there  are  piles  of  dusty 
papers  constantly  placed  there  by  our  hands,  that  we 
may  link  our  enjoyments  with  my  old  friend,  and  draw 
means  to  beguile  time  from  the  heart  of  time  itself? 
Shall  I,  or  can  I,  tell  with  what  a  secret  pride  I  open 
this  repository  when  we  meet  at  night,  and  still  find  new 
store  of  pleasure  in  my  dear  old  Clock  ! 

Friend  and  companion  of  my  solitude  !  mine  is  not  a 
selfish  love  ;  I  would  not  keep  your  merits  to  myself, 
but  disperse  something  of  pleasant  association  with  your 
image  through  the  whole  wide  world  ;  I  would  have 
men  couple  with  your  name  cheerful  and  healthy 
thoughts  ;  I  would  have  them  believe  that  you  keep 
true  and  honest  time  ;  and  how  it  would  gladden  me  to 
know  that  they  recognized  some  hearty  English  work  in 
Master  Humphrey's  clock  ! 


II. 

THE  CLOCK-CASE. 

It  is  my  intention  constantly  to  address  my  readers 
from  the  chimney-corner,  and  I  would  fain  hope  that 
such  accounts  as  I  shall  give  them  of  our  histories  and 
proceedings,  our  quiet  speculations  or  more  busy  adven- 
tures, will  never  be  unwelcome.  Lest,  however,  I 
should  grow  prolix  in  the  outset  by  lingering  too  long 
upon  our  little  association,  confounding  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  I  regard  this  chief  happiness  of  my  life  with 
that  minor  degree  of  interest  which  those  to  whom  I 
address  myself  may  be  supposed  to  feel  for  it,  I  have 
deemed  it  expedient  to  break  off  as  they  have  seen. 

But,  still  clinging  to  my  old  friend,  and  naturally 
desirous  that  all  its  merits  should  be  known,  I  am 
tempted  to  open  (somewhat  irregularly  and  against  our 
laws,  I  must  admit)  the  clock-case.  The  first  roll  of 
paper  on  which  I  lay  my  hand  is  in  the  writing  of  the 
deaf  gentleman.  I  shall  have  to  speak  of  him  in  my 
next  paper,  and  how  can  I  better  approach  that  welcome 
task  than  by  prefacing  it  with  a  production  of  his  own 
pen,  consigned  to  the  safe  keeping  of  my  honest  clock 
by  his  own  hands. 

The  manuscript  runs  thus  : — > 

i 

INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  GIANT  CHEONICLES, 

Once  upon  a  time,  that  is  to  say,  in  this  our  time, — the 
exact  year,  month,  and  day  are  of  no  matter, — there 
dwelt  in  the  city  of  London  a  substantial  citizen,  who 
united  in  his  single  person  the  dignities  of  wholesale 
fruiterer,  alderman,  common -councilman,  and  member 
of  the  worshipful  company  of  Patten-makers  :  who  had 
superadded  to  these  extraordinary  distinctions  the  im- 
portant post  and  title  of  Sheriff,  and  who  at  length,  and 
to  crown  all,  stood  next  in  rotation  for  the  high  and 
honourable  office  of  Lord  Mayor, 

He  was  a  very  substantial  citizen  indeed.  His  face 
was  like  the  full  moon  in  a  fog,  with  two  little  holes 
punched  out  for  his  eyes,  a  very  ripe  pear  stuck  on  for 
his  nose,  and  a  wide  gash  to  serve  for  a  mouth.  The 
girth  of  his  waistcoat  was  hung  up  and  lettered  in  his 
tailor's  shop  as  an  extraordinary  curiosity.  He  breathed 
like  a  heavy  snorer,  and  his  voice  in  speaking  came 
thickly  forth,  as  if  it  were  oppressed  and  stifled  by 
feather-beds.  He  trod  the  ground  like  an  elephant, 
and  eat  and  drank  like — like  nothing  but  an  alderman, 
as  he  was. 

This  worthy  citizen  had  risen  to  his  great  eminence 
from  small  beginnings.  He  had  once  been  a  very  lean, 
weazen  little  boy,  never  dreaming  of  carrying  such  a 
weight  of  flesh  upon  his  bones  or  of  money  in  his  pock- 
ets, and  glad  eftiough  to  take  his  dinner  at  a  baker's 
door,  and  his  tea  at  a  pump.  But  he  had  long  ago  for- 
gotten all  this,  as  it  was  proper  that  a  wholesale  fruit- 
erer, alderman,  common- councilman,  member  of  the 
worshipful  company  of  Patten-makers,  past  sheriff,  and 


1080 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


above  all,  a  Lord  Mayor  that  was  to  be,  should  ;  and  he 
never  forgot  it  more  completely  in  all  his  life  than  on 
the  eighth  of  November  in  the  year  of  his  election  to 
the  great  golden  civic  chair,  which  was  the  day  before 
his  grand  dinner  at  Guildhall. 

It  happened  that  as  he  sat  that  evening  all  alone  in  his 
counting-house,  looking  over  the  bill  of  fare  for  next 
day,  and  checking  off  the  fat  capons  in  fifties,  and  the 
turtle-soup  by  the  hundred  quarts,  for  his  private  amuse- 
ment— it  happened  that  as  he  sat  alone  occupied  in  these 
pleasant  calculations,  a  strange  man  came  in  and  asked 
him  how  he  did,  adding,  "  If  I  am  half  as  much  changed 
as  you,  sir,  you  have  no  recollection  of  me,  I  am  sure." 

The  strange  man  was  not  over  and  above  well  dressed, 
and  was  very  far  from  being  fat  or  rich-looking  in  any 
sense  of  the  word,  yet  he  spoke  with  a  kind  of  modest 
confidence,  and  assumed  an  easy,  gentlemanly  sort  of  an 
air,  to  which  nobody  but  a  rich  man  can  lawfully  pre- 
sume. Besides  this,  he  interrupted  the  good  citizen  just 
as  he  had  reckoned  three  hundred  and  seventy-two  fat 
capons,  and  was  carrying  them  over  to  the  next  column, 
and  as  if  that  were  not  aggravation  enough,  the  learned 
recorder  for  the  city  of  London  had  only  ten  minutes 
previously  gone  out  at  that  very  same  door,  and  had 
turned  round  and  said,  "  Good-night,  my  lord."  Yes, 
he  had  said,  "  my  lord  ;  " — he,  a  man  of  birth  and  edu- 
cation, of  the  Honourable  Society  of  the  Middle  Temple, 
Barrister  at  Law, — he  who  had  an  uncle  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  an  aunt  almost  but  not  quite  in  the 
House  of  Lords  (for  she  had  married  a  feeble  peer,  and 
made  him  vote  as  she  liked) — he,  this  man,  this  learned 
recorder,  had  said  ''my  lord."  "I'll  not  wait  till  to-mor- 
row to  give  you  your  title,  my  Lord  Mayor,"  says  he, 
with  a  bow  and  a  smile  ;  "  you  are  Lord  Mayor  de  facto 
if  not  de  jure.    Good-night,  my  lord  !  " 

The  Lord  Mayor  elect  thought  of  this,  and  turning  to 
the  stranger,  and  sternly  bidding  him  "go  out  of  his 
private  counting-house,"  brought  forward  the  three  hun- 
dred and  seventy-two  fat  capons,  and  went  on  with  his 
account. 

Do  you  remember,"  said  the  other,  stepping  forward 
— do  you  remember  little  Joe  Toddyhigh  ?" 

The  port  wine  fled  for  a  moment  from  the  fruiterer's 
nose  as  he  muttered,  "Joe  Toddyhigh!  What  about 
Joe  Toddyhigh  ?  " 

"  Jam  Joe  Toddyhigh,"  cried  the  visitor.  "Look  at 
me,  look  hard  at  me — harder,  harder.  You  know  me 
now  ?  You  know  little  Joe  again  ?  What  a  happiness 
to  us  both,  to  meet  the  very  night  before  your  grandeur  ! 
Oh  !  give  me  your  hand,  J^Tack — both  hands — both,  for 
the  sake  of  old  times." 

"  You  pinch  me,  sir.  You're  a  hurting  of  me,"  said 
the  Lord  Mayor  elect,  pettishly.  "  Don't — suppose  any- 
body should  come — Mr.  Toddyhigh,  sir." 

"  Mr.  Toddyhigh  !"  repeated  the  other,  ruefully. 

"Oh!  don't  bother,"  said  the  Lord  Mayor  elect, 
scratching  his  head.  "  Dear  me  !  Why,  I  thought  you 
was  dead.    What  a  fellow  you  are  !  " 

Indeed,  it  was  a  pretty  state  of  things,  and  worthy  the 
tone  of  vexation  and  disappointment  in  which  the  Lord 
Mayor  spoke,  Joe  Toddyhigh  had  been  a  poor  boy  with 
him  at  Hull,  and  had  oftentimes  divided  his  last  penny 
and  parted  his  last  crust  to  relieve  his  wants  ;  for 
though  Joe  was  a  destitute  child  in  those  times,  he  was 
as  faithful  and  aifectionate  in  his  friendship  as  ever 
man  of  might  could  be.  They  parted  one  day,  to  seek 
their  fortunes  in  different  directions.  Joe  went  to  sea, 
and  the  now  wealthy  citizen  begged  his  way  to  London. 
They  separated  with  many  tears,  like  foolish  fellows  as 
they  were,  and  agreed  to  remain  fast  friends,  and  if 
they  lived,  soon  to  communicate  again. 

When  he  was  an  errand-boy,  and  even  in  the  early 
days  of  his  apprenticeship,  the  citizen  had  many  a  time 
trudged  to  the  post-olfice  to  ask  if  there  were  any  letter 
from  poor  little  Joe,  and  had  gone  home  again  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  when  he  found  no  news  of  his  only 
friend.  The  world  is  a  wide  place,  and  it  was  a  long 
time  before  the  letter  came;  when  it  did,  the  writer 
was  forgotten.  It  turndd  from  white  to  yellow  from  ly- 
ing in  the  j)ost-office  with  nobody  to  claim  it,  and  in 
course  of  time  was  torn  up  with  fiVo  hundred  others, 
and  sold  for  waste  paper.    And  now  at  last,  and  when  it 


might  least  have  been  expected,  here  was  this  Joe 
Toddyhigh  turning  up  and  claiming  acquaintance  with  a 
great  public  character,  who  on  the  morrow  would  be 
cracking  jokes  with  the  Prime  Minister  of  England,  and 
who  had  only,  at  any  time  during  the  next  twelve 
months,  to  say  the  word,  and  he  could  shut  up  Temple 
Bar,  and  make  it  no  thoroughfare  for  the  king  himself  I 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  Mr.  Toddyhigh," 
said  the  Lord  Mayor  elect ;  "I  really  don't.  It's  very 
inconvenient.  I'd  sooner  have  given  twenty  pound — 
it's  very  inconvenient,  really." 

A  thought  had  come  into  his  mind,  that  perhaps  his 
old  friend  might  say  something  passionate  which  would 
give  him  an  excuse  for  being  angry  himself.  No  such 
thing.  Joe  looked  at  him  steadily,  but  Tery  mildly,  and 
did  not  open  his  lips. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  pay  you  what  I  owe  you,"  said  the 
Lord  Mayor  elect,  fidgeting  in  his  chair.  "  You  lent  me 
— I  think  it  was  a  shilling  or  some  small  coin — when  we 
parted  company,  and  that  of  course  I  shall  pay,  with 
good  interest.  I  can  pay  my  way  with  any  man,  and  al- 
ways have  done.  If  you  look  into  the  Mansion 
House  the  day  after  to-morrow — some  time  after  dusk — 
and  ask  for  my  private  clerk,  you'll  find  he  has  a  draft 
for  you.  I  haven't  got  time  to  say  anything  more  just 
now,  unless  " — he  hesitated,  for,  coupled  with  a  strong 
desire  to  glitter  for  once  in  all  his  glory  in  the  eyes  of 
his  former  companion,  was  a  distrust  of  his  appearance, 
which  might  be  more  shabby  than  he  could  tell  by  that 
feeble  light — "  unless  you'd  like  to  come  to  the  dinner 
to-morrow.  I  don't  mind  your  having  this  ticket,  if  you 
like  to  take  it.  A  great  many  people  would  give  their 
ears  for  it,  I  can  tell  you." 

His  old  friend  took  the  card  without  speaking  a  word, 
and  instantly  departed.  His  sunburnt  face  and  gray 
hair  were  present  to  the  citizen's  mind  for  a  moment  ; 
but  by  the  time  he  reached  three  hundred  and  ei-ghty- 
one  fat  capons,  he  had  quite  forgotten  him. 

Joe  Toddyhigh  had  never  been  in  the  capital  of 
Europe  before,  and  he  wandered  up  and  down  the  streets 
that  night  amazed  at  the  number  of  churches  and  other 
public  buildings,  the  splendor  of  the  shops,  the  riches 
that  were  heaped  up  on  every  side,  the  glare  of  light  in 
which  they  were  displayed,  and  the  concourse  of  people 
who  hurried  to  and  fro,  indifferent,  apparently,  to  all 
the  wonders  that  surrounded  them.  But  in  all  the  long 
streets  and  broad  squares,  there  were  none  but  strangers  ; 
it  was  quite  a  relief  to  turn  down  a  by-way  and  hear  his 
own  footsteps  on  the  pavement.  He  went  home  to  his 
inn  ;  thought  that  London  was  a  dreary,  desolate  place, 
and  felt  disposed  to  doubt  the  existence  of  one  true- 
hearted  man  in  the  whole  worshipful  company  of  Patten- 
makers.  Finally,  he  went  to  bed,  and  dreamed  that  he 
and  the  Lord  Mayor  elect  were  boys  again. 

He  went  next  day  to  the  dinner,  and  when,  in  a  burst 
of  light  and  music,  and  in  the  midst  of  splendid  decora- 
tions and  surrounded  by  brilliant  company,  his  former 
friend  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  Hall,  and  was  hailed 
with  shouts  and  cheering,  he  cheered  and  shouted  with 
the  best,  and  for  the  moment  could  have  cried.  The 
next  moment  he  cursed  his  weakness  in  behalf  of  a  man 
so  changed  and  selfish,  and  quite  hated  a  jolly-looking 
old  gentleman  opposite  for  declaring  himself  in  the  pride 
of  his  heart  a  Patten -maker. 

As  the  banquet  proceeded,  he  took  more  and  more  to 
heart  the  rich  citizen's  unkindness  ;  and  that,  not  from 
any  envy,  but  because  he  felt  that  a  man  of  his  state 
and  fortune  could  all  the  better  afford  to  recognize  an 
old  friend,  even  if  he  were  poor  and  obscure.  The  more 
he  thought  of  this,  the  more  lonely  and  sad  he  felt. 
When  the  company  dispersed  and  adjourned  to  the  ball- 
room, he  paced  the  hall  and  passages  alone,  ruminating 
in  a  very  melancholy  condition  upon  the  disappointment 
he  had  experienced. 

It  chanced,  while  he  was  lounging  about  in  this  moody 
state,  that  he  stumbled  upon  a  flight  of  stairs,  dark, 
steep,  and  narrow,  which  he  ascended  without  any 
thought  about  the  matter,  and  so  came  into  a  little 
music-gallery,  empty  and  deserted.  From  this  elevated 
post,  which  commanded  the  whole  hall,  he  amused  him- 
self in  looking  down  upon  the  attendants  who  were 
clearing  away  the  fragments  of  the  feast  very  lazily,  and 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 


1081 


drinking  out  of  all  the  bottles  and  glasses  with  most  com- 
mendable perseverance. 

His  attention  gradually  relaxed,  and  he  fell  fast  asleep. 
When  he  awoke,  he  thought  there  must  be  something 
the  matter  with  his  eyes  ;  but,  rubbing  them  a  little,  he 
soon  found  that  the  moonlight  was  really  streaming 
through  the  east  window,  that  the  lamps  were  all  extin- 
guished, and  that  he  was  alone.  He  listened,  but  no  dis- 
tant murmur  in  the  echoing  passages,  not  even  the  shut- 
ting of  a  door,  broke  the  deep  silence  ;  he  groped  his 
way  down  the  stairs,  and  found  that  the  door  at  the 
bottom  was  locked  on  the  other  side.  He  began  now  to 
comprehend  that  he  must  have  slept  a  long  time,  that 
he  had  been  overlooked,  and  was  shut  up  there  for  the 
night. 

His  first  sensation,  perhaps,  was  not  altogether  a  com- 
fortable one,  for  it  was  a  dark,  chilly,  earthy-smelling 
place,  and  something  too  large,  for  a  man  so  situated,  to 
feel  at  home  in.  However,  when  the  momentary  con- 
sternation of  his  surprise  was  over,  he  made  light  of  the 
accident,  and  resolved  to  feel  his  way  up  the  stairs  again, 
and  make  himself  as  comfortable  as  he  could  in  the  gal- 
lery until  morning.  As  he  turned  to  execute  this  purpose 
he  heard  the  clock  strike  thrtje. 

Any  such  invasion  of  a  dead  stillness  as  the  striking 
of  distant  clocks,  causes  it  to  appear  the  more  intense 
and  insupportable  when  the  sound  has  ceased.  He  lis- 
tened with  strained  attention  in  the  hop<3  that  some 
clock,  lagging  behind  its  fellows,  had  yet  to  strike, — 
looking  all  the  time  into  the  profound  darkness  before 
him  until  it  seemed  to  weave  itself  into  a  black  tissue, 
patterned  with  a  hundred  reflections  of  his  own  eyes. 
But  the  bells  had  all  pealed  out  their  .warning  for  that 
once,  and  the  gust  of  wind  that  moaned  through  the 
place  seemed  cold  and  heavy  with  their  iron  breath. 

The  time  aad  circumstances  were  favourable  to  reflec- 
tion. He  tried  to  keep  his  thoughts  to  the  current,  un- 
pleasant though  it  was,  in  which  they  had  moved  all 
day,  and  to  think  with  what  a  romantic  feeling  he  had 
looked  forward  to  shaking  his  old  friend  by  the  hand 
before  he  died,  and  what  a  wide  and  cruel  difference 
there  was  between  the  meeting  they  had  had,  and  that 
which  he  had  so  often  and  so  long  anticipated.  Still  he 
was  disordered  by  waking  to  such  sudden  loneliness,  and 
could  not  prevent  his  mind  from  running  upon  odd  tales 
of  people  of  undoubted  courage,  who,  being  shut  up 
by  night  in  vaults  or  churches,  or  other  dismal  places, 
had  scaled  great  heights  to  get  out,  and  fled  from  silence 
as  they  had  never  done  from  danger.  This  brought  to 
his  mind  the  moonlight  through  the  window,  and  be- 
thinking himself  of  it,  he  groped  his  way  back  up  the 
crooked  stairs,  but  very  stealthily,  as  though  he  were 
fearful  of  being  overheard. 

He  was  very  much  astonished  when  he  approached  the 
gallery  again,  to  see  a  light  in  the  building  :  still  more 
so  on  advancing  hastily  and  looking  round,  to  observe 
no  visible  source  from  which  it  could  proceed.  But  how 
much  greater  yet  was  his  astonishment  at  the  spectacle 
which  this  light  revealed. 

The  statues  of  the  two  giants,  Gog  and  Magog,  each 
above  fourteen  feet  in  height,  those  which  succeeded  to 
still  older  and  more  barbarous  figures  after  the  Great 
Fire  of  London,  and  which  atand  in  the  Guildhall  to  this 
day,  were  endowed  with  life  and  motion.  These  guard- 
ian genii  of  the  City  had  quitted  their  pedestals,  and  re- 
clined in  easy  attitudes  in  the  great  stained  glass  win- 
dow. Between  them  was  an  ancient  cask,  which  seemed 
to  be  full  of  wine  ;  for  the  younger  Giant,  clapping  his 
huge  hand  upon  it,  and  throwing  up  his  mighty  leg, 
burst  into  an  exulting  laugh,  which  reverberated 
through  the  hall  like  thunder, 

Joe  Toddyhigh  instinctively  stooped  down,  and,  more 
dead  than  alive,  felt  his  hair  stand  on  end,  his  knees 
knock  together,  and  a  cold  damp  break  out  upon  his 
forehead.  But  even  at  that  minute  curiosity  prevailed 
over  every  other  feeling,  and  somewhat  reassured  by 
the  good  humour  of  the  Giants  and  their  apparent  un- 
consciousness of  his  presence,  he  crouched  in  a  corner  of 
the  gallery,  in  as  small  a  space  as  he  could,  and,  peeping 
between  the  rails,  observed  them  closely. 

It  was  then  that  the  elder  Giant,  who  had  a  flowing 
gray  beard,  raised  his  thoughtful  eyes  to  his  companion's 


face,  and  in  a  grave  and  solemn  voice  addressed  him 
thus : — 

FraST  NIGHT  OP  THE  GIANT  CHRONICLES. 

Turning  towards  his  companion,  the  elder  Giant  ut- 
tered t/hese  words  in  a  grave,  majestic  tone  : — 

"  Magog,  does,  boisterous  mirth  beseem  the  Giant 
Warder  of  this  ancient  city  ?  Is  this  becoming  de- 
meanour for  a  watchful  spirit  over  whose  bodiless  head 
so  many  years  have  rolled,  so  many  changes  swept  like 
empty  air, — in  whose  im])alpable  nostrils  the  scent  of 
blood  and  crime,  pestilence,  cruelty,  and  horror,  has  been 
familiar  as  breath  to  mortals, — in  whose  sight  Time 
has  gathered  in  the  harvest  of  centuries,  and  garnered 
so  many  crops  of  human  yjride,  affections,  hopes,  and 
sorrows?  Bethink  you  of  our  compact.  The  nigh'; 
wanes  ;  feasting,  revelry,  and  music  have  encroached 
upon  our  usual  hours  of  solitude,  and  morning  will  be 
here  apace.  Ere  we  are  stricken  mute  again,  bethink 
you  of  our  compact.'* 

Pronouncing  these  latter  words  with  more  of  impa- 
tience than  quite  accorded  with  his  apparent  age  and 
gravity,  the  Giant  raised  a  long  pole  (which  he  still  bears 
in  his  hand)  and  tapped  his  brother  Giant  rather  smartly 
on  the  head  ;  indeed,  the  blow  was  so  smartly  adminis- 
tered, that  the  latter  quickly  withdrew  his  lips  from  the 
cask  to  which  they  had  been  applied,  and,  catching  up 
his  shield  and  halberd,  assumed  an  attitude  of  defence. 
His  irritation  was  but  momentary,  for  he  laid  these 
Aveapons  aside  as  hastily  as  he  had  assumed  them,  and 
said  as  he  did  so  : — 

"  You  know,  Gog,  old  friend,  that  when  we  animate 
these  shapes  which  the  Londoners  of  old  assigned  (and 
not  unworthily, — to  the  guardian  genii  of  their  city,  we 
are  susceptible  of  some  of  the  sensations  which  belong 
to  human  kind.  Thus  when  I  taste  wine,  I  feel  blows  ; 
when  I  relish  the  one,  I  disrelish  the  other.  Therefore, 
Gog,  the  more  especially  as  your  arm  is  none  of  the 
lightest,  keep  your  good  staff  by  your  side,  else  we  may 
chance  to  differ.    Peace  be  between  us." 

"  Amen  !  "  said  the  other,  leaning  his  staff  in  the  win- 
dow corner.    "  Why  did  you  laugh  just  now  1 " 

"  To  think,"  replied  the  Giant  Magog,  laying  his  hand 
upon  the  cask,  "  of  him  who  owned  this  wine,  and  kept 
it  in  a  cellar  hoarded  from  the  light  of  day,  for  thirty 
years, — '  till  it  should  be  fit  to  drink,'  quoth  he.  He  was 
twoscore  and  ten  years  old  when  he  buried  it  beneath 
his  house,  and  yet  never  thought  that  he  might  be 
scarcely  '  fit  to  drink  when  the  wine  became  so.  I 
wonder  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  make  himself  unfit 
to  be  eaten.  There  is  very  little  of  him  left  by  this 
time.'* 

"  The  night  is  waning,"  said  Gog  mournfully. 

"\  know  it,"  replied  his  companion,  "and  I  see  you 
are  impatient.  But  look.  Through  the  eastern  window 
— placed  opposite  to  us,  that  the  first  beams  of  the  rising 
sun  may  every  morning  gild  our  giant  faces — the  moon- 
rays  fall  upon  the  pavement  in  a  stream  of  light  that  to 
my  fancy  sinks  through  the  cold  stone  and  gushes  into 
the  old  crypt  below.  The  night  is  scarcely  past  its  noon, 
and  our  great  charge  is  sleeping  heavily." 

They  ceased  to  speak,  and  looked  upward  at  the  moon. 
The  sight  of  their  large,  black,  rolling-  eyes  filled  Joe 
Toddyhigh  with  such  horror  that  he  could  scarcely  draw 
his  breath.  Still  they  took  no  note  of  him,  and  appeared 
to  believe  themselves  quite  alone. 

"Our  compact,"  said  Magog  after  a  pause,  "is,  if  I 
understand  it,  that,  instead  of  watching  here  in  silence 
through  the  dreary  nights,  we  entertain  each  other  with 
stories  of  our  past  experience  ;  with  tales  of  the  past, 
the  present,  and  the  future ;  with  legends  of  London  and 
her  sturdy  citizens  from  the  old  simple  times.  That 
every  night  at  midnight,  when  Saint  Paul's  bell  tolls 
out  one,  and  we  may  move  and  speak,  Ave  thus  discourse, 
nor  leave  such  themes  till  the  first  gray  gleam  of  day 
shall  strike  us  dumb.    Is  that  our  bargain,  brother?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Giant  Gog,  "that  is  the  league  be- 
tween us  who  guard  this  city,  by  day  in  spirit,  and  by 
night  in  body  also  ;  and  never  on  ancient  holidays  have 
its  conduits  run  wine  more  merrily  than  we  will  pour 
forth  our  legendary  lore.    We  are  old  chroniclers  fropi 


1082 


CHARLES  DICKEK8'  WORKS. 


this  time  hence.  The  crumbled  walls  encircle  us  once 
more,  the  postern  gates  are  closed,  the  drawbridge  is 
up,  and  pent  in  its  narrow  den  beneath,  the  water  foams 
and  struggles  with  the  sunken  starlings.  Jerkins  and 
quarter-staves  are  in  the  streets  again,  the  nightly  watch 
is  set,  the  rebel,  sad  and  lonely  in  his  Tower  dungeon, 
tries  to  sleep  and  weeps  for  home  and  children.  Aloft 
upon  the  gates  and  walls  are  noble  heads  glaring  fiercely 
down  upon  the  dreaming  city,  and  vexing  the  hungry 
dogs  that  scent  them  in  the  air,  and  tear  the  ground 
beneath  with  dismal  bowlings.  The  axe,  the  block,  the 
rack,  in  their  dark  chambers  give  signs  of  recent  use. 
The  Thames,  floating  past  long  lines  of  cheerful  windows 
whence  come  a  burst  of  music  and  a  stream  of  light, 
bears  sullenly  to  the  Palace  wall  the  last  red  stain 
brought  on  the  tide  from  Traitor's  Gate.  But  your  par- 
don, brother.    The  night  wears,  and  I  am  talking  idly." 

The  other  Giant  appeared  to  be  entirely  of  this  opinion, 
for  during  the  foregoing  rhapsody  of  his  fellow-sentinel 
he  had  been  scratching  his  head  with  an  air  of  comical 
uneasiness,  or  rather  with  an  air  that  would  have  been 
very  comical  if  he  had  been  a  dwarf  or  an  ordinary-sized 
man.  He  winked,  too,  and  though  it  could  not  be 
doubted  for  a  moment  that  he  winked  to  himself,  still 
he  certainly  cocked  his  enormous  eye  towards  the  gallery 
where  the  listener  was  concealed.  Nor  was  this  all,  for 
he  gaped  ;  and  when  he  gaped,  Joe  was  horribly  re- 
minded of  the  popular  prejudice  on  the  subject  of 
giants,  and  of  their  fabled  power  of  smelling  out  English- 
men, however  closely  concealed. 

His  alarm  was  such  that  he  nearly  swooned,  and  it 
was  some  little  time  before  his  power  of  sight  or  hearing 
was  restored.  When  he  recovered  he  found  that  tlie 
elder  Giant  was  pressing  the  younger  to  commence  the 
Chronicles,  and  that  the  latter  was  endeavouring  to  ex- 
cuse himself,  on  the  ground  that  the  night  was  far  spent 
and  it  would  be  better  to  wait  until  the  next.  Well 
assured  by  this  that  he  was  certainly  about  to  begin  di- 
rectly, the  listener  collected  his  faculties  by  a  great 
effort,  and  distinctly  heard  Magog  express  himself  to  the 
following  effect  : — 

In  the  sixteenth  century  and  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  of  glorious  memory  (albeit«her  golden  days  are 
sadly  rusted  with  blood),  there  lived  in  the  city  of  Lon- 
don a  bold  young  'prentice  who  loved  his  master's 
daughter.  There  were  no  doubt  within  the  walls  a 
great  many  'prentices  in  this  condition,  but  I  speak  of 
only  one,  and  his  name  was  Hugh  Graham. 

This  Hugh  was  apprenticed  to  an  honest  Bowyer  who 
dwelt  in  the  ward  of  Cheype,  and  was  rumoured  to 
possess  great  wealth.  Rumour  was  quite  as  infallible  in 
those  days  as  at  the  present  time,  but  it  happened  then 
as  now  to  be  sometimes  right  by  accident.  It  strtmbled 
upon  the  truth  when  it  gave  the  old  Bowyer  a  mint  of 
money.  His  trade  had  been  a  profitable  one  in  the  time  of 
King  Henry  the  Eighth,  who  encouraged  English  archery 
to  the  utmost,  and  he  had  been  prudent  and  discreet. 
Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Mistress  Alice,  his  only  daugh- 
ter, was  the  richest  heiress  in  all  his  wealthy  ward. 
Young  Hugh  had  often  maintained  with  staff  and  cudgel 
that  she  was  the  handsomest.  To  do  him  justice,  I 
believe  she  was. 

If  he  could  have  gained  the  heart  of  pretty  Mistress 
Alice  by  knocking  this  conviction  into  stubborn  people's 
heads,  Hugh  would  have  had  no  cause  to  fear.  But 
though  the  Bowyer's  daughter  smiled  in  secret  to  hear  of 
his  doughty  deeds  for  her  sake,  and  though  her  little 
waiting-woman  reported  all  her  smiles  (and  many  more) 
to  Hugh,  and  though  he  was  at  a  vast  expense  in 
kisses  and  small  coin  to  recompense  her  fidelity,  he  made 
no  progress  in  his  love.  He  durst  not  whisper  it  to  Mis- 
tress Alice  save  on  sure  encouragement,  and  that  she 
never  gave  him.  A  glance  of  her  dark  eye  as  she  sat  at 
the  door  on  a  summer's  evening  after  prayer-time,  while 
he  and  the  neighbouring  'prentices  exercised  themselves 
in  the  street  with  blunted  sword  and  buckler,  would  fire 
Hugh's  blood  so  that  none  could  stand  before  him  ;  but 
then  she  glanced  at  others  quite  as  kindly  as  on  him,  and 
where  was  the  use  of  cracking  crowns  if  Mistress  Alice 
smiled  upon  the  cracked  as  well  as  on  the  cracker? 

Still  Hugh  went  on.  and  loved  her  more  and  more. 
He  thought  of  her  all  day,  and  dreamed  of  her  all  night 


long.  He  treasured  up  her  every  word  and  gesture,  and 
had  a  palpitation  of  the  heart  whenever  he  heard  her 
footstep  on  the  stairs  or  her  voice  in  an  adjoining  room. 
To  him,  the  old  Bowyer's  house  was  haunted  by  an  an- 
gel ;  there  was  encliantment  in  the  air  and  space  in 
which  she  moved.  It  would  have  been  no  miracle  to 
Hugh  if  flowers  had  sprung  from  the  rush-strewn  floors 
beneath  the  tread  of  lovely  Mistress  Alice. 

Never  did  'prentice  long  to  distinguish  himself  in  the 
eyes  of  his  lady-love  so  ardently  as  Hugh.  Sometimes 
he  pictured  to  himself  the  house  taking  fire  by  night,  and 
he,  when  all  drew  back  in  fear,  rushing  through  flame 
and  smoke  and  bearing  her  from  the  ruins  in  his  arms. 
At  other  times  he  thought  of  a  rising  of  fierce  rebels,  an 
attack  upon  the  city,  a  strong  assault  upon  the  Bowyer's 
house  in  particular,  and  he  falling  on  the  threshold 
pierced  with  numberless  wounds  in  defence  of  Mistress 
Alice.  If  he  could  only  enact  some  prodigy  of  valour, 
do  some  wonderful  deed,  and  let  her  know  that  she  had 
inspired  it,  he  thought  he  could  die  contented. 

Sometimes  the  Bowyer  and  his  daughter  would  go  out 
to  supper  with  a  worthy  citizen  at  the  fashionable  hour 
of  six  o'clock,  and  on  such  occasions  Hugh,  wearing  his 
blue 'prentice  cloak  as  gallantly  as 'prentice  rnight,  would 
attend  with  a  lantern  and  his  trusty  club  to  escort  them 
home.  These  were  the  brightest  moments  of  his  life. 
To  hold  the  light  while  Mistress  Alice  picked  her  steps, 
to  touch  her  hand  as  he  helped  her  over  broken  ways,  to 
have  her  leaning  on  his  arm, — it  sometimes  even  came  to 
that, — this  was  happiness  indeed  ! 

V/hen  the  nights  were  fair,  Hugh  followed  in  the  rear, 
his  eyes  riveted  on  the  graceful  figure  of  the  Bowyer's 
daughter  as  she  a,nd  the  old  man  moved  on  before  him. 
So  they  threaded  the  narrow  winding  streets  of  the  city, 
now  passing  beneath  the  overhanging  gables  of  old 
wooden  houses  whence  creaking  signs  projected  into  the 
street,  and  now  emerging  from  some  dark  and  frowning 
gateway  into  the  clear  moonlight.  At  such  times,  or 
when  the  shouts  of  straggling  brawlers  met  her  ear,  the 
Bowyer's  daughter  would  look  timidly  back  at  Hugh  be- 
seeching him  to  draw  nearer  ;  and  then  how  he  grasped 
his  club  and  longed  to  do  battle  with  a  dozen  rufflers,  for 
the  love  of  Mistress  Alice  1 

The  old  Bowyer  was  in  the  habit  of  lending  money  on 
interest  to  the  gallants  of  the  Court,  and  thus  it  happened 
that  many  a  richly  dressed  gentleman  dismounted  at  his 
door.  More  waving  plumes  and  gallant  steeds,  indeed, 
were  seen  at  the  Bowyer's  house,  and  more  embroidered 
silks  and  velvets  sparkled  in  his  dark  shop  and  darker 
private  closet  than  at  any  merchant's  in  the  city.  In 
those  times  no  less  than  in  the  present  it  would  seem 
that  the  richest  looking  cavaliers  often  wanted  money 
the  most. 

Of  these  glittering  clients  there  was  one  who  always 
came  alone.  He  was  always  nobly  mounted,  and,  having 
no  attendant,  gave  his  horse  in  charge  to  Hugh  while  he 
and  the  Bowyer  were  closeted  within.  Once  as  he  sprung 
into  the  saddle  Mistress  Alice  was  seated  at  an  upper 
window,  and  before  she  could  withdraw  he  had  doffed 
his  jewelled  cap  and  kissed  his  hand.  Hugh  watched 
him  caracoling  down  the  street,  and  burnt  with  indigna- 
tion. But  how  mtich  deeper  was  the  glow  that  reddened 
in  his  cheeks  when,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  casement,  he 
saw  that  Alice  watched  the  stranger  too  ! 

He  came  again  and  often,  each  time  arrayed  more  gay- 
ly  than  before,  and  still  the  little  casement  showed  him 
Mistress  Alice.  At  length  one  heavy  day,  she  fled  from 
home.  It  had  cost  her  a  hard  struggle,  for  all  her  old 
father's  gifts  were  strewn  about  her  chamber  as  if  she 
had  parted  from  them  one  by  one,  and  knew  that  the 
time  must  come  when  these  tokens  of  his  love  would 
wring  her  heart, — yet  she  was  gone.  * 

She  left  a  letter  commending  her  poor  father  to  the 
care  of  Hugh,  and  wishing  he  might  be  happier  than  he 
could  ever  have  been  with  her,  for  he  deserved  the  love 
of  a  better  and  a  purer  heart  than  she  had  to  bestow. 
The  old  man's  forgiveness  (she  said)  she  had  no  power  to 
ask,  but  she  prayed  God  to  bless  him, — and  so  ended 
with  a  blot  upon  the  paper  where  her  tears  had  fallen. 

At  first  the  old  man's  wrath  was  kindled,  and  he  car- 
ried his  wrong  to  the  Queen's  throne  itself  ;  but  there 
was  no  redress  he  learnt  at  Court,  for  his  daughter  had 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK, 


1083 


been  conveyed  abroad.  This  afterwards  appeared  to  be 
tbe  truth,  as  there  came  from  France,  after  an  interval 
of  several  years,  a  letter  in  her  liand.  It  was  written  in 
trembling  characters,  and  almost  illegible.  Little  could 
be  made  out  save  that  she  often  thought  of  home  and 
her  dear  old  pleasant  room, — and  that  she  had  dreamt 
her  father  was  dead  and  had  not  blessed  her, — and  that 
her  heart  was  breaking. 

The  poor  old  Bowyer  lingered  on,  never  suffering 
Hugh  to  quit  his  sight,  for  he  knew  now  that  he  had 
loved  his  daughter,  and  that  was  the  only  link  that 
bound  him  to  earth.  It  broke  at  length,  and  lie  died, 
bequeathing  his  old  'prentice  his  trade  and  all  his  wealth, 
and  solemnly  charging  him  with  his  last  breath  to  re- 
venge his  child  if  ever  he  who  had  worked  her  misery 
crossed  his  path  in  life  again. 

From  the  time  of  Alice's  flight,  the  tilting-ground,  the 
fields,  the  fencing-school,  the  summer-evening  sports, 
knew  Hugh  no  more.  His  spirit  was  dead  within  him. 
He  rose  to  great  eminence  and  repute  among  the  citi- 
zens, but  was  seldom  seen  to  smile,  and  never  mingled  in 
their  revelries  or  rejoicings.  Brave,  humane,  and  gen- 
erous, he  was  beloved  by  all.  He  was  pitied  too  by  those 
who  knew  his  story,  and  the^e  were  so  many  that  when 
he  walked  along  the  streets  alone  at  dusk,  even  the  rude 
common  people  doffed  their  caps  and  mingled  a  rough 
air  of  sympathy  with  their  respect. 

One  night  in  May — it  w^as  her  birthnight  and  twenty 
years  since  she  had  left  her  home — Hugh  Graham  sat  in 
the  room  she  had  hallowed  in  his  boyish  days.  He  was 
now  a  gray-haired  man,  though  still  in  the  prime  of  life. 
Old  thoughts  had  borne  him  company  for  many  hours, 
and  the  chamber  had  gradually  grown  quite  dark,  when 
he  was  roused  by  a  low  knocking  at  the  outer  door. 

He  hastened  down,  and  opening  it  saw  by  the  light  of 
a  lamp  which  he  had  seized  upon  the  way,  a  female  fig- 
ure crouching  in  the  portal.  It  hurried  swiftly  past  him 
and  glided  up  the  stairs.  He  looked  for  pursuers.  There 
were  none  in  sight.    No,  not  one. 

He  was  inclined  to  think  it  a  vision  of  his  own  brain, 
when  suddenly  a  vague  suspicion  of  the  truth  flashed 
upon  his  mind.  He  barred  the  door  and  hastened  wild- 
ly back.  Yes,  there  she  was, — there,  in  the  chamber  he 
had  quitted, — there  in  her  old  innocent  happy  home,  so 
changed  that  none  but  he  could  trace  one  gleam  of  what 
she  had  been, — there  upon  her  knees, — with  her  hands 
clasped  in  agony  and  shame  before  her  burning  face. 

"My  God,  my  God!"  she  cried,  "now  strike  me 
dead  !  Though  I  have  brought  death  and  shame  and 
sorrow  on  this  roof,  oh,  let  me  die  at  home  in  mercy  ! " 

There  was  no  tear  upon  her  face  then,  but  she  trembled 
and  glanced  round  the  chamber.  Everything  was  in  its 
old  place.  Her  bed  looked  as  if  she  had  risen  from  it 
but  that  morning.  The  sight  of  these  familiar  objects, 
marking  the  dear  remembrance  in  which  she  had  been 
held,  and  the  blight  she  had  brought  upon  herself,  was 
more  than  the  woman's  better  nature  that  had  carried 
her  there  could  bear.  She  wept  and  fell  upon  the 
ground. 

A  rumour  was  spread  about,  in  a  few  daj^s'  time,  that 
the  Bowyer's  cruel  daughter  had  come  home,  and  that 
Master  Graham  had  given  her  lodging  in  his  house.  It 
was  rumoured  too  that  lie  had  resigned  her  fortune,  in 
order  that  she  might  bestow  it  in  acts  of  charit}',  and 
that  he  had  vowed  to  guard  her  in  her  solitude,  but  that 
they  were  never  to  see  each  other  more.  These  rumours 
greatly  incensed  all  virtuous  wives  and  daughters  in  the 
ward,  especially  when  they  appeared  to  receive  some 
corroboration  from  the  circumstance  of  Master  Graham 
taking  up  his  abode  in  another  tenement  hard  by.  The 
estimation  in  which  he  was  held,  however,  forbade  any 
questioning  on  the  subject  ;  and  as  the  Bowyer's  house 
was  close  shut  up,  and  nobody  came  forth  when  public 
shows  and  festivities  were  in  progress,  or  to  flaunt  in  the 
public  walks,  or  to  buy  new  fashions  at  the  mercers' 
booths,  all  the  well-conducted  females  agreed  among 
themselves  that  there  could  be  no  woman  there. 

These  reports  had  scarcely  died  away  when  the  won- 
der of  every  good  citizen,  male  and  female,  was  utterly 
absorbed  and  swallowed  up  by  a  Royal  Proclamation,  in 
which  her  Majesty,  strongly  censuring  the  practice  of 
wearing  long  Spanish  rapiers  of  preposterous  length  (as 


being  a  bullying  and  swaggering  custom,  tending  to 
bloodshed  and  public  disorder),  commanded  that  on  a 
particular  day  therein  named,  certain  grave  citizens 
should  repair  to  the  city  gates,  and  there,  in  public, 
break  all  rapiers  worn  or  carried  by  persons  claiming  ad- 
mission, that  exceeded,  though  it  were  only  by  a  quarter 
of  an  inch,  three  standard  feet  in  length. 

Royal  Proclamations  usually  take  their  course,  let  the 
public  wonder  never  so  much.  On  the  appointed  day 
two  citizens  of  high  repute  took  up  their  stations  at  each 
of  the  gates,  attended  by  a  party  of  the  city  guard,  the 
main  body  to  enforce  the  Queen's  will,  and  take  custody 
of  all  such  rebels  (if  any)  as  might  have  the  temerity  to 
dispute  it ;  and  a  few  to  bear  the  standard  measures  and 
instruments  for  reducing  all  unlawful  sword-blades  to . 
the  prescribed  dimensions.  In  pursuance  of  there  ar- 
rangements. Master  Graham  and  another  were  posted 
at  Lud  Gate,  on  the  hill  before  Saint  Paul's. 

A  pretty  numerous  company  were  gathered  together  at 
this  spot,  for,  besides  the  officers  in  attendance  to  en- 
force the  proclamation,  there  was  a  motley  crowd  of 
lookers-on  of  various  degrees,  who  raised  from  time  to 
time  such  shouts  and  cries  as  the  circumstances  called 
forth.  A  spruce  young  courtier  was  the  first  who  ap- 
proached ;  he  unsheathed  a  weapon  of  burnished  steel 
that  shone  and  glistened  in  the  sun,  and  handed  it  with 
the  newest  air  to  the  officer,  who,  finding  it  exactly  three 
feet  long,  returned  it  with  a  bow.  Thereupon  the  gal- 
lant raised  his  hat  and  crying,  "God  save  the  Queen," 
passed  on  amidst  the  plaudits  of  the  mob.  Then  came 
another — a  better  courtier  still — who  wore  a  blade  but 
two  feet  long,  whereat  the  people  laughed,  much  to  the 
d^paragement  of  his  honour's  dignity.  Then  came  a 
third,  a  sturdy  old  officer  of  the  army,  girded  with  a 
rapier  at  least  a  foot  and  a  half  beyond  her  Majesty's 
pleasure  ;  at  him  tliey  raised  a  great  shout,  and  most  of 
the  spectators  (but  especially  those  who  Avere  armourers 
or  cutlers)  laughed  very  heartily  at  the  breakage  which 
would  ensue.  But  they  were  disappointed,  for  the  old 
campaigner,  coolly  unbuckling  his  sword  and  bidding 
his  servant  carry  it  home  again,  passed  through  unarmed 
to  the  great  indignation  of  all  the  beholders.  They  re- 
lieved themselves  in  some  degree  by  hooting  a  tall 
blustering  fellow  with  a  prodigious  weapon,  who  stopped 
short  on  coming  in  sight  of  the  preparations,  and  after  a 
little  consideration  turned  back  again  ;  but  all  this  time 
no  rapier  had  been  broken  although  it  was  high  noon, 
and  all  cavaliers  of  any  quality  or  appearance  were  tak- 
ing their  way  towards  Saint  Paul's  churchyard. 

During  these  proceedings  Master  Graham  had  stood 
apart,  strictly  confining  himself  to  the  duty  imposed 
upon  him,  and  taking  little  heed  of  anything  beyond. 
He  stepped  forward  now  as  a  richly  dressed  gentleman 
on  foot,  followed  by  a  single  attendant,  was  seen  advanc- 
ing up  the  hill. 

As  this  person  drew  nearer,  the  crowd  stopped  their 
clamour,  and  bent  forward  with  eager  looks.  Master 
Graham  standing  alone  in  the  gateway,  and  the  stranger 
coming  slowly  towards  him,  they  seemed,  as  it  were, 
set  face  to  face.  The  nobleman  (for  he  looked  one)  had 
a  haughty  and  disdainful  air,  which  bespoke  the  slight 
estimation  in  which  he  held  the  citizen.  The  citizen, 
on  the  other  hand  preserved  the  resolute  bearing  of  one 
who  was  not  to  be  frowned  down  or  daunted,  and  who 
cared  very  little  for  any  nobility  but  that  of  worth  and 
manhood.  It  was  perhaps  some  consciousness  on  the 
part  of  each,  of  these  feelings  in  the  other,  that  infused 
a  more  stern  expression  into  their  regards  as  they  came 
closer  together. 

"  Your  rapier,  worthy  sir  1" 

At  the  instant  that  he  pronounced  these  words  Graham 
started,  and  falling  back  some  paces,  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  dagger  in  his  belt. 

"You  are  the  man  whose  horse  I  used  to  hold  before^ 
the  Bowyer's  door  ?    You  are  that  man  ?    Speak  !  " 

"Out,  you  'prentice  hound  !  "  said  the  other. 

"  You  are  he  !  I  know  you  well  now  ! "  cried  Graham. 
"Let  no  man  step  between  us  two,  or  I  shall  be  his 
murderer. "  With  that  he  drew  his  dagger  and  rushed 
in  upon  him. 

The  stranger  had  drawn  his  weapon  from  the  scab- 
bard ready  for  the  scrutiny,  before  a  word  was  spokeo. 


1084 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


He  made  a  tlirust  at  his  assailant,  but  the  dagger  wliicli 
Graham  had  clutched  in  his  left  hand  being  the  dirk  in 
use  at  that  time  for  parrying  such  blows,  promptly 
turned  the  point  aside.  They  closed.  The  dagger  fell 
rattling  upon  the  ground,  and  Graham,  wresting  his  ad- 
versary's sword  from  his  grasp,  plunged  it  through  his 
heart.  As  he  drew  it  out  it  snapped  in  two,  leaving  a 
fragment  in  the  dead  man's  body. 

All  this  passed  so  swiftly  that  th  3  bystanders  looked 
on  without  an  effort  to  interfere  ;  but  the  man  was  no 
sooner  down  than  an  uproar  broke  forth  which  rent  the 
air.  The  attendant  rushing  through  the  gate  proclaimed 
that  his  master,  a  nobleman,  had  been  set  upon  and  slain 
by  a  citizen  ;  the  word  quickly  spread  from  mouth  to 
•  mouth;  Saint  Paul's  Cathedral,  and  every  book  shop, 
ordinary,  and  smoking-house  in  the  churchyard  poured 
out  its  stream  of  cavaliers  and  their  followers,  who, 
mingling  together  in  a  dense  tumultuous  body,  strug- 
gled, sword  in  hand,  towards  the  spot. 

With  equal  impetuosity,  and  stimulating  each  other 
by  loud  cries  and  shouts,  the  citizens  and  common  peo- 
ple took  up  the  quarrel  on  their  side,  and  encircling 
Master  Graham  a  hundred  deep,  forced  him  from  the 
gate.  In  vain  he  waved  the  broken  sword  above  his 
head,  crying  that  he  would  die  on  London's  threshold 
for  their  sacred  homes.  They  bore  him  on,  and  ever 
keeping  him  in  the  midst  so  that  no  man  could  attack 
him,  fought  their  way  into  the  city. 

The  clash  of  swords  and  roar  of  voices,  the  dust  and 
heat  and  pressure,  the  trampling  under  foot  of  men,  the 
distracted  looks  and  shrieks  of  women  at  the  windows 
above  as  they  recognised  their  relatives  or  lovers  in  the 
crowd,  the  rapid  tolling  of  •alarm  bells,  the  furious  rage 
and  passion  of  the  scene,  were  fearful.  Those  who, 
being  on  the  outskirts  of  each  crowd,  could  use  their 
weapons  Avith  effect  fought  desperately,  while  those  be- 
hind, maddened  with  baffled  rage,  struck  at  each  other 
over  the  heads  of  those  before  them,  and  crushed  their 
own  fellows.  Wherever  the  broken  sword  was  seen 
above  the  people's  heads,  towards  that  spot  the  cavaliers 
made  a  new  rush.  Every  one  of  these  charges  was 
marked  by  sudden  gaps  in  the  throng  where  men  were 
trodden  down,  but  as  fast  as  they  were  made,  the  tide 
swept  over  them,  and  still  the  multitude  pressed  on 
again,  a  confused  mass  of  swords,  clubs,  staves,  broken 
plumes,  fragments  of  rich  cloaks  and  doublets,  and 
angry  bleeding  faces,  all  mixed  up  together  in  inextri- 
cable disorder. 

The  design  of  the  people  was  to  force  Master  Graham 
to  take  refuge  in  his  dwelling,  and  to  defend  it  until  the 
authorities  could  interfere  or  they  could  gain  time  for 
parley.  But  either  from  ignorance  or  in  the  confusion 
of  the  moment  they  stopped  at  his  old  house,  which  was 
closely  shut.  Some  time  was  lost  in  beating  the  doors 
open  and  passing  him  to  the  front.  About  a  score  of 
the  boldest  of  the  other  party  threw  themselves  into  the 
torrent  while  this  was  being  done,  and  reaching  the  door 
at  the  same  moment  with  himself  cut  him  off  from  his 
defenders. 

"  I  never  will  turn  in  such  a  righteous  cause,  so  help 
me  Heaven  ! "  cried  Graham,  in  a  voice  that  at  last 
made  itself  heard,  and  confronting  them  as  he  spoke. 
"  Least  of  all  will  1  turn  upon  this  threshold  which 
owes  its  desolation  to  such  men  as  ye.  I  give  no  quarter, 
and  I  will  have  none  !    Strike  ! " 

For  a  moment  they  stood  at  bay.  At  that  moment  a 
shot  from  an  unseen  hand,  apparently  fired  by  some 
person  who  had  gained  access  to  one  of  the  opposite 
houses,  struck  Graham  in  the  brain,  and  he  fell  dead. 
A  low  wail  was  heard  in  the  air, — many  people  in  the 
concourse  cried  that  they  had  seen  a  spirit  glide  across 
the  little  casement  window  of  the  Bowyer's  house — 

A  dead  silence  succeeded.  After  a  short  time  some 
^of  the  flushed  and  heated  throng  laid  down  their  arms 
and  softly  carried  the  body  within  doors.  Others  fell 
off  or  slunk  away  in  knots  of  two  or  three,  others 
whispered  together  in  groups,  and  before  a  numerous 
guard  which  then  rode  up  could  muster  in  the  street,  it 
was  nearly  empty. 

Those  who  carried  Master  Graham  to  the  bed  up-stairs 
were  shocked  to  sec  a  woman  lying  beneath  the  window 
with  her  hands  clasped  together.     After  trying  to  re- 


cover her  in  vain,  they  laid  her  near  the  citizen,  who 
still  retained,  tightly  grasped  in  his  right  hand,  the  first 
and  last  sword  that  was  broken  that  day  at  Lud  Gate. 


The  Giant  uttered  these  concluding  words  with  sudden 
precipitation,  and  on  the  instant  the  strange  light  which 
had  filled  the  hall  faded  away.  Joe  Toddyhigh  glanced 
involuntarily  at  the  eastern  window  and  saw  the  first 
pale  gleam  of  morning.  He  turned  his  head  again 
towards  the  other  window  in  which  the  Giants  had  been 
seated.  It  was  empty.  The  cask  of  wine  was  gone,  and 
he  could  dimly  make  out  that  the  two  great  figures 
stood  mute  and  motionless  upon  their  pedestals. 

After  rubbing  his  eyes  and  wondering  for  full  half  an 
hour,  during  which  time  he  observed  morning  come 
creeping  on  apace,  he  yielded  to  the  drowsiness  which 
overpowered  him  and  fell  into  a  refreshing  slumber. 
When  he  awoke  it  was  broad  day  ;  the  building  was 
open,  and  workmen  were  busily  engaged  in  removing 
the  vestiges  of  last  night's  feast. 

Stealing  gently  down  the  little  stairs  and  assuming 
the  air  of  some  early  lounger  who  had  dropped  in  from 
the  street,  he  walked  up  to  the  foot  of  each  pedestal  in 
turn,  and  attentively  examined  the  figure  it  supported. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  features  of  either ; 
he  recollected  the  exact  expression  they  had  worn  at 
different  passages  of  their  conversation,  and  recognized 
in  every  line  and  lineament  the  Giants  of  the  night. 
Assured  that  it  was  no  vision,  but  that  he  had  heard  and 
seen  with  his  own  proper  senses,  he  walked  forth,  deter- 
mining at  all  hazards  to  conceal  himself  in  the  Guildhall 
again  that  evening.  He  further  resolved  to  sleep  all 
day,  so  that  he  might  be  very  wakeful  and  vigilant,  and 
above  all  that  he  might  take  notice  of  the  figures  at  the 
precise  moment  of  their  becoming  animated  and  subsid- 
ing into  their  old  state,  which  he  greatly  reproached 
himself  for  not  having  done  already. 


III. 

CORRESPONDENCE. 

TO  MASTEB  HUMPHREY. 

Sm, — Before  you  proceed  any  further  in  your  account 
of  your  friends  and  what  you  say  and  do  when  you  meet 
together,  excuse  me  if  I  proffer  my  claim  to  be  elected 
to  one  of  the  vacant  chairs  in  that  old  room  of  yours. 
Don't  reject  me  without  full  consideration,  for  if  you  do 
you'll  be  sorry  for  it  afterwards, — you  will  upon  my  life. 

"I  inclose  my  card,  sir,  in  this  letter.  I  never  was 
ashamed  of  my  name,  and  I  never  shall  be.  I  am  con- 
sidered a  devilish  gentlemanly  fellow,  and  I  act  up  to 
the  character.  If  you  want  a  reference,  ask  any  of  the 
men  at  our  club.  Ask  any  fellow  who  goes  there  to 
write  his  letters,  what  sort  of  conversation  mine  is.  Ask 
him  if  he  thinks  I  have  the  sort  of  voice  that  will  suit 
your  deaf  friend  and  make  him  hear,  if  he  can  hear  any- 
thing at  all.  Ask  the  servants  what  they  think  of  me. 
There's  not  a  rascal  among  'em,  sir,  but  will  tremble  to 
hear  my  name.  That  reminds  me — don't  you  say  too 
much  about  that  housekeeper  of  yours  ;  it's  a  low  sub- 
ject, damned  low. 

"I  tell  you  what,  sir.  If  you  vote  me  into  one  of 
those  empty  chairs,  you'll  have  among  you  a  man  with 
a  fund  of  gentlemanly  information  that'll  rather  aston- 
ish you.  I  can  let  you  into  a  few  anecdotes  about  some 
fine  women  of  title,  that  are  quite  high  life,  sir,— the 
tiptop  sort  of  thing.  I  know  the  name  of  every  man  who 
has  been  out  on  an  affair  of  honour  within  the  last  five- 
and-twenty  years  ;  I  know  the  private  particulars  of 
every  cross  and  squabble  that  has  taken  place  upon  the 
turf,  at  the  gaming-table,  or  elsewhere,  during  the 
whole  of  that  time.  I  have  been  called  the  gentlemanly 
chronicle.  You  may  consider  yourself  a  lucky  dog  ; 
upon  my  soul  you  may  congratulate  yourself,  though  I 
say  so. 

"It's  an  uncommon  good  notion  that  of  yours,  not 
letting  anybody  know  where  you  live,    I  have  tried  it. 


MASTER  HUMPHREY '8  CLOCK, 


1085 


but  there  lias  always  been  an  anxiety  respecting  me 
■whicli  has  found  me  out.  Your  deaf  friend  is  a  cunning 
fellow  to  keep  his  name  so  close.  I  have  tried  that  too, 
but  have  always  failed,  I  shall  bo  proud  to  make  his 
acquaintance, — tell  him  so,  with  my  compliments. 

"You  must  have  been  a  queer  fellow  when  you  were 
child,  confounded  queer.  It's  odd  all  that  about  the 
picture  in  your  first  x^aper, — prosy,  but  told  in  a  devilish 
gentlemanly  sort  of  way.  In  places  like  that,  I  could 
come  in  with  great  effect  with  a  touch  of  life, — Don't 
you  feel  that  ? 

"  I  am  anxiously  waiting  for  your  next  paper  to  know 
whether  your  friends  live  upon  the  premises,  and  at 
your  expense,  which  I  take  it  for  granted  is  the  case. 
If  I  am  right  in  this  impression,  I  know  a  charming  fel- 
low (an  excellent  companion  and  most  delightful  com- 
pany) who  will  be  proud  to  join  you.  Some  years  ago 
he  seconded  a  great  many  prize-fighters,  and  once  fought 
an  amateur  match  himself ;  since  then  he  has  driven 
several  mails,  broken  at  dilTerent  periods  all  the  lamps  on 
the  right-hand  side  of  Oxford  Street,  and  six  times 
carried  away  every  bell-handle  in  Bloomsbury  Square, 
besides  turning  off  the  gas  in  various  thoroughfares.  In 
point  of  gentlemanliness  he  is  unrivalled,  and  I  should 
say  that  next  to  myself  he  is  of  all  men  the  best  suited 
to  your  purpose. 

"Expecting  your  reply, 

"I  am, 

"&c.,  &c." 


Master  Humphrey  informs  this  gentleman  that  his  ap- 
plication, both  as  it  concerns  himself  and  his  friend,  is 
rejected. 


IV. 

MASTER  HUMPHREY,  FROM  HIS  CLOCK-SIDE  IN 
THE  CHIMNEY-CORNER 

My  old  companion  tells  me  it  is  midnight.  The  fire 
glows  brightly,  crackling  with  a  sharp  and  cheerful 
sound,  as  if  it  loved  to  burn.  The  merry  cricket  on  the 
hearth  (my  constant  visitor),  this  ruddy  blaze,  my  clock, 
and  I,  seem  to  share  the  world  among  us,  and  to  be  the 
only  things  awake.  The  wind,  high  and  boisterous  but 
now,  has  died  away  and  hoarsely  mutters  in  its  sleep. 
I  love  all  times  and  seasons  each  in  its  turn,  and  am  apt, 
perhaps,  to  think  the  present  one  the  best ;  but  past  or 
or  coming  I  always  love  this  peaceful  time  of  night, 
when  long-buried  thoughts  favoured  by  the  gloom  and 
silence,  steal  from  their  graves,  and  haunt  the  scenes  of 
faded  happiness  and  hope. 

The  popular  faith  in  ghosts  has  a  remarkable  affinity 
with  the  whole  current  of  our  thoughts  at  such  an  hour 
as  this,  and  seems  to  be  their  necessary  and  natural  con- 
sequence. For  who  can  wonder  that  man  should  feel  a 
vague  belief  in  tales  of  disembodied  spirits  wandering 
through  those  places  in  which  they  once  dearly  affected, 
when  he  himself,  scarcely  less  separated  from  his  old 
world  than  they,  is  forever  lingering  upon  past  emotions 
and  bygone  times,  and  hov^ering,  the  ghost  of  his  former 
self,  about  the  places  and  people  that  warmed  his  heart 
of  old  ?  It  is  thus  that  at  this  quiet  hour  I  haunt  the 
house  where  I  was  born,  the  rooms  I  used  to  tread,  the 
scenes  of  my  infancy,  my  boyhood,  and  my  youth  ;  it  is 
thus  that  I  prowl  around  my  buried  treasure  (though 
not  of  gold  or  silver)  and  mourn  my  loss  ;  it  is  thus  that 
I  revisit  the  ashes  of  extinguished  fires,  and  take  my 
silent  stand  at  old  bedsides.  If  my  spirit  should  ever 
glide  back  to  this  chamber  when  my  body  is  mingled 
with  the  dust,  it  will  but  follow  the  course  it  often  took 
in  the  old  man's  lifetime,  and  add  but  one  more  change 
to  the  subjects  of  its  contemplation. 

In  all  my  idle  speculations  I  am  greatly  assisted  by 
various  legends  connected  with  my  venerable  house, 
which  are  current  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  are  so 
numerous  that  there  is  scarce  a  cupboard  or  corner 
that  has  not  some  dismal  story  of  its  own.  When  I  first 
entertained  thoughts  of  becoming  its  tenant  I  was  as- 
sured that  it  was  haunted  from  roof  to  cellar,  and  I  be- 


lieve the  bad  opinion  in  which  my  neighbours  once  held 
me  had  its  rise  in  my  not  being  torn  to  pieces,  or  at  least 
distracted  with  terror,  on  tlie  night  I  took  possession  ; 
in  either  of  which  cases  I  should  doubtless  have  arrived 
by  a  short  cut  at  the  very  summit  of  popularity. 

But  traditions  and  rumours  all  taken  into  account,  who 
so  abets  me  in  every  fancy  and  chimes  with  my  every 
thought,  as  my  dear  deaf  friend  ;  and  how  often  have  I 
cause  to  bless  the  day  that  brought  us  two  together  I  Of 
all  days  in  the  year  I  rejoice  to  think  that  it  should  have 
been  Christmas  Day,  with  which  from  childhood  we  as- 
sociate something  friendly,  hearty,  and  sincere. 

I  had  walked  out  to  cheer  myself  with  the  happiness 
of  others,  and,  in  the  little  tokens  of  festivity  and  re- 
joicing, of  which  the  streets  and  houses  present  so  many 
upon  that  day,  had  lost  some  hours.  Now  I  stopped  to 
look  at  a  merry  party  hurrying  through  the  snow  on  foot 
to  their  place  of  meeting,  and  now  turned  back  to  see  a 
whole  coachful  of  children  safely  deposited  at  the 
welcome  house.  At  one  time,  I  admired  how  carefully 
the  workingman  carried  the  baby  in  its  gaudy  hat  and 
feathers,  and  how  his  wife,  trudging  patiently  on  be- 
hind, forgot  even  her  care  of  her  gay  clothes,  in  ex- 
changing greetings  with  the  child  as  it  crowed  and 
laughed  over  the  father's  shoulder;  at  another,  I  pleased 
myself  with  some  passing  scene  of  gallantry  or  court- 
ship, and  was  glad  to  believe  that  for  a  season  half  the 
world  of  poverty  was  gay. 

As  the  day  closed  in,  I  still  rambled  through  the 
streets,  feeling  a  companionship  in  the  bright  fires  that 
cast  their  warm  reflection  on  the  windows  as  I  passed, 
and  losing  all  sense  of  my  own  loneliness  in  imagining  the 
sociality  and  kind-fellowship  that  everywhere  prevailed. 
At  length  I  happened  to  stop  before  a  Tavern,  and,  en- 
countering a  Bill  of  Fare  in  the  window,  it  all  at  once 
brought  it  into  my  head  to  wonder  what  kind  of  people 
dined  alone  in  Taverns  upon  Christmas  Day. 

Solitary  men  are  accustomed,  I  suppose,  unconsciously 
to  look  upon  solitude  as  their  own  peculiar  property.  I 
had  sat  alone  in  my  room  on  many,  many  anniversaries 
of  this  great  holiday,  and  had  never  regarded  it  but  as 
one  of  universal  assemblage  and  rejoicing.  I  had  ex- 
cepted, and  with  an  aching  heart,  a  crowd  of  prisoners 
and  beggars,  but  these  were  not  the  men  for  whom  the 
Tavern  doors  were  open.  Had  they  any  customers  or 
was  it  a  mere  form  ? — a  form  no  doubt. 

Trying  to  feel  quite  sure  of  this,  I  walked  away,  but 
before  I  had  gone  many  paces,  I  stopped  and  looked 
back.  There  was  a  provoking  air  of  business  in  the 
lamp  above  the  door  which  I  could  not  overcome.  I 
began  to  be  afraid  there  might  be  many  customers, — 
young  men  perhaps  struggling  with  the  world,  utter 
strangers  in  this  great  place,  whose  friends  lived  at  a 
long  distance  off,  and  whose  means  were  too  slender  to 
enable  them  to  make  the  journey.  The  supposition 
gave  rise  to  so  many  distressing  little  pictures,  that,  in 
preference  to  carrying  them  home  with  me,  I  deter- 
mined to  encounter  the  realities.  So  I  turned,  and 
walked  in. 

I  was  at  once  glad  and  sorry  to  find  that  there  was 
only  one  person  in  the  dining-room  ;  glad  to  know  that 
there  were  not  more,  and  sorry  that  he  should  be  there 
by  himself.  He  did  not  look  so  old  as  I,  but  like  me  he 
was  advanced  in  life,  and  his  hair  was  nearly  white. 
Though  I  made  more  noise  in  entering  and  seating  my- 
self than  was  quite  necessary,  with  the  view  of  attract- 
ing his  attention  and  saluting  him  in  the  good  old  form 
of  that  time  of  year,  he  did  not  raise  his  head  but  sat 
with  it  resting  on  his  hand,  musing  over  his  half-finished 
meal. 

I  called  for  something  which  would  give  me  an  ex- 
cuse for  remaining  in  the  room  (I  had  dined  early,  as  my 
housekeeper  was  engaged  at  night  to  partake  of  some 
friend's  good  cheer),  and  sat  where  I  could  observe  with- 
out intruding  on  him.  After  a  time  he  looked  up.  He 
was  aware  that  somebody  had  entered,  but  could  see 
very  little  of  me  as  I  sat  in  the  shade  and  he  in  the 
light.  He  was  sad  and  thoughtful,  and  I  forbore  to 
trouble  him  by  speaking. 

Let  me  believe  that  it  was  something  better  than 
curiosity  which  riveted  my  attention  and  impelled  me 
strongly  towards  this  gentleman.    I  never  saw  so  patient 


1086 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


and  Itind  a  face.  He  should  have  been  surrounded  by 
friends,  and  yet  here  he  sat  dejected  and  alone  when  all 
men  had  their  friends  about  them.  As  often  as  he  roused 
himself  from  his  revery  he  would  fall  into  it  again,  and 
it  was  plain  that  whatever  were  the  subject  of  his 
thoughts  they  were  of  a  melancholy  kind,  and  would  not 
be  controlled. 

He  was  not  used  to  solitude.  I  was  sure  of  that,  for  I 
know  by  myself  that  if  he  had  been,  his  manner  would 
have  been  different,  and  he  would  have  taken  some 
slight  interest  in  the  arrival  of  another.  I  could  not 
fail  to  mark  that  he  had  no  appetite  ;  that  he  tried  to 
eat  in  vain  ;  that  time  after  time  the  plate  was  pushed 
away,  and  he  relapsed  into  his  former  posture. 

His  mind  was  wandering  among  old  Christmas  Days,  I 
thought.  Many  of  them  sprung  up  together,  not  with 
a  long  gap  between  each,  but  in  unbroken  succession 
like  days  of  the  week.  It  was  a  great  change  to  find 
himself  for  the  first  time  (I  quite  settled  that  it  was  the 
first)  in  an  empty  silent  room  with  no  soul  to  care  for.  I 
could  not  help  following  him  in  imagination  through 
crowds  of  pleasant  faces,  and  then  coming  back  to  that 
dull  place  with  its  bough  of  mistletoe  sickening  in  the 
gas,  and  sprigs  of  holly  parched  up  already  by  a  Simoom 
of  roast  and  boiled.  The  very  waiter  had  gone  home, 
and  his  representative,  a  poor,  lean,  hungry  man,  was 
keeping  Christmas  in  his  jacket. 

I  grew  still  more  interested  in  my  friend.  His  dinner 
done,  a  decanter  of  wine  was  placed  before  him.  It  re- 
mained untouched  for  a  long  time,  but  at  length  with  a 
quivering  hand  he  filled  a  glass  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 
Some  tender  wish  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
give  utterance  on  that  day,  or  some  beloved  name  that 
he  had  been  used  to  pledge,  trembled  upon  them  at  the 
moment.  He  put  it  down  very  hastily — took  it  up  once 
more — again  put  it  down — pressed  his  hand  upon  his 
face — yes — and  tears  stole  down  his  cheeks,  I  am  certain. 

Without  pausing  to  consider  whether  I  did  right  or 
wrong,  I  stepped  across  the  room,  and  sitting  down  be- 
side him  laid  my  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

"My  friend,"  I  said,  "  forgive  me  if  I  beseech  you  to 
take  comfort  and  consolation  from  the  lips  of  an  old  man. 
I  will  not  preach  to  you  what  I  have  not  practised,  in- 
deed. Whatever  be  your  grief,  be  of  a  good  heart, — be 
of  a  good  heart,  pray  ! " 

"  1  see  that  you  speak  earnestly,"  he  replied,  **and 
kindly  I  am  very  sure,  but — " 

I  nodded  my  head  to  show  that  I  understood  what  he 
would  say,  for  I  had  already  gathered  from  a  certain  fixed 
expression  in  his  face,  and  from  the  attention  with  which 
he  watched  me  while  I  spoke,  that  his  sense  of  hearing 
was  destroyed.  "There  should  be  a  freemasonry  be- 
tween us,"  said  I,  pointing  from  himself  to  me  to  explain 
my  meaning  ;  "if  not  in  our  gray  hairs,  at  least  in  our 
misfortunes.    You  see  that  I  am  but  a  poor  cripple." 

I  never  felt  so  happy  under  my  affliction  since  the 
trying  moment  of  my  first  becoming  conscious  of  it,  as 
when  he  took  my  hand  in  his  with  a  smile  that  has 
lighted  my  path  in  life  from  that  day,  and  we  sat  down 
side  by  side. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  my  friendship  with  the  deaf 
gentleman,  and  when  was  ever  the  slight  and  easy  ser- 
vice of  a  kind  word  in  season  repaid  by  such  attachment 
and  devotion  as  he  has  shown  to  me. 

He  produced  a  little  set  of  tablets  and  a  pencil  to  fa- 
cilitate our  conversation,  on  that  our  first  acquaintance, 
and  I  well  remember  how  awkward  and  constrained  I 
was  in  writing  down  my  share  of  the  dialogue,  and  how 
easily  he  guessed  my  meaning  before  I  had  written  half 
of  what  I  had  to  say.  He  told  me  in  a  faltering  voice 
that  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  be  alone  on  that 
day, — that  it  had  always  been  a  little  festival  with  him, 
— and  seeing  that  1  glanced  at  his  dress  in  the  expecta- 
tion that  he  wore  mourning,  he  added  hastily  that  it 
was  not  that  ;  if  it  had  been,  he  thought  he  could  have 
borne  it  better.  From  that  time  to  the  present  we  have 
never  touched  upon  this  theme.  Upon  every  return  of 
the  same  day  we  have  been  together,  and  although  we 
make  it  our  annual  custom  to  drink  to  each  other  hand 
in  hand,  after  dinner,  and  to  recall  with  affectionate  gar- 
rulity every  circumstance  of  our  first  meeting,  we  always 
avoid  this  one  as  if  by  mutual  consent. 


Meantime  we  have  gone  on  strengthening  in  our 
friendship,  and  regard,  and  forming  an  attachment 
which,  I  trust  and  believe,  wiTl  only  be  interrupted  by 
death,  to  be  renewed  in  another  existence.  I  scarcely 
know  how  we  communicate  as  we  do,  but  he  has  long 
since  ceased  to  be  deaf  to  me.  He  is  frequently  the 
companion  of  my  walks,  and  even  in  crowded  streets  re- 
plies to  my  slightest  look  or  gesture  as  though  he  could 
read  my  thoughts.  From  the  vast  number  of  objects 
which  pass  in  rapid  succession  before  our  eyes,  we  fre- 
quently select  the  same  for  some  particular  notice  or  re- 
mark ;  and  when  one  of  these  little  coincidences  occurs, 
I  cannot  describe  the  pleasure  which  animates  my  friend, 
or  the  beaming  countenance  he  will  preserve  for  half  an 
hour  afterwards  at  least. 

He  is  a  great  thinker  from  living  so  much  within  him- 
self, and  having  a  lively  imagination,  has  a  facility  of 
conceiving  and  enlarging  upon  odd  ideas,  which  renders 
him  invaluable  to  our  little  body,  and  greatly  astonishes 
our  two  friends.  His  powers  in  this  respect  are  much 
assisted  by  a  large  pipe,  which  he  assures  us  onca 
belonged  to  a  German  Student.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  has 
undoubtedly  a  very  ancient  and  mysterious  appearance, 
and  is  of  such  capacity  that  it  takes  three  hours  and  a 
half  to  smoke  it  out.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  my 
barber,  who  is  the  chief  authority  of  a  knot  of  gossips, 
who  congregate  every  evening  at  a  small  tobacconist's 
hard  by,  has  related  anecdotes  of  this  pipe  and  the  grim 
figures  that  are  carved  upon  its  bowl  at  which  all  the 
smokers  in  the  neighbourhood  have  stood  aghast ;  and  I 
know  that  my  housekeeper,  while  she  holds  it  in  high 
veneration,  has  a  superstitious  feeling  connected  with  it 
which  would  render  her  exceedingly  unwilling  to  be  left 
alone  in  its  company  after  dark. 

Whatever  sorrow  my  deaf  friend  has  known,  and 
whatever  grief  may  linger  in  some  secret  corner  of  his 
heart,  he  is  now  a  cheerful,  placid,  happy  creature. 
Misfortune  can  never  have  fallen  upon  such  a  man  but 
fer  some  good  purpose  ;  and  when  I  see  its  traces  in  his 
gentle  nature  and  his  earnest  feeling,  I  am  the  less  dis- 
posed to  murmur  at  such  trials  as  I  may  have  undergone 
myself.  With  regard  to  the  pipe,  I  have  a  theory  of  my 
own  ;  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  is  in  some  manner 
connected  with  the  event  that  brought  us  together,  for  I 
remember  that  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  even  talked 
about  ii ;  that  when  he  did,  he  grew  reserved  and  melan- 
choly ;  and  that  it  was  a  long  time  yet  before  he  brought 
it  forth.  I  have  no  curiosity,  however,  upon  this  subject, 
for  I  know  that  it  promotes  his  tranquility  and  comfort, 
and  I  need  no  other  inducement  to  regard  it  with  my 
utmost  favour. 

Such  is  the  deaf  gentleman.  I  can  call  up  his  figure 
now,  clad  in  sober  gray,  and  seated  in  the  chimney- 
corner.  As  he  puffs  out  the  smoke  from  his  favourite 
pipe  he  casts  a  look  on  me  brimful  of  cordiality  and 
friendship,  and  says  all  manner  of  kind  and  genial  things 
in  a  cheerful  smile  ;  then  he  raises  his  eyes  to  my  clock 
which  is  just  about  to  strike,  and  glancing  from  it  to  me 
and  back  again,  seems  to  divide  his  heart  between  us. 
For  myself,  i  t  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  I  would  gladly 
part  with  one  of  my  poor  limbs,  could  he  but  hear  the 
old  clock's  voice. 

Of  our  two  friends  the  first  has  been  all  his  life  one  of 
that  easy,  wayward,  truant  class  whom  the  world  is 
accustomed  to  designate  as  nobody's  enemies  but  their 
own.  Bred  to  a  profession  for  which  he  never  qualified 
himself,  and  reared  in  the  expectation  of  a  fortune  he 
has  never  inherited,  he  has  undergone  every  vicissitude 
of  which  such  an  existence  is  capable.  He  and  his 
younger  brother,  both  orphans  from  their  childhood, 
were  educated  by  a  wealthy  relative  who  taught  them  to 
expect  an  equal  divison  of  his  property  ;  but  too  indolent 
to  court,  and  too  honest  to  flatter,  the  elder  gradually 
lost  ground  in  the  affections  of  a  capricious  old  man,  and 
the  younger,  who  did  not  fail  to  improve  his  opportunity, 
now  triumphs  in  the  possession  of  enormous  wealth.  His 
triumph  is  to  hoard  it  in  solitary  wretchedness,  and  prob- 
ably to  feel  with  the  expenditure  of  every  shilling  a 
greater  pang  than  the  loss  of  his  whole  inheritance  ever 
cost  his  brother. 

Jack  Redburn — he  was  Jack  Redburn  at  the  first  little 
school  he  went  to  where  every  other  child  was  mastered 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 


1087 


and  surnamed,  and  he  has  been  Jack  Redburn  all  his  life, 
or  he  would  perhaps  have  been  a  richer  man  by  this  time 
— has  been  an  inmate  of  my  house  these  eight  years  past. 
He  is  my  librarian,  secretary,  steward,  and  first  minister  ; 
director  of  all  my  affairs  and  inspector  general  of  my 
household.  He  is  something  of  a  musician,  something 
of  an  author,  something  of  an  actor,  something  of  a 
painter,  very  much  of  a  carpenter,  and  an  extraordinary 
gardener  ;  having  had  all  his  life  a  wonderful  aptitude 
for  learning  everything  that  was  of  no  use  to  him.  He 
is  remarkably  fond  of  children,  and  is  the  best  and  kind- 
est nurse  in  sickness  that  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life. 
He  has  mixed  with  every  grade  of  society  and  known  the 
utmost  distress,  but  there  never  was  a  less  selfish,  a  more 
tender-hearted,  a  more  enthusiastic,  or  a  more  guileless 
man  ;  and  I  dare  say  if  few  have  done  less  good,  fewer 
still  have  done  less  harm  in  the  world  than  he.  By  what 
chance  Nature  forms  such  whimsical  jumbles  I  don't 
know,  but  I  do  know  that  she  sends  them  among  us  very 
often,  and  that  the  king  of  the  whole  race  is  Jack 
Redburn. 

I  should  be  puzzled  to  say  how  old  he  is.  His  health 
is  none  of  the  best,  and  he  wears  a  quantity  of  iron-gray 
hair  which  shades  his  face  and  gives  it  rather  a  worn 
appearance  ;  but  we  consider  him  quite  a  young  fellow 
notwithstanding,  and  if  a  youthful  spirit  surviving  the 
roughest  contact  with  the  world  confers  upon  its  posses- 
sor any  title  to  be  considered  young,  then  he  is  a  mere 
child.  The  only  interruptions  to  his  careless  cheerful- 
ness are  on  a  wet  Sunday,  when  he  is  apt  to  be  unusu- 
ally religious  and  solemn,  and  sometimes  of  an  evening 
when  he  has  been  blowing  a  very  slow  tune  on  the  flute. 
On  these  last-named  occasions  he  is  apt  to  incline  to- 
wards the  mysterious  or  the  terrible.  As  a  specimen  of 
his  powers  in  this  mood,  I  refer  my  readers  to  the  ex- 
tract from  the  clock-case  which  follows  this  paper  ;  he 
brought  it  to  me  not  long  ago  at  midnight,  and  informed 
me  that  the  main  incident  had  been  suggested  by  a 
dream  of  the  night  before. 

His  apartments  are  two  cheerful  rooms  looking  to- 
wards the  garden,  and  one  of  his  great  delights  is  to  ar- 
range and  rearrange  the  furniture  in  these  chambers  and 
put  it  in  every  possible  variety  of  position.  During  the 
whole  time  he  has  been  here,  I  do  not  think  he  has 
slept  for  two  nights  running  with  the  head  of  his  bed  in 
the  same  place,  and  every  time  he  moves  it  is  to  be  the 
last.  My  housekeeper  was  at  first  wellnigh  distracted 
by  these  frequent  changes,  but  she  has  become  quite  re- 
conciled to  them  by  degrees,  and  has  so  fallen  in  with 
his  humour  that  they  often  consult  together  with  great 
gravity  upon  the  next  final  alteration.  Whatever  his 
arrangements  are,  however,  they  are  always  a  pattern  of 
neatness,  and  every  one  of  the  manifold  articles  con- 
nected with  his  manifold  occupations,  is  to  be  found 
in  its  own  particular  place.  Until  within  t;he  last  two 
or  three  years  he  was  subject  to  an  occasional  fit 
(which  usually  came  upon  him  in  very  fine  weather), 
under  the  influence  of  which  he  would  dress  himself 
with  peculiar  care,  and  going  out  under  pretence  of 
taking  a  walk,  disappear  for  several  days  together. 
At  length  after  the  interval  between  each  outbreak  of 
this  disorder  had  gradually  grown  longer  and  longer, 
it  wholly  disappeared,  and  rio"'  he  seldom  stirs  abroad 
except  to  stroll  out  a  little  way  on  a  summer's  even- 
ing. Whether  he  yet  mistrusts  his  own  constancy  in 
this  respect,  and  is  therefore  afraid  to  wear  a  coat,  I 
know  not ;  bat  we  seldom  see  him  in  any  other  upper 
garment  than  an  old  spectral-looking  dressing-gown 
with  very  disproportionate  pockets,  full  of  a  miscellane- 
ous collection  of  odd  matters  which  he  picks  up  wher- 
ever he  can  lay  his  hands  upon  them. 

Everything  that  is  a  favourite  with  our  friend  is  a 
favourite  with  us,  and  thus  it  happens  that  the  fourth 
among  us  is  Mr.  Owen  Miles,  a. most  worthy  gentleman 
who  had  treated  Jack  with  great  kindness  before  my 
deaf  friend  and  I  encountered  him  by  an  accident,  to 
which  I  may  refer  on  some  future  occasion.  Mr.  Miles 
was  once  a  very  rich  merchant,  but  receiving  a  severe 
shock  in  the  death  of  his  wife,  he  retired  from  business 
and  devoted  himself  to  a  quiet,  unostentatious  life.  He 
is  an  excellent  man  of  thoroughly  sterling  character  : 
not  of  quick  apprehension,  and  not  without  some  amus- 


ing prejudices,  which  I  shall  leave  k)  their  own  develop, 
ment.  He  holds  us  all  in  profound  veneration,  but  Jack 
Redburn  he  esteems  as  a  kind  of  pleasant  wonder,  that 
he  may  venture  to  approach  familiarly.  He  believes, 
not  only  that  no  man  ever  lived  who  could  do  so  many 
things  as  Jack,  but  that  no  man  ever  lived  who  could  do 
anything  so  well  ;  and  he  never  calls  my  attention  to 
any  of  his  ingenious  proceedings  but  he  whispers  in  my 
ear,  nudging  me  at  the  same  time  with  his  elbow, — "  If 
he  liad  only  made  it  his  trade,  sir, — if  he  had  only  made 
it  his  trade  I  " 

They  are  inseparable  companions  ;  one  would  almost 
suppose  that  although  Mr.  Miles  never  by  any  chance 
does  anything  in  the  way  of  assistance,  Jack  could  do 
nothing  without  him.  Whether  he  is  reading,  writihg, 
painting,  carpentering,  gardening,  flute-playing,  or  what 
not,  there  is  Mr.  Miles  beside  him,  buttoned  up  to  the 
chin  in  his  blue  coat,  and  looking  on  with  a  face  of  in- 
credulous delight,  as  though  he  could  not  credit  the 
testimony  of  his  own  senses,  and  had  a  misgiving  that  no 
man  could  be  so  clever  but  in  a  dream. 

These  are  my  friends  ;  I  have  now  introduced  myself 
and  them. 


V. 

THE  CLOCK-CASE. 

A  CONFESSIOlsr  FOUND  IN  A  PKISON  IN  THE  TIME  OP 
CHAKLES  THE  SECOND. 

I  HELD  a  lieutenant's  commission  in  His  Majesty's 
army,  and  served  abroad  in  the  campaigns  of  1677  and 
1678.  The  treaty  of  Niraeguen  being  concluded,  I  re- 
turned home,  and  retiring  from  the  service  withdrew  to 
a  small  estate  lying  a  few  miles  east  of  London,  which 
I  had  recently  acquired  in  right  of  my  wife. 

This  is  the  last  night  I  have  to  live,  and  I  will  set 
down  the  naked  truth  without  disguise.  I  was  never  a 
brave  man,  and  had  always  been  from  my  childhood  of 
a  secret,  sullen,  distrustful  nature.  I  speak  of  myself  as 
if  I  had  passed  from  the  world,  for  while  I  write  this 
my  grave  is  digging  and  my  name  is  written  in  the  black 
book  of  death. 

Soon  after  my  return  to  England,  my  only  brother  was 
seized  with  mortal  illness.  This  circumstance  gave  me 
slight  or  no  pain,  for  since  we  had  been  men  we  had 
associated  but  very  little  together.  He  was  open-hearted 
and  generous,  handsomer  than  I,  more  accomplished, 
and  generally  beloved.  Those  who  sought  my  acquaint- 
ance abroad  or  at  home,  because  they  were  friends  of 
his,  seldom  attached  themselves  to  me  long,  and  would 
usually  say  in  our  first  conversation  that  they  were 
surprised  to  find  two  brothers  so  unlike  in  their  manners 
and  appearance.  It  was  my  habit  to  lead  them  on  to 
this  avowal,  for  I  knew  what  comparisons  they  mu.st 
draw  between  us,  and  having  a  rankling  envy  in  my 
heart,  I  sought  to  justify  it  to  myself. 

We  had  married  two  sisters.  This  additional  tie 
between  us,  as  it  may  appear  to  some,  only  estranged 
us  the  more.  His  wife  knew  me  well.  I  never  strug- 
gled with  any  secret  jealousy  or  gall  when  she  was 
present  but  that  woman  knew  it  as  well  as  I  did.  I 
never  raised  my  eyes  at  such  times  but  I  found  hers  fixed 
upon  me  ;  I  never  bent  them  on  the  ground  or  looked 
another  way,  but  I  felt  that  she  overlooked  me  always. 
It  was  an  inexpressible  relief  to  me  when  we  quarrelled, 
and  a  greater  relief  still  when  I  heard  abroad  that  she 
was  dead.  It  seems  to  me  now  as  if  some  strange  and 
terrible  foreshadowing  of  what  has  happened  since  must 
have  hung  over  us  then.  I  was  afraid  of  her ;  she 
haunted  me  ;  her  fixed  and  steady  look  comes  back  upon 
me  now,  like  the  memory  of  a  dark  dream,  and  makes 
my  blood  run  cold. 

She  died  shortly  after  giving  birth  to  a  child, — a  boy. 
When  my  brother  knew  that  all  hope  of  his  own  recovery 
was  passed,  he  called  my  wife  to  his  bedside  and  con- 
fided this  orphan,  a  child  of  four  years  old,  to  her  pro- 
tection. He  bequeathed  to  him  all  the  property  he  had, 
and  willed  that  in  case  of  his  child's  death  it  should  pass 
to  my  wife,  as  the  only  acknowledgment  he  could  make 
I 


1088 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


her  for  her  care  and  Jove.  He  exchanged  a  few  brother- 
ly words  with  me,  deploring  our  long  separation,  and 
being  exhausted  fell  into  a  slumber  from  which  he  never 
awoke. 

We  had  no  children,  and  as  there  had  been  a  strong 
affection  between  the  sisters,  and  my  wife  had  almost 
supplied  the  place  of  a  mother  to  this  boy,  she  loved 
him  as  if  he  had  been  her  own.  The  child  was  ardently 
attached  to  her  ;  but  he  was  his  mother's  image  in  face 
and  spirit,  and  always  mistrusted  me. 

I  can  scarcely  fix  the  date  when  the  feeling  first  came 
upon  me,  but  1  soon  began  to  be  uneasy  when  this  child 
was  by.  I  never  roused  myself  from  some  moody  train 
of  thought  but  I  marked  him  looking  at  me  ;  not  with 
mere  childish  wonder,  but  with  something  of  the  purpose 
and  meaning  that  I  had  so  often  noted  in  his  mother. 
It  was  no  effort  of  my  fancy,  founded  on  close  resem- 
blance of  feature  and  expression.  I  never  could  look 
the  boy  down.  He  feared  me,  but  seemed  by  some 
instinct  to  despise  me  while  he  did  so  ;  and  even  when 
he  drew  back  beneath  my  goze — as  he  would  when  we 
were  alone,  to  get  nearer  to  the  door — ^he  would  keep  his 
bright  eyes  upon  me  still. 

Perhaps  I  hide  the  truth  from  myself,  but  I  do  not 
think  that  when  this  began,  I  meditated  to  do  him  any 
wrong.  I  may  have  thought  how  serviceable  his  in- 
heritance would  be  to  us,  and  may  have  wished  him 
dead,  but  I  believe  I  had  no  thought  of  compassing  his 
death.  Neither  did  the  idea  come  upon  me  at  once,  but 
by  very  slow  degrees,  presenting  itself  at  first  in  dim 
shapes  at  a  very  great  distance,  as  men  may  think  of  an 
earthquake  or  the  last  day, — then  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer  and  losing  something  of  its  horror  and  improb- 
ability,— then  coming  to  be  part  and  parcel,  nay  nearly 
the  whole  sum  and  substance  of  my  daily  thoughts,  and 
resolving  itself  into  a  question  of  means  and  safety ; 
not  of  doing  or  abstaining  from  the  deed. 

While  this  was  going  on  within  me,  I  never  could  bear 
that  the  child  should  see  me  looking  at  him,  and  yet  I 
was  under  a  fascination  which  made  it  a  kind  of  business 
with  me  to  contemplate  his  slight  and  fragile  figure  and 
think  how  easily  it  might  be  don^.  Sometimes  I  would 
steal  up-stairs  and  watch  him  as  he  slept,  but  usually  I 
hovered  in  the  garden  near  the  window  of  the  room  in 
which  he  learnt  his  little  tasks  ;  and  there,  as  he  sat 
upon  a  low  seat  beside  my  wife,  I  would  peer  at  him  for 
hours  together  from  behind  a  tree  ;  starting,  like  the 
guilty  wretch  I  was,  at  every  rustling  of  a  leaf,  and 
still  gliding  back  to  look  and  start  again. 

Hard  by  our  cottage,  but  quite  out  of  sight,  and  (if 
there  were  any  wind  astir)  of  hearing  too,  was  a  deep 
sheet  of  water.  I  spent  days  in  shaping  with  my  pocket- 
knife  a  rough  model  of  a  boat,  which  I  finished  at  last 
and  dropped  in  the  child's  way.  Then  I  withdrew  to 
a  secret  place  which  he  must  pass  if  he  stole  away  alone 
to  swim  this  bauble,  and  lurked  there  for  his  coming. 
He  came  neither  that  day  nor  the  next,  though  I  waited 
from  noon  till  nightfall.  I  was  sure  that  I  had  him  in 
my  net,  for  I  had  heard  him  prattling  of  the  toy,  and 
knew  that  in  his  infant  pleasure  he  kept  it  by  his  side  in 
bed.  I  felt  no  weariness  or  fatigue,  but  waited  patient- 
ly, and  on  the  third  day  he  passed  me,  running  joyously 
along,  with  his  silken  hair  streaming  in  the  wind,  and 
he  singing — God  have  mercy  upon  me  ! — singing  a  merry 
ballad, — who  could  hardly  lisp  the  words. 

I  stole  down  after  him,  creeping  under  certain  shrubs 
which  grow  in  that  place,  and  none  but  devils  know  with 
what  terror  I,  a  strong,  full-grown  man,  tracked  the  foot- 
steps of  that  baby  as  he  approached  the  water's  brink. 
I  was  close  upon  him,  had  sunk  upon  my  knee  and  raised 
my  hand  to  thrust  him  in,  when  he  saw  my  shadow  in 
the  stream  and  turned  him  round. 

His  mother's  ghost  was  looking  from  his  eyes.  The 
sun  burst  forth  from  behind  a  cloud  ;  it  shone  in  the 
bright  sky,  the  glistening  earth,  the  clear  water,  tlie 
sparkling  drops  of  rain  upon  the  leaves.  There  were  eyes 
in  everything.  The  whole  great  universe  of  light  was 
there  to  see  the  murder  done.  I  know  not  what  he  said  ; 
he  came  of  bold  and  manly  blood,  and  child  as  he  was, 
he  did  not  crouch  or  fawn  upon  mo.  I  heard  him  cry 
that  lie  would  try  to  love  me, — not  that  he  did, — and 
then  I  saw  him  running  back  towards  the  house.  The 


next  I  saw  was  my  own  sword  naked  in  my  hand,  and  he 
lying  at  my  feet  stark  dead,— dabbled  here  and  there 
with  blood,  but  otherwise  no  different  from  what  I  had 
seen  him  in  his  sleep, — in  the  same  attitude  too,  with  his 
cheek  resting  upon  his  little  hand. 

I  took  him  in  my  arms  and  laid  him — very  gently  now 
that  he  was  dead — in  a  thicket.  My  wife  was  from  home 
that  day  and  would  not  return  until  the  next.  Our  bed- 
room window,  the  only  sleeping-room  on  that  side  of  the 
house,  was  but  a  few  feet  from  the  ground,  and  I  resolved 
to  descend  from  it  at  night  and  bury  him  in  the  garden. 
I  had  no  thought  that  I  had  failed  in  my  design,  no 
thought  that  the  water  would  be  dragged  and  nothing 
found,  thai,  the  money  must  now  lie  waste  since  I  must 
encourage  the  idea  that  the  child  was  lost  or  stolen.  All 
my  thoughts  were  bound  up  and  knotted  together  in  the 
one  absorbing  necessity  of  hiding  what  I  had  done. 

How  I  felt  when  they  came  to  tell  me  that  the  child 
was  missing,  when  I  ordered  scouts  in  all  directions, 
when  1  gasped  and  trembled  at  every  one's  approach,  no 
tongue  can  tell  or  mind  of  man  conceive.  I  buried  him 
that  night.  When  I  parted  the  boughs  and  looked  into 
the  dark  thicket,  there  was  a  glow-worm  shining  like  the 
visible  spirit  of  God  upon  the  murdered  child.  I  glanced 
down  into  his  grave  when  I  had  placed  him  there,  and 
still  it  gleamed  upon  his  breast  ;  an  eye  of  fire  looking 
up  to  Heaven  in  supplication  to  the  stars  that  watched 
me  at  my  work. 

I  had  to  meet  my  wife,  and  break  the  news,  and  give 
her  hope  that  the  child  would  soon  be  found.  All  this  I 
did, — with  some  appearance,  I  suppose,  of  being  sincere, 
for  I  was  the  object  of  no  suspicion.  This  done,  I  sat  at 
the  bedroom  window  all  day  long,  and  watched  the  spot 
where  the  dreadful  secret  lay. 

It  was  in  a  piece  of  ground  which  had  been  dug  up  to 
be  newly  turfed,  and  which  I  had  chosen  on  that  account, 
as  the  traces  of  my  spade  were  less  likely  to  attract  at- 
tention. The  men  who  laid  down  the  grass  must  have 
thought  me  mad.  I  called  to  them  continually  to  expe- 
dite their  work,  ran  out  and  worked  beside  them,  trod 
down  the  earth  with  my  feet,  and  hurried  them  with 
frantic  eagerness.  They  had  finished  their  task  before 
night,  and  then  I  thought  myself  comparatively  safe. 

I  slept, — not  as  men  do  who  awake  refreshed  and 
cheerful,  but  I  did  sleep,  passing  from  vague  and  shad- 
owy dreams  of  being  hunted  down,  to  visions  of  the  plot 
of  grass,  through  which  now  a  hand  and  now  a  foot  and 
now  the  head  itself  was  starting  out.  At  this  point  I  al- 
ways woke  and  stole  to  the  window,  to  make  sure  that  it 
was  not  really  so.  That  done  I  crept  to  bed  again,  and 
thus  I  spent  the  night  in  fits  and  starts,  getting  up  and 
lying  down  full  twenty  times,  and  dreaming  the  same 
dream  over  and  over  again, — which  was  far  worse  than 
lying  awake,  for  every  dream  had  a  whole  night's  suf- 
fering of  its  own.  Once  I  thought  the  child  was  alive 
and  that  I  fiad  never  tried  to  kill  him.  To  wake  from 
that  dream  was  the  most  dreadful  agony  of  all. 

The  next  day  I  sat  at  the  window  again,  never  once 
taking  my  eyes  from  the  place,  which,  although  it  was 
covered  by  the  grass,  was  as  plain  to  me — its  shape,  its 
size,  its  depth,  its  jagged  sides,  and  all — as  if  it  had 
been  opened  to  the  light  of  day.  When  a  servant  walked 
across  it,  I  felt  as  if  he  must  sink  in  ;  when  he  had 
passed,  I  looked  to  see  that  his  feet  had  not  worn  the 
edges.  If  a  bird  lighted  there,  I  was  in  terror  lest  by 
some  tremendous  interposition  it  should  be  instrumental 
in  the  discovery  ;  if  a  breath  of  air  sighed  across  it,  to 
me  it  whispered  murder.  There  was  not  a  sight  or  a 
sound — how  ordinary,  mean,  or  unimportant  soever — but 
was  fraught  with  fear.  And  in  this  state  of  ceaseless 
watching  I  spent  three  days. 

On  the  fourth,  there  came  to  the  gate  one  who  had 
served  with  me  abroad,  accompanied  by  a  brother  officer 
of  his  whom  I  had  never  seen.  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
bear  to  be  out  of  sight  of  the  place.  It  was  a  summer 
evening,  and  I  bade  my  people  taice  a  table  and  a  flask 
of  wine  into  the  garden.  Then  I  sat  down  with  my  chair 
upon  the  grave,  and  being  assured  that  nobody  could  dis- 
turb it  now  without  my  knowledge,  tried  to  drink  and 
talk. 

They  hoped  that  my  wife  was  well, — that  she  was 
not  obliged  to  keep  her  chamber, — that  they  had  not 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK 


1089 


frightened  her  away.  What  could  I  do  but  tell  them 
with  a  faliering  tongue  about  the  child  ?  The  officer 
whom  I  did  not  know  was  a  down- looking  man,  and 
kept  his  eyes  upon  the  ground  while  I  was  speaking. 
Even  that  terrified  me  !  I  could  not  divest  myself  of 
the  idea  that  he  saw  something  there  which  caused  him 
to  suspect  the  truth.  I  asked  him  hurriedly  if  he  sup- 
posed that — and  stopped.  "  That  the  child  has  been 
murdered  ?  "  said  he,looking  mildly  at  me.  '*  O  no  !  what 
could  a  man  gain  by  murdering  a  poor  child  ?  "  /could 
have  told  him  what  a  man  gained  by  such  a  deed,  no  one 
better,  but  I  held  my  peace  and  shivered  as  with  an  ague. 

Mistaking  my  emotion,  they  were  endeavouring  to 
cheer  me  with  the  hope  that  the  boy  would  certainly  be 
found, — great  cheer  that  was  for  me, — when  we  heard  a 
low  deep  howl,  and  presently  there  sprung  over  the  wall 
two  great  dogs,  who,  bounding  into  the  garden,  repeated 
the  baying  sound  we  had  heard  before. 
Bloodhounds  !  "  cried  my  visitors. 

What  need  to  tell  me  that !  I  had  never  seen  one  of 
that  kind  in  all  my  life,  but  I  knew  what  they  were  and 
for  what  purpose  they  had  come.  I  grasped  the  elbows 
of  my  chair,  and  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

They  are  of  the  genuine  breed,"  said  the  man 
whom  I  had  known  abroad,  "  and  being  out  for  exercise 
liave  no  doubt  escaped  from  their  keeper." 

Both  he  and  his  friend  turned  to  look  at  the  dogs, 
who  vvith  their  noses  to  the  ground  moved  restlessly 
about,  ruiming  to  and  fro,  and  up  and  down,  and  across, 
and  round  in  circles,  careering  about  like  wild  things, 
and  all  this  time  taking  no  notice  of  us,  but  ever  and 
again  repeating  the  yell  we  had  heard  already,  then 
dropping  their  noses  to  the  ground  again  and  tracking 
earnestly  here  and  there.  They  now  began  to  snuff  the 
earth  more  eagerly  than  they  had  done  yet,  and  although 
they  were  still  very  restless,  no  longer  beat  about  in 
such  wide  circuits,  but  kept  near  to  one  spot,  and  con- 
stantly diminished  the  distance  between  themselves  and 
me. 

At  last  they  came  up  close  to  the  great  chair  on  which 
I  sat,  and  raising  their  frightful  howl  once  more,  tried 
to  tear  away  the  wooden  rails  that  kept  them  from  the 
ground  beneath.  I  saw  how  I  looked,  in  the  faces  of 
the  two  who  w^ere  with  me. 

"  They  scent  some  prey,"  said  they,  both  together. 

"  They  scent  no  prey  ! "  cried  I. 

"In  Heaven's  name,  move,"  said  the  one  I  knew, 
very  earnestly,  "  or  you  will  be  torn  to  pieces." 

"  Let  them  tear  me  from  limb  to  limb,  I'll  never  leave 
this  place  !  "  cried  I.  "Are  dogs  to  hurry  men  to  shame- 
ful deaths?    Hew  them  down,  cut  them  in  pieces.'* 

"  There  is  some  foul  mystery  here  !  "  said  the  officer 
whom  I  did  not  know,  drawing  his  sword.  "  In  King 
Charles's  name,  assist  me  to  secure  this  man." 

They  both  set  upon  me  and  forced  me  away,  though  I 
fought  and  bit  and  caught  at  them  like  a  madman. 
After  a  struggle  they  got  me  quietly  between  them, 
and  then,  my  God  !  I  saw  the  angry  dogs  tearing  at 
the  earth  and  throwing  it  up  into  the  air  like  water. 

What  more  have  I  to  tell  ?  That  I  fell  upon  my 
knees  and  with  chattering  teeth  confessed  the  truth  and 
prayed  to  be  forgiven.  That  I  have  since  denied  and 
now  confess  to  it  again.  Thau  I  have  been  tried  for  the 
crime,  found  guilty,  and  sentenced.  That  I  have  not 
the  courage  to  anticipate  my  doom  or  to  bear  up  man- 
fully against  it.  That  I  have  no  compassion,  no  conso- 
lation, no  hope,  no  friend.  That  my  wife  has  happily 
lost  for  the  time  those  faculties  which  would  enable  her 
to  know  my  misery  or  hers.  That  I  am  alone  in  this 
stone  dungeon  with  my  evil  spirit,  and  that  I  die  to- 
morrow !  * 

******** 
*  Old  Curiosity  Shop  begins  here. 


VI. 

CORRESPONDENCE. 

Master  Humphrey  has  been  favoured  with  the  fol- 
lowing letter  written  on  strongly  scented  paper,  and 
Vol.  II.— 69 


sealed  in  light  blue  wax  with  the  representation  of  two 
very  plump  doves,  interchanging  beaks.  It  does  not 
commence  with  any  of  the  usual  forms  of  address,  but 
begins  as  is  here  set  forth. 

Bath,  Wednesday  Night. — Heavens  !  into  what  an  in- 
discretion do  I  suffer  myself  to  be  betrayed  !  To  address 
these  faltering  lines  to  a  total  stranger,  and  that  stranger 
one  of  a  conflicting  sex  ! — and  yet  I  am  precipitated  into 
the  abyss,  and  have  no  power  of  self-snatchation  (forgive 
me  if  i  coin  that  phrase)  from  the  yawning  gulf  before 
me. 

Yes,  I  am  writing  to  a  man,  but  let  me  not  think  of 
that,  for  madness  is  in  the  thought.  You  will  under- 
stand my  feelings  ?  Oh  yes  !  I  am  sure  you  will  !  and 
you  will  respect  them  too,  and  not  despise  them, — will 
you  ? 

Let  me  be  calm.  That  portrait, — smiling  as  once  he 
smiled  on  me  ;  that  cane,— dangling  as  I  have  seen  it 
dangle  from  his  hand  I  know  not  how  oft  ;  those  legs 
that  have  glided  through  my  nightly  dreams  and  never 
stopped  to  speak  ;  the  perfectly  gentlemanly,,  though 
false  original, — can  I  be  mistaken?    O  no,  no. 

Let  me  be  calmer  yet ;  I  would  be  calm  as  coffins. 
You  have  published  a  letter  from  one  whose  likeness  is 
engraved,  but  whose  name  (and  wherefore?)  is  sup- 
pressed. Shall  /  breathe  that  name  I  Is  it — but  why 
ask  when  my  heart  tells  me  too  truly  that  it  is  ! 

I  would  not  upbraid  him  with  his  treachery,  I  would 
not  remind  him  of  those  times  when  he  plighted  the 
most  eloquent  of  vows,  and  procured  from  me  a  small 
pecuniary  accommodation  ;  and  yet  I  would  see  him — 
see  him  did  I  say — him — alas  !  such  is  woman's  nature. 
For  as  the  poet  beautifully  says — but  you  will  already 
have  anticipated  the  sentiment.  Is  it  not  sweet?  O 
yes  ! 

It  was  in  this  city  (hallowed  by  the  recollection)  that 
I  met  him  first  ;  and  assuredly  if  mortal  happiness  be 
recorded  anywhere,  then  those  rubbers  with  their  three- 
and-sixpenny  points  are  scored  on  tablets  of  celestial 
brass.  He  always  held  an  honour, — generally  two.  On 
that  eventful  night,  we  stood  at  eight.  He  raised  his 
eyes  (luminous  in  their  seductive  sweetness)  to  my  agi- 
tated face.  "  Can  you?"  said  he,  with  peculiar  mean- 
ing. I  felt  the  gentle  pressure  of  his  foot  on  mine  ;  our 
corns  throbbed  in  unison.  "  Com  you?"  he  said  again, 
and  every  lineament  of  his  expressive  countenance  added 
the  words  "resist  me?"  I  murmured  "No,"  and  fainted. 

They  said  when  I  recovered,  it  was  the  weather.  / 
said  it  was  the  nutmeg  in  the  negus.  How  little  did 
they  suspect  the  truth  !  How  little  did  they  guess  the 
deep  mysterious  meaning  of  that  inquiry  !  He  called 
next  morning  on  his  knees  ;  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  he 
actually  came  in  that  position  to  the  house  door,  but  that 
he  went  down  upon  those  joints  directly  the  servant  had 
retired.  He  brought  some  verses  in  his  hat  which  he 
said  were  original,  but  which  I  have  since  found  were 
Milton's.  Likewise  a  little  bottle  labelled  laudanum  : 
also  a  pistol  and  a  swordstick.  He  drew  the  latter,  un- 
corked the  former,  and  clicked  the  trigger  of  the  pocket 
fire-arm.  He  had  come,  he  said,  to  conquer  or  to  die. 
He  did  not  die.  He  wrested  from  me  an  avowal  of  my 
love,  and  let  off  the  pistol  out  of  a  back  window  previous 
to  partaking  of  a  slight  repast. 

Faithless,  inconstant  man  !  How  many  ages  seem  to 
have  elapsed  since  his  unaccountable  and  perfidious  dis- 
appearance !  Could  I  still  forgive  him  both  that  and  the 
borrowed  lucre  that  he  promised  to  pay  next  week  ! 
Could  I  spurn  him  from  my  feet  if  he  approached  in 
penitence,  and  with  a  matrimonial  object  !  Would  the 
blandishing  enchanter  still  weave  his  shells  around  me, 
or  should  I  burst  them  all  and  turn  away  in  coldness  ! 
I  dare  not  trust  my  weakness  with  the  thought. 

My  brain  is  in  a  whirl  again.  You  know  his  address, 
his  occupations,  his  mode  of  life, — are  acquainted,  per- 
haps, with  his  inmost  thoughts.  You  are  a  humane  and 
philanthropic  character  ;  reveal  all  you  know — all  ;  but 
especially  the  street  and  number  of  his  lodgings.  The 
post  is  departing,  the  bellman  rings, — pray  Heaven  it  be 
not  the  knell  of  love  and  hope  to  Belinda. 

P.  S,  .  Pardon  the  wanderings  of  a  bad  pen  and  a  dis- 
tracted mind.    Address  to  the  Post-office.    The  bellman, 


1090 


CHARLES  DICKENS\WORKS. 


rendered  impatient  by  delay,  is  ringing  dreadfully  in  the 
passage. 

P.  P.  S.  I  open  this  to  say  that  the  bellman  is  gone, 
and  that  you  must  not  expect  it  till  the  next  post  ;  so 
don't  be  surprised  when  you  don't  get  it. 

Master  Humphrey  does  not  feel  himself  at  liberty  to 
furnish  his  fair  correspondent  with  the  address  of  the 
gentleman  in  question,  but  he  publishes  her  letter  as  a 
jmolic  appeal  to  his  faith  and  gallantry. 


VII. 

MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  VISITOR. 

When  I  am  in  a  thoughtful  mood,  I  often  succeed  in 
diverting  the  current  of  some  mournful  reflections,  by 
conjuring  up  a  number  of  fanciful  associations  with  the 
objects  that  surround  me,  and  dwelling  upon  the  scenes 
and  characters  they  suggest. 

I  have  been  led  by  this  habit  to  assign  to  every  room 
in  my  house  and  every  old  staring  portrait  on  its  walls  a 
separate  interest  of  its  own.  Thus  I  am  persuaded  that 
a  stately  dame,  terrible  to  behold  in  her  rigid  modesty, 
who  hangs  above  the  chimney-piece  of  my  bedroom, 
is  the  former  lady  of  the  mansion.  In  the  court-yard 
below  is  a  stone  face  of  surpassing  ugliness,  which  I 
have  somehow — in  a  kind  of  jealousy,  I  am  afraid — asso- 
ciated with  her  husband.  Above  my  study  is  a  little 
room  with  ivy  peeping  through  the  lattice,  from  which 
I  bring  their  daughter,  a  lovely  girl  of  eighteen  or  nine- 
teen years  of  age,  and  dutiful  in  all  respects  save  one, 
that  one  being  her  devoted  attachment  to  a  young  gen- 
tleman on  the  stairs,  whose  grandmother  (degraded  to  a 
disused  laundry  in  the  garden)  piques  herself  upon  an 
old  family  quarrel,  and  is  the  implacable  enemy  of  their 
love.  With  such  materials  as  these,  I  work  out  many  a 
little  drama,  whose  chief  merit  is,  that  I  can  bring  it 
to  a  happy  end  at  will  ;  I  have  so  many  of  them  on  hand, 
that  if  on  my  return  home  one  of  these  evenings  I  were 
to  find  some  bluff  old  wight  of  two  centuries  ago  com- 
fortably seated  in  my  easy-chair,  and  a  lovelorn  damsel 
vainly  appealing  to  his  heart,  and  leaning  her  white  arm 
upon  my  clock  itself,  I  verily  believe  I  should  only  ex- 
press my  surprise  that  they  had  kept  me  waiting  so  long 
and  never  honoured  me  with  a  call  before. 

I  was  in  such  a  mood  as  this,  sitting  in  my  garden  yes- 
terday morning  under  the  shade  of  a  favourite  tree, 
revelling  in  all  the  bloom  and  brightness  about  me,  and 
feeling  every  sense  of  hope  and  enjoyment  quickened  by 
this  most  beautiful  season  of  Spring,  when  my  medita- 
tions were  interrupted  by  the  unexpected  appearance  of 
my  barber  at  the  end  of  the  walk,  who  I  immediately 
saw  was  coming  towards  me  with  a  hasty  step  that  be- 
tokened something  remarkable. 

My  barber  is  at  all  times  a  very  brisk,  bustling,  active 
little  man, — for  he  is,  as  it  were,  chubby  all  over,  with- 
out being  stout  or  unwieldy, — but  yesterday  his  alacrity 
was  so  very  uncommon  that  it  quite  took  me  by  surprise. 
For  could  I  fail  to  observe  when  he  came  up  to  me,  that 
his  gray  eyes  were  twinkling  in  a  most  extraordinary 
manner,  that  his  little  red  nose  was  in  an  unusual  glow, 
that  every  line  in  his  round,  bright  face  was  twisted  and 
curved  into  an  expression  of  pleased  surprise,  and  that 
his  whole  countenance  was  radiant  with  glee?  I  was 
still  more  surprised  to  see  my  housekeeper,  who  usually 
preserves  a  very  staid  air,  and  stands  somewhat  upon 
her  dignity,  peeping  round  the  hedge  at  the  bottom  of 
the  walk,  and  exchanging  nods  and  smiles  with  the  bar- 
ber, who  twice  or  thrice  looked  over  his  shoulder  for  that 
purpose.  I  could  conceive  no  announcement  to  which 
these  appearances  could  be  the  prelude,  unless  it  were 
that  they  had  married  each  other  that  morning. 

I  was,  consequently,  a  little  disappointed  when  it  only 
came  out  that  there  was  a  gentleman  in  the  house  who 
wished  to  speak  with  me. 

"  And  who  is  it?"  said  I. 

The  barber,  with  his  face  screwed  up  still  tighter  than 
before,  replied  that  the  gentleman  would  not  send  his 


name,  but  wished  to  see  me.  I  pondered  for  a  moment, 
wondering  who  this  visitor  might  be,  and  I  remarked 
that  he  embraced  the  opportunity  of  exchanging  another 
nod  with  the  housekeeper,  who  still  lingered  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

"  Well  !  "  said  I,  "bid  the  gentleman  come  here." 

This  seemed  to  be  the  consummation  of  the  barber's 
hopes,  for  he  turned  sharp  round,  and  actually  ran  away. 

Now,  my  sight  is  not  very  good  at  a  distance,  and 
therefore  when  the  gentleman  first  appeared  in  the  walk, 
I  was  not  quite  clear  whether  he  was  a  stranger  to  me  or 
otherwise.  He  was  an  elderly  gentleman,  but  came 
tripping  along  in  the  pleasantest  manner  conceivable, 
avoiding  the  garden-roller  and  the  borders  of  the  beds 
with  inimitable  dexterity,  picking  his  way  among  the 
flower-pots  and  smiling  with  unspeakable  good-humour. 
Before  he  was  half  way  up  the  walk  he  began  to  salute 
me  ;  then  I  thought  I  knew  him  ;  but  when  he  came  to- 
wards me  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  the  sun  shining  on 
his  bald  head,  his  bland  face,  his  bright  spectacles,  his 
fawn-coloured  tights,  and  his  black  gaiters, — then  my 
heart  warmed  towards  him  and  I  felt  quite  certain  that 
it  was  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  that  gentleman  as  I  rose  to  re- 
ceive him,  "  pray  be  seated.  Pray  sit  down.  Now,  do 
not  stand  on  my  account.  I  must  insist  upon  it,  really." 
With  these  words  Mr.  Pickwick  gently  pressed  me  down 
into  my  seat,  and  taking  my  hand  in  his,  shook  it  again 
and  again  with  a  warmth  of  manner  perfectly  irresistible. 
I  endeavoured  to  express  in  my  welcome  something  of 
that  heartiness  and  pleasure  which  the  sight  of  him 
awakened,  and  made  him  sit  down  beside  me.  All  this 
time  he  kept  alternately  releasing  my  hand  and  grasping 
it  again,  and  surveying  me  through  his  spectacles  with 
such  a  beaming  countenance  as  I  never  beheld. 

"  You  knew  me  directly  !  "  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  What 
a  pleasure  it  is  to  think  that  you  knew  me  directly  !" 

I  remarked  that  I  had  read  his  adventures  very  often, 
and  his  features  were  quite  familiar  to  me  from  the 
published  jwrtraits.  As  I  thought  it  a  good  opportunity 
of  adverting  to  the  circumstance,  I  condoled  with  him 
upon  the  various  libels  on  his  character  which  had  found 
their  way  into  print.  Mr.  Pickwick  shook  his  head, 
and  for  a  moment  looked  very  indignant,  but  smiling 
again  directly,  added  that  no  doubt  I  was  acquainted 
with  Cervantes's  introduction  to  the  second  part  of  Don 
Quixote,  and  that  it  fully  expressed  his  sentiments  on 
the  subject. 

"But  now,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "don't  you  wonder 
how  I  found  you  out  ?  " 

"  I  shall  never  wonder,  and,  with  your  good  leave, 
never  know,"  said  I,  smiling  in  my  turn,  "  It  is  enough 
for  me  that  you  give  me  this  gratification.  I  have  not 
the  least  desire  that  you  should  tell  me  by  what  means 
I  have  obtained  it." 

You  are  very  kind,"  returned  Mr.  Pickwick,  shaking 
me  by  the  hand  again  ;  "  you  are  so  exactly  what  I  ex- 
pected !  But  for  what  particular  purpose  do  you  think 
I  have  sought  you,  my  dear  sir?  Now  what  do  you 
think  I  have  come  for?  " 

Mr.  Pickwick  put  this  question  as  though  he  were 
persuaded  that  it  was  morally  impossible  that  I  could 
by  any  means  divine  the  deep  purpose  of  his  visit,  and 
that  it  must  be  hidden  from  all  human  ken.  Therefore, 
although  I  was  rejoiced  to  think  that  I  had  anticipated 
his  drift,  I  feigned  to  be  quite  ignorant  of  it,  and  after 
a  brief  consideration  shook  my  head  despairingly. 

"  What  should  you  say,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  laying 
the  fore-finger  of  his  left  hand  upon  my  coat-sleeve,  and 
looking  at  me  with  his  head  thrown  back,  and  a  little 
on  one  side, — "  what  should  you  say  if  I  confessed  that 
after  reading  your  account  of  yourself  and  your  little 
society,  I  had  come  here,  a  humble  candidate  for  one  of 
those  empty  chairs  ?  " 

"  I  should  say,"  I  returned,  "that  I  know  of  only  one 
circumstance  which  could  still  further  endear  that  little 
society  to  me,  and  that  would  be  the  associating  with  it 
my  old  friend, — for  you  must  let  me  call  you  so, — my 
old  friend,  Mr.  Pickwick." 

As  I  made  him  this  answer  every  feature  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick's  face  fused  itself  into  one  all-pervading  expression 
of  delight.    After  shaking  me  heartily  by  both  hands  at 


MASTER  HUMPHREY  S  CLOCK. 


1091 


once,  he  patted  me  gently  on  the  back,  and  then — 1  well 
understood  why — coloured  up  to  tiie  eyes,  and  lioped 
with  great  earnestness  of  manner  that  he  had  not  hurt 
me. 

If  he  had,  I  would  have  been  content  that  he  should 
have  repeated  the  offence  a  hundred  times  rather  than 
suppose  so  ;  but  as  he  had  not,  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
changing  the  subject  by  making  an  inquiry  which  had 
been  upon  my  lips  twenty  times  already. 

"You  have  not  told  me,"  said  I,  "anything  about 
Sam  Weller." 

"Oh  !  Sam,"  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  "is  the  same  as 
ever.  The  same  true,  faithful  fellow  that  he  ever  was. 
What  should  I  tell  you  about  Sam,  my  dear  sir,  except 
that  he  is  more  indispensable  to  my  happiness  and  com- 
fort every  day  of  my  life  ?  " 

"  And  Mr.  Weller  senior  ?  "  said  I. 

"Old  Mr.  Weller," returned  Mr.  Pickwick,  "is  in  no 
respect  more  altered  than  Sam,  unless  it  be  that  he  is  a 
little  more  opinionated  than  he  was  formerly,  and  per- 
haps at  times  more  talkative.  He  spends  a  good  deal  of 
his  time  now  in  our  neighbourhood,  and  has  so  consti- 
tuted himself  a  part  of  my  body-guard,  that  when  I  ask 
permission  for  Sam  to  have  a  seat  in  your  kitchen  on 
clock  nights  (supposing  your  three  friends  think  me 
worthy  to  fill  one  of  the  chairs),  I  am  afraid  I  must 
often  include  Mr.  Weller  too." 

I  very  readily  pledged  myself  to  give  both  Sam  and 
his  father  a  free  admission  to  my  house  at  all  hours  and 
seasons,  and  this  point  settled,  we  fell  into  a  lengthy 
conversation  which  was  carried  on  with  as  little  reserve 
on  both  sides  as  if  we  had  been  intimate  friends  from 
our  youth,  and  which  conveyed  to  me  the  comfortable 
assurance  that  Mr.  Pickwick's  buoyancy  of  spirit,  and 
indeed  all  his  old  cheerful  characteristics,  were  wholly  un- 
impaired. As  he  had  spoken  of  the  consent  of  my  friends 
as  being  yet  in  abeyance,  I  repeatedly  assured  him  that 
his  proposal  was  certain  to  receive  their  most  joyful 
sanction,  and  several  times  entreated  that  he  would  give 
me  leave  to  introduce  him  to  Jack  Red  burn  and  Mr. 
Miles  (who  were  near  at  hand)  without  further  ceremony. 

To  this  proposal,  however,  Mr.  Pickwick's  delicacy 
would  by  no  means  allow  him  to  accede,  for  he  urged 
that  his  eligibility  must  be  formally  discussed,  and  that, 
until  this  had  been  done,  he  could  not  think  of  obtruding 
himself  further.  The  utmost  I  could  obtain  from  him 
was  a  promise  that  he  would  attend  upon  our  next  night  of 
meeting,  that  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting 
him  immediately  on  his  election. 

Mr.  Pickwick,  having  with  many  blushes  placed  in 
my  hands  a  small  roll  of  paper,  which  he  termed  his 
"qualification,"  put  a  great  many  questions  tome  touch- 
ing my  friends,  and  particularly  Jack  Redburn,  whom 
he  repeatedly  termed  "  a  fine  fellow,"  and  in  whose 
favour  I  could  see  he  was  strongly  predisposed.  When 
I  had  satisfied  him  on  these  points,  I  took  him  up  into 
my  room  that  he  might  make  acquaintance  with  the  old 
chamber  which  is  our  place  of  meeting. 

"And  this,"'  said  Mr.  Pickwick  stopping  short,  "is 
the  clock  !  Dear  me  !  And  this  is  really  the  old  clock  !  " 

I  thought  he  would  never  have  come  away  from  it. 
After  advancing  towards  it  softly,  and  laying  his  hand 
upon  it  witb  as  much  respect  and  as  many  smiling  looks 
as  if  it  were  alive,  he  set  himself  to  consider  it  in  every 
possible  direction,  now  mounting  on  a  chair  to  look  at 
the  top,  now  going  down  upon  his  knees  to  examine  the 
bottom,  now  surveying  the  sides  with  his  spectacles 
almost  touching  the  case,  and  now  trying  to  peep  be- 
tween it  and  the  wall  to  get  a  slight  view  of  the  back. 
Then  he  would  retire  a  pace  or  two  and  look  up  at  the  dial 
to  see  it  go,  and  then  draw  near  again  and  stand  with 
his  head  on  one  side  to  hear  it  tick  :  never  failing  to 
glance  towards  me  at  intervals  of  a  few  seconds  each, 
and  nod  his  head  with  such  complacent  gratification  as  I 
am  quite  unable  to  describe.  His  admiration  Avas  not 
confined  to  the  clock  either,  but  extended  itself  to  every 
article  in  the  room ;  and  really,  when  he  had  gone 
through  them  every  on^,  and  at  last  sat  himself  down  in 
all  the  six  chairs,  one  after  another,  to  try  how  they 
felt,  I  never  saw  such  a  picture  of  good-humour  and  hap- 
piness as  he  presented,  from  the  top  of  his  shining  head 
'lown  to  the  very  last  button  of  his  gaiters. 


I  should  have  been  well  pleased,  and  should  have  had 
the  utmost  enjoyment  of  his  comY)any,  if  he  had  remained 
with  me  all  day,  but  my  favourite,  striking  the  hour, 
reminded  him  that  he  must  take  his  leave.  I  could  not 
forbear  tolling  him  once  more  tiovv  glad  he  had  made 
me,  and  we  shook  hands  all  the  way  down-stairs. 

We  had  no  sooner  arrived  in  the  Hall,  than  my  house- 
keeper, gliding  out  of  her  little  room  (she  had  changed 
her  gown  and  cap,  I  observed),  greeted  Mr.  Pickwick 
with  her  best  smile  and  curtsey  ;  and  the  barber,  feign- 
ing to  be  accidentally  passing  on  his  way  out,  made  him 
a  vast  number  of  bows.  When  the  housekeeper  curtsied, 
Mr.  Pickwick  bowed  with  the  utmost  politeness,  and 
when  he  bowed,  the  housekeeper  curtsied  again  ;  be- 
tween the  housekeeper  and  the  barber,  I  should  say  that 
Mr.  Pickwick  faced  about  and  bowed  with  undiminished 
affability,  fifty  times  at  least. 

I  saw  him  to  the  door  ;  an  omnibus  was  at  the  moment 
passing  the  corner  of  the  lane,  which  Mr.  Pickwick 
hailed  and  ran  after  with  extraordinary  nimbleness. 
When  he  had  got  about  half-way  he  turned  his  head,  and 
seeing  that  I  was  still  looking  after  him  and  that  I 
waved  my  hand,  stopped,  evidently  irresolute  whether 
to  come  back  and  shake  hands  again,  or  to  go  on.  The 
man  behind  the  omnibus  shouted,  and  Mr.  Pickwick  ran 
a  little  way  towards  him  :  then  he  looked  round  at  me, 
and  ran  a  little  way  back  again.  Then  there  was  another 
shout,  and  he  turned  round  once  more  and  ran  the  other 
way.  After  several  of  these  vibrations,  the  man  settled 
the  question  by  taking  Mr.  Pickwick  by  the  arm  and 
putting  him  into  the,  carriage  ;  but  his  last  action  was  to 
let  down  the  window  and  wave  his  hat  to  me  as  it  drove 
off. 

I  lost  no  time  in  opening  the  parcel  he  had  left  with 
me.    The  following  were  its  contents  : — 

MR.  PICKWICK'S  TALE. 

A  good  many  years  have  passed  away  since  old  John 
Podgers  lived  in  the  town  of  Windsor,  where  he  was 
born,  and  where,  in  course  of  time,  he  came  to  be  com- 
fortably and  snugly  buried.  You  may  be  sure  that  in 
the  time  of  King  James  the  First,  Windsor  was  a  very 
quaint,  queer  old  town,  and  you  may  take  it  upon  my 
authority  that  John  Podgers  was  a  very  quaint,  queer 
old  fellow  ;  consequently  he  and  Windsor  fitted  each 
other  to  a  nicety,  and  seldom  parted  company  even  for 
half  a  day. 

John  Podgers  was  broad,  sturdy,  Dutch-built,  short,  and 
a  very  hard  eater,  as  men  of  his  figure  often  are.  Being 
a  hard  sleeper  likewise,  he  divided  his  time  pretty  equally 
between  these  two  recreations,  always  falling  asleep  when 
he  had  done  eating,  and  always  taking  another  turn  at 
the  trencher  when  he  had  done  sleeping,  by  which  means 
he  grew  more  corpulent  and  more  drowsy  every  day  of 
his  life.  Indeed  it  used  to  be  currently  reported  that 
when  he  sauntered  up  and  down  the  sunny  side  of  the 
street  before  dinner  (as  he  never  failed  to  do  in  fair 
weather),  he  enjoyed  his  soundest  nap  ;  but  many  people 
held  this  to  be  a  fiction,  as  he  had  several  times  been  seen 
to  look  after  fat  oxen  on  market  days,  and  had  even  been 
heard,  by  persons  of  good  credit  and  reputation,  to 
chuckle  at  the  sight,  and  say  to  himself  with  great  glee, 
"Live  beef,  live  beef!"  It  was  upon  this  evidence 
that  the  wisest  people  in  W^indsor  (beginning  with  the 
local  authorities  of  course)  held  that  John  Podgers  was 
a  man  of  strong,  sound  sense, — not  what  is  called  smart, 
perhaps,  and  it  might  be  of  a  rather  lazy  and  apoplectic 
turn,  but  still  a  man  of  solid  parts,  and  one  who  meant 
much  more  than  he  cared  to  show.  This  impression  was 
confirmed  by  a  very  dignified  way  he  had  of  shaking  his 
head  and  imparting,  at  the  same  time,  a  pendulous 
motion  to  his  double  chin  ;  in  short  he  passed  for  one  of 
those  people  who,  being  plunged  into  the  Thames,  would 
make  no  vain  efforts  to  set  it  afire,  but  would  straight- 
way flop  down  to  the  bottom  with  a  deal  of  gravity,  and 
be  highly  respected  in  consequence  by  all  good  men. 

Being  well  to  do  in  the  world,  and  a  peaceful  widower, 
— having  a  great  appetite,  which,  as  he  could  afford  to 
gratify  it,  was  a  luxury  and  no  inconvenience,  and  a 
power  of  going  to  sleep,  which,  as  he  had  no  occasion  to 
keep  awake,  was  a  most  enviable  faculty, — you  will 


1092 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


readily  suppose  tliat  John  Podgers  was  a  happy  man. 
But  appearances  are  often  deceptive  when  they  least 
seem  so,  and  the  truth  is  that,  notwithstanding  his  ex- 
treme sleekness,  he  was  rendered  uneasy  in  his  mind  and 
exceedingly  uncomfortable  by  a  constant  apprehension 
that  beset  him  night  and  day. 

You  know  very  well  that  in  those  times  there  flourished 
divers  evil  old  women  who,  under  the  name  of  Witches, 
spread  great  disorder  through  the  land,  and  inflicted 
various  dismal  tortures  upon  Christian  men  ;  sticking 
])ins  and  needles  into  them  when  they  least  expected  it, 
and  causing  them  to  walk  in  the  air  with  their  feet  up- 
wards, to  the  great  terror  of  their  wives  and  families, 
who  were  naturally  very  much  disconcerted  when  the 
master  of  the  house  unexpectedly  came  home,  knocking 
at  the  door  with  his  heels  and  combing  his  hair  on  the 
scraper.  These  were  their  commonest  pranks,  but  they 
every  day  played  a  hundred  others,  of  which  none  were 
less  objectionable,  and  many  were  much  more  so,  being 
improper  besides  ;  the  result  was  that  vengeance  was 
denounced  against  all  old  women,  with  whom  even  the 
king  himself  had  no  sympathy  (as  he  certainly  ought  to 
have  had),  for  with  his  own  most  Gracious  hand  he 
penned  a  most  Gracious  consignment  of  them  to  ever- 
lasting wrath,  and  devised  most  Gracious  means  for  their 
confusion  and  slaughter,  in  virtue  whereof  scarcely  a 
day  passed  but  one  witch  at  the  least  was  most  gracious- 
ly hanged,  drowned,  or  roasted  in  some  part  of  his 
dominions.  Still  the  press  teemed  with  strange  and 
terrible  news  from  the  North  or  the  South,  or  the  East 
or  the  West,  relative  to  witches  and  their  unhappy  vic- 
tims in  some  corner  of  the  country,  and  the  Public's  hair 
stood  on  end  to  that  degree  that  it  lifted  its  hat  off  its 
head  and  made  its  face  pale  with  terror. 

You  may  believe  that  the  little  town  of  Windsor  did 
not  escape  the  general  contagion.  The  inhabitants 
boiled  a  witch  on  the  King's  birthday  and  sent  a  bottle 
of  the  broth  to  court,  with  a  dutiful  address  expressive  . 
of  their  loyalt3\  The  King,  being  rather  frightened  by 
the  present,  piously  bestowed  it  upon  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  and  returned  an  answer  to  the  address, 
wherein  he  gave  them  golden  rules  for  discovering 
witches,  and  laid  great  stress  upon  certain  protecting 
charms,  and  especially  horseshoes.  Immediately  the 
towns-people  went  to  work  nailing  up  horseshoes  over 
every  door,  and  so  many  anxious  parents  apprenticed 
their  children  to  farriers  to  keep  them  out  of  harm's  way, 
that  it  became  quite  a  genteel  trade  and  flourished  ex- 
ceedingly. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  bustle  John  Podgers  ate  and 
slept  as  usual,  but  shook  his  head  a  great  deal  oftener 
than  was  his  custom,  and  was  observed  to  look  at  the 
oxen  less,  and  at  the  old  woman  more.  He  had  a  little 
shelf  put  up  in  his  sitting-room,  whereon  was  displayed, 
in  a  row  which  grew  longer  every  week,  all  the  witch- 
craft literature  of  the  time  ;  he  grew  learned  in  charms 
and  exorcisms,  hinted  at  certain  questionable  females  on 
broomsticks  whom  he  had  seen  from  his  chamber  win- 
dow, riding  in  the  air  at  night,  and  was  in  constant  ter- 
ror of  being  bewitched.  At  length,  from  perpetually 
dwelling  upon  this  one  idea,  which,  being  alone  in  his 
head,  had  it  all  its  own  way,  the  fear  of  witches  became 
the  single  passion  of  his  life.  He,  who  up  to  that  time 
had  never  known  what  it  was  to  dream,  began  to  have 
visions  of  witches  whenever  he  fell  asleep  ;  waking, 
they  were  incessantly  present  to  his  imagination  like- 
wise ;  and,  sleej^ng  or  waking,  he  had  not  a  moment's 
peace.  He  began  to  set  witch-traps  in  the  highway,  and 
was  often  seen  lying  in  wait' round  the  corner  for  hours 
together,  to  watch  their  effect.  These  engines  were  of 
simple  construction,  usually  consisting  of  two  straws 
disposed  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  or  a  piece  of  a  Bible 
cover  with  a  pinch  of  salt  upon  it  ;  but  they  were  infal- 
iible,  and  if  an  old  woman  chanced  to  stumble  over 
tliem  (as  not  unfrequently  happened,  the  chosen  spot 
being  a  broken  and  stony  place),  John  started  from  a 
do//0,  pounced  out  uy>on  her,  and  hung  round  her  neck 
till  assistance  arrived,  when  she  was  immediately  car- 
ried away  and  drowned.  By  dint  of  constantly  inveig- 
ling old  ladies  and  dispo.sing  of  them  in  this  summary 
manner,  ho  acquired  the  reputation  of  a  great  public 
cliaracter  ;  and  as  he  received  no  harm  in  these  pursuits 


beyond  a  scratched  face  or  so,  he  came,  in  course  of 
time,  to  be  considered  witch-proof. 

There  was  but  one  person  who  entertained  the  least 
doubt  of  John  Podgers's  gifts,  and  that  person  was  his 
own  nephew,  a  wild,  roving  young  fellow  of  twenty  who 
had  been  brought  up  in  his  uncle's  house  and  lived  there 
still, — that  is  to  say,  when  he  was  at  home,  w^hich  was 
not  as  often  hs  it  might  have  been.  As  he  was  an 
apt  scholar,  it  was  he  who  read  aloud  every  fresh  piece 
of  strange  and  terrible  intelligence  that  John  Podgers 
bought ;  and  this  he  always  did  of  an  evening  in  the 
little  porch  in  front  of  the  house,  round  which  the  neigh- 
bours would  flock  in  crowds  to  hear  the  direful  news, — 
for  people  like  to  be  frightened,  and  when  they  can  be 
frightened  for  nothing  at  another  man's  expense,  they 
like  it  all  the  better. 

One  fine  midsummer  evening,  a  group  of  persons  were 
gathered  in  this  place,  listening  intently  to  Will  Marks 
(that  was  the  nephew's  name),  as  with  his  cap  very  much 
on  one  side,  his  arm  coiled  slyly  round  the  waist  of  a 
pretty  girl  who  sat  beside  him,  and  his  face  screwed  into 
a  comical  expression  intended  to  represent  extreme  grav- 
ity, he  read — with  Heaven  knows  how  many  embellish- 
ments of  his  own — a  dismal  account  of  a  gentleman  down 
in  Northamptonshire  under  the  influence  of  witchcraft 
and  taken  forcible  possession  of  by  the  Devil,  who  was 
playing  his  very  self  with  him.  John  Podgers,  in  a  high 
sugar-loaf  hat  and  short  cloak,  filled  the  opposite  seat, 
and  surveyed  the  auditory  with  a  look  of  mingled  pride 
and  horror  very  edifying  to  see  ;  while  the  hearers,  with 
their  heads  thrust  forward  and  their  mouths  open,  lis- 
tened and  trembled,  and  hoped  there  was  a  great  deal 
more  to  come.  Sometimes  Will  stopped  for  an  instant  to 
look  round  upon  his  eager  audience,  and  then,  with  a 
more  comical  expression  of  face  than  before  and  a  set- 
tling of  himself  comfortably,  which  included  a  squeeze 
of  the  young  lady  before  mentioned,  he  launched  into 
t  some  new  wonder  surpassing  all  the  others. 

The  setting  sun  shed  his  last  golden  rays  upon  this 
little  party  who,  absorbed  in  their  present  occupation, 
took  no  heed  of  the  approach  of  night  or  the  glory  in 
which  the  day  went  down,  when  the  sound  of  a  horse, 
approaching  at  a  good  round  trot,  invading  the  silence  of 
the  hour,  caused  the  reader  to  make  a  sudden  stop  and 
the  listeners  to  raise  their  heads  in  wonder.  Nor  was 
their  wonder  diminished  when  a  horseman  dashed  up  to 
the  porch,  and  abruptly  checking  his  steed,  inquired 
where  one  John  Podgers  dwelt. 

"Here  !"  cried  a  dozen  voices,  while  a  dozen  hands 
pointed  out  sturdy  John,  still  basking  in  the  terrors  of 
the  pamphlet. 

The  rider  giving  his  bridle  to  one  of  those  who  sur- 
rounded him,  dismounted  and  approached  John,  hat  in 
hand,  but  with  great  haste. 

"  Whence  come  ye  ?  "  said  John. 
"From  Kingston,  master." 
"  And  wherefore  ?  " 
"  On  most  pressing  business." 
"  Of  what  nature  ?" 
"  Witchcraft." 

Witchcraft !  Everybody  looked  aghast  at  the  breath- 
less messenger,  and  the  breathless  messenger  looked 
equally  aghast  at  everybody, — except  Will  Marks,  who, 
finding  himself  unobserved,  not  only  squeezed  the  young 
lady  again,  but  kissed  her  twice.  Surely  he  must  have 
been  bewitched  himself,  or  he  never  could  have  done  it, 
— and  the  young  lady  too,  or  she  never  would  have  let 
him. 

"  Witchcraft  ?  "  cried  Will,  drowning  the  sound  of  his 
last  kiss,  which  was  rather  a  loud  one. 

The  messenger  turned  towards  him,  and  with  a  frown, 
repeated  the  word  more  solemnly  than  before  ;  then  told 
his  errand,  which  was,  in  brief,  that  the  people  of  Kings- 
ton had  been  greatly  terrified  for  some  nights  past  by 
hideous  revels,  held  by  witches  beneath  the  gibbet  within 
a  mile  of  the  town,  and  related  and  deposed  to  by  chance 
wayfarers  who  had  passed  within  earshot  of  the  spot ; 
that  the  sound  of  their  voices  iif  their  wild  orgies  had 
been  plainly  heard  by  many  persons  ;  that  three  old 
women  laboured  under  strong  suspicion,  and  that  prece- 
dents had  been  consulted  and  solemn  council  had,  and  it 
was  found  that  to  identify  the  hags  some  single  person 


OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 


1093 


must  watch  upon  the  spot  alone  ;  that  no  single  person 
had  the  courage  to  perform  the  task,  and  that  he  had 
been  despatched  express  to  solicit  John  Podgers  to  under- 
take it  that  very  night,  as  being  a  man  of  great  renown, 
who  bore  a  charmed  life,  and  was  proof  against  unholy 
spells. 

John  received  this  communication  with  much  com- 
posure, and  said  in  a  few  words,  that  it  would  have 
afforded  him  inexpressible  pleasure  to  do  the  Kingston 
people  so  slight  a  service,  if  it  were  not  for  his  unfortu- 
nate propensity  to  fall  asleep,  which  no  man  regretted 
more  than  himself  upon  the  present  occasion,  but  which 
quite  settled  the  question.  Nevertheless,  he  said,  there 
was  a  gentleman  present  (and  here  he  looked  very  hard 
at  a  tall  farrier)  who,  having  been  engaged  all  his  life  in 
the  manufacture  of  horseshoes,  must  be  quite  invulnera- 
ble to  the  power  of  witches,  and  who,  he  had  no  doubt, 
from  his  own  reputation  for  bravery  and  good-nature, 
would  readily  accept  the  commission.  The  farrier  polite- 
ly thanked  him  for  his  good  opinion,  which  it  would 
always  be  his  study  to  deserve,  but  added  that,  with  re- 
gard to  the  present  little  matter,  he  couldn't  think  of  it 
on  any  account,  as  his  departing  on  such  an  errand 
would  certainly  occasion  the  instant  death  of  his  wife, 
to  whom,  as  they  all  knew,  he  was  tenderly  attached. 
Now  so  far  from  this  circumstance  being  notorious, 
everybody  had  suspected  the  reverse,  as  the  farrier  was 
in  the  habit  of  beating  his  lady  rather  more  than  tender 
husbands  usually  do  ;  all  the  married  men  present,  how- 
ever, applauded  his  resolution  with  great  vehemence, 
and  one  and  all  declared  that  they  would  stop  at  home 
and  die  if  needful  (which  happily  it  was  not)  in  defence 
of  their  lawful  partners. 

This  burst  of  enthusiasm  over,  they  began  to  look,  as 
by  one  consent,  toward  Will  Marks,  who,  with  his  cap 
more  on  one  side  than  ever,  sat  watching  tlie  proceedings 
with  extraordinary  unconcern.  He  had  never  been  heard 
openly  to  express  his  disbelief  in  witches,  but  had  often 
cut  such  jokes  at  their  expense  as  left  it  to  be  inferred  ; 
publicly  stating  on  several  occasions  that  he  considered 
a  broomstick  an  inconvenient  charger,  and  one  especially 
unsuited  to  the  dignity  of  the  female  character,  and  in- 
dulging in  other  free  remarks  of  the  same  tendency,  to 
the  great  amusement  of  his  wild  companions. 

As  they  looked  at  Will,  they  began  to  whisper  and 
murmur  among  themselves,  and  at  length  one  man 
cried,  "  Why  don't  you  ask  Will  Marks  ?  " 

As  this  was  what  everybody  had  been  thinking  of, 
they  all  took  up  the  word,  and  cried  in  concert,  "Ah  ! 
why  don't  you  ask  Will  ?  " 

"He  don't  care,"  said  the  farrier. 

"  Not  he,"  added  another  voice  in  the  crowd. 

"He  don't  believe  in  it,  you  know,"  sneered  a  little 
man  with  a  yellow  face  and  a  taunting  nose  and  chin, 
which  he  thrust  out  from  under  the  arm  of  a  long  man 
before  him. 

"Besides,"  said  a  red-faced  gentleman  with  a  gruff 
voice,  "he's  a  single  man." 

"That's  the  point!"  said  the  farrier;  and  all  the 
married  men  murmured,  ah  !  that  was  it,  and  they  only 
wished  they  were  single  themselves  ;  they  would  show 
him  what  spirit  was,  very  soon. 

The  messenger  looked  towards  Will  Marks  beseech- 
ingly. 

"It  will  be  a  wet  night,  friend,  and  my  gray  nag  is 
tired  after  yesterday's  work — " 
Here  there  was  a  general  titter. 

"But,"  resumed  Will,  looking  about  him  with  a  smile, 
"if  nobody  else  puts  in  a  better  claim  to  go,  for  the 
credit  of  the  town  I  am  your  man,  and  I  would  be  if  I 
had  to  go  afoot.  In  five  minutes  I  shall  be  in  the  sad- 
dle, unless  I  am  depriving  any  worthy  gentleman  here 
of  the  honour  of  the  adventure,  which  I  wouldn't  do  for 
the  world." 

But  here  arose  a  double  difficulty,  for  not  only  did 
John  Podgers  combat  the  resolution  with  all  the  words 
he  had,  which  were  not  many,  but  the  young  lady  com- 
bated it  too  with  all  the  tears  she  had,  which  were  very 
many  indeed.  Will,  however,  being  inflexible,  parried 
his  uncle's  objections  with  a  joke,  and  coaxed  the  young 
lady  into  a  smile  in  three  short  whispers.  As  it  was 
plain  that  he  would  go  and  set  his  mind  upon  it,  John 


Podgers  offered  him  a  few  first-rate  charms  out  of  his 
own  pocket  which  he  dutifully  declined  to  accept,  and 
the  young  lady  gave  him  a  kiss  which  he  also  returned. 

"  You  see  what  a  rare  thing  it  is  to  be  married,"  said 
Will,  "and  how  careful  and  considerate  all  these  hus- 
bands are.  There's  not  a  man  among  them  but  his  heart 
is  leaping  to  forestall  me  in  this  adventure,  and  yet  n 
strong  sense  of  duty  keeps  him  back.  The  husbands  in 
this  one  little  town  are  a  pattern  to  the  world,  and  so 
must  the  wives  be  too,  for  that  matter,  or  they  could 
never  boast  half  the  influence  they  have  !" 

Waiting  for  no  reply  to  this  sarcasm,  he  snapped  his 
fingers  and  withdrew  into  the  house,  and  thence  into  the 
stable,  while  some  busied  themselves  in  refreshing  the 
messenger,  and  others  in  baiting  his  steed.  In  less  than 
the  specified  time  he  returned  by  another  way,  with  a 
good  cloak  hanging  over  his  arm,  a  good  sword  girded 
by  his  side,  and  leading  his  good  horse  caparisoned  lor 
the  journey. 

"  Now,"  said  Will,  leaping  into  the  saddle  at  a  bound, 
"  up  and  aw^ay.  Upon  your  mettle,  friend,  and  push  on. 
Good  night  ! " 

He  kissed  his  hand  to  the  girl,  nodded  to  his  drowsy 
uncle,  waved  his- cap  to  the  rest, — and  off  they  flew  pell- 
mell,  as  if  all  the  witches  in  England  were  in  their 
horses'  legs.    They  were  out  of  sight  in  a  minute. 

The  men  who  were  left  behind  shook  their  heads 
doubtfully,  stroked  their  chins,  and  shook  their  heads 
again.  The  farrier  said  that  certainly  Will  Marks  was  a 
good  horseman,  nobody  should  ever  say  he  denied  that ; 
but  he  was  rash,  very  rash,  and  there  was  no  telling  what 
the  end  of  it  might  be  ;  what  did  he  go  for,  that  was 
what  he  wanted  to  know  ?  He  wished  the  young  fellow 
no  harm,  but  why  did  he  go?  Everybody  echoed  these 
words,  and  shook  their  heads  again,  having  done  which 
they  wished  John  Podgers  good  night,  and  straggled 
home  to  bed. 

The  Kingston  people  were  in  their  first  sleep,  when 
Will  Marks  and  his  conductor  rode  through  the  town  and 
up  to  the  door  of  a  house  where  sundry  grave  function- 
aries were  assembled,  anxiously  expecting  the  arrival  of 
the  renowned  Podgers.  They  were  a  little  disappointed 
to  find  a  gay  young  man  in  his  place,  but  they  put  the 
best  face  upon  the  matter,  and  gave  him  full  instructions 
how  he  was  to  conceal  himself  behind  the  gibbet,  and 
watch  and  listen  to  the  witches,  and  how  at  a  certain 
time  he  was  to  burst  forth  and  cut  and  slash  among  them 
vigorously,  so  that  the  suspected  parties  might  be  found 
bleeding  in  their  beds  next  day,  and  thoroughly  con- 
founded. They  gave  him  a  great  quantity  of  wholesome 
advice  besides,  and — which  was  more  to  the  purpose  with 
Will — a  good  supper.  All  these  things  being  done,  and 
midnight  nearly  come,  they  sallied  forth  to  show  him  the 
spot  where  he  was  to  keep  his  dreary  vigil. 

The  night  was  by  this  time  dark  and  threatening. 
There  was  a  rumbling  of  distant  thunder,  and  a  low 
sighing  of  wind  among  the  trees,  which  was  very  dismal. 
The  potentates  of  the  town  kept  so  uncommonly  close 
to  Will  that  they  trod  upon  his  toes,  or  stumbled  against 
his  ankles,  or  nearly  tripped  up  his  heels  at  every  step 
he  took,  and,  besides  these  annoyances,  their  teeth  chat- 
tered so  with  fear  that  he  seemed  to  be  accompanied  by 
a  dirge  of  castanets. 

At  last  they  made  a  halt  at  the  opening  of  a  lonely, 
desolate  space,  and,  pointing  to  a  black  object  at  some 
distance,  asked  Will  if  he  saw  that,  vender. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.    "  W^hat  then  ?  " 

Informing  him  abruptly  that  it  was  the  gibbet  where 
he  was  to  watch,  they  wished  him  good  night  in  an  ex- 
tremely friendly  manner,  and  ran  back  as  fast  as  their 
feet  would  carry  them. 

W^ill  walked  boldly  to  the  gibbet,  and,  glancing  up- 
ward when  he  came  under  it,  saw — certainly  with  sati--- 
faction — that  it  was  empty,  and  that  nothing  dangled 
from  the  top  but  some  iron  chains,  which  swung  mourn- 
fully to  and  fro  as  they  were  moved  by  the  breeze.  Af- 
ter a  careful  survey  of  every  quarter,  he  determined  to 
take  his  station  with  his  face  towards  the  to^vn  ;  both  be- 
cause that  would  place  him  with  his  back  to  the  wind, 
and  because  if  any  trick  or  surprise  were  attempted,  it 
would  probably  come  from  that  direction  in  the  first  in- 
stance.   Having  taken  these  precautions,  he  wrapped  bis 


1094 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


cloak  about  liim  so  that  it  left  the  handle  of  his  sword 
free,  and  ready  to  his  hand,  and  leaning  q,gainst  the  gal- 
lows-tree with  his  cap  not  quite  so  much  on  one  side  as  it 
had  been  before,  took  up  his  position  for  the  night. 

SECOND  CHAPTER  OF  MR.  PICKWICK'S  TALE, 

We  left  Will  Marks  leaning  under  the  gibbet  with  his 
face  towards  the  town,  scanning  the  distance  with  a  keen 
eye,  which  sought  to  pierce  the  darkness  and  catch  the 
earliest  glimpse  of  any  person  or  persons  that  might  ap- 
proach towards  him.  But  all  was  quiet,  and,  save  the 
howling  of  the  wind  as  it  swept  across  the  heath  in  gusts, 
and  the  creaking  of  the  chains  that  dangled  above  his 
head,  there  was  no  sound  to  break  the  sullen  stillness  of 
the  night.  After  half  an  hour  or  so,  this  monotony  be- 
came more  disconcerting  to  Will  than  the  most  furious 
uproar  would  have  been,  and  he  heartily  wished  for  some 
one  antagonist  with  whom  he  might  have  a  fair  stand-up 
fight,  if  it  were  only  to  warm  himself. 

Truth  to  tell,  it  was  a  bitter  wind,  and  seemed  to  blow 
to  the  very  heart  of  a  man  whose  blood,  heated  but  now 
with  rapid  riding,  was  the  more  sensitive  to  the  chilling 
blast.  Will  was  a  daring  fellow,  and  cared  not  a  jot  for 
hard  knocks  or  sharp  blades  ;  but  he  could  not  persuade 
himself  to  move  or  walk  about,  having  just  that  vague 
expectation  of  a  sudden  assault  which  made  it  a  comfort- 
able thing  to  have  something  at  his  back,  even  though 
that  something  were  a  gallows-tree.  He  had  no  great 
faith  in  the  superstitions  of  the  age,  still  such  of  them 
as  occurred  to  him  did  not  serve  to  lighten  the  time,  or 
to  render  his  situation  the  more  endurable.  He  remem- 
bered how  witches  were  said  to  repair  at  that  ghostly 
hour  to  churchyards  and  gibbets,  and  such  like  dismal 
spots,  to  pluck  the  bleeding  mandrake  or  scrape  the  flesh 
from  dead  men's  bones,  as  choice  ingredients  for  their 
spells  ;  how,  stealing  by  night  to  lonely  places,  they  dug 
graves  with  their  finger-nails,  or  anointed  themselves 
before  riding  in  the  air,  with  a  delicate  pomatum  made 
of  the  fat  of  infants  newly  boiled.  These,  and  many 
other  fabled  practices  of  a  no  less  agreeable  nature,  and 
all  having  some  reference  to  the  circumstances  In  which 
he  was  placed,  passed  and  repassed  in  quick  succession 
through  the  mind  of  Will  Marks,  and  adding  a  shadowy 
dread  to  that  distrust  and  watchfulness  which  his  situa- 
tion inspired,  rendered  it,  upon  the  whole,  sufficiently 
uncomfortable.  As  he  had  foreseen,  too,  the  rain  began 
to  descend  heavily,  and  driving  before  the  wind  In  a 
thick  mist,  obscured  even  those  few  objects  which  the 
darkness  of  the  night  had  before  imperfectly  revealed. 

''Look  !"  shrieked  a  voice  ;  ''Great  Heaven,  it  has 
fallen  down  and  stands  erect  as  if  it  lived  !  " 

The  speaker  was  close  behind  him  ;  the  voice  was 
almost  at  his  ear.  Will  threw  off  his  cloak,  drew  his 
sword,  and  darting  swiftly  round,  seized  a  woman  by  the 
wrist,  who  recoiling  from  him  with  a  dreadful  shriek, 
fell  struggling  upon  her  knees.  Another  woman  clad, 
like  her  whom  he  had  grasped.  In  mourning  garments, 
stood  rooted  to  the  spot  on  which  they  were,  gazing 
upon  his  face  with  wild  and  glaring  eyes  that  quite  ap- 
palled him. 

"Say,"  cried  Will,  when  they  had  confronted  each 
other  thus  for  some  time,  "  what  are  ye  ?" 

"Say  what  are  you"  returned  the  woman,  "who 
trouble  even  this  obscene  resting-place  of  the  dead,  and 
strip  the  gibbet  of  Its  honoured  burden?  Where  is  the 
body  ?  " 

He  looked  in  wonder  and  affright  from  the  woman 
who  questioned  him,  to  the  other  whose  arm  he  clutched. 

"  Where  is  the  body?"  repeated  his  questioner  more 
firmly  than  before.  "You  wear  no  livery  which  marks 
you  for  the  hireling  of  the  governmer^t.  You  are  no 
friend  to  us,  or  I  should  recognize  you,  for  the  friends 
of  such  as  we  are  few  in  number.  What  are  you  then, 
and  wherefore  are  you  here?" 

"I  am  no  foe  to  the  distressed  and  helpless,"  said 
Will.  "  Are  ye  among  that  number?  ye  should  be  by 
your  looks." 

"  We  are  !"  was  the  answer. 

"It  is  ye  who  have  been  wailing  and  weeping  here 
under  cover  of  the  night  ?"  said  Will. 

"  It  is,"  replied  the  woman  sternly  ;  and  pointing,  as 


she  spoke,  towards  her  companion,  "she  mourns  a  hus- 
band and  I  a  brother.  Even  the  bloody  law  that  wreaks 
its  vengeance  on  the  dead  does  not  make  that  a  crime, 
and  if  it  did  'twould  be  alike  to  us  who  are  past  its  fear 
or  favour." 

Will  glanced  at  the  two  females,  and  could  barely 
discern  that  the  one  whom  he  addressed  was  much  the 
elder,  and  that  the  other  was  young  and  of  a  slight  fig- 
ure. Both  were  deadly  pale,  their  garments  wet  and 
worn,  their  hair  dishevelled  and  streaming  in  the  wind, 
themselves  bowed  down  with  grief  and  misery  ;  their 
whole  appearance  most  dejected,  wretched,  and  forlorn. 
A  sight  so  different  from  any  he  had  expected  to  encoun- 
ter touched  him  to  the  quick,  and  all  idea  of  anything 
but  their  pitiable  condition  vanished  before  it. 

"  I  am  a  rough,  blunt  yeoman,"  said  Will.  "  Why  I 
came  here  is  told  in  a  word  :  you  have  been  overheard 
at  a  distance  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  I  have  un- 
dertaken a  watch  for  hags  or  spirits.  I  came  here  ex- 
pecting an  adventure,'  and  prepared  to  go  through  with 
any.  If  there  be  aught  that  I  can  do  to  help  or  aid  you, 
name  it,  and  on  the  faith  of  a  man  who  can  be  secret  and 
trusty,  I  will  stand  by  you  to  the  death." 

"How  comes  this  gibbet  to  be- empty?"  asked  the 
elder  female. 

"  I  swear  to  you,"  replied  Will,  "  that  I  know  as  little 
as  yourself.  But  this  I  know,  that  when  I  came  here  an 
hour  ago  or  so,  it  was  as  it  is  now  ;  and  if,  as  I  gather 
from  your  question.  It  was  not  so  last  night,  sure  I  am 
that  it  has  been  secretly  disturbed  without  the  knowledge 
of  the  folks  in  yonder  town.  Bethink  you,  therefore, 
whether  you  have  no  friends  in  league  with  you  or  with 
him  on  whom  the  law  has  done  Its  worst,  by  whom  these 
sad  remains  have  been  removed  for  burial." 

The  women  spoke  together,  and  Will  retired  a  pace  or 
two  while  they  conversed  apart.  He  could  hear  them 
sob  and  moan,  and  saw  that  they  wrung  their  hands  in 
fruitless  agony.  He  could  make  out  little  that  they  said, 
but  between  whiles  he  gathered  enough  to  assure  him 
that  his  suggestion  was  not  very  wide  of  the  mark,  and 
that  they  not  only  suspected  by  whom  the  body  had  been 
removed,  but  also  whither  it  had  been  conveyed.  When 
they  had  been  In  conversation  a  long  time,  they  turned 
towards  him  once  more.  This  time  the  younger  female 
spoke. 

"  You  have  offered  us  your  help  ?  " 
"  I  have." 

"  And  given  a  pledge  that  you  are  still  willing  to  re- 
deem ?  " 

"Yes.    So  far  as  I  may,  keeping  all  plots  and  con- 
spiracies at  arm's  length." 
"  Follow  us,  friend." 

Will,  whose  self-possession  was  now  quite  restored, 
needed  no  second  bidding,  but  with  his  drawn  sword  in 
his  hand,  and  his  cloak  so  muffled  over  his  left  arm  as 
to  serve  for  a  kind  of  shield  without  offering  any  im- 
pediment to  Its  free  action,  suffered  them  to  lead  the 
way.  Through  mud  and  mire,  and  wind  and  rain,  they 
walked  in  silence  a  full  mile.  At  length  they  turned 
into  a  dark  lane,  where,  suddenly  starting  out  from  be- 
neath some  trees  where  he  had  taken  shelter,  a  man  ap- 
peared having  in  his  charge  three  saddled  horses.  One 
of  these  (his  own  apparently),  In  obedience  to  a  whisper 
from  the  women,  he  consigned  to  Will,  who  seeing  that 
they  mounted,  mounted  also.  Then,  without  a  word 
spoken,  they  rode  on  together,  leaving  the  attendant  be- 
hind. 

They  made  no  halt  nor  slackened  their  pace  until  they 
arrived  near  Putney.  At  a  large  wooden  house  which 
stood  apart  from  any  other  they  alighted,  and  giving 
their  horses  to  one  who  was  already  waiting,  passed  in  by 
a  side  door,  and  so  up  some  narrow  creaking  stairs  into  a 
small  panelled  chamber,  where  Will  was  left  alone.  He 
had  not  been  here  very  long,  when  the  door  was  softly 
opened,  and  there  entered  to  him  a  cavalier  whose  face 
was  concealed  beneath  a  black  mask. 

Will  stood  upon  his  guard,  and  scrutinized  this  figure 
from  head  to  foot.  The  form  was  that  of  a  man  pretty 
far  advanced  in  life,  but  of  a  firm  and  stately  carriage. 
His  dress  was  of  a  rich  and  costly  kind,  but  so  soiled 
and  disordered  that  it  was  scarcely  to  be  recognized  for 
one  of  those  gorgeous  suits  which  the  expensive  taste 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 


1005 


and  fashion  of  the  time  prescribed  for  men  of  any  rank 
or  station.  He  was  booted  and  spurred,  and  bore  about 
him  even  as  many  tokens  of  the  state  of  the  roads  as 
Will  himself.  All  this  he  noted,  while  the  eyes  behind 
the  mask  regarded  him  with  equal  attention.  This  sur- 
vey over,  the  cavalier  broke  silence. 

"  Thou'rt  young  and  bold,  and  wouldst  be  richer  than 
thou  art?  " 

"The  two  first  I  am,"  returned  Will.  "The  last  I 
have  scarcely  thought  of.  But  be  it  so.  Say  that  I 
would  be  richer  than  I  am  ;  what  then?  " 

"  The  way  lies  before  thee  now,"  replied  the  Mask. 

"  Show  it  me." 

"First  let  me  inform  thee,  that  thou  wert  brought 
here  to-night  lest  thou  shouldst  too  soon  have  told  thy 
tale  to  those  who  placed  thee  on  the  watch." 

"I  thought  as  much  when  1  followed,"  said  Will. 
"  But  I  am  no  blab,  not  I." 

"  Good,"  returned  the  Mask.  "Now listen.  He  who 
was  to  have  executed  the  enterprise  of  burying  that 
body,  which,  as  thou  hast  suspected,  was  taken  down  to- 
night, has  left  us  in  our  need." 

Will  nodded,  and  thought  within  himself  that  if  the 
Mask  were  to  attempt  to  play  any  tricks,  the  first  eyelei- 
hole  on  the  left-hand  side  of  his  doublet,  counting  from 
the  buttons  up  the  front,  would  be  a  very  good  place  in 
which  to  pink  him  neatly. 

"Thou  art  here,  and  the  emergency  is  desperate,  I 
propose  his  task  to  thee.  Convey  the  body  (now  confined 
in  this  house)  by  means  that  I  shall  show,  to  the  church 
of  Saint  Dunstan  in  London  to-morrow  night,  and  thy  ser- 
vice shall  be  richly  paid.  Thou'rt  about  to  ask  whose 
corpse  it  is.  Seek  not  to  know.  I  warn  thee,  seek  not 
to  know.  Felons  hang  in  chains  on  every  moor  and 
heath.  Believe  as  others  do,  that  this  was  one,  and  ask 
no  further.  The  murders  of  state  policy,  its  victims  or 
avengers,  had  best  remain  unknown  to  such  as  thee." 

"  The  mystery  of  this  service,"  said  Will,  "bespeaks 
its  danger.    What  is  the  reward  ?  " 

"One  hundred  golden  unities,"  replied  the  cavalier. 
"The  danger  to  one  who  cannot  be  recognized  as  the 
friend  of  a  fallen  cause  is  not  great,  but  there  is  some 
hazard  to  be  run.     Decide  between  that  and  the  re-  , 
ward." 

"  What  if  I  refuse  ?  "  said  Will.  | 

"Depart  in  peace,  in  God's  name,"  returned  the  Mask  i 
in  a  melancholy  tone,  "  and  keep  our  secret,  remember-  I 
ing  that  those  who  brought  thee  here  were  crushed  and  j 
stricken  women,  and  that  those  who  bade  thee  go  free 
could  have  had  thy  life  with  one  word,  and  no  man  the  | 
wiser."  i 

Men  were  readier  to  undertake  desperate  adventures 
in  those  times,  than  they  are  now.  In  this  case  the 
temptation  was  great,  and  the  punishment,  even  in  case 
of  detection,  was  not  likely  to  be  very  severe,  as  Will 
came  of  a  loyal  stock,  and  his  uncle  was  in  good  repute, 
and  a  passable  tale  to  account  for  his  possession  of  the 
body  and  his  ignorance  of  the  identity  might  be  easily 
devised.  The  cavalier  explained  that  a  covered  cart 
had  been  prepared  for  the  purpose  ;  that  the  time  of  de- 
parture could  be  arranged  so  that  he  should  reach  Lon- 
don Bridge  at  dusk,  and  proceed  through  the  City  after 
the  day  had  closed  in  ,  iliac  people  would  be  ready  at  his 
journey's  end  to  place  the  coffin  in  a  vault  without  a 
minute's  delay  ;  that  officious  inquirers  in  the  streets 
would  be  easily  repelled  by  the  tale  that  he  w^as  carry- 
ing for  interment  the  corpse  of  one  who  had  died  of  the 
plague  ;  and  in  short  showed  hira  every  reason  why  he 
should  succeed,  and  none  why  he  should  fail.  After  a 
time  they  were  joined  by  another  gentleman,  masked 
like  the  first,  who  added  new  arguments  to  those  which 
had  been  already  urged  ;  the  wretched  wife,  too,  added 
her  tears  and  prayers  to  their  calmer  representations  ; 
and  in  the  end,  Will,  moved  by  compassion  and  good- 
nature, by  a  love  of  the  marvellous,  by  a  mischievous 
anticipation  of  the  terrors  of  the  Kingston  people  when 
he  should  be  missing  next  day,  and  finally,  by  the  pros- 
pect of  gain,  took  upon  himself  the  task,  and  devoted 
all  his  energies  to  its  successful  execution. 

The  following  night,  when  it  was  quite  dark,  the  hollow  ! 
echoes  of  old  London  Bridge  responded  to  the  rumbling 
jf  the  cart  which  contained  the  ghastly  load,  the  object] 


of  Will  Marks's  care.  Sufficiently  disguised  to  attract 
no  attention  by  his  garb.  Will  walked  at  the  horse's 
head,  as  unconcerned  as  a  man  could  be  who  was  sensi- 
ble that  he  had  now  arrived  at  the  most  dangerous  part 
of  his  undertaking,  but  full  of  boldness  and  confidence. 

It  was  now  eight  o'clock.  After  nine,  none  could 
walk  the  streets  without  danger  of  their  lives,  and  even 
at  this  hour,  robberies  and  murder  were  of  no  uncom- 
mon occurrence.  The  shops  upon  the  bridge  were  all 
closed  ;  the  low  wooden  arches  thrown  across  the  way 
were  like  so  many  black  pits,  in  every  one  of  which  ill- 
favoured  fellows  lurked  in  knots  of  three  or  four  ;  some 
standing  upright  against  the  wall,  lying  in  wait  ;  others 
skulking  in  gateways,  and  thrusting  out  their  uncombed 
heads  and  scowling  eyes  ;  others  crossing  and  recrossing, 
and  constantly  jostling  both  horse  and  man  to  x>rovoke  a 
quarrel  ;  others  stealing  away  and  summoning  their 
companions  in  a  low  whistle.  Once,  even  in  that  short 
passage,  there  was  the  noise  of  scuffling  and  the  clash  of 
swords  behind  him,  but  Will,  who  knew  the  city  and 
its  ways,  kept  straight  on  and  scarcely  turned  his  head. 

The  streets  being  unpaved,  the  rain  of  the  night  be- 
fore had  converted  them  into  a  perfect  quagmire,  which 
the  splashing  water-spouts  from  the  gables,  and  the  filth 
and  offal  cast  from  the  different  houses,  swelled  in  no 
small  degree.  These  odious  matters  being  left  to  putrefy 
in  the  close  and  heavy  air,  emitted  an  insupportable 
stench,  to  which  every  court  and  passage  poured  forth  a 
contribution  of  its  own.  Many  parts,  even  of  the  main 
streets,  with  their  projecting  stories  tottering  overhead 
and  nearly  shutting  out  the  sky,  were  more  like  huge 
chimneys  than  open  ways.  At  the  comers  of  some  of 
these,  great  bonfires  were  burning  to  prevent  infection 
from  the  plague,  of  which  it  was  rumoured  that  some 
citizens  had  lately  died  ;  and  few,  w^ho  availing  them- 
selves of  the  light  thus  afforded  paused  for  a  moment 
to  look  around  them,  would  have  been  disposed  to 
doubt  the  existence  of  the  disease,  or  wonder  at  its 
dreadful  visitations. 

But  it  was  not  in  such  scenes  as  these,  or  even  in  the 
deep  and  miry  road,  that  Will  Marks  found  the  chief 
obstacles  to  his  progress.  There  were  kites  and  ravens 
feeding  in  the  streets  (the  only  scavengers  the  City 
kept),  who,  scenting  what  he  carried,  followed  the  cart 
or  fluttered  on  its  top,  and  croaked  their  knowledge  of 
its  burden  and  their  ravenous  appetite  for  prey.  There 
were  distant  fires,  where  the  poor  wood  and  plaster  tene- 
ments wasted  fiercely,  and  whither  crowds  made  their 
way,  clamouring  eagerly  for  plunder,  beating  down  all 
who  came  within  their  reach,  and  yelling  like  devils  let 
loose.  There  were  single-handed  men  flying  from  bands 
of  ruffians,  who  pursued  them  with  naked  weapons,  and 
hunted  them  savagely  ;  there  were  drunken,  desperate 
robbers  issuing  from  their  dens  and  staggering  through 
the  open  streets  where  no  man  dared  molest  them  ;  there 
were  vagabond  servitors  returning  from  the  Bear  Gar- 
den, where  had  been  good  sport  that  day,  dragging  after 
them  their  torn  and  bleeding  dogs,  or  leaving  them  to 
die  and  rot  upon  the  road.  Nothing  was  abroad  but 
cruelty,  violence,  and  disorder. 

Many  were  the  interruptions  which  Will  Marks  en- 
countered from  these  stragglers,  and  many  the  narrow 
escapes  he  made.  Now  some  stout  bully  would  take  his 
seat  upon  the  cart,  insisting  to  be  driven  to  his  own 
home,  and  now  two  or  three  men  would  come  down  upon 
him  together  and  demand  that  on  peril  of  his  life  he 
showed  them  what  he  had  inside.  Then  a  party  of  the 
City  Watch,  upon  their  rounds,  would  draw  across  the 
road,  and  not  satisfied  with  his  tale,  question  him  closely 
and  revenge  themselves  by  a  little  cuffing  and  hustling 
for  maltreatment  sustained  at  other  hands  that  night. 
All  these  assailants  had  to  be  rebutted,  some  by  fair 
words,  some  by  foul,  and  some  by  blows.  But  Will 
Marks  was  not  the  man  to  be  stopped  or  turned  back 
now  he  had  penetrated  so  far,  and  though  he  got  on 
slowly,  still  he  made  his  way  down  Fleet  Street  and 
reached  the  church  at  last. 

As  he  had  been  forewarned,  all  was  in  readiness. 
Directly  he  stopped,  the  coffin  was  removed  by  four 
men,  who  appeared  so  suddenly  that  they  seemed  to 
have  started  from  the  earth.  A  fifth  mounted  the  cart, 
and  scarcely  allowing  Will  time  to  snatch  from  it  a  lit- 


1096 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


tie  bundle  containing  such  of  Ms  OAvn  clothes  as  he  had 
thrown  off  on  assuming  his  disguise,  drove  briskly 
away.    Will  never  saw  cart  or  man  again. 

He  followed  the  body  into  the  church,  and  it  was  well 
he  lost  no  time  in  doing  so,  for  the  door  was  immediately 
closed.  There  was  no  light  in  the  building  save  that 
which  came  from  a  couple  of  torches  borne  by  two  men 
in  cloaks,  who  stood  upon  the  brink  of  a  vault.  Each 
supported  a  female  figure,  and  all  observed  a  profound 
silence. 

By  this  dim  and  solemn  glare,  which  made  Will  feel 
as  though  light  itself  were  dead,  and  its  tomb  the  dreary 
arches  that  frowned  above,  they  placed  the  coffin  in  the 
vault,  with  uncovered  heads,  and  closed  it  up.  One  of 
the  torch -bearers  then  turned  to  Will  and  stretched  forth 
his  hand,  in  which  was  a  purse  of  gold.  Something  told 
him  directly  that  those  were  the  same  eyes  which  he  had 
seen  beneath  the  mask. 

"Take  it,"  said  the  cavalier  in  a  low  voice,  "and  be 
happy.  Though  these  have  been  hasty  obsequies,  and 
no  priest  has  blessed  the  work,  there  will  not  be  the  less 
peace  with  thee  hereafter,  for  having  laid  his  bones 
beside  those  of  his  little  children.  Keep  thy  own  coun- 
sel, for  thy  sake  no  less  than  ours,  and  God  be  with  thee  ! " 

"  The  blessing  of  a  widowed  mother  on  thy  head,  good 
friend  !  "  cried  the  younger  lady  through  her  tears  : 
"  the  blessing  of  one  who  has  now  no  hope  or  rest  but  in 
this  grave  ! " 

Will  stood  with  the  purse  in  his  hand,  and  involun- 
tarily made  a  gesture  as  though  he  would  return  it,  for 
though  a  thoughtless  fellow,  he  was  of  a  frank  and 
generous  nature.  But  the  two  gentlemen,  extinguishing 
their  torches,  cautioned  them  to  be  gone,  as  their  com- 
mon safety  would  be  endangered  by  a  longer  delay  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  their  retreating  footsteps  sounded 
through  the  church.  He  turned,  therefore,  towards  the 
point  at  which  he  had  entered,  and  seeing  by  a  faint 
gleam  in  the  distance  that  the  door  was  again  partially 
open,  groped  his  way  towards  it  and  so  passed  into  the 
street. 

Meantime  the  local  authorities  of  Kingston  had  kept 
watch  and  ward  all  the  previous  night,  fancying  every 
now  and  then  that  dismal  shrieks  were  borne  towards 
them  on  the  wind,  and  frequently  winking  to  each  other, 
and  drawing  closer  to  the  fire  as  they  drank  the  health 
of  the  lonely  sentinel,  upon  whom  a  clerical  gentleman 
present  was  especially  severe  by  reason  of  his  levity  and 
yoiithful  folly.  Two  or  three  of  the  gravest  in  company, 
who  were  of  a  theological  turn,  propounded  to  him  the 
question,  whether  such  a  character  was  not  but  poorly 
armed  for  single  combat  with  the  Devil,  and  whether  he 
himself  would  not  have  been  a  stronger  opponent ;  but  the 
clerical  gentleman,  sharply  reproving  them  for  their  pre- 
sumption in  discussing  such  questions,  clearly  showed 
that  a  fitter  champion  than  Will  could  scarcely  have 
been  selected,  not  only  for  that  being  a  child  of  Satan, 
he  was  the  less  likely  to  be  alarmed  by  the  appearance 
of  his  own  father,  but  because  Satan  himself  would  be 
at  his  ease  in  such  company,  and  would  not  scruple  to 
kick  up  his  heels  to  an  extent  which  it  was  quite  certain 
he  would  never  venture  before  clerical  eyes,  under  whose 
influence  (as  was  notorious)  he  became  quite  a  tame  and 
milk-and-water  character. 

But  when  next  morning  arrived,  and  with  it  no  Will 
Marks,  and  when  a  strong  party  repairing  to  the  spot, 
as  a  strong  party  ventured  to  do  in  broad  day,  found 
Will  gone  and  the  gibbet  empty,  matters  grew  serious 
indeed.  The  day  passing  away  and  no  news  arriving, 
and  the  night  going  on  also  without  any  intelligence,  the 
tiling  grew  more  tremendous  still  ;  in  short,  the  neigh- 
bourhood worked  itself  up  to  such  a  comfortable  pitch 
of  mystery  and  horror,  that  it  is  a  great  question 
whether  the  general  feeling  was  not  one  of  excessive 
disappointment,  when,  on  the  second  morning.  Will 
Marks  returned. 

However  this  may  be,  back  Will  came  in  a  very  cool 
and  collected  state,  and  appearing  not  to  trouble  himself 
much  about  anybody  except  old  John  Podgers,  who 
having  been  sent  for  was  sitting  in  the  Town  Hall  crying 
slowly,  and  do/ing  between  whiles.  Having  embraced 
hid  uncle  and  assured  him  of  his  safety.  Will  mounted 
on  a  table  and  told  his  story  to  the  crowd. 


And  surely  they  would  have  been  the  most  unreason- 
able crowd  that  ever  assembled  together,  if  they  had 
been  in  the  least  respect  disappointed  with  the  tale  he 
told  them  ;  for  besides  describing  the  Witches'  Dance  to 
the  minutest  motion  of  "their  legs,  and  performing  it  in 
character  on  the  table,  with  the  assistance  of  a  broom- 
stick, he  related  how  they  had  carried  off  the  body  in  a 
copper  caldron,  and  so  bewitched  him,  that  he  lost  his 
senses  until  he  found  himself  lying  under  a  hedge  at 
least  ten  miles  off,  whence  he  had  straightway  returned 
as  they  then  beheld.  The  story  gained  such  universal 
applause  that  it  soon  afterwards  brought  down  express 
from  London  the  great  witch-finder  of  the  age,  the 
Heaven-born  Hopkins,  who  having  examined  Will  closely 
on  several  points,  pronounced  it  the  most  extraordinary 
and  the  best  accredited  witch  story  ever  known,  under 
which  title  it  was  published  at  the  Three  Bibles  on 
London  Bridge,  in  small  quarto,  with  a  view  of  the 
caldron  from  an  original  drawing,  and  a  portrait  of  the 
clerical  gentleman  as  he  sat  by  the  fire. 

On  one  point  Will  was  particularly  careful  :  and  that 
was  to  describe  for  the  witches  he  had  seen,  three  im- 
possible old  females,  whose  likenesses  never  were  or  will 
be.  Thus  he  saved  the  lives  of  the  suspected  parties, 
and  of  all  other  old  women  who  were  dragged  before 
him  to  be  identified. 

This  circumstance  occasioned  John  Podgers  much 
grief  and  sorrow,  until  happening  one  day  to  cast  his 
eyes  upon  his  housekeeper,  and  observing  her  to  be 
plainly  afflicted  with  rheumatism,  he  procured  her  to  be 
burnt  as  an  undoubted  witch.  For  this  service  to  the 
state  he  was  immediately  knighted,  and  became  from 
that  time  Sir  John  Podgers. 

Will  Marks  never  gained  any  clew  to  the  mystery  in 
which  he  had  been  an  actor,  nor  did  any  inscription  in 
the  church,  which  he  often  visited  afterwards,  nor  any 
of  the  limited  inquiries  that  he  dared  to  make,  yield 
him  the  least  assistance.  As  he  kept  his  own  secret,  he 
was  compelled  to  spend  the  gold  discreetly  and  spar- 
ingly. In  the  course  of  time  he  married  the  young  lady 
of  whom  I  have  already  told  you,  whose  maiden  name  is 
not  recorded,  with  whom  he  led  a  prosperous  and  happy 
life.  Years  and  years  after  this  adventure,  it  was  his 
wont  to  tell  her  upon  a  stormy  night  that  it  was  a  great 
comfort  to  him,  to  think  those  bones,  to  whomsoever 
they  might  have  once  belonged,  were  not  bleaching  in 
the  troubled  air,  but  were  mouldering  away  with  the 
dust  of  their  own  kith  and  kindred  in  a  quiet  grave. 

FURTHEB  PARTICULARS  OF  MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  VISITOR. 

Being  very  full  of  Mr.  Pickwick's  application,  and 
highly  pleased  with  the  compliment  he  had  paid  me,  it 
will  be  readily  supposed  that  long  before  our  next  night 
of  meeting  I  communicated  it  to  my  three  friends,  who 
unanimously  voted  his  admission  into  our  body.  We  all 
looked  forward  with  some  impatience  to  the  occasion 
which  would  enroll  him  among  us,  but  I  am  greatly 
mistaken  if  Jack  Redburn  and  myself  were  not  by  many 
degrees  the  most  impatient  of  the  party. 

At  length  the  night  came,  and  a  few  minutes  after  ten 
Mr.  Pickwick's  knock  was  heard  at  the  street  door.  He 
was  shown  into  a  lower  room,  and  I  directly  took  my 
crooked  stick  and  went  to  accompany  him  up-stairs,  in 
order  that  he  might  be  presented  with  all  honour  and 
formality. 

"  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  I,  on  entering  the  room,  "  1  am 
rejoiced  to  see  you, — rejoiced  to  believe  that  this  is  but 
the  opening  of  a  long  series  of  visits  to  this  house,  and 
but  the  beginning  of  a  close  and  lasting  friendship." 

That  gentleman  made  a  suitable  reply  with  a  cordiality 
and  frankness  peculiarly  his  own,  and  glanced  with  a 
smile  towards  two  persons  behind  the  doot,  whom  I  had 
not  at  first  observed,  and  whom  I  immediately  recognized 
as  Mr.  Samuel  Weller  and  his  father. 

It  was  a  warm  evening,  but  the  elder  Mr.  Weller  was 
attired,  notwithstanding,  in  a  most  capacious  great-coat, 
and  his  chin  enveloped  in  a  large  speckled  shawl,  such 
as  is  usually  worn  by  stage  coachmen  on  active  service, 
lie  looked  very  rosy  and  very  stout,  especially  about  the 
legs,  which  appeared  to  have  been  compressed  into  his 
top-boots  with  some  difficulty.    His  broad-brimmed  hat 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK, 


1097 


he  held  under  his  left  arm,  and  with  the  forefinger  of  his 
right  hand  he  touched  his  forehead  a  great  many  times 
in  acknowledgment  of  my  presence. 

"I  an  very  glad  to  see  you  in  such  good  health,  Mr. 
Weller,"  said  I. 

"Why,  thankee  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Weller,  "  tlie  axle 
an't  broke  yet.  We  keeps  up  a  steady  pace, — not  too 
sewere  but  vith  a  moderate  degree  o'  friction, — and  the 
consekens  is  that  ve're  still  a  runnin'  and  comes  in  to  the 
time  reg'lar. — My  son  Samivel,  sir,  as  you  may  have  read 
on  in  history,"  added  Mr.  Weller,  introducing  his  first- 
born. 

I  received  Sam  very  graciously,  but  before  he  could 
say  a  word  his  father  struck  in  again. 

"Samivel  Veller,  sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "has 
conferred  upon  me  the  ancient  title  o'  grandfather  vich 
had  long  laid  dormouse,  and  wos  s'posed  to  be  nearly 
hex-tinct  in  our  family.  Sammy,  relate  a  anecdote  o' 
vun  o'  them  boys, — that  'ere  little  anecdote  about  young 
Tony  sayin'  as  he  vould  smoke  a  pipe  unbeknown  to  his 
mother." 

"  Be  quiet,  can't  you  ?  "  said  Sam  ;  "  I  never  see  such 
a  old  magpie — never  ! " 

"  That  'ere  Tony  is  the  blessedest  boy,"  said  Mr.  Wel- 
ler, heedless  of  this  rebuff,  "the  blessedest  boy  as  ever 
/  see  in  my  days  !  of  all  the  charmin'est  infants  as  ever 
I  heerd  tell  on,  includin'  them  as  wos  kivered  over  by 
the  robin-redbreasts  arter  they'd  committed  sooicide  with 
blackberries,  there  never  wos  any  like  that  'ere  little 
Tony.  He's  alvays  a  pi  ay  in'  vith  a  quart  pot,  that  boy 
is  !  To  see  him  a  settin'  down  on  the  doorstep  pretend- 
ing to  drink  out  of  it,  and  fetching  a  long  breath  arter- 
vards,  and  smoking  a  bit  of  fire-vood  and  sayin',  'Now 
I'm  grandfather,' — to  see  him  a  doin'  that  at  two  year 
old  is  better  than  any  play  as  wos  ever  wrote.  'Now 
I'm  grandfather  ! '  He  wouldn't  take  a  pint  pot  if  you 
wos  to  make  him  a  present  on  it,  but  he  gets  his  quart 
and  then  he  says,  '  Now  I'm  grandfather  ! '  '* 

Mr.  Weller  was  so  overpowered  by  this  picture  that  he 
straightway  fell  into  a  most  alarming  f  t  of  coughing, 
which  must  certainly  have  been  attended  with  some  fatal 
result  but  for  the  dexterity  and  promptitude  of  Sam, 
who,  taking  a  firm  grasp  of  the  shawl  just  under  his  fa- 
ther's chin,  shook  him  to  and  fro  with  great  violence, 
at  the  same  time  administering  some  smart  blows  be- 
tween his  shoulders.  By  this  curious  mode  of  treatment 
Mr.  Weller  was  finally  recovered,  but  with  a  very  crim- 
son face  and  in  a  state  of  great  exhaustion. 

"He'll  do  now,  Sam,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  who  had 
been  in  some  alarm  himself. 

"  He'Jl  do,  sir  ! "  cried  Sam,  looking  reproachfully  at 
his  parent.  "Yes,  he  will  do  one  o'  these  days, — he'll 
do  for  hisself  and  then  he'll  wish  he  hadn't.  Did  any- 
body ever  see  sich  a  inconsiderate  old  file, — laughing 
into  conwulsions  afore  company,  and  stamping  on  the 
floor  as  if  he'd  brought  his  own  carpet  vith  him  and  wos 
under  a  wager  to  punch  the  pattern  out  in  a  given  time  ? 
He'll  begin  again  in  a  minute.  "  There — he's  agoin'  off — 
I  said  he  would  !  " 

In  fact,  Mr.  Weller,  whose  mind  was  still  running 
upon  his  precocious  grandson,  was  seen  to  shake  his 
head  from  side  to  side,  while  a  laugh,  working  like  an 
earthquake,  below  the  surface,  produced  various  extra- 
ordinary appearances  in  his  face,  chest,  and  shoulders, — 
the  more  alarming  because  unaccompanied  by  any  noise 
whatever.  These  emotions,  however,  gradually  subsid- 
ed, and  after  three  or  four  short  relapses  he  wiped  his 
eyes  with  the  cuff  of  his  coat,  and  looked  about  him 
with  tolerable  composure. 

"  Afore  the  governor  vith-draws,"  said  Mr.  Weller, 
"  there  is  a  pint,  respecting  vitch  Sammy  has  a  qvestion 
to  avSk.  Vile  that  qvestion  is  a  perwadin  this  here 
conwersation,  p'raps  the  genl'men  vill  permit  me  to 
re- tire."  ** 

"  Wot  are  you  goin'  away  for?"  demanded  Sam,  seiz- 
ing his  father  by  the  coat-tail. 

"  I  never  see  such  a  undootiful  boy  as  you,  Samivel," 
returned  Mr.  Weller.  "Didn't  you  make  a  solemn 
promise,  amountin'  almost  to  a  speeches  o'  wow,  that 
you'd  put  that  ere  qvestion  on  my  account  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  agreeable  to  do  it,"  said  Sam,  "  but  not  if 
you  go  cuttin'  away  like  that,  as  the  bull  turned  round 


and  mildly  observed  to  tlie  drover  ven  they  wos  a  goad- 
in'  him  into  the  butcher's  door.    The  fact  is,  sir,"  said 
Sam,  addressing  me,  "  tliat  he  wants  to  know  somethin' 
respectin'  that  'ere  lady  as  is  housekeeper  here." 
"Ay.    What  is  that?" 

"  Vy,  sir,"  said  Sam,  grinning  still  more,  "he  wishes 
to  know  vether  she — " 

"  In  short,"  interposed  old  Mr.  Weller,  decisively,  a 
perspiration  breaking  out  upon  his  forehead,  "  vether 
that  old  'ere  old  creetur  is  or  is  not  a  widder." 

Mr.  Pickwick  laughed  heartily,  and  so  did  I,  as  I 
replied,  decisively,  that  "my  housekeeper  was  a  spin- 
ster." 

"  There  !"  cried  Sam,  "now  you're  satisfied.  You 
hear  she's  a  spinster." 

"  A  wot  ?  "  said  his  father,  with  deep  scorn. 
"  A  spinster,"  replied  Sam. 

Mr.  Weller  looked  very  hard  at  his  son  for  a  minute 
or  two,  and  then  said, — 

"  Never  mind  vether  she  makes  jokes  or  not,  that's  no 
matter.  Wot  I  say  is,  is  that  'ere  female  a  widder,  or 
is  she  not  ?  " 

"  Wot  do  you  mean  by  her  making  jokes  ?  "  demanded 
Sam',  quite  aghast  at  the  obscurity  of  his  parent's 
speech. 

"Never  you  mind,  Samivel,"  returned  Mr.  Weller, 
gravely  ;  "  puns  may  be  wery  good  things  or  they  may 
be  wery  bad  'uns,  and  a  female  may  be  none  the  better 
or  she  may  be  none  the  vurse  for  making  of  'em  ;  that's 
got  nothing  to  do  vith  widders." 

"  Wy,  now,"  said  Sam,  looking  round,  "  would  any- 
body believe  as  a  man  at  his  tim.e  o'  life  could  be  a  run- 
ning his  head  agin  spinsters  and  punsters  being  the 
same  thing  ?  " 

"  There  an't  a  straw's  difference  between  'em,"  said 
Mr.  Weller.  "  Your  father  didn't  drive  a  coach  for  so 
many  years,  not  to  be  ekal  to  his  own  langvidge  as  far 
as  t?iat  goes,  Sammy." 

Avoiding  the  question  of  etymology,  upon  which  the 
old  gentleman's  mind  was  quite  made  up,  he  was  sev- 
eral times  assured  that  the  housekeeper  had  never  been 
married.  He  expressed  great  satisfaction  on  hearing 
this,  and  apologized  for  the  question,  remarking  that  he 
had  been  greatly  terrified  by  a  widow  not  long  before, 
and  that  his  natural  timidity  was  increased  in  conse- 
quence. 

"  It  wos  on  the  rail,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  with  strong 
emphasis  ;  "I  wos  a  goin'  down  to  Birmingham  by  the 
rail,  and  I  wos  locked  up  in  a  close  carriage  vith  a  living 
widder.  Alone  we  wos  ;  the  widder  and  me  wos  alone  ; 
and  I  believe  it  wos  only  because  we  uos  alone  and  there 
wos  no  clergyman  in  the  conwayance,  that  that  'ere 
widder  didn't  marry  me  afore  ve  reached  the  half-way 
station.  Ven  T  think  how  she  began  a  screaming  as  we 
wos  a  goin'  under  them  tunnels  in  the  dark, — how  she 
kept  on  a  faintin'  and  ketchin'  hold  o'  me, — and  how  I 
tried  to  bust  open  the  door  as  was  tight-locked  and  per- 
wented  all  escape— Ah  !  It  was  a  awful  thing,  most 
awful  !  " 

Mr.  Weller  was  so  very  much  overcome  by  this  retro- 
spect that  he  was  unable,  until  he  had  wiped  his  brow 
several  times,  to  return  any  reply  to  the  question  whether 
he  approved  of  railway  communication,  notwithstanding 
that  it  would  appear  from  the  answer  which  he  ulti- 
mately gave,  that  he  entertained  strong  opinions  on  the 
subject. 

"  I  con-sider,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  "that  the  rail  is  un- 
constitootional  and  an  inwaser  o'  priwileges,  and  I  should 
wery  much  like  to  know  what  that  'ere  old  Carter  as 
once  stood  up  for  our  liberties  and  wun  'em  too, — I  should 
like  to  know  wot  he  vould  say  if  he  wos  alive  now,  to 
Englishmen  being  locked  up  with  widders,  or  with  any- 
body again  their  wills.  Wot  a  old  Carter  would  have 
said,  a  old  Coachman  may  say,  and  I  as-sert  that  in  that 
pint  o'  view  alone,  the  rail  is  an  inwaser.  As  to  the  com- 
fort, vere's  the  comfort  o'  sittin'  in  a  harm-cheer  lookin' 
at  brick  walls  or  heaps  o'  mud,  never  comin'  to  a  public- 
house,  never  seein'  a  glass  o'  ale,  never  goin'  through  a 
pike,  never  meetiu'  a  change  o'  no  kind  (horses  or  other- 
vise),  but  alvays  comin'  to  a  place,  ven  you  come  to  one 
at  all,  the  wery  picter  o'  the  last,  vith  the  saihe  p'leese- 
men  standing  about,  the  same  blessed  old  bell  a  ringin'^ 


1098 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


the  same  unfort'nate  people  standiug  behind  the  bars,  a 
waitin'  to  be  let  in  ;  and  every  thin'  the  same  except  the 
name,  vich  is  wrote  up  in  the  same  sized  letters  as  the 
last  name,  and  vith  the  same  colours.  As  to  the  honour 
and  dignity  o'  travellin',  vere  can  that  be  vithout  a 
coachman  ;  and  wot's  the  rail  to  sich  coachmen  and 
guards  as  is  sometimes  forced  to  go  by  it,  but  a  outrage 
and  a  insult?  As  to  the  pace,  wot  sort  o'  pace  do  you 
think  I,  Tony  Veller,  could  have  kept  a  coach  goin'  at, 
for  five  hundred  thousand  pound  a  mile,  paid  in  adwance 
afore  the  coach  was  on  the  road?  And  as  to  the  ingein, 
— a  nasty,  wheezin',  creaking,  gasping,  puffin',  bustin' 
monster,' alvays  out  o'  breath,  vith  a  shiny  green  and 
gold  back,  like  a  unpleasant  beetle  in  that  'ere  gas  mag- 
nifier,— as  to  the  ingein  as  is  alvays  a  pourin'  out  red-hot 
coals  at  night,  and  black  smoke  in  the  day,  the  sensiblest 
think  it  does  in  my  opinion,  is,  ven  there's  somethin'  in 
the  vay  and  it  sets  up  that  'ere  frightful  scream  vich 
seems  to  say,  '  Now  here's  two  hundred  and  forty  passen- 
gers in  the  wery  greatest  extremity  o'  danger,  and  here's 
their  two  hundred  and  forty  screams  in  vun  ! 

By  this  time  I  began  to  fear  that  my  friends  would  be 
rendered  impatient  by  my  protracted  absence.  I  there- 
fore begged  Mr.  Pickwick  to  accompany  me  up-stairs, 
and  left  the  two  Mr.  Wellers  in  the  care  of  the  house- 
keeper, laying  strict  injunctions  upon  her  to  treat  them 
with  all  possible  hospitality. 


VIII. 

THE  CLOCK. 

As  we  were  going  up-stairs,  Mr.  Pickwick  put  on  his 
spectacles,  which  he  had  held  in  his  hand  hitherto  ;  ar- 
ranged his  neckerchief,  smoothed  down  his  waistcoat, 
and  made  many  other  little  preparations  of  that  kind 
which  men  are  accustomed  to  be  mindful  of,  when  they 
are  going  among  strangers  for  the  first  time,  and  are 
anxious  to  impress  them  pleasantly.  Seeing  that  I  smiled, 
he  smiled  too,  and  said  that  if  it  had  occurred  to  him 
before  he  left  home,  he  would  certainly  have  presented 
himself  in  pumps  and  silk  stockings. 

"  I  .would  indeed,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said  very  seriously; 
"I  would  have  shown  my  respect  for  the  society,  by  lay- 
ing aside  my  gaiters." 

"You  may  rest  assured,"  said  I,  "that  they  would 
have  regretted  your  doing  so  very  much,  for  they  are 
quite  attached  to  them." 

"No,  really!"  cried  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  manifest 
pleasure.  "  Do  you  think  they  care  about  my  gaiters? 
Do  you  seriously  think  that  they  identify  me  at  all  with 
my  gaiters  ?  " 

"t  am  sure  they  do,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  that  is  one  of  the 
most  charming  and  agreeable  circumstances  that  could 
possibly  have  occurred  to  me?" 

I  should  not  have  written  down  this  short  conversa- 
tion, but  that  it  developed  a  slight  point  in  Mr.  Pick- 
wick's character,  with  which  I  was  not  previously  ac- 
quainted. He  has  a  secret  pride  in  his  legs.  The  man- 
ner in  which  he  spoke,  and  the  accompanying  glance  he 
bestowed  upon  his  tights,  convince  me  that  Mr.  Pick- 
wick regards  his  legs  with  much  innocent  vanity. 

"  But  here  are  our  friends,"  said  I,  opening  the  door 
and  taking  liis  arm  in  mine  ;  "let  them  speak  for  them- 
selves.   Gentlemen,  I  present  to  you  Mr.  Pickwick." 

Mr.  Pickwick  and  I  must  have  been  a  good  contrast 
just  then.  I,  leaning  quietly  on  my  crutch-stick,  with 
something  of  a  care-worn,  patient  air  ;  he,  having  hold 
of  my  arm,  and  bowing  in  every  direction  with  the 
most  elastic  politeness,  and  an  expression  of  face  whose 
sprijrhtly  cheerfulness  and  good-humour  knew  no  bounds. 
The  difference  between  us  must  have  been  more  striking 
yet,  as  we  advanced  towards  the  table,  and  the  amiable 
gentleman,  adapting  his  jocund  step  to  my  poor  tread, 
had  his  attention  divided  between  treating  ray  infirmi- 
ties with  the  utmost  consideration,  and  alTecting  to  be 
wholly  unconscious  that  I  required  any. 

I  made  him  personally  known  to  each  of  my  friends  in 
turn.  First,  to  the  deaf  gentleman,  whom  he  regarded 
with  much  interest,  and  accosted  with  great  frankness 


and  cordiality  He  had  evidently  some  vague  idea,  at 
the  moment,  that  my  friend  being  deaf  must  be  dumb 
also  ;  for  when  the  latter  opened  his  lips  to  express  the 
pleasure  it  afforded  him  to  know  a  gentleman  of  whom 
he  had  heard  so  much,  Mr.  Pickwick  was  so  extremely 
disconcerted,  that  I  was  obliged  to  step  in  to  his  relief. 

His  meeting  with  Jack  Redburn  was  quite  a  treat  to 
I  see.  Mr.  Pickwick  smiled,  and  shook  hands,  and  looked 
j  at  him  through  his  spectacles,  and  under  them,  and 
over  them,  and  nodded  his  head  approvingly,  and  then 
nodded  to  me,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  This  is  just  the  man  ; 
you  were  quite  right "  ;  and  then  turned  to  Jack  and 
said  a  few  heart}^  words,  and  then  did  and  said  every- 
thing over  again  with  unimpaired  vivacity.  As  to  Jack 
himself,  he  was  quite  as  much  delighted  with  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, as  Mr.  Pickwick  could  possibly  be  with  him. 
Two  people  never  can  have  met  together  since  the  world 
began,  who  exchanged  a  warmer  or  more  enthusiastic 
greeting. 

It  was  amusing  to  observe  the  difference  between  this 
encounter,  and  that  which  succeeded,  between  Mr.  Pick- 
wick and  Mr.  Miles.  It  was  clear  that  the  latter  gentle- 
man viewed  our  new  member  as  a  kind  of  rival  in  the 
affections  of  Jack  Redburn,  and  besides  this,  he  had 
more  than  once  hinted  to  me,  in  secret,  that  although  he 
had  no  doubt  Mr.  Pickwick  was  a  very  worthy  man, 
still  he  did  consider  that  some  of  his  exploits  were  unbe- 
coming a  gentleman  of  his  years  and  gravity.  Over  and 
above  these  grounds  of  distrust,  it  is  one  of  his  fixed 
opinions,  that  the  law  never  can  by  possibility  do  any- 
thing wrong  ;  he  therefore  looks  upon  Mr.  Pickwick  as 
one  who  has  justly  suffered  in  purse  and  peace  for  a 
breach  of  his  plighted  faith  to  an  unprotected  female, 
and  holds  that  he  is  called  upon  to  regard  him  with  some 
suspicion  on  that  account.  These  causes  led  to  a  rather 
cold  and  formal  reception  ;  which  Mr.  Pickwick  acknowl- 
edged with  the  same  stateliness  and  intense  politeness 
as  was  displayed  on  the  other  side.  Indeed,  he  assumed 
an  air  of  such  majestic  defiance  that  I  was  fearful  he 
might  break  out  into  some  solemn  protest  or  declaration, 
and  therefore  inducted  him  into  his  chair  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay. 

This  piece  of  generalship  was  perfectly  successful. 
The  instant  he  took  his  seat,  Mr.  Pickwick  surveyed  us 
all  with  a  most  benevolent  aspect,  and  was  taken  with  a 
fit  of  smiling  full  five  minutes  long.  His  interest  in  our 
ceremonies  was  immense.  They  are  not  very  numerous 
or  complicated,  and  a  description  of  them  may  be  com- 
prised in  very  few  words.  As  our  transactions  have 
already  been,  and  must  necessarily  continue  to  be,  more 
or  less  anticipated  by  being  presented  in  these  pages  at 
different  times,  and  under  various  forms,  they  do  not 
require  a  detailed  account. 

Our  first  proceeding  when  we  are  assembled  is  to  shake 
hands  all  round,  and  greet  each  other  with  cheerful  and 
pleasant  looks.  Remembering  that  we  assemble  not 
only  for  the  promotion  of  our  happiness,  but  with  the 
view  of  adding  something  to  the  common  stock,  an  air 
of  languor  or  indifference  in  any  member  of  our  body, 
would  be  regarded  by  the  others  as  a  kind  of  treason. 
We  have  never  had  an  offender  in  this  respect  ;  but  if 
we  had,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  would  be  taken  to  task 
pretty  severely. 

Our  salutation  over,  the  venerable  piece  of  antiquity 
from  which  we  take  our  name  is  wound  up  in  silence. 
This  ceremony  is  always  performed  by  Master  Humphrey 
himself  (in  treating  of  the  club,  I  may  be  permitted  to 
assume  the  historical  style,  and  speak  of  myself  in  the 
third  person),  who  mounts  upon  a  chair  for  the  purpose, 
armed  with  a  large  key.  While  it  is  in  progress.  Jack 
Redburn  is  required  to  keep  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room  under  the  guardianship  of  Mr.  Miles,  for  he  is 
know^ii  to  entertain  certain  aspiring  and  unhallowed 
thoughts  connected  with  the  clock,  and  has  even  gone 
so  far  as  to  state  that  if  he  might  take  the  works  out  for 
a  day  or  two,  he  thinks  he  could  improve  them.  We 
pardon  him  his  presumption  in  consideration  of  his  good 
intentions,  and  his  keeping  this  respectful  distance, 
which  last  ])enalty  is  insisted  on,  lest  by  secretly  wound- 
ing the  object  of  our  regard  in  some  tender  part,  in  the 
ardour  of  "his  zeal  for  its  improvement,  he  should,fill  us 
with  dismay  and  consternation. 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK, 


1099 


This  regulation  afforded  Mr.  Pickwick  the  highest  de- 
light, and  seemed,  if  possible,  to  exalt  Jack  in  his  good 
opinion. 

The  next  ceremony  is  the  opening  of  the  clock-case 
(of  which  Master  Humphrey  has  likewise  the  key),  the 
taking  from  it  as  many  papers  as  will  furnisli  forth  our 
evening's  entertainment,  and  arranging  in  the  recess 
such  new  contributions  as  have  been  provided  since  our 
last  meeting.  This  is  always  done  with  peculiar  solem- 
nity. The  deaf  gentleman  then  fills  and  lights  his  pipe, 
and  we  once  more  take  our  seats  round  the  table  before- 
mentioned,  Master  Humphrey  acting  as  president, — if 
we  can  be  said  to  have  any  president,  where  ail  are  on 
the  same  social  footing, — and  our  friend  Jack  as  secre- 
tary. Our  preliminaries  being  now  concluded,  we  fall 
into  any  train  of  conversation  that  happens  to  suggest 
itself,  or  proceed  immediately  to  one  of  our  readings. 
In  the  latter  case,  the  paper  selected  is  consigned  to 
Master  Humphrey,  who  flattens  it  carefully  on  the  table 
and  makes  dog's  ears  in  the  corner  of  every  page,  ready 
for  turning  over  easily  ;  Jack  Redburn  trims  the  lamp 
with  a  small  machine  of  his  own  invention  which  usually 
puts  it  out ;  Mr.  Miles  looks  on  with  great  approval  not- 
withstanding ;  the  deaf  gentleman  draws  in  his  chair,  so 
that  he  can  follow  the  words  on  the  paper  or  on  Master 
Humphrey's  lips  as  he  pleases  ;  and  Master  Humphrey 
himself,  looking  round  with  mighty  gratification,  and 
glancing  up  at  his  old  clock,  begins  to  read  aloud. 

Mr.  Pickwick's  face,  while  his  tale  was  being  read, 
would  have  attracted  the  attention  of  the  dullest  man 
alive.  The  complacent  motion  of  his  head  and  fore- 
finger as  he  gently  beat  time  and  corrected  the  air  with 
imaginary  punctuation,  the  smile  that  mantled  on  his 
features  at  every  jocose  passage,  and  the  sly  look  he 
stole  around  to  observe  its  effect,  the  calm  manner  in 
which  he  shut  his  eyes  and  listened  when  there  was 
some  little  piece  of  description,  the  changing  expression 
with  which  he  acted  the  dialogue  to  himself,  his  agony 
that  the  deaf  gentleman  should  know  what  it  was  all 
about,  and  his  extraordinary  anxiety  to  correct  the  reader 
when  he  hesitated  at  a  word  in  the  manuscript,  or  sub- 
stituted a  wrong  one,  were  alike  worthy  of  remark.  And 
when  at  last,  endeavouring  to  communicate  with  the  deaf 
gentleman  by  means  of  the  finger  alphabet,  with  which 
he  constructed  such  words  as  are  unknown  in  any  civil- 
ized or  savage  language,  he  took  up  a  slate  and  wrote  in 
large  text,  one  word  in  a  line,  the  question,  "How — do 
— you — like — it?"  When  he  did  this,  and  handing  it 
over  the  table  awaited  the  reply,  with  a  countenance 
only  brightened  and  improved  by  his  great  excitement, 
even  Mr.  Miles  relaxed,  and  could  not  forbear  looking 
at  him  for  the  moment  with  interest  and  favour. 

It  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  the  deaf  gentleman,  who 
had  watched  Mr.  Pickwick  and  everybody  else  with  silent 
satisfaction, — "it  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  the  deaf 
gentleman,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  "  that  now  is 
our  time  for  filling  our  only  empty  chair." 

As  our  conversation  had  naturally  turned  upon  the 
vacant  seat,  we  lent  a  willing  ear  to  this  remark,  and 
looked  at  our  friend  inquiringly, 

"I  feel  sure,"  said  he,  "  that  Mr.  Pickwick  must  be 
acquainted  with  somebody  who  would  be  an  acquisition 
to  us  ;  that  he  must  know  the  man  we  want.  Pray  let 
us  not  lose  any  time,  but  set  this  question  at  rest.  Is  it 
so,  Mr.  Pickwick?" 

The  gentleman  addressed  was  about  to  return  a  verbal 
reply,  but  remembering  our  friend's  infirmity,  he  sub- 
stituted for  this  kind  of  answer  some  fifty  nods.  Then 
taking  up  the  slate  and  printing  on  it  a  gigantic  "  Yes," 
he  handed  it  across  the  table,  and  rubbing  his  hands  as 
he  looked  round  upon  our  faces,  protested  that  he  and 
the  deaf  gentleman  quite  understood  each  other,  already. 

"  The  person  I  have  in  my  mind,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
"and  whom  I  should  not  have  presumed  to  mention  to 
you  until  some  time  hence,  but  for  the  opportunity  you 
have  given  me,  is  a  very  strange  old  man.  His  name  is 
Bainber." 

"  Bamber  !  "  said  Jack,  "  I  have  certainly  heard  the 
name  before." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  then,"  returned  Mr.  Pickwick, 
"  that  you  remember  him  inr  those  adventures  of  mine 
(the  Posthumous  Papers  of  our  old  club,  I  mean),  al- 


though he  is  only  incidentally  mentioned  ;  and,  if  I 
remember  right,  appears  but  once." 

"That's  it,"  said  Jack.  "Let  me  see.  He  is  the 
person  who  has  a  grave  interest  in  old  mouldy  chambers 
and  the  Inns  of  Court,  and  who  relates  some  anecdotes 
having  reference  to  his  favourite  theme, — and  an  odd 
ghost  story, — is  that  the  man  ?  " 

"  The  very  same.  Now,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  lower- 
ing his  voice  to  a  mysterious  and  confidential  tone,  "he 
is  a  very  extraordinary  and  remarkable  person  ;  living, 
and  talking,  and  looking,  like  some  strange  spirit,  whose 
delight  is  to  haunt  old  buildings  ;  and  absorbed  in  that 
one  subject  which  you  have  just  mentioned,  to  an  extent 
which  is  quite  wonderful.  When  I  retired  into  private 
life,  I  sought  him  out, — and  I  do  assure  you  that  the 
more  I  see  of  him,  the  more  strongly  I  am  impressed 
with  the  strange  and  dreamy  character  of  his  mind." 

"  Where  does  he  live  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  He  lives,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  in  one  of  those  dull 
lonely  old  places  with  which  his  thoughts  and  stories 
are  all  connected  ;  quite  alone,  and  often  shut  up  close, 
for  several  weeks  together.  In  this  dusty  solitude  he 
broods  upon  the  fancies  he  has  so  long  indulged,  and 
when  he  goes  into  the  world,  or  anybody  from  the  world 
without  goes  to  see  him,  they  are  still  j^resent  to  his 
mind  and  still  his  favourite  topic.  I  may  say,  I  believe, 
that  he  has  brought  himself  to  entertain  a  regard  for 
me,  and  an  interest  in  my  visits  ;  feelings  which  I  am 
certain  he  would  extend  to  Master  Humphrey's  Clock  if 
he  were  once  tempted  to  join  us.  All  I  wish  you  to 
understand  is,  that  he  is  a  strange  secluded  visionary,  in 
the  world  but  not  of  it ;  and  as  unlike  anybody  here  as 
he  is  unlike  anybody  elsewhere  that  I  have  ever  met  or 
known." 

Mr,  Miles  received  this  account  of  our  proposed  com- 
panion with  rather  a  wry  face,  and  after  murmuring  that 
perhaps  he  was  a  little  mad,  inquired  if  he  were  rich. 

"  I  never  asked  him,"  said  Mr,  Pickwick. 

"You  might  know,  sir,  for  all  that,"  retorted  Mr. 
Miles,  sharply. 

"  Perhaps  so,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  no  less  sharply 
than  the  other,  "  but  I  do  not.  Indeed,"  he  added,  re- 
lapsing into  his  usual  mildness,  "I  have  no  means  of 
judging.  He  lives  poorly,  but  that  would  seem  to  be  in 
keeping  with  his  character.  I  never  heard  him  allude 
to  his  circumstances,  and  never  fell  into  the  society  of 
any  man  who  had  the  slightest  acquaintance  with  them. 
I  have  really  told  you  all  I  know  about  him,  and  it  rests 
with  you  to  say  whether  you  wish  to  know  more,  or 
j  know  quite  enough  already." 

I  We  were  unanimously  of  opinion  that  we  would  seek 
to  know  more  ;  and  as  a  sort  of  compromise  with  Mr. 

I  Miles  (who,  although  he  said  "  Yes — O  certainly — he 
should  like  to  know  more  about  the  gentleman — he  had 
no  right  to  put  himself  in  opposition  to  the  general  wish," 
and  so  forth,  shook  his  head  doubtfully  and  hemmed 
several  times  with  peculiar  gravity),  it  was  arranged 
that  Mr.  Pickwick  should  carry  me  with  him  on  an 
evening  visit  to  the  subject  of  our  discussion,  for  which 
purpose  an  early  appointment  between  that  gentleman 
and  myself  was  immediately  agreed  upon  ;  it  being  un- 
derstood that  I  was  to  act  upon  my  own  responsibility, 
and  to  invite  him  to  join  us  or  not,  as  I  might  think 
proper.  This  solemn  question  determined,  we  returned 
to  the  clock-case  (where  we  have  been  forestalled  by  the 
reader),  and  between  its  contents,  and  the  conversation 
they  occasioned,  the  remainder  of  our  time  passed  very 
quickly. 

When  we  broke  up,  Mr.  Pickwick  took  me  aside  to 
tell  me  that  he  had  spent  a  most  charming  and  delight- 
ful evening.  Having  made  this  communication  with  an 
air  of  the  strictest  secrecy,  he  took  Jack  Redburn  into 
another  corner  to  tell  him  the  same,  and  then  retired 
into  another  corner  with  the  deaf  gentleman  and  the 
slate,  to  repeat  the  assurance.  It  was  amusing  to  ob- 
serve the  contest  in  his  mind  whether  he  should  extend 
his  confidence  to  Mr.  Miles,  or  treat  him  with  dignified 
reserve.  Half  a  dozen  times  he  stepped  up  behind  him 
with  a  friendly  air,  and  as  often  stepped  back  again 
without  saying  a  word  ;  at  last,  when  he  was  close  at 
that  gentleman's  ear  and  upon  the  very  point  of  whis- 
pering something  conciliating  and  agreeable,  Mr.  Miles 


1100 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


happened  suddenly  to  turn  his  head,  upon  which  Mr. 
Pickwick  skipped  away,  and  said  with  some  fierceness, 
"  Good-night,  sir, — I  was  about  to  say  good-night,  sir, — 
nothing  more  ;  "  and  so  made  a  how  and  left  him. 

"Now,  Sam,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  when  he  had  got 
down  stairs. 

"  All  right,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Weller.  "  Hold  hard,  sir. 
Right  arm  fust — now  the  left — now  one  strong  conwul- 
sion,  and  the  great-coat's  on,  sir." 

Mr.  Pickwick  acted  upon  these  directions,  and  being 
further  assisted  by  Sam,  who  pulled  at  one  side  of  the 
collar,  and  Mr.  Weller  who  pulled  hard  at  the  other, 
was  speedily  enrobed.  Mr.  Weller  senior  then  produced 
a  full-sized  stable  lantern,  which  he  had  carefully  de- 
posited in  a  remote  corner,  on  his  arrival,  and  inquired 
wli£ther  Mr.  Pickwick  would  have  "  the  lamps  alight." 

'^I  think  not  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  Then  if  this  here  lady  vill  per-mit,"  rejoined  Mr. 
Weller,  "we'll  leave  it  here,  ready  for  next  journey. 
This  here  lantern,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  handing  it  to 
the  housekeeper,  "  vunce  belonged  to  the  celebrated 
Bill  Blinder  as  is  now  at  grass,  as  all  on  us  vill  be  in  our 
turns.  Bill,  mum,  wos  the  hostler  as  had  charge  o' 
them  two  vell-known  piebald  leaders  that  run  in  the 
Bristol  fast  coach,  and  vould  never  go  to  no  other  tune 
but  a  sutherly  vind  and  a  cloudy  sky,  which  wos  con- 
sekvently  played  incessant,  by  the  guard,  wenever  they 
wos  on  duty.  He  wos  took  wery  bad  one  arternoon, 
arter  having  been  off  his  feed,  and  wery  shaky  on  his 
legs  for  some  veeks  ;  and  he  says  to  his  mate,  '  Matey,' 
he  says,  *  I  think  I'm  a-goin'  the  wrong  side  o'  the  post, 
and  that  my  foot's  wery  near  the  bucket.  Don't  say  I 
an't,'  he  says,  'for  I  know  I  am,  and  don't  let  me  be  in- 
terrupted,' he  says,  *  for  I've  saved  a  little  money,  and 
I'm  a-goin'  into  the  stable  to  make  my  last  vill  and 
testy  mint.*  '  I'll  take  care  as  nobody  interrupts,'  says 
his  mate,  '  but  you  on'y  hold  up  your  head,  and  shake 
your  ears  a  bit,  and  you're  good  for  twenty  years  to 
come.'  Bill  Blinder  makes  him  no  answer,  but  he  goes 
avay  into  the  stable,  and  there  he  soon  artervards  lays 
himself  down  a'tween  the  two  piebalds,  and  dies, — pre- 
vously  a  writn'  outside  the  corn-chest.  '  This  is  the  last 
vill  and  testy  mint  of  Villiam  Blinder.'  They  wos  nat'- 
rally  wery  much  amazed  at  this,  and  arter  looking  among 
the  litter,  and  up  in  the  loft,  and  vere  not,  they  opens 
the  corn-chest,  and  finds  that  he'd  been  and  chalked  his 
vill  inside  the  lid  ;  so  the  lid  wos  obligated  to  be  took 
off  the  hinges,  and  sent  up  to  Doctor  Commons  to  be 
proved,  and  under  that  'ere  wery  instrument  this  here 
lantern  was  passed  to  'Tony  Veller  ;  vich  circumstarnce, 
mum,  gives  it  a  walley  in  my  eyes,  and  makes  me  rekvest 
if  you  vill  be  so  kind,  as  to  take  partickler  care  on  it." 

The  housekeeper  graciously  promised  to  keep  the  ob- 
ject of  Mr.  Weller's  regard  in  the  safest  possible  custody, 
and  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  a  laughing  face,  took  his  leave. 
The  body-giiaid  followed  side  by  side  ;  old  Mr.  Weller 
buttoned  and  wrapped  up  from  his  boots  to  his  chin  ;  and 
Sam  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  hat  half  off 
his  head,  remonstrating  with  his  father,  as  he  went,  on 
his  extreme  loquacity. 

I  was  not  a  little  surprised,  on  turning  to  go  up-stairs, 
to  encounter  the  barber  in  the  passage  at  that  late  hour  ; 
for  his  attendance  is  usually  confined  to  some  half -hour 
in  the  morning.  But  Jack  Redburn,  who  finds  out  (by 
instinct,  I  think)  everything  that  happens  in  the  house, 
informed  me  with  great  glee,  that  a  society  in  imitation 
of  our  own  had  been  that  night  formed  in  the  kitchen, 
under  the  title  of  "  Mr.  Weller's  Watch,"  of  which  the 
barber  was  a  member  ;  and  that  he  could  pledge  himself 
to  find  means  of  making  me  acquainted  with  the  whole 
of  its  future  proceedings,  which  I  begged  him,  both  on 
my  own  account  and  that  of  my  readers,  by  no  means  to 
neglect  doing.* 

*  Old  Curiosity  Shop  is  continued  here,  completing  No.  IV. 


IX. 

MR.  WELLER'S  WATCH. 

It  seems  that  the  liousekoeper  and  the  two  Mr. 
Wellers  were  no  sooner  left  together  on  the  occasion  of 


their  first  becoming  acquainted,  than  the  housekeeper 
called  to  her  assistance  Mr.  Slithers  the  barber,  who  had 
been  lurking  in  the  kitchen  in  expectation  of  her  sum- 
mons ;  and  with  many  smiles  and  much  sweetness  intro- 
duced him  as  one  who  would  assist  her  in  the  responsible 
office  of  entertaining  her  distinguished  visitors. 

"Indeed,"  said  she,  "  without  Mr.  Slithers  I  should 
have  been  placed  in  quite  an  awkward  situation." 

"There  is  no  call  for  any  hock'erdness,  mum."  said 
Mr.  Weller  with  the  utmost  politeness;  "no  call  wot- 
sumever.  A  lady,"  added  the  old  gentleman,  looking 
about  him  with  the  air  of  one  who  establishes  an  incon- 
trovertible position,  —"  a  lady  can't  be  hock'erd.  Natur 
has  otherwise  purwided." 

The  housekeeper  inclined  her  head  and  smiled  yet 
more  sweetly.  The  barber,  who  had  been  fluttering 
about  Mr.  Weller  and  Sam  in  a  state  of  great  anxiety  to 
improve  their  acquaintance,  rubbed  his  hands  and  cried, 
"  Hear,  hear  !  Very  true,  sir"  ;  whereupon  Sam  turned 
about  and  steadily  regarded  him  for  some  seconds  in. 
silence. 

"  I  never  knew,"  said  Sam,  fixing  his  eyes  in  a  rumina- 
tive manner  upon  the  blushing  barber, — "  I  never  knew 
but  vun  o'  your  trade,  but  he  wos  worth  a  dozen,  and 
wos  indeed  dewoted  to  his  callin'  !  " 

"  Was  he  in  the  easy  shaving  way,  sir,"  inquired  Mr. 
Slithers  ;  "  or  in  the  cutting  and  curling  line  ?  " 

"  Both,"  replied  Sam  ;  "  easy  shavin'  was  his  natur', 
and  cuttin'  and  curl  in'  was  his  pride  and  glory.  His 
whole  delight  wos  in  his  trade.  He  spent  all  his  money 
in  bears,  and  run  in  debt  for  'em  besides,  and  there  they 
wos  a  growling  avay  down  in  the  front  cellar  all  day 
long,  and  ineffectooally  gnashing  their  teeth,  vile  the 
grease  o'  their  relations  and  friends  wos  being  re-tailed 
in  gallipots  in  the  shop  above,  and  the  first-floor  winder 
wos  ornamented  vitli  their  heads  ;  not  to  speak  o'  the 
dreadful  aggrawation  it  must  have  been  to  'em  to  see  a 
man  alvays  a  walkin'  up  and  down  the  pavement  out- 
side, vith  the  portrait  of  a  bear  in  his  last  agonies,  and 
underneath  in  large  letters,  'Another  fine  animal  was 
slaughtered  yesterday  at  Jinkinson's  ! "  Hows'ever,  there 
they  wos,  and  there  Jinkinson  wos,  till  he  wos  took  wery 
ill  with  some  inn'ard  disorder,  lost  the  use  of  his  legs, 
and  wos  confined  to  his  bed  vere  he  laid  a  wery  long 
time,  but  sich  wos  his  pride  in  his  profession,  even  then, 
i  that  whenever  he  wos  worse  than  usual  the  doctor,  used 
to  go  down-stairs  and  say,  'Jinkinson's  wery  low  this 
mornin'  ;  we  must  give  the  bears  a  stir  ; '  and  as  sure  as 
ever  they  stirred  'em  up  a  bit  and  made  'em  roar,  Jinkin- 
son opens  his  eyes  if  he  wos  ever  so  bad,  calls  out, 
'  There's  the  bears  ! '  and  re  wives  agin." 
"  Astonishing  !  "  cried  the  barber, 
"Not  a  bit,"  said  Sam,  "human  natur'  neat  as  im- 
ported. Vun  day  the  doctor  happenin'  to  say,  'I  shall 
i  look  in  as  usual  to-morrow  mornin',  Jinkinson  catches 
I  hold  of  his  hand  and  says,  '  Doctor,'  he  says,  '  will  you 
!  grant  me  one  favour  ? '  'I  will,  Jinkinson,'  says  the 
doctor.  '  Then,  doctor,'  says  Jinkinson,  '  vill  you  come 
unshaved,  and  let  me  shave  you?'  'I  will,'  says  the 
doctor.  'God  bless  you,'  says  Jinkinson.  Next  day  the 
doctor  came,  and  arter  he'd  been  shaved  all  skilful  and 
reg'lar,  he  says,  '  Jinkinson,'  he  says,  '  it's  wery  plain 
this  does  you  good.  Now,'  he  says,  '  I've  got  a  coach- 
man as  has  got  a  beard  that  it  'ud  warm  your  heart  to 
work  on,  and  though  the  footman,'  he  says,  '  hasn't  got 
much  of  a  beard,  still  he's  a  trying  it  on  vith  a  pair  o' 
viskers  to  that  extent  that  razors  is  Christian  charity. 
If  they  take  it  in  turns  to  mind  the  carriage  wen  it's  a 
waitin'  below,'  he  says,  '  wot's  to  hinder  you  from  opera- 
tin'  on  both  of  'em  ev'ry  day  as  well  as  upon  me  ?  you've 
got  six  children,'  he  says,  '  wot's  to  hinder  you  from 
shavin' all  their  heads  and  keepin'  'em  shaved?  you've 
got  two  assistants  in  the  shop  down-stairs,  wot's  to 
hinder  you  from  cuttin'  and  curlin'  them  as  often  as  you 
like?  Do  this,'  he  says,  'and  you're  a  man  agin.' 
Jinkinson  squeedged  the  doctor's  hand  and  begun  that 
wery  day  ;  he  kept  his  tools  upon  the  bed,  and  wenever 
he  felt  liis-self  gettin'  worse,  he  turned  to  at  vun  o'  the 
children  who  wos  a  runnin'  about  the  house  with  heads 
like  clean  Dutch  cheeses,  and  shaved  him  agin.  Vun 
day  the  lawyer  come  to  make  his  vill  ;  all  the  time  he 
wos  a  takin'  it  down,  Jinkinson  was  secretly  a  clippin* 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK, 


1101 


avay  at  his  hair  vitli  a  large  pair  of  scissors.  '  Wot's 
that  'ere  snippin'  noise?'  says  the  lawyer  every  now  and 
then  ;  '  it's  like  a  man  havin'  his  hair  cut.'  '  It  is  wery 
like  a  man  havin'  his  hair  cut,'  says  poor  Jinkinson, 
hidin'  the  scissors,  and  lookin'  quite  innocent.  By  the 
time  the  lawyer  found  it  out,  he  was  wery  nearly  bakl. 
Jinkinson  wos  kept  alive  in  this  vay  for  a  long  time,  but 
at  last  vun  day  he  has  in  all  the  children  vun  arter 
another,  shaves  each  on  'em  wery  clean,  and  gives  him 
vun  kiss  on  the  crown  o'  his  head  ;  then  he  has  in  the 
two  assistants,  and  arter  cuttin'  and  curlin'  of  'em  in  the 
first  style  of  elegance,  says  he  should  like  to  hear  the 
Avoice  o'  the  greasiest  bear,  vich  rekvest  is  imraedetly 
complied  with  ;  then  he  says  that  he  feels  wery  happy 
in  his  mind  and  vishes  to  be  left  alone  ;  and  then  he 
dies,  prevously  cuttin'  his  own  hair  and  makin'  one  Hat 
curl  in  the  wery  middle  of  his  forehead." 

This  anecdote  produced  an  extraordinary  effect,  not 
only  upon  Mr.  Slithers,  but  upon  the  housekeeper  also, 
who  evinced  so  much  anxiety  to  please  and  be  pleased, 
that  Mr.  Weller,  with  a  mannei*  betokening  some  alarm, 
conveyed  a  whispered  inquiry  to  his  son  whether  he  had 
gone  "  too  fur." 

"  Wot  do  you  mean  by  too  fur  ?  "  demanded  Sam, 

*•  In  that  'ere  little  compliment  respectin'  the  want  of 
hock'erdness  in  ladies,  Sammy,"  replied  his  father. 

"  You  don't  think  she's  fallen  in  love  with  you  in  con- 
sekens  o'  that,  do  you  ?  "  said  Sam. 

"More  unlikelier  things  have  come  to  pass,  my  boy," 
replied  Mr.  Weller  in  a  hoarse  whisper  ;  "  Fm  always 
afeerd  of  inadwertent  captiwation,  Sammy.  If  I  know'd 
how  to  make  myself  ugly  or  unpleasant,  I'd  do  it,  Samivel, 
xayther  than  live  in  this  here  state  of  perpetival  terror  !  " 

Mr.  Weller  had,  at  that  time,  no  further  opportunity 
of  dwelling  upon  the  apprehensions  which  beset  his 
mind,  for  the  immediate  occasion  of  his  fears  proceeded 
to  lead  the  way  down-stairs,  apologizing  as  they  went 
for  conducting  him  into  the  kitchen,  which  apartment, 
however,  she  was  induced  to  proffer  for  his  accommoda- 
tion in  preference  to  her  own  little  room,  the  rather  as 
it  afforded  greater  facilities  for  smoking,  and  was  im- 
mediately adjoining  the  ale-cellar.  The  preparations 
which  were  already  made  sufficiently  proved  that  these 
were  not  mere  words  of  course,  for  on  the  deal  table 
were  a  sturdy  ale  jug  and  glasses,  flanked  with  clean 
pipes  and  a  plentiful  supply  of  tobacco  for  the  old 
gentleman  and  his  son,  while  on  a  dresser  hard  by  was 
goodly  store  of  cold  meat  and  other  eatables.  At  sight 
of  these  arrangements  Mr.  Weller  was  at  first  distracted 
between  his  love  of  joviality  and  his  doubts  whether 
they  were  not  to  be  considered  as  so  many  evidences  of 
captivation  having  already  taken  place  ;  but  he  soon 
yielded  to  his  natural  impulse,  and  took  his  seat  at  the 
table  with  a  very  jolly  countenance. 

"  As  to  imbibin'  any  o'  this  here  flagrant  veed,  mum, 
in  the  presence  of  a  lady,"  said  Mr.  Weller  taking  up  a 
pipe  and  laying  it  down  again,  "  it  couldn't  be.  Sami- 
vel, total  abstinence,  if  you  please." 

"  But  I  like  it  of  all  things,"  said  the  housekeeper. 

"  No,"  rejoined  Mr.  Weller,  shaking  his  head, — "  no." 

"  Upon  my  word  I  do,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "Mr. 
Slithers  knows  I  do." 

Mr.  Weller  coughed,  and  notwithstanding  the  barber's 
confirmation  of  the  statement,  said  "No,"  again,  but 
more  feebly  than  before.  The  housekeeper  lighted  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  insisted  on  applying  it  to  the  bowl  of 
the  pipe  with  her  own  fair  hands  ;  Mr.  Weller  resisted  ; 
the  housekeeper  cried  that  her  fingers  would  be  burnt  ; 
Mr.  Weller  gave  way.  The  pipe  was  ignited,  Mr.  Wel- 
ler drew  a  long  puff  of  smoke,  and  detecting  himself  in 
the  very  act  of  smiling  on  the  housekeeper,  put  a  sud- 
den constraint  upon  his  countenance  and  looked  sternly 
at  the  candle,  with  a  determination  not  to  captivate, 
himself,  or  encourage  thoughts  of  captivation  in  others. 
From  this  iron  frame  of  mind  he  was  roused  by  the 
voice  of  his  son. 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  Sam,  who  was  smoking  with 
great  composure  and  enjoyment,  "  that  if  the  lady  wos 
agreeable  it  'ud  be  wery  far  out  o'  the  way  for  us  four  to 
make  up  a  club  of  our  own  like  the  governors  does  up 
stairs,  and  let  him,"  Sam  pointed  with  the  stem  of  his 
pipe  towards  his  parent,  "be  the  president." 


The  housekeeper  affably  declared  that  it  was  the  very 
thing  she  had  been  thinking  of.  The  barber  said  the 
same.  Mr.  Weller  said  nothing,  but  he  laid  down  his 
X)ipeas  if  in  a  fit  of  inspiration,  and  performed  the  fol- 
lowing manoeuvres. 

Unbuttoning  the  three  lower  buttons  of  his  waistcoat 
and  pausing  for  a  moment  to  enjoy  the  easy  flow  of  breath 
consequent  upon  this  process,  he  laid  violent  hands  upon 
his  watch-chain  and  slowly  and  with  extreme  difficulty 
drew  from  his  fob  an  immense  double-cased  silver  watch, 
which  brought  the  lining  of  the  pocket  with  it,  and  was 
not  to  be  disentangled  but  by  great  exertions  and  an 
amazing  redness  of  face.  Having  fairly  got  it  out  at 
last,  he  detached  the  outer  case  and  wound  it  up  with  a 
key  of  corresponding  magnitude  ;  then  put  the  case  on 
again,  and  having  applied  the  watch  to  his  ear  to  ascer- 
tain that  it  was  still  going,  gave  it  some  half-dozen  hard 
knocks  on  the  table  to  improve  its  performance. 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  laying  it  on  the  table  with 
its  face  upwards,  "is  the  title  and  emblem  o'  this  here 
society.  Sammy,  reach  them  two  stools  this  vay  for  the 
wacant  cheers.  Ladies  and  gen'lmen,  Mr.  Weller's 
Watch  is  vound  up  and  now  a  goin'.    Order  ! " 

By  way  of  enforcing  this  proclamation,  Mr.  Weller, 
using  the  watch  after  the  manner  of  a  president's  ham- 
mer, and  remarking  with  great  pride  that  nothing  hurt 
it,  and  that  falls  and  concussions  of  all  kinds  materially 
enhanced  the  excellence  of  the  works  and  assisted  the 
regulator,  knocked  the  table  a  great  many  times,  and  de- 
clared the  association  formally  constituted. 

"  And  don't  let's  have  no  grinnin'  at  the  cheer,  Sami- 
vel," said  Mr.  Weller  to  his  son,  "  or  I  shall  be  commit- 
tin'  you  to  the  cellar,  and  then  p'r'aps  we  may  get  into 
wot  the  'Merrikins  call  a  fix,  and  the  Engl^h  a  qvestion 
o'  privileges." 

Having  uttered  this  friendly  caution,  the  President  set- 
tled himself  in  his  chair  with  great  dignity,  and  requested 
that  Mr.  Samuel  would  relate  an  anecdote. 

"  I've  told  one,"  said  Sam. 

"Wery  good,  sir  ;  tell  another,"  returned  the  chair. 

"  We  wos  a  talking  jist  now,  sir,"  said  Sam,  turning 
to  Slithers,  "  about  barbers.  Pursuing  that  'ere  fruitful 
theme,  sir,  I'll  tell  you  in  a  wery  few  words  a  romantic 
little  story  about  another  barber  as  p'r'aps  you  may  never 
have  heerd." 

"Samivel!"  said  Mr.  Weller,  again  bringing  his 
watch  and  the  table  into  smart  collision,  "address  your 
obserwations  to  the  cheer,  sir,  and  not  to  priwate  indi- 
widuals  1 " 

"  And  if  I  might  rise  to  order,"  said  the  barber,  in  a 
soft  voice,  and  looking  round  him  with  a  conciliatory 
smile  as  he  leant  over  the  table,  with  the  knuckles  of 
his  left  hand  resting  upon  it, — "  if  I  migJit  rise  to  order, 
I  would  suggest  that  '  barbers'  is  not  exactly  the  kind  of 
language  which  is  agreeable  and  soothing  to  our  feelings. 
You,  sir,  will  correct  me  if  I'm  wrong,  but  I  believe  there 
is  such  a  word  in  the  dictionary  as  hair-dressers." 

"  Well,  but  suppose  he  wasn't  a  hair-dresser,"  sug- 
gested Sam. 

"  Wy  then,  sir,  be  parliamentary,  and  call  him  vun  all 
the  more,"  returned  his  father.  "In  the  same  vay  as 
ev'ry  gen'lman  in  another  place  is  a  Ttonourable,  ev'ry 
barber  in  this  place  is  a  hair-dresser.  Ven  you  read  the 
speeches  in  the  papers,  and  see  as  vun  gen'lman  says  of 
another,  '  the  honourable  member,  if  he  vill  allow  me  to 
call  him  so,'  you  vill  understand,  sir,  that  that  means, 
'if  he  vill  allow  me  to  keep  up  that 'ere  pleasant  and 
uniwersal  fiction  ? '  " 

It  is  a  common  remark,  confirmed  by  history  and  ex- 
perience, that  great  men  rise  with  the  circumstances  in 
which  they  are  placed.  Mr.  Weller  came  out  so  strong 
in  his  capacity  of  chairman,  that  Sam  was  for  some  time 
prevented  from  speaking  by  a  grin  of  surprise,  which  held 
his  faculties  enchained,  and  at  last  subsided  in  a  long 
whistle  of  a  single  note.  Nay  the  old  gentleman  appear- 
ed even  to  have  astonished  himself,  and  that  to  no  small 
extent,  as  was  demonstrated  by  the  vast  ainount  of  chuck- 
ling in  which  he  indulged,  after  the  utterance  of  these 
lucid  remarks. 

"  Here's  the  story,"  said  Sam.  "  Vunce  upon  a  time 
there  wos  a  young  hair-dresser  as  opened  a  wery  smart 
little  shop  vith  four  wax  dummies  in  the  winder,  two 


1102 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


gen'lmen  and  two  ladies,— the  gen'lmen  vitli  blue  dots 
for  tlieir  beards,  wery  large  viskers,  ou-dacious  heads  of 
hair,  uncommon  clear  eyes,  and  nostrils  of  amazin'  pink- 
nes'A, — the  ladies  vith  their  heads  o'  one  side,  their  right 
forefingers  on  their  lips,  and  their  forms  devveloped  beau- 
tiful, in  vich  last  respect  they  had  the  adwantage  over 
the  gen'lmen,  as  wasn't  allowed  but  wery  little  shoulder, 
and  terminated  rayther  abrupt,  in  fancy  drapery.  He 
had  also  a  many  hair-brushes  and  tooth-brushes  bottled 
up  in  the  winder,  neat  glass  cases  on  the  counter,  a  fioor- 
clothed  cuttin'-room  up-stairs,  and  a  weighin'  macheen  in 
the  shop,  right  opposite  the  door  ;  but  the  great  attraction 
and  ornament  wos  the  dummies,  which  this  here  young 
hair-dresser  wos  constantly  a  runnin'  out  in  the  road  to  look 
at,  and  constantly  a  runnin'  in  agin  to  touch  up  and  polish  ; 
in  short,  he  wos  so  proud  on  'em  that  ven  Sunday  come,  he 
wos  always  wretched  and  mis'rable  to  think  they  wos 
behind  the  shutters,  and  looked  anxiously  for  Monday 
on  that  account.  Vun  o'  these  dummies  wos  a  fav'rite 
vith  him  beyond  the  others,  and  ven  any  of  his  acquaint- 
ance asked  him  wy  he  didn't  get  married, — as  the  young 
ladies  he  know'd,  in  partickler,  often  did, — he  used  to  say, 
'  Never  !  I  never  vill  enter  into  the  bonds  of  vedlock,'  he 
says,  'until  I  meet  vith  a  young  'ooman  as  realizes  my 
idea  o'  that  'ere  fairest  dummy  vith  the  light  hair.  Then 
and  not  till  then,'  he  says,  '  I  vill  approach  the  altar  ! ' 
All  the  young  ladies  he  know'd  as  had  got  dark  hair  told 
him  this  wos  wery  sinful  and  that  he  wos  wurshippin'  a 
idle,  but  them  as  wos  at  all  near  the  same  shade  as  the 
dummy  coloured  up  wery  much,  and  wos  observed  to 
think  him  a  wery  nice  young  man." 

"  Samivel,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  gravely  ;  "  a  member  o' 
this  assosiashun  bein'  one  o'  that  'ere  tender  sex  which 
is  now  immedetly  referred  to,  I  have  to  rekvest  that  you 
vill  make  ucf  reflexions." 

"  I  ain't  a  makin'  any,  am  I?"  inquired  Sam, 

"Order,  sir!"  rejoined  Mr.  Weller,  with  severe 
dignity  ;  then,  sinking  the  chairman  in  the  father,  he 
added  in  his  usual  tone  of  voice,  "  Samivel,  drive  on  !  " 

Sam  interchanged  a  smile  with  the  housekeeper,  and 
proceeded  : — 

"  The  young  hair-dresser  hadn't  been  in  the  habit  o' 
makin'  this  awowal  above  six  months,  ven  he  en-coun- 
tered a  young  lady  as  wos  the  wery  picter  o'  the  fairest 
dummy.  '  Now,'  he  says,  '  it's  all  up.  I  am  a  slave  !' 
The  young  lady  wos  not  only  the  picter  o'  the  fairest 
dummy,  but  she  wos  wery  romantic,  as  the  young  hair- 
dresser wos,  too,  and  he  says,  '  Oh  !'  he  says,  '  here's  a 
community  o'  feelin',  here's  a  flow  o'  soul  ! '  he  says, 
'here's  a  interchange  o'  sentiment!'  The  young  lady 
didn't  say  much,  o'  course,  but  she  expressed  herself 
agreeable,  and  shortly  aftervards  vent  to  see  him  vith  a 
mutual  friend.  The  hair-dresser  rushes  out  to  meet  her, 
but  d'rectly  she  sees  the  dummies  she  changes  colour 
and  falls  a  tremblin' wiolently.  'Look  up,  my  love,' 
saj'S  the  hair-dresser,  '  behold  your  imige  in  my  winder, 
but  not  corrector  than  in  my  art ! '  '  My  imige  ! '  she 
says.  '  Yourn  ! '  replies  the  hair-dresser.  '  But  whose 
image  is  that ! '  she  says,  a  pinting  at  vun  o'  the 
gen'lmen.  '  No  vun's,  my  love,'  he  says,  '  it  is  but  a 
idea.'  '  A  idea  ! '  she  cries  ;  it  is  a  portrait,  I  feel  it  is  a 
portrait,  and  that  'ere  noble  face  must  be  in  the  milling- 
tary  ! '  '  Wot  do  I  hear  ! '  says  he,  a  crumplin'  his  curls. 
'Villiam  Gibbs,'  she  says,  quite  firm,  'never  renoo  the 
subject.  I  respect  you  as  a  friend,'  she  says,  '  but  my 
affections  is  set  upon  that  manly  brow.'  '  This,'  says 
the  hair-dresser,  'is  a  reg'lar  blight,  and  in  it  I  perceive 
the  hand  of  Fate.  Farevell  !'  Vith  these  vords  he 
rushes  into  the  shop,  breaks  the  dummy's  nose  vith  a 
blow  of  his  curlin'-irons,  melts  him  down  at  the  parlour 
fire,  and  never  smiles  aftervards." 

"The  young  lady,  Mr.  Weller?"  said  the  house- 
keeper. 

"Why,  ma'am,"  said  Sam,  "finding  that  Fate  had  a 
spite  agin  her,  and  everybody  she  come  into  contact  vith, 
slie  never  smiled  neither,  but  read  a  deal  o'  poetry  and 
pined  avay, — by  rayther  slow  degrees,  for  she  an't  dead 
yet.  It  took  a  deal  o'  poetry  to  kill  the  hair-dresser,  and 
some  people  say  arter  all  that  it  was  more  the  gin  and 
water  as  caused  him  to  be  run  over  ;  p'r'aps  it  wos  a 
little  o'  both,  and  came  o'  mixing  the  two." 

The  barber  declared  that  Mr.  Weller  had  related  one 


of  the  most  interesting  stories  that  had  ever  come  within 
his  knowledge,  in  which  opinion  the  housekeeper  en- 
tirely concurred. 

"Are  you  a  married  man,  sir?"  inquired  Sam. 
The  barber  replied  that  he  had  not  that  honour. 
"  I  s'pose  you  mean  to  be  ?  "  said  Sam. 
"  Well,"  replied  the  barber,  rubbing  his  hands  smirk- 
ingly,  "  I  don't  know,  I  don't  think  it's  very  likely." 

"  That's  a  bad  sign,"  said  Sam;  "if  you'd  said  you 
meant  to  be  vun  o'  these  days,  I  should  ha'  looked  upon 
you  as  bein'  safe.     You're  in  a  wery  precarious  state," 
"  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  danger,  at  all  events," 
returned  the  barber. 

"  No  more  wos  I,  sir,"  said  the  elder  Mr.  Weller,  in- 
terposing ;  "  those  vere  my  symptoms,  exactly.  I've 
been  took  that  vay  twice.  Keep  your  vether  eye  open, 
my  friend,  or  you're  gone." 

There  was  something  so  very  solemn  about  this  ad- 
monition, both  in  its  matter  and  manner,  and  also  in  the 
way  in  which  Mr.  Weller  still  kept  his  eye  fixed  upon 
j  the  unsuspecting  victim,  that  nobody  cared  to  speak 
j  for  some  little  time,  and  might  not  have  cared  to  do  so 
!  for  some  time  longer,  if  the  housekeeper  had  not  hap- 
[  pened  to  sigh,  which  called  off  the  old  gentleman's  at- 
I  tention  and  gave  rise  to  a  gallant  inquiry  whether 
I  "  there  wos  anythin'  wery  piercin'  in  that  'ere  little 
j  heart  ?  " 

!  "Dear  me,  Mr.  Weller!"  said  the  housekeeper, 
laughing. 

"No,  but  is  there  anythin'  as  agitates  it?"  pursued 
the  old  gentleman,  "Has  it  always  been  obderrate,  al- 
ways opposed  to  the  happiness  o'  human  creeturs  ?  Eh  ? 
Has  it?" 

At  this  critical  juncture  for  her  blushes  and  confusion, 
the  housekeeper  discovered  that  more  ale  was  wanted, 
and  hastily  withdrew  into  the  cellar  to  draw  the  same, 
followed  by  the  barber  who  insisted  on  carrying  the 
candle.  Having  looked  after  her  with  a  very  complacent 
expression  of  face,  and  after  him  with  some  disdain, 
Mr.  Weller  caused  his  glance  to  travel  slowly  round  the 
kitchen  until  at  length  it  rested  on  his  son. 

"  Sammy,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  "  I  mistrust  that  barber." 

"  Wot  for?"  returned  Sam  ;  "  wot's  he  got  to  do  with 
you?  You're  a  nice  man,  you  are,  arter  pretendin'  all 
kinds  o'  terror,  to  go  a  payin'  compliments  and  talkin' 
about  hearts  and  piercers." 

The  imputation  of  gallantry  appeared  to  afford  Mr. 
Weller  the  utmost  delight,  for  he  replied  in  a  voice 
choked  by  suppressed  laughter,  and  with  the  tears  in 
his  eyes, — 

"  Wos  I  a  talkin'  about  hearts  and  piercers, — wos  I 
though,  Sammy,  eh?" 

"  Wos  you?  of  course  you  wos." 

"She  don't  know  no  better,  Sammy,  there  an't  no  harm 
in  it, — no  danger,  Sammy  ;  she's  only  a  punster.  She 
seemed  pleased,  though,  didn't  she  ?  0'  course,  she  wos 
pleased,  it's  nat'ral  she  should  be,  wery  nat'ral." 

"He's  wain  of  it!"  exclaimed  Sam,  joining  in  hil^ 
father's  mirth.    "lie's  actually  wain  !" 

"Hush  !"  replied  Mr.  Weller,  composing  his  features, 
"  they're  a  comin'  back, — the  little  heart's  a  comin'  back. 
But  mark  these  wurds  o'  mine  once  more,  and  remember 
'em  ven  your  father  says  he  said  'em.  Samivel,  I  mis- 
trust that  'ere  deceitful  barber." 

*****  •X- 

[Old  Curiosity  Shop  is  continued  to  the  end  of  the  number.  | 


X. 


MASTER  HUMPHREY  FROM  HIS  CLOCK-SIDE  IN 
THE  CHIMNEY-CORNER, 

Two  or  three  evenings  after  the  institution  of  Mr. 
Weller's  Watch,  I  thought  I  heard,  as  I  walked  in  the 
garden,  the  voice  of  Mr.  Weller  himself  at  no  great 
distance  ;  and  stopping  once  or  twice  to  listen  more  at- 
tentively, I  found  that  the  sounds  proceeded  from  my 
housekeeper's  little  sitting-room,  which  at  the  back  of 
the  house.  I  took  no  further  notice  of  the  circumstance 
at  that  time,  but  it  formed  the  subject  of  a  conversation 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 


1103 


between  me  and  my  friend  Jack  Red  burn  next  morning,  | 
when  I  found  that  I  had  not  been  deceived  in  ray  im- 
pression. Jack  furnished  me  with  the  following  par- 
ticulars ;  and  as  he  appeared  to  take  extraordinary  pleas- 
ure in  relating  them,  I  have  begged  him  in  future  to  jot 
down  any  such  domestic  scenes  or  occurrences  that  may 
please  his  humour,  in  order  that  they  may  be  told  in  his 
own  way.  I  must  confess  that,  as  Mr.  Pickwick  iand  he 
are  constantly  together,  I  have  been  influenced,  in  mak- 
ing this  request,  by  a  secret  desire  to  know  something  of 
their  proceedings. 

On  the  evening  in  question,  the  housekeeper's  room 
was  arranged  with  particular  care,  and  the  housekeeper 
herself  was  very  smartly  dressed.  The  })reparations, 
however,  were  not  confined  to  mere  showy  demonstra- 
tions, as  tea  was  prepared  for  three  persons,  with  a 
small  display  of  preserves  and  jams  and  sweet  cakes, 
which  heralded  some  uncommon  occasion.  Miss  Benton 
(my  housekeeper  bears  that  name)  was  in  a  state  of  great 
expectation,  too,  frequently  going  to  the  front  door  and 
looking  anxiously  dowu  the  lane,  and  more  than  once 
observing  to  the  servant-girl  that  she  expected  company, 
and  hoped  no  accident  had  happened  to  delay  them. 

A  modest  ring  at  the  bell  at  length  allayed  her  fears, 
and  Miss  Benton,  hurrying  into  her  own  room  and  shut- 
ting herself  up  in  order  that  she  might  preserve  that  ap- 
pearance of  being  taken  by  surprise  which  is  so  essen- 
tial to  the  polite  reception  of  visitors,  awaited  their 
coming  with  a  smiling  countenance. 

"Good  ev'niu',  mum,"  said  the  older  Mr.  Weller, 
looking  in  at  the  door  after  a  prefatory  tap.  "I'm 
afeerd  we've  come  in  rayther  arter  the  time,  mum,  but 
the  young  colt  being  full  o'  wice,  has  been  a  boltin* 
and  shyin'  and  gettin'  his  leg  over  the  traces  to  sich  a 
extent  that  if  he  an't  wery  soon  broke  in,  he'll  wex  me 
into  a  broken  heart,  and  then  he'll  never  be  brought  out 
no  more  except  to  learn  his  letters  from  the  writin'  on 
his  grandfather's  tombstone." 

With  these  pathetic  words,  which  were  addressed  to 
something  outside  the  door  about  two  feet  six  from  the 
ground,  Mr.  Weller  introduced  a  very  small  boy  firmly 
set  upon  a  couple  of  very  sturdy  legs,  who  looked  as  if 
nothing  could  ever  knock  him  down.  Besides  having  a 
very  round  face  strongly  resembling  Mr.  Weller's,  and  a 
stout  little  body  of  exactly  his  build,  this  young  gentle- 
man, standing  with  his  little  legs  very  wide  apart  as  if 
the  top-boots  were  familiar  to  them,  actually  winked 
upon  the  housekeeper  with  his  infant  eye,  in  imitation 
of  his  grandfather, 

"There's  a  naughty  boy,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Weller, 
bursting  with  delight,  "  there's  a  immoral  Tony.  Wos 
there  ever  a  little  chap  o'  four  year  and  eight  months 
old  as  vinked  his  eye  at  a  strange  lady  afore  ?" 

As  little  affected  by  this  observation  as  by  the  former 
appeal  to  his  feelings,  Master  Weller  elevated  in  the  air 
a  small  model  of  a  coach  whip  which  he  carried  in  his 
hand,  and  addressing  the  housekeeper  with  a  shrill  "  ya 
— hip  !"  inquired  if  she  was  "  going  down  the  road"  ; 
at  which  happy  adaptation  of  a  lesson  he  had  been  taught 
from  infancy,  Mr.  Weller  could  restrain  his  feelings  no 
longer,  but  gave  him  twopence  on  the  spot. 

"It's  in  wain  to  deny  it,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Weller, 
"this  here  is  a  boy  arter  his  grandfather's  own  heart, 
and  beats  out  all  the  boys  as  ever  wos  or  will  be.  Though 
at  the  same  time,  mum,"  added  Mj.  Weller,  trying  to 
look  gravely  down  upon  his  favourite,  "it  was  wery 

wrong  on  him  to  want  to          over  all  the  posts  as  we 

come  along,  and  wery  cruel  on  him  to  force  poor  grand- 
father to  lift  him  cross-legged  over  every  vun  of  'em. 
He  wouldn't  pass  vun  single  blessed  post,  mum,  and  at 
the  top  o'  the  lane  there's  seven-and-forty  on  'em  all  in 
a  row,  and  wery  close  together." 

Here  Mr.  Weller,  whose  feelings  were  in  a  perpetual 
conflict  between  pride  in  his  grandson's  achievements, 
and  a  sense  of  his  own  responsibility  and  the  importance 
of  impressing  him  with  moral  truths,  burst  into  a  fit  of 
laughter,  and  suddenly  checking  himself,  remarked  in  a 
severe  tone  that  little  boys  as  made  their  grandfathers 
put  'em  over  posts  never  went  to  heaven  at  any  price. 

By  this  time  the  housekeeper  had  made  tea,  and  little 
Tony,  placed  on  a  chair  beside  her,  with  his  eyes  nearly 
on  a  level  with  the  top  of  the  table,  was  provided  with 


I  various  delicacies  which  yielded  him  extreme  content- 
ment. The  housekeeper  (who  seemed  rather  afraid  of 
the  child,  notwithstanding  her  caresses)  then  patted  him 
on  the  head  and  declared  that  he  was  the  finest  boy  she 
had  ever  seen. 

"  Wy,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  "  I  don't  think  you'll 
see  a  many  sich,  and  that's  the  truth.  But  if  my  son 
Samivel  vould  give  me  my  vay,  mum,  and  only  dis-pense 
vith  his — mifjht  1  wenter  to  say  the  vurd  ?  " 

"What  word,  Mr,  W^eller?"  said  the  housekeeper, 
blushing  slightly. 

"Petticuts,  mum,"  returned  that  gentleman,  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  garments  of  liis  grandson,  "If  my 
son  Samivel,  mum,  vould  only  dis-pense  vith  these  here, 
you'd  see  such  a  alteration  in  his  appearance,  as  the  im- 
agination can't  depicter." 

"  But  what  would  you  have  the  child  wear  instead, 
Mr.  W^eller  ?  "  said  the  housekeeper, 

"  I've  offered  my  son  Samivel,  mum,  agen  and  agen," 
returned  the  old  gentleman,  "  to  purwide  him  at  my  own 
cost  vith  a  suit  o'  clothes  as  'ud  be  the  makin'  on  him, 
and  form  his  mind  in  infancy  for  those  pursuits  as  I  hof)e 
the  family  o'  the  Vellers  vill  alvays  dewote  themselves 
to.  Tony,  my  boy,  tell  the  lady  wot  the  clothes  are,  as 
grandfather  says,  father  ought  to  let  you  vear." 

"  A  little  white  hat  and  a  little  sprig  weskut  and  little 
knee  cords  and  little  top-boots  and  a  little  green  coat 
with  little  bright  buttons  and  a  little  welwet  collar," 
replied  Tony,  with  great  readiness  and  no  stops. 

"That's  the  cos-toom,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  look- 
ing proudly  at  the  housekeeper,  "Once  make  sich  a 
model  on  him  as  that,  and  you'd  say  he  wos  a  angel  ! " 

Perhaps  the  housekeeper  thought  that  in  such  a  guise 
young  Tony  would  look  more  like  the  angel  at  Islington 
than  anything  else  of  that  name,  or  perhaps  she  was  dis- 
concerted to  find  her  previously  conceived  ideas  dis- 
turbed, as  angels  are  not  commonly  represented  in  top- 
boots  and  sprig  waistcoats.  She  coughed  doubtfully, 
but  said  nothing. 

"  How  many  brothers  and  sisters  have  you,  my  dear  ?  " 
she  asked,  after  a  short  silence. 

"One  brother  and  no  sister  at  all,"  replied  Tony. 
"  Sam  his  name  is,  and  so's  my  father's.  Do  you  know 
my  father?" 

"  0  yes,  I  know  him,"  said  the  housekeeper,  graciously. 
"  Is  my  father  fond  of  you  ?  "  pursued  Tony. 
"  I  hope  so,"  rejoined  the  smiling  housekeeper. 
Tony  considered  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "Is  my 
grandfather  fond  of  you?" 

This  would  seem  a  very  easy  question  to  answer,  but 
instead  of  replying  to  it,  the  housekeeper  smiled  in  great 
confusion,  and  said  that  really  children  did  ask  such 
extraordinary  qtiestions  that  it  was  the  most  difficult 
thing  in  the  world  to  talk  to  them.  Mr.  Weller  took 
upon  himself  to  reply  that  he  was  very  fond  of  the  lady  ; 
but  the  housekeeper  entreating  that  he  would  not  put 
such  things  into  the  child's  head,  Mr.  Weller  shook  his 
own  while  she  looked  another  way,  and  seemed  to  be 
troubled  with  a  misgiving  that  captivation  was  in  prog- 
ress. It  was,  perhaps,  on  this  account  that  he  changed 
the  subject  precipitately. 

"  It's  wery  wrong  in  little  boys  to  make  game  o'  their 
grandfathers,  ain't  it,  mtim?"  said  Mr.  Weller,  shaking 
his  head  waggishly,  until  Tony  looked  at  him,  when  he 
counterfeited  the  deepest  dejection  and  sorrow. 

"0,  very  sad!"  assented  the  housekeeper.  "But  I 
hope  no  little  boys  do  that  ?  " 

"There  is  vun  young  Turk,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Weller, 
"as  havin'  seen  his  grandfather  a  little  overcome  vith 
drink  on  the  occasion  of  a  friend's  birthday,  goes  a  reelin' 
and  staggerin'  abotit  the  house,  and  makin'  believe  that 
he's  the  old  gen'lm'n." 

"  0,  quite  shocking  ! "  cried  the  housekeeper. 
"Yes,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  "and  prevously  to  so 
doin',  this  here  young  traitor  that  I'm  a  speakin'  of, 
pinches  his  little  nose  to  make  it  red,  and  then  he  gives  a 
hiccup  and  says,  'I'm  all  right,'  he  says,  'give  us  an- 
other song!'  Ha,  Ha!  'Give  us  another  song,'  he 
says.    Ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

In  his  excessive  delight,  Mr.  Weller  was  quite  un- 
mindful of  his  moral  responsibility,  until  little  Tony 
kicked  up  his  legs,  and  laughing  immoderately,  cried. 


1104 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS, 


That  was  me,  tliat  was  whereupon  the  grandfather, 
by  a  g-reat  effort,  became  extremely  solemn. 

"  No,  Tony,  not  you,"  said  Mr.  Weller.  "  I  hope  it 
warn't  you,  Tony.  It  must  ha'  been  that  'ere  naughty 
little  cliap  as  comes  sometimes  out  o'  the  empty  watch- 
box  round  the  corner, — that  same  little  chap  as  wos  found 
standing  on  the  table  afore  the  looking-glass,  pretending 
to  shave  himself  vith  a  oyster-knife." 

"  He  didn't  hurt  himself,  I  hope  ?  "  observed  the  house- 
Iceeper. 

"Not  he,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  proudly;  "  bless 
your  heart,  you  might  trust  that  'ere  boy  vith  a  steam- 
engine  a'most,  he's  such  a  knowin'  young" — but  sud- 
denly recollecting  himself  and  observing  that  Tony  per- 
fectly understood  and  appreciated  the  compliment,  the 
old  gentleman  groaned  and  observed  that  "it  wos  all 
wery  shockin' — wery." 

"0,  he's  a  bad  'un,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  "is  that  'ere 
watch-box  boy,  makin'  such  a  noise  and  litter  in  the 
back  yard,  he  does,  waterin'  wooden  horses  and  feedin' 
of  'em  vith  grass,  and  perpetivally  spillin'  his  little 
brother  out  of  a  veelbarrow  and  frightenin'  his  mother 
out  of  her  vits,  at  the  wery  moment  wen  she's  expectin' 
to  increase  his  stock  of  happiness  vith  another  play-fel- 
ler,— 0,  he's  a  bad  one  !  He's  even  gone  so  far  as  to  put 
on  a  pair  o'  paper  spectacles  as  he  got  his  father  to  make 
for  him,  and  walk  up  and  down  the  garden  vith  his 
hands  behind  him  in  imitation  of  Mr.  Pickwick, — but 
Tony  don't  do  sich  things,  O  no  ! " 

"  0  no  ! "  echoed  Tony. 

"He  knows  better,  he  does,"  said  Mr.  Weller.  "He 
knows  that  if  he  wos  to  come  sich  games  as  these  no- 
body wouldn't  love  him,  and  that  his  grandfather  in  par- 
tickler  couldn't  a  bear  the  sight  on  him  ;  for  vich  rea- 
sons Tony's  always  good." 

"  Always  good,"  echoed  Tony  ;  and  his  grandfather 
immediately  took  him  on  his  knee  and  kissed  him,  at 
the  same  time,  with  many  nods  and  winks,  slyly  pointing 
at  the  child's  head  with  his  thumb,  in  order  that  the 
housekeeper,  otherwise  deceived  by  the  admirable  man- 
ner in  which  he  (Mr.  Weller)  had  sustained  his  charac- 
ter, might  not  suppose  that  any  other  young  gentleman 
was  referred  to,  and  might  clearly  understand  that  the 
boy  of  the  watch-box  was  but  an  imaginary  creation, 
and  a  fetch  of  Tony  himself,  invented  for  his  improve- 
ment and  reformation. 

Not  confining  himself  to  a  mere  verbal  description  of 
his  grandson's  abilities,  Mr.  Weller,  when  tea  was  fin- 
ished, invited  him  by  various  gifts  of  pence  and  half- 
pence to  smoke  imaginary  pipes,  drink  visionary  beer 
from  real  pots,  imitate  his  grandfather  without  reserve, 
and  in  particular  to  go  through  the  drunken  scene,  which 
threw  the  old  gentileman  into  ecstasies  and  filled  the 
housekeeper  with  wonder.  Nor  was  Mr.  Weller's  pride 
satisfied  with  even  this  display,  for  when  he  took  his 
leave  he  carried  the  child,  like  some  rare  and  astonishing 
curiosity,  first  to  the  barber's  house  and  afterwards  to 
the  tobacconist's,  at  each  of  which  places  he  repeated 
his  performances  with  the  utmost  effect  to  applauding 
and  delighted  audiences.  It  was  half  past  nine  o'clock 
when  Mr.  Weller  was  last  seen  carrying  him  home  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  it  has  been  whispered  abroad  that  at 
that  time  the  infant  Tony  was  rather  intoxicated.* 

[Maf  ter  Humphrey  is  revived  thus  at  the  close  of  The  Old  Curiosity- 
Shop,  merely  to  introduce  Barnaby  Eudge.j 

I  was  musing  the  other  evening  upon  the  characters 
and  incidents  with  which  1  had  been  so  long  engaged  ; 
wondering  liow  I  could  ever  have  looked  forward  with 
pleasure  to  the  completion  of  my  tale,  and  reproaching 
myself  for  having  done  so,  as  if  it  were  a  kind  of  cruelty 
to  those  companions  of  my  solitude  whom  I  had  now 
dismissed,  and  could  never  again  recall  ;  when  my  clock 
struck  ten.    Punctual  to  the  hour,  my  friends  appeared. 

On  our  last  night  of  meeting,  we  had  finished  the 
story  which  the  reader  has  just  concluded.  Our  conver- 
sation took  the  same  current  as  the  meditations  which 
the  entrance  of  my  friends  had  interrupted,  and  The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop  was  the  staple  of  our  discourse. 

*  Old  Curiosity  Shop  is  continued  from  here  to  the  end  without 
further  break. 


I  may  confide  to  the  reader  now,  that  in  connection 
with  this  little  history  I  had  something  upon  my  mind  ; 
something  to  communicate  which  I  had  all  along  with 
difficulty  repressed  ;  something  I  had  deemed  it,  during 
the  progress  of  the  story,  necessary  to  its  interest  to  dis- 
guise, and  which,  now  that  it  was  over,  1  wished,  and 
was  yet  reluctant  to  disclose. 

To  conceal  anything  from  those  to  whom  I  am  attached, 
is  not  in  my  nature.  I  can  never  close  my  lips  where 
I  have  opened  my  heart.  This  temper,  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  having  done  some  violence  to  it  in  my  narra 
tive,  laid  me  under  a  restraint  which  I  should  have  had 
great  difficulty  in  overcoming,  but  for  a  timely  remark 
from  Mr.  Miles,  who,  as  I  hinted  in  a  former  paper,  is  a 
gentleman  of  business  habits,  and  of  great  exactness  and 
propriety  in  all  his  transactions. 

"  I  could  have  wished,"  my  friend  objected,  "  that  we 
had  been  made  acquainted  with  the  single  gentleman's 
name.  I  don't  like  his  withholding  his  name.  It  made  me 
look  upon  him  at  first  with  suspicion,  and  caused  me  to 
doubt  his  moral  character,  t  assure  you.  I  am  fully  sat- 
isfied by  this  time  of  his  being  a  worthy  creature,  but  in 
this  respect  he  certainly  would  not  appear  to  have  acted 
at  all  like  a  man  of  business." 

"My  friends,"  said  I,  drawing  to  the  table,  at  which 
they  were  by  tliis  time  seated  in  their  usual  chairs,  "  do 
you  remember  that  this  story  bore  another  title  besides 
that  one  we  have  so  often  heard  of  late  ?  " 

Mr.  Miles  had  his  pocket-book  out  in  an  instant,  and 
referring  to  an  entry  therein,  rejoined,  "Certainly.  Per- 
sonal Adventures  of  Master  Humphrey.  Here  it  is.  I 
made  a  note  of  it  at  the  time." 

I  was  about  to  resume  what  I  had  to  tell  them,  when 
the  same  Mr  Miles  again  interrupted  me,  observing  that 
the  narrative  originated  in  a  personal  adventure  of  my 
own,  and  that  was  no  doubt  the  reason  for  its  being  thus 
designated. 

This  led  me  to  the  point  at  once. 

"  You  will  one  and  all  forgive  me,"  I  returned,  "  if, 
for  the  greater  convenience  of  the  story,  and  for  its  bet- 
ter introduction,  that  adventure  was  fictitious.  I  had  my 
share,  indeed, — no  light  or  trivial  one, — in  the  pages  we 
have  read,  but  it  was  not  the  share  I  feigned  to  have  at 
first.  The  younger  brother,  the  single  gentleman,  the 
nameless  actor  in  this  little  drama,  stands  before  you 
now," 

It  was  easy  to  see  they  had  not  expected  this  disclos- 
ure. 

"  Yes,"  I  pursued.  "  I  can  look  back  upon  my  part 
in  it  with  a  calm,  half-smiling  pity  for  myself  as  for 
some  other  man.  But  I  am  he,  indeed  ;  and  now  the 
chief  sorrows  of  my  life  are  yours." 

I  need  not  say  what  true  gratification  I  derived  from 
the  sympathy  and  kindness  with  which  this  acknowledg- 
ment was  received  ;  nor  how  often  it  had  risen  to  my 
lips  before  ;  nor  how  difficult  I  had  found  it — how  im- 
possible, when  I  came  to  those  passages  which  touched 
me  most,  and  most  nearly  concerned  me — to  sustain  the 
character  I  had  assumed.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  I  re- 
placed in  the  clock-case  the  record  of  so  many  trials, — 
sorrowfully,  it  is  true,  but  with  a  softened  sorrow  which 
was  almost  pleasure  ;  and  felt  that  in  living  through  the 
past  again,  and  communicating  to  others  the  lesson  it 
had  helped  to  teach  me,  I  had  been  a  happier  man. 

We  lingered  so  long  over  the  leaves  from  which  I  had 
read,  that  as  I  consigned  them  to  their  former  resting- 
place,  the  hand  of  my  trusty  clock  pointed  to  twelve, 
and  there  came  towards  us  upon  the  wind  the  voice  of 
the  deep  and  distant  bell  of  St.  Paul's  as  it  struck  the 
hour  of  midnight. 

"This,"  said  I,  returning  with  a  manuscript  I  had 
taken  at  the  moment,  from  the  same  repository,  "to  be 
opened  to  such  music,  should  be  a  tale  where  London's 
face  by  night  is  darkly  seen,  and  where  some  deed  of 
such  a  time  as  this  is  dimly  shadowed  out.  Which 
of  us  here  has  seen  the  w^orking  of  that  great  macliinr 
whose  voice  has  just  now  ceased  ?  " 

Mr.  Pickwick  had,  of  course,  and  so  had  Mr.  Miles. 
Jack  and  my  deaf  friend  were  in  the  minority. 

I  had  seen  it  but  a  few  days  before,  and  could  not 
help  telling  them  of  the  fancy  I  had  had  about  it. 

I  paid  my  fee  of  twopence  upon  entering,  to  one  of  the 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 


1105 


money-cliangerf?  who  sit\v^tliin  the  Temple  ;  and  falling-, 
after  a  few  turns  up  and  down,  into  the  quiet  train  of 
thought  which  such  a  place  awakens,  paced  the  echoing 
stones  like  some  old  monk  whose  present  world  lay  all 
(Within  its  walls.  As  I  looked  afar  up  into  the  lofty  dome, 
I  could  not  help  wondering  what  were  his  reflections 
whose  genius  reared  that  mighty  pile,  when,  the  last  small 
wedge  of  timber  fixed,  the  last  nail  driven  into  its  homo 
for  many  centuries,  the  clang  of  hammers,  and  the  hum 
of  busy  voices  gone,  and  the  Great  Silence  whole  years 
of  noise  had  helped  to  make,  reigning  undisturbed 
around,  he  mused,  as  I  did  now,  upon  his  work,  and  lost 
himself  amid  its  vast  extent.  I  could  not  quite  deter- 
mine whether  the  contemplation  of  it  would  impress  him 
with  a  sense  of  greatness  or  of  insignificance  ;  but  when  I 
remembered  how  long  a  time  it  had  taken  to  erect,  in 
how  short  a  space  it  might  be  traversed  even  to  its  re- 
motest parts,  for  how  brief  a  term  he,  or  any  of  those 
who  cared  to  bear  his  name,  would  live  to  see  it  or  know 
of  its  existence,  I  imagined  him  far  more  melancholy 
than  proud,  and  looking  with  regret  upon  his  labour 
done.  With  these  thoughts  in  my  mind,  I  began  to 
ascend,  almost  unconsciously,  the  flight  of  steps  leading 
to  the  several  wonders  of  the  building,  and  found  my- 
self before  a  barrier  where  another  money-taker  sat, 
who  demanded  which  among  them  I  would  choose  to 
see.  There  were  the  stone  gallery,  he  said,  and  the 
whispering-galler}",  the  geometrical  staircase,  the  room 
of  models,  the  clock — the  clock  being  quite  in  my  way, 
I  stopped  him  there,  and  chose  that  sight  from  all  the 
rest. 

I  groped  my  way  into  the  Turret  which  it  occupies, 
and  saw  before  me,  in  a  kind  of  loft,  what  seemed  to  be 
a  great,  old  oaken  press  with  folding  doors.  These,  be- 
ing thrown  back  by  the  attendant  (who  was  sleeping  when 
I  came  upon  him,  and  looked  a  drowsy  fellow,  as  though 
his  close  companionship  with  Time  had  made  him  quite 
indifferent  to  it),  disclosed  a  complicated  crowd  of  wheels 
and  chains  in  iron  and  brass, — great,  sturdy,  rattling  en- 
gines,— suggestive  of  breaking  a  finger  put  in  here  or 
there,  and  grinding  the  bone  to  powder, — and  these  were 
the  Clock  !  Its  very  pulse,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  was 
like  no  other  clock.  It  did  not  mark  the  flight  of  every 
moment  with  a  gentle  second  stroke,  as  though  it  would 
check  old  Time,  and  have  him  stay  his  place  in  pity,  but 
measured  it  with  one  sledge-hammer  beat,  as  if  its  busi- 
ness were  to  crush  the  seconds  as  they  came  trooping  on, 
and  remorselessly  to  clear  a  path  before  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment. 

I  sat  down  opposite  to  it,  and  hearing  its  regular  and 
never- changing  voice,  that  one  deep  constant  note,  up- 
permost amongst  all  the  noise  and  clatter  in  the  streets 
below, — marking  that,  let  that  tumult  rise  or  fall,  go  on 
or  stop, — let  it  be  night  or  noon,  to-morrow  or  to-day, 
this  year  or  next, — it  still  performed  its  functions  with 
the  same  dull  constancy,  and  regulated  the  progress  of 
the  life  around,  the  fancy  came  upon  me  that  this  was 
London's  heart,  and  that  when  it  should  cease  to  beat, 
the  City  would  be  no  more. 

It  is  night.  Calm  and  unmoved  amidst  the  scenes  that 
darkness  favours,  the  great  heart  of  London  throbs  in  its 
Giant  breast.  Wealtli  and  beggary,  vice  and  virtue, 
guilt  and  innocence,  replfti^n  ?."d  the  direst  hunger,  all 
treading  on  each  other  and  crowding  together,  are  gath- 
ered round  it.  Draw  but  a  little  circle  above  the  clus- 
tering house-tops,  and  you  shall  have  within  its  space 
everything,  with  its  opposite  extreme  and  contradiction, 
close  beside.  Where  yonder  feeble  light  is  shining,  a 
man  is  but  this  moment  dead.  The  taper  at  a  few  yards' 
distance  is  seen  by  eyes  that  have  this  instant  opened  on 
the  world.  There  are  two  houses  separated  by  but  an 
inch  or  two  of  wall.  In  one,  there  are  quiet  minds  at 
rest  ;  in  the  other,  a  waking  conscience  that  one  might 
think  would  trouble  the  very  air.  In  that  close  corner 
where  the  roofs  shrink  down  and  cower  together  as  if 
to  hide  their  secrets  from  the  handsome  street  hard  by, 
there  are  such  dark  crimes,  such  miseries  and  horrors, 
as  couJd  be  hardly  told  in  whispers.  In  the  handsome 
street,  there  are  folks  asleep  who  have  dwelt  there  all 
their  lives,  and  have  no  more  knowledge  of  these  things 
than  if  they  had  never  been,  or  were  transacted  at  the 
remotest  limits  of  the  world, — who,  if  they  were  hinted 
Vol.  II.— 70 


at,  would  shake  their  heads,  look  wise,  and  frown,  and 
say  they  were  impossible,  and  out  of  Nature, — as  if  all 
great  towns  were  not.  Does  not  this  Heart  of  London, 
that  nothing  moves,  nor  stops,  nor  quickens, — that  goes 
on  the  same  let  what  will  be  done, — does  it  not  express 
the  city's  character  well  I 

The  day  begins  to  break,  and  soon  there  is  the  hum 
and  noise  of  life.  Those  who  have  spent  the  night  on 
doorsteps  and  cold  stones  crawl  off  to  beg ;  they  who 
have  slept  in  beds  come  forth  to  their  occupation,  too, 
and  business  is  astir.  The  fog  of  sleep  rolls  slowly  off, 
and  London  shines  awake.  The  streets  are  filled  with 
carriages,  and  jjeople  gayly  clad.  The  jails  are  full,  too, 
to  the  throat,  nor  have  the  workhouses  or  hospitals  much 
room  to  spare.  The  courts  of  law  are  crowded.  Taverns 
have  their  regular  frequenters  by  this  time,  and  every 
mart  of  traffic  has  its  throng.  Each  of  these  places  is  a 
Avorld,  and  has  its  own  inhabitants  ;  each  is  distinct 
from,  and  almost  unconscious  of  the  existence  of  any 
other.  There  are  some  few  people  well  to  do,  who  re- 
member to  have  heard  it  said,  that  numbers  of  men  and 
women — thousands,  they  think  it  was — get  up  in  London 
every  day,  unknowing  where  to  lay  their  heads  at  night  ; 
and  that  there  are  quarters  of  the  town  where  misery 
and  famine  always  are.  They  don't  believe  it  quite, — 
there  may  be  some  truth  in  it,  but  it  is  exaggerated,  of 
course.  So,  each  of  these  thousand  worlds  goes  on,  in- 
tent upon  itself,  until  night  comes  again, — first  with  its 
lights  and  pleasures,  and  its  cheerful  streets  ;  tken  v/ith 
its  guilt  and  darkness. 

Heart  of  London,  there  is  a  moral  in  thy  every  stroke  ; 
as  I  look  on  at  thy  indomitable  working,  which  neither 
death,  nor  press  of  life,  nor  grief,  nor  gladness  out  of 
doors  will  influence  one  jot,  I  seem  to  hear  a  voice  with- 
in thee  which  sinks  into  my  heart,  bidding  me,  as  I 
elbow  my  way  among  the  crowd,  have  some  thought  for 
the  meanest  wretch  that  passes,  and,  being  a  man,  to 
turn  away  with  scorn  and  pride  from  none  that  bear  the 
human  shape. 

I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  I  might  not  have  been 
tempted  to  enlarge  upon  the  subject,  had  not  the  papers 
that  lay  before  me  on  the  table  been  a  silent  reproach 
for  even  this  digression.  I  took  them  up  again  when  1 
had  got  thus  far,  and  seriously  prepared  to  read. 

The  handwriting  was  strange  to  me,  for  the  manuscript 
had  been  fairly  copied.  As  it  is  against  our  rules,  in 
such  a  case,  to  inquire  into  the  authorship  until  the 
reading  is  concluded,  I  could  only  glance  at  the  different 
faces  round  me,  in  search  of  some  expression  which 
should  betray  the  writer.  Whoever  he  might  be,  he 
was  prepared  for  this,  and  gave  no  sign  for  my  enlighten- 
ment. 

I  had  the  papers  in  my  hand,  when  my  deaf  friend  in- 
terposed with  a  suggestion. 

"  It  has  occurred  to  me,"  he  said,  "bearing  in  mind 
your  sequel  to  the  tale  we  have  finished,  that  if  such  of 
us  as  have  anything  to  relate  of  our  own  lives  could  in- 
terweave it  with  our  contribution  to  the  Clock,  it  would 
be  well  to  do  so.  This  need  be  no  restraint  upon  us, 
either  as  to  time,  or  place,  or  incident,  since  any  real 
passage  of  this  kind  may  be  surrounded  by  fictitious  cir- 
cumstances, and  represented  by  fictitious  characters. 
What  if  we  make  this  an  article  of  agreement  among 
ourselves?" 

The  proposition  w^as  cordially  received,  but  the  diflfi- 
culty  appeared  to  be  that  here  was  a  long  story  written 
before  we  had  thought  of  it. 

"  Unless,''  said  I,"  "  it  should  have  happened  that  the 
writer  of  this  tale, — which  is  not  impossible,  for  men 
are  apt  to  do  so  when  they  Avrite, — has  actually  mingled 
with  it  something  of  his  own  endurance  and  experience." 

Nobody  spoke.  but  I  thought  I  detected  in  one  quarter 
that  this  was  really  the  case. 

"  If  I  have  no  assurance  to  the  contrary,"  T  added, 
therefore,  "I  shall  take  it  for  granted  that  he  has  done 
so,  and  that  even  these  papers  come  within  our  new 
agreement.  Everybody  being  mute,  we  hold  that  under- 
standing, if  you  please." 

And  here  I  was  about  to  begin  again,  when  Jack  in- 
formed us  softly,  that  during  the  progress  of  our  last 
narrative,  Mr.  Weller's  Watch  had  adjourned  its  sit- 


1106 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


tings  from  t"he  kitclien,  and  regularly  met  outside  our 
door,  where  he  had  no  doubt  that  august  body  would  be 
found  at  the  present  moment.  As  this  was  for  the  con- 
venience of  listening  to  our  stories,  he  submitted  that 
they  might  be  suffered  to  come  in,  and  hear  them  more 
pleasantly. 

To  this  we  one  and  all  yielded  a  ready  assent,  and  the 
party  being  discovered,  as  Jack  had  supposed,  and  in- 
vited to  walk  in,  entered  (though  not  without  great  con- 
fusion at  having  been  detected),  and  were  accommodated 
with  chairs  at  a  little  distance. 

Then,  the  lamp  being  trimmed,  the  fire  well  stirred 
and  burning  brightly,  the  hearth  clean  swept,  the  cur- 
tains closely  drav/n,  the  clock  wound  up,  we  entered  on 
our  new  storv, — Barnaby  Rudge. 

*         *         *         *  * 


[Tliis  is,  as  indicated,  the  final  appearance  of  Master  Humphrey's 
Clock.   It  forms  the  conclusion  of  Barnaby  Rudge.] 

It  is  again  midnight.  My  fire  burns  cheerfully  ;  the 
room  is  filled  Avith  my  old  friend's  sober  voice  ;  and  I  am 
left  to  muse  upon  the  story  we  have  just  now  finished. 

It  makes  me  smile,  at  such  a  time  as  this,  to  think  if 
there  were  any  one  to  see  me  sitting  in  my  easy-chair, 
my  gray  head  hanging  down,  my  eyes  bent  thoughtfully 
upon  the  glowing  embers,  and  my  crutch — emblem  o*f 
my  helplessness — lying  upon  the  hearth  at  my  feet,  how 
solitary'I  should  seem.  Yet  though  I  am  the  sole  tenant 
of  this  chimney-corner,  though  I  am  childless  and  old, 
I  have  no  sense  of  loneliness  at  this  hour  ;  but  am  the 
centre  of  a  silent  group  whose  company  I  love. 

Thus,  even  age  and  weakness  have  their  consolations. 
If  I  were  a  younger  man,  if  I  were  more  active,  more 
strongly  bound  and  tied  to  life,  these  visionary  friends 
would  shun  me,  or  I  should  desire  to  fly  from  them. 
Being  what  I  am,  I  can  court  their  society,  and  delight 
in  it ;  and  pass  whole  hours  in  picturing  to  myself  the 
shadows  that  perchance  flock  every  night  into  this  cham- 
ber, and  in  imagining  with  pleasure  what  kind  of  inter- 
est they  have  in  the  frail,  feeble  mortal,  who  is  its  sole 
inhabitant. 

All  the  friends  I  have  ever  lost  I  find  again  among 
these  visitors.  I  love  to  fancy  their  spirits  hovering 
about  me,  feeling  still  some  earthly  kindness  for  their 
old  companion,  and  watching  his  decay.  "  He  is  weaker, 
he  declines  apace,  he  draws  nearer  and  nearer  to  us,  and 
will  soon  be  conscious  of  our  existence."  What  is  there 
to  alarm  me  in  this?    It  is  encouragement  and  hope. 

These  thoughts  have  never  crowded  on  me  half  so  fast 
as  they  have  done  to-night.  Faces  I  had  long  forgotten 
have  become  familiar  to  me  once  again  ;  traits  I  had  en- 
deavoured to  recall  for  years  have  come  befo-re  me  in  an 
instant  ;  nothing  is  changed  but  me  ;  and  even  I  can  be 
my  former  self  at  will. 

Raising  my  eyes  but  now  to  the  face  of  my  old  clock, 
I  remember,  quite  involuntarily,  the  veneration,  not 
unmixed  with  a  sort  of  childish  awe,  with  which  I  used 
to  sit  and  watch  it  as  it  ticked  unheeded  in  a  dark  stair- 
case corner.  I  recollect  looking  more  grave  and  steady 
when  I  met  its  dusty  face,  as  if,  having  that  strange 
kind  of  life  within  it,  and  being  free  from  all  excess  of 
vulgar  appetite,  and  warning  all  the  house  by  night  and 
day,  it  were  a  sage.  How  often  have  I  listened  to  it  as 
it  told  the  beads  of  time,  and  wondered  at  its  constancy  ! 
How  often  watched  it  slowly  pointing  round  the  dial, 
and,  while  I  panted  for  the  eagerly  expected  hour  to 
come,  admired,  despite  myself,  its  steadiness  of  purpose 
and  lofty  freedom  from  all  human  strife,  impatience, 
and  desire  ! 

I  thought  it  cruel  once.  It  was  very  hard  of  heart,  to 
my  mind,  I  remember.  It  was  an  old  servant  even 
then  ;  and  I  felt  as  though  it  ought  to  show  some  sor- 
row ;  as  though  it  wanted  sympathy  with  us  in  our  dis- 
tress, and  were  a  dull,  heartless,  mercenary  creature. 
Ah  !  how  soon  I  learnt  to  know  that  in  its  ceaseless  go- 
ing on,  and  in  its  being  checked  or  stayed  by  nothing, 
lay  its  greatest  kindness,  and  the  only  balm  for  grief  and 
wounded  peace  of  mind  ! 

To-niglit,  to-night,  when  this  tranquillity  and  calm  are 
on  my  spirits,  and  memory  ])resents  so  many  shifting 
scenes  before  me,  I  take  my  quiet  stand  at  will  by  many 


a  fire  that  has  been  long  extinguished,  and  mingle  with 
the  cheerful  group  that  cluster  round  it.  If  I  could  be 
sorrowful  in  such  a  mood,  1  should  grow  sad  to  think 
what  a  poor  blot  I  was  upon  their  youth  and  beauty 
once,  and  now  how  few  remain  to  put  me  to  the  blush  ; 
I  should  grow  sad  to  think  that  such  among  them  as 
I  sometimes  meet  with  in  my  daily  walks  are  scarcely 
less  infirm  than  I ;  that  time  has  brought  us  to  a  level ; 
and  that  all  distinctions  fade  and  vanish  as  we  take  our 
trembling  steps  towards  the  grave. 

But  memory  was  given  us  for  better  purposes  than 
this,  and  mine  is  not  a  torment,  but  a  source  of  pleasure. 
To  muse  upon  the  gayety  and  youth  1  have  known  sug- 
gests to  me  glad  scenes  of  harmless  mirth  that  may  be 
passing  now.  From  contemplating  them  apart,  I  soon 
become  an  actor  in  these  little  dramas  ;  and  humouring 
my  fancy,  lose  myself  among  the  beings  it  invokes. 

When  my  fire  is  bright  and  high,  and  a  warm  blush 
mantles  in  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  this  ancient  room  ; 
Avhen  my  clock  makes  cheerful  music,  like  one  of  those 
chir]3ing  insects  who  delight  in  the  warm  hearth,  and 
are  sometimes,  by  a  good  superstition,  looked  upon  as 
the  harbingers  of  fortune  and  plenty  to  that  household 
in  whose  mercies  they  put  their  humble  trust  ;  when 
everything  is  in  a  ruddy,  genial  glow,  and  there  are 
voices  in  the  crackling  flame,  and  smiles  in  its  flashing 
light ;  other  smiles  and  other  voices  congregate  around 
me,  invading,  with  their  pleasant  harmony,  the  silence 
of  the  time. 

For  then  a  knot  of  youthful  creatures  gather  round 
my  fireside,  and  the  room  re-echoes  to  their  merry  voices. 
My  solitary  chair  no  longer  holds  its  ample  place  before 
the  fire,  but  is  wheeled  into  a  smaller  corner,  to  leave 
more  room  for  the  broad  circle  formed  about  the  cheer- 
ful hearth.  I  have  sons,  and  daughters,  and  grand- 
children ;  and  we  are  assembled  on  some  occasion  of  re- 
joicing common  to  iis  all.  It  is  a  birthday,  perhaps,  or 
perhaps  it  may  be  Christmas  time  ;  but  be  it  what  it 
may,  there  is  rare  holiday  among  us  ;  we  are  full  of 
glee. 

In  the  chimney-corner,  opposite  myself,  sits  one  who 
has  grown  old  beside  me.  She  is  changed,  of  course  ; 
much  changed  ;  and  yet  I  recognize  the  girl  even  in  that 
gray  hair  and  wrinkled  brow.  Glancing  from  the 
laughing  child  who  half  hides  in  her  ample  skirts,  and 
half  peeps  out, — and  from  her  to  the  little  matron  of 
twelve  years  old,  who  sits  so  womanly  and  so  demure  at 
no  great  distance  from  me, — and  from  her  again,  to  a  fair 
girl  in  the  full  bloom  of  early  womanhood,  the  centre  of 
the  group,  who  has  glanced  more  than  once  towards  the 
opening  door,  and  by  M^hom  the  children,  whispering 
and  tittering  among  themselves,  uill  leave  a  vacant 
chair,  although  she  bids  them  not, — I  see  her  image 
thrice  repeated,  and  feel  how  long  it  is  before  one  form 
and  set  of  features  wholly  pass  away,  if  ever,  from 
among  the  living.  While  I  am  d  welling  upon  this,  and 
tracing  out  the  gradual  change  from  infancy  to  youth, 
from  youth  to  perfect  growth,  from  that  to  age  ;  and 
thinking,  with  an  old  man's  pride,  that  she  is  comely 
yet  ;  I  feel  a  slight,  thin  hand  upon  my  arai,  and  look- 
ing down,  see  seated  at  my  feet  a  crippled  boy, — a  gen- 
tle, patient  child, — whose  aspect  I  know  well.  He  rests 
upon  a  little  crutch, — I  know  it  too, — and  leaning  on  it 
as  he  climbs  my  footstool,  whispers  in  my  car,  "I  am 
hardly  one  of  these,  dear  grandfather,  although  I  love 
them  dearly.  They  are  very  kind  to  me,  but  you  will 
be  kinder  still,  I  know." 

I  have  my  hand  upon  his  neck,  and  stoop  to  kiss  him, 
when  my  clock  strikes,  my  chair  is  in  its  old  spot,  and  I 
am  alone. 

What  if  I  be?  What  if  this  fireside  be  tenantless, 
save  for  the  presence  of  one  weak  old  man  !  From  my 
house-top  I  can  look  upon  a  hundred  homes,  in  everyone 
of  which  these  social  companions  are  matters  of  reality. 
In  my  daily  walks  I  pass  a  thousand  men  whose  cares  are 
all  forgotten,  whose  labours  are  made  light,  whose  dull 
routine  of  work  from  day  to  day  is  cheered  and  bright- 
ened by  their  glimpses  of  domestic  joy  at  home.  Amid 
the  struggles  of  this  struggling  town  what  cheerful  sac- 
rifices arc  made  ;  what  toil  endured  with  readiness  ;  what 
])atieuco  shown  and  fortitude  displayed  for  the  mere  sake 
of  home  and  its  affections  !  Let  me  thank  Heaven  that  I 


MASTER  HUMPHREY'S  CLOCK. 


1107 


can  people  my  fireside  witli  sliadow?  such  as  these  ;  with 
shadows  of  bright  objects  that  exist  in  crowds  about  me  ; 
and  let  me  say,  "  I  am  alone  no  more." 

I  never  was  less  so — I  write  it  with  a  grateful  heart — 
than  I  am  to-night.  Recollections  of  the  past  and  visions 
of  the  present  come  to  bear  me  company  ;  the  meanest 
man  to  whom  I  have  ever  given  alms  appears,  to  add  his 
mite  of  peace  and  comfort  to  my  stock  ;  and  whenever 
the  fire  within  me  shall  grow  cold,  to  light  my  j)ath  upon 
this  earth  no  more,  I  pray  that  it  may  be  at  such  an  hour 
as  this,  and  when  I  love  the  world,  as  well  as  I  do  now. 

THE  DEAF  GENTLEMAJif  FROM  HIS  OWN  APARTMENT. 

Our  dear  friend  laid  down  his  pen  at  the  end  of  the 
foregoing  paragraph  to  take  it  up  no  more.  I  little 
thought  ever  to  employ  mine  upon  so  sorrowful  a  task  as 
that  which  he  has  left  me,  and  to  which  I  now  devote  it. 

As  he  did  not  appear  among  us  at  his  usual  hour  next 
morning,  we  knocked  gently  at  his  door.  No  answer 
being  given,  it  Avas  softly  opened  ;  and  then,  to  our  sur- 
prise, we  saw  him  seated  before  the  ashes  of  his  fire, 
with  a  little  table  I  was  accustomed  to  set  at  his  elbow 
when  I  left  him  for  the  night,  at  a  short  distance  from 
him,  as  though  he  had  pushed  it  away  with  the  idea  of 
rising  and  retiring  to  his  bed.  His  crutch  and  footstool 
lay  at  his  feet  as  usual,  and  he  was  dressed  in  his  cham- 
ber-govrn,  which  he  had  put  on  before  I  left  him.  He 
was  reclining  in  his  chair  in  his  accustomed  posture,  with 
his  face  towards  the  fire,  and  seemed  absorbed  in  medi- 
tation,— indeed,  at  first,  we  almost  hoped  he  was. 

Going  up  to  him,  we  found  him  dead.  I  have  often, 
very  often,  seen  him  sleeping,  and  always  peacefully,  but 
I  never  saw  him  look  so  calm  and  tranquil.  His  face  wore 
a  serene,  benign  expression,  which  had  impressed  me 
very  strongly  when  we  last  shook  hands  ;  not  that  he 
had  ever  any  other  look,  God  knows  ;  but  there  was 
something  in  this  so  very  spiritual,  so  strangely  and 
indefinably  allied  to  youth,  although  his  head  was  gray 
and  venerable,  that  it  was  new  even  in  him.  It  came 
upon  me  all  at  once  when  on  some  slight  pretence  he 
called  me  bade  upon  the  previous  night  to  take  me  by 
the  hand  again,  and  once  more  say,  "  God  bless  you." 

A  bell-rope  hung  within  his  reach,  but  he  had  not 
moved  towards  it,  nor  had  he  stirred,  we  all  agreed,  ex- 
cept, as  I  have  said,  to  push  away  his  table,  which  he 
could  have  done,  and  no  doubt  did,  with  a  very  slight 
motion  of  his  hand.  He  had  relapsed  for  a  moment  into 
his  late  train  of  meditation,  and,  with  a  thoughtful  smile 
upon  his  face,  had  died. 

I  had  long  known  it  to  be  his  wish  that  whenever  this 
event  should  come  to  pass  we  might  be  all  assembled  in 
the  house.  I  therefore  lost  no  time  in  sending  for  Mr. 
Pickwick  and  for  Mr.  Miles,  both  of  whom  arrived  before 
the  messenger's  return. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  dilate  upon  the  sorrow  jmd 
affectionate  emotions  of  which  I  was  at  once  the  witness 
and  the  sharer.  But  I  may  say,  of  the  humbler  mourners, 
that  his  faithful  house-keeper  was  fairly  heart-broken  ; 
that  the  poor  barber  would  not  be  comforted  ;  and  that  I 
shall  respect  the  homely  truth  and  warmth  of  heart  of 
Mr.  Weller  and  his  son  to  the  last  moment  of  my  life. 

"And  the  sweet  old  c^eetur,  fir,'"  said  the  elder  Mr. 
Weller  to  me  in  the  afternoon,  "has  bolted.  Him  as  had 
no  wice,  and  was  so  free  from  temper  that  a  infant  might 
ha'  drove  him,  has  been  took  at  last  with  that  'ere  una- 
woidable  fit  o'  staggers  as  we  all  must  come  to.  and  gone 
off  his  feed  forever  !  I  see  him,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
with  a  moisture  in  his  eye,  which  could  not  be  mistaken, 
— "  I  see  him  gettin',  every  journey,  more  and  more 
groggy  ;  I  saj's  to  Samivel,  '  My  boy  !  the  Grey's  a  goin' 
at  the  knees  ; '  and  now  my  predilictions  is  fatally  weri- 
fied,  and  him  as  I  could  never  do  enough  to  serve  or 
show  my  likin'  for,  is  up  the  great  uniwersal  spout  o' 
natur'." 

I  was  not  the  less  sensible  of  the  old  man's  attachment 
because  he  expressed  it  in  his  peculiar  manner.  Indeed, 
I  can  truly  assert  of  both  him  and  his  son,  that  notwith- 
standing the  extraordinary  dialogues  they  held  together, 
and  the  strange  commentaries  and  corrections  with 
which  each  of  them  illustrated  the  other's  speech,  I  do 
not  think  it  possible  to  exceed  the  sincerity  of  their 


regret  ;  and  that  I  am  sure  their  thoughtfulness  and 
anxiety  in  anticipating  the  discharge  of  many  little 
offices  of  sympathy  would  have  done  honour  to  the  most 
delicate-minded  persons. 

Our  friend  had  frequently  told  us  that  his  will  would 
be  found  in  a  box  in  the  Clock-case,  the  key  of  which 
was  in  his  writing-desk.  Ashe  had  told  us  also  that  he 
desired  it  to  be  opened  immediately  after  his  death, 
whenever  that  should  happen,  we  met  together  that 
night  for  the  fulfilment  of  his  request. 

We  found  it  where  he  had  told  us,  wrapped  in  a  sealed 
paper,  and  with  it  a  codicil  of  recent  date,  in  which  he 
named  Mr.  Miles  and  Mr.  Pickwick  his  executors, — as 
having  no  need  of  any  greater  benefit  from  his  estate 
than  a  generous  token  (which  he  bequeathed  to  them)  of 
his  friendship  and  remembrance. 

After  pointing  out  the  spot  in  which  he  wished  his 
ashes  to  repose,  he  gave  to  "  his  dear  old  friends,"  Jack 
Redburn  and  myself,  his  house,  his  books,  his  fumiture, 
— in  short,  all  that  his  house  contained  ;  and  with  this 
legacy  more  ample  means  of  maintaining  it  in  his  present 
state  than  we,  with  our  liabits  and  at  our  terms  of  life, 
can  ever  exhaust.  Besides  these  gifts,  he  left  to  us,  in 
trust,  an  annual  sum  of  no  insignificant  amount,  to  be 
distributed  in  charity  among  his  accustomed  pensioners 
— they  are  a  long  list — and  such  other  claimants  on  his 
bounty  as  might,  from  time  to  time,  present  themselves. 
And  as  true  charity  not  only  covers  a  multitude  of  sins, 
but  includes  a  multitude  of  virtues,  such  as  forgiveness, 
liberal  construction,  gentleness  and  mercy  to  the  faults 
of  others,  and  the  remembrance  of  our  own  imperfections 
and  advantages,  he  bade  us  not  inquire  too  closely  into 
the  venial  errors  of  the  poor,  but  finding  that  they  irere 
poor,  first  to  relieve  and  then  endeavour — at  an  advan- 
tage— to  reclaim  them. 

To  the  housekeeper  he  left  an  annuity,  sufficient  for 
her  comfortable  maintenance  and  support  through  life. 
For  the  barber,  who  had  attended  him  many  years,  he 
made  a  similar  provision.  And  I  may  make  two  remarks 
in  this  place  :  first,  that  I  think  this  pair  are  very  likely 
to  club  their  means  together  and  make  a  match  of  it ; 
and  secondly,  that  I  think  my  friend  had  this  result  in 
his  mind,  for  I  have  heard  him  say,  more  than  once,  that 
he  could  not  concur  with  the  generality  of  mankind  in 
censuring  equal  marriages  made  in  later  life,  since  there 
were  many  cases  in  which  such  unions  could  not  fail  to 
be  a  wise  and  rational  source  of  happiness  to  both 
parties. 

The  elder  Mr.  Weller  is  so  far  from  viewing  this  pros- 
pect with  any  feelings  of  jealousy,  that  he  appears  to  be 
very  much  relieved  by  its  contemplation  ;  and  his  son, 
if  I  am  not  mistaken,  participates  in  this  feeling.  We 
are  all  of  opinion,  however,  that  the  old  gentleman's 
danger,  even  at  its  crisis,  was  very  slight,  and  that  he 
merely  laboured  under  one  of  those  transitory  weak- 
nesses to  which  persons  of  his  temperament  are  now  and 
then  liable,  and  which  become  less  and  less  alarming  at 
every  return,  until  they  wholly  subside.  I  have  no 
doubt  he  will  remain  a  jolly  old  widower  for  the  rest  of 
his  life,  as  he  has  already  inquired  of  me,  with  much 
gravity,  whether  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus  would  enable 
him  to  settle  his  property  upon  Tony  beyond  the  possi- 
bility of  recall  ;  and  has,  in  my  presence,  conjured  his 
son,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  in  the  event  of  his  ever 
becoming  amorous  again,  he  will  put  him  in  a  strait- 
waistcoat  until  the  fit'has  passed,  and  distinctly  inform 
the  lady  that  his  property  is  "made  over." 

Although  I  have  very  little  doubt  that  Sam  would 
dutifully  comply  with  these  injunctions  in  a  case  of  ex- 
treme necessity,  and  that  he  would  do  so  with  perfect 
composure  and*  coolness,  I  do  not  apprehend  things  will 
ever  come  to  that  pass,  as  the  old  gentleman  seems  per- 
fectly happy  in  the  society  of  his  son,  his  pretty  daugh- 
ter-in-law, 'and  his  grandchildren,  and  has  solemnly 
announced  his  determination  to  ' '  take  arter  the  old  un 
in  all  respects  ; "  from  which  I  infer  that  it  is  his  inten- 
tion to  regulate  his  conduct  by  the  model  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, who  will  certainly  set  him  the  example  of  a  single 
life. 

I  have  diverged  for  a  moment  from  the  subject  with 
which  I  set  out,  for  I  know  that  my  friend  was  interested 
in  these  little  matters,  and  I  have  a  natural  tendency  to 


1108 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


linger  upon  any  topic  that  occupied  his  thoughts  or  gave 
him  pleasure  and  amusement.  His  remaining  wishes 
are  very  briefly  told.  He  desired  that  we  would  make 
him  the  frequent  subject  of  our  conversation  ;  at  the 
same  time,  that  we  would  never  speak  of  him  with  an 
air  of  gloom  or  restraint,  but  frankly,  and  as  one  whom 
we  still  loved  and  hoped  to  meet  again.  He  trusted  that 
the  old  house  would  wear  no  aspect  of  mourning,  but 
that  it  would  be  lively  and  cheerful  ;  and  that  we  would 
not  remove  or  cover  up  his  picture,  which  hangs  in  our 
dining-room,  but  make  it  our  companion  as  he  had  been. 
His  own  room,  our  place  of  meeting,  remains,  at  his 
desire,  in  its  accustomed  state ;  our  seats  are  placed 
about  the  table  as  of  old  ;  his  easy-chair,  his  desk,  his 
crutch,  his  footstool,  hold  their  accustomed  places,  and 
the  clock  stands  in  its  familiar  corner. '  We  go  into  the 
chamber  at  stated  times  to  see  that  all  is  as  it  should  be, 
and  to  take  care  that  the  light  and  air  are  not  shut  out, 
for  on  that  point  he  expressed  a  strong  solicitude.  But 
it  was  his  fancy  that  the  apartment  should  not  be  in- 
habited ;  that  it  should  be  religiously  preserved  in  this 
condition,  and  that  the  voice  of  his  old  companion  should 
be  heard  no  more. 

My  own  history  may  be  summed  xip  in  very  few  words  ; 
and  even  those  I  should  have  spared  the  reader  but  for 
my  friend's  allusion  to  me  some  time  since.  I  have  no 
deeper  sorrow  than  the  loss  of  a  child, — an  only  daughter, 
who  is  living,  and  who  fled  from  her  father's  house  but 


a  few  weeks  before  our  friend  and  I  first  met.  I  have 
never  spoken  of  this  even  to  him,  because  I  have  always 
loved  her,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  tell  him  of  her  error 
until  I  could  tell  him  also  of  her  sorrow  and  regret. 
Happily  I  was  enabled  to  do  so  some  time  ago.  And  it 
will  not  be  long,  with  Heaven's  leave,  before  she  is  re- 
stored to  me  ;  before  I  find  in  her  and  her  husband  the 
support  of  my  declining  years. 

For  my  pipe,  it  is  an  old  relic  of  home,  a  thing  of  no 
great  worth,  a  poor  trifle,  but  sacred  to  me  for  her  sake. 

Thus,  since  the  death  of  our  venerable  friend,  Jack 
Redburn  and  I  have  been  the  sole  tenants  of  the  old 
house  ;  and,  day  by  day,  have  lounged  together  in  his 
favourite  walks.  Mindful  of  his  injunctions,  we  have 
long  been  able  to  speak  of  him  with  ease  and  cheerful- 
ness, and  to  remember  him  as  he  would  be  remembered. 
From  certain  allusions  which  Jack  has  dropped,  to 
his  having  been  deserted  and  cast  off  in  early  life,  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  some  passages  of  his  youth  may 
possibly  be  shadowed  out  in  the  history  of  Mr.  Chester 
and  his  son,  but  seeing  that  he  avoids  the  subject,  I  have 
not  pursued  it. 

My  task  is  done.  The  chamber  in  which  we  have 
whiled  away  so  many  hours,  not,  I  hope,  without  some 
pleasure  and  some  profit,  is  deserted  ;  our  happy  hour 
of  meeting  strikes  no  more  ;  the  chimney-corner  has 
grown  cold  ;  and  Master  Humphrey's  Clock  has  stop- 
ped forever. 


Miscellaneous. 


ON  DUTY  WITH  INSPECTOR  FIELD. 

How  ^oes  tlie  night?  Saint  Giles's  clock  is  striking 
nine.  The  weather  is  dull  and  wet,  and  the  long  lines 
of  street  lamps  are  blurred,  as  if  we  saw  them  through 
tears.  A  damp  wind  blows  and  rakes  the  pieman's  fire 
out,  when  he  opens  the  door  of  his  little  furnace,  carry- 
ing away  an  eddy  of  sparks. 

Saint  Giles's  clock  strikes  nine.  We  are  punctual. 
Where  is  Inspector  Field?  Assistant  Commissioner  of 
Police  is  already  here,  enwrapped  in  oil-skin  cloak,  and 
standing  in  the  shadow  of  St.  Giles's  steeple.  Detective 
Sergeant,  weary  of  speaking  French  all  day  to  foreign- 
ers unpacking  at  the  Great  Exhibition,  is  already  here. 
Where  is  Inspector  Field  ? 

Inspector  Field  is,  to-night,  the  guardian  genius  of 
the  British  Museum.  He  is  bringing  his  shrewd  eye  to 
bear  on  every  corner  of  its  solitary  galleries,  before  he 
reports  "  all  right."  Suspicious  of  the  Elgin  marbles, 
and  not  to  be  done  by  cat-faced  Egyptian  giants  with 
their  hands  upon  their  knees.  Inspector  Field,  sagacious, 
vigilant,  lamp  in  hand,  throwing  monstrous  shadows  on 
the  walls  and  ceilings,  passes  through  the  spacious 
rooms.  If  a  mummy  trembled  in  an  atom  of  its  dusty 
covering,  Inspector  Field  would  say,  "  Come  out  of  that, 
Tom  Green.  I  know  you  !  "  If  the  smallest  "  Gonope  " 
about  town  were  crouching  at  the  bottom  of  a  classic 
bath,  Inspector  Field  would  nose  him  with  a  finer  scent 
than  the  ogre's,  when  adventurous  Jack  lay  trembling 
in  his  kitchen  copper.  But  all  is  quiet,  and  Inspector 
Field  goes  warily  on,  making  little  outward  show  of  at- 
tending to  anything  in  particular,  just  recognising  the 
Ichthyosaurus  as  a  familiar  acquaintance,  and  wondering, 
perhaps,  how  the  detectives  did  it  in  the  days  before  the 
Flood. 

Will  Inspector  Field  be  long  about  this  work?  He 
may  be  half-an-hour  longer.  He  sends  his  compliments 
by  Police  Constable,  and  proposes  that  we  meet  at  St. 
Giles's  Station  House,  across  the  road.  Good.  It  were 
as  well  to  stand  by  the  fire,  there,  as  in  the  shadow  of 
Saint  Giles's  steeple. 

Anything  doing  here  to-night?  Not  much.  We  are 
very  'quiet.  A  lost  boy,  extremely  calm  and  small,  sit- 
ting by  the  fire,  whom  we  now  confide  to  a  constable  to 
take  home,  for  the  child  says  that  if  you  show  him  New- 
gate Street,  he  can  show  you  where  he  lives — a  raving 
drunken  woman  in  the  cells,  who  has  screeched  her 
voice  away,  and  has  hardly  power  enough  left  to  declare, 
even  with  the  passionate  help  of  her  feet  and  arms,  that 
she  is  the  daughter  of  a  British  ofiicer,  and,  strike  her 
blind  and  dead,  but  she'll  write  a  letter  to  the  Queen  ! 
but  who  is  soothed  with  a  drink  of  water — in  another 
cell,  a  quiet  v/oman  with  a  child  ai,  her  breast,  for  begging 
— in  another,  her  husband  in  a  smock-frock  with  a  bas- 
ket of  watercresses — in  another,  a  pickpocket — in  an- 
other, a  meek  tremulous  old  pauper  man  who  has  been 
out  for  a  holiday,  "  and  has  took  but  a  little  drop,  but  it 
has  overcome  him  arter  so  many  months  in  the  house  " 
— and  that's  all  as  yet.  Presently,  a  sensation  at  the 
Station  House  door.    Mr.  Field,  gentlemen  ! 

Inspector  Field  comes  in,  wiping  his  forehead,  for  he 
is  of  a  burly  figure,  and  has  come  fast  from  the  ores  and 
metals  of  the  deep  mines  of  the  earth,  and  from  the 
Parrot  Gods  of  the  South  Sea  Islands,  and  from  the  birds 
and  the  beetles  of  the  tropics,  and  from  the  Arts  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  and  from  the  Sculptures  of  Nineveh, 
and  from  the  traces  of  an  elder  world,  when  these  were 
not.  Is  Rogers  ready  ?  Rogers  is  ready,  strapped  and 
great-coated,  with  a  flaming  eye  in  the  middle  of  his 
waist,  like  a  deformed  Cyclops.  Lead  on,  Rogers,  to 
Rats'  Castle  I 


How  many  people  may  there  be  in  London,  who,  if  we 
had  brought  them  deviously  and  blindfold,  to  this  street, 
fifty  paces  from  the  Station  House  within  call  of  Saint 
Giles's  Church,  would  know  it  for  a  not  remote  part  of 
the  city  in  which  their  lives  are  passed  ?  How  many, 
who  amidst  this  compound  of  sickening  smells,  these 
heaps  of  filth,  these  tumbling  houses,  with  all  their  vile 
contents,  animate,  inanimate,  slimily  overflowing  into 
the  black  road,  would  believe  that  they  breathe  this  air? 
How  much  Red  Tape  may  there  be,  that  could  look 
round  on  the  faces  which  now  hem  us  in — for  our  appear- 
ance here  has  caused  a  rush  from  all  j)oints  to  a  common 
centre — the  lowering  foreheads,  the  sallow  cheeks,  the 
brutal  eyes,  the  matted  hair,  the  infected,  the  vermin- 
haunted  heaps  of  rags — and  say  "  I  have  thought  of  this, 
I  have  not  dismissed  the  thing.  I  have  neither  blustered 
it  away,  nor  frozen  it  away,  nor  tied  it  up  and  put  away, 
nor  smoothly  said  pooh,  f>ooh  !  to  it,  when  it  has  been 
shown  to  me  "  ? 

This  is  not  what  Rogers  wants  to  know%  however. 
What  Rogers  wants  to  know,  is,  whether  you  trill  clear 
the  way  here,  some  of  you,  or  whether  you  won't  ;  be- 
cause if  you  don't  do  it  right  on  end,  he'll  lock  you  up  ! 
What  !  You  are  there,  are  you,  Bob  Miles  *?  You 
haven't  had  enough  of  it  yet,  haven't  you?  You  want 
three  months  more,  do  you  ?  Come  away  from  that  gen- 
tleman !    What  are  you  creeping  round  there  for  ? 

"  What  am  I  a  doing,  thinn,  Mr.  Rogers?"  says  Bob 
Miles,  appearing,  villanous,  at  the  end  of  a  lane  of  light, 
made  by  the  lantern. 

"  I'll  let  you  know  pretty  quick,  if  you  don't  hook  it. 
Will  you  hook  it?" 

A  sycophantic  murmur  rises  from  the  crowd.  "Hook 
it,  Bol3,  when  Mr.  Rogers  and  Mr.  Field  tells  you  !  Why 
don't  you  hook  it,  when  you  are  told  to  ?  " 

The  most  importunate  of  the  voices  strikes  familiarly 
on  Mr.  Rogers's  ear.  He  suddenly  turns  his  lantern  on 
the  owner. 

"What  !  You  are  there,  are  you.  Mister  Click  ?  You 
hook  it  too — come  ?  " 

What  for?"  says  Mr.  Click,  discomfited. 

"You  hook  it,  will  you  !  "  says  Mr.  Rogers  with  stern 
emphasis. 

Both  Click  and  Miles  do  "  hook  it,"  without  another 
word,  or,  in  plainer  English,  sneak  away. 

"Close  up  there,  my  men  !"  says  Inspector  Field  to 
two  constables  on  duty  who  have  followed.  "Keep 
together,  gentlemen  ;  we  are  going  down  here.  Heads  !" 

Saint  Giles's  church  strikes  half-past  ten.  We  stoop 
low,  and  creep  down  a  precipitous  flight  of  steps  into  a 
dark  close  cellar.  There  is  a  fire.  There  is  a  long  deal 
table.  There  are  benches.  The  cellar  is  full  of  com- 
pany, chiefly  very  yomig  men  in  various  conditions  of 
dirt  and  raggedness.  Some  are  eating  supper.  There 
are  no  girls  or  women  present.  Welcome  to  Rat's 
Castle,  gentlemen,  and  to  this  company  of  noted  thieves  ! 

"Well,  my  lads!  How  are  you,  my  lads?  What 
have  you  been  doing  to-day?  Here's  some  company 
come  to  see  you,  my  lads  !  TJiere's  a  plate  of  beefsteak. 
Sir,  for  the  supper  of  a  flne  young  man  !  And  there's  a 
mouth  for  a  steak,  sir  !  Why,  I  should  be  too  proud  of 
such  a  mouth  as  that,  if  I  had  it  myself  !  Stand  up  and 
show  it,  sir  !  Take  off  your  cap.  There's  a  fine  young 
man  for  a  nice  little  party.  Sir  !    An't  he  ?  " 

Inspector  Field  is  the  bustling  speaker.  Inspector 
Field's  eye  is  the  roving  eye  that  searches  every  corner 
of  the  cellar  as  he  talks.  Inspector  Field's  hand  is  the 
well-known  hand  that  has  collared  half  the  people  here, 
and  motioned  their  brothers,  sisters,  fathers,  mothers, 
male  and  female  friends,  inexorably  to  New  South 
Wales.  Yet  Inspector  Field  stands  in  this  den,  the  Sul- 
tan of  the  place.    Every  thief  here,  cowers  before  him, 

1109 


1110 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


like  a  schoolboy  before  liis  schoolmaster.  All  watch 
him,  all  answer  when  addressed,  all  laugh  at  his  jokes, 
all  seek  to  propitiate  him.  This  cellar-company  alone — 
to  say  nothing  of  the  crowd  surrounding  the  entrance 
from  the  street  above,  and  making  the  steps  shine  with 
ejes — is  strong  enough  to  murder  us  all,  and  willing 
enough  to  do  it  ;  but,  let  Inspector  Field  have  a  mind  to 
pick  out  one  thief  here,  and  take  him  ;  let  him  produce 
that  ghostly  truncheon  from  his  pocket,  and  say,  with 
his  business-air,  "  My  lad,  I  want  you!"  and  all  Rats' 
Castle  shall  be  stricken  with  paralysis,  and  not  a  finger 
move  against  him,  as  he  fits  the  handcuffs  on  ! 

Where's  the  Earl  of  Warwick  ? — Here  he  is,  Mr. 
Field  !  Here's  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  Mr.  Field  !— 0 
there  you  are,  my  Lord.  Come  for'ard.  There's  a  chest. 
Sir,  not  to  have  a  clean  shirt  on.  An't  it.  Take  your 
hat  off,  my  Lord.  Why,  I  should  be  ashamed  if  I  was 
you — and  an  Earl,  too — to  show  myself  to  a  gentleman 
with  my  hat  on  ! — The  Earl  of  Warwick  laughs  and  un- 
covers. All  the  company  laugh.  One  piclvpocket,  es- 
pecially, laughs  with  great  enthusiasm.  O  what  a  jolly 
game  it  is,  when  Mr.  Field  comes  down — and  don't  want 
nobody  ! 

So,  you  are  here,  too,  are  you,  you  tall,  grey,  soldierly- 
looking,  grave  man,  standing  by  the  fire? — Yes,  Sir. 
Good  evening,  Mr.  Field  ! — Let  us  see.  You  lived  ser- 
vant to  a  nobleman  once? — Yes,  Mr.  Field. — And  what  is 
it  you  do  now  ;  I  forget? — Well,  Mr.  Field,  I  job  about 
as  well  as  I  can.  1  left  my  employment  on  account  of 
delicate  health.  The  family  is  still  kind  to  me.  Mr. 
Wix  of  Piccadilly  is  also  very  kind  to  me  when  I  am 
hard  up.  Likewise  Mr.  Nix  of  Oxford  Street.  I  get  a 
tritie  from  them  occasionally,  and  rub  on  as  well  as  I 
can,  Mr.  Field.  Mr.  Field's  eye  rolls  enjoyingly,  for 
this  man  is  a  notorious  begging-letter  writer. — Good 
night,  my  lads  ! — Good  night,  Mr.  Field,  and  thank'ee 
Sir! 

Clear  the  street  here,  half  a  thousand  of  you  !  Cut  it, 
Mrs.  Stalker — none  of  that — we  don't  want  you  !  Rogers 
of  the  flaming  eye,  lead  on  to  the  tramps'  lodging-house  ! 

A  dream  of  baleful  faces  attends  to  the  door.  Now, 
stand  back  all  of  you  !  In  the  rear  Detective  Sergeant 
plants  himself,  composedly  whistling,  with  his  strong 
right  arm  across  the  narrow  passage.  Mrs.  Stalker,  I  am 
something'd  that  need  not  be  written  here,  if  you  won't 
get  yourself  into  trouble,  in  about  half  a  minute,  if  I  see 
that  face  of  yours  again  ! 

Saint  Giles's  church  clock,  striking  eleven,  hums 
through  our  hand  from  the  dilapidated  door  of  a  dark 
outhouse  as  we  open  it,  and  are  stricken  back  by  the 
pestilent  breath  that  issues  from  within.  Rogers  to  the 
front  with  the  light,  and  let  us  look  ! 

Ten,  twenty,  thirty — who  can  count  them  !  Men,  wo- 
men, children,  for  the  most  part  naked,  heaped  upon  the 
floor  like  maggots  in  a  cheese  !  Ho  !  In  that  dark  corner 
yonder  !  Does  any  body  lie  there  ?  Me  Sir,  Irish  me, 
a  widder,  with  six  children.  And  yonder?  Me  Sir,  Irish 
me,  with  me  wife  and  eight  poor  babes.  And  to  the  left 
there?  Me  Sir,  Irish  me,  along  with  two  more  Irish  boys 
as  is  me  friends.  And  to  the  right  there  ?  Me  Sir  and 
the  Murphy  fam'ly,  numbering  five  blessed  souls.  And 
what's  this,  coiling,  now,  about  my  foot?  Another  Irish 
me,  pitifully  in  want  of  shaving,  whom  I  have  awakened 
from  sleep— and  across  my  other  foot  lies  his  wife — and 
by  the  shoes  of  Inspector  Field  lie  their  three  eldest — 
and  their  three  youngest  are  at  present  squeezed  between 
the  open  door  and  the  wall.  And  why  is  there  no  one  on 
that  little  mat  before  the  sullen  fire?  Because  O'Dono- 
van,  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  is  not  come  in  from 
selling  Lucifors  !  Nor  on  the  bit  of  sacking  in  the  near- 
est corner?  Bad  luck  !  Because  that  Irish  family  is  late 
to-night,  a-cadging  in  the  streets  ! 

They  are  all  awake  now,  the  children  excepted,  and 
most  of  them  sit  up,  to  stare.  Wheresoever  Mr.  Rogers 
turns  the  flaming  eye,  there  is  a  spectral  figure  rising, 
unshrouded,  from  a  grave  of  rags.  Who  is  the  landlord 
here?— I  am,  Mr.  Field  !  says  a  bundle  of  ribs  and  parch- 
ment against  the  wall,  scratching  itself. — Will  you  spend 
this  money  fairly,  in  the  morning,  to  buy  coffee  for  'em 
all?— Yes  Sir,  I  will  !— O  he'll  do  it  Sir,  he'll  do  it  fair, 
lie's  honest !  cry  the  spectres.  And  with  thanks  and 
Good  Night  sink  into  their  graves  again. 


Thus,  we  make  our  New  Oxford  Streets,  and  our  other 
new  streets,  never  heeding,  never  asking,  where  the 
wretches  whom  we  clear  out,  crowd.  With  such  scenes 
at  our  doors,  with  all  the  plagues  of  Egypt  tied  up  with 
bits  of  cobweb  in  kennels  so  near  our  homes,  we  timor- 
ously make  our  Nuisance  Bills  and  Boards  of  Health, 
nonentities,  and  think  to  keep  away  the  Wolves  of  Crime 
and  Filth,  by  our  electioneering  ducking  to  little  vestry- 
men and  our  gentlemanly  handling  of  Red  Tape. 

Intelligence  of  the  coffee  money  has  got  abroad.  The 
yard  is  full,  and  Rogers  of  the  flaming  eye  is  beleaguered 
with  entreaties  to  show  other  Lodging  Houses.  Mine 
next !  Mine  !  Mine  !  Rogers,  military,  obdurate,  stiff- 
necked,  immovable,  replies  not,  but  leads  away  ;  all  fall- 
ing back  before  him.  Inspector  Field  follows.  Detec- 
tive Sergeant,  with  his  barrier  of  arm  across  the  little 
passage,  deliberately  waits  to  close  the  procession.  He 
sees  behind  him,  without  any  effort,  and  exceedingly 
disturbs  one  individual  far  in  the  rear  by  coolly  calling 
out,  "  It  won't  do  Mr.  Michael !    Don't  try  it  !  " 

After  council  holden  in  the  street,  we  enter  other  lodg- 
ing houses,  public-houses,  many  lairs  and  holes  ;  all  noi- 
some and  offensive  ;  none  so  filthy  and  so  crowded  as 
where  Irish  are.  In  one.  The  Ethiopian  party  are  ex- 
pected home  presently — were  in  Oxford  Street  when  last 
heard  of — shall  be  fetched,  for  our  delight,  within  ten 
minutes.  In  another,  one  of  the  two  or  three  Professors 
who  draw  Napoleon  Buonaparte  and  a  couple  of  macke- 
rel, on  the  pavement,  and  then  let  the  work  of  art  out  to 
a  speculator,  is  refreshing  after  his  labours.  In  another, 
the  vested  interest  of  the  profitable  nuisance  has  been  in 
one  family  for  a  hundred  years,  and  the  landlord  drives 
in  comfortably  from  the  country  to  his  snug  little  stew  in 
town.  In  all.  Inspector  Field  is  received  with  warmth. 
Coiners  and  smashers  droop  before  him  ;  pickpockets  de- 
fer to  him  ;  the  gentle  sex  (not  very  gentle  here)  smile 
upon  him.  Half-drunken  hags  check  themselves  in  the 
midst  of  pots  of  beer,  or  pints  of  gin,  to  drink  to  Mr. 
Field,  and  pressingly  to  ask  the  honour  of  his  finishing 
the  draught.  One  beldame  in  rusty  black  has  such  ad- 
miration for  him,  that  she  runs  a  whole  street's  length  to 
shake  him  by  the  hand  ;  tumbling  into  a  heap  of  mud 
by  the  way,  and  still  pressing  her  attentions  when  her 
very  form  has  ceased  to  be  distinguishable  through  it. 
Before  the  power  of  the  law,  the  power  of  superior  sense 
— for  common  thieves  are  fools  beside  these  men — and 
the  power  of  a  perfect  mastery  of  their  character,  the 
garrison  of  Rats'  Castle  and  the  adjacent  Fortresses  make 
but  a  skulking  show  indeed  when  reviewed  by  Inspector 
Field. 

Saint  Giles's  clock  says  it  will  be  midnight  in  half-an- 
hour,  and  Inspector  Field  says  we  must  hurry  to  the  Old 
Mint  in  the  Borough.  The  cab-driver  is  low-sjjirited, 
and  has  a  solemn  sense  of  his  responsibility.  Now, 
what's  your  fare,  my  lad  ? — 0  you  know.  Inspector  Field, 
what's  the  good  of  asking  me  !  " 

Say,  Parker,  strapped  and  great-coated,  and  waiting  in 
dim  Borough  doorway  by  appointment,  to  replace  the 
trusty  Rogers  whom  we  left  deep  in  Saint  Giles's,  are 
you  ready?  Ready,  Inspector  Field,  and  at  a  motion  of 
my  wrist  behold  my  flaming  eye. 

I  This  narrow  street,  sir,  is  the  chief  part  of  the  Old 
Mint,  full  of  low  lodging-houses,  as  you  see  by  the  trans- 
parent canvas-lamps  and  blinds,  announcing  beds  for 
travellers  !  But  it  is  greatly  changed,  friend  Field,  from 
my  former  knowledge  of  it  ;  it  is  infinitely  quieter  and 
more  subdued  than  when  I  was  here  last,  some  seven 
years  ago  ?  0  yes  !  Inspector  Haynes,  a  first-rate  man, 
is  on  tbis  station  now  and  plays  the  Devil  with  them  ! 

Well,  my  lads  !  How  are  you  to-night,  my  lads  ! 
Playing  cards  here,  eh?  Who  wins? — Why,  Mr.  Field, 
I,  tiie  sulky  gentleman  with  the  damp  flat  side-curls, 
rubbing  my  bleared  eye  with  the  end  of  my  neck-ker- 
chief which  is  like  a  dirty  eel-skin,  am  losing  just  at 
present,  but  I  suppose  I  must  take  my  pipe  out  of  my 
mouth,  and  be  submissive  to  you — I  hope  I  see  you 
well,  Mr.  Field?— Aye,  all  right,  my  lad.  Deputy,  who 
have  you  got  up-stairs?    Be  pleased  to  show  the  rooms  ! 

Why  Deputy,  Inspector  Field  can't  say.  He  only 
knows  that  the  man  who  takes  care  of  the  beds  and 
lodgers  is  always  called  so.  Steady,  0  Deputy,  with  the 
flaring  candle  in  the  blacking  bottle,  for  this  is  a  slushy 


MISCELLANEO  US, 


1111 


back-yard,  and  the  wooden  staircase  outside  the  house 
creaks  and  has  holes  in  it. 

Again,  in  these  confined  intolerable  roQins,  burrowed 
out  like  the  holes  of  rats  or  the  nests  of  insect-vermin, 
but  fuller  of  intolerable  smells,  are  crowds  of  sleepers, 
each  on  his  foul  truckle-bed  coiled  up  beneath  a  rug. 
Halloa  here  !  Come  !  Let  us  see  you  !  Show  your 
face  !  Pilot  Parker  goes  from  bed  to  bed  and  turns 
their  slumbering  heads  towards  us,  as  a  salesman  might 
turn  sheep.  Some  wake  up  with  an  execration  and  a 
threat. — What!  who  spoke?  O!  If  it's  the  accursed 
glaring  eye  that  fixes  me,  go  where  I  will,  I  am  help- 
less. Here  !  I  sit  up  to  be  looked  at.  Is  it  me  you 
want? — Not  you,  lie  down  again  ! — and  I  lie  down,  with 
a  woeful  growl. 

Wherever  the  turning  lane  of  light  becomes  stationary 
for  a  moment,  some  sleeper  appears  at  the  end  of  it, 
submits  himself  to  be  scrutinised,  and  fades  away  into 
the  darkness. 

There  should  be  strange  dreams  here.  Deputy.  They 
sleep  sound  enough,  says  Deputy,  taking  the  candle  out 
of  the  blacking  bottle,  snuffing  it  with  his  fingers, 
throwing  the  snuff  into  the  bottle,  and  corking  it  up 
with  the  candle  ;  that's  all  /  know.  What  is  the  in- 
scription. Deputy,  on  all  the  discoloured  sheets  ?  A  pre- 
caution against  loss  of  linen.  Deputy  turns  down  the 
rug  of  an  unoccupied  bed  and  discloses  it.  Stop  Thief  ! 

To  lie  at  night,  wrapped  in  the  legend  of  my  slinking 
life  ;  to  take  the  cry  that  pursues  me,  waking,  to  my 
breast  in  sleep  ;  to  have  it  staring  at  me,  and  clamour- 
ing for  me,  as  soon  as  consciousness  returns  ;  to  have  it 
for  my  first-foot  on  New- Year's  day,  my  Valentine,  my 
Birthday  salute,  my  Christmas  greeting,  my  parting 
with  the  old  year.    Stop  Thief  ! 

And  to  know  that  I  must  be  stopped,  come  what  will. 
To  know  that  I  am  no  match  for  this  individual  energy 
and  keenness,  or  this  organised  and  steady  system  ! 
Come  across  the  street,  here,  and,  entering  by  a  little 
shop,  and  yard,  examine  these  intricate  passages  and 
doors,  contrived  for  escape,  flapping  and  counter-flapping, 
like  the  lids  of  the  conjuror's  boxes.  Bat  what  avail 
they  ?  Who  gets  in  by  a  nod,  and  shows  their  secret 
working  to  us  ?    Inspector  Field. 

Don't  forget  the  old  Farm  House,  Parker  !  Parker  is 
not  the  man  to  forget  it.  We  are  going  there,  now.  It 
is  the  old  Manor-House  of  these  parts,  and  stood  in  the 
country  once.  Then,  perhaps,  there  was  something, 
which  was  not  the  beastly  street,  to  see  from  the  shat- 
tered low  fronts  of  the  overhanging  wooden  houses  we 
are  passing  under — shut  up  now,  pasted  over  with 
bills  about  the  literature  and  drama  of  the  Mint,  and 
mouldering  away.  This  long  paved  yard  was  a  pad- 
dock or  a  garden  once,  or  a  court  in  front  of  the  Farm 
House.  Perchance,  with  a  dovecot  in  the  centre,  and 
fowls  pecking  about — with  fair  elm  trees,  then,  where 
discoloured  chimney-stacks  and  gables  are  now — noisy, 
then,  with  rooks  which  have  yielded  to  a  different  sort 
of  rookery.  It's  likelier  than  not.  Inspector  Field 
thinks,  as  we  turn  into  the  common  kitchen,  which  is  in 
the  yard,  and  many  paces  from  the  house. 

Well  my  lads  and  lasses,  how  are  you  all  !  Where's 
Blackey,  "who  has  stood  near  London  Bridge  these  five- 
and-twenty  years,  with  a  painted  skin  to  represent  dis- 
ease?— here  he  is,  Mr.  f  ield  ! — How  are  you,  Blackey?! 
— Jolly,  sa  ! — Not  playing  the  fiddle  to-night,  Blackey  ?  | 
— Not  a  night,  sa  ! — a  sharp,  smiling  youth,  the  wit  of 
the  kitchen,  interposes.    He  an't  musical  to-night,  sir. 
I've  been  giving  him  a  moral  lecture  ;  I've  been  a  talk- 
ing to  him  about  his  latter  end,  you  see.    A  good  many 
of  these  are  my  pupils,  sir.    This  here  young  man ' 
(smoothing  down  the  hair  of  one  near  him,  reading  a  i 
Sunday  paper)  is  a  pupil  of  mine.    I'm  a  teaching  of  i 
him  to  read,  sir.    He's  a  promising  cove,  sir.    He's  a  j 
smith,  he  is,  and  gets  his  living  by  the  sweat  of  his  j 
brow,  sir.    So  do  I,  myself,  sir.    This  young  woman  is  l 
my  sister,  Mr.  Field.    S/u^s  getting  on  very  well  too.  • 
I've  a  deal  trouble  with  'em,  sir,  but  I'm  richly  re-  ! 
warded,  now  I  see  'em  all  a  doing  so  well,  and  growing  j 
up  so  creditable.    Tliat's  a  great  comfort,  that  is,  an't ! 
it,  sir? — In  the  midst  of  the  kitchen  (the  whole  kitchen 
is  in  ecstacies  with  this  im])rompta  "chaff")  sits  a 
young,  modest,  gentle-looking  creature,  with  a  beautiful  J 


child  in  her  lap.  She  seems  to  belong  to  the  company, 
but  is  so  strangely  unlike  it.  She  has  such  a  pretty, 
quiet  face  and  voice,  and  is  so  proud  to  hear  the  child 
admired — thinks  you  would  hardly  believe  that  he  is 
only  nine  months  old  1  Is  she  as  bad  as  the  rest,  I  won- 
der ?  Inspectorial  experience  does  not  engend(;r  a  be- 
lief contrariwise,  but  prompts  the  answer.  Not  a  ha'porth 
of  difference  1 

There  is  a  piano  going  in  the  old  Farm  House  as  we 
approach.  It  stops.  Landlady  appears.  Has  no  objec- 
tions, Mr,  Field,  to  gentlemen  being  brought,  but  wishes 
it  were  at  earlier  hours,  the  lodgers  comxdaining  of  ill- 
conwenience.  Inspector  Field  is  polite  and  soothing — 
knows  his  woman  and  the  sex.  Deputy  (a  girl  in  this 
case)  shows  the  way  up  a  heavy  broad  old  staircase,  kept 
very  clean,  into  clean  rooms  where  many  sleepers  are, 
and  where  painted  panels  of  an  older  time  look  strangely 
on  the  truckle  beds.  The  sight  of  whitewardi  and  the 
smell  of  soap  -two  things  we  seem  by  this  time  to  have 
parted  from  in  infancy — make  the  old  Farm  House  a 
phenomenon,  and  connect  themselves  with  the  so  curi- 
ously misplaced  picture  of  the  pretty  mother  and  child 
long  after  we  have  left  it, — long  after  we  have  left, 
besides,  the  neighbouring  nook  with  something  of  a 
rustic  flavour  in  it  yet,  where  once,  beneath  a  low  wooden 
colonnade  still  standing  as  of  yore,  the  eminent  Jack 
Sheppard  condescended  to  regale  himself,  and  where, 
now,  two  old  bachelor  brothers  in  broad  hats  (who  are 
whispered  in  the  Mint  to  have  made  a  compact  long  ago 
that  if  either  should  ever  marry,  he  must  forfeit  his 
share  of  the  joint  property)  still  keep  a  sequestered  tavern, 
and  sit  o'  nights  smoking  pipes  in  the  bar  among  ancient 
bottles  and  glasses,  as  our  eyes  behold  them. 

How  goes  the  night  now  ?  Saint  George  of  Southwark 
answers  with  tu'elve  blows  upon  his  bell,  Parker,  good 
night,  for  Williams  is  already  waiting  over  in  the  region 
of  Ratcliffe  Highway,  to  show  the  houses  where  the 
sailors  dance. 

I  should  like  to  know  where  Inspector  Field  was  born. 
In  Ratcliffe  Highway,  I  would  have  answered  with  confi- 
dence, but  for  his  being  equally  at  home  wherever  we 
go.  iZd  does  not  trouble  his  head  as  I  do,  about  the 
river  at  night.  He  does  not  care  for  its  creeping,  black 
and  silent,  on  our  right  there,  rushing  through  sluice 
gates,  lapping  at  piles  and  posts  and  iron  rings,  hiding 
strange  things  in  its  mud,  running  away  with  suicides 
and  accidentally  drowned  bodies  faster  than  midnight 
funeral  should,  and  acquiring  such  various  experience 
between  its  cradle  and  its  grave.  It  has  no  mystery  for 
Mm.    Is  there  not  the  Thames  Police  ! 

Accordingly,  Williams  lead  the  way.  We  are  a  little 
late,  for  some  of  the  houses  are  already  closing.  No 
matter.  You  show  us  plenty.  All  the  landlords  know 
Inspector  Field.  All  pass  him,  freely  and  good-humour- 
edly,  wheresoever  he  wants  to  go.  So  thoroughly  are 
all  these  houses  open  to  him  and  our  local  guide,  that, 
granting  that  sailors  must  be  entertained  in  their  own 
way — as  I  suppose  they  must,  and  have  a  right  to  be — I 
hardly  know  how  such  places  could  be  better  regulated. 
Not  that  I  call  the  company  very  select,  or  the  dancing 
very  graceful — even  so  graceful  as  that  of  the  German 
Sugar  Bakers,  whose  assembly,  by  the  Minories,  we 
stopped  to  visit — but  there  is  watchful  maintenance  of 
order  in  every  house,  and  swift  expulsion  where  need  is. 
Even  in  the  midst  of  drunlvcnness,  both  of  the  lethargic 
kind  and  the  lively,  there  is  sharp  landlord  supervision, 
and  pockets  are  in  less  peril  than  out  of  dooi-s.  These 
houses  show,  singularly,  how  much  of  the  picturesque 
and  romantic  there  truly  is  in  the  sailor,  requiring  to  be 
especially  addressed.  All  the  songs  (sung  in  a  hailstorm 
of  halfpence,  which  are  pitched  at  the  singer  without 
the  least  tenderness  for  the  time  or  tune — mostly  from 
great  rolls  of  copper  carried  for  the  purpose — and  which 
he  occasionally  dodges  like  shot  as  they  fly  near  his  head) 
are  of  the  sentimental  sea  sort.  All  the  rooms  are  decor- 
ated with  nautical  subjects.  Wrecks,  engagements,  ships 
on  fire,  ships  passing  lighthouses  on  ii*on-bound  coasts, 
ships  blowing  up,  ships  going  down,  ships  running  ashore, 
men  lying  out  upon  the  niainyard  in  a  gale  of  wind,  sail- 
ors and  ships  in  every  variety  of  peril,  constitute  the  illus- 
trations of  fact.  Nothing  can  be  done  in  the  fanciful  way, 
without  a  thumping  boy  upon  a  scaly  dolphin. 


1112 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


How  goes  tlie  niglit  now  ?  Past  one.  Black  and  Green 
are  waiting  in  Whitecliapel  to  unveil  the  mysteries  of 
Wentworth  Street.  Williams,  the  best  of  friends  must 
part.    Adieu  ! 

Are  not  Black  and  Green  ready  at  the  appointed  place  ? 
O  yes  !  They  glide  out  of  shadow  as  we  stop.  Imper- 
turbable Black  opens  the  cab-door  ;  Imperturbable  Green 
takes  a  mental  note  of  the  driver.  Both  Green  and 
Black  then  open,  each  his  flaming  eye,  and  marshal  us 
the  way  that  we  are  going. 

The  lodging-house  we  want,  is  hidden  in  a  maze  of 
streets  and  courts.  It  is  fast  shut.  We  knock  at  the 
door,  and  stand  hushed  looking  up  for  a  light  at  one  or 
other  of  the  begrimed  old  lattice  windows  in  its  ugly 
front,  when  another  constable  comes  up — supposes  that 
we  want  "  to  see  the  school."  Detective  Sergeant  mean- 
while has  got  over  a  rail,  opened  a  gate,  dropped  down 
an  area,  overcome  some  other  little  obstacles,  and  tapped 
at  a  window.  Now  returns.  The  landlord  will  send  a 
deputy  immediately. 

Deputy  is  heard  to  stumble  out  of  bed.  Deputy  lights 
a  candle,  draws  back  a  bolt  or  two,  and  appears  at  the 
door.  Deputy  is  a  shivering  shirt  and  trousers  by  no 
means  clean,  a  yawning  face,  a  shock  head  much  con- 
fused externally  and  internally.  We  want  to  look  for 
some  one.  You  may  go  up  with  the  light,  and  take  'em 
all,  if  you  like,  says  Deputy,  resigning  it,  and  sitting 
down  upon  a  bench  in  the  kitchen  with  his  ten  fingers 
sleepily  twisting  in  his  hair. 

Halloa  there  !  Now  then  !  Show  yourselves.  That'll 
do.  It's  not  you.  Don't  disturb  yourself  any  more  ! 
So  on,  through  a  labyrinth  of  airless  rooms,  each  man 
responding,  like  a  wild  beast,  to  the  keeper  who  has 
tamed  him,  and  who  goes  into  his  cage.  What,  you 
haven't  found  him,  then?  says  Deputy,  when  we  came 
down,  A  woman  mysteriously  sitting  up  all  night  in  the 
dark  by  the  smouldering  ashes  of  the  kitchen  fire,  says 
it's  only  tramps  and  cadgers  here  ;  it's  gonophs  over  the 
way.  A  man,  mysteriously  walking  about  the  kitchen 
all  night  in  the  dark,  bids  her  hold  her  tongue.  We 
come  out.  Deputy  fastens  the  door  and  goes  to  bed 
again. 

Black  and  Green,  you  know  Bark,  lodging-house 
keeper  and  receiver  of  stolen  goods  ? — 0  yes,  Inspector 
Field. — Go  to  Bark's  next. 

Bark  sleeps  in  an  inner  wooden  hutch,  near  his  street- 
door.  As  we  parley  on  the  step  with  Bark's  Deputy, 
Bark  growls  in  his  bed.  We  enter,  and  Bark  flies  out  of 
bed.  Bark  is  a  red  villain  and  a  wrathful,  with  a  san- 
guine throat  that  looks  very  much  as  if  it  were  expressly 
made  for  hanging,  as  he  stretches  it  out,  in  pale  defi- 
ance, over  the  half-door  of  his  hutch.  Bark's  parts  of 
speech  are  of  an  awful  sort — principally  adjectives,  I 
won't,  says  Bark,  have  no  adjective  police  and  adjective 
strangers  in  my  adjective  premises  !  I  won't,  by  adjec- 
tive and  substantive  !  Gi  ve  me  my  trousers,  and  I'll  send 
the  whole  adjective  police  to  adjective  and  substantive  ! 
Give  me,  says  Bark,  my  adjective  trousers  !  I'll  put  an 
adjective  knife  in  the  whole  bileing  of  'em,  I'll  punch 
their  adjective  heads,  I'll  rip  up  their  adjective  sub- 
stantives. Give  me  my  adjective  trousers  I  says  Bark, 
and  I'll  spile  the  bileing  of  'em. 

Novv,  Bark,  what's  the  use  of  this  ?  Here  is  Black  and 
Green,  Detective  Sergeant,  and  Inspector  Field.  You 
know  we  will  come  in. — I  know  you  won't  !  says  Bark, 
Somebody  give  me  my  adjective  trousers  !  Bark's  trous- 
ers seem  difficult  to  find,  lie  calls  for  them,  as  Hercules 
might  for  his  club.  Give  me  my  adjective  trousers  ! 
says  Bark,  and  I'll  spile  the  bileing  of  'em. 

Inspector  Field  holds  that  it's  all  one  whether  Bark 
likes  the  visit  or  don't  like  it.  He,  Inspector  Field,  is  an 
Inspector  of  the  Detective  Police,  Detective  Sergeant  is 
Detective  Sergeant,  Black  and  Green  are  constables  in 
uniform.  Don't  you  be  a  fool,  Bark,  or  you  know  it  will 
be  the  worse  for  you. — I  don't  care,  says  Bark.  Give  me 
my  adjective  trousers  ! 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  we  descend  into  Bark's 
low  kitchen,  leaving  Bark  to  foam  at  the  mouth  above, 
and  imi)erturbai)le  Jilack  and  Green  to  look  at  him. 
Bark's  kitchen  is  crammed  full  of  thieves,  holding  a 
conversazione  there  by  lamplight.  It  is  by  far  the  most 
dangerous  assembly  we  have  seen  yet.     Stimulated  by 


the  ravings  of  Bark,  above,  their  looks  are  sullen,  but 
not  a  man  speaks.  We  ascend  again.  Bark  has  got  his 
trousers,  and  is  in  a  state  of  madness  in  the  i)assage  with 
his  back  against  a  door  that  shuts  oif  the  upper  staircase. 
We  observe,  in  other  respects,  a  ferocious  individuality 
in  Bark.  Instead  of  "Stop  Thief  1"  on  his  linen,  he 
prints ' '  Stolen  from  Bark's  !  " 

Now  Bark,  we  are  going  up  stairs  ! — No,  you  ain't  ! — 
You  refuse  admission  to  the  Police,  do  you,  Bark? — Yes, 
I  do  !  I  refuse  it  to  all  the  adjective  police  and  to  all 
the  adjective  substantives.  If  the  adjective  coves  in  the 
kitchen  was  men,  they'd  come  up  now,  and  do  for  you  ! 
Shut  me  that  there  door  !  says  Bark,  and  suddenly  we 
are  enclosed  in  the  passage.  They'd  come  up  and  do  for 
you  !  cries  Bark,  and  waits.  Not  a  sound  in  the  kitchen  ! 
They'd  come  up  and  do  for  you  !  cries  Bark  again,  and 
waits.  Not  a  sound  in  the  kitchen  I  We  are  shut  up, 
half-a  dozen  of  us,  in  Bark's  house  in  the  innermost 
recesses  of  the  worst  part  of  London,  in  the  dead  of  the 
night — the  house  is  crammed  with  notorious  robbers  and 
rufiians — and  not  a  man  stirs.  No,  Bark.  They  know 
the  weight  of  the  law,  and  they  know  Inspector  Field 
and  Co.  too  well. 

We  leave  bully  Bark  to  subside  at  leisure  out  of  his 
passion  and  his  trousers,  and,  I  dare  say,  to  be  incon- 
veniently reminded  of  this  little  brush  before  long. 
Black  and  Green  do  ordinary  duty  here,  and  look  serious. 

As  to  White,  who  waits  on  Holborn  Hill  to  show  the 
courts  that  are  eaten  out  of  Rotten  Gray's  Inn  Lane, 
where  other  lodging-houses  are,  and  where  (in  one  blind 
alley)  the  Thieves'  Kitchen  and  Seminary  for  the  teach- 
ing of  the  art  to  children,  is,  the  night  has  so  worn 
away,  being  now 

almost  at  odds  with  moruing,  which  is  which, 

that  they  are  quiet,  and  no  light  shines  through  the 
chinks  in  the  shutters.  As  undistinctive  Death  will 
come  here,  one  day,  sleep  comes  now.  The  wicked 
cease  from  troubling  sometimes,  even  in  this  life. 


DOWN  WITH  THE  TIDE. ' 

A  YERY  dark  night  it  was,  and  bitter  cold  ;  the  east 
wind  blowing  bleak,  and  bringing  with  it  stinging  parti- 
cles from  marsh,  and  moor,  and  fen — from  the  Great 
Desert  and  Old  Egypt,  may  be.  Some  of  the  compo- 
nent parts  of  the  sharp-edged  vapour  that  came  flying 
up  the  Thames  at  London  might  be  mummy-dust,  dry 
atoms  from  the  Temple  at  Jerusalem,  camels'  foot-prints, 
crocodiles'  hatching  places,  loosened  grains  of  expression 
from  the  visages  of  blunt-nosed  sphynxes,  waifs  and 
strays  from  caravans  of  turbaned  merchants,  vegetation 
from  jungles,  frozen  snow  from  the  Himalayas. — 0  !  It 
was  very  very  dark  upon  the  Thames,  and  it  was  bitter 
bitter  cold. 

"And  yet,"  said  the  voice  within  the  great  pea-coat  at 
my  side,  "you'll  have  seen  a  good  many  rivers  too,  I 
dare  say  ?  " 

"  Truly,"  said  I,  "when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  not  a 
few.  From  the  Niagara,  downward  to  the  mountain 
rivers  of  Italy,  which  are  like  the  national  spirit — very 
tame,  or  chafing  suddenly  and  bursting  bounds,  only  to 
dwindle  away  again.  The  Moselle,  and  the  Rhine,  and 
the  Rhone  ;  and  the  Seine,  and  the  Saone  ;  and  the  St. 
Lawrence,  and  Mississippi,  and  Ohio  ;  and  the  Tiber,  the 
Po,  and  the  Arno  ;  and  the — " 

Peacoat  coughing,  as  if  he  had  had  enough  of  that,  I 
said  no  more.  I  could  have  carried  the  catalogue  on  to 
a  teazing  length,  though,  if  I  had  been  in  the  cruel 
mind. 

"  And  after  all,"  said  he,  "  this  looks  so  dismal  ?  " 

"  So  awful,"  I  returned,  "  ai  night.  The  Seine  at 
Paris  is  very  gloomy  too,  at  such  a  time,  and  is  probably 
the  scene  of  far  more  crime  and  greater  wickedness  ;  but 
this  river  lo.oks  so  broad  and  vast,  so  murky  and  silent, 
seems  such  an  image  of  death  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
city's  life,  that — " 

That  Peacoat  coughed  again.  He  covld  not  stand  my 
holding  forth. 

Wo  were  in  a  four-oared  Thames  Police  Galley,  lying 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


1113 


on  our  oars  in  tbe  deep  shadow  of  Soutliwark  Bridge — 
under  the  corner  arch  of  the  Surrey  side — having  come 
down  with  the  tide  from  Vauxhall.  We  were  fain  to 
hold  on  pretty  tight  though  close  in  f;hore,  for  the  river 
was  swollen,  and  the  tide  running  down  very  strong. 
We  were  watching  certain  water-rats  of  human  growth, 
and  lay  in  the  deep  shade  as  quiet  as  mice ;  our  light 
hidden  and  our  scraps  of  conversation  carried  on  in  whis- 
pers. Above  us  the  massive  iron  girders  of  the  arch 
were  faintly  visible,  and  below  us  its  ponderous  shadow 
seemed  to  sink  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  stream. 

We  had  been  lying  here  some  half  an  hour.  With  our 
backs  to  the  wind,  it  is  true  ;  but  the  wind  being  in  a 
determined  temper  blew  straight  through  us,  and  would 
not  take  the  trouble  to  go  round.  I  would  have  boarded 
a  fireship  to  get  into  action,  and  mildly  suggested  as 
much  to  my  friend  Pea. 

"  No  doubt,"  says  he  as  patiently  as  possible  ;  "but 
shore-going  tactics  wouldn't  do  with  us.  River  thieves 
can  always  get  rid  of  stolen  property  in  a  moment  by 
dropping  it  overboard.  We  want  to  take  them  with 
the  property,  so  we  lurk  about  and  come  out  upon  'em 
sharp.    If  they  see  us  or  hear  us  over  it  goes." 

Pea'3  wisdom  being  indisputable,  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  sit  there  and  be  blown  through,  for  another 
half  hour.  The  water-rats  thinking  it  wise  to  abscond 
at  the  end  of  that  time  without  commission  of  felony,  we 
shot  out,  disappointed,  with  the  tide. 

"Grim  they  look,  don't  they?"  said  Pea,  seeing  me 
glance  over  my  shoulder  at  the  lights  upon  the  bridge, 
and  downward  at  their  long  crooked  reflections  in  tbe 
river. 

"Very,"  said  I,  "  and  make  one  think  with  a  shudder 
of  Suicides.  What  a  night  for  a  dreadful  leap  from  that 
parapet  ! " 

"  Aye,  but  Waterloo's  the  favourite  bridge  for  making 
holes  in  the  water  from,"  returned  Pea.  "  By  the  bye — 
avast  pulling  lads  ! — would  you  like  to  speak  to  Water- 
loo on  the  subject?" 

My  face  confessing  a  surprised  desire  to  have  some 
friendly  conversation  with  Waterloo  Bridge,  and  my 
friend  Pea  being  the  most  obliging  of  men,  we  put  about, 
pulled  out  of  the  force  of  the  stream,  and  in  place  of 
going  at  great  speed  with  the  tide  began  to  strive  against 
it,  close  in  shore  again.  Every  colour  but  black  seemed 
to  have  departed  from  the  world.  The  air  was  black, 
the  water  was  black,  the  barges  and  hulks  were  black, 
the  piles  were  black,  the  buildings  were  black,  the  shad- 
ows were  only  a  deeper  shade  of  black  upon  a  black 
ground.  Here  and  there,  a  coal  fire  in  an  iron  cresset 
blazed  upon  a  wharf  ;  but,  one  knew  that  it  too  had 
been  black  a  little  while  ago,  and  would  be  black  again 
soon.  Uncomfortable  rushes  of  water,  suggestive  of 
gurgling  and  drowning,  ghostly  rattlings  of  iron  chains, 
dismal  clankings  of  discordant  engines,  formed  the  music 
that  accompanied  the  dip  of  our  oars  and  their  rattling 
in  the  rullocks.  Even  the  noises  had  a  black  sound  to 
me — as  the  trumpet  sounded  red  to  the  blind  man. 

Our  dexterous  boat's  crew  made  nothing  of  the  tide, 
and  pulled  us  gallantly  up  to  Waterloo  Bridge.  Here 
Pea  and  I  disembarked,  passed  under  the  black  stone 
archway,  and  climbed  the  steep  stone  steps.  Within  a 
few  feet  of  their  summit.  Pea  presented  me  to  Waterloo 
(or  an  eminent  toll-taiier  representing  that  structure), 
muffled  up  to  the  eyes  in  a  thick  shawd,  and  amply  great- 
coated  and  fur-capped. 

Waterloo  received  us  with  cordiality,  and  observed  of 
the  night  that  it  was  "a  Searcher."  He  had  been  origi- 
nally called  the  Strand  Bridge,  he  informed  us,  but  had 
received  his  present  name  at  the  suggestion  of  the  pro- 
prietors, when  Parliament  had  resolved  to  vote  three 
hundred  thousand  pound  for  the  erection  of  a  monument 
in  honour  of  the  victory,  Parliament  took  the  hint  (said 
Waterloo,  with  the  least  flavour  of  misanthropy)  and 
saved  the  money.  Of  course  the  late  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton was  the  first  passenger,  and  of  course  he  paid  his 
penny,  and  of  course  a  noble  lord  preserved  it  evermore. 
The  treadle  and  index  at  the  toll-house  (a  most  ingenious 
contrivance  for  rendering  fraud  impossible),  were  invent- 
ed by  Mr.  Lethbridge,  then  property-man  at  Drury  Lane 
Theatre. 

Was  it  suicide,  we  wanted  to  know  about?  said  Water- 


loo. Ha  !  Well,  he  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  that  work, 
he  did  assure  us.  lie  had  prevented  some.  Why,  one 
day  a  woman,  poorish  looking,  came  in  between  the 
hatch,  slapped  down  a  penny  and  wanted  to  go  on  with- 
out the  change  !  Waterloo  suspected  this,  and  says  to  his 
mate,  "Give  an  eye  to  the  gate,"  and  bolted  after  her. 
She  had  got  to  tlie  third  seat  between  the  i)iers,  and  was 
on  the  para[)et  just  agoing  over,  when  he  caught  her  and 
gave  her  in  charge.  At  the  police  office  next  morning, 
she  said  it  was  along  of  trouble  and  a  bad  husband. 

"Likely  enough,"  observed  Waterloo  to  Pea  and  my- 
self, as  he  adjusted  his  chin  in  his  shawl.  "There's  a 
deal  of  trouble  about,  you  see — and  bad  husbands  too  !" 

Another  time,  a  young  woman  at  twelve  o'clock  in  the 
open  day,  got  through,  darted  along  ;  and,  before  Wa- 
terloo could  come  near  her,  jumped  upon  the  parapet, 
and  shot  herself  over  sideways.  Alarm  given,  water- 
men put  off,  lucky  escape.— Clothes  buoyed  her  up. 

"This  is  where  it  is,"  said  Waterloo.  "If  people 
jump  off  straight  forwards  from  the  middle  of  the  para- 
pet of  the  bays  of  the  bridge,  they  are  seldom  killed  by 
drowning,  but  are  smashed,  poor  things  ;  that's  what 
they  are  ;  they  dash  themselves  upon  the  buttress  of  the 
bridge.  But,  you  jump  off,"  said  Waterloo  to  me,  put- 
ting his  forefinger  in  a  button  hole  of  niy  great  coat  ; 
"you  jump  off  from  the  side  of  the  bay,  and  you'll  tum- 
ble, true,  into  the  stream  under  the  arch.  What  you 
have  got  to  do,  is  to  mind  how  you  jump  in  !  There  was 
poor  Tom  Steele  from  Dublin,  Didn't  dive  !  Bless  you, 
didn't  dive  at  all  !  Fell  down  so  flat  into  the  water,  that 
he  broke  his  breastbone,  and  lived  two  days  ! " 

I  asked  Waterloo  if  there  were  a  favourite  side  of  his 
bridge  for  this  dreadful  purpose  ?  He  reflected,  and 
thought  yes,  there  was.    He  should  say  the  Surrey  side. 

Three  decent  looking  men  went  through  one  day,  so- 
berly and  quietly,  and  went  on  abreast  for  about  a  dozen 
yards  :  when  the  middle  one,  he  sung  out,  all  of  a  sudden, 
"  Here  goes,  Jack  !"  and  was  over  in  a  minute. 

Body  found  ?  Well.  Waterloo  didn't  rightly  recollect 
about  that.    They  were  compositors,  they  were. 

He  considered  it  astonishing  how  quick  people  were  ! 
Why  there  was  a  cab  came  up  one  Boxing-night,  with  a 
young  woman  in  it,  who  looked,  according  to  Waterloo's 
opinion  of  her,  a  little  the  worse  for  liquor  ;  very  hand- 
some she  was  too — very  handsome.  She  stopped  the  cab 
at  the  gate,  and  said  she'd  pay  the  cabman  then  :  which 
she  did,  though  there  was  a  little  hankering  about  the 
fare,  because  at  first  she  didn't  seem  quite  to  know  vvhere 
she  wanted  to  be  drove  to.  However  she  paid  the  man, 
and  the  toll  too,  and  looking  Waterloo  in  the  face  (he 
thought  she  knew  him,  don't  you  see  !)  said,  "  I'll  finish 
it  somehow  !"  Well,  the  cab  went  off,  leaving  Water- 
loo a  little  doubtful  in  his  mind,  and  while  it  was  going 
on  at  full  speed  the  young  woman  jumped  out,  never  fell, 
hardly  staggered,  ran  along  the  bridge  pavement  a  little 
way,  passing  several  people,  and  jumped  over  from  the 
second  opening.  At  the  inquest  it  was  giv'  in  evidence 
that  she  had  been  quarrelling  at  the  Hero  of  Waterloo 
and  it  was  brought  in  jealousy.  (One  of  the  results  of 
Waterloo's  experience  was,  that  there  was  a  deal  of  jeal- 
ousy about.) 

"  Do  we  ever  get  madmen?"  said  Waterloo,  in  answer 
to  an  inquiry  of  mine.  "  Well,  we  do  get  madmen.  Yes, 
we  have  had  one  or  two  :  escaped  from  'Sylums,  I  sup- 
pose. One  hadn't  a  halfpenny  ;  and  because  I  wouldn't 
let  him  through,  he  went  back  a  little  way,  stooped  down, 
took  a  run,  and  butted  at  the  hatch  like  a  ram.  He 
smashed  his  hat  rarely,  but  his  head  didn't  seem  no 
worse — in  my  opinion  on  account  of  his  being  wrong  in 
it  afore.  Sometimes  people  haven't  got  a  halfpenny. 
If  they  are  really  tired  and  poor  we  give  'em  one  and  let 
'em  through.  Other  people  will  leave  things — pocket- 
handkerchiefs  mostly.  I  ]tavc  taken  cravats  and  gloves, 
pocket-knives,  tooth-picks,  studs,  shirt  pins,  rings  (gen- 
erally from  young  gents,  early  in  the  morning),  but 
handkerchiefs  is  the  general  thing." 

"  Regular  customers  ?"  said  Waterloo.  "Lord,  yes! 
We  have  regular  customers.  One,  such  a  worn-out 
used-up  old  file  as  you  can  scarcely  picter,  comes  from 
the  Surrey  side  as  regular  as  ten  o'clock  at  night  comes  ; 
and  goes  over,  I  think,  to  some  flash  house  on  the  Mid- 
dlesex side.    He  comes  back,  he  does,  as  reg'lar  as  the 


1114 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


clock  strikes  three  in  the  morning,  and  then  can  hardly 
drag  one  of  his  old  legs  after  the  other.  •  He  always 
turns  down  the  water-stairs,  comes  up  again,  and  then 
goes  on  down  the  Waterloo  Road.  He  always  does  the 
same  thing,  and  never  variss  a  minute.  Does  it  every 
night — even  Sundays." 

I  asked  Waterloo  if  he  had  given  his  mind  to  the  pos- 
sibility of  this  particular  customer  going  down  the  water- 
stairs  at  three  o'clock  some  morning,  and  never  coming 
up  again  ?  He  didn't  think  that  of  him,  he  replied.  In 
fact,  it  was  Waterloo's  opinion,  founded  on  liis  observa- 
tion'of  that  file,  that  he  know'd  a  trick  worth  two  of  it. 

"  There's  another  queer  old  customer,"  said  Waterloo, 
"comes  over,  as  punctual  as  the  almanack,  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  sixth  of  January,  at  eleven  o'clock  on  the 
fifth  of  April,  at  eleven  o'clock  on  the  sixth  of  July,  at 
eleven  o'clock  on  the  tenth  of  October.  Drives  a  shaggy 
little  rough  pony,  in  a  sort  of  a  rattle-trap  arm-chair  sort 
of  a  thing.  White  hair  he  has,  and  white  whiskers,  and 
muffles  himself  up  with  all  manner  of  shawls.  He  conies 
back  again  the  same  afternoon,  and  we  never  see  more  of 
him  for  three  months.  He  is  a  captain  in  the  navy — 
retired — wery  old — wery  odd — and  served  with  Lord 
Nelson.  He  is  particular  about  drawing  his  pension  at 
Somerset  House  afore  the  clock  strikes  twelve  every 
quarter.  I  have  heerd  say  that  he  thinks  it  wouldn't  be 
according  to  the  Act  of  Parliament,  if  he  didn't  draw  it 
afore  twelve." 

Having  related  these  anecdotes  in  a  natural  manner, 
which  was  the  best  warranty  in  the  world  for  their  gen- 
uine nature,  our  friend  Waterloo  was  sinking  deep  into 
his  shawl  again,  as  having  exhausted  his  communicative 
powers  and  taken  in  enough  east  wind,  when  my  other 
friend  Pea  in  a  moment  brought  him  to  the  surface  by 
asking  whether  he  had  not  been  occasionally  the  subject 
of  assault  and  battery  in  the  execution  of  his  duty? 
Waterloo  recovering  his  spirits,  instantly  dashed  into  a 
new  branch  of  his  subject.  We  learnt  how  "both  these 
teeth" — here  he  pointed  to  the  places  where  two  front 
teeth  w^ere  not — w^ere  knocked  out  by  an  ugly  customer 
who  one  night  made  a  dash  at  him  (Waterloo)  while  his 
(the  ugly  customer's)  pal  and  coadjutor  made  a  dash  at 
the  toll-taking  apron  where  the  money  pockets  were  ; 
how  Waterloo,  letting  the  teeth  go  (to  Blazes,  he  observed 
indefinitely)  grappled  with  the  apron -seizer,  permitting 
the  ugly  one  to  run  away  ;  and  how  he  saved  the  bank, 
and  captured  his  man,  and  consigned  him  to  fine  and 
imprisonment.  Also  how,  on  another  night,  "a  Cove" 
laid  hold  of  Waterloo,  then  presiding  at  the  horse  gate 
of  his  bridge,  and  threw  him  unceremoniously  over  his 
knee,  having  first  cut  his  head  open  with  his  whip.  How 
Waterloo  "  got  right,"  and  started  after  the  Cove  all 
down  the  Waterloo  Road,  through  Stamford  Street,  and 
round  to  the  foot  of  Blackfriar's  Bridge,  where  the  Cove 
"  cut  into  "  a  public  house.  How  Waterloo  cut  in  too  ; 
but  how  an  aider  and  abettor  of  the  Cove's,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  taking  a  promiscuous  drain  at  the  bar  stop- 
ped Waterloo  ;  and  the  Cove  cut  out  again,  ran  across 
the  road  down  Holland  Street,  and  where  not,  and  into  a 
beer  shop.  How  Waterloo  breaking  away  from  his 
detainer  was  close  upon  the  Cove's  heels,  attended  by  no 
end  of  people  who,  seeing  him  running  with  the  blood 
streaming  down  his  face,  thought  something  worse  w^as 
"up,"  and  roared  Fire!  and  Murder!  on  the  hopeful 
chance  of  the  matter  in  hand  being  one  or  both.  How 
the  Cove  was  ignominiously  taken,  in  a  shed  where  he 
had  run  to  hide,  and  how  at  the  Police  Court  they  at  first 
wanted  to  make  a  sessions  job  of  it ;  but  eventually 
Waterloo  was  allowed  to  be  "  spoke  to,"  and  the  Cove 
made  it  square  with  Waterloo  by  paying  his  doctor's  bill 
(W.  was  laid  up  for  a  week)  and  giving  him  "Three, 
ten."  Likewise  we  learnt  what  we  had  faintly  suspected 
heforo,  that  your  sporting  amateur  on  the  Derby  day, 
albeit  a  captain,  can  be — "  if  he  be,"  as  Captain  Bobadil 
J  observes,  "  so  generously  minded  " — anything  but  a  man 
of  honour  and  a  gentleman  ;  not  sufficiently  gratifying 
his  nice  sense  of  humour  by  the  witty  scatterings  of  flour 
and  rotten  eggs  on  obtuse  civilians,  but  requiring  the 
further  excitement  of  "  bilking  the  toll,"  and  "  pitching 
into"  Waterloo,  and  "  cuttinjj;  him  about  the  liead  witli 
his  whip  ;  "  finally  being,  wlien  called  upon  to  answer 
for  the  assault,  what  Waterloo  described  as  "Minus," 


or,  as  I  humbly  conceived  it,  not  to  be  found.  Likewise 
did  Waterloo  inform  us,  in  reply  to  my  inquiries,  admir- 
ingly and  deferentially  preferred  through  my  friend  Pea, 
that  the  takings  at  the  Bridge  had  more  than  doubled  in 
amount,  since  the  reduction  of  the  toll  one  half.    And  ^ 
being  asked  if  the  aforesaid  takings  included  much  bad  i 
money,  Waterloo  responded,  with  a  look  far  deeper  than  1 
the  deepest  part  of  the  river,  he  should  think  not ! — and 
so  retired  into  his  shawl  for  the  rest  of  the  night. 

Then  did  Pea  and  I  once  more  embark  in  our  four-oared 
galley,  and  glide  swiftly  down  the  river  with  the  tide. 
And  while  the  shrewd  East  rasped  and  notched  us,  as 
with  jagged  razors,  did  my  friend  Pea  impart  to  me  con- 
fidences of  interest  relating  to  the  Thames  Police  :  we 
bet  ween  whiles  finding  "  duty  boats  "  hanging  in  dark 
corners  under  banks,  like  reeds — our  own  was  a  "  super- 
vision boat" — and  they,  as  they  reported  "all  right!'* 
flashing  their  hidden  light  on  us,  and  we  flashing  ourg 
on  them.  These  duty  boats  had  one  sitter  in  each:  an  In- 
spector :  and  were  rowed  "  Ran-dan,"  which — for  the 
information  of  those  who  never  graduated,  as  I  was  once 
proud  to  do,  under  a  fireman-waterman  and  winner  of 
Kean's  Prize  Wherry  :  who,  in  the  course  of  his  tuition, 
took  hundreds  of  gallons  of  rum  and  egg  (at  my  expense) 
at  the  various  houses  of  note  above  and  below  bridge  ; 
not  by  any  means  because  he  liked  it,  but  to  cure  a 
weakness  in  his  liver,  for  which  the  faculty  had  particu- 
larly recommended  it — may  be  explained  as  rowed  by 
three  men,  two  pulling  an  oar  each,  and  one  a  pair  of 
sculls. 

Thus,  floating  down  our  black  highway,  sullenly 
frowned  upon  by  the  knitted  brows  of  Blackfriars, 
Southwark,  and  London,  each  in  his  lowering  turn,  I 
was  shown  by  my  friend  Pea  that  there  are,  in  the 
Thames  Police  Force,  whose  district  extends  from  Bat- 
tersea  to  Barking  Creek,  ninety-eight  men,  eight  duty 
boats,  and  two  supervision  boats  ;  and  that  these  go 
about  so  silently,  and  lie  in  wait  in  such  dark  places,  and 
so  seem  to  be  nowhere,  and  so  may  be  anywhere,  that 
they  have  gradually  become  a  police  of  prevention,  keep- 
ing the  river  almost  clear  of  any  great  crimes,  even  while 
the  increased  vigilance  on  shore  has  made  it  much  harder 
than  of  yore  to  live  by  "thieving"  in  the  streets.  And 
as  to  the  various  kinds  of  water  thieves,  said  my  friend 
Pea,  there  were  the  Tier-rangers,  who  silently  dropped 
alongside  the  tiers  of  shipping  in  the  Pool,  by  night, 
and  who,  going  to  the  companion-head,  listened  for  tvi^o 
snores — snore  number  one,  the  skipper's  ;  snore  number 
two,  the  mate's — mates  and  skippers  always  snoring 
great  guns,  and  being  dead  sure  to  be  hard  at  it  if  they 
had  turned  in  and  were  asleep.  Hearing  the  double  fire, 
down  went  the  Rangers  into  the  skippers'  cabins;  groped 
for  the  skippers'  inexpressibles,  which  it  was  the  custom 
of  those  gentlemen  to  shake  off,  watch,  money,  braces, 
boots,  and  all  together,  on  the  floor;  and  therewith  made 
off  as  silently  as  might  be.  Then  there  were  the  Lump- 
ers, or  labourers  employed  to  unload  vessels.  They 
wore  loose  canvas  jackets  with  a  broad  hem  in  the  bot- 
tom, turned  inside,  so  as  to  form  a  large  circular  pocket 
in  which  they  could  conceal,  like  clowns  in  pantomimes, 
packages  of  surprising  sizes.  A  great  deal  of  property 
was  stolen  in  this  manner  (Pea  confided  to  me)  from 
steamers  ;  first,  because  steamers  carry  a  larger  number 
of  small  packages  than  other  ships  ;  next,  because  of 
the  extreme  rapidity  with  which  they  are  obliged  to  be 
unladen  for  their  return  voyages.  The  Lumpers  dispose 
of  their  booty  easily  to  marine  store  dealers,  and  the 
only  remedy  to  be  suggested  is  that  the  marine  store 
shops  should  be  licensed,  and  thus  brought  under  the 
eye  of  the  police  as  rigidly  as  public-houses.  Lumpers 
also  smuggle  goods  ashore  for  the  crews  of  vessels.  The 
smuggling  of  tobacco  is  so  considerable,  that  it  is  well 
worth  the  while  of  the  sellers  of  smuggled  tobacco  to 
use  hydraulic  presses,  to  squeeze  a  single  pound  into  a 
package  small  enough  to  be  contained  in  an  ordinary 
pocket.  Next,  said  my  friend  Pea,  there  were  the  Truck- 
ers— less  thieves  than  smugglers,  whose  business  it  was 
to  land  more  considerable  parcels  of  goods  than  the 
Lum])ers  could  manage.  They  sometimes  sold  articles 
of  grocf'ry,  and  so  forth,  to  the  crews,  in  order  to  cloak 
their  real  calling,  and  get  aboard  without  suspicion.  , 
Many  of  them  had  boats  of  their  own,  and  made  money. 


LibKARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


MI8CELLANE0  US. 


1115 


Besides  these,tliere  were  the  Dredgermen, who, under  pre- 
tence of  dredging  up  coals  and  such  like  from  the  bottom 
of  the  river,  hung  about  barges  and  other  undecked  craft, 
and  when  they  saw  an  opportunity,  threw  any  property 
they  could  lay  their  hands  on  overboard  ;  in  order  slyly 
to  dredge  it  up  when  the  vessel  was  gone.  Sometimes, 
they  dexterously  used  their  dredges  to  whip  away  any- 
thing that  might  lie  within  reach.  Some  of  them  were 
mighty  neat  at  this,  and  the  accomplishment  was  called 
dry  dredging.  Then,  there  was  a  vast  deal  of  property, 
such  as  copi^er  nails,  sheathing,  hard- wood,  &c.,  Labitu- 
ally  brought  away  bv  shipwrights  and  other  workmen 
from  their  employers  yards,  and  disposed  of  to  marine 
store  dealers,  many  of  whom  escaped  detection  through 
hard  swearing,  and  their  extraordinary  artful  ways  of 
accounting  for  the  possession  of  stolen  property.  Like- 
wise, there  were  special- pleading  practitioners,  for 
whom  barges  "drifted  away  of  their  own  selves  " — they 
having  no  hand  in  it,  except  first  cutting  them  loose,  and 
afterwards  plundering  them — innocents,  meaning  no 
harm,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  observe  those  found- 
lings wandering  about  the  Thames. 

We  were  now  going  in  and  out,  with  little  noise  and 
great  nicety,  among  the  tiers  and  shipping,  whose  many 
hulls,  lying  close  together,  rose  out  of  the  water  like 
black  streets.  Here  and  there,  a  Scotch,  an  Irish,  or  a 
foreign  steamer,  getting  up  her  steam  as  the  tide  made, 
looked,  with  her  great  chimney  and  high  sides,  like  a 
quiet  factory  among  the  common  buildings.  Now,  the 
streets  opened  into  clearer  spaces,  now  contracted  into 
alleys  ;  but  the  tiers  were  so  like  houses,  in  the  dark, 
that  I  could  almost  have  believed  myself  in  the  narrower 
bye- ways  of  Venice.  Everything  was  wonderfully  still  ; 
for,  it  wanted  full  three  hours  of  flood,  and  nothing 
seemed  awake  but  a  dog  here  and  there. 

So  we  took  no  Tier-rangers  captive,  nor  any  Lumpers, 
nor  Truckers,  nor  Dredgermen,  nor  other  evil-disposed 
person  or  persons  ;  but  went  ashore  at  Wapping,  where 
the  old  Thames  Police  office  is  now  a  station-house,  and 
where  the  old  Court,  with  its  cabin  windows  looking  on 
the  river,  is  a  quaint  charge  room  :  with  nothing  worse 
in  it  usually  than  a  stuffed  cat  in  a  glass  case,  and  a 
portrait,  pleasant  to  behold,  of  a  rare  old  Thames  Police 
officer,  Mr.  Superintendent  Evans,  now  succeeded  by  his 
son.  We  looked  over  the  charge  books,  admirably  kept, 
and  found  the  prevention  so  good,  that  there  were  not 
five  hundred  entries  (including  drunken  and  disorderly) 
in  a  whole  year.  Then,  we  looked  into  the  store-room  ; 
where  there  was  an  oakum  smell,  and  a  nautical  season- 
ing of  dreadnaughfc  clothing,  rope  yarn,  boat  hooks, 
sculls  and  oars,  spare  stretchers,  rudders,  pistols,  cut- 
lasses, and  the  like.  Then,  into  the  cell,  aired  high  up 
in  the  wooden  wall  through  an  opening  like  a  kitchen 
plate-rack:  wherein  there  was  a  drunken  man,  not  at  all 
warm,  and  very  wishful  to  know  if  it  were  morning  yet. 
Then,  into  a  better  sort  of  watch  and  ward  room,  where 
there  was  a  squadron  of  stone  bottles  drawn  up,  ready 
to  be  filled  with  hot  *N^ater  and  applied  to  any  unfortun- 
ate creature  who  might  be  brought  in  apparently 
drowned.  Finally  we  shook  hands  with  our  worthy 
friend  Pea,  and  ran  all  the  way  to  Tower  Hill,  under 
strong  Police  suspicion  occasionally,  before  we  got 
warm. 


A  WALK  IN  A  WORKHOUSE. 

On  a  certain  Sunday,  I  formed  one  of  the  congregation 
assembled  in  the  chapel  of  a  large  metropolitan  Work- 
house. With  the  exception  of  the  clergyman  and  clerk, 
and  a  very  few  officials,  here  were  none  but  paupers 
present.  The  children  sat  in  the  galleries;  the  women 
in  the  body  of  the  chapel,  and  in  one  of  the  side-aisles  ; 
the  men  in  the  remaining  aisle.  The  service  was  decor- 
ously performed,  though  the  sermon  might  have  been 
much  better  adapted  to  the  comprehension  and  to  the 
circumstances  of  the  hearers.  The  usual  supplications 
were  offered,  with  more  than  the  usual  significancy  in 
such  a  place,  for  the  fatherless  children  and  widows, 
for  all  sick  persons  and  young  children,  for  all  that 
were  desolate  and  oppressed,  for  the  comforting  and 
helping  of  the  weak-hearted,  for  the  raisiug-up  of  them 


that  had  fallen  ;  for  all  that  were  in  danger,  necessity, 
and  tribulation.  The  prayers  of  the  congregation  were 
desired  "  for  several  persons  in  the  various  wards 
dangerously  ill  ; "  and  others  who  were  recovering  re- 
turned their  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Among  this  congregation,  were  some  evil-looking 
young  women,  and  beetle-browed  young  men  ;  but  not 
many — perhaps  that  kind  of  characters  kept  away. 
Generally,  the  faces  (those  of  the  children  excepted;  were 
depressed  and  subdued,  and  wanted  colour.  Aged  peo- 
ple were  there,  in  every  variety.  Mumbling,  blear-eyed, 
spectacled,  stupid,  deaf,  lame  ;  vacantly  winking  in  the 
gleams  of  sun  that  now  and  then  crept  in  through 
the  open  doors,  from  the  paved  yard  ;  shading  their 
listening  ears,  or  blinking  eyes  with  their  withered 
hands  ;  poring  over  their  books,  leering  at  nothing, 
going  to  sleep,  crouching  and  drooping  in  corners. 
There  were  weird  old  women,  all  skeleton  within,  all 
bonnet  and  cloak  without,  continually  wiping  their  eyes 
with  dirty  dusters  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  ;  and  there 
were  ugly  old  crones,  both  male  and  female,  with  a 
ghastly  kind  of  contentment  upon  them  which  was  not 
at  all  comforting. to  see.  Upon  the  whole,  it  was  the 
dragon.  Pauperism,  in  a  very  weak  and  impotent  con- 
dition ; 'toothless,  fangless,  drawing  his  breath  heavily 
enough,  and  hardly  worth  chaining  up. 

When  the  service  was  over,  I  walked  with  the  hu- 
mane and  conscientious  gentleman  Avhose  duty  it  was  to 
take  that  walk,  that  Sunday  morning,  through  the  little 
world  of  poverty  enclosed  within  the  workhouse  walls. 
It  was  inhabited  by  a  population  of  some  fifteen  hundred 
or  two  thousand  paupers,  ranging  from  the  infant  newly 
born  or  not  yet  come  into  the  pauper  world,  to  the  old 
man  dying  on  his  bed. 

In  a  room  opening  from  a  squalid  yard,  where  a  num- 
ber of  listless  women  were  lounging  to  and  fro,  trying  to 
get  warm  in  the  ineffectual  sunshine  of  the  tardy  May 
morning — in  the  "Itch  Ward,"  not  to  compromise  the 
truth — a  woman  such  as  HoGAKTn  has  often  draw^n,  was 
hurriedly  getting  on  her  gown  before  a  dusty  fire.  She 
was  the  nurse,  or  wards  woman,  of  that  insalubrious  de- 
partment— herself  a  pauper — flabby,  raw-boned,  untidy 
— unpromising  and  coarse  of  aspect  as  need  be.  But,  on 
being  spoken  to  about  the  patients  whom  she  had  in 
charge,  she  turned  round,  with  her  shabby  gown  half 
on,  half  off,  and  fell  a  crying  with  all  her  might.  Not 
for  show,  not  querulously,  not  in  any  mawkish  senti- 
ment, but  in  the  deep  grief  and  affliction  of  her  heart ; 
turning  away  her  dishevelled  head  :  sobbing  most  bit- 
terly, wringing  her  hands  and  letting  fall  abundance  of 
great  tears,  that  choked  her  utterance.  What  was  the 
matter  with  the  nurse  of  the  itch-ward?  Oh,  "the 
dropped  child"  was  dead  !  Oh,  the  child  that  was  found 
in  the  street,  and  she  had  brought  up  ever  since,  had 
died  an  hour  ago,  and  see  where  the  little  creature  lay 
beneath  this  cloth  !    The  dear,  the  pretty  dear  ! 

The  dropped  child  seemed  too  small  and  poor  a  thing 
for  Death  to  be  in  earnest  with,  but  Death  had  taken  it ; 
and  already  its  diminutive  form  was  neatly  washed, 
composed,  and  stretched  as  if  in  sleep  upon  a  box.  I 
thought  I  heard  a  voice  from  Heaven  saying,  It  shall  be 
well  for  thee,  O  nurse  of  the  itch -ward,  when  some  less 
gentle  pauper  does  those  offices  to  thy  cold  form,  that 
such  as  the  dropped  child  are  the  angels  who  behold  my 
Father's  face  ! 

In  another  room,  were  several  ugly  old  women  crouch- 
ing, witch-like,  round  a  hearth,  and  chattering  and  nod- 
ding, after  the  manner  of  the  monkeys.  "  All  well  here? 
And  enough  to  eat  ?  "  A  general  chattering  and  chuck- 
ling ;  at  last  an  answer  from  a  volunteer.  "  Oh  yes  gen- 
tleman !  Bless  you  gentleman  !  Lord  bless  the  parish 
of  St.  So-and-So  !  It  feed  the  hungry,  Sir,  and  give 
drink  to  the  thusty,  and  it  warm  them  which  is  cold,  so 
it  do,  and  good  luck  to  the  parish  of  St.  So-and-So,  and 
thankee  gentleman ! "  Elsewhere  a  party  of  pauper 
nurses  were  at  dinner.  "  How  do  you  get  on?"  "Oh 
pretty  well  Sir  !  We  works  hard,  and  we  lives  hard — 
like  the  sodgers  ! " 

In  another  room,  a  kind  of  purgatory  or  place  of  tran- 
sition, six  or  eight  noisy  madwomen  were  gathered  to- 
gether, under  the  superintendence  of  one  sane  attendant. 
Among  them  was  a  girl  of  two  or  three  and  twenty,  very 


1116 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


prettily  dressed,  of  most  respectable  appearance,  and 
good  manners,  who  had  been  brought  in  from  the  house 
where  she  had  lived  as  domestic  servant  (having,  I  sup- 
pose, no  friends),  on  account  of  being  subjv3ct  to  epileptic 
fits,  and  requiring  to  be  removed  under  the  influence  of 
a  very  bad  one.  She  was  by  no  means  of  the  same  stuff, 
or  the  same  breeding,  or  the  same  experience,  or  in  the 
same  state  of  mind,  as  those  by  whom  she  was  surround- 
ed ;  and  she  pathetically  complained  that  the  daily 
association  and  nightly  noise  made  her  worse,  and  was 
driving  her  mad— which  was  perfectly  evident.  The 
case  was  noted  for  enquiry  and  redress,  but  she  said  she 
had  already  been  there  for  some  weeks. 

If  this  girl  had  stolen  her  mistress's  watch,  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  say  she  would  have  been  infinitely  better  off. 
We  have  come  to  this  absurd,  this  dangerous,  this  mon- 
strous pass,  that  the  dishonest  felon  is,  in  respect  of 
cleanliness,  order,  diet,  and  accommodation,  better  pro- 
vided for,  and  taken  care  of,  than  the  honest  pauper. 

And  this  conveys  no  special  imputation  on  the  work- 
house of  the  parish  of  St.  So-and-So,  where,  on  the  con- 
trary, I  saw  many  things  to  commend.  It  was  very 
agreeable,  recollecting  that  most  infanjous  and  atrocious 
enormity  committed  at  Tooting — an  enormity  which,  a 
hundred  years  hence,  will  still  be  vividly  remembered  in 
the  bye-ways  of  English  life,  and  which  has  done  more 
to  engender  a  gloomy  discontent  and  suspicion  among 
many  thousands  of  the  people  than  all  the  Chartist  lead- 
ers could  have  done  in  all  their  lives — to  find  the  pauper 
children  in  this  workhouse  looking  robust  and  well,  and 
apparently  the  objects  of  very  great  care.  In  the  Infant 
School— a  large,  light,  airy  room  at  the  top  of  the  build- 
ing— the  little  creatures,  being  at  dinner,  and  eating 
their  potatoes  heartily,  were  not  cowed  by  the  presence 
of  strange  visitors,  but  stretched  out  their  small  hands 
to  be  shaken,  with  a  very  pleasant  confidence.  And  it 
was  comfortable  to  see  two  mangey  pauper  rocking-horses 
rampant  in  a  corner.  In  the  girls'  school,  where  the 
dinner  was  also  in  progress,  everything  bore  a  cheerful 
and  healtliy  aspect.  The  meal  was  over,  in  the  boys' 
school,  by  the  time  of  our  arrival  here,  and  the  room 
was  not  yet  quite  re-arranged  ;  but  the  boys  were  roam- 
ing unrestrained  about  a  large  and  airy  yard,  as  any 
other  schoolboys  might  have  done.  Some  of  them  had 
been  drawing  large  ships  upon  the  schoolroom  wall ;  and 
if  they  had  a  mast  with  shrouds  and  stays  set  up  for 
practice  (as  they  have  in  the  Middlesex  House  of  Correc- 
tion), it  would  be  so  much  the  better.  At  present,  if  a 
boy  should  feel  a  strong  impulse  upon  him  to  learn  the 
art  of  going  aloft,  he  could  only  gratify  it,  I  presume, 
as  the  men  and  women  paupers  gratify  their  aspirations 
after  better  board  and  lodging,  by  smashing  as  many 
workhouse  windows  as  possible,  and  being  promoted  to 
prison. 

In  one  place,  the  Newgate  of  the  Workhouse,  a  com- 
pany of  boys  and  youths  were  locked  up  in  a  yard  alone  ; 
their  day-room  being  a  kind  of  kennel  where  the  casual 
poor  used  formerly  to  be  littered  down  at  night.  Divers 
of  them  had  been  theie  some  long  time.  "Are  they 
never  going  away  ?"  was  the  natural  enquiry.  "Most 
of  them  are  crippled,  in  some  form  or  other,"  said  the 
Wardsman,  "  and  not  fit  for  anything."  They  slunk 
about,  like  dispirited  wolves  or  hysenas  ;  and  made  a 
pounce  at  their  food  when  it  was  served  out,  much  as 
those  animals  do.  The  big-headed  idiot  shulfling  his 
feet  along  the  pavement,  in  the  sunlight  outside,  was  a 
more  agreeable  object  everyway. 

Groves  of  babies  in  arms  ;  groves  of  mothers  and  other 
sick  women  in  bed  ;  groves  of  lunatics  ;  jungles  of  men 
in  stone-paved  dovvn-.stairs  day-rooms,  waiting  for  their 
dinners  ;  longer  and  longer  groves  of  old  people,  in  up- 
stairs Infirmary  wards,  wearing  out  life,  God  knows  how 
— this  was  the  scenery  through  which  tlie  walk  lay,  for 
two  hours.  In  some  of  these  latter  chambers,  there  were 
pictures  stuck  against  the  wall,  and  a  neat  display  of 
crockery  and  pewter  on  a  kind  of  sideboard  ;  now  and 
then  it  was  a  treat  to  see  a  plant  or  two  ;  in  almost  every 
ward  there  was  a  cat. 

In  all  of  these  Long  Walks  of  aged  and  infirm,  some 
old  people  were  bed-ridden,  and  had  been  for  a  long 
time  ;  some  were  sitting  on  their  beds  half -naked  ;  some 
dying  in  their  beds  ;  some  out  of  bed,  and  sitting  at  a 


table  near  the  fire.  A  sullen  or  lethargic  indifference  to 
what  was  asked,  a  blunted  sensibility  to  everything  but 
warmth  and  food,  a  moody  absence  of  complaint  as  being 
of  no  use,  a  dogged  silence  and  resentful  desire  to  be  left 
alone  again,  I  thought  were  generally  apparent.  On  our 
walking  into  the  midst  of  one  of  these  dreary  perspec- 
tives of  old  men,  nearly  the  following  little  dialogue 
took  place,  the  nurse  not  being  immediately  at  hand. 
"All  well  here?" 

No  answer.  An  old  man  in  a  Scotch  cap  sitting  among 
others  on  a  form  at  the  table,  eating  out  of  a  tin  porrin- 
ger, pushes  back  his  cap  a  little  to  look  at  us,  claps  it 
down  on  his  forehead  again  with  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
and  goes  on  eating. 

"  All  well  here?"  (repeated.) 

No  answer.  Another  old  man  sitting  on  his  bed,  par- 
alytically  peeling  a  boiled  potato,  lifts  his  head,  and 
stares. 

"  Enough  to  eat?  " 

No  answer.  Another  old  man,  in  bed,  turns  himself 
and  coughs. 

"  How  are  you  to-day  ?  "    To  the  last  old  man. 

That  old  man  says  nothing  ;  but  another  old  man,  a 
tall  old  man  of  very  good  address,  speaking  with  perfect 
correctness,  comes  forward  from  somewhere,  and  volun- 
teers an  answer.  The  reply  almost  always  proceeds  from 
a  volunteer  and  not  from  the  person  looked  at  or  spoken 
to. 

"  We  are  very  old.  Sir,"  in  a  mild,  distinct  voice. 
"  We  can't  expect  to  be  well,  most  of  us." 
"Are  you  comfortable  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  complaint  to  make,  Sir."  With  a  half 
shake  of  his  head,  a  half  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  and  a 
kind  of  apologetic  smile. 

"  Enough  to  eat  ?" 

"  Why,  Sir,  I  have  but  a  poor  appetite,"  with  the  same 
air  as  before;  "and  yet  I  get  through  my  allowance 
very  easily. ' ' 

"  But,"  showing  a  porringer  with  a  Sunday  dinner  in 
it  ;  "here  is  a  portion  of  mutton,  and  three  potatoes. 
You  can't  starve  on  that? " 

"  Oh  dear  no.  Sir,"  with  the  same  apologetic  air. 
"Not  starve." 

"  What  do  you  want?" 

"  We  have  very  little  bread.  Sir.  It's  an  exceedingly 
small  quantity  of  bread." 

The  nurse,  who  is  now  rubbing  her  hands  at  the  ques- 
tioner's elbow,  interferes  with,  "It  ain't  much  raly.  Sir. 
You  see  they've  only  six  ounces  a  day,  and  when  they've 
took  their  breakfast,  there  can  only  be  a  little  left  for 
night.  Sir." 

Another  old  man,  hitherto  invisible,  rises  out  of  his 
bed-clothes,  as  out  of  a  grave,  and  looks  on. 

"  You  have  tea  at  night  ?  "  The  questioner  is  still  ad- 
dressing the  well-spoken  old  man. 

"  Yes,  Sir,  we  have  tea  at  night." 

"And  you  save  what  bread  you  can  from  the  morning, 
to  eat  with  it  ?"  # 

"  Yes,  Sir — if  we  can  save  any." 

"  And  you  want  more  to  eat  with  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Sir."    With  a  very  anxious  face. 

The  questioner,  in  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  appears  a 
little  discomposed,  and  changes  the  subject. 

"  What  has  become  of  the  old  man  who  used  to  lie  in 
that  bed  in  the  corner  ?  " 

The  nurse  don't  remember  what  old  man  is  referred 
to.  There  has  been  such  a  many  old  men.  The  well- 
spoken  old  man  is  doubtful.  The  spectral  old  man  who 
has  come  to  life  in  bed  says,  "  Billy  Stevens."  Another 
old  man  who  has  previously  had  his  head  in  the  fire- 
place, pipes  out, 

"  Charley  Walters." 

Something  like  a  feeble  interest  is  awakened.  I  sup- 
pose Charley  Walters  had  conversation  in  him. 

"  He's  dead,"  says  the  piping  old  man. 

Another  old  man,  with  one  eye  screwed  up,  hastily 
displaces  the  piping  old  man,  and  says  : 

"  Yes  !  Charley  Walters  died  in  that  bed,  and — and — " 

"  Billy  Stevens,"  persists  the  spectral  old  man. 

"  No,  no  !  and  Johnny  Rogers  died  in  thac  bed,  and — 
and — they're  both  on  'em  dead — and  Sam'l  Bo^vyer  ;  " 
this  seems  very  extraordinary  to  him  ;  "  he  went  out  !  " 


MISGELLANEO  US, 


1117 


"With  tliis  he  subsides,  and  all  the  old  men  (having 
had  quite  enough  of  it)  subside,  and  the  spectral  old 
man  goes  into  his  grave  again,  and  takes  the  shade  of 
Billy  Stevens  with  him. 

As  we  turned  to  go  out  at  the  door,  another  previously- 
invisible  old  man,  a  hoarse  old  man  in  a  flannel  gown,  is 
standing  there,  as  if  he  had  just  come  up  through  the 
floor. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir,  could  I  take  the  liberty  of 
saying  a  word  ?  "  . 
"  Yes  ;  what  is  it?  " 

"  I  am  greatly  better  in  my  health,  Sir  ;  but  what  I 
want,  to,  get  me  quite  round,"  with  his  hand  on  his 
throat,  "is  a  little  fresh  air.  Sir.  It  has  always  doiie 
my  complaint  so  much  good.  Sir.  The  regular  leave  for 
going  out,  comes  round  so  seldom,  that  if  the  gentleman 
next  Friday,  would  give  me  leave  to  go  out  walking,  now 
and  then — for  only  an  hour  or  so.  Sir  ! — " 

Who  could  wonder,  looking  through  those  weary  vis- 
tas of  bed  and  infirmity,  that  it  should  do  him  good  to 
meet  with  some  other  scenes,  and  assure  himself  that 
there  was  something  else  on  earth?  Who  could  help 
wondering  why  the  old  men  lived  on  as  they  did  ;  what 
grasp  they  had  on  life  ;  what  crumbs  of  interest  or  occu- 
pation they  could  pick  up  from  its  bare  boards  ;  whether 
Charley  Walters  had  ever  described  to  them  the  days 
when  he  kept  company  with  some  old  pauper  woman  in 
the  bud,  or  Billy  Stevens  ever  told  them  of  the  time 
when  he  was  a  dweller  in  the  far^ff  foreign  land  called 
Home  ! 

The  morsel  of  burnt  child,  lying  in  another  room,  so 
patiently,  in  bed,  wrapped  in  lint,  and  looking  steadfastly 
at  us  with  his  bright  quiet  eyes  when  we  spoke  to  him 
kindly,  looked  as  if  the  knowledge  of  these  things,  and 
of  alfthe  tender  things  there  are  to  think  about,  might 
have  been  in  his  mind — as  if  he  thought,  with  us,  that 
there  was  a  fellow-feeling  in  the  pauper  nurses  which 
appeared  to  make  them  more  kind  to  their  charges  than 
the  race  of  common  nurses  in  the  hospitals — as  if  he 
mused  upon  the  Future  of  some  older  children  lying 
around  him  in  the  same  place,  and  thought  it  best,  per- 
haps, all  things  considered,  that  he  should  die — as  if  he 
knew,  without  fear,  of  those  many  coffins,  made  and  un- 
made, piled  up  in  the  store  below — and  of  his  unknown 
friend,  "  the  dropped  child,"  calm  upon  the  box-lid  cov- 
ered with  a  cloth.  But  there  was  something  wistful  and 
appealing,  too,  in  his  tiny  face,  as  if,  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  hard  necessities  and  incongruities  he  pondered  on, 
he  pleaded,  in  behalf  of  the  helpless  and  the  aged  poor, 
for  a  little  more  liberty — and  a  little  more  bread. 


PRINCE  BULL  :  A  FAIEY  TALE. 

Once  upon  a  time,  and  of  course  it  was  in  the  Golden 
Age,  and  I  hope  you  may  know  when  that  was,  for  I  am 
sure  I  don't,  though  I  have  tried  hard  to  find  out,  there 
lived  in  a  rich  and  fertile  country,  a  powerful  Prince 
whose  name  was  Bull.  He  had  gone  through  a  great 
deal  of  fighting,  in  his  time,  about  all  sorts  of  things, 
including  nothing  ;  but,  had  gradually  settled  down  to 
be  a  steady,  peaceable,  good-natured,  corpulent,  rather 
sleepy  Prince. 

Tins  Puissant  Prince  was  married  to  a  lovely  Princess 
whose  name  was  Fair  Freedom.  She  had  brought  him 
a  large  fortune,  and  had  borne  him  an  immense  number 
of  children,  and  had  set  them  to  spinning,  and  farming, 
and  engineering,  and  soldiering,  and  sailoring,  and  doc- 
toring, and  lawyering,  and  preaching,  and  all  kinds  of 
trades.  The  coffers  of  Prince  Bull  were  full  of  treas- 
ure, his  cellars  were  crammed  with  delicious  wines  from 
all  parts  of  the  world,  the  ricliest  gold  and  silver  plate 
that  ever  was  seen  adorned  his  sideboards,  his  sons  were 
strong,  his  daughters  were  handsome,  and  in  short  you 
might  have  supposed  that  if  there  ever  lived  upon  earth 
a  fortunate  and  happy  Prince,  the  name  of  that  Prince, 
take  him  for  all  in  all,  was  assuredly  Prince  Bull. 

But,  appearances,  as  we  all  know,  are  not  always  to  be 
tru'-ted — far  from  it ;  and  if  they  had  led  you  to  this 
conclusion  respecting  Prince  Bull,  they  would  have  led 
you  wrong  as  they  often  have  led  me. 


For,  this  good  Prince  had  two  sharp  thorns  in  his  pil- 
low, two  hard  knobs  in  his  crown,  two  heavy  loads  on 
his  mind,  two  unbridled  nightmares  in  his  sleep,  two 
rocks  ahead  in  his  course.  lie  could  not  by  any  means 
get  servants  to  suit  him,  and  he  had  a  tyrannical  old  god- 
mother whose  name  was  Tape. 

She  was  a  Fairy,  this  Tape,  and  was  a  bright  red  all 
over.  She  was  disgustingly  prim  and  formal,  and  could 
never  bend  herself  a  hair's  breadth  this  way  or  that 
way,  out  of  her  naturally  crooked  shape.  But,  she  was 
very  potent  in  her  wicked  art.  She  could  stop  the  fast- 
est thing  in  the  world,  change  the  strongest  thing  into 
the  weakest,  and  the  most  useful  into  the  most  useless. 
To  do  this  she  had  only  to  put  her  cold  hand  upon  it, 
and  repeat  her  own  name.  Tape.  Then  it  withered 
away. 

At  the  court  of  Prince  Bull — at  least  I  don't  mean 
literally  at  his  court,  because  he  was  a  very  genteel 
Prince,  and  readily  yielded  to  his  godmother  when  she 
always  reserved  that  for  his  hereditary  Lords  and  Ladies 
— in  the  dominions  of  Prince  Bull,  among  the  great  mass 
of  the  community  who  were  called  in  the  language  of 
that  polite  country  the  Mobs  and  the  Snobs,  were  a 
number  of  very  ingenious  men,  who  were  always  busy 
with  some  invention  or  other,  for  promoting  the  pros- 
perity of  the  Prince's  subjects,  and  augmenting  the 
Prince's  power.  But,  whenever  they  submitted  their 
models  for  the  Prince's  approval,  his  godmother  stepped 
forward,  laid  her  hand  upon  them,  and  said  "Tape." 
Hence  it  came  to  pass,  that  when  any  particularly  good 
discovery  was  made,  the  discoverer  usually  carried  it  off 
to  some  other  Prince,  in  foreign  parts,  who  had  no  old 
godmother  who  said  Tape.  This  was  not  on  the  whole 
an  advantageous  state  of  things  for  Prince  Bull,  to  the 
best  of  my  understanding. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  that  Prince  Bull  had  in  course  of 
years  lapsed  into  such  a  state  of  subjection  to  this  un- 
lucky godmother,  that  he  never  made  any  serious  effort 
to  rid  himself  of  her  tyranny.  I  have  said  this  was  the 
worst  of  it,  but  there  I  was  wrong,  because  there  is  a 
worse  consequence  6till,  behind.  The  Prince's  numer- 
ous family  became  so  downright  sick. and  tired  of  Tape, 
that  when  they  should  have  helped  the  Prince  out  of  the 
difficulties  into  which  that  evil  creature  led  him,  they 
fell  into  a  dangerous  habit  of  moodily  keej^ing  away  from 
him  in  an  impassive  and  indifferent  manner,  as  though 
they  had  quite  forgotten  that  no  harm  could  happen  to 
the  Prince  their  father,  without  its  inevitably  affecting 
themselves. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  affairs  at  the  court  of  Prince 
Bull,  when  this  great  Prince  found  it  necessary  to  go  to 
war  with  Prince  Bear,  He  had  been  for  some  time  very 
doubtful  of  his  servants,  who,  besides  being  indolent 
and  addicted  to  enriching  their  families  at  his  expense, 
domineered  over  him  dreadfully  ;  threatening  to  dis- 
charge themselves  if  they  were  found  the  least  fault 
with,  pretending  that  they  had  done  a  wonderful  amount 
of  work  when  they  had  done  nothing,  malung  the  most 
unmeaning  speeches  that  ever  were  heard  in  the  Prince's 
name,  and  uniformly  showing  themselves  to  be  very  in- 
efficient indeed.  Though,  that  some  of  them  had  excel- 
lent characters  from  previous  situations  is  not  to  be 
denied.  Well  ;  Prince  Bull  called  his  servants  together, 
and  said  to  them  one  and  all,  "  Send  out  my  army 
against  Prince  Bear.  Clothe  it,  arm  it,  feed  it,  provide 
it  with  all  necessaries  and  contingencies,  and  I  will  pay 
the  2)iper !  Do  your  duty  by  my  brave  troops,"  said  the 
Prince,  "and  do  it  well,  and  I  will  pour  my  treasure  out 
like  water,  to  defray  the  cost.  Who  ever  heard  me  com- 
plain of  money  well  laid  out  !  "  Which  indeed  he  had 
reason  for  saying,  inasmuch  as  he  was  well  known  to  be 
a  truly  generous  and  munificent  Prince. 

When  the  servants  heard  those  words,  they  sent  out 
the  army  against  Prince  Bear,  and  they  set  the  army 
tailors  to  work,  and  the  army  provision  merchants,  and 
the  makers  of  guns  both  great  and  small,  and  the 
gunpowder  makers,  and  the  makers  of  ball,  shell,  and 
shot ;  and  they  bought  up  all  manner  of  stores  and 
ships,  without  troubling  their  heads  about  the  price,  and 
a])peared  to  be  so  busy  that  the  good  Prince  rubbed  his 
hands,  and  (using  a  favourite  expression  of  his),  said, 
"  It's  all  right  !  "    But,  while  they  were  thus  employed. 


1118 


CHARLES  DICKEN8'  WORKS. 


the  Prince's  godmother,  -who  was  a  great  favourite  with 
those  servants,  looked  in  upon  them  continually  all  day 
long,  and,  whenever  she  popped  in  her  head  at  the  door, 
said,  "How  do  you  do,  my  children?  What  are  you 
doing  here  ?  "  '  'Official  business,  godmother."  "  Oho  ! " 
says  this  wicked  Fairy.  "—Tape!"  And  then  the 
business  all  went  wrong,  whatever  it  was,  and  the  ser- 
vants' heads  became  so  addled  and  muddled  that  they 
thought  they  vvere  doing  wonders. 

Now,  this  was  very  bad  conduct  on  the  part  of  the 
vicious  old  nuisance,  and  she  ought  to  have  been  stran- 
gled, even  if  she  had  stopped  here  ;  but,  she  didn't  stop 
here,  as  you  shall  learn.  For,  a  number  of  the  Prince's 
subjects,*  being  very  fond  of  the  Prince's  army  who  were 
the  bravest  of  men,  assembled  together  and  provided  all 
manner  of  eatables  and  drinkables,  and  books  to  read, 
and  clothes  to  wear,  and  tobacco  to  smoke,  and  candles 
to  burn,  and  nailed  them  up  in  great  packing-cases,  and  1 
put  them  aboard  a  great  many  ships,  to  be  carried  out  to 
that  brave  army  in  the  cold  and  inclement  country  where 
they  were  fighting  Prince  Bear.  Then,  up  comes  this 
wicked  Fairy  as  the  ships  were  weighing  anchor,  and  j 
says,  "  How  do  you  do,  my  children  ?  What  are  you 
doinofhere?" — "We  are  going  with  all  these  comforts 
to  the  army,  godmother." — "Oho!"  says  she.  "A 
pleasant  voyage,  my  darlings. — Tape  !  "  And  from  that 
time  forth,  those  enchanted  ships  went  sailing,  against 
wind  and  tide  and  rhyme  and  reason,  round  and  round 
the  world,  and  whenever  they  touched  at  any  port  were 
ordered  off  immediately,  and  could  never  deliver  their 
cargoes  anywhere. 

This,  again,  was  very  bad  conduct  on  the  part  of  the 
vicious  old  nuisance,  and  she  ought  to  have  been  strang- 
led for  it  if  she  had  done  nothing  worse  ;  but,  she  did 
something  worse  still,  as  you  shall  learn.  For,  she  got 
astride  of  an  official  broomstick,  and  muttered  as  a  spell 
these  two  sentences,  "  On  Her  Majesty's  service,"  and 
"I  have  the  honour  to  be,  sir,  your  most  obedient  ser- 
vant," and  presently  alighted  in  the  cold  and  inclement 
country  where  the  army  of  Prince  Bull  were  encamped 
to  fight  the  army  of  Prince  Bear.  On  the  seashore  of 
that  country,  she  found  piled  together,  a  number  of 
houses  for  the  army  to  live  in,  and  a  quantity  of  provis- 
ions for  the  army  to  live  upon,  and  a  quantity  of  clothes  \ 
for  the  army  to  wear  :  while,  sitting  in  the  mud  gazing 
at  them,  were  a  group  of  officers  as  red  to  look  at  as  the 
wicked  old  woman  herself.  So,  she  said  to  one  of  them, 
"  Who  are  you,  my  darling,  and  how  do  you  do  ?" — "  I 
am  the  Quarter-master  General's  Department,  god- 
mother, and  I  am  pretty  well.  "—Then  she  said  to  an- 
other, "  Who  are  you,  my  darling,  and  how  do  you  do  ?  " 
— "  I  am  the  Commissariat  Department,  godmother,  and 
/am  pretty  well." — Then  she  said  to  another,  "  Who  are 
you,  my  darling,  and  how  do  you  do  ?  " — "  I  am  the  Head 
of  the  Medical  Department,  godmother,  and  I  am  pretty 
well."  Then,  she  said  to  some  gentlemen  scented 
with  lavender,  who  kept  themselves  at  a  great  distance 
from  the  rest,  "  And  who  are  you,  my  pretty  pets,  and 
how  do  you  do?  "  And  they  answered,  "  We-aw-are-the- 
aw-Staff-aw-Department,  godmother,  and  we  are  very 
well  indeed." — "  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  all,  my  beau- 
ties," said  this  wicked  old  Fairy,  " — Tape  !"  Upon  that, 
the  houses,  clothes,  and  provisions,  all  mouldered  away  ; 
and  the  soldiers  who  were  sound,  fell  sick  ;  and  the  sol- 
diers who  were  sick,  died  miserably  ;  and  the  noble  army 
of  Prince  Bull  perished. 

Wlien  the  dismal  news  of  his  great  loss  was  carried  to 
the  Prince,  lie  suspected  his  godmother  very  much  in- 
deed ;  but,  he  knew  that  his  servants  must  have  kept 
company  with  the  malicious  beldame,  and  must  have 
given  way  to  her,  and  therefore  he  resolved  to  turn  those 
servants  out  of  their  places.  So,  he  called  to  him  a 
Roebuck  who  had  the  gift  of  speech,  and  he  said,  "  Good 
lioobuck,  tell  them  they  must  go."  So,  the  good  Roe- 
buck delivered  his  message,  so  like  a  man  that  you 
might  have  su[)posed  him  to  be  nothing  but  a  man,  and 
tlfey  were  turned  out — but,  not  without  warning,  for  that 
they  had  had  along  time. 

And  nf)\v  comes  tlie  most  extraordinary  part  of  the 
history  of  this  Prince.  When  he  had  turned  out  those 
servants,  of  course  ho  wanted  others.  What  was  his 
astonishment  to  fiud  that  in  all  his  dominions,  which 


contained  no  less  than  twenty-seven  millions  of  people, 
there  were  not  above  five-and-twenty  servants  altogether  ! 
They  were  so  lofty  about  it,  too,  that  instead  of  discuss- 
ing whether  they  should  hire  themselves  as  servants  to 
Prince  Bull,  they  turned  things  topsy-turvy,  and  con- 
sidered whether  as  a  favour  they  should  hire  Prince 
Bull  to  be  their  master  !  While  they  were  arguing  this 
point  among  themselves  quite  at  their  leisure,  the  wicked 
old  red  Fairy  was  incessantly  going  up  and  down,  knock- 
ing at  the  doors  of  twelve  of  the  oldest  of  the  five-and- 
twenty,  who  were  the  oldest  inhabitants  in  all  that 
country,  and  whose  united  ages  amounted  to  one  thou- 
sand, saying,  "Will  you  hive  Prince  Bull  for  your 
master  ?  —  Will  you  hire  Prince  Bull  for  your  mas- 
ter?" To  which  one  answered,  "I  will  if  next  door 
will  ;"  and  another,  "  I  won't  if  over  the  way  does  ; " 
and  another,  "  I  can't  if  he,  she,  or  they,  might,  could, 
would  or  should."  And  all  this  time  Prince  Bull's  affairs 
were  going  to  rack  and  ruin. 

At  last,  Prince  Bull  in  the  height  of  his  perplexity  as- 
sumed a  thoughtful  face,  as  if  he  was  struck  by  an  en- 
tirely new  idea.  The  wicked  old  Fairy,  seeing  this,  was 
at  his  elbow  directly,  and  said,  "  How  do  you  do,  my 
Prince,  and  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?" — "  1  am  think- 
ing, godmother,"  says  he,  "that  among  all  the  seven- 
and-twenty  millions  of  my  subjects,  who  have  never 
been  in  service,  there  are  men  of  intellect  and  business 
who  have  made  me  very  famous  both  among  my  friends 
and  enemies." — "  Aye,  truly?"  says  the  Fairy, — "  Aye, 
truly,"  says  the  Prince. — "And  what  then?"  says  the 
Fairy. — "  Why,  then,"  says  he,  "  since  the  regular  old 
class  of  servants  do  so  ill,  are  so  hard  to  get,  and  carry 
it  with  so  high  a  hand,  perhaps  I  might  try  to  make  good 
servants  of  some  of  these."  The  words  had  no  sooner 
passed  his  lips  than  she  returned,  chucking,  "You  think 
so,  do  you  ?  Indeed,  my  Prince  ? — Tape  !  "  Thereupon 
he  directly  forgot*  what  he  v/as  thinking  of,  and  cried  out 
lamentably  to  the  old  servants,  "  O,  do  come  and  liire 
your  poor  old  master  !    Pray  do  !    On  any  Terms  ! " 

And  this,  for  the  present,  finishes  the  story  of  Prince 
Bull.  I  wish  I  could  wind  it  up  by  saying  that  he  lived 
happy  ever  afterwards,  but  I  cannot  in  my  conscience 
do  so' ;  for,  with  Tape  at  his  elbow,  and  his  estranged 
children  fatally  repelled  by  her  from  coming  near  him, 
I  do  not,  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  believe  in  the  pos- 
sibility of  such  an  end  to  it. 


A  PLATED  AETICLE. 

Putting  np  for  the  night  in  one  of  the  chiefest  towns 
of  Staffordshire,  I  find  it  to  be  by  no  means  a  lively 
town.  In  fact  it  is  as  dull  and  dead  a  town  as  any  one 
could  desire  not  to  see.  It  seems  as  if  its  whole  popula- 
tion might  be  imprisoned  in  its  Railway  Station.  The 
Refreshment-room  at  the  Station  is  a  vortex  of  dissipa- 
tion compared  with  the  extinct  town-inn,  the  Dodo,  in 
the  dull  High  Street. 

Why  High  Street?  Why  not  rather  Low  Street,  Flat 
Street,  Low-Spirited  Street,  Used-up  Street?  Where 
are  the  people  who  belong  to  the  High  Street?  Can 
they  all  be  dispersed  over  the  face  of  the  country,  seek- 
ing the  unfortunate  Strolling  Manager  who  decamped 
from  the  mouldy  little  Theatre  last  week,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  his  season  (as  his  play-bills  testify),  repentantly 
resolved  to  bring  him  back,  and  feed  him  and  be  enter- 
tained ?  Or,  can  they  all  be  gathered  to  their  fathers  in 
the  two  old  churchyards  near  to  the  High  Street — retire- 
ment into  which  churchyards  appears  to  be  a  mere  cere- 
mony, there  is  so  very  little  life  outside  their  con- 
fines, and  such  small  discernible  difference  between 
being  buried  alive  in  the  town,  and  buried  dead  in  the 
town  tombs?  Over  the  way,  opposite  to  the  staring 
blank  bow  windows  of  the  Dodo,  are  a  little  iron-mon- 
ger's shop,  a  little  tailor's  shop  (with  a  picture  of  the 
Fashions  in  a  small  Avindow  and  a  bandy-legged  baby  on 
the  j)avemcnt  staring  at  it) — a  watchmaker's  shop,  where 
all  the  clocks  and  watches  must  be  stopped,  I  am  sure, 
for  they  could  never  have  the  courage  to  go,  with  the 
town  in  general,  and  the  Dodo  in  ])articular,  looking  at 
them.    Shade  of  Miss  Linwood,  erst  of  Leicester  Square, 


MISCELLANEOUS, 


1119 


London,  thou  art  welcome  here,  and  thy  retreat  is  fitly 
chosen  I  I  myself  was  one  of  the  last  visitors  to  that 
awful  storehouse  of  thy  life's  work,  where  an  anchorite 
old  man  and  woman  took  my  shilling  with  a  solemn  won- 
der, and  conducting  me  to  a  gloomy  sepulchre  of  needle- 
work dropping  to  pieces  witli  dust  and  age  and  shrouded 
in  twilight  at  high  noon,  and  left  me  there,  chilled, 
frightened,  and  alone.  And  now,  in  ghostly  letters  on 
all  the  dead  walls  of  this  dead  town,  I  read  thy  honoured 
name,  and  find  that  thy  Last  Supper,  worked  in  Berlin 
Wool,  invites  inspection  as  a  powerful  excitement. 

Where  are  the  people  who  are  bidden  with  so  much 
cry  to  this  feast  of  little  wool  ?  Where  are  they  ?  Who 
are  they  ?  They  are  not  the  bandy-legged  baby  studying 
the  fashions  in  the  tailor's  window.  I'liey  are  not  the 
two  earthy  ploughmen  lounging  outside  the  saddler's 
shop,  in  the  stifE  square  where  the  Town  Hall  stands, 
like  a  brick  and  mortar  private  on  parade.  They  are  not 
the  landlady  of  the  Dodo  in  the  empty  bar,  whose  eye  had 
trouble  in  it,  and  no  welcome,  when  I  asked  for  dinner. 
They  are  not  the  turnkeys  of  the  Town  Jail,  looking 
out  of  the  gateway  in  their  uniforms,  as  if  they  had  locked 
up  all  the  balance  (as  my  American  friends  would  say) 
of  the  inhabitants,  and  could  now  rest  a  little.  They  are 
not  the  two  dusty  millers  in  the  white  mill  down  by  the 
river,  where  the  great  water-wheel  go«s  heavily  round 
and  round,  like  the  monotonous  days  and  nights  in  this 
forgotten  place.  Then  who  are  they,  for  there  is  no  one 
else?  No;  this  deponent  maketh  oath  and  saith  that 
there  is  no  one  else,  save  and  except  the  waiter  at  the 
Dodo,  now  laying  the  cloth.  I  have  paced  the  streets, 
and  stared  at  the  houses,  and  am  come  back  to  the  blank 
bow  window  of  the  Dodo  ;  and  the  town  clock  strikes 
seven,  and  the  reluctant  echoes  seem  to  cry,  "Don't 
wake  us  1 "  and  the  bandy-legged  baby  has  gone  home 
to  bed. 

If  the  Dodo  were  only  a  gregarious  bird — if  it  had 
only  some  confused  idea  of  making  a  comfortable  nest— 
I  could  hope  to  get  through  the  hours  between  this  and 
bed-time,  without  being  consumed  by  devouring  melan- 
choly. But,  the  Dodo's  habits  are  all  wrong.  It  pro- 
vides me  with  a  trackless  desert  of  sitting-room,  with  a 
chair  for  every  day  in  the  year,  a  table  for  every  month, 
and  a  waste  of  sideboard  where  a  lonely  china  vase  pines 
in  a  corner  for  its  mate  long  departed,  and  will  never 
make  a  match  with  the  candlestick  in  the  opposite  cor- 
ner if  it  lives  till  Doomsday.  The  Dodo  has  nothing  in 
the  larder.  Even  now,  I  behold  the  boots  returning 
with  my  sole  in  a  piece  of  paper  ;  and  with  that  portion 
of  my  dinner,  the  Boots,  perceiving  me  at  the  blank 
bow  window,  slaps  his  leg  as  he  comes  across  the  road, 
pretending  it  is  something  else.  The  Dodo  excludes  the 
outer  air.  When  I  mount  up  to  my  bed- room,  a  smell 
of  closeness  and  flue  gets  lazily  up  ray  nose  like  sleepy 
snuff.  The  loose  little  bits  of  carpet  writhe  under  my 
tread,  and  take  wormy  shapes.  I  don't  know  the  ridicu- 
lous man  in  the  looking-glass,  beyond  having  met  him 
once  or  twice  in  a  dish  cover — and  I  can  never  shave  him 
to-morrow  morning  !  The  Dodo  is  narrow-minded  as  to 
towels  ;  expects  me  to  wash  on  a  freemason's  apron  with- 
out the  trimming  :  when  I  ask  for  soap,  gives  me  a  stony- 
hearted something  white,  with  no  more  lather  in  it  than 
the  Elgin  marbles.  The  Dodo  has  seen  better  days,  and 
possesses  interminable  stables  at  the  back — silent,  grass- 
grown,  broken-windowed,  horseless. 

This  mournful  bird  can  fry  a  sole,  however,  which  is 
much.  Can  cook  a  steak,  too,  which  is  more.  I  wonder 
where  it  gets  its  Sherry  !  If  I  were  to  send  my  pint  of 
wine  to  some  famous  chemist  to  be  analyzed,  w  hat  would 
it  turn  out  to  be  made  of  ?  It  tastes  of  pepper,  sugar, 
hitter  almonds,  vinegar,  warm  knives,  any  flat  drink, 
and  a  little  brandy.  Would  it  unman  a  Spanish  exile 
by  reminding  him  of  his  native  land  at  all  ?  I  think  not. 
If  there  really  be  any  townspeople  out  of  the  church- 
yards, and  if  a  caravan  of  them  ever  do  dine,  with  a 
bottle  of  wine  per  man,  in  this  desert  o^  the  Dodo,  it 
must  make  good  for  the  doctor  next  day  ! 

Where  wns  the  waiter  born  ?  How  did  he  come  here  ? 
Has  he  any  hope  of  getting  away  from  here  ?  Does  he 
ever  receive  a  letter,  or  take  a  ride  upon  the  railway,  or 
see  anything  but  the  Dodo?  Perhaps  he  has  seen  the 
Berlin  Wool.    He  appears  to  have  a  silent  sorrow  on 


him,  and  it  may  be  that.  He  clears  the  table  ;  draws 
the  dingy  curtains  pf  the  great  bow  window,  which  so 
unwillingly  consent  to  meet,  that  they  must  bo  j)inned 
together  ;  leaves  me  by  the  fire  with  my  pint  decanter, 
and  a  little  thin  funnel-shaped  wine-glass,  and  a  plate  of 
pale  biscuits — in  themselves  engendering  desperation. 

No  book,  no  newspaper  1  I  left  the  Arabian  Nights 
in  the  railway  carriage,  and  have  nothing  to  read  but 
Bradshaw,  and  "  that  way  madness  lies,"  Remembering 
what  ])risoners  and  shipwrecked  mariners  have  done  to 
exercise  their  minds  in  solitude,  I  repeat  the  multiplica- 
tion table,  the  pence  table,  and  the  shilling  table  ; 
which  are  all  the  tables  I  happen  to  know.  What  if  I 
write  something  ?  The  Dodo  keeps  no  pens  but  steel 
pens  ;  and  those  I  always  stick  through  the  paper,  and 
can  turn  to  no  other  account. 

What  am  I  to  do  ?  Even  if  I  could  have  the  bandy- 
legged baby  knocked  up  and  brought  here,  I  could  offer 
him  nothing  but  .sherry,  and  that  would  be  the  death  of 
him.  He  would  never  hold  up  his  head  again  if  he 
touched  it.  I  can't  go  to  bed,  because  I  have  conceived 
a  mortal  hatred  for  my  bedroom  ;  and  I  can't  go  away, 
because  there  is  no  train  for  my  place  of  destination 
until  morning.  To  burn  the  biscuits  wall  be  but  a  fleet- 
ing joy  ;  still  it  is  a  temporary  relief,  and  here  they  go 
on  the  fire  I  Shall  I  break  the  plate  ?  First  let  me  look 
at  the  back,  and  see  who  made  it.  Copelakd. 

Copeland  I  Stop  a  moment.  Was  it  yesterday  I 
visited  Copeland's  works,  and  saw  them  making  plates  ? 
In  the  confusion  of  travelling  about,  it  might  be  j^ester- 
day  or  it  might  be  yesterday  month  ;  but  I  think  it  was 
yesterday.  I  appeal  to  the  plate.  The  plate  says,  de- 
cidedly, yesterday,  I  find  the  plate,  as  I  look  at  it, 
growing  into  a  companion. 

Don't  you  remember  (says  the  plate)  how  you  steamed 
away,  yesterday  morning,  in  the  bright  sun  and  the 
east  wind,  along  the  valley  of  the  sparkling  Trent  ? 
Don't  you  recollect  how  many  kilns  you  flew  past,  look- 
ing like  the  bowls  of  gigantic  tobacco  pipes,  cut  short 
off  from  the  stem  and  turned  upside  down  ?  And  the 
fires — and  the  smoke — and  the  roads  made  with  bits  of 
crockery,  as  if  all  the  plates  and  dishes  in  the  civilised 
world  had  been  Macadamised,  expressly  for  the  laming 
of  all  the  horses  ?    Of  course  I  do  ! 

And  don't  you  remember  (says  the  plate)  how  you 
alighted  at  Stoke — a  picturesque  heap  of  houses,  kilns, 
smoke,  wharfs,  canals,  and  river,  lying  (as  was  most  ap- 
propriate) in  a  basin— and  how,  after  climbing  up  the 
sides  of  the  basin  to  look  at  the  prospect,  you  trundled 
down  again  at  a  walking-match  pace,  and  straight  pro- 
ceeded to  my  father's,  Copeland's,  where  the  whole  of; 
my  family,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  are  turned  out, 
upon  the  world  from  our  nursery  and  seminary,  cover- 
ing some  fourteen  acres  of  ground  ?  And  don't  you  re- 
member what  we  spring  from  :— heaps  of  lumps  of  clay 
partially  prepared  and  cleaned  in  Devonshire  and  Dor- 
setshire, whence  said  clay  principally  comes — and  hills 
of  flint,  without  wdiich  we  should  want  our  ringing  sound,  , 
and  should  never  be  musical  ?  And  as  to  the  flint,  don't 
you  recollect  that  it  is  first  burnt  in  kilns,  and  is  then 
laid  under  the  four  iron  feet  of  a  demon  slave,  subject  to^ 
violent  stamping  fits,  who,  when  they  come  on,  stamps 
away  insanely  with  his  four  iron  legs,  and  would  crush  all 
the  flint  in  the  Isle  of  Thanet  to  powder,  without  leav- 
ing off?  And  as  to  the  clay,  don't  you  recollect  how  it 
is  put  into  mills  or  teazers,  and  is  sliced,  and  dug,  and 
cut  at,  by  endless  knives,  clogged  and  sticky,  but  per- 
sistent—and is  pressed  out  of  that  machine  through  a 
square  trough,  whose  form  it  takes — and  is  cut  off  in 
square  lumps  and  thrown  into  a  vat,  and  there  mixed 
with  water,  and  beaten  to  a  pulp  by  paddle- vrheels — 
and  is  then  run  into  a  rough  hovise,  all  rugged  beams 
and  ladders  splashed  with  white, — superintended  by 
Grindoff  the  Miller  in  his  working  clothes  all  splashed; 
with  white, — where  it  passes  through  no  end  of  ma- 
chinery-moved sieves  all  splashed  with  white,  arranged: 
in  an  ascending  scale  of  fineness  (some  so  fine,  that 
three  hundred  silk  threads  cross  each  other  in  a  single 
square  inch  of  their  surface),  and  all  in  a  violent  state 
of  ague  with  their  teeth  forever  chattering,  and  tlieir- 
bodies  forever  shivering?  And  as  to  the  flint  again,, 
isn't  it  mashed  and  mollified  and  troubled  and  soothed;^ 


1120 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


exactly  as  rags  are  in  a  paper-mill,  until  it  is  reduced  to 
a  pap  so  fine  that  it  contains  no  atom  of  "  grit"  percep- 
tible to  the  nicest  taste  ?  And  as  to  the  Hint  and  the 
clay  together,  are  they  not,  after  all  this,  mixed  in  the 
proportion  of  five  of  clay  to  one  of  flint,  and  isn't  the 
compound — known  as  "  slip  " — run  into  oblong  troughs, 
where  its  superfluous  moisture  may  evaporate  ;  and 
finally,  isn't  it  slapped  and  banged  and  beaten  and  pat- 
ted and  kneeded  and  wedged  and  knocked  about  like 
butter,  until  it  becomes  a  beautiful  grey  dough,  ready 
for  the  potter's  use  ? 

In  regard  of  the  potter,  popularly  so  called  (says  the 
plate),  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  forgotten  that  a 
workman  called  a  Thrower  is  the  man  under  whose  hand 
this  grey  dough  takes  the  shapes  of  the  simpler  house- 
hold  vessels  as  quickly  as  the  eye  can  follow  ?  You  don't 
mean  to  say  you  cannot  call  him  up  before  you,  sitting 
with  his  attendant  woman,  at  his  potter's  wheel — a  disc 
about  the  size  of  a  dinner  plate,  revolving  on  two  drams 
slowly  or  quickly  as  he  wills — who  made  you  a  complete 
breakfast  set  for  a  bachelor,  as  a  good-humoured  little 
off-hand  joke  ?  You  remember  how  he  took  up  as  much 
dough  as  he  wanted,  and  throwing  it  on  his  wheel,  in  a 
moment  fashioned  it  into  a  teacup — caught  up  more  clay 
and  made  a  saucer — a  larger  dab  and  whirled  it  into  a 
teapot — winked  at  a  smaller  dab  and  converted  it  into 
the  lid  of  the  teapot,  accurately  fitting  by  the  measure- 
ment of  his  eye  alone — coaxed  a  middle-sized  dab  for 
two  seconds,  broke  it,  turned  it  over  at  the  rim,  and  made 
a  milkpot — laughed,  and  turned  out  a  slop-basin — 
coughed,  and  provided  for  the  sugar?  Neither,  I  think 
are  you  oblivious  of  the  newer  mode  of  making  various 
articles,  but  especially  basins,  according  to  which  im- 
provement a  mould  revolves  instead  of  a  disc?  For  you 
must  remember  (says  the  plate)  how  you  saw  the  mould 
of  a  little  basin  spinning  round  and  round,  and  how  the 
workman  smoothed  and  pressed  a  handful  of  dough  upon 
it,  -and  how  with  an  instrument  called  a  profile  (a  piece 
of  wood,  representing  the  profile  of  a  basin's  foot)  he 
cleverly  scraped  and  carved  the  ring  which  makes  the 
base  of  any  such  basin,  and  then  took  the  basin  off  the 
lathe  like  a  doughey  skull-cap  to  be  dried,  and  after- 
wards (in  what  is  called  a  green  state)  to  be  put  into  a 
second  lathe,  there  to  be  finished  and  burnished  with  a 
steel  burnisher?  And  as  to  moulding  in  general  (says 
the  plate),  it  can't  be  necessary  for  me  to  remind  you 
that  all  ornamental  articles,  and  indeed  all  articles  not 
quite  circular,  are  made  in  moulds.  For  you  must  re- 
member how  you  saw  the  vegetable  dishes,  for  example, 
being  made  in  moulds  ;  and  how  the  handles  of  teacups 
and  the  spouts  of  teapots,  and  the  feet  of  tureens,  and 
so  forth,  are  all  made  in  little  separate  moulds,  and  are 
each  stuck  on  to  the  body  corporate,  of  which  it  is  des- 
tined to  form  a  part,  with  a  stuff  called  "  slag,"  as  quickly 
as  you  can  recollect  it.  Further,  you  learnt — you  know 
you  did — in  the  same  visit,  how  the  beautiful  sculptures 
in  the  delicate  and  new  material  called  Parian,  are  all 
constructed  in  moulds  ;  how  into  that  material,  animals' 
bones  are  ground  up,  because  the  phosphate  of  lime  con- 
tained in  bones  makes  it  translucent ;  how  everything  is 
moulded,  before  going  into  the  fire,  one-fourth  larger 
than  it  is  intended  to  come  out  of  the  fire,  because  it 
shrinks  in  that  proportion  in  the  intense  heat  ;  how, 
when  a  figure  shrinks  unequally,  it  is  spoiled — emerging 
from  the  furnace  a  mis-shapen  birth  ;  a  big  head  and  a 
little  body,  or  a  little  head  and  a  big  body,  or  a  Quasi- 
modo with  long  arms  and  short  legs,  or  a  Miss  Biffin 
with  neither  legs  nor  arms  worth  mentioning. 

And  as  to  the  Kilns,  in  which  the  firing  takes  place, 
and  in  which  some  of  the  more  precious  articles  are 
burnt  repeatedly,  in  various  stages  of  their  process  to- 
wards completion, — as  to  the  Kilns  (says  the  plate, 
warming  with  the  recollection),  if  you  don't  remember 
Tiri':M  with  a  horrible  interest,  what  did  you  ever  go  to 
Copoland's  for  ?  When  you  stood  inside  of  one  of  those 
inverted  bowls  of  a  Pre- Adamite  tobacco-pipe,  looking 
up  at  the  blue  sky  through  the  open  top  far  off,  as  you 
might  have  looked  up  from  a  well,  sunk  under  the  cen- 
tre of  the  pavement  of  the  Pantheon  at  Rome,  had  you 
tlio  least  idea  Vv^here  you  were?  And  when  you  found 
yourself  surrounded,  in  that  dome-shaped  cavern,  by 
innumerable  columns  of  an  unearthly  order  of  archi- 


tecture, supporting  nothing,  and  squeezed  close  together 
as  if  a  Pre- Adamite  Samsoii  had  taken  a  vast  Hall  in  his 
arms  and  crushed  it  into  the  smallest  possible  space,  had 
you  the  least  idea  what  they  were?  No  (says  the  i)late), 
of  course  not  !  And  when  you  found  that  each  of  those 
pillars  was  a  pile  of  ingeniously  made  vessels  of  coarse 
clay— called  Saggers— looking,  when  separate,  like  raised- 
pies  for  the  mighty  Giant  Blunderbore,  and  now  all  full 
of  various  articles  of  pottery  ranged  in  them  in  baking 
order,  the  bottom  of  each  vessel  serving  for  the  cover 
of  the  one  below,  and  the  whole  Kiln  rapidly  filling 
with  these,  tier  upon  tier,  until  the  last  workman  should 
have  barely  room  to  crawl  out,  before  the  closing  of  the 
jagged  aperture  in  the  wall  and  the  kindling  of  the 
gradual  fire  ;  did  you  not  stand  amazed  to  think  that  all 
the  year  round  these  dread  chambers  are  heating,  white 
hot — and  cooling — and  filling — and  emptying — and  being 
bricked  up — and  broken  open — humanly  speaking,  for 
ever  and  ever  ?  To  be  sure  you  did  !  And  standing  in 
one  of  those  Kilns  nearly  full,  and  seeing  a  free  crow 
shoot  across  the  aperture  a-top,  and  learning  how  the 
fire  would  wax  hotter  and  hotter  by  slow  degrees,  and 
would  cool  similarly  through  a  space  of  from  forty  to 
sixty  hours,  did  no  remembrance  of  the  days  when  hu- 
man clay  was  burnt  oppress  you  !  Yes,  I  think  so  !  I 
suspect  that  some  fancy  of  a  fiery  haze  and  a  shortening 
breath,  and  a  growing  heat,  and  a  gasping  prayer  ;  and 
a  figure  in  black  interposing  between  you  and  the  sky 
(as  figures  in  black  are  very  apt  to  do),  and  looking 
down,  before  it  grew  too  hot  to  look  and  live,  upon  the 
Heretic  in  his  edifying  agony — I  say  I  suspect  (says  the 
plate)  that  some  such  fancy  was  pretty  strong  upon  you 
when  you  went  out  into  the  air,  and  blessed  God  for 
the  bright  spring  day  and  the  degenerate  times ! 

After  that,  I  needn't  remind  you  what  a  relief  it  was 
to  see  the  simplest  process  of  ornamenting  this  "  biscuit" 
(as  it  is  called  when  baked)  with  brown  circles  and  blue 
trees — converting  it  into  the  common  crockery- ware  that 
is  exported  to  Africa,  and  used  in  cottages  at  home.  For 
(says  the  plate)  I  am  well  persuaded  that  you  bear  in 
mind  how  those  particular  jugs  and  mugs  were  once 
more  set  upon  a  lathe  and  put  in  motion  ;  and  how  a 
man  blew  the  brown  colour  (having  a  strong  natural 
affinity  with  the  material  in  that  condition)  on  them  from 
a  blow-pipe  as  they  twirled  ;  and  how  his  daughter, 
with  a  common  brush,  dropped  blotches  of  blue  upon 
them  in  the  right  places  ;  and  how,  tilting  the  blotches 
upside  down,  she  made '  them  run  into  rude  images  of 
trees,  and  there  an  end. 

And  didn't  you  see  (says  the  plate)  planted  upon  my 
own  brother  that  astounding  blue  willow,  with  knobbed 
and  gnarled  trunk,  and  foliage  of  blue  ostrich  feathers, 
which  gives  our  family  the  title  of  "willow  pattern?" 
And  didn't  you  observe,  transferred  upon  him  at  the 
same  time,  that  blue  bridge  which  spans  nothing,  grow- 
ing out  from  the  roots  of  the  willow  ;  and  the  three  blue 
Chinese  going  over  it  into  a  blue  temple,  which  has  a 
fine  blue  crop  of  blue  bushes  sprouting  out  of  the  roof 
and  a  blue  boat  sailing  above  them,  the  mast  of  which 
is  burglariously  sticking  itself  into  the  foundations  of  a 
blue  villa,  suspended  sky-high,  surmounted  by  a  lump 
of  blue  rock,  sky-higher,  and  a  couple  of  billing  blue- 
birds, sky -highest — together  with  the  rest  of  that  amus- 
ing blue  landscape, which  has,  in  deference  to  our  revered 
ancestors  of  the  Cerulean  Empire,  and  in  defiance  of 
every  known  law  of  perspective,  adorned  millions  of  our 
family  ever  since  the  days  of  platters  ?  Didn't  you  in- 
spect the  copper-plate  on  which  my  pattern  was  deeply 
engraved  ?  Didn't  you  perceive  an  impression  of  it 
taken  in  cobalt  colour  at  a  cylindrical  press,  upon  a  leaf 
of  thin  paper,  streaming  from  a  plunge-bath  of  soap  and 
water?  Wasn't  the  paper  impression  daintily  spread, 
by  a  light-fingered  damsel  (you  know  you  admired  her), 
over  the  surface  of  the  plate,  and  the  back  of  the  paper 
rubbed  prodigiously  hard — with  a  long  tight  roll  of 
flannel  tied  u^  like  a  round  of  hung  beef — without  so 
much  as  ruffling  the  paper,  wet  as  it  was  ?  Then  (says 
the  plate),  was  not  the  paper  washed  away  with  a  sponge 
and  didn't  there  appear,  set  off  upon  the  plate,  tliis  iden- 
tical ])iece  of  Pre-liaphaclite  blue  distemper  which  you 
now  behold?  Not  to  be  denied!  I  had  seen  all  this 
— and  more,    I  had  been  shown,  at  Copeland's,  patterns 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


1121 


of  beautiful  design,  in  faultless  perspective,  which  are 
causing  the  ugly  old  willow  to  wither  out  of  public  favour; 
and  which  being  (jiiite  as  cheaj),  insinuate  good  whole- 
some natural  art  into  the  humblest  households.  When 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sprat  have  satisfied  tlieir  material  tastes 
by  that  equal  division  of  fat  and  lean  which  has  made 
their  menage  immortal  :  and  have,  after  the  elegant 
tradition,  "licked  the  platter  clean,"  they  can — thanks 
TO  modern  artists  in  clay — cast  their  intellectual  tastes 
upon  excellent  delineations  of  natural  objects. 

This  reflection  prompts  me  to  transfer  my  attention 
from  the  blue  plate  to  the  forlorn  but  cheerfully  painted 
vase  on  the  sideboard.  And  surely  (says  the  plate)  you 
have  not  forgotten  how  the  outlines  of  such  groups  of 
flowers  as  you  see  there,  are  printed  just  as  I  was  printed 
and  are  afterwards  shaded  and  filled  in  with  metallic 
colours  by  women  and  girls  ?  As  to  the  aristocracy  of 
our  order,  made  of  the  finer  clay — porcelain  ])eers  and 
peeresses ; — the  slabs,  and  panels,  and  table  tops,  and 
tazze  ;  the  endless  nobility  and  gentry  of  dessert,  break- 
fast, and  tea  services  ;  the  gemmed  perfume  bottles,  and 
scarlet  and  gold  salvers  ;  you  saw  that  they  were  paint- 
ed by  artists,  with  metallic  colours  laid  on  with  camel- 
hair  pencils,  and  afterward?=:  burnt  in. 

And  talking  of  burning  in  (says  the  plate),  didn't  you 
find  that  every  suljgect,  from  the  Avillow-pattern  to  the 
landscape  after  Turner — having  been  framed  upon  clay 
or  porcelain  biscuit — has  to  be  glazed?  Of  course,  you 
saw  the  glaze — composed  of  various  vitreous  materials 
— laid  over  every  article  ;  and  of  course  you  witnessed 
the  close  imprisonment  of  each  piece  in  saggers  upon  the 
separate  system  rigidly  enforced  by  means  of  fine-pointed 
earthenware  stilts  placed  between  the  articles  to  prevent 
the  slightest  communication  or  contact.  We  had  in  my 
time — and  I  suppose  it  is  the  same  now — fourteen  hours 
firing  to  fix  the  glaze  and  to  make  it  "run"  all  over  us 
equally,  so  as  to  put  a  good  shiny  and  unscratchable  sur- 
face upon  us.  Doubtless  you  observed  that  one  sort  of 
glaze — called  printing-body — is  burnt  into  the  better  sort 
of  ware  before  it  is  printed.  Upon  this  you  saw  some  of 
the  finest  steel  engravings  transferred,  to  be  fixed  by  an 
after  glazing — didn't  you  ?    Why,  of  course  you  did  ! 

Of  course  I  did.  I  had  seen  and  enjoyed  everything 
that  the  plate  recalled  to  me,  and  had  beheld  with  admi- 
ration how  the  rotatory  motion  which  keeps  this  ball  of 
ours  in  its  place  in  the  great  scheme,  with  all  its  busy 
mites  upon  it,  was  necessary  throughout  the  process,  and 
could  only  be  dispensed  with  in  the  fire.  So,  listening 
to  the  plate's  reminders,  and  musing  upon  them,  I  got 
through  the  evening  after  all,  and  went  to  bed.  I  made 
but  one  sleep  of  it — for  which  I  have  no  doubt  I  am  also 
indebted' to  the  plate — and  left  the  lonely  Dodo  in  the 
morning,  quite  at  peace  with  it,  before  the  bandy-legged 
baby  was  up. 


OUR  HONOEABLE  FRIEND. 

We  are  delighted  to  find  that  he  has  got  in  !  Our  hon- 
orable friend  is  triumphantly  returned  to  serve  in  the 
next  Parliament.  He  is  the  honorable  member  for  Ver- 
bosity— the  best  represented  place  in  England. 

Our  honorable  friend  has  is«>ied  an  address  of  congrat- 
ulation to  the  Electors,  which  is  worthy  of  that  noble 
constituency,  and  is  a  very  pretty  piece  of  composition. 
In  electing  him,  he  says,  they  have  covered  themselves 
with  glory,  and  England  has  been  true  to  herself.  (In 
his  preliminary  address  he  had  remarked,  in  a  poetical 
quotation  of  great  rarity,  that  naught  could  make  us  rue, 
if  England  to  herself  did  prove  but  true.) 

Our  honorable  friend  delivers  a  prediction,  in  the  same 
document,  that  the  feeble  minions  of  a  faction  will  never 
hold  u})  tiieir  heads  any  more  ;  and  that  the  finger  of 
scorn  will  point  at  them  in  their  dejected  state,  through 
countless  ages  of  time.  Further,  that  the  hireling  tools 
that  would  destroy  the  sacred  bulwarks  of  our  national- 
ity are  unworthy  of  the  name  of  Englishmen  ;  and  that 
w>  long  as  the  sea  shall  roll  around  our  ocean-girded  isle, 
so  long  his  motto  shall  be,  jSTo  Surrender.  Certain  dog- 
ged persons  of  low  principles  and  no  intellect,  have  dis- 
])Uted  whether  any  body  knows  who  the  minions  are,  or 
what  the  faction  is,  or  which  are  the  hireling  tools  and 
Vol.  ir.— 71 


I  which  the  sacred  bulwarks,  or  what  it  is  tliat  is  never  to 
j  l)e  surrendered,  and  if  not,  why  not  ?  But,  our  honorable 
j  friend,  the  member  for  Verbosity  knows  all  about  it. 

Our  honorable  friend  has  sat  in  several  parliaments, 
and  given  bushels  of  votes.  He  is  a  man  of  that  pro- 
fundity in  the  matter  of  vote-giving,  that  you  never  know 
what  he  means.  When  he  seems  to  be  voting  pure  white 
he  may  be  in  reality  voting  jet  black.  When  he  says 
Yes,  it  is  just  as  likely  as  not — or  rather  more  so — that 
he  means  No.  Thi^4  is  the  statesmanship  of  our  honora- 
ble iriend.  It  is  in  this  that  he  differs  from  mere  unpar- 
liamentary men.  You  may  not  know  what  he  meant 
then,  or  what  he  means  now  ;  but  our  honorable  friend 
knows,  and  did  from  the  first  know,  both  what  he  meant 
then,  and  what  he  means  now  :  and  when  he  said  he 
didn't  mean  it  then,  he  did  in  fact  say  that  he  means  it 
now.  And  if  you  mean  to  say  that  yon  did  not  then,  and 
do  not  now,  know  what  he  did  mean  then,  or  does  mean 
now,  our  honorable  friend  will  be  glad  to  receive  an  ex- 
])licit  declaration  from  you  whether  you  are  ^jreyjared  to 
destroy  the  sacred  bulwarks  of  our  nationality. 

Our  honorable  friend,  the  member  for  Verbosity,  has 
this  great  attribute,  that  he  always  means  something, 
and  always  means  the  same  thing.  When  he  came  down 
to  that  House  and  mournfully  boasted  in  his  place,  as  an 
individual  member  of  the  assembled  Commons  of  this 
great  and  happy  country,  that  he  could  lay  his  head 
upon  his  heart,  and  solemnly  declare  that  no  consider- 
ation on  earth  should  induce  him,  at  any  time  or  under 
any  circumstances,  to  go  as  far  north  as  Berwick-upon- 
Tweed  ;  and  when  he  nevertheless,  next  year,  did  go  to 
Berwick-upon-Tweed,  and  even  beyond  it,  to  Edinburgh  ; 
he  had  one  single  meaning,  one  and  indivisible.  And 
God  forbid  (our  honorable  friend  says)  that  he  should 
waste  another  argument  u]jon  the  man  who  professes 
that  he  cannot  understand  it !  "I  do  NOT,  gentlemen," 
said  our  honorable  friend,  with  indignant  emphasis  and 
amid  great  cheering,  on  one  such  public  occasion.  "I 
do  NOT,  gentlemen,  lam  free  to  confess,  envy  the  feelings 
of  that  man  whose  mind  is  so  constituted  as  that  he  can 
hold  such  language  to  me,  and  yet  lay  his  head  upon 
his  pillow,  claiming  to  be  a  native  of  that  land, 

Whose  marcli  is  o'er  the  mountain-wave, 
Whose  home  is  on  the  deep  ! 

(Vehement  cheering,  and  man  expelled.) 
When  our  honorable  friend  issued  his  preliminary 
address  to  the  constituent  body  of  Verbosity  on  the  occa- 
sion of  one  particular  glorious  triumph,  it  was  supposed 
by  some  of  his  enemies,  that  even  he  would  be  placed  in 
a  situation  of  difficulty  by  the  following  comparatively 
trifling  conjunction  of  circumstances.  The  dozen  noble- 
men and  gentlemen,  whom  our  honorable  friend  sup- 
ported, had  "come  in,"  expressly  to  do  a  certain  thing. 
Now,  four  of  the  dozen  said,  at  a  certain  place,  that  they 
didn't  mean  to  do  that  thing,  and  had  never  meant  to  do 
it  ;  another  four  of  the  dozen  said,  at  another  certain 
place,  that  they  did  mean  to  do  that  thing,  and  had 
always  meant  to  do  it ;  two  of  the  remaining  four  said, 
at  two  other  places,  that  they  meant  to  do  half  of  that 
thing  (but  differed  about  which  half),  and  to  do  a  varieiy 
of  nameless  wonders  instead  of  the  other  half  ;  and  one 
of  the  remaining  two  declared  that  the  thing  itself  was 
dead  and  buried,  while  the  other  as  strenuously  piotested 
that  it  was  alive  and  kicking.  It  was  admitted  that 
the  parliamentary  genius  of  our  honorable  friend  would 
be  quite  able  to  reconcile  such  small  discrepancies  as 
these  ;  but,  there  remained  the  additional  difficulty  that 
each  of  the  twelve  made  entirely  different  statements  at 
different  ]>laces,  and  that  all  the  twelve  called  everything 
I  visible  and  invisible,  sacred  and  profane,  to  witness, 
{ that  they  were  a  perfectly  impregnable  phalanx  of  una- 
I  nimity.  This,  it  was  apprehended,  would  be  a  stum- 
I  bling-block  to  our  honorable  friend. 

I  The  difficulty  came  before  our  honorable  friend,  in 
i  this  way.  He  went  down  to  Verbosity  to  meet  his  free 
and  independent  constituents,  and  to  render  an  account 
(as  he  informed  them  in  the  local  pa]>ers)  of  the  trust 
they  had  confided  to  his  hands — that  trust  which  it  was 
one  of  the  proudest  privileges  of  an  Englishman  to  pos- 
sess— that  trust  which  it  was  the  proudest  privilege  of 
an  Englishman  to  hold.    It  may  be  mentioned  as  a  proof 


1122 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


of  the  great  general  interest  attaching  to  the  contest, 
that  a  Lunatic  whom  nobody  employed  or  knew,  went 
down  to  Verbosity  with  several  thousand  pounds  in  gold, 
determined  to  give  the  whole  away— which  he  actually 
did  ;  and  that  all  the  publicans  opened  their  bouses  for 
nothing.  Likewise,  several  fighting  men,  and  a  patriotic 
group  of  burglars  sportively  armed  with  life-preservers, 
proceeded  (in  barouches  and  very  drunk)  to  the  scene  of 
action  at  their  own  expense  ;  these  children  of  nature 
having  conceived  a  warm  attachment  to  our  honorable 
friend,  and  intending,  in  their  artless  manner,  to  testify 
it  by  knocking  the  voters  in  the  opposite  interest  on  the 
head. 

Our  honorable  friend  being  come  into  the  presence  of 
his  constituents,  and  having  professed  with  great  suavity 
that  he  was  delighted  to  see  his  good  friend  Tipkisson 
there,  in  his  working  dress — liis  good  friend  Tipkisson 
being  an  inveterate  saddler,  who  always  opposes  him, 
and  for  whom  he  has  a  mortal  hatred — made  them  a  brisk, 
ginger- beery  sort  of  speech,  in  which  he  showed  them 
how  the  dozen  noblemen  and  gentlemen  had  (in  exactly 
ten  days  from  their  coming  in)  exercised  a  surprisingly 
beneficial  effect  on  the  whole  financial  condition  of 
Europe,  had  altered  the  state  of  the  exports  and  imports 
for  the  current  half-year,  had  prevented  the  drain  of 
gold,  had  made  all  that  matter  right  about  the  glut  of  the 
raw  materia],  and  had  restored  all  sorts  of  balances  with 
which  the  superseded  noblemen  and  gentlemen  had 
played  the  deuce — and  all  this,  with  wheat  at  so  much 
a  quarter,  gold  at  so  much  an  ounce,  and  the  Bank  of 
England  discounting  good  bills  at  so  much  per  cent. ! 
He  mig^lit  be  asked,  he  observed  in  a  peroration  of  great 
power,  what  were  his  principles  ?  His  principles  were 
what  they  always  had  been.  His  principles  were  writ- 
ten in  the  countenances  of  the  lion  and  unicorn  ;  were 
stamped  indelibly  upon  the  royal  shield  which  those 
grand  animals  supported,  and  upon  the  free  words  of  fire 
which  that  shield  bore.  His  principles  were,  Britannia 
and  her  sea-king  trident  !  His  principles  were,  com- 
mercial prosperity  co-existently  with  perfect  and  profound 
agricultural  contentment  ;  but  short  of  this  he  would 
never  stop.  His  principles  were,  these, — with  the  addi- 
tion of  his  colours  nailed  to  the  mast,  every  man's  heart 
in  the  right  place,  every  man's  eye  open,  every  man's 
hand  ready,  every  man's  mind  on  the  alert.  His  princi- 
ples were  these,  concurrently  with  a  general  revision  of 
something — speaking  generally — and  a  possible  readjust- 
ment of  something  else,  not  to  be  mentioned  more 
particularly.  His  principles,  to  sum  up  all  in  a  word, 
were.  Hearths  and  Altars,  Labour  and  Capital,  Crown 
and  Sceptre,  Elephant  and  Castle.  And  now,  if  his  good 
friend  Tipkisson  required  any  further  explanation  from 
him  he  (our  honourable  friend)  was  there,  willing  and 
ready  to  give  it. 

Tipkisson,  who  all  this  time  had  stood  conspicuous  in 
the  crowd,  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  eyes  intently 
fastened  on  our  honourable  friend  :  Tipkisson,  who 
throughout  our  honourable  friend's  address  had  not  re- 
laxed a  muscle  of  his  visage,  but  had  stood  there,  wholly 
unaffected  by  the  torrent  of  eloquence  :  an  oi3ject  of 
contempt  and  scorn  to  mankind  (by  which  we  mean,  of 
course,  to  the  supporters  of  our  honourable  friend)  ;  Tip- 
kisson now  said  that  he  was  a  plain  man  (Cries  of  "  You 
are  indeed  ! "),  and  that  what  he  wanted  to  know  was, 
what  our  honourable  friend  and  the  dozen  noblemen  and 
gentlemen  were  driving  at? 

Our  honourable  friend  immediately  replied,  "At  the 
i  1 1  im i tabl e  perspective." 

It  was  considered  by  the  whole  assembly  that  this 
happy  statementof  our  honourable  friend's  political  views 
ought,  immediately,  to  have  settled  Tipkisson's business 
and  covered  him  with  confusion  ;  but,  that  implacable 
])erson,  regardless  of  the  execrations  that  were  heaped 
upon  him  from  all  sides  (by  which  we  mean,  of  course, 
from  our  honourable  friend's  side),  persisted  in  retaining 
an  unmoved  countenance,  and  obstinately  retorted  that 
if  ()ur  honourable  friend  meant  that,  he  wished  to  know 
what  that  meant  ? 

It  was  in  repelling  this  most  objectionable  and  inde- 
cent opposition,  that  our  honourable  friend  displayed  his 
highest  qualifications  for  the  representation  of  Verbos- 
ity.   His  warmest  supporters  present,  and  tliose  who 


were  best  acquainted  with  his  generalship,  supposed  that 
the  moment  was  come  when  he  would  fall  back  upon 
the  sacred  bulwarks  of  our  nationality.  No  such  thing. 
He  replied  thus  :  "  My  good  friend  Tipkisson,  gentle- 
men, wishes  to  know  what  I  mean  when  he  asks  me 
what  we  are  driving  at,  and  when  I  candidly  tell  him, 
at  the  illimitable  perspective.  He  wishes  (if  I  under- 
stand him)  to  know  what  I  mean  ?  "  "  I  do  !  "  says  Tip- 
kisson, amid  cries  of  "  Shame"  and  "  Down  with  him." 
"Gentlemen,"  says  our  honourable  friend,  "I  will  in- 
dulge my  good  friend  Tipkisson,  by  telling  him,  both 
what  I  mean  and  what  I  don't  mean.  (Cheers  and 
cries  of  "  Grive  it  him  ! ")  Be  it  known  to  him,  then, 
and  to  all  whom  it  may  concern,  that  I  do  mean  altars, 
hearths,  and  homes,  and  that  I  don't  mean  riiosques  and 
Mohammedanism  !  "  The  effect  of  this  home-thrust  was 
terrific.  Tipkisson  (who  is  a  Baptist)  was  hooted  down 
and  hustled  out,  and  has  ever  since  been  regarded  as  a 
Turkish  Renegade  who  contemplates  an  early  pilgrimage 
to  Mecca.  Nor  was  he  the  only  discomfited  man.  The 
charge,  while  it  stuck  to  him,  was  magically  transferred 
to  our  honourable  friend's  opponent,  who  was  represented 
in  an  immense  variety  of  placards  as  a  firm  believer  in 
Mahomet ;  and  the  men  of  Verbosity  were  asked  to 
choose  between  our  honourable  friend  and  the  Bible,  and 
our  honourable  friend's  opponent  and  the  Koran.  They 
decided  for  our  honourable  friend,  and  rallied  round  the 
illimitable  perspective. 

It  has  been  claimed  for  our  honourable  friend,  with 
much  appearance  of  reason,  that  he  was  the  first  to  bend 
sacred  matters  to  electioneering  tactics.  However  this 
may  be,  the  fine  precedent  was  undoubtedly  set  in  a 
Verbosity  election  :  and  it  is  certain  that  our  honoura- 
ble friend  (who  was  a  disciple  of  Brahma  in  his  youth, 
and  was  a  Buddhist  when  he  had  the  honour  of  travel- 
ling with  him  a  few  years  ago,)  always  professes  in  pub- 
lic more  anxiety  than  the  whole  Bench  of  Bishops,  re- 
garding the  theological  and  doxological  opinions  of 
every  man,  woman,  and  child,  in  the  United  Kingdom. 

As  we  began  by  saying  that  our  honourable  friend 
has  got  in  again  at  this  last  election,  and  that  we  are  de- 
lighted to  find  that  he  has  got  in,  so  we  will  conclude. 
Our  honourable  friend  cannot  come  in  for  Verbosity  too 
often.  It  is  a  good  sign  ;  it  is  a  great  example.  It  is  to 
men  like  our  honourable  friend,  and  to  contests  like 
those  from  which  he  comes  triumphant,  that  we  are 
mainly  indebted  for  that  ready  interest  in  politics,  that 
fresh  enthusiasm  in  the  discharge  of  the  duties  of  citi- 
zenship, that  ardent  desire  to  rush  to  the  poll,  at  present 
so  manifest  throughout  England.  When  the  contest 
lies  (as  it  sometimes  does)  between  two  such  men  as  our 
honourable  friend,  it  stimulates  the  finest  emotions  of 
our  nature,  and  awakens  the  highest  admiration  of  which 
our  heads  and  hearts  are  capable. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  predict  that  our  honourable  friend 
will  be  always  at  his  post  in  the  ensuing  session.  What- 
ever the  question  be,  or  whatever  the  form  of  its  discus- 
sion ;  address  to  the  crown,  election-petition,  expendi- 
ture of  the  public  money,  extension  of  the  public  suf- 
frage, education,  crime ;  in  the  whole  house,  in  commit- 
tee of  the  whole  house,  in  select  committee  ;  in  every 
parliamentary  discussion  of  every  subject,  everywhere  : 
the  Honourable  Member  for  Verbosity  will  most  cer- 
tainly be  found. 


OUR  SCHOOL. 

We  went  to  look  at  it,  only  this  last  Midsummer,  and 
found  that  the  Railway  had  cut  it  up  root  and  branch. 
A  great  trunk-line  had  swallowed  the  play-ground,  sliced 
away  the  schoolroom,  and  pared  off  the  corner  of  the 
house :  which,  thus  curtailed  of  its  proportions,  pre- 
sented itself,  in  a  green  stage  of  stucco,  profilewise 
towards  the  road,  like  a  forlorn  flat-iron  without  a  handle, 
standing  on  end. 

It  seems  as  if  our  schools  were  doomed  to  be  the  sport 
of  change.  We  have  faint  recollections  of  a  Prepara- 
tory Day-School,  which  we  have  sought  in  vain,  and 
which  must  have  been  pulled  down  to  make  a  new  street, 
ages  ago.  We  have  dim  impressions,  scarcely  amount- 
ing to  a  belief,  that  it  was  over  a  dyer's  shop.    We  know 


MISeELLANEOVS. 


1123 


that  yon  went  up  steps  to  it ;  that  you  frequently  grazed 
your  knees  in  doing  so  ;  that  you  generally  got  your  leg 
over  the  scraper,  in  trying  to  scrapie  the  mud  off  a  very 
unsteady  little  shoe.  The  mistress  of  the  Establishment 
holds  no  place  in  our  memory  ;  but,  rampant  on  one  eter- 
nal door-mat,  in  an  eternal  entry  long  and  narrow,  is  a 
puffy  pug-dog,  with  a  personal  animosity  towards  us, 
who  triumphs  over  Time.  The  bark  of  that  baleful 
Pug,  a  certain  radiating  way  he  had  of  snapping  at  our 
undefended  legs,  the  ghastly  grinning  of  his  moist  black 
muzzle  and  white  teeth,  and  the  insolence  of  his  crisp 
tail  curled  like  a  pastoral  crook,  all  live  and  flourish. 
From  an  otherwise  unaccountable  association  of  him 
with  a  fiddle,  we  conclude  that  he  was  of  French  extrac- 
tion, and  his  name  Fidele.  He  belonged  to  some  female, 
chiefly  inhabiting  a  back-parlour,  whose  life  appears  to 
us  to  have  been  consumed  in  sniffing,  and  in  wearing  a 
brown  beaver  bonnet.  For  her,  he  would  sit  up  and  bal- 
ance cake  upon  his  nose,  and  not  eat  it  until  twenty  had 
been  counted.  To  the  best  of  our  belief  we  were  once 
called  in  to  witness  this  performance  ;  when,  unable, 
even  in  his  milder  moments,  to  endure  our  presence,  he 
instantly  made  at  us,  cake  and  all. 

Why  a  something  in  movcrning,  called  "Miss  Frost," 
should  still  connect  itself  with  our  preparatory  school, 
we  are  unable  to  say.  We  retain  no  impression  of  the 
beauty  of  Miss  Frost— if  she  were  beautiful  ;  or  of  the 
mental  fascinations  of  Miss  Frost — if  she  were  accom- 
plished ;  yet  her  name  and  her  black  dress  hold  an  en- 
during place  in  our  remembrance.  An  equally  imper- 
sonal boy,  whose  name  has  long  since  shaped  itself 
unalterably  into  "Master  Mawls,"  is  not  to  be  dislodged 
from  our  brain.  Retaining  no  vindictive  feeling  towards 
Mawls — no  feeling  whatever,  indeed — we  infer  that 
neither  he  nor  we  can  have  loved  Miss  Frost.  Our  first 
impression  of  Death  and  Burial  is  associated  with  this 
formless  pair.  We  all  three  nestled  awfully  in  a  corner 
one  wintry  day,  when  the  wind  was  blowing  shrill,  with 
Miss  Frost's  pinafore  over  our  heads  ;  and  Miss  Frost 
told  us  in  a  Avhisper  about  somebody  being  "screwed 
down."  It'is  the  only  distinct  recollection  we  preserve 
of  these  impalpable  creatures,  except  a  suspicion  that 
the  manners  of  Master  Mawls  were  susceptible  of  much 
improvement.  Generally  speaking,  we  may  observe 
that  whenever  we  see  a  child  intently  occupied  with  its 
nose,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  subjects  of  interest, 
our  mind  reverts,  in  a  flash  to  Master  Mawls. 

But,  the  School  that  w^as  our  School  before  the  Railroad 
came  and  overthrew  it,  was  quite  another  sort  of  place. 
W^e  were  old  enough  to  be  put  into  Virgil  when  we  w^ent 
there,  and  to  get  Prizes  for  a  variety  oi'  polishing  on 
which  the  rust  has  long  accumulated.  It  was  a  School 
of  some  celebrity  in  its  neighbourhood — nobody  could 
have  said  why — and  we  had  the  honour  to  attain  and 
hold  the  eminent  position  of  first  boy.  The  master  was 
supposed  among  us  to  know  nothing,  and  one  of  the 
ushers  was  supposed  to  know  everything.  We  are  still 
inclined  to  think  the  first-named  supposition  perfectly 
correct. 

We  have  a  general  idea  that  its  subject  had  been  in 
the  leather  trade,  and  had  bought  us — meaning  our 
school — of  another  proprietor,  who  was  immensely 
learned.  Whether  this  l-'elief  had  any  real  foundation, 
we  are  not  likely  ever  to  know  now.  The  only  branches 
of  education  with  which  he  showed  the  least  acquaint- 
ance, were,  ruling  and  corporally  punishing.  He  was 
always  ruling  ci  phering-books  with  a  bloated  mahogany 
ruler,  or  smiting  the  palms  of  offenders  with  the  same 
diabolical  instrument,  or  viciously  drawing  a  pair  of 
pantaloons  tight  with  one  of  his  large  hands,  and  caning 
the  wearer  with  the  other.  We  have  no  doubt  what- 
ever that  this  occupation  was  the  principal  solace  of  his 
existence. 

A  profound  respect  for  money  pervaded  Our  School 
which  was,  of  course,  derived  from  its  Chief.  We  re- 
member an  idiotic  goggle-eyed  boy,  with  a  big  head  and 
lialf-crowns  without  end,  who  suddenly  appeared  as  a 
parlour-boarder,  and  was  rumoured  to  have  come  by  sea 
from  some  mysterious  part  of  the  earth  where  his  par- 
ents rolled  in  gold.  He  was  usually  called  "  Mr."  by  the 
Chief,  and  was  said  to  feed  in  the  parlour  on  steaks  and 
gravy  ;  likewise  to  drink  currant  wine.    And  he  openly 


stated  that  if  rolls  and  coffee  were  ever  denied  him  at 
breakfast,  he  would  write  home  to  that  unknown  part  of 
the  globe  from  which  he  had  come,  and  cause  himself  to 
be  recalled  to  the  regions  of  gold.  He  was  put  into  no 
form  or  class,  but  learnt  alone,  as  little  as  he  liked — 
and  he  liked  very  little — and  there  was  a  belief  among 
us  that  this  was  because ,  he  was  too  wealthy  to  be 
"taken  down."  His  special  treatment,  and  our  vague 
association  of  him  with  the  sea,  and  with  stor-ms, 
and  sharks,  and  Coral  Reefs  occasioned  the  wildest 
legends  to  be  circulated  as  his  history.  A  tragedy  in 
blank  verse  was  written  on  the  subject — if  our  memory 
does  not  deceive  us,  by  the  hand  that  now  chronicles 
these  recollections — in  which  his  father  figured  as  a 
Pirate,  and  was  shot  for  a  voluminous  catalogue  of  atro- 
cities :  first  imparting  to  his  wife  the  secret  of  the  cave 
in  which  his  wealth  was  stored,  and  from  which  his  only 
son's  half-crowns  now  issued.  Dumbledon  (the  boy's 
name)  was  represented  as  "yet  unborn"  when  his  brave 
father  met  his  fate  ;  and  the  despair  and  grief  of  Mrs. 
Dumbledon  at  that  calamity  was  movingly  shadowed 
forth  as  having  weakened  the  parlour-boarder's  mind. 
This  production  was  received  with  great  favour,  and  was 
twice  performed  with  closed  doors  in  the  dining-room. 
But,  it  got  wind,  and  was  seized  as  libellous,  and  brought 
the  unlucky  poet  into  severe  affliction.  Some  two  years 
afterwards,  all  of  a  sudden  one  day,  Dumbledon  vanished. 
It  was  whispered  that  the  Chief  himself  had  taken  him 
down  to  the  Docks,  and  re-shipped  him  for  the  Spanish 
Main  ;  but  nothing  certain  was  ever  known  about  his 
disappearance.  At  this  hour,  we  cannot  thoroughly  dis- 
connect him  from  California. 

Our  School  was  rather  famous  for  mysterio.us  pupils. 
There  was  another — a  heavy  young  man,  with  a  large 
double-cased  silver  watch,  and  a  fat  knife  the  handle  of 
which  was  a  perfect  tool-box — who  unaccountably  ap- 
peared one  day  at  a  special  desk  of  his  own,  erected  close 
to  that  of  the  Chief,  wdth  whom  he  held  familiar  con- 
verse. He  lived  in  the  parlour,  and  went  out  for  walks, 
and  never  took  the  least  notice  of  us — even  of  us,  the 
first  boy — unless  to  give  us  a  depreciatory  kick,  or  grimly 
to  take  our  hat  off  and  throw  it  away,  when  he  encoun- 
tered us  out  of  doors,  which  unpleasant  ceremony  he  al- 
ways performed  as  he  passed — not  even  condescending 
to  stop  for  the  purpose.  Some  of  us  believed  that  the 
classical  attainments  of  this  phenomenon-  were  terrific, 
but  that  his  penmanship  and  arithmetic  were  defective, 
and  he  had  come  there  to  mend  them  ;  others,  that  he 
was  going  to  set  up  a  school,  and  had  paid  the  Chief 
"twenty-five  pound  dow^n,"  for  leave  to  see  Our  School 
at  work.  The  gloomier  spirits  even  said  that  he  was 
going  to  buy  us  ;  against  which  contingency,  conspiracies 
were  set  on  foot  for  a  general  defection  and  running 
away.  However,  he  never  did  that.  After  staying  for 
a  quarter,  during  which  period,  though  closely  observed, 
he  was  never  seen  to  do  anything  but  make  pens  out  of 
quills,  write  small-hand  in  a  secret  portfolio,  and  punch 
the  point  of  the  sharpest  blade  in  his  knife  into  his  desk 
all  over  it,  he  too  disappeared,  and  his  place  knew  him 
no  more. 

There  was  another  boy,  a  fair,,  meek  boy,  with  a  deli- 
cate complexion  and  rich  curling  hair,  who,  we  found 
out,  or  thought  we  found  out  (we  have  no  idea  now,  and 
probably  had  none  then,  on  what  grounds,  but  it  was 
confidentially  revealed  from  mouth  to  mouth),  was  the 
son  of  a  Viscount  who  had  deserted  his  lovely  mother. 
It  was  understood  that  if  he  had  his  rights,  he  would  be 
worth  twenty  thousand  a  year.  And  that  if  his  mother 
ever  met  his  father,  she  would  shoot  him  with  a  silver 
pistol,  which  she  carried,  always  loaded  to  the  muzzle, 
for  that  purpose.  He  was  a  very  suggestive  topic.  So 
was  a  young  mulatto,  who  was  always  believed  (though 
very  amiable)  to  have  a  dagge^  about  him  somewhere. 
But,  we  think  they  were  both  outshone,  upon  the  whole, 
by  another  boy  who  claimed  to  have  been  bom  on  the 
twenty-ninth  of  February,  and  to  have  only  one  birth- 
day, in  five  years.  We  suspect  this  to  have  been  a 
fiction — but  he  lived  upon  it  all  the  time  he  w  as  at  Our 
School. 

The  principal  currency  of  Our  School  was  slate  pencil. 
It  had  some  inexplicable  value,  that  was  never  ascer- 
tained, never  reduced  to  a  standard.    To  have  a  great 


1124 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


hoard  of  it,  was  somehow  to  be  rich.  We  used  to  bestow 
it  in  charity,  and  confer  it  as  a  precious  boon  upon  our 
chosen  friends.  When  the  holidays  were  coming,  con- 
tributions were  solicited  for  certain  boys  whose  relatives 
were  in  India,  and  who  were  appealed  for  under  the 
generic  name  of  "  Holiday-stoppers," — appropriate  marks 
of  remembrance  that  should  enliven  and  cheer  them  in 
their  homeless  state.  Personally,  we  always  contributed 
these  tokens  of  sympathy  in  the  form  of  slate-pencil,  and 
always  felt  that  it  would  be  a  comfort  and  a  treasure  to 
them. 

Our  School  was  remarkable  for  white  mice.  Red- 
polls, linnets,  and  even  canaries,  were  kept  in  desks, 
drawers,  hat-boxes,  and  other  strange  refuges  for  birds  ; 
but  white  mice  were  the  favourite  stock.  The  boys 
trained  the  mice,  much  better  than  the  masters  trained 
the  boys.  We  recall  one  white  mouse,  who  lived  in  the 
cover  of  a  Latin  dictionary,  who  ran  up  ladders,  drew 
Roman  chariots,  shouldered  muskets,  turned  wheels,  and 
even  made  a  very  creditable  appearance  on  the  stage  as 
the  Dog  of  Montargis.  He  might  have  achieved  greater 
things,  but  for  having  the  misfortune  to  mistake  his  way 
in  a  triumphal  procession  to  the  Capitol,  when  he  fell 
into  a  deep  inkstand,  and  was  dyed  black  and  drowned. 
The  mice  were  the  occasion  of  some  most  ingenious  en- 
gineering, in  the  construction  of  their  houses  and  instrvi- 
ments  of  performance.  The  famous  one  belonged  to  a 
Company  of  proprietors,  some  of  whom  have  since  made 
Railroads,  Engines,  and  Telegraphs ;  the  chairman  lias 
erected  mills  and  bridges  in  New  Zealand.  ' 

The  usher  at  Our  School,  who  was  considered  to  know 
everything  as  opposed  to  the  Chief,  who  was  considered 
to  know  nothing,  was  a  bony,  gentle-faced,  clerical -look- 
ing young  man  in  rusty  black.  It  was  whispered  that 
he  was  sweet  upon  one  of  Maxby's  sisters  (Max by  lived 
close  by,  and  was  a  day  pupil),  and  further  that  he 
"  favoured  Maxby."  As  we  remember,  he  taught  Italian 
to  Maxby's  sisters  on  half -holidays.  He  once  went  to 
play  with  them,  and  wore  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  rose  : 
v/hich  was  considered  among  us  equivalent  to  a  declara- 
tion. We  were  of  opinion  on  that  occasion,  that  to  the 
last  moment  he  expected  Maxby's  father  to  ask  him  to 
dinner  at  five  o'clock,  and  therefore  neglected  his  own 
dinner  at  half-past  one,  and  finally  got  none.  We  ex- 
aggerated in  our  imaginations  the  extent  to  which  he 
punished  Maxby's  father's  cold  meat  at  supper  ;  and  we 
agreed  to  believe  that  he  was  elevated  with  wine  and 
water  when  he  came  home.  But,  we  all  liked  him  ;  for 
he  had  a  good  knowledge  of  boys,  and  would  have  made 
it  a  much  better  school  if  he  had  had  more  power.  He 
was  writing-master,  mathematical  master,  English  mas- 
ter, made  out  the  bills,  mended  the  pens,  and  did  all 
sorts  of  things.  He  divided  the  little  boys  with  the 
Latin  master  (they  were  smuggled  through  their  rudi- 
mentary books,  at  odd  times  when  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do),  and  always  called  at  parents'  houses  to  inquire 
after  sick  boys,  because  he  had  gentlemanly  manners. 
He  was  rather  musical,  and  on  some  remote  quarter-day 
had  bought  an  old  trombone  ;  but  a  bit  of  it  was  lost, 
and  it  made  the  most  extraordinary  sounds  when  he 
sometimes  tried  to  play  it  of  an  evening.  His  holidays 
never  began  (on  account  of  the  bills)  until  long  after 
ours  ;  but,  in  the  summer  vacations  he  used  to  take 
pedestrian  excursions  with  a  knapsack;  and  at  Christmas- 
time he  went  to  see  liis  father  at  Chipping  Norton,  who 
we  all  said  (on  no  authority)  was  a  dairy-fed-pork- 
butcher.  Poor  fellow  !  He  was  very  low  all  day  on 
Maxby's  sister's  wedding-day,  and  afterwards  was 
thought  to  favour  Maxby  more  than  ever,  though  he  had 
been  expected  to  spite  him.  He  has  been  dead  these 
twenty  years.    Poor  fellow  ! 

Our  remembrance  of  Our  School,  y)resents  the  Latin 
master  as  a  colourless,  doubled-up,  near-sighted  man 
with  a  crutch,  who  was  always  cold,  and  always  putting 
onions  into  his  ears  for  deafness,  and  always  disclosing 
ends  of  flannel  under  all  his  garments,  and  almost  al- 
ways applying  a  ball  of  [)Ocket-liankerchief  to  some  part 
of  his  face  with  a  screwing  action  round  and  round.  He 
was  a  very  good  scholar,  and  took  great  pains  where  he 
saw  intelligence  and  a  desire  to  learn  :  otherwise,  ])er- 
hapa  not.  Oui-  rao.mory  presents  him  (unless  teased  into 
a  passion)  with  iis  little  energy  as  colour — as  having 


been  worried  and  tormented  into  monotonous  feebleness 
— as  having  had  the  best  part  of  his  life  ground  out  of 
him  in  a  Mill  of  boys.  We  remember  with  terror  how 
he  fell  asleep  one  sultry  afternoon  with  the  little 
smuggled  class  before  him,  and  awoke  not  when  the 
footstep  of  the  Chief  fell  heavy  on  the  floor ;  how  the 
Chief  aroused  him,  in  the  midst  of  a  dread  •  silence,  and 
said,  "  Mr.  Blinkins,  are  you  ill,  sir?"  how  he  blushingly 
replied,  "  Sir,  rather  so  ;  how  the  Chief  retorted  with 
severity,  "Mr.  Blinkins,  this  is  no  place  to  be  ill  in" 
(which  was  very,  very  true),  and  walked  back,  solemn 
as  the  ghost  in  Hamlet,  until,  catching  a  wandering  eye, 
he  caned  that  boy  for  inattention,  and  happily  expressed 
his  feelings  towards  the  Latin  master  through  the  me- 
dium of  a  substitute. 

There  was  a  fat  little  dancing-master  who  used  to 
come  in  a  gig,  and  taught  the  more  advanced  among  us 
hornpipes  (as  an  accomplishment  in  great  social  demand 
in  after-life) ;  and  there  was  a  brisk  little  French  master 
who  used  to  come  in  the  sunniest  weather,  with  a  handle- 
less  umbrella,  and  to  whom  the  Chief  was  always  polite, 
because  (as  we  believed),  if  the  Chief  offended  him,  he 
would  instantly  address  the  Chief  in  French,  and  forever 
confound  him  before  the  boys  with  his  inability  to  un- 
derstand or  reply. 

There  was  besides,  a  serving  man,  whose  name  was 
Phil.  Our  retrospective  glance  presents  Phil  as  a  ship- 
wrecked carpenter,  cast  away  upon  the  desert  island  of  a 
school,  and  carrying  into  practice  an  ingenious  inkling 
of  many  trades.  He  mended  whatever  was  broken,  and 
made  whatever  was  wanted.  He  was  general  glazier, 
among  other  things,  and  mended  all  the  broken  win- 
dows— at  the  prime  cost  (as  was  darkly  rumoured  among 
us)  of  ninepence,  for  every  square  charged  three-and-six 
to  parents.  We  had  a  high  opinion  of  his  mechanical 
genius,  and  generally  held  that  the  Chief  "knew  some- 
thing bad  of  him,"  and  on  pain  of  divulgence  enforced 
Phil  to  be  his  bondsman.  We  particularly  remember 
that  Phil  had  a  sovereign  contempt  for  learning  :  which 
engenders  in  us  a  respect  for  his  sagacity,  as  it  implies 
his  accurate  observation  of  the  relative  positions  of  the 
Chief  and  the  ushers.  He  was  an  impenetrable  man, 
who  waited  at  table  between  whiles,  and  throughout 
"the  half"  kept  the  boxes  in  severe  custody.  He  was 
morose  even  to  the  Chief,  and  never  smiled,  except  at 
breaking-up,when,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  toast, "  Suc- 
cess to  Phil  !  Hooray  ! "  he  would  slowly  carve  a  grin 
out  of  his  wooden  face,  where  it  would  remain  until  we 
were  all  gone.  Nevertheless,  one  time  when  we  had  the 
scarlet  fever  in  the  school,  Phil  nursed  all  the  sick  boys 
of  his  own  accord,  and  was  like  a  mother  to  them. 

There  was  another  school  not  far  off,  and  of  course  our 
school  could  have  nothing  to  say  to  that  school.  It  is 
mostly  the  way  with  schools,  whether  of  boys  or  men. 
Well!  the  railway  has  swallowed  up  ours,  and  the  loco- 
motives now  run  smoothly  over  its  ashes. 

So  fades  and  laugnishes,  grows  dim  and  dies, 
All  that  this  world  is  proud  of. 

—  and  is  not  proud  of,  too.  It  had  little  reason  to  be 
proud  of  Our  School,  and  has  done  much  better  since  in 
that  way,  and  will  do  far  better  yet. 


OUR  VESTRY. 

We  have  the  glorious  privilege  of  being  always  in  hot 
water  if  we  like.  W^e  are  a  shareholder  in  a  Great  Paro- 
chial British  Joint  Stock  Bank  of  Balderdash.  We  have  a 
Vestry  in  our  borough ,  and  can  vote  for  a  vestryman — 
might  even  he  a  vestryman,  mayhap,  if  we  were  inspired 
by  a  lofty  and  noble  ambition.    Which  we  are  not. 

Our  Vestry  is  a  deliberative  assembly  of  the  utmost 
dignity  and  importance.  Like  the  Senate  of  Ancient 
Rome,  its  awful  gravity  overpowers  (or  ought  to  over- 
power) barbarian  visitors.  It  sits  in  the  ('apitol  (we  mean 
in  the  capital  building  erected  for  it),  chiefly  on  Satur- 
days, and  shakes  the  earth  to  its  centre  with  the  echoes 
of  its  thundering  eloquence,  in  a  Sunday  paper. 

To  get  into  this  Vestry  in  the  eminent  capacity  of 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


1125 


Vestryman,  gigantic  elforts  are  made,  and  Herculean 
exertions  used.  It  is  made  manifest  to  the  dullest 
capacity  at  every  election,  that  if  we  reject  Snozzle  we 
are  done  for,  and  that  if  we  fail  to  bring  in  Blunder- 
booze  at  the  top  of  the  poll,  we  are  unworthy  of  the  dear- 
est rights  of  Britons.  Flaming  placards  are  rife  on  all 
the  dead  walls  in  the  borough,  public-houses  hang  out 
banners,  hackney-cabs  burst  into  full-grown  flowers  of 
type,  and  everybody  is,  or  should  be,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
anxiety. 

At  these  momentous  crises  of  the  national  fate,  we  are 
much  assisted  in  our  deliberations  by  two  eminent  volun- 
teers ;  one  of  whom  subscribes  himself  A  Fellow  Parish- 
ioner, the  other,  A  Rate-Payer.  Who  they  are,  or  what 
they  are,  or  where  they  are,  nobody  knows  ;  but,  what- 
ever one  asserts,  the  other  contradicts.  They  are  both 
voluminous  writers,  inditing  more  epistles  than  Lord 
Chesterfield  in  a  single  week  ;  and  the  greater  part  of 
their  feelings  are  too  big- for  utterance  in  anything  less 
than  capital  letters.  They  require  the  additional  aid  of 
whole  rows  of  notes  of  admiration,  like  balloons,  to  point 
their  generous  indignation  ;  and  they  sometimes  com- 
municate a  crushing  severity  to  stars.    As  thus  : 

MEN  OF  MOONEYMOUNT. 

Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  a  *  *  *  to  saddle  the  parish  with  a 
debt  of  £2,745  6«.  9^Z. ,  yet  claim  to  be  a  rigid  economist  ? 

Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  a  *  *  *  to  state  as  a  fact  what  is  proved 
to  be  hoth  a  moral  and  a  physical  impossibility  ? 

Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  a  *  *  *  to  call  £3,745  Qs.  M.  nothing  ; 
and  nothing,  something  ? 

Do  you,  or  do  you  not  want  a  *  *  *  *  to  represent 
you  in  the  vestry  ? 

Your  consideration  of  these  questions  is  recommended 
to  you  by 

'   '  A  Fellow  Parishioner. 

It  was  to  this  important  public  document  that  one  of  our 
first  orators,  Mr.  Magg  (of  Little  Winkling  Street),  ad- 
verted, when  he  opened  the  great  debate  of  the  four- 
teenth of  November  by  saying,  "  Sir,  I  hold  in  my  hand 
an  anonymous  slander" — and  when  the  interruption, 
with  which  he  was  at  that  point  assailed  by  the  opposite 
faction,  gave  rise  to  that  memorable  discussion  on  a 
j)oint  of  order  which  will  ever  be  remembered  with 
interest  by  constitutional  assemblies.  In  the  animated 
debate  to  which  we  refer,  no  fewer  than  thirty-seven 
gentlemen,  many  of  them  of  great  eminence,  including 
Mr.  WiGSBY  (of  Chumbledon  Square),  were  seen  upon 
their  legs  at  one  time  ;  and  it  was  on  the  same  great  oc- 
casion that  DoGGiNSON — regarded  in  oar  vestry  as  "  a 
regular  John  Bull  :  "  we  believe,  in  consequence  of  his 
having  always  made  up  his  mind  on  every  subject  with- 
out knowing  anything  about  it — informed  another  gen- 
tleman of  similar  principles  on  the  opposite  side,  that  if 
he  "  cheek'd  him,"  he  would  resort  to  the  extreme 
measure  of  knocking  his  blessed  head  off. 

This  was  a  great  occasion.^  But,  our  Vestry  shines 
habitually.  In  asserting  its  own  pre-eminence,  for  in- 
stance, it  is  very  strong.  On  the  least  provocation,  or 
on  none,  it  will  be  clamorous  to  know  whether  it  is  to  be 
"  dictated  to,"  or  "trampled  on,''  or  *'  ridden  over  rough- 
shod." Its  great  watchword  is  Self-government.  That 
is  to  say,  supposing  our  Vestry  to  favour  any  little  harm- 
less disorder  like  Typhus  Fever,  an^  supposing  the  Gov- 
ernment of  the  country  to  be,  by  any  accident,  in  such 
ridiculous  hands,  as  that  any  of  its  atithorities  should 
consider  it  a  duty  to  object  to  Typhus  Fevei — obviously 
an  unconstitutional  objection — then,  our  Vestry  cuts  in 
with  a  terrible  manifesto  about  Self-government,  and 
claims  its  independent  right  to  have  as  much  Typhus 
Fever  as  pleases  itself.  Some  absurd  and  dangerous 
persons  have  represented,  on  the  other  hand,  that  though 
our  Vestry  may  be  able  to  "  beat  the  bounds  "  of  its  own 
parish,  it  may  not  be  able  to  beat  the  bounds  of  its  own 
diseases  ;  which  (say  they)  spread  over  the  whole  land, 
in  an  ever-expanding  circle  of  waste,  and  misery,  and 
death,  and  widowhood,  and  orphanage,  and  desolation. 
But  our  Vestry  makes  short  work  of  any  such  fellows  as 
these. 

it  was  oar  Vestry — pink  of  Vestries  as  it  is — that  in 


support  of  its  favourite  principle  took  the  celebrated 
ground  of  denying  the  existence  of  the  last  pestilence 
that  raged  in  England,  when  the  pestilence  was  raging 
at  the  Vestry  doors.  Dogginson  said  it  was  plums  ;  Mj-. 
Wigsby  (of  Chumbledon  Square)  said  it  was  oysters  ;  Mr. 
Magg  (of  Little  Winkling  Street)  said,  amid  great  cheer- 
ing, it  was  the  newsi)apers.  The  noble  indignation  of 
our  Vestry  with  that  un-English  institution  the  Board  (jf 
Health,  under  those  circumstances,  yields  one  of  the 
finest  passages  in  its  history.  It  wouldn't  hear  of  rescue. 
Like  Mr.  Joseph  Miller's  Frenchman,  it  would  be  drowned 
and  nobody  should  save  it.  Transported  beyond  gram- 
mar by  its  kindled  ire,  it  spoke  in  unknown  tongues,  and 
vented  unintelligible  bellowings,  more  like  an  ancient 
oracle  than  the  modern  oracle  it  is  admitted  on  all  hands 
to  be.  Rare  exigencies  produce  rare  things  ;  and  even 
our  Vestry,  new  hatched  to  the  woful  time,  came  forth 
a  greater  goose  than  ever. 

But  this,  again,  was  a  special  occasion.  Our  Vestry, 
at  more  ordinary  periods,  demands  its  meed  of  praise. 

Our  Vestry  is  eminently  parliamentary.    Playing  at 
Parliament  is  its  favourite  game.    It  is  even  regarded 
i  by  some  of  its  members  as  a  chapel  of  ease  to  the  House 
!  of  Commons  :  a  Little  Go  to  be  passed  first.    It  hus  its 
I  strangers'  gallery,  and  its  reported  debates  (see  tlie  Sun- 
!  day  paper  before  mentioned),  and  our  Vestrymen  are  in 
and  out  of  order,  and  on  and  off  their  legs,  and  above  all 
are  transcendently  quarrelsome,  after  the  pattern  of  the 
real  original. 

Our  Vestry  being  assembled,  Mr.  Magg  never  begs  to 
trouble  Mr.  Wigsby  with  a  simple  inquiry.    He  knows 
better  than  that.    Seeing  the  honourable  gentleman, 
associated  in  their  minds  with  Chumbledon  Square,  in  his 
place,  he  wishes  to  ask  that  honourable  gentleman  what 
the  intentions  of  himself,  and  those  with  whom  he  acts, 
may  be,  on  the  subject  of  the  paving  of  the  district  known 
as  Piggleum  Buildings?    Mr.  Wigsby  replies  (with  his 
eye  on  next  Sunday's  paper),  that  in  reference  to  the  ques- 
tion which  has  been  put  to  him  by  the  honourable  gen- 
tleman opposite  he  must  take  leave  to  say,  that  if  that 
honourable  gentleman  had  had  the  courtesy  to  give  him 
notice  of  that  question,  he  (Mr.  Wigsby)  would  have 
]  consulted  with  his  colleagues  in  reference  to  the  advisa- 
bility, in  the  present  state  of  the  discussions  on  the  new 
paving-rate,  of  answering  that  question.    But,  as  the 
honourable  gentleman  has  not  had  the  courtesy  to  give 
him  notice  of  that  question  (great  cheering  from  the 
Wigsby  interest),  he  must  decline  to  give  the  honour- 
able gentleman  the  satisfaction  he  requires.    Mr.  Magg, 
instantly  rising  to  retort,  is  received  with  loud  crie^  of 
I  "Spoke  !"  from  the  Wigsby  interest,  and  with  cheers 
I  from  the  Magg  side  of  the  house.    Moreover,  five  gen- 
j  tlemen  rise  to  order,  and  one  of  them,  in  revenge  for 
i  being  taken  no  notice  of,  petrifies  the  assembly  by  mov- 
I  ing  that  this  Vestry  do  now  adjourn  ;  but,  is  persuaded 
to  withdraw  that  awful  proposal,  in  consideration  of  its 
I  tremendous  consequences  if  persevered  in.    Mr.  Magg, 
I  for  the  purpose  of  being  heard,  then  begs  to  move,  that 
;  you.  Sir,  do  now  pass  to  the  order  of  the  day  ;  and  takes 
ithat  opportunity  of  saying,  that  if  an  honourable  gentle- 
:  man  whom  he  has  in  his  eye,  and  will  not  demean  him- 
self by  more  particularly  naming  (oh,  oh,  and  cheers), 
j  supposes  that  he  is  to  be  put  down  by  clamour,  that  hou- 
{  ourable  gentleman  —  however  supported  he   may  be, 
j  through  thick  and  thin,  by  a  Fellow  Parishioner,  with 
I  whom  he  is  well  acquainted  (cheers  and  counter-cheers, 
j  Mr.  Magg  being  invariably  backed  by  the  Rate  Payer) — 
I  will  find  himself  mistaken.    Upon  this,  twenty  members 
I  of  our  Vestry  speak  in  succession  concerning  what  the 
i  two  great  men  have  meant,  until  it  appears,  after  an 
j  hour  and  twenty  minutes,  that  neither  of  them  meant 
j  anything.    Then  our  Vestry  begins  business. 
!     We  have  said  that,  after  the  pattern  of  the  real  origi- 
i  nal,  our  Vestry  in  playing  at  Parliament  is  transcend- 
!  entiy  quarrelsome.     It  enjoys  a  personal  altercation 
i  above  all  things.    Perhaps  the  most  redoubtable  case  of 
this  kind  we  have  ever  had — though  we  have  had  so 
i  many  that  it  is  difficult  to  decide — was  that  on  which 
I  the  last  extreme  solemnities  passed  between  Mr.  Tiddy- 
pot  (of  Gumtion  House)  and  Captain  Banger  (of  Wilder- 
j  ness  Walk). 

In  an  adjourned  debate  on  the  question  whether  water 


1126 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


could  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  necessary  of  life  ; 
respecting  which  there  were  great  differences  of  opinion, 
and  many  shades  of  sentiment ;  Mr.  Tiddypot,  in  a  pow- 
erful burst  of  eloquence  against  that  hypothesis,  fre- 
quently made  use  of  the  expression  that  such  and  such 
a  rumour  had  "reached  his  ears."  Captain  Banger, 
following  him,  and  holding  that,  for  purposes  of  ablu- 
tion and  refreshment,  a  pint  of  water  per  diem  was  nec- 
essary for  every  adult  of  the  lower  classes,  and  half  a 
pint  for  every  child,  cast  ridicule  upon  his  address  in  a 
sparkling  speech,  and  concluded  by  saying  that  instead 
of  those  rumours  having  reached  tlie  ears  of  the  honour- 
able gentleman,  he  rather  thought  the  honourable  gen- 
tleman's ears  must  have  reached  the  rumours,  in  conse- 
quence of  tlieir  well-known  length,  Mr.  Tiddypot 
immediately  rose,  looked  the  honourable  and  gallant 
gentleman  full  in  the  face,  and  left  the  Vestry. 

The  excitement,  at  this  moment  painfully  intense,  was 
heightened  to  an  acute  degree  when  Captain  Banger 
rose,  and  also  left  the  Vestry,  After  a  few  moments  of 
profound  silence — one  of  these  breathless  pauses  never 
to  be  forgotten — Mr.  Chib  (of  Tucket's  Terrace,  and  the 
father  of  the  Vestry)  rose.  He  said  that  words  and 
looks  had  passed  in  that  assembly,  replete  with  conse- 
quences which  every  feeling  mind  must  deplore.  Time 
pressed.  The  sword  was  drawn,  and  while  he  spoke  the 
scabbard  might  be  thrown  away.  He  moved  that  those 
honourable  gentlemen  who  had  left  the  Vestry  be  re- 
called, and  required  to  pledge  themselves  upon  their  hon- 
our that  this  affair  should  go  no  farther.  The  motion 
being  by  a  general  union  of  parties  unanimously  agreed 
to  (for  everybody  wanted  to  have  the  belligerents  there, 
instead  of  out  of  sight  :  which  was  no  fun  at  all),  Mr. 
Magg  was  deputed  to  recover  Captain  Banger,  and  Mr. 
Chib  himself  to  go  in  search  of  Mr.  Tiddypot.  The  Cap- 
tain was  found  in  a  conspicuous  position,  surveying  the 
passing  omnibuses  from  the  top  step  of  the  front-door 
immediately  adjoining  the  beadle's  box  ;  Mr.  Tiddypot 
made  a  desperate  attempt  at  resistance,  but  was  over- 
powered by  Mr.  Chib  (a  remarkably  hale  old  gentleman 
of  eighty-two),  and  brought  back  in  safety. 

Mr.  Tiddypot  and  the  Captain  being  restored  to  their  j 
places,  and  glaring  on  each  other,  were  called  upon  by  the 
chair  to  abandon  all  homicidal  intentions,  and  give  the 
Vestry  an  assurance  that  they  did  so.  Mr.  Tiddypot  re- 
mained profoundly  silent.  The  Captain  likewise  re- 
mained profoundly  silent,  saving  that  he  was  observed 
by  those  around  him  to  fold  his  arms  like  Napoleon 
Buonaparte,  and  to  snort  in  his  breathing — actions  but 
too  expressive  of  gunpowder. 

The  most  intense  emotion  now  prevailed.  Several 
members  clustered  in  remonstrance  round  the  Captain, 
and  several  round  Mr.  Tiddypot  ;  but,  both  were  obdu- 
rate. Mr.  Chib  then  presented  himself  amid  tremen- 
dous cheering,  and  said,  that  not  to  shrink  from  the  dis- 
charge of  his  painful  duty,  he  must  now  move  that  both 
honourable  gentlemen  be  taken  into  custody  by  the  bea- 
dle, and^  conveyed  to  the  nearest  police-office,  there  to 
be  held  to  bail.  The  union  of  parties  still  continuing, 
the  motion  was  seconded  by  Mr.  Wigsby — on  all  usual 
occasions  Mr,  Club's  opponent — and  rapturously  carried 
with  only  one  dissentient  voice.  This  was  Dogginson's, 
who  said  from  his  place  "Let  'em  fight  it  out  with 
fists  ;  "  but  whose  coarse  remark  was  received  as  it  mer- 
ited. 

The  beadle  now  advanced  along  the  floor  of  the  Vestry, 
and  beckoned  with  his  cocked  hat  to  both  members. 
Every  breath  was  suspended.  To  say  that  a  pin  might 
have  been  heard  to  fall,  would  be  feebly  to  exj)ress  the 
all-absorbing  interest  and  silence.  Suddenly,  enthusias- 
tic cheering  l)roke  out  from  every  side  of  the  Vestry. 
Captain  Banger  had  risen — being,  in  fact,  pulled  up  by  a 
friend  on  either  side,  and  poked  up  by  a  friend  behind. 

The  Captain  said,  in  a  deep  determined  voice,  that  he 
had  every  respect  for  the  Vestry  and  every  respect 
for  that  chair  ;  that  he  also  respected  the  honoura))le 
gentleman  of  Gumtion  House  ;  but,  that  he  respected 
his  honour  more.  Hereupon  the  Captain  sat  down, 
leaving  the  whole  Vestry  much  affected.  Mr.  Tiddy- 
pot instantly  rose,  and  was  received  with  the  same 
encouragement.  He  likewise  said — and  the  exquisite 
art  of  this  orator  communicated  to  the  observation  an  air 


of  freshness  and  novelty — that  he  too  had  every  respect 
for  that  Vestry  ;  that  he  too  had  every  respect  for  that 
chair.  That  he  too  respected  the  honourable  and  gallant 
gentleman  of  Wilderness  Walk  ;  but,-  that  he  too  re- 
spected his  honour  more.  "  Hows'ever,"  added  the  dis- 
tinguished Vestryman,  "if  the  honourable  or  gallant 
gentleman's  honour  is  never  more  doubted  and  damaged 
than  it  is  by  me,  he's  all  right."  Captain  Banger  im- 
mediately started  up  again,  and  said  that  after  those  ob- 
servations, involving  as  they  did  ample  concession  to  his 
honour  without  compromising  the  honour  of  the  honour- 
able gentleman,  he  would  be  wanting  in  honour  as  well 
as  in  generosity,  if  he  did  not  at  once  repudiate  all  inten- 
tion of  wounding  the  honour  of  the  honourable  gentle- 
man, or  saying  anything  dishonourable  to  his  honourable 
feelings.  These  observations  were  repeatedly  inter- 
rupted by  bursts  of  cheers.  Mr.  Tiddypot  retorted  that 
he  well  knew  the  spirit  of  honour  by  which  the  honour- 
able and  gallant  gentleman  was  so  honourably  animated, 
and  that  he  accepted  an  honourable  explanation,  offered 
in  a  way  that  did  him  honour  ;  but,  he  trusted  that  the 
Vestry  would  consider  that  his  (Mr,  Tiddypot's)  honour 
had  imperatively  demanded  of  him  that  painful  course 
which  he  had  left  it  due  to  his  honour  to  adopt.  The 
Captain  and  Mr.  Tiddypot  then  touched  their  hats  to  one 
another  across  the  Vestry,  a  great  many  times,  and  it  is 
thought  that  these  proceedings  (reported  to  the  extent 
of  several  columns  in  next  Sunday's  paper)  will  bring 
them  in  as  churchwardens  next  year. 

All  this  was  strictly  after  the  pattern  of  the  real 
original,  and  so  are  the  whole  of  our  Vestry's  proceed- 
ings. In  all  their  debates,  they  are  laudably  imitative  of 
the  vrindy  and  wordy  slang  of  the  real  original,-  and  of 
nothing  that  is  better  in  it.  They  have  headstrong  party 
animosities,  without  any  reference  to  the  merits  of  ques- 
tions ;  they  tack  a  surprising  amount  of  debate  to  a  very 
little  business  ;  they  set  more  store  by  forms  than  they 
do  by  substances  : — all  very  like  the  real  original  !  It 
has  been  doubted  in  our  borough,  whether  our  Vestry  is 
of  any  utility  ;  but  our  own  conclusion  is,  that  it  is  of 
the  use  to  the  Borough  that  a  diminishing  mirror  is  to  a 
Painter,  as  enabling  it  to  perceive  in  a  small  focus  of 
absurdity  all  the  surface  defects  of  the  real  original. 


OUR  BORE. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  we  keep  a  bore.  Everybody 
does.  But,  the  bore  whom  we  have  the  pleasure  and 
honour  of  enumerating  among  our  particular  friends,  is 
such  a  generic  bore,  and  has  so  many  traits  (as  it  appears 
to  us)  in  common  with  the  great  bore  family,  that  we  are 
tempted  to  make  him  the  subject  of  the  present  notes. 
May  he  be  generally  accepted  ! 

Our  bore  is  admitted  on  all  hands  to  be  a  good-hearted 
man.  He  may  put  fifty  people  out  of  temper,  but  he 
keeps  his  own.  He  preserves  a  sickly  solid  smile  upon 
his  face,  when  other  faces-  are  ruffled  by  the  perfection 
he  has  attained  in  his  art,  and  has  an  equable  voice 
which  never  travels  out  of  one  key  or  rises  above  one 
pitch.  His  manner  is  a  manner  of  tranquil  interest. 
None  of  his  opinions  are  startling.  Among  his  deepest- 
rooted  convictions,  it  may  be  mentioned  that  he  con- 
siders the  air  of  England  damp,  and  holds  that  our  lively 
neighbours — he  always  calls  the  French  our  lively  neigh- 
bours— have  the  advantage  of  us  in  that  particular. 
Nevertheless,  he  is  unable  to  forget  that  John  Bull  is 
John  Bull  all  the  world  over,  and  that  England  with  all 
her  faults  is  England  still. 

Our  bore  has  travelled.  He  could  not  possibly  be  a 
complete  bore  without  having  travelled.  He  rarely 
speaks  of  his  travels  without  introducing,  sometimes  on 
his  own  plan  of  construction,  morsels  of  the  language  of 
the  country  : — which  he  always  translates.  You  cannot 
i  name  to  him  any  little  remote  town  in  France,  Italy, 
Germany,  or  Switzerland  but  he  knows  it  well  ;  stayed 
there  a  fortnight  under  peculiar  circumstances.  And 
talking  of  that  little  place,  perhaps  you  know  a  statue 
over  an  old  fountain,  up  a  little  court,  which  is  the 
second — no,  the  third — stay — yes,  the  third  turning  on 
the  right,  after  you  come  out  of  the  Post  house,  going 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


1121 


up  the  hill  towards  the  market?  You  don't  know  that 
statue?  Nor  that  fountain?  Yoa  surprise  him  !  They 
are  not  usually  seen  by  travellers  (most  extraordinary, 
he  has  never  yet  met  with  a  single  traveller  who  knew 
them,  except  one  German,  the  most  intelligent  man  he 
ever  met  in  his  life  !)  but  he  thought  that  you  would 
have  been  the  man  to  find  them  out.  And  then  he  de- 
scribes them,  in  a  circumstantial  lecture  half  an  hour 
long,  generally  delivered  behind  a  door  whicli  is  con- 
stantly being  opened  from  the  other  side  ;  and  implores 
you,  if  you  ever  revisit  that  place,  now  do  go  and  fook 
at  that  statue  and  fountaili  ! 

Our  bore,  in  a  similar  manner,  being  in  Italy,  made  a 
discovery  of  a  dreadful  picture,  whicli  has  been  the  ter- 
ror of  a  large  portion  of  the  civilised  world  ever  since. 
We  have  seen  the  liveliest  men  paralysed  by  it,  across  a 
broad  dining-table.  He  was  lounging  among  tlie  moun- 
tains, sir,  basking  in  the  mellow  influences  of  the  climate, 
when  he  came  to  una  piccola  cJdesa — a  little  church — or 
perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say  una  piccolissima 
cappdla — the  smallest  chapel  you  can  possibly  imagine 
— and  walked  in.  There  was  nobody  inside  but  a  cieco 
— a  blind  man — saying  his  prayer,  and  a  veccldo  padre — 
old  friar — rattling  a  money  box.  But,  above  the  head 
of  that  friar,  and  immediately  to  the  right  of  the  altar 
as  you  enter — to  the  right  of  the  altar  ?  No.  To  the  left  of 
the  altar  as  you  enter — or  say  near  the  centre — there  hung 
a  painting  (subject,  Virgin  and  Child)  so  divine  in  its  ex- 
pression, so  pure  and  yet  so  wai-m  and  rich  in  its  tone,  so 
fresh  in  its  touch,  at  once  so  glowing  in  its  colour  and  so 
statuesque  in  its  repose,  that  our  bore  cried  out  in  an 
ecstacy,  "  That's  the  finest  picture  in  Italy  !"  And  so  it 
is,  sir.  There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  It  is  astonishing  that 
that  picture  is  so  little  known.  Even  the  painter  is  un- 
certain. •  He  afterwards  took  Blumb,  of  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy (it  is  to  be  observed  that  our  bore  takes  none  but 
eminent  people  to  see  sights,  and  that  none  but  eminent 
people  take  our  bore),  and  you  never  saw  a  man  so  af- 
fected in  your  life  as  Blumb  was.  He  cried  like  a  child  ! 
And  then  our  bore  begins  his  description  in  detail — for 
all  this  is  introductory — and  strangles  his  hearers  with 
the  folds  of  the  purple  drapery. 

By  an  equally  fortunate  conjunction  of  accidental  cir- 
cumstances, it  happened  that  when  our  bore  was  in 
Switzerland,  he  discovered  a  Valley,  of  that  superb 
character,  that  Chamouni  is  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the 
same  breath  with  it.  This  is  how  it  was,  sir.  He  was 
travelling  on  a  mule — had  been  in  the  saddle  some  days — 
when,  as  he  and  the  guide,  Pierre  Blanquo  :  whom  you 
may  know,  perhaps? — our  bore  is  sorry  you  don't,  be- 
cause he  is  the  only  guide  deserving  of  the  name — as  he 
and  Pierre  ^vere  descending,  towards  evening,  among 
those  everlasting  snows,  to  the  little  village  of  La  Croix, 
our  bore  observed  a  mountain  track  turning  off  sharply 
to  the  right.  At  first  he  was  uncertain  whether  it  was  a 
track  at  all,  and  in  fact,  he  said  to  Pierre,  ' '  Qu'est  que 
c'est  done,  mon  ami  ? — What  is  that,  my  friend?"  "  Oa, 
monsieur?  said  Pierre — Where  sir?"  Ld! — there!" 
said  our  bore.  "  Monsieur,  ce  n'est  rien  de  tout — sir,  it's 
nothing  at  all,"  said  Pierre.  "  AUons  / — Make  haste. 
II  va  neiger — it's  going  to  snow  ! "  But,  our  bore  was 
not  to  be  done  in  that  way,  and  he  firmly  replied,  "I 
wish  to  go  in  that  direction— 7*6  veux  y  oiler.  I  am  bent 
upon  it— j(?  suis  determine.  En  awmt! — go  ahead  ! "  In 
consequence  of  which  firmness  on  our  bore's  part,  they 
proceeded,  sir,  during  two  hours  of  evening,  and  three 
of  moonlight  (they  waited  in  a  cavern  till  the  moon  was 
up),  along  the  slenderest  track,  overhanging  perpendicu- 
larly the  most  awful  gulfs,  until  they  arrived,  by  a  wind- 
ing descent,  in  a  valley  that  possibly,  and  he  may  say 
probably,  was  never  visited  by  any  stranger  before. 
What  a  valley  !  Mountains  piled  on  numntains,  ava- 
lanches stemmed  by  pine  forests  ;  waterfalls,  chalets, 
mountain-torrents,  wooden  bridges,  every  conceivable 
picture  of  Swiss  scenery  !  The  whole  village  turned  out 
to  receive  our  bore.  The  peasant  girls  kiss  him,  the  men 
shook  hands  with  him,  one  old  lady  of  benevolent  ap- 
pearance wept  upon  his  breast.  He  was  conducted,  in  a 
primitive  triumph,  to  the  little  inn  :  where  he  was  taken 
ill  next  morning,  and  lay  for  six  weeks,  attended  by  the 
amiable  hostess  (the  same  benevolent  old  lady  who  had 
wept  over  night)  and  her  charming  daughter,  Fanchette. 


It  is  nothing  to  say  that  they  were  attentive  to  him.  They 
doted  on  liim.  They  called  him  in  their  simple  way, 
I'Anye  Anglais — the  English  Angel.  When  our  bore  left 
the  valley,  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  place  ;  some  of 
the  people  attended  him  for  miles.  He  begs  and  entreats 
of  you  as  a  personal  favour,  that  if  you  ever  go  to  Swit- 
zerland again  (you  have  mentioned  that  your  last  visit 
was  your  twenty-third),  you  will  go  to  the  valley,  and 
see  Swiss  scenery  for  the  first  time.  And  if  you  want 
really  to  know  the  pastoral  people  of  Switzerland,  and  to 
understand  them,  mention,  in  that  valley,  our  bore's 
name  I 

Our  bore  has  a  crushing  brother  in  the  East,  who, 
somehow  or  other,  was  admitted  to  smoke  pipes  with 
Mehemet  All,  and  instantly  became  an  authority  on  the 
whole  range  of  Eastern  matters,  from  Haroun  Alraschid 
to  the  present  Sultan.  He  is  in  the  habit  of  expressing 
mysterious  opinions  on  this  wide  range  of  subjects,  but 
on  questions  of  foreign  policy  more  particularly,  to  our 
bore,  in  letters  ;  and  our  bore  is  continually  sending  bits 
of  these  letters  to  the  newspapers  (which  they  never  in- 
sert), and  carrying  other  bits  about  in  his  pocket-book. 
It  is  even  whispered  that  he  has  been  seen  at  the  Foreign 
Office,  receiving  great  consideration  from  the  messengers, 
and  having  his  card  promptly  borne  into  the  sanctuary 
of  the  temple.  The  havoc  committed  in  society  by  this 
Eastern  brother  is  beyond  belief.  Our  bore  is  always 
ready  with  him.  We  have  known  our  bore  to  fall  upon 
an  intelligent  young  sojourner  in  the  wilderness,  in  the 
first  sentence  of  a  narrative,  and  beat  all  confidence  out 
of  him  with  one  blow  of  his  brother.  He  became  omnis- 
cient, as  to  foreign  policy,  in  the  smoking  of  those  pipes 
with  Mehemet  Ali.  The  balance  of  power  in  Europe, 
the  machinations  of  the  Jesuits,  the  gentle  and  human- 
ising influence  of  Austria,  the  position  and  prospects  of 
that  hero  of  the  noble  soul  who  is  worshipyjed  by  happy 
France,  are  all  easy  reading  to  our  bore's  brother.  And 
our  bore  is  so  provokingly  self-denying  about  him  ! 
don't  pretend  to  more  than  a  very  general  knowledge  of 
these  subjects  myself,"  says  he,  after  enervating  the  in- 
tellects of  several  strong  men,  "but  these  are  my  broth- 
er's opinions,  and  I  believe  he  is  known  to  be  well-in- 
formed." 

The  commonest  incidents  and  places  would  appear  to 
have  been  made  special,  expressly  for  our  bore.  Ask 
him  whether  he  ever  chanced  to  w^alk,  between  seven 
and  eight  in  the  morning,  down  St.  James's  Street,  Lon- 
don, and  he  wall  tell  you,  never  in  his  life  but  once. 
But,  it's  curious  that  that  once  was  in  eighteen  thirty  ; 
and  that  as  our  bore  was  walking  down  the  street  you 
have  just  mentioned,  at  the  hour  you  have  just  men- 
tioned— half -past-seven — or  twenty  minutes  to  eight. 
No  !  Let  him  be  correct  ! — exactly  a  quarter  before 
eight  by  the  Palace  clock — he  met  a  fresh-coloured, 
grey-haired,  good-humoured  looking  gentleman,  with  a 
brown  umbrella,  who  as  he  passed  him,  touched  his  hat 
and  said,  "  Fine  morning,  sir,  fine  morning  !  " — William 
the  Fourth  ! 

Ask  our  bore  whether  he  has  seen  Mr.  Barry's  new 
Houses  of  Parliament,  and  he  will  reply  that  he  has  not 
yet  inspected  them  minutely,  but  that  you  remind  him 
that  it  was  his  singular  fortune  to  be  the  last  man  to  see 
the  old  Houses  of  Parliament  before  the  fire  broke  out. 
It  happened  in  this  way.  Poor  John  Spine,  the  cele- 
brated novelist,  had  taken  him  over  to  South  Lambert  to 
read  to  him  the  last  few  chapters  of  what  was  certainly 
his  best  book — as  our  bore  told  him  at  the  time,  adding, 
"  Now,  my  dear  John,  touch  it,  and  you'll  spoil  it  I " — 
and  our  bore  was  going  back  to  the  club  by  wRy  of  Mill- 
bank  and  Pailiament  Street,  when  he  stopped  to  think 
of  Canning,  and  look  at  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  Now, 
you  know  far  more  of  the  philosophy  of  Mind  than  our 
bore  does,  and  are  much  better  able  to  explain  to  him 
than  he  is  to  explain  to  you  why  or  wherefore,  at  that 
particular  time,  the  thought  of  fire  should  come  into  his 
head.  But,  it  did.  It  did.  He  thought,  What  a  national 
calamity  if  an  edifice  connected  with  so  many  associa- 
tions should  be  consumed  by  fire  !  At  that  time  there 
was  not  a  single  soul  in  the  street  but  himself.  All  was 
quiet,  dark,  and  solitary.  After  contemplating  the  build- 
ing for  a  minute — or  say  a  minute  and  a-half,  not  more 
— our  bore  proceeded  on  his  way,  mechanically  repeating. 


1128 


CHARLES  DIG  KEN 8'  WORKS. 


What  a  national  calamity  if  such  an  edifice,  connected 
with  such  associations,  should  be  destroyed  by  — —  A 
man  coming  towards  him  in  a  violent  state  of  agitation 
completed  the  sentence,  with  the  exclamation,  Fire  !  Our 
bore  looked  round,  and  the  whole  structure  was  in  a 
blaze. 

In  harmony  and  union  with  these  experiences,  our  bore 
never  went  anywhere  in  a  steam-boat  but  he  made  either 
the  best  or  the  worst  voyage  ever  known  on  that  station. 
Either  he  overheard  the  captain  say  to  himself,  with  his 
hands  clasped, "  We  are  all  lost ! "  or  the  captain  openly  de- 
clared to  him  that  he  had  never  made  such  a  run  before, 
and  never  should  be  able  to  do  it  again.  Our  bore  was 
in  that  express  train  on  that  railway,  when  they  made 
(unknown  to  the  passengers)  the  experiment  of  going  at 
the  rate  of  a  hundred  miles  an  hour.  Our  bore  remarked 
on  that  occasion  to  the  other  people  in  the  carriage, 
"  This  is  too  fast,  but  sit  still  !  "  He  was  at  that  Nor- 
wich musical  festival  when  the  extraordinary  echo  for 
which  science  has  been  wholly  unable  to  account,  was 
heard  for  the  first  and  last  time.  He  and  the  bishop 
heard  it  at  the  same  moment,  and  caught  each  other's 
eye.  He  was  present  at  the  illumination  of  St.  Peter's, 
of  which  the  Pope  is  known  to  have  remarked,  as  he 
looked  at  it  out  of  his  window  in  the  Vatican,  "  0  Gielo  ! 
Qiiesta  eosa  non  sara  fatta,  mai  ancora,  come  questa — 0 
Heaven  ;  this  thing  will  never  be  done  again,  like  this  !  " 
He  has  seen  every  lion  he  ever  saw,  under  some  remark- 
ably propitious  circumstances.  He  knows  there  is  no 
fancy  in  it,  because  in  every  case  the  showman  mention- 
ed the  fact  at  the  time,  and  congratulated  him  upon  it. 

At  one  period  of  his  life  our  bore  had  an  illness.  It 
was  an  illness  of  a  dangerous  character  for  society  at 
large.  Innocently  remark  that  you  are  very  well,  or 
that  somebody  else  is  very  well  ;  and  our  bore,  with  a 
preface  that  one  never  knows  what  a  blessing  health  is 
until  one  has  lost  it,  is  reminded  of  that  illness,  and 
drags  you  through  the  whole  of  its  symptoms,  progress, 
and  treatment.  Innocently  remark  that  you  are  not 
well,  or  that  somebody  else  is  not  well,  and  the  same  in- 
evitable result  ensues.  You  will  learn  how  our  bore 
felt  a  tightness  about  here,  sir,  for  which  he  couldn't 
account,  accompanied  with  a  constant  sensation  as  if  he 
were  being  stabbed — or  rather  jobbed — that  expresses  it 
more  correctly — jobbed — with  a  blunt  knife.  Well,  sir  ! 
This  went  on  until  sparks  began  to  flirt  before  his  eyes, 
water-wheels  to  turn  round  in  his  head,  and  hammers  to 
beat  incessantly  thump,  thump,  all  down  his  back — 
along  the  whole  of  the  spinal  vertebr£e.  Our  bore,  when 
his  sensations  had  come  to  this,  thought  it  a  duty  he 
owed  to  himself  to  take  advice,  and  he  said,  Now,  whom 
shall  I  consult?  He  naturally  thought  of  Callow,  at 
that  time  one  of  the  most  eminent  physicians  in  London, 
and  he  went  to  Callow.  Callow  said,  "Liver!"  and 
prescribed  rhubarb  and  calomel,  low  diet,  and  moderate 
exercise.  Our  bore  went  on  with  this  treatment,  getting 
worse  every  day,  until  he  lost  confidence  in  Callow,  and 
went  to  Moon,  whom  half  the  town  was  then  mad  al30ut. 
Moon  was  interested  in  the  case  ;  to  do  him  justice  he 
was  very  much  interested  in  the  case  ;  and  he  said, 
"  Kidneys  !  "  He  altered  the  whole  treatment,  sir — gave 
strong  acids,  cupped,  and  blistered.  This  went  on,  our 
bore  still  getting  worse  every  day,  until  he  openly  told 
Moon  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  him  if  he  would  have 
a  consultation  with  Clatter.  The  moment  Clatter  saw 
our  bore,  he  said,  "Accumulation  of  fat  about  the 
heart!"  Snuggle  wood,  who  was  called  in  with  him, 
differed,  and  said,  "Brain!"  But,  what  they  all 
agreed  upon  was,  to  lay  our  bore  upon  his  back,  to 
Khave  his  head,  to  leech  him,  to  administer  enormous 
quantities  of  medicine,  and  to  keep  him  low  ;  .so  that  he 
was  reduced  to  a  mere  shadow,  you  wouldn't  have  known 
him,  and  nobody  considered  it  possible  that  he  could 
ever  recover.  This  was  his  condition,  sir,  when  he 
heard  of  Jilkins — at  that  period  in  a  very  small  practice, 
and  living  in  the  upper  part  of  a  house  in  Great  Port- 
land Street  ;  but  still,  you  understand,  with  a  rising 
reputation  among  the  few  people  to  whom  he  was 
known.  Being  in  that  condition  in  which  a  drowning 
man  catches  at  a  straw,  our  bore  sent  for  Jilkins.  Jil- 
kins came.  Our  bore  liked  his  eye,  and  said,  "  Mr. 
Jilkins,  I  have  a  presentiment  that  you  will  do  me 


good."  Jilkins's  reply  was  characteristic  of  the  man. 
It  was,  "  Sir,  I  mean  to  do  you  good."  This  confirmed 
our  bore's  opinion  of  his  eye,  and  they  went  into  the 
case  together — went  completely  into  it.  Jilkins  then 
got  up,  walked  across  the  room,  came  back  and  sat  down. 
His  words  were  these.  "You  have  been  humbugged. 
This  is  a  case  of  indigestion,  occasioned  by  deficiency  ol 

!  power  in  the  Stomach.  Take  a  mutton  chop  in  half-an- 
hour,  with  a  glass  of  the  finest  old  sherry  that  can  be 
go t^ for  money.  Tak6  two  mutton  chops  to-morrow,  and 
two  glasses  of  the  finest  old  sherry.  Next  day,  I'll  come 
again."  In  a  week  our  bore  was  on  his  legs,  and  Jil- 
kins's success  dates  from  that  period  ! 

Our  bore  is  grfeat  in  secret  information.  He  happens 
to  know  many  things  that  nobody  else  knows.  He  can 
generally  tell  you  where  the  split  is  in  the  Ministry  ;  he 
knows  a  deal  about  the  Queen  ;  and  has  little  anecdotes 
to  relate  of  the  royal  nursery.  He  gives  you  the  judge's 
private  opinion  of  Sludge  the  murderer,  and  his  thoughts 
when  he  tried  him.  He  happens  to  know  what  such  a 
man  got  by  such  a  transaction,  and  it  was  fifteen  thou- 
sand five  hundred  pounds,  and  his  income  is  twelve 
thousand  a  year.  Our  bore  is  also  great  in  mystery.  He 
believes,  with  an  exasperating  appearance  of  profound 
meaning,  that  you  saw  Parkins  last  Sunday  ? — Yes,  you 
did.  Did  he  say  anything  particular  ? — No,  nothing  par- 
ticular. Our  bore  is  surprised  at  that. — Why  ? — Nothing. 
Only  he  understood  that  Parkins  had  come  to  tell  you 
something. — What  about? — Well!  our  bore  is  not  at 
liberty  to  mention  what  about.    But,  he  believes  you 

j  will  hear  that  from  Parkins  himself,  soon,  and  he  hopes 
it  may  not  surprise  you  as  it  did  him.    Perhaps,  how- 

I  ever,  you  never  heard  about  Parkins's  wife's  sister? — 

j  No. — Ah  !  says  our  bore,  that  explains  it  ! 

!  Our  bore  is  great  in  argument.  He  infinitely  enjoys  a 
long  humdrum,  drowsy  interchange  of  words  of  dispute 
about  nothing.  He  considers  that  it  strengthens  the 
mind,  consequently,  he  "don't  see  that,"  very  often. 
Or,  he  would  be  glad  to  know  what  you  mean  by  that. 
Or,  he  doubts  that.  Or,  he  has  always  understood  ex- 
actly the  reverse  of  that.  Or,  he  can't  admit>  that.  Or, 
he  begs  to  deny  that.  Or,  surely  you  don't  mean  that. 
And  so  on.  He  once  advised  us  ;  offered  us  a  piece  of 
advice,  after  the  fact,  totally  impracticable  and  wholly 
impossible  of  acceptance,  because  it  supposed  the  fact, 
then  eternally  disposed  of,  to  be  yet  in  abeyance.  It  was 
a  dozen  years  ago,  and  to  this  hour  our  bore  benevolent- 
ly w^ishes,  in  a  mild  voice,  on  certain  regular  occasions, 
that  we  had  thought  better  of  his  opinion. 

The  instinct  with  which  our  bore  finds  out  another 
bore,  and  closes  with  him,  is  amazing.  We  have  seen 
him  pick  his  man  out  of  fifty  men,  in  a  couple  of  min-  v 
utes.  They  love  to  go  (which  they  do  naturally)  into  a 
slow  argument  on  a  previously  exhausted  subject,  and 
to  contradict  each  other,  and  to  wear  the  hearers  out, 
without  impairing  their  own  perennial  freshness  as 
bores.  It  improves  the  good  understanding  between 
them,  and  they  get  together  afterwards  and  bore  each 
other  amicably.  Whenever  we  see  our  bore  behind  a 
door  with  another  bore,  we  know  that  when  he  comes 
forth,  he  will  praise  the  other  bore  as  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  men  he  ever  met.  And  this  bringing  to  the 
close  of  what  we  had  to  say  about  our  bore,  we  are  anx- 
ious to  have  it  understood  that  he  never  bestowed  this 
praise  on  us. 


HUNTED  DOWN. 
I. 

Most  of  us  see  some  romances  in  life.  In  my  capacity 
as  Chief  Manager  of  a  Life  Assurance  Office,  I  think  I 
have  within  the  last  thirty  years  seen  more  romances 
than  the  generality  of  men,  however  unpromising  the 
opportunity  may,  at  first  sight,  seem. 

As  I  have  retired,  and  live  at  my  ease,  I  possess  the 
means  that  I  used  to  want,  of  considering  what  I  have 
seen,  at  leisure.  My  experiences  have  a  more  remarka- 
ble aspect,  so  reviewed,  than  they  had  when  they  were 
in  progress.  I  have  come  home  from  the  Play  now,  and 
can  recall  the  scenes  of  the  Drama  upon  which  the  cur- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


1129 


tain  has  fallen,  free  from  the  glare,  bewilderment,  and 
bustle  of  the  Theatre. 

Let  me  recall  one  of  these  Romances  of  tlie  real 
world. 

There  is  nothing  truer  than  physiognomy,  taken  in 
connection  with  manner.  The  art  of  reading  that  book 
of  which  Eternal  Wisdom  obliges  every  human  creature 
to  present  his  or  her  own  page  with  the  individual  char- 
acter written  on  it,  is  a  difficult  one,  perhaps,  and  is  lit- 
tle studied.  It  may  recjuire  some  natural  a{)titude,  and 
it  must  require  (for  everything  does)  some  patience  and 
some  pains.  That  these  are  not  usually  given  to  it, — 
that  numbers  of  people  accept  a  few  stock  commonplace 
expressions  of  face  as  the  whole  list  of  characteristics, 
and  neither  seek  nor  know  the  refinement.«i  that  are 
truest, — that  You,  for  instance,  give  a  great  deal  of  time 
and  attention  to  the  reading  of  music,  Greek,  Latin, 
French,  Italian,  Hebrew  if  you  please,  and  do  not 
qualify  yourself  to  read  the  face  of  the  master  or  mis- 
tress looking  over  your  shoulder  teaching  it  to  you, — I 
assume  to  be  five  hundred  times  more  probable  than  im- 
probable. Perhaps  a  little  self-sufficiency  may  be  at 
the  bottom  of  this  ;  facial  expression  requires  no  study 
from  you,  you  think  ;  it  comes  by  nature  to  you  to  know 
enough  about  it,  and  you  are  not  to  be  taken  in. 

I  confess,  for  my  part,  that  I  Jiave  been  taken  in,  over 
and  over  again.  I  have  been  taken  in  by  acquaintances, 
and  I  have  been  taken  in  (of  course)  by, friends;  far 
oftener  by  friends  than  by  any  other  class  of  persons. 
How  came  I  to  be  so  deceived  ?  Had  I  quite  misread 
their  faces  ? 

No.  Believe  me,  my  first  impression  of  those  people, 
founded  on  face  and  manner  alone,  was  invariably  true. 
My  mistake  was  in  suffering  them  to  come  nearer  to  me 
and  explain  themselves  avk^ay. 


II. 

The  partition  which  separated  my  own  office  from  our 
general  outer  oflBce  in  the  City  was  of  thick  plate-glass. 
I  could  iee  through  it  what  passed  in  the  outer  oflSce, 
without  hearing  a  word.  I  had  it  put  up,  in  place  of  a  wall 
that  had  been  there  for  years, — ever  since  the  house  was 
built.  It  was  no  matter  whether  I  did  or  did  not  make  the 
change  in  order  that  I  might  derive  my  first  impression 
of  strangers,  who  came  to  us  on  business,  from  their 
faces  alone,  without  being  influenced  by  anything  they 
said.  Enough  to  mention  that  I  turned  my  glass  parti- 
tion to  that  account,  and  that  a  Life  Assurance  Office  is 
at  all  times  exposed  to  be  practised  »up©n  by  the  most 
crafty  and  cruel  of  the  human  race. 

It  was  through  my  glass  partition  that  I  first  saw  the 
gentleman  whose  story  I  am  going  to  tell. 

He  had  come  in  without  my  observing  it,  and  had  put 
his  hat  and  umbrella  on  the  broad  counter,  and  was 
bending  over  it  to  take  some  papers  from  one  of  the 
clerks.  He  was  about  forty  or  so,  exceedingly  well 
dressed  in  black, — being  in  mourning, — and  the  hand  he 
extended  with  a  polite  air  had  a  particularly  well-fitting, 
black  kid  glove  upon  it.  His  hair,  which  was  elabo- 
rately brushed  and  oiled,  was  parted  straight  up  the 
middle  ;  and  he  presented  this  parting  to  the  clerk,  ex- 
actly (to  my  thinking)  as  if  he  had  said,  in  so  many 
words  :  "  You  must  take  me,  if  )''ou  please,  my  friend, 
just  as  I  show  myself.  Come  straight  up  here  ;  follow 
the  gravel  path  ;  keep  off  the  grass  ;  I  allow  no  tres- 
passing." 

I  conceived  a  very  great  aversion  to  that  man  the  mo- 
ment I  thus  saw  him. 

He  had  asked  for  some  of  our  printed  forms,  and  the 
clerk  was  giving  them  to  him  and  explaining  them.  An 
obliged  and  agreeable  smile  was  on  his  face,  and  his 
eyes  met  those  of  the  clerk  with  a  sprightly  look.  (I 
have  known  a  vast  quantity  of  nonsense  talked  about 
l)ad  men  not  looking  you  in  the  face.  Don't  trust  that 
conventional  idea.  Dishonesty  will  stare  honesty  out  of 
countenance,  any  day  in  the  week,  if  there  is  anything 
to  be  got  by  it.) 

I  saw,  in  the  corner  of  his  eyelash,  that  he  became 
aware  of  my  looking  at  him.  Immediately  he  turned 
the  parting  in  his  hair  toward  the  glass  partition,  as  if 


he  said  to  jne  with  a  sweet  smile,  "  Straight  up  here,  if 
you  please.    Off  the  grass  !  " 

In  a  few  moments  he  had  put  on  his  hat  and  taken  up 
his  umbrella,  and  was  gone. 

I  beckoned  the  clerk  into  my  room,  and  asked,  "  Who 
was  that?" 

He  had  the  gentleman's  card  in  his  hand.   "  Mr.  Julius 
i  Slinkton,  Middle  Temple." 
I     "A  barrister,  Mr.  Adams?" 
j     "  I  think  not,  sir." 

"I  should  have  thought  him  a  clergyman,  but  for  his 
having  no  Reverend  here,"  said  I. 

"Probably,  from  his  appearance,"  Mr.  Adams  replied, 
"  he  is  reading  for  orders." 

I  should  mention  that  he  wore  a  dainty  white  cravat, 
and  dainty  linen  together. 

"  What  did  he  want,  Mr.  Adams?  " 
"Merely  a  form  of  proposal,  sir,  and  form  of  refer- 
\  ence." 

"  Recommended  here  ?    Did  he  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  said  he  was  recommended  here  by  a  friend 
I  of  yours.  He  noticed  you,  but  said  that  as  he  had  not 
1  the  pleasure  of  your  personal  acquaintance  he  would 
I  not  trouble  you." 

"  Did  he  know  my  name  ?  " 

"0  yes,  sir!  He  said,  'There  is  Mr.  Sampson,  I 
\  see  ! ' " 

!     "A  well-spoken  gentleman,  apparently?" 
"  Remarkably  so,  sir." 
"  Insinuating  manners,  apparently  ?  " 
"Very  much  so,  indeed,  sir." 

"Hah!"  said  I.  "I  want  nothing  at  present,  Mr. 
Adams. " 

Within  a  fortnight  of  that  day  I  went  to  dine  with  a 
friend  of  mine,  a  merchant,  a  man  of  taste  who  buys 
pictures  and  books  ;  and  the  first  man  I  saw  among  the 

1  company  was  Mr.  Julius  Slinkton.  There  he  was,  stand- 
ing before  the  fire,  with  good  large  eyes  and  an  open 

j  expression  of  face  ;  but  still  (I  thought)  requiring  every- 

I  body  to  come  at  him  by  tile  prepared  way  he  offered,  and 

I  by  no  other. 

I  noticed  him  ask  my  friend  to  introduce  him  to  Mr. 
Sampson,  and  my  friend  did  so.    Mr.  Slinkton  was  very 
I  happy  to  see  me.    Not  too  happy  ;  there  was  no  over- 
I  doing  of  the  matter  ;  happy  in  a  thoroughly  well-bred^ 
!  perfectly  unmeaning  way. 

I     "  I  thought  you  had  met,"  our  host  observed. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Slinkton.  "  I  did  look  in  at  Mr.  Samp- 
son's office,  on  your  recommendation  ;  but  I  really  did 
not  feel  justified  in  troubling  Mr.  Sampson  himself,  on 
a  point  in  the  every -day  routine  of  an  ordinary  clerk.  " 

I     I  said  I  should  have  been  glad  to  show  him  any  atten- 

!  tion  on  our  friend's  introduction. 

j     "  I  am  sure  of  that,"  said  he,  "  and  am  much  obliged. 

j  At  another  time,  perhaps,  I  may  be  less  delicate.  Only, 
however,  if  I  have  real  business  ;  for  I  know,  Mr.  Samp- 
son, how  precious  business  time  is,  and  what  a  vast 
number  of  impertinent  people  there  are  in  the  world." 

I  acknowledged  his  consideration  with  a  slight  bow. 
"  You  were  thinking,"  said  I,  "  of  effecting  a  policy  on 

I  your  life." 

I  "0  dear,  no  !  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  so  prudent  as  you 
pay  me  the  compliment  of  supposing  me  to  be,  Mr.  Samp- 
son. I  merely  inquired  for  a  friend.  But  you  know 
what  friends  are  in  such  matters.  Nothing  may  ever 
come  of  it.  I  have  the  greatest  reluctance  to  trouble 
men  of  business  with  inquiries  for  friends,  knoveing  the 
probabilities  to  be  a  thousand  to  one  that  the  friends 
will  never  follow  them  up.  People  are  so  fickle,  so  self- 
ish, so  inconsiderate.  Don't  you,  in  your  business,  find 
them  so  every  day,  Mr.  Sampson?" 

I  was  going  to  give  a  qualified  answer  ;  but  he  turned 
his  smooth,  white  parting  on  me  with  its  "  Straight  up 
here,  if  you  please  !  "  and  I  answered,  "  Yes." 

"I  hear,  Mr.  Sampson,"  he  resumed,  presently,  for  our 
friend  had  a  new  cook,  and  dinner  was  not  so  punctual 
as  usual,  "that  your  profession  has  recently  suffered  a 
great  loss. " 

"  In  money  !  "  said  I. 

He  laughed  at  my  ready  association  of  loss  with  money, 
and  replied,  "  No,  in  talent  and  vigour." 

Not  at  once  following  out  his  allusions,  I  considered 


1180 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


for  a  moment.  "  Has  it  sustained  a  loss  of  that  kind  ?  " 
said  I.    "I  was  not  aware  of  it." 

"  Understand  me,  Mr.  Sampson.  I  don't  imapne  that 
you  have  retired.  It  is  not  so  bad  as  that.  But  Mr.  Mel- 
tham — " 

"  O,  to  be  sure  ! "  said  I.  "  Yes  !  Mr.  Meltham,  the 
young  actuary  of  the  '  Inestimable.'  " 

"  Just  so,"  he  returned,  in  a  consoling  way. 

"He  is  a  great  loss.  He  was  at  once  the  most  pro- 
found, the  most  original,  and  the  most  energetic  man  I 
have  ever  known  connected  with  Life  Assurance." 

I  spoke  strongly  ;  for  I  had  a  high  esteem  and  admira- 
tion for  Meltham,  and  my  gentleman  had  indefinitely 
conveyed  to  me  some  suspicion  that  he  wanted  to  sneer 
at  him.  He  recalled  me  to  my  guard  by  presenting  that 
trim  pathway  up  his  head,  with  its  infernal  "Not  on  the 
grass,  if  you  please, — the  gravel." 

"  Yoxx  knew  him,  Mr.  Slinkton." 

"  Only  by  reputation.  To  have  known  him  as  an  ac- 
quaintance, or  as  a  friend,  is  an  honour  I  should  have 
sought  if  he  had  remained  in  society,  though  I  might 
never  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  attain  it,  being  a  man 
of  far  inferior  mark.  He  was  scarcely  above  thirty,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"About  thirty." 

"Ah!"  He  sighed  in  his  former  consoling  way. 
"  What  creatures  we  are  !  To  break  up,  Mr.  Sampson, 
and  become  incapable  of  business  at  that  time  of  life  ! — 
Any  reason  assigned  for  the  melancholy  fact  ?  " 

'("  Humph  !  "  thought  I,  as  I  looked  at  him.  "  But  I 
won't  go  up  the  track,  and  I  will  go  on  the  grass.") 

"  What  reason  have  you  heard  assigned,  Mr.  Slink- 
ton  ?  "  I  asked  point  blank. 

"  Most  likely  a  false  one.  You  know  what  Rumour  is, 
Mr.  Sampson.  I  never  repeat  what  I  hear  ;  it  is  the  only 
way  of  paring  the  nails  and  shaving  tho  head  of  Rumour. 
But,  when  you  ask  me  what  reason  I  have  heard  assigned 
for  Mr.  Meltham's  passing  away  from  among  men,  it  is 
another  thing.  I  am  not  gratifying  idle  gossip  then.  I 
was  told,  Mr.  Sampson,  that  Mr.  Meltham  had  relin- 
quished all  his  avocations  and  all  prospects,  because  he 
was,  in  fact,  broken-hearted.  A  disappointed  attach- 
ment I  heard, — though  it  hardly  seems  probable,  in  the 
case  of  a  man  so  distinguished  and  so  attractive. " 
,  "  Attractions  and  distinctions  are  no  armour  against 
death,"  said  I. 

"Oh!  she  died?  Pray  pardon  me.  I  did  not  hear 
that.  That,  indeed,  makes  it  very  sad.  Poor  Mr.  Mel- 
tham !  She  died  ?  Ah,  dear  me  !  Lamentable,  lamen- 
table ! " 

I  still  thought  his  pity  was  not  quite  genuine,  and  I 
still  suspected  an  unaccountable  sneer  under  all  this,  un- 
til he  said  as  we  were  parted,  like  the  other  knots  of 
talkers,  by  the  announcement  of  dinner, 

"  Mr.  Sampson,  you  are  surprised  to  see  me  so  moved 
on  behalf  of  a  man  whom  I  have  never  known.  I  am 
not  so  disinterested  as  you  may  suppose.  I  have  suffer- 
ed, and  recently  too,  from  death  myself.  I  have  lost  one 
of  two  charming  nieces,  who  were  my  constant  com- 
panions. She  died  young, — barely  three-and-twenty, — 
and  even  her  remaining  sister  is  far  from  strong.  The 
world  is  a  grave  !  " 

He  said  this  with  deep  feeling,  and  I  felt  reproached 
for  the  coldness  of  my  manner.  Coldness  and  distrust 
had  been  engendered  in  me,  I  knew,  by  my  bad  ex- 
periences ;  they  were  not  natural  to  me  ;  and  I  often 
thought  bow  much  I  had  lost  in  life,  losing  trustfulness, 
and  how  little  I  had  gained,  gaining  hard  caution.  This 
state  of  mind  being  habitual  to  me,  I  troubled  my- 
self more  about  tliis  conversation  than  I  might  have 
troubled  myself  about  a  greater  matter.  I  listened  to 
his  talk  at  dinner,  and  observed  how  readily  other  men 
responded  to  it,  and  with  what  a  graceful  instinct  he 
ada[)ted  his  subjects  to  the  knowledge  and  habits  of  those 
he  talked  with.  As,  in  talking  with  me,  he  had  easily 
started  the  subject  I  might  be  supposed  to  understand 
best,  and  to  be  the  most  interested  in,  so,  in  talking  with 
others,  he  guided  himK(;lf  by  the  same  rule.  The  com- 
pany was  of  varied  character  ;  but  he  was  not  at  fault, 
that  I  could  discover,  with  any  member  of  it.  He  knew 
just  as  much  of  each  man's  i)ursuit  as  made  him  agree- 
able to  that  man  in  reference  to  it,  and  Just  as  little  as 


made  it  natural  in  him  to  seek  modestly  for  information 
when  the  theme  was  broached. 

As  he  talked  and  talked, — but  really  not  too  much,  for 
the  rest  of  us  seemed  to  force  it  upon  him, — I  became 
quite  angry  with  myself.  I  took  his  face  to  pieces  in 
my  mind,  like  a  watch,  and  examined  it  in  detail.  I 
could  not  say  much  against  any  of  his  features  separately  ; 
I  could  say  even  less  against  them  when  they  were  put 
together.  "  Then  is  it  not  monstrous,"  I  asked  myself, 
"that  becausd'a  man  happens  to  part  his  hair  straight 
up  the  middle  of  his  head,  I  should  permit  myself  to 
suspect,  and  even  to  detest  him  ?  " 

(I  may  stop  to  remark  that  this  was  no  proof  of  my 
sense.  An  observer  of  men  who  finds  himself  steadily 
repelled  by  some  apparently  trifling  thing  in  a  stranger 
is  right  to  give  it  great  weight.  It  may  be  the  clue  to 
the  whole  mystery.  A  hair  or-  two  will  show  where  a 
lion  is  hidden.  A  very'little  key  will  open  a  very  heavy 
door.) 

I  took  my  part  in  the  conversation  with  him  after  a 
time,  and  we  got  on  remarkably  well.  In  the  drawing- 
room  I  asked  the  host  how  long  he  had  known  Mr,  Slink- 
ton  ?  He  answered,  not  many  months  ;  he  had  met  him 
at  the  house  of  a  celebrated  painter  then  present,  who 
had  known  him  well  when  he  was  travelling  with  his 
nieces  in  Italy  for  their  health.  His  plans  in  life  being 
broken  by  the  death  of  one  of  them,  he  was  reading  with 
the  intention  of  going  back  to  college  as  a  matter  of 
form,  taking  his  degree,  and  going  into  orders.  I  could 
not  but  argue  with  myself  that  here  was  the  true  explan- 
ation of  his  interest  in  poor  Meltham,  and  that  I  had 
been  almost  brutal  in  my  distrust  on  that  simple  head. 


III. 

On  the  very  next  day  but  one,  I  was  sitting  behind  my 
glass  partition,  as  before,  when  he  came  into  the  outer 
office  as  before.  The  moment  I  saw  him  again  without 
hearing  him,  I  hated  him  worse  than  ever. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  I  had  this  opportunity  ; 
for  he  waved  his  tight-fitting  black  glove  the  fcistant  I 
looked  at  him,  and  came  straight  in. 

"Mr.  Sampson,  good  day  !  I  presume,  you  see,  upon 
your  kind  permission  to  intrude  upon  you.  I  don't  keep 
my  word  in  being  justified  by  business,  for  my  business 
here — if  I  may  so  abuse  the  word — is  of  the  slightest 
nature." 

I  asked,  was  it  anything  I  could  assist  him  in  ? 

"  I  thank  you,  no.  I  merely  called  to  inquire  outside, 
whether  my  dilatory  friend  had  been  so  false  to  himself 
as  to  be  practical  and  sensible.  But,  of  course,  he  has 
done  nothing.  I  gave  him  your  papers  with  my  own 
hand,  and  he  was  hot  upon  the  intention,  but  of  course 
he  has  done  nothing.  Apart  from  the  general  human 
disinclination  to  do  anything  that  ought  to  be  done  I 
dare  say  there  is  a  specialty  about  assuring  one's  life? 
You  find  it  like  will-making?  People  are  so  super- 
stitious, and  take  it  for  granted  they  will  die  soon  after- 
wards ?  " 

"  Up  here,  if  you  please.  Straight  up  here,  Mr.  Samp- 
son. Neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left  !"  I  almost 
fancied  I  could  hear  him  breathe  the  words,  as  he  sat 
smiling  at  me,  with  that  intolerable  parting  exactly  op- 
posite the  bridge  of  my  nose. 

"  There  is  such  a  feeling  sometimes,  no  doubt,"  I 
replied  ;  "but  I  don't  think  it  obtains  to  any  great  ex- 
tent." 

"Well,"  said  he,  with  a  shrug  and  a  smile,  "I  wish 
some  good  angel  would  influence  my  friend  in  the  right 
direction.  I  rashly  promised  his  mother  and  sister  in  Nor- 
folk, to  see  it  done,  and  he  promised  them  that  he  would 
doit.    But  I  suppose  he  never  will." 

He  spoke  for  a  minute  or  two  on  indifferent  topics  and 
went  away. 

I  had  scarcely  unlocked  the  drawers  of  my  writing- 
table  next  morning  when  he  reappeared.  I  noticed  that 
lie  came  straight  to  the  door  in  the  glass  partition,  and 
did  not  pause  a  single  moment  outside. 

"Can  you  spare  me  two  minutes,  my  dear  Mr.  Samp- 
son ?  " 

"  By  all  means." 


MIS       LA  NEO  US. 


1131 


"  Much  obliged,"  laying  his  hat  and  umbrella  on  the 
table  ;  "I  came  early,  not  to  interrupt  you.  The  fact 
is,  I  am  taken  by  surprise,  in  reference  to  this  proposal 
my  friend  has  made." 

"  Has,be  made  one  ?"  said  I. 
Ye-es,"  he  answered,  deliberately  looking  at  me; 
and  then  a  bright  idea  seemed  to  strike  him  ; — "or  he 
only  tells  me  he  has.  Perhaps  that  may  be  a  new  way 
of  evading  the  matter.  By  Jupiter,  I  never  thought  of 
that  ! " 

Mr.  Adams  was  opening  the  morning's  letters  in  the 
outer  office.  ' '  What  is  the  name,  Mr.  Slinkton  ?  "  I  asked . 
"  Beck  with." 

I  looked  out  at  the  door  and  requested  Mr.  Adams,  if 
there  were  a  proposal  in  that  name,  to  bring  it  in.  He 
had  already  laid  it  out  of  his  hand  on  the  counter.  It 
was  easily  selected  from  the  rest,  and  he  gave  it  me. 
Alfred  Beck  with.  Proposal  to  effect  a  policy  with  us  for 
two  thousand  pounds.    Dated  yesterday. 

"  From  the  Middle  Temple,  I  see,  Mr.  Slinkton." 

"Yes.  He  lives  on  the  same  staircase  with  me;  his 
door  is  opposite.  I  never  thought  he  would  make  me 
his  reference  though." 

"It  seems  natulml  enough  that  he  should," 

"Quite  so,  Mr.  Sampson  ;  but  I  never  thought  of  it. 
Let  me  see."    He  took  the  printed  paper  from  his  pocket. 

How  am  I  to  answer  all  these  questions  !" 

"  According  to  the  truth,  of  course,"  said  I. 

"O,  of  course  !"  he  answered,  looking  up  from  the 
paper  with  a  smile  ;  "  I  meant  they  were  so  many.  But, 
you  do  right  to  be  particular.  Will  you  allow  me  to 
use  your  pen  and  ink  ?  " 

"Certainly." 

"  And  your  desk  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

He  had  been  hovering  about  between  his  hat  and  his 
umbrella,  for  a  place  to  write  on.  He  now  sat  down  in 
my  chair,  at  my  blotting  paper  and  inkstand,  with  the 
long  walk  up  his  head  in  accurate  perspective  before  me, 
as  I  stood  with  my  back  to  the  fire. 

Before  answering  each  question  he  ran  over  it  aloud, 
and  discussed  it.  How  long  had  he  known  Mr.  Alfred 
Beckwith  ?  That  he  had  to  calculate  by  years  upon  his 
fingers.  What  were  his  habits?  No  difficulty  about 
them  ;  temperate  in  the  last  degree,  and  took  a  little  too 
much  exercise,  if  anything.  Ail  the  answers  were  satis- 
factory. When  he  had  written  them  all,  he  looked  them 
over,  and  finally  signed  them  in  a  very  pretty  hand.  He 
supposed  he  had  now  done  with  the  business  ?  I  told 
him  he  was  not  likely  to  be  troubled  any  further.  Should 
he  leave  the  papers  there  ?  If  he  pleased.  Much  obliged. 
Good  morning  ! 

I  had  had  one  other  visitor  before  him  ;  not  at  the 
office,  but  at  my  own  house.  The  visitor  had  come  to 
my  bedside  when  it  was  not  yet  daylight,  and  had  been 
seen  by  no  one  else  but  my  faithful  confidential  servant. 

A  second  reference  paper  (for  we  required  always  two) 
was  sent  down  into  Norfolk,  and  was  duly  received  back 
by  post.  This,  likewise,  was  satisfactorily  answered  in 
every  respect.  Our  forms  wej-e  all  complied  with,  we 
accepted  the  proposal,  and  the  premium  for  one  year  was 
I  paid. 

IV. 

i 

I  FoK  six  or  seven  months,  I  saw  no  more  of  Mr.  Slinkton. 
i  He  called  once  at  my  house,  but  I  was  not  at  home ;  and 
I  he  once  asked  me  to  dine  with  him  in  the  Temple,  but  I 
was  engaged.  His  friend's  Assurance  was  effected  in 
March,  Late  in  September  or  early  in  October,  I  was 
down  in  Scarborough  for  a  breath  of  sea  air,  where  I  met  I 
him  on  the  beach.  It  was  a  hot  evening  ;  he  came 
toward  me  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  ;  and  there  was  the 
walk  I  had  felt  so  strongly  disinclined  to  take,  in  per- 
fect order  again,  exactly  in  front  of  the  bridge  of  my 
nose. 

He  was  not  alone,  but  had  a  young  lady  on  his  arm. 

She  was  dressed  in  mourning,  and  I  looked  at  her  with 
great  interest.  She  had  the  appearance  of  being  ex- 
tremely delicate,  and  her  face  was  remarkably  pale  and 
melancholy  ;  but  she  was  very  pretty.  He  introduced 
her  as  his  niece,  ]\^iss  Niner. 


"  Are  you  strolling,  ^r.  Sampson?  Is  it  possible  you 
can  be  idle  ?  " 

It  was  possible,  and  I  was  strolling. 
"Shall  we  stroll  together?" 
"  With  pleasure." 

The  young  lady  walked  between  us,  and  we  walked 
on  the  cool  sea  sand,  in  the  direction  of  Filey. 

"There  have  been  wheels  here,"  said  Mr.  Slinkton. 
"  And  now  I  look  again,  the  wheels  of  a  hand-carriage! 
Margaret,  my  love,  your  shadow,  without  doubt  ! " 

"Miss  Niner's  shadow?"  I  repeated,  looking  down  at 
it  on  the  sand. 

"  Not  that  one,"  Mr.  Slinkton  returned,  laughing. 
"Margaret,  my  dear,  tell  Mr.  Sampson." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  young  lady,  turning  to  me,  "  there 
is  nothing  to  tell, — except  that  I  constantly  see  the  same 
invalid  old 'gentleman,  at  all  times,  wherever  I  go.  I  have 
mentioned  it  to  my  uncle,  and  he  calls  the  gentleman  my 
shadow." 

"  Does  he  live  in  Scarborough  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  He  is  staying  here." 
"  Do  you  live  in  Scarborough  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  staying  here.    My  uncle  has  placed  me 
with  a  family  here,  for  my  health." 
"  And  your  shadow  ?  "  said  I,  smiling, 
"  My  shadow,"  she  answered,  smiling  too,  "  is — like 
myself — not  very  robust,  I  fear  ;  for  I  lose  my  shadow 
sometimes,  as  my  shadow  loses  me  at  other  times.  We 
both  seem  liable  to  confinement  to  the  house.  I  have  not 
seen  my  shadow  for  days  and  days  ;  but  it  does  oddly 
happen,  occasionally,  that  wherever  I  go,  for  many  days 
together,  this  gentleman  goes.    We  have  come  together 
in  the  most  unfrequent  nooks  on  this  shore." 
"  Is  this  he  ?  "  said  I,  pointing  before  us. 
The  wheels  had  swept  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
described  a  great  loop  on  the  sand  in  turning.  Bringing 
the  loop  back  towards  us,  and  spinning  it  out  as  it  came, 
was  a  hand-carriage  drawn  by  a  man. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Niner,  "this  really  is  my  shadow, 
uncle  !  " 

As  the  carriage  approached  us  and  we  approached  the 
carriage,  I  saw  within  it  an  old  man,  whose  head  was 
sunk  on  his  breast,  and  who  was  enveloped  in  a  variety 
of  wrappers.  He  was  drawn  by  a  very  quiet  but  very 
keen-looking  man,  with  iron-grey  hair,  who  was  slightly  • 
lame.  They  had  passed  us,  when  the  carriage  stopped, 
and  the  old  gentleman  within,  putting  out  his  arm, 
called  to  me  by  my  name,  I  went  back,  and  was  ab- 
sent from  Mr.  Slinkton  and  his  niece  for  about  five 
minutes. 

When  I  rejoined  them,  Mr.  Slinkton  was  the  first  to 
speak.  Indeed,  he  said  to  me  in  a  raised  voice  before  I 
came  up  with  him  :  "  It  is  well  you  have  not  been  longer, 
or  my  niece  might  have  died  of  curiosity  to  know  who 
her  shadow  is,  Mr.  Sampson." 

"  An  old  East  India  Director,"  said  I.    "An  intimate 
friend  of  our  friend's  at  whose  house  I  first  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you.    A  certain  Major  Banks.  You 
have  heard  of  him  ?  " 
"Never." 

"Very  rich,  Miss  Niner;  but  very  old,  and  very 
crippled.  An  amiable  man,  sensible, — much  interested 
in  you.  He  has  just  been  expatiating  on  the  affection 
that  he  has  observed  to  exist  between  you  and  your 
uncle." 

Mr.  Slinkton  was  holding  his  hat  again,  and  he  passed 
his  hand  up  the  straight  walk,  as  if  he  himself  went  up 
it  serenely,  after  me. 

"Mr.  Sampson,"  he  said,  tenderly  pressing  his  niece's 
arm  in  his,  "  our  affection  was  always  a  strong  one,  for 
I  we  have  had  but  few  near  ties.    We  have  still  fewer 
now.    We  have  associations  to  bring  us  together,  that 
are  not  of  this  world,  Margaret." 

"  Dear  uncle  !  "  murmured  the  young  lady,  and  turned 
her  face  aside  to  hide  her  tears. 

"  My  niece  and  I  have  such  remembrances  and  regrets 
in  common,  Mr.  Sampson,"  he  feelingly  pursued,  "  that 
it  would  be  strange  indeed  if  the  relations  between  us 
were  cold  or  indifferent.  If  I  remember  a  conversation 
we  once  had  together,  you  will  understand  the  reference 
I  make.  Cheer  up,  dear  Margaret,  Don't  droop,  don't 
droop.  My  Margaret  !  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  droop  ! " 


1132 


CHAR.LE8  DIOKEiiS'  WORKS. 


The  poor  young  lady  was  very  much  affected,  but  con- 
trolled herself.  His  feelings,  too,  were  very  acute.  In 
a  word,  he  found  himself  under  sucli  great  need  of  a 
restorative,  that  he  presently  went  away,  to  take  a  bath 
of  sea- water,  leaving  the  young  lady  and  me  sitting  by 
a  point  of  rock,  and  probably  presuming— but  that  you 
will  say  was  a  pardonable  indulgence  in  a  luxuiy — that 
she  would  praise  him  with  all  her  heart. 

She  did,  poor  thing  !  With  all  her  confiding  heart, 
she  praised  him  to  me,  for  his  care  of  her  dead  sister, 
and  for  his  untiring  devotion  in  her  last  illness.  The 
sister  had  wasted  away  very  slowly,  and  wild  and  terri- 
ble fantasies  had  come  over  her  toward  the  end,  but  he 
had  never  been  impatient  with  her,  or  at  a  loss  ;  had 
always  been  gentle,  watchful,  and  self-possessed.  The 
sister  had  known  him,  as  she  had  known  him,  to  be  the 
best  of  men,  the  kindest  of  men,  and  yet  a  ifian  of  such 
admirable  strength  of  character,  as  to  be  a  very  tower  for 
the  support  of  their  weak  natures  while  tlieir  poor  lives 
endured. 

"I  shall  leave  him,  Mr.  Sampson,  very  soon,"  said  the 
young  lady  ;  "  I  know  my  life  is  drawing  to  an  end  ;  and 
when  I  am  gone,  I  hope  he  will  marry  and  be  happy.  I 
am  sure  he  has  lived  single  so  long,  only  for  my  sake, 
and  for  my  poor  sister's." 

The  little  hand-carriage  had  made  another  great  loop 
on  the  damp  sand,  and  was  coming  back  again,  gradually 
spinning  out  a  slim  figure  of  eight,  half  a  mile  long. 

"Young  lady,"  said  I,  looking  around,  laying  my 
hand  upon  her  arm,  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  "  time 
presses.    You  hear  the  gentle  murmur  of  that  sea  ?  " 

She  looked  at  me  with  the  utmost  wonder  and  alarm, 
saving, 
Yes!" 

"  And  you  know  what  a  voice  is  in  it  when  the  storm 
comes  ?  " 
"Yes." 

"  You  see  how  quiet  and  peaceful  it  lies  before  us,  and 
you  know  what  an  awful  sight  of  power  without  pity  it 
might  be,  this  very  night  !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  if  you  had  never  heard  or  seen  it,  or  heard  of  it 
in  its  cruelty,  could  you  believe  that  it  beats  every  inani- 
mate thing  in  its  way  to  pieces,  without  mercy,  and  de- 
stroys life  without  remorse  ?" 

"  You  terrify  me,  sir,  by  these  questions  !  " 

"  To  save  you,  young  lady,  to  save  you  !  For  God's 
sake,  collect  your  strength  and  collect  your  firmness  ! 
If  you  were  here  alone,  and  hemmed  in  by  the  rising 
tide  on  the  flow  to  fifty  feet  above  your  head,  you  could 
not  be  in  greater  danger  than  the  danger  you  are  now  to 
be  saved  from." 

The  figure  on  the  sand  was  spun  out,  and  straggled 
off  into  a  crooked  little  jerk  that  ended  at  the  cliff  very 
near  us. 

"  As  I  am,  before  Heaven  and  the  Judge  of  all  man- 
kind, your  friend,  and  your  dead  sister's  friend,  I 
solemnly  entreat  you,  MissNiner,  without  one  moment's 
loss  of  time,  to  come  to  this  gentleman  with  me  !  " 

If  the  little  carriage  had  been  less  near  us,  I  doubt  if 
I  could  have  got  her  away  ;  but  it  was  so  near  that  we 
were  there  before  she  had  recovered  the  hurry  of  being 
urged  from  the  rock.  I  did  not  remain  there  with  her 
two  minutes.  Certainly  within  five,  I  had  the  inex- 
pressible satisfaction  of  seeing  her — from  the  point  we 
had  sat  on,  and  to  which  I  had  returned— half  supported 
and  half  carried  up  some  rude  steps  notched  in  the  cliff, 
by  the  figure  of  an  active  man.  With  that  figure  beside 
her,  I  knew  she  was  safe  anywhere. 

I  sat  alone  on  the  rock,  awaiting  Mr.  Slinkton's 
return.  The  twilight  was  deepening  and  the  shadows 
were  heavy,  when  he  came  round  the  point,  with  his 
hat  hanging  at  his  button-hole,  smoothing  his  wet  hair 
with  one  of  his  hands,  and  picking  out  the  old  path  with 
the  other  and  a  pocket-comb. 

"  My  niece  not  here,  Mr.  Sampson?"  he  said,  looking 
about. 

"  Miss  Niner  seemed  to  feel  a  chill  in  the  air  after  the 
sun  was  down,  and  has  gone  home." 

He  looked  surprised,  as  though  she  were  not  accustomed 
to  do  anything  without  him  ;  even  to  originate  so  slight  a 
proceeding.    "  I  persuaded  Miss  Niner,"  I  explained. 


"  Ah  !  "  said  he.  "  She  is  easily  persuaded —for  her 
good.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Sampson  ;  she  is  better  within 
doors.  The  bathing-place  was  farther  than  I  thought, 
to  say  the  truth." 

•'  Miss  Niner  is  very  delicate,"  I  observed. 

He  shook  his  head  and  drew  a  deep  sigh.  '"Very, 
very,  very.  You  may  recollect  my  saying  so.  The  time 
that  has  since  intervened  has  not  strengthened  her. 
The  gloomy  shadow  that  fell  upon  her  sister  so  early  in 
life  seems,  in  my  anxious  eyes,  to  gather  over  her,  ever 
darker,  ever  darker.  Dear  Margaret,  dear  Margaret  ! 
But  we  must  hope." 

The  hand- carriage  was  spinning  away  before  us  at  a 
most  indecorous  pace  for  an  invalid  vehicle,  and  was 
making  most  irregular  curves  upon  the  sand.  Mr. 
Slinkton,  noticing  it  after  he  had  put  his  handkerchief 
to  his  eyes,  said, 

"  If  I  may  judge  from  appearances,  your  friend  will 
be  upset,  Mr. Sampson." 

"  It  looks  probable,  certainly,"  said  I. 

"  The  servant  must  be  drunk." 

"  The  servants  of  old  gentlemen  will  get  drunk  some- 
times," said  I. 

"  The  major  draws  very  light,  Mr.«4Bampson." 

"  The  major  does  draw  light,"  said  I. 

By  this  time  the  carriage,  much  to  my  relief,  was  lost 
in  the  darkness.  We  walked  on  for  a  little,  side  by 
side  over  the  sand,  in  silence.  After  a  short  while  he 
said,  in  a  voice  still  affected  by  the  emotion  that  hi^- 
niece's  state  of  health  had  awakened  in  him, 

"  Do  you  stay  here  long,  Mr.  Sampson  ?  " 

"  Why,  no.    I  am  going  away  to-night." 

"  So  soon  ?  But  business  always  holds  j'ou  in  request. 
Men  like  Mr.  Sampson  are  too  important  to  others,  to 
be  spared  to  their  own  need  of  relaxation  and  enjoy- 
ment." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  I.    "  However,  I  am 
going  back." 
"  To  London  ?  " 
"To  London." 

"  I  shall  be  there  too,  soon  after  you." 

I  knew  that  as  well  as  he  did.  But  I  did  not  tell  him 
so.  Any  more  than  I  told  him  what  defensive  Aveapon 
my  right  hand  rested  on  in  my  pocket,  as  I  walked  by 
his  side.  Any  more  than  I  told  him  why  I  did  not  walk 
on  the  sea  side  of  him  with  the  night  closing  in. 

We  left  the  beach,  and  our  ways  diverged.  We  ex- 
changed good  night,  and  had  parted  indeed,  when  he 
said,  returning, 

"Mr.  Sampson,  may  I  ask?  Poor  Meltham,  whom 
w^e  spoke  of,— -dead  yet?" 

"Not  when  I  last  heard  of  him  ;  but  too  broken  a 
man  to  live  long,  and  hopelessly  lost  to  his  old  calling." 

"Dear,  dear,  dear!"  said  he,  with  great  feeling. 
"  Sad,  sad,  sad  !  The  world  is  a  grave  !  "  And  so  went 
his  way. 

It  was  not  his  fault  if  the  world  were  not  a  'grafve ; 
but  I  did  not  call  that  observation  after  him,  any  more 
than  I  had  mentioned  those  other  things  just  now  enu- 
merated. He  went  his  way,  and  I  went  mine  with  all 
expedition.  This  happened,  as  I  have  said,  either 
at  the  end  of  September  or  beginning  of  October. 
The  next  time  I  saw  him,  and  the  last  time,  was  late  in 
November. 


I  HAD  a  very  particular  engagement  to  breakfast  in 
the  Temple.  It  was  a  bitter  northeasterly  morning,  and 
the  sleet  and  slush  lay  inches  deep  in  the  streets.  I 
could  get  no  conveyance,  and  was  soon  wet  to  the  knees 
but  I  should  have  been  true  to  that  appointment  thong 
I  had  had  to  wade  to  it  up  to  my  neck  in  the  same  i 
pediments. 

The  appointment  took  me  to  some  chambers  in  the 
Temple.  They  were  at  the  top  of  a  lonely  corner  house 
overlooking  the  river.  The  name,  Mk.  Alfred  Beck- 
wiTii,  was  painted  on  the  outer  door.  On  the  opposite 
side,  on  the  same  landing,  Mk.  Julius  Slinkton.  The 
doors  of  both  sets  of  chambers  stood  (/pen,  so  that  any- 
thing said  aloud  in  one  could  be  heard  in  the  other. 

I  had  never  been  in  those  chainliers  before.  They 


i 


MI  so  ELLA  NEO  US, 


1133 


were  dismal, #01086,  unwholesome,  and  oppressive  ;  the 
furniture,  originally  good,  and  not  yet  old,  was  faded 
and  dirty, — the  rooms  were  in  great  disorder  ;  there  was 
a  strong  pervading  smell  of  opium,  brandy,  and  tobacco  ; 
the  grate  and  fire-irons  were  splashed  all  over  with  un- 
sightly Wotches  of  rust ;  and  on  a  sofa  by  the  fire,  in  the 
room  where  breakfast  had  been  prepared,  lay  the  host, 
Mr.  Beckwith,  a  man  with  all  the  appearances  of  the 
worst  kind  of  drunkard,  very  far  advanced  upon  his 
shameful  way  to  death. 

"Slinkton  is  not  come  yet,"  said  this  creature,  stag- 
gering up  when  I  went  in  ;  "  I'll  call  him.  Halloa  ! 
Julius  Caesar  !  Come  and  drink  !  "  As  he  hoarsely  roared 
this  out,  he  beat  tiie  poker  and  tongs  together  in  a  mad 
way,  as  if  that  were  his  usual  manner  of  summoning 
his  associate. 

The  voice  of  Mr.  Slinkton  was  heard  through  the 
clatter  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  staircase,  and  he 
came  in.  He  had  not  expected  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
me.  I  have  seen  several  artful  men  brought  to  a  stand, 
but  I  never  saw  a  man  so  aghast  as  when  his  eyes  rested 
on  mine. 

"  Julius  Caesar,"  cried  Beckwith,  staggering  between 
us,  "Mist'  Sampson!  Milt'  Sampson,  Julius  Caesar! 
Julius,  Mist'  Sampson,  is  the  friend  of  my  soul.  Julius 
keeps  me  plied  with  liquor,  morning,  noon,  and  night. 
Julius  is  a  real  benefactor.  Julius  threw  the  tea  and 
eoffee  out  of  the  window  when  I  used  to  have  any. 
Julius  empties  all  the  water-jugs  of  their  contents,  and 
fills  'em  with  spirits.  Julius  winds  me  up  and  keeps  me 
going. — Boil  the  brandy,  Julius  !  " 

There  was  a  rusty  and  furred  saucepan  in  the  ashes, — 
the  ashes  looked  like  the  accumulation  of  weeks, — and 
Beckwith,  rolling  and  staggering  between  us  as  if  he 
were  going  to  ]>lunge  headlong  into  the  fire,  got  the 
saucepan  out,  and  tried  to  force  it  into  Slinktou's  hand. 

"Boil  the  brandy,  Julius  Caesar!  Come!  Do  your 
usual  office. — Boil  the  brandy  !  " 

He  became  so  fierce  in  his  gesticulations  with  the 
saucepan,  that  I  expected  to  see  him  lay  ooen  Slinkton's 
head  with  it.  1  therefore  put  out  my  hand  to  check 
him.  He  reeled  back  to  the  sofa,  and  sat  there  panting, 
shaking  and  red-eyed,  in  his  rags  of  dressing-gown, 
looking  at  us  both.  I  noticed  then  that  there  was  no- 
thing to  drink  on  the  table  but  brandy,  and  nothing  to 
eat  but  salted  herrings,  and  a  hot,  sickly,  highly  pep- 
]>ered  stew. 

"At  all  events,  Mr.  Sampson,"  said  Slinkton,  offering 
me  the  smooth  gravel  path  for  the  last  time,  "I  thank 
you  for  interfering  between  me  and  this  unfortunate 
man's  violence.  However  you  came  here,  Mr.  Sampson, 
or  with  whatever  motive  you  came  here,  at  least  1  thank 
you  for  that." 

"Boil  the  brandy,"  muttered  Beckwith. 

Without  gratifying  his  desire  to  know  how  I  came  there, 
I  said,  quietly,  "  How  is  your  niece,  Mr.  Slinkton?" 

He  looked  hard  at  me,  and  I  looked  hard  at  him. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  Sampson,  that  my  niece  has 
proved  treacherous  and  ungrateful  to  her  best  friend. 
She  left  me  without  a  word  of  notice  or  explanation. 
She  was  misled,  no  doubt,  by  some  designing  rascal. 
Perhaps  you  may  have  heard  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  hear  that  she  '.vas  mislod  by  a  designing  ras- 
cal.   In  fact,  I  have  proof  of  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that?"  said  he. 

"Quite." 

"Boil  the  brandy,"  muttered  Beckwith.  "Company 
U)  breakfast,  Julius  Caesar  !  Do  youu  usual  oftice — pro- 
vide the  usual  breakfast,  dinner,  tea,  and  supper. — Boil 
the  brandy  ! " 

The  eyes  of  Slinkton  looked  from  him  to  me,  and  he 
said,  after  a  moment's  con.sideration, 

"Mr.  Sampson,  you  are  a  man  of  the  world,  and  so 
am  I.    I  will  be  plain  with  yon." 

"0  no,  you  won't,"  said  I,  shaking  my  head. 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  I  will  be  plain  witb  you." 

"  And  I  tell  you,  you  will  not,"  said  I.  "  I  know  all 
about  you.  Yov,  plain  with  any  one  ?  Nonsense,  non- 
sense ! " 

"I  tell  you,  Mr.  Sampson,"  he  went  on,  with  a  man- 
ner almost  composed,  "that  I  understand  your  object. 
You  want  to  save  your  funds,  and  escape  from  your 


liabijities  ;  these  are  old  tricks  of  trade  with  you  Office- 
gentlemen.    But  you  will  not  do  it,  sir  ;  you  will  not 
succeed.     You  have  not  an   easy  adversary  to  play 
against,  when  you  play  against  irie.     We  shall  have  to 
inquire,  in  due  time,  when  and  how  Mr.  Beckwith  fell 
into  his  present  habits.    With  that  remark,  sir,  I  put 
j  this  poor  creature  and  his  incoherent  wanderings  of 
I  speech,  aside,  and  wish  you  a  good  morning  and  a  better 
i  case  ixpxt  time." 

!  While  he  was  saying  this,  Beckwith  had  filled  a  half- 
pint  glass  with  brandy.  At  this  moment,  he  threw  thf 
brandy  at  his  face,  and  threw  the  glass  after  it.  Slinkton 
put  his  hands  up,  half  blinded  with  the  spirit,  and  cut 
with  the  glass  across  the  forehead.  At  the  sound  of  the 
breakage,  a  fourth  person  came  into  the  room,  closed  the 
door,  and  stood  at  it  ;  he  was  a  very  quiet  but  very  keen- 
looking  man,  with  iron-gray  hair,  and  slightly  lame. 

Slinkton  Y)ulled  out  his  handkerchief,  assuaged  the 
pain  in  his  smarting  eyes,  and  dabbled  the  blood  on  his 
forehead.  He  was  a  long  time  about  it,  and  1  saw  that, 
in  the  doing  of  it,  a  tremendous  change  came  over  him, 
occasioned  by  the  change  in  Beckwith, — who  ceased  to 
pant  and  tremble,  sat  upright,  and  never  took  his  eyes 
off  him.  I  never  in  my  life  saw  a  face  in  which  abhor- 
rence and  determination  were  so  forcibly  painted,  as  in 
Beckwith's  theA. 

"  Look  at  me,  you  villain,"  said  Beckwith,  "  and  see 
me  as  I  really  am.  I  took  these  rooms,  to  make  them  a 
trap  for  you.  I  came  into  them  as  a  drunkard,  to  bait 
the  trap  for  you.  You  fell  into  the  trap,  and  you  will 
never  leave  it  alive.  On  the  morning  when  you  last 
went  to  Mr.  Sampson's  office,  I  had  seen  him  first.  Your 
plot  has  been  known  to  both  of  us,  all  along,  and  you 
have  been  counterplotted  all  along.  What  ?  Having 
been  cajoled  into  putting  that  prize  of  two  thousand 
pounds  in  your  power,  1  was»  to  be  done  to  death  with 
brandy,  and,  brandy  not  proving  quick  enough,  with 
something  quicker?  Have  I  never  seen  you,  when  you 
thought  my  senses  gone,  pouring  from  your  little  bottle 
into  my  glass  ?  Why,  you  Murderer  and  Forger,  alone 
here  with  you  in  the  dead  of  night,  as  I  have  so  often 
been,  I  have  had  my  hand  upon  the  trigger  of  a  pistol, 
twenty  times,  to  blow  your  brains  out  !  " 

This  sudden  starting  up  of  the  thing  that  he  had  sup- 
posed to  be  his  imbecile  victim  into  a  determined  man, 
with  a  settled  resolution  to  hunt  him  down  and  be  the 
death  of  him,  mercilessly  expressed  from  head  to  foot, 
was  in  the  first  shock  too  much  for  him.  Without  any 
figure  of  speech,  he  staggered  under  it.  But  there  is  no 
greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  that  a  man  who  is  a 
calculating  criminal  is,  in  any  phase  of  his  guilt,  other- 
wise than  true  to  himself  and  perfectly  consistent  with 
his  whole  character.  Such  a  man  commits  murder,  and 
murder  is  the  natural  culmination  of  his  course  ;  such  a 
man  has  to  outface  murder,  and  will  do  it  with  hardihood 
and  effrontery.  It  is  a  sort  of  fashion  to  express  surprise 
that  any  notorious  criminal,  having  such  crime  upon  his 
conscience,  can  so  brave  it  out.  Do  you  think  that  if  he 
had  it  on  his  conscience  at  all,  or  had  a  conscience  to 
have  it  upon,  he  would  ever  have  committed  the  crime  ? 

Perfectly  consistent  with  himself,  as  I  believe  all  such 
monsters  to  be,  this  Slinkton  recovered  himself,  and 
showed  a  defiance  that  was  sufficiently  cold  and  quiet. 
He  was  white,  he  Avas  haggard,  he  was  changed  ;  but 
only  as  a  sharper  who  had  played  for  a  great  stake  and 
had  been  outwitted  and  had  lost  the  game. 

"  Listen  to  me,  you  villain,"  said  Beckwith,  "and  let 
every  word  you  hear  me  say  be  a  stab  in  your  wicked 
heart.  When  I  took  these  rooms,  to  throw  myself  in 
your  way  and  lead  you  on  to  the  scheme  that  I  knew 
my  appearance  and  supposed  character  and  habits  would 
suggest  to  such  a  devil,  how  did  I  know  that  ?  Because 
you  were  no  stranger  to  me.  I  knew  you  well.  And  I 
knew  you  to  be  the  cruel  wretch  who,  for  so  much 
money,  had  killed  one  innocent  girl  while  she  trusted 
him  implicitly,  and  who  was  by  inches  killing  another." 

Slinkton  took  out  a  snuff-box,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  laughed. 

"  But  see  here,"  said  Beckwith,  never  looking  away, 
never  raising  his  voice,  never  relaxing  his  face,  never 
unclenching  his  hand.  "  See  what  a  dull  wolf  you  have 
been,  after  all  !    The  infatuated  drunkard  who  never 


1134 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


drack  a  fiftieth  part  of  the  liquor  you  plied  him  with, 
but  poured  it  away,  here,  there,  everywhere, — almost 
before  your  eyes  ;  who  bought  over  the  fellow  you  set 
to  watch  him'  and  to  ply  him,  by  outbidding  you  in  his 
bribe,  before  he  had  been  at  his  work  three  days,— with 
whom  you  have  observed  no  caution,  yet  who  was  so 
bent  on  ridding  the  earth  of  you  as  a  wild  beast,  that  he 
would  have  defeated  you  if  'yon  had  been  ever  so  pru- 
dent,—that  drunkard  whom  you  have,  many  a  time,  left 
on  the  floor  of  this  room,  and  who  has  even  let  you  go 
out  of  it,  alive  and  undeceived,  when  you  have  turned 
him  over  with  your  foot, — has,  almost  as  often,  on  the 
same  night,  within  an  hour,  within  a  few  minutes, 
watched  you  awake,  had  his  hand  at  your  pillow  when 
you  were  asleep,  turned  over  your  papers,  taken  samples 
from  your  bottles  and  packets  of  powder,  changed  their 
contents,  rifled  every  secret  of  your  life  !  " 

He  had  had  another  pinch  of  snaff  in  his  hand,  but  had 
gradually  let  it  drop  from  between  his  fingers  to  the 
floor  ;  v^here  he  now  smoothed  out  with  his  foot,  looking 
down  at  it  the  while. 

"  That  drunkard,"  said  Beck  with,  "  who  had  free  ac- 
cess to  your  rooms  at  all  times,  that  he  might  drink  the 
strong  drinks  that  you  left  in  his  way  and  be  the  sooner 
ended,  holding  no  more  terms  with  you  than  he  would 
hold  with  a  tiger,  has  had  his  master-key  for  all  your 
locks,  his  test  for  all  your  poisons,  his  clew  to  your  ci- 
pher-writing. He  can  tell  you,  as  well  as  you  can  tell 
him,  how  long  it  took  to  complete  that  deed,  what  doses 
there  were,  what  intervals,  what  signs  of  gradual  decay 
upon  mind  and  body  ;  what  distempered  fancies  were 
produced,  what  observable  changes,  what  physical  pain. 
He  can  tell  you  as  well  as  I  can  tell  him,  that  all  this  was 
recorded  day  by  day,  as  a  lessoa  of  experience  for  future 
service.  He  can  tell  you,  better  than  you  can  tell  him, 
where  that  journal  is  at  this  moment." 

Slinkton  stopped  the  action  of  his  foot,  and  looked  at 
Beckwith. 

"  No,"  said  the  latter,  as  if  answering  a  question  from 
him.  "  Not  in  the  drawer  of  the  writing-desk  that  opens 
with  the  spring  ;  it  is  not  there,  and  it  never  will  be  there 
again." 

"  Then  you  are  a  thief  !  "  said  Slinkton. 

Without  any  change  whatever  in  the  inflexible  pur- 
pose, which  it  was  terrific  even  to  me  to  contemplate,  and 
from  the  power  of  which  I  had  always  felt  convinced  it  was 
impossible  for  this  wretch  to  escape,  Beckwith  returned, 

"  Alid  I  am  your  niece's  shadow,  too." 

With  an  imprecation,  Slinkton  put  his  hand  to  his 
head,  tore  out  some  hair,  and  flung  it  to  the  ground.  It 
was  the  end  of  the  smooth  walk  ;  he  destroyed  it  in  the 
action,  and  it  will  soon  be  seen  that  his  use  for  it  was  past. 

Beckwith  went  on  :  "  Whenever  you  left  here,  I  left 
here.  Although  I  understood  that  you  found  it  neces- 
sary to  pause  in  the  completion  of  that  purpose,  to  avert 
suspicion,  still  I  watched  you  close,  with  the  poor,  con- 
fiding girl.  When  I  had  the  diary,  and  could  read  it 
word  by  word, — it  was  only  about  the  night  before  your 
last  visit  to  Scarborough, — you  remember  the  night?  you 
slept  with  a  small  flat  vial  tied  to  your  wrist, — I  sent  to  Mr. 
Sampson,  who  was  kept  out  of  view.  This  is  Mr.  Samp- 
son's trusty  servant  standing  by  the  door.  We  three 
saved  your  niece  among  us." 

.  Slinkton  looked  at  us  all,  took  an  uncertain  step  or  two 
from  the  place  where  he  had  stood,  returned  to  it,  and 
glanced  about  him  in  a  very  curious  way, — as  one  of  the 
meaner  reptiles  might,  looking  for  a  hole  to  hide  in.  I 
noticed  at  the  same  time,  that  a  singular  change  took 
place  in  the  figure  of  the  man, — as  if  it  collapsed  within 
his  clothes,  and  they  consequently  became  ill-shapen  and 
ill-fitting. 

"  Yon.  shall  know,"  said  Beckwith,  *'  for  I  hope  the 
knowledge  will  be  bitter  and  terrible  to  you,  why  you 
have  been  pursued  by  one  man,  and  why,  when  the  whole 
intere.st  that  Mr.  Sampson  represents  would  have  expend- 
ed any  money  in  hunting  you  down,  you  have  been  tracked 
to  death  at  a  single  individual's  charge.  I  hear  you  have 
had  the  name  of  Meltham  on  your  lips  sometimes?" 

I  saw,  in  addition  to  those  other  changes,  a  sudden  stop- 
])age  come  upon  liis  breathing. 

"  When  you  sent  the  sw(;et  girl  whom  you  murdered 
(you  know  with  what  artfully  made-out  surroundings 


and  probabilities  you  sent  her)  to  Melthamfe  office,  before 
taking  her  abroad  to  originate  the  transaction  that  doomed 
her  to  the  grave,  it  fell  to  Meltham's  lot  to  see  her  and 
to  speak  with  her.  It  did  not  fall  to  his  lot  to  save  her, 
though  I  know  he  would  freely  give  his  own  life  to  have 
done  it.  He  admired  her  ; — I  would  say,  he  loved  her 
deeply ,  if  I  thought  it  possible  that  you  could  understand 
the  word.  When  she  was  sacrificed,  he  was  thoroughly 
assured  of  your  guilt.  Having  lost  her,  he  had  but  one 
object  left  in  life,  and  that  was  to  avenge  her  and  destroy 
you." 

I  saw  the  villain's  nostrils  rise  and  fall,  convulsively  ; 
but  I  saw  no  moving  at  his  mouth. 

"That  man,  Meltham,"  Beckwith  steadily  pursued, 
"was  as  absolutely  certain  that  you  could  never  elude 
him  in  this  world,  if  he  devoted  himself  to  your  destruc- 
tion with  his  utmost  fidelity  and  earnestness,  and  if  he 
divided  the  sacred  duty  with  no  other  duty  in  life,  as  he 
was  certain  that  in  achiev'ing  it  he  would  be  a  poor  in- 
strument in  the  hands  of  Providence,  and  would  do  well 
before  Heaven  in  striking  you  out  from  among  living 
men,  I  am  that  man,  and  I  thank  God  that  I  have  done 
my  work  ! " 

If  Slinkton  had  been  running  for  his  life  from  swift- 
footed  savages,  a  dozen  miles,  lie  could  not  have  shown 
more  emphatic  signs  of  being  oppressed  at  heart  and 
labouring  for  breath,  than  he  showed  now,  when  he 
looked  at  the  pursuer  who  had  so  relentlessly  hunted 
him  down. 

"  You  never  saw  me  under  my  right  name  before  ;  you 
see  me  under  my  right  name  now.  You  shall  see  me 
once  again  in  the  body,  when  you  are  tried  for  your  life. 
You  shall  see  me  once  again  in  the  spirit,  when  the  cord 
is  round  your  neck,  and  the  crowd  are  crying  against 
you  ! " 

When  Meltham  had  spoken  these  last  words,  the  mis- 
creant suddenly  turned  away  his  face,  and  seemed  to 
strike  his  mouth  with  his  open  hand.  At  the  same  in- 
stant, the  room  was  filled  with  a  new  and  powerful 
odour,  and,  almost  at  the  same  instant,  he  broke  into  a 
crooked  run,  leap,  start, — I  have  no  name  for  the  spasm, 
— and  fell,  with  a  dull  weight  that  shook  the  heavy  old 
doors  and  windows  in  their  frames. 

That  was  the  fitting  end  of  him. 

When  we  saw  that  he  was  dead,  we  drew  away  from 
tlie  room,  and  Meltham,  giving  me  his  hand,  said  with  a 
weary  air, — 

"I  have  no  more  work  on  earth,  my  friend.  But  I 
shall  see  her  again  elsewhere." 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  rally  him.  He  might 
have  saved  her,  he  said  ;  he  had  not  saved  her,  and  he 
reproached  himself  ;  he  had  lost  her,  and  he  was  broken- 
hearted. 

"  The  purpose  that  sustained  me  is  over,  Sampson,  and 
there  is  nothing  now  to  hold  me  to  life.  I  am  not  fit  for 
life  ;  I  am  weak  and  spiritless  ;  I  have  no  hope  and  no 
object ;  my  day  is  done."  / 

In  truth',  I  could  hardly  have  believed  that  the  broken 
man  who  then  spoke  to  me  was  the  man  who  had  so 
strongly  and  so  differently  impressed  me  when  his  pur- 
pose was  before  him.  I  used  such  entreaties  with  him 
as  I  could  ;  but  he  still  said,  and  always  said,  in  a 
patient,  undemonstrative  way, —  nothing  could  avail 
him, — he  was  broken-hearted. 

He  died  early  in  the  next  spring.  He  was  buried  by 
the  side  of  the  poor  young  lady  for  whom  he  had 
cherished  those  tender  and  unhappy  regrets  ;  and  he  left 
all  that  he  had  to.  her  sister.  She  lived  to  be  a  happy 
wife  and  mother  ;  she  married  my  sister's  son,  who  suc- 
ceeded poor  Meltham  ;  she  is  living  now,  and  her  chil- 
dren ride  about  the  garden  on  my  walking-stick  when  I 
go  to  see  her. 


FULL  REPORT 

OF  THE  FIRST  MEETING  OF  THE  MUDFOG 
ASSOCIATION  FOR  THE  ADVANCEMENT 
OF  EVERYTHING. 

We  have  made  the  most  unparalleled  and  extraor- 
dinary exertions  to  place  before  our  readers  a  complete 


MISCELLANEOUS, 


1135 


and  accurate  account  of  the  proceedings  at  the  late  grand 
meeting  of  the  Mudfog  Association,  liolden  in  the  town 
of  Mudfog  ;  it  affords  us  great  happiness  to  lay  the 
result  before  them,  in  the  shape  of  various  communica- 
tions received  from  our  able,  talented,  and  graphic  cor- 
respondent, expressly  sent  down  for  the  purpose,  who  has 
immortalized  us,  himself,  Mudfog,  and  the  association, 
all  at  one  and  the  same  time.  We  have  been,  indeed, 
for  some  days  unable  to  determine  who  will  transmit  the 
greatest  name  to  posterity,  —ourselves,  who  sent  our  cor- 
respondent down  ;  our  correspondent,  who  wrote  an 
account  of  the  matter  ;  or  the  association,  who  gave  our 
correspondent  something  to  write  about.  We  rather 
incline  to  the  opinion  that  we  are  the  greatest  man  of  the 
party,  inasmuch  as  the  notion  of  an  exclusive  and 
authentic  report  originated  with  us  ;  this  may  be  preju- 
dice ;  it  may  arise  from  a  prepossession  on  our  part  in 
our  own  favor.  Be  it  so.  We  have  no  doubt  that  every 
gentleman  concerned  in  this  mighty  assemblage  is 
troubled  with  the  same  complaint  in  a  greater  or  less 
degree  ;  and  it  is  a  consolation  to  us  to  know  that  we 
have  at  least  this  feeling  in  common  with  the  greatest 
scientific  stars,  the  brilliant  and  extraordinary  lumin- 
aries, whose  speculations  we  rt?cord. 

We  give  our  correspondent's  letters  in  the  order  in 
which  they  reached  us.  Any  attempt  at  amalgamating 
them  into  one  beautiful  whole  would  only  destroy  that 
glowing  tone,  that  dash  of  wildness,  and  rich  vein  of 
picturesque  interest,  which  pervade  them  throughout. 

"Mudfog,  Monday  night,  sewn  o'clock. — We  are  in  a 
state  of  great  excitement  here.  Nothing  is  spoken  of  but 
the  approaching  meeting  of  the  association.  The  inn-doors 
are  thronged  with  waiters  anxiously  looking  for  the  ex- 
pected arrivals  ;  and  the  numerous  bills  which  are 
wafered  up  in  the  windows  of  private  houses,  intimating 
that  there  are  beds  to  let  within,  give  the  streets  a  very 
animated  and  cheerful  appearance,  the  wafers  being  of 
a  great  variety  of  colors,  and  the  monotony  of  printed  in- 
scriptions being  relieved  by  every  possible  size  and  style 
of  handwriting.  It  is  confidently  rumoured  that  Pro- 
fessors Snore,  Doze,  and  Wheezy  have  engaged  three 
beds  and  a  sitting-room  at  the  Pig  and  Tinder-Box.  '  I 
give  you  the  rumour  as  it  has  reached  me  ;  but  I  cannot, 
as  yet,  vouch  for  its  accuracy.  The  moment  1  have  been 
enabled  to  obtain  any  certain  information  upon  this  in- 
teresting point,  you  may  depend  upon  receiving  it." 

Half  past  seven. — I  have  just  returned  from  a  per- 
sonal interview  with  the  landlord  of  the  Pig  and  Tinder- 
Box.  He  speaks  confidently  of  the  probability  of  Pro- 
fessors Snore,  Doze,  and  Wheezy  taking  up  their  resi- 
dence at  his  house  during  the  sitting  of  the  association, 
but  denies  that  the  beds  have  been  yet  engaged  ;  in 
which  representation  he  is  confirmed  by  the  chamber- 
maid,— a  girl  of  artless  manners  and  interesting  appear- 
ance. The  boots  denies  that  it  is  at  all  likely  that  Pro- 
fessors Snore,  Doze,  and  Wheezy  will  put  up  here  ;  but 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  this  man  has  been  suborned 
by  the  proprietor  of  the  Original  Pig,  which  is  the  oppo- 
sition hotel.  Amidst  such  conflicting  testimony  it  is 
difficult  to  arrive  at  the  real  truth  ;  but  you  may  depend 
upon  receiving  authentic  information  upon  this  point 
the  moment  the  fact  is  ascei  Lalued.  The  excitement 
still  continues.  A  boy  fell  through  the  window  of  the 
pastrycook's  shop  at  the  corner  of  the  High  Street  about 
an  hour  ago,  which  has  occasioned  much  confusion. 
The  general  impression  is,  that  it  was  an  accident. 
Pray  Heaven  it  may  prove  so  !  " 

"  Tuesday  noon. — At  an  early  hour  this  morning  the 
bells  of  all  the  churches  struck  seven  o'clock;  the  ef- 
fect of  which,  in  the  present  lively  state  of  the  town, 
was  extremely  singular.  While  I  was  at  breakfast,  a 
yellow  gig,  drawn  by  a  dark  gray  horse,  with  a  patch  of 
white  over  his  right  eyelid,  proceeded  at  a  rapid  pace  in 
the  direction  of  the  Original  Pig  stables  ;  it  is  currently 
reported  that  this  gentleman  has  arrived  here  for  the 
j)urpose  of  attending  the  association,  and,  from  what  I 
have  heard,  I  consider  it  extremely  probable,  although 
nothing  decisive  is  yet  known  regarding  him.  You  may 
conceive  the  anxiety  with  which  we  are  all  looking  for- 
ward to  the  arrival  of  the  four  o'clock  coach  this  after- 
noon. 


"  Notwithstanding  the  excited  state  of  the  populace, 
no  outrage  has  yet  been  committed,  owing  to  the  admir- 
able discipline  and  discretion  of  the  police,  who  are  no- 
where to  be  seen.  A  barrel-organ  is  playing  opposite 
my  window,  and  groups  of  j)eoj)le,  offering  fish  and 
vegetables  for  sale,  parade  the  streets.  With  these  ex- 
ceptions everything  is  quiet,  and  I  trust  will  continue  so." 

''Five  o'clock. — ^It  is  now  ascertained  beyond  all  doubt 
that  Professors  Snore,  Doze,  and  Wheezy,  will  not  re- 
pair to  the  Pig  and  Tinder-Box,  but  have  actually  en- 
j  gaged  apartments  at  the  Original  Pig.  This  intelligence 
\  1^  exclusive  ;  and  1  leave  you  and  your  readers  to  draw 
I  their  own  inferences  from  it.    Why  Professor  Wheezy, 
;  of  all  people  in  the  world,  should  repair  to  the  Original 
Pig  in  preference  to  the  Pig  and  Tinder-Box,  it  is  not 
easy  to  conceive.    The  professor  is  a  man  who  should  be 
{  above  all  such  petty  feelings.    Some  people  here  openly 
I  impute  treachery  and  a  distinct  breach  of  faith  to  Pro- 
'  fessors  Snore  and  Doze  ;  while  others,  again,  are  dis- 
posed to  acquit  them  of  any  culpability  in  the  transac- 
tion, and  to  insinuate  that  the  blame  rests  solely  with 
Professor  Wheezy.    I  own  that  I  incline  to  the  latter 
opinion  ;  and,  although  it  gives  me  great  pain  to  sjjcak 
in  terms  of  censure  or  disapprobation  of  a  man  of  such 
transcendent  genius  and  acquirements,  still  I  am  bound 
to  say,  that  if  my  suspicions  be  well  founded,  and  if  all 
the  reports  which  have  reached  my  ears  be  true,  I  really 
do  not  well  know  what  to  make  of  the  matter. 

"  Mr.  Slug,  so  celebrated  for  his  statistical  researches, 
arrived  this  afternoon  by  the  four  o'clock  stage.  His 
complexion  is  a  dark  purple,  and  he  has  a  habit  of  sigh- 
ing constantly.  He  looked  extremely  well,  and  appeared 
in  high  health  and  spirits.  Mr,  Woodensconce  also  came 
down  in  the  same  conveyance.  The  distinguished  gen- 
tleman was  fast  asleep  on  his  arrival,  and  I  am  informed 
by  the  guard  that  he  had  been  so  the  whole  way.  He 
was,  no  doubt,  preparing  for  his  approaching  fatigues  ; 
but  what  gigantic  visions  must  those  be,  that  flit  through 
the  brain  of  such  a  man,  when  his  body  is  in  a  state  of 
torpidity  ! 

"  The  influx  of  visitors  increases  every  moment.  I 
am  told  (I  know  not  how  truly)  that  two  post-chaises 
have  arrived  at  the  Original  Pig  within  the  last  half- 
hour  ;  and  I  myself  observed  a  wheelbarrow,  containing 
three  carpet-bags  and  a  bundle,  entering  the  yard  of  the 
Pig  and  Tinder-Box  no  longer  ago  than  five  minutes 
since.  The  people  are  still  quietly  pursuing  their  ordi- 
nary occupations  ;  but  there  is  a  wildness  in  their  eyes, 
and  an  unwonted  rigidity  in  the  muscles  of  their  coun- 
tenances, which  shows  to  the  observant  spectator  that 
their  expectations  are  strained  to  the  very  utmost  pitch. 
I  fear,  unless  some  very  extraordinary  arrivals  take 
place  to-night,  that  consequences  may  arise  from  this 
popular  ferment,  which  every  man  of  sense  and  feel- 
ing would  deplore." 

"  Ticcnty  minutes  jjast  six. — I  have  just  heard  that  the 
boy  who  fell  through  the  pastry-cook's  window  last  night 
has  died  of  the  fright.  He  was  suddenly  called  upon  to 
pay  three  and  sixpence  for  the  damage  done,  and  his 
constitution,  it  seems,  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  up 

i  against  the  shock.    The  inquest,  it  is  said,  will  be  held 

!  to-morrow." 

j     ' '  Three  quarters  j^cist  seven. — Professors  Muff  and  Nogo 
have  just  driven  up  to  the  hotel  door  :  they  at  once 
ordered  dinner  with  great  condescension.    We  are  all 
very  much  delighted  with  the  urbanity  of  their  manners, 
and  the  ease  with  which  they  adapt  themselves  to  the 
forms  and  ceremonies  of  oi'dinary  life.    Immediately  on 
their  arrival  they  sent  for  the  head-waiter,  and  privately 
requested  him  to  purchase  a  live  dog, — as  cheap  a  one  as 
j  he  could  meet  with, — and  to  send  him  up  after  dinner, 
j  with  a  pie-board,  a  knife  and  fork,  and  a  clean  plate.  It 
I  is  conjectured  that  some  experiments  will  be  tried  upon 
I  the  dog  to  night  ;  if  any  particulars  should  transpire  I 
will  forward  them  by  express." 

Half  past  eight  — The  animal  has  been  procured.  He 
is  a  pug-dog,  of  rather  intelligent  appearance,  in  good 
condition,  and  with  very  short  legs.  He  has  been  tied  to 
a  curtain-peg  in  a  dark  room,  and  is  howling  dreadfully." 

"  Ten  minutes  to  nine. — The  dog  has  just  been  rung 
for.  With  an  instinct  which  would  appear  almost  the 
result  of  reason,  the  sagacious  animal  seized  the  waiter 


1136 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


by  the  calf  of  the  leg  when  he  approached  to  take  him 
and  made  a  desperate  though  ineffectual  resistance.  I 
have  not  been  able  to  procure  admission  to  the  apartment 
occupied  by  the  scientific  gentlemen  ;  but,  judging  from 
the  sounds*  which  reached  my  ears  when  I  stood  upon 
the  landing-place  just  now  outside  the  door,  I  should  be 
disposed  to  say  that  the  dog  had  retreated  growling  be- 
neath some  article  of  furniture,  and  was  keeping  the 
professors  at  bay.  This  conjecture  is  confirmed  by  the 
Testimony  of  the  ostler,  who,  after  peeping  through  the 
key-hole)  assures  me  that  he  distinctly  saw  Professor 
Nogo  on  his  knees,  holding  forth  a  small  bottle  of  prussic 
acid,  to  which  the  animal,  who  was  crouched  beneath  an 
arm-chair,  obstinately  declined  to  smell.  You  cannot 
imagine  the  feverish  state  of  irritation  we  are  in,  lest 
the  interests  of  science  should  be  sacrificed  to  the  pre- 
judices of  a  brute  creature,  who  is  not  endowed  with 
sufficient  sense  to  foresee  the  incalculable  benefits  which 
the  whole  human  race  may  derive  from  so  very  slight  a 
concession  on  his  part. " 

''Nine  o'clock. — The  dog's  tail  and  ears  have  been  sent 
down  stairs  to  be  washed  ;  from  which  circumstance  we 
infer  that  the  animal  is  no  more.  His  forelegs  have  been 
delivered  to  the  boots  to  be  brushed,  which  strengthens 
the  supposition." 

"  Half  after  ten. — My  feelings  are  so  overpowered  by 
what  has  taken  place  in  the  course  of  the  last  hour  and 
a  half,  that  I  have  scarcely  strength  to  detail  the  rapid 
succession  of  events  which  have  quite  bewildered  all 
those  who  are  cognizant  of  their  occurrence.  It  appears 
that  the  pug-dog  mentioned  in  my  last  was  surreptitious- 
ly obtained, — stolen,  in  fact, — by  some  person  attached 
to  the  stable  department,  from  an  unmarried  lady  resi- 
dent in  this  town.  Frantic  on  discovering  the  loss  of 
her  favourite,  the  lady  rushed  distractedly  into  the  street, 
calling  in  the  most  heart-rending  and  pathetic  manner 
upon  the  passengers  to  restore  her  her  Augustus, — for 
so  the  deceased  was  named,  in  affectionate  remembrance 
of  a  former  lover  of  his  mistress,  to  whom  he  bore  a 
striking  personal  resemblance,  which  renders  the  circum- 
-siances  additionally  affecting.  I  am  not  yet  in  a  condition 
to  inform  you  what  circumstances  induced  the  bereaved 
lady  to  direct  her  steps  to  the  hotel  which  has  witnessed 
the  last  struggles  of  her  protege.  I  can  only  state  that 
she  arrived  there,  at  the  very  instant  when  his  detached 
memt^ers  were  passing  through  the  passage  on  a  small 
tray.  Her  shrieks  still  reverberate  in  my  ears  !  I  grieve 
to  say  that  the  expressive  features  of  Professor  Muff 
Avere  much  scratched  and  lacerated  by  the  injured  lady  ; 
and  that  Professor  Nogo,  besides  sustaining  several 
severe  bites,  has  lost  some  liandfuls  of  hair  from  the 
same  cause.  It  must  be  some  consolation  to  these  gentle- 
men to  know  that  their  ardent  attachment  to  scientific 
pursuits  has  alone  occasioned  these  unpleasant  conse- 
quences ;  for  which  the  sympathy  of  a  grateful  country 
will  sufficiently  reward  them.  The  unfortunate  lady  re- 
mains at  the  Pig  and  Tinder-Box,  and  up  to  this  time  is 
reported  in  a  very  precarious  state. 

"  I  need  scarcely  tell  you  that  this  unlooked-for  catas- 
trophe has  cast  a  damp  and  gloom  upon  us  in  the  midst 
of  our  exhilaration  ;  natural  in  any  case,  but  greatly  en- 
hanced in  this,  by  the  amiable  qualities  of  the  deceased 
animal,  who  appears  to  have  been  much  and  deservedly 
respected  by  the  whole  of  his  acquaintance." 

"  TweUe  o'clock. — I  take  the  last  opportunity  before 
sealing  my  parcel  to  inform  you  that  the  boy  who  fell 
through  tiie  pastry-cook's  window  is  not  dead,  as  was 
universally  believed,  but  alive  and  well.  The  report 
appears  to  have  had  its  origin  in  his  mysterious  disap- 
7)earance.  He  was  found  half  an  hour  since  on  the 
premises  of  a  sweet-stuff  maker,  where  a  raffle  had  been 
announced  for  a  second-hand  sealskin  cap  and  a  tam- 
bourine ;  and  where — a  sufficient  number  of  members 
not  having  been  obtained  at  first — he  had  patiently 
waited  until  the  list  was  completed.  This  fortunate  dis- 
covery had  in  some  degree  restored  our  gayety  and 
cheerfulness.  It  is  proposed  to  get  up  a  subscription  for 
him  without  delay. 

"  Everybody  is  nervously  anxious  to  see  what  to-mor- 
row will  l>ring  forth.  If  any  one  should  arrive  in  the 
course  of  the  night,  I  have  left  strict  directions  to  be 
called  immediately.    I  should  have  sat  up,  indeed,  but 


i  the  agitating  events  of  this  day  have  been  too  much  for 

I  me. 

"No  news,  yet,  of  either  of  the  Professors  Snore, 
Doze,  or  Wheezy.    It  is  very  strange  !" 

"  Wednesday  afternoon. — All  is  now  over;  and,  upon 
one  point  at  least,  I  am  at  length  enabled  to  set  the 
minds  of  your  readers  at  rest.  The  three  professors  ar- 
rived at  ten  minutes  after  two  o'clock,  and,  instead  of 
taking  up  their  quarters  at  the  Original  Pig,  as  it  was 
universally  understood  in  the  course  of  yesterday  that 
they  would  assuredly  have  done,  drove  straight  to  the 
Pig  and  Tinder  Box,  where  they  threw  off  the  mask  at 
once,  and  openly  announced  their  intention  of  remaining. 
Professor  Wheezy  may  reconcile  this  very  extraordinary 
conduct  with  Ids  notions  of  fair  and  equitable  dealing, 
but  I  would  recommend  Professor  Wheezy  to  be  cautious 
how  he  presumes  too  far  upon  his  well-earned  reputation. 
How  such  a  man  as  Professor  Snore,  or,  which  is  still 
more  extraordinary,  such  an  individual  as  Professor 
Doze,  can  quietly  allow  himself  to  be  mixed  up  with 
such  proceedings  as  these,  you  will  naturally  inquire. 
Upon  this  head,  rumour  is  silent  ;  I  have  my  specula- 
tions, but  forbear  to  give  utterance  to  them  just  now." 

"Four  o'clock. —Tide  town  is  filling  fast  ;  eighteen 
pence  ha.ve  been  offered  for  a  bed  and  refused.  Several 
gentlemen  were  under  the  necessity  last  night  of  sleep- 
ing in  the  brick-fields,  and  on  the  steps  of  doors,  for 
which  they  were  taken  before  the  magistrates  in  a  body 
this  morning,  and  committed  to  prison  as  vagrants  for 
various  terms.  One  of  these  persons  I  understand  to  be 
a  highly  respectable  tinker,  of  great  practical  skill,  who 
had  forwarded  a  paper  to  the  president  of  Section  D, 
Mechanical  Science,  on  the  constructions  of  pipkins 
with  copper  bottoms  and  safety-valves,  of  which  report 
speaks  highly.  The  incarceration  of  this  gentleman  is 
greatly  to  be  regretted,  as  his  absence  will  preclude  any 
discussion  on  the  subject. 

"  The  bills  are  being  taken  down  in  all  directions,  and 
lodgings  are  being  secured  on  almost  any  terms.  I  have 
heard  of  fifteen  shillings  a  week  for  two  rooms,  exclu- 
sive of  coals  and  attendance,  but  I  can  scarcely  believe 
it.  The  excitement  is  dreadful.  I  was  informed  this 
morning  that  the  civil  authorities,  apprehensive  of  some 
outbreak  of  popular  feeling,  had  commanded  a  recruit- 
ing sergeant  and  .two  corporals  to  be  under  arms  ;  and 
that,  with  the  view  of  not  irritating  the  people  unneces- 
sarily by  their  presence,  they  had  been  requested  to  take 
up  their  position  before  daybreak  in  a  turnpike,  distant 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  town.  The  vigour 
and  promptness  of  these  measures  cannot  be  too  highly 
extolled. 

"  Intelligence  has  just  been  brought  me,  that  an  el- 
derly female,  in  a  state  of  inebriety,  has  declared  in  the 
open  street  her  intention  to  '  do '  for  Mr.  Slug.  Some 
statistical  returns  compiled  by  that  gentleman,  relative 
to  the  consumption  of  raw  spirituous  liquor^  in  this  place, 
are  supposed  to  be  the  cause  of  the  wretch's  animosity. 
It  is  added,  that  this  declaration  was  loudly  cheered  by 
a  crowd  of  persons  who  had  assembled  on  the  spot  ;  and 
that  one  man  had  the  boldness  to  designate  Mr.  Slug 
aloud  by  the  opprobrious  epithet  of  *  Stick-in-the-mud  !  ' 
It  i's  earnestly  to  be  hoped  that  now,  when  the  moment 
has  arrived  for  their  interference,  the  magistrates  will 
not  shrink  from  the  exercise  of  that  power  which  is 
vested  in  them  by  the  constitution  of  our  common  coun- 
try." 

''  Half  past  ten. — The  disturbance,  I  am  happy  to  in-, 
form  you,  has  been  completely  quelled,  and  the  ring-j 
leader  taken  into  custody.  She  had  a  pail  of  cold  water] 
thrown  over  her,  previous  to  being  locked  up,  and  ex-| 
presses  great  contrition  and  uneasiness.  We  are  all  inj 
a  fever  of  anticipation  about  to-morrow ;  but,  now  thalJ 
we  are  within  a  few  hours  of  the  meeting  of  the  associa-j 
tion,  and  at  last  enjoy  the  proud  consciousness  of  having! 
its  illustrious  members  amongst  us,  I  trust  and  hop* 
everything  may  go  off  peaceably.  I  shall  send  you  a  ful« 
report  of  to-morrow's  proceedings  by  the  night  coach."  I 

"Eleven  o'clock. — I  open  my  letter  to  say  that  nothing^ 
whatever  has  occurred  since  I  folded  it  up." 

"  'Thursday. — The  sun  rose  this  nioming  at  the  usual 
hour.  I  did  not  observe  anything  particular  in  the  as- 
pect of  the  glorious  planet,  except  that  he  ai)peared  to 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


1131 


me  (it  might  have  been  a  delusion  of  my  heightened 
fancy)  to  shine  with  more  than  common  brilliancy,  and 
to  shed  a  refulgent  lustre  u]K)n  the  town,  such  as  I  had 
never  observed  before.  This  is  the  more  extraordinary, 
as  the  sky  was  perfectly  cloudless,  and  the  atniosi)here 
peculiarly  fine.  At  half  past  nine  o'clock  the  general 
committee  assembled,  with  the  last  year's  i)resident  in 
the  chair.  The  report  of  the  council  was  read  ;  and  one 
l)assage,  which  stated  that  the  council  had  corresponded 
with  no  less  than  three  thousand  five  hundred  and 
seventy-one  persons  (all  of  whom  ])aid  their  own  post- 
age) on  no  fewer  than  seven  thousand  two  hundred 
and  forty-three  topics,  was  received  with  a  degree  of 
enthusiasm  which  no  effort  could  suppress.  The  various 
committees  and  sections  having  been  appointed,  and  the 
mere  formal  business  transacted,  tlie  great  proceedings 
of  the  meeting  commenced  at  eleven  o'clock  precisely. 
I  had  the  happiness  of  occupying  a  most  eligible  position 
at  that  time,  in 

"section  a— zoology  and  botany, 
"great  room,  pig  and  tindkh-box. 
"president — professor  snore,   vice-presidents — 
"  professors  doze  and  AVUEKZY'. 

"  The  scene  at  this  moment  was  particularly  striking. 
The  sun  streamed  through  the  windows  of  the  apart-  ' 
ments,  and  tmted  the  whole  scene  with  its  brilliant  rays,  1 
bringing  out  in  strong  relief  the  noble  visages  of  the  | 
professors  and  scientific  gentlemen,  who,  some  with  bald  i 
heads,  some  with  red  heads,  some  with  brown  heads, 
some  with  gray  heads,  some  with  black  heads,  some  with 
block  heads,  presented  a.  coup-d'a^il  which  no  eye-witness 
will  readily  forget.    In  front  of  these  gentlemen  were 
papers  and  inkstands  ;  and  round  the  room,  on  elevated 
benches  extending  as  far  as  the  forms  could  reach,  were 
assembled  a  brilliant  concourse  of  those  lovely  and  ele- 
gant women  for  which  Mudfog  is  justly  acknowledged  to 
be  without  a  rival  in  the  whole  world.    The  contrast  be- 
tween their  fair  faces  and  the  dark  coats  and  trousers  of 
the  scientific  gentlemen  I  shall  never  cease  to  remember 
while  Memory  holds  her  seat. 

"Time  having  been  allowed  for  a  slight  confusion, 
occasioned  by  the  falling  down  of  the  greater  part  of  the 
platforms,  to  subside,  the  pre.sident  called  on  one  of  the 
secretaries  to  read  a  communication  entitled,  '  Some  re- 
marks on  the  industrious  fleas,  with  considerations  on 
the  importance  of  establishing  infant  schools  among  that 
numerous  class  of  society  ;  of  directing  their  industry  to 
useful  and  practical  ends  ;  and  of  applying  the  surplus 
fruits  thereof  towards  providing  for  them  a  comfortable 
and  respectable  maintenance  ia  their  old  age.' 

"  The  Author  stated,  that,  having  long  turned  his  at- 
tention to  the  moral  and  social  condition  of  these  inter- 
esting animals,  he  had  been  induced  to  visit  our  exhibi- 
tion in  Regent  Street,  London,  commonly  known  by  the 
designation  of  '  The  Industrious  Fleas.'  He  had  there 
seen  many  fleas,  occupied  certainly  in  various  pursuits 
and  avocations,  but  occupied,  he  was  bound  to  add,  in  a 
manner  which  no  well-regulated  mind  could  fail  to  re- 
gard with  sorrow  and  regret.  One  flea,  reduced  to  the 
level  of  a  beast  of  burden,  was  drawing  about  a  minia- 
ture gig,  containing  a  particularly  small  effigy  of  His 
Grace  thd  Duke  of  XVelliiiglou  ,  while  another  was  stag- 
gering beneath  the  weight  of  a  golden  model  of  his 
great  adversary  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  Some,  brought 
up  as  mountebanks  and  ballet-dancers,  were  perform- 
ing a  figure-dance  (he  regretted  to  observe,  that  of  the 
fleas  so  employed,  several  were  females) ;  others  were 
in  training,  in  a  small  card -board  box,  for  pedestrians, 
— mere  sporting  characters, — and  two  were  actually  en- 
gaged in  the  cold-blooded  and  barbarous  occupation  of 
duelling  ;  a  pursuit  from  which  humanity  recoiled  with 
horror  and  disgust.  He  suggested  that  measures  should 
ha  immediately  taken  to  employ  the  labour  of  these  fleas 
as  ])art  and  parcel  of  the  productive  power  of  the  coun- 
try, which  might  easily  be  done  by  the  establishment  i 
among  them  of  infant  schools  and  houses  of  industry,  | 
in  which  a  system  of  virtuous  education,  based  upon  | 
sound  principles,  should  be  observed,  and  moral  ])re-  j 
cepts  strictly  inculcated.  He  proposed  that  every  flea 
who  presumed  to  exhibit,  for  hire,  music,  or  dancing, 
or  any  species  of  theatrical  entertainment,  without  a 
Vol.  II.— 72 


license,  should  be  considered  a  vagabond,  and  treated 
accordingly  ;  in  which  respect  he  only  placed  him  upon 
a  level  with  the  rest  of  mankind.  He  would  further 
suggest  that  their  labour  should  be  jjlaced  under  the 
c()ntrol  and  regulaticm  of  the  State,  who  should  set  apart 
from  the  profits  a  fund  for  the  sui>port  of  superannu- 
ated or  disabled  fleas,  their  widows  and  orphans.  With 
this  view,  he  proposed  that  liberal  premiums  should  be 
offered  for  the  three  best  designs  for  a  general  alm.s- 
house  ;  from  which — as  insect  architecture  was  well 
known  to  be  in  a  very  advanced  and  perfect  state — • 
we  might  possibly  derive  many  valuable  hints  for  the 
im[)rovement  of  our  metropolitan  universities,  national 
galleries,  and  other  public  edifices. 

"  The  President  wished  to  be  informed  how  the  ingen- 
ious gentleman  proposed  to  open  a  communication  with 
fleas  generally,  in  the  first  instance,  so  that  they  might 
be  thoroughly  imbued  with  a  sense  of  the  advantages 
they  must  necessarily  derive  from  changing  their  mode 
of  life,  and  applying  themselves  to  honest  labour.  This 
appeared  to  him  the  only  difficulty. 

"The  Author  submitted  that  this  difficulty  was  easily 
overcome,  or  rather  that  there  was  no  difficulty  at  all  in 
the  case.  Obviously  the  course  to  be  pursued,  if  her 
Majesty's  government  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  take 
up  the  plan,  would  be,  to  secure  at  a  remunerative  salary 
the  individual  to  whom  he  had  alluded  as  presiding  over 
the  exhibition  in  Regent  Street  at  the  period  of  his  visit. 
That  gentleman  would  at  once  be  able  to  put  himself  in 
communication  with  the  mass  of  the  fleas,  and  to  instruct 
them  in  pursuance  of  some  general  plan  of  education,  to 
be  sanctioned  by  Parliament,  until  such  time  as  the 
more  intelligent  among  them  were  advanced  enough  to 
officiate  as  teachers  to  the  rest. 

"  The  President  and  several  members  of  the  section 
highly  complimented  the  author  of  the  paper  last  read, 
on  his  most  ingenious  and  important  treatise.  It  was 
determined  that  the  subject  should  be  recommended  to 
the  immediate  consideration  of  the  council. 

"  Mr.  Wigsby  produced  a  cauliflower  somewhat  larger 
than  a  chaise-umbrella,  which  had  been  raised  by  no 
other  artificial  means  than  the  simple  application  of 
highly  carbonated  soda-water  as  manure.  He  explained 
that  by  scooping  out  the  head,  which  would  afford  a  new 
and  delicious  species  of  nourishment  for  the  poor,  a 
parachute,  in  principle  something  similar  to  that  con- 
structed by  M.  Garneriu,  was  at  once  obtained  ;  the  stalk 
of  course  being  kept  downwards.  He  added  that  he  was 
perfectly  willing  to  make  a  descent  from  a  height  of  not 
less  than  three  miles  and  a  quarter  ;  and  had  in  fact 
already  proposed  the  same  to  the  proprietors  of  the 
Vauxhall  Gardens,  who  in  the  handsomest  manner  at 
once  consented  to  his  wishes,  and  appointed  an  early  day 
next  summer  for  the  undertaking  ;  merely  stipulating 
that  the  rim  of  the  cauliflower  should  be  previously 
broken  in  three  or  four  places  to  insure  the  safety  of  the 
descent, 

"  The  President  congratulated  the  public  on  the  grand 
gala  in  store  for  them,  and  warmly  eulogized  the  propri- 
etors of  the  establishment  alluded  to,  for  their  love  of 
science,  and  regard  for  the  safety  of  human  life,  both  of 
which  did  them  the  highest  honour. 

"  A  Member  wished  to  know  how  many  thousand  addi- 
tional lamps  the  royal  property  would'  be  illuminated 
with,  on  the  night  after  the  descent. 

"  Mr.  Wigsby  replied  that  the  point  was  not  yet  finally 
decided  ;  but  he  believed  it  was  proposed,  over  and 
above  the  ordinary  illuminations,  to  exhibit  in  various 
devices  eight  millions  and  a  half  of  additional  lamps. 

"  The  Member  expressed  himself  much  gratified  with 
this  announcement. 

"Mr.  Blunderum  delighted  the  section  with  a  most 
interesting  and  valuable  paper  '  On  the  last  moments  of 
the  Learned  Pig,'  which  produced  a  very  strong  impres- 
sion upon  the  assembly,  the  account  being  compiled  from 
the  personal  recollections  of  his  favourite  attendant.  The 
account  stated  in  the  most  emphatic  terms,  that  the 
animal's  name  was  not  Toby,  but  Solomon  ;  and  distinctly 
proved  that  he  could  have  no  near  relatives  in  the  pro- 
fession, as  many  designing  persons  had  falsely  stated, 
inasmuch  as  his  father,  mother,  brothers  and  sisters,  had 
all  fallen  victims  to  the  butcher  at  different  times.  An 


1138 


CHARLES  DI&KEN8'  WORK 8. 


imcle  of  his,  indeed,  had  with  very  great  labour  been  | 
traced  to  a  stv  in  Somers  Town  ;  but  as  he  was  in  a  very 
infirm  state  at  the  time,  being  afflicted  with  measles, 
and  shortly  afterwards  disappeared,  there  appeared  too 
much  reason  to  conjecture  that  he  had  been  converted 
into  sausages.  The  disorder  of  the  learned  pig  was 
originally  a  severe  cold,  which,  being  aggravated  by 
excessive  trough  indulgence,  finally  settled  upon  the 
lungs,  and  terminated  in  a  general  decay  of  the  constitu- 
tion. A  melancholy  instance  of  a  presentiment  enter- 
tained by  the  animal  of  his  approaching  dissolution  was 
recorded.  After  gratifying  a  numerous  and  fashionable 
'  company  with  his  performances,  in  which  no  falling  off 
whatever  was  visible,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  biographer, 
and,  turning  to  the  watch,  which  lay  on  the  floor,  and 
on  ^vhich  he  was  accustomed  to  point  out  the  hour, 
deliberately  passed  his  snout  twice  round  the  dial.  In 
precisely  four-and-twenty  hours  from  that  time  he  had 
ceased  to  exist  ! 

"  Professor  Wheezy  inquired  whether,  previous  to  his 
demise,  the  animal  had  expressed,  by  signs  or  otherwise, 
any  wishes  regarding  the  disposal  of  his  little  property. 

"Mr.  Blunderum  replied,  that,  when  the  biographer 
took  up  the  pack  of  cards  at  the  conclusion  of  the  per- 
formance, the  animal  grunted  several  times  in  a  signifi- 
cant manner,  and  nodded  his  head  as  he  was  accustomed 
to  do,  when  gratified.  From  these  gestures  it  was  un- 
derstood that  he  wished  the  attendant  to  keep  the  cards, 
which  he  had  ever  since  done.  He  had  not  expressed 
any  wish  relative  to  his  watch,  which  had  accordingly 
been  pawned  by  the  same  individual. 

"  The  President  wished  to  know  whether  any  member 
of  the  section  had  ever  seen  or  conversed  with  the  pig- 
faced  lady,  who  was  reported  to  have  worn  a  black  vel- 
vet mask,  and  to  have  taken  her  meals  from  a  golden 
trough. 

"  After  some  hesitation  a  Member  replied  that  the  pig- 
faced  lady  was  his  mother-in-law,  and  that  he  trusted 
the  president  would  not  violate  the  sanctity  of  private 
life. 

"  The  President  begged  pardon.  He  had  considered 
the  pig-faced  lady  a  public  character.  Would  the  hon- 
ourable member  object  to  state,  with  a  view  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  science,  whether  she  was  in  any  way  con- 
nected with  the  learned  pig? 

"  The  Member  replied,  in  the  same  low  tone,  that,  as 
the  question  appeared  to  involve  a  suspicion  that  the 
learned  pig  might  be  his  half-brother,  he  must  decline 
answering  it. 

"  SECTION  B.— ANATOMY  AND  MEDICINE. 
"  COACH-HOUSE,  PIG  AND  TINDER-BOX. 
"  PBESIDENT— DR.  TOORELL.    VICE-PRESIDENT. — PROFESSORS 
MUFF  AND  NOGO. 

"  Dr.  Kutankumagen  (of  Moscow)  read  to  the  section  a 
report  of  a  case  which  had  occurred  vnthin  his  own 
practice,  strikingly  illustrative  of  the  power  of  medicine, 
as  exemplified  in  his  successful  treatment  of  a  virulent 
disorder.  He  had  been  called  in  to  visit  the  patient  on 
the  1st  of  April,  1837.  He  was  then  labouring  under 
symptoms  peculiarly  alarming  to  any  medical  man.  His 
frame  was  stout  and  muscular,  his  step  firm  and  elastic, 
his  cheeks  plump  and  red,  his  voice  loud,  his  appetite 
good,  his  pulse  full  and  round.  He  was  in  the  constant 
habit  of  eating  three  meals  per  diem,  and  of  drinking  at 
least  one  bottle  of  wine  and  one  glass  of  spirituous 
liquors  diluted  with  water,  in  the  course  of  the  four-and- 
twenty  hours.  He  laughed  constantly,  and  in  so  hearty 
a  manner  that  it  was  terrible  to  hear  him.  By  dint  of 
powerful  medicine,  low  diet  and  bleeding,  the  symptoms 
in  the  course  of  three  days  perceptibly  decreased.  A  rigid 
perseverance  in  the  same  course  of  treatment  for  only 
one  week,  accompanied  with  small  doses  of  water-gruel, 
weak  broth  and  barley  water,  led  to  their  entire  disap- 
j)earance.  In  the  course  of  a  month  he  was  sufficiently 
recovered  to  be  carried  down  stairs  by  two  nurses,  and 
to  enjoy  an  airing  in  a  close  carriage,  supported  by  soft 
])illo\vs.  At  the  present  moment  he  was  restored  so  far 
as  to  walk  about,  with  the  slight  assistance  of  a  crutch 
and  a  boy.  It  would  perhaps  be  gratifying  to  the  section 
to  learn  that  he  ate  little,  drank  little,  slept  little,  and 
was  never  heard  to  laugh  by  any  accident  whatever. 


I     "Dr.  W.  R.  Fee,  in  complimenting  the  honourable 
member  upon  the  triumphant  cure  he  had  effected, 
begged  to  ask  whether  the  patient  still  bled  freely? 
"Dr.  Kutankumagen  replied  in  the  affirmative. 
"Dr.  W.  R.  Fee. — And  you  found  that  he  bled  freely 
during  the  whole  course  of  the  disorder  ? 

"Dr.  Kutankumagen, — 0  dear,  yes  ;  mostly  freely. 
"  Dr.  Neeshawts  supposed,  that,  if  thex)atient  had  not 
submitted  to  be  bled  with  great  readiness  and  persever- 
ance, so  extraordinary  a  cure  could  never,  in  fact,  have 
been  accomplished.  Dr.  Kutankumagen  rejoined,  cer- 
tainly not. 

"  Mr.  Knight  Bell  (M.  R.  C.  S.)  exhibited  a  wax  prep- 
aration of  the  interior  of  a  gentleman  who,  in  early  life, 
had  inadvertently  swallowed  a  door-key.  It  was  a 
curious  fact  that  a  medical  student  of  dissipated  habits, 
being  present  at  the  post-mortem  examination,  found 
means  to  escape  unobserved  from  the  room  with  that 
portion  of  the  coats  of  the  stomach  upon  which  an  exact 
model  of  the  instrument  was  distinctly  impressed,  with 
which  he  hastened  to  a  locksmith  of  doubtful  character, 
who  made  a  new  key  from  the  pattern  so  shown  to  him. 
With  this  key  the  medical  student  entered  the  house  of 
the  deceased  gentleman,  and  committed  a  burglary  to  a 
large  amount,  for  which  he  was  subsequently  tried  and 
executed. 

"The  President  wished  to  know  what  became  of  the 
original  key  after  the  lapse  of  years.  Mr.  Knight  Bell 
replied  that  the  gentleman  was  always  much  accustomed 
to  punch,  and  it  was  supposed  the  acid  had  gradually 
devoured  it. 

"Dr.  Neeshawts  and  several  of  the  members  were  of 
opinion  that  the  key  must  have  lain  very  cold  and  heavy 
upon  the  gentleman's  stomach, 

"  Mr.  Knight  Bell  believed  it  did  at  first.  It  was 
worthy  of  remark,  perhaps,  that  for  some  years  the  gen- 
tleman was  troubled  with  nightmare,  under  the  influence 
of  which  he  always  imagined  himself  a  wine-cellar  door. 

"Professor  Muff  related  a  very  extraordinary  and 
convincing  proof  of  the  wonderful  efficacy  of  the  system 
of  infinitesimal  doses,  which  the  section  were  doubtless 
aware  was  based  upon  the  theory  that  the  very  minutest 
amount  of  any  given  drug,  properly  dispersed  through 
the  human  frame,  would  be  productive  of  precisely  the 
same  result  as  a  very 'large  dose  administered  in  the 
usual  manner.  Thus,  the  fortieth  part  of  a  grain  of  cal- 
omel was  supposed  to  be  equal  to  a  five-grain  calomel 
pill,  and  so  on  in  proportion  throughout  the  whole  range 
of  medicine.  He  had  tried  the  experiment  in  a  curious 
manner  upon  a  publican,  who  had  been  brought  into  the 
hospital  with  a  broken  head,  and  was  cured  upon  the 
infinitesimal  system  in  the  incredibly  short  space  of 
three  months.  This  man  was  a  hard  drinker.  He  (Pro- 
fessor Muff)  had  dispersed  three  drops  of  rum  through  a 
bucket  of  water,  and  requested  the  man  to  drink  the 
whole.  What  was  the  result?  Before  he  had  drunk  a 
quart,  he  was  in  a  state  of  beastly  intox-ication ;  and  five 
other  men  were  made  dead-drunk  with  the  remainder. 

"  The  President  wished  to  know  whether  an  infinites- 
imal dose  of  soda-water  would  have  recovered  them  ? 
Professor  Muff  replied  that  the  twenty-fifth  part  of  a 
teaspoonfal,  properly  administered  to  each  patient, 
would  have  sobered  him  immediately.  The  President 
remarked  that  this  was  a  most  important  discovery,  and 
he  hoped  the  Lord  Mayor  and  Court  of  Aldermen  would 
patronize  it  immediately. 

"  A  member  begged  to  be  informed  whether  it  would 
be  possible  to  administer, — say,  the  twentieth  part  of  a 
grain  of  bread  and  cheese  to  all  grown-up  paupers,  and 
the  fortieth  part  to  children,  with  the  same  satisfying 
effect  as  their  present  allowance. 

"  Professor  Muff  was  willing  to  stake  his. professional 
reputation  on  the  perfect  adequacy  of  such  a  quantity  of 
food  to  the  support  of  human  life, — in  workhouses  ;  the 
addition  of  the  fifteenth  part  of  a  grain  of  pudding  twice 
a  week,  would  render  it  a  high  diet. 

"  Professor  Nogo  called  the  attention  of  the  section  to 
a  very  extraordinary  case  of  animal  magnetism.  A  pri- 
vate watchman,  being  merely  looked  at  by  the  operator 
from  the  opposite  side  of  a  wide  street,  was  at  once  ob- 
served to  be  in  a  very  drowsy  and  languid  state.  He 
was  followed  to  his  box,  and  being  once  slightly  rubbed 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


1139 


on  the  i)alms  of  the  hands,  fell  into  a  sound  sleep,  in 
•which  he  continued  without  intermission  for  ten  hours. 

"section  c— statistics. 
'•  uay-loft,  original  pig. 
"  president— mr.  woodensconse.  vice-puesidents— mr.  ledbrain 
and  mu.  timbered. 

"  Mr.  Slug  stated  to  the  section  the  result  of  some 
calculations  he  had  made  with  great  difficulty  and  la- 
bour, regarding  the  state  of  infant  education  among  the 
middle  classes  of  London.  He  found  that,  within  a  cir- 
cle of  three  miles  from  the  Elephant  and  Castle,  the  fol- 
lowing were  the  names  and  numbers  of  children's  books 
principally  in  circulation  : — 

"  Jack  tlie  Giant-killer   7,943 

Ditto  and  Bean-stalk   8,621 

Ditto  and  Eleven  Brothers     ....  2,84.5 

Ditto  and  Jill    1,998 

Total   21,407 

"  He  found  that  the  proportion  of  Robinson  Crusoes  to 
Philip  Quarles  was  as  four  nnd  a  half  to  one  ;  and  that 
the  preponderance  of  Voientine  and  Orsons  over  Goody 
Two  Shoeses  was  as  three  and  an  eighth  of  the  former 
to  half  a  one  of  the  latter  ;  a  comparison  of  Seven  Cham- 
pions with  Simple  Simons  gave  the  same  result.  The 
ignorance  that  prevailed  was  lamentable.  One  child, 
on  being  asked  w^hether  he  would  rather  be  Saint  George 
of  England  or  a  respectable  tallow-chandler,  instantly 
replied,  'Taint  George  of  Ingling.'  Another,  a  little 
boy  of  eight  years  old,  was  found  to  be  firmly  impressed 
with  a  belief  in  the  existence  of  dragons,  and  openly 
stated  that  it  was  his  intention  when  he  grew  up,  to 
rush  forth,  sword  in  hand,  for  the  deliverance  of  captive 
princesses,  and  the  promiscuous  slaughter  of  giants. 
Not  one  child  amone:  the  number  interrogated  had  ever 
heard  of  Mungo  Park, — some  inquiring  whether  he  was 
at  all  connected  with  the  black  man  that  swept  the  cross- 
ing; and  others  whether  he  was  in  any  way  related  to 
tlie  Regent's  Park.  They  had  not  the  slightest  con- 
ception of  the  commonest  principles  of  mathematics,  and 
considered  Sindbad  the  Sailor  the  most  enterprising  voy- 
ager that  the  world  had  ever  produced. 

"  A  member,  strongly  deprecating  tiie  use  of  all  the 
other  books  mentioned,  suggested  that  Jack  and  Jill 
might  perhaps  be  exempted  from  the  general  censure, 
inasmuch  as  the  hero  and  heroine,  in  the  very  outset  of 
the  tale,  were  depicted  as  going  np  a  hill  to  fetch  a  pail 
of  water,  which  was  a  laborious  and  usef  ul  occupation, 
— supposing  the"  family  linen  was  being  washed,  for 
instance. 

"  Mr.  Slug  feared  that  the  moral  effect  of  this  passage 
was  more  than  counterbalanced  by  another  in  a  subse- 
quent part  of  the  poem,  in  which  very  gross  allusion 
was  made  to  the  mode  in  which  the  heroine  was  person- 
ally chastised  by  her  mother 

"  '  For  laughing  at  Jack's  disaster  ' ; 

besides,  the  whole  work  had  this  one  great  fault,  it  xms 
not  true. 

"The  President  complimented  the  honorable  member 
on  the  excellent  distinction  he  had  drawn.  Several 
other  members,  too,  dwelt  upon  the  immense  and  urgent 
necessity  of  storing  the  minds  of  children  with  nothing 
but  facts  and  figures,  which  process,  the  President  very 
forcibly  remarked,  had  made  them  (the  section)  the  men 
they  were. 

"Mr.  Slug  then  stated  some  curious  calculations  re- 
specting the  dogs' -meat  barrows  of  London.    He  found 
that  the  total  number  of  small  carts  and  barrows  engaged 
in  dispensing  provisions  to  the  cats  and  dogs  of  the 
metropolis,  was  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  forty- 
three.    The  average  number  of  skewers  delivered  daily 
Avith  the  provender,  by  each  dogs'-meat  cart  or  barrow  , 
u  asthirty-.six.    Now,  multiplying  the  number  of  skewers  ' 
so  delivered,  by  the  number  of  barrows,  a  total  of  sixty-  ' 
two  thousand  seven  hundred  and  forty-eight  skewers 
daily  would  be  obtained.    Allowing  that,  of  these  sixty- 
two  thousand  seven  hundred  and  forty-eight  skewers, 
the  odd  two  thousand  seven  hundred  and  forty-eight ' 


were  accidentally  devoured  with  the  meat,  by  the  most' 
voracious  of  the  animals  supplied,  it  followed  that  sixty 
thousand  skewers  per  day,  or  the  enormous  number  of 
twenty-one  millions  nine  hundred  thousand  skewers 
annually,  were  wasted  in  the  kennels  and  dust-holes  of 
London  ;  which  if  collected  and  warehoused,  would,  in 
ten  years'  time,  afford  a  mass  of  timber  more  than  suffi- 
cient for  the  construction  of  a  first-rate  vessel  of  war  for 
the  use  of  her  Majesty's  navy,  to  be  called  '  The  Royal 
Skewer,'  and  to  become,  under  that  name,  the  terror  of 
all  the  enemies  of  this  Island. 

"Mr.  X.  Ledbrain  read  a  very  ingenious  communica- 
tion, from  which  it  appeared  that  the  total  number  of 
legs  belonging  to  the  manufacturing  population  of  one 
great  town  in  Yorkshire  was,  in  round  numbers,  forty 
thousand,  while  the  total  number  of  chair  and  stool  legs 
in  their  houses  was  only  thirty  thousand,  which,  upon  the 
very  favourable  average  of  three  legs  to  a  seat,  yielded 
only  ten  thousand  seats  in  all.  From  this  calculation  it 
would  appear, — not  taking  wooden  or  cork  legs  into  the 
account,  but  allowing  two  legs  to  every  person, — that  ten 
thousand  individuals  (one  half  of  the  whole  jjopulation) 
were  either  destitute  of  any  rest  for  their  legs  at  all,  or 
passed  the  whole  of  their  leisure  time  in  sitting  upoa 
boxes. 

"  SECTION  D.  -MECHANICAI,  SCIENCE. 
"  COACH-HOURE.  ORIGINAL  PIO. 
"  PRESIDENT— MR.  CARTER.     VICE-PRHSIDENTS— MP..  TRUCK  AND  MR. 
WAGHORN. 

"  Professor  Queerspeck  exhibited  an  elegant  model  of 
a  portable  railway,  neatly  mounted  in  a  green  case,  for 
the  waistcoat  pocket.  By  attaching  this  beautiful  instru- 
ment to  his  boots,  any  bank  or  public-office  clerk  could 
transport  himself  from  his  place  of  residence  to  his  place 
of  business,  at  the  easy  rate  of  sixty-five  miles  an  hour, 
which,  to  gentlemen  of  sedentary  pursuits,  would  be  an 
incalculable  advantage, 

"  The  President  was  desirous  of  knowing  whether  it 
was  necessary  to  have  a  level  surface  on  which  the  gen- 
tleman was  to  run. 

"  Professor  Queerspeck  explained  that  City  gentlemen 
would  run  in  trains,  being  handcuffed  together  to  pre- 
vent confusion  or  unpleasantness.  For  instance,  trains 
would  start  every  morning  at  eight,  nine,  and  ten  o'clock, 
from  Camden  Town,  Islington,  Camberwell,  Hackney, 
and  various  other  places  in  which  City  gentlemen  are 
accustomed  to  reside.  It  would  be  pecessary  to  have  a 
level,  but  he  had  provided  for  this  difficulty  by  pro- 
posing that  the  best  line  that  the  circumstances  would 
admit  of  should  be  taken  through  the  sewers  which 
undermine  the  streets  of  the  metropolis,  and  which, 
well-lighted  by  jets  from  the  gas-pipes  which  run  im- 
mediately above  them,  would  form  a  pleasant  and  com- 
modious arcade,  especially  in  winter  time,  when  the 
inconvenient  custom  of  carrying  umbrellas,  now  general, 
could  be  wholly  dispensed* with.  In  reply  to  another 
question.  Professor  Queerspeck  stated  that  iio  substitute 
for  the  purposes  to  w^hich  these  arcades  were  at  present 
devoted  had  yet  occurred  to  him,  but  that  he  hoped  no 
fanciful  objection  on  this  head  would  be  allowed  to 
interfere  with  so  great  an  iindertaking, 

"  Mr.  Jobba  produced  a  forcing-machine  on  a  novel 
plan,  for  bringing  joint-stock  railway  shares  prematurely 
to  a  premium.  The  instrument  was  in  the  form  of  an 
elegant  gilt  weather  glass  of  most  dazzling  appearance, 
and  was  worked  behind,  by  strings,  after  the  manner  of 
a  pantomime  trick,  the  strings  being  always  pulled  bv 
the  directors  of  the  company  to  which  the  machine  be- 
longed. The  quicksilver  was  so  ingeniously  placed, 
that  when  the  acting  directors  held  shares  in  their  pock- 
ets, figures  denoting  very  small  expenses  and  very  large 
returns  appeared  upon  the  glass;  but  the  moment  the 
directors  parted  with  these  pieces  of  paper,  the  estimate 
of  needful  expenditure  suddenly  increased  itself  to  an 
immense  extent,  while  the  state*ments  of  certain  profits 
became  reduced  in  the  same  proportion.  Mr.  Jobba 
stated  that  the  machine  had  been  in  constant  requisition 
for  some  months  past,  and  he  had  never  once  known  it 
to  fail, 

"  A  member  expressed  his  opinion  that  it  was  ex-, 
tremely  neat  and  pretty.  He  wished  to  fbow  whether 
it  was  not  liable  to  accidental  derangement  ?    Mr.  Jobba 


1140 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


said  that  the  whole  machine  was  undoubtedly  liable  to 
be  blown  up,  but  that  was  the  only  objection  to  it. 

"  Professor  Nogo  arrived  from  the  anatomical  section 
to  exhibit  a  model  of  a  safely  fire-escape,  which  could 
be  fixed  at  any  time,  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  and  by 
means  of  which,  the  youngest  or  most  infirm  persons 
(successfully  resisting  the  progress  of  the  flames  until 
it  was  quite  ready)  could  be  preserved  if  they  merely 
balanced  themselves  for  a  few  minutes  on  the  sill  of 
their  bedroom  window,  and  got  into  the  escape  without 
falling  into  the  street.  The  Professor  stated  that  the 
number  of  boys  who  had  been  rescued  in  the  daytime  by 
this  machine  from  houses  which  were  not  on  fire,  was 
almost  incredible.  Not  a  conflagration  had  occurred  in 
the  whole  of  London  for  many  months  past  to  which  the 
escape  had  not  been  carried  on  the  very  next  day,  and 
put  in  action  before  a  concourse  of  persons. 

"  The  President  inquired  whether  there  was  not  some 
difficulty  in  ascertaining  which  was  the  top  of  the  ma- 
chine, and  which  the  bottom,  in  cases  of  pressing  emer- 
gency ? 

''Professor  Nogo  explained  that  of  course  it  could 
not  be  expected  to  act  quite  as  well  when  there  was  a 
fire,  as  when  there  was  not  a  fire  ;  but  in  the  former 
case  he  thought  it  would  be  of  equal  service  whether 
the  top  were  up  or  down." 

With  the  last  section,  our  correspondent  concludes  his 
most  able  and  faithful  rejjort,  which  will  never  cease  to 
reflect  credit  upon  him  for  his  scientific  attainments, 
and  upon  us  for  our  enterprising  spirit.  It  is  needless 
to  take  a  review  of  the  subjects  which  have  been  dis- 
cussed ;  of  the  mode  in  which  they  have  been  examined; 
of  the  great  truths  which  they  have  elicited.  They  are 
now  before  the  world,  and  we  leave  them  to  read,  to 
consider,  and  to  profit. 

The  place  of  meeting  for  next  year  has  undergone  dis- 
cussion, and  has  at  length  been  decided;  regard  being 
had  to,  and  evidence  being  taken  upon,  the  goodness  of 
its  wines,  the  supply  of  its  markets,  the  hospitality  of 
its  inhabitants,  and  the  quality  of  its  hotels.  We  hope 
at  this  next  meeting  our  correspondent  may  again  be 
present,  and  that  we  may  be  once  more  the  means  of 
placing  his  communications  before  the  world.  Until  that 
period  we  have  been  prevailel  upon  to  allow  this  num- 
ber of  our  Miscellany  to  be  retailed  to  the  public,  or 
wholesaled  to  the  trade,  without  any  advance  upon  our 
usual  price. 

We  have  only  to  add,  that  the  committees  are  now 
broken  up,  and  that  Mudfog  is  once  again  restored  to  its 
accustomed  tranquility  ;  that  Professors  and  Members 
have  had  balls,  and  soirees,  and  suppers,  and  great  mu- 
tual complimentations,  and  have  at  length  dispersed  to 
their  several  homes, — whither  all  good  wishes  and  joys 
attend  them,  until  next  year  ! 


FULL  EEPORT— 

OF  THE  SECOND  MEETING  OF  THE  MUDFOG 
ASSOCIATION  FOR  THE  ADVANCEMENT 
OF  EVERYTHING. 

In  October  last,  we  did  ourselves  the  immortal  credit 
of  recording,  at  an  enormous  expense,  and  by  dint  of 
exertions  unparalleled  in  the  history  of  periodical  pub- 
lications, the  proceedings  of  the  Mudfog  Association  for 
the  advancement  of  everything,  which,  in  that  month, 
hold  its  first  great  half-yearly  meeting,  to  the  wonder 
and  delight  of  the  wliole  empire.  We  announced  at  the 
conclusion  of  that  extraordinary  and  most  remarkable 
Report,  that  when  the  Second  Mec^ting  of  the  Society 
should  take  place  we  should  be  found  again  at  our  post 
renewing  our  gigantic  and  s])irited  endeavours,  and  once 
more  making  the  world  ring  with  the  accuracy,  authen- 
ticity, immeasurable  su])eriority,  and  intense  remarka- 
bility  of  our  account  of  its  ])roceeding8.  In  redemption 
of  this  pledge,  we  caused  to  be  despatched  ])er  steam  to 
Oldcastle,  at  \vhi(;h  place  this  second  meeting  of  the 
society  was  he^l  on  the  20th  instant,  the  same  superhu- 
manly  endowed  gentleman  who  furnished  the  former 


report,  and  who — gifted  by  nature  with  transcendent 
abilities,  and  furnished  by  us  with  a  body  of  assistants 
scarcely  inferior  to  himself — has  forwarded  a  series  of 
letters,  which  for  faithfulness  of  description,  power  of 
language, fervour  of  thought,happiness  of  expression, and 
importance  of  subject-matter,  have  no  equal  in  the  epis- 
tolary literature  of  any  age  or  country.  We  give  this 
gentleman's  correspondence  entire,  in  the  order  in  which 
it  reached  our  office. 

Saloon  of  Steamer,  Thursday  night,  half -past 
eight. — When  I  left  New  Burlington  Street  this  evening 
in  the  hackney  cabriolet,  number  four  thousand  two 
hundred  and  eighty-five,  I  experienced  sensations  as 
novel  as  they  were  oppressive.  A  sense  of  importance 
of  the  task  I  had  undertaken,  a  consciousness  that  I  was 
leaving  London,  and  stranger  still,  going  somewhere 
else,  a  feeling  of  loneliness  and  a  sensation  of  jolting, 
quite  bewildered  my  thoughts  and  for  a  time  rendered 
me  even  insensible  to  the  presence  of  my  carpet-bag  and 
hat-box.  I  shall  ever  feel  grateful  to  the  driver  of  a 
Blackwell  omnibus,  who,  by  thrusting  the  pole  of  his 
vehicle  through  the  small  door  of  the  cabriolet,  awakened 
me  from  a  tumult  of  imaginations  that  are  wholly  inde- 
scribable. But  of  such  materials  is  our  imperfect  nature 
composed  ! 

"  I  am  happy  to  say  that  I  am  the  first  passenger  on 
board,  and  shall  thus  be  enabled  to  give  you  an  account 
of  all  that  happens  in  the  order  of  its  occurrence.  The 
chimney  is  smoking  a  good  deal  and  so  are  the  crew  ; 
and  the  captain,  I  am  informed,  is  very  drunk  in  a  little 
house  upon  the  deck,  something  like  a  black  turnpike. 
I  should  infer  from  all  I  hear  that  he  has  got  the  steam 
up. 

"lou  will  readily  guess  with  what  feelings  I  have 
just  made  the  discovery  that  my  berth  is  in  the  same 
closet  with  those  engaged  by  Professor  Wood  ensconce, 
Mr.  Slug,  and  Professor  Grinie.  Professor  Woodensconce 
has  taken  the  shelf  above  me,  and  Mr.  Slug  and  Profes- 
sor Grime  the  two  shelves  op]iosite.  Their  luggage 
has  already  arrived.  On  Mr,  Slug's  bed  is  a  long  tin 
tube  of  about  three  inches  in  diameter,  carefully  closed 
at  both  ends.  What  can  this  contain  ?  Some  powerful 
instrument  of  a  new  construction  doubtless," 

"  Ten  minutes  j)ast  nine.  Nobody  has  yet  arrived,  nor 
has  anything  fresh  come  in  my  way,  except  several 
joints  of  beef  and  mutton,  from  which  I  conclude  that  a 
good  plain  dinner  has  been  provided  for  to-morrow. 
There  is  a  singular  smell  below,  which  gave  me  some 
uneasiness  at  first ;  but  as  the  steward  says  it  is  always 
there,  and  never  goes  away,  I  <im  quite  comfortable 
again.  I  learn  from  this  man  that  the  different  sections 
will  be  distributed  at  the  Black  Boy  and  Stomach-Aclie, 
and  the  Boot-Jack  and  Countenance,  If  this  intelligence 
be  true,  and  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  it,  your  readers 
will  draw  such  conclusions  as  their  different  opinions 
may  suggest, 

"  I  write  down  these  remarks  as  they  occur  to  me,  or 
as  the  facts  come  to  my  knowledge,  in  order  that  my 
first  impressions  may  lose  nothing  of  their  original  vivid- 
ness, I  shall  despatch  them  in  small  packets  as  oppor- 
1 1 unities  arise," 

"  Half  past  nine. — Some  dark  object  has  just  appeared 
upon  the  wharf.    I  think  it  is  a  travelling  carriage," 

"  A  quovter  to  ten. — No,  it  isn't." 

"  Half  past  ten. — The  passengers  are  pouring  in  every 
instant.  Four  omnibuses  full  have  just  arrived  upon 
the  wharf,  and  all  is  bustle  and  activity.  The  noise  and 
confusion  are  very  great.  Cloths  are  laid  in  the  cabins 
and  the  steward  is  placing  blue  plates  full  of  knobs  of 
cheese  at  equal  distances  down  the  centre  of  the  tables. 
He  drops  a  great  many  knobs  ;  but,  being  used  to  it, 
l)icks  them  up  again  with  great  dexterity,  and  after 
wiping  them  on  his  sleeve,  throws  them  back  into  the 
plates.  He  is  a  young  man  of  exceedingly  prepossessing 
a))pearance, — either  dirty  or  a  mulatto,  but  I  think  the 
former. 

"  An  interesting  old  gentleman  who  came  to  the  wharf 
in  an  omnibus  has  just  quarrelled  violently  with  the  por- 
ters, and  is  staggering  towards  the  vessel  with  a  large 
trunk  in  his  arms.  I  trust  and  lio})e  that  he  may  reach 
it  in  safety  ;  but  the  board  he  has  to  cross  is  narrow  and 
slippery.    Was  that  a  splash  ?    Gracious  powers  I 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


1141 


'*  I  have  just  returned  from  the  deck.  The  trunk  is 
standing  upon  the  extreme  brink  of  the  wharf,  but  tlic 
old  gentleman  is  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  watchman  is 
not  sure  whether  he  went  down  or  not,  but  promises  to 
drag  for  him  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  May 
his  humane  eiJorts  prove  successful  ! 

**  Professor  Nogo  has  this  moment  arrived  with  his 
nightcap  on  under  his  hat.  He  has  ordered  a  glass  of 
cold  brandy  and  water,  with  a  hard  biscuit  and  a  basin, 
and  has  gone  straight  to  bed.    What  can  this  mean  ? 

"  The  three  other  scientific  gentlemen  to  whom  I  have 
already  alluded  have  come  on  board,  and  have  all  tried 
their  beds,  with  the  exception  of  Professor  Woodensconce 
who  sleeps  in  one  of  the  top  ones,  and  can't  get  into  it. 
Mr.  Slug,  who  sleeps  in  the  other  top  one,  is  unable  to 
get  out  of  his,  and  is  to  have  his  supper  handed  up  by  a 
boy.  I  have  had  the  honour  to  introduce  myself  to  these 
gentlemen,  and  we  have  amicably  arranged  the  order  in 
which  we  shall  retire  to  rest ;  which  it  is  necessary  to 
agree  updn,  because  although  the  cabin  is  very  comfor- 
table, there  is  not  room  for  more  than  one  gentleman  to 
be  out  of  bed  at  a  time,  and  even  he  must  take  his  boots 
off  in  the  passage. 

"  As  1  anticipated,  the  knobs  of  cheese  were  provided 
for  the  passengers'  sup])er,  and  are  now  in  course  of  con- 
sumption. Your  readers  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that 
Professor  Woodensconce  has  abstained  from  cheese  for 
eight  years,  although  he  takes  butter  in  considerable 
quantities.  Professor  Grime,  having  lost  several  teeth, 
is  unable,  I  observe,  to  eat  his  crusts  without  previously 
soaking  them  in  his  bottled  porter.  How  interesting  are 
these  peculiarities  ! " 

"  Half  past  eleven.  —  Professors  Woodensconce  and 
Grime,  with  a  degree  of  good  humour  that  delights  us 
all,  have  just  arranged  to  toss  for  a  bottle  of  mulled 
port.  There  has  been  some  discussion  whether  the  pay- 
ment should  be  decided  by  the  first  toss  or  the  best  out 
of  three.  Eventually  the  latter  course  has  been  deter- 
mined on.  Deeply  do  I  wish  that  both  gentlemen  could 
win  ;  but  that  being  impossible,  I  own  that  my  personal 
aspirations — I  speak  as  an  individual,  and  do  not  com- 
promise either  you  or  your  readers  by  this  expression  of 
feeling— are  with  Professor  Woodensconce.  I  have 
backed  that  gentleman  to  the  amount  of  eighteen 
pence." 

"  Twenty  minutes  to  tioelve. — Professor  Grime  has  in- 
advertently tossed  his  half-crown  out  of  one  of  the 
cabin- windows,  and  it  has  been  arranged  the  stev/ard 
shall  toss  for  him.  Bets  are  offered  on  any  side  to  any 
amount,  but  there  are  no  takers. 

"Professor  Woodensconce  has  just  called  '  woman'  ; 
but  the  coin  having  lodged  in  a  beam  is  a  long  time 
coming  down  again.  The  interest  and  suspense  of  this 
one  moment  are  beyond  anything  that  can  be  imagined." 

Twelve  c* clock. — The  mulled  port  is  smoking  on  the 
table  before  me,  and  Professor  Grime  has  won.  Tossing 
is  a  game  of  chance  ;  but  on  every  ground,  whether  of 
public  or  private  character,  intellectual  endowments,  or 
scientific  attainments,  I  cannot  help  expressing  my 
opinion  that  Professor  Woodensconce  ought  to  have  come 
off  victorious.  There  is  an  exultation  about  Professor 
Grime  incompatible  I  fear  with  greatness." 

''A  quarter  past  ticclvc.—Viofessov  Grime  continues 
to  exult  and  to  boast  of  his  victory  in  no  very  measured 
terms,  observing  that  he  always  does  win,  and  that  he 
knew  it  would  be  a  '  head'  beforehand,  with  many  other 
remarks  of  a  similar  nature.  Surely  this  gentleman  is 
not  so  lost  to  every  feeling  of  decency  and  propriety  as 
not  to  feel  and  know  the  superiority  of  Professor  Wood- 
ensconce. Is  Professor  Grime  insane  ?  or  does  he  wish  to 
be  reminded  in  plain  language  of  his  true  position  in 
society,  and  the  precise  level  of  his  acquirements  and 
abilities?    Professor  Grime  will  do  well  to  look  to  this." 

"  One  o'clock. — I  am  writing  in  bed.  The  small 
cabin  is  illuminated  by  the  feeble  light  of  a  flickering 
lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling ;  Professor  Grime  is 
lying  on  the  opposite  shelf  on  the  broad  of  his  back, 
with  his  mouth  wide  open.  The  scene  is  indescribably 
solemn.  The  ripple  of  the  tide,  the  noise  of  the  sailors' 
feet  overhead,  the  gruff  voices  on  the  river,  the  dogs  on 
the  shore,  the  snoring  of  the  passengers,  and  a  constant 
creaking  of  every  plank  in  the  vessel,  are  the  only 


sounds  that  meet  the  ear.  With  these  exceptions,  all  is 
profound  silence. 

"  My  curiosity  has  been  within  the  last  moment  very 
much  excited.  Mr.  Slug,  who  lies  aljove  Professor 
Grime,  has  cautiously  withdrawn  the  curtains  of  his 
berth,  and  after  looking  anxiously  out,  as  if  to  satisfy 
himself  tliat  his  companions  are  asleep,  has  taken  up 
the  tin  tube  of  which  I  have  before  s^joken,  and  is  re- 
garding it  with  groat  interest.  What  rare  mechanical 
combinations  can  be  obtained  in  that  mysterious  case? 
It  is  evidently  a  profound  secret  to  all." 

^'  A  ({uarter  past  one. — The  behaviour  of  Mr.  Slug 
grows  more  and  more  mysterious.  He  has  unscrewed 
j  the  top  of  the  tube,  and  now  renews  his  observation 
upon  his  companions  ;  evidently  to  make  sure  that  he  is 
wholly  unobserved.  He  is  clearly  on  the  eve  of  some 
great  experiment.  Pray  Heaven  that  it  be  not  a  danger- 
ous one  ;  but  the  interests  of  science  must  be  promoted, 
and  I  am  prepared  for  the  worst." 

''Five  minutes  later. — He  has  produced  a  large  pair 
of  scissors,  and  drawn  a  roll  of  some  substance,  not 
unlike  parchment  in  appearance,  from  the  tin  case.  The 
experiment  is  about  to  begin.  I  must  strain  my  eyes  to 
the  utmost,  in  the  attempt  to  follow  its  minutest  opera- 
tion." 

"  Twenty  minutes  he/fore  two. — I  have  at  length  been 
enabled  to  ascertain  that  the  tin  tube  contains  a  few 
yards  of  some  celebrated  plaster  recommended, — as  I 
discover  on  regarding  the  label  attentively  through  my 
eye-glass, — as  a  preservative  against  sea-sickness.  Mr. 
Slug  has  cut  it  up  into  small  portions,  and  is  now  stick- 
ing it  over  himself  in  every  direction." 

"  Three  o'clock. — Precisely  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago  we 
weighed  anchor,  and  the  machinery  was  suddenly  put  in 
motion  with  a  noise  so  appalling,  that  Professor  Wooden- 
sconce, who  had  ascended  to  his  berth  by  means  of  a 
platform  of  carpet-bags  arranged  by  himself  on  geomet- 
rical principles,  darted  from  his  shelf  head  foremost,  and 
gaining  his  feet  with  all  the  rapidity  of  extreme  terror, 
ran  wildly  into  the  ladies'  cabin,  under  the  impression 
that  we  were  sinking,  and  uttering  loud  cries  for  aid. 
I  am  assured  that  the  scene  which  ensued  baffles  all 
description.  There  were  one  hundred  and  forty-seven 
ladies  in  their  respective  berths  at  the  time. 

"  Mr.  Slug  has  remarked,  as  an  additional  instance  of 
the  extreme  ingenuity  of  the  steam-engine  as  applied  to 
purposes  of  navigation,  that  in  whatever  part  of  the  ves- 
sel a  passenger's  berth  may  be  situated,  the  machinery 
always  appears  to  be  exactly  under  his  pillow.  He  in- 
tends stating  this  very  beautiful,  though  simple  discov- 
ery to  the  association." 

"  Half  past  three. — We  are  still  in  smooth  water  ;  that 
is  to  say,  in  as  smooth  water  as  a  steam-vessel  ever  can  be, 
for  as  Professor  Woodensconce,  who  has  just  woke  up, 
learnedly  remarks,  another  great  point  of  ingenuity 
about  a  steamer  is,  that  it  always  carries  a  little  storm 
with  it.  You  can  scarcely  conceive  how  exciting  the 
jerking  pulsation  of  the  ship  becomes.  It  is  a  matter  of 
positive  difficulty  to  get  to  sleep." 

"  Friday  afternoon,  six  o'clock. — I  regret  to  inform  you 
that  Mr.  Slug's  plaster  has  proved  of  no  avail.  He  is  in 
great  agony,  but  has  applied  several  large  additional 
pieces  notwithstanding.  How  affecting  is  this  extreme 
devotion  to  science  and  pursuit  of  knowledge  under  the 
most  trying  circumstances  ! 

"We  were  extremely  happy  this  morning,  and  the 
breakfast  was  one  of  the  most  animated  description. 
Nothing  unpleasant  occurred  until  noon,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Dr.  Foxey's  brown  silk  umbrella  and  white  hat 
becoming  entangled  in  the  machinery  while  he  was  ex- 
plaining to  a  knot  of  ladies  the  construction  of  the  steam- 
engine.  I  fear  the  gravy-soup  for  lunch  was  injudicious. 
We  lost  a  great  many  passengers  almost  immediately 
I  afterwards." 

I  ' '  Half  past  six. — I  am  again  in  bed.  Anything  so  heart- 
I  rending  as  Mr.  Slug's  sufferings  it  has  never  yet  been  my 
I  lot  to  witness." 

I  "  Seven  o'clock. — A  messenger  has  just  come  down  for 
a  clean  pocket-handkerchief  from  Professor  Wooden- 
sconce's  bag,  that  unfortunate  gentleman  being  quite 
unable  to  leave  the  deck,  and  imploring  constantly  to  be 
thrown  overboard.    From  this  man  I  understood  that 


1142 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Professor  Nogo,  tliough  in  a  state  of  utter  exhaustion, 
clings  feebly  to  the  hard  biscuit  and  cold  brandy-and- 
water,  under  the  impression  that  they  will  yet  restore 
him.    Such  is  the  triumph  of  mind  over  matter. 

"Professor  Grime  is  in  bed,  to  all  appearance  quite 
well ;  but  he  will  eat,  and  it  is  disagreeable  to  see  him. 
Has  this  gentleman  no  sympathy  with  the  sufferings  of 
his  fellow-creatures?  If  he  has,  on  what  principle  can 
he  call  for  mutton-chops, — and  smile  ?  " 

"Black  Boy  and  Stomach- Ache,  } 
^  Oldcastle,  Saturday  noon,  f 

"You  will  be  happy  to  learn  that  I  have  at  length 
arrived  here  in  safety.  The  town  is  excessively  crowded, 
and  all  the  private  lodgings  and  hotels  are  filled  with 
savans  of  both  sexes.  The  tremendous  assemblages  of 
intellect  that  one  encounters  in  every  street  is  in  the  last 
degree  overwhelming. 

"  Notwithstanding  the  throng  of  people  here,  I  have 
been  fortunate  enough  to  meet  with  very  comfortable 
accommodations  on  very  reasonable  terms,  having  secured 
a  sofa  in  the  first-floor  passage  at  one  guinea  per  night, 
which  includes  permission  to  take  my  meals  in  the  bar, 
on  condition  that  I  walk  about  the  streets  at  all  other 
.times  to  make  room  for  other  gentlemen  similarly  situ- 
ated. I  have  been  over  the  outhouses  intended  to  be 
devoted  to  the  reception  of  the  various  sections,  both 
here  and  at  the  Boot-Jack  and  Countenance,  and  am 
much  delighted  with  the  arrangements.  Nothing  can 
exceed  the  fresh  appearance  of  the  sawdust  with  which 
the  floors  are  sprinkled.  The  forms  are  of  unplaned 
deal,  and  the  general  effect,  as  you  can  well  imagine,  is 
extremely  beautiful." 

"  Half  past  nine. — The  number  and  rapidity  of  the  ar- 
rivals are  quite  bewildering.  Within  the  last  ten  minutes 
a  stage-coach  has  driven  up  to  the  door,  filled  inside  and 
out  with  distinguished  characters,  comprising  Mr.  Mud- 
dle brains,  Mr.  Drawley,  Professor  Muff,  Mr.  X.  Misty, 
Mr.  X.  X.  Misty,  Mr.  Purblind,  Professor  Rummun,  The 
Honourable  and  Reverend  Mr.  Long  Ears,  Professor  John 
Ketch,  Sir  William  Joltered,  Doctor  Buffer,  Mr.  Smith  of 
London,  Mr  Brown  of  Edenburg,  Sir  Hookham  Snivy, 
and  Professor  PumpkiuskuU.  The  last  ten-named  gen- 
tlemen were  wet  through,  and  looked  extremely  intelli- 
gent." 

"  Sunday,  two  o'clock,  P.  M. — The  Honourable  and 
Reverend  Mr.  Long  Ears,  accompanied  by  Sir  William 
Joltered,  walked  and  drove  this  morning.  They  accom- 
plished the  former  feat  in  boots,  and  the  latter  in  a 
hired  fly.  This  has  naturally  given  rise  to  much  dis- 
cussion. 

"I  have  just  learned  that  an  interview  has  taken 
place  at  the  Boot-Jack  and  Countenance,  between  Sow- 
ster,  the  active  and  intelligent  beadle  of  this  place,  and 
Professor  Pumpkinskull,  who,  as  your  readers  are 
doubtless  aware,  is  an  influential  member  of  the  council. 
I  forbear  to  communicate  any  of  the  rumours  to  which 
this  very  extraordinary  proceeding  has  given  rise  until  I 
have  seen  Sowster,  and  endeavoured  to  ascertain  the 
truth  from  him." 

"  Half  past  six. — I  engaged  a  donkey-chaisQ  shortly 
after  writing  the  above,  and  proceeded  at  a  brisk  trot  in 
the  direction  of  Sowster's  residence,  passing  through  a 
beautiful  expanse  of  country  with  red  brick  buildings 
on  either  side,  and  stopping  in  the  market-place  to  ob- 
serve the  spot  where  Mr.  Kwakley's  hat  was  blown  off 
yesterday.  It  is  an  uneven  piece  of  paving,  but  has 
certainly  no  appearance  which  would  lead  one  to  sup- 
pose that  any  such  event  had  recently  occurred  there. 
From  this  point  I  proceeded — passing  the  gas-works  and 
tallow-melter's — to  a  lane  which  had  been  pointed  out 
to  me  as  the  beadle's  place  of  residence  ;  and  before  I 
had  driven  a  dozen  yards  farther,  I  had  the  good  fortune 
to  meet  Sowster  himself  advancing  towards  me. 

"  Sowster  is  a  fat  man,  with  a  more  enlarged  develop- 
ment of  that  peculiar  conformation  of  countenance 
.which  is  vulgarly  termed  a  double  chin  than  I  remember 
to  have  ever  seen  before.  He  has  also  a  very  red  nose, 
which  he  attributes  to  a  habit  of  early  rising, — so  red  in- 
deed, that,  but  for  this  explanation,  I  sliould  have  su])- 
posed  it  to  proceed  from  occasional  inebriety.  He  in- 
formed me  that  he  did  not  feel  himself  at  liberty  to  relate 


what  had  passed  between  himself  and  Professor  Pumpkin- 
skull,  but  had  no  objection  to  state  that  it  was  connected 
with  a  matter  of  police  regulation,  and  added  with  pecu- 
liar significance,  '  Never  wos  sitch  times  ! ' 

"You  will  easily  believe  that  this  intelligence  gave 
me  considerable  surprise,  not  wholly  unmixed  with  anx- 
iety, and  that  I  lost  no  time  in  waiting  on  Professor 
Pumpkinskull,  and  stating  the  object  of  my  visit. 
After  a  few  moments'  reflection,  the  Professor,  who,  I 
am  bound  to  say,  behaved  with  the  utmost  politeness, 
openly  avowed, — I  marked  the  passage  in  italics, — that 
lie  had  requested  Sowster  to  attend  on  the  Monday  morn- 
ing at  the  Boot  Jack  and  Comitenance  to  keep  off  the 
boys  ;  and  that  he  had  further  desired  that  the  under- 
beadle  might  be  stationed,  with  the  same  object,  at  the 
Black  Boy  and  Stomach- Ache  ! 

"  Now  I  leave  this  unconstitutional  proceeding  to  your 
comments  and  the  consideration  of  your  readers.  I 
have  yet  to  learn  that  a  beadle,  without  the  precincts  of 
a  church,  .church-yard,  or  workhouse,  and  acting  other- 
wise than  under  the  express  orders  of  churchwardens 
and  overseers  in  council  assembled,  to  enforce  the  law 
against  people  who  come  upon  the  parish,  and  other  of- 
fenders, has  any  lawful  authority  whatever  over  the 
rising  youth  of  this  country.  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  a 
beadle  can  be  called  out  by  any  civilian  to  exercise  a 
domination  and  despotism  over  the  boys  of  Britain.  I 
have  yet  to  learn  that  a  beadle  will  be  permitted  by  the 
commissioners  of  poor-law  regulation  to  wear  out  the 
soles  and  heels  of  his  boots  in  illegal  interference  with 
the  liberties  of  people  not  proved  poor  or  otherwise 
criminal.  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  a  beadle  has  power 
to  stop  up  the  Queen's  highway  at  his  will  and  pleasure, 
or  that  the  whole  width  of  the  street  is  not  free  and 
open  to  any  man,  boy,  or  woman  in  existence,  up  to 
the  very  walls  of  the  houses, — ay,  be  they  Black  Boys 
and  Stomach -Aches,  or  Boot-jacks  and  Countenances,  I 
care  not." 

"  Nine  o'clock. — I  have  procured  a  local  artist  to  make 
a  faithful  sketch  of  the  tyrant  Sowster,  which,  as  he 
has  acquired  this  infamous  celebrity,  you  will  no  doubt 
wish  to  have  engraved  for  the  purpose  of  presenting  a 
copy  with  every  copy  of  your  next  number.  The  under- 
beadle  has  consented  to  write  his  life,  but  it  is  to  be 
strictly  anonymous. 

"  The  likeness  is  of  course  from  the  life,  and  complete 
in  every  respect.  Even  if  I  had  been  totally  ignorant  of 
the  man's  real  character,  and  it  had  been  placed  before 
me  without  remark,  I  should  have  shuddered  involun- 
tarily. There  is  an  intense  malignity  of  expression  in 
the  features,  and  a  baleful  ferocity  of  purpose  in  the 
ruffian's  eye,  which  appalls  and  sickens.  His  whole  air  is 
rampant  with  cruelty,  nor  is  the  stomach  less  character- 
istic of  his  demoniac  propensities. " 

''Monday. — The  great  day  has  at  length  arrived.  I 
have  neither  eyes,  nor  ears,  norj^ens,  nor  ink,  nor  paper, 
for  anything  but  the  wonderful  proceedings  that  have 
astounded  my  senses.  Let  me  collect  my  energies  and 
proceed  to  the  account. 

"  SECTION  A.— ZOOLOGY  AND  BOTANY. 
"  FRONT  PARLOUR,  BLACK  BOY  AND  STOMACH-ACHE. 
"president — SIR  WILLIAM  JOLTERED.     VICE-PRESIDENTS — MR. 
"  MUDDLEBRAINS  AND  MR.  DRAWLEY. 

"  Mr.  X.  X.  Misty  communicated  some  remarks  on  the 
disappearance  of  dancing-bears  from  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don, with  observations  on  the  exhibition  of  monkeys  as 
connected  with  barrel-organs.  The  writer  had  observed 
with  feelings  of  the  utmost  pain  and  regret,  that  some 
years  ago  a  sudden  and  unaccountable  change  in  the 
public  taste  took  place  with  reference  to  itinerant  bears, 
who,  being  discountenanced  by  the  populace,  gradually 
fell  off  one  by  one  from  the  streets  of  the  metropolis, 
until  not  one  remained  to  create  a  taste  for  natural  his- 
tory in  the  breasts  of  the  poor  and  uninstructed.  One 
bear,  indeed, — a  brown  and  ragged  animal, — had  lingered 
about  tlio  haunts  of  his  former  triumphs,  with  a  worn 
and  dejected  visage  and  feeble  limbs,  and  had  essayed 
to  wield  his  quarter-staff  for  the  amusement  of  the  mul- 
titude ;  but  liunger  and  an  utter  want  of  any  due  re- 
compence  for  his  abilities,  had  at  length  driven  him 
I  from  the  field,  and  it  was  only  too  probable  that  he  had 


MISOELLANEO  US. 


1143 


fallen  a  sacrifice  to  the  rising  taste  for  grease.  He  re- 
gretted to  add  that  a  similar  and  no  less  lamentable 
change  had  taken  place  with  reference  to  monkeys. 
Those  delightful  animals  had  formerly  been  almost  as 
7ilentif  ul  as  the  organs,  on  the  tops  of  which  they  were 
accustomed  to  sit  ;  the  proportion  in  the  year  1829  it  ap- 
peared by  the  parliamentary  return,  being  as  one  monkey 
to  three  organs.  Owing,  however,  to  an  altered  taste 
in  musical  instuments  and  the  substitution,  in  a  great 
measure,  of  narrow  boxes  of  music  for  organs,  which 
left  the  monkeys  nothing  to  sit  upon,  this  source  of  \)\xh- 
lic  amusement  was  wholly  dried  up.  Considering  it  a 
matter  of  the  deepest  importance  in  connection  with  na- 
tional education,  that  the  people  should  not  lose  such 
opportunities  of  making  themselves  acquainted  with  the 
manners  and  customs  of  two  most  interesting  species  of 
animals,  the  author  submitted  that  some  measures  should 
he  immediately  taken  for  the  restoration  of  those  pleas- 
ing and  truly  intellectual  amusements.  » 

"  The  President  inquired  by  what  means  the  honour- 
able member  proposed  to  attain  this  most  desirable  end  ? 

"  The  Author  submitted  that  it  could  be  most  fully 
and  satisfactorily  accomplished  if  Her  Majesty's  govern- 
ment would  cause  to  be  brought  over  to  England,  and 
maintained  at  the  public  expense,  and  for  the  public 
amusement,  such  a  number  of  bears  as  would  enable 
every  quarter  of  the  town  to  be  visited, — say,  at  least, 
by  three  bears  a  w^eek.  No  difficulty  whatever  need  be 
ex])erienced  in  providing  a  fitting  place  for  the  reception 
of  those  animals,  as  a  commodious  bear-garden  could  be 
erected  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  both  houses 
of  Parliament ;  obviously  the  most  proper  and  eligible 
spot  for  such  an  establishment. 

"  Professor  Mull  doubted  very  much  whether  any 
correct  ideas  of  natural  history  were  propagated  by  the 
means  to  which  the  honourable  member  had  so  ably  ad- 
verted. On  the  contrary,  he  believed  that  they  had  been 
the  means  of  diffusing  very  incorrect  and  imperfect  no- 
tions on  the  subject.  He  spoke  from  personal  observa- 
tion and  personal  experience,  when  he  said  that  many 
children  of  great  abilities  had  been  induced  to  believe, 
from  what  they  had  observed  in  the  streets,  at  and  be- 
fore the  period  to  which  the  honourable  gentleman  had 
referred,  that  all  monkeys  were  born  in  red  coats  and 
spangles,  and  their  hats  and  feathers  also  came  by  nature. 
He  wished  to  know  distinctly  whether  the  honourable 
gentleman  attributed  the  want  of  encouragement  the 
bears  had  met  with  to  the  decline  of  public  taste  in  that 
respect,  or  to  a  want  of  ability  on  the  part  of  the  bears 
themselves  ? 

"  Mr.  X.  X.  Misty  replied,  that  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  believe  but  there  must  be  a  great  deal  of 
floating  talent  among  the  bears  and  monkeys  generally, 
which,  in  the  absence  of  any  proper  encouragement,  was 
dispersed  in  other  directions, 

"  Professor  Pumpkinskuli  wished  to  take  that  oppor- 
tunity of  calling  the  attention  of  the  sectiorj  to  a  most 
important  and  serious  point.  The  author  of  the  treatise 
just  read  had  alluded  to  the  prevalent  taste  for  bears' 
grease  as  a  means  of  promoting  the  growth  of  hair, 
which  undoubtedly  was  diffused  to  a  very  great  and,  as 
it  appeared  to  him,  very  alarming  extent.  No  gentle- 
man attending  that  section  could  fail  to  be  aware  of  the 
fact  that  the  youth  of  ihe  present  age  evinced,  by  their 
behaviour  in  llie  streets,  and  all  places  of  public  resort, 
a  considerable  lack  of  that  gallantry  and  gentlemanly 
feeling  which,  in  more  ignorant  times,  had  been  thought 
becoming.  He  wished  to  know  whether  it  were  possible 
that  a  constant  outward  application  of  bear's  grease  by 
the  young  gentlemen  about  town,  had  imperceptibly  in- 
fused into  those  unhappy  persons  something  of  the  na- 
ture and  quality  of  the  bear  ?  He  shuddered  as  he 
ilirew  out  the  remark  ;  but  if  this  theory,  on  inquiry, 
should  prove  to  be  well  founded,  it  would  at  once  ex- 
plain a  great  deal  of  unpleasant  eccentricity  of  behaviour, 
which,  without  some  such  discovery,  was  wholly  unac- 
countable. 

"  The  President  highly  complimented  the  learned  gen- 
tleman on  his  most  valuable  suggestion,  which  produced 
the  greatest  effect  upon  the  assembly  ;  and  remarked  that 
•only  a  week  previous  he  had  seen  some  young  gentlemen 
xit  a  theatre  eying  a  box  of  ladies  with  a  fierce  inten- 


sity which  nothing  but  the  influence  of  some  brutish 
appetite  could  possibly  explain.  It  was  dreadful  to  re- 
flect that  our  youth  were  so  rapidly  verging  into  a  gener- 
ation of  bears. 

"  After  a  scene  of  scientific  enthusiasm  it  was  resolved 
that  this  important  question  should  bo  immediately  sub- 
mitted to  the  consideration  of  the  council. 

"The  President  wished  to  know  whether  any  gentle- 
man could  inform  the  section  what  has  become  of  the 
dancing-dogs  ? 

"  A  member  replied,  after  some  hesitation,  that  on  the 
day  after  three  glee-singers  had  been  committed  to 
prison  as  criminals  by  a  late  most  zealous  police  magis- 
trate of  the  metropolis,  the  dogs  had  abandoned  their 
X^rofessional  duties,  and  dispersed  themselves  in  differ- 
ent quarters  of  the  town  to  gain  a  livelihood  by  less  dan- 
gerous means.  He  was  given  to  understand  that  since 
that  period  they  had  supported  themselves  by  laying  in 
wait  for  and  robbing  blind  men's  poodles. 

"  Mr.  Flummery  exhibited  a  twig,  claiming  to  be  a 
veritable  branch  of  that  noble  tree  known  to  naturalists 
as  the  Shakespeare,  which  has  taken  root  in  every  land 
and  climate,  and  gathered  under  the  shade  of  its  broad 
green  boughs  the  great  family  of  mankind.  The  learned 
gentleman  remarked,  that  the  twig  had  been  undoubted- 
ly called  by  other  names  in  its  time  ;  but  that  it  had 
been  pointed  out  to  him  by  an  old  lady  in  Warwickshire, 
where  the  great  tree  had  grown,  as  a  shoot  of  the  genu- 
ine Shakespeare,  by  which  name  he  begged  to  introduce 
it  to  his  countrymen. 

"  The  President  wished  to  know  what  botanical  defi- 
nition the  honourable  gentleman  could  afford  of  the 
curiosity  ? 

"Mr.  Flummery  expressed  his  opinion  that  it  was  a 

DECIDED  PLANT."' 

"  SECTION  B. — DISPLAY  OF  MODELS  AND  MECHANICAL  SCIENCE. 
"LARGE  ROOM,  BOOT -JACK  AND  COUNTENANCE. 
PRESIDENT— MR.  MALLET.     VICE-PREStDENTS— MESSRS.  LEAVER  AND 
SCKOO. 

"Mr.  Cricks  exhibited  a  most  beautiful  and  delicate 
machine,  of  a  little  larger  size  than  an  ordinary  snuff- 
box, manufactured  entirely  by  himself,  and  composed 
exclusively  of  steel  ;  by  the  aid  of  which  more  pockets 
were  picked  in  one  hour  than  by  the  present  slow  and 
tedious  process  in  four-and-twenty.  The  inventor  re- 
marked that  it  had  been  put  into  active  operation  in 
Fleet  Street,  the  Strand,  and  other  thoroughfares,  and 
had  never  been  once  known  to  fail. 

"  After  some  slight  delay,  occasioned  by  the  various 
members  of  the  section  buttoning  their  pockets, 

"The  President  narrowly  inspected  the  invention,  and 
declared  that  he  had  never  seen  a  machine  of  more 
beautiful  or  exquisite  construction.  Would  the  inventor 
be  good  enough  to  inform  the  section  whether  he  had 
taken  any  and  what  means  for  bringing  it  into  general 
operation  ? 

"Mr.  Crinkles  stated,  that,  after  encountering  some  pre- 
liminary difficulties,  he  had  succeeded  in  putting  himself 
in  communication  with  Mr.  Fogle  Hunter,  and  other  gen- 
tlemen connected  with  the  swell  mob,  who  had  awarded 
the  invention  the  very  highest  and  most  unqualified  ap- 
probation. He  regretted  to  say,  however,  that  those  dis- 
tinguished practitioners,  in  common  with  a  gentleman 
of  the  name  of  Gimlet-eyed  Tommy,  and  other  members 
of  a  secondary  grade  of  the  profession  whom  he  was  un- 
derstood to  represent,  entertained  an  insuperable  objec- 
tion to  its  being  brought  into  general  use,  on  the  ground 
that  it  would  have  the  inevitable  effect  of  almost  en- 
tirely superseding  manual  labour,  and  throwing  a  great 
number  of  highly  deserving  persons  out  of  employment. 

"  The  President  hoped  that  no  such  fanciful  objec- 
tions would  be  allowed  to  stand  in  the  way  of  such  a 
great  public  improvement. 

"  Mr.  Crinkles  hoped  so  too  ;  but  he  feared  that  if  the 
gentlemen  of  the  swell  mob  persevered  in  their  objection, 
nothing  could  be  done. 

"  Professor  Grime  suggested  that  surely,  in  that  case, 
her  Majesty's  government  might  be  prevailed  upon  to 
take  it  up. 

"  Mr.  Crinkles  said,  that  if  the  objection  were  found 
to  be  insuperable,  he  should  apply  to  Parliament,  who 


1144 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


he  thouo:ht  could  not  fail  to  recognize  the  utility  of  the 
invention. 

"  The  President  observed  that  up  to  his  time  Parliar- 
raent  had  certainly  got  on  very  well  without  it ;  but  as 
they  did  their  business  on  a  very  large  scale,  he  had  no 
doubt  they  would  gladly  adopt  the  improvement.  His 
only  fear  was  that  the  machine  might  be  worn  out  by  con- 
stant working. 

"Mr.  Coppernose  called  the  attention  6f  the  section 
to  a  proposition  of  great  magnitude  and  interest,  illus- 
trated by  a  vast  number  of  models,  and  stated  with 
much  clearness  and  perspicuity  in  a  treatise  entitled 
'  Practical  Suggestions  on  the  necessity  of  providing  some 
harmless  and  wholesome  relaxation  for  the  young  noble- 
men of  England.'  His  proposition  was  that  a  space  of 
ground  of  not  less  than  ten  miles  in  length  and  four  in 
breadth  should  be  purchased  by  a  new  company,  to  be 
incorporated  by  act  of  Parliament,  and  enclosed  by  a 
brick  wall  of  not  less  than  twelve  feet  in  height.  He 
proposed  that  it  should  be  laid  out  with  highway  roads, 
turnpikes,  bridges,  miniature  villages,  and  every  object 
that  could  conduce  to  the  comfort  and  glory  of  Four-in- 
hand  Clubs,  so  that  they  might  be  fairly  presumed  to  re- 
quire no  drive  beyond  it.  Tliis  delightful  retreat  would 
be  fitted  up  with  most  commodious  and  extensive  stables 
for  the  convenience  of  such  of  the  nobility  and  gentry 
as  had  a  taste  for  ostlering,  and  with  houses  of  entertain- 
ment furnished  in  the  most  expensive  and  handsome 
style.  It  would  be  further  provided  with  whole  streets 
of  door-knockers  and  bell-handles  of  extra  size,  so  con- 
structed that  they  could  be  easily  wrenched  ofE  at  night, 
and  regularly  screwed  on  again  by  attendants  provided 
for  the  purpose  every  day;  There  would  also  be  gas- 
lamps  of  real  glass,  which  could  be  broken  at  a  compara- 
tively small  expense  per  dozen,  and  a  broad  and  hand- 
some foot  pavement  for  gentlemen  to  drive  their  cabriolets 
upon  when  they  were  humourously  disposed, — for  the 
full  enjoyment  of  which  feat  live  pedestrians  would  be 
procured  from  the  workhouse  at  a  very  small  charge  per 
head.  The  place  being  enclosed  and  carefully  screened 
from  the  intrusion  of  the  public,  there  would  be  no 
objection  to  gentlemen  laying  aside  any  article  of  their 
costume  that  was  considered  to  interfere  with  a  pleasant 
frolic,  or  indeed  to  their  walking  about  without  any 
costume  at  all,  if  they  liked  that  better.  In  short,  every 
facility  of  enjoyment  would  be  afforded  that  the  most 
gentlemanly  person  could  possibly  desire.  But  as  even 
these  advantages  would  be  incomplete,  unless  there  were 
some  means  provided  of  enabling  the  nobility  and  gentry 
to  display  their  prowess  when  they  sallied  forth  after 
dinner,  and  as  some  inconvenience  might  be  experienced 
in  the  event  of  their  being  reduced  to  the  necessity  of 
pummelling  each  other,  the  inventor  had  turned  his  at- 
tention to  the  construction  of  an  entirely  new  police 
force,  composed  exclusively  of  automaton  figures,  which, 
with  the  assistance  of  the  ingenious  Signor  Gagliardi,  of 
Windmill  Street  in  the  Haymarket,  he  had  succeeded  in 
making  with  such  nicety,  that  a  policeman,  cab-driver, 
or  old  woman,  made  upon  the  principle  of  the  models 
exhibited,  would  walk  about  until  knocked  down  like 
any  real  man  ;  nay  more,  if  set  upon  and  beaten  by  six 
or  eight  noblemen  or  gentlemen,  after  it  was  down,  the 
figure  would  utter  divers  groans,  mingled  with  entreaties 
for  mercy  ;  thus  rendering  the  illusion  complete,  and 
the  enjoyment  perfect.  But  the  invention  did  not  stop 
even  here,  for  station-houses  would  be  built,  containing 
good  beds  for  noblemen  and  gentlemen  during  the  night, 
and  in  the  morning  they  would  repair  to  a  commodious 
police-office  where  a  pantomimic  investigation  would  take 
place  before  automaton  magistrates, — quite  equal  to  life, 
— who  would  fine  them  so  many  counters,  with  which 
they  would  be  previously  provided  for  the  purpose.  This 
office  would  be  furnished  with  an  inclined  plane  for  the 
convenience  of  any  nobleman  or  gentleman  who  might 
wish  to  bring  in  his  horse  as  a  witness,  and  tlie  prisoners 
would  be  at  perfect  liberty,  as  they  were  now,  to  inter- 
rupt the  complainants  as  much  as  they  pleased,  and  to 
make  any  remarks  that  they  thought  proper.  The  charge 
for  those  amusements  would  amount  to  very  little  more 
than  thoy  already  cost,  and  the  inventor  submitted  that 
the  public  would  be  much  benefited  and  comforted  by 
the  proposed  arrangement. 


"  Professor  Nogo  wished  to  be  informed  what  amoimt 
of  automaton  police  force  it  was  proposed  to  raise  in  the 
first  instance. 

i  "Mr.  Coppernose  replied  that  it  was  proposed  to  begin 
with  seven  divisions  of  police  of  a  score  each,  lettered 
from  A  to  G  inclusive.  It  was  proposed  that  not  more 
than  half  the  number  should  be  placed  on  active  duty, 
and  that  the  remainder  should  be  kept  on  shelves  in  the 
police-office,  ready  to  be  called  out  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"  The  President,  awarding  the  utmost  merit  to  the  in- 
genious gentleman  who  had  originated  the  idea,  doubted 
whether  the  automaton  police  would  quite  answer  the 
purpose.  He  feared  that  noblemen  and  gentlemen 
would  perhaps  require  the  excitement  of  threshing  liv- 
ing subjects. 

"Mr.  Coppernose  submitted  that  as  the  usual  odds  in 
such  cases  were  ten  noblemen  or  gentlemen  to  one  police- 
man or  cab-driver,  it  could  make  very  little  difference  in 
point  of  excitement  whether  the  policeman  or  cab-driver 
were  a  man  or  a  block.  The  great  advantage  wouhl  be, 
that  a  policeman's  limb  might  be  knocked  off,  and  yet  he 
would  be  in  a  condition  to  do  duty  next  day.  He  might 
even  give  his  evidence  next  morning  with  his  head  in  his 
hand,  and  give  it  equally  well. 

"  Professor  Muff. — Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you,  sir, 
of  what  materials  it  is  intended  that  the  magistrates' 
heads  shall  be  composed? 

"  Mr.  Coppernose. — The  magistrates  will  have  wooden 
heads  of  course,  and  they  will  be  made  of  the  toughest 
and  thickest  materials  that  can  possibly  be  obtained. 

"Professor  Muff. — I  am  quite  satisfied.  This  is  a 
great  invention. 

"Professor  Nogo. — I  see  but  one  objection  to  it.  It 
appears  to  me  that  the  magistrates  ought  to  talk. 

"  Mr.  Coppernose  no  sooner  heard  this  suggestion  than 
he  touched  a  small  spring  in  each  of  the  two  models  of 
magistrates  which  were  placed  upon  the  table  ;  one  of 
the  figures  immediately  began  to  exclaim  with  great 
volubility  that  he  was  sorry  to  see  gentlemen  in  such  a 
situation,  and  the  other  to  express  a  fear  that  the  police- 
man was  intoxicated. 

"The  section  as  with  one  accord  declared  with  a 
shout  of  applause  that  the  invention  was  complete  ;  and 
the  President,  much  excited,  retired  with  Mr.  Copper- 
nose to  lay  it  before  the  council.    On  his  return, — 

"Mr.  Tickle  displayed  his  newly  invented  spectacles, 
which  enabled  the  w^earer  to  discern  in  very  bright  col- 
ours objects  at  a  great  distance,  a*nd  rendered  him  whol- 
ly blind  to  those  immediately  before  him.  It  was,  he 
said,  a  most  valuable  and  useful  invention,  based  strict- 
ly upon  the  principle  of  the  human  eye. 

"The  President  required  some  information  upon  this 
point.  He  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  human  eye  was  re- 
markable for  the  peculiarities  of  which  the  honourable 
gentleman  had  spoken. 

"  Mr.  Tickle  was  rather  astonished  to  hear  this,  when 
the  President  could  not  fail  to  be  aware  that  a  large 
number  of  most  excellent  persons  and  great  statesmen 
could  see,  with  the  naked  eye,  most  marvellous  horrors 
on  West  India  plantations,  while  they  could  discern 
nothing  whatever  in  the  interior  of  Manchester  cotton- 
mills.  He  must  know,  too,  with  what  quickness  of  per- 
ception most  people  could  discover  their  neighbours' 
faults,  and  how  very  blind  they  were  to  their  own.  If 
the  President  differed  from  the  great  majority  of  men  in 
this  respect,  his  eye  was  a  defective  one,  and  it  was  to 
assist  his  vision  that  these  glasses  were  made. 

"  Mr.  Blank  exhibited  a  model  of  a  fashionable  annual, 
composed  of  copper-plates,  gold  leaf,  and  silk  boards, 
and  worked  entirely  by  milk  and  water. 

"  Mr.  Prosee,  after  examining  the  machine,  declared 
it  to  be  so  ingeniously  composed,  that  he  was  wholly  un- 
able to  discover  how  it  went  on  at  all. 

"  Mr.  Blank. — Nobody  can,  and  that  is  the  beauty  of 
it." 

"  SECTION  0.— ANATOMY  AND  MEDICINE. 
"  BAU-KOOM,  BI.ACK  BOY  ANl)  STOMACH-ACHE, 
"  I'UESIDENT— DU.  SOEMUP.     VICE-PHESIDENTS— MESSRS.  PES8ELI. 
ANl)  MOUTAIR. 

"  Dr.  Qrummidge  stated  to  the  section  a  most  interest- 
ing case  of  monomania,  and  described  the  course  of 
treatment  he  had  pursued  with  perfect  success.  The 


MTMJELLANEO  US, 


1145 


patient  was  a  married  lady  in  the  middle  rank  of  life,  1 
who  havinar  seen  another  lady  at  an  ev<;Miii<^  T*^''*^^y  ^ 
full  snit  of  pearls,  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  desire  to 
possess  a  similar  equipment,  although  her  husband's 
finances  were  by  no  means  equal  to  the  necessary  outlay. 
Finding  her  wish  ungratilied,  she  fell  sick,  and  the 
symptoms  soon  became  so  alarming,  that  he,  Dr.  Grum- 
midge,  was  called  in.  At  this  period  the  prominent 
tokens  of  the  disorder  were  sullenness,  a  total  indisposi- 
tion to  perform  domestic  duties,  great  peevishness  and 
extreme  languor,  except  when  pearls  were  mentioned, 
at  which  times  the  pulse  quickened,  the  eyes  grew 
brighter,  the  pupils  dilated,  and  the  patient,  after  vari- 
ous incoherent  exclamations,  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears  and  exclaimed  that  nobody  cared  for  her,  and  she 
wished  herself  dead.  Finding  that  the  patient's  appe- 
tite was  affected  in  the  presence  of  company,  he  began 
by  ordering  a  total  abstinence  from  all  stimulants,  and 
forbidding  any  sustenance  but  weak  gruel  ;  he  then  took 
twenty  ounces  of  blood,  applied  a  blister  under  the  arms 
and  on  the  chest  and  another  on  the  back  ;  having  done 
which,  and  administered  five  grains  of  calomel,  he  left 
the  patient  to  her  repose.  The  next  day  she  was  some- 
what low,  but  decidedly  bettv^r  ;  and  all  appearances  of 
irritation  were  removed.  The  next  day  she  improved 
still  further,  and  on  the  next  again.  On  the  fourth  tliere 
was  some  appearance  of  a  return  of  the  old  symptoms, 
which  no  sooner  developed  themselves  than  he  adminis- 
tered another  dose  of  calomel,  and  left  strict  orders  that, 
unless  a  decidedly  favourable  change  occurred  within 
two  hours,  the  patient's  head  should  be  immediately 
shaved  to  the  very  last  curl.  From  that  moment  she 
began  to  mend,  and  in  less  than  four-and-twenty  hours 
was  perfectly  restored  ;  she  did  not  now  betray  the  least 
emotion  at  the  sight  or  mention  of  pearls  or  any  other 
ornaments.  She  was  cheerful  and  good-humoured,  and 
a  most  beneficial  change  had  been  effected  in  her  whole 
temperament  and  condition. 

"  Mr.  Pipkin,  M.  R.  C.  S.,  read  a  short  but  most  inter- 
esting communication  in  which  he  sought  to  prove  the 
complete  belief  of  Sir  William  Courtenay,  otherwise 
Thorn,  recently  shot  at  Canterbury,  in  the  Homoeopathic 
system.  The  section  would  bear  in  mind  that  one  of  the 
Homoeopathic  doctrines  was,  that  infinitesimal  doses  of 
any  medicine  which  would  occasion  the  disease  under 
which  the  patient  laboured,  supposing  him  to  be  in  a 
healthy  state,  would  cure  it.  Now  it  was  a  remarkable 
circumstance, — proved  in  the  evidence, — that  the  de- 
ceased Thom  employed  a  woman  to  follow  him  about  all 
day  with  a  pail  of  water,  assuring  her  that  one  drop, — a 
purely  Homojopathic  remedy,  the  section  would  observe, 
— placed  upon  his  tongue  after  death,  would  restore  him. 
What  was  the  obvious  inference  ?  That  Thom,  who  was 
marching  and  countermarching  in  osier  beds  and  other 
swampy  places,  was  impressed  with  a  presentment  that 
he  should  be  drowned  ;  in  which  case,  had  his  instruc- 
tions been  complied  with,  he  could  not  fail  to  have  been 
brought  to  life  again  instantly  by  his  own  prescriptions. 
As  it  was,  if  this  woman,  or  any  other  person,  had  ad- 
ministered an  infinitesimal  dose  of  lead  and  gunpowder 
immediately  after  he  fell,  he  would  have  recovered  forth- 
with. But  unhappily  the  woman  concerned  did  not  pos- 
sess the  power  of  reasoning  by  analogy,  or  carrying  out 
a  principle,  and  thus  the  unfortunate  gentleman  had 
been  sacrificed  to  the  ignorance  of  the  peasantry. 

"  SECTION  D.— STATISTICS. 
"  OUTHOUSE,  BLACK-BOY  AND  STOMACH-ACHE. 
"  PRESIDENT— MR.  SLUG.      VICE-PRESIDENTS— MESSRS.  NOAKES  AND 
STYLES. 

"  Mr.  Kwakley  stated  the  result  of  some  most  ingenious 
statistical  inquiries  relative  to  the  difference  between  the 
value  of  the  qualification  of  several  members  of  Parlia- 
ment as  published  to  the  world,  and  its  real  nature  and 
amount.  After  reminding  the  section  that  every  mem- 
ber of  Parliament  for  a  town  or  borough  was  supposed 
U)  possess  a  clear  freehold  estate  of  three  hundred 
pounds  per  annum.,  the  honourable  gentleman  excited 
great  amusement  and  laughter  by  stating  the  exact 
amount  of  freehold  property  possessed  by  a  column  of 
legislators,  in  which  he  had  included  himself.  It  ap- 
peared from  this  table  that  the  amount  of  such  in- 


come possessed  by  each  was  0  pounds,  0  shillings,  and  0 
pence,  yielding  an  average  of  the  same.  (Great  laugh- 
ter.) It  was  pretty  well  known  that  there  were  accom- 
modating gentlemen  in  the  habit  of  furnishing  new 
members  with  temporary  qualifications,  to  the  owner- 
ship of  which  they  swore  solem.niy, — of  course  as  a  mere 
matter  of  form.  He  argued  from  these  data,  that  it  was 
wholly  unnecessary  for  members  of  Parliament  to  poy- 
sess  any  property  at  all,  especially  as  when  they  had 
none,  the  public  could  get  them  so  much  cheaper. 

"  SUPPLEMENTARY   SECTION    C. — UMBUOOLOGY    AND  DITCH-WATER- 
ISTIC^. 

"president  — MU.    GRUB.      VICE-PRESIDENTS  —  MESSRS.   DULL  AND 
DUMMY. 

"  A  paper  was  read  by  the  secretary  descriptive  of  a 
bay  pony  with  one  eye,  which  had  been  seen  by  the 
author  standing  in  a  butcher's  cart  at  the  corner  of  New- 
gate Market.  The  communication  described  the  author 
of  the  paper  as  having,  in  the  prosecution  of  a  mercan- 
tile pursuit,  betaken  himself  one  Saturday  morning  last 
summer  from  Somers  Town  to  Cheap^ide  ;  in  the  course 
of  which  expedition  he  had  beheld  the  extraordinary 
appearance  above  described.  The  pony  had  one  distinct 
eye,  and  it  had  been  pointed  out  to  him  by  his  friend 
Captain  Blunderbore  of  the  Horse  Marines,  who  assisted 
the  author  in  his  search,  that  whenever  he  winked  this 
eye  he  whisked  his  tail,  possibly  to  drive  the  flies  off, 
but  that  he  always  winked  and  whisked  at  the  same 
time.  The  animal  was  lean,  spavined,  and  tottering  ; 
and  the  author  proposed  to  constitute  it  of  the  family  of 
Fitfordogsmcatnurious.  It  certainly  did  occur .  to  him 
that  there  was  no  case  on  record  of  a  pony  with  one 
clearly  defined  and  distinct  organ  of  vision,  winking  and 
whisking  at  the  same  moment. 

"  Mr.  Q.  J.  Snuffletoffle  had  heard  of  a  pony  winking 
his  eye,  and  likewise  of  a  pony  whisking  his  tail,  but 
whether  they  were  two  ponies  or  the  same  pony  he  could 
not  undertake  positively  to  say.  At  all  events  he  was 
acquainted  with  no  authenticated  instance  of  a  simulta- 
neous winking  and  whisking,  and  he  really  could  not  but 
doubt  the  existence  of  such  a  marvellous  pony  in  opposi- 
tion to  all  those  natural  laws  by  which  ponies  were 
governed.  Referring,  however,  to  the  mere  question  of 
his  one  organ  of  vision,  might  he  suggest  the  possibil- 
ity of  this  pony  having  been  literally  half  asleep  at  the 
time  he  was  seen,  and  having  cloeed  only  one  eye  ? 

"  The  President  observed,  that  whether  the  pony  was 
half  asleep  or  fast  asleep,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
the  association  was  awake,  and  therefore  that  they  had 
better  get  the  business  over  and  go  to  dinner.  He  had 
certainly  never  seen  anything  analogous  to  this  pony  ; 
but  he  was  not  prepared  to  doubt  its  existence,  for  he 
had  seen  many  queerer  ponies  in  his  time,  though  he  did 
not  pretend  to  have  seen  any  more  remarkable  donkeys 
than  the  other  gentlemen  around  him, 

"  Professor  John  Ketch  was  then  called  upon  to  ex- 
hibit the  skull  of  the  late  Mr.  Greenacre,  which  he  pro- 
duced from  a  blue  bag,  remarking,  on  being  invited  to 
make  any  observations  that  occurred  to  him,  *  that  he'd 
pound  it  as  that  'ere  'spectable  section  had  never  seed  a 
more  gamerer  cove  nor  he  vos,' 

"A  most  animated  discussion  upon  this  interesting 
relic  ensued  ;  and  some  difference  of  opinion  arising  re- 
specting the  real  character  of  the  deceased  gentleman, 
Mr,  Blubb  delivered  a  lecture  upon  the  cranium  before 
him,  clearly  showing  that  Mr.  Greenacre  possessed  the 
organ  of  destructiveness  to  a  most  unusual  extent,  with 
a  most  remarkable  development  of  the  organ  of  carvea- 
tiveness.  Sir  Hookham  Snivey  was  proceeding  to  com- 
bat this  opinion,  when  Professor  Ketch  suddenly  inter- 
rupted the  proceedings  by  exclaiming,  with  great  excite- 
ment of  manner,  '  Walker  ! ' 

"  The  President  begged  to  call  the  learned  gentleman 
to  order, 

'  "  Professor  Ketch. — '  Order  be  blowed  !  you've  got  the 
wrong  'un,  I  tell  you.  It  ain't  no  ed  at  all  ;  it's  a  coker- 
nut  as  my  brother-in-law  has  been  acarvin'  to  honiament 
his  new  baked-tatur  stall  vots  a- coming  down  here  vile 
the  'sociation's  in  the  town.    Hand  over,  vill  you? ' 

"  With  these  words  Professor  Ketch  hastily  repos- 
sessed himself  of  the  cocoanut,  and  drew  forth  the  skull. 


1146 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


in  mistake  for  which  he  had  exhibited  it.  A  most  inter- 
esting conversation  ensued  ;  but  as  there  appeared  some 
doubt  ultimately  whether  the  skull  was  Mr.  Greenacre's, 
or  a  hospital  patient's,  or  a  pauper's,  or  a  man's,  or  a 
woman's,  or  a  monkey's,  no  particular  result  was  at- 
tained. 

"  I  cannot,"  says  our  talented  correspondent  in  con- 
clusion,—"  I  cannot  close  my  account  of  these  gigantic 
researches  and  sublime  and  noble  triumphs,  without  re- 
peating a  hon-mot  of  Professor  Woodensconce's,  which 
shows  how  the  greatest  minds  may  occasionally  unbend, 
when  truth  can  be  presented  to  listening  ears,  clothed  in 
an  attractive  and  playful  form.  I  was  standing  by, 
when,  after  a  week  of  feasting  and  feeding,  that  learned 
gentleman,  accompanied  by  the  whole  body  of  wonderful 
men,  entered  the  hall  yesterday,  where  a  sumptuous 
dinner  was  prepared  ;  where  the  richest  wines  sparkled 
on  the  board,  and  fat  bucks — propitiatory  sacrifices  to 
learning — sent  forth  their  savory  odours.  'Ah!'  said 
Professor  Woodensconce,  rubbing  his  hands,  '  this  is 
what  we  meet  for  ;  this  is  what  inspires  us  ;  this  is  what 
keeps  us  together,  and  beckons  us  onward  ;  this  is  the 
spread  of  science,  and  a  glorious  spread  it  is  !  '  " 


THE  HOLLY-TREE.   THEEE  BRANCHES. 


FIRST  BRANCH. 

Myself. 

I  HAVE  kept  one  secret  in  the  course  of  my  life,  I  am 
^  bashful  man.  Nobody  would  suppose  it,  nobody  ever 
does  suppose  it,  nobody  ever  did  suppose  it,  but  I  am 
naturally  a  bashful  man.  This  is  the  secret  which  I  have 
never  breathed  until  now. 

I  might  greatly  move  the  reader  by  some  account  of 
the  innumerable  places  I  have  not  been  to,  the  innumer- 
able people  I  have  not  called  upon  or  received,  the 
innumerable  social  evasions  I  have  been  guilty  of,  solely 
because  I  am  by  original  constitution  and  character  a 
bashful  man.  But  I  will  leave  the  reader  unmoved,  and 
proceed  with  the  object  before  me. 

That  object  is  to  give  a  plain  account  of  my  travels 
and  discoveries  in  the  Holly-Tree  Inn  ;  in  which  place  of 
^ood  entertainment  for  man  and  beast  I  was  once  snow- 
ed up. 

It  happened  in  the  memorable  year  when  I  parted  for- 
ever from  Angela  Leath,  whom  I  was  shortly  to  have 
married,  on  making  the  discovery  that  she  preferred  my 
bosom  friend.  From  our  school-days  I  had  freely  ad- 
mitted Edwin,  in  my  own  mind,  to  be  far  superior  to 
myself  ;  and  though  I  was  grievously  wounded  at  heart, 
I  felt  the  preference  to  be  natural,  and  tried  to  forgive 
them  both.  It  was  under  these  circumstances  that  I  re- 
solved to  go  to  America — on  my  way  to  the  Devil. 

Communicating  my  discovery  neither  to  Angela  nor  to 
Edwin,  but  resolving  to  write  to  each  of  them  an  affect- 
ing letter  conveying  my  blessing  and  forgiveness,  which 
the  steam-tender  for  shore  should  carry  to  the  post  when 
I  myself  should  be  bound  for  the  New  World,  far  beyond 
recall, — I  say,  locking  uj)  my  grief  in  my  own  breast, 
and  consoling  myself  as  I  could  with  the  prospect  of 
being  generous,  I  quietly  left  all  I  held  dear,  and  started 
on  the  desolate  journey  I  have  mentioned. 

The  dead  winter-time  was  in  full  dreariness  when  I 
left  my  chambers  forever  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
I  had  shaved  by  candle-light,  of  course,  and  was  miser- 
ably cold,  and  experienced  that  general  all-pervading 
sensation  of  getting  up  to  be  hanged  which  I  have  usual- 
ly found  inseparable  from  untimely  rising  under  such 
circumstances. 

How  well  I  remember  the  forlorn  aspect  of  Fleet  Street 
when  I  came  out  of  the  Temple  !  The  street-lamps 
flickering  in  the  gusty  northeast  wind,  as  if  the  very  gas 
were  contorted  with  cold  ;  the  white-topped  houses  ;  the 
bleak,  star-lighted  sky  ;  the  market  people  and  other 
early  stragglers,  trotting,  to  circulate  their  almost  frozen 
blood  ;  the  hospitable  light  and  warmth  of  the  few 


coffee-shops  and  public-houses  that  were  open  for  such 
customers  ;  the  hard,  dry,  frosty  rime  with  which  the 
air  was  charged  (the  wind  had  already  beaten  it  into 
every  crevice),  and  which  lashed  my  face  like  a  steel 
whip. 

It  wanted  nine  days  to  the  end  of  the  month,  and  end 
of  the  year.  The  Post-office  packet  for  the  United 
States  was  to  depart  from  Liverpool,  weather  permitting, 
on  the  first  of  the  ensuing  month,  and  I  had  the  inter- 
vening time  on  my  hands.  I  had  taken  this  into  con- 
sideration, and  had  resolved  to  make  a  visit  to  a  certain 
spot  (which  I  need  not  name)  on  the  farther  borders  of 
Yorkshire.  It  was  endeared  to  me  by  my  having  first 
seen  Angela  at  a  farm-house  in  that  place,  and  my  melan- 
choly was  gratified  by  the  idea  of  taking  a  wintry  leave 
of  it  before  my  expatriation.  I  ought  to  explain,  that, 
to  avoid  being  sought  out  before  ray  resolution  should 
have  been  rendered  irrevocable  by  being  carried  into  full 
effect,  I  had  written  to  Angela  over  night,  in  my  usual 
manner,  lamenting  that  urgent  business — of  which  she 
should  know  all  particulars  by  and  by — took  me  unex- 
pectedly away  from  her  for  a  week  or  ten  days. 

There  was  no  Northern  Railway  at  that  time,  and  in 
its  place  there  were  stage-coaches  ;  which  I  occasionally 
find  myself,  in  common  with  some  other  people,  affect- 
ing to  lament  now,  but  which  everybody  dreaded  as  a 
very  serious  penance  then.  I  had  secured  the  box-seat 
on  the  fastest  of  these,  and  my  business  in  Fleet  Street 
was  to  get  into  a  cab  with  my  portmanteau,  so  to  make 
the  best  of  my  way  to  the  Peacock  at  Islington,  where  I 
was  to  join  this  coach.  But  when  one  of  our  Temple 
watchmen,  who  carried  my  portmanteau  into  Fleet  Street 
for  me,  told  me  about  the  huge  blocks  of  ice  that  had 
for  some  days  past  been  floating  in  the  river,  having 
closed  up  in  the  night,  and  made  a  walk  from  the  Temple 
Gardens  over  to  the  Surrey  shore,  I  began  to  ask  myself 
the  question,  whether  the  box-seat  would  not  be  likely 
to  put  a  sudden  and  a  frosty  end  to  my  unhappiness.  I 
was  heart-broken,  it  is  true,  and  yet  I  was  not  quite  so 
far  gone  as  to  wish  to  be  frozen  to  death. 

When  I  got  up  to  the  Peacock, — where  I  found  every- 
body drinking  hot  purl,  in  self-preservation, — I  asked  if 
there  were  an  inside  seat  to  spare.  I  then  discovered 
that,  inside  or  out,  I  was  the  only  passenger.  This  gave 
me  a  still  livelier  idea  of  the  great  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  since  that  coach  always  loaded  particularly 
well.  However,  I  took  a  little  purl  (which  I  found  un- 
commonly good),  and  got  into  the  coach.  When  I  was 
seated,  they  built  me  up  with  straw  to  the  waist,  and 
conscious  of  making  a  rather  ridiculous  appearance,  I 
began  my  journey. 

It  was  still  dark  when  we  left  the  Peacock.  For  a 
little  while,  pale,  uncertain  ghosts  of  houses  and  trees 
appeared  and  vanished,  and  then  it  was  hard,  black, 
frozen  day.  People  were  lighting  their  fires  ;  smoke 
was  mounting  straight  up  high  into  the  rarefied  air  ; 
and  we  were  rattling  for  Highgate  Archway  over  the 
hardest  ground  I  have  ever  heard  the  ring  of  iron  shoes 
on.  As  we  got  into  the  country,  everything  seemed  to 
have  grown  old  and  gray.  The  roads,  the  trees, 
thatched  roofs  of  cottages  and  homesteads,  the  ricks  in 
farmers'  yards.  Out-door  work  was  abandoned,  horse- 
troughs  at  roadside  inns  were  frozen  hard,  no  stragglers 
lounged  about,  doors  were  close  shut,  little  turnpike 
houses  had  blazing  fires  inside,  and  children  (even  turn- 
pike people  have  children,  and  seem  to  like  them)  rubbed 
the  frost  from  the  little  panes  of  glass  with  their  chubby, 
arms,  that  their  bright  eyes  might  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  solitary  coach  going  by.  I  don't  know  when  the 
snow  began  to  set  in,  but  I  know  that  we  were  changing 
horses  somewhere  when  I  heard  the  guard  remark, 
"  That  the  old  lady  up  in  the  sky  was  picking  her  geese 
pretty  hard  to-day."  Then,  indeed,  I  found  the  white 
down  falling  fast  and  thick. 

The  lonely  day  wore  on,  and  I  dozed  it  out,  as  a  lonely 
traveller  does.  I  was  warm  and  valiant  after  eating  and 
drinking, — i)articularly  after  dinner  ;  cold  and  depressed 
at  all  other  times.  I  was  always  bewildered  as  to  time 
and  place,  and  always  more  or  less  out  of  my  senses. 
The  coach  and  horses  seemed  to  execute  in  chorus  Auld 
Lang  Syne,  without  a  moment's  intermission.  They 
kept  the  time  and  tune  with  the  greatest  regularity,  and 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


1147 


rose  into  the  swell  at  the  beginning  of  the  Refrain,  with 
a  precision  that  worried  me  to  deatli.  While  we 
changed  horses,  the  guard  and  coachman  went  stumping 
up  and  down  the  road,  printing  off  their  shoes  in  the 
snow,  and  poured  so  much  liquid  consolation  into  them- 
selves without  being  any  the  worse  for  it,  that  I  began 
to  confound  them,  as  it  darkened  again,  with  two  great 
white  casks  standing  on  end.  Our  horses  tumbled  down 
in  solitary  places,  and  we  got  them  up, — which  was  the 
pleasantest  variety  I  had,  for  it  warmed  me.  And  it 
snowed  and  snowed,  and  still  it  snowed,  and  never  left 
off  snowing.  All  night  long,  we  went  on  in  this  manner. 
Thus  we  came  round  the  clock,  upon  the  Great  North 
Road,  to  the  performance  of  Auld  Lang  Syne  by  day 
again.  And  it  snowed  and  snowed,  and  still  it  snowed, 
and  never  left  off  snowing. 

I  forget  now  where  we  were  at  noon  on  the  second 
day,  and  where  we  ought  to  have  been  ;  but  I  know  that 
we  were  scores  of  miles  behindhand,  and  that  our  case 
was  growing  worse  every  hour.  The  drift  was  becoming 
prodigiously  deep  ;  landmarks  were  getting  snowed  out ; 
the  road  and  the  fields  were  all  one  ;  instead  of  having 
fences  and  hedge-rows  to  guide  us,  we  went  crunching 
on  over  an  unbroken  surface  of  ghastly  white  that  might 
sink  beneath  us  at  any  moment  and  drop  us  down  a 
whole  hillside.  Still  the  coachman  and  guard — who 
kept  together  on  the  box,  always  in  council,  and  looking 
well  about  them — made  out  the  track  with  astonishing 
sagacity. 

When  we  came  in  sight  of  a  town,  it  looked,  to  my 
fancy,  like  a  large  drawing  on  a  slate,  with  abundance 
of  slate-pencil  expended  on  the  churches  and  houses 
where  the  snow  lay  thickest.  When  we  came  within  a 
town,  and  found  the  church  clocks  all  stopped,  the  dial- 
faces  choked  with  snow,  and  the  Inn- signs  blotted  out, 
it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  place  were  overgrown  with 
white  moss.  As  to  the  coach,  it  was  a  mere  snowball  ; 
similarly,  the  men  and  boys  who  ran  along  beside  us  to 
the  town's  end,  turning  our  clogged  wheels  and  encour- 
aging our  horses,  were  men  and  boys  of  snow  ;  and  the 
bleak  wild  solitude  to  which  they  at  last  dismissed  us 
was  a  snowy  Sahara.  One  would  have  thought  this 
enough  :  notwithstanding  which,  I  pledge  my  word  that 
it  snowed  and  snowed,  and  still  it  snowed,  and  never 
left  off  snowing. 

We  performed  Auld  Lang  Syne  the  whole  day  ;  seeing 
nothing,  out  of  towns  and  villages,  but  the  track  of 
stoats,  hares,  and  foxes,  and  sometimes  of  birds.  At 
nine  o'clock  at  night,  on  a  Yorkshire  moor,  a  cheerful 
burst  from  our  horn,  and  a  welcome  sound  of  talking, 
with  a  glimmering  and  moving  about  of  lanterns,  roused 
me  from  my  drowsy  state.  I  found  that  we  were  going 
to  change. 

They  helped  me  out,  and  I  said  to  a  waiter,  whose 
bare  head  became  as  white  as  King  Lear's  in  a  single 
minute,  "  What  Inn  is  this  !  " 

"  The  Holly-Tree,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  believe,"  said  I,  apologetically,  to 
the  guard  and  coachman,  "  that  I  must  stop  here." 

Now  the  landlord,  and  the  landlady,  and  the  ostler, 
and  the  postboy,  and  all  the  stable  authorities,  had  al- 
ready asked  the  coachman,  to  the  wide-eyed  interest  of 
all  the  rest  of  the  establi^bnien^,  if  he  meant  to  go  on. 
The  coachman  had  already  replied,  "Yes,  he'd  take  her 
through  it," — meaning  by  Her  the  coach, — "  if  so  be  as 
George  would  stand  by  him."  George  Avas  the  guard, 
and  he  had  already  sworn  that  he  icould  stand  by  him. 
So  the  helpers  were  already  getting  the  horses  out. 

My  declaring  myself  beaten,  after  this  parley,  was  not 
an  announcement  without  preparation.  Indeed,  but  for 
the  way  to  the  announcement  being  smoothed  by  the 
parley,  I  more  than  doubt  whether,  as  an  innately  bash- 
ful man,  I  should  have  had  the  confidence  to  make  it. 
As  it  was,  it  received  the  approval  even  of  the  guard 
and  coachman.  1'herefore,  with  many  confirmations  of 
my  inclining,  and  many  remarks  from  one  bystander  to 
another,  tliat  the  gentleman  could  go  for'ard  by  the  mail 
to-morrow,  whereas  co-night  he  would  only  be  froze, 
and  where  was  the  good  of  a  gentleman  being  froze, — ah, 
let  alone  buried  alive  (which  latter  clause  was  added  by 
a  humorous  helper  as  a  joke  at  my  expense,  and  was  ex- 
tremely well  received),  I  saw  my  portmanteau  got  out 


stiff,  like  a  frozen  body;  did  the  handsome  thing  by  the 
guard  and  coachman  ;  wished  them  good  night  and  a 
prosperous  journey  ;  and,  a  little  ashamed  of  myself, 
after  all,  for  leaving  them  to  fight  it  out  alone,  followed 
the  landlord,  landlady,  and  waiter  of  the  Holly-Tree  up- 
stairs. 

I  thought  I  had  never  seen  such  a  large  room  as  that 
into  which  they  showed  me.  It  liad  five  windows,  with 
dark  red  curtains  that  would  have  absorbed  the  light  of 
a  general  illumination,  and  there  were  complications  of 
drapery  at  the  top  of  tlie  curtains,  that  went  wandering 
about  the  wall  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner.  I  asked 
for  a  smaller  room,  and  they  told  me  there  was  no  smaller 
room.  They  could  screen  me  in,  however,  the  landlord 
said.  They  brought  a  great  old  japanned  screen,  with 
natives  (Japanese,  1  suppose)  engaged  in  a  variety  of 
idiotic  pursuits  all  over  it ;  and  left  me  roasting  whole 
before  an  immense  fire. 

My  bedroom  was  some  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  up  a 
great  staircase,  at  the  end  of  a  long  gallery  ;  and  nobody 
knows  what  a  misery  this  is  to  a  bashful  man  who  would 
rather  not  meet  people  on  the  stairs.  It  was  the  grimmest 
room  T  have  ever  had  the  nightmare  in  ;  and  all  the  fur- 
niture, from  the  four  posts  of  the  bed  to  the  two  old  sil- 
ver candlesticks,  was  tall,  high-shouldered,  and  spindle- 
vvaisted.  Below,  in  my  sitting-room,  if  I  looked  round 
my  screen,  the  wind  rushed  at  me  like  a  mad  bull  ;  if  I 
stuck  to  my  arm-chair,  the  fire  scorched  me  to  the  colour 
of  a  new  brick.  The  chimney-piece  was  very  high,  and 
there  was  a  bad  glass — what  I  may  call  a  wavy  glass — 
above  it,  which,  when  I  stood  up,  just  showed  me  my 
anterior  phrenological  developments, — and  these  never 
look  well,  in  any  subject,  cut  short  off  at  the  eyebrow. 
If  I  stood  with  my  back  to  the  fire,  a  gloomy  vault  of 
darkness  above  and  beyond  the  screen  insisted  on  being 
looked  at ;  and,  in  its  dim  remoteness,  the  drapery  of 
the  ten  curtains  of  the  five  windows  went  twisting  and 
creeping  about,  like  a  nest  of  gigantic  worms. 

I  suppose  that  what  I  observe  in  myself  must  be  ob- 
served by  some  other  men  of  similar  character  in  them- 
selves  ;  therefore  I  am  emboldened  to  mention,  that,  when 
I  travel,  I  never  arrive  at  a  place  but  I  immediately  want 
to  go  away  from  it.  Before  I  had  finished  my  supper  of 
broiled  fowl  and  mulled  port,  I  had  impressed  upon  the 
waiter  in  detail  my  arrangements  for  departure  in  the 
morning.  Breakfast  and  bill  at  eight.  Fly  at  nine.  Two 
horses,  or,  if  needful,  even  four. 

Tired  though  I  was,  the  night  appeared  about  a  week 
long.  In  oases  of  nightmare,  I  thought  of  Angela,  and 
felt  more  depressed  than  ever  by  the  reflection  that  I 
was  on  the  shortest  road  to  Gretna  Green.  What  had  2 
to  do  with  Gretna  Green  ?  I  was  not  going  that  way  to 
the  Devil,  but  by  the  American  route,  I  remarked,  in  my 
bitterness. 

In  the  morning  I  found  that  it  was  snowing  still,  that 
it  had  snowed  all  night,  and  that  I  was  snowed  up. 
Nothing  could  get  out  of  that  spot  on  the  moor,  or  could 
come  at  it,  until  the  road  had  been  cut  out  by  labourers 
from  the  market-town.  When  they  might  cut  their  way 
to  the  Holly-Tree,  nobody  could  tell  me. 

It  was  now  Christmas  Eve.  I  should  have  had  a  dis- 
mal Christmas-time  of  it  anywhere,  and  consequently 
that  did  not  so  much  matter  ;  still,  being  snowed  up 
was,  like  dying  of  frost,  a  thing  I  had  not  bargained  for. 
I  felt  very  lonely.  Yet  I  could  no  more  have  proposed 
to  the  landlord  and  landlady  to  admit  me  to  their  society 
(though  I  should  have  liked  it  very  much),  than  I  could 
have  asked  them  to  present  me  with  a  piece  of  plate. 
Here  my  great  secret,  the  real  bashfulness  of  my  charac- 
ter, is  to  be  observed.  Like  most  bashful  men,  I  judge 
of  other  people  as  if  they  were  bashful  too.  Besides 
being  far  too  shamefaced  to  make  the  proposal  myself, 
I  really  had  a  delicate  misgiving  that  it  would  be  in  the 
last  degree  disconcerting  to  them. 

Trying  to  settle  down,  therefore,  in  my  solitude,  I  first 
I  of  all  asked  what  books  there  were  in  the  house.  The 
j  waiter  brought  me  a  Book  of  Roads,  two  or  three  old 
j  Newspapers,a  little  Song-Book  terminating  in  a  collection 
of  Toasts  and  Sentiments,  a  little  Jest-book,  an  odd  vol- 
j  ume  of  Peregrine  Pickle,  and  the  Sentimental  Journey. 
I  knew  every  word  of  the  two  last  already,  but  I  read 
I  them  through  again,  then  tried  to  hum  all  the  songs 


1148 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


(Auld  Lang  Syne  was  among  them);  went  entirely  througli 
the  jokes, — in  which  I  found  a  fund  of  melancholy  adapt- 
ed to  my  state  of  mind  ;  proposed  all  the  toasts,  enunci- 
ated all"  the  sentiments,  and  mastered  all  the  papers. 
The  latter  had  nothing  in  them  but  Stock  advertisements, 
a  meeting  about  a  county  rate,  and  a  highway  robbery. 
As  I  am  a  greedy  reader,  I  could  not  make  this  supply 
hold  out  until  night ;  it  was  exhausted  by  tea-time. 
Being  then  entirely  cast  upon  my  own  resources,  I  got 
through  an  hour  in  considering  what  to  do  next.  Ulti- 
mately, it  came  into  my  head  (from  which  I  was  anxious 
by  any  means  to  exclude  Angela  and  Edwin),  that  I 
would  endeavour  to  recall  my  experience  of  Inns,  and 
would  try  how  long  it  lasted  me.  I  stirred  the  tire, 
moved  my  chair  a  little  to  one  side  of  the  screen, — not 
daring  to  go  far,  for  T  knew  the  wind  was  waiting  to 
make  a  rush  at  me,  I  could  hear  it  growling, — and 
began. 

My  first  impressions  of  an  Inn  dated  from  the  Nursery  ; 
consequently,  I  went  back  to  the  Nursery,  for  a  starting- 
point,  and  found  myself  at  the  knee  of  a  sallow  woman 
with  a  fishy  eye,  an  aquiline  nose,  and  a  green  gown, 
whose  specialty  was  a  dismal  narrative  of  a  landlord  by 
the  roadside,  whose  visitors  unaccountably  disappeared 
for  many  years,  until  it  was  discovered  that  the  pursuit 
of  his  life  had  been  to  convert  them  into  pies.  For  the 
better  devotion  of  himself  to  this  branch  of  industry,  he 
had  constructed  a  secret  door  behind  the  head  of  the  bed  ; 
and  when  the  visitor  (oppressed  with  pie),  had  fallen 
asleep,  this  wicked  landlord  would  look  softly  in  with  a 
lamp  in  one  hand  and  a  knife  in  the  other,  would  cut  his 
throat,  and  would  make  him  into  pies  ;  for  which  pur- 
pose he  had  coppers  underneath  a  trap-door,  always 
boiling ;  and  rolled  out  his  pastry  in  the  dead  of  the 
night.  Yet  even  he  was  not  insensible  to  the  stings  of  con- 
science, for  he  never  went  to  sleep  without  being  heard 
to  mutter,  "Too  much  pepper  !"  which  was  eventually 
the  cause  of  his  being  brought  to  justice.  I  had  no  sooner 
disposed  of  this  criminal  than  there  started  up  another, 
of  the  same  period,  whose  profession  was  originally 
housebreaking  ;  in  the  pursuit  of  which  art  he  had  had 
his  right  ear  chopped  off  one  night,  as  he  was  burglari- 
ously getting  in  at  a  window,  by  a  brave  and  lovely  ser- 
vant-maid (whom  the  aquiline-nosed  woman,  though  not 
at  all  answering  the  description,  always  mysteriously 
implied  to  be  herself).  After  several  years,  this  brave 
and  lovely  servant-maid  was  married  to  the  landlord  of 
a  country  Inn ;  which  landlord  had  this  remarkable 
characteristic,  that  he  always  wore  a  silk  nightcap,  and 
never  would  on  any  consideration  take  it  off.  At  last, 
one  night,  when  he  was  fast  asleep,  the  brave  and  lovely 
woman  lifted  up  his  silk  nightcap  on  the  right  side,  and 
found  that  he  had  no  ear  there  ;  upon  which  she  saga- 
ciously perceived  that  he  was  the  clipped  housebreaker, 
who  had  married  her  with  the  intention  of  putting  her 
to  death.  She  immediately  heated  the  poker  and  ter- 
minated his  career,  for  which  she  was  taken  to  King 
George  upon  his  throne,  and  received  the  compliments 
of  royalty  on  her  great  discretion  and  valour.  This  same 
narrator,  who  had  a  Ghoulish  pleasure,  I  have  long  been 
persuaded,  in  terrifying  me  to  the  utmost  confines  of  my 
reason,  had  another  authentic  anecdote  within  her  own 
experience,  founded,  I  now  believe,  upon  Raymond  and 
Agnes,  or  the  Bleeding  Nun.  She  said  it  happened  to 
her  brother-in-law,  who  was  immensely  rich, — which  my 
father  was  not ;  and  immensely  tall, — which  my  father 
was  not.  It  was  always  a  point  with  this  Ghoul  to  pre- 
sent my  dearest  relations  and  friends  to  my  youthful 
mind  under  circumstances  of  disparaging  contrast.  The 
brother-in-law  was  riding  once  through  a  forest  on  a 
magnificent  horse  (we  had  no  magnificent  horse  at  our 
house),  attended  by  a  favourite  and  valuable  Newfound- 
land dog  (we  had  no  dog),  when  he  found  himself  be- 
nighted, and  came  to  an  Inn.  A  dark  woman  opened 
the  door,  and  he  asked  her  if  he  could  have  a  bed  there. 
She  answered  yes,  and  put  his  horse  in  the  stable,  and 
took  him  into  a  room  where  there  were  two  dark  men. 
While  he  was  at  supper,  a  parrot  in  the  room  began  to 
talk, — saying,  "Blood,  blood!  Wipe  up  the  blood!" 
Upon  which  one  of  the  dark  men  wrung  the  parrot's  neck, 
and  said  he  was  fond  of  roasted  parrots,  and  he  meant 
to  have  this  one  for  breakfast  in  the  morning.  After 


eating  and  drinking  heartily,  the  immensely  rich,  tall 
brother-in-law  went  up  to  bed  ;  but  he  was  rather  vexed, 
because  they  had  shut  his  dog  in  the  stable,  saying  that 
they  never  allowed  dogs  in  the  house.  He  sat  very  quiet 
for  more  than  an  hour,  thinking  and  thinking, 'when, 
just  as  his  candle  was  burning  out,  he  heard  a  scratch  at 
the  door.  He  opened  the  door,  and  there  was  the  New- 
foundland dog !  The  dog  came  softly  in,  smelt  about 
him,  went  straight  to  some  straw  in  a  corner  which  the 
dark  men  had  said  covered  apples,  tore  the  straw  away, 
and  disclosed  two  sheets  steeped  in  blood.  Just  at  that 
moment  the  candle  went  out,  and  the  brother-in-law, 
looking  through  a  chink  in  the  door,  saw  the  two  dark 
men  stealing  up-stairs  ;  one  armed  with  a  dagger  that 
long  (about  five  feet) ;  the  other  carrying  a  chopper,  a 
sack,  and  a  spade.  Having  no  remembrance  of  the  close 
of  this  adventure,  I  suppose  my  faculties  to  have  been 
always  so  frozen  with  terror  at  this  stage  of  it,  that  the 
power  of  listening  stagnated  within  me  for  some  quarter 
of  an  hour. 

These  barbarous  stories  carried  me,  sitting  there  on  the 
Holly-Tree  hearth,  to  the  Roadside  Inn,  renowned  in  my 
time  in  a  sixpenny  book  with  a  folding  plate,  represent- 
ing in  a  central  compartment  of  oval  form  the  portrait  of 
Jonathan  Bradford,  and  in  four  corner  compartments 
four  incidents  of  the  tragedy  with  which  the  name  is  as- 
sociated,— colqured  with  a  hand  at  once  so  free  and  eco- 
nomical, that  the  bloom  of  Jonathan's  complexion  passed 
without  any  pause  into  the  breeches  of  the  ostler,  and, 
smearing  itself  off  into  the  next  division,  became  rum  in 
a  bottle.  Then  I  remembered  how  the  landlord  was 
found  at  the  murdered  traveller's  bedside,  with  his  own 
knife  at  his  feet,  and  blood  upon  his  hand  ;  how  he  was 
hanged  for  the  murder,  notwithstanding  his  protestation 
that  he  had  indeed  come  there  to  kill  the  traveller  for 
his  saddle-bags,  but  had  been  stricken  motionless  on 
finding  him  already  slain  ;  and  how  the  ostler,  years  af- 
terwards, owned  the  deed.  By  this  time  I  had  made  my- 
self quite  uncomfortable.  I  stirred  the  fire,  and  stood 
with  my  back  to  it  as  long  as  I  could  bear  the  heat,  look- 
ing up  at  the  darkness  beyond  the  screen,  and  at  the 
wormy  curtains  creeping  in  and  creeping  out,  like  the 
worms  in  the  ballad  of  Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  fair 
Imogene. 

There  was  an  Inn  in  the  cathedral  town  where  I  went 
to  school,  which  had  pleasanter  recollections  about  it 
than  any  of  these.    I  took  it  next.    It  was  the  Inn  where 
friends  used  to  put  up,  and  where  we  used  to  go  to  see 
I  parents,  and  to  have  salmon  and  fowls,  and  be  tipped. 
1  It  had  an  ecclesiastical  sign, — the  Mitre, — and  a  bar  that 
seemed  to  be  the  next  best  thing  to  a  bishopric,  it  was  so 
I  snug.    I  loved  the  landlord's  youngest  daughter  to  dis- 
traction,—  but  let  that  pass.    It  was  in  this  Inn  that  I  was 
cried  over  by  my  rosy  little  sister,  because  I  had  acquired 
a  black  eye  in  a  fight.    And  though  she  had  been,  that 
Holly-Tree  night,  for  many  a  long  year  where  all  tears 
are  dried,  the  Mitre  softened  me  yet. 

"  To  be  continued  to-morrow,"  said  I,  when  I  took  my 
candle  to  go  to  bed.  But  my  bed  took  it  upon  itself  to 
continue  the  train  of  thought  that  night.  It  carried  me 
away,  like  the  enchanted  carpet,  to  a  distant  place 
(though  still  in  England),  and  there,  alighting  from  a 
stage-coach  at  another  Inn  in  the  snow,  as  I  had  actually 
done  some  years  before,  I  repeated  in  my  sleep  a  curious 
experience  I  had  really  had  there.  More  than  a  year  be- 
fore I  made  the  journey  in  the  course  of  which  I  put  up 
at  that  Inn,  I  had  lost  a  very  near  and  dear  friend  by 
death.  Every  night  since,  at  home  or  away  from  home, 
I  had  dreamed  of  that  friend  ;  sometimes  as  still  living  ; 
sometimes  as  returning  from  the  world  of  shadows  to 
comfort  me  ;  always  as  being  beautiful,  placid,  and  hap- 
py, never  in  association  with  any  approach  to  fear  or  dis- 
tress. It  was  at  a  lonely  Inn  in  a  wide  moorland  place, 
that  I  halted  to  pass  the  night.  When  I  had  looked  from 
my  bedroom  window  over  the  waste  of  snow  on  which 
the  moon  was  shining,  I  sat  down  by  my  fire  to  write  a 
letter.  I  had  always,  until  that  hour,  kept  it  within  my 
own  breast  that  I  dreamed  every  night  of  the  dear  los 
one.  But  in  the  letter  that  I  wrote  I  recorded  the  ci 
cumstancc,  and  added  that  I  felt  much  interested  in  prov 
ing  whether  the  subject  of  my  dream  would  still  b 
faithful  to  me,  travel-tired,  and  in  that  remote  place. 


MLSCEL  L  A  NEO  US. 


1149 


No.  I  lost  the  beloved  figure  of  my  vision  in  parting 
with  the  secret.  My  sleep  has  never  looked  uikhi  it  since, 
in  siKteen  years,  but  once.  I  was  in  Italy,  and  awoke 
(or  seemed  to  awake),  the  well-remembered  voice  dis- 
tinctly in  my  ears,  conversing  with  it.  I  entreated  it,  as 
it  rose  above  my  bed  and  soared  up  to  the  vaulted  roof 
of  the  old  room,  to  answer  me  a  question  I  had  asked 
touching  the  Future  Life.  My  hands  were  still  out- 
stretched towards  it  as  it  vanished,  when  I  heard  a  bell 
ringing  by  the  garden  wall,  and  a  voice  in  the  deep  still- 
ness of  tiie  night  calling  on  all  good  Christians  to  pray 
for  the  souls  of  the  dead  ;  it  being  All  Souls'  Eve. 

To  return  to  the  Holly-Tree.  When  I  awoke  next  day, 
it  wa.s  freezing  hard,  and  the  lowering  sky  threatened 
more  snow.  My  breakfast  cleared  away,  I  drew  my 
chair  into  its  former  place,  and,  with  the  fire  getting  so 
much  the  better  of  the  landscape  that  I  sat  in  twilight, 
resumed  my  Inn  remembrances. 

That  was  a  good  Inn  down  in  Wiltshire  where  I  put 
up  once,  in  the  days  of  the  hard  Wiltshire  ale,  and  be- 
fore all  beer  was  bitterness.  It  was  on  the  skirts  of 
Salisbury  Plain,  and  the  midnight  wind  that  rattled  my 
lattice  window  came  moaning  at  me  from  Stonehenge. 
There  was  a  hanger-on  at  thac  establishment  (a  super- 
naturally  preserved  Druid  I  believe  him  to  have  been, 
and  to  be  still),  with  long  white  hair,  and  a  flinty  blue 
eye  always  looking  afar  off  ;  who  claimed  to  have  been 
a  shepherd,  and  who  seemed  to  be  ever  watching  for  the 
reappearance,  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon,  of  some 
ghostly  flock  of  sheep  that  had  been  mutton  for  many 
ages.  He  was  a  man  with  a  weird  belief  in  him  that  no  one 
could  count  the  stones  of  Stonehenge  twice,  and  make 
the  same  number  of  them  ;  likewise,  that  any  one  who 
counted  them  three  times  nine  times,  and  then  stood  in 
the  centre  and  said,  "  I  dare  !  "  would  behold  a  tre- 
mendous apparition,  and  be  stricken  dead.  He  pre- 
tended to  have  seen  a  bustard  (I  suspect  him  to  have 
been  familiar  with  the  dodo),  in  manner  following  :  He 
was  out  upon  the  plain  at  the  close  of  a  late  autumn 
day,  when  he  dimly  discerned,  going  on  before  him  at  a 
curious  fitfully  bounding  pace,  what  he  at  first  supposed 
to  be  a  gig-umbrella  that  had  been  blown  from  some 
conveyance,  but  what  he  presently  believed  to  be  a  lean 
dwarf  man  upon  a  little  pony.  Having  followed  this 
object  for  some  distance  without  gaining  on  it,  and  hav- 
ing called  to  it  many  times  without  receiving  any  an- 
swer, he  pursued  it  for  miles  and  miles,  when,  at  length 
coming  up  with  it,  he  discovered  it  to  be  the  last  bustard 
in  Great  Britain,  degenerated  into  a  wingless  state,  and 
running  along  the  ground.  Resolved  to  capture  him  or 
perish  in  the  attempt,  he  closed  with  the  bustard  ;  but 
the  bustard,  who  had  formed  a  counter-resolution  that 
he  should  do  neither,  threw  him,  stunned  him,  and  was 
at  last  seen  making  off  due  west.  This  weird  man,  at 
that  state  of  metempsychosis,  may  have  been  a  sleep- 
walker or  an  enthusiast  or  a  robber  ;  but  I  awoke  one 
night  to  find  him  in  the  dark  at  my  bedside,  repeating 
the  Athanasian  Creed  in  a  terrific  voice.  I  paid  my  bill 
next  day,  and  retired  from  the  county  with  all  possible 
precipitation. 

That  was  not  a  commonplace  story  which  worked  it- 
self out  at  a  little  Inn  in  Switzerland,  while  I  was  stay- 
ing there.  It  was  a  very  homely  place,  in  a  village  of 
one  narrow,  zigzag  street  among  mountains,  and  you 
went  in  at  the  main  door  through  the  cow-house,  and 
among  the  mules  and  the  dogs  and  the  fowls,  before  as- 
cending a  great  bare  staircase  to  the  rooms  ;  which  were 
all  of  unpainted  wood,  without  })lastering  or  papering, — 
like  rough  packing-cases.  Outside  there  was  nothing  but 
the  straggling  street,  a  little  toy  church  with  a  copper- 
coloured  steeple,  a  pine  forest,  a  torrent,  mists,  and 
mountain-sides.  A  young  man  belonging  to  this  Inn 
had  disappeared  eight  weeks  before  (it  was  winter-time), 
and  was  supposed  to  have  had  some  undiscovered  love 
affair,  and  to  have  gone  for  a  soldier.  He  had  got  up  in 
the  night,  and  dropped  into  the  village  street  from  the 
loft  in  which  he  slept  with  another  man  ;  and  he  had 
done  it  so  quietly,  that  his  companion  and  fellow- 
labourer  had  heard  no  movement  when  he  was  awak- 
ened in  the  morning,  and  they  said,  "Louis,  where  is 
Henri  ?"  They  looked  for  him  high  and  low,  in  vain, 
and  gave  him  up.    Now,  outside  this  Inn,  there  stood, 


as  there  stood  outside  every  dwelling  in  the  village,  a 
stack  of  firewood  ;  but  the  stack  belonging  to  the  Iim 
was  higher  than  any  of  the  rest,  because  the  Inn  was 
I  the  richest  house,  and  burnt  the  most  fuel.  It  began  to 
j  be  noticed,  while  they  were  looking  high  and  low,  that 
a  Bantam  cock,  part  of  the  live  stock  of  the  Inn,  put 
himself  wonderfully  out  of  his  way  to  get  to  the  top  of 
I  this  wood-stack  ;  and  that  lie  would  stay  there  for  hours 
i  and  hours,  crowing,  until  he  appeared  in  danger  of  H\)\\t- 
ting  himself.  Five  weeks  went  on, — r;ix  weeks,— and 
still  this  terrible  Bantam,  neglecting  his  domestic  affairs, 
was  always  on  th(i  top  of  the  wood  stack,  crowing  the 
very  eyes  out  of  his  head.  By  this  time  it  was  perceived 
that  Louis  had  become  inspired  with  a  violent  animosity 
towards  the  terrible  Bantam,  and  one  morning  he  was 
seen  by  a  woman,  who  sat  nursing  her  goitre  at  a  little 
window  in  a  gleam  of  sun,  to  catch  up  a  rough  billet  of 
wood,  with  a  great  oath,  hurl  it  at  the  terrible  Bantam 
crowing  on  the  wood-stack,  and  biing  him  down  dead. 
Hereupon  the  woman,  with  a  sudden  light  in  her  mind, 
stole  round  to  the  back  of  the  wood-stack,  and,  beirg  a 
good  climber,  as  all  those  women  are,  climbed  up,  and 
soon  was  seen  upon  the  summit,  screaming,  looking 
down  the  hollow  within,  and  crying,  "  Seize  Louis,  the 
murderer  !  Ring  the  church  bell  !  Here  is  the  body  I  " 
I  saw  the  murderer  that  day,  and  I  saw  him  as  I  sat  by 
my  fire  at  the  Holly-Tree  Inn,  and  I  see  liim  now,  lying 
shackled  with  cords  on  the  stable  litter,  among  the  mild 
eyes  and  the  smoking  breath  of  the  cows,  waiting  to  be 
taken  away  by  the  police,  and  stared  at  by  the  fearful 
village.  A  heavy  animal, — the  dullest  animal  in  the 
stables, — with  a  stupid  head,  and  a  lumj)ish  face  devoid 
of  any  trace  of  sensibility,  who  had  been,  within  the 
knowledge  of  the  murdered  youth,  an  embezzler  of  cer- 
tain small  moneys  belonging  to  his  master,  and  who  had 
taken  this  hopeful  mode  of  ])utting  a  possible  accuser 
out  of  his  way.  All  of  which  he  confessed  next  day, 
like  a  sulky  wretch  who  couldn't  be  troubled  any  more, 
now  that  they  had  got  hold  of  him,  and  meant  to  make 
an  end  of  him.  I  saw  him  once  again,  on  the  day  of  my 
departure  from  the  Inn.  In  that  Canton  the  headsman 
still  does  his  office  with  a  sword  ;  and  I  came  upon  this 
murderer  sitting  bound  to  a  chair,  with  his  eyes  ban- 
daged, on  a  scaffold  in  a  little  market-place.  In  that  in- 
stant,.a  great  sword  (loaded  with  quicksilver  in  the  thick 
part  of  the  blade),  swept  round  him  like  a  gust  of  wind 
i  or  fire,  and  there  was  no  such  creature  in  the  world.  My 
wonder  was,  not  that  he  was  so  suddenly  despatched, 
but  that  any  head  was  left  imreaped,  within  a  radius  of 
fifty  yards  of  that  tremendous  sickle. 

That  was  a  good  Inn,  too,  with  the  kind,  cheerful 
landlady  and  the  honest  landlord,  where  I  lived  in  the 
I  shadow  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  where  one  of  the  apartments 
j  has  a  zoological  papering  on  the  walls,  not  so  accurately 
joined  but  that  the  elephant  occasionally  rejoices  in  a 
I  tiger's  hind  legs  and  tail,  while  the  lion  puts  on  a  trunk 
j  and  tusks,  and  the  bear,  moulting  as  it  were,  appears  as 
j  to  portions  of  himself  like  a  leopard.  I  made  several 
j  American  friends  at  that  Inn,  who  all  called  Mont  Blanc 
I  Mount  Blank, — except  one  good-humoured  gentleman, 
I  of  a  very  sociable  nature,  who  became  on  such  intimate 
j  terms  with  it  that  he  spoke  of  it  familiarly  as  *"  Blank"  ; 
j  observing,  at  breakfast,  "Blank  looks  pretty  tall  this 
I  morning "  ;  or  considerably  doubting  in  the  court-yard 
I  in  the  evening,  whether  there  warn't  some  go-ahead 
I  naters  in  our  country,  sir,  that  would  make  out  the  top 
of  Blank  in  a  couple  of  hours  from  the  first  start — now  ! 

Once  I  passed  a  fortnight  at  an  Inn  in  the  North  of 
j  England,  where  I  was  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  a  tre- 
I  mendous  pie.  It  was  a  Yorkshire  pie,  like  a  fort, — an 
I  abandoned  fort  with  nothing  in  it ;  but  the  waiter  had  a 
I  fixed  idea  that  it  was  a  point  of  ceremony  at  every  meal 
to  put  the  pie  on  the  table.  After  some  days  I  tried  to 
I  hint,  in  severAl  delicate  ways,  that  I  considered  the  pie 
,  done  with  ;  as,  for  example,  by  emptying  fag-ends  of 
I  glasses  of  wine  into  it  ;  putting  cheese-plates  and  spoons 
I  into  it,  as  into  a  basket;  putting  wine-bottles  into  it,  as 
!  into  a  cooler  ;  but  always  in  vain,  the  pic  being  invaria- 
I  bly  cleaned  out  again  and  brought  up  as  before.  At  last 
I  beginning  to  be  doubtful  whether  I  was  not  the  victim 
j  of  a  spectral  illusion,  and  whether  my  health  and  spirits 
I  might  not  sink  under  tne  horrors  of  an  imaginary  pie,  I 


1150 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


cut  a  triangle  out  of  it,  fully  as  large  as  the  musical  in- 
strument of  that  name  in  a  powerful  orchestra.  Human 
prevision  could  not  have  foreseen  the  result — but  the 
waiter  mended  the  pie.  With  some  effectual  species  of 
cement,  he  adroitly  fitted  the  triangle  in  again,  and  I 
paid  my  reckoning  and  fled. 

The  Holly-Tree  was  getting  rather  dismal.  I  made  an 
overland  expedition  beyond  the  screen,  and  penetrated 
as  far  as  the  fourth  window.  Here  I  was  driven  back 
by  stress  of  weather.  Arrived  at  my  winter-quarters 
once  more,  I  made  up  the  fire,  and  took  another  Inn. 

It  was  in  ihe  remotest  part  of  Cornwall.  A  great  an- 
nual Miners'  Feast  was  being  holden  at  the  Inn,  when  I 
and  my  travelling  companions  presented  ourselves  at 
night  among  the  wild  crowd  that  were  dancing  before  it 
by  torchlight.  We  had  had  a  breakdown  in  the  dark, 
on  a  stony  morass  some  miles  away  ;  and  I  had  the  hon- 
our of  leading  one  of  the  unharnessed  post-horses.  If 
any  lady  or  gentleman  on  perusal  of  the  present  lines 
will  take  any  very  tall  post-horse  with  his  traces  hanging 
about  his  legs,  and  will  conduct  him  by  the  bearing-rein 
into  the  heart  of  a  country  dance  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 
couples,  that  lady  or  gentleman  will  then,  and  only  then, 
form  an  adequate  idea  of  the  extent  to  which  that  post- 
horse  will  tread  on  his  conductor's  toes.  Over  and 
above  which,  the  post-horse,  finding  three  hundred  peo- 
ple whirling  about  him,  will  probably  rear,  and  also  lash 
out  with  his  hind  legs,  in  a  manner  incompatible  with 
dignity  or  self-respect  on  his  conductor's  part.  With 
such  little  drawbacks  on  my  usually  impressive  aspect, 
I  appeared  at  this  Cornish  Inn,  to  the  unutterable  won- 
der of  the  Cornish  Miners.  It  was  full,  and  twenty 
times  full,  and  nobody  could  be  received  but  the  post- 
hor^e, — though  to  get  rid  of  that  noble  animal  was  some- 
thing. While  my  fellow-travellers  and  I  were  discus- 
sing how  to  pass  the  night  and  so  much  of  the  next  day 
as  must  intervene  before  the  jovial  blacksmith  and  the 
jovial  wheelwright  would  be  in  a  condition  to  go  out  on 
"the  morass  and  mend  the  coach,  an  honest  man  stepped 
forth  from  the  crowd  and  proposed  his  unlet  floor  of  two 
rooms,  with  supper  of  eggs  and  bacon,  ale  and  punch. 
We  joyfully  accompanied  him  home  to  the  strangest  of 
clean  houses,  where  we  were  well  entertained  to  the  sat- 
isfaction of  all  parties.  But  the  novel  feature  of  the  en- 
tertainment was,  that  our  host  was  a  chair-maker,  and 
that  the  chairs  assigned  to  us  were  mere  frames,  alto- 
gether without  bottoms  of  any  sort ;  so  that  we  passed 
the  evening  on  perches.  Nor  was  this  the  absurdest 
consequence  ;  for  when  we  unbent  at  supper,  and  any 
one  of  us  gave  way  to  laughter,  he  forgot  the  peculiarity 
of  his  position,  and  instantly  disappeared.  I  myself, 
doubled  up  into  an  attitude  from  which  self- extrication 
was  impossible,  was  taken  out  of  my  frame,  like  a  clown 
in  a  comic  pantomime  who  has  tumbled  into  a  tub,  five 
times  by  the  taper's  light  during  the  eggs  and  bacon. 

The  Holly-Tree  was  fast  reviving  within  me  a  sense  of 
loneliness.  I  began  to  feel  conscious  that  my  subject 
would  never  carry  me  on  until  I  was  dug  out.  I  might 
be  a  week  here, — weeks  ! 

There  was  a  story  with  a  singular  idea  in  it,  connected 
with  an  Inn  I  once  passed  a  night  at  in  a  picturesque  old 
town  on  the  Welsh  border.  In  a  large,  double-bedded 
room  of  this  Inn  there  had  been  a  suicide  committed  by 
poison,  in  one  bed,  while  a  tired  traveller  slept  uncon- 
scious in  the  other.  After  that  time,  the  suicide  bed 
was  never  used,  but  the  other  constantly  was  ;  the  dis- 
used bedstead  remaining  in  the  room  empty,  though  as 
to  all  other  respects  in  its  old  state.  The  story  ran,  that 
whosoever  slept  in  this  room,  though  never  so  entire 
a  stranger,  from  never  so  far  off,  was  invariably  observed 
to  come  down  in  the  morning  with  an  impression  that  he 
smelt  Laudanum,  and  that  his  mind  always  turned  upon 
tlie  subject  of  suicide  ;  to  which,  whatevej*  kind  of  man 
he  might  be,  he  was  certain  to  make  some  reference  if 
he  conversed  with  any  one.  This  went  on  for  years,  un- 
til it  at  length  induced  the  landlord  to  take  the  disused 
bedstead  down,  and  bodily  burn  it, — bed,  hangings,  and 
all.  The  strange  influence  (this  was  the  story)  now 
changed  to  a  fainter  one,  but  never  changed  afterwards. 
The  occupant  of  that  room,  with  occasional  but  very 
rare  exceptions,  would  come  down  in  the  morning,  trying 
to  recall  a  forgotten  dream  he  had  had  in  the  night.  The 


landlord,  on  his  mentioning -^his  perplexity,  would  sug- 
gest various  common-place  subjects,  not  one  of  which, 
as  he  very  well  knew,  was  the  true  subject.  But  the 
moment  the  landlord  suggested,  "  Poison,"  the  traveller 
started,  and  cried,  "Yes!"  He  never  failed  to  accept 
that  suggestion,  and  he  never  recalled  any  more  of  the 
dream. 

This  reminiscence  brought  the  Welsh  Inns  in  general 
before  me  ;  with  the  women  in  their  round  hats,  and  the 
harpers  with  their  white  beards  (venerable,  but  humbugs, 
I  am  afraid),  playing  outside  the  door  while  I  took  my 
dinner.  The  transition  was  natural  to  the  Highland  Inns, 
with  the  oatmeal  bannocks,  the  honey,  the  venison  steaks, 
the  trout  from  the  loch,  the  whiskey  and  perhaps  (having 
the  materials  so  temptingly  at  hand)  the  Athol  brose. 
Once  was  I  coming  south  from  the  Scottish  Highlands  in 
j  hot  haste,  hoping  to  change  quickly  at  the  station  at  the 
j  bottom  of  a  certain  wild  historical  glen,  when  these  eyes 
!  did  with  mortification  see  the  landlord  come  out  with  a 
I  telescope  and  sweep  the  whole  jjrospect  for  the  horses ; 
I  which  horses  were  away  picking  up  their  own  living, 
and  did  not  heave  in  sight  under  four  hours.  Having 
thought  of  the  loch -trout,  I  was  taken  by  quick  associa- 
tion to  the  Anglers'  Inns  of  England  (I  have  assisted  at 
innumerable  feats  of  angling  by  lying  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat,  whole  summer  days,  doing  nothing  with  the 
greatest  perseverance  ;  which  I  have  generally  found  to 
be  as  effectual  towards  the  taking  of  fish  as  the  finest 
j  tackle  and  the  utmost  science),  and  to  the  pleasant  white, 
clean,  flower-pot-decorated,  bedrooms  of  those  inns, 
I  overlooking  the  river,  and  the  ferry,  and  the  green  ait, 
and  the  church -spire,  and  the  country  bridge  ;  and  to 
the  peerless  Emma  with  the  bright  eyes  and  the  pretty 
smile,  who  waited,  bless  her  !  with  the  natural  grace  that 
would  have  converted  Blue-Beard.  Casting  my  eyes  up- 
on my  Holly-Tree  fire,  I  next  discerned  among  the  glow- 
ing coals  the  pictures  of  a  score  or  more  of  those  wonder- 
ful English  posting-inns  which  we  are  all  so  sorry  to 
have  lost,  which  were  so  large  and  so  comfortable,  and 
which  were  such  monuments  of  British  submission  to 
rapacity  and  extortion.  He  who  would  see  these  houses 
pining  away,  let  him  walk  from  Basingstoke,  or  even 
Windsor,  to  London,  by  way  of  Hounslow,  and  moralize 
on  their  perishing  remains  ;  the  stables  crumbling  to 
dust ;  unsettled  labourers  and  wanderers  bivouacking  in 
the  out-houses  ;  grass  growing  in  the  yards  ;  the  rooms, 
where  erst  so  many  hundred  beds  of  down  were  made 
up,  let  off  to  Irish  lodgers  at  eighteen-pence  a  week  ;  a 
little  ill-looking  beer-shop  shrinking  in  the  tap  of  former 
days,  burning  coach-house  gates  for  firewood,  having  one 
of  its  two  windows  bunged  up,  as  if  it  had  received  punish- 
ment in  a  fight  with  the  railroad  ;  a  low,  bandy-legged, 
brick-making  bulldog  standing  in  the  doorway.  What 
could  I  next  see  in  my  fire  so  naturally  as  the  new  railway- 
house  of  these  times  near  the  dismal  country  station  ; 
with  nothing  particular  on  draught  but  cold  air  and  damp, 
nothing  worth  mentioning  in  the  larder  but  new  mortar, 
and  no  business  doing  beyond  a  conceited  affectation  of 
luggage  in  the  hall  ?  Then  I  came  to  the  Inns  of  Paris, 
with  the  pretty  apartment  of  four  pieces  up  one  hundred 
and  seventy-five  waxed  stairs,  the  privilege  of  ringing 
the  bell  all  day  long  without  influencing  anybody's  mind 
or  body  but  your  own,  and  the  not-too-much -for  dinner, 
considering  the  price.  Next  to  the  provincial  Inns  of 
France,  with  the  great  church-tower  rising  above  the 
court-yard,  the  horse-bells  jingling  merrily  up  and  down 
the  street  beyond,  and  the  clocks  of  all  descriptions  in 
all  the  rooms,  which  are  never  right,  unless  taken  at  the 
precise  minute  when,  by  getting  exactly  twelve  hours 
too  fast  or  too  slow,  they  unintentionally  become  so. 
Away  I  went,  next,  to  the  lesser  roadside  Inns  of  Italy  ; 
where  all  the  dirty  clothes  in  the  house  (not  in  wear)  are 
always  lying  in  your  anteroom  ;  where  the  mosquitoes 
make  a  raisin  pudding  of  your  face  in  summer,  and  the 
cold  bites  it  blue  in  winte'r ;  where  you  get  what  you 
can,  and  forget  what  you  can't  ;  where  I  should  again 
like  to  be  boiling  my  tea  in  a  pocket-handkerchief  dump- 
ling, for  want  of  a  teapot.  So  the  old  palace  Inns  and 
old  monastery  Inns,  in  towns  and  cities  of  the  same 
bright  country  ;  with  their  massive  quadrangular  stair- 
cases, whence  you  may  look  from  among  clustering  pillars 
high  into  the  blue  vault  of  Heaven  ;  with  their  stately 


MISCELLANEOUS, 


1151 


banqueting- rooms,  and  vast  refectories ;  with  their 
labyrinths  of  ghostly  bedchambers,  and  their  glimpses 
into  gorgeous  streets  that  have  no  a])])earancc  of  reality 
or  possibility.  So  lo  the  close  little  Inns  of  the  Malaria 
districts,  with  their  pale  attendants,  and  their  peculiar  | 
smell  of  never  letting  in  the  air.  So  to  the  immense  l 
fantastic  Inns  of  Venice,  with  the  cry  of  the  gondolier  ! 
below,  as  he  skims  the  corner  ;  the  grip  of  the  watery 
odours  on  one  particular  little  bit  of  the  bridge  of  your 
nose  (which  is  never  released  while  you  stay  there)  ;  and 
the  great  bell  of  St.  Mark's  Cathedral  tolling  midnight. 
2sext  I  put  up  for  a  minute  at  the  restless  Inns  upon  the 
Rhine,  where  your  going  to  bed,  no  matter  at  what  hour, 
appears  to  be  the  tocsin  for  everybody  else's  getting  up  ; 
and  where,  in  the  table  d'hote  room  at  the  end  of  the 
long  table  (with  several  Towers  of  Babel  on  it  at  the 
other  end,  all  made  of  white  plates)  one  knot  of  stoutish 
men,  entirely  dressed  in  jewels  and  dirt,  and  having 
nothing  else  upon  them,  will  remain  all  night,  clinking 
glasses,  and  singing  about  the  river  that  flows,  and  the 
grape  that  grows,  and  Rhine  wine  that  beguiles,  and 
Rhine  woman  that  smiles  and  hi  drink  drink  my  friend 
and  ho  drink  drink  my  brother,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I 
departed  thence,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  other  German 
Inns,  where  all  the  eatables  are  sodden  down  to  the  same 
flavour,  and  where  the  mind  is  disturbed  by  the  appari- 
tion of  hot  puddings,  and  boiled  cherries,  sweet  and 
slab,  at  awfully  unexpected  periods  of  the  repast.  After 
a  draught  of  sparkling  beer  from  a  foaming  glass  jug,  and 
a  glance  of  recognition  through  the  windows  of  the  student 
beer-houses  at  Heidelberg  and  elsewhere,  I  put  out  to 
sea  for  the  Inns  of  America,  with  their  four  hundrf^d 
beds  apiece,  and  their  eight  or  nine  hundred  ladies  and 
gentlemen  at  dinner  every  day.  Again  I  stood  in  the 
barrooms  thereof,  taking  my  evening  cobbler,  julep, 
sling,  or  cocktail.  Again  I  listened  to  my  friend  the 
General, — whom  I  had  known  for  five  minutes,  in  the 
course  of  which  period  he  had  made  me  intimate  for  life 
with  two  Majors,  who  again  had  made  me  intimate  for 
life  with  three  Colonels,  who  again  had  mr^de  me  brother 
to  twenty -two  civilians, — again  I  say,  I  listened  to  my 
friend  the  General,  leisurely  expounding  the  resources 
of  the  establishment,  as  to  gentlemen's  morning-room, 
sir ;  ladies'  morning-room,  sir  ;  gentlemen's  evening- 
room,  sir  ;  ladies'  evening-room,  sir  ;  ladies'  and  gentle- 
men's evening  reuniting-room,  sir ;  music-room,  sir  ; 
reading-room,  sir  ;  over  four  hundred  sleeping-rooms, 
sir  ;  and  the  entire  planned  and  finited  within  twelvy 
calendar  months  from  the  first  clearing  ofE  of  the  old  en- 
cumbrances on  the  plot,  at  a  cost  of  five  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  sir.  Again  I  found,  as  to  my  indi- 
vidual way  of  thinking,  that  the  greater,  the  more  gor- 
geous, and  the  more  dollarous  the  establishment  was, 
the  less  desirable  it  was.  Nevertheless,  again  I  drank 
my  cobbler,  julep,  sling,  or  cocktail,  in  all  good-will,  to 
my  friend  tlie  General,  and  my  friends  the  Majors,  Col- 
onels, and  civilians  all ;  full  well  knowing  that,  what- 
ever little  motes  my  beamy  eyes  may  have  described  in 
theirs,  they  belong  to  a  kind,  generous,  large-hearted, 
and  great  people. 

I  had  been  going  on  lately  at  a  quick  pace  to  keep  my 
solitude  out  of  my  mind  ;  but  here  I  broke  down  for 
good,  and  gave  up  the  3ubjecu.  What  was  I  to  do? 
What  was  to  become  of  me?  Into  what  extremity  was 
I  submissively  to  sink?  Supposing  that,  like  Baron 
Trenck,  I  looked  out  for  a  mouse  or  spider,  and  found 
one,  and  beguiled  my  imprisonment  by  training  it? 
Even  that  might  be  dangerous  with  a  view  to  the  future. 
I  might  be  so  far  gone  when  the  road  did  come  to  be  cut 
throu^i  the  snow,  that,  on  my  way  forth,  I  might  burst 
into  tears,  and  beseech,  like  the  prisoner  who  was  re- 
leased in  his  old  age  from  the  Bastile,  to  be  taken  back 
again  to  tlie  five  windows,  the  ten  curtains,  and  the  sin- 
uous drapery. 

A  desperate  idea  came  into  my  head.  Under  any 
other  circumstances  I  should  have  rejected  it ;  but,  in 
the  strait  at  which  I  was,  I  held  it  fast.  Could  I  so  far 
overcome  the  inherent  bashfulness  which  withheld  me 
from  the  landlord's  table  and  the  company  I  might  find 
there,  as  to  call  up  the  Boots,  and  ask  him  to  take  a 
chair, — and  something  in  a  liquid  form, — and  talk  to 
me?    I  could.    I  would.    I  did. 


SECOND  BRANCH. 

The  Boots. 

WnETiE  had  he  been  in  his  time?  he  repeated,  when  I 
asked  him  the  question.  Lord,  he  had  been  everywhere  ! 
And  what  had  he  been  ?  Bless  you,  he  had  been  every- 
thing you  could  mention  a'most  ! 

Seen  a  good  deal?  Why,  of  course  he  had.  I  should 
say  so,  he  could  assure  me,  if  I  only  knew  about  a  twen- 
tieth part  of  what  had  come  in  Ids  way.  Why,  it  would 
be  easier  for  him,  he  expected,  to  tell  what  he  hadn't 
seen  than  what  he  had.    Ah  !    A  deal,  it  would. 

What  was  the  curiousest  thing  he  had  seen  ?  Well  ! 
He  didn't  know.  He  couldn't  momently  name  what  was 
the  curiousest  thing  he  had  seen, — unless  it  was  a  Uni- 
corn,— and  he  see  him  once  at  a  Fair,  But  supposing  a 
young  gentleman  not  eight  year  old  was  to  run  away 
with  a  fine  young  woman  of  seven,  might  I  think  that 
a  queer  start  ?  Certainly?  Then  that  was  a  start  as  he 
himself  had  had  his  blessed  eyes  on,  and  he  had  cleaned 
the  shoes  they  run  away  in, — and  they  were  so  little 
that  he  couldn't  get  his  hand  into  'em. 

Master  Harry  Walmers's  father,  you  see,  he  lived  at 
the  Elmses,  dowai  away  by  Shooter's  Hill  there,  six  or 
seven  mile  from  Lunnon.  He  was  a  gentleman  of 
spirit,  and  good-looking,  and  held  his  head  up  when  he 
walked,  and  had  what  you  may  call  Fire  about  him.  He 
WTote  poetry,  and  he  rode,  and  he  ran,  and  he  cricketed, 
and  he  danced,  and  he  acted,  and  he  done  it  all  equally 
beautiful.  He  w^as  uncommon  proud  of  Master  Harrj-  as 
was  his  only  child  ;  but  he  didn't  spoil  him  neither.  He 
was  a  gentleman  that  had  a  will  of  his  own  and  a  eye  of 
his  own,  and  that  would  be  minded.  Consequently, 
though  he  made  quite  a  companion  of  the  fine  bright 
boy,  and  was  delighted  to  see  him  so  fond  of  reading  his 
fairy  books,  and  was  never  tired  of  hearing  him  say  my 
name  is  Nerval,  or  hearing  him  sing  his  songs  about 
Young  May  Moons  is  beaming  love,  and  When  he  as 
adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name,  and  that  ;  still  he  kept 
the  command  over  the  child,  and  the  child  was  a  child, 
and  it's  to  be  wished  more  of  'em  was  ! 

How  did  Boots  happen  to  know^  all  this  ?  Why, 
through  being  under-gardener.  Of  course  he  couldn't 
be  under-gardener,  and  be  always  about,  in  the  summer- 
time, near  the  windows  on  the  lawn,  a  mowing,  and 
sweeping,  and  weeding,  and  pruning,  and  this  and  that, 
without  getting  acquainted  with  the  ways  of  the  family. 
Even  supposing  Master  Harry  hadn't  come  to  him  one 
morning  early,  and  said,  "  Co'bbs,  how  should  you  spell 
Norah,  if  you  was  asked  ? "  and  then  begun  cutting  it 
in  print  all  over  the  fence. 

He  couldn't  say  he  had  taken  particular  notice  of  chil- 
dren before  that  ;  but  really  it  was  pretty  to  see  them 
tw^o  mites  agoing  about  the  place  together,  deep  in  love. 
And  the  courage  of  fhe  boy  !  Bless  your  soul,  he'd  have 
throwed  off  his  little  hat  and  tucked  up  his  little  sleeves, 
and  gone  in  at  a  Lion,  he  would  if  they  had  happened  to 
meet  one,  and  she  had  been  frightened  of  him.  One 
day  he  stops,  along  with  her,  where  Boots  was  hoeing 
weeds  in  the  gravel,  and  says,  speaking  up,  Cobbs," 
he  says,  "  I  like  you."  "  Do  you,  sir  ?  I'm  proud  to  hear 
it,"  "Yes,  I  do,  Cobbs,  Why  do  I  like  you,  do  you 
think,  Cobbs?"  "Don't  know.  Master  Harry,  I  am 
sure."  "Because  Norah  likes  you,  Cobbs."  "Indeed, 
sir?  That's  very  gratifying."  "*  Gratifying,  Cobbs  ?  It's 
better  than  millions  of  the  brightest  diamonds  to  be  liked 
by  Norah."  "Certainly,  sir."  "You're  going  away, 
ain't  you,  Cobbs?"  "Yes,  sir."  "Would  you  like 
another  situation,  Cobbs  !  "  "  Well,  sir,  I  shouldn't  ob- 
ject, if  it  was  a  good  'un."  "  Then,  Cobbs,"  says  he, 
"  you  shall  be  our  Head  Gardener  when  we  are  married." 
And  he  tucks  her,  in  her  little  sky-blue  mantle,  under 
his  arm  and  walks  away. 

Boots  could  assure  me  that  it  was  better  than  a  picter, 
and  equal  to  a  play,  to  see  them  babies,  with  their  long, 
bright,  curling  hair,  their  sparkling  eyes,  and  their  beau- 
tiful, light  tread,  a  rambling  about  the  garden,  deep  in 
love.  Boots  was  of  opinion  that  the  birds  believed  they 
was  birds,  and  kept  up  with  'em,  singing  to  please  'em. 
Sometimes  they  would  creep  under  the  Tulip-tree,  and 
would  sit  there  with  their  arms  round  one  another's 


1152 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


necks,  and  tlieir  soft  cheeks  touching,  a  reading  about 
the  Prince,  and  the  Dragon,  and  the  good  and  bad  en- 
chanters, and  the  king's  fair  daughter.  Sometimes  he 
would  hear  them  planning  about  having  a  house  in  a  for- 
est, keeping  bees,  and  a  cow,  and  living  entirely  on 
milk  and  honey.  Once  he  came  upon  them  by  the  pond, 
and  heard  Master  Harry  say,  "  Adorable  Norah,  kiss 
me,  and  say  you  love  me  to  distraction,  or  I'll  jump  in 
head-foremost."  And  Boots  made  no  question  he  would 
have  done  it  if  she  hadn't  complied.  On  the  whole. 
Boots  said  it  had  a  tendency  to  make  him  feel  as  if  he 
was  in  love  himself, — only  he  didn't  exactly  know  who 
with. 

"Cobbs,"  said  Master  Harry,  one  evening,  when 
Cobbs  was  watering  the  flowers,  "I  am  going  on  a  visit, 
this  present  Midsummer,  to  my  grandmamma's  at  York." 

"  Are  you  indeed,  sir?  I  hope  you'll  have  a  pleasant 
time.  I  am  going  into  Yorkshire  myself,  when  I  leave 
here." 

"  Are  you  going  to  your  grandmamma's,  Cobbs?" 
"  No,  sir.    I  haven't  got  such  a  thing." 
''Not  as  a  grandmamma,  Cobbs?" 
*'No,  sir." 

The  boy  looked  on  at  the  watering  of  the  flowers  for  a 
little  while,  and  then  said,  "I  shall  be  very  glad  indeed 
to  go,  Cobbs, — Norah's  going." 

"  You'll  be  all  right  then,  sir,"  says  Cobbs,  "  with  your 
beautiful  sweetheart  by  your  side." 

"Cobbs,"  returned  the  boy,  flushing,  "I  never  let 
anybody  joke  about  it,  when  I  can  prevent  them." 

"It  wasn't  a  joke,  sir,"  says  Cobbs,  with  humility, — 
"  wasn't  so  meant." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  Cobbs,  because  I  like  you,  you 
know,  and  vou're  going  to  live  with  us. — Cobbs  !  " 

"Sir." 

"  What  do  you  think  my  grandmamma  gives  me  when 
I  go  down  there  ?  " 

^'  I  couldn't  so  much  as  make  a  guess,  sir." 

"A  Bank  of  England  five-pound  note,  Cobbs." 

"Whew!"  says  Cobbs,  "that's  a  spanking  sum  of 
money.  Master  Harry." 

"  A  person  could  do  a  good  deal  with  such  a  sum  of 
money  as  that, — couldn't  a  person,  Cobbs  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you,  sir  ! " 

•"Cobbs,"  said  the  boy,  "I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  At 
Norah's  house,  they  have  been  joking  her  about  me,  and 
pretending  to  laugh  at  our  being  engaged, — pretending 
to  make  game  of  it,  Cobbs  ! " 

"Such,  sir,"  says  Cobbs,  "is  the  depravity  of  human 
natur. " 

The  boy,  looking  exactly  like  his  father,  stood  for  a 
few  minutes  with  his  glowing  face  towards  the  sunset, 
and  then  departed  with,  "  Good  night,  Cobbs.  I'm  going 
in." 

If  I  was  to  ask  Boots  how  it  happened  that  he  was  a 
going  to  leave  that  place  just  at  that  present  time,  well, 
he  couldn't  rightly  answer  me.  He  did  suppose  he  might 
have  stayed  there  till  now  if  he  had  been  anyways  in- 
clined. But,  you  see,  he  was  younger  then,  and  he 
wanted  change.  That's  what  he  wanted, — change.  Mr. 
Walmers,  he  said  to  him  when  he  give  him  notice  of  his 
intentions  to  leave,  "Cobbs,"  he  says,  "have  you  any- 
think  to  complain  of?  I  make  the  inquiry  because  if  I 
find  that  any  of  my  people  really  has  anythink  to  com- 
plain of,  I  wish  to  make  it  right  if  I  can."  "  No,  sir," 
says  Cobbs  ;  "thanking  you,  sir,  I  find  myself  as  well 
sitiwated  here  as  I  could  hope  to  be  anywheres.  The 
truth  is,  sir,  that  I'm  a  going  to  seek  my  fortun."  "  0, 
indeed,  Cobbs?"  he  says;  "I  hope  you  may  find  it." 
And  Boots  could  assure  me — which  he  did,  touching 
his  hair  with  his  bootjack,  as  a  salute  in  the  way  of  his 
present  calling — that  he  hadn't  found  it  yet. 

Well,  sir  !  Boots  left  the  Elmses  when  his  time  was 
up,  and  Master  Harry,  he  went  down  to  the  old  lady's  at 
York,  which  old  lady  would  have  given  that  child  the  teeth 
out  of  her  head  (if  she  had  had  any),  she  was  so  wrapped 
up  in  him.  What  does  that  Infant  do,— for  Infant  you 
may  call  him  and  be  within  the  mark, — but  cut  away 
from  that  old  lady's- with  his  Norah,  on  a  expedition  to 
go  to  Gretna  Green  and  be  married  ! 

Sir,  Boots  was  at  this  identical  Holly-Tree  Inn  (having 
left  it  several  times  since  to  better  himself,  but  always 


come  back  through  one  thing  or  another),  when,  one 
summer  afternoon,  the  coach  drives  up,  and  out  of  the 
coach  gets  them  two  children.  The  Guard  says  to  our 
Governor,  "  I  don't  quite  make  out  these  little  passen- 
gers, but  the  young  gentleman's  words  was,  that  they 
was  to  be  brought  here."  The  young  gentleman  gets 
out  ;  hands  his  lady  out ;  gives  the  Guard  something  for 
himself  ;  says  to  our  Governor,  "  We're  to  stop  here  to- 
night, please.  Sitting-room  and  two  bedrooms  will  be 
required.  Chops  and  cherry  pudding  for  two!"  and 
tucks  her,  in  her  little  sky-blue  mantle,  under  his  arm, 
and  walks  into  the  house  much  bolder  than  Brass. 

Boots  leaves  me  to  judge  what  the  amazement  of  that 
establishment  was,  when  these  two  tiny  creatures  all 
alone  by  themselves  was  marched  into  the  Angel, — much 
more  so,  when  he,  who  had  seen  them  without  their 
seeing  him,  give  the  Governor  his  views  of  the  expedi- 
tion they  was  upon.  "Cobbs,"  says  the  Governor,  "if 
this  is  so,  I  must  set  off  myself  to  York,  and  quiet  their 
friends'  minds.  In  which  case  you  must  keep  your  eye 
upon  'em,  and  humour  'em,  till  I  come  back.  But  before 
I  take  these  measures,  Cobbs,  I  should  wish  you  to  find 
from  themselves  whether  your  opinions  is  correct." 
"Sir,  to  you,"  says  Cobbs,  "that  shall  be  done  di- 
rectly." 

So  Boots  ^oes  up-stairs  to  the  Angel,  and  there  he  finds 
Master  Harry,  on  a  e-normous  sofa, — immense  at  any 
time,  but  looking  like  the  Great  Bed  of  Ware,  compared 
with  him, — a  drying  the  eyes  of  Miss  Norah  with  his 
pocket-hankecher.  Their  little  legs  was  entirely  off  the 
ground,  of  course,  and  it  really  is  not  possible  for  Boots 
to  express  to  me  how  small  them  children  looked. 

'"It's  Cobbs  !  It's  Cobbs  !"  cries  Master  Harry,  and 
comes  running  to  him,  and  catching  hold  of  his  hand. 
Miss  Norah  comes  running  to  him  on  t'other  side  and 
catching  hold  of  his  t'other  hand,  and  they  both  jumj:* 
for  joy. 

"  I  see  you  a  getting  out,  sir,"  says  Cobbs,  "  I  thought 
it  was  you.  I  thought  I  couldn't  be  mistaken  in  your 
height  and  figure.  What's  the  object  of  your  journey, 
sir  ? — Matrimonial  ?  " 

"  We  are  going  to  be  married,  Cobbs,  at  Gretna 
Green,"  returned  the  boy.  "  We  have  run  away  on 
purpose.  Norah  has  been  in  rather  low  spirits,  Cobbs  ; 
but  she'll  be  happy,  now  we  have  found  you  to  be  our 
friend." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  and  thank  you,  miss,"  says  Cobbs, 
"  for  your  good  opinion.  Did  you  bring  any  luggage 
with  you,  sir  ?  " 

If  I  will  believe  Boots  when  he  gives  me  his  word  and 
honour  upon  it,  the  lady  had  got  a  parasol,  a  smelling- 
bottle,  a  round  and  a  half  of  cold  buttered  toast,  eight 
peppermint  drops,  and  a  hairbrush, — seemingly  a  doll's. 
The  gentleman  had  got  about  half  a  dozen  yards  of  string, 
a  knife,  three  or  four  sheets  of  writing-paper  folded  up 
surprising  small,  a  orange,  and  a  Chaney  mug  with  his 
name  upon  it. 

"What  may  be  the  exact  natur  of  your  plans,  sir?" 
says  Cobbs. 

"  To  go  on,"  replied  the  boy, — which  the  courage  of 
that  boy  was  something  wonderful  ! — "in  the  morning, 
and  be  married  to-morrow." 

"Just  so,  sir,"  says  Cobbs.  "Would  it  meet  your 
views,  sir,  if  I  was  to  accompany  you?  " 

When  Cobbs  said  this,  they  both  jumped  for  joy 
again,  and  cried  out,  "  0  yes,  yes,  Cobbs  !    Yes  !  " 

"Well,  sir,"  says  Cobbs.  "If  you  will  excuse  my 
having  the  freedom  to  give  an  opinion,  what  I  should 
recommend  would  be  this.  I'm  acquainted  with  a  pony, 
sir,  which,  put  in  a  pheayton  that  I  could vborrow^  would 
take  you  and  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior,  (myself  driv- 
ing, if  you  approved,)  to  the  end  of  your  journey  in  a 
very  short  space  of  time.  I  am  not  altogether  sure,  sir, 
that  this  pony  will  be  at  liberty  to-morrow,  but  even  if 
you  had  to  wait  over  to-morrow  for  him,  it  might  be 
worth  your  while.  As  to  the  small  account  here,  sir,  in 
case  you  was  to  find  yourself  running  at  all  short,  that 
don't  signify  ;  because  I'm  a  part  proprietor  of  this  inn, 
and  it  could  stand  over." 

Boots  assures  me  that  when  they  cla])ped  their  hands, 
and  jumped  for  joy  again,  and  called  him  "  Good  Cobbs  I  " 
and  "Dear  Cobbs!"  and  bent  across  him  to  kiss  one 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


1153 


another  in  the  delip^ht  of  their  confiding  hearts,  he  felt 
himself  the  meanest  rascal  for  deceiving  'em  that  ever 
was  born. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  want  just  at  present,  sir?" 
says  Cobbs,  mortally  ashamed  of  himself. 

"  We  should  like  some  cakes  after  dinner,"  answered 
?^Iaster  Harry,  folding  his  arms,  putting  out  one  leg,  and 
looking  straight  at  him,  "and  two  apples, — and  jam. 
With  dinner  we  should  like  to  have  toast-and-water. 
But  Norah  has  always  been  accustoined  to  half  a  glass 
of  currant  wine  at  dessert.    And  so  have  I." 

"  It  shall  be  ordered  at  the  bar,  sir,"  says  Cobbs  ;  and 
away  he  went. 

Boots  has  the  feeling  as  fresh  upon  him  at  this  minute 
of  speaking  as  he  had  then,  that  he  would  far  rather 
have  had  it  out  in  half  a  dozen  rounds  with  the  Gover- 
nor, than  have  combined  with  him  ;  and  that  he  wished 
with  all  his  heart  there  was  an  impossible  place  where 
those  two  babies  could  make  an  impossible  marriage, 
and  live  impossibly  happy  ever  afterwards.  However, 
as  it  couldn't  be,  he  went  into  the  Governor's  plans,  and 
the  Governor  set  off  for  York  in  half  an  hour. 

The  way  in  which  the  women  of  that  house — without 
exception — every  one  of  'em — married  and  single — took 
to  that  boy  when  they  heard  the  story,  Boots  considers 
surprising.  It  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  keep  'em 
from  dashing  into  the  room  and  kissing  him.  They 
climbed  up  all  sorts  of  places,  at  the  risk  of  their  lives, 
to  look  at  him  through  a  pane  of  glass.  They  were 
seven  deep  at  the  keyhole.  They  was  out  of  their 
minds  about  him  and  his  bold  spirit. 

In  the  evening.  Boots  went  into  the  room  to  see  how 
the  runaway  couple  w^as  getting  on.  The  gentleman 
was  on  the  window-seat,  supporting  the  lady  in  his  arms. 
She  had  tears  upon  her  face,  and  was  lying,  very  tired 
and  half  asleep,  with  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior,  fatiguedj^sir ? "  says 
Cobbs. 

Yes,  she  is  tired,  Cobbs  ;  but  she  is  not  used  to  be 
away  from  home,  and  she  has.  been  in  low  spirits  again. 
Cobbs,  do  you  think  you  could  bring  a  biffin,  please  ?  " 

"  I  ask  vour  pardon,  sir,"  says  Cobbs.  "  What  was  it 
you-?" 

"  I  think  a  Norfolk  biffin  would  rouse  her,  Cobbs. 
She  is  very  fond  of  them." 

Boots  withdrew  in  search  of  the  required  restorative, 
and  when  he  brought  it  in,  the  gentleman  handed  it  to 
the  lady,  and  fed  her  with  a  spoon,  and  took  a  little 
himself  ;  the  lady  being  heavy  with  sleep,  and  rather 
cross.  "What  should  you  think,  sir,"  says  Cobbs,  "of 
a  chaAber  candlestick  ? "  The  gentleman  approved  ; 
the  chambermaid  went  first,  up  the  great  staircase  ;  the 
lady,  in  her  sky-blue  mantle,  followed,  gallantly  escorted 
by  the  gentleman  ;  the  gentleman  embraced  her  at  the 
door,  and  retired  to  his  own  apartment,  where  Boots 
softly  locked  him  up. 

Boots  couldn't  but  feel  with  increased  acuteness  what 
a  base  deceiver  he  was,  when  they  consulted  him  at 
breakfast  (they  had  ordered  sweet  milk-and-water,  and 
toast  and  currant  jelly,  overnight),  about  the  pony.  It 
really  was  as  much  as  he  could  do,  he  don't  mind  con- 
fessing to  me,  to  look  them  two  young  things  in  the 
face,  and  think  what  a  wicked  old  father  of  lies  he  had 
grown  up  to  be.  Howsomf'vpr^  he  went  on  a  lying  like 
a  Trojan  about  the  pony.  He  told  'em  that  it  did  so 
unfort'nately  happen  that  the  pony  was  half  clipped, 
you  see,  and  that  he  couldn't  be  taken  out  in  that  state, 
for  fear  it  should  strike  to  his  inside.  But  that  he'd  be 
finished  clipping  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  that  to- 
morrow morning  at  eight  o'clock  the  pheayton  would  bo 
ready.  Boots's  view  of  the  whole  case,  looking  back 
upon  it  in  my  room,  is,  that  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Jun- 
ior, was  beginning  to  give  in.  She  hadn't  had  her  hair 
curled  when  she  went  to  bed,  and  she  didn't  seem  quite 
up  to  brushing  it  herself,  and  its  getting  in  her  eyes 
put  her  out.  But  nothing  put  out  Master  Harry.  He 
sat  behind  his  breakfast-cup,  a  tearing  away  at  the  jelly, 
as  if  he  had  been  his  own  father. 

After  breakfast.  Boots  is  inclined  to  consider  that  they 
drawed  soldiers, — at  least,  he  knows  that  many  such 
was  found  in  the  fireplace,  all  on  horseback.  In  the 
course  of  the  morning,  Master  Harry  rang  the  bell, — it 
Vol.  II.— 73 


was  surprising  how  that  there  boy  did  carry  on, — and 
said,  in  a  sprightly  way,  "Cobbs,  is  there  any  good 
walks  in  this  neighbourhood  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  says  Cobbs.    "  There's  Love  Lane," 

"Get  out  with  you,  Cobbs!" — that  was  that  there 
boy's  expression, — "  you're  joking." 

"Begging  your  pardon,  sir,"  says  Cobbs,  "there 
really  is  Love  Lane.  And  a  pleasant  walk  it  is,  and 
proud  shall  I  be  to  show  it  to  yourself  and  Mrs.  Harry 
Walmers,  Junior." 

"Norah,  dear,"  said  Master  Harry,  "this  is  curious. 
We  really  ought  to  see  Love  Lane.  Put  on  your  bonnet, 
my  sweetest  darling,  and  we  will  go  there  with  Cobbs." 

Boots  leaves  me  to  judge  what  a  Beast  he  felt  himself 
to  be,  when  that  young  pair  told  him,  as  they  all  three 
jogged  along  together,  that  they  had  made  up  their 
minds  to  give  him  two  thousand  guineas  a  year  as 
head  gardener,  on  accounts  of  his  being  so  true  a  friend 
to  'em.  Boots  could  have  wished  at  the  moment  that 
the  earth  would  have  opened  and  swallered  him  up,  he 
felt  so  mean,  with  their  beaming  eyes  a  looking  at  him, 
and  believing  him.  Well,  sir,  he  turned  the  conversation 
as  well  as  he  could,  and  he  took  'em  down  Love  Lane  to 
the  water-meadows,  and  there  Master  Harry  would  have 
drownded  himself  in  half  a  moment  more,  a  getting  out 
a  water-lily  for  her, — but  nothing  daunted  that  boy. 
Well,  sir,  they  was  tired  out.  All  being  so  new  and 
strange  to  'em,  they  was  tired  as  tired  could  be.  And 
they  laid  down  on  a  bank  of  daisies,  like  the  children  in 
the  wood,  leastways  meadows,  and  fell  asleep. 

Boots  don't  know — perhaps  I  do, — but  never  mind,  it 
don't  signify  either  way — why  it  made  a  man  fit  to  make 
a  fool  of  himself  to  see  them  two  pretty  babies  a  lying 
there  in  the  clear  still  sunny  day,  not  dreaming  half  so 
hard  when  they  was  asleep  as  they  done  when  they  was 
awake.  But  Lord  !  when  you  come  to  think  of  your- 
self, you  know,  and  what  a  game  you  have  been  up  to 
ever  since  you  was  in  your  own  cradle,  and  what  a  poor 
sort  of  a  chap  you  are,  and  how  it's  always  either  Yes- 
terday with  you,  or  else  To-morrow  and  never  To-day, 
that's  where  it  is  ! 

Well,  sir,  they  woke  up  at  last,  and  then  one  thing 
was  getting  pretty  clear  to  Boots,  namely,  that  Mrs. 
Harry  Walmerses,  Junior's,  temper  was  on  the  move. 
When  Master  Harry  took  her  round  the  waist,  she  said 
he  "teased  her  so";  and  when  he  says,  "Norah,  my 
young  May  Moon,  your  Harry  tease  you  ?  "  she  tells  him, 
"  Yes  ;  and  I  want  to  go  home  !  " 

A  biled  fowl  and  baked  bread-and-butter  pudding 
brought  Mrs.  Walmers  up  a  little  ;  but  Boots  could  have 
wished,  he  must  privately  own  to  me,  to  have  seen  her 
more  sensible  of  the  woice  of  love,  and  less  abandoning 
of  herself  to  currants.  However,  Master  Harry,  he  kept 
up,  and  his  noble  heart  was  as  fond  as  ever.  Mrs.  Wal- 
mers turned  very  sleepy  about  dusk,  and  began  to  cry. 
Therefore,  Mrs.  Walmers  went  off  to  bed  as  per  yester- 
day ;  and  Master  Harry  ditto  repeated. 

About  eleven  or  twelve  at  night  comes  back  the  Gov- 
ernor in  a  chaise,  along  with  Mr.  Walmers  and  a  elderly 
lady.  Mr.  Walmers  looked  amused  and  very  serious, 
both  at  once,  and  says  to  our  missis,  "We  are  much  in- 
debted to  you,  ma'am,  for  your  kind  care  of  our  little 
children,  which  we  can  never  sufficiently  acknowledge. 
Pray  ma'am,  where  is  my  boy  ?  "  Our  missis  says, "  Cobbs 
has  the  dear  child  in  charge,  sir.  Cobbs,  show  Forty  !'* 
Then  he  says  to  Cobbs,  "Ah,  Cobbs  !  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
I  understood  you  was  here  !  "  and  Cobbs  says,  "  Yes,  sir. 
Your  most  obedient,  sir." 

I  may  be  surprised  to  hear  Boots  say  it,  perhaps  ;  but 
Boots  assures  me  that  his  heart  beat  like  a  hammer,  go- 
ing up-stairs.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  says  he,  while 
unlocking  the  door;  "I  hope  you  are  not  angry  with 
Master  Harry.  For  Master  Harry  is  a  fine  boy,  sir,  and 
will  do  you  credit  and  honour."  And  Boots  signifies*to 
me,  that,  if  the  fine  boy's  father  had  contradicted  him  in 
the  daring  state  of  mind  in  which  he  then  was,  he  thinks 
he  should  have  "  fetched  him  a  crack,"  and  taken  the 
consequences. 

But  Mr.  Walmers  only  says, "  No,  Cobbs.  No,  my  good 
fellow.  Thank  you  !"  And,  the  door  being  opened, 
goes  in. 

Boots  goes  in  too,  holding  the  light,  and  he  sees  Mr. 


1154 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Walmers  go  up  to  tlie  bedside,  bend  gentlj  down  and 
kiss  tlie  little  sleeping  face.  Then  he  stands  looking  at 
it  for  a  minute,  looking  wonderfully  like  it  (they  do  say 
he  ran  away  with  Mrs.  Walmers)  and  then  he  gently 
shakes  the  little  shoulder. 

"  Harry,  my  dear  boy  !    Harry  ! " 

Master  Harry  starts  up  and  looks  at  him.  Looks  at 
Cobbs  too.  Such  is  the  honour  of  that  mite,  that  he  looks 
at  Cobbs,  to  see  whether  he  has  brought  him  into  trouble. 

"  I  am  not  angry,  my  child.  I  only  want  you  to  dress 
yourself  and  come  home." 

"  Yes,  pa." 

Master  Harry  dresses  himself  quickly.  His  breast  be- 
gins to  swell  when  he  has  nearly  finished,  and  it  swells 
more  and  more  as  he  stands,  at  last,  a  looking  at  his 
father  :  his  father  standing  a  looking  at  him,  the  quiet 
image  of  him. 

**  Please  may  I" — the  spirit  of  that  little  creetur,  and 
the  way  he  kept  his  rising  tears  down  ! — "  please  dear  pa 
— may  I — kiss  Norah  before  I  go  ?" 

"  You  may,  my  child." 

So  he  takes  Master  Harry  in  his  hand,  and  Boots  leads 
the  way  with  the  candle,  and  they  come  to  that  other 
bedroom,  where  the  elderly  lady  is  seated  by  the  bed, 
and  poor  little  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior,  is  fast  asleep. 
There  the  father  lifts  the  child  up  to  the  pillow,  and  he  lays 
his  little  face  down  for  an  instant  by  the  little  warm  face 
of  poor  unconscious  little  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior, 
and  gently  draws  it  to  him, — a  sight  so  touching  to  the 
chambermaids  who  are  peeping  through  the  door,  that 
one  of  them  calls  out,  "  It's  a  shame  to  part  'em  ! "  But 
this  chambermaid  was  always,  as  Boots  informs  me,  a 
soft-hearted  one.  Not  that  there  was  any  harm  in  that 
girl.    Far  from  it. 

Finally,  Boots  says,  that's  all  about  it.  Mr.  Walmers 
drove  away  in  the  chaise,  having  hold  of  Master  Harry's 
hand.  The  elderly  lady  and  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Juni- 
or, that  was  never  to  be  (she  married  a  Captain  long  af- 
terwards, and  died  in  India),  went  off  next  day.  In  con- 
clusion, Boots  puts  it  to  me  whether  I  hold  with  him  in 
two  opinions  ;  firstly,  that  there  are  not  many  couples  on 
their  way  to  be  married  who  are  half  as  innocent  of  guile 
as  those  two  children  ;  secondly,  that  it  would  be  a  jolly 
good  thing  for  a  great  many  couples  on  their  way  to  be 
married,  if  they  could  only  be  stopped  in  time,  and 
brought  back  separately. 


THIRD  BRANCH. 

Tlie  Bill. 

I  HAD  been  snowed  up  a  whole  week.  The  time  had 
hung  so  lightly  on  my  hands,  that  I  should  have  been  in 
great  doubt  of  the  fact  but  for  a  piece  of  documentary 
evidence  that  lay  upon  my  table. 

The  road  had  been  dug  out  of  the  snow  on  the  previ- 
ous day,  and  the  document  in  question  was  my  Bill.  It 
testified  emphatically  to  my  having  eaten  and  drunk,  and 
warmed  myself,  and  slept  among  the  sheltering  branches 
of  tlie  Holly-Tree,  seven  days  and  nights. 

I  had  yesterday  allowed  the  road  twenty-four  hours  to 
improve  itself,  finding  that  I  required  that  additional 
margin  of  time  for  the  completion  of  my  task.  I  had 
ordered  my  Bill  to  be  upon  the  table,  and  a  chaise  to  be 
at  the  door,  "at  eight  o'clock  to-morrow  evening,"  It 
was  eight  o'clock  to-morrow  evening  when  I  buckled  up 
my  travelling  writing-desk  in  its  leather  case,  paid  my 
Bill,  and  got  on  my  warm  coats  and  wrappers.  Of  course 
no  time  now  remained  for  my  travelling  on  to  add  a  fro- 
zen tear  to  the  icicles  which  were  doubtless  hanging 
pleiitifully  about  the  farm-house  where  I  had  first  seen 
Angela.  What  I  had  to  do  was  to  get  across  to  Liverpool 
by  the  shortest  open  road,  there  to  meet  my  heavy  bag- 
gage and  embark.  It  was  quite  enough  to  do,  and  I  had 
not  an  hour  too  much  time  to  do  it  in. 

I  had  taken  leave  of  all  my  Holly-Tree  friends, — al- 
most, for  the  time  being,  of  my  bashfulness  too, — and 
was  standing  for  half  a  minute  at  the  Inn  door  watching 
the  ostler  as  he  took  another  turn  at  the  cord  which  tied 
my  portmanteau  on  the  chaise,  when  I  saw  lamps  coming 


down  towards  the  Holly-Tree.  The  road  was  so  padded 
with  snow  that  no  wheels  were  audible;  but  all  of  us 
who  were  standing  at  the  Inn  door  saw  lamps  coming  on, 
and  at  a  lively  rate  too,  between  the  walls  of  snow  that 
had  been  heaped  up  on  either  side  of  the  track.  The  cham- 
bermaid instantly  divined  how  the  case  stood,  and  called 
to  the  ostler,  "  Tom,  this  is  a  Gretna  job  !"  The  ostler, 
knowing  that  her  sex  instinctively  scented  a  marriage, 
or  anything  in  that  direction,  rushed  up  the  yard  bawling, 

Next  four  out  ! "  and  in  a  moment  the  whole  establish- 
ment was  thrown  into  commotion. 

I  had  a  melancholy  interest  in  seeing  the  happy  man 
who  loved  and  was  beloved  ;  and  therefore,  instead  of 
driving  off  at  once,  I  remained  at  the  Inn  door  when  the 
fugitives  drove  up.  A  bright-eyed  fellow,  muffled  in  a 
mantle,  jumped  out  so  briskly  that  he  almost  overthrew 
me.  He  turned  to  apologize,  and,  by  Heaven,  it  was 
Edwin  ! 

"Charley!"  said  he,  recoiling.  "Gracious  powers! 
what  do  you  do  here  ?  " 

"  Edwin,"  said  I,  recoiling,  *'  gracious  powers  !  what 
do  ?/(?^^  do  here  ? "  I  struck  my  forehead  as  I  said  it, 
and  an  insupportable  blaze  of  light  seemed  to  shoot  be- 
fore my  eyes, 

He  hurried  me  into  the  little  parlour  (always  kept 
with  a  slow  fire  in  it  and  no  poker),  where  posting  com- 
pany waited  while  their  horses  were  putting  to,  and  shut- 
ting the  door,  said, — 

"  Charley,  forgive  me  !" 

"  Edwin  V'  I  returned.  "Was  this  well?  When  I 
loved  her  so  dearly  !  When  I  had  garnered  up  my  heart 
so  long  ! "    I  could  say  no  more. 

He  was  shocked  when  he  saw  how  moved  I  was,  and 
made  the  cruel  observation  that  he  had  not  thought  I 
should  have  taken  it  so  much  to  heart. 

I  looked  at  him.  I  reproached  him  no  more.  But  I 
looked  at  him. 

"My  dear,  dear  Charley,"  said  he,  "don't  think 
ill  of  me,  I  beseech  you  !  I  know  you  have  a  right  to 
my  utmost  confidence,  and,  believe  me,  you  have  ever 
had  it  until  now.  I  abhor  secrecy.  Its  meanness  is  in- 
tolerable to  me.  But  I  and  my  dear  girl  have  observed 
it  for  your  sake." 

He  and  his  dear  girl  !    It  steeled  me. 

"  You  have  observed  it  for  my  sake,  sir?"  said  I, 
wondering  hoAv  his  frank  face  could  face  it  out  so. 

"Yes  ! — and  Angela's,"  said  he. 

I  found  the  room  reeling  round  in  an  uncertain  way, 
like  a  labouring  humming-top.  "Explain  yourself," 
said  I,  holding  on  by  one  hand  to  an  arm-chair. 

"  Dear  old  darling  Charley  !  "  returned  Edwin  in  his 
cordial  manner,  "consider!  When  you  were  going  on 
so  happily  with  Angela,  why  should  I  compromise  yeu 
with  the  old  gentleman  by  making  you  a  party  to  our 
engagement,  and  (after  he  had  declined  my  proposals) 
to  our  secret  intention?  Surely  it  was  better  that  you 
should  be  able  honourably  to  say,  '  He  never  took  coun- 
sel with  me,  never  told  me,  never  breathed  a  word  of 
it.'  If  Angela  suspected  it,  and  showed  me  all  the 
favour  and  support  she  could, — God  bless  her  for  a 
precious  creature  and  a  priceless  wife  ! — I  couldn't  help 
that.  Neither  I  nor  Emmeline  ever  told  her,  any  more 
than  we  told  you.  And  for  the  same  good  reason, 
Charley  ;  trust  me,  for  the  same  good  reason,  and  no 
other  upon  earth  !  " 

Emmeline  was  Angela's  cousin.  Lived  with  her.  Had 
been  brought  up  with  her.  Was  her  father's  ward.  Had 
property. 

"  Emmeline  is  in  the  chaise,  my  dear  Edwin?"  said  I, 
embracing  him  with  the  greatest  affection. 

"  My  good  fellow  !  "  said  he,  "  do  you  suppose  I  should 
be  going  to  Gretna  Green  without  her?  " 

I  ran  out  with  Edwin,  I  opened  the  chaise  door,  I  took 
Emmeline  in  my  arms,  I  folded  her  to  my  heart.  She 
was  wrapped  in  soft  white  fur,  like  the  snowy  landscape  ; 
but  was  warm,  and  young,  and  lovely.  I  put  their 
leaders  to  with  my  own  hands,  I  gave  the  boys  a  five- 
pound  note  apiece,  I  cheered  them  as  they  drove  away, 
I  drove  the  other  way  myself  as  hard  as  I  could  pelt. 

I  never  went  to  Liverpool,  I  never  went  to  America,  I 
went  straight  back  to  London  and  I  married  Angela.  I 
have  never,  until  this  time,  even  to  her,  disclosed  the 


MISCELLANEOUS, 


1155 


secret  of  my  character,  and  the  mistrust  and  the  mistak- 
en journey  into  which  it  led  me.  When  she,  and  they, 
and  our  eight  children  and  their  seven, — I  mean  Edwin's 
and  Emmeline's,  whose  eldest  girl  is  old  enough  now  to 
•wear  white  fur  herself,  and  to  look  very  like  her  mother 
in  it, — come  to  read  these  pages,  as  of  course  they  will, 
I  shall  hardly  fail  to  be  found  out  at  last.  Never  mind  I 
I  can  bear  it.  I  began  at  the  Holly-Tree,  by  idle  acci- 
dent, to  associate  the  Christmas  time  of  year  with  human 
interest,  and  with  some  inquiry  into,  and  some  care  for, 
the  lives  of  those  by  whom  I  find  myself  surrounded. 
I  hope  that  I  am  none  the  worse  for  it,  and  that  no  one 
near  me  or  afar  off  is  the  worse  for  it.  And  I  say,  May 
the  green  Holly-Tree  flourish,  striking  its  roots  deep  in- 
to our  English  ground,  and  having  its  germinating 
qualities  carried  by  the  birds  of  Heaven  all  over  the 
world  ! 


A  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 

I  HAVE  been  looking  on,  this  evening,  at  a  merry  com- 
pany of  children  assembled  round  that  pretty  German 
toy,  a  Christmas  Tree.  The  tree  was  planted  in  the 
middle  of  a  great  round  table,  and  towered  high  above 
their  heads.  It  was  brilliantly  lighted  by  a  multitude 
of  little  tapers  ;  and  everywhere  sparkled  and  glittered 
with  bright  objects.  There  were  rosy-cheeked  dolls, 
hiding  behind  the  green  leaves  ;  there  were  real  watches 
(with  movable  hands,  at  least,  and  an  endless  capacity 
of  being  wound  up)  dangling  from  innumerable  twigs  ; 
there  were  French-polished  tables,  chairs,  bedsteads, 
wardrobes,  eight-day  clocks,  and  various  other  articles 
of  domestic  furniture  (wonderfully  made,  in  tin,  at  Wol- 
verhampton), perched  among  the  boughs,  as  if  in  prep- 
aration for  some  fairy  housekeeping ;  there  were  jolly, 
broad-faced  little  men,  much  more  agreeable  in  appear- 
ance than  many  real  men — and  no  wonder,  for  their 
heads  took  off,  and  showed  them  to  be  full  of  sugar- 
plums ;  there  were  fiddles  and  drums  ;  there  were  tam- 
bourines, books,  work-boxes,  paint-boxes,  sweetmeat- 
boxes,  peep-show  boxes,  all  kinds  of  boxes  ;  there  were 
trinkets  for  the  elder  girls,  far  brighter  than  any  grown- 
up gold  and  jewels  ;  there  were  baskets  and  pincushions 
in  all  devices  ;  there  were  guns,  swords,  and  banners  ; 
there  were  witches  standing  in  enchanted  rings  of  paste- 
board, to  tell  fortunes  ;  there  were  teetotums,  humming- 
tops,  needle-cases,  pen-wipers,  smelling-bottles,  conver- 
sation-cards, bouquet-holders;  real  fruit,  made  artificially 
dazzling  with  gold  leaf  ;  imitation  apples,  pears,  and 
walnuts,  crammed  with  surprises ;  in  short,  as  a  pretty 
child,  before  me,  delightedly  whispered  to  another  pretty 
child,  her  bosom  friend,  "  There  was  everything,  and 
more."  This  motley  collection  of  odd  objects,  clustering 
on  the  tree  like  magic  fruit,  and  flashing  back  the  bright 
looks  directed  towards  it  from  every  side — some  of  the 
diamond-eyes  admiring  it  were  hardly  on  a  level  with 
the  table,  and  a  few  were  languishing  in  timid  wonder 
on  the  bosoms  of  pretty  mothers,  aunts,  and  nurses — 
made  a  lively  realization  of  the  fancies  of  childhood  ; 
and  set  me  thinking  how  all  the  trees  that  grow  and  all 
the  things  that  come  into  existence  on  the  earth,  have 
their  wild  adornments  a'l  ihal  well-remembered  time. 

Being  now  at  home  again,  and  alone,  the  only  person 
in  the  house  awake,  my  thoughts  are  drawn  back,  by  a 
fascination  which  I  do  not  care  to  resist,  to  my  own 
childhood.  I  begin  to  consider,  what  do  we  all  remember 
best  upon  the  branches  of  the  Christmas  Tree  of  our  own 
young  Christmas  days,  by  which  we  climbed  to  real  life. 

Straight,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  cramped  in  the 
freedom  of  its  growth  by  no  encircling  walls  or  soon- 
reached  ceiling,  a  shadowy  tree  arises  ;  and,  looking  up 
into  the  dreamy  brightness  of  its  top — for  I  observe,  in 
this  tree  the  singular  property  that  it  appears  to  grow 
downward  towards  the  earth — I  look  into  my  youngest 
Christmas  recollections  ! 

All  toys  at  first,  I  find.  Up  yonder,  among  the  green 
holly  and  red  berries,  is  the  Tumbler  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  who  wouldn't  lie  down,  but  whenever  he 
was  put  upon  the  floor,  persisted  in  rolling  his  fat  body 
about,  until  he  rolled  himself  still,  and  brought  those 
lobster  eyes  of  his  to  bear  upon  me — when  I  affected  to 


laugh  very  much,  but  in  my  heart  of  hearts  was  ex- 
tremely doubtful  of  him.  Close  beside  him  is  that 
infernal  snuff-box,  out  of  which  there  sprang  a  demo- 
niacal Counsellor  in  a  l)lack  gown,  with  an  obnoxious 
head  of  hair,  and  a  red  cloth  mouth,  wide  open,  who 
was  not  to  be  endured  on  any  terms,  but  could  not  be 
put  away  either  ;  for  he  used  suddenly,  in  a  highly 
magnified  state,  to  fly  out  of  Mammoth  Snuff-ljoxes  in 
dreams,  when  least  expected.  Nor  is  the  frog  with 
cobbler's  wax  on  his  tail,  far  off  ;  for  there  was  no  know- 
ing where  he  wouldn't  jump  ;  and  when  he  flew  over  the 
candle,  and  came  upon  one's  hand  with  that  spotted  back 
— red  on  a  green  ground — he  was  horrible.  The  card- 
board lady  in  a  blue-silk  skirt,  who  was  stood  up  against 
the  candlestick  to  dance,  and  whom  I  see  on  the  same 
branch,  was  milder,  and  w^as  beautiful  ;  but  I  can't  say 
as  much  for  the  larger  card-board  man,  who  used  to  be 
hung  against  the  wall  and  pulled  by  a  string  ;  there  was 
a  sinister  expression  in  that  nose  of  his  ;  and  when  he 
got  his  legs  round  his  neck  (which  he  very  often  did),  he 
was  ghastly,  and  not  a  creature  to  be  alone  with. 

When  did  that  dreadful  Mask  first  look  at  me  ?  Who 
put  it  on,  and  why  was  I  so  frightened  that  the  sight  of 
it  is  an  era  in  my  life?  It  is  not  a  hideous  visage  in 
itself ;  it  is  even  meant  to  be  droll  ;  why  then  were  its 
stolid  features  so  intolerable  ?  Surely  not  because  it  hid 
the  wearer's  face.  An  apron  would  have  done  as  much  ; 
and  though  I  should  have  preferred  even  the  apron 
away,  it  would  not  have  been  absolutely  insupportable, 
like  the  mask?  Was  it  the  immovability  of  the  mask  ? 
The  doll's  face  was  immovable,  but  I  was  not  afraid  of 
her.  Perhaps  that  fixed  and  set  change  coming  over  a 
real  face,  infused  into  my  quickened  heart  some  remote 
suggestion  and  dread  of  the  universal  change  that  is  to 
come  on  every  face,  and  make  it  still  ?  Nothing  recon- 
ciled me  to  it.  No  drummers,  from  whom  proceeded  a 
melancholy  chirping  on  the  turning  of  a  handle  ;  no 
regiment  of  soldiers,  with  a  mute  band,  taken  out  of  a 
box,  and  fitted,  one  by  one,  upon  a  stiff  and  lazy  little 
set  of  lazy-tongs  ;  no  old  woman,  made  of  wires  and  a 
brown-paper  composition,  cutting  up  a  pie  for  two  small 
children  ;  could  give  me  a  permanent  comfort,  for  a  long 
time.  Nor  was  it  any  satisfaction  to  be  shown  the  Mask, 
and  see  that  it  was  made  of  paper,  or  to  have  it  locked 
up  and  be  assured  that  no  one  wore  it.  The  mere  recol- 
lection of  that  fixed  face,  the  mere  knowledge  of  its 
existence  anywhere,  was  sufficient  to  awake  me  in  the 
night  all  perspiration  and  horror,  with,  "0  1  know  it's 
coming  !    O  the  mask  !  " 

I  never  wondered  what  the  dear  old  donkey  with  the 
panniers — there  he  is  ! — was  made  of,  then  !  His  hide 
was  real  to  the  touch,  I  recollect.  And  the  great  black 
horse  with  round  red  spots  all  over  him — the  horse  that 
I  could  even  get  upon — I  never  wondered  what  had 
brought  him  to  that  strange  condition,  or  thought  that 
such  a  horse  was  not  commonly  seen  at  Newmarket. 
The  four  horses  of  no  colour,  next  to  him,  that  went 
into  the  waggon  of  cheeses,  and  could  be  taken  out  and 
stabled  under  the  piano,  appear  to  have  bits  of  fur- 
tippet  for  their  tails,  and  otlier,bits  for  their  manes,  and 
to  stand  on  pegs  instead  of  legs,  but  it  was  not  so  when 
they  were  brought  home  for  a  Christmas  present.  They 
were  all  right,  then  ;  neither  was  their  harness  uncere- 
moniously nailed  into  their  chests,  as  appears  to  be  the 
case  now.  The  tinkling  works  of  the  music-cart,  I  did 
find  out,  to  be  made  of  quill  tooth-picks  and  wire  ;  and 
I  always  thought  that  little  tumbler  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
perpetually  swarming  up  one  side  of  a  wooden  frame, 
and  coming  down,  head  foremost,  on  the  other,  rather  a 
weak-minded  person — though  good-natured  ;  but  the 
Jacob's  Ladder,  next  him,  made  of  little  squares  of  red 
wood,  that  went  flapping  and  clattering  over  one  another, 
each  developing  a  different  picture,  and  the  whole  en- 
livened by  small  bells,  was  a  mighty  marvel  and  a  great 
delight. 

Ah  !  The  Doll's  house  ! — of  which  I  was  not  proprie- 
tor, but  where  I  visited.  I  don't  admire  the  Houses  of 
Parliament  half  so  much  as  that  stone- fronted  mansion 
with  real  glass  windows,  and  door-steps,  and  a  real  bal- 
cony— greener  than  I  ever  see  noAv,  except  at  watering- 
places  ;  and  even  they  afford  but  a  poor  imitation.  And 
though  it  did  open  all  at  once,  the  entire  house-front 


1156 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


(wliicli  was  a  Wow,  I  admit,  as  cancelling  the  fiction  of 
a  staircase),  it  was  but  to  shut  it  up  again,  and  I  could 
believe.  Even  open,  there  were  three  distinct  rooms  in 
it  :  a  sitting-i-oom  and  bedroom,  elegantly  furnished, 
and,  best  of  all,  a  kitchen,  with  uncommonly  soft  fire- 
irons,  a  plentiful  assortment  of  diminutive  utensils — oh, 
the  warming-pan  ! — and  a  tin  man-cook  in  profile,  who 
was  always  going  to  fry  two  fish.  What  Barmecide  jus- 
tice have  !  done  to  the  noble  feasts  wherein  the  set  of 
wooden  platters  figured,  each  with  its  own  peculiar  deli- 
cacy, as  a  ham  or  turkey,  glued  tight  on  to  it,  and  gar- 
nished with  something  green,  which  I  recollect  as  moss  ! 
Could  all  the  Temperance  Societies  of  these  later  days, 
united,  give  me  such  a  tea-drinking  as  I  have  had  through 
the  means  of  yonder  little  set  of  blue  crockery,  which 
really  would  hold  liquid  (it  ran  out  of  the  small  wooden 
cask,*  I  recollect,  and  tasted  of  matches),  and  which 
made  tea,  nectar.  And  if  the  two  legs  of  the  ineffectual 
little  sugar-tongs  did  tumble  over  one  another,  and  want 
purpose,  like  Punch's  hands,  what  does  it  matter  ?  And 
if  I  did  once  shriek  out,  as  a  poisoned  child,  and  strike 
the  fashionable  company  with  consternation,  by  reason 
of  having  drunk  a  little  teaspoon,  inadvertently  dissolved 
in  too  hot  tea,  I  was  never  the  worst  for  it,  except  by  a 
powder ! 

Upon  the  next  branches  of  the  tree,  lower  down,  hard 
by  the  green  roller  and  miniature  gardening-tools,  how 
thick  the  books  begin  to  hang.  Thin  books,  in  them- 
selves, at  first,  but  many  of  them,  and  with  deliciously 
smooth  covers  of  bright  red  or  green.  What  fat  black 
letters  to  begin  with  !  "A  was  an  archer,  and  shot  at  a 
frog."  Of  course  he  was.  He  was  an  apple-pie  also, 
and  there  he  is  !  He  was  a  good  many  things  in  his 
time,  was  A,  and  so  were  most  of  his  friends,  except  X, 
who  had  so  little  versatility,  that  I  never  knew  him  to 
get  beyond  Xerxes  orXantippe — like  Y,  who  was  always 
confined  to  a  Yacht  or  a  Yew  tree  ;  and  Z  condemned  for 
ever  to  be  a  Zebra  or  a  Zany.  But,  now,  the  very  tree 
itself  changes,  and  becomes  a  bean-stalk — the  marvellous 
bean-stalk  up  which  Jack  climbed  to  the  Giant's  house  ! 
And  now,  those  dreadful  interesting,  double-headed 
giants,  with  their  clubs  over  their  shoulders,  begin  to 
stride  along  the  boughs  in  a  perfect  throng,  dragging 
knights  and  ladies  home  for  dinner  by  the  hair  of  their 
heads.  And  Jack — how  noble,  with  his  sword  of  sharp- 
ness, and  his  shoes  of  swiftness  !  Again  those  old  medi- 
tations come  upon  me  as  I  gaze  up  at  him  ;  and  I  debate 
within  myself  whether  there  was  more  than  one  Jack 
(which  I  am  loth  to  believe  possible),  or  only  one  genu- 
ine original  admirable  Jack,  who  achieved  all  th.e  re- 
corded exploits. 

Good  for  Christmas  time  is  the  ruddy  colour  of  the 
cloak,  in  which — the  tree  making  a  forest  of  itself  for 
her  to  trip  through,  with  her  basket — Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood  comes  to  me  one  Christmas  Eve  to  give  me  infor- 
mation of  the  cruelty  and  treachery  of  that  dissembling 
Wolf  who  ate  her  grand-mother,  without  making  any 
impression  on  his  appetite,  and  then  ate  her,  after  mak- 
ing that  ferocious  joke  about  his  teeth.  She  was  my 
first  love.  I  felt  that  if  I  could  have  married  Little  Red 
Riding- Hood,  I  should  have  known  perfect  bliss.  But, 
it  was  not  to  be  ;  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  look 
out  the  Wolf  in  the  Noah's  Ark  there,  and  put  him  late 
in  the  procession  on  the  table,  as  a  monster  who  was  to 
be  degraded.  O  the  wonderful  Noah's  Ark  !  It  was  not 
found  seaworthy  when  put  in  a  washing-tub,  and  the 
animals  were  crammed  in  at  the  roof,  and  needed  to 
have  their  legs  well  shaken  down  before  they  could  be 
got  in,  even  there — and  then,  ten  to  one  but  they  began 
to  tumble  out  at  the  door,  which  was  but  imperfectly 
fastened  with  a  wire  latch — but  what  was  that  against 
it !  Consider  the  noble  fly,  a  size  or  two  smaller  than 
the  elephant  :  the  lady-bird,  the  butterfly — all  triumphs 
of  art  I  Consider  the  goose,  whose  feet  were  so  small, 
and  whose  balance  was  so  indifferent,  that  he  usually 
tumbled  forward  and  knocked  down  all  the  animal  crea- 
tion. Consider  Noah  and  his  family,  like  idiotic  tobacco- 
stoppers  ;  and  how  the  leopard  stuck  to  warm  little 
fingers  ;  and  how  the  tails  of  the  larger  animals  used 
gradually  to  resolve  themselves  into  frayed  bits  of 
string  ! 

Hush  !    Again  a  forest,  and  somebody  up  in  a  tree — 


not  Robin  Hood,  not  Valentine,  not  the  Yellow  Dwarf  (I 
have  passed  him  and  all  Mother  Bunch's  wonders,  with- 
out mention),  but  an  Eastern  King  with  a  glittering 
scimitar  and  turban.  By  Allah  I  two  Eastern  Kings,  for 
I  see  another,  looking  over  his  shoulder  !  Down  upon 
the  grass,  at  the  tree's  foot,  lies  the  full  length  of  a  coal- 
blaclc  Giant,  stretched  asleep,  with  his  head  in  a  lady's 
lap  ;  and  near  them  is  a  glass  box,  fastened  with  four 
locks  of  shining  steel,  in  which  he  keeps  the  lady  pris- 
oner when  he  is  awake.  ■  I  see  the  four  keys  at  his 
girdle  now.  The  lady  makes  signs  to  the  two  kings  in 
the  tree,  who  softly  descend.  It  is  the  setting-in  of  the 
bright  Arabian  Nights. 

Oh,  now  all  common  things  become  uncommon  and 
enchanted  to  me  i  All  lamps  are  wonderful ;  all  rings 
are  talismans.  Common  flower-pots  are  full  of  treasure, 
with  a  little  earth  scattered  on  the  top ;  trees  are  for  All 
Baba  to  hide  in  ;  beef-steaks  are  to  throw  "down  into  the 
Valley  of  Diamonds,  that  the  precious  stones  may  stick  to 
them,  and  be  carried  by  the  eagles  to  their  nests,  whence 
the  traders,  with  loud  'cries,  will  scare  them.  Tarts  are 
made,  according  to  the  recipe  of  the  Vizier's  son  of  Bus- 
sorah,  who  turned  i^astrycook  after  he  was  set  down  in 
his  drawers  at  the  gate  of  Damascus  ;  cobblers  are  all 
Mustaphas,  and  in  the  habit  of  sewing  up  people  cut  in- 
to four  pieces,  to  whom  they  are  taken  blindfold. 

Any  iron  ring  let  into  stone  is  the  entrance  to  a  cave 
which  only  waits  for  the  magician,  and  the  little  fire, 
and  the  necromancy,  that  will  make  the  earth  shake. 
All  the  dates  imported  come  from  the  same  tree  as  that 
unlucky  date,  with  whose  shell  the  merchant  knocked 
out  the  eye  of  the  genie's  invisible  son.  All  olives  are 
of  the  stock  of  that  fresh  fruit,  concerning  which  the 
Commander  of  the  Faithful  overheard  the  boy  conduct 
the  fictitious  trial  of  the  fraudulent  olive  merchant  ;  all 
apples  are  akin  to  the  apjjle  purchased  (with  two  others) 
from  the  Sultan's  gardener  for  three  sequins,  and  which 
the  tall  black  slave  stole  from  the  child.  All  dogs  are 
associated  with  the  dog,  really  a  transformed  man,  who 
jumped  upon  the  baker's  counter,  and  put  his  paw  on 
the  piece  of  bad  money.  All  rice  recalls  the  rice  which 
the  awful  lady,  who  v\^as  a  ghoule,  could  only  peck  by 
grains,  because  of  her  nightly  feasts  in  the  burial-place. 
My  very  rocking-horse, — there  he  is,  with  his  nostrils 
turned  completely  inside-out,  indicative  of  Blood  ! — 
should  have  a  peg  in  his  neck,  by  virtue  thereof  to  fly 
away  with  me,  as  the  wooden  horse  did  with  the  Prince 
of  Persia,  in  the  sight  of  all  his  father's  Court. 

Yes,  on  every  object  that  I  recognise  among  those  up- 
per branches  of  my  Christmas  Tree,  I  see  this  fairy 
light !  When  I  wake  in  bed,  at  daybreak,  on  the  cold 
dark  winter  mornings,  the  white  snow  dimly  beheld, 
outside,  through  the  frost  on  the  window-pane,  I  hear 
Dinarzade.  "  Sister,  sister,  if  you  are  yet  awake,  I  pray 
you  finish  the  history  of  the  Young  King  of  the  Black 
Islands."  Scheherazade  replies,  "If  my  lord  the  Sul- 
tan will  suffer  me  to  live  another  day,  sister,  I  will  not 
only  finish  that,  but  tell  you  a  more  wonderful  story 
yet."  Then,  the  gracious  Sultan  goes  out,  giving  no 
orders  for  the  execution,  and  w^  all  three  breathe  again. 

At  this  height  of  my  tree  I  began  to  see,  cowering 
among  the  leaves — it  may  be  born  of  turkey,  or*  of  pud- 
ding, or  mince  pie,  or  of  these  many  fancies,  jumbled 
with  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  desert  island,  Philip  Quarll 
among  the  monkeys,  Saudford  and  Merton  with  Mr. 
Barlow,  Mother  Bunch  and  the  Mask — or  it  may  be  the 
result  of  indigestion,  assisted  by  imagination  and  over- 
doctoring — a  prodigious  nightmare.  It  is  so  exceedingly 
indistinct,  that  I  don't  know  why  it's  frightful — but  I 
know  it  is.  I  can  only  make  out  that  it  is  an  immense 
array  of  shapeless  things,  which  appear  to  be  planted  on 
a  vast  exaggeration  of  the  lazy  tongs  that  used  to  bear 
the  toy  soldiers,  and  to  be  slowly  coming  close  to  my 
eyes,  and  receding  to  an  immeasurable  distance.  When 
it  comes  closest,  it  is  worst.  In  connection  with  it  I 
descry  remembrances  of  winter  nights  incredibly  long  ; 
of  being  sent  early  to  bod,  as  a  punishment  for  some 
small  offence  and  waking  in  two  hours,  with  a  sensation 
of  having  been  asleep  two  nights  ;  of  the  laden  hope- 
lessness of  morning  ever  dawning  ;  and  the  oppression 
of  a  weight  of  remorse. 

And  now,  I  see  a  wonderful  row  of  little  lights  rise 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


1157 


smoothly  out  of  the  ground,  before  a  vast  green  curtain. 
Now,  a  bell  rings — a  magic  bell,  which  still  sounds  in 
my  ears  unlike  all  other  bells — and  music  plays,  amidst 
a  buzz  of  voices,  and  a  fragrant  smell  of  orange-peel  and 
oil.  Anon,  the  magic  bell  commands  the  music  to  cease, 
and  the  great  green  curtain  rolls  itself  up  majestically, 
and  the  play  begins  !  The  devoted  dog  of  Montargis 
avenges  the  death  of  his  master,  foully  murdered  in  the 
Forest  of  Bondy  ;  and  a  humorous  peasant  with  a  red 
nose  and  a  very  little  hat,  whom  I  take  from  this  hour 
forth  to  my  bosom  as  a  friend  (I  think  he  was  a  waiter 
or  an  Hostler  at  a  village  Inn,  but  many  years  have 
passed  since  he  and  I  have  met),  remarks  that  the  sas- 
sigassity  of  that  dog  is  indeed  surprising  ;  and  evermore 
this  jocular  conceit  will  live  in  my  remembrance  fresh 
and  unfading,  overtopping  all  possible  jokes,  unto  the 
end  of  time.  Or  now,  I  learn  with  bitter  tears  how  poor 
Jane  Shore,  dressed  all  in  white,  and  with  her  brown 
hair  hanging  down,  went  starving  through  the  streets  ;  or 
how  George  Barnwell  killed  the  worthiest  uncle  that 
ever  man  had,  and  was  afterwards  so  sorry  for  it  that 
he  ought  to  have  been  let  off.  Comes  swift  to  comfort 
me,  the  Pantomime — stupendous  Phenomenon  ! — when 
clowns  are  shot  from  loaded  mortars  into  the  great 
chandelier,  bright  constellation  that  it  is;  when  Harle- 
quins, covered  all  over  with  scales  of  pure  gold,  twist 
and  sparkle,  like  amaaing  fish  ;  when  Pantaloon  (whom 
I  deem  it  no  irreverence  *o  compare  in  my  own  mind  to 
my  grandfather)  puts  red-hot  pokers  in  his  pocket,  and 
cries  "Here's  somebody  coming  ! "  or  taxes  the  Clown 
with  petty  larceny,  by  saying  "Now,  I  sawed  you  do  it  !  " 
when  everything  is  capable,  with  the  greatest  ease,  of 
being  changed  into  Anything;  and  "Nothing  is,  but 
thinking  makes  it  so."  Now,  too,  I  perceive  my  first 
experience  of  the  dreary  sensation — often  to  return  in 
after-life — of  being  unable,  next  day.,  to  get  back  to  the 
dull,  settled  world  ;  of  wanting  to  live  forever  in  the 
bright  atmosphere  I  have  quitted  ;  of  doting  on  the  little 
Fairy,  with  the  wand  like  a  celestial  Barber's  Pole,  and 
pining  for  a  Fairy  immortality  along  with  her.  Ah  she 
comes  back,  in  many  shapes,  as  my  eye  wanders  down 
the  branches  of  my  Christmas  Tree,  and  goes  ae  often, 
and  has  never  yet  stayed  by  me  ! 

Out  of  this  delight  springs  the  toy-theatre, — there  it 
is  with  its  familiar  proscenium,  and  ladies  in  feathers, 
in  the  boxes  ! — and  all  its  attendant  occupation  with 
paste  and  glue,  and  gum,  and  water  colours,  in  the  get- 
ting-up  of  The  Miller  and  his  Men,  and  Elizabeth,  or 
the  Exile  of  Siberia.  In  spite  of  a  few  besetting  acci- 
dents and  failures  (particularly  an  unreasonable  disposi- 
tion in  the  respectable  Kelmar,  and  some  others,  to  be- 
come faint  in  the  legs,  and  double  up,  at  exciting  points 
of  the  drama),  a  teeming  world  of  fancies  so  suggestive 
and  all-embracing,  that,  far  below  it  on  my  Christmas 
Tree,  I  see  dark,  dirty,  real  Theatres  in  the  day-time, 
adorned  with  these  associations  as  with  the  freshest  gar- 
lands of  the  rarest  flowers,  and  charming  me  yet. 

But  hark  !  The  Waits  are  playing,  and  they  break  my 
childish  sleep  !  What  images  do  I  associate  with  the 
Christmas  music  as  I  see  them  set  forth  on  the  Christmas 
Tree  ?  Known  before  all  the  others,  keeping  far  apart 
from  all  the  others,  they  gather  round  my  little  bed.  An 
angel,  speaking  to  a  group  of  sliopherds  in  a  field  ;  some 
travellers,  with  eyes  uplifted,  following  a  star  ;  a  baby 
in  a  manger  ;  a  child  in  a  spacious  temple,  talking  with 
grave  men ;  a  solemn  figure,  with  a  mild  and  beautiful 
face,  raising  a  dead  girl  by  the  hand  ;  again,  near  a  city 
gate,  calling  back  the  son  of  a  widow,  on  his  bier,  to 
life  ;  a  crowd  of  people  looking  through  the  opened  roof 
of  a  chamber  where  he  sits,  and  letting  down  a  sick 
person  on  a  bed,  with  ropes  ;  the  same,  in  a  tempest, 
walking  on  the  water  to  a  ship  ;  again,  on  a  seashore, 
teaching  a  great  multitude  ;  again,  with  a  child  upon  his 
knee,  and  other  children  round  ;  again,  restoring  sight 
to  the  blind,  speech  to  the  dumb,  liearing  to  the  deaf, 
health  to  the  sick,  strength  to  the  lame,  knowledge  to  the 
ignorant ;  again,  dying  upon  a  cross,  watched  by  armed 
soldiers,  a  thick  darkness  coming  on,  the  earth  begin- 
ning to  shake,  and  only  one  voice  heard.  "Forgive 
them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  !" 

Still,  on  the  lower  and  maturer  branches  of  the  Tree, 
Christmas  associations  cluster  thick.    School-books  shut 


up  ;  Ovid  and  Virgil  silenced  ;  the  Rule  of  Three, 
with  its  cool  impertinent  enquiries,  long  disposed  of  ; 
Terence  and  Plautus  acted  no  more,  in  an  arena  of  hud- 
dled desks  and  forms,  all  chipped,  and  notched,  and 
inked  ;  cricket-bats,  stumps,  and  balls,  left  higher  up, 
with  the  smell  of  trodden  grass  and  the  softened 
noise  of  shouts  in  the  evening  air  ;  the  tree  is  still  fresh, 
still  gay.  If  I  no  more  come  home  at  Christmas  time, 
there  will  be  girls  and  boys  (thank  Heaven  !)  while  the 
World  lasts  ;  and  they  do  !  Yonder  they  dance  and  play 
upon  the  branches  of  my  Tree,  God  bless  them,  merrily, 
and  my  heart  dances  and  plays  too  1 

And  I  do  come  home  at  Christmas.  We  all  do,  or  Ave 
all  should.  We  all  come  home,  or  ought  to  come  home, 
for  a  short  holiday — the  longer,  the  better — from  the 
great  boarding-school,  where  we  are  forever  working  at 
our  arithmetical  slates,  to  take,  and  give  a  rest.  As  to 
going  a  visiting,  where  can  we  not  go,  if  we  will ;  where 
have  we  not  been,  when  we  would  ;  starting  our  fancy 
from  our  Christmas  Tree  ! 

Away  into  the  winter  prospect.  There  are  many  such 
upon  the  tree  !  On,  by  low- lying  misty  grounds,  through 
fens  and  fogs,  up  long  hills,  winding  dark  as  caverns 
between  thick  plantations,  almost  shutting  out  the  spark- 
ling stars  ;  so,  out  on  broad  heights,  until  we  stop  at 
last,  with  sudden  silence,  at  an  avenue.  The  gate-bell 
has  a  deep,  half-awful  sound  in  the  frosty  air  ;  the  gate 
swings  open  on  its  hinges  ;  and,  as  we  drive  up  to  a 
great  house,  the  glancing  lights  grow  larger  in  the  win- 
dows, and  the  opposing  rows  of  trees  seem  to  fall  sol- 
emnly back  on  either  side,  to  give  us  place.  At  inter- 
vals, all  day,  a  frightened  hare  has  shot  across  the 
whitened  turf  ;  or  the  distant  clatter  of  a  herd  of  deer 
trampling  the  hard  frost,  has,  for  the  minute,  crushed 
the  silence  too.  Their  watchful  eyes  beneath  the  fern 
may  be  shining  now,  if  we  could  see  them,  like  the  icy 
dewdrops  on  the  leaves  ;  but  they  are  still,  and  all  is 
still.  And  so,  the  lights  growing  larger,  and  the  trees 
falling  back  before  us,  and  closing  up  again  behind  us, 
as  if  to  forbid  retreat,  we  come  to  the  house. 

There  is  probably  a  smell  of  roasted  chestnuts  and 
other  good  comfortable  things  all  the  time,  for  we  are 
telling  Winter  Stories — Ghost  Stories,  or  more  shame  for 
us — round  the  Christmas  fire  ;  and  we  have  never  stirred, 
except  to  draw  a  little  nearer  to  it.  But,  no  matter  for 
that,  ^''e  came  to  the  house,  and  it  is  an  old  house,  full 
of  great  chimneys  where  wood  is  burnt  on  ancient  dogs 
upon  the  hearth,  and  grim  portraits  (some  of  them  with 
grim  legends,  too)  lower  distrustfully  from  the  oaken 
panels  of  the  Avails.  We  are  a  middle-aged  nobleman, 
and  Ave  make  a  generous  supper  Avitli  our  host  and  host- 
ess and  their  guests — it  being  Cliristmas-time,  and  the 
old  house  full  of  company — and  then  we  go  to  bed.  Our 
room  is  a  very  old  room.  It  is  hung  with  tapestry.  We 
don't  like  the  portrait  of  a  cavalier  in  green,  over  the 
fireplace.  There  are  great  black  beams  in  the  ceiling, 
and  there  is  a  great  black  bedstead,  supported  at  the  foot 
by  two  great  black  figures,  Avho  seem  to  have  come  off  a 
couple  of  tombs  in  the  old  baronial  church  in  the  park, 
for  our  particular  accommodation.  But,  Ave  are  not  a 
superstitious  nobleman,  and  Ave  don't  mind.  Well  !  we 
dismiss  our  servant,  lock  the  door,  and  sit  before  the 
fire  in  our  dressing-gown,  musing  about  a  great  many 
things.  At  length  Ave  go  to  bed.  Well  !  Ave  can't  sleep. 
We  toss  and  tumble,  and  can't  sleep.  The  embers  on 
the  hearth  burn  fitfully  and  make  the  room  look  ghostly. 
We  can't  help  peeping  out  over  the  counterpane,  at  the 
two  black  figures  and  the  cavalier — that  Avicked-looking 
cavalier — in  green.  In  the  flickering  light,  they  seem 
to  advance  and  retire  :  which,  though  Ave  are  not  by  any 
means  a  superstitious  nobleman,  is  not  agreeable.  Well  ! 
Ave  get  nervous — more  and  more  nervous.  We  say 
"  This  is  very  foolish,  but  we  can't  stand  this  ;  we'll 
pretend  to  be  ill,  and  knock  up  somebody."  Well  !  we 
are  just  going  to  do  it,  when  the  locked  door  opens,  and 
there  comes  in  a  young  AA'oman,  deadly  pale,  and  AAith 
long  fair  hair,  who  glides  to  the  fire,  and  sits  doAATi  in 
the  chair  we  have  left  there,  wringing  her  hands.  Then 
Ave  notice  that  her  clothes  are  wet.  Our  tongue  cleaves 
to  the  roof  of  our  mouth,  and  we  can't  speak  ;  but,  we 
observe  her  accurately.  Her  clothes  are  Avet  ;  her  long 
hair  is  dabbled  with  moist  mud  ;  she  is  dressed  in  the 


1158 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


fasliion  of  two  hundred  years  ago  ;  and  slie  lias  at  her 
girdle  a  bunch  of  rusty  keys.  Well  1  there  she  sits,  and 
we  can't  even  faint,  we  are  in  such  a  state  about  it. 
Presently  she  gets  up,  and  tries  all  the  locks  in  the  room 
with  her  rusty  keys,  which  won't  fit  one  of  them  ;  then, 
she  fixes  her  eyes  on  the  portrait  of  the  cavalier  in  green, 
and  says,  in  a  low,  terrible  voice,  "  The  stags  know  it ! " 
After  that,  she  wrings  her  hands  again,  passes  the  bed- 
side, and  goes  out  at  the  door.  We  hurry  on  our  dress- 
ing-gown, seize  our  pistols  (we  always  travel  with  pistols), 
and  are  following,  when  we  find  the  door  locked.  We 
turn  the  key,  look  out  into  the  dark  gallery ;  no  one 
there.  We  wander  away,  and  try  to  find  our  servant. 
Can't  be  done.  We  pace  the  gallery  till  daybreak  ;  then 
return  to  our  deserted  room,  fall  asleep,  and  are  awakened 
by  our  servant  (nothing  ev^er  haunts  Jdm)  and  the  shining 
sun.  Well  !  we  make  a  wretched  breakfast,  and  all  the 
company  say  we  look  queer.  After  breakfast,  we  go 
over  the  house  with  our  host,  and  then  we  take  him  to 
the  portrait  of  the  cavalier  in  green,  and  then  it  all 
comes  out.  He  was  false  to  a  young  housekeeper  once 
attached  to  that  family,  and  famous  for  her  beauty,  who 
drowned  herself  in  a  pond,  and  whose  body  was  dis- 
covered after  a  long  time,  because  the  stags  refused  to 
drink  of  the  water.  Since  which,  it  has  been  whispered 
that  she  traverses  the  house  at  midnight  (but  goes  es- 
pecially to  that  room  where  the  cavalier  in  green  was 
wont  to  sleep),  trying  the  old  locks  with  the  rusty  keys. 
Well !  we  tell  our  host  of  what  we  have  seen,  and  a 
shade  comes  over  his  features,  and  he  begs  it  may  be 
hushed  up  ;  and  so  it  is.  But,  it's  all  true  ;  and  we  said 
so,  before  we  died  (we  are  dead  now)  to  many  responsi- 
ble people. 

There  is  no  end  to  the  old  houses,  with  resounding 
galleries,  and  dismal  state-bed  chambers,  and  haunted 
wings  shut  up  for  many  years,  through  which  we  may 
ramble,  with  an  agreeable  creeping  up  our  back,  and 
encounter  any  number  of  ghosts,  but  (it  is  worthy  of  re- 
mark perhaps)  reducible  to  a  very  few  general  types  and 
classes  ;  for,  ghosts  have  little  originality,  and  "walk" 
in  a  beaten  track.  Thus,  it  comes  to  pass,  that  a  certain 
room  in  a  certain  old  hall,  where  a  certain  bad  lord,  baro- 
net, knight,  or  gentleman,  shot  himself,  has  certain 
planks  in  the  floor  from  which  the  blood  icill  not  be  taken 
out.  You  may  scrape  and  scrape,  as  the  present  owner 
has  done,  or  plane  and  plane,  as  his  father  did,  or  scrub 
and  scrub,  as  his  grandfather  did,  or  burn  and  burn 
with  strong  acids,  as  his  great-grandfather,  did,  but, 
there  the  blood  will  still  be — no  redder  and  no  paler — 
no  more  and  no  less — always  just  the  same.  Thus,  in 
such  another  house  there  is  a  haunted  door,  that  never 
will  keep  open  ;  or  another  door  that  never  will  keep 
shut ;  or  a  haunted  sound  of  a  spinning-wheel,  or  a  ham- 
mer, or  a  footstep,  or  a  cry,  or  a  sigh,  or  a  horse's  tramp, 
or  the  rattling  of  a  chain.  Or  else,  there  is  a  turret- 
clock,  which,  at  the  midnight  hour,  strikes  thirteen  when 
the  head  of  the  family  is  going  to  die  ;  or  a  shadowy, 
immovable  black  carriage  which  at  such  a  time  is  always 
seen  by  somebody,  waiting  near  the  great  gates  in  the 
stable-yard.  Or  thus,  it  came  to  pass  how  Lady  Mary 
went  to  pay  a  visit  at  a  large  wild  house  in  the  Scottish 
Highlands,  and,  being  fatigued  with  her  long  journey, 
retired  to  bed  early,  and  innocently  said,  next  morning, 
at  the  breakfast-table,  How  odd,  to  have  so  late  a  party 
last  night,  in  this  remote  place,  and  not  to  tell  me  of  it, 
before  I  went  to  bed  ! "  Then,  every  one  asked  Lady 
Mary  what  she  meant?  Then,  Lady  Mary  replied, 
"  Why,  all  night  long,  the  carriages  were  driving  round 
and  round  the  terrace,  underneath  my  window  !  "  Then, 
the  owner  of  the  house  turned  pale,  and  so  did  his  Lady, 
and  Charles  Macdoodle  of  Macdoodle  signed  to  Lady 
Mary  to  say  no  more,  and  every  one  was  silent.  After 
breakfast,  Charles  Macdoodle  told  Lady  Mary  that  it  was 
a  tradition  in  the  family  that  those  rumbling  carriages 
on  the  terrace  betokened  death.  And  so  it  proved,  for, 
two  months  afterwards,  the  Lady  of  the  mansion  died. 
And  Lady  Mary,  who  was  a  Maid  of  Honour  at  Court, 
often  told  this  story  to  the  old  Queen  Charlotte  ;  by  this 
token  that  the  old  King  always  said,  "  Eh,  eh?  What, 
what  ?  Ghosts,  ghosts  ?  No  such  thing,  no  such  thing  !  " 
And  never  left  oil  saying  so,  until  he  went  to  bed. 

Or,  a  friend  of  somebody's,  whom  most  of  us  know, 


when  he  was  a  young  man  at  college,  had  a  particular 
friend,  with  whom  he  made  the  compact  that,  if  it  were 
possible  for  the  Spirit  to  return  to  this  earth  after  its 
separation  from  the  body,  he  of  the  twain  who  first  died, 
should  reappear  to  the  other.  In  course  of  time,  this 
compact  was  forgotten  by  our  friend  ;  the  two  young  men 
having  progressed  in  life,  and  taken  diverging  ])aths 
that  were  wide  asunder.  But,  one  night,  many  years 
afterwards,  our  friend  being  in  the  North  of  England, 
and  staying  for  the  night  in  an  inn,  on  the  Yorkshire 
Moors,  happened  to  look  out  of  bed  ;  and  there,  in  the 
moonlight,  leaning  on  a  bureau  near  the  window,  stead- 
fastly regarding  him,  saw  his  old  college  friend  !  The 
appearance  being  solemnly  addressed,  replied,  in  a  kind 
of  whisper,  but  very  audibly,  "Do  not  come  near  me. 
I  am  dead.  I  am  here  to  redeem  my  promise.  I  come 
from  another  world,  but  may  not  disclose  its  secrets  1 " 
Then,  the  whole  form  becoming  paler,  melted,  as  it  were, 
into  the  moonlight,  and  faded  away. 

Or,  there  was  the  daughter  of  the  first  occupier  of  the 
picturesque  Elizabethan  house,  so  famous  in  our  neigh- 
bourhood. You  have  heard  about  her?  No  !  Why,  She 
went  out  one  summer  evening,  at  twilight,  when  she  was 
a  beautiful  girl,  just  seventeen  years  of  age,  to  gather 
flowers  in  the  garden  ;  and  presently  came  running,  ter- 
rified, into  the  hall  to  her  father,  saying,  "Oh,  dear 
father,  I  have  met  myself  ! "  He  took  her  in  his  anns, 
and  told  her  it  was  fancy,  but  she  said,  "  Oh  no  !  I  met 
myself  in  the  broad  walk,  and  I  was  pale  and  gathering 
withered  flowers,  and  I  turned  my  head,  and  held  them 
up  !"  And,  that  night,  she  died,  and  a  picture  of  her 
story  was  begun,  tliough  never  finished,  and  they  say  it 
is  somewhere  in  the  house  to  this  day,  with  its  face  to 
the  wall. 

Or,  the  uncle  of  my  brother's  wife  was  riding  home  on 
horseback,  one  mellow  evening  at  sunset,  when,  in  a 
green  lane  close  to  his  own  house,  he  saw  a  man  standing 
before  him,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  narrow  way.  "  Why 
does  that  man  in  the  cloak  stand  there  ! "  he  thought. 
"  Does  he  want  me  to  ride  over  him?"  But  the  figure 
never  moved.  He  felt  a  strange  sensation  at  seeing  it  so 
still,  but  slackened  his  trot  and  rode  forward.  When  he 
was  so  close  to  it,  as  almost  to  touch  it  with  his  stirrup, 
his  horse  shied,  and  the  figure  glided  up  the  bank,  in  a 
curious,  unearthly  manner — backward,  and  without  seem- 
ing to  use  its  feet — and  was  gone.  The  uncle  of  my 
brother's  wife,  exclaiming,  "Good  Heaven!  It's  my 
cousin  Harry  from  Bombay!"  put  spurs  to  his  horse, 
which  was  suddenly  in  a  profuse  sweat,  and,  wondering 
at  such  strange  behaviour,  dashed  round  to  the  front  of 
his  house.  There,  he  saw  the  same  figure,  just  passing 
in  at  the  long  French  window  of  the  drawing-room,  open- 
ing on  the  ground.  He  threw  his  bridle  to  a 'servant, 
and  hastened  in  after  it.  His  sister  was  sitting  there, 
alone.  "Alice,  where's  my  cousin  Harry?"  "Your 
cousin  Harry,  John  ? "  "  Yes.  From  Bombay.  I  met 
him  in  the  lane  just  now,  and  saw  him  enter  here,  this 
instant."  Not  a  creature  had  been  seen  by  any  one  ;  and 
in  that  hour  and  minute,  as  it  afterwards  appeared,  this 
cousin  died  in  India. 

Or,  it  was  a  certain  sensible  old  maiden  lady,  who  died 
at  ninety-nine,  and  retained  her  faculties  to  the  last,  who 
really  did  see  the  Orphan  Boy  ;  a  story  which  has  often 
been  incorrectly  told,  but,  of  which  the  real  truth  is  this 
— because  it  is,  in  fact,  a  story  belonging  to  our  family — 
and  she  was  a  connexion  of  our  family.  When  she  was 
about  forty  years  of  age,  and  still  an  uncommonly  fine 
woman  (her  lover  died  young,  which  was  the  reason  she 
never  married,  though  she  had  many  offers),  she  went  to 
stay  at  a  place  in  Kent,  which  her  brother,  an  Indian- 
Merchant  had  newly  bought.  There  was  a  story  that 
this  place  had  once  been  held  in  trust,  by  the  guardian 
of  a  young  boy  ;  who  was  himself  the  next  heir,  and  vi^ho 
killed  the  young  boy  by  harsh  and  cruel  treatment.  She 
knew  nothing  of  that.  It  has  been  said  that  there  was  a 
Cage  in  her  bed- room  in  which  the  guardian  used  to  put 
the  boy.  There  was  no  such  thing.  There  was  only  a 
closet.  She  went  to  bed,  made  no  alarm  whatever  in  the 
night,  and  in  the  morning  said  composedly  to  her  maid 
when  she  came  in,  "  Who  is  the  pretty  forlorn -looking 
child  who  has  been  peeping  out  of  that  closet  all  night  ?" 
The  maid  replied  by  giving  a  loud  scream,  and  instantly 


HE  TOOK  HER  IN  HTS  AR^IS,  AND  TOLD  HEE  IT  WAS  FANCY. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVEHSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


MISCELLA  NEO  US, 


1159 


decamping.  She  was  surprised  ;  but  she  was  a  woman 
of  remarkable  strength  of  mind,  and  she  dressed  herself 
and  went  down-stairs,  and  closeted  herself  with  her 
brother,  "Now,  Walter,"  she  said,  "I  have  been  dis- 
turbed all  night  by  a  pretty,  forlorn-looking  boy,  who 
has  been  constantly  peeping  out  of  that  closet  in  my 
room,  which  I  can't  open.  This  is  some  trick."  "I  am 
afraid  not,  Charlotte,"  said  he,  "  for  it  is  the  legend  of 
the  house.  It  is  the  Orphan  Boy.  Wbat  did  he  do?" 
"  He  opened  the  door  softly,"  said  she,  "and  peeped  out. 
Sometimes,  he  came  a  step  or  two  into  the  room.  Then, 
I  called  to  him,  to  encourage  him,  and  he  shrunk,  and 
shuddered,  and  crept  in  again,  and  shut  the  door." 
"  The  closet  has  no  communication,  Charlotte,"  said  her 
brother,  "  with  any  other  part  of  the  house,  and  it's 
nailed  up."  This  was  undeniably  true  and  it  took  two 
carpenters  a  whole  forenoon  to  get  it  open,  for  examina- 
tion. Then,  she  was  satisfied  that  she  had  seen  the 
Orphan  Boy.  But,  the  wild  and  terrible  part  of  the  story 
is,  that  ho  was  also  seen  by  three  of»  her  brother's  sons, 
in  succession,  who  all  died  young.  On  the  occasion  of 
each  child  being  taken  ill,  he  came  home  in  a  heat, 
twelve  hours  before,  and  said.  Oh,  Mamma,  he  had  been 
playing  under  a  particular  oak  tree,  in  a  certain  meadow, 
with  a  strange  boy — a  pretty,  forlorn-looking  boy,  who 
was  very  timid,  and  made  signs  !  From  fatal  experience, 
the  parents  came  to  know  that  this  was  the  Orphan  Boy, 
and  that  the  course  of  that  child  whom  he  chose  for  his 
little  playmate  was  surely  run. 

Legion  is  the  name  of  the  German  castles,  where  we 
sit  up  alone  to  wait  for  the  spectre — where  we  are 
shov.'u  into  a  room,  made  comparatively  cheerful  for  our 
reception  —  where  we  glance  round  at  the  shadows, 
thrown  on  the  blank  walls  by  the  crackling  fire — where 
we  feel  very  lonely  when  the  village  innkeeper  and  his 
pretty  daughter  have  retired,  after  laying  down  a  fresh 
store  of  wood  upon  the  hearth,  and  setting  forth  on  the 
small  table  such  supper-cheer  as  a  cold  roast  capon, 
bread,  grapes,  and  a  flask  of  old  Rhine  wine — where  the 


reverberating  doors  close  on  their  retreat,  one  after  an- 
other, like  so  many  peals  of  sullen  thunder — and  where, 
about  the  small  hours  of  the  night,  we  come  into  the 
knowledge  of  divers  supernatural  mysteries.  Legion  is 
the  name  of  the  haunted  German  students,  in  whose 
society  we  draw  yet  nearer  to  the  fire,  while  the  school- 
boy in  the  corner  opens  his  eyes  wide  and  round,  and 
flies  off  the  footstool  he  has  chosen  for  his  .seat,  when 
the  door  accidentally  blows  open.  Vast  is  the  crop  of 
such  fruit,  shining  on  our  Christmas  Tree ;  in  blos- 
som, almost  at  the  very  top  ;  ripening  all  down  the 
boughs ! 

Among  the  later  toys  and  fancies  hanging  there — as 
idle  often  and  less  pure — be  the  images  once  associated 
with  the  sweet  old  Waits,  the  softened  music  in  the 
night,  ever  unalterable  !  Encircled  by  the  social 
thoughts  of  Christmas  time,  still  let  the  benignant 
figure  of  my  childhood  stand  unchanged  !  In  every 
cheerful  image  and  suggestion  that  the  season  brings, 
may  the  bright  star  that  rested  above  the  poor  roof,  be 
the  star  of  all  the  Christian  world  !  A  moment's  pause, 
0  vanishing  tree,  of  which  the  lower  boughs  are  dark  to 
me  as  yet,  and  let  me  look  once  more  !  I  know  there 
are  blank  spaces  on  thy  branches,  where  eyes  that  I 
have  loved,  have  shone  and  smiled  ;  from  which  they 
are  departed.  But,  far  above,  I  see  the  raiser  of  the 
dead  girl,  and  the  Widow's  Son  ;  and  God  is  good  !  If 
Age  be  hiding  for  me  in  the  unseen  portion  of  thy 
downward  growth,  0  may  I,  with  a  grey  head,  turn  a 
child's  heart  to  that  figure  yet,  and  a  child's  trustful- 
ness and  confidence  ! 

Now,  the  tree  is  decorated  with  bright  merriment, 
and  song,  and  dance,  and  cheerfulness.  And  they  are 
welcome.  Innocent  and  welcome  be  they  ever  held,  be- 
neath the  branches  of  the  Christmas  Tree,  which  cast 
no  gloomy  shadow  !  But,  as  it  sinks  into  the  ground,  I 
hear  a  whisper  going  through  the  leaves.  "  This,  in 
commemoration  of  the  law  of  love  and  kindness,  mercy 
and  compassion.    This,  in  remembrance  of  Me  ! " 


Reprinted  Pieces^' 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE. 

When  the  wind  is  blowing  and  tlie  sleet  or  rain  is 
driving-  against  the  dark  windows,  I  love  to  sit  by  the 
fire,  thinking  of  what  I  have  read  in  books  of  voyage 
and  travel.  Such  books  have  had  a  strong  fascination 
for  my  mind  from  my  earliest  childhood  ;  and  I  wonder 
it  should  have  come  to  pass  that  I  never  have  b.een 
round  the  world,  never  have  been  shipwrecked,  ice-en- 
vironed, tomahawked,  or  eaten. 

Sitting  on  my  ruddy  hearth  in  the  twilight  of  New 
Year's  Eve,  I  find  incidents  of  travel  rise  around  me 
from  all  the  latitudes  and  longitudes  of  the  globe. 
They  observe  no  order  or  sequence,  but  appear  and  van- 
ish as  they  will — "come  like  shadows,  so  depart." 
Columbus,  alone  upon  the  sea  with  his  disaffected  crew, 
looks  over  the  waste  of  waters  from  his  high  station  on 
the  poop  of  his  ship,  and  sees  the  first  uncertain  glim- 
mer of  the  light,  "  rising  and  falling  with  the  waves, 
like  a  torch  in  the  bark  of  some  fisherman,"  which  is 
the  shining  star  of  a  new  world.  Bruce  is  caged  in 
Abyssinia,  surrounded  by  the  gory  horrors  which  shall 
often  startle  him  out  of  his  sleep  at  home  when  years 
have  passed  away.  Franklin,  come  to  the  end  of  his 
unhappy  ov^erland  journey — would  that  it  had  been  his 
last  ! — lies  perishing  of  hunger  with  his  brave  compan- 
ions :  each  emaciated  figure  stretched  upon  its  misera- 
ble bed  without  the  power  to  rise  :  all,  dividing  the 
weary  days  between  their  prayers,  their  remembrances 
of  the  dear  ones  at  home,  and  conversation  on  the  pleas-^ 
ures  of  eating  :  the  last-named  topic  being  ever  present 
to  them,  likewise  in  their  dreams.  All  the  African 
travellers,  wayworn,  solitary  and  sad,  submit  themselves 
again  to  drunken,  murderous,  man-selling  despots,  of 
the  lowest  order  of  humanity ;  and  Mungo  Park,  faint- 
ing under  a  tree  and  succoured  by  a  woman,  gratefully 
remembers  how  his  Good  Samaritan  has  always  come  to 
him  in  woman's  shape,  the  wide  world  over. 

A  shadow  on  the  wall  in  which  my  mind's  eye  can 
discern  some  traces  of  a  rocky  sea-coast,  recalls  to  me  a 
fearful  story  of  travel  derived  from  that  unpromising 
narrator  of  such  stories,  a  parliamentary  blue-book.  A 
convict  is  its  chief  figure,  and  this  man  escapes  with 
other  prisoners  from  a  penal  settlement.  It  is  an  island, 
and  they  seize  a  boat,  and  get  to  the  main  land.  Their 
way  is  by  a  rugged  and  precipitous  sea-shore,  and  they 
have  no  earthly  hope  of  ultimate  escape,  for  the  party 
of  soldiers  despatched  by  an  easier  course  to  cut  them 
off,  must  inevitably  arrive  at  their  distant  bourne  long 
before  them,  and  retake  them  if  by  any  hazard  they 
survive  the  horrors  of  the  way.  Famine,  as  they  all 
must  have  foreseen,  besets  them  early  in  their  course. 
Some  of  the  party  die  and  are  enten  ;  some  are  murdered 
by  the  rest  and  eaten.  This  one  awful  creature  eats  his 
fill,  and  sustains  his  strength,  and  lives  on  to  be  re- 
captured and  taken  back.  The  unrelateable  experiences 
through  which  he  has  passed  have  been  so  tremendous, 
that  he  is  not  hanged  as  hfi  might  be,  but  goes  back  to 
his  old  chained  gang-work.  A  little  time,  and  he  tempts 
one  other  prisoner  away,  seizes  another  boat,  and  flies 
once  more — necessarily  in  the  old  hopeless  direction,  for 
he  can  take  no  other.  He  is  soon  cut  off,  and  met  by 
the  pursuing  party,  face  to  face  upon  the  beach.  He  is 
alone.  In  his  former  journey  he  acquired  an  inappeasa- 
ble  relish  for  his  dreadful  food.  He  urged  the  new 
man  away,  expressly  to  kill  him  and  eat  him.  In  the 
pockets  on  one  side  of  his  coarse  convict-dress,  are  por- 
tions of  the  man's  body,  on  which  he  is  regaling  ;  in 
the  pockets  on  the  other  side  is  an  untouched  store  of 
salted  pork  (stolen  before  he  left  the  island)  for  which 
he  has  no  appetite.  He  is  taken  back,  and  he  is  hanged. 
But  I  shall  never  see  that  sea-beach  on  the  wall  or  In 


the  fire,  without  him,  solitary  monster,  eating  as  he 
prowls  along,  while  the  sea  rages  and  rises  at  him. 

Captain  Bligh  (a  worse  man  to  be  entrusted  with  arbi- 
trary power  there  could  scarcely  be)  is  handed  over  the 
side  of  the  Bounty,  and  turned  adrift  on  the  wide  ocean 
in  an  open  boat,  by  order  of  Fletcher  Christian  one  of 
his  officers,  at  this  very  minute.  Another  flash  of  fire, 
and  "Thursday  October  Christian,"  five-and-twenty 
years  of  age,  son  of  the  dead  and  gone  Fletcher  by  a 
savage  mother,  leaps  aboard  His  Majesty's  ship  Briton, 
hove  to  off  Pitcairn's  Island  ;  says  his  simple  grace  be- 
fore eating,  in  good  English  ;  and  knows  that  a  pretty 
little  animal  cn  board  is  called  a  dog,  because  in  his 
childhood  he  had  heard  of  such  strange  creatures  from 
his  father  and  the  other  mutineers,  grown  gray  under 
the  shade  of  the  Bread-fruit  trees,  speaking  of  their  lost 
country  far  away. 

See  the  Halsewell,  East  Indiaman  outward  bound, 
driving  madly  on  a  January  night  towards  the  rocks  near 
Seacombe,  on  the  island  of  Purljeck  !  The  captain's  two 
dear  daughters  are  aboard,  and  five  other  ladies.  The 
ship  has  been  driving  many  hours,  has  seven  feet  water 
in  her  hold,  and  her  mainmast  has  been  cut  away.  The 
description  of  her  loss,  familiar  to  me  from  my  early 
boyhood,  seems  to  be  read  aloud  as  she  rushes  to  her 
destiny. 

"  About  two  in  the  morning  of  Friday  the  sixth  of 
January,  the  ship  still  driving,  and  approaching  very 
fast  to  the  shore,  Mr.  Henry  Meriton,  the  second  male, 
went  again  into  the  cuddy,  where  the  captain  then  was. 
Another  conversation  taking  place,  Captain  Pierce  ex- 
pressed extreme  anxiety  for  the  preservation  of  his  be- 
loved daughters,  and  earnestly  asked  the  officer  if  he 
could  devise  any  method  of  saving  them.  On  his  an- 
swering with  great  concern,  that  he  feared  it  w^ould  be 
impossible,  but  that  their  only  chance  would  be  to  wait 
for  morning,  the  captain  lifted  up  his  hands  in  silent 
and  distressful  ejaculation. 

"  At  this  dreadful  moment  the  ship  struck,  with  such 
violence  as  to  dash  the  heads  of  those  standing  in  the 
cuddy  against  the  deck  above  them,  and  the  shock  was 
accompanied  by  a  shriek  of  horror  that  burst  at  one  in- 
stant from  every  quarter  of  the  ship. 

"Many  of  the  seamen,  who  had  been  remarkably  in- 
attentive and  remiss  in  their  duty  during  the  great  part 
of  the  storm,  now  poured  upon  deck,  where  no  exertions 
of  the  officers  could  keep  them  while  their  assistance 
might  have  been  useful.  They  had  actually  skulked  in 
their  hammocks,  leaving  the  w^orking  of  the  pumps  and 
other  necessary  labours  to  the  ofiicers  of  the  ship,  and 
the  soldiers,  who  had  made  uncommon  exertions. 
Roused  by  a  sense  of  their  danger  the  same  seamen,  at 
this  moment,  in  frantic  exclamations,  demanded  of  hea- 
ven and  their  fellow-sufferers  that  succour  w^hich  their 
own  efforts  timely  made,  might  possibly  have  procured. 

"  The  ship  continued  to  beat  on  the  rocks  ;  and  soon 
bilging,  fell  with  her  broadside  towards  the  shore. 
When  she  struck,  a  number  of  the  men  climbed  up  the 
ensign-staff,  under  an  apprehension  of  her  immediately 
going  to  pieces. 

"  Mr.  Meriton,  at  this  crisis,  offered  to  these  unhappy 
beings  the  best  advice  which  could  be  given  ;  he  recom- 
mended that  all  should  come  to  the  side  of  the  ship  lying 
lowest  on  the  rocks,  and  singly  to  take  the  opportunities 
which  might  then  offer,  of  escaping  to  the  shore. 

"  Having  thus  provided,  to  the  utmost  of  his  power, 
for  the  safety  of  the  desponding  crew,  he  returned  to  the 
round-house,  where,  by  this  time,  all  the  passengers, 
and  most  of  the  officers  had  assembled.  The  latter  were 
employed  in  offering  consolation  to  the  unfortunate 
ladies  ;  and,  with  unparalleled  magnanimity,  suffering 

1161 


1162 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


tlieir  compassion  for  tlie  fair  and  amiable  companions  of 
their  misfortunes  to  prevail  over  the  sense  of  their  own 
danger. 

"  In  this  charitable  work  of  comfort,  Mr.  Meriton  now 
joined,  by  assurances  of  his  opinion,  that  the  ship  would 
hold  toge'ther  till  the  morning,  when  all  would  be  safe. 
Captain  Pierce,  observing  one  of  the  young  gentlemen 
loud  in  his  exclamations  of  terror,  and  frequently  cry 
that  the  ship  was  parting,  cheerfully  bid  him  be  quiet, 
remarking  that  though  the  ship  should  go  to  pieces,  he 
would  not,  but  would  be  safe  enough. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  convey  a  correct  idea  of  the  scene  of 
this  deplorable  catastrophe,  without  describing  the  place 
where  it  happened.  The  Ha]  se well  struck  on  the  rocks 
at  a  part  of  the  shore  where  the  clilf  is  of  vast  height 
and  rises  almost  perpendicular  from  its  base.  But  at 
this  particular  spot,  the  foot  of  the  cliff  is  excavated  into 
a  cavern  of  ten  or  twelve  yards  in  depth,  and  of  breadth 
equal  to  the  length  of  a  large  ship.  The  sides  of  the 
cavern  are  so  nearly  upright,  as  to  be  of  extremely  diffi- 
cult access ;  and  the  bottom  is  strewed  with  sharp  and 
uneven  rocks,  which  seem,  by  some  convulsion  of  the 
earth,  to  have  been  detached  from  its  roof. 

"The  ship  lay  with  her  broadside  opposite  to  the 
mouth  of  this  cavern,  with  her  whole  length  stretched 
almost  from  side  to  side  of  it.  But  when  she  struck,  it 
was  too  dark  for  the  unfortunate  persons  on  board  to 
discover  the  real  magnitude  of  their  danger,  and  the  ex- 
treme horror  of  such  a  situation. 

"In  addition  to  the  company  already  in  the  round- 
house, they  had  admitted  three  black  women  and  two 
soldiers'  wives  ;  who,  with  the  husband  of  one  of  them, 
had  been  allowed  to  come  in,  though  the  seamen,  who 
had  tumultuously  demanded  entrance  to  get  the  lights, 
had  been  opposed  and  kept  out  by  Mr.  Rogers  and  Mr. 
Brimer,  the  third  and  fifth  mates.  The  numbers  there 
were,  therefore,  now  increased  to  near  fifty.  Captain 
Pierce  sat  on  a  chair,  a  cot,  or  some  other  moveable, 
with  a  daughter  on  each  side,  whom  he  alternately 
pressed  to  his  affectionate  breast.  The  rest  of  the  mel- 
ancholy assembly  were  seated  on  the  deck,  which  was 
strewed  with  musical  instruments,  and  the  wreck  of 
furniture  and  other  articles. 

"  Here  also  Mr.  Meriton,  after  having  cut  several  wax- 
candles  in  pieces,  and  stuck  them  up  in  various  parts  of 
the  round-house,  and  lighted  up  all  the  glass  lanthorns 
he  could  find,  took  his  seat,  intending  to  wait  the  ap- 
proach of  dawn  ;  and  then  assist  the  partners  of  his 
dangers  to  escape.  But,  observing  that  the  poor  ladies 
appeared  parched  and  exhausted  he  brought  a  basket  of 
oranges  and  prevailed  on  some  of  them  to  refresh  them- 
selves by  sucking  a  little  of  the  juice.  At  this  time  they 
were  all  tolerably  composed,  except  Miss  Mansel,who  was 
in  hysteric  fits  on  the  floor  of  the  deck  of  the  round-house. 

"  But  on  Mr.  Meriton's  return  to  the  company,  he  per- 
ceived a  considerable  alteration  in  the  appearance  of  the 
ship  ;  the  sides  were  visibly  giving  way  ;  the  deck  seemed 
to  be  lifting,  and  he  discovered  other  strong  indications 
that  she  could  not  hold  much  longer  together.  On  this 
account,  he  attempted  to  go  forward  to  look  out,  but  im- 
mediately saw  that  the  ship  had  separated  in  the  middle, 
and  that  the  forepart  having  changed  its  position,  lay 
rather  further  out  towards  the  sea.  In  such  an  emerg- 
ency, when  the  next  moment  might  plunge  him  into 
eternity,  he  determined  to  seize  the  present  opportunity, 
and  follow  the  example  of  the  crew  and  the  soldiers, 
who  were  now  quitting  the  ship  in  numbers,  and  making 
.  their  way  to  the  shore,  though  quite  ignorant  of  its 
nature  and  description. 

"  Among  other  expedients,  the  ensign-staff  had  been 
unshipped,  and  attempted  to  be  laid  between  the  ship's 
side  and  some  of  the  rocks,  but  without  success,  for  it 
snapped  asunder  before  it  reached  them.  However, by  the 
light  of  a  lanthorn,  which  a  seaman  handed  through  the 
sky-light  of  the  round-house  to  the  deck,  Mr.  Meriton 
discovered  a  spar  v/hich  appeared  to  be  laid  from  the 
ship's  side  to  the  rocks,  and  on  this  spar  he  resolved  to 
attempt  his  escape. 

"Accordingly,  lying  down  upon  it,  he  thrust  himself 
forward  ;  however,  he  soon  found  that  it  had  no  com- 
munication with  the  rock  ;  he  reached  the  end  of  it  and 
then  slipped  off,  receiving  a  very  violent  bruise  in  his  fall, 


and  before  he  could  recover  his  legs,  he  was  washed  off 
by  the  surge.  He  now  supported  himself  by  swimming, 
until  a  returning  wave  dashed  him  against  the  back  part 
of  the  cavern.  Here  he  laid  hold  of  a  small  projection 
in  the  rock,  but  was  so  much  benumbed  that  he  was  on 
the  point  of  quitting  it,  when  a  seaman,  who  had  already 
gained  a  footing,  extended  his  hand,  and  assisted  him 
until  he  could  secure  himself  a  little  on  the  rock  ;  from 
which  he  clambered  on  a  shelf  still  higher,  and  out  of 
the  reach  of  the  surf. 

"  Mr.  Rogers,  the  third  mate,  remained  with  the  cap- 
tain and  the  unfortunate  ladies  and  their  companions 
nearly  twenty  minutes  after  Mr.  Meriton  had  quitted  the 
ship.  Soon  after  the  latter  left  the  round-house,  the  cap- 
tain asked  what  was  become  of  him,  to  which  Mr.  Rogers 
replied,  that  he  was  gone  on  deck  to  see  what  could  be 
done.  After  this,  a  heavy  sea  breaking  over  the  ship, 
the  ladies  exclaimed,  *  Oh  poor  Meriton  !  he  is  drowned! 
had  he  stayed  with  us  he  would  have  been  saved  ! '  and 
they  all,  particularly  Miss  Mar}'  Pierce,  expressed  great 
concern  at  the  apprehension  of  his  loss. 

"  The  sea  was  now  breaking  in  at  the  fore-part  of  the 
ship,  and  reached  as  far  as  the  mainmast.  Captain  Pierce 
gave  Mr.  Rogers  a  nod,  and  they  took  a  lamp  and  went 
together  into  the  stern-gallery,  where,  after  viewing  the 
rocks  for  some  time,  Captain  Pierce  asked  Mr.  Rogers  if 
he  thought  there  was  any  possibility  of  saving  the  girls  ; 
to  which  he  replied,  he  feared  there  was  none  ;  for  they 
could  only  discover  the  black  face  of  the  perpendicular 
rock,  and  not  the  cavern  which  afforded  shelter  to  those 
who  escaped.  They  then  returned  to  the  round-house, 
where  Mr.  Rogers  hung  up  the  lamp,  and  Captain  Pierce 
sat  down  between  his  two  daughters. 

"The  sea  continuing  to  break  in  very  fast,  Mr.  Mac- 
manus,  a  midshipman,  and  Mr.  'Schutz,  a  passenger, 
asked  Mr.  Rogers  what  they  could  do  to  escape.  '  Follow 
me,'  he  replied,  and  they  all  went  into  the  stern-gallery, 
and  from  thence  to  the  upper-quarter-gallery  on  the 
poop.  While  there,  a  very  heavy  sea  fell  on  board,  and 
the  round-house  gave  way :  Mr.  Rogers  heard  the  ladies 
shriek  at  intervals,  as  if  the  water  reached  them  ;  the 
noise  of  the  sea  at  other  times  drowning  their  voices. 

"  Mr.  Brimer  had  followed  him  to  the  poop,  where  they 
remained  together  about  five  minutes,  when  on  the  break- 
ing of  this  heavy  sea,  they  jointly  seized  a  hen-coop. 
The  same  wave  which  proved  fatal  to  some  of  those  be- 
low, carried  him  and  his  companion  to  the  rock,  on  which 
they  were  violently  dashed  and  miserably  bruised. 

"Here  on  the  rock  were  twenty-seven  men  ;  but  it 
now  being  low  water,  and  as  they  were  convinced  that 
on  the  flowing  of  the  tide  all  must  be  washed  off,  many 
attempted  to  get  to  the  back  or  the  sides  of  the  cavern, 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  returning  sea.  Scarcely  more 
than  six,  besides  Mr.  Rogers  and  Mr.  Brimer,  succeeded. 

"  Mr.  Rogers,  on  gaining  this  station,  was  so  nearly 
exhausted,  that  had  his  exertions  been  protracted  only  a 
few  minutes  longer,  he  must  have  sunk  under  them. 
He  was  now  prevented  from  joining  Mr.  Meriton,  by  at 
least  twenty  men  between  them,  none  of  whom  could 
move,  without  the  imminent  peril  of  his  life. 

"They  found  that  a  very  considerable  number  of  the 
crew,  seamen,  and  soldiers,  and  some  petty  officers,  were 
in  the  same  situation  as  themselves,  though  many  who  had 
reached  the  rocks  below,  perished  in  attempting  to  as- 
cend. They  could  yet  discern  some  part  of  the  ship,  and 
in  their  dreary  station  solaced  themselves  with  the 
hopes  of  its  remaining  entire  until  day-break  ;  for,  in  the 
midst  of  their  own  distress,  the  sufferings  of  the  females 
on  board  affected  them  with  the  most  poignant  anguish  ; 
and  every  sea  that  broke  inspired  them  with  terror  for 
their  safety. 

* '  But,  alas,  their  apprehensions  -v^ere  too  soon  realized  1 
Within  a  very  few  minutes  of  the  time  that  Mr.  Rogers 
gained  the  rock,  an  universal  shriek,  which  long  vibrated 
in  their  cars,  in  which  the  voice  of  female  distress  was 
lamentably  distinguished,  announced  the  dreadful  catas- 
trophe. In  a  few  moments  all  was  hushed,  except  the 
roaring  of  the  winds  and  the  dashing  of  the  waves  ;  the 
wreck  was  buried  in  the  deep,  and  not  an  atom  of  it  was 
ever  afterwards  seen." 

The  most  beautiful  and  affecting  incident  I  know,  as- 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


1163 


sociated  with  a  shipwreck,  succeeds  this  dismal  story  for 
a  winter  night.  The  Grosvenor,  East  Indiaman  home- 
ward bound,  goes  ashore  on  the  coast  of  Caffraria.  It  is 
resolved  that  the  officers,  passengers,  and  crew,  in  num- 
ber one  hundred  and  thirty-five  souls,  shall  endeavour 
to  penetrate  on  foot,  across  trackless  deserts,  infested  by 
wild  beasts  and  cruel  savages,  to  the  Dutch  settlements 
at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  With  this  forlorn  object 
before  them,  they  finally  separate  into  two  parties — 
never  more  to  meet  on  earth. 

Tliere  is  a  solitary  child  among  the  passengers — a  little 
boy  of  seven  years  old  who  has  no  relation  there  ;  and 
when  the  first  party  is  moving  away  he  cries  after  some 
member  of  it  who  has  been  kind  to  him.  The  crying  of 
a  child  might  be  supposed  to  be  a  little  thing  to  men  in 
such  a  great  extremity  ;  but  it  touches  them,  and  he 
is  immediately  taken  into  that  detachment. 

From  which  time  forth,  this  child  is  sublimely  made  a 
sacred  charge.  He  is  pushed,  on  a  little  raft,  across  broad 
rivers,  by  the  swimming  sailors  ;  they  carry  him  by  turns 
through  the  deep  sand  and  long  grass  (he  patiently  walk- 
ing at  all  other  times) ;  they  share  with  him  such  putrid 
fish  as  they  find  to  eat ;  they  lie  down  and  wait  for  him 
when  the  rough  carpenter,  who  becomes  his  especial 
friend,  lags  behind.  Beset  by  lions  and  tigers,  by 
savages,  by  thirst,  by  hunger,  by  death  in  a  crowd  of 
ghastly  shapes,  they  never — 0  Father  of  all  mankind, 
thy  name  be  blessed  for  it ! — forget  this  child.  The  cap- 
tain stops  exhausted,  and  his  faithful  coxswain  goes 
back  and  is  seen  to  sit  down  by  his  side,  and  neither  of 
the  two  shall  be  any  more  beheld  until  the  great  last 
day  ;  but,  as  the  rest  go  on  for  their  lives,  they  take  the 
child  with  them.  The  carpenter  dies  of  poisonous  berries 
eaten  in  starvation  ;  and  the  steward,  succeeding  to  the 
commaMd  of  the  party,  succeeds  to  the  sacred  guardian- 
ship of  the  child. 

God  knows  all  he  does  for  the  poor  baby  ;  how  he 
cheerfully  carries  him  in  his  arms  when  he  himself  is 
weak  and  ill  ;  how  he  feeds  him  when  he  himself  is 
griped  with  want ;  how  he  folds  his  ragged  jacket  round 
him,  lays  his  little  worn  face  with  a  woman's  tenderness 
upon  his  sunburnt  breast,  soothes  him  in  his  suiferings, 
sings  to  him  as  he  limps  along,  unmindful  of  his  own 
parched  and  bleeding  feet.  Divided  for  a  few  days 
from  the  rest,  they  dig  a  grave  in  the  sand  and  bury 
their  good  friend  the  cooper — these  two  companions 
alone  in  the  wilderness — and  then  the  time  comes  when 
they  both  are  ill  and  beg  their  wretched  partners  in  des- 
pair, reduced  and  few  in  number  now,  to  wait  by  them 
one  day.  They  wait  by  them  one  day,  they  wait  by 
tliem  two  days.  On  the  morning  of  the  third,  they  move 
very  softly  about,  in  making  their  preparations  for  the 
resumption  of  their  journey  ;  for,  the  child  is  sleeping  by 
the  fire,  and  it  is  agreed  with  one  consent  that  he  shall 
not  be  disturbed  until  the  last  moment.  The  moment 
comes,  the  fire  is  dying — and  the  child  is  dead. 

His  faithful  friend,  the  steward,  lingers  but  a  little 
while  behind  him.  His  grief  is  great,  he  staggers  on 
for  a  few  days,  lies  down  in  the  desert,  and  dies.  But 
he  shall  be  re-united  in  his  immortal  spirit — who  can 
doubt  it  ! — with  the  child,  where  he  and  the  poor  car- 
penter shall  be  raised  up  with  the  words,  *'  Inasmuch 
as  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  l^^ast  of  these,  ye  have 
done  it  unto  Me." 

As  I  recall  the  dispersal  and  disappearance  of  nearly 
all^he  participators  in  this  once  famous  shipwreck  (a 
mere  handful  being  recovered  at  last),  and  the  legends 
that  were  long  afterwards  revived  from  time  to  time 
among  the  English  officers  at  the  Cape,  of  a  white  woman 
with  an  infant,  said  to  have  been  seen  weeping  outside 
a  savage  hut  far  in  the  interior,  who  was  whisperingly 
associated  with  the  remembrance  of  the  missing  ladies 
saved  from  the  wrecked  vessel,  and  who  was  often 
sought  but  never  found,  thoughts  of  another  kind  of 
travel  come  into  my  mind. 

Thoughts  of  a  voyager  unexpectedly  summoned  from 
home,  who  travelled  a  vast  distance,  and  could  never 
return.  Thoughts  of  this  unhappy  wayfarer  in  the 
depths  of  his  sorrow,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  anguish,  in 
the  helplessness  of  his  self-reproach,  in  the  desperation 
of  his  desire  to  set  right  what  he  had  left  wrong,  and  do 
what  he  had  left  undone. 


For,  there  were  many  things  he  had  neglected.  Lit- 
tle matters  while  he  vvas  at  home  and  surrounded  by 
them,  but  things  of  mighty  moment  when  he  was  at  an 
immeasurable  distance.  There  were  many  many  bless- 
ings that  he  had  inadequately  felt,  there  were  many 
trivial  injuries  that  he  had  not  forgiven,  there  was 
love  that  he  had  but  poorly  returned,  there  was  friend- 
ship that  he  had  too  lightly  prized  ;  there  were  a  mill- 
ion kind  words  that  he  might  have  spoken,  a  million 
kind  looks  that  he  might  have  given,  uncountable  slight 
easy  deeds  in  which  he  might  have  been  most  truly 
great  and  good.  0  for  a  day  (he  would  exclaim),  for 
but  one  day  to  make  amends  !  But  the  sun  never  shone 
upon  that  happy  day,  and  out  of  his  remote  captivity  he 
never  came. 

Why  does  this  traveller's  fate  obscure,  on  Xew  Year's 
Eve,  the  other  histories  of  travellers  with  which  my 
mind  was  filled  but  now,  and  cast  a  solemn  shadow  over 
me  !  Must  I  one  day  make  this  journey  ?  Even  so. 
Who  shall  say,  that  I  may  not  then  be  tortured  by  such 
late  regrets  :  tliat  I  may  not  then  look  from  my  exile  on 
my  empty  place  and  undone  work  ?  I  stand  upon  a  sea- 
shore, where  the  waves  are  years.  They  break  and  fall, 
and  I  may  little  heed  them  :  but,  with  every  wave  the 
sea  is  rising,  and  I  know  that  it  will  float  me  on  this 
traveller's  voyage  at  last. 


THE  BEGGmG-LETTER  WRITER. 

The  amount  of  money  he  annually  diverts  from  whole- 
some and  useful  purposes  in  the  United  Kingdom,  would 
be  a  set-off  against  the  Window^  Tax.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  shameless  frauds  and  impositions  of  this  time.  In 
his  idleness,  his  mendacity,  and  the  immeasurable  harm 
he  does  to  the  deserving, — dirtying  the  stream  of  true 
benevolence,  and  muddling  the  brains  of  foolish  justice, 
with  inability  to  distinguish  between  the  base  coin  of 
distress,  and  the  true  currency  we  have  always  among 
us, — he  is  more  worthy  of  Norfolk  Island  than  three- 
fourths  of  the  worst  characters  who  are  sent  there. 
Under  any  rational  system,  he  would  have  been  sent 
there  long  ago. 

I,  the  writer  of  this  paper,  have  been,  for  some  time, 
a  chosen  receiver  of  Begging  Letters.  For  fourteen 
years,  my  house  has  been  made  as  regular  a  Receiving 
House  for  such  communications  as  any  one  of  the  great 
branch  Post-Offices  is  for  general  correspondence.  I 
ought  to  know  something  of  the  Begging-Letter  Writer. 
He  has  besieged  my  door,  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and 
night ;  he  has  fought  my  servant  ;  he  has  lain  in  ambush 
for  me,  going  out  and  coming  in  ;  he  has  followed  me 
out  of  town  into  the  country  ;  he  has  appeared  at 
provincial  hotels,  where  I  have  been  staying  for  only  a 
few  hours  ;  he  has  written  tome  from  immense  distances, 
when  I  have  been  out  of  England.  He  has  fallen  sick  ; 
he  lias  died,  and  been  buried  ;  he  has  come  to  life  again, 
and  again  departed  from  this  transitory  scene;  he  has 
been  his  own  son,  his  own  mother,  his  own  baby,  his 
idiot  brother,  his  uncle,  his  aunt,  his  aged  grandfather. 
He  has  wanted  a  great  coat,  to  go  to  India  in  ;  a  pound 
to  set  him  up  in  life  for  ever  ;  a  pair  of  boots,  to  take 
him  to  the  coast  of  China  ;  a  hat,  to  get  him  into  a  per- 
manent situation  under  Government.  He  has  frequent- 
ly been  exactly  seven  and  sixpence  short  of  independence. 
He  has  had  such  openings  at  Liverpool — posts  of  great 
trust  and  confidence  in  merchants'  houses,  which  nothing 
but  seven-and-sixpence  was  wanting  to  him  to  secure — 
that  I  wonder  he  is  not  Mayor  of  that  flourishing  town 
at  the  present  moment. 

The  natural  phenomena  of  which  he  has  been  the  vic- 
tim, are  of  a  most  astounding  nature.  He  has  had  two 
children,  who  have  never  grown  up  ;  who  have  never 
had  anything  to  cover  them  at  night  ;  who  have  been 
continually  driving  him  mad,  by  asking  in  vain  for  food  ; 
who  have  never  come  out  of  fevers  and  measles  (which, 
I  suppose,  has  accounted  for  his  fuming  his  letters  with 
tobacco  smoke,  as  a  disinfectant) ;  who  have  never 
changed  in  the  least  degree,  through  fourteen  long  re- 
volving years.  As  to  his  wife,  what  that  suffering 
woman  has  undergone,  nobody  knows.    She  has  always 


1164 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


been  in  an  interesting  situation  through  the  same  long  pe- 
riod, and  has  never  been  confined  yet.  His  devotion  to 
her  has  been  unceasing.  He  has  never  cared  for  himself  ; 
Tie  could  have  perished — he  would  rather,  in  short — but 
was  it  not  his  Christian  duty  as  a  man,  a  husband,  and 
a  father,  to  write  begging  letters  when  he  looked  at 
her  ?  (He  has  usually  remarked  that  he  would  call  in 
the  evening  for  an  answer  to  this  question.) 

He  has  been  the  sport  of  the  strangest  misfortunes. 
What  his  brother  has  done  to  him  would  have  broken 
anybody  else's  heart.  His  brother  went  into  business 
with  him,  and  ran  away  with  the  money  ;  his  brother 
got  him  to  be  security  for  an  immense  sum,  and  left  him 
to  pay  it  ;  his  brother  would  have  given  him  employ- 
ment to  the  tune  of  hundreds  a-year,  if  he  would  have 
consented  to  write  letters  on  a  Sunday  ;  his  brother 
enunciated  principles  incompatible  with  his  religious 
views,  and  he  could  not  (in  consequence)  permit  his 
brother  to  provide  for  him.  His  landlord  had  never 
shown  a  spark  of  human  feeling.  When  he  put  in  that 
execution  I  don't  know,  but  he  has  never  taken  it  out. 
The  broker's  man  has  grown  grey  in  possession.  They 
will  have  to  bury  him  some  day. 

He  has  been  attached  to  every  conceivable  pursuit. 
He  has  been  in  the  army,  in  the  navy,  in  the  church,  in 
the  law  ;  connected  with  the  press,  the  fine  arts,  public 
institutions,  every  description  and  grade  of  business.  He 
has  been  brought  up  as  a  gentleman  :  he  has  been  at 
every  College  in  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  he  can  quote 
Latin  in  his  letters  (but  generally  mis-spells  some  minor 
English  word) ;  he  can  tell  you  what  Shakespeare  says 
about  begging,  better  than  you  know  it.  It  is  to  be  ob- 
served, that  in  the  midst  of  his  afflictions  he  always 
reads  the  newspapers  ;  and  rounds  off  his  appeals  with 
some  allusion,  that  may  be  supposed  to  be  in  my  way,  to 
the  popular  subject  of  the  hour. 

His  life  presents  a  series  of  inconsistencies.  Some- 
times he  has  never  written  such  a  letter  before.  He 
blushes  with  shame.  That  is  the  first  time  ;  that  shall 
be  the  last.  Don't  answer  it,  and  let  it  be  understood 
that,  then,  he  will  kill  himself  quietly.  Sometimes 
(and  more  frequently)  he  has  M^itten  a  few  such  letters. 
Then  he  encloses  the  answers,  with  an  intimation  that 
they  are  of  inestimable  value  to  him,  and  a  request  that 
they  may  be  carefully  returned.  He  is  fond  of  enclos- 
ing something — verses,  letters,  pawnbrokers'  duplicates, 
anything  to  necessitate  an  answer.  He  is  very  severe 
upon  "  the  pampered  minion  of  fortune,"  who  refused 
him  the  half-sovereign  referred  to  in  the  enclosure  num- 
ber two — but  he  knows  me  better. 

He  writes  in  a  variety  of  styles  ;  sometimes  in  low 
spirits  ;  sometimes  quite  jocosely.  When  he  is  in  low 
spirits,  he  writes  down-hill,  and  repeats  words — these 
little  indications  being  expressive  of  the  perturbation  of 
his  mind.  When  he  is  more  vivacious,  he  is  frank  with 
me  ;  he  is  quite  the  agreeable  rattle.  I  know  what  hu- 
man nature  is, — who  better?  Well  !  He  had  a  little 
money  once,  and  he  ran  through  it — as  many  men  have 
done  before  him.  He  finds  his  old  friends  turn  away 
from  him  now — many  men  have  done  tljat  before  him, 
too  I  Shall  he  tell  me  why  he  writes  to  me  ?  Because 
he  has  no  kind  of  claim  upon  me.  He  puts  it  on  that 
ground,  plainly  ;  and  begs  to  ask  for  the  loan  (as  I  know 
human  nature)  of  two  sovereigns,  to  be  repaid  next 
Tuesday  six  weeks,  before  twelve  at  noon. 

Sometimes,  when  he  is  sure  that  I  have  found  him 
out,  and  that  there  is  no  chance  of  money,  he  writes  to 
inform  me  that  I  have  got  rid  of  him  at  last.  He  has 
enlisted  into  the  Company's  service,  and  is  off  directly — 
but  he  wants  a  cheese.  He  is  informed  by  the  serjeant 
that  it  is  essential  to  his  prospects  in  the  regiment  that 
he  should  take  out  a  single-Gloucester  cheese,  weighing 
from  twelve  to  fifteen  pounds.  Eight  or  nine  shillings 
would  buy  it.  Ho  does  not  ask  for  money,  after  what 
has  passed  ;  but  if  he  calls  at  nine  to-morrow  morning, 
may  he  hope  to  find  a  cheese  ?  And  is  there  anything 
he  can  do  to  show  his  gratitude  in  Bengal  ? 

Once  he  wrote  me  rather  a  sj)ecial  letter  proposing  re- 
lief in  kind.  He  liad  got  into  a  little  trouble  by  leaving 
parcels  of  mud  done  up  in  brown  paper,  at  people's 
nouses,  on  pretence  of  being  a  Railway-Porter,  in  which 
character  he  received  carriage  money.     This  sportive 


fancy  he  expiated  in  the  House  of  Correction.  Not 
long  after  his  release,  and  on  a  Sunday  morning,  he 
called  with  a  letter  (having  first  dusted  himself  all  over), 
in  which  he  gave  me  to  understand  that,  being  resolved 
to  earn  an  honest  livelihood,  he  had  been  travelling 
about  the  country  with  a  cart  of  crockery.  That  he  had 
been  doing  pretty  well,  until  the  day  before,  when  his 
horse  had  dropped  down  dead  near  Chatham,  in  Kent. 
That  this  had  reduced  him  to  the  unpleasant  necessity 
of  getting  into  the  shafts  himself,  and  drawing  the  cart 
of  crockery  to  London — a  somewhat  exhausting  pull  of 
thirty  miles.  That  he  did  not  venture  to  ask  again  for 
money  ;  but  that  if  I  would  have  the  goodness  to  leave 
Mm  out  a  donkey,  he  would  call  for  the  animal  before 
breakfast  ! 

At  another  time,  my  friend  (I  am  describing  actual 
experiences)  introduced  himself  as  a  literary  gentleman 
in  the  last  extremity  of  distress.  He  had  had  a  play 
accepted  at  a  certain  Theatre — which  was  really  open  ; 
its  representation  was  delayed  by  the  indisposition  of  a 
leading  actor — who  was  really  ill ;  and  he  and  his  were 
in  a  state  of  absolute  starvation.  If  he  made  his  neces- 
sities known  to  the  Manager  of  the  Theatre,  he  put  it  to 
me  to  say  what  kind  of  treatment  he  might  expect  ? 
Well  !  we  got  over  that  difficulty  to  our  mutual  satis- 
faction. A  little  while  afterwards  he  was  in  some  other 
strait — I  think  Mrs.  Southcote,  his  wife,  was  in  extremity 
— and  we  adjusted  that  point  too.  A  little  while  after- 
wards, he  had  taken  a  new  house,  and  was  going  head- 
long to  ruin  for  want  of  a  water-butt.  I  had  my  mis- 
givings about  the  water-butt,  and  did  not  reply  to  that 
epistle.  But,  a  little  while  afterwards,  I  had  reason  to 
feel  penitent  for  my  neglect.  He  wrote  me  a  few  broken- 
hearted lines,  informing  me  that  the  dear  partner  of  his 
sorrows  died  in  his  arms  last  night  at  nine  o'clock  ! 

I  dispatched  a  trusty  messenger  to  comfort  the  bereaved 
mourner  and  his  poor  children  :  but  the  messenger  went 
so  soon,  that  the  play  was  not  ready  to  be  played  out ; 
my  friend  was  not  at  home,  and  his  wife  was  in  a  most 
delightful  state  of  health.  He  was  taken  up  by  the 
Mendicity  Society  (informally  it  afterwards  appeared), 
and  I  presented  myself  at  a  London  Police-Office  with 
my  testimony  against  him.  The  Magistrate  was  won- 
derfully struck  by  his  educational  acquirements,  deeply 
impressed  by  the  excellence  of  his  letters,  exceedingly 
sorry  to  see  a  man  of  his  attainments  there,  complimented 
him  highly  on  his  powers  of  composition,  and  was  quite 
charmed  to  have  the  agreeable  duty  of  discharging  him. 
A  collection  was  made  for  the  '  poor  fellow,'  as  he  was 
called  in  the  reports,  and  I  left  the  court  with  a  comfort- 
able sense  of  being  universally  regarded  as  a  sort  of 
monster.  Next  day,  comes  to  me  a  friend  of  mine,  the 
governor  of  a  large  prison,  '  Why  did  you  ever  go  to  the 
Police-Office  against  that  man,'  says  he,  '  without  coming 
to  me  first  ?  I  know  all  about  him  and  his  frauds.  He 
lodged  in  the  house  of  one  of  my  warders,  at  the  very 
time  vvdien  he  first  wrote  to  you  ;  and  then  he  was  eating 
spring-lamb  at  eighteen-pence  a  pound,  and  early  aspara- 
gus at  I  don't  know  how  much  a  bundle  !'  On  that  very 
same  day,  and  in  that  very  same  hour,  my  injured  gentle- 
man wrote  a  solemn  address  to  me,  demanding  to  know 
what  compensation  I  proposed  to  make  him  for  his  having 
passed  the  night  in  a  'loathsome  dungeon.'  And  next 
morning,  an  Irish  gentleman,  a  member  of  the  same 
fraternity,  who  had  read  the  case,  and  was  very  f^^ell 
persuaded  I  should  be  chary  of  going  to  that  Police- 
Office  again,  positively  refused  to  leave  my  door  for  less 
than  a  sovereign,  and,  resolved  to  besiege  me  into  com- 
pliance, literally  '  sat  down '  before  it  for  ten  mortal 
hours.  The  garrison  being  well  provisioned,  I  remained 
within  the  walls  ;  and  he  raised  the  siege  at  midnight, 
with  a  prodigious  alarum  on  the  bell. 

The  Begging-Letter  Writer  often  has  ail  extensive 
circle  of  acquaintance.  Whole  pages  of  the  Court  Guide 
are  ready  to  be  references  for  him.  Noblemen  and  gen- 
tlemen write  to  say  there  never  was  such  a  man  for  pro- 
bity and  virtue.  They  have  known  him,  time  out  of 
mind,  and  there  is  nothing  they  wouldn't  do  for  him. 
Somehow,  they  don't  give  him  that  one  pound  ten  he 
stands  in  need  of  ;  but  perhaps  it  is  not  enough — they 
want  to  do  more,  and  his  modesty  will  not  allow  it.  It 
is  to  be  remarked  of  his  trade  that*  it  is  a  very  fascinating 


REPRINTED  PIECES, 


llCo 


one.  He  never  leaves  it ;  and  those  who  are  near  to  him 
become  smitten  with  a  love  of  it,  too,  and  sooner  or  later 
set  up  for  themselves.  He  employs  a  messenger — man, 
woman,  or  child.  That  messenger  is  certain  ultimately 
to  become  an  Independent  Begging-Letter  Writer.  His 
sons  and  daughters  succeed  to  his  calling,  and  write 
begging-letters  when  he  is  no  more.  He  throws  off  the 
infection  of  begging-letter  writing,  like  the  contagion  of 
disease.  What  Sydney  Smith  so  happily  called  'the 
dangerous  luxury  of  dishonesty'  is  more  tempting,  and 
more  catching,  it  would  seem,  in  this  instance  than  in 
any  other. 

He  always  belongs  to  a  Corresponding-Society  of 
Begging-Letter  Writers.  Any  one  who  will,  may  ascer- 
tain this  fact.  Give  money  to  day,  in  recognition  of  a 
begging-letter, — no  matter  how  unlike  a  common  beg- 
ging-letter,— and  for  the  next  fortnight  you  will  have  a 
rusli  of  such  communications.  Steadily  refuse  to  give  ; 
and  the  i)egging-letters  become  Angels'  visits,  until  the 
Society  is  from  some  cause  or  oiher  in  a  dull  way  of 
business,  and  may  as  well  try  you  as  anybody  else.  It  is 
of  little  use  inquiring  into  the  Begging-Letter  Writer's 
circumstances.  He  may  be  sometimes  accidentally  found 
out,  as  in  the  case  already  mentioned  (though  that  was 
not  the  first  inquiry  made)  ;  but  apparent  misery  is  always 
a  part  of  his  trade,  and  real  misery  very  often  is,  in  the 
intervals  of  spring-lamb  and  early  asparagus.  It  is 
naturally  an  incident  of  his  dissipated  and  dishonest 
liife. 

That  the  calling  is  a  successful  one,  and  that  large 
sums  of  money  are  gained  by  it,  must  be  evident  to  any- 
body who  reads  the  Police  Reports  of  such  cases.  But, 
prosecutions  are  of  rare  occurrence,  relatively  to  the 
extent  to  which  the  trade  is  carried  on.  The  cause  of 
this,  is  to  be  found  (as  no  one  knows  better  than  the 
Begging-Letter  Writer,  for  it  is  a  part  of  his  speculation) 
in  the  aversion  people  feel  to  exhibit  themselves  as 
having  been  imposed  upon,  or  as  having  weakly  gratified 
their  consciences  with  a  lazy,  flimsy  substitute  for  the 
noblest  of  all  virtues.  There  is  a  man  at  large,  at  the 
moment  when  this  paper  is  preparing  for  the  press  (on 
the  29th  of  April,  1850),  and  never  once  taken  up  yet, 
who,  within  these  twelvemonths,  has  been  probably  the 
most  audacious  and  the  most  successful  swindler  that 
even  this  trade  has  ever  known.  There  has  been  some- 
thing singularly  base  in  this  fellow's  proceedings  :  it 
has  been  his  business  to  write  to  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  people,  in  the  names  of  persons  of  high  reputation 
and  unblemished  honour,  professing  to  be  in  distress — 
the  general  admiration  and  respect  for  whom,  has  en- 
sured a  ready  and  generous  reply. 

Now,  in  the  hope  that  the  results  of  the  real  experi- 
ence of  a  real  person  may  do  something  more  to  induce 
reflection  on  this  subject  than  any  abstract  treatise — and 
with  a  personal  knowledge  of  the  extent  to  which  the 
Begging-Letter  Trade  has  been  carried  on  for  some  time, 
and  has  been  for  some  time  constantly  increasing — the 
writer  of  this  paper  entreats  the  attention  of  his  readers 
to  a  few  concluding  words.  His  experience  is  the  type 
of  the  experience  of  many  ;  some  on  a  smaller  ;  some  on 
an  infinitely  larger  scale.  All  may  judge  of  the  sound- 
ness or  unsoundness  of  his  concluoions  from  it. 

Long  doubtful  of  the  efficacy  of  such  assistance  in  any 
case  whatever,  and  able  to  recall  but  one,  within  his 
whole  individual  knowledge,  in  which  he  had  the  least 
after-reason  to  suppose  that  any  good  was  done  by  it, 
he  was  led,  last  autumn,  into  some  serious  considera- 
tions. The  begging-letters  flying  about  by  every  post, 
made  it  perfectly  manifest,  That  a  set  of  lazy  vagabonds 
were  interposed  between  the  general  desire  to  do  some- 
thing to  relieve  the  sickness  and  misery  under  which 
the  poor  were  suffering,  and  the  suffering  poor  them- 
selves. That  many  who  sought  to  do  some  little  to 
repair  the  social  wrongs,  inflicted  in  the  way  of  preventi- 
ve sickness  and  death  upon  the  poor,  were  strengthen- 
ing those  wrongs,  however  innocently,  by  wasting  money 
on  pestilent  knaves  cumbering  society.  That  imagination, 
— soberly  following  one  of  these  knaves  into  his  life  of 
punishment  in  jail,  and  comparing  it  with  the  life  of  one 
of  these  poor  in  a  cholera-stricken  alley,  or  one  of  the 
children  of  one  of  tliese  poor,  soothed  in  its  dying  hour 
by  the  late  lamented  Mr.  Drouet,— contemplated  a  grim 


farce,  impossible  to  be  presented  very  much  longer  beforo 
God  or  man.  That  the  crowning  miracle  of  all  the 
miracles  summed  up  in  the  New  Testament,  after  the 
miracle  of  the  blind  seeing,  and  the  lame  walking,  and 
the  restoration  of  the  dead  to  life,  was  the  miracle  thats 
the  poor  had  the  Gospel  preached  to  them.  That  while 
the  poor  were  unnaturally  and  unnecessarily  cut  off  by 
the  thousand,  in  the  prematurity  of  their  age,  or  in  the 
rottenness  of  their  youth— for  of  flower  or  blossom  such 
youth  has  none — the  Gospel  was  NOT  preached  to  them, 
saving  in  hollow  and  unmeaning  voices.  Tliat  of  all 
wrongs,  this  was  the  first  mighty  wrong  the  Pestilence 
warned  us  to  set  right,  and  that  no  Post-Office  Order  to 
any  amount,  given  to  a  Begging-Letter  Writer  for  the 
quieting  of  an  uneasy  breast,  would  be  presentable  on 
the  Last  Great  Day  as  anything  towards  it. 

The  poor  never  write  these  letters.  Nothing  could  be 
more  unlike  their  habits.  The  writers  are  public  robbers  ; 
and  we  who  support  them  are  parties  to  their  depreda- 
tions. They  trade  upon  every  circumstance  within  their 
knowledge  that  affects  us,  public  or  private,  joyful  or 
sorrowful  ;  they  pervert  the  lessons  of  our  lives ;  they 
change  what  ought  to  be  our  strength  and  virtue,  into 
weakness,  and  encouragement  of  vice.  There  is  a  plain 
remedy,  and  it  is  in  our  own  hands.  We  must  resolve,  at 
any  sacrifice  of  feeling,  to  be  deaf  to  such  appeals,  and 
crush  the  trade. 

There  are  degrees  in  murder.  Life  must  be  held  sacred 
among  us  in  more  ways  than  one — sacred,  not  merely 
from  the  murderous  weapon,  or  the  subtle  poison,  or  the 
cruel  blow,  but  sacred  from  preventible  diseases,  dis- 
tortions, and  pains.  That  is  the  first  great  end  we  have 
to  set  against  this  miserable  imposition.  Physical  life 
respected,  moral  life  comes  next.  What  will  not  content 
a  Begging-Letter  Writer  for  a  week,  would  educate  a 
score  of  children  for  a  year.  Let  us  give  all  we  can  ;  let 
us  give  more  than  ever.  Let  us  do  all  we  can  ;  let  us  do 
more  than  ever.  But  let  us  give,  and  do,  with  a  high 
purpose  ;  not  to  endow  the  skum  of  the  earth,  to  its  own 
greater  corruption,  with  the  offals  of  our  duty. 


A  CHILD'S  DREAM  OF  A  STAR. 

There  v.'as  once  a  child,  and  he  strolled  about  a  good 
deal,  and  thought  of  a  number  of  things.  He  had  a  sis- 
ter, who  was  a  child  too,  and  his  constant  companion. 
These  two  used  to  wonder  all  day  long.  They  wondered 
at  the  beauty  of  the  flowers  ;  they  wondered  at  the 
height  and  the  blueness  of  the  sky  ;  they  wondered  at 
the  depth  of  the  bright  water  ;  they  wondered  at  the 
goodness  and  the  power  of  God  who  made  the  lovely 
world. 

They  used  to  say  to  one  another,  sometimes,  Supposing- 
all  the  children  upon  earth  were  to  die,  would  the  flow- 
ers, and  the  water,  and  the  sky,  be  sorry  ?  They  believed 
they  would  be  sorry.  For,  said  they,  the  buds  are  the 
children  of  the  flovi^ers,  and  the  little  playful  streams- 
that  gambol  down  the  hill-sides  are  the  children  of  the 
water;  and  the  smallest  bright  sjDecks  playing  at  hide 
and  seek  in  the  sky  all  night,  must  surely  be  the  chil- 
dren of  the  stars  ;  and  they  would  all  be  grieved  to  see 
their  playmates,  the  children  of  men,  no  more. 

There  was  one  clear  shining  star  that  used  to  come  out 
in  the  sky  before  the  rest,  near  the  church  spire,  above 
the  graves.  It  was  larger  and  more  beautiful,  they 
thought,  than  all  the  others,  and  every  night  they 
watched  for  it,  standing  hand  in  hand  at  a  window. 
Whoever  saw  it  first,  cried  out,  "I  see  the  star  !  "  And 
often  they  cried  out  both  together,  knowing  so  well  when 
it  would  rise,  and  where.  So  they  grew  to  be  such 
friends  with  it,  that,  before  lying  down  in  their  beds, 
they  always  looked  out  once  again,  to  bid  it  good  night  ;• 
and  when  they  were  turning  ix)und  to  sleep,  they  used  to 
say,  "  God  bless  the  star  ! " 

But  while  she  was  still  very  young,  oh  very  very  young, 
the  sister  drooped,  and  came  to  be  so  weak  that  she  could 
no  longer  stand  in  the  window  at  night  ;  and  then  the 
child  looked  sadly  out  by  himself,  and  when  lie  saw  the 
star,  turned  round  and  said  to  the  patient  pale  face  on 
the  bed,  "  I  see  the  star  !  "  and  then  a  smile  would  come 


11C6 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


upon  tlie  face,  and  a  little  weak  voice  used  to  say,  "God 
bless  my  brother  and  the  star  !  " 

And  so  the  time  came  all  too  soon  !  when  the  child 
looked  out  alone,  and  when  there  was  no  face  on  the  bed  ; 
and  when  there  was  a  little  grave  among  the  graves,  not 
there  before  ;  and  when  the  star  made  long  rays  down 
towards  him,  as  he  saw  it  through  his  tears. 

Now,  these  rays  were  so  bright,  and  they  seemed  to 
make  such  a  shining  way  from  earth  to  Heaven,  that 
when  the  child  went  to  his  solitary  bed,  he  dreamed 
about  the  star  ;  and  dreamed  that,  lying  where  he  was, 
he  saw  a  train  of  people  taken  up  that  sparkling  road  by 
angels.  And  the  star,  opening,  showed  him  a  great 
wol-ld  of  bright  light,  where  many  more  such  bright 
angels  waited  to  receive  them. 

All  these  angels,  who  were  waiting,  turned  their  beam- 
ing eyes  upon  the  people  who  were  carried  up  into  the 
star ;  and  some  came  out  from  the  long  rows  in  which 
they  stood,  and  fell  upon  the  people's  necks,  and  kissed 
them  tenderly,  and  went  away  with  them  down  avenues 
of  light,  and  were  so  happy  in  their  company,  that  lying 
in  his  bed  he  wept  for  joy. 

But,  there  were  many  angels  who  did  not  go  with  them, 
and  among  them  one  he  knew.  The  patient  face  that 
once  had  iain  upon  the  bed  was  glorified  and  radiant,  but 
his  heart  found  out  his  sister  among  the  host. 

His  sister's  angel  lingered  near  the  entrance  of  the  star, 
and  said  to  the  leader  among  those  who  had  brought  the 
people  thither : 

"  Is  my  brother  come  t  " 

And  he  said  "  No." 

She  was  turning  hopefully  away,  when  the  child 
stretched  out  his  arms,  and  cried  "  O,  sister,  I  am  here  ! 
Take  me  !  "  and  then  she  turned  her  beaming  eyes  upon 
him,  and  it  was  night  ;  and  the  star  was  shining  into  the 
room,  making  long  rays  down  towards  him  as  he  saw  it 
through  his  tears. 

From  that  hour  forth,  the  child  looked  upon  the  star 
as  on  the  home  he  was  to  go  to,  when  his  time  should 
come,  and  he  thought  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  earth 
alone,  but  to  the  star  too,  because  of  his  sister's  angel 
gone  before. 

There  was  a  baby  born  to  be  a  brother  to  the  child  ;  and 
while  he  was  so  little  that  he  never  yet  had  spoken  word, 
he  stretched  his  tiny  form  out  on  his  bed,  and  died. 

Again  the  child  dreamed  of  the  opened  star,  and  of  the 
company  of  angels,  and  the  train  of  people,  and  the  rows 
of  angels  with  their  beaming  eyes  all  turned  upon  those 
people's  faces. 

Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader  : 

"  Is  my  brother  come  ?  " 

And  he  said  "  Not  that  one,  but  another." 

As  the  child  beheld  his  brother's  angel  in  her  arms,  he 
cried,  "0,  sister,  I  am  here!  Take  me!"  And  she 
turned  and  smiled  upon  him,  and  the  star  was  shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  young  man,  and  was  busy  at  his  books 
when  an  old  servant  came  to  him  and  said 

"  Thy  mother  is  no  more.  I  bring  her  blessing  on  her 
darling  son  ! " 

Again  at  night  he  saw  the  star,  and  all  that  former 
company.    Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader, 

"  Is  my  brother  come?" 

And  he  said,  "  Thy  mother  !" 

A  mighty  cry  of  joy  went  forth  through  all  the  star, 
because  the  mother  was  re-united  to  her  two  children. 
And  he  stretched  out  his  arms  and  cried,  "  O,  mother, 
sister,  and  brother,  I  am  here  !  Take  me  !"  And  they 
answered  him  "  Not  yet,"  and  the  star  was  shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  man,  whose  hair  was  turning  grey, 
and  he  was  sitting  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  heavy 
with  grief,  and  with  his  face  bedewed  with  tears,  when 
the  star  opened  once  again. 

Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader,  **  Is  my  brother 
come?" 

And  he  said,  "  Nay,  but  his  maiden  daughter." 

And  the  man  who  had  been  the  child  saw  his  daugh 
ter,  newly  lost  to  him,  a  celestial  creature  among  those 
three,  and  he  said,  "My  daughter's  head  is  on  my  sister's 
bosom,  and  lier  arm  is  round  my  mother's  neck,  and  at 
her  feet  there  is  the  baby  of  old  time,  and  I  can  bear  the 
parting  from  her,  God  be  praised  !  " 

And  the  star  was  shining. 


Thus  the  child  came  to  be  an  old  man,  and  his  once 
smooth  face  was  wrinkled,  and  his  steps  were  slow  and 
feeble,  and  his  back  was  bent.  And  one  night  as  he  lay 
upon  his  bed,  his  children  standing  round,  he  cried,  as 
he  had  cried  so  long  ago  : 

*'  I  see  the  star  ! " 

They  whispered  one  another  "He  is  dying." 

And  he  said,  "I  am.  My  age  is  falling  from  me  like 
a  garment,  and  I  move  towards  the  star  as  a  child.  And 
0,  my  Father,  now  I  thank  thee  that  it  has  so  often 
opened,  to  receive  those  dear  ones  who  await  me  !" 

And  the  star  was  shining ;  and  it  shines  upon  his  grave. 


OUR  ENGLISH  WATERING-PLACE. 

Ik  the  Autumn-time  of  the  year,  when  the  great 
metropolis  is  so  much  hotter,  so  much  noisier,  so  much 
more  dusty  or  so  much  more  water-carted,  so  much  more 
crowded,  so  much  more  disturbing  and  distracting  in  all 
respects,  than  it  usually  is,  a  quiet  sea-beach  becomes 
indeed  a  blessed  spot.  Half  awake  and  half  asleep,  this 
idle  morning  in  our  sunny  window  on  the  edge  of  a  chalk 
cliff  in  the  old-fashioned  watering-place  to  which  we  are 
a  faithful  resorter,  we  feel  a  lazy  inclination  to  sketch  its 
picture. 

The  place  seems  to  respond.  Sky,  sea,  beach,  and 
village,  lie  as  still  before  us  as  if  they  were  sitting  for 
the  picture.  It  is  dead  low-water.  A  ripple  plays 
among  the  ripening  corn  upon  the  cliff,,  as  if  it  were 
faintly  trying  from  recollection  to  imitate  the  sea  ;  and 
the  world  of  butterflies  hovering  over  the  crop  of  radish- 
seed  are  as  restless  in  their  little  way  as  the  gulls  are  in 
their  larger  manner  when  the  wind  blows.  But  the 
ocean  lies  winking  in  the  sunlight  like  a  drowsy  lion — 
its  glassy  waters  scarcely  curve  upon  the  shore — the 
fishing-boats  in  the  tiny  harbour  are  all  stranded  in  the 
mud — our  two  colliers  (our  watering  place  has  a  maritime 
trade  employing  that  amount  of  shipping)  have  not  an 
inch  of  water  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  them,  and 
turn,  exhausted,  on  their  sides,  like  faint  fish  of  an  ante- 
diluvian species.  Rusty  cables  and  chains,  ropes  and 
rings,  undermost  parts  of  posts  and  piles  and  confused 
timber-defences  against  the  waves,  lie  strewn  about,  in 
a  brown  litter  of  tangled  sea-weed  and  fallen  cliff  which 
looks  as  if  a  family  of  giants  had  been  making  tea  here 
for  ages,  and  had  observed  an  untidy  custom  of  throw- 
ing their  tea-leaves  on  the  shore. 

In  truth  our  watering-place  itself  has  been  left  some- 
what high  and  dry  by  the  tide  of  years.  Concerned  as 
we  are  for  its  honour,  we  must  reluctantly  admit  that 
the  time  when  this  pretty  little  semi-circular  sweep  of 
houses  tapering  off  at  the  end  of  the  wooden  pier  into  a 
point  in  the  sea,  was  a  gay  place,  and  when  the  light- 
house overlooking  it  shone  at  daybreak  on  company  dis- 
persing from  public  balls,  is  but  dimly  traditional  now. 
There  is  a  bleak  chamber  in  our  watering-place  which  is 
yet  called  the  Assembly  "  Rooms,"  and  understood  to  be 
available  on  hire  for  balls  or  concerts  ;  and,  some  few 
seasons  since,  an  ancient  little  gentleman  came  down  and 
stayed  at  the  hotel,  who  said  he  had  danced  there,  in 
byegone  ages,  with  the  Honourable  Miss  Peepy,  well 
known  to  have  been  the  Beauty  of  her  day  and  the  cruel 
occasion  of  innumerable  duels.  But  he  was  so  old  and 
shrivelled,  and  so  very  rheumatic  in  the  legs,  that  it 
demanded  more  imagination  than  our  watering-place  can 
usually  muster,  to  iDelieve  him  ;  therefore,  except  the 
Master  of  the  "  Rooms  "  (who  to  this  hour  wears  knee- 
breeches,  and  who  confirmed  the  statement  with  tears  in 
his  eyes),  nobody  did  believe  in  the  little  lame  old  gen- 
tleman, or  even  in  the  Honourable  Miss  Peepy,  long  de- 
ceased. 

As  to  subscription  balls  in  the  Assembly  Rooms  of  our 
watering-place  now  red-hot  cannon  balls  are  less  improb- 
able. Sometimes,  a  misguided  wanderer  of  a  Ventrilo- 
quist, or  asn  Infant  Phenomenon,  or  a  juggler,  or  some- 
body with  an  Orrery  that  is  several  stars  behind  the 
time,  takes  the  place  for  a  night,  and  issues  bills  with 
the  name  of  his  last  town  lined  out,  and  the  name  of 
ours  ignominiously  written  in,  but  you  may  be  sure  this 
never  happens  twice  to  the  same  imfortunate  person. 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


1167 


On  such  occasions  the  discoloured  old  Billiard  Table  that 
is  seldom  played  at  (unless  the  ghost  of  the  Honourable 
Miss  Peepy  plays  at  pool  with  other  ghosts)  is  pushed 
into  a  corner,  and  benches  are  solemnly  constituted  into 
front  seats,  back  seats,  and  reserved  seats — which  are 
much  the  same  after  you  have  paid — and  a  few  dull 
caudles  are  lighted — wind  permitting — and  the  performer 
and  tlie  scanty  audience  play  out  a  short  match  which 
shall  make  the  other  most  low-spirited — which  is  usually 
a  drawn  game.  After  that,  the  performer  instantly 
departs  with  maledictory  expressions,  and  is  never  heard 
of  more. 

But  the  most  wonderful  feature  of  our  Assembly  Rooms, 
is,  that  an  annual  sale  of  "Fancy  and  other  China,"  is 
announced  here  with  mysterious  constancy  and  persever- 
ance. Where  the  china  comes  from,  where  it  goes  to, 
why  it  is  annually  put  up  to  auction  when  nobody  ever 
thinks  of  bidding  for  it,  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  it  is 
always  the  same  china,  w^hether  it  would  not  have  been 
cheaper,  with  the  sea  at  hand,  to  have  thrown  it  away 
say  in  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty,  are  standing  enigmas. 
Every  year  the  bills  come  out,  every  year  the  Master  of 
the  Rooms  gets  into  a  little  pulpit  on  a  table,  and  offers 
it  for  sale,  every  year  nobody  buys  it,  every  year  it  is  put 
away  somewhere  until  next  year  when  it  appears  again 
as  if  the  whole  thing  were  a  new  idea.  We  have  a  faint 
remembrance  of  an  unearthly  collection  of  clocks,  pur- 
porting to  be  the  work  of  Parisian  and  Genevese  artists 
— chiefly  bilious-faced  clocks,  supported  on  sickly  white 
crutches,  with  their  pendulums  dangling  like  lame  legs 
— to  which  a  similar  course  of  events  occurred  for  several 
years,  until  they  seemed  to  lapse  away,  of  mere  imbe- 
cility. 

Attached  to  our  Assembly  Rooms  is  a  library.  There 
is  a  wheel  of  fortune  in  it,  but  it  is  rusty  and  dusty,  and 
never  turns.  A  large  doll,  with  movable  eyes,  was  put 
up  to  be  raffled  for,  by  five-and-twenty  members  at  two 
shillings,  seven  years  ago  this  autumn,  and  the  list  is 
not  full  yet.  We  are  rather  sanguine,  now,  that  the 
raffle  will  come  off  next  year.  We  think  so,  because  we 
only  want  nine  members,  and  should  only  want  eight, 
but  for  number  twO' having  grown  up  since  her  name  was 
entered,  and  withdrawn  it  when  she  was  married.  Down 
the  street,  there  is  a  toy-shop  of  considerable  burden,  in 
the  same  condition.  Two  of  the  boys  who  were  entered 
for  that  raffle  have  gone  to  India  in  real  ships,  since  : 
and  one  was  shot,  and  died  in  the  arms  of  his  sister's 
lover,  by  whom  he  sent  his  last  words  home. 

This  is  the  library  for  the  Minerva  Press.  If  you  want 
that  kind  of  reading,  come  to  our  watering-place.  The 
leaves  of  the  romances,  reduced  to  a  condition  very  like 
curl-paj)er,  are  thickly  studded  with  notes  in  pencil  : 
sometimes  complimentary,  sometimes  jocose.  Some  of 
these  commentators,  like  commentators  in  a  more  exten- 
siv^e  way,  quarrel  with  one  another.  One  young  gentle- 
man, who  sarcastically  writes  "O  !  !  after  every  senti- 
mental passage,  is  pursued  through  his  literary  career  by 
another,  who  writes  "Insulting  Beast!"  Miss  Julia 
Mills  has  read  the  whole  collection  of  these  books.  She 
has  left  marginal  notes  on  the  pages,  as  "Is  not  this 
truly  touching?  J.  M."  "  How  thrilling  !  J.  M."  "En- 
tranced here  by  the  Magician's  potent  spell.  J.  M." 
She  has  also  italicised  ht;r  favourite  traits  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  hero,  as  "  his  hair,  which  was  dark  and  iDcivy, 
clustered  in  rich  profusion  around  a  mnrhle  broio,  whose 
lofty  paleness  bespoke  the  intellect  wathin."  It  reminds 
her  of  another  hero.  She  adds,  "  How  like  B.  L. !  Can 
this  be  mere  coincidence  ?    J.  M." 

You  would  hardly  guess  which  is  the  main  street  of 
our  watering-place,  but  you  may  know  it  by  its  being 
always  stopped  up  with  donkey-chaises.  Whenever  you 
come  here,  and  see  harnessed  donkeys  eating  clover  out 
of  barrows  drawn  completely  across  a  narrow  thorough- 
fare, you  may  be  quite  sure  you  are  in  our  High  Street. 
Our  Police  you  may  know  by  his  uniform,  likewise  by 
his  never  on  any  account  interfering  with  anybody — 
especially  the  tramps  and  vagabonds.  In  our  fancy  shops 
we  liave  a  capital  collection  of  damaged  goods,  among 
which  the  flies  of  countless  summers  "  have  been  roam- 
ing." We  are  great  in  obsolete  seals,  and  in  faded 
pincushions,  and  in  rickety  camp-stools,  and  in  exploded 
cutlery,  and  in  miniature  vessels,  and  in  stunted  little 


telescopes,  and  in  objects  made  of  shells  that  pretend 
not  to  be  shells.  Diminutive  spades,  barrows,  and  bas- 
kets, are  our  principal  articles  of  commerce  :  but  even 
they  don't  look  quite  new  somehow.  They  always  seem 
to  have  been  offered  and  refused  somewhere  else,  before 
they  came  down  to  our  watering-place. 

Yet,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  our  watering-place 
is  an  empty  place,  deserted  by  all  visitors  except  a  few 
staunch  persons  of  approved  fidelity.  On  the  contrary, 
the  chances  are  that  if  you  came  down  here  in  August  or 
September,  you  wouldn't  find  a  house  to  lay  your  head 
in.  As  to  finding  either  house  or  lodging  of  which  you 
could  reduce  the  terms,  you  could  scarcely  engage  in  a 
more  hopeless  pursuit.  For  all  this  you  are  to  observe 
that  every  season  is  the  worst  season  ever  known,  and 
that  the  householding  population  of  our  watering-place 
are  ruined  regularly  every  autumn.  They  are  like  the 
farmers,  in  regard  that  it  is  surprising  how  much  ruin 
they  will  bear.  We  have  an  excellent  hotel — capital 
baths,  warm,  cold,  and  shower — first-rate  bathing-ma- 
chines— and  as  good  butchers,  bakers,  and  grocers,  as 
heart  could  desire.  They  all  do  business,  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed, from  motives  of  philanthropy — but  it  is  quite  cer- 
tain that  they  are  all  being  ruined.  Their  interest  in 
strangers,  and  their  politeness  under  ruin,  bespeak  their 
amiable  nature.  You  would  say  so,  if  you  only  saw  the 
baker  helping  a  new-comer  to  find  suitable  apartments. 

So  far  from  being  at  a  discount  as  to  company,  we  are 
in  fact  what  would  be  popularly  called  rather  a  nobby 
place.  Some  tip-top  "  Nobbs"  come  down  occasionally 
— even  Dukes  and  Duchesses.  We  have  known  such 
carriages  to  blaze  among  the  donkey-chaises,  as  made 
beholders  wink.  Attendant  on  these  equipages  come 
resplendent  creatures  in  plush  and  powder,  who  are  sure 
to  be  stricken  disgusted  with  the  indifferent  accommoda- 
tion of  our  watering-place,  and  who,  of  an  evening  (par- 
ticularly when  it  rains),  may  be  seen  very  much  out  of 
drawing,  in  rooms  far  too  small  for  their  fine  figures, 
looking  discontentedly  out  of  little  back  windows  into 
bye-streets.  The  lords  and  ladies  get  on  well  enough 
and  quite  good-humouredly  :  but  if  you  want  to  see  the 
gorgeous  phenomena  who  waif  upon  them,  at  a  perfect 
non-plus,  you  should  come  and  look  at  the  resplendent 
creatures  with  little  back  parlours  for  servants'  halls, 
and  turn-up  bedsteads  to  sleep  in,  at  our  w^atering-j)lace. 
You  have  no  idea  how  they  take  it  to  heart. 

We  have  a  pier — a  queer  old  wooden  pier,  fortunately 
without  the  slightest  pretensions  to  architecture,  and 
very  picturesque  in  consequence.  Boats  are  hauled  up 
upon  it,  ropes  are  coiled  all  over  it ;  lobster-pots,  nets, 
masts,  oars,  spars,  sails,  ballast,  and  rickety  capstans, 
make  a  perfect  labyrinth  of  it.  For  ever  hovering  about 
this  pier,  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  or  leaning  over 
the  rough  bulwark  it  opposes  to  the  sea,  gazing  through 
telescopes  which  they  carry  about  in  the  same  profound 
receptacles,  are  the  Boatmen  of  our  watering-place. 
Looking  at  them,  you  would  say  that  surely  these  must 
be  the  laziest  boatmen  in  the  world.  They  lounge  about, 
in  obstinate  and  inflexible  pantaloons,  that  are  appar- 
ently made  of  wood,  the  whole  season  through. 
Whether  talking  together  about  the  shipping  in  the 
Channel,  or  gruffly  unbending  over  mugs  of  beer  at  the 
public-house,  you  would  consider  them  the  slowest  of 
men.  The  chances  are  a  thousand  to  one  that  you  might 
stay  here  for  ten  seasons,  and  never  see  a  boatman  in  a 
hurry.  A  certain  expression  about  his  loose  hands, 
when  they  were  not  in  his  pockets,  as  if  he  were  carrying 
a  considerable  lump  of  iron  in  each,  without  any  incon- 
venience, suggests  strength,  but  he  never  seems  to  use 
it.  He  has  the  appearance  of  perpetually  strolling — 
running  is  too  inappropriate  a  Avord  to  be  thought  of — 
to  seed.  The  only  subject  on  Avhicli  he  seems  to  feel  any 
approach  to  enthusiasm,  is  pitch.  He  pitches  every- 
thing he  can  lay  hold  of, — the  pier,  the  palings,  his 
boat,  his  house — when  there  is  nothing  else  left  he  turns 
to  and  even  pitches  his  hat,  or  his  rough-weather  cloth- 
ing. Do  not  judge  him  by  deceitful  appearances.  These 
are  among  the  bravest  and  most  skillful  mariners  that 
exist.  Let  a  gale  arise  and  swell  into  a  storm,  let  a  sea 
run  that  might  appal  the  stoutest  heart  that  ever  beat, 
let  the  Light-boat  on  these  dangerous  sands  throw  up  a 
rocket  in  the  night,  or  let  them  hear  through  the  angry 


1168 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


roar  the  signal-guns  of  a  ship  in  distress,  and  these  men 
spring  up  into  activity  so  dauntless,  so  valiant,  and 
heroic,  that  the  world  cannot  surpass  it.  Cavillers  may 
object  that  they  chiefly  live  upon  the  salvage  of  valuable 
cargoes.  So  they  do,  and  God  knows  it  is  no  great  liv- 
ing they  get  out  of  the  deadly  risks  they  run.  But  put 
that  hope  of  gain  aside.  Let  these  rough  fellows  be 
asked,  in  any  storm,  who  volunteers  for  the  life-boat  to 
save  some  perishing  souls,  as  poor  and  empty  handed  as 
themselves,  whose  lives  the  perfection  of  human  reason 
does  not  rate  at  the  value  of  a  farthing  each  ;  and  that 
boat  will  be  manned,  as  surely  and  as  cheerfully,  as  if  a 
thousand  pounds  were  told  down  on  the  weather-beaten 
pier.  For  this,  and  for  the  recollection  of  their  comrades 
whom  we  have  known,  whom  the  raging  sea  has  en- 
gulfed before  their  children's  eyes  in  such  brave  efforts, 
whom  the  secret  sand  has  buried,  we  hold  tlie  boatmen 
of  our  watering-place  in  our  love  and  honour,  and  are 
tender  of  the  fame  they  well  deserve. 

So  many  children  are  brought  down  to  our  watering- 
place  that,  when  they  are  not  out  of  doors,  as  they 
usually  are  in  fine  weather,  it  is  wonderful  where  they 
are  put ;  the  whole  village  seeming  much  too  small  to 
hold  them  under  cover.  In  the  afternoons,  you  see  no 
end  of  salt  and  sandy  little  boots  drying  on  upper  win- 
dow-sills. At  bathing-time  in  the  morning,  the  little 
bay  re-echoes  with  every  shrill  variety  of  shriek  and 
splash — after  which,  if  the  weather  be  at  all  fresh,  the 
sands  teem  with  small  blue-mottled  legs.  The  sands 
are  the  children's  great  resort.  They  cluster  there,  like 
ants  :  so  busy  burying  their  particular  friends,  and  mak- 
ing castles  with  infinite  labour  which  the  next  tide  over- 
throws, that  it  is  curious  to  consider  how  their  play  to 
the  music  of  the  sea,  foreshadows  the  realities  of  their 
after  lives. 

It  is  curious,  too,  to  observe  a  natura?l  ease  of  approach 
that  there  seems  to  be  between  the  children  and  the 
boatmen.  They  mutually  make  acquaintance,  and  take 
individual  Jikings,  without  any  help.  You  will  come 
upon  one  of  those  slow  heavy  fellows  sitting  down  pa- 
tiently mending  a  little  ship  for  a  mite  of  a  boy,  whom 
he  could  crush  to  death  by  throwing  his  lightest  pair  of 
trousers  on  him.  You  will  be  sensible  of  the  oddest  con- 
trast between  the  smooth  little  creature,  and  the  rough 
man  who  seems  to  be  carved  out  of  hard-grained  wood — 
betv/een  the  delicate  hand  expectantly  held  out,  and  the 
immense  thumb  and  finger  that  can  hardly  feel  the  rig- 
ging of  thread  they  mend — between  the  small  voice 
and  the  gruff  growl — and  yet  there  is  a  natural  pro- 
priety in  the  companionship  :  always  to  be  noted  in  con- 
fidence between  a  child  and  a  person  who  has  any 
merit  of  reality  and  genuineness  :  which  is  admirably 
pleasant. 

We  have  a  preventive  station  at  our  watering-place, 
and  much  the  same  thing  may  be  obssrved — in  a  lesser 
degree,  because  of  their  official  character — of  the  coast 
blockade  ;  a  steady,  trusty,  well-conditioned,  well-con- 
ducted set  of  men,  with  no  misgiving  about  looking  you 
full  in  the  face^and  with  a  quiet  thorough-going  way  of 
passing  along  to  their  duty  at  night,  carrying  huge  sou- 
wester  clothing  in  reserve,  that  is  fraught  with  all  good 
prepossession.  They  are  liandy  fellows — neat  about  their 
houses — industrious  at  gardening — would  get  on  with 
their  wives,  one  thinks,  in  a  desert  island — and  people  it, 
too,  soon. 

As  to  the  naval  oflficer  of  the  station,  with  his  hearty, 
fresh  face,  and  liis  blue  eye  that  has  pierced  all  kinds  of 
weather,  it  warms  our  hearts  when  he  comes  into  church 
on  Sunday  with  that  bright  mixture  of  blue  coat,  buff 
waistcoat,  black  neck-kerchief,  and  gold  epaulette,  that 
is  associated  in  the  minds  of  all  Englishmen  with  brave, 
unpretending,  cordial,  national  service.  We  like  to 
look  at  him  in  his  Sunday  state  ;  and  if  we  were  First 
Lord  (really  possessing  the  indispensable  qualification 
for  the  office  of  knowing  nothing  whatever  about  the 
sea),  we  would  give  him  a  ship  to-morrow. 

We  have  a  church,  by  the  bye,  of  course — a  hideous 
temple  of  flint,  like  a  great  petrified  haystack.  Our 
chief  clerical  dignitary,  who,  to  his  honour,  has  done 
much  for  education  both  in  time  and  money,  and  has  es- 
tablislied  excellent  schools,  is  a  sound,  shrewd,  healthy 
gentleman,  who  has  got  into  little  occasional  difficulties 


with  the  neighbouring  farmers,  but  has  had  a  pestilent 
trick  of  being  right.  Under  a  new  regulation,  he  has 
yielded  the  church  of  our  watering-place  to  another  cler- 
gyman. Upon  the  whole  we  get  on  in  church  well.  We 
are  a  little  bilious  sometimes,  about  these  days  of  frater- 
nization, and  about  nations  arriving  at  anew  and  more  un- 
prejudiced knowledge  of  each  other  (which  our  Christi- 
anity don't  quite  approve),  but  it  soon  goes  off,  and  then 
we  get  on  very  well. 

There  are  two  dissenting  chapels,  besides,  in  our  small 
watering-place  ;  being  in  about  the  proportion  of  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  guns  to  a  yacht.  But  the  dissension 
that  has  torn  us  lately,  has  not  been  a  religious  one.  It 
has  arisen  on  the  novel  question  of  Gas.  Our  watering- 
place  has  been  convulsed  by  the  agitation,  Gas  or  No  Gas. 
It  was  never  reasoned  why  No  Gas,  but  there  was  a  great 
No  Gas  party.  Broadsides  were  printed  and  stuck  about 
— a  startling  circumstance  in  our  watering-place.  The 
No  Gas  party  rested  content  with  chalking  "  No  Gas  !  '* 
and  "Down  with  Gas!"  and  other  such  angry  war- 
whoops,  on  the  few  back  gates  and  scraps  of  wall  which 
the  limits  of  our  watering-place  afford  ;  but  the  Gas  party 
printed  and  posted  bills,  wherein  they  took  the  high 
ground  of  proclaiming  against  the  No  Gas  party,- that  it 
was  said  Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light ;  and  that 
not  to  have  light  (that  is,  gas  light)  in  our  watering- 
place,  was  to  contravene  the  great  decree.  Whether  by 
these  thunderbolts  or  not,  the  No  Gas  party  were  defeat- 
ed ;  and  in  this  present  season  we  have  had  our  handful 
of  shops  illuminated  for  the  first  time.  Such  of  the  No 
Gas  party,  however,  as  have  got  shops,  remain  in  opposi- 
tion and  burn  tallow — exhibiting  in  their  windows  the 
very  picture  of  the  sulkiness  that  punishes  itself,  and  a 
new  illustration  of  the  old  adage  about  cutting  off  your 
nose  to  be  revenged  on  your  face,  in  cutting  off  their  gas 
to  be  revenged  on  their  business. 

Other  population  than  Ave  have  indicated,  our  water- 
ing-place has  none.  There  are  a  few  old  used-up  boat- 
men who  creep  about  in  the  sunlight  with  the  help 
of  sticks,  and  there  is  a  poor  imbecile  shoemaker  who 
wanders  his  lonely  life  away  among  the  rocks,  as  if  he 
were  looking  for  his  reason — which  he  will  never  find. 
Sojourners  in  the  neighbouring  watering-places  come 
occasionally  in  tiys  to  stare  at  us,  and  drive  away  again 
as  if  they  thought  us  very  dull  ;  Italian  boys  come. 
Punch  comes,  the  Fantoccini  come,  the  Tumblers  come, 
the  Ethiopians  come  ;  Glee-singers  come  at  night,  and 
hum  and  vibrate  (not  always  melodiously)  under  our 
windows.  But  they  all  go  soon,  and  leave  us  to  ourselves 
again.  We  once  had  a  travelling  Circus  and  Womb- 
well's  Menagerie  at  the  same  time.  They  both  know 
better  than  ever  to  try  it  again  ;  and  the  Menagerie  had 
nearly  razed  us  from  the  face  of  the  earth  in  getting  the 
elephant  away — his  caravan  was  so  large,  and  the  water- 
ing-place so  small.  We  have  a  fine  sea,  wholesome  for 
all  people ;  profitable  for  the  body,  profitable  for  the 
mind.  The  poet's  words  are  sometimes  on  its  awful 
lips  : 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  ha'nd, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  stiil  ! 


Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  tlie  crags,  O  sea  1 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me.  \ 

Yet  it  is  not  always  so,  for  the  speech  of  the  sea  is 
various,  and  wants  not  abvmdant  resource  of  cheerful- 
ness, hope,  and  lusty  encouragement.  And  since  I  have 
been  idling  at  the  window  here,  the  tide  hAs  risen.  The 
boats  ai-e  dancing  on  the  bubbling  waters  ;  the  colliers 
are  afloat  again  ;  the  white-bordered  waves  rush  in  ;  the 
children 

Do  chase  tlie  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back  ; 

the  radiant  sails  are  gliding  past  the  shore,  and  shining 
on  the  far  horizon  ;  all  the  sea  is  sparkling,  heaving, 
swelling  up  with  life  and  beauty,  this  bright  morn- 
ing. , 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


1169 


OUR  FRENCH  WATERING-PLACE. 

Having  earned,  by  many  years  of  fidelity,  the  right  to 
"be  sometimes  inconstant  to  our  English  watering-place, 
we  have  dallied  for  two  or  three  seasons  with  a  French 
watering-place  :  once  solely  known  to  us  as  a  town  with 
a  very  long  street,  beginning  with  an  abattoir  and  ending 
with  a  steam-boat,  which  it  seemed  our  fate  to  behold 
only  at  daybreak  un  winter  mornings,  when  (in  the  days 
before  continental  railroads),  just  sufficiently  awake  to 
know  that  we  were  most  uncomfortably  aslee]),  it  was 
our  destiny  always  to  clatter  through  it,  in  the  coupe  of 
the  diligence  from  Paris,  with  a  sea  of  mud  behind  us, 
and  a  sea  of  tumbling  waves  before.  In  relation  to 
which  latter  monster,  our  mind's  eye  now  recals  a  worthy 
Frenchman  in  a  seal-skin  cap  with  a  braided  hood  over 
it,  once  our  travelling  companion  in  the  coupe  aforesaid, 
who  waking  up  with  a  pale  and  crumpled  visage,  and 
looking  ruefully  out  at  the  grim  row  of  breakers  enjoy- 
ing themselves  fanatically  on  an  instrument  of  torture 
•called  "  the  Bar,"  inquired  of  us  whether  we  were  ever 
sick  at  sea  ?  Both  to  prepare  his  mind  for  the  abject 
creature  we  were  presently  to  become,  and  also  to  afford 
him  consolation,  we  replied,  "  Sir,  your  servant  is  always 
sick  when  it  is  possible  to  be  so."  He  returned,  alto- 
gether uncheered  by  the  bright  example,  "  Ah,  Heaven, 
but  I  am  always  sick,  even  when  it  is  i??ipossible  to  be  so," 

The  means  of  communication  between  the  French 
capital  and  our  French  watering-place  are  wholly  changed 
since  those  days  ;  but,  the  Channel  remains  unbridged 
as  yet,  and  the  old  floundering  and  knocking  about  go 
on  there.  It  must  be  confessed  that  saving  in  reason- 
able (and  therefore  rare)  seaweather,  the  act  of  arrival 
at  our  French  watering-place  from  England  is  diflScult 
to  be  achieved  with  dignity.  Several  little  circumstances 
combine  to  render  the  visitor  an  object  of  humiliation. 
In  the  first  place,  the  steamer  no  sooner  touches  the  port, 
than  all  the  passengers  fall  into  captivity  ;  being  boarded 
by  an  overpowering  force  of  Custom-house  officers,  and 
marched  into  a  gloomy  dungeon.  In  the  second  place, 
the  road  to  this  dungeon  is  fenced  off  with  ropes  breast 
high,  and  outside  those  ropes  all  the  English  in  the  place 
who  have  lately  been  sea-sick  and  are  now  well,  assemble 
in  their  best  clothes  to  enjoy  the  degradation  of  their 
dilapidated  fellow-creatures.  "Oh,  my  gracious  !  how 
ill  this  one  has  been!"  "Here's  a  damp  one  coming 
next  I"  "Here's  a  pale  one  !"  "  Oh  !  Ain't  he  green 
in  the  face,  this  next  one  !  "  Even  we  ourselves  (not 
deficient  in  natural  dignity)  have  a  lively  remembrance 
of  staggering  up  this  detested  lane  one  September  day 
in  a  gale  of  wind,  when  we  were  received  like  an  irre- 
sistible comic  actor,  with  a  burst  of  laughter  and  ap- 
plause, occasioned  by  the  extreme  imbecility  of  our  legs. 

We  are  coming  to  the  third  place.  In  the  third  place, 
the  captives,  being  shut  up  in  the  gloomy  dungeon,  are 
strained,  two  or  three  at  a  time,  into  an  inner  cell,  to  be 
examined  as  to  passports ;  and  across  the  doorway  of 
communication,  stands  a  military  creature  making  a  bar 
of  his  arm.  Two  ideas  are  generally  present  to  the 
British  mind  during  these  ceremonies  ;  first,  that  it  is 
necessary  to  make  for  the  cell  with  violent  struggles,  as 
if  it  were  a  life-boat  and  the  dnngf^ou  a  ship  going  down  ; 
secondly,  that  the  military  creature's  arm  is  a  national 
affront,  which  the  government  at  home  ought  instantly 
to  "take  up."  The  British  mind  and  body  becoming 
heated  by  these  fantasies,  delirious  answers  are  made  to 
inquiries,  and  extravagant  actions  performed.  Thus, 
Johnson  persists  in  giving  Johnson  as  his  baptismal 
naine,  and  substituting  for  his  ancestral  designation  the 
national  "Dam  !"  Neither  can  he  by  any  means  be 
brought  to  recognise  the  distinction  between  a  port- 
manteau-key and  a  passport,  but  will  obstinately  per- 
severe in  tendering  the  one  when  asked  for  the  other. 
This  brings  him  to  the  fourth  place,  in  a  state  of  mere 
idiotcy  ;  and  when  he  is,  in  the  fourth  place,  cast  out  at 
a  little  door  into  a  howling  wilderness  of  touters,  he 
becomes  a  lunatic  with  wild  eyes  and  floating  hair  until 
rescued  and  soothed.  If  friendless  and  unrescued,  he  is 
generally  put  into  a  railway  omnibus  and  taken  to  Paris. 

But,  our  Fren(;h  watering-place,  when  it  is  once  got 
into,  is  a  very  enjoyable  place.  It  has  a  varied  and 
beautiful  country  around  it,  and  many  characteristic  and 
Vol,  II.— 74 


agreeable  things  within  it.  To  be  sure,  it  might  have 
fewer  bad  smells  and  less  decaying  refuse,  and  it  might 
be  better  drained,  and  much  cleaner  in  many  parts,  and 
therefore  infinitely  more  healthy.  Still,  it  is  a  bright, 
airy,  pleasant,  cheerful  town  ;  and  if  you  were  to  walk 
down  either  of  its  three  well-paved  main  streets,  towards 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  delicate  odours  of 
cookery  fill  the  air,  and  its  hotel  windows  (it  is  full  of 
hotels)  give  glimpses  of  long  tables  set  out  for  dinner, 
and  made  to  look  sumptuous  by  the  aid  of  napkins 
folded  fan-wise,  you  would  rightly  judge  it  to  be  an  un- 
commonly good  town  to  eat  and  drink  in. 

We  have  an  old  walled  town,  rich  in  cool  public  wells 
of  water,  on  the  top  of  a  hill  within  and  above  the 
present  business-town  ;  and  if  it  were  some  hundreds  of 
miles  further  from  England,  instead  of  being,  on  a  clear 
day,  within  sight  of  the  grass  growing  in  the  crevices  of 
the  chalk-cliffs  of  Dover,  you  would  long  ago  have  been 
bored  to  death  about  that  town.  It  is  more  picturesque 
and  quaint  than  half  the  innocent  places  which  tourists, 
following  their  leader  like  sheep,  have  made  impostors 
of.  To  say  nothing  of  its  houses  with  grave  courtyards, 
its  queer  by-corners,  and  its  many-windowed  streets 
white  and  quiet  in  the  sunlight,  there  is  an  ancient 
belfry  in  it  that  would  have  been  in  all  the  Annuals  and 
Albums,  going  and  gone,  these  hundred  years,  if  it  had 
not  been  more  expensive  to  get  at.  Happily  it  has 
escaped  so  well,  being  only  in  our  French  watering- 
place,  that  you  may  like  it  of  your  own  accord  in  a 
natural  manner,  without  being  required  to  go  into  convul- 
sions about  it.  We  regard  it  as  one  of  the  later  bless- 
ings of  our  life,  that  Bilkins,  the  only  authority  on 
Taste,  never  took  any  notice  that  we  can  find  out,  of  our 
French  watering-place.  Bilkins,  never  w  rote  about  it, 
never  pointed  out  anything  to  be  seen  in  it,  never  meas- 
ured any  thing  in  it,  always  left  it  alone.  For  which 
relief,  Heaven  bless  the  town  and  the  memory  of  the  im- 
mortal Bilkins  likewise  ! 

There  is  a  charming  walk,  arched  and  shaded  by  trees, 
on  the  old  walls  that  form  the  four  sides  of  this  High 
Town,  whence  you  get  glimpses  of  the  streets  below, 
and  changing  views  of  the  other  town  and  of  the  river, 
and  of  the  hills  and  of  the  sea.  It  is  made  more  agree- 
able and  peculiar  by  some  of  the  solemn  houses  that  are 
rooted  in  the  deep  streets  below,  bursting  into  a  fresher 
existence  a- top,  and  having  doors  and  windows,  and  even 
gardens,  on  these  ramparts.  A  child  going  in  at  the 
courtyard  gate  of  one  of  these  houses,  climbing  up  the 
many  stairs,  and  coming  out  at  the  fourth-floor  window, 
might  conceive  himself  another  Jack,  alighting  on  en- 
chanted ground  from  another  bean-stalk.  It  is  a  place 
wonderfully  populous  in  children ;  English  children, 
with  governesses  reading  novels  as  they  walk  down  the 
shady  lanes  of  trees,  or  nursemaids  interchanging  gossip 
on  the  seats  ;  French  children  with  their  smiling  bonnes 
in  snow-white  caps,  and  themselves — if  little  boys — in 
straw  head  gear  like  bee-hives,  work-baskets  and  church 
hassocks.  Three  years  ago,  there  were  three  weazen 
old  men,  one  bearing  a  frayed  red  ribbon  in  his  thread- 
bare button-hole,  always  to  be  found  walking  together 
among  these  children,  before  dinner-time.  If  they 
walked  for  an  appetite,  they  doubtless  lived  en  pension 
— were  contracted  for — otherwise  their  poverty  would 
have  made  it  a  rash  action.  They  were  stooping,  blear- 
eyed,  dull  old  men,  slip-shod  and  shabby,  in  long-skirted, 
short-waisted  coats  and  meagre  trousers,  and  yet  with  a 
ghost  of  gentility  hovering  in  their  company.  They 
spoke  little  to  each  other,  and  looked  as  if  they  might 
have  been  politically  discontented  if  they  had  had  vitality 
enough.  Once,  we  overheard  red- ribbon  feebly  com- 
plain to  the  other  two  that  somebody,  or  something,  was 
"  a  Robber  ;"  and  then  they  all  three  set  their  mouths 
so  that  they  would  have  ground  their  teeth  if  they  had 
had  any.  The  ensuing  winter  gathered  red-ribbon  into 
the  great  company  of  faded  ribbons,  and  next  year  the 
remaining  two  were  there — getting  themselves  entangled 
with  hoops  and  dolls — familiar  mysteries  to  the  children 
— probably  in  the  eyes  of  most  of  them  harmless  creat- 
ures who  had  never  been  like  children,  and  whom, 
children  could  never  be  like.  Another  winter  came,  and 
another  old  man  went,  and  so,  this  present  year,  the  last 
of  the  triumvirate  left  off  walking — it  was  no  good,  now 


1170 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


— and  sat  by  himself  on  a  little  solitary  bench,  with  the 
hoops  and  the  dolls  as  lively  as  ever  all  about  him. 

In  the  Place  d'Armes  of  this  town,  a  little  decayed 
market  is  held,  which  seems  to  slip  through  the  old  gate- 
way, like  water,  and  go  rippling  down  the  hill,  to  min- 
gle'with  the  murmuring  market  in  the  lower  town,  and 
get  lost  in  its  movement  and  bustle.  It  is  very  agree- 
able on  an  idle  summer  morning  to  pursue  this  market- 
stream  from  the  hill-top.  It  begins  dozingly  and  dully, 
with  a  few  sacks  of  corn  ;  starts  into  a  surprising  col- 
lection of  boots  and  shoes  ;  goes  brawling  down  the  hill 
in  a  diversified  channel  of  old  cordage,  old  iron,  old 
crockery,  old  clothes,  civil  and  military,  old  rags,  new 
cotton  goods,  flaming  prints  of  saints,  little  looking- 
glasses,  and  incalculable  lengths  of  tape  ;  dives  into  a 
backway,  keeping  out  of  sight  for  a  little  while,  as 
streams  will,  or  only  sparkling  for  a  moment  in  the 
shape  of  a  market  drinking  shop  ;  and  suddenly  re-ap- 
pears behind  the  great  church,  and  shooting  itself  into  a 
bright  confusion  of  white  capped  women,  and  blue- 
bloused  men,  poultry,  vegetables,  fruits,  flowers,  pots, 
pans,  praying-chairs,  soldiers,  country  butter,  umbrellas, 
and  other  sunshades,  girl-porters  waiting  to  be  hired 
with  baskets  at  their  backs,  and  one  weazen  little  old 
man  in  a  cocked  hat,  wearing  a  cuirass  of  drinking- 
gl asses  and  carrying  on  his  shoulder  a  crimson  temple 
fluttering  with  flags,  like  a  glorified  pavior's  rammer 
without  the  handle,  who  rings  a  little  bell  in  all  parts  of 
the  scene,  and  cries  his  cooling  drink  Hola,  Hola,  Ho-o-o  ! 
in  a  shrill  cracked  voice  that  somehow  makes  itself 
heard,  above  all  the  chaffering  and  vending  hum.  Early 
in  the  afternoon,  the  whole  course  of  the  stream  is  dry. 
The  praying-chairs  are  put  back  in  the  church,  the  um- 
brellas are  folded  up,  the  unsold  goods  are  carried  away, 
the  stalls  and  stands  disappear,  the  square  is  swept,  the 
hackney  coaches  lounge  there  to  be  hired,  and  on  all  the 
country  roads  (if  you  walk  about  as  much  as  we  do)  you 
will  see  the  peasant  women,  always  neatly  and  comfor- 
tably dressed,  riding  home  with  the  pleasantest  saddle- 
furniture  of  clean  milk-pails,  bright  butter-kegs,  and  the 
like,  on  the  joliiest  little  donkeys  in  the  world. 

We  have  another  market  in  the  French  watering-place 
— that  is  to  say,  a  few  wooden  hutches  in  the  open  street 
down  by  the  Port — devoted  to  fish.  Our  fishing  boats 
are  famous  everywhere  ;  and  our  fishing  people,  though 
they  love  lively  colours  and  taste  is  neutral  (see  Bilkins), 
are  among  the  most  picturesque  people  we  ever  en- 
countered. They  have  not  only  a  Quarter  of  their  own 
in  the  town  itself,  but  they  occupy  whole  villages  of  their 
own  on  the  neighbouring  cliffs.  Their  churches  and 
chapels  are  their  own  ;  they  consort  with  one  another, 
they  intermarry  among  themselves,  their  customs  are 
their  own,  and  their  costume  is  their  own  and  never 
changes.  As  soon  as  one  of  their  boys  can  walk,  he  is 
provided  with  a  long  bright  red  nightcap  ;  and  one  of 
their  men  would  as  soon  think  of  going  afloat  without 
his  head,  as  without  that  indispensable  appendage  to  it. 
Then,  they  wear  the  noblest  boots,  with  the  hugest  tops 
— flapping  and  bulging  over  anyhow  ;  above  which  they 
encase  themselves  in  such  wonderful  overalls  and  petti- 
coat trousers,  made  to  all  appearance  of  tarry  old  sails, 
so  additionally  stiffened  with  pitch  and  salt,  that  the 
wearers  have  a  walk  of  their  own,  and  go  straddling  and 
swinging  about,  among  the  boats  and  barrels  and  nets 
and  rigging,  a  sight  to  see.  Then,  their  younger  women, 
by  dint  of  going  down  to  the  sea  barefoot,  to  fling  their 
baskets  into  the  boats  as  they  come  in  with  the  tide,  and 
bespeak  the  first  fruits  of  the  haul  with  propitiatory 
j)romises  to  love  and  marry  that  dear  fisherman  who 
shall  fill  that  basket  like  an  Angel,  have  the  finest  legs 
ever  carved  by  Nature  in  the  brightest  mahogany,  and 
they  walk  like  Juno.  Their  eyes,  too,  are  so  lustrous  that 
their  long  gold  earrings  turn  dull  beside  those  brilliant 
neighbours  ;  and  when  they  are  dressed,  what  with  these 
beauties,  and  their  fine  fresh  faces,  and  their  many  petti- 
coats— striped  petticoats,  red  petticoats,  blue  petticoats, 
always  clean  and  smart,  and  never  too  long — and  their 
liome-made  stockings,  mulberry-coloured,  blue,  brown, 
purple,  lilac — which  the  older  women,  taking  care  of  the 
Dutch-looking  children,  sit  in  all  sorts  of  places  knitting, 
knitting,  knitting,  from  morning  till  night — and  what 
with  their  little  saucy  bright  blue  jackets,  knitted  too, 


and  fitting  close  to  their  handsome  figures  ;  and  what 
with  the  natural  grace  with  which  they  wear  the  com- 
monest cap,  or  fold  the  commonest  handkerchief  round 
their  luxuriant  hair — we  say,  in  a  word  and  out  of 
breath,  that  taking  all  these  premises  into  our  consider- 
ation, it  has  never  been  a  matter  of  the  least  surprise  to 
us  that  we  have  never  once  met,  in  the  cornfields,  on  the 
dusty  roads,  by  the  breezy  windmills,  on  the  plots  of 
short  sweet  grass  overhanging  the  sea — anywhere — a 
young  fisherman  and  fislierwoman  of  our  French  water- 
ing-place together,  but  the  arm  of  that  fisherman  has 
invariably  been,  as  a  matter  of  course  and  without  any 
absurd  attempt  to  disguise  so  plain  a  necesisty,  round 
the  neck  or  waist  of  that  fisherwoman.  And  we  have 
had  no  doubt  whatever,  standing  looking  at  their  uphill 
streets,  house  rising  above  house,  and  terrace  above 
terrace,  and  bright  garments  here  and  there  lying  sun- 
ning on  rough  stone  parapets,  that  the  pleasant  mist  on 
all  such  objects,  caused  by  their  being  seen  through  the 
brown  nets  hung  across  on  poles  to  dry,  is,  in  the  eyes 
of  every  true  young  fisherman,  a  mist  of  love  and  beauty, 
setting  off  the  goddess  of  his  heart. 

Moreover  it  is  to  be  observed  that  these  are  an  indus- 
trious people,  and  a  domestic  people,  and  an  honest 
people.  And  though  we  are  aware  that  at  the  bidding 
of  Bilkins,  it  is  our  duty  to  fall  down  and  worship  the 
Neapolitans,  we  make  bold  very  much  to  prefer  the  fish- 
ing people  of  our  French  watering-place — especially 
since  our  last  visit  to  Naples  within  these  twelvemonths, 
when  we  found  only  four  conditions  of  men  remaining 
in  the  whole  city  :  to  wit,  lazzaroni,  priests,  spies,  and 
soldiers,  and  all  of  them  beggars ;  the  paternal  govern- 
ment having  banished  all  its  subjects  except  the  rascals. 

But  we  can  never  henceforth  separate  our  French  wa- 
tering-place from  our  landlord  of  two  summers,  M. 
Loyal  Devasseur,  citizen  and  town-councillor.  Permit 
us  to  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  M.  Loyal  Devas- 
seur. 

His  own  family  name  is  simply  Loyal  ;  but,  as  he  is 
married,  and  as  in  that  part  of  France  a  husband  always 
adds  to  his  own  name  the  family  name  of  his  wife,  he 
writes  himself  Loyal  Devasseur.  He  owns  a  compact 
little  estate  of  some  twenty  or  thirty  acres  on  a  lofty  hill- 
side, and  on  it  he  has  built  two  country  houses  which  he 
lets  furnished.  They  are  by  many  degrees  the  best 
houses  that  are  so  let  near  our  French  watering-place  ; 
we  have  had  the  honour  of  living  in  both,  and  can  tes- 
tify. The  entrance  hall  of  the  first  we  inhabited,  was 
ornamented  with  a  plan  of  the  estate,  representing  it  as 
about  twice  the  size  of  Ireland  ;  insomuch  that  when  we 
were  yet  new  to  the  Property  (M.  Loyal  always  speaks  of 
it  as  "  la  propriete  ")  we  went  three  miles  straight  on 
end,  in  search  of  the  bridge  of  Austerlitz — which  we 
afterwards  found  to  be  immediately  outside  the  window. 
The  Chateau  of  the  Old  Guard,  in  another  part  of  the 
grounds,  and,  according  to  the  plan,  about  two  leagues 
from  the  little  dining-room,  we  sought  in  vain  for  a 
week,  until,  happening  one  evening  to  sit  upon  a  bench 
in  the  forest  (forest  in  the  plan),  a  few  yards  from  the 
house-door,  we  observed  at  our  feet,  in  the  ignominious 
circumstances  of  being  upside  down  and  greenly  rotten, 
the  Old  Guard  himself  :  that  is  to  say,  the  painted  eflSgy 
of  a  member  of  that  distinguished  corps,  seven  feet 
high,  and  in  the  act  of  carrying  arms,  who  had  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  blown  down  the  previous  winter.  It 
will  be  perceived  that  M.  Loyal  is  a  staunch  admirer  of 
the  great  Napoleon.  He  is  an  old  soldier  himself — cap- 
tain of  the  National  Guard,  with  a  handsome  gold  vase 
on  his  chimney-piece,  presented  to  him  by  his  company 
— and  his  respect  for  the  memory  of  the  illustrious  gen- 
eral is  enthusiastic.  Medallions  of  him,  portraits  of 
him,  busts  of  him,  pictures  of  him,  are  thickly  sprink- 
led all  over  the  property.  During  the  first  month  of  our 
occupation,  it  was  our  affliction  to  be  constantly  knock- 
ing down  Napoleon  :  if  we  touched  a  shelf  in  a  dark 
corner,  he  toppled  over  with  a  crash  ;  and  every  door  we 
opened,  shook  him  to  the  soul.  Yet  M.  Loyal  is  not  a 
man  of  mere  castles  in  the  air,  or,  as  he  would  say,  in 
Spain.  He  has  a  specially  practical,  contriving,  clever, 
skilful  eye  and  hand.  His  houses  are  delightful.  He 
unites  French  elegance  and  English  comfort,  in  a  happy 
manner  quite  his  own.    He  has  an  extraordinary  genius 


REPRINTED  PIECES, 


1171 


for  making  tasteful  little  bedrooms  in  angles  of  his 
roofs,  which  an  Englishman  would  as  soon  think  of 
turning  to  any  account,  as  he  would  think  of  cultivating 
the  Desert.  We  have  oiirself  reposed  deliciously  in 
an  elegant  chamber  of  M.  Loyal's  construction,  with  our 
head  as  nearly  in  the  kitchen  chimney-])ot  as  we  can 
conceive  it  likely  for  the  head  of  any  gentleman,  not  by 
profession  a  Sweep,  to  be.  And,  into  whatsoever  strange 
nook  M.  Loyal's  genius  penetrates,  it,  in  that  nook,  in- 
fallibly constructs  a  cupboard  and  a  row  of  pegs.  In 
either  of  oiir  houses,  we  could  have  put  away  the  knap- 
sacks aud  hung  up  the  hats  of  the  whole  regiment  of 
Guides. 

Aforetime,  M.  Loyal  was  a  tradesman  in  the  town. 
You  can  transact  business  with  no  present  tradesman  in 
the  town,  and  give  your  card  "  cliez  M.  Loyal,"  but  a 
brighter  face  shines  upon  you  directly.  We  doubt  if 
there  is,  ever  was,  or  ever  will  be,  a  man  so  universally 
pleasant  in  the  minds  of  people  as  M.  Loyal  is  in  the 
minds  of  the  citizens  of  our  French  watering-place. 
They  rub  their  hands  andlaugli  when  they  speak  of  him. 
Ah,  but  he  is  such  a  good  child,  such  a  brave  boy,  such 
a  generous  spirit,  that  Monsieur  Loyal  !  It  is  the  honest 
truth.  M.  Loyal's  nature  is  the  nature  of  a  gentleman. 
He  cultivates  his  ground  with  his  own  hands  (assisted 
by  one  little  labourer,  who  falls  into  a  fit  now  and  then)  ; 
and  he  digs  and  delves  from  morn  to  eve  in  prodigious 
perspirations — "  works  always,"  as  he  says — but,  cover 
him  with  dust,  mud,  weeds,  water,  any  stains  you  will, 
you  never  can  cover  the  gentleman  in  M.  Loyal.  A 
portly,  upright,  broad-shouldered,  brown-faced  man, 
whose  soldierly  bearing  gives  him  the  appearance  of  be- 
ing taller  than  he  is,  look  into  the  bright  eye  of  M.  Loyal, 
standing  before  you  in  his  working  blouse  and  cap,  not 
particularly  well  sViaved,  and,  it  may  be,  very  earthy,  and 
you  shall  discern  in  M.  Loyal  a  gentleman  whose  true 
politeness  is  in  grain,  and  confirmation  of  whose  word  by 
his  bond  you  would  blush  to  think  of.  Not  without 
reason  is  *M.  Loyal  when  he  tells  that  story  in  his  own 
vivacious  way,  of  his  travelling  to  Fulham,  near  London, 
to  buy  all  these  hundreds  and  liundreds  of  trees  you  now 
see  upon  the  Property,  then  a  bare,  bleak  hill  ;  and  of 
his  sojourning  in  Fulham  three  months  ;  and  of  his  jovial 
evenings  with  the  market-gardeners  ;  and  of  the  crown- 
ing banquet  before  his  departure,  when  the  market-gar- 
deners rose  as  one  man,  clinked  their  glasses  all  together 
(as  the  custom  at  Fulham  is),  and  cried,  "  Vive  Loyal  !" 

M.  Loyal  has  an  agreeable  wife,  but  no  family  ;  and 
he  loves  to  drill  the  children  of  his  tenants,  or  run  races 
with  them,  or  do  anything  with  them,  or  for  them,  that 
is  good-natured.  He  is  of  a  highly  convivial  tempera- 
ment, and  his  hospitality  is  unbounded.  Billet  a  soldier 
on  him,  and  he  is  delighted.  Five-and-tliirty  soldiers 
had  M.  Loyal  billeted  on  him  this  present  summer,  and 
they  all  got  fat  and  red-faced  in  two  days.  It  became  a 
legend  among  the  troops  that  whoever  got  billeted  on 
M.  Loyal  rolled  in  clover ;  and  so  it  fell  out  that  the  for- 
tunate man  who  drew  the  billet  "  M.  Loyal  Devasseur" 
always  leaped  into  the  air,  though  in  heavy  marching 
order.  M.  Loyal  cannot  bear  to  admit  anything  that 
might  seem  by  any  implication  to  disparage  the  military 
profession.  We  hinted  to  him  once,  that  we  were  con- 
scious of  a  remote  doubi  arismg  in  our  mind,  whether  a 
sou  a  day  for  pocket-money,  tobacco,  stockings,  drink, 
washing,  and  social  pleasures  in  general,  left  a  very  large 
margin  for  a  soldier's  enjoyment.  Pardon  !  said  Mon- 
sieur Loyal,  rather  wincing.  It  was  not  a  fortune,  but 
— a  la  bonne  heure — it  was  better  than  it  used  to  be  ! 
What,  we  asked  him  on  another  occasion,  were  all  those 
neighbouring  peasants,  each  living  with  his  family  in 
one  room,  and  each  having  a  soldier  (perhaps  two)  billeted 
on  him  every  other  night,  required  to  provide  for  those 
soldiers?  "Faith!"  said  M.  Loyal,  reluctantly;  "a 
bed,  monsieur,  and  fire  to  cook  with,  and  a  candle.  And 
they  share  their  supper  with  those  soldiers.  It  is  not 
])ossible  that  they  could  eat  alone." — "And  what  allow- 
ance do  they  get  for  this?"  said  we.  Monsieur  Lo3'al 
drew  himself  up  taller,  took  a  step  back,  laid  his  hand 
uf)on  his  breast,  and  said,  with  majesty,  as  speaking  for 
himself  and  all  France,  "Monsieur,  it  is  a  contribution 
to  the  state  ! " 

It  is  never  going  to  rain,  according  to  M.  Loyal.  When 


it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  it  is  now  raining  in  torrents, 
he  says  it  will  be  fine — charming — magnificent— to- 
morrow, It  is  never  hot  on  the  Property,  he  contends. 
Likewise  it  is  never  cold.  The  flowers,  he  says,  come 
out,  delighting  to  grow  there  ;  it  is  like  Paradise  this 
morning;  it  is  like  the  Garden  of  Eden.  He  is  a  little 
fanciful  in  his  language  :  smilingly  observing  of  Madame 
Loyal,  when  .she  is  absent  at  vespers,  that  she  is  "gone 
to  her  salvation  "— -allee  a  son  salut.  He  has  a  great  en- 
joyment of  tobacco,  but  nothing  would  induce  him  U) 
continue  smoking  face  to  face  with  a  lady.  His  short 
black  pipe  immediately  goes  into  his  breast  pocket, 
scorches  his  Vjlouse,  and  nearly  sets  him  on  fire.  In  the 
Town  Council  and  on  occasions  of  ceremony,  he  appears 
in  a  full  suit  of  black,  with  a  waistcoat  of  magnificent 
breadth  across  the  chest,  and  a  shirt-collar  of  fabulous 
proportions.  Good  M.  Loyal  !  Under  blouse  or  waist- 
coat, he  carries  one  of  the  gentlest  hearts  that  beat  in  a 
nation  teeming  with  gentle  people.  He  has  had  losses, 
and  has  been  at  his  best  under  them.  Not  qn\y  the  loss 
of  his  way  by  night  in  the  Fulham  times — when  a  bad 
subject  of  an  Englishman,  under  pietence  of  seeing  him 
home,  took  him  into  all  the  night  jjublic-houses,  drank 
"  arfanarf  "  in  every  one  at  his  expense,  and  finally  fled, 
leaving  him  shipwrecked  at  Cleefeeway,  which  we  ap- 
prehend to  be  Ratcliff  Highway— but  heavier  losses  than 
that.  Long  ago,  a  family  of  children  anrl  a  mother  were 
left  in  one  of  his  houses,  without  money,  a  whole  year. 
M.  Loyal — anything  but  as  rich  as  we  wish  he  had  been 
— had  not  the  heart  to  say  "  you  must  go;"  so  they 
stayed  on  and  stayed  on,  and  paying-tenants  who  would 
have  come  in  couldn't  come  in,  and  at  last  they  man- 
aged to  get  helped  home  across  the  water,  and  M. 
{  Loyal  kissed  the  whole  group,  and  said  "  Adieu,  my  poor  ^ 
infants  ! "  and  sat  down  in  their  deserted  salon  and 
smoked  his  pipe  of  peace. — "The  rent,  M.  Loyal?" 
"Eh!  well!  The  rent!"  M.  Loyal  shakes  his  head. 
"  Le  bon  Dieu,"  says  M.  Loyal  presently,  "will  recom- 
pense me,"  and  he  laughs  and  smokes  his  pipe  of  peace. 
May  he  smoke  it  on  the  Property,  and  not  be  recom- 
pensed, these  fifty  years  ! 

There  are  public  amusements  in  our  French  watering- 
1  place,  or  it  would  not  be  French.  They  are  very  popular, 
and  very  cheap.  The  sea-bathing — which  may  rank  as 
the  most  favoured  daylight  entertainment,  inasmuch  as 
the  French  visitors  bathe  all  day  long,  and  seldom  appear 
to  think  of  remaining  less  than  an  hour  at  a  time  in  the 
water — is  astoundingly  cheap.  Omnibuses  convey  you, 
if  you  please,  from  a  convenient  part  of  the  town  to  the 
beach  and  back  again  ;  you  have  a  clean  and  comfortable 
bathing-machine,  dress,  linen,  and  all  appliances  ;  and 
the  charge  for  the  whole  is  half-a-franc,  or  fivepence. 
On  the  pier,  there  is  usually  a  guitar,  which  seems  pre- 
sumptuously enough  to  set  its  tinkling  against  the  deep 
hoarseness  of  the  sea,  and  there  is  always  some  boy  or 
woman  who  sings,  without  any  voice,  little  songs  without 
any  tune  :  the  strain  we  have  most  frequently  heard 
being  an  appeal  to  "the  sportsman  "  not  to  bag  their 
choicest  of  game,  the  swallow.  For  bathing  purposes, 
we  have  also  a  subscription  establishment  with  an  es- 
planade, where  people  lounge  about  with  telescopes,  and 
seem  to  get  a  good  .deal  of  weariness  for  their  money, 
}  and  we  have  also  an  association  of  individual  machine- 
j  proprietors  combined  against  this  formidable  rival.  M. 
1  Feroce,  our  own  particular  friend  in  the  bathing  line,  is 
I  one  of  these.  How  he  ever  came  by  his  name,  we  can- 
I  not  imagine.  He  is  as  gentle  and  polite  a  man  as  M. 
;  Loyal  Devasseur  himself  ;  immensely  stout  withal,  and 
of  a  beaming  aspect.  M,  Feroce  has  saved  so  many  peo- 
ple from  drowning,  and  has  been  decorated  with  so  many 
medals  in  consequence,  that  his  stoutness  seems  a  special 
dispensation  of  Providence  to  enable  him  to  wear  them  ; 
if  his  girth  were  the  girth  of  an  ordinary  man,  he  could 
never  hang  them  on,  all  at  once.  It  is  only  on  very  great 
!  occasions  that  M.  Feroce  displays  his  shining  honours. 
At  other  times  they  lie  by,  with  rolls  of  manuscript  tes- 
tifying to  the  causes  of  their  presentation,  in  a  huge 
glass  case  in  the  red-sofa'd  salon  of  his  private  residence 
on  the  beach,  where  M.  Feroce  also  keeps  his  family  pic- 
tures, his  portraits  of  himself  as  he  appears  both  in 
bathing  life  and  in  private  life,  his  little  boats  that  rock 
by  clockwork,  and  his  other  ornamental  possessions. 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Then,  we  have  a  commodious  and  gay  Theatre — or 
had,  for  it  is  burned  down  now— where  the  opera  was 
always  preceded  by  a  vaudeville,  in  which  (as  usual) 
everybody,  down  to  the  little  old  man  with  the  large  hat 
and  the  little  cane  and  tassel,  who  always  played  either 
my  Uncle  or  my  Papa,  suddenly  broke  out  of  the  dia- 
logue into  the  mildest  vocal  snatches,  to  the  great  per- 
plexity of  unaccustomed  strangers  from  Great  Britain, 
who  never  could  make  out  when  they  were  singing  and 
when  they  were  talking— and  indeed  it  was  pretty  much 
the  same.  But,  the  caterers  in  the  way  of  entertainment 
to  whom  we  are  most  beholden,  are  the  Society  of  Well- 
doing, who  are  active  all  the  summer,  and  give  the  pro- 
ceeds of  their  good  works  to  the  poor.  Some  of  the  most 
agreeable  fetes  they  contrive,  are  announced  as  "  Dedi- 
cated to  the  children  ;  "  and  the  taste  with  which  they 
turn  a  small  public  enclosure  into  an  elegant  garden 
beautifully  illuminated  ;  and  the  thorough -going  hearti- 
ness and  energy  with  which  they  personally  direct  the 
childish  pleasures  ;  are  supremely  delightful.  For  five- 
pence  a  hea'd,  we  have  on  these  occasions  donkey  races 
with  English  "  Jokeis,"  and  other  rustic  sports  ;  lotteries 
for  toys  ;  roundabouts,  dancing  on  the  grass  to  the  music 
of  an  admirable  band,  fire-balloons,  and  fireworks.  Fur- 
ther, almost  every  week  all  through  the  summer — never 
mind,  now,  on  what  day  of  the  week — there  is  a  fete  in 
some  adjoining  village  (called  in  that  part  of  the  country 
a  Ducasse),  where  the  people — really  the  peo2)le — dance 
on  the  green  turf  in  the  open  air,  round  a  little  orchestra, 
that  seems  itself  to  dance,  there  is  such  an  airy  motion 
of  flags  and  streamers  all  about  it.  And  we  do  not  sup- 
pose that  between  the  Torrid  Zone  and  the  North  Pole 
there  are  to  be  found  male  dancers  with  such  astonish- 
ingly loose  legs,  furnished  with  so  many  joints  in  wrong 
places,  utterly  unknown  to  Professor  Owen,  as  those  who 
here  disport  themselves.  Sometimes,  the  fete  appertains 
to  a  particular  trade  ;  you  will  see  among  the  cheerful 
young  women  at  the  joint  Ducasse  of  milliners  and  tai- 
lors, a  wholesome  knowledge  of  the  art  of  making  com- 
mon and  cheap  things  uncommon  and  pretty,  by  good 
sense  and  good  taste,  that  is  a  practical  lesson  to  any  rank 
of  society  in  a  whole  island  we  could  mention.  The  odd- 
est feature  of  these  agreeable  scenes  is  the  everlasting 
Roundabout  (we  preserve  an  English  word  wherever  we 
can,  as  we  are  writing  the  English  language),  on  the 
wooden  horses  of  which  machine  grown-up  people  of  all 
ages  are  wound  round  and  round  with  the  utmost  solem- 
nity, while  the  proprietor's  wife  grinds  an  organ,  capable 
of  only  one  tune,  in  the  centre. 

As  to  the  boarding-houses  of  our  French-watering- 
place,  they  are  Legion,  and  would  require  a  distinct 
treatise.  It  is  not  without  a  sentiment  of  national  pride 
that  we  believe  them  to  contain  more  bores  from  the 
shores  of  Albion  than  all  the  clubs  in  London.  As  you 
walk  timidly  in  their  neighbourhood,  the  very  neck- 
cloths and  hats  of  your  elderly  compatriots  cry  to  you 
from  the  stones  of  the  streets,  "  We  are  Bores — avoid 
us  !  "  We  have  never  overheard  at  street  corners  such 
lunatic  scraps  of  political  and  social  discussion  as  among 
these  dear  countrymen  of  ours.  They  believe  everything 
that  is  impossible  and  nothing  that  is  true.  They  carry 
rumours,  and  ask  questions,  and  make  corrections  and  im- 
provements on  one  another,  staggering  to  the  human  in- 
tellect. And  they  are  for  ever  rushing  in  to  the  English 
library,  propounding  such  incomprehensible  paradoxes 
to  the  fair  mistress  of  that  establishment,  that  we  beg  to 
recommend  her  to  her  Majesty's  gracious  consideration 
a.s  a  fit  object  for  a  pension. 

The  English  form  a  considerable  part  of  the  popula- 
tion of  our  French  watering-place,  and  are  deservedly 
addressed  and  respected  in  many  ways.  Some  of  the 
surface-addresses  to  them  are  odd  enough,  as  when  a 
laundress  puts  a  ])lacard  outside  her  house  announcing 
lu^r  possession  of  that  curious  British  instrument,  a 
'  Mingle  ; "  or  when  a  tavern-keeper  provides  accommo- 
dation for  the  celebrated  English  game  of  "Nokemdon." 
But,  to  us,  it  is  not  the  least  pleasant  feature  of  our 
French  watering-place  that  a  long  and  constant  fusion 
of  the  two  great  nations  there,  has  taught  each  to  like 
the  other,  and  to  learn  from  the  other,  and  to  rise  supe- 
rior to  the  absurd  prejudices  that  have  lingered  among 
the  weak  and  ignorant  in  both  countries  equally. 


Drumming  and  trumpeting  of  course  go  on  for  ever  in 
our  French  watering-place.  Flag-flying  is  at  a  premium, 
too  ;  but,  we  cheerfully  avow  that  we  consider  a  flag  a 
very  pretty  object,  and  that  we  take  such  outward  ^igns 
of  innocent  liveliness  to  our  heart  of  hearts.  The  peo- 
ple, in  the  town  and  in  the  country,  are  a  busy  people 
who  work  hard  ;  they  are  sober,  temperate,  good- 
humoured,  light-hearted,  and  generally  remarkable  for 
their  engaging  manners.  Few  just  men,  not  immoder- 
ately bilious,  could  see  them  in  their  recreations  without 
very  much  respecting  the  character  that  is  so  easily,  so 
harmlessly,  and  so  simply,  pleased. 


BILL-STICKING-. 

If  I  had  an  enemy  whom  I  hated — which  Heaven  for- 
bid ! — and  if  I  knew  of  something  that  sat  heavy  on  his 
conscience,  I  think  I  would  introduce  that  something 
into  a  Posting-Bill,  and  place  a  large  impression  in  the 
hands  of  an  active  sticker.  I  can  scarcely  imagine  a 
more  terrible  revenge.  I  should  haunt  him,  by  this 
means,  night  and  day.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I 
would  publish  his  secret,  in  red  letters  two  feet  high, 
for  all  the  town  to  read  :  I  would  darkly  refer  to  it.  It 
should  be  between  him,  and  me,  and  the  Posting-Bill. 
Say,  for  example,  that,  at  a  certain  period  of  his  life,  ray 
enemy  had  surreptitiously  possessed  himself  of  a  key. 
I  would  then  embark  my  capital  in  the  lock  business,  and 
conduct  that  business  on  the  advertising  principle.  In 
all  my  placards  and  advertisements,  I  would  throw  up 
the  line  Secret  Keys.  Thus,  if  my  enemy  passed  an 
uninhabited  house,  he  would  see  his  conscience  glaring 
down  on  him  from  the  parapets,  and  peeping  up  at  him 
from  the  cellars.  If  he  took  a  dead  wall  in  his  walk,  it 
would  be  alive  with  reproaches.  If  he  sought  refuge  in 
an  omnibus,  the  panels  thereof  would  become  Belshaz- 
zar's  palace  to  him.  If  he  took  boat,  in  a  wild  endea- 
vour to  escape,  he  would  see  the  fatal  words  lurking 
under  the  arches  of  the  bridges  over  the  Thames.  If  he 
walked  the  streets  with  downcast  eyes,  he  would  recoil 
from  the  very  stones  of  the  pavement,  made  eloquent  by 
lampblack  lithograph.  If  he  drove  or  rode,  his  way 
would  be  blocked  up,  by  enormous  vans,  each  proclaim- 
ing the  same  words  over  and  over  again  from  its  whole 
extent  of  surface.  Until,  having  gradually  grown  thin- 
ner and  paler,  and  having  at  last  totally  rejected  food, 
he  would  miserably  perish,  and  I  should  be  revenged. 
This  conclusion  I  should,  no  doubt,  celebrate  by  laugh- 
ing a  hoarse  laugh  in  three  syllables,  and  folding  ray 
arms  tight  upon  my  chest  agreeably  to  most  of  the  ex- 
amples of  glutted  animosity  that  I  have  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  observing  in  connexion  with  the  Drama — wliich, 
by  the  bye,  as  involving  a  good  deal  of  noise,  appears  to 
me,  to  be  occasionally  confounded  with  the  Drummer. 

The  foregoing  reflections  presented  themselves  to  my 
mind  the  other  day,  as  I  contemplated  (being  newly 
come  to  London  from  the  East  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  on 
a  house-hunting  expedition  for  next  May),  an  old  ware- 
house which  rotting  paste  and  rotting  paper  had  brought 
down  to  the  condition  of  an  old  cheese.  It  would  have 
been  impossible  to  say,  on  the  most  conscientious  sur- 
vey, how  much  of  its  front  was  brick  and  mortar,  and 
how  much  decaying  and  decayed  plaster.  It  was  so 
thickly  encrusted  with  fragments  of  bills,  that  no  ship's 
keel  after  a  long  voyage  could  be  half  so  foul.  AH 
traces  of  the  broken  windows  were  billed  out,  the  doors 
were  billed  across,  the  water-spout  was  billed  over. 
The  building  was  shored  up  to  prevent  its  tumbling  into 
the  street ;  and  the  very  beams  erected  against  it,  were 
less  wood  than  paste  and  paper,  they  had  been  so  con- 
tinually posted  and  reposted.  The  forlorn  dregs  of  old 
posters  so  encumbered  this  wreck,  that  there  was  no  hold 
for  new  posters,  and  the  stickers  had  abandoned  the 
place  in  despair,  except  one  enterprising  man  who  had 
hoisted  the  last  masquerade  to  a  clear  spot  near  the  level 
of  the  stack  of  chimneys  where  it  waved  and  drooped 
like  a  shattered  flag.  Below  the  rusty  cellar-grating, 
crumpled  renmants  of  old  bills  torn  down,  rotted  away 
in  wasting  heaps  of  fallen  leaves.  Here  and  there,  some 
of  the  thick  rind  of  the  house  had  peeled  off  in  strips, 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


1173 


and  fluttered  heavily  down,  littering  the  street  ;  but, 
still,  below  these  rents  and  gashes,  layers  of  decompos- 
ing posters  showed  themselves,  as  if  they  were  intermi- 
nable. I  thought  the  building  could  never  even  be  pulled 
down,  but  in  one  adhesive  heap  of  rottenness  and  poster. 
As  to  getting  in — 1  don't  believe  that  if  the  Sleeping 
Beauty  and  her  Court  had  been  so  billed  up,  the  young 
prince  could  have  done  it. 

Knowing  all  the  posters  that  were  yet  legible,  inti- 
mately, and  pondering  on  their  ubiquitous  nature,  I  was 
led  into  the  reflections  with  which  I  began  this  paper, 
by  considering  what  an  awful  thing  it  would  be,  ever  to 
have  wronged— say  M.  Jullien  for  example — and  to 
have  his  avenging  name  in  characters  of  fire  incessantly 
before  my  eyes.  Or  to  have  injured  Madame  Tussaud, 
and  undergo  a  similar  retribution.  Has  any  man  a 
self-reproachful  thought  associated  with  pills  or  oint- 
ment? What  an  avenging  spirit  to  that  man  is  Pko 
FESSOR  HoLLOWAY !  Have  I  sinned  in  oil?  Cabburn 
pursues  me.  Have  I  a  dark  remembrance  associated 
with  any  gentlemanly  garments,  bespoke  or  ready  made? 
Moses  and  Son  are  on  my  track.  Did  I  ever  aim  a  blow 
at  a  defenceless  fellow-creature's  head?  That  head 
eternally  being  measured  for  a  wig,  or  that  worse  head 
which  was  bald  before  it  used  the  balsam,  and  hirsute 
afterwards — enforcing  the  benevolent  moral,  "Better  to 
be  bald  as  a  Dutch-cheese  than  come  to  this," — undoes 
me.  Have  I  no  sore  places  in  my  mind  which  Mechi 
touches — which  Nicoll  probes — which  no  registered 
article  whatever  lacerates  ?  Does  no  discordant  note 
within  me  thrill  responsive  to  mysterious  watchwords, 
as  "  Revalenta  Arabica,"  or,  "  Number  One  St.  Paul's 
Church-yard  ?  "    Then  may  I  enjoy  life,  and  be  happy. 

Lifting  up  my  eyes,  as  I  was  musing  to  this  effect,  I 
beheld  advancing  towards  me  (I  was  then  on  Cornhill 
near  to  the  Royal  Exchange),  a  solemn  procession  of 
three  advertising  vans,  of  nrst-class  dimensions,  each 
drawn  by  a  very  little  horse.  As  the  cavalcade  ap- 
proached, I  was  at  a  loss  to  reconcile  the  careless  de- 
portment of  the  drivers  of  these  veiiicles,  with  the  terri- 
ble announcements  they  conducted  through  the  city, 
which,  being  a  summary  of  the  contents  of  a  Sunday 
newspaper,  were  of  the  most  thrilling  kind.  Robbery, 
fire,  murder,  and  the  ruin  of  a  united  kingdom — each 
discharged  in  a  line  by  itself,  like  a  separate  broad-side 
of  red-hot  shot — were  among  the  least  of  the  warnings 
addressed  to  an  unthinking  people.  Yet,  the  Ministers 
of  Fate  who  drove  the  awful  cars,  leaned  forward  with 
their  arms  upon  their  knees  in  a  state  of  extreme  lassi- 
tude, for  want  of  any  subject  of  interest.  The  first  man, 
whose  hair  I  might  naturally  have  expected  to  see  stand- 
ing on  end,  scratched  his  head — one  of  the  smoothest 
I  ever  beheld — with  profound  indifference.  The  second 
whistled.    The  third  yawned. 

Pausing  to  dwell  upon  this  apathy,  it  appeared  to  me, 
as  the  fatal  cars  came  by  me,  that  I  descried  in  the  sec- 
ond car,  through  the  portal  in  which  the  charioteer  was 
seated,  a  figure  stretched  upon  the  floor.  At  the  same 
time,  I  thought  I  smelt  tobacco.  The  latter  impression 
passed  qaickly  from  me  ;  the  former  remained.  Curious 
to  know  whether  this  prostrate  figure  was  the  one  im- 
pressible man  of  the  whole  capital  who  had  been  stricken 
insensible  by  the  terrors  icvealed  to  him,  and  whose 
form  had  been  placed  in  the  car  by  the  charioteer,  from 
motives  of  humanity,  I  followed  the  procession.  It 
turned  into  Leadenhall-market,  and  halted  at  a  public- 
house.  Each  driver  dismounted .  I  then  distinctly  heard, 
proceeding  from  the  second  car,  where  I  had  dimly  seen 
the  prostrate  form,  the  words  : 

"  And  a  pipe  !  " 

The  driver  entering  the  public  house  with  his  fellows, 
apparently  for  purposes  of  refreshment,  I  could  not  re- 
frain from  mounting  on  the  shaft  of  the  second  vehicle, 
and  looking  in  at  the  portal.  I  then  beheld,  reclining 
on  his  back  upon  the  floor,  on  a  kind  of  mattrass,  a  little 
man  in  a  shooting-coat.  The  exclamation,  "  Dear  me  !  " 
which  irresistibly  escaped  my  lips,  caused  him  to  sit  up- 
right, and  survey  me.  I  found  him  to  be  a  good-looking 
little  man  of  about  fifty,  with  a  shining  face,  a  tight 
head,  a  bright  eye,  a  moist  wink,  a  quick  speecli,  and  a 
ready  air.  He  had  something  of  a  sporting  way  with 
him. 


He  looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at  him,  until  the  driver 
displaced  me  l^y  handing  in  a  pint  of  ])eer,  a  pipe,  and 
what  I  understand  is  called  "a  screw"  of  tobacco — an 
object  which  has  the  appearance  of  a  curl-paper  taken 
off  the  bar-maid's  head  with  the  curl  in  it. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  I,  when  tlie  removed  per- 
son of  the*  driver  again  admitted  of  my  presenting  my 
face  at  the  portal.  "But — excuse  my  curiosity,  which  I 
inherit  from  my  mother — do  you  live  here?" 

"That's  good,  too!"  returned  the  little  man  com- 
posedly laying  aside  a  pipe  he  had  smoked  out,  and  fill- 
ing the  pipe  just  brought  to  him. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  live  here  then  ?"  said  I. 

He  shook  his  head,  as  he  calmly  lighted  his  pipe  by 
means  of  a  German  tinder-box,  and  replied,  "This  is 
my  carriage.  When  things  are  flat,  I  take  a  ride  some- 
times, and  enjoy  myself.  I  am  the  inventor  of  these 
wans." 

His  pipe  was  now  alight.    He  drank  liis  beer  all  at 
once,  and  he  smoked  and  he  smiled  at  me. 
"  It  was  a  great  idea  ! "  said  I. 

"  Not  so  bad,"  returned  the  little  man,  with  the  mod- 
esty of  merit. 

"  Might  I  be  permitted  to  inscribe  your  name  upon  the 
tablets  of  my  memory  ?  "  I  asked. 

"There's  not  much  odds  in  the  name,"  returned  the 
little  man,  " — no  name  particular — I  am  the  King  of  the 
Bill-Stickers." 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  said  I. 

The  monarch  informed  me,  with  a  smile,  that  he  had 
never  been  crowned  or  installed  with  any  public  cere- 
monies, but  that  he  was  peaceably  acknowledged  as 
King  of  the  Bill-Stickers  in  right  of  being  the  oldest  and 
most  respected  member  of  "the  old  school  of  bill-stick- 
ing." He  likewise  gave  me  to  understood  that  there 
was  a  Lord  Mayor  of  the  Bill-Stickers,  whose  genius  was 
chiefly  exercised  within  the  limits  of  the  city.  He  made 
some  allusion,  also,  to  an  inferior  potentate,  called 
"Turkey-legs;"  but,  I  did  not  understand '  that  this 
gentleman  was  invested  with  much  power.  I  rather  in- 
ferred that  he  derived  his  title  from  some  peculiarity  of 
gait,  and  that  it  was  of  an  honorary  character. 

"My  father,"  pursued  the  King  of  the  Bill-Stickers, 
"  was  an  Engineer,  Beadle,  and  Bill-Sticker  to  the  parish 
of  St.  Andrew's,  Holborn,  in  the  ^ear  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  eighty.  My  father  stuck  bills  at  the  time 
of  the  riots  of  London." 

"You  must  be  acquainted  with  the  whole  subject  of 
bill -sticking,  from  that  time  to  the  present !  "  said  I. 

"Pretty  well  so,"  was  the  answer. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  I;  "but  I  am  a  sort  of  collec- 
tor— " 

"  Not  Income-tax?"  cried  His  Majesty,  hastily  remov- 
ing his  pipe  from  his  lips. 
"  No,  no,"  said  I. 
"Water-rate?"  said  His  Majesty. 
"  No,  no,"  I  returned. 

"  Gas  ?    Assessed  ?    Sewers  ?  "  said  His  Majesty. 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  I  replied  soothingly.  ' '  Not 
that  sort  of  collector  at  all  :  a  collector  of  facts." 

"  Oh  !  if  it's  only  facts,"  cried  the  King  of  Bill-Stickers, 
recovering  his  good-humour,  and  banishing  the  great 
mistrust  that  had  suddenly  fallen  upon  him,  "come  in, 
and  welcome  !  If  it  had  been  income,  or  winders,  I 
think  I  should  have  pitched  you  out  of  the  wan,  upon 
my  soul ! " 

Readily  complying  with  the  invitation,  I  squeezed  my- 
self in  at  the  small  aperture.  His  Majesty,  graciously 
handing  me  a  little  three-legged  stool  on  which  I  t-ook 
my  seat  in  a  corner,  inquired  if  I  smoked. 

*"  I  do  ; — that  is,  I  can,"  I  answered. 

"  Pipe  and  a  screw  !"  said  His  Majesty  to  the  attend- 
ant charioteer.  "  Do  you  prefer  a  diy  smoke,  or  do  you 
moisten  it?" 

As  unmitigated  tobacco  produces  most  disturbing  ef- 
fects upon  my  system  (indeed,  if  I  had  perfect  moral 
courage,  I  doubt  if  I  should  smoke  at  all,  under  any 
circumstances),  I  advocated  moisture,  and  begged  the 
!  Sovereign  of  the  Bill-Stickers  to  name  his  usual  liquor, 
i  and  to  concede  to  me  the  pri\ilege  of  paying  for  it. 
After  some  delicate  reluctance  on  his  part,  we  were  pro- 
I  vided,  through  the  instrumentality  of  the  attendant 


1174 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


charioteer,  with  a  can  of  cold  riim-and- water,  flavoured 
with  sugar  and  lemon.  We  were  also  furnished  with  a 
tumbler,  and  I  was  provided  with  a  pipe.  His  Majesty, 
then,  observing  that  we  might  combine  business  with 
conversation,  gave  the  word  for  the  car  to  proceed  ; 
and,  to  my  great  delight,  we  jogged  away  at  a  foot 
})ace. 

I  say  to  my  great  deligbt,  because  I  am  very  fond  of 
novelty,  and  it  was  a  new  sensation  to  be  jolting  through 
the  tumult  of  the  city  in  that  secluded  Temple,  partly 
open  to  the  sky,  surrounded  by  the  roar  without,  and 
seeing  nothing  but  the  clouds.  Occasionally,  blows 
from  whips  fell  heavily  on  the  Temple's  walls,  when 
by  stopping  up  the  road'  longer  than  usual,  we  irritated 
carters  and  coachmen  to  madness  ;  but,  they  fell  harm- 
less upon  us  within  and  disturbed  not  the  serenity  of  our 
peaceful  retreat.  As  I  looked  upward,  I  felt,  I  should 
imagine,  like  the  Astronomer  Royal.  I  was  enchanted 
by  the  contrast  between  the  freezing  nature  of  our  ex- 
ternal mission  on  the  blood  of  the  populace,  and  the  per- 
fect composure  reigning  within  those  sacred  precincts  ; 
where  His  Majesty,  reclining  easily  on  his  left  arm, 
smoked  his  pipe  and  drank  his  rum-and-water  from  his 
own  side  of  the  tumbler,  which  stood  impartially  be- 
tween us.  As  I  looked  down  from  the  clouds  and  caught 
his  royal  eye,  he  understood  my  reflections.  "I  have 
an  idea,"  he  observed,  with  an  upward  glance,  "of  train- 
ing scarlet  runners  across  in  the  season, — making  a  arbor 
of  it, — and  sometimes  taking  tea  in  the  same,  according 
to  the  song." 

I  nodded  approval. 
And  here  you  repose  and  think  ?  "  said  I. 

"  And  think,"  said  he,  **  of  posters — walls — and  hoard- 
ings." 

We  were  both  silent,  contemplating  the  vastness  of 
the  subject.  I  remembered  a  surprising  fancy  of  dear 
Thomas  Hood's,  and  wondered  whether  this  monarch 
ever  sighed  to  repair  to  the  great  wall  of  China,  and 
tick  bills  all  over  it. 

"  And  so,"  said  he,  rousing  himself,  "  it's  facts  as  you 
collect  ?" 

"  Facts,"  said  I. 

"The  facts  of  bill-sticking,"  pursued  His  Majesty,  in 
a  benignant  manner,  "  as  known  to  myself  air  as  the  fol- 
lowing. When  my  father  was  Engineer,  Beadle,  and 
Bill-Sticker  to  the  parish  of  St.  Andrew's,  Hoi  born,  he 
employed  women  to  post  bills  for  him.  He  employed 
women  to  post  bills  at  the  time  of  the  riots  of  London. 
He  died  at  the  age  of  seventy-five  year,  and  was  buried 
by  the  murdered  Eliza  Grimwood,  over  in  the  Waterloo- 
road." 

As  this  was  somewhat  in  the  nature  of  a  royal  speech, 
I  listened  with  deference  and  silently.  His  Majesty, 
taking  a  scroll  from  his  pocket,  proceeded,  with  great 
distinctness,  to  pour  out  the  following  flood  of  informa- 
tion : — 

"  '  The  bills  being  at  that  period  mostly  proclamations 
and  declarations,  and  which  were  only  a  demy  size,  the 
manner  of  posting  the  bills  (as  they  did  not  use  brushes) 
was  by  means  of  a  piece  of  wood  which  they  called  a 
'  dabber.'  Thus  things  continued  till  such  time  as  the 
State  Lottery  was  passed,  and  then  the  printers  began  to 
print  larger  bills,  and  men  were  employed  instead  of 
women,  as  the  State  Lottery  Commissioners  then  began  to 
send  men  all  over  England  to  post  bills,  and  would  keep 
them  out  six  or  eight  months  at  a  time,  and  they  were 
called  by  the  London  bill-stickers  '  trampers,'  their  wages 
at  the  time  being  ten  shillings  per  day,  besides  expenses. 
They  used  sometimes  to  be  stationed  in  large  towns  for 
five  or  six  months  together, distributing  the  schemes  to  all 
the  houses  in  town.  And  then  there  were  more  caricature 
wood-block  engravings  for  posting  bills  than  there  are 
at  the  present  time,  the  principal  printers,  at  that  time, 
of  porting  bills  being  Messrs.  Evans  and  RulTy,  of  Budge- 
row  ;  Thoroughgood  and  Whiting,  of  the  present  day  ; 
and  Messrs.  Gye  and  Balne,  Gracechurch  Street,  City. 
The  largest  bills  printed  at  that  period  were  a  two-sheet 
double  crown  ;  and  when  they  commenced  printing  four- 
sheet  bills,  two  bill-stickers  would  work  together.  They 
had  no  settled  wages  per  week,  but  had  a  fixed  price  for 
their  work,  and  the  London  bill-stickers,  during  a  lottery 
week,  have  been  known  to  earn,  each,  eight  or  nine 


pounds  per  week,  till  the  day  of  drawing  ;  likewise  the 
men  who  carried  boards  in  the  streets  used  to  have  one 
pound  per  week,  and  the  bill-stickers  at  that  time  would 
not  allow  any  one  to  wilfully  cover  or  destroy  their  bills, 
as  they  had  a  society  amongst  themselves,  and  very  fre- 
quently dined  together  at  some  public-house  Avhere  they 
used  to  go  of  an  evening  to  have  their  work  delivei*ed 
out  untoe  'em.' " 

All  this  His  Majesty  delivered  in  a  gallant  manner  ; 
posting  it,  as  it  were,  before  me,  in  a  great  proclamation. 
1  took  advantage  of  the  pause  he  now  made,  to  inquire 
what  a  "  two-sheet  double  crown  "  might  express  ? 

"  A  two-sheet  double  crown  "  replied  the  King,  "is  a 
bill  thirty-nine  inches  wide  by  thirty  inches  high." 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  I,  my  mind  reverting  to  the 
gigantic  admonitions  we  were  then  displaying  to  the 
multitude — which  were  as  infants  to  some  of  the  posting- 
bills  on  the  rotten  old  warehouse — "  that  some  few  years 
ago  the  largest  bill  was  no  larger  than  that? " 

"The  fact,"  returned  the  King,  "  is  undoubtedly  so." 
Here  he  instantly  rushed  again  into  the  scroll. 

"  '  Since  the  abolishing  of  the  State  Lottery  all  that 
good  feeling  has  gone,  and  nothing  but  jealousy  exists, 
through  the  rivalry  of  each  other.  Several  bill-stick- 
ing companies  have  started,  but  have  failed.  The  first 
party  that  started  a  company  was  twelve  years  ago  ; 
i)ut  what  was  left  of  the  old  school  and  their  dependents 
joined  together  and  opposed  them.  And  for  some  time 
we  were  quiet  again,  till  a  printer  of  Hatton  Garden 
formed  a  company  by  hiring  the  sides  of  houses  ;  but  he 
was  not  supported  by  the  public,  and  he  left  his  wooden 
frames  fixed  up  for  rent.  The  last  company  that  started 
tcok  advantage  of  the  New  Police  Act,  and  hired  of 
Messrs.  Grisell  and  Peto  the  hoarding  of  Trafalgar 
Square,  and  established  a  bill-sticking  office  in  Cursi tor- 
street,  Chancey-lane,  and  engaged  some  of  the  new  bill- 
stickers  to  do  their  work,  and  for  a  time  got  the  half  of 
all  our  work,  and  with  such  spirit  did  they  carry  on 
their  opposition  towards  us,  that  they  used  to  give  us  in 
charge  before  the  magistrate,  and  get  us  fined  ;  but  they 
found  it  so  expensive,  that  they  could  not  keep  it  up, 
for  they  were  always  employing  a  lot  of  ruffians  from 
the  Seven  Dials  to  come  and  fight  us  ;  and  on  one  oc- 
casion the  old  bill-stickers  went  to  Trafalgar  Square  to 
attempt  to  post  bills,  when  they  were  given  in  custody 
by  the  watchman  in  their  employ,  and  fined  at  Queen's 
Square  five  pounds,  as  they  would  not  allow  any  of  us  to 
speak  in  the  office  ;  but  when  they  were  gone  we  had  an 
interview  with  the  magistrate,  who  mitigated  the  fine  to 
fifteen  shillings.  During  the  time  the  men  were  waiting 
for  the  fine,  this  company  started  off  to  a  public-house 
that  we  were  in  the  habit  of  using,  and  waited  for  us 
coming  back,  where  a  fighting  scene  took  place  that 
beggars  description.  Shortly  after  this,  the  principal 
one  day  came  and  shook  hands  with  us,  and  acknowl- 
edged that  he  had  broken  up  the  company,  and  that  he 
himself  had  lost  five  hundred  pounds  in  trying  to  over- 
throw us.  We  then  took  possession  of  the  hoarding 
in  Trafalgar  Square  ;  but  Messrs.  Grisell  and  Peto  would 
not  allow  us  to  post  our  bills  on  the  said  hoarding 
without  paying  them — and  from  first  to  last  we  paid  up- 
wards of  two  hundred  pounds  for  that  hoarding,  and 
likewise  the  hoarding  of  the  Reform  Club-house,  Pall 
Mall.'" 

His  Majesty,  being  now  completely  out  of  breath,  laid 
down  his  scroll  (which  he  appeared  to  have  finished), 
puffed  at  his  pipe,  and  took  some  rum-and-water.  I 
embraced  the  opportunity  of  asking  how  many  divisions 
the  art  and  mystery  of  bill-sticking  comprised?  He 
replied,  three— auctioneers'  bill-sticking,  theatrical  bill- 
sticking, general  bill-sticking. 

"The  auctioneers'  porters,"  said  the  King,  "who  do 
their  bill -sticking,  are  mostly  respectable  and  intelligent, 
and  generally  well  paid  for  their  work,  whether  in  town 
or  country.  The  price  paid  by  the  principal  auctioneers 
for  country  work  is  nine  shillings  per  day's  work,  one 
shilling  for  lodging,  and  one  for  paste.  Town  work  is 
five  shillings  a  day,  including  paste." 

"Town  work  must  be  rather  hot-work,"  said  I,  "if 
there  be  many  of  those  fighting  scenes  that  beggars 
description,  among  the  bill-stickers?" 

"  Well,"  replied  the  King,  "  I  an't  a  stranger,  I  assure 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


1175 


you,  to  black  eyes  :  a  bill-sticker  ought  to  know  how  to 
handle  his  fists  a  bit.  As  to  that  row  I  have  mentioned, 
that  grew  out  of  competition,  conducted  in  an  uncompro- 
mising spirit.  Besides  a  man  in  a  liorse-and-shay  con- 
tinually following  us  about,  the  company  had  a  watch- 
man on  duty,  night  and  day,  to  prevent  us  sticking  bills 
upon  the  hoarding  in  Trafalgar  Square.  We  went  there, 
early  one  morning,  to  stick  bills  and  to  blackwash  their 
bills  if  we  were  interfered  with.  We  were  interfered 
with,  and  I  gave  the  word  for  laying  on  the  wash.  It 
was  laid  on — pretty  brisk — and  we  were  all  taken  to 
Queen  Square  :  but  they  couldn't  fine  me.  /knew  that," 
— with  a  bright  smile — "  I'd  only  given  directions — I  was 
only  the  General." 

Charmed  with  this  monarch's  affability,  I  inquired  if 
he  had  ever  hired  a  hoarding  himself. 

"  Hired  a  large  one,"  he  replied,  "  opposite  the  Lyceum 
Theatre,  when  the  buildings  was  there.  Paid  thirty 
pound  for  it  ;  let  out  places  on  it,  and  called  it  '  The 
External  Paper-Hanging  Station.'  But  it  didn't  answer. 
Ah!"  said  His  Majesty  thoughtfully,  as  he  filled  the 
glass,  "Bill-stickers  have  a  deal  to  contend  with.  The 
bill-sticking  clause  was  got  into  the  Police  Act  by  a 
member  of  parliament  that  employed  me  at  his  election. 
The  clause  is  pretty  stiff  respecting  where  the  bills  go  ; 
but  he  didn't  mind  where  his  bills  went.  It  was  all  right 
enough,  so  long  as  they  was  his  bills  ! " 

Fearful  that  I  observed  a  shadow  of  misanthropy  on 
the  King's  cheerful  face,  I  asked  whose  ingenious  inven- 
tion that  was,  which  I  greatly  admired,  of  sticking  bills 
under  the  arches  of  the  bridges. 

Mine  ! "  said  his  Majesty,  "  I  was  the  first  that  ever 
stuck  a  bill  under  a  bridge  \  Imitators  soon  rose  up,  of 
course.  When  don't  they  ?  But  they  stuck  'em  at  low 
water,  and  the  tide  came  and  swept  the  bills  clean  away. 
/  knew  that  ! "    The  King  laughed. 

"  What  may  be  the  name  of  that  instrument,  like  an 
immense  fishing-rod,"  I  inquired,  "with  which  bills  are 
posted  on  high  places  ?  " 

"  The  joints,"  returned  His  Majesty.  *'Now,  we  use 
the  joints  where  formerly  we  used  ladders — as  they  do 
still  in  country  places.  Once,  when  Madame  "  (Vestris, 
understood)  "was  playing  in  Liverpool,  another  bill- 
sticker  and  me  were  at  it  together  on  the  wall  outside 
the  Clarence  Dock — me  with  the  joints — him  on  a  ladder. 
Lord  !  1  had  my  bill  up,  right  over  his  head,  yards 
above  him,  ladder  and  all,  while  he  was  crawling  to  his 
work.  The  people  going  in  and  out  of  the  docks,  stood 
and  laughed  ! — It's  about  thirty  years  since  the  joints 
come  in." 

"  Are  there  any  bill-stickers  who  can't  read  ?  "  I  took 
the  liberty  of  inquiring. 

"Some,"  said  the  King.  "But  they  know  which  is 
the  right  side  up'ards  of  their  work.  They  keep  it  as 
it's  given  out  to  'em.  I  have  seen  a  bill  or  so  stuck 
wrong  side  up'ards.    But  it's  very  rare. " 

Our  discourse  sustained  some  interruption  at  this  point, 
by  the  procession  of  cars  occasioning  a  stoppage  of  about 
three  quarters  of  a  mile  in  length,  as  nearly  as  I  could 
judge.  His  Majesty,  however,  entreating  me  not  to  be 
discomposed  by  the  contingent  uproar,  smoked  with 
great  placidity,  and  surveyed  the  firmament. 

When  we  were  again  in  motion,  I  begged  to  be  inform- 
ed what  was  the  largest  poster  His  Majesty  had  ever  seen. 
The  King  replied, "A  thirty-six  sheet  poster."  I  gathered, 
also,  that  there  were  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  bill- 
stickers  in  London,  and  that  His  Majesty  considered  an 
average  hand  equal  to  the  posting  of  one  hundred  bills 
(single  sheets)  in  a  day.  The  King  was  of  opinion,  that, 
although  posters  had  much  increased  in  size,  they  had 
not  increased  in  number;  as  the  abolition  of  the  State 
Lotteries  has  occasioned  a  great  falling  off,  especially  in 
the  country.  Over  and  above  which  change,  I  bethought 
myself  that  the  custom  of  advertising  in  newspapers  had 
greatly  increased.  Tlie  completion  of  many  London  im- 
provements, as  Trafalgar-square  (I  particularly  observed 
the  singularity  of  His  Majesty's  calling  tJiat  an  improve- 
ment), the  Royal  Exchange,  &c.,  had  of  late  years  re- 
duced the  number  of  advantageous  posting-places.  Bill- 
stickers  at  present  rather  confine  themselves  to  districts, 
than  to  particular  descriptions  of  work.  One  man  would 
strike  over  Whitechapel,  another  would  take  round 


f  Houndsditch,  Shoreditch,  and  the  City  Road  ;  one  (the 
i  King  said)  would  stick  to  the  Surrey  side  ;  another  would 
make  a  beat  of  the  West-end. 

His  Majesty  remarked,  with  some  approach  to  severity, 
I  on  the  neglect  of  delicacy  and  taste,  gradually  intro- 
[  duced  into  the  trade  by  the  new  school  :  a  profligate  and 
j  inferior  race  of  impostors  who  took  jobs  at  almost  any 
I  price,  to  the  detriment  of  the  old  school,  and  the  con- 
fusion of  their  own  misguided  employers.  He  considered 
that  the  trade  was  overdone   with  competition,  and 
observed,  speaking  of  his  subjects,  "  There  are  too  many 
j  of  'em."    lie  believed,  still,  that  things  were  a  little 
I  better  than  they  had  been  ;  adducing,  as  a  proof,  the  fact 
j  that  particular  posting  jjlaces  were  now  reserved,  by 
j  common  consent,  for  particular  posters  ;  those  jjlaces, 
!  however,  must  be  regularly  occupied  by  those  posters, 
j  or,  they  lapsed  and  fell  into  other  hands.   It  was  of  no  use 
1  giving  a  man  a  Drury  Lane  bill  this  week  and  not  next. 
Where  was  it  to  go  ?    He  was  of  opinion  that  going  to 
the  expense  of  putting  up  your  own  board  on  which 
your  sticker  could  display  your  own  bills,  was  the  only 
complete  way  of  posting  yourself  at  the  present  time  ; 
but,  even  to  effect  this,  on  payment  of  a  shilling  a 
week  to  the  keepers  of  steamboat  piers  and  other  such 
places,  you  must  be  able,  besides,  to  give  orders  for 
theatres  and  public  exhibitions,  or  you  would  be  sure 
to  be  cut  out  by  somebody.    His  Majesty  regarded  the 
passion  for  orders,  as  one  of  the  most  inappeasable 
appetites  of  human  nature.    If  there  were  a  building, 
j  or  if  there  were  repairs,  going  on,  anywhere,  you  could 
'  generally  stand  something  and  make  it  right  with  the 
foreman  of  the  works  ;  but,  orders  would  be  expected 
I  from  you,  and  the  man  who  could  give  the  most  orders 
I  was  the  man  who  would  come  off  best.    There  was 
!  this  other  objectionable  point,  in  orders,  that  workmen 
!  sold  them  for  drink,  and  often  sold  them  to  persons 
who  were  likewise  troubled  with  the  weakness  of  thirst  : 
which  led  (His  Majesty  said)  to  the  presentation  of  your 
orders  at  Theatre  doors,  by  individuals  who  were  "too 
shakery"  to  derive  intellectual  profit  from  the  enter- 
!  tainments,  and  who  brought  a  scandal  on  you.  Finally, 
I  His  Majesty  said  that  you  could  hardly  put  too  little  in 
\  a  poster  ;   what  you  wanted  was,  two  or  three  good 
catch-lines  for  the  eye  to  rest  on — then,  leave  it  alone — 
J  and  there  you  were  ! 

These  are  the  minutes  of  my  conversation  with  His 
I  Majesty,  as  I  noted  them  down  shortly  afterwards.  I  am 
not  aware  that  I  have  been  betrayed  into  any  alteration 
or  suppression.  The  manner  of  the  King  was  frank  in 
the  extreme  ;  and  he  seemed  to  me  to  avoid,  at  once  that 
slight  tendency  to  repetition  which  may  have  been  ob- 
served in  the  conversation  of  His  Majesty  King  George 
the  Third,  and  that  slight  under-current  of  egotism 
which  the  curious  observer  may  perhaps  detect  in  the 
conversation  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

I  must  do  the  King  the  justice  to  say  that  it  was  I,  and 
not  he,  who  closed  the  dialogue.    At  this  juncture,  I  be- 
came the  subject  of  a  remarkable  optical  delusion  ;  the 
legs  of  my  stool  appeared  to  me  to  double  up  ;  the  car 
to  spin  round  and  round  with  great  violence  ;  and  a  mist 
j  to  arise  between  myself  and*His  Majesty.    In  addition 
to  these  sensations,  I  felt  extremely  unwell.     I  refer 
these  unpleasant  effects,  either  to  the  paste  with  which 
the  posters  were  affixed  to  the  van,  which  may  have  con- 
I  tained  some  small  portion  of  arsenic  ;  or,  to  the  printer's 
i  ink,  which  may  have  contained  some  equally  deleterious 
j  ingredient.    Of  this,  I  cannot  be  sure.    I  am  only  sure 
I  that  I  was  not  affected,  either  by  the  smoke,  or  the  rum- 
[  and- water.    I  was  assisted  out  of  the  vehicle,  in  a  state 
j  of  mind  which  I  have  only  experienced  in  two  other 
places — I  allude  to  the  Pier  at  Dover,  and  to  the  corre- 
,  sponding  portion  of  the  town  of  Calais — and  sat  upon  a 
door-step  until  I  recovered.   The  procession  had  then  dis- 
appeared.   I  have  since  looked  anxiously  for  the  King  in 
several  other  cars,  but  I  have  not  yet  had  the  happiness 
of  seeing  His  Majesty. 


''BIETHS.    MRS.  MEEK,  OF  A  SON." 

My  name  is  Meek.  I  am,  in  fact,  Mr.  Meek.  That 
son  is  mine,  and  Mrs.  Meek's,    When  I  saw  the  announce- 


1176 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


ment  in  the  Times,  I  dropped  the  paper.  I  had  put  it 
in,  myself,  and  paid  for  it,  but  it  looked  so  noble  that  it 
overpowered  me. 

As  soon  as  I  could  compose  my  feelings,  I  took  the 
paper  up  to  Mrs.  Meek's  bedside.    "  Maria  Jane,"  said 
I  (I  allude  to  Mrs.  Meek),  "  you  are  now  a  public  char- 
acter."   We  read  the  review  of  our  child,  several  times, 
with  feelings  of  the  strongest  emotions  ;  and  I  sent  the  ; 
boy  who  cleaned  the  boots  and  shoes,  to  the  office  for  \ 
fifteen  copies.    No  reduction  was  made  on  taking  that  \ 
quantity.  I 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  for  me  to  say,  that  our  child 
had  been  expected.    In  fact,  it  had  been  expected,  with 
comparative  confidence,  for  some  months.    Mrs.  Meek's 
mother,  who  resides  with  us — of  the  name  of  Bigby —  I 
had  made  every  preparation  for  its  admission  to  our  circle,  i 

I  hope  and  believe  I  am  a  quiet  man.    I  will  go  farther.  | 
I  know  I  am  a  quiet  man.    My  constitution  is  tremulous,  | 
my  voice  was  never  loud,  and  in  point  of  stature,  I  have  \ 
been  from  infancy,  small.    I  have  the  greatest  respect  j 
for  Maria  Jane's  mamma.    She  is  a  most  remarkable  | 
woman.    I  honour  Maria  Jane's  mamma.    In  my  opinion 
she  would  storm  a  town,  single-handed,  with  a  hearth-  1 
broom,  and  carry  it.    I  have  never  known  her  to  yield 
any  point  whatever,  to  mortal  man.    She  is  calculated 
to  terrify  the  stoutest  heart.  i 

Still — but  I  will  not  anticipate.  j 

The  first  intimation  I  had,  of  any  preparations  being  j 
in  progress,  on  the  part  of  Maria  Jane's  mamma,  was 
one  afternoon,  several  months  ago.  I  came  home  earlier 
than  usual  from  the  office,  and,  proceeding  into  the  din- 
ing room,  found  an  obstruction  behind  the  door,  which 
prevented  it  from  opening  freely.  It  was  an  obstruction  ' 
of  a  soft  nature.    On  looking  in  I  found  it  to  be  a  female.  | 

The  female  in  question  stood  in  the  corner  behind  the 
door,  consuming  Sherry  Wine.    From  the  nutty  smell  ; 
of  that  beverage  pervading  the  apartment,  I  have  no 
doubt  she  was  consuming  a  second  glassful.    She  wore 
a  black  bonnet  of  large  dimensions,  and  was  copious  in  \ 
figure.    The  expression  of  her  countenance  was  severe 
and  discontented.    The  words  to  which  she  gave  utter-  j 
ance  on  seeing  me,  were  these,     Oh  git  along  with  you. 
Sir,  if  you  please  ;  me  and  Mrs.  Bigby  don't  want  no 
male  part  ies  here  ! " 

That  female  was  Mrs.  Prodgit. 

I  immediately  withdrew,  of  course.  I  was  rather 
hurt,  but  I  made  no  remark.  Whether  it  was  that  I  ; 
showed  a  lowness  of  spirits  after  dinner,  in  consequence 
of  feeling  that  I  seemed  to  intrude,  I  cannot  say.  But, 
Maria  Jane's  mamma  said  to  me  on  her  retiring  for  the 
night,  in  a  low  distinct  voice,  and  with  a  look  of  reproach 
that  completely  subdued  me  :  *'  George  Meek,  Mrs.  Prod- 
git is  your  wife's  nurse  !  " 

I  bear  no  ill-will  towards  Mrs.  Prodgit,  Is  it  likely 
that  I,  writing  this  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  should  be 
capable  of  deliberate  animosity  towards  a  female,  so 
essential  to  the  welfare  of  Maria  Jane?  I  am  willing  to 
admit  that  Fate  may  have  been  to  blame,  and  not  Mrs, 
Prodgit  ;  but,  it  is  undeniably  true,  that  the  latter 
female  brought  desolation  and  devastation  into  my  lowly 
dwelling.  •  j 

We  were  happy  after  her  first  appearance  :  we  were  ' 
sometimes  exceedingly  so.  But,  whenever  the  parlor  door 
was  opened,  and  "Mrs.  Prodgit  !"  announced  (and  she  was 
very  often  announced),  misery  ensued.  I  could  not  bear 
Mrs.  Prodgit's  look.  I  felt  that  I  was  far  from  wanted, 
and  had  no  business  to  exist  in  Mrs.  Prodgit's  presence. 
Between  Maria  Jane's  mamma  and  Mrs.  Prodgit,  there 
was  a  dreadful,  secret  understanding — a  dark  mystery 
and  conspiracy,  pointing  me  out  as  a  being  to  be  shunned. 
I  apyjeared  to  have  done  something  that  was  evil.  When- 
ever Mrs.  Prodgit  called,  after  dinner,  I  retired  to  my 
dressing-room — where  the  temperature  is  very  low,  in- 
deed, in  the  wintery  time  of  the  year — and  sat  looking 
at  my  frosty  breath  as  it  rose  before  me,  and  at  my  rack 
of  boots  :  a  serviceable  article  of  furniture,  but  never, 
in  my  opinion,  an  exhilarating  object.  The  length  of 
the  councils  that  were  held  with  Mrs.  Prodgit,  under 
these  circumstances,  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe.  I 
will  merely  remark,  that  Mrs.  Prodgit  always  consumed 
Sherry  Wine  while  the  deliberations  were  in  progress  ; 
that  they  always  ended  in  Maria  Jane's  being  in  wretched 


spirits  on  the  sofa  ;  and  that  Maria  Jane's  mamma  always 
received  me,  when  I  was  recalled,  with  a  look  of  desolate 
triumph  that  too  plainly  said,  "  Now,  George  Meek  ! 
You  see  my  child,  Maria  Jane,  a  ruin,  and  I  hope  you 
are  satisfied  ! " 

I  pass,  generally,  over  the  period  that  intervened  be- 
tween the  day  when  Mrs.  Prodgit  entered  her  protest 
against  male  parties,  and  the  ever-memorial  midnight 
when  I  brought  her  to  my  unobtrusive  home  in  a  cab, 
with  an  extremely  large  ijox  on  the  roof  and  a  bundle, 
a  bandbox,  and  a  basket,  between  the  driver's  legs.  I 
have  no  objection  to  Mrs.  Prodgit  (aided  and  abetted  by 
Mrs.  Bigby,  who  I  never  can  forget  is  the  parent  of 
Maria  Jane)  taking  entire  possession  of  my  unassuming 
establishment.  In  the  recesses  of  my  own  breast,  the 
thought  may  linger  that  a  man  in  possession  cannot  be  so 
dreadful  as  a  woman,  and  that  woman  Mrs.  Prodgit  ; 
but  I  ought  to  bear  a  good  deal,  and  I  hope  I  can,  and 
do.  Huffing  and  snubbing  prey  upon  my  feelings  :  but, 
I  can  bear  them  without  complaint.  They  may  tell  in 
the  long  run  ;  I  may  be  hustled  about,  from  post  to  pil- 
lar, beyond  my  strength  ;  nevertheless,  I  wish  to  avoid 
giving  rise  to  vv^ords  in  the  family. 

The  voice  of  Nature,  however,  cried  aloud  in  behalf 
of  Augustus  George,  my  infant  son.  It  is  for  him  that 
I  wish  to  utter  a  few  plaintive  household  words.  I  am 
not  at  all  angry  ;  I  am  mild — but  miserable. 

I  wish  to  know  why,  when  my  child,  Augustus  George, 
was  expected  in  our  circle,  a  provision  of  pins  was  made, 
as  if  the  little  stranger  were  a  criminal  who  was  to  be 
put  to  the  torture  immediately  on  its  arrival,  instead  of 
a  holy  babe  ?  I  wish  to  know  why  haste  was  made  to 
stick  those  pins  all  over  his  innocent  form,  in  every 
direction?  I  wish  to  be  informed  why  light  and  air  are 
excluded  from  Augustus  George,  like  poisons?  Why,  I 
ask,  is  my  unoffending  infant  so  hedged  into  a  basket- 
bedstead,  with  dimity  and  calico,  with  miniature  sheets 
and  blankets,  that  I  can  only  hear  him  snuffle  (and  no 
wonder  !)  deep  down  under  the  pink  hood  of  a  little 
bathing  machine,  and  can  never  p'eruse  even  so  much  of 
his  lineameants  as  his  nose. 

Was  I  expected  to  be  the  father  of  a  French  Boll,, 
that  the  brushes  of  All  Nations  were  laid  in,  to  rasp 
Augustus  George?  Am  I  to  be  told  that  his  sensitive 
skin  was  ever  intended  by  Nature  to  have  rashes  brought 
out  upon  it,  by  the  premature  and  incessant  use  of  those 
formidable  little  instruments? 

Is  my  son  a  Nutmeg,  that  he  is  to  be  grated  on  the 
stiff  edges  of  sharp  frills?  Am  I  the  parent  of  a  Muslin 
boy,  that  his  yielding  surface  is  to  be  crimped  and  small- 
plaited  ?  Or  is  my  cliild  composed  of  Paper  or  of  Linen, 
that  impressions  of  the  finer  getting-up  art,  practised  by 
the  laundress,  are  to  be  printed  off  all  over  his  soft  arms 
and  legs,  as  I  constantly  observe  them  ?  The  starch 
enters  his  soul  ;  who  can  wonder  that  he  cries  ? 

Was  Augustus  George  intended  to  have  limbs,  or  to 
be  born  a  Torso  ?  I  presume  that  limbs  were  the  inten- 
tion, as  they  are  the  usual  practice.  Then,  why  are  my 
poor  child's  limbs  fettered  and  tied  up?  Am  I  to  be  told 
that  there  is  any  analogy  between  Augustus  George 
Meek  and  Jack  Sheppard  ? 

Analyse  Castor  Oil  at  any  Institution  of  Chemistry 
that  may  be  agreed  upon,  and  inform  me  what  resem- 
blance in  taste  it  bears  to  that  natural  provision  which 
it  is  at  once  the  pride  and  duty  of  Maria  Jane,  to  admin- 
ister to  Augustus  George  !  Yot,  I  charge  Mrs,  Prodgit 
(aided  and  abetted  by  Mrs.  Bigby)  with  systematically 
forcing  Castor  Oil  on  my  innocent  son,  from  the  fiist  hour 
of  his  birth.  When  that  medicine  in  its  efficient  action, 
causes  internal  disturbance  to  Augustus  George,  1  charge 
Mrs.  Prodgit  (aided  and  abetted  by  Mrs.  Bigby)  with 
insanely  and  inconsistently  administering  opium  to  allay 
the  storm  she  has  raised  !    What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ? 

If  the  days  of  Egyi)tian  Mummies  are  past,  how  dare 
Mrs.  Prodgit  require,  for  the  use  of  my  son,  an  amount 
of  fiannel  and  linen  that  would  carpet  my  humble  roof? 
Do  I  wonder  that  she  requires  it  ?  No  !  This  morning 
within  an  hour,  I  beheld  this  astonishing  sight.  I  be- 
held my  son— Augustus  George — in  Mrs.  Prodgit's  hands, 
and  on  Mrs.  Prodgit's  knee,  being  dressed.  He  was  at 
the  moment,  comparatively  speaking,  in  a  state  of  na- 
ture ;  having  nothing  on,  but  an  extremely  short  shirty 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


1177 


remarkably  disproportionate  to  the  length  of  his  usual 
outer  garments.  Trailing  from  Mrs.  Prodgit's  lap  on 
the  floor,  was  a  long  narrow  roller  or  bandage— I  should 
say  of  several  yards  in  extent.  In  this,  I  saw  Mrs. 
Prodgit  tightly  roll  the  body  of  my  unoffending  infant, 
turning  him  over  and  over,  now  presenting  his  uncon- 
scious face  upwards,  now  the  back  of  his  bald  head, 
until  the  unnatural  feat  was  accomplished,  and  the  band- 
age secured  by  a  pin,  which  I  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve entered  the  body  of  my  only  child.  In  this  tour- 
niquet, he  passes  the  present  phase  of  his  existence. 
Can  I  know  it  and  smile  ? 

I  fear  I  have  been  betrayed  into  expressing  myself 
warmly,  but  1  feel  deeply.  Not  for  myself  ;  but  for 
Augustus  George.  I  dare  not  interfere.  Will  any  one  ? 
Will  any  publication?  Any  doctor?  Any  parent?  Any 
body  ?  I  do  not  complain  that  Mrs.  Prodgit  (aided  and 
abetted  by  Mrs.  Bigby)  entirely  alienates  Maria  Jane's 
affections  from  me,  and  interposes  an  impassable  barrier 
between  us.  I  do  not  complain  of  being  made  of  no  ac- 
count. I  do  not  want  to  be  of  any  account.  But,  Au- 
gustus George  is  a  production  of  Nature  (I  cannot  think 
otherwise),  and  I  claim  that  he  should  be  treated  with 
some  remote  reference  to  Nature.  In  my  opinion  Mrs. 
Prodgit  is,  from  first  to  last,  a  convention  and  a  supersti- 
tion. Are  all  the  faculty  afraid  of  Mrs.  Prodgit?  If 
not,  why  don't  they  take  her  in  hand,  and  improve  her? 

P.S.  Maria  Jane's  mamma  boasts  of  her  own  knowl- 
edge of  the  subject,  and  says  she  brought  up  seven  chil- 
dren besides  Maria  Jane.  But  how  do  I  know  that  she 
might  not  have  brought  them  up  much  better  ?  Maria 
Jane  herself  is  far  from  strong,  and  is  subject  to  head- 
aches, and  nervous  indigestion.  Besides  which,  I  learn 
from  the  statistical  tables  that  one  child  in  five  dies  with- 
in the  first  year  of  its  life  ;  and  one  child  in  three,  within 
the  fifth.  That  don't  look  as  if  we  could  never  improve 
in  these  particulars,  I  think  ! 

P. P.S.   Augustus  George  is  in  convulsions. 


LYING  AWAKE. 

"My  uncle  lay  with  his  eyes  half  closed,  and  his  night- 
cap drawn  almost  down  to  his  nose.  His  fancy  was  al- 
ready wandering,  and  began  to  mingle  up  the  present 
scene  with  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  the  French  Opera,  the 
Coliseum  at  Rome,  Dolly's  Chop-house  in  London,  and 
all  the  farrago  of  noted  places  with  which  the  brain  of  a 
traveller  is  crammed  ;  in  a  word,  he  was  just  falling 
asleep." 

Thus,  that  delightful  writer,  Washington  Irving,  in 
his  Tales  of  a  Traveller.  But,  it  happened  to  me  the 
other  night  to  be  lying  :  not  with  my  eyes  half  closed, 
but  with  my  eyes  wide  open  ;  not  with  my  nightcap 
drawn  almost  down  to  my  nose,  for  on  sanitary  principles 
I  never  wear  a  nightcap  ;  but  with  my  hair  pitchforked 
and  touzled  all  over  the  pillow  ;  not  just  falling  asleep 
by  any  means,but  glaringly,  persistently,  and  obstinately, 
broad  awake.  Perhaps,  with  no  scientific  intention  or 
invention,  I  was  illustrating  the  theory  of  the  Duality  of 
the  Brain  ;  perhaps  one  part  of  my  brain,  being  wakeful, 
sat  up  to  watch  the  other  part  which  was  sleepy.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  something  in  me  was  as  desirous  to  go  to 
sleep  as  it  possibly  could  be,  but  something  else  in  me 
would  not  go  to  sleep,  and  was  as  obstinate  as  George  the 
Third. 

Thinking  of  George  the  Third — for  I  devote  this  paper 
to  my  train  of  thoughts  as  I  lay  awake  :  most  people  lying 
awake  sometimes,  and  having  some  interest  in  the  subject 
— put  me  in  mind  of  Benjamin  Fkanklin,  and  so  Ben- 
jamin Franklin's  paper  on  the  art  of  procuring  pleasant 
dreams,  which  would  seem  necessarily  to  include  the  art 
of  going  to  sleep,  came  into  my  head.  Now,  as  I  often 
used  to  read  that  paper  when  I  was  a  very  small  boy,  and 
as  I  recollect  everything  I  read  then,  as  perfectly  as  I 
forget  everything  I  read  now,  I  quoted  "  Get  out  of  bed, 
beat  up  and  turn  your  pillow,  shake  the  bed-clothes  well 
with  at  least  twenty  shakes,  then  throw  the  bed  open 
and  leave  it  to  cool  ;  in  the  meanwhile,  continuing  un- 
drest,  walk  about  your  chamber.  W^hen  you  begin  to 
feel  the  cold  air  unpleasant,  then  return  to  your  bed,  and 


!  you  will  soon  fall  asleep,  and  your  sleep  will  be  sweet 
and  pleasant."  Not  a  bit  of  it  !  I  performed  the  whole 
ceremony,  and  if  it  were  possible  for  me  to  be  more  sau- 
cer-eyed than  I  was  before,  that  was  the  only  result  that 
came  of  it. 

Except  Niagara.  The  two  quotations  from  Washing- 
I  ton  Irving  and  Benjamin  Franklin  may  have  put  it  in  my 
1  head  by  an  American  association  of  ideas  ;  but  there  I 
j  was,  and  the  Horse-shoe  Fall  was  thundering  and  tum- 
bling in  my  eyes  and  in  my  ears,  and  the  very  rainbows 
that  I  left  upon  the  spray  when  I  really  did  last  look 
upon  it,  were  beautiful  to  see.  The  night-light,  being 
quite  as  plain,  however,  and  sleep  coming  to  be  many 
thousand  miles  further  off  than  Niagara,  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  think  a  little  about  Sleep  ;  which  I  no  sooner  did 
than  I  whirled  off  in  spite  of  myself  to  Drury  Lane  The- 
atre, and  there  saw  a  great  actor  and  dear  friend  of  mine 
(whom  I  had  been  thinking  of  in  the  day)  playing  Mac- 
beth, and  heard  him  apostrophising  "the  death  of  each 
day's  life,"  as  I  have  heard  him  many  a  time,  in  the  days 
that  are  gone. 

But,  Sleep.  I  icill  think  about  Sleep.  I  am  deter- 
mined to  think  (this  is  the  way  I  went  on)  about  Sleep. 
I  must  hold  the  word  Sleep,  tight  and  fast,  or  I  shall  be 
off  at  a  tangent  in  half  a  second.  I  feel  myself  unac- 
countably straying,  already,  into  Clare  Market.  Sleep. 
It  would  be  curious,  as  illustrating  the  equality  of 
sleep,  to  inquire  how  many  of  its  phenomena  are  com- 
mon to  all  classes,  to  all  degrees  of  wealth  and  poverty, 
to  every  grade  of  education  and  ignorance.  Here,  for 
example,  is  her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria  in  her  palace, 
this  present  blessed  night,  and  here  is  Winking  Charley, 
a  sturdy  vagrant,  in  one  of  her  Majesty's  jails.  Her 
Majesty  has  fallen,  many  thousands  of  times,  from  that 
same  Tower,  which  /  claim  a  right  to  tumble  off  now 
and  then.  So  has  Winking  Charley.  Her  Majesty  in 
her  sleep  has  opened  or  prorogued  Parliament,  or  has 
held  a  Drawing  Room,  attired  in  some  very  scanty  dress, 
the  deficiencies  and  improprieties  of  which  have  caused 
her  great  uneasiness.  I,  in  my  degree,  have  suffered 
unspeakable  agitation  of  mind  from  taking  the  chair  at 
a  public  dinner  at  the  London  Tavern  in  my  night- 
clothes,  which  not  all  the  courtesy  of  my  kind  friend 
and  host  Mr.  Bathe  could  persuade  me  were  quite 
adapted  to  the  occasion.  Winking  Charley  has  been  re- 
peatedly tried  in  a  worse  condition.  Her  Majesty  is  no- 
stranger  to  a  "^^ault  or  firmament,  of  a  sort  of  floorcloth,, 
with  an  indistinct  pattern  distantly  resembling  eyes, 
which  occasionally  obtrudes  itself  on  her  repose.  Nei- 
ther am  I.  Neither  is  Winking  Charley.  It  is  quite 
common  to  all  three  of  us  to  skim  along  with  airy  strides; 
a  little  above  the  ground  ;  also  to  hold,  with  the  deepest 
interest,  dialogues  with  various  people,  all  rej^resented 
by  ourselves  ;  and  to  be  at  our  wats'  end  to  know  what 
they  are  going  to  tell  us  :  and  to  be  indescribably  as- 
tonished by  the  secrets  they  disclose.  It  is  probable 
!  that  we  have  all  three  committed  murders  and  hidden 
bodies.  It  is  pretty  certain  that  we  have  all  desperately 
wanted  to  cry  out,  and  have  had  no  voice  :  that  we  have 
j  all  gone  to  the  play  and  not  been  able  to  get  in  ;  that 
[  we  have  all  dreamed  much  more  of  our  youth  than  of 
1  our  later  lives  ;  that — I  have  lost  it  !  The  thread's 
j  broken. 

i     And  up  I  go.    I,  lying  here  with  the  night-light  be- 
I  fore  me,  up  I  go,  for  no  reason  on  earth  that  I  can  find 
out,  and  drawn  by  no  links  that  are  visible  to  me,  up 
I  the  Great  Saint  Bernard  !    I  have  lived  in  Switzerland, 
j  and  rambled  among  the  mountains,  but  why  I  should  go 
j  there  now,  and  why  up  the  Great  Saint  Bernard  in  pre- 
;  ference  to  any  other  mountain,  I  have  no  idea.    As  I 
lie  here  broad  awake,  and  with  every  sense  so  sharp- 
ened that  I  can  distinctly  hear  distant  noises  inaudible 
to  me  at  another  time,  I  make  that  journey,  as  I  really 
did,  on  the  same  summer  day,  with  the  same  happy 
party — ah  !  two  since  dead,  I  grieve  to  think — and  there 
is  the  same  track,  with  the  same  black  wooden  arms  to 
point  the  way,  and  there  are  the  same  storm- refuges 
here  and  there  ;  and  there  is  the  same  snow  falling  at 
the  top,  and  there  are  the  same  frosty  mists,  and  there 
is  the  same  intensely  cold  convent  with  its  menagerie 
smell,  and  the  same  breed  of  dogs  fast  dying  out,  and 
I  the  same  breed  of  jolly  young  monks  whom  1  mo  am  to 


1178 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


know  as  humbugs,  and  the  same  convent  parlour  with  i 
its  piano  and  the  sitting  round  the  fire,  and  the  same  j 
supper,  and  the  same  lone  night  in  a  cell,  and  the  same  I 
bright  fresh  morning  when  going  out  into  the  highly  I 
rarefied  air  was  like  a  plunge  into  an  icy  bath.  Now,  j 
see  here  what  comes  along  ;  and  why  does  this  thing 
stalk  into  my  mind  on  the  top  of  a  Swiss  mountain  ! 

It  is  a  figure  that  I  once  saw,  just  after  dark,  chalked 
upon  a  door  in  a  little  back  lane  near  a  country  church — 
my  first  church.  How  young  a  child  I  may  have  been 
at  the  time  I  don't  know,  but  it  horrified  me  so  intense- 
ly— in:  connexion  with  the  churchyard,  I  suppose,  for 
it  smokes  a  pipe,  and  has  a  big  hat  with  each  of  its  ears 
sticking  out  in  a  horizontal  line  under  the  brim,  and  is 
not  in  itself  more  oppressive  than  a  mouth  from  ear  to 
ear,  a  pair  of  goggle  eyes,  and  hands  like  two  bunches 
of  carrots,  five  in  each,  can  make  it — that  it  is  still 
vaguely  alarming  to  me  to  recall  (as  I  have  often  done 
before,  lying  awake)  the  running  home,  the  looking  be- 
hind, the  horror  of  its  following  me  ;  though  whether 
disconnected  from  the  door,  or  door  and  all,  I  can't  say, 
and  perhaps  never  could.  It  lays  a  disagreeable  train. 
I  must  resolve  to  think  of  something  on  the  voluntary 
principle. 

The  balloon  ascents  of  this  last  season.  They  will  do 
to  think  about,  while  I  lie  awake,  as  w^ell  as  anything 
else.  I  must  hold  them  tight  though,  for  I  feel  them 
sliding  away,  and  in  their  stead  are  the  Mannings,  hus- 
band and  wife,  hanging  on  the  top  of  Horsemonger 
Lane  Jail.  In  connexion  with  which  dismal  spectacle, 
I  recall  this  curious  fantasy  of  the  mind.  That,  having 
beheld  that  execution,  and  having  left  those  two  forms 
dangling  on  the  top  of  the  entrance  gate-way — the  man's, 
a  limp,  loose  suit  of  clothes  as  if  the  man  had  gone  out 
of  them  :  the  woman's,  a  fine  shape,  so  elaborately  cor- 
seted and  artfully  dressed,  that  it  was  quite  unchanged 
in  its  trim  appearance  as  it  slowly  swung  from  side  to 
side — I  never  could,  by  my  utmost  efforts,  for  some 
weeks,  present  the  outside  of  that  prison  to  myself 
(which  the  terrible  impression  I  had  received  continual- 
ly obliged  me  to  do)  without  presenting  it  with  the  two 
figures  still  hanging  in  the  morning  air.  Until,  strolling 
past  the  gloomy  place  one  night,  when  the  street  was 
deserted  and  quiet,  and  actually  seeing  that  the  bodies 
were  not  there,  my  fancy  was  persuaded  as  it  were,  to 
take  them  down  and  bury  them  within  the  precincts  of 
the  jail,  where  they  have  lain  ever  since. 

The  balloon  ascents  of  last  season.  Let  me  reckon 
them  up.  There  were  the  horse,  the  bull,  the  parachute, 
and  the  tumbler  hanging  on — chiefly  by  his  toes,  I  be- 
lieve— below  the  car.  Very  wrong,  indeed,  and  decidedly 
to  be  stopped.  But,  in  connexion  with  these  and  similar 
dangerous  exhibitions,  it  strikes  me  that  portion  of  the 
public  whom  they  entertain,  is  unjustly  reproached. 
Their  pleasure  is  in  the  difficulty  overcome.  They  are  a 
public  of  great  faith,  and  are  quite  confident  that  the 
gentleman  will  not  fall  off  the  horse,  or  the  lady  off  the 
bull  or  out  of  the  parachute,  and  that  the  tumbler  has  a 
firm  hold  with  his  toes.  They  do  not  go  to  see  the  ad- 
venturer vanquished,  but  triumphant.  There  is  no  par- 
allel in  public  combats  between  men  and  beasts,  because 
nobody  can  answer  for  the  particular  beast — unless  it 
were  always  the  same  beast,  in  which  case  it  would  be  a 
mere  stage-show  which  the  same  public  would  go  in  the 
same  state  of  mind  to  see,  entirely  believing  in  the  brute 
being  beforehand  safely  subdued  by  the  man.  That 
they  are  not  accustomed  to  calculate  hazards  and  dangers 
with  any  nicety,  we  may  know  from  their  rash  exposure 
of  themselves  in  overcrowded  steamboats,  and  unsafe 
conveyances,  and  places  of  all  kinds.  And  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  instead  of  railing,  and  attributing  savage 
motives  to  a  people  naturally  well  disposed  and  humane, 
it  is  better  to  teach  them,  and  lead  them  argumentatively 
and  reasonably — for  they  are  very  reasonable,  if  you  will 
discuss  a  matter  with  them — to  more  considerate  and 
wise  conclusions. 

This  is  a  disagreeable  intrusion  !  Here  is  a  man  with 
his  throat  cut,  dashing  towards  me  as  I  lie  awake  !  A 
recollection  of  an  old  story  of  a  kinsman  of  mine,  who, 
going  home  one  foggy  winter  night  to  Hamstead,  when 
London  was  much  smaller  and  the  road  lonesome,  sud- 
denly encountered  such  a  figure  rushing  past  him,  and 


presently  two  keepers  from  a  madhouse  in  pursuit.  A 
very  unpleasant  creature  indeed,  to  come  into  my  mind 
unbidden,  as  I  lie  awake. 

— The  balloon  ascents  of  last  season.  I  must  return  to 
the  balloons.  Why  did  the  bleeding  man  start  out  of 
them?  Never  mind  ;  if  I  inquire,  he  will  be  back  again. 
The  balloons.  This  particular  public  have  inherently  a 
great  pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of  physical  difficulties 
overcome  ;  mainly,  as  I  take  it  because  the  lives  of  a 
large  majority  of  them  are  exceedingly  monotonous  and 
real,  and  further,  are  a  struggle  against  continual  diffi- 
culties, and  further  still,  because  anything  in  the  form 
of  accidental  injury  or  any  kind  of  illness  or  disability  is 
so  very  serious  in  their  own  sphere.  I  will  explain  this 
seeming  paradox  of  mine.  Take  the  case  of  a  Christmas 
Pantomime.  Surely  nobody  supposes  that  the  young 
mother  in  the  pit  who  falls  into  fits  of  laughter  when  the 
baby  is  boiled  or  sat  upon,  would  be  at  all  diverted  by 
such  an  occurrence  off  the  stage.  Nor  is  the  decent 
workman  in  the  galley,  who  is  transported  beyond  the 
ignorant  present  by  the  delight  with  which  he  sees  a 
stout  gentleman  pushed  out  of  a  two  pair  of  stairs  win- 
dow, to  be  slandered  by  the  suspicion  that  he  would  be 
in  the  least  entertained  by  such  a  spectacle  in  any  street 
in  London,  Paris,  or  New  York.  It  always  appears  to 
me  that  the  secret  of  this  enjoyment  lies  in  the  temporary 
superiority  to  the  common  hazards  and  mischances  of 
life  ;  in  seeing  casualties,  attended  when  they  really 
occur  with  bodily  and  mental  suffering,  tears,  and  pov- 
erty, happen  through  a  very  rough  sort  of  poetry  without 
the  least  harm  being  done  to  any  one — the  pretence  of 
distress  in  a  pantomime  being  so  broadly  humourous  as 
to  be  no  pretence  at  all.  Much  as  in  the  comic  fiction  I 
can  understand  the  mother  with  a  very  vulnerable  baby 
at  home,  greatly  relishing  the  invulnerable  baby  on  the 
stage,  so  in  the  Cremorne  reality  I  can  understand  the 
mason  who  is  always  liable  to  fall  off  the  scaffold  in  his 
working  jacket  and  to  be  carried  to  the  hospital,  having 
an  infinite  admiration  of  the  radiant  personage  in  span- 
gles who  goes  into  the  clouds  upon  a  bull,  or  upside 
down,  and  who,  he  takes  it  for  granted — not  reflecting 
upon  the  thing — has,  by  uncommon  skill  and  dexterity, 
conquered  such  mischances  as  those  to  which  he  and  his 
acquaintance  are  continually  exposed. 

I  wish  the  Morgue  in  Paris  would  not  come  here  as  I 
lie  awake,  with  its  ghastly  beds,  and  the  swollen  satur- 
ated clothes  hanging  up,  and  the  water  dripping,  drip- 
ping all  day  long,  upon  that  other  swollen  saturated 
something  in  the  corner,  like  a  heap  of  crushed  over-ripe 
figs  that  I  have  seen  in  Italy  !  And  this  detestable 
Morgue  comes  back  again  at  the  head  of  a  procession  of 
forgotten  ghost  stories.  This  will  never  do.  I  must 
think  of  something  else  as  I  lie  awake  ;  or,  like  that  sa- 
gacious animal  in  the  United  States  who  recognised  the 
colonel  who  was  such  a  dead  shot,  I  am  a  gone  'Coon. 
What  shall  I  think  of?  The  late  brutal  assaults.  Very 
good  subject.    The  late  brutal  assaults. 

(Though  whether,  supposing  I  should  see,  here  before 
me  as  I  lie  awake,  the  awful  phantom  described  in  one 
of  those  ghost  stories,  who,  with  a  head-dress  of  shroud, 
was  always  seen  looking  in  through  a  certain  glass  door 
at  a  certain  dead  hour — whether,  in  such  a  case  it  would 
be  the  least  consolation  to  me  to  know  on  philosphical 
grounds  that  it  was  merely  my  imagination,  is  a  question 
I  can't  help  asking  myself  by  the  way.) 

The  late  brutal  assaults.  I  strongly  question  the  ex- 
pediency of  advocating  the  revival  of  whipping  for  those 
crimes.  It  is  a  natural  and  generous  impulse  to  be 
indignant  at  the  perpetration  of  inconceivable  brutality, 
but  I  doubt  the  whipping  panacea  gravely.  Not  in  the 
least  regard  or  pity  for  the  criminal,  whom  I  hold  in  far 
lower  estimation  than  a  mad  wolf,  but  in  consideration 
for  the  general  tone  and  feeling,  which  is  very  much  im- 
proved since  the  whipping  times.  It  is  bad  for  a  people 
to  be  familiarised  with  such  punishments.  When  the 
whip  went  out  of  Bridewell,  and  ceased  to  be  flourished 
at  the  cart's  tail  and  at  the  whi[)ping-post,  it  began  to 
fade  out  of  mad-houses,  and  work-houses  and  schools, 
and  families,  and  to  give  place  to  a  better  system  every- 
where, than  cruel  driving.  It  would  be  hasty,  because 
a  few  brutes  may  be  inadequately  punished,  to  revive, 
in  any  aspect,  what,  in  so  many  aspects,  society  is  hardly 


REPRINTED  PIECES, 


1179 


yet  happily  rid  of.  The  whip  is  a  very  contagious  kind 
of  thing,  and  difficult  to  confine  within  one  set  of  bounds. 
Utterly  abolish  punishment  by  fine — a  barbarous  device, 
quite  as  much  out  of  date  as  wager  by  battle,  but  par- 
ticularly connected  in  the  vulgar  mind  with  this  class  of 
offence— at  least  quadruple  the  term  of  imprisonment 
for  aggravated  assaults — and  above  all  let  us  in  such 
cases  have  no  Pet  Prisoning,  vain -glorifying,  strong 
SOU]),  and  roasted  meats,  but  hard  work,  and  one  un- 
changing and  uncompromising  dietary  of  bread  and 
water,  well  or  ill ;  and  we  shall  do  much  better  than  by 
going  down  into  the  dark  to  grope  for  the  whip  among 
the  rusty  fragments  of  the  rack,  and  the  branding  iron, 
and  the  chains  and  gibbet  from  the  public  roads,  and  the 
weights  that  pressed  men  to  death  in  the  cells  of  New- 
gate. 

I  had  proceeded  thus  far,  when  I  found  I  had  been 
lying  awake  so  long  that  the  very  dead  began  to  wake 
too,  and  crowd  into  my  thoughts  most  sorrowfully. 
Therefore,  I  resolved  to  lie  awake  no  more,  but  to  get 
up  and  go  out  for  a  night  walk — which  resolution  was 
an  acceptable  relief  to  me,  as  I  dare  say  it  may  prove 
now  to  a  great  many  more. 


THE  POOK  KELATION'S  STORY. 

He  was  very  reluctant  to  take  precedence  of  so  many 
respected  members  of  the  family,  by  beginning  the 
round  of  stories  they  were  to  relate  as  they  sat  in  a 
goodly  circle  by  the  Christmas  fire  ;  and  he  modestly 
suggested  that  it  would  be  more  correct  if  "John  our 
esteemed  host "  (whose  health  he  begged  to  drink)  would 
have  the  kindness  to  begin.  For  as  to  himself  he  said, 
he  was  so  little  used  to  the  way  that  really —  But  as 
they  all  cried  out  here,  that  he  must  begin,  and  agreed 
with  one  voice  that  he  might,  could,  would,  and  should 
begin,  he  left  off  rubbing  his  hands,  and  took  his  legs 
out  from  under  his  arm-chair,  and  did  begin. 

I  have  no  doubt  (said  the  poor  relation)  that  I  shall 
surprise  the  assembled  members  of  our  family,  and  par- 
ticularly John  our  esteemed  host  to  whom  we  are  so 
much  indebted  for  the  great  hospitality  with  which  he 
has  this  day  entertained  us,  by  the  confession  I  am  going 
to  make.  But,  if  you  do  me  the  honour  to  be  surprised 
at  anything  that  falls  from  a  person  so  unimportant  in 
the  family  as  I  am,  I  can  only  say  that  I  shall  be  scrupu- 
lously accurate  in  all  I  relate. 

I  am  not  what  I  am  supposed  to  be.  I  am  quite  an- 
other thing.  Perhaps  before  I  go  further,  I  had  better 
glance  at  what  I  am  supposed  to  be. 

It  is  supposed,  unless  I  mistake — the  assembled  mem- 
bers of  our  family  will  correct  me  if  I  do,  which  is  very 
likely  (here  the  poor  relation  looked  mildly  about  him 
for  contradiction) ;  that  I  am  nobody's  enemy  but  my 
own.  That  I  never  met  with  any  particular  success  in 
anything.  That  I  failed  in  business  because  I  was  un- 
business-like  and  credulous — in  not  being  prepared  for 
the  interested  designs  of  my  partner.  That  I  failed  in 
love,  because  I  was  ridiculously  trustful — in  thinking  it 
impossible  that  Christiana  could  deceive  me.  That  I 
failed  in  my  expectations  from  my  uncle  Chill,  on  ac- 
count of  not  being  as  sharp  as  he  could  have  wished  in 
worldly  matters.  That,  through  life,  I  have  been  rather 
put  upon  and  disappointed,  in  a  general  way.  That  I 
am  at  present  a  bachelor  of  between  fifty-nine  and  sixty 
years  of  age,  living  on  a  limited  income  in  the  form  of 
a  (quarterly  allowance,  to  which  I  see  that  John  our  es- 
teemed host,  wishes  me  to  make  no  further  allusion. 

The  supposition  as  to  my  present  pursuits  and  habits 
is  to  the  following  effect, 

I  live  in  a  lodging  in  the  Clapham  Road— a  very  clean 
back  room,  in  a  very  respectable  house — where  I  am  ex- 
pected not  to  be  at  home  in  the  day-time,  unless  poorly  ; 
and  which  I  usually  leave  in  the  morning  at  nine  o'clock, 
on  })retence  of  going  to  business.  I  take  my  breakfast 
—my  roll  and  butter,  and  my  half -pint  of  coiTee — at  the 
old  established  coffee-shop  near  Westminster  Bridge  :  and 
then  I  go  into  the  City — I  don't  know  why — and  sit  in 
Garraway's  Coffee  House,  and  on  'Change,  and  walk 
about,  and  look  into  a  few  offices  and  counting-houses 


where  some  of  my  relations  or  acquaintances  are  so  good 
as  to  tolerate  me,  and  where  I  stand  by  tLe  fire  if  the 
weather  happens  to  be  cold.    I  get  through  the  day  in 
this  way  until  five  o'clock,  and  then  I  dine  :  at  a  cost,  on 
the  average,  of  one  and  threepence.    Having  still  a  little 
money  to  syjend  on  my  evening's  entertainment,  I  look 
into  the  old-established  coffee-shop  as  I  go  home,  and 
take  my  cup  of  tea,  and  perhaps  my  bit  of  toast.    So  as 
the  large  hand  of  the  clock  makes  its  way  round  to  the 
morning  hour  again,  I  make  my  way  round  to  the  Clap- 
I  ham  Road  again,  and  go  to  bed  when  I  get  to  my  lodg- 
j  ing — fire  being  expensive,  and  being  objected  to  by  the 
j  family  on  account  of  its  giving  trouble  and  making  a 
I  dirt. 

j  Sometimes  one  of  my  relations  or  acquaintances  is  so 
j  obliging  as  to  ask  me  to  dinner.  Those  are  holiday  occa- 
sions, and  then  1  generally  walk  in  the  Park.  I  am  a  soli- 
tary man,  and  seldom  walk  with  anybody.  Not  that  I  am 
avoided  because  I  am  shabby  ;  for  I  am  not  at  all  shabby, 
having  always  a  very  good  suit  of  black  on  (or  rather  Ox- 
ford mixture,  which  has  the  appearance  of  black  and 
wears  much  better) ;  but  I  have  got  into  a  habit  of  speak- 
ing low,  and  being  rather  silent,  and  my  spirits  are  not 
high,  I  am  sensible  that  I  am  not  an  attractive  com- 
panion. 

The  only  exception  to  this  general  rule  is  the  child  of 
my  first  cousin,  Little  Frank.  I  have  a  particular  affec- 
tion for  that'child,  and  he  takes  very  kindly  to  me.  He 
is  a  diffident  boy  by  nature  ;  and  in  a  crowd  he  is  soon 
run  over,  as  I  may  say,  and  forgotten.  He  and  I,  how- 
ever, get  on  exceedingly  well.  I  have  a  fancy  that  the 
poor  child  will  in  time  succeed  to  my  peculiar  position 
in  the  family.  We  talk  but  little,  still  we  understand 
each  other.  We  walk  about,  hand  in  hand  ;  and  with- 
out much  speaking  he  knows  what  I  mean,  and  I  know 
what  he  means.  When  he  was  very  little  indeed,  I  used 
to  take  him  to  the  windows  of  the  toy- shops,  and  show 
him  the  toys  inside.  It  is  surprising  how  soon  he  found 
out  that  I  would  have  made  him  a  great  many  presents 
if  I  had  been  in  circumstances  to  do  it. 

Little  Frank  and  I  go  and  look  at  the  outside  of  the 
Monument — he  is  very  fond  of  the  Monument-^and  at 
the  Bridges,  and  at  all  the  sights  that  are  free.  On  two 
of  my  birthdays,  we  have  dined  on  a-la-mode  beef,  and 
gone  at  half-price  to  the  play,  and  been  deeply  interested. 
I  was  once  walking  with  him  in  Lombard  Street,  which 
we  often  visit  on  account  of  my  having  mentioned  to 
him  that  there  are  great  riches  there — he  is  very  fond 
of  Lombard  Street — when  a  gentleman  said  to  me  as  he 
passed  by,  '*  Sir  your  little  son  has  dropped  his  glove." 
I  assure  you,  if  you  will  excuse  my  remarking  on  so 
trivial  a  circumstance,  this  accidental  mention  of  the 
child  as  mine,  quite  touched  my  heart  and  brought  the 
foolish  tears  to  my  eyes. 

When  little  Frank  is  sent  to  school  in  the  country,  I 
shall  be  very  much  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  myself,  but 
I  have  the  intention  of  walking  down  there  once  a  month 
and  seeing  him  on  a  half  holiday.  I  am  told  he  will  then 
be  at  play  upon  the  Heath  ;  and  if  my  visits  should  be  ob- 
jected to,  as  unsettling  the  child,  I  can  see  him  from  a 
distance  without  his  seeing  me,  and  walk  back  again. 
His  mother  comes  of  a  highly  genteel  family,  and  rather 
disapproves,  1  am  aware,  of  our  being  too  much  together. 
I  know  that  I  am  not  calculated  to  improve  his  retiring 
disposition  ;  but  I  think  he  would  miss  me  beyond  the 
feeling  of  the  moment,  if  we  were  wholly  separated. 

When  I  die  in  the  Clapham  Road,  I  shall  not  leave 
much  more  in  this  world  than  I  shall  take  out  of  it  ;  but, 
I  happen  to  have  a  miniature  of  a  bright-faced  boy,  with 
a  curling  head,  and  an  open  shirt- frill  waving  down  his 
bosom  (my  mother  had  it  taken  for  me,  but  I  can't  be- 
lieve that  it  was  ever  like),  which  will  be  worth  nothing 
to  sell,  and  which  I  shall  beg  may  be  given  to  Frank. 
I  have  written  my  dear  boy  a  little  letter  with  it,  in 
which  I  have  told  him  that  I  felt  very  sorry  to  part  from 
him,  though  bound  to  confess  that  I  knew  no  reason 
why  I  should  remain  here.  I  have  given  him  some  short 
advice,  the  best  in  my  power,  to  take  warning  of  the 
consequences  of  being  nobody's  enemy  but  his  own  ;  and 
1  have  endeavoured  to  comfort  him  for  what  I  fear  he 
}  will  consider  a  bereavement,  by  pointing  out  to  him, 
I  that  I  was  only  a  superfluous  something  to  every  one 


1180 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


but  him  ;  and  that  having  by  some  means  failed  to  find 
a  place  in  this  great  assembly,  I  am  better  out  of  it. 

Such  (said  the  poor  relation,  clearing  his  throat  and 
beginning  to  speak  a  little  loader)  is  the  general  im- 
pression about  me.  Now,  it  is  a  remarkable  circum- 
stance which  forms  the  aim  and  purpose  of  my  story, 
that  this  is  all  wrong.  This  is  not  my  life,  and  these  are 
not  ray  habits.  I  do  not  even  live  in  Clapham  Road. 
Comparatively  speaking,  I  am  very  seldom  there.  I  re- 
side, mostly,'  in  a — I  am  almost  ashamed  to  say  the 
word,  it  sounds  so  full  of  pretension — in  a  Castle.  I  do 
not  mean  that  it  is  an  old  baronial  habitation,  but  still 
it  is  a  building  always  known  to  every  one  by  the  name 
of  a  Castle.  In  it,  I  preserve  the  particulars  of  my  his- 
tory ;  they  run  thus  : 

It  was  when  I  first  took  John  Spatter  (who  had  been 
my  clerk)  into  partnership,  and  when  I  was  still  a  young 
man  of  not  more  than  five-and-twenty,  residing  in  the 
house  of  my  Uncle  Chill  from  whom  I  had  considerable 
expectations,  that  I  ventured  to  propose  to  Christiana. 
I  had  loved  Christiana,  a  long  time.  She  was  very  beau- 
tiful, and  very  winning  in  all  respects.  I  rather  mis- 
trusted her  widowed  mother,  who  I  feared  was  of  a 
plotting  and  mercenary  turn  of  mind  ;  but,  I  thought  as 
well  of  her  as  I  could,  for  Christiana's  sake.  I  never 
had  loved  any  one  but  Christiana,  and  she  had  been  all 
the  world,  and  O  far  more  than  all  the  world,  to  me  from 
our  childhood  ! 

Christiana  accepted  me  with  her  mother's  consent,  and 
I  was  rendered  very  happy  indeed.  My  life  at  my  Uncle 
Chill's  was  of  a  spare  dull  kind,  and  my  garret  chamber 
was  as  dull,  and  bare,  and  cold,  as  an  upper  prison  room 
in  some  stern  northern  fortress.  But,  having  Chris- 
tiana's love,  I  wanted  nothing  upon  earth.  I  would  not 
have  changed  my  lot  with  any  human  being. 

Avarice  was,  unhappily,  my  Uncle  Chill's  master-vice. 
Though  he  was  rich,  he  pinched,  and  scraped,  and 
clutched,  and  lived  miserably.  As  Christiana  had  no 
fortune,  I  was  for  some  time  a  little  fearful  of  confessing 
our  engagement  to  him  ;  but,  at  length  I  wrote  him  a 
letter,  saying  how  it  all  truly  was.  I  put  it  into  his 
hand  one  night,  on  going  to  bed. 

As  I  came  down  stairs  next  morning,  shivering  in  the 
cold  December  air ;  colder  in  my  uncle's  unwarmed 
house  than  in  the  street,  where  the  winter  sun  did  some- 
times shine,  and  which  was  at  all  events  enlivened  by 
cheerful  faces  and  voices  passing  along ;  I  carried  a 
heavy  heart  towards  the  long,  low  breakfast-room  in 
which  my  uncle  sat.  It  was  a  large  room  with  a  small 
fire,  and  there  was  a  great  bay  window  in  it  which  the 
rain  had  marked  in  the  night  as  if  with  the  tears  of 
houseless  people.  It  stared  upon  a  raw  yard,  with  a 
cracked  stone  pavement,  and  some  rusted  iron  railings 
half  uprooted,  whence  an  ugly  outbuilding  that  had  once 
been  a  dissecting-room  (in  the  time  of  the  great  surgeon 
who  had  mortgaged  the  house  to  my  uncle),  stared  at  it. 

We  rose  so  early  always,  that  at  that  time  of  the  year 
we  breakfasted  by  candle  light.  When  I  went  into  the 
room,  my  uncle  was  so  contracted  by  the  cold,  and  so 
huddled  together  in  his  chair  behind  the  one  dim  can- 
dle, that  I  did  not  see  him  until  I  was  close  to  the  table. 

As  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him,  he  caught  up  his  stick 
(being  infirm,  he  always  walked  about  the  house  with  a 
stick),  and  made  a  blow  at  me,  and  said,  "  You  fool  ! " 

"Uncle,"  I  returned,  "I  didn't  expect  you  to  be  so 
angry  as  this."  Nor  had  I  expected  it  though  he  was  a 
hard  and  angry  old  man. 

"  You  didn't  expect !"  said  he;  "when  did  you  ever 
expect?  When  did  you  ever  calculate  or  look  forward, 
you  contemptible  dog?  " 

"  These  are  hard  words,  uncle  !  " 

"  Hard  words  ?  Feathers,  to  pelt  such  an  idiot  as  you 
with,"  said  he.    "  Here  !    Betsy  Snap  !    Look  at  him  !  " 

Betsy  Snap  was  a  withered,  hard-favoured,  yellow  old 
woman — our  only  domestic — always  employed,  at  this 
time  of  the  morning,  in  rubbing  my  uncle's  legs..  As 
my  uncle  adjured  her  to  look  at  me,  he  put  his  lean  grip 
on  the  crown  of  her  head,  she  kneeling  beside  him,  and 
turned  her  face  towards  me.  An  involuntary  thought 
connecting  them  both  with  the  Dissecting  Room,  as  it 
must  often  have  been  in  the  surgeon's  time  passed  across 
my  mind  in  the  midst  of  my  anxiety. 


"Look  at  the  snivelling  milksop!"  said  my  uncle. 
"  Look  at  the  baby  !  This  is  the  gentleman  who,  ]>eople 
say,  is  nobody's  enemy  but  his  own.  This  is  the  gen- 
tleman who  'can't  say  no.  This  is  the  gentleman  who 
was  making  such  large  profits  in  his  business  tliat  he 
mu«t  needs  take  a  partner,  t'other  day.  This  is  the 
gentleman  who  is  going  to  marry  a  wife  without  a  penny, 
and  who  falls  into  the  hands  of  Jezabels  who  are  specu- 
lating on  my  death  !  " 

I  knew,  now,  how  great  my  uncle's  rage  was  ;  for 
nothing  short  of  his  being  almost  beside  himself  would 
have  induced  him  to  utter  that  concluding  word,  which 
he  held  in  such  repugnance  that  it  was  never  spoken  or 
hinted  at  before  him  on  any  account. 

"On  my  death,"  he  repeated,  as  if  he  were  defying 
me  by  defying  his  own  abhorrence  of  the  word.  "  On 
my  death — death — Death  !  But  I'll  spoil  the  specula- 
tion. Eat  your  last  under  this  roof,  you  feeble  wretch, 
and  may  it  choke  you  !  " 

You  may  suppose  that  I  had  not  much  appetite  for  the 
breakfast  to  which  I  was  bidden  in  these  terms  ;  but,  I 
took  my  accustomed  seat.  I  saw  that  I  was  repudiated 
henceforth  by  my  uncle  ;  still  I  could  bear  that  very 
well,  possessing  Christiana's  heart. 

He  emptied  his  basin  of  bread  and  milk  as  usual,  only 
that  he  took  it  on  his  knees  with  his  chair  turned  away 
from  the  table  where  I  sat.  When  he  had  done,  he  care- 
fully snuffed  out  the  candle  ;  and  the  cold,  slate-coloured, 
miserable  day  looked  in  upon  us. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Michael,"  said  he,  "  before  we  part,  I 
should  like  to  have  a  word  with  these  ladies  in  your 
presence." 

"As  you  will,  sir,"  I  returned;  "but  you  deceive 
yourself,  and  wrong  us,  cruelly,  if  you  suppose  that  there 
is  any  feeling  at  stake  in  this  contract  but  pure,  disinter- 
ested, faithful  love." 

To  this,  he  only  replied,  "  You  lie  I  "  and  not  one  other 
word. 

We  went,  through  half-thawed  snow  and  half-froze-T 
rain,  to  the  house  where  Christiana  and  her  mother  lived. 
My  uncle  knew  them  very  well.  They  were  sitting  at 
their  breakfast,  and  were  surprised  to  see  us  at  that 
hour. 

"  Your  servant,  ma'am,"  said  my  uncle  to  the  mother. 

"You  divine  the  purpose  of  my  visit,  I  dare  say, 
ma'am.  I  understand  there  is  a  world  of  pure,  disinter- 
ested, faithful  love  cooped  up  here.  I  am  happy  to  bring 
it  all  it  wants,  to  make  it  complete.  I  bring  you  your 
son-in-law,  ma'am — and  you  your  husband,  miss.  The 
gentleman  is  a  perfect  stranger  to  me,  but  I  wish  him  joy 
of  his  wise  bargain." 

He  snarled  at  me  as  he  went  out,  and  I  never  saw  him 
again. 

It  is  altogether  a  mistake  (continued  the  poor  relation) 
to  suppose  that  my  dear  Christiana,  over-persuaded  and 
influenced  by  her  mother,  married  a  rich  man,  the  dirt 
from  whose  carriage  wheels  is  often,  in  these  changed 
times,  thrown  upon  me  as  she  rides  by.  No,  no.  She 
married  me. 

The  way  we  came  to  be  married  rather  sooner  than  we 
intended,  was  this.  I  took  a  frugal  lodging  and  was 
saving  and  planning  for  her  sake,  when,  one  day,  she 
spoke  to  me  with  great  earnestness,  and  said  : 

"  My  dear  Michael,  I  have  given  you  my  heart.  I  have 
said  that  I  loved  you,  and  I  have  pledged  myself  to  be 
your  wife.  I  am  as  much  yours  through  all  changes  of 
good  and  evil  as  if  we  had  been  married  on  the  day  when 
such  words  passed  between  us.  I  know  you  well,  and 
know  that  if  we  should  be  separated  and  our  union 
broken  off,  your  whole  life  would  be  shadowed,  and  all 
that  might,  even  now,  be  stronger  in  your  character  for 
the  conflict  with  the  world  would  then  be  weakened  to 
the  shadow  of  what  it  is  !  " 

"God  help  me,  Christiana  !  "  said  I.  "  You  speak  the 
truth." 

"  Michael  !  "  said  she,  putting  her  hand  in  mine,  in  all 
maidenly  devotion,  "  let  us  keep  apart  no  longer.  It  is 
but  for  me  to  say  that  I  can  live  contented  upon  such 
means  as  you  have,  and  I  well  know  you  are  happy. 
I  say  so  from  my  heart.  Strive  no  more  alone ;  let  us 
strive  together.  My  dear  Michael,  it  is  not  right  that  I 
should  keep  secret  from  you  what  you  do  not  suspect. 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


1181 


but  what  distresses  my  whole  life.  My  mother  :  without 
considering  that  what  you  have  lost,  you  have  lost  for 
me,  and  on  the  assurance  of  my  faith  :  sets  her  heart  on 
riches,  and  urges  another  suit  upon  me,  to  my  misery. 
I  cannot  bear  this,  for  to  bear  it  is  to  be  untrue  to  you. 
I  would  rather  share  your  struggles  than  look  on.  I  want 
no  better  home  than  you  can  give  me.  I  know  that  you 
will  aspire  and  labour  with  a  higher  courage  if  I  am 
wholly  yours,  and  let  it  be  so  when  you  will  !  " 

I  was  blest  indeed,  that  day,  and  a  new  world  opened 
to  me.  We  were  married  in  a  very  little  while  and  I 
took  my  wife  to  our  happy  home.  That  was  the  begin- 
ning of  the"  residence  I  have  spoken  of  ;  the  Castle  we 
have  ever  since  inhabited  together,  dates  from  that  time. 
All  our  children  have  been  born  in  it.  Our  first  child — 
now,  married — was  a  little  girl,  whom  we  called  Chris- 
tiana. Her  son  is  so  like  Little  Frank,  that  I  hardly 
know  which  is  which. 

The  current  impression  as  to  my  partner's  dealings 
with  me  is  also  quite  erroneous.  He  did  not  begin  to 
treat  me  coldly,  as  a  poor  simpleton,  when  my  uncle  and 
I  so  fatally  quarrelled  ;  nor  did  he  afterwards  gradually 
possess  himself  of  our  business  and  edge  me  out.  On 
the  contrary,  he  behaved  to  me  with  the  utmost  good 
faith  and  honour. 

Matters  between  us,  took  this  turn  On  the  day  of 
my  separation  from  my  uncle,  and  even  before  the  ar- 
rival at  our  counting-house  of  my  trunks  (which  he  sent 
after  me,  not  carriage  paid),  I  went  down  to  our  room  of 
business,  on  our  little  wharf,  overlooking  the  river  ;  and 
there  I  told  John  Spatter  what  had  happened.  John  did 
not  say,  in  reply,  that  rich  old  relatives  were  palpable 
facts,  and  that  love  and  sentiment  were  moonshine  and 
fiction.    He  addressed  me  thus  : 

"Michael,"  said  John.  "  We  were  at  school  together, 
and  I  generally  had  the  knack  of  getting  on  better  than 
you,  and  making  a  higher  reputation." 

"  You  had,  John,"  I  returned. 

"  Although,"  said  John,  "  I  borrowed  your  books  and 
lost  them  ;  borrowed  your  pocket-money,  and  never  re- 
paid it ;  got  you  to  buy  my  damaged  knives  at  a  higher 
price  than  I  had  given  for  them  new  ;  and  to  own  to  the 
windows  that  I  had  broken." 

"All  not  worth  mentioning,  John  Spatter,"  said  I, 
"  but  certainly  true." 

"  When  you  were  first  established  in  this  infant  busi- 
ness, which  promises  to  thrive  so  well,"  pursued  John, 
"  I  came  to  you,  in  my  search  for  almost  any  employ- 
ment, and  you  made  me  your  clerk." 

"  Still  not  worth  mentioning,  my  dear  John  Spatter," 
said  I  ;  "  still,  equally  true." 

"  And  finding  that  I  had  a  good  head  for  business,  and 
that  I  was  really  useful  to  the  business,  you  did  not  like 
to  retain  me  in  that  capacity,  and  thought  it  an  act  of 
justice  soon  to  make  me  your  partner." 

"  Still  less  worth  mentioning  than  any  of  those  other 
little  circumstances  you  have  recalled,  John  Spatter," 
said  I  ;  "  for  I  was,  and  am,  sensible  of  your  merits  and 
my  deficiencies." 

"  Now  my  good  friend,"  said  John,  drawing  my  arm 
through  his,  as  he  had  a  habit  of  doing  at  school  ;  while 
two  vessels  outside  the  windows  of  our  counting  house 
— which  were  shaped  like  the  stern  windows  of  a  ship 
— went  lightly  down  the  river  with  the  tide,  as  John 
and  I  miglit  then  be  sailing  away  in  company,  and  in 
trust  and  confidence,  on  our  voyage  of  life  ;  "let  there, 
under  these  circumstances,  be  a  right  understanding  be- 
tween us.  You  are  too  easy,  Michael.  You  are  nobody's 
enemy  but  your  own.  If  I  were  to  give  you  that  dam- 
aging character  among»our  connexion,  with  a  shrug,  and 
a  shake  of  the  head,  and  a  sigh  ;  and  if  I  were  further 
to  abuse  the  trust  you  place  in  me — " 

"  But  you  never  will  abuse  it  at  all,  John,"  I  observed. 

"  Never  !"  said  he,  "  but  I  am  putting  a  case — I  say, 
and  if  I  were  further  to  abuse  that  trust  by  keeping  this 
piece  of  our  common  affairs  in  the  dark,  and  this  other 
piece  in  the  light,  and  again  this  other  piece  in  the  twi- 
light, and  so  on,  I  should  strengthen  my  strength,  and 
weaken  your  weakness,  day  by  day,  until  at  last  I  found 
myself  on  the  high  road  to  fortune,  and  you  left  behind 
on  some  bare  common,  a  hopeless  number  of  miles  out 
of  the  way," 


"  Exactly  so,"  said  I. 

"To  prevent  this,  Michael,"  said  John  Spatter,  "or 
the  remotest  chance  of  this,  there  must  be  perfect  open- 
ness between  us.  Nothing  must  be  concealed,  and  we 
must  have  but  one  interest." 

"  My  dear  John  Spatter,"  I  assured  him,  "  that  ispre-^ 
cisely  what  I  mean." 

"And  when  you  are  too  easy,"  pursued  John,  his  face 
glowing  with  friendship,  "  you  must  allow  me  to  prevent 
that  imperfection  in  your  nature  from  being  taken  ad- 
vantage of,  by  any  one  ;  you  must  not  expect  me  to  hu- 
mour it — " 

"  My  dear  John  Spatter,"  I  interrupted,  "  I  don't  ex- 
pect you  to  humour  it.    I  want  to  correct  it." 
"  And  I  too  !  "  said  John. 

"  Exactly  so  ! "  cried  I.  "  We  both  have  the  same  end 
in  view  ;  and,  honourably  seeking  it,  and  fully  trusting 
one  another,  and  having  but  one  interest,  ours  will  be  a 
prosperous  and  ha])py  partnership." 

"I  am  sure  of  it  !"  returned  John  Spatter.  And  we 
shook  hands  most  affectionately. 

I  took  John  home  to  my  Castle,  and  we  had  a  very 
happy  day.  Our  parnership  throve  well.  My  friend 
and  partner  supplied  what  I  wanted,  as  I  had  foreseen 
that  he  would  ;  and  by  improving  both  the  business  and 
myself,  amply  acknowledged  any  little  rise  in  life  to 
which  I  had  helped  him. 

I  am  not  (said  the  poor  relation,  looking  at  the  fire  as 
he  slowly  rubbed  his  hands)  very  rich,  for  I  never  cared 
to  be  that  :  but  I  have  enough,  and  am  above  all  moder- 
ate wants  and  anxieties.  My  Castle  is  not  a  splendid 
place,  but  it  is  very  comfortable,  and  it  1ms  a  warm  and 
cheerful  air,  and  is  quite  a  picture  of  Home. 

Our  eldest  girl,  who  is  very  like  her  mother,  married 
John  Spatter's  eldest  son.  Our  two  families  are  closely 
united  in  other  ties  of  attachment.  It  is  very  pleasant 
of  an  evening,  when  we  are  all  assembled  together — 
which  frequently  happens — and  when  John  and  I  talk 
over  old  times,  and  the  one  interest  there  has  always  been 
between  us. 

I  really  do  not  know,  in  my  Castle,  what  loneliness  is. 
Some  of  our  children  or  grandchildren  are  always  about 
it,  and  the  young  voices  of  my  descendants  are  delight- 
ful— O,  how  delightful  ! — to  me  to  hear.  My  dearest 
and  most  devoted  wife,  ever  faithful,  every  loving,  ever 
helpful  and  sustaining  and  consoling,  is  the  priceless 
blessing  of  my  house  ;  from  whom  all  its  other  blessings 
spring.  We  are  rather  a  musical  family,  and  when 
Christiana  sees  me,  at  any  time,  a  little  weary  or  de- 
pressed, she  steals  to  the  piano  and  sings  a  gentle  air  she 
used  to  sing  when  we  were  first  betrothed.  So  weak  a 
man  am  I,  that  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  it  from  any  other 
source.  They  played  it  once,  at  the  Theatre,  when  I 
was  there  with  little  Frank  ;  and  the  child  said  wonder- 
ing, "  Cousin  Michael,  whose  hot  tears  are  these  that 
have  fallen  on  my  hand  !  " 

Such  is  my  Castle,  and  such  are  the  real  particulars  of 
my  life  therein  preserved.  I  often  take  Little  Frank 
home  here.  He  is  very  welcome  to  my  grandchildren, 
and  they  play  together.  At  this  time  of  the  year — the 
Christmas  and  New  Year  time — I  am  seldom  out  of  my 
Castle.  For  the  associations  of  the  season  seem  to  hold 
me  there,  and  the  precepts  of  the  season  seem  to  teach 
me  that  it  is  well  to  be  there. 

"And  the  Castle  is — "  observed  a  grave,  ki^d  voice 
among  the  company. 

"  Yes.  My  Castle,"  said  the  poor  relation,  shaking 
his  head  as  he  still  looked  at  the  fire,  "  is  in  the  Air. 
John  our  esteemed  host  suggests  its  situation  accurately. 
My  castle  is  in  the  air  !  I  have  done.  Will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  pass  the  story." 


THE  CHILD'S  STOKY. 

Once  upon  a  time,  a  good  many  years  ago,  there  was 
a  traveller,  and  he  set  out  upon  a  journey.  It  was  a 
magic  journey,  and  was  to  seem  very  long  when  he 
began  it,  and  very  short  when  he  got  half  way  through. 


1182 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


He  travelled  along  a  rather  dark  patli  for  some  little  I 
time,  without  meeting  anything,  until  at  last  he  came  to  j 
a  beautiful  child.    So  he  said  to  the  child,  "  What  do  ! 
you  do  here?"    And  the  child  said,  "I  am  always  at 
play.    Come  and  play  with  me  !  " 

So  he  played  with  that  child,  the  whole  day  long,  and 
they  were  very  merry.  The  sky  was  so  blue,  the  sun 
was  so  bright,  the  water  was  so  sparkling,  the  leaves 
were  so  green,  the  flowers  were  so  lovely,  and  they  heard 
such  singing-birds,  and  saw  so  many  butterflies,  that 
everything  was  beautiful.  This  was  in  fine  weather. 
When  it  rained,  they  loved  to  watch  the  falling  drops, 
and  to  smell  the  fresh  scents.  When  it  blew,  it  was  de- 
lightful to  listen  to  the  wind,  and  fancy  what  it  said,  as 
it  came  rushing  from  its  home — where  was  that,  tliey 
wondered  ! — whistling  and  howling,  driving  the  clouds 
before  it,  bending  the  trees,  rumbling  in  the  chimneys, 
shaking  the  house,  and  making  the  sea  roar  in  fury. 
But,  when  it  snowed,  that  was  best  of  all  ;  for,  they 
liked  nothing  so  well  as  to  look  up  at  the  white  flakes 
falling  fast  and  thick,  like  down  from  the  breasts  of 
millions  of  white  birds  ;  and  to  see  how  smooth  and  deep 
the  drift  was  ;  and  to  listen  to  the  hush  upon  the  paths 
and  roads. 

They  had  plenty  of  the  finest  toys  in  the  world,  and 
the  most  astonishing  picture-books  :  all  about  scimitars 
and  slippers  and  turbans  and  dwarfs  and  giants  and 
genii  and  fairies,  and  blue-beards  and  bean-stalks  and 
riches  and  caverns  and  forests  and  Valentines  and 
Orsons  :  and  all  new  and  all  true. 

But,  one  day,  of  a  sudden,  the  traveller  lost  the  child. 
He  called  to  him  over  and  over  again,  but  got  no  answer. 
So,  he  went  upon  his  road,  and  went  on  for  a  little  while 
without  meeting  anything,  until  at  last  he  came  to  a 
handsome  boy.  So  he  said  to  the  boy,  What  do  you 
do  here?"  And  the  boy  said,  "lam  always  learning. 
Come  and  learn  with  me." 

So  he  learned  with  that  boy  about  Jupiter  and  Juno, 
and  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans,  and  I  don't  know  what, 
and  learned  more  than  I  could  tell — or  he  either,  for  he 
soon  forgot  a  great  deal  of  it.  But,  they  were  not 
always  learning  ;  they  had  the  merriest  games  that  ever 
were  played.  They  rowed  upon  the  river  in  summer, 
and  skated  on  the  ice  in  winter  ;  they  were  active  afoot, 
and  active  on  horseback  ;  at  cricket  and  at  all  games  at 
ball  ;  at  prioners'  base,  hare  and  hounds,  follow  my 
leader,  and  more  sports  than  I  can  think  of  ;  nobody 
could  beat  them.  They  had  holidays  too,  and  Twelfth 
cakes,  and  parties  where  they  danced  till  midnight,  and 
real  Theatres  where  they  saw  palaces  of  real  gold  and 
silver  rise  out  of  the  real  earth,  and  saw  all  the  wonders 
of  the  world  at  once.  As  to  friends,  they  had  such  dear 
friends  and  so  many  of  them,  that  I  want  the  time  to 
reckon  them  up.  They  were  all  young,  like  the  hand- 
some boy,  and  were  never  to  be  strange  to  one  another 
all  their  lives  through. 

Still,  one  day,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  pleasures,  the 
traveller  lost  the  boy  as  he  had  lost  the  child,  and  after 
calling  to  him  in  vain,  went  on  upon  his  journey.  So  he 
went  on  for  a  little  while  without  seeing  anything,  until 
at  last  he  came  to  a  young  man.  So  he  said  to  the  young 
man,  "  What  do  you  do  here?"  And  the  young  man 
said,  "  I  am  always  in  love.    Come  and  love  with  me." 

So  he  went  away  with  that  young  man,  and  presently 
they  came  to  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  that  ever  was 
seen — just  like  Fanny  in  the  corner  there — and  she  had 
eyes  like  Fanny,  and  hair  like  Fanny,  and  dimples  like 
Fanny's,  and  she  laughed  and  coloured  just  as  Fanny 
does  while  I  am  talking  about  her.  So  the  young  man 
fell  in  love  directly  -just  as  somebody  I  won't  mention, 
the  first  time  he  came  here,  did  with  Fanny,  Well  ! 
He  was  teazed  sometimes — just  as  somebody  used  to  be 
by  Fanny  ;  and  they  quarrelled  sometimes — just  as 
Somebody  and  Fanny  used  to  quarrel  ;  and  they  made  it 
up,  and  sat  in  the  dark,  and  wrote  letters  every  day,  and 
never  were  happy  asunder,  and  were  always  looking  out 
for  one  another  and  pretending  not  to,  and  were  engaged 
at  Christmas  time,  and  sat  close  to  one  another  by  the 
fire,  and  were  going  to  be  married  very  soon — all  exactly 
like  Somebody  I  won't  mention  and  Fanny  ! 

But,  the  traveller  lost  them  one  day,  as  he  had  lost 
the  rest  of  his  friends,  and,  after  calling  to  them  to 


I  come  back,  which  they  never  did,  went  on  upon  his 
j  journey.    So  he  went  on  for  a  little  while  without  see- 
!  ing  anything,  until  at  last  he  came  to  a  middle-aged 
gentleman.    So  he  said  to  the  gentleman,  "  What  are 
you  doing  here  ?  "    And  his  answer  was,  "  I  am  always 
busy.    Come  and  be  busy  with  me  ! " 

So  he  began  to  be  very  busy  with  that  gentl email, 
and  they  went  on  through  the  wood  together.  The 
whole  journey  was  through  a  wood,  only  it  had  been 
open  and  green  at  first,  like  a  wood  in  spring  ;  and  now 
began  to  be  thick  and  dark  like  a  wood  in  summer  ; 
some  of  the  little  trees  that  had  come  out  earliest,  were 
even  turning  brown.  The  gentleman  was  not  alone, 
but  had  a  lady  of  about  the  same  age  with  him,  who 
was  his  Wife  ;  and  they  had  children,  who  were  with 
them  too.  So,  they  all  went  on  together  through  the 
wood,  cutting  down  the  trees,  and  making  a  path 
through  the  branches  and  the  fallen  leaves,  and  carry- 
ing burdens,  and  working  hard. 

Sometimes,  they  came  to  a  long  green  avenue  that 
opened  into  deeper  woods.  Then  they  would  hear  a 
very  little  distant  voice  crying,  "  Father,  father,  I  am 
another  child  !  Stop  for  me  !  "  And  presently  they 
would  see  a  very  little  figure,  growing  larger  as  it  came 
along,  running  to  join  them.  When  it  came  up,  they 
all  crowded  round  it,  and  kissed 'and  welcomed  it  ;  and 
then  they  all  went  on  together. 

Sometimes,  they  came  to  several  avenues  at  once,  and 
then  they  all  stood  still,  and  one  of  the  children  said, 
"  Father  I  am  going  to  sea,"  and  another  said,  "Fa- 
ther, I  am  going  to  India,"  and  another,  "  Father,  I  am 
going  to  seek  my  fortune  where  I  can,"  and  another, 
"Father,  I  am  going  to  Heaven!"  So,  with  many 
tears  at  parting,  they  went,  solitary,  down  those  ave- 
nues, each  child  upon  its  way  ;  and  the  child  who  w^ent 
to  Heaven,  rose  into  the  golden  air  and  vanished. 

Whenever  these  partings  happened,  the  traveller 
looked  at  the  gentleman,  and  saw  him  glance  up  at  the 
sky  above  the  trees,  where  the  day  was  beginning  to  de- 
cline, and  the  sunset  to  come  on.  He  saw,  too,  that  his 
hair  was  turning  grey.  But,  they  never  could  rest  long, 
for  they  had  their  journey  to  perform,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary for  them  to  be  always  busy. 

At  last,  there  had  been  so  many  partings  that  there 
were  no  children  left,  and  only  the  traveller,  the  gen- 
tleman, and  the  lady,  went  upon  their  way  in  company. 
And  now  the  wood  was  yellow  ;  and  now  brown  ;  and 
the  leaves,  even  of  the  forest  trees,  began  to  fall. 

So  they  came  to  an  avenue  that  was  darker  than  the 
rest,  and  were  pressing  forward  on  their  journey  with- 
out looking  down  it  when  the  lady  stopped. 

"  My  husband,"  said  the  lady.    "  I  am  called." 
They  listened,  and  they  heard  a  voice,  a  long  way 
down  the  avenue,  say,  "Mother,  mother!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  first  child  who  had  said,  "  I 
am  going  to  Heaven  ! "  and  the  father  said,  "  I  pray  not 
yet.    The  sunset  is  very  near.    I  pray  not  yet  !  " 

But,  the  voice  cried  "Mother,  mother!"  without 
minding  him,  though  his  hair  was  now  quite  white,  and 
tears  were  on  his  face. 

Then,  the  mother,  who  was  already  drawn  into  the 
shade  of  the  dark  avenue  and  moving  away  with  her 
arms  still  round  his  neck,  kissed  him,  and  said  "  My 
dearest,  I  am  summoned,  and  I  go  !  "  And  she  was 
gone.    And  the  traveller  and  he  were  left  alone  together. 

And  they  went  on  and  on  together,  until  they  came  to 
very  near  the  end  of  the  wood  :  so  near,  that  they  could 
see  the  sunset  shining  red  before  them  through  the 
trees. 

Yet,  once  more,  while  he  broke  his  way  among  the 
branches  the  traveller  lost  his  friend.  He  called  and 
called,  but  there  was  no  reply,  and  when  he  passed  out 
of  the  wood,  and  saw  the  peaceful  sun  going  down  upon 
a  wide  purple  prospect,  he  came  to  an  old  man  sitting 
on  a  fallen  tree.  So,  he  said  to  the  old  man,  "  What  do 
you  do  here  ?  "  And  the  old  man  said  with  a  calm  smile, 
"  I  am  always  remembering.  Come  and  remember  with 
me  I " 

So  the  traveller,  sat  down  by  the  side  of  that  old  man, 
face  to  face  with  the  serene  sunset  ;  and  all  his  fiiends 
came  softly  back  and  stood  around  him.  The  beautiful 
child,  the  handsome  boy,  the  young  man  in  love,  the  fa- 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


1183 


ther,  mother,  and  children  ;  every  one  of  them  was 
there,  and  he  had  lost  nothing.  So  he  loved  them  all, 
and  was  kind  and  forbearing  with  them  all,  and  was  al- 
wavs  pleased  to  watch  them  all,  and  they  all  honoured 
and  loved  him.  And  I  think  the  traveller  must  be  your- 
self, dear  Grandfather,  because  this  is  what  you  do  to 
us,  and  what  we  do  to  you. 


THE  SCHOOLBOY'S  STOEY. 

Being  rather  young  at  present — I  am  getting  on  in 
years,  but  still  I  am  rather  young — I  have  no  particular 
adventures  of  my  own  to  fall  back  upon.    It  wouldn't 
much  interest  anybody  here,  I  suppose,  to  know  what  a  j 
screw  the  Reverend  is,  or  what  a  griffin  she  is,  or  how  | 
they  do  stick  it  into  parents — particularly  hair-cutting,  I 
and  medical  attendance.    One  of  our  fellows  was  charged  | 
in  his  half's  account  twelve  and  sixpence  for  two  pills —  | 
tolerably  profitable  at  six  and  threepence  a-piece,  I  i 
should  think — and  he  never  took  them  either,  but  put  j 
them  up  the  sleeve  of  his  jacket.  | 

As  to  the  beef,  it's  shameful.  It's  not  beef.  Regular  \ 
beef  isn't  veins.  You  can  chew  regular  beef.  Besides 
which,  there's  gravy  to  regular  beef,  and  you  can  never 
see  a  drop  to  ours.  Another  of  our  fellows  went  home 
ill,  and  heard  the  family  doctor  tell  his  father  that  he 
couldn't  account  for  his  complaint  unless  it  was  the  beer. 
Of  course  it  was  the  beer,  and  well  it  might  be  ! 

However,  beef  and  Old  Cheeseman  are  tsvo  different 
things.  So  is  beer.  It  was  Old  Cheeseman  I  meant  to 
tell  about  ;  not  the  manner  in  which  our  fellows  get 
their  constitutions  destroyed  for  the  sake  of  profit. 

Why,  look  at  the  pie-crust  alone.  There's  no  flakiness 
in  it.  It's  solid — like  damp  lead.  Then  oar  fellows  get 
nightmares,  and  are  bolstered  for  calling  out  and  waking 
other  fellows.    Who  can  wonder  ! 

Old  Cheeseman  one  night  walked  in  his  sleep,  put  his 
hat  on  over  his  night-cap,  got  hold  of  a  fishing-rod  and  a 
cricket  bat,  and  went  down  into  the  parlour,  where  they 
naturally  thought  from  his  appearance  he  was  a  Ghost. 
Why,  he  never  would  have  done  that,  if  his  meals  had 
been  wholesome.  When  Ave  all  begin  to  walk  in  our 
sleeps,  I  suppose  they'll  be  sorry  for  it. 

Old  Cheeseman  wasn't  second  Latin  Master  then  ;  he 
was  a  fellow  himself.  He  was  first  brought  there,  very 
small,  in  a  post-chaise,  by  a  woman  who  was  always  tak- 
ing snuff  and  shaking  him — and  that  was  the  most  he 
remembered  about  it.  He  never  went  home  for  the  hol- 
idays. His  accounts  (he  never  learnt  any  extras)  were 
sent  to  a  Bank,  and  the  Bank  paid  them  ;  and  he  had  a 
brown  suit  twice  a-year  and  went  into  boots  at  twelve. 
They  were  always  too  big  for  him,  too. 

In  the  Midsummer  holidays,  some  of  our  fellows  who 
lived  within  walking  distance,  used  to  come  back  and 
climb  the  trees  outside  the  playground  wall,  on  purpose 
to  look  at  Old  Cheeseman  reading  there  by  himself.  He 
was  always  as  mild  as  the  tea — and  thafs  pretty  mild,  I 
should  hope  ! — so  when  they  whistled  to  him,  he  looked 
up  and  nodded  ;  and  when  they  said  "  Hallo  Old  Cheese- 
man, what  have  you  had  for  dinner?"  he  said  "Boiled 
mutton;"  and  when  they  said  "An't  it  solitary,  Old 
Cheeseman  ! "  he  said  "It  is  a  little  dull,  sometimes  ;  " 
and  then  they  said  "  Well,  good  bye,  Old  Cheeseman  ! " 
and  climbed  down  again.  Of  course  it  was  imposing  on 
Old  Cheeseman  to  give  him  nothing  but  boiled  mutton 
through  a  whole  Vacation,  but  that  was  just  like  the 
system.  When  they  didn't  give  him  boiled  mutton  they 
gave  him  rice  pudding,  pretending  it  was  a  treat.  And 
saved  the  butcher. 

So  Old  Cheeseman  went  on.  The  holidays  brought 
him  into  other  trouble  besides  the  loneline.ss  ;  because 
when  the  fellows  began  to  come  back,  not  wanting  to,  he 
was  always  glad  to  see  them  :  which  was  aggravating 
when  they  were  not  glad  at  all  to  see  him,  and  so  he  got 
his  head  knocked  against  walls,  and  that  was  the  way  his 
nose  bled.  But  he  was  a  favourite  in  general.  Once,  a 
subscription  was  raised  for  him  ;  and  to  keep  up  his 
spirits,  he  was  presented  before  the  holidays  with  two 
white  mice,  a  rabbit,  a  pigeon,  and  a  beautiful  puppy. 


Old  Cheeseman  cried  about  it— especially  soon  after- 
wards, when  they  all  ate  one  another. 

Of  course  Old  Cheeseman  used  to  be  called  by  the 
names  of  all  sorts  of  cheeses — Double  Glo'sterman,  Fam- 
ily Cheshireman,  Dutchman,  North  Wiltshireman,  and 
all  that.  But  he  never  minded  it.  And  I  don't  mean  to 
say  he  was  old  in  point  of  years — because  he  wasn't — 
only  he  was  called,  from  the  first.  Old  Cheeseman. 

At  last.  Old  Cheeseman  was  made  second  Latin  Master, 
He  was  brought  in  one  morning  at  the  beginning  of  a 
new  half,  and  presented  to  the  school  in  that  capacity  as 
"Mr.  Cheeseman."  Then  our  fellows  all  agreed  that 
Old  Cheeseman  was  a  spy,  and  a  deserter,  who  had  gone 
over  to  the  enemy's  camp,  and  sold  himself  for  gold.  It 
was  no  excuse  for  him  that  he  had  sold  himself  for  very 
little  gold — two  pound  ten  a  quarter  and  his  washing,  as 
was  reported.  It  was  decided  by  a  Parliament  which  sat 
about  it,  that  Old  Cheeseman's  mercenary  motives  could 
alone  be  taken  into  account,  and  that  he  had  "  coined  our 
blood  for  drachmas."  The  Parliament  took  the  expres- 
sion out  of  the  quarrel  scene  between  Brutus  and  Cas- 
sius. 

W^lien  it  was  settled  in  this  strong  way  that  Old  Cheese- 
man was  a  tremendous  traitor,  who  had  wormed  himself 
into  our  fellows'  secrets  on  purpose  to  get  himself  into 
favour  by  giving  up  everything  that  he  knew,  all  cour- 
ageous fellows  were  invited  to  come  forward  and  enroll 
themselves  in  a  Society  for  making  a  set  against  him. 
The  President  of  the  Society  was  First  boy,  named  Bob 
Tartar.  His  father  was  in  the  West  Indies,  and  he 
owned,  himself,  that  his  father  was  worth  Millions.  He 
had  great  power  among  our  fellows,  and  he  wrote  a 
parody,  beginning, 

"  Who  made  believe  to  be  so  meek 
That  we  could  hardly  liear  him  speak, 
Yet  turned  out  an  Informing  Sneak  ? 

Old  Cheeseman." 

— and  on  in  that  way  through  more  than  a  dozen  verses, 
which  he  used  to  go  and  sing,  every  morning,  close  by 
the  new  master's  desk.  He  trained  one  of  the  low  boys 
too,  a  rosy-cheeked  little  Brass  who  didn't  care  what  he 
did,  to  go  up  to  him  with  his  Latin  Grammar  one  morn- 
ing, and  say  so  : — Nominatimis  pronominum — Old  Cheese- 
man, raro  exprimitur — was  never  suspected,  nisi  distinc- 
tionis — of  being  an  informer,  aut  emphasis  gratia — until 
he  proved  one.  Ut — for  instance,  V os  damnastis — when 
he  sold  the  boys.  Quasi — as  though,  dicat — he  should 
say,  Pretcerea  nemo — I'm  a  Judas  !  All  this  produced  a 
great  effect  on  Old  Cheeseman.  He  had  never  had  much 
hair  ;  but  what  he  had  began  to  get  thinner  and  thinner 
every  day.  He  grew  paler  and  more  worn ;  and  some- 
times of  an  evening  he  was  seen  sitting  at  his  desk  with 
a  precious  long  snuff  to  his  candle,  and  his  hands  before 
his  face  crying.  But  no  member  of  the  Society  could 
pity  him,  even  if  he  felt  inclined,  because  the  President 
said  it  was  Old  Cheeseman's  conscience. 

So  Old  Cheeseman  went  on,  and  didn't  he  lead  a  miser- 
able life  !  Of  course  the  Reverend  turned  up  his  nose 
at  him,  and  of  course  she  did — because  both  of  them 
always  do  that,  at  all  the  masters — but  he  suffered  from 
the  fellows  most,  and  he  suffered  from  them  constantly. 
He  never  told  about  it  that  the  Society  could  find  out  ; 
but  he  got  no  credit  for  that,  because  the  President  said 
it  was  Old  Cheeseman's  cowardice. 

He  had  only  one  friend  in  the  world,  and  that  one  was 
almost  as  powerless  as  he  was,  for  it  was  only  Jane. 
Jane  was  a  sort  of  wardrobe-woman  to  our  fellows,  and 
took  care  of  the  boxes.  She  had  come  at  first,  I  believe, 
as  a  kind  of  apprentice — some  of  our  fellows  say  from  a 
Charity,  but  /  don't  know — and  after  her  time  was  out, 
had  stopped  at  so  much  a  year.  So  little  a  year,  perhaps 
I  ought  to  say,  for  it  is  far  more  likely.  However,  she 
had  put  some  pounds  in  the  Savings'  Bank,  and  she  was 
a  very  nice  young  woman.  She  was  not  quite  pretty  ; 
but  she  had  a  frank,  honest,  bright  face,  and  all'  our 
fellows  were  fond  of  her.  She  was  uncommonly  neat 
and  cheerful,  and  uncommonly  comfortable  and  kind. 
And  if  anything  was  the  matter  with  a  fellow's  mother, 
he  always  went  and  showed  the  letter  to  Jane. 

Jane  was  Old  Cheeseman's  friend.  The  more  the  So- 
ciety went  against  him,  the  more  Jane  stood  by  him. 


1184 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


She  used  to  give  him  a  good-humoured  look  out  of  her 
still-room  window,  sometimes,  that  seemed  to  set  him  up 
for  the  day.  She  used  to  pass  out  of  the  orchard  and 
the  kitchen-garden  (always  kept  locked,  I  believe  you  !) 
though  the  play-ground,  when  she  might  have  gone  the 
other  way,  only  to  give  a  turn  of  her  head,  as  much  as  to 
say  "Keep  up  your  spirits  !"  to  Old  Cheeseman.  His 
slip  of  a  room  was  so  fresh  and  orderly,  that  it  was  well 
known  who  looked  after  it  while  he  was  at  his  desk  ;  and 
when  our  fellows  saw  a  smoking  hot  dumpling  on  his 
plate  at  dinner,  they  knew  with  indignation  who  had 
sent  it  up. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  Society  resolved,  after 
a  quantity  of  meeting  and  debating,  that  Jane  should  be 
requested  to  cut  Old  Cheeseman  dead  ;  and  that  if  she 
refused  she  must  be  sent  to  Coventry  herself.  So  a 
deputation,  headed  by  the  President,  was  appointed  to 
wait  on  Jane,  and  inform  her  of  the  vote  the  Society  had 
been  under  the  painful  necessity  of  passing.  She  was 
very  much  respected  for  all  her  good  qualities,  and  there 
was  a  story  about  her  having  once  waylaid  the  Reverend 
in  his  own  study  and  got  a  fellow  off  from  severe  punish- 
ment, of  her  own  kind  comfortable  heart.  So  the  depu- 
tation didn't  much  like  the  job.  Howev^er,  they  went 
up,  and  the  President  told  Jane  all  about  it.  Upon  which 
Jane  turned  very  red,  burst  into  tears,  informed  the 
President  and  the  deputation,  in  a  way  not  at  all  like 
her  usual  way,  that  they  were  a  parcel  of  malicious 
young  savages,  and  turned  the  whole  respected  body  out 
of  the  room.  Consequently  it  was  entered  in  the  Socie- 
ty's book  (kept  in  astronomical  cypher  for  fear  of  detec- 
tion), that  all  communication  with  Jane  was  interdicted  ; 
and  the  President  addressed  the  members  on  this  con- 
vincing instance  of  Old  Cheeseman's  undermining. 

But  Jane  was  as  true  to  Old  Cheeseman  as  Old  Cheese- 
man was  false  to  our  fellows — in  their  opinion  at  all 
events — and  steadily  continued  to  be  his  only  friend.  It 
was  a  great  exasperation  to  the  Society,  because  Jane 
was  as  much  a  loss  to  them  as  she  was  a  gain  to  him  ; 
and  being  more  inveterate  against  him  than  ever,  they 
treated  him  worse  than  ever.  At  last,  one  morning,  his 
desk  stood  empty,  his  room  was  peeped  into  and  found 
to  be  vacant,  and  a  whisper  went  about  among  the  pale 
faces  of  our  fellows  that  Old  Cheeseman,  unable  to  bear 
it  any  longer,  got  up  early  and  drowned  himself. 

The  mysterious  looks  of  the  other  masters  after  break- 
fast, and  the  evident  fact  that  Old  Cheeseman  was  not 
expected,  confirmed  the  Society  in  this  opinion.  Some 
began  to  discuss  whether  the  President  was  liable  to 
hanging  or  only  transportation  for  life,  and  the  Presi- 
dent's face  showed  a  great  anxiety  to  know  which. 
However,  he  said  that  a  jury  of  his  country  should  find 
him  game  ;  and  that  in  his  address  he  should  put  it  to 
them  to  lay  their  hands  upon  their  hearts,  and  say 
whether  they  as  Britons  approved  of  informers,  and  how 
they  thought  they  would  like  it  themselves.  Some 
of  the  Society  considered  that  he  had  better  run  away 
until  he  found  a  forest,  where  he  might  change  clothes 
with  a  wood-cutter  and  stain  his  face  with  blackberries ; 
but  the  majority  believed  that  if  he  stood  his  ground, 
his  father — belonging  as  he  did  to  the  West  Indies,  and 
being  worth  Millions — could  buy  him  off. 

All  our  fellows'  hearts  beat  fast  when  the  Reverend 
came  in,  and  made  a  sort  of  a  Roman,  or  a  Field  Marshal, 
of  himself  with  the  ruler  ;  as  he  always  did  before  de- 
livering an  address.  But  their  fears  were  nothing  to 
their  astonishment  when  he  came  out  with  the  story  that 
Old  Cheeseman,  so  long  our  respected  friend  and  fellow- 
pilgrim  in  the  pleasant  plains  of  knowledge,"  he  called 
him — 0  yes  !  I  dare  say  !  Much  of  that  I — was  the  orphan 
child  of  a  disinherited  young  lady  who  had  married 
against  her  father's  wish,  and  whose  young  husband  had 
died,  and  who  had  died  of  sorrow  herself,  and  whose 
unfortunate  baby  (Old  Cheeseman)  had  been  brought  up 
at  the  cose  of  a  grandfather  who  would  never  consent  to 
see  it,  baby,  boy,  or  man  :  which  grandfather  was  now 
dead,  and  serve  him  right — that's  viy  putting  in — and 
which  grandfather's  large  property,  there  being  no  will, 
was  now,  and  all  of  a  sudden  and  for  ever,  Old  Cheese- 
man's  !  Our  so  long  and  respected  friend  and  fellow- 
pilgrim  in  the  x)leasant  plains  of  knowledge,  the  Rever- 
end wound  up  a  lot,  of  bothering  quotations  by  saying, 


would  "come  among  us  once  more"  that  day  fortnight, 
when  he  desired  to  take  leave  of  us  himself  in  a  more 
particular  manner.  With  these  words  he  stared  severely 
round  at  our  fellows,  and  went  solemnly  out. 

There  was  precious  consternation  among  the  members 
of  the  Society,  now.  Lots  of  them  wanted  to  resign,  and 
lots  more  began  to  try  to  make  out  that  they  had  never 
belonged  to  it.  However,  the  President  stuck  up,  and 
said  tliat  they  must  stand  or  fall  together,  and  that  if  a 
breach  was  made  it  should  be  over  his  body — which  was 
meant  to  encourage  the  Society  :  but  it  didn't.  The 
President  further  said,  he  would  consider  the  position  in 
which  they  stood,  and  would  give  them  his  best  opinion 
and  advice  in  a  few  days.  This  was  eagerly  looked  for, 
as  he  knew  a  good  deal  of  the  world  on  account  of  his 
father's  being  in  the  West  Indies. 

After  days  and  days  of  hard  thinking,  and  drawing 
armies  all  over  his  slate,  the  President  called  our  fellows 
together,  and  made  the  matter  clear.  He  said  it  was 
plain  that  when  Old  Cheeseman  came  on  the  appointed 
day,  his  first  revenge  would  be  to  impeach  the  Society, 
and  have  it  flogged  all  round.  After  witnessing  with 
joy  the  torture  of  his  enemies,  and  gloating  over  the 
cries  which  agony  would  extort  from  them,  the  probabil- 
ity was  that  he  would  invite  the  Reverend,  on  pretence 
of  conversation,  into  a  private  room — say  the  parlour 
into  which  Parents  were  shown,  where  the  two  great 
globes  were  which  were  never  used — and  would  there 
reproach  him  with  the  various  frauds  and  oppressions 
he  had  endured  at  his  hands.  At  the  close  of  his  obser- 
vations he  would  make  a  signal  to  a  Prizefighter  concealed 
in  the  pass.age,  who  would  then  appear  and  pitch  into 
the  Reverend  till  he  was  left  insensible.  Old  Cheeseman 
would  then  make  Jane  a  present  of  from  five  to  ten 
pounds,  and  would  leave  the  establishment  in  fiendish 
triumph  ! 

The  President  explained  that  against  the  parlour  part, 
or  the  Jane  part,  of  these  arrangements  he  had  nothing 
to  say,  but,  on  the  part  of  the  Society,  he  counselled 
deadly  resistance.  With  this  view  he  recommended  that 
all  avaOable  desks  should  be  filled  with  stones,  and  that 
the  first  word  of  the  complaint  should  be-  the  signal  to 
every  fellow  to  let  fly  at  Old  Cheeseman.  The  bold  ad- 
vice put  the  Society  in  better  spirits,  and  was  unani- 
mously taken.  A  post  about  Cheeseman's  size  was  put 
up  in  the  playground,  and  all  our  fellows  practised  at  it 
till  it  was  dinted  all  over. 

When  the  day  came,  and  Places  were  called,  every 
fellow  sat  down  in  a  tremble.  There  had  been  much 
discussing  and  disputing  as  to  how  Old  Cheeseman  would 
come  ;  but  it  was  the  general  opinion  that  he  would 
appear  in  a  sort  of  triumphal  car  drawn  by  four  horses, 
with  two  livery  servants  in  front,  and  the  Prizefighter 
in  disguise  up  behind.  So,  all  our  fellows  sat  listening 
for  the  sound  of  wheels.  But  no  wheels  were  heard, 
for  Old  Cheeseman  walked  after  all,  and  came  into  the 
school  without  any  preparation.  Pretty  much  as  he  used 
to  be,  only  dressed  in  black. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  Reverend,  presenting  him, 
"our  so  long  respected  friend  and  fellow-pilgrim  in  the 
pleasant  plains  of  knowledge,  is  desirous  to  offer  a  word 
or  two.    Attention,  gentlemen,  one  and  all." 

Every  fellow  stole  his  hand  into  his  desk  and  looked 
at  the  President.  The  President  was  all  ready,  and  taking 
aim  at  Old  Cheeseman  with  his  eyes. 

What  did  old  Cheeseman  then,  but  walk  up  to  his  old 
desk,  look  around  him  with  a  queer  smile  as  if  there 
was  a  tear  in  his  eye,  and  begin  in  a  quavering  mild  voice, 
"  My  dear  companions  and  old  friends  ! " 

Every  fellow's  hand  came  out  of  his  desk,  and  the 
President  suddenly  began  to  cry. 

"  My  dear  companions  and  old  friends,"  said  Old 
Cheeseman,  "you  have  heard  of  my  good  fortune.  I  have 
passed  so  many  years  under  this  roof — my  entire  life  so 
far,  I  may  say — that  I  hope  you  have  been  glad  to  hear 
of  it  for  my  sake.  I  could  never  enjoy  it  without  ex- 
changing congratulations  with-  you.  If  we  have  ever 
misunderstood  one  another  at  all,  pray  my  dear  boys  let 
us  forgive  and  forget.  I  have  a  great  tenderness  for  you, 
and  I  am  sure  you  return  it.  I  want  in  the  fullness  of  a 
grateful  heart  to  shake  hands  with  you  every  one.  I 
have  come  back  to  do  it,  if  you  please,  my  dear  boys." 


REPRINTED  PIECES, 


1185 


Since  tlie  President  had  begun  to  cry,  several  other 
fellows  had  broken  out  here  and  there  :  but  now,  when 
Old  Cheeseman  began  with  him  as  first  boy,  laid  his  left 
hand  affectionately  on  his  shoulder  and  gave  him  his 
right  ;  and  when  the  President  said  "  Indeed  I  don't  de- 
serve it,  sir;  upon  my  honour  I  don't  there  was  sob- 
bing and  crying  all  over  the  school.  Every  other  fellow 
said  he  didn't  deserve  it,  much  in  the  same  way  ;  but 
Old  Cheeseman,  not  minding  that  a  bit,  went  cheerfully 
round  to  every  boy,  and  wound  up  with  every  master — 
finishing  off  the  Reverend  last. 

Then  a  snivelling  little  chap  in  a  corner,  who  was  al- 
ways under  some  punishment  or  other,  set  up  a  shrill 
cry  of  "Success  to  Old  Cheeseman!  Hooray!"  The 
Reverend  glared  upon  him,  and  said,  "Mr.  Cheeseman, 
Sir."  But,  Old  Cheeseman  protesting  that  he  liked  his 
old  name  a  great  deal  better  than  his  new  one,  all  our 
fellows  took  up  the  cry  ;  and,  for  I  don't  know  how 
many  minutes,  there  was  such  a  thundering  of  feet  and 
hands,  and  such  a  roaring  of  Old  Cheeseman,  as  never 
was  heard. 

After  that,  there  was  a  spread  in  the  dining-room  of 
the  most  magnificent  kind.  Fowls,  tongues,  preserves, 
fruits,  confectioneries,  jollies,  neguses,  barley-sugar 
temples,  trifles,  crackers — eat  all  you  can  and  pocket 
what  you  like — all  at  Old  Cheeseman's  expense.  After 
that,  speeches,  whole  holiday,  double  and  treble  sets  of 
all  manners  of  things  for  all  manners  of  games,  donkeys, 
pony-chaises  and  drive  yourself,  dinner  for  all  the 
masters  at  the  Seven  Bells  (twenty  pounds  a-head  our 
fellows  estimated  it  at),  an  annual  holiday  and  feast 
fixed  for  that  day  every  year,  and  another  on  Old  Cheese- 
man's  birthday — Reverend  bound  down  before  the  fellows 
to  allow  it,  so  that  he  could  never  back  out — all  at  -old 
Cheeseman's  expense. 

And  didn't  oar  fellows  go  down  in  a  body  and  cheer 
outside  the  Seven  Bells  ?   O  no  I 

But  there's  something  else  besides.  Don't  look  at  the 
next  story-teller,  for  there's  more  yet.  Next  day,  it  was 
resolved  that  the  Society  should  make  it  up  with  J aue,  and 
then  be  dissolved .  What  do  you  think  of  Jane  being  gone, 
though.  "What?  Gone  for  ever?"  said  our  fellows, 
with  long  faces.  "Yes,  to  be  sure,"  was  all  the  answer 
they  could  get.  None  of  the  people  about  the  house 
would  say  anything  more.  At  length,  the  first  boy  took 
upon  himself  to  ask  the  Reverend  whether  our  old  friend 
Jane  was  really  gone?  The  Reverend  (he  has  got  a 
daughter  at  home — tarn-up  nose  and  red)  replied  severe- 
ly, "Yes,  sir,  Miss  Pitt  is  gone."  The  idea  of  calling 
Jane,  Miss  Pitt  !  Some  said  she  had  been  sent  away  in 
disgrace  for  taking  money  from  Old  Cheeseman  ;  others 
said  that  she  had  gone  into  Old  Cheeseman's  service  at 
a  rise  of  ten  pounds  a  year.  All  that  our  fellows  knew, 
was,  she  was  gone. 

It  was  two  or  three  months  afterwards,  when,  one 
afternoon,  an  open  carriage  stopped  at  the  cricket  field, 
just  outside  bounds,  with  a  lady  and  gentleman  in  it, 
who  looked  at  the  game  a  long  time  and  stood  up  to  see 
it  played.  Nobody  thought  much  about  them,  until  the 
same  little  snivelling  chap  came  in  against  all  rules,  from 
the  post  where  he  was  Scout,  and  said,  "It's  Jane?" 
Both  Elevens  forgot  the  game  directly,  and  ran  crowding 
round  the  carriage.  Tt.  '>ras  J'l no  i  In  such  a  bonnet !  And 
if  you'll  believe  me,  Jane  was  married  to  Old  Cheeseman. 

It  soon  became  quite  a  regular  thing  when  our  fellows 
were  hard  at  it  in  the  playground,  to  see  a  carriage  at 
the  low  part  of  the  wall  where  it  joins  the  high  part, 
and  a  lady  and  gentleman  standing  up  in  it,  looking 
over.  The  gentleman  was  always  Old  Cheeseman,  and 
the  lady  was  always  Jane. 

The  first  time  I  ever  saw  them,  I  saw  them  in  that 
way.  There  had  been  a  good  many  changes  among  our 
fellows  then,  and  it  had  turned  out  that  Bob  Tartar's 
father  wasn't  worth  Millions  !  He  wasn't  worth  any- 
thing. Bob  had  gone  for  a  soldier,  and  Old  Cheeseman 
had  purchased  his  discharge.  But  that's  not  the  car- 
riage. The  carriage  stopped,  and  all  our  fellows  stopped 
as  soon  as  it  was  seen. 

"So  you  have  never  sent  me  to  Coventry  after  all  !  " 
said  the  lady,  laughing,  as  our  fellows  swarmed  up  the 
wall  to  shake  liands  with  her.  "  Are  vou  never  going 
to  do  it  ?  " 

Vol.  II.— 75 


"  Never  !  never  I  never  I "  on  all  sides. 

I  didn't  understand  what  she  meant  then,  but  of  course 
I  do  now.  I  was  very  much  pleased  with  her  face  though, 
and  with  her  good  way,  and  I  couldn't  help  looking  at 
her — and  at  him  too — with  all  our  fellows  clustering  so 
joyfully  about  them. 

They  took  notice  of  mc  as  a  new  boy,  so  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  swarm  up  the  wall  myself,  and  shake 
hands  with  them  as  the  rest  did.  I  was  quite  as  glad  to 
see  them  as  the  rest  were,  and  was  quite  as  familiar  with 
them  in  a  moment. 

"Only  a  fortnight  now,"  said  Old  Cheeseman,  "to 
the  holidays.    Who  stops?  Anybody?" 

A  good  many  fingers  x)ointed  at  me,  and  a  good  many 
voices  cried,  "  He  does  I"  for  it  was  the  year  when  you 
were  all  away  ;  and  rather  low  I  was  about  it,  I  can  tell 
you. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Old  Cheeseman.  "  But  it's  solitary  here 
in  the  holiday  time.    He  had  better  come  to  us." 

So  I  went  to  their  delightful  house,  and  was  as  happy 
as  I  could  possibly  be.  Tliey  understand  how  to  con- 
duct themselves  towards  boys,  they  do.  When  they 
take  a  boy  to  the  play,  for  instance,  they  do  take  him. 
They  don't  go  in  after  it's  begun,  or  come  out  before  its 
over.  They  know  how  to  bring  a  boy  up,  too.  Look  at 
their  own  !  Though  he  is  very  little  as  yet,  what  a  capi- 
tal boy  he  is  !  Why,  my  next  favourite  to  Mrs.  Cheese- 
man and  Old  Cheeseman,  is  young  Cheeseman. 

So,  now  I  have  told  you  all  about  Old  Cheeseman.  And 
it's  not  much  after  all,  I  am  afraid.    Is  it? 


NOBODY^S  STORY. 

He  lived  on  the  bank  of  a  mighty  river,  broad  and 
deep,  which  was  always  silently  rolling  on  to  a  va.st  un- 
discovered ocean.  It  had  rolled  on,  ever  since  the  world 
began.  It  had  changed  its  course  sometimes,  and  turned 
into  new  channels,  leaving  his  old  ways  dry  and  barren  ; 
but  it  had  ever  been  upon  the  flow,  and  ever  was  to  flow 
until  Time  should  be  no  more.  Against  its  strong,  un- 
fathomable stream,  nothing  made  head.  No  living  crea- 
ture, no  flower,  no  leaf,  no  particle  of  animate  or  inani- 
mate existence,  ever  strayed  back  from  the  undiscovered 
ocean.  The  tide  of  the  river  set  resistlessly  towards  it ; 
and  the  tide  never  stopped,  any  more  than  the  earth 
stops  in  its  circling  round  the  sun. 

He  lived  in  a  busy  place,  and  he  worked  very  hard  to 
live.  He  had  no  hope  of  ever  being  rich  enough  to  live 
a  month  without  hard  work,  but  he  was  quite  content, 
God  knows,  to  labour  with  a  cheerful  will.  He  was 
one  of  an  immense  family,  all  of  whose  sous  and  daugh- 
ters gained  their  daily  bread  by  daily  work,  prolonged 
from  their  rising  up  betimes  until  their  lying  down  at 
night.  Beyond  this  destiny  he  had  no  prospect,  and  he 
sought  none. 

There  was  over-much  drumming,  trumpeting,  and 
speechmaking,  in  the  neighbourhood  where  he  dwelt ; 
but  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  that.  Such  clash  and 
uproar  came  from  the  Bigwig  family,  at  the  unaccount- 
able proceedings  of  which  race,  he  marvelled  much. 
They  set  up  the  strangest  statues,  in  iron,  marble, 
bronze,  and  brass,  before  his  door  ;  and  darkened  his 
house  with  the  legs  and  tails  of  uncouth  images  of 
horses.  He  wondered  what  it  all  meant,  smiled  in  a 
rough  good-humoured  way  he  had,  and  kept  at  his  hard 
work. 

The  Bigwig  family  (composed  of  all  the  stateliest  peo- 
ple thereabouts,  and  all  the  noisiest)  had  undertaken 
to  save  him  the  trouble  of  thinking  for  himself,  and  to 
j  manage  him  and  his  affairs.    "Why  truly,"  said  he, 
I  "  I  have  little  time  upon  my  hands  ;  and  if  you  will  be 
I  so  good  as  to  take  care  of  me,  in  return  for  the  money  I 
pay  over  " — for  the  Bigwig  family  were  not  above  his 
money — "I  shall  be  relieved  and  much  obliged,  consid- 
ering that  you  know  best."   Hence  the  drumming,  trum- 
peting, and  speechmaking  and  the  ugly  images  of  horses 
which  he  was  expected  to  fall  down  and  worship. 

"I  don't  understand  all  this,"  said  he,  rubbing  his 
furrowed  brow  confusedly.  "  But  it  has  a  meaning, 
maybe,  if  I  could  find  it  out." 


1186 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS 


"  It  means,"  returned  the  Bigwig  family,  suspecting 
something  of  what  he  said,  "  honour  and  glory  in  the 
highest,  to  the  highest  merit." 

"Oh  !  "  said  he.    And  he  was  glad  to  hear  that. 

But,  when  he  looked  among  the  images  in  iron, 
marble,  bronze,  and  brass,  he  failed  to  find  a  rather 
meritorious  countryman  of  his,  once  the  son  of  a  War- 
wickshire wooldealer,  or  any  single  countryman  whom- 
soever of  that  kind.  He  could  find  none  of  the  men 
whose  knowledge  had  rescued  him  and  his  children 
from  terrific  and  disfiguring  disease,  whose  boldness  had 
raised  his  forefathers  from  the  condition  of  serfs,  whose 
wise  fancy  had  opened  a  new  and  high  existence  to  the 
humblest,  whose  skill  had  filled  the  working  man's 
world  with  accumulated  wonders.  Whereas,  he  did  find 
others  whom  he  knew  no  good  of,  and  even  others  whom 
he  knew  much  ill  of. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  he.    "I  don't  quite  understand  it." 

So  he  went  home,  and  sat  down  by  his  fire-side  to  get 
it  out  of  his  mind. 

Now,  his  fire-side  was  a  bare  one,  all  hemmed  in  by 
blackened  streets  ;  but  it  was  a  precious  place  to  him. 
The  hands  of  his  wife  were  hardened  with  toil,  and  she 
was  old  before  her  time  ;  but  she  was  dear  to  him.  His 
children,  stunted  in  their  growth,  bore  traces  of  un- 
wholesome nurture  ;  but  they  had  beauty  in  his  sight. 
Above  all  other  things,  it  was  an  earnest  desire  of  this 
man's  soul  that  his  children  should  be  taught.  "  If  I 
am  sometimes  misled,"  said  he,  "  for  want  of  knowledge, 
at  least  let  them  know  better,  and  avoid  my  mistakes. 
If  it  is  hard  to  me  to  reap  the  harvest  of  pleasure  and  in- 
struction that  is  stored  in  books,  let  it  be  easier  to 
them." 

But,  the  Bigwig  family  broke  out  into  violent  family 
quarrels  concerning  what  it  was  lawful  to  teach  to  this 
man's  children.  Some  of  the  family  insisted  on  such  a 
thing  being  primary  and  indispensable  above  all  other 
things  ;  and  others  of  the  family  insisted  on  such  another 
thing  being  primary  and  indispensable  above  all  other 
things  ;  and  the  Bigwig  family,  rent  into  factions,  wrote 
pamphlets,  held  convocations,  delivered  charges,  ora- 
tions, and  all  varieties  of  discourses  ;  impounded  one 
another  in  courts  Lay  and  courts  Ecclesiastical  ;  threw 
dirt,  exchanged  pummelings,  and  fell  together  by  the 
ears  in  unintelligible  animosity.  Meanwhile,  this  man, 
in  his  short  evening  snatches  at  his  fire -side,  saw  the 
demon  Ignorance  arise  there,  and  take  his  children  to 
itself.  He  saw  his  daughter  perverted  into  a  heavy 
slatternly  drudge ;  he  saw  his  son  go  moping  down  the 
ways  of  low  sensuality,  to  brutality  and  crime  ;  he  saw 
the  dawning  light  of  intelligence  in  the  eyes  of  his 
babies  so  changing  into  cunning  and  suspicion,  that  he 
could  have  rather  wished  them  idiots. 

"I  don't  understand  this  any  the  better,"  said  he; 
"  but  I  think  it  cannot  be  right.  Nay,  by  the  clouded 
Heaven  above  me,  I  protest  against  this  as  my  wrong  ! " 

Becoming  peaceable  again  (for  his  passion  was  usually 
short-lived,  and  his  nature  kind),  he  looked  about  him 
on  his  Sundays  and  holidays,  and  he  saw  how  much 
monotony  and  weariness  there  was,  and  thence  how 
drunkenness  arose  with  all  its  train  of  ruin.  Then  he 
appealed  to  the  Bigwig  family,  and  said,  "  We  are  a 
labouring  people,  and  I  have  a  glimmering  suspicion  in 
me  that  labouring  people  of  whatever  condition  were 
made — by  a  higher  intelligence  than  yours,  as  I  poorly 
understand  it — to  be  in  need  of  mental  refreshment  and 
recreation.  See  what  we  fall  into,  when  we  rest  with- 
out it.  Come  !  amuse  me  harmlessly,  show  me  some- 
thing, give  me  an  escape  !" 

But,  here  the  Bigwig  family  fell  into  a  state  of  uproar 
absolutely  deafening.  When  some  few  voices  were 
faintly  heard,  proposing  to  show  him  the  wonders  of  the 
world,  the  greatness  of  creation,  the  mighty  changes  of 
time,  the  workings  of  nature  and  the  beauties  of  art — to 
show  him  these  things,  that  is  to  say,  at  any  period  of 
his  life  when  he  could  look  upon  them — there  arose 
among  the  Bigwigs  such  roaring  and  raving,  such  pul- 
piting  and  petitioning,  such  maundering  and  memorial- 
ising, such  name-calling  and  dirt-throwing,  such  a  shrill 
wind  of  i)arliamentary  questioning  and  feeble  replying — 
where  "  I  dare  not"  waited  on  I  would" — that  the 
poor  fellow  stood  aghast,  staring  wildly  around. 


^  "  Have  I  provoked  all  this,"  said  he,  with  his  hands  to 
his  affrighted  ears,  "by  what  was  meant  to  be  an  inno- 
cent request,  plainly  arising  out  of  my  familiar  experi- 
ence, and  the  common  knowledge  of  all  men  who  choose 
to  open  their  eyes?  I  don't  understand,  and  I  am 
not  understood.  What  is  to  come  of  such  a  state  of 
things  ! " 

He  was  bending  over  his  work,  often  asking  himself 
the  question,  when  the  news  began  to  spread  that  a  pes- 
tilence had  appeared  among  the  labourers,  and  was  slay- 
ing them  by  thousands.  Going  forth  to  look  about  him, 
he  soon  found  this  to  be  true.  The  dying  and  the  dead 
were  mingled  in  the  close  and  tainted  houses  among 
which  his  life  was  passed.  New  poison  was  distilled 
into  the  always  murky,  always  sickening  air.  The 
robust  and  the  weak,  old  age  and  infancy,  the  father  and 
the  mother,  all  were  stricken  down  alike. 

What  means  of  flight  had  he?  He  remained  there, 
where  he  was,  and  saw  those  who  were  dearest  to  him 
die.  A  kind  preacher  came  to  him,  and  would  have  said 
some  prayers  to  soften  his  heart  in  his  gloom,  but  he  re- 
plied : 

"O  what  avails  it,  missionary,  to  come  to  me,  a  man 
condemned  to  residence  in  this  foetid  place,  where  every 
sense  bestowed  upon  me  for  my  delight  becomes  a  tor- 
ment, and  where  every  minute  of  my  numbered  days  is 
new  mire  added  to  the  heap  under  which  I  lie  oppressed  ! 
But,  give  me  my  first  glimpse  of  Heaven,  through  a 
little  of  its  light  and  air  ;  give  me  pure  water  ;  help  me 
to  be  clean  ;  lighten  this  heavy  atmosphere  and  heavy 
life,  in  which  our  spirits  sink,  and  we  become  the  indif- 
ferent and  callous  creatures  3'ou  too  often  see  us  ;  gently 
and  kindly  take  the  bodies  of  those  who  die  among  us, 
out  of  the  small  room  where  we  grow  to  be  so  familiar 
with  the  awful  change  that  even  its  sanctity  is  lost  to 
us  ;  and.  Teacher,  then  I  will  hear — none  know  better 
than  you,  how  willingly — of  Him  whose  thoughts  were 
so  much  with  the  poor,  and  who  had  compassion  for  all 
human  sorrow  ! " 

He  was  at  his  work  again,  solitary  and  sad,  when  his 
Master  came  and  stood  near  to  him  dressed  in  black.  He, 
also,  had  suffered  heavily.  His  young  wife,  his  beauti- 
ful and  good  young  wife,  was  dead  ;  so  too,  his  only 
child. 

"  Master,  'tis  hard  to  bear — I  know  it — but  be  com- 
forted.   I  would  give  you  comfort,  if  I  could." 

The  Master  thanked  him  from  his  heart,  but,  said  he, 
"O  you  labouring  men!  The  calamity  began  among 
you.  If  you  had  but  lived  more  healthily  and  decently, 
I  should  not  be  the  widowed  and  bereft  mourner  thafrl 
am  this  day." 

"Master,"  returned  the  other,  shaking  his  head,  "I 
have  begun  to  understand  a  little  that  most  calamities 
will  come  from  us,  as  this  one  did,  and  that  none  will 
stop  at  our  poor  doors,  until  we  are  united  with  that 
great  squabbling  family  yonder,  to  do  the  things  that  are 
right.  We  cannot  live  healthily  and  decently,  unless 
they  who  undertook  to  manage  us  provide  the  means. 
We  cannot  be  instructed  unless  they  will  teach  us  ;  we 
cannot  be  rationally  amused,  unless  they  will  amuse  us  ; 
we  cannot  but  have  some  false  gods  of  our  own,  while 
they  set  up  so  many  of  theirs  in  all  the  public  places. 
The  evil  consequences  of  imperfect  instruction,  the  evil 
consequences  of  pernicious  neglect,  the  evil  conse- 
quences of  unnatural  restraint  and  the  denial  of  human- 
ising enjoyments,  will  all  come  from  us,  and  none  of 
them  will  stop  with  us.  They  will  spread  far  and  wide. 
They  always  do  ;  they  always  have  done — just  like  the 
pestilence.    I  understand  so  much,  I  think,  at  last." 

But  the  Master  said  again,  "  0  you  labouring  men  ! 
How  seldom  do  we  ever  hear  of  you,  except  in  connec- 
tion with  some  trouble  !  " 

"  Master,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  Nobody,  and  little  likely 
to  be  heard  of  (nor  yet  much  wanted  to  be  heard  of, 
perhaps),  except  when  there  is  some  trouble.  But  it 
never  begins  with  me,  and  it  never  can  end  with  me. 
As  sure  as  Death,  it  comes  down  to  me,  and  it  goes  up 
from  me." 

There  was  so  much  reason  in  what  he  said,  that  the 
Bigwig  family,  getting  wind  of  it,  and  being  horribly 
frightened  by  the  late  desolation,  resolved  to  unite  with 
him  to  do  the  things  that  were  right — at  all  events,  so 


REPRINTED  PIECES. 


1187 


far  as  the  said  things  were  associated  with  the  direct  pre- 
vention, humanly  speaking,  of  another  pestilence.  But, 
as  their  fear  wore  off,  which  it  soon  began  to  do,  they 
resumed  their  falling  out  among  themselves,  and  did 
nothing.  Consequently  the  scourge  appeared  again — low 
down  as  before— and  spread  avengingly  upward  as 
before,  and  carried  off  vast  numbers  of  the  brawlers. 
But  not  a  man  among  them  ever  admitted,  if  in  the  least 
degree  he  ever  perceived,  that  he  had  anything  to  do 
with  it. 

So  Nobody  lived  and  died  in  the  old,  old,  old  way  ; 
and  this,  in  the  main,  is  the  whole  of  Nobody's  story. 

Had  he  no  name,  you  ask  ?  Perhaps  it  was  Legion. 
It  matters  little  what  his  name  was.  Let  us  call  him 
Legion. 

If  you  were  ever  in  the  Belgian  villages  near  the  field 
of  Waterloo,  you  will  have  seen,  in  some  quiet  little 
church,  a  monument  erected  by  faithful  companions  in 
arms  to  the  memory  of  Colonel  A,  Major  B,  Captains  C, 
D,  and  E,  Lieutenants  F,  and  G,  Ensigns  H,  I,  and  J, 
seven  non-commissioned  officers,  and  one  hundred  and 
thirty  rank  and  file,  who  fell  in  the  discharge  of  their 
duty  on  the  memorable  day.  The  story  of  Nobody  is 
the  story  of  the  rank  and  file  of  the  earth.  They  bear 
their  share  of  the  battle  ;  they  have  their  part  in  the 
victory  ;  they  fall ;  they  leave  no  name  but  in  the  mass. 
The  march  of  the  proudest  of  us,  leads  to  the  dusty  way 
by  which  they  go. 


A  MONUMENT  OF  FRENCH  FOLLY. 

It  was  profoundly  observed  by  a  witty  member  of  the 
Court  of  Common  Council,  in  Council  assembled  in  the 
City  of  London,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  fifty,  that  the  French  are  a  frog- 
eating  people,  who  wear  wooden  shoes. 

We  are  credibly  informed,  in  reference  to  the  nation 
whom  this  choice  spirit  so  happily  disposed  of,  that  the 
caricatures  and  stage  representations  \\hich  were  current 
in  England  some  half  a  century  ago,  exactly  depict  their 
present  condition.  For  example,  we  understand  that 
every  Frenchman,  without  exception,  wears  a  pigtail  and 
curl-papers.  That  he  is  extremely  sallow,  thin,  long- 
faced,  and  lantern-jawed.  That  the  calves  of  his  legs 
are  invariably  undeveloped  ;  that  his  legs  fail  at  the 
knees,  and  that  his  shoulders  are  always  higher  than  his 
ears.  We  are  likewise  assured  that  he  rarely  tastes  any 
food  but  soup  maigre,  and  an  onion  ;  that  he  always 
says,  "By  Gar  !  Aha  !  Vat  you  tell  mn,  Sare  ?  "  at  the 
end  of  every  sentence  he  utters  ;  and  that  the  true 
generic  name  of  his  race  is  the  Mounseers,  or  the  Parly- 
voos.  If  he  be  not  a  dancing-master,  or  a  barber,  he 
must  be  a  cook  ;  since  no  other  trades  but  those  three 
are  congenial  to  the  tastes  of  the  people,  or  permitted  by 
the  Institutions  of  the  country.  He  is  a  slave,  of  course. 
The  ladies  of  France  (who  are  also  slaves)  invariably 
have  their  heads  tied  up  in  Belcher  handkerchiefs,  wear 
long  ear-rings,  carry  tambourines,  and  beguile  the  weari- 
ness of  their  yoke  by  singing  in  head  voices  through 
their  noses — principally  to  barrel-organs. 

It  may  be  generally  summed  up,  of  this  inferior  people, 
that  they  have  no  idea  of  anything. 

Of  a  great  Institution  like  Smithfield,  they  are  unable 
to  form  the  least  conception.  A  Beast  Market  in  the 
heart  of  Paris  would  be  regarded  an  impossible  nuisance. 
Nor  have  they  any  notion  of  slaughter-houses  in  the 
midst  of  a  city.  One  of  these  benighted  frog-eaters 
would  scarcely  understand  your  meaning,  if  you  told 
him  of  the  existence  of  such  a  British  bulwark. 

It  is  agreeable,  and  perhaps  pardonable,  to  indulge  in 
a  little  self-complacency  when  our  right  to  it  is  thor- 
oughly established.  At  the  present  time,  to  be  rendered 
memorable  by  a  final  attack  on  that  good  old  market 
which  is  the  (rotton)  apple  of  the  Corporation's  eye,  let 
US-compare  ourselves,  to  our  national  delight  and  pride 
as  to  these  two  subjects  of  slaughter-house  and  beast- 
market,  with  the  outlandish  foreigner. 

The  blessings  of  Smithfield  are  too  well  understood  to 
need  recapitulation  ;  all  who  run  (away  from  mad  bulls 
and  pursuing  oxen)  may  read.  Any  market-day  they 
may  be  beheld  in  glorious  action.    Possibly  the  merits 


of  our  slaughter-houses  are  not  yet  quite  so  generally 
appreciated. 

Slaughter-houses,  in  the  large  towns  of  England,  are 
always  (with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  enterprising 
towns)  most  numerous  in  the  most  densely  crowded 
places,  where  there  is  the  least  circulation  of  air.  They 
are  often  underground,  in  cellars;  they  are  sometimes 
in  close  back  yards  ;  sometimes  (as  in  Spitalfields)  in  the 
very  shops  where  the  meat  is  sold.  Occasionally,  under 
good  private  management,  they  are  ventilated  and  clean. 
For  the  most  part,  they  are  unventilated  and  dirty  ;  and, 
to  the  reeking  walls,  putrid  fat  and  other  offensive 
animal  matter  clings  with  a  tenacious  hold.  The  busiest 
slaugliter-houses  in  London  are  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Smithfield,  in  Newgate  Market,  in  Whitechapel,  in  New- 
port Market,  in  Leadenhall  Market,  in  Clare  Market. 
All  these  places  are  surrounded  by  houses  of  a  poor  de- 
scription, swarming  with  inhabitants.  Some  of  them  are 
close  to  the  worst  burial-grounds  in  London.  When  the 
slaughter-house  is  below  the  ground,  it  is  a  common 
practice  to  throw  the  sheep  down  areas,  neck  and  crop — 
which  is  exciting,  but  not  at  all  cruel.  When  it  is  on 
the  level  surface,  it  is  often  extremely  difficult  of  ap- 
proach. Then,  the  beasts  have  to  be  worried,  and  goaded, 
and  pronged,  and  tail-twisted,  for  a  long  time  before 
they  can  be  got  in — which  is  entirely  owing  to  their 
natural  obstinacy.  When  it  is  not  difficult  of  approach, 
but  is  in  a  foul  condition,  what  they  see  and  scent  makes 
them  still  more  reluctant  to  enter — which  is  their  natural 
obstinacy  again.  When  they  do  get  in  at  last,  after  no 
trouble  and  suffering  to  speak  of  (for,  there  is  nothing 
in  the  previous  journey  into  the  heart  of  London,  the 
night's  endurance  in  Smithfield,  the  struggle  out  again, 
among  the  crowded  multitude,  the  coaches,  carts,  wag- 
gons, omnibuses,  gigs,  chaises,  phaetons,  cabs,  trucks, 
dogs,  boys,  whoopings,  roarings,  and  ten  thousand  other 
distractions),  they  are  represented  to  be  in  a  most  unfit 
state  to  be  killed,  according  to  miscroscopic  examinations 
made  of  their  fevered  blood  by  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished physiologists  in  the  world,  Professok  Owen — 
but  that's  humbug.  When  they  are  killed,  at  last,  their 
reeking  carcases  are  hung  in  impure  air,  to  become,  as 
the  same  Professor  will  explain  to  you,  less  nutritious 
and  more  unwholesome — but  he  is  only  an  mmovamon 
counsellor,  so  don't  mind  Mm.  In  half  a  quarter  of  a 
mile's  length  of  Whitechapel,  at  one  time,  there  shall 
be  six  hundred  newly  slaughtered  oxen  hanging  up,  and 
seven  hundred  sheep — but,  the  more  the  merrier— proof 
of  prosperity.  Hard  by  Snow  Hill  and  Warwick  Lane, 
you  shall  see  the  little  children,  inured  to  sights  of  bru- 
tality from  their  birth,  trotting  along  the  alleys,  mingled 
with  troops  of  horribly  busy  pigs,  up  to  their  ankles  in 
blood — but  it  makes  the  young  rascals  hardy.  Into  the 
imperfect  sewers  of  this  overgrown  city,  you  shall  have 
the  immense  mass  of  corruption,  engendered  by  these 
practices,  lazily  thrown  out  of  sight,  to  rise,  in  poison- 
ous gases,  into  your  house  at  night,  when  your  sleeping 
children  will  most  readily  absorb  them,  and  to  find  its 
languid  way,  at  last,  into  the  river  that  you  drink — but 
the  French  are  a  frog-eating  people  who  wear  wooden 
shoes,  and  it's  O  the  roast  beef  of  England,  my  boy,  the 
jolly  old  English  roast  beef. 

It  is  quite  a  mistake — a  new-fangled  notion  altogether 
—to  suppose  that  there  is  any  natural  antagonism  be- 
tween putrefaction  and  health.  They  know  better  than 
that,  in  the  Common  Council.  You  may  talk  about 
Nature,  in  her  wisdom,  always  warning  man  through  his 
sense  of  smell,  when  he  draws  near  to  something  danger- 
ous ;  but,  that  won't  go  down  in  the  city.  Nature  very 
often  don't  mean  anything.  Mrs.  Quickly  says  that 
prunes  are  ill  for  a  green  wound  ;  but  whosoever  says 
that  putrid  animal  substances  are  ill  for  a  green  wound, 
or  for  robust  vigor,  or  for  anything  or  for  anybody,  is  a 
humanity-monger  and  a  humbug.  Britons  never,  never, 
never,  etc.,  therefore.  And  prosperity  to  cattle-driving, 
cattle-slaughtering,  bone-crushing,  blood-boiling,  trotter- 
scraping,  tripe-dressing,  paunch-cleaning,  gut- spinning, 
hide-preparing,  tallow-melting,  and  other  salubrious  pro- 
ceedings, in  the  midst  of  hospitals,  churchyards,  work- 
houses, schools,  infirmaries,  refuges,  dwellings,  provis- 
ion-shops, nurseries,  sick-beds,  every  stage  and  baiting- 
place  in  the  journey  from  birth  to  death  ! 


1188 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


These  ?mcommon  counsellors,  your  Professor  Owens 
and  fellows,  will  contend  that  to  tolerate  these  things  in 
a  civilized  city,  is  to  reduce  it  to  a  worse  condition  than 
Bruce  found  to  prevail  in  Abyssinia.  For,  there  (say 
they)  the  jackals  and  wild  dogs  came  at  night  to  devour 
the  offal ;  whereas  here  there  are  no  such  natural  scaven- 
gers, and  quite  as  savage  customs.  Further,  they  Avill 
demonstrate  that  nothing  in  Nature  is  intended  to  be 
wasted,  and  that  besides  the  waste  which  such  abuses 
occasion  in  the  articles  of  health  and  life — main  sources 
of  the  riches  of  any  community — they  lead  to  a  prodig- 
ious waste  of  changing  matters,  which  might,  with  pro- 
per preparation,  and  under  scientific  direction,  be  safely 
applied  to  the  increase  of  the  fertility  of  the  land.  Thus 
(they  argue)  does  Nature  ever  avenge  infractions  of  her 
beneficent  laws,  and  so  surely  as  Man  is  determined  to 
warp  any  of  her  blessings  into  curses,  shall  they  become 
curses,  and  shall  he  suffer  heavily.  But,  this  is  cant. 
Just  as  it  is  cant  of  the  worst  description  to  say  to  the 
London  Corporation,  "How  can  you  exhibit  to  the  people 
so  plain  a  spectacle  of  dishonest  equivocation,  as  to  claim 
the  right  of  holding  a  market  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
city,  for  one  of  your  vested  privileges,  when  you  know 
that  when  your  last  market-holding  charter  was  granted 
to  you  by  King  Charles  the  First,  Smithfield  stood  in 
THE  Suburbs  of  London,  and  is  in  that  very  charter  so 
described  in  those  five  words  ?" — which  is  certainly  true, 
but  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question. 

Now  to  the  comparison,  in  these  particulars  of  civiliza- 
tion, between  the  capital  of  England  and  the  capital  of 
that  frog-eating  and  wooden-shoe  wearing  country,  which 
the  illustrious  Common  Councilman  so  sarcastically  set- 
tled. 

In  Paris,  there  is  no  Cattle  Market.  Cows  and  calves 
are  sold  v/ithin  the  city,  but  the  Cattle  Markets  are  at 
Poissy,  about  thirteen  miles  off,  on  a  line  of  railway  ;  and 
at  Sceaux,  about  five  miles  off.  The  Poissy  Market  is 
held  every  Thursday  ;  the  Sceaux  Market,  every  Monday. 
In  Paris,  there  are  no  slaughter-houses,  in  our  accepta- 
tion of  the  terra.  There  are  five  public  Abattoirs — 
within  the  walls,  though  in  the  suburbs — and  in  these 
all  the  slaughtering  for  the  city  must  be  performed. 
They  are  managed  by  a  Syndicat  or  Guild  of  Butchers, 
who  confer  with  the  Minister  of  the  Interior  on  all  mat- 
ters affecting  the  trade,  and  who  are  consulted  when  any 
new  regulations  are  contemplated  for  its  government. 
They  are,  likewise,  under  the  vigilant  superintendence 
of  the  police.  Every  butcher  must  be  licensed  :  which 
proves  him  at  once  to  be  a  slave,  for  we  don't  license 
butchers  in  England — we  only  license  apothecaries, 
attorneys,  postmasters,  publicans,  hawkers,  retailers  of 
tobacco,  snuff,  pepper,  and  vinegar — and  one  or  two  other 
little  trades  not  worth  mentioning.  Every  arrangement 
in  connexion  with  the  slaughtering  and  sale  of  meat,  is 
matter  of  strict  police  regulation.  (Slavery  again,  though 
we  certainly  have  a  general  sort  of  a  Police  Act  here.) 

But,  in  order  that  the  reader  may  understand  what  a 
monument  of  folly  these  frog-eaters  have  raised  in  their 
abattoirs  and  cattle-markets,  and  may  compare  it  with 
what  common  counselling  has  done  for  us  all  these  years, 
and  would  still  do  but  for  the  innovating  spirit  of  the 
times,  here  follows  a  short  account  of  a  recent  visit  to 
these  places  : 

It  was  as  sharp  a  February  morning  as  you  would  de- 
sire to  feel  at  your  fingers'  ends  when  I  turned  out — 
tumbling  over  a  chiffonnier  with  his  little  basket  and 
rake,  who  was  picking  up  the  bits  of  coloured  paper  that 
had  been  sv/ept  out,  over-night,  from  a  Bon-Bon  shop — 
to  take  the  Butchers'  Train  to  Poissy.  A  cold  dim  light 
just  touched  the  high  roofs  of  the  Tuileries  which  have 
seen  such  changes,  such  distracted  crowds,  such  riot  and 
bloodshed  ;  and  they  looked  as  calm,  and  as  old,  all 
covered  with  white  frost,  as  the  very  Pyramids.  There 
was  not  light  enough,  yet,  to  strike  upon  the  towers  of 
Notre  Dame  across  the  water  ;  but  I  thought  of  the  dark 
pavement  of  the  old  Cathedral  as  just  beginning  to  be 
streaked  with  grey  ;  and  of  the  lamps  in  the  "  House  of 
God,"  the  Hospital  close  to  it,  burning  low,  and  being 
quenched  ;  and  of  the  keeper  of  the  Morgue  going  about 
with  a  fading  lantern,  busy  in  the  arrangement  of  his 
terrible  waxwork  for  another  sunny  day. 

The  sun  was  up,  and  shining  merrily  when  the  batchers 


and  I  announcing  our  departure  with  an  engine-shriek 
to  sleepy  Paris,  rattled  away  for  the  Cattle  Market. 
Across  the  country,  over  the  Seine,  among  a  forest  of 
scrubby  trees — the  hoar  frost  lying  cold  in  shady  places, 
and  glittering  in  the  light — and  here  we  are  at  Poissy  ! 
Out  leap  the  butchers  who  have  been  chattering  all  the 
way  like  madmen,  and  off  they  straggle  for  the  Cattle 
Market  (still  chattering  of  course,  incessantly),  in  hats 
and  caps  of  all  shapes,  in  coats  and  blouses,  in  calf- 
skins, cow-skins,  horse-skins,  furs,  shaggy  mantles, 
hairy  coats,  sacking,  baize,  oil-skin,  anything  you  please 
that  will  keep  a  man  and  a  butcher  warm,  upon  a  frosty 
morning. 

Many  a  French  town  have  I  seen,  between  this  spot  of 
ground  and  Strasburgh  or  Marseilles,  that  might  sit  for 
your  picture,  little  Poissy  !  Barring  the  details  of  your 
old  churclv  I  know  you  well,  albeit  we  make  acquaint- 
ance, now,  for  the  first  time.  I  know  your  narrow, 
straggling,  winding  streets,  with  a  kennel  in  the  midst, 
and  lamps  slung  across,  I  know  your  picturesque  street 
corners,  winding  up-hill  Heaven  knows  why  or  where  ! 
I  know  your  tradesmen's  inscriptions,  in  letters  not  quite 
fat  enough  ;  your  barber's  brazen  basins  dangling  over 
little  shops  ;  your  Cafes  and  Estaminets,  with  cloudy 
bottles  of  stale  syrup  in  the  windows,  and  pictures  of 
crossed  billiard  cues  outside.  I  know  this  identical 
grey  horse  with  his  tail  rolled  up  in  a  knot  like  the 
"  back  hair"  of  an  untidy  woman,  who  won't  be  shod, 
and  who  makes  himself  heraldic  by  clattering  across  the 
street  on  his  hind  legs,  while  twenty  voices  shriek  and 
growl  at  him  as  a  Brigand,  an  accursed  Robber,  and  an 
everlastingly-doomed  Pig.  I  know  your  sparkling  town- 
fountain,  too,  my  Poissy,  and  am  glad  to  see  it  near  a 
cattle-market,  gushing  so  freshly,  under  the  auspices 
of  a  gallant  little  sublimated  Frenchman  wrought  in 
metal,  perched  upon  the  top.  Through  all  the  land  of 
France  I  know  this  unswept  room  at  the  Glory,  with  its 
peculiar  smell  of  beans  and  coffee,  where  the  butchers 
crowd  about  the  stove,  drinking  the  thinnest  of  wine 
from  the  smallest  of  tumblers ;  where  the  thickest  of 
coffee-cups  mingled  with  the  longest  of  loaves,  and  the 
weakest  of  lump  sugar ;  where  Madame  at  the  counter 
easily  acknowledges  the  homage  of  all  entering  and  de- 
parting butchers  ;  where  the  billiard  table  is  covered  up 
in  the  midst  like  a  great  bird-cage — but  the  bird  may 
sing  by-and-by  ! 

A  bell  1  The  Calf  Market  !  Polite  departure  of  butch- 
ers. Hasty  payment  and  departure  on  the  part  of  ama- 
teur Visitor.  Madame  reproaches  Ma'amselle  for  too 
fine  a  susceptibility  in  reference  to  the  devotion  of  a 
Butcher  in  a  bear-skin.  Monsieur,  the  landlord  of  The 
Glory,  counts  a  double  handful  of  sous,  without  an  un- 
obliterated  inscription,  or  an  undamaged  crowned  head 
among  them. 

There  is  little  noise  without,  abundant  space,  and  no 
confusion.  The  open  area  devoted  to  the  market,  is 
divided  into  three  portions  :  The  Calf  Market,  the  Cattle 
Market,  the  Sheep  Market.  Calves  at  eight,  cattle  at 
ten,  sheep  at  mid-day.    All  is  very  clean. 

The  Calf  Market  is  a  raised  platform  of  stone,  three 
or  four  feet  high,  open  on  all  sides,  with  a  lofty  over- 
spreading roof,  supported  on  stone  columns,  which  give 
it  the  appearance  of  a  sort  of  vineyard  from  Northern 
Italy.  Here,  on  the  raised  pavement,  lie  innumerable 
calves,  all  bound  hind-legs  and  fore-legs  together,  and 
all  trembling  violently — perhaps  with  cold,  perhaps  with 
fear,  perhaps  with  pain  ;  for,  this  mode  of  tying,  wdiicli 
seems  to  be  an  absolute  superstition  with  the  peasantry, 
can  hardly  fail  to  cause  great  suffering.  Here,  they  lie, 
patiently  in  rows,  among  the  straw,  with  their  stolid 
faces  and  inexpressive  eyes,  superintended  by  men  and 
women,  boys  and  girls  ;  here  they  are  inspected  by  our 
friends,  the  butchers,  bargained  for,  and  bought.  Plenty 
of  time;  plenty  of  room  ;  plenty  of  good  humour.  "Mon- 
sieur FranQois  in  the  iDear-skin,  how  do  you  do,  my 
friend  ?  You  come  from  Paris  by  the  train  ?  The  fresh 
air  does  you  good.  If  you  are  in  want  of  three  or  four 
fine  calves  this  market-morning,  my  angel,  I  Madame 
Doche,  shall  be  happy  to  deal  with  you.  Behold  these 
calves,  Monsieur  Fran<;ois  !  Great  Heaven,  you  are 
doubtful  !  Well,  sir,  walk  round  and  look  about  you. 
If  you  find  better  for  the  money,  buy  them.    If  not, 


REPRINTED  PIECES, 


1189 


come  to  me  ! "  Monsieur  Francois  goes  Lis  way  leis- 
urely, and  keeps  a  wary  eye  upon  the  stock.  No  other 
butcher  jostles  Monsieur  Francois  ;  Monsieur  Francois 
jostles  no  other  butcher.  Nobody  is  flustered  and  ag- 
gravated. Nobody  is  savage.  In  the  midst  of  the  coun- 
try blue  frocks  and  red  handkerchiefs,  and  the  butchers' 
coats,  shaggy,  furry,  and  hairy  :  of  calf-skin,  cow-skin, 
horse-skin,  'and  bear-skin:  towers  a  cocked  hat  and  a 
blue  cloak.  Slavery  !  For  our  Police  wear  great  coats 
and  glazed  hats. 

But  now  the  bartering  is  over,  and  the  calves  are  sold. 
"Ho!  Gregorie,  Antoine,  Jean,  Louis!  Bring  up  the 
carts,  my  children  !  Quick,  brave  infants  !  Hola ! 
Hi  ! " 

The  carts,  well  littered  with  straw,  are  backed  up  to 
the  edge  of  the  raised  pavement,  and  various  hot  infants 
carry  calves  upon  their  heads,  and  dexterously  pitch 
them  in,  while  other  hot  infants,  standing  in  the  carts, 
arrange  the  calves,  and  pack  them  carefully  in  straw. 
Here  is  a  promising  young  calf,  not  sold,  whom  Madame 
Doche  unbinds.  Pardon  me,  Madame  Doche,  but  I  fear 
this  mode  of  tying  the  four  legs  of  a  quadruped  together, 
though  strictly  a  la  mode,  is  not  quite  right.  You  ob- 
serve, Madame  Doche,  that  the  cord  leaves  deep  inden- 
tations in  the  skin,  and  that  the  animal  is  so  cramped  at 
first  as  not  to  know,  or  even  remotely  suspect,  that  he  is 
unbound,  until  you  are  so  obliging  as  to  kick  him,  in 
your  delicate  little  way,  and  pull  his  tail  like  a  bell -rope. 
Then  he  staggers  to  his  knees,  not  being  able  to  stand, 
and  stumbles  about  like  a  drunken  calf,  or  the  horse  at 
Franconi's,  whom  you  may  have  seen,  Madame  Doche, 
who  is  supposed  to  have  been  mortally  wounded  in  bat- 
tle. But,  what  is  this  rubbing  against  me,  as  I  apostro- 
phise Madame  Doche  ?  It  is  another  heated  infant  with 
a  calf  upon  his  head.  "  Pardon,  Monsieur,  but  will  you 
have  the  politeness  to  allow  me  to  pass?"  "Ah,  Sir, 
willingly.  I  am  vexed  to  obstruct  the  way."  On  he 
staggers,  calf  and  all,  and  makes  no  allusion  whatever 
either  to  my  eyes  or  limbs. 

Now,  the  carts  are  full.  More  straw,  my  Antoine,  to 
shake  over  these  top  rows  ;  then,  off  we  will  clatter, 
rumble,  jolt,  and  rattle,  a  long  row  of  us,  out  of  the  first 
town-gate,  and  out  at  the  second  town-gate,  and  past  the 
empty  sentry-box,  and  the  little  thin  square  bandbox  of  a 
guardhouse,  where  nobody  seems  to  live  ;  and  away  for 
Paris,  by  the  paved  road,  lying,  a  straight  straight  line, 
in  the  long  long  avenue  of  trees.  We  can  neither 
choose  our  road,  nor  our  pace,  for  that  is  all  prescribed 
to  us.  The  public  convenience  demands  that  our  carts 
should  get  to  Paris  by  such  a  route,  and  no  other  (Napo- 
leon had  leisure  to  find  that  oat,  while  he  had  a  little 
war  with  the  world  upon  his  hands),  and  woe  betide  us 
if  we  infringe  orders. 

Droves  of  oxen  stand  in  the  Cattle  Market,  tied  to  iron 
bars  fixed  into  posts  of  granite.  Other  droves  advance 
slowly  down  the  long  avenue,  past  the  second  town-gate, 
and  the  first  town-gate,  and  the  sentry-box,  and  the 
bandbox,  thawing  the  morning  with  their  smoky  breath 
as  they  come  along.  Plenty  of  room  ;  plenty  of  time. 
Neither  man  nor  beast  is  driven  out  of  his  wits  by 
coaches,  carts,  waggons,  omnibuses,  gigs,  chaises,  phae- 
tons, cabs,  trucks,  boys,  whoonings,  roarings,  and  mul- 
titudes. No  tail-twisting  is  necessary — no  iron  pronging 
is  necessary.  There  are  no  iron  prongs  here.  The  mar- 
ket for  cattle  is  held  as  quietly  as  the  market  for  calves. 
In  due  time,  off  the  cattle  go  to  Paris  ;  the  drovers  can 
no  more  choose  their  road,  nor  their  time,  nor  the  num- 
bers they  shall  drive,  than  they  can  choose  their  hour 
for  dying  in  the  course  of  nature. 

Sheep  next.  The  Sheep-pens  are  up  here,  past  the 
Branch  Bank  of  Paris  established  for  the  convenience  of 
the  butcher,  and  behind  the  two  pretty  fountains  they 
are  making  in  the  Market.  My  name  is  Bull  :  yet  I 
think  I  should  like  to  see  as  good  twin  fountains — not  to 
say  in  Smithfield,  but  in  England  anywhere.  Plenty  of 
room  ;  plenty  of  time.  And  here  are  sheep-dogs,  sensi- 
ble as  ever,  but  with  a  certain  French  air  about  them— 
not  without  a  suspicion  of  dominoes — with  a  kind  of 
flavour  of  moustache  and  beard — demonstrative  dogs, 
^^^g^y  and  loose  where  an  English  dog  would  be  tight 
and  close—not  so  troubled  with  business  calculations  as 
our  English  drovers'  dogs,  who  have  always  got  their 


sheep  upon  their  minds,  and  think  about  their  work, 
even  resting,  as  you  may  see  by  their  faces  ;  but,  dash- 
ing, showy,  rather  unreliable  'dogs  :  who  might  worry 
me  instead  of  their  legitimate  charges  if  they  saw  oc- 
casion— and  might  see  it  somewhat  suddenly.  The 
market  for  sheep  passes  off  like  the  other  two  ;  and  away 
they  go,  by  their  allotted  road  to  Paris.  My  way  being 
the  Railway,  I  make  the  best  of  it  at  twenty  miles  an 
hour  ;  whirling  through  the  now  high-lighted  landscape  ; 
thinking  that  the  inexperienced  green  buds  will  be  wish- 
ing before  long,  they  had  not  been  tempted  to  come  oat 
so  soon  ;  and  Avondering  wlio  lives  in  this  or  that  chateau, 
all  window  and  lattice,  and  what  the  family  may  have 
for  breakfast  this  sharp  morning. 

After  the  Market  comes  the  Abattoir.  What  abattoir 
shall  I  visit  first?  Montmartre  is  the  largest.  So  I  will 
go  there. 

The  abattoirs  are  all  within  the  walls  of  Paris,  with 
an  eye  to  the  receipt  of  the  octroi  duty  ;  but,  they  stand 
in  open  places  in  the  suburbs,  removed  from  the  press 
and  bustle  of  the  city.  They  are  managed  by  the  Syndicat 
or  Guild  of  Butchers,  under  the  inspection  of  the  Police. 
Certain  smaller  items  of  the  revenue  derived  from  them 
are  in  part  retained  by  the  Guild  for  the  payment  of 
their  expenses,  and  in  part  devoted  by  it  to  charitable 
purposes  in  connexion  with  the  trade.  They  cost  six 
hundred  and  eighty  thousand  pounds  ;  and  they  return 
to  the  city  of  Paris  an  interest  on  that  outlay,  amount- 
ing to  nearly  six  and  a-half  per  cent. 

Here,  in  a  sufficiently  dismantled  space  is  the  Abattoir 
of  Montmartre,  covering  nearly  nine  acres  of  ground, 
surrounded  by  a  high  wall,  and  looking  from  the  outside 
like  a  cavalry  barrack.  At  the  iron  gates  is  a  small 
functionary  in  a  large  cocked  hat.  "  Monsieur  desires  to 
see  the  abattoir  ?  Most  certainly."  State  being  incon- 
venient in  private  transactions,  and  Monsieur  being  al- 
ready aware  of  the  cocked  hat,  the  functionary  puts  it  into 
a  little  official  bureau  which  it  almost  fills,  and  accom- 
panies me  in  the  modest  attire — as  to  his  head — of 
ordinary  life. 

Many  of  the  animals  from  Poissy  have  come  here.  On 
the  arrival  of  each  drove,  it  was  turned  into  yonder 
ample  space,  where  each  butcher  who  had  bought, 
selected  his  own  purchases.  Some,  we  see  now,  in  these 
long  perspectives  of  stalls  with  a  high  overhanging  roof 
of  wood  and  open  tiles  rising  above  the  walls.  While 
they  rest  here,  before  being  slaughtered,  they  are  re- 
quired to  be  fed  and  watered,  and  the  stalls  must  be 
kept  clean.  A  stated  amount  of  fodder  must  always  be 
ready  in  the  loft  above;  and  the  supervision  is  of  the 
strictest  kind.  The  same  regulations  apply  to  sheep  and 
calves  ;  for  which,  portions  of  these  perspectives  are 
strongly  railed  off.  All  the  buildings  are  of  the  strong- 
est and  most  solid  description. 

After  traversing  these  lairs,  through  which,  besides 
the  upper  provision  for  ventilation  just  mentioned,  there 
may  be  a  thorough  current  of  air  from  opposite  windows 
in  the  side  walls,  and  from  doors  at  either  end,  w^e  trav- 
erse the  broad,  paved  court-yard,  until  we  come  to  the 
slaughter-houses.  They  are  all  exactly  alike,  and  adjoin 
each  other,  to  the  number  of  eight  or  nine  together,  in 
blocks  of  solid  building.    Let  us  walk  into  the  first. 

It  is  firmly  built  and  paved  with  stone.  It  is  well  light- 
ed, thoroughly  aired,  and  lavishly  provided  with  fresh 
Avater.  It  has  two  doors  opposite  each  other  ;  the  first,  the 
door  by  which  I  entered  from  the  main  yard  ;  the  sec- 
ond, which  is  opposite,  opening  on  another  smaller  yard, 
where  the  sheep  and  calves  are  killed  on  benches.  The 
pavement  of  that  yard,  I  see,  slopes  downward  to  a  gut- 
ter, for  its  being  more  easily  cleansed.  The  slaughter- 
house is  fifteen  feet  high,  sixteen  feet  and  a-half  wide, 
and  thirty-three  feet  long.  It  is  fitted  with  a  powerful 
windlass,  by  which  one  man  at  the  handle  can  bring  the 
head  of  an  ox  down  to  the  ground  to  receive  the  blow 
from  the  pole-axe  that  is  to  fell  him — with  the  means  of 
raising  the  carcass  and  keeping  it  suspended  during  the 
after-operation  of  dressing — and  with  hooks  on  which 
carcasses  can  hang,  when  completely  prepared,  without 
touching  the  walls.  L^pon  the  pavement  of  this  first 
stone  chamber,  lies  an  ox  scarcely  dead.  If  I  except  the 
blood  draining  from  him,  into  a  little  stone  well  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  pavement,  the  place  is  free  from  offence  as  the 


1190 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS, 


Place  de  la  Concorde.  It  is  infinitely  purer  and  cleaner, 
I  know,  my  friend  the  functionary,  tlian  the  Cathedral 
of  Notre  Dame.  Ha,  lia  !  Monsieur  is  pleasant,  but, 
truly,  there  is  reason,  too,  in  what  he  says. 

I  look  into  another  of  these  slaughter-houses.  "  Pray 
enter,"  says  a  gentleman  in  bloody  boots.  "  This  is  a 
calf  I  have  killed  this  morning.  Having  a  little  time 
upon  mv  hands,  I  have  cut  and  punctured  this  lace  pat- 
tern in  the  coats  of  his  stomach.  It  is  pretty  enough. 
I  did  it  to  divert  myself." — "  It  is  beautiful,  Monsieur, 
the  slaughterer  !  "  He  tells  me  I  have  the  gentility  to 
say  so. 

I  look  into  rows  of  slaughter-houses.  In  many,  retail 
dealers,  who  have  come  here  for  the  purpose,  are  making 
bargains  for  meat.  There  is  killing  enough,  certainly, 
to  satiate  an  unused  eye;  and  there  are  steaming  carcasses 
enough,  to  suggest  the  expediency  of  a  fowl  and  salad  for 
dinner  ;  but,  everywhere,  there  is  an  orderly,  clean,  well- 
systematized  routine  of  work  in  progress — horrible  work 
at  the  best,  if  you  please  ;  but,  so  much  the  greater 
reason  why  it  should  be  made  the  best  of.  I  don't  know 
(I  think  I  have  observed,  my  name  is  Bull)  that  a  Paris 
ian  of  the  lowest  order  is  particularly  delicate,  or  that 
his  nature  is  remarkable  for  an  infinitesimal  infusion  of 
ferocity,  but  I  do  know,  my  potent,  grave,  and  common 
counselling  Signors,  that  he  is  forced,  when  at  this  work, 
to  submit  liimself  to  a  thoroughly  good  system,  and  to 
make  an  Englishman  very  heartily  ashamed  of  you. 

Here,  within  the  walls  of  the  same  abattoir,  in  other 
roomy  and  commodious  buildings,  are  a  place  for  con- 
verting the  fat  into  tallow  and  packing  it  for  market — a 
place  for  cleansing  and  scalding  calves'  heads  and  sheeps' 
feet — a  place  for  preparing  tripe — stables  and  coach- 
houses for  the  butcher — innumerable  conveniences,  aid- 
ing in  the  diminution  of  ofEensiveness  to  its  lowest 
possible  point,  and  the  raising  of  cleanliness  and  super- 
vision to  their  highest.  Hence,  all  the  meat  that  goes  out 


of  the  gate  is  sent  away  in  clean  covered  carts.  And  if 
every  trade  connected  with  the  slaughtering  of  animals 
were  obliged  by  law  to  be  carried  on  in  the  same  place,  I 
doubt,  my  friend,  now  reinstated  in  the  cocked  hat 
(Avhose  civility  these  two  francs  imperfectly  acknowl- 
edge, but  appear  munificently  to  repay),  whether  there 
could  be  better  regulations  than  those  which  are  carried 
out  at  the  Abattoir  of  Montmartre.  Adieu,  my  friend, 
for  I  am  away  to  the  other  side  of  Paris,  to  the  Abattoir 
of  Grenelle  !  And  there,  I  find  exactly  the  same  thing  on 
a  smaller  scale,  with  the  addition  of  a  magnificent  Arte- 
sian well,  and  a  different  sort  of  conductor,  in  the  person 
of  a  neat  little  woman  with  neat  little  eyes,  and  a  neat 
little  voice,  who  picks  her  neat  little  way  among  the 
bullocks  in  a  very  neat  little  pair  of  shoes  and  stockings. 

Such  is  the  Monument  of  French  Folly  which  a  for- 
eigneering  people  have  erected,  in  a  national  hatred  and 
antipathy  for  common  counselling  wisdom.  That  wis- 
dom, assembled  in  the  City  of  London,  having  distinctly 
refused,  after  a  debate  three  days  long,  and  by  a  majori- 
ty of  nearly  seven  to  one,  to  associate  itself  with  any  Met- 
ropolitan Cattle-Market  unless  it  be  held  in  the  midst 
of  the  City,  it  follows  that  we  shall  lose  the  inestimable 
advantages  of  common  counselling  protection  and  be 
thrown,  for  a  market,  on  our  own  wretched  resources. 
In  all  human  probability  we  shall  thus  come,  at  last,  to 
erect  a  monument  of  folly  very  like  this  French  monu- 
ment. If  that  be  done,  the  consequences  are  obvious. 
The  leather  trade  will  be  ruined,  by  the  introduction  of 
American  timber,  to  be  manufactured  into  shoes  for  the 
fallen  English  ;  the  Lord  Mayor  will  be  required  by  the 
popular  voice,  to  live  entirely  on  frogs  ;  and  both  these 
charges  will  [how  is  not  at  present  quite  clear,  but  cer- 
tainly somehow  or  other]  fall  on  that  imhappy  landed 
interest  which  is  always  being  killed,  yet  is  always 
found  to  be  alive — and  kicking. 


END  OF  VOLUME  II. 


